Free The Year of Our War by Steph Swainston Page A

material which encircled her body, and she silently proceeded to unwrap herself, passing the material between her legs and over her shoulder, until it gathered on the table and she was left, a very thin peeled figure. I thought the green fabric was a curtain but she took an edge in each hand and opened it out. It was the Lowespass flag. She had taken the flag down. Genya stalked across the table and left it in a massive bundle in front of Staniel. “For the Featherback King!”
    “Thank you,” said Staniel.
    I said, “Genya. Welcome…”
    Mist kicked my ankle. I shook myself and wiped a couple of drops of drool off the tabletop with my shirt sleeve. I put out a hand to her, she strode over and buried her face in my palm, breathed deeply through her nose and mouth, taking my scent. She pushed her face against my palm, the way a cat does when it is urging you to stroke it.
    “Genya. Genya. Mmm.” I tried to kiss her but she jumped back. I shuffled in the seat, aware of an increasing pressure against the crotch of my leather jeans—thankfully hidden by the table. “Can you run?” I murmured.
    “Rrrrrrrr.” A purr or a growl?
    “Excuse me, you two.”
    Genya stood up, traversed the table toward the Archer with a single stride, the Insect antennae in her hair waving. She flourished long bare arms at him; he looked rather uneasy.
    “I want to know what is going on,” she proclaimed. “I spit on Insects from the battlements. Insects bite at the walls. What you do is sit in dark halls and talk. What did Dunlin fight for?”
    “Listen, Rhydanne—” snarled Lightning, and she was behind him in a flicker of movement, thin hands with nails like daggers caressing his neck.
    “What say?” she asked.
    “I’m not talking to you until you behave civilly.”
    “You talk, Featherback, or I rip you throat!”
    “My lady.”
    Genya slid back onto the table and sat legs crossed, a wide grin splitting her face. She held her head on one side, a ponytail of frothy black hair cascaded down to her waist. She wore skimpy shorts; all her clothes were minimal because Rhydanne can’t feel cold. She liked to make a point of showing this. Her pale, limber legs were wreathed in invisible designs, zigzag flashes and scrollwork. They were ikozemi tattoos, cut using white lead and still poisonous. They only become visible when the skin is flushed, for example by hot water, pleasure, or drunkenness—Genya only ever has the last of these.
    Lightning sighed, attempting to mitigate her presence. “We were discussing—” he began.
    “Help me.”
    “How?” I asked, nervously. How much would she tell? I wondered if I would be able to stop her if she intended to reveal any secrets. I knew I couldn’t hurt her.
    Genya crawled across the table on hands and knees, and regarded me quizzically. “I want to go home,” she said. “If I run the Insects chase me. So I am trapped here. Jant says he will help me, but how long have I been here? Jay is gone, so why stay? I want to know where is all the snow? This place is so bad. It is hot. The air is thick. It is full of Insects, and now it is full of Featherbacks.”
    Staniel removed one hand from a bloodshot eye, said, “Excuse me…?”
    Genya ignored him. “This is not like Darkling,” she concluded flightily.
    I caught her gaze and said warningly, “Sister—”
    “I am not your sister! If I was your sister I would marry you!”
    “This isn’t Scree. Please be quiet.”
    “You are a pathetic, Shira. Insects gnaw us out from where we sit and you would not notice. In Scree this would not happen.”
    “That’s because there aren’t any Insects in Scree,” I muttered, but she caught the comment.
    “No,” she agreed lightly. “There are just mistakes.”
    I hissed. It hurts to be reminded that I’m illegitimate, a Shira. Genya’s surname was Dara, born within marriage, and in the mountain culture that meant that she could feel superior to me. My hopeless lust turned to anger. A