ItCP18

## Chapter 18

**Chapter 18** of **Into the Crooked Place** is from **Karam's** perspective.

## **Full Version**

KARAM WAS BORN ON the holy banks of Granka, with her mother’s feet doused in the biggest of its five rivers.

They spread like arteries from the heart of the city and when Karam’s mother realized that her first daughter was arriving, she journeyed one mile on foot to the waterfall at Cipa—the river of grace, because that was what she hoped her daughter would be. Graceful and devoted to their ancient ways. Only Karam was not graceful, and these days the one thing she seemed to be able to devote herself to was chaos.

It had been many years since Karam had seen her once-home and her once-family, and those years didn’t dull her bitterness toward them, or her love. Time didn’t heal wounds like the stories said, but only made it harder to look at them, and the longer Karam left those wounds, the deeper they ran, until they had buried themselves so far that they became easier to ignore altogether.

To find the Grankan Crafters, she would need to face her parents. And they would know Karam had aligned herself with violence and they wouldn’t care if she still prayed to the Indescribable God, because what use was prayer when all she did was ask for forgiveness?

And Arjun. The old friend she had left behind with promises to return as a warrior. Karam only hoped he still had that same fighting spirit she remembered from their childhood and that he wouldn’t hate her for teaming up with the very people she promised to bring down in a blaze of glory by his side.

“I’ve never been outside of Uskhanya,” Tavia said. “This is beautiful.”

The Grankan sky beamed down, its white-gold rays like arms enveloping them. Karam forgot how clear and bright the city was, as though the heavens were open to them so the Indescribable God could watch over its devoted children.

In Uskhanya, their so-called Many Gods would rather not see what was going on, which explained people like Wesley.

Karam took in a breath. The streets she had grown up on still smelled like peppercorns, and a little way from where she had played warriors with Arjun there was scripture on the cobblestones, preaching selfless servitude, peace among all, and the aberration of sin.

“It’s not that Granka’s beautiful.” Saxony clapped an arm over Tavia’s shoulder. “It’s just that you haven’t seen the sun in a week.”

“Well, it was winter when we left,” Tavia said. “Remind me to never spend so long on a train. I can’t wait to see the stars.”

“You won’t.” Wesley pulled off his blazer and folded it neatly over his arm. His shirt clung to him amid the heat. “This is a simple in-and-out mission. We’re not here to sightsee.”

“Stars are not sights,” Karam said.

“All the same, we won’t be wandering the streets.”

“You live in Creije and you are worried about the streets here?” Karam asked.

“I’m worried about the people,” Wesley said. “Crafter worshippers aren’t fond of those who buy and sell magic. We need to keep a low profile.”

Karam didn’t hide her smirk. “We arrived with an army of crooks on a stolen steam train.”

“Starting from now,” Wesley said. He loosened a button on his collar as the heat took hold. “We keep a low profile starting from now.”

Saxony settled herself beside Karam, looking a little out of place. Karam always thought that she was easier to spot than a forest fire, but in Granka, Saxony should have fit in. After all, she was a Crafter in a realm that saw her kind as the spirit of a god.

Even so, Saxony seemed to stand out most of all, and not because she towered above most men or carried herself with an effortless confidence, or the way her clothes hugged her a little tighter than was commonplace. It was the way she looked at Karam and lit the air between them on fire with just one smile.

Saxony touched the knife at her side and Karam swallowed, remembering the day she had given it to her. The day Saxony revealed her powers and trusted Karam for the first time. The knife was Karam’s way of saying she trusted her too. It was her best one, after all, and she had to get Wesley to front her the coin for a replacement.

“Do you want me to come?” Saxony asked.

Karam cleared her throat. “No.”

Saxony nudged her. “I’m great with parents. My wiles are irresistible to all. I’ve got an ageless charm.”

“No,” Karam said again.

Saxony’s smile dimmed. “Why not?”

Karam hesitated.

