— PROLOGUE —

Acentury and a half after the island nation of Alizar had freed itself from continental rule, in the seventeenth year of Viktor Morrentian Alkattha’s troubled reign as Factor, a giant corpse washed up onto the eastern shore of Cutter’s, at the island cluster’s very center. The greatest typhoon in generations had blown spume for three days over the walls of even the mightiest houses on the highest hills, swamping the rotting, coastal boat-towns altogether, drowning legions of the poor, and flushing every darkest alleyway and sewer tunnel with a boil of cold, salty rage.

On the storm’s fourth day, dawn was accompanied by a peculiar pearlescence to the east, as if the clouds were loathe to release their clammy grip. Those first few to venture out onto the streets of Cutter’s — guards, priests, looters, the desperate — found on the shingles of Pembo’s Beach a body so large and long that all agreed it couldn’t possibly have been a man. And yet, it had the form of one.

Its pale complexion was, by then at least, the color of a Smagadine, that unhealthy tone indicative of life lived underground, or solely under moonlight, far from any sunlight’s benediction. Its wrinkled fingers were the size of longboats. Its gelid, unseeing eyes as large as the wine tuns stored beneath the Factorate House. The cock across its thigh, a toppled watchtower.

The corpse was an instant nine-days’ wonder, and a panic. Nearly two hundred years earlier, gods had returned to faraway Copper Downs. Had they at last come to Alizar? The nation’s streets were flooded for the second time in days, this time with rumor, prophecy, and hushed prognostication. Had the storm birthed this monster or slain it? Would it rise to lay waste to the city, vanish back into sea like a dream half-remembered, or just putrefy, poisoning Cutter’s scenic bay and vast commercial port as it rotted on the beach? Might it be an omen of some even greater calamity in store?

While the Mishrah-Khote, Alizar’s ancient priesthood of physicians, maintained a careful silence in regard to their position on the corpse, the nation’s Factor did not find the unexpected arrival of a ‘dead god’ convenient in the least. Already struggling to navigate his country’s growing pains, he had no need of ominous portents inciting the poor and ignorant to erratic imaginings and potentially volatile assessments of his governance. He just wanted the great body gone! Though not in any manner that might make him look defensive or afraid, of course.

Fortunately for him, Alizar was virtually swimming in very poor and hungry citizens after such a devastating storm. His advisors assured him that the giant carcass was still at least as sound as many others hanging in that tropic nation’s butcher shops on any given day. Why not address two problems with a single cure? Thus, the Factor demonstrated his consideration for the city’s starving masses by ordering the inconvenient corpse butchered quickly, before it started rotting, and distributed — for free — to all and any wishing to fill their bellies with its meat. Since animals alone — never people, much less gods — were ever butchered and consumed, he asserted dubiously, the corpse’s fate must somehow prove its nature. Whatever superficial form it might have borne, this creature had been nothing but a great sea monster of some sort.

Huge crowds rushed to Cutter’s bloody shingle to accept their portion of this windfall, by which their desperate families were kept fed for some weeks after. Despite this fact — or perhaps because of it — memory of the giant corpse did not fade as hoped. If anything, the common folks’ awe of this dead god increased. New tales began to circulate, of teeth and bones extracted, giant fingernails pared, and god-meat scraped from long, pale flanks not just to feed the desperate, but to bless and heal them as well. From the furtive repetition of these stories, a new cult emerged around the Butchered God, if at first just in cautious whispers and anonymous graffiti.

After a while, as no other evidence of returning gods appeared, the wealthy and the comfortable middle class put the event aside. Life went on. New urgencies seized attention — new wonders, scandals, and attendant gossip.

Old storms are eventually forgotten. Old flotsam always drifts back out to sea.

As long as what is buried stays that way, and its memory is left unstirred.

PART I

— ONE —

Domina Sian Kattë hummed quietly as she poured two glasses of kiesh , worked the cork back into the stout little bottle, then brought the drinks to the sitting room.

Captain Reikos smiled up at her from his seat on the rattan sofa; he moved to rise, but she waved him back down. His pale eyes were as warm as the early-evening air fluttering the curtains at the front windows of her Viel townhouse. Sian could hear the murmurs of street noise from below — the cries of cart runners, the sound of dishes in the tavern’s kitchen three doors over, at the head of Meander Way. I thank you, my lady. Reikos lifted his glass in a formal toast.

Sian laughed and took a seat in the armchair, arranging her golden silks comfortably about her. None of that, Konstantin; when we come upstairs, we are friends.

Friends. He tasted the word, then the sweet liquor, before setting his small amber glass on the delicate table between them. Domina Kattë, I had imagined us more than that. Please forgive my presumption. But now his courtliness was a tease. He went on before she could reach over and give him the gentle swat he so clearly deserved. Ah, Sian, it is good to see you.

Yes. It’s been too long. What news of the wider world?

Well, much of it is still covered in salt water. And little of it is as warm and lovely as these islands are. Reikos leaned back and stretched a bit, without seeming to fill any additional space. He was a trim, agile man able to live comfortably aboard his ship for months on end; entirely at home in a cabin only four or five paces wide in any direction, with its narrow little bunk. He looked quite natural on her small sofa, she thought. We spent half the voyage here pushing through squalls to make a sailor think seriously about buying a plow. Lost Port’s upstart new vineyards have suffered a blight for their impertinence. Some little fly, they are saying, has come by boat from the City Imperishable and developed a liking for grape leaves. The price of wine has soared there now, and every ship that comes to port is treated like a threat.

That’s unfortunate, Sian said. I’ve been enjoying the Stone Coast wines.

Many folk have. I am certain the vintners will do all they can to rescue their investments. He took another sip. Beyond all that, though, I’ve seen nothing half so interesting as what I find in Alizar. And not merely because you are here.

She smiled again at this. I’ll bet you say that to all your women.

Only the best ones. He grew serious. But tell me: is everything all right here?

What do you mean?

Reikos waved an arm vaguely in the direction of Cutter’s, the next major island in the chain, where foreign traders docked. "I almost couldn’t find a berth for Fair Passage. Ships just aren’t leaving — though not because trade is lively; quite the opposite. Yorgen told me he’s waited a month or more to fill even half his capacity. The Kenner brothers have lost a good number of their crew to desertion. And I find the streets filled with rabble now, marching around and chanting."

Oh, the prayer lines. Sian sighed. She thought she could hear one now, in fact, out beyond the end of Meander Way — the leader’s call and the crowd’s mumbled response. They follow the so-called Butchered God.

So-called? You don’t believe it was a god, then?

I don’t believe it was a sea monster, no matter what the Factor would have us think. But a god? Do gods die?

He shrugged. I am not a religious man.

I have little use for priests myself. But if there were gods anywhere near Alizar — and if one should die — I can hardly believe they would allow their bodies just to wash up on a beach somewhere, much less be carved up to feed the poor.

What a bizarre gesture that was. Your cousin is a … an interesting man.

You speak as though I know him. Sian shrugged. Even so, I can’t imagine a god’s appearance was convenient for him.

Reikos smiled as he finished his drink. I expect the Temple Mishrah-Khote was pleased.

Perhaps, Sian said. Though one must wonder whether the arrival of a god was any more convenient for them. They do not seem to embrace the new cult.

Such interesting times, as I say. Reikos toyed with his empty glass. You live amidst these giant ruins. Does no one wonder at the coincidence — or worry that whoever built them might be coming back?

From the age of legends? She took a sip of wine, and sighed. "The Factor may ask himself that question every night. But I don’t have to. We’ve had no Green Woman here, that I’m aware of. And the thing was dead, which is very convenient for everyone. Will you have another before dinner?"

Yes, I will — delicious. I believe I recognize this vintage?

Indeed you do. A certain well-traveled sea captain brought me a case on his last visit. I hope he’s brought more; my stores could use restocking.

It’s eminently possible that he has.

After checking to see that their bouillabaisse from the tavern was still warm, Sian brought the bottle to the table. You’re right, though: matters here aren’t what they should be, and not just on the docks. I can’t retain my workers either — I need new weavers, and probably a new dyer, if I can find anyone suitable. I’ve been to the hiring hall four times this season already. She smiled wryly. Not that anyone is happy to see me there these days.

I cannot imagine who would not be pleased to see your lovely face at his doorstep. Show me these ungrateful men!

Sian laughed. Ah, flatterer, you warm an old woman’s bones.

Reikos gave a half-bow, elegant even from his seated position. "Always happy to be of service. Though you are not old."

Sian raised an eyebrow. Nor am I young.

You are ageless, a creature of great and abiding beauty.

Sian gave him a long look calculated to wither.

Reikos cleared his throat. So, what are these marches, then? Some sort of protest?

Our work force abandons honest labor now to roam the streets in prayer, begging their Butchered God for a more equitable distribution of wealth. As if coins might just fall on them with the rains! She shook her head. I don’t know what they hope to achieve. But they seem reasonably peaceful. Enough of this gloomy talk. You must be famished — shall we dine?

Eager as I am for fish soup, my lady, I find myself in the grasp of a … different hunger at the moment … He glanced beyond the small kitchen to the daybed behind its gauze curtain at the back of the townhouse. The fabric around the bed stirred gently in the fragrant evening breeze. I was a long time at sea, far from the comforts of shore.

Laughing, Sian got to her feet and gave Reikos a hand up. A man after my own heart. So we shall have dessert first, and dine afterwards.

The bouillabaisse had kept perfectly, making a fine late supper. Sian found a bottle of Stone Coast claret to accompany it, hoping indeed that Lost Port’s blight should pass. When the meal was done, Reikos carried his dishes to the sideboard, then took the empty wine bottle downstairs and set it outside the back door for the glass-scavengers.

It was not his custom to stay the night when he visited. A ship’s captain had responsibilities early in the morning that required a well-rested body and an alert mind. This equally suited Sian, being well past the age when sleeping like piled pups in the townhouse’s small daybed would leave her refreshed at dawn. And though the place was no storefront, clients and associates did happen by with some frequency when she was in town; it was just easier, and more professional, for her to rise alone there.

When he returned from the alley, Reikos nuzzled the back of Sian’s neck, planting a few small kisses on the tender skin there. When shall we dine again?

How long are you in port this time? Sian scraped the soup-bowl into the covered scrap container, lest she encourage the islands’ large roaches, and set it aside for return to the tavern. A bright green gecko climbed the wall behind the sideboard, ever alert for mosquitoes.

"A fortnight, perhaps; until I can turn over my cargo. I have you down for one case of kiesh, at the very least."

I thank you. Sian thought a moment. I need to go to Little Loom Eyot tomorrow, but business will bring me back to Viel within three or four days.

I look forward to it. He kissed her again, pulling her close. Such a brief respite this was from the desolation of my days. Will you not come with me this time?

