Page 19

CHAPTER

Nineteen

L UNCH HAD BEEN set up in the imperial menagerie—a typically perverse decision by the Foxes. The tables were laid with silver cutlery and embroidered napkins, and the air stank of shit. This sort of juxtaposition delighted the followers of the First Guardian, and annoyed everyone else. A double win.

Cain was in a playful mood. The emperor, the investigation, Neema’s elevation to contender—all had been brushed away, like crumbs from his tunic. The Visitor was going to destroy Ruko for him. The one serious obstacle on his path to the throne would be removed, and he wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Was life not marvellous?

“How would you like to be my High Engineer?” he asked Tala, shovelling chicken salad on to his plate. They were sitting with Neema, next to an aviary filled with small angry parrots.

“How would you like to be mine?” Tala snapped back. She watched the parrots clawing their way along the bars, chewing at the locks. “When I’m empress I’m tearing this place down.”

“I’m tearing everything down,” Cain said.

“Good plan.” Tala never bothered to hide her frustration with the court. Too much power in too few hands, too many shady deals and suspicious accounting. Most Oxes felt the same way. They’d hoped things would change when Bersun came to power, and for a while they did. But somewhere along the way the Old Bear seemed to have given up. The rebellion, Fenn always said. Never the same after that. Andren Valit broke his heart, or his spirit, or both.

“Fix it yourself if it’s broken.” An Ox motto. Tala had the energy and confidence to mend things, Neema was sure of that. Partly her youth, but mostly her nature. Taking inspiration from her Guardian, Tala could plough her way through any problem, dragging everyone along with her. Head down, feet planted, day in, day out. She would toil for her empire.

And a Fox might be a good adviser for an Ox empress. The problem with ploughing along in straight lines is, you don’t always see what’s coming at you from your flank. A Fox saw things differently. Nose and whiskers in the air, constantly on the lookout for trouble, for adventure, for change.

The partnership could work, Neema thought, except for one problem. Tala and Cain were talking at cross purposes. When Cain said he wanted to tear down everything, Tala thought he meant the court. But he didn’t. He meant everything.

It didn’t occur to Neema to imagine what she would do, if she won. Kindry’s words had sunk deep. She would do her best in the Trials, if only to prove him and the wider Raven community wrong. She would not be an embarrassment to the Flock, or to Gaida’s memory—she would not let them write that version of history. But nor was she deluded. She knew she was not a real contender. Of course she wasn’t. The rest of them had trained and fought for years—they were the best of the best of the best. She couldn’t hope to match them.

Cain and Tala were arguing about which desultory post they would give each other, when they ruled Orrun. “You can be my Chief Arse Wiper,” Tala said. “You can be my High Scholar,” Cain shot back, and they both laughed—no, that really would be the worst fate of all, imagine wasting your life doing… whatever it was High Scholars did. “Sad things,” Tala suggested. “Sad things with paper,” Cain agreed.

Ignoring them, Neema looked out across the menagerie. Tucked behind the banqueting hall, it sat on the edge of the emperor’s private pleasure grounds. Bersun, who had never shown any interest in the collection, had allowed it to dwindle over the course of his reign. An elderly leopard lay stretched along a branch, fast asleep, tail dangling like a bell pull.

On a distant table Katsan and Havoc talked with their heads bowed close, ignoring a group of monkeys that reached through the bars, begging for food. Shal, still weak from his food poisoning, sat at the other end of the table, nursing a glass of water. Selfishly, Neema was glad he was distracted. Otherwise he might read the thought that kept turning over and over in her mind, a dark refrain she couldn’t shake.

I could have done it. I could have killed her. I could be a murderer. Sitting here in the sunshine, eating lunch.

She put down her fork.

To distract herself she turned to study Ruko, who was sitting cross-legged, meditating beneath a willow tree. He had removed his shoes, and she remembered a detail she’d heard about his martial training—how he always fought barefoot. He’d developed his own style, camping out alone in the forest for months at a time. Rumour was he practised by fighting wild animals—tusked boars, wolves, even bears. This seemed improbable to Neema—more the sort of dark rumour the Tigers might spread for tactical reasons. But she did know that of the twelve Tiger warriors Ruko had fought to become contender, three had died of their injuries, and several more would likely never fight again. That was terrifying enough for her.

