Denth nodded. “I know.”
“Jewels, too,” she said, glancing at him. “She is a Drab.”
“Yeah,” Denth said, settling back down. “Has been since she was a child. Her parents sold her Breath to one of the gods.”
“They each need a Breath a week to survive,” Tonk Fah added.
“How horrible,” Vivenna said. I really need to show her more kindness.
“It’s really not so bad,” Denth said. “I’ve been without Breath myself.”
“You have?”
He nodded. “Everyone goes through times when they’re short of coin. The nice thing about Breath is that you can always buy one off someone else.”
“Somebody is always selling,” Tonk Fah said.
Vivenna shook her head, shivering. “But you have to live without it for a time. Have no soul.”
Denth laughed—and this time it was definitely genuine. “Oh, that’s just superstition, Princess. Lacking Breath doesn’t change you that much.”
“It makes you less kind,” Vivenna said. “More irritable. Like . . .”
“Jewels?” Denth asked, amused. “Nah, she’d be like that anyway. I’m sure of it. Either way, when I’ve sold my Breath, I didn’t feel much different. You really have to pay attention to even notice it’s missing.”
Vivenna turned away. She didn’t expect him to understand. It was easy to call her beliefs superstition, but she could just as easily turn the words back on Denth. People saw what they wanted to see. If he believed he felt the same without Breath, that was just an easy way to rationalize the selling of it—and then purchase of another Breath from an innocent person. Besides, why even bother buying one back if it didn’t matter?
The conversation died off until Jewels returned. She walked in and, once again, Vivenna barely noticed her. I’m starting to rely on that life sense far too much, she thought with annoyance, standing as Jewels nodded to Denth.
“He is who he says he is,” Jewels said. “I asked around, got three confirmations from people I kind of trust.”
“All right, then,” Denth said, stretching and climbing to his feet. He kicked Tonk Fah awake. “Let’s carefully head back to the house.”
23
Lightsong found Blushweaver in the grassy portion of the courtyard behind her palace. She was enjoying the art of one of the city’s master gardeners.
Lightsong strolled through the grass, his entourage hovering around him, holding up a large parasol to shield him from the sun, and generally seeing that he was suitably pampered. He passed hundreds of planters, pots, and vases filled with various kinds of growing things, all arranged into elaborate formal patterns and rows.
Temporary flower beds. The gods were too godly to leave the court and visit the city gardens, so the gardens had to be brought to them. Such an enormous undertaking required dozens of workers and carts full of plants. Nothing was too good for the gods.
Except, of course, freedom.
Blushweaver stood admiring one of the patterns of vases. She noticed Lightsong as he approached, his moving BioChroma successively making the flowers shine more vibrantly in the afternoon sunlight. She was wearing a surprisingly modest dress. It had no sleeves and appeared to be made entirely of a single wrapping of green silk, but it covered up the essential bits and then some.
“Lightsong, dear,” she said, smiling. “Visiting a lady in her home? How charmingly forward. Well, enough of this small talk. Let us retire to the bedroom.”
He smiled, holding up a sheet of paper as he approached her.
She paused, then accepted it. The front was covered with colored dots—the artisans’ script. “What is this?” she asked.
“I figured I knew how our conversation would begin,” he said. “And so I saved us the trouble of having to go through it. I had it written out beforehand.”
Blushweaver raised an eyebrow, then read. “‘To start, Blushweaver says something that is mildly suggestive.’” She glanced at him. “Mildly? I invited you to the bedroom. I’d call that blatant.”
“I underestimated you,” Lightsong said. “Please continue.”
“‘Then Lightsong says something to deflect her,’” Blushweaver read. “‘It is so incredibly charming and clever that she is left stunned by his brilliance and cannot speak for several minutes . . .’ Oh, honestly, Lightsong. Do I have to read this?”
“It’s a masterpiece,” he said. “Best work I’ve ever done. Please, the next part is important.”
She sighed. “‘Blushweaver says something about politics which is dreadfully boring but she offsets it by wiggling her chest. After that, Lightsong apologizes for being so distant lately. He explains that he had some things to work out.’” She paused, eyeing him. “Does this mean that you’re finally ready to be part of my plans?”
He nodded. To the side, a group of gardeners removed the flowers. They returned in waves, building a pattern of small blossoming trees in large pots around Blushweaver and Lightsong, a living kaleidoscope with the two Returned gods at its center.
“I don’t think that the queen is involved in a plot to take the throne,” Lightsong said. “Although I’ve spoken with her only briefly, I am convinced.”
“Then why agree to join with me?”
He stood quietly for a moment, enjoying the blossoms. “Because,” he said. “I intend to see that you don’t crush her. Or the rest of us.”