《Tidecaller Chronicles》


 1: Mistakes Are All I Have

    I crouch ankle-deep in running water, blind-folded, reading the current. I hear the whole chamber through the water: the mutters of the watching students, the patient tick of my trainer¡¯s thoughts, and the anger of Erjuna across the wide floor from me, his mind seeking to read mine.


    I refuse it. That¡¯s the first rule of watersight: do not let your opponent in. Only those you trust.


    I let no one in.


    Erjuna tries to keep me out, but he¡¯s slacked off in the last few months, like the rest of them, like the whole temple. Become more interested in politics than studies, and so they¡¯ve all gotten weak. I¡¯ve fought half my class today and not taken a scratch. Erjuna is the last of them, many say the best of them, because they don¡¯t want to admit I¡¯m the best. That a girl could be the best.


    Sometimes I hate my dad for putting me here. For discovering I have watersight when I shouldn¡¯t, for using his position to get me in any way, for making me the only female seer in a temple of men. I¡¯m a walking heresy, a challenge to everything they believe. That¡¯s what finally got him deposed and murdered, no matter how much they claim it was suicide. I hate them for killing him, even though I resent him for putting me here.


    It¡¯s twisted, I know. Welcome to my world.


    Erjuna makes his charge. I know he¡¯s running from the way his thoughts stutter, feet splashing in and out of the water. His mind is a mess, thoughts slipping through his blind like a school of fish through fingers¡ªcalculation on how to beat me and worry he¡¯ll be humiliated and stress about losing his place as the head of his House.


    I wait till the last second, confident in my watersight though I¡¯m blindfolded and all I can hear are the shouts and cries of the watching students, echoing in the long stone training hall. I need to do more than win here. I need to win so decisively my enemies won¡¯t dare attack me. I need it more than I need my trainer¡¯s approval or a position in one of the Houses. Because this about more than the training now.


    It¡¯s about staying alive.


    Erjuna strikes, chopping his staff down overhand. He thinks it well before he does it, so I¡¯m ready. I roll left at the last second, hearing his curse through the water as the wood cracks into stone. My staff slaps into his knee. He¡¯s good enough that he recovers with a strike at my chest, and for a few seconds we dance and dodge blows, staffs cracking and water flying, but it¡¯s a foregone conclusion. His concentration drops even more in action, and I read his thoughts like a peddler¡¯s banner, see the desperate strike at my head before he tries it.


    I duck, his blow cutting air above me, then drive the butt of my staff into his sternum, hard. He doubles over, wheezing, and I deliver a series of blows to his ribs, then a crack on the head that drops him like a dead man.


    I should stop now. I¡¯ve won, I know that, everyone knows that. But winning isn¡¯t enough. I need fear from them, a show of strength so intense the other students won¡¯t dare come at me, and the theocrats won¡¯t dare disappear me, despite my heresy.


    So I press the staff into his windpipe, finding it even blindfolded. I can feel his throat flex through the wood.


    ¡°Yield,¡± I say, not in the water as I should, but in the air, so everyone can hear it.


    His thoughts are an angry jumble of defeat, humiliation, and strategizing how to save face, how to convince his friends he should still be head of their House.


    Apparently, it includes not yielding right away. Too bad. I need everyone to see the second-best fighter in our class is a distant, distant second.


    ¡°Yield,¡± I say again, pressing harder.


    He starts choking. ¡°Yield,¡± he finally croaks, throwing up his hands.


    I lift my staff. ¡°Witch,¡± he spits, getting up from the water.


    Beating him is a mistake. Erjuna is the second-best seer in our class, the most popular, and the best with words, something I suck at. He¡¯s an easy pick for class leader¡ªwhich means his House will likely get elevated this year to full seership. If I had just bowed down to him, at least let him touch me, maybe he would have taken me, taken my strength and skill over my heresy. Not anymore.


    It¡¯s a mistake, but all I have are mistakes now. A mistake to not make friends, but a bigger mistake to trust anyone as my father¡¯s usurpers disappear all my relatives. A mistake to defeat my whole class without taking a scratch, but a bigger mistake to show any weakness when they¡¯d readily off me to improve their own chances. The best seer in generations, the town criers are saying. If only she wasn¡¯t the daughter of the former Chosen. If only she wasn¡¯t a girl.


    So I have to be stronger than all that. Untouchable. The best they¡¯ve ever seen. Or they¡¯ll disappear me¡ªkill me or marry me off to some minor merchant or send me to a distant riverpost to relay messages the rest of my life. I can¡¯t let that happen.


    Because if it does, I¡¯ll never find out what happened to my father. And I¡¯ll never be able to ruin the bastards who did it.


    ¡°Remarkable,¡± a voice says, and it takes me a second to realize I didn¡¯t hear the speaker¡¯s thoughts through the water, not even a trace. Someone who blinds as well as me¡ªa senior seer, then. I pull off my blindfold.


    Worse: it¡¯s the new Chosen, Nerimes, the seer who led the charge against my dad¡¯s heresies, standing in the archway at the far end. The ocean breeze lifts his elaborate robes, and sunlight sparkling off the running water casts shadows in the pits of his eyes. This is the man who took advantage of my father¡¯s death to seize power, who stands for everything my father was trying to change. A traditionalist. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he killed my father, but I believe in Uje¡¯s justice too much to attack him without being sure. Everyone deserves justice.


    Especially the guilty.


    Trainer Urte clears his throat. ¡°Alethia is doing quite well, your Grace. Eighteen of her classm¡ª¡±


    ¡°Defeated today, and the rest too scared to challenge her. Yes, I know. I¡¯ve been reading the waters for some time now.¡± He lifts a brow at the other students, now lined up along the far wall, at sixteen all taller and stockier than me. ¡°And none of you can take this girl? Can even touch her, despite her heresy? Despite watersight being the gift of your sex, and totally foreign to hers?¡±


    No one responds, but the water speaks volumes. That we can hear their thoughts at all speaks volumes, when they should be practicing, should be blinding their thoughts with breath and concentration. It¡¯s pathetic. I would be better yet if I had someone with real talent to fight against.


    Nerimes¡¯ eyes snap to me, sharp in deep sockets, as if he heard me. My fingers go cold on the staff¡ªdid he hear me? Did my waterblind fail? He, of all people, I do not want reading my thoughts.


    ¡°Perhaps a friendly spar, then?¡± he asks, shrugging off the bulky robes of state. He did read me, somehow. And meanwhile his mind is silent as stone, not even a murmur through the water.


    I look to Urte, who appears uncertain. It¡¯s not customary for full seers to spar with students, especially not the senior theocrats. They hardly spar with each other, except those chosen as overseers for the city. But Urte nods, and I catch a hint of his thoughts, as I often do these days. That it might be good for the class to see me beaten. Might be good for me.


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    I tighten my fist on the staff. Nerimes has to beat me first.


    ¡°Blinds or no, your Grace?¡± I ask, giving my robes a quick wring to free up movement.


    He smiles. ¡°No need for them. A real monk must use all his faculties.¡± He¡¯s not a big man, or even a particularly muscular one, but there is an air about him. A sense of power coming from his lean frame.


    Good. It will feel glorious to mash his throat under my staff, like I did Erjuna¡¯s. I let the thought slip past my blind. I don¡¯t care. My strength is not in words. It¡¯s in battle.


    Take the lower position, he says through the water, his words precise, formal. I nod to him and stride across the hall, downstream in the flat sheet that flows across the floor, that originates with the River Thelle and runs through every room in the vast temple before dropping to the sea. The lower position is easier, as thoughts travel faster downstream, with the current. It¡¯s a small advantage, but I¡¯ll take it. My pride is not so great as to think I can beat the Chosen of Uje as easily as I beat Erjuna. Though I do intend to beat him.


    I crouch, fingers to the water, staff flat behind me, pushing my awareness out.


    And see myself, with a shock. He isn¡¯t even bothering to hide his thoughts as he strides confidently across the floor toward me, catching a staff one of the students throws to him. I am a small figure in the sunlit room, black hair falling nearly to the water, body wiry under damp robes. I look small, vulnerable in the vast space. Maybe that¡¯s why he¡¯s letting me see.


    I stand, uneasy. No one has ever done this before. It violates the basic rule, to let no one in. And yet, I can¡¯t read his thoughts, his intentions, the normal unrelated things that run through everyone¡¯s minds. Only his sight. With a gasp, I realize he¡¯s partially opened his waterblind, showing some things and hiding others.


    This is beyond me. Far beyond me.


    I grip my staff tighter as he approaches. His thoughts remain completely closed, but the sight he offers gives me some small advantage at least.


    It vanishes. And in the dead silence that follows, he strikes. I manage to get my staff up, blocking left with a crack, but the force of the blow nearly knocks me from my feet. Floods, he¡¯s strong. I step right, spinning my staff to catch his ribs.


    He¡¯s fast too¡ªmy staff whooshes through the air where he was, the Chosen circling left. I lean back to avoid a counterstrike, and the dance is joined. We circle and parry and thrust and slash in grim silence, water splashing and glinting around us. He is no better fighter than I, at base, but his speed and strength are unbelievable.


    I dodge back again, gradually giving ground, being driven back toward the flat stone walls of the chamber, our engagement already twice as long as any I¡¯ve had today, and his waterblind still as silent as the midnight ocean.


    I need to do something, find some edge, or I¡¯m going to lose. So I form a thought, a simple suggestion in my head: a slip. A stumble. A moment of gracelessness, or overreaction. And as I block a bone-shaking overhead blow, I push the thought into the water, push it at Nerimes.


    He stops for a moment, eyes widening. I think maybe it¡¯s worked, this power of watersight I¡¯ve discovered, of planting thoughts in another¡¯s head. Then his eyes narrow, and he comes at me again in a flurry of blows.


    Well done, his voice comes through the water. But I am beyond such tricks.


    I step back, running into the wall, and it¡¯s a quick series from there to the corner, to the floor, to his quarterstaff mashing my throat, to me admitting I yield.


    I almost don¡¯t, preferring death to dishonor, but pragmatism wins out. I¡¯ll have other chances at this man. When I¡¯m a full seer and I can do better than defeat him in a spar. When I can depose him and prove that I am no heresy. That it¡¯s the temple, not me, that needs to change.


    His black eyes lock on mine. So your heresy runs deeper than your gender, his voices comes in the water, pitched for my mind alone. That is a shame.


    A chill runs through me, despite the heat. I might have imagined it before, but there¡¯s no denying it now. He read me through my blind. Which is impossible.


    And it also means I¡¯ve made an enemy here, if I didn¡¯t have one already.


    Aloud, he says, ¡°Impressive,¡± tossing the staff back to its owner without looking. ¡°There are not many in the temple who could stand before you, Aletheia of the Vjolla, watersight or no.¡± He smiles. ¡°But I guess I am one of them.¡± He nods to Urte. ¡°My apologies, Trainer, for intruding on class. If you did more to enforce orthodoxy within our walls, perhaps I would not need to step in.¡±


    Urte does not flinch under the criticism, and my heart swells. ¡°I will do as Uje commands, Your Grace.¡±


    ¡°See that you do,¡± Nerimes snaps, and sweeps out with a last glance at me.


    Urte dismisses class. Dashan gives me a look on the way out, wide face concerned, but he¡¯s clearly not going to say anything in front of everyone else. Good. The last thing I need right now is someone feeling sorry for me.


    I pace back to the cubbies in the wall, trying to sort out what this means, why Nerimes came, what it bodes for my position in the temple. If he¡¯s finally going to disappear me, now that he knows I¡¯m more than my father¡¯s pawn. That I¡¯m a heretic too.


    Too bad I¡¯m the also best seer the temple has seen in generations. Try disappearing that.


    Well done today, Aletheia, Urte says through the water, in a thought too soft for any but the closest to hear. He stands in a pool of sunlight, weathered chest bare, hands clasped behind his back.


    You think I am foolish, I think back to him. I don¡¯t need to see through his waterblind to know his mind, not after so many years.


    He inclines his head. You are strong¡ªeven the Chosen says so. But strength means little without insight.


    You think I should have let Erjuna win. Should have bowed down to get into his House.


    You need a House to be elevated, Aletheia. It is part of the test.


    I kick at a leaf floating in the water. And what good will a House do me if everyone sees I¡¯m not the best? That the heretic girl isn¡¯t even a skilled heretic? I¡¯d be out of here faster than the spring flood, even if Nerimes doesn¡¯t ship me off.


    Urte sighs and turns to the windows, cool breeze carrying the smell of salt and the sounds of the city below. Child, how many forms of water are there?


    Three, I answer, letting a bit of impatience slip through my blind. This is first-year stuff. Liquid, ice, and steam.


    And which of these would you say is the strongest?


    Ice, I answer without hesitation. Though we rarely see it in Serei, I learned my lessons well. Even before we started sparring, I had to be the best. Not only is it the strongest, when set in cracks it can split stone, as the philosophers believe even our sea cliffs were made.


    Urte cocks his head. And how does the ice get into the stone? Is it forced in there, solid and cold?


    I frown. I¡ªhaven¡¯t seen it, but I assume it must flow in first, then freeze.


    I see his lesson a moment later. He says it anyway. Water¡¯s strength is in its adaptability, little bird, in its ability to flow into the tiniest of cracks, and also to freeze and split apart mountains. But ice on its own? He shrugs. It is not nearly so strong as stone or steel. It will crack. It will shatter. It will break nothing apart if it cannot first flow.


    I gather my things and turn to him. You would have me be fluid. Flow into the cracks of this temple, that I might break it apart?


    He gives me a pained smile. I would have you serve this temple, as your father did. Not split it apart.


    But he did split it apart, I think bitterly. With his heresies. With me. I¡¯m the reason the traditionalists seized power at all.


    No, Urte says, his voice hard for once. Stergjon was no heretic. You are not a heretic. It is the temple that failed to adapt, that stayed ice when it ought to have been water. You can change that. But not if you do not first learn to be liquid, too.


    I sigh, gazing out the giant square windows at the ocean and the white-roofed buildings of Serei beyond, climbing the sides of the bay to the clifftops. All I¡¯ve ever been is ice. If I change now¡­


    He turns to me. You will still be the best of them. And the best version of yourself, too.


    I sigh. Thank you, Urte. I wish I could take his advice, but it¡¯s too dangerous.


    I am leaving the temple for a few days, Urte says. Some business in the peninsula. Be careful while I am gone.


    Careful? I turn to him. Careful of what?


    The old man purses his lips. Likely of nothing. But do it, all the same.


    I nod, sensing the dismissal, then remember something. Is there another form of waterblind?


    He shakes his head. What do you mean?


    Nerimes let me into a part of his thoughts today, but not all of them. And I could swear he read thoughts through my blind. Is there more we haven¡¯t been taught?


    Little bird. There is no waterseer in the world who can do such things. But pride can imagine reasons to hide the truths it does not wish to see. He drops his blind to me, and I see he¡¯s telling the truth, as far as he knows.


    Still, I wasn¡¯t imagining it. I turn to leave, rather than be rude to Urte. He was loyal to my father and is the closest thing I have to a friend among the seers.


    I know what I know. And not knowing how Nerimes did it, or why he came today, feels like diving into the ocean blind.

 2: Bashed

    I spend my meditation period chopping vegetables. We do chores for the same reason we spar, to prove we can hold concentration in the middle of action. The trainers come on you randomly, punishing you if you¡¯ve dropped your blind, but they rarely bother me. I¡¯ve been holding mine day and night for years now, because my very thoughts are heresy. Because I think I, a woman, have a place here. And that my father didn¡¯t deserve to die for it. Heresy¡ªbut so long as they never hear my thoughts, they can¡¯t punish me.


    At least, they couldn¡¯t while my father was alive.


    I chose kitchen work for my meditation because this was something dad and I did together, before mom died of the swooning plague and I was just a child here, not an acolyte. I remember him showing me the different fruits and vegetables, the way the onion had its own natural divisions, the ways I could use that to make different shapes, this one better for curries, this one for pastries. When I stand here in the quiet basement kitchens, I can almost imagine he¡¯s standing next to me, smiling at the quick work I make of the eggplants, yams and ginger.


    After he put me in training things were different. Parents aren¡¯t allowed much contact with acolyte children, and on top of the heresy of putting a girl into the male order of Ujeism, I guess he didn¡¯t want to push it by talking to me too often either. That was when I started to resent him, even as I wanted to make him proud. That he would put me here and then ignore me, ignore the fact that mom died.


    Then just as popular opinion was starting to shift against him, he was found floating in the tide pools. I still remember the way his thick beard was matted to his face with saltwater when they laid him on a table down here. A suicide, everyone said. Atonement for his sins, according to the traditionalists.


    Yeah, right. My father was nothing but driven, and anything but sorry for the way he was trying to change our faith. And the timing was too convenient. But until I become a full seer, until I can show them I¡¯m too perfectly Ujeian to be a heresy, I have to stay strong.


    That¡¯s what Urte doesn¡¯t understand. I¡¯ll get into a House. I just have to force my way in.


    ¡°Think they¡¯re small enough yet?¡±


    I spin, raising the knife. ¡°Dashan! You can¡¯t sneak up on me like that.¡±


    He sidesteps, grinning, and holds up a hand in our old greeting. ¡°I can actually, down here with no water. It¡¯s the only time. A man¡¯s got to take what advantages he can get.¡±


    I punch his palm, like I did the day in third-year we fought each other bloody, then decided to be friends.


    Wish that worked with the other acolytes.


    ¡°Seriously, though,¡± he says, handsome with wide cheekbones and pale skin that speak to Bamani heritage, ¡°think those mushrooms are good?¡±


    I look down: I¡¯ve bashed the mushrooms to tiny pieces. I blush, despite myself. I hate that Dashan can do this to me. ¡°Yeah. Ah, guess I got distracted.¡±


    His face gets serious. ¡°Nerimes?¡±


    I sigh. ¡°Nerimes, Erjuna, the Houses, take your pick.¡±


    ¡°You were amazing today. I didn¡¯t think any of us could fight like that. You¡¯ll make a great overseer.¡±


    The feeling comes off him again. I don¡¯t know why, but sometimes I swear I can feel what Dashan¡¯s feeling. And right now, he¡¯s emitting that warm-glowy-lovey thing that always makes me uncomfortable. I appreciate that he wants it¡ªrelationships with girls are frowned on in the temple¡ªbut I don¡¯t have time for emotions like that.


    ¡°It was stupid. There¡¯s no way I¡¯m getting into a House now.¡±


    He works his jaw. ¡°That¡¯s¡ªwhy I¡¯m here, actually. I talked to Erjuna. He said we could maybe still take you.¡±


    The words take a second to register. ¡°Still take me?¡± Hope soars in my belly like a seagull riding drafts. Getting into a House would get me so much closer to full seer¡ªthen I think for a second, and the seagull plummets.


    ¡°Let me guess. I just have to let him beat me?¡±


    Dashan winces. ¡°All of us, actually.¡±


    All of them? And he thinks I¡¯m going to want to do this? I see red for a second, then concentrate on making the emotion a block of ice, then setting it aside for later. I let out a long breath. ¡°I can¡¯t do that, Dashan. You know that.¡±


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    He huffs air out his nose, a sign he¡¯s frustrated. ¡°Why not? Aletheia it¡¯s just this one time! You¡¯d be safe in our House. I¡¯d be there, and¡ª¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯d what, protect me?¡± My knuckles turn white on the hilt of the knife. ¡°Did I look like I needed protection today?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not talking about fighting, Theia. Yes, obviously you¡¯re good at that.¡± He purses his lips and looks back to me. I can feel his concern. ¡°Look, I didn¡¯t want to tell you this, but have you heard about the violet eyes in the city?¡±


    ¡°What about them?¡± Eyes like mine are rare in Serei, descendants of a group of north shore refugees who arrived two generations ago. My grandfather married one, and during his and my father¡¯s rule the eyes were a mark of prestige in the city. Probably not anymore.


    ¡°They¡¯re disappearing, Theia. No one knows why, but suddenly you don¡¯t see them on the street, or in the markets. People are saying they¡¯re being shipped off or killed.¡±


    My hands go cold. ¡°You think it¡¯s the traditionalists? Like they¡¯ve been doing to the violet eyes here?¡± I had sixteen cousins in the temple, children of my dad¡¯s brothers. I¡¯m the only one left now, the rest kicked out of training or shipped off to work as messengers on remote river stations the rest of their lives.


    Dashan glances around. There¡¯s no one in the room and the floors are dry, but it¡¯s still dangerous talk. ¡°Look, I respect that you want to do it on your own. But nobody gets raised to full seer alone. And having a House to support you might be a good thing right now.¡±


    Or throwing a bunch of fights might just show that I don¡¯t belong here after all.


    ¡°I can¡¯t do it, Dashan.¡± I sigh, trying to feel grateful. I know he¡¯s just trying to help. ¡°Thank you, though.¡±


    He takes my hand, his grip firm and warm. The lovey feeling floods back. ¡°Theia. Please. I¡¯m worried about you.¡±


    I struggle for a second. It¡¯s tempting to say yes. To just give in to it, to trust Dashan. I¡¯m tired of doing this alone. Dead tired, if I let myself admit it. Having allies sounds amazing. But compromise once and you never stop compromising.


    I pull my hand away. ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯d be together. You and me.¡±


    I miss the warmth of his hand already, the solidity of his grip. I ice the emotion, stacking it next to the other one to be dealt with later. I don¡¯t need another kind of weakness, not right now.


    ¡°I¡¯ll think about it, okay?¡±


    ¡°Do that,¡± he says, eyes falling.


