The Fates Divide (Carve the Mark #2)(87)

It was the only ship in sight.

“Don’t worry,” Teka said, likely noticing that the rest of us had gone silent. “We’re cloaked. We look like a patrol ship to them.”

At that very moment, a red light flashed on the nav panel. Yssa looked back at Teka with eyebrows raised. It was a call, probably from the patrol vessel.

“Patch them through,” Teka said, unbuckling herself and moving to stand at Yssa’s shoulder.

“This is patrol ship XA774. Please identify yourself.”

“Patrol ship XA993. What are you doing afloat, XA774?” Teka said, without faltering for even a moment. “I don’t see you listed on the updated schedule.”

She was pantomiming for Yssa, pointing out the spot where Ettrek’s people had told us to land, urging her to move fast.

“At what time was your schedule issued, 993?”

“1440,” Teka replied.

“You’re out of date. This one was issued at 1500 hours.”

“Ah,” Teka said. “Our mistake. We’ll make our way back to our docking station.”

She slapped a hand over the switch to turn off our communicator. “Go!”

Yssa pressed hard on the accelerator with the heel of her hand, and we zoomed toward the landing spot. Teka was nearly knocked off her feet by the sudden movement, so she clung to the back of Yssa’s chair as we lost altitude. Yssa lowered the ship to the patch of empty rooftop on the outer rim of Voa that Ettrek’s contacts had indicated.

“Is there really a patrol ship XA993?” I asked.

Teka grinned. “No. They only go up to 950.”

Right after we touched down, before Yssa could even turn off the engine, a group of people rushed toward the ship, carrying a huge stretch of fabric between them. I watched through the nav window as they threw the fabric over the ship, drawing it taut with long cords. As the hatch opened behind me, they completely covered the nav window.

Ettrek deboarded first, greeting a man with black hair long enough to brush his shoulders with a clasped hand. When I moved closer, I realized they had to be brothers, maybe even twins.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” the brother said. “Cyra fucking Noavek is with you.”

“How did you know my middle name?” I said.

He smiled, and offered me a hand. “My name is Zyt. Short for something so long I don’t even remember it myself. I’m Ettrek’s older brother.”

“You probably don’t want to shake my hand,” I said. “You’re welcome to shake Teka’s twice, though.”

“Don’t volunteer me for extra handshakes,” Teka said. “Hi. Teka Surukta.”

“Here are some oracles,” I said, gesturing behind me to Eijeh and Sifa. Zyt raised his eyebrows.

We did the rest of the introductions under the cover of the cloth they had thrown on top of our ship, which looked sturdy and likely served as good camouflage. Then Zyt led us to the rooftop access door, and down several flights of stairs. The stairwell had no windows, and smelled like garbage, but I was glad it gave us shelter.

I moved away from my brother—and I wasn’t even sure which of them I meant—to skip ahead a few steps.

“What’s it like out there?” I asked Zyt, falling into step beside him.

“Well, at first there was a lot of looting,” Zyt said. A lock of hair fell against his cheek. “Good for business. But then Lazmet took power, and that pretty much scared sense into everyone. He imposed a curfew, started rounding people up and arresting them, stuff like that. Bad for business.”

“What business are you in, exactly?” I said.

“Smuggling,” Zyt said. His eyelids fell heavy over his eyes, narrowing them somewhat, and he had a mouth given to smiles. He gave me one then. “Mostly medicine, but we smuggle whatever’s lucrative—supplies, weapons, whatever.”

“Ever smuggle fruit?” I said.

“Fruit?” Zyt raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I need to get my hands on some altos arva. It’s Trellan,” I said. “And since imports from Trella are illegal . . .”

“Smuggling is the only option. I see.” Zyt tapped his chin with a finger. There was a bruise under his nail. “I’ll find out.”

If we had altos arva, we could use it to get into Noavek manor undetected, pretending that Lazmet’s customary shipment of it had arrived early. The guards likely wouldn’t dare to risk Lazmet not getting what he wanted. They would let us right in.

“Hey,” Zyt said, “you should probably cover up your head. That silverskin’s . . . conspicuous.”

“Right.”

I had been prepared to obscure my face once we arrived in Voa, so I wore a long black coat with a hood. It was made of a light, tough material called marshite, imported, like most waterproof fabrics, from Pitha. I put the hood up, and Zyt opened the door at the bottom of the stairs to the bright light of day.

The wind made the folds of my coat snap and billow as I walked. The streets of Voa were emptier than I had ever seen them before, full of scurrying men and women folded inward, eyes down. It had never been easier to disappear among them.

“It’s not far,” he said. “Are all your people keeping step?”

I looked over my shoulder. Everyone had their hoods up, so it was difficult to tell who was a smuggler and who wasn’t. I counted a bright streak of hair—Teka—and the bump of a knot atop a head—Ettrek—the bridge of a freckled nose—Yssa—and a loping gait—Sifa—and turned back.