Only one person would be leaving here alive today. It wouldn’t take that long to find out which.
Scarf pulled up around my face, mud under my feet, sky turning a pale blue, I went off to fight a man who could kill me with a thought.
The towers loomed large over me as I picked my way through the gap in the wall and through the ruin. The rain made the old wood stink of age, made the towers groan ominously as the moisture seeped out of them.
If I had any doubts that he was here before, the thought left me as I heard a faint sound weaving its way through the fort. A woman’s voice, deep and resonant, climbing to a high pitch as she sang a long and sad song, accompanied by the sound of violins sighing softly.
Opera. The Lady’s Lament, if I remembered correctly.
That told me three things.
Daiga had very old taste in music.
Daiga knew I was here.
Daiga didn’t give a shit.
I couldn’t blame him. Most of the barracks and storehouses had been burned away and looted over the years, leaving only a few piles of rubble and timber amid the skeletons of their old buildings. No place to ambush from. No way to sneak around. Any way I was coming, it would have to be direct.
And so that’s how I came.
And that’s how I found Daiga the Phantom.
Tall, slender, wrapped in elegant—if soiled—clothes of black and red, he sat in a pristine chair, reclining so the length of his body sprawled out over a rug on the damp earth. A necklace of trinkets—rings, folded-up letters, even a spoon—hung around his thin throat. His face was obscured by an opera mask in the shape of a leering demon, eyes black and hollow, mouth curled up in a toothy smile. He looked exactly like he did in his wanted poster.
Stacks of weapons—swords, spears, shields, bows—surrounded him like the hoard of some great beast. He had enough crates of sundries to feed the army that died here. But for all that, his attention was on the tiny table sitting in front of him, and the voccaphone playing on it, the dulcet opera music rising out of its horn.
He didn’t seem to notice me at all. Instead, he swayed to the music, his gloved fingers conducting an orchestra in his head.
“I’ve no particular use for the machinations of those barbarians in their Revolutionary farce.” Without looking at me, Daiga spoke in a voice so mellifluously cultured it probably wore a silk dress. “Weapons of war that strain to do what magic can do so effortlessly. Even this contraption is nothing compared to the real Cathama stage.” He sighed as the opera struck a high note. “But, stranded as one is outside the Empress’s good graces, it’s a blessing to still have a few reminders of civility, no?”
I stepped out into the courtyard—no sense in hiding. I stood as close as I dared, looking at the voccaphone while it blared its music. I shrugged.
“The machine cracks every time she hits a high note,” I said. “They can make a bow that fires ten bolts in three seconds, but they can never fix that fucking crack.”
“Language.” Daiga continued to conduct his imaginary orchestra. “You’ve been out here too long, I fear. No appreciation for a marvel such as this. Even the dim culture of this land is preferable to no culture at all, hmm?”
He waved a hand. His eyes glowed a faint purple behind his mask. From the table, a teacup rose of its own volition and into his hand. He took a long sip behind the mask, then made a chiding click of his tongue.
“Your pardon, madam.”
Another wave of a hand beckoned another cup from the table. It hovered toward me, hung in the air. I took it, nodding a polite gratitude, and tasted old jasmine. And for a very long time, we simply sat there, sharing a cup before we got to the business of killing each other.
“I did not expect to be found,” he said, voice solemn, like he spoke in the presence of the dead. “Not least by you.”
I stared at him for a moment. “You know me, then.”
“I have heard the stories.”
“Which ones?”
“I am only interested in one.” He stared back through the empty eyes of the opera mask. “Were you truly at Vigil?”
I nodded. “I was.”
“I see. And did you truly do what they say you did?”
I hesitated. “I did.”
“And now you are here for me.” His eyes turned away. “Did the Empress send you?”
He sounded almost hopeful, speaking through a voice ragged with disappointments. I shook my head, set the cup on a nearby crate.
“I came for another reason,” I said.
His head sank low, a sigh escaping the demon’s mouth. “I gave everything to the Imperium—my years, my body, and all the wisdom and violence that came with them. And now I am hunted, one more stray dog beset upon by hounds.”
“No one ever gets the death they want,” I replied. “Just the one they deserve.” I glanced at the glistening hoards of weapons across the courtyard. “Were you hoping for an army?”
“Every good lord requires vassals,” he muttered in response.
“Vagrants don’t get to be lords. And they usually get better vassals than children.”
The song lasted one last note, soft and fading. The voccaphone ran out, leaving nothing behind but that soft, crackling sound. Daiga’s hand hung in the air, paused on that last note.
“Did you kill them?” he asked, gentle.
“They won’t be coming to help you.”
He nodded, solemn. “They had hopes of purpose. I had hopes of giving it to them.” He gripped the armrests of his chair. “I had so many hopes.”
He rose out of his chair. I took a step back, reaching for my gun. Not smart to pull it on him yet, though. You can’t act twitchy around a mage, let alone one like Daiga.
“I shall commend them, once we are done. And you, too.” He stood his full height, his necklace of trinkets jangling as he rose. Through the hollow eyes of his mask, he stared at me. “I have heard a story that says you honor the old ways.”
That one wasn’t always true. But this time, it was. I nodded, pushed my cloak back, and exposed the hilt of my gun.
And in response, he spread his long limbs out wide, made a low bow, his empty eyes locked on me.
“Shall we?”
You didn’t often see people like Daiga anymore. Not in the Scar, anyway. Most people out here, let alone men in his circumstances, don’t do things the old way anymore. It’s all just ambushes, tricks, and murder these days. Only the Vagrants keep to the code, even when it’s not always smart to do so.
We grant each other that respect. No one else will.
“Ready when you are,” I said.
“Then may the Lady Merchant reward the worthy.”
He reached up, long fingers trailing across his necklace before they settled on a comb. A worn and well-used thing, missing a few teeth and engraved with the initials D.K.Y. It looked old.
That’s when I began to suspect I was fucked.
“Ocumani oth rethar.”
And that’s when I knew it.
The words boomed out of his mask like a clap of thunder. In the distance, I heard a faint sound like a ringing bell carried on the breeze. With terrifying swiftness, it rose in volume and became a sound that swept through my cloak, past my skin, and echoed in my very heart. The comb in his fingers disappeared in a flash of purple light, leaving behind only faint dust.