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CHAPTER

Thirty-Eight

“T HE BOAT’S NOT COMING ,” Abbot Fort said in her ear. “Can’t get through.”

Neema had barely stepped through the gates when he’d fallen on top of her, acting drunk. Servants rushed to lift him back on to his feet, but the abbot was jelly, they could not get a hold on him.

“We’re trapped,” he muttered, and then—finally—allowed himself to be righted. He stumbled off, leaving Neema sprawled on the ground. The servants moved on with their drinks trays.

She brushed herself down. The path was long and straight, and framed with tall hedges. Torches lit the way. On a marble bench, a black and white palace cat cleaned itself with a rasping tongue. Otherwise, she was alone.

Over the hedge, in the octagonal courtyard, the evening reception had already begun. Neema could hear the chink of glasses, a hum of excitement and pride. Nothing courtiers loved more than an exclusive gathering, as long as they had an invitation. The Garden at the Edge of the World was the emperor’s private slice of paradise. Few were allowed through its gates.

Neema, in contrast, had spent many hours wandering with the emperor along the garden’s paths and bridge walks, past fountains and statues, gilded aviaries and ornamental ponds. Here they would discuss her research—the ancient songs and tales she’d discovered, fragments of history leading back to the lost tribes.

She sat down on the bench. The cat gave her an offended look, then resumed its grooming. The night was close, promising rain but not delivering. She shut her eyes. Five more Leviathans, Ish Fort had said, as he’d stumbled into her. Five. That made a total of eight warships patrolling the waters. Sixteen hundred troops.

Over the hedge, the band struck up a new refrain, light and sweet as powdered sugar. Snippets of conversation filtered through. Lady Harmony, to Shal: “… No, Contender Worthy, don’t be preposterous. That can’t be your favourite book, I simply won’t allow it…” Kindry was talking of his plans to start a new health regime, once the Festival was over, he had ordered a new outfit for his investiture as a Lord Eternal. “Two sizes smaller,” he said. “I am determined. ”

Someone was coming up the path. She opened her eyes. The emperor, surrounded by his bodyguards. His face lit up when he saw her. “Neema, here’s a blessing from the Eight.” He turned to the head bodyguard, muttered an order. “I would speak with her alone.”

The guards dispersed. The emperor picked up the cat and sat down next to her on the bench. He was a giant, she didn’t think there would be room, but once he was settled they were comfortable enough, side by side. He stroked the cat and it settled on his lap, purring.

The emperor looked at her, and she looked at him. They knew each other too well—had spent too many hours in each other’s company. No matter how hard she tried to hide the betrayal she felt, she knew he could see it in her eyes. Liar. Imposter. Murderer.

“I’ve missed our talks,” he said. Behind them the guests chattered. Festival gossip. Plans for the autumn. Kindry was now bellowing something about his new estate, some feud with the neighbouring Ox farm collective. “I shall need to bang heads together,” he boomed.

Irritated, the emperor gave a look, and a bodyguard headed through. Presumably he told everyone to shut up, because after a few moments there was silence, except for the music.

The emperor whispered to the cat. “And so Brother Bersun brought peace to the land.” When Neema didn’t smile, he said, in a wistful voice, “Ahh. You are angry with me.”

“No—” she said, on reflex.

“Angry and exhausted. I have pushed you too hard. The murder, the Festival. It is too much responsibility, even for you. Vabras will take over the investigation from here.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” she said. She wasn’t fooled—this was not an act of generosity.

“You spoke with Princess Yasila this morning,” he said.

Neema took a moment to answer. “A possible lead. It came to nothing.” She could hear the lie in her voice, how scared she sounded.

He seized her hand. Her body flared in alarm.

“Neema,” he sighed. “My gift from the Raven. No one has served me better, not even Vabras. I shall be eternally grateful.” He laughed, as if he’d made a joke, and plucked the cat from his lap. As he rose from the bench he brushed his hand along the Samran marble, admiring its quality. She could see now, these little signs that he was not who he claimed to be. Bersun had thrown off luxuries—saw them as a distraction, dangerous even. Gedrun, the merchant, would appreciate them. It was so obvious, once you knew.

“Your majesty,” Neema said, rising with him. She crossed her arms over her chest in a Raven salute. A favour.

His face fell. He knew what she would ask of him.

