A Gathering of Wings (17 page)

Crossing the mouth of a narrow alleyway, Malora sees Zephele at the far end. She is speaking with a stout, dapper-looking Capricornia wearing a white robe and white knee breeches. His hooves are gilded, along with the horns that curl around his ears, and his white beard comes to an oiled point beneath his chin. He is holding an object in his hand that looks like an apple but cannot be one, for even from a distance Malora can tell that Zephele, fists to her mouth, trembles with the desire to touch it. Zephele looks up briefly and sees Malora, waving her over excitedly.

“Come and see, Malora! Come see the treasure!”

The Capricornia turns and eyes Malora with a look she instantly dislikes. It seems to see clear through the saruchi to her human legs. Impossible, she tells herself, as she takes extra care to mince faunlike toward him, hand leaning on the head of her cobra stick.

“What is it?” Malora asks. Her bandaged hand reaches out to swipe from his palm the object Zephele covets. He huffs indignantly and she smells spirits on his breath.

“It’s a pomegranate,” Malora says dismissively. Why all this fuss, she wonders, over a piece of fruit?

“Oh, but peel back the skin and you will see that it is no ordinary pomegranate,” Zephele urges her.

Lifting a triangle of skin, Malora now sees that the object she is holding is an artificial pomegranate, covered in red leather skin, bursting with what must be hundreds of small, perfect rubies, each shaped like a shimmering seed. “It’s very beautiful,” Malora concedes. “Let me buy it for you, Zephie.”

“It is not for sale, this kind gentle Capricornia tells me,” Zephele says.

“Oh?” says Malora, shifting her gaze to him. “Why not? Isn’t everything in this city for sale?”

The Capricornia’s eyes stare back at her, as pale and cold as gold nubs. “It is free,” he says. “And there are more where it comes from, in a magnificent palace in the middle of the sea. There you will find bunches of grapes made from amethyst and emerald. Oranges with succulent topaz wedges. It’s all waiting for you, only a short boat ride away.”

Malora raises an eyebrow. “Leaving from the end of the easternmost Arm of Kahiro?”

“Exactly!” the Capricornia says. “And if we hurry along, we won’t miss the next launch.”

Malora tosses the pomegranate back to him and he fumbles to catch it. “No thank you. Our friends are expecting us. They are just around the corner. As a matter of fact, I think I hear them calling us now.”

Zephele’s face falls, but her eyes never leave the pomegranate. “Another time, perhaps, kind sir?” she says.

Malora grabs her arm and pulls her away from the Capricornia. “Not anytime soon,” she whispers to Zephele between clenched teeth.

“By all means,” says the Capricornia, returning the pomegranate to a green satin sack and tugging the drawstring tight. “I shall look forward to it.”

“As shall I!” calls Zephele over her shoulder as Malora all but drags her out of the alley.

“Will you please stop speaking to that
predator
!” Malora whispers harshly.

“What do you
mean
?” Zephele asks, wide-eyed.

Malora stops long enough to throw up her hands. “Were you so smitten by his wares that you forgot absolutely
everything
that
everyone
has been telling us about the scouts?”

Malora can see the thoughts flashing behind Zephele’s wide eyes, culminating in a dropped jaw. “You mean …!”

Malora nods. “That, my dear girl, was a talent scout.”

“Surely not. They bind and gag and drug their victims,” Zephele says.

“Obviously this one knew he didn’t need to resort to such measures. All he did was show you a ruby pomegranate and you were so dazzled, you were ready to follow him anywhere.”

“Straight to the Beehive,” Zephele says in a dull voice.

“Exactly,” Malora replies, continuing to herd Zephele along.

Zephele throws an arm over Malora’s shoulder and kisses her cheek. “Thank you, dear friend, for saving my honor. I don’t know how I shall ever repay you.”

“You can repay me,” says Malora, “by swearing never to speak to another stranger as long as you are here. And by remaining at my side.”

Zephele nods. “On the Wise Head of Kheiron, I swear. I know I’m in no position to extract any promises from you, but will you please promise not to tell the others—Neal especially—about this little encounter? I’d never hear the end of it.”

“I promise,” Malora says.

