Gods guide my hand, let me be the vessel of my people’s thirst for justice.
Yochno stepped forward, and Kris and Bellona shook. They agreed on a duel of bladecraft, fought to first blood, then returned to their sides.
Kris looked to Takeshi, to Adechike, and to Cassia. These colleagues who were sometimes friends, sometimes rivals, and who were all caught up in the same storm of change and uncertainty that had descended upon Twaa-Fei shortly after the Gauntlet.
Kris fought for Rumika, but they also fought for the Circle. For its validity.
And if they lost, Kris worried that the Circle might not survive.
Yochno’s bell rang, and the duel began.
They both opened with sigils of speed and agility. Bellona then moved to offensive sigils, which Kris blocked or countered as they closed. Bellona’s bladecraft was technically solid, but uninspired. Kris could read every sigil as soon as it started if not predict them ahead of time. Marksman’s Arrow, Thunderclap, Mud Pit. Kris countered them one by one, advancing all the while.
Don’t get cocky, they told themself as they beat Bellona’s blade aside, moving the fight into measure.
As Kris pressed her, Bellona showed her skill. She never yielded the center line to Kris, even as their footwork pushed Bellona left, right, and back. She always returned to center.
Skilled, but again, predictable.
Any time you knew where your opponent was going to move, you could exploit it.
Just as Kris was going to lay a trap, Bellona pressed.
Kris grinned. Come on, then. Try me, they thought.
The Mertikan cut high, disengaging into a low thrust when Kris moved to parry. Kris adjusted their block to push Bellona’s thrust aside. Barely. The thrust pierced their jerkin.
But that created an opening. While Bellona’s blade was halfway through their clothes, Kris passed their sword into their other hand and used the now-free hand to wrap around Bellona’s sword arm.
Now it was wrestling. And when Adechike and Kris weren’t glowering at each other during bad times, they’d continued sparring. Which meant that Kris had picked up more than a few tricks. And perhaps more important, gotten comfortable with grappling. They sank into a stabler stance while Bellona flailed, punching with her off hand and trying to break free. Kris blocked the blows with the hilt and pommel of their sword, and Bellona gave up on that strategy quickly.
In a duel to the death, Kris would run Bellona through, or slit her neck. It would be so easy.
Kris thought of the dozens of Rumikans and Quloi who had died when the trade ships had gone down. The hundreds who had died since the pointless war had begun.
But killing Bellona wouldn’t bring them back. So instead, Kris aimed a shallow cut across the Mertikan’s calf, then pushed her away, resetting to center in case she tried to lash out in reprisal.
The bell rang twice, even as Kris continued to back off, still in guard.
Bellona took one angry step toward Kris, blade raised, then stopped. If she were Lavinia, she might press it. But for good and for ill, Bellona was not Lavinia.
The Mertikan woman lowered her blade and nodded to Kris. “So be it. Share your lies, and we’ll deal with them as they come.”
The trap sprung, Yochno reconvened the council in the private chambers.
Kris cut the sigil Circle of Banished Lies, moving slowly and precisely to show all present that their sigil contained no secret modifications, no tricks. The sigil flared and whirled into a six-foot-wide circle on the ground.
Xan stepped into the circle and spoke. She told them the story as she’d told it to Kris, practiced but not rehearsed. She spoke with her eyes closed, brow scrunched up as if forcing her mind to hold on to every detail.
“We had just entered the Engwehin Rocks, and three Mertikan ships came out from behind a crag. We didn’t think it would be too much of a problem—we were six, and with guards and extra bladecrafters.”
As she spoke, Kris distributed copies of the supporting evidence and the written version of Xan’s testimony.
Xan paused, looking awestruck. “Then they focused their magic in some way I had never seen. You’d know better, being bladecrafters. But the ships just splintered apart, all of them. I passed out and woke up lashed to a chunk of the hull that had enough charge in its aerstone to stay aloft until Anton found me.”
“How can you be certain they were Mertikans?” Bellona said.
“They were flying Mertikan colors,” Xan answered. “And every one of them had the crowned empress figurehead.”
“This is still all circumstantial,” Bellona said. “Anyone could have flown Mertikan flags to frame my people for this.”
The expected counter. Kris had an answer, but they didn’t even have to respond.
Adechike asked, “How many Mertikan flags have you seen on ships in your days, Sailor Xan?” Adechike asked.
“Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Mostly in port, but sometimes passing in the distance. Nothing like that purple in all the sky, I tell you what.”
“It is very distinctive, I agree. Warder Avitus, can you remind us of why the Mertikan colors are so distinct?”
Kris knew, and so did most of the others in all likelihood. But forcing her to say it and to get it on the record was essential. Bellona’s cheeks grew more red by the moment.
“Everyone knows that,” she snapped. “The berries used to make the dye grow only in the highlands of Mertika. But that’s no secret. Anyone could procure the berries.”
Kris jumped in to keep control of the line of questioning. “What price do those berries fetch on the open market? Adechike, I imagine you’d know, given Quloo’s reputation for trade.”
