Caine's Law (39 page)

C
aine looks even more worried as he tramps through the snow back toward Duncan and the others. “Angvasse—Khryl, whatever—if Ma’elKoth shows, I need you to distract him. I just need his attention elsewhere until I can figure out why Kris isn’t here yet.”

Duncan says, “Ma’elKoth? He’s not dead?”

“He’s kind of God now.”

“He was kind of a god before.”

“Not a god. God.” He makes a face as though the word stings his mouth. “It’s complicated.”

“Apparently everything is. Who is Kris, and why do you need him here?”

“An old friend from school. Kris Hansen.”

“I remember the name—killed on his freemod training, wasn’t he?”

“He’s the current Ankhanan Emperor. And he’s the Mithondion.”

Duncan can only shake his head. “He’s fey? How could he have gone to school with you?”

“That’s complicated too.”

“I met the Mithondion—must be fifty years ago now. T’ffarrell, his name was. The Twilight King. He bore an epithet—the Ravenlock, for a streak of black in his hair, very rare for feyin. Davia and I interviewed him at considerable length for Tales—he was exceedingly gracious and patient with us, and seemed quite determined that we should depict his culture
accurately. Do you know, he mentioned that we were only the second meeting he’d had with humans since the Deomachy?”

“I’ve heard that.”

“If your friend Kris Hansen is the Mithondion …” Duncan sighs, captured by memory of brighter days and regret at how swiftly they had passed. “T’ffarrell was well beyond a thousand years old, of course, but still youthful and strong. Something terrible must have happened.”

“It did,” said a soft and unfamiliar voice from beyond his head, where he could not see. “It was us. We happened.”

At this, all Caine’s tension washes away and leaves no trace of its passing. “Kris. Damn, it’s good to see you.”

When Kris steps into Duncan’s field of vision, he looks like a man with the face of a fey; he is dressed only in a simple shirt and pants of white linen. He wears no shoes and bears no weapon, and his platinum hair spills unbound to the middle of his back. “Hari. It’s been too long.”

Duncan reflects privately, and somewhat sourly, that apparently Kris can call him Hari without getting stabbed for it.

Caine gathers him into a hug, then releases him again and looks him up and down with a smile that, astonishingly, looks like he’s actually happy. “Yeah, well, whenever it hasn’t been too long, it’s been too fucking short. So, what, you were hiding?”

“Some. I’m having a little trouble with a death cult, and just because a Call sounds and looks and feels like you doesn’t mean it is. Especially once I get here, and find you standing around a man with a big black sword through his chest.”

Caine nods. “Deliann Mithondionne, meet Duncan Michaelson.”

“Duncan Michaelson,” Kris says thoughtfully. He crouches on Duncan’s right and offers his hand. “I’ve been told you’re dead.”

“I’ve been told that too,” Duncan says, and shakes Kris’s hand. “Deliann Mithondionne—wait, are you the Changeling Prince?”

“I was. How have you heard that name?”

Duncan smiles. “I had a lot of time on my hands and nothing but a net reader for company. Feature stories about prominent natives.”

“When you were in the Buke. Hari told me.”

“So, the Changeling Prince wasn’t a changeling at all, but an Actor?”

“I was born on Earth, but I am not an Actor. I never was.”

Caine says, “And this is the horse-witch.”

“Ah. A pleasure.”

“Thank you. He speaks highly of you, and thinks of you more highly
than he speaks,” she says. “He also doesn’t want to tell you that he knows the Eyes of God have been checking up on him.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Caine says. “Now they’re gonna be twice as hard to spot.”

“Not for us.”

“Well … yeah, okay. Just for me. Not for us.”

“Then what are you complaining about?”

“You see what I have to deal with every day?” He waves a hand. “Her over there? That’s Angvasse Khlaylock, give or take.”

She nods greeting to him. “Emperor.”

He returns the nod. “Lord of Battle.”

Caine blinks. “You know him?”

“You might recall how acute my perception can be.”

“I sure as fuck recall now. What’s this death cult problem of yours?”

“One you should stay out of.”

“Sure. It’s just, y’know, somebody started a death cult and it’s not about me? I’m insulted. I think my feelings are hurt.”

“It’s about you enough,” Kris says heavily. “It’s a cult of Berne.”

