Joe was late again, and as a penalty his father would make him stay in the steam room for the rest of the week with only the squeakers and the silent kolmen for company. He did not mind too much. The kolmen were no trouble as they fed the vast furnaces with the seemingly never-ending supply of black gold, their bodies slick with the dust and their sweat from working so close to the heat. They did not talk. They could not. Their reward for working in the heart of the citadel was to have their tongues ripped out so they would never divulge the secret few of them ever knew. Most of them died at a young age from the kol dust which lined their lungs and turned them black. However, they provided a good living for their families, and there was a steady stream from the younger generation to give up conversation, and pick up the shovel and pick. One life to feed many. 

The squeakers were no nuisance either. He had his favorites and fed them with hard brood and soft cheese, the best Andersen’s hotshop provided. He always stopped at Andersen’s each morning on his way to work, despite the complaints from their housekeeper Nell, that there was enough food in the pantry, and it shamed her to see anyone from the family eating victuals from a vendor. It was not just the food, though Mister Andersen made the best hot pies in the Burghs, and always supplied a supplementary treat. It was entertainment too. Mister Andersen was a jovial fellow, with a smiling red face, which was always flushed, and jowls which seemed to hang to the floor. He was corpulent, a trait he had bequeathed to his brood of children, who popped out of Missus Andersen with alarming regularity. His special gift was flatulence, which he was unable, or unwilling to control. Each expulsion was followed by ‘Oops, there goes another one,’ which sent his giggling flock running in all directions as they pinched their nostrils closed. Joe loved the gaiety of it all, when his own abode was filled with gloom. There was the aroma too. Not from Mister Andersen’s posterior, but the mixed smells of baked pastry and hot juicy meat. 

The snow was coming down hard and covered Joe’s hat and winter coat with a fine white outer layer. It did not lie on the hard ground or cobblestones for long. As soon as it touched down, it melted away into pools of water which washed away any debris and kept the streets and alleyways clean. It was always a strange sight to see the rooftops of all of the buildings, high and low, permanently covered with a winter blanket, and yet the ground below was free of frost. Occasionally, the contents of a roof slid from its perch and crashed down to the streets below. Unlucky souls were buried in the temporary avalanche, only to be discovered when the melt set in.

Joe glanced up at the large clock tower which dominated the central square of the Gastown marketplace. It was a smaller cousin of the much grander clock tower which stood upon the hill in the castle square. However, it was the one he used on a daily basis to mark his passage across the Bridge of Broken Souls from the Four Kith into the heart of the citadel . His journey from the merchant burghs to the tradesman’s bridge ran through a sliver of the Four Kith. Even though it was patrolled by the Bully Boys, he still felt nervous under the watchful eyes of the beggars, vagabonds, thieves, and murderers, and he consciously avoided eye contact, and unconsciously quickened his pace until he reached the safety of the other side. 

There was a commotion this crisp morning. A hue and cry ensued from the direction of the street vendors, who lined a path through the Four Kith towards the bridge. A young boy was running, something tucked under his right arm, and a baying crowd chomping at his heels. Fear spurred him on as he sped towards the bridge, but it was a fool’s errand, and no sanctuary beckoned. A strong arm swooped down, and a Bully Boy scooped the child off his feet. He struggled for a moment, thrashing and kicking, and then went limp, but never releasing the tight grip on his precious cargo. 

The crowd circled the Bully Boy, and an out of breath vendor was pushed forward. He pointed an accusing finger at the undernourished lad, dressed in rags a beggar would cast off. “He stole a loaf of brood!” he wheezed. 

“I saw him with my own two eyes. Snatched it up he did,” another concerned citizen said.

The Bully Boy prised the loaf from under the child’s protective arm, and handed it to the merchant.

“That’s it. I’d recognize it anywhere,” the merchant said.

“Please sir. I was just tryin’ to feed me sister,” the child said in his defense. “She ‘as a fever, an’ is starvin.”

“We have the Gut to feed the likes of you,” the vendor said, as he wiped his precious loaf, before depositing it in an apron pocket. 

