Chapter Twelve

[cityofthehand]

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Chapter Twelve




The map provided very little help, and Maira longed for the jacket Graymere took from her as the evening grew sharply cold after sunset. She hugged herself tightly, unsteadied by the suspicious gazes of the Pahali who stared at her she passed by. Even her messenger’s shirt no longer let her pass. Too few humans came here for that to be explanation enough for them. Each stare and whisper and hushed silence in her wake prickled along the back of her neck.

Her stomach growled loudly. That fruit would’ve been nice to have. Damn Naran. At least she’d hit him in the face with it. He deserved worse than that. All his talk of souls, good intention, and oaths, for what? Gods only knew the bounty he’d gotten for her.

She should’ve known better. No workhouse rat would ever be so foolish. The Tayeland had softened her, made her forget. Nobody was ever really your friend. Everyone would get you if they could.

With a frustrated huff, she turned into a quiet alley to check the map again and crouched under the light of a lamp mounted above her head. The map showed no Dhatan tunnels, which she needed most. No chance of using those then. Graymere would have all the gates covered, including the eastern ones into the Tsaqa tract, and they infinitely less picky about who they let in. They’d open the gates for her, for the Asna’isi, for the gray demons themselves practically.

Still, it was closer and the Dhatan tract held no better prospects. They wouldn’t anyone in.

She dropped her head, aching with hunger and weariness. If she couldn’t get west by gate, she’d scale a border wall. She flexed her left arm and shoulder, gritting against the stiff ache from the fall and rose, turning east. She aimed for a place along the wall near the trading district, where the tract was warren-like and filled with hiding places.

Several blocks up and over, Maira spotted the best place to jump the wall. Three tall buildings stood side by side with landing platforms that jutted over the wide stone wall. A daring but doable jump would get her there. She made a bee line for the shop in the middle, the one that smelled of rich musk and flowers, like perfumed oils. She walked to the wall, put a hand lightly to it and looked up, studying her path. The platform stood above her by four or five tall men’s heights, or so she judged in the dim light of the single lantern left burning.

After walking all the way around the building she found hand holds meant for young or injured Pahali and wingless Rok to use. Her hands stung as she grabbed the rungs, but she pushed the pain back and climbed. At the top, the wind blew fiercer and colder. She hugged herself and crouch walked to the edge. The stones of the wall appeared dim in the light of the half-moon above. She squinted but could see no better. Her heart pounded, her head swam with vertiginous fear.

Her knees trembled as she stepped back to get her running start. Despite the chill she sweated. With a quick prayer to no deity and all, she sprinted and launched herself from the edge, diving feet first as if into a lake. The impact shot up her legs and knees, into her back. She fell over and rolled over the side with a sharp scream. She caught herself, holding onto stones with hands throbbing in agony but fell no further. She kicked until she got leverage and pushed herself up again.

Once she recovered enough not to shake, she looked into the distance beyond the wall, punctuated by lamps and window lights. She looked down and saw only darkness. Crouching, she felt the stones until a loose one jiggled. She pried it loose with still-stinging fingers and laid down on her belly, dropping the stone over the side. A dull thud-thump and rustle of grass followed almost instantly. Less than a grown person’s height down, if she had to guess.

She blew out a breath of relief and swiveled around on her stomach until she faced the Pahali side and slowly put her legs over, scooting inch by inch until she dropped herself entirely. Her feet hit ground with a very gentle impact and she dared to smile at her victory.

Then she stepped forward and a root snagged the toe of her boot. She fell forward, and instead of hitting flat, she rolled in a sickening somersault tumble down a steep hill, bouncing and toppling until she hit something so hard the rebound launched her into the air. She screamed through the fall until cold iciness smacked her into silence. She fell into deep, dark water and kicked hard towards the tiny speck of light above her head until she emerged, gasping. As she breathed desperately, she flailed until her hands met a solid surface.

Lamps turned on quickly in the distance and the light revealed the pool she’d landed in and the well attended garden all around it, situated behind a very large, very beautiful house. A door opened and shadowy, winged shapes emerged, shouting. She rolled over the edge of the pool and once on her feet, ran, trampling flowers and bushes as she went. Behind her, the winged forms waved brooms and screamed louder.

She raced over a lawn of knee high grass and then onto a dirt road. Her pursuers stopped there, waved their brooms once more as a warning, and turned back. She, however, did not slow for a long time.

When she stopped, she dropped to her knees, wheezing for air. Cold water dripped off her and her clothes clung to her skin, a sensation she instantly found unbearable. Shivering, she stripped of her shirt and didn’t care who saw her then. She had to get dry. Or dryer than she was.

