"Not fishing line?"

She shook her head. "Not many fish near enough to the surface for traditional fishing. Deep-sea crafts do some of the work-one fish can feed an entire town, I've heard."

"Do you always make a point to know so much about places you hate?"

"As I told you yesterday," she said, "no friends. Too much time. Let's find more slimy relics of the past, shall we?"

He hunted along the edge of the island, searching for . . . well, nothing in particular, really. After a while everything started to look the same, the dull metal just as useful as the shiny stuff, all the fabric blurring into the same color. Near the far edge he saw a half-rotten bird skeleton. It had webbed feet-a swimmer, then-and a beak with a wicked curve.

He heard a shout behind him, and whipped around to make sure Cyra was okay, his bruised ribs protesting. He saw a flash of teeth-she was grinning, calling for one of the others. When he went back to her, he expected to see something shiny, something useful-looking. But it was just more metal. Gray in color. Dull.

"What the-Commander Noavek!" said the soldier who had come to Cyra's side first, her eyes wide behind her rain-streaked visor. Vakrez jogged over.

"I saw a corner of it peeking out, and dug deeper," Cyra said excitedly. "It's a big piece, I think."

He could tell what she meant-the corner of whatever she had found was thick, and back in the pile of junk were glints of the same shade. It looked like the sheet was as tall as the flagpole had been. He didn't understand why they were so excited about it.

"Cy-er, Miss Noavek?" he said to her.

"It's Pitha's most valuable substance," she said in response, tugging wet fabric away from the metal. "Agneto. Strong enough to withstand heavy hits from things like asteroids, holds up well when we pass through the currentstream. For the past ten seasons, it's the only thing we've been using to repair the sojourn ship, but it's a rare find."

Half the platoon had come running, and now everyone was helping Cyra unearth the sheet, most grinning just like she was. Akos stood back as they dug deeper, finally loosing enough of the sheet to get a good grip. Together they dragged it from the rubble, then carried it back to the transport vessel, which had a hold under it big enough to carry the agneto.

He didn't know what to make of seeing them all work together, Cyra and Vakrez Noavek right there with common soldiers, like they weren't royalty. Cyra with that look she sometimes wore when they made iceflower blends together and she got something right at last. A kind of pride, he thought, in doing something useful.

It was a good look for her.

As a kid, he'd dreamt of going off-planet. All the kids in Hessa had, because Hessa kids were mostly too poor to ever leave. The Kereseth family was richer than most in Hessa, but they had nothing compared to farm owners in Shissa or Osoc, up north. Still, his dad had promised him that someday he would take him into space, and they could visit another planet. Akos's choice.

The water planet hadn't been his first choice, or even his second. Nobody in Thuvhe knew how to swim, because pretty much all the water they had came in the form of ice. But now he had been to Pitha. He had been in earshot of the pounding waves, had seen the frothy surface from above, had felt his own smallness as he stood on the landing pad with water in every direction, warm rain pounding on his head.

Then almost as soon as he was starting to get used to it, they were gone. He was dripping water on the floor of the floater, holding a vial of rainwater. Cyra had given it to him as they loaded the agneto into the transport-"You may as well have a memento of your first time on another planet," she'd said with a shrug, like it meant nothing. Only there wasn't much that meant nothing to Cyra, Akos was finding.

At first he hadn't seen the point of a memento, because who would he show it to? He wouldn't be seeing his family again. He was going to die among the Shotet.

But he had to have hope for his brother, at least. Maybe Eijeh could take it back home with him, after Jorek got him out.

Cyra had two fistfuls of old flag in her lap, and though she wasn't smiling, she had a fierce energy in her face, from finding the agneto.

"I take it you did a good thing," Akos said, when he was sure Vakrez and Malan weren't listening.

"Yeah." She nodded, once. "Yeah, I did." After a tick, she added, "I guess it was bound to happen eventually. I was due."

"Your currentshadows aren't as dark," he said, leaning his head back. She was quiet then. Staring at the streaks of darkness-now more gray than black-that coursed over her palm, all the way back to the sojourn ship.

