A Crown for Cold Silver

by Alex Marshall

  “I did,” called a teenage youth strapped to a nearby gurney. He had the ferret-eyed, rawboned look of a natural born thief to him. He leered at her. “You like my tract, witch-nun? It’s all the Fallen Mom’s honest truth, every blessed word of it, and—”

  “That’s quite enough of that,” said the Asker who had been quietly talking with the woman in the next chair over. He was a scrawny man whose shaven genitals were blurred by bright red tattoos of Cascadian script, and he jabbed at the gurneyed man with his dripping three-pronged prompter. “I already have quite a few queries for you; no sense in raising more questions before we’ve even started.”

  “Believe!” said the boy. “Take off those blinders they force your kind to wear, witch-nun, read the truth and decide for yourself!”

  “I’m very sorry, we’ll have to continue this later,” the Asker quietly told the semiconscious woman he’d been interrogating. “As for you, young man—”

  “What harm would it be were it false?” cried the boy, his eyes still locked on the slits in Portolés’s mask. “When’s a lie ever called down such consequences, answer me that!”

  Portolés had no more expected profundity in the Office of Answers than she had subtlety, but she found herself deeply moved by the boy’s appeal. In this roomful of tortured dissidents and Askers employed by the Crown, only she knew that what the flyer said was true: Zosia lived, and what was more, Portolés had probably met her face-to-face in Kypck. In twenty years of rule, Queen Indsorith had told no one of the deception that had fooled the world, and only confided in Portolés because she believed that doing so could prevent another war. These rebels couldn’t actually believe Zosia had survived her two-thousand-foot fall from the Crimson Throne Room and was biding her time until she launched a second Cobalt War. Their slogan of Zosia Lives! was just that, an anthem designed to fill their fellows with hope and their enemies with hatred… But like the boy said, if the Empire knew their rabble-rousing came from baseless beliefs, why suppress it so viciously? The queen knew there was more than a kernel of truth in their message, and this was how she dealt with it—the same way the Burnished Chain dealt with anathemas. Doubt blossomed anew in Portolés’s heart as she realized that her new master could be every bit as brutal as her old one, when she felt threatened. Queen Indsorith had claimed that the mission she entrusted to Portolés would save countless lives across the Star, but even if that proved true, Portolés couldn’t save the poor, naïve sinners in this room.

  “You seem to be confused on the etiquette of polite discourse,” the Asker told the outspoken prisoner, looming over his gurney and softly applying the points of his prompter to the ball of the youth’s throat. “I ask, you answer, not the other way around. But since you’re so eager to converse, why don’t we just dive right in?”

  For all his bluster, the young man closed his eyes and let out a whimper. He would be making a lot more noise before long. Portolés had screamed and screamed when the barbers had carved the sin out of her, screamed until they had seized her forked tongue and stitched it together, blood gurgling in the back of her throat. This heretic was going to scream, too, but with no physical signs of corruption, how would the Asker know when his work was complete? As the steel prompter reflected the brazier light, Portolés felt a flashback of fear, and just as soon a pulse of relief that it was someone else who was going to be cut instead of her. Back in the Kutumban mountains, she had executed men and women who refused to massacre peasants, and then she had overseen the purge of Kypck, and then she had watched as an Imperial colonel burned alive, but she was going to turn around and walk out of here, and this boy who had only written a political treatise probably wouldn’t. Perhaps the Crimson Queen’s justice wasn’t so different from the Black Pope’s.

  “Sister?” said the clerk, reaching out for Portolés’s elbow but thinking better of actually touching her.

  “Mmmm,” said Portolés, picturing Brother Wan strapped down where the heretic was, imagining the sounds he must have made when they removed his half-formed beak. Just like that, it happened, the anticipation of a new sin warming her chest.

  “It would be best if we left Asker Vexovoid to do the queen’s work. I can escort you out.”

  “Certainly.” Portolés nodded, savoring the sensation of delay until it became unbearable. “As soon as you unstrap that heretic. He’s coming with me.”

  Of all of them, the heretic seemed the most surprised. Asker Vexovoid ground his jaw so loudly that Portolés could hear him, but sheathed his prompter and began loosening the boy. The clerk just scowled at her. As the shock wore off, the heretic giggled nervously.

