“This man was close to twenty-five years of age, give or take, but his haahan could not have been more than a few months old. And there was only one.”
“So he’s from somewhere else, a new convert to the crow god?”
“It’s possible.”
“Which means the rumors are true. The cultists are growing.” The priesthood knew the cult around the ancient god of Carrion Crow still existed in pockets of fanaticism, but the general consensus was that such cultists were awaiting their god’s rebirth, and until that impossibility came to fruition, they were generally more annoyance than danger.
Iktan said, “I have been keeping an eye on the cultists, and they do nothing more than meet, pray to a dead god, and feed the occasionally starving orphan. They are not a threat.”
“You say that with the assassin’s blood still coloring your sleeve?”
Iktan lifted an arm. The cuff of xir red robe was stained a deeper shade than the rest and stiffening. Xe shrugged, unimpressed. “I still believe it is possible that he was sent by someone who would like us to think he was Carrion Crow. If he had succeeded, the outcry would be enough that no one would believe the cultists were innocent.”
Naranpa closed her eyes. If Iktan thought it might be subterfuge, then she must consider it. It wasn’t that she was naive, but… oh, perhaps she was naive. She hadn’t been the head of her society long enough to achieve Iktan’s coating of cynicism.
“Kiutue certainly left me a mess,” she murmured. “The Sun Priest weakened, the cultists empowered, the societies at odds. But even he could not have foreseen this.”
“Nara.”
“Yes?” she asked, eyes still closed, chin resting on her chest.
“There have been others.” It was a quiet admission, but it threw her even further off-balance. She lifted her head, eyes wide, pulse suddenly racing, as if the danger was in the room with her.
“What?”
“One other, anyway. I took care of it.”
“You…” She crossed her arms over her stomach as a low anger bubbled in her gut. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I was hoping I would not have to.”
“Iktan.” She fought to keep her voice steady, her nerves from fraying. “Carrion Crow?”
Silence.
“And you let me walk through Odo today?”
“If I thought you were in danger, I would have—”
“But I was in danger!” She made herself take a deep breath.
“I was not convinced.”
“But you are now?”
Xe shrugged, a small lift of one shoulder, but it was the most doubt she had ever seen xir show. Iktan might not admit it to her, but the assassination attempt today had rattled xir.
Naranpa spoke calmly, rationally, but her voice held disappointment. “I know the others think I should be no more than a figurehead, but I did not count you among that number. I am not a child you have to keep secrets from. I need you especially, tsiyo, to have faith in me.”
Xe said nothing, and xir face, that damn lovely face, was impassive.
“Go,” she said, weary.
“You need me.”
“Of course I need you.” She sighed, annoyed because xe had made her admit it aloud and because it was all too true. “But right now I need to think. And sleep. I haven’t slept for thirty-six hours, and we have Conclave at high moon. How can I convince the Watchers to take me seriously when it seems I must persuade you, too?”
Iktan uncurled from the bench and walked to the door. Xe paused, a hand against the frame. “Let me take care of this, too, Naranpa. It is not a matter of persuasion but of duty. Mine, not yours.”
She wanted to acquiesce, but she could not. Xe had always made her feel safe, but there was a fine line between protected and coddled, and hiding things from her only made her feel weak. And there was one thing she had to know. “Did you not tell me because we were… we used to… you don’t believe me capable?”
Xe cocked xir head, tiny lines of confusion marring xir forehead. “You have never done anything to make me think you cannot perform your duties.”
“Yes, but…” She pressed a hand to her neck, frustrated. Well, perhaps xe did not think less of her because they had once been intimate, but for one reason or another, xe certainly considered her a child. Or maybe she was being unfair, letting her own insecurities lead her. “Does anyone else know about the first attempt?”
“Only my own dedicants.”
“So they knew when I did not?”
“As I explained—”
She held up a hand. “No, Iktan. When you keep things from me, it undermines my authority, and I am trying to assert some authority despite the fact that Kiutue left me little to work with. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” xe murmured. “Anything else?” Xir words were normal enough, but Naranpa sensed a thread of annoyance underneath.
“No.” She ran a tired hand across her face. Waved her once lover and now personal knife toward the door. “But don’t do anything without consulting me. Can you promise me that? Then I’ll see you at Conclave.”
“I would not miss it for all the stars in the sky,” xe said, and that time she caught the contempt plain enough. “Truly.”
CHAPTER 6
CITY OF CUECOLA
YEAR 325 OF THE SUN
(20 DAYS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)
The sailors of Cuecola are the finest on the Meridian continent and therefore the known world. I had had occasion to sail upon a dozen different ships throughout my travels around the Crescent Sea and never did I doubt their strength and endurance or the savvy of the captain. It is through their labor that Cuecola grows in wealth and stature every day and the riches of the world collect in their coffers. The Cuecola sailor is truly their greatest asset.
—A Commissioned Report of My Travels to the Seven Merchant Lords of Cuecola, by Jutik, a Traveler from Barach
It had all started so well.
