CHAPTER FOUR

1648

YEAR OF THE GAME

Barcetima

Uosti Sa Continent

The Planet Kator

Esek was bored. These kinds of parties always bored her, rife with sycophants and self-congratulatory elites, somebody always talking too loudly. Her host, Ashir Doanye, was seated on the couch across from hers and droning on about weapons contracts, and that was the most boring thing of all.

She had come to Kator, nominally, to bless just such a contract: one between the Kindom and the Katish arms syndicate, of which Doanye was a member. Now that task was done, and she would have liked to relax and drink and maybe fuck someone.

But her real reason for being here was not the Kindom contract. It was her family: The Nightfoots required fresh weapons inventory, as well. They couldn’t go to the markets on Ma’kess—all those belonged to the Moonbacks, whom they had been fighting for complete control of the home planet for centuries. A bitter rivalry that went all the way back to… someone insulting someone’s husband, Esek didn’t really know. At the moment, Moonbacks held the northern continents and Nightfoots held the south, and Esek was hardly going to go north for a few extra guns. So here she sat on Kator, glad-handing local merchantsaan over the Kindom’s four-trillion-plae weapons contract, while simultaneously cementing a quieter deal on behalf of her family. Dull, dull stuff.

A server walked by, and Esek snapped her fingers at them; they brought her a flute of bright and bubbling keel, a local vintage. She was normally a praevi drinker, partial to distilled liquors, but the keel felt good in her mouth, a moment of pleasure in the midst of so much mediocrity. Say this for Katishsaan—they made good jump gates, good guns, and good alcohol.

Speaking of guns, Ashir Doanye was still rambling: “—designed some excellent new rifles, better even than the latest Katish design, but fucking fires do those Braems charge through the roof. And of course, the engineers are annoyed with me for going elsewhere. I had to invite three of them here tonight to smooth things over; they drink like fish. Look at them.”

Esek did look. The room was full of rich Katishsaan and visiting Ma’kessn dignitaries. As usually happened when persons of those separate worlds came together, there was a stench of competition in the air.

Another server went by. Esek grabbed a bunch of grapes from his platter and began to lazily bite the fruits from the stems. She got a bit of stem in her mouth and spit it at a passing Katishsaan who, sadly, didn’t notice.

Doanye said, “After your success on behalf of the Kindom today, I’m sure you’re eager to settle this other business for your family. And I’m eager to settle, too, Esek, if we can agree on price.”

Esek sighed. Tuned him out again. She watched the wealthy partygoers show off their new body mods to one another: new breasts, new eyes, new digital tattoos that swam and flexed on their bodies. One Katish engineer with hair arrayed like a sculpture on his head was showing off the sixth and seventh fingers of his hands by playing a drum harp; his finger bracelets tinkled as he played. Ma’kessns stood around him, admiring with ice in their eyes.

Esek spit another grape stem, hitting a passing Katishsaan right on the neck. The woman turned, indignant—but when she saw it was Esek, she quailed and went on. Esek huffed through her nostrils. How she scorned the socialites and politicians and entrepreneurs around her, the complete absence of any worthy competitor.

To her annoyance, Doanye kept talking of inflation and price gouging, kept throwing in barbs about the rudeness of Ma’kessn traders. He had been remarkably free with her all night. Honestly, a few throwaway fucks and people became insufferably presumptuous.

“—and you add to that the factory explosions in Dunta! Suddenly production is down thirty percent. Thirty percent! Do you know what that does to my margins?”

“Very inconvenient, that explosion,” drawled Esek.

Ashir Doanye gave her an unimpressed look. “Two hundred workers died. The Katish Council required all the barons to pay damages. I had to shell out over five million plae. The Secretaries didn’t raise a finger to help.”

“As I recall, the Secretaries issued fifty million plae in relief funds,” Esek replied.

Doanye blew out an annoyed breath. He snapped at the nearest servant, who brought him a cigarette. Esek ran her fingers through the minkat fur couch she was sitting on, luxuriating in the fine fibers. At least Doanye’s home was comfortable. She sipped the keel. Delicious. Doanye lit his cigarette with a silver lighter engraved with the image of Kata, Kator’s god. A slim, scarred creature with no eyes and one voluptuous breast. A god of spies and cleverness and stark honesty. How crass, to stamp their image on a trinket.

Doanye waved the lit cigarette. “That money went to the workers, not me. I’m shit out of luck. And, of course, I could go to a different factory, a cheaper factory, but I’m principled. Only the finest metals for my guns. No offense, but some synthetics don’t do the trick.”

