Daughters of Ruin

by K. D. Castner

  “It’s not them,” whispered Suki.

  “Don’t be crazy,” said Rhea. “They’re the enemy.”

  Suki didn’t respond (busy thinking about what Rhea had just said (Whose enemy? (Was Meridan hers? Or Declan Meridan’s? Declan’s was certainly hers, and Findain his (but who were these?))) Think straight (she said to herself in Marta’s voice)). (Don’t get lost in there.)

  They killed the supposed rebels.

  Declan wiped his shoe and spoke again. “Our own family has fallen. And the great experiment, the great hope that I myself thrust upon you—the Protectorate—has failed.”

  “What does that mean?” said Rhea.

  Suki hoped Cadis and Iren had managed to escape (she searched the procession of guards and didn’t see them (thank the gods)).

  “I wished, naively, that war would never come to Pelgard again, and the sister queens would rule together in peace. Several villagers called out “Pax Regina” (the queen’s peace), but most already sensed where this was going. Declan breathed again a visible sigh. “Iren of Corent and Cadis of Findain” (Hisses and boos at the mention of Findain.)—“have betrayed the Protectorate. They used the attack to escape to Findain under cover of night.”

  “They was in on it!” shouted some in the crowd. “They’re with the rebels!”

  Rhea leaned back to Endrit. “How could they have made the trip? Were they planning this?” Endrit had no idea.

  Declan continued without correcting the accusations. “As I said, we don’t know the reason of the attack.” (But the crowd was convinced it had solved the mystery (“to help them run!”)) “All we know is that they abandoned their sisters, and the truce, and are hereby declared fugitive.”

  The crowd erupted once again.

  “Sink their ships!”

  “Topple the spire!”

  They were calling for war.

  “They were daughters to me,” said Declan (Suki nearly choked (a woman standing behind them mumbled, “Child brides, more like,” (at which point Suki did choke))). “And they stabbed at the heart of everything I have worked for. For you, good Meridan. A weak heart would puncture and die.”

  (Another pause (He was good at this.).)

  “But we are not weak hearts.” His stride steadied as he paced the scaffold (as if the limp didn’t matter). “They are criminals now, fomenting the downfall of your kingdom. And with sadness, I admit that my own blood, Rhea, may have been corrupted by their lies.”

  Endrit had to hold Rhea back from shouting out her presence.

  “She, too, is gone,” said Declan. “My own fault for thinking she could take the seat built for Rhys.”

  Endrit didn’t have to hold Rhea back any longer. (She nearly buckled (Suki couldn’t see her eyes, but a single sob racked through Rhea).)

  “My hope misplaced,” said Declan. “My daughter and Suki of Tasan are wanted for questioning.”

  “We’ll find ’em!” shouted the crowd.

  “Use of force,” said Declan, “is advised, for they are well trained. Such is the state of our disrepair, good Meridan. We are injured. A weak heart would crumble and fall.”

  This time the crowd answered, “We are not weak hearts!”

  “That is right,” said Declan. “We are at war. And so I declare Meridan in martial state. I hereby seize the holdings of Houses Sprolio, Sesquitaine, Tulla, and Ferimore for the people of Meridan. The seventh and eighth division of the light cavalry has been recalled and will station in Walltown. Tomorrow they arrive.”

  For the first time, the crowd murmured (the news meant a thousand soldiers would descend on the village, bringing money, but also new authority (new cruelty)).

  “Stay strong, good Meridan. Tomorrow we begin the fight to avenge our fallen, to reclaim the peace that was stripped from us, the hope that was shattered, and reckon with our traitors.”

  The crowd bellowed their approval. Even the guards drummed their spears on the stone and shouted, “Here, here!”

  “And tomorrow,” said Declan, “we begin with the ringleader of the rebels, the worm in our midst who whispered treachery into the ears of my daughters and walked among you as citizen. Tomorrow I bring you the head of Marta from Walltown.”

