“I always did appreciate a woman who knows her blades,” Sal said, grinning. “Granted, the allure is diminished with you about to kill me and all.”
“But why do you need a sword, when you have something like the Cacophony?”
“Two reasons.” Sal held up a finger, pointed it at the Cacophony. “One, that thing doesn’t really do ‘nuance.’ Not exactly good for everyday shooting.” She held up a second finger. “Two, it shoots fireballs and giant fucking walls of sound. Ammo isn’t fucking cheap.”
Tretta’s voice went low and threatening as she leaned over the table. “Is that how Cavric met his end, Vagrant? Will we be picking pieces of him out of the dirt?”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” Sal waved a flippant hand as she leaned back again. “The Cacophony is for hunting Vagrants, bringing down big beasts, or on rare occasion, impressing someone with a nice set on them. But, like, really nice, you know? Like, kill-a-man nice, not just regular—”
“You are trying my patience.”
“Anyway, the Cacophony’s too proud to be used for killing your average Revolutionary goon. I’ve got Jeff for that.” She yawned—a gesture Tretta found even more infuriating. “And in the case of your soldier Cavric, I used neither.”
“And you expect me to believe that?” Tretta snarled.
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because nothing in your story makes sense!” Tretta threw up her hands. “You expect me to believe you approached Daiga the Phantom casually, had a pleasant conversation with him, and then fought him? Why wouldn’t you just put a bullet in his head from a hundred feet?”
Sal’s mirth seeped away.
“Because that’s not the code.”
“Again with this ‘code.’” Tretta rolled her eyes, sneering. “Has anyone else heard of it when they speak of Vagrants? Because I’ve only heard the sobbing pleas of the people you’ve robbed and the wailing screams of the people you’ve hunted and the tired sighs of the people burying the ones you killed. This ‘code,’ to me, seems like something you use to pretend you’re not animals. Why would I ever believe a bunch of common outlaw scum would abide by even that?”
“Now, I just told you a story about a gun that shoots icicles and a man who moves things with his mind. What the fuck about that suggests we’re common?” Sal shook her head. “The code is by Vagrants for Vagrants. A holdover from before the Dogsjaw Rebellion sent them fleeing into the Scar.” She shrugged. “Some traditions die hard.”
“And that’s where that ridiculous language comes from, is it? That… what’d you call it? Ocu… occa…”
“Ocumani oth rethar,” Sal finished.
“What is that? Some magical incantation?”
“The magic comes from the Barter, not the word.” Sal leaned forward, cradling her chin in one hand as she grinned lazily. “You don’t see a lot of opera in the Revolution, do you?”
“The Renowned Weiless Speakers of Indisputable Truth are some of the finest performers in all the Revolution,” Tretta replied defensively.
“No, no. Not the bullshit propaganda and sermons you nuls pretend is opera. I mean real opera. Stories about love, about loss, about a single human being raising their hand to the sky and cursing the heavens.”
Tretta sneered. “Flippant wastes of time for decadent Imperial fops.”
“Now, if you had seen real opera, you’d know those words. ‘Ocumani oth rethar’ is Old Imperial, what they spoke back when the first Emperor was crowned. It’s the line spoken at the beginning and the ending of every opera in Cathama, by tradition and by law.”
Tretta sneered. “And what does it mean?”
Sal met her with a smile. “Roughly, it means ‘look upon me and tremble.’ Like ‘Here I am.’ It’s a proclamation of presence, to let everyone know you’re arrived. And it’s how you get her attention.”
Tretta leaned forward on her hands, scowling daggers at the woman. “Whose attention?”
“Same person every Vagrant wants the attention of,” Sal said. “The Lady Mer—”
There was a sudden knock at the door to the cell. Tretta whirled upon it, eyes narrowed; she had left specific instructions not to be disturbed during the interrogation.
“Enter,” she said through clenched teeth.
The door creaked open. A meek, mustachioed face beneath a thinning top of black hair peeked around the corner. A soft, almost whimpering voice spoke from behind.
“Governor-Militant?” he asked. “Is this a bad time?”
“Clerk Inspire,” Tretta replied. “This is a very bad time.”
“Oh.”
Heedless of the harshness in her voice, he came shuffling out from behind the door. Fit only to sit behind a desk, Inspire looked even less imposing standing up. His uniform hung off his skinny body. His glasses slid down his long nose.
“It’s just that I have a request to return the weapon.” He glanced emphatically to the box holding the Cacophony. “Cadre Command is keen to hear it’s in safekeeping.”
“There are no hands safer than mine, Clerk,” Tretta snapped. “We will return the weapon when we’re done here.”
“Yes. Of course, Governor-Militant.” Inspire turned to leave, but hesitated. He turned around again. “It’s just that they’re very insistent. It’s my revolutionary duty to make sure that—”
“Any inquiries the Cadre has about it, you may direct to me, Clerk. And should one of them arrive to deliver said inquiries, only then may you disturb me again. Am I understood?”
His head bobbed in meek nodding. “Y-yes, Governor-Militant. Sorry, Governor-Militant.” He slipped behind the door and whispered, pulling it shut. “Just… you know… let me know when I should return it.”
He closed the door. There was the clicking of a lock behind it. Sal watched him disappear, eyes lingering on the door as it pressed shut. She yawned, turning her attentions back to Tretta.
“Clerk Inspire, huh?” she asked. “Do you get to choose your own names in the Revolution? I always wondered.”
“Enough.” Her words were punctuated by her fists slamming on the table, sending the box shaking. Tretta leaned forward, all but spitting as she barked at her prisoner. “I have had it with your delays!” she snarled. “You will tell us what became of Cavric right this minute or I swear I will be extremely happy to help you see just how many inches of red-hot steel can fit in a human.”
Sal blinked. She opened her mouth, as if to inquire how one came about that knowledge. But, in the first intelligent move she had made all day, she opted to say something else.
“As it happens,” Sal said, “I was just getting to that part…”
FIVE
THE SCAR
I wasn’t sure when I had dozed off, but when I heard his voice, I knew I was dreaming.
“And what are you laughing at?”
His eyes smiled when the rest of him didn’t. His face was composed of angles, each one as sharpened and perfected as the blade he polished in his lap, his body as straight and as hard. And even though he tried to look stern when he looked at me, he couldn’t hide the laughter in his eyes.