Page 7

CHAPTER

Seven

S HE WAS HALFWAY ACROSS THE lawn when Kindry Rok ambushed her.

“Neema Kraa!” he twinkled. “Your radiance honours the Raven.”

The emperor’s long-serving High Justice was wearing a purple tunic that made him look like a blueberry. He waited for a compliment. “You’re all dressed up,” she said.

Kindry chuckled. He was a man who chuckled. He’d been suave and attractive once—a sweep of sandy hair, a strong jaw. Years of indulgence had damaged all that, slowly at first and then rapidly. At the far end of his fifties, he looked more than a decade older. Nothing for it but to become a character: everyone’s least-favourite uncle.

He was always well-mannered towards Neema in public—not because he liked her, but because she made him look good. She had taken over many of his more onerous duties over the years, leaving him free to pursue more important business: building alliances, destroying enemies, amassing a vast personal fortune. In private he called her his pack mule, and sniggered about it.

“Our dear contender wishes to speak with you.” His smile broadened. He knew full well that Gaida and Neema hated each other.

“I’ll see her at the ceremony.”

Kindry’s smile stretched so far, it contorted his face. “In private I’m afraid, High Scholar. Right away.”

Neema seethed her way back through the palace. Gaida was playing games again. The Raven contender had been living at the second palace for the past month, acclimatising for the Festival. Neema had invited her for tea in her private garden—as was the custom. Gaida had accepted graciously, and then—having kept Neema waiting for over an hour—had sent a servant down with a message. Contender Rack offers her deepest apologies. She is too busy to meet with you this afternoon. As though Neema spent her days floating down the Grand Canal eating cherries.

The snub was carefully calculated to offend. Gaida, who had taken the apartment above Neema’s, was entertaining friends on her balcony that day. They were laughing, and talking passionately about something. Gaida was always talking passionately about something. Even from the floor below, Neema could feel the infectious energy of that meeting. Convivial, engaged, committed. Both genuine and also a performance. Gaida always acted as though everyone around her was taking notes about her for their memoirs. To be fair, they often were.

Neema and Gaida had entered the Raven monastery on the same day—literally walked through the iron gates together. Two fourteen-year-old girls from very different worlds. Neema Lee of Scartown, Gaida Kalair of Arbell City, as they were known then, before they took their Raven names. Gaida—a sweet-faced white girl with dark blue eyes and a mass of loose brown curls—had an unmistakeably Venerant aura: the beautifully tailored uniform, the easy confidence. More specifically, in her case, a sloppiness with her possessions. Her bag was battered, her shoes were scuffed. A priceless gold hairclip lay tangled in her curls, threatening to slip out at any moment.

On instinct Neema had pulled back, trying to make herself invisible. With the notable exception of her old schoolteacher, Madam Fessi, her experience with Venerants was poor. But then Gaida had smiled at her—a warm smile, full of eager assurance. “That’s my favourite,” she’d said, gesturing to the book tucked under Neema’s arm. Instantly, Neema had been seduced. Pushing through her shyness, she’d introduced herself. Maybe they could sit together at lunch, and talk about it? “I’d love that,” Gaida said.

By lunchtime, Gaida had already formed a tight circle of admiring friends. All of them shaven-headed now, to denote their status as novices. Commiserating with each other and laughing as they touched each other’s scalps. When Neema tried to join them, Gaida apologised—there wasn’t room. Except there was, there was plenty. Embarrassed, Neema had walked off at once, in shoes that were not scuffed, because they were her only pair, and would have to last her the next four years.

Behind her back, giggles and snorts. And Gaida hushing them. “Be kind, she can’t help it. She’s just a bit…” Neema didn’t see the face Gaida pulled, but it produced more laughter, not less.

