Rakesh shrugged. “No.”
Jiro put a hand on Gekko’s shoulder. “Just hear him out. He may have a point.”
Gekko scowled. “Not you too.”
“Just listen,” Rakesh said, interrupting both of them. “The three of us could break into that building. We could find that box! Maybe it’s our way back.”
“Maybe it’s insane!” Gekko snorted derisively. “The Hangman will kill you. Or worse, he’ll cripple you. You’ll die on the streets of Iskawan as a cripple. That’s almost worse than being a Vakum. They don’t seem to feel anything. You’d know pain every single moment that you were dying if The Hangman tortured you.”
“I have a reason to live.”
Jiro and Gekko stared at him, dumbstruck. Rakesh held his breath, but didn’t offer them anymore.
“Please,” he finally said, leaning close. A fairy-fire swooped in, illuminating their faces with strange, dancing light. “We must try.”
Jiro grinned.
Gekko hung his head.
Saemon
Saemon stood on the balcony at the great hall of the imperial palace, the Jade Cradle. Walls of jade glittering with swirls and flecks of gold designs painted by local artisans surrounded him. The hall’s thick wooden double doors, so heavy that they required several servants to move them, were open, spilling sunlight into the room. Saemon’s angular face and spotted skin betrayed his age—or wisdom as many would say. Thin lips. Penetrating eyes. Broad shoulders. Even the dark hair that fell to his shoulders testified to a man of strength that towered over all who approached him.
Next to Saemon, Isao swallowed so loudly the Emperor could hear.
Isao stood with his hands behind his back, his eyes trained forward. Although similar to his father, he had more narrow shoulders. A smaller frame. Shiny black eyes rife with intelligence, not ruthfulness. Not in the same way.
“Be calm, my son,” Saemon said. “Your life, and the lives of all those you serve, will be well served by this decision.”
Sounds of movement from outside preceded the arrival of the Nari caravan as the horses, carriages, and carriers disentangled from it. Members of the Clan wound their way through the numerous guards and servants who accompanied the convoy.
The chief steward stood at the doorway as the first of the Nari Clan stepped forward.
Saemon caught a brief glimpse of movement, saw a swatch of red hair, and murmured, “Ah. Here comes the White Fox himself.”
“Sheng, Danjuro of the Nari Clan has arrived,” the steward said.
Danjuro, ruler of the Nari Clan, strode into the great hall with sure steps. His deep blue eyes, the color of the ocean, held an intelligent expression. Slim and tall, he carried himself with an air of surprising authority.
Saemon felt a moment of certainty: This marriage had been the right thing. An alliance with a Clan with a strong ruler would cement the power of the Empire.
“Sheng Saemon.”
“Gunag Danjuro.”
Both Clan rulers bent at the waist, bowing in a show of due respect for the other. When Saemon straightened, he met Danjuro’s sure gaze.
“You are most welcome, Nari Clan. We look forward to the celebration of our alliance and the marriage of our Clans.”
Danjuro turned to Isao, who immediately bowed. Danjuro hesitated for a mere breath, then returned the bow. Isao sucked in a low breath at the rare display of honor, then smiled.
Saemon relaxed. Isao would make him proud, he thought.
“It is an honor to meet you, Gunag Danjuro,” Saemon said, glancing over Danjuro’s wiry shoulder. “We have long anticipated your arrival.”
“May I present my family and people?”
“It would be our pleasure.”
“My wife, Yishi Milwan.”
A woman in an elegant wrap made of deep red fabric swirled with lines of brown and blue stepped forward. She held up a creamy hand with flawless skin. Her hair, perfectly coiffed at the back of her head, shone in the glittering light.
“Sheng Saemon,” she murmured, bowing. “It is a pleasure to meet you and unite our Clans.”
“Nishu Yishi, it is our pleasure.”
Yishi’s eyes immediately went to Isao. Her eyes studied him with all the awareness of a hawk.
Of course. A mother was a mother no matter the politics, Saemon thought.
When a glimmer of warmth entered her eyes and a gentle smile formed on her lips, Saemon knew that Isao had passed the initial greeting with Ren’s parents.
