The Broken Kingdoms (10 page)

She laughed, which set the little hairs arise on my skin. She did not sound entirely sane. “I’m glad you can see me, mortal girl. It makes things so much more interesting.” Her eyes shifted to the table. “Are you going to eat that?”

My plate—or did she mean my hand, which rested near it? Very carefully I moved my hand to my lap. “Be my guest.”

Lil laughed again, delighted, and bent over the plate. There was a movement too fast for me to follow. I had the impression of whirring needles, and a quick, fetid breeze wafted past my nose. When she lifted her head half a breath later, the plate was clean. She took my napkin, too, to dab at the corners of her mouth.

I swallowed hard and pushed myself to my feet, edging around her. Shiny was a barely visible shadow across from me, eating. Lil had begun to throw glances at his plate, too. There were things I wanted to say to him, though not in front of Lil. He had been humiliated enough the night before. But we would have to reach an understanding, he and I, and soon.

I washed the dishes slowly, and Shiny ate slowly. Lil sat in my chair, glancing from one to the other of us and laughing to herself now and again.

The sun was high by the time I left the house—later than I’d hoped to set out. I had farther to go this time and tables to carry. Though I’d hoped that Shiny would join me again and perhaps help me carry things, he remained where he was after breakfast was done. He was brooding, in a darker mood than usual; I almost missed his old apathy.

Lil left when I did, to my great relief. One problematic godling houseguest was enough for me. She bid me a fond farewell before she left, however, and thanked me so profusely for the breakfast that I actually felt better about her. Madding had always hinted to me that some godlings were better than others at interacting with mortals. Some of them were too alien in their thought processes, or too monstrous in our eyes, to fit in easily despite their best efforts. I had an idea that Lil was among these.

I carried my tables and the best-selling of my merchandise to the southern promenade of Gateway Park. The northwestern promenade was where Art Row stood, the better to take advantage of the crowds that came for the best view of the Tree and other noteworthy sights of the city. The south promenade, where the view was passable but not ideal and where the attractions were less impressive, was a mediocre spot. Still, it was the only option I had left; the northeastern entrance of the park had been occluded years ago by a root of the Tree, and the east gate had a lovely view of Sky’s freight gate.

As I entered the south promenade, I heard a few other sellers at work, calling out to passersby to hawk their wares. Not a good sign, that—it meant potential cutomers were sparse enough that the sellers had to compete over them. There would be none of the companionable looking out for one another that I was used to at the Row; this would be every seller for herself. I could hear three—no, four—other sellers in the vicinity: one with decorative headscarves, another selling “Tree pies” (whatever those were; they did smell nice), and two people apparently selling books and souvenirs. I felt the glares of the latter two as I began setting up, and I worried that I might have to deal with unpleasantness. As often happened once they got a good look at me, however, no one bothered me. There are times—rare, I’ll admit—when blindness comes in handy.

So I set up and waited. And waited. I didn’t know the area and hadn’t had a chance to fully explore. Although I could hear foot traffic passing relatively nearby (pilgrims remarking over how dark the city had become and how beautiful the Tree-entangled palace Sky still was), it was possible I’d managed to set myself up in a bad area. I had no doubt the other sellers had already laid claim to the best spots, so I resolved to do the best I could with what I had.

By midafternoon, however, I knew I was in trouble. My wares had lured over a few pilgrims—working folk mostly, Amn from less-prosperous towns and lands near Shadow. That was part of the problem, I realized; High Northers and island folk had always been my best customers. The faith of Itempas had always been precarious in those lands, so they bought my miniature Trees and statues of godlings eagerly. But Senmites were mostly Amn, and Amn were mostly Itempan. They were less easily impressed by the Tree and Shadow’s other heretical wonders.

Which was fine. I never begrudged people their beliefs, but I needed to eat. My stomach had begun to rumble in a vocal reminder of this fact—my own fault for letting Lil’s presence deter me from breakfast.

Then an idea came to me. I rummaged among my bags and was relieved to find I’d brought the sidewalk chalk. I moved around to the front of my tables, crouched, and considered what to sketch.