“Let me go,” she whispered. “Please. Let me slip away. If you would allow it—I’ve been thinking… I should like to open a school back home, in Scartown. Far away from… everything. ” She did not dare speak more plainly than that.

“Neema…” The emperor was shaking his head.

“Please. Let me go.” She looked directly into his eyes. They both knew what she was really doing. Begging for her life. “You can forget all about me.”

The emperor smiled sadly, taking her in. “Impossible.”

Neema almost broke down then. She pulled herself back from the brink, but she was shaking when he said, “Come. Take my arm.”

They walked down the path, the emperor talking of inconsequential things, the cat trailing at their feet. He was being gentle, he could afford to be now. Passing through a gap in the hedge, they emerged into a scene of grand opulence so far removed from the Way of the Bear that Neema almost laughed out loud. The octagonal courtyard was ringed with torches and marble statues. Dining tables were decorated with embroidered cloths, gold cutlery, crystal bottles of wine and water, all marked with eternal eights and the emperor’s Bear sigil. The stars glittered high above as if bought for the occasion—such jewels they were, tonight.

“Enjoy your evening, my dear,” the emperor murmured, and released her.

She walked to a lavish, empty table and sat down. Stared numbly at the guests enjoying themselves—the courtiers, the contenders.

The invitation said they were meeting to remember Gaida, but that wasn’t true. This night was meant for Neema. A thank you from the emperor, before he killed her.

She didn’t eat much at dinner. Well you wouldn’t, would you? Stuff your face at your own memorial. She barely noticed when servants arrived with her favourite dishes. Her favourite wine stood untouched in its glass. Someone said, “Neema, are you all right?” but she was too stunned even to recognise the voice, never mind answer.

When will he do it? How long do I have?

The conversation flowed around her. Her table had been stacked with cheerful, easy-going neighbours. Fenn to her left, Facet the jeweller to her right, Tala and Sunur opposite. The emperor’s concern for her well-being made her feel ill. Like being wrapped up in your favourite blanket, then slowly smothered to death.

The contenders were dressed in their Guardian colours, dresses and uniforms brought out hastily for the surprise event. Tala was wearing a metallic-bronze halterneck that showed off her impressive arms and shoulders, teamed with a bronze headband. She looked stylish, and still capable of picking up the table and throwing it at someone, if required.

“And I cleaned my glasses,” Sunur said.

Facet touched Neema’s wrist, startling her. “What a stunning piece,” he said, nodding at her throat. “No one could wear it better, Contender Kraa.”

Neema put a hand to the waterfall necklace. She’d lived long enough at court to hear the hidden prompt buried within the compliment. “Thanks. That reminds me, I haven’t returned that amethyst choker—”

“Oh, do you still have it?” Facet feigned surprise. “I’d forgotten.”

Neema felt tired—by this fake conversation, and all the others she’d had over the years. Just ask for the necklace back, for Eight’s sake. She’d accepted all this nonsense, the games, the gossip, the tedious artifice, because she had believed in her work. She had believed in Emperor Bersun.

“Miserable?” Fenn said.

“Completely,” she replied, automatically. It was a running joke between them, at gatherings like this.

He slipped a bottle into her palm. Dr. Yetbalm’s Peace Remedy. She added a couple of drops to her water.

After a while, when she hadn’t spoken another word, or eaten another mouthful, he said, “I hear you’re researching a book on Shimmer Arbell. Is that right?”

A spark of curiosity lit up the darkness. She lifted her head to look at him properly. Fenn and Shimmer had been close friends, from way back when the artist lived above the tavern in Armas. He never spoke about her in public, because he blamed himself for her death. When he became High Engineer after the rebellion, he’d encouraged Shimmer to take the throne room commission, which became the Dedication to the Eight. Then he’d been forced to watch as it slowly ate away at her sanity. So no, he never talked about Shimmer Arbell, but he made an exception now, because clearly something terrible had happened to Neema, and whatever it was eclipsed his own pain.

“I met her once,” Facet said, joining the conversation. “In the throne room. No one warned me not to bother her. She was finishing the Ox portrait at the time—I couldn’t believe how fast she was working, painting straight on to the plaster. I walked over and introduced myself. Fellow student of the Monkey monastery, you know. Though I was there long before her, of course.”

“Ouch.” Fenn winced. “You know, she never minded interruptions back in Armas—she’d sit there in the tavern, sketching and chatting. Didn’t bother her. But the Dedication ?” He shook his head. “You bothered her, it was like waking someone from the best dream of their life. Did she punch you?”

