Read on for the first chapter of Daughter of Flood and Fury, as well as a quiz to find your personal Tidecalling, entries in the Encyclopedia Tidecaller, and a free e-book!

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "It did not take long for Jacobs' easy prose and intriguing plot lines to scoop me up... he could be a big voice in this genre." - Fantasy Book Critic

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "A YA revenge/coming of age story about a magically-gifted young woman driven to investigate and avenge her father’s death against a backdrop of religious dogma, global politics, corruption and, again, rigid expectations of men and women." - Booknest

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Such a good series that I’ve just finished the second read through. All the big threads wrapped up with some tantalizing hints dropped in the end." - Trpn Tggr (amazon review)

I crouch ankle-deep in running water, blind-folded, reading the current. I hear the whole chamber through the water: the mutters of the watching students, the patient tick of my trainer’s thoughts, and the anger of Erjuna across the wide floor from me, his mind seeking to read mine.

I refuse it. That’s the first rule of watersight: do not let your opponent in. Only those you trust.

I let no one in.

Erjuna tries to keep me out, but he’s slacked off in the last few months, like the rest of them, like the whole temple. Become more interested in politics than studies, and so they’ve all gotten weak. I’ve fought half my class today and not taken a scratch. Erjuna is the last of them, many say the best of them, because they don’t want to admit I’m the best. That a girl could be the best.

Sometimes I hate my dad for putting me here. For discovering I have watersight when I shouldn’t, for using his position to get me in any way, for making me the only female seer in a temple of men. I’m a walking heresy, a challenge to everything they believe. That’s what finally got him deposed and murdered, no matter how much they claim it was suicide. I hate them for killing him, even though I resent him for putting me here.

It’s twisted, I know. Welcome to my world.

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Scroll on for the first chapter of Beggar's Rebellion, as well as a quiz to find your Resonance, explore the world of the Empire, and a free e-book!

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “An incredible epic fantasy…whether it’s the magic, the concepts, or the authentic characters, this novel shines” – Fantasy Book Review

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "I really, really loved Ella. I was always looking forward to her chapters, really sympathized with her plight and just enjoyed reading about her life and seeing her spark and fight, refusing to give up, no matter what was happening." - Thoughts Stained With Ink

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Beggar’s Rebellion is an authentic and resonating read defined by intriguing plotlines, flawless pacing, and a compelling humanity that shines from the protagonists." - Fantasy Book Critic

1

Ellumia Aygla leaned against the ship’s wood rail, fingers of wind in her hair. It was a warm afternoon, even for the chilly south, and the sun’s light played off the river water, glinting like gems in a jeweler’s market. Scents of roast fish and lamb rolled from the top deck over the clatter and rattle of men taking second tea. The Swallowtail Mistress was one of the finest riverboats to ply the Ein, offering its passengers song and drink and game on the three-month journey from the capital through the provinces. Most were bound for the last stop, Ayugen, center of the swelling trade in power-inducing yura moss, along with more traditional deforestation and slave collection.

She could smell the slaves, the sour odor of the galley ahead pulling them up the current, indentured men and women made to row six years for their crimes. It was disgusting, but so much about the Councilate was disgusting: its worship of money, its flagrant excess, its destruction of cultures and people for the sake of material gain.

It was disgusting, and it was home.

Or, it had been—the Swallowtail was home now, a floating escape from her past. For two years, she’d been traveling the river, balancing the books of rich passengers to pay her berthage and save toward crossing the sea. It was glorious, in allowing her to make money without attachment to House or husband. Glorious too in the access it gave her to all the ports and peoples of the continent.

Glorious and maddening. From the Ein river you could reach all six of the colonies, either directly on the banks or up a tributary. The Swallowtail stopped at all of them, and for a few hours every few weeks, she could mingle with the people of the docks, hear their tongues and try their foods and admire the strangeness of their crafts. For a few precious hours, she could add sight and smell and touch and taste to the travelogues she’d been reading since youth. Then it was back on the ship, back to the bureaucrats and dull ledgers and long afternoons of watching the world roll by.

She was, as far as she knew, the only tax calculor working the river. It made sense for the bureaucrats, who tended to leave the capital with personal and business ledgers in need of calculating. They could arrive in port with books ready for audit, and meeting about financial strategy gave them something to do in the long months of transit. It made sense for her too—she was able to travel, to save money toward studying at the Thousand Spires, and the lack of competition meant she didn’t have to worry about other calculors lowering rates.

That, and they’d know she was a fake.

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1

I crouch ankle-deep in running water, blind-folded, reading the current. I hear the whole chamber through the water: the mutters of the watching students, the patient tick of my trainer’s thoughts, and the anger of Erjuna across the wide floor from me, his mind seeking to read mine.

