Grandmother Librarian took her hand from the girl’s shoulder, held the book before her, and reached toward the blank wall. Raymet made a small high sound, and started forward, but Zeddig stopped her with a glare.
The wall was not empty anymore. White plaster rippled and melted away, and behind the wall, or in place of it, rested broad, tall cedar shelves canted back like music stands, carved with silver scrollwork prayers. Each shelf held a book, cover out, waiting to be read.
The change spread through the room: shelves bloomed from all four walls, and the labyrinth tiles beneath Zeddig’s feet gleamed gray and white marble. She squinted at the sun, which streamed through a skylight that had not existed moments ago.
Zeddig still smelled goat and spices and preserved lemon, and heard the shouted gossip on the street outside. They had not left that city, exactly. But Grandmother Librarian kept another city hidden here, a city where some palaces never fell, a library curled safe as rose petals at nightfall, waiting for dawn.
She set On Comedy on a waiting shelf, stood back, and let dusk fall again. The room emptied, and the sunlight failed.
Raymet didn’t talk until they reached the street.
“You’ve seen all that before,” Zeddig said.
“Yeah.” Raymet didn’t sound convinced.
When Zeddig entered the dead city, she wore protective gear: the suit and lenses. She’d die without them, of course, but she was grateful for them, too, because it hurt to see, to touch, what they had lost.
“Here.” She took the purse the girl had given them, and shook its contents into her palm: a silver medallion with a lapis inside. “A library marker. Not much use these days, but maybe your contact would be interested—people collect them.”
“I can’t take this, Z.”
“Of course you can.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“My collector wanted the Comedy, Zeddig. These things, they’re beautiful, but they’re not her area. Keep it.”
“Don’t make me beg.”
Raymet walked the silver through her fingers, and tested it with her teeth. She breathed a trace of the soulstuff inside the marker, and when she opened her eyes, Zeddig did not remark on their wet gleam. The medallion vanished into Raymet’s vest pocket. “Okay,” she said. “Hey. We’ll get another hit soon.”
“You said that months ago.”
“Patience is a virtue. Come on.” She slapped Zeddig’s shoulder, then stepped back, hands raised, apologetic, though Zeddig had not moved or altered her expression. “We’ll be fine. We’ve always been fine.”
“Fine,” Zeddig echoed. “Have a good night, Raymet.”
Raymet caught the bus at the corner. Zeddig walked north. Her stomach growled. She had a few hundred thaums left, mounting debts, and she’d needed that Comedy payday. So long, table at Sauga’s. So long, stuffed bacon-wrapped dates and planche salmon and weird cheeses from farmers whose names she couldn’t pronounce. She could survive, though, and Gal was Gal, and Raymet in her basement apartment with her student loans and her bottle of pills a day needed more than both of them.
You should think bigger, Ley whispered in her ear. Not just scavenging bits and pieces. Think making fortunes, saving worlds.
Ley had thought bigger. But she left. So.
Zeddig needed to get laid. She needed soulstuff. She needed a big meal and a mug of strong tea, followed by something stronger.
Those were easy.
Self-respect was harder.
As she reached the Iskari boulevards, the air dried and warmed. She flipped an ancient fertility sign at the Rectification Authority tower, then jogged downhill, north, toward the sea and the bars.
Chapter Six
A NEEDLE OF LIGHT rose from the Shield Sea.
Kai did the math as her carriage rocked downslope toward the ocean. Hard to get a good read on scale from this distance, but the needle was tall as a skyspire, growing from the waves. One more mystery in a city with too many.
Nothing but postcards from her sister in two years, then this. The silence wasn’t strange, exactly. There had been no great falling out—Kai just gave herself to the priesthood, while Ley left for the mainland, for Iskar, for the University at Chartegnon. The closest they came to a fight was the night before Ley moved out, while drunk at Mako’s: “I don’t know why you’re leaving,” met with “I don’t know how you can bear to stay. We’re just fooling ourselves, here.” But Ley wouldn’t explain what she meant, and then she was gone.