Malora wakes early the next morning as the sun is rising and feels a surge of happiness.
Today I see Shrouk!
Rising from her rooftop bed, she dons horns, saruchi, and boots and trots over to the seaward wall.

Just as she hoped, the water is as smooth and green and inviting as a meadow this morning. Even the Backbone of Heaven, with its blanket of roosting birds, seems more domesticated today. My last chance to swim in the sea, she thinks. Tomorrow, we will be on our way to Sky.

Before she leaves, she puts on a cape, leaving the hood down so her horns are visible. Slipping a note beneath Honus’s door to say that she has gone searching for seashells, she creeps down the stairs and out into the city. The streets are empty and still. It is as if the city has stopped to take a breath. Even the beggars are asleep, huddled in doorways. Ka in dusty white loincloths working long brooms are the only ones out.
When she reaches the port, she heads west. Honus has told her there is a long, flat strand where he has found his best treasures.

Malora walks along the curved shore until the Arms of Kahiro, the Backbone of Heaven, and the Beehive are all lost to sight. The water looks as inviting as it did from up on the roof. Malora looks up and down the shore. Seeing no one, she strips off her clothing and removes her horns, leaving her things in a neat pile above the wave line. Then she slips into the water. It is surprisingly tepid and smells faintly of fish. Taking a deep breath, she immerses her head and begins to swim. The salty water is dense. It stings the Dream Wound in a way that feels healing. She swims underwater, eyes open to the lime-green depths, afloat with scraps of seaweed and flitting little fish as vivid as wildflowers. She swims along the shoreline until she rounds the point. There she sees the pier and the Backbone of Heaven blotting out the Beehive. Before anyone can see her, bareheaded in all her humanity, she turns around and swims back the way she came.

Climbing out of the water, Malora lies down on top of her cloak and lets the morning sun bake the beads of moisture off her skin. Eyes closed, wiggling her toes in the warm sand, she wonders idly what Brion is working on today. Wagon spokes? Fence finials? Pitchfork tines? A cloud moves over the face of the sun and blocks out the warmth. She opens one eye to see just how big the cloud is, and how long she will have to wait for the sun’s warmth to return.

Standing over her is the Capricornia scout, his face in shadow. Suddenly Malora feels like the world’s biggest fool.

“Good morning, beauty,” he says.

Malora yanks the cape over herself and offers no greeting in return.

“This is not a safe place for a young maiden to be alone,” he says. He extends his hand. “Allow me to escort you to safety.”

Malora sits up. She isn’t sure what she is going to do. Under cover of the cloak, she works her way into her saruchi and tunic and boots. She considers drawing the knife from her boot but thinks better of it. Bide your time, she coaches herself. She stands and places the horns back on her head, arranging the wet hair over the band.

The Capricornia chuckles. “How long did you think you could go on keeping your identity secret from the world?” he asks, offering her his arm.

Malora doesn’t reply. There is no good answer. She stares at the arm. It looks strong. Inside the sleeve of his robe, a dagger glints. Her own knife is sharp, but it is in her boot, and she has never faced off against a hibe.

“You needn’t look so worried,” he tells her. “Where I am taking you, you will be safe and highly prized. The Queen of the Hive.”

“The
Bee
hive?” she asks, widening her eyes innocently. “I have heard wonderful things about the Beehive. I’d like to see it. Will you take me there?” She puts an eager smile on her lips.

“It will be my pleasure,” he says.

She takes his arm, and like old friends they stroll toward the pier. It has come to her that her best defense is to imitate Zephele at her very silliest.

“I was watching you while you were in the water,” the Capricornia says. “You are a strong swimmer, but the sea is dangerous at this time. The morning is when the sharks come in close to the shore to feed.”

Malora pulls back and claps a hand over her heart. “Sharks! I have never seen a shark before. Are they just too, too fierce?”

“Indeed, they are. The skates, too,” the Capricornia goes on. “I saw them, leaping all about you as you swam, like a demonic escort. They carry a paralytic poison in their tails. One touch is death.”

Malora feigns a shiver. “How dreadful!” she says, suspicious that he is just trying to frighten her.

“Well, well, well,” he says with a gentle laugh, “you almost learned the hard way, didn’t you?”

