The Saint's Rise by Michael John Grist

Author:Michael John Grist [Grist, Michael John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy
Published: 2017-12-13T05:00:00+00:00

ALAM III

They had pissed on Alam's bedding, because he was a Spindle.

"Spittle," they called him, as he rinsed and wrung it out on the roof that night. "Spittle, why don't you lick it clean, that's what your caste does."

He ignored them. Every day since the first he'd ignored them, because he had to save his energy for the fights he could win, and there was no point in fighting them here, no way to win against this part of the system of caste.

"That's Indurans," he mumbled under his breath. "Not Spindles."

Collaber, the Joist who led them in most of it, smacked him in the head for even speaking.

"Shut your rat-caste tongue," he said, "wear your hat." One of the others tossed him the section of drainpipe they'd cut. It was a humiliation meant to accentuate his low-caste Spindle physique. He was already far taller than any of them, even Collaber, who as a Joist was fat and round-headed. Wearing it made him a fool in their eyes.

Not to him. He wore it with pride. He was not ashamed of his caste, of having a long frame and long fingers like his father, so he put it on, and as always they laughed. Collaber mimed him walking an Ogric's walk, as though his long limbs were out of control. They laughed more, but it was already late and this was old sport, so gradually they filtered away, leaving Collaber and Alam alone on the roof.

On the first day, hard in the winter, they had fought and Alam had beaten the shorter boy soundly, rubbing his face in the smoke-gray snow, but that had only made it worse. It hadn't changed his caste nor how the rest of them treated him.

"You don't belong here, Spittle," Collaber said, standing before him on the roof. "You never will. When will you understand that?"

He spat on Alam's feet and left.

Alam returned to wringing the bedding. The ammonic water stung as it ran over his broken fingernails. The arch-scrivener was a Pinhead who hated Alam just as much as Collaber. He'd made him carve his letters into a slab of wood using his nails all day, because he'd made one mistake on a piece of flypaper.

"That paper's worth more than you, Spindle," he'd said, in front of them all. "You don't even merit a quill."

So the wood, and his nails. There was no choice, so Alam did it. Blood had spattered out as his nails cracked and tore, but he'd continued on, until all the other scriveners were watching, until the Pinhead himself grew faint and made him stop.

Now they throbbed, but it was worth it. He was not weak, no matter what they said.

Back in the dormitory he laid down on the hard wood, setting his drainpipe hat beside him. Without his bedding it was lucky summer had come, or it would be a very hard night. He closed his eyes to sleep, completely unaware that Sen was watching.

* * *

Sen went by the Gilungel Bridge, shadowing the path he'd taken in Feyon's brougham.

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