6. A Job for Clones

A proper night’s sleep changed more than Alistair expected.

When Alistair opened his eyes, for one confused moment he thought he had made some terrible mistake. The ceiling above him was plain wood instead of rough boards blackened by years of slave use. No kick struck the bedframe. No shout ordered him up. The room was quiet.

Then the stiffness in his legs returned all at once, and memory followed it.

He was in Verevain, inside the inn, lying on the bed he had paid too much for.

He lay still a little longer, staring upward while his body argued against movement. The soreness in his legs was unlike the pain he knew best. He was used to exhaustion from hauling, digging, carrying, and endless repetitive labor, but running had dragged muscles into use that years of controlled work had not.

He almost closed his eyes again, and the temptation lingered.

Minutes could turn into an hour if he let them, and an hour could become hunger, wasted light, and a day with nowhere to sleep. He only had five shards left, not enough for another room.

That forced him to sit up.

The movement pulled a grimace from him. He waited for the dizziness to settle, then washed his face with the water left in the bucket and did what he could with his hair and clothes. The result was poor, but better than the night before. He still looked thin, worn, and too close to desperate. One day of food and sleep had not been enough to erase slavery from his face.

The thought embarrassed him more than he wanted to admit.

Yesterday, after gaining his class and escaping the Company, it had been easy to feel changed. Powerful, even. This morning reminded him of something less pleasant. The power hidden inside him did not change what other people saw at first glance. To them, he was still a ragged boy with borrowed clothes and hollow cheeks.

He hated how much that still mattered.

He used the feeling to force himself fully upright.

Work had to come next.

Not just any work. A job that paid quickly, preferably by the day, and one where no one would question him for wanting to be left alone. More than that, he wanted work that might also earn him experience. If his clones could level through useful labor, then every hour counted twice.

Once he had made the decision, he went downstairs.

The innkeeper was at the counter, counting something on a small slate with the same sharp attention she gave everything else. She looked up when he approached, took in his face, and said, “You look less dead.”

Alistair hesitated. “Thank you.”

She snorted softly, as if she had not intended kindness and disliked that he had treated it as kindness.

He stood there another second, then asked, “Is there a place that hires day labor?”

“There are several,” she said. “Depends what kind.”

“Whatever pays.”

That made her pause, actually considering the answer.

“For ordinary porter work, the port would be better,” she said. “But if you want same-day arrangements in town, try the steward’s office. Near the wayhouse. They keep public works lists and… difficult contracts.”

“Thank you.”

She waved one hand as if to get him out of her doorway faster.

The morning streets of Verevain were already busy. Carts rolled past on thick wheels and shop shutters opened. Alistair kept his pace steady, trying to look as though he knew where he was going.

The steward’s office was easier to find than he expected. The building sat near a square used for notices and contracts. It was smaller than the title suggested. For some reason, he had imagined something grander. Instead, it was a modest place with plain stone walls, a narrow front, and two windows that looked as though they had not been cleaned properly in months.

Inside, a young clerk stood behind a front counter with the posture of a man who had made peace with boredom years ago. He was at least ten years older than Alistair.

The clerk looked up once, saw Alistair, and immediately flicked his fingers in dismissal.

“Verevain doesn’t do charity.”

The words hit hard. Anger rose first, then embarrassment extinguished it just as quickly. Of course the man saw only that. A thin boy in bad clothes asking for help. One clean night did not hide the marks of long misery, and the borrowed sleeves only solved one problem.

Alistair took a slow breath.

“I’m not asking for charity,” he said.

The clerk gave him a flat look that suggested he did not care about the distinction.

“I’m looking for work.”

The answer shifted the clerk’s attention, though only a little.

“What kind?”

“The kind other people don’t want.”

The clerk straightened. Not completely, but enough to show that he was taking it more seriously.

His eyes moved over Alistair again, this time with new interest. “You mean hauling? Cleaning? Yard work?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Alistair kept his voice even. “I mean the kind that pays by the day, and the kind people would usually refuse.”

His reasoning was simple. Such jobs should not gather a crowd and should pay more. That was exactly what he needed: a chance to use clones without being seen and enough shards to survive.

For the first time, the clerk looked properly awake.

He studied Alistair for another moment, then said, “Wait here.”

He disappeared through a side door and was gone long enough that Alistair began to suspect he had been dismissed. Then the clerk returned, no longer lazy, though not much warmer.

“Come on,” he said. “Steward’s inside.”

The office beyond was crowded with paper. Stacks leaned across the desk, gathered on chairs, spread over shelves, and threatened to slide from the windowsill. Behind the largest of them sat a thin old man with silver hair, narrow shoulders, and round spectacles that seemed determined to slip down his nose no matter how often he nudged them back.

He did not look up at first.

“Um,” he said absently.

The clerk cleared his throat. “The boy for the refused work.”

That got the steward’s attention. His head came up. His eyes found Alistair. Then those tired old eyes narrowed so quickly that the change was almost unsettling.

“The refused work?” he repeated. “You?”

“Yes, sir.”

The steward leaned back and studied him more openly than was polite. Alistair explained what kind of work he was searching for, but the steward still looked unconvinced.

“You are looking for difficult tasks that other people won’t take?” he asked. “And you want daily payment?”

“Yes.”

The old man narrowed his eyes. “Really.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are not playing a joke on this office?”

“No.”

“Because wasting town resources is an infraction,” the steward said. “Lying to a town officer is also an infraction. And if I send a clerk to show you a site, and you vanish, then I will be annoyed. I dislike being annoyed.”

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The words were stern, but the tone beneath them was almost hopeful.

“I’m not joking,” Alistair said.

The steward folded his hands. “Name?”

“Alistair.”

“Origin?”

The question came so naturally that for a second he nearly answered truthfully.

He stopped himself in time.

“A distant island,” he said. “From another voidflow route.”

That earned him a brief, unreadable glance.

The steward tapped one finger against the desk, then said, “I am Steward Lucien. And since you seem intent on asking for the worst work in town, I will save us both time. There are a few neglected jobs. Mostly cleaning or repairing in undesirable locations. But the most pressing problem is the waste channels.”

When Alistair showed no recognition, Lucien continued immediately.

“Verevain grew faster than the old underground lines were built to handle. Several sections collapsed. Others clogged. Now sewage backs into cellar drains, leaks into alleys, and in the lower stretches it spills during heavy use.” His mouth tightened. “The smell is the most obvious issue, but disease is the serious one.”

Alistair said nothing.

Lucien pushed on. “No one wants the contract. Local unclassed teens refuse it unless paid too much. Most skilled class holders think it is beneath them. The tunnels are cramped, unstable, foul, and not always safe to breathe for long. If it gets worse, I will have half the district screaming at this office by week’s end.”

He stopped there, perhaps expecting disgust. But Alistair remained calm. His clones could do it, and people would certainly not hang around sewage.

“What does it pay?” he asked.

Lucien watched him carefully, as if waiting for the point where the boy would finally come to his senses and back away.

“Thirty a day,” he said. “For up to seven days. Or two hundred total if someone takes responsibility for the whole mess.”

Alistair almost accepted immediately.

The two-hundred-shard contract was better. Much better, if he could finish fast. But there was a problem. He had five shards left. That was not enough to survive until the work was finished, no matter how efficient he became.

“I can take it,” he said.

The clerk, still standing near the door, let out a short sound of disbelief.