“Ugh,” said Ulver, his whiskers bristling as he looked back at Zosia. “I think you owe yourself better than that, Zosia girl.”
“No no, he’s definitely the man-boy for the job,” said Zosia, holding up a hand in peace. “Boris, meet Ulver Krallice, an old friend. Ulver Krallice, meet Boris. He’s… he’s all right, I guess, until proven otherwise.”
Boris puffed out his chest a little at that, and Ulver jutted a thumb over his shoulder as he said, “Like I said, I got some buns that need to come out the oven before they burn, but if you want to get comfortable or come back in an hour we can smoke some brown, and talk some, too.”
“Ah, crap, I’m afraid we can’t—hitting the road soon, and since Hoartrap’s waiting on us we better not be late or he’ll just show up to ruin the party.” Zosia was so fucking pissed at herself she could shout; for the past week she’d been so caught up in trying to recover her lost hammer that she hadn’t wanted to look for a new one, but if she had she and Ulver might have been able to actually catch up… and now, as usual, she realized her folly too late. “So sorry, old friend, should’ve asked around for you. If I’d known you were here I’d have come running.”
“Yeah, well, next time, right?” said Ulver. “What’s twenty years, more or less?”
“It won’t be that long this time,” said Zosia, superstitiously knocking on the table before the words were out of her mouth. “And I know you have to hop to it, but before you do can I grab a war hammer and a battle-ax? That’s why we came in, get something solid for me and the heretic.”
“I told you not to call me that,” said Boris.
“Hey, I like heretics, so you take that double-header ax hanging up there,” said Ulver. “As for war hammers, Zosia girl, I’m sad to say I ain’t got any handy—people don’t seem to swing ’em as much as they used to. If you’d come in a week ago, maybe I could’ve slapped something together, or… or…” Ulver’s fronds started wiggling the way they did when he was tabulating ingot ratios or trying to count cards, and then he pursed his thick lips in a satisfied smile, nodding to himself. “Here’s what’s up: hammer’s for you? And you still the sort of dame to traffic with dark and dangerous powers better left alone by mortals?”
“Yes and fuck yes,” said Zosia, figuring that as long as Choplicker was around the latter was a foregone conclusion. But speaking of the devil, where had he got to? Looking around, she noticed he hadn’t come into the tent with them, and while that might just mean he was cruising around the barbers’ tents for a snack it bugged Zosia that she was getting comfortable letting him wander off on his own. How’d she ever let his leash get so long?
“Check this shit out,” said Ulver, returning from the back with what looked to be a sawn-off sledgehammer, the dull black steel head easily three times the size of her old war hammer. “I took the handle way down, right, to use it on the anvil, but it’s—”
“Sister Portolés’s maul,” gasped Boris, nearly dropping the battle-ax he had finally gotten down from its hook.
Ulver and Zosia both stared at the little man with the big ax, and Ulver shook his head and said, “Well, there’s another song I’d like to hear but ain’t got time for, but at least it sounds like he’ll be able to tell you more than I can about it.”
“Actually, that’s about all I know,” said Boris, coming over to join them in examining the hammer Ulver held out to Zosia. “For as bad a gambler as she was, she kept her cards tight to her tits. Um, so to speak.”
“So what I’m getting from both of you is that this is some kind of Chainite weapon?” said Zosia. “I don’t know about that… and besides, if it was a maul you cut the haft off it’s going to be all out of balance, probably break my wrist or send it flying the first time I try to use it.”
“Well, it’s all I got, so take it or leave it,” said Ulver. “But I’ll tell you this much—it’s made of sainted steel, without a doubt. I’ve heard all about it, everyone has, and had fools show me bullshit they got duped into thinking was the genuine article but wasn’t, but this, this is the real deal. Old magic, Zosia girl, and while a war nun was swinging it I’m guessing it’s older than the Chain itself.”
“I thought to make sainted steel you had to have a saint,” said Zosia, but now her interest was good and piqued. Coveting weapons she should have never looked at twice was one of those bad old habits that were hard to crack.
