Chapter 44
Dawn bleeds over the horizon in Actia Province, crimson red and intemperate. The storms clear. After what rain and hail has pelted across the kingdom, this is a shock.
August’s forces finish setting up around the yamen.
It took some time to get through. They expected to find early-morning officials manning the desks.
Administrative lieutenants who have been paid well enough over a lifetime of service to withstand some hardship while the capital is undergoing transition.
Instead, they found disgruntled villagers.
Occupying the yamen and mobbing all around it when August’s forces approached.
They spat at his guards, then tried to reach for August. If any of them got a hand around him, they would pull for flesh.
The Weisannas formed a tight circle to escort him through the mob, and August could tell that they were not expecting this sort of vitriol.
The ordinary rural dweller used to be afraid of punishment, familiar with the sight of heads staked outside the yamen.
But the soldiers in Actia were gone. As were the generals who took instructions from their councilmember to keep the yamen and its province in line.
The Weisannas were wary. They cautioned August that this felt like rebel activity, and they ought to be careful.
They checked each rural dweller after breaking apart their occupation of the yamen, intent on crushing this network before it could grow too strong.
But there were no dove tattoos hidden on their backs or the sides of their necks.
No other indication of Dovetail affiliation—and without a leader to cull, August’s forces could only use manpower to keep the villagers out of the way. There was no time to kill all of them.
Also, it would be a bad look.
As Actia warms the most infinitesimal amount, greeted by the day’s first whisper of sunlight, August finds himself muttering under his breath in annoyance. He sits in Actia’s yamen, but it does not much feel like he has taken Actia.
“Someone is coming,” Otta warns.
It’s time. August straightens up. Whatever is to unfold with this meeting, he pulls the strings. Never should that be forgotten.
“Clear the room,” August commands. “Otta, stay out of sight. Everyone else, join the guard line.”
“Your Majesty,” Marra Weisanna says. “I would strongly urge you to keep someone in the room. For protection.”
August shakes his head. “It is a meeting performed in good faith,” he says. “We cannot engage in ceasefire unless my every weapon has been deposited. Isn’t that right?”
In answer, Otta flounces away from the window and exits first. Her dress trails after her. Marra does not hold back her frown. But she understands that there must be something at work if Otta Avia makes no fuss, so she nods and she steps back.
The Weisannas exit the yamen. It leaves August seated in the main office, surrounded by desks and folders.
He laces his fingers over his stomach. When he leans back in his chair, he forces himself to shed any hint of strain.
Focus on his feet—let them meld to the floor.
His legs, next. Straight and pointed forward.
His torso, where his heartbeat slows. Then his arms, until he is aware of his fingertips, aware of how each of them is pressed to some other part of his body so that they do not act rogue.
His head adjusts last. The correct tilt of his chin.
The conscious set of his expression. Over recent years it became easier to hold himself just right, because he knew the angle in which a princely crown set upon his temple would not slide around.
He breathes out.
Footsteps, along the path. August calls, “There are no forces in here, so leave any of yours outside too.”
A soft rustling, by the yamen entrance. The dew of the grass, being brushed aside. There was less ruckus than August expected. He thought the rural dwellers posted around the exterior would begin screaming again.
“Lucky for you,” Anton says when he enters the yamen, “it’s just me.”
August sits up. No. That was not the plan.
“Where is Calla?” he demands.
“She didn’t want to come. She sent me instead.”
Anton’s hands are in his pockets. August watches him, and suddenly tension returns to every place he had worked to rid of it.
It is always Anton Makusa that incites this sort of reaction from him.
His every defense mechanism was built in his youth precisely because Anton was impossible to compete with. Everything came easily for him.
“There’s no problem, is there?” Anton asks. “We’re out of dignitaries and ambassadors, so a general it is.”
“You are not a general,” August intones. “You are an ill-informed aristocrat with a penchant for insurrection but no competence in ruling.”
Anton shrugs. “Same thing.” He takes a seat at one of the other desks. Keeping himself several paces away from August, facing the perpendicular wall instead.
He looks weathered. As August must too, after the days he has spent marching through his sovereign territory, but there is the addition of mania to Anton’s expression, oozing from his convulsive demeanor and his restless legs.
His clothing is dirty, some parts caked with mud.
The moment he sits, his knees begin to bounce.
Knocking against the underside of the table, jostling the papers.
If Anton were anyone else with less of an ego, all the events of the past few months should indicate something to him.
To reach the end of the line, again and again, in the arena, in battle, occupying a throne…
and still Anton sticks around, stubborn as a stain.
He has always been too much for his own good. And here, it catches up to him.
“You called for this meeting, August,” Anton says. “Has it come time to beg for mercy?”
“I wished to speak to Calla to determine how long we will draw out a tiresome campaign,” August replies.
“I don’t expect you to understand the magnitude of it, but I do expect her to.
The Crescent Societies occupy the capital, where the palace has concentrated its full wealth.
Soldiers in just about every province have fled their posts without remuneration.
This would have been anarchic enough if it weren’t for the old gods descending on us and eating up territory like”—August snaps his fingers—“that. Because they can. Because they are powerful. There could be order, but we’re too busy running offense and defense.
I have everything it takes to get San-Er in order again, and instead Calla Tuoleimi has shut me out and left me to the fucking provinces, where I’m playing a fool’s game trying to starve out the Crescent Societies. Does that make sense, Anton?”
Anton is unresponsive. He stares at some space right above his hand, as though he’s not even listening. Then he laughs, once.
“You don’t deserve to rule simply because you think you have good ideas, August,” he says. “If you are pushed aside by someone mightier, then that’s life. That’s Talin.”
“Don’t you start with me!”
August catches himself by surprise with his outburst. He wants to be even-tempered.
He should be past this heinous wrong of Anton invading his body, but Anton did not earn the power he gained when he did so.
He used up August’s time as king, made a right mess of the kingdom, and is August supposed to think that’s life because Anton is mightier?
August takes a breath. Anton watches him, and though August spoke nothing of this tirade aloud, he has a feeling Anton perceived it all the same.
“There are old gods asking for devotion in every province,” August says.
“That is a worrying development on its own, but I have scouts up and down the Jinzi River reporting on Dovetail movement too. Rural rebels are expanding past Laho. Operating through Meannin and Teefa by occupying palace barracks.”
“You’re the one who paid the Dovetail to attack the palace soldiers. Of course they’re taking your cue now.”
Yes—he enlisted the Dovetail to sow discord in the provinces just before he took the throne.
It should have caused the perfect storm for him to seize control as king and go over the flailing council.
Instead, Anton Makusa had worn his body, Anton Makusa had completely disregarded the opportunity, and the Dovetail found that they quite liked taking advantage of palace resources.
“I have long lost communication with the Dovetail,” August seethes.
“I can tell.” Anton points over his shoulder. “The frenzy outside must be spurred by Dovetail instructions.”
Control. He must exhibit control. Carefully, August focuses on his feet again, placing them flat on the floorboards. His heart thuds in double time.
“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.