An Accident of Stars

by Foz Meadows

  “Safe?” The question took Trishka aback, though to Saffron’s relief, she was utterly unfazed by her orientation. “Why wouldn’t you… oh. This is an Earth thing, isn’t it? You worry he might try without your consent?”

  “Not worry, exactly.” Saffron twisted her hands, embarrassed, and tried not to think about Jared Blake. “I just want to know where I stand.”

  Trishka sighed. “I won’t pretend this world is perfect. Men and women force others here, the same as they do in your realm. But it is not tolerated, not excused, and especially not in Veksh or Kena. Whatever you want from Matu, or don’t want, he’ll respect it.”

  “Good to know,” said Saffron, awkwardly.

  Trishka only chuckled. “I’m not offended you asked, child. But if you feel the need for penance, come over here and help me out. This water’s so cold, I’m like to freeze my nipples off. Oh! And there’s a towel on that chair in the corner, if you please.”

  * * *

  For neither the first nor last time, Viya cursed Luy for making her take a roa. Surely she’d have been just as well off with a horse? Better, even, because she could ride them more competently, and because common crowds knew to step aside when they saw one coming. Instead, she was forced to endure being jostled about by low-ranking ignorants who didn’t know any better. The beast itself – she’d named it Mara, for spite – was hard-mouthed and stubborn, responding so slowly to Viya’s commands that by the time they’d moved, whatever gap she’d spied in the crush had closed. Part of her wanted to scream, don’t you know who I am? But of course, she was in disguise; it was good that they looked away, and anyway, shouting about rank was ugly and undignified.

  If real life were like the moon-tales Rixevet had told her as a child, Viya thought, some stalwart or other would recognise her anyway. They’d creep up, lay a hand on Mara’s bridle and in low, passionate tones, declare their undying loyalty to the Cuivexa and her cause. Then she’d be led down secret paths, away from the crowds and into the protection of her secondmother’s agents, who would long since have set out to reclaim her.

  But of course this didn’t happen, and instead Viya was forced to sweat and push and wait and dodge her way through the chaos of roa riders, carts, foot traffic, stalls, corners, dead ends and shouting that made up the Lower Circle. When she finally spied the massive gates that led to the Warren, she hissed with impatience, dug her heels into Mara’s sides and made for it so quickly that the roa clipped a man in passing.

  “Hoy!” he shouted after her. A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd.

  Viya didn’t turn. The man didn’t matter. She was almost at the gates–

  An irate stranger in the opulent taal of a wealthy merchant laid a hand on Mara’s bridle, jerking them both to a halt. Viya was furious. “Let go!” she shouted, trying to tug the rein from his grasp. But the man refused to obey her. Mara tossed his head back, kreeing as their tug-of-war put pressure on his mouth.

  “Insolent chit!” the man bellowed. “I don’t know what hovel you rode in from, but above that gate–” he gestured to Viya’s destination, “–we act and ride with decorum. Apologise for hitting me!”

  “Hovel?” Viya hissed, goaded by the term. It was too much, all of it! Oh, if only he knew who she was! “You dare, you filthy thumbcoin?”

  Now it was the merchant’s turn to look furious. He flushed above his beard, but his voice, when he spoke, was dangerously low. “You would be well-placed, girl, to reconsider that insult.” He tightened his grip on Mara, winding the rein about his hand, so that the poor beast’s head was pulled backwards at an angle. Viya felt him shift under her, and tasted metallic fear in her mouth. Even so, it hurt her pride to back down.

  “I will apologise for hitting you,” she said, stiffly, “if you will apologise for insulting my home.”

  The man’s eyes glittered dangerously. “And what of your second insult?”

  “I will retract it,” Viya said, “the instant you take your hand off my mount.”

  A moment of tension hung between them. Then, in voice that was chiselled ice, the merchant said, “My apologies for the slight to your house.”

  Viya’s smile was a slice of spite. Even so, she condescended to incline her head. “My apologies for the affront to your person. It was unintentional.”

  “And the other?”

  “Your hand first.”

  “Of course,” said the merchant – and wrenched on the bridle, just as he slapped Mara hard on the flank and shouted, “Ha!”

