“No,” he answered. She’d spoken his name the way another might talk about the village idiot. “But as the Rumikan warder, they”—Ojo stressed the word—“possess the right to—”
“Tell him to leave and to approach us through formal channels.”
“Guildmaster, I’d advise that you—”
Kris’s voice crested over theirs. “I am standing right here, Guildmaster. If you wish to speak about me, you should address me directly.”
“You are not worth my time, boy.” Nenge flicked a look down at the Rumikan warder. “When we wish to speak to you, we will—”
Light, concussive. The air flexed and roared. Ojo threw an arm up to protect his eyes as the world emptied to white. There was no sound at all. Not even the thump of his heartbeat or the breathing of the crowd. Only silence and the salt-white glare. Slowly, it dissipated, fading away, and Ojo lowered his arm, blinking in the aftermath.
He saw:
Kris standing at the edge of the stairs to the viewing pool, sword extended. Their expression was one of incredulity and fear. Their shoes, Ojo noted with some confusion, were damp. As whispers poured across the room, the reason for the moisture clicked. Ojo jerked a look behind him, startling at what he saw.
The guildmasters were gone. The viewing pool was empty. Whatever Kris had done, they’d blasted all of the water from its place. Ojo dragged his eyes back to the Rumikan warder, who’d begun to withdraw, their expression ashen. Wars had been waged for lesser things.
“What have you done?” Ojo whispered.
“You said it best, Ojo.” Kris smiled without humor, their eyes hollow. “This is war, my friend.”
Episode 8
Refugees
By Malka Older
Prologue
The raft swayed almost at Mists-level. The shards and pebbles of aerstone studded into its lashed-together wood frame were barely enough to keep it in flight, and the teenage navigator was so exhausted, they could barely manipulate their blade. Their russet head dipped with exhaustion, and the raft dipped too, but the people on board were too worn-out even to gasp. The navigator recovered their wits and cut a quick sigil of loftiness, bringing the raft briefly higher, but it was clear they were almost at the end of their strength.
Then something did awaken the drained emotions of the passengers. A cry went up, first at the front of the raft, then traveling across the dozens of crowded families. The navigator raised their bloodshot eyes and saw, rising in front of them, the unmistakable tiered islands of Twaa-Fei.
The Mists around Twaa-Fei were notoriously treacherous. The navigator gazed doubtfully at their shaking hands, then made a decision, and carved the Fire Flower sigil, adjusting it to communicate a stylized maelstrom, the traditional distress signal. With the last of their energy, they added a second burst of sparkling light above the foundering raft, this in the shape of the Rumikan Chimera.
For what felt like dozens of minutes, they drifted. The navigator felt their extremities going cold with exhaustion. Then, once more, the cry went up from the front of the raft, and on the next surge of current, a ship—no, three!—appeared from the direction of the islands. They were small airships for fishing close to harbor, but the fisherfolk were skilled navigators and made straight for the raft, slinging out ropes to drag it in to port.
As soon as the raft was secured, the navigator let themself drift into a semiconscious state. They roused slightly as they were being helped off the raft and onto solid landmass, enough to note that their rescuers were a mix of Rumikans and others. They were heaved onto a cart with other passengers from the raft, and drawn through lanes that seemed impossibly narrow, between buildings rising like small cliffs. By the time the cart reached the warehouse that had been repurposed as an emergency shelter area, the navigator was once again unconscious.
“Will she survive?” asked Miho, a young woman stirring a vat of tea over a fire in a corner.
“They,” answered her Rumikan colleague. “They are just exhausted. They should be all right with rest. Still, we had better call a healer to be sure. Do you know any?”
“Of course,” answered Miho, with a wink. “We Zenatai are the best healers. Try asking Takada no Yuki, over there.” She pointed out an aged woman making the rounds of the refugees with a pull-cart of broth and poultices. “And now,” she added, “I’ll be off. I’ve got to get to work.” She relinquished her ladle and untied her apron. “I’ll try to come back later.”