“And a rope too!” someone offered, and the crowd cheered as a thick cord was passed forward. 

Joe did not approve of stealing, but he strongly felt the punishment should fit the crime, and a life for a loaf did not balance the scales of justice. He blanched as the rope was thrown over the gallows post which blotted the picturesque view at the entry to the Bridge of Broken Souls. 

The Bully Boy put the child back on his feet, and roughly tied his hands behind his back with a neckerchief. He was led over to the gallows and the rope placed tightly around his young neck. He cried hysterically, and peed himself.

Joe searched the faces of the crowd, looking for like-minded supporters who would be prepared to intervene on the boy’s behalf. However, while the vigilantes in the pack bayed for blood and rough justice, the more fair-minded residents kept their eyes cast down and stayed silent. It would take more than the death of a child thief to stir them into action against an obvious injustice. They would let the shame of it gnaw at them rather than get involved.

“He’s just a child,” Joe said, tears streaming down his own face.

“If you don’t deal with a child thief, he grows up to be an adult thief,” a hardened soul said.

“Hoist away lads,” The Bully Boy said, and a group of vengeful citizens pulled on the rope and lifted the child into the air and on into the heavens. 

Joe watched in horror as the child’s face turned blue, and life was squeezed out of him.  Then the clock struck the first quarter position marking the start of the working solar, and he cursed as the steam whistle sounded. It blew long, hard, and shrill. He knew he should be on the other side of the heavy eikwood door by now, and he was still at the edge of the bridge. One of the bridge guards in the gray overcoat and heavy bearskin hat smirked at him as he passed, wiping tears from his eyes, misconstruing the reason for the water works. His father was known as a hard taskmeister and his birchwood rod was always swishing in action, cutting through the air with a sound like a swarm of angry orange jackets. Joe put his head down and broke into a full out run, dodging the sullen night workers as they made their way home for their solar sleep. Joe glanced up at the bleak, dark gray citadel, the symbol of domination over all of Gastown.  He just made the sanctuary of the door before it closed. 

Once inside, Joe removed his heavy coat and hat and shook off the snow. He hung them on his private peg and ran the length of the long corridor to the top of the iron stairs. He had a trick for getting down fast and sat on the bannister and slid down to the next landing. He repeated this seven more times before he reached the basement floor and the heart of the boiler room. The temperature got progressively hotter as he made his way into the epicenter of the labyrinth. This was the engine which drove all of Gastown, and it was his domain. Or at least his father’s. 

The morning shift of kolmen were busy. Men, stripped to the waist, worked on emptying the barges which came though the underway canals. They used a system of pulleys, cantilevers, and large iron buckets to pluck out the kol from the barges. Other men transported it over to the vast stockpiles, which always seemed to be the same size, as more workers subtracted from the kol heap and fed the furnaces. They opened the massive metal doors, temporarily exposing the flames, fed the monster, and closed the doors again. On and on it went. Solar after solar. Lunar following lunar. Gastown depended on it. 

Kol drove the furnaces, but kol did not drive Gastown. There was not enough of it to power the machinery or provide the necessary heat to keep the permawinter at bay. The town itself was built on top of a vast reservoir of liquid assa, and the heat from the furnaces converted it into a workable gas, which was combusted, and in turn melted the snow and generated the steam, which provided underground heating for everyone, and a regular temperature for the greenhauses. 

Joe’s father, Castor Willow, was the Assameister and on his frail shoulders rested the secret of the conversion process, and the maintenance of the mighty copper colored boilers which filled this vast cavern. He was not rich like the merchant burghers, or powerful like the Damm Warriors, but he alone carried the burden for the survival of Gastown. He alone defeated winter and allowed heat to triumph over cold. He was a mighty man in a feeble body. He was also dying.

Joe set about his checklist of tasks. He checked the temperature on the gauges to make sure they were constant, he polished the casings, and he examined the rivets for any breakage. There could be no leaks. Ever. He went about his job with clinical efficiency, and acted as if everything was as normal. As if his father had not noticed he was late again.

