Vagabonds Read online

  Others who had been considered important enough to sit with the Marshal made their own little speeches. While they went off about their own affairs, Sejit scanned the dozens of tables. Tess, while not on stage like some of the others, had nonetheless been afforded a front-row seat. They made eye contact, and Tess lifted a glass before returning her attention to the young man seated beside her.

  When all the speeches ended, the time for the main feast arrived. Given how sparse the food upon each plate was, there was little doubt of its expense. The servers worked in a quick and steady flow to deliver to everyone, save for one woman. Because the universe had a peculiar sense of humor, she had the honor of bringing the meals up to the stage.

  “Great speech,” Sophia said as she placed Sejit’s dinner, “You even got the staff fired up.”

  “Dreams can do that,” Sejit said, picking up a knife and giving it a twirl, making it dance in her grip, “When the masses have none of their own, let them borrow yours.”

  “Coming from anyone else that’d be such a hopeful thing, but from you, it’s just like, I don’t know, getting the puppets to put on their own strings.”

  At her remark, Sejit smirked, “You are learning.”

  Sophia pursed her lips. “I’d rather learn how to have fun, like someone my age is supposed to, instead of how to manipulate people and just how much blood a body contains,” she said before hustling off to finish delivering plates.

  As Sophia moved down the line to the Marshal with her cart, Sejit’s nose twitched. There had been three meal options for the evening: Beef, lamb, and a curious peasant option of chicken livers. Marshal Julian was the only one in the top-billing group to select the livers, and probably the only one at all. But, seeing as how it was his favorite dish, Wophin had been forced to include it during the planning.

  The scent of cooked liver never did sit well with her. One of the rare occasions where she was thankful for her sense-limited human shape. Her beef was good, but had the taste of mass-production. She chomped idly, noting with disdain her wine was just about out.

  Marshal Julian coughed.

  Then he coughed again, louder.

  And louder still. He drew attentions.

  A hacking fit shook his body.

  Sejit bolted to her feet and wrapped her hands around him, making a fist at his sternum just as someone shouting that the Marshal was choking.

  However, she noted that while, yes, he couldn’t breathe, he wasn’t choking. Someone choking on food made a distinct sound from someone choking because their windpipe was being crushed, or when the body had lost the ability to breathe. The sound he made belonged to the third group.

  People were beginning to yell for doctors.

  She threw the man to the ground on his back, to the shock of those gathered.

  “What are you doing?!”

  A glare silenced them.

  Sejit tore away his suit and undershirt. Thick fat may have covered his chest and stomach, but it couldn’t hide the spasms. Within a few more seconds his coughing had tapered off, leaving him to gasp in horrible silence and claw at his throat and chest.

  “Pin his hands before he hurts himself,” Sejit commanded.

  One of the senior generals obliged, chest jangling with badges of pride as he kneeled.

  She brought her palms to Julian’s chest and bore down, blowing the wind out of him in an agonized gasp. When she released, a short rush of air flooded into his lungs. Not enough. She pressed harder, to the point he would’ve cried out if he was able. She felt a rib crack. Still not enough air was getting into him. Skin was going blue and pale.

  Three doctors had rushed in. “Tilt his head back,” one said, sweeping down to try and push Sejit out of the way. Instead, he’d stumbled backward, falling on his ass like he’d tried to shove a brick wall.

  “He is not choking,” Sejit said, licking her lips in preparation, “Diaphragm paralysis.”

  As they asked if she was sure, she pressed her lips to his and blew, again and again. He had calmed some as his lungs filled and emptied. An ambulance was on its way.

  “Can someone else—” Sejit began but halted as he began to writhe. Through her contact on his chest, she felt his heart begin to tremble and then lurch into an unsteady gallop. It missed a beat. Two beats. The rickety gallop came crashing down and his heart stopped altogether.

  The doctors worked as a team to push Sejit away, but there was nothing they could do. No amount of CPR would kick-start his heart.

