“They would prefer something more … concrete. They fear you, Baru Fisher. They fear your wit, your charisma, your power to raise the commoner. They fear the loyalty you command. Without a powerful secret to bind you—something more than hearsay, and a curious absence of lovers—they fear the strength you will have among them.” Tain Hu closes her distant eyes. “He told me none of this. He told me he expected you to execute me without a second thought. But you taught me to listen to myself when I sensed a lie.”
The little distance across the table maddens like a rotten tooth. Baru wants to reach out to her, across all the blood and treachery between them. Wants to reach back across the months to winter on the forage line. “Why would you tell me this?” she asks. “Why would you give me anything?”
“Because it was no lie,” Tain Hu whispers, and turns away.
Baru sits, and stares, and tries to make something of the hollow in her chest.
Her mind gnaws at all of it: could it be that Tain Hu is desperate to live, and hopes to trick Baru into sparing her? No, she would have no care for her own life, not with Vultjag and Aurdwynn lost—but could she be working to sabotage Baru’s ascension, manipulating her into showing disloyalty to the Throne? Could this all be the Throne’s test, like the boy on the battlements, played out through a broken Tain Hu?
She sips at her wine, pretending calm, and grips the edge of a cold truth: she came down here to speak with Tain Hu because she hoped it would make it easier to watch her die. Hoped there would be hate, shouting, vows of undying revenge. An enemy woman for her to drown tomorrow.
If I beg, she could live, Baru thinks. I would still have the Throne. They would sit easier for it, knowing I could be kept tame. And with time, she might forgive me—
Tain Hu’s shoulders begin to shake. Baru’s stomach curls. This, of all things, she hoped not to see: the general of Aurdwynn’s armies broken and cast low. Death would be better.
But Tain Hu does not cry. She chuckles, raspy, low. “The hope of Aurdwynn!” she calls, as if rallying an invisible shield-wall. “Justice from a fairer hand!” And then she laughs, trembling with her mirth, quaking in her shackles, her eyes locked on Baru. “The hope of Aurdwynn!”
It goes on and on, and after a moment Baru finds it too much to take. She turns her chair to the left, so that the duchess Tain Hu falls away into nothingness, and the howl of her laughter reaches Baru only as an echo.
The hope of Aurdwynn, she thinks. And understands Tain Hu’s game. She is still fighting.
The blade is still on the table, in the empty place to her right. Baru finishes her wine in slow silence. She wonders if Tain Hu knows about her wound. Whether she laughs and rails even now, and takes Baru’s answering silence for strength.
* * *
THE tide comes in just before dawn. Baru Cormorant shackles the prisoner herself. Whispers one Urun word in her ear, laden, an eel-bite, and then draws away to say, perhaps in mockery:
“Congratulations on your victory, Duchess Vultjag.”
Tain Hu does not weep.
Baru commands her marines to take Tain Hu down onto the stone bluffs below the castle, where the waves are harshest.
Tain Hu walks the whole way, even burdened by her chains. The marines fasten her to the stone, threading her shackles through rusted brackets. The sea laps and murmurs below.
Baru Cormorant, lord in passing of the Elided Keep, ascendant member of the Imperial Republic’s ruling committee, watches from a spit of rock above. Apparitor paces behind her, his hair wild in the salt breeze. “If the wind picks up, the waves may dash her against the rocks,” he says. “It would be a terrible death.”
Baru stands without a coat, untroubled by the cold. It is not so deep as winter in Vultjag. “So it would,” she says. “But Tain Hu was strong once. If she clings to her own chains, she may last long enough to drown.”
Apparitor takes her by the shoulder. “Perhaps there is another way. Perhaps the Throne would accept her as a hostage.”
“Do not test me,” Baru says, her eyes on the dawn horizon. She takes census of the birds there. Finds a hawk circling high, as if riding a thermal above a forest valley. “I have had enough of the Throne’s little tests.”
The water rises. Tain Hu, wet to the waist, seems to drowse, her chains slack. “Hypothermia,” Apparitor whispers. “The water is cold, my lady. If we were to raise her now, perhaps we could save—”
“I do not want her saved,” Baru Cormorant says.
“Did you not love her?” the Throne’s man hisses in her ear. “She told me about the night after your victory at Sieroch. You could have that again.”
“Is that what she invented? Curious.” Baru gestures to the marines on the rocks below. “Wake her up!”
One of them smashes Tain Hu in the shoulder with the butt of his polearm. She cries out, arching, her eyes wild. Her chains slip between pale, trembling fingers.
“‘You are a worth a legion to me, Tain Hu,’” the Throne’s man whispers. “Do you remember that? She told me you said that.”
“I said many things.”
The water rises. A low wind whips up froth. Tain Hu shouts hoarsely into the spray, her chains wrapped taut around her fists, biceps straining.
Baru spares a glance for Apparitor. “When this little chore is through, I have business in Falcrest. We sent a message to Aurdwynn, a demonstration of our reach. Now is the time to buy their loyalty. Ease taxes, grant marriage licenses, take mercy on their little cults. Grant them a few freedoms more.”
“Causes you are familiar with, Lady Cormorant.” The Throne’s man draws his cloak about him.
“Of course. I know why you want me. I understand these people in my bones, my blood.” She stares coldly down at Tain Hu. “Through me, you expand your control.”
I wish you could see me, Hu, she thinks. Unflinching. Unmoved. The hope of Aurdwynn, giving them no yoke over me.
Even betrayed, cornered, you planned the battle well. A savant’s work.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” she says. “She might have lived to see her people free.”
Apparitor has to shout above the whipping wind. “Why are you doing this? She could still live!”
You could still bind me with her, Baru thinks. If I just begged. If I just admitted what she was to me. I could go to Falcrest and sit at your table and you would know: we have our hooks in her. As they have their hooks in you.
But I will not be bound as you are. I will walk among your council and you will tremble at what you have unleashed.
A rising breaker crashes against the rocks. Tain Hu cries out into the dawn, trembling with effort. A frigate bird calls like a drum overhead.
Baru Cormorant sets her legs in a duelist’s stance, closing off the Throne’s man on her dead right, opening her left side to the dying woman below. She cuts at the air with a blade she does not have.
She accepted Apparitor’s deal at the harborside in Treatymont thinking that she could trade Aurdwynn for rule of Taranoke. Why not? What would be lost, what evil done? The Masquerade would crush any rebellion. In her hands, she could ensure it was swift, merciful. And with her hard-won power, she could save her home.
But that will not be enough now.
Good-bye, she thinks. Good-bye, kuye lam. I will write your name in the ruin of them. I will paint you across history in the color of their blood.
The tide comes in. The Throne’s man watches her, waiting for her to lift her eyes and make a census of the birds.
LETTERS
To my peers of the committee,
I hope that Itinerant has completed his case for my value as a contributor. I understand that my youth and heredity may arouse skepticism, but I assure you that my savancy has now been tested by experience.
I have completed my initial review of Apparitor’s documents. We clearly face important strategic challenges: a resurgent Stakhieczi monarchy, backlash from our ongoing efforts to destabilize the federated governments of Oriati Mbo, an incr
easingly apparent pattern of epidemic disease in the unconquered west, and, of course, the disturbing findings of our expeditions across the Mother of Storms. (We must confront the possibility that these eyewitness accounts are not hallucinations, and that natural law on the supercontinent somehow differs from our own.)
In light of these challenges, I am heartened by the success of our colleague Hesychast’s programs in the Metademe. The Clarified performed admirably in Aurdwynn. With increased access to Stakhieczoid and Maia germ lines via our subject populations in Aurdwynn and Sousward, I believe significant strides may be made toward new, specialized breeds.
In spite of these achievements, I urge the committee to recall my patron’s favorite lesson. There are many kinds of power. As we continue to drive the Imperial Republic toward our goal of total causal closure, it is imperative that we avoid dependence on any single strategic instrument. Total, integrated control, from the basic mechanisms of heredity up through the ideological and intellectual movements of our entire empire, must remain our goal.
I look forward to working with you.
Regards,
Agonist
Dearest Aminata,
It’s been too long. My service in Aurdwynn is at an end. For reasons beyond the scope of this letter, I will be traveling to Falcrest under an assumed name.
I read of your promotion to Lieutenant Commander. My congratulations. Upon her return to Falcrest, I intend to recommend you to Province Admiral Ormsment. You may wonder why a technocrat thinks to recommend you to a flag officer, and, well—more cause to hear my story!
