Karys left the tracking bug in the first Hound’s bowl, getting off the animal outside the busy dives of Scuttlers. She took a second ride by awrig to Soresa Flats, and then another Hound carried her to the border of Creakers. As far as she could tell, no one followed her. She made the rest of the way on foot.
It had been a year since she had last been down to Creakers. Deathspeakers were tolerated in most parts of Psikamit, even grudgingly respected in the newer, wealthier districts—but here, people kept the old faith, and the Slaughter remained a close and open wound. Creakers’ residents would have sooner kept the heralds, even if it meant the Vareslian occupation continued unopposed, even if Mercia was subsumed entirely. What difference was freedom to the starving? At least the Bhatuma had guided their souls to the Embrace.
As a result, New Favour saints steered clear of the district. Karys only ventured down occasionally, usually when Marishka wanted answers about a suspicious death in the neighbourhood. Seldom alone, though, and never at night. While the Second Mayor’s reputation offered a degree of protection, the presence of a herald-killer’s servant was still far from welcome.
The greenish, porous worked-paste shacks looked as drear as ever. Karys moved smoothly through the dark, damp paths, watching her step. Every year, seasonal high tides flooded the mudflats and collapsed half of the buildings, leaving whole streets submerged in grey silt. But come the springtime pilchard rush, new dwellings sprung up again like mushrooms. Bands of inland workers arrived in Psikamit to catch their share of the yearly surfeit—then left with the storm season, abandoning their temporary homes to wash away with the tides.
An easy place to disappear, or to be disappeared. She made for High Stretch, a small hill within the district. As it usually stood above the line of the tide, the area was cramped with sturdier shacks and permanent lean-tos, more established residents vying for space on the drier ground. Rough walkways of worm-ridden tinder crisscrossed the mud, and the platforms groaned loudly as the waterlogged earth shifted, the source of the district’s name. Smells of woodsmoke, burning seaweed, and excrement hung over the hill, and feral dogs slunk along its narrow paths, dark eyes glinting in the purple twilight.
“I don’t know about this,” said Ferain.
“I’m making myself scarce,” Karys replied under her breath, barely moving her lips. Two ancient crab-haulers looked up from their shared bucket of shells as she passed. Their eyes followed her, but they remained seated. “People here won’t talk to New Favour.”
“It just doesn’t seem all that … hospitable.”
His discomfort irked her; he was clearly unaccustomed to poverty. Figures. She spied the house ahead, Marishka’s blue knotted flag hanging over the splinterboard door. Cheap grey etherbulbs hung off the rafters outside, which made the broken-down building appear curiously festive. A large, mean-looking man stood by the door. He made a face when Karys approached.
“Lady Deathspeaker,” he said in greeting.
“Hello, Sav.”
The man shifted his bulk to the other leg. “The Mayor send you?”
“I sent myself. Is there space tonight?”
His eyebrows rose. “Sure. If you want it.”
“I do.” She moved toward the door, but Sav stepped sideways to intercept her. He had a bright white scar that ran from his chin to his hairline, the product of an old bar fight.
“You need anything else?” he asked.
“I just want a floor to sleep on.”
“You know that if you talked to the Mayor, she could—”
“Nothing’s free with her. I’d rather not owe any favours, thanks.”
He nodded with a smile that his scar turned into a sneer. “Right. At least take the good room, then; I don’t want it said that I mistreated you. Back stall on the right. It stays warmer.”
The dorm was a dingy hall that smelled of sweat and mildew. Plywood screens divided the space into cramped quarters, affording occupants the barest semblance of privacy. Children sat on the dirt-streaked tiles of the communal area, some holding strawdolls or blankets, bickering or playing pretend amongst each other. They fell quiet when she walked in.
“What is this place?” asked Ferain.
Karys could not answer without looking like she was talking to herself, so she silently crossed over to the stall furthest from the door. Within, a wood brazier burned and shed light on the screens; a rickety chimney carried its smoke up through the roof. No furniture, just a discoloured, scorched rug on the floor. She put down her bag, and lowered herself onto the ground with a stifled groan. Her body ached; she had still not fully recovered after the swim from the Sanctum. Getting soft, these days.
