CHAPTER TWENTY
A Special Mission
Some problems were for your therapist; others, you had to take to your Captain. Melín approached the door of her former Division adjunct substation before dayrise, with her fingers twitching. Hopefully her memory of Captain Keyt’s habits wouldn’t let her down.
The lights were off inside, and the glass door was locked. She tried the handle twice—shook it, just to be sure.
Varin’s teeth.
She turned her back and leaned against the glass door. Why had she even come? And what if Captain decided to demerit or fine her for failing to turn in her blade?
She should go before someone she knew showed up and sneered—but the sooner she went to work, the sooner she’d end up posted on one of Eminence Herin’s gods-forsaken doors.
Someone knocked on the glass at her back.
Melín turned around and found a pale Eighth staring at her—practically a child, with prominent ears and eager eyes. She motioned at him to open the door.
The young man opened it by a crack. “Seni, we’re not open for an hour.”
“Specialist First Melín reporting to Captain Keyt,” Melín said sharply. Words she hadn’t uttered in months—they felt strange in her mouth. She could feel his skeptical eyes taking in her orange uniform with its rank pin of Eighth. Rage and hate flashed. Let them burn these vile clothes from her body! “It’s urgent.”
He drew himself up. “We’re not open for an hour.”
She spoke louder. “Specialist First Melín. Reporting to Captain Keyt. It’s urgent!” What if Captain wasn’t here? First a tool, and now a fool . . .
The young man set his jaw. “I can take the Captain a message.”
“That’s my message. Please take it to her now.”
“Seni. We’re not open for—”
“Stand down, Eighth.” A short, powerful figure appeared in the shadows of the office, beside a bright open door. The weights room.
Captain. Thank Plis!
“I bring a report, Captain,” Melín said. “It’s urgent.”
“Come. Report.” Captain vanished back into the weights room.
At last, the officious young Eighth stepped aside and swung the glass door open. Melín marched through without looking at him. When she entered the weights room, she found Captain back in the cage, out of uniform and sweaty, pumping legs.
“Melín,” said Captain Keyt.
“Captain.” About to launch into a report, she stumbled on her own rank. The last thing she needed was for Captain to argue on that point. “Melín, reporting. I’ve discovered a potentially dangerous problem in the Eminence’s Cohort.”
Legs straight, weights suspended in air, Captain Keyt fixed her eye on her. “What type of problem?”
“Divided loyalties, Captain. Part of the Cohort appears loyal to the Eminence Herin, and part to the Heir Nekantor.”
Captain Keyt slowly bent her legs again, allowing the weights to click down on the stack. “What brings you to this conclusion?”
“Lack of discipline, sir,” Melín said. “Infighting. Loyalty contests, a new ranking system, guards getting paid outside the usual channels. Dangerous behaviors like risky dares. I had to call out wysp-shotting in front of the Eminence and the Heir yesterday. The Eminence immediately forbade it on penalty of expulsion, but I’m not even sure that will be enough.”
Captain raised her eyebrows. “You’re still wearing a Cohort uniform.”
“Captain, I wasn’t lucky enough to be expelled. Everyone still thinks I’m on the Heir’s side.”
Captain swung her booted feet to the floor and stood, grabbing a towel from a bar on the cage and wrapping it around her neck. “Specialist, in my office.”
Specialist?
Melín followed her across the darkened station. Captain Keyt entered the office, but didn’t go behind her desk.
“Close the door, would you, Specialist?”
“Yes, sir.” She pushed the door shut. This wasn’t normal. She should not have been called Specialist. She should have been asked about her missing blade, at the very least.
“Specialist Melín,” said Captain Keyt, still scrubbing the back of her head with the towel. “Since your departure I’ve had several—let’s call them troubling—interactions with Commander Abru of the Eminence’s Cohort. One of the first was when he told me about your ankle injury, but refused to give details, as if it were unimportant.”
“Sir.” Captain had been asking after her?
“After the second of these interactions, I decided to report to Commander Tret.” She dropped her towel on the corner of the steel desk. “He told me he’s had reports of the Cohort’s behavior becoming increasingly erratic. Commander Tret and I don’t believe there’s any danger of increased wysp attacks in the city-caverns, provided that wysp-shotting can be kept under control. All this is to say, your report adds clarity to what I’ve already been investigating. Commander Abru appears to be in denial about the seriousness of these problems, and there isn’t much recourse to be had in the chain of command. None, actually, if what you’re saying is correct.”
“Sir,” Melín said. “I could be wrong, sir.”
