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CHAPTER

Thirty-Seven

R UKO WON THE Raven Trial with a perfect score. Shal came a close second, with Cain taking third place, just ahead of Katsan. The Bear contender called foul again. “Look at this section,” she said, holding up Cain’s paper against her own. “I refuse to believe that Contender Ballari knows more than I do about border dispute legislation. I’ve patrolled those borders for twenty years.”

“And I’ve snuck over them,” Cain replied. He was balancing a pile of books on his head as he glided between the tables. It looked like a game—it was a game, everything was a game—but it was also a form of martial practice. Concentration, flow, balance. And, after three hours of sitting hunched over a desk, a clearing of the mind, a marvellous stretching of the body. Cain was always at his most serious when he was playing. “The Fox is the Guardian of Borders. And their transgression.”

Katsan seized on the word. “Transgression! There, Lord Kindry. He admits himself, he cannot be trusted.”

“Of course I can’t be trusted, for Eight’s sake.” Cain lifted the books from his head. “But the Ravens will tell you what you should already know, Contender Brundt.” He squared up to her, in direct challenge. “You shouldn’t accuse people of doing terrible, wicked things, without proof.”

Neema didn’t see the look in Cain’s eyes, but she saw Katsan’s reaction to it. The Bear warrior gave a start, and took a step back, the colour draining from her face.

He’s defending me , Neema realised. Her spirit lifted, then dropped. For in that moment she realised that she couldn’t ask Cain for help. She wouldn’t risk entangling him further in her problems.

Ish Fort, she thought. An even better solution than Cain. The Fox abbot would be thrilled to be rid of her.

The Fox palace was only a short walk from the library, across the common lawn. As she crested the ridge, Neema caught sight of the mainland for the first time in days. She stopped for a moment, shielding her eyes with her hand. It had been a long, long time since she’d left the island—she had to think hard to remember the reason for her last visit. And she realised—with a pang—that the emperor had sent her there to rest, three years ago. “You’re worn out, my dear,” he’d said. “No use to me in this state.” He’d rented her a suite in the Grand Imperial for a week, right on the Central Grid. She’d planned to spend her time wandering the markets and artists’ workshops, visiting the theatre, the coffeehouses, the steam baths. She had an itinerary, it was very detailed. Instead her exhausted body had taken the opportunity to surrender. She’d lain in bed for six of the seven days, shivering and sweating, only to emerge on the last day wrung out but refreshed, just in time for the boat to bring her back to the island again. She’d not had a day off since. She’d worked her heart out for her emperor.

Smothering a wave of anger, she walked the ridge before descending to the Fox palace grounds. She had visited the second palace many times and had long given up trying to make sense of it. A large proportion lay underground, but no one was allowed down there, not even Fenn and his Ox teams. What was visible was confounding. Walkways to nowhere, windows where there should be doors and doors where there should be windows. Buildings in a constant state of reconstruction, tumbling into one another. “An architect’s migrainous nightmare,” Shimmer Arbell had called it. The Foxes had taken this as a compliment—in fact the phrase had been painted above the main entrance, with an exclamation point for jaunty emphasis, and an apostrophe in the wrong place, just to annoy any passing Raven.

AN ARCHITECTS’ MIGRAINOUS NIGHTMARE!

Shimmer Arbell, 1534

(The year was also wrong.) And then, underneath that:

WELCOME TO THE FOX PALACE PLEASE GO AWAY.

Neema tapped on the door. She had been seen by many pairs of eyes on her way down through the wild and overgrown gardens, she knew that. Many spies. They left her waiting an indecently long time, but she knew better than to knock again. That would only slow things down further. Eventually the door was opened by someone coming out—the tall contingent member who’d chatted to her in the tombs the previous day, when he was dressed as a bear.

“Oh, hello again,” he said, and curled his fingers into paws. “Grrr.”

“It doesn’t really work without the costume.”

“Fair enough. You can’t come in.” He said this with a friendly smile.

She held up her imperial pass.

“You can come in,” he corrected himself. “Fancy that.”

“I need to speak with Abbot Fort. Could you take me to him?”

A laugh, as he walked away. “You’ll find him when he wants you to. Sorry—must dash, nothing to do.”

