Poison's Cage

by Breeana Shields

  I launch myself into his arms, bury my face against the warm skin of his neck and breathe him in. His arms wrap tightly around me and I feel small next to him.

  “Mani?” I ask when he releases me, though I should know better than to hope.

  A shadow passes over Deven’s face, and my joy deflates.

  “Is he okay?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course,” he says gently. “It just wasn’t safe to bring him.” He plants a kiss on my forehead. “Next time. I promise.”

  Iyla has unfurled herself from the bed. “I have something I need to take care of,” she says. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you,” I say, grateful for the privacy.

  She gives me a tight smile. “I won’t be long.”

  Iyla slips out the door and Deven pulls me closer. His fingers trace the shape of my face, the long line of my neck, the contours of my mouth. By the time his lips find mine, I’m trembling. I close my eyes and let his touch fill my mind with light, let it crowd out all the darkness. The kiss deepens and I forget where I am, forget that I’m an assassin, a spy, a visha kanya. In his arms I can just be a girl.

  But not forever.

  I pull away, dizzy and disoriented. “We need to work,” I say.

  He kisses my neck just beneath my ear. “Are you sure?”

  I don’t answer. Instead I lead him to the table and I fill him in on everything that has happened since I left the Raja’s palace. His eyes widen when I tell him about the man I kissed, but he doesn’t look at me differently, doesn’t recoil like I thought he might. “Did you actually see him die?” Deven asks.

  “No,” I say. “But I don’t think someone could have faked those screams.” The memory washes me in a fresh wave of guilt.

  Deven tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll talk to Hitesh and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  I curl my fingers into my palms. “It won’t matter,” I say. “He won’t be able to protect everyone.”

  Deven rakes his fingers through his hair. “You’re right. He won’t. But he can try.”

  It won’t be enough. I chew on my lower lip and Deven catches my hand in his. He slips his fingers under the wide bracelets around my wrists and traces the scars there. “You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You can come back to the palace with me right now and forget any of this ever happened.”

  I hold the temptation of his offer close to my heart, just for a moment. “I can’t,” I say finally. “If I leave now, every death caused by the Naga will be my fault. I have to try to stop them.”

  “Marinda, please. At least—”

  I hold up a hand to prevent him from saying anything. If he keeps talking, I might agree to go with him. I could be holding Mani in my arms within days. “No,” I say. “I’m staying.”

  His shoulders sag. The light goes out of his eyes. But he doesn’t argue.

  I clear my throat. “I don’t know what Iyla told you when she asked you to meet us here,” I tell him. “But she’s working for the Naga again. I don’t know if we can trust her.” The look on his face pulls me up short. “You knew,” I say.

  “The Naga were never going to trust you at first,” he says. “Iyla had a better way in.”

  I grip the edge of the table. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. “You asked her to come back? How could you do that? She’d finally gotten away from them, and now you’ve traded her safety for mine.”

  His eyes flash. “That’s a trade I would make again and again.”

  “You had no right—” My argument is robbed of breath by the sound of the door opening. Iyla stands at the threshold, her gaze skipping between us.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she says.

  I wave a hand in front of my face. “No,” I say. “You weren’t…you didn’t…”

  Deven lays a palm on my shoulder and squeezes. “Hello, Iyla,” he says. “Come tell us about your next target.”

  The man Balavan wants us to question works on Gali Street. I haven’t been anywhere near Japa’s bookshop since he died, and the thought of going there now makes dread slick through my veins. But we have no choice.

  Deven walks silently between me and Iyla. His grief is tangible—Japa was like a second father to him—and it echoes off my own sadness, amplifying it, making it unbearable. I try not to look at the bookshop as we pass, but my gaze is pulled over and over like a shell caught in the tide. I wonder who nailed the thick boards across the entrance. Who packed up each book? Who moved Japa’s body?

  Despite our earlier disagreement, Deven and I reach for each other at the same moment. I lace my fingers through his, and it gives me the strength to keep walking.

