by Rachel White
"If Hesse were here, he'd be encouraging Naravi," said Rallis bluntly. "That's part of the problem."
"Oh? What's the other part?"
"Faida." Young and fierce and self-righteous, entitled, charismatic. If it were something as simple as young love, Rallis wouldn't worry so much, but Naravi didn't love Faida—he worshipped him. "He thinks he's immortal. Naravi is starting to think the same. Faida likes playing dangerous games, and he's bringing Naravi along with him."
"I was going to talk to you about that. Do you think we should speak to the Tlirrs about arranging a marriage between them? They seem quite devoted to each other."
"No," said Rallis immediately. The idea was akin to putting a stick of explosive drunn in your bed to see what would happen. "They're eighteen and fanatic. Either they're going to have a falling-out soon, or they're going to get themselves killed by the Jevites. Whichever it is, I doubt they'll be speaking to one another by the time they're twenty."
"I expect you're right." She sighed, combing her fingers through her hair in a gesture of idle thought. "It's a shame. I was hoping it might settle him down a little."
"He'll never be settled," Rallis told her.
In bed that evening, he turned over the events of the day in his head. It wasn't what he should have been doing—Naravi was the pressing issue, but Rallis couldn't concentrate on figuring out how to make him see reason. His mind was taken up by the thought of Lieutenant Taarq and the misery that was Rallis's new future. Once a week. It might as well have been an eternity.
Chapter Two
The following day, he went back to the north garrison to meet Lieutenant Taarq. They had arranged to play in the evening, taking into consideration Lieutenant Taarq's schedule and Rallis's need to be back at the motherhouse before the twentieth hour. When he arrived at the garrison, the legionnaires on duty gave him suspicious looks but let him through when he told them he was Lieutenant Taarq's guest.
Perhaps they had cause to be suspicious. Just that morning, a bomb had been discovered in the foundations of the new Exalted temple. Planted by Adesi rebels, a mason had noticed it and contacted the legion before it had exploded, but the message was still clear.
And Jev would respond. No doubt the Suulsen was already coming up with new rules.
He reached Lieutenant Taarq's door and knocked lightly. There was a pause, then the door swung open and Lieutenant Taarq smiled out at him. As before, he was dressed in an officer's uniform, their everyday costume and not the elaborate thing they wore in formal ceremonies. Its high collar and green edgings accentuated Lieutenant Taarq's sharp features, the health of his skin, his pale eyes. He was unexpectedly handsome, and his smile seemed sincerely kind. It made it worse, somehow.
"Please, come in." Lieutenant Taarq stepped back to let him enter. Behind him, the khas board was already set up on his desk, along with a teapot and a pair of cups. The sky through the small window on the far side of the room was a heavy blue speckled with stars. Light from a set of lamps against the north and south walls bathed everything in a warm orange glow. It wasn't a large room, but it was clean and organized and homey. As clean and organized as a prison cell.
Rallis obediently took the seat across the desk from Lieutenant Taarq and looked at the khas board before him. It was a new one, clumsily made by someone unfamiliar with the game. Rallis's own board was the product of a true master, passed down to him by his father, who had inherited it from his own father in Jev. This board was scuffed and battered, the tiles separating, the corners splintered. The pieces, too, were inferior, misshapen tokens like a child might make out of clay.
Lieutenant Taarq noticed his inspection and laughed and said lightly, "It had a rough trip from Jev, I'm afraid."
"It's fine. Will you play first?"
"We can flip a coin." Lieutenant Taarq produced a silver Jev coin from a desk drawer. One side was an image of the Jevite citadels; on the other side was the sign of the Exalted. He hesitated and held it out to Rallis. "Do you want to?"
"You can."
"Will you call?"
"The citadels," Rallis said. Lieutenant Taarq gracefully flicked the coin in the air with his thumb, catching it and setting it down on the tabletop, his gloved hand covering it. When he pulled away, the sign of the Exalted—a hand with Jevite runes around it—stared out at them.
