much shorter than she had been before Arthur tapped her.
“Oh, that wasn’t me,” said Arthur hastily, almost babbling. “I don’t know how that happened. Don’t think it was anything to do with me. I hit my head and I can’t remember anything. Where are we?”
“The Far Reaches,” whispered the Denizen. She was still feeling the top of her head and looking puzzled. “Your contract must have been assigned to Grim Tuesday. You’re an indentured worker now.”
“Sssshhhh!” warned the next Denizen along. “Keep it down! The last person talking got steamed and so did everyone next to him. I don’t want to be steamed.”
“Where are you from?” whispered Arthur to the woman ahead of him.
“The Upper House. I was a Capital Ornamenter Third Class. I don’t understand why I was sent here. Imust have done something wrong. Are you one of the Piper’s children, or unnaturally shrunk? It does happen here. I didn’t think it would happen to me so soon—”
“Quiet!” hissed two Denizens farther up. “Overseer!”
An Overseer lurched out of the smog. He stopped to gaze at the line of Denizens, tapping on his steam-gun with thick, calloused fingers. Arthur saw a ripple of fear pass through the whole line, a kind of slow hunching down that all the Denizens did, while at the same time trying not to show any signs of movement.
The Overseer kept watching for a few seconds, then disappeared back into the smog. As it closed around him, Arthur caught a glimpse of another two or three lines of Denizens, all waiting to be given their basic outfit. There could be even more lines beyond.
No one spoke after the Overseer left. They kept shuffling forward as their turns came. Arthur didn’t tap the woman on the shoulder again, fearful of shrinking her even further, and she didn’t look around.
When he came to the front of the line, the Denizen behind the desk stopped in mid-action as he was about to hand Arthur a pile of clothing. He was short and shaped rather like a turnip, so stopping made him almost topple over. In order to keep his balance he droppedthe clothes and grabbed the table, almost oversetting the name plaque that said supply clerk in tarnished goldleaf letters.
“You’ve already got yours!” the clerk gasped.
“Got what?” asked Arthur. Pretending to be stupid seemed the best defense.
“Your apron, leather, one of; cape, rain, stabilized mud with hood, one of; and clogs, wood veneer, one pair,” replied the Denizen. “So what do I do?”
“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “Just let me go on?”
Wherever “on” was. Arthur had been watching carefully, but hadn’t been able to work out what happened to the Denizens in front of him after they got their aprons and capes. They marched around the left side of the table and disappeared into still thicker smog. Arthur also couldn’t work out where the aprons and capes and clogs came from. The Denizen handing them out appeared to pull them from the solid mahogany tabletop.
“But I don’t know if that’s allowed,” muttered the supply clerk.
“You could ask,” piped up the Denizen who was waiting behind Arthur.
“Ask?” hissed the clerk. He looked around nervously. “You never ask anything round here. That only leads to trouble.”
“Well, how about you pretend you never saw me and I just go?” suggested Arthur.
“Next!” said the supply clerk, craning his neck to look to the next person in line. Arthur hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to go. The supply clerk scratched his nose and cupped his hand around his mouth so he could whisper, “Around to the left, down the steps.”
Arthur walked around the desk to the left and almost fell down the steps, since he didn’t see them until he was almost on them. They were broken in parts, deeply coated with soot, and dangerously greasy. As Arthur cautiously made his way down, he tried to dig up some thoughts out of his brain on how to escape. But no bright ideas flared. All he
“Oh, that wasn’t me,” said Arthur hastily, almost babbling. “I don’t know how that happened. Don’t think it was anything to do with me. I hit my head and I can’t remember anything. Where are we?”
“The Far Reaches,” whispered the Denizen. She was still feeling the top of her head and looking puzzled. “Your contract must have been assigned to Grim Tuesday. You’re an indentured worker now.”
“Sssshhhh!” warned the next Denizen along. “Keep it down! The last person talking got steamed and so did everyone next to him. I don’t want to be steamed.”
“Where are you from?” whispered Arthur to the woman ahead of him.
“The Upper House. I was a Capital Ornamenter Third Class. I don’t understand why I was sent here. Imust have done something wrong. Are you one of the Piper’s children, or unnaturally shrunk? It does happen here. I didn’t think it would happen to me so soon—”
“Quiet!” hissed two Denizens farther up. “Overseer!”
An Overseer lurched out of the smog. He stopped to gaze at the line of Denizens, tapping on his steam-gun with thick, calloused fingers. Arthur saw a ripple of fear pass through the whole line, a kind of slow hunching down that all the Denizens did, while at the same time trying not to show any signs of movement.
The Overseer kept watching for a few seconds, then disappeared back into the smog. As it closed around him, Arthur caught a glimpse of another two or three lines of Denizens, all waiting to be given their basic outfit. There could be even more lines beyond.
No one spoke after the Overseer left. They kept shuffling forward as their turns came. Arthur didn’t tap the woman on the shoulder again, fearful of shrinking her even further, and she didn’t look around.
When he came to the front of the line, the Denizen behind the desk stopped in mid-action as he was about to hand Arthur a pile of clothing. He was short and shaped rather like a turnip, so stopping made him almost topple over. In order to keep his balance he droppedthe clothes and grabbed the table, almost oversetting the name plaque that said supply clerk in tarnished goldleaf letters.
“You’ve already got yours!” the clerk gasped.
“Got what?” asked Arthur. Pretending to be stupid seemed the best defense.
“Your apron, leather, one of; cape, rain, stabilized mud with hood, one of; and clogs, wood veneer, one pair,” replied the Denizen. “So what do I do?”
“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “Just let me go on?”
Wherever “on” was. Arthur had been watching carefully, but hadn’t been able to work out what happened to the Denizens in front of him after they got their aprons and capes. They marched around the left side of the table and disappeared into still thicker smog. Arthur also couldn’t work out where the aprons and capes and clogs came from. The Denizen handing them out appeared to pull them from the solid mahogany tabletop.
“But I don’t know if that’s allowed,” muttered the supply clerk.
“You could ask,” piped up the Denizen who was waiting behind Arthur.
“Ask?” hissed the clerk. He looked around nervously. “You never ask anything round here. That only leads to trouble.”
“Well, how about you pretend you never saw me and I just go?” suggested Arthur.
“Next!” said the supply clerk, craning his neck to look to the next person in line. Arthur hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to go. The supply clerk scratched his nose and cupped his hand around his mouth so he could whisper, “Around to the left, down the steps.”
Arthur walked around the desk to the left and almost fell down the steps, since he didn’t see them until he was almost on them. They were broken in parts, deeply coated with soot, and dangerously greasy. As Arthur cautiously made his way down, he tried to dig up some thoughts out of his brain on how to escape. But no bright ideas flared. All he
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