An Accident of Stars

by Foz Meadows

  “Trickster ascendant!”

  “Fire and malice!”

  “Sunchild Vexa!”

  By this point, the crowd’s agitation was evident. Angry murmurs pervaded; the air was thick with fear and confusion, yet no one moved to intervene. Kadeja did this, Viya realised. She tied Ashasa to the true gods, and now no one knows if the Shavaktiin are allowed to do the same. But either way, the import was clear: the play declared that a female mischief reigned in Ashasa’s name, usurping Kara’s place in the celestial hierarchy and legitimised as ruler by Ke and Na.

  And then, one by one, the other gods began to strip away their masks, behind which – the crowd roared in outrage – their faces were painted with the orange-gold-red of Ashasa’s flames. The whole pantheon writhed, devoured from within by the Vekshi goddess’s fire while Kara-Ashasa looked on and laughed. Laughing chaos claimed them all; the Square of Gods became a churning mob as people surged forwards, shouting and throwing things at the players. The music faltered and ceased altogether, replaced by yelps as the Shavaktiin belatedly tried to flee. But the mob was everywhere, pinning them against the fountain. A stone hit Hime in the temple; she staggered, blood dripping down her painted face, and had to be caught by Na.

  Fear went through Viya like lightning. She had to get out, get away – she was meant to be leaving Karavos! But the play had transfixed her, leaving her blind to the danger. Somehow she and Mara had managed to get boxed into a corner of the square, and her skittish beast was refusing to approach the mob. Fists clenched in frustration, Viya kicked hard at the roa’s ribs, shouting for him to move, move on! but to no avail. The Square of Gods was the Trickster’s domain – a woman started screaming ahead, and then another; she could hear a child crying, young men shouting and old men roaring, and from her vantage point on Mara’s back, she saw a squadron of honoured swords enter the fray alongside the Shavaktiin.

  Had Kadeja ordered this, after all? Viya didn’t know. Maybe the guards really had come to help the players; or maybe they’d simply arrived through the entrance closest to the fountain, forcing them into confrontation with the crowd. Either way, the mob drew the same conclusion she first had: that the soldiers were there to protect the blaspheming Shavaktiin, and that all sense of rightness and piety was therefore lost. The crowd surged anew – Mara tossed his head back, snorting with fear – and the outraged guards drew their weapons.

  Again, Viya cursed Luy’s refusal to let her take a horse. Horses were bulky; they had square, solid chests and hard, sharp hooves that could plough through a crowd with ease. But roas were lighter, their balance less ideally suited to the task. Unlike their equine cousins, they lacked the sheer muscle and propulsion to shoulder their way through a mob, and their two legs were much more vulnerable to being knocked from beneath them than a horse’s four. Ordinarily, their nimbleness was an asset within the cramped space of a city, but against a mob, they were worse than useless. Viya glanced desperately around the square, throat clenching at her predicament. She needed the crowd to let her through–

  Her gaze lit on a pair of children. They stood on a barrel against the opposite wall of the square, and so, like Viya, were lifted above the crowd. One of them, an absurdly beautiful boy, noticed Viya’s scrutiny and elbowed his companion, a skinny girl dressed in Vekshi clothes whose skin was a patchwork of calico shades. Her pale eyes narrowed as she sized Viya up, then widened as though in realisation. Urgently, she turned and began whispering to the boy, though of course the distance between them was such that Viya had no idea what was being said. Beneath her, Mara fidgeted in earnest, crow-hopping from one foot to the other like an anxious bird. More screams cut the crowd, whose members were moving now in a whirlpool motion; those at the back were struggling to get forwards, while all of a sudden, those at the front were desperate to get back.

  Only Viya and the children, with their superior vantages, could see why: the honoured swords had started attacking the crowd, and alongside them now were a furious trio of arakoi. At least one of these latter possessed the kashakumet and was using it like a whip. As Viya watched, terrified, the arakoi’s magic lifted a man and sent him flying. He crashed into a stall front, his limbs contorted brokenly, and lay still. A moment of stunned silence followed, and then the screaming began in earnest. The churning bodies pressed back into Mara, elbows and arms digging into the roa’s sides and bruising Viya’s legs. A hoarse cry of outrage slipped from her throat, but there was nowhere left to go – and then, as though the gods had winked at her, a gap opened up before them.

