It’s all right. The money goes to Tori, her perfect house, her obedient servants. Her gentle, sheltered life, miles from the stink of blood. She deserves it. She’s smart, and kind, and loving, and she’ll grow up among nobles and live a perfect life. She’s not a monster, like I am. She can be generous and gentle. All I can do is hurt people.
* * *
Shiro is still moaning, but he’s a dead man. I can see that at a glance. By the way Hagan kneels at his side, though, I can tell he’s going to be difficult about it.
“We need a bandage for this,” he says, staring at the wound. Blood has glued Shiro’s shirt to his skin, and still flows in shallow spurts. “Can you tear up some cloth?”
“Why?” I say. “So he can bleed out tonight, or die a week from now when his bowels fester?”
“Isoka!”
“You know it’s true. Look at him. Unless you have a tame Ghul adept you haven’t told me about, he’s done.”
Hagan bites his lip. His hands are shaking. “You’re saying we should just leave him here?”
“No, I’m saying we should slit his throat and be done with it. It’s a mercy.”
He winces as though I’ve hit him. “I … I can’t—”
“You were quick enough to finish the woman with the crossbow.” I frown. Hagan is usually more reliable.
“It’s not the same! He was—is my friend. I can’t just—”
“Then get out of the way.”
Hagan looks at me for a moment, then stands. I kneel beside Shiro. His eyes are closed, and I don’t think he’s conscious. Thank the Blessed One for small favors, I suppose. My blade slides into his side, and he shudders and goes still. I stand up and let my power fade away, the Melos energy dispersing into shimmers of green lightning. It feels like stepping from a stifling room into a cool breeze, heat streaming off my skin.
“Let’s go,” I tell Hagan.
“There’s probably money here,” Hagan says, looking away from Shiro’s corpse. “You don’t want to look for it?”
“To the Rot with the money. We’re here to send a message.” I wave one blood-spattered hand at the bodies. “This is the message.”
Hagan gives a jerky nod. I watch him surreptitiously as we leave through the busted door and slip back onto the Sixteenth Ward’s busy streets. My other eye is on the crowd, but if anyone pays us special attention, they take care not to stray too close. In the upper wards, if a body was discovered, the Ward Guard would come out and pursue the murderer. Down here, the guards barely bestir themselves to clean up the corpses, and not until after they’re picked clean.
Still, it’s a good idea to get off the streets. There’s another hideout ready, halfway up a decaying block of shabby tenements. I’ll lay low there until morning. Quite a few of the Sixteenth Ward’s vagrant children are on my payroll, and they’ll watch to see who finds the bodies and who those people tell about it. It’s possible that the people in that room were the whole of Firello’s organization, but it’s equally possible he had another partner or two who might come over all revenge minded. If so, I’d like to know about it. I didn’t go from street rat to ward boss by taking unnecessary chances, and even Melos armor is no protection from a knife in the throat while you’re sleeping.
The bolt-hole is another empty, grubby room, with a rag-curtain window looking into a central courtyard the residents use as a garbage dump. There’s a sack with fresh clothes, a clay jug of weak wine, another of water, and paper-wrapped parcels of food. Hagan stops in the doorway, one hand clutching the wound on his arm, breathing hard.
“Well.” I look down at myself, the bloodstains already drying to dirty brown. “That could have gone better.”
Hagan snorts and mutters something. I turn to look at him.
“Are you okay?”
He looks up, face hardening. “Fine, boss.”
“I’m sorry about Shiro.” I’m not, but the lie won’t hurt. “But he got emotional and paid the price. You know I warned him about that.”
“So did I,” Hagan said.
I frowned. “Was he your brother or something?” It’s not like we hadn’t lost men before. It happens. When you’re in the business of hurting people, sometimes they hit back.
“I haven’t got a brother,” Hagan said. “He was just … a friend.”
