Kris let the words bleed from them: “At least Lavinia is honest.”
Adechike gawked fish-mouthed at Kris for a palmful of seconds before realization dawned, his expression transforming from stupefaction to a kind of disbelieving horror. He reached for Kris, who rolled a shoulder away, sidestepping Adechike’s fingers with a graceful quarter turn.
“Kris. My friend, you know I’d—”
Kris drew a smile in place, jaw flexing. “Don’t call me that.”
They looked away then, even as the cannons of the dreadnought pointed toward Lavinia. The air crisped with anticipation. The Mertikan warder stood uncowed, sword driven into a crack in the landing platform, both palms braced atop the hilt, chin tipped at an insolent angle. A breeze twisted the hair from her face and Kris watched as Lavinia’s mouth wrenched into another snarl.
A tinny voice emanated from the vessel: “Quloo claims the right to use the neutral airspace.”
“Quloo warmongers,” Lavinia roared back, “gave up their right to anything when they tore an entire island from the skies! So long as Mertika stands, I will not permit you vultures such a feast of atrocities again.”
And she cemented her point then with something Kris hadn’t expected to see. Lavinia did not back down. Lavinia did not call for reinforcements, even though a dozen bladecrafters stood waiting, every last one of them tensed like hounds at the cusp of the hunt. Instead—
The way she moved! If Kris had ever nurtured fantasies that they might one day outdo Lavinia, might one day see the Mertikan warder beaten and bowed, those fancies were gone now, dissolved like a dream. Lavinia had been toying with him in the Gauntlet, her movements bored and somnambulant compared to the precision Kris was now witnessing, the strength.
They’d never cared much for the cognoscenti who’d speak only of bladecrafting’s aesthetics, had always seen such individuals as pompous, even foolish, pseudo-intellectuals who only wanted another topic to trot out in conversation, as if bladecraft were a thoroughbred to be admired. But Lavinia’s performance could not be described in any terms but those. It was art. It was beauty. It was the kill lengthened into a choreography.
Lavinia whirled her sword above her head, carving the air into patterns, the light distorting where it broke against her blade, deepening to lilac and the darkest of rose. The colors thickened with every pass, every turn, Lavinia’s sword lettering the world with shadows. Her power, for all of its animalistic fervor, tasted to Kris’s tongue of mulberries cooked to a syrup, of marrow, of oak burning atop a low fire.
Another calligraphic flurry of movements. The sigils had to be proprietary, like nothing Kris had seen before, too complicated to have been developed by consensus. This spoke to them of the luxury of time, something only a person like Lavinia might waste. Between the release of Kris’s last breath and their inhalation of the next, the Mertikan warder completed the final stroke.
A ring of scimitars twitched to life, their bodies devised of Mertikan colors, and hung in midair like words unspoken. Lavinia raised a hand—two fingers extended, the others curled—and gestured toward the dreadnought. The blades leaped skyward. Almost immediately, the crew in the ship supplied their counter, a honeycomb of shields juddering into being. Faces lined the railings, anger and fascination evident in their expressions. How many would stand alone against a dreadnought?
“Cease your assault or we will be forced to retaliate,” came the voice again, distorted by distance.
Lavinia only laughed.
•••
“Whatever you think is going on, it’s not—it’s not whatever you think it is. Whatever happened with Uncle, I promise—”
They jolted back to the present, head snapping to the right. Adechike stood beside them—a respectful distance away, thank the Shifting Faces—and wrung his hands, looking for all the world like a dog that’d been left out in a storm. Kris bit down on the impulse to extend comfort, reminding themself, over and again, that this was an act, an affectation engineered to elicit sympathy.
“Stop. Adechike. Just. I need you to stop.”
Adechike twitched his head up. “What?”
“I need . . .” Kris tore his eyes away as Lavinia began her second assault: a multiplicity of Ten Thousand Serpents, the sigils transformed into recursive patterns, every new layer built into the bones of the last. “I need you to stop, all right? I know the truth. I know everything.”
