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CHAPTER

Twenty-Nine

“W HICH ARM DID HE brEAK ?” Cain asked.

Neema put down her fork. “That’s your first question?” It was early morning, they were having breakfast on her balcony like an old married couple, scrambled eggs and salmon, sesame rolls and fruit, and those tiny cakes Benna seemed to conjure from her sleeve.

Neema had asked Cain to come with her to interview Yasila and he had said, “Fine, you can tell me why over breakfast.” He had said this with the remnants of his own breakfast still on the table behind him.

She had talked him through her theory: Yasila had stolen Hurun-tooth in order to frame her son, and to humiliate him. She had also poisoned Shal—a mild dose, enough to give him a bad start to his Festival. And she had contaminated Neema’s bath oil. “It had to be her. No one else could get their hands on that much Dragonscale. Ruko said the only other person Yasila ever trusted it with was, you know…” She mouthed the name. Yana.

“Did he sound resentful about that?” Cain was curious.

“He sounded the same as he always does. Like he’s empty.”

“Like his soul is dead.”

Neema pulled a face. It was a horrible thing to say, but not inaccurate. “So what do you think?”

“It’s a good theory,” Cain acknowledged. “Revenge is always a good theory.”

The only bit Neema couldn’t untangle was Yasila’s relationship to Gaida. She was certain they had met in secret that afternoon, a few short hours before the murder. If they were conspiring together, if they’d fallen out… Neema had no doubt that Yasila was ruthless enough to kill Gaida. It was the tea that made her dubious, oddly enough. Yasila could bind a Visitor, she had closed Neema’s throat with a few whispered words. Why would she need the tea to knock Gaida out?

Neema could sit fretting all day and get no closer to the truth. Or she could visit Yasila and see what she could shake out of her. She was not foolish enough to confront a spell-caster on her own. Ruko said that Yasila needed to be within a few feet of her victim for it to work, and that she could only bind one person at a time. Which was why Neema had caved, and asked Cain to come with her.

But Cain wasn’t interested in Yasila’s magical powers, that was all nonsense as far as he was concerned. Dragons and their con tricks. He was only interested in Ruko, his rival. He poured himself some more coffee, watching the Hounds practise their morning drill in the square below. Once he had the rhythm, he hummed a tune over the top, using the martial steps as a beat.

“Cain,” Neema said. She needed him to listen, to hear her warning about Yasila’s powers.

“Another squadron came in last night.” Some more light humming. “Two hundred fresh troops from the Hound Academy at Samra. Sailed up in a brand-new Leviathan. Reports of unrest, that’s their excuse.”

“Cain, you need to be prepared—”

“That’s always their excuse.” He crammed a roll in his mouth.

A tactical error, because now she could speak, and he couldn’t talk over her. “I know you don’t believe in magic, but she did carve her initial in the Visitor’s face. And she stopped me from breathing.” She clutched her throat.

“Drugs,” he managed, through the chewing. “Hypnosis.” He swallowed the last of the roll. “Power of suggestion.”

“I believe you.” A voice floated over the trellis of frothing white jasmine. Sunur. She slid across to join them. She was dressed in a smart brown tunic with embroidered borders, the vine pattern of Utsur. Neema sensed it was her best tunic, and that she had put it on to improve her mood. Her long, straight hair was still damp from her morning bath.

No point complaining that she was eavesdropping on a private conversation. They’d chosen to sit out here on the balcony.

“Is that coffee?” Sunur poured herself some. “Thank the Eight.”

“Late night?” Cain asked, squinting at her. Her eyes were red behind her glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep. This place.” She cupped her hands around her coffee, as if drawing comfort from it.

“The court?” Cain asked.

“The court, the island… but here , most of all.” The Dragon palace. “Can’t you feel it? Something dark. A dark intention, or…” She frowned, frustrated with herself. “It’s hard to describe.”

“Gaida’s murder—” Neema tried.

“No it’s older and deeper than that. Stranger.” The words came to her at last. “Unnatural. Against nature. Yes. That’s what it is. Against nature.” She looked almost relieved, as if she’d been ill for a while and finally had her diagnosis.

And perhaps it was, as Cain would say, the power of suggestion, but for a moment Neema thought she felt it too. A sort of swollen pressure, and a heat, that comes from infection. The high scent of decay. All those signs in nature that tell you—this is rotten. It was there and it was gone, but she did catch a trace of it.

Those whose feet are planted in the ground are the first to feel a shift. Oxes were more attuned to nature than most. If Sunur sensed something was off, something was off.

Neema stood up and gave the Oxwoman a hug.

“Oh,” Cain said, surprised. “Spontaneous hugging.” This was very un-Neema.

Sunur hugged her back. And that was it. They were friends.

The Hounds marched on below.