“Honestly, Isa, if I knew being herald would be such a drain on my soul, I’d have run off the moment you asked me.”
“See, that’s why you should have taken the throne,” Isa says, feeling her eyes gleam with humor. “Everyone knows it’s the herald who does all the work.”
Jomo smiles. “Maybe, but I’d look like a proper elephant in the mask-crown, so I saved everyone a world of horror.”
“I think you’d look majestic in the mask-crown.”
“You’re being kind, but thank you.”
Isa nods at the pile of missives on the table, thick white papers covered in the uniform, monochromatic red print produced by a mirrorgraph. “Anything interesting?”
He grimaces. “Love letters from my admirers. Let’s see.” He leans forward and starts flipping through the papers, then pulls one out with a look of grim amusement. “This one is from a proud Dulama pilgrim demanding immediate entry into the citadel, like I’m the one who put up the motherdamned barrier around it. By his tone he’ll probably expect me to prostrate myself in apology.”
Jomo shakes his head and pulls out another missive. “This one is from a Saire textile maker demanding that I, and I quote, ‘take the Shirika to task’ for giving his competition some sort of unfair technological advantage. Interesting and quite frankly alarming, because this isn’t the first complaint of its kind to reach my desk, but what’s even more interesting and alarming is that these people seem to think I have any sort of hold over the Shirika. Take them to task? More like hand them my nut sack on a platter.”
“What of the Mkutano?” Isa says, getting to the point of her visit. “It’s in two nights, and I still don’t know what Kola Saai has planned. I’m getting nervous.”
Jomo’s wry little smile dims, and he starts searching through the missives again. “I was going to tell you over dinner tonight, but since you’ve asked . . .” He pulls out a paper bearing the bright-red seal that marks it as an official mirrorgram from the kingdom’s highest court. “Apparently, and this came in literally an hour ago, the House of Law has determined ‘that it is within the assembly’s purview to decide the matter of the Sentinels by vote.’ Never mind that this has never been the case in centuries of continued Sentinel existence.” Jomo tosses the paper on top of the others and regards Isa like he’s defeated and tired of life. “In other words, you were right. Kola Saai is going for the last bit of power we have, and the Shirika have endorsed it.”
Jomo’s office looks toward the main temple structure at the center of the citadel, where the spires of the Shrouded Pylon rise from an inner courtyard and disappear into the skies. Somewhere out of sight, high above the temple complex, the Ruby Paragon will be spinning between the spires, visible to everyone down in the city.
Isa leans back in her chair and stares out the windows, feeling weary to the bone. She knew the Crocodile would come for the Sentinels eventually, but she didn’t think he’d do it so quickly. The Shirika really are in bed with him. But how did he buy them off? Was it really just because they wanted an empire and Father wouldn’t give it to them? Why do I find that hard to believe?
She knows it’s no coincidence that the court should decide this now. As the highest court in the kingdom and one of seven supposedly apolitical institutions headed by a member of the Shirika, the House of Law is just another extension of the Shirika’s will.
“And that’s not even the worst of it. Here, take a look.” Jomo slides a leaflet across the table, and Isa feels a chill as she picks it up. Splashed across the page is the image of a grotesque elephant-cockroach hybrid trampling all over a map of the kingdom. The Pestilence Must Go is written beneath.
“That lovely little piece of propaganda is from a new group of rabble-rousers calling themselves the Wavunaji,” Jomo says. “Reapers of vengeance. They’ve posted flyers like that all over the city, and the way they preach about the Saires, Isa, you’d think we were vermin shat out straight from the devil’s asshole.”
Isa shakes her head, the flyer trembling in her hands. “I think that sentiment comes through quite clearly right here. Dear Mother, is this how they see us?”
“There are mobs of them roaming the streets with machetes—I’ve seen them—and the only reason they haven’t started killing us on sight is the Sentinels I’ve deployed to patrol the city, much to the City Guard’s displeasure, I should add. I’ve even sent detachments to other towns and villages in the province, and more to escort Saire convoys evacuating from other provinces. What do you think is going to happen once we lose them?”
Isa drops the hateful flyer onto the table with a shudder. “I’d have to abdicate before it came to that. No crown is worth that much blood.”
“It wouldn’t guarantee our safety, though, would it?” Jomo nods cynically at the flyer. “That kind of hate wouldn’t just die because you’re not king anymore.”
“But it’d be worse if I still am,” Isa argues. “The Sentinels are the only reason it makes sense to hold on to the crown. But if we’re going to lose them anyway, why not use the crown to bargain for our people’s lives while they still have them?”
Jomo blinks tiredly, then covers his face with his big hands, shaking his head. “We need more time, Isa. I’m telling you, if in two days the Sentinels no longer exist, there will be blood, whether you’re still king or not. We need to at least delay this vote; then maybe afterward we can negotiate something that will guarantee our continued safety.”
Her eyes briefly fall onto the flyer, and she shivers again. “Have you heard anything from the headmen?”
“I’ve sent missives to the friendly ones, but they haven’t replied. I think they’re all spooked and would rather wait and see which way the wind blows. Can’t say I blame them, though. Life’s a lot riskier with an unpredictable Shirika.”
Isa’s gaze follows the line of maps displayed along the walls of Jomo’s office, each one outlining a different province. She is supposed to be king of all those provinces and their peoples, and with the Shirika on her side she would be. Without them, however, she is weaker than the headmen and an ineffectual representative of her clan.
What power do I have that the headmen don’t?
“You know,” she says, a half-formed idea taking shape in her mind, “if delaying the vote is all we need to do for now . . .”
Jomo stares at her, waiting, and then his lips stretch in a sardonic smile. “You’re welcome not to leave me in suspense, Your Majesty.”
“The orators who stand in the streets and market squares,” Isa tries to explain, “spouting whatever opinions they are paid to spout. Do you know why no one ever argues with them?”
“Ha! Because they never give you a chance to speak . . . oh.” He tilts his head in thought, a slow smile spreading across his face until he’s beaming from ear to ear. “My dear cousin, that’s brilliant!”
She sits back into her chair, the walls of reality closing back in around her. “But it’d be temporary. Delaying the inevitable, if anything.”
“But Your Majesty.” Still grinning like a fool, Jomo reaches down, unearths two clean glasses from somewhere behind the desk, and places them on the table. He proceeds to fill both halfway with golden Valausi rum. Isa doesn’t refuse hers when he hands it to her. “Every minute we buy is one more minute we can use to buy another. And so long as I have you, I’ll keep buying minutes until the Mother has no choice but to give me all the time I damn well need.”