The Complete Season 1

by Michael Underwood

  She’d show them.

  Moonlight filled the ballroom, deserted save for the mountains of tinsel, the half-finished ice sculptures, the garlands of crystal that still needed to be strung in the rafters. Before morning came, Bellona would also need to set the tables, prepare the bouquets, calculate the distribution of party favors. If only Hylas wasn’t such a waste of skin, they’d at least have the correct number of souvenirs to distribute among the guests.

  And the caterers.

  Empress Undying, the caterers. For all the public’s glorification of Twaa-Fei’s cuisine, for all the good things that Bellona had heard bantered through the tearooms and the embassy, she couldn’t abide by their food. So much fish. So much fermentation. Flavors so intense that they’d linger for hours, regardless of how much wine Bellona drank. How could anyone stand such an assault on their palate?

  To make matters worse, none of the caterers would even consider accommodating Bellona’s myriad suggestions on how to improve upon their dishes. Why, she’d never know, but such was life outside of Mertika, she supposed.

  Bellona pinched her temples and rubbed circles into the flesh, willing the burgeoning migraine to recede. She was so tired. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept for any reasonable amount of time. But she had promised Penelope that it would be a celebration to remember, a gala event worthy of the battlemistress’s storied history. Bellona would not, could not, give up now.

  Especially given everything that Bellona had heard. For all that Vania might make overtures at respecting Mertikan authority, you’d have to be blind to miss Penelope’s personal contempt for Lavinia. If Bellona could just get around this, establish herself as someone different, someone more pliable and less adversarial. Someone not dissimilar from a friend or, at the very least, a colleague with whom one might consider building a rapport. If she could do that, everything else would fall into place.

  Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. Bellona shot a look toward the double doors, catching sight of a familiar figure. Michiko stood in the gap, wan and listless. No doubt she was sneaking back to her quarters after another night in the teahouse, accompanied by that idiot Kris and their entourage of sycophants, every one of them as guileless and embarrassing as that Rumikan imbecile.

  At least those rallying around the Quloi youth had a sense of taste. Adechike, weak as he was, boasted of achievements that would make even a Mertikan proud. Kris, on the other hand, possessed nothing but a reputation for reckless behavior. The thought of the Rumikan aspirant twisted in her belly.

  “Oda,” Bellona snapped, causing the other girl to jump. “Where are you going?”

  “I—I’m going to bed, I suppose. Good evening, Bellona.”

  “Well, your manners appear to have retired ahead of you. You seem to have forgotten all necessary formalities.” Bellona laid down her work.

  “I apologize. It is late.” Michiko crept closer, but would not cross the threshold into the ballroom itself. Her hair hung in a tangle of shadows over her sharp face.

  Bellona couldn’t recall the Kakute representative looking so bedraggled. She’d need to have a word with her superior tomorrow, discuss the importance of maintaining appearance, regardless of the hour. If Mertika was to have the respect of the world, its colonies and their respective dignitaries would need to be faultless. This was unacceptable.

  “I didn’t think—” Michiko began.

  “That is the problem with the Kakute. You don’t think. You trust too much in the advice of those who came before you. You need to look forward, not backward. That is why—” Bellona stopped herself. That is why your country belongs to Mertika. Though Bellona had not spoken the words aloud, their echo still resonated in the air.

  While Michiko searched for an answer, the young Mertikan palmed her face and wondered how much time she would have tomorrow to sleep or, more realistically, apply enough makeup to conceal her exhaustion. Eventually, she realized the silence had persisted far longer than decorous. She looked back to Michiko to see the girl still rooted in place, head bowed, eyes a thousand miles from the conversation.

  “So, will you come help me with the baby shower?” Bellona demanded, more testily than she’d intended. Not that her ire wasn’t undeserved. Michiko had had her chance, and this restless quiet of hers was nothing if not an unattractive look. “There’s so much left to be done. I have every confidence that I will complete this labor. But help would not go unappreciated.”

