Michael Flynn - In the Lion’s Mouth

Ekadrina blinked. “Shall it be a pasdarm, den? One of dose old traditions you and your ilk would o’ert’row?”

“No, I will stalk you and kill you from ambush. Or hire it done.”

“Dat is a hard t’ing. But what a pasdarm it would be! Da banquets, da entertainment. T’ink on da Shadows dat would gadder for da honor to watch. T’ink of dose who would offer demselves for prelim bouts! To be a prelim to da meeting of ’Kadrina and Gesh would win more glory dan top billing in any lesser contest. An ambush? A hired assassin?” She spat on the ground. “Where is da glory in dat?”

Donovan stared at her. She was dead serious. He could almost see the skull emerge from underneath her skin. He could almost smell the smoke of her burning corpse. She was already dead, and only the details of time and place remained yet unsettled. “There is something more than a little mad in your ‘traditions.’ By the Fates! I had thought the Hounds tightly wound, but beside you they are lackaday, de’il-may-care Peacockers. The Hounds may flirt with Death, but you are in love with Him, all of you. You kiss Him on His rotting lips.”

“Evert’ing is relative,” his enemy agreed. “Our lives are short, and fleet in a universe dat does not care. Dey are an insignificant blip in da march of time. So what matter if dey be shortened a tiny bit more? Dat is why we will win da Long Game. Da man who does not care too greatly for his life has da advantage over da man who might hesitate for love of it.”

“The problem with the love of death,” the scarred man told her, “is that it is never unrequited. Tell me, Ekadrina…” And he tapped the side of his head with his free hand. “Did you do this to me?”

The loyalist understood. “I oversaw da work. It was willed by Dose whose will is done.”

“And were there others like me?”

“What do you t’ink? Practice makes perfect.”

“Another day, then?” Donovan returned his dazer to his holster.

Ekadrina glanced at the lander, whose nose-gun twitched suggestively. Then she laughed. “Anodder day, den,” and holstered her own weapon. “And where,” she cried in affected indifference, pointedly looking about the field, “did I leaf my staff of office?”

Donovan sagged against the low stone wall, the air draining out of him.

Doors opened on the sides of the lander and a flock of magpies emerged and took up security positions. That both combatants were battered, injured, and had downed arms did not diminish their caution in the least.

“Comets,” said Ekadrina. “Da old fool, Gidula, shows himself at last. I wonder if he will show da forbearance you have shown.” There was something in her voice that sounded like, If I go down beneath Gidula’s guns, I will not die before I can draw and burn you through.

“ I give you my word, ” the Silky Voice said through Donovan’s lips. “ If Gidula breaks our tacit truce, I will fight at your side. ”

Ekadrina looked at him sharply, as if she had heard the shift in personality. “ Your word…” she hazarded with a shrug and began pulling first-aid kits from her bandolier and applying them to her hurts. “Tell me dis, Geshler Padaborn,” she added without looking up from her task. “Why are so many of your newfound allies dose who fought against you da first time?”

“When I awook,” the Ravn says, “Gidula’s lander was beside me, and I was soon aboard his ship, tubed and wired in the autoclinic, for Gidula wished me hale.”

Bridget ban considers her for a long moment. “Yeees…” she says, drawing out the syllable. “I’m sure he did.”

The Ravn’s face grows impassive. “I believe Donovan knows long-first this truth, and keep pretense for that sake. For that I forgive him his last betrayal.”

Méarana plucks a question mark from the strings of her harp. “What the de’il are ye twa randering on aboot?”

“We are alike,” the Shadow tells her, “your mother and I, in so many ways.”

“In too many ways, I think,” Bridget ban adds, low. She turns to Méarana. “Ravn was concealing from Gidula the fact that Donovan had recovered his faculties. Donovan betrayed her by stepping forward as Padaborn to challenge Ekadrina. That, she could not conceal.”

“Ah,” says Graceful Bintsaif. “That explains her scars.”

Olafsdottr runs a hand along her right shoulder and down her arm, and cranes her head to study Graceful Bintsaif. She smiles wanly. “Scars far too easily won to merit honor.”

Méarana frowns. “And Gidula had to be deceived because…” She pauses, and cocks her head. How alike is daughter to mother, not only in that gesture, but in the powers of imagination that the cock betokens. “Ah. He wanted a damaged Padaborn.”

“Yes. He fetch Geshler because his mind destroyed. Billy Chins tell him so. Rebels rally round Gesh, but lose heart when ruined old man falter and fail.”

“A subtle play,” says Graceful Bintsaif.

“Disappointment subtle knife,” says the Ravn. “But subtlety his life’s blood.”

“Was he subverting the Revolution, then?” says Bridget ban.

“Gidula not want Revolution, only Rebellion. The stables must be cleaned, he told me; but not burned down.”

“And in all that,” Bridget ban continues, “you were his willing instrument.”

The Ravn shrugs. “What concern you which side I fight? Not your fight! Rebels tear apart Lion’s Mouth, despoil all what is loved. Abrogate ancient traditions; pull down revered ancestors; extinguish trust and bond among us. And for what? So these Names rule instead of those ? Bother!”

The outburst provokes a moment’s silence. “You must be,” says Bridget ban, “the one last patriot in the Lion’s Mouth.”

The Shadow ponders that accolade in silence, wrings her hands together, stares at the floor. “No,” she says quietly. “Others, too. Poder Stoop. But … aye, few enough. Very sad thing, when brothers fight, sisters fight; old comradeships forgot.”

“And all along it has been a power struggle among the Names,” says Méarana.

“Obvious now, no? No noble rebels with freedom in teary eye. No stalwart defenders of ancient ways standing firm in doorway. Dawshoo and Ekadrina both puppets, dance to strings.”

“And Gidula?”

“A string. Oschous, I think, suspects much, but also thinks he maneuver powers to himself, so even clever men may be fools.”

“But you turned against Gidula,” the Hound points out. “Otherwise, ye’d nae have advised the Donovan tae conceal his health.”

“Donovan dead man if Gidula know.”

Méarana’s hands close hard on the frame of her lap harp, but she fears to ask. She will not ask, though the words press hard against her teeth. Because Ravn had said only a moment ago that Gidula had finally learned.

“An’ wha’s that tae ye,” Bridget ban asks, “if Donovan be a dead man? Why should ye care?”

Olafsdottr cocks her head so deeply that it seems to lie on her shoulder. “Is it soo soorprising, then,” she asks the Hound, “that soomeone might?”

Bridget ban peers at her intently, then looks away. She rises from her chair and walks to the bay window. Already, the Dōngodair Hills lie in shadows. A few pinpoint lights mark old Clanthompson watchtowers, now in this more enlightened age mere beacons for travelers. She thinks about Donovan. Dead, now? Or sucked wholly into that unholy civil war amongst the Names. In either case, lost to the League; lost to Méarana. Lost even to herself, who never really had him. The long uncertainty now resolved. She need no more expect his unexpectedness: his knock at the door, his tread upon the carpets, his arms … She need no longer look for the unlooked-for return.