A Fire Born of Exile, page 3
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Contrary to Minh’s expectations, when the militia showed up a centiday later, neither of their first mothers was there. Instead, it was Ðình Diệu, the aide to Heart’s Sorrow’s first mother, and Minh’s stepmother San.
Minh had managed to sit down, Nhi on her knees, while Heart’s Sorrow tried to contact Nhi’s mother. Quỳnh had withdrawn a little way, clearly giving Minh some space; but she wasn’t intending to leave. Not that she could, since Heart’s Sorrow had called the militia.
Minh was singing Nhi a song from her childhood, and Nhi – who obviously had had Serpent classmates – was nodding along.
‘One, two, serpent in the heavens,
Three, four, the azure cloth over us,
Five, six, official’s robes,
Seven, eight, the sky afire…’
‘Nine, ten, white birds in flight!’ Nhi said triumphantly, completing the sequence of hand movements by making wings with her outstretched hand. ‘Again, Old Auntie, again!’
‘One, two, serpent in the heavens,
Three, four, the cloth of azure over us…’
One minute Minh was sitting in the deserted alleyway – the next an overlay descended, all harsh and blinking lights and jarring sounds, as if she were a criminal being arrested. It ought to have thrown off her focus and co-ordination; but her throat was still burning from the vomit, her wrists covered in her own, drying blood, and she didn’t have the energy to care.
‘Child!’ Stepmother looked positively outraged as she rushed to Minh. ‘What in Heaven did you think you were doing? That’s utterly unsuitable for the family.’
Well, if nothing else, Stepmother was thoroughly predictable. Minh bit down on the obvious answer.
Ðình Diệu was grimmer. ‘You gave us all quite a fright,’ she said, running a hand through her close-cropped hair.
‘How are they?’ Minh asked. ‘Mother and the general.’
‘Better than you are,’ Ðình Diệu said.
Minh sighed. ‘I have no regrets.’
‘Oh, you’re going to regret this,’ Ðình Diệu said.
Minh had no doubt of that.
‘You look like something the scavengers dragged in.’ Stepmother sniffed.
Minh winced. She held out Nhi to one of the militia people.
‘Can you see her home? We know her mother’s auth-token, but Heart’s Sorrow can’t raise her.’
‘Of course.’
Nhi wailed. ‘I don’t want to leave.’
Minh hugged her. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘They’re scary, and your mommy told you never to mess with the militia. But they’re good people.’
Well, some of them were. And most of the corrupt, power-thirsty ones wouldn’t stoop to harming a toddler for no political gain.
‘They’ll take you home, I promise.’ She hugged Nhi again. ‘And then you can tell her about your adventures.’
Nhi sniffed. ‘I hated the adventures.’
‘Yeah,’ Minh said, and winked. ‘So did I.’
Nhi made a face, but let herself be handed over to the militia woman who came to pick her up.
Stepmother looked, for a moment, as though she was going to lecture Minh, but then she softened. Her daughter Vân, Minh’s stepsister, wasn’t much older than Nhi.
‘That was well done,’ she said.
Minh didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything she wanted to say, to be honest. She and Stepmother didn’t get on, and never would – not with Stepmother’s insistence that Minh lacked the decorum befitting her position in the family, and her favouring of her own daughter Vân instead.
‘I got the full lecture from Ðình Diệu,’ Heart’s Sorrow said on the private comms channel. ‘That hurt.’
Minh was reasonably sure her lecture was being saved for Mother.
‘Lucky you. At least you’re done. Mine is still in abeyance.’
‘Are these dead people?’ Stepmother’s voice was suspicious. ‘You killed people?’
‘That was me.’ Quỳnh interposed herself, smoothly, between Minh and Stepmother, Guts of Sea by her side. ‘I apologise for any inconvenience, but these bandits were about to kidnap your stepdaughter.’
Stepmother cocked her head, suspiciously.
‘And who are you?’ Ðình Diệu asked.
‘The Alchemist of Streams and Hills. My name is Quỳnh.’
‘Yes. Yes, I can see that from your display,’ Stepmother said. ‘Aside from that.’
