Page 35

THE PORT OF WSIRIN BEGAN LONG BEFORE THE LAND DID. The Long Harbour, they said it was called.

Anchored ships were tied together with bouncing gangways, and smaller ferries, skiffs, rafts, set up shop around them, forming floating markets that appeared to sell everything from snack food to pre-made shrines.

They passed flags of a thousand colours, decorating mast to prow, and several ships so barnacled that Kissen knew they would never be seaworthy again, instead becoming another part of the port.

Birds floated in great clouds over fleets of fishing boats, and the fresh land-breeze carried with it scents of spices and mountains, forest and lakes.

Kissen breathed it in, feeling her lungs ache but not catch.

Her burns now felt more like the red she got from sitting out in the sun.

Her other wounds were shallow, and her head had stopped splitting.

She could walk around with her staff tucked firmly under her arm, and suddenly was given first pick of biscuits and the least rotten greenling with her hipgin.

It seemed she had got lucky. Again.

She smiled and touched the white mark on her chest where her father’s gift had been, sitting beneath the strings that laced her shirt together. She’d had nothing but her wits and water, and it had worked.

Gods were made to fit the world: the world didn’t change to fit them. For all their power, all their strength, fire and water still made steam, and metal still cracked when cooled too quickly. Satuan, a god of smiths, should have known that.

But it was his hatred, too, that had saved her, realising that everyone who watched him attack would pray to him after, strengthening and building him over and over into a being that could not die.

She tapped her tattoo. ‘Fuck you, smith god,’ she whispered under her breath, and wished her lungs hurt just a tiny bit less.

‘There it is!’ said Skedi from where he crouched beside her. Wsirin rose like palaces of air over a haze of smoke with a reddish tinge, domed citadels not unlike the Lesscian cloche.

At his cry, Inara came running across the deck from the forecastle, having just helped Lessa raise their own flags of peace and trade, Middren and mourning, along with a circle struck through to indicate they carried weapons and livestock.

Perhaps a deterrent to pirates, though Kissen noted they also had the black flag of piracy tucked in the storage case with their other colours.

They had even raised Arren’s banner of the sun and stag.

Inara clattered to a halt beside Kissen and Skedi, beneath the rigging on the starboard side.

Her palms were chapped from the ropes, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Young Craier had gone quite brown between the sun and water, her dark curls burnishing as if the sun had been caught in their strands.

She suited the sea, but there was something forced about her smiles and lightness, as if she was play-acting the child she thought she should be while hiding some fear, some disappointment.

Demigod or not, trying too hard or not, she was still just a little girl at heart.

‘Look, shrines!’ she said, pointing down at the teeming waters as they passed flotillas of floating statues surrounded by tiny coracles that boasted offerings of fishbones or incense, sweets or tiny bottles of wine that must have been made for the purpose.

Skedi flapped his wings, and Kissen wondered if he was looking for a shrine to Yusef, or maybe even a totem of his own. ‘Irisians only have one god though,’ he said. ‘Why all the shrines?’

‘It’s a harbour on the Trade Sea, isn’t it?’ said Kissen, her voice crackling. Still hoarse. ‘People must bring their gods with them when they come.’

‘And Irisians say all gods are just parts of their god of change,’ said Inara. ‘So, they’re welcome.’

‘Even scrappy little demigods?’ said Kissen.

Inara bit her lip and gave her a shy smile while swinging back on the ship’s railings.

‘When did you know what I was?’ she asked at last.

Kissen shrugged, then winced as her shoulders hurt. ‘I knew there was something odd about you,’ she said. ‘Of course, your little rat notwithstanding—’

‘I thought we were past “rat”,’ said Skedi, who had grown to the size of a fox.

‘But you looked at people as if you looked into them,’ said Kissen, ignoring him. ‘Like a god does. So, when you broke a god’s power …’ she nodded at Skedi, who flattened his ears slightly. Good, he was still ashamed. ‘It fell into place that you were more than human.’

‘A beast,’ muttered Inara.

Satuan hadn’t called her that, but it didn’t matter where it came from, only that it had hurt her.

‘Humans are beasts too,’ said Kissen. ‘Evil isn’t something that belongs to shadows. It’s in all of us, with our cruelty, our envy. Our fear.’

‘You’re not afraid.’

