Kris wandered the warehouse in a state of shock. “There must be hundreds of people here.” Hundreds of Rumikans, all displaced and desperate. And it was in part because of Kris’s actions. They couldn’t believe they’d ever thought being a warder would be glamorous and exciting.
“Three hundred and twelve at the last count,” said the woman who was guiding Kris and Alyx around. Miho, she had said her name was. “Most of them arrived in the last week.”
The warehouse had no flooring, just packed dirt, and cheap Ikaran carpets had been laid out. As they walked, Kris noticed that the woven squares not only covered the ground but also served as makeshift territorial divisions, with families and groups settling themselves within the borders of one or two carpets. It was chilly in the vast space, and some families had wrapped themselves in additional carpets, giving the entire scene a patchwork feel that, for all the bright colors, was oddly desolate.
“I had no idea,” Kris said, turning to her in an intensity of guilt. “I had heard that a few people fled after the Quloi attacks, but I didn’t know it was so many. I didn’t know they’d come here.”
“How did they get here?” Alyx asked.
“Mostly on small boats, a few on rafts.” Miho didn’t need to say that many must have foundered into the Mists. “Some of the arrivals have found other places to live; we think the total number that made it to Twaa-Fei is over four hundred.”
On a red-and-blue carpet a few steps in front of them Kris saw a young Rumikan, their hair and garb signaling the same androgyny that Kris preferred, huddled in a carpet. Their gaze struck Kris as even more hopeless than the others.
“That’s the navigator of the raft that came in yesterday,” Miho said, following their eyes. “They exhausted their energy during the trip, and they were completely unconscious when they were brought on land.”
“Will they recover?” Kris thought of all the times they had complained of exhaustion or congratulated themself on training beyond normal endurance. This youth had truly pushed themself to the brink, and for a much more important cause than Kris’s efforts to improve their bladecraft.
“The medics saw them earlier, and they should be fine. But,” Miho said, lowering her voice as they approached, “the medic said the exhaustion will make the adjustment to new circumstances much more difficult emotionally.” She sighed a little, and Kris glanced at her. “I am Zenatan,” Miho explained. “We have learned painfully that the destruction of a home isn’t the end of life, but when I look at these people, I can’t help remembering what we have suffered, and everything that they are likely to endure.”
Kris’s grip tightened on the hilt of their sword. Rumika was not going to become another Zenatai, not if they had to fight every warder on the island again to prevent it.
As they walked past, the young navigator turned their wan face up to look at them, and on impulse Kris dropped into a crouch beside them. “Greetings,” Kris murmured. “My name is Kris Denn. I wanted to thank you for your heroic efforts in bringing people here safely.”
The navigator looked blank for a moment then shook their head. “There was nothing heroic about it,” they said, voice bleak. “I didn’t have a choice.” Before Kris could think of an answer to that, the navigator, as if remembering the pleasantries, put out their hand. “Arin Mot. I’m from Omber.”
That sent another chill down Kris’s spine. “Are people evacuating from Omber?”
Arin managed something like a smile, although it was bitter. “No, not yet at least. I live—I was living in Ull.”
Kris hadn’t heard of any attacks on Ull, either. “What made you decide to flee?”
Arin stared at them in disbelief. “Everyone is leaving Ull, everyone who can. Some are going to Omber, but we thought—if we move, and then we have to move again—it was better to go all at once.” They were silent for a moment, gathering their strength. “The Quloi ships pass every night, back and forth. Sometimes they fire munitions. The army said they were just blanks, that they were war exercises meant to intimidate us, but—well, it worked. Anytime they want, they can attack Ull. We have no protection.”
Kris swallowed, but could say nothing to contradict this. “And here? Have you received everything you need?”
Arin looked around the warehouse, and Kris was struck again by the hopelessness in their eyes. “Everything we need? Yes, I suppose so. People have been very kind,” they said as an afterthought.
