An Accident of Stars (5 page)

She fell.

S
affron hit
the wall shoulder first, a solid smack that knocked the air from her lungs, and crumpled to the ground. Most of her weight landed on her left arm, but she twisted enough that her back wrenched too. Pain punched through her. Everything was black. Her head rang; she'd clipped her skull on the wall, hard enough that she felt like she might throw up. But then came the adrenaline, a rush of furious fear that drowned out everything else, telling her to
move get up run hide move move now!
Eyes and muscles burning, Saffron forced herself upright. People were staring at her, strangers with startled faces and bright taals, alternately shouting in consternation or extending their hands, all speaking in a language that she didn't understand. There was no sign of either Gwen or the roa, and over the tumult, a different commotion was drawing close.

The guards! Unable to turn or follow Gwen, Saffron took the only available course of action and darted into the crowds, sobbing as she stumbled. She didn't know how to move in the taal, and whatever knots secured it had weakened; the cloth was slipping, threatening to tangle her even further. Both shoulders felt vilely bruised, her wrenched back aching with every step, while a low, pulsing headache and nausea were the legacy of her bumped skull. Swamped by sudden dizziness, she forced herself to slow down. Black spots swam in her vision; breathing burned her throat. She couldn't run any further, and besides which, it was only making her more noticeable. Allowing herself to walk, she gulped in air and tried to figure out where she was.

So far, she'd only noticed Karavos as a blur. Now, with the threat of pursuit fading and a pressing need to calm herself, she focused on her surroundings. Shadows lay everywhere, cast by the taller central spires she'd noticed from the hills, occasional lines of dying sunlight giving the city a tiger-striped appearance. Though many of the larger structures were made of the same pale stone as the hilltop barns, others used wood or bricks. All, however, were painted; colour was everywhere, taals and murals and food stalls alike. These latter mostly sold what Saffron took to be fruit and vegetables, though on no stronger basis than shape and colour – for all she knew, they were something else entirely. The variety was as dizzying as the scope of her ignorance was terrifying, and she found herself choking back panic. She remembered passing a market on the way in, which meant that either she was completely turned around, or else that there was more than one within the walls. Most likely, it was the latter; Karavos was a big place. Fearing discovery, she sped up again, knowing rationally it wouldn't help but compelled by some buried prey instinct to move. People stared as she passed them, and as each new pair of eyes latched onto her, she tensed.

“Calm down,” she told herself, the words spilling out in a whispery rush. “Calm down, calm down, calm
down.
”

Strangely, this worked. Her pulse and pace slowed in parallel, until she came to a halt. Looking around, Saffron found herself in an open square dominated by a three-tiered fountain whose waters poured from the hands of various figures. Foot traffic from at least four other streets constantly bustled in and out, while various stallholders proffered their wares at the crowd. At the sight of water, her thirst returned with a vengeance, and though she'd managed to cease her tears, she almost wept all over again when she realised she didn't know if drinking from the fountain was allowed, or even safe.
Why did I have to come here?
she berated herself.
What kind of person just jumps through a hole in reality?
But though the recriminations stung, they were also unhelpful. Standing against what looked like an unobtrusive stretch of wall, Saffron forced herself to think rationally, rubbing dried tears from her cheeks.

I can't run anymore
.
There's no point. I don't know where I am or how to find Gwen, and anyway, I'm hurt.
By that logic, waiting in one place – particularly an open place like this, where a girl alone wasn't so conspicuous – was a sensible thing to do. Saffron's only hope was that Gwen or Pix would come looking for her. Both women knew the city; they must have some idea of where she'd fallen off and how far she might reasonably have run. Until they found her, Saffron would have to be patient. To pass the time (and to keep herself calm), she decided to keep watch on the fountain. If any of the locals drank from it, she'd take that as a sign that she was allowed to do so too. If not, she'd stay where she was.

