NOVEL NEXT Chapter 29 - Bloodshed
in bunker dark with life and death
the seven took their final breaths
again they rose, this time divine
Life turned their water into wine
- "Burden of Life," Final Verse
We get the justices across the street and to the back alley—our way is obstructed by hundreds of guardsmen engaging the Xobs, but Ladislas and I each escort two and Jebah takes three, and somehow we get there. Gérard, Évrard, and Aurélia are all waiting for us, crouched behind a dumpster and peering out at the chaos of the block. All around us rise the whinnying of horses, battle cries being called, death screams.
Jebah looks around. "Where's Reine?"
Gérard's expression is carefully neutral as he surveys the justices. "Didn't make it far enough away from the hollowood," he says. "Shrapnel to the neck. Bled out in the street."
Jebah's handsome features twist, contort. I'm not certain, but I think his eyes get a little damp.
"Damn," is all he says.
Gérard places a hand on his shoulder for the briefest of seconds, then withdraws it. I look away.
"Excuse me?" It's one of the justices, one of the women. "This is an active combat situation, and we need to be escorted as far away from it as possible."
"Yeah, yeah." Jebah runs a hand through his hair. Someone else's blood drips down his face, his chain-links—neither of us had time to change, not with the task of getting the justices out of the building so readily on our minds. "Ko—you know this area. Think you can get them somewhere safe?"
"Um…" I don't know this area, actually, but they're all looking at me—justices and soldiers alike. "We passed a library on the way here. Looked pretty burned, but no one was there—we'll be on the second floor."
"Excellent," Jebah says. "The rest of us will find our prides, and I'll oversee the den—why are you still here, Diable? Get going."
"You're sending us away with one soldier who looks like he should still be in school?" asks the man with the bald head and the handlebar mustache. "Do you know who we are, Denmaster Jebah?"
"In case you haven't noticed, there's a fight for this city happening—it's literally on top of us," he snaps. "We need all the bodies we can get—right now my nestmasters are leading prides, and I'd like to keep my den's body count in the single digits if I can manage it. I've already lost one of my top fighters today, and that will be a spectacularly unpleasant conversation I need to have with her family, who I know personally. With my luck, I'll be having similar conversations for the rest of the foreseeable future—unless we return to the fight and get our shit together."
There's a wild, wounded expression on his face, like a bluedeer caught in a snare. "Come on," I mutter to the justices. I don't like seeing Jebah, who's normally so smarmy and composed, wounded and reeling. Back on L-Street, I saw my primary school teacher in line at the ration center—that was a similar feeling. I turn on my heel and head down the alley without waiting to see if they'll follow—judging by the plodding footsteps behind me, they do.
"I'm Justice Estinne." A woman presses in on my right-hand side—the tall woman I noticed in the courtroom, not the one who got clippy with Jebah. "These are Justices Lucrese, Adolphe, Gaspard, Brice, Arsene, and Abélia."
I turn around and walk backward to see who she's referring to. Lucrese is the bald guy. Adolphe, grim and silent, is two steps behind him. Abélia is clearly the youngest—she doesn't look much older than Jebah, early thirties at most, and her hair is the same shade as Reine's. Just thinking that makes my heart twist in my chest. Arsene is a gray-haired woman with frown lines and crow's feet—she was the one being tortured by Xobs, and her nose is still dripping blood. Gaspard has a large mole beneath his right eye, and Brice is the only one not wearing robes—he's in civvies, a buttoned shirt and nice-looking trousers. I dip my head to each of them in turn, then pivot and start walking forward again. We're almost at the end of the alley, and the smell of sewage has lessened.
We walk down the block in silence, and somehow I get them to the library. We enter through the front doors, which are unlocked, pass row after row of bookshelves, and make our way up the rickety stairs. Busts of famous justices line the walkway to the backroom, but I only recognize one—Arsene, the last in the row, her stone nose unbroken unlike the flesh rendering who walks behind me. We find a conference room at the end of the hallway and settle ourselves inside. Adolphe locks the door and takes his seat at the head of the table. I stand between the door and the chairs, scythe held at attention. It's the only thing I had time to grab after we freed the justices, and I'm grateful Jebah gave the order—blades like this one aren't replaceable. I wish I'd had time to put on my leathers, though. The chain-link is heavy, and I feel like a Xob.
The justices are looking at me—every single one of them. Watching with their hands folded on the table—some on their laps—as if they're discussing some important case, and I'm the defendant. I shift my weight from foot to foot and keep my eyes on the window overlooking the front knoll. No sign of enemy troops—the battle seems to have been contained to the area in front of the municipal building. How long until someone comes to get us?
"Your accent is Valenèsian." It's Justice Lucrese who breaks the silence. "Which district are you from, lad?"
"Pleasure District," I say, voice level. "Leisure Street, born and raised."
His tone grows considerably unkinder. "I consider it the greatest failure of my career that I haven't been able to get that slum shut down."