The paper with the removal spell fell out of her breast binder when she removed it. Gingerly, she picked it up and unfolded it. Somehow, the ink had not run. Thankful for the small mercy, she refolded the soggy paper and continued denuding herself. Naked as she was born, she wrung out her clothes as best she could. At least her hands had gone numb from the cold and didn’t hurt so much.

Once she had her breath caught and her clothes gone from dripping to damp, she dressed again and continued on, wincing at the wet squish of her steps. Wet shoes would blister her feet, wreck them quickly. People got foot rot that way, the courier in her scolded, in a voice much lik Haringe’s. Still, she trudged on and hoped she would live to crawl back to the safehouse, take a searing hot bath, then lay in dry clothes in front of a roaring fire until she fell asleep.

By the stars, Maira navigated her way south east down the hills and slopes, headed for the bright blue gem in the distance: The Sea Lantern Carnival.

The famous tent city was the Tract’s most popular draw. It never shut down and legend held it had not closed since the end of the Sky War. The entire place remained lit, day and night, by thousands of distinctive blue lanterns the shade of clear sea water. It also boasted the largest tent in the world, which covered the entire carnival and spanned five full city blocks. If nothing else, she would find warm food, drink, and crowds enough to hide her. She might even find cheap, dry clothing.

The thought raised her spirits and she walked just a little faster into the market district, vibrant with the famed Tsaqa nightlife. Few people paid her any attention. They’d all seen much weirder, probably. That was the Tsaqa tract for you. Unlike their orderly neighbors on either side - the Pahali and Asna’isi - the Tsaqa were stereotyped as a very hey-go-mad, gods-may-care, let-it-all-hang out kind of people. They built things in organic shapes, painted them bright colors. Their unorganized neighborhoods and strange shaped buildings (one she passed was simply a huge dome, another just a giant slanted piece of stone with sides built around it, like a lean-to).

Maira liked this better. It reminded her of the Tayeland. Here, as there, things were bright, colorful, painted all shades of the rainbow from lucky fish red to seaweed green and sun yellow. Things felt lived in, alive, relaxed. Like the people who gave her no more than looks of sympathetic pity or giggles as they fluttered their dragonfly wings at hummingbird speed.

Maira arrived at the edge of the Carnival numb and forcing herself to bend fingers and toes she couldn’t properly feel. She shuffled into the first opening flap she found and blessed the far warmer, stiller air around her when she got in. Happy just to be out of the wind, she walked along the rows of stands, stalls, wagons, and smaller tents searching for cheap, hot food to buy.

Quickly, she found herself transfixed by the sight and smell of creamy crab meat soup being cooked in a giant pot over a pit fire. The delectable, savory warmth wafted at her like a blessing from the heavens themselves. Unable to read the sign for prices, she instead counted the numbers which were in universal council digits. She struggled to decide whether to also buy a hot drink or save that for something else. The decision felt impossible, pitting good sense against ravishing hunger. She wanted to eat everything in the stall - soup, bread, hot beers, fishcakes, steamed vegetables, soup and all.

“Dry your clothes for a riddle?” said a high, air voice behind her.

Maira turned sharply and faced a gorgeous, tall, very dark skinned half-Tsaqa, half-Dhatan Rok with smirking beige lips, sandy colored eyes and stunning sea blue streaks through their puffed out sand-colored hair. Some current of breeze picked up and stirred the delicate layers of translucent blue and green fabric the Rok’s dress, cinched around the waist with a silver belt that matched the silvery-sea through of their wings.

“Excuse me?” Maira asked.

“I’ll dry your clothes for a riddle,” the Rok repeated.

“I -I don’t understand.”

The Rok laughed and beaconed her closer with a crooked finger. Maira didn’t see any weapons, though being half-Dhatan would come with considerable strength. Compulsion drew her closer even as she gave the food stall a reluctant parting look. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“No, trouble at all. Come with me, precious one.”

Cold lanced through her chest. She froze. The professor called her that. Precious one. She glanced to an open flap in the distance and sidestepped in that direction, preparing to run. “Why did you call me that? Who are you?”

“Reva Adossi, if you like that name. I have many others or you can give me if you like. I appreciate the gift of a new name. Today I am taking the feminine, tomorrow may be different. Come with me, precious one. Give me a riddle, I’ll make your clothes dry. Give me a song and I’ll give you all the food you want.”

“D you know who I am?”

From her height she bent a little, as if smiling at an adorable child. “The better question is, do you know who you are?” Then she laughed and turned around. “Come if you are coming, but if not, don’t linger long here. The waters are storm churned, and I am afraid you have forgotten how to swim.”