  “Go!” she shouted, and for a miracle Mara obeyed, lunging awkwardly away from the wall and into the press of the mob.

  But now they were like a tree branch caught in a river current. Bodies crashed into them, shoved and buffeted by the mob’s agitations. Mara kreed loudly in panic. Turning in the saddle, Viya saw with dismay that his tail was caught in the crush; people were grabbing hold of it in their struggle to keep upright, but their weight was wrecking his balance. Truly frightened now, she jerked on the bridle, trying to steer them forwards, but met only the resistance of unmoving flesh.

  And then a tiny, calico hand reached up and gripped her wrist.

  Ten

  The Road (Not) Taken

  Zech looked up at the girl on the roa, teeth gritted with the effort of keeping steady. The mob around them thrashed like cats in a bag. Beside her, Jeiden hissed jerkily, “Hurry up, or we’ll all be trampled!”

  Zech ignored him. “We can lead you out,” she said to the girl. “All right? You can come with us!”

  “But he won’t move!” the girl wailed, and as if to demonstrate her point, the roa jerked backwards as yet more strangers grabbed his tail.

  “He will for me!” Zech said, and before the girl could protest, she grabbed the reins, looped them over the roa’s head and began to forge through the mob.

  It was tough going. Alone, she and Jeiden had been able to take advantage of their smaller size, slipping through gaps that adults couldn’t fit. Now, though, every step was treacherous: neither Zech nor the roa had any weight to throw around. At least the beast was moving. Tugged forwards by her pressure on his mouth and pushed at the back by Jeiden, who’d thrown an arm over his rump, the roa had little choice but to obey, responding to their guidance as he hadn’t to his rider’s panic. As a flailing elbow caught her a sharp blow to the cheek, Zech bit back a profanity and wondered if she’d made the right choice. They needn’t have helped the girl – as frightened as she was, she was still better off mounted than the rest of them were on foot – but having made the choice, they were stuck with it.

  She’d deal with her memories later. Right now, there was still the crowd to face, and worse still, the Square of Gods was in danger of being closed off. At the far end, honoured swords and arakoi were blocking the main routes in and out, while behind them, the narrow side-streets leading into the bustling market district had formed a natural bottleneck. Still, it would be easier to squeeze out through the back way than to brave the guards, and so Zech pressed onwards, the roa’s breath hot and slobbery on her shoulder. The pace was a strange mix of fast and slow: the mob wanted to run, but lacked the space for it, and so settled for a sort of angry, frenetic jostling that accomplished little while causing much pain. Unbidden, a word from Safi’s language popped into her head to describe the sensation. A moshpit, she thought, savouring the alien concept. Like being in a moshpit.

  The weird word gave her strength. Though her body was numb from the sustained buffeting of the crowd, her shoulders sore from dragging the reluctant roa, Zech continued to force them forwards. Once or twice, Jeiden shouted something, but she couldn’t hear him above the crowd, and didn’t dare look to read his lips lest she lose her footing and fall. She was dimly aware that the honoured swords and arakoi had slacked their assault, evidently not wanting to force a massacre in the crowded square. Yet still people shrieked and struggled to get away; still she could smell blood and sense the sharp sting of the kashakum
et on the air like lightning before a storm.

  And then – Ashasa be blessed! – they were through the turmoil and out into the regular, freeform chaos of the market streets, stumbling like drunkards flung from an unfriendly door. Only now with the mob’s roar muted could Zech make sense of Jeiden’s shouts. With a spike of irritation, she realized that he hadn’t been talking to her at all, but to the nameless girl on the roa. And who was she, anyway? Something about her niggled at Zech like a tongue tip probing a loosened milk-tooth.

  “You have my gratitude,” the girl said shakily to Jeiden. Zech startled: their mystery friend spoke Kenan with Pix’s court accent , which meant she must either be noble or rich and mannered. But Zech had never met any nobly-born Kenans aside from Pix and Matu – how then could the girl be familiar?

  No. Surely not. If Zech’s heart hadn’t already been hammering, she felt it might have chosen that moment to drum itself free of her chest. The girl hadn’t recognised Zech, and with her skin the way it was, she was seldom forgotten by anyone, and if the suspicion building in her heart was right, then nobody at the compound – least of all Jeiden himself – would ever forgive her for letting this be an end to it.