I shrugged. Who rotting knows what goes on in people’s heads? Friendship wasn’t a luxury I’d ever been able to afford. Life had taught me that lesson early on: there was Tori, there was me, and then there was everyone else.
“How’s your arm?” I ask. “You look pretty bloody.”
“Nothing serious.” He pokes at the wound and winces. “I’ll be all right.”
“Go get cleaned up. I’ll see you in the morning, once we know we’re clear.”
Hagan forces a smile. “Yes, boss.”
* * *
I strip, wadding up my shirt and trousers, and do what I can to scrub the blood from my skin. It’s something, but I won’t feel really clean until I can get to a bathhouse for a proper soak. Once I’m in fresh clothes, I demolish the supper in the sack—rice balls, a roast chicken, sweet preserved cherries—and start in on the wine. It’s all simple stuff, but with my body coming down from the combat high everything tastes good.
The dim light from the window turns redder as the sun slides down the sky. Jug in hand, I wander over and stare. From here I can see the harbor up close, pier after pier jammed with vessels, their bare masts like a strange, dead forest. I’ve heard that Kahnzoka is one of the greatest ports in the world, rivaled only by the Jyashtani capital of Horimae. Farther out are ships under sail, from single-masted junks to enormous square-rigged traders. The sleek triangular sails of an Imperial Navy galley, black trimmed with gold, cut through the riot of color like a shark through a school of fish.
I feel keyed up, jittery, unable to relax, like I’ve missed something and I can’t quite put my finger on it. I’m like this, after a fight. It helps if I have someone to fall into bed with, a quick rut to burn off the extra energy. I thought about asking Hagan to stay—I’ve tumbled him a time or two—but he didn’t seem like he was in the mood.
Wine’s not as good, but I’ll take what I can get. I bring the jug to my lips and swallow, as the last of the sun slips below the horizon and the light begins to fade from orange to black.
* * *
I dream of the people I’ve killed.
I don’t know why. I don’t feel bad about killing them. But their faces appear behind my eyelids when I sleep, standing around me. They’re not threatening, not come to take vengeance from beyond the grave. Just … waiting, as though I should have something to tell them.
Firello is there, and his girl, and his guards. Shiro’s there, too. He looks at me, silently, expectantly.
“Get lost,” I tell them. “I don’t know what you want from me, but you’re not going to get it.”
They just stare. No expressions, no sadness or pain. Just … expectation.
“This is a dream,” I tell them. “You’re all dead.”
They don’t react.
I struggle to wake up, to open my eyes. And it seems like it works, for a moment. Only it doesn’t, because I’m still dreaming.
I’m lying on the thin, lumpy sleeping mat, empty wine jug near my hand. A slight breeze through the rag curtain raises goose bumps.
Above me there’s a faint light. Tiny glowing pinpricks hover and dance, like dust caught in a sunbeam, leaving trails of luminous gray in their wake. They writhe like a bucket of eels. I raise my hand, and the gray trails shift, as though pulled toward my fingers.
Dreams. I close my eyes again, hoping for a more pleasant one.
2
Everyone has their addictions.
Mine isn’t drink, or dice, or sex. That’s not to say I never have a jug or three, or that I’m immune to the rush of clinking coin and clattering bone, or that I’ve never spent the evening in the company of a pretty boy from Keyfa’s brothel. But thes
e are things I could do without, if I had to.
My addiction is Tori. I can no more stay away from her than a plant can turn away from the sun.
Hagan picks me up after breakfast, at a suitably discreet spot far from our usual haunts. He’s driving a battered old cab, with proper livery and permits. Nothing fake—I have an arrangement with the owner, and he keeps Hagan’s name on the books as a licensed driver. Hagan dresses the part, too, in a cabdriver’s shabby linen and slouching felt cap. The elderly mare in the traces gives a snort at the sight of me, and her ears flick while I climb aboard.