“You also happen to be in a position to determine whether you’re right.” Captain bent and opened a squeaky drawer. “As of now, you’re back in the Division under my command. I’m promoting you, whether you like it or not.”
Hand of Plis! Melín instinctively snapped to attention. “Sir!”
Captain Keyt straightened. Shorter than Melín though she was, her power and energy lent her stature. “Melín, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Captain’s Hand.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“I’m assigning you a special mission: return to the Eminence’s Cohort and learn what you can about the factional divisions you describe, the risky behaviors, and their consequences. Report any findings directly to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Keyt held out the silver rank pin of a Captain’s Hand. “Keep this hidden. The change in your assignment and rank must be considered protected information.”
“Captain,” said Melín. The word felt right on her tongue again, the way it always used to—thank Mai for justice! “I must inform you that my Division blade has been stolen. First Karyas of the Eminence’s Cohort took it from me the day they attacked me and injured my ankle. I fear how she may intend to use it.”
Captain Keyt scowled. “Put that among your investigative priorities, Hand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir.” Melín tucked her new rank pin into an inside pocket as she left the office. She said nothing to the young Eighth who had tried to bar her entry. She was an Eighth, so far as the world or the Cohort knew.
But by Mai’s hand, the right had been partially restored. And she now had an excellent reason to look forward to reporting for work.
With twenty minutes still remaining before she’d be expected to report to First Crenn, she might as well start investigating now. You had to watch out for a piece of carrion like Karyas anyway, but today she could start tracking her rather than avoiding her. When Melín entered the station, lights were on, but not that many mates were here yet.
If someone like Crenn was reporting directly to First Karyas, this seemed like an obvious time for it. She stuck her head into the Eights ready room. Lights on, but nobody was here.
Maybe farther in. She entered the desk-workers’ area. It wasn’t empty; a couple of mates were getting an early start. She sauntered down between the desks toward the private offices. Commander Abru’s office was locked and dark. The second office door was open, but the lights were off. The third office—
“I’m not happy with your results, Crenn.”
Karyas’ voice, from the darkened second office. Too easy. Either Karyas was stupid, or just stupidly confident. Melín walked a couple more steps at the same pace, and sat down at one of the desks as though it belonged to her. Maybe she’d get to hear what they were planning.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Crenn.
“I don’t understand why you haven’t fought her yet. Not scared, are you?”
The word ‘her’ put a bad feeling in Melín’s stomach. This sounded less like mutiny, and more like a personal problem.
“Sir,” Crenn objected. “The Eighth is not soft. When we broke her in, I lost my Sixth and Third to medics for over a week.”
“Against a flimsy Specialist. Pathetic.”
“Sir—”
“We need her managed.”
“She’s ours, though, sir. She was hand-picked—” Crenn grunted, as though Karyas had hit him.
“Don’t talk to me about her skills, Crenn. Until she’s managed, she’s a danger. Assign her to the Eminence’s dining room.”
“Sir—”
“Do it. If she breaks, that solves our problem. If she gets fired, or dies, that also solves our problem.”
“Yes, sir.”
Footsteps! Melín ducked quickly below the level of the desk. Her ankle twinged.
The boot sounds emerged from the office . . . and immediately turned in this direction. Sickened, Melín realized she’d nudged the rolling chair.
Karyas burst out laughing. “Eighth Melín, you little sneak! Stand up.”
Melín gritted her teeth and stood.
“Congratulations.” Karyas licked her teeth. “I’ll tell you now: it doesn’t matter what you heard. You’ll take your assignment because there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Crenn emerged behind her, smirking. “Reporting for duty, Eighth? You’re assigned to the post at the door of the Eminence’s dining room.”
Melín looked between them, controlling her breathing. “Yes, sir.”
“Go.”
Of course, that meant she spent the entire morning trying to figure out what was so dangerous about the door outside the Eminence’s dining room. She memorized the blond stone floor, the Grobal-green carpet, the ceiling vaults, the curtains along the walls, the entrance of a spiral stairway, and the Maze entrances where Imbati were likely to appear.
Really, there were only two unusual things about this hall. One was a small foyer outside the Eminence’s private library, which had two guards and a window overlooking the gardens. It was not directly visible from her position on the dining room door, and on the third floor, no one was likely to access that window from the outside. The other unusual thing was that the hall ended at the grand rotunda, a bright column of space beneath a flattened dome of milky white glass. Across that column of air was the rich foyer that housed the entrance of the Eminent Chambers. Curved marble staircases from the lower floors ended there, and walkways led around the edge of the rotunda to give the Eminence access to this hall.