"I'll play first, then," Lieutenant Taarq murmured. He looked quickly at Rallis. "Is that all right?"
"I called and lost. It's fair." Frustration seethed in Rallis's stomach, and he struggled to keep it out of his voice. "We should start soon." If he were late returning to the motherhouse, he'd have to rouse the servants or sleep on the street, neither of which pleased.
"Of course," said Lieutenant Taarq again, picking up a piece and holding it thoughtfully above the board. "Rhagen kel."
"Rhagen lev," said Rallis, setting his own piece adjacent to Lieutenant Taarq's.
So it began. Khas. He had loved the game when his father had been alive. They had played together as a way to be close, though it quickly became obvious Rallis was by far the better player. He had won his first game against Orun at ten, but Orun had been delighted, not angry. After that, it had been a precious thing they shared.
It came from a time before Adesa or Jev, before the arrival of the Exalted and the creation of their grand citadels. They had played khas in the ancient society of Uranya a thousand years prior, and the rules had hardly changed in the time since. It was a strategy game, focused mostly on collecting territory through the use of small markers called unnae that you moved around the board. Different unnae could be used in different ways: combined, transformed, or eliminated as it suited the player.
Rallis's own play style was aggressive and forward. Lieutenant Taarq's, it quickly became obvious, was much more prudent; he was cautious in his choices and slow to take action. Each of his turns lasted three times as long as Rallis's, for he thought about everything, holding his piece above the board, beginning to set it first in one spot and then another. He put far more consideration into his actions than Rallis ever bothered to do.
"I'm sorry," he said, partway through the game, smiling a little wryly. "This must be extremely tedious for you."
"It's fine." In truth, it was so tedious Rallis wanted to pull his teeth out. The air was hot and stuffy and made his head ache. In the small room, huddled together over a khas board, he could smell the scent of Lieutenant Taarq's body, pleasantly clean and soapy with a faint touch of some kind of spice. Something that edged dangerously close to desire pulsed through Rallis's body whenever he caught the aroma, making his stomach churn. Anger and shame were vicious siblings inside him. He focused on the board, laying his unnae down hastily, almost erratically, desperate for the game to be over.
And despite everything, despite his haste and Lieutenant Taarq's consideration, Rallis was significantly better. At half-past nine, when the game was finished and they had counted up the score and cleared the board, Lieutenant Taarq laughed.
"That went poorly. Still, I enjoyed it." He paused, and his pale, uncanny eyes searched Rallis's face. "I get the sense that it was much less enjoyable for you than me."
Cold fear seized in Rallis's chest. "I—"
"It's all right. It's perfectly understandable. Really, I shouldn't have asked. I put obligation on you that wasn't fair." He ducked his head in a bow. "You don't need to come back next week. Consider the obligation dismissed."
Reflex made Rallis bow back. "Fine," he said, uncaring of rudeness. "If you say so."
"Thank you, though," Lieutenant Taarq continued. "I appreciate you doing this."
"Fine," said Rallis again, and then, coming to his senses quite suddenly, "You're welcome."
Other Jevite officers would probably have taken offense toward Rallis's attitude, but Lieutenant Taarq was as pleasant as ever when he walked Rallis out of the garrison. Though it was hard to be sure, he seemed to have meant it when he dismissed the obligation, which made no sense whatsoever. It was
n't as though he needed to consider Rallis's feelings, and Rallis couldn't see what benefit there was for Lieutenant Taarq to release him—but there must have been some benefit, otherwise why do it?
He didn't have an answer, and that was worse than anything. More unsettled than he had been in months, he hurried toward the motherhouse, looking forward to collapsing into bed and hiding himself from the world, at least for a while.
But partway home, a voice hailed him. "Rallis Yy! It's been ages."
He turned. Ivven Gyl was standing in the doorway of a nearby tavern, waving at him. When their eyes met, Ivven came forward to greet him. He was a friend of Rallis's friend, the never-married younger son of a branch line of House Gyl, a drunk and a leech and a wastrel but good-natured, clumsily friendly. There was no way to avoid him without making a scene. All Rallis could do was endure it.
