I catch myself, and take an extra large swig of my cocktail. The sour taste makes me wince, brings me back from maudlin reverie. Regrets are pointless. I was ten years old with no family and no relatives. If I hadn't sworn into Bond I would have starved or died in some forsaken orphanage. Caracassa not only saved my life, they gave me a life.
But how much more could I pay for it? How much more will they take?
I shake my head to clear it. I tell myself that there's nothing approaching proof here. Just a convenient theory that fits the facts. That makes me feel a little better.
Voids, there are dozens of Plutarchs who stand to benefit from the continuation of the war. Maybe they are dealing with the Gurta on matters I know nothing about. Stringing together a few unproven theories about a traitor is no reason to start suspecting your master of treason. I'm just angry at him because of Jai.
But then there's the matter of Gorak Jespyn. And there were the Magister's questions, back in Farakza. Why was he asking whether Ledo had ever spoken about a Gurta Minister?
Easy. He was asking me about Ledo because I'm affiliated with Clan Caracassa. If I had been skinmarked with the sigil of Clan Jerima, he would have asked me about Vem. Maybe they just suspect Belek Aspa of consorting with the enemy. Maybe they're just fishing.
The more I think about it, the more it comes apart. Ledo? Involved in treason? There are many more likely candidates than him.
But what about the look on his face? I can't ignore that. The look on his face when I asked him if he knew Belek Aspa. Surprise. Hatred. The threat that he would have my tongue ripped out.
He knows something.
And that's when I realise what I'm considering. What I've been trying not to admit to myself ever since that meeting with Ledo. I want him to be the traitor. Because if he is, then I'll kill him, Bond or no Bond. And then Casta will be Magnate, and she'll let me go to Jai. She'll let me tell him about the letter from the Dean, and about his father, and maybe then he'll come home and be an inventor like he always wanted. He can be with Reitha. And he'll be safe from the slaughter to come.
This is dangerous ground. I'm afraid to believe I'm even capable of this. But the only thing that's important now is Jai.
I'll find out. I make that promise to myself, as I see my friend approaching. I'll find out if Ledo's the traitor.
Keren saunters up casually, smoking. He sits down without a word of greeting, orders a drink from a passing handmaiden and gets one for me too. He looks as grizzled and dishevelled as ever, as if he's hauled himself out of bed to get here and is ready to go back there.
'Welcome back,' he says. 'Missed you.'
'Got a cigarillo for me?'
'You don't smoke,' he observes, drawing one from a carven scratchwood case and handing it across the table.
'Been feeling self-destructive lately.'
'Ah. There's a story.' He lights me up. I draw the hot, aromatic smoke deep down into my lungs.
'You want to hear?'
He settles back in his chair. 'Course I do. We thought you bit it at Korok, Orna. We thought you died.'
'I did.' Shadow Death, I add silently.
'Then I'm talking to a ghost? Huh. I guess those Banchu corpse-worshippers were right after all.'
I tell him everything, from the assault on Korok until now. Usually I'm a little more cautious with Keren. I know he trades information with others. But I need him to understand. I need to tell someone. And if a few anonymous rumours are spread about my master, well, fuck him. The bastard should have let me go get my son.
When I'm done Keren is on his third drink and I'm on my fifth, and the inlaid silver ash-pan has been replaced and is refilling with butts. He's got a lot to chew over.
'You're in a situation,' he says.
'Right.'
'And I just bet you need something from me,' he grins.
'Little help, that's all. Nothing big. Nothing dangerous.'
'I wish I could get my hands on the classified records you need,' he says, spreading his hands, 'but my connections don't go that high.'
'I just need you to help me find someone. I'll owe you.'
'You're good for it. Who's the lucky target?'
'Josta Kayd Reitha. Jai's lover. She works for the University of Bry Athka. She's a naturalist, gets posted around a lot. Might even be up on the surface.'
'Not a problem. Mind if I ask why?' He scratches behind his ear.
'He might have sent her letters.'
'They censor those things.'
