The Empire's Ruin, page 18
“I didn’t quit,” she snarled. “I was stripped of my rank by the Emperor herself. I’m not Kettral anymore.”
“The world is filled with people who are not Kettral. The vast majority of them manage not to cower day and night inside an unlit room.”
“I’m not cowering, you son of a bitch. Jonon forbid me the run of the ship.”
“I suppose, then, that there’s nothing you can do.” He shrugged, turned toward the door.
“We’re on a ship in the middle of the Ghost Sea—there’s nothing to do.”
Kiel pursed his lips, squinted into the gloom. “There is a passage I will have to revise.”
“What are you talking about?”
He glanced up into the corner of the room, quoting from some text in his memory. “Gwenna Sharpe was hardly the most skilled among the Kettral. Her own Wing included stronger fighters, more proficient archers, superior tacticians. What set Sharpe apart, what made her the Wing’s true commander, was her unconquerable heart.”
She stared after him as the door closed.
Her unconquerable heart.
She closed her eyes, felt that heart working away inside of her—the beat staggered, staggering—like something captive, something already defeated.
What set Sharpe apart was her unconquerable heart.
Had that ever been true? She remembered standing on the barricades at Andt-Kyl, screaming her defiance as the Urghul came on, diving into the river to break up the log jam, even when she thought it would mean her death. She remembered how it felt, the exhilaration and terror, the grim determination girding her. She remembered it all, but when she looked inside herself for those old emotions she found only scraps, fragments, just a pile of busted, rusting, useless detritus. The woman that the historian described in his book was a stranger.
The question was, what would that stranger do?
Slowly, she stripped off her wool coat, then lowered her body to the floor. Everything ached—her knees, her shoulders, as though every injury, every slice and puncture and torn muscle she’d ever encountered in her life had returned at once to plague her. She lay on her stomach, face pressed against the boards. What she wanted to do was to keep lying there, but that wasn’t what the woman in Kiel’s story would do. Even trapped in her cabin, that miserable bitch would have been training. And so, slowly, achingly, Gwenna pressed her palms against the floor, raised her body into a plank. The woman in Kiel’s histories had done this often, had once held the position for a count of ten thousand.
Trembling, tears standing in her eyes, Gwenna Sharpe began counting.
* * *
The training didn’t make her feel any better, but at least it was something she could blame for the pain. The ache of muscles forced past the point of exhaustion was a feeling she recognized, a feeling that, if she pushed herself hard enough, could shoulder aside the other, deeper, newer pain for which she had no excuse or explanation.
Running and swimming were out, obviously, which meant thousands of push-ups. Thousands of sit-ups. Holding plank while she counted and counted and counted. At first, she stayed inside her cabin, but the space was too small for proper training and so, after a few days, she made her way up onto the deck of the sterncastle.
She’d almost forgotten the brilliance of the sun, and for a while she stood there blinking while the salt wind ripped at her hair. She took a deep breath, sucked in the sea air, and for just a moment, a sliver of a heartbeat, felt like herself again, like a person who could find joy in the rolling of the hull beneath her feet, in the strength of her own body. Then she looked down the deck and noticed Cho Lu. It wasn’t his fault that his grandfather had come to Annur from Dombâng—wasn’t his grandfather’s fault, for that matter—but he reminded her of the city, of the people she’d killed there, of the people who she’d left to die. All over again, more viciously, the weight clamped down around her. She’d already turned back toward the hatch, was about to retreat to her cabin, when the voice of the First Admiral brought her up short.
“If you were one of my officers, I’d have you whipped for appearing on deck in this condition.”
His voice was level, sober, but at first the words didn’t make sense. What condition was he talking about? Then she looked down at herself, at the wrinkled blacks she’d been wearing since the ship set sail, at her hands, which were seamed with grime. She hadn’t bathed. She’d told herself that the reason was that Jonon had forbidden her the run of the ship, but the truth was that it had seemed pointless. She wasn’t going to fix anything that was broken by scrubbing her fucking face, and so she hadn’t bothered.
She forced herself to straighten, then turned slowly to face Jonon lem Jonon.
All over again, she was struck by the fact that he didn’t look like an admiral so much as a masker who had rehearsed for many days to play the part of one—the polished buttons, the golden braid, the carefully brushed uniform, the close-cropped hair, the square jaw, the gleaming white teeth. Only the scorn twisting his mouth seemed out of place.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I’ve been training.…”
She trailed off. It sounded ridiculous.
“Training.”
The word came out flat, emotionless, but contempt wafted off of him.
The other officers and sailors on the deck went about their duties, but she could feel their eyes on her. The weight of those stares made her want to fold in on herself.
Kiel spoke from behind her. “I’ve heard it said that Kettral are twice as strong as normal men.”
What the fuck was he doing? It wasn’t true, for one thing, and the words were perfectly crafted to chafe against Jonon’s pride.
“I’m not Kettral,” she said, “and I’m not a man.”
“Nonetheless,” the historian continued. “I am curious.”
She shook her head, the motion almost reflexive.
Jonon, however, was studying her. “It might be useful,” he mused, “to put to rest once and for all the legend of the invincible Kettral.”
