Third Daughter (The Dharian Affairs, Book One) (31 page)

Devesh would have searched all of Samir with her until they found her father’s killers, would have helped her to unlock the secrets of her past, but Janak had thrown the vault wide open, and it was empty.

Her father had left her.

“I…” Aniri faltered, the images of Janak and Priya swimming in front of her. “I am going to… take a walk.” She backed toward the door she had just come through, nearly tripping before slowly pivoting around to walk forward.

“Yes, run away,” Janak said softly. “Who are we to stop you?”

His words would have sliced pain through her—if she had been capable of feeling anything at all.

“My lady, wait!” Priya said, her silk dress whispering behind Aniri. “I’ll accompany you.”

“No!” Aniri flung out her arm to stop her handmaiden without looking back. Devesh knew her heart better than anyone; he would understand. He would hold her while she put the pieces of it back together again. Aniri turned her head to the side and softened her voice. “No, Priya, stay here. I need to be alone for a while.”

Aniri forced her feet to move, her boots scuffing heel marks on the tiled floor. Pain laced through her palm as she gripped the doorknob and wrenched it open, but she welcomed it.

Anything to distract from the cavern of agony in her chest.

Aniri wandered the hallways of the palace in a daze, her steps pulsing in her hands, keeping time with the beat of her heart. It pounded in her head as well, making her thoughts fuzzy.

All this time, she had thought her mother had abandoned her father’s body, but in truth, her father had left her mother. Everything Aniri knew about the world had somehow gone false. She could hardly trust the steps in front of her to remain solid as her boots silently stepped down them.

She was outside, with no recollection of how she got there.

But she knew where she wanted to go: the Samirian embassy.

The granite outer walls of the Bajiran capital towered above the colorful tumble of houses, marketplaces, and stables that filled it. During the day, the walls were white, but in the twilight, they flickered with gaslamp, the warm amber dancing along the polished rock. Even now, past the dinner hour, people filled the streets. Some spilled out of taverns, clearly gone with drink. Some tucked into darkened crevices, lovers who thought they couldn’t be seen, only the flash of bronze-trimmed buttons gave them away. Everywhere, the city thrummed with heartbeats.

Even at night, Jungali made her dizzy with too much brightness, too much life.

Merchants were still closing up their shops. Aniri pulled her hood forward, shadowing her face. She approached a clockwork tinker, her wares silent except for one tiny automaton lumbering across the table she had set up outside. The shop was a cubby in the lowest level of a three-story stacked apartment, which was crammed between four-story structures on either side. Each ramshackle dwelling seemed to hold the other up, as well as the next one and the next. Aniri pictured one small timber out of place, one decrepit wall falling, and the entire city would crumble after it.

It was like Ash said before: the Jungali were all dependent upon one another, too tightly packed together to exist any other way.

“I’m closed for the day!” the tinker shouted from inside. The shopkeeper fussed with something, her dress a flurry of blue as bright as the Jungali sky and woven with a white thread that ran in jagged lines like mountain peaks. She was bent with age, but she moved fast, scurrying out of her shop to face Aniri. She snatched a tiny automaton from Aniri’s bandaged hand—it was a child’s toy Aniri hadn’t even realized she had picked up. The woman twirled away, waving her off with a wrinkled hand, then stopped, turned back, and peered at Aniri again. Aniri shrank back from the light of the shop, tucking herself farther under her hood, but the woman was upon her again before she could flee.

The tinker examined Aniri’s bandaged hands, then her face in the darkness under her hood. “Do you need some clockwork, child?” Her voice was rough with age, or maybe a cough that came with it, but it was also kind. The woman gestured to her table of clockwork toys. There were all manner of beasts and birds, including a shashee that glinted in the gaslamp.

“No, thank you,” Aniri said. “But I do have need of directions to the Samirian embassy.”

“The embassy?” The shopkeeper swept the gray straggles of her hair off her shoulders. “Are you in some kind of trouble, child?” Her voice was so soft, Aniri could barely hear her over the boisterousness of the street, and she was forced to lean closer.

“No, I…” she stumbled, not expecting to have to explain herself. “I have a message to deliver to the ambassador. I’ve news from Sik province.” She hoped that lie would be sufficient for the shopkeeper. What she really needed was to find Devesh, to have him settle her heart, heal her wounds… but once she gained an audience with the ambassador, finding Devesh should be straightforward.

The shopkeeper hesitated, cocking her head right and left, frowning. “Is it the fashion in Sik, now, to hide your face from your mountain kin?” Her words had some warning in them, but Aniri wasn’t quite sure what it was. She pursed her lips together and stepped back, ready to flee. She would have to find the embassy on her own.

The tinker’s eyebrows lifted, and she raised her hands to stop Aniri. “Do not worry, child. Whatever trouble you are in, I will not speak of it.”

Aniri’s shoulders relaxed. She wasn’t quite sure what trouble the tinker thought she was involved in, but that would suffice as a cover story.

The old woman held up one gnarled finger. “Wait here. I have just the thing for you.”

She shuffled away and disappeared into the shop. Aniri pulled in a slow breath, unsure if she should stay for the woman to return. Before she could decide, the tinker returned. She carried a small basket of cloths, brushes, and tiny bottles with a rainbow of colored liquids. She set the basket on the table with the clockwork, then surprised Aniri by taking her hand.

Aniri nearly pulled out of the old woman’s light grasp, but then she saw the Dharian crest from the engagement party was still inked on the back. The ink had started to fade, and it was half-covered by bandages, but it was clear as day to anyone who cared to look.

