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CHAPTER

Forty-Three

E VERYTHING ABOUT THE Tiger palace had been designed to annoy Cain personally. He was absolutely convinced of it.

Something he had noticed about the imperial island: it was dropping to bits. From a distance its iconic buildings looked as good as those dessert confections Chef Ganstra had produced for the opening ceremony. Up close? Dilapidation. Ruination. Crumbling walls in desperate need of repointing, rotten flooring, rising damp, missing roof tiles. Cockroaches. (Always, cockroaches.)

At first Cain assumed Fenn and his Ox teams were to blame for the neglect. But once he’d asked around (amazing the things you could learn, mid-orgy), he realised the emperor and Vabras had been cutting back the island’s repair funds for years. Even an engineer of Fenn’s skill and ingenuity couldn’t stop the decline.

The Tiger palace was the exception, and that was what annoyed Cain. Tigers were always the exception, because they were so revoltingly, unshakeably wealthy. Generation after generation, Venerant families had sent their most promising offspring to Anat-hurun. The Tiger monastery welcomed them in, shaped them, trained them, and sent them back out to govern.

Glossy, arrogant cat-fuckers.

We did not say that, we would never be so rude or prejudiced or factually incorrect. That was Cain, muttering under his breath. “Glossy, arrogant cat-fuckers,” he muttered, and we heard him because yes, greetings, look up and there we are, tucked up high on that kitchen beam, watching him scrub the terracotta floor on his hands and knees. The Tigers have ordered him to do this as part of the Trial. It is quite funny, he is furious, we are enjoying ourselves.

Anyway, to continue as if we were not here, feel free to forget about us again, the Tigers would never dream of letting anything with their name attached to it fall into ruin. Their palace was immaculate, because they could afford to pay half a dozen private Ox teams to work full-time on its upkeep. Forty acres of land, and not one single flaw, unless you found perfection itself a flaw, which Cain did. Its vineyards—they had vineyards — grew in lines so precise they looked fake. Every pane of glass in every pavilion was buffed until it sparkled. The marble statues that lined its terraces looked as if they had arrived fresh from the sculptor’s workshop. When Cain had visited the other day to interview the abbess, he had been brought in via the service paths (a deliberate slight, obviously). The stables had smelled of leather and polish, and fresh straw, but not of horse shit. How was that even possible?

Foxes of Anat-russir spent their lives hunting out the hidden truth of things. The games, the subterfuge, the word play, the contradictions, the disguises—all were part of a quest for deeper meaning. If you wanted to understand a thing you had to turn it upside down and inside out.

Cain wanted to turn the Tiger palace upside down and inside out. He wanted to smash the glass pavilions and paint moustaches on the statues. He wanted to shovel horse shit over Rivenna Glorren’s bed. Instead, he was cleaning the kitchens.

He’d known something like this would happen. He had rigged his Trial against Ruko and it was only natural that the Tigers would retaliate. He had it coming—he could respect that. It was the way they did it that annoyed him.

Upon arrival, the contenders had been ushered to the east terrace. They’d stood in line in front of a large octagonal fountain that shot eight arcing jets of water into the air. A motto had been chiselled into the marble base: A TIGER KNOWS WHEN TO WAIT AND WHEN TO STRIKE.

Abbess Glorren had appeared on the balcony above them, flanked by Ruko on her left, and her pet tiger Valira on her right. Unlike the Tiger contingent, who had sailed up by yacht, Valira had travelled cross-country in a caged wagon. The journey had taken weeks and left her in a fractious state. When she saw the contenders lined up below— strangers, intruders— she lifted her giant front paws up on to the balustrade and gave a deep, rattling snarl, baring her yellow fangs.

Rivenna toyed with Valira’s collar, as if she were tempted to let go. The contenders held their nerve, but it was not easy with a three-hundred-pound hurun scrabbling at the balustrade, desperate to leap down and attack.

Smiling at their discomfort, Rivenna handed Valira over to Ruko. He gave the tiger a rough but affectionate scrub about the ears and cheeks, talking to her in a soothing voice. Immediately Valira settled, and dropped down at his bare feet like a living rug.

