Shadow Scale

by Rachel Hartman

  A middle-aged woman with short hair and a serious expression opened the door. “Ardmagar,” she said, saluting the sky and revealing herself to be a saarantras.

  “Lucian, Seraphina,” said Comonot, “I introduce Ikat, civic leader of the dragons in exile and—I’m given to understand—an excellent physician.”

  Ikat, in good saar fashion, didn’t acknowledge the introduction, but she did hold the door for us. She was dressed in a plain tunic and trousers of undyed cotton, no ornaments, her brown feet bare. She led us silently through her atrium toward a central square garden. Chairs and benches had been set in a circle, and ten saarantrai sat under globular lanterns. I assumed they were all saarantrai; I recognized Lalo. Ikat snapped thrice and a slender serving girl fetched another wooden bench for Kiggs and me. We sat, and Comonot went around the circle, introducing himself to everyone.

  “More exiles than this are willing to help, I hope,” I whispered to Kiggs.

  “That’s part of what we’re here to find out,” he whispered back. “This is the ‘Futile Council,’ as Eskar calls it. Saarantrai have no voice in the Assembly, so they’ve created their own impotent ruling body, which occasionally sends petitions for the Agogoi to ignore.”

  “Has the Ardmagar located Eskar yet?” I asked, and the prince shook his head.

  The serving girl offered us honeyed almond cakes. Kiggs took one, muttering under his breath, “I’ll need you to translate if this meeting is held in Mootya.”

  “Soft-mouth Mootya, you mean,” said the serving girl in Goreddi. Kiggs looked up at her. She had a pointy face reminiscent of a rat’s, and her twig-like brown arms were bare to the shoulder. She was full grown in height, but her stance suggested a petulant ten-year-old. She sneered down at the prince and said, “If you expect us to roar at each other, you’ll be disappointed. We’ve transposed Mootya into sounds our soft mouths can make, but it’s the same language.”

  Kiggs was enough of a scholar to know this already, but he bowed his head politely. The girl stared at him, her eyes bulging. “That’s why you know our names for things, like Tanamoot or ard,” she continued unnecessarily, “whereas in hard-mouth Mootya, ard sounds like this.” She threw her head back and screamed.

  The circle of saarantrai, who’d been chatting together, went silent. “You’re screaming at a prince of Goredd,” said Ikat, crossing the lawn and taking the girl by the shoulders as if to lead her away.

  “It’s all right,” said Kiggs, trying to smile. “We were discussing linguistics.”

  Ikat frowned slightly. “Prince, this is my daughter, Colibris.”

  “Brisi,” the girl corrected, lifting her pointy chin defiantly.

  It was a Porphyrian name, and she was dressed very differently from the other saarantrai. The adults wore plain tunics and trousers in noncommittal colors; they kept their hair short and practical, except for Lalo, with his long hair tied Ninysh-style.

  Brisi, however, wore a diaphanous dress splashed with gaudy butterflies and birds; her hair was piled precariously on her head, in imitation of the towering coiffures fine ladies such as Camba wore. It wobbled when she moved. In fact, her screaming had sent a lock tumbling, but she seemed not to notice. It dangled, limp and forlorn, at her shoulder.

  She finished serving the guests and disappeared into the shadows of the house.

  Ikat began the meeting, saying (in soft-mouth Mootya), “Eskar hasn’t returned. Am I correct that no one knows where she’s gone?”

  Around the circle, no one moved.

  “You owe much to her indefatigable perseverance, Ardmagar,” said Ikat. “When she arrived last winter, only Lalo would even consider leaving. We’ve built lives here, and we were reluctant to trust you. Your administration was harder on deviants than the three that came before.”

  “I regret it,” said Comonot, who sat on the bench beside Ikat. “Too much time has been wasted chasing the elusive ideal of incorruptible draconic purity. The Old Ard take it to extremes, but it was always untenable. Progress—or, more prosaically, our continued survival—will require a shift in the opposite direction, toward a broader definition of dragonhood.” One corner of his mouth dimpled, a strangely self-deprecating expression. “Of course, my previous attempt at dragging our people toward reform has resulted in civil war. I may not be the one to follow.”

