Interlude I #2
When this all began, I was able to pass on those messages to everyone.
I would repeat what he told me to the best of my abilities, half of my samay spent on pinpointing specifics rather than just emotions.
I could tell he was upset when I gave him our daily report.
It wasn’t until more strands of my hair were white than not that I knew he was upset about Paria’s state.
It was all worth it in the end, because his anger, filtered through my ever-calm and neutral voice, cut through the silence his unmoving body smothered us with.
Now, there’s nothing to clear the air. The unsaid remains unsaid.
Acknowledging what’s happening feels pointless when we won’t get his response to it.
Everyone knows it, and now everyone is starting to act without restraint.
Tutay is the most obvious, but from my vantage point outside looking in while I rest, I can see the tension building in everyone’s muscles.
If I can’t report to Cashan, Cashan can’t draw the line, and his line is the only line that matters.
I like to believe we all respect each other, or at the very least, understand each other.
None of that means we’re able to control each other.
We finish jobs however we individually deem the most fun or efficient or outright explosive way to do it, and no one has the right to bother anyone about it.
We’re not together because we’re good people.
But as long as we don’t cross whatever line Cashan draws in the dirt, we’re a team. Sometimes, in the winter months when we’re all staying at whatever base Cashan has that year, I’d say we’re a family.
My breath catches in my throat at that thought. A family. Maybe we were, maybe we weren’t, but right now, even the label troupe of thieves is starting to feel forced.
I can’t help it anymore. I open my eyes and stand so quickly that black dots invade my vision.
I stabilize myself with one hand on the wall behind me and take a moment to get my feet under me.
Qajay is the only one in the room conscious enough to notice me, but he doesn’t give me any trouble.
I stop by one of the trunks on the far wall.
There’s a mace somewhere in this one. I just have to find it.
I dig past wrinkled and twisted together clothes, many made of the finest wool in the empire.
We steal them more than we wear them. There are golden arrowheads and gems. This trunk is filled with non-necessities.
Trinkets and luxuries. Every time we move base, we leave behind half of what we managed to hoard throughout the year.
It’s a constant culling, the only survivors the seemingly nonsensical things we each find worth keeping.
I keep it simple. I always grab my rusted and dull mace.
I’m more of a hand-to-hand combat person, despite my Serpent proclivity, but I know better than to depend on my physical strength now.
This old mace, and it is old, with its rusted finish and chipped spikes, is reliable.
It’s not gold like the solid beauties we have hidden somewhere here.
It’s not a brilliant obsidian with swirls of vibrant blue lapis lazuli.
No. Those are in the other trunks, waiting to be thrown away the next time we move or the moment someone finds something more interesting.
Something sharper, finer, more beautiful, and everything we despise but they, the benevolent rulers, love.
My mace shouldn’t be in this place, with its low alloy disintegrating with each use.
The Inka and her Panaka would never allow something like this inside these walls, something that has protected me since I was a skeleton child fighting to steal food and not get myself stolen in return.
It’s strong in the way my malnourished bones could never be back then.
It’s stronger than anything in this palace.
It’ll be strong for me now.
Pucaru didn’t throw the Inka and Panaka into a room too far away from the throne, thankfully. The structure of the winding passages inside the palace is hostile, at least to me, to us. We do not bow down to the Inka, and we never will. These walls know that.
But no ancient aggression holds up against my rage. I drag my mace behind me and smile at the sound of it scratching the floor. Let this palace hate me. Let them all hate me.
Pucaru is inside the room she prepped for the ruling family.
All the openings made to face the setting sun are blocked by thick black alpaca wool.
It’s spitting in the face of the Inka’s Inti sun god, but we are no Inkas.
I don’t believe mimicry is an insult to our Guardians.
I serve my Serpent and all her warriors in the water every time I show my power.
It is in my blood, and no empire can take that away from me.
“You can’t stand up without support,” Pucaru says after I close the door behind me. She’s right. As I scope out the room, I have to lean on my mace, its head digging a hole in the ground to support my weight.
