Mistakes Were Made (A Pygmalion Fail Book 2)

by Casey Matthews

  After sitting ten minutes with her overhead, I groaned. “This is awkward.”

  “It’s temporary,” Tammagan said. “Until the Queen decides what to do with you.”

  “Sure. Whether to toss me to Dracon like Nils wants, or force me at sword-point to draw a bajillion rune stones.”

  “There are less noble ways to spend one’s life.”

  “Sure, but it’s my life to spend!”

  “And what is your life weighed against Korvia’s needs?”

  “An injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Boom. Mic drop.

  “That’s stupid,” Tammagan said.

  I glared. “A great man once said that.”

  “So let a woman set you straight. Say you slit a man’s throat and bury him. No one finds the body. Most would call that ‘injustice.’ Yet there’s no impact on our laws or society.”

  “Sure, but someone finds the body and—”

  “Now suppose the man you killed had beaten his wife for a decade, blackened her face and broke her jaw, and two dozen times you told your school friends your mother was ‘sick.’ ” Tammagan narrowed her eyes at me. “Say you killed him and buried him very deep indeed, deeper than he buried your infant sister. Most people believe it’s unjust to murder your sleeping father with a butcher knife, but I’d argue it made the world just slightly more just.”

  “I mean, but in that case is it really unjust to kill the—”

  “No. It wouldn’t be unjust at all. But we have a rule that no one should slit someone else’s throat in the dark of night. Maybe that time the rule was no good; maybe the right to trial was bent and the world was better for it.” She leaned forward. “So I don’t know. Maybe there’s a principle that we shouldn’t steal an innocent man’s time and talent for our nation’s purposes. But then again, if it keeps my country from being razed in dragon fire…”

  “So, what?” I asked. “You’re just a utilitarian?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s what you’re rhetorically defending,” I said.

  “I don’t practice rhetoric.” She tapped her weapon. “I practice the blade.”

  Maybe I should have given the liberal arts a bigger presence on Rune. “How long have you practiced it?”

  “I trained from age twelve.”

  That was odd. Akarri joined at thirteen. Why the early admission? Maybe her hacking and slashing skills had been stellar. “And how old are you now?”

  “I earned my field medallion at nineteen and I’ve served thirteen years since.”

  “So you’re thirty-two.” I considered her a moment, certain I was about to step in it. I did it anyway. “Doesn’t leave much time for romance.”

  Her glare was frost. “My personal liaisons are none of your damned business,” she bit off.

  “None of mine, no.” I held her stare; it wasn’t easy. “Elsie’s, though, maybe.”

  Outrage widened her eyes until I saw the whites all around. “Elsie gets strange ideas in her head.”

  More than possible. Elsie was a sideways kind of thinker. Then again, sometimes that made her more observant, not less. “I saw the way you lost it when she nearly died.”

  “She’s my soldier.”

  “But not your only soldier wounded that night,” I pointed out.

  Tammagan turned from me. She didn’t like being reminded of Elsie’s near demise. “Elsie is dear to us all. She is the unit’s… little sister. Even to Kyra, who’s technically her junior.”

  I frowned. “You’re big on protecting people.”

  “It’s what Akarri do.”

  “Did you try protecting her from something earlier today?”

  “I told her the truth.” Tammagan’s breathing was too measured.

  “Which truth?” I asked. “That it’s inappropriate to date superior officers? Or that you’re not gay?”

  “My lack of gaiety is widely known.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Where I’m from, that’s our word for ‘backwards.’ ”

  Tammagan stiffened.

  “I don’t know or care what your preferences are,” I said. “But help me understand why Elsie’s nervous to tell the Akarri she’s backwards.”

  “Please. ‘Gay’ is much better than ‘backwards.’ We’ll use that word.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Tammagan faced me again. “Before the Cataclysm, gay liaisons between women were common.”

  That worried me. Had gay rights lost ground since my paintings caused the Cataclysm? “Then why are the Akarri so touchy now?”

  “Liaisons were only common between female slaves—not as relationships, but at the behest of their masters.”

  I expelled a breath. “And now it’s a fetish.”