I refuse it. That’s the first rule of watersight: do not let your opponent in. Only those you trust.

I let no one in.

Erjuna tries to keep me out, but he’s slacked off in the last few months, like the rest of them, like the whole temple. Become more interested in politics than studies, and so they’ve all gotten weak. I’ve fought half my class today and not taken a scratch. Erjuna is the last of them, many say the best of them, because they don’t want to admit I’m the best. That a girl could be the best.

Sometimes I hate my dad for putting me here. For discovering I have watersight when I shouldn’t, for using his position to get me in any way, for making me the only female seer in a temple of men. I’m a walking heresy, a challenge to everything they believe. That’s what finally got him deposed and murdered, no matter how much they claim it was suicide. I hate them for killing him, even though I resent him for putting me here.

It’s twisted, I know. Welcome to my world.

Erjuna makes his charge. I know he’s running from the way his thoughts stutter, feet splashing in and out of the water. His mind is a mess, thoughts slipping through his blind like a school of fish through fingers—calculation on how to beat me and worry he’ll be humiliated and stress about losing his place as the head of his House.

I wait till the last second, confident in my watersight though I’m blindfolded and all I can hear are the shouts and cries of the watching students, echoing in the long stone training hall. I need to do more than win here. I need to win so decisively my enemies won’t dare attack me. I need it more than I need my trainer’s approval or a position in one of the Houses. Because this about more than the training now.

It’s about staying alive.

Erjuna strikes, chopping his staff down overhand. He thinks it well before he does it, so I’m ready. I roll left at the last second, hearing his curse through the water as the wood cracks into stone. My staff slaps into his knee. He’s good enough that he recovers with a strike at my chest, and for a few seconds we dance and dodge blows, staffs cracking and water flying, but it’s a foregone conclusion. His concentration drops even more in action, and I read his thoughts like a peddler’s banner, see the desperate strike at my head before he tries it.

I duck, his blow cutting air above me, then drive the butt of my staff into his sternum, hard. He doubles over, wheezing, and I deliver a series of blows to his ribs, then a crack on the head that drops him like a dead man.

I should stop now. I’ve won, I know that, everyone knows that. But winning isn’t enough. I need fear from them, a show of strength so intense the other students won’t dare come at me, and the theocrats won’t dare disappear me, despite my heresy.

So I press the staff into his windpipe, finding it even blindfolded. I can feel his throat flex through the wood.

“Yield,” I say, not in the water as I should, but in the air, so everyone can hear it.

His thoughts are an angry jumble of defeat, humiliation, and strategizing how to save face, how to convince his friends he should still be head of their House.

Apparently, it includes not yielding right away. Too bad. I need everyone to see the second-best fighter in our class is a distant, distant second.

“Yield,” I say again, pressing harder.

He starts choking. “Yield,” he finally croaks, throwing up his hands.

I lift my staff. “Witch,” he spits, getting up from the water.

Beating him is a mistake. Erjuna is the second-best seer in our class, the most popular, and the best with words, something I suck at. He’s an easy pick for class leader—which means his House will likely get elevated this year to full seership. If I had just bowed down to him, at least let him touch me, maybe he would have taken me, taken my strength and skill over my heresy. Not anymore.

It’s a mistake, but all I have are mistakes now. A mistake to not make friends, but a bigger mistake to trust anyone as my father’s usurpers disappear all my relatives. A mistake to defeat my whole class without taking a scratch, but a bigger mistake to show any weakness when they’d readily off me to improve their own chances. The best seer in generations, the town criers are saying. If only she wasn’t the daughter of the former Chosen. If only she wasn’t a girl.

So I have to be stronger than all that. Untouchable. The best they’ve ever seen. Or they’ll disappear me—kill me or marry me off to some minor merchant or send me to a distant riverpost to relay messages the rest of my life. I can’t let that happen.

Because if it does, I’ll never find out what happened to my father. And I’ll never be able to ruin the bastards who did it.

“Remarkable,” a voice says, and it takes me a second to realize I didn’t hear the speaker’s thoughts through the water, not even a trace. Someone who blinds as well as me—a senior seer, then. I pull off my blindfold.

Worse: it’s the new Chosen, Nerimes, the seer who led the charge against my dad’s heresies, standing in the archway at the far end. The ocean breeze lifts his elaborate robes, and sunlight sparkling off the running water casts shadows in the pits of his eyes. This is the man who took advantage of my father’s death to seize power, who stands for everything my father was trying to change. A traditionalist. I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed my father, but I believe in Uje’s justice too much to attack him without being sure. Everyone deserves justice.

Especially the guilty.