Rivenna lifted her arms in greeting, the embroidered, gossamer sleeves of her green dress opening out like wings. The abbess seemed to change her outfit at least twice a day, with only a passing nod to the traditional robes of office. Her hood was made of forest-green lace, and the beads in her hair had been swapped to burnished gold.

Cain had to admit, she looked hot. They both did. Rivenna was like an evil butterfly and Ruko was like a big, sexy wardrobe that might kill you, and these were both very much Cain’s type. Cain had a lot of types.

“Contenders. Welcome… to the Tiger palace,” Rivenna said proudly, as if they had completed their final turn of the Eternal Path and reached the gates of paradise. “Where is Contender Kraa?”

“Ruko knocked her out,” Cain called up. “The medics advised her to rest.”

“An empress does not rest when her throne is at stake.” Rivenna placed her hands on the balustrade. “Better she had died on the platform, than disgraced the Ravens by her absence. A palace is like an empire,” she continued. “Look around contenders, and you will see how we mean to rule Orrun, when Ruko takes the throne. Everything in its proper place.” A pause, as she smiled her cat’s smile. “This morning’s Trial will be a game of strategy. We aim to discover the leader in your midst. Each of you will be assigned a position within the palace, from prince,” she lifted her hand high, “to servant.” Her hand fell, gesturing to the ground.

On this cue, members of the Tiger contingent appeared with an archery target. The contenders were each handed a bow and a quiver of arrows, the fletches dyed in their respective Guardian colours.

Archery, Cain thought, as he tested his bow. Should have known. He’d had some practice, but his rivals far outstripped him, especially Havoc, who had spent his childhood hunting on his father’s estate.

“Your skill with bow and arrow will determine your starting position for the Trial,” Rivenna explained. “Where you end up,” a tweak of an eyebrow at Cain, “is down to you.”

As predicted, Havoc got the best score, followed by Shal with his sharp eyes. Then Tala, also an experienced hunter. At one point Cain thought he might beat Katsan, who favoured her sword. In the end, she came a narrow fourth.

“Congratulations, Monkey contender!” Rivenna said. “You begin the Trial as prince.” She ran down the rest of the contenders. Shal was the palace’s estate manager, Tala was head gardener, Katsan was in charge of the stables. “And your place is in the kitchens, Contender Ballari.”

Cain was on his hands and knees… well you know this part, this is where we came in. Before the contenders could even think of usurping their rivals, they must complete some task pertaining to their current position. Cain’s task was to scrub the pans, clean the cutlery, wash the walls, sweep the hearth, scrub the floor…

Enough to keep him busy for the whole Trial. He was stuck here.

These weren’t even the main kitchens. Those were being used to prepare lunch. These were the staff kitchens. Cain was a servant to the servants. If this was meant to humiliate him, or make him reflect upon his lowly upbringing, it did not. As a spy, Cain had worked in kitchens across the empire, gathering all sorts of interesting information. Also: food.

Cain knew he could not improve on his current position, so he had stolen Ruko’s strategy from the Fox Trial. He would perform the task given to him, to keep hold of the one point available. Beyond that he would do nothing, saving his energy and his wits for his fight with Havoc this afternoon.

Also—the idea of sitting down in the middle of the Tiger Trial and eating a sandwich amused him. It was certain to go down in Fox lore. Let us never forget Cain Ballari, who stopped mid-Trial to eat—

Cain froze, listening. Something was wrong. Too quiet. Too still. There had been people in the rooms above, and in the kitchen garden beyond. They had left, stealthily, by some pre-assigned signal.

Cain was a trained assassin. He knew what that meant.

There was a set of knives on a wall to his left. As he moved towards them, his mind raced through the implications. Was this part of the Trial, or was this real? How many of them were there? Should he fight, or try to escape?

The door creaked open. A nose appeared through the crack. Tufted ears. Fur, fangs, whiskers. Valira.

