Page 97 of Eyes of Kings

“Then you agree,” August continues. “The longer this goes on, the harder it will be to fix the disrepair that Talin has fallen into.”

Anton pushes out from his chair. He goes to the window.

“What was your proposal?” he asks.

August loosens the tension in his legs. Points his knees forward, no crooked angles, no asymmetric resting stance.

“I will discuss this with Calla.”

When Anton turns around, his hand gravitates toward his forearm. He clutches tightly. Strangely enough, August recognizes that movement: Otta has been doing it rather frequently too. It’s usually after she’s applied a new sigil, squeezing it to feel its effects.

“I told you,” Anton says, “Calla did not wish to come. Either you discuss it with me, or you can forget it.”

“Is she out of commission?” August asks.

“No!” Anton snaps. “Why would she attend a meeting with you, August? You have an immortal madwoman at your side.”

August almost wants to tell him to keep it down.She can hear you. She will be listening. Otta looms around the yamen, waiting for the ideal moment, waiting for August to put her in position.

“All the more reason to enter negotiations,” August returns.

Anton pushes away from the window. “I want to show you something.” Before August can prepare himself in defense, Anton pivots for a table at the head of the room. He turns his back on August, facing a computer instead, and August finds himself getting angry at the mere sight—the back of Anton’s head, the nape of his neck, unmarred by dirt or blood despite the rest of him. To be in this position, showing up alone, stepping foot into what could entirely be an ambush, and Anton has the audacity toturn his back on him. How does he know that August would not try to invade him? How does he know that August doesn’t have the power to invoke a sigil and incinerate him where he stands?

He doesn’t—and it still does not change how he acts. He is a Makusa.

August stands, slowly. Out here, leading his front line, he wears one ring on the middle finger of his dominant hand. There’s a blade embedded into it. Triggered by a quick roll on its side.

Anton types into the keyboard on the desk. When August eases forward, he steps heel first, a house cat preparing to vault. His hand shifts, held before him. He’s already plotting his attack when Anton moves aside to show him the screen. He doesn’t register the image until he’s activated the blade, and then August is forced to crumple his fist to hide the weapon, cutting his own palm.

“What is this?” he demands.

“What do you think it is?” Anton answers.

The first time August met Galipei, he noticed his silver eyes before all else. How they settled on him. How they stayed unnaturally wide. Galipei was delicate in that palace sitting room, too afraid to make sound, visibly scared by the company that surrounded him. August almost wanted to snap at him to get it together. Click his fingers in his face, remind him he could take up space in this world and he didn’t need to shrink into ancillary detail by nature. August was not forgiving in this matter.Heended up in the palace by utter chance. Who would August have become if he didn’t take what he desired, if he abided by what the palace decided was enough for him?

August, knowing he was going to be stuck with this bodyguard for the rest of his life, made it a mission to keep Galipei on his feet, shove him into a tough position every now and then, because that was the only way he could see Galipei as a real person.

Over time, Galipei got better. Willing to interrupt if August couldn’t stand a fawner. Willing to perform dirty work that the nobles would frown upon. They learned to communicate with each other by mere expression. A flash of August’s grimace—Galipei needed to cross the room quickly and get to his side. A furrow of Galipei’s brow—August should excuse himself from whatever polite conversation he was making and tend to a problem.

The quandary, then, was that August learned to read Galipei too well. And though Galipei got better at vexing palace nobles, he never got better at countering August. What August needed done would be done. What August considered to be good was good. For once, August just wantedsomefight. August wanted to take the qi attack in battle rather than Galipei considering himself the valiant sacrifice.

August and Galipei have communicated by expression over the years, but never like this. Anger ripples from Galipei’s stare, foreign and potent, unconstrained and strange. For the first time, August is looking at someone who won’t tuck tail between his legs.

“Interesting,” Anton remarks when August stays quiet. “You already knew we had Galipei.”

The camera is in the corner of the cell. It must have activated to signal that someone is viewing it through the surveillance network, because Galipei is staring directly at it. His eye is bruised. Someone has been in that cell to rough him up.

“Of course,” August says. “I have scouts.”

The screen goes dark abruptly. August leans forward before he catches himself—he’s seeking another glimpse, owed another second. Anton has hit some key without looking, taking it upon himself to induce a reaction, one way or another.

“You must know what is unfolding in San-Er,” Anton says. “The Crescents in the palace, and your Weisannas made equal to them. Do you think you will reign once the war ends? You will lose your every soldier fighting your way back to the throne, and that’s exactly what Otta is waiting for. She will turn you to dust once you are left alone with her.”

“Your inability to stand up to Otta does not translate to me.”

Anton folds his arms. There is blood on his sleeve. A faint stain.

“But she’s not Otta,” he says, “and she’s never been Otta. I was not smart enough to catch on, but you were. I remember that.”