by Jaine Fenn
“Some might call that coincidence.”
“I suppose some might.”
They shared a smirk. Then Min said, “Mam Gerisa spoke to me today.”
“About what?” As though she didn’t know.
“She says I’ll be leaving next week, probably on threeday.”
So soon! “Where are you going?”
“She won’t say. Maybe to the city,” she twirled a strand of chestnut hair which had escaped from her loose plait, “perhaps I’ll catch the eye of the duke.” She released the errant hair. “More likely I’ll end up on one of the farms we trade with.”
“But she won’t say which one? Probably scared I’ll follow you.”
“Don’t even think that!”
“Why not?”
“Whoever’s taking me in might not want you too.” She grinned. “Which would be their loss, of course.”
“Then we could run away together.”
“I can’t run anywhere in this state. And where would we go?”
“Wherever we want. It’s not like anyone would know we’re skykin.” Unbonded, they could pass for shadowkin.
“But they wouldn’t take us in. Not with the drought and all.”
“Maybe not.” Though they still got the odd shower due to being near the umbral, the farmers had less to trade and portion sizes in the refectory were getting smaller.
“The she-goat says wherever I end up, I’ll have to work to pay my way.”
“But you’re in no state to do heavy work.”
“I think she means afterwards.”
“Oh.” Dej didn’t like thinking about “afterwards”. “So who should I try, then? Cif was staring down my tunic again when I was weeding earlier.” According to the boys, Dej’s breasts were her best feature. Which just showed how stupid boys were. She’d fooled around a bit with a couple of them, and not been impressed.
“That talk about you getting knocked up too was a joke, remember?”
“I suppose.” It didn’t feel funny now.
“Is that a blackbird?”
It was, in the distance. Dej gave in. “I know that song,” she said, forcing a smile into her voice.
Min put a hand on her shoulder. “Care to sing it for me?”
“My pleasure.”
She knew all those possibilities – to follow Min, to run away with her, to get pregnant herself – weren’t practical, but the easy way Min had dismissed them made her feel hollow inside.
Chapter 5
“C-C-Countess?”
Rhia turned. The pair of guards Alharet had pressed upon her in the wake of the riot paused. She had avoided this not-so-chance encounter on the way to her weekly tête-à-tête with the duchess by taking a circuitous route through the palace corridors, but was unsurprised to find herself accosted now. No doubt he had been waiting for her. “Good evening, Lord Callorn.”
Viscount Callorn gestured to indicate the city beyond the palace walls. “A t-terrible business tonight.”
“Quite so.” Although now the militia had withdrawn and the rioters fled, the palace was back to its normal state of restrained bustle.
“And I h-heard there was some trouble at House Harlyn a couple of days ago.”
Of course he had. “Just a couple of ruffians, taking advantage of the rain-vigil.”
“I was glad to hear you were not h-hurt.”
His concern sounded genuine. Perhaps it was. She did not dislike Mercal Callorn. He was always polite, and never flinched from the sight of her masked face. In turn, she made the effort to ignore his bulbous features and faltering speech – unlike those at court who mocked his disadvantages. She felt some empathy with him. Which was, of course, what his House were bargaining on. “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”
“A-are you coming to the b-banquet?”
“Banquet. Oh yes, the farewell banquet for our visitors from Oras.”
“Tomorrow n-night, yes. Did you not g-get my invitation?”
“Ah. Yes, I did.” The formal invite had arrived three days ago but she had allowed the break-in to drive it from her mind. “I’m afraid that on this occasion, I must decline.” She injected some feminine weakness into her expression, considered reaching for her fan, then decided that would be excessive. The man was no fool. “These last few days have been somewhat trying.”
Viscount Callorn acknowledged this with a nod of his oversized head. “Of c-course. I understand. Next t-time, perhaps?”
Again, his disappointment sounded genuine. And probably was, given the chance she represented. “Perhaps.”
“Then I shall not detain you f-further. The blessings of the First on you, Countess.”
“And farewell to you too, Viscount.”
If she looked beyond his unattractive exterior, then Mercal Callorn was pleasant enough. And his physical disadvantages gave him a humility rare at court. He was rather pious, but not critical of her own weak faith. There were worse men to spend time with.
That was, however, no basis for a lifelong commitment.
Although the streets outside were quiet, scraps of torn clothing, discarded impromptu weapons and disturbing stains on the cobbles bore testament to recent events.
The townhouse had not escaped unscathed: one of the small glass-paned windows flanking the front door had been broken by a fleeing rioter. Fortunately, the servants had locked themselves inside. She was glad now of her instruction, after the break-in, to shutter the unglazed windows of the empty ground-floor rooms. Rhia was concerned when one of the cats could not be found, but the daft feline slunk in as she was taking her evening meal alone in the dining room.
After her meal, she went up to the observation platform above her study. She tried not to dwell on how much more fruitful her observations might be with a sightglass. Markave had ordered more doweling. She would rebuild the device.
