Floodpath Read online

  Soe makes a sound of disgust. “Figures. What did they want?”

  “They made Tamsin sign her name on blackmail letters, which then came to me, telling me to appoint another person as our ashoki at the end of the month, when my mother abdicates and I’m crowned.”

  Soe glances at me as she pours milk into a saucepan. “I don’t suppose this new ashoki has the same interests as you?”

  I press my lips and shake my head.

  “I think she’s the one behind it,” Iano says. “She has the most obvious motive.”

  Soe catches my look. “You don’t think so, Tamsin?”

  I shrug. I still don’t have a good reason for not suspecting Kimela beyond professional intuition, so I don’t bother trying to put my thoughts into words.

  “Hm,” Soe says. She leaves the milk simmering on the hearth and pulls down a bottle of urch syrup. In the palace our tea is made from either larch or birch sap, but in the countryside it’s more common for the two to be mixed, sometimes with pine resin, to make it last longer. Some courtiers call our tea urch to be quaint, but out here that’s simply what it is—not larch, not birch, but both. Urch.

  As she stirs it into the hot milk, I pull out my slate and scribble on it.

  “Hey,” I say, tapping to get Soe and Iano to look up.

  TELL US ABOUT DEFECTION

  “Oh, yes,” Iano says, straightening. “What’s this about me defecting?”

  “It’s just one of several stories,” Soe says. “First came the news that the ashoki had been tragically murdered by the Sunshield Bandit, and then just a week or so later, we heard that there was to be a new ashoki. It seemed awfully quick—I remember there was a gap of nearly six months back when Tamsin was appointed. I expect that was in response to the first bit of blackmail?”

  “Yes,” Iano says, accepting the hot mug from her. “My mother was set to transition the throne to me next month. I got the first blackmail letter on July thirteenth instructing me to announce Kimela’s appointment to the court.”

  “What did your mother say when you told her you wanted to appoint such a drastically different ashoki?” Soe asks. I’m glad she asked. I cut my gaze sideways to watch his reaction. His expression doesn’t change.

  “She seemed perfectly agreeable,” he says.

  I snatch my slate and chalk. NOT SURPRISED? I write. NOT UPSET?

  He shakes his head. “No, she . . . she seemed fine. I assumed she was glad the decision was made before the transition of the throne.”

  Soe and I exchange a glance as she hands me my tea. I take it, and then, against my better judgment, I rummage in Iano’s bag and pull out one of the bounty sheets from the soldier’s saddlebag. I unroll and show it to Soe, pointing to the red wax at the bottom.

  Her eyebrows lift. “Is that the queen’s seal? On your bounty sheet?”

  Iano’s face tenses. “That doesn’t mean it was her. It only means she authorized the bounty. Please—don’t make me think about my mother. Don’t make me think about her hurting you, and tricking me. She and I were never as close as I was to my father, but we weren’t enemies.”

  SHE WAS AGAINST MY APPOINTMENT, I point out.

  “She was . . . not thrilled about your appointment,” he says. “Mainly because she knew the status quo of the court, and she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of angering our allies. But she was never against you. You wouldn’t have been appointed if she had been. I know . . . I know we can’t rule her out, either, but please. Not right now. And anyway, like I told you, she’s not a Hire.”

  I frown, wanting him to clarify if he knows she isn’t, or if he just hopes she isn’t.

  Soe rolls the parchment back up and settles down at the table. “Well, it’s a question we can’t answer right now, anyway. Where was I? Oh, so after the news of the new ashoki, things started getting strange. Word was you had disappeared, Your Highness, in the middle of the night. I think at first the palace tried to play it off as you retreating to the hunting lodge for a week before your coronation, but then other, unofficial reports started leaking out. There were tales that you had run away with one of the Eastern ambassadors, then tales that you’d been kidnapped instead. That turned into rumors that it was all part of an elaborate coup the East had orchestrated right in our very court, and things really broke loose. Some heard that Queen Isme had the ambassadors hanged—which made the pacifists angry—and others heard that they’d escaped in the night—which made the nationalists angry. Then word went out that they’d been deported, and folk flocked to the main road to holler at every noble-looking coach that went by. I expect they got their targets wrong nine times out of ten, but it made travel a nightmare for pretty much everyone.”