  When I translated that for Kiggs, he gave a low whistle and whispered back, “Don’t tell me he’s learned humility!” Around us, the saarantrai muttered solemnly together; Comonot, thick hands folded in his lap, watched them with a falcon’s eye.

  “You’ve shown yourself remarkably flexible of mind, for a non-deviant,” said Ikat, and Comonot bowed his head. “So many of us had given up any hope of a return that we had hardened our hearts against the desire to see our homeland again, or dismissed it as impossible. We told ourselves we fit seamlessly into Porphyrian society, that the Porphyrians accepted us fully and without reservation—”

  “They certainly don’t want you to leave,” Comonot interjected. “It’s not the Omiga Valley that’s the sticking point. They’re demanding near-impossible compensation for agreeing to let you go.”

  Ikat sat up a little straighter and her eyes narrowed. “They’re not our jailers.”

  “No,” said Comonot, “but they have an agreement with the Tanamoot, and a great reluctance to lose so many doctors, merchants, scholars—”

  “To say nothing of our elevated non-citizen taxes,” muttered someone.

  “Many of our merchants don’t wish to leave,” said Ikat. “They’ve found a new way to accumulate a hoard, and that’s enough for them, but the rest of us chafe against the restrictions. We can only transform four times a year, during the games. Bearing children is complicated, and raising them more difficult still.”

  “Stop talking about me, Mother,” piped a shrill voice in Porphyrian, and there was Brisi, peeking out from behind a column.

  Ikat ignored the interruption. “There’s no chance of laying an egg, not in the time we’re allowed, but human-style gestation still takes three years, by which point the baby is far too large. I had to cut Colibris out myself; she was walking within a day.”

  “I don’t want to go to the Tanamoot!” cried Brisi, speaking over her mother. “It’s not my home. I am Porphyrian, whether you admit it or not. You can’t make me go. I’m an adult under Porphyrian law. I could live here on my own.”

  “You are not an adult,” said Ikat, switching to Porphyrian. “And under Porphyrian law, even adults are subject to the head of the family.”

  Brisi harrumphed, turned on her heel, and stomped off. Ikat called after her, “I plan on being around for another two hundred years. You had better make peace with that notion.”

  Somewhere deep in the house, a door slammed. Ikat released a slow breath through flared nostrils, then said quietly, “It’s hard for her. The playmates of her early childhood are not merely grown, they’re grandparents. She won’t reach intellectual and sexual maturity for another five years. She doesn’t understand our ways, and we’re a long way from understanding her.”

  “Bite her,” said Comonot reasonably. “Right on the back of the neck.”

  Ikat shook her head. “The Porphyrians have laws against harming children.”

  “What harm?” cried Comonot. “My mother bit me every day for thirty years.”

  “I told you,” said a male saarantras from across the circle. “They’re legislating against our cultural traditions. They see barbarism in things they don’t comprehend.”

  “But a human bite isn’t safe,” offered Lalo. “The skin is frail, and infection—”

  I was so astonished at this turn of conversation that I’d stopped translating. Kiggs nudged me. “Why are they arguing?”

  I opened my mouth, at a loss to explain, when suddenly there came a rapping at the front door. Brisi scurried out of the shadows to answer it, and moments later, tall, black-haired Eskar stepped into the garden. Everyone stared openmouthed, myself not
least or last, but she didn’t acknowledge our gazes or say hello. She approached one of the benches and waited silently while the saarantrai on it made room for her to sit.

  The silence stretched uncomfortably. Comonot said, “You’re late.”

  “Indeed,” said Eskar, tossing her bangs out of her eyes. She looked around, taking account of who else was in the garden, and nodded terse recognition at Kiggs and me. “I’m here now. I presume we’re discussing the logistics of traveling up the Omiga? Carry on.”

  “Where have you been?” said Comonot, skewering her with his glare. “I expected you to be here. I expected your help with planning this operation.”

  “I have been helping,” said Eskar coldly. “I’ve scouted ahead, plotting our route beyond the Omiga Valley. The Old Ard’s patrols are thin in that part of the Tanamoot, but they’re there.”

  “You’ve learned their routes?” said Comonot.

  Eskar shifted in her seat. “Some of them. But we’re going to need places to conceal ourselves. I propose seizing Censor facilities on the way to the Kerama. Lab Four is easily reached if we follow the Meconi River, and—”

  “Slow down,” said Comonot, beetling his brows. “I have no quarrel with the Censors.”

