The Bone Shard Daughter

by Andrea Stewart

  “You don’t have witstone,” Philine said.

  “I have melons,” I choked out when I could finally get a breath. “You can sell them for a tidy profit.”

  “Not interested,” she said, her voice flat.

  “I’ve been sending money to Kaphra, plus smuggler’s fees. I send a cut of all my profits. I don’t want trouble.”

  She loomed over me, blocking the rising sun. A thin, black tendril of hair had come loose from her plait, swaying against her cheek with the ocean breeze. The other two Ioph Carn pulled up beside her, breathing heavily. Philine lifted her baton free of her belt. “And that’s why we’re not going to kill you.”

  A street never clears so quickly as when the Ioph Carn are about to visit a beating on someone.

  Even when the first few blows fell, I was thinking about how I could get away, how I could best them. Pain exploded across my shoulders and back, blotting my vision with red. I grabbed for something, anything, that could get me out of this situation. Only the dirt of the street and a few small, loose stones. I threw them at her anyways, and Philine dashed them away with one gloved hand. “I don’t enjoy this,” she said. “If you stayed still, it would go faster.”

  I believed her when she said she didn’t enjoy it. Her fellows didn’t seem to hold the same philosophy as she did. A kick to my ribs sent me sprawling in the dirt, and I caught the glimpse of a grin, white teeth flashing like the underside of a bird’s wing.

  Pain layered on top of pain – sharp over dull, bright over bruised. I heard the strikes of Philine’s baton more than I felt them – beating against my ribs like a drumstick, my body an instrument. A person could dance to the beat had they the inclination. The world around me faded, grew muffled, as though I were perceiving everything through a woolen blanket.

  “Stop,” Philine said. Her lackeys ceased and took a step back in unison, obedient as any construct. I licked my lips and tasted copper.

  “I don’t care if you ever had the witstone you promised me. I don’t care if you ever will,” she said. “I’m here to take you to Kaphra.”

  She didn’t wait for me to give any sign that I’d heard her; but then again, I couldn’t have if I’d tried. Even my tongue hurt. I might have bitten it during the beating. I seemed to discover some new injury with every movement.

  I had to get to the docks, had to follow that boat, had to find Emahla. I wasn’t caught yet. I wasn’t caught until they brought me before Kaphra, both hands and feet bound. Philine reached down to grab me, but I shrugged off her hands. “I’ll come with you,” I said, staggering to my feet. And then I reached into the pouch at my side, pulled out a few strips of jerky and stuffed them into my mouth. I swallowed and breathed out, straightening my spine and pulling my shoulders back. “Stay back,” I said, holding a hand out. “I’ve no wish to hurt you. Kaphra wouldn’t like it.”

  The three Ioph Carn glanced at one another, confused. “What did he eat?” one of the thugs said to the other. He only shrugged in response.

  Philine took a step forward.

  I am strong. My ribs aren’t digging sharp edges into my lungs. Merciful skies, that hurts. No. No pain. I had to believe it or they would not. I let my posture speak for me. Go on. Try me. “Or didn’t Kaphra tell you about the time he had me hit a monastery?”

  Philine’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have cloud juniper bark,” she said.

  That was the key – always make them say it.

  She realized her mistake as soon as the words came out of her mouth. The two Ioph Carn thugs with her shrank back. No one had seen one of the monks fight in years. And the stories still circulated, growing grander with each telling.

  “He’s a thrice-cursed liar. How many times do you think he’s pulled this trick before? He doesn’t have any,” Philine said, though even the step she took forward was hesitant.

  I’d pulled this trick once before, but she didn’t have to know that.

  “How do you know he doesn’t?” one of her lackeys said.

  She turned to snap at them, taking her gaze from me. “Don’t be idiots. The monks steep the bark in tea, they don’t take chunks of it and eat it. They’d be stuffing their throats full of splinters!”

  It was distraction enough. I backed up one more step and pulled down one of the street stalls, blocking the street between us.