“You’re pulling my dick. What do you call them, Bernies?”

“Bernites. It’s not a joke. Sacrifices to St. Berne are gang-raped and tortured to death.”

“Jesus Christ.” He looks entirely disgusted. “So, what, I’m too tame for them? Starting wars and murdering gods just isn’t, y’know, transgressive enough anymore?”

Duncan stares up at this man who looks like his son, and reflects that his feelings apparently really are hurt. He takes pride in the strangest things …

“Hari, we’ve got it, all right? Don’t give it another thought.”

“Ever change your mind, say the word. Anytime. Anywhere. I’m your guy.”

“I’m hoping we can manage this without anything so … catastrophic.”

“Hey, Ankhana was
not
my fault—”

“Ankhana?” Duncan asks. “What happened in Ankhana? Or did it happen
to
Ankhana?”

Hari and Kris give him identical glances and say in perfect unison, “It’s complicated.”

“I only ask because I’m trying, and failing, to imagine an event so monstrous that even Caine refuses to take any blame for it …”

“Yeah, funny. Shut up.” He turns back to Kris. “Look, I know you’re
busy, y’know, running the Empire and shit, but I need you to do this one thing.”

“If it lies within my power, and doesn’t violate my obligations to the Empire and to Home.”

“We’ve got bigger problems than Bernies.”

“Bernites.”

“I need to show you something that never happened.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s the past, but it’s not
our
past. Not yet. The point is, we can
make
it our past.”

“You want to change the
past
? Like an
Intervention
? You’re Monastic—how can you even consider such insanity?”

“The governor chip on my
consider insanity
engine burned the fuck out a long time ago. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the survival of the universe depends on it.”

“Depends on it being done, or on you being stopped from doing it?”

“Look, we both know I sometimes jump into shit without checking all the angles and fields of fire.”

“Sometimes?”

“But you’re the opposite. And this could end up being about you. I need to know that you’re okay with it.”

“Do I need to remind you what happens when I let you talk me into something?”

“That’s what I’m going to show you. What will happen if I talk you into this.”

“If.”

“Yeah. Everything’s provisional. Contingent.” He looks down at Duncan. “Everything I’ve shown you is the same. Contingent. It can all be wiped away with one snap of somebody’s fucking fingers. I’m showing you the
best
outcome, you get it? What happens if I get everything I ask for and pull off everything I think I can do.”

Kris still looks dubious. “What exactly is this
everything
you’re after?”

“What if,” Caine says softly, “you could take back the worst thing you ever did?”

T
he bartender’s primal, and his hair has more lacquer on it than his extravagantly long blush-pearl fingernails do. The hair sweeps up in three preposterous platinum waves like the tucked wings and stiff tail of a stooping peregrine. The black pearl studs on his pierced lower lip manage to suggest eyes and his chin is plenty pointed enough to be the beak. His cheeks have the waxy translucency of a longtime
lachrymatis
addict, and his hands show just a hint of the shivers—he’s still a little high. His eyes are the color of stainless steel, and show only professional welcome and equally professional reserve, which is pretty impressive considering the accumulated filth of hard travel that stains my clothes, not to mention my generally shaggy smelliness.

I flip a gleaming royal onto the bar. “Brandy. Tinnaran, if you have it. I don’t care about vintage.”

The bartender looks distinctly offended. His professional smile widens until I can see his canines. From a fey, that’s not friendly. Probably shouldn’t have said
if you have it
.

He fishes a nondescript jug from somewhere in front of his crotch and turns toward the mirror, reaching for a snifter. “Will the gentleman have a steamed glass?”

“Fuck, no. And leave the snifters to the tourists,” I tell him. “A cordial will do. Or a, y’know, a pony.” Which I find obscurely amusing, but it’s not a joke I can share.

Some of the piss drains out of his expression. He spins a tall slim pony onto the woven silk coaster and fills it from the jug, then watches expectantly as I sip. It’s good.
Really
good; the only thing wrong with it is that it’s not Scotch. He can read me well enough to know he got it right, and he gestures with his left hand. The royal disappears from the bartop and appears in his right. Probably so he wouldn’t chip his nails.

“Thanks. Keep the change.”

His feathery, near-white left eyebrow arches an additional millimeter. “Change, sir?”