"Rallis," said Ivven again when he reached Rallis in the street. "How are you? I don't think I've seen you in months."
His voice was uncomfortably loud. Though the hour was late and the street deserted, Rallis still found himself wincing at the idea of being overheard. "It's been awhile," he agreed, pitching his words low and hoping Ivven would follow.
"What are you doing out here? Have you had supper?" Ivven gestured expansively toward the tavern behind him. "Come, eat, you won't have to worry about money. I know the barkeep."
Rallis pasted on something that hopefully passed for a smile. "I appreciate the thought, but I should be returning to my motherhouse. It's getting late."
As though to mark his words, the bells in the nearby temple rang to signal the quarter hour. He had fifteen minutes to make it back to the motherhouse before the gates were locked.
"Of course." But Ivven didn't go back to the tavern. His expression was drunkenly intent. "What were you doing out?" he asked again, apparently sober enough to recognize that Rallis hadn't answered the question.
Rallis fought back a sigh. "I was meeting an acquaintance."
"Ah."
There was something discomfiting about Ivven's tone and the sly, knowing look on his face. He leaned in. "Are you part of them?"
"Of what?"
Hesitation. Rallis didn't like it. Ivven's drunk mind was turning something over, picking its way toward an answer to the question, but Rallis didn't want an answer. He didn't want to be part of this conversation at all.
Finally, Ivven spoke. "The…you know. You've heard of it, right? The—" He leaned in conspiratorially. "The rebels."
"What?" Rallis stumbled back, heart pounding in his chest. At any moment, Jevite legionnaires might patrol by, and if they so much as heard the word rebel—Nur's heart, it didn't bear thinking about. "No! Of course not. What are you talking about?"
Ivven glanced around the empty street. "The rebels," he repeated, and Rallis thanked Nur he had managed to control his voice for once. "I thought… You're not involved?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"Ah. Well, neither am I." Ivven laughed. Behind him, the door to the tavern opened, light spilling out onto the cobbled road, the sound of laughter and faint music pouring out for a moment before it was cut off. Into the silence, Ivven said, "So you have heard about them?"
"The rebellion?"
"Who else?"
"I've heard rumors about them. I have no interest in learning anything more. Good night, Ivven," said Rallis, stepping back. "I need to be back at the motherhouse."
"Of course." Ivven was distracted by more interesting pursuits in the tavern. He clapped Rallis on the shoulder. "Good to see you, lad. You look more and more like your father by the day."
He meant it as a compliment. It hurt anyway. "Thank you," Rallis said, extracting himself from Ivven's grasp. "Take care."
He waited until Ivven was back inside the tavern before continuing on. It wasn't the first time he had heard rumors of a rebellion, but it was the first time someone had spoken of it so openly, as though it were fact that rebels existed and not just something to be passed from one ear to another. And he thought Rallis might have been involved…
A little over a year ago now, Jev had arrived, descending from their floating cities with flying machines and weapons that sent invisible pulses through the air and rendered you dizzy and nauseated and reeling when they weren't punching holes straight through you. Their trained soldiers—the Jevite legion—had marched into all of Adesa's cities at once, subduing Adesa in days. Their officers had lied to the All Council, lured them into a trap and murdered them and paid nothing for their actions. Rallis's cousin Hesse had been part of the last resistance against them seven months ago, committing all his efforts, his strength and his courage and his clever mind to shattering Jev's hold on Adesa, and he had accomplished absolutely nothing. A Jevite officer had killed him as easily as swatting a fly.
And yet people were still fighting. The idea made Rallis as sick as if a pulse had hit him. It was already so hard, living under the Jevite rule; a new rebellion, more fighting, more deaths, would only make things worse. Soon Jev would give up the last pretense of friendliness. They would subjugate the Adesi completely—or perhaps just kill every single one of them, for they didn't actually need the Adesi at all, just Adesa's land and resources. They would kill Naravi. They would kill Miana. Lieutenant Taarq would shoot Rallis in the face with that same placid demeanor, gently, apologetically, obeying the orders from his Empress.
