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CHAPTER

Twenty-Seven

N EEMA LOWERED THE teapot and caddy carefully into a wooden storage box and secured the lid with one of Gaida’s brightly patterned scarfs. The scent of vanilla and honeysuckle infused the material—a perfume so particular to Gaida it seemed almost indecent that it had lingered after her death. Neema felt a pang of sorrow, quickly suppressed. She was running out of time—Kindry would be here soon to organise the clear-up. (And, knowing him, poke around for anything of value.) She was hoping to avoid him if she could. She was always hoping to avoid Kindry.

Moving as fast as she could through the mess, she made a second pass over Gaida’s papers. She thought about Cain, who was interviewing Rivenna Glorren at the Tiger palace. She could imagine the abbess smothering someone in their sleep, or more likely sending one of her contingent to do it. Using the Blade to sow confusion. Then again, she could just as easily imagine Ish Fort sending one of his people to do it. Kill Gaida, frame Ruko, distress Katsan. One ball to knock down three skittles. She remembered the press of the Fox abbot’s fingers on her wrist, when he warned her about Cain. If you distract him, or get in his way… The way he’d smiled, as her pulse leapt in sudden warning.

And then there was Princess Yasila—standing on the rusting balcony of Neema’s old room, waiting for someone to arrive. The room Gaida had been using for secret meetings. I’ll head there next, Neema thought.

She flicked through a sheaf of training notes—lines Gaida had written to herself in preparation for the Trials. You rush in too fast . Pause, take a breath. Neema had to stop herself from reading on. She was here for the folder—nothing else.

It wasn’t here.

Pause. Take a breath.

Neema did so. And caught a scent, light and soothing above Gaida’s perfume.

Lavender.

A small, indoor fig tree had been shoved here into the corner, presumably to make space for the afterparty. As Neema drew closer, the smell of lavender grew stronger. She ran her fingers through the soil and smiled in triumph. This was where the killer had tipped the lavender tea leaves out of the caddy. They’d raked them into the soil, but not enough to disguise them completely. Proof her theory was correct.

“Thank you, Gaida,” she murmured.

She was brushing the dirt from her hands when Kindry flung open the door.

“What are you doing to that plant?” he bellowed. He took in the state of the room, the clothes and papers strewn about. “Eight save us and remain Hidden, you’ve torn the place apart.”

“That wasn’t me—”

Kindry pointed to the tear in the paper screen. “You’ll pay for that.”

Picking up the teapot in its box, Neema tried to navigate past him to the antechamber, but he blocked her.

“What’s this?” He pulled at the scarf, trying to untie it.

She lifted it out of reach. “Evidence.”

Kindry’s bloodshot eyes glittered. “Show me.”

“I answer to High Commander Vabras on this matter, Lord Kindry. Not to you.”

A short, annoyed pause. Kindry huffed stale breath in her face. “Very well. We shall visit him together.”

Neema cursed inwardly. Her visit to her old room would have to wait.

They took a boat up the Grand Canal, Kindry jumping the queue and demanding a fast rower. “Imperial business,” he snapped. “We need your best man.” Neema could have told him this would be taken as an insult, and that their boatman would go more slowly in wilful protest—but there was no point. Kindry had the measure of the world, of that he was certain.

The sun was setting behind the Dragon palace, its sea-green roof tiles glinting like the scales of a serpent. Neema felt a welcoming, soft breeze on her face. “What do the Speculators say for the weather tomorrow?” she asked.

“Hot and humid again,” the boatman replied, and Kindry told him to shut up and row faster.

Hol Vabras was at his desk in the Hound palace. An unremarkable desk in an unremarkable office. The window looked out on to a wall. A Hound officer had once offered to plant some climbing flowers to soften the view; Vabras had looked at him, and the officer had retired the next day.

Neema was in a better mood, because Vabras had told Kindry to go away and Lord Kindry had done as he was told. But oh, the look on his face! “Each day,” the Scriptures said, “in times of light, in times of shadow, seek for one small pearl of joy and you shall find it.”

She gave her report, whittled down as usual for brevity, and handed over the teapot and caddy for testing.

“Stabbed after death,” Vabras said. “Why?”

