Page 49

SKEDI KNEW INARA WOULD DO WHAT SHE DID BEST: GET into trouble.

They went back in the cart with Telle and Yatho, while Bahba went to send messages to her allies on the Mithrik council. Elo’s mother must trust Albia, considering how much effort she had put into their meeting, the sweet luxury of the meal, and the closeness of the danger.

She said she intended a rescue, but Skedi was sceptical.

She had also thought she would be able to kidnap Inara and her mother and whisk them away in plain sight without bloodshed.

He knew they would have brawled with every scrap of their beings rather than be taken prisoner, and so would the others.

And if Bahba could underestimate them, then they couldn’t trust her fully. Kissen was right, a hundred things could go wrong.

But all Inara could think about was the Restish, and the shrine she had spotted in the harbour.

He won’t know us, Skedi told her. Gods do not remember, even if they become again.

We will make him remember. Or make him an offering.

What can you offer, Ina? More hair? Your blood? How much is too much?

They passed other god-celebrations, lantern festivals, priests, hundreds of little altars that permeated every stone and brick and wall of the city. The city’s language was movement, its lifeblood its ever-flowing tides of peoples, traders, pirates, dockers, lords and ruffians.

There were gods too. Some shrines had only incense inside them, but at others, a deity had manifested and come into the open.

A jesting god danced on air before a gathering of people clapping to her rhythm, their colours bright with worship.

She wore a painted mask of carved wood over her mouth, its lips turned upwards in a wide smile as she beat the air with her feet, power and energy in her step.

Music rang out, and Skedi saw Inara’s feet twitch with the call of the god’s will, her fingers stretching for a coin to offer.

The god’s eyes were shimmering pools of gold, entrancing, and her hair hung in long braids to her ankles.

Thrum, thrum, a story comes, settle your seat and tap your thumbs …

Another god was in the shape of a small black cat on quiet white paws, but six of them. It sped behind some screaming, running children before disappearing in a gust of smoke.

‘Are you two speaking?’ said Yatho, and Inara jumped.

Skedi looked up: the cart had come to a halt again, and Skedi realised they had let the city go by in silence and they were back at the warehouse.

It was late, but the street was bustling.

People who worked and lived there were drinking and carousing or playing games with their children on the cobbles.

Inara smiled apologetically. I’m sorry, she signed.

‘She’s worried,’ said Skedi out loud to Yatho as Telle alighted with a swift leap, ‘about her mother. And Kissen.’

Inara didn’t glance at him, and he was pleased that his lie was so smooth.

She was worried about Kissen and her mother.

The two bickered like cats around a scrap of fish, but Skedi knew they would look out for each other.

As a child, Inara had seen her mother as almost divine, while her first meeting with Kissen she’d been less than impressed, but now she saw them both as human.

Skedi wondered how she saw him now. No longer a pet, nor a treacherous god.

The two of them had enough failures and successes that they wove into one rich history.

Telle used a key to enter the warehouse this time.

Inside, they walked into paper-and-vellum-scented silence.

Strange and thick after the happy chatter of the evening.

As they passed the crates of manuscripts Skedi felt a rush of amazement that so much had made it here to Irisia, so much had been saved.

And yet Telle had separated one, and given it to Inara.

Inara motioned to Telle, who tipped a quizzical brow. The scroll you gave me, Inara signed. The song about the storm god’s child. Telle nodded. What did you mean by it? It was sad.

His girl was getting better at asking for what she needed, understanding her own frailties. Skedi was proud of her.

You wanted to find out what you were, replied Telle. But you didn’t need me for that. Instead, I wanted you to have something more precious.

What?

To know that you are not alone.

To not be alone. What a precious thing. He thought of his shrine and took off from Inara’s shoulder, gliding over the paper dust and ahead through the quiet foyer with its running fountain.

He was like an owl in the dark, and landed softly beside his own statue, the last curls of sandalwood incense floating up around him.

Fresh ink had been poured into his bowl, and he felt the warmth of it in him.

Solom had added his own fancy to his creation, this ‘god of tales’, but Skedi didn’t mind it.

Solom was an archivist, he wanted a god that suited him.

There were five teacups still on the table by the fountain, two half-drunk. One of them lay on its side in a pool of water.

