An Accident of Stars (9 page)

“How sad for you, then, that I take it as one.”

“This friend,” said Gwen, interjecting before Pix could embarrass herself. “Can I meet them?”

Yasha turned abruptly sombre. “Not unless you can wake the dead. His throat was slit two weeks ago. Whether for what he told me or some other pettiness, I can't say, but dead is dead, and Ashasa alone shall judge him. But Matu should return any day now – it's why we sent for you when we did.”

“Is it?” asked Pix, acidly. “Well! I'm glad to know that someone, at least, is worthy of your confidence.” With that, she pushed back her chair and stood. “If nothing else, surely I can be trusted to see that our guest is given fresh clothing? If Zech's ever seen the linen cupboard before, I'll cut my braids.”

Gwen watched in silence as Pix stormed out. As much as she found Yasha wearying at times, the ex-courtier was no better, always so quick to take offence and quicker still to act, as though she were incapable of remembering that her status had been lost when Leoden took power. But then, Gwen supposed, that was as much her fault as anyone's, which ought to make her more tolerant. It didn't, of course – Pix had been just as exhausting as a courtier, if not more so – but at least then she'd gotten her way often enough to be tolerable.

“Tell me,” she said, when Pix's footsteps were no longer audible, “did you really send Matu just because he's a better fighter?”

Yasha snorted with laughter. “Goddess, no! I needed him out from underfoot, and fast. It's one thing him bedding down with Vekshi girls, but Kenan women have no idea how to raise a child without twining themselves round its father and half his friends, and one of the town ladies had started claiming the babe she carried was his. It wasn't, of course – and who is she, to try and spite the maramet so? – but word got about, and several other persons who'd been hoping to snare him in mahu'kedet began to get a bit, shall we say, tempestuous. All a load of nonsense, of course; Pix might not think it, but Matu's sensible enough to have Teket's Kin seal off his fertility until he's ready to use his cock the way Ashasa intended. He's all too lamentably Kenan that way. Honestly! It's enough to drive a sensible woman mad. I'd forgive him, if only he'd give Sashi or Yena a child.”

“And I suppose it didn't hurt this plan that Pix was left in the dark?”

“Oh, Gwen. You do me a disservice.” Yasha dimpled her cheeks like the sweet old grandmother she sometimes pretended to be, and occasionally even was. “Of course I have every faith in her. But sometimes going without does a body good, as well you know. I was only acting in her own best interests.”

Gwen raised an eyebrow. “Intellectual deprivation as a form of self-betterment? You're in danger of turning philosopher on us all.”

“I'll thank you not to sully my ears with such talk,” said Yasha, taking a dignified sip of mege. “I'm a respectably settled matron.”

“Not the words I'd have chosen,” said Gwen, “unless, in my absence,
respectably, settled
and
matron
have suddenly become synonymous with
smuggler
,
spy
and
politically devious expatriate
.”

Yasha
hmph
ed, a disapproving sound entirely at odds with her smug expression. “Young people nowadays,” she muttered grandly. “Always prone to exaggeration.”

Gwen choked on her drink.

A
week ago
, if anyone had told Saffron she'd one day be elated at the prospect of bathing in a tin tub full of cold water, she would have assumed they were either drunk or speculating about life after the inevitable zombie apocalypse. Or both, the two states being far from self-contradictory, but either way, she wouldn't have considered it a likely outcome. Now, however, just getting clean felt blissful. Her school clothes were disgusting, streaked with sweat, blood, vomit, dirt and assorted other substances; removing them had felt more like peeling away a full body scab than undressing.

“Are you all right?” asked Zech, her silhouette hovering on the other side of the modesty screen.

“Fine!” Saffron dipped a toe, then lowered herself in so quickly that water slopped over the side. It was a tight fit – she had to sit with her knees sticking up like mountains – but even though the water was cold, it was also bracing. Using a cloth and a piece of pleasantly scented soap, she began to tidy herself up, maintaining the conversation with Zech as she did so. Though still uncertain about how the zuymet really worked, it was undeniable that her Kenan vocabulary was rapidly increasing.

