More Clans drifted into the imperial palace. Tieng Shorguz, also known as the Beast from the Uma Clan, arrived in the late morning. He was garbed in leather pants, and carried a satchel on his back filled with an impressive collection of hunting knives. He boasted the weathered appearance of a man used to being outdoors.
Gavan Jenzud followed shortly after, his small, beady eyes seeming to absorb the goings-on in the palace all at once. A slight hump on his back made him appear shorter than he was.
Saemon met him in the hall. “Ah, the Old Strategist is here,” Saemon murmured. “It is good to see the Horalu Clan represented by such a man.”
Gavan simply smiled, tapped his nose once, and followed the steward to his prepared room.
When it was time, Saemon told the steward to escort the guests into the dining hall for the promised evening meal. Then he watched from the top of the table as the two families quietly interacted.
Although they sat across from each other, neither Ren nor Isao spoke to each other. Ren picked at her rice wrapped in coconut leaves, pushed aside the leeks boiled in broth, and smiled quietly whenever addressed. At the far end of the table, Tanzer Balkan, a wealthy merchant from Lubeng, managed to keep Isao from remaining completely silent.
“So, Saemon,” Kenzo Ameya started, leaning back in his chair.
Next to Kenzo sat his third wife, a dark-skinned woman named Shima Abdel from the southern continent. Kenzo’s second son, Nobu Ameya, the honorable Captain of the second fleet of the Ameyan navy, sat next to her.
Saemon blinked away his thoughts, catching Kenzo’s black eyes with his own.
“You have turned out a beautiful feast. And this turnout? Unexpectedly diverse,” observed Kenzo.
“I am pleased.”
“Are you prepared for the wedding tomorrow?”
“We have been fully prepared for many days now.”
“Congratulations. Ren seems to be . . . an appropriate girl for this sort of thing.”
Saemon read into what he did not say. ‘Appropriate’ meaning meek. Submissive. Perhaps a little bit frightened. There would be little, if any, resistance from her.
Saemon simply inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“It seems they let anyone come to these things,” Kenzo said in an unexpectedly derisive tone.
Saemon glanced over his left shoulder as Gavan stepped up, the descent of twilight making his stature appear smaller than ever. With the main door closed, shadows began to fall, cloaking the interior in darkness. The Horalu Strategist looked to Kenzo, who curled his upper lip over his teeth.
“Ah,” Kenzo muttered with venom. “You survived the trip.”
Gavan grinned. “I’m a great deal heartier than I may appear.”
“So it would seem.”
Saemon straightened, glancing between the two bristling men before addressing both. “It would seem that the Horalus and the Ameyas still have not seen a conclusion to the fight over the Strait of Rinku. Disappointing.”
“Is it?” Kenzo asked coolly, not taking his eyes from Gavan. “It seems straightforward enough to me.”
Gavan tapped the side of his nose. “And yet not to anyone else.” He shuffled away, working toward the opposite side of the room.
This direction brought him near Minela, a weaver from the southern continent whose talent with tailoring could no doubt help Gavan with the troublesome problem of making shirts to cover his hump.
Kenzo faced forward again, his lips pressed tightly together.
Saemon stood, goblet in hand, and looked to Isao, whose eyes flickered to his. The room fell into almost immediate silence with the standing of the Hiwan ruler.
Within moments, Saemon felt the weight of the crowd’s gaze on him. He quickly skimmed the audience, catching the eye of the newest arrival: Umon Hikari, one of many wise custodians over the Great Library of Grantha in the Sunsan nation, who slipped into a seat at the far end of the table, a book under his arm.
“Thank you for coming to the Hiwan Clan for tomorrow’s grand event,” Saemon greeted the gathering. “Your presence is most welcome. Isao and Ren, now is your time to make a toast and your final wish under the stars before your new life begins.”
Ren’s face blanched white, but Isao immediately stood, drawing the attention to him. He lifted his goblet and drew in a long breath.
“Ren,” he said, holding the goblet out toward her. “To our new life together.”
As one, the clans drank to his words.
Ren blinked, swallowed, and slowly stood. Next to her, Yishi whispered something. Ren held up her goblet, poorly concealing her sudden fear.
“Isao,” she murmured so quietly Saemon could barely make it out. “To us.”
Isao answered with a lift of his goblet and drained the rest of his wine. Those at the table reciprocated. Ren sipped delicately at hers.
Saemon claimed the attention of the room again when he straightened back up, eyeing the empty plates and half-full goblets on the table.
“Guests,” he said, spreading his arms. “Sleep well this evening, for tomorrow we celebrate! Ren and Isao, enjoy the festive atmosphere, and in two nights, as tradition demands, you will also share your bed.”
A low murmur of excitement rippled through the room as Saemon set his goblet back on the table.
Kenzo’s wife and son stood and, with Kenzo promising to follow soon after, followed a steward to their rooms in the palace. The Nari Clan moved down into the palace corridors, wandering off to their resting places. The rest of the visiting Clans moved toward the courtyard outside, the quiet buzz of their chatter drifting with them.
Saemon sat back with a contented sigh, pleased with his work.
Rakesh
“I could wear my new tunic,” Jiro said.
Rakesh frowned. “Then The Hangman will smell us coming from a mile away!”
“What if we sneak through the old tunnels to get into his building? You know, go all the way down where all the rats live.”
“Those are about to collapse. They’d kill us.”
Jiro and Rakesh sat at their decaying table surrounded by the familiar, humid darkness, and speculated. Gekko moved about in the background, scowling as he scrounged for dinner like the hungry rats that always darted through the room. His pale white face moved like a specter in the darkness.
“We must do it tonight,” Jiro said, leaning forward. His eyes gleamed, alive with new purpose and life. “While it’s fresh in our blood. You can’t let things fester. Ideas, if you don’t act on them, move to someone else. This one is ours. You were blessed to see that The Hangman received a special box. We must act, and soon!”
Rakesh grinned. “Yes, my friend. Tonight, freedom could be ours. That box surely holds something. The Triad has blessed us.”
In the background, Gekko dropped a pan and cursed.
The loud, metallic clang that resulted sent a physical jolt through Rakesh. For a moment, he questioned his own sanity: Had he lost his mind to try to sneak into The Hangman’s house? Had the disjointed life of Iskawan finally sank into his blood? Perhaps, like Jiro, he had started to straddle a fine line he didn’t even know existed. Maybe his sanity was slipping away like a loose, wet rope and he didn’t even know he was losing it!
“Dinner,” Jiro said, planting his palms firmly on the table. “Let’s eat before we go. We’ll need nourishment and energy before we find our path to freedom.”
Just like that, all of Rakesh’s doubts dissipated at the sound of Jiro’s cheer. Even if he had lost part of his mind in agreeing to try and secure the box, it was better to have this kind of hope than to listlessly endure the cyclical, unending days of Iskawan.
As he searched for the food he had hidden somewhere in their shelter, Jiro spouted out more ideas, every one more outrageous than the last until they became too ludicrous for the others to entertain.
“You’re insane,” Gekko cried.
“Perhaps,” Rakesh concurred. “But better to be filled with hope and madness than nothing at all.”
Gekko drew in a deep breath, then let it all out in one long swoop. He shook his head, as if in regret. “I’ll lose both roommates tonight if you do this.”
“Don’t cry for us, Gekko,” Jiro said.