Siege of Rage and Ruin

by Django Wexler

  Finally, with the full routine completed, a male servant arrives to escort me to the Markas’. By this point, between the warm water and the release of tension, I feel like I could use a nap, but I try to make myself focus as we walk down yet another beautifully appointed corridor toward another set of rooms.

  This place must be a maze. I could never find my way back to the room I’d first woken up in on my own. Hopefully, I won’t have to. There are other things on my mind.

  All right. If Lord Marka asked for me to be brought here, and Kuon Naga allowed it, they both must have something to gain. What that could be, especially in the former case, I have no idea. Court politics are well beyond my ken. But if I can find out, maybe I can use it to my advantage.

  We finally arrive, and the servant kneels and opens the door. Garo is waiting, sitting across a low table from an older man with a bald pate ringed by graying hair. He dresses plainly, at least by palace standards, and has a carefully groomed, pencil-thin mustache above lips that seem prone to curl in disappointment. This, I assume, is Lord Marka, and I bow and shuffle into the room in the careful gait the kizen permits.

  “Tori.” Garo gets to his feet and takes my hand. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” He helps me sit—it isn’t easy to do, in a kizen—and I incline my head again to his father. Lord Marka looks back at me with a frankly curious eye.

  “Well,” he says eventually, “I can see why my son is so taken with you.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just smile. It seems to please him.

  “Welcome, child,” he goes on. “I am Lord Marka. Garo has told me a great deal about you.”

  “He’s too kind,” I murmur, old polite instincts automatically falling into place.

  “He says that you saved his life, several times. I want you to know that I am most grateful.”

  Proper humility walks a fine line; argue with a compliment, and you can insult the giver. I incline my head again. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “He has explained to me the … circumstances that lead to your involvement in the current unpleasantness. I have prevailed on Kuon Naga to allow you to be held here for the duration.”

  “I am very grateful, my lord.”

  “Mmm. Yes.” A slight smile crosses his face. “I imagine it’s better than what he might have had planned for you.”

  Again, there’s nothing I can quite think of to answer that.

  “In return,” Lord Marka says, “I expect good behavior from you. I have argued to Naga that you were led astray by others, and had good but misguided intentions. You will prove this by your cooperation now. Do you understand?”

  Just a touch of the whip. Lord Marka would have gotten along well with some of my tutors. I bow my head. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good. We can all hope this matter will be concluded soon.”

  I clear my throat, and he looks at me, eyes narrowed.

  “Apologies, my lord,” I say. “If I might ask a question, when this matter is concluded, what do you imagine might happen?”

  “To you?” I see him reevaluating me, his eyes canny. “That rather depends on your behavior, I think. It may be that Naga will have some … questions, some requests, and I suggest you please him. If you do, he assures me that it should not be necessary to punish you further.”

  Ah. So that’s the game. I bow my head again. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He waves a dismissal. “Garo, show her to her room.”

  “Yes, Father.” He takes my hand again, and we return to the corridor. He glances at me, and I’m surprised to see relief on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  “You know how to talk to a lord,” he says. “I was a little worried Father would find some way to take offense.”

  “I didn’t ignore my etiquette tutors, if that’s what you mean,” I tell him. “You know I grew up in the Third Ward. Not exactly nobility, obviously—”

  “I know,” he says. “I just haven’t seen you … like this.”

  That’s true, I suppose. We’d always met in the Eleventh Ward, both of us in worker’s clothes, and I’d spent our free time teaching him how to do things like a commoner—scrub laundry, order in restaurants, swear at carters. For obvious reasons, I’d never brought him home to Ofalo.

  “You really are beautiful, you know,” he adds, and flushes slightly. I find myself blushing, too.

  “What I am,” I say firmly, “is exhausted. If you can show me where I can lie down for a while?”

  “Of course.” Garo coughs. “Follow me.”

  * * *

  I sleep for what turns out to be twelve hours, and wake up the following morning feeling ravenous and better than I have in weeks. After devouring the breakfast the servants bring me and dressing in a lighter casual robe, I set out to explore the palace.

