He put a weighty hand on her shoulder. “Talk to Ranami if you want to know her thoughts. I’m no soothsayer. You’re prying at a rock and hoping to find a nut inside.”
Phalue sheathed her sword and then redid the tie in her hair. “We haven’t spoken since last night. I left angry.”
“Was she angry?”
Phalue slammed a hand against one of the teak pillars. “No. Just . . . sad. And that just makes me angrier sometimes.”
“Well, you’ll have to talk to her sooner or later,” Tythus said. “Or just never talk to her again.”
“You’re only two years my senior,” Phalue said, rolling her eyes at him. “I’m not a child.”
“Then go,” Tythus said, waving a gloved hand. “Go be an adult. Go make adult words and sort out your differences. I’d very much like to end on the high note of winning.”
“Unfairly,” she said, a finger raised. And then she shook her head. “We’ll finish this tomorrow morning.”
“Fair enough.”
She didn’t bother to change out of her armor; she preferred it to street clothes or – heaven forbid – to the embroidered silken tunics her father was always trying to get her to wear. And Ranami liked her in armor. She’d confessed to Phalue after one breathless night that Phalue seemed the most comfortable in it, her truest self. And Phalue loved that.
Her heart skipped at the memory, before sinking as she remembered their fight. Always, always at the end of these fights, Ranami would say that Phalue just didn’t understand, and Phalue would say, “Well, then make me understand!” and then Ranami would look at her as though she’d asked a dog to sail a boat. It was like they stood on two different islands when they argued, and neither of them could find a way across.
The forest outside the palace walls was damp and green, just at the beginning of the wet season. The tree branches Phalue brushed out of the way were wet, the street still slick. In the distance an iyop bird repeatedly sang iyop-wheeeee – one last desperate attempt to attract a mate before the heat of the dry season faded and raising young became difficult.
The palace stood at the top of a hill, insulated from the city below. Phalue’s knees jolted as she strode the winding switchbacks, trying to keep her footing. Despite the unrest among the farmers, and despite the unpopularity of her father, the people of Nephilanu Island seemed to like her. They liked her discipline, her lowborn mother, the fact that she often walked down to the city to visit her. Her visits, accompanied by a retinue of guards, had been the inspiration for Phalue to learn how to fight. If she could fight, she’d argued with her father, then surely she could visit her mother on her own.
When she’d beaten two of his best men in a brawl, he’d relented. At first, she’d walked down to the city just to visit her mother. Then it had been to see the markets. And then she’d caught the eye of a visiting governor and had fallen in love for the first time. She’d been a late bloomer at nineteen, but she’d more than made up for lost time.
Halfway down, she had to walk into the mud at the side of the road to let a cart pass. It creaked beneath its burden, the oxen at its front straining to pull the load. More supplies for the palace. She wondered sometimes what it had looked like when the Alanga had built it. After all the renovations her family had made to it, it probably resembled the original as much as a lapdog resembled a wolf. The caro nut farms had made her father rich, and he’d ordered the construction of a new hall just outside the palace walls – one he was convinced the Emperor himself would some day visit.
Phalue scanned the city as she waited for the cart to pass, trying to pick out Ranami’s home among the sloping, tiled roofs pressed too close together. What would she say to her? “Sorry” was the most obvious opener, but oftentimes seemed inadequate. “I understand” would be what she’d most want to hear probably, but it wouldn’t be true. “I love you”? So true that it swelled her chest every time she looked at her.
On the odd morning, she missed her days of philandering. A new woman every few weeks, a new passionate tryst. But the day she’d met Ranami at the docks had knocked the wind from her. If Phalue took a long view of things, Ranami didn’t seem overly special. She’d been crouched at the edge of the dock, long lashes shadowing her face, slender fingers pulling a crab trap up from the depths. Who fell in love with the way someone drew up a crab trap?
Phalue had noted Ranami’s beauty first, and then her gracefulness, and then the way her lips parted a little as she concentrated, her brows forming the smallest of lines at her forehead.
Her approach had . . . left much to be desired. She’d offered to buy a crab, and they clearly weren’t for sale, and Ranami had frowned, confused, and had said they were for her personal use. Ranami knew who she was, and what use would the governor’s daughter have for a random crab from the docks? And then she’d guessed Phalue’s intentions soon enough, and had turned her down.
“I’m not interested in being toyed with.”
“Is it that you’re not interested in women?”
Ranami had given her a long look, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “It’s not that you’re a woman. It’s you.” Not the most auspicious of beginnings. She’d left Ranami alone, as she’d asked, but her words had given Phalue cause to reflect. She had broken things off with her latest paramour, and endured three full months of celibacy. Had she been so reckless with others’ feelings? And then, to her surprise, Ranami had sought her out at the palace. “Perhaps I’m making a fool of myself,” she’d said, eyes downcast, demure, “but if you’ve still some interest . . .” She’d handed her a basket with a crab inside.
Phalue tapped her fingers against her scabbard, Ranami’s words echoing in her head. It’s you. Was it something about her again this time? She tried to shake off the uneasy feeling that it was. It lay slick over her heart like oil over water. If it was, she’d make Ranami say the words, make her break it off – because Phalue just couldn’t.