Trainer Urte clears his throat. “Alethia is doing quite well, your Grace. Eighteen of her classm—”

“Defeated today, and the rest too scared to challenge her. Yes, I know. I’ve been reading the waters for some time now.” He lifts a brow at the other students, now lined up along the far wall, at sixteen all taller and stockier than me. “And none of you can take this girl? Can even touch her, despite her heresy? Despite watersight being the gift of your sex, and totally foreign to hers?”

No one responds, but the water speaks volumes. That we can hear their thoughts at all speaks volumes, when they should be practicing, should be blinding their thoughts with breath and concentration. It’s pathetic. I would be better yet if I had someone with real talent to fight against.

Nerimes’ eyes snap to me, sharp in deep sockets, as if he heard me. My fingers go cold on the staff—did he hear me? Did my waterblind fail? He, of all people, I do not want reading my thoughts.

“Perhaps a friendly spar, then?” he asks, shrugging off the bulky robes of state. He did read me, somehow. And meanwhile his mind is silent as stone, not even a murmur through the water.

I look to Urte, who appears uncertain. It’s not customary for full seers to spar with students, especially not the senior theocrats. They hardly spar with each other, except those chosen as overseers for the city. But Urte nods, and I catch a hint of his thoughts, as I often do these days. That it might be good for the class to see me beaten. Might be good for me.

I tighten my fist on the staff. Nerimes has to beat me first.

“Blinds or no, your Grace?” I ask, giving my robes a quick wring to free up movement.

He smiles. “No need for them. A real monk must use all his faculties.” He’s not a big man, or even a particularly muscular one, but there is an air about him. A sense of power coming from his lean frame.

Good. It will feel glorious to mash his throat under my staff, like I did Erjuna’s. I let the thought slip past my blind. I don’t care. My strength is not in words. It’s in battle.

Take the lower position, he says through the water, his words precise, formal. I nod to him and stride across the hall, downstream in the flat sheet that flows across the floor, that originates with the River Thelle and runs through every room in the vast temple before dropping to the sea. The lower position is easier, as thoughts travel faster downstream, with the current. It’s a small advantage, but I’ll take it. My pride is not so great as to think I can beat the Chosen of Uje as easily as I beat Erjuna. Though I do intend to beat him.

I crouch, fingers to the water, staff flat behind me, pushing my awareness out.

And see myself, with a shock. He isn’t even bothering to hide his thoughts as he strides confidently across the floor toward me, catching a staff one of the students throws to him. I am a small figure in the sunlit room, black hair falling nearly to the water, body wiry under damp robes. I look small, vulnerable in the vast space. Maybe that’s why he’s letting me see.

I stand, uneasy. No one has ever done this before. It violates the basic rule, to let no one in. And yet, I can’t read his thoughts, his intentions, the normal unrelated things that run through everyone’s minds. Only his sight. With a gasp, I realize he’s partially opened his waterblind, showing some things and hiding others.

This is beyond me. Far beyond me.

I grip my staff tighter as he approaches. His thoughts remain completely closed, but the sight he offers gives me some small advantage at least.

It vanishes. And in the dead silence that follows, he strikes. I manage to get my staff up, blocking left with a crack, but the force of the blow nearly knocks me from my feet. Floods, he’s strong. I step right, spinning my staff to catch his ribs.

He’s fast too—my staff whooshes through the air where he was, the Chosen circling left. I lean back to avoid a counterstrike, and the dance is joined. We circle and parry and thrust and slash in grim silence, water splashing and glinting around us. He is no better fighter than I, at base, but his speed and strength are unbelievable.

I dodge back again, gradually giving ground, being driven back toward the flat stone walls of the chamber, our engagement already twice as long as any I’ve had today, and his waterblind still as silent as the midnight ocean.

I need to do something, find some edge, or I’m going to lose. So I form a thought, a simple suggestion in my head: a slip. A stumble. A moment of gracelessness, or overreaction. And as I block a bone-shaking overhead blow, I push the thought into the water, push it at Nerimes.

He stops for a moment, eyes widening. I think maybe it’s worked, this power of watersight I’ve discovered, of planting thoughts in another’s head. Then his eyes narrow, and he comes at me again in a flurry of blows.

Well done, his voice comes through the water. But I am beyond such tricks.

I step back, running into the wall, and it’s a quick series from there to the corner, to the floor, to his quarterstaff mashing my throat, to me admitting I yield.

I almost don’t, preferring death to dishonor, but pragmatism wins out. I’ll have other chances at this man. When I’m a full seer and I can do better than defeat him in a spar. When I can depose him and prove that I am no heresy. That it’s the temple, not me, that needs to change.

