The denial was a knee-jerk reaction. “I’m not—”
“You entered through the midship hatch and hid in the spinward corner, unannounced. And you’ve been watching from your location for over four minutes.” Tyron folded her arms and peered down at her. “If not spying, then what?”
Mim took an involuntary step back, then forced her feet to stay in place. Don’t be a baby.
“I heard Kelta give you specific instructions not to interact with me. That’s insubordination. A punishable offense.”
“Don’t tell.” She blurted the words. Scared baby.
Tyron shrugged, a twitch of her shoulders, indifferent. Her eyes moved over Mim in assessment. “What purpose would it serve to inform on an eight-year-old?”
For this, Mim had no response. The question hung somewhere in the area between reprieve and threat.
“I’m nine.” The practiced lie flew out. She drew herself up to the balls of her feet, hoping to look taller.
The woman’s keen gaze held hers. Waiting.
Mim swallowed. “Eight.”
“Why so eager to be older, little spy?” The question had depth to it. It brought a flush of colors with it: gray-sorrow and a strange green-want; confusing against the tireless, churning sea of red. “Do you not like this life? There are people here to protect you, care for you.” She gestured in the direction of the cluster of unchanging houses on the hillside that ringed the port.
“It’s fine.” Mim twisted, half-shrug, half-fidget. “But I want to be an infiltrator…a guildsworn…like Asher. I’ll fight pirates and see the stars.”
“Stars are just points on a chart. Pirates kill people. Even little girls.”
“I can learn to fight. I’ll be good at it. Like Asher. Like you.” She prattled on, filling the strange stillness the woman exuded. “I’m learning to read High Eugenes and Guildspeak. I can remember lots and lots.”
The woman greeted this with a snort. A personal ripple of amusement. Then: “Do you intend to talk your enemies to death?”
“I don’t always talk. I can be stealthy. I’m good at keeping secrets too. Like when Kelta told me not to talk about the baby’s colors on Erelah’s tummy—” Mim bit her lip, realizing her mistake. Tyron had gone positively rigid. It was the silence between a bolt of lightning and the ensuing rumble of thunder.
“Complete your last statement.”
She backed up. “I forgot.”
“Unlikely.” Eyes narrowed, Tyron stalked closer. She assessed Mim anew. “You’re a Binait female. You see things others cannot. What did you see in Erelah?”
Mim shook her head as she drew her shoulders up, making herself smaller. But Tyron knew. Something had made a connection inside of that roiling sea of murderous reds. It was a sharp spike of dull sickly yellows of jealousy and envy, raw and bleeding and full of hate, but more complex and impossibly grown up.
“Erelah is pregnant. I assume Corsair is the father.” Tyron did not yell or snarl, but the low damning quality in her voice was somehow worse. “Correct?”
Mim nodded, desperate to obey. The precursor to tears made her throat swell.
When Tyron spoke again it was with an odd hitch, making her voice raw: “You should leave, little spy. There’s nothing for you here.”
The meaning shaped the words into something more, something far too grown up to be seen from here, but she followed the sorrow in their colors. It was ache and loss and too big to see its edges. Mim stepped away, watching Tyron, a dark figure against the bright of the world outside. Finally, the tears did come, and she dashed back home.
Three
Splitdawn had carved its Citadel in the mountainous region of a world unimaginatively called Hull. To Jon, its great meeting lodge and the people in it could have easily come from a tome about the days of the Expanse, when men thought themselves warrior kings and the worlds were ripe for conquering. Shields bearing the crests of dozens of fallen Kindred lined the high ceiling, some of them positively ancient. Frayed and faded war banners hung from the walls.
Jon fought the urge to sneeze. Braziers pumped out the musty smell of glorywood, the traditional incense burned during treat. Its scent was said to please the Fates and ward off the temptation to deceive from either party. But even if he, Corsair and Sela meant harm to these people, it would be suicide. He counted eight men and women in powered armor to each side of the chamber—an honor guard, he guessed. Servants and hangers-on gathered and murmured in the dim corners. They watched with an unnerving avidness, hungry for a show.