Sian smiled, turning around in his arms to face him. My dear, your shipboard bed is even smaller than mine.

No, not just tonight. Sail with me when I leave. I will show you the world!

And what will all your other women think when I show up?

There will be no one but you, Sian.

Laughing, she said, Now that is going a bit far, even for you. She gave him a gentle push. "Go on, get back to Fair Passage. I shall see you in a few days."

Reikos let go of her and took up his jacket and satchel. I hope your husband knows what a lucky man he is.

Sian looked up at him, a little surprised. Of course he does. As I know how lucky I am. Comfort, and freedom, and interesting work — I have it all.

Yes, you do. Reikos gazed at her. He truly does not mind your … independence?

We have long since passed the time of caring about such things. Our arrangement is clear: he runs the manufactory, and I manage the business in town. Our free time is our own. She frowned at her lover. As I believe I have explained to you.

Yes, you have. Then he grinned, the mischievous glint returned. May your dreams be filled with delightful adventures involving dashing sea captains.

You sleep well too. She walked him down to the front door, then kissed him farewell as he slipped quietly into the night.

She watched his trim form retreat down Meander Way, then bolted the door.

Sian spent a productive morning visiting a new dye-seller on Three Cats, buying several sacks each of ochre and indigo and putting in an order for some rare carmine at a decent price. At least some businesses were still thriving. After closing up the townhouse, Sian walked through Viel’s crowded streets to the public dock, looking around for Pino, finally spotting him near the end of the wharf, waving madly at her. She and Arouf had hired the young man just a few years back, but he was proving to be a very dedicated worker, cheerfully filling in anywhere the firm of Monde & Kattë required — from hauling supplies to the storehouse, to general repair and maintenance, to fetching whatever Sian acquired in town, as well as ferrying her back and forth between home and Alizar Main.

Resting her feet on the dye-sacks piled in the bottom of the boat, she let herself daydream during the hour-long passage across the smooth waters of Alizar Bay to their private island — perhaps she had had less sleep than she’d realized — only noticing their approach when the boat bumped against the dock at Little Loom Eyot. Thank you, Pino, Sian said, alighting. Unencumbered, as usual. No matter that she managed fine in town; Pino would never let her carry her own bags when he was there.

Happy to have you home, my lady, the boy answered, pushing his dark brown hair out of his eyes and grinning at her.

After a perfunctory glance around the lush grounds, she went to her little office upstairs in the loom house to file and sort the documents, orders, and purchase receipts she’d brought from town. Always so much paperwork! Once again, she resolved to hire clerical help.

When the bell chimed for change of shift, she looked up, startled to see the afternoon entirely passed. She straightened her desk, then began the short walk up the hill. She passed alongside the loom house and in front of the dye works, the two largest buildings on the island. Blue-and-red macaws shrieked and hopped about in the chinaberry trees above her head, scolding her for disturbing their evening congress — without offering food. Peace, you little beggars, she chuckled at them as she turned beside the unmarried women’s dormitory, nestled in a riot of blooming lacuina vines next to the refectory for her workers. Beyond that came the cottages of the older, married employees, and the few bachelor couples of whom she did not inquire so much.

Her own house stood on the highest part of the island, an often cloud-capped bluff situated on the rain-shadowed western face of the peak. Like the compound’s cottages, it was built raised on poles in the traditional Alizari style, albeit with the modern conveniences of plumbing and a decent indoor kitchen. Its sweeping teak gables were pierced with tall windows and wide, elaborately carved lattice shutters to close against ocean storms or open to the sun’s benediction.

The walk might be short — the entire island was little more than a thousand paces north to south — but the rise was of a steepness, and Sian was of an age (no matter what Reikos might say), as to leave her half out of breath by the time she’d passed the stand of bony Dragon’s Blood trees outside their gate, and slid aside the soft peg that held the front door closed. No need for guards or even locks when you owned your own bridgeless island.

Inside, a warm glow came from the kitchen, bearing with it the welcoming aroma of food on the stove. That you, wife?

Yes, Arouf, it is I. Sian unwrapped her elaborately patterned silk shawl and hung it on a hook by the door, next to its many mates. Today’s had been blue, with the spectacular image of an iridescent morpho butterfly picked out along its length.

In the kitchen, she found her husband standing over a large pot, a long wooden spoon in his hand. Bela was nowhere to be seen; Arouf must have given their cook-housekeeper the evening off. That smells good, she said, going to kiss him on his damp and bristly beard.

It’s cold enough out for a spicy sweetprawn stew, I should think. He gave her an affectionate pat on the arm, his attention still on the pot.

Cold? She lifted an eyebrow, smiling as she went to the cool box to find an open jug of tart white wine. She poured herself a glass, then refilled Arouf’s. Only a man from the farthest reach of Malençon could possibly call this weather cold.

Or perhaps one who had a particular craving for spicy sweetprawn stew. Arouf sipped his wine. It should be ready soon, don’t wander far.

I won’t.

Without mentioning any names, she began to tell Arouf about conversations she’d had with ‘several trading partners’ — news of the Stone Coast grape blight, the increasing labor shortage, the stagnation at the harbor at Cutter’s. And the city feels … less civilized all the time. Jamino Fanti tells me that his runner-cart was ambushed by a mob of angry vagrants last week, demanding money from him.

Or what? Arouf asked.

Or they’d push the cart over and break its wheels, they said. That’s what he told me.

Did he give in to this? Where was his runner while all this happened?

There were too many of them for the runner to fend off, apparently.