  She nodded. “Since the Cataclysm, society has generally accepted that men can marry men. But women having relationships with women is seen as a fetish, and as servile toward men—at least, Akarri tend to hold this view. Try to understand: if you go to certain parts of Amyss, you’ll find pornographic literature involving our order is common. So, no. We don’t enjoy the accusation that we’re all gay. It’s… leering.”

  “It must be hard for Elsie,” I said. “Caught between society’s stares and her sisters’ wariness.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Tammagan maintained eye contact to see if I bought her lie.

  I pretended I did and nodded. “All right.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I believe.” I shrugged. “Not trying to play matchmaker. I’m bummed my friend’s heart got pulped, but you have your reasons. Even if you were gay, there’s the age difference, the chain of command, and the fact that Elsie’s a handful.”

  Tammagan chuckled. “She is.”

  “It would be unfair, though.”

  “What would?”

  “For two people who legitimately liked each other to be held apart by circumstance. By military rules or by taboos or whatever.”

  “Life is far from fair,” Tammagan said. “Something you’ve learned today.”

  “If only there were a utilitarian somewhere willing to cut through bullshit rules.” I grinned.

  Tammagan snorted. “With one breath you pretend you aren’t playing matchmaker. With the next, you try to convince me.”

  “If you’re a gay woman attracted to her subordinate, I suppose it might come off that way. But we both know Elsie’s just your adopted kid sister and that you’re a joyless automaton of slaying might. So who cares what I say?”

  “You’re a galling little shit, Grawflefox.”

  “I am. But I try to be a good wingman.”

  The evening frayed my nerves, set me to pacing the length of the chamber, until it was Tammagan’s turn to order me to sit.

  I didn’t listen. “Can’t help it. Come on, you know Amyss. What’s the over-under the Queen sells me to Dracon?”

  “She vowed to keep you safe,” Tammagan said, as if that ended the discussion.

  “But it might not be her call. What’s the likelihood the Council overrules her and does it anyway?”

  Tammagan’s lips thinned. She shrugged.

  “So let me guess,” I said. “The Council overrules Eliandra a lot.”

  “They require a two-thirds vote to do it.”

  “I’ll bet Nils leads that voting bloc,” I said.

  “He does.”

  “Gah! I hate political science.” I suffered a flashback to Professor Victor’s legislative behavior class, to utility curves and veto pivots. She made us solve two-dimensional models. Her exams required a compass. “So Eliandra has to shatter their voting bloc if she wants her way. Who’s on Team Nils?”

  “Several old noble families,” Tammagan said.

  “Great. A good-old-boys’ network.” I knew enough to ask the obvious: “Who controls the military?”

  “Eliandra leads the armies,” she said. “The Council can still overrule military decisions, though. Three of her generals
sit on Council, but two vote with Nils.”

  “The generals vote against their queen?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Those generals are Amyssian. Korvia is more like two countries—it’s ruled from the huge coastal metropolises like Amyss. Then there’s the outer ring: the old colonies and rural tracts, which aren’t well represented on Council. But Eliandra sometimes decides in their favor anyway. Nils exploits the resentment among coastal nobles, promising them more power. For instance, he’s convinced them Dracon isn’t a threat to their own cities—that the nation’s peripheries aren’t fully Korvian and are somewhat… expendable. That’s why the Council would rather appease him; they don’t know or fear Dracon the same way Korvians on his borderlands do.”

  Something clicked for me. “One general still votes with Eliandra. It’s Marcel, isn’t it?” That was why he was so young. Eliandra had promoted a young soldier through the ranks, one loyal to her—probably because the existing leadership was coastal and only promoted people who fit their politics. Marcel was a beloved war hero, though, which insulated him from criticism and allowed Eliandra to skip him ahead until he landed on Council. “Holy crap, she’s clever,” I whispered.

  “So I’m told,” Tammagan said.

  “But if she doesn’t figure out how to break Nils’s bloc, I’m still screwed.”

  “Stop fretting,” Tammagan said. “My queen promised your safety. She’ll honor it somehow.”

