Bright Smoke, Cold Fire

by Rosamund Hodge

  Awkwardly, Paris turned back around and saw that Justiran had draped a cloth over Vai’s chest. He had cleaned up the slice on her side, but it was still oozing blood, and there was an odd, greenish sheen to the edges of the cut.

  “It is poison,” said Justiran, “but I can fix it. She’ll be all right. Give me the box.”

  Paris handed it to him; Justiran flipped up the clasps and opened it to reveal . . . a pen and a bottle of ink.

  “What?” said Paris.

  “Regular medicine won’t be enough,” said Justiran. “Stand back. This is a little dangerous, and also perhaps defiling to a true Catresou.”

  Paris was no longer in any position to call himself a “true Catresou,” but he still stepped back and made the sign against defilement. He didn’t look away, though, as Justiran carefully, gently drew curving symbols all over Vai’s stomach and side. There was something hypnotic in his slow, gentle movements; the air itself seemed to grow still, listening.

  When he had finished, he laid down the pen. Gently, he touched two fingers to the center of Vai’s stomach.

  The ink sank into her skin and disappeared.

  Vai drew a deep breath and coughed.

  “Paris?” she said hazily, and that was when Paris whirled to face the wall again, because she was barely clothed, and now that she wasn’t on the verge of dying, that was a lot more embarrassing. And improper. And kind of attractive, which he was really trying not to think about right now.

  “How do you feel?” asked Justiran.

  “Half naked,” said Vai. “Otherwise all right, which is a surprise given that I just passed out from a knife wound.”

  “Poisoned knife wound,” said Paris, not looking away from the wall.

  “I will burn your house down and kill you if you tell anyone about me,” Vai went on, “but otherwise, thank you.”

  “It’s no trouble,” said Justiran. “I think I have some spare clothes that you could borrow.”

  “Men’s clothing,” said Vai. “Not a dress. It’s important.”

  “Of course,” said Justiran, whom apparently nothing could ruffle, and he went upstairs.

  “You could take off your shirt, and then we’ll be even,” said Vai.

  Paris took a deep breath and didn’t say anything.

  “It’s all right,” said Vai. “Truly. I took a vow to be a man, so I’m not embarrassed.”

  “Were you ever embarrassed when you were a girl?” Paris demanded.

  “Not often,” Vai admitted.

  “Why did you take a vow?” asked Paris. “Did you not like being a girl?”

  “Oh, no,” said Vai. “I would have made a very happy woman. But it was my duty to become a glorious man instead.”

  “Duty?”

  Vai was silent for a few moments. Paris wished he could see her—his?—face, but he still didn’t turn around.

  “My father had twin children, a brother and a sister. The brother was too inquisitive. He followed rumors of the Night Game. He returned bleeding black, and before I killed him, he had slaughtered most of our family.” Vai’s voice was soft and low but didn’t waver. “There had never been very many of my people, and then—then there was only me. And my mother, and grandmother, and women cannot lead a family. My people, we have a custom—if a family has no sons, the daughter can take a vow to be a man. So. Now I am all the daughters and also all the sons of my father’s house.”

  “How does that help?” asked Paris.

  “Simple,” said Vai, sounding more cheerful. “I take a wife and give her permission to have a lover. As soon as I finish taking control of the Lower City, I’m going to have many sons, and my people will not be lost. I really was serious earlier. If you have a sister or cousin, let me know. I promise I will be an excellent husband.”

  “Catresou women aren’t supposed to have lovers,” said Paris, because that was the easiest part to respond to.

  “What, not even in obedience to a husband’s command?”

  “There are limits to obedience,” said Paris. “And I don’t think any Catresou women would see you as a man.”

  He heard Vai get off the table and step closer. His back prickled.

  “What about you, Catresou boy?”

  Paris wished he could turn around and see the expression on Vai’s face. He couldn’t imagine putting on a dress and pretending to be a woman, much less believing that it truly made him one.

  But he did understand about duty.

