Hidden Sun Page 10

  Had he been hurt on the road? Was he distressed? Did he have an air of guilt about him? But Sorne could hardly have interrogated his source; he would have had to pretend to be making a casual enquiry. She settled on, “Just… was he well?”

  “The trader didn’t mention any injury or malady.”

  “Thank you, Captain. That’s good news.” Not really news at all, but she did not want to appear ungrateful.

  Chapter 18

  Rhia woke up with a start. I’m being strangled!

  No, wait, she was twisted up in a hammock, wound tight like knotted laundry. The wooden ceiling pressed down on her–

  Nothing to panic about. She was in a wagon, out in the skyland.

  Around her, people were waking up; someone had lit the lantern. It must be morning. Her backside was numb and her shoulders ached from being squeezed by the hammock. But the hammock had looked more comfortable than the bare benches below. She had got some sleep.

  She eased herself out of her contorted position, wincing at the stab of pins and needles in her legs.

  “Need a hand getting down?”

  She peered over the hammock’s edge to see Breen looking up. “Where’s Sorne?”

  Breen nodded towards the open door, “Outside, having a necessary. He’ll be back soon.”

  “Right. Yes, some help please…”

  Breen was as considerate as a courtier, steadying the hammock and offering an arm for support.

  Breakfast was black bread and fruit-water, dispensed from the curtained alcove by the mousy man and the prostitute. The wagon lurched into motion as they were eating. It was still dark outside.

  Dawn oozed in. The wagon soon became bright and stuffy.

  Rhia would have liked to read her papers, but that would not be appropriate for a poor widow. Instead she mentally reviewed her knowledge of the skyland. In a couple of days’ – or rather a couple of nights’ – time she might be in a position to confirm the existence of a unique feature mentioned by Wanderer of Prin; whilst he was not the most reliable source, Rhia thought this structure too outlandish, too unexpected to be the product of his imagination.

  Lunch was more black bread and smoked meat. Rhia had no idea what meat. The hammocks weren’t broken out for siesta; people just slept where they sat. Rhia hunched down, concerned that if she did doze off she would end up with her head on the shoulder of one of the soldiers. She need not have worried. She was too uncomfortable to sleep.

  Instead, she returned to the image that had haunted her dreams for months, pale hair in bloodied water, and found herself reliving the memory she had hoped the excitement of the journey might drive away.

  A rare conjunction, all three Strays in a moonless sky, had kept her up late: watching, sketching, thinking. She had finally headed for bed around the twenty-seventh hour. When the front door opened, she halted on the central staircase, heart thudding. Just Etyan, out all night again, coming home.

  The noise he made as he lurched into the hall stopped her in her tracks. It sounded like a sob.

  She crept down the stairs then called out, “Etyan?” He was heading for the kitchen but looked up at her voice. In the lamplight his expression was furtive, fraught. Rhia smelled kreb-smoke.

  “Are you all right?”

  He tried to wave her away, the gesture clumsy, uncoordinated. “Fine. Drunk. Need some water.”

  There was a dark stain on the shoulder of his doublet. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, sis. I’m sure.” His voice was too loud.

  She could have let him be, but she had been ignoring his unruly behaviour for too long, unsure what to do now he was too old to listen to nurses or tutors – or her. But she needed to keep him under control, stop him getting in trouble. It was for his own good. “If something’s wrong, you know you can talk to me.”

  “Told you. Nothin’s wrong!”

  And that was how he repaid her concern these days: disdain and petulant anger. She was getting sick of it. “In that case, Etyan, why don’t you try growing up?”

  “Why don’ I what?”

  “Grow up. You’re happy enough to tell everyone you’re head of House Harlyn now, so why not start acting like it?”

  “’S none of your business how I act.”

  He was still the cheeky, charming boy she’d had Markave slap when he stole food from the kitchen or played pranks on the other servants. That had to change. “Yes it is. I’ve been managing this household for years, and now, because you were born male, it’s yours. But I won’t let you fritter away our fortune and family name on feckless companions and dubious women.”

