Upstairs, the last floor and a dozen rooms were knocked over to create a much larger and much more luxurious living quarters; high ceilings, wide rooms, and lacquered furniture welcomed them once the rickety elevator opened its doors.
All the windows were kept the same size as the ones below them, making them indistinguishable from outside. All except for the fact they were shuttered tight. Mahala stared at them; it seemed off, making all this breathable space, only to shut out any natural light.
“Homunculi need to see where they’re going. Their presence has created an age where creatures like myself have become paranoid of open windows,” Dev Efrem explained, ascending the stairs. “Come, my office is above.”
Alderman candidate Dev Efrem looked harmless; slim and smartly dressed with short, sticking up brown hair swept away from his face. A little messier compared to his posters, but it gave him a boyish charm under the business wear. He was a public figure, running to be an alderman, the most responsible man in the city, working directly under the Protectorate.
Still, Mahala hesitated. Something about him she and the wyrm didn’t like by the way it strangled her veins.
“It’s fine,” Luck said.
She stepped forward with him, supporting him from under his arm. Together, they limped onto the leather sofa. Thank Nothos there was an elevator, even if it sounded like it wasn’t meant to exist.
While the young politician was all smiles, the rest of the men were openly scowling at Luck, their hands close to the weapons on their belts. Luck ignored them. Even in this state with his weapons damaged, Mahala was certain they stood little chance against him if he tried.
They passed by a cubicle rigged with various radio equipment and a speakerphone. Mahala guessed it was where Dev Efrem had spoken to them from. She wasn’t sure what all the rest of the communication devices were for.
A thug slammed the door behind them in Dev Efrem’s office; a square room draped in expensive silk curtains and rugs. A fireplace greeted them with a warm embrace, with walnut furniture hidden under a litter of paperwork like a daring fire hazard. To Mahala, it looked like a desperate attempt to mimic all the other fancy aldermen offices she had visited.
Well. Except for the two posters of half-naked women on the wall.
And the stone altar and bowl filled with water. Shark bones and seashells were scattered around the bowl. Three thin bones were tied together to form a triangle, dangling over the water on hemp thread. Certainly not an altar to Nothos.
Luck collapsed first into his seat. Before Mahala could join him, Dev Efrem offered her a hand. She reluctantly took it.
“You really are as pretty as a picture!” he said, lightly kissing the back of her hand.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
“Devil-May-Care Efrem, at your service! But please, feel free to call me Devil.”
Mahala sat down, hand back on her lap. “No, thank you, Mr Efrem.”
“Worth a shot,” he laughed. “The upper circles don’t take kindly to my full name. Such a shame that in the age of equality, they still look down on the culture of the former lowborn.” He winked at Luck. “Though it seems our naming tradition has rubbed off on the homunculi, eh? All of a sudden we have Billhook, Cutter, and Shrieker Kinderums!”
Devil-May-Care served up three cups of tea, but also set aside a fourth cup.
“Lady Mahala, you must know our country’s history intimately well. Do you know why we are given such names?” he asked as he passed a cup.
She fidgeted. Between blinks, she flitted between the Gingerbread House library surrounded by wide-eyed children to back to tea with Devil-May-Care. “Yes, of course. While it isn’t necessary for the lowborn to do, it is a humbling custom unique to Pomolin.”
He smiled at her, then sighed. “My campaign team insisted on not putting my full name on the posters.” Devil-May-Care took up his teacup with a dainty hand. “Would detract away the once highborn voters; creates too many insinuations, makes me look small, uneducated, dull. Also having ‘devil’ in your name doesn’t inspire trust in politics apparently.”
“It is hypocritical for anyone to make such insinuations with your name. Even the Lord Protector was named based on the old traditions,” Mahala muttered.
The Lord Protector had told her that his childhood home was unbearably cold, so he always slept close to the fireplace, which once caused his clothes to start burning. He survived with no injuries but the nickname ‘Chars.’ Then again, her father had also admitted to her privately that it was quite possible that the late Mrs Pesh was attempting to spell ‘Charles.’
Devil-May-Care clapped. “Exactly! He is one of us! Like you! And we lowborn must stick together, eh? So what can I do to help our beautiful Lady.” He offered her some sugar, which she refused. “In a spot of bother, my dear?”
Mahala’s face pinched. All of this felt so… wrong.
“We’re here on business. Can you get her on a ship to Kalkoku without anyone finding her?” Luck cut in.
