The Bitter Twins

by Jen Williams

  ‘I am looking for Jhef,’ he said, in his low, musical voice. ‘She promised to help the Sown with their puppet festival, but now, of course, she is out exploring. My sister is very clever, but has no concept of the passing of time. It seems I have found you instead.’ He paused, looking around the strange boulder garden. ‘What are you doing out here?’

  ‘I’m looking for a work of art.’ She patted his arm and he let her go. ‘I have been reading Micanal the Clearsighted’s journal, and it’s all quite extraordinary. In one of the entries he speaks of a sculpture he made for these particular gardens, and I thought I would seek it out.’ She turned and gestured to the thicket. ‘I think it is in there somewhere.’

  ‘Then I think it is lost.’ He looked down at her foot. ‘How painful is your ankle? It appears to be swelling up. Would you care to accompany me back to the main gardens, Lady Vintage?’

  Vintage grimaced. ‘Now that you mention it, I doubt I have done it any good by rolling about on the ground.’ She nodded at the hidden garden. ‘It’s a shame, though. Tor would point out that I have no patience, but I know it will nibble away at me, knowing such a masterpiece is hidden out here.’

  ‘Tor?’

  ‘Tormalin the Oathless. My friend. He is away with the war-beasts.’ Vintage shook her head. ‘If you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand, Okaar, I should make my way back.’

  ‘One moment, please.’ He nodded at her formally, before pulling a long knife from his belt. Vintage had time to see that it was well-used and well-maintained, with scratches on the blade and an often-repaired handle, before Okaar was moving methodically through the bushes, cutting them back and throwing the branches to one side. Very swiftly he had forged a path through the overgrown foliage and it was possible to see something at the centre of it – a figure of slick, white marble.

  ‘There it is! A lost piece of Micanal’s work. It’s possible, Okaar, that we are the first humans ever to look upon it.’

  Okaar nodded, although Vintage could not tell if he was genuinely impressed – his face was as impassive as ever. The sculpture was of a beautiful Eboran warrior, her sword arm raised in triumph. The weather had ruined her somewhat – the marble was cracked and stained, with moss creeping across her breastplate and at the corner of her stern mouth – but there was no doubting that she was the work of a master. Something about it, standing alone yet crowded with weeds and thorns, made Vintage feel melancholic. Forcing herself to smile, she waved Okaar back.

  ‘Thank you, Okaar, for sharing that with me. It was kind of you to recover it.’

  The slim young man returned her smile. ‘Tyranny can also be impatient. I have grown used to solving problems for her as swiftly as possible. It is the easiest path, much of the time.’

  ‘Well, she is lucky to have you, in that case. Shall we walk back together?’

  By the time they reached the main area of the palace gardens, Vintage’s ankle was throbbing steadily, and she was not quite able to keep from grimacing. Okaar gestured to their caravan, which still sat just outside the main human settlement.

  ‘I have something that could help with the discomfort, Lady Vintage. I would be glad to share it with you.’

  Once inside the caravan, Okaar began briskly moving around the small space; fetching a pillow to elevate her leg, setting the small stove to warm, and wrestling a bottle of dark liquid from out of a tiny compact cupboard, along with two tiny glasses.

  ‘Even I would say it’s a little too early to drink, my dear, but if it will help my ankle . . .’

  ‘It is not alcoholic,’ said Okaar, smiling faintly. He pulled the cork from the bottle with a soft pop and poured too measures. ‘This is kyern, a restorative. We drink it in Goddestra when we have had a shock. Tyranny refuses to drink it, and I’m afraid even Jhef turns it down, but perhaps you would like to try?’

  ‘I would love to.’ Vintage sipped at her tiny glass, and was surprised at the powerful flavour that flooded her mouth, both cloyingly sweet and refreshing. ‘Well, it certainly wakes you up.’

  Okaar tipped his own glass back in one mouthful. He nodded once to himself, then addressed her. ‘Yes, it is good. A real kick in the face, is how Tyranny describes it.’

  ‘Ha, yes, that seems about right.’

  He put the glass down and retrieved a round glass pot from where it had been warming by the stove. This he brought over to Vintage, along with a long length of yellow linen. ‘This is what I meant to use on your ankle, Lady Vintage. It will take down the swelling. If I may?’