  I’m still a captive, obviously, so I don’t expect to be given the run of the place, but it’s surprising how far I’m allowed to wander before I run into a guard who, apologetically, won’t let me pass. I had vaguely pictured the palace as something like my house in the Third Ward, plus a few ceremonial chambers, but it’s clearly much larger than that, almost a city unto itself. The part we’re in—I hear the servants calling it the Pear Wing, and there is indeed a pear motif in some of the paneling and furniture—is bigger than our whole estate, and includes several sets of apartments, each with their own sitting rooms and dining chambers, with servants’ passages woven around them. Rooms wrap around carefully tended courtyards, each a tiny jewel box of greenery, water, and stone.

  More important, for my purposes, the place feels almost abandoned. Garo and his father are living here, and I catch glimpses of a few other nobles associated with the Marka clan, plus of course the innumerable, almost invisible, servants who make clean clothes and fresh food appear as if by magic. Even so, most of the time the corridors are empty, and I can walk for what feels like miles without seeing anyone.

  I have a strong feeling, however, that I am not as unobserved as I might think. The fog of Kindre blindness is with me always, but when I open my mental senses I get a vague sensation of pressure. My suspicion is that whatever Immortal Kindre user Naga has suppressing my abilities is also tasked with keeping track of my movements. I’ve done that often enough with my own powers.

  Exploring gives me some time to think, unfortunately, and I find I would rather not. My captivity is a fact, and I’m not naïve enough to imagine I might be able to escape now that I have Kuon Naga’s attention. I should be grateful that I’m apparently going to be kept in pampered luxury instead of naked in some filthy hole, having my fingernails ripped out. But—

  —my friends are still out there. Giniva, Hasaka, Jakibsa, even Kosura. Everyone who believed in me, who followed when I told them to fight the Ward Guard. They’re still fighting, and if nothing changes they’re all going to die.

  And Isoka is out there. My sister is alive, and she came back to take me with her. I had a chance, somehow, in spite of everything, and I threw it away.

  It would have meant leaving your friends to die.

  But if they’re going to die anyway, why not?

  My head feels like one of the Eleventh’s cheap noodle shops, with a hundred customers bellowing arguments at the top of their lungs. It’s a relief when, with evening coming on, I open yet another beautifully painted lacquer door and finally find something interesting.

  * * *

  The door is off a long corridor that winds away from the rest of the Pear Wing, and honestly I expected to run into more palace guards on the other side. Instead, I slide it open and find a large room, airy and well-lit by paper-screen windows, full of row after row of bookcases. A library.

  That, in itself, is interesting. We had a small library at the house in the Third Ward, plus whatever my tutors assigned me, which was invariably deadly boring moral tracts and carefully composed histories. I don’t know what they keep in the palace libraries, but it has to be better th
an that. Even more intriguing, though, is the young man sitting alone at a reading table in the central aisle, bent over a book with several more stacked up beside him, his lips pursed in a slight frown.

  He’s Isoka’s age, I guess, or a little younger, with thin, intelligent features and long hair tied in a complicated queue. He plays with the end of it as he reads, swinging it back and forth, periodically licking his finger to turn a page. He’s wearing a casual robe, but a very fine one, silk embroidered with fanciful wild beasts. He can’t be a servant slacking off. But he’s also not wearing the colors of the Marka household. So what’s he doing here?

  I approach, rustling my slippers against the floor mats so as not to startle him. This doesn’t work, and he remains engrossed in the book, so I’m forced to resort to a cough. He jerks upright, looking around wildly, and I wonder if he’s not supposed to be in here after all. He looks like he’s afraid of getting caught. When he sees me, he relaxes a bit and smiles.

  “Hello, miss,” he says. “I don’t believe I know you.”

  “I’m—” I hesitate. A prisoner? Does everyone know that? “A guest of the Markas. I was just … looking around. I hope it’s all right.”

