“It’s not. You were assigned to the beds during your first visit, and that’s where you’ll stay. You don’t get to upgrade—especially not after running.” The Chemist takes the wire-framed eye thing off, sets it on the table, and turns her attention to me. “You must be Delta of Dead River.”
I nod.
“I can spare you a few minutes. Come sit.” She nods to a chair in the corner of the room, almost behind her desk. “Asher, that is all.”
He lingers a moment, but in the end doesn’t argue. After I’m seated in the small chair, the Chemist turns away from the candles and lifts the tinted goggles to her forehead. Her eyelashes are as brilliant a white as her shorn hair, and her eyes are the lightest shade of blue, almost violet along the edges. The whites of her eyes are slightly pink, as though she’s rubbed them fiercely and is in desperate need of sleep.
“They’re tinted,” I say, pointing to her goggles.
“Yes. My eyes are very sensitive. And the glasses”—she glances at the wire-framed instrument on the desk—“make everything a bit bigger, which helps with the measuring. A trader came to town with them ages ago; he found them in an old rover. I was lucky to be out that day. I’m usually here, in the kitchen.” Her eyes flick upward with the memory, and for a moment, she’s lost in it. “I’m rambling. Was there something you needed?”
I look over her desk, hoping to spot paper or scrap metal filled with symbols—Old World or otherwise. But there is nothing other than unmarked measuring cups and mixing bowls, jars of ingredients, and the completed black powder, dark inside sealed jars.
“Is there a recipe that you have to follow?” I ask. “Instructions for mixing?”
“Yes. It’s been passed from Chemist to Chemist.”
“So it’s not written down anywhere?”
The Chemist laughs, her violet eyes twinkling. “What good would that do? No one here can read, and then that rusted General would try to steal the recipe so his Oracle can tell him how to make powder.”
I lick my lips and nod, trying to mask my disappointment. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just . . . get rid of him?”
She cocks a pale eyebrow at me. “We are safe only because we have something he needs. We could never truly overthrow him.”
“You have all the black powder in the wastes! You could stockpile it. Bring in an explosive during a delivery!”
Her features suddenly harden. “You speak of certain death, Delta of Dead River. Annihilation. The gods turned their backs on the people of the wastes, but the Prime and the Trinity will not turn their backs on the people of Powder Town.”
“But I have to do something. He has my pack. There are only nine of them left, and they will die if I don’t—”
She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Whatever he wants, give it to him. And if you can’t, make peace with the fact that you will lose your pack. It is cruel and unfair, but that is the way of the wastes. You cannot best him, and Powder Town will not sacrifice thousands to save nine.”
I stand up so quickly the chair skids back. “This was supposed to be the last free place in the wastes, a haven for the needy.”
“And it is. You were granted refuge, weren’t you? You no longer have reason to fear.” The Chemist lowers her tinted goggles back into place. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some mixing to do.”
She puts her glasses back on and returns to measuring and pouring. I watch her, wanting to flip the rusted table and spoil her work. But there are candles aflame, and black powder, and I do not have a death wish. Not this evening, at least.
I leave, defeated, the walls that surround Powder Town feeling shockingly similar to the dam at Bedrock. I’m trapped, my service pledged to people who cannot help me read the map—people who intend to sit still while a monster rules the wastes.
We could never truly overthrow him, the Chemist had said. But what if they could? I need to convince the Prime that she can take on the General. If she doesn’t, my pack is as good as dead.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The following morning, Cleo wakes us before the sun. This time, Asher is beside me, as grumpy and bleary-eyed as I feel. We stagger out of bed and pull on our outer layers.
After a trip to the outhouse and a quick breakfast with Cleo, we split ways. Asher heads for the saltpeter beds, a slouch to his shoulders, and I follow Cleo to the main gates. Back in Burning Ground, we harvest sulfur as the sun starts its climb. I miss Asher’s presence, though I’d never tell him. By the looks of Saph’s flat mouth, she’s missing him too. She’s on watch again, along with a few other guards who patrol the boardwalk, though their numbers are half of yesterday’s.
My thoughts drift to what Cleo said about Asher, and I come to the same conclusion: I will say nothing. I won’t be forthcoming or subtle. I’ll be silent. If Asher and Saph decide to give things another shot, it’s for the best. My heart belongs to my pack, and when it comes down to it, if I can’t convince the Prime to attack Bedrock, I’ll just be turning my back on Asher—and Powder Town. Regardless of what I’ve pledged, I won’t stay here while my pack is slowly executed.
When we started our morning harvest, Cleo had said that the Prime was likely to make an appearance—she checks in with her workers every few weeks—but as we retire for the midday lie-down, the woman has yet to appear.
Rather than resting, I spend all of our break searching for her, but she’s not at Prime Hall, and no one I speak to has seen her all day. The summer solstice is approaching, and the town is a flurry of activity and excitement. Three nights from now, as the sun sets on the longest day of the year, there will be a celebration—a feast in the town’s center, and dances and prayers performed for the gods. The Prime is likely busy with preparations.
It feels silly to celebrate anything right now. I’ve already been gone longer than I ever planned, and every day I’m away is a day closer to losing another pack-member.
Soon the sun is high in the sky, and I find myself on the central bridge, tears in my eyes as I watch the Serpent River snake south.
“What’s the matter?” a small voice asks.
I look down to find the girl who asked me if I was a god that day I arrived in town. She’s gripping the leather straps of her woven backpack and peering up at me with wide eyes.
I swipe at a tear with the back of my hand. “Someone I know just died.”
“They did? But I didn’t hear the funeral bell. Does the Prime know? We always have a pyre.”
I force a thin-lipped smile. “It was a woman named Alder. She’s not in Powder Town.”
The girl looks confused. “Are you sure you’re not a god?”
“Positive.”
“Then how can you know someone is dead when they’re not even here?”
“She was executed. It was scheduled, and I couldn’t stop it.”
She wrinkles up her nose. “What’s executed?”
I can’t help it; I smile. What a blessing, not to know what an execution is. To have lived in such safety that she is blissfully ignorant of the way the wastes operate. To not know about raids or death or murder. My thoughts switch instantly to Bay. How long does she have until she learns the cruel way of the world?