  “I’ll try,” he said. “If you want me to. It’s just—after I saw—” He stopped, his face burning again.

  Vai laughed softly. And then said, just as softly, “You have to keep my secret. But I don’t mind if you see me as a woman. I would have very much liked to be one.”

  Paris’s throat tightened. He wanted to comfort Vai, but he knew how useless comfort was when family duty was involved.

  Justiran returned with clothes a moment later. “Where’s Romeo?” he asked, and Paris felt the dread roll back over him.

  “Captured,” said Vai. “We need to get him out. You can turn around, Paris—I have a shirt on. I’m going to call up my men.”

  Paris turned around, discovered he was still embarrassed, and looked at the floor. “It’s worse than that,” he said. “Before they caught me, I overheard them say the Master Necromancer found another key.”

  “Well,” said Vai. “That’s not good.”

  And Paris knew. He knew what they had to do, what he should have done long ago.

  “We have to tell the City Guard,” he said. “I mean, I have to, since they’ll arrest you.”

  “They’ll arrest you too, and ask your family to bribe them,” said Vai. “There aren’t a lot of honest guards about the Lower City.”

  “I have to try,” said Paris. “Can you show me where the nearest garrison is? And then, well—”

  “If you think I’m going to sit out this fight,” said Vai, “you’ve greatly underestimated my manhood. And also my connections. I happen to know one guard who’s honest and has a score to settle with the Night Game, and I’ll be happy to introduce you.”

  “Won’t you get arrested then?” asked Paris.

  Vai grinned. “Oh, no. We have an arrangement.”

  “What sort of arrangement?” Paris asked cautiously.

  “Mostly, we have other people we want to destroy first before we get to each other,” said Vai. “But I’m pretty sure she’d be willing to help us out with this.”

  The guard was named Subcaptain Xu, and when Vai brought her into Justiran’s house, Paris couldn’t help flinching, because she was the guard who had questioned him and Romeo after they chased the revenant through the streets.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Vai, why am I not surprised that he was involved with you?”

  “He might not have been, when you met him,” Vai said cheerfully.

  “Why am I not surprised that he ended up involved with you?”

  Though they’d managed to catch Xu at the end of a late-night watch, she didn’t seem tired. Or frightened. Or surprised. Or anything except ready to start fighting necromancers.

  “I can’t vouch for all my guards yet,” she said. “But I have a pretty good list of ones I can trust.”

  “You think some of them are working for the Night Game?” asked Paris.

  “I think some of them have been killed and raised again,” said Xu, looking grim.

  “I did tell you about the blood test,” said Vai.

  “Yes, you did,” said Xu. “But I can’t have my men slicing their hands open every day any more than you can. I’ve lost good men because of that.” She grimaced. “Well. We’ll get them now.”

  “The only question is where,” said Vai. “They know we got out. They must think it’s possible that we’ll tell somebody.”

  “Do you know where any of their previous meetings have been held?” asked Xu. “Maybe they would retreat to one of those locations.”

  And suddenly Paris knew. He knew where Lo
rd Catresou was going to hold the ceremony, and even now, at the last desperate instant, he didn’t want to tell. Because he knew what it would mean for his people, living and dead.

  But he had made his choice when he agreed to ask Xu for help. There was no going back now.

  “It’s going to be in the sepulcher,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Xu.

  “Because they’re Catresou,” said Paris. “A ceremony dealing with death? They wouldn’t hold it any other place. It would be blasphemy.”

  “I’m not sure they still care about that,” said Xu.

  “They do,” said Paris. “I’m Catresou. I know. That always matters to us. Juliet, when she was trying to bind Romeo as her Guardian—which was very blasphemous already, let me assure you—she did it in the sepulcher. Because it was a holy place. They are going to be there, I assure you.”

  “They’ll have to do it at dawn,” said Justiran. “You don’t have much time to decide.”

  Xu looked at Vai. Vai looked at Paris.

  “I’ll risk it,” said Vai.