His black eyes lock on mine. So your heresy runs deeper than your gender, his voices comes in the water, pitched for my mind alone. That is a shame.

A chill runs through me, despite the heat. I might have imagined it before, but there’s no denying it now. He read me through my blind. Which is impossible.

And it also means I’ve made an enemy here, if I didn’t have one already.

Aloud, he says, “Impressive,” tossing the staff back to its owner without looking. “There are not many in the temple who could stand before you, Aletheia of the Vjolla, watersight or no.” He smiles. “But I guess I am one of them.” He nods to Urte. “My apologies, Trainer, for intruding on class. If you did more to enforce orthodoxy within our walls, perhaps I would not need to step in.”

Urte does not flinch under the criticism, and my heart swells. “I will do as Uje commands, Your Grace.”

“See that you do,” Nerimes snaps, and sweeps out with a last glance at me.

Urte dismisses class. Dashan gives me a look on the way out, wide face concerned, but he’s clearly not going to say anything in front of everyone else. Good. The last thing I need right now is someone feeling sorry for me.

I pace back to the cubbies in the wall, trying to sort out what this means, why Nerimes came, what it bodes for my position in the temple. If he’s finally going to disappear me, now that he knows I’m more than my father’s pawn. That I’m a heretic too.

Too bad I’m the also best seer the temple has seen in generations. Try disappearing that.

Well done today, Aletheia, Urte says through the water, in a thought too soft for any but the closest to hear. He stands in a pool of sunlight, weathered chest bare, hands clasped behind his back.

You think I am foolish, I think back to him. I don’t need to see through his waterblind to know his mind, not after so many years.

He inclines his head. You are strong—even the Chosen says so. But strength means little without insight.

You think I should have let Erjuna win. Should have bowed down to get into his House.

You need a House to be elevated, Aletheia. It is part of the test.

I kick at a leaf floating in the water. And what good will a House do me if everyone sees I’m not the best? That the heretic girl isn’t even a skilled heretic? I’d be out of here faster than the spring flood, even if Nerimes doesn’t ship me off.

Urte sighs and turns to the windows, cool breeze carrying the smell of salt and the sounds of the city below. Child, how many forms of water are there?

Three, I answer, letting a bit of impatience slip through my blind. This is first-year stuff. Liquid, ice, and steam.

And which of these would you say is the strongest?

Ice, I answer without hesitation. Though we rarely see it in Serei, I learned my lessons well. Even before we started sparring, I had to be the best. Not only is it the strongest, when set in cracks it can split stone, as the philosophers believe even our sea cliffs were made.

Urte cocks his head. And how does the ice get into the stone? Is it forced in there, solid and cold?

I frown. I—haven’t seen it, but I assume it must flow in first, then freeze.

I see his lesson a moment later. He says it anyway. Water’s strength is in its adaptability, little bird, in its ability to flow into the tiniest of cracks, and also to freeze and split apart mountains. But ice on its own? He shrugs. It is not nearly so strong as stone or steel. It will crack. It will shatter. It will break nothing apart if it cannot first flow.

I gather my things and turn to him. You would have me be fluid. Flow into the cracks of this temple, that I might break it apart?

He gives me a pained smile. I would have you serve this temple, as your father did. Not split it apart.

But he did split it apart, I think bitterly. With his heresies. With me. I’m the reason the traditionalists seized power at all.

No, Urte says, his voice hard for once. Stergjon was no heretic. You are not a heretic. It is the temple that failed to adapt, that stayed ice when it ought to have been water. You can change that. But not if you do not first learn to be liquid, too.

I sigh, gazing out the giant square windows at the ocean and the white-roofed buildings of Serei beyond, climbing the sides of the bay to the clifftops. All I’ve ever been is ice. If I change now…

He turns to me. You will still be the best of them. And the best version of yourself, too.

I sigh. Thank you, Urte. I wish I could take his advice, but it’s too dangerous.

I am leaving the temple for a few days, Urte says. Some business in the peninsula. Be careful while I am gone.

Careful? I turn to him. Careful of what?

The old man purses his lips. Likely of nothing. But do it, all the same.

I nod, sensing the dismissal, then remember something. Is there another form of waterblind?

He shakes his head. What do you mean?

Nerimes let me into a part of his thoughts today, but not all of them. And I could swear he read thoughts through my blind. Is there more we haven’t been taught?

Little bird. There is no waterseer in the world who can do such things. But pride can imagine reasons to hide the truths it does not wish to see. He drops his blind to me, and I see he’s telling the truth, as far as he knows.

Still, I wasn’t imagining it. I turn to leave, rather than be rude to Urte. He was loyal to my father and is the closest thing I have to a friend among the seers.

