"It's a tense time and dressing up redirects people's anxieties. I need something to lance the boil, so to speak, and need it fast. The reception will serve many purposes, and the drinks will loosen many tongues. With what I've decreed in the city at large, the people will make their own festivities. Regardless of what Sareha's left behind, subversive elements have a hard time breeding when the populace isn't immediately discontented." Lussadh bolts the door. Her eyes fall, by accident, on the diptych Nuawa brings with her everywhere. The saturated colors that coat the canvas and make all else beside it seem bleached, thin.
"Statecraft sounds implosively complex."
"Implosive, yes. Complex, no—merely a matter of logistics. Much of it can be dealt with systematically; courtiers, ministers, and military officers are predictable in their own ways. Each average citizen may have unique concerns and impulses, but in the collective they are easily anticipated, like herd animals." She kneels behind the divan Nuawa occupies, putting her face level with the lieutenant's. "That includes me. My grandaunt believed that the king is above and apart, that the ruler is not integrated into the collective organ. In that, as in much else, she was incorrect."
Nuawa turns around and reaches over, hooking Lussadh's hair behind her ear. "You're no herd animal."
"No?"
"Too soft and wooly, and far too herbivorous. You're omnivorous in every sense, with a great preference for meat. Let me see." Nuawa snaps her fingers. "Vampire bats are social—"
Lussadh snorts. "You're comparing me to flying rodents?"
"Something grander, then. Certain seals are polygamous, and I believe certain tigers form harems around the most powerful member of the pack. That ought to suit you better."
"Now I'm an aquatic cow, then a large cat. Will your insults never cease?" She vaults over the divan, landing atop and loosely straddling Nuawa. "What will it be next, baboons?"
"Since I've got you on top of me, it appears insulting you ceaselessly leads to a most rewarding result." The lieutenant widens her eyes, one hand cupping Lussadh's hip. "Tiger it is—all carnivorous habits and glorious teeth and mighty claws. Which you can now demonstrate upon me ..."
And she is well enticed: it is hard not to be, with Nuawa lying soft and warm under her, one of Nuawa's knees sliding up between her thighs. To kiss that mouth until it swells. "Don't think I do not want to." She passes her hand down Nuawa's front, brushing over stomach, over breasts. "But the feast impends, and we must both prepare, keep our wits about us. You, my lieutenant, have a deleterious effect on mine."
The lieutenant laughs as they get up together, but quickly arranges her expression into one of mock solemnity. "Very well, General. Shall I go to the party as your bodyguard or your arm decoration?"
Lussadh clicks her tongue and straightens out Nuawa's collars. "You're no mere ornament." Her finger grazes a collarbone, its velvet invitation; she pulls her hand back swiftly before temptation can take hold of her again. Not everything she has said to the lieutenant is lover's flattery—there is a pull, one as elemental as magnetism. "Officially you'll be introduced as my new protégé, to be treated much as other glass-bearers are, though of course they don't know what the hyacinth means." To the public it serves simply as a mark of the queen's favor; the truth of the mirror is classified. "Commanders will wish to make your acquaintance. Captain Juhye particularly. Kemiraj's court will likewise seek your attention."
"To see where I fit in the hierarchy, how I might be utilized or circumvented."
"You've got a dim view of courtiers. Though not wrong." She holds up her fingers, ticking them off. "For comportment you've nothing to worry about, your table manners are elegant, your composure is total. Can you hold your liquor?"
Nuawa pours herself the lukewarm tisane a servant has left behind. She inhales the combined scents of tamarind and honey. "I promise not to faint into your arms or vomit on your shoes."
"I'll hold you to that. Because this is the first time in two years that I have returned to Kemiraj and the circumstances are unique, I will be going further than I usually do to draw people out. As much as I remind them that I'm no longer ..." Royalty, a prince, a king-in-waiting. "No longer what I used to be, habits are like religion. I remain unmarried; that leaves a vacuum."
"The real reason I cannot decorate your arm." The lieutenant's mouth twitches into a smirk. "Will I get to watch you flirt with beautiful women? Outfitted like butterflies, in brilliant dancing shoes, gazing longingly into your eyes. I shall hire poets to commemorate it."
