by Phil Tucker
Asho raked his fingers through his hair and sat on the table's edge. He gazed around the abandoned overseer's office with curiosity, taking in the stout wooden furniture, the empty weapons rack, the bare cupboards and desks. "Yes, but I want you to live long enough to enjoy the fruits of our work."
"Live for the moment," Zekko said, then froze as he dug his thumb into a mass that crunched under his skin, his whole body tensing until he sighed with release and relaxed once more. "Damn bug light powder keeps forming into crystals." He looked over at Kanna. "Did I tell you that story? How Enderl Kyferin himself healed my legs by spilling buglight into the wounds, cauterizing the flesh?"
"Yes," said Kanna, moving to the door and cracking it open to peer out into the hall. "Twice now, and I'd already heard it before. Everybody's heard it."
"Yes, well, it's a good story." Zekko resumed kneading his thighs, apparently not put out by her tone. "And it makes it easier to accept the pain."
"What is it?" Asho moved up next to Kanna. "Did you hear something?"
"No. Not yet." She glanced down the empty hall and then closed the door again. "Nobody out there. Just as it should be." She hesitated, searching for a lock or crossbar, but there was nothing there, so she simply crossed her arms and turned to lean against the door. "We're pushing our luck."
Zekko shook his head. "Mikho won't do anything. It's too risky. The backlash could ruin his movement."
Asho returned to the table and sat on its edge again. "Shaya's movement."
Kanna snorted. "She might think so, but everyone else knows different."
"Do they?" asked Asho. "I've heard that she speaks more than he does."
Zekko sighed. "I sent a message again asking to speak with her. She said there's nothing left to discuss."
"And there isn't," said Kanna. "She's smart enough to know that there can be no reconciliation. One side must win, the other lose."
Asho rubbed his fingertips across the old wooden surface of the table, then dug his nail under a splinter and began to pry it free. "And who do you think is winning, Kanna?"
"In terms of numbers?" Kanna looked exhausted, and no wonder. She'd been sleeping just a handful of hours each night; she was always on the go, networking, speaking, cajoling. "She is. By my last count, we have five cohorts on our side. Shaya and Mikho have perhaps eight, with the remaining fifteen yet to declare. But my friends tell me that a large block may be about to break for Shaya."
Zekko smiled grimly. "Your friends don't have the latest news. I met earlier today with a number of elders. Shaykho brought them, men I barely know from the Third Shift. My whole life, they've worked while I slept, but they came. We exchanged words and reached an understanding. I meant to tell you, Asho. We're to speak to delegates from four whole cohorts in two days' time. If we can finalize the understanding, they will break for us."
Kanna pushed off the door. "You tell us this now? Which shifts?"
Zekko laughed. "I'm getting old, Kanna. I meant to tell you both when we met up, but we were rushing. Which shifts? Akkho, Oshina, Khanto, and Jhasso."
"Akkho, Oshina..." Kanna trailed off. "Those are the largest shifts from the third. If they break for us, they'll bring with them another four or five of the smaller ones."
"Wonderful news, isn't it? I was quite proud of myself. Khayya told me I was insufferable for a good hour."
"This isn't my revolution," said Asho, grinning. "It's yours! Father, you're making it happen!"
He laughed and hugged Zekko, then turned and hugged Kanna, pulling her into an embrace without thinking about it. She hesitated, then closed her arms around him as well. They'd not touched, not like this, ever. She smelled of mining dust and sweat and something else, something that impregnated the pillows she'd given him and her blankets, a smell that was all her own. She was wiry and tough and her hair tickled his nose and he became supremely aware of her breasts pressing against his chest.
With a cough, he stepped back, blushing and feeling like a complete idiot. He avoided her eyes, knew she was grinning at him, and turned to face his father, who was watching with one eyebrow raised. By the Black Gate!
"Well. Good. We just need to give a good speech, then, and we should have the majority."
Zekko smiled again. "And don't you worry. I should be able to last a few more days."
"And Shaya? What will she do? Do you think she'll try to return to her warlord?"
