There once was a serpent dying on the road.
A girl came by, a good, kindhearted girl, and she gathered the serpent into her arms, brought it home, warmed it by the fire, and fed it milk.
A little revived, the serpent bit her.
As she lay dying, the serpent said, “I’m dreadfully sorry. I couldn’t help it. It’s my nature, you see.”
The girl could not respond, because she was dead.
—“The Fable of the Girl and the Dreadful Serpent,” from a collection of stories titled Reasons People Hate Serpents, gathered and hand-lettered by Temerane, Prince of the Serpent Lords, age 8.
Part 1
The Girl
You can’t be hurt if no one knows you exist. That was the last thing my mother ever said to me, though not exactly in those words. “Hide, darling,” she whispered. “The djinn mustn’t find you.” And she pressed into my little hands a sapphire ring, the stone cloudy and speckled, a jewel of power meant for thieves and pranksters and a shy duchess who preferred blending into the wallpaper over socializing. Once on my finger, its power settled over me like a damp chill, and I became nearly invisible—not invisible like a vanishing act, but invisible like a third footman at a palace gala, or a mouse in tall grass.
But for it to work, a footman must not step out of line, a mouse should not squeak, and a five-year-old hiding in her mother’s wardrobe had better not cry. The djinn found me, because even though the ring made me appear as interesting as a bundle of clothes, it was hard not to notice a bundle of clothes that was sniveling like a girl who’d just been demoted to the rank of orphan.
I spent the next twelve years of my life getting better at being invisible, getting so good at it, in fact, that I was certain the djinn who found me that day would never find me again.
The rickshaw rattled along with me from where I sat in the low backward seat, wearing my usual armor: sacklike livery in the trademark dusty purple and gold of Master Galen’s Jewelsmithery, buttoned all the way to my neck despite the heat; my mother’s ring on my left pointer finger; the vacantly attentive smile of a servant who wasn’t too bright.
Galen was happy. I could tell because he was lecturing. “Lemme tell you one thing, Saphira,” he said, speaking loudly to be heard over the rickshaw’s wheels rattling across pavement and the excitable hum of a city on festival day. “Lemme give you a pearl of wisdom. You know what it is we’re selling?”
“Jewelry,” I said.
He laughed like I was a dog who’d done an excellent trick. His flask peeked out from his jacket pocket. “Jewelry isn’t jewelry, kid. Jewels are”—he leaned in for emphasis—“ideas. How’d you think I sold that nasty pair of emeralds? I told that Lady—that Lady Whosit, Whasshername, you know the one, face like a pig on a horse’s neck—I said, ‘Can’t you just imagine going to the first garden party of the Season, and the flowers opening just as you walk by—can’t you see all the handsome ladies and pretty lords coming to ooh and ahh over you? No one has these, not a thing like them in all of Gem Lane. Why, you’ll be the center of attention. They’ll be green with envy!’”
“So wise,” I said dryly. Those emeralds had left twin patches of moss and mildew on my worktable and I feared for Lady Whasshername’s gowns.
Somewhere between Gem Lane and the posh streets of Caelan Hill, our rickshaw slowed to a crawl. A palanquin jogged by; it was so majestically proportioned and of such a striking red, that all one saw was the pale, long-fingered hand parting the gauzy veil. Hardly any of the passersby glanced at the four strapping lads jogging in perfect unison, on whose shoulders the palanquin rested.
“You know what sold those baby bracelets?” Galen
was saying. “I said to her, ‘Look, these little rubies will make sure your grandbaby always has a little warmth with her. She’ll grow up feeling the warmth of her grandma’s love.’” He snapped his fingers. “Sold like that. Love is our number one customer. Well, maybe number two. This clasp has been doing numbers, kid. We’re gonna get the Emperor’s commendation this year, I know it. Hey, what’s the holdup?”
Our rickshaw driver—who had done a very decent job of making himself beneath notice—scowled. “It be the Season, good sir. Them’s all want a glimpse. They say he’s been seen not a day’s ride away.”
“He?” Galen said.
The driver looked doubtfully at Galen. “Don’t you know?”
“Spit it out, man.”
“The Serpent King,” he hissed, and then made a sign of protection.