"You sound absolutely entertained." Lussadh nudges the lieutenant lightly on the nose. "Keep going and I'll send some of those your way. There will be a variety—the daughters of ministers, newly minted officers, ambitious inventors and scholars. Perhaps you'll like the intellectuals best? No reason for me to hog all the attention."
"Major Guryin will be upset to miss this," Nuawa says, deadpan. "The event will be too exclusive for Penjarej Manachakul to show up, won't it?"
"The guest list doesn't include her name, so either she's living in obscurity or she is a prominent inventor but using an alias. But if she was prominent enough to rate Veshma's regard, I would have known of her—not too many Sirapirat in Kemiraj." None prominent, politically or otherwise. Sirapirat is considered provincial.
The lieutenant's expression flickers, for the tiniest instant. Then she says, "All to the good, General. As the only Sirapirat there, I shall be most exotic at the ball, and lovely women may drift my way despite everything."
* * *
The clothes arrive early, and despite Nuawa's reservations, her dress uniform is a perfect fit. Like the field uniform, it is in black, gray, silver. But the outer coat is layered, with wide, long sleeves that fall nearly to the ground, in the same style as the queen's brocade robes. No belt: instead a wide sash, pale gray, to pull tight across the coat. Moving around in it, Nuawa finds the sleeves close to impossible to deal with, though the width does hide the holster she straps to her arm.
On her part, the general does not bother with a uniform: she dresses simply as herself. The top half of her dress is a structured jacket that bares her throat and upper chest, foregrounding the hyacinth she wears on a pendant—the only symbol of her rank, other than the fact that she wears her weapons openly. The dress flows into a tapered skirt, slit nearly to the thigh. The entire ensemble is in oxblood, with accents of gold and silver. She limns her face in similar colors: bronze and russet on the eyelids, a perfect slash of kohl, a radiance of rose-gold across her cheeks. For her mouth, the absolute red of a desert dusk.
"You're much more exciting to look at than I am," Nuawa says, fulfilling her part of the script, the kind of compliment she is expected to deliver. "A war god."
"You are dashing. The dress uniform becomes you."
That is, in its own way, as staged as Nuawa's. She imagines running her fingers along the texture of what lies between them. By now it would be as frictionless as satin, and as much a product of artifice.
They exit the apartment, Lussadh's tall heels clicking on the floor and their echoes racing ahead. The architecture is not always the same: there are lanterns resting on thorned plinths that Nuawa hasn't seen before. The palace is alive, as the general has said, and difficult to memorize. Nuawa has tried to explore, and more often than not finds herself lost. She can always return to their suite, but most paths outward are shut to her, as though the palace will permit her to see only so much. But when she is with the general, all walls and doors part like eager lovers, without sound or hesitation. They never see another soul when Lussadh doesn't want to be seen, even though the palace must be staffed and inhabited by hundreds.
Broad skylights from high above let in flashes of brilliance. White flowers crackle through the perfect black of Kemiraj sky, their petals jagged and their stems like whips. It has been a long time since Nuawa has seen frostworks. The last time she did, she was going into a kiln. She remembers now that she was limp, half-sedated. She touches her mouth. It must
have been numb, bitter with the drug.
Lussadh leads the way into a wide corridor filling with the fresh-arrived crowd. At once the throng moves to give way to the city's lord. Nuawa follows Lussadh's wake into a tide of perfumes and zibeline silk, a hundred fluttering saris, scores of billowing hair-veils. Clockwork butterflies perch on necklaces and earlobes, wings fanning gently in rhythm to their wearer's breath. Jewelry snakes coil around wrists and forearms, thick lengths of silver and opals. Many of the guests opt for Yatpun brocades, though they keep the local predilection for paillette: a sleeve studded with pearl, a hem glinting with quartz.
The feast hall is larger than anywhere Nuawa has ever seen, larger than even the arenas in which she has fought and subdued leopards.
A herald speaks into their amplifier, "General Lussadh al-Kattan, Lord-Governor of Kemiraj, Commander-in-Chief of Winter!" They pause, either for breath or theatrical effect, before adding, "Lieutenant Nuawa Dasaret of Sirapirat, victor of the twenty-seventh tribute game, favored by the Winter Queen!"
