The Bone Shard Daughter

Chapter 16. Lin Imperial Island

Blood stained my fingers. I wished I had an apron like Father’s, or Bayan’s. But I made do with a tunic I never wore anymore, wedging the cloth into the space between my fingers and fingernails.

I’d found the room where Father kept the parts. Bird parts, monkey parts, cat parts, parts of animals I’d never seen or even heard of stacked in an insulated icebox. The room itself was dark and cold, carved from the stone below the palace. Even so, it smelled faintly of decay and musk. I’d taken some parts I was sure wouldn’t be missed – small ones. A sparrow’s wings, the soft little body of a rat, the head of a salamander. I squinted as I crouched over the pieces on my bedroom floor. The stitching was harder with body parts this small, but according to the book I’d read, the bone shard I’d put into its body would mend any mistakes. It was the larger bodies that had to be more delicately put together, for the bone shard magic could only mend small mistakes.

I tried not to be overeager. I was more interested in carving a command onto the fresh shard waiting in my sash pocket, and in using the magic to move my fingers through and inside the construct’s body. Would it work for me? Or were there some details from my past that I’d missed? Perhaps I didn’t have the ability to work with the shards, and that was why my father kept me from his magic.

A knock sounded at the door, and my heartbeat kicked an echo. I shoved the construct beneath the bed, wiped my hands again, lamenting the blood that had settled and dried in the cracks. I didn’t have time.

The knock came again, as if to emphasize that point. I smoothed my hands over my tunic and went to the door.

I pulled open the door so quickly it stirred a breeze. With the breeze came the scent of sandalwood.

Father stood at the door, hands wrapped around the head of his cane. He leaned on it and peered into my room. Not for the first time, I wondered what accident had removed his toes. And then I remembered what I’d been doing.

If I looked back now, he’d notice. So I kept my gaze on him, hoping he couldn’t see my pulse fluttering at my neck, trying to form a mental picture of my room. Had I left anything out I shouldn’t have? It was too late to do anything except wait.

His gaze trailed back to me. “I haven’t seen much of you lately,” he said. “I’ve been busy, of course. The constructs are in constant disrepair and the soldiers are always bringing them back to me to be mended. But you’ve not come to dinner.”

I’d been expecting Bayan. “I’ve been meditating,” I said, remembering the advice he’d given me. “Bayan said it helped him to regain his memories.” I let my gaze fall from his, feigning embarrassment to be caught in the middle of it.

Father nodded. “It’s a good idea. I’m glad you’re trying to remember. There is much that you’ve lost. The young woman you were before – she’s still there, I’m sure of it.” He focused somewhere past my shoulder.

And what was wrong with the young woman I was now? I cleared my throat, shifted from foot to foot. I wanted him to leave. If he thought I was desperate to return to meditating, to remembering, so much the better. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to remember. I did. But in the beginning I’d spent days and nights scraping through my thoughts, trying to find who I’d been before. I’d grasped for it until it felt my head was squeezed tight by bands of iron. All I had was who I was now.

Father noticed – how could he not? “I admire your dedication,” he said, his voice low and gruff, “but I’d like you to join Bayan and me for dinner tonight. We’ve things to discuss and I’d like you there.”

I hesitated. The half-formed construct was still beneath my bed, together with the journal and the beginner’s bone shard book. But when Father said he’d like for me to join, what he really meant was that I had to. He kept a veneer of politeness over his commands, but it was thin, and easily scratched away by disobedience. So I nodded before he could read too far into my hesitation, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind me.

For a moment, Father didn’t move. We stood there next to one another. Even stooped and aged he was slightly taller than me, his cane lending his thin frame some weight. Heat radiated from his robes like a candle burning too hot and too quickly. The sandalwood smell of him filled my nostrils, mingled with the bitter-tea scent of his breath.

A quick glance at me, appraising, and then he limped down the hall. His robes swirled behind him like waves crashing ashore.

I followed, wary.

The dining hall was next to the questioning room. Bayan was already inside, seated at the right-hand side of my father’s place. A place had been set for me across from them. There was a message in this – but there was a message in all the small things Father did. I was the outsider here.

Servants flitted in and out as I took my place at the table. Father was still lowering himself into his cushion, his cane set on the floor beside him, one hand on the table, another hand on the cushion itself. I almost expected to hear his bones creaking and grinding against one another as he sat.

A cup of jasmine tea steamed at my right hand; a small stuffed chicken with golden, crisped skin graced the center of my plate surrounded by a pile of glistening vegetables and white rice. I’d nearly forgotten what a formal meal was like. I didn’t often go to the dining hall for dinner, and Father rarely asked me to join them. Many times I just ate what the servants brought me in my room.

