CHAPTER SEVEN

A Round of Drinks

Tomorrow, she’d lose the sun.

Melín liked duty rotation about as much as a kick in the head. A hot shower could rinse off the sweat of her on-duty hours, but not the feeling of being torn away. It was starting early this time—the headache, the twitchy feeing in her thigh muscles. Gnash it. She turned the water up hotter, though it made the tips of her ears burn.

You’re a professional. You know the rotations extend a soldier’s career. You know they lower the injury rate, and the error rate. The Division can keep the fields safe without you for thirteen weeks.

She pummeled her thighs with her fists under the water.

Listen, gnash you. Descent’s not till tomorrow night. Can’t have you twitchy now or I won’t sleep.

“Plis’ bones,” she swore, and slammed her hand against the handle. The water stopped.

She wrapped herself in her robe and shoved one hand into her pocket. Found her bracelets first, so she pushed her hand through, distributed them to both wrists, then scooped up her ear rings. She put them in while walking back to her cot: one steel ring in each lobe, and the three memorial rings along the top edge of her right ear. Those had to go in delicately—stupid disruption burns. The pain made her wince, but she wasn’t in the mood for Lowers right now; she could see a Kartunnen medic tomorrow.

After nightfall, the glass roof of the barracks dimly reflected her face, and also the heads of a mob in off-duty casual that had gathered between the cots. She was forced to sidestep along the lockers to her own. Somewhere in the crowd, someone was telling a story. She caught the gist while she pulled on a rust-red skirt and white shirt.

Wysps! Flames! Action!

She snorted. Someone was either lying or it wasn’t their story. Nothing so exciting had happened in the last rotation. Bracelets jingling, she pulled her blade from its sheath to double-check that it was clean, returned it to the scabbard, and buckled it across her back. Then she studied the crowd again.

Oo, look—Drefne was here.

She pushed through the mob to his elbow, and saw the storyteller.

A veteran? This woman had brown wrinkled-leather skin and gray hair in a braid long enough to drape across her lap. She wore a uniform style sixteen years old, complete with the blade that meant Division.

Huh. Maybe it was her story.

“Isseni,” Melín whispered. “Dref.”

Drefne glanced down, grinned, and wrapped his lean arm around her. She ran her fingers lightly over the muscles of his stomach.

“So we had three soldiers down at that point,” the veteran said. “And then—have you ever seen agitation level six?”

“No,” voices answered.

“There is no agitation level six,” said Drefne.

Ah, trick question. Melín called out, “There was an agitation level six but we’re ordered to shoot no later than level five, because by then the wysps are already attacking.” She touched the platinum ring nearest her head.

“Specialist reporting to storytime, I see,” the veteran said. “Well, she’s right. You don’t want to see level six. Because at level six they get smart.” She gave an ugly smile. “They identify you and hunt you down.”

A couple of people called out, “Oooo.” Drefne gave that little adorable chuckle of his.

Melín couldn’t laugh. Her fingers found the ring again. Was the veteran exaggerating? If she was right, it would explain some of the casualties she’d seen—but why would anyone remove that kind of life-saving information from Specialist training?

“Specialist,” said the veteran, with understanding in her keen eyes. “Maybe we should talk?”

“I’d rather drink, actually,” Melín said. “Anybody want to join us?” She tugged on Drefne’s forearm. “Dref, you free tonight? Drinks, bed after?”

“Ah, Melín.” Drefne looked rueful. “Already scheduled for tonight, sorry. Tomorrow?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Descent night? Are you sunblasted?”

He laughed and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Point. Talk to you after we get settled downlevel.”

The mob broke up. Melín led the veteran and a few others out the door into the alleyway; at the corner of the barracks they turned to the right. Tomorrow they’d turn left to go to the Descent, but the food block was down this way. It was better than the Division’s mess, if you didn’t mind paying.

“I’m Treminindi,” the veteran said, hurrying ahead of the others. “Call me Tremi. Can we hit Blades?”

Melín looked at her. “Why, you looking for a bed partner?”

Tremi frowned. “At Blades?”

“Best place for it.”

“Ugh,” the older woman said. “It wasn’t like that the last time I went.”

“Maybe it’s been a while?” Melín smiled. “But you know what? I don’t mind the attention. You’ll be fine. And Blades does have the best drinks.”

The food block was in a massive stone curtain that intruded far into the first level. Three restaurant-sized spaces had been scooped out of its base. The eateries farther back changed every so often, but Blades occupied the triangular point, and had been here so long the columns that formed its sides had been carved into eight-foot versions of the Division’s ceremonial and practical symbol. Black leather couches filled with mates blocked the space between them, and at least two people sat on top with legs draping out, their backs against the stone blades. Talk, and recorded drumming, poured out into the air.

Melín took point, to draw attention off Tremi. It worked: she’d barely made it four steps inside before the first come-on, from a stocky sunmarked woman with pale patterns like a map across her shoulders.

