shuddered with the events of the last week, with the escape of the Regent and the betrayal of the Numetodo. She had seen the squads moving angrily and suspiciously through the lanes and alleys of Oldtown; she had been questioned twice herself, dragged aside and interrogated as if they thought she might be one of the Numetodo. She knew enough to show just the right amount of fear: enough to placate them, but not enough to fuel their suspicions. Others had not been so lucky; she’d seen dozens hauled away to be questioned at length in the dark gloom of the Bastida, and she did not envy them.
It would have been so much easier for them to have hired the White Stone. The Regent’s life, the Ambassador’s life: she could have snuffed them out as a candle extinguished in daylight-lives no longer necessary or wanted. She could have taken their souls into the stone she carried between her breasts.
More madness for you to bear… They laughed at the thought. You will lose yourself entirely in us…
Soon…
Soon…
The refrain was a pounding drumbeat in her head. Fynn’s angry voice was the loudest of them.
Soon…
Soon…
“Maybe not,” she told them. “I’m stronger than you think. After all, I killed all of you.” She said the words aloud, and those nearest her on the streets glanced at her with pity or annoyance or fear. She didn’t care which; it didn’t matter.
The morning sun was rising over the statue of Kraljiki Selida II in the central fountain of Oldtown Center, the disk blazing as if the tip of the Kraljiki’s upraised sword was afire. To the right of the plaza was the huge statue of Henri VI, also casting its own long shadow. The morning nausea that plagued her every day when she rose had passed, and the smell of buttery croissants from the bakery just a few doors down made her hungry again. She rubbed at her belly; she could feel the swell of her stomach under her tashta; soon, she wouldn’t be able to hide the pregnancy at all.
Soon…
“Be quiet!” she shouted at them, and her voice lifted pigeons from the pavement of the square and flung them into the air to flutter down again several strides away. Someone laughed nearby in a knot of young men, pointing at her, and she gave them an obscene gesture, which only made the laughter increase.
Soon…
I will destroy you as you destroyed me. That was Fynn. Soon…
Scowling, she pushed her way into the bakery and flung a bronze se’folia down on the counter. “Croissants,” she said.
She’d eaten two of them before she reached the rooms she’d taken a few blocks from the Center. The sweet, moist bread soothed the ache in her belly and banished the voices. She was reaching for the key for her room when she heard noise: a scraping, an intake of breath. She stopped, putting down the bundle of remaining croissants, her hand going to the knife hilt tucked in the sash of her tashta. The sound was coming from the small space between her house and the building next to it. She peered into the purple shadows there, seeing a form hunched against the side of the house, trembling.
“I see you in there,” she said. “Come on out.”
She expected the person to run, to flee the other way toward the lane behind the house. But the form stirred, rising slowly, and she saw in the shifting, uncertain light from the brightening sky that it was a child. He shuffled out slowly, keeping his back to the wall of the structure, his wide eyes glancing at her then darting away again. His face was smeared with mud and his hair wildly tangled.
“What’s the matter? Are you scared of me?”
“You’re the crazy lady,” the boy answered, and the voices in her head hooted with delight, Fynn’s loud amongst them. You see? They already know. Soon…
“What were you doing in there?” she asked.
The boy shrugged. “Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
Another shrug. “Nothing.”
“Only an idiot waits for nothing, boy. Are you hiding?” She raised a finger, stopping him in mid-shrug. “Don’t lie to me, boy. I’m the crazy lady, remember? I can hear what you’re thinking?” She tapped her forehead with the upraised finger. The voices hooted again. Liar! Charlatan! “So you’d better tell me the truth: who are you hiding from?”
He looked at her suspiciously, cocking his head as if he’d heard the voices himself. “The soldiers,” he said. “The ones in blue and gold.”
“The Garde Kralji?” She spat on the ground between them. “I know them. Oh, I know them well. But why are you hiding from them? They’re not looking for you, boy, not unless you’re Numetodo.” His face twisted strangely at that, and she looked at him sidewise, rubbing at her stomach. There were strange flutterings there, and she wondered whether she was going to be sick again, or if she was feeling the child for the first time. “ Are you Numetodo?” she asked. “Is that why?”
“No,” he said quickly, but she had seen too many lies and deceptions in her life already, and she knew he was saying less than he could. She looked at him more closely, at the filthy clothing and matted hair. She could see the bones of his cheeks.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
Another shrug.
“Do you live near here?”
He grimaced. “I… I used to. Just over there.” He pointed down the lane. “But… I don’t know…” He stopped, and she saw his lip quivering. He sniffed and drew his sleeve quickly over his eyes, pressing his lips tightly together. The defiance, the refusal to let her see just how scared and frightened he was made her decision for her. She smiled at him, crouching down in front of him. It should have been an easy movement for her, but the thickening waist made her feel as if her own body were someone else’s.
“You have a name?” she asked the boy.
“Nico,” he told her. “My name is Nico.”
“Then why don’t you come with me, Nico? I have some croissants, and a bit of butter, and I can probably find a slice of meat or two. Does that sound good?” She held out her hand to him. Hesitantly, he took it, and she stood up. The voices were laughing at her, mocking her. The White Stone has gone soft as mud…
Ignoring them, she walked with Nico to her rooms.
CONNECTIONS
Niente
He had never been at sea before, and he wasn’t certain that he was entirely enjoying the experience.
Niente stood at the aftcastle bow of the captured Holdings galleon, once the Marguerite and now renamed Yaoyotl -which was “War” in his own language. Yaoyotl sailed in the middle of the Tehuantin fleet; from his perch, Niente could look out over long azure swells decorated with the white sails of well over a hundred ships. Behind them, lost over the horizon days ago, was the eastern coast of his land and the foul smoke of burned and razed Munereo, now the gravepit for the Holdings’ Garde Civile, except for those few who had retreated to the Easterners’ last small fingerhold on the continent, the city of Tobarro. The army of the Tehuantin had taken Munereo, taken back all the land south and west of its walls, and had taken the ships of the Holdings fleet in the harbor, at least those that had escaped the spell-fire from the Tehuantin fleet, or that had not been scuttled by their own crews and sent to the bottom when it was obvious the day was lost. Most of the ships accompanying the Yaoyotl were the seacraft called acalli: the two-masted, lateen-sailed ships with which the Tehuantin plied the Western Sea between the great cities the Eastern invaders had never seen. The acalli could not carry the number of crew or soldiers that the square-sailed Nessantican galleons could muster, nor were they as fast, but they were far more maneuverable, especially in shallow coastal waters or when the wind was against them.