One of the kids, a boy with spider-thin legs and a long mop of brown hair, peered around the side of the screen. He had bright eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Karys gave him a flat look. “A friend of Sav’s.”
“Sav doesn’t have friends.”
“A friend of the Second Mayor, then. Scram.”
The invocation of Marishka was enough to chase him off, at least temporarily. Karys rubbed her hands together, hunching her shoulders. Although the worked-paste walls kept out the worst of the weather, the quick-setting foam wasn’t as effective as natural materials. She leaned against the spongy surface, allowing her eyes to drift closed. It was going to be a long and cold night.
“Is it some kind of orphanage?” Ferain asked.
The communal area remained suspiciously quiet; Karys heard whispering as Spider-legs reported back to his friends. She covered her mouth with her hands, pretending to blow them warm.
“Safe house. A place for people with nowhere else to go,” she muttered. “Often, that’s the kids.”
“Why ‘lady’ deathspeaker?”
“Just what people call me.”
“There must be a reason.”
She raised and lowered her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Because they think I act like I’m better than everyone else.”
“Oh.”
Spider-legs’ head appeared around the side of the screen again. Karys fixed him with a glare, but he only held out a single grubby bread roll to her. The boy had a vulnerable look about him; when he met her eyes, his expression was almost imploring.
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded, gave a shy smile, and scuttled off again. Karys held the roll closer to the brazier to check for weevils and mould. The bread felt rock hard under her fingers, which was a good sign. Softness usually indicated decay.
“I’m sorry that you can’t go home,” said Ferain.
“Hm.”
“Sorry that you’re in this position at all. I know it hasn’t been … comfortable. Me being here, that is.”
Karys bit into the roll. It tasted like beach sand. She chewed methodically, and swallowed. “What gives you that idea, reeker?”
“I’m grateful, that’s all.”
What am I going to do with gratitude, huh? She continued eating the bread, although she was not hungry, and it hurt her jaw. The fire in the brazier crackled and spat. Spider-legs returned, this time holding a tattered grey blanket. He thrust it out to her.
“Are you sweet on me?” asked Karys bluntly.
Behind the screen, children giggled. Spider-legs scowled, and shook his head.
“You’re old,” he said.
“Charmer.” She took the blanket off him. “Are you sure you don’t need this?”
“Yazi said you could borrow it.”
No doubt another one of the kids currently eavesdropping on their conversation. Karys sighed.
“My thanks to Yazi as well,” she said. “Now go away.”
Spider-legs obliged. Karys wrapped the loaned blanket around her shoulders. It was too small to cover her properly and too thin to offer much warmth, but it meant something. She drew her knees in. Marishka must be overstretched. The Second Mayor expended a lot of resources keeping the children safe, but that didn’t extend to keeping them comfortable. And there were always more: more kids, more risks, more hunger. An endless pit of raw need.
Her shadow pulled a little closer to her, its edges flickering in the shifting light.
“Do you have any friends who could conceal you?” he asked. “Somewhere better to hide?”
“No.”
“And family? There isn’t a cousin or—”
“No family,” she snapped, and the words came out sharp and too loud. Behind the screens, the children went quiet.
“Okay,” said Ferain slowly. “Got it. No family.”
Karys brushed the breadcrumbs off her knees. The heat of the fire abruptly felt stifling; she shuffled further away from the brazier. After a few seconds, the children started whispering again, quick and secretive. She lowered her voice.
“We have a deal, Ferain,” she said. “You don’t need to be grateful, and you don’t need to be my friend. All you need to do is pay me after I have fulfilled my side of the bargain.”
“We don’t know how long that will take.”
She shook her head. “And?”
“And I feel responsible.” Her shadow sounded collected, composed. “New Favour appears to want me dead, and now I’ve drawn their attention to you.”
“I think Balusha was the one who drew their attention to me, actually.”
“Most likely, yes. But the point stands.”