  I glance again at Iano. No wonder the Cypri ambassador had been so angry when we arrived in Pasul. Not only had diplomacy been sabotaged by some unknown malcontent, and the princess taken ill, but they were run out of the country by a mob. For that disgrace alone, we’ll be lucky to avoid war.

  Soe takes a sip of her tea and nods at Iano. “Some said you had been seduced by Eastern propaganda and were selling out the country, while some heard that you had negotiated some kind of back-door peace treaty. And everyone was talking about the bounties for the Sunshield Bandit, with stories that she was behind everything—that the East had been using banditry for their muscle all along. There have been reports of folk seeing her everywhere. The latest runners came through yesterday, saying you still hadn’t been found.”

  Iano and I both let out a breath at the same time.

  LEAKING PIPE, I write.

  He nods at my words. “I can’t believe how much misinformation has spread. Rumors are inevitable, of course, but so many of those events should never have reached the public. We were so careful about how we announced the visit from the ambassadors back in Sernsi for that very reason—we wanted to be sure people knew it was a diplomatic visit, with peaceful intent.”

  I tap my slate. SOUNDS LIKE SOMEONE INSIDE

  “Someone leaking information?” Iano asks wearily. “Someone abducted you, maimed you, and kept you hostage in the desert, blackmailed me into appointing Kimela, framed the Eastern ambassadors, and now they’re leaking rumors out to our citizens? What are they trying to do—tear the country apart?”

  We share a moment of silence around the table.

  “Well, it does no good to worry about it right now,” Soe says. “You’re here, and you’re safe for a little while, at least. That’s the main thing. It’s also good to know the prince hasn’t abandoned Moquoia, and we’re not quite at war with the East.”

  “For the moment,” Iano says, echoing my thoughts. “Though our enemy seems to be closer than we think—on our way over the Moquoviks, we encountered two Tolukum soldiers, and . . .”

  He can’t finish—I can see the two deaths at his hand still flickering behind his eyes. His throat works. “And . . . well, people are hunting for us. With luck they’ll think we’re heading back to Tolukum, but if this much information is getting out, someone might know you and Tamsin are friends. They may expect us to look for shelter here.”

  “We’ll just have to take what precautions we can,” Soe says. “Tomorrow we can head to the salal thickets and the walnut grove—it will let us keep an eye on the road, and give me stock to press so we can buy supplies in town.” She nods to me. “You need a fresh outfit, anyway, and my medicine kit is low. For now you can hole up in the workshop—it’s warm enough, and dry. We might have to move the big press, but that’s fine.” She sets down her tea and gets up.

  I unfold my palm on the table and nudge Iano’s elbow.

  “Tamsin says thank you,” he says, rising with her. “And so do I. I promise you’ll be repaid for your trouble—once I have access to the treasury again.”

  “I’m just glad to find you both alive. I didn’t know what to do with myself when I thought you’d died. Sit down, Tamsin.” She waves at me—I’d started to stand with Iano. “Stay there. I have something for you.”


  I sink back down, closing my hands around my mug. They disappear into the workroom, and my eyes drift shut. I’ve slept in Soe’s workroom before—it’s cramped, and the floor is sometimes oily, but after the emptiness of my cell and the harshness of sleeping on the ground, I have never been so grateful to be offered a safe space in the house of someone not holding me hostage.

  Still, I can’t fully relax. My mind won’t stop racing with our conversation, the growing details, the muddled facts. Now that I’m out of the hands of our enemies and back within our borders, things seem so much closer, so much more severe. A week ago, I couldn’t be sure I would have the luxury of finding out who orchestrated my capture, or what they were hoping to accomplish with it.

  Now, I can’t get it out of my mind.

  I reflect on the two names we’ve come up with so far—Queen Isme and Kimela.

