by Sarra Cannon
— —
“I can’t do it!” Cianne said, throwing herself on the ground in frustration, trying to hide her tears. She hated that she was such a crybaby. She cried about everything, when she was mad, when she was sad, when her muscles became so tense from her inability to do something that she felt like her bones would shatter. Her mother had told her that she shouldn’t be ashamed of the force of her feelings, that such deep emotions were the result of having a big heart. Her father, on the other hand, had often barked at her to wipe her eyes and compose herself, his scorn clear as he said that nothing was worth so much fuss. It didn’t matter what the fuss was about; in her father’s view, any fussing was too much of an extreme.
“Of course you can,” Kila said in his gentlest voice. Squatting next to her, he peered into her face with his warm, dark eyes. She loved that voice, loved the instant effect it had on her, as if she’d slipped into a warm bath. It soothed her, calmed her in ways her mother and father had never been able to do.
“No, I can’t,” she insisted, mollified but not entirely ready to be agreeable.
He smiled, knowing how irascible she could be at times like these. “You didn’t think you could complete the sequence from the first two forms either,” he reminded her.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she resisted the urge to thrust her bottom lip out. She was twelve years old, not a baby anymore, not in any sense of the word. She’d never be anyone’s baby again, and the thought carved an aching hollow in her chest.
“It’s so hard to remember the forms,” she said, a whine creeping into her voice.
“I might have something that could help you with that,” he said. Pulling himself up in a fluid movement, he disappeared into his lodgings, and Cianne took advantage of the moment of privacy to mop her face with her sleeve.
She’d been visiting Kila for a mere three weeks, yet his place already seemed like more of a home to her than her own. He treated her like the kind older brother she would have loved to have. She could sense the protectiveness he felt for her, and it drew her to him like a moth to a flame. Lach was her friend, her staunch defender, but now that her mother was gone Cianne had been left without an adult to protect and shelter her. Until Kila had come into her life, that was.
He returned, this time seating himself on the grass next to her. It was a quiet night. Though Kila’s home wasn’t near the wharves, the night was so still they could hear the faint shushing of the far-off waves. A few insects chirped dully, as if grudgingly admitting they were obliged to fill the night with sound. Cianne couldn’t blame them. The summer, so newly arrived, was blazingly hot, and even at night she felt more like a melting candle than a person. This night was no exception, but it hadn’t stopped her from coming to see Kila, nor had it stopped him from suggesting they continue with their lessons on the deshya.
“Discipline above all else,” he had intoned, but the twinkle in his eye had let her know he didn’t expect her to take him too seriously.
“Before I give you this, you must promise me something,” he said, holding an object between his hands. They were so large that they enclosed the object, and even though Cianne crooked her neck and tried to peer sideways between them, she had no idea what he was holding.
“What kind of promise?” she asked, her heart picking up speed. What if he suspected she had lied to him and asked her to tell him her real name or where she was really from? She couldn’t risk that. It would mean she would have to stop coming to see him, that she would have to find some way of contenting herself with creeping about the city rooftops rather than being in his company. It was only when she was with him that healing seemed possible, and she was terrified of being left alone once more to deal with the suppurating wound her mother’s death had left behind.
“To take very good care of it for me. It’s precious to me,” he said, his voice serious.
Sweet relief flooded her, leaving her feeling woozy. That was an easy promise to make. Anything he could ever give her would be almost sacred, and she would guard it with her life. “I promise.”
Opening his hands, he showed her the tiny book he cradled.
“What is it?” she asked, her fingers itching to reach out and touch it. Instead, she twisted her hands together and pushed them into her lap, her arms rigid.
“A book,” he teased, his eyes twinkling again.
Rolling her eyes, she scoffed. “How amazing. It’s not as though I’ve never read a book before,” she said in the bored tone the other children in the enclave used when someone said something spectacularly stupid or ridiculously obvious.
His eyes widened a bit with interest and she realized too late what she had done. Biting her lip, she said nothing more, even though he sat there expectantly. Street urchins would know what books were, of course, but plenty of them couldn’t read. Admitting she could didn’t eliminate the possibility that she was who she claimed she was, but it was more information than she had wanted to give him about her real identity. Doubtless many members of her House would have been appalled and offended that she would accept someone thinking of her as common gutterspawn, but the truth was that she didn’t mind. Better he think her street trash than know she was a House member. Better he think her anything but that.
Resigning himself that she would tell him nothing more, he said, “My father made this book for me when I was a boy. I had trouble remembering the forms too, so he drew this for me so that I wouldn’t forget.” He held the book out to her and she took it with trembling fingers.
With great care she opened the cover. She held the book close to her face, almost touching her nose, straining to make out the picture in the garden’s low light.
Kila laughed. “You’ll give yourself a headache like that. Why don’t we sit near the house? I’ll make tea while you study form three, then once we’re done with tea you can try it again.”
