Silk fire, p.24
Silk Fire, page 24
Eprue Zucho tapped a nearby robot. “Bring tea. We’ll be talking a while.”
Spiny-limbed brass insects clambered off the ceiling. Their bodies rippled and folded, morphing into a low table and three high-backed chairs. One produced a steaming teapot and three cups from its innards. Another plated flaky honey cakes. I sucked them apart, eyes watering from hot pepper filling, as Ria told her father everything, only changing how we’d flown together. “A gravity pulse knocked us both off the hovership, fast and hard enough to do real damage. Thankfully, we hit a soft landing—a mushroom building on Shadowcoin Street.”
When she finished, Eprue Zucho grabbed a small, cylindrical robot, and spoke to the ball at its base. “Commission a riasero to fit Riapáná Źutruro’s measurements.”
She jumped, smiling wide. “You’re naming me a full Fire Weaver?”
“You infiltrated a Lost District hovership. You uncovered a great evil. You faced a necromancer, with only a baton, to save an innocent boy. You’ve earned that bracer a hundred times over. I’m so proud of you.”
Pride also blossomed in my chest, but I bit it down and stared into my teacup as they embraced. Were all fathers meant to offer love and welcoming pride? Or did only good people like Ria deserve it?
“I made mistakes in War,” Ria said. “I’m not as ready for full Fire Weaver duties as I thought. But I’m ready to learn.”
“You’ll be amazing.” He kissed her forehead and turned to face me. “Koré, I think you’re owed an explanation. Do you know the rule of entropy?”
I searched memories from my childhood schooldays. “Organized systems slowly fall into disorder. Like… Jadzia itself.”
“That’s the simple version. Our city-planet isn’t a closed system. It exists within the wider universe, drawing energy from elsewhere to build and grow. When the gods and their Shapers began, such energy flowed free through heralds like dragons and giants. Construction reigned over destruction. For countless eras, we built marvels.”
“And shattered those marvels through war,” I said.
“Your ancestors’ wars. Have you heard the true tale of how the gods fell?”
I shook my head. “I was taught the truth was long forgotten.”
“Forgotten by choice, by some. Holdshadow, the twelfth substance, grows up from the planet’s core whenever blood is shed. As the Dzaxashigé conquered districts, holdshadow conquered the Temple District priests. Their essence became shadow. They tithed, loved, and enthralled whole cults. Bright Dzkegé, god of soldiers and sacrifice, had charged her followers to fight destruction, death and necromancy. But the ancient Dzaxashigé grew arrogant. They turned to thievery and genocide and forgot their sacred calling.” He took my hand. “This may be hard to hear. But your ancestors committed terrible crimes, and you need to listen to the truth, not defend them.”
“I understand,” I said. “I know I’ve the blood of monsters.”
He gave me a strange look, but continued. “The dragons tried to warn the Dzaxashigé from their bloody course. Aided by giants, they crafted a blade of titanium and holdfast, filling it with the power of their souls. It would offer a Dzaxashigé champion countless victories against the forces of destruction. In return, it would compel its wielder to speak absolute truth and denounce the conquests as evil. No Dzaxashigé lifted the sword. The dragons left the War District and returned to Dzkegé’s side.”
The dragon’s sword. The artifact used to compel truth from Dzaxashigé on trial. As a child, I’d been told it was a gift. I should have known a dragon’s gift would be more burden than boon.
“The Dzaxashigé were displeased.” Eprue Zucho sipped his tea. “They felt entitled to limitless essence.”
It came together. How like the War District. How like the dzaxa, the people who created me, bounding unchecked toward bloodshed and death. “We killed the gods.”
“The Dzaxashigé turned Skygarden against the Temple District. Every day the dragons remained defiant, they blew up another building. The necromancers had hidden Reclaimers across the district. They spread shadows, and the dead, unlike the living, couldn’t resist the thrall. They rose in the millions. Demolished what remained of the Temple District and tore the gods from their thrones. As their dying act, the gods created a barrier to seal off the undead from the world.”
