by Paul Krueger
Unless, she thought sourly, some idiot pissed on it.
She wished she was more surprised by how easily he’d thrown in with the Steel Cicadas. He’d tricked her into siding with him, against her own brother. And the fucking thing of it was, she’d wanted so badly to be right about him. But while Iron Prince Jimuro might have been relatively decent as far as the Tomodanese went, he was still Tomodanese.
That’s not why you’re angry at him, she told herself. You hate him for seeing through you.
She hurled down her tie in frustration, took a deep breath, then stooped to collect it. She coiled it into a tight roll, then slipped it into her coat’s breast pocket. It occurred to her the Tomodanese would say she was probably offending some ancient spirit by leaving the tie off and her top shirt button open.
Good, she thought.
But her mood tempered slightly as she stumped down the dark hallway to Prince Jimuro’s quarters. She found herself still hoping he would end up surprising her. She’d seen the hurt in his face when she’d made her case to him last night. That wasn’t the kind of hurt a person could feel if they didn’t care. She needed to believe Prince Jimuro wouldn’t, despite Kurihara’s enthralling presence, fall prey to his rhetoric. She needed to believe that he would truly break from his ancestors and embrace peace.
You just like fighting. Mang’s words echoed in her head. You’re terrified there won’t be anything left over once you let it go.
She growled to herself and shrugged off the memory. What did he know?
But another voice chimed in: When have you ever tried to convince me you were any other sort of person?
She squeezed her eyes shut to quiet both of them. “Shut up,” she muttered as she reached Prince Jimuro’s chambers at last. She composed herself, then slid his room door open. “Your Brilliance, I—”
She froze at the sight of the Iron Prince: snoring, naked, his long hair a mess and his tight, sinewy body twisted up in his sheets like a freshly caught barracuda. But her eye didn’t have time to linger on the smooth, scarred ridges of his chest or the serene expression on his handsome face, because the prince was not alone in his chambers.
Kurihara Kosuke knelt before a mirror, binding his chest with a long, narrow strip of white cotton. Tala eyed his torso and noted his lack of battle scars with disapproval.
But Kurihara misread the expression on her face, because he stopped wrapping himself and mockingly threw his arms wide as if to say, Behold. “Does my form offend you, barbarian?”
Tala rolled her eyes. “For someone who says he fights for his country, you don’t look like you’ve done much fighting.”
“Maybe I just haven’t lost any fights I’ve had,” Kurihara said, flashing a bladed smile. But there was something defensive buried in his tone, and Tala smelled it as easily as a shark could blood.
“I’ve got a whole collection of scars,” Tala said.
“I can’t imagine you’re much of a fighter, then,” he sniffed, taking the bait.
“I’m here,” Tala said, “and hundreds of you steelhounds aren’t. So I guess I’m good enough.”
And then she smiled, for that crucial extra layer of fuck you.
There was a deep, sick satisfaction in watching all the smugness drain from Kurihara’s handsome face. His hand twitched at his side, ready to strike her.
“Try it,” Tala said calmly. She pulled aside her open shirt placket to reveal the topmost rim of Beaky’s pactmark. “My shade needs breakfast.”
Kurihara turned as pale as his binder. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t let yourself be found alone, slaver.” He shrugged on his kimono and swept out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Tala’s rage subsided, and she felt fatigued again, as if she’d just taken another dose of spider venom. Her temples throbbed. How had that escalated so quickly? Was Kurihara just that adept at piercing her calm? Or had Mang been right?
“Kosuke…?” Prince Jimuro said, voice still misty with sleep. When he saw who was standing over his bed, though, he let out a squawk of surprise. He sat up, then squawked again as his blankets slipped from his body. He moved hastily to re-cover himself.
Tala pointedly looked away. Life in the barracks had made her no stranger to the naked male form, but she wasn’t dealing with a fellow soldier here. And after last night, she was feeling some desire to make nice. “Calm down.” Inspiration encouraged her to add: “I didn’t see anything.”