Maxim Agrippa, sixteenth Imperator of the Splitdawn Guild, dominated the space, seated on high upon a carved throne of mimic-stone.
In the Reaches, the Splitdawn Guild was known for their powered armor, and Maxim’s was meant to be the shining example of it. His suit’s metal was a smoky black, polished to a high gleam, except for a small nick or dent here or there. Jon got the impression it was intentional, meant to be a testimony to past combat. But it seemed artificial, all for vanity, because it did not match the face of the man peering out with disdain over the chest plate etched with Splitdawn’s gold sun-and-dagger sigil. Maxim’s face was soft at the edges. His long dark hair was shaved close to the sides of his head, the remainder gathered back into coarse ropes adorned with metal beads and precious stones.
All of it rang false, like a man trying too hard to impress.
To hear Corsair tell it, Splitdawn was jointly ruled by Maxim and his twin sister, Tove. It appeared that no one had bothered to tell Maxim of this. Standing beside her brother, Tove seemed an unfinished work, as if the Fates had become distracted during her creation and had gone to work on her brother instead. She was slight of frame, her shoulders canted at an angle, frozen forever in an uncertain shrug. It was very likely that her station had kept her alive. Among these warriors who prize physical prowess and strength, Jon guessed that her appearance was an embarrassment. Her ashy brown hair was clipped short. Her features were plain, to match her clothes: no power armor, only a simple black tunic. The gold badge of her office decorated the left chest: also the Splitdawn sigil of a sun pierced by a dagger.
Jon realized he’d been staring at the woman. His eyes met hers—the keen, dark bronze of high Kindred. Jon dipped his chin, turning his attention to Corsair’s broad back.
Corsair moved with leisure to the front of the other petitioners, as if he had every right to be there. All eyes seemed to be on him: remarkably sober, clad in the colors of his Kindred, wearing the sigil of his house gods on his sleeve. Jon was grateful to be considered a peripheral character in this farce. He, like Sela, was presented as Corsair’s retainer, props in his play. It brought another stinging hitch to his pride.
He sensed Sela shift beside him. When he met her gaze, it was the unreadable expression he remembered from long ago briefing rooms on the Storm King. What did she think of all this ceremony and hollow posturing? Perhaps she had reached the same assessment well before they’d been corralled into this meeting hall hung with mementos of the conquered and the dead.
He took the moment to admire her slim-fitting clothes. The lines mimicked the curve of her low back, the taper from shoulders to waist. Her thick blonde hair was neatly coiled at the base of her neck. Like he, she was dressed in the colors of Corsair’s house—red and pale gold, not the rich amethyst of Veradin Kindred. That was a daydream that had belonged to someone else, an idealistic captain in love with his second, with no idea what twists awaited him on his Path.
Jon fought the urge to sway impatiently. He counted backward from ten as they waited their turn among the crowds of petitioners for the Imperators’ favor.
Finally, Maxim scowled at them in naked appraisal, but he was slow to complete his measure of Sela. Jon sidestepped until his shoulder brushed hers, the move driven by a crazy spur of primitive jealousy. He felt the reprehension in her stare. The slight twitch of her brows was the closest she’d come to an eye roll in this situation.
“Corsair. Who are your…attra
ctive…friends?” Maxim’s High Eugenes sounded lazy, bored.
Jon registered a flicker of movement from Tove’s side of the dais. A tall, rawboned woman dressed in battered power armor, hair arranged into ropey tendrils piled in a row down the center of her scalp, appeared at the twisted Imperator’s elbow. She knelt in deference to her Imperator as the smaller woman whispered in her ear. The armored woman glanced up at Jon only once before returning to the line of honor guard. He could not escape the feeling that their exchange had been about him.
Maxim regarded Corsair once more. Sela was forgotten. “A mild improvement over the company you’ve kept of late.”
Someone in the shadowy corner of the room issued a raspy chuckle.
“Have you come to swear your allegiance to Splitdawn, now? We do love fish.” He pointed at the Corsair sigil: a sea demon battling a dragon.
This encouraged more chuckles from the onlookers.