  Pained and startled, the roa bolted, and Viya, who hadn’t been prepared for it, very nearly lost her seat. Only a frantic grab at Mara’s coat saved her, but she dropped the reins in the process, and it was all she could do to gather them back up again without pitching head-first from the saddle. By the time she had them in hand, they’d passed through the gate and were well into the Warren, where Viya had seldom ridden before and never once alone. Panicked that she didn’t recognise her surroundings, she hauled on the reins, praying Mara would come to a halt. Instead, the roa lowered his head and twisted in a strange sideways jerk, as though attempting to buck her off. One bystander yelped at the sight, the sound sharp enough to startle Mara anew; and then they were off again, running downhill through the twisting residential streets. The city was a blur of walls. Viya tugged on the bridle, but though she pulled and pleaded, nothing she did made any difference at all.

  And then, of his own volition, Mara slowed to a halt. His flanks were heaving, head and tail drooped low. Somewhere inside, Viya was furious at his disobedience, but in that moment she was so relieved they’d stopped that instead of scolding the beast, she patted him weakly on the neck. Her hands shook violently; she could barely stretch her palms out flat. They were in the middle of a narrow alley, its cobbled surface cracked and uneven. On either side towered high, square houses, their walls vividly painted with murals and further brightened by the colourful washing strung on lines between each opposite pair of windows. Ahead, the alley twisted down a slope and out of sight, while the way they’d come was hidden behind a blind corner. The city was more pungent here. Viya could smell cooking and refuse mixed together, a hot, sour scent that lingered in her throat. She could hear children shrieking in play too, mixed in with the muffled clatter of families in their homes and even the discordant jangle of music. It was alien to her, strange and commonplace and terrifying.

  “Wretched beast,” she whispered. “Where have you brought me?”

  Yasha was talking, and Gwen was trying – and failing – to listen. Unlike Matu, she’d had no pretext for retiring to bed, and so was forced to endure the resulting diatribe. Silence was the path of least resistance, and besides which, for all Yasha’s intent to orchestrate a coup with Vekshi aid, she lacked the power to make it so. Only the Council of Queens could do that, and whatever sway she held in her homeland, not even Yasha was so well-connected that she could take their cooperation for granted. Not that Gwen had never been to Veksh, though she’d travelled to other nations in this world besides Kena; even so, she knew enough of the culture to appreciate just how difficult things could get on the other side of the border. “Am I boring you, Gwen?” Yasha asked sharply. She’d been talking about possible routes north for at least the second time.

  “Yes,” said Gwen, too tired to lie. “Matu had the right idea. I need a rest.”

  Pix stared at her. Yasha only laughed.Ignoring both of them, Gwen stalked out of the kitchen and walked clear to the other end of the house, where she stopped, resting her head against the wall. The plastered stone was cool on her temple.

  What are you doing? she asked herself. Do you even know anymore?

  She closed her eyes as though waiting for an answer. When none was forthcoming, she sighed, straightened and headed back the way she’d come, to Matu’s room.

  She didn’t bother to knock, and Matu, in turn, ignored her entry. The room was dark, the only light seeping in around the curtain pulled across the window. Matu was sitting u
pright in bed with his back to the wall, still fully dressed, his elbows crooked on his knees. His hair hung like sheets of black water around his face.

  “I might be too, in your position,” she said, leaning back against the door.

  “Might be what?”

  “Staring into space. Angry. Drunk.” She paused, assessing him. “Reevaluating my friendships?”

  “Three out of four’s not bad.” He didn’t say which three, though. “I could kill Yasha.”

  Gwen snorted. “So could we all. Often, and with great imagination.”

  “You? Kill Yasha? You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself without a wall to bash your stubborn head against.”

  She’d braced for Matu’s bitterness, but the blow hit hard and she couldn’t disguise the impact. “I suppose I deserve that.”

  “No more than the rest of us. My apologies.” His gaze flashed up. “At least you can escape her. No wonder the Council spat her out.” This last was muttered, but Gwen still caught it.

  “Yasha sat the Council of Queens?”

