another lifetime. I knew he had once been a thief and hired muscle. Perhaps it had been for this woman who now held our way into the palace.
The gateman straightened. “Mama Momo?” He snapped his fingers, and a boy hurried out of the gatehouse, wiping crumbs from his mouth. “Run up to the big house, Tik, and tell Mama — who are you again?” Yuso repeated the code name. The boy nodded his understanding. “And wait for her instructions,” the gateman called as Tik pushed open the smaller door in the gate and stepped through. It banged shut behind him.
The gateman smiled brown-stained reassurance. “He shouldn’t be long.”
He wasn’t. Tik returned with a plump man whose winged black hat and soft body marked him as a scribe eunuch.
“I am Stoll, Mama Momo’s secretary,” he said, bowing to Yuso. His eyes passed over me and found Ryko. Thin plucked brows lifted with interest. “Please come this way.”
He pointed to the far end of the high wall at a plain wooden gate — a delivery entrance. The beautiful front gates of the Blossom World did not open for a flesh trader and his wares.
The delivery gate was dragged open by two boys as we approached. Not eunuchs — at least not yet. Stoll waved us into an alley that ran alongside the far wall of the Pleasure Ward. Courtyard after courtyard backed onto the narrow roadway, the rear living areas of huge houses that must have faced onto the main thoroughfare of the Blossom World. Large quantities of washing hung from ropes strung between walls and trees, all of it sheets and drying cloths. As we passed each courtyard, women in loose gowns looked up from cooking on small braziers, throwing fortune sticks, mending gowns, and drying their wet hair in the noon sun. A few were even chasing the dragon, the smoke from the drug curling around their heads like the tail of one of the great beasts. I recognized the pungent smell from the teahouses around the market. The women’s interest was fleeting, mainly centered upon Ryko; then they turned back to their own start-of-day concerns. The only fixed gaze came from a tiny girl crouched at the feet of a woman who strummed scales on a long lute. The plaintive rise and fall of the notes caught on a faint breeze that stirred the heavy air and brought the perfume of soap and the succulence of grilled fish. The little girl smiled and waved. I lifted my hand in response and watched her jump up in delight.
As we neared the summit of a small hill, the tiled roof and elegant shutters of a large house rose above its more squat neighbors. It was obviously our destination, for Stoll hurried ahead and turned to wave us into its courtyard. I wiped the sweat from my neck and touched the blood ring again — for luck, and for the hope that Kygo was safe.
Unlike the other courtyards, this one was not full of washing or the out-spillings of cramped living. Instead, it was cobbled and clean, with a stable at the left and a small walled garden to the right. A low platform ran along the length of the house, creating a deep step up to a wall of paneled screen doors. One was open, allowing a framed glimpse of the interior: traditional straw matting, low table, and the abrupt angles of a formal orchid arrangement.
A feminine figure moved into the frame and stood silhouetted for a moment, slender and erect, then stepped out on to the platform. She was older than her elegant bearing had led me to expect: perhaps around sixty, with deep lines that carved fierceness into a face that still had the graceful bones of beauty. She lifted the green silk hem of her gown and walked to the edge of the platform. Stoll hurried forward, but she stopped him with a raised hand.
“You are not the Master Heron I was expecting,” she said as Yuso dismounted. Dela pulled our cart up beside him. The cart horse shook its head, the jangle of its harness loud in the sudden wary silence.
Yuso’s eyes darted to the stable. I followed his gaze into the dim interior: two large Trang Dein men holding lethal double hooks waited inside the doorway. Across the yard, another two armed men watched from the shadows of an outhouse. So much for the policy of no weapons.
“Who are you?” Mama Momo demanded.
Yuso glanced back at us. “Ryko, what are you waiting for?” he said through his teeth.
Beside me, the islander straightened and cleared his throat. “Hello, Momota. It’s been a long time.”
“Ryko? Is that really you?” Her narrowed gaze dropped to his bound wrists, then back to Yuso. “Boys, we’ve got trouble,” she said, and it was an order.
The Trang Dein men stepped out of the shadows, their sword hooks slicing through the air in soft whirring circles.
Yuso drew his knife. “Ryko, I thought you said she’d help you!”
I sucked in a breath. There was nothing in the cart to use as a weapon; my swords were with Kygo, along with the folio and compass. I scanned the courtyard. The nearest thing was a wooden shovel. Vida edged between me and the approaching men.
“Get ready to run,” she whispered.
“Momo,” Ryko said, “I swear on Layla’s grave that we are from the true Master Heron. He needs your help.”
“You are not being forced?”
“No!”
Momo held up both hands. “Wait,” she ordered, halting her men. They lowered their weapons. She stared at Ryko. “If you just lied on Layla’s name, I’ll have them rip you apart. You know that.”
Ryko nodded. “I know it.”
“All right, then. Come in. Explain yourself.” She pointed at Yuso. “And you, knife-boy, cut Ryko free.”
Mama Momo sat back from passing around bowls of tea and studied us. She had also offered small crescent New Year cakes, but Yuso’s warning glance had stopped me reaching for one, although my stomach squirmed with hunger. Distrust flowed both ways. I looked around the room. It was on the second story of the house but had no windows and, strangely, the walls were covered with straw matting. The ceiling was covered with matting, too.
“Soundproof,” Momo said, following my upward gaze. “Completely.” She smiled as she picked up a blue porcelain bowl and made a show of sipping the tea.
I took a hurried sip from my own bowl, remembering my fellow candidate’s lurid stories. Across the low table, Yuso shifted his weight, a crimp of pain between his eyebrows; kneeling did not agree with a leg wound.
“So you claim to be friends of Master Heron,” Momo said to him. “I know Ryko. But who are you?”
“I am Yuso, captain of His Majesty’s imperial guard.”
She shot a glance at Ryko, who nodded. She leaned forward. “And you say His Majesty is alive? Sethon proclaimed his death more than a week ago, and my normal channels have picked up only wind-whispers that he survived the coup.”
“We got him out in time. He is alive and preparing to fight for his throne,” Yuso said. “We left him this morning.”
“Preparing?” She frowned. “Today is the last day of Rightful Claim. Does he not make his move?”
Yuso shook his head. “Not yet.”
“I see.” Her shrewd gaze rested upon me. “And who are you, to be so carefully watched over by your comrades?”
Yuso bowed toward me. “This is Lady Eona, Mirror Dragoneye.”
“Lady Eona?” Momo sat back on her heels. “Ah, I see. Lord Eon.” She bowed. “It is a good disguise, my lord.”
“No,” I said quickly. “I really am Lady Eona. The Mirror Dragon is female, as am I.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Truly?” Her fierce face folded into deep carved laughter lines. “How wonderful, a female Dragoneye. That would have put the wind up those Dragoneye Lords.” She sobered. “Of course, they are all dead now, may they walk in the garden of heaven.” She turned to Ryko. “You do realize how dangerous it is to bring Lady Eona into the city? I didn’t raise a fool, did I?”
We all froze, staring at Ryko. He looked around the table, his glare finally resting on Momo. “Lady Eona is integral to our plan,” he said flatly.
“Are you Ryko’s mother?” Dela asked Momo, her own fierceness softening into a small, surprised smile.
Momo snorted. “Of course not. I took him in when he was eight.” She glanced across at the islander. “Trouble from day one.”
Ryko’s glare intensified.
