Angel Arias (9 page)

T
he rear door of the burial chamber was unbarred. There were no grave robbers in Grave. The dead garnered more respect, in some ways, than the living, and the chambers were always open for relatives and friends to visit.

Naif and Markes opened it and crept inside. The back of the chamber was dark and the air was stale. Naif inhaled the scent of funeral flowers and embalming fluids.

The recently delivered coffin lay on a slab at the end of the chute. The family would be along soon to move their loved one to the chosen resting drawer. Markes lifted the cover. ‘It’s a man wearing a nightgown. I can’t use that.’

‘We need to search the drawers, then,’ said Naif.

She walked along the dark, narrow passage. In the main burial section a soft lamp above the grand double door glowed over the marble floor and brass-inlaid shelves.

Naif hurried to the shelves and pulled open a drawer at random. Another waft of embalming fluids engulfed her, this one so strong that she felt as though she’d been coated with it.

The body was an old woman in black mourning robes. She was large-framed and her veil was long in the manner of the dowagers. Her face was sunken and grey, as though the Deadtakers had not bothered with putty to fill the hollows.

Naif wanted to slam the drawer and run out of there but she made herself carefully push it shut and try another.

And another.

Markes joined her and began searching a higher tier of shelves, glancing only briefly into each one.

‘Here,’ he said as she closed the drawer on another elderly woman and opened another.

Naif went to his side and stood on her tiptoes to see. The body belonged to a girl, close to her in age.

She gave out a little cry and balled her fists against her eyes.

‘Who is it?’

It took a moment before she could breathe enough to speak. ‘It’s Toola,’ she whispered. ‘She is a . . . she walked to prayers with me. She used to ask about my brother all the time. Why is she here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean . . . she shouldn’t be dead.’ Naif stole a glance at Toola’s preserved face. She seemed lonely. Not at peace.

‘Her clothes will fit you,’ said Markes.

‘No! I couldn’t!’

He gave her arm a little shake. ‘This was your idea. We agreed. Is it worse to wear her coat? Or to be caught by the wardens?’

Naif bit her lip and swallowed back the sour vomit taste rising in the back of her throat. ‘Can you help me?’

Together they struggled to remove the long black coat and low-heeled boots from Toola’s body. Every moment, Naif feared she heard the grand doors opening; every breath she took was filled with nausea and disgust at what she was doing. What if Toola wasn’t really dead? What if . . . But that was a foolish thought. Her friend was as cold and lifeless as the marble floor beneath her feet.

‘You’ll need this too.’ Markes slid Toola’s veil out from where it was folded under her head.

Naif knew it. It was the dark gauze one that Toola wore for formal occasions and prayers. How many times had they spoken to each other through their veils? How many times had Toola asked about Joel in the same wistful tone?

Joel.

This was to help Joel. Surely the girl would approve of that?

With clumsy, shaking fingers she slipped on the heavy coat and pulled the boots on over her stockings. She put her own moccasins from Sanctus on Toola’s feet, unable to bear the thought of leaving the girl without shoes.

By the time she was dressed, Markes had found clothes for himself from a man’s body. The coat was a style favoured by older Grave men, as were the boots, but they fitted at least.

‘There’s no hat,’ he said.

Naif opened one of the drawers she’d looked in earlier and removed a thick wool scarf. ‘Use this to hide your face.’

Markes wrapped it around his neck so that it rode up high over his ears.

‘That’s better,’ said Naif.

Just then they heard voices outside. The pair hurried down the narrow corridor and crushed into an empty alcove. Holding their breaths, they waited, but there were no shouts of outrage or alarm. When the voices passed, they slipped out of the chamber and hid among the bushes again.

Markes didn’t look at her, intent on watching the road.

And what was there to say? They’d robbed a burial chamber; taken the clothes from the body of her only friend in Grave. They’d desecrated the most sacred of buildings.

She wanted to cry. They both smelt of the dead.

A
chill settled on Naif as soon as the sun disappeared. She was not dressed well enough for the Grave evening, even with Toola’s coat.

‘Let’s go now,’ she said, unable to stand the immobility and the cold any longer. Walking would at least warm her.

‘Put your veil on.’

Naif took it from her pocket and slipped it over her head. Though flimsy and light, it felt as if she’d donned a heavy and suffocating bridle.

Markes led the way. He knew the streets of Grave better than she did. Naif had only been out of the compound on a few occasions and each time she’d been veiled and made to look down.

Her clearest memories of seeing the world outside the compound were as a child, before she’d taken her veil, going to a Seal prayer gathering around Lake Deep. Joel had gone swimming against father’s wishes and they’d both been sent home before the evening feast. She could still remember the deep, cold blue of the water and how still it was. And how angry Joel had been.

‘It’ll be late prayers in a while,’ Markes whispered to her. ‘Act as if we’re going to chapel.’

