CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Gains and Losses
Waking up alive was an incredible gift. Waking up with Drefne on one side and Aripo on the other—indescribable.
On the schedule, last night had been Drefne’s night, but then he’d told her he’d also escaped the targetball game. That definitely called for a therapist, so they’d stopped by Aripo’s and asked her over. The three of them had stayed up late talking, and talking, and talking.
They’d both stayed.
Drefne was breathing against her forehead. She felt for his knee with one hand, shifted her hips slightly, and lifted her other hand to feel Aripo’s long, sweet-smelling hair.
“I love you,” she murmured.
The alarm had gone off already. She had reports to make and acts to answer for. She’d prefer never to leave this spot.
Drefne sighed and opened his eyes, stretching one muscular arm far out toward the wall. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” said Aripo clearly, as if she’d already been awake for a while. “Wow, come on my nights any time.” She nudged Melín. “No offense, isseni, but you’re a terrible cook.”
“Ha,” said Melín. But maybe Aripo was joking around so they couldn’t return to thoughts of yesterday. She turned over and put a kiss on her strong arm. “Dref, I’d better skip. Reporting early this morning.”
Drefne flung both legs high in the air, then rolled back down and straight up onto his feet, launching himself out the bedroom door. Gods, did he know how to move.
“Nope, no skipping,” he called back.
“Bet you can’t finish it in time.”
“Bet you dinner out that I can. Aripo, I hope you like eggs and grani.”
Aripo gave a delicious laugh. “Sure.”
That wasn’t a bet she really cared if she lost. Most days, she got dressed before breakfast, but now she went out in top and shorts toward the sounds and smells of Drefne in the kitchen, walking carefully to protect her as-yet-untaped ankle. Drefne was bare-backed, heating a mess of grani strips in oil in one pan, and the eggs in another.
“Put an apron on, isseni.”
He shrugged, a beautiful movement, but didn’t move toward the apron, so Melín grabbed it off the hook and wrapped it around him, which also meant wrapping her arms around him. She leaned into his warm skin, feeling muscles move in his back.
“Can’t get this over your head from here, Dref, come on.”
“Fine.” He hooked it with the hand that wasn’t stirring, and pulled it over. Behind them came the sound of Aripo’s slippers by the electric kettle.
“I’ll make tea?” Aripo said.
“Don’t tell me that’s the thing you know how to find in this place,” said Drefne.
“Of course it is.”
He chuckled. “Yes, of course it is.”
Melín closed her eyes to focus on the sounds of them, but her mind brought back a different voice: Melín, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, too.
Pyaras shouldn’t have left. He should have stayed, so they could talk afterward, and get through it together. That was a new kind of thought, and serious. The kind of thought that meant she should try to find him, and make sure she succeeded this time. It meant something else, too.
She took a deep breath and let go of Drefne. “Dref? Aripo?”
“Isseni, you all right?” Aripo asked gently. “I might be able to excuse you from early report if you need to talk some more.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “I just—I need to tell you about someone, before it turns into a secret.”
“Aww,” said Drefne. He combined his two pans, grabbed three plates down from the shelf, and started heaping food on them. “Sit down, and you can tell us. Oh, and you owe me dinner.”
“How serious?” Aripo asked.
Melín shrugged as she took a chair at the table. It was snug with three; Aripo, who was the tallest, sat on the aluminum step-stool Melín used to reach top shelves when neither of them was around. “I don’t know. I’ve met him twice. And twice he’s really surprised me with his instinct for dangerous situations.” She started shoveling food into her mouth. “Drefne, this, mm.”
“You’re welcome. Is he a fighter?”
She shook her head and swallowed. “Strategist.”
“Does he know about us?” Aripo asked.
She felt her cheeks grow hot. “Not yet. We haven’t done a lot of talking.”
Both of them burst out laughing.
“All right, isseni, all right.” She set down her fork. “But also, we stopped a Cohort hound from shooting a wysp outside the Descent. And he was there, yesterday. He kept his head. He was the one who thought to look for the Kartunnen and their medical supplies in the locker rooms.”
Neither of them was laughing now. “He really is a strategist,” said Aripo. “I can see why you’d be impressed.”
Drefne nodded seriously. “If you get a chance to talk to him, let us know how it goes.”
The thought of that conversation put a knot in her stomach, and not the pleasant kind she usually got when thinking of Pyaras. It wasn’t like she could avoid it—not everyone was a team player. But you didn’t end up with isseni like Drefne and Aripo by hiding things; you had to lay your heart on the table, and see who had the courage to pick it up.
Pyaras, how brave are you?
She had a lot to report to Captain. It felt insulting to walk into the adjunct-local Division station wearing Cohort orange after the massacres two Cohort traitors had caused. Every step felt tense; her mates might well jump her if she showed her face. But the adjunct-local Division station was quiet. Too quiet. It should have been full of mates readying packs and supplies for their adjunct routes.