He heard the swoosh of the birchwood cane before he felt the sharp stinging pain across his shoulders. He winced, but did not stop his work for a moment. That would only bring another strike from the slender stick, and the slender arm which powered it.

“An apprentice will never be late. An apprentice will respect the craft. An apprentice will burnish and polish, spit and shine, knowing the boiler is a true friend of mine. Say it for me, Joe,” Castor Willow said.

“An apprentice will never be late…” Joe said as he continued to work, even as the second strike of the rod made sharp contact with his back.

“An apprentice will respect the craft…” Another stinging blow landed and lacerated Joe’s skin under his tunic.

“Very good! One does love it when the underlings are taught to respect their Meister.”

Castor immediately stopped his punishment, turned and bowed. “Ma’am. I didn’t hear you enter. My sincere apologies,” he said, though he addressed himself to the Damm Warriors, and not the Dux directly.

Joe immediately stopped his faux polishing and dropped to one knee. His heart was in his mouth. Anything was possible with the Dux of the Citadel of Varstad and Gastown beyond the walls. A sudden whim led to death or a handsome reward. Uncertain actions led to fear while they endured, and euphoria when they were over. Provided one survived.

The Dux was a dumpy woman dressed all in black, with a laced black veil which partially covered her bloated face. Some said she took to wearing the color after the death of her Dandy husband more than ten years previous. Others claimed she always wore black in a vain attempt to mask the spread of chunk. She was roly-poly as a child, porcine as a young girl, and corpulent as a crone. ‘Do I look fat in this dress?’ was a phrase she often uttered and was never truthfully answered.

The Dux never traveled alone. She had her personal guard of four fierce Damm Warriors, in constant attendance outside of the bedchamber, and a troop of the best Red Shadows, all young fighting men pulled from the wealthiest families from the Burghs. Their service, and sequestration in the castle, ensured their families paid their tithe on time, and with only silent complaint. She was also surrounded by her pack of ugly little yappers, an undisciplined brood of four legged curs, who were so low to the ground they almost slid along on their bellies. They roamed the boiler room, ignoring the frantic attempts of the Curmeister to keep them under control, and shat copious amounts of green liquid all over the Assameister’s spotlessly clean floor. 

“Please continue with the lesson, Assameister,” the Dux said in her high-pitched voice. It sounded pleasant enough, but it was most definitely a command. 

Joe immediately got up from his kneeling position without a word from his father and turned to face the boiler. Castor Willow also turned to administer the punishment, as Joe polished.

“An apprentice will burnish and polish…”

Swish.

“Spit and shine…”

Swoosh.

“Knowing the boiler is a true friend of mine.”

Swack. The Assameister put some mustard on the third blow as much to alleviate his own frustration with Joe as to make sure the Dux appreciated the lesson.

“Splendid!” said the Dux, clapping her pudgy hands, in a show of excitement. “The apprentice learns from the cruel hands of the meister. Now turn and tell me all about how the assa is doing. We want to keep our palace warm and scrumptious during this eternal winter. It just won’t do if we run out and one’s poor tootsies get the frightful chills… you there, that man!” The Dux stopped addressing the Assameister, and turned her attention to one of the Red Shadows. 

The rest of the troop stood to attention and kept their eyes straight ahead, and a stoic look on their faces. Their hearts were beating fast under their steel shirts.

The Dux moved in front of the offending Red Shadow, lifted up her black veil and gave him the stink eye. “Just what exactly were you looking at while I was addressing the Assameister?” There was a decidedly malevolent tone to her voice. 

“I-I … nothing your majesty,” the sweating Red Shadow said. His legs were visibly shaking.

There was a loud collective intake of air from the four Damm Warriors. The rest of the Red Shadows remained as silent as they could and kept their eyes forward, trying hard to look at nothing in particular.

The Dux forgot the transgression which led to her singling out the Red Shadow. He had just committed a mortal sin in answering back to the Dux. Red Shadows were taught a smattering of the High Tongue when they entered service, so they could follow commands, but they were not permitted to utter it. Only a select few, such as the Assameister, were allowed to converse in a limited capacity. To directly answer the Dux was not only folly, it was a death sentence. The Red Shadow knew it, and to make matters worse, his bladder did too, and emptied.