'There might be a clue. Anyway, I need to see her. To tell her some things, so she can tell Jai later, if something should happen to me.'
'What's going to happen to you?'
'I don't know, Keren. There might be some… It might get dangerous for me.' I look away, blow a jet of smoke, tap the ash. 'It's just in case.'
He stares at me hard. 'You're going after him, aren't you? Even though Ledo's forbidden it.'
'I've not decided that yet. I just want to know where he is.'
'Right,' he says, oozing scepticism. 'So how are you going to find out? No, wait, don't tell me. You can't ask the twins to help; they're too close to Ledo. So you're going to Silverfish, right?'
I look around the bar, wary of being overheard. We're the only ones here. 'Let's just say the proper channels aren't really working for me right now. And I don't have time to wait and see if Reitha can be found, and if she knows anything. That's an outside shot at best. So I need to investigate other options.'
Keren tuts, sits back, starts massaging the silver spikes in his lip with one knuckle. Body language for this is a bad idea. 'You get tangled with Silverfish, you might never get out.'
'Oh, fuck that. It's all bluster and smokescreens. Nobody knows for sure if Silverfish even exists.'
'But we've all seen his fingerprints. Can't deny it.'
'I'm just saying, right now there's more fear than substance. If he's as good as they say, he can find my son. If not, well…'
Keren looks doubtful, but in the end he shrugs. 'Your call,' he says. 'You were warned. Hey, I ran into an old friend of yours a while back. You remember Ekan?'
'He's hardly a friend, Keren. I cut his hand off.'
'Yeah, well. Anyway, since Caracassa pushed him out of the legitimate trade, he's started selling poisons. Word is, he's discovered something of a talent for it. Some of the right people have started to visit him. Just thought you might want to know.'
'Appreciate it,' I say.
He leans forward. 'Listen, you come to me any time you need help, okay? I've got your back.'
I put my hands over his and grip them. Keren is a good friend. Sure, he'll want repayment in kind; he's always tallying up favours like that. But for now, when I need him, he's here.
At least there's one person on my side. I meet Nereith in a club in Coldwash, down among the alleys and lanes where the dockers work out their post-shift tensions in the bars and brothels. It's a shitty little dive, with peeling black walls and the air of an impending fight. Angry-looking men slouch in corners or sit hunched over drinks, conspiring with their companions. Everyone has blades, but nobody's showing them.
I'm wearing long sleeves to cover the emblem on my shoulder. Bond-marks don't attract too much attention, but announcing myself as Cadre would. When I arrive the Khaadu is already there, sitting at a table and watching the band play on the circular stage. Every man's eyes are on me as I walk across the half-empty room. It could be because they're all testosterone-swollen rapists-to-be and that anything with breasts would snare their attention in this dismal place, but I prefer to believe that I've still got it.
Nereith motions for me to sit and pushes a drink over. Naturally, he's picked my favourite. It's faintly worrying how much he seems to know about me.
The band are knocking out a bawdy version of an old work-song from my grandfather's generation, sung by two gravel-voiced women backed up by a calamity of percussion and a few strings. Nereith pays me no attention until t
hey finish up. Making me wait. When they're done, he turns to me and gives me a fang-laden grin.
'Good, aren't they?'
'They're not bad,' I say.
'Do you play?'
'Used to. Gave it up. Bad memories.'
'That's a shame,' he commiserates unconvincingly.
'Yeah,' I reply with an equal lack of conviction.
'I assume the reason you're here is because your investigations haven't gone very well?'
'You made me an offer. I've come to take you up on it.'
'You want Silverfish to locate your son?'
'That's right.'
He looks me over casually. It's only been a few turns since I've seen him but he's a different person now. He has power. He's an operator. He knows I need him.
'There's a shipment going out in three turns' time,' Nereith says. 'Bonecane. Lots of it. Jerima Vem is leaking that he's got powder on the move, but it's a decoy to try and catch Silverfish.'
'Again?'
'Vem's never been particularly original. The real bonecane is being transported in secret on a Caracassa barge. A pre-nuptial favour from Ledo. Silverfish wants the name of that barge.'
