women who tumbled or did exhibitions of hand-to-hand combat with no-nonsense faces and without any trace of the alluring smiles one usually found in Khapik.
“I suppose they think nobody can tell the difference,” Tris heard a yaskedasoi tell one of the musicians who lived at Ferouze’s.
He replied, “I’m surprised they remembered to take the red tunic off.”
Tris shook her head. She would have to tell Dema his volunteers had to work harder at pretending to be true yaskedasi. If these people knew the difference, chances were that the Ghost would know, too.
Other things were different with the newcomers’ arrival. Laughter and music sounded forced. Yaskedasi and shopkeepers gathered on corners, talking softly, their eyes darting everywhere.
Of course, Tris thought. With all these disguised arurimi under their noses, they can’t ignore the fact that the Ghost exists. Now they have to face it. They can’t tell themselves pretty lies.
Seated for a while by the Cascade Fountains, Tris eavesdropped on a group of girl singers. Tris could see they were frightened, watching their surroundings and jumping at unexpected noises.
“I don’t understand,” one of them told the others, her mouth trembling. “Why does the Ghost do this? What have yaskedasi done to him?”
“Nobody cares when we disappear,” an older girl replied. “If the dead weren’t showing up outside Khapik, do you think they’d have the arurimi out now?”
“That can’t be all of it,” retorted the girl who’d first spoken. “Look how many he’s killed. If it was people nobody cares about, he’d pick prathmuni, or those who live in Hodenekes.”
A prathmun who swept the sidewalk glared at the yaskedasu. Tris wanted to tell him that the singer hadn’t meant it the way it came out, but she knew the girl had indeed spoken the truth as she believed it to be.
Tris walked on, still thinking about the conversation. They would have to catch the Ghost to learn what truly drove him. After so many deaths, she had come to think it wasn’t the simple matter of a grudge against the yaskedasi. He went to considerable trouble and risk to rub Tharian noses in death’s reality. He must know that when he despoiled public spots the city would be forced to hold long, expensive rituals before its people could use those places again. He even turned those same Tharian beliefs about death to his benefit to cover his tracks from the arurim.
The Ghost staged his show of hate not for just one group, or two, but all of Tharios: for its people, its lifestyle, its religion, its customs, its history. Tris couldn’t imagine a hate so thorough as that of the Ghost for Tharios. Once she reached the headache point of a case of hate, she simply walked away. She had a feeling the Ghost enjoyed hate headaches.
Something else occurred to her as she trekked the back alleys of Khapik. Thwarted of his display at Heskalifos, the Ghost had killed the very next day — and he hadn’t been able to display that victim, either. “He’ll kill again tomorrow,” Tris told Chime. “He’s shown he can’t stop himself.”
And who was to stop him? He knew the city so well he’d turned its laws and customs against it, coming and going as if he were invisible. How could anyone arrest a ghost?
Though she hadn’t slept after her return to Ferouze’s, the strength of the tides kept Tris awake and alert the next day. When her strength ran out in a few days, she would have to accept the consequences and not try to revive it again. There was only so much of the ocean’s strength a human body could stand before the blood turned to salt water and the muscles to braids of kelp.
At Touchstone that morning, Glaki joined Tris and Keth at meditation. As before, she ended up napping. Keth, his power at full strength again, crafted bowls, small globes and vases for Antonou, to make up for the materials he used for his magical work.
As Keth blew glass Tris returned to her scrying. She let the flood of colours, textures and half-recognized shapes wash over her, her mind snagging on images of a temple cornice, a finch in a tree, a ball rolling across an empty courtyard and angry people in motion against the white marble splendour of Assembly Square.
It’s about time they protested, she thought when she came out of her trance. Then she realized that a public outcry might drive the Keepers to remove Dema from the investigation, disgracing him and