Carve the Mark, Page 20

  "We should go," Akos said, from over my shoulder. He held himself stiffly today, cringing when he had to lift a cup to his lips, crouching rather than bending to pick things up.

  I shivered at his voice alone. I thought that when I kissed him, days ago, it would free me from feelings like those, by taking away the mystery of what it would be like, but it had only made things worse. Now I knew what he felt like--what he tasted like--and I ached with want.

  "I guess so," I said, and we descended the steps to the loading bay floor, shoulder to shoulder. Ahead of us, the small transport ship gleamed like sunstruck glass under the harsh lights. The polished side bore the Shotet character for Noavek.

  Despite its ostentatious outsides, the inside of the ship was as simple as any other transport vessel: at the back was an enclosed bathroom stall and a tiny galley; lining the walls were jump seats with seat belts; and up front, in the ship's nose, was navigation.

  My father had taught me to fly, one of the only activities we ever did together. I had worn thick gloves so my currentgift wouldn't interfere with the ship's mechanisms. I had been too small for the chair, so he had gotten a cushion for me to sit on. He was not a patient teacher--he screamed at me more than once--but when I got it right, he always said, "Good," with a firm nod, like he was hammering the compliment in place.

  He died when I was eleven seasons old, on a sojourn. Only Ryzek and Vas had been with him at the time--they were attacked by a band of pirates and had to fight their way out. Ryzek and Vas returned from the conflict--with the eyes of their vanquished enemies in a jar, no less--but Lazmet Noavek did not.

  Vas fell into step beside me as I walked toward the ship. "I have been instructed to remind you to put on a good show for the Pithar."

  "What, was I born a Noavek just yesterday?" I snapped. "I know how to handle myself."

  "Noavek you may be, but you have become increasingly erratic," Vas said.

  "Go away, Vas," I said, too tired to come up with another barb. Thankfully, he heeded me, striding toward the front of the ship, where my cousin Vakrez stood with one of the maintenance workers. A flash of bright hair alerted me to Teka--not working on our ship, of course, but off to the side with her hands buried in a panel of wires. She didn't have any tools in hand--she was just pinching each wire in turn, her eyes closed.

  I hesitated for a moment. I could feel myself stirring to action, though I wasn't sure exactly what that action would be. I just knew that I had spent too long standing still while others warred around me, and it was time to move.

  "I'll meet you in the ship," I said to Akos. "I want to speak to Zosita's daughter for a moment."

  He hesitated with a hand near my elbow, like he was about to comfort me. Then he seemed to change his mind, shoving his hand in his pocket and shuffling toward the ship.

  When I drew closer to Teka, she pulled her hand from the tangle of wires, and marked something on the small screen balanced on her knees.

  "The wires never shock you?" I said.

  "No," she said without looking at me. "Feels like humming, unless they're busted. What do you want?"

  "A meeting," I said. "With your friends. You know which ones."

  "Listen," she said, finally turning. "You basically forced me to turn in my own mother, and then your brother killed her in front of everyone not two days ago." Her eye was red with tears. "What about that situation makes you think you can ask me for anything?"

  "I'm not asking," I said. "I'm telling you what I want, and I think the people you know might want it, too. Do whatever you like, but it's not really about you, is it?"

  The patch she wore over her eye was thicker than usual, and the skin that showed above it had a sheen, like she had spent the day sweating. Maybe she had; the quarters of maintenance workers were close to the churning machinery that kept the ship running.

  "How are we supposed to trust you?" she said in a low voice.

  "You're desperate, and so am I," I said. "Desperate people make stupid decisions all the time."

  The hatch on the port side of the transport vessel opened, spotting the floor with light.

  "I'll see what I can do," she said. She jerked her chin toward the ship. "Do you even do anything useful in that thing? Or just make nice with politicians?" She shook her head. "Don't suppose you royals go on scavenges, do you?"

  "I do, actually," I said, defensive. But it was stupid to pretend, with someone like her, that my life had been anything but privileged by comparison to hers. After all, she was the one-eyed girl with no family left to speak of, who lived in a closet.

  Teka grunted a little, then turned back to the wires.

