The Complete Season 1

by Michael Underwood

  Like Ojo Kante had given up.

  “Cassia,” he said. Then: “Warder Petros. Warder pro tem. I’m sorry. Maduenu said you had a message. From the Trine.”

  Even if the physician hadn’t reminded her to be quick, Cassia would have cut directly to the point, just to give him some shred of hope. She said, “On behalf of the Trine of Vania, I have come to tell you that our battlemistresses and our fleets will join you in your struggle against Rumika and Mertika.”

  He blinked. And again. And said nothing. Maybe the formal language wasn’t getting through the laudanum. Cassia said, “We’re allying ourselves with you.”

  His lips trembled. “H-how? Why?”

  The Trine had given her a formal statement, which she would deliver in the Circle tomorrow. It was important to watch the phrasing of such things, to make sure they said only as much as the government wanted, in the way they wanted. Who knew how many clerks had sweated over writing it, handcrafting every phrase about Mertikan aggression and Quloo being the first and worst victim of the loss of the fleet?

  Cassia reached into her sleeve for the document, and stopped.

  She couldn’t think of him as Warder Kante. Not when he was like this. He’d always been the kindest and most generous of the warders, the one most dedicated to camaraderie within the Circle. Now it was all falling apart, war across the entire sky, half the senior warders gone, the remainder at each other’s throats. And she’d heard the rumors before she ever arrived at the embassy. It wasn’t true that he’d lost his arm . . . but would he ever fight again?

  Her hand curled into a fist. Then she removed it from her sleeve and said, “Penelope.”

  Life sparked in his eyes.

  “The Trine has been sitting on a fence for a generation and more, arguing over whether they should beat down Mertika while they still can or stay out of it for Vania’s own safety. Battlemistresses.” Cassia snorted, letting her disgust show. “They like to talk as if they could conquer the whole sky if they weren’t too noble to do it, but half of them are cowards at heart. They’re afraid of Mertika—and with good reason.

  “But not Penelope. She stood there in the council chamber, big as a ramwhul, and told the Trine that if they aren’t willing to support Quloo and stand up to Mertika, their honor isn’t worth a piss in the Maelstrom. And she convinced them.” Now she did take out the document, and held it up for him to see. “I have the proof right here.”

  Ojo trembled. His mouth worked silently for a moment before anything would come out. When he finally spoke, it was just two words. “Thank you.”

  Cassia saluted him formally. “I’ll be announcing it tomorrow, but you needed to know first. And now I should go, because I think your physician might poison my tea if I keep you talking for too long. Take care of yourself. Rest well. I’ll, uh—I’ll see you later.”

  Then she fled. If there was one thing she hated more than sickrooms, it was watching people cry.

  Chapter 5

  Michiko

  Takeshi wasn’t at the Ikaran embassy, and none of the staff knew where he had gone.

  “Please, Warder Oda—you have to find him,” the chief secretary said, clutching at her sleeve in his panic. “He was supposed to be at the Mertikan embassy, but he isn’t there anymore. They’re saying the Quloi warder has been killed. If Warder Ueda is dead, too—no, no, he can’t be. Please, will you search for him?”

  Michiko recoiled, her skin crawling in horror. “Ojo is dead?”

  “That’s what they’re saying! Assassins in the night—here, on Twaa-Fei! I knew it was a mistake to let those refugees come here. . . .”

  The rest of his words faded behind her as she set off at a run for the Quloi embassy. Soon her steps slowed, though, as the import of the secretary’s words sank in. Granted, rumor tended to exaggerate—but even so. If the chaos on Twaa-Fei had gotten that bad, then she couldn’t afford to race blindly ahead. Not even here on the upper island, where she ought to be safe. And the guards at the embassy certainly would not thank an armed woman for running toward their gate when they were on high alert.

  Besides, what about Takeshi?

  She stopped and cast a glance over her shoulder, considering the layout of the upper island. The secretary had said he wasn’t at the Mertikan embassy anymore. Would he be with the Rumikans? She knew he’d been practicing with Kris, the two of them growing oddly close. Or maybe at the Quloi embassy, trying to find out if the rumors held any truth. Or not on the upper island at all; maybe he went to the teahouse, looking for information.

