Page 6

CHAPTER

Six

N EEMA SPENT THE next few hours making sure everything was ready for the opening ceremony. She sat in on the dress rehearsal for the court procession—the ministers, the emperor’s retinue, the musicians and dancers. She wasn’t happy, so they did it again. They all hated her for it, but the emperor didn’t pay her to be popular. That would be a singular waste of money. He paid her to be perfect.

By the end of the day her top was sticking to her skin with sweat and her hair was starting to frizz. She paid a visit to the artificial waterfall at the Monkey palace and stood under its ice-cold cascade, fully clothed and shrieking with laughter. (The emperor did not pay her to be dignified, either.)

The sun was setting as she returned to the second palace, her clothes almost dry again from the heat. She slid open the door to her antechamber and sighed with relief. Peace.

The door to the main apartment flew back, revealing a young white woman dressed in kitchen uniform. She was tiny, and overjoyed. “High Scholar—welcome home!” She danced on the spot, weaving her shoulders from side to side. “That’s my welcome home dance. Wow, this is so exciting, thank you so much for this opportunity, your rooms are awesome. ” She sang the last word.

Neema blinked.

“I’m Benna. Benna Edge. Your new assistant.”

Neema had completely forgotten—with Janric leaving, she had called in a favour from Chef Ganstra. He’d promised to send someone over from the imperial kitchens to help for the next few days. And here she was.

Benna beamed, as if she had won the Kind Festival lottery. “Do I bow? I should bow.” She gave it a go, ending up somewhere between a Raven and a Fox salute, arms crossed over her chest, one foot wobbling in front of the other.

Neema stepped down into the living area. It was spotless, and smelled of lemon. The cushions were plumped, and there was a vase of freshly cut flowers on the table.

“I didn’t touch your books,” Benna said, suddenly anxious. “Chef Ganstra said, don’t touch her books or she’ll kill you.”

“I won’t kill you.”

“Phew. Would you like some tea? And cake? I wasn’t sure which you liked best, so…” She gestured towards a tray piled high with bite-sized cakes—pistachio, banana, chocolate, cherry frangipane… there had to be a hundred of them. Neema tried one, to be polite, then tried three more.

“Oh you like them all best, fantastic,” Benna said. “Would you like some ginger tea? Or whisky? Chef Ganstra said those were your favourite.”

“Tea, thank you.”

Benna danced her way over to the stove singing, “Ginger tea, ginger tea,” under her breath. This should have been insanely annoying, but somehow wasn’t.

“You’re from Westhaven,” Neema guessed.

“Wow, yeah. Good spot. Was it the accent?”

Neema smiled to herself. It was the accent—a lilting song of long vowels and lost consonants. It was also everything about her. Her surname, her tiny stature, her twin plaits of hair braided with white ribbon—the colour of the unaffiliated. Most of all, the tattoos winding up her arms, memorials to those she had lost, and prompts to enjoy the moment, and live life to the full. These were not empty words for a Westhavener. Their territory bordered the poisoned forest of Dolrun. People died young there. One in three children never reached adulthood.

Benna finished making the tea, humming to herself. “What else can I do for you, High Scholar?”

“Did you see a chameleon while you were tidying up?”

Benna clutched her cheeks in joy. “You have a pet chameleon? Oh my short, sweet life—I LOVE chameleons!”

Neema suspected that Benna LOVED lots of things. “I think someone may have stolen him.”

“No!”

“But he may have wandered off somewhere.”

“Yes!” Benna much preferred this theory. “He’s on an adventure! I’ll look for him while you’re at the ceremony, High Scholar.”

“You don’t have to.”

Benna nodded, but she was going to conduct an inch-by-inch search, Neema could tell from the determined set of her jaw.

She took her tea and cake into the dressing area. Through the screened window, she could hear the palace choir out on the lawn, practising their song for the Day of the Raven. She hummed along as she rubbed avocado oil into her scalp and through her hair. Her evening gown was hanging by the mirror—she rinsed her hands and slipped it on, before calling to Benna for help with the hooks.

“Ohhhh,” Benna said, wide-eyed in the mirror.

Neema smoothed her hands over the dark indigo silk, admiring the way it skimmed her waist and hips. The skirt was pleated and tucked at the back to suggest a raven’s folded wings, diamond-shaped tail fanning out along the floor. The sheer bodice was embroidered with diamonds and silver thread in a pattern of intertwining feathers.

The dress had eaten up most of Neema’s savings, but it was worth it—she needed to look good tonight. Feel good. Once the party was over she could sell it back to the imperial wardrobe for their archives, for two gold tiles less than she had paid for it. Two gold tiles to feel invincible. Still a fortune—but worth it.

She watched her new assistant in the mirror as she set to work closing the hooks. “How old are you, Benna?”

“I’ll be nineteen this Fading Light.”

Neema would have guessed a little older. But then the average life expectancy for a deep southwesterner was forty-six. Life had already sunk its claws into Benna.

“How did you end up so far east?”

Benna brought her hands together, revealing another upbeat tattooed message. Left hand: Life Is Short. Right hand: Enjoy It ! “I left home at fifteen, worked my way across the empire. I’m heading back though, after the Festival. I miss my family so much. How about you, High Scholar?”

Neema felt a twinge of guilt. She had not been back to Scartown since the emperor called her to his side. Letters only. She changed the subject. “You’re not affiliated?”

Benna touched the white ribbon in her plait. “No, we don’t bother with that,” she said, blithely dismissing a system followed by ninety-five per cent of the population.

“But if you had to pick one of the Eight—which would you choose?”

“All of them,” Benna said. She closed the last hook.

They admired the dress together in the mirror.

“You look amazing.”

“Thanks.” No point denying it. Neema snapped a diamond cuff on to her left wrist. It struck her that if she’d had Benna at her side, instead of a long series of twats like Janric Tursul, her life at court would have been easier, more productive and much more pleasant. How nice to discover this, eight days before she left for ever.

Crossing to a high shelf, she lifted out a lacquered box and brought it back to her dressing table. She smiled at Benna, like a magician about to perform a trick, and opened the box. Glimmering inside was a diamond choker, with a large, eight-sided amethyst at its heart. Purple, for the Raven. She had asked Facet, the court jeweller, to send her something special, and this had arrived for her last night.

Benna lifted it reverently from the box and clipped it around Neema’s throat.

A touch of make-up, a spray of perfume and her armour was complete.

“I should be back by midnight,” she said. “Could you have a bath ready? And some chamomile tea?”

Benna looked perplexed. “What about the afterparty?”

“I’ll freshen up first, then head over.”

“Maybe not the chamomile tea then, High Scholar? Something to pick you up, instead?”

“Good thinking. Thanks.”

“You are so welcome.” Benna did a little hop from foot to foot. “Have fun!”

Neema smiled and headed for the door. Shoulders back, hips swaying as the train fanned out behind her.

The truth was she hadn’t been invited to any of the informal afterparties taking place across the island, not even the one planned in Gaida’s honour. Until now, her Raven peers had been forced to show respect to Neema’s badge of office, at least. But with the emperor so close to abdication they could snub her without risk of reprisal. Her lack of invitation was a message screamed in capital letters: YOU ARE NOT ONE OF US YOU NEVER WILL BE.

She was too embarrassed to explain this to Benna. How unpopular she was. It is one thing to admit to being feared, or hated. Quite another to admit that you are unloved, and lonely, and that it is taking all your strength to hide it.