couldn’t help them. Isyllt didn’t remember the mercenary being so tense on the ship, spine stiff and brow creased. It hadn’t, she guessed, been a happy homecoming.
Her parents had fled civil war in Vallorn when she was seven, but she had only vague memories of her parents’ worry, her mother’s tears in the night and their hasty descent from the mountains. Memories of their home were vaguer still. And after her parents died in the plague sixteen years ago, she’d moved from one shelter to another until Kiril found her. Until Kiril and the Arcanost, home was any tenement she could afford or anywhere she could hide, anything better than an alley. Nothing worth fighting for, or dying for.
She tried to picture it, foreign soldiers in the streets of Erisín, the house of Alexios cast out of the palace. Even though she’d spied and schemed and killed for Selafai—for Kiril—she couldn’t imagine how Xinai felt, how the ghost of Deilin Xian felt.
She drew a breath sweet with spices and flowers in the garden. Across the kitchen, the housekeeper kneaded bread dough, gnarled brown hands slapping and shaping with practiced ease. Flour dusted her apron, smudged the scarf that held back her iron-gray braids. She was the only servant Isyllt had seen; the peace in the house was nearly soporific.
But still her nerves sang, like a child first sent to bazaar alone. Ridiculous.
Or not, perhaps. Her other assignments had been paltry things compared to this—an ear in the shadows, a knife in the dark. Nothing so grand as revolution.
Footsteps distracted her, light and uneven. She glanced up as Vasilios came in, his limp not quite hidden beneath his robes.
“I always did hate the waiting most of all,” he said with a wry smile, pulling out a chair. “Kiril was the patient one. I always wanted to be doing something—it nearly got me killed a time or two.”
Isyllt smiled; Kiril had told her a few of those stories. “When did you leave the service?”
“After the old king died. I married, and my wife wanted me to keep my skin intact. I still took an occasional job. It gets in your blood after a time.”
She nodded.
His eyes narrowed. “My wife died ten years ago and I hadn’t the heart to stay in Selafai. Memories are worse than ghosts. I told myself I’d retired, but when I learned of the rebellion here…”
Isyllt lifted a hand, palm up, baring the blue veins in her wrist. “In your blood.”
More footsteps approached and Zhirin paused diffidently in the doorway. “Am I disturbing?” The cook slid a pan of dough over glowing coals before retreating to give them privacy. Zhirin waited till the slap of her sandals faded, then moved closer.
“I’ve sent word to Jabbor. We’re to meet tomorrow, near the Kurun Tam. I’m sorry it can’t be sooner—”
“I understand,” Isyllt said, lips quirking. “Some things shouldn’t be rushed.”
The girl shifted her weight, slippers rasping on tile. “I’m going into the city today, meliket, to look for a costume for the festival. I thought perhaps you’d like to come.”
“Yes.” Relax, she told herself. Play the tourist. With less wine. “Yes, I’d like that.”
Market Street was wider than most in Symir, more of a plaza, and packed nearly wall to wall with people. Assari and Sivahri voices tangled together as vendors haggled and hawked their wares. Silks and spices, brass and silver and steel, screeching birds and lazing lizards—Isyllt saw barely half the offered merchandise as she kept up with Zhirin, trying to find the rhythm of the crowd. Her height gave her an advantage but made her conspicuous as well. At least Adam had gone elsewhere to look around; an armed shadow would have drawn even more attention in a place like this.
She struggled not to flinch away from the careless brush of shoulders and arms. Erisín had its share of crowded places, but even the worst recognized the need for personal space. This was a thief’s playground. Or an assassin’s.
Zhirin led them out of the press eventually, into a narrow second-story shop. The crowds opened enough to move without touching anyone and Isyllt drew a grateful breath. Bolts of cloth piled on tables and shimmering swaths draped the walls.
“What sort of costumes do you wear to the Dance?” Isyllt asked, taking in the riot of colors and textures.
“Traditionally, people dress as spirits, to honor those that bring the rain. We give the masks to the river afterward. Though it’s not as traditional as it once was.”
“Selafai celebrates