Chapter 27
Slant was making a breakfast of cured fruits and meats when someone knocked on their door. Tower looked up from the table, her training robes gripped tightly. His Mother yelped, twitched. Still, years later, they feared unexpected visitors. Normally, Slant would have been on edge too, but he expected to hear from Wasp today. He gestured for them to remain calm as he went to the front door. To set them at ease, he took the skillet, gripped it tightly.
“Who's there?” he asked the door.
“My name is Junior Doctor Stamen,” someone said. “I am here to look for the man Slant?”
Tower frowned, asking if he knew anything about this. Slant shook his head.
“Am I addressing the man Slant, albeit through a door?”
Slant relaxed a little: it was ridiculous to hold a conversation through a door. He put his foot inches from the door before cracking it open. On the other side was a short woman in red robes, the colour subtly different to a Doctor’s. She was tanned but plain, her features a scattered collection on her wide face.
“And you would be Slant?” she asked, putting her hand on her hip.
“I am,” Slant replied, checking the corridor for others waiting to spring an attack.
Stamen pushed a document through the narrow opening. “I have been sent to free you from your daily duties taking care of your mother. A joint friend hired me?”
“One moment,” he said before closing the door.
Tower appeared next to him, as much curious as concerned. “What is it?”
“It's... I guess it's proof that she's really a Mentalist hired for us,” Slant said.
“Why would someone hire a Mentalist…?” Tower started, then realisation dawned on her. “Wait, is this from...?” She looked back, saw their Mother staring at them, then lowered her voice. “Is this from Wasp? Has he sent a Mentalist so you can work during the day?”
“I don't know what else it could be. Let's find out. Grab a knife?”
Tower brought him a knife. Slant cut the seal. The document it protected was a receipt, proof that Wasp had paid for Junior Mentalist Stamen to look after their Mother.
“Sol, she's the real thing,” Tower said.
Slant nodded slowly. Stamen wasn't a carer sent to free his time up: she was here to cure their Mother. In his brief conversation with Wasp after showing his face, he had mentioned her illness only in passing, yet Wasp had found out more and sent help. Slant covered his mouth, and took in a torrid breath.
Tower looked at him, her eyes misting, and they hugged. If Wasp were trying to buy Slant's loyalty, he'd found the right price.
“I am not all that comfortable being out here in the corridor,” Mentalist Stamen said.
Tower laughed, broke off their hug, and wiped her eyes.
“Oh, of course, sorry. Come in,” Slant said. He then opened the door.
Mentalist Stamen entered, looked around their meagre household, then said, “This is a lovely home that you have here. I trust that you have been keeping it so, Slant?”
“I have, thank you, sire Doctor,” Slant said, acquiescing.
“And you would be Tower, the sister and Cleric in training?”
“I am, sire,” Tower said. She did not acquiesce as she was of a higher Station.
Stamen looked Tower up and down before giving her another smile. She then turned to the kitchen. “That, then, would make this young thing Earn, would it not? Hello, Earn, how are you?”
His Mother's eyes lit up: she loved seeing people of Station, people chosen by Sol. She acquiesced slightly, then said, “I am Earn, sire. Are you here to keep Lun away?”
“Yes,” Mentalist Stamen replied. “In a manner of speaking.”
His Mother smiled, then returned to staring at the table.
Stamen nodded. “Very well, I shall take it from here. Tower, I shall see you this evening. Slant, I don't think we shall see you for some time: you are expected at the place you were hired.”
“Are you going away, Slant?” their Mother asked, her voice quiet.
Slant walked over and squatted beside her. This wouldn't be his first 'trip': during his early career, he'd been laid up in a Doctor's ward for three weeks with a serious knife wound. Tower hadn't bought his line about getting temporary work for a Merchant, but his Mother had.
“Yes, I will be. I've got another job, and I'll be working at that for a good while.”
“You're a good boy,” she said, looking him in the eye. “Be careful.”
“I will,” Slant promised.
“Come on, out you two go. Go and do Sol's work,” Mentalist Stamen said, looking at Slant in particular when she said that. “Me and Earn are going to get to know each other.”
Tower grabbed a handful of fruit and shook Stamen's hand before she left. As Slant closed the door behind her, she gave him a soft look that nearly brought tears to his eyes.
“You too, Slant. Earn is in my custody now,” Doctor Stamen insisted.
He beckoned the Mentalist over, then whispered, “Am I supposed to take weapons?”
The woman was maybe ten years his senior, and she gave him a look that made their Station and maturity difference obvious. “I don't know, and I was never likely to know. It would be a good idea, Slant, to consider your position before you ask such questions.”
Slant tilted his head, eyed her nervously. He'd assumed she was part of the Custodians, but he'd been stupid to do so. The warning was fair, though: whilst he worked to earn his Mother's health, he would be breaking the law, a Heretic. Sharing that status could only be stupid. He wasn't thinking clearly, overwhelmed by the prospect of a healthy mother.
“Go on,” Mentalist Stamen said. “Leave this to me. You have your own... battles.”
Not knowing what to expect, Slant went to his bedroom and put on his armour, grey robes and mask, and secreted his baton under his robes.
Stamen and his mother were in quiet conversation when he left, their voices low. He imagined the Mentalist was matching his Mother's volume, talking to her in confidence. Rather than interrupt them for validation, or another opportunity to say something stupid, he left.
