The Fates Divide (Carve the Mark #2)(62)

“Can’t imagine why.”

She threw the broken shell at me, hitting me in the cheek. I felt better than I had in a long time.

Later that night, after hours of talking ourselves in circles about the assassination plan, Teka fell asleep fully clothed in her bed. I cleaned up the shells—which now covered the floor—and sat at the book of fated families to resume my translation.

The sight of the word Kereseth, written in Ogran, sparked heat behind my eyes. I picked up my pen, pausing every few seconds to wipe tears from my eyes or snot from my nose.

I had pretended, with Teka, that I was translating this section of the book to learn more about my own family, that it had nothing to do with Akos.

But the unfortunate truth was that I was still in love with him.





CHAPTER 33: AKOS


A FEW SEASONS AGO, he’d been dragged into the city of Voa by soldiers of Ryzek Noavek, badly beaten, with his scared brother at his heels. The warm, dusty air had choked him. He hadn’t been used to crowds, or the loud laughs of people gathered around food stalls, or all the weapons, tapped casually in the middle of conversation, like they didn’t matter.

Now he walked with his palm balanced on the knife sheathed at his waist, without thinking much of it. He had tied a cloth around his nose and mouth, and cropped his hair close to his head, to keep from being recognized by the wrong people. But it didn’t seem likely he would be. Most of the people he passed were too focused on getting where they were going to give him more than a quick glance.

There weren’t crowds in the streets anymore. Those who were walking did it with heads down, their bags tucked close to their sides. Soldiers dressed in armor stamped with the Noavek seal walked the streets, even the poorer ones at the edge of the city where Akos had gotten off the small transport vessel that had carried him here. Half the little shops were boarded up, or had their doors chained shut. There had obviously been some looting and vandalism in the wake of Ryzek’s death—not surprising—but things seemed under control now. Too much control, with Lazmet sitting on the throne.

Akos was getting to know his way around Voa, at least the part of Voa that Ara—Jorek’s mother—and Jorek lived in. If the city was arranged in concentric circles around Noavek manor, Ara and Jorek lived with Ara’s brother in one of the middle rings, the perfect place to disappear. The apartments were crowded together, each one a different style, with a door in a different place, forming a maze. Akos had stumbled into two courtyards that morning when he left, and had to backtrack to where he started each time.

Ara had sent him to the market to search out flour for her baking, and he’d come up empty. The market had a news feed in one of the stalls, so he’d gone to see if there was any word about Ogra.

He’d left Ogra without saying anything to Cyra, knowing it would make her hate him—that was the point. If she hated him, she wouldn’t look for him. She would assume he had gone back to Thuvhe, and leave him be.

Akos had to keep forcing his attention back to the path he was walking instead of what was around him. He passed by a line of people so long he couldn’t see what they were waiting for until two blocks later, when he saw a run-down office with the Shotet character for “medicine” above it. A health clinic. Down an adjacent alley, two kids fought over a bottle of something Akos didn’t recognize.

A lot of people had been hurt in the attack, and basic supplies like antiseptic or silverskin were limited. Loved ones were always waiting at health clinics, lately, in the hope they might inch closer to what they needed. Still others bought black market “cures” that either didn’t do anything or made things worse. Ara and her family had, fortunately, been untouched by the blast.

Akos spotted the wall of graffiti he used as a landmark. The colors were bright, most of the symbols still unintelligible to him, though he recognized the one for Noavek, standing out in the center. He tapped on the wooden door just past it, looking left and right to make sure he was alone. He could still hear the scuffling of the kids in the alley behind him.

Ara’s brother’s house was packed with junk, like a lot of Shotet houses were, all the furniture pieced together from other things. The drawer handles in the kitchen were made of floater parts, and the knobs on the oven were claw grips from the toy robots Shotet children battled with.

Sitting at the low table on the other side of the room were Ara Kuzar, a bright blue shawl around her shoulders, and Jorek. He had let a full beard grow in on his face, patchy in places, and he wore armor with the seal of Noavek under his shoulder. He looked worn, but he still gave Akos a smile when he walked in.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kuzar—no flour,” Akos said to Ara. “No news from Ogra, either. I think the Noavek propaganda machine is going strong.”

“This affectation of calling me ‘Mrs. Kuzar’ was cute at first,” Ara said wryly. “But it’s getting downright alarming. Sit. You need to eat something.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, sitting across from Jorek. He pulled the scarf down around his neck, and ran a hand over his shorn hair, still surprised at how short it was. It was prickly in the back. “How’s the manor?”

“Boring,” Jorek said. “I saw the side of Lazmet’s head today. Most of the upper-level guards are stationed near Ryzek’s secure rooms—you know, the ones Cyra’s blood couldn’t get us into. But he walked through the back door today.”