Page 26

CHAPTER

Twenty-Six

G AIDA’S BODY HAD been taken to the morgue. In all other ways, the apartment was just as Neema had left it a few hours before. The fan clacked on the ceiling, stirring the thick, humid air. On the desk, papers lifted and settled, lifted and settled. Through the open shutters, the voices of the Raven choir trailed up from the gardens. Tomorrow they would sing in front of the Festival crowds, to open the Day of the Raven. Neema could hear the strain of nerves as they worked on their harmonies.

Nerves and also grief for Gaida, their lost contender. The second palace was a sombre place today—candles flickering at every window, grey mourning patches worn over every heart, the Imperial Library closed out of respect. The stairs and corridor leading to the penthouse apartment were filled with flowers and notes of remembrance. On the door to the antechamber, someone had scrawled: SHE WILL HAVE JUSTICE in thick red chalk. It read, to Neema, like a threat.

As she searched the rooms, she imagined Gaida’s ghost hovering at her shoulder, fuming. You’re only doing this to clear your name. You don’t care about me. You only care about yourself. Typical.

Gaida’s ghost sounded uncannily like Neema’s conscience.

She’d been hoping to unearth Yaan Rack’s report as she searched, but she was out of luck. Either the killer had taken it, which seemed unlikely, or Gaida had hidden it somewhere else. A secret lair, Neema thought, dramatically—but then Gaida was dramatic. Everything a performance…

… of course.

Crossing to the balcony, Neema called down to the choir below. One of the Ankalla brothers was helping them rehearse. Riff, it looked like—the youngest of the three. Seventeen, if that. She waved at him to join her.

Riff dashed up the iron staircase as if the emperor had commanded him. When he reached the top he pressed his palms together and dropped to his knees, head bowed—the Monkey salute of abasement. His flappy ginger hair swung down into his eyes as he stared at the floor. “Contender Kraa—on behalf of myself and my brothers, I humbly beg your forgiveness for our part in the opening ceremony. I swear on my life—we had no idea our song would cause any trouble. She said she’d squared it with you.” He pressed his forehead to the ground, and waited.

His abasement required a formal response from Neema. “Your words reflect well upon you, Riff Ankalla of Three Ports. I hear your remorse, and accept your apology.”

His body sagged with relief. “Thank you, Contender Kraa,” he said, into the floor.

“Please,” she said, encouraging him to stand. As she did so a breeze picked up and she caught something in the air—the faint, iron tang of blood. Gaida’s blood. Was she imagining it, or was it the last vestige of the Dragonscale, heightening her sense of smell? The balcony was long—they were a good twenty feet from the spot. The large terracotta pots stood clustered just as she’d found them, circling a now-empty space.

Riff got to his feet, his mind still on the ceremony. “Eight—the way the emperor looked at us.” He cringed. “We’ll be lucky to find work at court after this. Lord Kindry said he’d put in a word if I helped the choir with their harmonies.”

For free, no doubt. Kindry was infamously mean. “Gaida—” she began.

Riff looked stricken. “I didn’t kill her!”

The thought had not entered Neema’s head. “No that’s not—”

Riff, in a panic, talked over her. “I was with my brothers—you can ask them. We were so upset about the ceremony. We stayed up all night, crying.”

Which was both the saddest and most convincing alibi Neema had ever heard. “That’s not why I called you up here, Riff. I’m sorry.

I was only wondering whether Gaida kept another room, separate from this one. Somewhere she could practise her performance without being overheard—”

“Yes, yes! The cupboard room. We rehearsed there together. You may have noticed the melody wasn’t the standard arrangement—it changed the cadence slightly—”

She cut him off. “The cupboard room?”

“Aye, this tiny, narrow room…” He mimed it with his hands. “Barely enough room for the four of us. Nice acoustics though—” He caught Neema’s impatience. “It’s over on the north side of the palace. You know—the ugly bit.” He gestured northwards, and scrunched his nose. “Round the back, by the bins.”

Neema felt as if she were falling, the ground parting beneath her feet. “Bright green door?”

“Yes, that’s it. How did you—”

“You met Gaida there yesterday?”

He looked wistful. “She wanted it to be perfect. We were perfect, on the night. I don’t think we’ve ever sung better.”

“Did anyone else come by while you were there?”

He shook his head.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. It was all a big secret.” He sighed, regretful. “We should have realised…”

“You had no reason to doubt her word,” Neema said, and felt a flare of anger towards Gaida. Always so careless—with her work, her belongings, with the people around her. She’d used the Ankalla brothers then discarded them, the same way she’d lose a library book, or break a vase, or steal a friend’s lover. And if you complained, you were being trivial. Or, the even greater sin—tedious.