“Ah,” said Jimuro. He cleared his throat. “Of course. My apologies.” When he spoke again, his tone was clipped and formal. “Would you mind giving me a moment, Sergeant?”
“Not yet, Your Brilliance,” Tala said. “We have to talk about how today’s going to go down.”
“That’s surprising,” Prince Jimuro said mildly. “Considering the way you were acting last night, I didn’t think you were in the mood to talk about much of anything.”
Tala ground her molars. “That’s why I want to talk to you,” she said. “I don’t care what kind of history you’ve got with this Kurihara guy. You can’t trust him, or the Steel Cicadas. How’s that going to play with the allies you sit down with at peace talks, when you look them in the eye and tell them you partnered with violent criminals? They’re gangsters, Your Brilliance.”
“Well, I suppose that’s an upgrade from ‘terrorists.’ ”
“Jimuro—”
“Tala, I can’t have this discussion before tea.” Prince Jimuro sighed. “But I’d add that you’re talking about the heir to the most powerful and important clan in Tomoda after my own. If Lord Daisuke is incarcerated or executed, Kosuke becomes the head of the household. I need lords like Kosuke on my side if I’m to be an effective Steel Lord.”
Tala’s mouth hung open a little. What he said made perfect sense; the notorious Red Tide was awaiting trial, and imprisonment for life was the kindest possible future he could hope for. “That’s what you want to tell me all this was about?” she said, gesturing to his tangled sheets. “Politics?”
The prince flushed and looked away. “I’m the Iron Prince of Tomoda,” he said, a little too quickly. “In a position like mine, sex is the most political act there is.” He nudged his glasses up his nose, his patience at an end. “Now, as I said, we will have this discussion. But we will not have it before I’ve had tea. If you please, Sergeant.”
Tala noted the change in his demeanor. He’d always been haughty, but after two days in Tomoda he was already starting to sound like an actual prince again. Certainly, she suddenly felt like some sort of valet that had just talked out of turn.
Tala was no valet. She was a warrior. A survivor. A soldier.
But her mouth clamped into a tight frown as she bowed and left the room.
* * *
—
Breakfast was another opulent affair that delayed them getting on the road for a full hour. When Tala irritably pointed this out to the prince, Kurihara waved off her concerns. “Forget the road, Your Brilliance.” A map of Tomoda was spread on the table before them, and he traced a line down it with a slender finger. “We’ll take the southbound train out of Gorudo. You’ll be in Hagane before daybreak, and waving the sword of Steel Lord Setsuko before your next breakfast.”
“Absolutely not,” Tala said, slamming a palm flat on the map. “The prince has a thousand enemies—”
“The prince is right here, thanks,” said Prince Jimuro.
“—and as his protector, I won’t put him in a position where a potential enemy can know exactly where he is at all times.”
“What is the Palace of Steel, if not that exact thing?” Kurihara said with an amused little smile. “Your plan’s already beyond repair. Adhering to it because you’re too slow to think of a better one is far more dangerous, if you ask me.”
Tala’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t.”
Impatiently
, the prince set his teacup down like a tiny gavel. “Sergeant. You’re not helping.”
Tala clamped her mouth shut. There was no point in showing her anger. Every time she did, Kurihara would just use it to build the case that she was the dangerous and unstable one, not him. But even with her composure and discipline, she found it trying. While Prince Jimuro had surprised her by occasionally subverting her worst expectations of what the Tomodanese were like, Kurihara seemed all too eager to confirm them.
“That said, Kosuke, I don’t think the sergeant’s wrong,” Prince Jimuro continued. “General Erega and I considered using the rail system when we first hatched this plan, and rejected it as an option for similar reasons to the sergeant’s.”
Tala did an admirable job of hiding her satisfaction. Kurihara did a significantly poorer job of masking his displeasure.
