The Phoenix Thief

SIX

KILTER SPENT that night in one of the metal-barred rooms beneath the mansion, alternating between pacing the floor and lying curled underneath the wide bench set in one corner. The pain of the glass-cut in his arm was worse, now, but he wouldn't have been able to sleep, anyway. His mind buzzed with questions and anxieties like wasps caught under a cup.

Dmal was part of the troubles in Istravol – the Watchmen called him 'deserter'. But just moments before he could have explained everything, he'd been silenced by the Chancellor.

No Dmal, no Girl, no notebook, not even the wooden thumb.

"Alone," Kilter whispered to the walls, and never had he been so deeply aware of the word's meaning.

When light trickled down through the few thin windows by the ceiling, footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond Kilter's barred room. Several Riflemen appeared, led by the smooth-faced Captain named Kolas. Head tilted a little to one side, he studied Kilter where he lay curled on the floor underneath the bench, and then shook his head.

"This'll be quite a task."

They led Kilter from the dark of the metallic rooms up the steep stairs into mansion, which, in that early hour, was so still it seemed as if from a dream. Their footsteps echoed off the high walls, and Kilter looked around with wide eyes, finally able to really take in his surroundings of the night before. The air was chilly, the coals in the fireplace of every room they passed as they followed the hallways of the mansion reduced to frail grey flakes, and the light was dim. It made it look as if the ashes had been scattered everywhere except for where slits of pure sunlight escaped through the tall window curtains, illuminating vibrant strips of the carpeting and paneled walls. Metallic lamps gleamed softly, reflecting back Kilter and his captors in warped forms, and painted people on the walls looked down at him from their luxurious flat surroundings.

At last, Kolas led the way down a hallway paneled with dark wood and lined with unlit lamps, and opened the last door on the left. Steam rolled out into the cool air of the hallway, setting the scars on Kilter's right hand and arm to aching with the sudden change in temperature. A large white thing like a long bowl stood in the middle of the room, filled with water that was sending up the clouds of steam, and little wooden tables and shelves set around held pieces of cloth and small bottles and containers. The warm, sweet-scented air was thick in Kilter's lungs when he breathed.

Once through the door of this white-tiled room, Kilter was handed over to two men with smooth, shiny hair and the plain brown clothing of servants. Then Kolas declared he'd return in two hours, and departed with his Riflemen.

Kilter couldn't remember the last time he'd taken off all his clothes. But, exhausted, he could put up little struggle as the two servants stripped him and put him in the large bowl of water as if a piece of stew-meat set to boil. Then they scrubbed. The water turned a dark, cloudy color, and though Kilter's skin smarted – especially where the glass had cut him – he didn't notice how pale it was until the third time one of the servants dumped a bucket of more hot water over his head. It was pinkish, shifting to a reddish-brown on his forearms and lower legs, and the scars running across his right arm and chest were much more distinct than he remembered. They stood out like streaks of new paint on an old wall.

Then the servants whisked him out of the water and rubbed him down before sending scissors flying about his head, damp wisps of hair falling onto his shoulders and the floor. The cold metal kept brushing his skin, and he winced at the sound of every sharp snip. His head felt considerably lighter when at last the scissor-wielding servant stepped back, and the other held up a flat oval in which Kilter's reflection stared back at him.