  “I—I can’t.” Michiko wrapped her arms around herself, nails biting into her flesh, her grip white-knuckled. “I have to go. I am so very deeply sorry. But circumstances—”

  “Ah,” Bellona said. “So Lavinia’s spoken to you, then. I should have known that was the case. Now I should apologize to you. It’s late, as you’ve said.”

  “Lavi— Yes, I mean. Yes. Of course. I just wasn’t certain if you had clearance—”

  “Of course I have clearance. Lavinia tells me everything. I am, after all, her right-hand woman.” Or would be, she corrected herself dutifully, once the warder understood the magnitude of Bellona’s abilities, and how useful she could be to the cause. “But ignore me. Again, I’d like to offer apologies for the lack of forethought. I am ashamed. Go rest, Michiko. You will need all your energy to fulfill your tasks.”

  Michiko bowed with her customary elegance. “As you will it.”

  “Indeed.” Bellona looked over the battlefield of her labors, expelled a faint sigh. There was so much more to be done. But it would be worthwhile. She was certain of that. “More than anything else. You might think that I’m being unnecessarily harsh sometimes. I understand that. But I do genuinely wish the best for you, Michiko. For you and for Kakute. If you work hard, one day your children will be born on our soil. And who knows, if you are diligent and true, perhaps you will be reborn as a Mertikan someday, gifted with the ability to see how far you’ve come from your peasant pasts.”

  The Kakute junior delegate said nothing for so long that Bellona wondered if she might have overwhelmed the other woman, and she had half risen from her place on the floor when Michiko finally spoke, her voice so quiet that it almost lost itself in the hiss of moving lace.

  “I thank you for your generosity. But at this point in my life, this humble servant cannot possibly see how any of that may happen.”

  Chapter 5

  Ojo

  “Bellona has outdone herself.”

  The smile surprised Ojo with how readily it manifested. Despite the grief lying leaden in the pit of his stomach, he couldn’t help but feel a thrum of excitement. Penelope had not requested he absent himself from the debacle, although they’d both joked about how it might be a favor instead. She’d asked for him. After all the words they’d shared, she’d asked for him. A final courtesy, perhaps? Or an apology for that wretched evening in her bedchambers?

  Ojo wanted neither to be true.

  He studied her face; the Vanian battlemistress was impossible to read. Few gave the warder enough credit. Certainly, her combat prowess went unquestioned. There was no one alive who would dare downplay Penelope’s achievements in that area. Even Lavinia had nothing but a grudging respect for the older woman. But so few understood just how accomplished Penelope was at diplomacy, how gifted she was at using the inflection of a smile to alter a discussion. Ojo, however, was aware, and for that reason, he found himself unable to truly relax.

  “I won’t lie,” he said, reaching up to brush fingers across the frothing of seed pearls and lace dangling from the doorway. It wasn’t dissatisfactory work, in any shape or sense. Bellona was Mertikan, after all. Her people did nothing halfway. But the effusive delicacy of it all seemed ill suited for a woman like Penelope. “I’m slightly afraid of what’s going to be inside the ballroom.”

  “Whatever it is, it’ll be lovely, I’m certain.” Penelope was dressed serviceably, with armor beneath her tunic, sword at her back.

  “You’re being very generous to Mertika, my dear.”
/>   “You mistake me, Ojo.”

  Her smile, as always, filled his world and eclipsed all else. Damn it all. Adechike might have been right, after all.

  “I said it’ll be lovely. I never said it would suit my tastes. War, for example, can be beautiful, but most would claim otherwise. And haruspicy is an art of its own. I’m told that there are competitions where the aesthetics of entrails-reading are judged by a jury of peers. It is a matter of perspective.”

  “And what is your perspective on this?”

  “This will be a gaudy, garish, glamorous, and utterly heinous affair.” Penelope winked at him. “But the food, I imagine, will at least be palatable.”

  •••

  Penelope was right.

  The ballroom was transformed. The ceiling was frescoed with billowing silks, complex floral arrangements, all threaded with firefly glows. The tables were festooned with dioramas: porcelain cavalry, whalebone soldiers and wire-frame ships, manaks in miniature, all coming together in battle, while villagers made of saltshakers and pepper shakers watched on. Beautiful people—some slim hipped and dark, others pale and voluptuous—swanned through the ballroom, carrying silver trays laden with hors d'oeuvres.

