He hadn’t asked. “I have done many terrible things,” he said. “I have always done them because the alternative was worse. If I thought being a paranoid monster would help the situation, I wouldn’t think twice about signing on. But I don’t, and that’s that.”
“Fine,” Zehun said. “We do it your way. I only hope you’re right.”
“So do I,” Mikodez said.
“I’ll check in with the mathematicians.”
“All right.”
When Zehun signed off, Mikodez began going through his desk and inventorying the cache of weapons in there, wondering when he had started losing count.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE SERVITOR BROUGHT Mikodez breakfast not in one of his offices, but in the Room of Guns. The room had an official designation, which nobody used anymore, not even Zehun, who was normally a stickler for such matters. The last time he’d asked them about it, they’d muttered something about bad luck. Zehun wasn’t superstitious about many things, but in this case he supposed they were justified.
In his second decade as hexarch, Mikodez had challenged his infantry division to steal him Jedao’s private collection of guns. During his lifetime, Jedao had usually preferred to use his own armaments rather than Kel issue, which the Kel had permitted as a courtesy to the Shuos in spite of the logistical nuisance. Jedao had accumulated guns with the sort of enthusiasm you might expect of a former assassin, even if they stayed locked up most of the time. After all, it would hardly have been practical for him to haul a private arsenal from assignment to assignment.
When Jedao had been arrested after Hellspin, the Kel had confiscated all his possessions and scoured them for clues. Mikodez knew the old sad story. Jedao hadn’t done anything objectionable before suddenly going mad. He’d been a model officer. He had liked guns, which was not a crime in his line of work; he had liked alcohol, especially whiskey, a trait shared by many people who were and weren’t soldiers; he had had a genuine passion for dueling. Mikodez had it on good authority that Jedao’s whiskey had all been wasted on lab technicians. He could only hope that they had drunk some of the stuff rather than putting it all through tests. And there had been a modest collection of board and card games, including some plundered specimens nice enough to show off in a museum.
In any case, Mikodez had had especial trouble getting the then-Kel hexarch to take him seriously. (Tsoro would not ascend for another eight years.) Instead of brooding over the lack of respect from someone who was over 130 years old, Mikodez had decided to do something to get Kel Vaura to reevaluate him. That wasn’t the only reason. He needed his own people to take him seriously as well. The assignment, widely regarded as impossible, focused Special Operations nicely once they realized Mikodez was perfectly willing to turn the division upside-down if they failed him.
(“And here I thought you wanted to make friends,” Zehun had remarked.)
(“Sometimes fear is more motivational,” Mikodez had snapped back. “Do you want me to demonstrate?” He’d had more of a temper then. The medications that improved his concentration had helped with that.)
Most of the Citadel of Eyes was not, ironically, decorated in Shuos colors, on the grounds that even if the association with assassins didn’t make people tense, the color red by itself would have. Mikodez had always been amused by how many dramas depicted assassins wearing red, as if they were trying to stick out, instead of bundling up in ugly unremarkable coats to blend in with the locals. When he wasn’t in uniform, Mikodez himself preferred sedate shades of green.
The Room of Guns, however, was in livid red with gold accents. Nothing else would have suited. The red walls with their deeper red tapestries reflected in the guns’ barrels, giving them an unhealthy luster.
Mikodez paced around the room and stopped before the one he liked best, the centerpiece of the collection: the Patterner 52, which had been Jedao’s favorite. Certainly he had toted it everywhere, and he had used it to slaughter his staff on his command moth at Hellspin. Mikodez had no intention of taking it out of its case to play with it, he knew better, but he studied the grip, engraved with the infamous Deuce of Gears.
The grid chimed at him. “You are so morbid,” Istradez said from the door. He walked over to join Mikodez and frowned at the Patterner 52. “You should send that thing to Jedao as a gift, see if that makes him more receptive to your attempts at long-distance therapy. Face it, it’s not like one lousy handgun makes Jedao more deadly.”
“Well,” Mikodez said, “there’s the psychological factor. Besides, the collection’s worth more if I keep it together.”
Istradez snorted. “Like you’re planning to sell it.”
“Are you kidding? We’re always broke around here.” One of the things that irritated him about the Andan, if his financial spies’ reports were to be believed, was that they could afford things. Despite a largely successful career as hexarch, he was forever juggling the budget.
“I’m surprised you don’t have me sit in on Financial for you more often.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Mikodez said. “It’s too important to hand off.”
Istradez smiled crookedly at him. “Of course it is.” He yawned hugely and stretched first one way, then the other. “I have to admit, it’s a nice collection, even if I only recognize half these things. Too bad hardly anyone has the clearance to come in here to appreciate it.”
“I was hoping you’d see something here that I don’t,” Mikodez said.
“What, reading oracles out of a bunch of rifles and revolvers like they’re tea leaves? I don’t think so. Besides,” and Istradez rested his hand casually on the side of the Patterner’s case, causing an informational display to come up, “I have spent the last few decades learning to think like you do. It’s surprisingly hard to unlearn.”
Mikodez saw the subtle tension in Istradez’s shoulders. Quietly but not silently, he slipped behind his brother and began rubbing his shoulders. Istradez sighed and relaxed, by slow degrees, under Mikodez’s touch.
“I hope you’re not going to give me one of those obnoxious memory tests after we leave this room for dinner,” Istradez murmured. Mikodez could feel the vibrations through his hands. “But I promise I’ve been doing my homework. I’m here to ask a favor.”
“More girlfriends?” Mikodez said. The Citadel was well staffed with courtesans with varying specialties. Between assignments, Istradez always took the opportunity to indulge. If he did so while being Mikodez, someone would have noticed the discrepancy. “If you’re getting jaded, I’m running out of—”
“Not that.” With perfect dignity, Istradez slid out from beneath Mikodez’s hands, made sure they were facing each other, then sank to his knees, head bowed. “Hexarch.”
The full obeisance to a hexarch looked so incongruous that Mikodez drew his breath in sharply. “Istra—”
Istradez didn’t raise his eyes. “I wish to beg to be considered for an assignment. I’m not a Shuos, but I understand that there’s some precedent for the use of outside agents.”
Mikodez had a bad feeling about where this was going. “Get up,” he said, more roughly than he had intended. “There’s no need for you to do that to your knees.”
“It’s kind of you to be concerned about the condition of my knees,” Istradez said, so straight-faced that Mikodez couldn’t tell if his brother was mocking him. “I mean it, though. I realize you’re holding me in reserve, Hexarch, but I believe I am uniquely qualified for this assignment.”
“And what assignment might that be?” It was cruel to make Istradez say it to his face. Nevertheless, he had to be sure.
Mikodez had half-expected Istradez’s composure to break, for that mirror-face to relax into the familiar wry grin. But no: Istradez’s eyelashes lowered, and his hand clenched slightly on his right knee. “I have heard that an assassination attempt on the hexarchs is in the works.”