The weight of attention that falls on her is sudden and comprehensive. Not even on the fighting floor was it like this, not even the tribute finale where she earned her hyacinth. Conversations cease and heads turn, and the silence that ensues is deafening.
Lussadh's hand brushes, gently, over her shoulder. Nuawa startles and draws a breath before she raises her chin, meeting the eyes on her with a short, sardonic bow and a sweep of her arm. Performance.
The pressure lets up after that, though she can tell there is more than curiosity in the gazes. They did not expect a Sirapirat at all, let alone a Sirapirat officer in her position. She is exotic, as she said to Lussadh, but in the way of exotic animals. An exhibit that has escaped its leash, and which must now be worked around or herded back into the cage. It is a new experience. Most of her life was spent in her native city, and she knows—as all do—that Sirapirat was the disgraced territory, black-marked for sedition. But in her work, it never mattered; her friends, managers, and contacts have all been Sirapirat. This open contempt, this disregard. Kemiraj is enemy territory for more reasons than its connection to the general.
She keeps a few paces behind Lussadh, the respectful distance of a bodyguard. This easily reduces her to an accessory and soon she is ignored while courtiers swarm Lussadh. Many of them are young women with scented, oiled hair and bright eyes and quick painted mouths. Like the rest, they wear heavy jewelry, clockwork pieces that whirr and drum and dance with tiny, pretty legs. Amidst them, Lussadh's clothes look ascetic. She lets the crowd lead her from food platter to food platter; she extends her wrist so a girl can perch a clockwork lizard on it, gives a low velvet laugh to someone's joke about the musician onstage plucking a qanun. By and by she settles in one of the many giant curtained birdcages that dot the hall, a fixture with a settee and a small table that quickly fills with plates of falafel, spiced olives, miniature ziva. The courtiers call for stronger drinks; more try to crowd into the cage.
Nuawa stays outside. By now the combined perfumes and colognes and hair-oils have grown as dense as smoke, and in any case Lussadh's suitors are liable to shove her out. So she stands by, watching fascinated as the general performs the part of the object. Something to covet, something to breathe in, her every utterance and exhalation waited upon. It is beauty that exerts this force of attraction, but more than that, it is power. The women that have alit on the general like moths believe that to breathe the air Lussadh breathes is to share in that, and to receive a touch from her fingertips—or the roundabout kiss of sipping from her wineglass—is a benison, a taste of possibility.
An older woman approaches. Even at a glance her importance is evident; she does not bother with the clockwork, the jewelry. Her hair is gathered in a long braid, sable and polished, but not so oiled that it runs the risk of dripping. Simple gold rings in her ears and a touch of bronze pigment on her eyelids and the center of her lips. She cants her head at Nuawa. "I'm Veshma, Minister of Commerce. By my reckoning, you aren't enjoying yourself. Is there anything I can do? Food more to your liking perhaps? I could have the musicians play something else."
Nuawa crosses her hands behind her back. "I'm here to guard the general."
Veshma puts her hand to her chest, in mock outrage. "You are not. You're here to be introduced to Kemiraj society, it's just that Kemiraj society consists of blind fools. Anyone with a functioning eye would've courted you as eagerly as they do the prince. That is, the general; pardon me. The clever ones would have pursued you with greater fervor than they pursue her, for you represent new opportunities, an unknown variable. Potentially you're much more available than General Lussadh."
She glances at the cage, meets Lussadh's eye briefly. The general gives an almost imperceptible nod. "I fear I would only disappoint. What have I to offer? I'm but a new lieutenant."
The minister clicks her tongue like a disapproving aunt. "You know exactly who and what you are. Captain Juhye was going to make your acquaintance, but he's held up by his own admirers." She gestures at a tall, spare man who wears the same dress uniform Nuawa does. He is surrounded by young men and has the expression of a trapped prey. "The palace can be an interesting place, if you have the disposition. Juhye doesn't. He is a soldier first and has come to his position by sheer hard work, not by playing games."
"And you, Minister?"
"I came to this post by tooth, nail, and blood." Veshma rubs at the back of her hand, finger lightly running over a thin bangle. She plucks a wine flute from a server's tray and offers it to Nuawa. "Some of the blood was not mine, but who is to quibble?"