  “Did you not just promise to ease up on the repression of deviants?” Ikat interjected. “The Censors are the primary enforcers of those policies.”

  “And if you bring these exiles home, the Censors are going to have a quarrel with you,” said Eskar flatly. “The location makes strategic sense. It’s poorly guarded; patrols avoid it. I used to work there and am still in contact with the quigutl in the boiler rooms.”

  Comonot was shaking his head. “You overstep yourself, Eskar. I need to consider all the possible—”

  “It’s a sound plan,” said Eskar, an unexpected tension in her voice, like a bowstring strung too tight. Her eyes, two pools of blackness, met mine, and my stomach clenched. “Orma is at Lab Four.”

  The world went muzzy; the air was viscous around me; it was hard to think.

  By the time I realized I was walking, we were nearly at the harborside, as if I had fallen asleep and the smell of fish had awakened me.

  Kiggs held my hand. I stopped short and blinked at him stupidly. The street around us was dark and empty.

  Thinking hurt. Memory evaporated like a dream if I grasped it too tightly.

  Kiggs scrutinized my face. “How are you feeling?”

  I checked, finger in the bathwater of my brain. “I—I’m not. Nothing.”

  “We’re nearly at Naia’s,” he said. “Do you think you can make it?”

  The Censors had been after Orma a long time. They would cut out his memories, and my beloved uncle wouldn’t know me when he saw me again.

  I gripped Kiggs’s hand tighter. The world reeled; he was the only point standing still. He’d asked a question. I tried to remember. “Uh, I don’t … it doesn’t … I’m sorry.”

  The only light came from windows and the heartless moon, barely enough to illuminate the prince’s worry. He cupped my cheek in his free hand.

  I observed this from a cautious distance, the way one observes a wasp.

  He pulled me eastward (I also observed). We passed Naia’s building because Kiggs didn’t know which one it was. I had to speak to tell him where to go (I noticed myself speaking).

  Naia greeted us; Abdo (poor Abdo) lay inert in his alcove. “She’s very upset,” said Kiggs (referring to someone we all knew). “Her uncle was taken by the Censors.”

  (Why did no one remove my memories? What a mercy that would be.)

  “Of course you can stay,” said Naia, answering someone’s question.

  Then I was in a bed. Kiggs sat on the floor beside me and held my hand. Naia held a lamp.

  I noted the line of demarcation between wakefulness and sleep. It was blue.

  I awoke at dawn, lucid and remembering all: Eskar’s report, saarantrai outrage at the Censors. The way I went blank. Kiggs …

  Was still here. He’d fallen asleep sitting by the bed, his arms folded on top of the coverlet, his curly head within easy reach of my hand. I hesitated, then smoothed his hair out of his eyes.

  He blinked awake. “How are you?” he whispered, stretching his shoulders.

  “I’m not the one who slept sitting up,” I said.

  “Bah, I’m fine. Comonot’s probably wondering where I am, though.” Kiggs rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Or not. It’s hard to predict.”

  “I’m sorry I was so—”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” he said, his dark eyes serious. “I know what Orma means to you, how you’ve feared for him. If it’s any consolation, the exiles are furious about the Censors stealing Orma away, even if he wasn’t one of their own. They’re all in favor of taking Lab Four on the way to the Kerama. Comonot wasn’t sold, but they may not give him a choice.”

  It wasn’t that reassuring—surely the Censors had had ample time to excise Orma’s memories—but I made a heroic stab at smiling.

  Kiggs gazed at me tenderly and lay a hand upon my hair. “I hate to say it, but I need to go,” he said. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Oh, probably,” I said, sitting up. Kiggs rose and pulled me to my feet, and we stood face to face in the semidarkness. I don’t know whose arms first encircled the other, or if we came to that decision together, without speaking. We held each other close. His beard was scratchy against my cheek. My heart beat wildly, and I realized that whatever self-control we thought we possessed had not been truly tested yet. If we were to sail home together, our resolve would soon find itself strained.

  Maybe returning with Kiggs wasn’t my only option, though. I had a niggling feeling that there was something else I needed to do.

