Fevered Star (Between Earth and Sky, #2)(92)

“You would dare to threaten a lord of Cuecola?” Pech said, finally finding his voice.

“I dare many things,” she replied.

“It would be unwise to injure a lord of one of the Houses of Seven,” Tuun said unexpectedly, “particularly under the laws of hospitality that rule us all.”

“The rules of the Treaty no longer bind us,” Naasut countered. “If the Watchers of Tova have fallen, as your own messengers say they have, then the Meridian is remade.”

“The laws I refer to are older than the Treaty.” Tuun lifted a hand, freshly bloodied. She whispered words, and the air filled with a deep rumble.

Balam planted his feet, as everyone but he searched, eyes wild, for the source of the reverberations. Someone cried out as the earth around them shifted. Naasut’s eyes went wide, and Mahina on the stairs above them cursed. Tuun snapped her hand shut, and the earthquake immediately ceased.

“Sorceress,” Naasut breathed. “Such magic is forbidden!”

“Forbidden by the Treaty. Which you reminded us is no more. It seems we are indeed in a new age. So be careful whom you threaten, Spearmaiden.” The two women stared at each other, hungry dogs circling before the first bite.

“Perhaps now would be the time for hospitality,” Balam said. “I certainly would not mind a drink.”

Naasut’s gaze flicked to him, annoyed at first but then, to his relief, amused. “I was told all the lords of Cuecola were men with shriveled balls, but I see I was wrong.” She looked back at Tuun admiringly. “And no one told me of the women.”

The Sovran snapped her fingers, and the spearmaidens dragged Balam’s spy to his feet and back up the steps.

“To the tables, then,” she declared. “Hospitality calls. We will settle this breach of etiquette when Golden Eagle arrive. There’s plenty of time to root out our enemies and slit their throats.”

She turned on her heel and strode back up the stairs, the rest of her spearmaidens folding in behind her, following in precise lines.

Sinik exhaled a shaky breath and turned to Balam, accusing. “Seven hells, Balam. What have you led us into?”

“A coup, it appears,” he murmured.

“Should we follow?” Tuun asked.

“I don’t think we have a choice. And I was quite serious about wanting a drink.”

The three of them headed up the stairs. Their own guards and servants and secretaries trailed behind, Powageh among them. Pech shook himself free of whatever had bemused him and hurried after. Before them stood the Grand Palace, and just beyond the doors, Balam spied a long table laden with food and drink.

It had all been a test. Oh, Sovran Daakun’s situation seemed suitably dire, assuming the man was still alive, but Naasut had been testing them, playing at barbarian. Perhaps to expose the spymaster, but clearly, she had been expecting them to join her in a meal all along.

Balam’s confidence surged, his mind already spinning with the possibilities.

“You know,” Tuun said, “I think she was flirting with me at the end.”

“You think everyone is flirting with you,” Balam observed dryly.

“Aren’t they?”

“Spearmaidens are married to war, and war only. I do not think they flirt.”

“Nonsense. All beings flirt. Except you, apparently.”

“You offend me, Lord Tuun. Although I suggest you keep your eye on Queen Mahina.”

She huffed a laugh. “Self-styled queens do not concern me.”

“Whose spy is he?” Pech shouted loudly enough that they all stopped to stare. He looked sweaty, his eyes too wide.

Shock, Balam thought. And he’s not handling it well.

“Balam,” he cried, “is he yours? Tuun? Whatever game you are playing, you are to stop it now, before you get us killed!”

Balam’s smile was all concern. “None of ours, I assure you. No doubt, Golden Eagle seek to gain advantage. Or perhaps he belongs to Carrion Crow. All the more reason we must ally.”

Pech made a sound like a strangled dog, and Balam almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Do not concern yourself, Pech,” he said over his shoulder, as they entered the palace. “I have this entirely under control.”





CHAPTER 28


THE MERIDIAN GRASSLANDS

YEAR 1 OF THE CROW

Beware the woman who would drown her own daughters.

—Teek saying



Xiala followed Ziha and Iktan through the doors of the tavern to find Nuuma Golden Eagle sitting at the far end of a long table, eating soup. The room itself was unusually dark, and Xiala felt her eyes change to accommodate the low light. The ceiling, soot-stained and heavy, felt uncomfortably low, and she was sure that if she simply lifted her hands over her head, her fingertips would scrape the roof. The walls were similarly tight, and Xiala felt the itch of close quarters tickle the skin between her shoulders.

There were two lanterns, one on each side of the room, but Nuuma seemed to suck all the light toward her. She wore a uniform so white it glowed. Xiala recognized it as identical to her daughter’s, down to the fur-collared deerskin cloak and the golden spray of feathers at the shoulder, and she did not have to wonder who was copying whom. Nuuma’s tawny hair was tangled and wild, but her eyes as she glanced up at her second daughter and her companions were hard stone, as bleak and uncompromising as the tall mountains around them.