“So,” she asked, “what do you do here, anyway?”

“You mean, in the compound?”

“No, I mean generally. Do you, um, go to–” she didn't know the Kenan word, and so substituted the English, “–
school
?”

“School?” Zech echoed. There was a soft thump as she sat down. “Huh. That's odd.”

“What is?”

“The word.
School.
” She rolled it on her tongue. “There's nothing quite like that here, but the concept's still in my head.” A pause. “You mean, where you're from, everyone spends years in a… a sort of temple thing, only with no magic, and learn lots of things they might not need to know, all so they can go on to
university
–” another English word, “–and do it all again?”

“That's one way of putting it,” Saffron said, scrubbing the dirt from her neck. “So what
do
you do, then?”

“Well, I learn how to use my staff. Yasha says all self-respecting Vekshi women need to know that much. Observation, memorisation, tactics – spying skills, you know. And I learn the zuymet and writing from Matu – or at least, I did when he was here. You'll like Matu,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Everyone else does, though Sashi and Yena sulk sometimes that he won't give them babies.”

Saffron, who'd been in the middle of washing her face, actually spluttered. “They
what
?”

“
Babies
,” Zech said in English, misunderstanding the problem. “They want his
babies
. Or at least Sashi does; Yena just likes teasing him.” Then she paused, as though belatedly assessing Saffron's tone. “Are babies had differently where you're from? Do girls not want them? Am I missing something?”

She sounded so scholarly, Saffron had to fight the urge to laugh. Instead she said, “No, no, we want babies. I mean, we want them
eventually –
or some of us do, anyway. How old are Sashi and Yena?”

“How old are you?” came the pert reply.

“Sixteen.”

“They're older, but not by much. Sashi is nineteen, Yena is seventeen.”

“And they both want babies,” Saffron repeated, just to be sure. “They both want Matu's babies. What is he, a rock star?”

“A
what
?” came the confused reply. “That doesn't make any sense, Safi. Stars are made of fire, not earth.”

At that, Saffron really did laugh. “Never mind,” she said. Some concepts, apparently, were beyond translation. “I mean, wouldn't they want to marry him first? Or… something?”

“Oh,
that
!” The sound of Zech pulling a face was almost audible, and for an instant Saffron was so reminded of Ruby, who couldn't be more than a year or two older, that her chest constricted with loss.
Don't,
she told herself sharply.
Don't even think about it. Just listen.
Vekshi women don't bind themselves,” Zech, oblivious, was saying. “Ashasa has no husband, Yasha says, and nor should we. Do your people join in mahu'kedet, then?”

“Not quite. For us, it's just one person at a time – I mean, not everyone actually
does
that, but lots of people still think you should, and that it should only ever be boys with girls, never boy-boy or girl-girl. Lots of people don't agree with that last bit, though, but it's still illegal in lots of places.” It felt like a ridiculously infantile way of explaining it, but then she was talking to a grinning tween in a foreign language facilitated by magic, which probably counted as extenuating circumstances.

“You marry like the
Kamne
?” Zech sounded aghast. “But that's barbaric!”

“I guess it is,” said Saffron, not wanting to argue, but just as equally disquieted by the possibility that maybe Zech had a point. Lifting herself onto her knees, she took a deep breath and plunged her head underwater, ridding her stubbled head of soap. “Ah!” she said, coming back up again. “That's better. I'm all done here.” She looked ruefully at her filthy clothes. “Is there anything clean I can change into? “Oh! I didn't think of that. There's a towel there, anyway – I'll see what I can find!”

“Thanks,” said Saffron, but before Zech had even crossed the room, the door opened.

“I see I'm just in time,” a woman said. It took Saffron several startled moments to recognise Pix, and that she was speaking Kenan. As her footsteps came closer, Saffron was suddenly overwhelmed by self-consciousness. Almost tripping over the tub in her haste, she hurried to stand and wrap herself in the towel, barely achieving modesty before the other woman poked her head around the edge of the screen. “Can you understand?” Pix asked, taking care to speak slowly.