Adechike shrugged at the simple question. “One hundred talons a bushel. Ten times the price of any other berry its size. Maybe ten bushels go on the market in any given year, and every one of them is tracked by Mertikan trade authority and verified here. Your embassy holds those records, Bellona. You’d know better than any of us. . . .”
Kris picked up where Adechike left off, speaking to the room. “And if you’re saying that there are truly three or more non-Mertikan ships flying your colors and fitted with the intricately carved crowned empress prow, and that they have not been caught and brought to justice for falsifying your colors, how can any of us ever trust those colors again? A Mertikan warship flying over Rumika claiming to protect us from Quloo might be a raider looking to pillage our countryside! I’m very worried about the implications of this claim you’re making,” Kris said, trying to sound as sincere as they could manage.
The nods from Cassia and Takeshi told Kris they’d made their point even as Bellona made a sound not unlike a teapot about to boil over.
Cassia spoke up, ignoring Bellona’s fuming. “I am also very concerned about Sailor Xan’s description of the bladecraft effect being used. It doesn’t match any techniques I’m familiar with.”
“Nor I,” Kris said. “Takeshi, you’ve spend a lot of time studying the history of bladecraft, so maybe you’d know better. The only things I’ve heard of that come close to this description are the accounts of massed bladecraft used two hundred years ago in the war between Quloo and Zenatai. Would you agree?”
“We’re working with limited information, so I can’t be certain, but it’s the most likely case.”
Kris prepared their finishing move. “So in one testimony, sanctified by a Circle of Banished Lies, we hear that the Rumikan–Quloo trade fleet was either attacked by Mertikans or by pirates with stolen Mertikan colors and Mertikan figurehead prows, and that those attackers, Mertikan or pirate, likely used massed bladecraft and were able to destroy six ships nearly all at once.”
Kris continued, “I don’t know about you all, but I’m frankly terrified. It’s not just about what happened to Rumika. Not just the fact that the war between my people and Quloo’s happened for no good reason, but the idea that some fleet out there may be resurrecting the practice of massed bladecraft? All while the nat
ions are pulling apart and sending their senior bladecrafters to the war front.
“Not only do we need to see justice done for the true attackers against the trade fleet, we need to keep our nations from repeating the errors of our ancestors.”
The room was silent for a moment. Kris felt hollowed out. They’d prepared and rehearsed, tried to anticipate every possible counterargument. And the speech they’d given was maybe their best ever.
The testimony was given, doubts about the flags dimmed if not totally banished. Bellona could dispute the connection between Mertikan flags and a ship being under Mertikan command, but for there to be a half dozen ships, all with forged or stolen colors, was as much a stain on Mertika’s reputation as it was an alibi.
With no one speaking up, Kris went on. “My fellow warders, we have the chance to end the war before more lives are lost. Warders are known as duelists, but if we succeed here, we could become famous not as warriors but as peacemakers. Then we can go back to squabbling about trade agreements and hunting rights.”
“Of course you know we’ll have to corroborate these claims with our own investigations,” Cassia said.
“Of course. I just ask that you do that. If my interpretation of Sailor Xan’s account is accurate, what does that mean for the war, for our nations’ paths forward?”
“It’s all nonsense,” Bellona said, incapable of letting this go without taking one more shot. “Nonsense conjured up because Rumika is unwilling to fully accept the wisdom of fighting the war under Mertikan leadership.”
That’s it, Kris thought. “And arguing about it is a fabulous way to endear yourself to your ally.”
In a world where the Mertikans weren’t responsible for the convoy’s destruction, they’d have to put more effort into working alongside Bellona and Mertika to wage the war. But the idea of relying on the rapacious empire set Kris’s hair on end. When Mertika had taken Kakute, they’d claimed that they were on a “peacekeeping mission” and responding to factions within the nation that cried out to become part of the empire.
What was happening now was more than enough of an excuse to wrap the tendrils of the empire around Rumika and begin to squeeze.
Their business done, Kris yielded the floor and Yochno closed the meeting.
Kris had planted the seed. Whether it would bloom into action was up to their colleagues.
Chapter 6
Adechike
Quloo’s private meeting chambers in the tower still felt like Ojo’s space. Adechike supposed that he’d have to put his own touch on the room, transfer some of the furniture and art from the embassy, if not for his comfort than to make the proper show of confidence and authority.
He knew that Ojo should still be the warder, even if no one else did. But for Quloo’s sake, Adechike knew he had to hold on to the position for as long as he could. Appease the High Skies where necessary and blunt their aggression whenever possible.
But that’s what Ojo tried to do, said a doubting voice in his mind.
And without the assassination attempt, he would have continued to do so. As long as Adechike walked the tightrope flawlessly, he would not fall.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he said. Cassia stepped into the office, carrying her copy of the evidence.
“We should talk about this,” she said.
“Of course. Shall we take tea?”
She nodded. Adechike rang the bell to call for their steward. “Greetings, Warder Petros,” the steward said as he stepped into the room.
“Hello.”
“Can you prepare a pot of the amber brush?” Adechike asked. “And whatever scones are still around.”
“I’m not hungry,” Cassia said.