I honestly preferred it that way. Between Bayan and Father, eating in the opulence of the dining hall was like being invited to an elegant dinner among sharks. Was I here to eat the meal, or was I to be the main attraction?

Four more seats were at the end of the long table, no plates set at them. My spine stiffened as Father’s four highest constructs entered the room. The servants sped up in their work, and I knew they wanted to leave as much as I did. I envied that they could.

Tirang, Construct of War, an ape with clawed feet and a long, wolf-like snout. He sat nearest to my father, his claws clicking against the floor. Ilith, Construct of Spies, who took up twice the space of the other constructs, her many hands folding in front of her on the table. Mauga, Construct of Bureaucracy, a sloth’s large head on the body of a bear. He lumbered in like a bear just out of hibernation, and rolled into his seat. He rocked back and forth until he settled. And finally, Uphilia, Construct of Trade, a fox with two pairs of raven’s wings. She glided in on silent footfalls, her four wings folded at her sides. She sat on her cushion and started to clean her face with one front paw.

These were the four constructs I needed to gain control of. If I had them, I would have my father’s respect.

Father began to eat with trembling hands. I was afraid each bite wouldn’t make it to his lips. But when he spoke, his voice was strong. “News?”

Tirang spoke first, his voice like sand ground against stone. “Your soldiers are stretched thin. In addition to the governor they overthrew, the rebels are gaining a foothold in other islands among the Monkey’s Tail. A little over a hundred of your war constructs have been dismantled. I’d like to request a replacement.”

Father cast his spoon aside. “If Mauga’s bureaucracy constructs cannot repair them, then you’re short a hundred war constructs. There will be no replacements.”

Bayan leaned forward. “Perhaps I could—”

Father silenced him with a contemptuous glance. He looked to Ilith, and I held my breath.

Ilith’s mandibles clicked. “The Shardless Few is expanding its influence. People are unhappy with your taxes, and the recent destruction of Deerhead Island has stirred up more unrest. They don’t trust you to keep them safe – which brings me to my next report. Your people are ill content with the Tithing Festival. Even some governors are muttering about the necessity of it. It’s been a long time since the Alanga were driven out of the Empire, and people have been less inclined to think them a threat.”

“I work every day to maintain this Empire,” Father growled, his hand closing into a fist. “And these ungrateful brats think they’d be better off without me. The Tithing is a small price to pay for the protection I give them. I spend days of my life making constructs, keeping ever vigilant. In the days of my grandfather, the people were grateful. It was an honor to give up a shard. Now they mewl about how the Tithing kills some of their children, how it drains days of their lives – when I have drained my entire life.”

Both Bayan and I sat silent, knowing that if we spoke the wrong word, his anger would refocus on us. We could feel it like a living thing, a blind snake waiting for a mouse to move.

Finally, he sighed and waved a hand. “Mauga, have the old tales circulated again. Pay a troupe to travel the isles and have them put on a production of Phoenix Rise. Everyone likes the story, and it will remind people of what my ancestors have done for them. What we are still doing for them. Keeping them safe.”

Mauga grumbled a little to himself, claws clicking on the table as he shifted.

Ilith looked to me and Bayan, and then back to my father. “The tales may not be necessary. I’ve had some reports about Alanga artifacts… awakening.”

Father clenched his hands. “Artifacts are not the Alanga themselves. We’ll speak on that later.”

I looked to Bayan and found him looking back at me. Father might not have seemed concerned, but Bayan was.

“Very well. But another thing you should know,” Ilith said. “My spies have brought me a rumor. It could be nothing but the spawn of some wild dreams, but there may be someone stealing your citizens away from the Tithing Festivals before they are complete. His name is Jovis.”

The trade construct’s wings twitched, and Mauga lifted his sloth head. “I know that name,” Mauga said. “And so does Uphilia. We had posters made.”

My father leaned on the table, lacing his fingers together, his head bowed. “A fugitive?”

“A smuggler,” Mauga said, his voice a rumble in his throat. He snuffled. “He has been… hmmm… a problem. Two missing boxes of witstone from the mine at Tos. He does not pay any relevant fees.”

“Of course he doesn’t.” Uphilia’s tail lashed. “He’s a smuggler.”

“He pays his fees to the Ioph Carn. No one escapes both the Empire and them,” Ilith said.

“Ilith, keep your spies listening for more word of this Jovis,” my father said. “But he is a smaller problem next to the Shardless. Tirang, organize a strike against the rebellion on the Monkey’s Tail. Send some war constructs. Gather information first.”

And then he returned to eating his dinner, as though that took care of things. What about reaching out to the governors? What about the island that had sunk? It could have been my imagination, but I thought I felt a tremble beneath me, a tremor.

