Page 16

CHAPTER

Sixteen

T HE EMPEROR WAS perched on an embroidered couch, drinking tea from a porcelain cup. It didn’t suit him, or his mood. A rocky ledge would have been better, in a thunderstorm.

Hurun-tooth lay on a low, gilded table in front of him. The most dangerous weapon in existence—if you believed in curses. The blade had been wiped clean.

The door servant ushered them through. “Contender Ballari. Citizen Kraa. Prostrate yourselves,” she said, then gestured to the floor in case they did not know where it was.

Lying there on her stomach, next to Cain, Neema realised she was lying in roughly the same position she had found Gaida. She couldn’t have fallen like that, it wasn’t natural. Her killer must have arranged her that way. Neema felt a twinge in the middle of her spine, where the blade should be.

Gaida had looked peaceful. How could she look peaceful, with a knife in her back? Had the killer arranged her expression, too? Was that even possible?

The servant droned the usual formalities over their heads. Bersun had toyed with abandoning this tedious protocol when he first took power. In more recent years he had come to appreciate its purpose, though he used it sparingly. No one else in Orrun could demand full prostration. If he wished, the emperor might hold them there for hours, face to the floor. Or not. His exercise of that choice was as much a sign of his power as the iron band he wore as a crown.

Neema, exhausted, was in danger of drifting off. The silk rug she was lying on was very soft, and smelled powerfully of the imperial scent. Frankincense… patchouli… She was sliding towards sleep when an image of Gaida slammed into her mind. The fly on the wound, the sucking sound of the blade. Acid bile rose again in her throat. She swallowed it down.

“… rise and hail His Majesty, Bersun the Second.”

Cain and Neema got back up and recited their line in unison. “See How Orrun is Restored in His—”

“Murdered,” Bersun spat, cutting them off. “On my watch . ” The tea sloshed in his hand, scalding his fingers. Furious, he threw the cup at the wall.

Poor cup , Neema thought, as it smashed against a tapestry. Now someone would have to make a new one, and someone else would have to soak the tea out of the tapestry, a portrait of the Guardians in a tree, which had never made much sense to her. What were they doing in there? The Ox looked especially uncomfortable. This was probably not what she should be focusing on.

Sweat poured down her back, sticking her overalls to her skin. The room was stifling, the air laden with a haze of moisture. Usually the doors would be open on to the courtyard with its cooling fountains and sweet birdsong. Today they were barred and guarded. There was a killer at large on the island. The emperor must be protected, even if that left him sweating. No clockwork fans in the eighth palace—they would ruin the painted ceilings. He could use a hand fan, but that would look preposterous, a little fan in his giant paw. Bersun had always struggled with scale in these dainty, elegant rooms, like an adult in a child’s playhouse.

He gestured to the Blade of Peace, looked pointedly at Cain. “Someone stole that from Contender Valit’s quarters.”

“An outrage,” Cain murmured. “Do we know how it was stolen, your majesty? I thought Contender Valit was supposed to carry it on his person at all times?”

A good point. Neema turned, and gave him an appraising look.

“Not just a devastatingly handsome face,” Cain said. And then, slyly, “Perhaps it wasn’t stolen.”

Bersun considered this, frowning. “Why the Eight would he kill Contender Rack?” He. Ruko Valit. The boy.

“Yes, that would be out of character,” Cain conceded. “Ruko would never kill a young woman—a sister for example—just to clear his path to the throne. That is something he has categorically never done. Killed his own sister.”

Bersun shot him a warning look. “High Scholar. What are your thoughts on this?”

A correcting murmur from Hol Vabras, in the shadows. “Citizen Kraa, your majesty.”

Bersun grunted, and inspected Neema properly for the first time. Was there a flicker of regret, for how he had treated her last night? “What is this, a new fashion?”

Neema looked down at her gardening overalls, her clumpy boots. “Travel clothes, your majesty.” She shifted, bunched her fists anxiously, then opened them again.

The emperor had spent enough time in her company to recognise the sign. More bad news. “Go on. Spit it out.”

She took a breath, preparing herself. “I was poisoned last night.”

“Poisoned?” The emperor sat up in alarm.

Touched by his concern, she lifted a hand to reassure him— I’m fine . “My bath oil was spiked with Dragonscale. It’s a very rare, potent drug, extracted from—”

“We know of it,” the emperor stopped her. He looked stricken.

Vabras, true to form, showed no feeling on the matter. But a very close observer—Shal Worthy, perhaps—might have noticed a moment’s absence, a retreat within himself as he processed the information. “You think you may have killed her under its influence.”

Neema lifted her chin. “I fear it’s a possibility, High Commander.”

“Fuck the Eight,” Cain muttered to himself.

“Contender Rack chose to sleep with her shutters open last night,” Neema said, to Vabras. She had prepared this speech for his benefit. Vabras expected information to be served to him like a lean piece of meat—no fat, no gristle, no garnish. “When I returned to my rooms at two thirty they were still open. When I found her this morning, they were closed. She could have shut them herself, but given the deliberate positioning of the body, it seems more likely that the killer pulled them closed before leaving via the balcony. Considering this, and the condition of the body, I believe that Contender Rack was stabbed well before dawn.”

