“No,” Lisse said, more abruptly than she had meant to. “I’ll handle it myself.”
“If you insist,” Kiriet said, looking even more tired. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then her face was replaced, for a flicker, with her emblem: a black candle crossed slantwise by an empty sheath.
“The Candle is headed for a vortex, probably for cover,” the ghost said, very softly. “But it can return at any moment.”
Lisse thought that she was all right, and then the reaction set in. She spent several irrecoverable breaths shaking, arms wrapped around herself, before she was able to concentrate on the tapestry data.
At one time, every war-kite displayed a calligraphy scroll in its command spindle. The words are, approximately:
I have only
one candle
Even by the mercenaries’ standards, it is not much of a poem. But the woman who wrote it was a soldier, not a poet.
The mercenaries no longer have a homeland. Even so, they keep certain traditions, and one of them is the Night of Vigils. Each mercenary honors the year’s dead by lighting a candle. They used to do this on the winter solstice of an ancient calendar. Now the Night of Vigils is on the anniversary of the day the first war-kites were launched; the day the mercenaries slaughtered their own people to feed the kites.
The kites fly, the mercenaries’ commandant said. But they do not know how to hunt.
When he was done, they knew how to hunt. Few of the mercenaries forgave him, but it was too late by then.
The poem says: So many people have died, yet I have only one candle for them all.
It is worth noting that “have” is expressed by a particular construction for alienable possession: not only is the having subject to change, it is additionally under threat of being taken away.
Kiriet’s warning had been correct. An Imperial flight in perfect formation had advanced toward them, inhibiting their avenues of escape. They outnumbered her forty-eight to one. The numbers did not concern her, but the Imperium’s resources meant that if she dealt with this flight, there would be twenty more waiting for her, and the numbers would only grow worse. That they had not opened fire already meant they had some trickery in mind.
One of the flyers peeled away, describing an elegant curve and exposing its most vulnerable surface, painted with a rose.
“That one’s not armed,” Lisse said, puzzled.
The ghost’s expression was unreadable. “How very wise of them,” it said.
The forward tapestry flickered. “Accept the communication,” Lisse said.
The emblem that appeared was a trefoil flanked by two roses, one stem-up, one stem-down. Not for the first time, Lisse wondered why people from a culture that lavished attention on miniatures and sculptures were so intent on masking themselves in emblems.
“Commander Fai Guen, this is Envoy Nhai Bara.” A woman’s voice, deep and resonant, with an accent Lisse didn’t recognize.
So I’ve been promoted? Lisse thought sardonically, feeling herself tense up. The Imperium never gave you anything, even a meaningless rank, without expecting something in return.
Softly, she said to the ghost, “They were bound to catch up to us sooner or later.” Then, to the kite: “Communications to Envoy Nhai: I am Lisse of Rhaion. What words between us could possibly be worth exchanging? Your people are not known for mercy.”
“If you will not listen to me,” Nhai said, “perhaps you will listen to the envoy after me, or the one after that. We are patient and we are many. But I am not interested in discussing mercy: that’s something we have in common.”
“I’m listening,” Lisse said, despite the ghost’s chilly stiffness. All her life she had honed herself against the Imperium. It was unbearable to consider that she might have been mistaken. But she had to know what Nhai’s purpose was.
“Commander Lisse,” the envoy said, and it hurt like a stab to hear her name spoken by a voice other than the ghost’s, a voice that was not Rhaioni. Even if she knew, now, that the ghost was not Rhaioni, either. “I have a proposal for you. You have proven your military effectiveness—”
Military effectiveness. She had tallied all the deaths, she had marked each massacre on the walls of her heart, and this faceless envoy collapsed them into two words empty of number.
“—quite thoroughly. We are in need of a strong sword. What is your price for hire, Commander Lisse?”
“What is my—” She stared at the trefoil emblem, and then her face went ashen.
It is not true that the dead cannot be folded. Square becomes kite becomes swan; history becomes rumor becomes song. Even the act of remembrance creases the truth.
But the same can be said of the living.
THE SANDAL-BRIDE
Genevieve Valentine
Pilgrims always cried when they crested the hill and saw the spires of Miruna; they usually fell to their knees right in the middle of traffic.
All I saw was the gate that led to the Night Market.
We pulled barrels off the cart (salt, cinnamon, chilis, cardamom, and mazeflower safe in the center away from wandering hands), and when the moon rose and the women came it was as if we’d always been waiting.
They moved in pairs, holding back their veils, closing their eyes as the smell of mazeflower struck them.
“Goes well in baking,” Mark told a woman, “which you know all about, with those fine things in your basket.”
The whole night went well (Mark could sell spice to a stone), until I got peppered by a loose lid and staggered back, choking.
From behind me a woman asked, “Where are you going?”
“Who’s asking?” I snapped, and looked up into the ugliest face I’ve ever seen; teeth like old cheese, small black eyes, a thin mouth swallowed up by jowls.
“A passenger,” she said. “Where are you going?”
“South,” I said vaguely (never liked people knowing my business), then brushed pepper off my shirt and yelled, “Mark, so help me, I’ll sell your hide to the fur traders!”
The woman was still standing there, smiling, her hands folded in front of her politely.
“Did you need some salt?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Well, I wish you good journey,” I said, and then for some reason I’ll never know I asked, “Where do you travel?”
“South,” she said, and I realized exactly where she thought she was headed.
I’ve never known when to seal the barrel and shake on the deal. It’s how I ended up with a blue wagon and a partner like Mark in the first place.
“Not on any transport of mine,” I said.
“It’s for my husband,” she said. “A shoemaker in Okalide. I’ll join him there.”
I didn’t wonder why he’d left her behind. A face like that was bad for business.
Mark came around and stood behind me.
“I can’t take an unescorted woman,” I said. I didn’t care, but someone on the road would. This was a church state. “Find someone else to take you.”
As I turned to go she opened her hand and unfurled a necklace of sapphires as long as a man’s arm, flaming as they caught the dawn. Mark gasped.
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I reached without thinking, and had to pull back my hand when I remembered myself. I knew the trouble a woman would bring on that road full of pilgrims and devout traders.
“I don’t accept bribes,” I said. Mark kicked my foot.
“It isn’t a bribe,” she said. “It’s a dowry.”
Mark stopped kicking.
“You want me to—” I paused.
She held out her hand draped in glittering blue, her eyes steady. “Sandal-brides are common enough on this road.”