Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark #1)(75)

Then Akos couldn’t see much anymore, because his eyes were full of tears. That was Ori, who had a space at his family table, who had known him before he became . . . this. This armored, vengeful, life-taking thing.

“My country has a chancellor,” he said.

“Congratulations,” Cyra said. Hesitantly, she asked, “Why did you tell me all that? It’s probably not something you should broadcast here. Her alias, how you know her, all that.”

Akos blinked his eyes clear. “I don’t know. Maybe I trust you.”

She lifted her hand, and hesitated with it over his shoulder. Then she lowered it, touching him lightly. They watched the screen side by side.

“I would never keep you here. You know that, right?” She was so quiet. He’d never heard her that quiet. “Not anymore. If you wanted to go, I would help you go.”

Akos covered her hand with his own. Just a light touch, but it was charged with new energy. Like an ache he didn’t quite mind.

“If—when, when I get Eijeh out,” he said, “would you ever go with me?”

“You know, I think I would.” She sighed. “But only if Ryzek was dead.”

As the ship turned back toward home, news of Ryzek’s success on Pitha came toward them in pieces. Otega was the source of most of Cyra’s gossip, Akos found, and she had a good read on things before they were even announced.

“The sovereign is pleased,” Otega said, dropping off a pot of soup one night. “I think he made an alliance. Between a historically fate-faithful nation like Shotet and a secular planet like Pitha, that’s no small feat.” Then she had given Akos a curious look.

“Kereseth, I presume. Cyra didn’t say you were so . . .” She paused.

Cyra’s eyebrows popped up like they were on springs. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, chewing on a lock of hair. Sometimes she stuck it in her mouth without noticing. Then she’d spit it out, with a look of surprise, like it had crept into her mouth on its own.

“. . . tall,” Otega finished. Akos wondered what word she would have chosen, if she felt comfortable being honest.

“Not sure why she would have mentioned that,” Akos replied. It was easy to be comfortable around Otega; he slid into it without thinking much about it. “She’s tall, too, after all.”

“Yes. Quite tall, the lot of you,” Otega said, distantly. “Well. Enjoy that soup.”

When she left, Cyra went straight to the news feed to translate the Shotet subtitles for him. This time it was startling how different they were. The Shotet words apparently said, “Pithar chancellor opens up friendly support negotiations in light of Shotet visit to Pithar capital.” But the Othyrian voice said, “Thuvhesit chancellor Benesit threatens iceflower trade embargoes against Pitha in wake of their tentative aid discussions with Shotet leadership.”

“Apparently your chancellor isn’t pleased that Ryzek charmed the Pithar,” Cyra remarked. “Threatening trade embargoes, and all.”

“Well,” Akos said, “Ryzek is trying to conquer her.”

Cyra grunted. “That translation doesn’t have Malan’s flair; they must have used someone else. Malan likes to spin information, not leave it out entirely.”

Akos almost laughed. “You can tell who it is by the translation?”

“There is an art to Noavek bullshit,” Cyra said as she muted the feed. “We’re taught it from birth.”

Their quarters—Akos had started to think of them that way, much as it unsettled him—were the eye of a storm, quiet and settled in the midst of chaos. Everybody was getting everything in order for landing. He couldn’t believe the sojourn was coming to a close; he felt like they had just taken off.

And then, on the day the currentstream lost its last blue streaks, he knew it was time to make good on his promise to Jorek.

“You sure he won’t just turn me in to Ryzek for drugging him?” Akos said to Cyra.

“Suzao is a soldier at heart,” Cyra said, for what had to be the hundredth time. She turned the page in her book. “He prefers to settle things himself. Turning you in would be the maneuver of a coward.”

With that, Akos set out for the cafeteria. He was aware of his hurried heartbeat, his twitchy fingers. This time of week Suzao ate in one of the lower cafeterias—he was one of the lowest-ranked of Ryzek’s close supporters, which meant he was the least important person most places he went. But in the lower cafeterias, near the ship’s chugging machinery, he got to be superior for once. It was the perfect place to provoke him—he couldn’t very well be shamed by a servant in front of his inferiors, could he?

Jorek had promised to help with the last move. He was ahead of his father in line when Akos walked into the cafeteria, a big, dank room on one of the lowest decks of the ship. It was cramped and smoky, but the smell on the air was spiced and rich and made his mouth water.

At a nearby table, a group of Shotet younger than him had pushed their trays aside and were playing a game with machines small enough to fit in Akos’s palm. They were collections of gears and wires balanced on wheels, one with a big set of pincers fixed to its nose, another with a blade, a third with a thumb-size hammer. They had drawn a circle on the table with chalk, and inside it, the machines stalked each other, controlled by remotes. As they collided, bystanders shouted advice: “Go for the right wheel!” “Use the pincers, what else are they for?” They wore odd clothes in blue, green, and purple, bare arms wrapped in cords of different colors, hair shaved and braided and piled high. A sweep of feeling overtook him as he watched, an image of himself as a Shotet child, holding a remote, or just braced against the table, watching.