Page 41

GUILT. KISSEN FELT IT HEAVY IN HER GUT. SHE WAS ON A horse-drawn litter, waiting to be borne into a great city with her sisters, while Elo fought alone in Middren.

Gods, she hoped not alone. She hoped he’d found someone interesting to spend his time with.

But his mother had helped her, helped her sisters, on his word, and she had done nothing to help him.

Even Skedi and Inara were being more useful than her.

She, Yatho and Telle spoke a little in sign as they descended into the noise of the port city, and Kissen was grateful for their language of gesture and movement.

The air was thick and hazy, and she could barely feel her own thoughts as the cart moved into a crush of bodies, through the sprawling markets, the driven livestock, the smells of spice and charcoal, sweet wine and manure.

Are you brooding? Yatho signed to her.

Kissen forced a smile. Telle sat beside her, one hand tight on Kissen’s elbow, as if to reassure herself that she was here and real.

Yatho suited heat, in her open shirt and loose trews, but she was less soot-stained and singed than Kissen was used to.

I was thinking you both look well, signed Kissen.

Liar.

Telle signed that, lightly, gently.

Kissen found tears building up in her throat and eyes. There were no words, she didn’t know how to speak this … this relief. This joy. This fear. This remorse.

Soon their cart slowed to trundling, and beggars and scammers ran up to them, palms upturned, jostling for space. It was a fine cart, after all, and had come from the fortress.

Reminds me of us, signed Kissen, wishing she’d brought some coppers with her. Yatho grinned, reached down for a secret pocket she had fashioned into the seat, and pulled out a roll of copper coins on a long string, which she unclipped and began unloading onto outstretched palms.

You do realise if they were like us, they likely don’t keep their coin, signed Telle.

Though her gestures were small, and sad, she smiled as Yatho was buffeted with thanks and cries and requests for more.

Maimee, who had made them beg, had taken all of their earnings as pay for ‘debt, room and board’, as she put it.

Yatho soon ran out and held up her empty hands to a few cries of protest and regret.

They quickly dispersed, and the wagon continued.

If they’re anything like us, they’ll find a way, said Kissen. Speaking of, is it true you risked your life for a few books?

Yatho frowned a warning at her. Is it true you risked your life for a king we hate?

Kissen chuckled. He seemed the lesser of two enemies, she said.

‘He’s an arrogant arsehole,’ said Yatho out loud, and signed, He’s a coward.

Telle, knowing exactly what Yatho had said both times, huffed out a laugh of agreement. And what about the lady? she asked.

She agreed to unite to help Middren, said Kissen.

Telle raised an eyebrow, a knowing look in her eye.

What ? said Kissen.

She dressed you up like this?

She wanted me to look dignified.

‘ Hah,’ said Yatho, then signed, Sounds like she staked her claim. She shared a glance with Telle, who bit the inside of her cheek. And that you want her to.

Kissen reddened, then laughed, running her hands through her hair before signing, Am I so obvious?

She’s just your type, said Telle.

I don’t have a type.

Yes you do. You’re attracted to power.

‘What?’ Kissen protested, too shocked to sign and her sisters both roared with laughter. No, she signed at them, but she made certain her expression read Fuck off.

They were descending again now, towards large warehouses and a number of other carts and wagons going back and forth with produce.

The streets here were cobbled with round stones, to Kissen’s annoyance, and the kerbs were high.

When they stopped, she balanced herself carefully, leaning her staff against the cart, and helped the driver and Telle bring down Yatho’s chair and move it to where Telle indicated.

A doorway arched with bright tiles, like the walls of the harbour front, the door wide and painted green, with a knocker in the shape of a jackal’s head.

Telle lifted the knocker and rapped it while Kissen went to pick up her staff.

‘A bit grand, this?’ she remarked.

‘It’s one of Mitha Bahba’s warehouses,’ said Yatho, taking the brakes off her chair as the cart went up again, back to the city. ‘She said it would be safe for us and the scripts. And there’s a home attached.’

The door opened, and a young man standing behind it glanced across the three of them, then stood aside.

That was a quick visit, he said to Telle in sign, and looked at Kissen with mild disgust. ‘I suppose you’re the veiga,’ he added out loud, disdain dripping from his high-class Blenraden accent. The kind of accent that Kissen would once have followed to pick their pocket.

‘Be nice, Cal,’ said Yatho, as Kissen took the back of her chair, pushed her up the ramp to the door and into the building after Telle. ‘You too, Kissen.’

‘I’m always nice,’ they both said, and then threw each other irritated looks. Kissen resisted sticking out her tongue.

Beyond the door there was quiet, focussed activity.

A series of open crates and boxes were marked with Yatho’s worksmith crest of a hammer and wheel, but in them were manuscripts rather than metals, stuffed tightly and carefully tucked in with straw and the occasional bag of grain.

The walls rose high around them, pink-painted and with small windows open to the sky, fixed with glass to keep the rain out and let the light in.

And within the pillars of light that fell, there were two people working, taking careful notes on paper scrolls: an old man with gold front teeth, and a tall woman with thick dark hair that she had netted with silver.

She was as pale as the man was dark and, though neither wore grey, Kissen could tell by the way they looked at her and Yatho, as if they were only half there, that they were archivists.

However, they both smiled to Telle and signed a respectful greeting.

The back of the warehouse offered a half-open gate to a pulley system that seemed to go all the way down to the Long Harbour, and from their height, Kissen could see its mass of movement and colour.

Telle turned left before they reached it, past the pulley and through a trellis door in the side of the warehouse.

Beyond, they entered a grand room which held several chairs woven with grassy fibres in pretty repeating patterns.