  “It’s no laughing matter,” the Asker told him. “You’ll be wishing you’d kept your mouth shut before the end. Our Mother Church has a very different methodology for gathering intelligence than this office.”

  “I’m not going to strip before I torture you, is what he means,” said Portolés, pleased to see Asker Vexovoid’s sour expression now matching that of the clerk. Already she doubted her snap decision, as she always did when she had crested the trespass and was left with nothing but the promise of penance. “I’m in a hurry, so let’s get a move on.”

  “Would you like him like this, or is there something more the Office can do for you, sister?” asked the clerk as the heretic clambered down from the gurney and Asker Vexovoid turned away without a polite farewell.

  “I would like some pants, if it’s not too much trouble,” said the heretic, cupping his shaking hands over his groin.

  “Manacles on his wrists and ankles, connected to each other, and to a collar. Three extra locks. The same key for all of them. A long chain tether fixed to his collar. A gag in his gob and a blindfold under his hood. Plain robe,” said Portolés, and then decided to be charitable. They were going to be riding for some time. “Undergarments, I suppose.”

  The heretic might be useful. Even if he’d been lying about writing the tract and just taken the credit to get her attention, if he’d been brought to the Office of Answers he surely knew more of the cultish veneration of the Stricken Queen than Portolés did. Any knowledge he possessed might prove valuable as she embarked on her quest to track down the woman who had escaped Kypck, the woman Queen Indsorith believed to be Cobalt Zosia. Besides, Portolés could always kill the man if he turned out to be of no use to her. She could kill him for no reason at all, if she wanted—that was the power of the authority the Crimson Queen had given her.

  So she told herself, but these thoughts only took form after she had saved him from the Office of Answers.

  It was after sunset and still raining when Diadem’s southern gate opened for them several hours later. There was something sublimely absurd in the hundred-foot-tall, ten-foot-thick iron-banded gate rolling back just for two riders and a pack mule. The thousand soldiers who worked the winches doubtless agreed—not for nothing was the southern gate normally opened but once a day, to admit travelers during the noon hour.

  The heretic had to ride sidesaddle since Portolés refused to unlock his ankle chains, but any protest he might have leveled failed to clear the gag. Their way was lit by sputtering sapphire flames of burning gas that rose from the mountain via tubes of carven obsidian flanking the wide road, torches that had never gone out since first lit at the dawn of Diadem, even in blizzard or hurricane.

  Midnight found them at the last torch, and Portolés hitched their animals at the way temple beside the final beacon. It was a humble yet large one-room chamber carved into the dead rock. Only the clergy were permitted to use the refuges that spotted the Imperial highways, but based on the bashed-in door and heaps of excrement on the broken penitence bench, others had sought shelter here. Tonight, however, they had the place to themselves, and intending to keep it that way, Portolés used the ruined bench to bar the door.

  “I could’ve died!” the youth said as soon as the gag was out, shaking his manacled hands at her. “Can’t breathe good through my nose normal-like, say fuck the devils with a w
et hood over my face!”

  “Say fuck the devils again and I’ll put it back in,” said Portolés, pulling her own damp mask off and tossing it carelessly on their heaped provisions. She returned to the fire she’d kindled in the potbellied stove before tending to her prisoner. The wood let off the strong odor of urine as it burned. “My name is Sister Portolés. You will address me at all times with the respect my station commands.”

  “Sure, sister, the respect of your station,” said the heretic, scooting on his butt over toward the fire, the chains around his ankles and wrists jingling. “Not that you asked, but my name is—”

  “I will call you Heretic,” said Portolés, deeply unhappy with herself for the mad compulsion that had led her to take him along. “Count yourself blessed I can call you anything other than the memory of a doomed man I left behind in the Office of Answers.”

  “Whatever you say,” said Heretic, warming his hands. “You’re the boss, I’m the heretic. Got it.”

  Heretic had the sense to stay quiet while Portolés boiled water to soak seaweed and beancurd in, and then they ate in silence, slurping from plain wooden bowls. Camping like this reminded her of being out in the field on campaign, first against the Imperials and then alongside them. The marked difference was that it was just her and a single other soul settling in for the night, instead of a whole regiment, and she felt an unexpected tremor of lonesomeness—she was often alone in her cell, of course, but she could never remember a time when there weren’t legions of other people within shouting distance, either in Diadem or on campaign. Now it was just her and a proven criminal for miles and miles.