Neema spent the next hour wandering from building to building, through creaking doors that led nowhere, or round in circles. Everyone she met sent her gleefully in the wrong direction, or engaged her in maddening conversation and then sent her in the wrong direction, or asked her if she would like to join them in a threesome, and then sent her in the wrong direction. In short, they did everything they could to wear out her patience and get her to leave. But when Raven persistence meets Fox resistance, the Raven wins every time.

She found Ish Fort in a training hall she had already passed through twice. Unlike the rest of the palace, this room was pristine. The rush matting looked brand new, the sliding screens were delicately painted with images of the Fox in its many forms, playing tricks or offering help, according to its whim. An array of shining weapons lined one wall, from long staffs and spears, through narrow- and broadswords, and spiked maces, all the way down to throwing knives and pointed stars.

The abbot was alone, practising with a pair of daggers, smoothly eviscerating an imaginary opponent with slice after slice. His moves were swift and precise, with no discernible pattern. You wouldn’t know the old man had killed you until you dropped, clutching a blade you never saw coming. Neema kept her back pressed to the door, hand poised ready to slide it open and run.

“So your investigation brings you here,” Fort said, without pausing in his practice. “How tiresome. How predictable.”

“I’m not here for Gaida, your grace. I’m here to make a deal.”

That surprised him. He twirled the blades one last time before slotting them neatly in their stands.

“I need to leave the island,” she said. “As soon as possible.”

“Discovered something dangerous, have we?” Eight, he was a sharp one. “What makes you think I have access to the mainland?”

Neema looked at him. Please.

He unscrewed his hip flask and took a swig, assessing her with a narrowed gaze. “You’re in trouble, that’s your business.”

“If you can’t help me, Cain will.”

Fort smiled. A lot of people had seen that smile, as they died.

“You said yourself, I’m a distraction. Now, you could kill me—”

“What a delicious idea.”

“But would he ever forgive you?”

Fort’s smile faded.

She had him. “You want me gone. I want me gone. We both win. And Cain’s free to concentrate on the throne.”

A final, calculating pause from the abbot. “Tell me what you’ve found out, and you have a deal.”

“I’ll tell you once I’m on the mainland.”

A sharp laugh, something close to respect. “Fine. Ten o’clock, northern steps. Just you, no pack. Make sure you’re not followed.”

“Thank—”

She didn’t finish. With a flick of his sleeve, Fort threw a hidden dagger, so fast she had no time to react. It landed with a hard thunk in the door post, right by her ear.

“Fuck!” she yelped. Sliding back the door, she burst out into the corridor and ran.

Somehow she held herself together for the afternoon fights. Thank the Eight she’d already had her own bout with Tala that morning. She stood in line outside the contenders’ pavilion, and watched Shal survive three dramatic rounds with Ruko. He lost, but unlike Katsan he didn’t call stop. He held firm and stayed on his feet, and that was enough to earn him the respect of the crowds. They called his name as he left the platform, as if he were the victor. There was no love for Ruko, only fear and anxiety.

Havoc and Katsan faced each other for the final fight of the day. Monkey vs Bear. They were evenly matched, both peerless in their own styles. But the intensity of the previous fight had left the crowds drained. People clapped when Kindry announced a draw, but the only cheers came from the respective contingents.

“They’re bored,” Cain said. “ I’m bored.”

“Bersun isn’t happy,” Shal said, Houndsight levelled at the imperial balcony.

Bersun. Gedrun. Neema rubbed the knot in her collarbone. Four hours. Four hours and she would be gone. Until then, she would keep to her rooms. Four hours.

Benna was waiting for her when she got back. She offered Neema tea, and fruit, and tiny cakes. Cushions. A fan. More tiny cakes. Neema said not to worry, she didn’t need anything. “But thank you, Benna. From the bottom of my heart. I couldn’t ask for a better assistant.”

Benna burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “It’s just… you’re so nice.”

Neema, suddenly bashful, went to fetch a handkerchief. Yaan Rack’s mean-spirited report she could take in her stride. But being told she was nice—was that even true? Could she write that on a slip of paper and eat it?

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” she suggested, when Benna had stopped crying about the handkerchief.

A stifled sob. “Really?”

“Really. Go. Find your friends. Enjoy the Festival stalls. I don’t want to see you until morning. That’s an order.” She didn’t want Benna implicated in her escape—safer to send her away now.