  Did Queen Isme secretly orchestrate Kimela’s appointment? The seal on the bounty sheets seems to suggest so. But I’ve known the queen for several years now. I know her history and her politics; I’ve studied her habits and preferences. I’ve sung about her to the court—not always in the most flattering terms—in front of her very eyes. She never looked at me with the same malice as some of the more easily offended courtiers. Was she just that skilled at hiding her feelings? More important—would she seriously have tortured her son with gruesome tales and mind games? She hasn’t abdicated her throne yet—it would have been easy to appoint Kimela herself. Why manipulate Iano into doing it for her?

  It doesn’t add up.

  Which leads me to Kimela.

  The ashoki-elect has the right politics—she’s nothing if not patriotic. Tradition is her lifeblood. She might even be a Hire. Are her morals that skewed, to stoop to blackmail and extortion in a position known for operating above such things?

  Is the queen gullible enough to believe her?

  Or just that desperate?

  I rub my grimy face, thinking back to that night I sang “Storm Gathering,” the damning composition I’d performed just days before I was attacked. It was the most to-the-point piece I’d sung in my entire tenure, and it created waves of palpable reactions in the hall. I sift through the distant memories of the crowd, scanning the faces. A dozen-odd ministers and courtiers with competing interests, their faces reddening with outrage. Minister Kobok, glaring so hard I thought the curtains might catch fire. Allies of industry, opponents of Iano, stewards, servants. So many people, so many possibilities for private sabotage.

  I nudge the back of my teeth with my spliced tongue.

  That’s the thing—it wasn’t just politics.

  It was personal.

  I hear scraping in the workroom of the big press being pushed across the floor. I open my eyes. A moment later, Soe bustles back in, clutching something—one of the small pots from her shop, like the kind in which she keeps walnut oil. She drops onto the bench next to me.

  “Here,” she says. “Let me see your hands.”

  Puzzled, I give her one, my skin chapped and cracked. She pops the cork off the little pot, revealing a thick salve. A waft of lavender and beeswax curls toward my nose. She dips her fingers in and takes my mangled hand, massaging the cream into it. It’s all I can do to not gasp at how good it feels.

  “I expect the Ferinno is murder on a person’s skin,” she says matter-of-factly.

  I watch, silent—obviously silent, but I mean mentally silent, as well. My brain has completely blanked at the enormous comfort in this small offering. She kneads the cream along my cracked nail beds and scuffed knuckles, and then up my wrist, where she knows it goes stiff and hot with scribe’s arthritis.

  She looks up when I can’t hold my sniffle back anymore. My nose has clogged up, which is annoying because I want to keep smelling the lavender. I wipe my cheeks with my other hand.

  Soe leans forward and wraps her arms around my shoulders. I rest my head on her. I open my palm between us to try to convey my thanks, but she doesn’t see it.

  “Oh, Tamsin,” she sighs. “What an absolute mess. I’m sorry.”

  I feel the same rush of gratitude I did just a moment ago, but this time it’s not just about a safe space in her workshop. It’s born instead from the long weeks surrounded only by people hoping to keep me right on the threshold of death. By the empty insanity of my cell’s four walls. By the quick rush of unfamiliar faces in Pasul. By the soldiers aiming their quarrels at my head. By the secrets and lies and unknowns, and the death sentence now attached to my picture.

  A friend.

  How nice it is just to have a friend.

  Lark

  Something forces its way between my lips. It’s hard and metallic, but it brings a trickle of liquid after it. It coats my tongue, a tiny amount, running down my throat and leaving a silty taste behind.

  Water.

  The hard metal object disappears from my mouth, and then comes back, followed by another minuscule dribble. My throat works, dry and aching.

  I don’t open my eyes because it doesn’t strike me as something that seems achievable. My whole body is heavy, dark. The metal object comes back again, and again, bringing another tiny mouthful of water each time. Grit crunches between my teeth. The world smells like dirt, like hot grass. Grasshoppers click and rasp. Air puffs against my cheek.

  At the next trickle between my lips, something wakes up deep in my belly. It cramps at first, then twists, then writhes. I suck in a breath, scattering droplets of the next offering of water. I roll to one side, land with my face in the grass, and puke up the miserable contents of my stomach. Dry grass stabs me in the eyes and cheeks, but I don’t lift my head—I simply lie bent over, elbows shaking.

