Before she could make up her mind, Shun appeared, wearing an outrageous Herroki coat cut to emphasize the curve of their hips. “What is this about the tea? Oh, Kris.” They laughed, shaking their head. “The canister you want is that one, on the shelf below.”
“Oh.” Kris blinked at the tea shelves, then grinned. “Can I try the other one, too?”
Chapter 8
Kris
Morning came far too soon, with far too bright of a sun. Kris rolled over and cursed Alyx, who had thrown the curtains wide, but the words bought them no pity. “Get up. The junior Kakutan warder is here to see you, and it’s long past time you got out of bed anyway.”
Kris’s head pounded when they came vertical. There had been way, way too much wine the night before—but Bellona hadn’t skimped on the party, and how often did Kris get to drink the good stuff?
Michiko grimaced in sympathy when she saw them. “I was afraid you might have a rough time of it. I brought you some herbal tea that may help, and then I thought we might go for a walk.”
“In the sun?” Kris flinched.
“You need to steam the fumes out of yourself,” she said cheerfully. “Where’s your teapot?”
The tea did help. And while the brightness wasn’t so great, the fresh air made Kris feel a bit less like the previous night’s rancid leftovers. The two of them strolled at a leisurely pace through the parks and broad thoroughfares of the top island, away from the council, past the limestone manors of Twaa-Fei’s nobility.
“I wanted to apologize for last night,” Michiko said.
Kris rubbed the last of the grit from their eyes. “Honestly, I don’t even remember whatever it is you’re apologizing for.”
She ducked her head. “That’s why I’m apologizing. I wanted to talk to you about something, but that wasn’t the time or place to do it. I just . . . well, I wanted to give you a word of warning. As a friend.”
“And you think when I’m hung over is a better time?” Kris flapped one hand before she could respond. “No, no, forget I said that. Thank you. Warnings are better when they come sooner. What am I being warned about?”
She took a deep breath, then expelled it slowly. “Quloo.”
“Huh?” Kris stopped in the middle of the street.
“I’ve been looking into them since I got here,” Michiko said. “There are all these wild rumors going around, that Quloo has sunk so far that mist-fiends are attacking it, or that it’s tilted an entire degree out of true, that sort of thing. But they don’t let many foreign ships into port anymore, so we’re really just going on what the Quloi decide to tell us.”
Kris frowned. “You think they’re lying about it?”
“Not lying so much as—exaggerating, maybe? Countries do it all the time, playing things up or down to benefit their purposes.”
“But what benefit would Quloo get from telling everybody they’re sinking?” Kris asked, baffled.
Michiko spread her hands. “Sympathy. And people not thinking of Quloo as a threat. They’re still one of the biggest powers in the sky, aren’t they? Look, all I’m saying is that we don’t know the full story.”
“We know a lot less of it than Ojo and Adechike do,” Kris pointed out. “I’ve spent time ‘looking into’ Quloo since I got here, too—except I’ve done it by actually talking to Quloi people. Ojo’s been really helpful to me, you know. Without him, I’d be a lot more lost here.”
“But that’s what worries me,” Michiko said earnestly. “You’re letting Ojo have all this influence over you—over what you know about Twaa-Fei and how you think about things. I bet he’s talked to you about the warders, hasn’t he? Told you stories about what they’re like? But those are Ojo’s stories. You’d get different ones if you talked to Takeshi, or Kensuke.”
Kris’s head was throbbing. They were beginning to wish they’d ignored Alyx and not gotten out of bed. The words slipped out before they could consider. “Yeah. I’d get Mertikan stories.”
Michiko stiffened at their tone. “What do you mean by that?”
Kris folded their arms. “I mean that I’m not so naive that I don’t know who the other big power in the sky is. Mertika isn’t exactly Rumika’s best friend, is it? Not unless they can find some way to use us. They’ve already swallowed Ikaro and Kakute; they’d love to swallow us next.”
“This isn’t about Mertika—”
”Isn’t it?” Kris snorted. “Who are you on Twaa-Fei to represent, anyway—Kakute, or Mertika?”