I know what I know. And not knowing how Nerimes did it, or why he came today, feels like diving into the ocean blind.

1

The key to the New Yersh Councilate, clearly, was the waterways. With the invention of draft boats, and cheap labor from the indentured, we could now move goods easily up and down the Ein. Long a harbor for commerce with the Brineriders, Worldsmouth became the hub for a trade system expanding upstream. It was only a matter of time before they thought to conquer their partners.

—Telen Fostler, Empire Reconsidered

Ellumia Aygla leaned against the ship’s wood rail, fingers of wind in her hair. It was a warm afternoon, even for the chilly south, and the sun’s light played off the river water, glinting like gems in a jeweler’s market. Scents of roast fish and lamb rolled from the top deck over the clatter and rattle of men taking second tea. The Swallowtail Mistress was one of the finest riverboats to ply the Ein, offering its passengers song and drink and game on the three-month journey from the capital through the provinces. Most were bound for the last stop, Ayugen, center of the swelling trade in power-inducing yura moss, along with more traditional deforestation and slave collection.

She could smell the slaves, the sour odor of the galley ahead pulling them up the current, indentured men and women made to row six years for their crimes. It was disgusting, but so much about the Councilate was disgusting: its worship of money, its flagrant excess, its destruction of cultures and people for the sake of material gain.

It was disgusting, and it was home.

Or, it had been—the Swallowtail was home now, a floating escape from her past. For two years, she’d been traveling the river, balancing the books of rich passengers to pay her berthage and save toward crossing the sea. It was glorious, in allowing her to make money without attachment to House or husband. Glorious too in the access it gave her to all the ports and peoples of the continent.

Glorious and maddening. From the Ein river you could reach all six of the colonies, either directly on the banks or up a tributary. The Swallowtail stopped at all of them, and for a few hours every few weeks, she could mingle with the people of the docks, hear their tongues and try their foods and admire the strangeness of their crafts. For a few precious hours, she could add sight and smell and touch and taste to the travelogues she’d been reading since youth. Then it was back on the ship, back to the bureaucrats and dull ledgers and long afternoons of watching the world roll by.

She was, as far as she knew, the only tax calculor working the river. It made sense for the bureaucrats, who tended to leave the capital with personal and business ledgers in need of calculating. They could arrive in port with books ready for audit, and meeting about financial strategy gave them something to do in the long months of transit. It made sense for her too—she was able to travel, to save money toward studying at the Thousand Spires, and the lack of competition meant she didn’t have to worry about other calculors lowering rates.

That, and they’d know she was a fake.

Not that she was a fake, exactly—she kept up with the tax codes, knew the loopholes to maximize her clients’ savings, and produced clean-enough books that clients regularly offered to hire her. She just didn’t have a license. She’d taught herself calculism, working under her brother’s guidance. And when he died, spending five years getting licensure training in the city had been impossible. Besides, it was fun to spit in the eye of Councilate law.

Currents knew they’d spit in hers.

Ella turned back to the rail. They were passing through southern Yatiland now, the hilltribe’s iconic circular settlements topping the scattered hills of the river valley. The Councilate had conquered them twenty-odd years before, and already their port looked like Worldsmouth, their people spoke passable Yersh, and their children traveled to the capital for jobs and training. Who or what the city had been before was gone. Out here, though, days from any port or Councilate stronghold, the hilltribes held to the old ways. Squinting against the light on the water, she could make out red-haired men and woman at work in the dog kennels and terraces ringing their wooden hilltop settlements, grasses green and lush in midsummer.

“Wild beasts they are, wild beasts,” she spoke, quoting one of her favorite travelogues. “The Yati war and kill and procreate with all the abandon of a pack of curs.” She had only been in their major port, but the Yati she met never struck her as bestial.

“Aye, and beasts they are, Miss Ella.” She turned to find Captain Ralhens, pipe clenched in a broad smile. “Never let ’em on the Swallowtail, not once.”

She quirked her eyebrow at him. “Perhaps we are the ones who seem uncivilized to them, Captain, rowing ourselves up and down this river in search of coin, when they have all they need in the space of one hilltop.”

He shook his head. “That’s fine, if all you want is sheep and sour beer. Sounds to me like you’ve been reading too many of those books.”

“What else is a lady to do with her time at water?”

The captain hitched his leg on the lower rail. “You might find yourself a man on one of these voyages. Plenty of fine men headed south in this economy.”

Ella snorted. “All they see in me is free calculism and a set of hips.”

Ralhens reddened—the Yersh were notoriously prudish. “I think some of them would be a great improvement to the House Aygla.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Aygla was the false name she’d taken, a bastard mix of major Houses Alsthen and Galya, a family working for the Houses without direct lineage. By marrying a real Alsthen or Galya, or even closer bastards like Alson or Gaya, a calculor could improve her standing—and that of her children. It was the reason many women studied in the first place, to turn wealthy clients into husbands.

