An Accident of Stars Page 5

  I can’t run anymore. There’s no point. I don’t know where I am or how to find Gwen, and anyway, I’m hurt. By that logic, waiting in one place – particularly an open place like this, where a girl alone wasn’t so conspicuous – was a sensible thing to do. Saffron’s only hope was that Gwen or Pix would come looking for her. Both women knew the city; they must have some idea of where she’d fallen off and how far she might reasonably have run. Until they found her, Saffron would have to be patient. To pass the time (and to keep herself calm), she decided to keep watch on the fountain. If any of the locals drank from it, she’d take that as a sign that she was allowed to do so too. If not, she’d stay where she was.

  Nobody’s missing me yet. She took a deep breath and repeated the thought, clinging to it even though it wasn’t quite true. As best she could reckon it, less than three hours had passed since her arrival: assuming she’d still been on Earth, she would have well and truly missed the last bus home. But that wasn’t necessarily cause for her family to worry. She might just have chosen to walk instead, or been caught up in whatever it was they thought she was doing. Saffron’s parents respected her independence, and though she tried to be considerate of this, she wasn’t perfect. Surely thinking the worst about what might have happened to a daughter would be their last resort? If only she could get home somehow, even if it was as late as tomorrow afternoon, she could make some excuse for her absence – a secret boyfriend, perhaps, or an impromptu bushwalk. Whatever the punishment was, she’d take it gladly – grounding, no internet, no phone, no TV, everything – if it meant she could stop their worrying.

  But though she fought against it, the tears returned, a thin trickle of silent salt that seeped down her cheeks and into the stripes of her taal.

  Gwen pulled up in the compound’s courtyard, jerking so hard on the bridle that her roa tossed back its head and kree’d in protest. Leaping down, she dropped both her reins and the lead rope of Saffron’s mount. The beasts stood free, their long coats matted with sweat.

  “Pix!” she shouted, striding towards the group of women emerging from the main building. “Is Pix back yet?”

  “Why isn’t she with you?” snapped Yasha, thumping her staff on the earth. Despite her age, the Vekshi matriarch remained a formidable woman. “What happened?”

  Though normally tolerant of Yasha, Gwen had no time for her now, and felt strongly enough that without thinking, she reverted to English. “Fuck! Exactly when did the arakoi start speaking Vekshi?” At Yasha’s raised brow, she swore again and switched languages. “A white girl came through with me – don’t ask why, I’m still not sure myself – and she’s out there now, alone. I need to find her.”

  Yasha’s gaze narrowed. “Not you, Gwen. Send a Vekshi to find a Vekshi. It attracts less notice.”“She doesn’t belong to your people, Yasha,” Gwen growled. “That’s the problem! She doesn’t know even a word of Kenan, and right now–”

  Yasha raised her staff and jabbed it into Gwen’s solar plexus, hard. Coughing, Gwen staggered back, glaring daggers at the matriarch. Stubborn old hag!

  “Zechalia!” Yasha called imperiously, ignoring Gwen’s resentment. A scrawny, androgynous girl of eleven darted forwards, waiting patiently for instructions. Her skin was weirdly mottled – a calico mix that always made Gwen think of vitiligo in reverse, a light base turning dark. “You will find Gwen’s stranger and bring her here. Use your magic if you must, but don’t overstretch yourself. Even the supplest reed will snap if bent too far.” She turned to Gwen. “Zech is fast. She knows the city. Tell her what to find, and she’ll find it.”

  Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting irritation. It made sense not to go herself – she was tired, her legs stiff after riding a roa for the first time in months – and even at her full strength, Zech would still be faster. Nonetheless, it rankled. Saffron was her responsibility, and she was loath to entrust her safety to anyone else, let alone a child. But Yasha was stubborn as a stableful of mules, and Gwen was woman enough to admit that she had no choice, whatever the cost to her pride.

  “Her name is Saffron,” she said, finally. “She’s sixteen, wearing a red and yellow striped taal over foreign clothes – and if you can see them, you’ll know them as such. She fell after the Third Wall, but before the Blue Gate, along the market stretch. Pale skin, green eyes.” She took a breath, not liking what would come next. “Blonde hair, worn long. We made her tie it back, but still, she doesn’t understand–”

  “Go.” Yasha spoke softly, but her command was unmistakable. Zech shot off like a stone from a sling, her bare feet kicking up dust. Gwen watched the girl until she was out of sight.