Arouf shook his head, his dark eyes flashing. I do not like you going there.

Oh? She gave him a wry smile. "Does that mean you will go next time?"

He scowled at her. That is your world, down there, wife. This is mine.

Such a powerful-looking man, Sian mused, and yet such a child, to be so upset by even a mention of the outside world. She bit her lip and went to set the table, refraining from telling him that someone in the crowd had flung a fistful of mud at her as she had left the townhouse in Viel to meet Pino that afternoon. They had missed. So what did it matter?

Did you do any entertaining while you were in town?

Sian looked up at him. No. Why do you ask?

Arouf shrugged, not looking up from the cutting board where he was dicing firefruit. "Why doesn’t the Factor do something about all this unrest?"

I don’t know. She thought a moment. He might be too distracted. I hear his son is not recovering quite as quickly as they’d hoped.

That’s unfortunate. He dropped the peppers into the stew and stirred vigorously. Then he lifted the spoon to his lips, frowned, and returned to the board to dice another.

Indeed. Sian thought about their own daughters, with the mingled love and fear that fills any mother when she hears of a child’s illness. Because they would always be her babies, no matter that they were grown and gone. Maleen, at least, still lived in Alizar; Sian had been meaning to visit her and the grandchildren for far too long. Life just seemed to crowd out every space she tried to clear for such things lately. She shook her head and resolved more fiercely to do it — soon.

Well, supper is ready, Arouf said, ladling stew into a serving bowl. A good measure remained steaming on the stove when he brought the filled bowl to the table.

She dipped her bread in the fragrant broth as the first bite seared pleasantly down her throat. Your best yet.

Arouf patted his belly and swallowed his own generous spoonful. A little bland. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and his cheeks flushed slightly. But, it was the best I could do with these poor ingredients.

Any better and this old body could simply not stand it.

Well, then. It must be exactly good enough.

Exactly.

As they ate, Sian asked Arouf about matters in the dye works. He had nothing much to report, beyond complaining of being short-staffed, and soon enough they were passing their supper in silence.

I’ll take the sacks out to the shed, if you’ll see to the dishes, Arouf said, pushing back from the table with a contented sigh.

Of course. Go ahead. Sian rose and gathered the bowls, carrying them to the washbasin. A one-pot meal shouldn’t be much trouble. Though if you wouldn’t keep sending Bela home early, I wouldn’t have to do even this, Sian thought. It had been a long day, and she had more to do before bed.

Her husband pulled his boots on and went out the kitchen door. He hefted the sacks of dye two at a time, which made Sian cringe in sympathetic pain. Small as they appeared, they were dense and weighty. Arouf must not be feeling arthritis in his joints, like she was.

Or maybe it was all the spicy meals he ate. Sian felt her insides burning as she scraped the bowls into the bin for the flamingos and tamarins. Not an unpleasant burn, exactly; but she couldn’t make three meals a day of the peppers as Arouf could.

The dishes done, she moved to the sitting room and lit a lantern by her reading chair, batting off a Luna moth that fluttered toward it through the window. After going to pull the shutters closed, she sat down, took a report from the large stack on her side table, and began to read, making occasional notes on a small sheet of paper as she went. The reports were gathered from everywhere Sian could acquire informants, and spoke, in one way or another, of the future of the market for silks and other luxuries. Unfortunately, this general topic was the first and last thing they had in common. It seemed nobody knew what was going to happen: demand would increase; it would most certainly decrease; unrest would interrupt the supply channels, or facilitate them as nervous investors dumped inventory; no two reports could agree.

Some time later, she had filled her sheet with notes and marked up a handful of other documents, putting several aside to keep. She looked up as she started to ask, I wonder whether we should — but her husband wasn’t in his chair as usual. Come to think of it, she hadn’t even heard him come in from the shed. She stretched and rubbed her eyes, glancing down the hallway that led to their sleeping chambers. Arouf’s door was closed, and no light burned under it.

Extinguishing the lantern, she went back into the kitchen and checked that the shutters were pulled down there as well against invading night-tamarins, then plodded down the hall to her own room. It was, in theory, the marital suite, though Arouf had not made this bed his home since Rubya, their younger daughter, was born. He did tourist here on occasion, sometimes by entreaty, sometimes in a burst of drunken ardor, and once for a long, sweet passage of nearly six months, during which time Sian had let herself believe that their distance had passed. But, eventually, he had complained of his head, and of her shifting while she slept, and of her cold feet, and returned to his own chamber.

Sian let down her hair and rummaged through her overnight bag for her brush and sleeping shift, wondering just when, and why, their desire for one another had cooled. Their nights had once been as passionate as any she now shared with Reikos. Would she and Reikos drift apart someday as well? She shook her head with a wry smile. No. More likely she would just lose him sooner and more quickly to some younger woman — or some dozen of them. These were not questions to be pondering just before sleep. If ever.

She climbed into the tall, mosquito-netted bed, stretching her legs out across the cool, soft sheets. It did feel good to get into bed of a night.

She thought about reading a while — there were always more reports — but instead extinguished the lamp, and was asleep before she’d had a chance to reconsider.

Arouf lay awake, listening to his wife move around her bedroom, unpacking from her trip. Sian did so love her journeys to town, enjoyed dressing up in her fine silks, being the social and business face of Monde & Kattë. Arouf was more than happy to cede her the responsibility. He had no taste for mingling with the traders and merchants; it was an unwelcome change of pace, as far as he was concerned. It was very convenient that she had been willing, even eager, to take this task on. And she was very good at it, better than he’d ever been. The smartest thing he had done was to promote her to the counting house.