  Akos was looking at Vas--sitting across from us--like he was about to lunge at his throat. Two seats down from him was Yma, dressed elegantly as always, her long, dark skirt arranged to cover her ankles. She looked like she was having tea at a sovereign's breakfast rather than strapped into a hard chair on a spaceship. Eijeh was in the seat closest to the toilet, his eyes closed. There were others between Yma and Eijeh: our cousin Vakrez and his husband, Malan, and Suzao Kuzar--his wife was too ill to make the journey, he claimed. And beside the captain, Rel, was Ryzek.

  "What was the planet the Examiners actually selected, based on the current's movement?" Yma called out to Ryzek. "Ogra?"

  "Yes, Ogra," Ryzek said with a laugh, over his shoulder. "As if that would have done us any good."

  "Sometimes the current chooses," Yma said, leaning her head back. "And sometimes we do."

  It almost sounded like wisdom.

  The engines hummed at the touch of a few buttons, then Rel pulled the lever for the hover mechanism and the ship lifted from the ground, shuddering a little. The loading bay doors opened, displaying the northern hemisphere of the water planet beneath us.

  It was covered entirely by clouds, the whole planet embroiled in a storm. The cities--obscured from view now--were buoyant, built to shift with the rising and falling water levels, and to withstand strong winds and rain and lightning. Rel urged the ship forward, and we shot into space, for a moment clutched in the empty embrace of darkness.

  It took no time at all for us to enter the atmosphere. The sudden pressure made me feel like my body was collapsing in on itself; I heard someone in the back of the ship retching. I clenched my teeth and forced myself to keep my eyes open. The descent was my favorite part, when huge stretches of land opened up beneath us--or in this case, water, since with the exception of a few soggy landmasses, this place was entirely submerged.

  A gasp of pleasure escaped me when we broke through the cloud layer. Rain drummed on the roof, and Rel turned on the visualizer so he didn't have to try to peer through the droplets. But past the drops and visualizer screen, I saw huge, frothy waves, blue-gray-green, and globular glass buildings adrift on the surface, enduring the crash of the water.

  I couldn't help it--I glanced at Akos, whose face was frozen in shock.

  "At least it's not Trella," I said to him, hoping to bring him back to himself. "The skies are full of birds. Huge mess when they all hit the windshield. Had to scrape them off with a knife."

  "You did that yourself, did you?" Yma said to me. "How charming."

  "Yes, you'll find I have a high tolerance for disgusting things," I replied. "I employ it regularly. I'm sure you do, too."

  Yma closed her eyes rather than answer. But before she did, I thought I saw her glance at Ryzek. One of the disgusting things she tolerated, I was sure.

  I had to admire her talent for survival.

  We shot over the waves, the ship battered somewhat by the powerful wind, for a long time. From above, the waves looked like wrinkled skin. Most people found Pitha monotonous, but I loved how it mimicked the sprawl of space.

  We flew above one of the many floating trash piles the Shotet would soon land on to scavenge. It was larger than I had imagined, the size of a city sector at least, and covered with heaps of metal in all different shades. I wanted more than anything to land on it, to sort thro
ugh whatever wet artifacts it held for something of value. But we flew on.

  The capital city of Pitha, Sector 6--the Pithar were not famous for their poetic names, to say the least--floated on the gray-black seas near the planet's equator. The buildings looked like bubbles adrift, though they were anchored with a vast, submerged support structure that, I had heard, was a miracle of engineering, upheld by the best-salaried maintenance workers in all the galaxy. Rel guided our ship to the landing pad, and through the windows I watched a mechanical structure extend toward us from one of the nearby buildings--a tunnel, it seemed, to keep us from getting soaked through. A shame. I wanted to feel the rain.

  Akos and I followed the others--at a distance--from the ship, leaving only Rel in our wake. At the front of our group, Ryzek, Yma at his side, greeted a Pithar dignitary, who gave him a curt bow in return.

  "What language would you prefer we conduct our business in?" the Pithar said in Shotet so clumsy I barely understood him. He had a thin white mustache that looked more like mold than hair, and wide, dark eyes.

