Yma had told Akos to pretend his resolve was weakening. That was the goal of this meeting—to prove to Lazmet that his methods were working, but not to be too obvious about it, so Lazmet became suspicious.
Yma had helped him find his way again. He had been aimless since Ryzek died—and since his hope for Eijeh’s restoration died, too. He had not had a side, a mission, a plan. But Yma had helped him find his way back to the same pinhole focus that he had directed at his brother since his arrival in Shotet. He would kill Lazmet. Nothing else mattered.
He had betrayed Thuvhe. He had abandoned Cyra. He had lost his name, his fate, his identity. He had nothing to return to, when this was over. So he had to make it count.
“So you are a Thuvhesit, I hear,” Lazmet said. “I always thought the revelatory tongue was a legend. Or at the very least, an exaggeration.”
“No,” Akos said. “I find words in it that I didn’t even know existed.”
“I’d always wondered,” Lazmet said. “If you don’t have a word for a thing, can you still know what it is? Is it something that lives in you that goes unarticulated, or does it disappear from your awareness entirely?” He picked up his glass, which contained something purple and dark, and sipped from it. “You may be one of the only people who can possibly know, but you don’t seem to have the capacity to answer.”
“You think I’m stupid,” Akos said.
“I think you’ve programmed yourself to survive, and you have little energy for anything else,” Lazmet said. “If you had not had to fight to live, perhaps you could have become a more interesting person, but here we are.”
The only reason I care about being “interesting” to you, Akos thought, is because I’m pretty sure you’ll kill me if I’m not.
“There’s a word in Ogran. Kyerta,” Akos said. “It’s . . . a life-changing truth. It’s what brought me here. The knowledge that you and I were related.”
“Related,” Lazmet said. “Because I had sex with a woman, and she handed you off to an oracle? Everyone in the damn galaxy has parents, boy. It’s hardly a unique achievement.”
“Then why did you care what color my eyes were?” Akos said. “Why did you have me brought here to speak to me again?”
Lazmet didn’t answer.
“Why did you bother,” Akos said, stepping toward him, “to turn Ryzek into a murderer?”
“The word ‘murderer’ is reserved for people we don’t like,” Lazmet said. “Anyone else, and they’re a warrior, a soldier, a freedom fighter. I trained my son to fight for his people.”
“Why?” Akos said, tilting his head. “What do you care for his people, for your people?”
“We are better than them,” Lazmet said, slamming his glass down on the table beside his chair. He stood. “We learned the reaches of this galaxy when they hadn’t even come up with names for themselves. We know what is valuable, what is fascinating, what is important, and they throw it away. We are stronger, more resilient, more resourceful—and they have somehow managed to keep us low since they became aware of us. We will not remain low. They do not deserve to be above us.”
“You think of the Shotet as you,” Akos said. “I see.”
“You have your ideals, I am sure—you have that shine in your eyes.” Lazmet sneered a little. “And I have something else.”
“And that’s . . . what?” Akos said. “Cruelty? Curiosity?”
“I want,” Lazmet said. “I want, and I will take whatever I can get my hands on. Even if it’s you.”
Lazmet came toward him. He hadn’t noticed before that he was taller than his father. Not by a lot, because Lazmet towered over most people, but by enough that it was noticeable.
Akos imagined himself as the Armored One, and eviscerated himself, for the tenth time that day. He had been practicing since Vakrez left the day before. He had barely slept, in order to practice. He had learned to suppress his currentgift quickly, and to bring it back just as quickly. It required all of his energy, but he was improving.
He felt the pressure of Lazmet’s currentgift against his mind, and gave in to it. It was strange, the sensation like someone wiggling a wire into his head and touching it, lightly, to the part of his brain that controlled his movements. His fingers twitched, then tapped together, without him telling them to. Lazmet’s mouth twitched as he registered the movement, and Akos felt the imaginary wire retract.
“Vakrez has given fascinating reports on the state of your insides, Akos,” Lazmet said. “I have never seen him puzzle quite so much over someone. He says you are making progress in the right direction.”
“Eat shit,” Akos said.
Lazmet smiled a little.
“You should sit,” he said. “I’m sure you’re tired.”
Lazmet crossed into the sitting room. It was a simple room, with a soft rug by a fireplace, and bookshelves packed with books in all languages. Lazmet sat in the armchair next to the fire, and buried his toes in the plush of the carpet. Akos followed, hesitant, and stood by the fire. He was tired, but he wanted to take his little rebellions where he could get them. Instead of sitting, he braced himself on the mantel, and stared into the flames. Someone had dusted them with some kind of powder that turned them blue, just at the edges.
“You grew up with an oracle,” Lazmet said. “Do you know that I spent much of my adult life trying to find an oracle?”
“Did you try looking in a temple?” Akos said.
Lazmet laughed a little. “You realize, of course, that it’s not simply a matter of going where they are. Capturing someone who knows you are coming is nearly impossible. Which is why I confess I am confused as to why your mother left you and your brother to be stolen away. She must have known you would be taken.”
“I’m sure she did,” Akos said bitterly. “She must also have believed it was necessary.”
“That is cruel,” Lazmet said. “You must be angry.”
Akos wasn’t sure how to answer. He wasn’t Cyra, digging in her claws wherever she could, though he definitely understood the impulse.
“You know, I’m not sure I understand your strategy here,” he said eventually. “And there is one, so don’t disrespect me by pretending there isn’t.”
Lazmet sighed. “You’re being boring again. But maybe you’re right—I do have something I want from you. And something I’m willing to trade.”
He crossed the room again, going to the table where he had covered up his meal. The smell still lingered in the air, juicy meat and rich sauce, with the feathergrass burned just to the point where its hallucinogenic qualities disappeared and only its spicy flavor remained.
Lazmet moved to the next seat at the table, and lifted a metal dome that had been covering the place setting there. Revealing another roasted deadbird. Another side of fried fenzu shells. And a diced saltfruit.
“This meal is yours,” Lazmet said. “If you will tell me how you got into this manor.”
“What?” Akos had fixated on the food. The rest of the room went dark around him. His stomach was beginning to ache.
“Someone must have helped you get into this house,” Lazmet said, patiently. “None of our outer locks were disabled or tampered with, and you could not possibly have scaled the wall without someone noticing. So tell me who it was that let you in, and you may eat this meal.”
Jorek. Long, skinny arms and patchy facial hair. He had taken the ring that Akos wore around his neck before they left his uncle’s home, for safekeeping. He had offered his arm to his mother to stabilize her on the cobblestone. Jorek is a good man, he reminded himself. He didn’t even want to let you into the manor. You manipulated him into doing it. He couldn’t possibly give Jorek’s name to Lazmet in exchange for a meal.
Tell me your mission.
No, he thought, to the Yma that lived in his head. Not this. I won’t do this.
Yma had told him to look for an opportunity to give Lazmet information. To show him something was changing. To keep him from getting bored. Well, this was it—served on a plate.