"It's my honor, General," said Sullen, knowing a dismissal when he heard one, and wishing he was good for something other than chasing after his no-account uncle. "Feel better."

"Thanks, Sullen," she said again, but her eyes were back on nothing. "And thank your grandfather for me."

Sullen set off quick as he could, so she wouldn't see his face, wouldn't see that for a frost-cold boy from the Frozen Savannahs, he couldn't think about Fa without melting. He iced himself back over by focusing on the task at hand, what sometimes felt like the only task he'd ever known. Though his gut told him to look for his uncle back in the rear of the camp, hiding out in his tent, he decided to give Maroto the benefit of the doubt one last time, and started his search down on the hazy battlefield.

Instead of waiting for Hoartrap and Maroto to fall into it, the Gate swam up to catch them, and Maroto instinctively closed his eyes as he felt the textured blackness press its slick, cool membrane against his face and chest. It accepted him, and he was sinking into heaving mulch, fronds or cilia brushing against him, pushing him along, pulling him up, and just as he pondered if he'd rather drown in deviltry with his eyes closed or open, his ears popped and he felt solid ground beneath his feet, cool air on his skin.

After the Gate, the sensation felt all wrong, he felt all wrong, unable to balance, and even as he tried to slowly lower himself to all fours lest he fall, his injured, overworked, and heretofore bug-numbed knee gave out on him. His eyes flashed open and his hands came up to break his fall, but he couldn't even see the ground as he toppled forward, the smoke thicker than ever. Hoartrap caught one of his arms and jerked him to the side, so instead of landing on his palms he cracked his ribs into toothsome rocks. Some improvement. He was about to roll away from the treacherous sorcerer, so he could spring up and pay him back proper for shoving Maroto into a fucking Gate, like that was ever acceptable, when a stern wind whipped up from the ground just in front of him, dispersing some of the smoke...

Not smoke. Fog. Sea fog, to be particular, as evidenced by the emerald waves crashing far below, against the dark ankles of the cliff he had nearly fallen over. He gingerly edged away from the rough precipice where he'd sprawled like a cat on a windowsill, and only when he had a few good feet between him and the cliff did he rise to his good knee and look around for Hoartrap. The sorcerer hadn't gone far, inspecting the bloated eucalyptus trees, sap-dripping vines, and greasy-looking bushes that closed in tight around the tiny scrap of open rock overlooking the sea.

Wherever they were, it was a very long way from the Lark's Tongue. The Bal Amon jungles, maybe. Hopefully. He knew how to get back from Bal Amon, once he'd thrown Hoartrap over the edge of the cliff. He tried standing up, but it wasn't happening, his equilibrium still trying its best to roll him into the sea. Woof.

"It's hard not to be impressed," said Hoartrap, turning back to Maroto.

"Well, I'll manage it somehow. Where in the bleeding holes I'm about to put in your face are we?"

"Your new home," said Hoartrap, fishing under his heavy robes and pulling out a foot-long centipede that had nested somewhere in the vicinity of his groin. When he was on a bender it took a lot to disincline Maroto from begging a hit off a bug, but that did it. Holding the unnaturally docile arthropod up in his fist and raising his other hand in the air, Hoartrap looked all set to carry out some more of his witchy shit, when he paused and gave Maroto a glum smile. "I do wish it had turned out different, Maroto. You were always my favorite."

"Are you going to kill me, is that what this is?" Maroto lurched up to his feet, then stumbled back down to a knee. "You promised, you treacherous dick! Back in Emeritus, when all that crazy shit with the Faceless Mistress happened, who stuck his neck out to save you? And this is the thanks I get?"

"Yes, Maroto, this is the thanks you get," said Hoartrap, shaking the centipede at him. "More than I'd do for most. I swore I'd never kill you, and I take my oaths every bit as seriously as you do. You have nothing to fear from me. It's whatever creatures who dwell in the sea caves and jungles that I'd be concerned about, were I you."

Maroto looked down at his befouled, bedraggled armor, his single sandal, his empty knife sheath, and then raised his hands in disbelief. "You're breaking your oath, Hoartrap. This is murder."