Kris thanked Arin and stood, their own blood burning with the shame of needing assistance from strangers. “I’ll do something about this,” they promised, addressing Alyx and Miho, though neither of them had spoken. “I’ll talk to Yochno about improving the conditions here, and I’ll talk to the council. Quloo must be made to face what they’ve done.”
Chapter 9
Bellona
Becoming a warder—even a joke of a temporary warder with no power—required a lot of paperwork, process, and pomp. Bellona spent most of the afternoon receiving endless instructions from Lavinia—the bulk of them not even about diplomacy, but just about how to run the embassy and seat people for state dinners—and then spent the evening standing for the tailoring adjustments to official robes, choosing stationery, and filling in forms. Four hours after sunset she still hadn’t finished the latter, but she needed a break. Lavinia might not be asleep yet, but she was shut up in her room, and this might be Bellona’s last chance for some time to herself before the full weight of wardership descended upon her. Bellona set off for the Falling Leaf.
All that effort, only to continue to work under Lavinia’s thumb! Bellona fumed as she walked the narrow streets toward the teahouse. And the worst of it was that she was being sidelined from the war. It was as if her past selves had done nothing of note at all. So much for the gratitude of the empire. Not for the first time, Bellona was grateful she did not have the Kakutan birthright of communing with the dead: dealing with additional generations of disappointment and resentment was unthinkable.
As usual, her mood improved the moment she stepped into the teahouse. There was so much going on: tables of merchants celebrating sales or building new deals; mid-level Twaa-Fei bureaucrats drinking off another day of what Bellona could only imagine was mind-numbing work; a theater troupe getting rowdy at the long central table. Her gaze lingered on a table in the corner, protected by partially drawn drapes. Was that one of the embassy servants? Well, no matter. Even servants were entitled to relax, once their tasks were complete. Besides, Bellona had just caught sight of something much more interesting: Adechike sitting alone, a tankard of persimmon-tinged ale in front of him. She couldn’t help smiling as she sidled up to his table and slid uninvited into the seat across from him.
“Adechike!” she exclaimed as he raised his reddened eyes in surprise. “I haven’t seen you in so long! How are you?”
“Fine,” he mumbled as Bellona raised her arm to signal a waiter. “That is . . . not so good, really.”
“Crème wine,” Bellona told the server, and turned the focus of her brilliance back on Adechike. She was feeling better already. “What’s wrong? I’m sure things must be difficult in your embassy right now. . . .”
Adechike grimaced but didn’t rise to the bait. “I thought I had so many friends here, and now no one will talk to me. Kris thinks I spied on them, but I didn’t. I just . . .” He shook his head, almost spilling his glass in the process, and Bellona noted that he was more than a little drunk. “I have a terrible memory and I write things down! And I thought I could trust . . .” The server reappeared, and Adechike stopped long enough for him to put Bellona’s drink down. As soon as the server was out of earshot, Adechike went on, “I just got here, and somehow I’ve ruined everything.”
Bellona looked at her glass and took a slow meditative sip in case he would be embarrassed by her seeing his tears. “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” she said to the air beside his head. “You just happened to arrive during a rough time. But people will come around. It’s not your fau
lt that . . . certain people are behaving irresponsibly in the international sphere.” Quite proud of her formulation, Bellona took another mouthful of the crème wine. “You know,” she began, and stopped. For a moment her vision shifted, and she saw not Adechike, her young enthusiastic friend, but instead a representative of the country that was almost certainly about to be her avowed enemy. But Bellona shook it off. After all, being close to someone in the Quloi embassy could only be helpful. And Adechike needed someone.
“We’re going to fix this,” she said, reaching out to pat his shoulder with the hand that wasn’t holding her glass. “Don’t worry. I’ll come up with something amazing to reintroduce you into warder society.”
If Adechike protested, Bellona was too energized to notice, and he was too drunk to persist.
Chapter 10
Michiko
The ancestor ritual had felt oddly lonely since Kensuke had left. It wasn’t really any different, because he always gave Michiko her privacy, but now she was more aware of the darkness of the embassy around her. Maybe it was the weight of responsibility. Her ancestors seemed to think so.