“I still don’t understand.” Adechike jerked forward and Kris withdrew in simpatico, while the world around them lit up in flashes. Distantly, the thunder of cannonballs rolling across a deck, Yochno’s voice barking against across the din, demanding a cease-fire.
Kris swallowed their how-could-yous, drew themself tall. “I saw your notes.”
“What note—” Adechike’s objection sank to a murmur, hand coming to rest atop his breastbone, his eyes wild and afraid.
Got you, Kris thought bitterly.
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
“Nothing like that? Are you certain? I saw what you wrote about me—”
A razoring of a sob in his pleading, the words tumbling over themselves, falling too fast for the tongue to mold. Adechike tripped over his protests; he stumbled another three steps forward. “I have a terrible memory. You know that. We’ve spoken about it. I write these things down so I can remember—”
“Remember what?” Kris spat. “Remember our weaknesses? How best to disarm your friends? You kept records. Psychological profiles, all neatly divided by weeks. You took note of how we altered over the months, our favorite snacks, our—our sleeping patterns. You were studying us like—like we were animals.”
“No. That was never it.”
“No. You’re absolutely right. That was never it. You weren’t studying us like we were animals. You were studying us like we were prey.”
Adechike flinched as though slapped.
“Everything I told you about Rumika was recorded in those notes. All of it.” The air did not hold its breath. It seemed to invert instead, collapsing onto itself, emptying the universe of sound, of meaning, of anything but Adechike’s wounded visage. Kris thought they could hear his breath scraping in his lungs, the wet motions of Adechike’s tongue as it worked to mold a new excuse. “I trusted you. Those things I told you—that was between friends. You weren’t supposed— You . . .”
Adechike could only repeat himself. Behind him, Lavinia, transfigured by bladecraft, was a smear of flickering light, zigzagging through the air like an enraged swallow. She was laughing still, exultant. “I never meant any harm. I never—I am so sorry, my friend. If I’d known—”
“Don’t call me that,” Kris whispered. Not one of the cannons had fired yet, they thought dimly. Likely because Lavinia was moving too quickly. “Ever. We are not friends, Adechike. We stopped being friends when you—”
“No. Please. Kris—”
“—betrayed me. And if you ever put Rumika at risk again, I will cut your throat and throw you from the highest tower of Twaa-Fei. Do you understand me?” His words were nearly drowned by a world-shattering crack; Lavinia slammed into the ground, cratering the frescoed stone.
“Please.” Adechike wedged his fist in his mouth. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Intention means nothing to a burning world. Good-bye, Adechike. I wish you luck with the rest of your life.” Kris turned from him, from the sight of Lavinia battling a dreadnought, from everything limned by the sun, and began their long walk back down into the dark.
Chapter 7
Michiko
Boom.
A wound irised open in the hull of the warship, clean, a perfect oval the shape of the projectile that Lavinia had fired. She stared at her handiwork, satisfied. From where Michiko stood, she could see how Lavinia’s blow had seared through the strata of plating, the innards of the ship maintaining its integrity despite the hole gouged into its side. And despite the ludicrousness of the event, the knowledge that Lavinia had taken on a dreadnought and i
ts crew, Michiko found a moment to marvel at the Quloo vessel, and the fact it stubbornly remained airborne despite he damage sustained.
Lavinia was less than impressed.
“Pathetic,” she growled. “And the Quloi claim their shipsmiths are the best in the skies. A paper tiger would be more resilient, don’t you think, Bellona?”
“I trust in your experience, Warder,” Bellona responded, polite and bland. Lately she’d begun to seem different, somehow. Michiko couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but Bellona seemed more . . . subdued, perhaps. Meditative. Although, for what reason precisely, Michiko was uncertain. Perhaps, like everyone else, she’d finally tired of Lavinia’s antics.
“And you, little mouse? What do you think?”
Michiko startled from her rumination. Lavinia was watching her, sword propped along the broad ledge of her shoulder, smile disarmingly kind. Bellona stood an inch behind the older woman. As she and Michiko made eye contact, the young Mertikan drew a thumb across her throat, a warning silently mouthed.