    I frown. ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to be scrubbing waterways?¡±


    ¡°I¡ªyes. I should go. I¡¯ll see you tomorrow, yeah?¡±


    I nod. ¡°Bye Dashan.¡±


    I hold up a palm and he punches it. I bash some more mushrooms. It¡¯s not a bad offer. It¡¯s probably a good one, actually. Maybe I¡¯m just being arrogant, or proud, not to want to take a fall for everyone in his House. Being ice instead of water, Urte would say. And maybe I would do it, if I was another guy. But I¡¯m not, and the only reason I¡¯ve made it this far is because I¡¯ve always been better, always been stronger. Too good to possibly kick out. Without that, I¡¯m nothing.


    A shout from the next room interrupts my thoughts. I stick my foot in the wastewater channel that runs across the floor instinctively. Not much comes through it, but that¡¯s no surprise¡ªonly the upper-level floors stay covered in water, so the trainers can monitor the students, and since Nerimes came into power, they don¡¯t even do that much.


    Down here, with no trainers and dry floors, bullies can get away with a lot.


    A dish shatters, and there¡¯s another shout. I recognize the voice: Melden, one of the lower-ranked students in our class, shouting like he does when he gets angry. Come down to the caves to blow off a little steam when he should be meditating. On a laborer who¡¯ll lose their job if they fight back. I put down my knife and start walking.


    There¡¯s another reason I meditate down in the kitchens. To keep slopholes like Melden in check.


    ¡°¡ªflooding lackwater!¡± he¡¯s yelling. ¡°If you can¡¯t even clean a plate, what are you doing here? Do you even speak Ujei?¡±


    The boy is on the floor, arms covering his head, doing exactly what he has to¡ªnot resist the student. I hate it, but we get a privileged spot in the temple. We¡¯re below the full seers and trainers, of course, but they still turn a blind eye to what we do to the maintenance staff.


    The others do, anyway. It¡¯s always infuriated me.


    I kick a mop bucket over, water gushing onto the floor. Floods do you think you¡¯re doing, Melden? I ask through it, bringing him up cold.


    His eyes meet mine, hate and fear mixing there. He doesn¡¯t answer, but his sloppy excuse for a blind lets enough through: he¡¯s having fun where he can. Intimidating the kitchen staff because he can¡¯t intimidate anyone in our class, because he¡¯s low pick in a low House and can¡¯t do anything about it. I flash all that back to him, so he knows I¡¯ve read it. And this is how you make yourself feel better? Picking on people who will lose their job if they fight back?


    Flood you, witch, he spits back. Chosen¡¯s got his eye on you, anyway. Do your worst.


    I hate the spike of fear he puts in me. And when I hate something, I fight back.


    I swing a fist at him. Maybe not the wisest move in the crowded kitchen, or against a member of the only House likely to take me in, but I¡¯ve got bigger problems than getting into a flooding House.


    He knocks it away, sending a pan flying. Without staffs, his bigger size and strength matter more here, but not enough. I dodge the punch he telegraphs through the water and deliver a hard series of fists to his kidneys and liver with ice hands. He doubles over, gasping, maybe about to puke. I kick him the rest of the way down and put a foot on his chest.


    This is what happens when you mess with little people, Melden. I meet his eyes, lock onto them. They mess back. Got it?


    ¡°Flood you,¡± he spits, not bothering to speak in the water. ¡°You¡¯ll be gone in a week, anyway.¡±


    I know it¡¯s just talk, just him trying to hit me any way he can, but it stays with me as I help the kid up, finish my meditations, and go to my room. I don¡¯t bother reporting him¡ªthat much commotion in the waters, one of the trainers heard. Melden¡¯ll get his, though likely not very much because it was only a kitchen worker. If I ever get to the top¡ªwhen I get to the top¡ªthat¡¯s all going to change.

 3: When To Fly

    My room is my refuge. It¡¯s hardly bigger than my bunk, just one in a long row of stone cells, but it¡¯s all mine. A water trough babbles along one side, a shelf on the other holds my books and robes, and sandwiched between is my bed and about enough space to turn around in.


    It¡¯s glorious.


    I stretch out after washing, letting the cool night air blow in through my round window, fingers dangling in the trough. The temple makes its usual evening sounds in the water, comforting even if most of the people here despise me. It is the sound of home. Seers hold counseling sessions with supplicants from the city, overseers discuss news and legal cases, and senior monks drone sunset chants from the altars on the cliff. Tonight, much of it revolves around the upcoming wedding¡ªNerimes is marrying a Seilam Deul woman, forging an alliance between Serei and the technocrats from the mountains to the north. As usual, discussions are weighted with innuendo and hidden agendas¡ªthat¡¯s usual since they killed my dad, anyway. The temple didn¡¯t use to be this political. It used to be about maintaining justice, and guiding citizens, and defending the city. Now it¡¯s all about who¡¯s in power, and who wants to get there. I hate it, but I have to keep my ears open in case any of it spells danger for me. I haven¡¯t forgotten Urte¡¯s warning, to be careful while he¡¯s gone.


    I hear nothing unusual. One by one the voices drift into sleep, thoughts blurring like a sand painting in the tide. My mind doesn¡¯t want to stop working over the events of the day, but eventually I drift, too.


    Something startles me a while later¡ªI can¡¯t tell how long, but the stars have moved in the sky. My fingers are still in the water¡ªI¡¯ve learned to monitor the temple even while I sleep.


    There¡ªit comes again. A bird chirp, but in the water. I frown. That¡¯s a very strange thought, especially at this time of night. Most of the minds in the water are asleep, thoughts fuzzed, though there¡¯s some activity near the Deepling Pool downstream.


    Then I hear a voice, clear and steady: There are three forms of water: ice, liquid, and steam. Our power lies in knowing when to freeze, when to flow, and when to fly. It¡¯s distant, coming from far upstream, but I recognize the voice. It¡¯s Urte, reciting one of the basic proverbs of Ujeism.


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    The chirps come again. Like a little bird. His nickname for me.


    I sit up, and the words repeat: There are three forms of water: ice, liquid, and steam. Our power lies in knowing when to freeze, when to flow, and when to fly.


    To fly.


    I start up, pulling on my robe, grabbing my staff. There¡¯s some kind of trouble¡ªwhatever he was warning me to watch for. Maybe Melden or Erjuna, or a whole pack of them, come to take revenge. It doesn¡¯t matter. My gut says run.


    The window is too small to fit through, but I can slip out the front. My waterblind is perfect, even now¡ªthere¡¯ll be no way to hear me. I¡¯ll climb on the temple roof and wait till morning¡ª


    The door slams open, sandwiching me against the wall. I shove back, but whoever¡¯s on the other side is too strong. Fear strikes hard and I take a deep breath, icing it with concentration. Time for that later.


    I slip from behind the door onto the bed, dropping into Sleeting Rain stance. It¡¯s like I thought¡ªErjuna¡¯s in front, four or five students behind him, mostly from his House. Melden¡¯s there too, the prick.


    Erjuna attacks and I feint left, jabbing my staff forward into his throat. Without water connecting us, I can¡¯t read his thoughts ahead of time, but I hardly need to. Erjuna stumbles back, choking, and a bigger one pushes in. They¡¯re wearing boots. Oiled leather boots, impervious to watersight.


    And banned in the temple. Where did they get them?


    Fear twists in my gut. This is something more than a beating. Are they going to kill me? I ice the emotion again in steady breathing, setting this block of emotion next to the other, building a wall as we were trained to do. The big one lunges in, dropping his staff for fists. I jab my staff slow for his chest¡ªhe catches it, but that¡¯s what I wanted. I swing around on the staff, scissor-kicking both legs into his forehead.


    His head snaps back, but he doesn¡¯t stop, arms reaching for me. I press back against the wall, feeling for the first time they may be too many for me. I¡¯ve fought four at once, but that was with space, with the safety of Urte¡¯s gaze on us. Now there¡¯s nothing, but¡ª


    The water. Of course. I kick a foot for my trough just as Erjuna shouts something. If I can get my thoughts in the water, drop my blind and let the temple know what¡¯s happening¡ª


    A staff jabs in, knocking my ankle away. Then big one has me by the leg, grinning, throwing me back onto the bed, away from the water. Floods. I fight, but the unhurt ones pile in, and panic starts to rise as their fists win out over my skill, their strength over my precision. I kick groins and clap ears and break Erjuna¡¯s nose, but eventually they have me pinned.


    Erjuna leans in, his voice nasal through the blood. ¡°Should have taken a fall, sister.¡± He presses three fingers to my skull¡ªDiver¡¯s Bind. ¡°Too late now.¡±

 4: The Ultimate Heresy

    I wake to water on my legs. Water and a probing sensation, like a finger''s touch in my mind, where I never let anyone in. I snap my blind up, concentration focusing in an instant, but the touch is still there.


    Ah, you''re awake.


    I open my eyes to find Nerimes, deep-set sockets gazing at me across a narrow pool, bare legs dangling in the water. The council is arrayed to either side of him, elders from the temple¡¯s branches of seers and theocrats and overseers¡ªtraditionalists all. The men who used my father¡¯s death to gain power.


    Behind them a marble balcony opens onto night sky, the temple¡¯s waters spilling off the edge. With a jerk, I realize where we are¡ªthe Deepling Pool. The holiest room in the temple. The place they performed my father¡¯s last rites.


    My gorge rises, even more so when I see Erjuna and the others are not here. We are alone. Which can mean only one thing:


    They¡¯re finally getting rid of me.


    I lurch from the pool, body screaming in a dozen places from where the boys beat me, and iron hands clamp onto my shoulders. Two overseers stand behind me, the strongest and fastest of the monks, usually assigned to policing and defending the city.


    ¡°Easy,¡± Nerimes says aloud. ¡°You¡¯re among friends here, Aletheia. And I still need you in the pool.¡± He nods and they push me back down.


    Into the pool of their thoughts. I shudder. This is where the council holds its meetings, waterblinds dropped and minds melded in the water for perfect transparency. But tonight, the pool has been dammed off so the temple can¡¯t hear the proceedings, a thing they do at only the most serious times.


    Like after my father¡¯s death.


    ¡°What is this?¡± I spit, trying again to force the probing fingers out of my mind. I can¡¯t.


    ¡°An investigation, Aletheia.¡±


    ¡°Into what? I¡¯ve done nothing wrong.¡±


    ¡°Into your heresies, child,¡± Nerimes says. Mist swirls behind him, blown up from the river that tumbles off the balcony edge to the sea hundreds of feet below. ¡°The council has worried for some time that your father¡¯s heresies extended to you, but it took my visit today to confirm it.¡±


    Anger rises in me, and I don¡¯t bother icing it. Anger is better than fear.


    ¡°To confirm what? That I¡¯m a girl, and still the best acolyte in the temple? That I¡¯m still heir to the man you had to kill to take the Dais?¡±


    There are hisses around me as the monks suck in breath. Such words are not said lightly in the temple. But I do not mean them lightly. And if I¡¯m going to die here, I will speak my mind.


    ¡°I did not kill your father,¡± Nerimes says evenly. ¡°Look. Though I warn you it may be disturbing.¡±


    He drops his blind. An image comes of my father, but not as I saw him laid out on the stone tables of the kitchens. I know him only by his robes, and the wailing monks and citizens around him as he floats face down in one of the city¡¯s fountains.


    I suck in a breath. This was no suicide. This was murder.


    Just like I¡¯d thought.


    Grief and longing open like a raw wound inside, overwhelming my anger and the satisfaction of being right. I breathe deep, seeking focus, needing to focus. This is no time to show weakness. I manage to ice my feelings and return to my calm as the memory plays out, mind racing.


    ¡°So you admit it wasn¡¯t a suicide,¡± I say, voice steady.


    Eyebrows raise around the pool at my internal control. ¡°It was no suicide, child,¡± one of the theocrats says. ¡°You deserve to know that, at least.¡±


    ¡°So you covered it up?¡± I ask, eyes narrowing. ¡°Isn¡¯t that like admitting guilt?¡±


    ¡°It is admitting the city¡¯s needs must come before our ideals at times,¡± Nerimes says, closing his mind off again. ¡°Your father had already made a mess of things, neglecting trade and aggravating tensions with the theracants. News of a murder would have thrown things further into chaos, when what we needed was order.¡±


    ¡°Order,¡± I scoff. ¡°Lies, you mean, to create an order that would benefit you. And this from the man sworn to uphold the Truth of Uje. Did you at least find the murderer?¡±


    I still think it was them, but I¡¯m curious to hear what they¡¯ll say. If they¡¯ll just admit it.


    ¡°There are some truths too dangerous to speak, even now,¡± a theocrat of the order of seers intones.


    So they won¡¯t admit guilt. Frustrating, but it kindles a spark of hope inside: maybe they aren¡¯t planning to kill me. Otherwise, why hold back?


    Then another suspicion hits me. ¡°Do you, honored theocrats, even know the answer? Or has he hidden it from you too?¡±


    ¡°There are no secrets in the Deepling Pool, child,¡± Nerimes says.


    I ignore him, speaking to the other men gathered, wise and devout men all, even if they are traditionalists. ¡°And are you aware that Nerimes can reveal some parts of his mind while still hiding others? That what you think is full transparency may in fact be deception?¡±


    ¡°Do not foul these waters with lies,¡± an ancient man from the overseer branch barks. ¡°A partial blind is impossible.¡±


    ¡°You see,¡± Nerimes says, spreading his hands, ¡°it is as I suspected: the girl has become a heretic, like her father. Even now she spouts impossibilities.¡±


    ¡°My father was no heretic,¡± I spit. I should stay calm, but I can¡¯t stand the sight of this man sitting where my father belongs and insulting his memory. ¡°Or do you think he gave me watersight and not Uje?¡±


    ¡°No, child,¡± Nerimes says with infuriating patience, ¡°we accepted your strange blessing years ago. Your father¡¯s heresy was obsession with the immersions, with his doomsday fears about the deluge. Even that, we could tolerate¡ªevery scholar is allowed his interpretations. But when he began neglecting the city, we could not let it continue.¡±


    ¡°Neglecting it? Serei flourished under my father. His decision to open our doors and offer arbitration and guidance is what made us great. Earned us the name the City of Justice and Enlightenment. Even you can¡¯t deny that.¡±


    Nerimes¡¯ smile is pained. ¡°It is true, your father did an admirable job in his early years. But acolytes miss much, focused as you are on your studies and training. Trade fell apart at the end of your father¡¯s reign, the faithful were growing uneasy of his heretical interests, and the witches¡¯ guild sought to exploit our weakness to finally seize control of the city. It is no wonder the people supported a return to traditionalism once he was gone.¡±


    ¡°It was also flooding convenient you were ready to take advantage of that just as he was murdered.¡± My voice breaks a little at the last word¡ªdespite all this, despite my suspicions, it still hurts to know he was killed. But I can¡¯t think about that now. I bury it in my anger.


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    Nerimes smiles. ¡°What one calls convenience another may see as providence, child. Uje works in mysterious ways.¡±


    It takes everything I have not to leap across the water and throttle him, much as I know the overseers would stop me. ¡°What you call providence I call corruption. Starting with covering up my father¡¯s murder.¡±


    ¡°And that is why we have brought you here tonight,¡± Nerimes says calmly. ¡°Not for your past or parentage or even your impossible watersight. It is for the heresies you have chosen.¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± I spit, even as fear makes me slam my blind up stronger than ever. Still I feel his perception there, following my thoughts as I think of my disagreements with the temple, then repeating them in the water. My dislike for the politics. My suspicions about my father. And my belief that watersight testing and training should be open to all people, not just men.


    Your imagination is again too small, little one? he says in the water. Policies can shift, so long as we keep to the spirit of Uje. But politics must be honored, for the temple to survive. And in politics, dissent is the ultimate heresy.


    The councilors all nod sagely, as if this was wisdom. I don¡¯t bother to ice the anger that boils up. ¡°Are you all corrupt, then? You would sacrifice the purity of our beliefs for politics? For power?¡±


    ¡°Desperate times,¡± a councilor intones. ¡°Even half a year later, the city is still unstable. We cannot risk division spreading through the faithful.¡±


    I can¡¯t argue with this. I haven¡¯t been to the city in years. But I know it¡¯s all lies. Feel it deep in my gut. ¡°You¡¯re not killing me because I¡¯m a threat to the city, or orthodoxy or whatever. You¡¯re killing me because I¡¯m a threat to your power.¡±


    Our power is orthodoxy, Nerimes says in the waters. A shame you had to get in the way. We could have used you.


    Aloud, he says, ¡°Councilors, have we heard enough? Are you convinced of the girl¡¯s heresy?¡±


    They all nod sagely, and disillusionment steals the fire from my veins. The best seers of the temples, either too zealous or too duped by Nerimes to realize this has been no kind of fair trial. If this is the best the Temple of Uje has to offer, then brand me a heretic.


    ¡°So what,¡± I say, ¡°you drown me now, like you did my father?¡±


    ¡°Now you have a choice,¡± Nerimes says, unperturbed. ¡°Sex aside, you are an asset to the temple, and still young enough to change. You do not have to continue your father¡¯s heresy, Aletheia. Recant now, and later in public, and we will consider your transgression absolved, so long as you defend our orthodoxy going forward.¡±


    Give up seeking the truth about my father and submit to their bald power grab, in other words.


    ¡°And if I don¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Then let the Father judge you, as he has all heretics of the past.¡± Nerimes gestures behind him, to where the river flows over the cliff¡¯s edge. Immersion, coupled with an impossibly high fall. The histories tell of few who survived the Father¡¯s Judgment, and all of them were full seers who had already been Immersed. For an acolyte like me, still unprepared, Immersion almost always results in madness or death.


    ¡°That is no judgment,¡± I spit. ¡°It¡¯s a death sentence.¡±


    ¡°One you do not need accept, Aletheia. Recant your heresy and join us.¡±


    ¡°Never.¡±


    The word is out of my mouth before I¡¯ve had time to think about it, but I know it¡¯s right as it leaves. I would rather die than sacrifice who I am to this man. And maybe there is another way. Maybe I¡¯ll survive the Immersion.


    Nerimes sighs. ¡°Then let Uje¡¯s will be done. Overseers?¡±


    The men seize me, and fear threatens my resolve. Fear and disappointment¡ªthat they will get away with this. That no one will learn the truth, and they will corrupt the temple worse than they already have. That justice will not be served by the very religion that claims to uphold it.


    I almost change my mind. Almost just say the words¡ªsimple words, swearing I was wrong, that my father was wrong. That I¡¯ll be a good girl. But I can see the life that would lead to, the constant fear that if I ever let my thoughts be known, ever try to do anything about their corruption, I¡¯ll end up right back here.


    Better to get it over with. Let Uje be my judge.


    ¡°I am no heretic!¡± I cry as the overseers lift me like a doll. ¡°Councilors, look at what you are doing! What you are letting him do! Search your hearts! Is this justice?¡±


    They stay quiet, a few having the decency to avoid my eyes. Cowards. The overseers carry me to the edge of the balcony, where another overseer waits with something heavy in his hands. Ankle weights, like we use to train in the water¡ªonly these have locks. Fear pounds like a blacksmith¡¯s hammer in my skull, pushing at my concentration. Pushing at my faith.


    I push back. ¡°Ankle weights?¡± I cry, struggling to face the councilors again. ¡°Has anyone ever survived an immersion with ankle weights? This is not justice! This is murder!¡±


    Silence. Silence and more turned faces, only waterblinds to read as the overseers hold me down, and the other unlocks the weights.


    Fine. Flood them, and flood Uje too if he¡¯s going to leave me here. I¡¯ll get out on my own.


    I summon the breathing, summon the ice, summon the willpower they¡¯ve taught me over the last eight years. I take my anger and fears and freeze them, then build a wall ten feet thick and a hundred miles wide, behind which there¡¯s nothing but silence and peace.


    A place I can think. They are pulling my robes up, looping the weights around.


    I can¡¯t fight them¡ªeven without the weights, without the bruises and the overwhelming number of opponents in the room, I can¡¯t beat an overseer. Not by myself.


    I can¡¯t leap off early¡ªeven if I survive the fall, going mad will do no one any good.


    And I can¡¯t persuade the overseers. They are famously dutiful, and Nerimes was careful to say everything incriminating in the water. The overseer closes the weight around my ankle and reaches for the key. If they only knew the truth. If they would only believe me¡ª


    It comes to me then. I can make them believe.


    I drop my blind, summon my memories of what Nerimes said in the pool¡ªabout killing me for getting in the way, about the real heresy being dissent. All three overseers are touching my skin, so the water will carry my thoughts.


    No reaction: the shorter overseer puts the key in the lock. I try harder, pushing past their blinds, pushing the memories into them, willing them to see.


    The big one gasps.


    The shorter one drops the key.


    And in the brief moment they are distracted, the brief pause the truth buys me, I jerk my leg out of the weight and run.


    I sprint past the pool and pound my way up the water-covered stairs, grateful for a childhood spent chasing birds and running from bullies. The councilors are shouting behind me, some of them beginning to give chase¡ªI sense them all in the water. The overseers are not among them, likely still shocked by what I showed them. Praise Uje¡ªthe truth still means something.


    I blast through the auditorium doors and into one of the long temple hallways, marble walls lit with oil lamps. Water runs here too, a finger or two along the floors, and I push my awareness into it, as I did with the overseers. Help! I cry, too rushed to think of something elegant. They are trying to kill me! Nerimes is trying to kill me! And after it I send the memories, the proof he revealed to me in the waters.


