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“Careful, Mr. Horn,” Xenophon says as Valdir goes back inside. “If I have learned one thing, it is that Obsidians are predators who think they are prey. Never pit them against one another.”
“Didn’t dream of it.”
“Good.”
“Valdir seems to like you. Thought he was all about the Old Ways. You ain’t exactly that.”
Xenophon shivers from the cold. Out of pity, I return the midnight cloak. The logos nods in thanks. “I was a slave of Atlas au Raa since my graduation from the Menta. It was Valdir who found me in a…pitiable state. I have proven my worth to Sefi many times over, including against Peerless.” The word sounds like a curse on those thin lips. “I also advocated she remain with Darrow.”
“So whose idea was all this nonsense?” Alltribe and whatnot.
“The shaman’s.” Xenophon blinks very quickly, the same tic I spotted when they disliked the cards in their hand. “He also advocated for hiring you, against my advice. But I serve the Queen. As do you. And when her mind is made up, the only way is forward. Thank you for the cards. I look forward to analyzing the data.” The White bows. “Until our next game.”
What begins as an awkward, contrived hilarity soon becomes an actual lesson. As the Obsidians play, they act, guffaw, boast, and lie, not well, but by the end of the day of my poking and prodding, five or six could beat one or two lowlifes I knew on Luna. I partake in several games, and even let Freihild beat me on a hand so deep she wins back all I took during my demonstration. After that, going on 2200, I call it a day, and the braves tilt their chins up to me in respect as they pass.
“It is called skillgift,” Freihild drawls to me. She’s the last in the courtyard besides Pax. “Much was hidden from us by the Golds. Many of my people have had their war treasure lost to Reds and Grays. It is a dishonor to us. You give us a chance to reclaim honor with this skillgift. This pleases my brothers and sisters. And me. Even Screwface would lose to you in cards, I believe.”
“It’s just a tool,” I say. “Won’t be protecting the Alltribe with a game of cards.”
“I know.” She lingers for a moment, appraising me. “My brothers and sisters do not trust you.”
“Valdir seems to share that opinion.”
She watches me, trying to understand what I mean. “I would be careful speaking of Valdir, even in respect. He is Big Brother. Our protector and pride. If he doubts you, it is because he senses weakness. He is protective of our Queen, as am I.” She sticks a thumb in her chest. “My tribe was destroyed when Sefi joined the Rising. I had no people. Then Sefi gave me vjr again. Purpose. She gave us all purpose. You will not betray her.”
“Is that a threat or a prophecy?”
“I do not believe in prophecy.” She smiles. “I know it is Old Way. Spirits in Bleeding Place?” She makes a face. “Superstition enslaved my people. I pretend because I must. And because my Queen needs my faith. My tribe needs my faith. Tomorrow we will learn better. The next day, better still. We have much more to do for tribe.”
Pax watches Freihild disappear inside the barracks and comes over to me. “She’s sleeping with Valdir,” he says. I squint at him. He taps his ears. “Their hearts beat faster when they’re in the same room.” He taps his nose. “And she has his scent today.”
I light a burner. “Figured.”
“Do you think Sefi has?” he asks.
“Not our war, little man. Where’s the she-devil?”
“Probably playing with axes.”
He looks lonely. I tousle his hair, surprising him. I do it harder till he swats at me. “You really are a good egg, aren’t you?”
He straightens his hair. “Why’d you say that?”
“General comportment. And you haven’t asked me to break you out of here.”
“Could you?”
His bodyguard of six Valkyrie watches us from a portico. The biggest, Braga, spits toward me. “Rule number one, kid: always have insurance. You think I got you the garage so you could play with bikes?” He perks up. “What do you say we get wild drunk and I show you the schematics for a certain harness we’ll be needing if things start to go south…You can even tell me some crazy stories about your old man if we have time.”
He’s wary of me. “I have work to do in the garage. Speeder’s got a fuel cell leak.”
“Then why’d you hang around here all day? Come on…”
He tilts his head. “I suppose I could multitask if you can picnic.”
I grin. “Sounds like a plan, little man.”
A PACHELBEL SINGS MOURNFULLY OUT the window as I sit on the edge of my son’s bed in darkness. It smells like him: machine oil and pine nettles. His gizmos form a pile on a dark workbench at the far window, next to a shelf crammed with souvenirs my husband brought from his campaigns: hydra eggshells from Africa, sunpetals from Mercury, coral growth from the Thermic Sea. But no totems of war, as if my husband wanted to pretend he’d gone to explore instead of kill. Pax’s clothes still hang in the closet. His shoes line the wall, laces still tied, the backs squished down.