  “You didn’t know?” Matu grinned blearily up at her. “Huh. That probably means I shouldn’t have told you. I’m not lying,” he added, tipping his head back. “I swear by my braidless head. She’s got the scars to prove it.”

  Gwen frowned. “Scars?”

  “Now I really have said too much. Ashasa will have to forgive me the insolence, assuming that she does forgive men. I’ve never been clear on that point.” He reached into his tunic and withdrew a small leather wallet. “This, though, does breed clarity. I picked it up on the border.” He opened the wallet, revealing a quantity of dried, blue-green leaf. “It’s imported from Kamne, I think, or maybe some Shavaktiin brought it through the worlds – the rumours don’t agree. Either way, it’s like inhaling the dark edge of a star.” He held up a square of bark paper. “It’s called cahlu. Care to join me?”

  “Give me that!” Gwen sat herself on the bed and took away both wallet and papers. Grinning quietly, Matu acquiesced. “Trying to roll up in your condition. It’s a wonder you didn’t spill the whole lot – your hands are shaking well enough.” She rolled two cigarettes as she spoke, her fingers deft and assured. “You’re a bad influence, you know that?” She proffered the finished tube. Matu leaned forward and took it, waiting. Gwen rolled her eyes, then fished in her own skirt pocket for the lighter she carried everywhere. It was bronze and heavy, made in the shape of a Chinese dragon. The fire came out of its mouth (of course), and with a soft chnk, she lit them both up.

  The smoke was hot and dark, imbued with a fierce citric bitterness that made it a little like smoking lemon rind mixed with coffee. Gwen savoured the taste, then exhaled. She could feel Matu watching her.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “It’s adequate,” she said, tapping ash onto his foot.

  “Adequate? Don’t give me adequate. You’ve just got the palate of a fire-swallower.”“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  They both fell silent, filling the room with blue-grey smoke. It wreathed between them like mist. When the cahlu was done, Gwen stubbed it out on the tip of Matu’s boot.

  “Say the Council of Queens agrees to all this,” she said, “and Veksh sends her soldiers to pull Kadeja home. What makes them stop there? What makes an invading army hallowed by Ashasa and sanctioned by its leaders turn away from the empty throne of a rich and disorganised state? You say the Council threw Yasha out, but even a despised exile could be welcomed home again if they came offering a whole country.”

  Matu took a long, last drag, then dropped his cigarette to the floor. “You really think she’d go that far?”

  “I think she’d try.”

  “She’s not that foolish. The Kenans would rise up against it. Their gods are in their name, in their soil. You can’t get rid of Ke and Na by claiming they were only and ever false echoes of Ashasa. The Council couldn’t dismantle the temples. It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t.”

  “There’s more than one way to claim a throne. She has Pix. She has you. If this all works, she’ll have Amenet, too – and that’s just for starters. Whatever role Yasha plays, if we succeed, it’ll be to her advantage. You’ll embed her right in the heart of Karavos. Is that really what you want?”

  “You make it sound like it’s my decision.”

  “I only meant–”

  “I know exactly what you meant.” He sighed. “I can already feel her eyes on my neck.”

  “Better eyes on the neck than knives in the heart,” Gwen murmured. The proverb was too applicable lately for its own damn good, let alone her comfort.

  “What do you want me to say? Everything’s a risk. Yasha is difficult, but I’d rather have her than Leoden and Kadeja. Will Veksh invade? I doubt it, but you never know. Take the chance, Gwen. You’ve no more choice than I do, but we might as well go willing to the consequences of our own shortsightedness.”

  “Our own?” She raised an eyebrow. “And what have you done lately that’s so shortsighted?”

  “Stayed single,” said Matu, “in the deluded belief that it would keep me out of politics.”

  Gwen chuckled. “Deluded indeed.”

  Matu rubbed his head. “And don’t I know it?”

  All at once, Gwen recalled what Saffron had said about borders on the road to Karavos, and frowned. “Speaking of Veksh,” she said, “I have a puzzle for you.”

  “A distracting puzzle?” Matu asked, in hopeful tones.