    There is no reaction, or little¡ªmost of the temple is likely asleep. I keep doing it as I veer into the students¡¯ quadrant, the place I know best, the area with the tightest corridors and strangest turns. Nerimes shouts after me in the water: Lies! The girl has been found a heretic, a traitor! Even now she uses ungodly powers to sway you! Faithful of the temple rise up and catch her!


    This elicits more of a response. I push my own memories in again, into the minds of all in the temple, proving Nerimes¡¯ lies. A boy stumbles from his room, a fifth-year, and I slip past his sleepy grab. Another comes, a stocky teen in my class, grim-faced behind his staff. It¡¯s like sparring all over again, his thoughts easily read through his blind, but I don¡¯t have time for theatrics. He swings, I snatch the pole, kick him in the throat, and keep running as he collapses behind me.


    More come, stumbling from their rooms, filling the common areas, trying to stop me, a few looking sympathetic. I dash past them all, pursuers racing behind me, only fighting those I must.


    There are overseers chasing me now too, men still loyal to Nerimes, apparently unmoved by my proof the Chosen is holding back information. They are gaining. Fast as I am, it¡¯s no replacement for their strength and size, or for the brutal training that overseers follow, to keep the upper hand in the streets.


    I burst into the training hall to find it filling with students, more than I can take, more than I can get around. They run for me and I cut left, taking a narrow stair into the kitchens. I sprint through them in near-darkness, relying on my memories of the place.


    The dry silence is eerie, after all the shouting in the water, but I know it can¡¯t last. The kitchens don¡¯t extend all the way to the gates¡ªbut they do open onto the city, I realize. The delivery doors, built into the hillside on the edge of Old Serei. I turn that way, running blind, neither watersight nor light in the empty kitchens to guide me.


    I dash out into the laundry chambers, water dripping here. It¡¯s abandoned, though I hear shouts behind me. For the first time, I think maybe I will make it.


    Splashing through the waste troughs, I am briefly reconnected in watersight. To Nerimes. You cannot run from me, he is saying. Where can you go, the city? The city is ours, the overseers sure to find you. Turn yourself in now and save yourself the pain.


    I reach the doors, shove them open, cool night air rushing in. I¡¯d rather die, usurper, I push back into the water, along with the damning memories of him, just once more. If there were any good men here, this temple would rise up and pull you down.


    With pursuers hard on my heels, and the only life I¡¯ve ever known vanishing behind me, I run out into the night streets.

 5: You Need To Come With Me

    A baby wails somewhere in the buildings above me. I crouch behind a broke-wheeled pushcart in an alley near the docks, trying to make a plan.


    It¡¯s dawn in Serei and the city is still cool, shadows long, the smell of ocean and hearth fires in my nose. The baby¡¯s cry sounds strange¡ªthere are no babies in the temple. I haven¡¯t heard one since I came out here on my tenth nameday, seven years ago. Acolytes aren¡¯t allowed into the city. It breaks our concentration, they say.


    Or it keeps us from escaping.


    Running was easy in the night. The streets were empty, and the few people out didn¡¯t seem to notice my robes. Now, with the sun up, I feel like a crab in a cattle market.


    Or a girl in a temple. I should be used to it, but the rules are different here. Worse, I don¡¯t know what they are. Just that I don¡¯t look right, I don¡¯t talk like the dock workers passing on the street, and I don¡¯t have a job or a home or money to buy breakfast. And if I make a wrong move out here, the overseers will find me.


    I¡¯ve seen two pairs of them already, shaven heads high, walking with hands out to brush merchants and townspeople, using watersight to read thoughts through their skin. It looks normal¡ªthis is how Ujeism has kept Serei so safe, how we got our reputation for peace and justice. The overseers patrol the streets, reading minds, punishing anyone who¡¯s committed a crime and warning those who are thinking about it. If there are any emergencies, you stick a foot in the water trough and think panicked thoughts, and they come and punish whoever¡¯s guilty.


    Only today, my guess is they¡¯re looking for more than guilty thoughts. They¡¯re looking for sightings of a violet-eyed girl in monk¡¯s robes. And the first whiff they get of me will start a chase I can¡¯t win. Not against an overseer¡¯s size and strength, and their knowledge of a city that feels foreign to me, though I¡¯ve lived on the cliffs above it my whole life.


    I¡¯m out of my robes, at least. I felt bad, but I pulled a shirt and trousers from a clothesline on my way here. They don¡¯t fit right, and I¡¯m realizing not many women wear trousers, but they won¡¯t give me away at first glance. At the end of the alley, women pass in flowing, open-bottomed blouses, with colorful wraps covering their legs. The men here are mostly laborers, with dark tans and muscled shoulders sticking from short vests.


    I¡¯m in the Blackwater, a slum near the docks, so I might be able to get on board one of the ships crossing the strait to Bamani. Or I could wait till night, climb the streets to the Dry Quarter, and haggle for a place on a Daraa caravan leaving the city. I don¡¯t have any money, but with my training I could probably work as a guard.


    I adjust my crouch behind the pushcart, muscles cramping. What I know is that I can¡¯t stay here. I¡¯m parched and hungry, and sooner or later, someone will notice I¡¯ve been hiding back here for hours and get curious.


    So I take a deep breath, turn my fear and anxiety to ice, and step out into the street. I half-expect to see a pair of overseers waiting for me around the corner. I don¡¯t. Instead, I see Serei¡ªnot the sprawling city of white marble curled around an azure bay you can see from the temple, but a cobbled lane crowded with vendors and workers and people of every dress and skin tone. Three-story wood shanties lean overhead with red awnings tied between them, snapping in the ocean breeze. Dogs and chickens and camels jostle people for space in a street that winds stepwise down the steep slope toward the bay.


    This is my city. Or the city I want to serve, anyway. I¡¯ve trained my whole life to be a seer, to spend my days meeting with these people, using watersight and thoughtful questions to counsel them through their problems. Being a woman always complicated that, but I¡¯d get through it. Even father¡¯s murder didn¡¯t change that, it just meant I had to be that much better.


    But now? There¡¯s no place for me in the temple. Not the way it is now.


    I turn a corner, scanning the street for overseers. They murdered my father. Nerimes wouldn¡¯t admit to it, even if he owned up to covering it up, but it¡¯s too convenient that his party was ready to seize power just as father died, and they were obviously ready to kill me for being in the way.


    For dissenting. What did Nerimes say? Dissent is the ultimate heresy. Not dissent with our principles or practices. Dissent with his power.


    And that¡¯s heresy if I¡¯ve ever heard it. Ujeism has always been about the search for truth, which means welcoming all kinds of opinions on the way.


    I take a breath and force my back straight again. Forget running. I will be a true Ujeian. Maybe the only one left now, with their corruption spreading through the temple. I¡¯ll find the truth about my father¡¯s death and use it to expose Nerimes and take my temple back. Because I have no doubt they were behind it. I just have to prove it now.


    I pass a pair of girls fanning coals under a stack of bamboo dumpling trays, and the savory steam that rises from them makes my parched mouth water.


    The question is how to prove it. Whatever I learn, I can show to the temple in watersight, and memories are incontrovertible evidence. But there¡¯s no way I can talk to the theocrats or members of Nerimes¡¯ cabal without getting caught. Going back to the temple would only get me killed.


    I turn a corner onto a broad street lined with fruit vendors. Which means I have to do it out here. If my hunch is right that Nerimes set up the conditions to seize power before he had my father killed, then people in the city will have been involved in every part of that. He talked about my father giving the witches too much power, hurting the city¡¯s trade, and being a heretic. If it was a set-up, someone in the Merchant¡¯s Guild will know, and the town criers, and the witches themselves.


    I have no experience gathering clues like this, and I¡¯m not good with words, but I do have an edge here: no one knows how to block watersight. I can read their thoughts and collect memories of them admitting the traditionalists bribed them, or scared them, or whatever they did, then expose those memories to the temple in watersight. No one will be able to deny me then.


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    I duck behind a display of Bamani rugs at the sight of shaven heads down the street. It¡¯s a good plan¡ªI just have to stay alive long enough to do it.


    I could go to the witches¡¯ guild. The Theracants¡¯ Guild is their actual name. The female side of Ujeism, women who read blood instead of water, skilled at healing but also able to use their magic to control patients¡¯ bodies. They are ancient enemies of the temple, and they¡¯d probably be happy to help if they knew I was working against Nerimes. I have to be careful, though¡ªif any seer thought I was in league with the theracants, my lifetime of service to the temple would mean nothing. I get called a witch as it is, just because I¡¯m a woman.


    Or I could go to one of the other guilds, try to convince them of the justice of my cause. But none of them have watersight, so it¡¯d be my word¡ªdaughter of the ousted Chosen¡ªagainst Nerimes, who controls the overseer police and the temple tax guilds have to pay.


    So no, I¡¯m going to have to do this alone. Which first of all means finding something to eat. And since I don¡¯t have any money, I guess I¡¯m going to have to steal it.


    Sorry, Uje. Sorry, dad. We have a principle against stealing, but I guess I¡¯m a heretic now. I hate the idea, but I hate the thought of Nerimes controlling the temple and city worse.


    There¡¯s a market ahead, with rows of stands and carts circled around one of the city¡¯s wide fountains. I make for it, weaving through tables piled with colorful fabrics and leatherworks, trying to be unobtrusive. I¡¯ve never stolen anything besides the clothes I¡¯m wearing. Actually, I¡¯ve never bought anything either. The temple has always provided. So not only do I have no experience stealing things, I don¡¯t even really know how people buy them.


    Thankfully, the market is a solid press of bodies¡ªif things go wrong, I doubt anyone could chase me for long in this. If it wasn¡¯t for the overseers, they¡¯d probably have a huge problem with crime. But thieves lose their hands, and anyone who suspects something can just stick their foot in the water channels and call for an overseer.


    So I have to be smooth. Or fast. Hopefully both. A fruit peddler notices me looking at his colorful stacks. ¡°Mangoes? Limes? Bananas still green from the Bamani jungles?¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± I say stupidly, stomach growling. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    He frowns, and I move on. I need to be smoother, faster. There¡¯s a samosa cart ahead, fried triangles of dough smelling like nectar from Uje. I reach for one, trying to look innocent, and a hand grabs my wrist before I¡¯ve barely touched it.


    ¡°Thief!¡± the old woman snaps. ¡°I¡¯ve got a thief!¡±


    So much for smooth. Fast, I do better.


    I dart left, weaving between people, clutching the samosa in one hand. It isn¡¯t as easy as I thought: the crowd is thick, and everyone heard the woman shout. Some of them start trying to block my way. I use elbows and knees, apologizing and actually feeling sorry but needing to get out quick.


    I break through the carts to the fountain in the center of the plaza. A woman in long skirts glances up. Her eyes narrow. ¡°You,¡± she says. ¡°You need to come with me.¡±


    Surprise stops me dead. A witch. And she knows who I am?


    I run the other way. Behind me she barks something and an ordinary man leading two dogs on a single leash turns, eyes going wide. He grabs for me.


    My stomach lurches¡ªblood magic. The witch is controlling him. What does she want?


    I dodge¡ªhis grab is slow and clumsy¡ªand push into the carts on the far side of the fountain, icing another wave of panic that rises up in me. Someone¡¯s called the overseers by now. The man bellows behind me, and I glance back to see him forcibly shoving through the crowd, eyes still wide with the witch¡¯s control, dogs forgotten behind him.


    Fear twists through my core. The temple I understand. But why do the witches want me?


    I get out of the market and sprint down the street. The wide-eyed man follows, but he¡¯s not very fast¡ªapparently blood-witchery doesn¡¯t help with that. I pelt around a long team of camels plodding uphill and look for a place to lose him.


    On the far side of the street, I see a bald man charging toward me, robes flowing behind him, eyes deadly. An overseer¡ªalready here from whoever called him in the market. Probably already under orders from Nerimes to bring me back in.


    Floods. I switch directions, cutting into a narrow side street between alleys, leaping barrels and trash heaps and a pair of slat-eyed cats. The overseer saw me, though, and crashes into the alley behind me. I come out in a busy street and try staying low, slowing down to not to make a scene.


    He finds me anyway, fifteen paces behind and gaining, eyes peaceful in the steel grip of concentration.


    Two can play at that: I ice everything inside, make my mind a waterfall in winter, let myself run full out.


    It works: I run faster, weave more smoothly, dodge better than before, totally free from fear. Until I turn to check on him and my foot catches a peddler¡¯s broom. I slam into the cobblestones, breath clapping out of me.


    He¡¯s on me an instant later, eyes still calm, hands clamping on my arms. Desperate strength wells up in me, but I don¡¯t fight. There¡¯s no point fighting an overseer, especially without my staff. I¡¯d just lose with more bruises. I try reading him when our skins touch, but his blind is a stone wall.


    ¡°Aletheia Vjolla,¡± he says, lifting me from the center of a rapidly clearing circle. ¡°You are wanted in the temple.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re lying,¡± I gasp, desperate. I push my memories into him, the scene from last night. ¡°The council is trying to kill me! You can¡¯t take me back to them!¡±


    The overseer pauses for a moment, considering, then shakes his head. ¡°Those are matters for the theocrats. I obey the law, and the law says you are to be brought in for sentencing.¡±


    ¡°The law is wrong! It¡¯s based on lies!¡±


    His eyes stay calm as lakes. ¡°That is a matter for the council.¡±


    My stomach churns. This cannot end this way. Not with what I¡¯ve learned. I open my mouth for one more try, and the overseer¡¯s head snaps forward. His hands go limp, and he drops to the street.


    The wide-eyed man stands behind him, fist deformed where the force of his blow broke bones, chest heaving. ¡°I told you to come with me,¡± he says in a haughty voice. A woman¡¯s voice. The witch.


    I run. I¡¯m not about to trade Nerimes for whatever the witches¡¯ guild has in store for me. Plus, I can outrun this guy.


    Only as I sprint away, another man goes wide-eyed down the street, and turns for me. I dodge past and he runs after. A woman and her teenage son ahead suddenly look at me, eyes going wide. The shopkeeper across from them reaches for a heavy club with bulging eyes.


    Floods. I duck left into a warren of houses, sprinting down narrow lanes. They charge after, a motley pack of wide-eyed people yelling something in unison. I don¡¯t waste my time listening.


    Until I hit a dead end. The street ends in a brick wall going up twenty paces on all sides. I spin to find the witch-controlled people closing in, shouting in unison. ¡°Told you to come with me, girl!¡± ¡°Hey!¡±


    I start climbing, heart pounding, but the brick offers no good grips. I curse, trying to wedge myself up using the corner as leverage.


    ¡°Come,¡± the mob chants, closing in. I hear the ¡°Hey¡± again, more insistent, coming from above.


    As in, not from the possessed people.


    I look up. A black rope dangles from the edge of the roof like the helping hand of Uje. I grab it and pull myself up. One of the possessed seizes my leg. I kick him off, but not before I read an awful blankness through his skin, as if his mind has been painted over. Another one lunges for me and I scramble up.


    I don¡¯t know who threw this down, or why, but they can¡¯t possibly be worse than staying here.

 6: Too Deep To Swim

    I haul myself onto the flat roof to find a stocky girl with one eye holding the rope. ¡°Thank you,¡± I pant.


    She glances over the edge. ¡°Don¡¯t thank me yet. How¡¯s your balance?¡±


    ¡°My what? Fine.¡± Grunts sound from the crowd below¡ªthey must be climbing.


    ¡°Then follow me.¡± She takes off across the roof at a run.


    What choice do I have? I run after.


    And jump after. She leaps the gap between this roof and the next, and only stops when we are three or four roofs away, one of them so old I was sure I¡¯d fall through.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± she says, eying me up and down from the steep pitch of a tile roof. ¡°The witches have you training for the Guard?¡±


    ¡°The witches?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she says, raising an eyebrow. ¡°You know, the ones you ran away from? That sent that mob of bloodborn after you?¡±


    ¡°Oh, they didn¡¯t¡ªI mean¡ª¡± I take a breath. I hate words. ¡°I¡¯m not running from the witches.¡±


    The girl frowns, scars over her missing eye crinkling. ¡°Then why were they after you?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea.¡± And even if I did, I¡¯m not going to go blabbing it to the first person I meet. Not when there¡¯s so much I don¡¯t know.


    ¡°So you¡¯re not a theracant runaway?¡±


    ¡°No. Just a¡­ regular runaway, I guess.¡± I shift. It¡¯s strange to define myself like that, especially on the peak of a thatch roof to a one-eyed stranger.


    She chews her lip, emotions playing across her face. ¡°Okay. Well, good luck.¡± She turns and leaps to a lower roof, graceful as a gazelle.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I leap after. ¡°I haven¡¯t had a chance to thank you.¡± And something tells me this girl knows how to take care of herself in the city. Something I desperately need to learn.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome. Now stop following me.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± I catch her arm and she stiffens. ¡°Why did you help me?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like witches. Thought you might be a runaway.¡± She shrugs. ¡°Call it my good deed for the day.¡± She¡¯s not dressed like most women in Serei, though I think she¡¯s a woman. The flowing pants and pocket-studded leather vest hide most of her figure. She ties the rope and trots away.


    ¡°But I don¡¯t even know your name!¡± I call. It¡¯s dumb, but it¡¯s the best thing I can think of. I need to keep her talking. To tell me how she survives out here.


    ¡°Better if you don¡¯t,¡± she says without looking back.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m Ewanala,¡± I say, running after her. It was my mother¡¯s name. ¡°How did you find me?¡±


    She leaps an impossible gap and turns. ¡°You mean a girl running through the streets with a mob of bloodborn after her? Wasn¡¯t hard.¡±


    I leap after and almost don¡¯t make it. ¡°Were you¡­ looking for me?¡±


    A darkness enters her eye. ¡°I¡¯m always looking for theracant runaways. But look, I have to go. Stick to the rooftops for a while, and the bloodborn should go away. No witch can hold that many for long.¡±


    I take a deep breath. Saying this is not easy for me. ¡°I could use your help.¡±


    ¡°I already helped you.¡±


    ¡°I know. And thank you! But I need someplace to go.¡±


    This stops her for a second. She looks at me again, more carefully, glancing at my violet eyes, the scars on my hands. ¡°Are you from the temple?¡±


    ¡°Yes. And they¡¯re looking for me.¡±


    She dusts off her vest. ¡°Your dad, you mean? The Chosen?¡±


    ¡°My father¡¯s dead,¡± I say, unable to keep the emotion from my voice. The knowledge he was murdered is still too raw. ¡°But yes, he was the Chosen.¡±


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    ¡°And you decided to run away for the day? Cute.¡± She starts walking.


    ¡°I ran because they were going to kill me.¡±


    She slows. ¡°Sounds bad, but I got enough on my plate.¡±


    ¡°Please. I¡¯m hungry.¡±


    She scrambles up to the peak of a sloped roof. ¡°Buy some food.¡±


    I follow, grateful for my training in balance. ¡°I don¡¯t have any money.¡±


    ¡°Then steal it.¡±


    I grimace, trotting after her. ¡°That¡¯s what I tried to do. That¡¯s why those possessed people¡ªthe


    Bloodborn?¡ªwere following me.¡± I think. I leave out that the witch seemed to know who I was.


    She turns, rubbing at her missing eye. ¡°You couldn¡¯t even steal some food?¡±


    It¡¯s frustrating, how amused she looks. ¡°No, I couldn¡¯t. I¡¯ve never stolen anything before, okay?¡±


    ¡°You really are from the temple, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I said I was. And I need your help. Please?¡±


    Uje, I hate asking for help. It¡¯s almost as bad as letting someone beat me. But I know if I don¡¯t do it, I will get beaten. So I swallow my pride and stand there, fists clutching the edge of my shirt.


    She chews on it for a moment, then gives me a measuring gaze. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll get you some food. If you can keep up.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± It can¡¯t be harder than Urte¡¯s training.


    I revise that thought about thirty seconds in. The girl leaps from roof to roof, climbs up aqueducts, and balances across laundry lines at breakneck speeds. It¡¯s everything I can do to keep up without breaking limbs, but she just flows naturally from one challenge to the next, like a master seer at his forms. This must just be how she moves. Like she¡¯s constantly hiding from something. I pay attention.


    We finally stop on a gently sloping rooftop, two towers rising from its far end. They¡¯re bell towers, I think, part of a Daraa religious cult my father shut down years ago. The girl eyes me, panting with my hands on my knees, then pulls a hand from her sleeve. She shakes a spiny bracelet at me.


    ¡°See this?¡± she asks. ¡°This is poison. Every one of the spines on here is poison. So if you try any water-reading stuff on me¡ª¡± She slashes the bracelet. ¡°Got it?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± I say. ¡°No water-reading on this end.¡± Though by this time I¡¯ve gotten over myself enough to wonder who she is and why she travels by rooftop.


    She eyes me and seems satisfied. ¡°Good. Wait here.¡± She uncoils the black rope from her waist in a smooth motion, whips it up at the arched windows of a tower, and pulls herself up.


    I catch my breath and take a minute to calm myself, icing fear and confusion. I need a clear head if I¡¯m going to earn this girl¡¯s trust. She obviously doesn¡¯t give it easily.


    Kind of like me.


    She slides down the rope, sack in hand, then shoves it at me.


    ¡°Here.¡±


    I open it to find a ripe pear, two smoked sausages, and a crusty loaf of olive bread.


    I devour them. ¡°Thank you. That was delicious.¡±


    Her eyebrows climb. ¡°Things pretty rough since your dad died, then?¡±


    ¡°If you call a whole temple wanting you dead, then, yeah.¡±


    She frowns, squatting on her heels. ¡°And the witches want you dead too?¡±


    I hesitate. The first principle of watersight is not to let anyone in, only the people you trust, but¡ªI think of Dashan, and of Urte. Maybe I wouldn¡¯t be here if I¡¯d let them in.


