“Arvani’s Pier.” I wasn’t sure what I’d seen, but it was something. Then I realized that a pennant from Copper Downs rode among the masts there. “A ship from the Stone Coast.”
“Mmm.”
We walked on past Arvani’s Pier in silence. I hoped her quiet meant that I had found the truth, but with Mother Vajpai, it could just have readily been the opposite. A pair of foreign sailors, men with skin the color of liquid brass and a strange squareness to their eyes, lurched toward us with leers upon their faces, but three beggars drew them urgently off.
No one of Kalimpura would so much as spit on one of the Lily Goddess’ servants. Priests and their helpers were sacred in general, but the Blades were as widely feared as they were poorly understood.
“It is time for you to decide what habits you will make of your life,” Mother Vajpai said, as if there had been no lapse in our conversation. “A matter of the Death Right is being laid before us by the Bittern Court. It concerns a man of Copper Downs who killed two members of the Street Guild, and has refused justiciary mediation on the grounds that he is a foreigner.”
The Bittern Court concerned itself with the wharfingers and warehousemen and chandlers of these docks, as well as those affairs of the harbor that did not fall within the Boatmen’s Guild. The Petraean in question must have been directly associated with a docked ship, or the case would not have come before a Bittern Ear.
“Why has the Street Guild not taken their own action?” I asked. “They are quite pointed in their discourse, and Death Right would not seem to be difficult to argue.”
“The victims were not acting in a manner that reflects well upon their guild,” she said. “It is being a matter for the Bittern Court because of the killer’s ship in port.”
Which meant the unfortunate bullyboys had tried to roll a stranger who was far more dangerous than they’d realized. But the Petraean had not answered whatever summons he’d been sent by the Bittern Court, and so fallen in default to the sentence for violating Death Right without cause.
“Would it not be easier to send someone to convince him to speak before the Court?”
“We do not judge, Green.” Her voice was sharp. “The Blades do not advise, except in the narrowest matters of our art. Should the Goddess wish counsel dispensed, She will move one of the justiciary Mothers to go to this man.”
That I knew before I’d spoken. It seemed unfair to kill a man who did not even know he was under a death sentence.
“And me?”
“It is the season for you to take the last Petal. You are the only aspirant who speaks Petraean. This may be an advantage should you be spotted or questioned while at your purposes-you might be able to turn away suspicion for a key moment, where none of the other girls could.”
“Very few of the sworn Blades as well,” I said.
“You have the right of it.”
We walked on, then circled the statue of Mahachelai on his Horse of Skulls and began to pass the other direction down the Avenue of Ships. Arvani’s Pier was now ahead of us. The lane in the crowds opened for us as always, though suddenly I was conscious of it in a way I had otherwise long since ceased to be.
“So, I shall make my way aboard this ship, find a man, and slay him for a crime he does not understand, as he believes himself to have killed in defense.”
“No,” she corrected me. “You shall express the will of the Goddess and the judgment of the laws and customs of Kalimpura.”
The whimpering pleas of the dying bandit had long since ceased troubling my dreams, but I still vividly remembered the crack of Mistress Tirelle’s neck. In our training, we had attacked each other, attacked straw dummies, wooden stands, squealing pigs, and dogs first defanged, then later with all their teeth. I had shed blood, spilled blood, and stanched it in myself and others.
Mistress Tirelle filled my imagination now-the spittle on her face, the damp slump of her body on the cobbles of the Pomegranate Court. Would I do this thing a third time? Would I make a habit of what had begun in fear and desperation?
Would I be a Blade?
Will I belong here?
“Who is this man, and what is his appearance?” I asked. For one brief, dizzying moment, I imagined that the Lily Goddess had somehow set me to kill Federo. That would either be the most satisfying vengeance, or murder of my oldest friend.
Both.
“His name is Michael Curry. He is a man of Copper Downs who is being a factor of House Pareides out of Smagadis, aboard the vessel Crow Wing as a spice buyer for the Stone Coast trade.”
I felt an immense sense of relief every bit as irrational as the concern that had preceded it.
She continued, her mouth flashing silver as she spoke. “He is a small man who keeps his head shaved bald, and favors dark velvets with puffed sleeves and leggings.”
“It’s called a Sunward doublet,” I said absently. “A style popular in the Ducal court a generation past.”
Mother Vajpai looked at me strangely a moment. “You may know him for certain by the iron key he wears on a silken thread around his neck. Its head is wrought as a snake’s, with an emerald for one eye and a sapphire for the other. This key unlocks his strongbox.”
“Am I seeking anything within the box?”
She hesitated slightly. “No. Bring the key, that one of the justiciary Mothers might present it before the Bittern Court as proof of justice done.”
That was far too easy to unravel. Crow Wing would stay tied up while the killing was disputed and discussed. Someone in the Bittern Court would make use of the key, I was certain. Had this Michael Curry asked too high a price for the cargo he’d sold here?
I wondered at her hesitation, and my own sense of disgust. “If I cannot fetch the key for some reason, will another proof suffice?”
“As the Goddess works within you, Green.” Relief stood in Mother Vajpai’s eyes.
What test had I passed? Or failed?
“When?”
“Now.”
Here was Arvani’s Pier. I nodded at Mother Vajpai and trotted up the stoneway as if I had every business in the world there.
There were no more rules now. Just as Mother Vishtha had once promised.
Crow Wing was the third ship moored to my left. I wondered what would happen if I stepped aboard and asked in my most formal Petraean to be taken back to Copper Downs.
Likely I’d be thrown into the harbor.
A deckhand idled at the bottom of the gangplank. Someone with that slouch and such a grubby shirt could not possibly be the purser. I made a mental apology to Srini, who had treated me so well aboard Southern Escape, and shouldered past the sailor to walk right up the plank.
“Oi, there,” he snapped in Petraean.
“Don’t you people remember anything?” I demanded in the same language, haughty as my very well trained voice could manage. “I’m back with an answer for Master Curry.” I winked. “One he’s quite anxious to hear.”
“Figured you dogs only spoke yer own yap here,” he muttered. “Go on then, boy, if old Malice is expectin’ yer.”
Patience, I thought. No Death Right penalty had been pronounced against this one, nor was the Right itself now in place for his behavior. I wondered how many dockside bar fights he had started and lost.
I trotted aboard Crow Wing. Another reason to send me on this job was that I knew something of the layout of ships. Curry would be belowdecks in the stern, near the captain’s cabin. All officers and important passengers traveled behind the mast. That had been pounded into me aboard Southern Escape.
Also, I was just as pleased to be a boy in the eyes of the oaf at the dock.
Stepping down the short companionway, the enormity of what I was about to do struck me like a blow to the gut. I staggered into the hot shadows of the corridor beyond and tried very hard to swallow down a heave. My mouth filled with bile, which I was forced to spit out upon the deck.