"Oh tosh," said Hoartrap, crushing the centipede in his fist. "You're a resourceful boy, I'm sure you'll be back to troubling me in no time."

Maroto dove up from his crouch, hoping to take Hoartrap to the ground where his screwy balance wouldn't be as much of a detriment, but even moving in the right direction proved beyond him: instead of connecting with the sorcerer, Maroto landed beside him, squarely on a big succulent plant. By the time he'd removed himself from the spiny vegetation, Hoartrap was gone, only a ring of blackened rock and vegetation to mark where he'd disappeared.

Even when his balance finally returned, Maroto balked at blundering straight into the alien jungle. He was in that strangely sober liminal space between a powerful binge and an equally powerful hangover, and he didn't want to rush into anything. Instead, he limped back over to the cliff, dangled his legs over the side, and thought about Purna, and how she was dead right now, dead for nothing more than wanting a crack at glory and trusting him to show her the way. He sat there for a long time, feeling the sun-warmed limestone against his legs and watching the mist thicken, mourning her, missing her already. Then he rose wearily to his feet, and set out to kill every single person who had in any way contributed to his exile on this far-flung seascape, and to the death of his dearest friend. No excuses, no second chances. No devil in hell as bad as the Mighty Maroto, now that he sought vengeance for Tapai Purna.

"That's, uh, Tapai Purna, yeah?" said Sullen as he reached the two familiar figures who were carrying a third between them as they slogged up the hill toward camp. "Is she..."

"She's something," said Zosia. "But dead ain't one of 'em."

"Sturdy's the word I'd use," grunted the only member of Maroto's party who had always looked smooth and soft rather than tough and scarred. Diggelby, that was his name; no way Sullen would have come up with that handle on his own. He didn't look so smooth and soft anymore, and the little devil dog that he'd always carried around was nowhere to be seen. "Sturdy or, oof, well built-sounds nicer than heavy as lead shot. Be a chap and lend a hand?"

"Can't, on orders to bring my uncle to Ji-hyeon." Noticing Zosia's amused expression, Sullen explained, "Bring Maroto or Purna to the general, I mean, to give their reports. But Purna don't look able. She also wants you to tell her about the Myurans, ma'am."

"Ma'am?" Zosia ignored the chuffing sound her devil made. "Don't you mean Captain Zosia?"

"I did mean that," Sullen said quick-like, anxious to be away. He didn't like her looking at him now any more than he had before, feeling more exposed than ever without Grandfather to literally cover his back. "Better be away, though-you two seen him around?"

"He went off into the smoke with Hoartrap," said Diggelby, looking back down to the hellish field. "If they're not back yet they must still be out there."

"Thanks," said Sullen, trying to get shy of Zosia as fast as possible. Having her watch him so closely felt much like being under the eyeless gaze of the Faceless Mistress; that he'd blundered into a feud between the two inscrutable, overly interested powers was a tragedy fit for the singers. "I'll sniff him out, then. Meantime, the general wants all able officers to report in at the barbers' tents, so you two could, um, do that."

"Sullen?" Diggelby looked in the dumps for the first time since Sullen had met the man.

"Yeah?"

"If you see Duchess Din and Count Hassan... We lost track of each other, and I don't know if they're back at the tents, or..."

"I'll keep a watch out for 'em," said Sullen, one of Maroto's cronies the last person he would have predicted himself relating to when this awful day had started.

"And if you find Maroto, give him a message," said Zosia.

"Sure," said Sullen, thinking maybe he should have learned Immaculate letters just like Grandfather always said, so he could've jotted down a list.

"Tell him to quit being such a scared little crybaby and get back to camp. I've got a surprise for him."

"Um... sure."

Zosia and Diggelby resumed carrying the unconscious girl up the hill, the silver-haired woman's devil dog giving Sullen the side-eye. Getting a gander at Purna as they hauled her past, she didn't look to have a mark on her, so she must've been knocked upside the head. Sullen hadn't previously noticed that the girl also had the blood of shamans, and he asked himself how'd he miss something obvious as that. If he was to survive on his own, he'd need to get out of his thick skull more, start paying attention to everything, instead of waiting for Grandfather to tell him what was what.