“How is it going, Warder Oda?” Uncle Hiroaki asked jovially. “Any important decisions today?”
“We didn’t have a council meeting today, Uncle,” Michiko said, avoiding his question.
“Are you taking care of yourself, dear?” Aunt Aiko asked. “It must be a lot of stress.”
That question was so apt that it brought tears to Michiko’s eyes, but she blinked them away. “It is no more than I have trained for, Aunt.”
“Mertika is up to something, of course!” grumbled the Golden Lord from his usual corner in her mind. “What have they done now?”
“Leave her alone!” Aiko retorted in an surprisingly daring response. “Obviously she’s troubled.”
“Obviously she is, and I’ll wager it’s their fault. Come now, Granddaughter, you must have the need to consult.”
Michiko hadn’t thought consciously about discussing the conscription order with them, but now that it occurred to her, she realized it must have been in the back of her mind the entire time. The desire to talk about this horrible choice was too powerful for her to resist.
“They have . . . Warder Junius ordered me to put forth a conscription mandate for Kakute.”
“War?” Uncle Hiroaki crowed into the following silence. “That is excellent, my dear. A chance for us to prove ourselves again! You should tell that warder that conscription won’t be necessary for Kakute.” But his voice faded into uncertainty at the end of his boast.
“This is an outrage!” Michiko heard Aunt Aiko sigh faintly, as though she had been waiting for the Golden Lord’s explosion. “They are using our people to prosecute their vile colonialist plots and forcing you into complicity. And they have the temerity to suggest we are lacking in courage? Why, those Mists-born scum don’t have the valor of . . .”
As the Golden Lord rambled on, Aunt Aiko whispered close to Michiko’s ear: “You are not comfortable with this, my dear.”
Michiko just shook her head, unable to trust her voice. The Golden Lord’s ranting was giving her a piercing headache.
“You are the warder,” Aiko whispered. “And no one else.”
Michiko jerked, surprised by even such oblique approval, but before she could respond further, the Golden Lord wrapped up his monologue. “You must not do this, Granddaughter,” he said, his bluster suddenly replaced by an almost melancholy quietude. “Think of the suffering. Generations of suffering. There is no honor in dying for someone else’s war.”
Chapter 11
A-Sky
The Rumikan island of Ghusp was unpopulated but for a few hardy skinks and their insect prey. Scarcely larger than the grand theater hall in Omber, Ghusp was the farthest-flung of a spray of tiny hillocks of rock and aerstone that stretched from Rumika’s northwest peninsula. It was not normally visible from the main island.
The dreadnought, however, was.
Its massive bulk had appeared around dusk, leaving the villagers who happened to see it uneasy but unsure that it was not simply a cloud or an extraordinarily large mist-fiend, or perhaps a ship passing by unusually close to land. At dawn, however, the metallic hull shone dully on the horizon, too big and too still to be anything but an engine of war. A luckless local official was dragged from her bed to witness it, and immediately sent runners to the capital.
By that time, however, it was too late. Long before the national government had any inkling of what was happening, the dreadnought had shifted into motion, riding the Mists inexorably west. The villagers gathered on Acron Hill had expected the gargantuan warship to come straight toward them. Why us and not Omber? had been the most frequent comment.
Their relief was short-lived. The official with the spyglass began to shout. “Ghusp!” she yelled. She dropped the spyglass, staring into the distance as if that would somehow elucidate what she was seeing, and then raised it again, cutting a quick Eagle Eye sigil to supplement it. In its trembling circle, the rocky hillock was clear enough to distinguish massive chains wrapped around its peak.
The island shuddered. The crowd gasped as it became obvious even to those without augmented sight that the island was moving. Curls of mist swirled in its wake as, slow but irrefutable, Ghusp followed in the wake of the dreadnought, in the direction of Quloo.