No: the smartest thing he had ever done had been marrying Sian Kattë in the first place, followed closely by agreeing that she should keep her own name. As Sian Monde, she would have vanished into obscurity; as Monde & Kattë, their dye works claimed an undeniable family connection to the ruling Alkattha house, which had hardly hurt the business.

That wasn’t why he had married her. Of course he loved her, and their two magnificent daughters perhaps even more. Arouf was still taken by surprise at times by his wife’s beauty — her long dark hair, still thick and glossy even as it grew streaked with gray; her smooth copper skin; and those startling eyes, so dark as to seem almost black, until lamplight lit them up, revealing the amber glow within. And when she laughed, she became a girl of twenty again, her cheeks rosy and glowing, her whole face shining.

That she didn’t laugh so often these days — that was simply a matter of the inevitable aches and weariness of growing older. Arouf understood growing older; he didn’t fight against it as so many men of his generation did with dyes and perfumes, and squeezing into confining clothes to hide the evidence of a healthy appetite. Youth had been lovely. It was over now. Fighting the inevitable was a foolish waste of time. He did the best he could to remain active, for he knew that the longest-lived men in his home village on the eastern shores of Malençon were the ones who chopped wood and dug post-holes to the very end of their days, refusing to let the younger men take these tasks from them.

So all was as it should be.

Even if he had not made the success that he had dreamed of in his youth, Arouf was satisfied enough with the enterprise he and Sian had built. They employed almost three dozen weavers, dyers, and other hands; they had built and furnished this fine, comfortable home; Maleen had made a good marriage match, and Rubya was pursuing her education far away in Dun Cranmoor, on the mainland. And the grandchildren! Arouf smiled in the dark at the thought of them. If only Maleen would bring them to visit more often. Arouf did not like to leave Little Loom Eyot. So much to do here. The older he got, the more daunting travel became. After all the years he’d given to raising his children, why could they not take just few days now and then to come back and see their father? And their mother too — though it was hard these days to catch Sian at home. Or anywhere else, he supposed.

Soon the sounds of Sian in her chamber grew quiet. She would have gone to bed, and quickly to sleep, tired from her work in Alizar Main. Well, he supposed it must be exhausting, though she seemed to thrive on it.

He did sometimes find himself wondering what went on in that townhouse she’d chosen and retrofitted. He’d seen the renovations, shortly after they had bought it for use as an in-town office — the addition of sleeping quarters, for when business kept her overnight. The curtained-off upstairs rooms. For additional privacy from the street.

Ever since they’d moved to separate bedrooms, Arouf had wondered if she were … satisfying certain needs elsewhere. They had never spoken of such things openly, not in so many words. Speaking of it would make it real, somehow. He hadn’t even wanted to think of it.

And he despised himself for thinking of it now.

One could not run a successful business entirely from afar. Sian needed to go to town periodically. And the dyes she’d brought home today were certainly fine; Arouf would likely have never heard of the new dye-seller from here.

Arouf shifted in the bed, arranging his pillow more comfortably beneath his head, listening to the kakapos calling one another in the night, and whatever might be rustling through the hisbiscus under his shuttered window. His sleeplessness had grown worse of late, but there was nothing to be done for that. More wine, less wine; a change of diet; being weary or well rested at bedtime; powders from Viel or farther; nothing made any difference. Sleep would find him when it chose to, and not a moment before.

He was almost ready to rise from bed and find something to relieve his wakefulness when he realized that it was in fact morning. He had slept after all, even if his body believed otherwise.

Ah, me. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the grit from the corners of his eyes. Kava: that’s what he needed. He heard Bela’s uneven steps in the kitchen as she shuffled around, probably rewashing the dishes Sian had cleaned last night, and putting them where they actually belonged. Yes, his wife’s strengths most decidedly lay on the business side of things.

Pulling on his trousers, he tugged his long tangled hair back into a tail, capturing it with a stretchy band. Clever stuff, this tree sap which expanded and contracted. Idly wondering if it could be put to use in textiles, he walked down the hall and poked his nose into Sian’s room.

It was vacant: she must already be in her office over the loom house.

Time for kava. He followed the aroma to the kitchen.

— TWO —

Afew days later, Sian prepared to return to Viel. She packed a small overnight bag, along with a satchel of reports, inventory lists, and instructions for their two bankers. Today she wore yellow silks: the color of commerce. And of romance.

Arouf was already busy in the loom house when Pino appeared at the house shortly after breakfast, his brown hair neatly combed and slicked down with water. Are you ready, my lady?

Yes, thank you. Sian followed him down to the little boat and settled herself comfortably aboard.

He rowed them out into the open waters that separated Little Loom Eyot from Alizar Main. Sian peered down over the boat’s edge to see what jeweled fish might be dancing about the coral underneath their boat this morning, until the reefs began to fall away and vanish into deeper, bluer water. Then she gazed out at the placid sea under turquoise skies lined with puffs of cloud at the horizon, grateful for this time of enforced inactivity. She so seldom just rested.

It was a breezy day, less humid than usual, and Alizar sparkled in the tropical sunlight. As they drew closer to the central cluster of islands, she gazed through the straits, up to the graceful, monumental bridge connecting The Well and Three Cats, and the half-sunken ruins of the City of Giants that surrounded it. In the opposite direction, the island of Home was dominated by the grand Factorate House, rising atop its hill above clouds of fan palm and flowering Keelash trees. Another immense stub of once-mighty pillar, left from ancient times, rose from Home’s small harbor.