Without hesitation she jogged to catch up and it occurred to her this might be the person the professor set up his meeting through. He did say it happened in the Tsaqa Tract. Could she have gotten so lucky? Her immediate instinct said no. Experience she was likely following a con woman, a criminal, or a person not entirely living in reality. Still, she followed, compelled in ways she did not understand.

“So, that riddle, tell it to me,” Reva said, turning down a narrow aisle of squat yellow tents all marked with big, bold Tsaqa script. Spaces between tent flaps offered flashes of bare skin and sounds of pleasured moaning. Apparently yellow was the color for sex here.

“Please tell me, who are you? Not your name, though. I mean, who are you?”

“Don’t you mean what am I, then?”

Maira shook her head. The question threw her. Perhaps it was Reva’s Domainish at fault. She had an accent so it wasn’t her first language and anyone could get words mixed up. “I don’t understand.”

“You want to know: am I a friend, an enemy? Am I a spyer, a liar, a trickster? Aren’t those only things - titles and positions, not identities? Don’t you say ‘what’ for one and ‘who’ for the other?”

“Uh, maybe? They can be both. Sometimes what you are is also who you are.”

“Not quite a riddle, but very philosophical of you.”

“Please, whatever word you use for it, just tell me.”

They stopped in front of a long, wide sea-green tent decorated with silvery charms lining the door flaps. “I can’t let you in, soaking as you are. Tell me a riddle and I’ll dry those clothes.”

“Why do you want a riddle?”

“Everything costs in this world. Here I cannot give you gifts. You must pay.”

Maira rubbed her forehead with the back of her bandaged hand and looked around for inspiration. Nothing came to mind for several seconds. Then, something did. “If you dried my clothes it would eat me, but if you leave me wet I’ll be safe from it. What is it?”

Reva broke a smile that showed every one of her teeth, include her silver canines. “You come to the water’s people carnival with a fire riddle. How wonderful! Never forget that boldness, precious one.”

She stretched out a hand and put it on Maira’s shoulder. The sensation of being pulled into something immense, an undertow of sorts, washed over her body but lasted only a second. Once Reva removed her hand, the feeling vanished. Maira looked down and inspected her clothes. They were, as promised, as dry as if they’d hung in the summer sun all day.

“How did you…?” she asked even as the answer came to her. Of course. The Tsaqa were the water people, they had power over water, as the Pahali over fire and the Asna’isi over wind and Dhatan over earth. “Thank you.”

“No thanks for a fair trade. Now, sing me a song inside and I’ll feed you from my very own table.”

Holding the tent flap open, Reva gestured to the dark opening. Maira hesitated a moment, but the promise of food moved her through. She ducked inside and came up short at the sight that met her.

She stood no longer in a tent, but a magnificent, opulent house of polished white granite floors lined in gold mortar. Magic lights formed cascading lamps that hung from the ceiling, with the grandest above a fountain inside a wide area inside of a square of wide, shallow floors. Behind the fountain, beyond open door-sized windows was a balcony over moonlit sea. The soft shushing waves brought clear, bright salty sea air to the room.

Glorious. And impossible. So impossible. Maira turned to flee and Reva stopped her with little more than a sound. “A song for supper.”

Maira swallowed to force herself to breathe. People said spirits and ghosts and forgotten gods roamed Tsaqa road like strays drawn by untenable, wild water magic. Some said the tempestuous, untenable soul of rivers, the heart of sea prowled there.

“W-what do you want me to sing?”

“Anything. Sing to the sea, if it comforts you. Yes, the sea. If the sea could hear you, what would you sing to it?”

Eyes wide and heart beating fast, Maira pulled her hands into her chest. She looked to the balcony and the only song in her head was the last verse of the dirge the workhouse children sang when the master’s son died. They had been made to pretend to cry and mourn for a man who treated them as animals. Despite the lie, tears weren’t hard to summon with punishment hanging over their heads. Maira sobbed like all the others, all crying as they sang the dirge. Secretly she thought the tune gorgeous and wished it was for something other than funerals. Or that funeral, at least.

She gathered the scraps of the tune from memory, shut her eyes and sang the first warbly, pitching note. The next came easier after a quick breath. Bit by bit, the melody flowed and eased with each moment until she sang as if she’d practiced every day. Maira dared to project and put the force of her air behind it and broad, sonorous power of her voice bouncing off marble stunned even her, yet she did not stop until she was finished.

When she opened her eyes, the sight of the room dizzied her as if she’d left and suddenly come back. Beside her, Reva stood and grinned no more. Her eyes held a heavy, terrible sorrow.

