Day Boy by Trent Jamieson

kiss. The sound makes me stop, and Dain with me. It’s pure,
and reaching to the ceiling of the mountain. There may not be stars above us, but
this song has stars in it. And all at once I am crying. Like some baby, sniffling
and snuffling.
    ‘Beautiful. Beautiful,’ Dain says.
    ‘Never heard its like,’ I say.
    ‘Well, now you have, boy. And I am glad I could share it with you. That’s the Luminance’s
Choir, the Sun church’s choir, all Crèche-raised boys. Girls too. There’s heaven
in it. The Orchestral Hall is that building nearest the temple.
    ‘They adore their sounds here,’ Dain says, like he isn’t one of them. ‘Sun, Sea,
Song, that’s the core of my kind. The things lost, and the things that remind us.’
    ‘And what’s it remind you of?’ I ask him, all blink and tear.
    ‘That we’re but a Sunrise from obliteration. There’s something gorgeous in the ruination
of us all.’
    ‘Not in any hurry for ruination,’ I mumble.
    Dain squeezes my hand. ‘Give it time.’
    It’s a bit of walking before I can see more than splodges, and by then we’re almost
at the Tower.
    And I catch sight of the cages, rows of them, extending from the Tower of Law, down
East Street, and West. And within them are folk, sickly-looking folk, three to a
cage. And in some of them there are others with them. Feeding.
    ‘Who are these?’
    ‘Vagrants. Criminals. Food. Life isn’t easy here.’ Dain looks to me, drops to his
knee. ‘Some of my kind have taken to calling you the Feast. I do not think it appropriate.’
    ‘But it’s what we are, isn’t it?’
    Dain doesn’t answer. And then he doesn’t have time. There’s the smash of a fallen
tile. And the sound of angry talk. Men drop from an overhanging roof like possums
grown light and deadly.
    The first swings out at me. And Dain is in the way. I see the knife go in, but it
doesn’t go out. Dain holds it there. His hands reach out, grip his attacker by the
neck, and he squeezes. Bone cracks, gristle snaps, the fellow drops and Dain is already
turning, pulling the knife from him; there’s a puff of blood dark and putrid. He
runs the blade under the second one’s neck, draws a spray of true blood out. The
black shape topples.
    There’s another one dropping, and Dain, hardly even looking, strikes him in the head
with his cane. He hits the ground and stays there.
    It’s over so fast.
    There’s a distant whistle blowing.
    ‘Are you all right?’ Dain says.
    ‘Yes. What about you?’
    Dain coughs, lays a heavy hand on me. ‘I’m wounded, true, but I’ve suffered greater
hurts.’
    The constables find us there in that tangle of bodies, all embraced by ruination,
my Master leaning on me like he is an old man.
    They hesitate, and Dain raises a hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he says. And then he slumps
against me.
    ‘Master’s been stabbed,’ I say.
    ‘Does he need care?’ The senior—well, the best-dressed—constable says.
    ‘Do you?’ I whisper.
    Dain grimaces. ‘Already the wounds are healing,’ he says nice and low. ‘Weakness
cannot be seen.’
    ‘I’ll see to him,’ I say. ‘You gentlemen see to this.’
    Dain leans on my arm. Guides me down one street, then another.
    ‘Down this alley, boy,’ he says, and he’s already standing taller; taking the lead.
    There’s a Master waiting at the heavy door, and he does something that I’ve never
seen before. He bends low, a true genuflection.
    ‘Master Dain,’ he says. ‘A pleasure, an honest pleasure.’
    (‘Boy,’ Dain whispers. ‘Trust least those that bow the deepest. There’s no effort
to be had in bending the back, and even the slightest of us has teeth.’)
    ‘Up with you, Master Dargel,’ Dain says. ‘Up with you quick.’
    Master Dargel lifts his head, there’s a touch of umbrage in his eyes.
    Dain laughs. ‘Oh, don’t play hurt, my dear friend. Don’t play hurt.’
    Dargel sniffs. ‘There is blood on you.’
    ‘An altercation, nothing more.’
    ‘There’s always an