In four hours of standing, she glimpsed the Eminence Herin only once, when he left his Chambers and walked down the stairs with his manservant and his slab of a Cohort bodyguard.
Regardless, Karyas and Crenn clearly thought she might die here.
Her thighs twitched.
At noon, she was relieved, and took her break in the nearest guard room on the second floor. Four mates sat on stools around the table, eating mushroom or compressed fruit bars from the machine in the corner. They didn’t seem much bothered by her joining them, but she stayed on the alert while she took a stool. “Seni.”
“Seni,” they replied.
“Mind if I ask . . . is there anything dangerous I should know about the third floor?”
Two of the four chuckled. “Not really,” said the man beside her. “Unless you count the Eminence or the Heir. They eat dinner together sometimes.”
She most certainly did.
The woman on her other side said, “Watch out for Lady Falya, the Eminence’s partner. She won’t take any nonsense.”
Yeah, sure. But nonsense wasn’t exactly her worry.
Over the course of the afternoon, the Heir made no appearances. As the dinner hour approached, a party of five climbed up from the rotunda. It was just the Eminence Herin and Lady Falya, their Imbati, and the Cohort bodyguard.
Was she being set up to be abused by them, somehow? No; that wouldn’t be deadly.
Lady Falya’s Imbati came to the front and opened the dining room door. The party passed by her without a word. There was nothing but faint murmurs under the door for an hour, and then they left, circling the rotunda to return to the Eminent Chambers.
Nothing dangerous.
When her relief arrived at the end of the day, Melín held professional stance just long enough to march out of the Residence. Then she shifted onto one leg and stretched her injured ankle a couple of times; and when that was done, she leaned her head side to side, trying to get the ache out.
Plis and Mai, where are your blessings when I need them?
For a moment, she closed her eyes and imagined sunblast. The fields. The thrill of receiving a whistle signal. The battle they had to win, and were so close to losing while these pompous idiots strutted in silk and velvet.
She would get back there. Today she’d taken the first step.
I’m Division now. Nekantor can’t change that if he never finds out.
Night fell as she walked along the gravel path back to the Cohort station. The atmospheric lamps on the cavern roof lowered to a dim, fading glow, and the path lamps came on. For some reason, a group of twenty or so mates had gathered in two clumps outside the station door. She started to walk between them—and they collapsed on her.
Punches flew. Melín ducked and dodged, trying to get to the door. A pair of mates wrestled into her path—this wasn’t just about her, then—she laid hands on them enough to dodge around, jumped a trip, ducked again, and made it to the door. She flung it wide and bellowed,
“Commander Abru!”
The Cohort Commander did not appear. She did, however, get the attention of a number of the fighters. The nearest ones laid off each other and turned toward her with fists at the ready.
Varin’s teeth.
“Don’t think I’m just gonna let you jump me,” she snapped. “The door’s right here.” She scanned over the group; two or three from her own eight were here, not that she was about to lay down her neck for them. On the other hand, “Fifth Sahris will support me, won’t you.”
Fifth Sahris grunted. “Yeah.”
Good enough.
“You carrion-eating tunnel-hound,” said a dark-haired man with a blunt nose. “You come in here with the Heir’s favor and think you can push us with no consequences.”
She snorted. “Not really.”
The blunt-nosed man pulled an orange handkerchief from his pocket and threw it on the ground. “Knives, to blood. Right now. At the Ring.”
A duel? Oh, my ass.
Melín picked up the handkerchief. “Fine, but forget the Ring. I’ll fight you right here and now. With seconds.”
“Sahris seconds Melín,” called Sahris immediately.
Another voice came from the back of the group. “Drenas seconds Xunir.”
The shape of the group shifted. People separated, back to the groups she’d seen before the fight started. She scanned the faces, sorting them. Best guess, these were the Nekantor partisans on this side. And on the other side, the blunt-nosed Xunir was backed up by none other than the Eminence Herin’s slab of a bodyguard, so those would be Herin’s people.
Hard to be sure, since no one was shouting slogans.
Xunir pulled his knife.
Melín drew hers. Too blasted short. Plis, she missed her blade. Xunir also had the advantage of reach. A loss here wouldn’t be like jumping off a cliff, but gnash it! She wasn’t in the mood to bleed. Or see the medic again so soon. She hung back, stance low, dancing foot to foot, waiting for him to make a move.
Xunir leered and jabbed.
She dodged, swinging her blade out to catch him behind the elbow.
Missed.
Too blasted short!
