by Cara Witter
For the night. In one bed. But now any nervous anticipation she might have felt about this before, any hope he might see her in a romantic way, was squashed.
“I’d offer to take the floor,” Kenton said, “but we probably don’t want to risk the servants noticing we slept apart after that display we just gave.”
Perchaya wanted to believe that was an overture, but past experience told her otherwise. “The bed is more than big enough for both of us. We’ve slept in tighter spaces on the road.”
He nodded and pulled off his boots and gaudy overtunic, leaving his breeches and cotton shirt. Perchaya turned away to hide the blush forming at the memories provoked by the sight of him undressing. Then she went into the attached privy and stripped down to her own underdress, which was thin, but still as modest as anything she’d slept in while traveling.
They crawled into bed, and the space between them felt like miles.
“It all happens tomorrow,” Kenton said quietly. “We’ll have the Sunstone. They’ll see we can do this.”
Even sharing a bed with her, he was still thinking about the plan, about the overall goal. As she should be, instead of mooning about like the lovesick girl she was.
“Tomorrow,” she agreed. “And I already know we can do this.” She turned over, putting her back to him and trying not to imagine what it would be like if he’d wanted to hold her in his arms while they slept.
She was ready to admit, now, that it would never be.
Forty-six
On their first morning in Tir Neren, Nikaenor’s stomach grumbled. He and Sayvil cut through a tunnel along the inside of the cliff and passed yet another stand selling those spicy meat rolls he’d fallen in love with in Pendarth. He turned to ask if they could stop, but the look on her face killed the words before they left his lips.
She can scowl worse than Mum sometimes, he thought. And she’s not even the one who has to turn into a fish today.
He would much rather have spent his day eating meat pies than stealing kites.
Sayvil’s expression turned slightly less sour after they darted through a crowd of people—most watching two men argue, one of them shaking a dead chicken at the other—and took a flight of stairs down to a lower level and out onto the street. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder.
“If anyone was following us, we must have lost them by now,” she said.
“That Rakal guy said we were free to explore the city. As long as our lord and lady approve, of course.” Nikaenor grinned once again at the thought of Kenton and Perchaya as some high-standing noble couple. Not that Kenton couldn’t be even more intimidating than a king. But Nikaenor had traveled with them too long to be able to picture bowing and scraping to either of them.
Not that he would to Jaeme or Daniella. It was rather incredible how much could change in a matter of months. Nikaenor, the cursed tavern boy of Ithale, now traveling with Drim and knights and princesses and bearers.
And he was one of them. A godbearer, chosen to find his lost goddess. He still wasn’t sure what he’d done to be worthy of such a thing, but he couldn’t wait to see his family’s faces when he told them.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I don’t think they have any reason to send people to follow us.”
Sayvil watched behind them a bit longer, even though all Nikaenor could see was the same sights as the rest of the city. In the wide tunnels or the long balconies and stairways, throngs of people were shopping, talking, or driving small groups of livestock from one level to the next. On this lowest outer level, just about even with the river, docks jutted out from the main thoroughfares with small fishing boats tied in uneven rows, crammed so close they bumped against one another.
The fishermen Nikaenor knew in Ithale would have had fits at their beloved boats being so callously treated, but Ithale was a relatively small town with more room to spread out, both on the land and off.
He felt a wash of homesickness at the comparison but pushed it back. He’d spent his whole life wishing he could see the rest of the world. And now he was doing just that, in a more spectacular way than he could have imagined. He should be taking it all in, enjoying the adventure. Not missing the little bedroom he had to share with Ronan and Tam, or the banter of the townsfolk as they finished off the last of their drinks, or Aralie’s jabs at his gullibility.
He shouldn’t be wasting his time with those kinds of things. But he couldn’t help it.
“Come on,” Sayvil said, tugging at his sleeve to pull him along, as if their stopping had been his fault.
If it had been, he’d be eating a meat roll right now.
It didn’t take them long to reach their goal, a plain door at the bottom of a multi-level kite-making workshop. Saara had drilled the location into them, and him in particular, as if his inability to read meant he was incapable of following basic directions.
He probably should have complained more about that, but he still found himself a bit tongue-tied whenever she was talking to him—even if he was no longer so sure the feeling meant he would marry her someday. Not if that pull he felt to her was about them both being bearers. And especially not since he felt a similar pull to Jaeme and Sayvil, who he was definitely not going to marry.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t have some feelings around her. She might have had power to create fire in her hand, but he found the effect she had on his ability of speech to be far scarier.
Speaking of scary . . .
Nikaenor looked over at the river licking up against the street mere feet away from them.
“Yes, you have to, Nikaenor,” Sayvil said, not unkindly.
“What do you mean?”
“You had that look on your face. You know, the ‘do I have to?’ one.” She didn’t look entirely empathetic—Sayvil was no Perchaya—but a smile touched at the corners of her lips.
“I don’t have a look,” he groused.