“Yes,” Saffron gulped, feeling abruptly chilly. Pix was beautiful: somehow, she hadn't quite noticed yesterday. The observation brought a blush to her cheeks and speeded her pulse, but if the other woman noticed, she refrained from comment, instead placing a folded set of clothes by the edge of the screen. “They should fit,” she said. “And there's a…” Her next words were indecipherable. At Saffron's blank expression, she sighed and repeated the phrase to Zech, who translated it into English.

“A bra and underpants,” she said, stepping into view. “I might need to help with the bra. Pix says that Gwen says it's not like the ones you're used to. We can wash your old things, though, so it doesn't have to be forever.”

“Oh!” If anything, Saffron's blush deepened. “Thank you.” She directed this last to Pix, who smiled, bowed, gave a final, incomprehensible instruction to Zech, and then walked out again, shutting the door behind her.

It was strange, Saffron thought, how much she understood while talking to Zech compared to the gaps she'd experienced with Pix. Even so, the rapidity of her comprehension was terrifying. “What else did she say?”

“That after you're dressed, I should bring you to Yasha's quarters,” Zech said. “And also to say that if you have your bleeding while you're here, you should go to her for some blood moss.”

Utter embarrassment warred with pragmatism. After a moment, pragmatism won, though it was a near thing not helped by a morbid curiosity as to what bloodmoss actually
was
. “I'll do that,” she said, awkwardly.

But for all she was disconcerted by Pix's unexpected frankness, she couldn't fault her consideration. The “bra”, such as it was, turned out to be little more than a piece of fabric sized to wrap around her breasts, more like a binder than anything else, and without Zech's help, it doubtless would have gone the way of yesterday's taal. The other clothes, however, fit surprisingly well, and with not too much fuss. The loose trousers, called
kettha
, turned out to fasten much like a pair of fisherman's pants, while the tunic-top, called a
dou
, was fitted and slit at the sides from thigh to hip. Unlike Zech's outfit, however, Saffron's had no embroidery: the kettha were a plain dark green, the dou lighter.

“How do I look?” she asked, when she was finished.

Zech grinned. “Like a Vekshi woman. It suits you.”

Does it?
Saffron wondered. The room had no mirror, and given what she'd seen of the open windows – none of them had glass – she doubted whether asking for one would help. But then she remembered the tub, which, despite the water's distortions, could still show a reflection. Taking a deep, anticipatory breath, she looked down.

A shaven-haired girl with high cheeks and a narrow, stubborn chin stared up at her. Though her clothes were unfamiliar, and her left hand, when she held it out, was undeniably maimed, Saffron was startled by how much the strange reflection looked like her. The shaved head sharpened her features in a way that was almost flattering. The thought was dizzying, and for a moment, she couldn't see anything at all.

“Come on,” Zech said, holding out a hand. Saffron took it automatically, her vision returning, and felt a shudder of indescribable relief when the younger girl showed no revulsion at her missing fingers. “We need to go. Yasha's waiting.”

“All right,” she said. She didn't look back.

Y
asha
, the Vekshi matriarch, wasn't what Saffron had been expecting. From Gwen and Zech's descriptions, she'd been picturing some cackling, bent-backed crone going bald with age, like a stereotypical cartoon witch. Instead, and despite the disconcerting incongruity of a woman in her eighties having a shaved head, she reminded Saffron more of Judi Dench: powerful, self-assured, and sharp enough to skewer with a glance. Though her papery skin was frog-spotted in places and slack with age, the scrape of grey stubble across her skull lent a military sharpness to her features, while her eyes were such a distinctive shade of brown as to be almost topaz. They made her look tigerish, and every time they fixed on her, Saffron gulped. Thankfully, this wasn't often: like everyone else in the room, Yasha was far more concerned with what had happened the previous evening than with the strange girl in their midst.Throughout Zech's recitation, Saffron kept in contact with her, feeling her Kenan vocabulary expand at a dizzying pace. It felt as if a balloon of knowledge were being inflated inside her skull: the magic was blizzarding her, not just with words, but with images and feelings too, the combination so overwhelming that she struggled to parse the actual narrative.