South a ways on the hillside, some folks with the red tabards, shields, or other heraldry of the Crimson Empire were sat on the ground, surrounded by soldiers in blue and being talked at by one of the many Cobalt captains whom Sullen hadn't met. He wondered what they'd do with them, or with the Myurans they'd captured on the mountain. Found himself hoping they'd just give them a word and let them off, like Silvereye had done with the unnamed pups who had climbed a rope of moonbeams up to her kingdom in hopes of earning their names. Kind of doubted it would play like that.

Coming down toward the point where the slope got real sharp just before leveling off into the valley, he figured this must have been where the worst of the fighting went down. Too many dead to count, and the living didn't look much better, some just standing there, blinking into the smoke, or sitting on top of corpses that might have been their friends, heads in their hands. The worst were the laughing ones, their strained cackles even less welcome in this solemn place than the moans and screams and sobs. The smoke flowed in high, thick currents down here, and Sullen stopped walking, contemplating the veiled valley from whence gloomy figures emerged like devils from darkness. Sullen felt like Rakehell, after he'd evaded the Eater of Mortals by hiding in the Land of the Coward Dead, watching the blind specters march past him in their everlasting retreat from the honor of the battlefield...

Except that was all a great heaping pile of shit, wasn't it? Sullen had seen enough fights by now to know a battlefield was the last place on the Star you'd find honor, only heartache and horror, which were hardly the same thing. And as for the rest of it, that was shit, too, Rakehell and Old Black, Boldstrut and Count Raven, the whole stinking pile of them. They were all just songs the Horned Wolves made up to boast about how great they'd been, back in the day-all those places their ancestors went, all the Star-shaking deeds they'd done, why hadn't anyone heard of 'em outside the Savannahs? Sullen had asked everywhere they went, hoping their travels would take them past the Altar of Plagues or the Kingdom of the Oblivion Eaters, but even after he'd gotten the hang of the Crimson tongue everyone just looked at him like he was a fucking idiot. Are we anywhere near the Lake of Satsumo? There's a tomb someplace 'round there where my ancestor laid out Old Man Gloom and his child... No?

Of course not. Because none of it was real, it was a stew of half-truths and full lies bards ladled out to quiet down unruly brats and feed the fancy of overgrown children like Sullen, who could recite a hundred sagas but didn't know enough about the real world to be of practical use to a single other person. If he'd spent more time taking things on their face instead of puzzling over their secret meanings or how they'd fit into the song of his days, maybe his life would have been a lot easier back in the Savannahs. Maybe Grandfather would still be with him. Maybe he'd have told Ji-hyeon what he thought of her before Keun-ju showed up, or even after, instead of avoiding her and hoping all the while she'd come to him. Maybe he'd have come at Zosia head-on, demanded to know if she was really planning to light up a whole city with liquid fire. Maybe he wouldn't be alone, utterly, completely alone, with not a soul to miss him if he never came back to the camp, never came back to the Savannahs, never went anywhere but into the barrow beside Grandfather.

Looking at the great wavering wall of grey mist before him, Sullen felt helpless as ever-where to begin, that was always the question. What was he supposed to do with himself, when his whole ruddy existence amounted to this, trying to find solid ground in a world of smoke and shadows? Nothing to do but what he always did, put his head down, wander ahead, and hope he either got lucky or somebody showed up to point the way for him. Like the Faceless Mistress had, far as that went-she was the one to tell him where to find his uncle, and if he hadn't run into her he'd still be wandering the Star, Grandfather in tow...