“Long day, seni?” the woman asked. “Care to make it longer? Bet you’d be good at bedtime.”

Melín chuckled. Not the best line ever, but the patterns on her skin were sexy, and the energy in the woman’s pose said she could be fun. “Busy right now, but if you can find me at the Descent . . .”

“Pff. Chances of that?”

“I don’t know. It’s the best I can do.”

The woman pressed her lips and nodded. She lifted her health bracelet between them. “Tap if you’re serious, and I’ll look out for you.”

“Sure.” Melín pushed most of her bracelets up out of the way and touched her health bracelet to the other, and two lights flashed: a match. She smiled. You’d never catch her saying medics were a waste. A pain, maybe, but never a waste. “See you then, I hope.”

She pushed into the crowd. Gnash it, what if they bounced all the way out again without a single place to sit? By the back wall, that might be a gap . . . It turned out to be Chezzy, clearing dishes off a steel table onto the tray of her skimchair.

Melín moved around to her side. “Chezzy, hey, this table taken yet?”

“Plis in a mist—Melín!”

“That’s me.”

“Where’ve you been, anyway, seni? Go ahead, sit down. Why haven’t we seen you?”

“I don’t know, got enough attention most nights, I guess.”

Chezzy pulled a sly smile. “Yep, the place is full of hungry cats these days. How you been?”

She shrugged. “Headed downlevel tomorrow and not happy about it.”

“Oo, that’s me every day after the accident. Give me sunblast every time.”

“Well, Mai’s truth. I’d carry you with me if I could.”

“Don’t leave without seeing Durkinar, all right? He’ll be thrilled.”

“Gotta see him anyway or I won’t be drinking.” But she felt her cheeks flush.

Chezzy skimmed off toward the kitchen doors, hollering so drinkers had a chance to hop before her foot-wedge cleared them. When Tremi finally arrived, she came alone. Surprising that none of the others had stuck with them, but it was simple, then, to settle the veteran on the bench against the stone wall, get her order, and head for the bar.

The bar was a multilevel brass circle under a rack of glassware that hung from the ceiling. This section was at her elbow level; when Melín leaned on its edge, the twitches in her thighs were joined by a more pleasant flutter in her stomach. She called out, “Durkinar, hey, Melín here, can I get some drinks?”

“Melín!” Durkinar turned toward her voice instantly, though he never stopped working. She could have watched him all day. He’d run thumb and finger along the curve of a glass stopper, pluck it up and unstopper it with his three-fingered hand, run it under his nose, then find the glass and pour, replace it and grab the next one. Disruption burns had ruined his eyes, but he knew just where the bar stepped down, and the position of every bottle and glass down to the length of a fingernail. He’d told her once the feel-check and the sniff-check were just like when he was a weapons officer triple-checking a rack full of bolt rifles. He placed two drinks on the lower section of the bar for Chezzy to deliver, pulled two new glasses, and started again. “So, seni, tell me why you haven’t come to see me.”

“You know me,” she said. “Busting sparks as usual.”

“Don’t be sending us any new workers, now.”

Guilt punched her in the stomach. Blast that paper field. She picked at the engraved menu on the bar surface with her fingernail. “No way, seni, just trying to keep your fridges full. Can I get one Grobal’s Tears and one Bush Duel, please?” She kept her tone light, but he apparently heard the difference despite the bar noise. He slid his undamaged hand across the bar until he found her arm, and patted it. She put her hand on top of his without thinking.

“You’ve stayed away too long, Specialist. I’ve been pining away.” He grinned, pulled his hand back, and plucked up a tall slender bottle of clear liquid. “Watch yourself with this one or it’ll knock you on your ass. Grobal’s Tears aren’t made of water.”

“Noted.” Durkinar wore a bracelet, too, but for some reason she was too nervous to ask him to tap, though she could have eaten that grin whole and kissed his scars from his face down to his missing fingers. He flirted with everybody, and what if he said no? The mystery was fun in its own way.

A wiry-looking man pushed in on her right. Instead of announcing himself to Durkinar, he looked her up and down with unsteady eyes. Eyes that paused in predictable places.

Yeah, yeah, I know.

“Durkinar, someone’s just arrived beside me,” she called. “He’s already started his night.” She dropped a comment over her shoulder. “Where’re your manners, seni?”

The man leaned forward on the brass. “Getting friendly with the bartender, isseni? Wouldn’t you prefer someone who can actually read the menu?” He wore his health bracelet with the sensor on the inside of his wrist. Great—to tap, you’d have to open yourself to him grabbing you.

Melín snorted. “Near anyone can do that. Durkinar’s got the menu in his fingers.”

“Oh, you like fingers?”

“You gonna ask me a question, seni? ’Cause right now you’re wasting my time.”

The man licked his lips. “Want a hop?”

“No, thanks. I got a table to get to.”

“Sure you do. I know your name, and I heard you’re always looking for a good hop. I got the best weapon there is.”