'What's he going to do with it?'
'That's his business. Don't you concern yourself.'
I study him for a moment. 'A few turns isn't enough to get the name. They keep that information sewn tight. I'd need to dig.'
'We know that Vem sent instructions to Ledo. We think the letter still exists. It'll be among his personal correspondence, in his private quarters.'
'You want me break into my master's private quarters?'
'If anyone can, it's you. You're Cadre. Trusted. You can get in close.'
I drink my drink. This is betrayal. This is no going back. And it's awfully tempting.
If there's evidence to be found that my master is a traitor, it'll be in his private quarters. Before I can act on my suspicions, I need the proof. Until then, I can't be sure. And I can't make a move until the matter is beyond doubt.
In those rooms could be the answers I need to save Jai. If Ledo is the traitor, and I can take him out without anyone knowing, then Casta becomes Magnate and my son comes home.
If.
But what if he's not the traitor? What if I'm wrong? I'll be selling his secrets to an enemy. Breaking the oath of Bond.
This is a decision I don't want to face. Finding Jai is one thing, but to go directly against my master's interests is another thing entirely. I've been put to the question. Where do my loyalties lie?
And I find I'm not sure any more.
I sit back, drum my fingers on the table. The band is playing some awful swinging folk tune. Nereith just stares at me.
'This is about that Gurta Minister you mentioned to me, isn't it?' he says. 'Belek Aspa. You asked the wrong people the wrong questions.'
I don't answer that, but of course he's right. Ledo must have thought I had been threatening him with the name Belek Aspa, that I was implying there was something dangerous I could reveal about him. He must have thought I knew more than I did. But that reaction alone tells me there's something worth finding. 'You can speak for Silverfish? You can make deals on his behalf?'
'He trusts me implicitly.'
He's very confident. I get the impression that he was downplaying himself considerably when he made his little confession about being a mere information-gatherer. He's a lot more important than he let on.
'I want a guarantee.'
'No guarantees, except my word. If your son is alive, Silverfish will find him.' He looks down into his drink, contemplative. 'If he's dead, we'll still find him. But nothing will happen until you bring me the name of that barge. I'm sure you know that we'll have to verify that intelligence before we fulfil our end of the bargain.'
'Fair enough.'
'Then we have a deal?'
I don't say it for a long while, but I'm just delaying the inevitable. I'd made my decision before I even came here.
'Deal.' I walk back through the Ashenpark to get to the mansions. It's not the smartest thing to do while drunk. The place is thick with den-runners at this hour, dealing bonecane to the addicts of the city. The joy of bonecane is that progressive use warps your limbs and eventually you end up a cripple. Everyone knows this, but there's no shortage of takers who can't resist trying it. Thinking that maybe they will be one of the infinitesimal minority who don't get hooked immediately. Thinking they can deal with it. Makes me wonder about people, sometimes.
The Ashenpark is near Veya's pole-turnward shinehouse, the Larimus. Its flat light pushes down on the stubby cliffs and slopes of volcanic ash, mingling uneasily with the deep red glow shining up from fenced-off cracks in the earth. I walk along paths that skirt bubbling mud-pools thick with bright fungi, past sullenly fuming geysers.
Suddenly it all wells up inside me again. The fear, the helplessness, the torment of conflicting loyalties. My husband is dead. My son may already be lost, and nothing I can do seems like enough. I left someone on the surface and part of me wants to go back to them, to throw everything up in the air and run, run, run, to a place where none of this matters. And my master, the man to whom I gave everything, may be the man I have to kill to save my son.
I feel something splinter inside me, and I feel like I could collapse. To lie down and never get up. Wouldn't that be sweet?
But I don't, because that's when they come for me.
They run in almost perfect silence, and that's how I know they're Ya'yeen. They attack from three directions: one along the path, one from behind, one springing down from an overhang. Long, slender needles in their long, slender hands.
Not just muggers. Assassins.