  A noise out in the main room interrupted that line of thinking. We moved apart guiltily; I pulled back the curtain and was astonished to see Abdo at Naia’s cabinet, helping himself to yesterday’s flatbread and leftover gaar, a paste of anchovies, olives, garlic, and catmint. He carried his dish to the couch, set it beside him, and began spreading gaar on the triangular pieces of bread with a spoon. He worked slowly, one-handed, but once he’d covered the bread, he made quick work of eating it. He closed his eyes and savored each bite, as if he’d never tasted anything so delicious.

  I’d never seen anything so beautiful as Abdo up and awake, but I was afraid to be too hopeful. He might be himself; he might be Jannoula. I put a hand over my mouth, trying to decide what to do.

  “Oh, thank Allsaints,” breathed Kiggs beside me. I hadn’t told him much; he and Naia must have talked more than I realized. He started to step forward, but I put up a hand and stopped him.

  Abdo heard Kiggs speak or move, and his brown eyes popped open. I scanned for Jannoula’s look, to no avail. It was early, and the apartment dim. Maybe she wasn’t there.

  Abdo prepared another piece of flatbread, and it hit me: he was eating wrong, spreading gaar on his bread with a spoon, like a Southlander might have done. Porphyrians used flatbread to scoop up lumps of gaar.

  “Prince, you need to go,” I whispered, my heart heavy. “He’s full of Jannoula.”

  Kiggs whispered back, “Surely it’s possible to reason with her? Could I try?”

  I stared at him hard, willing him to understand that Jannoula had just seen him emerge from my bedroom and that this was knowledge she could hold over both our heads. Kiggs may not have gleaned anything from my glare except that he needed to go. He didn’t dare kiss me, of course, but he lightly touched the small of my back, then crossed the room in five swift strides. “Abdo, it cheers my heart to see you up and about,” he said, pausing before the couch, and then he was gone.

  I bit my lip, wishing he hadn’t brought himself to Jannoula’s attention. Nothing good could come of that.

  Abdo ate rapturously and paid me no mind. I whispered, so as not to wake Naia, “I know you’re there.”

  He raised his eyes to my face. This is good, said Jannoula throug
h Abdo in my mind. I am sick to death of Samsamese food.

  So she was still in Samsam? She wanted me to think so, at least. “How are you?” I said, stepping toward the middle of the room. “How’s dear old Josef?”

  Abdo’s eyes looked at me sidelong. Perfectly tame, which is good, since I’ve had to spend a lot of time in a holy trance lately while Abdo fought me. Abdo’s face wrinkled into an ugly scowl. He’s been a nuisance and a hindrance when I’ve had other things I wished to accomplish.

  “What other things?” I said.

  Abdo shoved another piece of bread into his mouth. You’ll know when it is right for you to know. You need to redouble your efforts to gather our people. I have no connection with any of the Porphyrians now. I tried to catch the twins—they’re the easiest—but they’re guileless and leave me no place to hide. That horrid Zythos Mors always spots me.

  I didn’t want to learn that name from Jannoula. “You mean Camba,” I said coldly.

  Don’t tell me what I mean, she said, narrowing Abdo’s dark eyes. I mean for you to quit wasting time. Abdo heard last night that you’ve finally realized your noxious uncle is gone, and good riddance. The Censors are brutally pulling his mind apart right now, fiber by sticky fiber, and grinding his memories of you to dust.

  I felt like she’d knocked all the breath out of me, but I held myself together enough to notice something in her voice, an undertone of contempt, and not just for Orma. For his captors? Why would she despise the Censors? Had they stolen someone she loved, too?

  That’s one distraction out of the way, she was saying, but what about this other? I’d not have pegged you as the type to take a paramour. Someone Abdo knows, too. She eyed me shrewdly. I’ll find his name in here, don’t worry.

  Abdo’s face suddenly contorted in pain. He grabbed at his hair knots and pitched sideways off the couch. I caught him, preventing him from hitting his head, but he thrashed in my arms. In my mind I heard Jannoula’s scream of rage.

  Naia was beside us in an instant, wrapping her strong arms around him like an anchor tethering him to the earth. He struggled another moment and then went still. “Abdo!” she cried, anguished, but he raised his good hand and patted her hair.