by Jay Lake
“He is nothing.” Federo leaned close. “Not like you. I shall let you watch him die.” He stroked my hair. “Don’t go far. I’ll be back soon. You have kept something I need very badly, dear Emerald.”
I watched him walk out of the tent. My head still reeling, I began to plot the most elaborate of deaths, slow agony that would give even Blackblood’s priests pause. When my head had finally cleared enough for me to move, I crawled across the rugs to Septio.
He lay with his eyes closed. I could see he still breathed. The wound reeked of bile and shit. Which made sense. Federo’s knife hand had angled down from the entry. That would mean a quicker death, at least.
“Septio,” I whispered.
He did not stir.
“Septio.”
Another slow, ragged breath.
“Septio!”
Still nothing.
I wriggled close and kissed the blood from his lips. He moaned a bit at that, but did not wake.
Pain might be his sacrament, but a gut wound was still a nasty death at the best of times. If he bled out quickly, he could die a little easier.
I raised my wrists behind my back, until my elbows stuck out. Throwing my shoulders back and forth, I tried to see how much clearance I could get on one side. My joints burned, but an errand of mercy needed doing.
Slowly I moved past him until my elbow was level with his ear. I raised it again and rocked myself hard to my right, trying to catch his head in the triangle formed by my bound arm and the side of my body.
It took me three attempts, sweating and crying, but finally I had Septio’s head clutched close. I squeezed and rolled hard to my left. Not hard enough, for he cried out.
Once more.
“I am so sorry,” I whispered, and thrashed with such strength that I broke his neck. Then I could not free myself. I lay there with his body clutched close and wept a long while.
Later I realized I could no longer hear thunder outside. The tent, quite dim when I had first entered, was now dark. My elbow was still caught around Septio’s head. The smells of his death had long since eroded my senses. My body was so stiff and numb that I doubted I’d be able to move at all should Federo bother to free me.
Grief and betrayal warred in my head, so I fought them with the skirmishes of logic.
If Federo were a traitor, why send for me at all? He would have been safer with me forgotten across an ocean’s distance. I could play no role in the affairs of the Stone Coast from Kalimpura.
If the Dancing Mistress knew Federo was a traitor, heir to the old Duke’s magic, why did she not tell me at the first? Perhaps she had come across the sea despite him, to bring me back in hopes of finding some chink in his armor. I did not know whose wishes had prevailed, but I also did not think she had lied to me. Certainly she had not told all, but omission was not the same as deception.
We wouldn’t have spent so much time casting about Copper Downs on our arrival if the Dancing Mistress had known with certainty where the rot was. In point of fact, I had asked that we not go straight to the Interim Council.
Finding who had played whom false was a skein not easily unraveled.
I worried instead at the reasons anyone would have had to come find me. That I had no love for Copper Downs would have been obvious to all who knew the truth of my life. No one could expect me to set myself at risk for the city. They could not have known, after all, that the Goddess would command me as She did.
Or that I would obey.
That made me laugh, and laughter made me cry. The grief slipped back in unawares and broke down the armies of my logic for a while. The one small comfort it brought was that the spasms of my arms slipped me free of Septio’s head.
I would have kissed him again then, but my body would not move for all the money in King Pythos’ vaults of legend. I had no sensation in my arms, and my legs were like blocks of wood shot through with ants. A corpse could hardly have felt much less.
On my other side, it was easy to lie and cry awhile longer. In time, I tired of that. My tears helped neither Septio, who was beyond them, nor myself.
Everything came back to what I had been told. Some piece of the Duke’s magic was still missing. That I might be in possession of it seemed to be an idea fixed in the minds of both the Dancing Mistress and Federo. I was not magical. Not at all.
Unless it was similar to those splinters of grace scattered from the divine. Along with the balance of grace and evil that made up my soul, did I now carry a measure of the Duke’s essence as well? How could that be? The magic belonged to the pardines.
Federo had wrapped himself in their skin and gone hunting in their countries. That chilled me all over again. Looking for the missing portion that would seal him to godhood?
All thoughts circled back to Federo and the Dancing Mistress. They were the two partners in the original conspiracy that shattered the intent of the Factor’s training and set me on this path. A conspiracy to take the stolen magic from a once-human Duke and disperse it.
Surely the power could have settled in me. It had long since been grasped by a human hand, whatever the meaning and cost to the Dancing Mistress’ people.
My imaginings chased themselves long into the deepest darkness. I did not realize I had slept until thunder woke me.
Federo had returned. The Dancing Mistress followed close behind him, bound hand and foot with silver chains and walking with her head bowed low.
The traitor lit small braziers all around the edge of the tent. He called men to come and take Septio away, along with some of the carpets. That business put a sour look upon Federo’s face. He released our bonds, then ignored the Dancing Mistress and me completely while he set to cooking a small meal for himself, with tea and wine.
I did not know what he was about.
Neither did he, I realized in time.
Some small measure of hope stole into my drained courage with that thought. Whatever Federo’s plan, it had either failed or he did not trust the outcome. Otherwise he would have stood over me gloating once more.
