Seven years later
Two trumpets sounded. What seemed to be a low tone and the other in harmony at a higher pitch. Meg stood near the water's edge, behind two rows of five people. She chose her spot close to the musicians to hear them well. Her hands were behind her back, with no readable expression on her face. Spring is a terrible time for a funeral, Meg thought. In the crowd of thirty, everyone's feet had sunk in about two inches of mud. Meg lifted her feet to wrench free from the sodden ground. Still, she only managed to raise them slightly. She assumed she was making a horrible squelching sound that everyone could hear above one of the trumpets. Meg felt someone shudder and looked to her right. Next to her, Clementine was giggling, who had no doubt been watching her and enjoying her attempt at freeing her feet to retain dignity. Meg rolled her eyes. She knew it wouldn't be long for Clem to get bored and begin looking for entertainment. Clem lacked any pretence of decorum and always thought Meg's ability to maintain it to be the most entertaining thing.
The trumpeters ended their musical lamentations, and someone closest to the edge of the water turned to the group to speak. Her feet seemed especially stuck in the mud as she struggled to turn. Meg could feel Clem trying to catch her eye to share a grin and a stifled laugh, but Meg refused to glance her way. Dame Dame Cora was speaking in honour of the dead. Meg always found her to be a good speaker, worthy of attention and did not want to disrespect her by giving Clem attention. She also needed to ensure she could hear her. She focused her attention.
Dame Dame Cora first thanked everyone for their attendance and then read the name.
"Nula was wise, Nula was brave, and Nula was steady," she roared. The crowd, in unison, repeated her words.
"Nula was wise, Nula was brave, and Nula was steady." Followed by silence, a voice directly behind her finally yelled. Meg was sure it was Ertha who believed strongly in rituals and tradition.
"The grievances!" The grievances, Meg thought. Something the Widows had believed in and carried on for fifty years. There were strict rules among the Widows, including the right to name a grievance against the dead. It would be voted on if the debt should carry on past death. Meg always felt the grievances should happen before the funeral or maybe a few days afterwards. However, the Widows wanted to know how the person would ascend to death, with a debt to carry on or a clean slate. A woman's voice yelled out in a soft, ragged tone. Meg couldn't make out what was being said, and she looked to Clem, who mouthed the words for Meg to understand.
"Nula owed me money! A hundred Kruge, she promised she would pay me. I have a signed contract that is over six years old. I demand payment!"
Oh God, thought Meg. Mena brings up owed money at every funeral. Her name should just be 'Cheap.' "Does the debt continue? Vote!" Ertha cried. No hands shot up except Mena's, who began cursing at the lack of participation from the others. Mena stopped once Zelda, standing next to Dame Cora, stared, and hissed at her. After that, nobody aired any further grievances.
Nula was a lovely woman who had lived a long time. People suspected she was around sixty-five, which was impressive in the Barrel.
"With no grievances or further debt, we declare Nula free to go to Ghezen. Her labour only created profit. She owes no one. In the next life, may she be as prosperous as she was in the last." Dame Dame Cora continued.
Meg nodded solemnly at this. Although leaving this world with no debt was a privilege, the notion of creating profit was not yet something Meg could see in her grasp.
The trumpets sounded again. Granny, on Dame Dame Cora's right, nodded to her. Meg finally looked down at Nula's body, strapped to a piece of wood covered with sheets and twine. Two men had been holding it in place on the water and, at the nod, dragged her to the barge that would take it to Sweet Reef.
The Widows paid to delay the burning bodies to indulge in their ceremony. Only those above 21 received a full funeral; most were expected to pay their respects. If the death occurred with someone younger, it would be a more private affair, with only those closest to the individual being expected to speak. Unless circumstances were extreme, those under 21 could not leave with debt.
Meg turned to walk up away from the shore of the canal. She started a steady pace to head back to the Warehouse, the name of the building that held a bar, dancehall, and manufacturing warehouse that the Widows owned. It would be closed for precisely one hour for food, drinks and stories and then reopened for the Ketterdam patrons.
Meg looked up. The sun was still high in the early afternoon. Meg didn't own a timepiece and didn't want to ask anyone. Instead, she tried to focus on memories of Nula, as it was appropriate and because she wanted to have something prepared to say when surrounded by a crowd. She didn't mind silence and thought all funerals should be silent vigils as the proper mode of respect. However, she knew others grieved through talking.
