Chapter 2: Ikara

2

✦ ✦ ✦ 

IKARA

The main road divides into three thick paths that give the illusion of spiraling out in different directions, but they all lead to the gates of Kaguri. What really differentiates them are the dozens of people walking along them: the Yulai with their clean, powdered faces and unblemished skin stride across the rightmost road; the Xi Qeh, with tattered clothes—if you can call them clothes—and chapped lips occupy the leftmost; and the Kijra, neither well-fed nor completely starved, shuffle across the center path. Two flickering billboards are planted on either side of the area, snow swirling around their metal frames, squeezing the people in between.

Here, on the outermost outskirts of the city, the market branches out into a free expanse. Textile and foodstuff vendors, weapons and goods merchants, this place has everything; no one cares what you sell as long as it’s sellable. We call it the umiyaji, thief’s heaven, because anything here is worth taking, no matter the item. My lip curls faintly at the thought. To say the dresses these vendors display are nice would be an understatement, but I don’t have the money to pay for even the pins that hold them flat.

Not yet.

The Kijra path is packed tight with people, prime among them kannikkai beggars, though mainly laborers coming back from weeks spent in the plantations. The Oji Strait connects the mainland to Duiyon, a strip of land that holds estates belonging to rich Batsu who oversee clusters of small plantations dotted along the coasts. With winter looming, rice and other household crops are being exported in large quantities; the share of produce these laborers receive can feed them for a week or two, and whatever money their owners rake in from the exports will reach their work-hardened hands eventually, even if the amount they gain in the end is less than minimal. Though I’d be surprised if the Yulai still willingly follow that routinely system; if it were up to them, they would likely keep the profit to themselves, the better to build up their already-full treasuries.

A flash of motion ruffles my clothes, startling me from my thoughts, then a hand reaches out from between the bodies and grabs something at my side. Novice, I think.

I whip around and shout, “Hey!”

 My mouth snaps shut in surprise when the thief actually turns.

Beneath the sharply-cut shadows of a hood appears the face of a kannikkai girl who looks the same age as me—I glimpse full lips, a pointed chin, and round amber eyes with long lashes. Her auburn hair is throat-length and juts out unevenly in a few places, like she cut it herself. She cuts a striking portrait, even with her kannikkai horns, but there are gray rings beneath her eyes and two faint depressions marking where her cheekbones begin. She has the look of a pampered Yulai who, for the first time in her life, is experiencing the weight of going hungry.

“There’s no point taking that,” I say quietly, my gaze caught on hers. “It’s empty anyway.”

The girl’s lips purse and her tongue rolls over them, as if she’s contemplating whether or not to believe me. One of her eyebrows lift.

“That’s why I want it.”

Her Hantake is surprisingly accurate, given her foreign accent, and her voice holds neither guilt nor doubt. Before I can ask what she means, she raises her hand and swings the rucksack at my head.

“What th— !”

 I swerve just in time to avoid the hit, but my foot slips on the ice, and I grab her arm instinctively to steady myself. The world tilts beneath me as I crash to the ground, taking her down with me.

The girl’s fingers loosen on the bag, but not before she releases a gasp of surprise and winces, clutching her shoulder with her free hand as if I struck her. But I felt it too—a sudden spasm of energy running down my arm, making my fingers sting. The girl narrows her eyes and apparently decides this whole thing isn’t worth the rucksack, for she scrambles to her feet and sprints away, the crowd closing over her like blood over an open wound.

I expect my first thought to be something along the lines of, What in the name of Demetria just happened, but instead— What did she mean, ‘That’s why I want it’?

I lie there for a second, my side throbbing like a second heartbeat, my breaths sharp and quick. Then I snatch my rucksack from amid the endless shuffle of feet and push myself off the ground, glancing around at the sea of faces; no one offered to help, but a few people stopped to look.

I brush snow from my nose and look up at one of the twin billboards, just to see if they detected the thievery attempt. I’ve only ever seen them once or twice, and even then I never wanted to look at them in the first place. The smooth multifaceted glass reflects the figure of every person unfortunate enough to walk beneath it. Above it, the words SEVEN PROTECT US ALL are carved in Hantake symbols. If the letters light up, we’re supposed to pay our respects, because it means the Dominance is watching.

If our government thinks that’s assuring, they’re wildly mistaken.

When I squint my eyes, I can see the holographic ink hovering beside the comically magnified faces of the people who look straight at the billboard—and right now that means me. I stay rooted to the spot as a grid scans my face and tiny blue letters appear next to my cheek:

NAME: ISHIRAKARA MIYUSHIRU

STANDING: KIJRA

STATUS: NATIVE-BORN

I almost snort. In Yatahama, being native-born means next to nothing. The first time I saw the mechanism, the board identified Danyu as native-born, even though he’s from an entirely different nation. Sooner or later I realized that being verified and being native-born means practically the same thing, at least to the government. To them, someone who buys their way into the country is even better than someone born into it, as long as the former has more money than the latter. And while I have nothing against foreigners, it doesn’t seem fair to me that native Yatahamans—the ones bred from its blood, raised by its heart—should get shunted aside when someone with fatter pockets slides their way in.