Zekko's smile faded away. " I fear she won't give up. She'll argue till her kragh are battering down the walls of Abythos." He shook his head. "Khayya worries about her every night. As do I."
That was a problem Asho couldn't solve: how to bring his sister back into his orbit, how to change her mind. She was impassioned, painting vivid accounts of the kraghs' innate sense of justice and fairness, extolling their Wise Women and their spiritual nature, their respect for each other and their reverence for the natural world. There was no dissuading her, he knew. Not a chance.
The office door opened. Lakho, the man who was to guide them to the surface, fell forward, face bloodied, hands tied behind his back. Behind him stood a group of Ennoian guards holding short swords. Asho recognized their leader right away: Andris.
Kanna skittered away from the door to Asho's side, and Zekko swung his legs down, but Asho knew it was no good. Hope died before it could even flare in his chest. He was without his blade, and the confines of the office were such that he'd not have been able to fight effectively even if he'd had it.
Andris grinned, showing broad, strong teeth. "It seems our source was correct. Conspirators, and a certain special someone. You three will be coming with us."
Only three of the other guards had entered the room, the others being forced to remain in the narrow hallway outside. All of them were tensed up, and Asho knew they were ready to fight from the way they were breathing, how they were standing on the balls of their feet, from the loose, dangerous way they held themselves.
"And if we decline?"
Andris made a face of mock dismay. "Now, what makes you think that was a request? It's an order, slave. Get over here."
Zekko levered himself to his feet, a crutch under one arm, holding the back of his chair with the other hand. "Who sent you here? Was it Mikho?"
Andris turned to the man to his left. "Will you look at that? These Bythians think we're here to chat."
Then, before Asho could react, Andris took a step forward and kicked Zekko's crutch out from under him. Zekko fell, hissing as his legs twisted beneath him.
There was no time for thought, for calculation. Asho leaped forward, a cry of wordless rage erupting from his mouth. His attack was clearly expected, because three blades swung at him. He managed to dodge one blow by contorting himself at the last moment, but the flat of the second and third connected with his shoulder and ribs. He heard something crack, and his breath exploded out of his lungs.
A fist was buried in his gut, and a second rocked across his jaw. He heard Kanna scream in anger, then in pain. Asho blocked a third punch more by luck than skill, and lashed out with his foot, smashing it into somebody's knee, but the fight was over. He took a blow to the back of the head, dropped, rose, and then something cracked against his temple.
He went down and didn't get up.
Pain. Thudding, nauseating pain.
Asho woke up by slow degrees, blinking blearily. He was manacled to a wall. A single candle flame shone in the dark but illuminated nothing. It simply gave the darkness around him texture.
He could hear rasping breath to his left, coming from a familiar shape, little more than a shadow. It was his father, chained to a chair.
"Father?"
No response.
"Father!"
Nothing. Zekko was out cold.
Rage surged up, pushing back the worst of the pain, and Asho threw himself against the manacles. They rattled, but there was no give. They were cruelly tight around his wrists, and the chains attaching them to the wall were only six inches long.
Asho closed his eyes and forced himself to inhale slowly. Control. Master yourself. They've kept you alive. That's good.
A door opened in the darkness across from him, and dancing crimson light flared in the small cell. Mikho entered bearing three candles on a simple wooden candelabra. He set it on a shelf, then closed the door before he turned to regard Asho.
They stared at each other in silence. Every fiber of Asho's being vibrated, wanting to be set free, wanting to close the distance between them and pound Mikho's face into pulp. But he moved not a muscle. Mikho's eyes glittered like a bird's, black and without humanity. Then he smiled and sat on a simple stool.
"Hello, Asho."
"You whoreson." Asho's voice was little more than a rasp. "How could you do this? I thought you were my father's friend."
"And I am," said Mikho, feigning surprise. "A dear friend. Did he tell you how I offered to support him after his legs were destroyed? And he accepted. It's not my fault that Lord Kyferin showed up and made Zekko rich. My offer was genuine."
"Then, how could you treat him like this?"
