The Dial Offered Under Awnings

Seven thousand five hundred and some souls pressed onto the Sallow Cross stage, and their breath hung over the rope like a second, warmer fog. Ilse Harrow stood under the Ferry Inn’s awning with a cup of broth bought in Glare coin and watched House Via’s catch climb the Chain. Near-free passage meant the crowd could hardly believe its luck, and the Houses behind the lamps were left to burn on whatever the Lantern still gave.

A House runner came in out of the wet to warm her hands. Her name was Dorrit, and there was ink to the elbows of her coat. Ilse set a card on the table beside her and a lamp no bigger than a fist. ‘It dims when you tell it to,’ she said. ‘In a bad season you keep the wick low, and nobody’s lamps go out.’

Dorrit turned the little dial once and watched the flame sink. ‘And who turns it?’

‘Whoever keeps the lamp,’ Ilse said. ‘That’s you.’

It was a fair answer, and she knew it was a clever one. Dorrit pocketed the card without thanking her. Out on the stage a child coughed, the rope creaked against its posts, and the ferry bell rang for the next crossing. Ilse finished her broth and thought about the mother on the shore who would be glad of cheap passage tonight, and about the Houses that would have to keep a dying god alive on the other side of it.