“Come,” Reva said, half-command and half-plea and took Maira through the house to a bright room of lamps and candles and wild Tsaqa art on the walls. A low, long table dominated the room, set with a veritable feast. Maira blinked, unbelieving, at all the plates of food, bowls of fruit, steaming pots of spiced meat and stew or bowls that gave off the aroma of sweet honey or ginger or coriander.

“For your song, precious one. Eat as you like. The food is safe. You have my word on all my names that it will do you no harm,” she said, gently.

No amount of caution could have stopped Maira rushing to the table. Hungry, exhausted, feeling like a hunted animal, the temptation overwhelmed her. She restrained herself just enough to sit and take a breath before she reached for the first thing nearest her, a meat-stuffed pastry.

The crunchy, flaky crust gave way to a soft inside of roasted, ground meat seasoned with herbs that infused her entire head with their taste and fragrance. She groaned with pleasure, stuffing more in her mouth as she looked around, grabbing a mug of some drink to swallow down. The fruit wine slid tart, rich and smooth over her tongue. She guzzled despite the guilt of eating so ravenously of so rich a meal. Eagerly, she opened pots, each like unwrapping a wonderful gift. One had a rich, creamy Dhatan-style stew, another spicy vegetables, a third sticky rice with salt. She turned to her left and found a tray of sweets - layered honey and almond squares, dates with crunchy nuts in caramel, cake filled with sweet creme. She devoured bites of each and every new smell and texture pushed her closer to utter bliss.

As she reached for a far away bowl, she glimpsed Reva at the end of the table watching with a deeply sorrowed look. Maira pulled her hand away and looked down, embarrassed.

“Continue to eat if you want,” Reva said.

“You won’t eat with me?”

Reva came slowly to the table and sat down, a picture of elegance. Her beautiful wings reflected light with a rainbow sheen and they sank, stilled. She looked down at Maira’s bandaged hands with a frown. “It is not time for us to share a table.”

“I wish you’d stop talking in riddles. Thank you for the food and the dry clothes, but what I really need is information. I need to find a place with blue lights and honeysuckle and singing. It’s important.” She looked longingly at the fruit wine, wanting more but knowing that wine would dull her senses. “Would you know a place like that? I know it’s here in this tract. It’s important. I can pay for information.”

Reva ignored the question completely and asked, “What did you like best of all the food?”
The change of conversation confused her for several seconds, as did the change in Reva from giggling to sadness and now to cryptic questions. People said the Tsaqa had moody temperaments, but this seemed extreme for anyone of any race. Feeling like she owed Reva for the hospitality, and hoping it might keep her in the woman’s good graces, she answered, “All of it. The meat pie, or that. I’m not sure what that is. The wine, too.”

This made Reva smile, but even her smile was sad. “Even if I told you, it wouldn’t help. You do not have time.”

“Why not? Please. I need to find it. Urgently.”

“Shadow seeks you. He will not permit the sun to rise before he has you,” she said and she sighed. Then she pointed up. Maira looked. Above their heads a glowing red orb floated. “The sorcerer seeks you as well. You cannot escape him, either.”

“Fuck you, Naran,” she muttered beneath her breath. Panic and rage sliced through her hunger. She reached out across the table and grabbed Reva’s wrist, squeezing gently. “Help me, please. Hide me from him. I’ll give you anything.”

Reva tilted her head to the side, confused. “You fear him. Why?”

“If he catches me, people could - will - die! Please!”

“Who told you that?”

“A man who died to say it to me. You must know what I’m talking about. You called me the same name!”

“Ah,” Reva said, as if this explained everything. She reached out, softly brushing Maira’s cheek with her fingers. “No. This is Shadow’s part to play in this game. Not mine. Not yet. Now go.”

A rolling darkness pulled Maira into its arms in the space of breath. She tumbled into darkness for an enternity before she gasped and opened her eyes with a full body jerk. She found herself in the carnival, laying on some sacks of rice against a tent pole by the crab soup stall. Her belly growled and hunger reasserted itself all over again. She rose to her feet and every scrape, bruise, bump, and strained muscle made themselves known to her. She turned in circles, taking stock of the place. Time had passed, but not enough for it to be morning.

She shut her eyes, bitterly disappointed it had all been a dream. The house, the song, the one who was herself as otherwordly and marvelous as any. All figments, never to be seen again. The mere thought brought a shocking tightness to her throat. She swallowed it down. At least Naran hadn’t found her, either.

Maira reached out to brush off her pants and stopped completely still when she realized that she was completely dry and warm. Relief and joy flooded her. The miracle had been real. Then alarm lanced through her like an arrow.

She looked up.

A red orb hovered over her like a bloody firefly.