  “Trishka has been asking for you,” Yasha said, offhandedly. “Unless you plan to stand here like a lump until Zech returns, I’d suggest you come and pay your respects.”

  “Pix isn’t back yet,” Gwen pointed out. “Something could have happened to her.”

  Yasha snorted. “Pix has a wife, two husbands and a strong knife-arm. She can take care of herself. Now, come!” She emphasised this last remark by thwacking her staff against Gwen’s thighs.

  Stifling her protests, Gwen began to follow the old woman inside. That’s the problem with life, she reflected sourly. No matter how old you get, there’s always someone older in charge.

  After fifteen minutes of being stared at by curious strangers and wondering what she was doing wrong, Saffron finally twigged to the obvious: her hair was visible. Swearing under her breath, she reached up, feeling for the hood of her taal, only to provoke an unwelcome slithering sensation as the whole thing started to slip. Her fall and subsequent dash through the city had loosened the wrap, and now she was in serious danger of accidentally disrobing. Gingerly, she lowered her hands, and was rewarded when the garment stayed put. As carefully as possible, she started to run her fingers over the taal’s folds, trying to understand how Pix had wrapped it in the first place. If she could just figure out where the main creases were meant to be, then she might be able to tighten it up. Once her body was secured, she could try for the hood again.

  She’d been doing this for scarcely a minute when someone at the opposite end of the square started shouting. Immediately fearful that the guards had found her, Saffron whipped her head up; she’d run if she had to, despite feeling like she’d been shoved through a blender. But instead of the gate guards, with their Roman-style kilts and breastplates, she found herself watching quite a different panoply approach. Surrounded by a phalanx of attendants all clad in identical blue and gold was a beautiful woman riding not a roa, but a handsome, blood-bay horse. Yet it was the woman herself who caught Saffron’s attention. Not only was she the first white person she’d seen on this side of the portal, but her blonde hair was uncovered, bound in the same sort of complex braids that Pix had worn. The only difference was that where Pix had four braids long enough to touch her back, this woman had an uneven three – one on the right side, two on the left – that were so short they barely reached past her jaw.Saffron raised a hand to her head, momentarily heedless of the danger to her taal. Had Gwen lied to her? This woman’s hair was neither shaved nor covered, and she was clearly someone important. Perhaps the Vekshi had changed, and Gwen had been mistaken.

  As the woman and her escort came closer, the rest of the crowd pulled back to a respectful distance, silent after their initial shouts. Gracefully, the woman dismounted, handed the reins of her bay to the nearest blue-robed man and approached the fountain on foot. Like so many people here, she wore a taal, but where theirs were cheerful and casual, hers was opulent. The material of it shone like silk, coloured a deep red that rippled gold in the fading sunlight, and it was so long that it trailed along the ground like a bride’s gown. Cinched at the waist, it was carefully belted with a ring of overlapping metal discs not dissimilar to the one Pix wore, but golden rather than bronze, and studded with red stones. The woman’s feet were bare, and when she reached the fountain, she knelt.

  The entire square fell silent. Sa
ffron was transfixed as any local, unable to look away. From somewhere within the folds of her taal, the woman pulled out a knife. She began to speak, her voice melodious and strong, though the words themselves remained utterly foreign. Hefting the knife, she began to cut a tiny lock of hair from each of her braids, murmuring what sounded like a benediction as she dropped the golden threads into the water. Having done this, she held up her arms as if in prayer, and Saffron instantly understood two things: firstly, that the woman meant to cut herself as part of whatever ritual she was undertaking; and secondly, that she was missing the two smallest fingers on her left hand. Entranced, Saffron watched as the woman moved the knife closer to her arm, feeling intensely relieved that she hadn’t drunk from the fountain after all.