In the years since, Kai had rooted out a church conspiracy, defeated it, and joined a silent, slow movement to fix the island. Ley didn’t know about any of that, but then, Kai knew little about her sister’s life, either. In Chartegnon, Ley studied art and nightmare telegraphics; her postcards from Agdel Lex suggested professional success. At least, she never asked for funds.
Kai had visited Ley at university, once. They hugged, they laughed, they spent the week eating street skewers from disreputable food carts in the brokedown converted warehouse parts of town, drinking in bars that swept the patrons out the front door with the sawdust at closing time, and communicated house rules through crude handpainted signs, ALL PATRONS CHECK WEAPONS WITH BARKEEP ON PAIN OF DISMEMBERMENT (MEMBER OF OUR CHOICE). Ley’s fellow students spent their extracurricular time on more curriculum, with occasional forays to licensed burlesques, but Ley claimed she thought best with the background of a fistfight. Even those of Ley’s friends who hailed from Iskari High Families cultivated an air of poverty; Kai, freshly ordained and not yet bonus-eligible, still made more than any four of them put together, and picked up checks when she could. They wandered tipsy down alleys hand in hand, dodged gangs of werewolves high on moonshine; Ley tried to get Kai to smoke, and when that failed, set her up with a very attractive and far too earnest young man—but Ley kept her heart to herself, hidden in a secret place she’d never show.
At any rate, that experience left Kai without high hopes for Sauga’s.
But to her surprise, the carriage did not turn down any disreputable alleys. It followed broad, main boulevards, well lit by gaslamp. Iskari streetcorner signage locked the city in a grid of heroes’ names and lauded concepts, Verity Boulevard and Responsibility Place, though Kai did spot a few odd words she guessed were Iskari approximations of old Talbeg names. The skyline didn’t shift here. The road held a constant width. She tried to see the other city, the meandering alleys thin as cracks on glass, but it hid from her.
The closer they drew to the sea, the more up-rent the architecture and attendant businesses: a Muerte Coffee franchise, its grinning skull logo tasteful and understated. A golem showroom. Hells, Kai hadn’t imagined Corvid’s would even have storefronts outside Iskar proper, and certainly not one so lavish—its plate glass windows displayed a wealth of mannequins (she hoped they were mannequins) draped in gowns of spider silk and suits of woven cloud. Painted pupils (she hoped they were painted) followed her. The tourists resembled the Kavekanese variety, Iskari mainlanders in suits or Rectification Authority uniforms, Camlaanders, a few Craftsfolk, citizens of everywhere and nowhere. The locals dressed Iskari, for the most part, even walked like them.
Gods, Kai, listen to yourself. You sound like some mainlander come to Kavekana for an overnight, all let down everyone’s not running around shirtless in a grass skirt.
She didn’t like this part of town. Good thing she wasn’t staying long. Any minute now, the carriage would turn left, abandon the well-lit streets for some sewage-sinking side alley where, no, seriously, Kai, you trust me, this place has the best lamb skewers in the city, how do I know, well, I conducted a double blind study, but don’t worry, the guy I blinded, he got better, you’d be surprised what they can do with synthetic eyeballs these days.
Of course I’m kidding. Come on, sis. Try some. Trust me.
Any minute now.
The carriage stopped at the beach. Stone steps led down the white sand to the water’s edge, where a
jeweled garden lay a hundred feet out upon the sea.
It was a small garden, and opulent, ringed with a silver colonnade twined with green vines that glowed softly from within. Guests lingered on the veranda: men in suits that ate the light or robes of brilliant blue, women in gowns jeweled with actual stars. Elegant voices drifted over the waves, words too faint to make out at this distance. Only the rise and fall remained. Somewhere, a string quartet played. Past the columns and phosphorescent vines, diners sat around tables, and at the garden’s heart, behind a low wall, chefs worked with flame.
“This can’t be the place,” she told the cabbie.
“Lady, you ask for Sauga’s, you get Sauga’s. You want some other place, I can take you there.”
“I’ve never—” she said, then, “I mean, how do I get out there? Are there boats?”
“If you think I ever eat there, lady, I got disappointing news for you about tippers in this town.”