Long ago, Neema had learned to draw out the sting of rejection. Work. Work tirelessly. Immerse yourself. She had fought hard to win her scholarship, and nothing would spoil that. She would find her friends and companions in her books. The vast, soaring library of Anat-ruar was famed throughout the empire. There she made her home, and if Gaida and her friends showed up, she would gather her things and head for the empty, echoing martial rooms to train. 8 At night, while the rest of her year gathered in the common rooms, she stayed in her cell, reading and perfecting her calligraphy, and pretending she was fine. If that didn’t work, she took out Cain’s sprawling letters and read them over and over in the flickering candlelight, to remind herself that there was one person out there in the world who understood her, and liked her as she was.

All that extra study thrust Neema to the top of the class. Gaida, trailing a weak second, would smile and say, “She tries so hard, doesn’t she? I’ve never met anyone so desperate to win.” Desperate—the ultimate Venerant putdown. It became Neema’s nickname, shortened to Desy.

Neema may have won the coveted “First in Year” award four years in a row but it was Gaida who was tipped for greatness. Before she had even completed her final exams, High Justice Yaan Rack had offered her a position at court, working at his side. Then came Andren’s rebellion, and the purges. Rack, who had served four successive rulers of Orrun, was accused of conspiracy. He denied it, but the evidence was compelling. He was executed that autumn along with his wife, his three sons, and fifteen members of his office.

Gaida could have distanced herself from her mentor. Instead, when it came to selecting her Raven name, she had chosen to honour him—ruining her chance of a life at court. Even Neema had to admit, that had shown courage.

It had also made her the radical hero of the Raven community. Untainted by court politics, Gaida was free to present herself as the noble idealist, burning with moral authority. “Principles before power, compassion before ambition,” she proclaimed. 9 (Neema had clenched her jaw so hard when she read that, she gave herself a stress headache.)

And now she was their contender. She hadn’t put herself forward (again, she wasn’t desperate )—but a word here, a word there, and somehow it was known that Professor Rack might consider representing the Ravens, if that was the overwhelming wish of the Flock. Within days, every other potential candidate had stepped back. Gaida was named contender without contest.

One consolation for Neema—Gaida stood almost no chance of winning the throne. She would probably do well in the more strategic Trials, but the contenders also had to face each other on the fight platform. Every other monastery had chosen its contender through fierce internal competition. No matter how much martial training Gaida had crammed into the last couple of years, she would be no match for her rivals. She was going to get trampled, once a day for the next seven days.

Gaida’s suite lay on the top floor of the Raven palace. Like Neema’s apartment, it was a large rectangular space broken up with sunken areas and painted screens, and a long balcony with sliding doors. Unlike Neema’s apartment, the place was a tip, clothes slung over chairs, half-eaten bowls of food, hairbrushes and make-up pots and bottles of perfume, piles of papers. One of the antique screens had a fresh elbow hole through the middle.

Janric Tursul opened the door—something he’d always refused to do for Neema. “Contender Rack is an inspiration ,” he said, leading her through to a private seating area. “It’s such an honour and a privilege to support her.”

“So where is she?”

“Contender Rack will be with you when she’s ready,” he said, already turning to leave. No offer of refreshments.

Neema sighed. It was all so petty and exhausting.

A book lay open on the table in front of her. Orrun’s Ancient Tyrannies: The Definitive History by Professor Gaida Rack. Someone (Gaida) had underlined a passage about the High officials who had supported Orrun’s worst rulers. “These spineless, amoral worms are as guilty as the monsters they served. Let us take comfort from the fact that so many came to a bad end at the hands of their masters.” On the facing page, illustrating her point, was a wood engraving of Esgril the Pitiless, feeding his High Scholar to a crocodile.

The worst thing about this , Neema thought, is she thinks she’s being subtle . She picked up a pencil and asterisked the opening phrase. Added, in the margin, “All worms are spineless. Tautology. Amend for next reprint?”

She waited a few minutes, then lost patience. Gaida was talking out on the balcony, Neema could hear the familiar, earnest rise and fall of her voice as she explained something she wanted, to someone who was failing to give it to her. A servant, Neema guessed, as she rose to find them, stepping back into the sweltering heat. She’d hoped the evening would bring respite, a freshening of the air, but if anything it had turned even more humid.

