Borrowed Levels

Chapter 17: House Merrow

Kessin's letter was addressed, in his sharp, careful handwriting, to Matron Odalys Merrow, House Merrow, the Counting Terrace.

The Counting Terrace was the richest district in Calloway. It sat on a long stone ridge above the harbor, lined with banks and trading houses whose doors were taller than most homes in the Weavers' quarter. Ren and Dara walked up in borrowed coats, with the letter in an oilskin pouch. Hesk and Pip stayed with Ilyra.

The doorman looked at the seal on the letter, and his face changed.

Matron Odalys Merrow received them in a sunlit room full of glass cases and brass scales. She was about sixty, thin and upright, with iron-gray hair braided tight and eyes like cut slate. She read Kessin's letter twice, and then set it down.

"The Aldous boy," she said. "I haven't heard from his father in ten years."

"They say you owed him a favor," said Dara.

"I owed his father a favor. The son I've never met." She folded her hands. "What does the son want from me?"

"Shelter," said Ren. "And information."

"Both are expensive here."

"Then I'd like to know the price."

The Matron studied him for a long moment. She had the look of a woman who had been lied to by experts for forty years.

"You carry a Ledger," she said quietly.

Ren didn't move. Dara's hand slid toward her knife.

"Relax," said Odalys. "If I wanted to sell you to the Treasury, I would have called the Auditors before you reached my door. I was warned about you three days ago by a woman in a gray-blue robe."

"Sable Marrow," said Dara slowly.

"No relation, regrettably." The Matron stood. "Come. I will show you what I am willing to tell you. After that, you may decide whether to trust me."

She led them down a back stair into the House's counting rooms.

It was the largest room Ren had ever seen. Clerks worked at long tables beneath glass lamps, writing in ledgers and sealing slips with blue wax. At the far end, a brass cage gate held back a line of people waiting to be called. They were poor. Ren could tell by their clothes, patched and faded, and by the way they held their hands, clenched tight against their chests.

"This is the Weighing Floor," said Odalys. "Every house has one. People who cannot afford rent, or medicine, or bread, come here to sell days."

"Sell," Ren repeated.

"A week for a doctor. A month for a winter coat. The Treasury certifies the transfer, and the days go into the Reserve. The buyer receives a Note. The seller walks out a little lighter." Her voice stayed flat. "It is called an honest exchange."

A clerk called a name. A girl about Pip's age stepped forward. She could not have been more than fourteen, holding a thin little brother by the hand. A rubber stamp thudded down on a form. A silver coin changed hands.

"What did she sell?" Ren asked. His mouth was dry.

"Two weeks." Odalys did not look away. "Her brother has a lung fever. The medicine costs fourteen days."

Ren felt Dara's hand close around his arm. He realized he was shaking.

"It's the same," he said. "It's the Bank all over again. It's exactly the same, just with a better face on it."

"You are only half right," said Odalys. "The Bank hid its hunger. The Treasurer advertises it. That makes the people feel they have chosen, so they do not rise up. Every citizen of Calloway is born with a hundred thousand days, and every one of them believes they are rich."

"And where do the days go?" Dara asked. "The ones that get sold?"

The Matron lowered her voice. "Down. The Treasury runs a shaft from every counting house into the cliffs beneath the city. I have never been allowed to see where it ends. But I know my House sends two thousand years of life into it every month."

Two thousand years.

Ren stared at the line of people shuffling toward the brass gate and tried to breathe.

"Why tell us?" he asked at last. "You're one of the richest people in this city."

"Because my son was a champion," said Odalys, and for the first time her voice shook. "Eight years ago, in the Treasurer's tournament. He lost a fight and the Treasury called it a debt. They took forty years from him in a week. He was thirty-one. He died in my arms looking like an old man."

Nobody spoke.

"I can hide your Lender in my cellar," she said finally. "For as long as you need. But I want the Treasurer to learn what it costs to put a price on everything."

Ren looked down at the Ledger's pale glow in the corner of his eye.

"That," he said, "I can do."