Raven Stratagem (The Machineries of Empire, #2)

As the Hafn neared the Kel military outpost at Tercel 81-7178, Khiruev waited tensely for any indication that they were slowing or circling around. Nothing.

Afterward, Khiruev went to contemplate her shelves of disassembled machines. She picked up the watch Jedao had admired, trying not to think about the gnawing sensation inside her, as though her bones were shuddering apart. When she was around other people she could set it aside, but here it nagged at her. She put on music, a plaintive zither piece. That didn’t help either.

When Commander Janaia requested to see her, Khiruev was grateful for the distraction, even if it was likely bad news. The wording of her request was both correct and unrevealing. Khiruev put the broken watch back on the shelf, then indicated that Janaia should see her in twelve minutes.

Janaia came by almost exactly on time, unusual for her. It filled Khiruev with foreboding. Khiruev had set the door to admit Janaia automatically. “At ease,” Khiruev said, emerging to greet her.

There were faint lines around Janaia’s eyes. “Permission to speak freely, sir,” she said.

“Granted,” Khiruev said. “You may sit, if you like.” She nodded toward a chair.

After a significant look at the chairs, Janaia sat. “I’m surprised the fox let you keep your gadgets.”

“Perhaps,” Khiruev said, “he thought I could use the reminder of my failure.”

“So it was you after all.”

The music box. Kel Lyu and Kel Meriki, sprawled dead. Khiruev had essentially pointed the needler at them herself. She’d written notifications to their families that she’d never be permitted to send. The one time she’d brought it up with Jedao, Jedao had quashed the idea on the grounds that it would get those families in trouble with hexarchate authorities. Which Khiruev had known, but she couldn’t stop wishing otherwise. “I didn’t think it was any secret,” she said.

“It’s done,” Janaia said, unsentimental. “But that isn’t what I came to talk to you about. It’s the twenty-fifth day, sir.”

The twenty-fifth day since Khiruev had invoked Vrae Tala. “That’s something you’ll have to take up with Jedao,” Khiruev said.

“You’re good at jeng-zai,” Janaia said, “but I know a bluff when I see one. I could have gone straight to him. But I thought I’d find out what’s going through your head first.”

“Why don’t you come right out and say it, Commander.” Inside the gloves her hands had gone clammy.

“Jedao had no idea about the Vrae Tala clause, isn’t that right?” Janaia said. “I thought at first that he had coerced you into it. But this last high table, there was no quarter-candle by your seat. I may be no friend of the fox’s, but he respects Kel custom. He always passes the cup at high table, he wears the notorious gloves, I daresay he knows our regulations better than we do. Except, of course, the ones that came into existence after we made a hash of executing him.”

“It was a command decision,” Khiruev said humorously, “and one a bit late to rescind. Do you wish to lodge an official complaint?” Who was Janaia going to go over her head to?

Janaia slammed her hand down on the chair’s arm. “Sir, I’ve served with you for fourteen years,” she said, her voice utterly level. “I’m Kel, you’re Kel, I’ll even follow you into a fox’s jaws. But I will serve you better if you help me understand what the hell we’re doing.” Funny how Khiruev had made the same argument to Jedao himself. “What is it that’s so important that you’re killing yourself for it?”

Khiruev opened her mouth.

“If you’re about to make a suicide joke, don’t. Sir.”

“Jedao thinks he can take on the hexarchs and win,” Khiruev said.

“Well, yes,” she said impatiently, “that kind of delusion is what landed him in the black cradle in the first place. But, I mean, he’s crazy. What’s your excuse?”

Khiruev peeled back her right glove just far enough to expose the skin of her wrist, so Janaia would understand the seriousness of her intent. The Kel only ungloved for suicide missions and lovers, as the saying went. Khiruev hoped Jedao’s plan wasn’t suicide, but in a sense, it didn’t matter. She was committed.

Janaia’s mouth compressed.

Satisfied that she understood, Khiruev settled the glove back in place. “Commander,” she said, “I trust you remember Raggard’s Basket.”

Kel Command had assigned Khiruev to deal with heresy at Raggard’s Basket. The orders had changed en route. The Rahal had been making a calendrical adjustment, and they had desired a fast resolution to the matter. In response to Rahal pressure, Kel Command authorized the use of fungal canisters.

Khiruev looked for a better way, but she couldn’t get around the punishing timetable. Since she could offer no viable alternative, she ordered the launch of the canisters. The resulting fungal blooms destroyed anything of human value in the world’s ecosphere. It was estimated that decontamination would take upward of a century. Khiruev had a vivid memory of the first spores coming to fruit when they encountered one of the indigenous sea snakes, fungus sprouting in spongy tendrils from beneath scales until they cracked purple-red, fungus clouding the amber eyes, fungus spilling out of the agonized mouths in bloated masses. Her chief of staff caught her watching the video over and over and made her stop.

“Yes,” Janaia said. “I remember Raggard’s Basket. I also remember that we had our orders.”

“I would like to think that it’s possible to construct a society where our orders don’t involve slaughtering our own people,” Khiruev said. The heretics hadn’t been the only ones on that planet.

“That’s always hard,” Janaia said. Her face did not change. “But I leave the philosophical considerations to you. My job is to fight where you point me. Tell me, do you think Jedao really has a chance, even if he isn’t going to backstab us all afterward? Even at Candle Arc he was only outnumbered eight to one. The odds are infinitely worse here.”

“Let me put it this way,” Khiruev said. “For four hundred years he’s convinced Kel Command not to kill him, despite a million good reasons. Kel Command isn’t known for being slow on the draw. And then he escaped. He may not win, but I am not seeing a better opportunity.” Khiruev met her eyes. “My disloyalty to Kel Command must be a terrible disappointment to you.”

Khiruev shouldn’t have put it to Janaia so directly, but Janaia only shrugged. “I must admit,” Janaia said, “this strikes me as a singularly bad time for an insurrection.”

“This is the hexarchate, Commander. There’s never a good time.”

“It’s going to be blood all the way down, one way or another. And you won’t be around to see the end of it.”

“Someone has to decide to throw the dice,” Khiruev said.

Janaia nodded curtly. “At least tell Jedao about the candles,” she said.

She cared about the oddest things. “Why is this so important to you?”

“Fourteen years. Tell him. Let him do the right thing by you.”

Fourteen years and Khiruev was wondering if she’d ever understood Janaia. “I’ll take it under consideration,” she said. “Dismissed.”

After Janaia had left, Khiruev returned to contemplating the watch. She opened up the back and stared at the unmoving parts. She was cold again, but she could get used to a little cold. It was only temporary, after all.





THERE WAS NO such thing as a routine battle, something Khiruev had figured out as a lieutenant decades ago. Even so, certain rituals made the chaos manageable. More accurately, they gave you the comforting illusion that the plan would have any relationship to reality when reality decided to stab you in the eye.

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