Gaida had her back turned, posing against the pink-orange sunset. She was dressed in her Festival uniform—a black, sleeveless tunic and black trousers, cut to mid-calf. She looked good, like a proper contender, her body honed in preparation for the Festival. She’d fixed her hair neatly for once, holding it in place with pins and an ebony comb. Neema spotted a few early strands of grey mixed in with the brown. Yes, she made a point of looking, Gaida made her petty like that.

Twenty years had passed since they’d walked through the gates of Anat-ruar together. Fourteen years old. Smiling shyly, and promising to meet again at lunch. People were puzzles, Neema thought. Not fun ones, with prizes. They were puzzles that made no sense, and gave no answer, and broke your heart for no reason.

Gaida was—as Neema had anticipated—arguing with a servant. “No, leave the shutters open tonight. I will sleep there.” She indicated a day bed, drawn up beside the balcony.

“Contender Rack, I wouldn’t advise that—”

Annoyed, Gaida turned round. For a fluttered second she almost faltered, seeing Neema standing there in her finery: the magnificent indigo silk dress with its regal silhouette, the glittering amethyst and diamond choker. She touched a hand to the sigil emblazoned across her chest—a pair of raven wings stretched out in flight, embroidered in shades of purple to show against the solid black of her tunic. The gesture restored her confidence. She was the Raven contender—nothing beat that. “I want to wake with the sun,” she said to the baffled servant, in her rich, theatrical voice. She shifted her pose, and looked to the mid distance.

Neema cringed in anticipation. Poetry. She was going to recite poetry.

Worse than that. She was going to recite her own poetry.

“‘Sleep, sleep, gentle soul, the stars shine but for you. And with the dawn, the sun will kiss your cheek, awakening you to glory.’”

The servant caught Neema’s eye, and made a swirling gesture with his finger and thumb. Mosquitoes. That’s why he’d protested. Mosquitoes would be kissing Gaida’s cheek. But as every servant knows, some people will not be told.

“The shutters will remain open,” Gaida said, imperious.

She’s been practising, Neema thought.

The servant gave a deep Raven salute, arms crossed over his chest. So deep, it had to be ironic. That was the thing about Gaida. She might be the darling of the Raven Flock, but ask those who served her? Not so beloved.

“And change the tea,” Gaida said, oblivious. “The valerian root is off.”

“I think that’s just the way it tastes, Contender—”

“It’s off. Change it for lavender. That’s all.”

The servant bowed again and left.

Gaida gave Neema an enchanting smile. “Desy.”

Neema’s stomach swooped at her old nickname.

“Why the Eight did we call you that?” Gaida laughed, nostalgic. “I can’t remember, for the life of me.” (She definitely remembered.) “No matter, you’ll always be Desy to me.” She opened her arms wide. “Give me a hug, it’s been ages.”

They hugged. It was dreadful.

“Look at you.” Gaida stepped back, to take in the vision. “The famous dress. Janric tells me you’ve spent a fortune.” Her dark blue eyes glittered. “Are you sure that was wise?”

Neema brushed imaginary dust from her skirt. “Was that Poldren the Bleak 10 you were quoting, back there?”

Gaida’s smile faded. If Princess Yasila was the exemplar of hidden feelings, Gaida was her opposite. Joy, rage, humour, everything passed across her face unfiltered. She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Neema caught the familiar tell. She has something on you, and it’s going to hurt. Steel yourself.

“Do you know what I’ve been doing these last two years, Desy?”

Neema did know. Gaida had been on what she called a Sacred Flight, trotting across the empire in lavish style, writing about the nobility of the poor, and the searing majesty of the landscape, and how small she felt in relation to the universe. Pages and pages about how small she felt. “Yes,” Neema said. “You’ve been on holiday.”

“I went in search of myself. Do you know what I found?”

Neema made a show of crossing her fingers. “Humility?”

“My father.”

