Kameron Hurley - God's War

“Starving,” he said, tucking his hands beneath his burnous, hunching his head and shoulders as if his guarded posture would ward off the blow from some burst.

Nyx heard the heavy whump-whump of the anti-burst guns, somewhere just to the north of them, and though she knew better, she picked up her pace. Inside or outside, a direct hit killed you, but it might be more comfortable getting hit inside. She’d be drunk.

As they walked, Rhys said, “I think Danika’s lying.”

“So do I,” she said. “I’m just not sure about what.”

She ducked into a café on the south side of the palace called the Grim Matron. She knew it from her year of training in Mushtallah as a bel dame. Rasheeda had loved their little green drinks.

Nyx and Rhys both pulled off their hoods as they entered, and the bar matrons all lifted their heads from their beer glasses and opium pipes and plates of fried grasshoppers. The hush of low conversation in the dim room ceased, and the smoky air suddenly felt a lot heavier.

Nyx pushed her burnous back over her shoulders, so her weapons were visible, and stepped up ahead of Rhys. She pushed through the scattering of tables to a tall, latticed booth at the back, seeming to ignore the gazes that followed after Rhys, but tracking every one of them with her peripheral vision, waiting for somebody to move.

Rhys followed her, careful not to touch anything, maneuvering his slim body around the tables and matrons.

Just as Nyx reached the table, a grizzled woman, one arm larger and darker than the other, her face a drooling mass of scarred flesh, hacked a gob of spit at Rhys’s face. Rhys caught the spit in his hand. Nyx appreciated that. The woman began to get up, opened her mouth to say something.

Nyx pivoted and tugged her whip from her hip. She caught the woman around the throat with it and stood behind the woman’s chair, holding her taut against the seat back. Rhys said he was going to find an ablution bowl to clean up.

Nyx leaned over and said, loud enough for the women and the nearest three tables to hear, “This man belongs to me. What you do to him, you do to me. Understand, my woman?”

The woman gurgled something, and Nyx watched the faces of her table companions. They were grizzled old war veterans as well, hard-faced and battle-scarred, and the looks they gave her were equal parts hatred and respect.

Nyx released her hold and knocked the woman back into her seat.

The woman grabbed at her throat and muttered something.

Nyx wound her whip back up.

“You don’t see many women carrying a whip,” one of the other women at the table said.

“It’s good for stealing weapons and drinks and tying boys up,” Nyx said.

“You use it a lot, then?”

Nyx saw Rhys returning to their table.

“You wouldn’t believe,” Nyx said.

She turned away from them and slid into her seat across from Rhys. There were partitions between the tables, which helped muffle the sound. The three veterans at the nearest table got up and went to the bar; the spitter still rubbed at her throat, muttering.

“Was that really necessary?” Rhys said, shrugging out of his burnous. Nyx caught herself admiring the breadth of his shoulders. If he wasn’t dancing anymore, how was he keeping in shape?

“This is Mushtallah,” Nyx said. “They push, you push back, or they’ll mow you over.” She pressed a hand to the table. The tiny bugs inside the tabletop displayed the menu in response to the warmth of her touch. “You think that last lens was doctored?”

Inside, the sound of the sirens was muffled, a dull whine. The stink of the opium was making Nyx nauseous.

“Yes,” Rhys said, “and worse. Any magician, including Kasbah, could tell that was a doctored bug. Some other magician with access to the same bug transmissions the palace uses doctored that last image of Nikodem and the bakkie, probably so they could edit themselves out. My concern is that Kasbah knew that and didn’t tell us.”

“Maybe Kasbah doctored the footage herself?”

“She’s not a complete imbecile,” Rhys said. “If she doctored the footage, we wouldn’t have been authorized to see the originals. She wanted us to know it was doctored but feared saying it out loud. She feared even putting that information on the globe.”

“Which means Nikodem probably went out with one of the palace magicians and didn’t come back,” Nyx said, “and the palace magicians doctored the footage.”

“So the palace has black agents, maybe black magicians,” Rhys said, shaking his head, “and she doesn’t want your bel dames on this note. I don’t like this, Nyx, and I don’t like where this note might take us.”

Nyx thought of Yah Tayyib. If Nikodem had been friendly with Yah Inan and Yah Tayyib, either of them could have set her up with someone to get her out of the country.

“I don’t see a motive for the magicians she was friendly with,” Nyx said.

Rhys made a noise that sounded like a laugh. “Magicians remember a time when they ruled the world. It’s the same with mullahs and magicians in Chenja. However, the queen isn’t paying you to take care of her internal security issue. She’s paying for a head, preferably attached to a living body.”

“More body swapping. I’m not keen on getting cut up over this note, but you know how that is. Wish I had my original womb. Bet I could get Yah Tayyib out of retirement to come and deal for it.”

“Why?”

“He liked it. Said it was shaped funny.”

Rhys quirked an eyebrow. “Shaped funny?”

“Yeah, some big word. Biocurate. Biocarbonate. Bicoital. Something.”

“Bicornuate,” Rhys said. “A heart-shaped uterus.”

“What?”

“Most wombs are balloon-shaped. Bicornuate wombs are heart-shaped.” He used his fingers to draw a picture in the air of a stylized heart. “Makes delivery more difficult. It’s best you had it replaced.”

“No shit? I should have sold it for a lot more. I knew a kid who made good money selling mutant organs to magicians.” She moved her hand back over the menu. “What are you eating?”

Rhys looked down at the table and dithered over his choices. “Why doesn’t anyone in this country serve fish?”

“Unclean animals. All that water.”

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Fish farming is a highly lucrative business in Chenja.”

The bar matron finally came over, looking like she was trying real hard not to stare at Rhys. Nyx stared at her instead. The bar matron brought them beer—local stuff—without them asking, the way Nyx would have been served water at the coast. Nyx remembered some things from the coast, little snatches. She’d spent the first three years of her life there, but most of her memories were of inoculation regimens: blinking syringes, yellow fluid, the stink of sulphur.

“None for him,” Nyx said. “Can you bring him tea?”

The matron moved to take away his beer.

“No, I’ll drink that too,” Nyx said. “Can I get something with a lot of meat? Like a slab of dog and some curried sweet potatoes?”

Rhys grimaced. “Soup, please,” he said. “The curried noodle. Do you have protein cakes?”

“Do I have what?” the matron asked.

He asked for that Chenjan shit at every inn, café, restaurant, and cantina Nyx had taken him to for the last six years. In Chenja, they served that woodchip-tasting crap with rice and some kind of brown sauce. When she was passing time across the border or as part of Raine’s crew, Nyx had fed that stuff to the dogs.

“Never mind,” Rhys said. “Just the soup and some bread. Plain bread.”

The matron nodded and left them.

Nyx took a slug of her beer and kept her eye on the front door. This was bel dame country, and the war vets at the bar had moved off. Word of a Chenjan man in a café would get around.