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Galen clicked his teeth. “On foot, then. Let’s go. Keep a good grip on that, now.”
He disembarked. I grabbed the jewel box from the seat and slipped it into the folds of my livery, which was oversized for the purpose of carrying everything we might need. Galen strode down the pavement without a care, clad in pristine ivory, with his salt-and-pepper hair teased into a wave that rose toward the sky, and swinging a lavender and gold enameled cane with the aplomb of a man who needed no such aid to walk. He was as easy to ignore as an eyelash in the eye.
I put some distance between us. A good walk, an invisible walk, has to be a little slow ’cause some people get competitive if you walk faster than they do, but it can’t be a mincing, shy sort of walk either, for the same reason that a cat can always tell when a mouse is trying to hide. You don’t want to turn it into a hunt.
Two pickpockets stumbled into Galen, groping for a purse that wasn’t there. They skulked back into the crowd to bump into someone else. A woman too young for Galen batted her eyelashes at him, but he didn’t take the bait. There were a few other bids for Galen’s attention, but nothing noteworthy.
We were almost to the customer’s house when I finally noticed him.
He was very tall, in the way of someone who had just turned the corner from gangly to graceful, and his face had that same sort of quality, of bold features that had not yet come to play nicely together but had at least called a truce on all-out warfare. His hair was dark, his clothes of perfectly middling color and quality.
I recognized him, the way a traveler in a strange land recognizes a whisper of their hometown dialect. He was like me. A pretender.
d, his gaze rested ever so briefly on my dear boss.
Was he a thief?
Something came over me, and I slowed down to follow him. We wove through the crowds, Galen’s fluff of hair our north star. He was humming to himself; what kind of thief hums?
He stopped abruptly at a street vendor pushing a steaming cart. An expression of delight crossed his face as he exchanged a coin for a brown thing on a stick. The right corner of his mouth tilted up higher than the left.
What kind of thief stops for a snack?
He crossed the street, snacking happily on his treat. A palanquin—a tall black one with only two bearers—crossed between us. When it passed, his back was to me and shrinking into the distance.
My feet skipped a step, and I bumped into a red-faced woman who barked, “Watch yourself, girl.”
I checked myself. My mother’s ring was on my finger, the wet-chill feeling of it working was on me, the jewel box was safe.
Very slowly, it dawned on me that perhaps I was wrong. I scratched my ear, ignoring the way my body heated. A man with a hammer sees nails everywhere, after all, or however the saying goes. So maybe I saw threats where there were none. That’s the price of staying safe.
I shrugged it off and carried on.
At the time, I didn’t consider that I had been right. And that he was simply better at pretending than I was.
I doubled my speed and followed Galen up to Caelan Hill, past the massive marbled manors of one kind of rich people, to the winding lane filled with modestly sized antique homes that belonged to the oldest, most powerful families in the six kingdoms. These were called the Great Houses.
Galen took the jewel box from me and raised his cane to rap smartly on the gate. It opened with a whisper of oiled hinges. A servant in gray guided us though the garden, and up the stone stairs to the front door.
My neck prickled with nerves that I couldn’t allow to show.
The House of Lord and Lady Pewter was gray. Their ancestral lands sat on the Empire’s largest pewter mine, and they had taken that quirk of fate as a commandment on design. Dark gray doors opened to a medium gray corridor, a house like a charcoal drawing.
A shriek came. “It’s here!”
Miss Ella Pewter bounded out, dimples armed and ready. A charm offensive. The society papers called her one of the most eligible this Season, outside of the Imperial Wards, of course. It was part on account of her family’s connections and power, and part on account of her charms. We’d met when she came to the workshop, alone but for a pair of servants. I’d taken her measurements, wrapping tape gently around her neck, but she showed no sign of recognition now.
“Calm yourself, Ella.” A tall woman stood with her back to the light.
“Yes, Mother,” said Ella.
Her mother, Lady Pewter, gestured to a door. “Do come in, Master Galen. Do you take tea?”
The sitting room was bathed in soft afternoon light that turned the velvety pale gray of the walls and drapes into a gentle lavender. With the bearing of a queen, Lady Pewter took a seat. She was beautiful. You were struck with it before her features actually registered. She was young, almost too young to have a daughter of eighteen or so.
