Chapter 8: The Waterway

What should have been a lightless, subterranean passage was instead aglow with the flickering, greasy light of countless torches and makeshift braziers. Their flames cast dancing, monstrous shadows along the damp stone walls, illuminating the scores of gaunt, hollow-eyed wretches who sat huddled in the gloom. As we made our entrance, many heads turned, their gazes filled with a raw, hostile suspicion, though none spoke. Not yet.

On either side of the wide drainage channel, a series of circular alcoves were set into the stone walls at regular intervals—access tunnels for maintenance or smaller pipes, I guessed. Now, they were all occupied, serving as crude, cramped homes for the vagrants. Nearly every opening had a resident, and some even had ragged, stolen curtains hung over the entrance, a pathetic attempt to create a semblance of privacy, to turn a sewer pipe into a home sweet home.

I had to admit, in a grim sort of way, it was a clever refuge. Compared to the open, windswept slums above, this place was a marked improvement. The low-lying tunnel offered shelter from the biting wind and the endless, drizzling rain. If one could claim one of these small alcoves, it offered a degree of warmth and privacy unheard of for the likes of us. It was even, in its own foul way, practical, with the canal offering a ready source of murky water and a means to wash away filth with the ceaseless, gurgling flow of effluent. I even saw a large group of people clustered in one corner, lying near a large iron grate set into the wall. The grate was constantly venting clouds of hot steam, and they huddled near it, basking in the scalding, damp warmth.

“That’s a steam vent from one of the factories above,” Jared explained, his voice low and surprisingly familiar with the place. “The steam’s dangerously hot, though. Best not get too close. Folk who don’t believe it get themselves a nasty burn every day.”

 “A factory vent?” I asked, a fresh wave of alarm washing over my previous assessment. “Won’t it release poisonous fumes?” If it did, all those people huddled there would be breathing in their own slow, agonizing death.

 “I heard this one’s just for steam,” Jared replied smoothly, proving he’d clearly done his homework on the place. “The foul smoke—the chokers—goes straight up the tall chimneys. This place is safe enough.”

The level of technology in this world continued to be a jarring puzzle. They had massive factories, complex drainage systems, and steam power—all hallmarks of an industrial age, at least. And yet, the buildings I’d seen above ground, with their Gothic spires and almost Renaissance flair, felt like they belonged to a much earlier, more arcane era. The contradiction made my head spin. Still, at least this meant our future might not be quite so unbearable. But another problem, sharp and immediate, occurred to me. This place, being a relatively good shelter, was also crowded with desperate people. Would they welcome outsiders?

“Is there even room for us here?” I whispered, a knot of anxiety tightening in my gut. “Won’t the others… cause trouble for us?” It was frightening how quickly I had adapted, how readily I had slipped into this new role, already thinking and worrying about my own survival, my own future, in this nightmare world. It seems that as long as a person can see a sliver of light, can grasp a single, flimsy strand of straw, they will not allow themselves to sink into the abyss without a fight. I was no different.

“Don’t worry,” Jared said, his confidence a stark, almost unbelievable contrast to my fear. “I’ve already spoken with one of the guv'nors here. And I’ve got some food stashed away nearby.”

“Wait,” I said, surprised by his words yet again. “You’ve been planning this? Planning to leave?” I’d thought his flight was a spur-of-the-moment decision, a desperate act of rebellion. I hadn't realized it was premeditated.

 “Of course,” he replied, a bitter edge to his voice. “Who’d want to stay under that bloody vampire’s thumb? After he beat me last time, I thought of nothing else but escaping his clutches. Your getting sick just pushed the plan forward a bit, is all. It doesn’t matter.”

So, he had been preparing this all along. A pang of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, struck me. If not for me, for Parula’s illness, he could have prepared more thoroughly, gathered more supplies before making his escape. It was true what they said about the children of the poor growing up fast. He seemed far older and more cunning than his years.

Jared led me along the waterway, towards the group of people huddled by the steam vent. As he approached, many of them stood up, parting to let us through, their eyes wary. A hulking, bald-headed man emerged from the crowd to greet him, a giant among the scrawny wretches. “Jared, my boy! What brings you to my little kingdom tonight? It ain’t your tribute day yet, is it?” the bald man boomed, a wide, predatory grin splitting his face. He was built like a bull, his bare arms corded with muscle, a roadmap of faded tattoos and scars. He was clearly a brawler, a king of this subterranean dung heap, and not a man to be trifled with.

