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  Illiya connected the wires in the proper configuration on the back of the device, years of experience making it a matter of muscle memory to put the correctly colored outputs into the right input slots, even in the dusk light and the deeper shadows behind the terminal.

  A thumping sound was followed by a low, almost imperceptible buzz. Illiya turned the knob to the proper frequency and stepped out from behind the cluster of electronic components to stand in the audience focal area, marked on the ground with intricate patterns.

  She watched the screen for signs of a response. Not from Onaya Bone, but from the new goddess who had taken her place at the center of their world.

  This ancient woman, Meran, had never agreed to these communications. Illiya did not know the orientation of space within Nexus, and so had no idea if Onaya Bone’s old laboratory was anywhere near where Meran had chosen to make her stand against the Gods-That-Remained. For fifteen minutes, during which Illiya breathed shallowly and listened intently for a change in sound, hoping that the screen would brighten with a connection from the other side. After a quarter hour, she exhaled, closed her eyes a moment to clear her frustration, and turned the screen off again.

  She talked herself through this personal coup against her goddess. Meran was occupying the Bone Mother’s entire attention, keeping her from tending to her children. Her people were alarmed, frightened, tense, and seeking spiritual guidance. Not seeking to leave the planet and explore the airless void beyond. Not seeking to scavenge the wrecked alien ships for a simula.

  The congregation had more pressing questions in their hearts. Pressing, like the spiritual grief of knowing one of The Five had been killed. That was a secret Illiya had held, on her goddess’s command, for a year before it was made known to the Bone population to foment them into action against the aliens. After which, Onaya Bone had all but entirely vanished from their lives and that call-to-action withered to churning nervousness and uncertainty.

  And there were other concerns, such as the Veritors—the Cutter faction who sheltered the aliens—increasing their presence along the dextral border. To keep it secure, they claimed, but Illiya feared a renewed attempt to push Cutter territory further into Bone skies. The borders had been almost stable since Tazrian’s treaty was signed, generations before, but the Cutter folk had always felt that they should be free to spread wherever their maker’s winds blew them. Onaya Bone had dismissed the potential open war with a vague wave, providing no words of comfort to pass on to her people.

  Illiya had a nation of souls to tend. Their goddess’s errands might serve the great purpose of restoring the Gods in Nexus, but at what cost?

  Chapter 8

  Talis paced as The Folly chugged toward the assigned berth at the docks. The airship had the thorough impudence to be unscathed and show no haste. Bill’s orange tabby, Jace, was curled up asleep on the weather walk of the forward lift balloon as though they’d flown through nothing but calm skies.

  While waiting for Bill to toss his line out, Talis absently scratched at Onaya’s brand on her forearm. Jace opened one eye as though he could sense Talis’s fingers were primed for important work in service of a cat. He rose, stretched from his toes to his fur-covered wings, and glided down to the dock post at her side, ahead of the little ship.

  “Hi there, you.” Talis administered the cat’s toll of greeting, scritching beneath his chin, behind the jaw, and then at the joint where wings met shoulder. All the cat’s favorite spots. He leaned the top of his head into her shoulder. “Where in all five hells have you been?”

  The Folly finally pulled up to the docks, and Jace, familiar with the routine, settled onto his haunches to clean himself. Talis caught the side-spliced line Bill tossed her and looped it over the nearest dock cleat.

  A bit more negotiating the airship forward and reverse, and they were able to do the same for the stern line. Bill disengaged the propulsion from the engine and left it to idle, sustaining the lift balloon’s hot air supply until Talis could angle the dockside gantry around and hook him up to the Vuur Artak steam.

  He gathered up his paperwork, taking his sweet time, while she waited with arms crossed. Finally, he flipped his hinged gangway open onto the dock and descended.

  “News?” He was late enough she didn’t feel bad about skipping the felicitations.

  He nodded and spared a glance for the nearest ships on the docks. That bad, then.

  “Glad to see you, Talis.” A bit too loud. Too jovial. “Got sommat for you, if you can come aboard and help me offload it.”

  Talis glanced over her shoulder at the harbormaster’s office. As if Nisa or any of the other coin counters in there were going to emerge into open air just for their health. A Bone crewwoman on a nearby ship was asleep on her deck watch. A Breaker man on a more distant ship was busy offloading crates. She knew they had at least as many more still in their hold as were piled on top of the loader they had rented. Should be enough time before anyone missed her. She stepped up onto Bill’s ship.

  The Folly was a tiny vessel. Deep instead of long, sized more like a triple-decker dinghy than a proper cargo ship. The cabin immediately below the weather deck was his living space. A galley table lowered down the mast beam to convert the eating area into Bill’s bunk at night. Now it was covered with charts and navigation tools.

  On the gimbaled stove barely a hip width away, bless him, a pot bubbled a heavenly staccato. She inhaled deeply, happy to take the stale smell of his cramped living space along with the sorely missed aroma of strong, cheap coffee.

  Small though it was, in Talis’s opinion, it couldn’t have been more beautiful if it were a luxury liner. This was their ride out of Heddard Bay.