“You need to burn someone to put them in the steel, and you know how the Chain does,” said Ulver, resting the hammer on the table. “Anyone who ever died is a saint to them, so long as somebody somewhere thinks that’s a selling point.”
“And you’re… you’re giving this to me?” asked Zosia, touched but also suspicious. “This thing has to be worth more than I could pay, you have to know that.”
“You’d be doing me a favor,” said Ulver, poking it at her. “I thought it’d be perfect for hammering blades, but since I cut it down to working size it’s been nothing but trouble, ruins just about everything I put it to. I’ve been sweating in a smithy since I was my girl’s age and I never knew a hammer that could just wreck what you put it to, but that’s what it does—had to melt everything I touched it with back down. Just ’fore you came in it broke this damn claymore I’ve spent weeks on. So I’ve come to the opinion it’s just not meant to build. It’s meant to destroy.”
“Well, that’s something we have in common,” said Zosia, and unable to help herself after a pitch like that, she took the proffered weapon. It wasn’t as heavy as it looked, and somehow the balance wasn’t bad, either; she smiled as she saw the heavy iron cap on the base, realizing Ulver must have found a way to counterweight it.
“Only other thing I can tell you before I get back to work is that it… it’s weird,” said Ulver, watching Zosia experimentally give it a little swing. “I mean, of course it’s weird, but more than that… now as a rule I don’t discuss commissions with anyone but whoever hires me, but I’ll tell you this—the only two blades it didn’t ruin in the making weren’t just steel, they were sainted, too. I made up a batch of it myself, since it seemed a rare opportunity, and I figured I understood the principles behind it, but… no.”
“No what?” said Boris.
“Just no,” Ulver said firmly. “I know steel, and I know working it’s a kind of magic to those who don’t understand. It’s not though, there’s nothing witchy about it, however mysterious it sounds. So when I heard about sainted steel in a song I figured that was all it was—simple good, strong steel made with a bit of bone ash, nothing more, but the kind of story that makes people feel good when they’re holding it, right? But when I made those blades, Zosia girl… I wasn’t just working the steel, I was working something else. I felt it. I smelled it. And every time that hammer fell on those black blades I was making, the noise it made, it sounded like… it sounded like there was something howling in the metal, I swear it on my girl’s life.”
That put the chill on the hot smithy, and nobody said anything for a moment, everyone staring at the black hammer in Zosia’s hand… and then Ulver slapped her shoulder again, and said, “Well hell, I’m about to ruin another batch on account of that fucking thing, so good riddance to it, good seeing you, don’t be a stranger, and tell me what you think of it next time you’re through.”
“Thanks, Ulver,” said Zosia. “I obviously owe you a song, at the very least, about why everyone thought I died, and why I’m back.”
“Maybe someday I’ll hear it, sure, but I don’t particularly care,” said Ulver, popping Boris in the shoulder for good measure, and then lumbering away toward his forge. Without turning to see them off, he called over his shoulder, “You came back, Zosia girl, that’s what matters.”
CHAPTER
18
And that’s that,” said Ji-hyeon, rising stiffly from the command table, formally bowing to her two remaining guests, and then wandering over to collapse face-first into her pillow-padded bed. Somebody said something, but the cushions muted it.
She rolled onto one side and gave the still-seated Fennec and the still-standing Choi her most ridiculous bug-eyed sigh. Fennec looked as tired as Ji-hyeon felt, and while Choi didn’t betray her fatigue as badly there was no mistaking the circles under her eyes—the kohl-dark crescents had first appeared on the Honor Guard weeks ago, and no matter how early in the evenings Ji-hyeon dismissed her cabinet they had only deepened with each passing night. Yet Choi never complained, nor did Fennec… not seriously, anyway. Ji-hyeon didn’t know what she’d do without them, the last two people in camp she could be herself around. “One of you say something?”