‘A concerned passer-by.’ Quỳnh’s voice was smooth.
She recounted, quickly, how she’d come to rescue Minh. She still didn’t provide any details on how she and Guts of Sea had managed to outfight five armed bandits.
‘You did that by yourself?’ Ðình Diệu said, eyeing the slim jewelled bots on Quỳnh’s shoulder, the nacre inlays on their crowns of sensors. She looked impressed, and Heaven knew she was hard to impress: she’d fought in the Ten Thousand Flags Uprising, and at the battle of Cotton Tree Citadel.
Quỳnh shrugged. ‘We’ve travelled. Bandits are a common occurrence outside the Numbered Planets, and they’ve not grown less bold since the end of the war.’
Ðình Diệu cocked her head, assessing Quỳnh. Something unspoken passed between them again: Ðình Diệu reporting via comms channel to her general.
‘The general will want to see you both,’ Ðình Diệu said curtly.
Quỳnh inclined her head. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
‘And mine,’ Guts of Sea said, angling her squat body to align with Quỳnh’s.
Stepmother looked from Minh to Quỳnh. This was a different calculus: it took in Quỳnh’s speech, the price of her clothes and the elegance of her bots.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
Quỳnh bowed. It was deep and correct to within an eyelash-width, everything Minh’s tutor ever despaired she’d learn.
‘The shipyards,’ she said.
‘You’ve been to court,’ Stepmother said.
‘It has been my privilege, but sometimes one requires solitude.’ Quỳnh smiled, and there was little of joy in it. ‘I wanted the streams and the hills, the hollow bamboo’s pleasure. A pine, a plum tree and the moon’s reflection can be their own fulfilment.’
She was mixing together literary metaphors, quoting on the fly from the poetry masters. Not just a scholar, but the kind that became a high official – the kind of dazzling talent that the ministries would fight over, the same path Mother had traced out for Minh despite her lack of enthusiasm. She was so good, and it was so effortless.
Why is she here? With that kind of talent she should be at court.
‘I suppose,’ Stepmother said, slowly and grudgingly, ‘that you should come visit us as well. You sound like the kind of person my wife would love to meet.’
Another talented and wealthy person for Mother to obsess over, to try and win to her side for more influence and more power. Quỳnh inclined her head, but by the glint in her eyes she probably wasn’t fooled.
‘I would be honoured,’ she said. It was exactly the same tone she’d used earlier.
Minh reached for her bots to replay Quỳnh’s conversation with Ðình Diệu – but no, her bots were dead, killed by the bandits. But she was sure it was the same tone. It had an edge to it, and no wonder. Stepmother had been about as subtle as a tiger in a cattle pen.
Minh felt grubby.
‘I’m sorry,’ she messaged towards Quỳnh on a private channel. ‘You probably thought we were better than this. The adults are all status-obsessed.’
A sound, crystalline and good-natured, only for Minh’s ears. It was Quỳnh’s laughter.
‘I’ve travelled. I’m not surprised. How much trouble are you and your friend in for sneaking out?’
Minh started. She hadn’t expected that answer.
‘I don’t know yet. I’ve never really thanked you for the rescue.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Quỳnh’s voice was grave again. ‘Tell me, Minh.’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I ask for a favour?’
Minh frowned. ‘What kind of favour? Mother is the one you want to ask. I’m pretty she’d give you something for the rescue.’
‘A gift with… ah… barbs? Your mother is a born politician.’
Outside the private comms channel, Quỳnh was making arrangements to come to the tribunal, and Minh was walking behind Stepmother, eyes respectfully averted – heading home, to Mother and her inevitable punishment. Heart’s Sorrow – who had recalled his avatar straight home, leaving only the glowering Ðình Diệu – was repeatedly messaging Minh, but Minh put his messages on hold until she could focus on them.
‘I need somewhere,’ Quỳnh said.
‘Somewhere?’
‘I’m new here, and I don’t know much about the habitats. I’m interested in moving into a compound—’ she gave Minh the address, somewhere in the inner rings, on the edge of dignitary space ‘—but I want to know if it’s suitable.’