Balam had led her through the city and down to the docks where they had found the bathhouse he promised. She’d wanted to linger in the steam, but he had insisted that time was of the essence, so she’d scraped the dirt from her skin and washed her long hair with yucca and crushed lavender, rinsed her clothes and beat the damp from them against heated rocks, and decided that it would have to do. At least she no longer smelled of a night in jail.
The docks themselves stretched across marshland and inlets of seawater. All around her stilted reed paths ran like bridges across the increasingly deep waters where long flat-bottomed canoes that could accommodate twenty men or more were tethered to broad wooden docks. Crews hauled ashore bales of quetzal feathers in bright blues and reds, vats of rich brown honey, and mounds of salt and turquoise, the last trade of the year. Laughter and the sound of labor filled the air, and for the first time that day, Xiala had relaxed. This was her place, her people. Not even among her own Teek did she feel this at home. Commerce, work, the smell of the ocean. This was where she belonged.
They approached a particularly fine ship. A canoe likely a hundred fifty paces long and twenty paces across, with a cavernous reed-covered awning in the center that would keep the crew and cargo protected from the sun and winds of the open sea. Human figures moved about on the ship, securing goods and preparing the vessel to sail. Experience and her Teek eyesight allowed her to count the number of paddles on the side of the ship and, from that estimation, the size of her crew. At least twenty, but the ship could hold fifty bodies. She grinned. That was a lot of ship. She could already see the possibilities once this Tova run was done. With a ship like that, she could haul enough freight up and down the coast that in twelve years she was going to be very rich indeed.
Then she had met her crew, and it had all gone to hell.
“These are Pech’s men,” she murmured to Balam as she finally caught a full view of the workers. Well, not all of them. But there were five or six of the twenty whose faces were familiar, men she had done the last run up
the coast with.
Balam smiled that way he had been smiling all morning. “Just like you, they were freshly out of work and the only crew I could find willing on such short notice. I had to pay handsomely for their services, but they are competent and, as you yourself know, experienced. They know the route to Tova—”
“—along the shoreline,” she said, cutting him off. “I thought we discussed taking to the open sea.”
“We did.”
“They won’t like it.” She thrust a chin toward a short, stocky man in a white workman’s skirt. “See him? That’s Callo. I don’t trust him or anyone he’s vouched for.” She unconsciously rubbed her thumb across her missing pinkie joint. It’s not that she thought these men would hurt her, hunt her for her bones or anything. After all, she had sailed with them before just days ago, and they’d given her no trouble. Except for that last day when Pech had come to the docks accusing her of sabotaging her own cargo. She had tried to explain that it was not her fault the quetzal feathers had molted, the honey had gone bad, and the salt had gotten wet. There was a leak in the ship, because all ships leaked at one point or another, and she had failed to notice in time to save her cargo. But she was sure the crew had something to do with that. She had taken on a new man in Huecha, a friend of Callo’s who came vouched for but had made the sign to ward off evil when he’d seen her eyes. She’d chosen to ignore it, trusted that Callo wouldn’t let someone dangerous on her ship, and part of her still believed that people could separate their personal prejudices and get the job done. She had been wrong.
She hadn’t noticed until Pech came aboard to inspect the cargo and found the ruined mess. She could have made an excuse, blamed the new man, called him out for suspected sabotage. But she hadn’t had the chance to even consider it. Pech had made up his mind already. He’d taken one look at her face, her eyes, to be exact, and declared her a half-Teek bitch. A saboteur herself, and up to no good.
“Why would I sabotage my own cargo?” she’d asked, incredulous.
“Why do Teek do anything?” he’d shot back at her. “Half-human means half-animal, and who knows why animals like you do what they do? Spite? Evil? Jealousy?”
“Jealousy?” She’d laughed, loudly and with gusto, and let her face show what she thought of piddling Lord Pech. In retrospect, maybe she shouldn’t have. He’d backhanded her, knuckles slicing across her cheek, and she’d shown him just what a half-Teek bitch could do.
He’d come up sputtering twenty feet out in the open harbor, yelling for someone to save him, and in the next breath, called for someone to have her arrested. She’d thrown another wave over his head and into his gullet just to shut him up. But she was no killer, and she’d let the waves push him to shallow water. And then she’d left her ship, her cargo, and her payment behind to go find a cantina and a beautiful woman and, eventually, a jail cell.
And then Lord Balam. And here.
Balam motioned Callo over with a wave, and the first mate dropped the rope he had been coiling and lumbered over. He was a short man, the same height as Xiala but twice as wide, and muscles bulged on his well-worked arms. His hair was black, tied back in a simple knot high on the back of his head. A white cloth headband circled his broad forehead, and he wiped sweat from eyes that Xiala thought of as wistful. He always looked sad to her, like life had not lived up to his expectations and he mourned the injustice. Callo might not have done the sabotage outright, but it was his man who had, she was sure, which made him partly responsible.
“My friend, whom I am paying well,” Balam said to the first mate, “you know our captain, yes? And there won’t be a problem, will there?”
Callo’s puppy eyes rolled across her, and he shrugged. “She’s a good captain for a…”
Xiala snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. “For a woman? For a Teek?” she supplied. “Say it, Callo.”