  Too many possibilities. But whatever was happening with Ojo, she couldn’t do anything about it. He needed to know the truth about the fleet, and so did Kris . . . but she was first and foremost the warder for Kakute, and that meant she had to attend to her own country’s needs.

  Before her indecision could resolve itself, she heard footsteps. One hand went to the hilt of her sword, then hesitated. Had it really come to this? Drawing steel in a darkened street just because she heard someone approaching?

  “Michiko?”

  Her hand sprang away from the blade as if it had been burned. “Takeshi. What are you doing here?”

  “Heading home.” Takeshi came close enough for her to see him as more than a weary-shouldered shadow. “Where have you been?”

  “Searching for you,” she said. It was at least partly true. “No one at your embassy knew where you’d gone. Is it true what they’re saying—that Ojo’s dead?”

  Takeshi sagged against the nearest wall. “No. Though it was a near thing. I’ve been helping take care of him, but at this point there’s nothing I can really do, so Maduenu sent me home.”

  Michiko’s heart thudded with relief. “What happened to him?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know. I mean, he woke up and told us what he knows; he got jumped by a group of people in veils.”

  Then he pushed off the wall and drew his blade. Michiko’s was halfway out of its sheath before he gestured for her to stop. With precise, elegant movements, he drew the sigil for Shrouded Voices, dampening the sound around them.

  When that was done, Takeshi resheathed his blade. “Ojo said they sounded Rumikan.”

  Michiko spat a bitter laugh. “I doubt that.”

  Takeshi frowned at her. “I know you and Kris are friends, but—no. You aren’t just saying that. What do you know?”

  The cool serenity she’d felt when communing with her ancestors was gone, replaced by fire. “Anton picked up a survivor from the trade fleet. She was nearly dead when he found her—injury, starvation, dehydration—but she’s recovered. And I spoke to her.”

  Takeshi’s lips shaped a soundless curse. “So . . . the survivor saw what happened.”

  “It was Mertika,” Michiko said. “They sank the fleet.”

  What had she expected? For that fire to leap from her into Takeshi, so that he drew his blade with righteous fury and declared that justice must be done? That wasn’t who he was. Instead he swayed on his feet, putting one hand out to steady himself against the wall. “The empire . . . you’re saying they started the war.”

  “They at least wanted to break the alliance between Quloo and Rumika.” Michiko’s lip curled in a snarl. “The war may just be a nice side benefit. Gives them an excuse to start conquering again.”

  “But—” He started another half dozen replies, and each one of them died unborn. “This isn’t even conquest. It’s chaos.”

  “Do you think the empress cares?”

  They both knew the answer to that. The glory for the war would go to Mertikan generals; the cost of it would fall on everyone else. Takeshi finally said, “Who have you told?”

  Michiko was still wearing her ancestral communion robes. She smoothed the front of the crossed collar, shook out her square-cut sleeves. It felt odd to walk around in traditional Kakutan garb—but also right. She couldn’t do what she must while wearing a Mertikan tunic. “My ancestors, and you. Whether you’re loyal to the empire or not, you dese
rve to know whose lead you’re following. And I know I can trust you to tell the others, if I don’t get the chance.”

  Takeshi was far too clever to miss the implication buried in those words. He said, “Why? Where are you going?”

  “To the Mertikan embassy,” Michiko said, dropping one hand to her sword hilt. “It’s time Bellona and I had a conversation.”

  Chapter 6

  Takeshi

  When Michiko was gone, Takeshi slumped against the wall at his side and sat down right there in the street.

  In a moment he would get up and do . . . something. Some vague sense of colonial duty tried to tell him he should go stop the oncoming confrontation between Michiko and Bellona, but that, he decided, was between the two of them. And between Mertika and Rumika and Quloo—his thoughts gave up. It was too large to deal with right now.

  Everything had gotten too large.