Cain’s heart dropped.

The ultimate assassin.

She growled, so deep, he felt it rumble through his body.

It took every last inch of his training not to panic as she entered the room, tail lashing, flanks twitching with agitation. Close enough now that he could smell her rich, animal scent. He tried the soothing noises he’d heard Ruko use, patting the air. She snarled again, baring her yellow fangs, and leapt on to the table between them.

Cain knew instinctively that if he tried to run, she would kill him. His gaze flickered to the knives on the wall. He wouldn’t reach them in time.

He needed a joke. A Fox must die with a joke on his lips, even if there is no one around to hear it.

Valira stalked down the table towards him. Pots clattered to the floor.

“I just cleaned those,” Cain managed. Not bad, under the circumstances.

Valira loomed over him as he shrank back, pressed against the ovens. If he could slide past… But her yellow eyes were on his and he was transfixed. Another snarl rattled up, from deep within her chest.

They stared at each other.

Watch her, try to anticipate the leap; it’s your only hope.

Eye to eye. Soul to soul.

A softer growl from Valira. Tentative. Unsettled.

She drew back.

Cain swallowed, keeping his eyes on hers. For whatever reason, that seemed to work. She pulled back further, made a confused, yowling sound, and dropped to the floor.

“Valira!” Ruko strode into the room and grabbed her collar, dragging her back.

Cain gripped the edge of the table with both hands. Breathed out slowly.

“Are you all right?” Ruko asked. And then, angry, “This wasn’t me. I fight my own battles.” He chuffed Valira under the ears to calm her, and led her from the room. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he said to Cain, and was gone.

Cain collapsed to the floor. “Yes,” he said, weakly. “Aware of that.”

Lunch was taken on the south terrace beneath an arbour of trailing vines, as if no one had just tried to kill anyone. Servants dressed in identical masks and uniforms offered discreet, anonymous service. Beyond the arbour, the gardens sloped gently down to the Grand Canal, boats drifting by in the distance. The bridge that connected the third and fourth palaces was hung with alternating sigil banners. Day of the Tiger, Day of the Ox. The sky was deep azure, cloudless. It gave the view an oddly flat dimension, as if they were looking at a painting, or a theatrical set.

“I can’t eat, I’m so vexed,” Cain said, stabbing a slice of beef and shovelling it into his mouth.

“That’s my plate,” Shal said, resigned to its loss.

Cain tried again. “She sent an actual tiger to kill me.”

“So you keep saying,” Tala sounded bored.

“Why don’t you believe me?”

She lowered her fork, and looked at him. “Seriously?”

Cain turned back to Shal. “Use your Houndsight on me. Go on, you have my permission this time—”

Shal shook his head, suspecting a trick. “I’m not in the mood, Cain.” He hadn’t done well in the Trial. Ended up slipping down from estate manager to stable master.

“Horses are nice, though,” Tala said, as if this helped anyone. After a morning of highly elaborate strategy games, she had ended up exactly where she’d started: head gardener.

The vines rustled in the breeze. Shal lifted his hand to catch the cooler air. “Is the weather turning? Eight, I hope so. Could we have some more water?” he asked a passing servant.

“Masked service.” Cain had found another thing to be angry about. “Eight forbid we treat them as actual people. Hello, who are you?” he asked the servant as they freshened his glass. “Where are you from?”

The servant put a finger to their covered lips, apologetic. Forbidden from speaking. They moved on down to the other end of the table, where Prince Havoc was sitting with his trusty estate manager, Katsan. Cain propped his cheek on his fist. “Orrun’s greatest leaders. I wouldn’t follow them into a free buffet.”

“Yes you would,” Shal and Tala said, in unison.

The abbess emerged from the palace, green robes trailing. The contenders had been presented with their set of bow and arrows at the end of the Trial, but she had something special for Havoc—a golden statue of the Tiger. It looked heavy, and obscenely expensive.

“Your grace, a point of etiquette?” Cain asked, stopping Rivenna as she passed. “Is it considered vulgar to feed your guests to a tiger?”