Eventually the crowd of Kijras goes from a dispersed cluster to a tidy line that begins at the place where all three paths meet, with people heading in the opposite direction on either side of those waiting to be let into Kaguri. I slip behind a short Yulai woman, merging myself into the line, and glance up at the gates. They are tall and swirling, carved from steel built to withstand the weight of a mighty city. They look more decorative than defensive; if a group of Geujinese revolutionaries corralled here and tried to force their way in, no one, least of all this thing, would be able to keep them out.

Still, I see the effort they’ve made to modernize it, like they have with everything else traditional across Yatahama. There’s a hollow embedded into one of the bars used for inserting Tokens, and a small override sensor hidden discreetly above it. The effect is almost odd, like seeing a hologram beside a traditional scroll painting.

My attention strays from the gates, and I glimpse three people standing by them: a middle-aged man who must be the gatekeeper, and a few paces away, on either side of him, two sentries. The one on the right is short and squat, like he wouldn’t fit beneath a table even if he crawled; his companion is tall and sturdy with dark eyes, but he looks as if he doesn’t know how he got her. Both of them have the look of northern Yatahamans, with darker hair and fairer skin than the southerners and easterners, owing to a cluster of features that differ along the range of the country.

 I’ve been taught to differentiate wealthy from not, but the sight of them standing there as if they own the place—as if they own rights we will never deserve—stalls something in me. I see the way they treat the Yulai and the way they treat the Xi Qeh, like a warhorse beside a donkey. And the Kijra—the Kijra are an in-between, not worthy enough to be a warhorse but just slightly above a donkey, which in retrospect is no better.

Look at the rich, kizyurza, I imagine my father saying, the ghost of his hand gesturing to one of the sentries. They sit atop large golden thrones that we make shine. They eat from plates that we fill. They make us dance and weep and jump, but they applaud as if they are the ones performing. Our suffering is their worth.

And yet . . . the sentries aren’t any better than us. Sure, they come from better backgrounds, but it was their decision to apply for less colorful jobs. They’ve likely been stationed here to break up small signs of trouble and keep an eye on things, but with their cool indifference and the way they stand, you’d think they have the whole country’s well-being on their shoulders.  

Something about the gatekeeper catches my eye. He smokes a cigarette nearly every other second—when someone speaks to him, when someone is admitted, when someone forgets their Token. The cigarette pack in his pocket from which he keeps drawing his vessels is secure but still visible. If someone were to take it . . . he would be too focused on finding it to notice someone palming his override pass.

A plan forms in the recesses of my mind as I glance at the sentries again.

The middle-aged gatekeeper admits the tittering Yulai woman in front of me, and then it’s my turn. All three men look at me as if I’ve appeared out of nowhere, their eyes finding me simultaneously, united by vague suspicion. The taller sentry glances at his companion, then returns his gaze to me with his chin lifted and gestures to the hollow built into the gates. “Your Token,” he says at length.

Your Token. A person’s Token expires every six years, and while that doesn’t stop them from staying in the country, it prevents them from doing or getting through certain things. Things like city gates. I don’t even have a Token—my mother never registered me—but I won’t need one to enter the city if all goes as planned.

“Right.” I reach into my pockets and make a show of rummaging through them, before curling my fingers over my bare palm and holding my hand out. “Here you are—”

The gatekeeper and I step forward at the same time. Halfway to him, I deliberately trip on the cuff of my pants and let myself fall forward, grabbing his belt for security. We crash into the shorter sentry, causing him to bang his head against the gates in his haste to get out of the line of fire. The gates shiver and creak at the impact; I feel it rattle my bones even as I seize my chance.

You must steal, Ikara. You must steal and sell and provide, I tell myself. That’s how it works. The rich sell, and the poor seek.

And you are neither.

 In one smooth motion, my hand slips into his pocket, flicks his cigar pack up my sleeve, and palms the override pass beneath it. The small machine will let me through the gates, and I could sell it for a few choice items if I’m lucky.

 A split second later, the gatekeeper shoves me off him, his lips curled in disgust as he wipes his hands on his trousers like he caught something from me. I stumble back, wrapping my arms around myself not out of defense but to push the stolen items further up my elbows.

The gatekeeper reaches into his pocket seconds after he rights himself, only to find it empty. “My cigar pack,” he says after a moment, searching himself and then turning to glare at me. I suppress a smirk. Of course that’s the first thing he mentions. “You took my cigar pack!” 

I hold my bare hands up, schooling my expression into one of puzzled incredulity. Apparently unable to understand that one’s hands aren’t the only places where things can be hidden, he swivels to face the sentry we stumbled into and starts arguing with him about the cigar.

A Kijra boy with a dagger tattooed beneath his eye steps out of the back of the line and shoves his way forward, shoulder-checking me as he goes—but his attention is on the arguing Yulai.

“You’re holding up the line,” he says calmly over the rising sound of complaints from the other people in the queue. Standing this close to him, I suddenly notice his sharp features—his Geujinese features. What would a Geujinese boy be doing here?