Cain and Tala were still arguing about which of them would take the throne, but it would be Ruko, Neema was sure of it. He had the ruthless ambition, the focus, the self-control. Most of all, the need . Sacrificing his sister had left him with no choice—he had to win, or else he had killed her for nothing.

Could anyone here stop him? Katsan was better with a sword, no question. Shal had his Houndsight, Cain his wits, Tala her stamina. Havoc was the great all-rounder and a natural politician, admired by the court. But still Ruko towered above them, literally and figuratively. They would need another monster to keep this one from the throne.

As if she had conjured him, the Visitor appeared at the entrance to the menagerie. He had changed into his proxy uniform—silk tunic and cropped trousers in a dark sea-green, the colour of the ocean trapped under thick storm clouds. His sigil—a dragon twined into an eternal eight, eating its own tail—was embroidered in dark silver thread across his narrow chest. His pale arms were bare, for only contenders took their colours. Visitor Pyke was here for Ruko, not for the throne. As to why—that remained a puzzle. The Dragons had never interfered in the Festival before, they had always held themselves above such matters.

Ruko, sensing the Visitor’s presence, opened his eyes and rose gracefully to his feet in one slow, menacing movement. The rest of the contenders watched, fascinated, as two very different predators sized each other up across the patch of lawn.

At first glance, Ruko appeared to be the superior figure. But there was something about the Visitor that stopped the breath—that coiled strength, that brooding inner calm. Ruko had taken on the attributes of a tiger—grace, poise, power. But the Visitor was a dragon, transformed by fire into something beyond human. Even with his powers removed, this essential truth remained.

They had both fallen into fight stances, but neither made a move towards the other. When they fought, it would be to the death. If the Visitor killed a contender away from the Festival Square, it would spark a war between Helia and Orrun. The same, if Ruko killed the Visitor. So, they must wait.

The parrots screeched, breaking the moment. Cain laughed, because it proved his favourite theory—that if you held out long enough in any drama, no matter how terrible, something funny would happen. Usually a fart, so a parrot made a nice change. He stirred the fish stew he’d found… somewhere. Cain was always finding food… somewhere. He sniffed it, pulled a face, and ground in some black pepper.

The Visitor made his way to a table set apart from the rest. He moved without a sound, and left no mark where he walked, but the air was dense when he passed their table, and Neema thought again of the rhyme.

And in the morning when we woke

The Visitor was gone.

But where he’d lain the air was still

And heavy as a stone.

Tala waited until he was gone, then said, in a low voice, “I need to tell you both something. Sunur couldn’t sleep last night. She hates it here. She’s allergic to court life. Literally—it’s brought her out in a rash.”

“This stew is disgusting,” Cain said.

“Have you tried not eating it?” Neema suggested.

Cain blinked at this novel concept.

Tala rapped on the table to get their attention. “She went for a walk in the orchard to clear her head. She thought she’d have the place to herself, but she didn’t. He was there.” She lifted her chin in Ruko’s direction.

“The Ox orchard?” Neema frowned. The Tiger palace was on the opposite side of the canal.

“Sunur thought he was waiting for someone,” Tala said.

“And this was late?” Cain prodded doubtfully at the stew.

“Middle of the night, around three. He was still prowling up and down when she came back, over an hour later. That’s strange, right? Festival Eve. Why wasn’t he resting, or training?”

“Was he wearing the Blade?” Neema asked.

“I don’t know. I doubt she looked, but I can check.”

They sat back. Cain dropped his spoon in his bowl, despondent. “So it wasn’t him.”

Not only was Ruko over in the Ox orchard when Gaida was killed, but if he’d left the Blade in his rooms, that would have given the killer the perfect opportunity to steal it. “So he was lured out to meet someone who never showed up.”

