WHEN I LOOK up, I see where the sun is and catch the angle of shadow the Wall casts, and then the call to prayer sounds. The city becomes so quiet that my footsteps are the loudest things I hear. Slowly, however, I wind my way through the edge of the Forum toward the Arbaa dahia, the darkness growing thicker until I make it to a thicket of shrubbery near the base of the Wall. I know there’s an opening in the hedging somewhere, and when I find it, I get low and crawl through. Free at last.
When I come out on the other side, there’s dirt all over my white robe. My red sash is wrinkled, and the thick blue stripes coming down from my shoulders to my waist are all twisted and askew. At least I feel more like myself this way. I’ve never kept clothes clean for very long.
I hear voices ahead of me.
The wall that circles Kos, that keeps us safe, is a massive expanse of gray before me, going on infinitely in both directions, but after my eyes adjust, colors bloom to life against the stone. Some of it looks like letters, but the pink and red and orange and blue have been splashed on to create beasts. Inisisa that tattoo the Wall like they tattoo my skin, some taller than me, some battling one another, some making their way in flight over the Wall. It’s the work of the Scribes.
I follow the trail, and, sure enough, there’s a group of them huddled together and talking from behind their scarves. The shimmering cloth is tied loosely around their heads, and when they paint, they pull the cloth up over their mouth and nose to keep from inhaling the pungent fumes. The Scribes claim it’s worse than walking through inyo-infested dahia where the uncleansed souls of the dead wander. I think they’re right. I’ve gotten used to walking among the inyo, breathing them in. If your dahia has ever been Baptized, you’ve done it before, been surrounded by inyo. You’ve had to live with them.
My scarf, when I pull it up, won’t stay over my mouth and nose, so eventually I give up. When I get close enough, everyone stops. The conversation cuts dead like it fell off a cliff.
I realize in the dark they can’t recognize me, so I pull my scarf all the way down and slip my hairband down to my neck so that my hair breathes freely.
“Taj?” It’s Marya. She’s got her hood up, and strands of dark hair peek out and frame her face. Her gloved fingers, with the tips poking out, are covered in blue and orange paint. Her still-wet brush dangles at her waist. “Taj, is that you?” I can hear joy in her voice, and for the first time since before I fought that dragon, it feels like I’m home again, like the city of Kos recognizes me.
She’s wearing a gray shirt with an eagle painted on the front, cinched at the waist. Another Scribe behind her wears a robe covered in painted lizards. A smaller aki nearby shows off his new shirt to a couple of the others. A gift from the Scribes. He flaps the shirt so that it looks like the tiny birds on it, the inisisa representing thievery, are flying up his chest.
More aki cluster by the Wall, checking out the latest painted sin.
Scanning the paintings, I remember how the holy men would talk of a time when beasts roamed the earth. Before there were aki and Mages. The beasts roamed the world freely and spoke directly to us lowly humans. The Scribes tag the wall to memorialize this time. They do so in vivid color, as opposed to the black ink of actual sin-spots, so that everyone can see the images, even against the drab backdrop. Looking at the Scribes now, I feel the inevitable pinch of envy. They weren’t cursed with the ability to Eat, they weren’t born with the Hunger, they just felt out of place. The way they dress, the way they talk, the way they refuse to bow and kneel and scrape before all the people they’re supposed to bow and kneel and scrape before. Being able to run away is always better than being taken. I wonder if any other aki watch them, admiration glowing in their eyes, and think the same and feel just a little bit jealous.
Marya picks at my robe with her dirty fingers, and I don’t mind. I’ve missed her.
“Chai! Where did you find these? Oga, tell me the name of your dressmaker, I will make sure he is caned in the Forum for wasting these gemstones on you.” She eyes me up and down, turns me around to see how it all fits together. “This is all metallic,” she murmurs in awe. “The time it must have taken.” Then she straightens, fists on hips. “You obviously haven’t learned how to take care of clothes. You could be draped in gold, and it would all be soiled within the hour. That is a month’s worth of puff puff you’re wearing right now, and it is already soiled.”
“Doesn’t seem to suit you, brother.” Someone steps forward. Bo. Relief rushes over me. Izu had promised me that he was safe, but it’s a totally different thing to see him standing before me. I want to ask him about Nazim, the moneychanger, and how he bargained for Bo’s freedom.
But when Bo speaks, there’s a new air of confrontation in my friend that I’ve never seen before. He refuses to meet my eyes, instead looking me up and down. “In fact, it looks like you are preparing to pound yams. Is that what they have you doing over there, Taj? Pounding yams?” He sounds like he wants to fight me.
“Well, you’re welcome for saving your life.” I smile, hoping to ease the tension. Bo’s sporting a new scar that slides around his left eye and down his cheek from his fight with King Kolade’s sin-dragon. And his limp hasn’t gone away.
“Yeah, the Palace guards let me go. Didn’t give a reason. I see you’ve made it out all right.” He snorts. “You practically glitter now.” The way he says it makes me want to break his nose. “This is what they dress their servants in, eh?”
He plucks at my sash, and I step back, gritting my teeth. Marya looks at both of us, worried. What’s his problem?
Bo crosses his arms over his chest. “Can’t see a single sin on your skin the way you’re covered up. Wouldn’t want your new overseers to let the Forum know they’ve hired a common aki to Eat for them, would they?”
“Bo, what are you talking about? It’s not like I’m stealing your work. By the Unnamed, there’s still more than enough sin to go around.”
“I bet they feed you pretty nice too. Goat meat on your plate every night, eh?”
“Bo.”
He takes a step forward, but Marya stands between us, a hand to Bo’s chest.
“Brothers, stop this lahala. Now.”
She speaks with steel in her voice, but Bo and I are still spoiling for a fight.
“Leave it!” one of the younger Scribes suddenly cries out. “The guards!”
All at once, everyone scatters. The Scribes snatch up their tools and trays and pour their paint out into the dirt. They vanish in the shrubbery. Bo gives me one last glare before he does the same. I get ready to head in after them when I see Arzu leading a small army of guards. Sweaty, breathing hard, barely able to hold herself up, and fuming with rage.
“Sir,” is all she has to say. Her eyes are still rimmed in red.
I follow her back to the Palace.