Shield and Crocus (15 page)

Nevri looked out on Audec-Hal as the smoke cleared. From her personal mansion at the head, building towering over the city from its place atop Audec’s Skull, she saw dozens of fires burning down to embers.

First Sentinel thought himself clever, striking before the appointed date.

She’d anticipated the Shields’ early move, and so when her spies brought word of the chaos in the Smiling King’s district, she sent the word to her teams.

Sixteen groups, seeded around the city, carrying passes allowing her people into the other oligarch’s domains, struck all at once.

A sniff of the brandy and her mind painted a picture of the swift justice meted out by her forces.

Safehouse shelters burned to the ground. Suppliers’ warehouses raided, the stores destroyed or stolen. Apartments raided, the traitors’ allies dragged out into the street and hung from lamp posts.

“Be brutal,” she’d said to the assembled groups, her best covert operatives. “These traitors are to be made an example of. When they die, let their neighbors know the reason, burn the memory into their minds.”

Qazzi Fau, her most zealous lieutenant, smiled from ear to ear as she’d given the orders. He held his polished sword like a lover, caressing it and speaking softly to the blade. He was a monster, but he was her monster. When she’d found him, Qazzi was a simple contract killer. Under her direction, he’d become an indispensable asset. He removed those that stood between her and order, and now he oversaw an entire district, his monomaniacal focus broadened to become more versatile.

Those that stood with her were showered with fortune.

And those that stood in her way were ground underfoot.

She swirled her snifter of brandy, took another exquisite sip. Each time she outsmarted the Shields or a rival, she returned to her first love, brandy, remembering the taste of the day she’d carried off her first heist. The day Nevri the Lash had been born.

This bottle was the first of the night’s spoils, taken from the home of one of the rebels’ so-called Shield-bearers, a Jalvai doctor who ran a clinic in COBALT-3’s territory.

Another knock at the door.

“Come.”

Dlella slithered in, a sheaf of papers in her hands. She looked as pleased with herself as Nevri felt.

“The final reports, executor. Fifteen teams had total success. Only the team sent to First Sentinel’s apartment reported failure. The rebel has moved, as we suspected.”

Nevri took the papers and dismissed Dlella with a curt nod. Dlella was an excellent assistant, a subtle plotter, and her ambition reminded Nevri of herself at thirty, ready to burn the Senate. But Dlella lacked the nerve to set out on her own. She waited for her moment to strike, to overthrow Nevri.

She would be waiting a long time.

Nevri crossed to her lacquer-topped desk and set the papers down, the brandy beside it. She’d read the reports three times, committing each to memory. Then she’d composed her letter to the other oligarchs, proof of what they could accomplish through simple information-sharing, the least of the planks of her agenda for the summit.

The Smiling King would be incensed, especially since she’d gone to the length of giving the Shields a Soulburner. But he was a madman on the best of days, and the others would overrule him. And if they didn’t, one weakened oligarch could not stand against the other four.

She returned to the window, watched the last rays of dusk as night came to Audec-Hal. Pinpoints of light drew the line of the city like a waiting lover splayed out, waiting to be ravished. Waiting for her.

With this success, the others would have to come to the table. And when the summit was done, the Shields’ fate would be sealed, and she’d have the other oligarchs right where she wanted them: close. Close enough to find out the rest of their weaknesses.

Another sip of the brandy. Hints of caramel, oak, and the sweetness of triumph.

If the Shields had the audacity to come to the final meeting, come clawing for their pay-off, then she’d have a special gift to start the summit: First Sentinel’s head on a pike.

Boxes. His world was full of boxes. Wooden and cardboard, they stacked to the ceiling, half-full, overflowing, boxes inside of boxes.

The battle for the soul of Audec-Hal was raging, and the city’s mightiest hero was packing underwear. They had to re-pack and move all in one go to minimize chances of being found or followed. His belongings had all been moved for him when he was a “guest” of COBALT-3, so now he had no idea where anything was.

Selweh grabbed another handful of clothes out of a box and moved them to a day-bag, while Wonlar shouted from across the apartment, “where did you put my nightblooming whistal?”

