The Bone Shard Daughter (The Drowning Empire, #1)(87)

He frowned as though searching for a tree through a thick fog. His lips pressed together; his black hair shadowed his face. But he snapped out of the mood as quickly as it had fallen. He might not remember, and I might be smarter, but Bayan was not stupid. His eyes locked to mine. “What day is it?”

“We’re three weeks into the wet season. It’s Sing’s Day.”

A flash of fear made his face pale. Bayan had always stridden about the palace, clothed in arrogance. He’d not truly known what I knew – what it felt like to not trust your own mind. “I think Father did something to you. I don’t know what, or why.” The earliest memory I had, that I was sure about, was the chrysanthemum ceiling. A hazy blur from when I’d woken up. Later, I’d woken again in my bed, and Father had explained what had happened, I thought perhaps I’d dreamt the ceiling. Only as time went on, instead of the dream fading, I grew more and more certain it had been real.

I hesitated but forged forward. “Have you seen a ceiling? Painted in golden chrysanthemum blossoms?”

His face, already pale, went blank. It was the sort of stillness I’d seen in rabbits when predators were close – hoping they hadn’t been seen. And then he moved again, shouldering past me and into his room.

The door shut in my face.

I didn’t need to ask again to know: he’d seen it.





32





Jovis


Nephilanu Island

The claws on my arm detached, only to be replaced by teeth. I struggled to clear my head. I hadn’t been this outmatched since I’d been face down in the street, Philine and her lackeys standing over me. I reached again desperately for the power in my bones. Again no strength surged in my limbs, no tremor radiated from the ground. I’d forgotten what it was like to be without it, afraid of very little. Now fear surged in my throat, choking me.

I kept my arm in front of my face, keeping the construct from lunging for my throat. Behind the mass of its body, I caught a glimpse of torn clothing and a few scraps of bone against the wall. It could have been refuse, but I knew better. I’d found the Shardless Few’s missing spy.

And if I didn’t do something soon, I’d be joining her.

I didn’t have my staff or my strength, but I’d gotten by before without either. I formed a knuckle into a point and jammed it into the construct’s eye. It roared and released my arm. I jumped back. Blood stained my shirtsleeve, and the glimpse of torn flesh beneath flipped my stomach.

The construct was between me and the alley entryway. I couldn’t call for help; if I was rescued, I’d be hard-pressed to explain why a construct had attacked me. I darted for the remains of the spy, hoping she’d carried a weapon. The construct moved at nearly the same time.

Sticky, dark blood met my fingers. Errant bits of dead flesh. Cracked bones where marrow had been sucked out. Terror made my hands shake.

My fingers closed around a leather hilt.

I spun before even seeing what I held. The construct stopped just short of me, a growl in its throat. It was a sinuous beast with oversized jaws and patchy black fur. It had not been constructed with care; its bones pressed against its hide like the struts of a tent. It reminded me of the fish I’d seen washed ashore once, remnants from the depth, flat and dark and full of teeth.

Its yellowed eyes took in the knife I’d seized. Wasn’t much of a weapon, really. More like the kind of thing to eat with or to take fishing. And here I was, brandishing it like I held a sword. Confidence had won me more than one encounter, no matter how little I’d earned it.

The construct, however, was convinced only briefly.

It darted for me, teeth bared. I jumped back, slashing at its face with the knife. By the look of the scars across its muzzle, I hadn’t been the first to try this tactic. And the beast had learned. It ducked beneath my clumsy attack and snapped at my torso. My shirt ripped. I didn’t look to see if teeth had broken skin. I was still alive, and fast running out of time.

Use your brain, Jovis! I’d been the best smuggler in all the Empire before I’d met Mephi. Had a taste of physical prowess diminished my wits? I’d survived the Ioph Carn without Mephi. I could survive this. I couldn’t out-fight this creature with a knife. I had to find some other weapon or run, and it was standing, growling, between me and the alleyway entrance. There was nothing else among the cold cobblestones I could use. I waved my knife again, trying to square my shoulders and appear as large as possible. The construct’s bony shoulders rolled as it stalked closer.

My foot slid as I backed into the pile that once was the Shardless spy.

I’d been lying to myself. There was still something I could use. I tightened my fingers around the leather hilt of the knife, my palm damp with sweat. I took one more step back and threw it right at the construct’s face.

The knife bounced from its head, but I hadn’t been meaning to kill it. I used the distraction to reach down and seize the dead spy’s ripped robe. And then, as the construct leapt for me, I threw the cloak over its head and wrapped it about its sinewy neck.

There are tales in the Empire that the Poyer wrestle bears. Would that those stories were true and that I’d had some acumen in such sport. Instead, I held tight to the fur at its shoulders, the cloth bunched in my fingers, trying to get behind it, to gain some control. It bucked and writhed, the meat-rot scent of it filling my nostrils. The knife was there on the ground, just out of reach. My injured arm burned. Blood ran to my fingers. My grip slipped. As if sensing my weakness, the construct stilled like a cat just before a pounce.