“Cleaner,” Neema suggested. “No struggle, no noise.”

“But why stab her at all?” He looked annoyed. Perhaps it was the waste of time and energy, killing someone twice. Inefficient.

“I can only theorise at this point, High Commander. But the choice of weapon has to be the key.”

“To frame Contender Valit.”

“Or humiliate him.” Neema toughened up her pose, mimicking Ruko’s stance in the contender line. “Here he is, the fierce, unbeatable Tiger warrior, emperor-in-waiting, holder of the Blade of Peace—and…” She gestured helplessly at her hip. “Oh. It’s gone.”

Vabras grunted, tapped his pencil on the desk. “You are not a believer,” he observed.

Neema filled in the rest. So it didn’t occur to you there is a spiritual angle to this. “You think the killer wanted to sow panic among the…” She groped for the word.

“Faithful,” Vabras said.

Neema, who had been about to say “credulous,” nodded. It never failed to amaze her that Vabras—surely the least numinous, the least soulful of any creature alive—believed in the Eight. And yet he spoke of them as if they were as real and solid as his desk.

“So,” Neema said. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”

Another man would have said, “Yes, that’s good news,” or, “You must be relieved.” Vabras only looked at her steadily, waiting for her point.

“It could be one of the contingents,” she said. Best not to accuse Fort or Glorren directly, not without proof. “But the whole thing seems rushed. Amateurish, even.”

Vabras lifted an eyebrow. Explain.

She gestured to the painted lacquer box, still wrapped in Gaida’s scarf. Vabras had placed it on the floor, where he could not see it. Too distinctive. “A decent assassin wouldn’t leave evidence behind.”

Vabras accepted this with a sharp nod. “Anything else?”

Neema hesitated. She hadn’t mentioned her old apartment, or the fact that Gaida had met with Princess Yasila just a few hours before she died. Lying to Vabras was a risk—but she needed time to hunt for Yaan Rack’s report. “No, that’s it.”

Vabras narrowed his eyes. He did not have the Sight, like Shal Worthy, but his scrutiny could be just as painful. Neema willed herself to hold his gaze.

“You’re wounded,” he said.

She coiled her forearms, where Shal’s sticks had landed. “A few bruises. Could have been worse.”

He touched his own upper arm, impatient. Here.

“Oh.” Neema had almost forgotten the injuries around her armband. “That was Katsan. She accused me of killing Gaida. Her grief, the sun—”

“She attacked you.”

“She grabbed me.” Neema turned down her armband to show him the gouges, where Katsan’s nails had dug into her skin. “She lost a point for it.”

There was no expression on Vabras’s face, but she knew that he was smothering a rare attack of anger. One of the High Commander’s most unexpected traits was his interest in Neema’s physical well-being. It was nothing personal, she knew that. Vabras didn’t have feelings for her. Eight , no. But he had come to appreciate her value. Vabras cared about Neema’s health the same way he cared about the inner workings of his pocket watch. Once, when she caught a fever, he had appeared at the end of her bed and said, “Your sickness impedes my work.” It was the closest he had ever come to paying her a compliment. “You’ve cleaned the wounds? Thoroughly?”

“Vinegar and turmeric.” Benna had applied the paste for her—an Edge family recipe. Wounds could turn bad quickly on the borders of Dolrun.

Vabras rose from his chair and turned to face the window.

This was a bad sign. When Vabras turned to stare at his wall, it was a very bad sign for someone. “She has no alibi. The Bear contender.”

Neema felt a chill, on Katsan’s behalf. “She also has no motive, High Commander.”

“That we know of.” And then, as if the two things were not connected, “His majesty expects a swift resolution to this matter.”

“He gave me four days,” Neema protested, but even as she said it, she remembered the countless times Bersun had tightened a promised deadline, generosity giving way to impatience. Why is it not done yet? I should not have to ask twice.

Vabras turned away from the window. “You’re exhausted. Get some rest. You are of no use to me in this state.”

Now he said it, she realised it was true. She was dead on her feet—but she had to give it one more try. “It wasn’t Katsan, I’m sure of it.”

“We shall see,” Vabras said.