Neema uncrossed her fingers. She had met Gaida’s father at the Raven monastery once—a sweet man who collected antique fiddles. They’d had a nice conversation about it, Gaida had been furious with him.

“My mother had an affair, here at court.” Gaida looked out across the palace gardens, labouring the dramatic pause. “With Yaan Rack.”

That was a surprise. Neema sifted through what she knew of Gaida’s mother, a much-admired actress and singer. She’d performed at the Monkey Palace theatre, the summer of 1504, taking the part of Gutara the Fox in The Magic Forest. It was possible. Unlikely, but possible. Yaan Rack. Yaan Rack. Damn. Neema rubbed a knot in her left collarbone, not realising that was her own, anxious tell.

“You can see it, once you look.” Gaida touched her angular jaw line, the side of her eyes. Those clever, expressive, dark blue eyes.

A bead of sweat trickled down Neema’s back. “I didn’t know him.”

“But you did meet him that one time, Desy.” Gaida smiled. “Didn’t you?”

There it was. The poisoned dart.

And Neema was falling back in time. 1523, the month of the Tiger. Three o’clock on the twelfth day, an overcast afternoon. Standing in perfect, respectful posture, her black robes freshly laundered. Her shoes were thin and worn, but she’d spent her last bronze tile to have them polished to a mirror shine.

Neema had completed her four years of intensive training and study at the monastery. Her final exams were over. In a few weeks, she would choose her Raven name and “fledge.” (Anat-ruar used a lot of bird metaphors. Some people found this charming.) While the rest of her year-mates were looking forward to a bright spring of travels, celebrations and family gatherings, Neema was fretting about her future. Despite her high scores, her evident talents, she was yet to secure a position. “We have placed you on the reserve list,” the letters read. Seven of them.

She knew what they were waiting for. This meeting.

Once a year, High Justice Yaan Rack spent a week at the monastery, meeting with every student before they fledged. Sailing from the imperial island with his retinue, he would set up office in a grand suite kept solely for this purpose. Officially, he came to offer his counsel. Unofficially, he was deciding which individuals were worthy of his support. Well-connected graduates such as Gaida were already tucked safely beneath his wing, of course. Whereas Neema was yet to speak a word to the great man. Rack had pinned her First in Year wings to her cape four years in a row, but had only nodded absently as he did so, without saying a word.

This one brief interview could shape her entire career. Naturally Neema was anxious. She had paced her cell night after night in preparation, rehearsing her answers, perfecting her grateful face in the mirror. This would be a trial, and she must be ready for it. Rack’s cross-examinations as a young lawyer were legendary.

Then, when the moment came, he surprised her, bursting from his office with an engaging enthusiasm, blue eyes bright with welcome. His long grey curls (also legendary—everything about Rack was legendary) were tied up with purple ribbon, his robes expertly padded to bulk out his frail body. Before Neema could even begin the greeting she’d practised, he had gathered her in a light hug. She felt awkward, conscious that she was sweating with nerves. Rack, in comparison, was dry as a fresh sheet of paper, and smelled wonderfully of lemon, crisp and sharp.

He let her go. “Neema Lee, Commoner of Scartown. Here on your own merit and First in Year.” He gave an earnest smile. At the grand age of eighty-three, his face was scored with deep lines, but his energy was undiminished. “Wonderful. Wonderful! You are the reason I supported Emperor Bersun’s monastery reforms. Now sit down, sit down. Tell me about yourself, and your experience here at Anat-ruar. Be honest. I am curious. I am open.”

Neema’s tutors had warned her to be humble, respectful and positive. But Rack was a seeker of knowledge, a seeker of truth. First know, then act. One of his best-known aphorisms. This was her chance to improve the system for those who came after her.

So—discarding her carefully rehearsed lines—she spoke honestly, describing what life was like at the monastery for outcasts like her. How the other students had shunned her. How even a couple of the teachers had tried to sabotage her work, and destroy her confidence. How hard she’d had to fight every day to convince people—to convince herself—that she deserved to be there. Rack listened intently, nodding briskly for her to continue when she faltered, encouraging her to open up further.