The whole while the Dancing Mistress chafed my wrists and ankles to try to bring them back to life. We took the measure of one another with silent looks. A deep, wounded sadness filled her, so that I wanted to fold her into my arms until it seeped away.
I did not know for certain what she saw in me, but there was plenty. Love denied, betrayal of my own, death on death on death.
Our eyes held a long time; then I made my mouth give her the words “I love you.” Did I truly mean them? Even now, I cannot say. Back then, I thought I was going to die quite soon, and did not want to walk alone into the darkness.
She made a small kiss to the air. We both sighed. Then she set to kneading my arms, while I set to worrying more about Federo.
Eventually, he finished his meal and stood with an elaborated, false casualness. He perched upon his chair like a moody boy.
Whatever had taken hold within him over the years had slain the cheerful fop I’d once known. The old Federo was as dead as poor Septio. For all its raw power, the thunder rolling outside was the cheapest of stage tricks at the ragged end of a festival street. He had little left to threaten me with, having already taken my life. The actual dying would come soon enough.
I found I did not care so much what his game might be.
“Well,” Federo finally said.
The Dancing Mistress hugged my shoulders where I lay in her lap. There was no illusion of safety, but I was comforted nonetheless.
There seemed no point in answering him. The Dancing Mistress remained silent as well, except for her ragged breathing. Much too loud for one of her kind.
He leaned forward. “You would never have me,” he muttered. His eyes were tearful. “And I could never have had you.”
The latter was presumably addressed to me. I smiled as sweetly as I was able to.
“You, girl, carry something I need. You, woman, hold the power to take it from her.” His expression made my stomach lurch. “I
shall tear it from both of you.” He reached to one side, his back against the sky iron, and grabbed a long spear of the sort used by cavalrymen. It had been propped against one of the poles of the tent. The end was leaf-bladed.
Federo worked the spear around in his hand until the haft was mostly over his shoulder and the point directed at us. “A shred of the Duke still abides within you.” He slid the spear closer until the tip rested against my calf. “We shall find a way to let him out.”
He pushed slightly and tugged it sideways. The blade ripped open the leg of my trousers, leaving a deep cut in the skin beneath.
Sucking air between my teeth, I tried to fight a queasy rebellion within.
“I will cut them off you if you do not remove them,” Federo said in a lazy voice.
It was nearly worth the trouble to let him slice away at me-I might die quicker-but I found I could not let go of life so readily. My fingers were still wooden as I loosened my pants and tried to draw them off.
Bending my legs to slip free burned as if I had been stung by a nest of hornets. I gave up the effort, gasping.
“You do not have to do this,” the Dancing Mistress said quietly to me.
“Oh, she does!” roared Federo. A round of thunder rolled harsh outside. I realized it had been calm before, but not now.
Thunder, lightning… was he a storm god? I stared at one of the braziers and tried to frame my death prayer.
Braziers. I felt a cold shiver. Fire. I looked up at the Dancing Mistress. Yes, I mouthed. Then: I have a plan.
She seemed to understand my intention. That was sufficient. She helped me out of my pants-I swallowed a scream-before she went to work on my shirt.
“See, you know what I need.” Federo’s spear point settled against my back as the Dancing Mistress rolled me across her lap to free my arms.
The ant-bite pain was now everywhere. Which was good, I tried to tell myself. That meant I could feel all of my body. Nothing had gone dead from the ill-use.
What I felt was enough to make me wish some of it had. If Blackblood had been my patron god, he would have been drunk on sacrifice.
Soon enough, I was flat on my back on the floor, barely able to move. Well, I’d been there before. Never with an armed man leaning close, his face twisting with clotted emotion. “Keep that blessed point away from me,” I growled.
“Oh, this?” He dragged the spearhead along my forearm, raising a welt.
The Dancing Mistress bent her face close to mine. I could see questions in her eyes. They warred with regret. I could not tell her, though. Federo seemed to hear perfectly well even above the sound of his thunder. I did not even want to think about my intentions, for fear the set of my body should give me away like a fighter signaling her next blow in a bout.
So I lifted my neck and kissed her.
She kissed me back.
Good, I thought. Give him a show. Distract him.
I tried to hug her, but my arms were like clubs. Mostly I beat them against her back. She clasped me close.
Federo moaned. I risked a glance. He was not the Federo I had known. Whatever the god within him might be, it had taken him as the crab disease sometimes took those with the tumors inside their heads. All the worst of him remained, while the worth of him was gone.
Then the spear caught me a scrape across the ribs. I resolved that he would die tonight, or I would die trying.
My hands had come back to life. They prickled much as if I had been sitting on them awhile, but they were no longer half-dead vessels of pain.
Legs, I needed my legs.
I crawled back up to nuzzle her face. “Oh, please,” I moaned, “kiss my thighs.” My voice would have had the Lily Blades falling out with laughter, but Federo just echoed the moan.
He was as the rankest of boys.
Facing Federo as I sprawled on the floor, I ran my tongue across my lips. Mistress Cherlise had shown me a number of such little bits of playacting which would arrest a man’s attention.
The Dancing Mistress gripped my thighs hard and kissed me back and forth along the inner line of each leg, working down toward my knees. When she reset her grip to my calves and eased herself farther away, I nearly shrieked. Instead I rolled slightly to my left so Federo could see my right breast.