And then I saw it. Her low-cut dress revealed the tops of her breasts, and between them was the silvery scar in the shape of a rosette.
My hand itched to check that my own was hidden under my servant’s livery.
Lady Pewter’s was more elaborate than mine. She had a band of stylized fire encircling the rosette, which said that she was not just an Imperial Ward, but one who had been chosen specially by the Emperor’s right hand. A woman who led the Emperor’s armies, who conquered kingdoms and stole their children. My mother called her the djinn. Everyone else called her Lady Incarnadine.
perial Wards—they’re all over the city—but I don’t like being near one. Especially not one that Lady Incarnadine handpicked.
I folded my hands behind my back and stood at the door, in a perfect imitation of a good servant. They chattered on.
“Well, then,” Lady Pewter was saying. “Show us the piece.”
Galen set down his tea and, with flourish, opened the jewel box.
A soft gasp came from Miss Ella Pewter. Her mother drew it out of the box and held it gingerly. A soft flush rose to her cheeks. That was the necklace’s power. I’d set the rubies in a silver-forward alloy to dampen their effect, so all they did was bring a gentle rosiness to the skin. But the real innovation was the clasp.
Lady Pewter examined the clasp, which I’d shaped carefully to look like a serpent’s head. The details had come from a well-illustrated book in the Imperial library. The slim head, large eyes, and delicate lace-like skin were patterned on a green tree snake found in the north.
Lady Pewter said, “Lovely,” but her eyes asked, How does it work?
Galen answered. “A single drop of blood will key the clasp to the owner. Then only the owner can unclasp it.”
Lady Pewter smiled. “Excellent. My dear Ella is so trusting—the Season has yet to begin, and three pieces she’s lost already, stolen straight from her neck.”
“Mother, please,” Ella hissed.
Despite her smile, there was something hard in Lady Pewter’s eyes. “You would never have survived the Rose Palace, my dear. And you are getting too old to protect.”
Galen cleared his throat. “My assistant will help your daughter set up the clasp.”
Lady Pewter’s gaze slid over me, and she nodded. I moved to Ella’s side. On the underside of the serpent’s head was the latch. I flicked it open. A small needle was inside.
“Your finger, miss,” I said.
Ella obliged. A pinprick, a drop of blood.
She pulled her hair to the side, and I clasped it around her neck. The rubies settled below her collarbone, and a soft pink flush came to her skin.
“How do I look?” she whispered to me.
From the folds of my livery I produced a hand mirror. I had framed it myself, in silver with a white opal in the handle to soften the light just so. Everyone likes a kind mirror. It’s not a lie, precisely. I think most people’s eyes are a little cruel, so my mirror evens the odds.
Ella’s dimples made an appearance as she beheld herself. “Oh, I love it. Mother, look!”
Lady Pewter looked at her with a critical eye. After a long moment, she spoke. “Very good work, Master Galen. I applaud the invention, but the design is also quite stunning.”
“Quite stunning? Mother, it’s the loveliest piece I’ve ever seen—oh, thank you, Master Galen. I love it dearly.”
My chest felt warm, and I fought to keep the smile from my face.
“You are very welcome, my child. It was a great pleasure to craft this for one as lovely as yourself,” Galen said with great modesty. His attention was on Lady Pewter. “It would be an honor to make a piece for you as well . . .”
“Oh yes, Mother, you must.”
Lady Pewter demurred. “I’m afraid Master Vyalis has been my jewelsmith for many years now.”
Ella sighed. “His work is so boring, though. And everyone wears him.”
A burst of laughter came from the direction of the front door.
Ella Pewter darted to her feet. “They’re here! They’ll be so jealous, I have to show them—”
Lady Pewter frowned. “That might not be wise, dear.”
The Pewters’ manservant knocked at the door. “Miss, your friends have arrived.”
Galen rose. “Ah, well, if you are satisfied, Miss Pewter, Lady Pewter, then we shall take our leave.”
Ella stopped him. “Oh no, Master Galen, stay a moment, let me introduce you.”
A gleam of hunger shone in Galen’s eye, and he put on his salesman’s smile.
A quartet entered in high spirits. The men’s shirtsleeves were open to their chests; the women’s dresses were cut low, revealing brands that matched Lady Pewters. The specially chosen.
