“Baron Domingo Hjortt of Cockspar, Colonel of the Fifteenth Regiment.”
Looking away from the stampeding nightmares was surprisingly easy, because Choi had made him jump—he’d forgotten he wasn’t dying alone. Looking at the witchborn, he saw she was misted in fresh blood, and craning his neck, he confirmed those green temple guards had put the color in her cheeks. More interesting than that, however, or the bloody, broken spear dangling from her left hand was the saber she held in her right. She’d retrieved it from the roadside for him, and now, of all the dramatic endings to a gallingly theatrical life, Domingo Hjortt, the pureborn colonel who had chosen retirement rather than integrate anathemas into his regiment, would die fighting side by side with one. And an Immaculate to boot! Would that Lupitera were here to see this!
“Here.” She thrust it at him, and he looked at it, confused. What the devil would he do with a broken Immaculate spear? When he didn’t take it right away she dropped it on the gravel at his feet and saluted him with his own saber. “I will honor your tusk, Baron.”
Then she turned and walked up the steps.
“Don’t you dare!” Domingo cried, realizing what she intended. When she didn’t so much as acknowledge the direct order of a seasoned officer, he found himself bargaining like a spoiled child desperate for more sweets. “That favor you owe me, Choi, the one to be named later? I’m calling it due! Stay!”
“You never stood watch for one of my dreamtreks,” she reminded him as she reached the top of the stairs. “I owe you nothing.”
“What about honor, then?” he jeered after her. “What about a good clean death fighting for your homeland? You’re a coward if you go into that Gate and we both know it—stay, for honor’s sake!”
“There is no honor here, Baron,” said Choi, “only the opportunity to earn it.”
Then she was gone, into the First Dark, and he felt her passing, like the Gate sighing … or maybe it was just the step he sat on vibrating from the stampede. It wouldn’t be long now. He knew if he looked back at the monsters he might lose his nerve, and instead he leaned down to snatch up the broken spear at his slippered feet, scanning the ground around him to see if anyone had dropped something better.
There, on the edge of the red gravel, beside his abandoned wheelchair, lay his empty scabbard. He cursed Choi’s slovenliness in leaving it behind, but then he supposed she had been in an awful hurry, and it was better to have a saber without its handsome double-ringed sheath than the reverse. The engraved brass gleamed even in the twilight, and he remembered his relief when Hoartrap had returned his weapon to him just before the Cobalts crossed over to Othean. Nobody could stop death, not a witch nor an officer, but a brave warrior never went into death alone—trust your steel more than any friend or kin or fellow soldier, he had told his son, because in the end it will be all you have left.
The sun had already deserted him yet a flash of light sparked off the scabbard, and looking up Domingo met the luminous jade eyes of a great grey beast. It had spied the old man slouching on the stoop of the Gate and peeled off from its herd, charging straight down the terra-cotta path toward him. An aria should swell in this final scene, the doomed officer weighing the merits of snatching up an Immaculate spear to inflict one final wound or crawling on his belly in hopes he could reach his Azgarothian scabbard in time to hold it up as a talisman. Knowing he was dead either way, dead forever.
There was comfort in that.
But not, Domingo decided, enough to give in without a fight.
He flopped away from broken spear and empty scabbard, two strong arms and one strong leg propelling him clumsily up the stairs after Choi. He bleated like a lamb as his limp knee slammed into a step, the leg lame but not insensate, and Domingo cherished even this pain, for it meant he was alive, he still had a chance, the Gate swelling soft and black and rich before him as he scrambled up the final stair, he would live, somewhere, somehow, anything but oblivion, he would live on the other side of the First Dark, he would live forever, he would—
The demon caught Domingo just before he could slip into the Gate, and there on the edge of two worlds he died like he had lived.
Alone.
