“The headwoman of the gods, just as Trader Koma is headman,” Daja explained. “At least, they are to my people. In the beyond, after you die, Trader weighs your life in his gold scales, and Bookkeeper writes down what you owe.”

“I thought you followed the Living Circle, like Frostpine,” remarked Jory.

Daja shook her head. “I pay alms to Mila of the Grain, goddess of the north, for using metal ores and wood, and to Hakkoi the Smith, god of the south, for the learning I get,” she explained, watching the sky go dark. She felt drowsy and peaceful with the arrival of night. “That’s good manners, to pay what you owe to your adopted family’s gods.”

Lamplighters now roamed the streets, tending the lamps that the wealthy paid for so there was light at intersections. Indoor lamps cast a foggy glow through windows covered by horn or oiled paper, or scattered rays of light through expensive bull’s-eye glass panes.

Serg guided the sleigh deftly. The lawkeepers were changing their watch, their white-painted sleighs dropping fresh keepers at their posts and picking up those who were done for the day. People rode in sleighs and on horseback, on their way to homes or entertainments. Once Serg had to move aside as a nobleman’s sleigh shot down the center of the street.

“Tell me about this Potcracker,” suggested Daja as Serg waited for an intersection to clear. “You’ve mentioned her before.”

Jory studied her gloved hands. “She was the Empress’s personal cook. They had others that she oversaw, but Potcracker fixed everything for the high table herself. No matter what people used, if someone tried to poison anything that she made? The food would turn green and it would roll to the one who sent the poison. Anybody the Empress sent Potcracker’s food to, enemies, nations she wanted to make alliances with, most times they’d do what she wanted.”

She fell silent as they turned onto Cashbox Street, the route to Kyrsty Bridge. “I don’t believe the palace is in Blackfly Bog,” Daja said when it seemed as if Jory had forgotten her in her consideration of Potcracker’s achievements.

“Oh! Oh, no-somebody pushed her into the Syth, so these nobles who meant to poison the Empress could do it. The Syth, in Wolf Moon! Can you imagine? Except she lived.” Jory sighed with admiration. “She had a vision. She said the goddess Yorgiry came to her, and said there were more important things to do than cook veal with truffles and thyme for people too ignorant to like the taste.”

“She did?” asked Daja, startled. She supposed that gods could do as they wished, but visiting their worshippers seemed very irregular.

“She did!” insisted Jory. “Well, she does in that play, The Cook’s Vision. The Skuretty girls told me the story when they visited last. Anyway, Potcracker gave up being the Empress’s cook.”

The sleigh glided into Kyrsty Bridge, which arched high over the river-canal they called North Upatka. Before them shone the sullen lights of a truly poor district. To their right lay the frozen section that in warmer months was called the Whirligig, where the Upatka River split to surround the islands and feed their canals. A small beacon tower stood on an island of rocks at the Whirligig’s heart, lighting the ice for skaters.

To the southeast of the Whirligig was the river’s main stem, flowing past the governor’s palace on Dorn Point. On the heights of the river’s southern shore were the nobles’ estates. Their walls, built of pale marble, gave the place its mocking name: the Pearl Coast.

As they drove off the bridge onto a road that followed the riverbank, Jory continued her story. “Potcracker got the Empress to give her a huge amount of money to set up hospital kitchens that also serve the poor, and the Empress made the nobles give her money, too. Potcracker built kitchens in five cities, but she mostly works… there.” Jory pointed.

Above the wall that guarded the back of a four-story building ahead of them, lanterns blazed. The building’s shuttered windows were closed tight against the dark and cold. Piers jutted into the frozen river, where ships could unload cargo in summer. Sleighs now stood in a line that led through the gate closest to their road.

Daja looked at the place and smiled. Runes for health and protection were written around each door and window she could see, glowing magically bright.

“Yorgiry’s Hospital, and its cookhouse,” Jory said, bouncing with eagerness.

Daja, about to tell her that slaving to feed the poor would not be as gloriously heroic as she seemed to think, changed her mind. A taste of the real world wouldn’t hurt Jory in the least.

Chapter 6

Together Daja and Jory walked around a line of people carrying fresh loads of supplies into the hospital’s immense cookhouse. Once inside, a billow of mixed scents-fresh bread, steamed barley, stewing meat-enfolded the two girls. Daja could also see that Jory noticed the silver gleam of runes and protective spells against uncontrolled fire, rats, mice, and mold: they were inscribed on the ceiling, every set of doors, the walls, even the floor. Somewhere to their right Daja heard the regular thump of bread being kneaded. Closing her eyes, she thought she could be at Winding Circle’s great kitchen, where a cook-mage named Gorse ruled and no one came away hungry.

Someone cursed in Namornese. Daja’s illusion evaporated. Gorse also never fixed millet and bacon soup, a Kugisko favorite with a distinctive smell. Even with those differences between kitchens, something edgy inside her relaxed. She was not a cook-mage, but she knew the feel of a kitchen-mage’s realm. This was a good place to be.