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CHAPTER

Sixty-Seven

N EEMA PRESSED HERSELF flat against the service hut. Six days ago she had stood in this exact same spot. Six days ago, when all she’d had to worry about was a missing chameleon.

She could almost feel her past self standing next to her, breathing in the same scent of tung oil soaked into the blackened larchwood. From here she could see her old balcony, where Princess Yasila had stood on Festival Eve, waiting for Gaida. If she could travel back now, would she do things differently? Keep her eyes to the ground and see nothing? No. In spite of everything, she would still look up.

Sol was circling the palace, her personal lookout. He swooped and wheeled, revelling in his renewed strength. No one is coming.

“No servants?”

Sol did a full somersault and dive. No one is coming, Neema.

She slid around the side of the hut and opened the door with the key she’d stolen from the porter’s office.

Neema had spent the last hour preparing for her escape. She had no idea how she was going to get off the island, but the visions she’d seen during the Dragon Trial proved that she did.

First stop had been her rooms in the imperial palace. Pulling out her backpack, she’d checked through the contents—compass, tinderbox, leather water pouch. She added only a few items from her old life. A comb, a toothbrush, a change of clothes. Ointment for the wound on her neck, a few sachets of Dr. Yetbalm’s pick-me-up powder. The amethyst choker.

Next the armoury, where Sol had flown through an open window and batted against the walls, shrieking in mock alarm. It is astonishing the panic a single trapped bird can create in otherwise reasonable people. While half a dozen guards shooed Sol up and down the corridor, Neema went in search of her weapons chest. She packed her iron fans, a dagger, the warhammer. Cloak and boots. Everything else she had to leave behind—even the beautiful shield; it would draw too much attention strapped to her back.

After the armoury she’d dropped over to the Ox farmhouse to speak to Fenn, only to find the place in uproar over his arrest. No one paid her any heed as she gathered some basic provisions from the farm’s kitchen, to add to the Bear pack’s rations. Bread and fruit, rice and beans, chocolate, tea, dried sausage. Enough to keep her going for a couple of days. She filled her water pouch and rearranged her pack, testing its weight and balance on her shoulders. From her pockets she added the purse of silver tiles Benna had given her, and Fenn’s leather mark of friendship.

Leaving the Ox grounds, she’d taken the service paths all the way down to the Raven palace. Sol had done his startled raven act on the porter while she stole the key.

Which brought them here. Her first Dragonfire vision was complete.

The question was—had she always been destined to come here tonight, or had the vision inspired her? No way to ask, no way to know.

She stored the pack behind a pile of blankets and sat for a moment on the dusty floor, in the dark silence. Sol was outside by the bin. She was alone. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift.

Memories of the Dragon Trial rose up to greet her. Red pennants flying on a crisp winter morning. Grey death in a poisoned forest.

She opened her eyes. The visions brought with them a wave of nausea, a spinning sensation in her head, as time folded forwards then backwards. A permanent after-effect of the spell. She remembered Jadu’s cautionary words. Do not dwell upon what you have seen.

She got to her feet. One final stop.

Sol was watching the cockroaches behind the bin, oily brown and scuttling. Dozens of them, flourishing in the dark. Neema’s skin crawled.

Cockroaches are a good omen, Neema.

“Really?”

They are strong, they are resilient. He ate one, with a single snap and swallow. They are survivors.

“That one isn’t.”

As a species. They are older than old. Do you know what these cockroaches say to me?

“‘Please don’t eat our friend’?”

“We were here before, we shall be here after.” They say that a lot, Sol added, after a pause.

“Like a motto.”

Yes.

“The creed of the cockroach.”

Yes. Sol spat the cockroach back out, and watched with deep focus as it hurried back to its companions.

“Didn’t taste so good, then?”

It tasted revolting, Neema.

The cockroach made a sharp, grating sound, and disappeared back into the rubbish.

It is wise to be disgusting, Sol translated.

Neema mulled on this philosophy as she headed through the palace grounds towards the library. An impromptu party had broken out in a private stretch of gardens, people gathering to celebrate the end of the Festival and talk about its implications. A Tiger emperor—one with very different ideas from the Old Bear. Would Abbess Glorren be the power behind the throne? Would Vabras remain in place as High Commander? What would happen to Princess Yasila, given her antipathy towards her son? Would she be punished for it? Sent to the House of Mist and Shadows? And what then for her daughter Nisthala?