  By the time the ambulance arrived, Marshal Julian laid still and silent.

  The police were on their way.

  Sejit remained on stage, mere feet from the body. All around her people milled and whispered. Phones were out, snapping photos alongside the photographers.

  “Now that was a dinner to remember,” Tess said, seated on the edge of a long table next to Sejit.

  “I needed him alive and well,” Sejit said, hushed but strained, “Without him to pressure certain individuals, the margins are going to be narrow.”

  “You’re sure he’d push for you to be nominated instead of himself? He’s been Marshal for what, 20 some years? First vote in almost as many thanks to that whole civil war business.”

  Sejit turned her attention to the cold, half-eaten livers. “The war drained him, he wanted out. People forget he wasn’t always a round, tired man.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Never dealt with him personally, but humans seldom give up power willingly.”

  Sejit picked up a fork through a napkin and jabbed one of the uneaten livers. She brought it to her mouth and licked once, then twice. Her face screwed up and her nose wrinkled.

  “Assassination?” Tess said with false surprise, “What’s the secret ingredient?”

  Sejit bundled the bit of meat in the same napkin and stuffed it in her pocket. She rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth; a slight numbness had taken hold.

  Flashing blue lights appeared at the gates.

  “Yes, and I am not sure,” Sejit said, backing away from the plate.

  Officers and journalists were flooding in and within moments the two were ushered away from the stage by the police as they setup a perimeter cordon. Sejit tossed the bit of liver away in a garbage once she was sure she wouldn’t be noticed. Officers and detectives began asking questions, and once questions were sufficiently answered, people were made to leave—but not until then.

  Eventually, Sejit, Tess, and Sophia were reunited outside the gates.

  “That was awful,” Sophia said, “I can’t believe he just died like that…”

  “Poison’ll do that.”

  “What? Who would want to kill him? I thought he was pretty popular.”

  “Gakaka! That’s the trick, isn’t it? The more some people like you, the more other people don’t.”

  “So how come you’re still alive?” Sophia said, adding a ‘hmph’ for good measure.

  “Oh ho? Does that mean you like me?”

  Sejit had been mulling over the taste, and during the questioning, the effect. Her body had dealt with the poison easily enough, but that plate of livers could have killed everyone in attendance. Poisons weren’t her area of expertise, but there was something about it that felt familiar.

  Yes, that must be it. But where do I remember it from?

  “It was venom,” Sejit said, “Strong one at that, but not especially fast-acting. And one I do not believe their forensics will detect.”

  “How come?” Sophia asked, beating out Tess.

  The experience rose from the murky depths of her past. “I am certain it came from Hu’phed.”

  “Hah?” Tess’s jaw hung open, “Why would he want to kill your dear Marshal? That snake hasn’t done anything noteworthy in centuries.”

  “Who can say? Perhaps I should ask him,” Sejit said, cracking her knuckles.

  “If you even know where he’s slithering about these days.”

  “Wait,” said Sophia, repeating his name silently
several times. Confusion knit her brows together. “Isn’t Hu’phed a god of healing and medicine?”

  “You think someone who made some healing poultices can’t also dabble in a bit of murder? Probably came straight from his fangs,” Tess said.

  Sejit smacked one fist into a palm. “His fangs. Yes—I remember now.”

  “That so? What do you remember?” asked Tess.

  “We fought once, long ago. He managed to sink his fangs into my leg.”

  “Hu’phed actually fought someone? And he picked a fight with you of all the gods?”

  “It was more of a dispute. I questioned him about… someone who had died under his care. He took it as an insult to his skills and challenged me to a duel, on the condition that we fight as human. When he was backed into a corner, he changed to a serpent and struck.”

  “Imagine that, a snake who doesn’t hold his promises. What’d you do after?”

  “I returned the favor and crushed him in my jaws, though he survived. He did not know that I carried Yf’s blessing.”

