This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(8)

Alizeh went deathly still.

Understanding awoke slowly in her mind, and with it a thick, disorienting unease.

How long had he been standing there?

There once was a man

who bore a snake on each shoulder

In truth, Alizeh might not have noticed him at all were he not looking directly at her, pinning her in the air with his eyes. It hit her then—she gasped—hit her with the force of a thunderclap: she saw him now only because he allowed it.

Who was the fool, then?

She.

Panic set fire to her chest. Alizeh tore herself from the ground and fairly disappeared, tearing off through the streets with the preternatural swiftness she usually saved for her worst altercations.

Alizeh did not know what darkness this strange, Clay face would bring. She only knew she’d never be able to outrun it.

Still, she had to try.





Four





THE MOON SAT SO LARGE in the sky Kamran thought he might lift a finger to its skin, draw circles around its wounds. He stared at its veins and starbursts, white pockmarks like spider sacs. He studied it all as his mind worked, his eyes narrowing in the aftermath of an impossible illusion.

She’d fairly disappeared.

He’d not meant to stare, but how, also, was he meant to look away? He’d seen danger in the assailant’s movements even before the man drew his knife; worse, no one paid the altercation any attention. The girl could’ve been maimed or abducted or murdered in the worst ways—and even though Kamran had been sworn to anonymity in daylight, his every instinct compelled him to issue a warning, to step in before it was too late—

He needn’t have worried.

Still, there was much that troubled him, not the least of which was that there’d seemed something amiss about the girl. She’d worn a snoda—a sheath of semi-transparent silk—around her eyes and nose, which did not obscure, exactly, but blur her features. The snoda itself was innocuous enough; it was required of all who worked in service. She was ostensibly a maid.

But servants were not required to wear the snoda outside of work, and it was unusual that the girl had worn hers at this early hour, when the royals were still abed.

It seemed far more likely that she was not a maid at all.

Spies had been infiltrating the empire of Ardunia for years, but these numbers had been bloating dangerously in more recent months, feeding an unnerving concern that lately crowned Kamran’s thoughts, and which he could not now shake.

He exhaled his frustration, shaping a cloud in the cold.

More in every moment, Kamran grew convinced the girl had stolen the servants’ uniform, for her covert attempt had not only been poorly executed, but easily betrayed by an ignorance of the many rules and mannerisms that defined the lives of the lower classes. Her gait alone would’ve been warning enough; she’d walked too well for a servant, carrying herself with a kind of regal bearing established only in infancy.

No, Kamran felt certain now that the girl had been hiding something. It would not be the first time someone had used the snoda to mask themselves in public.

Kamran glanced at the clock in the square; he’d come into town this morning to speak with the Diviners, who’d sent a mysterious note requesting an audience with the young man despite his never having announced his return home. Today’s meeting, it seemed, would have to wait; for much to his dismay, Kamran’s always-reliable instincts would not quiet.

How, with only one free hand, had a maid so coolly disarmed a man holding a knife to her throat? When would a maid have had the time or coin to spare learning self-defense? And what on earth had she said to the man to leave him weeping in the snow?

The suspect in question was only now stumbling to his feet. His shock of red curls screamed he was from Fesht, a region at least one month south of Setar, the capital city; not only was the assailant far from home, but he appeared to be in severe pain, one arm hanging lower than the other. Kamran watched as the redhead held his bad limb—dislocated, it seemed—with the good, carefully steadying himself. Tears had tracked clean paths down his otherwise dirty cheeks, and for the first time, Kamran got a good look at the criminal. Had he more practice with outward displays of emotion, Kamran’s features might’ve registered surprise.

The assailant was quite young.

Kamran moved swiftly toward him, sliding a mask of intricate chain mail over his face as he went. He walked into the wind, his cloak snapping against his boots, and only when he’d all but collided with the child did he stop. It was enough that the Fesht boy jumped back at his approach, wincing as the movement jostled his injury. The boy cradled his wounded arm and curled inward, head to his chest like a humbled millipede, and with an unintelligible murmur, tried to pass.

“Lotfi, hejj, bekhshti—” Please, sir, excuse me—

The gall of this child, Kamran could scarce believe it. Still, it was a comfort to know that he’d been correct: the boy spoke Feshtoon and was far from home.

Kamran had every intention of handing the child over to the magistrates; it had been his sole purpose in seeking out the boy. But now, unable to pry loose his suspicions, he found himself hesitating.

Again, the child tried to pass, and again, Kamran blocked his path. “Kya tan goft et cheknez?” What did the young woman say to you?

The boy startled. Stepped back. His skin was a shade or two lighter than his brown eyes, with a smattering of darker freckles across his nose. Heat blossomed across his face in unflattering splotches. “Bekhshti, hejj, nek mefem—” I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand—