“Rot,” I swear, coming fully awake. Hagan’s eyes are open, but he looks confused. “Get up! I think—”
There’s a splintering crash as the door bursts inward. Early-morning sunlight pours in, framing black-clad figures. A half dozen of them line up, three on either side of the doorway. I get to my feet as a seventh strolls in.
“Gelmei Isoka,” he says.
He’s wearing lacquered black armor from head to toe, with a subtle inlaid pattern that glitters in the sun, a pair of swords hanging at his side. His helmet includes a drape of blackened chain mail in front of his face. The others are the same. They might as well have come off a printing press.
“Who in the Rot are you?” I say, standing naked on the sleeping mat, Hagan still crouched at my feet. But even as I say it, I realize I already know. I’ve lived my entire life in fear of this moment.
The Immortals have found me.
3
Their leader doesn’t respond to my question. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, chain mask jingling, and says, “You will come with us. Do not attempt to resist.”
“What about the boy?” one of the others, a woman, says.
“Bring him in for questioning,” the leader says.
Options, options. None of them good.
Nowhere to run. The back window is too small to fit through easily, and it only leads to the enclosed central yard. The walls are thin, but not thin enough that I can break them before the Immortals are on me.
Fight them? But these are Immortals, not street thugs. Every one of the seven could be an adept as powerful as I am. And if they’re here, they know about my power, so I have no advantage of surprise. I could try anyway, and probably die. Not necessarily the worst option.
I’m not getting out of this room alive and free, then. What happens if I go along quietly? Unclear. Maybe rape, torture, breeding-stock for some noble family. Maybe execution. Maybe, maybe. Not enough information.
What happens to Tori? There’s money stashed away, hidden against the event of my death. Secret letters with people I trust. Insurance. I’m not a fool. Can they find her? Only if someone talks.
Everyone talks, if you hurt them for long enough. But I’ll always have the option of dying. If I ignite my blades and summon my armor, I can always make them kill me, and then the pain will stop. Tori will be safe.
Hagan. He doesn’t know the whole truth. But he knows enough. I’ve gotten sloppy. Has he put the pieces together? Would he, when they’re pulling out his fingernails?
He meets my eye. It’s the same look he gave me in the gambling parlor, a split-second silent conversation. How are we going to play this?
He’s terrified. I can see it.
He’ll talk. He doesn’t owe me anything. He’s just someone I pay to back me up. I’ve made that clear, haven’t I?
My eyes say, I’m sorry.
I bring my left hand up, underneath Hagan’s chin. I turn my gaze to the Immortal leader as I ignite my blade. There’s a soft, wet sound, and a warm spray against my fingers.
Several of the Immortals take a threatening step forward. I dismiss the blade and raise my hands. Hagan’s corpse collapses with a thud.
The Immortal leader crosses the room in a few strides and slams his gauntleted fist into my stomach. As I double over, my face meets his knee on the way down, and I feel my lip split. I hit the floor, and a moment later the first boot slams into my side. Bone crunches.
* * *
This time, I don’t dream at all. Not even of Hagan.
When I wake up, I’m expecting pain. I’ve been beaten before, but never this badly. I think the Immortals had instructions to keep me alive, but I’d felt the sick-making crack of a snapped rib, and at least one of my fingers had broken where a stray boot had come down on it. So I open my eyes and keep absolutely still, waiting for the avalanche of agony.
It doesn’t come. I have to breathe in, eventually, and my stomach and chest feel fine. Not numb, just normal. I raise my hand, to look at my mauled fingers, and find them straight and perfectly functional. There are long, pink marks, like freshly healed skin.
Either I’ve been asleep for weeks—which seems unlikely—or there’s magic at work here. Ghul magic, the Well of Life, the Forbidden Well. I taste bile at the back of my throat.