Captain was not in the weights room, or in her office.
Eventually she found everyone: they had packed themselves into the assembly room, standing somber and silent while Captain Keyt addressed them from a podium on a raised platform at the front. Melín slipped in the door and moved sideways against the wall.
Captain was reading names.
The chill of the moon ran down her back. Those were the names of the Division dead.
Her throat tightened, and the headache that had held off this morning started up again. Why hadn’t she killed Karyas when she had the chance? In her place, Treminindi would have done it.
Sickening thought.
How in Varin’s name had she gotten sucked into this? Why couldn’t she escape the reach of meddling noblemen? Give her back the adjuncts! She’d happily spend four hours listening to Fourth Luun rave about his favorites for the targetball final—
Oh, no.
Was Luun now among the dead? She hadn’t heard his name, and now Captain came to the end of her list.
But she’d come in late.
Gnash it all. Be alive, Luun. Watch your favorites compete another day.
A Captain’s Hand walked in among the crowd. He was carrying a wire basket full of moon-yellow mourning armbands. Melín snagged one as he went by, and pressed it to her lips. Behind her closed eyes flashed a vision of the blast area. The injured. The dead, Elinda keep them. She opened her eyes again. Mates broke from their positions and began moving toward the rear and side doors. Melín pushed toward the front platform, and Captain’s position.
Captain Keyt was putting on an armband. Her face wasn’t as firm as usual. She took up a paper from her podium, nodded to Melín, and turned away. Melín followed her, pulling her own armband up over the sleeve of her uniform. When they reached the office, Captain Keyt sat down in her chair and set the paper on her desk. She closed her eye.
That paper was the list of names the Captain had just read. Hard to read upside-down, but impossible not to try.
“Thank you for your patience, Hand Melín,” said Captain Keyt, and opened her eye again. “Report.”
But then Melín found Luun’s name. A man she’d barely known, but her throat closed up anyway. She couldn’t report. She couldn’t pretend. She took a deep breath.
“Permit me to speak my mind, please, Captain?”
Captain sighed. “This is a good time for it.”
“Sir, I acted too slowly. Nekantor has suborned the Eminence’s Cohort. I’m sure he’s behind the assassination of Herin. And I suspect, because I chose to fight his favorite, First Karyas, I may be discharged.” Or worse. “In fact, I would be lucky if he only discharged me.”
“I hope he doesn’t,” said Captain Keyt. “If he wanted Herin dead, it would have been simpler to go to the Paper Shadows.”
“Respectfully, sir, they don’t always complete their missions.”
“True. But if he’s suborned the Cohort, there’s likely more to this. It’s more important than ever for you to observe him for his next plans.”
The thought of spending another day as a nobleman’s tool! She swallowed. “Captain—”
“Hand, you told me you’d called out wysp-shotting in the Cohort. Please tell me you didn’t give First Karyas any ideas.”
“Crown of Mai, Captain!” She controlled her voice. “Based on the things she’s said to me, I believe First Karyas is a failed Specialist. Last night, I was at the targetball game. I saw her take her shot. It was . . . unprofessional. Her aim was accurate, but she miscalculated the distance, and had to be taken in by the medics with severe burns to her hands.”
“And what about the assassin, Drenas? Did he strike you as stable?”
“Sir, I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like anyone else. The Cohort had split into factions, and I thought he was on the Eminence’s side, but clearly I was wrong. Maybe he was unstable, though, sir. It makes no sense to me how he could so completely undermine his stated mission.”
“People have failings,” said Captain Keyt. “I’ll need to see what I can learn about First Karyas. The police will have trouble laying hands on her, I suspect. Commander Tret and I may need to bring these concerns to Executor Pyaras.”
Melín blinked. She had to have heard that wrong. “Sir?”
“We got lucky in our Executor, for once,” said Captain. “He’s not stupid. He keeps his hands off our operations, and unlike most of those idiots, he actually listens. For example, the Heir tried to raise paper quotas, and when the Commander explained the risks, Pyaras actually went to the Eminence Herin and convinced him to change his mind. That’s something I didn’t think was possible.”
“That’s—not possible,” Melín said. Then realized what it sounded like, and added, “Usually, sir, I entirely agree.” But it really, really wasn’t. It had to be some kind of weird coincidence. Some name-lines did show up in more than one caste.
“Thank you for your report, Hand,” said Captain Keyt. “And for your honesty. These are dangerous times. Please keep me updated on anything new you learn.”
Melín saluted, right hand to left shoulder. “For so long as I remain in the Cohort, Captain.”
“You’re dismissed.”