“The barrier fell.” A hundred Reclaimers spewing shadow. Thousands, millions, dead and broken. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Eprue Zucho said. “The Fire Weavers have watched it for millennia. The necromancers’ shadows have dimmed with time. My predecessors hoped them gone forever. They’ve likely been gathering power to break through.”
“Have you spoken to Päreshi?” Ria said. “She was in the Lost District when the wall fell. She traveled with Tamadza. She might know what happened.”
“She’s returned to the Hive, but hasn’t reported to me.” Eprue Zucho sighed. “I could command her presence, but I don’t want to anger her.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Ria said. “By the way, Dad, what’s a rudzav dusa? The necromancers wanted one, but I couldn’t translate it.”
Eprue Zucho spit out his tea. “A shadow-Shaper. An avatar of destruction. Buildings fall in their wake—but none have existed since the gods fell. Where could this necromancer get enough shadow essence to become one?”
“Maybe they’re super patient?” Ria suggested. “The Scholars have been trying—and failing—to recreate their lost Shaper for years. This could be good. Tamadza won’t help the magistrate until she’s a shadow-Shaper. If she spends decades on this quest, we don’t have to worry about Vashathke.”
“You always need to worry about Vashathke,” I snapped. “Everything he makes overflows with vile poison. The dead rage with the evil that rose them. My family breathes evil free and living.”
Eprue Zucho gave me a sad look. I flinched. My father’s anger had crept through me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, surprising myself by how much I meant it. I felt smaller, somehow, remembering how thoroughly I’d schemed to sneak into this man’s trust. Petty effort for what this moment demanded. “It’s just—he already plans to break the treaty to seize power. I’m worried what else he may do.”
“Whatever happens, we’ll take care of it,” Ria said.
I didn’t know if her we included me. But I also wanted to help. “My district started this. I’ll help make it right.”
Eprue Zucho smiled. “That’s very kind of you, Koré. Ria, could you take your friend to a bed? He looks exhausted. I’ll keep an eye on Faziz and send him up once he’s healed.”
Ria tugged me standing. “Come on. It’s almost the second bell. You need rest.”
With a last look at Faziz, I let her pull me from the room.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Hive, the Street of Inversions
23rd Dzeri, Year 92 Rarafashi
“Can you hear me, Eprue Zucho? It’s cold. The winds howl through the hull breach. There’s footsteps. There shouldn’t be footsteps. This is your fault, Epe, but I don’t blame you. I loved you once. We were both too stubborn for our own good.”—radio transmission, unreceived
Why did I offer to help them? I thought as our hoverplatform glided through another tunnel. The Fire Weavers uncovered legends from our city-planet’s heart. What could I do to aid them? Seduce destruction itself? I was good for nothing else.
The hoverplatform carried us to Ria’s personal room, a small chamber littered with trophies from reja races, gymnastics competitions, and jikir sparring tournaments. Jumpsuits, skirts and sashes spilled from bronze chests. Textbooks and maps covered every open surface. Her rumpled quilt smelled like her, through dust: vanilla oil and pen ink.
She didn’t bother cleaning before she left. I hid my sudden smile behind my hand.
“It’s nice to be home.” She sat on the bed. I sprawled flat beside her. Fog rose in my mind. Essence could extend my waking hours, if I pushed, but the mattress lured sleep. “Are you comfortable in my bed?”
I nodded, touched she’d asked.
“Okay. Since you stopped our game at the palace, I wanted to make sure you felt comfortable around me.”
“I felt wrong in the game, but not in a bad way.” Truth slipped free, lured by her sweetness, unleashed by fatigue. “I’m not comfortable being with you as a client.”
“How do you want to be with me?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never had the luxury to want things for myself. Not without fearing everything would be snatched away. You probably can’t understand that.”
She sighed. “When I was twelve, my mom moved to another street. Me and Dad never talked about it. I still don’t know why she left. So yeah, I understand fearing that someone you love can’t be relied on. Because sometimes they can’t, and sometimes it’s easier to only build shallow connections. Make friends who don’t care enough to take the bottle away.”
Was I a better friend? I cared for her, certainly. But I’d used her for my own gain. More active and purposeful unkindness was mine.