And he was still coming. Watch out, watch out!
A tearing sound—she sucked in her stomach with all her might, spun, sliced decisively across his shoulder.
Xunir roared in rage.
Drenas laughed.
“Blood!” Sahris cried. “Victory to Eighth Melín!”
Really? Melín pressed her hand to her side—and found a cut in her uniform. She sneaked a finger through it, feeling her side to be sure.
No blood.
“Crown of Mai,” she said. “Thanks, Sahris. Wanna get out of here?”
“I gotta report this to First Crenn. But I’ll clock you out.”
Melín studied the other woman for a second. Whether Crenn had it out for her or not, Fifth Sahris was starting to look more like an ally. “All right. Thanks; tonight’s my night to meet my isseni for dinner, and I’m already late.”
She walked toward the exit of the grounds cautiously, because the duel had made her ankle tender. By the gate, she stopped and checked her ankle tape, and made sure to clean her knife-tip on her handkerchief.
Not a lot of blood; she’d done well.
Whenever it was time for Aripo to go and Drefne to stay awhile, Melín would meet him at the Riverside. It was right at the end of the Trao river’s controlled path across the second level. The Trao ran swift here, between railed banks, heading out past the targetball arena and beyond the city’s edge. She’d patrolled the adjuncts out there before. Out of sight of cityfolk, the river ran through a generator, powering this neighborhood on its way down to the third level. But here, in the space between the river and the giant targetball players depicted on the arena walls, the ground was paved with geometric tiles, offering benches and fountains. The best thing was that Melumalai food stands popped up here like mushrooms.
Drefne waited in the glow of a street lamp near their favorite skewer place. Dressed in red, not orange—handsome, and safe. She jogged toward him, bracelets jingling, and didn’t stop until she felt his body bump hers. When he bent down for a kiss, his hand pressed her side. Mercy, the exact spot where she’d almost been sliced with a knife! She shuddered and flung her arms around him, squeezing so hard he wheezed a laugh.
“Whoa, isseni, were you planning to bed me before dinner? ’Cause I’m kind of hungry after slopping through adjuncts all day.”
“I’m hungry too, isseni,” she said. “Just happy to see you.”
Drefne cupped her under the ear. “Happy to see you, too. And to be the one walking you home tonight.”
They fished coins from their pockets for the Melumalai, a girl who reached around the steam from her red-glowing grill to hand them long metal skewers. Clustered near the end were steaming chunks of grilled oryen and vegetables.
Gods, that smelled like heaven.
“Mf!” Melín tore bites off with her teeth, one after the other, as they walked between the circles of orange light. “Dref—” she swallowed, and dropped her empty skewer into one of the collection bins. “Can you do a repair for me?”
“What kind?” She must have made some kind of face, because he frowned, still chewing. “Isseni, did you get yourself in trouble again?”
“Not myself,” she said. “Cut in my uniform. You can sew it closed, right?”
He stared at her. “I can’t believe you!”
“He started it.”
Drefne puckered his lips disapprovingly.
She put her hands on her hips. “What? He should have known better. Don’t throw down if you can’t handle a few stitches.”
“I’m starting to think Aripo’s right, you know. You had your fight stolen from you, so you’re looking for one.”
“I didn’t do anything. Mai’s truth! The Cohort has it out for me. They’re sick.”
Drefne stopped on one leg, angling his hips in that way he had. He really had no idea how sexy it was. Or maybe he did. “I’ve changed my mind, isseni. You need to do something fun. We’re buying ices and I’m taking you to targetball.”
“Targetball? I thought the final was tomorrow night?”
“Tonight’s the under-nineteens final. We’re late, so they might be into the second quarter—you know what? We’re not discussing this.” Drefne hopped over a bench and jogged toward a stalagmite-seller. When Melín caught up, he’d already made a purchase. He handed her a deep red ice spike in a flexible insulated holder. She licked it—marshberry.
“Thanks, Dref.”
“So, targetball,” he said. “The Cave-Cats under-nineteens have a new center, and you have to see her. Last week she hit target from the quartermark, upside-down with her legs in the ropes.”
“Wow.” But she hesitated. In the corner of her eye by the river rail, a pair of figures stood together, talking.
One was the veteran assassin Treminindi. The other was someone she wanted to drive this ice spike into. They didn’t seem to have seen her, so she took Drefne’s hand and walked away at a steady, not hurried, pace. She didn’t feel safe until she and Drefne had crossed all the way to the arena and started up the ramp to the entrance.
Treminindi had been talking with First Karyas.
She might just have found her danger.