Page 17

CHAPTER

Seventeen

F ENN WAS HANGING back in the waiting room when they emerged, a large cedarwood box tucked under his arm. Cain skirted past him—off to tell his abbot the news, and work out a new strategy. He was furious about everything, but would never show it. All Fenn saw of the Fox contender was a wide, dangerous grin—and he was gone.

Fenn laid the box carefully on top of the display case. The lid was inlaid with a large ∞ picked out in bronze. Neema had seen it before—she knew what lay inside. Fenn took out a key, and unlocked it.

“Don’t,” she blurted. Once he opened that box, it was over, it was real. She put a hand on the lid. “I need a moment.”

This was Fenn’s uniform, from the previous Festival. Barely twenty-two years old, when he competed for the throne. Too young, really—another five years of training and he might have won. If Empress Haven had not fallen sick and abdicated sooner than expected, Fenn might have been ruler of Orrun. Instead—as the bronze ∞ denoted—he had come third, behind Bersun for the Bears, and Andren Valit for the Tigers. Quite a long way behind, to be honest. But still, it had been the best result for an Ox contender in over two centuries.

Fenn was a legend, in his understated way. The thought of wearing his uniform filled Neema with a kind of anticipatory shame. She wasn’t a warrior, she wasn’t a contender. Humiliation was guaranteed. Humiliation while dressed in an Ox hero’s uniform would be even worse.

“Does this make any sense to you?” she asked him.

Fenn snorted at the general concept of things making sense. Had she not lived thirty-four years in this ludicrous world? “Could have been worse. Kindry wanted you to wear Gaida’s uniform, as a tribute. Not the spare, you understand. The one she was stabbed in.”

“Eight,” Neema muttered, and then, after a valiant fight, “Sorry, but it’s actually Lord Kindry, now.”

Fenn gave her a tired look. “Just make the noise, Neema.”

“The noise” was the sound she always made, when she was given a task she didn’t want, didn’t think she was up to, but had to accept. A long, defeated sigh, ending in an irritable growl. Fenn had heard it a lot.

“Haaahhahhhurrghhh,” she said, and removed her hand from the lid.

Fenn opened the box. The uniform was wrapped in tissue paper, sealed with bronze wax. “Haven’t taken this out for a while,” he said, breaking the seal.

They stared together at the uniform, the tunic folded to best display the wide curved horns of the Ox sigil. Even Fenn seemed subdued, remembering his younger self, and what he might have been. Then he sniffed. “Yeah, I’d have hated it. Go on.”

Neema lifted out the black silk tunic and trousers and crossed to an embroidered screen to change. It hadn’t been there earlier—Fenn must have set it up. Behind the screen she found a pair of black canvas martial shoes, a needle and thread, and a black patch to cover the Ox sigil. He thought of everything, the High Engineer. Anticipation was half the battle, when you had as many responsibilities as he did.

She held the trousers to her hips. “I’ll need to dart the waistband,” she called over the screen, then set to work.

While he waited, Fenn talked her through the day’s schedule. Essentially it hadn’t changed, except that the breaks were shorter, to make up for the late start. Morning fights on the parade ground. A brief stop for lunch followed by the first Trial, which would take place in the imperial vaults, bordering the Fox palace. After the Trial—which was expected to take about two hours “but you know Foxes and time-keeping”—another, shorter break. Then back to the parade ground for the afternoon fights.

“You’ve missed the bit where I solve Gaida’s murder,” Neema said, tying off the stitches. “When am I supposed to do that?”

“You could interrogate me now,” Fenn suggested.

She pulled on the trousers, poked her head around the screen. “Why would I interrogate you?”

“I was at the Raven palace last night. You waved. I waved. Remember?”

She remembered. She could see him now, smoking on a bench in the dark. “Why would you kill her, though?”

“I wouldn’t.” He slapped imaginary dust from his palms. “There you go. One suspect out of the way.”

She retreated behind the screen and placed the black patch over the Ox sigil. She would try to keep the stitches light. Contender uniforms were treasured artefacts. Fenn wouldn’t care if she damaged it, but his children might. “So what were you doing, then?”

“Hiding.”

“From?”

