Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse (33 page)

“It is humiliating,” Drayk whispers and I nod, handing it back. I sit back with my head against the timber. He takes the badge and rests it against my knee. Heat surges from the metal through my veins. He moves it in circles, lightly at first then with greater pressure. My hairs bristle. He runs it up my thigh, glancing at me to see if I will object.

I remain still.

I imagine I am Callirhoe soaring into the air among the rolling cumulous. From up here the palanquin looks like a Harlequin Bug scuttling across the sickly earth, shiny blue-black wings and long slender legs protruding from the swollen red spotted body. The fleets walk alongside the beetle in a commensal relationship with it, unable to tear themselves away. The veins of the estuary cut through the flesh of the earth; patches of drying skin, flaking scabs and festering wounds cover Tibuta’s body.

I, Callirhoe, hear raised voices from within that palanquin then movement: a rustling and a thumping. An arm breaks through the black fabric. A moment later a sandaled foot appears. There is no laughter, no shrieking of delight. This is not the massage parlour at the bathhouse, where woman pay for pleasure; this is the methodical bumping and grinding of angry love and disappointment.

The fleets, always discreet, pretend not to hear. But they imagine Drayk’s lips exploring my lips and it stirs them. Though the passion is shared between another species and is, to them, alien, offensive, they envisage themselves in the form of one of these creatures and it disgusts and excites them.

I pull back the curtain to feel the fresh air against my face.

At the start of Confederacy Court, fortune, plenty and pride should stand sentinel to keep the riff-raff from Minesend and Veraura out of the rest of the city, and yet these custodians have been scared away and replaced by disgrace and poverty. Old men and women with honeyed, wrinkled skin sell bird seed to children who clatter along the narrow pathways. Street vendors with missing limbs sit at the tops of their mats selling cheap beads and stone figurines crudely carved from the mines’ waste.

The holy words from the book of the First Mother come to me:
These are the sons and daughters of Ayfra who lived in Caspius. And they multiplied and grew so numerous that the Caspians feared them. So the Caspians made Ayfra’s women slaves and they did forced labour. “I have seen the misery of my people. I have heard them crying out. They suffer in this land that is not their own. I will bring my people out of Caspius.”

I see myself leading an exodus just as Ayfra led our people from Caspius to the islands.

To where, though? And in whose name?
I wonder.

F
rom a distance the cages look like spiders sliding up and down silk threads.
At the base of the Seawall large gleaming bare-chested black slaves push and prod people into line. Others work the pulley system.

A path is cleared and we enter. The wheels grunt into action, the ropes snap taut and we are lifted, bit by bit, into the air. I picture the support structure at the top, a wooden cantilevered platform anchored at only one end to the Seawall, bending from the stress placed on it by our weight. I imagine the ropes snapping, us falling. Shattered limbs and…I will not let such thoughts invade my peace.

Having inched down the other side in the same manner, we stand on Port Tibuta, where waves crash against boulders and white caps dance to an unsteady beat, swirling and circling in multicolour. From here it is a short swim to Lizard Island. I wait until my mother and her soldiers have dived into the churning cauldron then follow.

The water is still and gloomy. Thick chains disappear into the deep blue of the caldera. I watch Drayk and the war-wits from below as they swim across the surface, their arms and legs thrashing.

As we approach Lizard Island we are greeted by a sloping hill, large blocks of mossy Tibutan Gold Marble and rusted red-bronze pots that lie covered in silt, relics dropped overboard from old trading ships. Rising out of the sea, our clothes dripping, we stand on the sea side to watch the Whyte boat approach. Ragged teeth fortifications sprout from the headlands either side of the bay and in the distance, beyond the harbour, the hazy outline of the Island of the Dead shimmers in the clouds.

The prince’s trireme is a mere spot on the horizon and it moves through the water in smooth surges as men row against the wind. Slowly, excruciatingly so, it comes closer and we can see the rostrum out the front, a shark beneath the surface. The White Rabbit and the Gregarian Bull dance together on a blue background in the wind.