“I am, unfortunately. Bad habit. I’ll need a long training session once we’re done with these papers. I’ve been doing too much sitting and pacing and worrying and not enough sparring.”
The steward nodded and disappeared to work magic with the ambassadorial staff.
Then they set to talking.
“If this bears out, Mertika will have to face consequences. But extracting concessions from them while we’re at war and they’re ostensibly allies of Rumika? This will be very messy. And the idea of massed bladecraft returning has me very worried.”
“If it were one problem or the other, it would make sense,” Cassia said. “Everything is pulling at cross-purposes. The Trine will demand utter clarity before they give their decision. I’ll make sure Penelope sees all of this. Maybe she can provide some guidance, especially on the bladecraft effect.” She paused. “How is Ojo?”
Adechike paused a moment, trying to decide how to answer. She was his ally, his peer. Keeping news from her would cut away at the already-tenuous trust between them.
The truth, then. “Did you hear?”
Cassia nodded. Even as allies, they had eyes on each other.
“He left to attend to some personal matters,” Adechike said.
Cassia raised an eyebrow. “If I were him, I’d be getting drunk right now.”
The diplomatic answer was easily at hand, but there wasn’t much reason to dissemble with Cassia. “I think that’s exactly what he’s doing. Which is a terrible idea, given his condition and the medications. But Shun will look after him.”
Cassia nodded knowingly. “What about Quloo? What will your leadership say about all of this?”
Adechike shrugged, but left off his usual smile. “Anything that can weaken Mertika is useful for the war effort. But some things, once begun, cannot easily be halted.”
“Vania’s support is not one of those things. If this information proves accurate, then Quloo’s excuse for war disappears like a broken sigil.”
“I know. What I can say is that Ojo’s dismissal was not because of his injury. There’s only so much I can do without upsetting the guildmasters.”
Cassia nodded. “Of course. The Trine has the courtesy to be open and vocal about their infighting, and gives us leave to do the same. But they’re not breathing down my back the way the guildmasters were Ojo’s.”
The tea arrived, and they set back to work, discussing the evidence and the account of the bladecraft, arguing possibilities, relative levels of confidence in each possibility, and so on.
Sometimes being a warder was about daring duels and expert swordplay. Sometimes it was veiled statements and secret meetings.
And sometimes it was detective work.
Chapter 7
Ojo
Ojo didn’t have to be the warder for Shun to give him a private room to drown his sorrows.
Two empty bottles stood to his side on the table, the last cup of amber liquor wafting its smoky fragrance to his nose.
To the other side was a small mound of crumpled-up parchment, cast-off drafts of the letter he tried to write even as his hand shook. The coals of the table’s inset barbecue still burned, fed where they should have been left to die.
My dearest Penelope . . .
Too familiar.
Dear Battlemistress Kyrkos . . .
Too formal.
He wanted little more than for her to be there, to be able to speak his mind in person. Not as warders, not as whatever they’d become when she left. As a man and a woman.
It was never supposed to get this complicated. Not with Rumika, not with Penelope. He’d cultivated a life where things made sense, and almost before he could realize, everything started slipping through his fingers.
He looked to his bandaged right arm.
You’ll probably never be able to lift a blade with your right hand again, the doctor had said.
His mind raced through a lifetime of memories: duels won and lost, endless letters penned with a practiced hand, countless hours training to perfect the two-blade style, Warder Ache’s voice guiding him through forms, tossing his niece high into the air with both hands.
He set down the quill and finished the cup.
“More!” he called, louder than he’d meant to.
<
br /> Ojo pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and thought for a full minute before beginning. The liquor clouded his thoughts but failed to eliminate the pain in his arm.
This time he made it past the address, past the pleasantries, and into a several-paragraph rambling confession of his feelings, his shame over losing his post. He found himself pleading for her to return and bring stability to the Warders’ Circle.
He wiped the tears from his eyes, blinked, tried to clear his focus, and looked again. Nothing would hold still, nothing made sense, everything was ash and leather in his mouth and his heart.
If Penelope would just come back . . .
What? he asked himself. Can she force the guildmasters to return your seat? No. Can she end the war herself? No, he thought.
But then sorrow hit him once more like a gale.
“Another bottle!”
He stared at the letter, but before the next bottle arrived, Ojo folded the letter and dropped it into the still-smoldering fire.
Penelope was not a storybook hero to return and vanquish the evildoers. She, like he, was just a complicated person pulled in a hundred directions.
She survived. He, however, had failed.
The next bottle arrived, and Ojo used the magic of self-loathing to crawl inside it and weep.
•••
Hours later the door to the private room opened again, but it wasn’t his server with another tray for cooking.
It was Kris.
“I’m sorry for imposing. But I have something to say, and I hope you’ll want to hear it.”
Ojo took a long sip from his cup. He’d gone past intoxicated into thoroughly drunk.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he slurred. “Will it give me back my honor, my status, or my arm?”
“I forgive you. I forgive Quloo. We were both tricked by Mertika. They orchestrated the attack. Adechike has the evidence. They must have seen an opportunity to sow dissent, to make a move while appearing righteous. They made a smoke screen and profited from it. I want to end the war. Come back; we can make it happen.”
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