  Finding Emahla would make this life, these debts, this beating all worth it. I swept up the boxes of melons and made for the docks, shouts following me down the street. I hunched and breathed through the pain, putting one foot in front of me, then another. My knees creaked as I ran, but I was running. When I wiped my face with my sleeve, it came away red. My pulse seemed to vibrate, hot from every bruise. I’d bought myself time, but I wasn’t sure if it was enough.

  I couldn’t hear footsteps from behind me, but I heard shouts as the Ioph Carn pushed people from their path – a cloud I couldn’t quite shake. I knelt and unwound the rope mooring my boat as quickly as I could.

  A chittering sound greeted me as I leapt aboard. The stern knocked up against the dock as I searched the deck for the noise. Mephi sat near the prow, a fish proffered in his paws. He chittered again and held up the fish, as if asking me to take it. I didn’t have time for this.

  “I can’t keep a pet aboard,” I told him. That crack to my ribs must have jolted something loose in my brain because I was talking to him like he was a person. “You need to find your own kind.” I pointed at the water.

  The chittering, which had been soft and pleasant before, grew louder. He sounded like a squirrel scolding me for getting too close to its tree, only a hundredfold. The wind was already blowing eastward, and the cloth billowed as my ship began to move. Philine appeared from between the buildings, her face red, her baton held at the ready. I wasn’t clear yet.

  I seized Mephi by the scruff, ready to toss him overboard. Beneath the wet outer layer, my fingers brushed his thick, dry undercoat.

  His cry turned plaintive – a piercing, wailing sound. My chest tightened in an almost instinctual panic. He was, after all, just a baby. He was alone in the Endless Sea, and though I’d rescued him, I’d brought him to this other island, wholly unfamiliar. What if he couldn’t find others of his kind? What if he couldn’t hunt enough for himself? Would I be leaving this creature to die a slow and painful death? What would letting him stay a little longer even cost me?

  Disgusted with myself, with my weakness, I dropped him back on the deck. “Fine. Just don’t get in my way.”

  His wailing stopped mid-cry. He didn’t run off as I’d expected. With a satisfied prrreeeeeet, he deposited the fish at my feet.

  I dashed to the sails and wondered again if I’d been imagining him swimming toward my boat, back at Deerhead Island. I sighed – I’d likely never know. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

  I just couldn’t know how much.

  8

  Lin

  Imperial Island

  I held out a nut. “Come on, little spy,” I cooed. “You’re still following orders. Just one nut. It won’t hurt.”

  The spy construct twitched its cat ears, grooming its face with paws a little too large for its squirrel body. Its tail curled around the rafters, holding it steady. Constructs didn’t have much personality, but this one watched the nut with one eye.

  The sleeves of the servant uniform scratched my wrists as I reached into my sash and produced another nut, flourishing it next to the first. Now I had the spy construct’s full attention. Its tail uncurled and it took a half-step forward.

  “That’s it. Come on down. The witstone isn’t going anywhere.” Sunlight filtered through the shutters of the storage shed, bright bars across the weathered wooden floor. Boxes of witstone, standard Imperial-sized, were stacked one on top of the other almost to the ceiling. A cloth was draped over one box; a half-measure sat loose on top of it.

  The spy construct took another few steps toward me and then jumped onto the highest box, its tail and whiskers twi
tching. I’d seen it creeping around after me as I’d walked the palace halls. My father, keeping an eye on me. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t enjoy a little treat in the meantime. There were no guards for this fortune of witstone, but spy constructs watched all the servants. And this spy construct, like all spy constructs, reported to Ilith, Construct of Spies. And Ilith preferred to eat thieves slowly rather than imprison them.

  Claws scratched against wood as the spy construct scampered closer. I did my best not to move, though my arm ached from holding my hand outstretched. And then it took the first nut from my fingers. An animal would have dashed away with its prize. But the construct just stayed where it was, eating the nut. I’d already noticed it; it had already given up trying to remain hidden. So what was the point? I examined the way its parts all blended into one another like a creature born this way. Father did good work.

