think you'll be hurt,' she said.
'Maybe.'
'I'm risking something too,' Kiri said. 'I won't guarantee you. If someone will hire you anyway, all right. That's all I'll do. I'd rather not do that.'
'Thanks, Kiri.'
She smiled an ironic smile made ugly by scars and paralysis. 'Yeah, sure.'
Mischa joined the group at the back of the room and gambled with them, allowing herself to win a little, until all the others were hired and she was left alone with Kiri.
'I don't think anyone's going to take you, Mischa.'
'They ordered from a lot of places,' Mischa said. 'I'll wait a while longer.' She sat against the back wall with her knees drawn up to her chin. Kiri limped back and forth across the front of her unit, but the movement tired her. Once she bent down to massage her stiff leg just above the knee. Mischa knew better than to suggest that Kiri ask a healer to stop the pain. The response would be a cold glare, and a long, long silence.
Kiri finally sat down by the window, glancing nervously into the Circle now and then through the one-way screen. When her gaze lingered, Mischa stood up, waiting. A merchant entered a moment later. 'I need a deliverer.'
'It's very late,' Kiri said. 'I have no one who's guaranteed.'
He scowled. 'I want some kind of insurance.'
'Sorry.'
'How long have you had this one?'
'Not very long.'
'How does she work?'
'I haven't had any complaints yet,' Kiri said.
He grumbled and argued, but finally hired Mischa. Merchants had a tendency to feel demeaned if they had to do their own delivering. Holding her temper, after having been inspected like a cut of meat, Mischa followed him out, and half-grinned thanks to Kiri. Kiri did not smile back.
Chapter 3
Mischa joined a straggling group of kids in a procession to Stone Palace. As they approached, the supply entrance squealed open against the sand caught in the door's tracks. A slave waved them through. Mischa trudged inside, pulling the heavy cart, jostled by the varied conveyances crowding into the tunnel. She allowed herself to be displaced toward the back of the line, yielding her position to messengers more anxious to finish and get on with other commissions.
The slave led them straight back, through a corridor without side-tunnels.
As they continued deeper into the Palace, the air grew warmer and more humid, and a faint cooking smell became stronger.
They stopped at the doorway of the kitchen. Never having been inside Stone Palace before, Mischa glanced around curiously. Most of the huge room was out of use now that it was winter and most of Blaisse's ships and their crews were gone. The kitchen was cluttered with pots and pans, immense vats and grills and griddles, ovens and stoves. Toward the back, five nearly naked slaves stood in a ragged line, heads down, as the steward of Stone Palace chastised them in a low voice. She turned away, and two of them glared at each other while the others moved like wraiths back into the steamy heat.
The tall woman approached the carriers. She wore an unornamented ring on her finger, but she did not stand or walk like a slave. She had a high forehead, a narrow chin: an elegant, guarded face. Her dark eye makeup made her look angry, but she was not, as far as Mischa could tell. The black velvet she wore was embroidered with silver thread. Her long skirt rode low and was slit to her hip on the left; the bodice had a high neck and long sleeves, but barely covered her nipples from above, leaving the lower curve of her breasts bare. A black opal covered her navel, and her black hair was twisted with silver rope. She gestured with a short whip. Silver barbs glinted at the ends of a triple lash, polished, unstained.
'Come along.'
They pulled their burdens after the steward, through the kitchen to a storeroom. At the end of the line, Mischa looked for another exit and found it: a tall, wide doorway curtained with brown hangings. As the slave woman gave directions to each of the others in turn, Mischa stood waiting by the storeroom door, watching.
'You, girl.'
Mischa started. She did not like this woman; she could not sense her. She was self-contained, guarded, opaque to Mischa's talents. Mischa would have been glad if everyone were so closed, but they were not, so the steward was rare and mysterious, a possible danger. Mischa followed the steward to an open bin.
'Put the fruit in there, and be careful not to bruise it.'
Mischa did not answer. The slave woman flicked her whip against her skirt. It made a delicate scraping sound. 'Did you hear me, girl?' Her tone was not angry; the discipline seemed the result of duty rather than offense or the wielding of power.
'Yes,' Mischa said.
'You should learn manners. Be quick.'
But the slave steward did not leave. She stood by the entrance of the pantry, overseeing the work. Mischa felt sure the woman had memorized everyone here and would raise an alarm should she fail to see each one leaving. There were innumerable hiding places in the storeroom, and Mischa had confidence in her ability to sneak past any of the ordinary Palace servants, but the steward appeared a more formidable barrier.
Mischa drew out her job, taking as long as others with larger burdens, arranging the hard-rinded fruit in a regular pattern. The storeroom contained interesting things; it was reasonable for her to stop occasionally and peer around curiously, wearing an innocent expression of wide-eyed wonder, taking a few extra minutes each time. And each time she searched for a way to create a diversion. But all the cabinets and bins were well secured to wall and floor; all were closed and locked except those actually being filled. Mischa's cart was sturdy and stable; she decided that simply overturning it would be a little too blatant.
Only two other kids remained when Mischa finished storing the fruit. The slave steward glanced at her with disapproval despite Mischa's careful look of guilelessness. Mischa began to admit to herself that she had failed, this time; she was annoyed to have taken a job of manual labor with no result. Thieves did not work with their backs, but with their hands and minds.
Mischa brushed fragments of rind into a small neat pile in the corner of the cart. In the next room, a voice yelled angry words; a second voice responded in kind. The steward glanced over her shoulder, frowning; when the argument grew louder, she glanced back into the storeroom. Mischa picked up the handles of the cart and pulled it toward the door. Out of sight, the voices erupted loudly. The steward turned and left the doorway momentarily unattended.
Bonded and obedient, the other two carriers started outside. Mischa let them pass her and followed until they were in the steamy kitchen. She hung back, and when they were a few meters ahead of her and kitchen equipment hid her from the steward, she pushed the cart into shadows and sprinted. Kitchen background noises concealed her soft footfalls and hid any sounds from the corridor, but it felt empty. Mischa ducked through the tapestry.
The curtains along the walls on the other side were clear yellow, geometrically patterned in rust-orange. The thick carpet was like cave moss, soft on her bare feet, deep brown. The lighting cast diffuse multiple shadows. Mischa was alone.
The hallway curved off to the right. Close to one wall, Mischa felt almost secure: despite the narrowness of the space between curtains and stone, the thickness of the fabric seemed almost able to conceal her behind it.
She moved away from the kitchen.
The corridor forked three ways. The side branches led sharply left and right at angles of not quite ninety
