Gem does the same, then slides into place behind me. My fingers itch to reach for her hand, if only to calm her practiced breathing and remind her it’ll all be fine. At least, for her, it will be.
In two hours’ time, she and Taur will be back to bickering about whose turn it is to take our sand clock to the horologist to be adjusted for the shifting seasons. And now that Taurance is pregnant, maybe Gem will stop pulling out pitiful excuses—like the time she’d feigned a sprained ankle, though we all knew damn well she’d been walking fine enough three minutes prior. And yet, we’d both caved. Taurance had fetched her sister a cool rag from the washroom and lent Gem a pillow to elevate her foot while I set off with the sand clock in hand.
A snap of fingers an inch in front of my nose jars me out of the memory.
“Oy, full name and date of birth,” grunts the guard who’d turned nearly gleeful at the prospect of catching would-be deserters. I can’t help but marvel thatthisis who that child aspires to be—this man whose breath reeks of sour ale, whose life is so devoid of true pleasure that he’s left to find it in the discomfort of others.
“You deaf or something?” He spits on my face, and my teeth grind with the effort of not scowling in disgust. “Full name. Date of birth.”
“Orelle Bren. The twentieth of June in the two-hundred-forty-ninth year of shadows.”
The guard’s face distorts into a mockery of a smile as he beams and grabs my left hand, rubbing a grimy thumb across the scarred remnants of my marriage brand. I stiffen, knowing there’s nothing I can say or do as he nudges his companion.
“See this? Found myself Bren’s throwaway runnin’ with the rats.” He steps further into my space until his chest presses into my own, then leans down to whisper, “You know, if you aren’t selected tonight, I might be willing to get down on one knee, but only if you get on yours first.”
He reaches a hand beneath the hood of my cloak and tugs on my bottom lip.
I’m yanked backward as Gem feigns a stumble. The guard’s cheeks redden.
“Ope! I’m so sorry.” Gem dips into a bow, then staggers back to standing, cloak falling to reveal the bandaged wrap. “Feeling a bit woozy.”
I’m pulled forward by his accomplice as the crude guard demands of Gem, “Name and date of birth.”
I proceed around the bend, slowing my steps as soon as the stiff hand releases my forearm. It’s not until I’ve reached the part of the path that slopes into a sharp decline that Gem emerges from the corner.
I wrap her in a hug, but release her before she can protest about the mushy affection. “Why’d you do that?”
Gem shrugs and stalks past me. “He was being gross.”
“That’s nothing new, though,” I say, matching her stride down the ramp. “And a guard is one of the last people you want to piss off right now.”
She winces. It’s only for a second, but I catch it.
“What did he say to you?” She says nothing, so I press, “Gem, what did he say? You were gone too long for the usual check-in.”
Gem wraps her arms tightly across her chest and exhales a shaky breath. “He wanted to know what happened to my head, and what my whereabouts were from sunrise to sundown.”
“What?”
This is worse than I feared. If the guard suspects that Gem was in the transport tunnel during the earthquake, then getting through selections is just the beginning of her concerns.
Sandals clack on the granite behind us, and we pick up the pace.
It’s not until the footfalls are nearly inaudible that I ask, “What did you say?”
“That I tripped over a crack in the main stairwell on my wayhomefrom my shift.”
I’ve got to hand it to her, it’s one of Gem’s finer excuses. Some of those cracks are almost as wide as my foot. If there’s a prime spot for a concussion waiting to happen, it’s that stairwell.
“Did he believe you?”
“He asked if anyone was there to verify my alibi. I told him we were walking home together, and you saw the whole thing.” Gem’s whisper grows quieter. “So, if anyone asks?—”
“I’ve got you,” I promise.
More eligibles trickle in behind us as the sloped passageway spills out into a room large enough to hold at least two hundred women, as long as we stand shoulder to shoulder, like we’re no better than herded cattle. I scoff internally while someone’s elbow nudges into my spine.
It’s one of six identical receiving chambers interspersed around the arena’s perimeter. The muffled rumble of thousands of restless spectators slips through the cracks in the steel double doors ahead, dividing us from them—the eligible versus the exempt. None of us speak, yet the volume of our silence is greater than the booming chatter of those searching for a good seat among the countless rows throughout the stadium.
