Stalemate

Chapter 20

They made it to the edge of the city by nightfall. They had walked along the gutters unnoticed all day above the people, above the shops and the vendors shouting at prospectors. It was all so overstimulating to Doon, who never imagined a group of people could make so much noise. On Cherry Hill, it had been so quiet he could hear his boots scuffing in the dirt. The sound of his own breath, in and out, in and out—labored as he trudged up the hill each day after work. Sometimes whispering, but nothing more. It was always the Dordans who made the ruckus, loud and unapologetic in their conversations. No wonder these streets hummed so, Doon thought.

The evening breeze blew against him, making his white smock puff up around him as if it were a sail. He looked out over the city, which looked completely new in the night than day. Behind him, towards the sea, he could make out the faint light of the fires on the parapets. Many of the windows on the houses glowed and flickered with candlelight. Below, in the streets, Doon watched a young lamplighter move along the street, stopping at each post to climb a small ladder he tugged about; Doon watched as he opened the small glass hatch, his hand working inside, the flame catching and at first sending a flurry of embers up into the top of its small cage. Then the boy stepped down, collapsed his ladder, and moved on to the next to do the whole process over again. Soon enough, the whole street was bathed in flickering firelight.

As Doon studied it, he began to liken it all to the innards of a clock. There were many pieces—the roads slicing between the buildings like ravines, already illuminated by the lamps, the different sectors beyond the building Doon walked on, the steeple of a chapel pointing to the heavens, the warehouses looming behind the rows of apartments and shops—all fastened seamlessly to one another. It was a working clock, ticking and ticking, cogs churning the night away.

Doon felt out of place. As if he was an extra screw that had made its way in somehow.

At some point, they had stopped walking and just stood, catching their breath, taking a moment to close their exhausted eyes and allow themselves to sway dangerously close to the edge of the roof. Dinor stood fidgeting with whatever his fingers could get ahold of, Doon guessed, to keep himself awake. Buttons on his coat, a loose string, his cap that the breeze continued to trifle with. Doon stood there, at once becoming aware that there was an awful knot tightening and untightening in the pit in his stomach, and that adrenaline was still coursing through him with no outlet, no mode to release itself; he wanted to find an empty prairie and scream. But more than anything, at this particular moment, he wanted to eat. It was the first time he truly felt hungry since leaving Cherry Hill; he guessed it was the sea sickness. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be hungry.

In Cherry Hill, he'd been well acquainted with it.

For a moment, his mind dwelled on Ashtin's cooking. Her potato stew, and fresh green beans she cooked in a pot with, on occasion, venison. The spiced gumbo. Oh, what he'd give to taste it again.

Instead, he stared longingly down at the street below him. Vendors were beginning to pack up their carts. Tavern doors were propped open. An assortment of sweet, tangy, and charred scents wafted up towards him. His mouth watered.

As if answering Doon's thoughts, Dinor's own stomach gurgled beside him.

They passed a knowing, longing glance.

"How much longer before we're out of the city?" Doon asked.

"We'll make it before midnight," Dinor began, raising his thumb to point behind him. "Then it's just a road that takes ya straight on forever. There'll be shops and taverns along the way." There was doubt in his tone. Or impatience, perhaps. His eyes were drooping, exhausted. Doon wondered if they could make it that far.