“The momentum will keep me up,” I say.
“The momentum of what? You can’t beat in their skulls just yet.” It’s more for the ruling family’s benefit than mine. They’re blindfolded and clueless. Pucaru is dancing back and forth between threats and hope. She’s good like that.
I don’t dance. I’m blunt.
I swing my mace up and smash it into Panaka Harawi, the Inka’s spineless husband's knee. The crack of his bone grounds me as more black dots take over my vision. His screams give me the strength to straighten up. Yes, I needed that. I focus on his blood soaking the ground. It mixes with the dried-up pools of blood that Pucaru created. There’s little enough that my puddle stands out.
We’ll all be adding to the art on this floor at some point.
Earlier, Izhi stepped in to use her Ave mimicry to intercept their thoughts, essentially reading their minds. My session now isn't conducive to that. Not that it matters. The entire family has already proven they’re trained to withstand mind-reading mimicry even under extreme circumstances.
I’m here for myself.
“There’s a lot more to do than smash their heads in,” I whisper.
Pucaru hands me coca tea without asking.
I see her stare soften as I take the cup.
It’s made of ceramic and carved with images of the mountains and stars.
It’s her family’s cup, from when she had a family.
Pucaru is older than most of us, and I know she’s lost the most. My heart feels heavy, and I smile at her.
I chug it empty. She refills. We do this ritual three more times before my thirst is satiated.
“We’re supposed to project every major hit, remember?” she says.
“The pools at my feet seem too big to come from small hits, don’t you think?” I respond.
She flushes, a barely there brown-red on her tan skin. She runs her hands through her white-speckled black hair, fluffing the straight strands up. Pucaru’s hair falls halfway down her back, but her fingers only ever run through the top part of her scalp, where she pulls at her roots.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”
That gets a laugh. “In my defense, I was hoping to get them to admit the stone exists before we project them.”
“That’s why this is your job. None of us would have the patience,” I reply.
“I’m glad you think so. Everyone else is jealous I got the fun job.” She kicks the middle child, a young kid with shoulder-length curly hair and tear tracks on their cheeks. The mighty Panaka falls to the side with a wet thump on top of their father’s blood.
I have no intention of getting anything out of them, which is all well and good because by the time I’m finished, none of them said a word.
Except… I look at the youngest child. A young girl left mostly untouched but still gasping at every violent sound.
Pucaru isn’t a fan of hurting young ones, and I didn’t want to upset her.
But I noticed something amid the violence. The oldest prince. He hasn’t cried, hasn’t shown an ounce of emotion, but every time the youngest girl whimpered, his entire body tensed. Protective older brother, maybe?
“Saved the best for last,” I say, making eye contact with Pucaru. I hope she understands my non-verbal apology. She nods, though she doesn’t look happy about it. She must have noticed the same thing I did.
I step close to the young girl. She’s tiny, definitely not older than ten, but her face is controlled despite the subdued noises. It’s a control that only comes with age.
Or being forced to grow up too fast.
I recognized it as if I were looking in a mirror. It’s a shame I have to add to the long line of experiences that made her this way. At least she would get the sympathy my abusers never spared me.
It only takes one swing of my mace straight to her ribs for the oldest son to crack. The little girl may have matured early, but even she couldn’t keep in her wails of pain.
The oldest son says what we were all waiting to hear, and the lines between his brows and the darkness in his voice make me believe he’s telling the truth. What he says is not out of desperation or pain, no. It’s out of something more complex. Anger. Resentment maybe.
It doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is his words.
“Yanami has it. Princess Yanami took the Samay Stone.”
Before I can tell Pucaru to get the others, he falls to the floor.
Pucaru runs to him, while I lean against the wall.
She will call the others soon. She will tell them the boy is essentially comatose.
I glance at the Inka, still calmly composed as if she were sitting on her throne and not the filthy floor.
She would look the same as when I came in, if not for the streaks of white marring half her hair.