Up here, at night, the air was as cool as it got. The night sky enveloped her, a comforting cloak sprinkled with diamonds, the familiar constellations like old friends: the Twins; the Huntsman; the Stepping Horse; the Corn-Stoop; the Merchant’s Scales; the Dancers.
In some ways earth and sky mirrored each other. At night, the stars were islands of light in the dark sky. During daylight, in the world below, the shadowlands were islands of shade in the bright and hostile skyland.
She had brought materials to sketch the Moons but found herself unable to concentrate. Perhaps she should get out of the house, maybe even attend the Orasian banquet. The visit from the neighbouring shadowland had been instigated by Alharet, part of her campaign to marry off her oldest daughter to a prince of Oras. Lady Yorisa would not come of age for six years, but Alharet planned ahead; her own marriage had been the result of diplomacy, and she intended to continue the tradition. And the duchess played the courtiers and nobles with such skill. It could be an entertaining evening.
But to attend the banquet after having given her apologies to the viscount would insult House Callorn. She had stalled them for a month, ever since receiving the marriage proposal. This invitation was the second Mercal Callorn had sent. She was lucky enough to have a prior engagement the first time but today’s excuse was just that: an excuse.
House Callorn was one of the poorest Houses – but also one of the largest, with many titled scions and numerous dependants. House Harlyn was rich, but small. With her brother absent, she was her House’s only representative on the Council of Nobles. The problem would not go away.
She had been planning to broach the subject of marriage with Etyan, having given up waiting for him to mention it – surely she had not been so immature at seventeen?
But then he disappeared.
Once he returned, took a wife and produced children, the future would be assured. But she had to acknowledge that he might not come back, even though the thought tightened in her chest like a grasping hand. Without a male relative, even if she managed to hold on to her position, once she died House Harlyn would be dissolved. The House’s assets would be
divided between the three powers: Church and State and Nobles. Francin would take his third, as Shen’s ruler; the other Houses would squabble over their share; but the Church had first call on any potential “items of religious significance”. They would find the natural enquirers’ papers. And some of what they read would scandalize them.
Money, property, even honour were fleeting. Knowledge was eternal. Those papers were her true legacy, held in trust for future generations. That they might be burned as heretical was unthinkable.
Her pen dropped from her hand. Rhia sighed, folded her notebook and stood. She climbed down the ladder, pulling the trapdoor closed after her.
When she lay down to rest, her internal vision was filled with disturbing images. Not those that had haunted her for the last two nights, those of Donkey-Face’s grin and Broken-Nose’s idiotic features, nor the ever-present memory of pale hair and bright blood in dirty water. Tonight she endured images of screaming men falling under hooves and staves.
Acknowledging that sleep would not come, she got up and read. The threat to the enquirers’ papers had prompted her to dig deep into the ironwood chest, to reacquaint herself with its riches. She continued her study of Engineer of Dolm’s speculation on the properties and uses of friction in malleable materials. More Father’s area than hers; he had been a tinkerer, while she lived up to the title she had inherited from him: Observer of Shen. Yet some of Engineer of Dolm’s writings gave her an idea.
“Can you explain what the binding on the tube will achieve, m’lady?”
Rhia suppressed a sigh at the master woodcarver’s question. She had endured interminable, fawning formalities before he would even look at her diagram, and whilst her drafting skills were not up to Father’s, surely the principle was simple enough.
When she did not answer at once the woodcarver’s gaze slid past her. Markave had accompanied her down to the middle city and now sat to one side. No doubt the guildmaster would prefer to talk to him.
Rhia resisted the urge to snap her fingers, and contented herself with clearing her throat to get the man’s attention. “If the two tubes are positioned one inside the other without the leather binding they will not be able to move, or else will move too freely.”
“And the device requires that they do move, but in a controlled fashion?”
“Yes. Movement is required to change the focus, you see?”
Rhia doubted he did, but she only needed him to obey, not understand.
“Perhaps if I could see the lenses, m’lady?”
While Rhia fanned herself against heat and frustration, Markave stepped forward and produced a package, then unwrapped it on the guildmaster’s desk.
The woodcarver leaned across and examined the lenses – without touching them, Rhia was pleased to note – then said, “I am not sure we can oblige your brother’s wishes.”
As though Etyan would wish for such a thing! Still, if this fusty old greybeard felt the need to believe so in order to take the commission, so be it. “As I have said, this is the requirement of House Harlyn.”
“We realize this is a complex project,” said Markave smoothly, “especially given the current difficulties in the supply of raw materials.”
Rhia felt her mouth twitch before cutting the smile dead. Well done, Markave. The door was open for the men to haggle without loss of face.
“Yes, indeed,” said the guildmaster, looking up from the lenses, “these are hard times. I hate to bring up the matter of payment, but such bespoke work would require the highest quality wood and the best craftsmen…” Rhia sat back and let them bargain.
Markave knew how much the sightglass meant to her but, eyes ever on the household finances, managed to beat the guildmaster down to somewhere between excessive and exorbitant.
As they left she murmured, “Thank you,” without looking his way. If Markave heard, he gave no sign. She would not expect otherwise.