“The Kettral aren’t invincible.”
“I know that,” he replied. “But there are souls on this ship who were raised on stories of the empire’s unstoppable warriors. It could be salutary for them to see the truth.” He considered a moment, then turned, pointed to a young, bare-chested sailor who was coiling rope a few paces away, his eyes studiously focused on the task.
“Raban,” the admiral said. “Come here.”
The man dropped the rope, snapped to attention.
He was wire-thin, but she could see the muscle corded beneath his skin, the strength in his ropey forearms, the muscles of his back carving a V down to his thin waist. If ever a man had been born to scramble around in the rigging, Raban was it.
“What do you say to a contest, Raban?” the admiral asked.
Raban blinked.
“As you will, sir,” he replied, offering a rough bow.
“A race.” Jonon pointed to the mast behind him. “To the top. You against the”—he gestured to Gwenna—“whatever it is that she is now.”
The men on the deck of the sterncastle had given up even the pretense of work. Most of them were watching the admiral, shooting the occasional glance at Gwenna. Even the sailors and soldiers amidships had noticed that something was unfolding in the stern, had paused in their labors to take stock of it.
“There’s no need—” Gwenna began.
Jonon silenced her with a raised hand.
“You and Raban will race to the top of the mast. If he wins, I will double his wages for the journey.”
Raban’s eyes went wide as plates. The admiral had offered him a small fortune, just for climbing.
“If you win, Gwenna Sharpe, I will open to you the freedom of the ship.”
She didn’t want the freedom of the ship. She didn’t even want to be on the deck, with everyone watching her, but it was obvious that Jonon didn’t much care what she wanted. He smiled at her, and in that moment he smelled of nothing but satisfaction.
The sailor shot her a wary glance, then turned back to Jonon. “The rules, sir?”
Jonon shook his head. “There are no rules.”
Which made it, Gwenna reflected briefly, a lot like life.
The rising sun glinted off the admiral’s brass.
“Go,” he said.
Raban darted for the ratlines stretching up from the deck. He was swinging up into them before Gwenna had even moved. For a few heartbeats she almost didn’t move. She felt heavy, dull, unready. Racing to the top of the rigging wasn’t going to change anything. It wasn’t going to make Jonon or any of the others respect her. It wasn’t going to make her respect herself. Then she caught a scrap of conversation from down the deck, just a handful of words—… bitch is pretty, but she’s no fucking soldier …—and, if only for a few moments, she was the soldier from the historian’s chronicles once more.
She went up the underside of the lines, hand over hand, not bothering with her feet. It was harder that way, obviously, but it was also faster, and by the time she reached the first yard Raban was almost within reach. He glanced down as she slithered past the yard, shock painted on his face, then threw himself into the climb with renewed fervor.
The deck of the Daybreak had erupted into a cacophony of taunts and cheers. It reminded her of the arena back on the Islands, how all the Kettral would gather at the end of the day to watch the cadets beat each other bloody. There was a knack Gwenna had developed early to ignore the noise, blotting it out, focusing only on the fight at hand, and as she climbed now she found the sound falling away, as though if she only went fast enough, high enough, she could win free of it. Her shoulders and forearms blazing, she dragged herself higher into the rigging, the deck dropping away beneath her, the ship shrinking, the great ocean widening on every side.
Halfway to the third yard, maybe five paces from the top of the mast, she drew even with Raban’s feet. He felt her coming, set himself, then lashed out with a heel. It caught her a glancing blow on the side of the head, not enough to stun her or knock her out, but the sailor was only getting started. As she clung to the lines, he kicked down at her over and over again. His aim wasn’t great—most of the attacks landed on her ears or shoulders—but after a few attempts he connected square in the center of her face. She felt her nose crunch, the hot gush of blood explode down over her mouth, then the pain.
That pain unlatched something inside of her.
The next time Raban struck, she reached up and caught him by the ankle. She should have done it earlier, but her mind hadn’t been working right. The sailor jerked, tried to rip his limb free, but she had him, and she wasn’t letting go. Hauling on his leg with one hand, the rigging with the other, she pulled herself up, caught the rope belt cinched around his waist, twisted until she was facing away from his body, reached up blind with the other hand, grabbed the belt, then let her legs swing free.
Raban strangled a groan. The belt was tight enough that, instead of slipping, it was gouging into his stomach. He was also holding both of them now, his weight and hers suspended from weary arms. As she hung there, Gwenna looked down. They were high enough that the cant of the ship carried them out well over the rail. Falling now would mean a long drop into the blue-gray chop. It was the kind of fall a very lucky person might survive. She wasn’t feeling particularly lucky.
“I can’t…” Raban gasped.
His breath failed before the sentence ended. Gwenna could feel him slipping, his pride and determination evaporating into panic.
Tightening her grip, she swung her legs up, up until she was upside down. She caught the sailor around the throat with the back of one bent knee, completed the triangle with the other, and squeezed. As Raban jerked and clawed at her, she shoved away from him. For a moment, as she shifted her grip from his belt back to the rigging, she was suspended only by her legs locked around his neck. Then she had the ratlines in her hands and it was over. He’d begun to spasm, to sag away from the ropes. She could let him go now, and he’d drop, probably break his back on the yard below, and crash into the water. Or she could hold the triangle as he fell and break his neck.