  "We are all fluent in Othyrian," Ryzek said testily. The Shotet had a reputation for only speaking our own language, thanks to my father's--and now my brother's--policy of keeping our people ignorant of the galaxy's true workings, but Ryzek had always been sensitive about the insinuation that he wasn't multilingual, as if it meant people thought he was stupid.

  "That is a relief, sir," the dignitary said, now in Othyrian. "I am afraid the subtleties of the Shotet language escape me. Allow me to show you all to your sleeping quarters."

  As we passed through the temporary tunnel, beneath the drumming of the rain, I felt a powerful urge to grab a nearby Pithar and beg them to get me out of here, away from Ryzek and his threats and the memory of what he had done to my only friend.

  But I couldn't leave Akos here, and Akos's eyes were currently fixed on the back of his brother's head.

  There had been four sojourns between this one and the one that had claimed my father's life. The last one had taken us to Othyr, the wealthiest planet in the galaxy, and there, Ryzek had established the new Shotet policy of diplomacy. Formerly, my mother had taken care of that, charming the leaders of each planet we visited while my father led the scavenge. But after her death, Lazmet had discovered he had no talent for charm--surprising no one--and diplomacy had fallen by the wayside, creating tension between us and the rest of the planets in the galaxy. Ryzek sought to ease that tension planet by planet, smile by smile.

  Othyr had welcomed us with a dinner, every inch of their chancellor's dining room gilded, from the plates to the paint on the walls to the cloth that covered the table. They had chosen that room, the chancellor's wife had said, for how the color would complement our dark blue formal armor. Graciously, she had also admitted to its ostentatiousness, an elegantly calculated maneuver I had admired even then. The next morning they had treated us all to a session with their personal physician, knowing they possessed the best medical technology in the galaxy. I had declined. I had had enough of doctors for a lifetime.

  I knew from the start that Pitha's welcome would not be as frivolous as Othyr's. Every culture worshipped something: Othyr, comfort; Ogra, mystery; Thuvhe, iceflowers; Shotet, the current; Pitha, practicality, and so on. They were relentless in their pursuit of the most durable, flexible, multipurpose materials and structures. The chancellor--Natto was her surname, and I had forgotten her given name, since she was never called by it--lived in a large but utilitarian subterranean building made of glass. She was elected by popular vote on Pitha.

  The room I was sharing with Akos--the dignitary had given us a suggestive look when he offered it to me, and I had ignored him--opened up to the water, where shadowy creatures moved just out of sight, and everything looked calm, but that was its only decoration. The walls were otherwise plain, the sheets starched and white. A cot set up in the corner stood on metal legs with rubber feet.

  The Pithar had arranged not a fine dinner, but what I would have called a ball if there had been dancing involved. Instead, there were just groups of people standing around in what I assumed was the Pithar version of finery: stiff, waterproof fabrics in surprisingly bright colors--all the better to spot them in the rain, maybe--and not a skirt or dress to be found. I regretted, suddenly, my mother's dress, which fell to my toes, black and high-necked, to disguise most of my currentshadows.

  The room was full of murmurs. Moving between each group was a servant with a tray in hand, offering drinks or bites of food. Their synchronized movements were the closest thing to dance here.

  "Quiet in here," Akos said softly, his fingers curling around my elbow. I shivered, trying to ignore it. He's just dulling your pain, that's all it is, nothing has changed, everything is the same as it always was. . . .

  "Pitha isn't known for its dances," I said. "Or any form of combat, either."

  "They're not your favorite, then, I take it."

  "I like to move."

  "I've noticed."

  I could feel his breath against the side of my neck, though he wasn't that close--my awareness of him was stronger than it had ever been. I tugged my arm free to take the drink the Pithar servant offered.

  "What is this?" I said, suddenly aware of my accent. The servant eyed my shadow-stained arm uneasily.

  "Its effects are similar to an iceflower blend," the servant replied. "Dulls the senses, lifts the spirits. Sweet and sour, both."

  Akos also took one, smiling at the servant as she walked on.

  "If it's not made of iceflowers, what's it made of?" he asked. Thuvhesits worshipped iceflowers, after all. What did he know of other substances?

