One of the helpers says, “Interested, honorie?” Their voice is soft and high, perhaps a woman’s and certainly not Bittor.
Iriset says, “My lady is.” A safe enough answer.
“This is unusual,” says the servant minding the timetable to a young miran who had just arrived in servant’s robe with hems indicating a better rank.
“We don’t mind showing our wares to a pretty lady,” says another of the merchant’s helpers.
Bittor.
Thankfully, Iriset’s cloth mask hides any expression that might’ve crossed her face at the strong jab of recognition in her chest. She tried to prepare herself to remain calm, but the shock of his voice—his actual voice—triggers a flood of rising force inside her. “Thank you,” she says lightly. “My lady likes to burn resin for her… devotions.” She says the Ceres word.
Iriset steps away, and Bittor follows. His cloth mask is white, as with most of the merchants and workers who braved the quartz yards in the summer. Iriset finds a spot of shade amid the bustle of the docks, then kneels.
Bittor crouches, unrolling a canvas purse with tiny pocketsfor various resins. He puts it between them on the dusty ground. “Touch whatever you like, and if one appeals, rub it to your wrist. Your body will unlock more of the particular scent.”
Iriset can’t speak. Her throat is too tight as she struggles to control herself. She wishes she could be a kite above her body again, instead of trapped by her very physical responses to him. Oh, how she missed him, lover and friend and ally. She wants to be touched by someone who knows her.
“Take your time,” he says gently, and reaches up to tuck his cloth mask off his eyes.
She’s going to grab him and ruin everything. Iriset stares at his ruddy peach-brown cheeks, the curve of them as his mouth pulls into a smile for her. She knows it’ll crinkle his eyes, and finally looks to them. The pupils are narrow spikes in this hot light, and the green-gold glint of irises leave no white at all. The most gorgeous thing she’s ever seen. “Bittor,” she mouths.
“Iriset,” he whispers.
A jagged breath whooshes out of her. She tucks up her own cloth mask so he can see her eyes, too. They can’t share too much intimacy while surrounded; eye contact like this will give them away. But Iriset needs it.
“Touch the resin,” Bittor says, and she obeys, holding his gaze. The muscles around his eyes, especially his brow, shiver and she sees he shares her need, and the effort to conceal it.
“How is the undermarket?” she asks, looking down at what her hand is doing.
“Dispersed and buttoned down tight. Everyone is in deep hiding, or with distant family. Your grandparents offered to relay messages between families, in return for news of you. I didn’t have it and said no anyway.”
“Thank you. Dalal?”
“With me. Her son is safe. You know about—”
“Yes,” Iriset cuts him off. She glances up. “I saw him. He is in the apostate tower, and I tried to break him out, but he refused to endanger me.”
“Hardly surprising.”
Iriset huffs. “I have been learning the security of the yards, of the palace itself, and will be able to get you a force-map so you can plan a rescue for the day of his execution. They won’t bring him out until then. But you have to get word that he’s not to be touched before then.”
“That won’t come from us, if it happens, but from the army. I’ve tried getting to them, but the general put people in charge we can’t find ways to blackmail.”
Iriset nods, thinking of General Bey and his uncompromising honesty. Of course he knows which of his men should surround the Little Cat. She pushes her frown back into pleasant interest as she removes a milky-white chunk of resin and smells it. Sharp, spicy, an undertone of wet earth.
“Can you get out?” Bittor asks.
“Yes. But not until after he is. I have to be here, to keep tracking the security threads, and so that if I must, I can beg for mercy.”
“You’re making friends?”
“As many as I can.”
Bittor lets his fingertips, soft because he keeps them oiled for greater sensitivity, brush her knuckles.
Glancing toward the timetable where everyone busily ignores them, Iriset turns her hand over and clasps his. Her fingers slide between his fingers, turning their hands together, and she shivers as their palms connect with a tingle of ecstatic followed by the rush of rising that comes with relief and hope. “Bittor,” shesays, and this time lets it be more than silent breath. She wants to ask him what he’s been doing, how he got in with these merchants. She wants to kiss him, to bite his lip too hard, so that he feels her for days and she can carry the taste of his blood on her tongue. Iriset presses her tongue to her own teeth instead.
“The Day of Final Mercy,” Bittor says, bringing her back. “Can you create a distraction?”
