"I think the ji's done."
She watched it sizzle and smoke as he drank and hoarded all the turning forks on his side of the table.
"It's not."
He shook his head.
“It’s smoking from the sauce, not the meat.”
"Well..."
She chewed the inside of her cheek.
"You know for someone who's kitchen has three eggs and some very, very old bread in it, you're very confident in your cooking ability here."
"I'm not confident in shit. I just know how not to get sick from raw meat."
He almost smiled, and instead, drank.
Arnica wondered how she got there. To that table, in some Ceralan restaurant in the Southwestern district of Misk which looked nicer and newer than everywhere else in the city and like he had brought her there to impress her, though she wasn’t sure why she needed to be impressed (except, she did know). It was already late when they left, and it was getting later as they sat and waited for meat to cook. She didn’t like Ceralan restaurants because what was the point in eating out just to cook your own food. She didn’t tell Volkov that because it seemed like he had picked it for her and she didn’t want to offend him, though she wasn’t sure if that was because she was afraid of him, she liked him, or she pitied him. He had seemed antsy since he came back from wherever he was.
"I don't think they've been planning it, no."
.” She shook her head and answered a question she had been asked before she noticed the ji smoking. It was still smoking. The whole place must have smelled like smoke. They weren’t the only table who had ordered the ji.
"I would have known. I know Rena quite well. She would have mentioned planning it, even if it wasn't public yet.
Rena Col, palatial event planner, didn’t like her, Arnica was quite sure, but Rena liked to drink and she didn’t like to drink alone, and when you reached the strange, liminal heights of the pseudo-first-rank pseudo-ministers like they had, you didn’t have many people to drink with who weren’t reporters or aspiring ones, anyway.
“Then you think it’s new? This new?”
Volkov asked and pushed his sleeves back as he stacked a piece of oil-drenched bean curd on a baked rice disk and ate. She watched his hands. His wrists were scarred and she could see the base of the brand Maathen had put on him in Volkov Square, the last time anyone had seen the man outside of Misk.
“Means it’s a reaction, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t wait for a response; he wasn’t looking for one.
“They know you left, I figure, they know why?”
"I don't know. I didn't tell them, if that's what you're asking. Though I'm not sure who you mean by they-"
"Mhmmm..."
She nodded.
"No. I haven't seen either of them in a week or so. Since...the sickness got worse. No. I saw no one but third-ranks on my way out of the city. Though I doubt that means much. I don't know how they would know why or...about it."
“You sure?”
He looked her in the eyes and she didn't like it.
"Are you interrogating me?"
She sat up a bit, no longer interested in the ji.
“I'm just making sure we're square up.”
He didn't look away.
"There’s nothing to square up. I told you what happened. I told you why I’m here. I told you how I got here. And I’ve told you everything you’ve wanted to know since."
She took a sip of her drink and contemplated an exit.
"I'm not fucking with you, if that's what you're asking. I've got more on the line here than you do."
That was a lie. The truth was, she knew one thing and that was that they had the exact same potential for loss: loss of a life that neither really wanted. He was clearly a husk and she was only better at hiding it. Dianthus would kill them both, soon, surely, but she at least needed to pretend it mattered. To pretend she didn’t always know it would end at the hands of Dianthus Osten. Ashes to ashes or something. It was poetic, at least, and Arnica always liked poetics.
“I'm sorry.”
His tone changed in earnest and he began to remove the slices of ji from the grilltop. He replaced them with the thinner yan.
“You're right. Let's talk abut something else.”
"What else is there to talk about?"
She smiled.
"I don’t mind talking about it. I’m sure you do need information. Just don’t be an asshole about it. I’m not a soldier, remember? Or a pit fighter or whoever you talk to here."
“A pit fighter.”
He laughed that time.
“That's funny.”
"I mean, it was a pit. There was fighting. That's what pit fighting it."
“It is. Monterro just tries to dress it up is all. Bullshit. Should call it the Pit. See how much the kids want to grow up to fight there for a hundred jin.”
He drank and didn't tough the ji. She realized he was waiting for her.
"Alright, then, how's this-I don't know much about asking questions delicately, but I'll ask my questions, and if you don't like em, you don't gotta answer em and I won't say shit about it, alright?"
"Sounds good."
She began to slice the ji into strips with a too-large Ceralan dining knife.
"What are your questions?"
"How long you think he's got?"