“I said I don’t know if we can trust Singh,” Fennec said, launching into the last kind of speech Ji-hyeon wanted to hear right now: another sermon on one of her captain’s inevitable treacheries. “If you’d spent more time courting her officers we might have tried to set them against her, but you barely met with them, and so there’s little chance of that. Plus she’s their commander and their mother, so it would have been a long shot even if you’d buttered them up. Since you didn’t, we can only—”
“So are you saying she’ll probably betray us to the Imperials, or she’ll probably desert with her dragoons?” asked Ji-hyeon crossly. “If it’s the former, keep talking, otherwise let it go. Even with this moving speech you’ve written me we’re still going to have a lot of Cobalts decline our invitation to win eternal glory as soon as they realize how exactly we intend to claim it. Singh had a point when she said the vast majority of people assume entering a Gate always always always equals death, or something even worse—hells, we three traveled through one ourselves, more or less safely, and I know you’re no more thrilled than I am to be trying our luck a second time.”
“It will be my third,” said Fennec, tapping his downy claws on the edge of the burned map. He was wearing the gloves less and less frequently these days, the light grey fur a sharp contrast to his dark Usban complexion. “The first time was before we met. My hair went white, same as yours, but we all know how easy that is to fix with dye. The second was when I led us out of Othean, and obviously the effect was more… pronounced.”
“The Touch has pledged to keep you insulated from any further improvements,” said Choi, and with her it was hard to tell if this description of Gate-induced transformations was one of her quirks of language or quirks of humor.
“Easy for you to take him at his word,” said Fennec. “If he’s lying or screws up half as bad as he did with the devil queen, you won’t be the one enjoying any more improvements.”
“It is true I am past the need for enhancement,” said Choi, cocking her head to the side and polishing her unbroken horn with her sleeve. Now Ji-hyeon was sure the woman was just messing with Fennec. “But I believe Hoartrap knows the dance of the First Dark, or sufficient steps to pass through without effect. He has used the Gates to travel for many years, has he not? If he did not know a more cautious route than the one he taught you, Fennec, he would be much improved by now instead of remaining a simple man.”
“Hoartrap’s many things, but simple isn’t one of them,” said Ji-hyeon. “I just assumed he was wildborn, too, and that’s why he could use the Gates without anything weird happening to him.”
“I agree he is many things, and only some of them have words, but he is not wildborn,” said Choi, making Ji-hyeon wonder if they could all somehow recognize each other, even when their alterations were minor, or internal. “I did not anticipate ever having cause to speak these disappointing words, but I believe Hoartrap will behave with more honor than Chevaleresse Singh on the morrow. I agree with Fennec’s assessment of her nerves and inclinations. Whether she dishonors herself with treachery or desertion, she will not follow us into the Gate.”
“Which is all the more reason to just let her do what she’s planning instead of confronting her or trying to strong-arm her into coming with us,” said Ji-hyeon. “Pressuring Singh or any other reluctant parties will just make them more likely to rebel against us instead of quietly running away. Most people would rather die fighting than be pushed into a Gate.”
“That… that’s actually a good point,” said Fennec, smiling with approval. It was only sunset and already they were exhausted, the process of perfecting the short speech having taken far longer than anticipated—it was no small undertaking, crafting something that might convince weary, frostbitten sellswords to follow you into what some people whispered was the gaping mouth of a hungry devil king. “Let those who go, go.”
“And may they outlive us by a thousand years,” said Choi, “to have sufficient time to contemplate their shame.”
“We’re really doing this?” Ji-hyeon asked them, sitting up on her bed. “Like, both of you are okay with my plan?”
“It is the boldest opportunity to win honor in my lifetime,” said Choi, her arrowhead-sharp grin missing a few teeth of late. “There is no question that I am okay.”
“And it’s the maddest one I’ve taken part in,” said Fennec, retrieving a black bottle from the saddlebag he had brought to the meeting. “Considering all the owlbatshit schemes Zosia had us running back in the day, that’s some honor. Congratulations, Ji-hyeon, you have officially surpassed the legend.”
“And I only had to risk all your lives to do it,” said Ji-hyeon, working herself up to the last thing she had to do before launching this deranged invasion of Diadem. “Choi, Fennec, I… I officially release you from your duties to Princess Ji-hyeon Bong of Hwabun. Choi, from this day forward you are no longer my Honor Guard, but a free woman. And Fennec, or Brother Mikal, or whoever you really are, I release you as my Spirit Guard.”