Several of their faces seemed vaguely familiar. Probably from the society papers that Galen collected and strewed about the workshop.
hing a puppy run up to a pack of wolves. Of the wolves, there was one clear leader: a young woman of middling height, with hawk’s eyes and a silken way of moving.
“That’s a lovely piece, Ella,” she said.
“Isn’t it?” Ella did a spin, showing it off. Lady Pewter’s lips pursed.
The hawk-eyed woman crooked her head. “Is that a serpent in the back?”
The newcomers shared a look. One of them, red-haired with boyish cheekiness, whistled. “You’ve set your cap for the Serpent King, have you?”
Ella flushed and forced a laugh. “Of course not. And anyway, no one’s going to catch his eye as long as you’re around, Mirandel.”
Mirandel. The name was a splinter in my mind. I scanned her face. Could it be? There were no traces of the ungainly, scowling girl I once knew. If it was the same girl, then the ravages of time were showing clear favoritism.
Mirandel smiled slow and wide. “It’s anyone’s game, of course. That is truly a fetching jewel. Let me try it on, won’t you?”
Lady Pewter said nothing as her daughter took off the necklace and draped it around Mirandel’s neck. So much for my clasp keeping it safe.
Mirandel’s skin flushed—not in the delicate way Ella Pewter’s had, but in the way of a shepherdess after a romp in the hay. “Where’s the mirror?”
Oh, horsepiss. It was in my hands. My legs were strangely wooden, and it took effort to cross the room. My body remembered how Mirandel had betrayed me. But there was no way she would recognize me after all these years.
I held the mirror up, angling it just so to block her view of me.
“It’s lovely,” said Miss Pewter.
“Yes, it is, rather,” Mirandel agreed. “And unlike anything I’ve seen before. I do like it. Wouldn’t it be funny if you made it a gift to me, Ella?”
A prickly silence followed. A test.
Miss Pewter’s lips trembled. She glanced at her mother, whose face betrayed nothing. “Um, I’d be happy to, if you like it—”
Mirandel laughed. “No, no, thank you, darling. I can’t stand the blushing-virgin look.”
Galen coughed delicately. “If the young miss desires, a necklace of a similar but unique design can be made with sapphires for alertness, or diamonds for stamina—for all that dancing.”
Mirandel turned to him. “You are the jewelsmith?”
“Oh yes,” Ella Pewter said. “I wanted to introduce you. This is Master Galen. Sandice Thane told me about him—you’ve seen her new anklets, haven’t you?—and—”
“Master Galen.” Mirandel held out a hand. “Yes, your work has made quite the splash as of late. It’s about time someone dethroned Master Vyalis.”
Galen preened. “You are too kind.”
Mirandel reached back to undo the clasp.
“Wait!” The warning left my lips—a second too late.
Her eyes met mine as the clasp bit her hand. She yelped.
Galen paled. “That’s the magic of the clasp, my lady. Only its owner can remove it.”
“No harm done.” Mirandel laughed, but her eyes were hard. “Your assistant tried to warn me.”
Her gaze landed on me and slid away. Her brow furrowed. She glanced back, and her hawk’s eyes were sharp.
I kept my expression vacant. She had no reason to remember me. I was invisible. But my mouth dried out so much my tongue stuck to my teeth.
Mirandel dropped her gaze. “Oh, I’m being silly. Come, Ella, take this thing off me.”
Miss Pewter hurried to undo the necklace. Mirandel touched the back of her neck, and her finger came away with a drop of blood. She considered it, then brought it to her lips. “Isn’t this how fairy tales go? A pinprick, and then she marries the prince?”
Ella stammered. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? She finds her true love. Maybe the Serpent King—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ella. Love has nothing to do with marriage. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Pewter?”
Ella’s face fell. It seemed to me that the puppy had found its neck in the wolf’s jaws.
Lady Pewter smiled thinly. “Let’s let Master Galen get on with his day, shall we?”
Once the gray doors shut behind us, my lungs expanded two full sizes.
“That went well,” Galen said cheerfully. “I think we’ll have some new customers!”
The crowds had thickened along the main road. It seemed less a sea of individuals and more a beast of a single mind.