  The sinking of Deerhead Island had changed things. The Construct of Bureaucracy was worried about the refugees and where they would go. The Construct of Trade wouldn’t stop talking about the loss of the witstone mine. The island governors had already started writing to Father – a few offering to take in some refugees in a gesture to try to curry favor, and others had already stated their intentions not to take in any. Whatever instability already existed in the Empire, this event would widen the cracks. And there was still the matter of why the island had sunk at all. I tried not to think – what if all the islands sank? What if this was part of the islands’ migratory pattern we knew nothing about, spaced hundreds of years apart? I took in a deep breath. If that were true, I could do nothing to change it. What I needed to focus on were things I could change – and that included staying my father’s heir so I could take his place when he died.

  I pulled back the rough sleeve of the servant’s uniform and offered the second nut to the construct. It sidled even closer this time and took it. Its beady black eyes regarded me. Could a construct ever like someone? This one enjoyed nuts; why not a person? And if it did enjoy someone’s company, could that loyalty ever overcome the commands written into its shards? I’d confused constructs before by forcing their commands into contradictions, and the four first-level constructs that helped Father to govern seemed to have some modicum of personality – but what about a third-level construct like this spy?

  But I was here for other reasons. I’d seen these spies watching the servants, and I was hopeful that Father hadn’t completely altered its original commands. My memories might not have been as good as Bayan’s, but I watched the world around me more closely. I’d seen a servant go out into the city on her day off. When she’d draped a coat over her uniform, the spy construct following her had simply stopped.

  So I’d taken a servant’s tunic from the laundry and disguised myself.

  The creature stared at me as I reached out a hand and plucked a piece of witstone from the loose pile. Its nose twitched but the rest of it moved not a bit. I drew the witstone to my breast, and then made a show of stuffing it into my sash pocket.

  For a moment, I thought I’d misjudged. The construct sat on its perch on the witstone box, watching me like it was waiting for another nut. Then an ear twitched, its nose twitched, its head twitched. It dashed past me, slipping beneath the gap in the door. It would be making its way to the palace now, to the tunnel in the courtyard that was just big enough to accommodate its little body. It would disappear into that tunnel, making its way to Ilith’s lair and reporting to its master on the theft by a servant.

  Once I was sure it had gone, I put most of the witstone back, reserving a little in case I ever needed it. Father had never forbade me access to the witstone. If he tried to punish any of the servants, I could tell him I’d asked them to bring me a little for an experiment.

  I checked between the slats of the shutters, peered around the crates, looking for any other spy constructs. I found I was well and truly alone.

  The key I’d retrieved from the blacksmith two nights ago felt heavy in my sash. The bow was different from the original, but I had the feeling that my father would know if he saw it. Just the knowledge that I carried it made me walk differently, I was certain of it.

  The servants performed their work in the mornings and in the early evenings before dinner. Father had taken Bayan behind one of his locked doors so they could practice. The palace was mine.

  When I strode back in through the entrance, the whole place felt different. The sunlight streaming in looked brighter and the everything seemed to vibrate with my reflected excitement. There was a key in my pocket, and it opened one of the many doors I’d been denied.

  I strode up the left set of stairs of the entrance hall. The mural at the top was faded, the only remnant here of the Alanga. My ancestors had built the palace around this wall – a reminder of what we’d fought against.

  A row of men and women stood, shoulder to shoulder, their hands clasped and their eyes closed. The Alanga. I wasn’t sure which was which – who was Dione and who was Arrimus. I must have known before I’d lost my memories. Despite the fading paint, the richness of their robes was still visible. The cloth still looked soft. I resisted the urge to run my fingers across the mural as I passed.

  I started with the largest, most ornate doors first. On two of them, my key hung loose from the door, swallowed by the enormity of the locks. And then I grew a little less ambitious, testing the key on doors that seemed they might fit. The quicker I found it, the more time I would have to explore it. Father and Bayan’s training sessions often lasted until dinner, but I couldn’t trust it would always be that way. My heartbeat quickened with each new failure.