She took a bath— no oil— then lay on the bed, because the alternative was pacing, and she needed to conserve her energy. She would have to wear her contender uniform down to the boat in case she was stopped; presumably Fort would supply her with a fresh set of clothes. He’d said no pack, but she would tuck her purse in her waistband. Everything else she would have to leave behind.

She caught a dense, dark scent in the air, liquorice and pepper. The book. It had found its way under her pillow. She tugged it out. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t take you with me.” She thought it felt sad. Could a book feel sad?

There was a knock at the antechamber door. She tucked the book back under her pillow and padded out of her bedroom in her wrapping gown. The knocking had grown more insistent.

“Contender Kraa. Are you there? Hello?”

Neema recognised the voice. Grace Eliat, the imperial designer. What the Eight did she want?

Grace was dressed in her signature outfit—dark blue tunic and culottes, with a neat yellow sash around her waist. Her hair was a beautiful shade of silver grey. She used to wear it long, in a bun, but three years ago she had cut it short and caused a sensation. There had been food riots going on in the capital at the time, they’d had to arm the Hounds with longswords, and no one at court could stop talking about Grace Eliat’s new hair, and how brave she was.

She was carrying an evening gown hooked over one arm.

“Opening your own door, Contender Kraa? Where’s your servant?”

“Out having a life, Grace.”

“How refreshing.” She handed Neema a white card, fringed with gold.

Neema read the invitation with increasing dismay.

Neema Kraa, Raven Contender

IS HEREBY COMMANDED BY

His Imperial Majesty Bersun the Second

“See How Orrun is Restored in His Name”

TO ATTEND DINNER AT

The Garden at the Edge of the World in memory of Gaida Rack

DRESS: formal

“Is this compulsory?” Neema asked, but of course it was. She had been hereby commanded. Already her brain was whirring—how long would it last, could she slip away, would the Foxes hold the boat for her?

Grace laid the gown carefully over the back of a chair. “I suppose I can make time to dress you. Would you like to freshen up first?”

“I’m fine.”

Grace silently disagreed.

She’d selected the dress from the imperial archives, a beaded black gown in a classical style. As was custom, she named the three courtiers who had worn it previously. The epitome of elegance, the most dignified of women. “And now you,” Grace finished, in a voice to wilt flowers. She slipped it over Neema’s head, smoothing and coaxing the fabric. The dress was close-fitting, with a plunging cowl neckline.

“Yes, it’s lucky you don’t have breasts,” Grace said.

Neema looked down quickly, to make sure they hadn’t run off somewhere. Grace’s bitchy comments didn’t bother her. Neema had her insecurities, but she liked her body, they were on good terms.

Grace reached up inside the skirt and adjusted the lining. A perfect fit. Two things you could say about Grace Eliat—she knew clothes, and she knew bodies.

She caught Neema’s eye in the mirror. “We need to talk about that ruined gown of yours.” She meant the opening ceremony dress. “Not now, you’re late. Tomorrow.”

Neema threw the designer a confused look. “What do you mean? What’s to talk about?”

Grace huffed, irritated. “I told your servant, don’t you dare leave it here, tainting my rooms with bad luck. Silly creature flung it in my face and ran away. Where did you find her—a mangrove swamp?”

“But…” Neema was baffled. “If you didn’t want it, why did you pay for it?”

“Pay for it?” Grace shrieked, and slapped a hand to her chest in horror. “ Pay for it? I wouldn’t pay a bronze half-tile for that cursed thing. Bad enough luck to have it in my rooms. You tell her to come and collect it, before I throw it on the fire.” She pulled out a silver waterfall necklace. “Now, this might save things. I’ll say one thing for you, Contender Kraa, you have a tolerable neck.”

Neema wasn’t listening. She was thinking about Benna, and the nineteen silver tiles she’d brought back in exchange for the dress. She’d said Grace had been out all night getting drunk. Maybe Grace had forgotten, or more likely she’d woken up with a blinding hangover and discovered to her deep embarrassment that she’d handed over a small fortune for a dress that was now worth less than nothing. And now, to spare herself the humiliation, she was denying the entire business.

That had to be it. The alternative was that Benna had lied—for no reason Neema could think of. And where would she have found the money, if Grace hadn’t given it to her?

No, Grace was lying.

She put a hand on her hip, and admired herself in the mirror. Imagined herself on the boat, shimmering in the moonlight.

“It’ll do,” Grace said.

“It’s perfect,” Neema replied. If she was going to flee the island, she might as well do it in style.