When she was done he steepled his fingers. “There is a saying,” he murmured. “Master Tovan Rork, in The Wisdom of the Flock . I find it apposite, here.” He closed his eyes, and quoted from memory. “‘Beware the Solitary Raven. She has been banished for good reason.’”

He opened his eyes. All the good humour, the bright curiosity had vanished. “I gave you a gift this morning, Neema Lee. The gift of my time. You might have asked for my advice. You might have thanked me for opening the gates of Anat-ruar to Commoners for the first time in Orrun’s history. But instead you chose to waste it with your complaints. Your tittle-tattle. Your petty feuds. Eight, you didn’t even bother to wear a decent pair of shoes.” He picked up his pencil and began scratching ill-tempered notes in her file. The interview was over.

Neema sat for a moment in stunned disbelief. She watched his bowed head, half expecting him to look up again and tell her he was joking. When that didn’t happen, she tried to think of what she could say to change his mind. Apologise? Beg? Explain about the shoes? But she could tell from the set of his shoulders, the firm scrape of his pencil, that he would not shift, or soften. In fact, she was beginning to suspect that this interview had been a trap, from the moment he’d burst out of the room and hugged her. For some reason he’d wanted her to fail. He’d orchestrated it.

There was nothing to be done. And yet, there was one thing she had to say, before she left. A weight upon her chest, that must be lifted. Don’t say it, don’t say it. But she couldn’t help herself. “Osil Gronk.”

Rack raised his head, brows furrowed with irritation. Was she still here? “I beg your pardon?”

“That quote, about the Solitary Raven. You attributed it to Master Rork. He edited Wisdom of the Flock , but the line comes from an essay by Osil Gronk.”

Rack stared at her, mouth open. “You question my knowledge?” he said, when he had recovered. “Who the Eight do you think you are? Who the Eight do you think you are speaking to?”

Neema drew herself up in her seat. “‘A Raven must never be afraid to admit fault, in the pursuit of truth.’” She was quoting the High Justice himself. It seemed… apposite.

For forty years, Yaan Rack had lorded over the Raven community. No one had dared question him in decades—let alone use his own words against him. “ You ,” he spat. “On my life. You are expelled from Anat-ruar. You will not take your Raven name.

I forbid it. I forbid it. No school, no court, no office in the land will hire you. By the time I am finished with you, Neema Lee, you will be lucky to find work on an Ox Team, cleaning sewers with your bare hands. Now—get out. ” He banged his fist on the desk.

Neema had left the room in a daze. When she reached her cell she’d curled up on her bed and wept. She was nineteen years old, and her life was ruined.

Later, she thought: Who cleans sewers with their bare hands? Surely they used shovels? And long poles for blockages?

All day she hid in her room, waiting for the knock on the door, rocking back and forth in a way even she found pathetic. Would they expel her in front of the whole monastery, in some hideous ceremony? Or let her crawl away in disgrace?

Night fell, and no one came. She couldn’t bear it any longer. She washed her face and slipped outside—to find the monastery in uproar. Students sobbing in each other’s arms, tutors huddled in corners with worried faces.

Eventually Neema found someone who would talk to her. There’d been a coup at the palace. Andren Valit, Governor of Armas, had tried to assassinate the emperor. Valit was dead; the emperor wounded, perhaps mortally. Valit’s friends and allies were fleeing the capital for the safety of their ancestral seats. There would be a war, no question. Maybe even the Last Return of the Eight.

So much for the predictions of Ravens. There was no war, and no Return. Hol Vabras held the empire together while the emperor recovered. The Imperial Hounds searched the Raven palace and found evidence that High Justice Yaan Rack had been colluding with Lord Valit for years. Half the Justice Office had to be purged. Yaan Rack was executed for high treason, frail and trembling at the end, and still protesting his innocence.

There was no one left alive to remember his promise to Neema.

