Keun-ju crossed his arms. “No.”
“No? Keun-ju, my lad, believe me when I say you don’t know the first thing about it. A feisty young princess, stuck in an arranged marriage, and then along comes a silver-tongued fox with promises of a bright new future far away in Usba, or the Empire, or somewhere more exotic still? At this point he’s probably impregnated her and made off with whatever treasure they nicked from Hwabun. I’d bet she’s too embarrassed to come home and admit she’s carrying the bastard of her tutor.”
“No,” said Keun-ju, more forcibly. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know the human heart, kid, which isn’t something you learn by being a horny rich girl’s sewing instructor,” said Zosia, which was downright nasty but she was on the cusp of provoking him into righteous honesty, she could feel it. “I’m sure you thought you were best friends, sharing all your secrets, but the truth is a noble never shares everything with a servant, especially a Virtue Guard. You guys are notoriously gossipy, and—”
“We love each other,” said Keun-ju, tears running down from under his veil but his voice steady as good steel. “A coldhearted crone like you could never understand that, but we do.”
“Ah, the love of a lordling for her slave, and the attendant for his mistress,” said Zosia, despising herself a bit in the moment—that was funny, she never used to think twice about playing people, but for some reason she was profoundly unhappy with herself over this exchange. She was already committed to it, though, so dealt the killing blow. “She’s probably already forgotten you, and here you are about to be executed, all for—”
“We’re lovers,” said Keun-ju quietly, wiping his face and looking at the ground. Fast as Zosia had teased it out, the Virtue Guard had reeled his rage back inside. “I’ll die for her, whether it’s today or another, but I’ll never doubt her. She hasn’t forgotten me. She will never forget me.”
“Lovers?” That was unexpected. “But… that doesn’t happen, does it? Don’t you have to swear some serious fucking oaths to—”
“I would rather break a thousand oaths than Ji-hyeon’s heart,” said Keun-ju, slumping against the wall. “I’ve loved her for as long as I’ve served her, but never dared dream it would be more than… than what you said. The affection of a mistress for a slave. Then, the night of the Autumnal Equinox, after we fended off that giant spirit in the pumpkin fields, I was helping her undress for the night, and…”
“And what?”
“And she made her feelings for me abundantly clear,” said Keun-ju primly.
“Uh-huh,” said Zosia. “Talk is cheap for moneyed kids, Keun-ju. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if you’d actually tried going through with something she’d have dried up faster than you can say forbidden fruit looks better than it tastes.”
“And if the ripe young Lieutenant Bang had weighed down her branch enough for you to reach it, I suppose you would have polished her on your sleeve, taken one bite, then cast her aside? I saw how you were savoring her with your eyes throughout the voyage.”
“And we saw how well that worked out for me, didn’t we?”
“Ji-hyeon loves me, Zosia, and I love her, and even if you’re so base as to believe carnal consummation is required, well… rest assured my oaths have fallen like overripe pears forsaken by even—”
“I get it, I get it,” said Zosia. “What gives with all the poetry, Keun-ju? You go the whole cruise without contributing so much as a song for music night, and now we get you talking about the princess and you’re laying down the fruitiest verse this side of the Othean orchards.”
“I would never debase her memory by taking part in a so-called music night,” said Keun-ju bitterly. “And I will be mindful of my language in the presence of such a discerning critic as yourself. To answer your question, yes, there are sacred vows we must swear before taking on our duty, and yes, I have broken them, and no, I am not proud that I have broken them, but…”
“Yeah, I hear you,” said Zosia, contemplating the many solemn oaths she’d bent, creatively interpreted, or just plain ignored over her storied career.
“It’s ridiculous, you know?” Keun-ju sounded plenty pissed, which was due. “How many nights Ji-hyeon and I stayed up afterward, whispering in bed, and how often our talk turned to you—the Arch-Villain, the one woman in all the Star who refused to take what the world offered her, who lived life on her own terms, who died rather than compromise. And here I find out you’re actually still alive, and come to think we’re almost friends after everything we went through together on the boat… But you aren’t anything like the stories. You’re just a flunky of Ji-hyeon’s dads, a coward who gives up rather than fights, a creep prying into the sex lives of strangers… Were you always so pathetic? Were all the tales about you false? Were you ever the woman they said you were?”