“I said no. Everybody’s got weapons, yours aren’t—” In the corner of her eye, his hand moved low toward her ass. Melín swiveled on her right foot, stomped his near toe with her left heel, and struck, elbow into his chest. The man toppled into the crowd behind him, though a few mates grasped at his arms to stop him hitting the floor. “I SAID NO,” Melín bellowed.

The helpful hands changed instantly. A pair of mates with Cohort Second pins on their jackets hauled the man to his feet as Chezzy came skimming up.

“You’re going to leave now,” Chezzy said. “But first let’s get your identification. Bracelet.”

The man struggled. “No.”

“What does that word mean again?” Chezzy snapped. “Bracelet!”

More bar patrons were turning toward them. Someone behind one of the Cohort Seconds sneaked a punch and hit the man behind the ear. The other Second forced the man’s bracelet hand out.

“Durkinar, there’s a snake here name of Ostem, note him down. Don’t come drinking at Blades any more, Ostem, you’ll leave dry and be lucky not to find your ass in your hand.”

The man spat and struggled. “A tribunal—”

“A tribunal’s a waste of time,” said Durkinar. “Everyone saw you, and I heard every word you said. Now, out.” The Seconds and Chezzy between them hauled the man off toward the door. Durkinar set two drinks on the bar. “Sorry about that, Melín. Don’t stop coming around just because of that piece of carrion.”

“No way.” She set her coins down. “Or hey, seni, you’re always welcome to come find me.”

Had she really said that? Would he take her seriously? She walked determinedly back to Tremi’s table, and no one bothered her on the way. She set the glasses down on the shiny metal: Grobal’s Tears was Tremi’s choice, stiff enough to make her eyes water just carrying it; Bush Duel was a taller glass with a meadow in it, murky red velut under green sprouts growing from a layer of gelatin.

“Sorry, Tremi, that took a while.”

“Oh, not a problem.” The older woman downed half her drink in one gulp. “I already knew you were as good at driving off amateurs as you are at gauging wysp shots.”

Halfway through a mouthful of bittersweet sprouts mixed with heady, fruity alcohol, Melín figured it out. “Plis’ bones, you’re not saying you sent that guy? What was his name?”

“Third Solnis, yeah, sorry about that. I should have known to send Division to the Division.”

“Treminindi, you were Division,” Melín guessed. “A Specialist.”

The veteran smiled, and wrinkles flexed in her cheeks. “Right you are. Now I’m retired, and I’m master assassin of the Paper Shadows.”

Melín blinked. “What?”

“I won’t say it again. I saw you at storytime earlier—lose a mate to the sparks at level six, did you?”

Melín grunted.

“So did I, more than once. Look, you know you’ve got a reputation as a pinpoint shot. I sent Solnis to talk to you because I figured you’d be good at my job. Not that there’s a lot of this kind of work, but we keep a few contractors for the busy times.”

She sounded so blasted casual about it. The fingers of the veteran’s hand still rested around the half-empty glass of tears, and she draped the other along the back of her seat.

“You don’t forget the ones you lose,” Melín said, weaving her fingers around her drink so she wouldn’t touch the rings in her ear.

“No, you don’t,” Tremi agreed.

“They stay with you. And when you’re not on surface rotation, you know they’re losing people out there without you.”

Tremi nodded. “Yes. If anything, retiring is worse.”

“So how do you figure the leap from saving people to shooting people?”

Tremi thought about that, and tipped back the rest of her glass. “Haven’t you ever shot anyone? Even on adjunct rotation?”

“I’m not police, thank Mai the Right.”

“Hm. Well, our targets aren’t mates, and my thinking is, if I didn’t do it, somebody else would.”

“Somebody else in the team you run.”

“Not my point. The thing is, nobles are bloodthirsty.” Tremi dipped a finger into her glass, brought it up glistening, and licked it—Grobal’s Tears aren’t made of water. “They’re willing to pay ridiculous sums to have their political rivals killed, but they want to keep their own hands clean. They could get a Venorai or a Melumalai to do the job, but imagine the mess! We, on the other hand, have finesse. If someone’s going to live well off their cruelty, no reason it shouldn’t be us.”

“You’re totally fine with being a nobleman’s tool.”

Tremi gestured around at the bar patrons. “We’re all noblemen’s tools. I’m a person with unique skills I’d rather not leave behind. I’m not in charge of the demand.”

I’m not a nobleman’s tool.

“Look,” Melín said. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. I—”

“I don’t need an answer now,” Tremi said. “Think about it, and get back to me. Here’s my card, so you know where to find me. Enjoy your Descent.”

Melín watched the veteran’s back as she disappeared into the crowd, and shoved the card into the pocket of her skirt. Taking a Grobal Executor’s orders in the name of feeding the city was not the same as shooting a nobleman’s enemies, gnash it! She took another mouthful of her drink, crushing sprouts between her teeth.

“Varin’s teeth,” she muttered.

I am not a nobleman’s tool.