40

THE WINESHOP OWNER, MAIRTI, SERVED US SEVERAL LARGE platters of what she called hand plates—though the phrase was far prettier in Serafan than translated. They were what we called appetizers in Galitha, what finer houses served guests before they were seated for dinner. Kristos explained that it was the fashion in the student district to make a meal of them, ordering plates and sharing them, passing them hand to hand. “Hence the name,” he said.

“You speak enough Serafan to get by?” I asked, only half-surprised. He was always quick with languages.

“His Serafan is awful,” Mairti said, handing me a weighty plate of thick pottery. “Those are—what is it in Galatine?”

“Tomatoes,” Kristos supplied. “Mairti’s Galatine vocabulary is nonexistent,” he added.

“That’s hardly true! When do I have to say tomatoes in Galatine?” She plucked one of the thumb-size orange tomatoes, their hollowed stem ends studded with herbs and what I guessed was some kind of cheese. “Don’t let him have any,” she teased me.

Penny sat between me and Kristos, uncharacteristically quiet, but she kept glancing at me and then back to Kristos. She grappled, I was sure, with the same thorny barrier between us I did. Even Mairti’s cheerful interruptions didn’t loosen the tightly wound tension that pushed us apart by reminding us how we had once been drawn together. What could we say to one another that didn’t dredge up all of the ugliness of our all-too-recent past? In the wake of the failed revolt, could we all believe that we had ever really known one another to begin with? I worked with Penny every day, but she had surprised me, choosing supporting the revolt over her livelihood. I was taken aback again to find her here, in a foreign country, following the uncertainty that was Kristos. She was braver than I was, in many ways, I conceded.

“Do you like red wine or white, Lady Sophie?” Mairti asked, the deep emerald wrap in her hair bringing out her startling green eyes.

“I’m not a lady,” I corrected her.

“They haven’t given you a title of some kind?” Penny asked. “I figured they’d add some string of impressive words to your name.”

“No, I’m still just plain old Sophie.” I stopped, remembering snide whispers at parties. “They’re trying to kill me, remember?”

A shy smile broke through Penny’s somber face. “Right.”

“What have you been doing here in Isildi? I mean, to keep busy?” I asked.

“Keep busy? I’m up to my chin in work,” Penny said. “I’m sewing.”

“She’s one of the most in-demand seamstresses in the university district,” Kristos said with pride I had once wished he’d bestow on my work. “She hung out her shingle when she arrived that she sews ‘in the Galatine style’ and hasn’t had a break since. Keeps the roof over our heads.”

“And pays for wine and your expensive book habit,” Penny replied. That, at least, sounded familiar—Kristos chasing world-shattering knowledge while someone else paid the rent.

“It’s not that impressive,” Penny said, turning to me. “The Galatine thing—Galitha is kind of seen as the height of fashionable clothes, so being Galatine, well, I could turn out rags and they’d still buy them.”

“Most of the delegates’ wives are wearing Serafan clothing,” I said. “Who’s buying Galatine styles?”

“Plenty of women. I modify them, for the heat,” Penny explained. “Lots of cotton, looser sleeves sometimes. But the higher-ranking scholars and the students with money like the tailored jackets and gowns. Some merchants’ wives and shop owners are coming to me now, too.”

“For official events, everyone wears Serafan styles,” Kristos added. “But if you visited those delegates’ wives at a ladies’ luncheon, half of them would be showing off Galatine jackets.”

“I’d rather not,” I replied. “I’ve had enough of social events with delegates’ wives, thank you.”

“I thought you liked that kind of thing,” Kristos said. “All that time spent with the Lady Viola—wasn’t just for measurements, was it?” There was an old edge to his voice, familiar disapproval that surfaced and chided even though it didn’t matter any longer.

“I liked Lady Viola, and her friends.” I recalled Pauline’s quick questions, Annette’s kindness, Nia’s intense curiosity, Marguerite’s artistic talent. “You probably would have, too.”

The snort and eye roll, so much like the ones that had responded to requests to clean our kitchen many times, should have angered me, but I felt a comfortable rapport returning. “These women at the summit? Most of them are a gaggle of—”

“Say no more,” Alba interjected, holding up her hand. “There is a saying in Kvyset—words fly like birds and peck only the speaker’s eyes.”

“That’s pleasant,” Kristos said with a laugh. “You don’t tell the truth in Kvyset if it isn’t nice?”

