“Oh, um, hello, Eldest,” he tells Elder, wiping his bloody hands on the stained smock in front of him.

Elder doesn’t bother telling the man that he prefers to be called Elder. “Where are your other workers?”

The men glance nervously at each other. The first turns back to the cow he’s butchering, sawing away at a leg bone with a hacksaw. The other man stands at his counter, unsure of what to do. “They—well—they didn’t come in today.”

“Why not?”

The man shrugs. “We told them yesterday we would need help, that Bronsen was bringing in at least three head, but . . .”

“But they didn’t come in.”

The man nods.

“Why didn’t you do something about it?”

He keeps wiping his hands on his smock, but they’re as clean as they’re going to get against that dirty thing. “It’s . . . it’s, uh . . . it’s not our place.”

“Not your place to do what?”

“To tell others to come to work.”

Elder’s jaw clenches. He leaves, letting the bell at the door say his farewell.

He storms down the street, and his scowl wards off any further greetings from those who pass us. “Eldest never had these problems,” he growls at me in an undertone. “People just not working. Lazy. He never had to deal with that. People obeyed him, and they didn’t dare miss work. Eldest made sure that everything on this ship ran smoothly.”

“Eldest didn’t do that,” I say. My words startle Elder enough that he stops in his tracks. “He didn’t,” I insist. “Phydus did.”

Elder smirks, and some of the anger in him fades. We pass a group of spinners sitting on the sidewalks, chatting merrily with each other as the threads slide through their fingers. In the next block, though, the buildings that house the looms are dark and quiet, no weavers in sight. Elder glowers at it as he leads me to an iron staircase set against the side of a series of brightly painted trailers stacked on top of the working area.

“The yellow one,” Elder says, pointing to a trailer three flights up. “That’s where Harley used to live.”

I follow Elder up the steps. The higher we go, the more paint splatters there are on the railings and steps. Even here, Harley has left his mark. Elder hesitates before knocking, his fist poised over an aqua blue smear of dried paint.

No answer.

He knocks again.

“Maybe they’re not here?” I ask. “It is the middle of the day.”

When no one answers on his third knock, Elder pushes the door open.

Chapter 23

23

ELDER