She stared at him in shock. “Luck!”
Devil-May-Care’s smile only grew wider. “Oh, is that what all the fuss was about at the harbour?”
“Good, you’re in the know. The Theater’s likely going to monitor every ship leaving here. Homunculi are swarming the city. Can you get her out regardless?” Luck continued.
Devil-May-Care laughed. “What makes you think I can?”
“Because you’re one of the Sugarmen,” Luck said plainly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sir Homunculus,” Efrem chirped. “I work in sea-oil. Not sugar. I believe there was a refinery here once upon a time, but it has long since burned down. Am thinking of branching into other circles though!” He gestured to a flyer with his face on it: VOTE FOR EFREM.
Luck slammed his fist on the table. “Fine, play it that way.” He leaned closer with a sneer. “Crossroads, crossroads. Stuck in-between, unseen. Take pity before my soul implodes, dear Mistress Cardea.”
It was a simple string of words, yet it filled Mahala’s stomach with vipers. The wyrm squirmed hard against her heart. Mistress Cardea?
Devil-May-Care’s eyes glinted. The smile kept growing impossibly wider, barely fitting his face.
“Well, well, well… you are a man of surprises,” he said softly. “Where did you learn that little ditty?”
Luck crossed his arms. “I said the words.”
“Fair play! The boss will never forgive me if I turn away one of Mistress Cardea’s lost ones,” Devil-May-Care nodded in the direction of the stone altar.
“Is that an altar to the third god?” Mahala asked quietly.
“To one of his daughters, a mermaid by the name of Cardea,” Devil-May-Care explained casually. “She lived an unfortunate life like most of Lord Agura’s girls, a neglected nobody who slipped through the cracks of civilization. She takes to similar strays, the lonely thing she is. She wants us to care for each other, so all those under her patronage are to treat each other as wanted friends.”
Devil-May-Care caught Mahala’s disapproving frown.
“We are all good sons of Nothos here, milady. But those who live by the sea would be fools not to show some reverence to the God of Death’s waters, or his daughters that lurk there,” Devil-May-Care chuckled. “So, worry not! I promise to give you good Cardean hospitality. In the meantime, Sir Homunculus, we should discuss your request further, hmm?”
“It’s Luck,” Luck said.
“Luck. That’s a good name,” Devil-May-Care said. He snapped his fingers to his men. “Call Velvet! I think she’s the perfect host for our Lady while I sort this out.”
Mahala bristled. “What?! No, I’m staying! Shouldn’t I know how I’m getting onto a boat here?”
“With all due respect, milady, it is your Luck who had asked for a deal with me. So it is he who has to give to me in return. Whilst you are lovely, there is little tasteful work I have for a delicate lady in my line of business.” Devil-May-Care was still, infuriatingly, all smiles.
It clicked then. Devil-May-Care held a similar presence to Nevermind Yarth. It came all at once; the nails hammered to her chest, her cheek gouged open, Nevermind’s hand slipping off her face without a care.
“Luck…” Mahala stammered.
“It’ll be alright,” he said. For once, she could not read him.
That elfish, devil-may-care smile made Efrem look much younger than he was. She did not trust it one bit. “Velvet will take care of you.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
‘Velvet’ was a short woman in a ruffled dress cut above the knee. She had soft, sweet features but a hard stare. Dainty, but marched into the apartment with sharp raps of clacking heels. Devil-May-Care greeted her with a warm kiss on the cheek, which she brushed off.
They spoke in harsh whispers with Velvet stealing a few glances in Mahala’s direction. Devil-May-Care slid a hand to her waist which she had no hesitation in slapping away, and made a rude hand gesture Mahala had only seen sailors use.
“My dear!” Devil-May-Care beckoned. “Please meet the most beautiful girl in our city, Miss Velvet Auri!”
Velvet looked Mahala up and down. “Pleasure,” she said, with a slight Medean accent. “What will be your name, darling?”
The wording threw Mahala off. She nearly answered with her name but paused. Velvet was eyeing her the same way her piano teacher would at the beginning of every lesson.
“Lala,” Mahala blurted.
Velvet considered it with a curling lip. Mahala couldn’t tell if she passed the test or not.
“It’ll do. Come then, Lala,” Velvet said.
She took Mahala’s arm and dragged her to the door. Mahala glanced behind at Luck, receiving a crisp nod. Devil-May-Care waved enthusiastically behind.
