Godslayers

The Estheni didn’t just have business meetings and leave. That would be rude! It would imply they cared about business but not about neighborliness, and what self-respecting graced would honor Varas but reject Gamal?

It wasn’t like we were all pretending business wasn’t the point of the visit—although I could see Veleans pulling something like that—but you couldn’t let it be the only point or you were a bad host. So we adjourned from the meeting room to a private courtyard on the second story, where the Voranetti had set up a picnic around an open area. I noted several locations on the roof that seemed like they’d make good firing positions while affording cover from shooters in the killbox. The corner pillars were broad enough that I’d feel safe covering there in the event of a firefight.

In the exposed center of this killbox, the other half of my plan was unfolding: Markus and Cades were setting up to entertain us with an exhibition match. It was a “friendly” match, which in this context meant when they finished singing we would both politely agree that it was a tie. Theoretically, the Voranetti could—if they really felt like flattering us—give us the win. But that wasn’t going to happen, so instead we’d just have to listen to Markus and Cades take turns singing.

Markus was devastated, I’m sure.

I had my comm scan whatever it could pick off Cades. Cades was nervous—not like competition jitters nervous, more like someone had a gun to his head. The Voranetti were definitely blackmailing him. None of it showed, unless you happened to notice the way he was looking anywhere but at Markus. I did. The Voranetti were all looking at Markus. Kuril wasn’t even looking at the competitors, instead exchanging pleasantries with Sael. Now that the business part of the visit was over, us sashbearers were merely important family members and not literal proxies.

It was all logistics for our upcoming ball—which foods would be served, which invites Sael could convince us to cancel, a thousand little questions of influence and favoritism about random event shit I’d never even considered. But I guess that’s why everyone was terrified of Sael.

“Your competitor is a fine specimen,” said a withered rasp from what had to be a calculated distance just outside my line of sight.

“Uh, yours too,” I said. “Shame it didn’t work out that first night.”

“A shame I’m certain a woman of your experience can manage,” said Eloi. “You’ve befriended my grand-niece Alceoi, if I recall? An insightful decision.”

I mean, the way I remember it, this bitch straight-up ordered Alceoi to make friends with me, so she was straight-up complimenting herself here and I couldn't say anything without making us both look bad.

I almost said something anyways, but then I realized I could get out of this by making Alceoi look bad.

“As luck would have it, I haven’t seen much of her,” I said. “To be honest, I thought she’d forgotten me.”

“Allow me to put my thumb on the scale,” Eloi said. “Alceoi! Come here, girl.”

Shit. I probably should have seen that coming. In fairness to me, I’d been paying more attention to the tactical elements of the environment than seeing whether I recognized anyone here. Alceoi still ranked below the possibility of getting shot in terms of overall priority. Don’t give me that look. They have bows and arrows here.

“Long time no see,” I greeted her.

“Godsmile, Lady Ajarel,” she replied. There was a minor tremor in her voice, small enough I would have missed it if I didn’t have my comm to spell these things out for me. She was nervous. Not about Eloi—about me. She made a slight deferential nod.

“This one has eaten half a bowl of dvoli,” Eloi told her. “You remain alone in your hatred of it.”

The Voranetti sashbearer stalked away, leaving the two of us watching Markus.

“Is… your mouth… okay?”

Was that supposed to be innuendo? That was the problem with all this inferential communication. It only works if the recipient knows what the message is. Velean communication is all about playing roles, adopting attitudes and behaviors almost as a kind of reference—“this is what someone might say here, this what they might do”—to push the communicator’s intentions behind an additional layer of obfuscation.

Or maybe Alceoi just didn’t like spicy food. Fuck, I needed some friends who didn’t habitually play mind games.

“I’ll live,” I said.

Alceoi made a reverse sniff of a laugh, a little amused puff of air through the nose. “I used to think Eloi’s obsession with dvoli was a power game. But I’m starting to think she might actually like it.”

“The taste is good once you get past the horrible spiciness,” I said.

“So everyone tells her,” said Alceoi. “But they have to. My cousins and my sister did. I was the only one who wouldn’t.”

“I’m not just saying it. I meant it.”

“You’re not doubled over and wheezing.” Alceoi gave me a resigned smile. “You must have practiced, right? We all saw what happened to you at the ball a few thessim ago. So either you learned to like it or you did it despite the pain and the taste. I think under the circumstances you have to learn to like it.”

No, I wasn’t being paranoid, there was definitely some innuendo there. The comm said she felt—guilty? I wasn’t expecting that. Did she feel bad about getting me to walk into Lirian’s ambush back during the Renathion?

“You have to do what it takes to survive,” I said softly.

She looked at me searchingly. Apparently satisfied, she returned her attention to the competitors. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You knew.”

She didn’t look back at me. “Knew what?”

The comm said it was a lie. I wanted to push her for a more explicit answer, but I didn’t want to disrupt our purpose here.

“Nevermind,” I told her. “I think they’re about to start.”

Markus had mounted the podium. Shirtless, of course. He probably would have gone with just the competition thong if we hadn’t needed a scrap of clothing somewhere to hide the amplifier. I hurriedly switched my comm to Estheni to avoid the normal headache of listening to music in the wrong language.

Something about his posture shifted, commanding the attention of the room. The chatter died down. I had to learn how to do that. He took a breath. I smiled. He’d asked his tutor for a very specific kind of song.

“Draw away from me,” he sang, “as the tide recedes, to return.

“Let your memory be a promise that the gods keep.

“The walls of Aeschios rise before me,

“Your will held firm within my heart,

“That this city may be the price to bring you home.”

There were appreciative murmurs from the audience as he continued. It was a weird-ass kind of love song that probably made more sense if you grew up in a culture where women sent their suitors on dangerous military expeditions to prove themselves.