He chewed the inside of his cheek. He knew he had to do it, but actively entering water always took him a bit of preparation. For the pain, and also the shame of so many years of being cursed that even the events of these last weeks couldn’t erase.
Saara had said it wouldn’t be hard to avoid attention here, and he could see why. The street around the kite-maker’s was mostly empty—they were entering an industrial district with no shops or houses, and this lowest level in was emptier due to the occasional rising of the river. Also, the natural cliff face made a small bend that caused this doorway to be less visible to the street behind it.
Still, it wasn’t like no one would be able to see them. Or wouldn’t eventually wonder what two mainlanders were doing just standing around the maintenance entrance to a kite-making shop.
Which meant he didn’t have a lot of time to gather his courage.
I’m chosen, he told himself. It’s not a curse. It’s a gift.
Even if it’s a painful one.
“All right,” he said, pulling his boots off and drawing in a stabilizing breath. He cast one last look around to make sure no one was actively watching them.
He felt a quick pat on his back from Sayvil, and with a final, though unnecessary, deep breath, he jumped into the river.
The cold hit him first, but it was the sudden ripping pain along every inch of his skin that made him cry out underwater and ball up like his muscles all needed to bunch together to survive.
It didn’t last long; the pain never did. The shaking and gasping was always slower to abate, especially when his whole body was suddenly immersed. He’d gotten used to the sensation of wetting only his hands, for instance, or easing his way into a bathtub when it became absolutely necessary. Jumping into a river like this was a whole other experience, and not one he’d ever get accustomed to.
He drew in another breath—of water this time—extending his arms and legs, letting his muscles stretch back out again. He fo
rced himself to start moving against the current that had already pulled him away from his goal. Thankfully, his freakish webbed fingers and toes made the task much easier, though the water dragged at his pants and shirt.
Nikaenor refused to remove them. He had to swim, but he sure as all hells wasn’t going to do it naked, scales or no.
The water looked clean from the surface, but underneath, everything was cast in a dull, brown light. A group of small, silvery fish darted away from him as his fingers found the base of the cliff face beneath the water. He followed that along, unhindered by much in the way of clinging seaweed due to the strength of the current. Nikaenor breathed the water into his lungs as naturally as air, and before long, there was a break in the wall and a shift in the pull of the water around him.
He’d found the small canal leading under the warehouse.
Nikaenor swam into this narrow channel, the going easier now that the current was working in his favor. The water was darker here, and for a moment he worried he might get caught in the water mill as he headed too swiftly toward it. But he soon heard the rhythmic pulse of its approach and grabbed the edge of the rock face to stop himself. He stood—the small channel was shallow enough—and his head broke the surface.
As they had hoped, no one was there to see him. There would rarely be reason for anyone to go down to this lowest level of the warehouse, since the large water wheel was the only thing here. Still, Nikaenor breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled himself up onto the dry stone floor.
The tough part was over.
He wanted to let his heartbeat slow back to a regular pace, maybe even air-dry enough for some of the scales to recede, but Sayvil would be getting antsy. And probably scowling.
This level of the warehouse was almost completely dark. Enough light passed through the floorboards above that he could make out the large moving shape of the water wheel, but that was all. The shadows of workers crossed the harsh lines of light above. He could hear the sounds of footsteps traveling back and forth, voices talking and occasionally shouting. The sawing of wood, powered by the water wheel.
Dust trickled down on him as he made his way in the dark to the door Sayvil would be waiting by. His hands found the door before his face did, fortunately, and he fumbled until he found the latch to unlock it.
He’d barely cracked the door open an inch, blinking at the sudden light from outside, when Sayvil shoved past him and closed the door behind her.
Her urgency alarmed him. “Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “But I sure as all hells didn’t wait around to find out. How did it go?”
“Fine,” he said. “I mean, painful. And I’m pretty sure I still have gills. But fine.”
“Well, we’ll make sure no one sees those. Or your non-fish face. Either one is likely to get us in trouble here.”
A rustling came from Sayvil’s direction, as she dug in her pack. A few moments later he felt a lump of clothing being thrust at him. “Here,” she said. “I think this is everything. Drop your wet clothes in the water. If anyone finds them, they’ll think they drifted in.”
He took the clothes, flushing at the thought of stripping down right here in the open. In front of Sayvil, who, while she was technically old enough to be his mother, very much wasn’t. He wouldn’t have been keen on undressing in front of his actual mother, either, for that matter.
I can’t see her, which means she can’t see me, he thought.
Good.
Nikaenor managed to pull the dry clothes on in the dark, feeling the front of the shirt to make sure the cording was where it was supposed to be. The clothing Sayvil had brought in—clothing they’d bought back in Pendarth for this very purpose—was standard Tirostaari worksmen’s wear. Loose linen pants, fitted shirts that flared at the waist and tied with plain silk cording near the neck. Belts made of the same cording, to which various tools could be attached. Shoes that came up to the ankle, with a soft leather upper and a stiff sole.