‘Suitable for what?’
‘I’m going to be here for a while,’ Quỳnh said. ‘And, well…’ She paused, for a while. ‘Guts of Sea is looking for a match.’
Minh stopped, so abruptly that Stepmother pushed her.
‘She what?’
Whatever she associated either of them with, it wasn’t marriage.
‘We all reach a point in our lives when we want stability. An end to the toil and roil around us. A reckoning with our mortality,’ Quỳnh’s voice was edged and ironic. ‘Guts of Sea would like to settle down.’
A mindship, looking for a match. That was quite a catch. Mindships were either affiliated with the Empire, or free of their engagements. If the former, they would bring connections with high-ranking officials – if the latter, a formidable capacity for quick travel. A mindship could make or break a family’s fortune, especially an official’s or a merchant’s.
‘Does she have a family speaking for her?’
She didn’t think so. Guts of Sea looked old, and old in a mindship meant centuries of life. It was quite likely she was the eldest of her family, and therefore the one making the decisions.
Quỳnh made a sound in private comms, like a delicate cough.
‘Guts of Sea’s family… didn’t survive the Uprising, I’m afraid.’ She put a peculiar accent on survive.
Ah. No wonder Guts of Sea doesn’t speak much.
Quỳnh was desirable, but Guts of Sea would be a liability in a world where everyone sought to distance themselves as fast as possible from The General Who Pacified the Dragon’s Tail and her rebellion.
‘And you’re speaking for her.’
‘Yes. You can see why I want – why I need – to make a good impression.’ There was hunger and worry in Quỳnh’s voice. ‘We’re talking about Guts of Sea’s future.’
The future.
Minh thought of her own. It had been traced for her: the metropolitan examinations, a career as a scholar, a courtship with a spouse whose family connections were approved by Mother and Stepmother. It was a certainty: a comfort and a cage. But Guts of Sea wasn’t Minh. She was from a reprobate family, and she needed a good match. And, in order to get that, to offset the taint of her family’s actions, she would need to bring a lot more to the match.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Looking at a compound and telling you if it sends the right kind of message isn’t really a great favour.’
‘I know,’ Quỳnh said. ‘I was in the right place at the right time. I’m not asking you to return a gift of food and shelter by lending me your spouse.’ She sounded amused again as she referenced an Old Earth tale. She really was a scholar: no one else would have known such an obscure metaphor. ‘And I’ll meet your family, one way or another.’
‘You don’t need me for that,’ Minh said. ‘Or ever did.’
‘No,’ Quỳnh said, inclining her head as she pointed to one bandit after another for the militia. She was wealthy, and smart, and she’d been to court. Every single dignitary would line up to seek her company.
‘If that’s all you want—’ Minh said.
‘It is.’
‘Then of course, I’ll be happy to have a look.’
‘Perfect.’ Quỳnh smiled. ‘Until then.’
She left, Guts of Sea by her side.
Minh followed Stepmother to the shuttle that would take her back to the family’s habitat. She rubbed her wrists, feeling the hardness of scabs under her fingers. Her disguise was torn and bloodied, her avatar unable to hide the damage to her clothes.
It all felt like a dream – but was she entering one, or being awoken from one…?
Chapter 2
A Lonely Grave
By the end of the Bi-Hour of the Tiger – at a time when she and her younger sister Thiên Dung were meant to be cleaning up and opening the repair shop – Hoà was still alone.
Hoà glanced at the schedule, bringing it up in overlay to see it more comfortably. At this early hour she could afford to take her eye off her customers, and it gave her a small but intense sense of satisfaction to be occupying their space.
The shop was a classic Belt compartment: a small and narrow space, the counter across it about two forearm-lengths – half the height of a person – from the door. Behind the counter was Hoà and Thiên Dung’s space, clogged with tables and spare parts from bots, recycling units, vacuum protections, and a variety of larger habitat equipment. Against the wall was a series of steps leading downwards to the private quarters, and a huge series of square alcoves that looked almost like a scholar’s bookshelf – except this one was full of bots. At any given time, they had hundreds of them working on low-level repair tasks that could be set on automatic, without Thiên Dung or Hoà’s conscious involvement.