  (Roars. Endrit turned and pulled Rhea with him (she had been crying (“We have to go,” he said to Suki)), who had been thinking (fake rebels (Declan’s a liar (Rhea sleeping with Endrit (manipulating) (sex) wasn’t he kind to bandage her (embarrassed) Marta (Marta (Marta (think straight (they’re killing Marta (framing her) and Endrit will need comfort (what a horrible thing to think (but none can save her now (maybe Rhea if she goes to him (if he cares (would he? (does he?)) she’s “corrupted” too, he said (lied?) and would he really kill his heir? (if he did, and they escaped (the two of them (oh gods, Marta), I’m getting lost (and sorry) sad) sex) sisters) sabotage) Cadis) Iren) Tola) Tola) Tola and Marta taken apart, taken forever))))).)

  They lowered their heads and left the plaza as the procession escorted Declan in the opposite direction.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Iren

  Day two.

  Findain. Archon Basilica. Midday.

  In the giant-domed bathhouse, miniature aqua gardens gave privacy for a variety of activities.

  Children played in the wading pools.

  Old women played dice in the butterfly jungle.

  Iren and Cadis sat by the steam fountain alone.

  Servants brought in cold melon on the hour.

  Cadis lounged, fully naked, unraveled her braids and removed the beads. Iren sat in a towel and scraped the dirt from her arms with a decorated seashell.

  “You could always stab her in here,” said Cadis. “It’s so foggy, no one would see.”

  She meant Hypatia. She wanted to know everything Iren would do, if she were in Cadis’s situation.

  “Not enough exits,” said Iren, only half present in the conversation.

  “You could pay a servant to take you through the boiler rooms.”

  “They don’t know me.”

  “That’s why you’d pay them.”

  “Money is a cheap substitute for trust.”

  “So you’d need them to trust you?” said Cadis.

  “No, I’d need them to fear me. But to do that, they must first trust that I can follow through with my threats.”

  Cadis let out a whistle. “Are you sure we grew up together?” she asked.

  “I needed to do something while you braided your hair.”

  Cadis laughed and threw a bead at Iren. They ate some melon. Cadis seemed curious about everything—as if she no longer believed even the parts of Iren’s childhood of which Cadis herself had been a part. She had concocted half a dozen assassinations for Hypatia, all amateurish and all in sisterly jest. She didn’t truly acknowledge the option—and seemed to believe that neither did Iren.

  Maybe she just wanted some distraction from the outer world, where she was quickly to become a queen or a pawn in a war too big for Findain to win.

  “You could poison her cider,” said Cadis.

  “Where would I get the poison?”

  “You put that poison in our travel packs.”

  “And you should hold on to it. It’s for emergencies.”

  “And you don’t carry non-emergency poison with you?” said Cadis.

  “Only my venomous tongue.”

  “Well, then, you could blow up her house. I dunno.”

  “Too loud. Too much attention.”

  “And too many casualties,” said Cadis, rethinking it. “This is difficult.”

  Iren smiled and shook her head. It was nice to have a kindhearted friend—to remember what kind hearts were like. She knew her assignment would be to return immediately to Corent. Her mother had given it first. Assignment #1. If ever anything went wrong—if Declan tried to imprison them, if he died suddenly—anything that shattered the fragile peace, then all other assignments were aborted. Her only task was to return.

  For years Iren dreamed
of it. She’d wondered if she might even help it along by stealing away at night. She hadn’t imagined that the day would come and she would find herself reluctant.

  “Okay, how about this?” said Cadis. “You take her hunting and push her off a cliff.”

  “She’d never go with me if I asked.”

  “Well, you’d leave out the part about the cliff,” said Cadis, giggling.

  “Oh,” said Iren, smiling.

  “Fine, then, clever sister. How would you do it?” Cadis ate a wedge of melon and poked at a palm frond with her toe. Iren thought on it for a moment.

  “Her weakness is her company. Pentri is an arrogant mule. Arcadie hates her.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “When someone speaks, don’t look at the person talking. Look at how others react. It’s amazing what you’ll see on their faces.”

  “How does Arcadie react when Hypatia speaks?”

  “Like she’s watching a rat eat the carcass of a frog.”

