Carve the Mark, Page 22

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "Not without Eijeh."

  "That's what I thought," Cyra said sadly as she let go of him. She gnawed on her lip, trouble in her eyes. They went all the way to her quarters without talking, and when she got there, she went right into the bathroom to change into dry clothes. Akos parked himself in front of the news feed, out of habit.

  Usually Thuvhe was only mentioned in the stream of words at the bottom of the feed, and even then, Cyra told him, the news was only about iceflower output. Iceflowers were the only thing the other planets really cared about, when it came to their cold planet, since they were used in so many medicines. But today the live footage showed a giant snowdrift.

  He knew the place. Osoc, the northernmost city of Thuvhe, frozen and white. The buildings there floated in the sky like clouds made of glass, held up by some technology from Othyr he didn't understand. They were shaped like raindrops, like wilting petals, coming to points at either end. They had gone there to see his cousins one year, wrapped up in their warmest clothes, and stayed in their apartment building, which hung in the sky like ripe fruit that would never fall. Iceflowers still grew that far north, but they were far, far below, just colored smudges from that distance.

  Akos sat on the edge of Cyra's bed, wetting the sheets with his damp clothes. It was hard for him to breathe. Osoc, Osoc, Osoc was the chant in his mind. White flakes on the wind. Frost patterns on the windows. Iceflower stems brittle enough to break at a touch.

  "What is it?" Cyra was braiding her hair away from her face. Her hands fell when she saw the screen.

  She read the subtitle aloud: "Fated Chancellor of Thuvhe Steps Forward."

  Akos tapped the screen to turn up the volume. In Othyrian, the voice muttered, ". . . she promises a strong stand against Ryzek Noavek on behalf of the oracles of Thuvhe, lost two seasons ago, allegedly in a Shotet invasion on Thuvhesit soil."

  "Your chancellor isn't elected?" Cyra asked. "Isn't that why they use the word 'chancellor' instead of 'sovereign,' because the position is elected rather than inherited?"

  "Thuvhesit chancellors are fated. Elected by the current, they say. We say," he said. If she noticed his slip from "we" to "they," she didn't mention it. "Some generations there is no chancellor, and we just have regional representatives--those are elected."

  "Ah." Cyra turned toward the screen, watching beside him.

  There was a crowd on the landing platform, bundled though it was covered. A ship was perched at the edge, and the hatch was opening. As a dark-clothed woman stepped down, the crowd burst into cheers. The sights swooped in close, showing her face, wrapped in a scarf that covered her nose and mouth. But her eyes were dark, with a hint of lighter gray around the pupil--the sights were very close, buzzing like flies across her face--and gently sloped, and he knew her.

  He knew her.

  "Ori," he said, breathless.

  Right behind her was another woman, just as tall, just as slim, and just as covered. When the sights shifted to her, Akos saw that the women were the same, practically down to the eyelash. Not just sisters, but twins.

  Ori had a sister.

  Ori had a double.

  Akos searched their faces for a hint of difference, and found none.

  "You know them?" Cyra said softly.

  For a tick all he could do was nod. Then he wondered if he ought to have. Ori had only gone by "Orieve Rednalis"--not a name that was supposed to belong to a fate-favored child--because her real identity was dangerous. Which meant it would be better to keep it to himself.

  But, he thought as he looked up at Cyra, and he didn't finish the thought, he just let the words tumble out:

  "She was a friend of our family when I was a child. When she was a child. She went by an alias. I didn't know she had a . . . sister."

  "Isae and Orieve Benesit," Cyra said, reading the names from the screen.

  The twins were walking into a building. They both looked graceful with the breeze from inside the building pressing their coats--buttoned at the side, at the shoulder--tight to their bodies. He didn't recognize the fur of their scarves or the fabric of the coats themselves, black and clear of snow even now. An off-world material, to be sure.

  "Rednalis is the name she used," he said. "A Hessa name. The day the fates were announced was the last time I saw her."

  Isae and Orieve stopped to greet people on the way in, but as they walked away, and the sights peered after them, he saw a flash of movement. The second sister hooked her arm around the first sister's neck, drawing her head in close. The same way Ori had done with Eijeh when she wanted to whisper something in his ear.