Hidden away in the shadows, Neema waited for one of them to mention the extra Leviathans, the influx of Samran troops, but no one seemed to care about that.

“I know it’s disloyal,” someone said, “but thank the Eight he won.”

Neema felt a prickle run down her spine.

“Might have been interesting, a Raven empress,” someone else said, charitably.

“Of course,” the first person said. “But…”

But not me, Neema thought, in the dark. I came closer to winning than any Raven in the history of the Festival, but it still wasn’t enough for them. Maybe it would be different in other parts of the palace. The unfashionable north wing. The service paths. She might find more support there.

“The thing about Ruko Valit,” someone else said, waving their glass. “He has that charisma, that indefinable quality you need in a leader.”

“I hear she was good at the Monkey Trial.”

“But that was a performance. Ruko doesn’t have to perform. He is imperial. I bet that’s why he won the Dragon Trial.”

“She came out looking deranged apparently. Talking to that pet raven of hers.”

Pet raven?

“How long has she been training it in secret, do you think? Weird.”

Pet raven?

“Let’s go,” Neema whispered, before Sol attacked someone. She moved on, leaving the party behind. Heading for her sanctuary.

It was blissfully cool and quiet inside the library. Only the night librarian was on duty, sulking at the main desk with a bowl of coffee and a stack of romances. A couple of the palace’s more obsessive scholars sat welded in their usual seats, collecting dust. Someone was snoring in Periodicals.

The librarian looked at Neema, looked at the raven on her shoulder. “No pets,” he said.

Sol made a noise Neema hadn’t heard before, deep in his throat.

“Please don’t call him that,” she said.

The librarian put a finger to his lips then wrote a new sign, just for her. He held it up. NO PETS.

Sol hopped on to the stack of romances, then flew straight at Neema’s chest. Tore her open with his claws and shouldered his way in. Blood and bone and viscera. Glistening heart, beating. Lungs expanding and contracting. Neema stood there waiting for it to be over, hands on her hips. She was getting used to it.

The librarian slid under his desk in a dead faint.

Neema took the spiral staircase up to the map room. She had spent many hours in here, cross-referencing old maps with even older texts. Ancient Orrun was as familiar to her as her palace lodgings. But—outside of her head—she had never ventured beyond the empire’s north-east pocket. Scartown, Armas city, the island—that was the extent of her travels.

Opening up the map she felt a sort of vertigo, as if she might fall in. The empire stretched out under her hands, vast and intimidating. The long journey to the Bear monastery was straightforward enough, assuming she could travel one of the main routes west. Best not to assume. She took the stairs up to the highest gallery, bringing the map with her.

Neema knew this part of the library very well—it was a good place to hide. The books here held the stale, sour smell of neglect. The weighted disappointment of being unwanted, unread for decades. Sol gave a soft whir of approval.

Neema slid a slim, rust-coloured book from the shelf. How to Survive on the Road: A Searingly Dull but Practical Guide for Beginners by Sinn Dunrelli, Fox adventurer of Fox adventurers. People read Dunrelli to be entertained, not informed—which was why this little guide was languishing up here in Manuals and Instruction Booklets: Miscell., 900–1100 N.C .

For half an hour she sat with the map and Dunrelli’s guide, memorising the salient points. It did not occur to her to smuggle them out. There were many things Neema might do, in an emergency. Stealing from a library was not one of them.

When she was done, she headed back outside.

Havoc was waiting for her on the library steps, accompanied by his squad of Samran Hounds, the same ones who’d beaten Cain up so badly. Two of them carried lanterns on long poles. The others had exchanged batons for swords. When did regular Hounds start wearing swords? But then, they weren’t regular. Nothing about this was regular.

“Lady Neema,” Havoc said smoothly, using her new honorific. “His Majesty, Emperor Bersun invites you to a private reception, to honour his successor.”

“The armed guards are for my protection, I presume?”

“Naturally.”

Walking along the high ridge towards the Grand Canal, Havoc stopped and swept his arm out, presenting the view. Under the full moon, twelve Leviathans sat anchored in the channel, smaller boats attending like servants at a feast. On the eastern quay, a troop of Samran Hounds was hard at work, loading supplies as the boats came back and forth—food, water, bolts of material, treasury chests and weapons.