“Why would I be offended?” said Esek coolly. “Sevite fuel is better than jevite, wouldn’t you say?”

He gave her a look, and if Esek weren’t so amused by his carelessness, she might have had to hit him for the sheer insolence of it. Nightfoots were very bad-tempered when it came to anyone insulting the quality of their product. Acknowledging that the synthetic jevite they manufactured was inferior to the organic jevite once mined on Jeve was an insult. Esek had never actually held a position in the business, but still. Family loyalty and all that.

Doanye was talking again. “If I gave you ammunition made with synthetic copper, you’d cancel my contracts.”

She shrugged. “Our contracts stipulate natural copper. You would be in breach.”

“And so that’s what I use! But I’m not immune to market forces! If my costs go up twenty-five percent, I have to pass some of that off to my buyer. It’s basic business. And gods know you people can afford it!”

“‘You people’?” she repeated dryly. The phrase, uttered in Katish, included a religious signifier that indicated he was not, in this moment, speaking about the Nightfoots, but about the Kindom. He had switched the script. Esek held up her half-finished glass. In moments, a servant refilled it from a diamond-stippled decanter. Doanye’s whole lifestyle could be funded with half of what the Nightfoots paid him. And yet, now it was apparent he had a bigger fish in mind. “If you’re referring to the Kindom, surely you don’t mean to suggest you are not equally a part of our own cherished Body?”

“I am not a Hand of the Kindom,” Doanye shot back. He was being very peevish. He dragged on his cigarette but didn’t even take the time to inhale properly. Wasteful. “I am not a secretary or a cleric or a cloaksaan. Yet I’ve been making weapons for the Hands for ten years. A six percent renewal markup is more than generous, given the state of things.” He paused and drank some keel, looking at her sidelong. “And it would make it much easier to keep costs down for my other clients.”

Ah, now it all made sense. He wanted her to reopen the Kindom contracts in his favor, and in exchange, he’d cut a better price for her family. Such brazenness. Such industry! Such—an invitation to the Cloaksaan: I am corrupt. Come darken my doorway.

The insipid Katish engineer missed a note on the drum harp, laughing drunkenly, and Esek flinched in irritation. Time to put Doanye in his place.

“The barons and the Secretaries have already signed the Kindom contracts with a four percent markup. And you have already agreed to give my family the weapons upgrades for fourteen million plae. Trying to change the terms isn’t simply impolite, Doanye, it’s an insult to the Clever Hand. It’s also an insult to my family. You know, some of my kin thought I should offer you twelve million.”

“Twelve million?!” he bellowed, and threw his cigarette on the ground. A servant darted forward to stomp it out. More than one pair of eyes shifted toward their corner. “Are you completely—”

“Have a care, Doanye. You are speaking to a cleric.”

He spluttered. “Don’t you throw that in my face now, Esek, you—”

“Cleric,” she corrected him, clicking the hard consonants in such a way that finally penetrated his bluster. He paused. “Burning One. Sa. These are all appropriate ways to address me.” His mouth opened; his brow furrowed. He was clearly unsure of her seriousness. Esek smiled at him, and on another person’s face this might have been the signal he could relax. Her smile, however, had the opposite effect. “You seem to think I’m here as a friend,” she murmured. “I am not, and have never been, your friend. I am here representing the Kindom. When I went to bed with you the first time, I was representing the Kindom. The second time, too. I go to bed with a lot of people. And sometimes I kill them afterward.” She tilted her head to one side and asked sweetly, “Do you think you’re special? Do you think, just because you please me in bed, I don’t care that you’re trying to steal from my kin?”

Doanye had been a ball of energy before. Now, he went remarkably still. How badly had he miscalculated? Would she share this conversation with the Kindom?

“Burning One,” he said, the words awkward in his mouth, “Sa Nightfoot, please understand, I’m only trying to honor my very long relationship with your matriarch, Alisiana—”

“It’s not often a cleric is treated this way,” interrupted Esek musingly. “So informal. So… without reverence. Why, where are the beatitudes? Where are the offerings to the Godfire? Why have your family members not come to ask for my blessing? Aren’t I holy enough for you?”

He blinked at her. She gazed back, steady and without humor. She had wrong-footed him.

A few more seconds passed, and then he cleared his throat. He barked at the nearest servant, “You. Go to the cellars. Have them take six cases of keel to Cleric Nightfoot’s warcrow, as a gift. And you”—pointing at another—“tell my partners to get the children down here for their blessing. Wake them up if you have to. It’s not even ten.”