  I realized now Eliandra had been nothing but a list of concepts in my head: ruler, beautiful, wise, effective. I’d trusted her when she was all of those things and nothing more. Now she was one additional thing: a politician. I wasn’t about to wait around for a politician to keep her promise.

  Besides, that goateed bastard Nils worked for Dracon. My clichéd writing all but guaranteed it.

  Near bedtime I excused myself for the bath. Tammagan’s pat-down was just thorough enough to be awkward for us both. She found my yellow No. 2 pencil, but only felt my extra-dimensional vest pockets along the outside, missing all the supplies hidden within.

  Behind my bathroom curtains, I turned faucet knobs on the tub, filling it from separate hot and cold spouts. “Magitech is better than medieval fantasy by four million percent,” I muttered as steamy water filled the tub.

  In that moment, I missed Dak. I had my escape halfway figured, but missed my friend’s big ideas and callous disregard for authority. I was always smarter—and bolder—when he was nearby. Now I was alone.

  It wasn’t just Dak. Every friend I’d made in Rune would soon be my enemy. Elsie and Kyra were Akarri—loyal to the Queen, who would hunt me. So would Ronin.

  But I couldn’t twiddle my thumbs and wait for the Council to trade me to Dracon with a Christmas bow on my head. I had to flee—or prove Nils was a traitor.

  I fished out my kanji dictionary, considering the word “ghost.” In Japanese, it combined kanji for “dim” and “spirit.” The problem was that Japanese ghosts could get awfully… creepy. I wanted to become invisible and intangible, not die and resurrect as the black-haired specter from The Grudge.

  I rolled up my pant legs, sat on the edge of the tub, and put my back to the curtain in case Tammagan threw caution to the wind and peeked. I slipped my sketchpad and HB pencil out, heart racing as I drew the rune stone with nervous hands.

  To specify the stone’s effect, I modified the technique that had created my vest of magic pockets: I connected the rune stone by a thin line to several hasty comic panels that illustrated my intent. I drew a happy Ikea dude walking through a brick wall, making the figure’s outline dotted, á la the old Sue Storm depictions. Then I drew a grave and tombstone, nixing it out with the standard crossbar “no” sign. I definitely didn’t want to become a ghost the hard way. Just to be safe, I also sketched a cartoonish Japanese ghost with white burial robes and disheveled black hair crawling down a staircase and “no”-signed that, too.

  When I finished, I tore the drawn page free and stowed my pencil, sketchpad, and dictionary in my vest. I made sure to blow mainly on the realistic-looking stone instead of the instructional cartoons.

  Every line blazed silver. Oh crap, the sparks! It spat them noisily into my lap, so I splashed my feet in the water to mask it.

  “What’s going on?” Tammagan asked.

  “Don’t come in!” I shouted. Real smooth. “I’m, uh, super naked.” Meanwhile, the sparks danced across the floor and beneath the curtain. The stone lifted from the page and fell into my palm.

  Tammagan sprang through the canopy and lunged for me with outstretched hand.

  I popped the stone into my mouth. Her hands passed right through me. The water around my ankles surged through my feet, filling the space left behind. That was all well and good, but I’d apparently forgotten to dress Ikea Guy, because my clothes fluttered free of my intangible body and into the water. I quietly cursed when I realized the vest with all my stuff had landed on the tub’s rim. The old adage, “You can’t take it with you,” came to mind.

  Tammagan stared right through me. “Where did you… damn it.” She scowled.

  I drifted sideways through the canopy into the bedroom, weightless, paddling the air and listing until I was upside down. I could fly if I concentrated, but my first attempt cartwheeled me nude through the room. I’d gone commando once after forgetting to do laundry and found it to be the wrong kind of liberating. Zero-g, naked floating was that sensation cranked to eleven.

  Tammagan loosed her sword and sliced down the canopies dividing the chamber, checked under the bed, and shouted my name.

  In a moment, she’d summon help. What if the palace had, like, ghost trackers? Bill Murray could be on retainer for all I knew. I had to act quickly.

  I hovered to the locked door, spat the ghost stone into my palm, and felt instant discomfort when I solidified. I ignored it, jerking the key from its lock.

