Page 80 of Forge the Blade

The wife of the dead client wanted blood and satisfaction. She was well aware that her husband had bought Jun against his will, but remained outraged that he had gotten away with resistance. In one Yadro report she was quoted as describing Jun’s self-defense as “murderous disrespect and impertinence to authority, age, and those above his station in all ways”. She had also called him a whore and a low class entertainer. If anything, her arrogance exceeded that of her dead husband’s, despite the fact he had bought and attempted to use another human against their will.

They had only days before something significant moved, but Sevastyan had done nothing other than attend two very public functions, take some calls, and post dates for an art exhibition he was preparing in the city for that summer, his current public reason for being in Chicago. He’d just announced the event the day before, a flag waving in the face of anyone else who wanted to come after him as Dirk had done. He’d even managed to get on the mayor’s calendar for a one-on-one meeting the next month. It was a display of arrogance that was attracting attention.

He needed to trust Sevastyan, to trust that Sevastyan had a purpose in why he hadn’t yet approached Jun and Damian, and the rest of The Residency. But a part of him didn’t. And that was worse, somehow. It was easier when he could empty his head and tell himself that his master had everything under control.

Sevastyan did not have everything under control. Had never had everything under control. Rei pulled his fists away from his eyes and sat up, forcing himself to breathe deep. It was his fault Sevastyan was playing safe. It was his fault Sevastyan was hesitating when he had been ready to push Anton to move against the Merchari in January. Without Rei, Sevastyan could do little.

But if his life was on the line, Sevastyan choked up. And since Dirk, Rei’s life was on the line. Had nearly been already lost.

He needed to prove to his master that they were safer with friends. But that had never been true for Sevastyan. How did you make someone believe something that they had real evidence to not believe?

The feeling of warmth and security that Rei had experienced during the taping of the music video with 5N and The Residency all moving and working around him, welled up inside Rei’s chest. He hugged himself, sinking into that sensation. It was one he’d grown up with. Even if Bak Gyeong had been an ever-present terror above them, he’d had Jun and Yoihei and later Jaewoong and Geun. It had been a hard feeling to draw up and remember but the day Ellisandre had gifted him, even masked and under a pseudonym, had brought those memories back to the surface from the deep dark place he’d left them.

How could he gift the same feeling to his master?

Rei blinked away tears. It seemed like he was always fighting the need to cry these past years and it was getting worse. Like there was so much inside that it was always trying to break free from his bones. He brushed them away and pushed the soft, full feeling down.

If Sevastyan couldn’t do it on trust, maybe he would do it for Rei. For Jun. And for Lisa. Maybe he could make Sevastyan do what needed to be done. Rei stared at his hands. He’d never, in all their years together, made Sevastyan do anything. It went against the foundation of their dynamic. And yet deep in his belly, there was a sense that he could do this.

He grabbed his computer again, mentally sorting out how he would deploy each person, from himself to Richard, and Ellisandre and all the rest, their webs of influence and contacts spreading out in his mind’s eye like a map.

Even if he could push Sevastyan forward, though, they needed more time. Taking down the Merchari all at once was going to take longer than Jun had left. And that was not a problem Rei had a solution to. Yet.

Ellisandre

Ellisandre left their boots by the front door and entered Sevastyan’s new flat. The condo, he called it, but condos were still flats in Ellisandre’s mind, no matter how long they lived in the States. It was hideous, in a self-important, fit anybody, above reproach sort of way, decorated, if one could call it that, in whites and light tans.

“You need a paint store and an antique mall.” They pulled off their gloves and slapped them down on the arm of the white couch. Even that amount of green against the white went far towards relieving the apocalyptic heaven vibe the place had.

Sevastyan came out of the kitchen carrying drinks. “It’s hideous, I know.” He set the drinks down on the end table and offered one. The glass was blue and the drink inside red. If they spilled a drop it was going to look like there’d been a war.

“It’s beyond hideous. It’s soulless. Which is worse.” Ellisandre narrowed their eyes at their beloved. He wore a green linen tunic and matching loose pants, reminiscent of Indian kurta and pajama, though the tunic was cut too short to be traditional wear. They had the look of being custom made. At least he was not dressing in the monotone of the new flat.

“It’s temporary.” Sevastyan glanced around.

Ellisandre snorted. “This country has taken soulless for property value too far.”

Sevastyan smiled at them fondly. “You know that I trade art for a living, right?”

“And some artists tape a banana to a wall and call it an installation.”

“It was art.” Sevastyan grinned and took a sip of his drink. “You noticed it, didn’t you?”

“I think what I heard was that the janitor threw it away. Or perhaps I’m mixing up my stories.” Ellisandre waved the incidental details off. “I want to feel something other than anger when I see a piece. When I think that so much money was spent on something so . . .” They shook their head.

Sevastyan smirked. “How plebeian of you. You probably cannot understand how that one circle of orange on a white canvas carries meaning.”

Ellisandre narrowed their eyes. “Kindergarteners can put an orange circle on a piece of white paper and they’d be encouraged to use more of the paper. I was.”

Sevastyan laughed. “Of course. The single orange circle is rebellion, a refusal to fill up the space, and the orange is peace, the search for nirvana, the same color as a monk in a temple.”

“Does this orange circle canvas exist?”

Sevastyan shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Ellisandre shook their head. “It may well be art, but I don’t have to like it. Tell me where our boys are.”

“Sleeping. I put them through it this morning, training. They’ll sleep for another hour. I wanted to see you.”