Page 84 of The Space Between Stars

Attilatia considered the strangeness of the way Pinto had often invited her to tea, to dinner, to a show, over the years: always with urgency. At the oddest of hours. His couriers had been so persistent—stopping her in alleyways, loping at her side until she made it home—she’d assumed them to be moss addicts. “You thwarted the attacks?”

Pinto nodded. She dropped the doll.

The next thing she knew, his wiry arms had folded around her again. She wanted to push him away—to scream and hit. Instead, her knees buckled and she clung to him like bark on a tree.

“So let’s talk about that wine. Because we can rule out it having come from Thacklore, and I don’t believe the Shadewalker has placed a fee on your head.”

She chuckled without mirth. “What makes you say we can rule out Thacklore?”

Pinto pushed her to arms’ length. “Haven’t you heard?”

“No, Pinto.” Her sigh was so heavy, her body nearly levitated when it left her. She wiped at the corners of her eyes. “That’s what I force interactions with sun-loving socialites like you for. To hear things.”

“Deshpian Thacklore is dead.”

Her heart thumped steadily in her ears. “Dead?”

“He was murdered—he and his staff in Chira’na. Grisley, gruesome deed. The work of one man, they say. Completely deranged.”

“If I ever have a chance to meet him, I might kiss him.”

Pinto shook her shoulders. “The wine, Atti. Who sent you the wine?”

Roskaad Thyatira, she didn’t say: one of the Shadewalker’s Ghosts, a Kovathian agent, Hashod Gorovich’s private hire, an oligarchal pawn, or some combination of those things. All that, and she was itching to believe that he was on her side.

What was wrong with her?

“If I tell you, promise me you’ll have dinner with us the next time he’s in town?”

Of course, that might depend on what was on the menu.

TWENTY

FANKALO

Year: 740 Post Cataclysm: 8 Years Previously

Location: Chira’na

Fankalo sat in the same window-side corner she’d loitered in for three days since visiting Deshpian Thacklore’s manor. The drafty Chira’na cafe was the only one which would let her linger through the afternoon, avoiding the crew, for purchasing a single cup of tea. Condensation from the teacup in question had long since left the glass pane beside her as she nursed it.

Fankalo missed its warmth. The window drew all the heat from her. “Temperate,” was what Gelhard had said of the climate this far south, though she couldn’t imagine this chill moderating anyone’s mood. They were marooned in this fated place. While they had come to Chira’na to find Thacklore, their stay had stretched unexpectedly, due to rumors around the city.

Cul’Mon, Tera’thu’s Tohatu—a general who earned his place through mortal combat—had advanced through most of the northern territory. From what Captain Keane had learned, Cul’Mon had commissioned multiple fleets to eliminate any raiders found north of Nelfindar’s waterline. If that wasn’t enough, two of the sovereign trade ports where they took frequent refuge had been burned to the ground by a rising power labeled as the Shadewalker. Ultimately, her father had determined they would stay grounded for a month or two until they could gauge the safety of their usual routes.

The city of Chira’na, surrounded by an impenetrable wall, was all too similar to those days trapped in Kaidech’s slums; another cage, just bigger. It was nothing like being out on the open ocean where the sun kissed her skin and the Rogue’s Rapture escaped the gravity of everyday stagnation. But at least in Chira’na she could isolate herself to tend to her predicament.

She shifted, recrossing her legs on the worn, embroidered pouf beneath her to disguise her self-check—a quick glance under the waistband of her sirwal. She still peered past her shoulder to see if anyone had seen her do it. Then she leaned her elbows against the splintering wood of the low table to squint at the flowing penmanship of Abiathar Methu’su’s journal.

Methu’su’s Nelfinden was poor. His script was difficult to piece out—only a Tera’thian would write with such superfluous curvature—but she kept at its yellowing pages. She needed to understand everything to be sure she wasn’t misinterpreting the tectonic shift in her reality that its contents implied.

Chaos curse it if they hadn’t gotten their money’s worth.

Fankalo jumped as Mitek pressed his face up to the window, eyes framed by his hands to block out the sun’s glare. He rapped on the glass harder than necessary. His breath clouded the surface between them.

“Ay, Brat! Come on, time to come up for air!”

The journal had been a convenient excuse to avoid him. No one would wonder twice on why she’d holed herself away with it.