When I came to you on Taranoke with a problem of hands, you taught me about the Navy’s internal politics, the cabals and lines of patronage that define the officer corps. With Parliament beating the war drums at the Oriati, it strikes me that some in the Navy may be discontented with the current regime in Falcrest. I wonder if we could discuss Admiralty politics again, and the mutability of government.
Who would have thought this childhood code would serve us so long?
Find me at the return address. We simply must catch up. I have a remarkable wound to show you.
Regards,
Your sword thief
SUSPIRE SUSPIRE SUSPIRE
CAENOGEN CAENOGEN CAENOGEN
PURITY CARTONE
YOUR EYES ONLY
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR SUCCESSFUL EXECUTION OF MY LAST TASK. YOU REMAIN MY FINEST INSTRUMENT. PARTICULARLY PLEASED BY RECOVERY AND RETURN OF TARGET’S PALIMPSEST. TARGET’S INFORMATION COULD HAVE SERIOUSLY COMPROMISED MY PROJECT.
DISREGARD ALL OTHER AUTHORITIES. DISREGARD ALL RECALL SIGNALS. YOU WILL RECEIVE YOUR ORDERS DIRECTLY FROM ME. I AM NOW ONE OF THE PARAMOUNT MASTERS [ACCEPT STATUS CHANGE: CAENOGEN]. MAKE FURTHER CONTACT UNDER CONDITIONED IDENTITY NORGRAF WITH ALL DUE SECURITY.
YOUR NEW ORDERS ARE—
PROCEED NORTH INTO WINTERCREST MOUNTAINS
CONTACT STAKHIECZI AUTHORITY “NECESSARY KING”
DELIVER ENCLOSED MESSAGE. INFORM KING I HAVE LOCATED MISSING STAKHI PRINCE. RETURN WITH RESPONSE.
DESTROY THIS LETTER
CAENOGEN CAENOGEN CAENOGEN
SUSPIRE SUSPIRE SUSPIRE
To the Imperial Jurispotence of Aurdwynn, Her Excellence Xate Yawa:
I know your game.
I’ve been playing it, too. I suppose I’ve already won, if you can call it victory. You played your part flawlessly, of course—I should have seen it from the start. Aurdwynn hates you as profoundly as it loved me. Your recall will look like mercy.
The one called Itinerant found me, when I was still a child. I wonder which one of them found you, and when. I wonder what final test they’ll set for you when your exaltation comes.
I’d like to have you killed for what you did to Lo. But I cannot deny the accounting: I’ve done much worse than murder a secretary on suspicion. I used to wonder if you were a monster. Now I know the answer.
If you want power in this world, power enough to change it, it seems you have to be.
I’m sorry I couldn’t save your brother. It might have been a mercy. He knew I had betrayed him, but now he will never have to learn of you.
Still. I tried.
I’ll see you in Falcrest.
Read on for a preview of
The Monster Baru Cormorant
Seth Dickinson
Available in October 2018 by Tom Doherty Associates
Order The Monster Baru Cormorant Now!
A Tor Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7653-8074-6
Copyright © 2018 by Seth Dickinson
PRELUDE
AS the firestorm took his ships, as a monsoon rain of greasy incendiaries burnt his people like screaming human skewers, Abdumasi Abd tried his very damnedest to die.
“Fire parties to the port rail!” cried his battle captain, poor Zee Dbellu, who had come to war with Abdumasi to avenge his grandmother. He was a big dreadlocked man with a green flag bound to his war-spear and a false hope in his voice. He was already dead. Abdumasi had to join him.
“Turn the ship to sea!” Zee bellowed. “Run out the sweeps, soak the rowers, beat the drums! We’ll get out of this yet, I promise you, I promise!”
The fire parties were all dead. The masts had toppled and the rowers lay suffocated at their broken oars. Masquerade rocket arrows had pinned all the corpses to the deck like rare butterflies.
Abdumasi looked up at Zee from under the fallen sail, where he’d crawled to hide. Beyond Zee he could see a sliver of the battle—burning masts and broken ships, arcs of hwacha-fire scratching terrible perfect curves out of the sky, war rockets that crashed down into wood and waves to bloom into blue-white fire. Dead gulls. Vortices of killed fish. The stink of Falcrest chemistry. The scream of fire and the groan of broken hullplanks and beneath it all the ebb and rush of the sea, tumbling the burning dead, stirring the pot of fire and wreckage.