  Iyla leads us to the far end of Gali Street—past the bookshop, past the butcher and the flower peddler, past the windows exhibiting brightly colored pottery and barrels of dried peppers. She stops in front of a display of blades.

  I turn to her, wide eyed. “We’re interrogating someone who works here?”

  She flashes me a grin and pushes the door open.

  Deven and I follow her inside and my breath catches. A dizzying array of weapons covers every surface. Gleaming swords, katars, and axes hang from the walls. An enormous collection of chakrams lie on a table in the center of the room. Daggers in every imaginable size are piled in baskets. And in one corner is a collection of items I’ve never seen before: a silver weapon with slots for fingers and three long tines, turning the wearer’s hand into a giant, deadly claw; a forked-tongue knife that flicks open, splitting into twin serrated blades; and a haladie, two curved swords attached to a single center hilt.

  Each weapon is a work of art, and I wonder what drives the impulse to make the instruments of death beautiful. A jewel-encrusted dagger. A golden-pommeled sword.

  A kiss.

  Like we can make murder less ugly by performing it with something splendid.

  “Pick something,” Iyla says under her breath.

  As if I need a weapon to be deadly.

  But the expression on her face leaves no room for argument. I select an enameled dagger set with rubies and turquoise. Iyla picks a knife with a snake on the handle. The man behind the counter watches us with detached interest. He can’t be more than twenty-five, and everything about him is sharp, from his lanky body, made of only angles, to his beak-shaped nose and long face.

  Iyla saunters to the front of the shop and sets her knife on the counter, though she leaves her hand wrapped tightly around the handle. “I’m looking for Pranesh.”

  “You found him,” the man says. “How can I help you?”

  Iyla gives him a chilly smile. “Actually, I’m wondering if there’s someone else here I can talk to?”

  The man’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “But you said you were looking for me.”

  Iyla shrugs. “I changed my mind. Could you get me someone else, please?”

  “Sorry,” the man says. “I’m the only one here today, so if there’s something you need, you’re stuck with me.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that,” Iyla says. “Deven, the door, please.”

  Deven draws the shades and slides a sword through the handles on the door to jam it closed. Pranesh sucks in a sharp breath and reaches under the counter for a weapon, but Iyla’s too fast for him. She unsheathes her knife with lightning speed and has it pressed against his neck before his fingers have fully closed around his blade.

  “Drop it,” she says. Pranesh unclenches his fist, and his weapon clatters to the floor.

  Iyla is on her tiptoes, so I grab a stool from the corner and put it in the center of the room.

  “I don’t know who you think I am,” Pranesh says. As he speaks, Iyla’s blade vibrates against his throat, distorting his voice. “I’m nobody.”

  “Sit,” she says, and the man shuffles to the middle of the room and sinks onto the stool. She nods toward Deven. “Tie him up,” she says.

  Deven folds his arms across his chest. “Is that
really necessary?”

  Her eyes blaze. “Is he speaking yet?”

  “You haven’t asked me anything,” Pranesh says through clenched teeth.

  Iyla presses the knife more firmly against his neck, and a bright red drop of blood beads on his skin. “When I do, are you going to cooperate?”

  Her cheeks are flushed with pleasure. She’s enjoying this.

  Deven secures Pranesh’s hands behind his back with a rope. “Don’t overdo it,” he tells Iyla in a voice just above a whisper. “He could be on our side.”

  But I’m not sure that Iyla’s side and our side are the same. She tugs at the ropes with her free hand to make sure they’re secure before she lowers her knife.

  She circles the stool until she’s facing Pranesh. He has a faint smear of blood on his forehead and a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “Who do you work for?” Iyla asks.

  “I work here,” Pranesh says. “For the man who owns the shop.”

  Iyla growls and takes a step forward, but I put a hand out to stop her. “Our orders are to kill you after we interrogate you,” I say softly. The color drains from Pranesh’s face. “But we’re willing to let you live if you cooperate.”