The two servants scuttled off, and Doanye looked at Esek again, clearly hoping this was sufficient. But she raised her eyebrows, expectant. He muttered something under his breath, then addressed the room, “I haven’t been to temple in five years. Who here knows the beatitudes?”

The two remaining servants glanced at each other. The other partygoers flicked them wary glances and pretended not to hear. Ashir Doanye raised his voice to a snarl. “Who here knows the fucking beatitudes?!”

Everyone within hearing stopped, startled. Even the fool engineer stopped playing. Esek looked around at all of them, delighted, waiting. Not only had she made a Katish baron admit his lapses, but now the Katish and Ma’kessn elite had been found out, too. They might stamp their gods on their lighters and deliver offerings to the temples, but not one was truly devout.

Then, a quiet voice arose from the group. “I know them.”

Everyone shifted to reveal the speaker, and Esek’s delight skyrocketed. It was a kinschool student! She blurted a laugh, which no one dared copy. There was a man standing by the child, a kinschool teacher, posture erect and smile lit with pride. When Esek looked at the child again, she saw a shadow of anxiety in its eyes, and sensed that its teacher had made it speak up. Even now, he hurried forward, the child following reluctantly behind.

“Burning One.” He bowed over his open palms. He was flushed from alcohol, his violet hair hanging limp and damp across his green eyes, which were probably mods. Had he gotten them for the party? He must have been unused to drinking. There was a clumsiness to him. “Forgive me for not greeting you. I didn’t want to presume.”

“It is always presumptuous, to seek the attention of the Godfire. A wonder we aren’t burned up, every time.”

“Oh yes,” the teacher agreed vapidly. “Quite so.”

Bored of him, Esek focused on the student, who was taller than she originally realized, and older. Fifteen, sixteen? Head freshly shaved. Its trousers and tunic were clearly new, tailored, unlike the hand-me-downs it must wear at school. The teacher wanted it to look good. Esek’s perusal ended when she looked into its face. It met her stare with large gray eyes, which surprised her. It looked to be a Teron, and gray eyes were not common among Terons. But this was its only interesting feature. It was actually quite ugly, otherwise, and not in the adolescent way that some outgrow. It wore a shadowy bruise on its jawline, which intrigued her.

“Who is your little hanger-on?” she asked the teacher.

“Sa, this is a student from the kinschool where I teach. Enrollments are down in this part of Kator, and the masters have sent me with this one, to recruit from the best families.”

“I see you’ve dressed the part.” She gestured dismissively at the teacher’s uniform, also clearly new. He flushed. “However did you get into Sa Doanye’s party?”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Esek, who was still watching the child, noticed color tint its cheeks; its eyes dropped.

“Sa Doanye was kind enough to extend us an invitation,” said the teacher.

Esek barked a laugh. “Kindness, Som’s ass! Doanye isn’t kind, are you, Doanye?”

Doanye looked sulky but still cautious. “I don’t know all my guests. Someone else must have invited them.”

“And whoever it was, you paid them for it,” Esek said to the teacher. “That I’m sure of. I’m just wondering what you had to offer.” She paused, pondering. She dragged her eyes up and down the child again, and guessed, “A night with the student, maybe? It’s old enough, I see. Though not very good-looking. The clerics will never take it.”

The student flushed harder; the teacher paled. Esek nearly crowed at being right. Even an ugly student was still a novelty to the rich, who often paid for the chance to bed a future Hand.

Beside her, Doanye made a squawking sound. “No one in my house will take a kinschool student to bed! Not even with consent.”

Esek gave him a droll look. “Of course not. That would be illegal.”

She held his stare, and he shifted nervously. Then, clearly wanting to change the subject, he said, “If it knows the beatitudes, let it say them.”

“Is it true, little fish?” Esek asked. “Do you know the beatitudes?”

The student had gotten control of its blush and was looking at her again. Esek wondered if there were other bruises under its clothes. She wondered how many other party invitations were bought with the child’s body.

It spoke in a quiet voice, “I do, Burning One.”

“Go on, then.”

It began. The whole room watched it. Its skin was unhealthily pale. Its body was like a block—shoulders, hips, waist all in-line. Its face had a muddy, indistinct quality.