The barb rolled off Corsair. His posture softened, and he shifted his weight to one foot. A look flashed between them that hinted at a sullied history. “I’m here to treat. To ask your favor.”
“Oh?” Maxim’s smile was poisonous, indulgent. “Why not go to your Ironvale brethren?”
“Asher Corsair is renegade, brother. He’s disavowed of Ironvale.” Tove’s voice was like a rusted hinge, a testament to the angry scar around her throat. “To treat with him is an insult to our Ironvale allies.”
Maxim flexed his neck, nostrils flared as he shot a venomous look at Tove. She found sudden interest in the floor.
Corsair did not flinch. “What is between me and Ironvale stays just that. I’ll make right with them…eventually.” He said it with finality, like a terminal diagnosis. “Unless…you’re afraid of them. Is that it?”
Maxim stiffened. The room was quiet enough to hear the whir of servos in the powered armor. Jon realized Corsair’s play: Maxim, for all his posturing, would not want to look weak nor seem to take the counsel of his plain, rice-water sister.
“Let’s hear it.” Maxim gestured, a commanding flick of his gloved fingers, like humoring a child.
“Humans that dwell in the Thermalyea Fray invaded my home. They’ve taken something valuable from me. I aim to get it back.”
Maxim scoffed. “A pirate that’s a victim of theft. How poetic.”
Corsair ignored this. “I need a single team, one of your torch squads, and a stealth vessel.”
“Anything else? A commission in my army? Perhaps you’d like to bed my sister?” Maxim taunted. He feigned sudden recollection at his gaffe. “Oh. Wait. Even someone like you has standards.”
“I just want what’s been taken from me. These Human invaders make their home in your territories. You are obligated to address it.”
“Don’t presume to remind me, boy!” It was a sudden flood of vitriol, then Maxim sat back just as quickly.
Tove spoke: “We would know of such invaders. The Imperators of Splitdawn keep their lands well.”
“Not well enough, it seems,” Corsair replied, his gaze steady on Maxim. “Don’t pretend you do not know the Sceeloid outpost there has been taken.”
“Enough!” Maxim stood. His armor granted him a full head of height over Corsair. “Leave here now, Lord Corsair.” He scowled at them. “Before I do Ironvale a favor and return you to them…along with your friends.”
Four
The walk from Maxim’s audience chamber back to the landing platform was the longest of Asher’s life. Each footfall drove doubt further into him, an unfamiliar sensation.
Wedged between Splitdawn’s heavy armored corvettes and other ships dotting the landing platform, the Cassandra was a shabby old whore. As he approached the ship, Asher thought they’d either shown courage to arrive in such a decrepit thing, or a foolish lack of decorum. Either worked.
Yet under it, he felt an alien sense of pride swell. He realized the emotion belonged to Erelah. She had loved the vessel, calling it a classic design
He pushed his doubts aside. There were no other plays than this one: a grisly last drive into a suicidal run to try at getting Erelah back on their own. A wrong step would get them all killed and might actually make things worse for Erelah
…and the baby.
Once more he stumbled over the idea. Ever since Kelta had told him, Asher felt like he was finding something unfamiliar in a common spot, tripping over it, each time having to re-examine it and find a new place to put it. But he realized it now needed a space of its own.
“Was I right to tell you?” Kelta’s voice was hesitant, soft. She set a trembling hand on his shoulder. He could sense her stare and imagine the worry and ache on her face.
“…and I’m sure that was part of the plan as well,” Veradin said. His face was ruddy with anger.
Asher blinked, looking up from the coated decking of the platform. He received the distinct impression that the comment was part of a much longer diatribe from the man, one that he’d been ignoring. The gist, the tone of it was enough for him to follow. And it was a reaction that he’d been expecting. Of course, Veradin didn’t understand. His brain just didn’t work like that. It was still stuffed with the pretend rules of principles and morals.
“Just wait,” Asher said.
“Wait? For what?” Veradin looked to his woman, perhaps for support. She remained silent. Her face was closed off, but not angry. Asher had come to categorize her two moods: murderous silence and observational silence. How Veradin had charmed his way past that stoic facade and into her bed was beyond his conjuring, but Asher commended the gutsy move. The woman could likely kill you with your own teeth.