  “All right,” said Xu, and turned to Justiran. “Are you sure it will be at dawn?”

  “Nearly sure,” said Justiran.

  “Three hours,” said Vai.

  “It’s enough,” said Xu. “I’ll call in all my favors.”

  “I’ll call in all my favors,” said Vai.

  “Tell your favors to stay away from my favors,” said Xu, “or there may be a few more arrests than you want from the evening.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Vai. “My people can handle themselves.”

  In the pale, predawn light, the white dome of the Catresou sepulcher looked almost blue. From the outside, there was nothing wrong: the garden around the sepulcher was pristine and empty. Guards stood at the door just like always.

  Paris walked toward them without trying to hide.

  At first he’d meant to wait, to go with Vai and Xu when their forces were assembled. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would mean when outsiders breached the sepulcher. Would they be content with arresting Lord Catresou, or would they desecrate the graves as well?

  How could he ever help them do it?

  So he’d told Vai, “I have to go there first.”

  “That sounds like a stupid way to get killed,” she had said. “Do you have a reason?”

  “I have to see if I can stop them,” he’d said. “Without outsiders.”

  “They are not going to listen.”

  “Maybe some of them will. They’re my people. I have to try.” Paris had drawn a ragged breath. “Are you going to stop me?”

  Vai had smiled, her teeth bright. “From doing your duty to your people? No. Try not to get dead before the rest of us turn up.”

  He’d nearly said thank you before he realized how strange that would sound. But it was actually thanks to Vai that he was walking straight toward the door now. Because he’d decided she was right: when you had a problem you couldn’t solve, you needed a new problem.

  There was no way he could sneak into the sepulcher without the guards seeing. So he walked right up to them instead.

  “I’m Paris Mavarinn Catresou,” he said. “I need to talk to Lord Catresou.”

  They did not reply. Their faces were pale in the dim light, their masks stark, featureless white. Paris was suddenly struck by the horrible suspicion that perhaps they were the living dead.

  One of them grabbed him by the arm and hauled him without a word into the sepulcher.

  So his problem was no longer getting inside. It was being a prisoner about to face Lord Catresou and an unknown number of necromancers. As Paris was dragged down the stairs, he tried to remember the speech that he had worked out on the way there.

  Paris?

  He stumbled. It was Romeo. Awake. Alive.

  It’s all right, said Romeo. The drugs wore off, and I managed to get the other prisoners out.

  Other? said Paris. You mean you didn’t get out?

  Well, said Romeo. No.

  There was something strangely intense about his voice. He’d never spoken so clearly when they weren’t in the same room.

  What are you not telling me? Paris demanded. They were underground now, down in the sepulcher proper, walking through the lamplit passageways with their walls carved into elaborate filigree.

  I’m probably about to die, said Romeo. Lord Catresou has a knife and he’s not happy. I wanted to tell you—

  Shut up, said Paris. You’re not allowed to die and you’re not allowed to say anything. Where are you?

  Coffins, said Romeo, and an image of the room flickered into his mind. But if—

  No, said Paris. He wrenched out of the guard’s grip and bolted forward, deeper into the sepulcher. Romeo wasn’t going to die. He had to get there in time.

  He’s starting the ceremony, said Romeo. You have to stop it. Any way you can.

  Shut up, Paris said again, and flung himself around the final corner.

  It was the largest room in all the sepulcher, the vault owned by Lord Catresou’s close family. The white stone of the ceiling was carved into a frothy, whirling mass of decorations. At the center of the room, the stone froth dipped down, like soap bubbles dripping off a hand.

  Around the edges of the room lay coffin after coffin, and among the coffins stood Lord Catresou’s men, all masked. But at the center of the room stood no one, not Lord Catresou and not Romeo.

  Nothing but a whirling globe of light and shadow, tall and wide as a man.

  A whirling, whispering globe. As Paris stood staring in the doorway, he realized that he could hear the many-voiced song of death again.