A disaster. A catastrophe. And he had ordered it.
He’d brought his fleet to Aurdwynn to help their rebellion against the Masquerade. He’d joined the rebel armada at Welthony and together they’d struck Treatymont, the colonial capital: a gray cage of ironwork and stone to the north, and two burnt-out towers guarding the harbor like rotten dog teeth.
But the Masquerade had been waiting for them.
“Zee,” Abdumasi whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
And he put his sailing knife under his chin and tried to cut his own throat.
He couldn’t do it. He was too afraid.
“Abdumasi!” Zee howled. “Abdu, where are you? We need you!”
Zee had gone mad when he realized they’d sailed into a trap. Abd saw it happen in his eyes, a meaty pop like a knuckle of lamb in the fire, and from that moment on Zee was mad with among, the rescue-fever that came over Oriati people, sometimes, when their friends and family needed them. A noble madness, the poets said, the best madness, who would not be glad to die in the throes of among?
At burnt Kutulbha, where Abdumasi’s mother had died (now he sent his apologies to his mother Abdi-obdi with all his hopeless heart) whole mobs of good Oriati people had organized themselves with wet blankets and protective taboos and marched into the firestorm devouring the city, sworn to rescue parents, children, pets, books. There was no hope, of course. Falcrest’s Burn munitions had created a wildfire so fierce that it sucked in the air from miles around, like a demon mouth in the city’s heart, inhaling souls. No one rescued anyone. All perished. At the end of that day twenty-three years ago the rain fell on burnt Kutulbha and turned the mud and corpse-ash into concrete, and to this day Kutulbha was a gray disc on the coast of the Oriati Mbo, a dark mortar full of bone.
Into that mortar the Falcresti had inscribed two words in their dull blocky script: THE ARC OF HISTORY.
That horror was what Abdumasi had come to avenge—
—he had begged his fellow Oriati, the Federal Princes and the jackal soldiers, to come to the aid of the rebel accountant Baru Cormorant and her Coyotes. Together they might tear Aurdwynn e
ntirely out of Falcrest’s grasp, pincering the tyrants from north and south—
—but the Princes would not act, the jackal soldiers would not send a fleet, they were terrified of open war, so fuck it, Abdumasi Abd decided to spend his fortune and raise a war fleet himself—
—which was why he had to die, now, right away, no procrastination, no excuses, no second chances. For if the Falcresti captured Abd alive, if they tricked him into admitting who he was (a merchant of great fame) and who’d sponsored his fleet (don’t even think of them, Abd!—but he could not resist the terrible prayer, ayamma, ayamma, a ut li-en) then Falcrest would extract the truth from him.
His ships were not just pirates come to pillage a disordered city but an invasion force backed by secret and terrible powers.
Then Falcrest’s unctuous ambassadors would slither up to the Princes of Oriati Mbo and say, O kind neighbors, here we have found an influential and great man, a man who somehow misplaced himself into our sovereign waters—but it seems he conspired against our Imperial Republic. Listen, listen: he has confessed everything.
We must have reparations, or there will be war.…
And no matter whether the Oriati chose reparations or war, no matter whether Falcrest attacked them with fire or (far more dangerous) sly schools and clever market games, the Oriati would be destroyed. Abdumasi would bring down doom on the two hundred million people of the Oriati Mbo, the heart of the world, his beloved home.
“Abd!” Zee roared, waving his green flag with both hands. “Abd, come to me! We have to rally the ships! We have to go!”
“I need last words,” Abdumasi whispered to himself—that was why he couldn’t cut his throat! He needed brave last words to inspire those who remembered him. “What shall I say? You’ll never take me alive?” He curled up beneath the toppled sail and tried to get his last words just right. “You’ll never take me alive. You’ll never take me alive. You’ll never take me alive! All right. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.” He got his hands under him, crouched, tried to fill his head with happy memories—Tau and Kindalana in the lake of drugged cranes, Tau helping him steal honey from Kindalana’s house, all three of them watching Cosgrad Torrinde stagger around high as balls after he licked a frog—“Fuck! Do it. Do it! Death and glory!”
The Traitor Baru Cormorant Page 44