“You’ve already helped a lot,” her Rumikan friend told her. “Thank you.”
The Zenatan shook her head. “We, too, know what it is to lose our land to the Quloi.” Miho grasped her colleague’s hand, then set off through the streets of lowest Twaa-Fei. She took the lift to the top level, then followed her usual route through the much wider, cleaner, and well-lit boulevards of that island.
Miho let herself in through the servants’ entrance in the back of the Circle, and changed into the uniform she was required to wear at her job. Once dressed for work, she took her instructions from the duty steward, and set about making tea again, this time a far smaller batch and a far finer blend than she had served to the refugees. She arranged the tea, clover honey, and milk on the amber tray, and carried it carefully into the scrying room, where she set it down on the table, bobbed a quick obeisance, and departed back into the kitchen.
Ojo barely noticed that the tea had arrived, although he certainly needed it badly. He had hardly slept the night before, trying to think of arguments that might work with the High Skies leadership.
“No one will condone this action!” he said as forcefully as he dared. “We will become isolated; Mertika will have no difficulty finding allies against us.”
“Let them!” said Nenge. “Once we have figured out the Rumikan trick and have access to a substantial flow of aerstone again, we will be able to face them all.”
“It is hardly wise,” Ojo argued. Much less moral, he added internally.
“Our spies tell us Mertika has long been searching for an excuse to attack us. Cutting them off before they do is certainly wiser than the alternative,” said Edokwe.
“But this—this is a drastic move—”
“Desperate times,” Nenge said with something that sounded very much like satisfaction. “Desperate measures.”
Chapter 1
Anton
The survivor’s condition worsened through the night, and Anton knew he needed to find help for her, even if it meant risking exposure to Harjo and whoever was paying him. But where could he take her? None of the doctors Kris had suggested were useful; thinking of the stink in the office of the last one he visited, Anton shivered with remembered unease. He tried to think of who else he could ask. Shun would know the best doctors, but Anton wasn’t sure he wanted to bring him in on this, at least not yet. No doctors then. Someone who could do some healing, quietly. An embassy! All the embassies had doctors in their employ, and they would be discreet. Anton’s feet turned instinctively to the Vanian embassy, but he shook his head. He needed to see Cassia, needed to talk to her about everything, but he didn’t want to risk complicating the discussion with the problem of a witness to an international crime.
Takeshi! Takeshi had always been respectful and willing to listen, and the Ikarans placed value on self-reliance, so he might even have the necessary medical supplies on-site. The Herroki turned swiftly and made his way to the Ikaran embassy.
Takeshi answered the door himself, and greeted Anton courteously. “Good morning! Have you eaten?”
“No time now, Warder,” Anton exclaimed, pushing into the embassy. “I need your help. I have a very sick, badly injured, um, crewmate, and I need someone competent to heal her.”
Takeshi didn’t protest or even show surprise. “If it were something simple, I could try to help here, but if it’s that serious—”
“It is, my friend, very serious, extremely urgent,” Anton broke in.
“Then your best bet is the clinic on Inkulpet Street,
on the lowest level,” Takeshi went on. “Do you know it?”
“In Little Zenatai! Yes, of course!” Anton hadn’t realized they had a clinic there, but it was perfect: the Zenatai were notoriously closemouthed. They wouldn’t give the survivor up to Mertika or Quloo or whoever Harjo was working for. And the fact that it was on the lowest island was a relief: Anton had been thinking about the difficulty of getting the survivor up the lifts unnoticed, and the only alternative would be an illegal moorage on one of the higher islands. It wouldn’t be the first time the Blue Fang unloaded cargo in defiance of Twaa-Fei law, but it would be an added complication. “Thank you, Takeshi!” Anton clasped his hands. “I owe you one!”
Takeshi shrugged into an outer robe. “I’ll meet you there,” he said. “I know the clinic staff; I can help.”
