Rain patters through the canopy, punctuating the birdsong ringing in the branches. I’ve been listening to the birds almost in a trance for the past hour—in recent years Tolukum Palace has been sealed up to keep out the fever-bearing mosquitoes, making it muffled and hushed inside, and over the past few weeks, the bats were more prevalent than birds outside my tiny cell window in the Ferinno. Now, engulfed in the dense maple forests east of the redwoods, the air resounds with their whistles, buzzes, chirps, and cadences. A whole choir of master songwriters, all yelling at each other about sex and territory, while I sit beneath them, silent.
We stopped a little while ago about a mile outside Perquo Branch, a foresters’ hamlet on the western slopes of the Moquoviks. After seeing the bounty sheets in the soldier’s saddlebag, there could be no question of me going into town, so Iano left me in as comfortable a nest of brush as we could manage and went in to purchase supplies with our last few coins. I’ve spent the hour wrapped in the dead soldier’s cloak while the horse we took from him browses nearby.
The sound of rustling branches rises over the sounds of the rain and birds, and I open my eyes to see Iano leading the other horse through the ferns, soaked from struggling through the dripping fronds. He sets down a sack and settles beside me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod. “You?”
He still seems caught off-guard when I manage to speak, even the few words I can say without mangling their consonants. “Yes, I’m fine. I got some supplies at the general store.”
He pulls out a few tins of biscuits, the hard, flavorless kind that keep for decades, and then produces something else—a small slate, about eight inches square.
“This is the best I could find,” he says. “It wasn’t even for sale—I saw it behind the coin box and asked to buy it.” He hands it to me, along with a bag powdery with chalk pieces.
I take it, my stomach turning. He waits, perhaps thinking I might write something, but I don’t. I don’t want to. Selfishly, I hate it. I direct all my anger at it in a single, burning ray. Eight inches and some chalk—this is what my voice is now.
I set the slate and chalk down. I pat his knee by way of thanks and reach for one of the boxes of biscuits.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About the bounty sheets, and who our most likely suspects are. The most obvious person I can think of is Kimela Novarni.”
The same thought had occurred to me. That at face value, the person who would have the most to gain, politically and professionally, from ousting me is the woman who replaced me as ashoki. Kimela Novarni comes from the money of the rice plantations on Ketori Island, and aside from wanting my position, preserving slavery would be a given for her. She was a contender for ashoki back when I was first being considered. That I—a loud, unknown newcomer who’d practically walked in from the street—had been appointed over such an old and storied family had ruffled plenty of feathers two years ago.
Clearly, some had stayed ruffled.
“In my mind, she’s the most likely culprit behind all this,” Iano continues. “All the blackmail was focused on her appointment. And only someone with a nuanced understanding of court politics, like her, could have orchestrated it all.”
I purse my lips, uneasy with the obviousness of Kimela’s motivation, and unsure why I should feel that way. I realize I’m going to have to use the slate after all. Dispirited, I pull out one of the chalk pieces and start to write. I hold it up to Iano to read.
HOW DID KIMELA LEAVE THE LETTERS?
“In my room, you mean? I don’t know. She must have been paying someone. Though,” he admits reluctantly, “the servants swore they’d never seen any of the letters. I questioned them all, from my hearth maid to the head of staff, Fala. Still, one of them could be in Kimela’s pay.” He sees my look. “No?”
I tap the chalk pensively a few times, organizing my thoughts, reflecting on the bounty sheets with Queen Isme’s seal. Kimela could perhaps have swayed the queen to authorize them—ashokis are master wordsmiths, after all, and are expected to know a great deal about the court. But bribery isn’t supposed to be involved. It’s not just an ethical concern—it affects how the ashoki’s message is received. If word gets around that the court teller gets her information by buying it, or makes her mark by lining people’s pockets, her reputation goes from social strategist to clumsy gossip, and it’s difficult to come back from such a fall. Several ashokis throughout history have been relegated to this status, whatever clever lyrics or subtle messages they may have achieved swallowed by their reputation for purchasing secrets and popularity.