‘I’m always afraid,’ laughed Kissen. ‘As is wise for a person who has pissed off a few gods. But I know myself. Better, maybe, than people who have never been through loss, or pain.’ She rubbed the burns of her hands, holding them to the light.

The old scars, and the new. ‘I have frailty in me, and cruelty too. I live in pain because pain is what the world gave me, and I am powerful with it.’

Inara was listening, silent and thoughtful. She was getting taller, older. When was the right time to say such things to a young girl? Telle would know, Kissen was sure. But Telle wasn’t here.

‘What I’m trying to say, Ina,’ said Kissen, ‘is that there’s no perfect evil or perfect good. There’s no easy answer to a question of right or wrong: they’re not two sides of a coin you toss. What’s important is the question.’

‘Well,’ Captain Lertes had wandered over with his hands behind his back, ‘the question right now is whether you’re going to get changed or not, young Craier.

’ He smiled, his eyes reflecting the aqua light of the Irisian coastline.

His clothes were formal, a tunic of green and charcoal grey rather unlike his usual bright colours and jewels.

Whatever tension she had sensed between the captain and the lady, he had still decided to dress in the colours of the House Craier.

‘Change?’ said Kissen.

‘Well, the little captain is on a mission of diplomacy, and she looks like she’s ready to scrape the bilges.’ He looked at Inara and smiled lightly. ‘Half the battle is the right equipment, girl, I believe your mother has selected some items for you.’

‘Are we expecting a fight?’ said Kissen.

‘Only of wits,’ said Lessa, coming out of her cabin.

Kissen drew in her breath and held it. Lessa’s hair was loose for the first time, and brushed so well that it cascaded down her back like a fall of silk, oiled to its ends.

She wore a dress: a fine sweep of pale linen, embroidered at the open neck, and over it a long sleeveless tabard in pale green, trimmed and detailed with gold.

‘I have something for you, Kissenna,’ she said, holding out a bundle.

‘Folk will help you find your sisters if you also look less like a bilge rat.’ She looked pointedly at Inara, who sniggered and stepped away from the railing, heading towards her cabin.

Not without a knowing look at Kissen, who decided that it was a good moment to shut her mouth.

‘Though if you would like to rest some more,’ Lessa added, ‘the ship is yours.’

‘I’m done resting,’ said Kissen, glancing back towards the shore. There was music, pipes, drums and strings straining out over the wavelets. ‘I thought you wanted me gone?’

‘The Irisian philosophy is one of change.’

Lessa moved to stand next to her, looking at the shore. The Silverswift had moved closer to the waterfront, deftly guided by Aleda again, who was steering with one hand, her other burned arm still raw, protected by bandages and poultice.

Now, Kissen could see the harbour more clearly.

It was lined with rows of limestone houses draped with flowers of vivid red and purple.

Many of them were brightly tiled, not just the window ledges as in Lesscia, but more like the painted houses of the pleasure district in Blenraden; carved, inked, fired, glossed and gleaming, as if the land itself was raising banners.

Somewhere there she hoped to find her sisters. Did Elo’s letters get through? Did they know now she was still alive, and coming for them?

But … why was she torn? Why did part of her want to stay on this ship, with Lessa, to return to bloody Middren and fight for it tooth and nail? The home she had chosen, and that had chosen her?

‘I’m going to see if my wife needs help,’ said Lertes, turning towards the aftcastle steps so he could head up to the helm.

The Silverswift had passed through most of the Long Harbour, and its prow was pointed towards another one, with high sandstone walls and watchtowers beneath what looked like a grand fortress.

‘I’ll – ah – take a look from the nest,’ said Skedi. As he took off, Kissen realised that everyone wanted to leave her and Lessa alone. She didn’t want to be alone with Lessa, she didn’t know what to say to her.

At least that made two of them. Lessa put the bundle which appeared to be a shirt and cloak down on the railing, tapped it once with her finger, then slid it along towards Kissen, who took it.

‘What makes you think I don’t want a dress?

’ she said, trying to ease the atmosphere.

Lessa smiled. Gods, she had even painted her lips a pleasing rose.

She didn’t say that Kissen looked as if she hadn’t even glanced at a dress in her entire life, which would be close to true.

Skirts got in the way of her leg, useful only for the larger pockets she could sew into them.

Well, so she often thought, until she saw a beautiful woman like Lessa wearing one. But then, it wasn’t the wearing it she wanted, it was the woman inside it.

Bad thought.