"You're such a puritan," Brice says—I wonder why he's not wearing robes like the rest of them, if it would be rude to ask him. "L-Street gives the soldiers passing through a place to blow off steam. It contains the realm's sin to one corner. Lady Love has her darker side—why should we pretend cathouses wouldn't pop up even if we made prostitution completely illegal?"
"Have you ever been to the strip?" Color rises in Lucrese's face. "I have. Ninety-five percent of residents use ration distribution centers on the public dime. Whores hang out of windows like beckoning vermin. Some casinos and nightclubs turn a profit, but most file as bankrupt to avoid taxes. I understand the caging of sin—what I don't understand is why it must happen in our city."
Gaspard's finger drifts to the mole beneath his eye, prominent and beetle black. "There's no point having this debate now, gentlemen," he says, his voice low and deep. "Valenès has fallen out of our hands, and we must wait for Lady Death's guard to reclaim it before we can discuss policy changes that would radicalize 200 years of tradition."
"For what it's worth, I'd be the first person to say that L-Street needs some serious changes," I say. "Things need to be safer for the girls. If pimps didn't take such a huge cut of wages, cats wouldn't need to use rations distribution centers. When we lived on L-Street we were barely making rent, and two of my sisters were working twelve-hour nights. It's a broken system."
"Your sisters are scourges, and so are you," says Lucrese. "Families like yours give Valenès an unsavory reputation."
That makes me angry—my knuckles grow white on the guard of my scythe. "We didn't ask to be born on L-Street."
"You could have left."
"We did leave—as soon as I enlisted. Not everyone is lucky enough to meet the general of Lady Death's guard in the deadlands."
"Oh, I like Killián." Estienne examines me with a crooked smile that shows off the gap between her front teeth. "Brave soldier. Descent policies. Are you close to him?"
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"I'm one of his staffmasters."
"You look too young to be an elite. Too bad about his personal life—have you heard he's a reprobate?"
You'd think the Valenèsians would be more liberal. Yosif's voice in my mind. As a general rule of thumb, justices are insufferable. L'Angly went into law—so did Poussin and Leclère. The bench could make a mutt feel morally righteous. Don't take the bait unless it escalates. Killián doesn't need to be liked—but he does need to be respected.
It's hard advice to take—I'm resisting the urge to slap Estienne by the barest of breaths.
"Killián is not a reprobate."
"Is that so?" Her gaze is scrutinizing. "He's never married, and I was quite close with his ex-fiancé when I was in school. I went to L-LAS, you know, not the Faculté de Droit. She said he spent all his time with that medic of his—time he should've been spending with her. And things ended so badly with their troth, you know—Aminder's never quite gotten over being dumped two weeks before the wedding. She's built quite a life for herself with Duke Rosiar, of course—the children look like their mother, thank L'Angly—but still. Two bastard children and still unwed. What do you call that sort of man if not a reprobate?"
I can think of nothing to say except, "Killián's a good father."
"I'm sure he is, but that doesn't excuse his behavior." She sniffs. "Children need a mother. His daughter has already made half the gossip rags south of Marbecante with her wayward antics. I doubt she'd be such a little fire starter if Aminder was rearing her. Now, there's a good woman with strong values—have you met her, Whoreson?"
I'm liking Estienne less and less by the minute—she's seeming more and more like a rambler who talks just to put other people down. Maybe to make herself feel better, maybe because she likes the music her mouth makes. Either way, I can't believe these judgmental assholes are the people who are running the realm's most important precedent court. Killián's out there winning their city back, and they're here ripping the meat off his bones like a pack of vultures. Aside from the skirmish we ran though outside the municipal building, none of these trench rats have ever seen combat. They're used to using their words to get their way—and judging by their rank, they're probably pretty successful at it—but it's downright insulting to those of us who put our lives on the line for Lady Death's guard.
"Haven't met her," I say at last. "I read a book by Aminder Darkbloom, though. Seventh. I was playing conduit for Marix at the time. He didn't like her book."
That little statement is met with silence—Estienne's eyes widen slightly, and Adolphe coughs into a closed fist. Brice and Gaspard exchange a glance, and Abélia squints at me like I just declared my favorite book is one of Leclère's journals. Lucrese stares with lips curled back, as if I'm something disgusting and impure that he doesn't know quite what to do with. Arsene is the only one who doesn't react—she doesn't seem to be listening. At the far head of the table, across from Lucrese, she's dabbing the blood from beneath her nose with a pinkening handkerchief.
"Aminder is the only Circite I know who follows Loss," Estienne says after a pause. "Certainly the only royal. I'm sure she did her research before writing that text."
"I paged through it last year, when it first came out." Brice's voice is mild. "She's not much of a writer. Should've stuck to music. I've seen her in concert twice—once in Sojoz, once in Eslyia—and both times I was blown away by her voice. What was she studying at L-LAS, Estienne—how to sing like an angel from a scientific standpoint?"
"She was studying songwriting at Lady Hope's Academy of Art—we met in the library," Estienne says. "You said you were playing conduit for Marix, Whoreson—what happened? Did you defect?"
