Thornfruit Page 3

  Yiran’s knife missed an olive and chopped into the wood of the cutting board.

  That was the secret. That was why people didn’t like be around Alizhan. Even if they didn’t know that Alizhan could feel their feelings, they could sense a strangeness about her. Iriyat had been trying to teach her to behave properly for years. Look into people’s eyes, but not too much. Smile, but only at the right time. Ask questions, but only boring questions that you already know the answer to. Talk, but only about the right things. Determining the right time to smile or the right thing to say meant distinguishing a person’s inside—their thoughts and feelings—from their outside, the words they spoke aloud and the way they moved their face and body.

  People’s outsides were not always the same as their insides. Alizhan had trouble telling the difference.

  For instance, right now she wanted to say to Yiran, “I’m not useless. Iriyat keeps me around because I tell her what her political rivals are thinking.” But Alizhan wasn’t allowed to say that, because that would be telling the secret. And Yiran hadn’t said that Alizhan was useless out loud. She’d only thought it.

  At least, Alizhan was pretty sure she hadn’t said it.

  Instead of saying anything, Alizhan walked over to Yiran’s cutting board, plucked a pitted black olive out of the pile, and ate it. It was a fierce burst of flavor, bitter and briny, against her tongue. She chewed, swallowed, and took another.

  Yiran buzzed with anger. But she didn’t reach out and slap Alizhan’s wrist for stealing and slowing down her work. She pulled her arms in close and edged away.

  Once, a long time ago, Yiran had tried to be friendly. It had happened when Alizhan had botched an escape after spying on one of the Council members. She’d stumbled home to Varenx House with a twisted ankle, bloody knees, and scraped palms. Yiran had seen her come in and been moved to sympathy. She’d never liked Alizhan, but up until that moment, she’d always felt a twinge of guilt about it—Alizhan couldn’t help being the way she was. Some people were just born wrong.

  Yiran had insisted on patching Alizhan up. She’d learned the hard way that contact with Alizhan’s skin meant instant pain and a splitting headache for both parties at the very least. That time, it hadn’t been the very least. Alizhan had blacked out. She knew from Yiran’s memory—she always tried to keep the incident away from her thoughts, the way she might distastefully pinch a soiled rag—that Yiran had vomited and then passed out.

  A shift or two later, when she next saw Yiran, Alizhan had informed Yiran that she was lucky she hadn’t drowned in her own vomit, because it was true. Also, Iriyat was always telling Alizhan to be friendlier. Alizhan thought it was nice that Yiran hadn’t died.

  Yiran had hissed, “Get away from me, you monster.”

  She no longer felt guilty about disliking Alizhan.

  Yiran had been quick to tell all the other Varenx House servants, too. Not that they’d needed any encouragement to stay away from Alizhan. Alizhan could always feel the fear and revulsion crawling through them. They called her “crazy girl” or “little ghost,” as if saying her name would bring them bad luck.

  Alizhan wondered sometimes if, as the “little ghost,” she was destined to end up like the other ghost. There were two secrets in Varenx House, and he was the other one. No one ever spoke about the other ghost, but she knew sometimes Yiran or one of the other maids had to go up to that room with a bowl of soup. It wasn’t really a ghost, of course, but everyone was just as terrified as if it were. Alizhan could feel him every time she passed by one upstairs bedroom. A terrible jumble of anger and confused memories hissed out of that room at all times. It was sickeningly strong. She could feel it through the walls and the locked door. Alizhan avoided the big ghost as much as all the other servants avoided the little ghost.

  Neither of them was really a ghost, but they might as well have been. Ghosts were incorporeal. Untouchable.

  Is that what happened to him? Is that how he became a ghost—never being touched? Alizhan could be touched. But only by Iriyat.

  Iriyat was blank. The only quiet thing in the cacophony of the world. It was a strange kind of comfort, that blankness, since it meant Alizhan could never feel if Iriyat liked her. Iriyat said that was how the world worked for everyone else, that they never knew anything for sure about other people. She said that was what trust meant. Trusting Iriyat was worth any amount of uncertainty—when Iriyat touched her, Alizhan felt only the warm skin of her hands.

