Tending Cinder Bees at Dawn

Jory woke before the first heat siren and sat up in the narrow loft above the hive room. The floor still held last night's warmth, which meant the district lines had not failed yet, though that could change by noon if the city got greedy. Below him, the cinder bees stirred in their iron-framed boxes, each colony kept behind glass-black mesh and clay vents so the wax would not cool too fast. Their work kept the pipes sealed, the walls dry, and half the block from freezing when the furnaces dipped.

He pulled on his gloves, crossed to the nearest stack, and slid out the feeder tray. The bees answered with a low, rough buzz that Jory felt through the wood more than he heard. He tipped the tray, studied the brood pattern, and frowned. Too many gaps. Too many sluggish wings. Bram, already awake and crouched by the stove, noticed his face at once.

— Do not tell me the bees have become dramatic again, Bram said, tightening a cracked feeder ring with a pair of pliers. I am too old for theater before breakfast.

— They are not dramatic. They are starving.

— Same family, different accent.

Jory snorted despite himself. Bram had the kind of humor that arrived dry and stayed dry, which was useful in a city that treated warmth like a private luxury. He carried a bowl of millet porridge to the table and set it beside a chipped tin cup of chicory broth. Outside, the alley was already awake: a laundry cart squealed over the stones, someone argued over steam hours, and a boy in a patched coat ran past with a loaf wrapped in paper thick enough to survive a furnace blast.

Jory fed the nearest colony a spoon of ash syrup and watched the queen's attendants crowd the frame. One tray in the back stack sat nearly empty. He tapped the side of the box, leaned close, and felt the colony answer in a thin, strained pulse. Not dead. Not yet. But hungry enough to make the whole room feel smaller.

Anwen arrived with the morning trade light still clinging to her coat, her boots dusted with rail soot and red grit from the market district. She shut the hatch behind her, set a flat trade slate on the table, and glanced at the hive stacks with the expression of someone checking whether a bad day had already started without her permission.

— You look as though you have already been insulted by your own business, Jory said.

— I have been insulted by everyone else's, which is worse. She rubbed her hands together for the heat and nodded at the slate. The eastern block lost pressure again. Three pipe bands are leaking wax seal and the buyers want another delivery by dusk.

— We cannot give another delivery by dusk.

— The buyers did not ask what we can give.

Jory set down the feeder spoon harder than he meant to. The bees in the nearest box rippled in answer, annoyed at the sharp sound. Anwen did not flinch. She rarely did. That was part of why she survived the market office, where people smiled with one mouth and sharpened knives with the other.

— If we strip the colony now, Jory said, the queen will lag by next cycle.

— If we do not sell, we lose the allotment and the block shivers through the first cold surge. She looked past him at the frames, then back at his face. You always talk as if tomorrow is a hobby. We have to make choices that reach the floor, not the sky.

— The floor is exactly where the bees will be if you drain them dry.

Anwen dragged a hand through her dark hair and exhaled through her nose. One of the workers had crawled up her cuff and was exploring the seam of her sleeve with indecent confidence. She looked down at it and muttered, almost kindly, — If you are planning to rob me, at least do it with manners.

Bram, from the stove, said without looking up, — They prefer competence to manners.

That, for some reason, made Anwen laugh once, brief and unwilling. Then the laugh was gone, replaced by the old hard line in her mouth. She tapped the slate. The buyer comes at midday. Daven himself. If you have another plan, now would be a fine time to stop keeping it in your head.