  “Dubious women…” He’d twitched at that, then shook his head. “Told you, not your business how I spen’ my time or money.” He looked her blearily in the eye. “You’re not my mother.”

  It hung there between them for a moment. She could have – should have – let his comment go, just turned away. But instead she said, “No. She’s dead. Thanks to you.”

  He tensed, like he was going to leap up the stairs and attack her. Then his face crumpled. He turned and stalked into the kitchen, slamming the door.

  She should have gone after him then, should have apologized. But she was tired and infuriated, and he’d be easier to deal with when he was sober.

  Except as it turned out, that was the last thing she had said to him.

  She sighed, and shifted on the bench to get, if not comfortable, at least a little less uncomfortable. Oh Etyan, you poor, foolish boy. Where are you? What are you doing now?

  By the end of the day all three soldiers were on friendly terms with their neighbours. Rhia, shielded by their combined presence, had spoken to no one.

  When she disembarked that evening, the mountains dominated the northern horizon. The glow of the land appeared dimmer tonight, though that may have been due to Greymoon being brighter. If memory served, the Maiden should be visible in the west.

  Lekem and Breen were not paying her any attention. She waited until one of the other travellers distracted Sorne, then ducked under the wagon.

  Had anyone asked her – not that anyone had – she would have explained that she had made the sightglass for the Harbinger. However, with the exact time of the erratic star’s return unknown, her immediate priority was the Strays. The three most prominent stars in the heavens were named for the wandering courses they described through the field of fixed stars, which foxed the natural enquirers. The Church claimed the Strays’ wayward nature was a matter of gender, that these celestial bodies were female, and hence unpredictable. Rhia objected to this on a number of grounds, the two most pressing being that the Strays were not unpredictable, merely difficult to chart, and that to assign gender to heavenly bodies made no sense. But the Strays were a mystery she would love to solve.

  The Maiden was low, making positioning the sightglass a challenge. Rhia ended up sat cross-legged with it jammed in the angle between spoke and redolent wheel-rim. Different sounds came from out of the fitful dark tonight, mainly rumbles and rustles.

  When she finally located the Maiden through the sightglass it shone bright enough to make her gasp. Her gasp became an “oh” of wonder when she saw the star’s shape. Not a point of light, but a fat crescent. She blinked and looked again to be sure. It was true. The Maiden was a crescent.

  There, in a single glance, was proof of what most enquirers believed against both common knowledge and the implicit teachings of the Church: that the Strays were, like the Moons, like the world itself, spheres. Thus, when the Sun was off to one side of them, they showed as crescents.

  Although mathematics was not her strong point, now she had this confirmation, she must return to her earlier attempts to model the heavens. A practical approach, perhaps the contraption of balls on sticks she had once discussed with Father. The world in the centre, then balls representing the Moons, the Strays and the Sun arrayed around them in order. The sticks would need to be placed firmly into a medium which allowed them to be moved, to cha
rt the course the heavenly bodies were observed to take. Sand perhaps, in a deep container. No, that would not be stable enough. Ironwood rings, then–

  “Hello?”

  “Under here, Captain,” she said wearily. “And I’m fine. Still.”

  “In that case, with all due respect, would you mind explaining why you are spending so much time hiding under the wagon?”

  Would he care that she had just confirmed a fundamental truth about the physical universe? No, he would not. “I’m not hiding. I’m carrying out observations.”

  “Observations?”

  “Of the sky.” From under a wagon: she realized how odd that sounded. “Surely, Captain, you have heard the rumours about crazy Countess Harlyn and her peculiar hobbies?”

  “I’m not interested in rumours, only in keeping you safe.”

  “For which I am grateful. But I am not in any danger.”

  “We don’t know what’s out here.”