The Emperor and his Immortals seek out all mage-born, for the good of the Blessed Empire, but none are so thoroughly policed as the unfortunates with access to Ghul. In the right hands, the Well of Life can do good. Ghultouched can calm a fever, ease a birth, or keep a cut from festering. Ghul talents can mend broken bones and close wounds. Ghul adepts, it’s rumored, can do almost anything—regrow missing limbs, change a person’s appearance, restore lost youth.
But they can be evil, or make mistakes, just like anyone else. And when you’re toying with such primal forces, disaster follows easily. Far to the southeast, where the greatest city in the world once stood, lurks the Vile Rot, a festering, cancerous testament to the dangerous combination of arrogance and command over life itself. Since that time, Ghul mage-born have been feared, shunned, and executed almost everywhere in the world. The Empire is only slightly more lenient—a few ghultouched, after extensive training, are permitted to operate at the fringes of society, and Ghul talents are taken into the Legions. Ghul adepts are always killed, however, and ghulwitches—untrained, unauthorized Ghul mage-born—are hunted down by the Immortals.
The thought of some rotspawn mucking around with my insides makes my stomach contract, and I have to suppress the urge to vomit. My skin crawls. I breathe deep and swallow hard, trying to assess the situation logically. The Immortals were clearly supposed to take me intact, so in all probability they’ve simply healed me after their snatch squad got carried away. It’s unlikely that they’ve seeded my body with fast-growing tumors, or given me a flesh-rotting plague, or—
Too much. I manage to roll over and push my hair back before I vomit, a thin, sour mix of wine and bile spattering the floor mat. Afterward, wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I feel a little better. Enough to take in my surroundings. I’m dressed in a light brown wrap, something a servant might wear. The room I’m in is small, just big enough for a sleeping pad, but the well-kept floor mats and plastered, painted walls tell me I’m not anywhere in the Sixteenth Ward. The door is open, leading out into a large sitting room, with cushions placed around a low table. The table is set for two, with decanters, glasses, and a bowl of oranges.
A door slides open on the other side of the sitting room, and a man enters. He’s slim, balding, dressed in gray, with circular wire-frame eyeglasses. Seeing me through the doorway, he gives a thin, humorless smile, and beckons.
“Ms. Gelmei,” he says. “Please. Come and sit.”
I get to my feet, a little wobbly. He crosses the room and sits on one side of the table, gesturing for me to take the other. I do, cautiously, and watch as he pours clear water into two glasses. No point in being paranoid about poison—if they wanted me dead, I’d be dead. I drink deep, washing the taste of vomit out of my mouth.
“Welcome, Ms. Gelmei,” he says. “I apologize for the way you were treated, but my operatives do not take kindly to a lack of respect. Your decision to silence your companion was … perhaps rash, although I must admire your cold-bloodedness.”
“Your operatives,” I mutter. My eyes go wide as I realize who I’m talking to. “You’re Kuon Naga.”
He inclines his head. “I am.”
Kuon Naga. Childhood companion of the Emperor. Widely considered the second-most-powerful man in the Blessed Empire. Head of the Immortals. Here, talking to me.
I can’t decide if this is good or very, very bad.
“What do you want with me?” I say.
He sighs. “I am a busy man, Ms. Gelmei. Please do us both the favor of not wasting my time. It would be best for you to assume that I know absolutely everything, and proceed on that basis.”
“All right.” I close my eyes, trying to decide how to play this.
Tori is all I can save. “I’m a Melos adept. And ward boss for the Sixteenth, though I doubt you care I’m a criminal. You’ve got me. What happens now?”
“I’m sure you’re aware that hiding the fact that you are mage-born is in direct contravention of His Imperial Majesty’s wishes, and thus considered treason.” Naga sipped from his cup. “Those taken as children are often spared, on the condition that they agree to use their talents to the benefit of His Imperial Majesty and the Blessed Empire. You are, unfortunately, too old for such clemency. Neither the Legions nor my Immortals would ever consider you reliable.”
“That sounds bad for me.” I give him a slight smile. “But you had one of your ghulwitches fix me up, so I’m guessing you’re not going to have me executed.”