As much as Creije had taught her not to give a spirit’s damn about what people thought, she wouldn’t be able to stand it if her parents looked at Saxony with the same disappointment they usually reserved for her. They hated the thought of Karam fighting for peace, so what would they think of a *Crafter* standing beside the likes of an underboss?

Karam hated to think about them making Saxony feel like a traitor too.

“Three’s a crowd,” Wesley said. “Karam and I will go. We don’t need a babysitter.”

If Karam didn’t know any better, she might think Wesley had just helped her out.

“What are we supposed to do then?” Saxony asked.

“Not sightsee, apparently,” Tavia said.

She gave Wesley a dry look and his lips edged up in a half smile.

He smiled too much when she was around.

“You’ll need to grease a few palms,” Wesley said. “Before we left Creije, our friendly Vice Doyen gave me some contacts to ensure we have a smooth stay, for a price.”

He pulled a slip of paper out from his coat, with a list of half a dozen names, and handed it to Tavia.

“So these contacts are legit?” she asked. “We don’t need to threaten them?”

“You don’t need to threaten the people you pay,” Wesley said. “They’ll provide us with the ammunition we lost at the station, load the buskers up on any extra charms, provide safe room and board where we won’t get robbed or killed. I can write you a list, but it’ll be easier if you just pay them and don’t ask questions. Tell them the Uskhanyan Doyen sent you and they’ll know what to do.”

“And if they don’t?” Tavia asked.

Wesley smirked. “Then you can threaten them.”

KARAM LED Wesley through the labyrinth of her city.

It was a maze entirely different to that of Creije’s winding alleys and sharp, hidden corners. Granka was a lush expanse of open space and bulging streets, with thick cobbles big enough to host prayers. The houses were small and dotted in clusters arranged to mirror the holy symbol.

It was a city of wisdom and pilgrimage at its heart, with the bones of the first Crafters perched atop the temple, and there were days, even weeks, in the year still devoted to their worship. Here, magic was not a thing to be traded and fought over. It was a calling and, before the war, when Crafters passed on their tutelage and taught the faithful how to handle charms, they were teaching them how to be in harmony with the Indescribable God.

It was peaceful in Granka and even with the constant thrum of people, a calm coated the streets like hot wax, sealing everyone inside. There was nothing wild or untamed about the five rivers. There was no danger in the sky or in the eyes of the crowd.

Karam hated herself for hating that.

They followed the path of Tebhi, the river of destruction, which was fitting to the havoc Karam was about to wreak. Each of the five rivers represented a facet of the Indescribable God—Cipa for grace, Tebhi for destruction, Suhke for protection, Bihi for wisdom, and the river Sirta for creation. People spent days on the banks of their chosen river, praying and drinking from the water as if it would bless them.

Karam’s old home had not changed in all the years she was gone. It was small, but ornate, with black iron fencing and sand-colored walls. The windows jutted out like blocks from the face, each with a small balcony that was barely the width of Karam’s arm. When she was a child she would squash herself into those balconies, back pressed tightly to one wall and the soles of her feet to the other, and read books on the *hei rekhi* science of self-defense.

When her father left home to teach at temple and her mother brought food to the poor, Karam and Arjun would practice in the garden with her grandfather’s old fighting stick. It was one of the few things her pehti jal left for her.

She wanted to be a warrior like him. Her parents wanted her to be as far from that as she could.

Wesley lingered behind Karam, letting her take the lead. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he had pocketed his cuff links. Karam sighed at his tattoos, which were now in full view up his arms.

Her parents were going to have the time of their lives when they saw those.

“Are you readying for a fight?” she asked, gesturing to his rolled sleeves.

“Do I need to be?”

Karam shrugged. “That would depend on whether you are planning to admit to my pehta who you are.”

“I have a feeling he’ll know.”

“You are infamous.”

“These days, so are you.”

Karam liked the sound of that more than she cared to admit.