Both good options.
The deck below had become one enormous roar.
Between the sails and the rigging, the men probably couldn’t see exactly what was happening, but they could tell that the two were grappling, that the race was a race no longer, but a fight for survival. What they didn’t know was that the fight was already over. Gwenna smelled it as Raban’s bladder gave way, smelled the panic pouring out of him. The twin scents reminded her of her days in the brig of Anlatun’s Lion during the voyage back from Dombâng, and suddenly the desire to win went out of her, scrubbed away by disgust.
She reached out, snagged Raban by the belt once more, then loosened her legs. Unanchored from his neck, her legs dropped. Then Raban did. His weight hit her at the same time as her own, almost ripping her shoulder from its socket. She grimaced, hung by one hand from the rigging, held the young man limp above the gnashing waves with the other. Everything seemed to pause there, the ship heeled over at the end of its roll, the mast leaning out over the ocean, Gwenna dangling from the rigging, Raban from her burning hands. Then the world slid into motion once more, the mast righted itself, the sailor and Gwenna swung back toward the lines. She established her feet and gave him a shake.
“Wake up.”
He twitched, arms jerking like a puppet’s. Then his eyes snapped open.
“Where?” he asked, staring about himself, baffled. “What?”
“Hold on,” Gwenna said.
More out of instinct than any conscious thought the young sailor grabbed the rigging.
“Now climb,” she said.
She watched the understanding flood back into his brain along with the blood.
“The race—” he began.
“Is over,” she replied. “You won.” She nodded toward the top of the mast. “Go finish it.”
He stared at her, horror and confusion warring in his face. “Why?”
“Fucked if I know.” She was suddenly, profoundly weary. Everything hurt, her shoulders, the shredded skin of her hands. “Just go.”
Some of the men on the deck below might have seen what happened, glimpsed it throught the spread acres of sail, but it had been fast, maybe too fast to follow. To most of them it would have looked like a ferocious struggle, one from which Raban had emerged victorious. Jonon’s point would be proven—the fabled Kettral weren’t any more special than common sailors—and maybe the admiral would leave her alone.
As Raban climbed the last few paces to the top of the mast, Gwenna hooked an arm around the rigging and stared out toward the horizon. After so many days in the dimness of her cabin, the world was dizzyingly wide, the sky too bright, the sea too dark. She stared at it as the ship swayed back and forth, back and forth, stared and stared, was still staring when the mast and flag of the Manjari ship climbed up over the rim of the world.
12
“You are a Shin monk.”
Yumel, appointments minister of the first rank, did not laugh when he said this. He didn’t look capable of laughter, or any other expression for that matter. Everything about him was gray—his face, his thin, receding hair, his teeth. Akiil had the feeling that if he’d shown up claiming to be the Blank God himself the man would have had the same reaction.
“The last of the Shin monks of Ashk’lan,” Akiil replied.
The minister didn’t blink. For all Akiil knew, it was precisely this ability—to not blink when accosted with preposterous claims—that had seen him raised to the first rank. The appointments ministers of the third and second rank had certainly been far less circumspect in their disbelief. The appointment minister of the fourth rank had almost choked on his tea.
“The last of the Shin monks of Ashk’lan,” Yumel said. Even his words sounded gray.
“And a friend of the Emperor, Kaden hui’Malkeenian.”
Yumel stared at his hands, as though deeply embarrassed.
“Adare hui’Malkeenian, bright be the days of her life, is the Emperor of Annur.”
“I’m aware of that,” Akiil said. “I’ve come to speak to her about her brother. I have a message from him.”
“Kaden hui’Malkeenian was laid in his tomb five years ago.”
Akiil smiled genially. “It’s an old message.”
The minister frowned, studied the ledger before him. The room was immaculate. There was nothing to look at except the bloodwood walls, the small window opening onto a maple tree, the desk, the ledger, and Yumel himself. Maybe, instead of his circumspection, the man had been raised to the first rank for his ability to stall. It was possible that his function was to so thoroughly bore petitioners that they gave up and went away without ever troubling the Emperor.
“May I trust,” the minister asked at last, “that the Emperor is familiar with your name?”
“Kaden may have mentioned me.”
It seemed unlikely. Akiil had been at the ass end of the world when the empire began to tear itself apart, but from the rumors he’d heard, Kaden and Adare had been on opposite sides of that rift. According to the stories, Adare came back to the capital to make common cause with her brother only as the empire tumbled headlong into war. It was hard to imagine that conversation—or any of those that had followed—containing much about Akiil. I had this friend at the monastery. Used to steal shit in the Perfumed Quarter when he was a kid. Pretty good juggler … The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed.
Yumel turned a page of the ledger, then another page, then another, then shook his head slowly. “You will understand, of course, that the Emperor, bright be the days of her life, has myriad responsibilities.”
“I have something that can help her with those.”
Brightened wasn’t quite the word, but the appointments minister of the first rank turned marginally less gray.
