Page 91 of Eyes of Kings

This is one of the villages in Rincun’s West Capital. Near enough to the yamen that she doesn’t feel the need to jump again. It is a quiet night. Many of the other shops are long shuttered and asleep, the lanterns dim out front.

Calla begins to walk, using the mountains to gauge her sense of direction. She would have been intimately familiar with one of these villages at some point in her life. She would have walked these harsh fields, knowing who owned the wagons left on the dirt roads, which stalls set up shop for which season. For the first time since her coup, she looks up and finds only a scattering of clouds. An earlier wave of sleet gathers on the path, but otherwise the night is clear. The moon shines brightly. Calla does not need another source of light to find her way, trekking through Rincun in her utter lonesome.

She passes no villagers. There is no need to rush when she and Anton are in place for dawn—they had traveled into Teefa to give themselves the quickest route toward Actia’s yamen—but Calla finds herself hastening anyway, wanting to get this over and done with. Whatever has caught Venus, the ceiling of its severity is limited. Venus is indefinitelywaitingfor her at the yamen, for heavens’ sake.

West Capital’s yamen appears in the distance. Rincun, in typical fashion, grows darker the closer one creeps toward the mountains. Calla follows the flickering lantern left to burn outside the building.

She calls, “Venus?”

And a bolt of qi strikes her in response.

CHAPTER 41

Matiyu Nuwa loves San-Er.

That doesn’t mean he likes it, though. It smells bad and it’s cramped and when he breaks their self-imposed confinement to hurry out and source more instant noodles, it is inevitable that he will run into some type of trouble. San-Er is hectic, and it is awful, and it is his.

He won’t be driven out from his home.

“Will you put the baton down?” he hisses over the turnstile. “Don’t act like I’m a stranger.”

The cleric, Woya, regards him warily from the other side of the entryway. Matiyu wasn’t seeking entry into the Palace of Union anyway, so there is no need for this treatment. He’s here to talk. And haggle.

“It is after hours at the palace,” Woya replies. “I cannot socialize.”

Matiyu adjusts the umbrella to rest over his other shoulder, putting less strain on his one free arm while the other is out of commission. His elbow is feeling better, at least. There’s less pain with each passing day. Sometimes the hospitals in Er don’t set the bone correctly because they’re in such a rush to finish with each patient, so he had been worried.

“Wouldn’t after hours indicate that youarefree to socialize?” Matiyu clears his throat before Woya can get annoyed at the correction. “In any case, you obviously know what I’m after. I need to stock up.”

“And I cited our prices already.”

The north entrance to the palace is usually a busy pathway. It quieted while the heretics were running rampant, but after the Crescents blocked qi, the residents nearby have returned to regular routine. In fact, when Matiyu adjusts to avoid knocking his umbrella into a lovely lady squeezing by, he wonders if it is even busier. The Crescent Societies can no longer trade and traffic vessels, common criminals cannot commit theft by jumping. For the first time in history, all who reside in the capital are utterly, utterly equal.

Which also means they’re equally vulnerable if August Shenzhi’s army arrives.

“I kind of hoped you were only following the market-price rules in front of your lackeys when you took my call,” Matiyu says. “Hey, remember when I tookyourcall? In the surveillance room? That was a weighty favor.”

“That was not a weighty favor. That was youreturninga favor for all the times I’ve gotten you out of scraps.”

“Look—”

“What’s going on?”

The voice comes from behind, and Matiyu scrambles to get his bearings. Where he could have easily turned around, the umbrella confuses his perspective, and he ends up whirling twice before facing Buira Makusa.

“You again,” she says.

“Matiyu was on his way,” Woya declares. “He was just bringing a home-cooked dinner to an old friend.”

“No I wasn’t,” Matiyu rebuts.

As if he would bring a home-cooked dinner to anyone. San-Er is running out of meat. He would likely only defrost a cut if the king of the heavens himself came down asking to be sat at his table and catered to. And maybe not even then, because what has the king of the heavens ever done for Matiyu?

“I was asking you about firearms,” Matiyu says. “Because the CrescentSocieties are smuggling gunpowder and making firearms from scratch to keep the capital safe. Right?”

Woya’s eyes shutter, his lips thinning while he plans Matiyu’s murder in his mind. Buira whirls to the Crescent immediately.

“You have guns?” she demands. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”