“Insolence is the refuge of the weak.” Naga picks up an orange, delicately. His long fingernails slice easily through the peel, which he pulls off in neat strips. “You think yourself desperate, that you have nothing left to lose. I have men in my employ who could show you how very wrong you are.” He holds up the naked orange and pulls it in half. “There is always further to fall, Ms. Gelmei.”
I keep smiling, because it seems to annoy him, and reach for one of the oranges myself.
“But I suspect we will come to an agreement,” Naga goes on. “There is the matter of your sister.”
I fumble the orange. It hits the table, bounces onto the floor mat, and rolls away. I feel like one of Naga’s goons has punched me in the stomach all over again, but I try to keep my face still. He can’t know. He can’t know. “I don’t have a sister.”
Naga sighs. “What did I say about wasting my time?”
“I really don’t—”
“Her name is Gelmei Tori, and she lives in the Second Ward, in a house you pay for. She enjoys paper folding and dancing. Once a week, she visits the Painted Market, and lately she’s been meeting a boy to talk about how to address the problems of society. He’s been giving her books—”
“Stop.”
“Do I need to remind you how easy it would be for something to happen to her, Ms. Gelmei? She has no family, no protector, no one to petition the Ward Guard on her behalf. No one but you. If the alley she takes to the market happened to contain a gang looking for fresh meat for the brothels, who would know?” He separates a slice of orange, eats it with the delicacy of a bird. “There are clients who will pay well for highborn girls, or at least”—his mouth quirks upward—“convincing fakes. Have I made myself clear?”
I stare at the table as though the secret to saving Tori is hidden in the wood grain. So it had all been for nothing. All the work, all the blood, all the death. I’d climbed out of the dockside garbage heap one corpse at a time, lifting my sister over my head so she wouldn’t be stained by the filth. And for all the rot-sucking good it had done, I might as well have slit my wrists and left Tori to fend for herself.
Hagan had died for this, because I’d thought he might talk. I suppressed a hysterical laugh. They might not even have interrogated him. Why should they? Naga already knows everything.
I feel like I’m in free fall, my fingers scrabbling at a crumbling rock face, searching for a handhold. There has to be something. I want to scream, to break the table in half, to break Naga’s smug face. But I stop, because—
“You’re about to tell me there’s a way to save her.”
He arches a delicate eyebrow. “And why would you think that?”
I hold up a hand, and one blade ignites with a crack-hiss. The green light shimmers and gleams off his glasses.
“Because if you know so much about me, you know there’s nothing else I care about,” I say. “And if you tell me there isn’t a way I can save Tori, then there’s nothing to stop me from carving you apart like a rotting turkey.”
A pause. The crackling of Melos power fills the silence, green lightning arcing up and down the blade. The rush and heat of magic runs through me, giving me goose bumps. I’m so close to him. The slightest effort, and—
“You are quite clever, Ms. Gelmei,” he says, finally. “But I suggest you conduct yourself with a little more respect.”
“You want something from me. Given how careful you are with your time, I doubt you drop in on every prisoner to personally threaten to sell their family to a whorehouse.” I let the blade die. “You know I can’t refuse. So rotting well get on with it.”
A very slight smile. “As you wish, Ms. Gelmei. What do you know about Soliton?”
For a moment, I’m speechless, back in the Second Ward house with Tori. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.
“Soliton,” I manage after a while, “as in the ghost ship? The harborside spook story?”
“Yes,” Naga says. “That Soliton.”
I shrug, wondering how I ended up talking to the second-most-powerful man in the Empire about fairy tales. “It’s supposed to collect damned souls for oblivion. But it’s a myth, right?”
“We in His Imperial Majesty’s government have worked very hard to make that the general impression,” Naga says. “But Soliton is quite real, I assure you.”
“And it gathers damned souls?” I raise my eyebrows.
“In a sense. Soliton calls on the Empire roughly once a year. When it arrives, it collects a … tax. A cargo of young mage-born, including at least one adept.”