  After they’d eaten, she looped Heretic’s chain leash around the base of the stove, back through his manacles, and then secured it with one of the spare locks. He wouldn’t be comfortable, bent up like that, but he would be warm.

  “This isn’t necessary,” said Heretic. “Really!”

  “The sooner you stop hoping I’m a fool the sooner you will find peace in your fate,” said Portolés, stretching out to her full length on the other side of the stove. Well, he might think her a fool, given her decision to take him into her custody. When Queen Indsorith had given the war nun permission to enlist anyone she felt would help her find Zosia, so long as she kept the nature of her mission a secret, Portolés rather doubted Her Majesty could have foreseen this ill-advised conscript. This was the exact sort of thing that had always landed her the worst penance, snatching at forbidden fruit just to see what it tasted like. Mother Kylesa and Abbotess Cradofil and even Brother Wan had always warned her there would come a day when she fell too far to climb up again.

  She pulled out the heretic’s book to distract her from the relentless guilt that constricted her throat. No matter how convinced she was at the time that her actions were correct, within in a few hours she always arrived at this place, craving confession even worse than she had craved whatever temptation she had succumbed to. Except now she no longer even had the prospect of confession to assuage her fears—Queen Indsorith had convinced her that once she left Diadem, it would be incredibly dangerous for her to meet with any other clergy, lest word of her location reach the Black Pope and arouse her suspicions.

  “This isn’t what I expected,” said Heretic. “You hear a lot of stories, sure, but I never… I mean, where are you taking me? Can I know that? Are you gonna publicly execute me in some dismal corner of the Empire? As an example, like?”

  “Hmmm,” said Portolés, opting to put another log on before settling in with the folio.

  “No, that don’t make sense,” Heretic decided. “Maybe—”

  “Heretic,” said Portolés, sitting back on her bedroll and glaring at the scruffy embodiment of all her questionable decisions.

  “Yes, Sister Portolés?”

  “If you say another word without being spoken to I’ll put your gag back in, and leave it there all night.”

  “Mmmmmmm,” said Heretic peevishly, but he spoke no more.

  As she finally settled in to read, Portolés felt some of her anxiety burn off into giddiness. Reading the contents of this tract was obviously a crime against both Crown and Chain, and it was hers to savor. What an ominous pair of days she had lived through. Who knew letting that nasty Colonel Hjortt burn to death would upend her life in such a radical direction? The Fallen Mother, obviously, and the Deceiver, surely, but not Portolés. She opened the book and read the first two pages, pages that held more heresy than she had ever thought possible to contain in such a scant space.

  Look! Listen! Harken! Your Very Life is at Stake!

  Look here, You! Look with Your Own Eyes! And if You be Blind, put then Your Ears to the Lips of the Wise, and Listen! Listen! However you Come to this Truth, the Only Truth in Diadem, Ponder Upon It, and do so with Your Mind. The Mind that is Yours and Only Yours. Feel the Truth with Your Heart, the Heart that is Only Yours.

  Decide for Yourself. You Must Decide for Yourself.

  You Bow before queen and pope. You Believe Them. You Sacrifice Yourself to them, You Sacrifice Your Children to them, Your Spouses, Your Animals, All Your Worldly Possessions. They Say this is the Price. The Price for what, We ask you? Protection of Your Body, Protection of Your Soul, that is their answer. This is The Lie.

  It was Not Always So. The Burnished Chain speaks of a Deceiver in Heaven. There is a Deceiver, but he is not in Heaven, but Here, on the Star, in Diadem!

  The Burnished Chain speaks of a Savior in Hell. And this is the Lie, coached in The Truth: our Savior came to liberate Diadem, and it was the Burnished Chain who cast her Down.

  Queen Zosia Believed in a Diadem Free of Chains. Queen Zosia fought the Devils we now Bow before. Queen Zosia fought to Free Us. If we are Worthy of Freedom, should we Accept the Yoke of Corrupt Church and Illegitimate Queen?

  If You Deserve Freedom, True Freedom to Live As You Wilt, Why Do You Wear the Collar of Your Oppressors?