“We’re part of the empire,” she shot back.
“With its own warder. But you take all your orders from Lavinia, don’t you?”
One swift stride brought Michiko right up in Kris’s face. “If you’re so contemptuous of me taking my cues from Lavinia, why are you content to get yours from Ojo? Just because he’s nicer?” She smiled, poisonously. “Or because you know you’re in over your head?”
Kris didn’t even think. They just set their hands against Michiko’s shoulders and shoved.
She staggered back a pace, staring. Kris dropped one hand to their sword hilt. “If that’s what you think, then I’ll be happy to prove you wrong.” There was a park across the street, with a gardener and two people enjoying the sunshine, now staring at them both. Kris gestured at the park with a jerk of their chin. “Nice open area over there. Let’s settle this.”
Michiko stared at him. “You want to duel?”
“Why not? I don’t have to be a warder to settle a personal matter. Just a duel of blade, not craft; that way we don’t put anybody else in danger or tear up that gardener’s hard work.”
“I—”
Kris drew a thumb’s length from the sheath. “Duel, or concede the point.”
“Fine.” She bit the word off. “Let’s duel.”
•••
Kris had no idea how common personal duels were on Twaa-Fei, but elsewhere in the sky, even people who weren’t bladecrafters could settle their disputes with steel. It usually only drew an audience if it got particularly violent, or if the participants were especially good.
Or if they were famous. If, say, one of them was the junior Kakutan warder, and the other was challenging to become the first-ever warder for Rumika.
Five people gathered even before Kris and Michiko were done sketching the dueling circle into the ground. It was more a ritual formality than an actual mark, unless they wanted to hack into the smooth carpet of grass, but Kris was determined to observe the forms—even if they would have preferred to curl up on a nearby bench and go back to sleep. At least the enormous ginkgo tree nearby meant the sun wouldn’t be sending knives into Kris’s eyes while they fought.
“To the touch?” Michiko asked. Kris nodded, stripping off their tail-skirt to fight in trousers only. They were pissed, but not so pissed that it justified the two of them carving each other up.
They saluted, and began.
Kris sank into a back-weighted stance, lurking out of Michiko’s range. For a duel just of blade, with no craft involved, the Island Styles usually had an advantage. Michiko fought in the True Way, of course, like a proper imperial puppet. “No Old Way for you, huh? Did the Mertikans outlaw it when they took over?”
Whether the jibe found its mark or not, Michiko didn’t let it visibly ruffle her. She just circled, feinting in and then retreating, testing the various angles of Kris’s defense. Kris hoped their own worry didn’t show. They were slower than they should have been, made sluggish by the hangover and lack of sleep, and weariness dragged at every move they made. The longer this went on, the less it was going to favor them.
Which meant Kris needed to take control of the tempo. The next time Michiko floated toward them, Kris waded in, slamming forward with a quick movement meant to wrong-foot her. She was off-balance for a split second, but Kris wasn’t fast enough to exploit it, and then her footwork took her away again.
Out of what she thought was Kris’s range. Their back leg coiled underneath them, and they lunged.
&
nbsp; Kris knew, even as they moved, that it was a mistake.
Because Michiko was ready for them. All it took was one tiny sidestep and a textbook cutting parry, and fire burned across Kris’s thigh.
She retreated fully out of measure without pausing to check her handiwork, and then stopped. “Do you concede the touch?”
With blood staining their leg, they could hardly do otherwise. “I do,” Kris said, through their teeth. They saluted, and Michiko returned it; and that quickly, the duel was done. Michiko had won.
By tradition, it meant Kris had to consider her words about Quloo . . . and the possibility that they weren’t as ready as they thought.
I’m ready, Kris thought fiercely. When the Gauntlet comes, I won’t be hung over.
But it wouldn’t be Michiko they faced, either.
She seemed to soften as she looked at him. “I’m sorry, Kris. This—it was bad timing. I just want you to think twice before you trust people, is all.”
Kris sheathed their blade and turned to leave. “Oh, I will.”