Even so, it was impossible to miss either Yasha's near-continuous interjections or the effect they had on Gwen, who was visibly gritting her teeth. If the matriarch noticed this disapprobation, however, she didn't show it, continuing to probe Zech on the makeup of the crowd, the presence of the arakoi, the reactions of nearby stallholders. Mercifully, Yasha remained silent as Zech narrated the loss of her fingers – Saffron shuddered to hear it, fighting off a sudden attack of nausea – and once the tale was told, the room fell silent.

Saffron squeezed Zech's hand, and was relieved to feel her squeeze back: Yasha's scrutiny had left them both trembling. For her part, the matriarch sat back in her chair and scowled.

“I don't like it,” she muttered. “All Karavos has been buzzing since yesterday. Whatever my little friends have to say, I'd wager it won't be good.”

Gwen nodded agreement. “I don't like that talk of unity in the realm, either – not when Kadeja's the one saying it. Who knows what she means?” She turned to Zech. “You said she was wearing a taal?”

Zech's brow furrowed. “If you could even call it that. It was belted with metal, made of silk–”

“–half lady, half penitent,” Pix concluded, not without disgust. “Very nice. Next thing you know, she'll shave half her head and laugh as the courtiers call it fashion.”

Saffron looked hesitantly at Gwen. “I don't understand,” she said. “Why do her clothes matter? Why shave half her head?”

Gwen answered in Kenan, speaking slowly. “The taal is a commoner's garment. There are lots of different kinds, and if you know how to look for it, they tell you who the wearer is. How they're wrapped, the material they're made of – everything points to class, wealth, status. It's not something a noble would wear unless they wanted to show humility. It means Kadeja went to the Square of Gods as a penitent, trying to show deference to Ashasa. But it was richly made, designed to show her beauty at the same time. The Vex'Mara is vain, girl. She claims still to be a priestess – it's why her hair is uncut – but if she meant true deference…”

Squashing down her fury at the woman, Saffron scoured her own memories. “Before Zech came, she did cut some of her hair and drop it in the fountain. She was going to cut her arm, too, but then she noticed me.”
And all while you stood there wondering what she was looking at
.

Pix frowned. “A small penance, but even so–”

A sudden commotion from outside cut her off. Yasha stood instantly, her staff in hand before Saffron could so much as blink. The noise grew louder: voices shouting, the stamp of feet, and the unmistakable whinny of horses. This last surprised her, as the only horse she'd thus far seen belonged to the Vex'Mara – and at that thought, her blood turned icy.
What if she's found me? What if she tracked us here?

“Everyone with me. Now.” Yasha's tone brooked no disobedience.

Saffron walked between Zech and Gwen. The latter flashed her a grim smile.

“This won't concern you,” she said in English, “but whatever it turns out to be, you keep with me, just to be on the safe side. All right?”

Saffron nodded, not trusting herself to speak in either language.

Though she'd caught glimpses of people other than Zech, Yasha, Gwen and Pix around the compound, it hadn't prepared her for the reality of how many women – and they were overwhelmingly women – were filing through the hallways and out to the courtyard. Blinking in the daylight, Saffron felt a clench of trepidation. The gates were open, though several children rushed hurriedly to close them, and a pair of snorting, lathered horses pranced awkwardly around a third whose rider had fallen from the saddle, one long leg comically raised where his boot was caught in the stirrup. In the middle of all this, a skinny boy with golden skin and hair like black feathers was struggling and failing to grab hold of the trailing reins, trying not to step on the man in the process.

It was like something out of a pantomime. Yasha made a disgusted noise and clicked her fingers at Zech.