By the time Anton got back to the Blue Fang, hustled up people to help with the stretcher, bundled the survivor up sufficiently, and got everyone to the clinic, Takeshi was already there to greet them at the entrance. He took one look at Xan and rushed her into the back room.
Anton told the stretcher carriers to return to the ship and, feeling suddenly lighter than he had in weeks, strolled back and forth in the tiny front parlor of the clinic. Clearly, harboring the survivor of an international incident had been weighing on him overmuch; he was going to have to find something to do with her, if she made it through the clinic visit. He couldn’t be responsible for holders of highly sensitive state secrets! Not for more than a few weeks, anyway. He had his own business to attend to, journeys to travel, adventures to advent, people to fight—
As if on cue, the door to the clinic swung open. Anton leaped backward. “En garde!”
“Again?” Harjo pulled his sword out with a sigh. “Come on, barnacle breath. The gig is up.”
“What gig?” Anton yelled. “I’m just here to visit my . . . my sister. She has a touch of mist-throat and”—he slashed wildly—“you’ll never get her!”
Harjo lowered his blade so he could put both hands on his knees and laugh heartily. Anton hovered just out of sword’s reach, staying on his toes while he waited for Harjo to stop chortling. “What?” he asked finally.
“Do you know who runs this clinic?” Harjo wheezed.
“The Zenatans,” Anton said cautiously.
“Yes, or to be more specific, the Resurgents.”
Anton’s eyes went wide. He didn’t pay much attention to Twaa-Fei politics, but he did try to keep up with most of the radical, crazy, and unpredictable rebel groups floating around the sky, and the faction looking to restore Zenatan nationhood definitely counted in that number.
Harjo nodded, seeing his recognition. “Also known as my current employers.”
Anton thought about that, then whipped around and made for the treatment theater.
“Wait, wait!” Harjo yelled, catching Anton’s arm. “You can relax,” he added as Anton threw off his grip. “I was only supposed to find information about her.”
“What do you mean?” Anton was still suspicious. “You weren’t trying to nab her?”
“My orders were just to find out what was going on and whether she knew anything about the attack.”
“You could have told me that!” Anton exploded.
“You wouldn’t talk to me,” Harjo said. “Besides, the game was more fun.”
Anton snorted and put up his sword.
“So does she know anything?” Harjo asked conversationally while he sheathed his own blade.
“I don’t know yet,” Anton said, watching the door of the treatment theater. “She was too sick to speak coherently.
“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” Harjo said, tipping his plumed hat as he headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Anton cried. “Don’t you at least want to know if she survives?”
“My contract is finished, Herroki,” Harjo answered. “I don’t care about the fate of nations.”
Chapter 2
Michiko
Michiko was getting tired of being called to the Mertikan embassy at all hours of the day. Her stress at seeing the embassy courier had gotten so bad that she had fallen into the habit of cutting a quick sigil of calm during the short walk. It was an embarrassing waste of resources for something she should have been able to manage, but Michiko told herself that with the extra tension of the Golden Lord visiting her every time she channeled her ancestors, it was understandable.
Summoning her three hours after sunset was ridiculous even by Lavinia’s standards, and then being kept waiting for another fifteen minutes was just insulting. Michiko wondered if Kensuke had been treated like this; if, maybe, years of this kind of disrespect had made him what he was. But she didn’t know what else to do, so she went, careful to scrub all resentment from her face before she was finally ushered into the small meeting room.
It didn’t matter, because Lavinia didn’t even look up from whatever she was writing. “You’re here,” she said. “Took you long enough.”
Michiko bit her tongue on the retort that she had been waiting to be shown in. Was it possible that this had been an error of the servants rather than Lavinia’s design?
“I know you’ve been talking to Ambassador Kante.”
Michiko made sure her face betrayed nothing, but she could feel her pulse quickening. Could Lavinia know she had been investigating the disappearance of the Rumikan fleet? Suddenly the fact that they were alone in the room, without even Bellona as a witness, seemed frighteningly significant. She thought frantically. Who could have told Lavinia she was asking about the fleet?
