The Complete Season 1

by Michael Underwood

  “You—yes.” Kris released their grip on their blade, disoriented still from their recent triumph. “I know you did. But I thought you meant— When most people say they’ll ‘wait right there,’ they don’t actually mean it. I’d have thought you would— I don’t know. I thought you would have gone to the teahouse, or retired to your chambers, or at least found a book to read. You—”

  Adechike’s frown deepened. He steepled his fingers at his waist, cocked a disappointed look at Kris. “I said I would not leave this spot until you were done.”

  Kris gave up. “Most people are not quite as literal.”

  “Most people are terrible friends, then.” His expression cleared. “Really, though. Did you honestly expect I’d leave you here? Alone? To deal with whatever fallout might have taken place? What kind of person do you take me for?”

  “A normal one.”

  A smile stole across Adechike’s features, delicate as a vow, and spread until it overtook the entirety of his face.

  Almost against Kris’s will, they began to laugh, the events of the last week tumbling together, knifing into a sharp, breathless pleasure. For a moment that was all that they could do: laugh with the abandon of a child while Adechike looked on in mounting concern. This really was everything that Kris had craved. Success as the aspirant warder, and a friend like Adechike, someone they could trust, someone with whom they’d one day share the history books, immortalized as heroes—

  “Kris?”

  They flicked a hand up. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

  “I didn’t think that was that funny a joke.” Adechike extended a lean arm. Today he was dressed casually, as though en route to a informal appointment: a saffron-colored kaftan trimmed with silver, matching trousers, a drapery of blue-green silks worn diagonally along a shoulder, their glimmering surfaces subtly brocaded with Adechike’s many achievements. “But who knows with you strange Rumikans?”

  Had anyone else said those words, Kris might have tensed, might have thought twice about placing their loyalties in the cup of Adechike’s palm. But the warmth in his voice, that glorious baritone, there was no mistaking it for anything but affection. Anything but a faultless kindness. Kris clasped a hand around Adechike’s arm, just below the elbow, and tugged their friend into an embrace.

  The warder-to-be let out a startled yip, a quick bark of laughter, before he allowed himself to be crushed against Kris’s chest. “I’m guessing it went well with Ojo.”

  The two separated.

  “Incredibly,” said Kris. “Better than I could have possibly hoped. Better than I dared dream, really. I’d expected—”

  They gestured at the air.

  “You expected . . . ?” Adechike prompted, head tipped at a quizzical angle.

  “Actually.” Kris flashed their best smile and draped an arm around Adechike’s shoulder. Leaning close, they dropped their voice into a conspiratorial murmur as they led their friend from the embassy. “I’ll tell you the rest of the story at the teahouse. But it will be fantastic. Rumikan aerstone technology will launch Quloo into the future. The things I’ve seen, Adechike, the things our scientists do—you wouldn’t believe any of it. Hri willing, we’ll bring about an industrial revolution. I want you to imagine . . .”

  Chapter 2

  Cassia

  “Were you expecting someone?”

  Cassia, sandal dangling from the arch of a slim foot, set her jaw atop the cup of her palm and shook her head. Unlike Penelope, Cassia was spare and slender, brushstroke lines accented with taut muscle. She favored lighter weaponry, martial skills that capitalized on momentum, surprise. Penelope disapproved, of course. But Penelope disapproved of everything that the younger Vanian enjoyed—including Cassia’s new haircut.

  Frivolous, she called it. Too much softness, too much everything. But Penelope was, as battlemistresses often were, out of touch. Twirling a quill in her other hand, Cassia drawled:, “No.”

  The older Vanian let out a low, irritated sigh. Cassia had come to recognize the noise as Penelope’s way of saying she’d had just about enough, was ready to retire either to the gymnasiums, a hot bath, or Ojo’s company. Maybe some combination of the three. Cassia had heard all the gossip.

  That sigh almost meant more paperwork to shovel through, more long-winded legalese to hack into palatable summaries, more forms to fill out, more forms to check, more everything. But Cassia was used to that. Besides, none of it was actually hard. A cup of tart plum wine, some light music, the promise of fresh appetizers—the things that the proprietor could do with fish cartilage, Mothers Above—from the kitchens of the teahouse, and suddenly it’d all be all over. Cassia sighed.