Then it’s up to the Second Ward, up the great hill, climbing away from the sea and out of the miasma of smoke and poverty. It’s like ascending the celestial mountain where the Blessed One dwells with the heavenly court. Except at the top of our mountain sit the nobles and the Emperor’s favorites—more like rotspawn, in other words, than choirs of angels. We drive through the main gate under the suspicious eye of the Ward Guard, but our passes are in order, and a few coins encourage him not to ask unnecessary questions.
Hagan knows the routine, and he drives in silence. I’m back in my kizen, ridiculous, tight-bound thing, trying to look like the respectable lady I’m not. I don’t know why I bother. It never works.
* * *
The house is beautiful, all wide porches, gently sloped roofs in elegant gray-green tile, manicured lawns, and a tiny, perfect pond. I stand outside, about as welcome as a dead dog floating in that pond. I can see it on the faces of the servants, when they think I’m not looking. The gardener in his broad straw hat stares at me and spits in the grass; the doorman’s hand hovers near his sword as he lets me through the front door. A young woman brings me tea, moving with grace in spite of her restrictive kizen. She places the cup in my hand as courtesy demands but carefully avoids even the slightest brush against my skin. Then she hurries off, no doubt to wash thoroughly.
None of them know who I really am, of course. To them I’m just a strange visitor their mistress inexplicably tolerates, reeking of the dung of the lower wards. If they knew the truth, they’d be less polite.
The Rot can take all of them. They’re not the ones I’m here to see.
After letting me cool my heels in the waiting room for a few minutes, another footman arrives to escort me to the inner garden. This is a private space at the very center of the house, stone walled and ringed by tall, drooping willow trees. Only a few trusted servants are allowed here. They know that my gold pays their wages and puts food on their tables—though even the most trusted don’t know where that gold comes from, of course—and they’ve been warned, discreetly, of the consequences should any of this information be revealed.
They are considerably more respectful.
Ofalo greets me at the garden gate. He’s an old man, balding and long bearded, like a statue of the Blessed One. He bows low, and I wave at him to get on with it.
Addiction. I’ve spent too much time here already. I shouldn’t be here at all. Every minute is a risk. Every minute is weakness. Every time I leave I swear I won’t come back, that next time I’ll send some go-between who knows nothing and endangers nothing. Just knowing that this place is here should be enough, but it’s not. I have to see her smile, or I start to feel hollowed out. I start to think dangerous thoughts.
“Welcome, Lady Isoka,” Ofalo says. “Lady Tori will be here any moment.”
“Good. Anything I need to know?”
If Ofalo objects to being snapped at by a girl of eighteen, he doesn’t show it. That’s one of the reasons I like him. He’s been my factor here since the beginning, and he’s never given me cause to regret it, never asked too many questions. Blessed knows I pay him enough.
“No, my lady. A few trivial disputes among the staff. Nothing that requires your attention.”
“Anyone who troubles Tori is to be turned out immediately.”
“Of course, my lady.” Ofalo bows again. “Shall I send for refreshments?”
“No.” I grit my teeth. “I’m not staying long.”
“As you say.”
He bows again and withdraws on noiseless feet. I go into the garden and sit at the little stone table, staring down at the tiny babbling brook. It’s perfect, the epitome of everything a brook should be. Someone made it that way, placed every stone with careful consideration, taking into account the sound of the water and the way the light filters through the willows. The whole house is like that, smooth and deliberate, a work of art.
It’s another reason I can’t stay here too long. It makes me want to break something.
Tori moves so gracefully I don’t even notice when she comes in. She’s wearing a light blue kizen, fading to purple at the bottom, like a clear sky passing slowly from day to twilight. I can’t stand the things. I hate the way they restrict me to tiny, mincing steps and pin my arms to my sides. But Tori wears hers effortlessly, as though she were born to it, as elegant at thirteen years old as any lady of the Imperial court.