Zosia looked down at her scarred knuckles. The sea air had played hell with them on the voyage; what had been the odd ache back in her old life in Kypck now a daily nuisance of arthritic cramping. She deserved what the kid had said about her, but all the same she felt the impulse to give him a stomping. She set her teeth until it passed, then sighed and sat down beside him.
“That’s fair. I was trying to rile the truth out of you, and got a sight more than I was looking for. I’m sorry, Keun-ju.” Zosia felt like she meant the words as she was saying them, but had to wonder when she finished with, “And hey, since deflowering a princess is probably a worse crime than helping one run away, why not tell me the rest? I’ve always known you helped her, and now I know why, so let’s get the full account. You tell me the truth now and I’ll see that you’re reunited with Ji-hyeon.”
“I thought they were going to execute us any moment?” said Keun-ju, a watery smile showing at the hem of his veil. “And aren’t you supposed to return Ji-hyeon to Hwabun?”
“I’ve been in tighter spots than this and seen my colleagues through,” said Zosia, though at present she didn’t have much in the way of ideas. “And as for taking her back to her parents, that depends on if she and Fennec can make me a better offer. So long as I have my army I’m not particular about who funds it, and I’ll admit to having a romantic streak.”
“Oh, you definitely strike me as the sentimental sort. Fucking like rabbits.”
“Fair again,” said Zosia, and found herself being as straight with this sad boy as she’d been with any proven friend. “I hide it better than you, but we’re out here for the same reason. Love’s what haunts me, Keun-ju, love for a man, a man and his people. Love for those I’ll never be able to hold again, or kiss, or laugh with over a jug of strong drink.” From his expression she could tell he believed, and that made her feel like he owed her now, owed her more than he’d ever know. “So that’s me, and I swear on my husband’s cairn I’ll keep your secret till the devils take me. Now out with it, let’s have the rest.”
Keun-ju was silent for a time, then met her eyes. Held them. “All right, I’ll tell you everything. Ji-hyeon—”
A door banged open just down the hall, and both Zosia and Keun-ju scrambled to their feet. Their iron-barred cell was one of several opening onto a narrow corridor in the rear of the customs house, and four figures strode to their door and stopped. The late afternoon light coming through the skylights made the pink of the officers’ saris glow like fire coral. Zosia and Keun-ju were blindfolded and then taken from the cell.
Doors opened and closed on either side of them, and then they were on the city streets, the teasing scents of urban living hardly a match for the odors of the cramped Crane’s Bill but the riot of sounds far more jarring. Up stairs and down ramps they were blindly marched, past the smoke and din of a tavern or tubāqhouse, and then through another door. It was much quieter in here, though Zosia could still hear the ruckus through the wall, and after stumbling on the too-soft floor, she at last had the heavy cloth pulled away from her eyes.
Blinded by green-filtered light, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. They
had not bound either her or Keun-ju, and, keeping her hand in front of her face to conceal her glances as her sight crept back, she took in the spacious room, looking for an exit. A stinghouse, pillows carpeting the floor, the wall-mounted terrariums teeming with cockroaches, centipedes, icebees, and a dozen other varieties of intoxicating insects. Between the glass cages were masked Raniputri women of decidedly shadier character than the customs agents who had delivered them and now quickly left out the back.
“I didn’t believe it when I received Kang-ho’s letter, but here you are,” said a familiar voice, one that caused Zosia to drop her hand from in front of her face and stare at the rear of the room, where a figure reclined in a settee. Choplicker sat at the woman’s feet, and she rubbed his head as she rose to her feet. “They’re going to have to come up with a new handle for you, something like The Ghost Who Walks.”
“Singh,” said Zosia, taking in her old confederate. Keun-ju’s jaw dropped as he realized they stood in the company of another legend, the Second Villain herself. “It’s been a long time, Chevaleresse.”
Whereas Kang-ho had gotten soft, Singh had hardened like a suit of sunbaked leather armor. Her black sari shone with golden moons and silver suns, and her nose stud and bangled wrists glittered in the terrarium light, but despite the casual attire an imperious ferocity radiated from the woman. Her hair was black as ever, though bound in two braids instead of a bun—Zosia wondered if Singh was widowed or divorced. Her once wild, waxy mustache had finally been tamed, the luxurious, upturned lip-weasel now maintaining its lilt by habit rather than force. Still handsome if haughty, with new scars glancing off her chin, cheeks, and bare feet, the knight brought a moist weight to Zosia’s dusty throat. Singh looked damn good after all these years.