  But just as she touched the blade to her skin, the woman looked out across the square and stopped mid-chant, her eyes widening at some sight or other. Slowly, she pulled the blade away and stood, walking around the fountain to get a better look. Behind her, the men of her escort began to glance and murmur amongst themselves, evidently puzzled by their mistress’s behaviour. Saffron looked left and right, curiously trying to catch a glimpse of whatever oddity had caught the woman’s attention.

  It wasn’t until the crowd fell back that she realised it was her.

  * * *

  Zech ran through the city, her sharp eyes peeled for a foreign girl foolish enough to wear her hair like a priestess of Ashasa. Several times, she paused to ask if anyone had seen a Vekshi girl run by, and was finally rewarded when a middle-aged stallholder answered in the affirmative. Her elation died, however, when he pointed her towards the Square of Gods. Thanking him, she ran off at top speed, all while panting the foulest words she knew – and as she’d learned at Yasha’s knee, that made them foul indeed.

  Don’t let it be today, she pleaded, her inner thoughts contrasting with her spoken oaths. Ashasa and Sahu, don’t let it be today!

  But the gods evidently had other plans. Not only was the ceremony happening today, but Zech was too late to stop the foreigner getting caught in the middle of it. Squirming her way through the crowd, she was just in time to see no less a woman than the Vex’Mara Kadeja hauling a civilian girl into the open.

  Thorns and godshit!” she whispered, Gwen’s description in no way having prepared her for the full reality of the situation. Saffron was barely dressed, her taal in such disarray it was a miracle it hadn’t fallen off completely. She looked utterly terrified, though doubtless she had no idea how appropriate her reaction really was. At least ignorance bestowed on her the good sense not to struggle; though clearly straining against the Vex’Mara’s hold, she neither screamed nor twisted, which was the only mercy on offer in such a hideous situation.“The Mother Sun is speaking, truly!” Kadeja announced, a sharp smile playing at her lips. “Who are you to walk without penitence in Ashasa’s sight? Speak!” At Saffron’s silence, the Vex’Mara pursed her lips and repeated her command in Vekshi – unaware, as Zech was not, that the hapless girl couldn’t speak a word of either tongue. When Saffron shook her head, her mouth firmly shut, Kadeja grew furious, slapping her first across one cheek, then the other.

  “Speak!”

  Zech felt frantic. Her job was to bring the foreigner back to the compound, but how could she stand up to the Vex’Mara? Not even the temples were that brave! But Yasha had boasted of her skills to Gwen; they were counting on her to bring the girl, and there was no time to run back home and ask for help. As Kadeja shook and slapped her captive before the mute crowd, Zech summoned all her courage and stepped forward. Shaking in every limb, she made the proper obeisance due a woman of the Vex’Mara’s rank and knelt, her outstretched hands turned palm-up and crossed at the wrist. “Most noble and exalted Vex’Mara Kadeja, I beg you to show mercy to my cousin.”

  Kadeja paused, her free hand raised for another blow. Coolly, she dropped her arm and looked at Zech, though if anything, her grip on Saffron had tightened. Her eyes widened as she took in Zech’s appearance – not even the Vex’Mara was immune to the novelty of her calico colouring – then narrowed again as she spoke, her Vekshi accent turning the Kenan syllables harsh. “She will not speak. She disrespects her betters and our Mother Sun. Why should I show her mercy?”

  Zech licked her lips, desperately trying to concoct a lie. “My cousin is… is moonstruck, Vex’Mara, and newly arrived in Karavos. Her aunts and mother let her run wild – she doesn’t understand any proper tongue, nor why her hair should be cut, and when we raised a blade to shear it, she ran. She is… very stupid,” she finished lamely, her usual eloquence subsumed by fear.

  And yet – and yet! – the Vex’Mara’s grip on Saffron’s arm was loosening. “I see,” she said softly, and Zech felt weak with relief. She’d done it; she’d talked Kadeja down! “But moonstruck or not, it behooves us all to honour the goddess. Your cousin ran from your mother’s blade; she will not run from mine.”

  Zech’s veins turned to ice. Saffron was staring at her desperately, hopefully, unable to know what was being said yet understanding, at least, that Zech had stopped her from being beaten. “Come with me,” Kadeja said, and if her words meant nothing to Saffron, the gentleness with which she tugged her arm was a form of translation. Still uncertain, the foreigner obeyed, kneeling by the fountain like a penitent. Her strange green eyes were expectant and wary.