  When Alizhan was a child, Iriyat used to hold her in her lap and stroke her hair. If Alizhan behaved, controlled herself, did what Iriyat asked, sometimes Iriyat would hug her. Alizhan was nineteen now. Those touches had become rare gifts, as if in growing older, she could shed loneliness in the same way she’d outgrown her old clothes.

  According to Iriyat, Alizhan was the only one of her kind. The only person touched with this particular madness. Sometimes it was a relief to know that no one else ever had to live this way.

  Other times it was not.

  Whether she was passing through the halls of Varenx House or Arishdenan market, the yearning pulse of the world thrummed in Alizhan’s mind: friends greeted each other with handshakes and cheek kisses, children jumped into their parents’ embraces, and lovers longed for each other’s bodies. Everyone wanted to be touched somehow. In that one way, at least, she was no different. It must be nice to live in a world full of blank people, where anyone could touch anyone else.

  But Alizhan lived in this world, and Iriyat was all she had.

  So when Iriyat said I need your help, Alizhan said yes. Even if the next sentence was I need you to come to a party.

  It was Alizhan’s least favorite kind of work. Being in a crowd of people was dizzying. All those thoughts and feelings made her tremble and sweat. She could stand it for a few minutes at a time.

  The trick was to focus on one person in order to shut out all the others. Alizhan had learned this as a child, during one of her many ill-fated attempts to run away.

  Back then, she’d been convinced that somewhere out there in the chaos of Laalvur, her real family was waiting for her. They regretted abandoning her at the orphanage. They wanted her to come home. If she could only get to the city, she’d find them. Her real family would be able to touch her.

  Alizhan knew better now. There was no family waiting for her. They didn’t want her. They never had.

  But one of her attempts to run away had led her to the Laalvur market, and that was where she’d met the thornfruit girl, who called herself Ev and who warmed with affection every time she saw Alizhan.

  No one else ever felt like that because of Alizhan.

  It was worth all the sickness and the exhaustion that Alizhan suffered in the middle of the market crowds to bask in Ev’s kindness for a few fleeting moments. Alizhan went back to see her again and again. They never spoke, because Alizhan could never stay, but she knew that warmth radiating from Ev meant that Ev liked seeing her, too—a strange, novel feeling. Ev didn’t even know Alizhan’s name. She thought of Alizhan as “the thief,” or sometimes “my thief,” but she never stopped Alizhan from palming a handful of fruit.

  Alizhan would rather be a thief than a ghost.

  She could never stay long, but she never regretted going to see Ev, even at times when she had to dash into an alley and collapse afterward.

  Those moments with Ev had taught Alizhan more about how to move through the world than long years of training with Iriyat ever had.

  It was thanks to Ev, now, that Alizhan could take a deep breath and do what Iriyat wanted. She plunked Yiran’s bowl of pitted olives onto a tray and went out into the party.

  As the head of Varenx House, Iriyat spent a lot of time throwing parties for other wealthy and powerful Laalvuri. Alizhan was familiar with not just the heads of the other three Great Houses—Mar ha-Solora, Sideran ha-Katavi, and Ezatur ha-Garatsina—but their families, friends, servants, business associates, and lovers. She knew all the members of the Counc
il of Nine, all the wealthiest merchants, and all the most powerful priests.

  It was easier to memorize and recite years’ worth of past Council votes, trade deals, and secret affairs than to be in a room with all of them at once.

  None of them knew who she was. Perhaps they remembered her face—that pitiful, strange servant girl Iriyat insisted on keeping, from some sense of charity. But as she wove between groups of people carrying trays full of foods to nibble or glasses of sweet yellow wine, people took note of what she was offering, and nothing else.

  Although once, three years ago, Iriyat had hosted the Prince of Nalitzva, a young man called Ilyr. He’d sailed all the way across the sea to come visit the Dayward coast, and Iriyat, being of Nalitzvan ancestry, had offered him her hospitality. Alizhan had certainly not expected him to notice her, let alone be nice to her. But when Ilyr had first arrived, he’d been so anxious at the first gathering that he’d been in physical pain. When he’d ducked around a corner early in the party, Alizhan had found herself sneaking after him, tray of glasses in hand.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I… don’t know,” he’d said, shaping his syllables with the deliberate precision of a foreign speaker. “Can I have some wine?”

