Annah lifted her head, large brown eyes looking up at me. “You underestimate the craziness of criminals.” She spoke in a low voice. “There are people who think they’re so clever they can get away with anything, even if it’s outwitting the Sparks...and others who don’t care if they get caught, as long as they first have the pleasure of causing pain...and even a few who believe revenge is more important than life itself—an absolute necessity, a religious imperative, taking vengeance no matter the consequences to friends and family.”
I wanted to ask how she knew such things—quiet intense Annah—but I couldn’t think how to phrase the question. She even waited for me to speak...but when I didn’t, she just got out of her chair. “I’m going to wash my hands. I didn’t touch anything, but I’m going to wash.”
She held out her hand to me. In retrospect, it was an odd thing to do if she thought she might have deadly microbes on her fingers; but at the time, her gesture seemed perfectly natural. I took the offered hand and we went into her small bathroom together.
We washed for a long time. Without saying a word. Perhaps we weren’t soaping off germs, but death itself. The smell of it. The cruelty. The sight of a dead sixteen-year-old lying bare, cold, and cooling because she happened to have the wrong mother.
We washed and washed and washed. The more lye, the better.
4
TOBACCO SKYROAD
Annah checked her other girls. While she went from room to room making sleepy teenagers open their mouths and say, “Ahh!”, I stuffed towels into the crack under Rosalind’s door. However much I believed no microbes would ooze out, it was foolish to take chances. Eventually we’d have to incinerate Rosalind’s entire room, preferably with the Caryatid supervising the flames...but that had to wait. If this was an OldTech bioweapon, we couldn’t destroy the evidence until the Spark Lords had examined it.
We didn’t want to upset the Sparks; they were a greater hazard to one’s health than any disease. Besides, I truly didn’t think the clotted-cream deposits in Rosalind’s throat were overly contagious. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have let Annah make the rounds of girls on her floor—I’d have locked us both into quarantine.
But I believed Annah and I were clean...thanks in part to the Caryatid’s sort of a prophecy kind of thing. I was doomed to go questing—ergo, no illness would keep me home. In fact, the quest would almost certainly be a result of Rosalind’s death; the only question was how that would come about.
I looked down the hall in Annah’s direction. She was talking now to a seventeen-year-old named Fatima Nouri—a distant cousin of mine, though we’d never met before Fatima came to Feliss. (The Nouris controlled most of the power and money in Ka’aba province on the east side of the Red Sea, while my own family dominated Sheba on the west. Every generation, a diplomatic marriage was arranged between a Nouri and a Dhubhai as a gesture of goodwill...and as a way to plant spies in each other’s camps.) I pushed the towels a little farther under Rosalind’s door, then walked down to talk with my cousin.
Annah said nothing as I approached. Fatima grinned broadly, looking back and forth between Annah and me as if she was sure we were lovers—why else would we be together in the middle of the night? I could tell young Fatima was mentally composing a letter home: “Ooo, Cousin Philemon has a girlfriend. A dark and delicate houri.” But let the girl gloat; let her flash her saucy grin as long as she could. She didn’t know what had happened to Rosalind...and when my lascivious but decent-hearted cousin learned the truth, she would weep for days.
“Fatima,” I said, “could you run an errand for me?”
“Now?” Her grin faltered. “Right now?”
“Right now. I’d like you to go into Simka and bring back the Steel Caryatid. Do you know where she lives?”
Fatima nodded. Her grin had returned in full—apparently she was tickled by the thought of sallying forth in the dead of night.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Annah asked. “A girl alone at this hour...”
“I’ll take my sword,” Fatima said. She turned back to me. “Can I take my sword?”
“As long as you don’t stab the town watchmen. You’ll recognize them; they’re the ones asleep in the gutters.”
