There's negotiation in this offer: even the holy look for privileges. And the scriptorium, she expects, isn't as well-funded as the rest of the Spires. "I'd be grateful for that. And my apologies that I brought no suitable offerings—I was reared better than this, truly. I'll rectify it when I come next time." Hinting that if Kabilsingh can direct her to Penjarej, the scriptorium might see a sudden large donation.
On the way out, Nuawa does another circuit of the Seven Spires. So much green, so much color, long-leafed shrubs and slender aspens. Yellow winter aconites, glittering snowdrops, flushed cyclamens. It represents unthinkable luxury, even for a favored house of worship. Between the plants rise statues of Kidashoten's attendants, white birds with six or seven wings each. A religion of the sky.
Nuawa goes wide around a corner, a practice she maintains to keep from being surprised. Sure enough: the janitor has taken advantage of that corner, lying in wait. She draws her gun.
"Wait." The janitor holds up their empty hands. They flick their wrist and the queen's hyacinth materializes, nestled in their palm. "You nearly made me blow my cover. I'm Guryin. Major Guryin, but we mustn't sweat the titles."
Nuawa holsters her sidearm. "Absolute winter," she says, though she wishes she could keep the pistol out.
"Exactly. Let's take this elsewhere, shall we?"
They adjourn to a carriage in the back of the Seven Spires, a black vehicle without insignias, but which passes through the guards without drawing comment. Once inside Guryin takes off xer shabby outer coat and lets down xer long, thick hair. "What a relief. Being incognito is much less glamorous than you'd think, you wouldn't believe where dead leaves or incense dust can end up. You're Nuawa, yes? Lieutenant Nuawa Dasaret?"
"Yes. I have heard much about you, Major." She hasn't actually, but Lussadh has spoken of the other glass-bearers here and there, enough that she knows how to address Guryin. "If I may ask, why were you undercover?"
"To lend you a hand, of course. And if I may say, what were you doing?"
The carriage bumps against a rare rough patch in the road. They are approaching a checkpoint: two mobile barricades, a staff of two soldiers and a sniper stationed above, on the second floor of a nearby glassblower's. "Sending out feelers. Sirapirat immigrants, religious or not, gather at temples. It's a social habit of ours, Major, and I would either be introduced to my target or spook her into doing something foolish and therefore exposing herself."
Xe tosses xer head and laughs, full-throated. "You sound like you know what you're doing—not bad, even if your methods are like sledgehammers. I'd feared you would be less ... thoughtful. But the general would never take a dull person to bed."
She glances sideways, at Guryin and at the seat divider that separates them. Behind the major, the carriage's small round window shows a wall rushing by, clad in a lace of black ice. "I wasn't aware it was such public knowledge." It is not that she believed Lussadh would keep her a secret, but she thought these things would be more private.
"It's not like that. Only that we know each other's business. Us glass-bearers, we're like a family. Have you met everyone yet? No? Not my betrothed Colonel Imsou either? They're one of us, runs Johramu—anyway, Lussadh has never taken a lover among our own, and it's so much healthier this way. To be able to share everything with your companion, all that mystical mirror business. And she has been single for so long."
Nuawa catches a whiff of frankincense and lemongrass, and under those a hint of something bitter, vinegary. Thaumaturges often smell like that—substances of the ether can leave behind a distinct scent, rarely pleasant—and wear fragrances to cover up the fact. "She is the queen's consort."
Guryin pops open one of the carriage's compartments and rummages through it before producing, inexplicably, a bouquet of fabric flowers. Xe plucks out a surprisingly lifelike rose, bright yellow fading to white at the edges. "You are not jealous, I hope? Good." Xe turns the rose over to her, closing her fingers around the wire-and-velvet stem. "Now, yes, there is the queen. What Lussadh does with her is like prayer or divine communion. What I do with Imsou is taking each other to plays or operas, sparring, decorating each other's room. I cook their favorite dishes and when they come across a rare book I want, they bring it back as a gift. Love isn't transcendent sex with an elemental force. Love is the small things, the company, the shared moments. The everyday."