I'm drunk and out of practice, but the chua-kin training is burned into every fibre. I'm still worth ten of any normal victim.
Their attacks are near-simultaneous, but not quite. That provides me opening enough to dodge them. I roll out of the path of the plunging assassin, taking me beyond the slash of the one coming from behind and inside the reach of the third. I grab at his arm and strike, but he bends in my grip and slips away, twisting in a fashion that would snap the bones of anyone but a Ya'yeen.
I drop and kick backwards, finding the leg of one of them, but again their flexible joints suck up the blow and the result is not what I had hoped for. A wet hiss tells me I hurt him, though. It's a start.
Block, kick, feint. For a few instants I'm on automatic, letting my instincts do what they do and trying not to override them with conscious thought. Then one of them makes a foolish double-thrust with his needles, and I pull him forward so that he's off-balance, seize his head and break his neck. Even these bastards can't flex that far.
The other two spring away as if burned, facing me on opposite sides. I let their companion drop to the ground and step away, stancing to receive both of them. They're wary. They thought this would be easy. Someone didn't prep them well enough.
Ya'yeen are tricky to fight. Unpredictable. Their skinny, double-jointed bodies and sinuous fighting style mean it's like trying to grab a bunch of eels. They're quick, and they shift techniques all the time, never settling on anything. Making bizarre choices, attacking when they should defend. Their randomness is their greatest strength and their greatest weakness. You never see them coming, but they're prone to mistakes.
I stare into the eyes of my enemy: large, tear-shaped black holes in a narrow grey face, which is given definition and individuality by bone ridges on the cheeks and brows or along the skull. These Ya'yeen are wearing battle garb, skintight outfits cut to some design that means nothing to me. Undoubtedly significant to them, though. One of them has strips of material like belts or ribbons hanging from his limbs that trail artistically behind him as he moves.
They close in slowly, sinister dancers on the hunt, needle points carving out shapes in the air. They're communicating their intentions to each other with their movements. Co-ordinating.
My senses sharpen hard under chua-kin chants. Prepar
ing me for battle, loosening muscles, switching my brain to a higher level of alertness. The sensation of drunkenness fades and disappears. I can sober up in less than a minute when I have to.
Shouldn't have given me breathing space, I tell them mentally. I won't be so easy to surprise this time.
They come at me together, needles darting, seeking to puncture and pierce. They go for the eyes, the heart, the back of the neck. I'm not there. I drop, twist, kick out. They're fast too: my kick hits air, and I only just avoid having my ankle pinned by a needle.
I roll backwards, but they're striking even as I find my feet. A flurry of blocking follows as I retreat from the thrust and stab of four needles. Then I spot the weakness on their flank, my battle-keen senses picking up possibilities where an ordinary warrior would see nothing. I twist aside as they strike, catch one of the needles between the flat palms of my hand, break it.
Then I'm away, running towards a low cliff that rises up to one side of the path. Drawing my SunChild shortblades as I go. With only three needles to deal with now, I can press the attack.
They're close behind me as I spring up against the cliff and launch myself off it. They've seen the move coming but they're wrongfooted by the angle. A needle misses my belly by a whisper but I get a solid swing at the arm that held it, and take it off at the elbow.
The Ya'yeen squeals. The pain and shock has focused him on nothing but his own mutilated arm, and his guard collapses. I've put him between me and the last assassin, so I have all the time in the world. I hit the ground, spin on the ball of my foot and hack his head off.
The final Ya'yeen is the one with the ribbons and straps. He's barefoot, as they all were, balancing on his toes. Doubly wary now, but showing no sign of giving up. Ya'yeen aren't afraid of dying. Which is good, because he's going to.
I'd try to take him alive if I thought there was any point, but there's a reason people hire Ya'yeen assassins. You can't trace them back to their employers. Even if they did talk, nobody would understand them.
Besides, I don't need him to tell me who's trying to kill me. There's only one person who could have sent them. One person who knows I'm back in Veya, who can afford assassins like this and who has reason to kill me anonymously. His only mistake is that he underestimated me.
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