Nobody's missing me yet.
She took a deep breath and repeated the thought, clinging to it even though it wasn't quite true. As best she could reckon it, less than three hours had passed since her arrival: assuming she'd still been on Earth, she would have well and truly missed the last bus home. But that wasn't necessarily cause for her family to worry. She might just have chosen to walk instead, or been caught up in whatever it was they thought she was doing. Saffron's parents respected her independence, and though she tried to be considerate of this, she wasn't perfect. Surely thinking the worst about what might have happened to a daughter would be their last resort? If only she could get home somehow, even if it was as late as tomorrow afternoon, she could make some excuse for her absence – a secret boyfriend, perhaps, or an impromptu bushwalk. Whatever the punishment was, she'd take it gladly – grounding, no internet, no phone, no TV, everything – if it meant she could stop their worrying.

But though she fought against it, the tears returned, a thin trickle of silent salt that seeped down her cheeks and into the stripes of her taal.

Gwen pulled up in the compound's courtyard, jerking so hard on the bridle that her roa tossed back its head and
kree
'd in protest. Leaping down, she dropped both her reins and the lead rope of Saffron's mount. The beasts stood free, their long coats matted with sweat.

“Pix!” she shouted, striding towards the group of women emerging from the main building. “Is Pix back yet?”

“Why isn't she with you?” snapped Yasha, thumping her staff on the earth. Despite her age, the Vekshi matriarch remained a formidable woman. “What happened?”

Though normally tolerant of Yasha, Gwen had no time for her now, and felt strongly enough that without thinking, she reverted to English. “Fuck! Exactly when did the arakoi start speaking Vekshi?” At Yasha's raised brow, she swore again and switched languages. “A white girl came through with me – don't ask why, I'm still not sure myself – and she's out there now, alone. I need to find her.”

Yasha's gaze narrowed. “Not you, Gwen. Send a Vekshi to find a Vekshi. It attracts less notice.”“She doesn't belong to your people, Yasha,” Gwen growled. “That's the problem! She doesn't know even a word of Kenan, and right now–”

Yasha raised her staff and jabbed it into Gwen's solar plexus, hard. Coughing, Gwen staggered back, glaring daggers at the matriarch.
Stubborn old hag!

“Zechalia!” Yasha called imperiously, ignoring Gwen's resentment. A scrawny, androgynous girl of eleven darted forwards, waiting patiently for instructions. Her skin was weirdly mottled – a calico mix that always made Gwen think of vitiligo in reverse, a light base turning dark. “You will find Gwen's stranger and bring her here. Use your magic if you must, but
don't
overstretch yourself. Even the supplest reed will snap if bent too far.” She turned to Gwen. “Zech is fast. She knows the city. Tell her what to find, and she'll find it.”

Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting irritation. It made sense not to go herself – she was tired, her legs stiff after riding a roa for the first time in months – and even at her full strength, Zech would still be faster. Nonetheless, it rankled. Saffron was her responsibility, and she was loath to entrust her safety to anyone else, let alone a child. But Yasha was stubborn as a stableful of mules, and Gwen was woman enough to admit that she had no choice, whatever the cost to her pride.

“Her name is Saffron,” she said, finally. “She's sixteen, wearing a red and yellow striped taal over foreign clothes – and if you can see them, you'll know them as such. She fell after the Third Wall, but before the Blue Gate, along the market stretch. Pale skin, green eyes.” She took a breath, not liking what would come next. “Blonde hair, worn long. We made her tie it back, but still, she doesn't understand–”

“Go.” Yasha spoke softly, but her command was unmistakable. Zech shot off like a stone from a sling, her bare feet kicking up dust. Gwen watched the girl until she was out of sight.

“Trishka has been asking for you,” Yasha said, offhandedly. “Unless you plan to stand here like a lump until Zech returns, I'd suggest you come and pay your respects.”

“Pix isn't back yet,” Gwen pointed out. “Something could have happened to her.”

Yasha snorted. “Pix has a wife, two husbands and a strong knife-arm. She can take care of herself. Now, come!” She emphasised this last remark by thwacking her staff against Gwen's thighs.

Stifling her protests, Gwen began to follow the old woman inside
. That's the problem with life,
she reflected sourly.
No matter how old you get, there's always someone older in charge.