“What do I think?” Michiko repeated, stalling for time. Once, a lifetime ago, she might have lunged for this opportunity to curry Lavinia’s favor, but Michiko could no longer muster anything but a faint resentment. Even here, even as Twaa-Fei stood gaping at this show of power, Lavinia insisted on being worshipped. “I think there is nothing like Mertika craftsmanship.”
A careful answer bereft of opinion, Michiko’s smile as much a performance as the matinee in the teahouse.
“Clever girl,” Lavinia purred, and it was difficult to say if it was a compliment or admonishment, the woman’s expression equally performative, absent of anything that might be construed as genuine emotion. Her eyes roamed up to the dreadnought again. “I suppose it isn’t—Empress take them.”
Michiko trailed Lavinia’s attention to the warship. Light bled and dribbled from its ruptured frame, ribbons of palest jade, the rivulets coiling upward, webbing the battered ship. As the women watched, the light became wood and girders of steel, and the air thrummed with the chorus of a hundred bladecrafters in concert.
“All that hard work and they’d undo it. No appreciation for art.” Lavinia shook her head. “Come on, little mouse. Your turn. Time to show the world what Kakute can do.”
“With all due respect, Warder.” Michiko had been preparing for this precise moment. She bowed low, body curved as far as it could go. “I can’t.”
“What?” Lavinia’s reply might as well have been hacked from a block of ice.
“I can’t,” Michiko repeated, straightening. “The rules of my new office forbid my participation in such activities.”
“Kakute be damned. When Mertika tells you to jump, little mouse, you—”
Almost, she smiled. Michiko held Lavinia’s wrathful gaze and almost, almost she broke, glee turning against the branches of her ribs. “It is Mertikan law.”
“I am the law, Oda no Michiko. I am the voice of the empress. And what I say goes—”
“Except when it comes to matters decreed by the empress herself. As her proxy, you are permitted to do anything so long as it doesn’t challenge her personal edicts. And the empress,” said Michiko, “has decreed that all new Kakute warders must enter a probationary period in which they may only perform secretarial duty for their superiors.”
What a joy it was to worm that victory from Lavinia’s trove, like a mouse who’d burglarized a dragon. Michiko could hardly maintain her neutral expression, excitement trilling in her bones. Great-Aunt Reiko had been right. This was a loophole that Michiko could use to her advantage. And until the probationary period ended, Michiko would possess more freedom than she’d ever had.
More important, it allowed her to make a fool of the Mertikan warder, a triumph that’d warm her even in the grave. Lavinia growled her frustration—a jaguar’s shriek—and began barreling down on Michiko, who could only tremble at her approach. There was no point in putting up a fight.
“Unfortunately, she’s right. There’s not much we can do about it.” Much to Michiko’s surprise, Bellona stepped between the two women, her bulk eclipsing Michiko’s own. Despite Lavinia’s wrath and her own display of insolence, Bellona’s posture was similarly relaxed. “But I could be of service, Lavinia.”
Was that it? A grab for influence, a self-serving desire to cultivate Lavinia’s favor. Maybe. It wouldn’t be out of character for Bellona. But Michiko couldn’t help but wonder.
The Mertikan warder sighed exaggeratedly, although not before looking both Bellona and Michiko over, perhaps in pursuit of a conspiracy. The two younger women, neither turning to gaze on the other, permitted the inspection without complaint. At last, Lavinia surrendered, teeth bared in a grimace. “Fine. You can help. As for you—”
Lavinia’s sword was at Michiko’s throat before fear could even register.
“I won’t forget this.”
Michiko let her smile widen into something scintillant. Victory was a wine in which she’d been steeped, the world rose-dark and giddy. “I look forward to receiving your guidance.”
•••
When all this was done, Michiko decided, she’d have a conversation with Kris regarding the amount that they drank. Quietly, the new Kakute warder padded into the teahouse. It was late, and most of the customers had retired. Those few who remained were entranced by their respective companions, passed out, or drinking their way down into one of the two former conditions.
Kris, of course, belonged to the last.