Vabras nodded for her to continue.

Neema steeled herself. “I have no memory of those hours.”

“Because you were knocked out cold!” Cain burst in. “A high dose of Dragonscale—”

“Do we know it was a high dose?” Vabras asked, sharply.

Cain didn’t answer, because he wasn’t supposed to know.

“So,” Vabras said, to Neema. “You could have killed Gaida in a trance state.”

“Yes.”

“Because she humiliated you at the opening ceremony.”

“Yes.” And because of Yaan Rack’s folder—but she kept that to herself.

“You’re not a killer, Neema,” the emperor said, gently.

Tears flooded her eyes. “I hope not. But I was drugged, I was upset… Her apartment is directly above my own… If I’m not sure—what about the rest of the court? How soon before I’m judged and found guilty—with or without proof?”

“There will be a formal investigation,” Vabras said.

“But how long will that take?” She crossed her arms in a quick Raven salute, to show she meant no disrespect. “The Festival is about to begin, you have a thousand calls upon your time. Can you even spare a senior officer to investigate?”

“What is it you ask of us?” the emperor said. But he had already guessed. He was a shrewd man.

“Your majesty.” Neema dropped to her knees. “Let me lead the inquiry.”

“Fuck the Eight,” Cain muttered again.

“You know how persistent I am once I have a task in hand. No one needs to find Gaida’s killer more than I do. I can’t live with this hanging over my head. I have to prove my innocence—to myself as much as anyone.”

The emperor remained silent, undecided.

She tried again. “Your majesty, the last boat has already left—

I can’t go anywhere. Give me these eight days of the Festival. You have my word—I will find Gaida’s killer for you.”

“And if the evidence points in your direction?” Vabras asked.

“Then I shall accept my punishment. I am a Raven. We live and die by the law.”

There was a pause, while the emperor considered the implications. A fresh cup of tea had appeared in his enormous fist. He blew on the surface, then drank. “You have four days. Keep the High Commander informed of your findings.” He jerked his chin. Up.

Neema rose and gave a deep Raven’s salute. “Thank you, your majesty.” Four days should be plenty of time—which was why she’d asked for eight. The emperor had a habit of halving the time his courtiers asked for. His legendary impatience.

“She will need an imperial pass,” he said.

Vabras nodded—it would be done. The pass would give Neema the authority to go wherever she pleased within the palaces, and interview whoever she wished.

The emperor offered Neema a smile. It was small and brief, but she could see the apology in it, for the opening ceremony. “You will find our killer, Neema, I have no doubt. You will assist her, Ballari.”

Cain was dumbfounded. “Your majesty—I can’t spare the time. I’m fighting for the throne—”

“An emperor never has time. This will be a good lesson for you.” Another, less friendly smile.

“What about Contender Worthy—he’s used to this kind of work. Or Ruko Valit. The Blade is his responsibility, surely—”

“You question the emperor’s wisdom?” Vabras murmured.

Cain skidded to a halt. Some borders were too dangerous to cross, even for a Fox.

Neema, meanwhile, was contemplating the Blade of Peace, lying on the low table in front of her. Start with the weapon. Even displayed on an ornate silver tray, it looked ordinary. And Gaida’s death proved it wasn’t cursed. Only its provenance gave it power—

handed down from warrior to warrior. This might be the first time it had left the Tigers’ possession since Yasthala had handed it to them. She was struggling to think of a reason why Ruko would part with it.

So had he killed Gaida? Was it as simple as that? If Gaida had discovered something damaging about the Tiger warrior, and confronted him about it, just as she had confronted Neema last night… Gaida was certainly fearless enough to challenge anyone if she thought she was in the right. And Gaida always thought she was in the right.

But even so, Ruko wouldn’t be reckless enough to use the Blade of Peace to kill her. And he certainly wouldn’t leave it behind for someone to find.

A clumsy attempt to frame him, then.

A clumsy attempt by someone subtle enough to steal the dagger from Ruko’s side in the first place. Someone who didn’t believe in curses, or prophecies, or vengeful Guardians. Someone who would very much like to knock Ruko off his stride. Someone exactly like the man standing right next to her.

Would Cain really kill Gaida just to throw suspicion on a rival?

The truth was, Neema didn’t know what Cain was capable of any more. An imperial assassin, competing for the throne—what would he not do?

Another thought came to her, one she should have considered from the start. “Are we sure it’s the real Blade?”

“Yes,” Bersun said, and then, to Vabras: “Show them.”

Vabras picked up the knife and placed the blade into the flame of the nearest candle. The flame hissed and spat in protest, before turning an eerie shade of sea-green, and then—even more disturbing—a deep indigo.

“Cursed by the Raven empress, to the end of the world,” Bersun said, his voice lowered in awe.