And, she supposes, the queen does not stoop to the everyday. "This is a lot of information to hand out to a stranger you've just met, Major."
"But we are no strangers! We share a common bond. You may call me older-sibling. I have decided that I like you." Guryin claps xer hands. "I know just what you could get Lussadh. She loves anthuriums. Really the only flower she enjoys. Ah, we're back. Let's go see the general together so I can make her introduce us properly."
* * *
In the morning-dappled throne hall, Lussadh stands by the dais and it is as if time has not passed at all and nothing has changed: she is sixteen again, waiting on King Ihsayn. Even the faces before her—bent, their brows against the floor—have not changed much. A handful were old courtiers, old commanders who pledged themselves to her as she plotted her coup in those long nights, before the dawn of frost and slaughter. She'd traded promises, whispered a vision, one in which their place in the world would no longer depend on their lineage and proximity to the al-Kattan: a scout from Shuriam could become a captain, an enamel-born clerk could become a magistrate. It meant something, that they had sworn their fealty to her and broken their oath to the king, but then she had thought Sareha loyal for decades.
There is no surety, and the ground underneath her is quicksand: the softness of history, the drowning pull.
Those gathered know her and so they do not look up, they do not plead their innocence or reassert their allegiance. She looks from head to head, most disheveled and matted with sweat. They were trapped when she shut down the palace, in rooms and offices, one or two in the baths. For the entirety of the siege they were stranded. Two weeks. By the time Lussadh released the palace's doors and walls there were a dozen bodies, some of them children of officials who brought their households there. Again, she scans the faces: officials that have lost their children are not in attendance. Altogether the crowd before her is twenty-five, the highest-ranking among commanders and councilors that survived. All are weak with starvation, tremulous with fear.
"Thank you for coming," Lussadh says. The kind of politeness Ihsayn would have scoffed at. You shall be king, and a king commands. "All of you must be weary. Sareha's treason was unmatched in scale or cruelty. She knew what would happen to you and did not stop to care." Shifting the weight, assigning fault to the dead. "Be on your knees or your feet, as suits your strength."
A ripple of jerky motion as they pull themselves upright, tired joints popping. She surveys their haggard faces and finds only the expected reactions—fear, uncertainty, mouths bent and jawlines tight. "My first priority," she says, and can almost feel on her back the gaze of the dead king, the throne-haunt, "will be order. Kemiraj is an immense, breathing thing, and I will not have martial law drag on needlessly. Curfew will be eased piecemeal, and your offices will be reinstated as swiftly as possible. I will want your opinion on which part of the city requires immediate attention."
They blink at her, startled. A few mouths twitch in disbelief. Their bodies have been tensed, the language of those bracing for retribution. "My lord," the Minister of Commerce begins and stops herself.
"Minister Veshma." Lussadh gestures at one of her most senior ministers—part of the cadre that's been with her since Ihsayn's fall—and wonders if Veshma's head, too, will need to roll. Only death suffices to clear a name: to not have survived Sareha's coup is the sole functional proof of innocence. "I'm fond of your feasts and you've always been a fine host. Arrange a reception worthy of my return to Kemiraj. The guest list I'll leave to you." For that itself can be as telling as anything. "Captain Juhye, I have a new officer, Lieutenant Nuawa Dasaret.
She is unfamiliar with military service. Lieutenant Nuawa will have her own duties, but when your time and hers coincide I'd like her to learn from you."
"Sir." He salutes, clenched fist over heart, as sharply as though he's been hale rather than famished for half a month.
"The rest of you I will speak with in due course."
Veshma stays behind. The minister gives her a deep curtsy, the gesture compliant with old mores. Most of Kemiraj will never stop thinking of her as their prince.
"Go on," Lussadh says. "Though you should get something to eat."
"That can wait, my lord." The minister's hands shake from hunger. "The feast you would have me prepare. How wide should I cast the nets?"
Bargaining and seeking a position of trust, or perhaps Veshma wishes to avoid having the guest list be a test of herself. "Very wide. Of everyone who survived, pick whoever you think would be good company, civilian or military. I'll foot the expenses."
