Page 24 of Immortal Longings
You shouldn’t have to do anything, Calla wants to tell him.No one should.
But she remains quiet. When Eno finishes his bowl, he offers a salute and slides out from the booth, going his own way. Calla lets him leave without a farewell, one arm propped on the table and the other running her fingers over her hair, slicking her bangs out of her eyes and letting her hot forehead breathe. It isn’t as though she expected San-Er to improve in the five years she spent hiding out. It isn’t as though she was under some delusion that things were changing while she trained in that cramped little room, studying palace and city maps, balancing knives on her fingers and swords on her shoulders. Yet somehow, she thought there might besomeshift. That the Palace of Heavens going down would rally the people to demand more, would make them realize that something once deemed the heavenscouldfall. She thought their own princess committing theslaughter would spark something in the cities—or at the very least, lead people to askwhyanyone needed to starve if their rulers could prevent it.
But every year before the games, the riots still disperse within minutes of forming. The complaints go quiet before they can pick up an echo. The average civilian decides it is better to keep their mouths shut than lose their lives in a futile fight.
A shriek outside the restaurant jolts Calla from her reverie. She retrieves her sword, smooths her hair back into place, and halfheartedly throws more coins onto the table. When she peers out the window onto the narrow alley outside, it’s so dark that she cannot discern anything, but the scream was high-pitched enough that she would bet it was a child’s call. Eno.
There’s a rusting metal ladder beside the window. Calla swings out and scrambles down a few rungs before jumping the rest of the way, landing hard. A rat scurries across her boot. She hurries forward, following the commotion and coming upon a brighter intersection.
Here, the buildings lean ever so slightly to the left, letting the sun’s rays sneak onto the pavement. It’s enough for Calla to clearly see the scene ahead, where another player is swinging an axe at Eno.
Eno ducks just in time, something clutched in his hands. When he brandishes his weapon of choice, it’s revealed to be a whip, which might be the most useless weapon someone could have acquired after the Daqun. There’s no space in these alleys to move a whip at maximum effect, to swing back and let the tail hit its victim with strength. Indeed, all he achieves is a pitiful hit, and then the axe is coming at him again, landing a fleshy strike on the side of his arm.
Calla’s eyes dart to the alley walls. She doesn’t see a surveillance camera nearby. This might be a blind spot.
“Ah!” Eno rolls and—to Calla’s surprise—is fast enough to collide with the other player’s leg, striking the back of the knee and taking her off-balance. The player lands flat on her back, but she remains within range of Eno, so Callacan already guess her next attack. Before the player can gear up, Calla starts to walk, hand braced against her hip. The walk turns to a stride, the stride to a dead sprint, and as the other player heaves her axe up from the ground, laser-focused on getting the blade into Eno’s back, Calla has slid onto her knees and drawn her sword, slicing the blade across the player’s neck and taking her head clean off.
The blood paints a half-moon in the alley. There’s no light, no escape. If a body isn’t too damaged, the qi can jump, but death tends to be immediate with decapitation. Jumping requires sight and intent. Eyes pinned to a target—never mind what the target is doing, so long as they are within view. It’s rather difficult to achieve both factors if the brain isn’t functioning anymore.
In the stillness of the alley, Eno rocks against the wall, barely keeping upright while he catches his bearings. He clasps a hand over his left arm, blood seeping through his fingers.
“Thanks,” he breathes.
Calla wipes at her face, dotting at the moisture that’s gathered by her temple. She doesn’t know if it’s sweat or blood.
“Don’t worry about it.” She straightens to her feet, shaking the crimson off the blade of her sword. When that doesn’t work, she wipes the flat side on the cuff of her pants. “Think of this as a favor repaid.”
Eno’s mouth opens, but Calla is already flicking her hand at him in dismissal.
“Are youshooingme?” he asks.
“Go find another body,” Calla snaps. “If you bleed out, then what was that all for?”
In response, Eno flashes a wide grin, as though Calla just gave him a friendly parting gift instead of saving his damn life. Someone will take it sooner or later anyway if he remains in the games. But she’s glad it’s not by gruesome axe bludgeoning, at the very least.
“See you around!” Eno calls, scampering off.
“I hope not,” Calla mutters.
If the program restarts one more time, Anton might burn down this whole cybercafe.
“Come on,” he begs, smacking a hand to the machine’s side. The bulky plastic casing shudders, as does the drink sitting beside the computer mouse. Sulian, who owns the café, gets on his case every time he comes in and doesn’t buy food, even though the place’s primary source of revenue is how many hours its customers spend seated in front of a computer. Anton’s only compromise is a glass of whatever stale soft drink has been sitting in the refrigerator behind the counter.
“Hey.”
Anton startles. He barely refrains from drawing his knives, recognizing Sulian’s voice after a beat.
“Now, why would you creep up on me,” he says cheerily, “knowing I could slit your throat?”
Sulian folds his arms. His lanky frame looks like it could blow away with the wind, which Anton supposes is why he’s never seen the old man leave the café before. If he were ever to encounter Sulian at the markets one day, Anton would bowl over in shock.
“If you slit my throat, maybe I’ll get an insurance payout. Even if that’s only a fraction of the money you owe me,” Sulian says.
He’s practically yelling over the noise. This isthespot in San for a tech plug-in. Even those who can afford a personal computer come here to indulge in its ambience: the din of businessmen running their accounts and teenagers playing their multiplayer games. It’s near-impossible to secure a seat at the café without calling Sulian ahead of time, and too many who come in end up sleeping around their monitors, not wanting to leave for the night. Most mornings consist of Sulian tossing customers out if they look like they can barely function, their screens off and no longer counting billed minutes.
The old man clears his throat. “Are youevergoing to pay the tab you’re racking up here?”
Anton takes a sip of his drink. That’s right. He hasn’t actually paid for his time in months.