There was something about earning her place in Creije, rather than being handed it on a platter, that made her proud. She had fought her way to her position and hadn’t needed prayer or magic to do it. Just her fists and her smarts and the knowledge that she could.

It was Karam’s mother who opened the door once they knocked, wearing a four-piece orange *setwa* and not a hint of surprise. She cast a look at the bruises that took up permanent residence on her daughter’s face, then to the dirt that clung to the edges of her clothing.

She did not look at Wesley.

“Mete,” Karam said. “I need your help.”

They were the first words she had spoken to her mother in five years and Karam felt the shame of that fact.

Five years since her father had told her to go and find a war if she wanted one so badly.

Five years since Karam had run like there were demons chasing her.

She wanted to return one day, with her head held as steady as her breath, knowing she had done the right thing by leaving, and proving that her decision to study the fighting arts was the right one.

In all that time her mother’s face had remained like a painting, preserved forever. Karam could still smell spices from the kitchen and see the flour under her fingernails. When she saw her father, no doubt he would be as stalwart and stubborn as ever, with kind eyes and hands that always reached to clutch the pendant on his neck.

Five years and nothing had changed but Karam.

“Help.”

Her mother repeated the word in Uskhanyan and Karam immediately scolded herself at having forgotten to speak in the holy language.

It had been so long since she’d had someone to speak it to.

“My help is always here, *dila*,” her mother said.

It had been forever since anyone had called Karam *darling*.

“But I will not help him.”

Her mother looked at Wesley for the first time and her eyes hardened.

“So you’ve heard of me,” Wesley said.

“No.”

Wesley’s smile fell. He wasn’t used to anonymity.

“But I know you are an underboss,” her mother said. “I would recognize one anywhere.”

She looked to Karam with a face full of accusation.

“You should not have brought him here.”

Wesley straightened his collar. “I get that a lot.”

“Perhaps you should listen,” her mother said. “Men like you should be imprisoned.”

“There aren’t many men like me.”

“Yes. There are.”

Karam cleared her throat. “Where is Pehta?” she asked. “I thought he would be back from temple by now.”

“Your pehta is not at temple.” Her mother wiped the flour from her hands and onto the bright orange cloth of her legs. “He is with the Indescribable God.”

Karam’s legs nearly gave way.

Surely she hadn’t heard right. He couldn’t be—

“It has been many months.”

Karam put her hand on the wall to steady herself.

Her father could not be dead without her knowing.

Men like him didn’t die quietly. They perished in front of crowds, preaching peace. They were killed on days when the heavens wept and time stood still among the thunder of the Indescribable God’s anger.

He could not just be gone and she could not just have spent months without knowing.

“You did not tell me,” Karam said.

“You were not here to tell.”

Her mother walked back inside the house, leaving the door open for them to enter.

Karam followed her into the kitchen, incensed. “You did not even send word.”

Her mother continued cooking. “How would I know where to send it?”

“*You* told me to leave.”

“You and Arjun had that plan yourselves.”

“You said to go,” Karam repeated.

Her mother rested her hands on the counter and sighed. “Sometimes, words spoken in anger are not words spoken in truth, *dila*.”

“I do not need your proverbs.”

“Just my help.”

“Mete, *please*,” Karam said, with a shaking voice.

It was so far from her own in that moment, in that single word, that Karam almost felt like a girl again. Like all those years she’d spent on the streets of Creije, cutting through the city, leaving the past like it was dust and ash, and building herself anew from it, hadn’t happened at all.

She was here, home, just like before, coming undone in front of her family.

Her father was dead. She would never get to see him or make amends. She’d never get to feel his arms around her and have him say he was proud of who she’d become, even if it was different from who he wanted.

He was just gone.

Karam had set the flames to her old life and Creije had helped burn it away. There was no chance to piece it back together now, because all the parts were cinder.

Karam fell to the floor.

When the tears came, they were silent and hot. Her chest ached, the room fogged, and Karam felt like maybe she was the one who was really dying.