CHAPTER
7
To one who measures her life in bowls of briar, a pipe is the ideal timepiece. Not because the span of time it takes to smoke one is by any means a cold constant; quite the contrary, what makes the pipe so perfect is that it grants its owner a warmer, freer hour than they have ever known. Theirs is not the miserly unit of the hourglass, every crumb of a moment doled out with a merchant’s intractable exactitude. The puffer’s hour is as generous as it is forgiving, and blissfully disdainful of the mortal compulsion to treat time as a greased pig at a country faire, forever trying to seize it fast and hold it still. If time is a great invisible river that runs the course of our lives, then the pipe is a briar raft on which we bob merrily downstream, while those who put their stock in clocks wade along trying to slow the flow by catching it in their mechanical nets … but when has a net ever captured a river?
The River Enisum boasted the most colorful freshwater reefs in the Empire, and the great Tinsky built his shop upon its banks so that he might better study the coral and replicate its beguiling patterns upon his pipes. Or so the legend went, but after Zosia overcame the last of the many challenges that had weeded out every other would-be apprentice who had ever supplicated themselves at his doorstep the master artisan had told her the truth: he’d chosen this particular bend of the river because of how good the fishing was. Tinsky loved to fish. And when he’d revealed the secret technique of his glorious coral rustication it had turned out to be just as unexpectedly humble: bang four nails through a sawn-off broom handle, grind them short and sharp, and then drag the tool all over the pipe until you like the result. Easy as that … except as with all things that sound easy to an amateur, from tying a fly to rusticating a pipe, the more time you put in the more you realize you have yet to learn.
Of course, for all its craggy beauty the coral technique was still a cover-up, something to enliven a pipe lacking in grain or pitted with sandspots. That was the riddle of briar, right there, that the most promising blocks could prove drab at heart and in need of adornment, and some that seemed dull hid incredible grain waiting to be set free. That’s how this pipe had gone, the rich bird’s-eye and cross grain demanding a smooth finish, deep red stain, and gold wash to really make it pop. Now it was done. She tried to show her mentor but Tinsky was out on the river, casting his line for all infinity …
They must be drugging her, Zosia decided as she turned the finished pipe this way and that in her sore hands. She was loopy as a cat’s cradle, unable to really focus on anything for long … or maybe just focusing on the same thing over and over again, repeatedly forgetting she’d been thinking about it in the first place. Must be something in her water, since her guards had learned from Boris’s bad example and taken to sharing most of her wine and food. Something in her water or something in the air down here, ancient miasmas leaching up from the vaults of the dead volcano, still carrying poison even after all the centuries since those fires were quenched with deviltry.
Diadem’s influence had even wormed its way into the pipe, a unique shape emerging from the briar that had the swooping contours of a volcano and the flared rim of a cauldron. It was one hell of a job, but her deft hands had retained their memories better than her head, and their focus as well. Devils only knew where Boris had scared up this ornate saddle bit stem, a curve of black amber with a cobalt crystal set in the top of the saddle and a tiny silver star inlaid in its underside. It was as if it had been made just for her. All the elements came together perfectly, and while she couldn’t remember how long it had taken her to carve the pipe she knew Boris had promised to bring some nice ruby vergins to inaugurate it with when last he’d visited. Zosia loved her navy flakes, but Tinsky or Cornell Reeves or Rusty Owlet or some other eminent briar philosopher insisted red vergin was the best tubq fo
r breaking in a bowl, the sweetness in the leaf coming through in the char, and the richness of its cake preventing the wood from developing a weak spot and burning through.
Choplicker was with her often now, the specter of her devil lying dead and cold at the foot of her bed, staring at her with wide black eyes, and no matter how many times she told the guards getting rid of him wouldn’t work they still carried him off, and no matter how many times they carried him off he’d be back there again in the wee hours of the night or day, it was hard to tell which with the purple gas lamps always burning in the cavern of her cell. When she stirred in her sleep and felt him against her, under the blankets, she would smile to herself, keeping his secret until one of the screws noticed, and then she wasn’t allowed to have blankets anymore. But it kept happening anyway, or maybe it just happened the once and she’d dreamed the other times. She wished she could dream of Leib, instead, but he was all the way down in Geminides plying his merry trade, and she wouldn’t let him risk himself by coming here to serve as royal consort … not when everyone was trying to poison the queen.