"The city entire would come if it could. Kemiraj has missed you, my lord, especially those of us who had the privilege of watching you grow. All of us yearn to see you more often in residence, in this country that is our shared heart." The minister looks as if she might say something more, but she merely bows a second time.
On her way out she nearly collides with Major Guryin who—as is xer wont—has not bothered to announce xerself. Xe catches and gallantly steadies Veshma before sending the minister off with a roguish wink. Then xe takes Nuawa's hand like a dance partner and pushes her forward. "General, I deliver to your keeping a rare beauty, elegant as a talwar, scintillating as a leopard. Finally, you've picked someone you can be seen in public with!" Xe gives Nuawa a meaningful glance. "I kept throwing lovely prospects at her and she turned every last one down. Really picky."
"Guryin," Lussadh begins. Sighs. "What was it—an islander princess, yes, that would've been a diplomatic disaster and she was besotted with you, actually. Then the marquess, who I think even you didn't like."
"My liking is not the point. You never put in any real effort, and your own selections don't usually last even a week." Guryin claps Nuawa on the back, vigorous enough for the impact to resound gunfire-like across the hall. On her part the lieutenant absorbs the blow and keeps her footing, expression unchanging. "Shame on you for not throwing a party and bringing us all together to meet her."
"A grave faux pas that I'll rectify when the time is right. How did you two run into each other?"
"The Seven Spires—Lieutenant Nuawa here is very spiritual." Xe beams. "I've got a few loose ends out there but couldn't miss an opportunity to meet our newest addition. I'll report back. Now I leave you two; goodness knows when my betrothed and I were new to one another we hated a third wheel."
Guryin leaves humming, waving to both of them.
"Major Guryin is very disarming." Nuawa gazes after Guryin's passage. "I asked xer what exactly xe was doing in the Spires and only now do I realize xe never did quite answer. Xe seems apt to charm the pelt off a wolf, the scales off a cobra."
"Yet not much off you, I suspect." Lussadh turns to the table on which she has spread a map out like a cadaver, the anatomy of a city gutted open and laid bare. It is one of the most detailed of Kemiraj, almost a schematic. "Xe is a skilled infiltrator." She doesn't say that xe has been infiltrating districts where Sirapirat transplants concentrate, partly to find Professor Penjarej, partly to guard against Nuawa. Such things will make themselves evident to the lieutenant as needed.
The lieutenant pushes herself onto the table, loosely perching. "The major invited me to call xer older-sibling. Are all glass-bearers like this?"
Lussadh notes, on reflex, that while Nuawa wears her blade openly she keeps the gun in a concealed holster, under the jacket. To not scare the monks, or simply duelist habit. "Not at all. Guryin is one of a kind. Xe's right, though, that I ought to make the introductions. There are six of us, an exclusive fellowship."
Nuawa runs her fingers along the edge of the map, thumb poised on the junction where paper meets mosaic. There is an odd refinement to even this loose stance, and Lussadh thinks—as she thought when she first saw Nuawa—this is what animated calligraphy might be, all numinous lines. "Do you kiss every glass-bearer on sight, General? To ascertain what we are."
"Certainly not." She raises an eyebrow. "It doesn't always manifest that way, and I'm not always attracted. You were an unusual case; I'd never felt the pull as strong."
"Ah." It is a long and contemplative sound. "I don't entirely understand it. You've not told me much of what the mirror shards do to us." She presses the heel of her palm to her breast, as if to feel for the cold glass inside, that sliver of puissance.
Lussadh looks on, struck by this gesture, desire tightening her blood. There is no innocence to Nuawa, but there is that quality of pristineness, of a being above the toil and reek of mortal life. "You don't get pneumonia or hypothermia. Your flesh is strengthened in small but definite ways, and so is your reason. The shard banks the fire of emotions that make us weak, like fear or panic or confusion. Glass-bearers know resolve as total as mountains." And the mirror makes it impossible for any bearer to turn against the queen, a fact only she and the queen know. A slight alteration of nature, one that makes previous allegiance or political leaning irrelevant, and which bends the bearer's actions—conscious or not—to the queen's desires. But it does not necessarily prevent Nuawa from acting against another glass-bearer. In this isolate moment Lussadh imagines throwing Nuawa to the floor and shooting her in the head for treachery, and she finds that she is able to hold this in her mind even though it is a jagged, biting thing.