  “You should come with us,” she called over her shoulder, as casually as she could. “Your roa is spooked. We can eat while he calms down a bit, and then you can be on your way.”

  Zech could feel the beast trembling through the reins, with soft little krees of distress still punctuating his breath. Left to his own devices, it was clear he wanted to bolt. Evidently, the strange girl shared this assessment. Her knuckles were pale where she gripped the saddle horn, and her dark eyes were huge with barely-conquered fright.

  “That would be most appreciated,” she replied, inhaling sharply. “My name… I am Rixevet ore… idi Naha.” The correction was quick, but there was no mistaking it. This time, Zech really did feel her pulse quicken. Idi Naha – belonging to oneself. It was the same title Matu used, indicating not only that he was unmarried, but that he chose to remain unconnected with his birth-clan. It was a name of anonymity and individualism, and Zech would have eaten a whole, live frog if “Rixevet” had ever used it before.

  “I’m Zech,” she said instead, turning to smile at the girl, “and this is Jeiden.”

  “I already told her that,” said Jeiden, shooting her a look that clearly asked, why are we keeping her with us? Not that I mind. To which Zech sent an answering glower: trust me, I know what I’m doing. Or so she hoped. If it turned out she was wrong–

  A faint scream echoed after them from the Square of Gods. Rixevet shuddered, but Zech only pushed her shoulders back and kept walking. She’d start to hurt if she stopped – her cheek still throbbed where an elbow had struck her, as did a dozen other places on arm and chest and leg – and anyway, there was nothing more they could do.

  Something flickered in her peripheral vision – a streak of silver, there and gone like pale fire. Zech blinked, not sure at first what she’d seen. Her pace slowed slightly, but neither Jeiden nor Rixevet noticed, too busy talking in quiet voices. What had she seen? They were still surrounded by market stalls and market goers. Movement and colour were everywhere; there was no good reason why one such thing should catch Zech’s eye when none of its fellows had. She scanned the streets with the edge of her vision, loathe to appear to be staring. Were they being followed? The idea was absurd. No one could possibly be after Zech or Jeiden, and as for Rixevet, anyone with reason to want her certainly wouldn’t flinch at reclaiming her from children. And yet – there! She caught the flash again, a wisp of silver robe disappearing around an adjacent corner.

  Zech remembered the Shavaktiin players, and specifically the silver-robed Kara, who’d been so blasphemously crowned as Ashasa. All the performers had run when the crowd turned sour, but after the honoured swords had arrived, she’d paid no attention to who had gone where. Yasha would want to know about the play, but why did a Shavaktiin shadow them now? Because they were being shadowed, however clumsily; of that much, Zech was certain. Predictably Jeiden hadn’t noticed, and promise to Matu or not, Zech had every intention of chaffing him about it later. Part of her wanted to dismiss it as simple foreign behaviour, the sort of strange, inscrutable fancy for which the Shavaktiin were known. But that was lazy thinking, the sort of thing that would easily fetch her a cuff on the ear from Pix or a smack from Yasha’s staff. If their shadow weren’t a Shavaktiin, Zech would consider it meaningful – why, then, should those weird robes make a difference?

  Maybe they know who Rixevet is, she thought. That made a certain sort of sense – the Shavaktiin were a religious order of travellers, tale-tellers and mystics whose puzzling creed, insofar as it could be made comprehensible to outsiders, held the discovery and encouragement of story patterns in true events to be a sacred duty. Zech wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, and nor was anyone she’d ever met. Lacking any more sensible explanation, though, she supposed that anyone who found significance in stories might naturally be interested in the actions of a calico girl, especially if they knew what her condition meant in Veksh. Even so, that wouldn’t preclude trouble on the Shavaktiin’s part. Zech decided to stay vigilant, and for the remainder of the interminable walk back to the compound – Jeiden and Rixevet talking all the while – she kept one eye peeled for that telltale flash of silver, gleaming like a knife blade in the sun.