The prince tapped a dot not too far from Gorudo, labeled NAMARI. “There’s our next safe house,” he said. “And that will be our destination.”
“Ah, but Your Brilliance…” Kurihara began, but Prince Jimuro cut him off with a small shake of his head. It was a nice change of pace for Tala to see him turning his princely act on someone else.
“We should be on the road soon,” Jimuro said. He rose, and Kurihara pressed his forehead to the floor. Tala only gave the prince the shallow bow that one officer might another in passing, then rose with him and followed him out.
Though she felt as though she’d come out of the post-breakfast conversation with the upper hand, she was reminded shortly after that even if Jimuro could be made to see reason, they were still among enemies. As he and Kurihara ducked into the car at the front of the motorcade, Tala’s attempt to follow was stymied by two Cicadas: Harada, the bony swordswoman from the day before, and Iwanbo, her pudgy comrade with a shotgun laid flat across his shoulders.
Tala rolled her eyes. “Out of my way.”
“No slavers will sully His Brilliance’s presence,” said Harada.
Once again, Tala fought the temptation to summon Mang, or at least Beaky. But instead, she said, “I don’t leave his side.”
“We’re all the protection our liege needs,” said Iwanbo. He patted his shotgun with clumsy menace. “You can ride behind. Rearguard, Sergeant.”
Tala flexed her right hand and considered her options. Even though it was two-on-one, they were spoiled children playing soldier. She was the real thing. Any fight among the three of them would be brief and unpleasant for everyone involved…except for her.
Iwanbo giggled, but Harada at least seemed to be measuring Tala up like a serious opponent. Tala saw her thumb twitch, and with a soft click her hilt slid free of the mouth of its sheath, revealing an inch of bare steel.
Tala clenched her hand into a fist. She couldn’t get to her gun in time, but she wouldn’t need it.
But then from inside the car Kurihara called, “Oh, we can let her in. She’s tame, after all.”
The Cicadas exchanged a sneer, and Tala realized she’d been played. She narrowed her eyes. She knew little of courtly graces, but this game she recognized. Kurihara was going to take every opportunity to jab at her and undermine her credibility with the prince, brick by brick.
Let him, Tala thought as she settled into her window seat in the back. You don’t have any reason to care.
An hour later, she was still telling herself that much more insistently as Kurihara laughed too loudly at another of the prince’s stories.
“Lord Miyamoto would kill me if he ever found out what really happened to his wig.” Prince Jimuro cackled.
“His nephew, Tsukasa, is one of our hands in the east,” said Kurihara. “Maybe I should tell him this story sometime.”
“Do it,” said the prince. “I’ve always wanted a reason to order an execution.”
The two men burst again into raucous laughter, while Tala simmered.
She remained silent, fedora angled down to discourage engagement. She hated everything about this blighted nation, she told herself as its countryside zoomed past. She hated the way its guttural language scratched at her eardrums. The hollowness its meatless food left in her stomach. The constricted feeling she got from knowing she couldn’t summon her shades, let alone walk down the street with her face visible.
And most of all, she thought with a sidelong glance at Kurihara’s laughing face, she hated the people: smug, scheming, and vile, down to the last steelhound.
Around midday, they stopped by the side of the road, and Tala finally broke her long silence. “Why’re we stopping?” she said. “We’re still miles from Namari.”
She was relieved to see the prince looking as confused as she. “Yes, what’s the meaning of this, Kosuke?”
“Apologies, Your Brilliance,” said Kurihara, raking his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “I didn’t want to mention operations in the presence of unreliable ears.”
“Easy now,” Prince Jimuro said. “Sergeant Tala’s saved my life several times over by now. I trust her, and so should you.”
“Of course, my liege,” said Kurihara, though he looked hardly convinced, or contrite. “Our spies in the prefecture have received word of a Sanbuna garrison that’s been menacing the locals. The Steel Cicadas intend to send them a message…one that requires no translation.”
