Daughters of Ruin (21 page)

“Mmm-hmm,” said Cadis.

“What wonders grow on Findish soil,” said Iren, quoting from PilanPilan's opera. Obviously, she saw the connection as well. He had the tawny hue of a sailor long at sea, taut as the rope, tall as the sail. He wore billowing white muslin trousers as thin as cheesecloth, with a matching half-open blouse. Both seemed to sway around him like sailcloth.

Cadis had no time to inspect him as he crossed the space between them and lifted her off her horse by the waist as if she weighed nothing.

“Let me look at you. What are you—?”

He cupped her face. Cadis had nothing—and a thousand things—to say.

To tell him of the attack.

To explain why she had snuck into her own city.

“You've changed,” she spat out finally.

Jesper laughed—how very warm it was—and drew her in for a hug. Cadis felt a fortnight's worth of constant guarded travel, long nights keeping watch, and terse conversation release from her shoulders. Cadis closed her eyes for a brief moment. When she opened them, she saw the four others accompanying Jesper for the first time.

All four looked mildly familiar. All four stared at her over Jesper's shoulder. “Meridan Keep has been attacked,” said Iren, not having bothered to dismount.

“By whom?” said a girl, roughly their age, from Jesper's group. Iren barely took notice of her. Cadis braced for the shock impact of Iren's reply—that the attacks were Findish rebels.

“We don't know,” said Iren. “We killed three and twelve”—she nodded at Cadis for the twelve—“and escaped before battle's end.”

She spoke in the clipped formal manner of a soldier reporting facts. After a pause, she added, “Your spies should have sent birds by now.”

Cadis tried to catch Iren's gaze, to tell her to take it easy, but Iren's eyes flitted from one of Jesper's crew to another. Cadis realized she was studying their reactions to see who was surprised by the news and who already knew.
How does she know to do that?

Once again Cadis wondered what inner workings of her sister had been kept hidden. Cadis turned and studied Jesper's face for clues. She quickly realized three things: She had spent her life under the optimistic delusion that people would simply speak their minds, she had developed no subtlety for reading thoughts, and by all the gods of theater and the spirits of the sails, he
was
Khartik incarnate.

Cadis had no category in her mind for him anymore—brotherly friend and playmate of all the years before the Protectorate and diligent messenger during. Now after, in her return to take up the mantle of the Archon Basileus—first among equals of the guildmasters—she had no idea what their relationship would be—though she had a budding notion for it.

It took a brief moment of introductions to remind Cadis of the identity of the others.

The imperious girl with short-cropped hair and well-used blade currently staring down Iren with open hatred was none other than Hypatia Terzi, Jesper's older cousin and daughter of Lieke Terzi, the master of the caravaneers' guild.

Cadis shook her hand, making sure to crush it equally. She knew the caravaneers were one of the three prime merchant guilds of Findain, beside the captains and the shipwrights.

But Lieke—and recently Hypatia—had spent the last ten years consolidating power almost equal to the other two combined.

Beside Hypatia slumped a whelpish hound of a boy—no more than fifteen, not yet lost of baby fat—who cast glances at Hypatia for approval of every breath. Timor Botros, son of Nicho, master of a lesser artisans' guild—textiles specifically. He actually waited for Hypatia to nod before shaking Cadis's hand.

Iren made an audible snort at the sight. Pentri Muto, scion of the shipwrights' guild, stood farthest back and gave a slight bow as Jesper introduced him. He seemed wealthiest by clothing and demeanor, a short, thin, fashionable, uninterested young man who seemed like a male Iren to Cadis. Aloof but likely nowhere near as deadly.

Last, and standing farthest from Hypatia, was Arcadie Kallis, dressed in a sleeveless tunic to show off her captain's inking all along both arms. She had crossed the Pelgardian line, survived a shipwreck, and completed three cycles of the Grand Tour, by the look of the symbols on her brawny arms. She had a darker coloring than even Jesper, and her hair was a tinted mirror of Cadis's—black dreads with coral and shells woven throughout. She was the daughter of Genio Kallis, master of the captains' guild, rival to Lieke and the caravaneers. It seemed the daughters Hypatia and Arcadie continued the tradition.