“I suppose I have you to thank for the more colorful charges against us?” asked Zosia, taking a step toward Singh. One of the guards melted off the wall and put herself between Zosia and her old friend.
“I thought you’d like that,” said Singh, and to Zosia’s chagrin she didn’t call off her muscle. “I’ve been waiting for you all week. Kang-ho thought you’d make better time.”
“Funny, Kang-ho claimed he didn’t know how to find you,” said Zosia.
“That’s what he told you? Typical. You should have looked me up first, sister; things would be very different if you had.” Singh put her hand on the guard’s shoulder and she stepped away, leaving Zosia to look up into the taller woman’s kohl-ringed eyes.
Zosia sighed. There was no sign of Anklelance, who usually coiled herself around her mistress’s neck like a dull-scaled necklace. If Singh no longer had her devil, that was something in Zosia’s favor, at long bloody last. Yet of all the Villains to go up against in a barehanded fight, she would have picked any combination of the others over Singh. According to the songs, the knight had been in martial training from the time she left her cradle. Given Zosia’s experiences, she’d chalk that up to understatement rather than embellishment. “Let me guess. Kang-ho didn’t send you to help find his daughter?”
“Oh, Zosia,” said Singh sadly. “He sent me to kill you.”
“Yeah, that figures,” said Zosia, and talked fast, before the knight could move on her. “I challenge you to an honorable duel, Chevaleresse. I win, you’re back to taking my orders, and you’ll help me track down the others, starting with Fennec. We’re going to war again.”
Singh cocked her head to the side, and Zosia gave silent thanks to the insane codes of Raniputri knights. “And if you lose, General, then what—”
Zosia swung on Singh. Surprise could only take her so far, but she didn’t have much else to work with. It didn’t take her nearly far enough.
CHAPTER
24
Sullen and Grandfather had hoped that learning the name Uncle Craven had taken among the Outlanders would give their hunt a definite scent to pursue, but that wasn’t how it panned out. It didn’t help that neither Sullen nor Grandfather knew more than a few curse words of Crimson, and none of the folk they met spoke the Savannah tongue, so most of the time Sullen had to ask around until he found someone who spoke Immaculate. When he could make himself known to the Imperials, most of them had indeed heard of a powerful warrior named Maroto, but each and every taleteller sent them in a different direction. Inquiries after Hoartrap the Touch were even less fruitful, and met with anxiousness if not outright hostility. One trail took them up the cyclopean spires of Meshugg that clung to the sheerest eastern peaks of the Black Cascades like barnacles on a wrecked ship. Another brought them all the way down the Heartvein, to where the river opened onto Lake Jucifuge and spun the floating city of the Serpent’s Circle in a perpetual gyre. Adventures were had, and skulls were split, and powerful foes vanquished, but if Sullen had wanted that shit he would have stayed in the Frozen Savannahs. Then, as summer gave way to fall and his spirits sank as low as the ground fog in the Temple of the Black Vigil where they again sought their quarry in vain, an unexpected lead…
While Grandfather dozed on a fallen column after declaring the mission a failure, Sullen wandered the hollow avenues, pondering the weirdness of the place. Sure, people called Emeritus the Forsaken Empire for a reason, but he still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the scope of the place. Take this temple, for example: that it was devoted to something called the Faceless Mistress had a queer ring to it, certainly, but was hardly that bizarre. Nowadays the Horned Wolf Clan bowed to the Fallen Mother, after all, which sounded close enough to beg the question of whether this Faceless Mistress was the same god as they had in Samoth and the Savannahs, just named something different. That happened a lot, according to the missionaries who had lugged the Burnished Chain up the Noreast Arm—turned out the Horned Wolves had been worshipping the Fallen Mother long before they’d converted, they’d just called her Silvereye and thought she was an ancestor of note who’d gone around slaying some giants and eventually ascending into the night sky to become the moon, instead of, you know, the One True God of All Things.