  The problem was convincing Penelope to get on with it.

  “Most junior warders would already be on their feet and halfway to the door, a blade in their hand, prepared to defend their superior officer against whatever threat lay outside.”

  Cassia didn’t miss a beat. “Most junior warders do not serve a decorated battlemistress.”

  Penelope crooked a wry smile and said nothing, only swept across her office to open the door. Outside was Bellona Avitus, every inch the effete aristocrat that she was, hair worked into an outrageously impractical coif. With some disdain, Cassia took in Bellona’s choice in footwear. Four-inch high heels, no counterbalances in sight. So typical of those Mertikans.

  “Yes?” said Penelope.

  “Mistress Penelope Kyrkos, Scourge of the Battle of Telnisia, the Emerald Death, Lady of the Seventeen—”

  “Speak. Faster.”

  Cassia barely swallowed her laughter in time.

  “Um.” Bellona tripped into a pose of Vanian genuflection, flawless except for the fact that she forewent the surrender of arms. Cassia saw Penelope’s lips curl infinitesimally, a look of cool disdain flash across her features. “I am here, Warder, to extend an invitation to the most joyous of occasions. An event like no other.”

  Useless, Cassia thought, half pityingly, her attention straying from the embarrassing tableau to the curving window that replaced one of the office’s walls. Penelope had been so particular about its installation. It had to be a single pane of glass, perfectly clear, and thick enough to withstand a collision with a manak. The specifications had driven so many contractors to madness. As memory teased a smile from Cassia’s lips, the clouds pulled from the silhouette of an approaching ship.

  Her breath caught.

  Could it be? She’d been wrong before. The ramwhuls that had colonized Twaa-Fei were larger than anything Cassia was accustomed to. For months, she’d mistaken the slow-moving giants for ships, their antlered heads almost resembling ramshackle masts. But no, this was something else. This was— The tug of longing crescendoed into impatience. Yes. There was no mistaking that shape for anything else. The daggered prow, the telltale ridging of vertebrae along its highest mast, the trophies hanging from its hull like the hairs of some fantastical beast. No other nation but the Herrok would tolerate such a ridiculous design, and no Herrok ship was as ridiculous as the Blue Fang. Anton was finally home.

  “While I appreciate you extending this invitation, Ms. Avitus, I’m afraid I must decline. I have far too much to do before—”

  “But, Mistress Kyrkos, your attendance is necessary.”

  Cassia narrowed her eyes, shaded her gaze against the afternoon glare. Her eagerness dimmed into worry. Something was very, very wrong with the Blue Fang, but she couldn’t yet tell what. Had Anton tussled with too many rivals again? Did he join another stupid manak race? She had so many questions, none of which would be answered until Bellona took her leave. Cassia flicked an irritated look at the door, even as the Mertikan delegate slid a glossy envelope from a pocket.

  Penelope sighed. At least she wasn’t the only one growing weary of their guest, Cassia thought ruefully.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because, Madame Kyrkos, this cannot take place without your presence,” said Bellona, dipping into a bow. “You are the guest of honor. Y
ou are the reason for its conception. You see, the event in question is your baby shower.”

  “Baby shower,” Penelope repeated, tone flat, while Cassia stared in horror. Vanian culture had no equivalent. Such occasions were pure Mertikan bombast, and the idea that Bellona might impose such frippery on the battlemistress was, well, unthinkable.

  No. Not unthinkable, Cassia decided. That was Mertika for you, perpetually convinced that their mode of civilization was the status quo, no room for nuance or personal identity. Penelope made a strangled noise low in her throat.

  “Vanians do not have baby showers.”

  Bellona visibly brightened. “That’s why you’ll have one.”

  At the precise moment Bellona made that arrogant announcement, the Blue Fang drifted from the clouds, revealing what Cassia had suspected. It was damaged, but not in any way she’d seen before. The stern was almost entirely missing, a ragged mess of broken timber. It looked like something had taken a bite out of the ship. Something enormous.