Episode 3
Baby Shower
By Cassandra Khaw
Chapter 1
Kris
The antechamber in the Quloi embassy stood draped in peacock greens and gilt-kissed blues, in constellations of silvery damask, all tasseled with symbols that Kris did not recognize. To Kris’s surprise, only a nominal number of weapons were on display, and there was little indication of the island’s mercantile history, no statement pieces. Instead they saw portraits of Twaa-Fei and its myriad inhabitants, images of the other warders, all smiling, their eyes luminous with the future. It made Kris’s heart seize with want. One day, perhaps, they’d be on these walls too. Recognized as a friend, a peer. “You honor me, Warder Kante. I believe—”
“Ojo,” the older man corrected them. He wore formal attire this time: a kaftan belted at the waist, shawl over one muscular shoulder, trousers metallic copper and delicately brocaded, a vest that reached to his hips. And the ceremonial dagger, of course, worn against Ojo’s belly. The hilt was exquisite, manak-bone scrimshaw, lined with obsidian and veined with amber. “Call me Ojo. There is no need to stand at attention. We are friends, are we not?”
“I—”
Ojo laughed. His voice was warm and rich and honeyed, as much a weapon as the blades resting against his spine. Maybe even more, Kris thought, studying the Quloo warder’s regal features, the practiced smile. Somewhere in their mind, a ghost of Alyx was shaking their silver-haired head, mouthing warnings. Be wary of kindness, Kris.
But anyone who was anyone, even the dullest child in the smallest village in the worst slums of Mertika, knew that the point of Twaa-Fei was to establish peace among the nations. So what if Ojo intended to use Kris against the other warders? Ultimately, this would all be in pursuit of the greater good. More important, Kris knew exactly what they had to do. They’d gone over this plan too many times. Rumika would not side with any of the other factions. Rumika would serve as the axis of all political interactions, neutral and impartial.
Let the other warders, with their glib tongues, their loaded discourse, their endless posturing, do their worst. Rumika would not fall. Kris would not fall. Besides, they had no plans to do anything until they’d at least listened to Michiko’s appeal. A little conversation couldn’t possibly hurt anyone.
“I am honored you’d call me friend. Overwhelmed, even. It’s such a generous thing to say.” Kris bobbed a quick bow, sharpened their smile. “Especially given the fact that we’ll have to duel soon, and I will thoroughly trounce you in front of an audience of our peers.”
Ojo’s expression faltered, and Kris couldn’t help but grin as his counterpart spluttered through niceties, starting and stopping halfway through each new line, before finally surrendering to an unabashed guffaw.
“I believe in honesty,” Kris declared breezily, earning another round of laughter.
“You do Rumika proud,” Ojo said, once he again had enough breath to speak, his smile infectious.
“I hope to do more still, my new friend. Regarding our possible arrangement—”
The warder interrupted them with a flap of his hand. “Later. And only once you’ve ascended to your office. It wouldn’t be right to force you into a commitment now.”
“But I am authorized—”
“And I am old and sentimental.” Ojo’s attention drifted from Kris, the humor draining from his face. Something like grief flickered, just for a moment, in the dark wells of his eyes. “I believe in protocol. Tradition represents the bones of our civilization. Without orders, without rules, without regard for system, we’d be no better than animals. I would not have you speak to your government without anything but a gentleman’s agreement to show.”
“You’re too kind.” Kris followed the man’s gaze over the slant of their shoulder. Their eyes grazed over a myriad of beautifully calligraphed posters. The notices had become a familiar sight over the last week. Twaa-Fei was practically drowning in them, thanks to Bellona’s efforts. “So, are you excited for the baby shower, then? I can’t imagine what Bellona might have planned. Something lavish, I’m sure.”
“Oh, most definitely. She’s Lavinia’s little tiger cub, after all. Anything less and she stands at risk of offending all her previous selves.” Ojo strolled up to the posters and began, very slowly, peeling them from the wall. He did not crumple them as Kris thought he would have, but instead halved them, again and again, all with the focus of a man walking a tightrope.
