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CHAPTER

Thirty-Four

T HE FIGHT ENDS IN A DRAW . One point each. We don’t care, we are sulking. She spurned us. She spurned our help.

Benna cries, she is so happy. “That was amazing, that was amazing,” she says, bouncing up and down on the spot. The crowd agrees. Whatever they thought of the Raven contender as an individual, she’d certainly earned that one point.

Tala slaps Neema’s back as they walk back to the line, squeezes her shoulder. “You served the Raven well this morning, contender.”

We will be the judge of that.

“Thanks.” Neema has already dismissed her encounter with us as a moment’s shock, a lack of air, the heat, the stress of the day, exhaustion. We have never been mistaken for so many insulting things in one go before. What next, indigestion?

A rogue prawn?

Annoyed, we fly up to a higher perch. The imperial balcony—as we have mentioned—offers an excellent view of the square and the contender line. We shall watch Neema from there, and if she needs us, she might find we are too busy preening ourself to help, she might die horribly and we will not care, not at all.

As we land we realise our mistake. The balcony is already occupied. The emperor is sitting tucked away at the back, invisible to the crowds below despite his giant bulk. Vabras stands at his shoulder. The balcony’s gold awning casts them both in deep shadow. They are arguing about Neema. They know she has spoken with Yasila, and they are worried.

“We can’t kill her,” Vabras is saying.

The emperor is silent.

“Two Raven contenders dead in two days.” Vabras shakes his head at the fuss that would cause.

We are not supposed to be here, this is not our place, not our moment. First Yasila, now this. Deep in its cave, the Dragon stirs and shifts, sensing something is not as it should be. A soft, prolonged hiss escapes its half-open jaws. A trail of smoke puffs from its nostrils. We freeze, then settle, favouring one of our more cautious aspects: Raven Sheltering From a Storm.

The emperor huffs, frustrated. “She was up there for an hour, Vabras. What the Eight do you think they were talking about?”

“It is not in Yasila’s interest to say anything.” Vabras sounds bored. The emperor knows this.

“But if she misspoke. Neema can’t resist a puzzle.” A touch of affection in the emperor’s eyes, even as he contemplates ordering her death.

“Yasila is not given to careless talk,” Vabras observes.

Bersun grunts. True enough. Thinking of the princess, his expression turns sour. “That damned witch. I don’t trust her an inch. If we didn’t need her, I swear to the Eight, I’d…”

Vabras stops listening. He has heard it all before. He’s had sixteen years of it. The emperor hates Yasila. Yasila hates the emperor. So what? What difference does it make? They are bound together, that is that. He runs through the morning’s duties, seeing where he might claw back some time. When the emperor has finished raging he says, “The plan remains sound. Neema finds the thief, we execute them. If she fails, or learns too much…” A tiny shrug.

The emperor has turned in his seat to study his High Commander more closely. The expression on the Old Bear’s face is not one he shows in public—too cold, too calculating. His small brown eyes are shrewd, his mouth curves in thin amusement. “If she fails?” he prompts.

Vabras frowns. Must he spell it out?

“Are you having second thoughts, Vabras?” The emperor’s eyes glitter.

Vabras clamps his hands behind his back. “No, your majesty. We agreed this was the best solution.”

“Did we?”

Vabras, hearing the ice in the emperor’s voice, holds his tongue.

Bersun gets to his feet and looms over his High Commander, as if he might eat him. “I would have arrested Neema for the murder yesterday morning. Kindry was more than ready to put his name to the order. Summary execution.” A grim smile. “She would be dead by now.”

Vabras tries to step back, but there is nowhere to go. The emperor has him pressed against the wall.

“My plan was quick and efficient. Your favourite words, Vabras. But you insisted you had a better idea. Let her find the thief for us. ” The emperor’s face darkens. “What else will she find, now you’ve sent her looking?”

Vabras puts both hands up in an appeasing gesture. “That’s why we made her a contender. Between the Festival and her investigation, she won’t have time to delve deeper—”

The blow is savage and comes from nowhere. Vabras collapses to the floor, blood trickling from his ear. For a moment he lies there, stunned. A shift has occurred, and it shocks Vabras more than the blow itself. Some deep-buried survivor’s instinct hands him his line as he drags himself to his feet. “Forgive me, your majesty. I have failed you.”

The emperor immediately softens. Now he can be benevolent. “You like her. It clouded your judgement. I should have realised.”

“She is a useful person.”