    And maybe the only way to earn trust is to give it first.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say honestly. ¡°There was a witch at the market where I tried to steal something, then an overseer came. She made her bloodborn knock the overseer out, but when I ran they all started chasing me.¡±


    She whistles. ¡°So why was the temple chasing you?¡±


    ¡°Because I know too much. Because they set my father¡¯s murder up somehow, and they don¡¯t want it getting out.¡±


    Her face darkens. ¡°Sounds typical.¡±


    ¡°They tried to kill me last night, after I refused to publicly deny what I know. I escaped and came here, to figure out what they did and expose them.¡±


    ¡°Good. You should. That type of slop happens every day in the witches¡¯ guild, and no one does a damn thing. Everyone knows they only treat people to get their blood, so that the whole city¡¯s under their thumb and they can control you whenever they feel like it.¡±


    ¡°So they¡ªreally can control people that way?¡±


    ¡°You saw it yourself. All those people chasing you, with their eyes wide open? That was the witches. Worst part is it doesn¡¯t affect your mind¡ªyou¡¯re just trapped inside there, while they do whatever they want with the rest of you.¡± She shivers.


    I frown. ¡°Did they¡­ do that to you?¡±


    She looks up suddenly, eye going hard. ¡°No. They didn¡¯t do slop. Look, you should go, okay? I got you some food so you¡¯re good now, and I don¡¯t need to get involved in your drama.¡±


    I start back, feeling the connection we had slip. Something happened to this girl. Something bad. I ice my panic and search for what to say. What I can do to get her help.


    ¡°The runaways,¡± I blurt. ¡°Theracant girls. You¡¯re rescuing them? I can help with that.¡±


    They¡¯re not the right words, they¡¯re too blunt, but she slows in the act of getting up. ¡°What could you do to help?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a fighter,¡± I say, searching my mind. ¡°The best in my class. And¡ªthey don¡¯t know me! I could go places you can¡¯t.¡±


    She narrows her eye, staring at me. ¡°Well, you kept up with me, at least.¡±


    ¡°Yes! I can keep up!¡± It seems like a stupid detail, but I¡¯ll take anything I can get right now.


    The girl sits back down. ¡°I do need help. But not with the runaways. With money.¡±


    I hold back a groan. ¡°I don¡¯t have any.¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t want your money. I want you to help me get it.¡±


    I frown. ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Thieving,¡± she says, like it¡¯s the most obvious thing in the world. ¡°Jobs I can¡¯t do alone. Maybe some fighting. You¡¯d probably be good at it, with all that monk stuff. Help me with some jobs, and I¡¯ll teach you to how to live out of sight.¡±


    My stomach sinks. It had to be thieving. One of Ujeism¡¯s core moral principles. I already feel bad just having stolen a shirt and a piece of food. ¡°Is that what you do up here? You¡¯re a thief?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s how I eat and help the runaways, yeah. You got a problem with that?¡±


    I take a deep breath. What did Urte say? Water. I need to be water. I¡¯m already in too deep to swim back, and leaving Nerimes to corrupt the temple is a lot worse than a couple of vendors losing their wares.


    ¡°No,¡± I say, squaring my shoulders. ¡°It¡¯s fine. I¡¯m Aletheia, by the way. Not Ewanala.¡±


    She just grunts, then, ¡°Gaxna.¡±

 7: The First Rule of Thievery

    Half an hour later we are crouched on a rooftop, watching a market similar to the one from this morning, though it¡¯s a richer district of the city. ¡°First rule of thievery,¡± Gaxna says, holding up a finger. ¡°You don¡¯t steal, you don¡¯t eat.¡±


    I watch the marketplace, three rows of vendor¡¯s carts around an aqueduct-fed fountain, this one low and wide with a few kids playing in it. ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°It means you owe me for lunch.¡± I look at her, a chord of fear striking at the memory of getting caught earlier today. I was lucky to get away. She smiles. ¡°But maybe not today. Today, let¡¯s focus on dinner. I¡¯m thinking¡­ sea bass. A little lemon, garlic, some curry paste?¡±


    My stomach rumbles at the thought of it. Lunch was good, but I¡¯m still hungry. ¡°That sounds amazing.¡±


    ¡°Great. So there are three things to think about when you go into a daylight theft like this. The first one is pockets¡ªwhat are you going to do with your fish once you¡¯ve grabbed it? Doesn¡¯t matter how sly you are, if you don¡¯t have someplace to put it, you¡¯ll get caught in a hurry.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± The trousers I¡¯m wearing have decent pockets. Gaxna¡¯s are huge.


    ¡°Next one is people. You want to pick the right crowd for the job you¡¯re doing, which means you have to think about time of day, class of people, and then gauge the shopkeeper. Basically you want them all to either be so rich they don¡¯t care, or so bored they don¡¯t notice. Markets like you were at in the Blackwater are good, because there aren¡¯t many overseers around, but shopkeepers like that, they watch you like a hawk. And nobody down there likes a thief. Up here?¡± She shrugs. ¡°The vendors are making too much to care, but if someone does notice, an overseer¡¯s going to come quick. At least, they would¡¯ve before. Now it depends on who¡¯s paying their bribes.¡±


    ¡°Paying their bribes?¡±


    She nods, still watching the market. ¡°Policing¡¯s been up for grabs, the last few months. If you aren¡¯t giving the temple something extra, they might ignore your market or your guildhouse. But if you are, like the salt merchants?¡± She shakes her head. ¡°Good luck getting in there with less than an army.¡±


    I grit my teeth. My father would have never allowed this. ¡°And the third thing?¡±


    She smiles. ¡°Good. The third thing is escape routes. Think about which way people are moving. Which streets you can lose them in. Where you can climb to the rooftops. Not a bad idea to leave a rope hanging so you can get up somewhere they won¡¯t be able to follow. I¡¯ll leave one here. But you never forget your rope, got it? A rope is a thief¡¯s best friend.¡±


    I nod. For being so close-mouthed before, Gaxna¡¯s sure chatty about thieving. I get the feeling she doesn¡¯t have many people to talk to. Still, it¡¯s all helpful, and something about it is so different, so wrong from the temple¡¯s perspective, that I can¡¯t help feeling a little lightness inside. Aletheia the true heretic, learning to steal from the faithful.


    Or maybe that makes me a true believer, nowadays.


    We drop to the street, leaving Gaxna¡¯s black rope hanging in a shady alley, and walk toward the market. ¡°Just watch, this first time,¡± she whispers, and then we¡¯re in the crowd.


    Gaxna does a good job of browsing, fingering a bulb of onion here, squeezing an eggplant there. I hardly notice it the first time a head of garlic sticks in her hand, then disappears into her pants pocket. I don¡¯t notice when she palms two barley rolls, only see the bulges along her leg. And then she stops in front of the fish monger, the only one in this market, arguing with him about fish varieties while the flies buzz and my hands get sweaty, just waiting for him to figure it out, for the moment we have to fight our way out of here.


    It doesn¡¯t happen. Instead, he turns his eye for a second, and Gaxna drops an entire striped bass down her culottes, then buys a small knot of mussels from him and walks off.


    ¡°You bought something?¡± I ask once we¡¯re out. ¡°Isn¡¯t the whole point not to?¡±


    She shrugs. ¡°Helps take the edge off. I thought he might have seen me, but nobody suspects a paying customer of stealing things. When in doubt, throw ¡®em a little money.¡± We head back the way we came, and Gaxna steals food like the market¡¯s her personal kitchen, nabbing carrots and onions and lamb fat and curry leaves as we pass.


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    ¡°Uje¡¯s Eyes,¡± I breathe when we get back to the alley. ¡°You got enough to feed an army.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she grins. ¡°Too bad none of it¡¯s for you.¡±


    The first rule of thieving. Right. I take a deep breath, carefully turning my anxiety to ice. It doesn¡¯t matter that overseers are close. That there¡¯s a witch at the fountain in the center of this square. I can do this. I have to.


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    I take a different entrance into the market, wandering through the cobbler¡¯s section, palms sweaty but keeping my mind cool, waterblind up though there¡¯s no one to read it. We get to the first of the produce stands and I steal a pear. Just like that. I just grab it while we¡¯re walking, hardly looking at the stand, and drop it into my pocket. I keep going, waiting for a cry, waiting for a hand on my shoulder.


    It doesn¡¯t come. And when I realize it¡¯s not going to, a giant grin splits my face. I just stole something, and I got away with it.


    I mutter an apology to Uje, but honestly? It feels good. Like landing a punch on a trainer. Like breaking the basic laws of the universe. And like I¡¯m one step closer to my goals. It¡¯s just a damn pear, after all. The temple taxes the guilds who tax individual peddlers like this, and that¡¯s how I¡¯ve eaten my whole life, so in the end it balances out, right?


    Probably not, but here I am.


    So I nab a carrot, too, and a twist of salt. The salt vendor looks at me funny, but I make a point of walking slow and carefree, of stopping at the very next stand to discuss the fig harvest, to show that I¡¯ve done nothing wrong. I¡¯d buy a fig from the woman if I could, but I still don¡¯t have any money.


    And then it¡¯s time for the fish stand. Gaxna hangs back on this one, but I choke a little on my grab-and-walk routine, stopping long enough that the vendor looks at me. I smile, and sort of drift over to the next stand, a salt-cure jerky stand, then reach back and snag a tilefish.


    A hand closes on my wrist before it¡¯s even off the table. ¡°I knew it,¡± the merchant snarls. ¡°I knew there was something wrong about you.¡±


    I water-read him through our skin and see that his next move is to drag me to the fountain and call an overseer.


    ¡°No!¡± I cry without thinking, and use a reverse Current¡¯s Kiss, rolling him onto the table and spilling fish everywhere.


    The vendor cries out in pain¡ªI¡¯ve forgotten how people who aren¡¯t trained in fighting would react to a bind like this¡ªand suddenly everyone around me is shouting. I release the vendor¡¯s arm, blocking a club that swings at me painfully, and drop into Sleeting Rain stance. This, at least, I know. I might not be able to steal a fish, but I can fight my way out of this market, dry ground or not.


    ¡°Theia!¡± Gaxna hisses from behind me, but I¡¯m blocking a wild punch, cracking a skull, slipping sideways between carts to put a heavy woman between me and a young man with a pair of knives.  An old man whacks me with his cane¡ªit¡¯s hard to stay aware of everyone without watersight¡ªand I spin and weave, trying not to hurt anyone as I work closer to the street.


    ¡°Theia!¡± Gaxna calls again, but I don¡¯t know where she is. I can¡¯t stop to think about it¡ªthe crowd is thickening around me. None of them are good fighters, but their sheer numbers are a problem. I can¡¯t read them, can¡¯t predict their moves¡ªand without that the men¡¯s strength starts to make a difference. I don¡¯t want to hurt anyone permanently, but an overseer could be here any second.


    ¡°Theia!¡± Gaxna barks, and I see a black rope drop right in front of me. I counter a grab, Surf Breaking someone over my shoulder, and decide the rope¡¯s probably the best option.


    I clamber up¡ªawkwardly scraping across some awnings and kicking off a guy who tries to follow me¡ªto the rooftop, and roll up panting.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Gaxna snarls, and I run after her, sprinting from gabled eave to garden wall to a glazed-tile peak so slippery I almost think she wants me to fall. She stops when we¡¯re four or five streets away, in the shadow of a stone-and-ivory guild hall.


    ¡°What the floods was that?¡± she snaps.


    ¡°I know,¡± I say, still catching my breath. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have tried for the fish. It was too obvious.¡±


    ¡°Not the fish, stupid. The fighting.¡±


    I look up. ¡°He grabbed my arm. What was I supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°You were supposed to run. First rule of thievery, remember? Know your exits.¡±


    I¡¯m pretty sure that wasn¡¯t the first rule, but I let it go. ¡°There were no exits. I was surrounded.¡±


    ¡°You made yourself surrounded. You know what? Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I can¡¯t use you.¡±


    She stands and I shoot up. ¡°Gaxna wait! I¡¯m sorry. I just¡ªin the temple, you never run. That¡¯s how they trained us. It¡¯s going to take me some time to learn.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not in the temple anymore, Aletheia. You don¡¯t have time.¡± Her face is red, and I realize she¡¯s actually mad. ¡°There¡¯s a witch down there. And when an overseer comes, they¡¯re going to read everyone¡¯s memories and know you were here. Know I was with you. None of which would have happened if you¡¯d just run when you were supposed to.¡±


    Floods. I hadn¡¯t thought of any of that. I just¡ªwhen someone grabs you, you fight. That¡¯s been my whole life. If you don¡¯t fight, you will be beaten. Water. I need to be water.


    ¡°Right. I should have run. I¡¯ll run next time.¡±


    Her eye narrows. ¡°You swear it?¡±


    ¡°I swear it.¡±


    She glares a minute longer, then nods. ¡°And now you probably want some of my fish, too.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got carrots to trade?¡±

 8: Peaceful and Wrong

    We make dinner in the upper room of the bell tower, Gaxna lighting coals in a little ceramic stove while I clean and gut the fish. My chore-time skills come in handy here, and I summon the deep breathing I¡¯ve always done during food prep, appreciating the gold-red light coming through the hideout¡¯s arched windows as I methodically peel and chop and slice. The ocean breeze is cool after the day¡¯s heat, and I have a mixed feeling of hunger and tiredness and safety that makes me not want to be anywhere but right here.


    The fish is fresh, and I can still read the barest twitches of life in its flesh as I gut it. The need for water, the confusion of air, the sense of being out of place.


    I can relate. As peaceful as this all is, it still feels wrong somehow. Like I should be in the temple, should be fighting the traditionalists, should be doing more than wandering the city¡¯s rooftops and learning to steal.


    ¡°Uje¡¯s eyes,¡± Gaxna says behind me, and I start. I¡¯m still not used to not hearing people through the water. ¡°You got that all done already?¡±


    The fish, garlic, carrots, eggplant, onions, curry leaves and lamb fat are all prepped in front of me, barley rolls neatly cut in half.


    ¡°Ah, yeah.¡± I hardly noticed doing it.


    ¡°Well, coals will still take a while.¡± She settles on an upturned crate, pulling out a stick of dark leaf, fatter in the middle. A clove twist. ¡°Want a smoke?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡ª¡±


    She smirks. ¡°Never smoked before? Cloves are about as strong as a glass of tea. You drink tea, right?¡±


    I feel like a prude, but I don¡¯t want to look like one. I need to be water, right? ¡°Sure.¡±


    She leans down and lights it on the coals, then hands it to me. I try a pull. It¡¯s sweet and dark¡ªand intense.


    I cough, and she laughs. ¡°Takes a minute to get used to.¡±


    I grit my teeth and drink from the water gourd. It¡¯s nice the second time, though I immediately notice the drowsy effect it¡¯s supposed to have, my whole body kind of melting back into the wall. ¡°Wow. It¡¯s nice, though.¡±


    ¡°I buy the best Serei has.¡± She smirks. ¡°Bet you don¡¯t get these at temple.¡±


    ¡°Not the students anyway.¡± I try another pull. ¡°Some of the full seers smoke them. I see them in the gardens at night.¡±


    Gaxna nods and blows a cloud of fragrant smoke that catches the evening light. ¡°So why don¡¯t you just kill them? The new Chosen, I mean, or whoever killed your dad. I saw what you did today. You probably coulda taken down half that market.¡± She¡¯s calm, but I see her watching me, fingering her spiked bracelet. Gaxna¡¯s someone who¡¯s had to watch out for herself her whole life.


    Like me.


    ¡°I can¡¯t. I mean yes, I¡¯m trained to fight and if I got lucky, I might take down Nerimes or some of his allies. But I¡¯m not even sure it was them.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean? I thought you said they set your dad up?¡±


    I sigh. ¡°That¡¯s¡ªmostly my gut, right now. I know they covered up his death, and they were going to kill me because I¡¯m a threat to their power, but I don¡¯t actually know that they killed him, or had him killed. That¡¯s what I¡¯m hoping to prove out here.¡±


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    She pulls at her cloveleaf. ¡°And when you prove it, that¡¯s when you kill them?¡±


    I take a pull myself, looking out at the city climbing the bay. ¡°We study history as part of our training. And it¡¯s full of people who kill each other for vengeance, or justice, or whatever. And whenever it¡¯s political, it usually ends up failing. Or starting a cycle where they get killed a few years later, and on and on.¡±


    Gaxna exhales smoke. ¡°That¡¯s why you have to kill all of them. I mean, they¡¯re evil, right? They killed your dad.¡±


    I laugh, but there¡¯s no humor in it. ¡°They¡¯re definitely evil. I hate what they¡¯ve done to the temple. But if I killed that many people, they¡¯d think I¡¯m evil too. And that¡¯s not even the main thing. The main thing is that if I don¡¯t prove to everyone that they were part of my dad¡¯s death, then people won¡¯t see the justice in it. I don¡¯t even want Nerimes to die¡ªharder for a man like that to live, seeing his own ruin.¡± I drink from a ceramic water pot she¡¯s set out. ¡°Though how I¡¯m going to pull that off, I don¡¯t know.¡±


    Gaxna leans down to fan the coals, then puts a pan on top. ¡°You said the witches were part of it?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Nerimes¡ªthe new Chosen¡ªsaid my dad was losing control, that the theracants were going to make a play to take over the city, and he wasn¡¯t doing anything about it. It was one of the reasons the traditionalists used to oust my dad.¡±


    ¡°Hmph. That¡¯s exactly what they told the witches last year.¡±


    I lean forward. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. The witches kept getting messages that the temple was going to try to shut them down. Kill them all or drive them up the peninsula or something. That¡¯s why the guild started posting witches at every fountain, and¡­ doing other stuff. They thought you were going to make a play. Or your dad, I guess.¡±


    My gut says it¡¯s wrong. That my father wouldn¡¯t have done that. But this is the story Nerimes told too, and part of training is recognizing when strong emotion is clouding our judgment. What if it¡¯s¡­ true? Still, I¡¯m not going to accept it without asking more questions. I just have to be careful, because Gaxna¡¯s history with the theracants is obviously sensitive territory.


    I bite my lip. ¡°How were they getting these messages?¡±


    She shrugs, stirring the fat where it¡¯s startling to sizzle and render oil. ¡°Witches have eyes and ears everywhere. Maybe in the temple itself. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if they got the blood of some monk in there and they¡¯re forcing him to give them information.¡±


    ¡°A traditionalist,¡± I say, seeking connections. ¡°It could have been one of Nerimes¡¯ men, feeding them false information. I need to talk to the witches. Find out what they know.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± she barks, eye locking on mine. ¡°Don¡¯t talk to them. Don¡¯t get anywhere near them. They¡¯ll find a way to take your blood.¡±


    I hold my hands up. ¡°Okay, I won¡¯t!¡± Though I¡¯m going to have to find out somehow.


    Gaxna leans back, rubbing at her missing eye. ¡°Sorry. I¡ªreally don¡¯t like the witches.¡±


    ¡°I noticed.¡± I wait for her to say more, but after a minute she just leans in and stirs the fat cubes, which are crackling good, covering the iron pot in oil. ¡°Think we can put the onions in.¡±


    I do. ¡°So have you¡­ saved many runaways?¡±


    ¡°Not enough,¡± she says, stirring the sizzling onions. ¡°Forty or fifty now.¡±


    That seems like a lot. ¡°What do you do with them?¡±


    She sprinkles on a pinch of salt. ¡°There¡¯s a place, up peninsula. A seamstress. Takes anybody on, if you can pay their upkeep for the first year.¡±


    I can¡¯t help goggling. ¡°And you¡¯ve paid all that?¡±


    She shrugs, still stirring the onions. ¡°My targets are usually a little bigger than food stalls. Hand me those carrots.¡±


    We eat by candlelight, the sun well down by the time the fish is done and everything stewed in curry. It¡¯s delicious, saltier and spicier than what we get in the temple. Exhaustion hits me like a wave when we¡¯re done. I haven¡¯t slept in what, two days? We crawl down the ladder to a lower room, Gaxna holding the candle, and I realize there¡¯s only one bed. She starts pulling off clothes and I blush furiously, turning the other way. We never get naked in the temple, and that goes double for me, as the only girl.


    ¡°Oh, hey,¡± the thief says, probably noticing how stiff my back gets. ¡°Slops. You don¡¯t have to sleep in my bed, ah¡ª¡±


    I turn, and she¡¯s blushing just as furiously, pushing crates and boxes out of the way. She pulls a few blankets from somewhere and soon I¡¯ve got my own pallet, squeezed between piles of dusty bins.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say, hating myself for getting embarrassed, cheeks still burning. This is probably totally normal in the city. ¡°For everything, today.¡±


    Gaxna nods, tongue-tied for once. ¡°You¡¯re welcome. You¡ªwell. G¡¯night.¡± And she gets into bed so fast you¡¯d think I bit her, blowing out the light.


    I pull off my clothes, grateful for the darkness. The pallet¡¯s not as comfortable as my bed in the temple, but I¡¯m not sure I even finish the thought before I¡¯m out cold.

 9: The Second First Rule of Thievery

    ¡°Lower,¡± Gaxna whispers, walking slightly behind me in the road. I¡¯m dressed in a dirty blouse and a frayed wrap, greasy black wig on my head marking me as one of the poorest in the city. But apparently my posture isn¡¯t up to it. I try again to drop my shoulders.