  Feeling vaguely foolish, Vintage nodded, and Okaar carefully lifted her foot into his lap, examining the splint and the padded sock Bern had constructed for her. To hide her own embarrassment, Vintage cleared her throat.

  ‘So, you are from the Goddestra Delta? A little further west of Jarlsbad than I guessed.’

  ‘Yes, although I certainly have family in the great city.’ He peered closely at her foot, then opened the jar. A strong minty smell immediately filled the caravan. ‘We travel a great deal – Jhef and I have not seen them in some time.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Vintage watched with some concern as Okaar scooped a handful of faintly pink gunk from the jar and began to lather it right over the ankle area of the padded sock. ‘If I were to ask you, Okaar, do you think there is any chance you would tell me what it is you do for Tyranny Munk, exactly?’

  He looked up, a sliver of white showing around the dark irises of his eyes, and then just as swiftly he recovered from his surprise.

  ‘A lady as experienced as yourself, I am sure, does not need to be told.’

  Vintage tipped her head to one side. Okaar was carefully wrapping her ankle with the linen, hands moving deftly and without hesitation. She did not know what he had meant by that laden comment, but she was content to let him think she did.

  ‘Your work. I imagine it is not as straightforward as Tyranny likes to make out.’

  Okaar shrugged, tucking pieces of linen away neatly. Already, Vintage could feel a deep heat encircling her ankle.

  ‘She was a criminal. My circumstances were . . . similar. And yes, we have not left that life as far behind as we might say. Sarn is a hard place, Lady Vintage, and people do what they must to survive in a poisoned world.’

  Vintage sighed. ‘I understand that well enough. Is my ankle supposed to be this hot?’

  ‘Just give it a moment.’ He sat back, and from a bucket of water took a damp cloth, with which he began to clean his hands. ‘Tyranny is a complex woman, Lady Vintage. I have known her many years, and she can still be unpredictable, even to me, but I do believe she seeks a redemption of some kind.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘She would not like me to say it, of course, because she is practical down to her bones, but I believe she feels she was meant to find that piece of war-beast armour, and that it, in turn, was meant to lead her here, to help you, now.’

  ‘That is an interesting way of looking at it,’ said Vintage carefully.

  Okaar chuckled, a bare, dry sound that Vintage immediately liked. ‘You also, are a practical woman, Lady Vintage, and you believe I am speaking, uh, I believe you would say, horse shit.’

  ‘Ha! Yes, well, my darling, I have certainly heard my share of it over the years. Oh, my ankle is cold now, is that supposed to happen?’

  Okaar looked pleased. ‘Yes, great heat and then great cold. It will help the swelling. Would you like another glass of kyern?’

  Vintage was just leaning forward to take the glass when a flurry of raised voices from outside made them both sit up. It was usual for the palace gardens to be noisy, especially as the morning eased into afternoon and people gathered for lunch, but there was a sharp cadence to these voices that made Vintage uneasy. Looking up, she caught a similar expression of concern on Okaar’s face, and without a word he helped her up and they headed back outside. At first Vintage could not make out the problem, although she could see plenty of people standing and staring, distracted from their daily tasks of skinning and tanning, or fetching water
. They were all looking towards the central gate, where a large group was approaching.

  ‘What is this now?’

  ‘Let us go and see,’ murmured Okaar, but when he made to take her elbow, she shook him off.

  ‘I’m quite all right, darling.’ She shifted the crutch back under her armpit. The ankle did feel better, almost pleasantly numb. ‘Keep an eye on me, if you don’t mind, just in case it looks like I’m about to go arse over tit.’

  Moving swiftly down through the crowds, Vintage kept her eye on the new group, attempting to take in as much about them as possible before the inevitable confrontation. There were around ten of them, and they were an impressive bunch. They were all riding fine black and bay horses, which were shaking their heads and stamping impatiently, and each man and woman wore a combination of furs and armour that took the form of overlapping enamelled plates, scratched and dented but clearly well made. Their attire was too warm for the brightening spring day, and Vintage suspected that they must have set out on their journey in the depths of winter. There were two figures at the front who appeared to be the leaders. A tall, stocky man rode at the front, with a beard so black it was almost blue and a ring of black hair that circled back from his ears. The top of his head was carefully shaved, and there was a tattoo of an octopus there, its tentacles held in graceful loops. Yuron-Kai, then, thought Vintage, and on the heels of that, a long and hard journey, yet he still takes time to shave his head each day. Interesting.

