The Place
The Drowned Warrens is a vast submerged cave network in a drowned bay, and the tide is the whole of the place, because a city that breathes with the tide is a city that has been grown, and the growing is the law. The network runs ten kilometers down the cliff-base of the bay, and the ten kilometers is the measure the water goblins trust, because a cave that has been counted is a cave that has been lashed, and the lashing is the keeping. The chambers are joined by arches that rise to the waterline, and the arches are the measure of the city, because when the tide goes out the city breathes, and the breathing is the rite, and the rite is the word. The water of the bay is a dark blue-green, a green that is more kelp than color, and the green is the color of the city, which is to say it is a color you can see in the low tide and not in the high. The kelp of the rafts is a pale yellow-green that darkens to black at the depth, and the darkening is the season, and the season is the rite. The sky over the bay is a flat grey, the color of the cliff when the rain is near, and the rain is near, and the near is the calendar. It smells of salt and growing kelp, a smell that is the city and is also the tide, and the one sound under the water is the creak, a slow low wood-on-kelp from the center of the network that is the tide being read as a word, and the word is the city, and the city is the breath. There is no landmark the way a bay has a landmark, but there is one: the First Arch, the oldest arch at the heart of the network, where the spring vents rise, and the arch is the door, and the door is the creak. What makes the Drowned Warrens itself is the breath: the city lives the way the tide lives, and the living is the city, and the city is the word, and the word is the end.
How They Live
The Water Goblins build kelp-raft dwellings lashed to the arches, growing the kelp rather than cutting it, so the city slowly grows downward, and a raft is grown one arch at a time, because an arch is the season and an arch is the calendar. The rafts are low and round, a pale kelp over a darker lash, and the pale is the roof and the darker is the law, and the law is the tide. Light comes from the city — phosphorescent algae farmed in glass jars along the walkways, giving the city a cold blue glow, and the glow is the daylight, and the daylight is the kept. Food is the reef itself: the reef-fish, the kelp-sugar, the small game of the cliff, and the salt the traders leave at the tide line, and the fish is the staple, because the fish is the city, and the city is the breath. Water is everywhere, but the clean kind is rationed from the spring vents at the network's heart, and the rationing is the craft and the craft is the rank, and the vents are the cold threads at the First Arch, and the threads are the kept. Heat is the kelp in the season of the cold, and the season is the year, and the water goblins have stopped asking the bay for more. They never store air — the bladders do that — and the not-storing is the law, because the bladder is the city and the city is the breath. When a war comes, they simply flood the upper arches, and the visitors find out what a held breath is worth, and the flooding is the defense, and the defense is the sentence, and the sentence is the end. The day is measured by the tide, which is also the calendar, because the bay is the only clock the city needs, and the clock does not lie about the breath. Every water goblin that hatches must pass the First Arch on one full low tide before the city will call it one of its own, and the passing is the naming, and the naming is the only thing the tide ever gives back.
People
Home of the Water Goblins, whose raft-clans are counted by arch. Twelve arches at the last count, and the count is kept by the tide-wards, which is to say the count is as reliable as the creak, which is to say it is reliable until the tide breaks. The tide-wards lead, and rank is decided by the growing, because a ward who grows a raft the city has forgotten is the ward the arch trusts. Nothing that cannot hold its breath is welcome, and the not-holding is not an insult, because the city has a word, and the word has a breath, and the breath has an end. A surface trader who once watched the city from the cliff called it a place that grows its promises downward, and the calling was the truest thing he said and the thing the city paid the least attention to.
In Stories
A city that is only a city when the tide is low. The Forgotten have not entered the network, and the not-entering is the decision, and the decision is the longest one the guild has made. Uaellaen heard the creak once, from the cliff, at the hour of the low tide, and the hearing was the breath, and the breath was the only thing that lasted.