  Bill waved her to the wooden bench along the bulkhead, piled with the segmented mattress as seat cushions, while he pulled two ceramic-coated tin mugs from a locker over the stove and prepared her cup. She’d barely gotten a moment to sit and pull one foot up onto the bench when Jace appeared from above decks to settle himself in Talis’s lap for more attention as Bill bustled about the tiny galley.

  “Still take it black?”

  “These days? I’ll take it however I can get it.” She watched him move, taking several stops and starts to do something as familiar as brew coffee. Nervous as a whip-tailed lizard in a clockwork cabinet. He drummed his fingers nervously on the counter by the small pump-handled sink, watching the glass dome on the pot’s lid like his life depended on making the perfect cup.

  “Settle down, Bill. You’re making me nervous. What news? What kept you? We’re ready to move. Are you?”

  He twitched at her words. Talis frowned. Bill was not generally such a jumpy fellow. He was a smuggler, like her. Confidence was prerequisite to pulling off their work, more than most professions. It required easy smiles for customs agents, steady hands to fly under border patrols, a cool head while making friends with the less scrupulous guards and feeding them a little extra coin, and keeping your emotions concealed when negotiating contracts. Bill’s emotions were most definitely not concealed.

  Bill took the knit cap off his head and twisted it in his hands. “Diadem isn’t backing down on the integration policies. Folks still wanting to hear from Silus Cutter on the matter.”

  That was perhaps the worst wrong the Veritors’ puppet government was enacting. Most folk in the Empire had no idea their god was dead. Killed by the gods-rotted aliens to whom the Imperials were providing aid. The way Hankirk had talked about it, like the Cutter god’s death was a vindication of everything he believed, it seemed like the kind of thing the Veritors would be eager to boast about. But even they weren’t so proud that they didn’t have the sense to keep it quiet. Hard to assure folks that the aliens were friends in need of help when they had murdered a god.

  Jace twisted in her lap to bump her hand with his head. She relented, administering the required scratches to his wing joints again. His purr filled t
he small cabin.

  Talis had known about Silus Cutter’s death for two years, and even she couldn’t stop tugging her prayerlocks as if there were anyone for her thoughts to reach. Hadn’t been able to bring herself to comb them out, either. She’d faced the truth head-on at Nexus, and she still wished she didn’t know. Wouldn’t be hard to keep the information a secret from a population that would, no doubt, feel the same.

  “Soon as we get back, we’ll reverse the winds on those Veritor sycophants, and make sure everyone knows who they’re in bed with.”

  “Some are trying. The subcities have a better idea than most that the aliens aren’t about to become upstanding citizens of Imperial society.” Bill checked his pocket watch, then cut the heat under the perc pot. “Afraid I’ve got worse news yet.”

  He used a tea towel to carefully remove the basket of grinds and place it in the sink to deal with later. Then he returned the lid to the pot and poured the precious brown liquid into the mugs. Talis could feel the caffeine in just the smell of the stuff and prepared herself to stomach the bitter brew.

  She folded a sky chart half-over to make room as Bill placed the coffees down on the table, then fetched them a sugar bowl and a canister of cream from his icebox.

  As loose grounds swirled in her mug, Talis tried to divine what Bill was so hesitant to say. “Out with it, then. You know someone’ll note my absence out there before too long. Losing my job isn’t part of the plan.”

  Bill delayed long enough to take a sip of coffee, wincing at the temperature as it hit his lips and tongue. Burned mouth in place of bad news, Talis knew the feeling.

  “They’ve assassinated the emprices.”

  She’d been lifting the mug to her own lips, but she put it down again, sloshing some of the liquid out onto the table. Glad it hadn’t been in her mouth or she might have spit it out at the news.

  “Rotting winds. The Veritors have?”

  “Well, of course, they’re saying it was an anti-refugee radicalist behind it, and it was messy. A run on the palace as well as the city around it. Everyone in Diadem is terrified of more attacks while the politicians make empty speeches about there being a full investigation to find the assassins.”

  “So they’ve taken control?”

  “Near as.” Bill used his tea towel to wipe up Talis’s spill before it could threaten his charts. “Emeranth’s coronation is going forward. Hardly looks good for her, though.”

  Talis frowned and then took careful sips of the coffee to buy herself a moment to think. “Poor kid.”

  Bill cleared his throat but said nothing. He had a daughter back home. Grown woman, but to a father, daughters never grow past needing their protection.

  “So who’s in charge, then?”

  He pressed his lips together and inhaled through his nose. “Who do you think? The majority pro-refugee fatcrats, who are probably all Veritors or, at least, in the Veritor pockets.”

  She cursed, using Tisker’s choicest pleasantries learned by the boy in the worst company of Subrosa. “And I’m sure they’re no closer to catching any assassins.”

  “Three other political figures had been found dead before I left. Funny how the only casualties were top opposition to the Yu’Nyun integration policies. Somehow they’re still making it sound like this is a movement against Yu’Nyun aid.”

  “Gods rot. This have anything to do with your delay?”

  Bill nodded. “I was about to head out when the rumors reached me, so I stuck around to make sure I had the details right before I brought them to you.”