We don’t look much like sisters. We’re both short, though she’s still growing and she’ll soon be taller than me. We have the same straight, dark hair, but mine is cut short and tied up, while hers falls like a black curtain to her waist, thick and glossy as a waterfall of ink. Her skin is smooth, her hands uncallused. She’s so beautiful it makes me want to weep. And when she sees me, her face lights up, and I realize all over again why I can’t stop coming here.
“Isoka!” She runs to me, as fast as the restrictive kizen will allow, all her decorum forgotten. I love her for that, too. She throws her arms around me and I hug her back. “It’s been so long,” she says. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”
“I know.” Three months. Longer than ever before, weaning myself off her like an addict trying to get clean of dream-smoke. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Are you going to be staying tonight?” Tori says. “I’ll get Viala to make something special—”
“No!” I blurt out. “I’m sorry, Riri. I don’t have long.”
Her face falls, but there’s still a hint of a smile at the pet name. She’s too old for it. Another few years and she’ll be something like a woman. I find it hard to imagine.
“Before I go,” I say, “I need you to tell me everything that’s been happening. I rely on you to keep an eye on things, you know.”
That’s all it takes to get her smiling again. She sits across from me and launches into a story about the cook’s dog getting into trouble. I listen and make encouraging noises, and just watch her. Remember this, I tell myself, over and over. Save this, for when you need it.
“Isoka,” she chides. “You’re not listening.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “What happened to the dog?”
“Old Mirk only has three teeth left, poor thing. Last month Narzo said he wasn’t good for anything and wanted to put him down, but I wouldn’t let him. You can’t get rid of someone just because they aren’t useful anymore.”
“That was very kind of you.”
Her face clouded. “He died anyway, though. Last week. Tutor says that’s the way of nature and I shouldn’t be sad about it, but I cried anyway.”
My sister, who cares for worn-out dogs and other broken things. I see Shiro’s face, his last shudder, and my throat goes tight. Tori’s a hundred times better than me, and if the only thing I do with my life is make sure she stays that way, it’ll have been enough. Someday she’ll be grown, and she’ll have enough money that she’ll never have to work, or to marry if she doesn’t want to. She won’t remember huddling under the bushes in the public gardens when it rained, or dodging the kidcatchers who snatch little girls for the dockside brothels.
“… and when I told Garalo about it,” she’s saying, “he said that’s the same way the nobility treat the common folk, working them to the bone and then throwing them away. I said they shouldn’t be allowed to, and—”
“Wait.” I fix her with a look. “Who’s Garalo?”
“Just a boy
I know.” Tori’s guilty look is blindingly obvious on her guileless face. “I talk to him in the market sometimes.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Kuko wanted to listen to a speech, so she took me after shopping. Then I had questions, so we stayed and got to talking.”
“Tori…” I take a breath.
“I know,” she says. “I have to be careful. I’m not a baby, Isoka. Garalo talks to lots of people.”
“It’s still not safe to get involved in politics,” I tell her. “You never know what kind of attention that’s going to attract.”
“But—”
“You have everything you need right here, don’t you?” I venture a smile. “Don’t go looking for trouble.”
Tori looks away for a moment, and I think she’s going to argue. Then the tension goes out of her, and she nods. I lean forward and wrap her in a hug, remembering the little girl who clung to my side when we huddled in the gutter.
I’m getting dirty, I want to tell her, so you can stay clean. But she can’t know that.
* * *
Eventually, I have to leave, though not before cunning Ofalo, knowing my habits, comes back with roasted dumplings and plum juice. It’s good to see him with Tori. I think he cares for her—I feel a stab at that dark jealousy, but I push it down. Who wouldn’t fall in love with Tori? She’s nothing but easy smiles and kindness and generosity. And if Ofalo’s loyalty comes from more than gold, so much the better.
I know it’s time to go when Tori starts asking me questions. “Is it true about Soliton? The ghost ship?”
“Ghost ship?” I glance meaningfully at Ofalo, who’s clearing the plates, and he inclines his head in apology.
Ship of Smoke and Steel Page 2