The idea that came to me was so fiercely powerful that I rocked back on my toes for a moment, startled. Usually my creative urges came in the morning, when I painted in my basement. I’d meant to sketch only a few silly doodles to draw eyes toward my trinkets and goods. But the image in my head… I licked my lips and considered whether it was safe.

It was dangerous, I decided. No doubt about it. I was blind, for the gods’ sake; I shouldn’t have been able to visualize anything, much less depict it recognizably. Most people in the city wouldn’t notice the paradox, or care, but to Order-Keepers and others whose job it was to watch for unauthorized magic, it would be suspect. I had survived all these years by being careful.

But… I picked up a piece of chalk, rubbing its smooth, fat length between my fingers. Colors meant little to me except as a detail of substance, but I had picked up the habit of naming my paints and chalks nevertheless. There is more to color than what can be seen, after all. The chalk smelled faintly bitter—not the bitterness of food, but the bitterness of air too rarefied to breathe, like when one climbed a high hill. I decided it was white, and perfect for the image in my head.

“I paint a picture,” I whispered, and began.

I sketched the bowl of a sky. Not Sky, or any part of it—not even the sky that existed somewhere above the Tree, which I had never seen. This would be a thin, nearly empty firmament, wheeling above in layers of rising color. I laid down a thick base of white chalk, using both of my available sticks until there was just a sliver remaining. Lucky. Then I grazed in blue—not much of it, though. It felt wrong for the sky in my head—too vibrant, thick, almost greasy between my fingers. I used my hands to thin out the blue, then added another color that made a good yellow. Yes, that was right. I thickened the yellow, rolling it on, feeling its growing intensity and warmth and following it until at last it coalesced into light at the center of my composition. Two suns, one great and one smaller, spinning about each other in an eternal dance. Perhaps I could—

“Hey.”

“Just a minute,” I murmured. The clouds in this sky would be powerful things, thick and dark with impending rain. I reached for something that smelled silver and drew one, wishing I had more blue, or black.

Now birds. Of course there would be birds flying in this bright, empty sky. But they would not have feathers—

“Hey!” Something touched me and I started, dropping the chalk and blinking out of my daze.

“Wh-what?” Almost at once, my back protested, bruises and muscles twinging. How long had I been drawing? I groaned, reaching back to knead the small of my back.

“Thanks,” said the voice. Male, older. No one I knew, though he reminded me vaguely of Vuroy. Then I recalled hearing his voice—one of my fellow souvenir sellers, the loudest of the three who’d been hawking his wares. “That’s a nice trick,” he continued. “You pulled a good crowd. But the south promenade closes at sunset, so you might want to catch a few of ’em while you can, huh?”

Crowd?

I abruptly became aware of voices around me—dozens of them, clustered around my drawing. They were murmuring, exclaiming over something. I got to my feet and hissed at the agony in my knees.

As I straightened, the cluster of people around me burst into applause.

“What—” But I knew. They were clapping for me.

Before I could wrap my thoughts around this, my onlookers pushed forward—I heard them jostling each other in an effort to avoid stepping on the drawing—and began asking me the price of my wares, and whether I painted professionally, and how I managed to draw such beautiful things when I couldn’t see, and whether I really couldn’t see, and, and, and. I had enough wits left to get behind the table and answer the most uncomfortable questions with silly pleasantries (“No, I really can’t see! I’m glad you like it!”), before I was inundated with eager customers buying everything I had. Most of them weren’t even haggling. It was the best sales day I’d ever had, and it all happened in a span of minutes.

When they were done with me, most of the customers moved on to the other tables—as they had been doing since I’d begun drawing, I realized belatedly. No wonder the hawker had come to thank me. But I could hear the distant tolling of the White Hall bells, marking sunset; the park would be closing soon.

“I thought it might be you,” said a voice nearby, and I jumped, turning to smile at what I thought was yet another customer. But the man who’d spoken did not come to the table. When I oriented on him, I realized he was just beyond the chalk drawing.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“You were at the other promenade,” he said, and I tensed in alarm, though he did not sound threatening at all. “The day after you found that godling’s body. I saw you then, thought there was something… interesting… about you.”

