Brezan dragged himself to the bench and sat. His legs wobbled, but damned if he was going to show it. He looked up, determined to meet Hwan’s eyes even if it wasn’t strictly necessary, and fell sideways through a fissure in his head.
Part of him was sitting on the bench. The rest of him was in his parents’ apartment on Irissa Station, in the dreamspace triggered by Hwan’s first question. He wondered fleetingly what it had been before his attention was caught by the walls. They looked like they’d been redone in gun components caulked in something that gleamed viscously. Why had his three fathers done that?
Brezan checked for his oldest sister Keryezan at her favorite reading spot by the lamp with the painting of the grasshoppers. She wasn’t there, nor were her two children. Keryezan was the only one of his sisters he got along with, and he enjoyed cooking indulgent dishes for the kids.
He turned around and his other sisters, the twins Miuzan and Ganazan, sat playing pattern-stones with their youngest father’s set. Ganazan, who wore her hair pinned back from her face, had somehow talked Miuzan into giving her a three-stone handicap. Miuzan categorically hated giving people handicaps. Brezan had never gotten her to give him one growing up despite the fact that she was six years older than he was.
Both the twins were in uniform. Ganazan served as a clerk on a boxmoth, which she considered superior to running around in a combat moth. Logistics had always appealed to her. Miuzan was a colonel on General Inesser’s staff and couldn’t be made to shut up about it.
Brezan opened his mouth and said something, he wasn’t sure what. It didn’t matter. Both his sisters gave no sign of having heard him. He inspected his hands. No black gloves. No uniform, either, just sober brown civilian’s clothing.
Another fissure opened, and he fell through again. He and Miuzan stood in a dueling hall that stretched out so far to either side that the ends curved away. Miuzan’s calendrical sword was bright in her hand, numbers glowing red with white sparks. She had always been good at dueling. As a child, Brezan had loved to watch her practice her forms, admiring the ferocity of her discipline.
Brezan activated his own sword to salute her. The blade wasn’t its usual sullen blue, but red shading to yellow. Foxes, he thought in aggravation. It was tempting to blame Shuos Zehun. In all fairness, however, Zehun hadn’t hanged him. They had merely tossed him a nice long rope.
“You’re going to lose, little brother,” Miuzan said with her usual superiority. “But you’re getting better, I’ll give you that.”
Brezan frequently had fantasies of shoving Miuzan in a cloisonné box and sending her to the Andan so they could teach her to be less condescending or, at least, less obvious about it. The hell of it was, she seemed to be unaware of how much she made his teeth ache. He had long ago given up on ever having her approve of him; he’d settle for getting her to shut up.
“I’m a better shot than you are,” Brezan said, although it was a mistake to make any rejoinder at all.
She eyed him critically. “Yes, that will come in handy if you want to be stuck in the infantry for the rest of your life.”
There came a count of four, and Miuzan lunged. Brezan parried too late. It would have made no difference anyway. Miuzan’s sword flared up and the flames became dark-bright wings. The blade itself stretched out into an ashhawk’s head and sinuous neck.
Brezan swore and ducked. The ashhawk with its vicious raptor’s beak passed harmlessly through him. The flames roared up around him, heatless despite the stench of roasting flesh.
Miuzan was burning red and gold. Her hair had come loose from its braid and was whipping around her head. Blackened sheets of skin were already peeling loose from her face, making a dry crackling sound. Bone showed white at her skull and knuckles. “Oh Brezan,” she said, her voice entirely normal in spite of all this, “you’ll never be formation fuel at this rate.”
“Who the everliving fuck joins the Kel with the intent of becoming formation fuel?” Brezan shouted at her. Miuzan might be infuriating, but she was still his older sister. She had taught him pattern-stones and swordplay and how to take apart and reassemble every single one of the family’s guns, not to mention how to bake amazing honey-ginger cookies. He didn’t want her to die in a suicide formation or to an enemy bullet or, for that matter, by tripping down the stairs. He just wanted her to stop treating him like he was still the gawky eight-year-old who kept following her and Ganazan around hoping they would play forts with him.
Miuzan might have responded, but Brezan couldn’t hear her over the roaring of the fire. He developed a crazed notion that if he burned himself too, he would be able to follow her so he could shake some answers out of her. Try as he might, however, the flames took no notice of him. He was wearing his black gloves now—funny how that had happened. Unfortunately, it made no difference.
The scrying continued in this vein for quite some time. Back on the bench, Brezan hunched over and shook with hunger. The Rahal might be used to fasting, but he still hadn’t recovered from whatever they had botched putting him in the sleeper. A servitor brought him water. He choked it down. It tasted like it was heavy with soot.
The Rahal took their sweet time working their way to the topic of Jedao. In the interrogation, Jedao didn’t appear as a womanform, like Brezan himself, but as he had in the archival videos, a lean, slightly short man. His uniform was in full formal with the old-fashioned red-and-gold braid of a seconded Shuos officer, making Brezan feel underdressed. Jedao had the same tilted smile, however. He was playing pattern-stones with Brezan. In the back of his mind, Brezan resolved never to play another board game unless someone ordered him to. The stones shifted position each time Brezan blinked. Behind him, although he didn’t dare glance over his shoulder, he heard distant shrieks and sobs.
Jedao had a revolver in his left hand. He wore no gloves, fingerless or otherwise, which Brezan took to mean that he was playing for keeps. Each time Brezan placed a black stone—naturally he was the weaker player—Jedao shot one of his fingers off. The bullets didn’t do any damage to the board or its shifting array of stones, neat trick, although Brezan flinched at the ricochets.
Even though this was a scrying and not the real thing, the pain was riotous. The real thing might have been preferable. Then he’d have had a chance of passing out.
Brezan tried to breathe steadily. Pretend this is a remembrance, he told himself. Did that ever console heretics? He had to defeat the fucking ninefox general, but he only had four fingers left. He placed a stone. Jedao reloaded and fired without looking. His aim was impeccable.
Three fingers left. Then two. Then one, with which Brezan managed by scooping the stone between his remaining finger and left palm. At last Brezan had no fingers at all, just a set of bleeding stumps.
Jedao cocked an eyebrow at him. “What now?” he said.
“I am going to stop you if it kills me,” Brezan said, wishing he had a better gift for futile last words, especially since, with the Rahal, he had an audience.
He bent over to pick up one last stone with his teeth—
Everything after that hurt even worse, which he hadn’t thought possible. Eventually the Rahal hex went away. For a while he didn’t realize it. He forced down more water when they offered it. The gnawing pain at the pit of his stomach wouldn’t go away, but it felt like it was happening to someone else. Being someone else sounded like an excellent career move right now.
“I am Kel,” Brezan whispered to the wall when he was sure no one was around. He couldn’t hear his own voice. The words scraped his throat raw.