  “I have been given a sign,” the Vex’Mara announced, loud enough for the whole square to hear. “I came here today to pray for unity in our realm, but Ashasa tells me we are already united, that I need not shed my own blood for her sake. Instead, she has sent me this child. A gift from the Mother Sun should never be refused.”

  Reaching inside her taal, she pulled out a ritual knife – the same one she must have carried before the temple disowned her. Zech marvelled that they’d let her take it; but then the stories said Kadeja had always been a hard woman to cross, even before she bound herself to Vex Leoden in the mahu’kedet, the many-partnered marriage of Kena. Letting go of Saffron’s arm, the Vex’Mara used that hand to bend her head forwards. Visibly trembling, the foreigner obeyed, submitting as Kadeja gripped the tail of her hair and cut it off, dropping the whole lock into the water. Though Saffron’s body stiffened, she relaxed a moment later, signalling that she understood this, at least: that Kadeja would not let her keep her hair. And even if the Vex’Mara didn’t take it, Yasha certainly would have. The silence of the crowd was eerie and unbelievable, a hundred or more people watching as Kadeja shaved the girl’s head down to a fine gold stubble. She was oddly tender in her work, even wetting the blade in the fountain to lessen Saffron’s pain, though Zech put this down more to her temple-taught habits than any innate kindness. The whole process took only a few minutes, and when every scrap of hair had been gathered up and dropped in the fountain, Kadeja cupped Saffron’s chin in her hand and kissed the girl lightly between the eyes, the way a priestess would. “Our light is Ashasa’s light,” she said, straightening. Saffron moved to step away, but Kadeja set her free hand on her shoulder, pressing down until the girl knelt obediently before the fountain. The Vex’Mara knelt in turn on Saffron’s left, then reached out and rearranged the foreigner’s hands, so that they rested palm down on the fountain’s edge.

  Throughout this performance, Zech had been tense – but it wasn’t until Kadeja pinned Saffron’s left wrist firmly in place that she realised the enormity of what was happening. She opened her mouth to shout, but the sound froze in her throat. As a priestess, the Vex’Mara had learned to wield her knife in many ways, and despite her choices, no one could ever claim she’d lacked talent.

  “Balance my sins with hers,” Kadeja murmured, softly enough that only Zech could have heard it.

  And then, so fast it was like watching a snake strike, the Vex’Mara severed the two smallest fingers of Saffron’s left hand.

  Five

  Walking Wounded

  Pain filled her, it defined her, there was nothing but pain so savage it was like having the very root
s of her ripped free. Saffron screamed and screamed, wrenching her hand back, but it was too late. The woman who’d been holding her pulled away, leaving her to clutch at the wrist of her bloody hand, screaming even harder as she understood the extent of the mutilation. She stared, gaping, as the woman dropped her severed fingers – her fingers! – into the fountain, with no more expression on her face than if it were only hair. Bile beat out the air in her throat, and Saffron had just enough time to lurch sideways before vomiting violently onto the ground.

  How could anything hurt so much? Her stomach wrung itself in knots. She gagged and retched, coughing up every last scrap of food she’d eaten since breakfast – food from another world, a safe world, a world that no longer existed, all of it drowned out by this terrible throbbing pain that threatened to break her in pieces. Unable to brace on her hands, she fell backwards against the fountain edge, panting and crying, the acid still hot in her mouth. The woman and her entourage were leaving, she distantly noticed. The crowd was starting to stir again, going about its business as night fell. The air was cool, the last light silver against the blue, so that her dripping blood gleamed purple-black.

  Someone crouched down beside her. Saffron shrieked and pushed herself away, unable to feel the hurt in her back and shoulders over the agonising throb of her missing fingers. It was the kid, a part of her thought distantly, the skinny – boy? – who’d said… something. She didn’t know what. At the time, she’d thought it was in her favour, but given what had happened next, it no longer felt so likely. But there was sympathy in the child’s pale eyes, and when he reached out and rested a palm on Saffron’s cheek, the contact was gentle and soothing.