  “What?” Sophia shook her head, “No way. How would he still be alive? And who… Never mind.”

  “You think gods would die so easily?” Tess said, amusement coloring her response, “Though I suspect he took a while to recover.”

  “He did, though we have not met or spoken since.”

  “Well, now we have our answer. Probably. Only thing left to do is find our scaly friend.”

  “Indeed. Sophia,” Sejit began, much to the girl’s dismay, for she already knew the following words, “I have a new project for you…”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ifon leaned in his high-backed chair, seated at the head of a long granite table. His dark gray military uniform, with its square cuts and straight lines, accentuated his broad shoulders and well-muscled physique. He was the spitting image of the sort of character one would find on a military propaganda poster with a jaw strong enough to knock out the enemy all by itself. The designers loved him because they didn’t need to bother with any sort of photo manipulation. Made for an easy job.

  He smoothed out a crease on his dress slacks while his five Provincial Governor-Generals bickered about minor affairs of state. Production reports, financials, troublesome individuals within their local governments, and other such.

  As trifling as most of the matters were, occasionally there would be a tidbit of important information. Kamona Tristguard, an otherwise shriveled old woman with gray hair and a permanent stoop, was the Governer-General of Doumin province. Doumin took up the heart and southwest areas of the nation, which happened to be the warmest and flattest—and the most agreeable to agriculture. Coanphany’s breadbasket was experiencing a plague of wheat-beetles, which exacerbated the country’s already tenuous food supply situation.

  The man seated closest to Ifon on his right was Bernand Fianski and oversaw the Tourphan province. He was an older man of portly build who had founded his own mining company. Within 25 years it’d become a powerhouse, having bought out any competition, leaving it the de facto mining entity within the country. While his province was the smallest, the region’s extensive mineral wealth not only brought in significant capital but allowed Coanphany to avoid imports on common industrial metals.

  “Burn the wheat and sow it again,” Bernand said, “It’s still early in the year.”

  “Are you daft?” Kamona retorted, “Any summer wheat planted now would freeze and die before it could be harvested.”

  Bernand harrumphed. “It’s hardly into spring. I may not have your… rural background, but I know wheat does not take more than half the year to grow.”

  The elderly woman shook her head and gazed up towards the ceiling in mock prayer. “Gods save us from the ignorance of miners who think themselves farmers.”

  “Ignorance? What do you—”

  Ifon pinched the bridge of his nose, “Enough.”

  Bernand immediately nodded his head in a short bow. “Yes, Sovereign.”

  “Apologies, Sovereign Ifon,” Kamona echoed.

  Unlike the other gods, Ifon did not feel the need to mask his name. Mortal detractors chided him for taking on the mantle of the ancient god of war, while supporters rallied behind the name as a symbol of strength. His name was so ubiquitous, in fact, he had no need for a surname. A few citizens remembered his supposed ‘real’ name, how he’d taken power in a coup all those years ago. Within that false name was a carefully built past, hidden and nuanced so well that anyone who put the pieces together would never doubt its validity. Thus, he was safe.

  “I trust in Kamona’s judgment on the matter. While I would prefer not to, we can re-allocate certain budgets if required.”

  They nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Kamona’s silent gloating directed at Bernand.

  Why is it no matter how much I stress cooperation, they continue to play their games? Maybe it’s time I had another re-organization… No, not so soon after the last one.

  “Might I direct attention towards the recent events in Yosel and Waruvia?”

  The man at the other end of the table, Tomar Fulstead, was the youngest member of the Governor-Generals and overseer of the province of Jalkupt, which contained the country’s capital and major centers of tourism and finance.

  Youngest, in this instance, meant not quite so many lines had been etched across his face as on the others. He was sturdy, though by no means bulky, possessed of a middling stature, and bespectacled. Combined with his tendency to speak softly and willingness to allow the other governors to speak over him and dismiss him without rebuttal relegated him to the bottom of the ladder, despite the fact he had been in the position longer than any of them. To them, he was someone who could be overlooked, someone who’d just been put in the position because he happened to be good with numbers.