She’d rather die. Ella smiled at the captain. “Soon enough.”

Ralhens frowned around his unlit pipe. “You’ve what, twenty-five summers now?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Descending Gods, but you’re young still!”

She stood a bit straighter. “I’ve lived a full life.”

“I don’t doubt it, ma’am.” Ralhens cleared his throat, no doubt remembering the condition in which she first came to him. “There’s a soiree tonight, last of the voyage. You might think of going—I believe Lieutenant Warmsmith is recently widowed.”

“What do you think all this is for?” Ella gestured at her dress, one of the Brinerider gowns she kept for special occasions.

“Oh, ah, yes.” He cleared his throat, reddening now for a different reason. She had that effect on men. “Well.” He tipped his hat to her.

Ella smiled, watching him go. They had some version of this talk on every voyage, and she believed he was genuinely concerned for her. Naive, and no idea who she was even after two years, but a good man nonetheless. He was the closest thing she had to a friend here.

I’m almost offended, her voice said.

Her smile turned wry. “You’re hardly a friend, LeTwi. More like a virulent and inescapable pest.”

At least I’m not trying to marry you off. His tone was educated and world-weary, as if speaking was barely worth the effort.

“Ralhens means well. He just can’t see past the ideas of his parents.”

Ah. And you can?

“I can see the whole thing is fishscat, if that’s what you mean. You did too!” Before dying and becoming her voice, LeTwi had been a highly respected scholar, one of the advisors to the Council, though he hadn’t much involved himself in politics. She’d read everything he wrote.

My approach was slightly different. I said everything is fishscat, to use your terms. The challenge is to be brave enough to live with that knowledge.

“I—” Ella cut off, a man coming from top deck and passing by. Councilate culture held that voices were childish fancies, something to be suppressed by adulthood. Though she knew other cultures viewed them differently, it was still embarrassing to be caught talking to herself. “And you think I don’t have that courage?”

I think your search for meaning in primitive cultures is a clever way of running from the facts. But no, if you must know.

“And if I find something out there that is truly different than Councilate fishscat?”

LeTwi sighed—he was good at sighing. There is a certain inertia to history, dear. Even if you do find something, it will take a long time to change minds.

“Not if I become an advisor.” The Council had just gotten its first female Councilor, Salea Deyenal. It wasn’t so far off to imagine she could become an advisor.

Ah yes. The old irony of hating the Councilate but intending to work for it.

“To make it better. What else can I do? The whole world will be under its control before long.”

There is nothing else, my dear. Though I did find solace in dreamtea. Speaking of which, aren’t there husbands you’re meant to be wooing? The band had struck up a song on the top deck.

“Clients, LeTwi.” She stood from the rail—there were still a few men on board who hadn’t come to her for bookkeeping. “One last job would bring us to a nice even total for the voyage.”

And you say you’re above Councilate money-grubbing.

Ella opened her mouth, then turned for the top deck. LeTwi had an annoying way of getting the last word.

* * *

The soiree was held under the canopy on the top deck, polished wood floorboards reflecting the warm light of lanterns as the sun sank over the port rail. Musicians played at the rear, Worldsmouth strings and tuned Seinjialese drums, while smoke rolled from lemon-basted perch and lamb over open coals. Ella’s stomach rumbled. There were perks to working on a top-class riverboat—the lower classes ate beans and rice the entire voyage.

Ella scanned the clusters of men, looking for those she hadn’t done books for. Colonel Olgsby stood near the bar with two House men she hadn’t done books for—Odril and Gettels, she thought they were. Ella approached them. “Gentlemen. I’m glad to see concerns of the coming port haven’t dampened your spirits.”

Odril grinned, showing too many teeth. “Never.”

The old Colonel inclined his head. “You’re referring to the so-called rebellion? Hardly worth losing a supper for, my lady. Would you care to join us?”

She gave them a practiced smile. “I would love to.” She had already done Olgsby’s books, but perhaps she could get one of the others to bite.

They took a table near the bow, star tinting the sunset a brilliant purple. “I don’t know why you don’t just quash them,” Odril was saying. He was a midlevel bureaucrat with a sallow complexion and beady eyes. “I thought the rebels were wiped out years ago.”

“This is a new breed,” Olgsby waved his hand as though brushing aside gnats. “Guerilla fighters. Cowards, hiding down in the yura mines. They haven’t done much more than property damage—fifty, maybe a hundred untrained fighters, maximum. If they try anything real the garrison will sort them out.”