  Then Akos couldn't see much anymore, because his eyes were full of tears. That was Ori, who had a space at his family table, who had known him before he became . . . this. This armored, vengeful, life-taking thing.

  "My country has a chancellor," he said.

  "Congratulations," Cyra said. Hesitantly, she asked, "Why did you tell me all that? It's probably not something you should broadcast here. Her alias, how you know her, all that."

  Akos blinked his eyes clear. "I don't know. Maybe I trust you."

  She lifted her hand, and hesitated with it over his shoulder. Then she lowered it, touching him lightly. They watched the screen side by side.

  "I would never keep you here. You know that, right?" She was so quiet. He'd never heard her that quiet. "Not anymore. If you wanted to go, I would help you go."

  Akos covered her hand with his own. Just a light touch, but it was charged with new energy. Like an ache he didn't quite mind.

  "If--when, when I get Eijeh out," he said, "would you ever go with me?"

  "You know, I think I would." She sighed. "But only if Ryzek was dead."

  As the ship turned back toward home, news of Ryzek's success on Pitha came toward them in pieces. Otega was the source of most of Cyra's gossip, Akos found, and she had a good read on things before they were even announced.

  "The sovereign is pleased," Otega said, dropping off a pot of soup one night. "I think he made an alliance. Between a historically fate-faithful nation like Shotet and a secular planet like Pitha, that's no small feat." Then she had given Akos a curious look.

  "Kereseth, I presume. Cyra didn't say you were so . . ." She paused.

  Cyra's eyebrows popped up like they were on springs. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, chewing on a lock of hair. Sometimes she stuck it in her mouth without noticing. Then she'd spit it out, with a look of surprise, like it had crept into her mouth on its own.

  ". . . tall," Otega finished. Akos wondered what word she would have chosen, if she felt comfortable being honest.

  "Not sure why she would have mentioned that," Akos replied. It was easy to be comfortable around Otega; he slid into it without thinking much about it. "She's tall, too, after all."

  "Yes. Quite tall, the lot of you," Otega said, distantly. "Well. Enjoy that soup."

  When she left, Cyra went straight to the news feed to translate the Shotet subtitles for him. This time it was startling how different they were. The Shotet words apparently said, "Pithar chancellor opens up friendly support negotiations in light of Shotet visit to Pithar capital." But the Othyrian voice said, "Thuvhesit chancellor Benesit threatens iceflower trade embargoes against Pitha in wake of their tentative aid discussions with Shotet leadership."

  "Apparently your chancellor isn't pleased that Ryzek charmed the Pithar," Cyra remarked. "Threatening trade embargoes, and all."

  "Well," Akos said, "Ryzek is trying to conquer her."

  Cyra grunted. "That translation doesn't have Malan's flair; they must have used someone else. Malan likes to spin information, not leave it out entirely."

  Akos almost laughed. "You can tell who it is by the translation?"

  "There is an art to Noavek bullshit," Cyra said as she muted the feed. "We're taught it from birth."

  Their quarters--Akos had started to think of them that way, much as it unsettled him--were the eye of a storm,
quiet and settled in the midst of chaos. Everybody was getting everything in order for landing. He couldn't believe the sojourn was coming to a close; he felt like they had just taken off.

  And then, on the day the currentstream lost its last blue streaks, he knew it was time to make good on his promise to Jorek.

  "You sure he won't just turn me in to Ryzek for drugging him?" Akos said to Cyra.

  "Suzao is a soldier at heart," Cyra said, for what had to be the hundredth time. She turned the page in her book. "He prefers to settle things himself. Turning you in would be the maneuver of a coward."

  With that, Akos set out for the cafeteria. He was aware of his hurried heartbeat, his twitchy fingers. This time of week Suzao ate in one of the lower cafeterias--he was one of the lowest-ranked of Ryzek's close supporters, which meant he was the least important person most places he went. But in the lower cafeterias, near the ship's chugging machinery, he got to be superior for once. It was the perfect place to provoke him--he couldn't very well be shamed by a servant in front of his inferiors, could he?