    ¡°First rule of thievery,¡± she hisses. ¡°Don¡¯t stick your nose in the sky.¡±


    I know that wasn¡¯t the first rule, but I do it anyway. Posture isn¡¯t something they taught us in the temple, exactly, but the training just brings it out in you: strength, confidence, nobility. All the things a Blackwater girl shouldn¡¯t have.


    Gaxna sighs behind me, so apparently I¡¯m still not doing it well enough. I managed to steal my lunch today, and we¡¯re headed to a fountain to practice wearing disguises in public. Gaxna¡¯s a master at this, and we have an escape route planned, but I¡¯m still nervous.


    We¡¯re not far from where I holed up that first morning, in a row of smithies, and Serei churns around us. Hammers ring, sellers haggle, mongrels bark and forges roar with a heat that sticks the wig to my head with sweat. The place stinks of coal smoke and sewer slop, and the waterways run dark with the city¡¯s waste.


    ¡°There, maybe,¡± Gaxna slurs, and I see the fountain she points to. Its waters are clear, if tepid, aqueducts feeding it from the river above. If I stuck my hand in, I could hear the thoughts of the city, the overseers chatting to each other and the cries of those needing help, maybe some hints of the temple itself. But something holds me back, some fear that even with my blind it would alert them to where I am. Besides, it¡¯s not something a Blackwater girl would do, and I need to learn disguises if I¡¯m going to survive out here.


    We sit and unwrap what we got from the market. Mine looks a little sad next to Gaxna¡¯s, and she adds some of hers to my wrap without saying anything. She¡¯s got the lowtown posture down perfect: slouched, eyes quick but not totally open, one leg bouncing like she never learned to sit. I try to imitate it as best I can.


    ¡°What do we do now, then?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Do?¡± Her voice is changed too, gruffer, and with a slurriness to it. ¡°Don¡¯t do nothing. Just eat your food, huh? Feel the breeze.¡±


    I eat, but I can¡¯t help scanning the crowds. I feel exposed. Overseers aren¡¯t as common down here, and I¡¯m guessing witches aren¡¯t either, but still. My mind can¡¯t help cataloguing what I could use if I needed to fight¡ªthe long handle of a broom across the square, some iron rods a blacksmith is cooling, the loose ends of a stick-built lean-to slumped against a fastener¡¯s shop.


    A crier is working the far side of the fountain, calling out news and rumors to get a crowd together, then taking coins to share the details. ¡°Man eaten by giant squid!¡± he calls. ¡°Saltmaker¡¯s Guild to hire theracants! Chosen engaged to foreign woman! Philosophers predicting drought!¡± No one pays him much mind. ¡°Giant squid!¡± he tries again, then with a sour expression walks to the fountain for a drink.


    I straighten up. I¡¯m supposed to be learning disguises, but I knew there might be criers down here, and I¡¯m burning to find out more about my father¡¯s death.


    ¡°Tough day, crier?¡±


    ¡°Piss-flooding poor ass day is what it is, miss,¡± he says in a distinctly less-educated voice than the one he was using to cry.


    ¡°Sorry to hear it.¡± Gaxna shoots me a look, but I ignore her. ¡°Times is hard all around, these days.¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡± He slurps from his hand, dips back for more. ¡°Same as ever.¡±


    I dip my hand in the water, but his is out before I can water-read more than vague impressions. I¡¯ll have to talk it out of him then.


    ¡°Take a cloveleaf to ease the time?¡± The cigarillos are part of my disguise, Gaxna insisting no lowtowner would be caught dead without them. She also said no crier would talk without at least some kind of bribe.


    He narrows his eyes, though. ¡°What¡¯s in it for you?¡±


    ¡°Piss on that one, eh?¡± Gaxna cuts in. ¡°Flooding cloves ain¡¯t cheap.¡±


    ¡°Bit of fresh conversation¡¯d do me good,¡± I say, ignoring both of them and trying to sound less monastic.


    The crier grunts and sits. I pull a cloveleaf for him, and Gaxna surprises me by striking a match. He draws deep and sighs smoke appreciatively out his nose.


    ¡°Now there¡¯s a smoke. What¡¯d you want to know then?¡±


    I suppress a smile. A little bribery works wonders, apparently.


    ¡°Nothing major. Just a story a ways back, something about the other Chosen, the older one¡ª¡± I pause, as though I¡¯m looking for words.


    As though I don¡¯t know my own father¡¯s name.


    ¡°Stergjon,¡± the crier says. ¡°Yeah?¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Had thoughts of being a crier meself. Heard there was good money in crying before he passed.¡±


    ¡°Oh aye,¡± the crier says, taking another pull. ¡°Bloody fortune, that one. Not like this new chump. No one¡¯s spending to bend his news.¡±


    Bend the news. I ice the excitement that bubbles up in my chest, the possibility that Nerimes paid criers to bend news about my dad. ¡°What were they bending then? The bit about the Theracant¡¯s Guild?¡±


    ¡°Oh no, that was all right as rain. Witches were rising up, sure as not. Hoping this new one finally takes care of them.¡±


    I nod, trying to conceal my disappointment, trying to ignore Gaxna¡¯s urgent hints that I should stop drawing attention to myself, especially from a crier.


    ¡°The heresies, then?¡±


    ¡°Aye, all that bit. Flooding hard to cry, it was, having to make up the details all the while. Never did find out what it was all about.¡± He pulls on the cloveleaf and blows out. ¡°All the same though, right? Stergjon or Nerimes or whoever the next pitstain is, they¡¯ll keep us down and we do what we can to stick it out.¡±


    I suck in a breath. The heresies weren¡¯t real. They paid the criers to fake the stories of the heresies. Then probably used that to convince the temple! It¡¯s proof the traditionalists set my dad up¡ªor someone did. I try to ice the excitement inside, but some still comes out.


    ¡°Who paid you to do it, then?¡±


    The crier takes a long pull and eyes the cloveleaf. ¡°That¡¯s real information you¡¯re asking for there. Take more than a stick of clove to relax me that much, if you catch my meaning.¡±


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    More money. Floods. I still don¡¯t have any. I glance at Gaxna. She scowls back.


    ¡°You have to forgive the lass,¡± Gaxna says to him. ¡°Gets ideas in her head some days. Slopping dumb ones.¡±


    I can¡¯t let this slip away, but there¡¯s no way I¡¯m getting his hand back in the fountain. So I slap the back of his neck, hard.


    ¡°Piss was that for!¡± he yelps, his own hand flying to where I hit him.


    It¡¯s just an instant of contact, but I am an old hand at watersight. I follow his thoughts from my question back to a vague figure of a man with a hood over his head. A monk? But in the strange picture-thought reality that is mindsight, I know in the same moment this was a merchant, not a monk.


    What would a merchant care about playing up heresies?


    I realize the crier¡¯s still staring at me, angry.


    ¡°Stingfly,¡± I say, shrugging. ¡°Nasty little buggers.¡±


    The crier walks off shooting me a nasty look, but the waters run too fast in my mind to care. Merchants¡ªwhy would they pay to set up my dad? Unless they had a stake in Nerimes coming to power somehow. What did Gaxna say¡ªthat oversight was spotty in the last few months? Something about the salt merchants having an army of overseers watching their guildhouse, and others nothing at all. So maybe the salt merchants did it, in exchange for business opportunities once Nerimes was in power?


    Are the traditionalists actually just puppets to business interests?


    Did a merchant kill my father?


    Gaxna stirs beside me. ¡°Sh¡¯we go then?¡± She¡¯s eaten most of her lunch, and even in character I can see she¡¯s glancing around too much. She¡¯s worried I¡¯m attracting attention.


    ¡°Aye,¡± I say. Useful information or not, I feel exposed down here too. Like my hand¡¯s in the water with no blind up, thoughts bare for everyone to read.


    I start to stand and she slaps her hand down on my leg. ¡°Easy,¡± she says, and it¡¯s Gaxna¡¯s voice, her real voice, not the Blackmarket porter boy she¡¯s playing today.


    I glance the direction she¡¯s looking and freeze: not one, not two, but six overseers come striding into the square. People shrink from them, but not enough to avoid their outstretched hands as they touch wrists, arms, any skin they can use to read thoughts.


    To find me.


    That has to be what they¡¯re after. Overseers work alone, never in more than pairs. Why would six of them be together, now, unless it was because of me?


    And here I sit, out in the open, not even a staff at my side, nothing between me and them but a dirty shirt and a ratty wig.


    ¡°Keep your head down,¡± Gaxna says, and I realize she could give me away too. As long as they don¡¯t see my eyes, my waterblind will keep them from reading my thoughts. But Gaxna knows all about me. All they have to do is touch her.


    Sweat beads on my scalp as they enter the fountain square, moving without talking, water-reading each other¡¯s thoughts. Heading straight for us. I keep my head down, my feet still, but it¡¯s everything I can do not to run for the iron rods in front of the blacksmith¡¯s shop, to not go down at least defending myself, keeping the monks off.


    But the only chance I have is escaping notice. I know this. They chase anyone who runs, and I can¡¯t outrun them. Probably not even on the rooftops. They come closer, spreading through the market. The crier could give me away too, having seen my violet eyes, having talked to me about my dad.


    Flooding damn hells. But the only thing I can do is sit here and hold my disguise. I ice everything inside, pick at my last rice wrap like I don¡¯t want it, and wait for the iron hand to clamp down on my shoulder.


    An overseer passes in front. Two. A soft hand brushes my wrist, ever so lightly, robes close enough to rub against my leg.


    I hold my breath. If even a thread of my thoughts got through the blind, if they happen to read Gaxna, it¡¯s over. And the proof I just found won¡¯t be enough to convince the temple.


    The moment stretches like tar under a boot heel.


    The overseer moves on.


    I exhale, but we¡¯re not out of the shallows yet¡ªthey could still come back, so I keep my head down, keep fiddling with my wrap. Gaxna wears the same bored Blackwater expression, but her shoulders are tense. Behind her another pair of monks come, passing on the far side of the fountain, and then they¡¯re gone, striding into the next street with hands outstretched.


    The whole square seems to breathe a sigh of relief, but no one so loud as me. ¡°C¡¯mon,¡± I elbow Gaxna, wrapping up my food. ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here.¡±


    We run the rooftops up and east, angling toward her tower, but Gaxna stops me on the shaded balcony of an Uje convocation hall. ¡°That¡ªwhat you did back there, that was magic?¡±


    I wipe sweat from my brow. I¡¯m keeping up better with the thief all the time, but she sets a mean pace. ¡°Not magic. Concentration. You get all your thoughts behind a blind, so they can¡¯t read any of your true mind. Kind of like hiding behind a curtain, only if your concentration¡¯s strong enough the curtain is a mile wide and ten feet thick. That¡¯s why we follow our breathing, to build concentration.¡±


    Gaxna bites her lip. ¡°If one of the overseers had touched me¡­¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d both be locked up. I could teach you, you know. Anyone can learn the breathing. Might be useful in your line of work.¡±


    She shifts on the balcony, breeze catching her blond wig. ¡°Maybe that¡¯d be good. Just¡ªdon¡¯t do it on me, okay?¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t. But if you¡¯re up for it, we should start now. On the rest of the trip back, picture your breath like waves in the ocean, constantly coming in and going out.¡±


    Gaxna looks doubtful. ¡°That¡¯s going to keep the overseers out of my head? Waves?¡±


    ¡°The concentration is. It¡¯s like a muscle, only you can exercise it constantly. Just let there be one little piece of your mind that¡¯s always watching the waves, no matter what else is going on. That¡¯s the same part that¡¯s going to keep them out when you need it, and ice emotions when you don¡¯t have time to deal with them.¡±


    Gaxna is slower after that, walking rooftops and balancing across eaves, and I can see that she¡¯s concentrating. I test it when we get back. ¡°In or out?¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°Your breath. Is it coming in or going out?¡±


    ¡°Oh, uh¡ª¡±


    ¡°You should know without thinking. What distracted that part of your mind? Try again.¡±


    We spend the next hour or so like that, Gaxna focusing on her breath and me testing her, while the heat of the day burns off and I de-ice everything I froze from when the overseers came. The traditionalists must think I¡¯m a real threat, to be sending overseers after me in packs.


    And I am a threat, with this new information. My father¡¯s heresies were played up, and the city¡¯s merchants were behind it. Now I need to find out which merchants, and if they were the ones responsible for my father¡¯s murder, or Nerimes used them as part of his master plan.


    Either way, the evidence will be damning. My opinions or my gender can be seen as a heresy, but selling out the temple¡¯s holiest position to the highest bidder? That¡¯s outright treason.


    ¡°Breath?¡± I ask, only half paying attention.


    ¡°Out,¡± Gaxna says, eyes closed, wig off to catch the breeze. ¡°Slow.¡±


    ¡°Good. Again.¡±


    It still seems a little crazy, what I¡¯m trying to do. Turn the whole temple against its ruler? And me not even a seer, or a man for that matter? Still, I have to try. My dad is worth that. The temple is worth it, at least the temple as it could be. And much as I¡¯m learning to survive out here, the temple will always be home. I want it back.


    ¡°Now.¡±


    ¡°In.¡±


    ¡°Lies. I was watching your breath.¡±


    ¡°Slops,¡± Gaxna curses, opening her eyes. ¡°I got distracted. I just¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard,¡± I remember my first days in the temple, the endless hours kneeling in the water while Urte or one of the other trainers read our thoughts, urged us towards concentration. I was good at it even then, but their training made me the best.


    ¡°It takes time,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯ll get it.¡±


    ¡°Flooding right I will. To keep the overseers out of my head? I¡¯d do a lot worse than this. Speaking of which. I thought of something you could do, to keep the overseers from finding you.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± My blind already protected me when they literally touched my skin today.


    ¡°There¡¯s a woman, in the heights. Used to be a Theracant. She stains eyes now.¡±


    ¡°She stains them? How?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. All I know is it¡¯s expensive, and it works. Had a friend who needed to disappear for a while, after a job went bad. Turned his blue eyes jet black.¡±


    It takes a moment for that to sink in. ¡°If I stopped having violet eyes¡­¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no way they¡¯d find you. Not with the way you protect your thoughts.¡±


    Hope surges like an unchained beast in my chest. I am so tired of being targeted. Of being afraid. Without my eyes, I could be anyone.


    ¡°But then the temple wouldn¡¯t know who I was,¡± I say, that same hope faltering. ¡°Even if I showed them everything, they could just deny I¡¯m Stergjon¡¯s daughter.¡±


    Gaxna¡¯s gaze on me in steady. ¡°Would that be so bad?¡±


    ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Well think about it. In the meantime, I¡¯m gonna need my clothes back.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°My clothes,¡± the thief repeats, a gleam in her eye. ¡°You didn¡¯t steal them. They¡¯re not yours.¡±


    I don¡¯t point out how backwards that logic is. ¡°Right. Okay. I¡¯ll get my other pair.¡±


    ¡°The ones you wore when the witches, overseers and an entire market saw you? I¡¯d say those are done.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re saying I need to steal new clothes.¡± I swallow a lump. I need to get used to this.


    ¡°Yup. But I¡¯ll give you a hint. The market¡¯s not the best place to do it.¡±


    ¡°Where is then?¡±


    Gaxna grins. ¡°The baths.¡±

 10: To Be Water

    Around sunset, Serei transforms. The docks close up, market peddlers and merchants melt into the terraced streets, and everyone comes out to enjoy the cooling air. A big part of that are the fountains, which during the day serve as water supply, but at night become public baths, with anyone who wants to cool off or take a soak welcome to do so.


    In Polities, we learned this is one of the things Serei is famous for, not just its complicated aqueducts and beautiful fountains, but the general absence of shame about our bodies that foreigners find so strange. Men and women and children and elderly all share the same fountain, usually the one closest to home, and will often lounge outside the water naked, drying off, buying a bag of milk dumplings or plum fritters from the night vendors, their hanging lamps the only illumination as the sky darkens.


    Ironically, it¡¯s the thing that feels hardest to me. I didn¡¯t grow up in this city. I grew up in the temple, constantly needing to hide the fact that I¡¯m a girl, especially after my body started to look different. I should be worried about stealing someone else¡¯s clothes in plain sight, but what I¡¯m icing is the anxiety of taking my own off.


    I do it quick and get into the water quicker, sinking in to my shoulders. It¡¯s delicious, flowing and cool after the heat of the day. I haven¡¯t bathed in two days or more, and though it¡¯s weird to do it with twenty or so other people around me, I spend the first while just getting clean.


    I used to watch these baths from the temple roof, wondering what it was like to be free, to be normal, to just relax at the end of the day with no worry about trainers reading your blind, theocrats plotting against your father, or students gunning for you just because you were a girl. Now that I¡¯m here I don¡¯t feel free at all¡ªrather one eye watches for overseers while I listen to the fountain in watersight. It¡¯s not lost on me that this is a great time to gather information¡ªI know overseers listen every night, but with so many people in the water, and my blind still thick as ever, it¡¯s unlikely they¡¯ll be able to make anything out. But with the twentyish people around me so close, I can hear their thoughts clear as a bell.


    Like the woman next to me, a cloth merchant and mother of five, nursing an aching hip in the water and dreaming about the cloveleaf she¡¯s going to smoke when she gets out. From what I can gather, she¡¯s been pretty successful. Maybe she knows something about the strange trade depression the city entered into at the end of my father¡¯s reign.


    ¡°Nothing like a bath after a long day,¡± I say, wishing I wasn¡¯t such slop at words.


    She grunts. ¡°Wait till you have kids. You don¡¯t know what a long day is.¡±


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    ¡°I can¡¯t really afford to have any, right now,¡± I say, trying to steer the conversation. I wish Dashan was here. He¡¯d know what to say.


    Another grunt. ¡°None of us can, with these new taxes.¡±


    Okay. That¡¯s better. Maybe I can do this.


    ¡°Is the temple adding new taxes, then?¡±


    ¡°You could call them that.¡± She sighs and sinks lower in the water. ¡°More like bribes. If you want your storehouse safe, they say, you¡¯ll want to add a few marks extra. Or we¡¯re stretched thin right now. If you can spare some extra for the overseers, we could keep them closer.¡±


    I read a lot more in the water: theocrats increasing taxes, other merchants complaining of sloppy policing by the overseers, talk of the temple being more interested in money than in its religious duties to the city.


    ¡°This is new?¡±


    ¡°Since Stergjon, yes. He never would have allowed this.¡±


    Pride swells in my heart so much I have to ice it. Stay focused. This could be proof some merchants are getting special treatment under the traditionalists. And Nerimes listed collapsing trade as one of the things they blamed my father for. This woman might know different.


    ¡°What of the poor trade at the end of Stergjon¡¯s rule? Didn¡¯t he kind of let things fall apart?¡±


    The merchant shakes her head. ¡°Not that I could see. Though they did get better quickly after he left.¡±


    I scan her thoughts for any knowledge of the temple interfering in trade, any trace of the traditionalists, but there¡¯s nothing.


    ¡°Do you think the overseers might be busy guarding whoever helped Nerimes into power?¡±


    The woman sucks in a breath, glancing around. ¡°Watch your mouth, girl. That¡¯s not talk for a public bath.¡±


    Floods. I turn the conversation to lighter topics, still reading her thoughts, but there¡¯s nothing else useful. Still, she didn¡¯t deny some merchants getting special treatment, and the way she reacted says there¡¯s probably something to it.


    I grimace. Not that it will work as proof. I need to find someone who was involved in helping Nerimes. Who funded the criers. That would be proof.


    She wishes me good night after a few minutes, and I remember I¡¯m here to do more than sleuth. I¡¯m here to get my first real clothes.


    So I get out, stark naked, blushing despite the low light. People chat on the edge of the fountain, drying in the warm air, kids screaming and playing in the water. I manage to ice my embarrassment, but I don¡¯t think I can stand here naked for long.


    So I walk to the benches and take the wrong stack of clothes.


    It¡¯s a woman¡¯s blouse and leggings. I walk toward the vendor stands, trying to look casual while I hold them against my chest and pray someone doesn¡¯t come screaming after me. Not that any of them could pose a threat to me, unless they called the overseers, but I¡¯m learning it¡¯s better not to make a scene. To be water, Urte would say.


    Maybe that¡¯s what I¡¯m doing out here. Maybe that¡¯s the lesson I need to find my father¡¯s killer, and what¡¯s allowed me to gather as much evidence as I have in the last few days. I don¡¯t know, but as I climb a nearby tailor shop and run the roofs back to Gaxna¡¯s, I feel a strange contentment. As if, for the first time in a long time, everything might be okay.

 11: Arayim

    This theft was going so well. Gaxna got us over the wall with an insane throw of her thief¡¯s rope, I used watersight on a guard to find the statue despite them moving it every day, and we found a ton of other loot with it. We¡¯re crouched now in a long hallway of Bamani smokewood statues, debating the best way to get out. Actually, I agree with Gaxna about dropping her rope out the window and risking courtyard guards rather than trying to slip through the house. It has the best chance of us getting away unseen, and of not breaking this statue that¡¯s worth so much money.


    But that¡¯s just it: I¡¯m not here for the money.


    Or not only the money. Yes, I could use it to bribe criers for more information or put it towards what Gaxna¡¯s contact wants to stain my eyes. But this is the mansion of the head of the salt merchants, and I read more than the location of the statue in the guard¡¯s thoughts: the merchant is here, and practically alone.


    A man like him will know what the merchant in the baths didn¡¯t. If any head of guild was involved in bribing the criers or supporting Nerimes¡¯ rise to power, he¡¯ll know it.


    And that kind of proof, direct sight into his thoughts, is what I need to expose Nerimes.


    So I¡¯m crouched here arguing back about how I can use the water to tell exactly where people are in the house. How much less chance we¡¯ll have of being spotted if we just switch our disguises and walk out the side door like two maids done with work for the day.