“I thought I wasn’t a doctor—what do I know?”
She began stacking her small pieces of food. His face fell. She felt bad. He was surprisingly sensitive for a war hero/turncloak.
"I was kidding that time. Left alone, I think he’d be dead last week, but…they’ve got a team of ghouls buying him time. I’m not sure why—it doesn’t look pleasant, but…a month, perhaps sixty days, at the very most, but I doubt that.”
“The wedding's the 20th of the 3rd.”
"He won't make it. Trust me. "
She ate, he did the same, there was silence for a moment.
"Where do they fit in? You said you think...your mother's involved...what about Michael? What's he know and who's side you think he's on? They close, him and her?"
"They are."
She nodded.
"But I wouldn't call it a side. His side is...with the King and right now, the King's side is hers. Do you see what I'm saying?"
"It's a chain-and she's at the head."
He took a bite and she nodded.
"What's she want? The Empire?"
"No, not really. But you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’ll tell you later, if you like, but…I suppose I’d like to take you up on the offer to leave it, for now, anyway.”
He hesitated and then nodded, acquiescent.
"Thank you. Right now, I'll say this-she needs the empire. And the sooner my sister marries your nephew, the sooner she can solidify control over it. And I can assume that today's special announcement means that she knows wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, could interfere with that."
"Do you think she knows specifics?"
"It's hard to say. I would guess not. Yet."
"When he dies--where do you think Michael falls?"
"I don’t know. Not with her, I don’t think. But I also wouldn’t expect a rebellion. I’d anticipate a suicide, first. He doesn’t have much to live for these days as far as I can tell. Not that I’m particularly sympathetic, the man’s a miserable bitch, but he’s very loyal, at least. Without Maathen...I don’t think he’s anything at all."
"He's always been a miserable bitch, that's not new, but I see your point."
He drank and hit the gong that summoned the waitress for another round.
"I sent him a letter. Trying to get him to meet me."
"Today?"
She asked and he nodded.
"As long as it doesn’t get you killed, I can see the appeal. It would be good to know where he stands and what he knows. If you do meet him, I would advise against mentioning me, however.”
"Yeah?"
He smiled. She nodded.
"I can see it. You're similar. And he hates himself. I mean, so do I, but I'm honest about it. He isn't. Never has been."
“God, he really hasn’t changed since you knew him, you know?”
“He hasn’t changed since he was born, I’d wager.”
He leaned back.
"That’s all I got for now. Now we wait, I spose.”
“Will you do it? If he says he’ll support you?”
“Fuck no.”
He laughed and then, so did she. It was honest. And she wondered how many people in the world could have managed that same response with that same honesty.
“I fuckin hate Violl. And besides, I’m not exactly popular, am I? You gotta figure we can say what we want, but all these motherfuckers—”
he gestured sideways,
“they’d choose Dianthus and Vikram Volkov over me in half a fucking second, and who’d blame ‘em? Nah—Michael deserves to know what his boy’s playing at—he wants to do something about it, I’d help him spitball ideas—that’s it. Though I’m not against going to see what that wedding looks like, if you got any interest.”
“Of course I have interest.”
She smiled and took a sip.
“I’m petty and I hate each fiancé, who wouldn't have interest? What I don’t have is…money…or…a job…or a home…or…anything other than pettiness and interest.”
“You speak Iskan?”
He asked. She nodded.
“Monterro’ll pay you do something. He’ll try to fuck you, probably, but that’s your call and if you turn him down, he seems to take it well enough from what I’ve seen. I’ll tell him you need something next time I see him, if you want.”
“I’d appreciate it. You’re very helpful for an exile, you know?”
“Exile’s boring as fuck. If it was any less comfortable, I’d’ve killed myself, but as it stands…may as well get involved in this shit cause it’s not everyday fancy Viollan women show up with letters tellin me my brother’s dying and I’m the king of somethin. Beats watchin thrown pit fights, anyway.”
“Are they all thrown or was that a special circumstance? I couldn’t tell from Omni.”
“Special circumstance. Long ass story. Dude who won it’s Monterro’s daughter’s boyfriend—fiance, I guess. Whole fucking thing there.”
“Tell me about it.”
She ate and leaned back, almost comfortable.
"Really?"
“If you don’t mind.”
She shrugged.
“I like stories about other people. Particularly ones who don’t really matter.”
“Alright. I’ll do my best.”