  He stared at his hands. He’d washed them thoroughly at the Quloi embassy; Ojo’s blood was long gone. But Takeshi could still see it, and the mangled wreck of the warder’s body, with Adechike frantically trying to stop the bleeding.

  You have to save his arm.

  I have to save his life. Everything else comes after that.

  Maduenu was right. With that much blood loss, Ojo was lucky to be alive. And if he had any use of his hand after that—

  It was more than just luck.

  Like all bladecrafters, Takeshi had studied anatomy, because you had to know how bodies worked in order to do the most damage to your opponent’s. He knew which muscles in the forearm controlled the fingers . . . and he knew that Ojo’s had been completely severed. He’d seen the bone gleaming white through the gash.

  But when Maduenu stitched Ojo up, the muscles were still connected. Damaged, but there.

  No one had ever been able to invent a healing sigil, though countless bladecrafters had tried. Takeshi had read all manner of theories as to why. In the end, the only things that could mend the body were herbs, the surgeon’s needle—

  —and the Zenatan birthright.

  It was impossible. Quloo had cut Zenatai from the sky two hundred years before. No one had been born on the island since then because there was no island to be born on. The Zenatans on Twaa-Fei defined themselves by ancestry and choice, not any link to the soil of their ancient home. Even if Takeshi’s mother had lied about where she gave birth, he couldn’t possibly possess that gift . . . the ability to heal.

  Takeshi beat his head gently against the wall behind him. Absurd. He was imagining things. Ojo had been injured, yes, but not as badly as they’d feared; he didn’t bleed out before Maduenu got to him because he was a tough old bastard and not that easy to get rid of. Takeshi had overestimated the damage to his arm. All of that was a far simpler and more plausible explanation for what had happened than Takeshi secretly having the lost Zenatan birthright.

  But he wanted it to be true. Because then at least he would have a birthright. He would be an impostor still, but one keeping a secret about what he had, rather than what he lacked.

  He remembered Ojo’s blood pulsing weakly through his fingers as Adechike begged him to do something, anything.

  He remembered . . .

  Focusing.

  Like he had focused after he wounded Kris in the Gauntlet. Like he had focused when treating a half-dead Rumikan sailor, suffering from cuts and starvation and dehydration. Like he had focused on other occasions, thinking only that he was concentrating, and he was good at patching people up because he’d studied so hard.

  Takeshi’s hands began to shake.

  Shrouded Voices was still in effect, though it would fade soon. Takeshi braced his elbows on his knees and addressed the empty street, knowing no one could hear him. “All right. Think this through. Your theory is that you have the Zenatan birthright. How? Unknown, and irrelevant if it turns out that you’re wrong.”

  The street listened patiently. The next step was obvious, but Takeshi still had to force himself to say it. “Therefore, you should find out whether you can heal.”

  Small injuries, things where he could clearly see the extent of the damage and measure how much he’d affected it. Maybe at the clinic on the lower island—no, that might attract too much attention if it worked and someone noticed. He was better off experimenting on himself. Or maybe Kris, if they were willing.

  Not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. Mertika had destroyed the trade fleet and someone had tried to assassinate Ojo; this was not the time to be conducting trials with flesh and blood.

  But he had a feeling the war would give him plenty of opportunities soon enough.

  Chapter 7

  Michiko

  The Mertikan embassy was like a kicked anthill, staff swarming everywhere and the guard out in force. Michiko wondered cynically how many of those people were doing anything useful, and how many Bellona had sent off on errands just so she could be seen giving orders and taking action. Or maybe they were all keeping busy to avoid Bellona’s eye.

  None of them tried to stop her progress through the halls, though she got more than a few curious glances for her Kakutan robes. After all, wasn’t she Mertikan? A poor colonial copy, of course, striving toward an ideal she could never reach, but still just another cog in the imperial machine. Whatever task had her striding with purpose toward Lavinia’s office—Bellona’s office, now—surely it was dedicated to the greater glory of the empire.

  The office was deserted. But past the disgusting waste of the floating aerstone screen, the door to the garden was open, letting the cool predawn air through.

  Bellona was outside, standing in front of one of the meticulously groomed rose beds, fingering a half-open blossom. Her chin tucked low, she seemed to be deep in thought, and unaware of Michiko’s presence.