  What if I’d somehow been mistaken? What if this key opened no doors? What if Father had placed it there as a trap? What if he just needed a good excuse to cast me out and to raise Bayan in my place?

  I was Lin. I was the Emperor’s daughter. I would learn his bone shard magic and would prove to him I was worthy of taking his place. I would prove to him I was not broken. I repeated it to myself in my head like a litany. It was the only thing that mattered.

  When the lock turned, it took me a moment to notice. It was a small, nondescript door near the end of a hallway on the first floor, the varnish faded and on the edge of peeling. Sunlight had warmed the brass doorknob. I took one last glance up and down the hallway, and then stepped inside. The door closed behind me with a soft click.

  Darkness surrounded me; there were no windows in this room. I should have thought to bring a lamp, but in my flurry of planning it hadn’t occurred to me. My imagination supplied beasts in the darkness, perhaps even Ilith, just waiting for me to step closer before claiming me as prey. I swallowed and kept my breathing quiet as my eyes adjusted. A thin bar of light shone at the bottom of the door, and it rendered the room in colorless shapes.

  But it was enough for me to find the lamp hanging beneath the lintel, and the tinder below that. I lit the lamp with trembling fingers, unsure if what I felt was excitement or terror. When I turned the light on the room beyond, I found walls lined with drawers – and no constructs waiting to eat me.

  The drawers were labeled. Tiny drawers, like ones meant to store rings or earrings. Several to my right had small pieces of paper with handwritten notes sticking out. I went to them, my footsteps creaking across the floorboards. When I peered closer, I made out Bayan’s handwriting.

  A-122 – Deceased

  83-B-4 – Alive

  720-H – Alive

  It continued like that, scratches across papers. My hand cramped in sympathy. But when I looked to the labels on the drawers, horror clawed its way up the back of my throat. Thuy Port – Deerhead – Year 1510. I knew what I would find when I opened the drawer. I opened it anyway.

  Little shards of bone lay inside, cushioned by velvet, white against red – the way they must have looked when they’d been chiseled away from their owners’ bodies. Bayan had been here, testing the shards from Deerhead Island, seeing which owners still lived and which ones were dead, and thus had n
o life with which to power a construct. Their bone shards would be inert.

  It had been five days since the news about the island, and this was what my father worked on? No matter how complex his four tier-one constructs were, they couldn’t run an Empire. The Empire needed him, and he was cataloging the remains of a disaster, seeing which ones were still useful.

  I shut the drawer. I wasn’t sure when I’d begun to realize my father’s rule was failing. It might have even begun before I’d fallen ill. But what I did remember was watching my father’s hand shake as he turned the pages of a trade agreement, squinting at the pages until he gave up in frustration. “Review it,” he’d said, tossing it the Construct of Trade. And then he’d gone into one of his secret rooms and had shut himself away.

  His soul might have held strength enough to power ten constructs, but his body was weakening.

  I lifted the lamp and walked along the rows of drawers until I found Imperial and the year 1508. The shards within were all labeled with letters and numbers. There had to be a catalog somewhere. The drawers went up to nearly the ceiling, ladders placed at intervals along the wall. They went to the floor as well, and when I knelt, I saw the drawers at the bottom were longer and taller. I set the lamp aside and pulled one open.

  A book lay within. The cover was of some scaly leather – either green or blue in the dim lamplight. I brushed it, almost expecting dust but finding none. Yellowed pages smelling of ink and old glue ruffled when I opened the book. So many pages, and so many names. The span of the Phoenix Empire never ceased to surprise me whenever I was confronted with evidence of it. I could trace my lineage back to the beginning, to the people who had finally fought and defeated the Alanga.

  The pages toward the back were crisper. I found year 1508, and then – Numeen, in the neat handwriting of a bureaucracy construct. 03-M-4. I closed the book and adjusted it until it looked undisturbed. And then I searched for 03-M-4.