“I want you to cultivate that relationship,” Lavinia went on. “We need to know where that dreadnought went and what it is doing. They didn’t bring it here just to loom over us! They have plans.”
Michiko was too guarded to feel relieved that Lavinia had not accused her of investigating the fleet disappearance. For all she knew, the Mertikan warder was merely delaying the attack.
“I am not on such terms with Ambassador Kante as to discuss their plans,” she said. “And even if I was, I’m not sure he knows—”
“Nobody suggested you ‘discuss’ it with him!” Lavinia snapped, finally looking up from her desk. “Discuss something else and use the conversation to find out. Or snoop! That seems to be something you’re good at!”
Again, Michiko kept her expression neutral. Was Lavinia playing with her? “I don’t know what you mean by that, but I can try to find out where the dreadnought is. I can’t promise I’ll be successful.”
Lavinia fixed her with a long stare before finally turning back to her papers with a sniff. “Well then, I suppose it will be war.”
“War?” Michiko had been expecting war for weeks now, but the casual way Lavinia had said it still gave her chills.
“Which reminds me.” Lavinia pulled one of the papers off her desk with a flourish. “We will of course be instituting a conscription in all the colonies. Here is the directive for Kakute.” She held the paper out, but didn’t release her grip until Michiko’s eyes met her own, and then she smiled. “I’ll let you pass it on to your country as you think best. But do it soon. I expect we’ll see fighting within the ten-day.”
Chapter 3
Anton
Waiting at the clinic gave Anton plenty of time to think about what to do with the survivor. He couldn’t keep protecting her much longer. Hiding her had already caused problems in his relationship with Cassia, and he needed to resolve those so that he could get back out in the Mists, where he belonged!
Islandless themselves, the Zenatans were often sympathetic to the Herroki. And since they were stuck on Twaa-Fei, he could see why they might be more interested in the machinations of the great powers than he was. Done! He could give the survivor to the Zenatans!
As he came to this conclusion, Takeshi walked out of the treatment theater, accompanied by an older woman.
“Takeshi!” Anton said, rushing over to shake his hand. “This is perfect. I—”
/> Takeshi blinked at him, swaying with exhaustion. “Anton, your crewmate is going to be fine.”
“Oh.” Anton had forgotten about the possibility that she might not survive. “Yes, that’s wonderful! But also—”
“I’m sorry, Anton. I need to rest,” Takeshi said, extricating his hand from Anton’s grip. “Doctor Takada here will tell you more.”
Anton and Doctor Takada eyed each other as Takeshi made for the door.
“Very interesting and valuable ‘crewmate’ you have, Herroki,” Takada said finally.
“Ah good, I don’t have to explain,” Anton said. “So you’ll help her?”
“We already helped her!”
“She needs a place to stay,” Anton explained. “Protection. A way to tell her story. A way to get home! I can’t do all that for her; I’m a pirate!”
Takada was already shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but we can’t keep her here. The Zenatan community is always the scapegoat when anything goes wrong—”
“Not more than the Herroki!”
“The Herroki a-sky, the Zenatans in Twaa-Fei,” Takada said firmly. “With the refugee crisis growing, we can’t take a risk right now. Besides, we have other concerns.”
“But you had Harjo trying to find her!”
“Because we wanted to know what she had to say. And now,” Takada said with a smile, “we do.” She inclined her head toward the door. “Why don’t you go have a chat with her and then figure out what you’re going to do next?”
Chapter 4
Kris
Kris had never been inside the Tsukisen embassy before. As if in echo of their famously isolationist and aloof tendencies, it was tucked behind a high hedge of spalur, leaves now glossy and dark. When Kris pulled the bell, they were allowed in only to a small courtyard surrounded by the same hedge—they couldn’t even see the door of the embassy proper.
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