  “Is that how you knew Jesper had bedded Arcadie, because they look at each other?”

  “No. I guessed. Then I paid a servant for the information. They love pillow gossip.”

  Cadis laughed.

  “Besides, have you seen him? He could bed the queen of the moon if he wanted.”

  They laughed together. An attendant brought in a pail of orange coals and threw them into the fountain. Steam rose up in giant plumes. Iren finished with her shell and washed her arms from a nearby basin.

  “So you’d use Pentri’s pride?” said Cadis, once the attendant cleared the area.

  “I would spread rumor that Hypatia had insulted House Muto. Something vapid and irrelevant, but it would infuriate Pentri. He would demand to see her. She would acquiesce, because House Muto has votes in the council that she requires. Most important, he would demand they be alone. None of his entourage, none of her lieutenants. He would be too embarrassed, and he’s the type who hasn’t gained the fear of his servants. They must gossip about him incessantly.”

  “Okay, so they meet.”

  “Following Pentri is easy. He’s a peacock.”

  “Then?”

  “A magister’s long surgery needle. Sneak up as Pentri does his shouting. Strike Hypatia first. Skewer through the neck. Then the ear. Catch Pentri as he runs away. Two pricks into a kidney.”

  By the look on Cadis’s face, Iren realized she might have misjudged the request. Cadis wasn’t truly envisioning an assassination. Not a real one. Not the kind that leaves any blood.

  “You asked,” said Iren.

  “I was making idle conversation.”

  Iren sighed. “You’re in the bathhouse of your own castle, playfully guessing at how to kill your greatest rival for a throne about to burn up in a war. Maybe now isn’t the time for idle conversation.”

  “Okay,” said Cadis. She finished unraveling her braids. Her hair lay about her like a sea maid. “I have to go to the wash tub.”

  Iren tried to revisit the entire conversation. Maybe Cadis had taken parts of it personally. Maybe the part about trust made her suspect that Iren never really trusted anyone.

  She shouldn’t have indulged in idle conversation.

  Her secret life in Meridan, her assignments, was some kind of betrayal to Cadis. And for now her vision was clouded by it.

  In time she would see clearly. That Iren’s mother had done everything for them. Iren’s assignments helped Corent, yes, but also hurt Meridan, which was a favor to Findain.

  In time Cadis would recall the good memories.

  In time they might see each other and embrace as sisters.

  In time she hoped Cadis would love her again.

  But until then it was best for Iren to return immediately. Her presence seemed to cause nothing but damage for Cadis.

  Iren rose and left the bathhouse.

  She took with her the beads that Cadis had thrown. In her hands, they made a dull clicking sound that reminded her of her friend.

  She turned her attention fully to her assignment.

  Assignment #1.

  Find Mother.

  Day Three.

  Findain. Dockside. Sundown.

  A tri-mast galleon sat in the bay.

  At sunrise it would sail for Takht-e-Malin. The crew loaded it with cargo. They took leave to enjoy their last night. Iren approached the captain.

  A short man, bald, unsmiling, marked for fifty or more expeditions without loss, wreck, or mutiny. A cautious man. The type to trust with business.

  “Captain,” said Iren.

  She wore her travel clothes.

  Nothing to stand out.

  Old Dains were all broad and blond, like Cadis, but Findain was a market hub full of merchant ships, and the Findish caroused with everybody—the city had all types. Iren’s short black hair wasn’t the calling card here that it was in Meridan.

  The man turned from inspecting the moorings. “Only on my ship.”

  He held a ship’s log, on which he took notes. His fingers were steady. He was no poppy eater.

  “We’re close enough,” said Iren. An attempt at familiarity.

  “What can I do for you?” No smile. Iren would have normally liked the guy if she didn’t need something from him.

  “I hear you’re the one to speak with about passage.”

  “On the Queen’s Constance?”

  “To Corent.”

  “We’re a cargo ship.”

  “I can feed myself. I can crew if you let me.”

  “We’re not a passenger ship.”

