When at last a wall came into view—when at last, Cam exclaimed, “The meeting place is up those steps, sir,” Merik almost whooped with relief. Here, a fork in the tunnel sent sewage splitting in two directions, and here a low archway was carved into the wall and lit by pale torchlight. Merik hauled himself onto a waist-high landing before helping Cam scramble from the clutches of Shite Street.
They were both disgusting, coated in muck that was too slimy for Merik to examine without gagging. Though both he and Cam stomped and tried to shake off the dung, it wasn’t much use.
Soon, they crossed under the archway, with a hiss of magic to graze over them, just like when they’d entered the Cisterns.
It would seem, Merik realized, that the spells weren’t simply to keep people out; they also were to keep the floodwaters in.
“Do people get ever get caught in the floods?” he asked.
Cam shrugged one shoulder, finally towing back her hood, “Course they do, sir. Course they do.” Then she jerked her head up the fire-lit stairs, and without waiting to see if Merik followed, she marched off.
*
Vivia was crossing through the plum trees of the palace gardens, having just changed into the fresh uniform she always kept tucked behind the blueberries, when a commotion caught her ear.
She slowed, turned back and found the king headed for the queen’s garden. Guards and servants trailed behind, as well as two healers in standard brown.
Now this was odd. The king rarely left his rooms, and he never entered the queen’s garden.
Never.
By the time Vivia had hurried to the ivy-strewn walls, each member of the entourage had taken a spot before the ivy-strewn walls. The king and his chair, pushed by Rat, had rolled inside.
Rat was just scuttling back outside the gate. He avoided Vivia’s gaze while he popped a gruff bow, and she avoided his while she sped inside.
The king faced away from her, seated in his rolling chair before the garden’s pond. The nimbus of his hair barely covered his skull, and he still wore his night robe—something Vivia couldn’t believe he did where so many people might see. It was exactly the sort of thing he used to scold her mother for.
Vivia kept her spine mast straight as she approached Serafin. This is normal, she wanted her body to say. I see nothing here to be alarmed by.
A lie. Her body was a lie. Her mind raced, running over every step she’d taken since leaving the underground mere minutes ago. Had she closed the trapdoor all the way? Were the blueberries arranged as they ought to be? And irises, she hadn’t accidentally trampled any, had she?
“Rayet?” came the king’s reedy voice.
“No, Your Majesty,” she called. “It’s Vivia.”
“Oh, a nice surprise.” The king’s head listed sideways, just enough for her to see the edge of a ragged ear. “Help me rise.”
“Sir?” She tumbled forward, praying he wouldn’t attempt to stand on his own. She reached his chair. “Are you sure it’s wise?”
He looked up at her.
She barely swallowed her gasp. In the darkness of the royal wing, she’d missed how sallow the king’s skin had grown. How sunken his eyes.
“I wish to sit on Jana’s bench,” he explained. But when Vivia made no move to help, he snarled, “Now.” His body might be ailing, but his mind still held the Nihar rage.
Vivia slipped a hand behind him. He hissed with pain, eyes thinning. A skeleton, Vivia thought. Her fingers gripped nothing but bone.
Fresh shame fired through her. The answer to healing her father might be directly below them. She couldn’t withhold that from him.
She would tell him about the lake. Of course, she would tell him.
Four uneven steps later, they reached the bench. It was filthy, but when Vivia tried to brush away dirt and pollen and seeds, Serafin murmured for her to leave it.
Once he was seated, though, she caught sight of his expression. Of his lips curling back, nostrils fluttering.
At first, Vivia thought the bench was still too dirty. Then she realized his eyes were rooted on her navy jacket. “Still no admiral’s coat?”
“I haven’t had time,” she murmured. “I’ll find a gray coat tonight.”
“Oh, I do not mind.” He lifted a sharp shoulder. “I only worry for you, Vivia. The vizers will call you grubby, and the staff will say you look like your mother. We would not want that, would we?”
“No,” Vivia agreed, though she couldn’t help but think that he was the one who looked truly grubby—and he was the one who looked slightly deranged.
“Any word on Merik’s death?” he asked, finally bending his gaze away from Vivia, toward the pond. “Surely it is not so difficult for our spies to find out who killed him.”
Vivia had received news, but it had been a jumbled mess that had led right back to Nubrevna. To a culprit tucked somewhere in their midst, and she wasn’t ready to share that information with her father.
Not yet, at least.
So all she said was, “No new leads, Your Majesty, though it does sound as if the Empress of Marstok was killed in the same way.”
“Now there was a strong leader. Vaness, as well as her mother before her.”
Vivia gulped. I can be strong.