  And he knew what this was. It was a door into the land of the dead, one that Lord Catresou was opening right now.

  Romeo was inside.

  A hand landed on his shoulder. Paris lunged forward and flung himself inside.

  There was darkness, and again that sense of cold, infinite emptiness stretching out around him. And there was light: swirling, interweaving streams of light in an ever-shifting lacelike pattern that unspooled itself from a single point: a little bone circle with six tines growing out of it. The bone circle hung in the air at the height of Paris’s heart, and it slowly turned over and over, swirling the streams of light in a ceaseless rotation.

  On the other side of the bone and the light stood Lord Catresou, a bloodied knife in his hand. Romeo was on his knees, hands tied; one of his sleeves was wet with blood, and Lord Catresou had grabbed him by the hair, while with the other hand he held a knife to his throat.

  “Wait,” Paris blurted.

  “You,” said Lord Catresou, his voice full of impatient loathing.

  Romeo met Paris’s eyes. Silently, he said, You have to stop him. No matter what.

  “You can’t—please, my lord, this is against the honor of our people.” Paris’s heart hammered against his ribs. It would take just one twist of Lord Catresou’s wrist, and Romeo would be dead. “It’s against zoura.”

  “This is zoura,” said Lord Catresou: “to protect our people.”

  “But if you do this,” said Paris, “if you open the gates of death, it might not fix the Ruining. It might end everything, right now. You could make the whole world into the land of the dead.”

  He knew it was probably pointless to argue, but every moment that he kept Lord Catresou talking, the man wasn’t slitting Romeo’s throat.

  Lord Catresou laughed. “Haven’t you noticed? This whole world is the land of the dead. Viyara is the last living remnant, and it is dying. There is no saving it. But if we are the ones to open the gates of death—we will live on, no matter who dies around us. We shall be the masters of Death. We and all our kin.”

  He’s going to kill me no matter what, said Romeo. I think it’s part of the magic. You have to move now.

  Not yet, I don’t, said Paris.

  “We know how to follow the Paths of Light,” he said out loud. “We don’t need to fear death.”

  �
�Look around you,” said Lord Catresou, his voice low with disdain. “Do you see any Paths of Light? They’re a story for children. There is no escaping death, only mastering it.”

  The song of death whispered all around them.

  The darkness was so vast. So empty. Paris tried not to wonder if Lord Catresou might be right.

  “I will save our people,” said Lord Catresou. “I will save us, if I must destroy the whole world to do it. And when the gates of death are unlocked, and I rule the dead, I can call back whomever I choose. Even Juliet.”

  Paris felt Romeo’s flinch.

  “She’s gone,” Paris said hollowly. “She’s dead and she died without a name, all because of you. There’s nothing to call back.”

  He had thought he was horrified before at her fate. But now, standing amid the infinite darkness—imagining Juliet here alone, her voice and thoughts and memories withering away—

  “We have raised up outsiders who were ten years dead,” said Lord Catresou. “There is something left of her to bring back.”

  “As a slave,” Romeo rasped. “You would make her even more of a slave.”

  Paris got only a heartbeat’s warning: he felt Romeo gathering his strength, and the next moment, Romeo threw himself back against Lord Catresou. He staggered, the knife wavering, and Paris lunged.

  It was unthinkable for any son of the Catresou to bodily attack the leader of their clan. So Paris didn’t think. He pounded his fist against Lord Catresou’s face, once, twice, three times.

  He was still. Paris was shaking.

  Slowly, he turned to Romeo and started to untie him, his fingers clumsy. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Romeo was gasping for breath, almost sobbing; his mind was churning with grief for Juliet.

  “We left her here,” he said as Paris pulled the ropes away.

  “No,” Paris said dully, each word feeling like a blow to the stomach. “My family left her here. We did this.”

  If they had not made her the Juliet, she would have had a name when she died. She would not have been lost.

  They both stood. The bone key still floated serenely in the air, turning over and over in a ceaseless dance with itself.

  “We have to destroy it,” said Paris.