She picked her way through the narrow streets near the dock, the gutters clean from the rain but still smelling faintly of fish. A few gutter orphans caught sight of her and followed her down the street. “Please, Sai. Please.” She reached into her purse and tossed them some coins. Her father gave her an allowance every tenday, and what else was she to spend it on? She always made a point of helping the orphans or the shardsick when she strolled into the city.
Ranami lived in a small one-room apartment above a merchant who sold steamed buns. She smelled it before she saw it – fish sauce and scallions, and the sweet scent of steamed bread. The merchant lifted a hand when he saw her, and she gave him a quick nod before turning into the alleyway where the stairs were, feeling a little foolish as she dodged dripping remnants from the rooftops. If her father had his way, she would be dressed in silks and sent to other islands to treat with them. She’d have learned diplomacy rather than battle. As her father’s only child, she was an asset, and he often moaned that she was going to waste. But he never seemed to gather the willpower to set against hers.
Phalue laid a hand against the stair railing and froze. Something was wrong. She should have sensed it before, but she’d been too caught up in daydreams. There was no sound coming from the upstairs apartment. And the door, which should have been closed, lay slightly ajar. She put a hand on her sword. “Ranami?” she called.
No answer.
“Uncle,” Phalue called out to the bun merchant, “have you seen Ranami this morning?”
“I’ve not seen her at all today, Sai,” he called back.
She would have gone to set her traps by now, and she always liked to buy two buns from the merchant before she set out. Phalue’s heartbeat quickened, her lips numbing. Keeping her hand on her sword, she barged up the rest of the stairs and into Ranami’s apartment.
Part of her had expected to find Ranami here, startled, wondering what Phalue was doing. The curtains were drawn; the room dark. She drew her sword, but as her eyes adjusted, she could see – there was no one here.
Ranami’s normally pristine home had been turned upside down. The linens were stripped from the sleeping cushions, belongings pulled from cupboards, chairs overturned. The books on philosophy and ethics Ranami had practically begged her to read lay scattered across the floor. Phalue’s head pounded. She shouldn’t have been so stubborn. She should have come back sooner to apologize, should have never left Ranami’s side. Who would want to ransack Ranami’s home? She made only a modest living as a bookseller. And where was Ranami?
Phalue sheathed her sword and picked up a dress strewn across the floor. It was the one Ranami had been wearing the day they’d met – the golden cloth bright as turmeric, setting off her dark skin and darker hair.
“Ranami?” she called again, and she could hear the desperation in her own voice. This couldn’t be real. She felt like she’d stepped through into a mirror world, and if she just tried hard enough, she could step back through to her own. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. The same dark room greeted her. But this time, she saw the piece of parchment on the table.
She marched over, the floorboards creaking beneath her boots, and snatched it up. She had to pull a curtain aside to have enough light to read by.
If you want to see Ranami again, come to the Alanga ruins at the road leading from the city.
6
Sand
Maila Isle, at the edge of the Empire
The bark of the mango tree was rough beneath Sand’s fingers as she climbed. She’d harvested nearly a full bag, but she needed just two more mangoes to bring back to the village. So she climbed. Higher and higher, her breath ragged in her throat, her arms and legs aching. She never returned without a full bag. None of them did. If you did not return with a full bag, you did not return at all. She’d seen one of them before – Waves was his name – sweeping his net in the water for fish, over and over until the tide rose and he fell from his perch into the sea. He was gone. Dashed upon the reefs surrounding Maila. It happened sometimes. Someday, it would likely happen to her. The thought gave her no feeling at all; her heart was as gray and cold as a foggy morning.
But today she saw the blush of two mangoes among the branches above, peeking from beneath the leaves like shy courtesans. Sand searched for footholds and tested them, making sure she wouldn’t slip. The branch bent a little beneath her weight as she pushed herself further up, but it held. The first mango was above and behind her a little. She had to twist and reach out for it with her smaller hand, the one missing two fingers. Her fingers brushed the smooth outside of the fruit; she walked her fingertips across its surface, trying to pull it closer. Her other arm strained, her palm growing sweaty.
The others had likely all returned from their daily tasks. She stopped to breathe and scanned the rest of the tree for easier targets. None. She was Sand and she always returned with a full bag. So she tightened her grip on the branch and reached again for the mango. This time, she got a grip around the bottom, and she pulled, trying to break it free. The mango slipped from her grasp and she slipped into a memory.
It wasn’t the mango she was touching. It was a curtain of rough linen. She drew it back – and her hand had all her fingers. A sliver of sunlight fell across her face, warming her cheek. When she blinked past the golden hue of the rising sun, she could see the green-tiled rooftops of a palace, shrouded in mist, the jagged mountains beyond cradling the buildings as though offering up a precious jewel. A rush of feelings swirled in her breast. Awe, anxiety, dismay. She let the curtain fall, unable to reconcile them, retreating into the dark, closed space of the palanquin.
No. She was Sand. She was Sand collecting mangoes. That place in her memories wasn’t one she’d ever seen. But she could still smell sandalwood and the damp morning mists. Her arms ached.
