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a
recorder at their copper bracelets. It looked like a tiny metal
pencil with a blue tip that lit up. The microchip in their
bracelets flashed once in response. “Now get out of here before I
change my mind.”
    Killian hauled
the girl away, even as she spat curses under her breath. He didn’t
look back. Jane smiled weakly at the soldier. “Shall I read your
omens?” she asked. Nothing distracted people like a glimpse into
their own future.
    He looked
pleased, excited. “I’ve never been read by a proper Oracle.”
    She didn’t
correct him by reminding him she was still a novice, just drew more
blood-red liquid into the straw. He watched her so reverently it
made her feel slightly ill.
    “Long day,”
Kiri said a half an hour later, pushing the earth-brown veil off
her head. “I heard more details about strangers’ sex lives than I
ever want to know. And no matter how many times I tell them I don’t
need the information for the blessing, they just won’t stop.” She
leaned back on the bench. “I prefer the ones who want more
eggplants instead of babies. Who the hell would want to have babies
in this pit, anyway?”
    Jane massaged
the back of her aching neck and tried to look as if she was paying
attention. The others were mostly quiet and tired; Kiri was the
only one who could talk through a coma. Rain pattered lightly on
their heads. It was soothing, the coolness a balm to the fire still
burning at her nape.
    Until the wagon
pulled past a man sleeping on a rusted metal gate. The contrast of
the gilded wagon with the brittle pavement, the grey buildings, the
man’s rusty gate, were deliberate and calculated. So were the
Protectorate soldiers who descended on the sleeping man from across
the street.
    They moved
between the wagons, guard dogs growling and straining at their
chains. It was over in minutes. There was screaming and blood and
red teeth.
    The captain
nudged the man with the toe of his boot. Another soldier picked up
the burlap sack he’d used as a pillow and upended it. Wet leaves
tumbled out, no doubt gathered from the saplings growing out of
window panes all around them. Forbidden but surely not worth such a
mauling. “Not him,” the captain said, looking at the clumps of
leaves, disgusted. They walked away, leaving him pressed against
the wall, clothes and flesh torn off his legs.
    “We have to
bring the Green Jack home,” one of the soldiers explained to Jane
when he caught her expression. “The streets aren’t safe.”
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 7
    Saffron
     
    Saffron hated
Ritual days with a passion generally reserved for wet boots and
protein paste rations.
    Soldiers
wearing masks of copper and tin leaves stood at attention. Saffron
had her knives, but they had rifles. Not to mention everything
else.
    And now she had
Argent to deal with.
    He had the
pale, faintly waxy complexion of someone who spent too much time
underground, and a silver tooth he liked to flash like it was worth
something.
    He’d also lent
her money she hadn’t paid back yet.
    She tried not
to react. Killian would notice. He was standing next to her,
waiting patiently for the stupid ceremony to be over. He was always
patient. And quiet. But he knew damn well, even before she’d tried
to punch him, how she felt about him visiting an Oracle. They never
bent a knee to the Numinas. It was their one small rebellion.
    He leaned
against a hydro pole, decorated with cheerful green and gold
ribbons. More ribbons festooned the bronze statue of Cartimandua,
Legata of the Protectorate. It was considerably newer than the
figure of the Green Jack behind it, the stubs of burned out candles
at his feet. One of the toes of the Green Jack statue was polished
to a sheen, touched by countless hands for good luck. Saffron had
never understood how a giant bronze toe would help her feed her
Oona and so she never bothered. She’d caught Killian touching it
once, and she’d teased him until he