"Ah, Asho, there is much for you to learn about this world. Perhaps, if you show some wisdom here tonight, you will have the chance. The matters we are dealing with supersede friendships. We're talking about the destiny of a people, of an empire. How could I put my own personal preferences before such weighty matters? No, I must make the most terrible sacrifices for the greater good."
Asho spat on the floor.
"Eloquent," said Mikho. "It's a wonder you've convinced anybody to follow you. I suppose Zekko has done all the talking."
"Where is Kanna? Where's Shaya?"
"Kanna? Oh, don't worry about her. We're becoming reacquainted. Did she tell you we're old friends? It's been a long time, but that makes our reunion all the sweeter. As for your dear sister, well, the less she knows about these hard matters, the better. I wouldn't want to distract her from her crusade."
Asho forced himself to relax, to lean back against the stone wall. "Speak your demands."
"Demands?" Mikho blinked. "What demands?"
Asho rattled his chains furiously. "Enough with the games! What do you want?"
Mikho leaned back with an unctuous smile. "But, Asho, I have what I want. You and your father are under lock and key. All I need do is keep you both here for a few weeks, then, once Tharok has liberated our people, it will be too late for you to cause me any more trouble. Simple."
Asho sagged back.
"I know it will be a boring few weeks in comparison to what you had hoped for, but consider this: you are alive. Such is my respect for your father."
"It is a pity, then, that I have none for you." Zekko had raised his head, eyes half-lidded, his expression cold.
"Ah. Zekko." Mikho stiffened where he sat. "I came to apologize for this inconvenience."
"I don't want your apologies, Mikho." Zekko's voice was a rasp. "They're worth less to me than my legs."
Mikho's smile grew forced. "I see you're going to take this personally, Zekko. Why am I not surprised?"
"You are worthless," said Zekko. "A farce of a man. Once, I counted you as my friend. Now I look at you and see a coward, a shirker, a small man who dresses like a fool."
"Easy now, old friend," said Mikho. "Don't test my hospitality."
Zekko sat up with a sigh of pain. "You know what the saddest part is? That you actually still think you're helping our people, despite years of preying on them. You still somehow see yourself as their secret champion." Zekko's mouth twisted into a grim smile. "They loathe you, Mikho. They would laugh at you if they didn't fear your thugs."
"Enough," said Mikho, rising to his feet. "All I have done, I've done to reach this point. To survive long enough to one day bring us freedom. Yes, yes, I've cut some corners, but who hasn't? Who wouldn't, if they had my cunning? But now the moment is here, and I am going to lead our people to safety. Me. Not you, Zekko, but me. Mikho."
Zekko laughed, a dull croaking sound. "Pathetic. Cutting corners? At least have the courage to be honest with me, with yourself, for once. You're worse than the Ennoians. You know that? They at least are honest in their abuse. You? You swindle, you cheat, you blackmail, you rape, you steal, you intimidate and bully. I've heard about the murders. Izhko and his sons."
Mikho stilled. "Shut your mouth."
"Father," said Asho, seeing the murderous light in Mikho's eyes. "Enough!"
"I've been waiting to have my say for years," said Zekko, now relaxed and contemptuous. "You think I'm afraid of you, Mikho? After all I've been through? You think because you have me tied up, I'll grovel and be polite?"
"I'm helping our people," said Mikho, fist clenched.
"You're a plague on our people, and every single one of them knows it. That's the irony of it, don't you see? You're working for a goal that will see you destroyed. Don't you realize that it's the Ennoians who keep you safe?"
"All this time, I've done what's necessary to keep the rebellion alive –"
"Stop lying, Mikho!" Zekko's roar cut him off. "The rebellion has been your excuse since the beginning! Admit it! Between you and me, just this one time. Just admit that you've used this idea of a rebellion to your advantage." Zekko's grin was predatory. "Trust me. Bare that maggoty little soul of yours. Admit that you've never truly cared about our people, that you're no good, that you're scum. It will feel good to finally say what you've known all along."