  There were murals hanging from every wall, and—

  Ojo heard Penelope swear softly, even as the battlemistress’s shimmering doppelgängers emerged from the milling guests. Here was Penelope as she stood on her wife’s ship after the two had taken down a mist-fiend with no help but their own hands, armor tattered, blood ribboning from the corner of her smirk. Here was Penelope in full battle dress, moments before she led her unit to victory. Here was Penelope as a child of fifteen, fresh from her first kill and achingly beautiful.

  Every triumph of Penelope’s long life incarnated into a company of ghosts; Ojo couldn’t tell if it was bladecraft or women in costume. The apparitions organized themselves into two lines and struck proud salutes.

  “Oh dear.” He heard Penelope sigh, half laughing.

  Before he could weigh the decision thoroughly, Ojo reached for her hand, fingertips grazing against her knuckles. Penelope glanced at him over the slant of her shoulder, smile courteous, and gently, without so much as a flicker of expression, moved out of his grasp.

  Yes. He’d forgotten again. Just for a moment he’d lost sight of the fact that he was nothing more than a resource, a diversion, was even less than that now. Whatever he shared with Penelope was over, no thanks to his own sentimentality. Ojo inclined his head and said nothing, held his smile like a shield instead, even as Bellona emerged from the thronging crowd. The young Mertikan parted her arms, like a queen welcoming the peasantry to one glorious day in her home.

  “Warder Kante, Warder Kyrkos, we of Twaa-Fei welcome you.” Bellona bowed low, only to stutter through her genuflection, stumbling sidelong.

  Ojo caught her before she could fall. “Easy, child. Are you—”

  He searched Bellona’s countenance. This close, he could see what he’d missed before. Under a layer of powders and rich hues, shadows bruised the valleys of Bellona’s face. Her eyes were red-veined, heavy with fatigue.

  “When was the last time you slept?”

  Bellona squinted at Ojo’s face. “Last week? I’ve had naps.”

  “What—what were you thinking? I know that your health is Lavinia’s responsibility and not mine, but I don’t think I am overstepping my authority when I say that this is ridiculous. You cannot do this to yourself.”

  “In my past life . . .” With no small amount of effort, Bellona pushed from Ojo’s arms and dusted her tunic, careful to pick imaginary lint from the expensive fabric, before finally directing a withering look at the man. Her eyes raked across him from temple to toe. She sneered, and with a jolt, Ojo realized where he’d seen that expression before. It was a perfect replica of Lavinia’s own sneer, contemptuous and cold. “In my past life I once survived two weeks with no sleep. A Mertikan soldier does not know fatigue. A Mertikan—”

  She swayed.

  Penelope strode forward, interrupting Bellona’s tirade, a palm slanted upward. “A Mertikan general would know that it is customary to drink with their Vanian counterparts. And I do not see a cup in your hands, Bellona.”

  The two women regarded each other for a breath, Penelope’s gaze cool, Bellona’s still sleep-hazed and indignant. Then the latter broke and dipped her head, mumbling apologies. Penelope flashed Ojo a victorious grin as she was led away into the crowd, but try as he might to conjure some fiction of happiness, Ojo found nothing but dust to give.

  Chapter 6

  Kris

  There needed, Kris decided, to be an award for those who could restrain their laughter. Some special event that allowed the public to properly venerate those of dignity, discretion, and diplomacy. Why? Because Kris was certain they’d win. They swallowed another pull of their pomegranate rum, even as Cassia pinched the bridge of her nose. “For the last time, Anton, what happened to your ship—”

  “What didn’t happen to the ship.” Anton dropped into a battle stance, body low, arms held wide. Before anyone could say a second word, the Herrok captain had freed his sword. Three strokes of the serrated blade, and silver burst across its length, almost in tandem with Cassia’s horrified shriek. “What didn’t happen to my ship. Darling, your hair would turn white if you knew. There I was—”

  “Mothers use your bones for their cups. Anton, what do you think you’re doing? Enough with the bladecrafting. There are civilians here. This is not a coliseum. Anton, are you listening to me? Put that—”

  “My beautiful cactus of the blue skies, my luminous star, the light by which I pilot my humble life, I know. But trust in your loyal servant. Have I ever let you fall? So, as I was saying. There I was—”

  “You’re avoiding my question.”

