Born for Silk (The Cradled Common)

Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Rome

I hold the sweet creature against my chest, and when she starts to dream, her eyelids flicker, her lips roll together, and a small sound leaves her mouth.

Then she nuzzles me.

What the hell is that?

Do I look huggable?

Am I soft and welcoming?

She needs to stop that.

I pull her in tighter.

Fuck. For over a decade, I have watched Kong gaze at my sister as though she were the blood in his veins.

It seemed unbearable for someone else to be the reason your heart beats.

But as I brush my calloused, tattooed fingertips from her shoulder to her elbow, lifting tiny hairs to attention along smooth skin, I suddenly feel—it.

And I was right. It is fucking unbearable.

I slide her from my arms.

The fire is orange—first-light—so I leave her room and The Circle.

A Guard is stationed outside the Medi-deck door. I stop and look straight at him, but he stares ahead at the brick wall. I follow the roll of his throat, nervous under my scrutiny.

“Cairo?”

“Just left, Sire.” His voice shakes.

Yep, I’m not a huggable man.

I stride away.

Down the long, dim corridor in his chamber, I find The Trade Master at his desk, the large screen open, articles in Latin projected on the brick wall.

“Here.” I force my body forward, grit my teeth against my pride, and place Aster’s personal sheet on his desk. Her blood darkens a patch of the gold fabric. “This” —I stroke the scarlet stain, her body writhing beneath me is still a strong memory— “changes nothing. If you want my co-operation, then you will stay away from Aster. You will not examine her. I will. No one touches her. She is going to carry The Cradle’s heirs.”

He doesn’t look from his screen.

It is not the first time I have threatened to kill him, nor will it be the last, though, is the closest I have come to following through of my threat. I would have.

And even he believed it.

He revealed his masked fear when he threatened me with the Shadows. Should The Trade fall, the Crown falls. Should Cairo lose his life, my Collective lose theirs—we are linked.

And now that includes Aster.

Cairo ensured our coalition, the binding agents: my sweet sister and my little creature.

Balance, it is written, is steadfast when both forces rest with equal importance and power on either end of the scale. What it really means is we all tumble down together.

I look down at the blood under my fingertips, wanting to snatch the fabric and keep it. “What would you have done if I went to the redhead last night?” Returning my eyes to him, I say, “She obviously had others interested, given all the girls have been claimed now. There would have been a clash of interest.”

He continues to read, and the silence plays with the power struggle between us. Then he finally says, “She didn't. One of our lords has not chosen. He is unable.”

I frown. “Explain.”

Mouthing the last few words on his screen, he slowly slides his eyes to meet mine, his expression indifferent. “He enjoys the company of men. So, I gave her Meaningful Purpose after you were absent. I knew you wouldn’t visit The Circle last night. And when you did not, I allowed it to play out. But the girl deserves Meaningful Purpose. She followed the rules. The women in her line have never lost a child. She deserves her Meaningful Purpose, even if the babe becomes no more than a Trade citizen.”

Is that a genuine consideration?

Or another hidden motivation?

The Trade Master is appointed by the lords of The Cradle—Cairo by Turin and his Collective—and holds the title until death, but he has no legacy, no heirs of his own. His title dies with him. So, he would not consider this child an heir, merely another babe for The Trade. I don’t bother asking him why he did it. I don’t really care.

“And if I had changed my mind? Today? Tomorrow? What if I wanted the redheaded.”

“I was rather certain that you would not.” He stands, bows and stares straight at me, levelling me. “I've known you for a very long time, Rome. Your entire life.” My name on his lips is a double-edged sword. “I know what you want. I will do my best to give it to you. We have had our differences for many years. One thing that is assured, despite us, is the Crown does not exist without The Trade, and The Trade does not exist without the Crown. We are twin pillars that heal The Cradle. Do you believe this?”

Stiff, I nod. “To some degree.”

I know that before The Trade birthed The Cradle and humbled everyone as equals, Xin De and Common alike, the two divisions of human were at war.

Genocide. Prejudice. Slavery.

Now, citizens live for Purpose. With value. And, yes, it's flawed, like most things, but it stays true to its code and assurances—you will be safe in The Trade system.

Outside it, nothing is certain.

“Well, you're still young for a Xin De, but I see that some space between us will be good.” As he continues, he pulls a large hide case from under his single bed and places it on the perfectly crease-free sheet. “You'll be glad that I'm taking my leave to visit the Half-tower. The Shadows have completed their task, and the unrest is imminent. They need me now.”