They stepped into the next room, some kind of locker room. Velvet rummaged through one of them; until she found a set of clothes to toss at Mahala along with a flat wool cap.
Mahala studied the clothes, a little too big for her — and they were for men.
“The Theater’s looking for the Lady of Pomolin, not some boy going on a date with a girl,” Velvet answered as if reading her mind. She then held up a pair of gold-framed glasses “Don’t take these off.”
In ten minutes, they were walking arm in arm outside the apartments, Mahala’s long hair tucked under the flat cap, her figure hidden underneath a baggy tweed jacket and trousers.
The streets were still lively with pedestrians and motorcars. A tram passed by them crammed full of passengers loudly talking on top of each other. All the noise began to melt together, drowned out by her own breathing growing heavier and ragged. She thought she saw a homunculus out of the corner of her eye, but it disappeared after a blink.
“What’s wrong with you? You’re sweating like a sinner,” Velvet hissed.
“First time…” Mahala squeaked. First time she had walked out in public without a bodyguard in years. Without Luck by her side.
A leaflet was thrust into her face. She stumbled back.
The noise filtered out. She saw a small crowd forming around a man on a wooden platform and a speakerphone, behind him a large poster of Devil-May-Care.
“The Lord Protector claims all men are equal in Pomolin, but the highborn don’t think so!” shouted the man onstage. “What’s so good having the ‘right’ to what everyone else has if no one lets us! They won’t raise our wages! They won’t give us decent hours! They won’t treat us like them! We need to fight for the respect we deserve! Vote for one of our own to get into their council, make us heard!”
The leaflet had a list of promises Devil-May-Care intended to make: better hours, better pay, you deserve more! The Reapers are putting their lives on the line, they deserve a hero’s ransom. Pomolin cannot live without our sea-oil! The leaflet continued; less tax for the Reapers hunting the sea-oil, more funding for public schools, proper health insurance for workers paid by their companies.
“Come on,” Velvet urged her deeper into the crowd — and closer to the docks.
Mahala clung closer to Velvet, not daring to look up at the rooftops.
This wasn’t the way Luck took her to the docks. Velvet guided her deeper into the backstreets; here the roads grew narrower, the throng of people thicker, the city around them louder. The streets twisted into a cramped labyrinth; shops were squashed together, with electrical signs hanging above the pedestrians as the only way to advertise. Every alley sweltered with women washing, steaming, or drying different fabrics for their attached laundry businesses. A lot of the buildings were centuries old, made with brick and stone, timber framed with jetties and stacks of coal chimneys.
Out the other end of the labyrinth was the scent of blood. Rows of cargo warehouses lined up like soldiers, greeting the fleet of steel ships docked in front of them. The ships were giant armoured beasts, outfitted with harpoon guns the length of a man, sleeping off fresh scars of mile-long tears in their plates.
The scent of blood should have terrified Mahala. It was not human. Not any animal. Something with cold depth. The dockers ran around the massive ships without a care, singing shanties as they operated the cranes and wagons, extracting giant metal vats. The smell got worse — visceral and heady, the wyrm’s tendrils squeezing her chest tight.
Unbidden, a thought came to her. No, a sensation.
Hunger.
“Are those… reaper ships?” Mahala clutched Velvet tighter, swallowing desperately. She couldn’t look away from them, trying to shake off the wyrm. But it snaked through her stomach, making her look at the heaps of leviathan gore like a fresh steak.
“Keep your head down. The homunculi are monitoring these docks too,” Velvet said. “We’re here.”
The threat of getting caught was enough for her to yank her gaze away.
A muddy tavern overlooked the sea, centuries old as the rest of the backstreets. A large electrical sign flashed along its side: Hotel Blackpearl. Two large men covered in tattoos were lounging outside the double doors, playing cards. They gave Velvet a curt nod as she passed by.
Past the doors seeped a thick fog of spiced tobacco smoke, only dimly lit by dozens of electrical lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A radio blared jaunty tunes, mostly drowned out by the loud bickering and laughter of dockers as they played cards. Several girls wore matching dresses to Velvet, serving tea with bowls of date cookies and honeyed walnuts.
Up the stairs however, Mahala saw the same long pipes used by the Pelebris villagers and heavy glasses filled with amber. The bickering among the dockers had turned to brawling here, with anyone not throwing fists encouraging it with slurred cheers.