  “No, I’m being an exemplary entertainer, and regaling young Kris with stories of Herrok heroism. There’s a difference, and a fair amount of alliteration.”

  Kris hid a laugh behind their raised hand, and allowed their gaze to drift while Anton and Cassia bickered. The two were clearly lovers, for all they might pretend otherwise. But Kris knew how to be discreet. They slouched back against the bar, sparing the room a quick inspection. Michiko stood between Lavinia and Kensuke, silent. Kris made a mental note to track the girl down later. There was a hollowness to her gaze that they did not recognize, liked even less than the way her face seemed to crumple into itself with every moment in Lavinia’s company. Yes, they’d have to look for her later, have a chat.

  Not that anyone with half a soul could tolerate Lavinia’s presence. What a wretched creature, Kris thought. As much as they wanted to intervene, however, now wasn’t the time or place. Kris had their own problems to contend with. That said, these “problems” needn’t stay problems. Sparing one last pitying look in Michiko’s direction, Kris returned their attention to the pair beside them, their grin already growing.

  “Anton,” Cassia growled.

  “Kris!” The Herrok was taller than the Rumikan, almost comically debonair in appearance: dark hair, elegant features, a pencil-thin mustache and a trim goatee to match. He wore his tresses impractically long and, even here, amid all the finery of Twaa-Fei, Kris could picture Anton’s mane streaming through the wind. “You’ve returned to us.”

  “Anton.”

  Anton draped an arm across Kris’s shoulders, beaming. They looked him over again and swore to themselves they’d procure an introduction to the captain’s tailor; his ensemble dazzled with its idiosyncratic style, its unwillingness to adhere to any standards but those set by the beating heart of the Blue Fang. “So, as I was saying, it was a battle like none other. There I was, dangling from the ship by the thinnest of ropes. The wind roared around us. I—”

  “Prove it.”

  “What?”

  “Prove to me that you’re that agile.” Kris flashed a mischievous grin.

  “What? Right now? Here?”

  “Don’t you dare encourage him.�
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  “Yes. Right the hell now.” Kris crossed their arms across their chest. There was movement in the periphery of their vision; a quick glance revealed Bellona, swaggering through the guests, loudly introducing Penelope and Ojo to every unfortunate whose path they crossed. Kris cocked their head, gaze sliding to the mug dangling loosely from her fingers.

  Their smile grew. This would be fun.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Cassia had finally had enough. She shouldered between the two of them, an arm raised. “Both of you—”

  “But, darling.”

  “Both of you. Behave. Or I swear, I will have your heads mounted on a pike so quickly, neither of you will even have time to bleed. I— What is she doing? No, no. Oh, Bellona. Is that— Oh dear.”

  Kris followed Cassia’s stricken gaze back to where Bellona stood, now cradling a massive tome. Try as they might, Kris couldn’t quite hear what the Mertikan was jabbering on about, but the strained look on Penelope’s face suggested that it could be nothing good.

  “Is she doing what I think she’s doing?” Anton laughed, a brandy-warm noise. “Oh, she is doing what I think she’s doing.”

  “This is a disaster. That idiot—”

  “What’s going on?” Kris asked.

  As Cassia stalked toward her counterpart, Anton, smiling like the cat who’d found his way into a bottle of cream, pointed toward the book in Bellona’s grip. “That’s a registry of dead Mertikans. Notice the colors, the trimming on the spine. They’re quite a common sight at weddings, funerals, baby showers. Everyone in Mertika gets excited when the book comes out. After all, who doesn’t like to daydream about which dead hero might become your newborn child?”