"Can you believe Nula died before Mena ever got that money back? I am legitimately suspecting she died out of spite, never to pay her back, knowing we'd never vote against her".
Clem had caught up and was already chattering away and standing in front of Meg, walking backwards so that Meg could read her lips. They both didn't like highlighting Meg's inability to hear well in public. She was in all grey, which was an allowed funeral colour. Clem always wore a loose top and short pants that left her legs bare if the weather permitted it. It wasn't the fashion and was incredibly risky. No one showed their legs unless they were a small child, which Clem wanted to be risky and treated as though she was younger than she was. Clem was four years Meg's senior, twenty-one. She looked a year or two younger than her. Clem had pale white skin with prominent rosy cheeks, dark blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair she wrapped in two tiny buns on either side of her head, making her look like a tiny mouse. Everyone called her Mouse. Meg was the Pigeon. They were the two creatures the Barrel saw as the most vulnerable. Meg hated the nicknames. She would respond to it but not embrace it, not like Clem. Clem thought they were hilarious and adorable and encouraged them at every opportunity.
"Clem…save your stories for the Warehouse," Meg muttered. Clem grinned.
"Don't worry, I'll repeat them. But do you think that's a good opener?"
Meg considered her question seriously.
"Are you certain you know how Nula died? Don't start chatting up that story until you're sure of it. Also, it may only be good depending on the method of death."
"What, like it would be funny if she died by suicide?"
"Or a stray bullet. Start the rumour she paid for an assassin."
"I'm confident my source is correct; her heart gave out. No foul play involved, or else they would have asked you to check for poison".
Meg's head snapped toward Clem. Clem wasn't supposed to mention any of her abilities in public. No Grisha abilities or powers were allowed to be advertised in case they were kidnapped and sold off as an indenture. Clem looked sheepish at her slip, the streets were filled with only other Widows, but rules were rules.
"Because you saw her food cooked, is all," Clem tried to recover.
Meg said nothing and continued walking. Their ceremonies took place near the Warehouse, located on the corner of the Lid and the Warehouse district.
Meg turned a corner and saw it. The Warehouse looked exactly like its name. Walls and pillars were erected to create different spaces. The building was designed with a stairwell leading to the top floor with offices, bedrooms, and even running water in the lavatories. On the main floor were three main rooms; a tavern portion, a space for the dance hall, a long hallway, and a room for actual manufacturing, where the original warehouse design was utilized. Meg didn't have a room in the Warehouse, but it was where she worked.
The tavern was named "The Bank." The joke was that patrons could tell their loved ones they were going to the bank and get away with having a drink. The dance hall was named "The Study Hall," giving young University students a place to go dancing, have drinks and get close to the Barrel without feeling in danger. Meg focused on manufacturing, where she had an office. However, she went through the doors of the Bank with everyone else.
Two girls were already working the bar and serving drinks. One looked to Meg, nodded, and continued serving those approaching the bar. Clem ran behind the bar and helped herself. She grabbed a drink for Meg as well, without Meg asking. Meg stood near a group of two Widows and began focusing on listening to their conversation as they discussed Nula.
"Dame Cora used the right words, steady. Nula was so steady."
"You know she was from the Southern Colonies," Another one asked. Meg couldn't remember her name.
"It doesn't count. Nula came here at 10. She had been here longer than there."
"But she had family there, maybe still does. So shouldn't they be allowed to grieve? Should we not notify them or look for them?"
"Would it be right to include them now? Wouldn't we deny them the ability to raise a grievance?" Meg asked. The woman nodded in consideration. Clem came behind them with all the energy as if everyone had left a wedding, not a funeral. Meg's eyes grew, and she shook her head no to Clem trying out her joke about Nula and Mena.
Clem turned to another group of people who were laughing and less contemplative. Meg let out a sigh of relief. She preferred this sort of talk, in groups especially. She took a sip of her drink and saw more people enter, which meant hearing people would be more challenging.
Meg looked for the eldest women in the room, the ones who were hard of hearing and sat with them. They were a group of four, all in their sixties and seventies. Meg admired some of them. Living this long, still holding your own and leading the group with power and respect was challenging. Dame Dame Cora and the two who had stood on either side of her were there. Dame Dame Cora did not acknowledge Meg joining them. Zelda, the woman who had hissed at Mena, did not acknowledge her. The last woman, Granny, grimaced at Meg and lifted her eyebrows once in acknowledgment. Meg smiled graciously but said nothing. The Widows respected age, and although you could sit with the three elders, you did not speak first, especially not with the head of the Widows, Granny.