A few of the girls were up with the dockers too, some also smoking while openly straddling the men in their seats. Mahala wrinkled her nose at them. Obscene.
“Really? In the middle of the Theater swarming the city?” Mahala said quietly. “Do you have no sense of self-preservation or are you really that bold that you won’t get caught?”
“What, gonna tell on us?” Velvet sneered.
She shoved Mahala through a STAFF ONLY door which led into a narrow corridor and into a large dressing room.
Lit up vanity mirrors and dressers were set along both sides of the room; cosmetics, jewellery, hair oils and headbands spilled out of every available surface. The mirrors were decorated with photographs, flowers, chocolates, and bone-charms. At the back of the room were two racks of the same uniform Velvet donned and a chest overfilled with silk garters, scarfs and gloves. A velvet cushion full of pins and a sewing machine had a half-finished project still mid-stitch.
“Time to dress up, Lala,” Velvet said. It sounded concerningly like a threat.
“What? Aren’t I already dressed?”
“You’re dressed like a nobody. If you want to be treated better than that, you’re going to have to be someone more important. Someone under our protection.”
Mahala stiffened. “Wait… you mean like you…?”
“Make up a backstory about ‘Lala;’ you’re from out of town, you’re sick of factory wages and want to earn better money. Feel free to dramatise it a little, we all do here.”
“How am I going to be earning... ‘better money’?” Mahala asked.
Velvet pulled one of the dresses from the rack. “You won’t actually do anything while you’re staying. I’ll say you’re in training with me.”
One dress was held against Mahala, again above the knee, with an open v-neck that would expose the wyrm. She took a step back. “Surely, you have something more modest–”
Velvet’s face darkened into a deep scowl and for the first time, Mahala feared that a girl was going to hit her. She didn’t think girls were capable of violence but Mahala’s own actions since the wyrm proved to her otherwise.
“Listen to me carefully,” Velvet said calmly. “Not all of us get to grow up in a nice castle, playing the piano all day and smiling for the camera. Just saying we get a fair cut of the country doesn’t mean people actually do it. And none of these girls got a big bad magus protecting them from those who want more than they can get.”
“I-I didn’t say anything–” Mahala babbled, hand holding her hot cheek.
“You bloody thought it,” Velvet snapped. “Don’t ever presume anything about these girls. You got no right to judge why we’re here.”
Mahala trembled, her face getting even hotter. “I… I can’t show my chest… injury…”
Velvet took a moment to study Mahala again. “Did he hurt you?”
“What?”
“The homunculus. Did he hurt you?”
“Wha— no!”
Velvet handed her a wide linen scarf to cover her front. “Get changed. If you don’t like it, you can dress up like a reaper instead.”
Mahala huddled in the corner of the room, her back turned to Velvet so she couldn’t see the wyrm. She stripped out of the men’s clothes to the dress. Velvet even came up behind her and helped with adjustments.
“I’m sorry,” Mahala hadn’t felt so chastened since Peter had caught her sneaking out with Adelei that one time. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Well, you did,” said Velvet flatly.
Mahala wasn’t sure what else to say to her. The air cooled the wyrm, and she quickly bundled the scarf over it. She appraised it as a decent scarf with a good thread count, embroidered with dragonflies.
Velvet handed Mahala a damp towel to wipe her face with. She was then dragged into a chair in front of a dresser. Velvet yanked a comb through her hair, only pausing after she felt its softness. She opted for slower strokes. Her fingers ran through the hair like it was water. Sister Zvie had taken great pride in caring for Mahala’s hair.
“It’s like silk,” the Sister cooed from behind.
“You have beautiful hair,” Velvet said over her, twisting Mahala’s hair into a tight bun. “Healthy enough to dye, but we don’t have enough time. We’ll have to put a wig on you instead. I’m thinking red.”
The chair was spun around so Mahala was facing Velvet, armed with a cosmetics kit. Various products were dabbed on her face.
“The Lady of Pomolin has a natural modest look, so we should go for something bolder,” Velvet said.
“I’m sorry,” Mahala said again.
Velvet shrugged. “It’s not all bad, you know? You make good money, you wear whatever you want, dance with whoever you want.”
“Is that all you want?”
“Can’t ask for the impossible,” Velvet sighed. “I’d much rather have a night to drink and be happy than the miserable toil for nine hours for pocket change at a factory.”
“It’s honest work.”