  When Trishka first revealed where Zech and Jeiden had gone, Saffron had assumed that Yasha would be furious, with Gwen and Matu amused. Instead, the exact opposite happened: Yasha only rolled her eyes, stating that if Zech could steal Saffron away from Kadeja, she could certainly see herself and Jeiden safe through a mob; but Gwen had been angry, while Matu looked near to murderous. Pix had said nothing, though whether out of shock or boredom, Saffron couldn’t say.

  “Those two!” Matu bellowed – then winced, evidently having re-awoken his own hangover. More quietly, he said, “The Trickster is mocking me. I only told them not to fight, and now they’re conspiring together.”

  “Youthful conspiracies,” Gwen muttered – sourly, in English – “are the very worst conspiracies.” Given how cross she looked, Saffron fervently hoped the linguistic lapse was an accident and not, as it otherwise had to be, a warning directed solely at her. “Where are they now?”

  “Still walking,” Trishka said calmly. They were seated in the kitchen – or rather, Yasha and Trishka were seated, and everyone else was hovering in the vicinity, Matu and Pix both leaning against a wall while Gwen braced her palms on a chair back. Saffron wanted to sit herself, but given the mood, it probably wasn’t a good idea. She was also starting to feel faintly bored. Like everyone else, she’d been surprised to hear that Zech and Jeiden had picked up a roa-riding companion, but after that and the revelation that all three had escaped the crush unscathed, there was really nothing else to do but wait for them to return.

  Just then, two unfamiliar girls – Saffron jumped at this sudden reminder that the compound had other occupants – poked their heads into the kitchen. Both looked Kenan, with brown skin and brown-black eyes, though one was significantly taller than the other, easily approaching six feet.

  “What’s happened?” asked the shorter girl. She had a dimpled, devious smile, a vulpine chin, and glossy corkscrew curls cut at jaw-level. “Someone said Zech and Jeiden were missing.”

  “Clearly they are,” said the taller one, shooting her companion an annoyed look. Her features were broader: high cheeks and a wide, full-lipped mouth, the elegant shape of her skull accentuated by a close-cropped pixie cut. “The question is, what are they doing now?”“Bringing a stranger home,” said Trishka, flashing her gaze their way. A certain fond exasperation suffused her features as she turned to Saffron. “My daughters, Sashi and Yena. Girls, this is Safi. She came through the worlds with Gwen. Why don’t you take her–” she glanced at Gwen, who was muttering under her breath, “–outside, and she can fill you in?”“Works for me,” said the shorter girl, now revealed t
o be Yena. Sashi, the elder, glared at her again, but there was no heat in it.

  “Come on then,” she said to Saffron. “Dealing with these four is strain enough to crack stone.”

  “I heard that!” Yasha grumbled, but with what appeared to be a genetic aplomb, both granddaughters ignored her. Instead, they each stepped forward, hooked arms with Saffron and proceeded to march her out of the kitchen and down the hall.

  “So, worldwalker–” Yena began.

  “–tell us–” Sashi continued.

  “–what’s been happening?” they finished together.

  As unsettling as their synchronicity would have been under normal circumstances, it was considerably multiplied by the stereo effect of having one speaker on either side of her head. Fighting nervousness, Saffron began to explain what Trishka had seen: the square, the mob, the rescue of the girl. It didn’t take long: neither Sashi nor Yena asked any questions, and soon enough the three of them were out in the sunshine, seated on the steps that led down from the house.

  “Interesting,” said Sashi, when Saffron was done. She’d unhooked her arm, though Yena was yet to follow suit. Which might have bothered Saffron more, if Yena wasn’t quite so beautiful. “Has anyone said who the stranger is? I mean,” she added quickly, as Yena opened her mouth, “does anyone recognise her? Any theories?”

  “No, sorry,” said Saffron. All at once a question burst out of her. “Why isn’t Yasha angry at them? I don’t know much about this place, but it doesn’t seem like unexpected visitors are welcome.”

  “Really?” Yena raised an eyebrow, and Saffron blushed at the belated realisation that she was an unexpected visitor too. “What makes you say that?”

  “Don’t tease, Ye,” said Sashi, bracing her arms on her knees as she met Saffron’s gaze. “She’s not angry, because there’s no real risk. If Zechalia brings home an ally or someone useful, then Yasha will profit. But if she’s bringing danger, then Yasha won’t hesitate.”