The floor was tiled in copper-coloured stone, and the pink walls continued, but the ceiling was lower than that of the warehouse, softer lit, and dimmed further by a sky darkening with the threat of imminent rain.

There sat an old man by an indoor fountain, surrounded by greenery.

His silver hair was grown out, and his beard too, and he looked pale and unwell.

His right arm had recently been removed, Kissen could tell by the smell coming from his thickly poulticed bandages, and he was practising writing with a brush in his left hand.

Even to Kissen his letters looked wobbly and unkempt.

But beside him was Bea, Yatho’s furnace boy, also writing with brush and ink on paper, frowning in concentration.

The man looked up and scowled. ‘Oh gods, you’ve brought a veiga.’

‘Oh great,’ said Kissen, ‘another one.’

Yatho laughed, and Bea looked up, spotting Kissen. ‘Kissen,’ he said. ‘Master Yatho’s sister.’

Kissen was faintly surprised to be recognised; she had only met the boy once and had exchanged few words with him, as he had no fondness of speaking.

‘Good to see you, liln ,’ she said.

‘I’m Bea,’ he said, frowning.

‘Sorry, Bea. It’s good to see you.’

He nodded, hummed under his breath, and returned to his letters. He was making good work of it. When something interested him, Yatho said he had more patience and focus in his littlest finger than Kissen had in her whole body. Well, she hadn’t said that last part out loud, but Kissen knew.

‘His brother has found work,’ said Yatho, ‘but Bea misses the forge.’ She sighed. ‘So do I.’

Sit, I’ll make tea, signed Telle, went up a set of stairs into the higher parts of the building, presumably the living quarters.

‘Ah,’ said Cal, following her. I’ll help. Solom will need lanterns.

‘Bahba owns this?’ said Kissen to Yatho, as they both went to the fountain. Kissen took a seat with relief. Her chest hurt even from that short walk. She wondered what Lessa and Inara were speaking of now? How many soldiers Irisia would send? Would it be enough?

‘Mitha Bahba,’ corrected Solom. Kissen scowled. ‘She cleared it for us. We had been kept in harbour for weeks awaiting permits before she saved us.’

Forgive him, signed Yatho to Kissen. His wound sickened him on the voyage, we had to remove it.

He’s not the only one here who has lost a limb. And I manage not to be a dick.

Yatho gave her one of her Looks.

Well, sometimes, Kissen added.

‘Speaking of limbs,’ said Yatho, wheeling herself opposite Kissen and looking down at the chipped, burned and boiled end of Kissen’s prosthesis, where it stuck out of her trews. ‘What the fuck is that?’

Kissen laughed and scratched her right knee where her burns were itching. ‘Your last leg met a slow and sorry end,’ she said. ‘But it lasted all right after that bastard fire god melted it.’

‘I’m impressed with myself that it managed to withstand Hseth,’ said Yatho with a smile. Then, it faltered, dropped. She swallowed.

‘Yath …’ said Kissen, leaning forward, concerned. As she did, the heavens above them opened, and rain began to hammer against the windows.

‘Sorry,’ Yatho said, and her next breath shuddered. ‘It’s … it’s been hard. Thinking you were gone. Leaving Middren. And now you’re here, with Ina too, the wee fiend.’ She laughed and palmed a tear from her eye. ‘You taught her some bad habits.’

‘Don’t blame me,’ said Kissen. ‘I left her with a knight with a stick up his arse.’

‘You knew he’d be just as bad.’

‘I did hope.’

Yatho managed another smile, but it was tight, uncertain. ‘You forgive him? Even after he called Hseth … almost got you killed?’

‘We’ve all done mad things for love, been hurt by people we trusted,’ said Kissen. She shrugged. ‘Anyway, he’s a good lay.’

‘Ugh. I’ve never understood you and men,’ said Yatho. ‘There are plenty of nice women around. You just love mess.’

‘I do not.’

The lady? Yatho signed, so Solom and Bea wouldn’t see, bent as they were over their practice. You nearly purred when you showed off your cloak.

Nothing is going to happen.

I see spending time with a god of lies hasn’t made you a better liar.

Solom looked up at the flicker of their hands and they both stopped. He tutted. ‘If you’re going to sign your secrets, go somewhere else,’ he said. The sky darkened a shade further and rain rattled down outside, and a flash of lightning followed. Bea jumped.

‘Soft, now, Bea,’ said Solom, his voice gentling as he spoke to the boy. ‘It’s all right.’

‘You’re very lucky,’ said Yatho to Kissen, while keeping a watchful eye on Bea. ‘I didn’t throw out the spare I was making.’

Kissen sat up. ‘Spare? You have a spare?’

Yatho grinned. ‘Aye, it’s in parts, but we used it to cover the paper we stole. Won’t be able to measure you though.’

‘Thank salt for that.’

Just then, Telle and Cal reappeared, Telle bearing a large copper teapot that steamed with the scent of sage, and Cal with two lanterns hanging from his arms that brought some brightness back into the room.

‘Ah you blessed boy,’ said Solom, truly smiling for the first time. ‘You do too much for me you know.’

They were all drinking and swapping stories, Cal even telling them about Inara and Skedi helping him sneak into the archives, when a flurry of noise from the warehouse stirred Kissen.

She stood with her staff, her hand going to her cutlass, but it was Bahba who hurried through, followed by Lessa and Inara, and then Skedi, who popped out of the sleeve of Inara’s dress.

None of them looked happy.

‘Shit,’ said Kissen. ‘Irisia won’t help?’

‘Worse,’ said Inara glumly. ‘We think Restish is planning to attack.’