She scowled and tucked her hands under her arms. “She probably would have sold me out even without the reward. Second-rate mending hack. I wish I knew what she told them.”
“I’m sure she was well paid for the tip.”
Karys was silent a moment. Night had fallen, and the dorm was growing darker.
“You think New Favour really is after you, then?” she asked.
“Seems that way.”
“Do you know why?”
“No.”
She gave a low huff.
“I don’t,” insisted Ferain. “But the timing of their search can’t be a coincidence—clearly, no one was meant to survive that attack on the retinue.”
“You think they were behind what happened in the Sanctum too?”
“Yes.”
“And you genuinely want me to believe that you have no idea why New Favour tried to kill you there either?”
“I’m telling the truth.”
Parts of it, maybe. “Balusha might have been a hack, but she was right about one thing: those monsters sound political. New Favour wouldn’t assassinate an ambassador without good reason; they aren’t stupid. You know more than you’re telling me.”
“What makes you think that?”
She drew the word out, imitating his accent. “‘Constructs.’”
Ferain was silent. Karys’ lips curled in a humourless smile.
“You recognised them,” she said. “You knew what those things were.”
He sighed.
“Well?”
He spoke reluctantly. “I’d heard about them, yes. I work as a diplomat for the Vareslian Foreign Ministry; last year, our intelligence community briefed us about a new weapon that had fallen into the hands of Mercian deathspeakers—some kind of failed Ephirite experiment, according to their information.”
“The Constructs are Ephirite-made?”
“That’s what we were told. The Ephirite discarded them, but New Favour managed to revive some of the creatures, and was looking for ways to harness their power. The saints seem able to compel the Constructs to seek and pursue specific targets, but only in isolated conditions. If they encounter other people, the creatures will attack them too.”
Like Marishka’s smugglers. “So you knew Constructs were a New Favour weapon all along.”
He gave a nod. “Suspected it, yes.”
“And when you met me inside the Sanctum, you didn’t consider that I, as a deathspeaker, might be a part of that plot?”
His voice turned wry. “In my defence, I wasn’t aware of your occupation when I first grabbed you. But no, I didn’t think you were involved.”
Karys brooded on that for a moment.
“Was I wrong?” asked Ferain lightly.
She ignored the question. “What were the Ephirite trying to create?”
“We don’t know. According to the intelligence presented to the Ministry, New Favour had been sourcing corpses for some of their masters at around that time.” Her shadow darkened on the floor. “Children’s bodies, specifically. There’s a theory that the Constructs are made from part of their remains.”
Karys pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I see.”
“All of this is confidential, of course. The methods that the Ministry uses to gather information are…”
Ferain trailed off as raised voices filtered through the walls of the dorm. The kids hushed, and Karys sat up straighter, her hand moving to the flick-knife in her pocket.
“Hey, Sav!” a man called. “You have the Ephirite bitch in there?”
Karys leaned a little to the side, looking around the edge of the screen. The children had melted away into the stalls; in the tense quiet, she could hear them breathing. Outside, Sav stood in silent sentinel. The glowing tip of his smoke-reed smouldered orange. He took it out of his mouth and extinguished it against the wall.
“Move along,” he said, his deep voice carrying clearly.
“I’m just asking if the apostate is in there. Lorin said they saw her coming this way.”
“And I said, ‘move along.’” Sav tossed the reed aside. “You heard about Tolaz? Don’t think Marishka won’t do the same to you if she finds out you’re harassing one of hers.”
The stranger laughed. “I’m not scared of the old woman.”
“Tolaz said that too, back when he had balls, and skin on his member. This is your last warning: move along.”
Karys retreated behind the screen, her fingers tight around the grip of the knife. A few stalls over, a little boy had started whimpering. Another boy shushed him. There was a sour taste in her mouth. Coming here had been a mistake. She should get up, she should leave before anyone else—
The man outside laughed again, false and forced. “All right, all right. I only wanted to talk with the bitch. No need to get hot about it.”