Nuawa sniffs the wine and notes the acrimonious tint of a curse. She smiles and drinks regardless; the parasite will nullify whatever it is. "A sentiment many can sympathize with. Since you're the first at this party to treat me like a person, is there anything I can do for you, Minister?"
"No, no. It is what I can do for you that matters. Your impression of the palace should not be so poor. I must work hard to rectify it, by bringing you around to better company." The minister draws her toward the other side of the hall. "For a start, why don't we extract Juhye from that gaggle of nubile boys vying for his hand?"
"Assuming he wishes to be extracted. I am no judge of male beauty, but those appear comely enough." A selection of shapes and sizes: rotund or willowy, built like blades or hammers, faces long and gaunt or round and bright-cheeked. Whatever Juhye's tastes, there is one to suit.
"The captain is a private person and is already betrothed to a bride-to-be and a groom-to-be. I doubt he requires a third." Veshma advances, a vanguard in sari and anklets wading through the crush of young Kemiraj men. "Captain Juhye! Can we borrow you for a trice?"
He turns their way, looking immeasurably relieved as he excuses himself, smoothing down his battered sleeves without much success. They look as if they've been yanked on by amorous hands one time too many.
The captain stops a few paces from Veshma and Nuawa. He staggers, one arm hitting the tray of a passing servant. A samovar crashes; cups scatter and dash, glittering, on the floor. Juhye falls to his knees.
Nuawa starts forward, then stays. If it is poison, perhaps the same she just ingested, there is nothing she can do. From the other end of the hall a palace chiurgeon is running and the general rising from her birdcage, shaking off her admirers. One of Juhye's darts toward him, crying out his name. Someone else shouts for help, and someone's child—dragged unwillingly along to the reception—tugs at their guardian's skirt and begins to whine.
Subsequent minutes dilate.
Human cognition imposes patterns, seeks the familiar in the strange. To Nuawa it seems as if an oneiric vision has spontaneously taken over her, and there is a burst of geometry where Captain Juhye should be. A tree made of glass has sprouted in his place, branches tipped in yellowed teeth, knife-edge leaves draped in guts. In the hyper-focus of this moment, she hears withheld breaths, shuffling feet, and the peculiar, distinct noise of flesh ripping from skeleton, a liberat
ion of fat and ligament.
Then the smell. The steam of hemorrhage in the air, the stench of bladder and bowels letting go.
One of the guests howls, a raw animal sound, and falls. They erupt. A bright faceted explosion, as though an artwork has been honing itself inside human sheath all this time, biding for the perfect, exquisite birth. Vertebrae snap and give way to silicate; glass cracks and splinters under the stress of breaking free from cartilage and cranium. An uneven stalagmite stands where seconds ago there was a person clad in silk. Dewdrops of lymph and blood quiver on the milky crystal, oozing sluggishly down.
Five
When all is said and done, three people turned to glass at Veshma's party. Captain Juhye, a district judge, and a thaumaturge from the Ministry of Interior. Lussadh reviews the pertinent intelligence reports. They were all part of her own coup against Ihsayn; none were suspected of colluding with Sareha.
"Sareha's revenge from the grave." Lussadh turns over the metal kaleidoscope that holds a piece of what used to be Juhye. The fragment of glass revolves within the canister, suspended by charms of sealing and containment. The palace thaumaturge has found nothing in the remains. No trace of witching, no lingering grudge. It is just glass, as ordinary as any windowpane. "What do you think, Ulamat?"
"I'm thinking that I should have learned thaumaturgy, my lord." He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "I never did have any aptitude. But I would have been much more useful for you if I'd persevered."
"We have thaumaturges. None of them is any good at intelligence work. I'd rather have one of you than twenty of them." She folds her hands and leans back in the seat. They are in one of the boardrooms she uses for private audiences, the small necessary meetings that are free of pomp, sometimes conducted in the deep of night. As this is now. The feast is hours behind, the guests sent home pacified with reassurances that the Lord-Governor has everything in order. By morning the news will have spread like wildfire, whatever their efforts at rumor control. "Possibly a delayed curse, but the timing was perfect, wasn't it?" Juhye's teeth strewn on the immaculate floor, a few caught in table drapes, one swirling in a cup of chilled ouzo.
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