  “Possibly, yes. Why is the Kenan-Vekshi border so barren?”

  “Barren?”

  “You know what I mean.” She waved a hand. “The land there is flat, no rivers or mountains, but nobody mingles. Shit, nobody even fights, except for the odd skirmish in the Bharajin, and that hardly counts. It’s weird.”

  “How long has this been bothering you?”

  “Since Saffron asked me about it, and I didn’t have an answer.” She glanced at him. “Any thoughts?”

  Matu mulled the problem. “Huh. I’d always thought it was Vekshi isolationism, but you’re right. It’s an open border. There should still be more… history there, or something. More exchange.”

  “So you don’t know?”

  “Not offhand, but then a lot of knowledge was lost in the Years of Shadow. Back in my temple days–” by which he meant his magical apprenticeship with Sahu’s Kin, “–we used to joke that if an obvious historical question lacked an obvious historical answer, it was probably Vexa Yavin’s fault. Four hundred years, and we’ve barely recovered any of what she destroyed.” He looked thoughtful. “Still, though. The Vekshi must have their own records. Maybe if this alliance goes to plan, we can ask to see them?”

  Gwen snorted. “Sure. Good luck with that.”

  They grinned at each other.

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. “Yes?” Matu called.

  Speak of the devil, Gwen thought; it was Saffron, a worried look on her face.

  “Trishka sent me,” she said – in decently-accented Kenan, Gwen noted with pride. “I’d finished helping her and she said I should look for Zech, but I couldn’t find her, so Trishka said she’d use her magic to see, but when she did–”

  “Where is she?” Matu asked sharply.

  “In the city. With Jeiden.” Saffron inhaled. “They’re in the Square of Gods. And something’s happening.”

  * * *

  Viya rode on down the narrow street, reasoning that it was better to go forwards than back. This instinct was proven sound when the strains of music she’d heard grew louder. The sounds of a crowd were audible too; she was headed for an open space, some market or square or gathering spot, and even with what little she knew about the Warren, such a place would surely help her get her bearings. As a last resort, she could always ask for directions, but that would be a bitter shame to her pride and gender both. Men could get lost with impunity, but women were gifted by Sahu with the knowledge of orientation – admitting failure in that respect would open her up to
mockery.

  The closer they came to the noise, the more Mara began to fidget against the bridle, tossing his head from side to side and kreeing. As much as this irritated her, Viya still couldn’t bring herself to castigate the beast, partly through fear that he’d bolt again, but mostly because she, too, felt unsettled. The music was sharp and urgent, the crowd sounds tense rather than jubilant, and when she glimpsed the source of both, she instantly understood why.

  Somehow, she’d managed to find her way to the Square of Gods, which was, if not packed, then certainly full of passersby who’d long since paused in passing. There was the fountain where Kadeja had sought her omen last afternoon; only now it was ringed by Shavaktiin players, their face-veils replaced with dramatic masks. Three were robed all in pinkish red, their masks showing weird white faces with twisted red grins. These were the musicians, armed with reed pipes, a zither and metal twindrums. The sound they produced was high and haunting, eerily discordant. It wasn’t Kenan music they played, nor of any style that Viya understood, and the strangeness of it set her teeth on edge. Mara didn’t like it, either; his ears were laid flat to the sides of his head, and his urgent krees had grown louder.But more disconcerting still were the players – or rather, their play. Viya had seen Shavaktiin performers once or twice as a child and found them amusing, if strange. Nothing in those memories compared with what she was seeing now. The blasphemy of it caused her chest to constrict. There were nine players, each one robed and masked to suggest a different deity of First and Second Tier. There were Ke and Na, unmistakable in white and black, their masks marked with stars and the black lines of heaven. Beside them were Hime and Lomo, Yemaya and Nihun, Sahu and Teket: lilac robe and green, red and blue, yellow and purple, all ringing the fountain like children. And there, worst of all, was Kara, the sexless Heavenly Child in silver robes and a trickster’s mask, kneeling in supplication as Ke and Na crowned them with Ashasa’s wreath of fire. As Kara-Ashasa rose again, the other gods fell to their knees, crying out in pairs.