Alba shrugged. “We find other ways to say what we mean. But most of the time, it needn’t be said. Everyone already knows. To state the obvious, and the obvious being unflattering, is seen as mean-spirited. And so reflects on the speaker.”

“The upshot is that Alba agrees and wants to say something mean but her Kvys nun vows won’t let her,” Kristos said to me.

“My vows say nothing about—that was a joke, wasn’t it?” Alba said. She shook her head and poured herself another glass of wine.

“I’d love to see you work,” I said to Penny, pulling the conversation away from Kvys social custom and back to my brother’s life in Isildi.

“Normally I would suggest that posing as Penny’s assistant would be a fine cover for a Galatine woman in Isildi. But given that it’s well-known you’re a seamstress, maybe stay away from needle and thread for a while.”

I was about to retort that, without needle and thread, there wasn’t much I was qualified to do when the curtain blew aside as though propelled by strong winds. Not winds, but Corvin entered, his gray robes dusty at the hem and rumpled.

“Please tell me you aren’t drunk,” he said to Kristos in greeting.

“Not yet, just enjoying this delightful company.”

“Don’t enjoy it too much,” Corvin said. “Mairti tells me they threatened her with assassins.”

“Only if I misbehave,” I joked weakly. I fished out the letter from Merhaven, still stashed in my pocket, and handed it to him.

“We should probably start to figure out when we will get you back to Galitha—what’s wrong?” Kristos’s tone changed instantly as he read Corvin’s face.

“You could have mentioned we’re dealing with the a’Mavha.”

“The what?” I had set my wineglass down as soon as Corvin arrived, but my fingers hadn’t left its blown-glass bowl. I slowly uncurled them, sensing danger in the word even though I had never heard it.

“They aren’t even real. Supposedly,” Mairti said.

“They’re real,” Corvin replied. “Just ignored by the Serafan authorities because they find them useful too often.” He turned to me. “Assassins. Professionals, for hire, highest bidder sort of thing. All underground.”

“We already knew that Merhaven had a contract.” I tested the new term, a’Mavha, not stopping to be surprised that I was suddenly living a life where knowing the Serafan word for assassin might be useful. “The a’maftha? It means assassin?”

“Your pronunciation is close,” Corvin said, as though tutoring a student. “It’s a’Mavha. The soft v in Serafan is difficult. And it’s not assassin; it’s the name of their operation. Technically the word means salamander.”

“Salamander?” I tried not to laugh. “This deadly assassin guild is named after a cute little lizard?”

“They’re not lizards; they’re amphibians,” Corvin said, unable to resist an explanation. “And the river salamanders of West Serafe can grow up to twelve feet long. They linger in the deepest parts of the riverbed, barely moving, until their prey comes close enough, then they strike like lightning. The a’Mavha are not dissimilar in their tactics.”

“They sound absolutely disgusting,” Penny said, recoiling.

“Which one?” I asked. “The river salamanders or the assassins?”

“Both,” she said. “Ugh, I want to go back to Galitha. We don’t have giant river lizards.”

“Amphibians. Your mountains have silver-crested eagles that can take a man’s head off, though,” Corvin said. “I have nightmares about those.”

“Not important right now,” Kristos snapped. “The a’Mavha have a contract on my sister.”

“Which we already knew,” I protested again.

“We didn’t know it was the a’Mavha,” Kristos hissed. “You didn’t think that was worth sharing?” he demanded, turning to Alba.

“Forgive me, but the letter—” She gestured to me, with an open hand, asking for the paper. I plucked it from Corvin and handed it to her. “The letter mentions the ports, assassins, waiting to get word from Merhaven—oh, yes, it does say a’Mavha.” She set it down. “What? I didn’t know what that meant. Forgive a single misstep in a complicated dance of delivering your sister alive.”

“As long as they don’t believe I’m attempting to return to Galitha, they aren’t supposed to do anything.”

Everyone’s expressions convinced me quickly that I had underestimated the threat. “The a’Mavha will track you,” Corvin said. “Ordinary hired thugs would just wait in the harbor for you to try to leave, but the a’Mavha are not ordinary hired thugs. They won’t wait for you to try to leave before finding you, and once they find you…” He shook his head.

“And anyone in the way is in danger, too,” Mairti said gently.

“We can’t stay here,” Kristos said, as though I had no say in the proceedings. I shot him a pointed look that he ignored. “The a’Mavha know about plenty of things, but I’m fairly sure they don’t know much about the Warren.”