The abbess smiled faintly. “I’m told you did an excellent job cleaning the servants’ kitchens, Contender Ballari. As if you were born to the role.”

Cain twirled a steak knife expertly around his fingers. “You’d have me in a mask too, I suppose, waiting at your table.”

The abbess leaned down, and pressed her lips to his ear. “I only value you as your mother did. Remind me—how much did she sell you for? A single twist of opium?” She glided on to the end of the table, and presented Havoc with his gift. “Congratulations, Contender Arbell-Ranor. I had a feeling you would win. Some people are natural leaders.” She sat down next to him, and they fell into an easy conversation, laughing and smiling, ignoring Katsan until she got the hint and left.

Still playing with his knife, Cain studied them, Havoc and the Tiger abbess. Silently, without blinking, in a way that made Shal and Tala exchange nervous glances. Something had shifted in him; a shadow emerging from deep within. His expression was set hard, accentuating the sharp angles of his face.

“Cain?” Tala said. She moved to touch his wrist, to stop the knife from turning, turning.

Shal murmured, in a warning tone, “Don’t.”

Tala withdrew her hand, carefully, as if she’d just realised she’d placed it in a sprung steel trap.

A second later Neema entered the garden, and without a blink Cain was returned to his usual self, his body softening to its familiar graceful slouch. “Here she is. The loser.”

Tala made a space for her, while Shal squinted at the Hound shadowing her. “Who’s that?”

“The emperor fears I might have a serious concussion,” Neema said, in a neutral voice. “I’m to be watched for the next few hours.”

“But you’re well enough to fight Katsan?” Cain asked, equally neutral.

“Apparently so,” she said, then gave a start as Sol rapped smartly on her ribcage.

Neema. I don’t think we should sit here.

“How are you feeling?” Shal asked her.

Oh splendid, apart from the bird in my chest. “Better, thanks. Hungry.” She started to fill her plate.

Neema. Why don’t we move to the other end of the table?

“That’s a good sign,” Tala said.

Look. There are some other people down there. You can eat with them. Let us go there now.

Neema carried on eating, and talking to Cain. He was telling her about the tiger. She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “You looked at it and it got scared?” she said, lifting an eyebrow.

Tala and Shal exchanged another glance. They hadn’t believed before, but now… Now they were wondering.

Sol didn’t like being ignored. There was a lot of fluttering, a lot of flapping, and shrieking her name. Neema, Neema, Neema. Eventually, when she didn’t respond, he opened his beak and clamped down hard on her rib.

“Sol!” she yelped, and clutched her side.

Everyone stared at her.

“Salt!” she corrected quickly.

Shal’s eyes shimmered as he handed it over. “Are you sure you’re all right? Ruko hit you pretty hard…”

“Thanks. I’m good,” Neema said. “Honestly.” And then she sprinkled salt on her bowl of raspberries and cream, and ate it.

After lunch, they headed over the bridge to the Ox palace. People waved from pleasure boats, lifting their glasses to toast their contenders. Halfway across the bridge, the Ox contingent bowed to the Tiger contingent, arms circled out in front, hands clasped. The Tigers gave their own salute in return, very similar, except they struck their right fist into a flat left palm. The Day of the Tiger had ended, the Day of the Ox had begun.

As they moved on, Katsan caught Neema by the shoulder. “Contender Kraa. Is it true you’re no longer part of the investigation? Who’s taken over? Why has no one been charged yet?”

Neema shrugged her off and kept walking. “Ask the emperor,” she muttered over her shoulder.

Katsan grabbed her arm and wheeled her about. “He knows it was you. That’s what the guard’s for.” She tilted her chin sharply towards Neema’s shadow. “He’s afraid I’ll kill you for it.”

She was so far from the mark, Neema laughed. “Katsan…” But what could she say? Where would she even start?

“The Eight will guide my sword on the fight platform.” Katsan pressed two fingers like a blade, and drove them deep into Neema’s chest. “My Sister will be avenged. A life for a life.”