The Ruins Book 4 Read online

  "The slave who died was one of our metal workers," Ollie said, watching her. "He was here for ten years, longer than most of the others." She recalled the slave named Jonah lying in the dirt in the courtyard, his face smashed in and blood running from his head. "Of course, that didn't spare him a punishment."

  Kirby's face betrayed no emotion.

  "He stole from a guard," Ollie reinforced. "He deserved what he got."

  Breaking the silence that she'd kept since entering the room, Kirby said, "It is a shame."

  Ollie watched her a moment, judging her sincerity. Or perhaps he was looking for an excuse to say—or do—whatever he planned. Sliding back his chair, Ollie stood. His breathing grew heavier as he took a step toward her.

  Kirby tensed.

  He had promised only to talk, but of course she knew promises from cruel, ignorant men meant nothing.

  "Most of our slaves would love a chance to get out of the fields," Ollie said, hiding none of his lustful thoughts as he got close enough that she could see the glint in his eye. "But that slave threw it away. He could have had a good life here. Maybe another ten years."

  Kirby felt anger as she processed the rationale behind his conversation. It was the same, sick rationale she had heard too many times in her homeland. Out of the corner of her eye, Kirby saw the closed door, wondered how fast she could make it there. Would she reach the handle before his greasy paws were on her?

  "You're more resilient than some of the others." Ollie eyed her. "A few of the guards thought you'd be back in the cell by now." He laughed, but she saw a hint of reservation behind it. He probably thought about the fight she'd put up outside the long building, and the bruises she'd given him.

  Kirby said nothing. A single word might speed up what he had planned.

  She clenched her fists.

  "I told them you knew better than to fight with me again." Ollie smiled, cocking his thick, ugly skull sideways. "You know better, don't you?"

  His words felt like slick, sweaty caresses. He leaned close enough that she could smell his dirty skin, and see a few red sores around his mouth.

  "Those who make my time pleasant, live pleasant lives," he said, through dry, cracked lips.

  Kirby would bite those lips off before they touched her.

  She tried backing up a step, hoping to get enough leverage that she could throw a punch, or a knee, but she was up against the wall. With nowhere else to go, she stared at him.

  Ollie's hands were at his side, clenching and unclenching, prepared to grab.

  The doorknob made a noise and turned.

  The door?

  Kirby and Ollie's heads jerked.

  A young, mop-haired boy peered into the room.

  "Daddy?" he asked, stopping when she saw Ollie leaning against Kirby. "What's going on?"

  "None of your business," Ollie snapped. "Get out of here."

  A frizzy-haired woman stepped in behind the child, grabbing his shoulders. "I told you to stay out, Junior," she whispered. "When the door is closed, we can't come in. You know that."

  "But I wanted to show Daddy the water we got," the child protested.

  "I'm sorry," the woman told Ollie. "I told him we were going to Annie's."

  Some of the lust fled Ollie's eyes as he appraised the two newcomers, and Kirby's eyes traced a path over their shoulders to escape.

  "We're all set for our laundry, Daddy," the mop-haired kid said, holding a bucket in front of him. "We're going to do it while you're at work."

  Ollie's face was torn as he looked from the frizzy-haired woman to the kid. "Give me a moment. I'm almost done." He cranked a thumb toward the door. "Shut the door behind you."

  The frizzy-haired woman watched Ollie for a moment, before putting her arms around the child and ushering him out of the house. She gave Kirby a hard stare before she left. Ollie returned his attention to Kirby. Frustration crossed his face as he tried to recapture his lustful thoughts, but failed.

  Angered, he took a step back.

  "What do you know about metal work?"

  Kirby was surprised. "Metal work?"

  Ollie seemed annoyed to repeat himself. "Do you know it or not?"

  Kirby nodded. "I have worked with metal where I used to live." The words weren't entirely true, but she sensed an opportunity.