Yatho and the others came through, We should sleep if we can, the smith was saying with a sigh. Her colours were troubled by darker grey, not far off mourning-dark. Worried about Kissen, or Middren, or both. It will be a long wait till morning …

She frowned, looking at the fountain, and Skedi followed her gaze: the water was tinged a strange colour, even in the moonlight. Reddish.

Then beyond, half hidden between the chairs were two pairs of feet in soft shoes.

Inara stepped forward, her face stricken, and Skedi stood on his hind legs. Cal and Solom lay together, their faces frightened, their throats cut. Dead. Skedi had not noticed them, for all their colours were gone.

His first faithful, dead.

‘ Run! ’ Yatho signed and spoke, turning her chair towards Telle who had pressed her hands to her mouth in horror.

But then there was a shift of feet in the dark, at the top of the stairs above Skedi, and Yatho grabbed Telle’s hand and pointed.

A glow of light, and someone stepped out of the door into the house.

‘Do not move,’ said a voice Skedi recognised. He shrank. ‘We have crossbows.’

‘Mitha Imani,’ said Inara, determinedly not glancing at him. How could they? Solom was irascible perhaps, but in his heart he was a kind man. Even Cal disliked everyone but him. They didn’t deserve to die, after making it so far, saving so much from Lesscia.

Survive first. Grieve later.

Skedi leaned forward, slowly, so he could peer out from under his shrine’s roof. The Mitha had stepped out onto the stair with two men, promised bows in hand, drawn and ready to fire. They were not looking at him. They hadn’t seen him.

‘I understand you have been speaking with Mitha Bahba,’ said Imani. Her colours were heavy, threatening, purple like the uniforms of her guards, flaring a bright, vivid turquoise with suspicion. ‘What did you discuss?’

‘Discuss?’ said Inara, clearly thinking quickly. Telle and Yatho’s colours were churning with fear. ‘She took Mama and me out for dinner with our friends.’

Help me lie, Skedi, she said. She didn’t need to ask. Skedi pressed his will with her words, using his strength to nudge Imani’s colours, slightly, gently, softening them.

She knows nothing.

Telle was shifting closer to Yatho, slipping a hand into the bag at the back of her chair while Yatho did her best to look small.

‘We know her son,’ Inara added. ‘A-are you here to see her? Are Cal and Solom all right? Can I—’ She stepped towards them, and one of Imani’s guards fired.

The bolt struck the floor before Inara’s feet and ricocheted, flying past Inara and leaving a cracked tile behind.

She let out a squeak and it took all of Skedi’s control to not cry out.

Inara knew the lightlessness of death as well as Skedi did, but feigned naivety might play in her favour, perhaps even lower their guard.

And it took her another step away from Yatho and Telle.

‘Stay where you are,’ said Imani. They were coming down the stairs now. The archers with their crossbows held steady and sure, but all three of them were looking at Inara. Skedi’s will telling them, Not a threat, not a threat at all. You have her cornered. Just a child …

‘Where is your quya ?’ said Imani. Skedi kept his wings and ears down. They had not detected his voice or his will.

‘My “ quya” ?’ said Inara. ‘What is that?’

‘I thought you knew Irisian?’ Imani scowled. ‘A god, child. Where is the god who was with you?’

‘Skediceth w-went back to his shrine on the ship,’ she lied. ‘Where are the archivists, and Bea and his brother? Are they hurt?’

‘Ah, good,’ said Imani. All three of them relaxed. ‘It is bad luck to harm a quya. ’

‘Please,’ said Inara, her hands trembling; she looked at Imani, pleading, and Skedi wasn’t sure how much of it was real and how much pretend. ‘Tell me they’re not hurt.’

‘No one else will be hurt if you come peacefully,’ said Imani, without remorse.

‘Where? Why?’

There wasn’t supposed to be anyone there for Inara. Why would they want her?

Imani straightened her shoulders, standing as if about to pronounce an execution. ‘You, little girl, are to be the last surviving heir of House Craier,’ she said, stopping between the stairs and the fountain, still flanked by the watchful guards. ‘And we will assist you to the Middrenite throne.’

There was no twist of deceit in her colours, no lie.

They don’t want Lessa on the throne, Skedi threw across into Inara’s mind. They want you.

A child. Someone they could manipulate.

‘My mother is dead?’ Inara said, her voice hoarse. Skedi knew what she was thinking: what of Kissen? Would they kill them both? Were they walking into certain death?

Skedi, she thought to him. Can you get to the ship’s shrine?