He wasn’t looking anymore. His eyes were closed, his back arched in his chair as he stroked himself very hard. Outside, thunder rolled almost continuously.
Now, I resolved, before he begins to think again.
I shoved myself to my knees and crawled as best I could toward the door and the satchels that had been dropped there much earlier. Mine, and Septio’s.
The Dancing Mistress rose to her feet to lean over Federo, occupying his vision a moment longer.
Catching at the strap of Septio’s bag, I spilled it open. A pair of small bottles, some spare stockings, breadcrumbs, a box of lucifer matches.
And three more of those paper packets of fire powder.
I had no way to know if these were smokers or exploders. I prayed for the latter as I shoved one into the brazier by the door, then crawled as quickly as I could to my left.
Federo began to call out sharply. Lightning crackled out of sequence to the rhythms that had so recently matched him at his pleasures, but what cut him off was the spew of red and black.
It had not seemed so prodigious out in the open.
The tent filled with smoke and a dry, burning smell. Federo threw the spear aside and jumped up. The Dancing Mistress tackled him from behind. I rose up on my knees and cracked Federo on the temple with my two fists clenched together.
That stopped him completely.
The smoke had become horribly thick. It cloyed at my stomach. Outside, the lightning stuttered and died with Federo’s fading consciousness. Nothing important seemed to have caught fire yet.
I was surprised to still be alive.
“Dress,” the Dancing Mistress hissed. Federo had brought her to me naked except for her chains, but she was already tugging at the tapestries and cloths in search of something to wrap around herself.
My clothes were stiff. I ached at the thought of having to pull them over my unwieldy limbs. Yet there was some chance we might escape, and I could see no profit in running naked into the night. My boots were with our satchels, so I slipped them on, then walked limping back to Federo.
Gathering my breath, unwilling to apologize, I leapt in the air and brought my weight down heels-first upon his chest.
I expected a wet, splintering crunch. Possibly some blood. Certainly a rough cough, followed by the bellows breathing of a man at the edge of death.
Instead I slid off him as if he were made of marble.
I fell painfully to the floor. The Dancing Mistress picked me up. “He cannot be hurt so. It is the aspect of the god upon him.”
“Federo would have had the decency to die,” I said quietly. “This is Choybalsan and none other.”
“Can you help me lift him?”
I did so, wondering how my blow to his head had affected him where the heels of my boots had not. Or was he like Skinless now, impervious to weapons but not to the hand?
We dragged him to the altar. She set about binding Choybalsan to the rough stone. Though we had little time, I had to know. I picked up the ridiculous spear, but could not drive it into his thigh. I stood close to him and pressed my thumbnail hard into the skin of his neck.
A red welt raised there as he stirred.
The Dancing Mistress was finishing her knots as Choybalsan came to himself. “Your death will be far worse now.” He almost spat the words. Thunder renewed outside in a rapid roll.
I leaned close to his ear, remembering the old words. “The life that is shared,” I whispered in Seliu, “goes on forever. The life that is hoarded is never lived at all.”
Nothing happened. This was how the death of the Duke had been completed, but the magic had hung in the balance longer than I thought possible. Sweat trembled on the tip of my nose.
&nbs
p; Choybalsan just laughed. The braying shattered the moment. “You are so close to the secret, but you will never find it.” He thrashed his shoulders against his bonds, but seemed more amused now than anything else. “Foolish Emerald. When I finally take your heart, you shall wish you’d let me kill you sweetly tonight.”
Stumbling, I dragged another brazier close to him. The one by the flap, which spat red and black smoke, was too unhandy.
Amusement fled his face. “No fire!”
“I’m not going to burn you,” I told him. I did not know what the other two packets held. If it was more smoke, he might suffocate. If it was another blast, so much the better. “Stop the lightning,” I told the Dancing Mistress.
She boxed his ears, very hard. Choybalsan was stunned again. Outside the thunder rolled once more to silence.
“Now cut open the back of the tent.”
The Dancing Mistress nodded, took up the long haft of his spear and stabbed at the tapestries until she was through them and into the skins of her people. She sawed back and forth for a minute or so, staying as far away as possible from the pelts. Finally she turned to me. “Done.”
I threw the last two packets in the brazier next to Choybalsan’s head. Then I stumbled toward my friend and lover. She shoved me through the ragged slit and followed me into the night. We ran across the open ground to the ring of burnt ground plowed by the lightning forks. The camp gleamed and guttered before us.
The tent exploded with a dull thump that hurt my ears. I stumbled and turned around, the Dancing Mistress catching at my arm. A fireball curled into the night air. It was already spreading to ragged tongues of flame. Part of the tent had collapsed. The rest was on fire.
All around us, a roar of voices erupted.
“Run,” she said. We struggled through the crowd, which washed past us like the tide.
I have never understood how we survived the next few minutes. A storm of spears and swords glittered around. I am not so easy to overlook, unless I am hiding amid shadow. Given that I stumbled like a bandy-legged drunk in company with a pardine through that camp, we should have been bright as a tomato in an olive barrel.