  “Actually, I do.” She realized how arrogant that sounded – and untrue too, given the sketchy nature of writings on the skyland. “Nevertheless, if it puts your mind at rest, feel free to have one of your men observe me while I observe.” If she must have a chaperone she would prefer one of his subordinates.

  “That may be for the best.”

  He showed no sign of going away. “All right, then; for now, I’ll return with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She should not try him. And this one observation gave her plenty to think on.

  As she entered the firelight the other woman looked up and smiled at her. This time, Rhia smiled back. She had been thinking of her pretence at lower status as a drawback, but it allowed her to talk to people who would otherwise defer and fall silent in her presence. There was more than the life of the skyland to be explored here.

  She headed round the fire, towards the prostitute. Sorne trailed her for a few steps, then peeled off.

  Unsure of the correct approach, Rhia stood in the woman’s eyeline and smiled. The mousy man was playing ’bones with his neighbour; he looked up at Rhia, then back at his game. The woman nodded to her and when Rhia hesitated, said, “Well, sit down if you’re going to.”

  “Thanks.” Rhia crouched rather than sat; the prostitute was sitting on a stool and she wanted to look her in the eye. “My name’s Rhina.” She felt like a five year-old at a party.

  “I’m Mella. First time in the skyland?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t seem scared.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see the world.”

  “Right. More interested in people myself.”

  Rhia had no answer to that. She supposed she had to be, to do what she did. “So, are you travelling to Zekt to, um, work?” Presumably they had prostitutes in other shadowlands. Perhaps foreigners were considered exotic, like the skykin she had seen with Father, and could charge more for their services.

  “Not exactly.” Mella waved an expansive hand to take in the camp. “This is where I work.”

  “Oh.” Rhia thought about it for a moment. “Yes, that would be a good arrangement. You don’t need to hire rooms and you get new, ah, clients coming along every time the caravan sets out.”

  Mella nodded. “And a few regulars.”

  “But the skykin, do they mind?”

  “Me plying my trade? Long as I’m not taking the place of a trader with actual goods to move. Not usually a problem on this run. It’s not the most popular one.”

  “Yet you make a good living?”

  “Preut and me don’t do so bad.”

  “And Preut is your… brother?”

  “Brother and pimp. Don’t worry, he doesn’t screw me. But he stops anyone getting rough, negotiates deals, and doesn’t drink too much of the profit. Also manages things on the wagon, of course. This life beats being stuck in a stinking city whorehouse with a bitch of a madam.”

  Which, presumably, Mella had once been. If she travelled with every caravan to Zekt, Mella would have met Etyan. But to ask would reveal an interest and all Rhia knew about this woman was her dubious profession.

  “You know,” Mella was saying, “it’s a funny thing for a respectable widow – you’re a widow, right? – for a widow like yourself to be asking about, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I’m a curious woman. Too curious for my own good, some say.”

  Mella’s smile became cunning. “You don’t say.”

  The prostitute’s manner made Rhia uneasy. That and the thought that Etyan might have been one of her clients. She had no idea what else to say to this woman, who lived such a different life from hers. She straightened, feeling her face colour beneath the mask. “It’s been very nice talking to you. Good night.”

  The look Mella gave her as she left was hard to read.

  Chapter 19

  The light burned. Even so, Dej yearned for it. It drew her from the dark place where she’d been hiding. Hiding from…

  Smells assaulted her. Lemon and shit, roses and rot, new bread and old blood. When she focused on the smells the humming in her ears grew louder, beat faster. Light was the only constant.

  That and life. She was alive. Bare, dusty ground under her, heat on her skin; whatever else, she’d survived.

  It was alive too. The thing in her head. Alive, but separate. In her, but not part of her. That wasn’t how it was meant to be. Your bonding will complete you, the crèche tutors had said. They’d lied. The hollowness inside was still there.

  Dej opened her eyes.

  The sky was white fire.

  She blinked, and something slid across her vision; the world dimmed, became less painful.

