Morning. Day thirty-eight. Light comes gray and cold like always.
Del wakes to settlement sounds. Usual morning rhythm—coughing, pissing, someone crying quiet, someone already arguing about nothing.
His body worse. Rib grinding each breath. Vision blurring more. Cut on palm hot. Rot spreading. Red lines running up forearm. Poison in blood.
Should be dead. Body giving borrowed time. Each day past what should be possible.
Doesn't question. Just: uses time while he has it.
Footsteps. Multiple. Different rhythms than yesterday.
Opens eye.
Five people. More than before. Word spreading faster.
They stop at boundary.
Woman in front. Older. Maybe fifty. Face lined deep. Eyes sharp.
"You're the one cleaning water."
Not question. Statement. Already confirmed before coming.
Del nods.
"How's it work?" Voice direct. No warm-up. "The cleaning. What do you do?"
"Ritual. Blood. Artifact piece. Time."
Her eyes narrow. "Artifact piece? You're using artifacts on water?"
"Small piece. Dead. Safe."
"Nothing artifact-touched is safe."
"Safer than poison-water."
She considers. Thinking. Running her own numbers.
"How much?"
"Two rations per container."
"That's—" Stops. Recalculates. "Two rations is what I spend on water for week. From merchants."
"Merchant water is poison too. Just: they lie better."
She doesn't deny. Can't. Everyone knows.
"If this doesn't work," she says. Voice hard. "If I pay and my water's still bad—"
"Then don't pay again."
"That's it? That's your promise?"
"That's reality."
She stares. Reading. Deciding.
Then: "Fine."
Sets container down.
But Del: "Where'd you get it? Which section?"
She blinks. Surprised by question. "Southern. The deep parts. Where the old under-city is."
Del nods. Makes note.
Four people behind her follow. One by one. Setting containers down.
Del asks each: "Where from?"
Answers:
"Western. The residential parts."
"Northern edge. Where the glow-spots are."
"Eastern. Near the old towers."
"Southern again. But upper. Not deep."
Five containers. Five locations.
The woman in front: "Tomorrow evening?"
"Yes."
"We'll be back. And if water's still bad—" Leaves threat unfinished.
They leave. Group. Safety in numbers.
Del looks at containers. Eight total now. Four from yesterday waiting to return. Four new plus woman's makes five new.
Wait—
Footsteps. Running. Fast.
Opens eye.
The woman. First customer. The one with six-year-old daughter.
Running through Silt Quarters where running means fleeing or chasing or desperate beyond reason.
Stops in front of Del. Breathing hard. Face flushed.
Her expression—
Not angry. Not grief.
Relief. Pure. Overwhelming.
"She's better," the woman gasps. Breathing hard. "My daughter. She's—fever broke. Kept water down. This morning asked for food. Real food. Not just—she's BETTER."
Crying now. Not sad. Relief crying.
The kind that happens when tension building for weeks releases all at once.
"I thought—I really thought she was dying. That I was watching her die. But the water—your water—it WORKED."
She pulls out another container. Plus two rations.
Hands shaking. Tears running down her face. Smiling and crying at same time. Emotion too big to contain.
"Please. I need more. To keep her—to make sure she stays—"
Del takes the rations. Takes container.
Asks: "Where'd you get this one?"
The woman blinks. Confused by question. "Same place. The well. Southern sectors. Near the collapsed foundations."
Del nods.
The woman wipes her face. Trying to control herself. Failing. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I don't—I can't—"
Stops. Can't finish.
Just stands there. Crying. Smiling.
Then: "What's your name? I keep calling you 'the cleaner' in my head but—you have a name?"
"Del."
"Del," she repeats. "Thank you, Del. You saved my daughter. You saved her."
She leaves. Still crying. Half-running. Back to her daughter probably. To keep watching. Make sure improvement isn't temporary. Isn't false.
Del sits there.
Nine containers now. Eight new plus woman's second.