They both looked taken aback, but then Fennec and Choi looked at each other, smiling like proud parents, and honored her in their own ways: Fennec removed the wire cork cage from his bottle and then opened it with a festive pop, and Choi took a deep bow, arching her neck as she did to keep her claret-colored eyes on Ji-hyeon the whole time.
“I know I should have done it when we first came out of the Gate in Zygnema,” Ji-hyeon confessed. “But I was still such a little kid then, I… I guess I was scared? Not that you’d leave or anything, just… scared. I couldn’t have done what I did, what we did, if I didn’t know at the back of my mind that you were still my guards, that something remained from our time on Hwabun. But now I see that what remained was a kind of bondage, if only in name, and I won’t have it, not anymore. You’re my friends and you’re my captains, but you’re not my servants.”
Nobody said anything for a spell, Fennec pouring a golden draught into three bowls on the table, Choi cracking her knuckles, and then Ji-hyeon’s former Honor Guard said, “Thank you, Ji-hyeon, it has ever been an honor to serve you. Now that my service is complete, I shall depart the Cobalt Company in pursuit of he who has claimed my heart, the one called Maroto Devilskinner.”
Ji-hyeon’s heart sank, and over Choi’s shoulder she saw one of Fennec’s bowls overflow as he stared slack-mouthed at the wildborn. Then Choi stepped around the table and tousled her former ward’s newly shorn hair, giving her a wry smile.
“A joke, General Ji-hyeon. I would have left long ago if I did not think you worthy of my teeth, and I believe you will need them more than ever in the days to come.”
Not caring how childish it might be, Ji-hyeon jumped up and hugged the older woman, who remained stiff for only a moment before returning the embrace. Fennec thought it was a lot funnier than Ji-hyeon did, or maybe it was just the concept of Choi singing a long song that set him off into uncharacteristic giggles. It was a strange sound, coming from him, but so natural Ji-hyeon had to wonder if this was the first time in all the years she’d known him that he’d actually laughed in earnest.
“Come, ladies, and sample my liquid courage,” he said when the fit had passed, offering them a bowl with each furry hand. “I know you’ve turned your noses up at my sours before, but this one is guaranteed to impress—I brewed it during our initial stopover in the Raniputri Dominions, and it’s been mellowing ever s
ince. One must always drink ale before a battle, so sayeth the Ten True Gods of Trve, and who are we to contradict such benevolent deities?”
“Ale?” Ji-hyeon sniffed the golden bowl cautiously. “I thought you always drank cider?”
“I drink according to the season, and the stars, and the quality of the ingredients on hand,” said Fennec, holding his bowl up for a toast. “Have any fitting words of war to lead us in, Choi?”
“Confusion to our enemies,” said the wildborn, bumping bowls with them, and they repeated it before knocking back a mouthful.
“Definitely not cider,” said Ji-hyeon through her puckered mouth. “Way too tart for cider.”
“Are you sure it is supposed to taste like this?” asked Choi skeptically. “I have had sweeter limes.”
“You have to have a second bowl to appreciate it,” groused Fennec, refilling all three of their cups. “Your turn, Ji-hyeon.”
“To… to Chevaleresse Sasamaso, and all my other bodyguards and soldiers who went missing at the Battle of the Lark’s Tongue,” said Ji-hyeon, tearing up a little. She knew Sasamaso came from the Crowned Eagle People of Flintland before winning renown on the Star, knew the fallen chevaleresse preferred drinking mead to smoking saam, roasting tubers to meat, and a dozen other little things about her… but the woman had hardly been the only one to never return from that desperate battle, and Ji-hyeon couldn’t even honor the rest of the dead by recalling their names. “No, not just to her, and not just to our fallen comrades, but to everyone who perished when that damn Gate swallowed them, whether friend or foe. To everyone.”
Choi and Fennec repeated the toast, then bumped, then swallowed.
“You’re right,” said Ji-hyeon, the tart brew sterilizing the sentimentality that had been creeping up her throat. “I’m definitely getting more of the nuance now. Is that a hint of ass I taste on the back?”
A Blade of Black Steel Page 46