“The Xanuhans are not friends to witches, surely,” says Agoston Horthy. “Their great fame lies in having overthrown their witch overlords.”
“They might be refugee witches from Xanuha posing as missionaries,” says Sir Oswell. “They should not be allowed to enter Frayne.”
“How will we stop them?” asks Agoston Horthy. “With over two thousand miles of coastline and a mostly unprotected border between ourselves and Prasha?”
“This morning we found another witch camp in the forest south of the city,” says Sir Oswell. “A small one, but no doubt there are more. We have troops combing the forest. I am willing to bet they are in the mountains to the east too, and somewhere in the west. These large spells would tax any group of witches, even working together. They are likely surrounding the city, writing magic from different compass points around their target.”
I gather Sir Oswell is the magic expert.
“We’ll send more men into the mountains and the woods, then,” says Agoston Horthy. “But what about West Spira?”
“The spells have been concentrated there. The most powerful group of witches must be close by—either on the edge of the city or somewhere in West Spira itself.”
“The witches in Hostorak gave you nothing?” Horthy directs this at Sir Victor.
“Nothing useful,” replies Sir Victor. “They received instruction from Lady Laroche via messenger birds, but they did not know her location or the location of any other groups of witches, though they were aware of the existence of other groups. However, I do have a lead in Ibhara regarding the princess. I should like to go there as soon as possible.”
“Go now,” says Agoston Horthy. “I want you back with answers tomorrow.”
Sir Victor nods. There is a pause.
“Immediately!” says Agoston Horthy. Sir Victor rises, bows, and goes out.
“I will send a telegram to the queen of Xanuha to ask about these missions,” says Agoston Horthy. “They have had success against witches. Perhaps we should have forged stronger ties with them. They remain free of witch rule even under the shadow of the Yongguo Empire.”
“Yongguo is not witch-ruled,” says Sir Oswell. “Only witch-tolerant.”
“Let us not pretend witches don’t pull the strings there,” says Agoston Horthy.
“I don’t believe they do,” says Sir Oswell mildly. “That empire keeps witches very effectively under its thumb. But it is no matter. We should keep the Xanuhans out. They think very differently about magic there. They did not want to be ruled by witches, but they do not view witchcraft as inherently evil, and they do not worship the Nameless One. They still keep shrines to the elemental spirits.”
“Right now I only want assurances that their missionaries are not in league with forces that mean us ill,” says Agoston Horthy.
Something is tightening around my spine. At first it is gradual, but then there is a sudden, sharp squeeze, pain shooting up my spine, and I cry out.
“What is that?” Gorensi screams, leaping to his feet and pointing straight at me. I pull back again, vanishing away from the pain in my spine and the terrified officials.
“I saw it too!” I hear Sir Oswell. “It’s gone. What was it?”
Blast—I must have reappeared for a moment without realizing it. They are all scrambling to their feet, drawing weapons, shouting. I vanish back back back, out the window, over the city, farther and farther.
I rest on the steaming streets of Kahge. The shadow-creatures there watch me with ghostly eyes.
“Lidari,” one of them hisses at me. But they can’t touch me anymore. I am strong here, not ill and poisoned. I crouch on powerful limbs, averting my eyes from my scaled arms, my clawed hands. Everything here is changed, a monstrous reflection of the world, but I can’t reconcile myself to this other body. I feel my neck, and there it is, the lump of the nuyi, even here. I rest awhile as the shadow of my city burns around me, free of pain, but not Julia, not really.
Lady Laroche and Zara are both out. I leave a message about the war council with Mrs. Freeley. She and Gennady are busy making sponge cake, so I help myself to some bread and cheese from the larder and sit on the veranda as the sun goes down and night falls. No Lady Laroche. No Zara. The lights in the house go out, and I stay in the dark of the garden. I should take my report to Pia, but instead I fall asleep in a chair as the evening cools and the pain of the hermia fades. I am startled awake when little Strig leaps onto my lap with a hooo-hoo, walks in a circle, and curls up, purring. I stroke his soft mix of feathers and fur, and I think with a deep pang of Bianka, and of everything I’ve done that I can never undo.
The sky is black, the moon a yellow crescent. I need to take more hermia, but the nuyi hasn’t started moving in my neck again yet, still stunned by the last onslaught. To put off the necessary next dose a little longer, I lift Strig gently off my lap and go out looking for Wyn and Lorka. I walk along the river, vanished, toward the Plateau. I’ve never passed the river without thinking about my mother, and now I wonder if her bones are down there at all, or if she’s still out in the world somewhere. I wish I could call her to me. I’d tell her I understand, that I forgive her, that I just want to know her as she really is, and I want her to know me as I really am.
I see two shadows—one tall, one stout—at the southwest corner of the parliament building wall. A third figure is under the streetlamp, wearing a red dress and smoking ostentatiously. I go closer. Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s bleeding Arly Winters, the girl Wyn was shagging on the side while he was still with me. The two figures by the wall are Wyn and Lorka, hanging one of their banners.
“Flaming Kahge, Julia! What are you doing here?” cries Wyn when I reappear next to him.
“You asked me to come,” I remind him, annoyed.