The woman's daughter lived. Got better. Six parts clean to four parts poison was enough. Barely. But enough.
His thumb traces ninth mark. Fresh. Sharp.
The woman's daughter lived.
The glow-water customer won't. The one with crystal-dust. Active artifact poison. He only used one part clean to nine parts poison. Not enough. Probably kills.
One life. One death probably. More coming.
The mark stays as is. Sharp. Waiting to be worn smooth.
He examines woman's new container. Opens it.
Same poison as before. Heavy rot-sick. Clay-dirt. Southern sectors.
But slightly different. Fresher somehow. She found new source probably. Different well. Trying to avoid the bad water.
Won't help. Whole area is poison. Different wells, same problem.
He dilutes it. Six parts clean, four parts poison. Same as before. Worked once.
Adds blood.
Sets it aside.
His reserve supply: two containers left. Down from three.
After these nine customers: maybe one, two containers clean water remaining.
Maybe one more day. Two if he goes very weak on ratios. Accepts more people die.
Then: nothing.
Then service ends.
But he has the map now. Almost complete.
Southern deep: under-city, old systems.
Southern upper: residential, clay-dirt.
Western residential: clean-chemical smell, old supplies maybe.
Northern edge: glow-spots, active artifacts, dangerous.
Eastern: towers, copper-wire.
Five major areas. Each one marked. Each one telling him where things are.
Enough to sell. Enough to climb.
He begins examining the new containers. One by one.
Southern deep container. Opens it.
Smell different. Not rot-sick. Different.
Stone-smell. Limestone. The particular kind from very deep. Underground water that's been sitting in rock for—years? Longer?
And metal. Not copper. Iron. Old iron. Rust-smell mixed with stone.
This tells him: deep water means old pipes down there. Iron pipes from before. Still there. Still corroding. Making water taste metal.
But iron pipes means: sealed systems maybe. Maintenance tunnels. Old city support infrastructure.
Places people haven't found because access is buried.
Worth knowing.
Western residential container.
Opens it.
Fresh rot-sick. Not old. Recent.
But underneath—
Chemical-smell. Faint. Like something trying to clean but failing.
He sniffs careful. Trying to identify.
Clean-chemical. The kind from before. For treating water. Making it safe.
Someone tried using old-world clean-chemical on this. Didn't work. Not enough or wrong kind or too old.
But clean-chemical means: storage somewhere. Old supplies. Medical maybe. The places that had clean-chemical before.
Western residential. Medical districts collapsed there.
Worth knowing.
Northern edge container.
Opens it.
Wrong immediately.
Not rot-smell. Different.
Clear water but wrong. Faint glow in dim light. Blue-green tint.
Artifact-poison. Active. The kind that kills fast. Not rot. Not small-things-growing. Artifact energy. The thing from before that shouldn't exist.
This is death-water. Different kind. Artifact-death not rot-death.
But tells him: active artifact site very close. Near enough to poison water source.
Northern edge. Research places. The ones that tried pushing artifact-integration. Failed catastrophically.
Very dangerous. Very valuable.
Worth knowing but worth dying trying.
Eastern container.
Opens it.
Moderate rot-sick. Workable.
Metal-smell underneath. Copper. Confirmed again.
Eastern sectors. Towers. Copper-wire. Artifact infrastructure.
Already knew this. Confirmation.
Southern upper container.
Opens it.
Mild rot-sick. Clay-dirt heavy.
Nothing else. Just organic rot and clay.
Southern upper. Residential. Nothing valuable.
Already knew this too.
Five containers examined. Map expanded. Details added.
He starts diluting.
Southern deep: seven parts clean, three parts poison. Should help.
Western residential: seven parts clean, three parts poison. Should help.
Northern edge—the glow-water: one part clean, nine parts poison. Won't help. Probably kills. But if he used more, it would glow obvious. People would know it's still death-water.
Customer dies probably. But information worth it.
Eastern: seven parts clean, three parts poison.