“Oi, Gally boy!” A shout came from above, a balcony overlooking the street. A red-faced man leaned out, and the wine in his cup sloshed onto the heads of the unlucky sods below. “Oh, sorry!”
Galen saluted with his cane. “Hey-o, Rosh.”
“Come on up. We’re having a little to-do. The girls want to watch the Serpent King, but there’s hours yet, and they’re getting bored.” Rosh winked in a way that he probably thought was saucy.
Galen gave him a thumbs-up. “Saphira, why don’t you go on ahead? I’ll drum up some business with Rosh’s crowd.” He patted his hair to check that it hadn’t deflated. “How do I look?”
“Presentable,” I said.
“Would it kill you to give a compliment?”
“I thought you didn’t want me to lie to you.”
He rolled his eyes. “You have a real talent, you know. You could convince Helen of Troy she had a face like a tortoise. You could convince a stallion that it was a donkey.” His eyes sparkled; he was getting into it. “You could convince the Emperor—the Emperor—oh, dash it, I’ve lost it.”
“I got the picture,” I said.
“Oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue—blast it. It was a good one. But it doesn’t matter. Thing is, it’s all right. You couldn’t sell a jewel if your life depended on it, but that’s what I’m here for.” He looked at me fondly. “What would you do without me?”
“Die in the streets, probably.”
He laughed as if it were a joke and stole a glance up at the balcony.
That’s my cue. “Good luck with business, boss.”
We parted ways. Cutting a diagonal path through the crowd took me to a side street, which, with a hop and scamper, let out into the interconnected alleys that were the domain of trashmen, grocers, and delivery people. The kind of people who were gloriously too busy to pay attention to anyone. But today, the side streets were empty. Even the mice had gone to try their luck on the main road.
My guard was down. Idly, I picked up nice-looking rocks to gift to Grimney, my only friend and connoisseur of ordinary, unprecious stones, but my mind was on Mirandel.
Even at six years old, she was memorable. She and I had been on the same transport wagon to the Imperial City, but I didn’t notice her until they stripped us and bathed us, shaving our hair of the matted knots and lice we’d picked up on the weeks-long journey. There was a beast-like roar and a thud. A boy began to cry. And a girl with a gremlin’s face shouted, “He deserved it. He called me ugly.”
That was maybe the first time I’d almost smiled since I’d been taken from home.
We were settled into the Rose Palace—not the glittering main wing where Lady Incarnadine and her Chosen lived, but the other, older wing, the one the children called the thorns. In those first few days, the fleet of women caretakers—all of whom we were told to call Nanny—gave us musical instruments, well-worn chessboards, charcoal and slate to draw with. We were bade to dance, to craft, to recite poetry.
And then Lady Incarnadine came. Incense smoke preceded her, so thick that it made the air dim, so fragrant that my head began to spin. The servants carrying the incense braziers stood aside. Her eyes seemed to me pinpricks of fire, looming from the dark.
I clutched my mother’s ring and inched back until I
I hit the wall.
The Nannies read from a scroll, calling forth one by one the children who were deemed most beautiful, most talented, most valuable. They showed their skills, some proudly, others through their tears. With long fingers tipped in gold, Lady Incarnadine gestured come for the ones she chose, and begone for those she didn’t.
And then one of the Nannies called my name.
My heart was in my ears. I didn’t answer.
The Nannies scanned the crowd, and the children shifted uneasily.
Lady Incarnadine began to turn—
Mirandel jumped before her. It was like a gargoyle had crept out of the shadows, newly come to life, with only a vague understanding of how to smile. She bowed before Lady Incarnadine and shouted at the top of her lungs, “I am Mirandel.” And marginally quieter, an accusation: “You forgot to call me.”
She squatted and stomped around like a three-legged horse. A stunned silence, broken by nothing but her heavy breathing and the thuds of her feet on stone. At last, drenched in sweat, Mirandel stopped. “That was a dance,” she announced, and comprehension dawned on us all.
Lady Incarnadine waved a dismissive hand. Begone.
Two of the Nannies picked Mirandel up. “Wait! I can sing,” she shouted as she was carried away, and she belted a line in a voice that squawked like a crow, until one of the Nannies clapped a hand over her mouth. Even then she was undeterred, just muffled. ...
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