Chapter Five
Kiva led the way inside the cold stone building, her nose wrinkling at the acrid smell that permeated everything from the walls to the floors.
Incense burned from a small worktable at the side of the square room, but it didn’t hide the stench of death, an unpleasant mix of spoiled meat and sour milk.
A drain lay in the center of the floor, the stones closest to it stained a reddish-brown.
Only a fraction of prisoners underwent embalming, usually those from more privileged families who were granted permission to collect their loved ones after death.
The lingering scent of thyme, rosemary, and lavender tickled Kiva’s nose, but she couldn’t smell any wine, indicating it had been some time since the last attempted preservation.
Stone slabs were spaced at equal distances around the drain, and while there were currently no cadavers on them, the smell was just as strong as on days when the room was full.
The prisoner in charge of the morgue, Mot, was immune to it, but not even the guards monitored this building for long periods of time, unable to stomach the constant odor.
“Evenin’, Kiva,” Mot said, sitting on a stool behind the worktable, his back slightly hunched, his gray hair thinning on top. “What can I do for yeh?”
From her side, Kiva heard Jaren whisper her name to himself, and she sighed inwardly.
“I have two for collection,” Kiva said to the elderly man.
He was relatively new to Zalindov, having arrived only eighteen months ago.
Too old to be of any use when it came to hard labor, he’d been allocated work in the infirmary, but his fascination with death had made him more of a hindrance than a help.
More than once, patients with simple ailments had died on his watch.
It had become so problematic that, for the first—and only—time ever, Kiva had made a request of the Warden to transfer him elsewhere.
That turned out to be a boon, since prior to arriving at Zalindov, Mot had been an apothecary, so he transitioned comfortably from infirmary to morgue, becoming the head mortician within a short span of months.
Indeed, he had even thanked Kiva for her role in his transfer, claiming that he almost felt as if he were back home.
Kiva still wasn’t sure how to reconcile the thoughtful old man who, she’d later discovered, had been sentenced to Zalindov for deliberately misdiagnosing his customers so that he might trial new experimental remedies, resulting in multiple deaths.
But it didn’t matter what he’d done outside of these walls.
In here, they both had a job to do, and for obvious reasons, the infirmary kept close ties with the morgue.
“Two, yeh say?” Mot said, shuffling some parchment. “Tunnel fever still takin’ ’em?”
Kiva shook her head. “New arrivals. They didn’t survive the journey.”
Mot’s cloudy eyes shifted to Jaren. Naari had remained at the doorway, and Kiva envied her the fresh air.
“Yeh’re new today, boy?” Mot asked, his joints cracking as he stood.
Jaren looked at Kiva, as if seeking her permission to speak. Perhaps he did understand the gravity of being at Zalindov. But she wasn’t the one he needed to defer to. Regardless, she gave a quick nod, and he answered Mot with a simple, “Yes, sir.”
“Ha!” Mot cried with a beaming grin, his brown teeth revealed by the luminium beacons affixed to the stone walls. “Yeh hear that, Kiva? ‘Sir.’ That’s respect.” He winked at her. “I like this one.”
“Mot—”
“Stay close to yer healer, boy.” Mot spoke over Kiva. “She’ll take good care of yeh. Mark my words.”
Kiva pressed her lips into a firm line. She wasn’t Jaren’s healer. She was the prison healer— everyone’s healer.
“Will you collect them before you finish up tonight, Mot?” Kiva said after unclenching her jaw.
Mot waved a dismissive hand. “O’ course, o’ course. But they’ll ’ave to wait for burnin’. Grendel’s already put a load through today.”
Kiva didn’t care when the two men were cremated, as long as they weren’t decaying in her infirmary. “Fine. Tipp’s checking on my quarantined patients at the moment, but just call out to him if you need any help.”
Mot’s eyes narrowed. “Tipp?”
Belatedly, Kiva remembered why she was in the morgue, rather than her assistant. Still unsure what had happened, she hedged, “He’ll stay out of your way unless you ask.”
“D’yeh know what the brat did?”
Kiva’s eyes flicked to Naari, but the guard’s back was to them as she faced out into the grounds. There was no way to tell if she was listening or not.
“Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Gave me a heart attack, ’e did,” Mot said, scowling.
“These old eyes ain’t what they used to be, yeh know.
How was I s’posed to see ’?im lyin’ beneath one of the bodies?
” His scowl deepened. “When I came near, ’e sat bolt upright with the corpse, wavin’ its arms and screamin’ at me.
