Page 117 of The Space Between Stars

There it was. The admission that Dex was in Thyatira’s pocket.

The only way to fix this was to cut west and take a boat to Steila before the Red Wing arrived.

They stared at one another for a long time.

“I’ll find a way.”

When the daily march ended, Calver collapsed, back aching, fluid seeping through his bandages. He hadn’t had a meal at highsun. He was too tired to eat now.

The mess wagon was gone, his issued equipment with it. Calver, instead, crawled into Dex’s tent again. Door, no door. He was asleep in moments.

TWENTY-EIGHT

ATTILATIA

Year: 748 Post Cataclysm: Present Day

Location: Poqualle District, Seraphinden

When Attilatia returned home from Shrokan’s messenger station, Pinto was already waiting. His scowl stopped her in mid-step until she realized his expression was a purposeful pantomime of her own. She rolled her eyes, lips pulling into a smile. The one he returned was so resplendent it might have blinded her, had she not been wearing oculars.

“I could smell the fekkas and cologne from Shrokan,” she grunted. It was the first time she had invited him over, as opposed to the standard of waiting for his invitation or ascending the musky stairwell to his flat, unannounced.

“And I could feel the caustic passive-aggression from Korshuva.” He nodded at her faded tipiana, dashed with green palms. It was the most worn of her collection: suitable for errands in Shrokan. “You look enchanting as ever.” The worst part was, he meant it.

Heat touched Attilatia’s cheeks, and she shrugged a shoulder. “Come in.”

As they picked their way through the waist-high flowers that obscured the stone path to her rear entrance, something shifted against Attilatia’s ankles. She stifled a scream.

“What is it?” Pinto pulled a dagger from… she could only guess where.

Attilatia breathed a sigh of relief as Toronoff mewled. “I—I think I have a cat now.”

She unlocked the door and pushed it open into the dark interior. It was nearing highsun, and exhaustion had begun to weigh on her eyelids. But tomorrow was her off-day. Plenty of time to catch up on sleep. If she waited any longer to enlist Pinto’s help, she might talk herself out of it.

“Have a seat.” A sudden self-consciousness scratched at her. Compared to the overabundance of Pinto’s flat, her home was practically barren. She busied herself lighting the hearth for a pot of tea. Then she scritched Toronoff behind the ears while the cat helped himself to a lump of cheese she’d forgotten on the table.

Attilatia’s limbs felt like jelly. She mentally cycled what she intended to impart on Pinto and each time it felt worse than the last. But, times being so dangerous, she had to assume Pajanak could be a trap. What she knew of Roskaad on paper suggested it certainly would be. But what she felt? That was different, and almost more frightening than his probable deception.

Regardless, she needed someone she could trust to hold her keys. Just in case.

Pinto cleared his throat, and Attilatia realized they had been silent for some time. “Did I ever tell you about my travels through Pazir?”

Attilatia dropped pinches of herbs into the now steaming kettle and placed it on the slab on the table. She set two cups beside it and sat. “No.”

“Ah. A marvelous journey. It’s been thirty years now. That was during the Grey Period, at the height of Azadonian trade.” He poured them each a cup, and lifted his toward her in thanks. “I was commissioned to deliver one thousand white silk dresses to the Pazirian king for all his court maids to wear for his son’s coronation. Highly ceremonial. A phenomenal honor. You see, on that night, after the coronation, the prince would choose one lucky maiden to become his queen.”

Attilatia blew on her tea. “Misogynists.”

Pinto carried on with his usual enthusiasm. “In preparation for the festivities, a cask of wine—the size of some ships—had been rolled into the ballroom. Never had such a cask been engineered, and the morning of the coronation, it cracked. Wine flooded the ballroom.

“I was getting ready for the ceremony when it happened—you know me, it takes me hours to decide what to wear. I had unloaded the silks in the ballroom earlier in the day. The palace coordinator was in such a panic, he mistook the dresses for linens. He’d thrown them to the floor to sop up the mess.” Pinto clucked his tongue.

“But you had already been paid, hadn’t you?” she asked. “It wasn’t a monetary loss?”

Pinto looked at her as though she had suggested he set his robes on fire. “Entirely beside the point, Atti! The prince was supposed to be presented one thousand brides in white silks of incomparable quality! The entire evening was ruined!”

Attilatia tried to take a sip but couldn’t get it down. “Whatever was the poor, poor prince to do?”