“Well I say we bring the Titans in. Crush ’em.” Odril watched her as he said this, and Ella kept a polite smile on her mouth. Male posturing among men old enough to be one’s father was a professional hazard.

“Perhaps what they need is to be included in the political process,” she said, arranging a napkin on her lap.

“An Achuri House?” the old colonel spluttered. “Never! We only just began recognizing Seinjialese Houses last year!”

“With the costs I read of troop deployment and maintenance, it might save us money in the long run to just let them have a small say in things.” She didn’t need LeTwi’s snide remark to know how likely the idea was to fall on deaf ears, but she had to try.

Odril gave her a patronizing smile. “Oh, we hardly need to save money. With the amount we’re making in yura, the whole city could rise up and it wouldn’t dent our profits.”

Profitability was a point of pride among these men, and one of contention between the Houses. Perhaps if she could start them boasting about money, she could talk one of them into some calculism. “So Alsthen is doing well, then?”

The sallow bureaucrat puffed up. She had noticed men, when they were competing for a woman’s attention, tended to act like preening turkeys. Odril certainly fit the bill at present. “Extremely well. Ninety percent of the construction in New Ayugen is ours.”

Was that a light of jealousy in Gettels’ eyes? “Mr. Gettels, I hear your House has been turning quite a profit on dried winterfoods of late.”

He puffed his own chest out. “We have, it—”

“Passing fad,” Odril cut in. “It’ll never match yura for demand.”

“On the contrary,” the other said, back straightening, “it appears the two complement each other quite nicely.”

Ella nodded. “Recent broadsheets are theorizing the reason so many of us can’t use yura, or only weakly, is the lack of winterfoods in our diet. You can’t get uai without them, and without uai, yura has no power.”

Odril glanced between them, deflating slightly. “Well, yura will always be more important.”

Ella took a bubbling glass of ginseng and lime from a serving man. “I suppose the measure of that would be whose House is doing better.”

Gettels eyed Odril. “We’re doing remarkably well.”

Odril eyed him back. “Alsthen is doing extremely well.”

Ella struck an innocent expression. “You must have so many books to calculate.”

“Oh, piles and piles.”

She smiled. “You know I’m offering calculism aboard the ship, if you’d rather arrive with books ready for audit.”

Gettels paused, fully inflated and caught in her trap. But Odril waved a hand. “I have my own calculors.”

“How disappointing.” She turned her shoulder to him, knowing it would appear to the other men that he’d lost her favor. “And you, Mr. Gettels? Have you any need? I am free tomorrow. We could meet midmorning.”

“I—well, I don’t have much with me, but I suppose—”

“I’ll take that meeting, Miss Aygla,” Odril cut in, glaring at the other man. “I have quite a few books that need calculating, and it couldn’t hurt to have some done early.”

She smiled at him, while LeTwi made some sarcastic comment and the colonel goggled at the whole affair. A little competition could work wonders. “Excellent. Have them sent over, and I’ll calculate them by tomorrow evening.”

Odril’s smile was oily. “I’ll bring them myself.”

Another professional hazard—men mistaking an offer of services for something more. Fortunately, she had a supply of yura and a resonant ability no one could match, should things go wrong.

Commotion at another table caught her attention—a dark-haired serving boy was sprawled on the deck, one of the white-coated military men standing over him, wine staining his kurta. “I’ll have the price of that out of your hide, boy!”

The other men at the table chuckled, apparently enjoying the show. The “boy” was not much younger or smaller than the soldier, but he stayed where he was on the floor, clearly aware none of his options were good.

Ella stood. “Unhand him, sir.”

The soldier turned, startled, then softened on seeing her. “Ah. My apologies, madam—this is no sight for a lady. But justice must be had.”

She cocked her head. “Do you think he did it to you on purpose?”

“I wager he did, the mud-haired lout!”

“And to what advantage would that have been? Not only are you armed with military training and blade but with money and background he could never hope to achieve.”

“Why, for spite itself, if naught else,” the man rejoined, but he was deflating some as more began to watch.

“And have you previous offense with this man to cause such spite? Nay, good sir, this was accident alone. And if accident it was, there is no crime for which to demand justice.”

“And my kurta?” he demanded, gesturing to the stain spreading across the long, split-sided tunic. “Shall I pay for it out of pocket?”

Ella scoffed. “If you are too mean to cover such damages, I shall pay for them myself, sir. Have the bill sent to my room.”

The soldier stuttered, then with a stiff bow said, “That won’t be necessary.” The serving boy, sensing his opportunity, scrambled away.

Ella couldn’t keep a satisfied grin from her face as she sat back down. The Colonel nodded to her. “I’ll see no harm befalls the boy. The man was overreacting.”