"You doing alright, Meg? Losing Nula is hard," Granny had asked with a kind look. Meg gave a small smile. Granny had made sure to speak slowly and loudly, but she knew Granny's kindness would not last.
Everyone at the table had heard, and they turned to listen as the Bank became louder.
"I didn't know her as well as you. I can't imagine knowing someone for so long, let alone losing them," Meg responded, annunciating her words carefully. However, she thought she may have spoken out of turn once she finished speaking. It was all well for these older women to look after her emotional well-being, but she had no right to inquire after theirs. Meg looked down when none of them responded.
She quickly looked up, unsure if it was wise to miss an expression. Zelda looked affronted at her words, but Dame Dame Cora and Granny looked thoughtful. Finally, Granny spoke in response.
"We will miss her and all the profit she brought," Granny raised her glass in a toast. They all joined, and although Meg was grateful for the generic response, she knew Granny was not being honest. Right when Meg expected it, she could feel a prick in her thigh and knew Granny was digging something sharp in her under the table, ensuring no one could see. Dame Dame Cora checked the time and stood up.
"I'm going to West Stave to open up. Twenty minutes are left before we open up here." Granny nodded in response. Zelda got up and began muttering while heading toward the back of the bar.
Dame Dame Cora managed a pleasure house for the Widows, and Zelda managed the Bank. They never allowed themselves time to rest for long, even if they knew Nula the best. Meg wondered if that was their secret to long life. Meg gazed at Granny for thirty seconds. Meg knew Granny didn't mind silence and that Meg didn't enjoy small talk, not even after being pricked by a sharp object. Meg guessed it was Granny's switched blade. She could feel blood roll down her thigh. Meg mentally assessed it and knew it wasn't deep, only a warning. She shouldn't have spoken, even when asked. She was not equal.
Clem came over and took a seat between them.
"Guess what!" She rang out loud enough for the whole bar to hear. However, at that moment, someone must have shouted Clem's name because she groaned, jumped back up and began yelling something back. Meg shook her head and rolled her eyes toward Granny, who did not smile in response.
The expression on Meg's face fell. She should know better. Granny never allowed someone to think negatively of Clem, even if they were loyal to them. Meg jumped up and finished her drink. She almost muttered something to explain herself but didn't bother. More people began walking in, some to pay respects, and others were patrons who assumed the bar was open due to the crowd. No one had been working the door to keep people out. Also, no one felt it was wise to turn a customer away.
Meg approached the bar, tipped her empty glass, and a bartender grabbed and refilled it. Meg almost turned to walk away, but the bartender grabbed her. Meg reached for some Kruge and handed it to the bartender. She felt resentful that she was among the few expected to pay.
She had had enough socializing and was impressed she had done as much as she had.
Meg headed for the hallway to reach her office. As soon as she entered the Warehouse, she sighed in relief. Everyone had finished work. The workers in the Warehouse worked from morning until the afternoon when most people weren't in the bars or dance halls. The sound of machinery and workers would be more tolerable. Unfortunately, the Warehouse wasn't soundproofed, and there was also the risk of a drunken patron wandering in and getting killed.
The Warehouse was a large, square room with approximately twelve windows on two sides of the four walls. There were twelve workstations with individual machinery sitting atop each one. The Warehouse could have been safer as the original exit had been turned into a closed closet with a vault. Meg had a foreman's office in the very back.
Her office was up six steps, with glass walls. It afforded her no privacy, but she had a door she got to close, which was better than all the workers on the floor. She entered and put her drink on a raised table where she worked. She pulled up the leg of her trousers and looked at the tiny dot of blood. She tied a small bandage around it quickly to stop it from bleeding and rolled her trouser back down.
She turned to close the door and saw Clem running toward her. Meg's eyes widened, and she tried to shut the door quickly. Clem shoved her foot in the door to keep it from closing and laughed uproariously.
"Oh, COME ON, Meg, let me in. You know you took all the fun with you." Meg could just make out what Clem was saying. She was not completely deaf, but it was like hearing someone while underwater if she couldn't see someone's lip.
Meg stifled a laugh and opened the door to allow Clem in. Clem held a bottle of something nefarious and had two empty glasses.
"Oh, you are still drinking. I was wondering if I would have to convince you or not. What the hell did you say to Granny? She looked pissed off when you left that table."