And then her mother knelt down on the floor beside her and placed a steadying hand on Karam’s shoulder. From somewhere, she found the strength to look into her mother’s eyes and she saw tears there, too.

“*Dila*,” her mother said. “You wanted to be a warrior. Warriors do not cry.”

And then she hugged her.

For the first time in five years, Karam hugged her mother and felt safe.

And then someone cleared their throat.

Wesley had followed them into the house, as silent as death. He looked ridiculously uncomfortable at the sight of Karam, crying in front of him. She considered if it was a mistake being vulnerable with Wesley there, but as awful as people thought he was, Karam knew there were few things Wesley saw as sacred, and one was family. Loyalty.

Perhaps not his own, but he at least respected those traits in others.

“I can wait outside,” Wesley said.

He was trying to look anywhere other than at Karam.

“You live such secrets now,” her mother said, wiping away Karam’s tears. “With so many demons around you.”

Wesley’s face didn’t change.

If anything, Karam guessed he took it as a compliment. She supposed it was better than being called the Kingpin’s lapdog all the time.

“Mete,” Karam said.

Her voice was finding its footing, still too breathy, but it was there and it was hers.

“The work we are doing is important.”

“Violence is never important, *dila*.”

Karam threw her hands up. She had forgotten that her stubbornness was hereditary. It was practically the only thing she was passed down from her parents.

“Are you doing the Indescribable God’s work?” her mother asked.

Karam nodded. She got to her feet and her mother did the same.

“Do you really believe that to be true?” her mother asked.

Karam nodded again. “The Kingpin of Uskhanya is planning something awful and he is using magic to do it,” she explained. “Their realm is in danger.”

Her mother shook her head. “Those criminals are not kings and the sooner our Doyens put them in prison, the better.”

Wesley took a seat at the small wooden table in the corner of the room and rolled his shirtsleeves back down. “The Kingpins have lined too many pockets for that to be possible.”

Karam’s mother stalked over to him and swatted his legs, to indicate he should stand up. Karam blanched.

“Mete,” she warned, but Wesley stood without fuss.

“The will of your people to corrupt is endless.”

“So is the desire of your Doyens to be corrupted,” Wesley countered.

“The Kingpin of Uskhanya has Crafters,” Karam said. “He is using them to create awful magic and wage war.”

“The holy conduits are not to be used.”

“Which is why we want to stop him,” Wesley said. “To save the holy conduits. And all we need is to meet with the Grankan Kin.”

Though it was Wesley who had spoken, it was Karam her mother hit across the back. “You dare request such a thing? You would endanger innocents for him? Innocents like Arjun, who you grew up with!”

Karam’s heart lifted at the mention of her old friend. At least he was safe, then.

“Arjun would not be the only Crafter on our side,” Karam said. “We already have someone.”

Her mother paused. “You have a Crafter with you?”

“Her name is Saxony,” Karam said. “And she wants to help put a stop to all of the madness. You should see the power she has, Mete. It is like nothing I have ever known. She is glorious.”

Her mother smiled knowingly. “There is a light in your eyes I have never seen, *dila*. Your father would be proud of it.”

Karam swallowed.

“Saxony will make sure any Crafters who join us are protected,” Karam said. “You and Pehta taught me that Crafters should be protected at all costs. Pehti Jal and Meta Jil were killed trying to do just that. By stopping the Kingpin, I am honoring our family. I am finishing their work.”

Karam’s mother placed her hands flat on each of Karam’s shoulders and let out a long sigh.

“Even if I help you,” she said, “there is no guarantee they will. Perhaps Arjun will choose to trust you and convince the Liege to do the same, but if he does, it will put Crafter lives in your hands. If you cause them harm, fleeing to another realm will not save you from the Indescribable God. I will not be able to protect you from its wrath, *dila*.”

Karam placed a hand on top of her mother’s. She wished she could hold her father’s hand too.

“I promise you, I will win this battle and finish the work our ancestors started,” Karam said. “I have never needed your protection, Mete. Only your trust.”