Far as the new faith went, there were some good stories, but a whole lot of it just didn’t make much sense to Sullen. Inconsistencies and such, the sort of simple errors that cropped up from time to time in any tale, like how nobody could agree if the Old Watchers were gods or devils. Yet when he’d pointed out the Burnished Chain’s contradictions to Father Humble, the priest had made him repeat a bunch of nonsense words and whip himself with a switch until his back bled. This was a marked contrast to how Grandfather would debate him for long hours on the particulars of any given saga or song, and thereafter Sullen kept his observations away from the ears of all but his ancient relation.
Anyway, faith was a fickle thing. You could be like Sullen, who suspected Grandfather was probably right when he said all tales had equal measures of wisdom, truth, and bullshit, or you could be like the true believers and erect whole empires to honor a single legend, like they’d done down here on the Soueast Arm. At the end of your trail, though, you all ended up rotting into the earth. Small wonder Old Black built her meadhall in the Land Beneath the Star, so that all worthy heroes might one day be reunited, or the Chainites said the Fallen Mother dwelled in a wondrous cave at the center of all things, or the Jackal Tribe worshipped the Noreast Gate, which had been carved by Rakehell when he’d escaped his infernal father-in-law. Obvious stuff, and the more stories you soaked up the more evident it became.
Anyway, they’d teased a few tales out of folk on their way down to Emeritus, but few had wanted to talk much about it at all. Odd, that, as usually people wanted to tell you all kinds of nonsense about their neighbors, but nobody wanted to talk about the Forsaken Empire, or how it got forsook, or what the deal was with their god. Matters only became stranger the day before, when Sullen and Grandfather had stumbled over an enormous, shattered statue of this Faceless Mistress. The ruined monument lay dashed in boulder-sized chunks across a four-block area, appeared to be made of charcoal, and gave off a faint buzzing that Sullen could feel in his teeth.
Strange, but not unheard of.
Stranger yet was how every structure and street was drained of color, even the leaves of ornamental trees as grey as an old wolf’s coat; if Grandfather hadn’t displayed the same range of pigments as ever, Sullen would have assumed there was something wrong with his eyes. The crowning peculiarity about this place was the expanse of it—they called it a temple, but it was larger than most of the Outlander cities Sullen and Grandfather had visited… a temple the size of a capital, and totally deserted.
There was some bad swamp to cross at the southeast border of the Empire and the Emeritus Arm, and a few bog pearl divers had waved to them from a canoe as they picked their way along the wide, petrified boardwalks leading into the Temple of the Black Vigil. Now, after a week of scouring the empty buildings and desolate streets, there was no doubting that they were definitely the only ones alive in the whole place. No citizens nor squatters peopled this metropolis, nor beasts nor birds nor bugs. It might’ve been spooky, except it was the first place Sullen had ever set foot where he saw no trace of the devils that dogged him. Especially after becoming better acquainted with the fiends courtesy of that awful witch Hoartrap, this was no bad thing. Besides, Emeritus reminded him a bit of home, with the perpetual chill of the dull shadowed avenues offset by brilliant pastel skies and the orange sun of high summer; there was the world he walked through, grey and hollow, but a rich, colorful realm hovering above, just out of reach. He found himself wondering if he could talk Grandfather into prolonging their search another week, to better explore the sepulchral temple city.
Sullen had been raised better than to steal from the dead, if death was what had befallen the people who’d dwelled here. Surely there was no harm in admiring their abandoned hoards, though. Everything was in its place in the deserted storehouses and dining halls, apartments and palaces, offices and altars, with freshly prepared meals set out before shrines and waiting on many a table. The smells could be maddening, especially in one humble home where a warm pot of lentils waited on a cold stovetop, the long-absent aroma of berbere and pepper sending Sullen all the way back to his mother’s kitchen… but Sullen was no thief. And besides, as disparate as the accounts of the fall of Emeritus were, the one constant was that the populace had vanished some five hundred years before. Whatever purpose kept those lentils hot and appetizing after all these centuries, Sullen doubted it was out of consideration for his homesick belly. For once, Grandfather agreed with his thinking, and they subsisted on the cold tack of the Imperials, wary of even kindling a fire from what fuel they might scrounge in this place.
A Crown for Cold Silver Page 24