Clem leaned against the wall and poured herself a glass. Meg knew she would need to engage her if she wanted out of drinking half the bottle with Clem. When they spent their nights in silence, they ended up too far gone to be useful to anyone except to vomit all over Meg's office or Clem's room.
Meg rolled her eyes and said.
"I wasn't amazingly impressed by everything you do. Granny threatened I'd be the star of the next funeral, and everyone would show up to collect and raise a grievance for all my debts."
"She said that again?" Clem asked incredulously.
"Oh, sorry, no, she said that all with just a look this time," Meg replied sullenly, finishing her drink too quickly.
Several years earlier, she had stopped trying to convince Clem of her grandmother's violent behaviour. Clem had always insisted that Granny had been like that to everyone and that it was a sign of respect for someone's ability to withstand the pain. Meg knew Clem was blind to it. She resented her for this.
Maybe losing Nula was affecting her more than she realized.
Nula had been one of the older Widows who was fond of Meg. People tolerated Meg, and Meg endured them. Still, despite her initial resistance to them, she felt a solid affinity for some people. Nula had been one of them.
Meg refilled her cup and gestured to refill Clem's. Clem finished hers and held it out. Meg was feeling the effect of the drink, and her mouth quirked a bit. Clem let out a laugh at nothing. They toasted, and both emptied their glasses again.
"To Nula," said Clem, sensing Meg's feelings as always. Meg nodded in response, smacking her lips. She hated to admit it, but she liked drinking—the loss of control. Despite Clem being older and having more experience, she didn't behave much differently. Still, Meg felt like she could emulate some of Clem's behaviour and understand what it was like to be her. She would become more easily distracted. However, she could zero in on whatever was in front of her.
"Did I ever tell you the time Nula saved me from being thrashed by one of the candy shop owners?" Meg asked loudly. Clem looked gleeful. Meg knew Clem was elated whenever she would disclose and tell stories. Meg almost recoiled and shut her mouth in response, the extra attention would usually make her retreat, but she was three drinks in, or four, she wasn't sure.
"I'm ten years old, with actual Kruge in my pocket, hoping to buy sweets from the candy shop. When the owner comes out, he looks like I have just set fire to his whole shop. He flies over, grabs me by the arm and starts screaming, 'Street trash. No stinkin' Barrel rat will steal from me or beg from my good customers.' Well, you know how I reacted. I am not a Barrel rat-"
"Despite the resemblance having been uncanny, I'm sure," Clem said with a smirk. Meg growled.
"Well, I am so mad, but you know how I am when I am that mad. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I started proving him right, growling and spitting at him. "
"So further proving his rat theory."
"What? Oh." Meg hadn't caught what Clem had said, but when her hearing had caught up, she glared at Clem, who did a real spit take. The drink went all over Meg's table and her work. Meg's mouth dropped, and if she hadn't been drinking so much already, she would have reeled with anger but instead began laughing and smacking Clem's arm, who responded with howling laughter.
"Ok, well, he drags me outside, ready to throw me into the drink, when Nula walks up and sees what is happening. She runs over and says, 'Hey! Let go of my daughter. Unhand my daughter!' Which, of course, stops the shopkeeper." Nula had pale Kaelish skin, while Meg was and always had been extremely dark. People cruelly joked she was a burnt pigeon.
"So, Nula grabs me back, and the shopkeeper starts sputtering. He recognizes her from the Barrel. He felt good about being proven right that we were Barrel rats, so she backhanded him across the face. Tells him, 'The second you close your shop, you'll never be able to open it again, not while I'm alive. I hope you can live off sweets 'cause you can never leave."
"What?!" Clem cries, mouth agape.
"He stumbles off, muttering. Nula told me he was threatening to call the Stadwatch."
"So, what happened? Did she do it?"
"No, she kept a watch for a while. Then, she told me she'd bomb the place as soon as he left. I begged her not to at first."
"That was generous of you. Felt bad?"
"No, I didn't want there to be a short supply of candy in the city! She promised me his paranoia was payment enough. She even paid people to stalk him all night for months after that." Clem refilled both cups as she laughed heartily. Meg didn't join in. Her drink instead prompted her to become reflective once more. Clem powered through, ignoring Meg's current state.
"Remember Nula saving you and Sask' from Ertha?" Clem's eyebrows went up, hopeful. Meg couldn't hide her smile.
"God, Ertha was a stickler for the rules, even then."
"And you couldn't follow any of them," Clem cackled out. Meg began laughing too.
