The Rage of Saints by S. A. Klopfenstein

Author:S. A. Klopfenstein [Klopfenstein, S. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Guardian Grey Publishing
Published: 2019-03-25T23:00:00+00:00

28

Kale and Lazarus rode through the dark streets of Maro’El in an ebony coach made of sleek balak wood from the southern world. The plush seats were extraordinarily comfortable, and the ride was smooth. Kale marveled at the finery his old master had accrued while being a revolutionary. This fact did not make him feel better about this revolution. While Lazarus Delahi lived in a mansion and rode carriages pulled by finely bred horses, his revolution was crumbling.

But Kale’s judgment was softened shortly. They only rode a few blocks before they switched coaches beneath a bridge at the edge of the Merching district. This coach was run-down and rattled terribly as they left the city and crossed the Meridian bridge east of the capital.

“The Fringes?” said Kale as they ventured south, then west along Citadel Road.

“If you spend all your time with highborns, you will see the world only as highborns see it,” said Lazarus. “Though I have strategically climbed the social strata of Maro’El, as much as any non-Oshan is able to climb, I have never forgotten where I came from. When I died on Jallaa, I woke a slave here. I spent two years in the Fringes, and I never go a week without returning for fear I might grow comfortable amongst the highborns.”

“Comfortable?”

“It is how the system works in Osha. It is the reason the Legion indoctrination works so well. Soldiers are given glory and prestige beyond anything they have received as a slave. But rather than using that position to institute change, they become mindless servants, pacified by pleasures that ought to be granted to all people. It is the reason so few servants in Maro’El rise up. They come from this hellhole. Even servitude seems a mercy in the city.”

Lazarus pulled back the curtains so Kale could see the grimy streets and ramshackle buildings as they rumbled past.

“I’ve seen the Fringes before,” said Kale.

“Yes, but have you seen the people of the Fringes?”

Kale had last been here the day he and Ren had rescued Astoria from the Metamorphi. He had only come one other time in his life—the day he fled Maro’El for good. Of course, he had heard tales of the wretched lowborns while growing up in Maro’El. They swarmed at the edges of civilization like flies over rotten meat. He had been taught to believe they were a sort of necessary evil. Some could still serve the empire. Some might even rise above their station. But they were not Oshan. They could never contribute the way a noble could. During his years in exile, he’d forgotten most of the shenzah he was taught in his youth, but in truth, he had never given the Fringe rats much thought.

Kale gazed out at the bleak shantytown illuminated by the pale light of the Sisters. Few people wandered the streets at night for fear of being mugged or worse over coppers or stale food. “I see them.”

“What do you see?” Lazarus asked him.

“People downtrodden and mistreated by the rich.

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