The prince and his attendants board a tender and head for shore. Sailors use a long hook to pull up a mooring line and drop fenders of woven rope alongside to cushion the tender as it bobs and grinds against the wharf. They lower the gangplank. We lean forwards to get a glimpse of the foreign prince.

A very tall, stooped man staggers to land, falls to his knees and kisses the earth. He stands, sways and burps into his fist.

I begin to laugh but stop when five killer whales lunge out of the water. They slide across the wharf and come to a standstill between us and the prince. A white patch disguises their tiny black eyes. Flapping their pectoral fins, they scream at us.

“Are they—?” I start but stop. Their skin ripples across their bodies. They shrink. They elongate. Their eyes bulge. Their flukes split and form legs. Their pectoral fins turn to hands. They push themselves to their feet and form a defensive line in front of the prince.

His personal guard are orca, shapeshifters, creatures known for their temper and unpredictability. The most deadly assassins known, they are predators who, in “human” form—they are not really human—are tall with black and white skin that is exquisitely sensitive to the touch but far too thick to easily penetrate with a sword or spear. They are naked with nothing between their legs. Their eyes are tiny and black, emotionless. Their mouths are wide, splitting their skulls in two, and filled with a single row of enamel interlocking teeth. They do not see us: instead they sense us, occasionally making a clicking sound and listening for the echo—silent to our ears—which allows them to determine our size, shape, speed and distance.

Standing in a row like that, looking without seeing, sometimes directly at the sun and sometimes directly at us, the orca snatch the laughter from my throat and fill my heart with dread.

My mother, always bullish, crosses the distance between us and the prince, pushes the orca aside and thrusts out her hand, demanding he show her due respect. The man visibly swallows, calls the orca off, takes my mother’s hand and presses his lips to her golden ring. It is then that I notice half of one hand is missing and he prefers to hold the stump behind him.

“Welcome to Tibuta, your highness,” my mother says.

All the prince is able to mutter is, “Thank you.”

“My daughters, Verne,” my mother says, her arm gracefully outstretched, “and Adelpha.”

Faced with a decision between Adelpha and me the prince hesitates as he assesses who is the eldest, the most likely heir, and the most desirable. He takes Adelpha’s hand and kisses her ring.

“I’m delighted,” my sister says. My mother actually laughs.

When it is my turn, I notice Slay Satah in detail: the sweat stains under his armpit, the flecks of vomit down his front. He sees that I have seen and wipes at them. “I did not expect you to meet me here.”

“The streets of Tibuta aren’t safe,” I say, which wins me a stern look from my mother.

“Look!” My cousin Chase draws us back to the horizon as another of King Aaron Satah’s triremes enters Quarry Harbour.

“Look at all those oars,” Odell says, scratching his rodent nose. Only he is stupid enough not to realise what this means.

The third boat appears around the headland, slicing through the sea. Its kohl eye is visible, then its bow and its mast, the oars next, until the whole trireme is in. A fourth boat appears. We stand with our mouths hanging open. Another boat enters the harbour. Then another boat comes. And another. Like the ocean is giving birth to octuplets.

Eight pine warships flying the flag of Whyte. One hundred and seventy rowers per ship arranged in three rows, as well as spearmen, archers and commanders. Nearly two thousand men
.

Only the prince is not surprised.

“What in the tides do you think you are doing?” my mother says. She has her fists clenched as she advances towards the water’s edge. Petra strides beside her in full military uniform and her expression speaks of her dismay and apprehension as she, like the rest of us, pictures Whyte soldiers swarming our streets, hassling our people, and fraternising with our women. Or worse: burning and pillaging Lizard Island then using it as a vantage point to launch an attack on Tibuta Proper. “Satah, you have some explaining to do. You said one ship. One ship!”

The prince laughs nervously. “They bring wheat, preserved meats, barley, and salted fish to feed every Tibutan—and most importantly the soldiers required to squash your uprising.”