“Bartholomew, guv’nor,” Jared said, his voice steady and respectful, but not subservient. He stood his ground before this sewer gang leader. “I’ve come to take you up on your offer. You said you’d take me in, give me a place to stay.”

 “Oh?” Bartholomew’s grin widened, showing a row of yellowed, broken teeth. “A bit earlier than we agreed, ain’t it? And what’s this? Brought your little sweetheart with you? Did her old man catch you two at it and you had to do a runner?” His eyes, small and cunning as a rat’s, shifted to me, lingering for a moment too long.

His crude words—calling me a sweetheart, suggesting some illicit, grubby affair—ignited a spark of helpless fury within me. Thankfully, my voice was still weak and my body frail. If I had been able, I would have certainly given him a piece of my mind, which would have only caused more trouble for Jared.

 “She’s not my sweetheart,” Jared said, pulling the blanket tighter around me, a gesture of defiance. “She’s my little sister.” He was a fool, still too young and earnest. The way he held me, his fierce, protective gesture, spoke louder than any denial. It was plain for all to see how much he cared for me.

“Hah!” Bartholomew grunted, his amusement fading. “Coming early puts me in a bit of a spot, lad. I ain’t got a private place ready for you. How about you squeeze in with the others in the second bridge arch for a while?” He was already trying to low-ball the deal, to test Jared’s resolve.

“If that’s the case, I might as well go see Markey,” Jared countered, his voice cool as the grave. I was stunned by his audacity, his natural grasp of negotiation. “He told me I could have a spot in his stables, a dry board and clean straw to sleep on.” He was bluffing, of course, a desperate play. But it was a masterful one. By showing he had other options, other places to go, he prevented Bartholomew from pressing his advantage too far. But such a tactic only worked if you had something to offer, a skill to sell. And Jared’s skill was that of a thief with a “steady income,” a valuable asset in this world of desperate need.

“Hmph! That stinking horse barn? You can’t compare it to my fine establishment,” Bartholomew grumbled, clearly unwilling to let a valuable earner like Jared slip through his fingers. “Alright, alright, a deal’s a deal. As it happens, some poor sod kicked the bucket just yesterday. You can have his spot. Your timing is quite fortunate, you might say.” As I suspected, Bartholomew had caved. He had agreed to Jared’s terms. I also knew that Jared himself probably didn’t care about having a private space. He was a lad; he could have managed sleeping huddled with the others. He’d insisted on a private alcove, braved this dangerous negotiation, for my sake. For Parula’s sake.

This body was weak, I could barely move on my own. Jared would have to go out thieving to support us, which meant I would be left here alone. If I were left in a common area with a group of rough, desperate men, there’s no telling what might have happened. A girl, even a sick and scrawny one like me, was a rare commodity in this wretched place. Even Bartholomew himself only had two women by his side, both with plain, weary faces and wearing revealing, ragged clothes. They didn't flinch when the other ruffians pawed at them, their faces masks of numb, soul-dead resignation. I felt a surge of pity for them, and a cold, chilling dread for my own bleak future.

Bartholomew led the way, with Jared following, still carrying me in his arms. We walked along the waterway to one of the circular alcoves. A ragged, greasy curtain hung over the entrance. Bartholomew ripped it aside with a flourish and gestured for us to enter. It was a tiny, cramped space, smaller than any room I’d ever been in in my past life, a literal hole in the wall. A foul, cloying stench hit me as we entered, the smell of sickness and decay. On a pile of rotting blankets on the floor lay a man, his eyes open and glassy, his skin the color of tallow. He wasn’t breathing. The previous occupant. They hadn’t even bothered to clear out the body.

 “Heh, what do you think?” Bartholomew chuckled, a rasping, unpleasant sound that echoed in the small space. “Even comes with some furnishings. All yours now. See? I’m a man of my word.” He gestured to the dead man’s meager, filthy possessions as if they were a generous, welcoming gift.