“Go and help that useless master of yours, will you? And Jeiden, too, if his pride will allow it.”

Grinning, Zech rushed to obey. She was, Saffron had to admit, quite effective; whereas the boy's quick movements had startled the horses into dancing away from him, Zech approached calmly, grabbed their reins, handed them to the boy – who favoured her with a truly mutinous stare – and then began to free the man's boot from the stirrup.

“Zechalia!” the man called out, lifting his head slightly from the dust. Even to Saffron's unpracticed ear, his words were decidedly slurred. “Good t'see you! Ugh!” As Zech freed his boot, his leg fell down with a thump that further startled his mount.

“Matuhasa idi Naha!” Yasha called angrily. “Get up this instant or I won't be responsible for your sister's actions!”

Perhaps it was a side effect of the zuymet, or maybe she was imagining things, but just at that moment, Saffron would've sworn that Zech's whole body went tense. Too quietly for anyone else to hear, she saw the man say something to his student, then Zech relaxed again, and began the laborious process of trying to haul him upright by his armpits.

Saffron couldn't say later why she chose that moment to walk forwards and help, despite the strangeness of the situation and the fact that Gwen had specifically told her to stay put. But move she did, earning herself a scowl from the boy and a grateful smile from Zech, who quickly made room for her.

“You take his left arm; I'll take his right. On three?”

“On three,” Saffron affirmed.

“You're new!” said Matuhasa, squinting up at her. He tried for what was probably meant to be a roguish smile; it looked more like a grimace. “Be gentle with me, will you? I've had a hard ride.”

“One,” said Zech, favouring him with a stern look.

“You know, I can prob'ly manage on my own, if you'll just let–”

“Two,” said Saffron.

“Or not,” said Matuhasa. “Remember, be–”

“Three!” said Zech and Saffron, hauling together.

With a drunken half-roar, Matuhasa braced against the ground, pushed backwards, and somehow managed to stagger to his feet. He was so tall that halfway through his straightening up, both Zech and Saffron had to step backwards. Matuhasa staggered, bracing himself against the neck of the nearest horse, which snorted and rolled an eye at this ungainly treatment.

“–gentle. Or not,” he muttered, reaching out and ruffling Jeiden's hair. “Good lad. You'll see to the horses?”

“Right away,” said Jeiden, his voice stiff with humiliation.

“Good lad,” Matuhasa said again, swaying upright and clumsily brushing his hands down his clothes. “Well, then. Let's go, hmm?”

Saffron stared at him, trying to work out if Matuhasa –Matu–was the tallest man she'd ever seen. Either way, he towered at a height of well over six feet, positively dwarfing Zech and Jeiden. For all his loftiness and long arms, however, he had no bulk; Saffron's mother would have called him a tall streak of pump-water. Like Pix, his skin was golden brown, his hair the same glossy black as hers, but where his sister's was worn neatly in braids, Matu's was left to cascade freely down his back and shoulders, long enough to swing above the middle of his back. His face was scruffy and his brown eyes bloodshot, but even so, he was undeniably handsome, sharp-featured and straight-jawed enough for a magazine cover. Besides the boots that had apparently been his downfall, he wore fitted brown pants beneath a short-sleeved black tunic that was both like and unlike the ones worn by Vekshi women.

Kenans might not know what a rock star is
, Saffron thought, dazedly,
but that doesn't mean they don't have any
.

As Jeiden sulkily led the horses away, Matu made a faltering gesture of obedience to Yasha, first cupping his outstretched hands, then closing them together.

“You're drunk,” said Pix, into the silence that followed.

“Very,” Matu replied, still swaying on his feet. His bloodshot gaze slid to Yasha. “But then, I s'pose that's less surprising to some than others.”

Now,
that's
interesting,
Gwen thought.