  Jorek had promised to help with the last move. He was ahead of his father in line when Akos walked into the cafeteria, a big, dank room on one of the lowest decks of the ship. It was cramped and smoky, but the smell on the air was spiced and rich and made his mouth water.

  At a nearby table, a group of Shotet younger than him had pushed their trays aside and were playing a game with machines small enough to fit in Akos's palm. They were collections of gears and wires balanced on wheels, one with a big set of pincers fixed to its nose, another with a blade, a third with a thumb-size hammer. They had drawn a circle on the table with chalk, and inside it, the machines stalked each other, controlled by remotes. As they collided, bystanders shouted advice: "Go for the right wheel!" "Use the pincers, what else are they for?" They wore odd clothes in blue, green, and purple, bare arms wrapped in cords of different colors, hair shaved and braided and piled high. A sweep of feeling overtook him as he watched, an image of himself as a Shotet child, holding a remote, or just braced against the table, watching.

  It had never been, would never be. But for just a tick, it seemed like it could have been possible.

  He turned to the pile of trays near the food line and picked one up. He had a small vial buried in his fist, and he slipped ahead in line, edging closer to Suzao so he could dose the other man's cup. Right on time, Jorek stumbled into the person ahead of him, dropping his tray with a clatter. Soup hit the woman ahead of him right between the shoulders, and she swore. In the commotion Akos dumped the elixir in Suzao's cup without anyone noticing.

  He passed Jorek while he was helping the soup-stained woman clean up. She was elbowing him away, cursing.

  When Suzao sat down at his usual table and drank from his tainted cup, Akos stopped to take a breath.

  Suzao had barged into his house along with the others. He'd stood there and watched as Vas murdered Akos's father. His finger-prints were on the walls of Akos's home, his footprints on the floors, Akos's safest place marked up and down with violence. The memories, as crisp as ever, steeled Akos for what he needed to do.

  He put his tray down across from Suzao, whose eyes ran up his arm like a skimming hand, counting the kill marks there.

  "Remember me?" Akos said.

  Suzao was smaller than him, now, but so broad through the shoulders it didn't seem that way when he was sitting. His nose was spotted with freckles. He didn't look much like Jorek, who took after his mother. Good thing, too.

  "The pathetic child I dragged across the Divide?" Suzao said, biting down on the tines of his fork. "And then beat to a pulp before we even made it to the transport vessels? Yeah. I remember. Now get your tray off my table."

  Akos sat, folding his hands in front of him. A rush of adrenaline had given him pinhole vision, and Suzao was in the very center.

  "How are you feeling? A little sleepy?" he said as he slammed the vial down in front of him.

  The glass cracked, but the vial stayed in one piece, still wet from the sleeping potion he had poured in Suzao's cup. Silence spread through the cafeteria, starting at their table.

  Suzao stared at the vial. His face got blotchier with every second. His eyes were glassy with rage.

  Akos leaned closer, smiling. "Your living quarters aren't as secure as you'd probably like. What is this, the third time you've been drugged in the past month? Not very vigilant, are you?"

  Suzao lunged. Grabbed him by the throat, lifted, and slammed him hard into the table, right on top of his tray of food. Soup burned Akos through his shirt. Suzao drew his knife and held the point over Akos's head like he was going to shove it in Akos's eye.

  Akos saw spots.

  "I should kill you," Suzao snarled, flecks of spit dotting his lips.

  "Go ahead," he said, straining. "But maybe you should wait until you're not about to fall over."

  Sure enough, Suzao looked a little unfocused. He let go of Akos's throat.

  "Fine," he said. "Then I challenge you to the arena. Blades. To the death."

  The man didn't disappoint.

  Akos sat up, slowly, making a show of his trembling hands, his food-stained shirt. Cyra had told him to make sure Suzao underestimated him before they made it to the arena, if he could. He wiped the spit flecks from his cheek, and nodded.

  "I accept," Akos said, and drawn by some kind of magnetism, his eyes found Jorek. Who looked relieved.