No one else even so much as glanced downward. Just my mind playing tricks on me.

“Eminence,” Bayan said.

My focus turned to him and I picked up on details I hadn’t noticed before. He’d eaten not even half of his plate. The fingers of one hand curled around his napkin. He was nervous.

Bayan straightened. “The last construct I made – I changed the command out to the one you recommended. But is it possible to keep the original command and modify it to work the same way?”

And that was all that was said about politics. Constructs, my father could talk animatedly about for hours.

Father tilted his head to the side. “It’s possible,” he said, tapping his chopsticks against his plate, “although not necessarily advisable. A command, once written, cannot be erased or overwritten. It can be modified, but you run the danger of a less effective command. If you’re not careful, you can even run the risk of altering the command in a way you didn’t intend. A missed mark, or an unintended one, can change a meaning completely. It’s best to use a fresh shard and carve a new command.”

“But what if you run low on shards?”

Father snorted. “The Shardless Few and this smuggler aside, we will not run out of shards.”

“Nothing lasts for ever. Not even the reign of the Alanga.”

“The Shardless have no plan. They know what they don’t want, but they don’t know what they do want. No movement survives without a vision of the future, because without it, there is nothing to strive for. The rebels aren’t a real threat, and you don’t need to start hoarding shards.”

They spoke not just like teacher and student, but like father and son. In the soft lighting of the dining room, Bayan looked like a younger reflection of my father. No wonder he had chosen to foster him. No wonder he was considering replacing me with him.

I felt my brows furrow as I watched Bayan, and I smoothed the expression away before anyone could notice. His expression was calm, but his fingers still curled into his napkin. He hadn’t asked just out of curiosity. He’d asked because the asking had made Father comfortable. The question that made him twist his fingers was yet to come.

If I were Bayan, I would have been patient. I would have let the mood in the room relax further. But Bayan’s ambition was not a patient thing.

“Will you give me the key to the door with the cloud junipers on it? I’m ready.”

The cloud juniper door – the one I recognized from a past I no longer knew. I tried not to appear interested but I needn’t have bothered. Father’s attention was fully on Bayan. “I give you keys when I deem you ready. If I have not given you a key, you are not ready.”

Father said it calmly, but I watched the way he set his chopsticks to the side even though he wasn’t done eating. There was a warning in such calm. It was the retreat of the ocean from the shore, just before a tsunami.

Bayan didn’t notice. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, and I’ve done things you’ve not even asked. Every time you go through that door, you come back invigorated. I want to know what’s behind it.”

Father’s hand lashed out far quicker than I’d thought possible for his age.

The blow couldn’t have hurt that much, but Bayan cowered, holding a hand to his cheek. And then Father grasped his cane. He started to lift it, and then, thinking better of the action, let it rest back on the floor. The constructs sat on their cushions like statues, watching with disinterested eyes.

He’d beaten Bayan before. It hadn’t occurred to me until now, but Bayan never knew his place, and Father was fond of reminding others of theirs. It must have hurt more, years ago, when my father had been stronger.

“You wait,” Father hissed, his breathing heavy. “And you keep covetous thoughts to yourself. If you ask for things you cannot understand, you’re more imprudent than I thought you were.”

Bayan wiped the spot where Father had struck him. The blow hadn’t been hard, but one of the rings Father wore had left an angry red mark. “If I was your true-born son, would you have shown me?”

So he was jealous of me. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I’d been so jealous of Bayan I hadn’t thought of how he might feel about my station.

Before I could puzzle out my feelings, Father raised his left hand. “Tirang.”

The Construct of War rose. Father had only to crook one finger and the construct pulled a dagger from his belt and started toward Bayan.

No matter what little power remained in Father’s limbs, his mind was still sharp. And with that came the control of all the constructs on all the islands of the Empire.

Now Bayan was afraid, as he should have been before. I should have relished this victory. I should have gloated, the way Bayan had so many times over his keys.

Ah. I couldn’t. The idea of watching Tirang carve up Bayan just made me queasy, not glad. It swirled in my belly, spurring me to action.

“I have a question as well,” I blurted out. All four constructs looked to me, and Father’s crooked finger relaxed. Tirang stopped in the middle of the dining hall. “Is imprudence an inherited trait, or is it learned?”

By the Endless Sea and the great cloud junipers – I’m not sure what prompted me to speak except for pity. It worked, in a manner of speaking. Father stopped paying attention to Bayan. He seemed to have forgotten he was there. Tirang went to sit back at his seat by the table. Bayan slumped on his cushion, terror washing away like dust after a wet season rain.

And my father, with all the vast power of an Empire waiting at his beck and call, turned his attention to me.