“Your liver is going to rot out of your stomach,” said Michiko as she sat herself at Kris’s little table in the corner. Empty pitchers filled the surface. They’d been drinking for hours. Dragon fruit brandy, as far as Michiko could tell, piquant and largely unripe. Nothing for anyone with class, but it’d been a long day. The dreadnought, at least, was gone, summoned to purposes more impressive than mere intimidation.
They hissed at her. “Go away, you prude.”
“If you die of liver failure, who is going to stand for Rumika in the council?”
“Don’t care. Not my problem.” Kris punctuated each word with an erratic little shake of their fist. “Everything’s burning and it’s all Quloo’s fault.”
Michiko filed the information away. “Quloo? How so? No. Don’t tell me yet. We’ll get to that in a moment. Let’s get you back to the embassy. Alyx must be worried ill.”
Chapter 8
Ojo
In all of his time as warder, Ojo had never seen the scrying chamber so crowded, so thick with angry civilians of every social standing: dockworkers and noblemen, merchant princes and their aides, all jostling for the opportunity to speak.
A balding man who’d never seen a day of fear in his life, his shoulders draped with diamonds, was speaking. “But my family had precedent—”
A woman—tall, slender-hipped, muscular in that way that spoke of a deep-rooted pragmatism—cut him off. “Shut your mouth. Our clan has fought in Quloo’s name for a thousand years. Generations have died in service of our nation. If there’s anyone—”
“My niece. She’s so young. She’s just a child. Please.”
Please. The air filled with a million permutations of the word. Ojo lost track of individual requests, nodding where he could, platitudes doled out like pieces of his soul. Please. His people were desperate. Although he’d instructed his aides to take comprehensive notes, Ojo knew there was no real point to this. At the end of the day, it was always the same thing:
Save them. Save the ones I love.
The council members from the High Sky party gazed down on them like impartial gods. Because of the sheer number of attendees, Ojo’d been forced to project their image onto the wall, leaving them ghostlike and enormous. Nenge, he thought, was delighting in the effect.
Ojo ground his teeth as she smiled down at the petitioners, empty promises spilling from her mouth, caveats threaded into every statement. The people here were too desperate, too frightened to take notice of how everything she said was conti
ngent on something else, conditions that Ojo knew would never be fulfilled. He longed to correct them. But this wasn’t how he’d fight this war.
The hours passed. More bodies arrived. Representatives from the other nations. Cassia, sharply dressed in black, presented Vania’s withdrawal from no less than six trade agreements. Takeshi removed Ikaro from two. There were delegates from the smaller islands too: faces and names that Ojo knew he should recognize but did not. Nevertheless, he took their requests, filed their complaints by order of priority, and passed them on to the guildmasters where appropriate.
It wasn’t until the arrival of a representative from one of Mertika’s smaller conquests, an island that had once had a name of its own, that things grew ugly.
The delegate, flanked by a convoy of Mertikan bladecrafters, strode into the room and arrowed toward Ojo, a rolled-up parchment in her grip. “Six of our smallest provinces,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She flashed her teeth. The woman was tall, taller even than Ojo, and, while spindly, was anything but graceless. “Six of our smallest provinces were stolen by your armies.”
The door slammed open again before Ojo could reply, and the room fell silent, their attention riveted by the group silhouetted in the light. There were seven figures, all members of the Rumikan embassy. Kris at the vanguard, an accompaniment of bladecrafters to either side. All of them held their swords at ready. This, Ojo knew, would not be an easy conversation.
“Warder Denn,” Ojo said.
“Rumika has grounds to believe”—no introductions, no formalities, straight to business; Kris stalked forward as they spoke, restless as a storm—“that Quloo has been acting in bad faith. We have evidence that proves that Quloo had always intended to violate the treaty that was—”
“What is this child doing here, Ojo?” Nenge’s voice.
Ojo slid a glance over his shoulder. “Warder Denn is not a child.”
“But he”—Ojo flinched at the choice of pronouns; Nenge was on the offensive—“acts like one. No greeting. No genuflections. Not even an appointment. Did you invite him here, Ojo?”
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