Who do you think built such things, Pino? she said, thinking of Reikos’s questions the other day.

My lady? The boy looked up, startled from his rhythm; one oar smacked flat against the water, juddering the boat. He recovered quickly and had them moving smoothly again.

The old ruins.

He blinked. The ancients built them, my lady.

But who were the ancients? Pino looked so worried that Sian smiled at him. I mean, they were giants, clearly. Were they gods, though, or just great big people?

Pino rowed a few more strokes before venturing, I’ve only ever heard that they were ancients, and that they left long ago. He glanced over his shoulder at the pillar stub off Home with an uncomfortable shrug. Before … you know, two years ago, I never thought about it.

Nobody did, she thought. Until a giant washed up on our shores. Was the Butchered God one of these ancients, do you think?

I don’t know, my lady, Pino answered at once. Some people say … they say the Butchered God came to heal the city. At least, that’s what I hear.

Yes, yes … she mused. I have heard that too. I do wonder how much healing a dead god can do for us.

The boy leaned forward, eagerly. Would you like me to go into town, to ask around?

No. It was just idle curiosity — I’m sure Arouf needs you back on the Eyot. She did not want to think about it, really — as she remembered every time she did. Gods returning. These were thoughts too big. Too strange and frightening. What was one to do with them? She knew the tales of Copper Downs, of course; how the gods there had been released from their long captivity. Who didn’t? The undying Duke’s demise, and the chaos that followed, had helped catalyze Alizar’s successful bid for independence, after all. But that was Copper Downs, and centuries ago. If there had ever been gods in Alizar, they’d been gone since long before the memory of anyone’s historians. Surely, the Cutter’s giant had just been some kind of freak. Dead, doubtless, of its very size. Let it rest, she told herself. Let it go. She had plenty of real troubles to contend with, just keeping their small business in good working order.

They approached the landing at Shingle Beach. The name was apropos, for the flat, arid island had little to recommend it save for this wide beach of coral rubble on its western shore, and the first bridge on Sian’s way from Little Loom Eyot into the inner island cluster that made up central Alizar. Such bridges had proliferated under continental rule, engendered by a foreign ruling class less comfortable with traveling by boat than the native population was. The widely varied structures had transformed a scattershot gathering of rocks, low hills, coral atolls and long-dead volcanic peaks into a coherent city-state; Sian took a special, almost patriotic pride in walking them.

Which was why she usually preferred to have Pino drop her here, though Viel was two bridges further on. She rarely hired runner-carts and water-taxis unless she had too much to carry or too far to go, savoring any chance to walk across the smaller islands and their bridges, and ever conscious of the need for thrift, of course.

Thank you, Pino. Sian gathered her bags. Tomorrow afternoon, then?

Yes, my lady. Four bells after the midday.

The servant boy stayed and watched as Sian made her way up the rough-planked pathway that served as a floating pier when the tide was in. She had never been able to make him leave until she was out of sight, so she had stopped trying. He was charged to see his mistress safely to Alizar Main, and he would do so, until he could see her no longer.

He would also return as arranged, without fail. So she could hardly complain.

Sian walked into Shingle Beach’s sole tiny village, through narrow streets crowded with hovels and cottages on short stilts against the tide. Like many of the lesser islands, Shingle Beach had its own flavor of taverns, markets, even household gardens. The rocky soil here did not support lush vegetation. Tall wild grasses, and a range of lovely succulents, delicately lavender or red, filled border rows and window boxes. Thorny heart’s blood vine, with its mass of scarlet flowers and sweet, blood-red berries, covered many roofs and porches.

She was through the built-up area in minutes, walking past a waving stretch of orange stargrass, then onto the bridge to Cliff, where she always paused to catch her breath. She leaned against the rail, admiring the lofty Factorate House across the water on Home. It had been built not long after Alizar won its independence from continental rule, to replace the continental Factor’s palace on Cutter’s — which was now the Census Taker’s Hall. This shining hub of Alizari industry and trade was a monument to the nation’s independence, wealth, and power; and, for Sian, a symbol of family connection and prestige. The Factor himself, who lived there with his consort and their son, was her very distant cousin. She had never actually met them, of course, and her errands rarely took her to its busy marble halls, but from time to time she went there to arrange for necessary licenses, or charm one of its many resident officials into granting her some important tariff exemption or regulatory concession.

She soon walked on, passing across Cliff, an island about half the size of Shingle Beach, mostly covered with hutments and shanties, and barely a business district of its own. The only reason it was connected even by a rough bridge to anything was because of its proximity to Viel. Cliff itself was a nothing of a place, dusty and barren nearly to its jutting eastern shoreline, teeming with a seemingly endless crop of poor. The island’s unusual weather was defined by winds that whipped relentlessly through the channel between Home and Viel.

The Cliff-Viel bridge was a far more substantial affair than the Shingle Beach-Cliff span. Its strong iron stanchions held up a roadbed paved with flat white stones salvaged from the broken buildings of the City of Giants. Some said that many of the islands themselves were nothing more than the rubble of those fallen structures, dust-covered and overgrown millennia ago.

Nobody slowed across the bridge today. Merchants, traders, and other folk out on their daily business, dodging runner-carts and the occasional larger oxcart, pushed past Sian without even glancing at the lovely structure. Capuchin monkeys climbed through the bridge’s ornate grillwork overhead, chattering to one another, ever alert for the chance to pilfer some tasty morsel from an open cart.

