Silence.
“And you let me walk through Odo today?”
“If I thought you were in danger, I would have—”
“But I was in danger!” She made herself take a deep breath.
“I was not convinced.”
“But you are now?”
Xe shrugged, a small lift of one shoulder, but it was the most doubt she had ever seen xir show. Iktan might not admit it to her, but the assassination attempt today had rattled xir.
Naranpa spoke calmly, rationally, but her voice held disappointment. “I know the others think I should be no more than a figurehead, but I did not count you among that number. I am not a child you have to keep secrets from. I need you especially, tsiyo, to have faith in me.”
Xe said nothing, and xir face, that damn lovely face, was impassive.
“Go,” she said, weary.
“You need me.”
“Of course I need you.” She sighed, annoyed because xe had made her admit it aloud and because it was all too true. “But right now I need to think. And sleep. I haven’t slept for thirty-six hours, and we have Conclave at high moon. How can I convince the Watchers to take me seriously when it seems I must persuade you, too?”
Iktan uncurled from the bench and walked to the door. Xe paused, a hand against the frame. “Let me take care of this, too, Naranpa. It is not a matter of persuasion but of duty. Mine, not yours.”
She wanted to acquiesce, but she could not. Xe had always made her feel safe, but there was a fine line between protected and coddled, and hiding things from her only made her feel weak. And there was one thing she had to know. “Did you not tell me because we were… we used to… you don’t believe me capable?”
Xe cocked xir head, tiny lines of confusion marring xir forehead. “You have never done anything to make me think you cannot perform your duties.”
“Yes, but…” She pressed a hand to her neck, frustrated. Well, perhaps xe did not think less of her because they had once been intimate, but for one reason or another, xe certainly considered her a child. Or maybe she was being unfair, letting her own insecurities lead her. “Does anyone else know about the first attempt?”
“Only my own dedicants.”
“So they knew when I did not?”
“As I explained—”
She held up a hand. “No, Iktan. When you keep things from me, it undermines my authority, and I am trying to assert some authority despite the fact that Kiutue left me little to work with. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” xe murmured. “Anything else?” Xir words were normal enough, but Naranpa sensed a thread of annoyance underneath.
“No.” She ran a tired hand across her face. Waved her once lover and now personal knife toward the door. “But don’t do anything without consulting me. Can you promise me that? Then I’ll see you at Conclave.”
“I would not miss it for all the stars in the sky,” xe said, and that time she caught the contempt plain enough. “Truly.”
CHAPTER 6
CITY OF CUECOLA
YEAR 325 OF THE SUN
(20 DAYS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)
The sailors of Cuecola are the finest on the Meridian continent and therefore the known world. I had had occasion to sail upon a dozen different ships throughout my travels around the Crescent Sea and never did I doubt their strength and endurance or the savvy of the captain. It is through their labor that Cuecola grows in wealth and stature every day and the riches of the world collect in their coffers. The Cuecola sailor is truly their greatest asset.
—A Commissioned Report of My Travels to the Seven Merchant Lords of Cuecola, by Jutik, a Traveler from Barach
It had all started so well.
Balam had led her through the city and down to the docks where they had found the bathhouse he promised. She’d wanted to linger in the steam, but he had insisted that time was of the essence, so she’d scraped the dirt from her skin and washed her long hair with yucca and crushed lavender, rinsed her clothes and beat the damp from them against heated rocks, and decided that it would have to do. At least she no longer smelled of a night in jail.
The docks themselves stretched across marshland and inlets of seawater. All around her stilted reed paths ran like bridges across the increasingly deep waters where long flat-bottomed canoes that could accommodate twenty men or more were tethered to broad wooden docks. Crews hauled ashore bales of quetzal feathers in bright blues and reds, vats of rich brown honey, and mounds of salt and turquoise, the last trade of the year. Laughter and the sound of labor filled the air, and for the first time that day, Xiala had relaxed. This was her place, her people. Not even among her own Teek did she feel this at home. Commerce, work, the smell of the ocean. This was where she belonged.
They approached a particularly fine ship. A canoe likely a hundred fifty paces long and twenty paces across, with a cavernous reed-covered awning in the center that would keep the crew and cargo protected from the sun and winds of the open sea. Human figures moved about on the ship, securing goods and preparing the vessel to sail. Experience and her Teek eyesight allowed her to count the number of paddles on the side of the ship and, from that estimation, the size of her crew. At least twenty, but the ship could hold fifty bodies. She grinned. That was a lot of ship. She could already see the possibilities once this Tova run was done. With a ship like that, she could haul enough freight up and down the coast that in twelve years she was going to be very rich indeed.
Then she had met her crew, and it had all gone to hell.
“These are Pech’s men,” she murmured to Balam as she finally caught a full view of the workers. Well, not all of them. But there were five or six of the twenty whose faces were familiar, men she had done the last run up the coast with.
Balam smiled that way he had been smiling all morning. “Just like you, they were freshly out of work and the only crew I could find willing on such short notice. I had to pay handsomely for their services, but they are competent and, as you yourself know, experienced. They know the route to Tova—”
“—along the shoreline,” she said, cutting him off. “I thought we discussed taking to the open sea.”
“We did.”
“They won’t like it.” She thrust a chin toward a short, stocky man in a white workman’s skirt. “See him? That’s Callo. I don’t trust him or anyone he’s vouched for.” She unconsciously rubbed her thumb across her missing pinkie joint. It’s not that she thought these men would hurt her, hunt her for her bones or anything. After all, she had sailed with them before just days ago, and they’d given her no trouble. Except for that last day when Pech had come to the docks accusing her of sabotaging her own cargo. She had tried to explain that it was not her fault the quetzal feathers had molted, the honey had gone bad, and the salt had gotten wet. There was a leak in the ship, because all ships leaked at one point or another, and she had failed to notice in time to save her cargo. But she was sure the crew had something to do with that. She had taken on a new man in Huecha, a friend of Callo’s who came vouched for but had made the sign to ward off evil when he’d seen her eyes. She’d chosen to ignore it, trusted that Callo wouldn’t let someone dangerous on her ship, and part of her still believed that people could separate their personal prejudices and get the job done. She had been wrong.