  He eyed her with suspicion. Iren had never been so reckless. She had little choice. She felt uncomfortable in Findain. Always watched.

  Severed from her intelligence network.

  She hadn’t written or received a message from her mother since the attack.

  She had assignments. In case of emergency, rendezvous at Takht-e-Malin. They had a safe house in the port city. An old landlord kept it supplied with food for ten years, and tended the birds. Iren would release the birds up the mountain, to the academy spires.

  Her mother would come.

  But first she needed a single Fin willing to take her. “I have money,” said Iren. A mistake.

  The captain returned to his tablet.

  “I don’t take bribes, miss.”

  She had stumbled upon the most upright sailor in the entire captains’ guild. Iren turned and walked back to the alleys.

  For two days she had stalked the taverns on the dock. The eavesdropping, the sneaking, that was easy. But ships upriver were rarer these days. The tariffs imposed by Meridan were too high.

  Captains were on edge. Merchant nobles called off the expeditions until the specter of war passed.

  The hard part for Iren was all the talking. The chummy nature of the Fins, who seemed to think one had to be a friend in order to do some business.

  Most of them knew she was Corentine just by the discomfort. She didn’t understand why Fins needed so many friends. This wasn’t the time to take foreign stowaways on board, they said.

  The Queen’s Constance was the last chance. Iren cursed under her breath.

  She turned on her heel and walked back down the dock. The captain must have been in his third pass of the ship’s log. He didn’t look up.

  Iren searched for words. “You’re diligent.”

  “Mmm,” said the captain.

  Iren croaked out another compliment. “You must be well regarded among your peers.”

  “I suppose.” He still read.

  Iren was finished with the niceties. “Look. I understand you won’t take me.”

  “Good.”

  “Because we’re not bosom friends.”

  “Because you have trouble written all over you.”

  “Nothing is written all over me.”

  “Very well.”

  “If you’re an honest man, then I would send a letter.”

  “I’m no shinhound.”

  “Please,” said Iren. She
placed a small parcel including an encrypted letter and her signet ring onto the ledger the man read. Next to it she placed a bag of silver.

  The man sighed.

  “That’s the most I’ve begged anyone,” said Iren. “There’s a woman, a landlord. She keeps a flat on the riverfront. Ask anyone for Dokhtar Zafira.”

  “Dokhtar Zafira,” said the man.

  “I wrote it on the parcel.”

  The captain nodded. Iren turned and walked away. The captain reminded her of her father, sentimentalist that he was. The king of Corent, off to be medic, on the front lines. Honor-bound. Dead.

  The captain would deliver to Zafira.

  Zafira would see the ring and send the parcel immediately to Queen Malin in the capital. Her mother would decrypt the message—a brief of all that had happened.

  Iren walked up the alley toward the Odeon. The streets were alight with torches, and crowded. Taverns disgorged their diners toward the theaters. Jugglers and bards played at the entrances to welcome guests.

  Iren moved through the crowds like a wind-swept leaf. The signet ring was the last piece of evidence that she was heir to the Corentine spires.

  She was alone.

  A pack of children surrounded her in a plaza. They offered trinkets and a shoeshine. Iren waded through them. A juggler in front of a theater shouted to her, “Careful, miss. They’ll pick your pocket.”

  As Iren passed by, she dropped a handful of souvenirs and a few coppers into the juggler’s upturned hat. “I picked theirs,” she said.

  She liked the sound he made.

  “Whoa.”

  She liked being alone.

  She was the shade scarab. A creature grown in the darkness. In Corent the magisters kept the vicious things in cages at the very tip of the spires—where they would get the least amount of shade. They stayed the size of a human hand. But deep in the mountains they grew into bulls. Their chitinous click, click, click haunted the caverns. Like the scarab, Iren was kept small by the constant glare of Hiram Kinmegistus, Declan, and the Protectorate court.

  She hid her talents from the light.

  Always withdrew.

  Always pretended.

  Dainty Iren.

  Delicate.

  Domestic.

  But she was free now. In the shadow of the great wide open, where she was just another homeless child roaming the streets.