    ¡°That¡¯s slop,¡± Gaxna whispers, back against the gleaming smokewood walls, ¡°and you know it. We get caught and we¡¯ll be lucky to get out of here at all. The rope¡¯s the best way.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re right. But I¡¯ve got something I need to do downstairs. I¡¯ve done my part in this one, right?¡±


    She hesitates, then grimaces. ¡°Flooding idiot. Go then. I¡¯ll wait for you up here, and we¡¯ll take the rope when you¡¯re done.¡±


    I feel a sudden wash of gratitude, even as my stomach knots over what I¡¯m about to do. I wouldn¡¯t call Gaxna a friend yet, but after I got past her mistrust, things have been getting better between us.


    And come to think of it, I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ve ever called anyone a friend, other than maybe Dashan.


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    ¡°Thank you.¡± I whisper, and hug her on impulse.


    She stiffens in my arms. ¡°Five minutes, okay? After that you¡¯re on your own.¡±


    I nod and slip back up the corridor, turning toward the baths. Direction is a strange thing in watersight¡ªsort of like pointing to a sound with your eyes closed, only underwater. Still, I¡¯m pretty sure I read the merchant¡¯s thoughts coming from this direction.


    Two male voices drift through a wide doorway ahead, matching the thoughts I heard. Good.


    I pull my mask up higher, leaving just a slit for my eyes, then call, ¡°Master! Come quick!¡±


    ¡°Uje¡¯s Eyes,¡± I hear one of them curse, the other one chuckling, then louder, ¡°What is it?¡±


    Think fast. ¡°The statue! The statue is gone!¡±


    The merchant curses for real then, and wet feet slap the stones. I tense, and the moment he¡¯s out of the doorway I wrap him in Coral Bind, pressing a hand to his mouth.


    ¡°News of the heresies,¡± I hiss into his ear. ¡°At the end of Stergjon¡¯s rule. Who paid the criers to call them?¡±


    He tries to lash out and I twist his left arm closer to breaking. ¡°Don¡¯t test me, merchant. Who paid the criers?¡±


    I read panic and confusion in his thoughts. He doesn¡¯t know.


    Floods. ¡°What about the traditionalists? Were any guilds involved in getting them into power?¡±


    Images flood into his thoughts then¡ªbut they¡¯re of money coming to the guilds, not the other way around. Keeping them from bankruptcy.


    Floods. I need time to sort through what this means, but there¡¯s no time. ¡°Who is that? Who gave you money?¡±


    I get some sense of a man, but no clear picture, and no name. I grimace. This will have to be out loud.


    ¡°I¡¯m taking my hand off your mouth now, so you can tell me who. Make any other sound¡ª¡± I twist his arm just a touch more¡ª¡°and you live the rest of your life a cripple. Understood?¡±


    Part of me can¡¯t believe what I¡¯m doing. The other part of me is ready to do much worse to find out what he knows.


    ¡°Arayim,¡± the merchant gasps. ¡°That was his name, that¡¯s all I know, he wouldn¡¯t let us see him!¡±


    It¡¯s an Ujeian name, but unfamiliar. ¡°From the temple? The traditionalists? Who was he?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡±


    Watersight says he¡¯s telling the truth. Slops. ¡°And all the guilds were getting supported this way?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± he cries.


    ¡°Keep your voice down,¡± I hiss. ¡°Why? Who did he work for?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡± His shoulders shake, and it takes me a moment to realize he¡¯s weeping. He¡¯s probably never been in this much danger.


    I feel bad despite myself. ¡°Fine. Stay here. And, sorry.¡±


    I grimace. That¡¯s not what heroes say in the legends, but this isn¡¯t a legend, and I¡¯m too distracted to come up with something better. This still isn¡¯t direct evidence against the temple, but at least I have a name now.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± he moans as I let go.


    I¡¯m tempted for a moment to tell him the truth. To let the temple know I¡¯m still here and coming for them, but again this isn¡¯t a legend and I¡¯m not stupid. Anonymity is my only protection.


    ¡°I¡¯m no one, and this was nothing. Forget it, speak nothing of it, or I will be displeased.¡±


    I slip away, turning a new name over on my tongue: Arayim.

 12: Something Almost As Good

    Gaxna is still waiting in the hallway, and we get out without a hitch, pulling off clothes to reveal old women costumes. She turns on me as soon as we¡¯re back on the roofs. ¡°What the hell was that? You could have gotten both of us caught.¡±


    ¡°But I didn¡¯t, right?¡± I¡¯m still too pleased to care. A successful heist and another lead in finding out the truth. Even if it¡¯s a confusing one. ¡°I needed to find out what he knew.¡±


    ¡°And put us both at risk? That¡¯s not what you do to a partner.¡± Her face is flushed and her fists balled.


    I slow down. ¡°Are we¡ªpartners?¡±


    ¡°No! I mean, yeah. For now, at least. That¡¯s what I¡¯m training you for, right?¡±


    There¡¯s something vulnerable behind her anger, and I feel bad. Did I break her trust somehow?


    I grab her arm. ¡°Hey. You waited for me back there. Thank you. And I¡¯m sorry, I just¡ªI really need to know what happened to my father. Whoever did it is still out there, and the traditionalists are still in power in the temple. It¡¯s not right.¡±


    ¡°Is that all you care about?¡±


    ¡°No. But it is important.¡± Something tells me now¡¯s not the time to say I still don¡¯t feel at home out here, much as I¡¯ve gotten good at stealing and disguises and living without being seen. This isn¡¯t home. The temple is. Or it was, until they took it from me. And as much as I want justice for my father, I want my home back even more.


    ¡°And you¡¯re willing to risk your life for that?¡±


    I shrug. ¡°You risked your life for me, when you thought I was a theracant runaway.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s different.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    She sighs. ¡°You¡¯re a flooding idiot, you know that, Aletheia?¡±


    I smile suddenly, thinking of Dashan. ¡°I¡¯ve been told that, yeah.¡±


    ¡°Just don¡¯t do it again, okay?¡±


    I clench my hands. I can¡¯t make that promise, but I owe her something. I did put her in danger back there, and that wasn¡¯t fair. ¡°I¡¯ll do my best.¡±


    She eyes me a moment longer, then shakes her head. ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s get this loot sorted and out of our hands before the flooding overseers track you down and arrest both of us.¡±


    We start across the roofs again. ¡°So is this going to be enough to pay the eye stainer? That was a pretty good haul.¡±


    Gaxna snorts, backing up to take a running start at a wide gap. ¡°This was nothing. At regular fence rates, you¡¯d need thirty times this to pay what the stainer wants.¡±


    Slops. She leaps a gap and I follow, used by now to the disorienting feeling of one building dropping out below me before the next one flies up. Thirty more like this? Or is she just cutting my share because she¡¯s upset?


    We climb the tower and in, Gaxna dropping to the lower level while I clear a space up above for lunch. She curses.


    ¡°What?¡± I call down the hole.


    There¡¯s no response.


    ¡°Gaxna?¡±


    ¡°Somebody¡¯s been here.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I crawl down the ladder. The place has been ransacked, boxes spilled, everything turned over. Fear grips me, and I grab a staff. ¡°Who? Who knows about this place?¡±


    ¡°No one,¡± she says grimly, as if she knows exactly who does.


    I meet her eyes. ¡°The overseers?¡±


    ¡°The witches.¡±


    ¡°Uh,¡± I say, noticing something on the floor. ¡°Anything to do with this?¡± It¡¯s a folded piece of paper, with a single symbol in the center, a triangle inside a triangle.


    Gaxna sees it and freezes.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Floods,¡± she breathes. And then she¡¯s up the ladder.


    ¡°Hey, Gaxna! Wait!¡±


    She¡¯s already down the tower and running by the time I get up. ¡°Gaxna!¡±


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    She leaps to the next building over and I curse, running after her. ¡°Gaxna, don¡¯t be stupid!¡±


    She keeps running, already two buildings ahead and climbing. I run after, leaping alleys, skating roofs, climbing as fast as I can, just barely keeping her red-wigged head in sight. ¡°Gaxna!¡±


    There¡¯s no response. I¡¯ve never seen her move this fast. You¡¯d think there was a bloodborn army behind us, the way she runs. I climb an aqueduct to keep her in sight and sprint the narrow length, buildings ten and twenty paces below me, grateful for our training. She¡¯s heading steadily up, out of the middle-class districts and into Qarte, the richest part of New Serei, right under the rocky rim where the hillside meets the plateau. Where is she going?


    My aqueduct branches and I leap onto a rooftop fifteen paces down, rolling to break the fall and sprinting after. Gaxna¡¯s just barely in sight as she drops into the streets and pounds up the road onto the plateau.


    I follow and give it my all, ignoring the startled looks of the well-dressed men and women this high up. This is stupid¡ªwe¡¯re drawing attention to ourselves despite the costumes¡ªbut if something does happen, Gaxna¡¯s going to need me there to fight her out of it. Like I need her to help me survive in the city, and find the stainer, and gather more evidence against Nerimes¡­


    And though I wasn¡¯t sure about it when she said we were partners before, I¡¯m realizing it feels right. I¡¯m not going to let her run off and do something stupid like this.


    I catch up to her as we sprint through the tangle of rickety wooden shops and burlap lean-tos built to serve the Daraa caravans, the peninsula¡¯s plateau spreading out beyond. Is she trying to get on a caravan? Is that what this is about?


    ¡°Gaxna!¡±


    She doesn¡¯t respond, and I¡¯m feeling pretty done with this, so I kick out her left knee and pin her to the dirt.


    ¡°Let me go!¡± she spits, fighting like a caged beast.


    I don¡¯t. ¡°Breathe,¡± I say, getting in her face. ¡°You¡¯re safe, you¡¯re okay, but your emotions are ruling you. Find your breath.¡±


    Her eyes dart around for a second, body still struggling, till they find mine. She relaxes some, but still shakes her head. ¡°Have to get out. Get away. They know.¡±


    I frown. ¡°Who knows, Gaxna? What?¡±


    ¡°The witches. They must have figured out I¡¯m helping runaways. They¡¯re coming for me.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fear talking. Think. If they wanted to take you, they would have waited. Or sent bloodborn after us. And if they were planning to surprise you, they wouldn¡¯t have left that paper behind.¡±


    ¡°Either way, we¡¯ve got to run. Let me up.¡±


    She¡¯s starting to sound more like normal-Gaxna, but I shake my head. ¡°I¡¯m not letting you up till I know you¡¯re not going to do something stupid.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    ¡°Like run away on a Daraa caravan, or whatever you came up here for. Now breathe.¡±


    She breathes, miraculously, and I guide her through the Basic Tide. ¡°In, out. Deep, slow. Calm, focus. Here, now.¡±


    After a minute I can see it take effect, and I drag her over to a bench partially hidden behind a burlap tent. A few caravansers gawk at us, short oily-skinned men in heavy jewelry. I ignore them. Gaxna takes a minute to dust herself off, and I¡¯m relieved to see she didn¡¯t bring the statue. There¡¯s no way it would have survived that run in one piece.


    ¡°Better now?¡±


    She nods.


    ¡°Good. I want to show you something. Something you can use in moments like that, if you have control of your breath, to keep your fear from taking over.¡± And I teach her the icing technique, taking the physical sensations in your body and visualizing them as ice, to be melted and dealt with later. It seems to work.


    ¡°Why did you run?¡± I ask once she¡¯s calm. ¡°There was no one there, and we weren¡¯t in danger.¡±


    Gaxna takes a deep breath and shudders. ¡°Because it¡¯s proof they¡¯re still watching. That they still want me.¡±


    ¡°Who? The theracants?¡±


    ¡°The witches,¡± she says, stressing the word. ¡°They¡¯re witches, Aletheia. They use their powers to get your blood and control you.¡±


    I flex my fist. This hasn¡¯t been safe to talk about before, but maybe now¡­ ¡°And they did that to you?¡±


    She looks down. ¡°Yes. When I was a girl. I was¡ªI wanted to be one of them. One of the witches. I didn¡¯t have any money, you know, neither me or my mom, so life was hard. And when they said they¡¯d take me¡±¡ªshe laughs, but the sound is bitter¡ª¡°I had no idea what they wanted me for.¡±


    ¡°What did they want you for?¡±


    Gaxna rubs at her missing eye. ¡°Let¡¯s just say I left on bad terms. And I¡¯ve been waiting for them to come for me ever since.¡±


    ¡°That sounds hard.¡± It¡¯s not the right thing to say, but I suck at words. ¡°But they didn¡¯t come for you. They didn¡¯t attack. Didn¡¯t make any bloodborn attack. They just came and looked through your stuff and left.¡±


    ¡°And made sure I knew it was them who did it.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, isn¡¯t that kind of strange? What if it was someone else, trying to pin the blame on the witches?¡±


    Like the traditionalists.


    That sits her up straighter. ¡°That could be it. Maybe it was someone else.¡± Ironically, this seems to cheer her up. ¡°You¡¯re right.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say. ¡°Can we go back now?¡±


    Her face closes. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Gaxna, we¡¯re not leaving on a Daraa caravan. I¡¯m not at least.¡±


    She doesn¡¯t say anything, looking at the circles of canvas-covered wagons. Would she really drop everything and leave? I know I can¡¯t. This is where I need to be.


    I try again. ¡°I can¡¯t do this alone yet. I need you. We¡¯re partners, right?¡±


    She chews her lip a moment, looking away, then nods. ¡°Partners.¡±


    I realize as she says it, with the internal awareness that comes from years practicing the breathing, that there¡¯s more to it than that. And that I have to say that part too. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to leave. I like life with you.¡±


    For a second there¡¯s such an expression of fear in her eyes that I almost hug her. Then she firms up and smirks. ¡°First rule of thievery: never trust a flatterer.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m almost relieved enough not to be annoyed by that right now. C¡¯mon, let¡¯s go. There¡¯s a falafel wrap I¡¯m dying to eat back there.¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°We can¡¯t go back to the tower.¡±


    ¡°What? We have to. All our stuff¡¯s there¡ªthe loot we just took? The statue?¡±


    Gaxna sets her jaw. ¡°I¡¯ve got other places. We can get other loot.¡±


    We argue about it on the rooftops back to the city. She leads me to a walled-off room in the side of a three-story dockhouse close to the Blackwater. It¡¯s not as nice as our last hideout, but it¡¯s safe, and full of Gaxna¡¯s signature crates of junk. Plus, the roof has a great view of the bay, and the temple hanging from the cliffs on the far side.


    After getting my bearings, I leave Gaxna, who¡¯s still moody, and get as much of our stuff as I can carry, including the statue. I almost feel sad, leaving the tower. This place felt safe, for a while. The first safe place I¡¯ve had since¡­ I don¡¯t know when. Since my dad, I guess, and I¡¯ll never get him back. But climbing up to our new hideout, sack loaded with gold and jewelry and a strange crystal statue, I realize I have something almost as good: a friend.

 14: The Pieces Dont Fit

    We¡¯re back in the upper part of the city, dressed as two merchant¡¯s sons, in flowing trousers and sleeveless shirts. The tight vests we wear to hide our figures make it hard to breathe, but it¡¯s no worse than the way the close-cut wigs make me sweat. The city is lively here, children screaming in the fountains and vendors calling out wares while wealthy men and women browse the indoor shops. There are even a few Seilam Deul in the mix, the milk-eyed technocrats from the mountains to the north. An Uje preacher stands on one corner, proclaiming the Deluge to all who will listen.


    ¡°¡ªwill wipe out the unbelievers, the dry-minded, the weak! Repent now and bear faith in the waters! No one knows the day or the hour, but children we know His wrath is great!¡±


    Gaxna frowns as we pass him. ¡°Flooding Ujeists. Ain¡¯t going to be no flooding deluge.¡± She speaks in the gruff voice she uses for male disguises.


    I shrug, practicing what she said about men swaying from their shoulders, not their hips. ¡°Most seers don¡¯t think there¡¯ll be another deluge for centuries yet. Maybe never if we keep the faith.¡±


    Though Nerimes said something different about my dad¡ªyour father¡¯s doomsday fears about the deluge.


    ¡°Uje,¡± Gaxna snorts, doing a better job than me of sounding male. ¡°I don¡¯t think there ever were floods. It¡¯s just something they use to keep us in line.¡±


    I raise an eyebrow, and not because Gaxna casually snags a pomegranate as we pass a fruit stand. ¡°How do you explain the Fist, then?¡± Uje¡¯s Fist is a giant metal thing sticking from the ocean a few miles out in the bay, hexagonal beams making a fist-like shape.


    ¡°Rocks,¡± she says, carefully not looking at a witch attending the next fountain we pass.


    ¡°Rocks?¡± The fist is ten times the size of a ship and clearly made of metal, though under all the bird slop and barnacles, there¡¯s not a spot of rust on it. ¡°There are no rocks like that. Or metal either.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯m supposed to believe it was made by some super-advanced civilization that got wiped out in a flood?¡± She nods toward an overseer ahead, and we step into a luthier¡¯s shop. I have to ice my fear despite the disguise. My eyes are still a dead giveaway¡ªI¡¯ve seen one other violet-eyed person in the city since I came here, and I think he was a sailor from abroad.


    The overseer passes and we move on. I want to ask Gaxna where we¡¯re going, who this person is and what they have to do with me not wanting to leave, but I know better than to ask in public. Instead, we keep arguing about the deluges, an old argument between the faithful and nonbelievers. When I was still a second-year they took us to the Serantei isles off the west coast, to see the strange square pillars rising from the ocean, covered in rust and salt and bird slop, impossible but undeniably manmade. A drowned city, and a drowned people with it. I don¡¯t know if keeping to Ujeism will save us from the next flood, but I don¡¯t doubt it¡¯s coming.


    Gaxna slows down outside a normal stone house on an average street in the upper part of the city. ¡°Here?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Here. Stay outside and practice your disguise, okay? This could take a while.¡±


    She goes in and I find a seat with my back to a wall next to a noodle vendor. I try to relax and really get into the character of a merchant¡¯s son, but my mind keeps going back to my father, to the traditionalists, to what I¡¯ve learned. That someone named Arayim gave that merchant money to keep his business afloat through the trade slump¡ªlike they knew it wouldn¡¯t last long and didn¡¯t want the city¡¯s merchants to take real damage from it.


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    What does that mean? That someone was affecting trade itself in the city? That would be a much bigger move than just paying off some criers.


    And who is Arayim? I thought I had it figured out, with either the merchants doing Nerimes favors before his rise to power, or vice versa, but the guild head swore Arayim wasn¡¯t from any guild, and he would know.


    So who else would Arayim be serving? And does that make him Nerimes¡¯ puppet, or the one pulling the strings?


    One thing I know for sure, Arayim is not a name connected to the temple¡ªI would recognize it, even someone from our upriver posts. Which brings my thoughts back to the crier I talked to days ago. He never answered me directly about who was paying to have my father¡¯s heresies played up. But knowing that would give me another stream to follow in figuring out who was behind all of this.


    I stand up. I¡¯m not great at this disguise, and the city¡¯s not safe, but it will never be safe, and I need to know. Gaxna said it would take a while.


    So I head for the Blackwater. I think I can find the fountain where I talked to the crier, and I¡¯ve got money to bribe him now. I try my best to keep my head down, to swagger like a merchant¡¯s son, and to watch the street for witches and overseers. Taking the roofs would be easier, but I need to get better at this in case Gaxna does finally freak out and leave.


    I see one overseer, but detour around him without incident. The same crier stands by the fountain, still yelling about a giant squid. I catch his eye across the square and nod toward an alley. He frowns for a second, then probably recognizes my eyes and heads over.


    ¡°Got some money for me then, lass? Or is it lad?¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± I say, pulling him further back in the wedge between buildings. ¡°But yes. I need a name.¡±


    He rubs his hands together. ¡°And I need money. A crier¡¯s got to eat.¡±


    I fish in my pocket for one of the necklaces we lifted back at the merchant¡¯s house. The stone in it is small, but his eyes light up when he sees it. ¡°This enough?¡±


    He snatches it from my hand, glancing back toward the street. ¡°Where did you get this?¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t matter either. Now who paid you to bend the news about Stergjon?¡±


    He grins. ¡°Not me. The whole guild.¡±


    Floods. ¡°Fine. Who?¡±


    The crier narrows his eyes. ¡°Why do you want to know, anyway? You going to expose me?¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t flooding matter. And no, I¡¯m not going to expose you. Call me curious. And I¡¯ll call you overpaid either way.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know much about him, really. Just shows up with money now and then. Arayim¡¯s his name.¡±


    It¡¯s everything I can do not to goggle. ¡°Arayim?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. You know him?¡±


    I flex my hands. ¡°No, but I need to. Where can I find him?¡±


    The crier raises his eyebrows. ¡°That¡¯s valuable information.¡±


    I grit my teeth. I could force it out of him. Grind his face into the cobblestones till he tells me. But that¡¯s not the way the streets work, and I need to not stand out here. To be water. I fish in my pocket and pull out the other thing I slipped from the loot. A solid gold statue of Uje in dragon form¡ªsmall, but surely more valuable than the necklace. I should ask Gaxna more about what things are worth.


    His eyes pop, and he snatches it up. ¡°Evening after next, Crier¡¯s Guildhouse. He usually comes at sunset, meets with the president. Look for a tall man with his hood up, walks like his hips hurt.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t flooding lie kid, unlike you, whoever you are. But mess with me and I¡¯ll start crying the news that some violet-eyed girl is asking too many questions.¡± He narrows his eyes. ¡°You the one that they¡¯re looking for then? Escaped from the temple last week?¡±


    Fear grips me, and I think for a second I¡¯m going to have to knock him out so hard he forgets all this.