There was a split-second pause before Yasha elected to reassert her authority. “All right! Everyone, back to your chores. What is this, a temple day? Matu's back, and he's drunk, and that's it. Move!” She emphasised the final word with a habitual thump of her staff. When Matu had the temerity to grin at this, she promptly whacked him about the legs with it, just as she'd done to Gwen the day before. “And you!” Her glower could have melted an iceberg. “Inside now, before you bring further disgrace to that shambling boarding house you Kenans call a family! No offence,” she added, presumably for Pix's benefit, but for once the ex-courtier appeared more concerned with her brother's antics than anything the matriarch had to say.

Gwen glanced back at Zech and Saffron, and cursed under her breath to see that both were flushed. Though the younger girl's exhilaration undeniably came from having bested Jeiden in front of the whole compound, Saffron's reddened cheeks were another matter. To say that Gwen was immune to the pleasures of the flesh was inaccurate – her aromanticism by no means precluded her enjoyment of sex, on those (now lamentably rare) occasions when the opportunity of having some presented itself. Nonetheless, she'd grown old enough to appreciate Matu's beauty in a strictly ornamental sense, the way she might similarly admire a well-made sword or a Ming vase. Or so she told herself, anyway; it made things easier. She'd therefore failed to anticipate the effect he might have on Saffron Coulter, even if her first impression of him was as an unshaven wreck who'd fallen off his own horse.
Which isn't like him at all,
she thought, frowning.
So far as I know, he hasn't drunk since–

Her head jerked up of her own accord. Matu, Pix and Yasha were already heading back inside, but just for an instant, Gwen felt sure she'd seen a flash of triumph in the old woman's eyes.
Surely not,
she thought, but her heart was racing anyway, and as she waved Zech and Saffron over, she forgot to be angry.

“Come with me,” she said. Exchanging a glance, the two girls obeyed, flanking her as they headed back inside.

“Gwen?” Zech asked, catching her mood. “What's happening?”

“I don't know yet, but I'm starting to have my suspicions.”

One thing was certain: Matu wasn't feigning drunkenness, nor had he been exaggerating its effects. He could barely walk in a straight line, continually trailing a hand on the wall for balance. His black hair swung like a horse's tail – which, if Yasha's assessment of his private life could be believed, wasn't far wrong, assuming the horse in question was a stallion.
Ming vase
, Gwen thought sternly.

When they reached the matriarch's quarters, Matu barged ahead to his usual chair and sat down heavily, resting his head in his hands. He was muttering to himself, and once Pix closed the door behind them, he looked up, and Gwen was startled – and, guiltily, thrilled – to see that he was weeping.

“You vindictive old crow,” he said, staring at Yasha. “You knew, didn't you? Why else would you send me?”

Yasha's eyes glittered. “It's true, then? She's alive?”

“She's alive,” Matu whispered. “I saw her. Gods forgive me, but I saw her, and I wept, and I've scarce stopped since.”

Pix sucked in breath, gripping the edge of the table. Her whole body tensed from hip to shoulder, as though she were made of wood. “Matu, if I'd known–”

“–you'd have sent me anyway. Don't try to pretend otherwise.” He swiped a hand fiercely across his face, as though such a gesture were all it took to turn off his grief. “Yasha did you a favour. Now I need only hate her, not you.”

“Who's alive?” asked Zech, cutting to the quick of it. Saffron looked equally bemused. All the adults froze, as though even saying the name out loud would bring the wrath of Leoden down upon them. Then:

“Amenet,” Matu said softly. Coming from him, it sounded like a prayer, and even though she'd already guessed as much, hearing it confirmed set Gwen's head to spinning.

Saffron blinked. “But isn't she dead?”

“She was,” said Matu. “We thought she was, I mean. Everyone did. When she met with Leoden to accept his terms, he poisoned her, killed her guard, then came for her supporters. But whatever she drank didn't kill her. Instead, she woke up three days later outside the city, protected by men and women she'd never seen before. None of them knew who'd saved her – or if they did, they weren't telling. Guards don't have the imagination for long term lies, I've found. One of them said they thought a Shavaktiin had got her out, but that can't have been right.”