He crouched down and helped Mudt out. Nuno started up the backhoe and used it to pack the disturbed soil back into place. When he was done, the grave looked much as it had before. A keen eye inspecting the site would notice footprints in the dirt and an irregular, loose wall, but they weren’t counting on scrutiny. Bero and Mudt untied their kerchiefs and wiped the sweat and mud from their faces as Nuno led them briskly back down the hill. It was fully dark now, and no one was paying attention to them, but if someone had been, they would’ve seen what appeared to be a trio of cemetery maintenance workers finishing up for the day.
At the gate, Nuno said, “Give me back those shirts and hats, quick.” They tore off the soiled disguises, stuffing them back into the garbage bag. “You got what you came for, didn’t you? Damning your souls and all.” Nuno spat. “Now, about the other half of the money.”
Bero nodded and crouched down to unzip the side pocket of the duffel bag. From behind, Mudt swung with all his strength, hitting Nuno in the back of the head with the rock clutched in his fist, then shoved him to the ground. Bero stood up with a compact pistol in his hand and fired twice, putting the first bullet in Nuno’s forehead and the second in his cheek.
Both boys stared dumbstruck for three or four long seconds after the sharp report of gunfire faded. Rolled over, Nuno’s eyes were frozen open in alarm and surprise; the entry wounds were surprisingly small, and the blood was already being sucked up by the dry ground.
Bero’s first thought was that the plan had worked surprisingly well and he was right to have kept Mudt around after all. His second was that it was a good thing the groundskeeper wasn’t a large man or they would’ve had a real problem moving him. The two teenagers were panting and pouring sweat from exertion and fear by the time they dragged the body into a shallow hollow under the nearby shrubbery. Bero dug hastily through Nuno’s jacket for the man’s wallet. “Get his watch, too,” he hissed at Mudt. “Make it look like a robbery.” They snatched the key ring from the groundskeeper’s pocket, then kicked leaves and branches over the body and ran for the gate. As Bero cursed and struggled with the lock, Mudt bent over, gasping, hands on knees, the rolling whites of his eyes visible under the greasy mop of his hair. “Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit.”
The gate swung open at last. They pulled the heavy metal bars shut behind them and Bero clutched the duffel bag tight as they sprinted into the cover of Widow’s Park ahead of the guards’ sweeping flashlights, toward the lantern glow of the city below.
CHAPTER 2
The Passing of the Torch
Kaul Hiloshudon stood at the head of the vast assembly of mourners who’d come to offer their final respects to his grandfather. There were a great many people paying close attention to him today, and they would notice if he seemed distracted or agitated, so he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the coffin draped in expensive white cloth and moved his lips dutifully to the penitents’ chanted recitations. Still, he found it difficult to pay attention to the service, impossible to gird his sense of Perception against the presence of so many enemies.
His grandfather had lived a long and important life. Kaul Sen had fought for the liberation of his country, and later, through politics and business and the great clan he built, he’d shaped the nation of Kekon in lasting ways. At the ripe age of eighty-three, he’d passed away quietly in the middle of the night, sitting in his usual chair by the window of the family house. A sign of favor from the gods, surely. If, in the final years of his life, with dementia and declining jade tolerance, Grandda had become a cruel, unbearable old man made bitter by regret and loss, who had nothing but unkind things to say about the leadership of the No Peak clan passing to his least favored grandchild—well, that was something the average citizen did not know. For two days and nights, a great public vigil had been held in the Temple District, and it seemed to Hilo that half the population of the city had turned out for the funeral. The other half was probably watching the event on television. The death of the Torch of Kekon marked the end of an era, the passing of a pivotal generation that had secured Kekon’s freedom from foreign occupation and rebuilt its prosperity. Every public figure of importance was here to take part in such a profound commemoration—including Ayt Madashi.
The Pillar of the Mountain clan was standing on the other side of the crowd, in a long, white jacket and white scarf, surrounded by her own people. Hilo could barely see her from where he stood, but he didn’t need to; he could Perceive the distinctive density of her jade aura easily enough. The irony of her presence at the very place where Hilo’s elder brother Lan lay turning to dust in the ground would’ve enraged Hilo if he’d allowed himself to dwell upon it, but he did not; he had no intention of giving his rival that satisfaction.
Yesterday, Ayt had issued a public statement praising Kaul Sen as a national hero, a father of the country, and the beloved comrade and friend of her late father, Ayt Yugontin—let the gods recognize them both. She expressed sadness over the recent strife between the clans of these two great men; she hoped the unfortunate disagreements could be overcome so the country might move forward in the spirit of unshakable unity once demonstrated by the patriotic wartime brotherhood of the One Mountain Society.
“Bullshit,” Hilo had said. He did not for one second believe that Ayt Mada would ever abandon her goal to kill him and his family, to destroy No Peak and take unquestioned control of the country’s jade supply. Blood scores were not erased by press releases.
“It’s a good public relations move,” Shae had said. “Reminding people of Grandda’s partnership with her father and thus associating herself with the legacy of all Green Bones.”
Beyond that brief analysis, his sister had spoken little in the past seventy-two hours, even outside of the official two-day silent vigil. Hilo glanced at her standing beside him, her spine straight but the puffy circles under her eyes still visible under the white mourning powder that dusted her face. Her normally sharp jade aura seemed muted. Shae had loved their grandfather, had always basked in his favoritism. She’d wept bitterly upon his death.
Hilo returned his attention to the crowd. Other top leaders of the Mountain clan were in attendance; standing near Ayt Mada was a short man with slicked hair—Ree Turahuo, the clan’s Weather Man—and next to him, a man with coarse features and a closely trimmed salt-and-pepper beard to match his hair. Hilo knew relatively little about Nau Suenzen, who had succeeded Gont Aschentu as Horn of the Mountain, but rumors and spies told him that Nau possessed a reputation as a devious guerrilla fighter who’d conducted sabotage missions and assassinations for Ayt Yu during the Shotarian occupation. He’d been only twenty-three years old when the Many Nations War ended. He did not appear, either from his unassuming appearance or the coolly bland texture of his jade aura, to be half as powerful or impressive as his predecessor. Hilo suspected this was itself a deception to be concerned about.
The Deitist penitents in white funerary robes—two dozen of them, for such a large crowd and such an important funeral—concluded the long religious ceremony with several refrains of let the gods recognize him, which were echoed multitudinously by those gathered. Hilo closed his eyes, focusing his fatigued Perception as he scanned through the mental noise of thousands of breaths and beating hearts. There: Unseen somewhere behind the cluster of Mountain clan members was the familiar cloudy jade aura of a man he’d once called his uncle. The former Weather Man of No Peak, a traitor to the Kaul family. Yun Dorupon was here, and he was grieving.