“A useful person.” The emperor finds this funny, his laugh booms out across the balcony. “So there is a heart in there. Not just cogs and wheels.” He puts a great, burly arm around Vabras’s shoulder, and draws him out into the light. A handful of spectators, seeing their emperor emerge, cheer his appearance. A young girl, sitting on her father’s shoulders, waves excitedly. Bersun smiles and waves back.

On the fight platform, Cain and the Dragon Proxy are in the middle of the weapons round. Both have chosen the narrow sword. It is a lacklustre performance—the Visitor seems noticeably reluctant to fight. Bersun frowns, displeased, and turns his attention to the contender line.

Ruko stands shoulder to shoulder with his rivals, both in line and somehow apart from them. Legs wide, shoulders back. Cold and unyielding as a marble statue.

Bersun cannot take his eyes off him. “My tyrant-in-waiting,” he says. “Sacrificing his sister, who would have thought that would be the key. Eight, I could have killed him that day, right on the throne steps. Don’t know how I stayed my hand.” He paused, as he always did when he thought of Yanara, her terrible fate. The grief was genuine. “But I have to admit, it was the making of him. His betrayal, her suffering. The loss of his mother’s love. And do you see the way people look at him, Vabras? Fear. Fear and fascination. He is perfect. I couldn’t have shaped him better if I’d tried.”

Bersun shifts his gaze to Neema, standing next to Ruko. She looks more confident in her uniform this morning, almost a real contender. He sighs fondly.

Vabras has stood at the emperor’s side long enough to know what this means. Neema is doomed. She cannot be saved. “I shall make the arrangements,” he says.

“No, no.” Bersun stops him. “You’re right, it’s too risky. Let me think on it. There will be another way. Many are the paths through the forest.” He rubs his mouth and jaw where his beard would be, if he had one. An idea is already forming. A solution to the problem that is Neema Kraa.

A nod, and Vabras is dismissed.

The emperor is alone—or so he thinks. He rests his arms on the balcony wall, close to where we are hunkered down. We tilt our head this way and that, studying him from different angles. We should leave, but he is interesting—we have never been this close to him before. He is not a handsome man, but he holds himself as if he is. He looks younger than his sixty-seven years, which we also find interesting. Ruling an empire is hard work, he should be worn out, he should look older.

We do not mind that he plans to destroy Neema—in fact we are pleased by this development. She will have to let us in now, it is inevitable. We will save her, and she will be grateful, and do as she is told.

Watching the fight, Bersun hums a tune to himself, absently. A plaintive melody from ancient days. “Come to the Mountain.” The song Gaida performed at the opening ceremony.

As he repeats the refrain we feel a stirring in our chest, a tugging sensation. We do not like it.

We should leave.

We try to open our wings to fly away, and find that we cannot. We are held by the song. The music traps us, our feathers feel heavy and stuck together, as if smothered in a thick, treacly tar.

What is this?

We don’t like it.

What is happening?

We scramble away, toppling over the balcony and hurtling towards the ground. At the last moment we free ourselves, skimming the cobbles then up, fast as we can, wings creaking as we haul ourselves through the air. On instinct we fly on to the Raven palace. We will be safe there, it is where we are supposed to be.

We land awkwardly, in distress, on the roof of the service hut beneath Neema’s old room. The horrible tarry feeling has gone, but we give our feathers an extra coating of preen oil, as a precaution. This calms and comforts us enough that we can discuss among ourself what just happened, and what we should do about it.

We must tell Dragon about the song.

But then it will know we were not where we were supposed to be.

THERE ARE OTHER BIRDS, RAVEN.

That is what it will say.

We give a collective shudder.

We find, now that we are far away from the song, that its power is fading. Perhaps we imagined its effect.

We have been very busy this morning.

Extremely busy.

And we were angry with Neema for rejecting our offer of friendship.

Angry and hurt.

Also, no offence Raven Sheltering From a Storm, but you are a bit slow on take-off.

I am magnificent!

Of course you are magnificent.

Slow and magnificent.

So we are agreed? No need to mention this to Dragon? Or the Others?

We are agreed.

Yes, we are agreed.

We preen some more, aligning our feathers, everything feels better when our feathers are aligned. We like it here, this is where we are supposed to be, on the scorching roof, by the stinking bins, with the cockroaches. They are hiding from us, but we know they are there. They are everywhere.

We close our eyes and tuck our beak into our chest. We forget about the song, and the emperor, and Vabras. We forget about Nisthala and the marks branded into her arm. We weren’t supposed to know these things, this is why they have upset us. We shall wait here for Neema. She won’t be long now.