“Both of you get to the back! Now!” the taller sentry yells.

The Kijra turns to glare at me, and in his stare I see hatred, not annoyance. What takes me aback more is that I don’t blame him. Maybe it’s because he knows what I just did; maybe it’s because he planned to do it too, and now he can’t, and it’s not fair that I should get the chance he doesn’t have.

“Get to the back! I won’t tell you again!” the taller sentry warns, stepping forward.

My lips purse. I glance between the men and realize that if I don’t do this now, I will lose the chance to do it at all. The boy might be the same rank as me and he might have the same motives as me—to get into the city—but this is my plan, not his.

 I drop the override pass into my hand and close my fist over it. Then I turn, pointing toward the far end of the gates, and gasp, “There’s your cigar pack!”

The gatekeeper immediately swivels, shouting, “Where?! Where?!” with a crazed look in his eyes.

I draw my knee back and kick the tall sentry in the crotch.

“Why, you—!” By the time he gets the insult out, I’ve already shoved past him. His shorter companion makes a grab for my hood but is forced to drop his hand as the Kijra boy tackles him; I don’t have time to say my thanks.

I don’t wait to hear the alarmed shouts of the people in the queue as they scatter, or the sound of the gatekeeper still stupidly screaming for his cigar. I slam the override pass into the hollow, causing the sensors above to flash red, and shove my way through the gates before they’re even fully open.

Then my hair is flying behind me and I am sprinting, sprinting, sprinting through the snow-lined streets, my breaths emerging in sharp bursts, the override pass still clutched tightly in my fist. . . .

You must run, Ikara. You must run and run and run, I tell myself over and over again. That’s how it works. The rich flourish, and the poor hide.

And you are neither.

✦ ✦ ✦ 

 The market is crowded at this time of day with Batsu and magi alike, their voices running quick and ceaseless, their fingers grasping fat coins. If not for the sound of dripping resonating off the stall roofs and the feel of water hitting my skin, I’d think the blur of light rain needling the sky is just the air bending to accommodate the amount of people braced beneath its weight.

My eyes rake the market stalls as I slip between each person. Hurried chatter flits around each corner like another presence that doesn’t know where to stand, so it settles for sprinting instead, never stopping for breath. Most of the rich merchants have drawn their products beneath the shade of their stalls to avoid the drizzle, but the remainder don’t seem to care how wet their products get—so long as someone buys them before they’re completely soaked through.

I touch the override pass in my pocket, feeling the metal press against my fingertips, and walk over to a clothes stall surrounded by a handful of people.

I step aside to wait for the chattering vendor to finish talking to another customer, but a young man—the vendor’s assistant, maybe?—is already stepping into the light to address me, so I approach the stall. He looks me up and down, probably thinking I’m a Xi Qeh come to beg. I ignore the flare of annoyance that runs through me and nod to the line of dresses flapping along the clothesline above. “How much for two of those?”

The assistant snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “This is a Yulai’s market, girl.”

Again, with the flare. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m a newborn sugirue cub,” he deadpans. “Go find another vendor to harass. I’m not playing your games today.”

He’s already turned away from me to take the next buyer, a round Yulai woman who gives no indication that she knows I’m here. I open my mouth and shut it again, then open it again, but nothing comes out. I just stand there as the assistant and the Yulai exchange polite camaraderie; then the woman snags a dress from the clothesline, aims a casual little wave at the assistant, and trots off.

This is a Yulai’s market. The Yatahamans preach harmony with their lips, but they avoid it with their eyes, never bothering to follow the moral rules they make. And it’s not even a they—it’s a we, and I am grouped into that category, no matter how separated from it I really am.

“You’re still here?”

The assistant looks at me with a wrinkled upper lip, having retreated back into the shade of the stall. I realize, like an outsider looking in, that I’ve been standing here for a full minute, staring at the patch of road where the Yulai once was.

I step forward, bracing my hands on either side of the wooden counter that separates me from him, and say, “You’re joking, right? You let her pay without question, but you won’t let me prove I can do the same?” I don’t know why I sound so surprised.

The assistant lifts a shoulder, as if the answer is obvious. “Your appearance isn’t exactly doing you wonders.”

I wrench the override pass from my pocket and slam it down so hard that a shock runs up my arm. The man jumps—he’s not giving me the beggar’s look anymore.

 “Wh—” He swallows, recollects himself, and then continues. “Where did you get that?”

“This is a Yulai’s market,” I reply, throwing his own words back at him. “Does it matter where I got it?”

He clutches the pass in his fist and steps back. “Just take your pick and get out of here.”

With pleasure. I reach up and snatch the nearest line of dresses off the clothesline. I’m about to leave when a glimpse of movement stops me: the vendor finishes seeing off another customer, steps into the light, and stares down her nose at me, bumping the assistant with her silk-clad shoulder. “You have to pay for those,” she says skeptically.

For the first time in weeks, a smile finds its way across my face.

“I already have.”

 I gather the pile of silk in my arms, turn, and stalk away.