“This surely must be my lucky day,” Malora says.

“We are both lucky,” says the Capricornia. “You, for avoiding the sharks and the barbs of the skates, and me for finding
you
before they did. You must take better care of yourself. I will make it my business from now on to see that you do.”

“You are too kind, sir,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes, sounding more like Zephele than the dear girl herself. “And I thank you for looking after my welfare so gallantly.”

“You are most welcome,” he says, patting her hand.

They are nearing the port. A crew of Suideans on the docks unloads sacks into a large pushcart. She could scream for help and they would come running, but the Capricornia would only reveal her identity to them, and then her secret would be made even more public. She envisions word spreading throughout the city until all of Kahiro comes rushing in
upon her. She feels beads of perspiration gathering on her upper lip and wipes them covertly away before the Capricornia can see them.

Malora asks, “By any chance, do you still have that rare and precious bauble you showed my friend yesterday?”

“Why yes, I do, as a matter of fact,” he says.

“Oh, I would love to see it again,” Malora says. “I only feigned disinterest yesterday because I was jealous you hadn’t chosen me to share it with first.”

“Oh, you have nothing to be jealous about, my dear,” the Capricornia says. “Had I known the truth about you, I would have snatched it from the quadruped wench’s greedy clutches and bestowed it upon you and you alone.”

As she watches him reach into the folds of his robe, Malora bites back a smile to think how Zephele would take to the name
quadruped wench
. The Capricornia produces the green satin sack and removes the ruby pomegranate. He places both in her cupped hands, then wraps his own around hers.

“The first of many gifts that I will bestow upon you,” he says, squeezing her hands.

“I am speechless with gratitude, kind sir,” Malora says. “I’ve never been in a boat on the sea before, you understand, and I think it would comfort me to cradle such a treasure in my hands.”

“It is you who are the treasure, my precious one,” he says.

She turns her head away in disgust. “Oh, sir! How you make a girl blush!”

As they resume their walk toward the pier, Malora wonders how Zephele can stand acting this way. Is it, as it is now
for Malora, a means of self-defense? A way of cloaking one’s real intelligence?

The Capricornia says, “While we wait for the boat, I have a treat in store for you.”

“
Another
treat? You spoil me!” Malora says. Her left hand is trapped in his, her right cradles the pomegranate. The Dream Wound throbs.

“Wait here,” he says.

She watches as he goes over to a sealie in the shallows near the pier. I could easily run away now, she thinks. But it wouldn’t matter; her secret will never be safe with the likes of him. No, somehow she has to solve the problem permanently.

He returns carrying a net bag filled with butchered fish parts. “For the sharks,” he says, grinning. One of his teeth glints golden.

“Is it really?” she says, her hand going to her mouth.

“Come with me and see.”

The net bag hanging from his arm by a string, he grabs hold of the rope railing and leads her by the hand out onto the pier. The farther from shore they go, the more slippery the rocks. She tries to extricate her hand and reach for the rope, but he won’t let her. He would rather she depend upon him than the rope. Her resentment of him simmers.

At the end of the eastern Arm of Kahiro, the width of the wall widens. There is a dry space in the middle where the waves can’t reach. Malora carefully sets down the pomegranate in its green bag within the dry space. She eyes the fish parts.

“Am I permitted to feed the sharks now?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

“First I must signal for the boat,” he says. He waves his arm in a wide arc.

“The Beehive is so very far away,” Malora frets. “Are you sure they will see you?”

“They will see my signal. And when they set eyes upon you, how they will rejoice! I will be the most celebrated scout in the world. They will write songs about me … 
and
you.”

Malora smiles as if his notion were deeply gratifying. “Shall we feed the sharks?” she says with a mock sweetness that matches his own. “However do we accomplish such a task?”

“It’s simple. Toss some of the fish chunks into the water. The sharks will come calling and put on quite a little display for us, as you will see,” he says.

“Really?” she says, her eyes going round. “But won’t it be frightfully dangerous?”

“In the water, it will be treacherous,” he says. “But you will be safe up here on the pier with me to protect you.”

Malora begins to pull out bits of the foul-smelling fish and throw them into the sea. The Capricornia praises her actions as if she were a prodigy.