Selweh stopped in place.
How would I know that?
“I don’t know! Why weren’t they in with the other herbs?”

“Because I asked you to take them to the planter to seed.”

Aegis scratched his head, trying to remember. “I never did that. I have no idea, dad.”

Selweh heard the exasperation in his father’s voice. “Do you remember what I use those to make?”

What are those for again?

Selweh tracked through his memory, the countless lessons his father gave him on artifice. He’d never taken to it, and mostly listened to the lessons out of a sense of filial duty.

“No?”

Wonlar stepped through the maze of boxes and walked into the makeshift bedroom with Selweh, rolling a tapestry in his arms. “I have to use night-blooming whistal for the solution that refreshes the ward on my longcoat. I’ve only got enough for two batches here. I’ll have to order more. That could take all month. Dammit.”

“Why do we have to move? Isn’t this place fine for now?” Selweh asked even though he knew, trying to deflect his father’s attention away from the blame. His father could never resist a chance to explain himself. “This safehouse is tiny, it would never do as a real apartment. We’re going to the basement at Douk’s. And don’t complain.”

After Dlella had walked in on a meeting, the Shields had just boxed everything up in a panic and thrown it in this, the nearest safehouse. It wouldn’t do for a longterm apartment for the two. Douk’s basement was little better, but it was close, and they needed a headquarters more than an apartment for the time being.

Their fellow Shields would do the moving part, shuttling the Ikanollos’ belongings faster than Nevri could track them (Blurred Fists), or through avenues where they couldn’t be tracked (Sabreslate). There was the chance that they could be followed by fellow Pronai or Jalvai, but both of the Shields were trained to pick out tails. Selweh closed the bag he’d been stuffing. “Who said I was going to complain?” he was still reeling from the evening. The mission had been going so well, then exploded in their faces. Neither of them had gotten enough sleep, and it was all he could do from snapping at his father. His father set down the tapestry and sat to one side, favoring his hip. It was Wonlar’s annoyed parent stance, every bit as intimidating as the face he wore at night for the criminals and tyrants. “Selweh…”

The younger Shield threw his hands up and turned around, moving on the next box. “I didn’t say anything.” The Rebirth engine mission had been a disaster at best, and the news hadn’t seemed to do anything to disturb the summit.

That’s what we get for counting on the Smiling King to have a reasonable response to anything,
Selweh thought. “We need to get all of this ready by tonight for the cart. Then the meeting,” Wonlar said.

“You honestly think we can have all of this packed by tonight? You’re mad.” Aegis turned and threw his hands up in frustration. “The stress of the war has clearly shattered your mind.”

“Wenlizerachi is coming over for dinner to help.” Selweh almost growled. “Then why don’t we just wait and let him do everything? He packed everything from the old place and it took what, an hour?”

“Because it’d be rude.”

Selweh shrugged. “Or efficient.”

“Or rude.” Wonlar pushes the rolled tapestry into Selweh’s hands. “Keep going. I won’t have us sitting around when Wenlizerachi arrives.”

Selweh picked up the tapestry and set it in a pile with the rest, carpets, and wall-hangings his father had accumulated over the years. “Shouldn’t we be planning our next move, thinking about what to do with Nevri?” “we are doing that, but we’re also packing.” So he packed. Really, it was unpacking and re-packing.

Wenlizerachi was efficient, but the boxes were without order. It seemed that the Pronai had just packed everything in piles, going from ceiling to floor, not leaving anything behind for Nevri’s thugs.

I suppose when you’re evacuating a compromised position, organizing isn’t exactly the first thing in your mind.
Selweh re-packed more clothes, the training weapons, and stacks of beakers. He packed twenty boxes of books using Wonlar’s horrendously particular demands for cataloguing, and then he sorted out three boxes of sculptures, wrapping them in clothing and tapestries for padding.