Sometimes, when she ran duty errands for her father inside the compound, she would see people walking to chapel outside. They were always the same; heads bowed, hands clasped.

She adopted that pose now. It was one she’d used many times but it felt different. Wrong. Like she was trying to fit into a skin she’d already shed.

She also fell a step behind him because that was expected in Grave. Women never walked before their men.

They made their way along the wide sett street that led north. Naif hadn’t seen the warm wall of Grave North, though she knew it was nothing like the metal fence around the Seal compound. Joel had described the wall to her once as being warm like the meat they had on Sundays when Mother took it from the oven. The long-coal they dug from the mines outside Grave kept it that way, protecting those inside from the bitterness of the long winter. Seals didn’t have such luxury, nor did they want it.

The idea of a heated environment had always made Naif feel a little queasy, as though the Grave Elders had surrounded themselves with something sinful. Or maybe it was because her father had always spoken of it with such disgust.

Markes led onward, doing his best to keep them away from the puddles of light cast by the street lamps. The temperature dropped further and Naif was grateful that at least she had the stolen coat.

Horses bearing coated riders clopped along the road, careful to stay out the path of any passing grumehls. Only the Elders got to drive the smoke-breathing vehicles also powered by long-coal. Naif had heard and seen them driving past through the fence of the Seal compound before. With their metal compartments and iron-spoked wheels, they were like the horse-drawn charabancs in shape but much uglier and noisier.

Buildings loomed at them on either side of the street, curtains drawn, doors shut to the frosty night. She heard others close by but didn’t look up. They were male voices mostly, and older – like her father’s.

But it wouldn’t be him. Her father would soon be kneeling on the hard pews of the Seal chapel, bent to his prayer beads, his face pinched and grim. Her mother would be at the back of the chapel where the women sat; squeezed between Seal-mother Cowley and Seal-mother Fran. She’d be biting her lip and praying for the souls of her children.

Mother, I miss you!

Heavy boots approached them. ‘Praise Grave,’ said the gruff voice of the passer-by. ‘Don’t be late for prayers now.’

Markes grunted a reply, making his voice deeper, older.

As soon as the sound of the man’s footsteps faded, Markes turned from the sett street into a narrow, dark cobbled alley
.
The temperature plunged as if they’d entered a cave and Naif began to shiver. The alley smelled of cooking oils and the suffocating, sour tang of human waste. She gagged on the smell and cupped her nose with her hand.

Their route took them through countless more such streets.

Grave residents disposed of their sewage through pipes that ran to large pits dug underneath the cobbles at the back of their homes. In some places though, the stones cracked and the odour leaked. Mostly, people avoided these alleys. It was clever thinking by Markes to take them there. Yet as they walked, dark clusters that she first thought were merely shadows fragmented into scattering rodents. One ran across her foot and tried to climb her tights. With a little cry she batted it away, and it fell to the ground, disappearing after the others.

‘Hush!’ Markes called from up near the next corner. ‘Hurry up.’

But Naif stayed where she was. The combination of the sewage and rodent smells had taken control of her stomach and she had to raise her veil to be sick.

‘Naif,’ Markes whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ She wiped her mouth and turned away from the mess she’d made, trying to ignore the fact the rodents were already out of their hiding holes and nosing towards it.

She hurried to join Markes, blinking wetness from her eyes.

‘Two streets over is the cart-way to the north wall. That’s the most dangerous part. Are you ready?’ he asked.

She nodded, wondering if her face was as pale and drawn as his. ‘What if someone speaks to us?’

‘Let me answer. I’ll say you’re my cousin from the compound.’

‘Won’t you be recognised?’

He rewound the scarf so it sat high on his neck, and stood the collar of the coat up around his face. ‘Not even my mother would know me in these frossing awful clothes.’

Naif tried to smile at him but couldn’t. Fear of discovery made her rigid. Would they be noticed in their Seal clothes? Or would the dark be enough to disguise them?

‘Ready?’ asked Markes.

She nodded. She’d never been inside the wall of Grave North before. What would it be like? Would it take them long to reach Markes’s friend?

‘Stay close. When we’re inside, walk alongside me not behind,’ he added.

She shot him a questioning look.

‘Inside Grave North some rules are bent. You have to know which ones.’

Naif’s stomach pinched tighter. ‘But I won’t.’

‘Watch me,’ he said.

‘Where is your friend?’

‘Her home is along the north side of the wall. If anything happens and we’re split up, find the prayer space below the northern arch. On one side is a Clockmaker’s shop. Her home is behind it. Knock and ask for Emilia.’

‘What if you’re not there? She won’t know me.’

‘When she comes to the door, say that Markes wants her to help you, that you should go to our place and talk.’

‘Your place?’

‘It’s where we would go to be alone.’

‘You were alone with your trothed?’

‘Our families didn’t know. Trothed have hidden places all over Grave North.’