Southern upper: eight parts clean, two parts poison. Mild enough to go weak.
Woman's second container: six parts clean, four parts poison. Same as first.
He adds blood to all. Cut reopening like breathing now. Just: constant.
Blood drips. Container by container.
Water turns rust-colored. Ritual complete.
His reserve: none left. Used last container on these dilutions.
Zero clean water remaining.
Service ends after tomorrow. These nine customers are last.
---
Afternoon. Day thirty-eight.
Footsteps. Light. Careful.
Lira.
She sits without asking. Comfortable now.
"The woman came back," Lira says. "The one with daughter. Saw her. Crying. Smiling. Both."
"Daughter got better."
"So it worked. The cleaning actually worked."
"The mixing worked. The cleaning is just: show."
"But she doesn't know that."
"No."
Lira quiet moment. Hand in pocket. Touching metal piece probably.
"You saved her daughter's life," Lira says.
"I mixed clean water with poison-water. Her body did the rest."
"You knew it would help."
"Thought it might. Different thing."
"But it did. That has to—" Stops. Searching. "Doesn't that mean something? That you helped?"
Del looks at her. "Helped her daughter. Killing someone else's probably. The glow-water. Whoever drinks that won't survive."
Lira's expression shifts. "You know one's death-water?"
"Yes."
"And you're giving it anyway?"
"They're paying me for their poison-water. I'm giving back better than they had. Plus mixing. More than before."
"But not enough to—" She stops. Understanding. "You're going weak on the mix. To save your clean water. Even though it means—"
"Means some die. Yes."
Silence.
Lira's fingers moving on metal piece in pocket. Fast. Agitated.
"Woman's daughter lived," she says finally. "Doesn't that matter? One life saved?"
"Against how many deaths?"
"Don't know. How many?"
Del thinks. Calculates. "Three. Maybe four. Out of nine customers tomorrow. Three probably die from weak mixing or glow-water. One might survive weak mixing. Four uncertain. One confirmed better already."
"And you're fine with that? Three or four deaths for information about where artifacts are buried?"
Del doesn't answer immediately. His thumb finds the rock in his pocket. The ninth mark. Fresh still.
"The information gets me out," he says finally. "Merchants buy maps. Salvage bosses pay for knowing where things are before sending crews. Even overseers—they want to know which sections are worth working. Which aren't."
Lira's eyes narrow. "You're going to sell it. The map you're building."
"Yes."
"To who?"
"Whoever's buying. Procurement. Merchants passing through. Anyone who values knowing where copper-wire is. Where active artifacts hide. Where the sealed under-city sections might be."
He pauses. Thinking.
"Information like that—it's worth more than rations. Worth enough to buy passage maybe. Or get noticed. Sold up-chain instead of staying here."
Lira looks at him. Reading. "Up-chain where?"
"Anywhere. Merchant caravans. Artifact authentication work. Somewhere that isn't Dregs."
"So this whole thing—the service, the cleaning, all of it—it's just: gathering information to sell your way out."
"Yes."
"And the people who pay you? They're just—what? Sources you're mining?"
Del meets her eyes. Doesn't answer.
Lira's jaw tightens. "That's—" Searches for words. "That's colder than I thought. Even for you."
"It's practical."
"It's using people."
"Everyone uses everyone. I'm just—" He stops. Reconsiders. "I'm just honest about what I'm taking from them."
Silence stretches between them.
Lira's fingers still on the metal piece. The motion constant. Automatic.
Del notices the way her hand moves. The particular rhythm of it. Thumb across the surface, slight rotation, thumb back. Over and over. Like a prayer. Like breathing.
Her hair has fallen forward more now. That piece he keeps noticing. Covering part of her face. She hasn't pushed it back. Doesn't seem to notice it's there.
The evening light is fading faster. Her face half in shadow. Half in the last gray light. Those brown eyes darker now. Less gold. More—
He looks away.
Focuses on the containers.