“Unpaid,” Madoc added, and received a jab to his ribs from Elias.
“In case you forgot, we raked in a winning purse last night. No digging for our dinner in Divine trash heaps this week!” Madoc winced, remembering a rough spot last month when he and Elias had searched for scraps of food in the Glykeria District—a wealthy, Divine area of the city—but Elias’s joy was unrelenting. He spread his arms. “Welcome to Deimos, Kulans!”
From across the street came a stream of boos.
Madoc grabbed Elias’s sleeve, dragging him around a mule-drawn cart on the bricked path. Still, he grinned. His back ached from double shifts churning the vats of sand, water, and cement into mortar. His hands were blistered and sore from slopping the gray sludge into the spaces between stones shaped by the geoeia of the Earth Divine masons. Elias’s geoeia abilities were fit for the more refined jobs of masonry—shaping towers or carving intricate doorways—but his father’s debts had tarnished the Metaxa name, so he was forced to work with Madoc and other Undivine, doing whatever cheap labor they could get.
Neither of them was complaining about some time off.
They cut through a narrow alley toward the small courtyard the Metaxa family shared with four other families. The air here smelled faintly like dust and simmering stock, and the top of each door was lined with broken gemstones—Geoxus’s eyes, people called them, though the truth was the Father God could see, hear, move, through any kind of earth. He was always close, and even in a place thick with thieves and hunger, reminders like this warmed Madoc.
It meant he was never alone, however much he felt that way.
But as they drew closer, wind gusted down the narrow alley, carrying a spray of dust from the ground and an uneasy quiet. There was no laughter, no arguments carried from the courtyards or from inside the open windows. Even the street beyond, normally filled with horses, carts, and beggars, was still. Just as the wrongness of it registered in Madoc’s brain, Elias stopped, his head tilting slightly.
In wordless vigilance, they crept forward, past a splintering blue door and a small bronze prayer statue tucked into an alcove near their courtyard. The dried flowers and incense Madoc had placed beneath them before their last fight were crushed, as if someone had stomped through them.
His heart raced faster.
They reached the gate to their home but found it open, swinging on its hinge with a quiet squeal. The white and green stones of a children’s game had been abandoned beneath the potted orange trees, and the community meal table was empty. Including the six of them in the Metaxa home, eighteen souls shared this tight space, and yet no one seemed to be here.
Dread curled in Madoc’s gut as he registered the glowing embers in the central hearth and the tunic left halfway out of the washing basin beside it.
It was as if everyone had disappeared, or hidden.
Madoc scanned for intruders. Thieves were not unusual in the quarter, but they would have taken the clothes on the line, or broken into one of the homes. His gaze jerked up the stairs, to the balconies that led to the tenants on the top floor. The windows were shuttered. The doors, closed.
“What is . . .” Elias stumbled over a broken bowl but caught himself before falling. “Mother? Cassia! Danon!” He called for his younger brother, racing toward the first-floor apartment. “Ava!” Elias shouted, making fresh fear swell within Madoc’s lungs. He didn’t know what he’d do if five-year-old Ava was hurt—if any of them had been harmed. They might not be his family by blood, but they were all he had.
The door swung inward at Elias’s push, and Madoc blinked to adjust his eyes to the group of people crowded in the small kitchen.
Danon stood closest, gripping his bony elbows as if he might fall apart if he let go. Cassia and Ilena were gathered on one side of the table with Seneca, the old woman from upstairs. Their strained stares flicked from Madoc and Elias to the two men in clean, white togas standing beside the door. One of them, a guard, was nearly as tall as Madoc, and built like the bricks he could undoubtedly crush with a flex of his fist.
The other was Madoc’s father.
The senate’s master of taxation and organizer of off-book street fights. The man who had kicked Madoc out at five years old for being Undivine.