Ria continued. “But there’s consequences, to living only in the shallow moment. I used to think the worst-case scenario was disappointing Dad or Päreshi. Now all I can think is, if I hadn’t been drunk during the welcome parade, I’d have reached Dzkegé’s shade before you. You’d be safe.”
“Ria, you can’t blame yourself.” Her full lower lip pursed with nerves. Did she honestly fear I’d leave her over such a slight imperfection? “Even with two bracers, some things are beyond your control. I’m handling the magic well enough. I’m used to being vulnerable.”
“The story you told Toźätupé.” She swallowed. “So awful. Sold by your own father?”
I couldn’t stand the pain in her voice. She’s suffering because I lied. “No. I entered sex work of my own free will.”
“You… lied? Why?”
“It’s… a reflex of mine.” I fumbled to set myself in words. “People like thinking I’m not a ‘real’ courtesan. They’re uncomfortable knowing I exploit their desires for profit. Men should be sexy, devoted, smart… but for others, not for ourselves. We’re not supposed to be anything for ourselves. I pleased Toźätupé so she wouldn’t get angry and hurt me.”
“Toźätupé would never hurt a sex worker. You manipulated her to get the endorsement, when you could have just asked.”
“Vashathke’s evil. I framed his evil so she’d understand. The truth is messy.” Tears twisted knots in my throat. “You heard my confession. A normal man might have asked for it, but I’m broken. There’s something dark and wrong in me. This is how I work.”
“What do you mean?” She lowered her voice. “Does this have something to do with you serving as Akizeké’s herald? Why didn’t you tell me before our audience with the judge that you’d be asking for her endorsement?”
“Because I didn’t want you to stop me!” The words burst out as all possible lies died on my tongue. Stupid. So stupid. I should have prepared for this. It was only a matter of time before Ria realized how I’d leant on her to make my case. “Because you think politics don’t matter!”
“Politics makes decent people play stupid games for no reason. Like you! I can tell you anything, and you listen and make it all okay—but whenever I try to get inside your head, to understand why you do stuff like this, you slam a door in my face. Do you think that’s funny?”
“Do you see me laughing?”
She stomped her foot. My ever-honest Ria. Ready for anything except, well, everything. “I’m going to Päreshi’s apartment. I’ll be responsible and convince her to report in to my dad. And you, useless pretty liar, can go fuck yourself.”
She marched through the door—nearly slamming into Faziz, who stood with one fist ready to knock. He stared bewildered as she stormed away.
“Is this a bad time?” he said.
I sighed. “It’s always a bad time when you show up. That never stops you. How are you feeling?”
“Shitty. Twenty of my crew died.” Faziz winced as he sat beside me. He wore a white robe covered in leaping snow leopards, and he looked softer and a little lost. “I thought working for Akizeké would protect us. People trusted me with their lives, and I failed them. Every time I fail, it—”
He broke off, rolling over the inside of his wrist. Hundreds of small poked dots tattooed a billowing abstract plume of smoke. Some were fresher than others—one, sore and new. Faziz wrote death on his skin.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said, thinking of the new support pillar under construction in the Slatepile: he too held the weight of Jadzia on his shoulders. “Don’t let it crush you.”
“I’m the one who couldn’t save them.”
“You didn’t send the blade. Vashathke must have hired the robber to steal Akizeké’s bribe. He killed fifty in an apartment collapse to make himself magistrate. Why not twenty to sabotage Akizeké’s diplomacy?”
“I know who sent her.” Faziz’s high-arched, gold cheekbones turned green. “I should go. The Fire Weavers sent me here because they thought I was with you and your girlfriend, but I’m clearly the last person you want around—”
“I’m the last person I want around myself.” Seeing him alive made blackmail feel small. “Lie down. You need rest.”
He hesitated—then stretched back beside me, uncurling like a cat. I grabbed a brass-backed hairbrush and ran it through his tangles. His breath caught as I hit a stubborn knot, but he didn’t pull away.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” he groused. “Loathing yourself while worrying I’ll catch survivor’s guilt. Like it isn’t already four-fifths of my brain.”