    Then he smiles. ¡°Don¡¯t matter to me, as long as you keep the gold coming. I know lots.¡±


    I release my fists, palms aching where my nails bit into the flesh. ¡°I bet you do. Thanks. If Arayim isn¡¯t there, you can bet I¡¯ll be back.¡±


    I¡¯m pleased to see the hint of fear that enters his eyes, and he scurries out of the alley.


    I climb to the roofs just in case, my head spinning.


    Who is Arayim? Where did he get the money to bribe an entire guild and float a bunch of merchants? Not even the temple has pockets that deep.


    Which makes it feel a lot more likely Nerimes is a pawn in whatever game Arayim¡¯s playing, not the other way around. If he has that much money, he¡¯s not going to be interested in getting a few lucrative favors from the traditionalists once they¡¯re in power.


    I grab a roof pole, swing myself to a higher roof. Unless this is about more than money? Could Arayim just be a devout as well as very rich Ujeian traditionalist?


    The pieces don¡¯t fit, but I have a date at least. Morning after next, a hooded man with a limp outside the Crier¡¯s Guild. Arayim.


    I wouldn¡¯t miss it for the world.

 13: A Risk I Have To Take

    Gaxna is militant about training the next morning. ¡°Faster!¡± she barks as I uncoil the thief¡¯s rope from my waist. ¡°Higher! Harder!¡±


    My arms ache after just an hour practicing on the wide roof above the hideout. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s the burglary or the witches yesterday, but something has my friend determined to wear me out.


    I strike back the only way I know how: by training her just as hard. ¡°Breath,¡± I shout back, coiling the rope with a snaking motion.


    She hesitates. ¡°In!¡±


    ¡°Too long!¡±


    Gaxna starts running. ¡°Rope me!¡±


    I change the end and snap the rope at her. It catches her waist, coils a couple times rapidly, and I jerk, bringing her down. ¡°Breath!¡±


    ¡°Out!¡±


    ¡°Emotion?¡± I start hauling in the rope.


    ¡°Giii¡ªcalm!¡±


    ¡°Fishslop,¡± I call, rolling off. ¡°You¡¯re frustrated. Ice it!¡±


    She grimaces, then points at one of the bottles on the wall. ¡°Hook it!¡±


    So it goes for hours. It¡¯s insane. It¡¯s exhausting. And it¡¯s almost kind of fun. I can at least tell that Gaxna¡¯s working something out with it, maybe thawing her fear from yesterday, and I¡¯m a lot better at thief¡¯s rope by the time we finally take a break.


    ¡°You¡¯re getting better,¡± Gaxna pants, flopping next to me in the shade of a rooftop lean-to. I massage my left arm where the muscles are starting to burn. The breeze from the ocean plus the shade of the lean-to is delicious.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about yesterday,¡± Gaxna says. ¡°About the break-in.¡±


    ¡°And the witches?¡± I know she didn¡¯t tell me the whole story yesterday.


    ¡°About what you said, whether it was them or not? I decided it doesn¡¯t matter. Someone¡¯s figured me out. Or you out.¡±


    I take the water skin from her. ¡°Could be that runaway that stayed with us a few nights back. Maliel? Maybe she went back and ratted us out.¡±


    ¡°No. It wasn¡¯t her. I¡ª¡± She pauses, and I can see her practicing the breathing, trying to ice whatever¡¯s bothering her. ¡°The witches. They can track me.¡±


    ¡°What? How?¡±


    ¡°They have my blood, so they can feel me or whatever. Kind of like you do through the water.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°How did they get it?¡±


    She shrugs. ¡°Not like it¡¯s unusual. They probably got it at birth, along with my mom¡¯s. That¡¯s why the witches are everywhere, offering to midwife for free. And why some people try to hide it, when their time comes. Because whoever¡¯s there gets your blood and your kid¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°So they can sense you after that.¡± Floods. That must mean¡ª ¡°So pretty much the whole city is under their control?¡±


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    ¡°And a lot of the peninsula, too. How do you think they got that mob to chase you so fast? Doesn¡¯t matter what the monks think up in the temple, it¡¯s the witches who rule the city. The overseers have to touch you to read your thoughts, but the witches are watching all the time. Waiting to take control of you when they want to.¡±


    ¡°And they¡­ can control you, too?¡±


    Gaxna again takes a minute to breathe, icing something inside. ¡°Yes. Not all of them can do it, and I don¡¯t know if the lady who helped my mom could or not, but they¡ªthey got more blood, later. And whoever got that blood can definitely do it.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s good, right? That means if they wanted you, or wanted you dead or something, they would just do it. They don¡¯t need to search your house for something, they can just force you to walk over to them and tell them your secrets.¡±


    ¡°Well, they can¡¯t force you to say something you don¡¯t want to. They can¡¯t really make people talk at all. But yeah, if they wanted to see me, they could just march me all the way to their guildhall.¡±


    ¡°So what¡¯s the big deal, then? It probably wasn¡¯t even the witches at all, if they can make you do what they want.¡±


    Gaxna sighs. ¡°That¡¯s not how they do things. They know if they use their power too much, the city will rise against them. And they still need to recruit from the girls. So they do things like this, let you know that they¡¯re watching you, that they want you to come in or whatever.¡±


    ¡°They want you to come in?¡±


    She nods, morose. ¡°That¡¯s what the paper meant. You¡¯re supposed to bring it to them.¡±


    ¡°Uje.¡± I think it through a minute, watching two seagulls wheel in the sky. ¡°You know, there might be a way to keep them out of your head.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± She sits up straight. ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s just a theory. Something I¡¯ve been thinking about. I¡¯m a girl, right? But I can use male magic. And you¡¯re starting to get good at icing emotions, which shows probably lots of people can use watersight powers, not just men. My dad knew that¡ªI think I was the first step in him opening the temple to women. But what if it¡¯s more than that? What if the powers aren¡¯t actually that different? Watersight lets you read thoughts, and the theracants can read feelings. On our side we¡¯ve got the blind, to keep others from reading our thoughts. So what if that worked for bloodsight too, to keep them from reading your feelings?¡±


    Gaxna stares at me. ¡°And you¡¯re saying if it did, they probably couldn¡¯t see where I am either.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. It¡¯s just a theory, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s do it. Now. Show me.¡±


    I show her the steps. It all builds on the breath anyway, though it¡¯ll be some time before her concentration is strong enough to really pull it off.


    ¡°Flooding hells,¡± she says, after she loses focus again. ¡°How do you do this?¡±


    ¡°I had my whole life to learn it,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯ve been working on it what, a week now?¡±


    ¡°Still.¡± I can see she¡¯s frustrated even without watersight. For someone who spends her whole life in disguise, it has to kill her that the witches can see right through it.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to take time,¡± I say, as gently as I can. ¡°No matter how much you practice. So in the meantime, are you going to go in?¡±


    ¡°Hell no. Floods no.¡±


    ¡°But they could come for us here just as easily.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡± She bites her lip. ¡°Which is why we need to leave. Go someplace safe.¡±


    ¡°Gaxna, I can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll kill you too, or take you, take your blood.¡± She takes my hand. ¡°And you¡¯ve got the overseers on top of that. What good are you dead?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. I¡¯m no good dead. But it¡¯s a risk I have to take. This is where my dad was murdered. This is where the temple is. My home. If I¡¯m going to find out the truth, if I¡¯m going to do anything about it, it¡¯s here. Besides, what would I do out there?¡± I look out over the bay, Uje¡¯s Fist sticking like a bleached white skeleton from the waters. ¡°I¡¯m a seer. I¡¯ve always wanted to be a seer, to share my gift with people. Like I¡¯m doing with you¡ªteach them to see deeper, get control of their emotions. Out there?¡± I shrug. ¡°I¡¯m just another person.¡±


    ¡°Out there you survive. You can come back later, do this when no one¡¯s expecting. When I¡¯ve got the blind down. And in the meantime, we do whatever we have to. Whatever we want to!¡±


    There¡¯s a light in her eyes I haven¡¯t seen before, hopeful and pleading and something more. I wish I could read her through our hands, but I promised not to and I¡¯m honoring that. Still, I feel a warm buzz coming from her touch. It¡¯s intoxicating, but it doesn¡¯t change the truth.


    I shake my head. ¡°The longer I wait, the harder it will be to find the truth, and the more secure the traditionalists will get. If you have to go, I get it. But this is where I need to be.¡±


    She looks away, then takes a deep breath and sets her shoulders. ¡°Okay. Then there¡¯s someone we need to talk to.¡±

 15: The Blackwater

    There¡¯s a reason they call it the Blackwater. It¡¯s not because of the city¡¯s refuse washing into the bay¡ªthat¡¯s a dark brown. It¡¯s not the algae that blooms in the summer heat, feeding off that waste to form a mat so thick ships plow drifts as they come in¡ªthat¡¯s a brilliant purple. It¡¯s the goatfish that feed on the waste, the algae, and anything else that gets thrown in the bay. Sharp-toothed and black-finned, they feed in such giant schools that they blacken the water¡ªand this boiling, tooth-mad mass gives the lowest part of the city its name. That, and the stories of what gets thrown to them.


    Gaxna and I are selling twists of cloveleaf on a rotting pier the day after I talked to the crier, watching pale-skinned Bamani and nut-brown Ujeians sweat under heavy casks, loading and unloading ships from all over the world. The Bamani bring mostly produce and meat, hauling them across the strait in barges so old and patched they look ready to collapse. Traders from the inner crescent bring skins and spices and oils and pearls, and Daraa down from the ironway bring salt and cotton and coal, all meeting to shout and barter and strike deals under the ragged red canopies of the docks.


    Scattered among them are the tall and thin Seilam Deul, milky-white eyes eerie behind their head coverings. Wrapped in dark shawls and clad in a clinging fabric they refuse to sell, they speak seldom and selectively, their steps usually dogged by two or three merchants alternating between shouting and pleading. They trade in metals and cloth and foods like everyone else, but their real exports are inventions, strange devices like hourglasses that follow the moon, or exploding shot for catapults, or the astrolabes that now chart the oceans. Their ships are sleek and black and clad in iron, like predators slinking between the stockier wooden vessels.


    The Deul had no ships or ports only a few decades ago, but now they trade as widely as any other coastal nation, selling a crate of inventions to fill a ship full of goods.  Rumor has it their mountain cities are full of wonders, that they keep many more innovations than they sell, but already their technology has changed the world. Some say the aqueducts that make Serei possible were originally Deul inventions, though that is too far in the past for anyone to know.


    ¡°Stop staring,¡± Gaxna mutters, lighting another cloveleaf. The smell draws in customers, she says, but I think it¡¯s nerves.


    We¡¯re not here to sell cloveleaf. We¡¯re here to steal fortunes.


    ¡°I¡¯m not staring. Just trying to get a feel for the Deul.¡± One of their warehouses is our target tonight. It isn¡¯t lost on me that Nerimes is getting married to one, that there could be something to learn here. Mostly, though, we¡¯re trying to make enough money in one shot to get my eyes stained and fund another batch of Gaxna¡¯s theracant rescues.


    ¡°Well, you won¡¯t. Most flooding secretive people you¡¯ll meet. Stay on their ships unless they absolutely have to.¡±


    ¡°Think any of them will be in the warehouse?¡± Gaxna¡¯s informant¡ªthe same one that bought the statue from us¡ªsaid the target is in their cavernous warehouse just down the dock.


    Gaxna blows smoke. ¡°Maybe. You can handle them, though.¡±


    This is part of the reason Gaxna never tried this burglary alone: there¡¯s no way to do it without running into some guards, and she¡¯s no good at fighting. The payout is big enough I suspect she was thinking of this back when she first offered our trade. I¡¯ve never asked why she didn¡¯t partner up with someone else, but I think I know: because she¡¯s never trusted anyone enough. It¡¯s not lost on me that she sees me differently.


    ¡°I can deal with them.¡± The Seilam Deul may be known for their technology, but Serei is known for its fighters, and I am the best of my class.


    Though I¡¯d feel better with water under me and a staff in my hands.


    Gaxna straightens up, and I see a tanned dockworker approaching us, one of the few Ujeians on this part of the docks. Gaxna puts on a crooked smile. ¡°Smoke for ya, sailor?¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± the woman says, handing over a few coins.


    ¡°How¡¯s trade?¡± I ask, trying to mirror her rough accent.


    She snorts, then leans in to light her stick from Gaxna¡¯s. ¡°Same as ever. Hard work and no pay.¡±


    ¡°Picked up from last year though, innit?¡± My grammar teachers cringe inside, but this is how I need to talk. It¡¯s kind of fun, actually.


    The woman draws deep and lets out a lungful of fragrant smoke before she answers. ¡°Is at that, I s¡¯pose.¡±


    I lean forward. ¡°Why¡¯s that, you s¡¯pose? That new Chosen up there got something to do with it?¡±


    ¡°Chosen,¡± the worker says, and spits uncomfortably close to my shoe. ¡°Nothing to do with the flooding Chosen. It¡¯s the frost-eyes.¡±


    Gaxna eyes me, but I press on. Nerimes mentioned trade slumping at the end of my father¡¯s reign, and the salt merchant seemed to confirm that, but something¡¯s off about it.


    ¡°The Deul? How¡¯s that?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Trade was piss poor, yeah, for everybody but the Deul. Their houses were stock full, ships low in the waters! They just weren¡¯t selling. Oughta ban ¡®em all, if you ask me, stick to the Daraa and Bamani. Them at least a person can talk to.¡±


    Their warehouses were full? Was Arayim funding them too? Or does this have something to do with the Seilam Deul Nerimes is planning to marry? I start to ask another question and Gaxna kicks me under the table.


    ¡°Right you are,¡± the thief says. ¡°Flooding frosteyes ought to stay in their mountains. ¡®Night to ya.¡±


    The woman nods and walks off, pulling on her cloveleaf. Gaxna turns on me. ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    I frown. ¡°Looking for information. I could learn something here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re calling attention to us is what you¡¯re doing. That sailor will remember us for days. Remember the violet-eyed girl who was asking questions about the Seilam Deul.¡±


    I shift. ¡°So?¡± I know she¡¯s right, that if I want to stay undercover, I should shut up, but it¡¯s a risk I have to run. What¡¯s the point of staying in the city if I can¡¯t get the information I need? ¡°Okay, I¡¯ll shut up.¡±


    But I don¡¯t. I ask the next two workers that come up about the trade slump and the Deul. One of them is too tired to say much, but the other one backs up the woman¡¯s claims: the Deul warehouses were full when everybody else¡¯s were empty, they just weren¡¯t selling.


    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t they sell?¡±


    Gaxna kicks me again. I ignore her. This worker has a thoughtful air, his facial hair trimmed in careful lines, so I¡¯m hoping he¡¯ll have some insight. ¡°Drive up prices. Create a shortage so they can profit from it.¡±


    I nod. That¡¯s what my teachers would have said too¡ªpart of our education was in economics, because some of us would end up as theocrats with direct control over Serei¡¯s trade laws. ¡°But to do it for months? Seems like they coulda sold sooner.¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    The sailor cracks his knuckles, strong hands thick with callouses. ¡°Shoulda. But with the frosties?¡± He shrugs bronze shoulders, shifts his feet, and something about him reminds me of Dashan, standing next to me in the kitchens below the temple. I miss him. ¡°You ladies got plans for the night? I know a great brewer down Wetleg Alley.¡±


    ¡°Charming,¡± Gaxna says before I can answer, ¡°but no.¡±


    His eyebrows go up, but he shrugs again and walks off.


    ¡°Gaxna.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to be rude.¡±


    She narrows her eye at me. ¡°You think he was cute or something?¡±


    ¡°What? No! I¡ªhe¡¯s not, not my type, at all. But¡ª¡±


    ¡°No harm done then.¡±


    I pull out the sleeves on my blouse, adjusting the cuffs. ¡°Well, we could have gotten his name, at least.¡±


    She gives me a dirty look. We keep waiting as the shadows deepen, until the workers have gone home and the lanternworker makes his rounds. Then we change in the shadow of a Pearler ship and slip toward the largest of the dockside warehouses, its doors reinforced steel and walls oiled stone. This is the first obstacle to getting in¡ªor would be if we didn¡¯t have ropes. Gaxna hooks the rafter of a neighboring building, and from there I get my rope through a ventilation hole high up in the Deul warehouse. We untie Gaxna¡¯s rope and shimmy across, then use hers to drop to the teakwood floor.


    The trick once inside is not to take too long. According to Gaxna¡¯s informant, they don¡¯t keep a heavy guard¡ªno one does in the City of Justice, where overseers catch most thieves in a matter of hours¡ªbut they do make the rounds every half hour or so. Which is an issue, because they¡¯re also said to have strange new weapons.


    Gaxna waves me forward, and I take a minute to ice my anxiety. We need this money, and this might be the only chance to see if the elusive Deul were involved in my father¡¯s death, something I¡¯m even more curious about after talking to the dock workers.


    It¡¯s just dangerous as hell, is all.


    We stalk forward, the giant hall full of looming shadows from the lanterns burning along the wall. Stacks of crates and barrels block my view in every direction. It smells of wine and leather and cinnamon, normal warehouse smells, but also oil, and metal, and something sour.


    The next issue will be the lock. It¡¯s not even a lock, actually, but some kind of series of rooms set into the back wall. According to Gaxna¡¯s patron, the first door locks behind you before the second will open. It means I will have to wait outside the vault while Gaxna gets whatever we came for, then let her out when she¡¯s done. The key changes nightly, but the vault guard is supposed to have a copy.


    It¡¯s the waiting for Gaxna while frost-eyes with advanced weapons make the rounds part I¡¯m not excited about.


    There is only one guard posted outside the vault, like her patron said. In his hand he holds something like a bent lute, almost pretty except for the long row of gleaming silver spikes on one end. I don¡¯t want to find out what it does.


    Good thing I spent my youth sneaking through a temple of meditating seers. I climb the nearest stack of crates in dead silence while Gaxna waits below, working at her hands. I would be doing that too, if I didn¡¯t keep icing the fear as it comes up. It¡¯s about a ten-foot fall. If I judge it wrong, I¡¯ll land on the weapon instead of the guard.


    I jump.


    It¡¯s over mostly before it begins. I come down with a foot on his weapon arm, another on his shoulder, and deliver a blow called Shifting Tides to the side of his head. He manages only a soft yelp before toppling to the floor.


    I tense anyway, catching his strange weapon before it can clatter, listening for any reaction, any shouts of alarm. None come. Gaxna runs up, gets a large square key from his pockets and works it into the door.


    I get a good look at it for the first time: this is no ordinary door. I saw the inside of a safe once, the strange toothed wheels and levers that ran the mechanism behind the dial. This is like a fever dream of that, twisted and complicated and ten times as big. Giant bands of metal run on the outside of doors wider than I am tall, concealing a tangle of wheels and straps and things I have no name for. Gaxna fits the key in with a metal snick, and I hold my breath.


    It turns.


    The gears and levers and pulleys all spin, smooth as knives through fat, and she slips inside. I close it behind her, icing a bolt of fear as the mechanism spins the opposite direction, locking her in. If anything happens to me, Gaxna has no way out.


    So I retreat to a hiding place and watch the door, hoping no one heard us. The smart thing to do would be to stay put until she¡¯s done, get her out and go. But there¡¯s a Seilam Deul man down there, unconscious and unable to block watersight.


    I wait one hundred breaths then slip down to him, flicking his ears to wake him up while I keep a hand over his mouth to stifle any cries.


    One amazing thing about watersight is it doesn¡¯t depend on language. In the temple they had us practice on people from Daraa, Bamani, the north shore, the wastes, and people who spoke no Ujeian at all. We never worked on a Seilam Deul, but the experience is much the same: I hear his thoughts, understand them, but it¡¯s like a picture with the colors reversed, or a sentence said out of order.


    His disconnected thoughts rove over my attack and what he should have done to me. Interesting, but not what I¡¯m here for. I flick harder, waking him all the way up. He jerks, then stills as I press a knife to his throat.


    ¡°There,¡± I whisper in his ear. ¡°Do you understand Ujeian?¡±


    He doesn¡¯t answer¡ªcan¡¯t, really, given the position of the blade¡ªbut I hear from his thoughts that he does.


    ¡°Good. I need to ask you some questions.¡±


    That certainly sparks a flood of thoughts, not least of them superstitious fears of Uje seers and our magical powers.


    I smile. ¡°Who is Arayim?¡±


    Confusion. Damn. Guess I¡¯ll have to wait till tomorrow for Arayim. But this man will still know more than those workers about these warehouses being full, and maybe that connects to Arayim and how he was manipulating trade in the city before my father¡¯s murder.


    I try again. ¡°How long have you worked at this dockhouse?¡±


    The answer comes in a garbled form of time¡ªnot years or seasons, but something close enough that I make it out. About four years.


    ¡°And you were here when the former Chosen was deposed?¡±


    Yes.


    ¡°Were your warehouses full?¡±


    An image comes of this warehouse filled to the rafters with goods, along with a lot of memories of hard work and boredom and careful stacking.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    Another image-garbled sentence, this one of Seilam Deul trading at ports up the coast, buying goods before they could reach Serei.


    I shake my head. ¡°Okay, you were buying up goods so no other traders would come to Serei. But why?¡±


    I see a woman then, a tall Seilam Deul woman, a dark scar standing out on her pale skin, twisting the corner of her mouth upward in a sneer. Images of her giving orders, inspecting manifests.