  “Mist-fiend,” Cassia whispered.

  “You have to be kidding me.”

  And Bellona, oblivious to everything but her own excitement, said:

  “It’ll be the party of the century.”

  Chapter 3

  Ojo

  Every day this place feels more like a tomb.

  Ojo weighed the thought in his head as he allowed his eyes to roam, the candlelight writing flickering shapes into its corners, like ghosts of a thousand dead countrymen. If he allowed himself, Ojo could almost hear the screams again. Not that they were ever absent. Not that he could forget. Not now.

  Not ever.

  “Ame Kante, it’s your turn.”

  He shook his head and looked back to Adechike, the boy’s round face framed in the palest gold. His mouth bent. Without thinking, Ojo stretched across the playing board and tousled his understudy’s locked hair, eliciting a squawk but no reciprocated action. For all the indignity that Adechike exhibited, however, Ojo could tell that none of it was meant. All of it was in service of play, of endearing himself to the public. And not, Ojo thought, for any mercenary reasons either.

  Adechike, for good or for ill, genuinely desired the friendship of those around him.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Anyway, you were telling me about what Warder Denn said—”

  “Warder Denn.” Adechike’s face broke into an exultant smile. “If only Kris could hear that. They wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight. Actually, that might be a terrible idea. They’d probably drag me to the teahouse. Again. Shun’s done something new with their dragon fruit wine, and Kris is fascinated. As always.”

  “As always.” Ojo moved a piece absently, eyes drifting again to the window. The last ships had docked for the evening. There would no more traffic until the dawn. The quiet, despite all the years Ojo had spent on Twaa-Fei, never ceased to startle the warder. Manaks flitted silently between jags of floating rock, some overgrown with moss and new life, others still bearing the remnants of what had been, ruined architecture like pleading hands stretched up to the indifferent stars.

  “As for what Warder Denn . . .” That smile again. Warm, innocent of anything but that rare and exquisite joy. Had Ojo the means, he’d harvest some of that bliss, bottle it, keep it on his desk on those days when he needed reminding that tomorrow was still a dream that persisted for some. “. . . said. I am not certain about the particulars. They—we had a lot to drink, and the conversation went everywhere. But as far as I can tell, it isn’t just one breakthrough. No, it’s a system. See—really, it’s pure genius. The Rumikans have figured out not only how to domesticate the local fauna but also how to adjust the elemental composition of their krill. Now there’s more aerstone than ever in the bones of their native wildlife. Of course, that wouldn’t mean anything if they hadn’t also figured out a way to amplify the potency of the aerstone molecules. I’m not even sure how it works. It’s amazing—”

  Cold rippled through Ojo’s veins. “Could you repeat that?”

  “Warder . . .” Adechike leaned forward, concern emblazoned on every line of his face. Damn it. Ojo had miscalculated. Under that saccharine exterior was a razor wire of a mind, impossibly sharp. Adechike was, if not the brightest, then one of the brightest candidates that Quloo had ever produced. And with that magnetic personality of his, he might become one of their nation’s most influential warders.

  But what was the point in contemplating Adechike’s future when there was a chance that there might not be a future for any of them, anyway? Nothing to look forward to but loss; Quloo’s identity disassembled, discarded in favor of whatever country saw fit to collect the detritus of the coming catastrophe. In a few generations, Quloo might not even exist as a memory.

  “It’s nothing. You were saying?”

  “Uncle.” After his introduction to Penelope, Adechike had insisted on being better at the use of honorifics so as to ensure that Ojo, now in the wane of his long career, would never be starved of the respect he deserved. He’d demanded that right, in fact. To hear Adechike revert to something affectionate, it was a clear indication of how upset the boy felt. “But I can tell you’re unhappy. Please. You asked that I see you as family, and I do. And at the risk of sounding contemptuous of your desires, there is no world in which I would not put my family first. I cannot keep babbling about a drunken conversation with a peer when you’re clearly distressed. It’s unthinkable. Uncle, please. Tell me what’s wrong?”

  Ojo swallowed his despair, coerced a smile into place. “It’s the baby shower.”