She took the hint, and descended the beach steps, pondering. No wonder Fontaine laughed: the world was thick and stable here. Kai had dressed for business, not for a place this fancy. She owned gowns back on Kavekana that would suit—a Corvid number, even, that she’d got on layaway, black with star sapphires down the sides, with a plunging back that showed her scars and the muscles of her shoulders—but since the Martello business hadn’t included red carpets or seduction, she hadn’t taken the trouble to pack the thing. Even the laughter at Sauga’s sounded expensive. Up and down the shore, luxury hotels shimmered with ghostlight; bamboo torches marked off stretches of private beach. She knew those places, or places like them, back home. They were embassies, of a sort. They didn’t belong to the same world as Kai.
It worked like this everywhere, she supposed.
She stepped onto the water, and the toe of her black pump dipped through the waves.
Kai would have fallen, if she had not expected this sort of fuckery. Exclusive place, huh? She stood on shore, and stared across the water at the maître d’s station, where a thin woman with impossibly pale skin reviewed a guest registry, tapping lacquered fingernails on lacquered wood. She did a fantastic impression of someone who had not noticed Kai.
No doubt Kai had stumbled into some elaborate hierarchy—probably, knowing the Iskari, a hierarchy with real live hierophants. But Kavekana was not an Iskari protectorate, Kai did not pray to Iskari gods, and there was no harm in showing off.
So she reached to her jacket’s third inside pocket, produced a slim black book, and thumbed to the proper page. Yes, she’d remembered right—Yavimal was the name, an idol she’d built for a clan of everstorm explorers to protect the fruits of their life-threatening labors on the borders of other worlds. Yavimal had simple prohibitions; Kai hadn’t drunk any alcohol yet tonight, wasn’t on her period (a mystifying ban, but you worked with the materials your pilgrims gave you). Golden. She chanted three lines of prayer to Yavimal Tideshifter in a Delta dialect, pictured the three-headed crocodile goddess squatting in her palace cave, and as ever these days, felt behind the dread toothsome Lady Yavimal the cool rapture of another, higher Lady, enormous and blue.
She stepped onto the water, and the water bore her up.
The maître d’ paid attention then, oh yes.
Kai gave her the most polite pick a hell and burn there smile she’d yet devised, and strode across the water to the veranda. The cool fingers that had cupped her cheek faded when she set foot on solid ground. The maître d’ kept goggling, which surprised Kai; Craftswomen must dine here from time to time, and she doubted they would bother jumping through Sauga’s hoops. Though perhaps there were wards against Craftwork interference, or if not that, then at least customs, often stronger than any ward or magic. “A table for two, please. My guest will join me soon.”
The maître d’ jumped back on-script, and cobbled together a cutting smile. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No.”
“I’m so terribly sorry,” she said. “But we have no room for walk-ins.”
Turn on the charm. “I’m so sorry. This was all very last minute. Can I make a reservation now?”
“Our next opening is”—she paged through the registry— “three months from now—it’s a lunch. Will that work?”
What kind of place was this, anyway? But Ley had been specific. “I can’t wait that long.”
“No.” And now the maître d’ regained solid ground, her awe replaced by a weapons-grade smirk. Good for her. “I’m quite sorry.”
“Maybe my sister made a reservation. The name’s Pohala? Ley?” The woman paled, which, considering her skin, was an achievement. Kai tried to crane her neck and examine the maître d’s book, but the woman covered the list of names with her hand.
“Please,” the maître d’ said, “I’ll call a cab to take you—wherever.” Nice light touch, sliding the knife in. Her bright red nails trailed to a summoning circle beside the desk. “Where are you staying?”
Kai opened her mouth, mind racing to form another argument— but someone else spoke first.
“Marian, I’ve never known you to turn away a friend.”
A hand settled at the small of Kai’s back.
Kai recognized her sister’s voice: a low, rich alto, like honey and turned soil. She recognized the maître d’s blush: Ley had that effect on women. But the tone was different. As a kid, Ley hated the arrogant tourists, criminals, and clients who wandered Kavekana’s shores. She watched them all, and later, in private, by cant of shoulder or toss of chin, evoked each one and made them seem ridiculous, the pretense of a Deathless Queen, an Iskari bishop’s upturned nose. She could never keep it up long. Sooner or later all that fake pomposity crumbled to a self-deprecating smile, a giggle unfurled into a laugh.