It took a while to get to Wasp's warehouse as those with legitimate jobs clogged Aureu's narrow streets and broad roads. The city's quarters existed to prevent important people wasting their time travelling to their workplaces, but refugees and the poor took the same long journey across Aureu each day. He wove between his fellows to Ocean's Edge, which was even busier, even to the wretched north. Getting through the crowds and throngs took some time, but he was soon approaching the warehouse.
Several times, Stationless people paid him close attention, followed him a way before letting someone else mark his passage. Wasp, it seemed, was a careful man.
Someone accosted him before he got to the front door. He wore rough, dirty clothing, and his toes peaked through his old boots. “What do you want?”
“My name is Slant,” he replied. “Wasp sent for me.”
He looked Slant up and down, forty-something with skin as tough as leather. Claw marks covered his cheeks, his nose had been broken many times, and the little finger on his left hand was missing. “Prove who you are. Tell me your sister's name.”
“Tower,” Slant said instantly.
The Custodian grunted. “Alright, it's you. Come on then.”
When he started walking away from the warehouse, Slant asked, “Aren't we going inside?”
“No,” the Custodian replied, not stopping. “Now follow me, or waste more time.”
Slant shrugged to himself before jogging after the man. “Where are we going then?”
“We ask a lot of questions, don't we?”
“Won't that be a good quality in a Custodian?”
The man grunted again, but kept marching, leading him away from Ocean's Edge.
“Can you at least tell me your name?” Slant asked after a long silence.
“Fine,” the Custodian replied, exasperated. “My name's Heart. B
ut we're going to be working together, not Joined like young lovers, so I'm not telling you anything else.”
His tone promised no further information, so Slant followed in silence. They soon entered Buyer's Haven, the Merchant's quarter. The dilapidation continued from the north of Ocean's Edge, with houses and flats ignored by the Artificers for years and streets littered with refuse. If anything, it was worse because more people lived here: puffs of smoke spilled from the abandoned-looking homes' chimneys, and chatter could be heard within. He took it all in, the boarded-over windows and collapsed roofs making him grateful for his meagre home.
Heart led him down a side road, a dead-end. There was a door set into the building beside them, which Heart unlocked with two different keys. Inside was a tiny room, clean, well-maintained, like a pristine box.
“Okay,” Heart said, turning his gnarled face to sneer at Slant once he’d locked them in. “I'm told that you were a solo vigilante before Wasp brought you in. That either makes you talented, dumb, or lucky. Until I see otherwise, I'm going to assume you're dumb. Alright?”
“Well, not really,” Slant replied.
“Tough. Have you heard of Seed?”
“Of course I–”
“Okay, I don't need to hear everything you know, because you won't know everything,” Heart growled. “Now, most people assume that Seed's grown in Zones. You know what a Zone is?”
Slant growled. “It's a house a bunch of–”
“You know then. Good. Now–”
“Stop interrupting me,” Slant demanded.
“You mean, like you did just then?”
“Well, yes, but I was justified in doing so because you did it first. Twice.”
The Custodian grinned. “It's good that you've got spirit, but if you interrupt me and waste time again, I will break your nose. Is that okay, Slant?”
Of course he wanted to say no, but Heart was right: further antagonism would only waste time. His feelings didn’t matter in their work. So he bit back his response and shook his head.
“Good. Most people assume Seed is grown in Zones, as though the drug-addled Zoners have any fucking organisation or patience. That's why most people are idiots. Somewhere beyond Aureu's walls, fucking evil bastards grow seedling plants by the acre. Somehow, they bring it to Aureu to sell it to Zoners. We’re going to search for this network and any organisation supporting it. We'll scour this area, talk to people, learn. Okay?”
Seed seemed to be everywhere, like hair Lun shed, so much so that Slant had been one of Heart’s idiots. Hearing the Custodians' theory made Slant understand this room: taking out the Stationless was one thing, but aiming at people in power required somewhere secret to discuss such things. It was vile, disgusting, to think people of Station would make money from this misery and pain.
“Do we know who supports them?”
Heart nodded. “We don’t know, but you can’t do much in Aureu without a Station backing you.”
“But the Custodians don’t have a Station behind them?” Slant pointed out.
Heart grinned. “Who said we’re not supported?”
That raised a number of further questions, but Slant ignored them. He said, “Okay, let's do this.”
“Good,” Heart said, giving him a vicious grin. “Maybe there's sense in you after all. The first job is finding the right Zone to target. Well, after we get you some more sensible clothes.”
“What do you mean?”
Heart knelt to lift up a floorboard. “You're going to stick out like a cock at the Academy dressed like that. It might've worked when you were hiding in the night, but hiding in Sol's light means looking like these poor buggers. Dress poor, and people will think you're just another Stationless idiot. That's how we work.”
He pulled a rucksack from a hiding space beneath the floor, and threw it to Slant. Inside were ragged clothes, poor boots, and a slender knife he could hide in them. This was his new costume. Heart sharpened the knife as Slant turned from a protected vigilante into a Custodian, a rough and dirty young man with nothing between his face and the world. He felt naked. But, he supposed, so did anyone who lived here. Really, he was lucky that he could fight, and that he could use that gift to keep Tower and his mother away from places like this. Living as someone worse off wouldn't be bad, especially if it meant doing some good.
“Done,” Slant said, hiding his stuff back under the floorboards.
“Right, let's get on and spear the fuckers poisoning our city, shall we?”
He followed Heart out to dish out a different kind of justice than what he was used to. He only hoped he would be good enough: his mother needed him to be. The thought focussed him, made him care less about his attire. Becoming a Custodian had been about pride and justice: now, it was about protecting his family. And nothing was more important than that.