Page 46 of Vilest Things
Unless you have some way of attaching yourself to the bottom of the palace carriages that leave tomorrow, we can’t exactly get out of the capital.
The Crescent Societies, anyway, have always been the organization within the walls. They understand this. The unanimous decision settles quicker than usual. A tide has turned to push their agenda forward, and they won’t miss the opportunity.
We must trust that the Dovetail will do their part. We keep our goals clear. Our job from the inside is to strike at the center.
After they clear the body, Calla stands dumbly by the stain in the carpet.
Someone will come to clean it while she’s away, they tell her. She should get some sleep. Especially if she agrees to accompany the delegation.
Slowly, she crouches and presses her finger into the stain. It hasn’t dried yet. There’s so much blood that when she pushes hard on the threads, it beads on the surface.
Left dot. Long and slanting curve. Dot above. Another dot to the right.
Calla lets her shirt collar snap back into place. The blood settles on her chest, drying where the sigil has been drawn.
As she crawls into her blankets for rest, she doesn’t think she’s imagining the rush of cold air that whispers down her spine.
When dawn comes, there’s already a crowd waiting at the wall.
After the riots and the many Crescent Society members dragged into the city’s dark alleys, the civilians here now only wish to bear witness. They stand by curiously. Gape and peer at the horses brought out for transport, point and stare at the palace aristocrats who wait stone-faced.
The palace guards hold the civilians back, their weapons out in case they need to use force. No one pushes forward. A hush falls over the crowd, almost in disbelief that the palace has acted so quickly. They must really be worried about the crown. There must be a true possibility that King August could lose it.
The guards open the gate.
And the delegation enters the provinces.
CHAPTER 16
A long time ago, Anton Makusa used to make this exact journey with his family. San-Er was stifling, as was the palace, and if the occasion allowed it, his parents took them out to Kelitu for fresh air every few months. They would borrow a carriage from the palace, pile into the seats with his sister, Buira, giggling at being crammed against him. The carriage driver would ask if they were ready, clambering onto his seat with the horse reins, and his mother would shush them quickly before closing the door, signaling that they were all set to go. Only councilmembers could leave the capital whenever they pleased—they needed to govern their provinces, which did require being in the provinces on occasion—but that still required approval in advance, and all who went outside the wall were carefully logged. Resources for travel were scarce. After they reached Kelitu, the carriage driver would quickly return to San-Er in case he was needed by another councilmember, and he wouldn’t return again until the date arrived when the Makusas planned to come back to the cities.
That was why it took them so long to rescue Anton after the attack. One full day, after he had cried himself out and resorted to sitting torpid in the carnage. He could only wait until the driver returned. Until the driver made a distress call and the call brought the palace guard in.
He cranes his neck up against the carriage window now. The carriage is shockingly well maintained—its gears oiled, seat linings soft. He doesn’t remember the ride being this luxurious, but maybe someone on the council argued for an upgrade in the past few years, or maybe they only bring the best out for the king’s use. Some miles back, the driver almost took them off-road before she got control of the horses again, and Anton barely felt it because the wheels moved through Eigi’s minor flooding like it was nothing. The climate in Eigi is muggy, each step on the ground slapping wetly. One major road runs through Eigi before splitting in two for Pashe and for Leysa: the Apian Routes, shaped like a two-pronged instrument until the Jinzi River cuts off both ends. They’ll be traveling through Leysa to get to the borderlands.
Back then, they went through Pashe to get to Kelitu, so he supposes the similarity to his family’s route ends there. Maybe no one would think much of it if he asks to travel through Pashe on this journey too, just so he can see it again.
A knock comes on the window, jolting Anton for a moment. He peers through the foggy glass, and Calla takes shape, riding alongside the carriage on a horse.
His fists tighten in his lap.
“We’re slowing,” Calla says, muffled through the glass. “Rehanou is complaining.”
Councilmember Rehanou shouldn’t be on this delegation to begin with. But it was better to allow the councilmembers who insisted on coming than argue and delay the journey. There are four carriages rumbling after the one Anton occupies—five is the maximum number kept in surplus by the palace, and thank the heavens, because it limited the councilmembers who could claim that the delegation absolutely needed their assistance when passing through each of their provinces. There could be danger; there are most certainly other forces out here trying to fetch the crown too. It’ll require defensive standby in each province. Smooth cooperation from the barracks and soldiers waiting to be summoned.
In truth, the councilmembers’ presence implies a lack of faith that the soldiers out here will listen to instructions from their king. The chain of command is supposed to run from throne to council to general to soldier. Yet Talin is made up of mortals, and mortal loyalty is more oft sworn to the people they can see. In the provinces, the king might as well be as intangible as the old gods for how distant he is.
There’s a reason Talin has so many provinces. No councilmember’s power can grow too great this way. Less chance of leading a successful revolt against the throne.
“Stopping for the night?” Anton asks.
Through the glass, Calla nods. “Floods are bad up ahead,” she says shortly. Then she trots forward on her horse, her nose in the air.
“Does she always do that?”
Otta’s voice is a shock beside him. He isn’t quick enough to disguise his reaction, and Otta pulls a face.
“Sorry,” Anton says. Two Weisannas sit opposite them in the carriage. Though the elite guards may look like they’re dozing off for their own rest, they’re trained to be listening to every word. No room for speaking out of turn. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