“And now the most important person of all,” Danjuro said, stepping to the side with a sweep of his arm. “My daughter, Ren.”
The girl – so young as to barely be considered a woman – shuffled forward. She had fair features and soft-looking skin. Her long strands of red hair were tugged into an elegant braid wound with delicate flowers. Her eyes, so expressive, seemed filled with sadness.
A frown tugged at Saemon’s lips, but he didn’t let it go.
Ren bowed, her elegant silk wrap shuffling over her waifish body, and murmured, “It is an honor, Sheng Saemon.”
He inclined his head. “Ren. Welcome to the imperial palace.”
She attempted to hide her concern behind a brave face, but her entire body trembled when she turned to Isao.
The two regarded each other for a long pause before she bowed to him as well, her lips pressed into white lines. “It is an honor, Isao, to finally meet you.”
Isao bowed in response, nearly stumbling over his words. “Thank you, Ren, for coming.”
Saemon watched Isao’s expressive eyes, wondering what was hidden in their suddenly murky – clearly startled – depths. He brushed the concern off to attend to the business at hand as Danjuro brought his daughter, Yuna, forward. She bowed and then stood off to the side in silence.
Once he finished introducing the family members, Danjuro brought forward the rest of his party, including the Chancellor of the Nari Clan, Bramen Qin. By the time the introductions had finished, the names of those present seemed to swirl in the air, hanging as if by clouds.
“The Hiwan Clan welcomes the people of the nine-tailed fox and are pleased to have you here under such happy circumstances. The servants will see you to your prepared rooms for a rest from your travels. You will be summoned for a meal this afternoon. Please, let us know if you have any questions or need anything before then.”
The Nari Clan split off into small groups. Danjuro left with his wife, and Yuna by herself. Ren’s maid stood with her Nishu, eyes cast down.
Ren hesitated, looking to Isao, who stiffened at his father’s side. He relaxed when she didn’t say anything.
“Ren,” Isao finally said. “I look forward to getting to know you better this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Sheng Isao. Sheng Saemon.”
With a delicate little bow, she drifted out of the room, led by the head stewardess of the imperial palace.
The room cleared, leaving Isao and Saemon standing together alone. Isao opened his mouth to say something, but Saemon cut him off.
“A beautiful wife. At least you have that.”
With a click of his boots on the marble floors, Saemon cut across the room, headed for his personal quarters.
For Saemon, the day passed quickly, lost in attending to the business of the upcoming wedding. Saemon answered questions from the servants, attended to the needs of the Nari Clan while they rested in their rooms, and hoped that Isao would hold his tongue.
More Clans drifted into the imperial palace. Tieng Shorguz, also known as the Beast from the Uma Clan, arrived in the late morning. He was garbed in leather pants, and carried a satchel on his back filled with an impressive collection of hunting knives. He boasted the weathered appearance of a man used to being outdoors.
Gavan Jenzud followed shortly after, his small, beady eyes seeming to absorb the goings-on in the palace all at once. A slight hump on his back made him appear shorter than he was.
Saemon met him in the hall. “Ah, the Old Strateg
ist is here,” Saemon murmured. “It is good to see the Horalu Clan represented by such a man.”
Gavan simply smiled, tapped his nose once, and followed the steward to his prepared room.
When it was time, Saemon told the steward to escort the guests into the dining hall for the promised evening meal. Then he watched from the top of the table as the two families quietly interacted.
Although they sat across from each other, neither Ren nor Isao spoke to each other. Ren picked at her rice wrapped in coconut leaves, pushed aside the leeks boiled in broth, and smiled quietly whenever addressed. At the far end of the table, Tanzer Balkan, a wealthy merchant from Lubeng, managed to keep Isao from remaining completely silent.
“So, Saemon,” Kenzo Ameya started, leaning back in his chair.
Next to Kenzo sat his third wife, a dark-skinned woman named Shima Abdel from the southern continent. Kenzo’s second son, Nobu Ameya, the honorable Captain of the second fleet of the Ameyan navy, sat next to her.
Saemon blinked away his thoughts, catching Kenzo’s black eyes with his own.
