"Of course not, Lady Queen," said Runnemood in exasperation. "Your castle is literate. What would you like? Another survey on the matter?"
"Yes, another survey, of both the castle and the city."
"Very well. Another survey, to dispel the slander of an antisocial librarian. I hope you won't expect us to furnish evidence every time he makes an accusation."
"He was right about the burying," said Bitterblue.
Releasing a breath, Runnemood said patiently, "We've never denied the truth about the burying, Lady Queen. This is the first we've ever discussed it. Now, what has he given you?"
Bitterblue pulled at the tie that held the small roll closed. The leather flattened itself before her. "Just another useless map," she said, rolling it up again and shoving it aside.
Later, when Runnemood had gone to an appointment somewhere and Thiel stood stiffly at his stand, his back to her and his mind somewhere else, Bitterblue slipped the little map into the pocket of her gown. It wasn't a useless map. It was a lovely, soft miniature of all the major streets in the city, perfect for carrying on one's person.
IN THE EAST city that night, she sought out the graveyard. The paths were lit, but dimly, and there was no moon; she couldn't make out the inscriptions. Walking among the nameless dead, she tried to find a way to fit "burning versus burial" onto her list of puzzle pieces. It was starting to seem to her that being "forward-thinking" too often involved avoiding any kind of thought at all—especially about things that might benefit from a great deal of thinking. What had Danzhol said about the town charters being a promise of the queen's considerate inattention? Clearly, her inattention to Danzhol had led to disastrous results. Were there people at whom she should be looking more closely?
She stumbled across a grave with loose soil in the shape of a mound. Someone newly dead. How sad, she thought. There's something horribly sad, but also right, about the body of someone who has died disappearing into the ground. Burning a body was sad too. And yet Bitterblue felt deeply that burning was also right.
No one who loved Mama was there to mark her passing. She burned alone.
Bitterblue felt her feet planted in the ground of this graveyard, as if she were a tree, unable to move; as if her body were a gravestone, dense and heavy.
I left her behind, for Leck to pretend to mourn. I shouldn't still feel this way, she thought with an unexpected flash of fury. It was years ago.
"Sparks?" said a voice behind her. She turned to find herself staring into the face of Sapphire.
Her heart flew into her throat. "Why are you here?" she cried. "Not Teddy!"
"No!" Saf said. "Don't worry. Teddy's well enough, for a man who's been cut open."
"Then why?" she said. "Are you a grave robber?"
He snorted. "Don't be daft. It's a shortcut. Are you all right, Sparks? I'm sorry if I interrupted something."
"You didn't."
"You're crying."
"I'm not."
"Right," he said mildly. "I suppose you got rained on."
Somewhere, one of the city clocks began to strike midnight. "Where are you going?" Bitterblue asked.
"Home."
"Let's go, then," she said.
"Sparks," he said, "you're not invited."
"Do you burn your dead," she said, ignoring this, leading him out of the graveyard, "or bury them?"
"Well, it depends where I am, doesn't it? It's Lienid tradition to bury people at sea. In Monsea, it's tradition to bury them in the ground."
"How do you know the old Monsean traditions?"
"I could ask you the same question; I wouldn't have expected you to know. Except that I never expect the expected from you, Sparks," he added, a tired sort of dreariness coming over his voice. "How is your mother?"
"What?" she said, startled.
"I hope the tears are nothing to do with your mother. Is she well?"
"Oh," Bitterblue said, remembering that she was a castle baker girl. "Yes, she's well. I saw her tonight."
"Then that's not what's wrong?"
"Saf," she said. "Not everyone who lives in the castle can read."
"Huh?"
She didn't know why she was saying this now; she didn't know why she was saying it at all. She hadn't even realized until this moment that she believed it. It was just that she had the need to tell him something honest, something honest and unhappy, because cheerful lies tonight were too depressing and too sharp, turning in on her like pins. "I said before that everyone under the queen's roof reads," she said. "I've—developed doubts."
"All right," he said warily. "I knew that for a corker when you first said it. So did Teddy. Why are you admitting it now?"
"Saf," she said, stopping in her tracks in the middle of the street to face him, needing at this moment to know. "Why did you steal that gargoyle?"
"Hm," he said, amused in an unamused sort of way. "What's your game tonight, Sparks?"
"I don't have a game," Bitterblue said miserably. "I just want things to start making sense. Here," she said, pulling a small parcel from her pocket and shoving it into Saf's hand. "These are from Madlen."
"More medicines?"
"Yes."
Musing over the medicines, his feet square in the street, Saf seemed to be considering something. Then he glanced at her. "What about a game of trading truth for truth?" he said.
This struck her as a terrible idea. "How many rounds?"
"Three, and we must both swear to be honest. You must swear on your mother's life."
Well then, she thought. If he presses me too hard, I can lie, for my mother is dead. He would lie, if pressed, too, she added stubbornly, arguing with the part of her that rose up to insist that a game like this should be played in good faith. "All right," she said. "Why did you steal the gargoyle?"
"No, I go first, because the game was my idea. Are you a spy for the queen?"
"Great seas!" Bitterblue said. "No."
"That's all I get? A 'no'?"
She glared into his grinning face. "I'm not anyone's spy but my own," she said, realizing, too late, that her own spy would inevitably be the queen's spy. Annoyed to find herself lying already, she said, "My turn. The gargoyle. Why?"
"Hm. Let's walk," he said, motioning her up the street.
"You're not allowed to avoid my question."
"I'm not avoiding it. I'm just trying to come up with an answer that doesn't incriminate others. Leck stole," he said, startling her with the randomness of it. "Anything he wanted—knives, clothing, horses, paper—he took. He stole people's children. He destroyed people's property. He also hired people to build the bridges and never paid them. He hired artists to decorate his castle—never paid them either."
"I see," said Bitterblue, working through the implications of his statement. "Did you steal a gargoyle from the castle because Leck never paid the artist who made it?"
"Essentially," said Saf.
"But—what did you do with it?"
"We return things to their rightful owners."
"So, there's a gargoyle artist somewhere and you're bringing him back his gargoyles? What possible use could he have for them now?"
"Don't ask me," said Saf. "I've never understood the use of a gargoyle. They're creepy."
"They're lovely!" said Bitterblue in indignation.
"All right!" said Saf. "Whatever. They're creepily lovely. I don't know what he wants with them. He only asked us for a few of his favorites."
"A few? Four?"
"Four from the east wall. Two from the west and one from the south that we haven't managed to steal yet, and possibly won't, now. The guard presence on the walls has increased since we stole the last one. They must've finally noticed that gargoyles are going missing."