I take some of the prepared parchments from a drawer and fold the sheets carefully, so they fit in my satchel. When I return to the library, Mother Lin is fastening her travelling cloak, preparing to leave. ‘Parcel up these tomes, Hanan. I’m taking them to the mainland.’
The Mothers make the trip regularly. They never say why, but I’ve caught glimpses of strange parcels, scraps of errant missives with someone named Morna in Umasa. There is no boat to the mainland. All I know is that Mother Lin’s cloak is always damp when she hands it to me after her return voyage. It’s a mystery, one that eats away at me.
Most of the books here are documents for posterity, at least for those who read: other Sisters and Mothers who will come after us, the stewards of the towns, the priestesses and the royal family in the Bastion. They are ancient, remnants of crushed insects and dried flowers in between the crumbling pages. As I package up the volumes for Mother Lin, I see a letter has been left open as the ink dries. I read surreptitiously:The king is dead. Long live the queen.
I compose my face. If the king is dead, then the last priestess must have failed. One in a long line of recent acolytes to serve theking and queen. And if she has failed, she will have followed in the footsteps of her fallen monarch. Traditionally one monarch pair would be served by one priestess. The king is dead; a new priestess will be appointed.
We haven’t been told this yet, and with this secret knowledge, I have an advantage over the other Sisters.
chapter seven
finlyr
‘Do you at leasthave a name, kid?’
They look me up and down before giving me a barely perceptible nod, and somehow, I know I’ve passed their test. With street urchins like this, secrets are power. They only give it away when they need to, but apparently a scrap of information is my reward for cooperating in my escape.
‘Today, you can call me Isagani.’
It takes all my concentration to follow Isagani through the throng. They’re made of liquid. They barely look back as I stumble over the rope of the noose and my own bad leg. The sun beats down, hard, and I’m sweating like a spit-roasting pig. Bodies press themselves hard against me and the air tastes like arse. Of course, the weather shifts just at the wrong moment. A classic mainland problem: one moment you’re soaked through with rain, the next the water’s evaporating off you as the sun bakes you dark and tanned.
I can barely breathe and Isagani’s moving fast, almost out of view. There is a commotion, and Nestor barrels towards me in his glittering uniform, surprisingly pristine after rubbing shoulders with the great unwashed masses.
‘Seize him!’ he yells, fire burning in his eyes. He seems to have taken our encounter rather personally.
I dive towards the ground, grabbing the sword from his scabbard. I hit him in the face with the hilt, breaking his nose – again. I roll gracelessly beneath strangers, cutting my hitches free. I’ve nicked my skin, but the blood lets me slip my bonds. Isagani hauls me to my feet and snatches a hat from a woman’s head. We struggle, me limping badly, towards the sanctuary of a darkened alley.
‘Still alive?’ Isagani asks, plonking the hat on my head as I catch my breath.
‘Barely,’ I gasp.
‘This way,’ Isagani urges, opening a hatch and beckoning me in.
My eyes adjust to the gloom of the basement, the smell of damp. I jostle a crate and hear the clink of empty palm wine bottles. ‘Where are we?’
‘The cellar of The Painted Tankard.’
I look around furtively in the cobwebbed darkness. ‘Won’t the owner come down?’
Isagani turns to me. ‘They couldn’t pay their tithes. This belongs to the Bastion now.’
How much had changed in a few weeks as I waited for death.
‘Let’s get out of here, sharpish.’
They rummage inside a wooden crate, practically falling into the box, their skinny legs dangling over the edge. They emerge, struggling to hold an assortment of items. Isagani throws me some garments, and I’m hit by the pungent smell of sweat, must, and old perfume.
‘What are these?’ I choke out.
‘You never played dress-up?’ Isagani smiles, appraising a purple jacket with brass buckles.
I quirk an eyebrow at them.
‘Look, Finlyr Pane the pirate is dead,’ they explain.
‘I’d say more of a smuggler than a pirate,’ I demur.
Isagani snorts. ‘Whatever.’ They sort through more of the garments. ‘Let’s become someone the authorities aren’t looking for.’