Ley’s voice dripped with all the swagger and command she’d ever mocked, but now the joke was gone.
Before Kai could turn to face her sister, Ley revolved into view: slick and sharp-jawed with close-clipped hair, a vector in a plum suit, wearing brogues, Iskari cuffs, a smile. She caught Kai in an embrace too tight for breath. By the time Kai, stunned, moved to hug her back, Ley had slipped away, to lean against the maître d’s—Marian’s—station. “Marian, you’ve never met my sister. She leaves home once a never, steady as a monument, guards Kavekana’s gods and clients against all enemies, and for all the postcards I’ve sent enticing her to Agdel Lex, she only just surprised me with a visit. I’m ecstatic.”
Marian flushed deeper, though so far as Kai could tell Ley hadn’t said anything blushworthy. Maybe you had to be on the receiving end of her smile to get the full effect. “You shouldn’t be here,” Marian said. “You made a scene last time. I should call the kraken.”
“A lover’s quarrel, Marian. My fault.” And the half smile and declination of head that, on Ley, meant: I was wrong. Me! Yes, I know, a surprise to us all. “A misunderstanding with Zeddig. I’ve eaten my share of, ah, my own words over it all. Trust me.”
Marian turned an impressive shade of scarlet—one more downside of that paper-white skin. She must burn easily. “I can’t seat you without a reservation.” Her fingers played with the menus stacked behind the stand; she leaned in, matching Ley’s posture. Marian had very curly hair, and Ley had always been fascinated with curls, as with anything she couldn’t have.
“Fortunately I have all that sorted.” Ley slid her finger under the napkin Marian used to cover the reservation book, looked into Miriam’s eyes, and slid the napkin aside. Her finger (nail lacquered purple to match the suit) trailed down the list until she found a name written in cursive Kai couldn’t read. “We only learned Kai was in town yesterday, so Zeddig gave me her reservation. I know it’s not for another half hour, but the table’s turned already, hasn’t it? Kai has an early flight tomorrow. Look at her.” Ley’s arm was longer than it looked. She took Kai by the shoulder. “Long day of meetings. She needs a glass of bright and bubbly.”
“I’m fine,” Kai said. “We can go somewhere else, if it’s a problem.” She
knew what she was supposed to say. Ley’s act drew her in, creating its own good cop. Kai didn’t care whether they ate here or at some oyster bar down the water; Ley knew that, and still trusted her to play along. All this—the suit, the nails, the suave exterior—was a game.
“It’s no trouble,” Ley replied. “Is it?”
Marian spent all her willpower to break Ley’s gaze, and once she did, she snapped on-script. “Follow me, please.” The smile polished, the voice sweet, the physiognomy welcoming and distant at once—easier to be the maître d’ than Marian, with Ley in the room. She selected menus from the stack, and led them, dancer-graceful, beneath the softly glowing ivy and into the restaurant.
When Marian turned her back, Kai saw, thanks to the low cut of the maître d’s sharp red dress, that a section of her spine was made of glyph-carved titanium.
A server seated them, introduced himself, passed menus, poured sparkling wine, retreated. Ley raised her glass. “Carriage accident,” she said.
“What?”
“Marian. Four years ago. Hence the—” Ley gestured toward her back, a motion anyone watching could have mistaken for Kai’s sister brushing lint off the shoulder of her suit, if Ley’s suit ever accumulated lint. “The apparatus. A shame: she’s a great poet, and before the accident she’d just completed the first draft of an epic. She should be out building something grand—scrounge through years of eighty-hour days, hook up with the right people, find funding, and she’d be able to buy and sell any of these clowns twice over. But she’s not Iskari, so she needs private insurance for the spinal apparatus, and, well, she’s lucky Sauga’s came through. Maybe when her friends strike it rich, they’ll remember her, and sweep her away from all this. That happens sometimes. Not often. Life moves fast. People are good at forgetting who gave them the advice they needed, when they needed it—who fixed their scansion the last instant before a big pitch. Memories fail, with fortunes involved.”
The Ruin of Angels--A Novel of the Craft Sequence Page 5