Cain shot Neema a dubious look. Cain did not believe in magic. He believed in trickery, and fakery, and deception.

Vabras withdrew the blade from the flame and touched his finger against the steel. Cold. He placed the knife back on the table.

“The Tigers have confirmed it was stolen,” Bersun said. He lifted a craggy eyebrow. “I suppose we must believe them. I suggest you begin there. Find the thief, find the killer.”

“What will happen to it now?” Neema asked.

“ The boy has demanded its return. Insolent brat. If he’s careless enough to lose it, he does not deserve to hold it. We shall keep it in our possession until the Festival is done.”

Vabras inclined his head in approval.

“Now,” Bersun said. His mood had improved dramatically. “To the matter at hand.”

Neema frowned, puzzled. There was another matter?

“We need a new Raven contender.” Bersun slung his empty cup at a servant and said, to Cain, “You designed this morning’s Trial, I hear.”

As the Fox contender, Cain could not take part in the First Trial, but he could organise it. He spread his arms like a carnival showman. “A bespoke experience, tailored to each contender’s personal history and character.”

Neema’s brain whirred ahead. Cain would have to adapt the Trial to suit Gaida’s replacement. Neema could help him with that—she knew all the potential candidates.

“Well,” Bersun said. “It’s lucky you’re adaptable, Ballari. I’m sure you’ll find a way to test Contender Kraa as hard as the rest of them.”

Contender Kraa. Cain laughed.

The emperor did not. “Vabras—the colours.”

Vabras pulled out the purple armband he’d removed from Gaida’s corpse and scraped off a patch of dried blood with his thumbnail.

“You’re not serious.” Cain looked from Vabras, to the emperor, to Neema, searching for someone to assure him that this was a joke. A very stupid, not even remotely funny joke.

Neema couldn’t speak. Everything was happening too fast. She watched, dazed, as Vabras handed the Raven colours to the emperor.

“She’s not a contender,” Cain said.

Neema found her voice. “He’s right. I’m not… I can’t.”

“She’s a scholar,” Cain said. “She sits down for a living. She’s a scholar ,” he repeated.

“My High Scholar,” Bersun corrected, neatly forgetting that he’d dismissed Neema from his service the night before. “And one of the most talented people I’ve ever met. She will do her Flock proud, I have no doubt.”

Neema couldn’t take it in. This wasn’t happening. It didn’t make any sense. Even if she were contender material, it wasn’t the emperor’s place to decide. Only the Ravens had the power to choose Gaida’s replacement. “I don’t… How…”

“ Laws of the Festival ,” Vabras said. ““In the event of a contender’s death by foul play, the head of the relevant contingent is responsible for selecting a replacement.”

“ Kindry chose me?”

“Lord Kindry,” Vabras said in a voice so dry it was a wonder his tongue didn’t crumble to dust. “Eternal.”

So that was it. After years of petitioning, they’d given Kindry the one thing he coveted above all else. Not just a title, but an hereditary one. They’d say it was for his years of service, but clearly it was the only way they could persuade him to select Neema as Gaida’s replacement. But why the Eight would they do that? Bersun loathed hereditary titles—he would have abolished them the moment he’d taken the throne, if they hadn’t been etched into Yasthala’s Truce. Now here he was casually handing one out to Kindry, simply to ensure Neema’s place in the contender line. It was more than puzzling, more than out of character. It was unethical. An emperor must play no part in choosing his successor. That was the whole point of Yasthala’s Five Rules.

The only thing that saved it was the fact that Neema stood no chance of winning.

“Your majesty, I thank you profoundly for this honour, but I must decline it. I have to focus on Gaida’s murder. Four days will be plenty, but not if I’m forced to divide my time—”

“If four days are plenty, why did you ask for eight?” The emperor was amused. “They double their estimates and think I won’t notice,” he said, to Vabras. “Four days will indeed be plenty. I have every faith in you, Neema Kraa. My most loyal and capable servant.” He regarded her fondly.

Neema’s heart sank. It was like Fenn always said. Make yourself useful, and you’re going to get used. “But I don’t want to be a contender,” she said, miserable. “I don’t want the throne.”

“Exactly,” Bersun wagged his finger at her. “I said the same to Brother Lanrik, when he made me his contender. Those exact words. I do not want the throne. D’you know what he said to me, in reply? He said: Brother—that is why I have chosen you. The throne is a burden to be carried, not a prize to be won .”

“But—”

“Enough,” he said, amiably. The emperor had a thousand ways of saying “enough,” but whatever the tone, every courtier knew that it was a final warning. Any further argument, and Neema would be facing a stint in the imperial dungeons. Which might be preferable, if she didn’t have a murder to solve.

Bersun lumbered to his feet, holding the purple band in both hands.

Neema stepped forward. What choice did she have?

He wrapped the band around her arm, making sure the black wings of the Raven sigil were visible and centred. “The blood’s hidden,” he assured her, as he tied the knot.

But it’s still there .

“The nice thing,” Cain said, folding his arms, “is that this is very much what Gaida would have wanted.”