There was nothing out of the ordinary on the schedule. The Tiger Games incident was still playing out, and there was speculation the tribunal might move against the data artists – or worse, the entire technologist outer ring. Most of their regulars had cancelled their pick-ups; the whole ring held its breath, waiting to see what the tribunal would decide, and who would get hurt.
Still no Thiên Dung. Hoà could have pinged her, but she had a good idea why her sister wasn’t there. She paused the bots engaged in complex tasks, and went downstairs.
The privacy screen was up in Thiên Dung’s room, so strong Hoà couldn’t see or hear anything.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Come on. I know how bad it is.’
A silence, then the screen came down.
Thiên Dung was lying on her bed. Her face was pale, her bots uncannily still, her hair – like Hoà’s, barely short enough to form a topknot – sheened with sweat and dirt. She tried to smile and sit up when Hoà walked in – but her skin was flushed and she fell back against the pillow.
‘You really should stop putting the privacy screen on.’
‘You don’t want to sleep worrying about my fever. Who’s going to mind the shop if you’re barely awake?’
Typical. ‘You’re in no state to be doing anything,’ Hoà said, more bluntly than she meant. ‘I want to know if we need to call for a doctor. Even if it’s the middle of the night.’
That was nice – or as nice as she could be, when her imagination was filled with fears of waking up and finding Thiên Dung had died during the night, or passed some kind of no-return horizon, beyond any doctor’s or apothecary’s ability to help.
‘We can’t afford a doctor.’
‘We can’t afford your dying either.’
Hoà’s remaining bots picked up the teacup from the low bedside table, and handed it to Thiên Dung. Thiên Dung didn’t move at first, but then – thumb-width by thumb-width – she pulled herself up in agonising slow-motion. Hoà sat very still, trying not to move, not to immediately fuss over her. Thiên Dung would just glare at her if she tried to intervene.
‘Thank you,’ Thiên Dung said, holding the cup.
She wasn’t sitting so much as lying a little more vertically, the cup held loosely in her lap. The tea wobbled – Hoà reached out, steadying the cup.
‘I’m not that sick,’ Thiên Dung said, giving her exactly the glare Hoà had expected. Her fingers were flecked with pinpricks of red, as if the flush on her skin was migrating to her extremities. Hoà didn’t like that.
‘You’re not well.’
Hoà sat down on her own bed, trying to feel less angry. Thiên Dung didn’t need an elder sister lecture, but… But how could she be so short-sighted? How could she care so little about her own health, and so much about appearances?
Thiên Dung didn’t say anything.
Hoà sighed. ‘Stay here. I’ll mind the shop.’ But she didn’t move. The schedule had had one large and preoccupying line on it, one they’d put off repeatedly because Thiên Dung was unwell. ‘We need to talk about Flowers at the Gates of the Lords.’
It was a huge job: an uncommon contract from a circle of people who usually didn’t give them the time of day. It represented half of their yearly budget, and they’d defaulted twice on the deadlines already. Thiên Dung’s face was pale.
‘Tell them I’m ill.’
‘You know we can’t.’
‘So?’
Thiên Dung flopped back again. The tea spilled in her lap. She tried to move a bot, gave up, and slowly put the cup back on the table.
Truth was, Hoà had made her decision when she’d come in.
‘I’ll fill in for you.’
‘You don’t anything about fixing mindships.’
‘No.’ Hoà didn’t know anything about their powerful clients either. The thought of having to deal with the children of dignitaries sent her in to a cold sweat. ‘But do you see any other solution?’
Thiên Dung held her gaze for a while, and then lowered it. Her face was flushed, sheened with sweat.
‘You know I don’t. I just… Keep your head low, do the small things first? I’ll feel better in a few days, promise.’
‘Of course.’
Hoà tried to keep her voice light and her smile up, as she kissed Thiên Dung – a sniff of her cheek, breathing in the stale odour of her sickness. Then she watched the privacy screen go back up, hiding her sister from sight. The fever was getting worse. She wasn’t well, and she wasn’t going to be well in a few days’ time.