“Just. Wait.” Asher padded the air with one hand. He considered opening the hatchway to the Cass, but made himself stop.
It might send the wrong message, make them look guilty, desperate to leave.
“Maxim threatened to have us all arrested. I don’t think we should be standing around here. We need to leave. Sort out this mess you’ve made.” Veradin moved to the mid-ship hatch.
No. Boarding the ship was the wrong move. They were watching. Asher could feel it.
“He could have done it right then and there. But he didn’t,” Asher replied. He flexed his shoulders and tugged at his collar
Tyron regarded Asher. Her voice had an edge to it, the creak of torn patience. “It’s been seventeen minutes.”
Veradin scowled. “What are you talking about?”
The neck clasp to the coat was tricky. No wonder these people had servants to do these things. Probably took them an hour to get dressed. Finally, the hateful piece of metal snapped open.
Asher gave a relieved grunt. “Can’t put a time to things like this. There’s a nuance to it.”
Tyron flashed him a look “Nuance.” Her mutter sounded like a curse. She opened the high, tight collar of her jacket and started rolling up the sleeves, scanning their surroundings with the feigned casualness of a scythe cat, wary for a fight.
“Ty.” Veradin squared off at her. “What’s going on?”
She pointed her chin at Asher. “This…retreat…is part of his design.”
Asher frowned. “It’s not a retreat.” He looked at Jon. “It’s strategy.”
“You knew they’d react like this. And, now…you’re what…playing them? Like some con?” Betrayal crackled in his voice.
Veradin had a self-righteous streak to him that Asher did not like. A dark corner of him gained a little bit of satisfaction from Veradin’s upset. Almost immediately, he felt a sharp flash of reprobation from that part of his brain where Erelah’s memories dwelled. The simple love of a sister for a brother that rose above petty hurts. This was her protector. She’d always sought his approval. It had not been right to keep things from him.
“He predicted a more successful encounter if certain intel was withheld from you,” Tyron explained to Veradin. “I did not agree with this approach.”
“We couldn’t afford to give too much away. You have a tell. Anyone can see you coming.�
�� Asher shook his head. “Erelah’s the same way. She—”
Veradin’s fist caught him just beneath the chin. The world went a dazzling white.
“You see that coming?” Veradin hissed.
Eyes watering, Asher rushed him. Tyron was faster. A jolt of meaty pain and he felt his knee go out, the left one he’d dislocated as a kid. There was a sharp jab to his lower back. Agony. He landed on the deck in a winded rush. He pushed up, got as far as a crouch. Tyron was a blur. This time he landed face up. She sat on his chest. Her knees pinned his arms and robbed him of leverage. Her hand clamped down on his throat.
“Told you,” he grunted, shifting uselessly. “I get to be on top.”
She applied more pressure with her knees. The pain was intense, setting fire to his shoulders and arms. She did not even seem winded. A banked fury in her eyes dared him to make another comment.
Veradin looked down over her shoulder. “This is my sister’s life. Not some game.”
There was a distinct sound. The clearing of a throat. From this angle, the sleek armor made her look impossibly tall, but he’d recognize the wild-looking woman with or without it. Maeve pra-Agrippa. He’d seen Tove whisper something to her as Maxim was doing his glory-whoring.
“She’ll see you,” Maeve said. Her eyebrow drew up as she took in their tableau. “If’n you’re none too busy.”
Asher flashed a kiss my ass grin at Tyron. “Not saying I mind this, but…”
She snarled, shifted her weight and was off him in one easy move.
Asher climbed to his feet. Something clicked sharply in his knee, and he made himself smile at Maeve past the pain. He brushed invisible dirt from his hands, straightened the tunic.
“No. Not you, Corsair.” Maeve pointed at Veradin. “Him.”
A steely flatness clamped down on Asher’s spine. Not what he was expecting. His step stuttered.
To his credit, Veradin was careful to hide the surprise in his voice. “Who?”
Maeve flashed Asher a look as if to say: Is he joking?
Allies and Enemies: Exiles, Book 3 Page 2
