Maya knew how that would go, if she let it. Jaedia hadn’t always been able to work through proper channels. Like when they’d cornered Hollis Plaguetouch at Bastion, she’d cut corners to get things done, greased palms, avoided notice. Maya had no doubt Nicomidi had assembled a battery of specific questions that, even if she answered honestly, would paint Jaedia as someone who operated outside the Order’s rules.
Fucking plague that.
“Are you ready to begin?” Nicomidi said.
Maya took a deep breath.
“No, Kyriliarch.”
Nicomidi blinked. A mutter ran through the room. Prodominus raised an eyebrow. Baselanthus, who had been studying something on the table in front of him, looked up suddenly.
“You want to wait, then?” Nicomidi said. “I understand if you are overwhelmed, but the Council’s time is valuable—”
“I do not wish to waste the Council’s time, Kyriliarch,” Maya said. “But I will not be answering your questions. I came before you today to say that I believe I am ready to assume my cognomen immediately.”
Nicomidi snorted. “That is hardly for you to decide. Nor is it relevant—”
“If the Council disagrees with me,” Maya said, “then I formally challenge the centarchate, as is my right under the codes of the Inheritance.”
Nicomidi froze. Across the room, the muttered conversations stopped and everyone stared. Everyone except Prodominus. The old Revivalist was hunched over, shoulders shaking, and before anyone could speak he burst into huge, bellowing laughter.
“No one has challenged for their cognomen in a hundred years,” Nicomidi snapped, when Prodominus had subsided.
“One hundred and seventeen,” Maya said. “And Agathios Canivo was defeated. It has been one hundred and forty-eight years since a challenge was successful.”
“You don’t need to do this,” Basel said. “Maya, please. The Council understands—”
“With respect to the Council,” Maya said, “my decision is made, and the challenge has been issued. How do you respond?”
“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” Basel said. “If you lose—”
Maya cut him off again. “If I lose, I give up my status as agathios and any chance of becoming a centarch. I will be confined as the Council sees fit for the rest of my natural life.”
She’d flinched on reading that part. But the Order’s rules were harsh for a reason—anyone who could touch deiat, especially after receiving most of a centarch’s training, was far too dangerous to be allowed to roam free.
“I understand the consequences,” she went on. “How does the Council respond to my challenge?”
“I …” Basel shook his head, but Nicomidi jumped in angrily.
“I move that the Council contest the challenge,” he grated. “I call for a vote at once. All in favor, stand.”
The Dogmatics got to their feet all together. The Pragmatics rose one by one, more hesitantly, all except Baselanthus, who looked down at the desk as though he’d lost something there.
“I … abstain,” he muttered. “I cannot …”
Prodominus was the last to get on his feet, still wiping his eyes. He grinned at Maya.
“I hope you win, girl,” he said. “But I have to see you fight for it.”
“That’s eleven votes in favor, with one abstention,” Nicomidi said. “The Council will contest Agathios Maya’s assumption of the title of centarch. I volunteer as champion, and—”
“Oh, no,” Prodominus said. “That’s not what the rules say.”
“Correct.” Maya forced herself not to smile.
Nicomidi’s eyes narrowed. “Then enlighten us, Prodominus.”
“The code specifies that the centarchate is a chain through the generations that is only as strong as its most recent link,” Prodominus said. Maya blinked in surprise—that was practically word for word from the Inheritance. “The member most recently raised to their title represents us all.”
“In this case,” Maya said, “I believe that would be Centarch Tanax Brokenedge. I look forward to facing him in the dueling ring.”
Chapter 17
An old saying held that there were only two roads out of Deepfire.
Like most old sayings, it wasn’t literally correct, but it contained a grain of truth. There were a dozen roads leading south, either passing through tunnels that pierced the edge of the city’s crater or switchbacking over the top, but after descending into the foothills they all joined to become the Republic Road. This highway ran through the Splinter Kingdoms of Meltrock and Drail before finally reaching Obstadt, the great entrepôt of the northern Republic. Merchant combines like the Moorcats had made their fortune running caravans along the route, putting up with plaguespawn attacks and the taxes of the Splinter Kings to bring the salvage of Deepfire—and the cheap goods of its manufactories—back to the Republic.
Going north, on the other hand, there truly was only one road. The Hunter’s Gap was a notch in the wall of the crater, where part of the mountain the Chosen weapon had blown apart had collapsed into a narrow valley, creating a broad slope of melted, misshapen boulders and bits of twisted glass. Scavengers had cut a crude stairway through the debris, descending from the crater’s edge into the valley of the Brink. The tiny river led into the network of valleys and passes that were the only practical way to move around the Shattered Peaks.
Standing at the top of the Gap, wind viciously cold against his face in spite of a thick knit muffler, Gyre looked out at the serried ranks of snowcapped mountains and felt his heart sinking. He told himself they didn’t have far to go, all things considered—Kit’s ill-fated delve toward the Tomb had started on the flank of a mountain called Snowspear, which he figured they could reach in less than a week.
“Having second thoughts?” Kit said cheerfully, coming up behind him.
“Just contemplating freezing my balls off,” Gyre muttered.
“I suppose I’ve got one up on you there,” Kit said. “Come on. It’s not much warmer down in the valley, but at least we might get eaten by plaguespawn!”
She pushed past him, trooping down the uneven stone steps that ran back and forth through the scree of broken rock. Kit’s slight figure was swathed in so much cloth and leather it was a wonder she could move, with fur-lined trousers and a jacket on top of several other layers, her blue hair concealed under a leather cap, and a wool muffler like Gyre’s over her face.
He’d had to provide gear for both of them, naturally, since Kit’s funds had disappeared with her ghoul allies. Fortunately, Gyre had a few stashes of thalers for emergencies, and cleaning them out had been just about enough to cover what they needed for their expedition. Between food, tent, bedding, and a selection of useful alchemicals, Gyre’s pack was bulging, and Kit’s was scarcely lighter.
He’d also replaced his long blade and packed a couple of spares. Kit’s banter aside, plaguespawn were no laughing matter this deep in the mountains. One thing they hadn’t been able to afford was a spare sunsplinter for Kit’s blaster, which had an unknown but probably small number of shots remaining.