He sat and allowed himself to mourn the old apartment. It had been his home for almost as long as he could remember. He knew the alleys and rooftops in that neighborhood like the back of his hand, from the training his father had given him from the age of four, through his time as Second Sentinel, even into his assumption of the mantle of Aegis. It was
home
, and he’d never even had the chance to say goodbye. But going back would be stupidity. Nevri would have guards posted, and having a deal wouldn’t stop “unaffiliated” thugs from taking a shot at him.

When Wenlizerachi arrived, Selweh crossed the apartment to wrap him up in a big hug. “Thank you so much for coming over.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Wenlizerachi answered in a conspiratorial tone, “You could have just left it all for me to do. I don’t mind.” Selweh said, “Yeah, but don’t tell Wonlar you said that.” The Pronai nodded.

“Let me show you what we’re doing. And what would you like to eat? None of the dry goods are going, so I’m going to cook everything I can.” The other Shields had brought everything, even the food. There was no telling what could be used in a ritual to track them down through sympathetic associations.

Wenlizerachi’s eyes glimmered in a fashion usually reserved for massive brawls and all-you-can-eat buffets (the ones that didn’t disallow Pronai).

“Oh, really?” he said, and Selweh smiled, the weight off his shoulders. Selweh and Wonlar explained what had to be packed where.

Before dinner was done, the whole apartment was sorted, neat stacks of boxes in neat rows ready to be carted away to Douk’s apartments above the café.

Selweh thought it was a pity they couldn’t have stayed in the old apartment, but eventually Nevri would have had the apartment raided by three hit squadrons and a unit of Qava, Pronai, and Freithin assassins.

Unless they showed up before Father’d had his morning tea. Then he’d kill the lot of them and he’d be cursing while reheating the water.

Humming over the stove and stirring vigorously, Selweh stir-fried all of the vegetables left with the shortgrain rice and a befuddlingly tasty combination of every spice left on their rack that Wonlar hadn’t already packed for later use in his artificer’s work. Selweh tumbled the food over and over and over, tossing it up and catching it with nimble motions. He added one more dash of crushed
zu
nuts and turned off the stove.

Selweh called, “dinner” to the other room where his father and friend were packing. Wenlizerachi appeared before the word stopped echoing in his throat, holding out a plate to receive his first shares. Selweh doled out two helpings onto the plate.

“Looks great, thanks,” Wenlizerachi said. Selweh blinked, and Wenlizerachi was perched on top of a crate, chopsticks shoveling food into his mouth.

Wonlar emerged from the back room, wiped sweat from his forehead and took the plate offered him. “Thank you.” Selweh nodded.
When the war is over, I will be a cook,

Selweh thought.

Even free people ruling themselves need to eat, and eat well. Food brought people together to sit at a table to share of themselves, even if for just a few minutes. And it was safe enough that his father would approve. Wenlizerachi got up, ready for his third serving, but waited until Selweh took a plate’s worth of fried green peppers, winter squash, and cabbage over sauce-browned rice before helping himself to another plate.

Wonlar clapped him on the shoulder. “Good cooking.” “Thanks. I used pretty much everything. Unless you want
Yuyu
seeds on your stir-fry.” Selweh held up a glass tube of sandy-brown spicy seeds, used mostly in the howbeh style cooking from the far north. He was pretty sure the bottle was the same one he’d bought three years ago when he first started to pursue cooking.

Even with laboratory air-tight sealing, they wouldn’t be worth anything.

Wonlar chuckled. “No, thank you.” as a testament to Father’s hunger, Wonlar finished his whole plate before starting to talk revolution. He gestured with his chopsticks to Wenlizerachi like a teacher calling on a student.

“At tonight’s meeting, I want you to give us the word in the veins. We need a sense of how our public support is faring, and then we can decide how to use it.” Wenlizerachi nodded as he got up for another helping.

Selweh sighed. “Let’s just hope that last night gets traced back to Nevri. Then we can make something good out of that disaster.”

* * *

Wonlar and Selweh knocked on the door to Bira and Sarii’s loft in Viscera city.

The loft was a strangely comfortable juxtaposition of empty walls and accumulated art. Qava decorated for space and texture, not seeing as other races do. For Bira, Sarii had sculpted the whole apartment into a work of art, patterns carved into the wall, bass-relief murals on the ceiling, greystone furniture that rose up out of the floor. It was a lived-in art installation.