Fatima laughed and whirled away—back into her room to get dressed. Annah looked at me reprovingly. “It’s all right,” I said. “Fatima can take care of herself.” All the Nouri family, male and female, were trained from childhood in the Way of the Clever Blade. Fatima herself was Pelinor’s prize pupil: fourth this year in the provincial fencing finals, better than any other academy student in the past two decades. She had nothing to fear from drunks, ruffians, or blob-eared aliens who couldn’t hold their broadswords straight.
Annah continued her progress down the hall while I waited for my cousin. Third cousin? Fourth cousin twice removed? I’d never bothered to calculate the exact relationship; I’m sure Fatima hadn’t either. We simply knew our families were connected, the same way we were connected with every other powerful clan from the Sahara to the Khyber Pass. Wherever people like us touched down in that region, we’d always have a great-aunt or nephew-in-law serving as deputy-something to the local governor...which explains why I fled to the other side of the planet as soon as I earned my doctorate.
Life wasn’t so claustrophobic here. Fatima may have come to Feliss for the same reason, badgering her parents until they let her go to school on a strange foreign continent. When my cousin graduated at the end of the year, it wouldn’t surprise me if she skipped going home and instead headed for Feliss City to join the governor’s guard. Plenty of our relatives had done the same: third sons and fourth daughters who chafed under the omnipresence of family connections and ran off to new lands where they could breathe on their own.
Make your own mistakes. The story of my life.
Within minutes, Fatima emerged from her room in her version of street clothes (more slovenly than anything worn by the town’s true poor). Her favorite scimitar hung in a sheath on her belt. The sword was an exquisitely functional weapon: no curlicues, no filigree, just a balanced blade in a solid grip. The Nouris always loved simple steel—simple sharp steel.
Fatima struck a pose, one hand resting oh-so-casually on the sword’s pommel. “Do I pass, teacher?” she asked.
“Provided you don’t go asking for trouble. Your job is to carry a message, not tangle with the thugs of Simka. Take the safest streets, straight to the Caryatid and back, all right?”
Fatima gave an indulgent smile, humoring a timid old fuddy-duddy. “What’s the message?”
“Tell the Caryatid to come right away. To, uhh...” I considered where Annah and I would go after we’d finished here. “To the chancellor’s suite,” I said. “If not there, to Professor Khan’s room.”
“And if she asks why?”
Oh no, dear cousin, you don’t get the juicy details that easily. Fatima must have realized something out of the ordinary was happening, but I could tell her thoughts ran to conventional scandals: a girl caught with a boy...or with liquor...or both. She was grinning too widely to suspect anything more sinister or tragic. “If the Caryatid asks what’s going on,” I said, “tell her the dog’s tongue was speaking the truth.”
“The dog’s tongue?”
“The dog’s tongue. Now get going.”
Fatima hesitated a moment longer; then she favored me with one last grin and pounded a fist to her chest in a passable reproduction of my family’s house salute. “Hail the Dhubhais!” she said, then giggled. She left at a gallop, scimitar bouncing against her side.
I’d said we’d be with the chancellor. When Annah completed her throat inspections, that’s precisely where we went: to the penthouse atop the school’s dormitory wing, the home of Chancellor Opal Quintelle.
Opal was the one person at the academy who knew as much science as I did; possibly more than I did, though she was too polite to make it obvious. From time to time, however, when we were discussing plate tectonics or the evolutionary ef
fects of human emotions on other species (why do we find mammal babies appealing? perhaps because our hunter ancestors were more likely to kill animals that didn’t engage our sympathies, so that, over the millennia, looking sweet and cute to humans became a useful survival trait)...from time to time, as Opal and I were conversing about such things, she would suddenly stop as if afraid of revealing too much and bite back whatever words she’d intended to say.
How did she know so much? I couldn’t tell. She never talked about her past or her upbringing, and her accent didn’t fit with anyplace I knew: as elegant as British nobility, but with different intonation on the long vowels. Her appearance gave no clue to her background; her face was unnaturally smooth and devoid of ethnic characteristics, with the waxy look of someone who’s had extensive plastic surgery...either to remove signs of age (Opal claimed to be sixty-two, though she could have passed for much younger) or to correct some conspicuous disfigurement: scars or perhaps a birthmark.