“You have turned out a beautiful feast. And this turnout? Unexpectedly diverse,” observed Kenzo.
“I am pleased.”
“Are you prepared for the wedding tomorrow?”
“We have been fully prepared for many days now.”
“Congratulations. Ren seems to be . . . an appropriate girl for this sort of thing.”
Saemon read into what he did not say. ‘Appropriate’ meaning meek. Submissive. Perhaps a little bit frightened. There would be little, if any, resistance from her.
Saemon simply inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“It seems they let anyone come to these things,” Kenzo said in an unexpectedly derisive tone.
Saemon glanced over his left shoulder as Gavan stepped up, the descent of twilight making his stature appear smaller than ever. With the main door closed, shadows began to fall, cloaking the interior in darkness. The Horalu Strategist looked to Kenzo, who curled his upper lip over his teeth.
“Ah,” Kenzo muttered with venom. “You survived the trip.”
Gavan grinned. “I’m a great deal heartier than I may appear.”
“So it would seem.”
Saemon straightened, glancing between the two bristling men before addressing both. “It would seem that the Horalus and the Ameyas still have not seen a conclusion to the fight over the Strait of Rinku. Disappointing.”
“Is it?” Kenzo asked coolly, not taking his eyes from Gavan. “It seems straightforward enough to me.”
Gavan tapped the side of his nose. “And yet not to anyone else.” He shuffled away, working toward the opposite side of the room.
This direction brought him near Minela, a weaver from the southern continent whose talent with tailoring could no doubt help Gavan with the troublesome problem of making shirts to cover his hump.
Kenzo faced forward again, his lips pressed tightly together.
Saemon stood, goblet in hand, and looked to Isao, whose eyes flickered to his. The room fell into almost immediate silence with the standing of the Hiwan ruler.
Within moments, Saemon felt the weight of the crowd’s gaze on him. He quickly skimmed the audience, catching the eye of the newest arrival: Umon Hikari, one of many wise custodians over the Great Library of Grantha in the Sunsan nation, who slipped into a seat at the far end of the table, a book under his arm.
“Thank you for coming to the Hiwan Clan for tomorrow’s grand event,” Saemon greeted the gathering. “Your presence is most welcome. Isao and Ren, now is your time to make a toast and your final wish under the stars before your new life begins.”
Ren’s face blanched white, but Isao immediately stood, drawing the attention to him. He lifted his goblet and drew in a long breath.
“Ren,” he said, holding the goblet out toward her. “To our new life together.”
As one, the clans drank to his words.
Ren blinked, swallowed, and slowly stood. Next to her, Yishi whispered something. Ren held up her goblet, poorly concealing her sudden fear.
“Isao,” she murmured so quietly Saemon could barely make it out. “To us.”
Isao answered with a lift of his goblet and drained the rest of his wine. Those at the table reciprocated. Ren sipped delicately at hers.
Saemon claimed the attention of the room again when he straightened back up, eyeing the empty plates and half-full goblets on the table.
“Guests,” he said, spreading his arms. “Sleep well this evening, for tomorrow we celebrate! Ren and Isao, enjoy the festive atmosphere, and in two nights, as tradition demands, you will also share your bed.”
A low murmur of excitement rippled through the room as Saemon set his goblet back on the table.
Kenzo’s wife and son stood and, with Kenzo promising to follow soon after, followed a steward to their rooms in the palace. The Nari Clan moved down into the palace corridors, wandering off to their resting places. The rest of the visiting Clans moved toward the courtyard outside, the quiet buzz of their chatter drifting with them.
Saemon sat back with a contented sigh, pleased with his work.
Rakesh
“I could wear my new tunic,” Jiro said.
Rakesh frowned. “Then The Hangman will smell us coming from a mile away!”
“What if we sneak through the old tunnels to get into his building? You know, go all the way down where all the rats live.”
“Those are about to collapse. They’d kill us.”
Jiro and Rakesh sat at their decaying table surrounded by the familiar, humid darkness, and speculated. Gekko moved about in the background, scowling as he scrounged for dinner like the hungry rats that always darted through the room. His pale white face moved like a specter in the darkness.