“I wish she had,” Facet said, surprising himself. “No, it was more like…” He snatched on to Fenn’s idea. “… she wanted to drag me into the dream with her. She kept saying—‘Can’t you see it? The Ox? Look. It’s right there.’” He shifted in his seat. “Eight. The way she looked at me, I’ll never forget it. Those big blue eyes, pleading with me to see something that wasn’t there. Ach. What a tragedy.”

They all fell silent.

“Goodness,” Facet said, and gave an embarrassed laugh. “That got rather deep, didn’t it?” The ultimate courtly sin.

Across the table, Tala was fidgeting in her chair. “How much longer do we have to sit here? I should be in bed by now.”

She was not the only one struggling. Havoc was yawning, Shal was checking the time. Cain was in agony, trapped between Lord Kindry and Lady Harmony. Katsan was treating the evening as some form of extreme endurance practice, her face frozen in grim acceptance.

Ruko, meanwhile, was in deep conversation with the emperor. His abbess, Rivenna Glorren, sat opposite him, her green hood thrown back, feline not only in her features but in her poise, her allure. A servant reached down to refill her glass. She batted him away with the back of her hand.

The emperor was seated in a huge red and gold lacquered chair. Every time he leaned forward to ask Ruko a question Neema caught glimpses of its padded back—black velvet, slashed with red satin claw marks. The same as his tunic. The Great Bear Emperor. The Great Fraud.

“Facet, Lady Harmony wants to talk to you about a commission.” Cain grinned as the ancient jeweller leapt from his chair and hurried off in search of his richest client. He took Facet’s place and started helping himself to food. “You’ve been avoiding me. She’s been avoiding me, Fenn.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Fenn muttered into his drink.

Cain swivelled his fork and pronged Neema in the arm. This looked like an insult, but for Cain to use an eating implement for any other purpose than filling his face was in fact a sign of friendship. “What’s going on?”

“Cain, please go back to your seat.”

He looked at her, saw the anguish in her face. “All right…” he said slowly.

Too late. Kindry was rising to his feet. He was wearing a new sash around his waist to commemorate his rise to Lord Eternal: K ∞ R woven on black velvet. He kept stroking it as he gave a mostly redundant speech, thanking all the wrong people for making the Day of the Raven “such a splendid occasion,” before announcing the results, which everyone knew already. Shal was in the lead, followed by Ruko. Cain was running third, but he’d already sat out his own Trial, so was doing better than that suggested. Havoc and Tala hovered in the middle with Neema just behind them. Katsan trailed at the end. As Kindry droned on, members of the Raven contingent presented the contenders with their tapestries from the Trial.

“I’m going to tell you something dreadful,” Cain said, smiling in anticipation. “Did you know Kindry has three children? Two sons and a daughter. None of them speaking to him. Anyway , he gets to choose which one inherits his title. Lord or Lady Eternal. He goes,” Cain puffed himself out in imitation, “now they’ll have to speak to me. Now they’ll show me some respect. Dreadful, right?”

“Sad,” Fenn murmured. “For all of them.”

Kindry sat down to a spattering of applause. A member of the contingent hurried up and whispered in his ear. Kindry, flushed even brighter red than usual, got back on his feet. “On a separate matter. This night we are gathered to remember our fallen contender, Gaida Rack. She is gone, but she is not forgotten.”

“You literally just forgot her,” Cain said.

Kindry pretended not to hear him. He raised his glass. “May the Eight grant her a luminous new journey upon the Eternal Path…”

“And remain Hidden,” everyone replied.

“… filled with wealth, health and happiness,” he finished, and sat down again.

“Can we please, please go to bed now,” Tala groaned, resting her head on her arm and mock sobbing.

“Apparently not,” Cain said.

A herald had stepped forward. He blew the first few bars of the emperor’s anthem and shouted, “All rise for His Majesty, Emperor Bersun the Second. See how Orrun is restored in his name!”

In his brother’s name , Neema thought, as the emperor got to his feet.

He motioned for them to sit. Studied them all in silence. “So. You’ve seen the Leviathans. You’ve heard the rumours. Riots across the empire. Protests. Nothing new. The Festival brings unrest, always has done. People see change and they think—I’ll have a piece of that. But this time it’s worse.” A clench of his sword. “I’m a soldier first, emperor second. My gut tells me if we don’t act now, Orrun will slide into civil war. That will not happen, not on my watch. From tomorrow, we shall have two Trials a day. In three days’ time, the Festival will be over. I shall step down, and the next ruler of Orrun will take their place on the marble throne. Contenders, rise!”