Outside, the day was as hot as ever. Yesterday’s unrest had passed through the middle city without leaving a mark, and the airless afternoon streets were emptying for siesta.
Markave had suggested hiring a carriage but the most direct route to the woodcarvers’ was via streets too steep and narrow for wheeled vehicles, and sedan chairs would be unbearable in this heat. So they walked.
As they ascended the hill the thoroughfares widened and the houses became larger, drawing back from the cobbles. The stench of baked brick and warm sewerage abated but did not disappear. The city was like a great organism, thought Rhia, with different parts carrying out discrete functions, the interactions between them governed by rules. She had read a treatise on that once, who had written it? Meddler of Zekt, possibly. It was his style.
A letter waited for her at home, a simple note with the royal seal. The content was typical Francin: direct yet ambiguous.
Dear cousin, if your schedule permits, please visit tomorrow, at the thirteenth hour. I have news - F.
She had been dreading a summons from the duke for over two months. This looked like an invitation, but with Francin, you never knew.
Chapter 6
The body was not as fresh as his source had claimed. They never were.
Sadakh still paid what was asked, or rather had the servants pay it. The first time the agents who procured bodies for him had rowed their covered boat to this nondescript house they had tried to make conversation. They knew better now. Hand over the goods; take the money; leave. Sadakh, listening from a darkened room along the corridor, heard sounds of movement, followed by a closing door.
His people, a husband and wife of unquestionable loyalty and near-complete silence, carried the box into the back room between them, communicating with soft grunts. Sadakh waited while they placed the box on the scrubbed wooden table and prised the lid off.
The body had been packed with herbs, but the smell still made his eyes water. Ignoring the brief rise of nausea, he approached the table and examined his purchase.
It appeared one of the claims was true. Unlike the other three bodies he had operated on over the last four years – one of which had died of a deep belly-wound that had gone septic and two of which had telltale damage to the head, making them useless to him – this skykin was more or less intact. She had broken her neck, probably in a fall, an injury even an animus could not heal.
She’s quite young, observed his ghost.
It was hard to tell skykin age but Sadakh agreed. The dead woman had the air of youth.
He nodded at the manservant, whose name was Ritek. “Lift her, please,” he said, and stepped back. The last, infected body had been so decomposed that they had had to break the box down around it. This one had been dead long enough that her eyes were gone, and the scales on her chest and arms were beginning to lift. But she had been healthy before death overcame her, if a little thin. No poison in her blood to taint the extraction. As long as she had not been one of the clanless; though they were willing to sell him their own, he hoped he had made it clear by now that only a fully bonded skykin would serve his purposes.
This could be the one.
As she often did, the ghost voiced his hopes. At other times, of course, she gave form to his fears.
The smell of putrefaction lessened as the servants washed the body in salted water. He spent a while praying, asking for a steady hand and clear mind, though the act of murmuring to the First was more meditation than supplication.
When the servants were done they stepped back. He nodded thanks and a dismissal. They turned and left. Both had been criminals in their youth: Ritek a speaker of sedition against the caliarch and Ereket a liar who conned foolish men. Both had avoided slavery by accepting the removal of their tongues. Both had later sought redemption. They had become lovers, and been married, shortly after their initiation. He had made this property available to them for a nominal rent eight years ago and provided the initial funds for their laundry business, with an eye to his long-term plans.
Most of the time these two were exactly what the
y appeared: redeemed criminals who had become devout lay members of the Order of the First Light. That they could not speak and wrote only well enough to conduct their business made them perfect for Sadakh’s higher purpose. Between faith and limited communication, his secret was safe with them.
Alone again, he went over to the body. The servants had covered the lower half of the dead woman in a sheet. Nothing was of interest to him below the neck.
He stood over the body for a few moments, mind empty, even his ghost silent. Then he picked up his obsidian-tipped scalpel.
Thanks to his unique knowledge of skykin anatomy, the initial procedure was a success. Afterwards he stripped off his stained work-tunic and washed in the scented water left by the servants. He dressed in the clothes he had removed when he first entered their house.
According to the waterclock in the hall it was the twenty-sixth hour; the operation had taken longer than he realized and it would be dawn soon. Ereket emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of warm chocatl, a luxury that would have cost her half a week’s takings. He thanked her and savoured the drink, sitting cross-legged on her finest mat while he considered the night’s work. Ritek and Ereket would keep the treasure he had extracted safe in the conditions he specified, behind the locked door of the room they never entered. Safe… but not easily accessible. Sadakh silently cursed the need for secrecy. Few of his followers would understand the importance of the work he did here.
Their opinions are not relevant.
Sometimes his ghost merely stated the obvious. Sometimes he wondered, if he stopped listening to her, whether she would go away and leave his head as quiet as everyone else’s apparently was.
Ritek was waiting outside the parlour when he finished his drink. The servant took the bowl, and then – having first bowed and averted his eyes to ask silent permission – re-dressed his master’s hair and beard. The man used more perfume in the oil than his usual bodyservant, but Sadakh made no comment.