And last but not least, scarves for their heads with a face panel made of a material sheer enough to see out, but which obscured their faces, intended to keep sawdust out of their eyes and mouths. Everyone in the warehouse would be wearing one.
“Ready?” Sayvil asked.
“Let’s go steal some kites,” he said, forcing more confidence into his voice than he actually felt.
“I still wish we were doing this at night,” Sayvil grumbled.
Nikaenor wished that, too. But they needed to get the kites to the designated escape place right around the time Saara would be getting her jewel, which if things went well would be happening very soon. Any earlier, and there was too much risk the kites would be found. Any later, and, well . . .
They really, really shouldn’t be late.
They found their way to the stairs, and Nikaenor hoped the rest of the plan would go as smoothly as the first part had—well, more smoothly, actually, and with less physical pain. After all, now all that was left was to take the kites and get out.
Nikaenor was uncomfortable with the idea of stealing. Dad had always said that there was no reason but laziness to steal when honest work could provide. But Nikaenor hoped his father would approve of it in this case, since it could save all their lives and help fulfill the gods’ will.
He couldn’t be sure of that, though. Dad really didn’t like stealing.
The wooden stairs creaked underfoot as they went up, but the noise from the workshop was still far too loud for anyone to hear them. The stairs ended in a small dark room, from which light shone under the door. He said a quick prayer to Mirilina—hoping Sayvil was doing the same to Arkista—and reached for the handle. The door opened smoothly.
Then Sayvil gave him a small shove forward into the busy workshop.
There were at least two dozen workers in the large space, all working on various aspects of kite-making. Some carried bolts of fabric to a pile, while others worked on connecting the leather harnesses. Others hauled cactus spines to and from the saw that moved up and down from the power of the water wheel constantly churning below it. Two workers were needed to bend the frame of each kite just enough for two others to tie the silks on. There were even a few testing the wind charms before attaching them, judging by the gusts of sawdust intermittently blown from one corner.
He felt another push from Sayvil and remembered he needed to move. If they didn’t gawk idly, no one would have any idea he and Sayvil weren’t more workers, dressed as they were.
The face scarf was sheer enough that he had little trouble seeing, especially in the well-lit workshop, and he quickly located the finished kites over by one of the entrances—or exits, he supposed, since Saara had said no one was allowed in through the delivery doors without having their paperwork inspected by the guards stationed outside. Kites were expensive, after all, and highly regulated by the government. Which was another reason they needed to steal the kites for their escape rather than buying them. A kite shop would never sell to a mainlander, and even if they could find someone to do the purchasing for them, forging the paperwork was difficult without the right seals.
Luckily, going out the exit wouldn’t pose the same trouble as going in. The guards wouldn’t stop workers making deliveries. Still, Nikaenor could feel himself sweating under the layers, and only partially because of the warmth of the room.
The workers around them continued on their business as Nikaenor and Sayvil made their way purposefully to the stacks of kites by the exit. There was a near-constant thrum of Tirostaari as the workers talked and laughed and occasionally shouted at one another. One raised his (or her) hand in what Nikaenor supposed was a greeting. Nikaenor returned the gesture and the worker walked by without further comment.
They reached the kites, and Nikaenor’s heart began to feel like it was pounding in triumph rather than fear. He hoisted the first one from the pile, looking it ov
er quickly to make sure it looked finished. Not that he’d know, really, having never seen one up close. But Saara had described the kites, and it looked like all the pieces were in place. For as big as the thing was, it wasn’t overly heavy—most of the weight seemed to be coming from the leather harnessing, rather than the lightweight frame or silks. He grabbed a second and watched as Sayvil did the same.
Four kites should be enough to hold all of them.
Now they just had to casually leave the workshop, make their way back toward the palace, still dressed as workers making kite deliveries, and get them to the meeting place.
Nikaenor hefted one kite on to each shoulder and went to the door. A worker standing there said something in Tirostaari, and Nikaenor tensed, but apparently it was just some routine greeting or farewell. The worker politely opened the door for them, and Nikaenor nodded his thanks.
Sunlight hit his face, almost blindingly bright for a moment even after being in the well-lit workshop. A breeze lifted the ends of his scarf, tickling against his neck.
And then Nikeanor saw them—three Tirostaari guards dressed in the green and gold of those who served in the palace.
He froze. Had they been followed?
One of the guards motioned to him, saying something in Tirostaari. Nikaenor froze in place. He didn’t have any idea what she was saying, but she was waving her arms near her face as if—
Oh, gods.
As if she wanted to check beneath his mask.
Another worker approached behind themand made an indignant noise as he stepped pointedly around Sayvil. The guards indicated to him just as they had to Nikaenor. He untied his face mask, revealing his features to the guards.
Sayvil swore. “They can already tell we don’t understand them,” she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear.
“Um,” Nikaenor said, trying to remember something—anything—from the limited Tirostaari Daniella had taught them.
“Gami,” he said. Excuse me. But from the look on their faces he was certain he’d butchered the accent.