“Everyone.” He mimicked a trio of courtiers. “‘Fenn—the algae’s spreading in the Grand Canal.’ ‘Fenn—the hinges on the Guardian Gate need oiling.’ ‘Fenn, there’s an emergency—Lady Harmony needs you to build her a new gazebo.’”

“No one asks for a gazebo in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, do they not?” he asked sarcastically, because they very much did.

“You weren’t hiding,” Neema decided. “Even I noticed you sitting there, and I was…” she searched for the right word to describe her semi-delirious state.

“Mangled,” Fenn suggested for her, and then, as if she’d twisted his arm, “All right, fine—I was waiting for you.” He lowered his voice. The emperor was still in his rooms, with Vabras. “He shouldn’t have lost his temper with you at the ceremony. So, you made a mistake and we all had to listen to a sad song about a mountain. That’s no reason to destroy you, in front of the whole court. For fuck’s sake. I came to tell you that, before you left. Share a spliff, say goodbye. Then you walked through a hedge with a lizard on your shoulder and I thought, maybe I’ll write a letter.” He gave a rumbling laugh.

Neema was touched, but too awkward to say so. She put on the tunic. “Did you see anyone else while you were waiting?”

“Nope. No one. Just you.” He put a hand over his mouth, to cover his smile. Neema had emerged from behind the screen, looking hilarious. She was only a couple of inches shorter than him, but Fenn was a big man, packed with a lot of muscle. The trousers looked more like a skirt, there was so much extra material. The tunic sloped off one shoulder, and swung loosely about her thighs.

She made a helpless gesture, that made it even funnier. “For Eight’s sake, Fenn. This is madness.”

“You’ll have your own set by tomorrow. Ask me another question, that’ll make you feel better.” Ravens and their questions.

“How long were you sitting in the garden?” He would have had a prime view of Gaida’s apartment from his bench. And her own, for that matter.

“Hard to say.” Fenn brought an imaginary spliff to his lips, in explanation.

“Roughly, then.”

He moved his hand back and forth, the spliff still in his fingers. “An hour and a half? You and the hedge were maybe the halfway point.”

“Did you see anyone close Gaida’s shutters? Any movement at all?” Did you see me?

“Nothing. Damn.” A thought had struck him. “Were they waiting for me to leave so they could kill her?” He winced at the thought. “Poor Gaida.”

Neema pulled her tunic back on to her shoulder. It slid off the other side. “How am I supposed to fight in this? How am I supposed to fight in anything ? I’m not a warrior, Fenn. Not even close. I was going to spend the Festival researching seventh-century prison ballads.” She gave him a beseeching look, as if he could cast a spell and make that still happen.

“Well you’re in luck with today’s fight,” he said, instead. “Shal won’t hurt you if he can avoid it. Hound Code of Ethics. No honour in injuring someone weaker than you.”

“I’m fighting Shal Worthy?” Neema squeaked, in a tiny voice.

“Yes, you’re fighting Shal Worthy,” Fenn squeaked in reply, amusing himself. “This afternoon. For now, we just have to get you to the square. Come on. You don’t want to hold up the Festival.”

Yes I do, Neema thought. I really, really do.

It wasn’t a long walk to the parade ground, but it felt long. The first day of the Festival was running two hours late. Of the sixteen hundred courtiers who’d come to watch the fights, more than half had abandoned their seats to cool off inside. They gathered in clusters, talking about Gaida, and how terrible it was. Shocking. The fact that the killer had used the Blade of Peace was being kept quiet from the general court—Vabras had seen to that, no need to start a panic. But the murder of a contender was more than enough to frighten the superstitious. Would the Second Guardian seek retribution? The Raven had keen eyes and a long memory. It held grudges.

In this febrile atmosphere, the vision of Neema Kraa hurrying through the imperial palace dressed in black triggered shock and disbelief, followed swiftly by outrage. What was this—a tasteless joke? Last night’s disgraced High Scholar, elevated to contender? Impossible. People turned to their Raven friends for explanation, but they were equally confused. “She can’t be,” a senior lawyer said, emphatically. People began to jostle and shove to get a better view.

“Keep moving,” Fenn said, touching his hand to the small of Neema’s back. He knew how these things could turn.

Outside, he waved down a couple of Hounds to take her the rest of the way. Other duties called. “I’ll meet you at the armoury after the Fox Trial.”

“The armoury?”

“You need to choose your weapons.”