I began to pack up, less alarmed now; perhaps this was some sort of awkward attempt on the man’s part to chat me up. “Were you in the crowd?” I asked. “One of the heretics?”

“Heretics?” The man chuckled. “Hmm. I suppose the Order would think so, though I honor the Bright Lord, too.”

One of the New Lights, then; they were supposedly some other branch of Itempan. Or maybe a newer sect. I could never keep them straight. “Well… I’m a traditional Itempan myself.” I said it to forestall any attempts on his part to convert me. “But if Role was your god, then I’m sorry for your loss.”

I almost heard his eyebrows rise. “An Itempan who does not condemn the worshippers of another god or celebrate that god’s death? Aren’t you a bit heretical yourself?”

I shrugged, putting the last of the small boxes into my carrysack. “Maybe so.” I smiled. “Don’t tell the Order-Keepers.”

The man laughed and then, to my relief, turned away. “Of course not. Until later, then.” He walked off, humming to himself, and that confirmed it: he was singing the New Lights’ wordless song.

I sat down for a moment to recoup before starting the trip back. My pockets were full of coins, and my purse, too. Madding would be pleased; I’d have to take a few days off to replenish my stock before I could sell again, and maybe I’d take a few days beyond that, as a vacation. I’d never had a vacation before, but I could afford it now.

Boots approached from the far end of the promenade. I was so tired and dazed that I thought nothing of it; there were many people milling around the south promenade now, though the other sellers were packing up as well. If I had listened more carefully, however, I would’ve recognized the boots. I did, too late, when their owner spoke.

“Very good, Oree Shoth,” said a voice I’d dreaded hearing all day. Rimarn Dih. Oh, no.

“Very good of you, indeed, to draw such a lovely beacon,” he said, coming to stop just beyond the chalk drawing. There were three other sets of footsteps approaching beyond him, all with those horribly familiar heavy boots. I rose to my feet, trembling.

“I’d expected you to be halfway to Nimaro by now,” he continued. “Imagine my surprise when I caught the scent of familiar magic, not so very far away at all.”

“I don’t know anything,” I stammered. I gripped my stick as if that would help me. “I have no idea who killed Lady Role, and I’m not a godling.”

“My dear, I don’t really care about that anymore,” he said, and by the cold fury in his tone, I knew he’d found whatever Lil had left of his men. That meant I was lost, utterly lost. “I want your friend. That white-haired Maro bastard; where is he?”

For a moment I was confused. Shiny’s hair was white? “He didn’t do anything.” Oh, gods, that was a lie and Rimarn was a scrivener; he would know. “I mean, there was a godling, a woman named Lil. She—”

“Enough of this,” he snapped, and turned away. “Take her.”

The boots came forward, closing in. I stumbled back, but there was nowhere to go. Would they beat me to death and avenge their comrades right here, or take me to the White Hall for questioning first? I began to gasp in panic; my heart was pounding. What could I do?

And then many things happened at once.

Why? I’d asked my father long ago. Why could I not show my paintings to others? They were just paint and pigment. Not everyone liked them—some of the images were too disturbing for that—but they did no harm.

They’re magic, he told me. Over and over again he told me, but I didn’t listen enough. I didn’t believe. There’s no such thing as magic that does no harm.

The Order-Keepers stepped onto my drawing.

“No,” I whispered as they drew closer. “Please.”

“Poor girl,” I heard a woman, one of those who’d wanted to know if I painted professionally, murmuring amid the crowd from some ways off. They had loved me a moment before. Now they were going to just stand there, useless, while the Keepers took their revenge.

“Put that stick down, woman,” said one of the Keepers, sounding annoyed. I clutched my walking stick tighter. I couldn’t breathe. Why were they doing this? They knew I hadn’t killed Role, that I wasn’t a godling. I had magic, but they would laugh to know what phenomenal powers I was concealing. I was no threat.

“Please, please,” I said. I almost sobbed it, like my name: please—gasp—please. They kept coming.

A hand grabbed my stick, and suddenly my eyes burned. Heat boiled behind them, pushing to get out. I shut them in reflex, the pain fueling my terror.

“Get away from me!” I screamed. I tried to fight, flailed with hands and stick. My hand found a chest—