  “Of course.” His smile widens. “The library is here for the use of the guests in the Pear Wing. Please, feel free.”

  He has a proprietary air, as though welcoming me to his home. A servant after all, then? Maybe a senior one, out of uniform? I give a slight bow in thanks. “I’ll have to find something interesting.”

  “I can help you, if you like,” he says. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

  “Not … exactly.” I find myself hesitant to admit I haven’t given it much thought, and try to change the subject. “What are you reading?”

  “Ancient history. The reign of the Emperor Rhioa.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I’m not surprised. This was two hundred years before the birth of the Blessed One. The supplicators say that history before the Blessed has little to teach us, but I disagree. Rhioa, for example—” He pauses, cocking his head. There’s something vaguely birdlike about his movements, quick and precise. “I’m sorry. Are you interested, or were you just being polite? I have a tendency to rattle on.”

  “I’m interested,” I tell him, and take a seat across from him at the table. “I was just killing time anyway.”

  “Fair enough.” He smiles again. “Emperor Rhioa had the misfortune to ascend the throne during a time of war with both the Southern Kings—this was when they’d formed the Dalsin League, you know—and the icelings, who’d carved out a protectorate in the north. Every year, Rhioa sent out his generals in both directions, but they kept losing battles, and every year things seemed to get worse. Rhioa stormed and raged at his advisors, and finally announced he was leading the southern army personally. They tried to talk him out of it, but he refused to listen.”

  “And he won?”

  “Oh, no.” The boy’s smile fades. “He marched the army right into a trap laid by the Nimari general Sandro. A full third of the Empire’s soldiers were killed, and Rhioa himself was captured. For a ransom, the southerners demanded all the land below the Girin River, and it took the Empire another two hundred years to get it back. As it turned out, Rhioa had caught some southern disease when he was in their camp, too, so he died within a year and nobody was very sorry about it.”

  “Ah.” I shake my head. “Sounds like he would have been better off if he’d stayed in the palace.”

  “Indeed.” The boy turns one more page, then closes the book with a sigh. “That’s usually the lesson, I find.”

  “So why are you reading about ancient failures?”

  “I think the failures are the most instructive. If you glance through the popular histories, you’d think we went from one great ruler to the next, but of course there’s quite a lot of disasters between them. Otherwise, I suppose the Blessed Empire would have conquered the world by now.”

  “I see.” I don’t, really, but I still don’t know what to make of this odd creature. I pause, trying to think of a polite way to ask what exactly he’s doing here.

  “I should go,” he says, glancing at the windows. The light is starting to fade.

  “So should I, actually.”

  “But it’s lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss…” He pauses.

  “Tori,” I say. All at once, I remember the time I met Garo, and impulsively gave him my name. If I hadn’t done that, would everything else still have followed? Probably. Kuon Naga was coming for me, whatever I did. “Gelmei Tori.”

  “Miss Gelmei. Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

  He gets to his feet, and I follow suit. As he heads for the door, I decide to risk being rude, and blurt out, “Wait. What’s your name?”

  “Me?” He half-turns with a frown, looking embarrassed. “I’m Avyntea.” He pauses a moment, then adds, “The Emperor.”

  I bark out a laugh in disbelief. He smiles again, bows slightly, and slips out the door.

  7

  ISOKA

  One more time, I tell myself. I will try one more time.

  I do my best to keep my voice calm. “Will you please just listen to me?”

  “I’m listening, Isoka,” Hasaka says.

  He’s not. We’re in the headquarters conference room, and he’s going over the big map of the city, making notes. Jakibsa, the burned Tartak adept, sits beside him and assists with a floating pencil. If nobody had told me the pair are lovers, I would have guessed it from the way they bicker.

  I grab a spare pencil and put a big ugly X on the map, up at the north end of rebel territory, where the wall separates the Third Ward from the Eighth. Jakibsa gives me a questioning glance, and Hasaka just sighs.