The colorless haze and the unnatural stillness of the place as Sullen pushed through the smoke brought Emeritus back to him, all right, what had seemed so dreamlike again as hard and real as the ache in his chest, the sob that still lurked in his throat. They'd had some good days in that place, him and Grandfather exploring a realm that almost made the old songs seem plausible. Here, in this unearthly field, he felt that same sense of giddy uncertainty, of being in a place between the real world and that of heroes, and he half expected the Faceless Mistress to appear behind the next bank of smoke. Wouldn't that be an ending to please any teller of tales, if his reflexive fear when he'd looked over from the hill and seen a flock of devils had been justified? If all the pandemonium and this sinister quiet that came after was the result of a vengeful god come to punish him for not following through on his quest, for raising spear and knife beside Zosia instead of against her?

"Stop it," he told himself, back to his old habits already. "It's not a song, Sullen."

"Oh, but all the Star's a song, isn't it?" came the melodious voice of Hoartrap, smoke sliding off his robes as he stepped atop a dead horse, took a bow. "Careful, laddie, I hear this field is crawling with Horned Wolves."

"Don't call me that," said Sullen, cursing himself for the careless wish that somebody would show up to help him. "Somebody" could mean a lot of things, and Grandfather used to say the only gods who listened were the tricksters. "Where's my uncle, witch? I know he was with you."

"And I know my dear Ruthless friend was with you, last I saw him, and yet he is gone, too," said Hoartrap, eyeing the empty space over Sullen's shoulder. Oh, but it hurt that in Sullen's trek down through camp this witch was the only one to remark on Grandfather's absence-Ji-hyeon was in a bad way when she'd seen him, they all were, but still... "Perhaps they are off together, having some long overdue father-son bonding?"

"He..." Sullen closed his eyes and gulped down the foul air, poisoning the sob before it could hatch. Hoartrap was trying to distract him, was what was happening, and when he opened his eyes again they were clear. "My uncle Maroto was with you, witch. Do you deny it?"

"Of course not! He was in my company, yes, he was," said Hoartrap, hopping down from his perch on the dead horse and putting a hand over his breast. "I fear the Mighty Maroto is gone, Sullen of the Horned Wolf Clan."

"Gone?" There it was, the last fucking stitch that held Sullen together snapping. "You mean dead, or you mean he left? If he's dead I'll see his body, now. If... if... if he..."

"I almost think you'd prefer him dead!" said Hoartrap.

"Fucking right I would!" Sullen was on top of Hoartrap before the witch could summon his devils or his brawn, and if Sullen hadn't needed answers more than he needed satisfaction he would have ripped the giant's arms off instead of merely shaking the shit out of him. "Where? Why? Where? Why?"

"Let. Me. Go!" bellowed Hoartrap, and Sullen felt an evil warmth in his chest to see the witch lose his calm, if only momentarily. He did as he was asked, lifting his palms off the man's broad shoulders but not backing up an inch. Hoartrap didn't budge, either, his stale breath hot in Sullen's face. "Very well, very well, though I only know his motive, not his objective."

"Speak."

"I am," said Hoartrap haughtily, stepping around Sullen and bumping his shoulder, forcing him to walk alongside the witch lest he be walking after like an obedient devil. "You've met Purna, Maroto's disciple, haven't you?"

"Just saw Zosia and Diggelby carrying her up to the sawbones. What about her?"

"You mean she pulled through?" Hoartrap's giggle sounded as genuine as it was uncalled for. "Good for her, but no thanks to your uncle. She was gravely injured in the battle, but when she needed Maroto's help, he turned his back on her. He can be... exceptionally cautious, your uncle, and I suspect his baser instincts got the better of him-none of us know what happened, all this smoke, all those Imperials blinking away to devils know where. It could spook anyone, and he said carrying her would slow them down."

Sullen tried to breathe, but nothing came in or out. He was so full of wrath there left no room for anything else, even air.

"Zosia fought him over the matter, right there with Purna dying on the ground at their feet. Fortunately for all parties I was able to overwhelm Maroto and escort him from the scene, which I suppose allowed Zosia and the pasha to carry Purna to safety. I walked with him a short way, whereupon he informed me he was done with all of us-he'd already sworn to kill Zosia, ask her if you don't believe me. I would have stopped him, but the truth is I owe Maroto my life from something that happened long ago, and could never bring myself to harm him. He's long gone by now, and didn't inform me of a destination."