Mikho stood completely still, his mouth a thin slit. Then, with a cry, he pulled out his dagger and fell upon Zekko and stabbed him in the chest.
Asho screamed.
Mikho's face contorted in anger and determination as he pulled the blade free. Blood gushed out from the wound, and Zekko stared down at it blankly.
"There," said Mikho. "How about that for a confession?" He was breathing hard, his eyes feverishly bright. "Sanctimonious bastard."
Asho threw himself against the chains, his whole body one agonized flare of fury. He sought to drink in the magic of the Black Gate, to pour it into his soul and find some greater strength, but only a trickle came. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Zekko's head slumped forward. Mikho lifted it by the hair, then tightened his jaw and plunged his blade slowly into Zekko's eye.
Asho's father writhed slowly and then went still.
"I'll kill you!" Asho's screams were inchoate. "Kill you! I'm going to kill you, you –"
The door to the cell opened and Batou stepped in, eyes wide. Mikho shoved the bloody dagger into his hands. "Shut him up," he said curtly, and left.
Batou stared at Zekko, not understanding, then grunted deep in his chest and stepped over to Asho. He shoved Asho with an open palm against his chest and slammed him back against the wall, then buried his blade into Asho's gut.
White fire flared, and his whole body recoiled in shock. His screams turned into a wretched gasp.
"You had this coming." growled Batou, his face inches from Asho's own. "I'm just happy it gets to be me that deals with you."
He tore the blade free, and Asho felt almost nothing, the pain disappearing before the enormity of the wound. He floated, his vision narrowing to a tunnel, locked in on Batou's face.
The thug turned away. "They're both done for. Come on, help me get them out. And somebody wash up this blood. Don't leave any sign that they were here."
He said a few more words, but they faded away.
Asho gasped. He wasn't getting enough air.
Father.
His vision narrowed further, and Asho clung to the trickle of magic that was still there, held on to it like a lifeline lowered into the deepest chasm.
He felt his manacles being unlocked. Felt himself fall forward and crash to the stone floor.
Father...
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Audsley stepped down from the Red Rowan's carriage into a shimmering dream. The Minister of the Moon's estate was lit by a thousand candles cradled inside fragile paper lanterns, some of them floating on oil
-black pools, others hanging from wind-warped branches. Female servants dressed like alabaster statues were moving about languidly, lanterns in hand, slowing and freezing in place, while massively muscled young men were wearing huge cartwheels around their necks, the spokes of which terminated in more lights.
Music wafted across the garden on the faint breeze, bringing with it the scent of burning incense, countless mingling perfumes, the sweet tang of honeyed meats, the tinkling of laughter, the plashing of waterfalls, and the moan of the wind as it played across the curved eaves of the ancient home.
Turning, Audsley extended his hand so the Red Rowan could descend. She was dressed in a form-fitting black robe, severe but for the profusion of crimson that cascaded from her sleeves and which was revealed in the thigh-high slit. Her hair was lacquered and ornately arranged, gleaming pins making it seem almost a weapon, and her face was expertly made up so that she seemed ten years younger.
"We have timed our arrival well," she whispered, stepping down beside him.
A line of carriages and palanquins were waiting behind them to deposit their charges, and even as the door to her carriage was closing, the driver urged his oxen onward, causing them to rumble into the darkness.
A huge gate greeted them, easily fifteen yards tall and ten yards white, its crossbeam inscribed with blessings inlaid with gold. The white gravel glowed in the moonlight, fragmenting into a dozen directions into the sprawling garden. Above it all loomed the house, a riot of light, its verandas filled with guests.
Audsley turned and took a small boat from one of the Red Rowan's attendants. He almost felt as if he needed to display the yard-long model as proof of his right to be there. It was cunningly made, a dozen unlit candles affixed down its length, an empty bowl set in its center. At the height of the festival, around midnight, all the guests would place their boats in the many streams, fill the bowls with gold, incense, fruit and written prayers, then release them to flow downriver and over the waterfall into oblivion, falling down to the lands below in a glittering rain of wasted wealth.