“Impossible,” Tala said. “General Erega would never allow—”
“Your general ‘doesn’t allow’ plenty of things,” Kurihara sniped. “Still, they happen, and at our people’s expense.” He gave the prince an exasperated look. “You see why I didn’t want to mention anything?”
Tala scowled. “We’ll file a report with the general when we rendezvous with her in Hagane. We have to move on.”
“I’d expect such callousness from you,” Kurihara said. “The Steel Cicadas won’t leave our people defenseless. Unless you expressly order us to abandon them, Your Brilliance, we’re fighting.”
Tala’s heart sank. Framed that way, there was no question what Jimuro would do.
“He stays in the car,” she said. “And none of the soldiers die. I’ll make sure they face the republic’s justice.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Prince Jimuro said. “The people need their prince to defend them.”
Kurihara grinned.
“But heed the sergeant, Kosuke. No Sanbunas dead. They’re our allies now.”
That grin faded. He bowed. “I live to serve Your Brilliance,” he said before hefting his gun and getting out of the car.
The town they’d stopped in was one Tala recognized from her old deployment maps: Shinku, named for the groves of sumac trees that grew nearby. It sat on the banks of the Hareyaka, where they’d erected an array of gleaming metal turbines to feed Tomoda’s bottomless hunger for electricity. Sanbu’s capture of it had been a major turning point in the homeland campaign, as it’d downed every phone, telegraph, and radio in the quadrant. Now, in the distance, the jade flag of the republic fluttered over Shinku. Tala’s heart swelled just at the sight of it. She’d been surrounded by the Tomodanese for the past day and a half, and ill at ease the whole time.
“Keep your voice down,” Kurihara interjected with theatrical cool. “The garrison is just around the corner.”
There was indeed a Sanbuna motorcade stopped along the main street. Unlike the Shang, who had designed their own cars as a knockoff of the Dahali models, Sanbu had opted for a more direct revenge against Tomoda. They’d taken the Tomodanese vehicles captured during the war, then had them retrofitted for engines. Upon his capture by Sanbuna forces, the daito of Lisan had remarked that this was an uncivilized use of metal.
And if rumors were to be believed, General Erega had casually replied, “If you don’t like Sanbuna iron, you should have left it in the ground.”
Tala’s eyes traced the familiar shapes of the vehicles: the way the peaked roofs had been beaten round,
or the graffiti on the side of the largest truck, which screamed DEATH TO STEELHOUNDS. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the familiar, rounded outlines of Sanbuna script.
Her thoughts leapt from there straight to Jimuro. Was that how he’d felt when he’d seen the Cicadas take the field last night? When he and Mang had waded into the shallows at Kinzokita? Was this why Kurihara had such a hold on him?
She shook her head to refocus herself on what was before her eyes. Keep your head on straight, soldier.
The day’s commerce had ground to a dead halt, and every shopkeeper and customer had been herded out into the middle of the road. Sanbuna soldiers and their shades idled in a loose ring to keep everyone penned in. A hot snake of anger slithered through Tala’s gut as she noticed how bored these soldiers seemed about taking innocent civilians prisoner.
Their commanding officer, a sergeant wearing an all-too-familiar uniform, strolled up and down the line, roaring at everyone in Tomodanese, while his audience looked on in either fear or defiance. Tala couldn’t hear what he was saying, but when a well-dressed woman spoke up to answer him, he smacked her across the face with his sidearm.
Tala’s stomach clenched into a knot as the businesswoman buckled and staggered back into the arms of her neighbors. If General Erega knew about this, she would have had that sergeant hanged for insubordination.
“Barbarians,” Kurihara whispered next to her. Murmurs of agreement rippled in the word’s wake.
Tala gritted her teeth, unable to deny the charge.
Kurihara turned to regard his fellow Cicadas. “Masks on.”
As one, they donned their steel masks, and Tala found herself and Jimuro surrounded by the faceless…and the heavily armed.
