Kai shook her head. “There are too many secrets in the pool. I can tell you about idols we’ve built. I can describe common structures of faith and myth. But I can’t show you specifics. Gods and Deathless Kings the world over would kill children for a chance at the knowledge you just asked me to give you. We host idols worth millions of souls, and we take our pilgrims’ privacy very seriously.” She trailed off, remembering Seven Alpha. Not, for once, the idol’s death, not the words, but what came after. The room of glass and edges. Ms. Kevarian’s questions, probing, piercing, endless. “Very seriously,” she repeated.

“I get it,” Teo said. “I can keep secrets. I’ll sign a nondisclosure agreement if you want—you can lock my memories of your idols away except when I’m in the same room as Two Serpents board members.”

“All of whom are major players on the soul-markets themselves. I’m sorry. I can put you in touch with other pilgrims who have volunteered to discuss their experiences. Their successes.” She keeps digging, Mara had said. I don’t even know what she’s looking for. The Grimwalds had signed off on the Shining Empire trade. They knew the risks—might they have known the trade would go south? Did they approve it expecting their idol to fail?

“I’m sorry,” Teo said. “That would help, but I don’t think it will push us over the line. I hope you appreciate my position.”

Kai was barely listening anymore.

I seek the truth. Ms. Kevarian’s own words, in their meeting, in the nightmare.

What truth?

Teo continued: “I don’t mean to be difficult. But if we’re to work together, I have to see.”

“I understand,” Kai said. “I’m sorry you traveled so far, for so little.” She closed the folder, and walked out of the conference room.

She felt Teo’s eyes follow her. She ignored them.

Chapter 19

19

“What do you know about poets?” Izza asked that afternoon, as Cat did handstand push-ups on a stretch of bare floor.

The woman’s back and shoulders rippled with muscle; her toes pointed straight at the sky and the sagging roof. Six weeks give or take since her injury, one of those shaking from withdrawal, and already so strong. As if pain hurt her differently from normal people. “Lots of questions today.”

“Just curious.”

“Poets in general or”—Cat growled as she pressed herself back up into handstand posture—“specific?”

“I’ve been thinking about the man who saved me from the watch,” Izza said. “He was a poet. Or he said he was.”

“Saving”—through clenched teeth as she descended into another rep—“isn’t a poetish”—and up again—“thing to do.” She paused for breath this time in her handstand, but her arms did not shake.