  “Earth and sky . . . Lark?”

  A hand grips my shoulder and tries to haul me away from the damp patch of my vomit. The best I can manage is to collapse onto my back. My stomach clenches again, and I clutch it, groaning.

  “Here, open your mouth.”

  I wrench my head away, gritting my teeth against a fresh wave of cramping, spreading out from my stomach down my legs, my toes, the arches of my feet.

  “Lark, I’ve got water—open your mouth.”

  Something slides behind my neck, and my head and shoulders are hauled off the ground. The grinding pain in my stomach spikes. The metallic object bumps against my lips again, and I fling my head in the other direction. I don’t want more water!

  There’s swearing.

  “Look, there’s not so much of it that you can just . . . hold still, dammit! If you’re in pain that means you’re rehydrating, that’s what all the books say. Come on, keep it together.”

  Hands drag me back into place—new pain flares unexpectedly in both shoulders, but at the next moment, there’s rock against my back again. An arm flattens across my chest, holding me still, and the metal object—it feels like a disc, almost like a coin—pushes once more into my mouth. Water splashes against the back of my throat. I cough, and a hand clamps over my lips. I can hear my heart pulse in my ears, I can feel my fingers buzz and burn. I swallow. The hand leaves my mouth, but the arm stays flat across my chest. The water disc comes back again. And again. And again.

  “Stop,” I croak, still unable to open my eyes. “Stop it.”

  “It’s okay. It’ll be okay, if you’ll just—stop moving your head away. Think about something else. Raindrop one, raindrop two—you remember that one? All the Lumeni kids sing it, with those little hand motions. Uh, let’s see, it’s been a while . . .

  ‘Raindrop one, raindrop two

  Cloud of gray, sky of blue.

  Raindrop three, raindrop four

  Rocky ridge and sandy shore.

  Raindrop five, raindrop six

  Fall and flow, swirl and mix.

  Raindrop seven, raindrop eight,

  Lightning first and thunder late.

  Raindrop nine, raindrop ten

  Storm is coming once again.

  All the drops together make . . .’”

 
Whirly, pearly Lumen Lake.

  I know that line.

  “Oh, damn, hang on, the mud’s getting thicker.” The metal disc disappears, and I hear the shlucky sound of digging. The nursery rhyme rings in my ears, jangling with my too-loud heartbeat and pounding headache. There was always a childish anticipation of the end, when the final line was squealed while spinning round and round.

  “There was one Rou used to sing, too.” Veran sounds out of breath. “I can’t remember how it starts, though. Something something, came to the creek, hop over, hop over . . .”

  And the little one knocked her head.

  I slit open an eye. The world is intensely bright, all the colors washed out. Veran’s head bobs near the ground—with a huge amount of effort I tilt my chin down to see him better. He’s flat on his stomach with his arm swallowed up to his shoulder in a sandy hole. Rat lies beyond him, panting in the shade of a catclaw shrub. I shift—my back is against rock. My feet are in the sun, but the rest of me is in the shade.

  “Okay, here.” Veran struggles to his knees and carefully removes something from the hole. It’s round and silver, with a slight curvature to it, turning it into a tiny bowl. It’s only as he adjusts his legs and I see the hacked fringe on his boot do I realize what it is—one of the silver laurel flower medallions.

  He holds it to my mouth again. A teaspoon of water shivers in the little bowl. Still squinting through one eye, I sip it.

  “You made a seep,” I rasp.

  He turns back for the hole. “It was all I knew to do.”

  “It worked,” I say.

  “Barely.” He leans down to refill the medallion. “I had to get down twelve inches before it started to collect. I thought for sure it was going to take too long.” He rises again and holds out the medallion. “Blessed Light, Lark, why didn’t you tell me you were getting dehydrated? You were so focused on keeping me and Rat going you forgot about yourself.”

  He sounds rattled. I peep open the other eye to get a better look at him—his face is screwed up as he concentrates on keeping the precious water in the little bowl on its way to my mouth.