They made it back in good time, all of them soaked through. Some of the other ships had come back from the scavenge early, so there were people in wet clothes milling around everywhere, trading stories. Everybody peeled the-supposedly-waterproof suits off their bodies and dumped them in piles to be cleaned.

"So the Shotet just have a bunch of waterproof clothes lying around?" he said to Cyra as they walked back to her quarters.

"We've been to Pitha before," she said. "Every sovereign has researchers who prepare for every planet in advance, but anyone over a certain age knows how to survive in any environment, essentially. Desert, mountain, ocean, marsh . . ."

"Desert," he said. "I can't even imagine walking on hot sand."

"Maybe someday you will," she said.

His smile fell away. She was right, probably. How many sojourns would he go on before he died for her family? Two, three? Twenty? How many worlds would he walk on?

"That's not what I . . ." she started. She paused. "Life is long, Akos."

"But the fates are certain," he said, echoing his mother. Few fates seemed more certain than his, either. Death. Service. The family Noavek. It was clear enough.

Cyra stopped. They were near the public training room, where the air smelled like old shoes and sweat. She wrapped her hand around his wrist and held tight.

"If I helped you get out right now," she said, "would you go?"

His heart pounded hard. "What are you talking about?"

"The loading bay is chaos," Cyra said, leaning closer. Her eyes were very dark, he realized. Almost black. And lively, too, like the pain that racked her body also gave her energy to spare. "The doors open every few minutes to let a new ship in. You think they'd be able to stop you if you stole a floater right now? You could be home in days."

Home in days. Akos took in the memory of the place like it was a familiar smell. Cisi, soothing with her smile alone. His mom, teasing them with prophetic riddles. Their little warm kitchen with the red burnstone lamp. The sea of feathergrass that grew right up against the house, the tufts brushing the windows. The creaky staircase that went up to the room he shared with . . .

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Not without Eijeh."

"That's what I thought," Cyra said sadly as she let go of him. She gnawed on her lip, trouble in her eyes. They went all the way to her quarters without talking, and when she got there, she went right into the bathroom to change into dry clothes. Akos parked himself in front of the news feed, out of habit.

Usually Thuvhe was only mentioned in the stream of words at the bottom of the feed, and even then, Cyra told him, the news was only about iceflower output. Iceflowers were the only thing the other planets really cared about, when it came to their cold planet, since they were used in so many medicines. But today the live footage showed a giant snowdrift.

He knew the place. Osoc, the northernmost city of Thuvhe, frozen and white. The buildings there floated in the sky like clouds made of glass, held up by some technology from Othyr he didn't understand. They were shaped like raindrops, like wilting petals, coming to points at either end. They had gone there to see his cousins one year, wrapped up in their warmest clothes, and stayed in their apartment building, which hung in the sky like ripe fruit that would never fall. Iceflowers still grew that far north, but they were far, far below, just colored smudges from that distance.

Akos sat on the edge of Cyra's bed, wetting the sheets with his damp clothes. It was hard for him to breathe. Osoc, Osoc, Osoc was the chant in his mind. White flakes on the wind. Frost patterns on the windows. Iceflower stems brittle enough to break at a touch.

"What is it?" Cyra was braiding her hair away from her face. Her hands fell when she saw the screen.

She read the subtitle aloud: "Fated Chancellor of Thuvhe Steps Forward."

Akos tapped the screen to turn up the volume. In Othyrian, the voice muttered, ". . . she promises a strong stand against Ryzek Noavek on behalf of the oracles of Thuvhe, lost two seasons ago, allegedly in a Shotet invasion on Thuvhesit soil."

"Your chancellor isn't elected?" Cyra asked. "Isn't that why they use the word 'chancellor' instead of 'sovereign,' because the position is elected rather than inherited?"

"Thuvhesit chancellors are fated. Elected by the current, they say. We say," he said. If she noticed his slip from "we" to "they," she didn't mention it. "Some generations there is no chancellor, and we just have regional representatives-those are elected."

"Ah." Cyra turned toward the screen, watching beside him.