Sav said nothing. Karys held her breath, straining her ears. She heard indistinct grumbling, the sound of creaking wood. Ferain slowly moved over the floor, stretching across the communal area to see out the door. He slipped back to her side.
“They’re leaving,” he murmured. “Two of them, I think.”
She nodded tersely, and gestured for him to be still. A few seconds later, Sav sighed.
Karys got to her feet and walked over to the door, staying out of sight of the street. The waxing moon hovered above the scale wall in the distance. Sav heard her, and glanced over his shoulder.
“I’d stay inside if I were you,” he said, dropping his voice.
“Do you think they’ll come back?”
“Him? No. No, he’s all talk. Nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble here.”
He made a contemptuous sound. “Everyone in Creakers knows where the power lies. There won’t be trouble—and if there is, I’m paid to deal with it. Back inside, Eska.”
She relented, ambivalent, and returned to her stall. The dorm felt more like a trap than a sanctuary now: only one door, the high windows too small to fit through. She should have known her presence here would draw attention. Careless of her. She sat back down, facing the brazier.
“Does that happen often?” muttered Ferain.
Karys folded her arms over her knees, and rested her chin on top of them.
“Not often,” she said.
He seemed unsure how to respond, and she smiled thinly.
“Deathspeakers are the Ephirite’s door into the world,” she said. “We let them in. Everyone knows it.”
“I thought that Mercians would feel differently.”
“Some do. For others…” Outside, a rusted hinge creaked in the wind, the sound forlorn. Sav coughed, and then cleared his throat. “For others, what the deathspeakers did was unforgiveable. Sacrilege. Even now, people want to believe that the heralds will come back, and they’ll be rewarded for holding the faith. But if they can’t have that, then they’ll settle for whatever vengeance they can get.”
Ferain was quiet. Karys tipped her head backwards, and rested it against the wall.
“I used to think that way,” she said.
A shiver ran through her shadow where it lay on the floor.
“What changed?” he asked.
“I became a deathspeaker.”
A long pause.
“It’s similar in Varesli,” said Ferain. “Not that people believe the Bhatuma will return, necessarily. Just that the Slaughter marked the end of history. Now it’s only grieving that’s left.”
“They’re not angry?”
“No, they are. At everything, I think. We’re a nation haunted by the ghost of what we used to be. Always chasing the spectre of empire.”
She shifted. “What is it like, living there?”
“In Varesli?”
“Mm-hm.”
“I don’t know. What is it like living anywhere?”
The answer felt evasive. “You don’t like it?”
Ferain thought for a moment.
“It’s many things,” he said. “I grew up in the old capital, Eludia, and that’s still home to me. Sometimes it just feels like the history of the place will drown it. Have you heard of the Singing Crescent?”
She had, but gave a tiny shrug.
“It was made by Ambavar, the Lord of Night. The story goes that he fell in love with a mortal girl and kidnapped her, spiriting her away through the veins of the Embrace. When she complained that she missed her family, he cut a crescent-shaped hole through the world so that she could see her parents again.” He snorted. “It’s a beautiful monument, if you can forget how it came to exist. That’s sort of what it’s like to live in Varesli.”
Karys had read about Ambavar’s Exchange in a long treatise on Varesli-Bhatuma interactions—although in that account the author suggested that the woman had tricked the Bhatuma into impregnating her, and Ambavar had subsequently felt honour-bound to care for her and his unborn progeny. Ferain’s version of the story seemed much less forgiving of the herald. Her shadow stretched around the edge of the screen, checking the dorm.
“You should try to get some rest,” he said. “I’ll wake you if anything happens.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Not at all. I’m not sure sleep is possible for me, like this.”
Karys wavered, then lay down on the rug, cushioning her head against one arm. She could feel every groove and rut in the floor beneath her. Somehow, she doubted she would be sleeping at all.
“Ferain?” she said.
“Yes?”
Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it was stupid. “I’ll go to the embassy tomorrow. Tell them what happened.”
He did not reply immediately. The fire weaved and banked behind the grating.
“Thank you,” he said.