  Next to him was a woman, her hair just as shining black, and cut quite severely across her forehead into a fringe. She was tall and wiry, and sat watching the crowd with a considering look on her face. The thick metal plates that covered her chest had once been painted with a red octopus, but years of hard wear had chipped much of it away.

  ‘Hello! Hello, welcome to Ebora!’

  With Okaar’s help, Vintage pushed through the people standing around gawking, to the gate itself, which was still standing open. The man on his fine black horse scowled down at her, while his people milled about behind him, not quite approaching the gate.

  ‘You are human,’ he said. His plains speech was heavily accented.

  ‘You noticed? That’s encouraging.’ Vintage smiled up at him in what she hoped was a cheerful manner. ‘Won’t you come through the gate? You must have had a long journey—’

  ‘You are human.’ He cut her off, looking over her head to the palace beyond. ‘Where are the Eboran lords? We wish to be properly greeted.’

  Inwardly cursing, Vintage took a breath and raised her voice. Next to her, she felt rather than saw Okaar look at her in surprise.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want here? State your business.’

  The bearded man looked back at her, black eyebrows raising fractionally.

  ‘We are Yuron-Kai.’ He paused, as though for dramatic effect. ‘I am Sen-Lord Takor. This,’ he indicated the woman with the severe fringe, ‘is Sena-Lord Kivee. As for our business in Ebora . . .’

  Sena-Lord Kivee urged her horse forward, pulling at a heavy sack strapped to her saddle. She tipped it up and let its contents fall at Vintage’s feet. It was a corpse, the body small and pressed in on itself, its skin turned purple and yellow. It was flat, too flat for any human corpse, and without any surprise Vintage noted the holes where its eyes should be, and the gaping slash at its throat that revealed a black, rubbery substance, long since dried. A drone.

  ‘This was our son.’ Sena-Lord Kivee’s voice was clipped and smooth, her eyes difficult to read, although Vintage thought the glitter in them was due to more than just the sunny day. ‘Our son, this abomination. Where are the Eboran sen-lords? Where are their beasts? For they are not in the skies over Yuron-Kai. That is our business in Ebora.’

  Vintage sighed, her eyes on the sad, shrivelled thing at her feet. How long had his mother been travelling with that thing strapped to her horse? She could smell the preservatives they had packed it with, sharp and sour in her nose. It was possible to see a leather cuff on the shrivelled arm, the red octopus painted there a twin to the one on Sena-Lord Kivee’s chest.

  ‘Please,’ she said eventually. ‘Do come inside.’

  Tyranny Munk had been in the receiving room, drinking rapidly from a fresh pot of tea – she seemed to have taken a shine to it – when the congregation from Yuron-Kai were led in. Eight of them came, with two insisting on staying with their horses, and they stood with straight backs behind the chairs and loungers, looking uncomfortable and overdressed while their two leaders glared around at the artful furnishings. Tyranny had picked up her cup and sauntered to the corner of the room, but she did not leave. Instead, Vintage saw her exchange a significant look with Okaar, who had also been careful not to leave her side. This was less than ideal, but, Vintage reasoned, she had no time to deal with it now. She murmured to one of the Finneral guards on the door, asking for someone to fetch Eri and Nanthema, if they could find them, then hopped awkwardly to the centre of the room.

  ‘My lords, you have come a long way. Will you not sit? Are there any refreshments you would prefer? There is tea, but I can find you something stronger, if you prefer.’

  Sen-Lord Takor glanced at the padded chair as though it were a dog making a mess on the carpet, and did not sit.

  ‘I will say again, where are the Eboran sen-lords? Where are their beasts? We are owed an explanation.’

  ‘They are coming.’ Vintage moved towards the chair, then thought better of it. Walking with the crutch was straining all sorts of muscles and she longed to sit down, but having this conversation with the Yuron-Kai lords looming over her seemed like an unfortunate start. ‘I am Lady Vincenza de Grazon.’ When they did not react to this, she cleared her throat and continued. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what happened.’ Seeing a flicker of indignation on Sena-Lord Kivee’s face, she held up one hand. ‘The worm people, of course, but details here would be most appreciated. Ebora is isolated, as I’m sure you know, and any information we can gather is useful in our fight.’