“We must do it tonight,” Jiro said, leaning forward. His eyes gleamed, alive with new purpose and life. “While it’s fresh in our blood. You can’t let things fester. Ideas, if you don’t act on them, move to someone else. This one is ours. You were blessed to see that The Hangman received a special box. We must act, and soon!”
Rakesh grinned. “Yes, my friend. Tonight, freedom could be ours. That box surely holds something. The Triad has blessed us.”
In the background, Gekko dropped a pan and cursed.
The loud, metallic clang that resulted sent a physical jolt through Rakesh. For a moment, he questioned his own sanity: Had he lost his mind to try to sneak into The Hangman’s house? Had the disjointed life of Iskawan finally sank into his blood? Perhaps, like Jiro, he had started to straddle a fine line he didn’t even know existed. Maybe his sanity was slipping away like a loose, wet rope and he didn’t even know he was losing it!
“Dinner,” Jiro said, planting his palms firmly on the table. “Let’s eat before we go. We’ll need nourishment and energy before we find our path to freedom.”
Just like that, all of Rakesh’s doubts dissipated at the sound of Jiro’s cheer. Even if he had lost part of his mind in agreeing to try and secure the box, it was better to have this kind of hope than to listlessly endure the cyclical, unending days of Iskawan.
As he searched for the food he had hidden somewhere in their shelter, Jiro spouted out more ideas, every one more outrageous than the last until they became too ludicrous for the others to entertain.
“You’re insane,” Gekko cried.
“Perhaps,” Rakesh concurred. “But better to be filled with hope and madness than nothing at all.”
Gekko drew in a deep breath, then let it all out in one long swoop. He shook his head, as if in regret. “I’ll lose both roommates tonight if you do this.”
“Don’t cry for us, Gekko,” Jiro said.
“Now I’ll live all myself. Both of you are going to disappear just like the Vakums that have been vanishing lately. Who will I play games with?” he snapped.
“Trade my clothes for something nice,” Jiro said, rolling his eyes before he tossed a dried, crumbling piece of seaweed into his mou
th and laughed.
Gekko scowled and slipped into his portion of their shelter, the far corner where he often chose to sulk.
Everyone in Iskawan sulked. Or so it appeared. With only a few floating orbs and the occasional fairy light flitting by, the shadows made even someone’s sincere smile appear like a grimace.
“Rice,” Jiro said, dumping something for Rakesh into a wood bowl carved from a plank of wood they’d found abandoned by the south wall. “Our usual delicacy.”
Falling silent, Jiro seemed to inhale all of his stale rice at once, even though the taste was not to be relished. Everything in the prison-city tasted like the damp air. Like old metal and mouldering wood. Even the water, brackish and dank, had a mineral taste.
Rakesh’s rice ground beneath his teeth. The old grocer man, who distributed the food when the supply carts came, often filled the rice with small rocks to make the weights heavier and gain himself more money. No one protested; what did it matter, anyway?
Rakesh ate quickly, set his bowl aside, and stood. “Gekko, are you coming?”
A distant mumble sounded. Rakesh and Jiro waited, but Gekko made no further response.
“Asleep already,” Jiro said with a shake of his head. “We’ll go without him.”
Three fairy lights zipped into their apartment when Jiro peeled up an old floorboard, rummaged around, and extracted two gritty knives.
“Not the best quality,” he murmured, running the pad of his thumb along several nicks along the edge. “But enough to defend us.”
Rakesh thought of The Hangman’s considerable girth and gulped. Nonetheless, two minutes later, the two friends stole off into the murky city, Rakesh following Jiro through the shadows.
Passing silently through Iskawan wasn’t new to either of them, but moving with mutual planned intent was. Everything they did felt loud. Every step seemed to be the wrong one.
Rakesh kept his knife close to his side under his tunic, to keep it from glinting off a passing fairy. The Vakums weren’t aware enough to know or care what they were seeing – perhaps not even that Rakesh was a man running past them – but there were others with sharp eyes and sharper tongues that would report to The Hangman anything suspicious or possibly indicative of escape attempts. Men were willing to do anything to improve their station.
Faces of Betrayal Page 6