  Pranesh shifts in his seat. He bites his lower lip. “What do you want to know?”

  “How long have you been working for the Pakshi?” Deven asks. “I thought I knew everyone who follows Garuda, but I don’t recognize you.”

  Pranesh shakes his head. The confusion on his face seems genuine. “The Pakshi? I don’t—”

  So it’s a trap. No wonder Iyla treated him so harshly. Balavan sent us to one of his own men to see how we would perform. I throw a worried glance at Deven. We can’t let the Naga find out we were together. We might have to kill Pranesh after all.

  “How long have you been working for the Nagaraja?” I ask.

  He sucks in a sharp breath. “Never,” he says. “I would never.”

  The look of horror on his face is genuine. He’s either a gifted liar or we have the wrong man. Deven strides forward and lifts Pranesh’s sleeve.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Looking for a tattoo,” Deven says. “If he’s Naga, we can’t let him live.”

  Many of the Naga have tattoos of black snakes circling their forearms. Deven wears a tattoo of Garuda on his biceps. It’s not foolproof, but it’s a good idea.

  “Not my arms,” Pranesh says softly. “You’ll find what you’re looking for on the back of my neck.”

  Iyla circles behind him and yanks the collar of his shirt down. Her face goes still and Deven and I rush to her side to look for ourselves. Pranesh has a tattoo, but it’s neither the Nagaraja nor the great bird Garuda.

  It’s a large, oblong head with giant eyes and a gaping mouth full of sharp teeth.

  Pranesh has a tattoo of the Crocodile King.

  I thought I had considered every possibility.

  I knew there was a chance that the assignment to interrogate Pranesh was only a test. That perhaps he was a member of the Naga who had stepped out of line, and my task was to provide a helping of fear as a side dish to his death. I also thought it was just as likely the man might really be Pakshi. That Balavan wanted to analyze my skill as a spy with a low-level target.

  I didn’t expect to return with actual intelligence. With a secret so big that, for a moment, I wonder if Balavan even knows it.

  But of course he does.

  He sent me on the hunt, and he will expect me to return with treasure.

  “I thought the crocodile and the tiger were dead,” Marinda is saying. She paces in front of Pranesh, the enameled dagger still dangling from her fingers as if she’s forgotten it’s in her hand.

  “Who told you they were dead?” Pranesh asks. Marinda’s eyes flick to Deven.

  He shrugs. “Most people think they are. They haven’t been seen for centuries.”

  Pranesh snorts. “And I suppose seeing is believing? No one has seen Garuda either, and yet so many people cling to the hope that she exists.”

  Deven pins him with a steely gaze. “Careful,” he says. “We could still decide to kill you.”

  We’re wasting the day away letting Pranesh talk in circles and half answer questions. It’s time to get some real information.

  “Where is the Crocodile King?” I ask.

  Pranesh swallows hard. “I don’t know.”

  I walk forward and kneel in front of him. I unsheathe my knife and polish it on my sari, first on one side, then on the other. I take my time before I start to speak. “There are two kinds of spies, Pranesh. The first are the ones who are in it for the thrill. They relish the feel of their hearts pounding in their chests, the rush of danger when they’re in the field. They’re spies because they love it, because it makes them feel alive. Those are the ones who are easy to turn.” I stand up and run the tip of the knife along his hairline, down his face, along the V-shaped lines of his throat. Not deep enough to draw blood, but with enough pressure that he stops breathing. “And then there is the other kind of spy—the spies who really believe in their cause. The ones who would give up anything for their convictions. They’re the kind who can’t be bought. They’re also the ones who die when captured.”

  I drop the knife back to my side and lean down so that I’m only inches away from his face. “The question is, which kind of spy are you?” I drop my voice to a whisper. “And which kind of spy are you willing to bet your life that I am?”

  I stare at him until he starts to tremble. “Give me some paper,” he says finally. “And I’ll draw you a map.”