  She wriggled her toes. They moved. She stretched her fingers, pressing them into the hot, hard earth. Her body obeyed her. Good. Even as she thought this, her stomach contracted. She was ravenous, and so thirsty her tongue had stuck to the top of her mouth.

  She raised an arm – it felt light, not quite part of her – and looked at it, a thin dark silhouette against the light. She bent the arm to touch her head. Still there: she had wondered for a moment. Touch distracted her from the impossible smells, the unheard sounds. Touch was under her control. She pressed a hand to her forehead.

  Something was stuck there. A leaf? A dressing? Covering the wound. The wound where it had gone into her. It was in there for good, now. But not intruding any more. Not causing pain. Just… there… on the edge of consciousness. Her animus.

  She got her arms under her and sat up. Sounds swirled and smells flashed. Suddenly nauseous, she retched. Nothing came up but at least it unstuck her tongue. She looked around.

  The skyland was alive with light and colour. Everything came with its own back-of-the-nose smell, its unique unheard sound, and snippets of knowledge she’d forgotten or never known. I can’t handle this, it’s too much! She wanted to lie down and close her eyes, hide and withdraw.

  But she needed water, food. How long had she been out of it? And where was everyone else? She should’ve woken up amongst her people, her clan, bonded not just to her animus but to them and theirs.

  There was a dead point in her vision. The ashes of a fire. And where the earth rose up, those were rocks, the same rocks she’d walked through in the dark. Now, the very stone vibrated when she focused on it, a solid, low hum.

  So, she was still at the bonding site. But no one else was.

  She looked away from the crazy landscape. Her gaze fell on her hand. It looked wrong. The fingers were too long, the nails thin and clawlike, the skin scaly, covered in a subtle pattern of gold and pale green-brown.

  She ran her other palm over the back of her hand, felt the tiny ridges and dimples etched into her skin. But if she hadn’t hardened up she’d have fried. She was skykin now, and skykin had scales. All these changes would have hurt like fuck if she’d been conscious when they happened. Her muscles still hurt, like she’d worked too hard in the fields, except it wasn’t just her arms and legs, it was all her muscles.

&n
bsp; Had she taken too long to adjust to her bonding, so the rest of the clan had moved off, taking Pel and Mev with them? But wouldn’t they leave someone here for her? That was the skykin way.

  Unless something had gone wrong.

  Mam Gerisa had sent her off too soon. She hadn’t been ready. The bonding hadn’t worked as it should.

  She realized she was humming to herself, like she did when she was stressed. One thing would make her feel better. She opened her mouth…

  … and croaked like a raven.

  She tried to sing again. This time she managed a low grunting moan. But even that tore at her throat.

  Her animus had taken her voice.

  She’d lost her home, her friend, everything she knew. But the loss didn’t end there. These changes, the ones she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t been ready for, they’d reached inside her and stolen her ability to sing.

  She thumped the ground, then raised her head to scream at the silver sky, “No!” She shouted again, her voice echoing off the rocks, becoming a howl. Her eyes stung but her cheeks stayed dry. Skykin couldn’t cry.

  The skykin who’d brought her here had said You will have no need of music when the world itself sings to you. But the song of the world was chaos. She screamed at the chaos.

  She howled until her throat closed, and she had to stop.

  There was someone behind her.

  She stood up. Her body felt heavy and loose. She curled her fists into her palms, took a deep breath, and turned around.

  She was already getting used to the new way of sensing. Bare rock was less distracting than earth, which was crammed with life; growing, writhing, breathing, hunting. The figure stood on the highest point of the rocky outcrop, and she shone like a beacon. Though the woman stood still and silent, when Dej focused on her she felt the pulse of life, vibrating in its own unique rhythm.

  This was a skykin, one of her people. And she’d sensed her presence, and the fact it was a she, even with her back to her.

  The skykin sprang into motion, leaping down off the rocks. The movement was self-assured, rapid, almost a scamper. Can I do that now?