But its voice. Gods and fire, its voice… was low and strong and rumbled with feeling. It spoke in Ma’kessi, not Katish, and that beloved language filled the words with an especial gravity. It spoke the beatitudes, not as the rote recitation of a prayer everyone memorized in childhood—but as the performance of a beautiful, beloved poem. It seemed to disappear into its own words, to forget everything around it. Its eyes grew distant, its body peaceful, its confidence surging with the love it found in what it said.

All around, the partygoers were still. Amazed that such old words could feel so new. So true. Had any of them ever even heard a cleric recite this way? As they described the liveliness and joy of Makala, the keen intelligence of Kata, the warmth of Sajeven, and the revelry of Terotonteris—had any cleric captured it all like a spell to be woven over the Treble? Where had the student learned such love for its gods? For devouring Som and mild-mannered Capamame? And when it described the virtues—did it actually believe what it was saying? About justice and unity? Did anyone really believe any of that? Remarkable!

When it finished, the silence was absolute, the whole room hypnotized. The kinschool teacher was the only one who appeared unmoved. His eyes flicked back and forth between his charge and Esek. He looked hopeful. And nervous.

“Gods keep you well, child,” said Esek finally.

The whole room seemed to breathe out, relieved. A few patrons echoed the blessing. This was the thing that brought the child back to the room. It blinked, looking disoriented, and then sad. It blushed again and bowed its head.

Ashir Doanye, still antsy, couldn’t stop himself from asserting some authority over his own home. “You honor us with your piety.” He looked at the teacher. “What school are you from?”

“Principes, Sa,” the teacher replied.

Esek’s heart leapt. She looked at the student anew. For a split second she hoped, ridiculously—but no. Despite her promise five years ago, she had not forgotten the face of Lucos Alanye’s descendant. It was a face that came to her often, in errant thoughts, and in dreams. Like most clerics, Esek was not particularly spiritual, but the constant recurrence of that child in her thoughts had tested her unbelief. This was not that child’s face.

A line from the beatitudes came to her again, now forever in the kinschool student’s voice: Praise the goddess Makala, fecund and lovely, who births all destinies. When your destiny arrives, it will consume your soul as the newborn consumes its mother.

Hadn’t Esek been consumed by thoughts of the Alanye child since she met it?

She looked at the gaping crowd, and then at Doanye, who took her meaning.

“Back to your revelries,” he snapped. “Tem, keep playing that song.”

After a beat of hesitation, the engineer started playing the harp again, his fingers fumbling slightly before finding the tune. The other guests, at first nervous, then desperately relieved, moved away from them, everybody snatching up the nearest glass of keel. Esek spoke to the student, who had not moved.

“What year are you?”

The student’s pause confirmed what Esek was already suspecting. “I’m a ninth-year, Sa.”

Esek smiled. “Hmm. Then you have performed for me before.”

“Yes, Burning One.”

“Do you remember me well?”

The child was looking at her steadily now. Perhaps speaking the beatitudes had given it strength. “All the ninth-years remember, Sa.”

“And what about your master’s favorite? Six, wasn’t it called? Does it remember me?”

The child hesitated. Beside it, its teacher muttered a command in Teron. Annoyed, Esek hissed at him, startling him so much he jumped.

“You are not a part of this conversation,” she said, also in Teron. “You were not there. This student and I are old friends. You are a stranger and will be quiet.” Esek turned to the student again and switched to Ma’kessi. “You were saying?”

The student’s throat bobbed; its bruised jaw flexed. One nervous glance at its stunned teacher, and then it said, “They left the school, four years ago.”

Excitement sparked within her. Most likely the child gave up in the face of her offer. But Esek couldn’t silence the hope that perhaps this meant something different—that perhaps the child was already on its way to meeting her demands.

Then she realized—

“They?”

She expected the student to pale as it realized its mistake. It had called Six “they,” and not the neutral Ma’kessi “they” that was given to children before they gendered themselves. No, it used the Katish “they.” A proper pronoun.

To call a student by this pronoun was to imbue it with humanity. But the student did not look apologetic. It said, “When they left the school, they ceased to be a student. They… must have gendered themself, since then, Burning One. And their family was Katish born.”

Esek couldn’t argue with that logic, daring though it was. It suggested a precision to the child’s mind, a taste for accuracy. Or… it suggested Six was never “it” to its fellows. That they had afforded it an identity no student deserved. Could it have been so beloved, so powerful among its peers, that they risked flogging or expulsion to show it their respect?