“At least your trauma makes sense. You put your people above everything, because someone must, and you draw zero boundaries to keep yourself sane. You can’t save everyone, but please don’t let that break you. The lives you can save are enough.” I began to braid. “I’m the fucked-up asshole. Even your dull ears should have caught my argument with Ria. I lie like breathing.”
“Trauma isn’t logical. Neither is how we react. You’re protecting yourself. But the habits we build to ward off cruelty can also keep out kindness. You saved me. You could have let me die to protect your secrets. You’re a good person.”
“On Victory Street, they’d call me a monster for saving a criminal.”
“They call me a monster for renting cheap apartments. I cut into dzaxa profits. You sneak essence from their stores. They call anyone a monster who doesn’t make them rich.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“No, it isn’t.” He laughed. “Essence lives in souls, not bank vaults. The dzaxa build cages of customs and cruelty to keep souls like yours docile. They want to trade you like a chest of treasures.”
A chest of treasures. Almost everyone saw me as such. A gem for my mother to sell at the best price. A trove for Zega to plunder empty. A poison investment my father sought to divest. I’d always known some unfixable monstrosity inside me had provoked their hatred. But Victory Street defined monsters as lines on a balance sheet who dared act like people.
“It’s the dzaxa who are wrong,” Faziz said. “Not you.”
No. My fingers trembled as I locked off his braid. If my world flipped over, like he wanted it to, I might tip off the edge of time and space entire. “I’ve done terrible things.”
“So have I. So has everyone in War. It’s a terrible world.”
“Nothing makes sense anymore.” I slipped a wooden pin, topped with a knob carved like a cat’s head, into the twist of his hair. “I’ve lived for years off my hatred—for myself, my father, everything. You and Ria make me wonder if there’s a better way to live. If you want me around, maybe I’m not a monster.” Sleep called to me. I knew I should take my hand from his shoulder, but my muscles weren’t listening. My silver talons flickered free. Faziz trembled where they brushed him. “You blackmailed me and I’m still happy I sparred with you. I want to trust you. That terrifies me.”
“I’m sorry.” Faziz ran a finger along my talons. Sank down on the bed, and I closed my eyes beside him. “I’d do it again, and I’m sorry.”
The heat of his body held me like a quilt. I dreamed the scent of him, the texture of his hair as his head curled against my chest, the dry calluses of his fingers on my shoulders and spine. Rougher than Zega. Carved from slate and ashes. But better an honest cutthroat than a pretty boy who rips out your soul.
I wanted him, and Ria. Wanted them deeply, even though they threatened to change everything about how I lived my life.
When I woke, he lay pressed against me. I would have held him for hours, were it not for the robot at the foot of the bed, holding a note and a deep violet skirt.
Please join me in the conservatory for breakfast. E. Z.”
The conservatory was a riot of green leaves and rich, earthy holdlife. A guitar played a gentle measure on its own strings. Jewel-winged beetles hummed through humid air. Pecking peacocks surrounded Eprue Zucho’s table.
When I sat, he offered me a platter of flatbreads, candied yams and yogurt sauce. “You upset my daughter last night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Once Ria lets someone into her heart, she needs them to be dependable. The fault is her mother’s and mine—when Järecho left, I threw myself into my work. I didn’t give my daughter any way to connect with me, outside becoming the best Fire Weaver she could, and I certainly didn’t teach her how to build relationships on strong foundations. She dumped Toźätupé for breaking her favorite sandal strap once.” He laughed. “But last night, she ran to me to ask for ‘boy advice.’”
She said she would convince Päreshi to report in. “What did she say?” I asked, morbidly curious. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“She felt betrayed, to realize you’d had other reasons to accompany her beyond just testifying about the necromancers. I told her that yes, you should have been honest about what you planned to say to the judge. But secrets aren’t always kept out of malice. When Fire Weavers interview survivors of catastrophes, often their memories lie cloudy, shame-drenched. The mind builds a prison for what can teach nothing but weeping.” He sipped his tea. “Ria told me you’ve witnessed terrible sights recently. And I think you’ve faced more horrors than she knows.”
