Pile of Bones by Bailey Cunningham

was ignoring them, but like a sore throat or dirty thought, he could push them away if he concentrated. Eventually, they’d grow bored and whisper to someone else. Why did they even talk to him? What could a nemo possibly have to offer? Maybe they just liked the sound of his voice.
    You have a dangerous talent.
The salamander had whispered it, flicking her tongue in the gnomo’s ear. But what had she meant? If his talent was so dangerous, why was he wearing patched boots and a soiled tunica? Nobody saw him as dangerous. Yet the salamander had remembered him. Lares didn’t usually do that.
    He met them at the clepsydra. Morgan was not impressed by the rain. Her dark hair was wilting. Babieca stuck his tongue out to catch the drops.
    “I can’t carry a bow in this weather,” she said miserably. “I had to leave it in the alley. I feel naked without it.”
    “You’ve got your hunting knife,” Babieca replied. “I’ve got my short sword, and Roldan has the lupo’s dagger. We’ll be fine.”
    “He’s not a lupo,” Roldan said. “He’s a meretrix.”
    “They both mean
whore
, don’t they?”
    Morgan gave him an odd look. “I hardly think you can take the moral high ground. You’re a trovador without a gens. A meretrix commands respect.”
    “You can’t fuck your way to respectability.”
    “You’re no stranger to the basia. If you have no respect for the people who work there, why do you go?”
    “It passes the time.”
    “You’re being irrational,” Roldan said.
    Babieca turned to him. “Why?”
    “You share a side. The meretrices belong to the night gens, and you belong to the day. Same side, different dice. If you ever decide to roll the night die—”
    “I’d rather be a fur.”
    “Even so, it’s more likely that you’ll—”
    “Don’t bother,” Morgan interjected. “He’s getting sulky. Let’s just go.”
    “Where? We’ve got hours to kill before we can visit the basia.” Roldan could feel the weight of the knife. He wanted to be rid of it. “I suppose we could visit the Seven Sages and try to win back some of our lost money.”
    “I have a better idea,” Babieca said. “Let’s try a different caupona.”
    The Brass Gear was on the edge of the Subura, although still technically in Vici Secreta. It was one of the few cauponae in the scholars’ quarter, save for the infamous undercroft of the lyceum, whose existence had never wholly been confirmed. The lyceum itself was a grand building, fronted in pale blue marble, whose cupola reflected the sun like a brass helmet. Roldan would have given anything to wander among the tabularia, sampling scrolls and books with freshly pumiced covers, but only spadones and artifices had access to the building, along with a few other high-ranking citizens.
    The Gens of Spadones controlled the circulation of documents in Anfractus, while the artifices spent most of their time repairing old machinae. They also looked after the fountains, the aqueduct, and the great cloaca, which requiredconstant maintenance. Although few liked to admit it, the city functioned only because of the work of eunuchs and builders. Without them, Anfractus would crumble into piles of rusty cogs and mildewed parchment.
    They entered the caupona, whose doors were studded with spare parts. It was surprisingly bright on the inside—dozens of lamps hung next to polished brass discs, which scattered a warm glow over everything. There were also plenty of glass lenses connected to smaller lamps, which provided enough light to read by. Many of the customers barely paid attention to their drinks. Instead, they tinkered with machinae of every sort. There were cabinets on wheels, made of embossed ivory, with compartments that slid open and closed. Miniature fountains with preening doves attached to cylinders. Wheels of Fortuna that shrieked as they spun endlessly on golden pins. The artifices squinted through their lamp-lit lenses, consulting wax tablets covered in spidery