Rallis reached the motherhouse just as the bells were ringing twenty, slipping in through the gate before it was barred. His hands were trembling. He changed for bed immediately, but though he was in bed by half-past the hour, sleep was a long time coming.
Chapter Three
As a boy, the weekly visit to market had been one of Rallis's favorite things. His parents had taken him out, him riding on his father's shoulders, his mother walking placidly beside with her basket and purse, and he had reveled in the excitement, the bright colors, the shouts of the vendors, the delicious smells from the cooking stalls, the endless things to look at and touch and buy. Though his mother worried about money, his father always convinced her to get Rallis some small gift at market: a new toy, a scarf, a sweet. After his parents were done shopping, they would walk home together and return to the motherhouse just in time for the midday meal. It had been a soothing, strengthening experience.
It was different now. The cheerful atmosphere had been replaced with a strained courtesy brought on by the presence of Jevite legionnaires patrolling among the market-goers. Rallis, older, more experienced, was more aware of his place in Adesi society, his status as a branch relative in the eyes of those who knew the Yy family—which was most people at market—and how his face and coloring marked him unmistakably as half-Jevite. And his parents were gone. Now his companion was Naravi, who was neither soothing nor strengthening.
"It's hot," said Naravi pettishly, for the third time that morning.
"You already said that."
"Why did I have to come along? The servants could do this. Iayan—"
"And they do," said Rallis, interrupting him, "but you need the experience. If they have a problem at market, it becomes your problem. You need to know what it's like to visit the market in case there's trouble when you're the Hand."
Naravi made a rough noise in his throat but subsided into sullen silence. It was the mention of his future position as Hand that quieted him. He was scared and resentful of the responsibility, avoiding the subject whenever possible, and to have it thrown in his face galled him. Though the role wouldn't pass to him until he came of age at nineteen, he was woefully unprepared for what it would entail. Rallis, who had taken on many of the Hand's duties after Hesse's death, had a little under a year to get him into shape. That wasn't an exceptionally long time.
And he needed as much time as possible. The Head was outward facing, responsible for her House's standing in the eyes of society and its interactions with other Houses. The eldest daughter of a House became the Head after her mother died or passed on the responsibility. It w
as Miana's role, and a hard one, and Rallis didn't envy her the task, but at least Miana's personality was suited to it. She wore the authority like it was tailored for her.
Naravi was not suited to be Hand. The Hand—the eldest son of a House—was inward facing and took care of the motherhouse itself: coordinating the servants, overseeing the upkeep of the home, and keeping peace between the members of the family. It was a role that required a calm temper and a reasonable, practical mind, able to assess problems and find solutions, none of which described Naravi even slightly. He was passionate and defiant and very proud. No one would put him in the middle of trouble and expect him to fix it. But Adesi society decreed that the eldest son was Hand, and Hesse's death had passed that mantle onto Naravi. He didn't seem to want it more than Rallis did. They would both have to make do.
In truth, they probably didn't need to go to the market—usually the Adesi-ren servants at the motherhouse took care of the shopping, as they did the other chores. And though Rallis had been telling the truth when he said that Naravi's role as the Hand would put some obligation on his shoulders, it wasn't that likely that he would ever need to actually argue with an irate merchant himself. But he had been distant lately, usually out with Faida Tlirr, reclusive when he was actually at home. Miana was worried. They could all see him pulling away from the motherhouse, too quickly and drastically.
Rallis could sometimes make him talk, in good moments, and had hoped the outing would be an opportunity to reconnect with Naravi, but Naravi was sour and petulant, obviously frustrated by the whole thing. He complained constantly and dragged his heels like a child. Only sheer will kept Rallis from marching them both back to the motherhouse and ending the ridiculous debacle.
Around them, the market churned with activity, as Adesi and the occasional Jevite bartered and argued over the goods for sale. "It's loud," said Naravi eventually, drawing closer to Rallis to avoid two men shouting over a cut of meat. "I hate crowds."
