“I don’t like it,” said Autumn.
“I don’t either. But we have more than fifty qloins here.” Miriam looked around. “I don’t want to search for another place with power, do you?”
Autumn waved a hand back and forth.
“No. So we’ll make camp here,” said Miriam. “Then we’ll get some food into the girls. And then we’ll head for the Iycestokian ship.”
It had been two days and one night without sleep. It had been a full day without food. Necessities were necessities.
Miriam led the Sisterhood into the building, which advertised an opulent set of suites. It was an old hotel where dignitaries had stayed, regal and impressive from the outside; posh on the inside. The foyer bore the taint of calamity: a vase of withered flowers, a discarded washrag twisted and hardened with dried blood. A cash register had been overturned and left empty on the carpeted floor. There were a few personal effects abandoned off the waiting area, in the west hall.
Ensuring wealthy guests didn’t have to suffer an outage explained the localized grid. Miriam wondered how long the bariothermic coils would last. Ten, fifteen years without repair?
She assessed the building’s lines of sight. Its position was good. It commanded a clear view of the avenue out front and looked down on all approaching streets. It was also only a few blocks from where the High King’s ship was moored. When she climbed the stairs to the hotel’s roof, she could actually see the airship, levitating amid the trees.
The kitchen had canned goods but no running water.
That made sense if the mayor had discovered where the disease was coming from. He would have depressurized all the mains just prior to Bablemum’s gruesome end.
Bottled juice and alcohol would not go far. Miriam would have to find water soon. What they had carried from Parliament would not last the night.
By the time the Sisterhood had eaten, the sun was gone.
Miriam sent Autumn and two other sisters to the Iycestokian ship well after dark. They came back with word that the ship was only recently empty. Autumn claimed she could smell Taelin’s perfume.
The High King was close by.
Miriam was ready to send qloins into the surrounding streets when message came that sisters posted at the front door had received a visitor.
Miriam went straight down to the foyer and found an enormous Veyden. He waited quietly, surrounded by drawn kyrus.
“He has the mark,” said one of the girls.
So this Veyden was from the Willin Droul? This would explain their ability to evade the Sisterhood’s diaglyphs and why they had shrunk from Miriam’s approach.
Four girls surrounded the huge man, trepidation painted on their faces. Miriam planted herself in front of him.
“Sit down,” she ordered.
He did so.
“What is your name?”
“Kosti.”
“Why are you here, Kosti?”
He spoke reasonable Trade. “I need a token that I delivered my message. Something I can take back—”
Miriam called for a small case. Autumn handed it to her. Inside was a flashing array of gems, padparadshas: the Witchocracy’s untraceable reserve currency of choice.
She took one, large as her thumbnail, glittering with orange and pink-colored light, and put it into the Veyden’s hand.
“Now why are you here?”
Kosti turned the gem in his big green fingers. “I have a message from the Sslia.” Miriam’s heart stilled but she maintained her composure.
“Get on with it,” she said after his unbearable pause.
“She will come. Tonight. Here.”
Miriam watched him closely. Kosti’s cagey eyes flicked first to Autumn’s face, then once again to hers. He watched them with animal interest for signs of deception, but Miriam couldn’t tell what he might be thinking. His facial tattoos blackened the serenity of unmoving cliff-like structures of bone. His skull was almost prehistoric, and undeniably frightening.
“Why is she coming here?”
“To make peace.”
“What do you mean
“To make peace is all the Sslia said.” Kosti stood up from the red leather settee and slipped the jewel into a pocket on his satin vest. Apparently he felt his duty here was over. His yellow-green hands flickered with muscles. His braided hair swung like fronds from a tropical tree.
“Will you let me go and tell the Sslia that I delivered my message?” he asked.
“I don’t think you’ll go back to her, Kosti. You wouldn’t want to risk leading us there. So no. I’m afraid I won’t let you go.”
She looked at Autumn and spoke in Withil. “Take him out behind the hotel.”
* * *
TAELIN followed Baufent. They left the ship by way of a lightweight boarding bridge, which was anchored to a mooring tower.
Rather than coming himself, Ku’h had sent a detail of men to escort the High King. They were not proficient in Trade.
Taelin listened to them.
She kept her fingertips on the cable railing. As she moved down the center of the bridge, she felt the causeway bounce under her feet. At the far end, she stepped off, through an outer mesh of caging that decorated the top of the mooring tower. A proper stone dome formed the inner shell of this caging and provided an apse-like space, lit with wild torchlight and painted with a profoundly ancient-looking cyclorama. Taelin had to duck her head.
One of the Veydens spoke to the High King and gestured toward a set of stairs that led down. Although it was plain that Caliph didn’t understand their speech, body language sufficed and the Veyden quickly switched to rudimentary Trade, still beckoning with his hand. “Come,” he said. “Come, come.”
The stairs under the painted dome funneled Taelin down a guttering orange nightmare. Flames flapped in the warm dense air, sounding like water.
Sometimes the inside-girl talked to her. Sometimes there was a dryer, older, darker whisper in her ear, telling her what to do. Or more specifically, what
To help ward the voices off, Taelin rubbed the demonifuge between her thumb and fingers. It was cold and comforting against the warm humidity of this place. She worked it vigorously. Like picking at a sore, it drove her on, wanting to be open, slick and glaring.
As she followed Caliph Howl and the others down into the tower’s belly, she pushed at the necklace’s edges, felt the setting bend and stretch.
Shapes moved under the splashy torchlight. Taelin fumbled for her goggles. She tightened them to her head and rummaged in her pocket. She stopped while the others walked on and pulled out the secret tin. There were only three sticks left. She had rolled them earlier. She took one. The crinkling sound and the texture between her fingers offered prompt reassurance. She could feel the seeds sliding inside.
She patted herself, found her box of matches and snapped one. The wonderful smell effused, of the beggary seeds’ first contact with fire.
“What is she doing?” Caliph’s voice was far away. “Ubelievable…” There were hands on her arms now. She batted them away.