Nodding, she stood up and followed him to the table and chairs he kept outside his garden door. He went inside to make tea, leaving her alone with the book, and she gingerly turned its pages. She wanted to stop and examine each one, but he had told her to look at form three, and she was eager to prove herself responsible enough to be entrusted with the book, so she did as he’d instructed.
Transfixed, she stared at the image of form three. She combed it from top to bottom, taking in as many details as she could. The picture was startlingly lifelike, a perfect image of a boy, legs shoulder width apart, both knees bent, arms in front of him, slightly bent at the elbows, right arm extended in front of him at shoulder height, the other higher, near his face. Both of the boys’ hands were straight, palms out, his left hand concealing his left eye and part of his face. He was poised on the edge of movement, ready to begin his slide into position four.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” she asked Kila when he returned, bearing a tea tray that included the biscuits she liked. He hadn’t served them the first two times they’d had tea, but she’d eaten four when he produced them the third, and he’d included them on the tray ever since. Some people found Enforcers uncanny, but Cianne liked that he noticed even minute details, despite that it made lying to him far more complex.
“It is,” he said, blowing on his tea.
Reluctantly, Cianne set the book aside, careful to put it far from the tea, and picked up her own cup. She closed her eyes and inhaled. At home her father favored an orange-scented black tea. Cianne liked it too, but she liked Kila’s tea even more. Pale green in color, it looked like spring in her cup, but it smelled of autumn, rich and warm. She took a tentative sip, scalding her tongue.
“Hot,” she said, putting it down.
“What do you notice about form three?” he asked, dunking a biscuit in his tea.
Cianne took one as well, biting into it thoughtfully. She knew he wasn’t asking for her impression of the picture, but about the specifics of the form, so she described it as best she could, her words inadequate to quantify the combination of grace and strength that leapt out at her
from the image.
“Very good,” he said, with an approving nod.
“You said your father drew it?”
“Yes.”
“Was he…” she began, hesitating. Would he think the question impertinent? “Was he an Adept too?”
“No,” Kila said, flashing her a smile. “My mother was an Adept, but my father wasn’t. His talent took years to develop, and he practiced drawing every chance he got.”
“He was very talented,” Cianne said sincerely. The idea that someone without Adept abilities could accomplish something so wonderful prompted a warm glow of hope within her.
She thought about the boy’s face. Determination was etched in every line of it, yet she also got the impression he was a nice boy, just as he was now a nice man. Six years was a lot, half her lifetime. She wondered if she would seem as worldly as he did when she was eighteen.
“What about your parents?” he asked. He took a casual sip of tea as he gazed off into the night, but Cianne wasn’t fooled. She’d already slipped once. She wasn’t about to do it a second time.
“I’d like to try form three again,” she said, ignoring the question altogether.
She didn’t miss his sidelong glance. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but then responded with, “Very well. Let’s see it.”
He set his tea aside and leaned forward in his seat as she took up her position. He watched with intense concentration, but his limbs were loose, as always. His elbows rested on his knees, his clasped hands hanging between them.
“Yes, that’s much better. Start again from the beginning, and let’s see if you can’t manage that transition.”
She was shaky, but she did make it, and he was generous with his praise for her efforts, which made her even more eager to perfect her skills. Tea forgotten, he rose and positioned himself across from her, going through the forms with her so that she could mirror his movements. He was the best, most patient teacher she had ever had.
— —
She had never told him that. Perhaps she should. Perhaps she would, when she returned his little book to him.
She would miss it when it was gone, but he had told her his father had made it for him, and she knew his father was gone. He had also told her that his mother had died, but he had never spoken of the circumstances of their deaths, or why he had come to Astoran.
Not that she had asked him. She had liked him a great deal from the moment she had met him, and by the time he had disappeared she had grown to feel something much different from childish affection, feelings that had never quite faded. Many nights she had soothed her troubled mind by paging through the book, even after she had long since learned every last form by heart. Holding the book reminded her that he was real, that he hadn’t been a wonderful figment of her imagination. It had made her feel as if he couldn’t be gone forever, because surely he would have to return someday to collect such a precious object.
But if she gave the book back to him and he left, what reason would he ever have to return to her again?
Chapter 16
Several uneventful days passed, and though Kila kept an eye out for Miss Wyland, she didn’t make a repeat appearance. He supposed she was busy with the funeral, and he wondered if she had learned anything more from Captain Stowley. Was the captain right that something was going on? Or had the man’s insistence that his father hadn’t committed suicide been the protestations of someone devastated by grief, and had he come to understand that refusing to accept the truth wouldn’t bring his father back to him?
Kila knew what that kind of denial was like, though he refused to think about it.
Things had been quiet at the station. He had studied everything Burl had given him, and her hostility faded somewhat in the face of his thoughtful questions about House Staerleigh. He took care not to appear too obsequious, but he adopted a tone of respectful admiration whenever he spoke of the House, and Burl responded well to it. Calculation was never comfortable for him, and he hoped it never would be, but experience had taught him that a studied bit of calculation applied well could yield excellent results. Thus far his ploy was working with Burl.
