Raven Stratagem (The Machineries of Empire, #2)

Be fair, he told himself. So far Tseya had been perfectly civil. As long as they had to work together, he owed her the same.

Brezan asked the grid how long it would take him to reach wherever it was that Tseya wanted to meet for lunch. He added eighteen minutes to the answer just in case. Then he fidgeted until it was time to set out. He wondered how hard it would be to get lost. Too bad he hadn’t brought anything to draw a map on, not that maps helped with variable layout on a potential hostile—Stop that.

As it turned out, the yellow flowers helpfully leaned over on their thornless stems to point the way whenever he approached. Brezan supposed some Nirai lab had received a great deal of money to get them to do that. He passed some more long-necked birds, usually but not always white, some with fanciful colored crests. They seemed unconcerned about his presence. He could only assume that no one had told them how many Kel enjoyed hunting. Brezan had never tried it, mainly due to squeamishness. Maybe the birds sensed they had nothing to fear from him.

I am such a stationer, Brezan thought, and hurried on, ignoring the sudden unsettling trill of frogs. He even managed to hurry past the carp. He was almost but not entirely certain it was the same pond that Tseya had led him past earlier.

The bewildering garden path and its accommodating yellow flowers led to a more normal corridor and an open archway hung about with curtains. “Come in,” Tseya called out.

Eleven minutes early, not too bad. Brezan had to keep himself from glancing back at the last yellow flower to see if it now pointed in a different direction. Bracing himself, he stepped into the room. To his surprise, the decor was restrained. Of note was a single vase in the corner half as tall as he was, some kind of celadon. Food awaited them on a low table. Tseya was already seated on the floor. Across from her was a blue cushion for him. And, interesting touch, at the center of the table was a container full of toothpicks. Andan humor?

“You look like you think the food’s rigged to blow,” Tseya remarked. “Alas, I’m only mediocre at demolitions, which was a great disappointment to my instructors. Do sit down, there’s no sense going hungry while we size each other up.”

“Of course, Agent.”

“You needn’t be so formal. I do have a name.” She smiled with her eyes.

He stopped himself from protesting just in time, and sat down.

“I assume you’ve been warned not to play jeng-zai.”

It wasn’t as though he’d be admitting to a weakness she hadn’t already guessed. “I avoid it, yes,” Brezan said. “I once joined General Khiruev and some of the other staff officers for a game. She cleaned us all out despite drawing consistently terrible hands.”

Tseya poured tea first for him, then for herself. She didn’t make a ceremony of the act. In response to his blink of surprise, she made a moue. “Has it never occurred to you, General—”

His turn. “Just Brezan, please.”

“—Brezan, then. Has it never occurred to you that not all Andan are equally enamored of the rules of etiquette? Sometimes I just want to drink the damn tea.”

If this was a ploy to gain sympathy, it was working admirably. “I’m afraid the only significant contact I’ve had with your people has been during official functions,” Brezan said.

“And I’m sure you found those occasions charming,” Tseya murmured. She picked up a piece of something in dark sauce with her chopsticks, chewed, swallowed. “Shall I taste everything to prove there’s no poison?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Brezan said, besides which it wouldn’t prove anything anyway. He began eating. The dark sauce was mildly sweet, with a hint of lemongrass and maybe fish sauce. As for the meat, he couldn’t identify it. But it was likable enough. He’d have to ask for the recipe later.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Tseya said after a while. Brezan had finished most of his rice and she was only a quarter of the way through her bowl. “I can’t imagine it was easy for you to be separated from your comrades this way.”

Explaining to her what he thought of Kel Command’s decision to make Jedao immortal was tempting, but a bad idea. “I ought to be grateful,” he said, feeling anything but. Sitting here with an Andan only reminded him how much he missed high table. “I’m given to understand that Jedao hasn’t blown up the swarm, at least.” He’d had some time to catch up on reports before the rendezvous.

“He’s a Shuos,” Tseya said, “which means he’s like an Andan, except with worse public relations.”

Brezan nearly choked on a vegetable. Old joke, except the context.

“If he hasn’t destroyed the swarm, it’s because he has some use for it. And unfortunately, there’s only one use for swarms.” She sighed. “If he were blowing up our stations indiscriminately, I would be less worried. But no, he’s fighting off an invasion. This can’t be anything other than a ploy for the populace’s sympathy.”

“He’s a mass murderer,” Brezan protested.

“You’re a Kel,” Tseya said, “so you’d see it from a Kel point of view. The Shuos have it in for him too, not unsurprisingly. To everyone else, especially the masses who have no faction affiliation and are busy trying to avoid being noticed by people like us, he’s more like a storybook figure come to life than a threat. Hellspin Fortress was several generations ago. A lot of people simply don’t care anymore, or anyway, they don’t care enough. I mean, think about the bombing that took out Hexarch Nirai Havrekaz 373 years ago. Even if you knew about it”—Brezan shook his head—”would you get worked up about it?”

Brezan thought it over. “I was happier before you made that point,” he said finally, “but you’re right.” It made their mission all the more important. They had to stop Jedao. They had to stop the Hafn. And, as a bonus, they had to stop Jedao from stopping the Hafn and making a hero of himself.

They ate in silence again. Brezan made himself slow down. He wasn’t used to taking meals at leisure. His oldest father, once Kel, hadn’t believed in lingering over meals. By the time Brezan was old enough to have memories, said father had retired from active service, but Kel habits died hard.

“I know why Kel Command sent you,” Tseya said as a servitor brought small cakes to the table. The slices were festooned with slices of fruit, pale green and orange and luscious red, arranged in the shapes of flowers. “So it appears I have you at a disadvantage. I don’t believe you know anything about me. Of course, there are a lot of people in the hexarchate.”

Brezan tried a small bite of one of the cakes. Its sweetness was balanced by the tartness of the fruits. He hoped he didn’t grow too fond of it because sooner or later he would have to go back to eating sensible Kel food. Maybe he could ask for the recipe to this one too, assuming it wasn’t a faction secret. “If you’re concerned with my ability to carry out my orders—”

“What I’m trying to say is that we’ll work better together if you know what my stake is, and why they picked me instead of someone else.” An undercurrent shadowed Tseya’s voice, not exactly bitterness, but close.

“Tseya,” Brezan said, wondering where this was heading, “you don’t owe me an explanation.”

She caught his eye before he understood what was going on, and smiled. It was an impersonal smile, not a warm or pretty one, and it made him afraid. He couldn’t look away. But then, he had already known that Andan enthrallment worked like that. He just hadn’t expected her to blow the ability, whose effectiveness diminished with repeated use against a given target, so soon. Naive of him. Her eyes were still brown, not dark blue, rose-blue. Once they changed, he would be hers for as long as she could sustain the enthrallment.

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