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Chapter 8
The Wardana have many outposts in the city, but the Ven—the headquarters where the bulk of ikonomancers live and work—is in the third.
“Don’t gawk,” Izamal says.
I gawk. To my right, a tall woman with lush curves barks a laugh, loud and joyous. Both she and her gaggle of onlookers wear purely decorative outfits—short overdresses, some sleeveless, most open to the chest, all made out of a finely spun cloth so thin that the shapes of their bodies are darkly visible. One wears a shawl barely long enough to cover her shoulders made of a silky material that changes from purple to green in the light; another wears no shawl at all, just an embroidered strip of cloth no wider than my hand tied around her waist.
The Storm could cut through their clothes in a heartbeat.
It’d cut through my new clothes, too. The softness of the cloth is a marvel, but my overdress and pants are so vulnerably thin. The wind brushes my naked cheeks, and I shiver.
I keep pace with Izamal until I see it.
A soft line runs across the stone path and angles across the front of buildings. On one side is the shadow I know; on the other is a pale gold haze of light. The place the sun touches. I inch into the light, reachingout till I catch the light on the edge of my fingertips. I snatch my hand back, but there’s no pain, no nothing.
I take a step.
The sun kisses my upturned palms, and my eyes slip closed as it warms me. Gently, softly, it traces the curves of my face, sweeter than the heat from any fire. Red and gold dance beneath my eyelids, like sprites born of light and ember. A golden warmth sinks into me, and for the first time in days, I feel a little okay.
Izamal grabs my elbow and murmurs in my ear, “Vesper, darling, please remember that you’re a third-ringer.”
“What, they get used to this?” I shake him off and follow in his wake, taking in the beautifully vulnerable buildings. Some have balconies, as if the outside is nothing to fear, and others have delicate glass windows with no stormshutters in sight. We come to a street lined with shops, but unlike the open-air stalls I’m used to, these are fully enclosed, with delicate glass windows displaying their wares.
Two middle-aged men shout at each other, one of them standing in the door of a shop with only pastries in its window, many of them stamped perplexingly with ikons. The other man is as squat as a shalaj, and he gestures wildly with half a pastry in his hand.
I gape at him, even as Izamal pulls me along. “How much food do they have here?”
“For Storm’s sake, Vesper,” he says, but he looks more amused than annoyed.
I try to get ahold of myself, but I can’t quite swallow the awe. “It’s another world, Iz.”
“Built on the backs of fifth-ringers.”
The spaciousness turns sinister. No one huddles in the wide, moss-freealleys between buildings, no crowds gather around temples with their empty bowls at the ready. I grit my teeth.
Izamal’s scowl lightens. “You’re good? Need to go over your story?”
“It’s not much of a story, Iz.”
“Humor me.”
“I’m the daughter of a merchant family. We’re very proud to be papermakers. Mum and Da recycle old paper and make new paper out of moss. It’s all very exciting.”
“You know, that note of disdain is working. I don’t think anyone’ll ask for more.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right. But just in case, stick to ikonomancy. Flatter Cas if you can, he likes that.”
Cas, short for Casvian, Dalca’s pale-haired lackey. Flatter him?
Izamal’s lips curl in an impish smile. “Sorry, kid. But you’ll have to put on your best act to get Cas to agree to take you on.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. He struts a half step ahead of me, shoulders wide, wearing that impish smile like a threat. A bow-lipped girl in a flowy, sleeveless dress gives him a coy once-over, and he responds with a lingering, half-lidded look. A hawk-nosed boy pauses sweeping the front step of a spice store and blushes when Izamal turns his smile on him.
I see. Izamal’s weaponized his body. A half dozen innocent passersby fall prey to the combination of his good looks and the prestige the Wardana reds bestow on him. I tilt my head. It’s not peacocking, not really. He’s just seized what power he can.
If I don’t learn from him, I waste Carver’s handiwork.
