over-watered areas up, the sections can be clay harvested. It’s quite the process, extracting clay. It takes dozens of males, and more have been hired to compensate for the upcoming human-village project.” His gaze skewers the path ahead of us. Like this explanation is very tiresome. “The hirelings’ jobs are to collect clay, shape it, lay it out for curing, then fire it in the kiln house. The pottery buildings where they do the shaping and curing storage are collectively referred to as ‘the brickpit’—but they make all kinds of pottery, all the way down to bowls—not simply bricks and tiles.” With that, he levels a skin-withering glare on me. “Have I answered each and every one of your potential queries?”
Luckily, my skin is Bash-wither-proof. I smile at him and reach up to tug his tail away from my face.
Before my fingers can close around it though, he yanks it away and it curls up on his other side, like it’s afraid to touch me all of a sudden.
I don’t take any offense. Maybe his parents taught him that aliens are gross and it’s given him deep-seated acceptance issues. Or maybe his parents are great and they did the best they could with him but he still grew up to be an ogre. Either way, he’s weirdly compelling. He’s like the first cactus plant you ever get to see: you know it’s spiny and prickly and could hurt you, but you’re driven to poke at it anyway.
So I keep him talking, or give it my very best try. Wholly at my persistent, persistent insistence (and in as few words as possible) Bash reluctantly begins telling me about his employees. And I learn—much to what would probably be everyone’s surprise—Bash knows everybody’s name. But this incredible phenomenon doesn’t stop at mere employee monikers: Bash is informed on all the aspects of his crew down to their kids’ names. More than anyone would ever know to give him credit for, Bash pays attention. Bash—prepare yourself—cares about the people who work for him.
Obviously he doesn’t admit that in so many words, but actions speak louder than growls, or so they say, right?
I’m fascinated, but I know we’re entering into the back half of the rock-gathering area of the quarry (which means our ride will be coming to an end soon) when we pass the blueprints stand. It’s where blueprints of the town—which aren’t blue like the quintessential architect sketches from home, but are instead scratched out on cream parchment paper—are displayed beside more professionally-drawn layouts. Closeup sketches of stone cottages and stone rookeries (the traditionally-built housing here meant for Gryfala and hobs—a sort of wide tower) are also rendered digitally, the thin screen always left backlit and available for anyone to view. Sheets of glass protect these town-planning guides, allowing the sketches to serve as a constant visual of what everyone’s working toward.
“We made it,” I declare. “Alive.” Both of us—you didn’t strangle me!
“So we did.”
I almost nudge him with my shoulder, but his expression is stony and forbidding and I’m pretty sure he’d dislocate my arm for me if I tried touching him, so I settle for a simple, “I’m happy to see everyone again.”
He couldn’t be less enthusiastic, his long ears held flat, his lids low, really showing off his happy face (i.e., scowl). “I won’t say the same.”
I drop my hand to my lap, making a clapping noise against my leg. “Quick, was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
“No. And female, I cannot fathom how you could have more to say.” His eyes widen imperceptibly, a tell for his surprise or bafflement, I’m not sure. But he’s not yelling, and he’s showing emotion (even if it is only a flicker), so I’ll take it. “Practice silence or regale yourself with more of your stories, but wait here.”
CHAPTER 6
BASH
I could have sent Isla back to her work station by herself. Perhaps I should have. Instead, I thought to stalk away from her chattering to retrieve the hob who normally acts as this wagon’s driver. I don’t know what I expected of the quiet that followed. After hearing her voice nearly non-stop in my ears for half the damned day, wouldn’t it be logical for my system, which operates best without social interaction of any kind, to pine for silence?
Instead, she’s managed to trigger that strange quirk of the Rakhii; the absence of her person is causing an immediate, keen desire to seek her out. Following my refusal to return