There was a crowd on the landing platform, bundled though it was covered. A ship was perched at the edge, and the hatch was opening. As a dark-clothed woman stepped down, the crowd burst into cheers. The sights swooped in close, showing her face, wrapped in a scarf that covered her nose and mouth. But her eyes were dark, with a hint of lighter gray around the pupil-the sights were very close, buzzing like flies across her face-and gently sloped, and he knew her.

He knew her.

"Ori," he said, breathless.

Right behind her was another woman, just as tall, just as slim, and just as covered. When the sights shifted to her, Akos saw that the women were the same, practically down to the eyelash. Not just sisters, but twins.

Ori had a sister.

Ori had a double.

Akos searched their faces for a hint of difference, and found none.

"You know them?" Cyra said softly.

For a tick all he could do was nod. Then he wondered if he ought to have. Ori had only gone by "Orieve Rednalis"-not a name that was supposed to belong to a fate-favored child-because her real identity was dangerous. Which meant it would be better to keep it to himself.

But, he thought as he looked up at Cyra, and he didn't finish the thought, he just let the words tumble out: "She was a friend of our family when I was a child. When she was a child. She went by an alias. I didn't know she had a . . . sister."

"Isae and Orieve Benesit," Cyra said, reading the names from the screen.

The twins were walking into a building. They both looked graceful with the breeze from inside the building pressing their coats-buttoned at the side, at the shoulder-tight to their bodies. He didn't recognize the fur of their scarves or the fabric of the coats themselves, black and clear of snow even now. An off-world material, to be sure.

"Rednalis is the name she used," he said. "A Hessa name. The day the fates were announced was the last time I saw her."

Isae and Orieve stopped to greet people on the way in, but as they walked away, and the sights peered after them, he saw a flash of movement. The second sister hooked her arm around the first sister's neck, drawing her head in close. The same way Ori had done with Eijeh when she wanted to whisper something in his ear.

Then Akos couldn't see much anymore, because his eyes were full of tears. That was Ori, who had a space at his family table, who had known him before he became . . . this. This armored, vengeful, life-taking thing.

"My country has a chancellor," he said.

"Congratulations," Cyra said. Hesitantly, she asked, "Why did you tell me all that? It's probably not something you should broadcast here. Her alias, how you know her, all that."

Akos blinked his eyes clear. "I don't know. Maybe I trust you."

She lifted her hand, and hesitated with it over his shoulder. Then she lowered it, touching him lightly. They watched the screen side by side.

"I would never keep you here. You know that, right?" She was so quiet. He'd never heard her that quiet. "Not anymore. If you wanted to go, I would help you go."

Akos covered her hand with his own. Just a light touch, but it was charged with new energy. Like an ache he didn't quite mind.

"If-when, when I get Eijeh out," he said, "would you ever go with me?"

"You know, I think I would." She sighed. "But only if Ryzek was dead."

As the ship turned back toward home, news of Ryzek's success on Pitha came toward them in pieces. Otega was the source of most of Cyra's gossip, Akos found, and she had a good read on things before they were even announced.

"The sovereign is pleased," Otega said, dropping off a pot of soup one night. "I think he made an alliance. Between a historically fate-faithful nation like Shotet and a secular planet like Pitha, that's no small feat." Then she had given Akos a curious look.

"Kereseth, I presume. Cyra didn't say you were so . . ." She paused.

Cyra's eyebrows popped up like they were on springs. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, chewing on a lock of hair. Sometimes she stuck it in her mouth without noticing. Then she'd spit it out, with a look of surprise, like it had crept into her mouth on its own.

". . . tall," Otega finished. Akos wondered what word she would have chosen, if she felt comfortable being honest.

"Not sure why she would have mentioned that," Akos replied. It was easy to be comfortable around Otega; he slid into it without thinking much about it. "She's tall, too, after all."

"Yes. Quite tall, the lot of you," Otega said, distantly. "Well. Enjoy that soup."

When she left, Cyra went straight to the news feed to translate the Shotet subtitles for him. This time it was startling how different they were. The Shotet words apparently said, "Pithar chancellor opens up friendly support negotiations in light of Shotet visit to Pithar capital." But the Othyrian voice said, "Thuvhesit chancellor Benesit threatens iceflower trade embargoes against Pitha in wake of their tentative aid discussions with Shotet leadership."