And then her hand slipped from the branch.
The world slowed as her arms windmilled. Her hand struck the trunk behind her, but she couldn’t find anything to grab, and then her foot flung free of its spot between two branches. She was falling. Branches whipped at her, her vision a blur as her head flew back and then ricocheted forward. Each of her injuries registered only as things that might hurt later – building up one on another. The ground. The ground would hurt.
It gave beneath her only a little. The air whooshed out of her lungs and she opened her mouth to suck in more. But the air she breathed made her feel sick. Sand coughed and then retched to the side, her head spinning. She lay there, just gasping for breath.
Her arms were bleeding. The numbness where the branches had struck her gave way to a sharp, stinging pain. Sand rolled onto her side and then pushed herself up slowly, discovering fresh aches with each movement. She was still alive, though the thought didn’t comfort her. There was a deep gash on her left forearm. She probed at it, hissing in pain, examining the way it slashed through skin and fat and into the muscle beneath – the layers of her laid bare. That would need stitches.
That thought . . . wasn’t hers either.
The world still rocked around her, moving as she moved her eyes. Nothing for it. She had to get up, get back to the village. Thatch could sew up her arm. Her tunic had ripped on the way down. She helped it along, tearing off a strip to wrap the wound with. When she finally got to her feet, the earth didn’t feel solid; it was as if she were on a boat, like the one that had brought her here. The one that had brought them all here.
No. She hadn’t been on a boat, had she? She wasn’t sure what she was thinking, who she was.
The bag of mangoes lay near the tree, half upended. Several mangoes had rolled out, and she collected them, slinging the bag over her shoulder once more and wincing. It felt like a blacksmith had taken up residence behind her eyes, using her skull as an anvil. With every beat of her heart, an answering throb started in her head.
Her bag was still not full.
Sand eyed the tree and then went straight back to the base of it to climb once more. But something stopped her just as she reached for the first branch.
Why did she need to return with her bag full? What sort of nonsense was that? Her cold, gray heart flushed with color. She could just . . . go back to the village. There were plenty of mangoes for them all, and the others were cultivating or harvesting food as well.
Something had changed between the memory and the fall, and she wasn’t sure what. It was as though she’d pulled back the curtain and was finally seeing the palace. The world was not just inside the palanquin.
Halfway back to the village, on the turn in the path that jutted over the ocean, Sand stopped. The spray from the sea kissed her face as she looked out over the horizon. The jagged edges of the reef surrounding Maila broke the water in places, like the ridged backs of some strange animal. Beyond the reef, the Endless Sea waited. A thought struck her, and it knocked out her breath as surely as the fall had.
Why was she on Maila at all? Why didn’t any of them leave?
7
Jovis
Somewhere in the Endless Sea
It was not a kitten.
I watched Alon playing with the creature near the bow. It leapt onto his wriggling fingers, mouthing at them with a gentle jaw. For one, its ears were small and rounded. It didn’t have claws on its front paws – which looked closer to digits than to paws, with a fleshy web between. The brown fur on its body was lighter on its belly, and as dense as an otter’s fur. I should have noticed when I’d plucked it from the water, but an entire floating island had just sunk right in front of me. One could be forgiven for missing smaller matters.
A vise tightened around my heart. The boy had been busy taking care of creature, but I’d watched the horizon until the island had disappeared beneath it. I might have hoped that the island had stopped sinking, but the smoke that had billowed upward finally disappeared at sunset, and I just knew. All those people. I wanted to scream at the horror of it.
The water would have come up to their ankles, and then their shoulders, and then the land would have ceded completely to the ocea
n. People who had holed up in their homes would have been trapped in them, cold ocean filling their lungs instead of air as they beat their fists uselessly against their ceilings. Pressure against their ears as the depths claimed them.
I raked a hand through my hair. Both were covered in dust. My lungs still felt scratchy with it.
At the bow, Alon was scratching the beast behind the ears. I didn’t know what manner of creature it was. There were so many animals that lived in the Endless Sea, no one could quite keep track. Did it even matter? Something that lived in the water by the look of its webbed feet. It made me feel quite a bit less generous, that I’d likely not saved the beast at all. But it still seemed to be an infant that had somehow been separated from its mother, and it had eaten half my store of fish, ravenous as a shipwrecked sailor.
Chittering, it dashed from the bow to where I sat at the stern. When it saw it had gotten my attention, it sat neatly at my feet, tail curled around its haunches. And then, cautiously, it rose to its hind legs and laid one of its odd paw-hands on my knee. Wide, black eyes stared up at me with a strange solemnity.
“Mephisolou likes you,” Alon called. “He knows you saved him.”
“Mephisolou?” I scoffed. “You named it?”
“Him,” Alon said, stubborn.
I acquiesced. “You named him Mephisolou?” I regarded the animal. He certainly didn’t look like the monstrous sea serpent from folklore, ready to devour an entire city if they did not pluck him some cloud juniper berries. “Mighty name for such a small fellow.”
The boy shrugged, his gaze going to his feet. He traced a circle on the deck with his toe.
The Bone Shard Daughter: The Drowning Empire Book One Page 5