  Talis sipped her coffee. The Cutter Imperial system had always been corrupt, but now they were spilling blood to get their way. “How’s the rest of our fair community back home?”

  “Nervous. Undercities getting more attention from the Imperial forces, and the old city guards switched out, so we have to get them in our pockets all over again. Arrests, and those that are arrested aren’t found again. No more being slapped with the usual fines. All under the pretense of stopping the assassination plots and protecting everyone from radical groups.”

  “Naturally.” She sighed, and ran her hands through her hair, tugging at the prayerlocks at the trail ends. “We need to get home.”

  Bill nodded, tugging his hat back over his smooth scalp as though making ready to leave that moment. “That’s the one good bit of news. The borders are open so dignitaries can attend the coronation.”

  “Wait. The borders open? Just like that?”

  “Why? Thought you’d like that. We’ll have the option to pay our way through and make it back without breaking a sweat.”

  “I do not, in fact, like it. Why would the Veritors risk letting news in from outside the Empire? No reason they can’t just perform the coronation without the audience. It’s not like they want to strengthen ties with the other four races.”

  Understanding passed over Bill’s expression. “Hadn’t thought about it that way. Good thing you’re getting back to set things straight. You said you’re ready? What’s the timeline?”

  Talis lifted Bill’s inventory sheet, skimmed the list without any real interest: his usual fare of tea, spices, yarn, and fabric. Some jugs of cream from the dairy farms on Boland. He snuck across borders to save money on the outrageous bribes to customs agents but kept his inventory strictly legal. If he were ever stopped and his ship searched, no one would find the truly illicit commodity he carried: the truth. Same commodity Talis needed to weaponize. Sooner, rather than later.

  “The shareholders’ gala is a week from Helsturn. Any other news I should chew on?”

  The older man wrapped his hands around his mug as if to draw strength from the warmth. “There’s a resistance movement. The Tempest, they call themselves.”

  She folded the inventory sheet back up, sitting straight on the bench again. “Are they effective?”

  Jace, offended by her movement, got up and moved to a spot out of her reach.

  “Somewhat. They’re mostly handing out blankets and food to folks who need it, but they seem to be gathering their strength, same as you. They’ve got access to a radio somewhere and are letting people know—quietly—what’s really going on. Sounds like they want to do a lot more.”

  So. Someone was building a network. Doing what she couldn’t effectively do from this side of Nexus. Talis smiled, revealing a glinting cap on one canine. “Sounds like I should get acquainted with them soon as possible.”

  “I’ll try to find you a name and an address.”

  Talis tapped the table with a fingernail. “Rather you stick around and wait for us. Can you?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve got a fortune in cream that needs to get where it’s going. That was personal spec.”

  She looked disappointed. “I’ll recoup you for it.”

  “If you pull this off. No offense, but that’s good stuff. I paid a lot for it, and my good name today ensures more work tomorrow. Can’t leave a job unfinished. You said you have a week and a half? I’m only taking it to Gladstone. I can be back in time.”

  She took a deep breath through her nose but resisted the urge to sigh audibly. Instead she nodded, drained her coffee mug, and rose from the bench. “All right. Go then, and make room for us in your hold. We pack light.”

  Bill stood as well, looking like he wanted to hug her. He took his hat off again instead and played at the give in the fabric between his hands. “I’m glad you’re finally ready to go. Let me know what I can do.”

  “You’ve already been an enormous help. Seriously. I’d have lost all hope if you hadn’t come along, again and again.”

  Then they did hug, that sort of rough ‘look at me I’m such a toughened smuggler’ hug, the kind that always involves a clap on the shoulders as it ends. “Wish you’d led with that information about the Tempest, though.”

  Bill’s smile was crooked. “Al
ways start with the bad news.”

  She nodded. “Storm-proven advice. I’ll get on that, presently.”

  Filing his paperwork and stamping his forms felt like a ridiculous formality. After he filled his water tanks and departed again, the rest of her workday seemed a vapid, empty nuisance. Possibly the coffee had hit her harder than usual after so long without because she buzzed with the constant thought: they were going to leave soon. Her legs ached as if she’d run clear off the end of the dock and get to Subrosa under her own power.

  Chapter 9

  Zeela switched off her radio and removed the headset, hanging it on its hook. It was such habit by now she did not need to feel around for the proper placement.

  She inhaled through her nose and held it for a moment. She was developing a light headache. She had them more frequently over the past few weeks. “Read it back to me, please.”

  Seated nearby, Lilac adjusted her enormous self and stirred the air with the light tones of coconut, almond, and peaberry. Paper fluttered as the Breaker messenger paged back through her notes.

  “No sign of Meran, Lindent Vein, Arthel Rak, or Helsim Breaker.” Zeela heard her breath catch, and there was a hesitant pause. “Are we so certain about that last one, Lady? It seems very unlike Helsim Breaker to leave us alone during such a trying time.”

  Lilac’s creator had a reputation for walking among his people and soothing their fears with wisdom and kindness, healing the injured and sick, and adjusting the islands’ climates or ecological balances to aid farmers and ranchers or to restore ecosystems after forest and brush fires.