  "Rudyard wanted me to fill the seat we lost," Ollie said. "Keep me happy, and you'll keep your job. Fuck up, and you're back in the fields." His eyes roamed from Kirby's face to her shirt. "Or maybe I'll find another use for you. I'm not through with you."

  Chapter 19: William

  Mid-day sunlight broke through the clouds, beaming through the glass windows of The Library Room, reflecting off the strange metal devices situated around the room, and illuminating the bookshelves by the walls.

  William sat at the large, opulent table, filled with appetizing lunch dishes that Tolstoy had ordered. All around, The Gifted sat, murmuring their pleasantries and smiling through their warts. They passed dishes of sliced peaches, meat, strawberries, and apples. A few smiled as their eyes passed over William, sitting in his usual spot in his new attire.

  "The robe fits you well," Herman said, with a shake of his head.

  William looked down at the robe, which still felt as if it belonged to one of the snobbish scholars in Brighton, rather than draped over a captive boy's arms. He forced a smile.

  "You look esteemed," Tolstoy agreed, with a sage nod.

  William returned his eyes to his plate, wishing he could melt into his food.

  "A man who dresses well succeeds," Barron said with a laugh. "An old adage you might not have heard."

  William politely nodded.

  Directing his attention to the others, Tolstoy said, "I met with Rudyard earlier this morning. He says we had a problem with the slaves yesterday."

  "A problem?" Amelia asked, frowning as she chewed.

  William looked toward the empty seat at the end of the table. Of course, Rudyard wasn't there. He was normally too busy taking care of whatever he did in the city.

  "The guards solved the issue, whatever it was," Tolstoy said.

  "What happened to the offenders?"

  "One was killed, one was beaten," Tolstoy said, as if he discussed a bothersome pest. "The guards acted in our interests. The city is running smoothly again."

  "Good," Herman said. "We need to keep production up."

  "Rudyard says we have lost a few to sickness," Tolstoy said. "With the change of the season, I expect we will lose a few more. Rudyard will have the Semposi bring in more workers."

  You mean slaves, William thought angrily.

  William's stomach twisted in knots as he recalled the encounter with the savage, uncaring men in the forests. Thinking of them led him to thoughts of Cullen's twisted, mangled body, and the story of how Cullen's brothers had died.

  The Gifted weren't just the cause of the pain in New City.

  They caused pain in the forest, too.

  They might not drag people from the woods, or beat them, but they were the people that gave the orders to rip them from their homes. They were the demons that sat on well-constructed chairs, ensuring everyone outside the tower lived lives of pain, suffering, and misery.

  A knock at the door interrupted his angry thoughts.

  "Ah, that must be dessert," Tolstoy said, turning to face the door. "Come in."

  The door opened, revealing two muscled guards carrying trays of colorful bread, filled with fruit. William recognized two of the men that usually kept watch on the bottom floor, as he had learned. Bringing the desserts to the table, they set them down at various points in the table in front of The Gifted.

  "Are we too early?" one of the guards asked.

  "No, the timing is perfect," Tolstoy responded.

  "Do you need anything else?"

  "That will be all," Tolstoy said with a dismissive wave.

  The men left.

  Tolstoy ignored their departure as he reached for a dessert and passed a dish
along to Herman.

  After chewing a mouthful of bread, Tolstoy said, "Rudyard mentioned we need to keep an eye on our rations, as the seasons change."

  Barron tapped his fork on the table, reemphasizing the point. "The slave's stomachs should be full enough that they can do their work. Not an ounce more. Gluttony leads to laziness. And laziness slows progress."

  "It is unfortunate that we need to worry about such things," Tolstoy said. "Perhaps one day, the slaves will understand the importance of our work."

  William pictured the scrawny, dirt-covered slaves he'd seen picking corn on that first day. Not one had contained an ounce of fat on their sinewy bones. His anger grew as he looked around at the bulbous-headed men and woman, whose full plates and full stomachs gave them the energy to push words past their arrogant lips.