And the shopkeeper was staring right at it. “If you are from Sik province, I believe some new ink is in order.” She dropped Aniri’s hand and fished in her basket, coming up with a rough cloth and a bottle of clear liquid that smelled of lemon and oil when she uncorked it.

Aniri simply stared as she wetted the cloth and rubbed it over the exposed crest on Aniri’s hand, wiping away the ink as easily as if it were dirt. This woman was helping her. She had no idea why. Seeing the Dharian crest… the tinker had to know who Aniri was. And yet, without a single question, she was helping Aniri keep her pretense of being from Sik province.

She swallowed back the tears gumming up her throat.

The tinker wiped the last of the ink from the back of her hand and blew on it, bringing a slight chill to Aniri’s wetted skin. Then she retrieved another bottle, this one dark with ink, and a quill with a tiny tip. Not looking up, the tinker asked, “Northern Sik or Southern?”

Aniri cleared her throat before trusting herself to speak. “Northern.”

The woman carefully swiped a curling set of swirls and dots. A bird’s wing appeared; the tinker labored over it with an artist’s love. When it was done, Aniri had half of a Sik crest peeking from her bandage. The shopkeeper gestured that Aniri should blow on it, which she did. The ink quickly dried in the cool mountain air.

She didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” was all she could manage. The tinker ducked her head, a nod of sorts, as she tucked the bottles back into her basket. She shuffled back inside her shop, and Aniri waited for her return, wishing desperately for some way to thank the woman for her help. She reached into her cloak pocket, hoping she might have a spare yakle from the shashee trader in Sik, but there was nothing. She looked again at the Sik crest—it was on the same hand as her father’s bracelet.

It was difficult with her bandages and only one hand, but she worked the tiny leather clasp free. Just then, the tinker returned. She stood tall now, her slender frame no longer bent. Her hands were cradled, palm up, in front of her, and in the center sat a tiny mechanical shashee—like the one on the table, only more beautiful. Small brass plates covered the skin of the clockwork beast, like toy armor, and it was speckled in minute crystals that caught the gaslamp and sparkled.

“A souvenir for you.” The woman gave her a quick wink. “When you return to Sik province, you can tell them Bajiran clockwork is finer than any Samirian design.”

“I… I don’t have any money,” Aniri stumbled.

The woman frowned deeply, wrinkles appearing to chastise Aniri.

“But I have something for you as well,” she said hastily. She held out her father’s bracelet, laying it next to the shashee before gently retrieving the tiny mechanical wonder from the woman’s palm.

Aniri marveled at the device. Jewels outlined a tiny ring saddle on its back, and the horns were sharpened like blades. “It’s beautiful. We have nothing so lovely in… Sik province.”

The woman’s face lit up, wrinkles banished, and Aniri felt a flush of warmth run through her.

“There is a small key in the belly of the beast,” the tinker said, pointing one delicate finger at it. “With winding, it moves. Like Devpahar has come to life in your hand. She is wise and steady and will calm all your troubles if you but ask.”

Aniri looked at the tiny beast and could see the goddess paintings on it now. Tears pooled in her eyes. Aniri slipped her arms around the tiny, old woman and embraced her. Then awkwardness overcame her, and she pulled back, wiping her face and tucking the shashee into her cloak pocket.

The woman smiled broadly. “The embassy is at the gate to the city. You would have passed right by it on the way in.” She pointed down the cobbled street. “Look for the big, ugly guards with the blunderbusses, and you’ll know you’ve found it.”

“Thank you,” Aniri repeated. Before she could tear up again, she whirled around, her cloak fanning out and sweeping the street around her. She pulled her hood tight and skirted the raucous men and laughing women who lounged in the darkening streets.

Somehow they no longer seemed too bright or too many.

Aniri made quick time through the narrow streets. The teetering apartments and taverns still bustled around her, but the shops were closing, and the streets grew more quiet and dark as she approached the edge of the city. When she finally came to a massive gate in the outer walls, she knew the Samirian embassy must be close. The enormous metal-strapped, wooden doors looked like they could withstand a battalion of armored shashee. Nearby, thick chains on wheels would open the gate, but it was shut tight for the eve. To the right sat a large, red stone building. Two men armed with blunderbusses guarded the wrought-iron gate of the entrance. Their black coats and midnight-dark squarish fur hats were similar to the Samirian guards at the airharbor.

They were quite ugly, just as the tinker had said.

Aniri took a steadying breath and approached them. She held her hood close around her face, careful to keep her newly-inked Sik province crest visible. “I have an appointment to meet with the ambassador. I have news from Sik province.”

The guards frowned, then looked at each other. Some silent understanding passed between them.

The ugliest one said, “It’s late. The embassy is closed for the eve.”

She squared her shoulders and tried to look intimidating without baring too much of her face. “Surely the ambassador hasn’t already taken to her bed. Even if you have to wake her, she’ll want to hear my news.” When they hesitated, she added in a lowered voice, “What are your names? I’ll be sure to tell her who turned me away while she awaited my report.”

The less ugly guard shifted from foot to foot, then gave the other a meaningful look.

His partner sighed and grunted out, “Follow me.” He pressed a heavy ring made from tiny clockwork to a mechanism in the gate. The lock hummed and clicked, and he withdrew his hand again. She followed him through a short courtyard of neatly-trimmed prickly bushes, the kind that could survive a winter in the mountains of Jungali. Then he held the door to the embassy entrance open for her.