The Fates Divide (Carve the Mark #2)(105)

Zyt and Ettrek had pledged to create some kind of large distraction near the side door, to draw away the guards there. Teka and I had to enter through that door while the guards dealt with whatever Ettrek and Zyt did. We were too easily recognized.

“There she goes,” I said to Teka, nodding to the entrance with its grand archway. Yma’s lavender skirt fluttered in the wind. She drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders, and began walking through the square.

I had passed through the amphitheater’s arch on my way to challenge my brother. It had been simpler, then. A single enemy, a single path forward. Now, there were tyrants and chancellors and exiles and countless factions among the people who served each of them.

And there was Akos.

Whatever that meant.

“Sifa said he’s not here,” Teka said to me. Like a mind reader. “Lazmet took him wherever they went. I know that’s not all that reassuring, but . . . better for him not to be hit by the blast, right?”

It was. It meant that I could think clearly. But I didn’t want to admit to that. I shrugged.

“I asked her for you,” Teka said. “I knew you’d be too proud to do it yourself.”

“Time to go,” I said, ignoring her.

We started through the square, keeping pace with Sifa, who was doing her part to look casual and familiar. She paused at one of the tables to look over a platter of pan-fried feathergrass; Teka and I kept to the next row, watching her through the haze of smoke rising up from the smithy advertising free currentblade repairs with purchase.

I watched Sifa and Yma approach the entrance guard from a distance. I was sure Yma’s tongue could be just as quick and persuasive as she needed to get into that amphitheater. She had spent her life lying, after all.

When the guards were both engaged enough to turn away, I led the way to the side door at a brisk walk. It was set into the wall at an angle, creating a space for a guard to stand without being visible from the street. I drew my currentblade.

The soldier was young, and tall, so for a moment I saw Akos in his stead, putting on his Shotet armor for the first time and appearing, to me, as the exact image of what I might have wanted, if I had been allowed to want normal things. But in the next moment, the soldier was shorter, thinner, and lighter-haired—not Akos.

Just before I could lash out at him, I heard screaming behind me. At the edge of the square, a cloud of smoke had risen up from one of the stalls. No—not a cloud of smoke, but one of insects, all taking flight at once. The screams came from the vendor, losing all of his product at once. He lunged at Zyt, who was laughing, and punched him hard in the jaw.

I sheathed my currentblade, and said, “Guard!”

The sandy-haired guard stepped out of his alcove to look at me.

“There’s a fight,” I said, jabbing my thumb over my shoulder.

“Not again.” He groaned, and took off running.

Teka slipped in without ceremony, drawing the small screwdriver from its place in her pocket and addressing the lock on the door. I peered out at the square to make sure no one was watching us. There were only slumped vendors and furtive-looking Shotet making their purchases, and the growing brawl Zyt and Ettrek had fostered.

“Hello, darling,” Teka said softly in the voice she used to speak to wires. “Would you open up for me? No, not your job? Ah.”

I heard a click. The door opened, and Teka and I passed through the doorway. It locked automatically behind us, and some instinct in me told me that wasn’t good for quick escapes, but there was nothing to be done about it now. We jogged down the dark hallway with its arched stone ceiling, toward the light at the end that would admit us to the bottom level of seats.

Sifa was already walking the arena floor, cooing like a bird at how large the place was, and how it never seemed as big when she was sitting in the audience, and whatever else she could think of to say. Her voice, with its slight rough character, echoed a dozen times over even before we made it to the end of the hallway. Yma was beside her, making little hums of assent.

Teka immediately started up the steps toward the control room, which was behind the second-level seats, but I stayed at the low wall that separated the first row from the arena floor, and closed my eyes. I could hear the chanting that had accompanied the edge of Ryzek’s knife as it dug into me, the shouts of “Traitor!” that had met me when I challenged him again.

“Cyra?” Teka’s voice pulled me free from the twists and turns of my memory.

I opened my eyes as the sky darkened.

It could have been something as ordinary as a cloud passing over the sun, but it had already been cloudy when I closed my eyes, an even pale gray in every direction. Instead, when I lifted my head, I saw a vast ship, far larger than any transport vessel or floater or military craft that Shotet possessed. It was as large as the sojourn ship, but perfectly round, more like the Thuvhesit passenger floater that Sifa had guided into the renegade safe house.

The underside of the ship was smooth and polished, like it had never been flown before, never been battered by space debris and asteroids and rough atmospheres. Dotting its belly were little white lights. They marked doors and hatches, important attachment points and docking stations, and the ship’s massive outline. It was an Othyrian craft. I was sure of it. No one else would have the will and the vanity to make something so functional so beautiful.

“Cyra.” Teka’s voice again, fearful this time.