Sian kept moving too, passing over onto Viel, through increasingly crowded streets towards the townhouse, nodding at faces she knew. She paused for a moment to talk with Mother Whinn at the corner tavern and bakery which stood at the base of Meander Way, a blade-straight street, artifact of the sense of humor of Viel’s ancient designers. Or of their delicate grasp of reality.

At 45 Meander Way, Sian stuck her large brass key into the thick wooden door, jiggled it left and right, then turned it. The lock slid free, and she went in.

Ooh, she muttered as stale air greeted her in the commercial front room. It had only been a few days; unfortunate that she had to keep the place sealed tight when she was away. She laid her bag and satchel down and set about opening shades and windows, letting in not only the perfumed tropical air but a good deal of light. The front room immediately became far more cheerful, and a whole lot hotter.

Small price to pay. Sian never talked aloud to herself at home on Little Loom Eyot, but here, she often found herself doing so.

She bustled about the room, opening the smaller windows at the back and on the half-floor upstairs, propping the shutters open as wide as they would go, checking the levels of oil in the lamp wells, bringing in the flyers, notes and letters from the postal lockbox out front, sweeping the small front porch. Then she rested a bit, with a glass of tepid water from the townhouse’s supply; a cool drink would have to come later, when she was out.

Her first errand today would be visiting the large Hiring Hall in the center of Viel’s business district, though not for another hour or two. Business associates from the continent often had a hard time adjusting to Alizar’s more languid tropic pace. In the meantime, she would work on her correspondence here — or perhaps find a comfortable café along the way. Yes, that was a much better idea. A small cup of kava was just what she wanted.

She stood by her open back door, letting the somewhat cooler air of the jacaranda-shaded alleyway filter in, then pulled the door closed again, and bolted it. The windows and shutters could stay open while she was out; they were fitted with narrow bars and net screens against invasion — human or insect.

Before she left, she took a moment to sort through the notes and messages that had been left. Most of them were routine, though she did find a notice about the upcoming Census. It included a little ‘personal’ note from another of her cousins: the Census Taker himself, though obviously dictated to a secretary. Escotte, ever the politician, Sian muttered, setting it aside on her ‘keep’ pile. Then she came across a more important note: the Hanchu silk merchants she’d been trying so hard to pin down were inviting her to dinner this very evening, at their trading house on Malençon. Sian felt a mixture of annoyance and relief at this: what if she’d been on the Eyot today and missed this invitation! Well, thank goodness she wasn’t, and double thanks that she kept a closet stocked with appropriate clothing here.

At the bottom of the stack, she found the item she’d been looking for: a small, tri-folded piece of manila-colored paper.

Unfolded, it revealed a short yet flowery note, labeled with today’s date and written in a man’s blocky hand; the slightly uncertain scrawl of someone who’d learned both the Alizari language and its flowing script as an adult:

Domina Sian Kattë:

Greetings and most felicitous welcome upon your return to civilization. (A joke, lady, if you please.)

I am most graciously anticipating the resumption of our negotiations on the subject of the northern silks I have in my stores, the afore-mentioned case of wine, and any other matters which may interest you. I trust our previously arranged appointment for this evening remains convenient. Please respond as to your pleasure in this matter as to the particulars of the time; I am assuming the place is to be the usual?

Looking forward to our continued negotiations, I am, as ever, your faithful servant:

Konstantin Reikos of Lost Port, Commanding, Fair Passage

Sian smiled as she read the note, then frowned, realizing that their rendezvous was now in conflict with her invitation from the Hanchu syndicate. She refolded it and tucked it into the purse hidden within the folds of her yellow silk.

Locking the door behind her, Sian headed out, intending to stop by her favorite kava house, the Green Island. But the day had now grown steaming-hot, and the streets unusually crowded with a strangely cranky assortment of people. After being run up against a wall by some scowling fellow on a runner-cart, then jabbed in the ribs — for a second time — by someone’s wayward elbow, she decided the Green Island was rather out of her way, and stepped into the fenced-off area of the next sidewalk café she came to. She sank into a chair under the shade of a crape myrtle, and shooed a pair of small blue skinks off of the table.

Lady? A thin girl in rough cotton, with the pale skin of a northerner, stood above her.

Hot kava, and a glass of cold water, please, Sian said. The girl nodded and ambled back to the tiny kitchen.

Sian sat, watching the flood of humanity passing by. People of every color and shape and age. Many of them were the proper dark-skinned folk of Alizar and the southern extents of the Sunward Sea, but strange pale folk from Copper Downs and the City Imperishable passed as well. Across the busy lane, she noticed a rather grimy local man in ragged clothing, leaning idly against a wall. He seemed to be staring, none too happily, at her, for what reason she could not imagine. Recalling Jamino’s ambushed runner-cart, she turned away from the street to glance casually through her stack of papers until the girl returned with her kava and water.

Anything else?

Thank you, no. Sian dug out her purse. How much?

Three.

She paid, and was left to her correspondence. The first note was to the Hanchu merchants, graciously accepting their dinner invitation. Then came the more routine letters and replies. She glanced casually back across the street, relieved to find the unpleasant stranger gone. Really, what was wrong with people these days that one couldn’t even sit down in an open café without being scowled at by some vagrant? Her stack of finished notes grew as she sipped the cooling kava and warming water, and came at last to Reikos’s note.

