Page 105 of The Space Between Stars

“Knew it.”

Attilatia tried to hide her disappointment. “Do you think it possible I find her?”

Celestar sighed. “The Queen of the Raiders is an inflated reputation, completely hollow, with nothing backing her. She represents opportunity for you like the coal sketching on a cafe menu represents food in your stomach. I would not advise you to take a bite, should you find yourself starving.”

“But she is real?”

“She is real,” he acknowledged.

“A woman no get grand reputation without foundation to build on,” Attilatia mused. “She move beyond the borders. If you have way to connect me… I can give you anything you want.”

A shadow of distaste on Celestar’s face. “I’ve always liked you, so I’ll be frank. She is Fate-touched, and she has used that to build an exaggerated following. They’re con artists with gentle hearts. The aura of danger and bloodlust built around her? It’s a facade. It is only a matter of time before the tales she has built crumble into mist.”

Year: 746 Post Cataclysm: 2 years previously

Location: Casowhatan Sea

“Kill me,” the bedraggled trader captain spat, tied to the mast by Fankalo’s men. They would leave one of his crewmen free when they moved out with their haul.

Fankalo’s dagger found its sheath. “I’m not taking lives today.” Not that she ever did, but he didn’t need to know that.

“You’ve taken everything else, you might as well.”

“Everything else?” She laughed. “It would seem you have confused money with worth. Ridiculous, really, when the value of notes is purely conceptual. Your life is irreplaceable.” She leaned in. “See, the land and the sea hold every resource we could ever need. And yet venalists like you take those resources and find a way to turn them into deficits. Money is a game, nothing more. One you were trapped in. I would like to think I’ve finally freed you of it.”

The trader writhed, but Zeb’s knots held true. Beads of sweat flew from his mustache as he screamed. “Fucking bitch! Bleeding hypocrite. If it’s a game, why take anything?”

Fankalo smiled and turned for the gangplank to the Rapture. “What can I say? I like controlling the board.”

Celestar’s expression grew jaded. “You know that I know things. That’s why you come here. Trust me when I tell you, the Queen of the Raiders will not live on in the history books beyond a line of smudged ink. You want a way out of Nelfindar? Ally yourself with the Groundling cause. You may find things begin to turn in your favor.”

Attilatia nodded, realizing that he might have just saved her life. When the time came for him to reclaim the favor, she hoped he found fair exchange in something less monumental.

“Of course, these are only the speculations of an uneducated, morbidly disabled messenger station attendant.” Celestar winked at her. “Who really knows what the future holds?”

Who indeed? Attilatia held up her paper swan and made it undulate through the air. “I think, time to take my friend for swim, eah?”

“Indeed. Wouldn’t want him to get thirsty. Don’t be a stranger, Atti? I’m here for you.”

She fidgeted with the hems of her sleeve. Linger long enough to not be unkind, and suddenly people wanted to be her friend. Was it really so simple?

“Thank you.”

The doors screeched shut behind her, putting her out onto Shrokan’s wharf-front street. Desolate of utilities and teeming with vagrant life, Shrokan was a district Attilatia made a habit of avoiding whenever possible. But something was different today that she couldn’t pin with a thought. The streets seemed busier than ever, and yet… they felt less threatening. Like the people here weren’t waiting for their next victim, but moving somewhere with purpose.

She passed a row of cracking adobe homes and backpedaled, bright colors catching her eye. A mural had been painted against the wall, so brilliant and unexpected in its desolate surroundings that her mouth popped open. The bust of a man. She knew that face, brushed in violet and orange and green—Roskaad Thyatira, eyes spotted with yellow stars. It was the sort of thing that Patricians might have paid generously for. A shame it had been marred: a crude black Ratka maimed it, so that it appeared as though the General Prime was looking out from behind bars.

Attilatia had a sudden feeling akin to something breathing down her neck. She flinched before shoving her hands into pockets, continuing up the slope towards Poqualle. Nearly twenty minutes passed before she dared to unfold the paper swan in her pocket. What she assumed to be the address of Corporal Limtush’s sole surviving Hand was written in Celestar’s neat calligraphy.

‘Pajanak. Third floor.’

The asylum.

TWENTY-FIVE

CALVEROUS

Year: 740 Post Cataclysm: 8 Years Previously