The Bone Shard Daughter (The Drowning Empire, #1)(15)

Ranami lived in a small one-room apartment above a merchant who sold steamed buns. She smelled it before she saw it – fish sauce and scallions, and the sweet scent of steamed bread. The merchant lifted a hand when he saw her, and she gave him a quick nod before turning into the alleyway where the stairs were, feeling a little foolish as she dodged dripping remnants from the rooftops. If her father had his way, she would be dressed in silks and sent to other islands to treat with them. She’d have learned diplomacy rather than battle. As her father’s only child, she was an asset, and he often moaned that she was going to waste. But he never seemed to gather the willpower to set against hers.

Phalue laid a hand against the stair railing and froze. Something was wrong. She should have sensed it before, but she’d been too caught up in daydreams. There was no sound coming from the upstairs apartment. And the door, which should have been closed, lay slightly ajar. She put a hand on her sword. “Ranami?” she called.

No answer.

“Uncle,” Phalue called out to the bun merchant, “have you seen Ranami this morning?”

“I’ve not seen her at all today, Sai,” he called back.

She would have gone to set her traps by now, and she always liked to buy two buns from the merchant before she set out. Phalue’s heartbeat quickened, her lips numbing. Keeping her hand on her sword, she barged up the rest of the stairs and into Ranami’s apartment.

Part of her had expected to find Ranami here, startled, wondering what Phalue was doing. The curtains were drawn; the room dark. She drew her sword, but as her eyes adjusted, she could see – there was no one here.

Ranami’s normally pristine home had been turned upside down. The linens were stripped from the sleeping cushions, belongings pulled from cupboards, chairs overturned. The books on philosophy and ethics Ranami had practically begged her to read lay scattered across the floor. Phalue’s head pounded. She shouldn’t have been so stubborn. She should have come back sooner to apologize, should have never left Ranami’s side. Who would want to ransack Ranami’s home? She made only a modest living as a bookseller. And where was Ranami?

Phalue sheathed her sword and picked up a dress strewn across the floor. It was the one Ranami had been wearing the day they’d met – the golden cloth bright as turmeric, setting off her dark skin and darker hair.

“Ranami?” she called again, and she could hear the desperation in her own voice. This couldn’t be real. She felt like she’d stepped through into a mirror world, and if she just tried hard enough, she could step back through to her own. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. The same dark room greeted her. But this time, she saw the piece of parchment on the table.

She marched over, the floorboards creaking beneath her boots, and snatched it up. She had to pull a curtain aside to have enough light to read by.

If you want to see Ranami again, come to the Alanga ruins at the road leading from the city.





6





Sand


Maila Isle, at the edge of the Empire

The bark of the mango tree was rough beneath Sand’s fingers as she climbed. She’d harvested nearly a full bag, but she needed just two more mangoes to bring back to the village. So she climbed. Higher and higher, her breath ragged in her throat, her arms and legs aching. She never returned without a full bag. None of them did. If you did not return with a full bag, you did not return at all. She’d seen one of them before – Waves was his name – sweeping his net in the water for fish, over and over until the tide rose and he fell from his perch into the sea. He was gone. Dashed upon the reefs surrounding Maila. It happened sometimes. Someday, it would likely happen to her. The thought gave her no feeling at all; her heart was as gray and cold as a foggy morning.

But today she saw the blush of two mangoes among the branches above, peeking from beneath the leaves like shy courtesans. Sand searched for footholds and tested them, making sure she wouldn’t slip. The branch bent a little beneath her weight as she pushed herself further up, but it held. The first mango was above and behind her a little. She had to twist and reach out for it with her smaller hand, the one missing two fingers. Her fingers brushed the smooth outside of the fruit; she walked her fingertips across its surface, trying to pull it closer. Her other arm strained, her palm growing sweaty.

The others had likely all returned from their daily tasks. She stopped to breathe and scanned the rest of the tree for easier targets. None. She was Sand and she always returned with a full bag. So she tightened her grip on the branch and reached again for the mango. This time, she got a grip around the bottom, and she pulled, trying to break it free. The mango slipped from her grasp and she slipped into a memory.

It wasn’t the mango she was touching. It was a curtain of rough linen. She drew it back – and her hand had all her fingers. A sliver of sunlight fell across her face, warming her cheek. When she blinked past the golden hue of the rising sun, she could see the green-tiled rooftops of a palace, shrouded in mist, the jagged mountains beyond cradling the buildings as though offering up a precious jewel. A rush of feelings swirled in her breast. Awe, anxiety, dismay. She let the curtain fall, unable to reconcile them, retreating into the dark, closed space of the palanquin.

No. She was Sand. She was Sand collecting mangoes. That place in her memories wasn’t one she’d ever seen. But she could still smell sandalwood and the damp morning mists. Her arms ached.