Her gaze is hawklike, predatory. The Septemvirate's already on me for defecting—I have no urge to have this conversation with another group of powerful people who have the capacity to damn me. Staying silent doesn't seem like an option, though—not when they're all staring at me, waiting for me to respond.
"Kind of," I say, trying not to sound too evasive. "Yosif took over. Long story."
It hits me then, the full weight of it. I haven't heard Marix's voice since Leómadura died, haven't heard from Leómadura since Killián woke up from being choked out. I'm with Yosif now, for better or for worse—I'm on track to marry Brid, to succeed Killián, to inherit the first general's sacred scythe. The one that can steal souls and take life with a single nick, if the wielder so chooses. How in Hel did a kid from L-Street end up here? How am I supposed to handle all the responsibility that's being thrust my way? I'm not worthy—I've never been worthy—but here I am, a conduit for Yosif. Don't get me wrong, I'm beyond relieved my soul is safe—the kind of relief that fills you up like oxygen—but there's still so much to figure out. Why Killián took such an interest in me, what he sees in me. Who killed Brid Naya'il—Lefe said he and Akeeva figured that out, but he didn't offer any additional information. The stories that came before my birth—who my mother was, and where she came from. I still don't believe Lefe that she was Segolé's Alyson, but if she wasn't, why would Genevieve have thrown me that orange in Marbecante? Is it possible that there's more to my birth stratum than the Whoreson matronymic? If so, does Killián know about it? Did Lady Fate?
Fate is cyclical, Time is linear. Yosif's voice in my mind, so faint it feels like a whisper. You're still young. There will be time for you to grow into your destiny. I'll be with you every step of the way, just as I was with Killián. We'll get you where you need to go.
Too many questions, not enough answers, and a room filled with iron-faced justices. I square my scythe in front of my chest, drive the javelin point into the wooden floorboards, and stare stoically out the window.
I'm done answering them.
If they want to chat, they can do it amongst themselves.
I have too much to think about.
###
It's hours before someone comes to get us—when the sun is just beginning to disappear over the Volterras, there's a knock on the wooden door. Linden's voice.
"All clear," he says. "Anyone in there?"
I throw the lock, twist the knob, open the door, and throw my arms around him, dropping my scythe to the floor. I was worried about him, damn it, and seeing him there grinning his off-center, pretty smirk gives me a jolt like nothing else. He pats my back until I release him, and I pull back and meet his gray eyes.
"What happened?" I ask.
"We forced a retreat." His scythe is strapped to his back, curling up above his head, and the mottos stare down at me in a curling slant. The Rosepétale family maxim, for the farmland, for the homeland. Linden's battle cry, never forget. "Jebah wanted to press, kill them all while they were running, but Killián let their last remaining den withdraw to Muck Hill. Scouts report they're fleeing up the mountain—they'll be back, I'm sure, but for now it's a victory. No more occupation in your hometown, little brother."
"Thank L'Angly," Estienne says.
"Casualties?" I ask.
"Over two thousand on our side." His expression grows grave. "We lost a lot of good fighters today. It was bloodshed."
"I'm sorry I wasn't there."
"You had your orders."
"Yeah, but they came from Jebah."
Babysitting justices wasn't what I should've been doing—I should've been out there with the other elites, defending my city.
There will be other battles. Yosif's voice, in my mind. Make no mistake—I won't let you miss another one. Ever. A good general lives on the frontline.
It sounds foreboding, like a warning. I try to shake it off, but I can't get the ever out of my mind. It's not a threat, it's a promise—one I hope I can live up to.
Linden claps me on the shoulder, then turns to the justices. "I have fores waiting outside—they'll escort you home, Your Honors," he says.
They disperse, heading outside. We leave them with the lancers, and I follow Linden up the street. None of the justices bid me goodbye, and I don't say anything to them either. I'd rather forget my hours with them as quickly as possible—aside from insulting me, L-Street, and my general, they didn't do much besides complain. I have even less respect for the precedent court than I did this morning. The battle didn't make it this far—the buildings are unburned, the cobbles are freshly washed and gleam in the light of the setting sun, and the makeshift blockades are being disassembled by guardsmen.
"How are the other elites?" I ask.
"Last we heard from the medi-tent, Bardic's still unconscious," Linden says. "He's going to be pissed he missed the action—this was one of our better battles, I think. Torrense took a knife to the chest, but he should pull through. His leathers caught most of it. Lefe went into a trance, totally apeshit—his body was on fire, and he must've taken out fifty Xobs just by burning through their ranks. I didn't know he could do that—did you?"
I shake my head.
"Killián says he's getting stronger, but he still seems crazy to me." Linden shrugs. "He passed out once the fighting was over—eyes rolled back in his head and dropped like a bag of rocks. The rest of us are okay. We lost some good pridemasters, but we'll promote and move on. We always do."
That's war, Yosif tells me.
I fight back a sudden and unexpected dampness to my eyes, but I can't cry—I won't cry.
I nod to let Yosif know I've heard him.
Together, Linden and I move forward to reunite with our pack.