“Oh, right. I didn’t think you’d make it,” he says, a little sheepishly. He gestures at the banner. “What do you think?”
It’s the one they were working on this morning, depicting Agoston Horthy and the aristocracy trampling people and Zara coming to the rescue. This is a busy street by day, and I can see why they’ve chosen it: riverside cafés, newsstands, groceries, tobacconists—shops where people will come early in the morning and see the banner right on the parliament wall. It won’t stay up long, but plenty of people will see it before it is taken down.
“It’s…very large,” I say uncertainly.
And here is Arly, coming to join us.
“Julia?” she says, squinting at me.
“Hello, Arly.”
“You look…different.” She stares at my dress and my scar.
“You look just the same,” I say.
She tosses her hair and gives Wyn a questioning look.
“Are you supposed to be scouting?” I ask her. “Or just diverting attention?”
“Bit of both,” says Wyn cheerfully.
“We’ve got two more to go,” says Lorka, hoisting a ladder onto his shoulder. Wyn bends to pick up the rolled banners and a heavy-looking rucksack. “The palace, then Hostorak. You’ll scout for us, Julia?”
“All right.”
I’d like to pretend I don’t feel remotely star-struck around Lorka, but it would be a lie. I’ve heard his name spoken reverently too many times not to feel a little thrill at his knowing my name. We head west, along the river.
“Lorka told me I’ve got a real eye for the human element,” Wyn whispers to me.
“I miss the sort of thing you used to draw,” I say.
“I was just drawing the world around me,” says Wyn. “I wasn’t drawing with any vision. I had nothing to say.”
“I thought your drawings were nice, though.” I see immediately from his expression that nice is the wrong word to use. “I mean, your pictures showed what our lives were really like. There was so much love in them. That was worth something, wasn’t it?”
Arly is practically skipping to keep up with us.
“I’m not disowning them, but I’m growing as an artist,” says Wyn. “Did you ever think art could be like a weapon? As powerful as or even more powerful than a gun or a sword? A means of changing the world?”
“Not so long ago you asked Gregor if it really made any difference—this king, that queen,” I say. “Seems like you’ve changed your mind.”
“I have,” he says very seriously. “Agoston Horthy’s been a blight on this country. You and I never knew anything else—we grew up in a defeated country, among a cowed people. I just wanted to make the best of my own life. But Lorka says it’s our duty to fight for a better world even when there’s no hope. He says an artist’s job is to tell the truth at any cost. I don’t know if he really believes a better world is possible—he’s not exactly an optimist about human nature—but he believes in challenging all that is worst in the world. He believes in telling the truth about it, right into the face of power.”
“I never thought I’d hear you talking this way.”
He smiles ruefully. “I know. I’ve always been a selfish sod, and truth is that I reckon I still am. But when somebody makes right and wrong so stark before your eyes—well, even doing nothing is taking a position. There’s no opting out.”
“I think you’re wonderfully brave,” says Arly, fed up with being left out of the conversation.
I do not roll my eyes. No, that’s a lie: I do roll my eyes.
“I need to talk to Wyn privately,” I tell her.
She raises her perfectly plucked black eyebrows.
“Please,” says Wyn, mollifying her with one of his irresistible smiles. She shrugs and skips ahead to join Lorka.
“You and Arly Winters again?” I say dryly. “What happened to the blonde? Or the redhead?”
“Well,” he says, with an awkward shrug. “Nothing.”
“You’re going to have some girl coming to you with a baby, or worse.”
“You know I’m careful,” he mutters.
I let it go. “How does Dek seem to you?” I ask.
His expression turns somber. “He’s very focused. Calm. I think he’s…I don’t know, resigned.”
That was what I was afraid he would say. A chill coils around my heart. “You’ll keep a close eye on him, won’t you?”
He gives me a sad smile. “He’s worried about you. We all are.”
“I’m fine,” I say, which is stupid, because obviously none of us are fine.
Lorka has picked a spot in front of the palace wall. He gestures at me to position myself down the street. I wait, vanished, watching over the river, which reflects the city lights. They are almost done hanging the second banner when I hear a soft thunk behind me. I spin around and see a rope ladder sliding down the palace wall.
I toss a handful of pebbles down the street so they go clattering past Wyn and Lorka. They pack their things up again quickly, crossing to the river and ducking down the stairs to the low path, where they are hidden from view. The banner hangs lopsidedly from the wall to the west. Arly goes trotting off too, but I stay where I am. The rope ladder is dangling right in front of me.
A familiar figure comes climbing down it.
Luca descends the ladder and leaves it hanging there. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and goes sauntering down the street in the direction of the Plateau, in the opposite direction from the newly hung banner. Without a second thought, I leave Wyn, Lorka, and Arly behind and follow him. What by the holies is he doing?
He is dressed differently than usual—in a pair of trousers and rough boots that seem to actually fit him, and a leather vest over a loose shirt. He looks like a well-to-do farmer. Still, his large frame and tousled mop of coppery hair are instantly recognizable to anybody who has laid eyes on him before.