  Fear is the Answer. Fear for Yourself. Fear for Your Family. Fear for Your Soul.

  Fear is the Sword and Scepter of the Church and the Crown. Fear is the Shackles Upon Your Limbs. Fear is the Blindfold You Wear. Fear is the Poison in Your porridge, making You Sick. Making You Die. The pope Laughs as You Weep. She drinks Your Tears. The queen smacks Her lips as You Work Yourself to Death. She drinks Your Blood.

  All they Bring Us is War. War Against Whom? Barbarians to the East? Immaculates to the West? Raniputri Dominions or the Free Cities of Usba? No. They Bring War Against Ourselves. They Say Peace has been Bought, At Last, but how Many lie Dead from a Childlike Squabble between queen and pope? You Know Innocents Who Died in this War, do You not?

  You, reading This Truth. You, Hearing This Truth. Answer True: how many of Your Loved Ones Perished in a Senseless War? You Tithe and You Tithe and You Tithe, All to Fund a War Against Your Own Family.

  This is The Lie. The Same Tongues who spread The Lie also Claim that Queen Zosia is twenty years Dead. Do You Believe? Do You Trust the liars who Grind You to Dust? Do You Believe Queen Zosia and All She stood for can Ever Die?

  There are Those Who Believe. There are Those Who Do Not. The Truth is Not that One is Right and the Other Wrong. The Truth is that Queen Zosia Lives On. Her Breath Stirs the Coals of Freedom. The Fire She kindled when She took the Throne is Dying, but is not yet Extinguished.

  Does Zosia Yet Live? some ask. Did She Ever? say others.

  This is not The Truth. The Truth is that She is With Us, and if We are Strong, She will Aid Us. But We must be Strong before She Returns.

  There is Time. To Save Our City. To Save Our Empire. To Save Our Souls.

  Stand Against the Dark. Fight Against the Dark. Stand Against the Dark.

  Listen! Listen, Think, and Prepare. War is Coming, and Not the War They Wanted. We Will Not Stop Until The Cause Our Parents Died For Is Saved. Zosia Exists Forever in Your Heart—Will You Set Her Free?

  Portolés closed the book and reflected for a very long time on what she had read. Then she took out the bill she
had removed from the tavern wall and carefully unfolded the damp paper by the low light of the dying fire. She had seen hundreds of duplicates stacked on the table in the Truth Chamber, but still the sight of the poster sent shudders coursing through her. Even after all the queen had told her, even after seeing how plainly the Deceiver’s wiles were at play in the text she had just read, these two words filled Sister Portolés with a churning, burning mixture of dread and, Allmother forgive her, excitement.

  Could it be true?

  Could it not, given what she now knew? A week ago the Stricken Queen had meant absolutely nothing to Portolés, a blot that both Crown and Chain agreed should be scrubbed from Imperial history. She had never suspected that peasants the Star over apparently clung to the woman’s memory, praised her as a holy symbol of resistance, and were tortured for it whenever they were caught. And most incredible of all, these dissidents were right, more right than even they suspected. Even when the fire died completely the words on the flyer floated before Portolés’s vision, tattooing themselves upon her eyes:

  ZOSIA LIVES!

  PART II

  AND THE DEVILS TO GRANT THEM

  I wish to leave the world

  By its natural door;

  In my tomb of green leaves

  They are to carry me to die.

  Do not put me in the dark

  To die like a traitor;

  I am good, and like a good thing

  I will die with my face to the sun.

  —José Martí, “A Morir” (To Die) (1894)

  CHAPTER

  1

  In the plush backroom of a Zygnema stinghouse, Zosia battled Chevaleresse Singh. Neither Keun-ju nor Singh’s crew were foolish enough to intervene, the Virtue Guard and the masked women sidestepping when necessary to avoid the fray. Zosia wouldn’t have bet on herself in a fair fight, dead gods knew, but when a combatant is a devil up on her foe, well, that changes things. Or at least it ought to. The question was whether Singh had actually set Anklelance free in the decades since they had last seen one another, as Zosia hoped, or if the woman’s devil was secreted beneath the pillows strewn around the room, waiting to strike her calf. Of all the ill-starred luck, to be saddled with a dingo of a devil when your second in command lands a carrion viper…