  That caught Adechike off guard. “The—the baby shower, sir? I thought that would be a joyous event for you and Penelope.”

  “Yes.” Ojo stared at the game board, exhausted. He was suddenly sick of subterfuge and lies, of all these layered conversations, these endless games. Of hoping. Of being disappointed. Had he not performed to the best of his abilities? Had he not been faithful? Why did he have to stand trapped at these crossroads, doomed whichever way he turned? What had he done to deserve this? And Penelope . . . “Penelope is leaving.”

  Adechike’s hand flew to his mouth. “Oh. Oh, I hadn’t even— I am sorry. Ame Kante, I didn’t even think. Of course, that was obvious. I apologize. I was being insensitive.”

  Despite himself, Ojo laughed. “It’s— No, you’re right, Adechike. If there’s anyone who should feel sorry, it’s me. Penelope is a married woman.”

  His laughter swelled at the youth’s look of horror, barely constrained by protocol.

  “No, no. It’s not like that. Penelope’s wife is aware. In fact, Semele’s been the one pushing for a child, encouraging us to have a child. . . .” Ojo chuckled. “Yes, it’s about as awkward as you’d expect. Pleasant, but awkward. The three of us have known one another for a very long time. So long, in fact, that Semele has offered me as a stud to some of their peers.”

  Having finally found his voice again, Adechike said, “You feel guilty.”

  “Yes. It’s disrespectful to Penelope, to her culture. We’d known from the beginning that I was nothing more than a diversion, a comfort while her wife was away. Even if she weren’t married, there was no way there would be a future between us. She is a Vanian. I am not. They do not join in matrimony with men, and for all that they might pursue external distractions, they are, ah, how shall we say . . . culturally and contractually monogamous?”

  “Warder Kante? I . . . Are you in love with her?”

  Ojo flinched. “In my own way, perhaps. Either way, I am . . . ashamed. I am old enough that I should be wiser than this, old enough to be more gracious about the inevitable. I should be overjoyed for Penelope, but I am not. And the baby shower—it is a cruel reminder of both my inadequacies and my loss.”

  None of this, Ojo thought to himself, was a lie. Even if none of it was entirely accurate, either. Better that Adechike believe that Ojo was a softhearted fool than be suspicious of Ojo’s intent. He and Kris were too close for the old warder to risk transparency. A regretful situatio
n, but there was nothing to be done about it. More important things were at stake.

  He watched Adechike’s face, tracing the changes in expression, the way the youth processed this new data. How strange it was to see all of a person’s emotions written so plainly on their skin. Had he, too, once been so open?

  “Ame Kante.” Adechike picked through his next words with the care of one navigating a field of broken glass. “Whatever you need in this time of difficulty, let me say that I am here for you, and that if you require companionship or a trustworthy ear, someone to speak to even in the dead of night, I will be happily in your service. I wish I had wisdom to offer, but given the disparity between our ages, I’m afraid there is little else I can give.”

  He paused.

  “But I can cook, too. Magnificently, in fact. If you tire of Twaa-Fei’s interpretation of our motherland’s cuisine, I’d be more than happy to prepare you something. You’ve not lived until you’ve had one of my desserts.”

  “Make sure that Shun never hears you say that.” Ojo exhaled slowly. He’d succeeded at distracting Adechike. His triumph tasted like ash on his tongue, but Ojo said nothing of his unease, only smiled and listened as his young charge continued to chatter about nothing at all.

  Chapter 4

  Bellona

  Worthless, Bellona thought. They were all worthless. Every last one of those simpering, soft-bellied, sniveling fools. If they’d expected to cultivate her favor, well, that certainly wasn’t about to happen. Who did they think she was? Another aristocrat with a thousand lifetimes of comfort behind?

  Please.

  The more she thought about the idea, the angrier Bellona grew. How dare those little sycophants, the hangers-on who dreamed of Mertikan children, think that they could earn her favor with nothing but words? Hollow, meaningless words, dripping with false promises. There were so many of them. As many as the faceless idiots who’d hope that good fortune might drift from Bellona like so much dandruff. She snarled as she pricked her fingertip for the umpteenth time, and sucked on the bleeding skin.