This one, Markus had told me, was referencing a famous love story about a general named Phosocres. He was having an affair with his queen, but she couldn’t marry him openly because it would put him in a problematic social position with the family whose primora was the presumptive first husband. So she kept having him fight riskier and riskier battles so that he’d either die and end their ambiguous relationship, or accrue so much glory that she could snub the other guy.

Inferential communication only works if the recipient knows what the message is. Cades understood. I could see it on his face. He was holding it together, but I guess there’s only so much self-control you can do when you hear your socially problematic crush promising to take self-destructive risks so you can be together.

“Brothers! Stand side by my side,” Cades opened his song.

“They come! Raise your shields!

“We will stand; we will not move

“We will show them the strength of men

“The strength of fire in our breasts

“The goddesses have made us for battle

“Forged our legs of bronze,

“Forged our arms of steel,

“So raise your shields and hold the line

“The goddesses have placed us here.”

There were more verses, alternating between exhortations to manly bravery and philosophizing about the masculine virtues. Each ending with that line: The goddesses have placed us here.

Cades was every bit the boisterous soldier singing a rousing battlecry—singing to everyone, singing to a hypothetical shield wall, decidedly not singing to Markus. He steadfastly resisted looking at him, except on that last line. The goddesses have placed us here. This is our lot, he seemed to be saying. This is where we belong.

Huh. I’d kind of written Cades off as a dumb jock when I met him. This was actually pretty socially intelligent.

Cades sat down to stomping from the Voranetti ladies. I stomped along with them—I’d stand out otherwise.

Markus took the stand again, preparing for his second song. He was at a disadvantage in this little musical conversation: its medium was a shared context that he didn’t actually share. Cades could pull out any song he wanted, but Markus only had the few he’d prepared.

But what Markus lacked in cultural background, he made up for in decades of people skills experience. The resistance was coming, he’d told me. He couldn’t respond to the particulars of it, but he could go back on the offensive.

“How beautiful the arm,

“How bright the eye,

“How light your touch upon my face,” Markus sang. He didn’t need to look at Cades. Cades knew.

“As your arm moves, let me move

“And let me see as you see

“Let us be one, our hearts be one

“I will build in your wisdom

“I will make your will my duty

“And I will fill your bed when the sun sets.”

Markus was an excellent singer, but the thing that was really impressing me was how he could pledge to a bunch of gross in front of a crowd of strangers. I wrinkled my nose in disgust for a moment. Alceoi noticed.

“Why?” she asked, looking between me and him. “I thought you’d had him?”

“What?!” I said. “No! Why does everyone think that?”

“You must have traveled together for weeks. He’s a man. It would have been simple.” She made a dismissive hand gesture, then lowered her voice. “So what’s wrong with him?” she asked curiously, looking him up and down. “I was thinking about it, but if you know something I don’t...”

“We’re not like that,” I said quickly. “I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with him. Go for it.”

“Maybe I will,” Alceoi said with a smirk. She examined me. “You’re not offering to share, are you? I’ve heard of some strange provincial customs.”

“No! I’m not fucking Thala! He’s like my brother!”

“I’m just saying, you wouldn’t have lasted long in House Voranetes if you made a habit of passing up opportunities like that.”

“Oh look, Cades is up,” I said with finality.

Cades looked pensive as he mounted the podium. He took a breath and almost started to sing—then coughed. He glanced at Markus. He paused, seemingly considering something. Then he sang:

“They sailed upon the waters dark as wine

“Beset by tempests’ wrath and scorn divine

“Oh goddesses, give power to my voice

“As I recall the flight of Cesseros!”

I blinked. “What is that song?”

Alceoi replied without looking as Cades continued singing. “The Flight of Cesseros? You know, the one about the famous ship captain and her crew of traitors?”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“It’s just a story,” said Alceoi. “All the tragedy happened because she gave too much homage to Alcebios, so I suppose you could say that’s the message.”

“Markus?” I subvocalized.

“It means nothing,” Markus replied. He couldn’t quite keep the disappointment out of his voice. “He doesn’t know what to say.”

I sighed.

“Time for the fallback plan,” he said, because a godslayer can adapt to any contingency. “Val, do it.”

A sense of beauty and fascination filled the arena as Cades sang. The same sense, in fact, that permeated the arena when Markus sang during Renathions.

But somehow we could all tell it was centered on Markus. Somehow Markus was what made the song beautiful.

Cades finished his song to the sound of enthusiastic stomping. One of the Voranetti stood up—Gamourin, according to a mental note on my comm. She was one of the women the Voranetti sent to judge Renathions.

“What an incredible display of talent,” she said. “It would be an insult to declare one of you superior to the other. And might I say, you have such a—connection!”

Cades very carefully did not react.

“Like… housemates! It would be a blessing to hear you both in a duet.”

Sael Voranetes never missed an opportunity, apparently. “With the Vitares ball approaching, there is a need for entertainment.”

“Absolutely!” I called out. “Let’s have them do a set together!”

Sael smiled. “Send Thala to us. Let’s say… six times? That should be sufficient for performers of their skill.”

Cades was an etheric bonfire of conflicting emotions. Happiness fighting fear, hope crushed under shame, and grief suffusing the lot. He seemed to really like Markus, but was someone that emotionally screwed up even capable of consent?

“Thank you,” said Markus.

“You be good now,” I subvocalized. “I’ll expect you back at ten o’clock sharp, or no thong privileges. Don’t do anything gross.”

“Don’t say that, Lilith. I know you were joking, but that’s what they’ve done to him. Cades thinks he’s ‘gross.’ He’ll need care and support from all of us to recover.”

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to lecture me.”

“A fine gift,” said Alceoi, staring at Markus’s ass. “My thanks, Lady Ajarel.”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Good luck with that.”