“That sure makes it sooo much better that I don’t have money,” Velvet drawled.
A cold cream was rubbed into Mahala’s face, then puffs of warm-brown face powder and rouge blush. Her eyebrows were pencilled in thicker, smokey eyeshadow, and eyeliner smudged on, highlighted with a vibrant green.
Mahala picked up one of the cosmetic bottles as Velvet rifled through her kit. The brightly coloured bottles looked a little gaudy to her, a kaleidoscope of colours outlined in gold leaf, a lot in the brand of Sweet Pharmacy, which Mahala had never heard of.
“What does ‘Sugarman’ mean?” she asked.
The corner of Velvet’s mouth twitched. She was harder to read than homunculi. “It means trouble. Devil wants me to take care of you, so make my life easier by not talking about it with anyone. We don’t kiss and tell here. But that’s no excuse to be stupid and tell anyone who you really are.”
She lifted Mahala’s chin and finally applied the lipstick, a bright crimson. Only then did she give a satisfied nod, stepping back for a final once-over. Then she opened a locker full of mannequin heads dressed in wigs. One piece with long red hair was selected and carefully pulled over Mahala’s scalp.
“But, I don’t know–” Mahala began.
“I don’t want to know, and none of the girls should know. This is for their safety. It’s better we all know nothing about why you’re here,” Velvet said curtly. She began brushing the wig. “If I had it my way, you’d be here dressed up as a housekeeper, but Blackpearl girls have privileges Devil insisted you get. Said you should have fun as a guest in our city.”
“Is it... fun doing this?”
“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” It should have been uncanny that through this entire conversation, Velvet only gave away her feelings with faint twitches of her mouth. Yet it was familiar, in a comforting way.
Mahala was pulled up to a full length mirror haphazardly draped in scarves. She stared at her reflection. At first glance, she didn’t look like Lady Mahala Pesh at all. Her eyes were sharper, outlined in smoky black, making her yellow eyes more vibrant. Her face looked brighter with the new vibrant colours. The dress hugged at her hips, and the beads glittered in the light. She didn’t hate how she looked.
“Do men like it when you dress like this?” Mahala asked. She swished the ruffled skirt a little.
“Do you like it?” Velvet returned.
Mahala liked whatever her seamstress gave her. She was assured that it commanded respect and grace from others. Every new dress matched the jewel tones of her father’s wardrobe, to lead by example for young girls to see how they should dress as well.
Now her legs were visible; any higher and her garters would be too. Were the men outside going to see her in this?
“I don’t want anyone to think I’m trying to expose–” Mahala began.
“I’m asking if you like it,” Velvet cut in sharply.
Mahala’s cheeks ran hot. “It’s... different.”
“If you were wearing it on your own, would you like it?”
A second glance at the mirror made her want to say no, but that would be a lie. Velvet would know.
It admittedly made her feel… quite pretty. She should wear eyeshadow more often. Short skirts were fun, flouncing around as she moved. Her reflection smiled shyly. Her cheeks looked even warmer with the rouge.
She expected Velvet to smile back, but she didn’t.
Suddenly, the memory of the moonshiner lady struck her. Obscene, she had thought. She ducked her head, her cheeks glowing even hotter.
“I do… but I… I don’t deserve to…” Mahala mumbled, her stomach churning.
“All girls deserve to. Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to apply cosmetics. You can choose your own colours then; experiment a little,” said Velvet.
“What if I get it wrong?” asked Mahala.
Velvet shrugged. “As long as you like it, what does it matter? Though I suppose it’ll be a bonus if your homunculus likes it too.”
Mahala laughed nervously. “It’s not like that.”
“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Lala,” Velvet said dryly.
“What?” Getting hit would have been better.
“That meat puppet is cutting a deal with the Sugarmen for you.”
“You said I can’t talk about the Sugarme—”
“Don’t be a fucking idiot. And pray to Nothos that he survives whatever task he’s given to get you out of here.”
Mahala nearly asked ‘what’ again but she knew what Velvet meant. She remembered the greed of the Yarth family.
Why does Luck know the Sugarmen?
Her chest tightened as the wyrm’s tendrils constricted her. She tried to fight the onset of panic even as her skull started pounding with what-ifs.
“I’ve no need to pray. He will come back to me,” Mahala said quietly.
“And that,” Velvet declared, “Is the smartest thing you’ve said all night, Lala.”
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