After fifteen minutes of being stared at by curious strangers and wondering what she was doing wrong, Saffron finally twigged to the obvious: her hair was visible. Swearing under her breath, she reached up, feeling for the hood of her taal, only to provoke an unwelcome slithering sensation as the whole thing started to slip. Her fall and subsequent dash through the city had loosened the wrap, and now she was in serious danger of accidentally disrobing. Gingerly, she lowered her hands, and was rewarded when the garment stayed put. As carefully as possible, she started to run her fingers over the taal's folds, trying to understand how Pix had wrapped it in the first place. If she could just figure out where the main creases were meant to be, then she might be able to tighten it up. Once her body was secured, she could try for the hood again.

She'd been doing this for scarcely a minute when someone at the opposite end of the square started shouting. Immediately fearful that the guards had found her, Saffron whipped her head up; she'd run if she had to, despite feeling like she'd been shoved through a blender. But instead of the gate guards, with their Roman-style kilts and breastplates, she found herself watching quite a different panoply approach. Surrounded by a phalanx of attendants all clad in identical blue and gold was a beautiful woman riding not a roa, but a handsome, blood-bay horse. Yet it was the woman herself who caught Saffron's attention. Not only was she the first white person she'd seen on this side of the portal, but her blonde hair was uncovered, bound in the same sort of complex braids that Pix had worn. The only difference was that where Pix had four braids long enough to touch her back, this woman had an uneven three – one on the right side, two on the left – that were so short they barely reached past her jaw.Saffron raised a hand to her head, momentarily heedless of the danger to her taal. Had Gwen lied to her? This woman's hair was neither shaved nor covered, and she was clearly someone important. Perhaps the Vekshi had changed, and Gwen had been mistaken.

As the woman and her escort came closer, the rest of the crowd pulled back to a respectful distance, silent after their initial shouts. Gracefully, the woman dismounted, handed the reins of her bay to the nearest blue-robed man and approached the fountain on foot. Like so many people here, she wore a taal, but where theirs were cheerful and casual, hers was opulent. The material of it shone like silk, coloured a deep red that rippled gold in the fading sunlight, and it was so long that it trailed along the ground like a bride's gown. Cinched at the waist, it was carefully belted with a ring of overlapping metal discs not dissimilar to the one Pix wore, but golden rather than bronze, and studded with red stones. The woman's feet were bare, and when she reached the fountain, she knelt.

The entire square fell silent. Saffron was transfixed as any local, unable to look away. From somewhere within the folds of her taal, the woman pulled out a knife. She began to speak, her voice melodious and strong, though the words themselves remained utterly foreign. Hefting the knife, she began to cut a tiny lock of hair from each of her braids, murmuring what sounded like a benediction as she dropped the golden threads into the water. Having done this, she held up her arms as if in prayer, and Saffron instantly understood two things: firstly, that the woman meant to cut herself as part of whatever ritual she was undertaking; and secondly, that she was missing the two smallest fingers on her left hand. Entranced, Saffron watched as the woman moved the knife closer to her arm, feeling intensely relieved that she hadn't drunk from the fountain after all.

But just as she touched the blade to her skin, the woman looked out across the square and stopped mid-chant, her eyes widening at some sight or other. Slowly, she pulled the blade away and stood, walking around the fountain to get a better look. Behind her, the men of her escort began to glance and murmur amongst themselves, evidently puzzled by their mistress's behaviour. Saffron looked left and right, curiously trying to catch a glimpse of whatever oddity had caught the woman's attention.

It wasn't until the crowd fell back that she realised it was her.

Z
ech ran through the city
, her sharp eyes peeled for a foreign girl foolish enough to wear her hair like a priestess of Ashasa. Several times, she paused to ask if anyone had seen a Vekshi girl run by, and was finally rewarded when a middle-aged stallholder answered in the affirmative. Her elation died, however, when he pointed her towards the Square of Gods. Thanking him, she ran off at top speed, all while panting the foulest words she knew – and as she'd learned at Yasha's knee, that made them foul indeed.