Page 37 of Fate of the Argosi

Despite her visible discomfort, she let loose with all the formality and precision of an advocate making her case before a jury. ‘This convenient fiction, this vicious slander that stokes your rage, is the same one that blinds the Mahdek people to a far uglier truth they have refused to face for generations!’

The barracks went quiet, but it wasn’t a peaceful quiet. Even the youngest of the runaways were practically choking with indignation. Fists clenched, eyes narrowed, twelve kids who ought to know better were starting to wonder if maybe they could rip a few Jan’Tep mages to pieces before any spells could be cast.

‘Sister,’ I said, infusing the word with all my arta loquit, reminding Ala’tris that she’d referred to me as kin before her coven – and letting everyone else know I viewed her the same, ‘this game you’re playing ain’t—’ The problem with arta loquit is that sometimes you can perfectly convey your meaning only to discover it’s exactly the wrong one for that moment.

‘It is notmygame, Ferius, nor solely that of my people,’ she shot back at me. Those pale blue and eerie grey bands of hers sparked brighter as she sliced down at the edges of her map, breaking them off to leave behind a hexagonal game board. The scattered dust floated back up to become stylised pieces representing armed figures that drove the trail of Mahdek refugees away from their side of the board. ‘The Faithful in Berabesq slaughter anymarquariattempting to settle within their borders.’ Ala’tris scowled, her voice thick with discomfort, yet she pushed through. ‘The word means “plague rodents”. It is the term by which the Berabesq viziers refer to the Mahdek.’

Her fingers darted across the board, adding sentries and chevaliers and myriad other pieces that each instantly began chasing the Mahdek pawns. ‘Zhuban warrior-poets call your peopledabu bidaku– the dead-who-do-not-know-they-are-dead. The killing of any dabu bidaku trespassing on one’s land is prosecuted not as murder but with a fine for unlawfully culling a wild animal!’

‘Enough,’ I said, approaching her. The way things were headed, I was going to have to punch her lights out just to keep Chedran and the others from trying to tear her to shreds. ‘You’ve made your point.’

This time her glare would’ve put Quadlopo right on his butt. ‘No, Ferius, I haven’t. I begged you to let me conduct these negotiations with the Mahdek elders, who have long known these facts yet repeat the same old myths to each new generation, blaming all their suffering onmypeople.’ She glanced at the runaways, none of Sar’ephir’s condescension in her expression, only pity. Her hands rose up high, the sudden tension in the muscles of her slender arms visible through the translucent gossamer of her sleeves. Her fists clenched as she brought them down on the map, smashing it into hundreds of shards that spun in the air before dissolving back into dust once again. ‘Damn them, and damn you for leaving me no choice but to reveal such hideous truths to children!’

Silence held sway for a time, all of us watching the last motes of dust drift back down to the floor. Maybe she was right. Maybe I’d botched this whole thing right from the start.

‘How’s the taste of that guilt?’I imagined Enna asking.‘Must be real sweet the way you’re drinking it down.’

‘Don’t start with me, Mamma. Pappy’s the one who talks sideways all the time, not you.’

‘Why should he have all the fun? Besides, you know his arta siva isn’t near as good as mine.’

‘Arta siva? Why would—’

My gaze went to Ala’tris, who stood there with her arms by her sides, looking almost as miserable as I was feeling. Arta siva is the Argosi talent for persuasion. Durral just called it ‘charm’, but Enna had never agreed with him.

‘Making people like you is easy,’she reminded me now, as she had on those other occasions.‘Negotiations though, they’re about alliances, not friendships. An enemy you trust is better than a friend you can’t.’

I was still watching Ala’tris, but now my arta precis let me see past her guilt and shame, genuine as they were, to the cold calculation underneath. She hadn’t been trying to impress the runaways with her display of magical floating grey dust; she’dwantedeveryone on edge. That’s why she hadn’t let Sar’ephir start out by conjuring visions of this wondrous homeland that’s supposed to protect the Mahdek from their enemies. These kids would never have believed it.

This time it was Durral’s voice I heard: a memory from when he’d first named me his teysan. I’d asked why his teachings were always so damned confusing and irritating. The Argosi ways are full of wonder, a never-ending awakening deep inside yourself. Why make them seem so . . . infuriating?

‘That’s the problem with offering someone a gift that seems too good to be true, kid. Nobody ever believes you’d just give something so precious away.’

A clever gambit, maybe even a necessary one. But there aren’t too many people on this earth who can pull it off like Durral Brown. Even before the scuffling of boots on boards had broken the silence, I knew Ala’tris had overplayed her hand.

Kievan was walking towards Ala’tris, strands of hair, red mixed with the blonde, across her face from staring down at her feet. ‘You think to teach us about the world, Jan’Tep?’

I let one of my throwing cards fall into my hand. Quiet as she spoke, I heard the rumble of thunder in Kievan’s voice. She reached down the top of the shabby, oversized shirt that had probably been worn by a corpse before someone had given it to her and pulled out a dingy little brass locket. ‘When a Mahdek turns thirteen, she stands before her clan to reveal her chosen name and its meaning. It is a day of celebration, of singing and dancing long into the night until the stars themselves tire of us. Sometimes we even feast if the clan can afford it. Gifts, though? We Mahdek do not receive gifts on our name day.’

There was no threat in Kievan’s tone, nor in the way she stood so close to Ala’tris. Even so, a blow was coming. I just couldn’t see what it was.

Kievan let the locket dangle from its chain, so tarnished it barely caught the light. ‘My mother waited until my father and brother were asleep. Would you like to see what’s inside?’

Ala’tris never even looked down at the trinket. She kept her eyes on Kievan, which I suppose was wise. ‘Does it matter what I want?’

The younger woman smiled, though there wasn’t any joy in it, only acknowledgement. ‘A question every Mahdek asks themselves sooner or later. That’s what my mother wanted me to understand when she woke me and told me I was beautiful.’ Kievan took hold of the locket and pressed the top with the nail of her thumb, popping it open to reveal a dollop of oily grey chalk with flecks of yellow. ‘She offered to rub this on my face. It’s easier to make sure none of it gets in your eyes that way, you see? There’s no pain. The skin goes numb before withering and scarring permanently.’

Two simple facts hit me at the same time, far too late for me to stop what was coming. The one thing Ala’tris and Kievan had in common was that they were both pretty. Nothing else about them was evenly matched. One had been born to power and privilege, the other to crushing poverty and unrelenting peril. Ala’tris had spent her youth studying the ways of Jan’Tep magic, but Kievan had acquired something just as dangerous: a childhood expecting death at any moment.

I brought my arm back, let my wrist begin that first twist that would send my razor-sharp steel card past Ala’tris’s right ear. The angles were lousy, so I’d probably leave a nasty cut on her cheek and slice off a chunk of her hair before the card buried itself in Kievan’s left eye. No other shot would stop her in time. Like I said, lousy angles.

My hand failed to move.

At first I thought it must be some kind of iron spell cast by Ba’dari, thinking I was about to attack their leader. Instead, it was a hand wrapped around my wrist. ‘You’re reading this wrong,’ Arissa whispered.

I’d been right though: Kievan absolutely intended to do Ala’tris harm. I’d just gotten the weapon wrong. ‘I thought my mother would be angry when I recoiled from her,’ the girl went on, staring at the ugly grey and yellow dollop inside her locket. ‘She wasn’t though. Merely kissed my cheek and said, “It’s all right then, my love. When they come for you, swallow the chalk, and death will escort you to her bed before anyone else can force you into theirs.”’

Chedran, quiet as a ghost, came up and placed his palm on Kievan’s shoulder. ‘Your mother was only—’

---