Birth of a Killer Read Free Page B

they’d have to go to bed early to hide their naked bodies from Larten’s jeering brothers and sisters.
    Larten’s father hadn’t wanted to send the boys to the factory. He hated the place as much as they did, even though he’d escaped and now labored elsewhere. He had managed to find work in other areas for the older children, but jobs were scarce when it came time for Larten and Vur to earn a living. The silk factory had recently won a lucrative contract, and Traz was offering halfway decent wages. There was nowhere else for the unlucky pair to go.
    Larten had to keep the fire beneath his vat at a constant heat. As soon as he felt the temperature of the water dropping, he fed the flames with an armful of logs from a mound at the back of the room.
    Across from him, Vur finished dunking another batch of cocoons, then set off at a jog for the pit outback. Traz reluctantly accepted the need for toilet breaks, but if he caught you walking instead of running, you were guaranteed a whipping.
    Larten grinned. Vur had a weak bladder, and most days he had to go to the pit three times to Larten’s once. Vur tried drinking less, but it made no difference. Traz had beaten him in the early days, when he thought the boy was making excuses. But eventually he realized that Vur’s complaint was genuine, and though he still cuffed Vur occasionally, he let the wretch go as often as he needed to.
    Vur looked worried when he returned this time.
    “What’s wrong?” Larten whispered.
    “One of the owners was with Traz,” Vur panted. “They were on their way to inspect the room of baby worms.”
    Word spread and everyone upped the tempo. It was bad news whenever one of the owners came to visit. Traz got nervous in the presence of his employers. He would meekly lead his boss around, a false smile plastered in place, sweating like a pig. As soon as the visitor departed, Traz would take a few swigs from a bottle of rum that he kept in his office, then storm furiously through the factory, finding fault wherever he looked.
    They were hard days when Traz was on thewarpath. No matter what you did, he could turn on you. Even the most skillful workers on the looms–normally the best-treated in the factory–had suffered lashings at times like this.
    Larten prayed while he worked, begging a variety of gods to keep Traz away from their vats. Though Larten wasn’t religious, he figured there was no harm in covering all the angles when trouble was in the air.
    They heard a roar, and every child lowered their head and dunked cocoons as fast as they could. The problem was, they had to leave the cocoons in the water until they had softened properly. If Traz found hard cocoons in their baskets, it would be far worse than if he thought they were going slowly.
    Traz entered like a bear, growling and glaring, hoping someone would glance up at him. But all the children stared fixedly into their vats. He was pleased to see that most of them were trembling. That sapped some of the fire from his rage, but he needed to hand out three or four more beatings before he’d really start to calm down.
    A girl lost her grip on a couple of cocoons as Traz was passing, and they bobbed to the surface. He was on her like a hawk. “Keep them down!” he bellowed, swatting the back of her head. She winced and drovethe cocoons to the base of the vat, soaking the sleeves of her dress.
    “Sorry, sir,” the girl gasped.
    Traz grabbed her hair–she was new to the team and had made the mistake of not cutting it short–and jerked her face up to his. “If you ever do that again,” he snarled, “I’ll bite off your nose.”
    It would have been funny if anyone else had made such a ludicrous threat. But Traz had bitten off more than one nose in his time–a good number of ears too–and they all knew that he meant it. Nobody snickered.
    Traz released the girl. He wasn’t interested in newcomers. He knew the younger children were terrified of him and probably dreamed about