  “This is where we came through, and we got a good look at the Imperial defenses,” I tell them. “There’s nothing there that would stand up to a real attack. It’s a few Ward Guard officers in charge of conscripted peasants with sharpened sticks, and when they run away I’m not sure which is more likely to be at the front of the pack. I could punch through that rotting line myself.”

  “So you’ve mentioned,” Hasaka says. “Several times.”

  “Because you don’t seem to be paying attention. I’m telling you there’s enemy territory ripe for the taking. We could push all the way up to the First Ward wall.”

  “And then what?” Hasaka’s voice is controlled, but his face makes it clear he’s only barely reining in his temper. I wish he would lose it, shout at me. Then I could shout back. “Say we capture the Second and Third Wards. Now we have a longer circuit of wall to defend, without the benefit of any the preparations we’ve made over the past few weeks.”

  “There’ll be supplies there. Food. Maybe hostages.”

  “She has a point,” Jakibsa says. “Those are big houses with deep cellars.”

  “Enough to matter?” Hasaka says. “For the whole city?”

  “Probably not,” Jakibsa concedes. Hasaka turns back to me, as though this proves his point.

  “What’s the alternative?” I shoot back at him. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’ve already explained it,” he says. “You were here for the meeting.”

  I can’t help but snort in disgust. Some plan. The Red Sash commanders filed into the conference room and listened in silence while Hasaka gave them assignments—shore up the wall here, keep an eye on a troop concentration there, move ammunition to one spot and food to another. Then they filed out, muttering to one another, no doubt asking what I was doing there, while I sat by ready to explode.

  One more time.

  “If not the north,” I say, “then the waterfront. If we can—”

  “Isoka,” Hasaka growls. “Please. Leave this to us.”

  “Why? Because you’re doing such a good job?” I find myself rising from my chair. “I’m only here because you let my little sister get rotting kidnapped under your nose—”

  “Don’t talk to me about Tori,�
� Hasaka says, standing himself. “You weren’t here. What in the Rot do you know—”

  “I think,” Jakibsa says, “that’s about enough.”

  “That’s for rotting sure.” I manage to say it under my breath instead of at the top of my lungs, but I can’t help shoving the chair aside with a clatter as I head for the door. Hasaka starts to reply, but Jakibsa cuts him off. I slam the door shut and stalk downstairs, fuming.

  Rotting Red Sashes and their rotting stupidity. Guards and civilians alike hurry to get out of my way. I suppose word has gotten around that the beloved leader’s rotscum sister isn’t someone to mess with. Tori, why in the Blessed’s name did you get involved with these idiots?

  We’re staying in Tori’s old quarters, a building on the headquarters square given over to her and her Blues. Four of them guard the front door, watching with silent, emotionless stares as I approach. I ignore them, and they don’t even twitch as I wrench the door open.

  I can hear quiet conversation as I approach the rooms Meroe and I share. Another Blue steps aside to let me pass, and I find Meroe at the sitting room table with Giniva, going over a closely written report. Meroe takes a look at my face, raises an eyebrow, and gets up.

  “I appreciate the information,” she says to Giniva, who also rises. “Let me know if you come up with anything more.”

  “I will.” Giniva looks from Meroe to me and back. “Good luck.”

  I’m practically shaking with the effort of holding still while Giniva leaves. When she finally shuts the door behind her, I take a deep breath, and Meroe holds up a hand.

  “Not too loud, unless you want the rebel spymaster to hear you,” she says. “The walls are thin here.”

  “Rutting bloody rotscum,” I rasp, in a stage whisper. “Blessed’s pustulant boils.”

  “Meeting went that well, did it?” Meroe says.

  “Hasaka is—” I look around, breathing hard. I want to hit something. If we were on Soliton, I’d find the nearest crab, but all that offers itself here is some inoffensive furniture. “He doesn’t understand how unutterably screwed he is, and that means he doesn’t want to do anything about it. And nobody will tell him except for me, so he just thinks—I don’t rotting care what he thinks, but he won’t listen. None of them will.”