Chapter 12
Kris
“The refugees need help!” Kris tried to keep their voice level. They remembered Ojo’s advice when they’d first arrived: With Yochno, always be respectful. He puts much value in the proper forms and tones of address. Mists, but it seemed like years ago. “Have you been to the warehouse?”
Yochno raised an eyebrow. “My associates have visited, and have reported back to me. And we have not been insensible. Perhaps you are not aware that the warehouse is Twaa-Fei property?” That silenced Kris briefly, and Yochno went on. “We are also providing food—”
“Only one meal a day!” Kris jumped in again, and Yochno frowned.
“Our coffers are not inexhaustible, Warder Denn.” Kris heard the emphasis on their title; Yochno was reminding them that this was a formal situation. Ojo had been right, of course. Kris felt a stab of regret for the loss of his kind mentoring. But of course it had never really been kind, had it? Just a way of getting the advantage of Rumika.
Yochno was still talking. “. . . and with the added defenses required by certain recent events, we simply cannot spare any further assistance at this time.” He paused. “Perhaps this is something you would like to bring up with the council?”
“That will take days, weeks perhaps, for funding to be allocated.” Kris pulled at their hair in frustration.
“Perhaps not,” Yochno replied. “Pursuant to chapter ninety-three, paragraph eight of the legal code, in emergency circumstances, certain budget procedures may be abridged, for example . . .”
Kris left the Twaa-Fei government building an hour later, not very enlightened by the jumble of legal statutes but determined to at least try raising funds through the council. “Although we need more than money,” they griped to Alyx. “We need a resolution to this crisis! These people need to go home!”
“Indeed,” Alyx agreed in the way that indicated Kris was missing something. “And in the meantime? Shall I allocate some funds from the embassy?”
“Yes, of course,” Kris said. “Maybe . . . What do you think they need most now? Blankets? More food?”
“I will consult with the people working there,” Alyx suggested.
“Immediately, please,” Kris said. “I’m going to the Kakute embassy. Perhaps I will find support there for the refugees, if not for our larger cause.”
“Good luck,” said Alyx, and peeled off toward the lifts.
Kris had been delaying going to see Michiko. Realistically, they didn’t think there was much chance that she would defy Mertika to help Rumika, and they didn’t want to lose their tenuous friendship over an impossibility. But remembering
the way she’d acted during the Gauntlet, Kris didn’t think they could pass up the chance to ask.
It felt odd to see Michiko behind Kensuke’s desk. Kris had to smile, if ruefully, and on impulse they discarded their carefully considered opening statement. “Who would have thought that so soon after we arrived we’d both be full warders?”
Michiko seemed to hesitate, but then she matched Kris’s smile. “Strange times,” she murmured.
“Strange and difficult,” Kris agreed. They straightened, taking on the formal trappings of a request. “I know you are in a difficult position now, Warder Oda, but so is my country. I want to ask for your support in this unjust and unprovoked conflict.”
“I—” Michiko stopped. “We continue to consider ourselves great friends of Rumika. . . .” She stopped again. “I believe that in the near future we may find that the actors in the conflict have . . . increased in number, perhaps in a way beneficial to your country.”
Kris stared at her, trying to parse.
“I can’t speak plainly now,” Michiko said, a little exasperated at their denseness. “But I hope . . . Well, you know, Warder Denn—Kris, I would like to support you, but I would like far more for there to be no war at all.”
Kris frowned. “The war is not my doing, nor Rumika’s.”
Michiko sighed. “Maybe not, but—maybe, if we can find some explanation for the fleet’s disappearance, maybe you can help to stop it.”
Kris smiled sadly. “I think it is too late for that, Michiko. Everything that’s happened . . .” There was a pause as they both thought over the past few weeks. “And now I have learned that the number of refugees who have arrived in Twaa-Fei from Rumika is even higher than I thought, with who knows how many more lost in the journey. We have to do something!”
“But maybe that something shouldn’t be aimed at Quloo,” Michiko said urgently. “Maybe—”
She was interrupted by a quick pounding on the door, and a servant burst in almost before the word “enter” had left Michiko’s mouth.
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