Indsorith had had the same problem, apparently, learning in the worst way that lovers have a way of either meeting horrible accidents or revealing themselves to be undercover assassins. Usually during intimate moments. They’d had a dark laugh at that, the two queens, when Zosia said she didn’t know which of those two scenarios was worse, but they hadn’t laughed long, because they both knew, yes they did. As a result Indsorith hadn’t taken a lover in years; she’d made the tipsy admission after Zosia complained of how long it had been since she’d done more than polish her own helm, and that just went to show there’s always someone harder up than you.
Sometimes that someone is awfully fucking fit, and there’s real tension there, but you don’t know if it’s the sexual kind or if it’s because you murdered their whole family and made them the monster they see themselves as. And so even though you’re fucking aching to see if those plump lips taste as good as they look you just refill her cup instead of lapping at it. And really, now that you’ve actually made such a great new confederate why would you want to behave like Maroto and queer everything by trying to make it more than friends?
Then again, after helping Indsorith wash herself and being unable to keep certain thoughts at bay Zosia had come to the conclusion that she’d been far too hard on Maroto. Well, maybe not far too hard, all things considered, but a little too hard, definitely a little too hard. Sure, he’d been relentless with his flirtations, but then he’d flirted with everyone back then, even Hoartrap. And being honest with herself now, she’d been game to flirt back on more than one occasion, when she was of a certain mood, even though she’d suspected how strongly he felt about her. They were otherwise such great friends it had seemed fun enough at times, and totally harmless—charitable, even—but now she realized it must have been anything but, giving him encouragement when she should have just sat his ass down and explained once and for all that she wasn’t playing hard to get, she simply wasn’t interested. At the time she thought it would hurt him too badly, that it would permanently damage their friendship to have such a difficult conversation, that Maroto could never just be pals with someone he fancied … but now that she recognized how tight his and Purna’s friendship was, Zosia had to admit that she might not have been giving him enough credit. Just went to show you’re never too old to learn something you should’ve known all along—always give your friends the truth, no matter how heavy it seems, and trust them to decide how to carry it.
Like that time when Maroto drunkenly told Zosia she should’ve stuck to making pipes instead of making war—she might not have been as good at it, but briar brought a lot more happiness into the world than battleaxes. A hard truth she had easily laughed off, but now she found herself drifting through fantasies of that other, quieter life … the one she didn’t deserve. She floundered out of the current of her daydream before it could carry her away, clinging to the important thing: Maroto might be a goon at times but he was without a doubt the most loyal person she’d ever met, and smarter than he sometimes let on. The next time they met she’d give the old lech a great big wet kiss on the cheek, tell him she was sorry for being a hardass, and then they could get down to the long-delayed business of being best fucking friends. And since you only live once in this devil-blessed world she’d follow his example, too, tempered with a bit of her own wisdom—the next time they got a little time alone together she’d just ask Indsorith point-blank if she fancied something more than a back rub. Zosia was still pondering the age-old question of whether to fully rub out her flakes or just fold and stuff them for the pipe’s all-important maiden voyage when her jailer arrived.
“And how is Yer Majesty this evening?” asked Boris. Zosia’s irritation at his insistence upon calling her that despite how many times she’d told him off brought things into sharper focus. He was wearing the orange robes of the People’s Pack, as Diadem’s new council had dubbed themselves … to a serious fucking snort from Zosia. She would show them a wolf if they let her out of this evil bed, where every day her strength seemed to flag instead of swell. “My, that looks nice—shall we swap for a moment?”
