“Isae and Orieve Benesit,” Cyra said, reading the names from the screen.
The twins were walking into a building. They both looked graceful with the breeze from inside the building pressing their coats—buttoned at the side, at the shoulder—tight to their bodies. He didn’t recognize the fur of their scarves or the fabric of the coats themselves, black and clear of snow even now. An off-world material, to be sure.
“Rednalis is the name she used,” he said. “A Hessa name. The day the fates were announced was the last time I saw her.”
Isae and Orieve stopped to greet people on the way in, but as they walked away, and the sights peered after them, he saw a flash of movement. The second sister hooked her arm around the first sister’s neck, drawing her head in close. The same way Ori had done with Eijeh when she wanted to whisper something in his ear.
Then Akos couldn’t see much anymore, because his eyes were full of tears. That was Ori, who had a space at his family table, who had known him before he became . . . this. This armored, vengeful, life-taking thing.
“My country has a chancellor,” he said.
“Congratulations,” Cyra said. Hesitantly, she asked, “Why did you tell me all that? It’s probably not something you should broadcast here. Her alias, how you know her, all that.”
Akos blinked his eyes clear. “I don’t know. Maybe I trust you.”
She lifted her hand, and hesitated with it over his shoulder. Then she lowered it, touching him lightly. They watched the screen side by side.
“I would never keep you here. You know that, right?” She was so quiet. He’d never heard her that quiet. “Not anymore. If you wanted to go, I would help you go.”
Akos covered her hand with his own. Just a light touch, but it was charged with new energy. Like an ache he didn’t quite mind.
“If—when, when I get Eijeh out,” he said, “would you ever go with me?”
“You know, I think I would.” She sighed. “But only if Ryzek was dead.”
As the ship turned back toward home, news of Ryzek’s success on Pitha came toward them in pieces. Otega was the source of most of Cyra’s gossip, Akos found, and she had a good read on things before they were even announced.
“The sovereign is pleased,” Otega said, dropping off a pot of soup one night. “I think he made an alliance. Between a historically fate-faithful nation like Shotet and a secular planet like Pitha, that’s no small feat.” Then she had given Akos a curious look.
“Kereseth, I presume. Cyra didn’t say you were so . . .” She paused.
Cyra’s eyebrows popped up like they were on springs. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, chewing on a lock of hair. Sometimes she stuck it in her mouth without noticing. Then she’d spit it out, with a look of surprise, like it had crept into her mouth on its own.
“. . . tall,” Otega finished. Akos wondered what word she would have chosen, if she felt comfortable being honest.
“Not sure why she would have mentioned that,” Akos replied. It was easy to be comfortable around Otega; he slid into it without thinking much about it. “She’s tall, too, after all.”
“Yes. Quite tall, the lot of you,” Otega said, distantly. “Well. Enjoy that soup.”
When she left, Cyra went straight to the news feed to translate the Shotet subtitles for him. This time it was startling how different they were. The Shotet words apparently said, “Pithar chancellor opens up friendly support negotiations in light of Shotet visit to Pithar capital.” But the Othyrian voice said, “Thuvhesit chancellor Benesit threatens iceflower trade embargoes against Pitha in wake of their tentative aid discussions with Shotet leadership.”
“Apparently your chancellor isn’t pleased that Ryzek charmed the Pithar,” Cyra remarked. “Threatening trade embargoes, and all.”
“Well,” Akos said, “Ryzek is trying to conquer her.”
Cyra grunted. “That translation doesn’t have Malan’s flair; they must have used someone else. Malan likes to spin information, not leave it out entirely.”
Akos almost laughed. “You can tell who it is by the translation?”
“There is an art to Noavek bullshit,” Cyra said as she muted the feed. “We’re taught it from birth.”
Their quarters—Akos had started to think of them that way, much as it unsettled him—were the eye of a storm, quiet and settled in the midst of chaos. Everybody was getting everything in order for landing. He couldn’t believe the sojourn was coming to a close; he felt like they had just taken off.
And then, on the day the currentstream lost its last blue streaks, he knew it was time to make good on his promise to Jorek.
“You sure he won’t just turn me in to Ryzek for drugging him?” Akos said to Cyra.
“Suzao is a soldier at heart,” Cyra said, for what had to be the hundredth time. She turned the page in her book. “He prefers to settle things himself. Turning you in would be the maneuver of a coward.”
With that, Akos set out for the cafeteria. He was aware of his hurried heartbeat, his twitchy fingers. This time of week Suzao ate in one of the lower cafeterias—he was one of the lowest-ranked of Ryzek’s close supporters, which meant he was the least important person most places he went. But in the lower cafeterias, near the ship’s chugging machinery, he got to be superior for once. It was the perfect place to provoke him—he couldn’t very well be shamed by a servant in front of his inferiors, could he?