    Cold certainty suddenly hits me. ¡°Her name. What¡¯s her name?¡±


    ¡°Ieolat,¡± the man croaks.


    Ieolat of the Seilam Deul¡ªNerimes¡¯ bride.


    The puzzle pieces spin in my mind¡ªthe money needed to bribe the crier¡¯s guild, to float the merchants, to get Nerimes in power. It came from the Seilam Deul, by far the richest nation in the world. Of course. Wealth they also used to buy up goods without selling them, depressing trade and making my father look bad. The merchants and their guilds had nothing to do with this¡ªthey were pawns. But Nerimes¡¯ marriage suddenly means a lot more sense: he must have struck some kind of power-sharing deal, his power in exchange for their money.


    And my father¡¯s death, of course.


    The guard yelps under me, and I realize I¡¯m pressing the knife a little too sharply into his throat. ¡°Sorry,¡± I mutter, then finger the three points of Diver¡¯s Bind, knocking him out for real.


    Surely this is proof enough. Surely the fact that Nerimes¡¯ bride was involved in manipulating trade will be proof enough the traditionalists were involved in setting my dad up. That Nerimes has sold out the temple to get himself in power. I have no doubt this is where the money came from. Arayim will tie it together, when I meet him.


    No wonder I didn¡¯t recognize the name. He¡¯s probably a Seilam Deul.


    I force myself to focus on my surroundings. None of this matters if I get caught unawares, or something goes wrong with the heist. There¡¯s no sound from Gaxna inside¡ªshe was going to tap on the walls when she was done. Hopefully before I have to knock out another guard, if there is one.


    The rest of the warehouse is quiet, though sound alone doesn¡¯t tell much. Not for the first time, I wish the floor was properly doused in water. Then I¡¯d really be able to keep watch.


    For now, I drag the guard into a corner and strip him.


    It¡¯s nothing personal: I just need his clothes. Mine don¡¯t fit him well, but I leave his underpants on and get my loose trousers over them, so he isn¡¯t naked at least. The blouse I leave beside him, unsure if he¡¯d be as embarrassed wearing it as a Serei man would.


    The Seilam Deul fabric is strange against my skin, clinging but easy to move in, like nothing I¡¯ve ever worn before. I wrap the man¡¯s scarf around my head, aware I¡¯m probably doing it wrong, and my skin is too dark anyway, but it might buy me a second or two if things go wrong. I take my thief¡¯s rope too, then climb a stack of crates and wait for Gaxna¡¯s signal. Wait for a guard making the rounds. Wait for any sound, really.


    There¡¯s none. You¡¯d think there would be some kind of sound. If nothing else, the scratching of Blackwater¡¯s infamous rats.


    When it comes, it is almost too soft to make out¡ªor would be, if it wasn¡¯t so familiar. The swishing of robes.


    Overseers.

 16: Always A Fighter

    I freeze atop my stack of crates. How did they find me? How did they know? There¡¯s nowhere to run if they¡¯re here, no way to stay silent if I move, but the crates are bone dry, so they may not find me if I stay put.


    There. Two of them stride into view, strong, arrogant, eyes sweeping the dim space. One of them examines the vault door, runs his hands over it, then touches the other. Saying something through the water of their skin. I stay motionless, offering a prayer to Uje. If my cause is just at all, if there¡¯s any truth to the things I¡¯ve been discovering, let them not see me.


    They see me.


    The one looks right at me, and I duck my cowl forward, hoping to hide my eyes, to look like a Seilam Deul worker who happens to be balancing atop a stack of crates.


    ¡°You,¡± he barks, with such a tone of command, such an expectation of response, that the student in me looks up before I can stop her.


    His eyes widen, seeing the violet in mine, and he runs for me.


    Panic seizes me. I ice it. No way to get down, more overseers below. Up, then.


    I pull the thief¡¯s rope from my belt in one smooth motion and whip it at the rafters far overhead.


    I miss. I throw again. It catches and I clamber up, just seconds ahead of the overseer. He climbs after, nimble on the rope.


    I ice panic again. Nowhere to go once we get to the top. Alone, I could swing back and forth, reach one of the high windows, but not with him weighing it down. Sooner or later, then, I will battle him, with the loser facing a crippling fall. Better to do it on my terms.


    I swing us out as I climb, stacks of crates and aisles between them swaying underfoot, then pull my knife and cut the rope just as the overseer is about to reach me.


    He hangs in air for a moment, surprise marring his serene face, then plummets earthward. I scramble up as I hear the crash and his shout of pain. I can¡¯t help wincing¡ªthat had to break bones. I ice the emotion. I will feel worse if the overseers catch Gaxna.


    Two of them stare up from below, meditation-cool faces like statues of Uje in death pose.


    Where can I go? Anywhere out of the warehouse means abandoning Gaxna. Anywhere inside it means they find me eventually. I swing left, swing right, consider my options. I can¡¯t abandon her. But I¡¯m no use if I get caught, either. Third option then: the roof. I swing farther out, farther, more overseers gathering below¡ªsix, like I thought, like have been patrolling the streets. Or five, now. Did I really just do that to an overseer?


    My feet touch wall and I push off hard, swinging the full width of the warehouse to the other side, where I catch a vent with one hand. I swing my body through, other hand keeping the rope. I tie it off and swing out the window.


    Flooding Gods. It¡¯s a fifty-foot drop below me, and the wall is still oiled up here, almost impossible to climb. I grab it anyway, fingers slipping, and scramble up to the roof lip. It¡¯s a slight overhang, but my instincts carry me over it and up.


    The roof is a long stretch of wood shingles, chimney vents for the summer heat studded along the low peak. I stalk up to a pair of them, keeping my steps silent, and take cover between. It¡¯s the best hiding place up here, though I¡¯m still exposed on two sides. I can only hope the overseers assume I got down and ran, and they spread out in the streets to catch me. Though I¡¯m not sure the one that climbed after me meant to capture me or outright throw me to the floor to die.


    Which, I realize belatedly, I sort of did to him. Hope he¡¯s okay.


    A few minutes pass, the ocean breeze cool against my pounding heart. I let some of my panic thaw, and my fear, my guilt, let my pulse beat it out of my system. I need to get Gaxna sooner rather than later¡ªif the overseers stay inside and hear her banging to get out, they will find a way in and take her. And the punishment for theft in Serei is simple: you lose a hand. Then again, if the overseers have gone, they will surely notify the Seilam Deul, who will come with their own guards and find Gaxna. And the guard I attacked.


    There¡¯s no way to know, and it¡¯s bad odds, but I can¡¯t abandon my friend. She rescued me, after all.


    I am just resolving to climb down and do what I can when a shadow falls over me. I jump up, but a hand clamps over my mouth, another binding my arms. I¡¯m already starting Water Unwinds the Knife when my attacker¡¯s thoughts register. I gasp.


    ¡°Dashan?¡±


    Yes, he says through our waterbond. It¡¯s me.


    Emotion comes with it, as it always has for Dashan. I don¡¯t know why, but my watersight is deeper with him. He¡¯s surprised and relieved and worried.


    What are you doing here? I step back, but keep hold of his hand so we can talk through the bond. Are you¡ªpart of them?


    He grimaces, broad face achingly familiar in the moonlight. I¡¯ve missed him, I realize. More than anyone else I left behind. I am. Or¡ªI¡¯m not an overseer, but they took me, asked me to help them find you.


    I tense. So are you going to try to take me to them?


    I feel the emotion of a laugh, stifled for silence¡¯s sake. I don¡¯t think I could if I tried. But no. I only agreed to come along hoping that I could find you. We need to talk.


    How did you know where to look?


    He hesitates. His blind is up, but I can feel something in him¡ªregret? They¡ªgot a tip.


    A tip? From who?


    I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s not important now, Theia. You need to get out of here, before something worse happens.


    I can¡¯t. Not yet. My friend is still down there, trapped.


    So leave him. The overseers will take care of him.


    Sometimes he is so stupid. My friend I said, Dashan. I¡¯m not leaving her to get a hand chopped off because I failed in my part of the job.


    The job? What, are you a burglar now? Just gave up on the temple? He¡¯s angry. I can almost feel it pulsing in his wrists.


    Dashan, the temple gave up on me. Or did you miss the part where Nerimes tried to kill me?


    He squats down beside me, putting on a reasonable expression. He wasn¡¯t going to kill you, Theia. That was just for show. Just like when he came to spar.


    The iron weights they were putting my legs into didn¡¯t seem like a show.


    Well anyway, he couldn¡¯t do it now if he wanted to, not in the temple. There are a lot of people on your side.


    My heart jumps. So they heard what I showed in the water, when I was running? They¡¯ve realized the traditionalists are corrupt?


    Confusion comes through our bond, echoed on his face in the moonlight. What? No. They just think the death sentence is going too far.


    My blood chills. The death sentence?


    That¡¯s why I came. He¡¯s calling for your life, Aletheia. Ever since you ran from the overseers and attacked them with bloodborn¡ª


    What? That wasn¡¯t me. I summon up the memories of the day, so he can see them through the bond, see that it was a theracant who called the bloodborn chasing me that first day.


    No surprise registers in him. I never thought it was you. I know you¡¯re not a witch. But there are some people in the temple that think, you know¡ª


    That think I¡¯m a heresy. Trust me. I know.


    Yeah, well, they¡¯re calling for your head. Saying you¡¯re too much of a danger to the city and the religion to be given a regular trial.


    Floodwaters. So the overseer before was trying to kill me. They¡¯re all trying to kill me. I get sick for a second, thinking of all the times in the past week Gaxna and I have been on the streets, exposed, my violet eyes there for all to see. I could have been killed many times over.


    Then I get angry. Is Nerimes this much of a pawn, that he¡¯ll issue a kill-on-sight order in public, just to please whoever¡¯s controlling him? Because that¡¯s what must have happened¡ªword got back to him from the wealthy merchant I talked to, or the crier, or both, and they decided I was too much of a danger. It¡¯s unjust and obvious, and I hate that only part of the temple is even upset about it.


    Dashan takes my hand. I won¡¯t let them do it, Aletheia. I won¡¯t let them take you.


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    I shake my head. Then why are you here? Why are you helping them?


    Chagrin comes through our bond. I¡¯m not helping them, I just¡ªI hoped they would know where you were. And they did! And now we¡¯re here, and everything will be okay.


    ¡°What?¡±


    I recover myself, answer in water. In what way is everything going to be okay? Dashan, my friend¡¯s trapped down there, and I¡¯m going to get killed if I try to help her.


    He gives my hand a squeeze, but I¡¯m too upset to feel anything but worried and annoyed. We¡¯ll deal with her later. We can help her, Theia. But first we have to get you back to the temple.


    I goggle. The temple? That¡¯s the last place I want to be right now.


    No, don¡¯t you see? It¡¯s the only place that¡¯s safe. The loyalists there will protect you.


    Loyalists?


    The ones that want you back. That are arguing you should have a chance to explain yourself, that the council is going too far with the death sentence. We heard what you said in the water, when you were fleeing the temple. His eyes meet mine, dark and glassy in the moonlight. A lot of the temple believes you, but it¡¯s not enough. They need to hear it in your words.


    I¡¯m not¡ªI take a breath, ice the frustration and fear and everything else I¡¯m feeling. Try again. Dashan, I¡¯m not coming back to explain myself. I did nothing wrong. And if Nerimes can send a bunch of thugs to my room once, he can do it again. Kill me before I get a chance to escape this time. I¡¯m safer out here.


    Where the overseers are trying to kill you?


    Where they can¡¯t find me through the water. Where the answers are to whoever killed my father and got Nerimes into power. I grip his wrist harder. Here. Look.


    I call up everything I¡¯ve gathered¡ªthe crier admitting they were bribed to play up the heresies, the merchants proving trade was being manipulated during my father¡¯s time, the Seilam Deul¡¯s revelations about Ieolat. The memory of Nerimes listing all these things, then implying the real reason was my father was in his way. That dissent is the ultimate heresy.


    He gasps. ¡°What did you do?¡±


    I realize in my haste I might have pushed some of the thoughts into him, rather than spoken them. Sorry. But that¡¯s what I have so far.


    Uje and Jeia, he says, thinking through it, looking through my memories. So you¡¯re saying the traditionalists had your father killed?


    Or killed him as part of their deal to get into power. I¡¯m pretty certain they sold the temple out one way or another.


    He frowns. It¡¯s obvious someone was doing something strange back then. But none of this points directly to the council.


    It points to Arayim, who¡¯s either going to be a traditionalist pawn, or the one pulling Nerimes¡¯ strings from the background. Have you heard of him?


    No. But you¡¯re planning to meet him. He must have glimpsed that in the memories I showed him. Dashan grips my hand harder, and something deep and warm comes through our bond. Theia no. It¡¯s too dangerous.


    Love. I realize what I¡¯m feeling from him is love, or something very like it. For a moment, I don¡¯t know what to say. Dashan. I¡ª


    Please. The temple needs you. I need you.


    It¡¯s intoxicating, like a whole twist of cloveleaf at once, like magic. I think I used to feel this way for him too, deep down, under my fear and determination. But now? I¡¯m not ready. I need more time. More proof. Something no one can deny. Something that will rally the loyalists to action. And I won¡¯t find it in the temple.


    Dashan shakes his head, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. When will you be ready? What is worth more than us being together?


    His words crush me, but not my core. The truth. Getting justice for my father. Keeping the traditionalists from corrupting our temple and everything we stand for.


    He looks away, toward the ocean, and I feel loss and resignation in him. That¡¯s what I thought you would say. When he looks back, he¡¯s smiling. You always were a fighter. Always needed to have it your way.


    Damn right. Speaking of which, my way right now means keeping my friend from losing her hand. Dashan, can you do anything?


    He grimaces, and I see the struggle of loyalties on his face, the pull to obey the temple and the urge to help me. He¡¯s a good man. I can imagine loving him, if my life was different.


    But it¡¯s not, and Gaxna¡¯s trapped down there with overseers.


    Dashan, please. I pull closer to him on the roof. I don¡¯t know if this is trusting him, or using him, but it¡¯s all I¡¯ve got.


    He struggles a second more, then nods. Okay. But what can I do?


    Lead them off. Tell them you saw me up here, running. That you think you know where I¡¯m going. Then take them away.


    Okay. But then what? When will I see you again?


    I don¡¯t know if the ache I feel in my chest is mine or his. I always knew he liked me¡ªUje, loves me¡ªbut I guess I can¡¯t deny now I feel something like that, too. Not the same, but deep feelings I¡¯ve iced and kept iced, because if they thawed I don¡¯t know what I would do. It was never the right time.


    And now isn¡¯t either. I don¡¯t know. Soon. Another couple of weeks, hopefully, and I¡¯ll have all the proof I need. If you want me, leave word for a boy named Gaxna with a crier at Elim¡¯s fountain in the Blackwater.


    He nods.


    And Dashan, show the loyalists what I¡¯ve shown you. I know it¡¯ll be memories of memories, but try to convince them there¡¯s a deeper reason the council wants me dead. It¡¯s not because I¡¯m a threat to the city or the temple or whatever. It¡¯s because I¡¯m a threat to Nerimes¡¯ power.


    He stands. I should go. Give me ten minutes.


    I stand with him, our hands still tangled. I know I¡¯m making the right choice, that I need to stay out here, but it¡¯s hard to see him go, to turn down his vision of returning to the temple, even though I know it wouldn¡¯t work. It feels like letting go of my past.


    I don¡¯t know how to say any of that. So I just say, ¡°Thank you,¡± whisper it out loud, wanting something more real than this silent conversation we¡¯ve just had.


    He nods and turns away. Then he¡¯s back and pressing his lips to mine, hard. For just a second, then he runs across the roof, toward where Gaxna¡¯s rope was tied to the ventilation shaft.


    I can¡¯t breathe for a second, then my heart comes back, beating fast. Dashan slips off the edge of the roof, and I realize distractedly how dangerous that climb is, even for me. That he¡¯s risking it for me. And I can¡¯t help him down without risking getting seen.


    I hate this. Hate putting people¡¯s lives in danger for something I want. But I have to believe everyone¡¯s lives will be better if I can get Nerimes deposed.


    So I stand on the roofs and count my breaths, icing whatever comes up, watching the sea and the dark ships in the bay. Let it all slide off me, especially what just happened with Dashan, and focus on what I have to do. Why I am here. I know there¡¯s a chance Dashan won¡¯t convince the overseers to go, or the Seilam Deul will have come, or any other number of things that will make going back into that warehouse suicide, but I still have to go. What is any of this worth if I have to sacrifice my friends to get it?


    Ten minutes pass without much sound from below. Maybe they¡¯re gone, or maybe they saw through Dashan¡¯s blind and are waiting to kill me. There¡¯s no way to know. I ice my anxiety and climb down.


    The rope is where I left it. I peer down into the warehouse. It¡¯s too dim to see much, but the area in front of the vault is clear except for some scattered crates and the body of the warehouse worker, still unconscious. I untie my end of the rope, then swing back and forth above the stacks of crates and boxes till my arc slows. I drop light as rain onto a bale of furs. I don¡¯t unhook my rope¡ªthere¡¯s no way I could stop the end hook from clattering to the floor, and the last thing I need right now is noise. I can buy a new one.


    I creep instead down to the floor, press an ear to the door to listen for Gaxna¡ªstill nothing. Maybe she¡¯s given up. Maybe she¡¯s waiting between the two locked doors, afraid to make a noise because she figured out something¡¯s wrong. I pull the square key out and work it into the lock. And it¡¯s only by virtue of the blood still smearing the floor that I catch the faintest trace of something behind me. Something alive and thinking.


    I duck left on instinct, and a wooden staff cracks into where my head was.


    Roll. Come up to find an overseer, armed, stalking me. I can¡¯t run. Not now that he knows there¡¯s something inside the vault. Besides, I¡¯ve never been much good at running, really, even if I¡¯m outmatched. I¡¯m a fighter.


    So I fight.


    He swings in again and I duck under, knowing going against an overseer is madness, knowing too that I nearly beat Nerimes in our sparring, that I¡¯ve since gained skills the overseer can¡¯t know. He chops with a free hand and I seize it, pulling him off balance, trying to kick out a leg. He counters, and the battle begins.


    I do what I can, climbing barrels, throwing things, drawing his staff strikes toward metal edges that might break it, but it¡¯s hard without water, hard to guess his moves. So when I clamber up a stack of oak casks from the upper peninsula, once again giving me the high ground and forcing him to climb awkwardly, I kick the barrel chocks out rather than fight. One topples close to his head, but he is too fast to get hit.


    The barrel smashes into the floor, then a second, a third, and red wine gushes everywhere, barrels bursting into wood and staves. I grab one of these, meeting his blow with a counter, and seek his thoughts in the liquid.


    They are opaque, with just the slightest hints of intention, but it¡¯s something. I keep my blind frozen solid and use the hints against his greater strength, better weapon and faster blows.


    It isn¡¯t enough: I¡¯m giving ground, being fought out of the spreading stain of wine, taking bruising hits to my arms, ribs, and legs. So I push back in the only way I know how: with truth. I shove the memories of Nerimes admitting guilt into the water, into his mind.


    And he gasps. Actually stops completely in mid-swing, eyes opening.


    I take the advantage, swinging in with a blow designed to knock him cold. He manages to block it, but the main force still takes him in the neck, driving him back.


    I strike again, summoning memories of the criers, proof of the news about my father¡¯s heresies being manipulated, shove them into his mind. He again hesitates, and this time I land a solid blow to his chest, knocking him off his feet.


    I leap after, seizing his staff, pushing more memories into him: the merchants pointing to trade manipulation, the dockworker talking of Seilam Deul warehouses, the Deul guard admitting they bought up supplies and stockpiled them to depress trade. That Nerimes¡¯ bride did that, proving a secret collusion. In the end the overseer is open-mouthed on the floor, shaking his head, his blind and faith tattered enough that I can read his thoughts. The denial, and the inability to deny.


    I press the shattered end of the staff against his throat. There is no move he can make from here that will not first mean his death. Submit, I say through the wine. Roll onto your stomach and submit.


    Who¡ªwhat are you? What did you do?


    I nudge him with the staff and he rolls. I seize a piece of baling twine and bind his hands. I am Aletheia of the Vjolla, rightful heir to the Ujela Dais, and what I did was show the truth you refused to see.


    But¡ªthey¡¯re our Council! They can¡¯t¡ªThe disbelief, the shock is palpable in his mind.


    They can and they did. And if you are a true believer, a true loyalist, you will repeat what I¡¯ve shown you to your age class, to the other overseers, to the temple. The death sentence on me is an admission of guilt¡ªNerimes knows if I am allowed to live, I will destroy him. I finish tying the knot and move on to his feet. And I will destroy him. With his own lies.


    But¡ªyour thoughts, the way you pushed them into me¡ª


    I shake my head, though he can¡¯t see it. I don¡¯t know myself how I do it. That¡¯s not important. What¡¯s important is putting yourself on the right side of Uje and His justice. I will leave you here to think about it. Choose wisely, Overseer of Serei.


    I stride away then, keeping the excitement and disbelief at what I¡¯ve just done¡ªdefeated an overseer¡ªsafely behind my blind, until I am out from the wine patch.


    Gaxna is pounding now. She must have heard. I grab the key, twist it in the lock, and wait as the strange Deul mechanism does its work. My friend emerges carrying a long package.


    ¡°Got it!¡± she says, eyes full of victory. ¡°Anything happen while I was in there?¡±


    I step back so she can see the smear of blood, the smashed crates, the overseer bound and gagged on the floor. She just about drops the loot.


    I shrug. ¡°You could say that.¡±