Cadis nodded to Arcadie. Already, she liked her best.

These were the heirs of the first families of Findain. Cadis had vague memories of them all. Since birth, they were destined to sit at the table together. “And this is Iren,” said Cadis, “of Corent.”

She thought it would be a dramatic departure to offer no titles or histories. And she was right.

Iren gave a wry smile. The others offered a customary bow.

“Yes, of course,” said Pentri from the back. “We gathered from the descriptions.”

“Really?” said Iren, raising an eyebrow. “Have the shipwrights of Findain written plays about us?”

“Why would shipwrights make plays? We build ships.”

“Oh, who can tell what all these guilders do?” said Iren.

She was goading him, of course. And he seemed arrogant and brash enough to take the bait.

“We will excuse the mountain queen for not knowing the definition of the word ‘shipwright.' ”

Jesper looked at Cadis, half enjoying the volleys, half wondering if they should put an end to it. Cadis winked. She knew Iren was good in a fight of any sort.

“Thank you, sir, but I would no more assume that a shipwright makes ships than a boy named Pantry minds the kitchen.”

Pentri's face turned the color of the flower in his collared jacket. “Pentri,” he spat. “My name is Pentri.”

“Beg your pardon,” said Iren. “I meant a boy who minds the pig pens.”

Arcadie Kallis laughed aloud, and the battle was won.

“I like her,” she said, speaking to Cadis.

“You should see her cross-stitch,” said Cadis.

They returned to the Odeon—seat of the guildmasters and the archonate castle—with rumors of the Archon Basileus spreading through the city, along with whispers of dead queens and a Meridan invasion.

Cadis found herself in the center of their party without meaning to, as if they too had been trained all their lives for their roles as guildmasters. They took archonate formation, Arcadie Kallis to her right—captain. Pentri Muto riding before her—shipwright. Hypatia Terzi on her left—caravaneer.

Cadis noticed that Jesper had no position, and walked at her horse's flank along with Timor Botros of the textile guild. Iren brought up the rear, certainly by her own design.

By the time they reached the bridge to the island of the Odeon, it had been filled with Findish citizens. When they saw her, they shouted and began the chorus of “Rise Archana, Rise the Tide.” Every man, woman, and child of Findain seemed to have the performer's gusto. Cadis turned in her saddle to smile at all of them. She wished she could embrace them. They all felt like family.

Jesper's voice was as deep as a jug's.

She could hear the smooth bass and turned to catch his eye. He bowed, and kept singing. Only Iren didn't know the words.

It was at that moment that Cadis felt—for the first time since she could remember—like she was home.

Then she saw the masters at the far end of the bridge, on the stairs of the Odeon, standing also in formation, faces as grim and rigid as the gargoyles. And she knew she was not entirely welcome. She wished to see with Iren's eyes—what insights she must have already gathered, what cynical appraisals had she made already of those they met?

After what they had been through, perhaps Iren's pessimism was not so useless as Cadis once believed. Or, better put, perhaps it was a good arrow to have in a quiver, for just the right moments.

They approached the steps of the Odeon castle, and the guildmasters sang their own chorus. Cadis bowed, waved to the people, and dismounted. An attendant reached for her saddle pack, but she thanked him and took it herself.

The people erupted.

It was a sign that the archana was of the people. Cadis blanched. For her, it was simply instinct. She did not think of herself as the great triumphant queen of a nation. All her life, she was the backwater gold noble for a bunch of oathbreakers. The story was a sad one. And Cadis was used to telling it. She was accustomed to admiration given begrudgingly, but never love, never willingly.

They were all a blur anyway.

She took the pack, waited for Iren, waved again, and walked through the giant doors with guildmasters and their scions in direct formation behind her.

Cadis leaned toward her friend, if only to touch someone, and whispered, “I think I preferred being the traitorous orphan.”

Iren was helpful in her own way. “You're still an orphan,” she said.

Cadis chuckled at the golem she had for a sister.

“You're right. Welcome to Findain.”

“It's very quaint.”

“We just walked over a bridge full of choral praise, to an island castle.”

“Yes.”