“Someone who told him to come unarmed,” Cain guessed.

Neema clicked her fingers. Yes. “Then they took the Blade and used it to frame him.” She frowned again. Even as she said that last part, it didn’t sound plausible. Too clumsy.

“How about you?” Cain asked Tala out of nowhere. “Sunur was out, so… What’s your alibi?”

“Me?” Tala looked wounded. “I was asleep. Cain! I would never do something like that—”

“You’re not a suspect,” Neema reassured her. “You were talking about Gaida at our table last night, remember? How much you liked her.”

Tala’s expression softened. “I did like her. I can’t believe she’s dead. It doesn’t make any sense. Who would kill Gaida? Everyone loved her.”

“Universally adored,” Cain agreed. “It’s especially hard for Neema. They were like this.” He crossed his fingers.

“Gaida hated me,” Neema said, to Tala. There was no point pretending—it wasn’t exactly a secret. If Tala had spent more time at court, she would know this already. “That’s why Katsan’s so angry about the investigation.”

Tala was puzzled. “Why would Gaida hate you, Neema?”

“I know. Thank you. I never could work it out—”

“She was such an open, generous person,” Tala blundered on. “I can’t imagine her hating anyone, not without good reason…”

Neema sighed, defeated. She had tried before to describe the subtle ways Gaida had made her life miserable at the monastery—but it all sounded so trivial in isolation. Gaida was lovely. And so, it must be Neema’s fault.

“Is that all the contenders accounted for?” Cain asked, shifting the conversation back. “You know I loathe being diligent, but you only have four days to solve this.”

“We,” Neema corrected him. “ We have four days.” She counted the contenders off on her fingers. “Havoc was training with his contingent.” She’d checked with him on the walk over; he practised at the same time every night, when it was cooler. “Shal was sick, Ruko was over at the orchard. You have no motive,” she said, to Tala. “Gaida was Katsan’s Sister, she would never hurt her.” That was five. She stuck out a final thumb. “Cain was at an orgy.”

“Multiple satisfied witnesses,” Cain said. And then, “Visitor Pyke. Join us!”

The Visitor was standing quietly at the far edge of their table. He stared at the empty bowl in front of Cain. “You ate my lunch.”

“Eight!” Tala leapt to her feet, chair clattering to the ground.

Visitors were vulnerable to attack on the road. Before they began their first journey, along with their martial training and spells of protection, they introduced a toxin to their diet, extracted from a rare type of sea urchin. The toxin acted as a barrier to other poisons, but it was deadly to anyone else who tried it. You never touched a Visitor’s food. Everyone knew that. Tiny children knew that.

Cain settled back, untroubled. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I can eat anything.”

“You will be dead in five minutes,” the Visitor said, indifferent.

Neema felt a surge of terror.

“Five minutes exactly?” Cain asked. “Or roughly? Do we time it? Does anyone have a watch?” His training had taken over. Laugh, laugh in the face of Death the Dragon. But under the tablecloth he reached out and grabbed Neema’s hand.

“There must be an antidote,” she said, quietly linking her fingers with his. His palm burned hot against hers.

“Too late,” the Visitor said.

Tala rounded on him. “Where is it? Please . I can’t just stand here and watch.”

The Visitor relented. “Servant Jadu. The temple.”

Tala was already running.

Neema squeezed Cain’s hand under the table. “Hold on,” she said. “Just hold on.” Her voice cracked. He was going to die. Even a contender couldn’t run to the temple and back in five minutes. He was going to die and she couldn’t bear it.

“It’s fine,” he murmured. “I’m ready, I’ve got something.”

Foxes were expected to say something funny with their last breath. Life is a joke and death is the punchline.

“What are the symptoms?” Neema asked the Visitor.

“Yes, please tell me what I have to look forward to,” Cain said.

The Visitor counted them off in a disinterested voice. “Sweating. Cramps. Paralysis. Death.”

Cain grunted, and forced a smile. “Like reading one of your monographs, then,” he said to Neema.