Turning to leave, an odd sense of relief loosens my muscles, but then he says,

“Sire. She asked a lot of questions about the woman who birthed her. She is curious. It’s quite dangerous for one so young to be so inquisitive in these matters. I would punish her with a firm hand if she were mine.”

“But she is not,” I state, curt. “So, the pregnant Silk Girl? She is Darwin’s, then? What becomes of her?”

“Lantana. Yes. She will join another Trade after the birth. If she has a girl, they will become an excellent Silk Girl, I am sure,” he continues, dutifully laying the procedure out for me. “If she has a boy, we will wait to see what kind of babe he is and what Trade he fits.”

I leave. Shutting the door, I stride away. He could be in the Half-tower for months, reappointing lords and settling the unrest.

I grin at that.

After I shower and dress, I head outside with my rifle. First-light mist touches my shoulder from the east; it filters the sun, creating an eery glow.

Fortunately, I know the woods surrounding The Estate. Know the edges that cut along the windmill farm and the greenhouses, know the valley where the Aquilla cats stow away chickens stolen from our hutches.

And I have Odio.

Stalking across the gardens to the tree-line, I hear a branch snap in each ear. I scan the area, finding Bled and Turin Two at my left shoulder and Medan and Kong at my right.

Ready to hunt—we share this message in our stance, our weapons braced in front of us.

Behind them, Trade Hunters.

We hunt for leisure.

They hunt for Purpose.

With a nod, we stalk forward, weaving between the trees, woody limbs and leaves becoming mesh walls that filter the sand-burdened winds. As even the foliage in The Cradle has adapted to the gale.

The forest is dense.

Fielding off from me, my Collective disappear from view. The forest reaches all the way to the ocean, the bottom of the world.

We hunt in isolation, the only camaraderie shared is silent approval as short rounds echo, sending birds to the skies, wrenching howls and hisses from the surrounding cats.

Over the following hours, Odio guides me, hovering over warrens, and the forest reverberates with tormented squeals and cries.

The island’s native cat was once fucking extinct and now a damn pest.

It is crown-light, the brightest time of day, when I stroll into the forest clearing with three dead beasts hung around my neck, legs dangling down my chest.

Ahead, Turin Two, Medan, Kong, and The Trade Hunters are already regrouping, one by one, with their kill.

“How many did you see?” I ask Turin Two.

He is on his haunches on the grass, stabbing his knife into the thick coat of the cat, carving a seam down the stomach, and opening it up. He is wrist-deep in the guts while he says, “I saw at least a dozen make a break for it before I got this one and the other two in the sack. I shot down another two, but they dropped off the cliff into the ocean.”

“Kong?” I ask, looking over at him as he wraps a bite wound on his forearm with a piece of cloth.

“Ten, maybe fourteen,” he replies. “They breed as fast as the fucking chickens in summer.”

“Good.” Bled approaches from the east, dead cats stacked on his shoulders like logs. “I like the taste of cat. Better than chicken, and you know I’m not partial to ocean game.”

“Shark is beautiful,” Medan says.

Bled lays his beasts on the pile with the others. “Beg to differ. It’s the texture for me.”

Sitting on a hacked tree trunk, I lean forward, my elbows meeting my knees. I look between them. “Speaking of sharks, we may have a low supply for The Cradle until the Half-tower is settled. Cairo left this first-light. I’m certain, he will have it suitably organised within a few months. Man has a way with fucking words.”

“I leave tomorrow as well,” Medan states.

“And I,” Bled adds. “Back to my Hall.”

Turin Two laughs. “Orgies. We know.”

“As much as I enjoy dipping my fingers into a bit of vanilla cake,” Bled says, “it’s the tart that really does it for me.”

“The Common House Girl.” Turin laughs.

“If I remember correctly.” Bled raises a brow. “You quite enjoyed my group activities the last time you visited the Lower-tower.”

“I enjoy a great many things,” Turin Two muses, emptying the cat’s innards onto the grass. His arms are painted with guts as he rubs the bloody organs with poison, kneading the scentless flakes into the meat. He will leave the corpse in the clearing and kill a few more that turn cannibalistic.

Bled looks past me across the open grass. “They like it when you join them. It motivates them.”

I gaze over my shoulder to see The Trade Hunters, fifty feet away or so, in a circle, comparing their kills—they’ll hit the markets in first-light, fresh steaks for The Estate’s residents.

I nod at one; he bows.

Turning back, I stand, adjust the cats on my shoulders, fleshy stomachs warming my neck, and walk away, calling out, “If I don’t see you in the first-light, I will welcome you back next month. Congratulations on securing your legacy, my lords.”

Medan says, “And you, Sire.”