As I was climbing the stairs to Opal’s room, it occurred to me that plastic surgery was the stock and trade of Mother Tzekich’s group, the Ring of Knives. Backstreet beautification. Was Opal a Ring of Knives customer? Or more than a customer? No one in the faculty lounge knew anything about Opal’s life before she arrived in Feliss...so perhaps it wasn’t mere chance that delivered Rosalind to our door. Perhaps some prior association had convinced Mother Tzekich that Opal could be trusted to keep her daughter safe. After all, there were plenty of schools like ours in the world, and a woman as shrewd as Knife-Hand Liz wouldn’t pick one out of a hat. She’d want somebody in place to keep an eye on the girl; didn’t that make sense?
Or was I inventing complications when we had enough real trouble to handle?
With such thoughts filling my mind, I knocked on the chancellor’s door.
Opal answered the knock within seconds...and as always, she was turned out ready to meet royalty. Her silver hair hung loosely below her shoulders, but she was clad in an impeccable gown of subdued red suede. She must have kept the dress beside her bed, an outfit she could shimmy into without wasting time on buttons or hooks, so she could quickly and chicly present herself to whoever came calling at one-thirty in the morning. Perhaps in her youth, she’d belonged to some crack military unit that had to be ready at an instant’s notice; or perhaps I was really letting my imagination run away with me.
When she saw who was calling, Opal raised an eyebrow. “Crisis?”
“Crisis.”
“Serious?”
“Severe.”
“Inside.”
Opal beckoned us into her sitting room. It was a spacious place, decorated with the sort of bric-a-brac that accumulates in the chancellor’s quarters of a school two centuries old: gifts from parents and grateful students. Jungle masks that were taller than me shared wall space with an ermine-covered cricket bat and several painted portraits where both subjects and artists had long ago faded from memory. On one table, five music boxes were stacked atop each other in diminishing order by size; the housemaids kept them free of dust, but no one bothered to polish the tarnished little plaques that told what tunes the boxes played. Another table held an assortment of plaster figurines, all of them kittens or puppies or chubby-cheeked children in dirndls and lederhosen. These trinkets were “the artistic heritage of the academy” passed from one chancellor to the next, like some pox nobody could cure. Opal sometimes talked about throwing everything out...but she never did. It seemed inevitable the next chancellor would inherit the same regrettable collection, plus whatever new “riches” would arrive during Opal’s administration.
Annah and I sat ourselves on a “genuine-Inuit” couch upholstered in scratchy caribou hide. Our Esteemed Chancellor took a seat opposite us on a faux-Chippendale chair painted white with green vines twining up its legs and around its frame. She said nothing—Opal seldom wasted words—but she cocked her head to show she was ready to listen. Since Annah showed no sign of speaking, I took the lead. “Rosalind Tzekich is dead. In her room. Almost certainly murdered.”
Opal’s expression didn’t change, but she shifted her gaze and murmured, “That’s what ‘expendable’ means.” When I stared at her in surprise, she focused back on me. “Sorry. Where I come from, that’s a type of prayer for the dead.”
She fell silent again. I waited a few seconds, then said, “There’s more bad news. I think the killer used an OldTech bioweapon—the kind we should report to Spark Royal.”
Opal looked up sharply. “Are you sure?”
I described what I’d seen: the white curds clogging the girl’s airways. I also told about the Caryatid’s sort of a prophecy kind of thing, and the ghostly harp music that led me to Rosalind in the first place. Annah verified that Rosalind had been in perfect health at dinner, and that none of the other girls on the floor showed any signs of sickness...which argued against a natural disease, if any such argument was necessary.
Opal nodded as she listened, asking no questions, taking it all in. When I finished, she remained silent for several more heartbeats; then she settled back into her chair, lifting her gaze to a window that looked out on darkness. “So,” she said, “here it is.”