She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. Sweat was streaming down his face, but maybe that was a good thing. His body, forcing out the toxins. Foxes were trained for this, Cain most of all. They were trained.

He closed his eyes, steadied his breathing.

“What can I do?” she whispered.

His body spasmed, then settled. “Scartown,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Walk me home.”

Neema did as he asked. Her perfect memory guiding him through the narrow streets, stopping at his favourite haunts. She used to do this for him long ago, lying in bed together late at night. The baker’s on South Street, the Ratcatcher Tavern. Deadman’s Bridge. Vedric’s Spice Emporium, the covered market. Her family store. Madam Fessi’s school, when it was still there, before the fire. That’s where she took him, back home, backwards in time. When they were friends.

Cain kept his eyes closed, riding the convulsions. Sweat poured down his face, dripped off his chin. His dark red hair was soaked through.

Five minutes is a long time. The rest of the contenders clustered around the table, except for Ruko, who had returned to his meditation beneath the willow.

Neema hated him then. Cain was fighting for his life a few feet away. What was wrong with him?

Another five minutes passed.

“You should be dead,” the Visitor said.

Cain opened his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint,” he croaked. By some miracle, the colour was returning to his face. The danger had passed. He slid his hand from Neema’s and wiped his face with a napkin. Blew his nose in it. “You simply must give me the recipe,” he said to the Visitor, and laughed into the silence that followed. “That was it. My death joke.” He looked around at everyone, their harrowed faces. “Tough crowd.” He poured himself a glass of water.

His hand was trembling.

“This is not possible,” the Visitor said.

“You should take more care with your food,” Havoc snapped. “Eight. Any one of us could have eaten it by mistake.”

Shal gestured to a table for one, guarded by an armed Hound. “I think the rest of us would have taken that as a warning, not a challenge.”

Everyone groaned at Cain.

“Idiot,” Havoc muttered. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“It wasn’t luck,” Ruko said.

The contenders were too well trained to jump, but Neema felt the atmosphere change as he joined them. She saw Katsan reach on instinct for her sword, before remembering she was unarmed.

“He didn’t eat the stew,” Ruko said, and walked on.

There was a pause as everyone took this in. Neema thought back. Had she actually seen Cain eat any of it? She’d seen him stir it, and sniff it, but… She couldn’t say for certain.

Cain lifted his brows. Got you.

“Shame on you, Cain Ballari,” Katsan spat. “We lost Gaida last night. And you play games with us, in our grief?”

“This is the Day of the Fox, remember.” He raised his hands, as the contenders abandoned him in disgust. “Life is a game without any rules, played by masters, played by fools,” he called after them.

Neema hated him when he was like this. Cynical, shallow. Quoting lines from a comic opera. You’re better than this , she thought, then corrected herself. She had no idea what he was, these days. She got to her feet.

“Oh, you’re leaving too,” he said, and took another sip of water. “Thanks for the tour of Scartown.”

“Fuck you, Cain.”

“Our catchphrase!” he cheered, as she stalked off. “I’ve upset everyone,” he said, to the only person left. “What a shame.”

Shal’s hazel eyes glimmered as he focused his Houndsight.

Cain balanced the empty bowl of stew on its edge, and spun it. “It’s rude to stare,” he said, keeping his attention on the bowl.

“Do you think I can’t read you?” Shal asked.

Cain spun the bowl again, humming to himself.

“You ate the stew. I saw you.”

“Did I?” Cain let the bowl drop to the table. “Never trust a Fox, Contender Worthy. Especially around poisons.” He smiled.

Shal kept staring, probing deeper. “What is it about you? What are you hiding?” His eyes were burning bright, flaying through Cain’s many surfaces, searching for something deeper.

It was too much, even for someone as self-possessed as Cain. He closed his eyes against the scrutiny.

When he opened them again, Shal was gone.

“Alone at last,” Cain said, to the furious parrots, and poured himself another glass of water.

Five minutes later Tala arrived with the antidote. What she said to Cain, when she had recovered her breath, is best left unwritten.