He’d never before offered her first pass from the dinners they shared, and she eagerly exchanged her new pipe for the silver tureen piled high with fried bean curd, eels, and wild rice. She was always so hungry and there was never enough to go around, the fragrant steam making happy tears run down her face. As she emptied his bowl he filled hers, packing the pipe from a roll-up kidskin pouch, and she corrected his sloppy method through a mouthful of mush, simulating the proper technique by biting the head off an eel and then packing some rice into its neck. It didn’t work out so well as she’d expected but he seemed to get the idea, doing a better job when he packed his own pipe, a cheap little clay cutty. That was Boris all over—finally made the big time and he still had to make a show of how he hadn’t really left the streets.
“Our queen seems occupied with her feast, perhaps one of you could do the honors?” he said to the trio of guards who shared her cell; not a one of the thugs had ever spoken a word to her except a command, and they were all young enough and bland enough that she could scarcely tell one from the others. The real question was where they slept, when hers was the only cot in the cell and … and … Boris handed her pipe to one of those curs! Her new fucking pipe!
“I’m done,” she said, wiping her mouth on the back of her increasingly spotted hand, the manacle at her wrist hanging as loose as one of those bangles Singh had given her to commemorate their first victory in the Raniputri Dominions. “Give it over, it needs to be broken in right.”
“You’re a master pipemaker, isn’t that right, Yer Majesty?” said Boris, raising his eyebrows at the guards as he applied his coalstick to his cheap tavern pipe.
“I’m a fucking legend,” she said, not with pride but as a statement of fact, glaring at the kid holding her new pipe. “That’s not for you. That’s for me. First pipe I ever made just for me. So don’t even fucking think about—”
“This tubq is the very last of the Crimson Queen’s private reserve,” said Boris, talking through the cloud of peppery smoke he blew into Zosia’s face and passing over the coalstick and the tamp to the kid with her caldera, as she’d come to think of the pipe. “It’s twice as old as you are, lad, and worth more than all of our lives put together, so enjoy in good health—hers!”
“Don’t!” Zosia wasn’t superstitious about much, but the first light of a new pipe, well, that was a ritual as sacrosanct as any practiced by the Thirty-Six Chambers of Ugrakar or the Burnished Chain … and this rough-necked ape just fucked it all up, the flame kissing the wide rim but somehow missing the tubq entirely. When he did finally get it going she could tell at a glance he was going to smoke it too hot, his mouth breaking into a dopey grin as he tasted what must be a finer blend than most mortals ever knew. Zosia wished they’d skinned her alive instead. “Fuck, come on? Really?”
> “Mmmm,” said Boris, putting his feet up on the side of her bed as he savored his smoke. For such a fancy new fop he still hadn’t bought new hobnails, his primordial brown boots worn through in the toes. “I almost wish I hadn’t lit this. Regular leaf’s ruined for me now.”
The first guard groaned his assessment as he exhaled through his nose. It was somewhere between a sexual exclamation and a cow lowing. He passed the pipe to his fellow, and then they all took turns getting their sloppy mouths and sharp teeth all over that pristine stem. Even the guard on the other side of the door took a hit through the bars; the gal wasn’t normally a puffer, she said, but once in a lifetime, what? All the while Boris talked up the exquisite, life-altering experience he was having right in front of Zosia, holding court on all the notes and flavors he kept picking up, the guards loosening up enough to join in for a change.
“Is it … chocolate?”
“Not chocolate. No. Fuck no. Cocoa. With cream. No sugar, though.”
“Carob and … cherries.”
“Carob is shit. Cherry is close. Cocoa is off. Semisweet chocolate. Blackcurrant.”
“Leather.”
“Old leather.”
“An old leather strop what’s just had the razor warm it.”
“An old leather strop what’s just had the razor warm it, with a hot bowl of soap at the ready, but instead of lye, right, the lather’s been frothed up out of almond cream … almond cream, and the tears of a grieving mother whose daughter won’t never be coming home from the front.” Boris tried and failed to blow a smoke ring, looking around for approval. But the three guards who had sat down on the floor were all silent, as was their friend on the other side of the cell door. Still awake, it seemed, but staring off at nothing, with glassy eyes and goofy grins.
A War in Crimson Embers Page 32