The train station is a clamor of noise, but otherwise the Plateau is quiet at this time of night. He heads in among the narrow streets of the Twist, and I think, What a fool, he’s going to get robbed in three seconds flat!
And indeed, that is exactly what happens. Two fellows smoking in the street exchange a glance at his approach.
“Hullo, sir!” one of them calls.
Luca gives a small nod as he passes them, not slowing his pace.
“You wouldn’t happen to have the time?” asks the fellow.
Luca reaches into his breast pocket—oh, he really is a fool!—and pulls out a gold timepiece, flicking it open.
“Half past midnight,” he says.
“That’s a fine watch you have,” says the first man, stepping right in front of him. The other man circles behind him. Luca’s shoulders stiffen—he has understood too late what is happening—and he slips the watch back into his pocket, his hands forming very large fists. He starts to shoulder his way past the first fellow.
“Give us a look,” says the first man, putting a hand out to stop him. “Never seen such a fine watch as that.”
“Got anything else as pretty?” asks the other.
Luca takes the measure of them and seems to relax. It’s true he is bigger than they are, but that is what makes me nervous. They would not be targeting him if they were unarmed. I wish he’d just give them the bleeding watch. He’s about to be king; I’m sure he can get his hands on another.
“You’d best let me by,” says Luca, pitching his voice a bit lower than usual. The first man grabs his vest. Luca smashes a fist right into his face—an impressive punch for such close range. The fellow goes down hard, but the other one is coming at Luca from behind with a knife. I reappear, grabbing the man’s knife hand and twisting it. He yelps in surprise, and I kick his feet out from under him. Once he’s down, I stomp on his hand and snatch up his knife.
He scrambles back to his feet, hollering and cradling his hand, but seeing me with a knife beside Luca and his companion still on the ground, he makes a dash for it.
“Let him go,” I say to Luca. “He’ll go straight to his friends, and then we’ll be outnumbered. We’d better get out of here.”
Luca’s eyes are wide with disbelief.
“Ella?” he says, and an amazed laugh bursts out of him. Hounds, but I do love the sound of his laugh. It sends tremors right through me. This is not the time or place for tremors, though. I should have vanished as soon as I got the fellow’s knife and let Luca think he was imagining things.
I toss the knife into the gutter. “Come on.”
I drag him to one of the more crowded eveningtime streets, where the Twist’s popular bars, music halls, and brothels are jumbled together, and choose a saloon where I’m unlikely to know anybody. It’s an older crowd here. Esme would know them, but it’s not a place I’ve ever frequented. I find us a table near the back, and the barmaid brings us a carafe of wine.
“I knew it!” Luca is practically crowing. “I knew you had a secret! Now you’re going to have to tell me.”
I am horribly conscious, now, of my bare, scarred face and my dress filthy from crawling through that passageway out of the Marrow.
“I don’t have to tell you a bleeding thing,” I retort. “I just saved your sorry life. What are you thinking, wandering the streets by yourself, looking like that?”
“Looking like what?”
“Like you’re not from Spira City and might have a fancy watch tucked away in your pocket.”
“Oh.” He ducks his head sheepishly. “I wanted to see the city. It was becoming obvious that I was never going to get an actual look at any of my subjects except the tremendously rich ones. I had this idea, you know, that I’d be like the legend of King Olevar, roaming the country in disguise, talking with the poor, finding out about their lives and being a better king for it.”
I roll my eyes, and he laughs.
“It’s a poor first attempt, I’ll grant you. But you can’t expect me to b
e a master of disguise right off the bat!”
“Why didn’t you just hand over the watch? You might have been killed if I hadn’t been there.”
“It was my father’s,” he says, some of the light going out of his eyes. Ah. He brightens again almost immediately, though. “But that spot of bad luck has turned into very good luck, because here you are, and I am going to insist that you tell me what you’re doing here. If you don’t tell me, I shall tell your uncle.”
“Would you really?” I ask.
His eyes gleam. “No. But I’m dying of curiosity. You didn’t come to the soirée tonight. I kept watching the door, hoping to see you. Clearly you had something else to do.”
I take a sip of the horrible wine to stall for a moment.
“It’s just that I happen to know some people here,” I say, putting down my glass. “Where I come from, we’re all very close with our household staff and their children. They’re like family. Our cook’s daughter came to Spira City and found work in the Twist, but I heard she’d fallen ill. I promised I’d look in on her.”
“In the middle of the night.”
“I came after dinner, but she was very unwell and I stayed to help. Please don’t tell my uncle. He’ll be so cross with me for staying out so late.”
His eyes stray to my scar, but he’s too polite to mention it. He waves the barmaid over and orders two bowls of stew.
“You do have a way of appearing suddenly. Or disappearing, for that matter. Let’s say I believe your story about your cook’s daughter. I still think you’ve got secrets.”
This is turning out to be a very bad idea, and I’m not sure why I brought him here to eat and drink in the first place, but I don’t want to leave either. The truth is that I like the way he’s looking at me—his hungry, wondering gaze. I like the quiver behind my ribs when he laughs. There is this thrill going through me and through me at having him to myself in this dark corner, imagining we can step out of our respective stories and do as we please for the night. But I know it’s a fantasy.
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