It could be argued that when my attack occurred, Kimela wasn’t ashoki yet, and could easily have stooped to unsavory methods to win the position. But, if that’s true, she’s playing a dangerous game. If she’s found out—if word leaks that she bought and blackmailed to get her position, rather than being selected on her merits—it could undermine her whole career.
Somehow I suspect writing It’s not what ashokis do won’t get my point across. Seeing Iano still waiting for my response, I finally shrug and write, I DON’T THINK IT’S KIMELA. BUT—CAN’T RULE ANYONE OUT.
“No,” he agrees. “We can’t. Who do you think it is?”
I shake my head. There are so many people it could have been, a dizzying number, even more frightening when considering all the lives impacted beyond just mine. The two soldiers from yesterday, merely following orders, lost their lives because of this. And people died in the attack on my coach, too—several guards were killed, and the driver. My maid, Simea, was killed when she threw herself over me to shield me from crossbow fire.
I close my eyes, fighting despair, when a high-pitched whine rises over the rain and birds. I look up to see a mosquito land on Iano’s forehead. Without thinking, I lash out and smash my palm against his head. He reels backward with a yelp.
“What was that for?” he demands.
I show him the crushed insect on my hand as proof. I gesture pointedly, and then pick up the chalk again.
RAINSHED FEVER, I write. HAVE TO BE CAREFUL. Actually, I’m surprised he didn’t bring back any salve or ointment from the general store to keep insects away. Out here in the forest, there are no glass windows to keep the mosquitoes out.
He sits up, rubbing the red spot on his forehead from my palm. “Oh,” he says. “We might not have to worry about that as much out here. Turns out . . . well, Veran has a theory about it.”
I tilt my head. ABOUT RAINSHED?
“Yes. Sort of. About the mosquitoes. He thinks they’re worse in the city because so many birds die from hitting the glass domes on the palace. That if the birds were alive, they’d eat the mosquitoes.” He waves nonchalantly. “I’m not sure I believe him, but—there’s no denying the fever is less rampant out here than in Tolukum, and that it started rising once the atriums were built on the palace.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise, and then look up to the canopy, still thick with birdsong. It seems such a fanciful observation, far-fetched in its simplicity, but then . . . a lot of birds do die on the windows. And Veran comes from a country famous even on this coast for a steadfast devotion to their natural landscape. If anyone could make that connection, it would be him.
“He thinks we should cover the glass,” he says reluctantly. “Or string up mirrors. But . . . I don’t know how we could justify the expense.”
IF IT BRINGS DOWN THE FEVER . . . I write.
“That’s what he said,” he says. “It just seems like such a big leap of faith, and rationale.”
I frown, bothered by his reticence. CAN’T HURT TO TRY.
“It could if the ministers think the idea came from the Eastern delegation,” he says. “They were already on edge with them sitting in on council sessions.”
YOU COULDN’T GET THEM TO SEE REASON?
Iano spreads his hands. “I was focused on finding answers about you, and keeping you safe. I didn’t have the time to set things straight in court.”
My fingers tighten on the chalk. His comment should make me grateful, that all his energy went into searching for me. But all I feel is numb. All that work he and I did to bring the Eastern delegation to Moquoia, all the letters we wrote, the plans we devised. All wiped away like the dust on my slate by our elusive enemy.
Iano watches as I hover the chalk over the slate, but I can’t think of what to write. A scolding feels ungrateful, and anything else is too exhausting to contemplate given my means. Finally, I draw a long breath, pat his knee, and write one word.
SOE’S.
He nods. “Yes. Let’s get to Soe’s. Maybe some of this will make more sense there.”
I doubt it, but at least we may have a place to sit where prying eyes aren’t hunting for us. We bundle up his purchases, shake the rain off our hoods, and mount the horses—Iano helping me struggle into the saddle. Again I’m struck, not with gratitude, but with gloom. As he takes his own seat and nudges his horse through the brush, I shake myself, guilty. Maybe it’s just the fatigue of the journey. Maybe it’s the weeks of poor food. Maybe it’s leftover insanity from the cell in Utzibor.
Whatever it is, I hope I can push past it—sooner rather than later.
Because we have work to do.