“Warder Kante? Did something happen between you and Warder Kyrkos? If this is a case of that Mertikan half-wit treading carelessly over a sensitive matter, I’d more than happily serve as your proxy, and tell her where she should shove—”
“In case you have forgotten, Seru Denn, you are here as a representative of Rumika. This is not about town politics. This is about the world.”
Kris fell silent. Seru Denn. The most formal of honorifics; you used the word for strangers, people you couldn’t stomach to trust.
Ojo carved a hand through his graying curls, expression flickering between possibilities. Kris knew enough about statecraft to read the variations, all of them intended to reassure, none of them honest. Yet Kris saw no impure motive behind the changes, only exhaustion, and despite the earlier admonishment, their heart ached in reply to Ojo’s fatigue.
“I apologize.” Ojo struggled with the words for a breath before he slotted a kind smile into place, the posters stashed into a pocket. “Age has a way of transforming us into our worst selves.”
“No, Ame Kante.” Ame. A step below sovereign lord. Hopefully, Ojo would understand the depth of Kris’s horror at his disapproval. “I’m the one—”
“You flatter an old man with your willingness to take his sins onto yourself.” Ojo bowed his head, cutting Kris off. “Let me apologize. I misspoke. I presumed to lecture you when it wasn’t my right.”
“But you were right, Ame Kante. I spoke out of turn. In fact, I did more than speak out of turn. I—”
“Warder,” Ojo said so very softly. “Enough.”
Warder, Kris thought, warmth blooming under their skin. He called me Warder. Had Kris been older, wiser, less ambitious, less easily blindsided by such flattery, they might have thought harder on Ojo’s choice of words. But as it stood, they had little chance.
“We’ve known each other for a week, but already you’ve exhibited more generosity than I’ve seen in decades.” A crack in Ojo’s facade again, a flicker of something like agony, but Kris couldn’t tell for sure. “Is this customary of Rumika? To be so open and compassionate toward strangers? It seems like such a dangerous thing.”
“I cannot speak for all of my nation.” Kris splayed long fingers across the bridge of their sternum. “But where I hail from, at least, we believe that there is no future without trust, no opportunity for growth unless we’re willing to approach the world from a position of compassion. It opens one to the risk of injury, true, but the rewards have been gr
eat. I—I suppose the answer’s yes. It is customary for Rumika to care.”
Ojo held Kris’s gaze for a space of heartbeats, expression illegible, before at last, the mask once more, and the warder sagged. “Yes.”
“What?”
“I am certain this will inevitably cause some measure of controversy. But I am decided. The answer’s yes. At least, unofficially speaking. You will need to be formally appointed as the Rumikan warder before we can make public the announcement. But as far as I am concerned, the answer’s yes. Quloo will stand with Rumika, and I, with you.”
Blood thundered in Kris’s ears. This wasn’t the answer that they’d been expecting, wasn’t even the outcome they’d been hoping for. For all their brazenness, Kris had anticipated more weeks of discussion. It was all they could do to not lunge at Ojo and embrace the other man. “And the trade agreement—”
“Done.”
Not trusting their ability to speak, Kris thumped a fist against their chest and bowed deep, joy thrumming through their bones. Days from their first duel in the Gauntlet, and already Kris had negotiated a deal to change the world. This was a sign. This was proof. Rumika, disregarded and ignored for so long, would finally take its place in the world.
•••
“Kris!”
They spun on their heel, a hand darting to their saber at their hip. The blade rattled in its sheath, the sound loud in the hall outside of the Quloi embassy. It was so different here. Marble instead of decadently thick carpeting, and everything made to echo. At least no one else but Kris’s assailant was within earshot. “Who—Adechike? What are you doing here?”
An indignant look flitted across the youth’s features. Adechike clacked his jaw shut, stiffened, brow furrowing. Evening poured its light across the hall, a bluish thing that rendered the curling hall in soft shadows. Outside the windows, Kris could see the krill—pinnies, that was what they were called on Twaa-Fei—gather into ribbons of flashing opalescence, readying for the night. “What do you mean what am I doing here? I said I’d wait for you.”
The Complete Season 1 Page 8