  “We can’t really give Balavan that map,” Marinda says several hours later. Deven is headed back to the Raja’s palace with Pranesh. The only way to keep the man alive is for him to disappear. He may still be breathing, but his former life is over; his identity, his friends, his home—all must be abandoned without a parting glance. Deven will help him start fresh. It’s the only way.

  “We have to give it to him,” I say. “He must know that Pranesh was working for the Crocodile King. If we return with nothing, our cover will be blown.”

  Marinda gives me a searching look that makes my jaw go tight. “Is there a cover to blow?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. But it isn’t an answer and we both know it.

  The sun dips below the horizon, bathing the city in salmon-colored light. One by one the shops close, and the crowds begin to thin. Sundari is beautiful like this. Drowsy. Half-empty. The day—good or bad—nearly finished.

  Marinda’s movements are stiff. I can tell she’s holding back, that she’s teeming with questions she’s too proud to ask. But even if she did, I don’t have answers for her.

  “Balavan will want information on you,” I warn her. “He’ll want to know who you saw. What you did.”

  She pulls a golden, pear-shaped pin from the back of her head and her dark hair tumbles around her shoulders, cascades down her back. “Tell him I sent a letter,” she says.

  “A letter to whom?”

  “To the Raja.”

  I release a stream of air through pursed lips. “And the letter said what?”

  She shakes her head. “You wouldn’t know unless you’d stolen it.”

  “And I didn’t?”

  She gives me a rueful smile. “You didn’t.” And then after a beat, “Do you think it will be enough of a report? The letter?”

  I shrug. “It’s hard to know with Balavan.” I know what she’s really asking. Will I tell him that she saw Deven? Will I put her life in danger? Or more importantly, will I put Mani’s life in danger?

  We walk in silence for several minutes, each lost in our own thoughts. Then Marinda stops abruptly. “Let’s go to the marketplace,” she says.

  A ripple of unease goes through me. “No,” I tell her. “We don’t have time.”

  “Of course we do,” she says. “You said Balavan wouldn’t miss me as long as we were together.”

  She’s already started walking in the opposit
e direction and I have to hurry to catch up. “This is a bad idea,” I tell her. “What do you need at the marketplace, anyway?”

  “I need to see Kadru.”

  I stop walking. “No.”

  Marinda looks over her shoulder. She blinks. “Oh. Then I guess I’ll see you back at the Naga palace? I won’t be long.”

  She knows I can’t leave her. Knows if I show up at the Naga palace alone, Balavan will lose what little trust he has in me. Without a second thought, he would snatch away the five years he returned. My thumb finds the smooth skin at the back of my hand and traces a circle. I hurry to catch up with Marinda, fall in step beside her and try to ignore the smug smile that tugs at her mouth.

  “Why would you choose to go back there?” I ask. “Ever?”

  “I need to ask her something,” Marinda says. “It’s important.”

  “I’m not going inside.”

  “You don’t have to.” Marinda squeezes my arm, and I resist the urge to swat her away. She has no right to offer comfort. Not about this.

  I haven’t seen Kadru in years. Not since the last time she pricked the base of my neck with her sharp claws and sent pain exploding through me. Not since she pulled the life from my body with skilled, greedy fingers.

  “Think of how wonderful your next life will be, darling,” she said once when I was six and had learned to arch my back, to kick, to scream.

  That was always the promised trade-off—a miserable life now for the hope of a golden and glittering one later. A life lived for Marinda with the guarantee that someday someone would live a life for me. But I liked my rewards more immediate. What if I was already on my tenth life? What if this was my last chance?

  By the time we make it to the marketplace, most of the vendors have long since boxed up their wares—folded their silk scarves, scooped up their baskets full of gems, put away their remedies—and carried them home. An eerie silence hangs over the street like a fog. Goose bumps race along my arms.

  “Do you think they’re really all alive?” Marinda asks, her voice cutting like a knife through the stillness. “Garuda, Bagharani, the Crocodile King?”

  I sigh. “It’s starting to look that way.”