Thought the dead were comin’ back for revenge, didn’t I? ”
Kiva heard Jaren cough from beside her, but she didn’t dare look his way, not when she was struggling to keep in her own laugh.
“I’ll have a word with him,” Kiva said once she was certain she could do so with solemnity. “It won’t happen again.”
“Better not,” Mot said. “My ticker can’t take another fright like that.” As an afterthought, he added, “And the dead deserve our respect.”
The latter was true, and Kiva would have a word with Tipp. Not just for the sake of the mortician, but also for Tipp himself. If he’d been caught ... if any of the guards had witnessed his prank ... then he never would have left the morgue.
A cold feeling overtook Kiva, but she shook it off and again promised Mot that she would give the boy a stern talking-to.
In return, she received Mot’s word that he would collect the deceased men immediately.
Satisfied, she was quick to leave the morgue with Jaren in tow, the two of them inhaling deeply once they were outside again.
“He seems like a character,” Jaren commented.
Kiva said nothing, casting a quick look at Naari, but the guard didn’t betray whether or not she’d heard about Tipp’s misadventures.
If she had, Kiva could only hope she wouldn’t care enough to report him.
The Warden had overlooked some of Tipp’s foolishness in the past, but only when Kiva had something to exchange for the boy’s safety.
Prison gossip was scarce of late, leaving her with no bargaining chips and an unsettled feeling in her gut.
Looking around the grounds, Kiva pushed aside her gnawing worry and considered her next move, trying to recall her own orientation. The sights, the sounds, the smells ... all of that had faded in her memory. All she could remember was what she’d felt.
Fear.
Grief.
Hopelessness.
The potent mix had clouded all else.
Jaren, however, didn’t seem overcome by emotion. Wary, perhaps. Uncertain, definitely. But ... he was also looking at her with curiosity, waiting patiently to see what she would say or do next.
Kiva made her decision.
“Whatever you were told about Zalindov before arriving here, forget it,” she said, turning to the left and doing her best to ignore the crunching of Naari’s feet trailing after them.
“I heard that it’s a death prison,” Jaren said. “That very few people ever make it out alive. That it’s full of murderers and rebels.”
Kiva only just refrained from shooting a look back at Naari to say that this was exactly why she shouldn’t be doing orientation for new prisoners.
“Fine, yes, you should try to remember all of that,” she amended.
“Are you a murderer?” Jaren asked. “Or a rebel?”
Kiva’s mouth hitched up at the side, her amusement mocking more than anything else. “If you want to survive longer than the night, don’t ask anyone why they’re here. It’s rude.”
Jaren studied her thoughtfully, before his focus turned back to the gravel path. He drew his wounded hand in close to his stomach—the first sign he’d given that he was in any pain, though she doubted the carving was the worst of it.
“Don’t you want to know what I did?” he asked quietly.
“Something you need to know about Zalindov,” Kiva said, “is that who you were out there”—she pointed beyond the limestone walls—“means nothing in here. So, no. I don’t want to know what you did, because it doesn’t matter.”
She was lying to them both, but Jaren didn’t know her well enough to call her on it, and he let it drop.
Releasing a slow breath, Kiva came to a stop when they reached the next building along from the morgue. It, too, was made of darkened stone, the ground near the entrance dusted with ash. Two large chimneys poked out from the roof, one of which was lightly smoking.
“Zalindov’s two crematoriums,” Kiva said without feeling.
“Most of the dead are brought here for burning to prevent the spread of disease.” She pointed to the non-smoking chimney.
“The second is only used when the furnace in the first breaks down, or in cases of mass outbreaks and executions, when one isn’t enough on its own. ”
Jaren’s brows rose. “Do those happen often?”
“Outbreaks? Sometimes.”
“No.” His gaze was on the smoke rising lazily into the air. “Executions.”
Kiva didn’t dare glance at Naari as she answered, “Every day.”
Jaren’s face was shuttered when he turned back to her. “And how often en masse?”
“Not as common, but not unheard of, either,” she shared, almost relieved that he was asking these questions. He needed to know what his future could be if he put one toe out of line.
He examined her face, and she let him, hoping he could read how serious she was, how much peril they were all in, every moment of every day.
Finally, he nodded, wincing slightly when the action jolted his head. “I see.”
And she believed him. There was a furrow between his eyebrows that hadn’t been there before, a shadow over his features, a new weight upon his shoulders.
Maybe he would survive, after all.