Twelve Leviathans now—and those were just the ones she could see. There would be at least three more anchored around the island. Half the imperial fleet, loading up with the island’s treasures. The most generous explanation Neema could come up with was that the Tigers had struck some kind of corrupt, back-hand deal with the emperor. The worst explanation was that this was a coup, unfolding before her eyes. She thought of the Ravens drinking wine in the private gardens. Had no one else noticed this? Did they not care?

“That one’s mine,” Havoc said, pointing out the Leviathan nearest to shore, sleeker than the rest. He leaned in, conspiratorial. “But I command them all. I’ve been promised the position of High Admiral.”

“Ruko knows about this?” It made no sense. If the emperor never intended to give up the throne, if these troops were loyal to him, why bother going through the charade of a Festival in the first place? And if Ruko was involved, as Havoc implied—that made things even stranger. In a million years, Ruko would not willingly share power with the emperor. He had fought and won on his own merit, in front of thousands of spectators. No one could deny the legitimacy of his succession.

She focused on the view below them. The Hounds on the quay, the moonlight on the water, the silvered warships. The Tiger’s Path constellation, so bright it cast the Mirror Bridge in an eerie light, over the black waters.

She was missing something. Something essential.

Havoc caught the direction of her gaze. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I wish my aunt were alive to paint it.”

“It’s not beautiful.” Neema turned to look at him, his handsome profile. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but it’s ugly. Shimmer would have seen that. That was her genius. She saw right to the heart of things.”

“I agree,” Havoc said, with an infuriating smirk. “She captured things perfectly.” Turning his back on the sea, he proffered an arm. When Neema didn’t take it, he said, “I could make you. Your choice.”

Suppressing a shudder, she took his arm. And soon realised why he had insisted. This was a charade for the benefit of the courtiers dining out on the canal, crossing the bridges to meet friends at other palaces, mingling on the banks. The Festival was over, and either they had not seen the warships, or had chosen not to worry. There would be those who would be worried. Wiser heads, more cautious souls. The Ox palace was subdued as they sailed by, while the Bears’ fortress blazed with light, warriors patrolling the battlements. But the Tigers were celebrating, and there were plenty who were happy to join in with that end of Festival spirit. Drinking helped. There was a lot of drinking. Havoc waved and smiled as people cheered their procession, and put his arm around Neema’s shoulder, as if they were great friends. “Smile,” he ordered, in her ear.

Finally, when they reached her rooms, she was rid of him. She had to change, and check the dressing on her neck.

“I’ll be right here,” he said, in the antechamber.

In her bedchamber, she found her opening ceremony gown laid out for her on the bed with a note from Grace Eliat.

Lady Neema. His majesty insists you wear this.

Rage. Rage consumed her. She took the dress in both hands and ripped it apart at the seams. Diamonds scattered as she tore up the sheer bodice. It wasn’t enough; it didn’t satisfy her need. Digging out her silver sandals, she used the heel to tear through the silk. Over and over, until it was nothing but shreds of fabric. She flung the sandal away and stood back, shaking from the effort.

After the rage, a numbing calm. She had brought very few clothes with her when they moved her here, and most of those were now in her Bear pack. Her contender trousers and martial shoes would do, but her embroidered tunic would be far too conspicuous on the road—assuming she made it that far. The only alternative was a dark indigo tunic with a short collar and long sleeves, which she’d brought in case the weather turned cooler. She threw it on, fastening the silver buttons along the side yoke.

Checking her hair in the mirror, she realised she was still wearing her colours on her arm. She untied them and then—on impulse—wrapped them around her waist like a sash, with the Raven Wing sigil at the front.

In her chest, Sol opened his wings to match. Raven warrior.

—Raven warrior.

She rubbed some cream through her curls, inspecting the change in colour. The subtle strands of blue and indigo no longer disturbed her. After all she’d been through, it seemed fitting there should be some indelible mark. She had suffered, she had survived.

As she left she had the odd feeling she’d forgotten something. The choker? No, that was in her pack. Something else… She shook the feeling away.

In the antechamber, Havoc frowned at her outfit. “This is a formal reception. The emperor expects to see you in your dress.”

“He’s not my emperor,” Neema said, and stalked off down the hall.