  He wanted to take back his Tech Magic guns, pull the metal buttons, and send them all to whatever came after. The Gifted weren't human, but they weren't immortal—not really. They could die. They knew their faults, just like the humans who lived in the woods. They knew better than to wander into danger. That was why they stayed in this opulent tower, giving pompous orders and reading their books.

  They were above danger, because they lived a protected life.

  Or were they?

  William looked down at his ugly robe.

  Maybe through all their intellect, they'd already made a mistake. William pondered that thought.

  Not one of the slaves in those squalid buildings had a chance at reclaiming their freedom. They were trapped in a system that wouldn't release them. But he wasn't. The Gifted had let William inside their twisted den—a simple infected boy.

  What if he could find a way to rid New City of their leaders? What if he could erase the power that kept the slaves contained?

  The idea felt far-reaching and impossible. But it was an idea, and the longer he thought about it, the more he realized that an idea born of anger might be a clear-headed solution.

  Maybe there was another way to help his friends.

  Sitting at the table, staring at all the smug, arrogant faces, William couldn't dismiss a nagging thought.

  The Gifted had to die.

  He had to kill them all.

  Chapter 20: Kirby

  Whirs and clanks filled the air. Smoke from the city's shops permeated the loud, sweltering room and lingered in Kirby's nose.

  All around her, slaves toiled, dripping sweat. Some wore thick gloves, or aprons over their usual clothes, while a few wore crude masks. Some workers manipulated long sheets of metal in larger machines, curving or cutting, while others fashioned smaller bits. About half the workers were women. A few people peered at Kirby between their duties, even though she had already been in the building for a little while.

  Near the back of the room, several long workbenches sat at a small distance from the wall, with bins for scraps and piles of metal placed between them. Some of the benches contained smaller metal machines, with sweaty people using them, or using hand tools. Racks hung in orderly rows on either side of the room, containing the tools not in use.

  The woman named Rosita, with whom she'd been paired, led her to the back. Rosita's face was ruddy, flecked with sweat. "We work mostly with sheet metal in here. I've heard you have some experience."

  "Yes, I have experience, but it has been a while," Kirby said.

  She hoped the lie wouldn't bury her.

  "We wondered if someone would fill Jonah's spot," Rosita mused, loudly enough to be heard over the whir of the machines. "We thought they would increase our workload."

  Kirby nodded. She knew the loss of a worker could affect the others. "I was in the fields."

  Rosita nodded. "I remember you. You arrived a few weeks ago." Handing Kirby a leather apron and gloves, she said, "You'll want to wear these."

  Kirby donned the clothes. As she put them on, she glanced sideways at a few guards who chatted outside the doorway, past the bevy of machines. They seemed glad to be away from the sweaty slaves.

  Pointing around the room, Rosita explained, "We have blacksmiths in other buildings that forge tools, or make molds, but most in this building work on lathes or English wheels. The people on the benches, like us, mostly use hand tools: shears, metal brakes, and a few other implements."

  Kirby nodded. She'd been around some of the machines before, though she'd never used them.

  Rosita explained, "Right now I am working on a project for The Learning Building. We're fashioning some sheets of metal to reinforce the windows on the lower floors. You can help." Pointing to a stack of metal on the floor, between the workbench and the bin next to it, she said, "This is the material we'll use."

  Kirby examined the pile of metal. Most was in square or rectangular shapes, looking as if it had been pulled from the rubble in ruined cities.

  Answering Kirby's unspoken question, Rosita said, "The metal was traded from people in the forests. The guards bring in new batches to ensure that we don't run out." Pointing at a piece of sheet metal leaning against the wall, she said, "That is the piece we are matching to make the barricades for the windows. It is our template. We don't have to be exact, but the guards—and Rudyard—want it close."

  "I understand," Kirby said.

  Gesturing at a long rectangular tool affixed to the workbench, Rosita explained, "That's our metal brake, which helps us keep straight lines. For this project, I have had luck with metal shears. We only need to make sure the metal is large enough to cover the window frames. The guards aren't concerned with the edges." Rosita nodded to a pair of thick metal clippers on the nearby bench. "Can you help me with a sheet?"