The queen’s voice drips with irony. “How generous of the king.” She is teeming with a thousand emotions—fury, despair, panic—and yet she holds them back. Why? For the sake of diplomacy of course. That and she has no idea what to do next. Pathetic, really, that she should be taken by surprise.

The prince excuses himself, saying he must see to his men. He does not wait for my mother’s permission but bows, clicks his heels and turns. His orca follow.

“I’ll go with him,” Adelpha says, and skips after the prince.

The queen does not hesitate to chastise the strategos in front of her soldiers. No, she wields a verbal sword and thrusts it at Petra. “Where in the tides are our sentries?”

“I…I can only assume they’ve been killed.”

“How did you not foresee this? You are my strategos, are you not? I have trusted you with the responsibility of protecting our people.”

Petra begins to protest but the queen cuts her off. “You are as bad as Styla and about as trustworthy. This is utterly preposterous. I am disappointed, Petra. My own cousin incapable of prudence. You have always been so audacious.” The insult hurts because it is not true: Petra is certainly bold but never reckless.

“Let him answer to this,” Petra says, drawing her sword. “He cannot deceive you impaled on my sword.”

“Put that away.”

Petra flushes with embarrassment.

Squawking like a guineafowl the queen says, “What in Ayfra’s name were you thinking? Surely you realised what he was up to. You should have warned them at the watchtowers: one boat.
One boat
.” The queen’s eyes dart from left to right as she thinks. “
You
sent the message to the watchtowers. You oversee their work. This is your fault.”

“I never thought—I was confident that—Your highness, I was following orders.”

The queen raises her hands to strike the woman across the face.

“It is done now,” Drayk says, stepping between them. “Perhaps with some warning we could have fought them off but there is no point wishing for opportunities that the past has stolen from us. We must think clearly and act swiftly before Satah’s men become too comfortable on Lizard Island.”

Petra nods enthusiastically, thankful for his rescue.

I glance over my shoulder. The first of Satah’s hoplites have disembarked and they form an already endless line winding from the harbour to the town. From this distance they look identical. Ardos, taken utterly by surprise, is now occupied by foreign forces. The town ripples down the hillside and overflows into the warm shallow water among the smooth white pebbles. Fishermen in their little wooden boats, men skinning octopi and those perched on boulders along the shore mending their nets stop to stare at the soldiers, open mouthed, with blackened teeth. Children running through the dust come to a screeching halt, point, and call to their friends.

I curse under my breath.
Sacrificed! My nation sacrificed and for what? A promise of peace and a loaf of bread?
A thought comes to me:
Our decisions are embroidery made of interconnected threads, each choice, each misstep a tiny stitch. If only we could lay the thread out from beginning to end then we could see how the past informs the future. We could navigate life with some certainty.

The men form a river of sky blue that kicks up a dust cloud along the crumbling path, marching…where? Where do they intend to launch their first assault? As if reading my mind the queen says to her strategos, “They cannot stay here. Lizard Island is too valuable a stronghold. Since you have given it to them, I leave you to take it back.”

“Where then?” Petra says. “We could declare war. Summon the army, swim here and slaughter every one of them—”

“Risk open warfare with the Dual Kingdom? Not while our own nation is divided.” The queen shakes her head. “No, we must mask ourselves in deception. The prince will help us or make an enemy of us. So we overlook his lies and his presumption, we permit him to help us, then we exorcise him and his men. We kill them all.” She looks out to sea where emporia ships wait beyond the headlands, eager to enter the safety of the harbour but unable to do so because it is clogged with King Aaron’s flotilla. “There are so many.” Shaking her head, she says, “They cannot stay on Lizard Island. They will block the streets and interrupt trade. Get your men and escort Satah’s soldiers to the killing fields. They can pitch their tents where you can surround them and dispose of them should they prove uncooperative. I will send word to the barracks in the other districts. Every man, woman and child trained by the Unit is to make themselves available to us.”