  She’d offered him the tray, and he’d taken a glass and said, “Thank you.” After a gulp, he’d added, “And thank you for asking,” so quietly and with such genuine gratitude that Alizhan still remembered him fondly. She’d never told anyone about the incident, not even Iriyat.

  Was it reassuring to know that even a prince could panic? Or was it depressing? Either way, Alizhan had been pleased to discover that sometimes, wealthy and powerful people were nice to servants.

  Nobody at the present party would thank her so gratefully.

  Staying steady required Alizhan to focus on a single person. She switched her attention from one person to another after a few minutes, scanning the room for anything of interest. Iriyat always wanted to know what people thought of her—did her parties impress them? what did they think of her work with the orphanage?—but she collected information of all kinds, even things that Alizhan found inconsequential, like Sideran thinks the Prince of Nalitzva is very handsome.

  Sideran, head of Katav House, was a beautiful woman, according to Iriyat. She was tall and slender and dressed in a teal tunic and trousers, with her black hair in a long braid down her back. Sideran didn’t thank Alizhan for offering her a glass of wine because she was far too busy talking at Ezatur, the head of Garatsin House, to notice Alizhan.

  Normally, beautiful women were only invited to Iriyat’s parties if there was no conceivable way to exclude them. But Sideran, in addition to being the head of one of the four Great Houses and thus difficult to exclude, had a flaw that Iriyat found useful: she never stopped talking. She’d spent her life surrounded by people who’d never dream of interrupting her or telling her no. A stream of complaints flowed constantly from her mouth. She rarely said anything that wasn’t about herself, unless it was to disparage someone else. Her company was so unpleasant that Iriyat, possessed of social graces, instantly seemed radiantly beautiful by comparison.

  Alizhan found Sideran tolerable. Because she always said everything that was on her mind, she was a much quieter presence than many of the other guests, who both talked out loud and also kept up a private running commentary in their heads. It didn’t bother Alizhan that the contents of Sideran’s mind weren’t particularly interesting. She was straightforward, and that kind of simplicity was rare at Iriyat’s parties.

  Sideran’s conversation partner, portly and bearded Ezatur ha-Garatsina, had spent most of the conversation contemplating ways to exit it without upsetting her. He wanted to use his time more profitably. Ezatur was always thinking about money. He had two daughters, and he wanted desperately to marry them off. It was his fondest hope that Mar ha-Solora, head of the wealthiest of the four Great Houses, would accept one of his daughters. Every time he came to one of Iriyat’s parties, he always wanted to trap Mar into a conversation about marriage and get him to change his mind on the subject.

  Alizhan, who had access to Mar’s thoughts, found that supremely unlikely.

  Mar ha-Solora was Alizhan’s favorite party guest. He had an organized mind. He was a clever and serious man, always considering trade deals and political alliances. He also disliked parties, which immediately won him Alizhan’s sympathies. Mar always wanted to put in the briefest possible appearance, or to find a dark corner where he could drink alone. Alizhan always did everything in her power to help him achieve these goals, although he’d never asked for help, and she didn’t have much in the way of power.

  Iriyat seemed to like Mar despite their occasional political differences, although with Iriyat, it was always hard to tell. Alizhan knew for certain that Mar adored Iriyat. He thought she was sweet and innocent. She had just enough intellect to make her company enjoyable. He took any excuse to come over. In a moment of distraction after a few glasses of wine, Mar had once thought those would fit perfectly in my hands while his gaze had drifted toward Iriyat’s breasts, a detail that Alizhan had dutifully shared and that Iriyat found endlessly entertaining. After every social event, Alizhan was now required to report whether Mar had spent any time appreciating Iriyat’s figure.

  The answer was always yes.

  It pained Alizhan a little to give these reports, since she’d formed a kind of secret solidarity with Mar. Lots of people thought Iriyat was beautiful, or wanted to sleep with her. No one else exercised Mar’s subtlety on the subject. But subtlety was no protection against Alizhan, and her loyalty was, first and foremost, to Iriyat.