  Rosita directed Kirby toward the next sheet in the pile, which she helped pick up. With Kirby's help, Rosita propped up the metal, making a straight line down the side with her shears, matching the template piece. When she was finished, she said, "We put the scraps in a bin over here, to be used by some other metal shops. Other workers take the bins away during our shift, as they get full."

  Rosita tossed the long, skinny pieces of scrap in the bin nearby. Peeking over into the bin, Kirby saw a few other scraps at the bottom, in various shapes and sizes. Most were thin and small enough to give her ideas. She glanced outside the building. Past the slew of workers and machines, the guards chatted, looking in the room only occasionally.

  Ensuring that no one saw her gazing too long, she looked back at Rosita, helping with another cut.

  "Can I work on the next piece?" Kirby asked Rosita.

  "Sure," Rosita answered. "Give it a try. When you are good enough, you can work by yourself."

  Chapter 21: William

  "Where are you going, William?" Amelia called over.

  "I'm just taking a break," he said, straightening his shoulders, as if he were proud of his robe. He gave her a friendly wave as he walked into the room with the glass cases. After he left, Amelia ambled over to chat with Barron. A few other Gifted grumbled, or held quiet conversation.

  Using his moments alone, William walked to the glass cases.

  Peering through the first, he studied a circular, glass bauble. The weapons and trinkets in the glass cases were more familiar than they were a few weeks ago, but instead of filling him with wonder, they filled him with sadness. Rather than picture the mysterious tribes who made them, he couldn't help thinking of how they were dead. Who knew what ends they had met?

  Perhaps some died at the hands of The Gifted.

  Knowing what he knew now, William wouldn't be surprised.

  Moving along, he studied one of the long knives with cryptic carvings on its handle, gleaming underneath the case. Next to it was a sideways bow with a long, wooden handle. He'd only seen one thing as strange in his travels, but not in a while. Beside them, he saw more knives and swords. Some had obvious uses. And it wouldn't take much practice to learn the ones that were new to him.

  But how would he get to them?

  He peeked over toward the doorway, ensuring that no one was in view before tapping so
ftly on one of the cases. The glass was thicker than most similar barriers he'd seen. He didn't see a lock, or a place where he could pry the cases open. He recalled one of the buildings he'd been in long ago, filled with broken pieces of stone that came up from the floor, surrounded by glass. He'd been told that place was an Ancient museum. Such places were used to preserve artifacts, instead of using them. The concept was strange to William, but it matched what The Gifted had done here.

  The weapons were protected in a way that was difficult—nearly impossible—to get through without sheer force.

  And breaking the glass was a surefire way to get noticed, or killed.

  He'd be overwhelmed before he could take down more than one or two of his enemies. He needed to kill all of The Gifted—not just a few.

  Through the doorway, he caught a glimpse of Barron speaking with Amelia. More Gifted sat in their chairs around them. Looking at their large, imposing figures, William knew he couldn't single-handedly kill all of them with primitive weapons. He might kill one or two before the others reacted, but they would overwhelm him. They might have weapons he couldn't see, and they certainly had guards.

  He wanted the weapons in the room to be the answer, but he didn't see how.

  A foolish fantasy played in his head. Maybe he could sneak up at night, barricade himself in the room, and break the glass cases. He could create a stronghold with his weapons and battle off anyone who came to harm him. He would be king of the shimmering tower, if only for a while.

  But that was a way to death, even if death didn't come quickly. He would starve, or The Gifted would send more guards or demons than he could handle. They would beat down the door and overwhelm him.

  They would kill him before he raised a rusted knife.

  Or maybe they'd keep him alive, so he could watch his other friends killed.

  The glass cases weren't the answer.

  He needed a better way to ensure that he wiped The Gifted from the earth. He needed a way that might lead to his friends' freedom, as impossible as that sounded.

  He needed Tech Magic.

  Chapter 22: Bray