  Both he and Ifon did not mind.

  “Assassination is vogue these days,” said Mandrake Thran, governor of the Leopold province. Should an invasion be launched upon Waruvia, it would be through his region. Of all the governors, he stood to lose the most from the death of Yole Manick. After all, war was good for business.

  “One by gunshot, the other by poison. And no culprits have been identified in either case,” said Bernand, shifting in his seat, “Most troubling.”

  “Terrible about Yole’s son. Who could kill a child like that?” Kamona shook her head, “Abominable.”

  “Someone who understands the politics of the world, how a single bullet can be as effective as any military,” said Ifon.

  Tomar looked up at Ifon, holding his gaze for a moment.

  “How so?” Bernand asked, “Yole I can understand, he would have been a destabilizing factor in the region with that ambition of his. Julian, however, was president of a squalid stretch of sand and misery. His death changes nothing.”

  Tomar interlocked his fingers and leaned forward. “Jasmine Reith.”

  “Who?” Bernand asked, narrowing an eye.

  “A wealthy young thing and the talk of the whole region. They love her since all the money she’s been spending has rejuvenated the capital,” Kamona chimed in, pausing to tap a finger to her lips in thought, “She was the guest of honor at that banquet. A rising star in their politics.”

  “Good looking woman,” interrupted a burly bear of a man who had, until that point, been uninvolved for the past hour. Lysal Warder didn’t speak often, but it wasn’t because he was a quiet man like Tomar. Rather, he was the sort who had a narrow field of interests and if the topic at hand didn’t involve them, he could be counted on to not hear a thing. One could have a confidential conversation in front of him about most anything and it’d remain confidential. His domain was the largest, but if it wasn’t for the oil fields, it’d be little more than a stretch of frozen dirt and poverty. Along with the territory gained at the end of the war, the oil provided the final boost needed to catapult Coanphany to international prominence.

  Only one person in the room knew Ifon had paid for the expensiv
e geological survey of the region all those years ago and had the results ‘leaked’ to those with the wealth to capitalize upon it.

  “Haughty bitch, though. Needs someone to break her in.”

  “And I’m sure you’d nominate yourself to that task, hmm?” Kamona asked, drenching her words in venom.

  “Victory doesn’t mean a thing if there isn’t a challenge,” Lysal said, rocking back in his chair.

  Ifon snorted, drawing his Governors’ attention. He hadn’t intended to let slip his thoughts on the discussion, but it’d been a while since he’d heard such an amusing joke. With all eyes upon him, he elected to remain silent and indicated for their conversation to continue.

  Making a show of clearing his throat, Tomar continued from where Kamona had left off. “Yes. She’s a notable figure in archeology and anthropology, owing to her penchant for discovering untainted ruins and treasures. In the span of ten years she uncovered more history than entire university departments had in their entire existence. With her wealth and impressive collection, she began construction of her museum five years ago in Sioun. Even funded supporting businesses with loans or outright donations to attract people—including Seraphina Isolde.

  “How did Reith ever attract the attention of that kind of money?” Inquired Bernand.

  Tomar leaned forward, fingers steepled, “An excellent question.”

  This set the group to murmuring, including a point regarding Jasmine’s age, since she didn’t seem to be all that old.

  “While the ISA is looking into these assassinations,” Ifon said, making eye contact with each of his governors, “It would be of service to the country if any personal investigative bodies could assist, even if said bodies are… unauthorized.”

  None of the governors flinched, but they held his gaze long enough to give their silent acknowledgment. If there was one thing Ifon could count on, it would be their ambition.

  “Matters of financing aside, it’s expected that someone in her position would become a factor in the local politics. However, she set about embroiling herself at the national level from the first brick laid. In a short amount of time she has positioned herself as an attractive candidate in their coming election,” Tomar continued.