“Quite right,” Gettels put in, and Odril nodding, watching her with new attention.

Ella smiled to them. Who said you couldn’t change the world with a different set of ideas?

* * *

Odril sent his books over the next morning, and she spent the day working the ledgers, taking breaks to eat or stand at the rail, watching the passage from the Ein to the narrower Genga that lead to Ayugen. It was dry work, but she found a certain satisfaction in ordering disparate accounts and logbooks into tidy forms the Councilate inspectors could audit.

The sallow bureaucrat came for his books that evening, then lingered unpleasantly in her cabin.

She gave him a smile, tonguing the yura ball in her upper lip, in case she’d need it. “Thanks again for your business. Now I really ought to do some packing before Ayugen.”

He hovered inside the door, nearly the only place to stand in the cramped cabin. “Yes. Though you—look quite settled here.”

She knew it looked odd—in contrast to most of the Swallowtail’s sparsely furnished cabins, she had a bureau, bookshelves and a writing desk all crammed between the mattress and the wall. “Well, a lady should be comfortable.”

He smiled, eyes darting glances at her body. “Yes. You know, I could easily find work for you in Ayugen. And likely pay you a lot more than you make here.”

This sort of offer was common. “That’s very kind of you, but I enjoy the freedom.”

He didn’t look pleased at the answer. “I imagine it keeps prying eyes away, too.”

Her heart clenched. “I’m—not sure what you mean.” Did he know she wasn’t licensed?

“Nothing, my darling.” His hand reached up to brush her cheek, and Ella flinched back. “But let me know if you ever change your mind.”

He moved toward the door. Finally. “Will do. Thanks again!”

She shut the door and locked it after him, then took a moment to shudder the slime from her. Odril was an unpleasant man. Then again, most bureaucrats were.

He knows, Ella.

She took Odril’s money from the bureau top. “He doesn’t know. He was probably talking about having a lie with me.”

He was thinking about having a lie with you. He was talking about why a licensed calculor would work on a riverboat instead of dry land.

She bit her lip. “Well, he’s not the first to wonder. It’s only a few days to port, anyway.”

LeTwi gave the mental equivalent of a shrug. I’d just keep your yura handy.

Ella rolled the ball of moss in her mouth, outer coating of beeswax keeping it from digesting until she chewed on it. Yura was too expensive to use except in real need. “Always do.” There were men who had gone farther than Odril, who thought that her services implied more. They’d learned their lesson.

Ella sat down on the bed. Odril would likely be her last customer of the voyage—she’d balanced books for most of the men on board, and those remaining likely had wives or House associates who would do it cheaper in port.

Still, it had been a profitable voyage. Ella took a bust of Markels from her nightstand and flipped it to reveal a cleverly hidden latch. Inside were three more balls of yura and a mess of red-gold coins. She set them on the bed in neat rows of ten: six thousand one hundred sixty moons. After paying her return fare and picking up some sundries in Ayugen, that would leave her forty-three hundred or so. Not a bad profit for a few months’ work. Two trips more, or three, and she would have enough for tuition and passage across the sea.

And a chance for real scholarship.

“Yes.” She lay back, imagining the journey across the open sea, a trip precious few managed to book with the reclusive Brineriders, and then the Thousand Spires beyond, amongst a people famed for their science and untouched by the Councilate. She’d read accounts of the Gyolla, but what would they be like? How different their systems of merit and mass labor? Would they accept her application? Most of the Council’s advisors had studied with them, though they were famously close-lipped about their experiences. Maybe it was because—

A noise at the window made her look up. She caught a glimpse of something pale on the dark walkway outside—a face?—then it was gone.

“Stains!” she cursed.

What?

“A face. I thought I saw a face at the window.” Fear clicked a moment later, and her heart started beating hard.

A bird, maybe.

Ella looked hard at the porthole. “It didn’t look like a bird.” It looked like a face watching from outside the window. From the hull of the ship?

She swept up her pile of coins and put the ball of yura back in her mouth. “I should have closed the curtains.”

She did now, and checked the lock on the door. Her little cabin suddenly felt vulnerable, her place on this ship full of men insecure, and she drew out the metal shank she kept under her pillow. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered, packing the money away. She would hide the money elsewhere—in a hollow in the mattress this time. Ella tensed at every sound, jumped at every creak, but nothing more happened.

She lay back down. “Just a couple of days left, anyway. It was probably nothing.”

Maybe it was the Descending God finally returned to earth.

She laughed. “Come to peep in at me? How flattering.” She lay back on the bed and willed herself to relax. “It probably was just a bird. And if it wasn’t”—she tongued the yura in her mouth—“I guess it’s their bad luck.”