“Don’t try to speak yet. I’m going to step backward, and you’re going to tell me the safest way out.”
Anoor tried to warn her.
The trap was triggered again. This time, it was the paperweight from her fifth nameday that knocked the girl on the forehead. She fell like a sack of apples.
“Curse the blood! I hope I haven’t killed you.” Anoor knelt down and checked her pulse. It was there, constant and strong. She’d have a terrible headache when she woke. Another lump, the size of an egg, grew by her right temple.
Her mind was brimming with all the possibilities for the girl’s backstory. Villain, victim, vandal? Anoor thought about the vineyard murders in the zine she was reading. The assassin from that story was an undercover Ember working the field; maybe the girl was like her. It would explain her threadbare clothing.
A snore escaped the girl, making Anoor jump. Her eyes crinkled at the corners in delight at her own fear.
“What do I do with you?” She pushed a braid away from the sleeping girl’s face. The braids were filthy, some woven with even filthier trinkets and beads. “I should probably get an officer.”
But if she called an officer, they would summon her mother, and she would invade the chambers she had so carefully made Uka-free.
All officers of the army reported to Uka. As the Warden of Strength she was to maintain the peace, enact the law, and prevent criminal activity. Each officer was like a claw on her many talons.
But Anoor had to do something with the assassin. She looked at the vial of blood she had taken from Gorn for this purpose. “I better tie you up.”
Anoor dragged her by her feet to her dressing room. Despite the girl’s height, it was as if the intruder had hollow bones. She was so light Anoor could imagine her flying away, her long limbs and fingers lifting her in the breeze like a kori. Anoor often watched the small blue birds circling above the Keep.
The girl’s feet thudded on the floor as Anoor dropped them.
“Sorry!” She winced and braced herself for Gorn’s wrath. Nothing. Thank the blood. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered.
Anoor gathered the hem of her undergarments in one hand and hopped toward her dressing table across the room. She pulled out a hairpin from her curls and pricked the underside of her arm, making a minuscule wound she could hide under her sleeve. She added the small dot of her own blue blood into the vial of Gorn’s red blood and shook it.
The blue drop disappeared in moments, the color diluted by the swirling crimson. By putting in her own blood she added a unique genetic signature to the bloodwerk. This allowed her to control the blood as if it were her own. So if the assassin was a master at bloodwerk, which Anoor assumed she probably was, then she would have to be very careful when drawing the runes. Any flaw and the criminal would take advantage of it. By adding her genetic signature it also ensured that Anoor was the only person who would be able to release the bloodwerk runes. Well, her and Gorn. And she had to take special care Gorn didn’t find out about the intruder.
Anoor slotted Gorn’s red blood into the catchment within her inkwell and slid it over her wrist. The stylus around her neck came off and fit into the slot which, for all Embers, inserted straight into the vein. And for Anoor, did not.
She grimaced as she stuffed a stocking into the girl’s mouth and wrapped the gag with a scarf. She quickly drew bloodwerk runes keeping the gag in place. The wardrobe was well insulated with copious amounts of clothes and shoes, but she didn’t want to take any chances. She tied her hands and legs, finishing the knots with a series of runes to keep them secure.
When that was done, Anoor looked down at the girl, mentally checking off all the things that Inquisitor Abena did in her zines.
“Ah, your pockets,” Anoor chastised herself. She hastily patted the girl down for weapons, finding nothing. The assassin had a satchel hanging across one shoulder that Anoor untangled and emptied onto the floor. She discovered a packet of joba seeds, and she disposed of them outside the window in distaste.
There was an old map, not very up to date, but to be expected with an assassin; they always had maps in the zines. They needed to know where their mark was. And what was that, a knife? Anoor reached for it, and her heart sank in disappointment. It was just a rusty old spoon. What kind of assassin didn’t have a weapon?
She placed the spoon on the torn edge of the map, holding the curled edge down. Her fingers trailed along the parchment of her prison: the Wardens’ Keep. The southernmost point of the whole of the empire. Her gaze ran along the shore through the inky blue waves of the Marion Sea. She laughed in delight when she saw the gray sketch of the Tannin in the waves. Gorn had told her stories of the sea monster since she’d been a babe.
She began to roll up the map, but as she moved the spoon from the top right corner, she saw something unexpected. The smudge of another land shorn away.
Her finger traced the jagged edge.
“No,” she whispered her disbelief. There was nothing beyond the empire. Was there?
—
Sylah opened her eyes to darkness. Her hands were bound in front of her with strips of cloth and bloodwerk runes. Her feet were similarly restricted, and her mouth was gagged.
The sound of gentle breathing drew her eyes to the dressing-room door. The usurper slept, slumped against the exit, her head lolling backward. Her breathing was gentle, her lips slightly parted in a smile. It enraged Sylah all the more.
She bucked against the restraints as quietly as she could, but they held fast. She could feel the quivering brought on by her joba seed withdrawal jerking her limbs long after she had stopped struggling. Her satchel was by the girl’s feet. Sylah shuffled forward on her butt.
The girl started and looked around, her eyes wide and full of dreams Sylah couldn’t see. She settled back down in the next breath.
Sylah ground her teeth, pushing tight the strip of cloth around her mouth. She needed to sign up for the Aktibar. Seeing how this girl lived set Sylah’s decision in stone. It was time for Sylah to rejoin the fight.