She walked out, shaking her head. Her Pyaras couldn’t be Grobal. He wasn’t scrawny, selfish, or whiny; he was sexy, considerate, and playful! And sensible. Certainly a better strategist than a good many mates she knew.
Gnash his police friend—that scarred, knotty-shouldered guy who’d been gathering evidence. Why had he sent Pyaras home? If Pyaras had stayed, she could have gotten to know more about who he really was, and this wouldn’t even be a question.
She had other worries to deal with, however, now that she was on her way to the Residence Cohort station. With every rampway down, she became more convinced that today was going to stink like carrion. When she arrived, she nodded a quick ‘seni’ to the night-shift guards at the grounds gate and jogged across the grounds. Then she saw the deserted station entrance.
Had the Cohort also met early for a memorial? Was she late?
Did being late even matter when the Eminence probably thought she’d acted against him?
She pushed in the fancy bronze door; the door into the Eights ready room was cracked open and she could hear a voice, reading a long list of names. Too many to be the dead. And worse, she knew the voice.
Nekantor is here. Looks like I’ll get my ass handed to me earlier than I thought.
“Now,” came the haughty voice from beyond the door. “All of you. Get out.”
There was a roar, a chaotic mix of triumph and outrage. No time to get into the ready room; Melín hit the wall to one side of the door as a crowd of people burst out shouting, some screaming in rage. Another group of Cohort guards followed them into the foyer. Organized, this second group was, with a frightening determination in their eyes. Sahris was among them, and Fetti and the others of her eight. They drove the members of the first group out through the bronze door.
First Crenn, as he came out, looked to the right and found her.
Now she was going to get it.
Plis and Sirin help me.
“Eighth Melín, you’re late. You’ll answer to the Eminence.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Crenn had no idea the things she’d be asked to answer for. The fact that she hadn’t been run out the door after the others looked very bad. Maybe Nekantor would demand worse than firing. As she walked in through the inner door, the back of her neck prickled, and her thighs started to twitch.
The Eights ready room was a mess. Benches had been knocked over; lockers had been opened and their contents dumped on the floor. Even mourning armbands lay shockingly abandoned amid the mess. Nekantor stood on the Commander’s low stage, beyond it all, with his long-haired Imbati manservant at his back. He was staring fixedly at the watch on his wrist, and both of his fists were clenched.
Melín found an empty spot of floor, stopped and saluted.
“Your Eminence! Eighth Melín reporting for duty.” Or death.
The Eminence’s eyes snapped up, and latched onto her like a grip. “You’re late, Arissen,” he said.
“Yes, your Eminence, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Make sure it never happens again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nekantor glanced at the floor, made a face, and his fingers fluttered over the buttons on his silk vest. “You should know something, Arissen Melín. The one thing I won’t stand for is disloyalty.”
“Yes, sir.” She understood what she’d just seen, then, and certainty turned her stomach cold. They were all gone. Every one of the Herin loyalists, or every one he could find. He really had suborned the Cohort, and now with a perfect excuse to expel potentially unstable or dangerous guards, he owned it completely.
“I placed my trust in you. You were to do your duty, Arissen, and instead you acted against me.”
Down this path was the crevasse that would swallow her. Suddenly she became very aware of First Crenn, standing behind her, too near. He might grab her any second. Or shoot her. Her mind raced. This was a risk, but every word was a risk, and it was the only thing she could think of.
“Your Eminence, sir! You did not place your trust in me, sir. If you had, you would have told me First Karyas’ role in putting you in your rightful place. I would have known not to delay her.”
She braced herself for a sentence, a blow, a weapon bolt.
“First, take off that armband,” the Eminence snapped. “This is not a time for mourning. I want readiness.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, automatically. She forced herself to pull the armband down to her wrist. The Eminence permits no human feeling for death. The thought was disturbing, but it explained why so many armbands had been thrown on the floor. She hid her dismay, and dropped the armband.
Now Nekantor laughed in what sounded almost like relief. “That’s better. You’re lucky I enjoy your bad manners, Arissen. And you’re quite correct. If I had trusted you more, this would have been so much more—” He shuddered and flicked dirt off his hands that she couldn’t see. “—tidy.”
A shiver ran down her spine, and her head throbbed. She tried to stand straighter.
The Eminence smiled. “That means you deserve to be rewarded.”
“Thank you, sir.” A wave of sick anticipation rushed over her. Another reward, from this man? What form of torture would it involve?
“I’m missing a bodyguard at a critical time. The Accession Ball and Heir Selection will begin before Karyas can hold a weapon, much less fight.”
Stinking carrion. She’d have to spend days by Nekantor’s side? She forced herself to answer, “I’m honored to guard you, sir.”
Nekantor gave a smirk. “Not me,” he said. “My little brother. He’s going to be the First Family’s candidate for Heir, and he’s going to win.”