  She was armed, as all of them were always armed, and so Michiko deliberately slammed the garden door behind herself as she went outside. Bellona shot upright with a jerk and reached for her sword, but Michiko was still far enough away that she didn’t register as an attacker, and so Bellona relaxed. “Oh, it’s you. Where in the sky have you been? Of all the times to vanish! Bad enough if you only missed my dinner party, but it’s gone far beyond that. I have a dozen things you ought to be doing, and I’ve had to do them myself!”

  When Michiko first arrived on Twaa-Fei, those words would have hurt. Back then she had wanted nothing more than to prove her use. Now she only laughed. “Poor Bellona—having to actually do the work herself. Lavinia might as well still be here, giving you orders.”

  It shouldn’t have been possible for Bellona to stiffen more. “What did you just say?”

  “I mean that you’re her lackey,” Michiko said contemptuously. “You always have been. You’re a paragon of Mertikan excellence, Bellona—a most excellent dog, leaping at your mistress’s command.”

  Bellona left the rose bed behind and stalked toward her, heels stabbing into the grass with each step. “Are you drunk? Or have you just lost your mind?”

  “Found it, I should say. And a great many other things besides. Like a survivor from the trade fleet, someone who saw the Mertikan fleet descend and cut the cargo ships from the sky.”

  That stopped Bellona mid-stride, staggering.

  Michiko smiled coldly at her. “Did you carry those orders for Lavinia? Did you help send out the ships to sink Quloo, to push them to such a desperate point that they’d do anything to survive? Because Mertika is frightened of Rumika and their rise, frightened of Quloo’s strength, frightened of anything that might threaten their assumption of supremacy. You imperials like to pretend you’re so admirable, but you’ll resort to the dirtiest tricks available just to maintain your own power. Did you send the assassins, Bellona? Did you set the attack up to frame Rumika? Are you the reason Ojo nearly died tonight?”

  Was the shock real? Before Michiko could decide, Bellona regained her composure, like a steel mask slamming down. “So now you stoop to spreading rumors and wild speculation. A survivor of the fleet?
How convenient. They must be utterly trustworthy, this person—there’s no chance anyone could have paid them to slander the empire. And Ojo?” She sneered. “If I wanted him dead, I’d face him in a duel.”

  “You could never beat Ojo,” Michiko snapped. “You aren’t Lavinia, Bellona, no matter how much you try to live down to her example.”

  Bellona’s laugh held a wild edge. “Live down? Oh, little Michiko. That’s almost funny, coming from a pathetic little colonial like you. No matter how much we try to extend opportunities to Kakute and Ikaro and all the rest of our possessions, even the best of you can never truly match a Mertikan.”

  “I’m done trying.”

  She watched the words strike home. Bellona’s eyes went wide, staring as if she might find some sign that this was all a terrible joke. And then a wave of disbelieving hurt—because for all her arrogant ways, Bellona had, in some twisted fashion, thought that the two of them were allies. Even friends.

  And then, as inevitable as thunder after lightning, the fury of betrayal.

  “You will bleed for this,” Bellona snarled.

  Michiko drew her blade, the movement slow and deliberate. “I am the daughter of Oda no Genzo, who was the son of Takeda no Achie—and of Genji no Nobu, the last Golden Lord of Kakute. For the honor of my ancestors, I will bend my neck no more.”

  And they began.

  •••

  Bellona opened, as she so often did, with a sigil meant to enhance her speed, because she was used to civilized duels where the combatants prepared themselves before launching an attack.

  Michiko whipped her sword through the sinuous, sweeping lines of the Grass-Scything Cut. But she didn’t aim it at the manicured lawn beneath her feet, which would yield nothing of substance; instead she targeted the rosebushes behind Bellona.

  The thorny branches tore free and swept past Bellona in a whirlwind, raking her arms and her face and tangling in her hair. Bellona shrieked, concentration broken, dropping her sigil before it was complete. In that moment, Michiko coiled her back leg and closed the distance with an explosive lunge.