The chief waylaid him again as he was on his way home one night, telling him that she’d heard the Elders of the trade Houses intended to meet and confer.
“Is that out of the ordinary?” he asked her.
“It’s not unprecedented, but it is rare,” she said, tugging at her bottom lip. “I wouldn’t have paid any attention to it were it not for the fact that I’ve had reports that House Elders from all three Houses have been conducting smaller meetings.”
“But that can’t be unusual either,” he said. “They have common interests. They would need to meet to discuss them.”
“Yes, but when business meetings occur they’re held at one of the Council Halls. These other meetings have taken place in a variety of locations, as if they’re purposely avoiding meeting in the same places twice.”
Thinking about what Cianne had told him, Kila asked, “Do you think this has something to do with the succession?”
Fixing him with a shrewd look, the chief said, “It might. The Houses have been consolidating their power for the last several years. They don’t intend for their public works to cease with the renovation of our station. They’re hatching plans for more community improvements, such as building schools and Healer clinics throughout the city, as well as improving roads and digging more wells to provide people with clean water.”
“And those are bad things?” he asked, lifting a brow.
“Of course they aren’t. But why now? Why not in the past? Why have the Houses taken such a sudden interest in the common folk of Cearova?”
“To buy collective goodwill,” he said, understanding where she was going.
“Exactly. The Houses would love nothing more than to ensure the loyalty of Cearovans, gain their backing.”
“Do you think they want to make Cearova a city state?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps they have no interest in that at all and want only to be guaranteed the autonomy to run the city as they like. There’s no indication that they intend to place themselves in direct opposition to any of the candidates for the monarchy, but what they obviously want more than anything is to secure their position.”
“You think Toran Stowley could have stood opposed to that?”
“It’s possible. Perhaps he was an obstacle House Staerleigh felt it had to remove.”
It still didn’t add up for Kila. Why would they go to the trouble? Dissension in their ranks might be embarrassing, but he was under the impression that if Toran hadn’t agreed with the Elders he had been in the minority. There were no other signs of trouble within House Staerleigh, which from all indications ran with impressive precision. They projected an overall image of harmony and unity, and why shouldn’t they? House members enjoyed greater wealth and security than the average Cearovan, even if some of the House members benefited more than others. Membership in a House, no matter how lowly, guaranteed a person some level of influence. Murder seemed like an extreme response to someone who wouldn’t have been more than an annoyance.
He kept the thought to himself. The chief seemed set on a course, and who was to say she wasn’t right? He wasn’t about to jump blindly aboard with her, but he wouldn’t stand in her way either. Maintaining his independence would also allow him to pursue the leads he wanted to pursue.
“I’ll keep you informed,” he said.
She nodded and began to slip away but stopped, half turning toward him. “You’re doing a good job with Burl. I wouldn’t say she’s ready to claim you as one of her closest companions, but she’s not shutting you out either.”
He thought he knew why she was sharing the praise this way. She was asking him to possibly betray his partner, an uncomfortable request regardless of circumstance. He was certain she wouldn’t want him to feel as if she were manipulating him. He wasn’t certain yet that she wasn’t.
“Thank you,” he said in
a neutral tone.
She gave him a brisk nod and continued on her way.
He waited until she’d disappeared, then made a quick stop to pick up Stowley’s ledger. Every few days he moved it from one place to another, not yet satisfied with any of his hiding spots. It was probably for the best at any rate. Someone could still stumble upon it, but his continuously returning to the same location might garner someone’s notice. He was confident he would know if someone were shadowing him, but if the Houses’ reach did extend as far as the chief seemed to think it did, there was no telling how many invisible spies they might have in their employ. He knew from personal experience that a few coins could do wonders to loosen tongues.
Once home and supplied with tea, he spent the evening in his office poring over the ledger. He had compiled a list of the dates of the hash-marked entries, which he kept on several slips of paper, scattering them around his lodgings so that they wouldn’t look as if they belonged together. Pinning them up on his wall, he scrutinized them. He had already noted that they occurred at regular intervals, though it hadn’t looked that way in the ledger, which Kila imagined might have been deliberate on Stowley’s part. The dates were always three weeks apart, always on the same day of the week, Wednesdays. Were they the Elder meetings the chief had mentioned?
It was possible, but he didn’t think so, though he couldn’t say why. Instinct told him they weren’t, and though he knew to trust his instincts, his instincts weren’t proof. He would have to keep digging.
Amounts had been entered into the ledger for each date, though they varied. Some were so small as to constitute little more than pocket change. Others were large enough to raise his brows. None of them would give anyone pause if seen at a glance, though, not given Stowley’s reputation for aptitude with figures. House Staerleigh dealt in precious goods on a regular basis, and many of the other ledger entries included similar exorbitant figures.