The Complete Season 1

by Michael Underwood

  “Make way! Make way!” A cart was rumbling down the street toward her, piled high with imported bricks. Bellona had to press herself right up against the wall of a tavern to avoid being crushed. When she pulled away, her tunic stuck briefly to the wall before coming free. She sniffed, out of reflexive curiosity, and made a face. Ale. Her incarnation two lives ago had loved the stuff, but fortunately that predilection hadn’t stayed with her. Ale was for the lower classes, not a warder.

  Her errand wasn’t suitable for a warder, either. Bellona wanted to tell herself that Lavinia had given her this task because she couldn’t entrust it to any mere servant . . . but self-deception was weakness. The senior warder’s temper had been shorter than usual ever since that Rumikan upstart had joined the Circle—no, ever since that colossal disappointment, Oda no Michiko, had let them in.

  Not that Kensuke would have fared any better. The valor and prowess of Kakute had dribbled away to nothing since the days of the Golden Lord. And so Lavinia took out her annoyance on everyone, Bellona included.

  Or was there more to it than that? Bellona paused on a street corner, letting the stinking crowds flow past her while one hand slid inside her tunic to touch the envelope there. A simple courier’s job: go to the lowest island, find a man, give him a message.

  A sealed message.

  Lavinia was up to something; that was screamingly obvious. A personal something, or the business of the empire? She hadn’t said. Bellona hadn’t asked. But there were ways to break seals, weren’t there? Without it being visible afterward. She could find a quiet corner, meditate, see if she could recall using such tricks in a previous life.

  Bellona’s lip curled. Such tricks. What was she, some decadent Tsukiseni aristocrat, spying on her superior’s mail? No. She wouldn’t stoop to measures like that. She would find out what was going on . . . but on more worthy terms.

  •••

  She found her quarry in a gambling hall, the sort of place where people played simple games of chance, the role of skill limited to one’s ability to palm cards or loaded dice. Markos Harjo wasn’t gambling, though. He was in a corner booth, with a half-eaten bread bowl leaking remnants of soup onto the table in front of him and a laughing young man draped across his lap.

  He didn’t even glance up when Bellona approached. “Unless you’re here to bring me another pitcher, I’m not interested.”

  Bellona’s posture stiffened to military rigidity. “I’m not a servant.”

  “Then I’m not interested.” He reached for his mug, but Bellona snatched it away before his hand could touch the clay. Ale—of course.

  “Ooooo,” the young man said, in the tone of someone expecting an entertaining fight.

  As if Bellona would bother fighting Harjo. The man was plainly Twaan, wearing the inelegant mix of styles that characterized natives of the tiered islands—in his case, a jerkin that would have looked vaguely Rumikan if it weren’t for the Ikaran-style frogged closures, over breeches tight enough to make a Herroki wince. He was a mercenary, plain and simple, and being Twaan, he didn’t even have a birthright to call his own.

  Bellona snapped her fingers to draw the attention of the young man in Harjo’s lap. “Go fetch your master a pitcher. He and I have business.” When the young man made as if to protest, she fixed him with her best approximation of Lavinia’s glare.

  Harjo sighed. “Go. I’ll deal with this.”

  The young man slunk off, grumbling, leaving Bellona and Harjo in the closest thing to privacy she was likely to get. She said, “I have a message for you, from the top island.”

  “Ah.” He continued to slouch casually in the booth, but she had his attention. And, she suspected, his recognition. “Give it here, then.”

  She didn’t reach for the envelope. “What is your business with my superior?”

  One eyebrow rose. “If you don’t already know, then it’s none of yours.”

  “I need to make certain you’re the man I’m looking for.”

  As far back as she could summon the memories, lying was an excellence she had never possessed. He snorted. “No, you don’t. You came right toward me, straight as an arrow, and you didn’t even ask my name before you said you had a message. You know very well that I’m Captain Harjo. Now give me what you have and be on your way, before you attract any more attention.”

  The only way to improve was with practice. Bellona smiled thinly. “Well done, Captain. I can see why she trusts you.” She slid the envelope across the table.

