her feeling unsettled. Which was probably exactly what he intended, so she did her best to shrug him off and left with a lot to think over.
This made things very complicated, and complications were things she’d always tried to avoid. Except perhaps for Vocho, who was a complication all by himself.
Usually after the change o’ the clock the streets would stay empty for the night, everyone taking the opportunity for a little time off. Not tonight though. As Kacha made her way back towards Soot Town, doors opened and knots of people drifted back onto the streets. It wasn’t long before they were followed by street traders. By the time she was halfway back to the Hammer and Tongs, the streets were as full of noise and bustle as ever, but there was something odd about them, as though everyone was trying to shout very quietly.
Under the Clockwork God a scuffle had broken out – nothing too serious yet, just a random crowd of young men and women railing against something. Or so she thought until she saw the colours pinned to their clothes. Gold and green and red and purple, the colour of the prelate versus the colours of other councillors, including the king. Only these were just lads and lasses, factory workers, smiths’ apprentices, a few sailors. The fight broke up when a patrol of guards sauntered around the corner and took up station under the god, but by their black looks and gestures the lads and lasses would be back at it as soon as they’d gone.
Kacha stopped by a woman selling drinks out of a tray and bought one – a spirit for those with more desire to get drunk than taste buds. It smelled vile but familiar, and brought to mind a blurred memory of her da overlaid with another – of Eneko. She took a sip, winced at the taste and surreptitiously poured the rest away.
“What’s with that lot?” she asked with a jerk of her head to indicate the mass of youngsters to one side of the god, posturing and posing and shouting insults at each other.
“Been away have you, love? Thought so. Couldn’t have missed it, else. The usual,” the woman said. “Prelate’s men did this; king’s men did something else; clockers this, ex-nobles that. Weren’t much to it to start with – people do love a good moan, that’s all, and the prelate always keeps the councillors in hand. But it’s all got a bit strange lately, or rather he has. Just like my old da when he lost his marbles, wittering on about all sorts. Worse when it’s the man in charge though, eh? Taxing petticoats and periwinkles, I ask you. So it was rumbling worse and worse what with all the rumours. Then that bloody priest getting hisself murdered kicked it all off good and proper, and it ain’t really stopped since. You want to try that with some lemon in, love? Makes all the difference. Makes it bloody drinkable for a start.”
“Uh? No, thanks. The priest?”
The woman shrugged, making her tray of clay bottles and cups clink. “Prelate’s favourite, wasn’t he? There’s some who reckon that Vocho bloke were put up to it by one of the other councillors, you know, as a message or something, like a plot, or maybe it was them heathen Ikarans – devils they are. Of course there’s some who reckon it was the prelate hisself what ordered it.”
Kacha felt like she’d been hit between the eyes with a brick. “The prelate ordered it? Why would he do that?”
“Aye, well.” The woman looked both ways in a manner that intimated that this was a rare and juicy piece of gossip not to be spoken to just anyone. “There’s been a load of rumbling against the prelate, see. I don’t know; they say maybe he didn’t want the priest to talk to the Ikarans, negotiate with them just as like, about the coal and all, that he’s hoarding it somewhere. Or maybe he just wanted to distract people from that we ain’t got nothing to eat, or the bloody taxes. All the criers in the square are talking about it, though I ain’t heard two agree yet.”
“But there’s always been taxes—”
“Not like this, miss. It’s hard to get enough to eat, never mind pay them. Bread’s hard to come by, and sugar? Can’t get sugar for love nor money, which is why that drink’s so sour, miss. Bloody Ikarans, sanctions they call it; blackmail