The contenders got to their feet, exchanging glances. Two Trials a day meant two fights a day, as well. The next few days would be intense.

“In line!” the emperor barked.

They wove through the tables to the front and stood shoulder to shoulder. A rather different effect, in their evening wear. Havoc, Shal and Katsan were in their ceremonial uniforms, Ruko in a green tailored tunic. Cain was wearing a kilt.

“I’ve been watching you on the platform,” the emperor said, frowning. “I’m ashamed of you.”

A ripple of surprise spread across the tables.

“Two draws today, out of four. And you, Ballari. You only won because the Visitor let you. Ruko Valit—you held back against Shal Worthy, no, don’t argue with me boy, I saw it. Unacceptable. Unforgivable. Orrun needs a leader who will fight to win , no matter the cost. From tomorrow: no shields allowed. No whimpering ‘stop’ at the first sign of trouble. You fight till the bell rings. This is what Empress Yasthala expected of her contenders. I expect no less of mine. That is all.” He sat back down, and banged his fist on the table. There. Done.

Neema floated back to her seat.

“Breathe,” Fenn said.

It was brilliant, really. Genius. No need to murder her. Just put her on the fight platform and ring the bell.

Vabras was reading out the schedule for tomorrow. “Morning fights,” he said. “First bout: Contender Kraa for the Ravens, versus Contender Valit for the Tigers.”

“Hah, hah, hah!” The laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. “Hah, hah, hah!”

Fenn put an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll talk to the emperor. He’ll make an exception for you, he has to. It’s not right.”

Neema was still laughing, great gulping sobs. She couldn’t stop. She laughed uncontrollably into her untouched dessert. The rose sweets had turned into a gummy mess in the heat, the nougat was stuck to the plate. Hah, hah, hah! She reached for a glass of water, and was astonished to see that her hand was steady. Had the message not got through to her body yet? We are going to die! That includes you, fingers!

Vabras had moved on to the afternoon’s schedule. “After the Ox Trial, the evening fights will run as follows. The Dragon Proxy versus Contender Worthy for the Hounds. Fight two: Contender Brundt for the Bears, versus Contender Kraa…”

Neema was still laughing. Yes, that would do it. If by some miracle she survived her fight with Ruko, then Katsan would be more than happy to finish her off as justice for Gaida. Perfect. Perfect!

The courtyard was turning around her. Her dessert plate loomed and retracted. Cain said, “Put your head between your knees,” which was good advice; she was about to follow it when everything went white.

“I would have fainted twice,” Benna said.

She was very drunk. The Festival stalls had claimed another victim. At some point, she’d had her face painted and then forgotten, and all the colours had smeared together.

“You’re smudged,” Neema said.

“Soo smudged,” Benna agreed, swaying. “Never been so smudged.”

Neema collapsed on the bed.

“Can I help you with your dress?”

That was a good question. Was Benna capable of doing anything, at this present moment? “I’m going to sleep in it.”

“Amazing. So glamorous. Sparkles. Sparkly.”

Neema considered asking Benna about Grace and the opening ceremony dress, and the mystery of the nineteen silver tiles. But she was too tired, and Benna was too drunk, and what did it matter, she was going to die tomorrow anyway. “Goodnight, Benna.”

Benna really was smudged. She took some time finding her room, even though it was just across the corridor. Doors and cupboards should have initials on them, she decided. D or C, so you didn’t get confused. Wow that was an amazing idea, remember that for tomorrow, Benna. When she finally opened the right door she was so overwhelmed by the sight of her little room, with its camp bed and washstand, that she started to cry. In all her life, she’d never had a room of her own. It made her happy and lonely and also guilty, because this was supposed to be Neema’s study, but she’d said, “No, you need a room, Benna,” just like that.

She curled up on the bed and hugged her stuffed bear for comfort. She had won it at the Festival stalls—it was supposed to be the famous warrior poet Mordir, dressed in patrol uniform with tiny leather boots and a backpack. There was a miniature book of his poetry in the pack; it was adorable.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, into the bear’s fur. “What should I do?”

She fell asleep, smearing paint on her pillow. And there, deep in dreams, she found her answer.