  His eye roll said her second attempt wasn’t much better. “I wish I could say the same.”

  •••

  The words lodged under her skin like barbs, chafing at her the entire way back up to the top island. I wish I could say the same.

  She wasn’t a child! And yet Lavinia treated her like one, alternately exhorting her to try harder, do better, achieve more, and stepping on her the moment Bellona tried to achieve anything more than what she was offered. Lavinia wanted a puppet, not a junior warder. Sometimes Bellona wondered if Lavinia saw any difference between her and the colonials.

  The embassy guards opened the front door for her, and Bellona swept through. She’d had enough. She detoured to her room for a change of clothing—a plain tunic that stank of ale and smoke would not help her dignity—but then went straight to Lavinia’s office.

  The senior warder didn’t even look up from the paper she was reading. “Did you deliver the message?”

  It was the last straw. Lavinia was working rather than taking her ease, but otherwise it was exactly like Captain Harjo, dismissing Bellona as too insignificant to even merit eye contact. “I did. And it was a waste of my time.”

  That got Lavinia’s attention. She slapped the paper onto her desk, staring directly at Bellona. “What?”

  “Carrying a message to a ship captain is not the duty of a warder. My time would have been better spent assisting you, but you wasted it.”

  Lavinia’s mouth settled into a line Bellona recognized all too well. Supercilious amusement. “You were assisting me. By carrying that message.”

  “Nor was that message the only example of your wastefulness. I am a resource, but you are not using me to my full potential. I know you are up to something, Lavinia. If it is for the good of Mertika, then I would be far more effective if I knew what was going on. If it is not—”

  Bellona stopped talking, but too late. Lavinia rose behind her desk, like a mist-fiend breaching the clouds below. “If it is not—what then? Do you accuse me of treason?”

  “No, Lavinia.” Bellona fought not to lower her gaze. “I did not mean to imply any such thing. Only to say that I am eager to do whatever I can for the empire. And I know I can do more than carry messages.”

  “So you question my judgment. You call my acumen into doubt. You seem to think that you could do better, if you were the senior warder.”

  “Countries send bladecrafters to serve as junior warders on Twaa-Fei not only so that they can gain experience to use elsewhere, but so they can be of assistance to their seniors. I am your second blade, and you’re leaving me in the sheath!”

  Lavinia’s hand shot to her sword hilt, fast as a striking viper. An inch of steel gleamed above the collar of the sheath, reflecting the sunset light. In a low, deadly voice, Lavinia said, “Quloi fight with two blades. A Mertikan needs only one. If you have such reservations about how I conduct this embassy, then perhaps you would care to prove yourself in a duel.”

  All the breath in Bellona’s chest withered away. Duel Lavinia? Absurd! It shouldn’t come to this, one warder fighting another just because she wasn’t being permitted to help. But if Lavinia wouldn’t see reason—

  Then Bellona would lose.

  Excellence is not overconfidence. She’d said that once, in a previous life—she couldn’t remember which one. Bellona had a healthy respect for her own skill at bladecraft, but she had no illusions that she could defeat Lavinia. And as much as she wanted to back her point with steel, losing
would only prove Lavinia right. Then Bellona would be honor-bound to knuckle under and accept whatever pathetic, menial duties Lavinia assigned to her. Of which there would be many, she was sure.

  Bending her neck felt like bending the blade of her sword. It moved, but not easily. “I apologize, Warder Junius. I have no intention of pushing matters so far.”

  Lavinia’s sword retreated into its sheath. “Good, Bellona. It’s one thing to strive for the highest you can reach—but you should know the limits of that reach. Now leave me; I have work to do.”

  Bellona left, closing the door softly behind her. Her face was blank, serene, as she walked down the hallway, past various members of the embassy staff. Even when the door to her own room shut and she was alone, her expression didn’t change.

  There is no such thing as the limits of my reach. Only an idiot concluded that, because the peach was high in the tree, she would never be able to pluck it. Someone, sometime in the distant past, had faced the same problem . . . and invented the ladder.