Riff was on his way back down the staircase when Neema stopped him. One final question. “Who do you think killed her?”

He tensed, gripping the rail. Shook his head in answer. No idea.

Below him in the gardens, the choir had given up their practice and were clustered in smaller groups, talking. The late afternoon sun stretched their shadows across the grass. “What about them, what are they saying?”

Riff’s knuckles had turned white.

“They think I did it, don’t they?”

Riff’s eyes widened. “I… don’t listen to gossip, Contender Kraa.”

She sighed, and let him go.

Wearily, she walked down to the other end of the balcony. Dragging a couple of the terracotta pots out of the way, she kneeled down and touched her fingers to the wooden boards. Someone had made an attempt to wipe them clean, but the blood had seeped through where Gaida had lain, leaving a small stain.

Could she have done this, with the Dragonscale urging her on? Neema forced herself to imagine it. Lifting the dagger and plunging it into Gaida’s back. Gaida falling to her knees, and then to the ground. Arranging her body, and then the pots. Closing the shutters neatly behind her.

It felt… unlikely. She could imagine herself killing Gaida in the heat of the moment, in self-defence. If she’d gone hunting for the folder, and Gaida had disturbed her. If they’d fought. She could see how it could have ended badly. An accident, perhaps. But there was no sign of a struggle. Neema had no defensive marks on her and neither did Gaida.

Gaida would have fought, she thought, with sudden clarity. She would not have gone quietly; she never did anything quietly. She would have fought, she would have flailed, she would have smashed things. She would have screamed hard enough to wake the Dragon.

Something else struck Neema, the more she looked at the patch of blood. Shouldn’t there be more of it? A lot more?

“She was already dead,” Neema said, out loud. That’s why she’d looked so peaceful. Her death had not been violent, there had been no struggle.

Neema ran through the possibilities. There’d been no signs she was strangled, or knocked out. Smothered? But even then, Gaida would have woken, and fought back. That peaceful expression…

Drugged. She must have been drugged.

A memory prodded at Neema’s consciousness. That dream she’d had on the veranda, the one Shal had woken her from. Gaida on the throne, drinking…

Tea. The teacup. She’d seen it from the start. Seen it and dismissed it.

Ducking back inside, she checked under the day bed. The teapot was still there, next to the discarded cup with its lipstick print. Lifting the teapot lid, she sniffed the dregs. Valerian root. Then she checked the caddy on a nearby table. The same.

She fell to the floor, overwhelmed with relief. It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill her.

Last night, Gaida had told Navril to replace the valerian root with lavender tea. He would have done as he was ordered, no question. Which meant someone else had refilled it; someone who knew Gaida usually drank valerian tea before she went to bed, but didn’t know she’d changed her routine that night. They’d tipped out the lavender and added this new blend, prepared in advance. Neema was sure that when it was tested, they would find traces of a strong sedative. A couple of sachets of Dr. Yetbalm’s sleeping draught would do it.

That’s why there was no sign of a struggle. Gaida had drunk the tea, probably cursing Navril for not changing it as she asked. The strong taste of the valerian would have masked the sedative. Then all the killer had to do was slip back in and put a pillow over her face. Suffocate her in her sleep. Maybe they didn’t even need to do that, if the sedative was strong enough. Then they arranged the body on the balcony and stabbed the Blade of Peace into her back, to throw suspicion on the Tigers, or as a double bluff.

All of this would have required careful preparation, at least a couple of hours before Gaida retired to bed.

“It wasn’t me,” Neema whispered, clutching the tea caddy. “Thank the Eight. It wasn’t me.”

Sitting on the floor, surrounded by the sprawl of Gaida’s things, her relief turned to anger. Killed in her sleep. No chance to defend herself. No time to prepare herself for her encounter with the Dragon. Snuffed out like a candle. And maybe the killer thought that was a kindness. But Gaida was a fighter. She lived in the centre of her own drama. She should have been awake. She would have wanted that.

In Scartown, there were psychics who said they could talk to ghosts: spirits bound to their old lives, unwilling or unable to return to the Eternal Path and embark on their next journey. Charlatans and frauds, Neema always thought, with their incense and bells. But knowing Gaida, knowing the force of her personality, she thought—if anyone could linger here, out of sheer will, it would be her. And Eight, if she is here, she must be livid.

“Gaida,” she said, to the air. “You never liked me. I never liked you. But you didn’t deserve to die this way. Whoever did this to you—I will find them.”