So she took her Raven name and became Neema Kraa. She chose it in honour of her old schoolteacher Madam Fessi Aark, reversing the name. Kraa. It still sounded like a raven call. The following year a position came up at the Imperial Library. She moved into her narrow room, which smelled of bins, and found that her life was not ruined after all. It had just begun.

“Yes I did meet him once,” Neema said now to Gaida, on the balcony. Her voice sounded high and thin. She was thinking—was that why he wanted to destroy me, back then? Because I kept Gaida from winning Raven of the Year? Because he had to pin those wings on my chest, instead of his daughter’s?

“Are you all right, Desy?” Gaida asked, gloating. “Do you need to sit down?”

“I’m fine. How did you find out he was your father?”

“His sister told me, just before she died. I paid her a visit, on my pilgrimage. I don’t think she planned to tell me, but then we met, and…” Gaida shrugged. “Blood calls to blood.”

“She survived the purges?”

Gaida looked sombre. “She was an Oxwoman, lived in Tuk all her life—nothing to do with the court. When Yaan died, they sent her his private papers. She was the only one left.”

For a moment, the ghost of Yaan Rack, his wife, his three sons, hung between them. Neema sighed, and the ghosts departed, ephemeral. “So you found my file.”

Gaida held Neema’s gaze. “I found your file.”

“Congratulations. It was years ago, Gaida.”

“What difference does that make? My father expelled you. You knew it, and you took your Raven name anyway. You’re a fraud, Desy. Everything you’ve earned, every post you’ve taken, you stole from a true Raven of Anat-ruar.”

Neema put a hand to her stomach. Stay calm. “Who else knows?”

Gaida stretched out the torture. After an agonising pause she said, “No one. Yet.”

Neema laughed, exasperated. “So… what? You’re blackmailing me? What do you want , Gaida?”

“Nothing. I’ll hand the papers over to Kindry tomorrow. He can decide what to do with you.” A pursed smile. “I just wanted to warn you, Desy. Before your big party tonight.”

Now Neema understood. This wasn’t blackmail, it was spite. The opening ceremony would be the defining moment of her career at court—the last great firework display—and Gaida had ruined it for her. Even if it went ahead without a hitch, Neema would spend the evening fretting over what tomorrow would bring. (Disgrace, presumably.)

“Why?” She sounded weary. She was weary. Exhausted by this endless, pointless feud. “Seriously, Gaida. What do you get out of this?”

“It’s not about me.”

“It’s always about you.”

Gaida reddened. “I have a duty—”

“No you don’t. You don’t.” One last try. One final attempt to locate her compassion. Neema had seen Gaida be kind and generous, many times. Just never to her. “We walked through the gates together, do you remember? We talked about the book I was reading. We could have been friends.” Neema gestured helplessly. “What did I ever do to you?”

Gaida bit her lip, uncomfortable. It didn’t suit her to remember how she’d behaved back then. She couldn’t have bullied Neema, because she wasn’t like that. It wasn’t in her nature. She took refuge in her script. “My father was a great man. He died, and you flourished, like a weed on his grave. I’m going to pull you up by the roots.”

Yes, that worked. That sounded good, and noble, and just. She had convinced herself again.

Nothing more to say. Nothing more to do except leave. There was a spiral staircase, leading from the balcony to the palace grounds below. Neema took it, feeling Gaida’s eyes on her back.

Her shoes clanged on the iron steps. Clang , clang , clang , all the way down, ringing through the night air. There was something martial about the sound—like a sword striking a shield. You’re smarter than her, she told herself. And deep down you’re stronger than her, too. She didn’t destroy you then. She won’t destroy you now.

Footnotes

8 . In ancient days, the Raven Warriors of Anat-ruar were feared and respected throughout the empire, but they suffered a long, tragic decline. The last Raven warrior died fighting for Yasthala. By the time Neema entered the monastery in 1519, students were offered no formal martial training.

9 . From “A Way Through the Clouds,” Addresses to the Flock: the Collected Wisdom of Professor Gaida Rack (1533).

10 . Notoriously terrible fifth-century poet.