“Nothing.”
“Sera.”
“That means something,” I say.
“Yes.”
“There’s an old sealed district,” I say. “Not officially. Officially it’s collapse. Heat sink. Bad air. No food value. No water value. No reason to spend bodies.”
“And unofficially?”
I look at the blank place.
“People heard things through the lower walls when I was little. Not often. Not enough to call a meeting. A hum. A knock. Once, there were lights under the floor after a tremor. Marut said it was stress glow from old glass veins.”
“You believed him?”
“I was seven.”
“And later?”
“Later I learned Marut uses explanations the way other people use blankets. Not to solve things. To cover them.”
Kavor’s expression hardens, and I roll the map tighter before he can turn frightening on behalf of my childhood. That’s not useful right now.
“The wrong rhythm is going toward that blank section,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Under the City.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t maybe me. I can see your face,” I say.
His jaw sets. There it is. The locked door he puts between fear and action.
“Tell me,” I say.
He looks at the passage beyond the chamber. “The pulse travels through cut channels. Not all of them are open. Some are broken. Some are dormant. But the direction is west. Upward by degrees.”
“Toward the City.”
“Yes.”
Cold moves through me. Fear, but not fear for myself. Worse. Names.
Ration lines. Children sitting still to conserve strength. Ila’s hands. Penr’s bad lie. Lysa’s fevered children. People who have survived too much to be eaten by something under their own streets because we are too slow.
I start rolling the map too fast and pain shoots up my arm. I hiss.
Kavor’s hand closes over mine. Not hard. Not taking. Just stopping.
Every part of me goes still. His scales are cool against my knuckles. His thumb rests near the edge of the bandage. Careful. Too careful.
“Slow,” he says.
I look at his hand.