“Where did it go?” asked Esek, finding the only way to conceal her excitement was to be so quiet the student must strain to hear her. Unnerved, it looked at its teacher. Esek blew out her breath, demanding, “Do you know?”

The teacher, unsure if he had permission to speak again, stuttered. “I—we—it slipped away in the night. We learned later it stowed away on a Braemish ship. We didn’t pursue it. We… never pursue the runaways, Som devour them.”

“I devoured that student,” Esek returned coolly. “I gobbled up its dreams and spit out the bones. I cursed it, by the Godfire and all the Six Gods. Can you blame it for running?”

The teacher had no response. Esek dismissed him with a look, turning to the student.

“Which number are you?”

“Four, Sa.”

“I was called Three. Are you a very good student? You must be, for the master to send you on a recruitment mission.”

The student hesitated. The teacher said, “It’s the best in our school, Sa.”

Not in its year. In the school. But if Six had remained, mused Esek, then Six would be the best. She was certain. Still, she liked this little fish, with its ugly face and box body, and its voice like a dipper that poured out dark, rich music. But the bruise on its jaw displeased her.

“When I was your age, I went to bed with several people who were not students. And I enjoyed it. I don’t think I would have enjoyed being sold, though. But some people like that sort of thing. Do you like it?”

The child grew pale. Its teacher actually squeaked. Esek ignored him, willing the student to answer her, but it could not. No doubt it was remembering her cruelty five years ago and thinking how much crueler this was. Now it must either betray its teacher, and no doubt be punished for it—or lie to a cleric of the Godfire. A Nightfoot, no less. Esek decided to be merciful. She looked over her shoulder, toward the wall behind her. There, in silence, her chief novitiate had stood all this time.

“Inye,” she said. “Take this one back to the ship. It will be one of us, now.”

The student blinked owlishly. The teacher made a garbled sound.

“Burning One. You—you honor our school. You—you rain glory on us. But the child has only ever expressed an interest in being a cleric, and you—great cleric that you are—only train cloaksaan novi—”

“Has it ever expressed an interest in getting as far away from you and your lecherous friends as possible?” interrupted Esek. At his horrified expression, she nodded. “Of course not. That shows it has survival instincts. And survival instincts are essential in the Cloaksaan. I wonder, do you have survival instincts, Sa? Will you be able to survive the Cloaksaan when I send them to discuss your ‘recruitment’ methods?”

He looked sick. Gods, what was it about Principes, to produce so many troublesome teachers? Then again, Esek had already gotten one Principen master killed this decade. Her family might not like her setting the Cloaksaan on another. Principes was Nightfoot territory, after all.

“Perhaps you should run home,” she said to the teacher. “Run home, and tell your master if any Principes teacher ever sends another student into the bed of the highest bidder, I will cut out all your genitals, and string your intestines in the street for Som to devour.”

Stricken, he raised his open palms, bowing over them repeatedly as he retreated. Esek gestured at her novitiate Inye, who came and leaned close. “Find out who bid for the child. I’ll handle it personally. And take the child away. Make sure it’s clothed, and let it have whatever gender and name it wants.”

“Yes, Sa.”

Inye took the stunned student by the shoulder and drew it away from the room. A few partygoers who dared to eavesdrop were now making themselves scarce. Esek’s corner of the room had become very quiet, very quickly. Across from her Doanye seemed most quiet of all. His party had gotten away from him. Esek stood up and went over to his chaise. She sat down, right next to him, thigh pressing to his thigh. He seemed to fight not to shift away. She wondered if he was the bidder. Regardless, his house was implicated in a crime. Students belonged to the Hands. A threat against them was a threat against the future power of the Kindom. Doanye’s throat bobbed as she ran her eyes over him.

“My children are here,” he said. “Will you… will you bless them?”

Esek crooned. “Of course. And you will be content with ten million, yes?”

His whole body tightened; his skin flushed. He looked on the verge of some outburst, but the words choked in his throat. At least he had the intelligence to know he had lost. When he finally gave a curt nod, her smile brightened. “Good. And you will retire to your room for the night. I’ll come to you shortly. Then you can prove your devotion to me another way.”

He blinked rapidly, wetly, but nodded again. Esek leaned even closer. She breathed him in, running her nose down his ear and jawline. She put her mouth against his throat—let her teeth prick against the hammer of his jugular, and smelled the sweat rolling off him. Then, abruptly, she stood. Behind him, his partners stood frozen, their children looking sleepy and confused.

“Beloved children.” She stretched out her arms in greeting. “Come and be blessed.”