He stared at her a moment before lowering his gaze. “Women don’t belong on boats. That’s what the old ones say. They are cold and draw the storms. But then, you’re not a woman, are you? A female, maybe, but not a woman.”
“Mother waters, is that what you whisper about me? That I’m not even human?” She balled her hands into fists and reached for her Song. It came to her like a dark swirl rising up from the depths of a whirlpool and rested ready on her tongue. It occurred to her that using her Song might prove him right, but in the moment, she didn’t care.
“Now, now,” Balam said in alarm, his eyes on her. “No need for that.”
She glanced at him, again surprised that he seemed to sense when she called her magic. He gave her that same smile. Lord Balam was more than he appeared, too. She wasn’t sure what, a sorcerer or a diviner, perhaps. Someone sensitive to magic.
Callo was not, and did not seem to notice how close he was to catching her wrath. “It’s no insult,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “Just a fact. I sailed with you before, didn’t I? Maybe a fishwoman is better on the sea than a human woman. Don’t take it so bad.”
“Ah, there you have it!” Balam beamed. “Not an insult. A compliment… in its own way. So…”
“But your friend…?” She had forgotten his name, had only called him Huecha because of the town he hailed from. “He sabotaged Pech’s ship, you know he did. Cost me wages and reputation.”
“Ah.” Callo sighed. “He was no good. Cost me wages, too. That’s on my honor. We and the others took care of him.”
Xiala hadn’t expected an admission of guilt. It was enough to slow her anger. She let her Song slip back down her throat unused, but she kept it close and ready, just in case.
“And there you have it,” Balam said, clapping his hands together merrily. “All is well, lost wages are recompensed on a new adventure, and this voyage can continue as we planned.”
“Maybe not yet,” Callo said, his flat-pan voice raised slightly. “Looks like we have company.” He motioned with his chin back toward the docks, over Xiala’s shoulder.
She and Balam turned. Striding toward them, looking righteously furious, was Lord Pech. He was accompanied by a dozen soldiers with shields and spears, and by his side, wringing his hands, was the tupile from Xiala’s jail. Pech wore a loincloth and hip skirt with matching shoulder cape like Balam’s, but Pech’s skirt and cape were notched at the hem and dyed red, decorated with elaborate circles of gold. He wore a feathered headdress, the kind that sat low across his forehead and covered his ears with flaps. Feathers plumed from the top in rare reds and yellows. Jewels glittered on his neck and arms and even his ankles. It was an ostentatious display of wealth, and it made Xiala convinced the man was definitely compensating for some other lack.
“Seven hells,” Balam murmured, the first expletive Xiala had heard from his cultured lips. “He must have had me followed to Kuharan.” He chuckled, amused. “That sly dog.” He turned back to Xiala and Callo. “I suggest you board the ship and make ready to sail. And quickly, too.”
Callo nodded sharply and hurried back to the men, shouting orders.
“And you?” Xiala asked.
Balam raised a well-groomed eyebrow and gave her a dubious look. “Me? Are you concerned about me?”
“Only that you stay alive long enough to pay me.”
His face relaxed as if her concern had made him uncomfortable and her retort was more familiar territory. “You live a much more tenuous life than I, Xiala of the Teek. I can handle Pech.”
She started to protest that Pech had shown up with armed men and Balam might not be able to talk his way out of that, especially considering the bribe he’d paid the tupile, but she remembered that feeling she’d had that her new lord was more than he seemed. In her brief time spent with Pech, she knew he was exactly and only what he appeared to be. Pech’s banality was no match for Balam, despite the tupile and the small household army that came following at his heels.
“Good luck, then,” she said, and when Balam said nothing more, she turned and climbed across the plank that linked the dock to the ship a
nd dropped down into the dugout canoe.
“Take that, too,” Balam called over his shoulder, indicating the plank she had crossed. “If Pech and his men want to reach you, they’ll have to swim.”
She did as he instructed and pulled the walkway aboard the ship after her.
“Now then.” Balam squared his handsome shoulders. “Get that Obregi to Tova, Captain Xiala. I am relying on you. It is an old obligation I have, a promise made that must be fulfilled, and I am counting on you to be my agent in this.”
“And the goods?” She glanced at the stores already stacked under the reed overhang in the center of the ship. “The salt and feathers, the cacao beans and jade?”
“Make me wealth, of course, but it is the Obregi that concerns me most.”
“Why?” she asked, but Balam was already striding away, going forward to meet Pech before he made it onto the pier.
She would not have felt the bird watching her if she hadn’t been holding her Song low in her throat. The creature was too prescient, too focused. It was unnatural. She whistled sharply, her Song threaded through her breath to create a pitch too high for humans to hear, to send it on its way.
Instead, a vision flashed in front of her. A face. That of a young man, smiling. Teeth stained red and something like a bird skull carved into his skin at the base of his throat. His hair as black as a crow’s wings, curling back from a handsome face. He wore a cloth tied around his eyes, but he raised his head as if he had seen her, too. And then he was gone.
Strange. Visions were not one of her gifts, and she knew no men who looked like that. But she would think about that later. She had more pressing worries on her mind.
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