The others had already arrived, sitting at their places around the great stone table in the dining room.

Wonlar paced around the low table while the others sat around hand-sculpted mugs of tea and coffee. “The explosions covered up any evidence we left at the warehouse. We need to find another way to make sure the blame falls where it needs to.”

Although there were couches and beds, there were no chairs in the loft. Sarii preferred the floor or floating in the air, and Bira refused to replace the chairs that had been destroyed the last time she and Sarii had a spat.
At least, until Sarii apologized. Therefore, never.
That’s what Bira had said the last time Selweh asked, and he knew better than to interfere.

Wenlizerachi gulped down another cup of tea, then took a long breath, several pieces of paper trembling in his hands. He started to say something, then stopped.

Selweh’s heart sunk, seeing the Pronai’s threads twisting. He tried again, then succeeded on the third try.

“It’s worse. Much worse. We got played, Wonlar.”

“What happened?” Rova asked.

“The Shield-bearers. Dozens of them. Safehouses, store rooms, and friends. Someone pulled off a coordinated strike. The train station hideout in Straight Knee, the Sanavero brothers at Right Shoulder, Colni and her sisters, and more.”

Wonlar hurled his mug at the floor. The worn stone shattered on the wood, tea spilling out and seeping into the cracks between the aged planks. “How?” it was a demand more than a request.

Wenlizerachi offered the papers. “I don’t know. These are the reports from eye-witnesses, survivors. They all struck last night while we were busy with the Soulburner. More than half of the Shield-bearers are gone.”

The papers passed around the table. Selweh sped-read the pages, taking in the locations, the tallies of the dead.

“Idiot!” Wonlar said, storming back and forth, his ears red.

“And if we go to anyone’s funerals, we could be walking into another trap,” Selweh said, his voice shaking.

Wonlar stopped in place and held up his shaking hands, looking at the group. They grew still, and he lowered them, taking a long breath. “I have to talk about something else, or I’m going to destroy more of Sarii’s artwork.” he turned to the Jalvai. “I’m sorry about the mug.”

“Fuck the mug, I’m about to smash something,” Sarii said.

[
Let’s move on. We can’t find justice for our friends if we stew in our rage,
] Bira said, her mental voice curt where it was almost always serene. “What do we know about public response to the Soulburner?” Wonlar asked, pouring himself another cup of tea, with a fresh mug.

Wenlizerachi spoke again, his hands calmer. “Reports are jumbled. Very few people got out of the way in time to avoid both the Soulburner and the Spark-storm.”

His father stopped for a moment, hand cupping his chin for a moment as he thought. “The Smiling King will retaliate against someone, assuming Onyx survived the explosions.”

Bira spoke to their minds, her voice level, calm. [
If he didn’t, then who knows. This is the Smiling King after all. Logic need not apply.
] Selweh surveyed the room, watching the carefully braided threads that connected the Shields. And among them, his own tangle. Thick arcs of gold loyalty and bronze dedication connected him to the other Shields, along with the deep emerald braid that arced to his father. And tangled within them all, a weak jade thread that arced hopefully from Sapphire but became lost and knotted.

Rova was a loyal Shield, a pure soul, and a caring friend.

But he had a city to save. He couldn’t lose focus. It wouldn’t be fair to her or the city. He’d be with her thinking of the city, or out on patrol and distracted by wanting to speed home and see her again.

Love had nearly ripped the team apart once before, and he wouldn’t risk it happening again. Selweh looked to his father; saw the grey threads of regret that he wore like a cloak. Selweh shut his eyes and tried to steady himself, calm his heartbeat instead of gazing into the vastness of Rova’s eyes.

Wonlar spoke again. “But what are those other plans? We put everything on hold for the Rebirth engine, and it blew up in our face! The summit’s in a week, that doesn’t leave us much time to derail it. If any of the tyrants are making moves after the Rebirth engine, they’re playing tight to the chest.”