‘I can hardly wait.’ Regol seemed disappointed to learn his meals at the palace would likely prove less intimate than he had expected.
The meal moved from soup to salad, four servants required so that the plates could be simultaneously swept away and replaced. The main courses arrived: individual peafowls, deliciously roasted and garnished with mushrooms, then redketch, fished from the meltwater rivers off the southern ice. Nona ate with dedication, amazed at the idea that food could be so much better than what was served in the Sweet Mercy refectory, which she had considered to be a paradise.
Hard on the heels of the servants removing the second set of plates came a maid bearing a tray of porcelain cups each brimming with a fragrant, steaming liquid. Nona peered at hers uncertainly.
‘It’s chai, Nona.’ Ara picked up hers. ‘An infusion of leaves from Gerula. Drunk in all the best houses.’
Gerula rang a bell, a land far to the east. Nona picked up her cup and sniffed.
‘It’s an acquired taste.’ Regol grinned at her across the table. ‘You have to work at enjoying many of the most expensive things in life!’
Something hit the door with such violence that the lock burst open. Surprise set Nona’s cup slipping from her fingers. Instinct kicked in and Nona dug into the moment. Even with whatever threat might be exposed as the door continued its swing Nona’s first act was to catch the cup again, intercepting its lazy fall and setting it on the table.
By the time the door stood wide enough to reveal Sister Kettle, Nona, Ara, and Regol were all on their feet, chairs tumbling behind them. The swinging door banged against the wall.
‘Don’t drink it!’ The chairs crashed to the floor as Kettle walked into the room. Her gaze seemingly fixed on Regol.
‘Wh—’ Terra, still seated with her cup halfway to her lips, blinked and looked around her, astonished to see everyone else standing.
‘Don’t drink it,’ Kettle repeated, leaning over the table to take the steaming cup from Terra’s hand.
Nona followed Kettle’s gaze. Not Regol – the serving maid behind him. Regol, understanding, spun around, but the woman caught him by the wrist and neck, pressing on a nerve cluster to force him to his knees.
‘The chai isn’t poisoned, Kettle.’ The woman stood straight, looking less like a serving maid with each passing second.
She lied to you. With her body. Like your poisoned apple has been trying to teach you.
‘I came to speak with Zole. If I’d wanted your novices dead you would be collecting their warm corpses now.’ The woman let Regol go with a shove that sent him sprawling. She was younger than Nona had thought, perhaps as young as Kettle, her hair hunska-black, tied into a tight plait. Dark eyes watched from above high cheekbones. There was a hard beauty to her. And a threat.
‘I know you.’ Regol from the floor, rubbing his neck. ‘You come to the Caltess forging every year and watch the novices.’ His pursed lips took on a rueful smile. ‘My charms failed me last year. And the year before.’
‘Zole’s not here, Safira,’ Kettle said, moving to put herself between the woman and the table. ‘What made you think she might be?’
‘I didn’t tell anyone.’ Terra found her feet at last. ‘I swear it!’
‘I can see she’s not here.’ Safira stepped towards the door. ‘I’ll leave you to your dessert. Your maid’s unconscious in a cupboard in the cold pantry.’
Kettle moved to block Safira’s exit. Regol gained his feet, wincing.
Who is this female? You know her too. Keot edged towards Nona’s neck, a red flush rising.
Safira. She trained Zole for the emperor’s sister. She was banished from the convent years ago when she stabbed Kettle.
At last! Keot pushed Nona’s flaw-blades into being. Someone you can kill.
No. But Nona made no effort to dispel her blades.
‘Get out of my way, Mai.’ Safira advanced on the door.
Mai?
Must be Kettle’s real name. Shut up.
‘You’re coming to the convent. There are questions to be answered.’ Kettle settled into a blade-fist stance, soft-form, arms raised.
‘I’m not.’ Safira echoed the stance.
‘She knows about Yisht and the shipheart!’ Nona leapt onto the table, her concern for the crockery forgotten. Jump on her! Shred her flesh. Open her body! Keot spread, shading crimson along her limbs.
‘And she stabbed Kettle!’ Ara hissed.
Safira shook her head, a narrow smile on her lips. ‘It wasn’t like that. You don’t know anything. You’re children.’
‘It was a bit like that.’ Kettle kept her eyes on Safira’s.
‘Apple poisoned her against me, Nona.’
Nona blinked, surprised to find herself addressed.
Safira continued. ‘Apple does that. You’ll find out but it will be too late by then. Sherzal is our only hope. Crucical lacks the imagination. Velera is a blunt weapon. We can sink together with the emperor or some of us can swim.’
‘Sherzal—’
‘Sherzal didn’t order your friend’s death, Nona. Yisht is dangerous but you use the tools you have.’ Safira glanced towards her. ‘I’m not your enemy. The Noi-Guin haven’t forgotten you. That’s a warning from a friend.’
Nona shook her head. ‘If you’re a friend you can come and tell your stories to the abbess. She’ll know what to make of them.’ She moved to the table’s edge, feet careful, avoiding the plates. Ara and Regol advanced too.
‘No! Just me.’ Kettle’s command was iron. Surprise at such authority from the nun held Nona in her place. Kettle was always smiles and fun. Nona didn’t recognize this Kettle.
In the next moment the two women closed to fight, Safira sweeping her leg to topple Kettle. Both employed the strain of blade-fist favoured by Sisters of Discretion, their combat fluid. Where Sister Tallow concentrated on blocking and on blows aimed to inflict as much damage in as short a time as possible the grey-fist centred on evasion and on unbalancing the opponent, often seeming more of a dance. The two moved in a flowing contest of position and stability, flurries of blows finding nothing but air. It might be a dance, and a beautiful one at that, but Nona knew the form held scores of moves for disabling or killing a less skilled opponent in a quiet and efficient manner, any of which could be used in a heartbeat if either woman gained sufficient advantage.
A quick clash, hands finding purchase, a rapid adjustment of feet, grips broken. Kettle and Safira spun apart, both unbalanced. A moment later they closed again, punches ducked, kicks evaded with the minimum twist necessary, Kettle a blur of swirling habit. Without warning Kettle managed to seize Safira’s trailing plait and, yanking her head back, drove an elbow into her face.
Safira stepped back, panting, wiping the blood from her nose. ‘As much as I love to play with you, Mai, I don’t have time for this.’ She opened her hand to reveal a small leather tube, pitch-sealed. ‘Grey mustard. Not really the ideal condiment for social gatherings. Perhaps I should just go?’
Kettle stepped back from the door, eyes hard.
Throw