“To use in battle?”
“That, yes. But there was a crow priest assigned to Crags Fort. Do you know if the scouts’ gear has been kept with the spiders?”
“I’m not the one to ask—”
“Here’s Dagger!” Dusty says enthusiastically.
A small, muscular woman jogs up to us. She nods at Dusty in the way older siblings nod at pesky young ones they’ve been assigned to mind. “Good to see you back, Mis,” she says with more warmth. “Did you bring me a recruit?”
“I know you!” I say. “I ran against you at the Royal Fives Court.”
“So you did! You’re Spider, aren’t you?” She gestures a kiss-off as a sign of respect.
I flash the gesture back with a grin. “You joined the rebellion?”
“Yes, and for my pains I’ve been assigned as temporary sergeant of these spiders even though I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“You’re an excellent sergeant,” says Dusty, gazing at her with the same longing look he used to cast at Amaya. Mis elbows me before I can make a sardonic remark about his taste for unobtainable women.
“Is there any chance you have some insight into the spiders?” Dagger asks, ignoring him. “Wasn’t your father a spider scout once?”
“He was, and I do, but first I need to know if there is any gear that came with the spiders.”
“Yes. It’s all been cataloged and stored. I’ll show you. You can’t believe what a strict accounting system the Honored Custodian has instituted.”
“I can believe it.”
In the storeroom behind where the spider unit sleeps there are shelves built into the wall with odds and ends stacked beside a papyrus scroll. I push items aside as Dagger talks behind me.
“We’ve been allowed to use the blankets and cooking utensils and knives and weapons but some of what they carried is just… odd.”
There it is, shoved into the back: a worn leather pouch incised with crow feathers and decorated with dangling strings of glass beads, polished stones, and slender bones that I abruptly realize are finger bones.
“We’d have thrown it in the trash,” Dagger says hastily, “but the clerks said we have to keep everything together until there’s time to sort it out.”
I pick it up, and whatever I expect, it feels like ordinary leather, no bolt of lightning or sizzle of arcane power. I don’t quite have enough courage to look inside an object not meant for me.
“This belonged to a crow priest. I need to take it to the Archivists.”
Our family garden is dark when I return, only a single lamp burning, everyone asleep except Mother, who hurries over the moment I enter.
“I couldn’t rest until you came back. Maraya and I were talking—”
“Is she still awake?”
Maraya is lying on her side on a mat as Polodos kneels behind her. He’s rubbing her back as they whisper to each other. Such bold displays of affection are quite un-Saroese, but no one takes note of them among Efeans. When I hand her the leather pouch her eyes widen.
“Is this what I think it is?” she gasps.
“Yes.”
“Where did you get this, Jessamy?” Mother asks. “In a time of disorder people can’t be allowed to just take what they want, especially not my children. That will lead to precisely the same unfair hoarding and stealing that Saroese law allowed.”
“I’m not hiding that I took it. Polodos can record where it’s gone.”
Maraya breaks in. “Mother, we all know the priests have used magic to help kings and queens hold on to their power. But they can’t keep their knowledge hidden from me. I will discover how they transfer sparks from one body to another. I will find out how a blinded child can learn to see through the eyes of crows, which must have something to do with binding the shadow or the self of a crow to a person.”
“Perhaps you could do it with any animal,” I mutter. “I mean, transfer something of their power to a person.”
She flashes an approving smile at me, then turns back to Mother. “So you see, the contents of this bag will be invaluable to my investigation, and possibly more important to Efea’s freedom than any of us can predict.”
Of course Maraya always gets her way.
“Very well. Polodos, make sure the transfer is noted.”
“And another thing,” I add. “Maraya has started looking through administrative accounts from the Inkos temple Archives and the records from the mines that relate to Lord Ottonor’s management of Maldine. We don’t think Ottonor died in debt as Lord Gargaron claimed.”
“Yes, I already have a significant list of Clan Tonor’s wealth and holdings,” says Maraya.
“I’m proud of you girls. What happened to Lord Ottonor was a crime, even if no one believed me at the time.” Mother takes my arm. “Now, Jessamy, sit down. I am going to properly wash out that terrible gash.”
It doesn’t hurt as much as I fear as she probes the scar. I remember how gently and thoroughly she would clean out Father’s wounds when they festered. It’s strange to think that by healing him she made him ready to go out and risk his life again and again. That every time he went to war he helped our Saroese masters keep their grip upon our lives.
“I’m going to train the spider scouts. They don’t have anyone who knows how to properly maintain and use them, and I know the basics.”
Perhaps it is my still-inflamed gash that makes her frown. “I won’t bother to try to dissuade you because it never worked before. You’ll need Inarsis’s permission first. But why that task, Jessamy?”
“Do you think this is about Father?”
“It will always be partly about him, for you. Do you understand that?”
“I’m not going back, I promise you. Amaya and Maraya have their skills, and I have mine. To win, we’re going to need all the weapons we can get.”
23
I sleep heavily and long. When I finally yawn my way into the garden at midmorning I find it empty except for Denya. She’s sitting in the shade, embroidering masks and looking as peaceful as I’ve seen her.
“Jessamy! You surprised me.”
“Where is everyone?”
“They went to the petition garden. I should go along, I know. My mother always said it is best to accept things the way they are, but I feel so uncomfortable and out of place.”
“Do you wish you were back living in your father’s household, or married to a Saroese captain?”
Her gaze drops to the fabric she’s holding. In neat, delicate stitches a circle of lotus blooms frames a scene of struggling warriors, and when I look more closely I realize they are all women.
“No, I don’t,” she says softly. “I’m glad I’m here, even if it seems strange. It’s a better life than the one I had. But is it wrong of me to wish Amaya and I could just have a little market stall and sell the crafts we make and live a quiet life?”
“I don’t think it’s wrong.”
A thought occurs to her, and she covers a smile with a hand as if she’s amused and doesn’t want me to guess. “The poet was here looking for you. He said to meet him at the lion gate at midday if you want to find out what happened to the oracle.”