“It … what, sails in and demands them?”
“It waits for us to hand them over.”
“What if nobody does? Why would the Empire put up with this?”
“The port of Ghaerta, in Jyashtan, attempted to deny Soliton its due one hundred and twelve years ago. What happened is unclear, but the entire city burned to the ground in a single night, and the local garrison was slaughtered. Since then, to my knowledge, no one has run the risk.”
I shake my head. “This is ridiculous. You can’t expect me to believe that the Empire has been handing over its own mage-born children to a ghost ship for—how long has this been going on?”
“Since at least the time of the Blessed One. Five hundred years or more.”
I stare at him, wondering if it’s possible that he’s mad. He wouldn’t be the first Imperial councilor to go crazy.
“You don’t believe me.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I just thought you might want to have all the information.”
“You want to send me out as a sacrifice, don’t you.” It’s not a question.
“Of course. We’ve had you under observation for some time.”
“I’m assuming that the sacrifices don’t make it back.”
“No one has ever returned.”
“Now who’s wasting our time?” I shake my head. “You could have just tied me up and tossed me in a boat.”
“Correct.” The smug little half smile again. “We don’t want you to become a sacrifice to Soliton. We want you to steal it.”
4
“Steal it.” My voice is deadpan.
“Yes.”
“The five-hundred-year-old ghost ship that doesn’t exist.”
“It exists. And it is much larger and much faster than any vessel ever built by our own shipyards or those of Jyashtan.” He waves a hand. “I will not trouble you with politics, but the Emperor expects war against the Jyashtani within five years. Soliton would have a drastic impact on the balance of power.”
“Blessed above,” I swear. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“And how…” I pause, shake my head, and spread my hands. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Don’t bother. We have almost no information. There are people on Soliton; that is well established. We believe the sacrifices are not immediately killed, but as to what happens to them or who controls the vessel, nothing is known.”
“So what makes you think this is possible?”
“It may not be. But we judged you to be suitable to make the attempt. You are young enough that the ship will accept you, personally powerful, and have spent your entire li
fe working your way into a position of authority in a violent, degenerate society. And, of course, you can be properly motivated.”
“Oh, rot.” I stare into his cold eyes. “You mean if I agree to go, you’ll leave Tori alone.”
He blinks, and then actually laughs, a small, sharp bark of a sound.
“Oh no,” he says. “As you said, if we simply wanted you to go, we could force you to do so. Your sister is necessary in order to make sure you come back.” He leans forward. “Here is the deal, Ms. Gelmei, the only deal you will ever get from me. You will board Soliton. You have until it returns to the Empire—approximately one year—to assume control of it, by whatever method you can, and deliver it into our hands here in the harbor of Kahnzoka. For the next year, your sister will be unmolested. If you succeed, the two of you will be free. If a year passes, however, then rest assured Tori will suffer in some suitably horrific fashion. I hope that you don’t doubt my imagination in such matters.”
I’m having trouble breathing, and my heart is beating very fast. “That’s not … you have no idea if I even have a chance. You can’t hurt Tori—”
“I can,” he interrupts. “I will. This is not a negotiation. I am telling you what the consequences of your actions will be. If you dislike one of the possible outcomes, I suggest that you apply your talents to avoid it.”
There’s another long silence. Slowly, I get my anger under control. Naga just stares, inscrutable behind his glasses. He peels off another slice of orange and pops it into his mouth.
“I will kill you for this,” I tell him. “I don’t know how. But I will. I swear to you.”
He heaves a sigh. “Ms. Gelmei. Do you have any idea how many people like you have told me that? And yet.” He spreads his arms. “You may have to wait in line.”
Another pause.
“Nothing else? No further impotent threats to make? Very well.” Naga brushes off the front of his coat and gets to his feet. “My men will be here to transport you to the docks at sundown. We wouldn’t want you to be late.”
Ship of Smoke and Steel Page 4