Naif shivered. In the Seal compound such a thing would never be tolerated. ‘Let’s go. I can hardly feel my feet.’

He gave her a questioning look, his eyes and hair the only thing visible above the line of his scarf. Then he turned and walked out onto the main thoroughfare.

The sett street was smoother to walk on than the cobblestones and they traded the smell of raw sewage and vomit for coal smoke and fresh horse manure. They stayed on the side of the road closest to the Grave North gate, mingling in among the other evening traffic.

Many were on their way to chapel. They disappeared into nearby doorways and up narrow stairs, and by the time Naif and Markes reached the entry to the wall, the only people left were a small posse of men, smoking and stamping their feet at the cold.

Markes slowed as they approached. ‘Wardens,’ he warned.

Naif peered around him and saw their distinctive hats. She wanted to turn and run but that would attract attention. Even now, she could see them lifting their heads, watching her and Markes approach.

The entry was a huge studded gate which glowed like dying embers in the night. Together with the street lamps it created a halo above that section of the wall. As they came closer, Naif heard a faint groan. Joel had told her about that. Something to do with the burning of the long-coal in the trenches below the wall’s foundations caused the whole wall to expand and contract. At certain times of the day it cracked, at others it groaned.

‘Hail!’ called one of the wardens. ‘Who goes?’

‘Lenna Markes. Son of musician Grol Markes.’

Naif bit her lip and kept her head bowed. Markes pretending to be his brother was a dangerous move. She wished he’d told her that he planned to do that, so she could have warned him against it. And yet it would explain away any likeness to the boy who had run away to Ixion.

‘Grol Markes has been on probation and not allowed to travel. His son disfavoured him.’

Markes dropped his head as if shamed. ‘I am his other son. I know my father’s pain. I am not disallowed, though. I have to work.’

One of the other wardens, a slight man with large ears protruding from underneath his hat, detached from the posse and came closer. ‘I believe Lenna Markes to be heavy set, and one to wear felt, not Seal threads.’

‘T-times are hard, brother warden. We share among families. Our cousins are Seals.’

The warden walked a slow circle around them and Naif’s knees weakened so, she feared they’d collapse on her.

‘And who is this little Seal?’ he asked.

‘Toola Raspart. A cousin by marriage.’

‘I’d heard that Grol Markes’s son married among Seals. No accounting for these things. What authorisation does Seal Raspart have to be stepping out free with Lenna Markes?’

‘Her parents have given visiting rights with her new family.’

‘That sounds a fancy story. Bored with your Seal wife already, Lenna Markes? Are you hoping to tryst with this girl behind her back?’

One of the other wardens gave a snigger.

No!
The word rose from Naif’s throat and vibrated on her tongue, but she clamped her lips together. Seal girls did not speak when they were outside the compound. Her mother had drummed it into her often enough.

‘She’s my cousin, warden. And a Seal. If I was to tryst behind my wife’s back I would not be so stupid as to bring the girl here.’

‘He’s right, on that, brother,’ said another warden.

But the sharper one with the protruding ears was not convinced. ‘You are hiding something, Lenna Markes. I believe your family is no longer to be trusted.’

‘Warden, I –’

Markes stopped mid-sentence.. The posse of wardens suddenly surrounded Markes and Naif, pulling free their prodders from harnesses in their belts.

A terrified moan slipped from Naif’s mouth and she barely registered the dead cart that rolled up to the gate.

The lead warden turned to her, lifting his prodder menacingly.

Before he could use it, a commotion started alongside them. One of the horses from the dead cart began to whinny and buck against its harness, flinging clods of manure in their direction. The wardens scattered to avoid being hit. The horse then reared and plunged towards them.

Markes grabbed Naif’s hand and hauled down on the gate lever. As the segments of the gate squeaked apart they ran through. She glanced back at the cart and saw Liam’s face peering out from beneath the axle.

‘Come on!’ cried Markes.

He ran so quickly that she lost sight of him around a street corner.
Markes!

The wardens blew their whistles and Naif panicked, ducking into a closer laneway which twisted off in a different direction. She heard the wardens’ whistles following Markes and kept moving away from them.

But after a few streets she stopped and looked up at the rooftops. Markes had said to go to the prayer space under the northern arch.

She tried to calm herself. The whistles had not come closer. She was safe for the moment.

In one direction she saw an arc of light rising above the buildings. That must be the arch. She began to walk towards it.

Gradually, she began to take stock. The homes she walked past were grand, though not as elaborate in design as Ixion’s spired and columned churches. They seemed to have more grace and style than the stark, grey, flat-roofed homes in Seal South. Mostly two storeys, their frontages were well lit by large, ornate lamps. Some of the lamps took the shape of sacred dolmen, while others were wrought iron and fashioned as sets of praying hands. The light bled through the fingers in slivers, striping the gardens and the street.