The only way to really destroy Hesod is to take away his power.”
“So it’s still about revenge for you,” said Benjy, almost annoyed. “Not revolution.”
Ayla stared at him. How did he not understand? She turned to Rowan, beseeching. “You understand, right?”
“I do.” Rowan reached out to ruffle Benjy’s hair, smiling when he squirmed away, and then she ruffled Ayla’s for good measure. “Benjy, love, this is revolution. The sovereign is the head of the great beast. We all have our own reasons for wanting to cut off the head. All that matters, in the end, is that someone does.”
“Besides, it’s not just Hesod I’ll be in close quarters with,” Ayla added. “Rowan, how much do you know about Kinok?”
Rowan frowned. “The Scyre?”
“Not just a Scyre.” Ayla leaned closer, excited. She’d never quite grown out of the wild urge to impress Rowan, to make her—proud, maybe. Something like it. “He used to be a Watcher.”
“What?” said Benjy. “That’s—that’s impossible. Watchers don’t leave the Heart. Ever. They pledge their entire lives to protecting it.”
“I don’t know how he was able to leave his post, but he did. And now he’s here, and he’s set to marry Lady Crier.”
“And he still has connections to the Heart,” said Rowan. There was something hushed about her voice, something almost reverent.
“He’s got more than connections,” said Ayla, biting back a wicked grin. “He’s got knowledge. Of how it works, how to get there. Trade routes. Maybe even . . . weaknesses, vulnerable points. Who knows!”
Benjy opened his mouth to say something else, but Rowan cut him off. “Stars and skies, birdy,” she said, her brown eyes lit up in the sunlight. She looked less like a sparrow and more like . . . like a warrior, fierce and brilliant and flush with hope. Like the warrior she had been in past uprisings; like the warrior she would be again. The revolutionary, the leader. “Ayla, my love,” she said. “This is incredible, this is—this is the best chance we’ve had in years. You can be our eyes and ears on the inside, love. Stationed right at the heart of the spider’s nest, imagine that. And—personal handmaiden to Lady Crier? Gods, it’s like they want a coup.”
“So you think I should use my position,” said Ayla, unable to keep the triumph out of her voice, even as she saw Benjy’s scowl deepen. “You think I should be a mole.”
“Yes,” said Rowan. “Yes, gods, of course. Though”—here her voice changed a little, grew harder—“it will be dangerous. Ayla, you have to focus on the Scyre. He’s the one with knowledge about the Iron Heart. Maybe he’s even got a map of the Aderos Mountains, or of the trade routes, a ledger of all the heartstone traders, something, anything. Whatever you can find, it’ll be valuable.” She grinned, sharp and bright, and cupped Ayla’s face in both hands, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You clever girl. Oh, you clever, fearsome girl.”
Ayla grinned back, but her mind was already spinning. Was it possible? Was there a chance that Scyre Kinok really did have a map of the Aderos Mountains—a map that could lead them to the Iron Heart itself?
If he did . . .
No more white dresses hanging over the marketplace like ghosts.
Because humans wouldn’t have to kill Automae to set themselves free. The Automae would die, all at once. During Ayla’s first year working under Sovereign Hesod, the orchards had nearly been wiped out by an infestation of locusts. It was an unusually hot spring: the kind of spring where the end of winter felt less like a rebirth, like shaking the weight of snow off your shoulders and emerging lighter for it, and more like a slow descent into boiling water. The air was thick and wet as steam. Sometimes it ached even to breathe. When the locusts came, settling over the orchards like a living, buzzing shadow, even they seemed a little exhausted by the heat. They ate slowly: first the budding fruits, then the blossoms, then the leaves. They ate nonstop for days. All the servants were panicking, because no one knew what to do about the loss of the fruit harvest. And what happened when the locusts stripped the fruit trees bare? Would they fly away, or would they just migrate to the gardens? The fields of barley and sea lavender? Would the entire year’s crop be devoured?
It was Nessa—the head servant—who saved them. Nessa who got the idea to spray the locusts with clouds