“Something like.” She was wary. It didn’t blame her.
“The world that the hexarch built—is it a world where people starve?” It had pored over summaries from Ayong Primary, but they had been frustratingly incomplete. Plus, it suspected that administrators everywhere had the incentive to report things in a positive light whether or not things were going well.
Cheris made a frustrated gesture. “You’re asking for a lot of data about a complicated question, and I can’t imagine I can chew through it faster than a servitor. Each world, each station, each city, each neighborhood. The short, the uncomplicated answer is no. Foreigners like to talk about the hexarchs’ tyranny. It is, however, a tyranny that feeds people and gives them work and allows them pleasure. Unless you’re a heretic, that is. But someone always has to pay the price.” Her mouth crimped. “This is the world I destroyed. Kujen thought I was going to help him, and I betrayed him.”
Her straightforwardness disarmed Hemiola. “Can you swear to me that the hexarch’s motives were a tyrant’s?” it said.
“Not anymore I can’t. He’s a complicated man. But the numbers of people who have been tortured for him—that’s not complicated at all.”
It came to its decision then. “There are weapons that can kill him. I assume you haven’t gotten your hands on them or you’d be done already.”
“That’s correct.”
“For this assassination,” Hemiola said slowly, “you’re going to need Kel. Formation effects.”
“That can be arranged,” Cheris said. She bowed from the waist. “Welcome to the mission, Hemiola.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BREZAN HAD SPENT all morning at a desk wishing someone would rescue him from the earnest, polite, and painstakingly detailed conversation about calendrical shift logistics he was having with High Magistrate Rahal Zaniin. It wasn’t that he disliked Zaniin. Despite her temper, which rivaled his own, Zaniin was a reasonable human being. (She was also surprisingly funny over drinks, the one time he’d got her drunk. In particular, she knew a lot of jokes that were not Kel jokes, which he appreciated.)
Several objects currently decorated his desk. A slate and two styluses, both of which had an irritating tendency to skip. A tiny cylindrical aquarium from Tseya, in which a placid blue-and-silver betta swirled amid pondweed and what looked distressingly like genuine faceted gemstones. Intelligent woman that she was, Tseya had left care instructions not with him but with his aide. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the gift, especially since Tseya knew perfectly well that he thought fish were creepy when they weren’t deliciously pan-fried.
Miuzan hadn’t brought him any parting gifts, or spoken more than a handful of words to him since their evacuation from Isteia. Nevertheless, in a spirit of self-flagellation, Brezan had placed a portrait of his family on his desk, angled so Zaniin couldn’t see it. His youngest father had commissioned one of his friends to paint it. Brezan remembered being impressed that any artist, even one on good terms with his prickly youngest father, would risk the inevitable blistering critique.
“High General,” Zaniin said, “are you paying attention?”
“Yes,” Brezan lied.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Well, at least fake it better.” Then she returned to explaining the adjustments that would have to be made to the grade school curriculum. He already wasn’t looking forward to the obligatory protests from the teachers, most of whom retained Vidona sympathies even if they had officially renounced their old allegiance.
Save me from this, Brezan thought despite a wave of guilt. Inesser had sustained tremendous losses fighting against Jedao. (New Jedao? Jedao Two? Nomenclature was getting to be a problem around here. It hadn’t helped that Mikodez had casually mentioned that his assistant Zehun had named their latest calico kitten Jedao, apparently continuing a long tradition of naming their cats after notorious Shuos assassins.) Anyway, the least he could do was shoulder some of the administrative burden.
As it turned out, “rescue” came from an unexpected quarter. Zaniin was in the middle of running a bulletin by him, as if she needed his input on proper phrasing, when the call arrived. “Sorry,” Brezan said with simulated regret. “I have to take this one.”
She pulled a face at him. “Of course you do,” she said. But a lifetime of attention to propriety won over curiosity. “Call me back when you’re done.”
“Naturally,” Brezan said, fighting to keep his tone casual. His hands had gone clammy. “Please open Line 6-0. Record the whole thing.” He might have to report the whole conversation to Inesser.
There was an unusually long pause. The grid indicated that it was securing the connection. Then it imaged a familiar oval face. Brezan’s stomach knotted up as he viewed it: a woman, her hair cropped short with military practicality, rather than the bob he remembered. Despite her drawn face, her eyes were alert. It took all his self-control to keep from shouting, Where have you been all these years? Even if Khiruev had told him, it was another thing to see her.
“Hello, High General,” said Ajewen Cheris.
“Hello,” Brezan said. His attempt to keep hostility from seeping into his tone was insufficiently successful. Cheris made a moue in response. “It’s been a few years.”
“You don’t need to understate things around me,” Cheris said. “We both know how long I’ve been gone.”
“If you’re bothering to check in now,” Brezan said, “I assume it’s related to the messy business at Isteia Mothyard.”
“I’d heard about that, yes.”
Brezan scowled at her. “We could have used a warning.” He hated her composure. She was always so calm. But then, having a mass murderer living in your skull must help induce sangfroid. Too bad he couldn’t have some of that for himself.
Am I really wishing for a Jedao in my head? Brezan asked himself.
“I’ve been occupied.”
“So Khiruev told me. Rather late.”
She smiled Jedao’s smile at him. Even though he knew she couldn’t help it, his stomach clenched with dread. That smile would make him recoil for the rest of his life. “Contrary to some of the dramas, High General,” she said, “I don’t read minds. Tell me what’s bothering you so we can move on to the important part of the conversation.”
Brezan reined in his temper with an effort. Squared his shoulders. Pretend Mikodez is watching. That was always good for dampening outbursts. He trusted Mikodez even less than Cheris. His life was full of untrustworthy people.
“I could have used your help nine years ago,” Brezan said. He was proud of the evenness of his tone. “A lot of people could have.”
“Really,” Cheris said.
He couldn’t help it. He stiffened in response to the utter lack of emotion in her voice. “Dammit, Cheris, you ran off.”
“You had plenty of help,” she said. “Khiruev is a perfectly good general—you of all people know that. Ragath should have made general years ago. I’d heard you promoted him.”
“Of course I did,” Brezan said. “I didn’t have so many high officers that I could afford to ignore talent.” Which was hilarious coming from him because he’d never been a line officer himself. Not only had Ragath’s record spoken for itself, he’d come highly recommended by people he trusted. To his relief, Khiruev and Ragath got along well. The same couldn’t be said of all his generals.