  Tammagan tensed at my reappearance and barreled straight for me. I dropped the key to my feet and kicked it beneath the door before popping the stone into my mouth again. Tammagan flew through me and pounded at the door.

  I passed through the door and rematerialized in the hallway. Air whooshed from the spot I solidified in. But not all of it, apparently—that discomfort I’d felt was bloating. My stomach rumbled. Then I belched and farted at once, wincing at the volume of both. “Wow. That never happens to the X-Men.”

  There was lots more fart left in me, I could tell, but I busied myself picking up Tammagan’s door key and hiding it in a nearby vase. I hoped Ronin couldn’t hear me expel gas through the thick walls.

  “Grawflefox!” came Tammagan’s voice, muffled. “I’m going to smash your fingers with a brick. Individually. A knuckle at a time!”

  That was regrettably vivid.

  “Let me out.”

  “Why would I let you out if you’re planning to smash my fingers?”

  She was quiet. Then, with forced sweetness, she said, “I won’t smash them. Please open this door right now.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I’d have believed “I’ll only smash them a little.”

  “Grawflefox!”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me one day when this is all—”

  Profanities of steadily increasing inventiveness and tempo streamed through the door just before something heavy slammed into it. Wood shivered in its frame. Tammagan struck again with some impromptu battering ram and the hinge bolts rattled within their sleeves. At the noise, I popped the ghost stone instinctively into my mouth as my flinching body tightened and expelled the last of the air I’d solidified around. Thus, just as Tammagan loudly declared her intent to drown me in a “bog of orcish dick sweat,” I kind of tooted out of existence.

  I was about to flee the palace—and Amyss, now that drowning in dick sweat was on the table—when I remembered something Dak had recommended: sneak into Ronin’s room and spy. Dak had convinced me Ronin’s true identity was important. Ronin’s room was right there, and I was invisible. I could at least scop
e it out before booking my naked ghost butt across miles of city.

  I drifted through the wall into Ronin’s room and hovered over the floor. Ghost mode washed out the opulent colors, but it was furnished like mine. The curtain on the wash area was closed and I heard water running. When I noticed the porcelain mask lay on his bed beside black clothes and armor plates, I put it together. A bath. It seemed absurd, like imagining the President taking a dump, but much as I joked I guess the guy had to do it sometime.

  So I’d get to see his face. Maybe if I cocked my head just right, I wouldn’t have to see anything else. I had a vision of jigsaw body scars, tattoos, and somehow hearts on his Underoos. I’d bet lots of money on hearts.

  Water sloshed behind the curtain, indicative of someone rinsing their skin. I hovered forward, praying for some PG bubbles to cover his marriage tackle.

  I passed through the curtain.

  Ronin swept slender hands across her shoulders.

  Her. Shoulders.

  And there were no bubbles.

  My glimpse turned into a gawp. A clatter registered. I only realized it was my ghost stone falling from my dropped jaw and hitting the floor because the air around me went pop and I experienced that gassy feeling again. My brain was sensate but most of my perceptions were affixed to the ninja: her hair was a jagged, black pixie cut plastered to her scalp, and her sharp cheekbones were dusted with freckles. She had a firm mouth and lean body with tomboy-rough edges, arms relaxed over knees and not quite obscuring her small breasts with a forearm.

  Her gaze cut through me. There was no shriek, no attempt to cover up. But from her expression, I knew I’d just made the single biggest mistake of my life. Dragons and witches had nothing on this.

  “I—”

  Before I could finish the syllable and start a fresh one, she vaulted from the tub, seized me by the shoulders, and half-threw, half-carried me across the room. She slammed me into the dresser with wiry arms. The mirror shattered against my spine. Air emptied from my lungs.

  Water drained from her eyebrows, gathered at the tip of her small nose, and one, two, three drops pattered onto my face. Her fists were bunched around my neck, not strangling but restraining, and we were both very, very naked and—this cannot be emphasized enough—touching. Yet the look in her eyes precluded any thought of sex, which couldn’t get anywhere near my brain-box, because terror had welded the doors shut and turned the place into a panic room.