"A tremendous gift, and here I was ignorant of it my entire life." Nuawa passes her hand along a loose knot of gray print on the map that represents a bridge nexus. "I've approached someone that might be able to produce Professor Penjarej, or at least cause her to slip up and show herself. Do I have leave to act freely?"
"I trust your judgment." Lussadh pauses. "Though I'll expect you to get acquainted with one of my officers. Captain Juhye's an old soldier of mine, and I want him watched. The pretext of having him train you in protocols is as good as any."
"I'll keep an eye on him. And—" The lieutenant hesitates. "Do you think love is in the everyday? The small things."
Lussadh opens her mouth and closes it, caught off-guard. "It's one way of defining that, certainly. I have not given it much thought, and not in those terms. Why?"
"Nothing, General." Nuawa turns her gaze to the table mosaic, lifting a corner of the map to peer underneath, at the lapis lazuli tiles arranged into an image of the queen. "It was merely a notion."
Four
The morning before Veshma's feast, Lussadh lifts the curfew and arranges for every restaurant, eatery and teahouse in the city to throw wide their doors. "For three days," she tells Ulamat, "they are to feed anyone who comes through their doors, from sunup to sundown. Have them spread their seating out onto the footpaths. Requisition spare furniture for them—we've always got more stools and canopies than we can use."
"This will be costly, my lord." He adjusts his spectacles and turns the page on his ledger, tapping it with his pen. "But well within our means. A few months ago, we confiscated an occidental merchant's cargo of considerable volume. He was drunk, mistook one of your officers for a courtesan, and vulgarly propositioned her; the merchant's since been barred from entering winter territories. Among the inventory were exotic grains, minor jewelry, and foreign coinage. Do I have your leave to distribute these to hospital staff and municipal workers?"
By which he means laborers, janitors, the poorly-paid and most of them enamel-born. To such people luxurious goods can sometimes be bartered more effectively than simple currency. "You have my leave. Sareha's estate is getting expropriated and I'll sign her liquid assets over to you. Make use of them as you will." A stipend for the most junior civil servants and infantry, a few debts bought out and a few lives unburdened. Many children of the enamel forget their roots; Ulamat neve
r does.
Lussadh glances at her watch: the hour is about right. She returns to her apartment to see that the tailor she commissioned is already there. He is a round-hipped man with long, quick fingers, and he is currently measuring the lieutenant's shoulders with a tape. "Stunning proportions, sir," he is exclaiming when Lussadh enters, jotting down abbreviations and numbers into a pad in his hand. "That of a masterwork! Flattering your figure will be simplicity itself. Does the lieutenant have any particular preferences?"
"Pockets. The dress uniform has a coat, as I understand. I'll want something that can seamlessly hide a holster." Nuawa stands with arms spread scarecrow-wide. She looks up past the tailor and meets Lussadh's gaze with an embarrassed shrug. "Comfortable collars. Little metallic thread, no sequins, no seed pearls. Actually, no paillette at all if you can help it."
The tailor snaps his measuring tape shut, puts his little notebook back into a pocket. "Ah, a person of minimalist taste. As you wish, sir." He turns to Lussadh and drops to his knees. "Lord-Governor! I did the preliminary work yesterday and it is short notice, but it shall be ready within two hours."
"Plenty of time. I trust your work." Lussadh gestures at him to rise. "Are you about finished here?"
"Indeed, lord. I shall send the result and hope my utmost that the lieutenant will be pleased. Absolute winter, sirs." He enunciates this sharply, importantly, as if the phrase includes him in the governing and administering of the queen's reign. He curtsies his way out.
Nuawa shakes her head as she buttons up her shirt. "I keep forgetting that sir in Mehrut is different from ... the equivalent in Ughali. Not that we have an equivalent, exactly. Is this not excessive, General? I can wear my normal uniform."
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