“Weapons? I thought we just…” Neema moved her hands in a chopping motion.

Fenn scrunched his face. “What? Massaged each other to death?”

The Hounds exchanged amused glances.

“Yasthala’s rules,” Fenn reminded her. “Three rounds, the second with weapons.” He gave her a pointed look. “Your idea, Neema. More authentic, you said.”

He was right. She had suggested it. Back when she thought she’d be safely squirrelled away in the library. Back when the idea of Gaida having to fight had filled her with secret glee. “I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I’M GOING TO DIE.”

“Just yell stop,” Fenn said. He was used to dealing with meltdowns; they happened a lot at court, and to be fair to Neema, over much pettier problems. “You know this.”

She did know this. It was one of the few alterations the committee had made to the original Festival. Back in Yasthala’s day, the contenders were expected to fight to the death, should it come to that. Over time, the weapons round had disappeared, and formal rules and restrictions had been added, to reduce the risk of serious injury. Now those rules and restrictions had been removed, and the weapons were back. The fights would be bloodier than they had been for centuries. After protests from some of the contingents, the Festival committee had created one safety net. Call stop, and the fight was over. The contender would lose the fight instantly, and would be penalised half a point. Not to mention the huge loss of face, and an embarrassing note in the official History of the Festival. But no one had to die out on the platform, if they were prepared to swallow their pride.

“You can shout stop the moment they ring the bell, if you want,” Fenn pointed out.

“I can’t do that. People will laugh.”

“Neema, listen to me for a moment, this is serious. No matter what you do, no matter what you say…” Fenn reached out and straightened her flappy, over-sized tunic. “They are going to piss themselves.”

The parade ground. A vast, featureless cobbled square covering the space between the Dragon palace and the Grand Canal. A barren place, scorched in summer, bleak in winter. Courtiers rarely cross it; they skirt the edges, though it takes longer. Too exposed. Only the Hounds use it, for their daily drills. Stamp, stamp, turn, stamp, stamp, halt—all that business. Very neat, they are, very sharp. During the purges, the parade ground doubled up as a place of execution. Yaan Rack died here, a quarter hour kicking his heels upon the rope, eyes bulging, tongue turning blue.

Now it is transformed into the Festival Square.

The best place to view this miracle is from the imperial balcony, on the fourth floor of the Dragon palace. Well of course the emperor is granted the best view. So do come and join us—yes, hello, we are here, perched on the balustrade, biding our time and being magnificent.

Look down, if you will, and marvel at the spectacle. What was grey and desolate is filled with noise and colour. Wooden stalls rise up on three sides of the square, brightly painted with Guardian sigils. Long, padded benches for the comfort of our noble spectators. Vendors move up and down the aisles, offering sweet and salty snacks in paper cones, drinks and fans and ribbons on sticks, for some reason people love the ribbons on sticks. They are finding their seats again, called back by a blare of trumpets. Courtiers, honoured guests and contingent members pack the galleries, row upon row, shouting over each other to be heard.

On the remaining north side of the square lies the contenders’ pavilion—a glamorous black silk extravagance with carved mahogany props. It is filled with all manner of luxuries and refreshments, most of which the contenders will not touch. A tent with some iced water would have sufficed, but this is the Festival of the Eight, and in a few days one of these warriors will be emperor, or empress.

Close to the pavilion, and equally well stocked—a white canvas medical tent. Pristine, for now.

And finally, taking centre stage and the reason everyone is gathered here: the raised fight platform. From this imperial vantage point, you can clearly see the giant, golden ∞ on the canvas.

Look closer and you will also make out Ish Fort, Abbot of Anat-russir, testing the side ropes. A notably seedy old white man, he has made no effort to clean himself up, even though the honour of opening the Festival belongs to him. His orange robes resemble a tatty old dressing gown, rope tied loosely over his pot belly. His white hair, lank with grease, has a yellowish tinge, his cheeks are unshaven. He looks, in fact, as though he has been plucked at random from the floor of the cheapest tavern in Armas, and prodded out here by mistake. But appearances, with Foxes, can be deceptive. Still chatting with his assistant, Fort jumps nimbly on to a corner post and balances there, continuing his conversation as he rope-walks his way around the platform.