  Dueling Lavinia was a losing proposition. But Bellona wasn’t about to give up. She just had to figure out a better way to win.

  Chapter 4

  Kris

  When Alyx opened the door, Kris almost snapped that they weren’t accepting any more visitors today. Ever since they’d become the Rumikan warder, they’d had a stream of people passing through—almost more than the guest quarters could hold, since Alyx was still in the process of negotiating for a building to serve as their embassy. It had been exciting, at first.

  Then the fleet disaster happened, and everything changed. People still came by, but not to talk about future business. They only wanted to fish for rumors about the fleet.

  Alyx held up a hand before they could say anything. “Warder Oda is here to see you.”

  They couldn’t turn away another warder, not even if Kris technically outranked her, senior to junior. Bracing their fists against the desk, Kris said, “Show her in.”

  They expected her to look smug. But Michiko entered warily, as if she guessed at Kris’s mood, and stood silently just inside the door. “Did you come to say ‘I told you so’?” Kris asked. “I’ve had half a dozen people in here telling me Quloo betrayed us.” Their body tensed, remembering. “And half a dozen more hinting that they think Rumika is responsible for the fleet’s destruction.”

  “Rumika?” Michiko said, startled. “But—the aerstone was on your ships, wasn’t it?”

  Kris turned to pace, found their chair in the way, and shoved it aside with so much force it almost tipped over. “Exactly! But they seem to think that’s proof. It was our ships, with our captains. Maybe we staged a fake wreck so we could sell the cargo elsewhere. After all,” they added bitterly, “we have what we wanted, don’t we? A warder in the Circle. Quloo can’t take that back.”

  “Do you think Quloo betrayed you?”

  Her soft question brought Kris up short. She’s not accusing us, at least. “I—I don’t know. I don’t think Ojo would. But Ojo isn’t all of Quloo.”

  “And you don’t think it’s your own people. So who else could it be?”

  Kris eyed her sidelong. Michiko wasn’t just good at reading people; she also knew how to hide her own thoughts. And Kris wasn’t nearly as good at seeing through such facades. “There’s one obvious possibility. But if you thought it was Mertika, you wouldn’t be here, talking to me. Unless Lavinia sent you, maybe? As a feint.”

  “Lavinia didn’t send me.” Her swift reply carried an edge. “I’m asking because I genuinely want to know, Kris. One way or another, this means trouble, and I don’t like not knowing which direction it will come from. Could Herroki pirates have gone after the fleet?”

  “Maybe,” Kris said. “There’s that guy, Anton, the one who hangs around Cassia. Maybe there’s more to him than I thought. Or . . .” Their pulse sped up. “Vania. Vanians hate Rumikans. Now we’ve got a warder in the Circle; what if this is revenge for that?”

  “Penelope spoke in your favor,” she reminded them.

  Kris scowled. “Only because I won. And besides—if Ojo isn’t all of Quloo, she isn’t all of Vania, either.”

  “True,” Michiko murmured, her gaze drifting as she thought. She stood silent for a moment, then said, “I’ll look into it.”

  Those four words shouldn’t have made Kris’s knees go weak, but they did. “Thank you. I—I never expected things to go wrong, so fast. Having your help . . .” They swallowed. “It means a lot to me.”

  Michiko’s expression was still unreadable. “There is nothing to thank me for yet.”

  Chapter 5

  Ojo

  Oda no Michiko wasn’t the last person Ojo expected to see in his office, but she was near the bottom of the list. “Warder Oda,” he said formally. “Forgive me for being curt, but I’m afraid I’m quite busy. What is it that you need?”

  She bowed with equal formality. “I would not disturb you at a time like this without good reason. I am looking into the destruction of the fleet, and I’ve come to ask you who you think might be responsible.”

  “Besides Mertika?”

  The words leaped out before he could stop them, but Michiko didn’t so much as blink. “Including Mertika, if that is where your suspicions lie.”