She imagined him writing it out. He was so different from the huge, golden-bronze expanse of Arouf, or indeed most men in Alizar. Smagadine, with hair of pale brown, sea-green eyes, a clean-shaven face, and a lithe, corded body that would get a local boy laughed at and beaten. An unusual man, a considerate paramour, and so different.

But, alas, she would be all the way over on Malençon at dinner time. She had no choice but to cancel her meeting with Reikos — unless …

Sipping the last of the tepid kava, she pulled out a piece of blank paper.

Reikos,

Greetings and felicitations on this fine day.

I too warmly anticipate the resumption of our negotiations and am eager to view the cloths and other items of which you speak. Sadly, a last-minute business engagement has presented itself, and I shall not be available this evening before the twelfth bell of night.

I am terribly sorry for the late notice and the imposition on your no doubt busy schedule. If the revised hour is at all feasible, we could meet at my offices. I do hope to see you, though of course I will understand if you must reschedule.

Please let me know by return note if I should expect you this evening.

Yours,

Domina Sian Kattë

Sian read the note over once, then folded it up. Tucking the whole stack of finished correspondence into her satchel, she set out into the streets to find an errand boy.

Her messages dispatched, Sian joined Viel Road, the island’s largest thoroughfare. The streets seemed even more crowded now, and surlier; people bumped into one another with cross words and frowns. She took a deep breath and pressed forward. Perhaps she had been spending too much time on Little Loom Eyot; she felt unused to the pace of central Alizar.

She passed by the grander houses and shops of the wide street, then nearly tripped over some large obstruction, just catching herself by thrusting an arm against the adjacent building. Oh! She sucked in a breath as pain shot through her arthritic shoulder, and looked down to see what in the world had caught her feet.

A beggar woman sat below her, soiled, scarred, with bruised legs splayed into the cobbled walking border of the road. The creature gazed up at Sian with dull, red-rimmed eyes, but made no move to escape or protest, or even to get out of the path.

I beg your pardon, I did not see you there. Though Sian’s words were apologetic, her tone was sharp, which she instantly regretted. But really, who sprawled into a crowded street with so little regard for their own safety? Her shoulder pain eased slightly as she rubbed it, but she knew it would go on smarting for some time.

The beggar woman blinked, staring up at her sullenly.

You should take more care. You’re lucky I didn’t injure you. You … aren’t injured, I hope?

Butchered God say I be safe wherever I lay me head.

Sian stared down at the woman, at a loss for words. So now the ‘god’ was suspending the rules of the physical world as well as those of economics? Where would this end? With the poor flying off to live in the stars? She shook her head and stepped over the beggar woman’s legs, continuing on her way.

Soon the Hiring Hall loomed before her. She nodded at the old men as she went inside, then smiled as she walked up to a booth run by the Brownrock brothers — Gord, the elder, and Ellevan, the younger, yet smarter of the pair. Not that either of them could be called particularly young; they’d long been in business even when Sian was a girl. She always enjoyed passing the time with them, even to the point of sitting down for a game or two of bone-match.

Today Ellevan was there, leaning spindly elbows against the hard countertop of his meet-table. The board behind him was heavily chalked with men’s names, nearly all of them crossed out with a thin white line, indicating that they were working, but might be available at the right price. Erasure only happened with men who were hired out to distant islands on long-term contracts. Or dead. And even then, sometimes the brothers didn’t erase a name till a month or more had passed.

Greetings, Ellevan. Sian walked up to the high counter and leaned her elbows opposite the frail fellow’s. She looked for the usual answering light in his eyes, yet it was a long moment before he yielded to her charm.

Greetings, Domina Kattë.

How is your brother?

He passes fair well, I suppose.

And your mother?

Still eating broth.

Sian nodded. The woman was rumored to be over one hundred years old, and seemed bound to outlive everyone in Alizar. Good thing she was sweet; being so helpless, and with her sons so businesslike, they might have poisoned her soup decades ago if they’d had a mind to.

Excellent.

There was the usual pause as Sian and Ellevan regarded one another. In earlier days, Sian would have jumped right into whatever negotiation she was here about. By now, she had learned better. As with all other business in the islands, there was a pace and order to these things.

Continuing his part of their ritual, Ellevan said, Arouf, he passes well?

Fair well.

Your lovely daughters?

The same. And Maleen’s children never stop growing.

Your business is not in trouble?

Sian snapped into focus, looking into the man’s eyes. What an odd question. Quite outside the usual run of the thing. Was his mind slipping, or was he trying to maneuver her in some way? No, she said, barely missing a beat. In fact: I have need of two more weavers. I need men of good strength yet short stature, to work the great loom. Young, late in their second decade at the most, but full-grown. Who do you have for me?

Ellevan shook his head as she spoke. Might have one fellow for you, might not. A bit simple in the head, but he follows directions well.

I need two good men — not some great oaf who can’t read a pattern. Sian looked at the board behind Ellevan with a rising sense of desperation. Are all those men working? The crossed-out ones?

He gazed back at her. Might be. Might be roaming the streets. I don’t hear for certain, I leaves them put. Shrugging, he added, I don’t get the renewal fee, then I know.

There were three or four men not crossed out. What about them? Sian pointed.

Ellevan paused another half-beat, then hoisted himself up and went to the board behind him. His shoulders were hunched as he ran his finger over the columns of names, muttering to himself. These fellows, you don’t want them. His hand hesitated over two unfamiliar names; they looked foreign. Or maybe that was just Ellevan’s crabbed handwriting. No, I only got Frico. He got the strength of two men.