"I couldn't always hear them!" Meg added, and they both laughed.
"Ya, lucky you, Hattie helped you with that." It was true. In the wake of Meg joining the Widows, Hattie created a language called Hand.
"Sask' could hear them, though. Nula loved her." Meg said. She could barely hear herself say it. Her head was hanging down.
"Don't start doing that," Clem warned, bending low so that Meg could see her face when she spoke.
"Do what?" Meg asked, legitimately confused. Clem looked unimpressed and put her glass on the table behind her. She began gesticulating her fingers back and forth between pointing at Meg and gently placing a tight fist on her forehead. Meg understood
'You know.' Clem was communicating in Hand.
Meg stared back, a little past Clem, not looking directly at her. Meg finally pointed to herself and then placed her fist on her forehead.
"I know." Meg tried to shake herself out of her duress, like a dog after a fight. But, once she succumbed to melancholy, it became difficult to extricate herself from its grasp.
She envied Clem's ability to switch moods and energy at will. Clem proceeded to clutch a nearby stool on which to settle. She had never understood that it was better for Meg to be alone in these moods. As she began to sit, the door flew open. A child with tousled, short, brown hair burst in, panting.
"Better hurry, Clem. She wants you to say a few words before she leaves," Little Sal said. Sal looked terrified as she rushed to get the words out. Clem groaned.
"Sal, you're much more charming than I am. Can't you just do it?"
Sal's eyes widened, if possible, even more than before. Meg's face was impassive to fight back from scolding Clem for toying with her like that. Clem smirked and began gesticulating quickly to Meg, her hands going from a circle to drawing a long line and pointing at Meg, asking.
"How much longer do you think I can fool her for?" Meg was about to respond when Sal yelled out.
"I can understand Hand well enough to know you're talking bout me and what you said, and I will not fall for this forever."
Clem gave a satisfied look.
"Not bad. Ok, wish me luck, which, if you're wondering, would be that the building collapses and that it's my funeral people have to attend next and say great things about me."
"Clem is a coward, Clem is spoiled, and Clem is a mouse. Those going to be your words?" Meg asked, motioning the words at the same time, unconsciously. Clem appeared a little hurt but then smirked as she cried out.
"Don't forget yours!" And as she skipped off, she made her hands motion. 'lonely,' 'jealous,' And 'dumb as a pigeon.' Meg huffed and sipped her drink. Sal was staring at her, trying to translate what Clem had said.
"Want to work?" Meg had asked Sal. Sal nodded slowly because her only other choice was to work somewhere else, which was more dangerous. However, little Sal, who was ten and was still sweet for someone who lived in the Barrel, had become an eager assistant.
She jumped up on the stool Clem had previously grabbed. Meg took her own and pulled out items from drawer after drawer. Her first step was retrieving a box of jurda sticks and placing one in her mouth. With the help of Nula and a few other Widows, Meg had figured out how to dilute jurda , dye it, and roll it into paper sticks to be lit and smoked two months earlier. It gave a mild effect of chewing jurda without staining your mouth. Also, you could discard it afterwards without keeping a pipe clean.
Meg had a little stove in her office, which she used to light the jurda stick. It would help clear her head to work and feel useful. In addition, she was trying to pay off her debt.
Like the older Widows, never rest.
She took a puff of the jurda stick. Clem was calling them J-S's or jays, for jurda stick. Meg agreed they needed to be well-marketed as they had begun to try to sell them by the box to shops that sold jurda . No one understood them yet, but Meg and the younger members of the crew loved them. It gave you something to do while waiting, which was so much of their work.
The older Widows hated them. They thought smoke lit a signal of where you were and could start fires in the already vulnerable buildings. However, Granny saw the appeal of no orange stain around your mouth. Granny understood people wanted stimulants but didn't want to look like they needed them. And the extra incentive of vanity to hide an orange stain from a young women's mouth was all the surety she needed.
Granny. Meg thought with a shake. Clem always said that Granny wasn't mean. She was honest. Both could be true. She thought grimly.
Meg did have an indenture so large that half of Ketterdam would likely show up at her funeral, demanding payment, even if she were under 21. Clem owed nothing. When she turned 21, her celebration was truly celebratory because she could die and go peacefully with Ghezen.
Sad, lonely, jealous. Clem was right; she'd likely be the only one who wasn't looking to collect any debt at her funeral. Instead, she would say those words in honour of Meg. She had no other family left who could say anything positive.