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‘Ah, you speak Irisian, Lady Craier!’ said the caller. ‘I expected nothing less.’

‘A little,’ she said. ‘And you are …?’

The speaker was tall and dark, with hair cropped short and ears layered with precious gems and hoops. Everything about them spoke of wealth, despite the fact that they had been hauling ropes moments earlier. Kissen could not place their gender.

‘Welcome to Wsirin,’ said the councillor, keeping to Middric, ‘our beauteous capital, jewel of the south Trade Sea, and home to you for as long as you wish.’

‘Thank you for your kind welcome,’ said Lessa as Inara came running over, her hair tamped down beneath a green scarf and her sailing clothes exchanged for bright skirts threaded through with purple and red, and a formal tunic split at the hips and capped at the sleeves for ease of movement.

With her were Rhiyande and Shah – a broad, tall Irisian whose loosely coiled hair was bound at his nape.

Shah was short for Shahirazen, which he apparently hated.

They too were dressed formally, even wearing rough cuirasses with the Craier symbol.

Rhiyande winked at Kissen. ‘Clean nicely up, don’t we?’ she said.

‘A bit of shine doesn’t hide all the scuffing,’ said Kissen, waving a hand at her scratched-up body, and Rhiyande laughed. Shah even gave her a small nod and a smile.

Inara was looking Kissen up and down with a mildly bewildered expression, as Skedi swooped down from the crow’s nest and landed on the girl’s shoulder.

‘Never seen you look so bright,’ he said.

‘Quiet, you.’

‘It looks nice,’ said Inara.

‘Hm. You, too.’

Lessa was headed for the gangplank, she looked back and moved her hand in a decisive call for attention, signing to Inara, Give greeting .

‘ Yameti’i melikami yataghayar ,’ said Inara, her accent almost as perfect as the Irisian’s as she hurried after her mother down onto the jetty.

Kissen moved more carefully, using her staff to help her down the steep slope to the bouncing planks.

There were guards posted along the way towards the harbour walls in leather and scale-like plating that covered their chest and belly.

Lighter than a Middrenite knight’s armour, and likely better in the heat.

‘ Kama alaik yatagha ,’ replied the Irisian to Inara. ‘I am Mitha Aslani of Tioron and Nala, one of the Mithrik, great council of Irisia.’ They bowed towards Lessa. ‘And you are Lady Craier, representative of Middren and … ally of King Arren? Or enemy?’

Lessa smiled tightly. ‘Ally against invaders, Mitha Aslani,’ she said, and received a sparkling grin in response. ‘I bear his signet.’ She lifted her hand, showing the ring Arren had given her. ‘A sign of our unity, and his hopes for an alliance with Irisia.’

Aslani smiled noncommittally. ‘And who is this?’ they said, turning to Skedi. ‘A quya ?’

That was a word Kissen understood from her youth in Blenraden. Quya. Irisian for ‘god’, though it meant something like ‘fragment’ or ‘vestige’. Lessa had advised that Skedi stay in sight, but small and unobtrusive, and he was about the size of a kitten.

‘This is Skediceth, a god of white lies,’ said Inara. ‘A travelling god from Lakaii. He can go far from his shrines.’

Kissen felt the tickle of Skedi’s will as he pressed it towards Aslani.

Shrines, lots of shrines, a travelling god from Lakaii .

It was not a powerful lie, it didn’t have to be. ‘And this is Kissenna,’ said Lessa, ‘a veiga of Middren, Captain Lertes of the Silverswift , and his crew Rhiyande and Shah.’

The Mitha’s eyes passed over them, lingering briefly on the scar of a god’s curse on Kissen’s face, then on the crew that had joined them on the harbour deck.

‘We are happy to converse in Irisian, Mitha Aslani,’ said Lessa. ‘I have been practising, though my daughter is the superior linguist.’

‘Oh no, please,’ said the Mitha, to Kissen’s relief. ‘I haven’t had a chance to speak Middric in a year. Your favour to us, I swear. Though I understand in Middric you have no word for a third gender, asha, ashi’i, ashil ? You instead speak man, woman, plural?’

‘You’re right,’ said Lessa. ‘Middric has some … rigid qualities. Though, as we may discuss, there is always space for change.’

Aslani laughed. ‘Then I am plural,’ they said, giving nothing away of where they stood on Lessa’s hints at alliance.

Kissen hated politics, all this polite dancing of tongues instead of blades, no one saying what they meant, only for them to depart dissatisfied?

She had nothing to bring to the table apart from bravery and tricks.

For fuck’s sake, she couldn’t even read Middric, let alone speak in Irisian.

‘Come,’ said the Mitha. ‘Your crew can trade in Middren should they wish, but we have been waiting for you, Lady Craier.’

The Mitha went ahead, leading them up the dock, and Lertes looked up to Aleda where she still stood at the helm, signing to her in handspeak, Be ready. Keep watch . Then he turned to Kissen, saw her looking, and smiled. Trust no one, he signed to her. The only language of trade is profit.

That, at least, Kissen understood. As Mitha Aslani led them down the bouncing planks towards the fortress, she glanced once more towards the Restish ship.

It seemed innocuous enough, but she could not help her fingers aching for her blade as they moved along the harbour towards an open door, set deep into the wall of Wsirin’s great fortress.

As they stepped into its shadow, the air cooled like a hand on the brow. Stairs led up from the postern, spiralling and lit by small windows cut into the outer wall.

It felt like an age to the top, the heat in Kissen’s body rising again despite the blessedly chill air and her right leg shooting with pain that felt like long needles being slowly pressed through the shin-that-was.

But, once there, the Mitha opened a door and led them into the shelter of a long hall, ribbed with dark wood that had been inlaid with cloud and wave patterns, picked out in pristinely polished gold.

The red stone floor shone in the light from clear, diamond windows set high in the sloping roof.

All were open to the east, allowing a gentle breeze to drift down through the shadows and play across them, as well as pools of sunbeams and brightness, like the moonlight in Osidisen’s cave.

‘Kissen.’

Kissen looked to see who had spoken. Inara wasn’t looking at her, but Skedi was.

They had moved ahead and were standing at the far end of the hall.

There, rippling silks hung long from the rafters, and there were several long, comfortable chaises set before low tables, creaking with plates of delicacies.

Kissen could smell roses and honey, toasted nuts and alcohol.

There were also eight people standing, waiting, and one sitting, staring at her.

‘Yatho,’ she whispered, then seeing the woman at her side, her heart all but cracked through her ribs. ‘Telle!’