"Apparently your chancellor isn't pleased that Ryzek charmed the Pithar," Cyra remarked. "Threatening trade embargoes, and all."

"Well," Akos said, "Ryzek is trying to conquer her."

Cyra grunted. "That translation doesn't have Malan's flair; they must have used someone else. Malan likes to spin information, not leave it out entirely."

Akos almost laughed. "You can tell who it is by the translation?"

"There is an art to Noavek bullshit," Cyra said as she muted the feed. "We're taught it from birth."

Their quarters-Akos had started to think of them that way, much as it unsettled him-were the eye of a storm, quiet and settled in the midst of chaos. Everybody was getting everything in order for landing. He couldn't believe the sojourn was coming to a close; he felt like they had just taken off.

And then, on the day the currentstream lost its last blue streaks, he knew it was time to make good on his promise to Jorek.

"You sure he won't just turn me in to Ryzek for drugging him?" Akos said to Cyra.

"Suzao is a soldier at heart," Cyra said, for what had to be the hundredth time. She turned the page in her book. "He prefers to settle things himself. Turning you in would be the maneuver of a coward."

With that, Akos set out for the cafeteria. He was aware of his hurried heartbeat, his twitchy fingers. This time of week Suzao ate in one of the lower cafeterias-he was one of the lowest-ranked of Ryzek's close supporters, which meant he was the least important person most places he went. But in the lower cafeterias, near the ship's chugging machinery, he got to be superior for once. It was the perfect place to provoke him-he couldn't very well be shamed by a servant in front of his inferiors, could he?

Jorek had promised to help with the last move. He was ahead of his father in line when Akos walked into the cafeteria, a big, dank room on one of the lowest decks of the ship. It was cramped and smoky, but the smell on the air was spiced and rich and made his mouth water.

At a nearby table, a group of Shotet younger than him had pushed their trays aside and were playing a game with machines small enough to fit in Akos's palm. They were collections of gears and wires balanced on wheels, one with a big set of pincers fixed to its nose, another with a blade, a third with a thumb-size hammer. They had drawn a circle on the table with chalk, and inside it, the machines stalked each other, controlled by remotes. As they collided, bystanders shouted advice: "Go for the right wheel!" "Use the pincers, what else are they for?" They wore odd clothes in blue, green, and purple, bare arms wrapped in cords of different colors, hair shaved and braided and piled high. A sweep of feeling overtook him as he watched, an image of himself as a Shotet child, holding a remote, or just braced against the table, watching.

It had never been, would never be. But for just a tick, it seemed like it could have been possible.

He turned to the pile of trays near the food line and picked one up. He had a small vial buried in his fist, and he slipped ahead in line, edging closer to Suzao so he could dose the other man's cup. Right on time, Jorek stumbled into the person ahead of him, dropping his tray with a clatter. Soup hit the woman ahead of him right between the shoulders, and she swore. In the commotion Akos dumped the elixir in Suzao's cup without anyone noticing.

He passed Jorek while he was helping the soup-stained woman clean up. She was elbowing him away, cursing.

When Suzao sat down at his usual table and drank from his tainted cup, Akos stopped to take a breath.

Suzao had barged into his house along with the others. He'd stood there and watched as Vas murdered Akos's father. His finger-prints were on the walls of Akos's home, his footprints on the floors, Akos's safest place marked up and down with violence. The memories, as crisp as ever, steeled Akos for what he needed to do.

He put his tray down across from Suzao, whose eyes ran up his arm like a skimming hand, counting the kill marks there.

"Remember me?" Akos said.

Suzao was smaller than him, now, but so broad through the shoulders it didn't seem that way when he was sitting. His nose was spotted with freckles. He didn't look much like Jorek, who took after his mother. Good thing, too.

"The pathetic child I dragged across the Divide?" Suzao said, biting down on the tines of his fork. "And then beat to a pulp before we even made it to the transport vessels? Yeah. I remember. Now get your tray off my table."

Akos sat, folding his hands in front of him. A rush of adrenaline had given him pinhole vision, and Suzao was in the very center.