Two of the Damm Warriors immediately moved to either side of the piss-stained Red Shadow and divested him of his halberd and left buckler. They pinned his arms to just make sure he did not do anything stupid in his last minute of life. 

The Dux paced back and forth in front of the trio, and scratched her hairy chin as if pondering a very difficult problem. “What’s one to do with such an insolent soul? Talking back to the Dux, don’t you know. Directly! Not so much as a by your leave, or a please Ma’am.” She stopped walking as if she’d come up with an answer, and then sighed and continued with her pacing. She stopped again, and tapped the side of her nose. “I’ve got it, by Susan. I’ve got it!” 

She pointed a pork sausage of a finger at the weeping Red Shadow. “Strip him!”

Without a word the other two Damm Warriors closed in on the hapless Red Shadow. They removed his steel helmet and unstrapped his cuirass. His thick gloves came off easily, but they used knives to cut off his heavy bear leather boots, his red tunic and pantaloons. In less than a minute he was completely naked, nicked by the razor sharp knife blades in a few places, and under the scrutiny of the Dux. His only hope was if she liked what she saw and granted a reprieve. She did not.

The Dux’s eyeline was closer to the former Red Shadow’s genitals than she was to his navel. Close enough to get a bird’s eye view.

“I can’t abide a man who doesn’t wash his tinkle,” she said with deep disdain. “Well, we don’t have water to speak of but we do have something better to clean with. Assameister, if you please. Open one of your furnaces!”

The naked man knew what was coming and he struggled furiously against the firm grip of the two Damm Warriors. Another Damm Warrior gave a command to four of the Red Shadows and they immediately put down their halberds and bucklers on the ground and seized hold of their former comrade in arms. Two men relieved the Damm Warriors and twisted his arms cruelly up his back. The other two grabbed his legs and lifted him clean off the ground. The Assameister pulled on his protective gloves and walked calmly over to the nearest furnace. He opened the large furnace door with no little effort and exposed the heat and flames of Hel. 

With another word of command from the Damm Warrior, the four Red Shadow carried their struggling burden over to the exposed incinerator, rocked his back and forth three times and launched him into the firestorm.

“Why me, why me!” he cried as he landed on the white hot kols and went silent. The Assameister immediately closed the heavy door.

“Who was he calling out to?” The Dux asked one of her Damm Warriors. 

“Ma’am?”

“This Wyme fellow.” 

The Damm Warrior shrugged her large shoulders.

“No matter,” the Dux said and turned her attention back to the Assameister, as if the momentary intrusion with the errant Red Shadow had never happened. “Well then?”

“Ma’am?” Castor replied in the high tongue, though once again he addressed the lead Damm Warrior, and not the Dux directly. A dew drop of sweat glistened on his forehead.

The Dux sighed. “I was asking about the assa? Doesn’t anyone listen to me anymore? How is it doing, man. How is it doing?”

“Oh, the assa. We have an abundant supply, your majesty. More than enough for my lifetime, and many Assameisters after me.” He gave a little cough and swallowed the blood which came into his mouth.

“I certainly hope so, Assameister. I certainly hope so. Who knows how long this dreadful winter will last. And we need our vegetable gardens to stay warm, don’t you know.”

Without another word the Dux spun on her heels and walked back to the steel cage which would take her all the way back up to her private chambers. The four Damm Warriors followed closely behind, and the Red Shadows at a more respectable distance, after they had picked up the armaments, torn tunic, boots, and piss-soaked pantaloons of their former compatriot. One of them gave a backward glance at Joe before he departed.

The rest of the solar was uneventful for Joe. He continued with his daily chores and ensured the kol made it to the right furnaces, and the large assa boilers worked at peak efficiency. He stayed away from his father for most of the solar, and they would never talk about the hapless Red Shadow. Careless whispers led to torture. Open conversation meant certain death. No one ever questioned the Dux. Regal madness was a distinct reality for all of them.