“Not fancy enough? Do they slaughter bulls in Corent?”

Iren proffered a nigh-imperceptible smile. “They slaughter only in Meridan,” she said. “In Corent we'd just forgive everyone's library fines.”

Cadis laughed. “A joke? You're becoming a regular jester.”

“The archana returns. Excuse us for being giddy.”

Cadis was genuinely touched by the effort.

Of course they both knew the Corentines did not go in for all that group singing. Nor for the mingling of class—though theirs was a system built on academy merits. And more than anything, they didn't encourage the folksy charm of a queen with a rucksack and a cadre of guildmasters daring to welcome her into her own house.

For the first time in a long while, Cadis knew what her sister was thinking.

She ushered Iren to the common room, as she remembered it from her childhood, and said, “That's just our way. It doesn't mean anything.”

“If someone barred entry to the spire, no matter how gently, and waited for me to dismount before stepping aside, I would let my horse do the bowing and would ride over them like toadstools.”

“Ha!” said Cadis. She had never heard language so florid come from Iren. Perhaps the sea air was making a poet of her. Cadis glanced to make sure no one had heard.

Iren was speaking of Lieke Terzi, of course. Hypatia's mother, master of the caravaneers, who had only begrudgingly stepped aside.

Perhaps Iren was right. But in the short exchange, Cadis had already changed her mind about her sister's approach to such matters. She decided that perhaps she was better off without her sister's sharpened sense of others' weaknesses.

If she thought better of them—and let them know her high estimation—then Cadis believed sincerely that people would be elevated to higher purposes.

She knew exactly what Iren thought of her ideals. She had seen the eye rolls plenty enough in the past.

The common hall of the Odeon had little to do with its name, except for the general principle that both espoused—equity. In fact, it was a theater, perfectly round, and in the center was a perfectly round stage elevated only up to a man's knee. Every seat in the common hall was equal. Anyone who stood on the stage to address the assembly was equal, too, but afforded temporary advantage to honor the words and the attention given freely by the crowd.

So had the first Archon Basileus made it. Though he could have been king, he chose to be first among equals. And so had the guildmasters governed the country of Findain, with debate and political theater. This was the stage on which the Maid Marauder had been tried for her crimes—thrice. It was the stage Cadis had stood upon ten years ago with Cousin Denarius, to bid good-bye to the guilds before entering the Protectorate with an escort of armed Meridan guards.

She didn't know the guildmasters then—though Lieke Terzi and Genio Kallis had both been present. To the seven-year-old Cadis, they were just a bunch of adults who quarreled a lot, asked her too many questions, and voted on how she should be taught her sums.

Cadis always imagined that parents would have been fewer but no less troublesome. On the day of her departure, Cadis had cried for the first time in front of the guilds. She remembered it now as they filed into the aisles. She remembered Lieke Terzi clicking her tongue in disgust that Cadis couldn't finish the valediction without tears.

And she remembered Cousin Denarius putting his hand on her shoulder. When she looked up, the old man smiled wide and rattled his two false teeth—in out, in out, in out—with a clownish cross-eyed glee. Cadis giggled and sniffled and felt, somehow, that any horrible situation could be made absurd—and perhaps in most instances, should be. She had loved Cousin Denarius, who was as kind and doting and sloppy as a mountain dog. She'd eaten only with him, which meant she'd eaten only porridge with stewed apples, mashed corn, and oyster soup for his year with tooth rot.

Cadis had finished the speech and walked out with the Meridan guards. Before she stepped into the carriage, Denarius had squeezed her harder than she had ever felt and kissed her on the forehead.

“Be good, little bug,” he had said. She had nodded. “And hearty, and joyous, and proud, and heroic, and magnanimous.”

That got the smile he'd been wanting.

“Okay, okay,” she'd said.

He'd hugged her again.

“You be heroic too,” she said, with her cheek pressed against him.

When they'd finally parted, Cadis saw Denarius weeping for the first time in her life. Jesper chased their carriage all the way to the land gate and threw rocks at the Meridan soldiers. The soldiers, to their credit, let him have his ineffective rage. They were accustomed to the lamentations of orphaned children.