As he does this, there is a second blare of horns and the contenders emerge from their pavilion and line up in Guardian order. Over there to your right, look. Six warriors dressed in black, you can just make them out. Shal Worthy at the far end. For once, the Hound contender’s innate elegance has escaped him. He is not well this morning; were it not for his training he would be languishing in the medical tent. There is a silver bucket at his feet, he looks as if he might need to use it again shortly.

Next in line comes Havoc Arbell-Ranor for the Monkeys, legs wide as if he were at the prow of his Leviathan, sailing to victory. Katsan Brundt, the Bear contender, stands sentinel beside him, hands clasped behind her back. Two things we can guess—that Gaida’s murder will have cut her deep, and that Neema’s elevation will have only added to her anger and her grief. But she gives nothing away, eyes fixed on mid-distance, locked up in the prison of her own discipline.

Tala Talaka, in contrast, is beaming up at the crowds, drawing energy from them. She has spoken passionately and openly of her ambition to modernise the court, to dismantle the system of privileges and favours upon which so much of the imperial island is run. This would make her unpopular if people thought she might win. Given the strength of her rivals, the court is free to find the young contender’s views refreshing and thought-provoking.

Ruko takes nothing from the crowds. He does not want their energy, or need it. A Tiger draws his power from within. He stands alone, beautiful and terrible. The voice he carries inside him—the voice he has become—tells him all he needs to know. I will win. I will rule.

Next to him a space, where Gaida should be.

And finally Cain. Can you see the difference in his imperial silk uniform, the way it drapes across his lean but martial frame? So subtle, the quality it gives him, the hidden confidence. His clear green eyes sweep the packed-out stalls—once a spy, always a spy—then snag on a solitary figure dressed in black, entering the square from the south-east corner.

Neema. She is here. Let us join her.

Neema had never felt so exposed as she stepped into the square. Alone: abandoned by her Hound escorts. Everywhere she looked, from the coveted front benches to the highest row, she was met with anger and disapproval. Folded arms, curled lips. Someone in the western stalls set off a wave of booing that moved through the square, until the Hounds barked orders for them to stop.

The Raven contingent was huddled together, dressed in matching purple uniforms. They watched her approach with sullen, tear-streaked faces. Clearly, Kindry hadn’t told them of the deal he’d struck with the emperor. They thought she’d orchestrated this herself—that she actually wanted this. She had to bite back a laugh, it was so preposterous. This wasn’t her dream, it was her nightmare.

Janric, her old assistant, stepped out to confront her. Like the rest of them, he wore a grey mourning patch over his heart, for Gaida. For added impact, he’d wrapped a silver-grey headscarf over his braids. Nothing said grief like a fancy headscarf. “Shame on you,” he spat. “You will never be my contender.”

Neema kept her eyes and her voice level. “Then I dismiss you from my contingent.”

Janric looked stricken. His parents had paid a fortune to see his name added to the official History of the Festival. His contingent uniform alone had cost five gold tiles. But more than the money, it was the loss of privilege and prestige that pained him. The front row seats, the access to the contenders’ pavilion. The swaggering. “You can’t—”

“But she can,” Kindry interrupted him, smoothly. “Neema Kraa is our contender now. Painful as that may be.” He patted the mourning patch that covered his heart.

There was a long, awkward pause as Janric waited for someone to speak up in his defence. When no support came he stalked off without a word, fists bunched.

“Thank you,” Neema said.

Kindry gave a shallow bow and spoke not to her, but to the contingent. “It is our duty to support our contender, whatever reservations we may have,” he reminded them. He let his eyes trail slowly down Neema’s baggy uniform. “Let us pray she does not disgrace the Raven with her performance.”

Neema felt a swell of rebellion. Fine, she was no contender—they could all agree on that. But she would do her best. She would not shame the Flock.

Kindry took out a fan and flapped it in front of his face. “I hear you’ve put yourself in charge of the investigation. Do you not worry there’s a conflict of interest, given your…” flap, flap, flap, “ history with Gaida?”

“The emperor isn’t worried,” Neema replied, neatly.

“Yes.” Kindry closed his fan with a snap. “I wonder if his majesty’s indulgence will last the Festival?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I wouldn’t count on it, my dear.”

Neema whispered back, in his ear. “I’m not your dear.”

They both drew back, smiling matching fake smiles.

“Very true,” Kindry murmured. “Absolutely true.”