  "I don't know. Salt water? Engine grease?" I said. "Try it; I'm sure it won't hurt you."

  We both drank. Across the room, Ryzek and Yma were smiling politely at Chancellor Natto's husband, Vek. His face had a grayish cast, and his skin sagged from his bones like it was half liquid. Maybe gravity was stronger here. I certainly felt heavier than usual, though that was probably due to Vas's constant gaze. Making sure I behaved.

  I cringed at my half-empty glass. "Disgusting."

  "So, I'm curious," Akos said. "How many languages do you actually speak?"

  "Really, it's just Shotet, Thuvhesit, Othyrian, and Trellan," I said. "But I know a little Zoldan, some Pithar, and I was working on Ogran before you arrived and distracted me."

  His eyebrows lifted.

  "What?" I said. "I don't have any friends. It gives me a lot of free time."

  "You think you're so difficult to like."

  "I know what I am."

  "Oh? And what's that?"

  "A knife," I said. "A hot poker. A rusty nail."

  "You are more than any of those things." He touched my elbow to turn me toward him. I knew I was giving him a strange look, but I couldn't seem to stop. It was just the way my face wanted to be.

  "I mean," he said, removing his hand, "it's not like you're going around . . . boiling the flesh of your enemies."

  "Don't be stupid," I said. "If I was going to eat the flesh of my enemies, I would roast it, not boil it. Who wants to eat boiled flesh? Disgusting."

  He laughed, and everything felt a little better.

  "Silly me. I clearly wasn't thinking," he said. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but I think you're being summoned by the sovereign."

  Sure enough, when I looked at Ryzek, his eyes were on me. He jerked his chin up.

  "You didn't bring any poison, did you?" I said without looking away from my brother. "I could try to slip it in his drink."

  "Wouldn't give it to you if I did," Akos said. When I gave him an incredulous look, he explained, "He's still the only one who can restore Eijeh. After he does that, I'll poison him with a song on my lips."

  "No one does 'single-minded' quite like you, Kereseth," I said. "Your task while I'm gone is to compose your poisoning song so I can hear it when I get back."

  "Easy," he said. "'Here I go a-poisoning . . .'"

  Smirking, I swa
llowed the last of my vile Pithar engine grease, handed the glass to Akos, and crossed the room.

  "Ah, there she is! Vek, this is my sister, Cyra." Ryzek was wearing his warmest smile, his arm outstretched toward me like he intended to fold me into his side. He didn't, of course, because it would have hurt him--the currentshadows were there to remind him, staining my cheek and the side of my nose. I nodded to Vek, who stared blank-eyed back without greeting.

  "Your brother was just explaining the Shotet rationale behind some of the kidnapping reports associated with Shotet 'scavengers' over the past decade," he said. "He said you could vouch for the policy."

  Oh he did, did he?

  My anger, then, was like dry kindling, quickly ignited. I couldn't find a path through it; I just stared at Ryzek for a few moments. He smiled back at me, still with that kind look in his eyes. Beside him, Yma was also smiling.

  "Because of your familiarity with your servant," Ryzek said lightly. "Of course."

  Ah, yes. My familiarity with Akos--Ryzek's new tool of control.

  "Right," I said. "Well, we don't consider it kidnapping, obviously. The Shotet call it 'Reclaiming' because everyone brought back to the fold speaks the revelatory tongue, the Shotet language, perfectly. No accent, no gaps in vocabulary. You cannot speak the Shotet language that way, so innately, without having Shotet blood. Without belonging to us, in a more significant way. And I have seen that . . . demonstrated."

  "In what way?" Vek asked. As he lifted his glass to his lips, I spotted his rings, one for each finger. Each one smooth and otherwise undecorated. I wondered why he even wore them.

  "My servant has shown himself to be a natural Shotet," I said. "A good fighter, with a good eye for what makes our people distinct. His ability to adapt to our culture is . . . shocking."

  "Surely a sign of what I was telling you, sir," Yma chimed in. "That there is evidence of a cultural, historical memory in Shotet blood that ensures that all so-called 'kidnapped' people--people with the gift of Shotet language--who make it to our land find true belonging there."

  She was so good at pretending to be devoted.