  ‘We were visiting our outer camps,’ said Sena-Lord Kivee. ‘There had been a hard snow, and since the corpse moon left the skies, a bad feeling was in the air, like panic among horses. Our people, Vincenza de Grazon, are familiar with the horrors of the worm people. Our lands bear their scars. When the nights are long and dark, it can become tempting for the weak and cowardly to abandon their families for places they believe to be safer, like the soft bright cities of Reidn, even Mushenska.’ As his partner spoke, Sen-Lord Takor’s mouth twisted, revealing what he thought of such places. ‘So we patrol. Our people were afraid, and rumours were flying around all campfires. We watched the skies, and told them – Ebora will wake, and come. We had heard those whispers too, you see, that the tree-god had birthed new beast warriors.’ Sena-Lord Kivee paused. It was painfully quiet in the room, the sounds from the palace garden seeming to come from miles away. ‘But the worm people came, their ugly ship birthing forth monstrosities, and our people were slaughtered, and although we fought, we were slaughtered too. Those who died got up again and fixed cold hands around our throats. Our son, who had been riding with us to learn the ways of a sen-lord, was overwhelmed by the monstrosities and I could not reach him, I could not –’ She stopped again, then stood up a little straighter. ‘Where was Ebora? Where were their knights? In the past, we have fought together. The history of Yuron-Kai is riddled with such tales. But in this Ninth Rain, they have let us die. We fought alone, and watched our families eaten. Eaten. Where was Ebora? Where?’

  ‘A blood debt is owed us.’ Sen-Lord Takor rested his hand on his belt, where Vintage couldn’t help noticing he kept a short sword and three daggers of various sizes. ‘It will be paid.

  ‘My lords, I am sorry for your loss. You must know of the losses Ebora has also faced in recent centuries?’ Vintage kept her face very still. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Tyranny, an empty cup held in her hands. The young woman was watching intently. ‘The death of the tree-god, the crimson flux. Ebora
is not what it once was.’

  ‘The tree-god lives again,’ said Sena-Lord Kivee. ‘Our son does not.’

  ‘What happened?’ To Vintage’s enormous surprise, Tyranny stepped forward from her corner, putting the teacup down on a nearby table. ‘You weren’t all killed, were you? Because you’re standing here now, with faces like smacked arses. So what happened?’

  Vintage watched the confusion pass over the Yuron-Kai lords’ faces – she imagined they were trying to decipher the plains speech for ‘arses’ – and, for a moment, she wondered if Lord Sen-Takor would simply take out his sword and murder them all. Instead, he frowned at the blond-haired woman.

  ‘The worm people’s ship was damaged,’ he said shortly. ‘It seemed to have difficulty remaining in the air. They killed many hundreds, and we cut down the walking corpses, but when it birthed its great worm, the thing did not live long enough to produce the green fluid. Shortly after that, the worm people’s ship left.’

  ‘There were holes in it,’ added Sena-Lord Kivee. ‘In the side of the ship. And the behaviour of the creatures was erratic.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Vintage. ‘This would add up to what we have observed too – that the Jure’lia are weakened and confused. It certainly does not reflect their usual methodical patterns, as observed in previous Rains. My lords—’

  At that moment, there was a scuffle at the door and Eri arrived, his eyes wide at the sight of so many people in the receiving room. Vintage looked beyond him, hoping to see Nanthema, but instead she saw Helcate, his scruffy snout resting on Eri’s shoulder. Vintage felt her heart sink.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Sen-Lord Takor coldly.

  ‘Lords, please allow me to introduce Eri of Lonefell, and Helcate, our youngest war-beast.’

  ‘Youngest? It is a runt!’ Sena-Lord Kivee looked to her partner in disbelief. ‘A runt and a child? Is this what Ebora is? Where are your true beasts?’ She changed her stance, gripping the back of the chair in front of her. With some dismay, Vintage saw that her knuckles were turning white with the force of it. ‘You dare to lie to us? We have heard reports from several scouts, and from travellers through Yuron-Kai, that there is both a dragon and a griffin – enormous, powerful war-beasts. Yet you insult us by bring us this half-formed thing?’