“Here what is?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. Instead she rose and walked to the window, as if expecting to see something outside...but instead of looking down at the campus four floors below, her eyes were turned to the sky. “I’d hoped they were wrong,” she said, facing the stars, “but of course they weren’t. It sure is a bitch living in a universe where so many species are smarter than you.”
I wanted to ask, “What are you talking about?”...but some inner voice said I didn’t want to know. Despite all the horrors I’d experienced, I hadn’t reached the true edge of the precipice until this moment: half-drunk, surrounded by ugly knickknacks, with our chancellor speaking in riddles. I’d been thinking my responsibilities would soon be over—that Opal would take charge of everything and absolve me from further decisions—but I suddenly realized with icy dread that Opal would offer no salvation.
In the end, it was Annah who spoke the words: “Opal...what do you know?”
“Can you keep a secret?” Opal asked.
I knew I should leave, but I didn’t. I just nodded. Annah did too.
Opal turned back to look at us. “Promise?”
We nodded again.
“All right,” Opal said. “All right.” She paused, then muttered, “Where the fuck do I start?”
I’d never heard her use such strong language...and her accent had grown more pronounced, as if she were slipping back into habits from some unladylike former life.
“Oh, what the hell,” she said. “Once upon a time...”
Once upon a time, a baby girl was born far, far away. She grew up clever and strong, but not pretty; she was as far from pretty as you could get. So the people who decided such things told her she would be trained for special work in out-of-the-way places where her appearance wouldn’t bother “decent folk.”
[Annah shivered and drew a bit closer to me. I tried to guess which country Opal might come from...but my guesses were so utterly wrong, there’s no point writing them down.]
In time, the little girl became an Explorer: a person sent to unknown places to see what was there. Sometimes the work she did was important; sometimes it was pointless; often it was hard to tell the difference. But she took great personal pride in her accomplishments, even on missions that achieved nothing useful...and her greatest pride was always coming back alive.
One day, her superiors assigned her to the service of a man named Chee: an aged and aging admiral full of whims. Some of his whims were inspired—his unconventional attitudes made Chee valuable on occasions when orthodoxy couldn’t cope. Other Chee whims were just harmless or quaint, but occasionally...occasionally it was unlucky to be the subordinate of a man who was famed for caprice.
There came a time when Chee wanted pipe tobacco; and no tobacco would do except the very best leaf fresh
from the finest farms on Earth. So Chee commanded his flagship to set sail for an isle where tobacco grew most sweet and rich...but alas, due to old political enmities, Chee and his people were hated on that island. They couldn’t land openly and purchase leaf in the market. Therefore Chee directed his ship to lie off at a distance, while the young woman Explorer landed under cover of darkness and stole as much as she could carry.
[“Stole?” Annah asked. “You robbed some poor farmer?”
[“Oh,” said Opal, “each year, Chee had his Explorers leave a generous amount of gold as payment; but I don’t know how many farmers dared to pocket it. There was a treaty in place that forbade all interaction between my people and the islanders. If the farmer kept the gold and was found out later...well, being robbed isn’t half as bad as getting caught trading with the enemy.”]
So in the deepest hour of night, the Explorer found herself in a field full of half-picked tobacco. At the edge of that field stood six tarpaper shacks—the curing kilns or “kills” where harvested leaves were baked until they were golden brown and ready for market. The plan was to check each kill to find one whose leaves were nearly finished curing. Those were the leaves Chee wanted, the ones the Explorer would steal.
But as the Explorer approached the kills, a man stepped out from the shadows between two of them. He was quite possibly the most handsome man she’d ever seen: young, virile, shirtless, barefoot, smiling as if he was about to greet a lover. The Explorer thought perhaps that’s why he’d been waiting in the darkness; perhaps this man had planned a midnight rendezvous with another man’s wife, or some sly-footed girl sneaking away from overprotective parents. He might have heard a noise and came out expecting to see his paramour...so what would he make of a stranger in odd foreign clothes?
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