  They certainly stood to benefit from disrupting the alliance between Quloo and Rumika. But why would they send Michiko to talk to him, if that were the case? Or for that matter, even if it weren’t? Lavinia didn’t play these sorts of games, pretending to help just to gain advantage. She was too straightforwardly vicious for that. And Kensuke was too obedient to his imperial masters, too apathetic to pursue something like this on his own.

  Which left Michiko herself. Ojo studied her, not bothering to hide his curiosity. She’d been quiet since losing to Kris in the Gauntlet. Kris was an excellent bladecrafter—no shame in a loss like that, nor any real surprise—but Ojo hadn’t forgotten that Michiko had been Kris’s final opponent. All Rumika’s hopes had rested on her defeat . . . and Mertika’s hopes had rested on her victory.

  What if she wasn’t quite the model subject she appeared to be?

  What if she resented the ignominious death of the Golden Lord far more than she let on?

  What if . . .

  He couldn’t spare any attention right now for the possibility of dissent within the colonial ranks. All his concern had to be for Quloo and this rift with Rumika, the plans of the High Skies faction, and how these matters would fall out within the Circle. But if Michiko’s loyalty was in fact cracking, then accepting her assistance would be a good move. And if this was actually a Mertikan ploy, better to keep an eye on it anyway.

  Ojo said, “Virtually every nation might be a suspect. Quloo itself has been accused—as if we would have any need to steal or destroy something that was on its way to us regardless.” He kept his tone insulted and disbelieving, hiding the worm of suspicion curled around his heart. We wouldn’t steal it for profit. But the High Skies faction . . . they want something else.

  Michiko nodded. “And Rumika has likewise been accused, on the theory that they wish to avoid paying for your support in the Gauntlet, and stole back the aerstone before sinking the ships to cover for it. Mertika would benefit from conflict between your two nations. Herroki pirates are always a possibility. Tsukisen . . .” Her litany faltered. “I confess, it seems difficult to suspect Tsukisen of anything.”

  Ojo managed an approximation of a smile. “A suspicious mind would say that makes them the ideal suspects. But it would run counter to their history of isolation. Speaking of a suspicious mind . . . One of the empress’s colonies might stage such an action, in the hope of directing the blame at Mertika itself.”

  Michiko inhaled sharply. “You accuse Kakute?”

  “Or Ikaro.” Ojo spread his hands in placation. Her instinctive recoil suggested she wasn’t aiming to frame the empire with this investigation, but it didn’t rule out the possibility that others had staged the attack for that reason. After al
l, someone had gotten the Golden Lord out of prison and across the sky to Twaa-Fei. He said, “I accuse no one, at least not yet. You asked me who might be responsible. The truth is, almost anyone could be.”

  “What about Vania?”

  He’d been trying not to think about that. “I don’t think the Vanian Matriarchs would condone such a thing. Battlemistresses are, if anything, honorable to a fault.”

  “Not every battlemistress lives up to the ideal.”

  Not everyone is Penelope. She would never do anything like this, a sneak attack to set everyone at each other’s throats. Ojo wished profoundly that she were still on Twaa-Fei . . . and was just as profoundly glad that she wasn’t.

  “There are other Vanians beside the battlemistresses,” he admitted reluctantly. “Every nation has its zealots. Penelope told me . . . there’s a faction of Vanians whose feelings toward Rumika go beyond mere ideological disagreement. The Apolytoi. They have no official support—not these days—but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have done something. I can ask around.” Shun stayed far away from those people, but the teahouse wasn’t Ojo’s only source of information. Yochno might be willing to help.

  “You’re up to your neck in this situation,” Michiko pointed out. “And you’ve been on Twaa-Fei for years; people know your face. You’ll attract far too much attention. Tell me where to go, and I’ll look into it for you.”

  Her offer seemed genuine, and it wasn’t like he could prevent her from making her own inquiries. But he still had to ask. “Why? Mertika and Quloo aren’t friends, and if you’re not acting on Lavinia’s orders, she’ll be furious when she finds out. Why would you offer to help?”

  Michiko laughed quietly, as if at a private joke. “It’s what my ancestors would want.”

  Chapter 6

  Michiko