  Besides, if Alizhan ever felt conflicted about Mar, it helped to remember what else she knew about him. Mar found Iriyat’s religious inclinations less tedious than other people’s. Indeed, tolerating Iriyat’s displays of faith made him feel magnanimous. The poor little thing couldn’t help it, he thought; the tragedy of her parents’ early death had marked her so strongly. Mar had never really thought of Iriyat as a rival. He didn’t think she was smart enough.

  Iriyat never corrected his assumption.

  From the way Yiran and the other servants tittered when Mar was in the house, he was probably good-looking himself. Whatever that meant. Alizhan could never tell what anyone looked like. She could see perfectly fine, but faces eluded her. Most people had two eyes and a mouth and a nose. Why was everyone so concerned with minute differences? Alizhan’s inability to describe anyone’s physical appearance frustrated Iriyat. Even when Alizhan saw faces in other people’s thoughts, she couldn’t distinguish them. It was a bad quality in a thief of secrets.

  Alizhan could tell that Mar had brown skin and black hair, but so did she and most everyone else in Laalvur. He was tall and broad-shouldered and a great deal bigger than her, but that was true of most everyone else in Laalvur, and probably the rest of the world. So she didn’t know what Mar ha-Solora looked like in any useful sense.

  At this moment, Mar and Iriyat were standing on the balcony together, taking in the view of the sea and the golden sky. It was early in the party for the two of them to be alone together. Iriyat usually waited until after the meal to engage Mar, if he was still present.

  Alizhan padded across the thick patterned carpets and the smooth red tile floor, trying not to step on any trailing hems as she did so. When she reached the other side of the room, she didn’t immediately step over the threshold onto the balcony. Her slippers were on a rack by the door downstairs, a long way from this salon, and Iriyat would scold her if she went out on the balcony barefoot. Alizhan trooped down to get them, then swung by the kitchen to pick up a fresh tray of wine glasses. Having good manners was exhausting.

  “Wine?” Alizhan said, approaching Iriyat and Mar.

  Iriyat nodded and accepted a glass, her long fingers curling around its stem. “Mar?” she prompted.

  He was unusually distracted. Take it, he thought to himself, grabbing for a glass. Keep her talking until the b
oy gets out.

  Alizhan started, making some of the glasses clink together and slosh their contents. She had to steady the tray before it all went crashing to the floor.

  What boy? Keep Iriyat talking? What did that mean?

  For Alizhan, a person’s present thoughts and feelings were as obvious as the bells announcing the shift change from all the towers in Laalvur. She didn’t always understand what she sensed, and sometimes perceiving someone’s inner state was more like smelling odors or touching textures than hearing speech or seeing images. Not all thoughts were words. Some people—and some thoughts—were louder and clearer than others. With very few exceptions, people couldn’t hide their current mental and emotional state from her.

  Skimming the surface of someone’s mind was effortless, but digging into the depths required more concentration. Iriyat was always encouraging her to practice this skill, since it was hard to catch people thinking of their most guarded secrets while chatting at a party. If Alizhan wanted to be a good thief, she couldn’t be satisfied with snatching whatever had been left out on the windowsill. She had to learn to pick the lock on the door and sneak inside to find the real valuables.

  Alizhan followed the thread of worry in Mar’s thoughts. At the center of a web of suspicions, there was a boy—wiry, short-haired, rough—and his story. It started with an orphanage. Not the one in Temple Street where Alizhan had been abandoned as a baby, which Iriyat funded and frequently visited. The boy insisted there was another, secret orphanage, where the priests sent all the children who were too malformed and Unbalanced for the house in Temple Street. Mar had no proof that such a place existed, and no one else could confirm the boy’s wild story. The boy, Kasrik, said this second, secret orphanage also belonged to Iriyat. Kasrik said he’d been held captive and tortured there before his escape. Mar didn’t believe it—the poor, addled boy also claimed he could read minds—but the boy was eager to investigate, and it struck Mar as an opportunity to solve another nagging question.