  CHAPTER 22: CYRA

  THE RENEGADES DIDN'T PASS me a message in the cafeteria, or whisper one in my ear as I walked across the sojourn ship. They didn't hack into my personal screens or cause a disruption and kidnap me. A few days after the scavenge, I was walking back to my quarters and I saw blond hair swinging ahead of me--Teka, holding a dirty rag in grease-streaked fingers. She glanced back at me, beckoning me with a curled finger, and I followed her.

  She led me not to a secret room or passageway, but to the loading bay. It was dark there, and the silhouettes of transport vessels looked like huge creatures huddled in sleep. In a far corner, someone had left a light on, attached to the wing of one of the biggest transport vessels.

  If rain and thunder were music to the Pithar, the churn of machinery was music to the Shotet. It was the sound of the sojourn ship, the sound of our movement side by side with the currentstream. So it made sense that in this part of the ship, where their conversation would be buried by the hum and thrum of machinery on the level below us, was a small, shabby gathering of renegades. They were all dressed in the jumpsuits that maintenance workers wore--maybe they were all actually maintenance workers, now that I thought about it--and they had covered their faces with the same black mask Teka had worn when she attacked me in the hallway.

  Teka drew a knife, and held the blade against my throat. It was cold, and smelled sweet, not unlike some of Akos's mixtures.

  "Move any closer to them and I will knock you out cold," Teka said.

  "Tell me this isn't your whole membership." In my mind I ran through what I could do to free myself, beginning with stomping on her toes.

  "Would we risk you exposing our entire membership to your brother?" Teka said. "No."

  The light clipped to the wing of the transport ship lost one of its metal bindings, and swayed on its cord, dangling now from only one fastener.

  "You're the one who wanted to meet," one of the others said. He sounded older, gruffer. He was a boulder of a man, with a beard thick enough for things to get lost in. "What did you want, exactly?"

  I forced myself to swallow. Teka's knife was still at my throat, but that wasn't what was making it hard to speak. It was finally articulating what I had been thinking for months. It was finally doing something instead of just thinking about it, for the first time in my life.

  "I want safe transport out of Shotet for someone," I said. "Someone who doesn't exactly want to leave."

  "For someone," the one who had spoken earlier said. "Who?"

  "Akos Kereseth," I said.

  Ther
e were mutters.

  "He doesn't want to leave? Then why do you want to get him out?" the man said.

  "It's . . . complicated," I said. "His brother is here. His brother is also lost. Beyond hope of recovery." I paused. "Some people are fools for love."

  "Ah," Teka whispered. "I see how it is."

  I felt like they were all laughing at me, smiling under their dark masks. I didn't like it. I grabbed Teka's wrist and twisted, hard, so she couldn't point the knife at me. She groaned at my touch, and I pinched the flat of the blade between my fingers, pulling it free. I flipped it in one hand so I was gripping the handle, my fingers slippery with whatever had been painted on the blade.

  Before Teka could recover, I lunged, pinning her against my chest by the arm and pointing the knife at her side. I tried to keep as much of the currentgift pain to myself as I could, gritting my teeth so I wouldn't scream. I was breathing hard right next to her ear. She was still.

  "I may be a fool, too," I said. "But I am not stupid. You think I can't identify you by the way you stand, the way you walk, the way you speak? If I'm going to betray you, I will do it whether you wear masks and hold me at knifepoint or not. And we all know that I can't betray you without betraying myself. So." I blew a strand of Teka's hair away from my mouth. "Are we going to have this discussion with mutual trust, or not?"

  I released Teka, and offered her the knife. She was glaring at me, clutching her wrist, but she took it.

  "All right," the man said.

  He undid the covering that shielded his mouth. Beneath it, his thick beard crept down to his throat. Some of the others followed suit. Jorek was one of them, standing off to my right with his arms crossed. Unsurprising, since he had so baldly requested his Noavek-loyal father's death in the arena.

  Others didn't bother, but it didn't matter--it was their spokesman I had cared about.

  "I'm Tos, and I think we can do what you ask," the man said. "And I think you're aware that we would require something else in return."

  "What is it you'd like me to do?" I said.

  "We need your help getting into Noavek manor." Tos crossed his thick arms. His clothes were made of off-planet fabrics, too lightweight for the Shotet cold. "In Voa. After the sojourn."