Joe barely ate his lunch. He nibbled on the sour brood, but he hardly ate any cheese, and his Andersen pie was untouched. The squeakers appreciated that, since he had more to share with them today. The braver ones even took it directly from his hand. 

There were a few more hours for the shift to finish, and Joe busied himself as much as he could. He wanted to forget about the hanging child, and the poor soldier who fed the furnace, but both images kept coming back to him. He longed for the steam whistle to sound so he could race across the Bridge of Broken Souls, away from the fear of the citadel, and back to the sanctuary of his father’s modest haus. Before then, if he was lucky, smart, careful, and quick, he might catch a fleeting moment of happiness.

Time did not stand still. It always moved forward, no matter how slow it seemed for Joe. The steam whistle did blow, he did put down his cloth and gauge checkers, and today he did not have to wait and leave with his father. There was time to seek the thrill. 

Joe was off before the last shrill note of the steam whistle ended. He walked at a fast pace across the vast assachamber. There was no running allowed in here, but a brisk walk was acceptable. Once Joe reached the foot of the staircase he could move as fast as he liked. Coming down was quick and easy, going up took considerably more effort. But Joe was young, slim, and lightning quick, and he bounded up all seven staircases in record time. He was out of breath at the top, and his legs were on fire, but he had gained some extra precious seconds. 

People were streaming out of the castle as the solar shift ended, and Joe had to weave in and out of the crowd. It slowed him down, and he grew anxious as he lost the extra time just gained. He dodged past one knot of blackened kolmen, and made it to his final destination. There was an alcove they used for their rendezvous. Perhaps it was an old store room, or a place where the guards cached their weapons. It was not very big, but it served their purpose, and it was out of sight. Unless you were looking for it, you would not know it even existed. 

The soldier was already waiting. His halberd and buckler were resting against the wall, and he took off his helmet as Joe entered the alcove. 

Joe’s logical mind knew the relationship was doomed from the start. Although they were both from the Burghs, they occupied decidedly different worlds, and if they were caught the punishment would be severe. Joe knew he was putting his father’s life and reputation at risk too, and vowed he would end it soon. However, not on this solar. He needed a distraction from the two deaths, and to temporarily forget the secrets they nurtured in the Willow household. 

He ran over to the soldier and they locked in an embrace. Their open mouths met and their tongues danced. 

“You’ve been eating that green cheese again,” the soldier said, when they finally came up for air. His name was Ori, but Joe referred to him as Passionfruit. At nineteen years, he was four years older than Joe, and considerably taller. Like all of the Red Shadows, he was selected for his physique. He towered over Joe, and his embrace was bearlike. Sometimes he squeezed too tight, and Joe could barely breathe. They met by accident in the great chamber, and snatched quick glances at each other. Their schedules barely overlapped, since the soldier moved between solar and night duty, and was occasionally called out on military maneuvers. The soldier did not know his letters, so Joe could not leave written notes in their secret alcove. Instead,  he devised a coding system the two of them could share. 

“It was horrible what happened today,” Joe said with a shiver. 

“Yes, I could barely restrain myself when your father put that birch rod to you,” Ori said.

“Not that, silly. The burning. Was he a friend of yours?” Joe said with a shudder.

“Yes, of sorts. Devlin wasn’t a bad sport. But there is a pot of gild at the end of this here rainbow. You see, Devlin saw us touching hands the other day in the great chamber. I warned you about taking risks like that. That’s why he looked at you kind of funny in the assachamber and the Dux picked up on it, like. Well, the rest is herstory.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“What?”

“That the Dux can give orders like that and everyone obeys the command without so much as a by your leave.”

Ori grabbed hold of Joe’s arms and tightened his grip. “Don’t you ever say a word against the Dux, do you hear?” he growled.

“S-stop. You’re hurting me,” Joe whimpered.

Ori relaxed his grip. “These walls have ears. Don’t even mention her name, do you hear? Never. What’s done is done. We can’t change it. Live and forget, I say. Now come here, and give us another kiss before the second whistle blows.”