They walked on in silence, and only when Sullen was positive a howl of rage wouldn't leave his lips, he quietly said, "You don't know where he went. But you tracked him before. You'll help me find him."

"I will, will I?" said Hoartrap, but one look from Sullen and he dropped the attitude. "Of course I will, Sullen, of course I will. But what you have to keep in mind about your uncle is that he gets this way sometimes, leaving his friends in a pinch. But he always comes back, tail between his legs, and we let it go because, well, we don't expect anything more from him. I think if you wait a day or two he'll come back to camp on his own, full of excuses for his bad behavior, promising to do better, finding loopholes in the oaths he swore against us in a moment of passion... the usual."

"Three days," said Sullen, as the smoke parted before them and he saw the Lark's Tongue high above, the Cobalt camp nestled on its knee, and the hump where his grandfather's corpse had better be waiting for him, if that kid didn't want to be eviscerated ere the moon rose. It was as though the fog inside him had burned away, too, from the least likely of suns; thanks to Hoartrap the Touch, Sullen had finally found a purpose that made sense, something he could follow through on without overthinking it, without doubting, without hesitation. What to do about Zosia and the Fallen Mistress, about Ji-hyeon, all that could wait until he'd done what most needed doing in all the world.

"He's not back in three days, I hunt him. He comes back sooner, we settle it then. There'll be no song swapping. No more of his treachery. Uncle Craven's fled his last fight."

CHAPTER.

28.

At the third or maybe fourth polite whisper from the guards stationed just outside, Ji-hyeon hauled herself upright, temples pounding. Another whisper, and she gingerly disentangled herself from Keun-ju's bandaged limbs, taking stock of her tent. The kaldi warmer she had left burning revealed scattered clothes, busted armor, and dozens of stained dressings and washrags from where they'd changed one another's wrappings before collapsing into bed that afternoon. The poultice on her disfigured hand needed changing already, and she got queasy just looking at where her fingers should be.

"General," came the whisper again. Fennec. At last. "General! An emissary to see you!"

"Coming," she answered, pulling on a grimy skirt and jacket and groaning as her throbbing tailbone and bitten hand protested the exertion. Either the bugs they had given her for the pain had worn off or she was in an even worse way than she'd thought. Stuffing her hair back in what was probably a lopsided bun, she took another survey of the room and decided she just didn't care. If her visitor was the envoy who had announced his coming via owlbat while they'd been laid up in the barber's tent, he could choke on his indignation for all she cared... But, pausing at the flap, she changed her mind. No matter the point it would make, and as few shits as she had left to give, it was just too damn embarrassing. Old habits and such. She stepped into her slippers, hurried over and blew out the kaldi warmer, then quietly slipped out of the tent, careful not to let the guard's lantern light sneak in past her. It was after dark, but that was about all she could tell; it might have been anytime between sunset and dawn.

"Ah, General," said Fennec, rubbing his gloved paws together. "If we could talk inside, it is a matter of-"

"We'll walk and talk, gentlemen." She used her snottiest tone to address Fennec and the Imperial emissary at his side, the guards behind them exchanging a bemused look. "I need to stretch my legs."

Which was the truth; they felt like they'd been threshed by farmers with a personal vendetta against wheat, and hopefully a stroll would help.

"I think you can stretch later, Ji-hyeon," said the envoy, raising the visor on his owlbat-shaped helm. "I need a sit and a smoke, and your tent-"

"It's a little messy right now, Dad," she said, and, mad as she was at him, it was good to see his face. She hugged him, the studs of his armor cold through her hanbok. "I wondered if your old gear would still fit you!"

"It's possible I had it let out," admitted her second father, stroking her hair. The obvious pride on his face softened her a bit toward his betrayal... but only a bit. "Damned if you don't look the part. Fennec says that you've been a real handful, for him and the Imperials!"

"I bet he did," said Ji-hyeon, not terribly miffed-they both knew Fennec's biscuit was best buttered by whoever was closest to the plate. "You want to light your pipe before we get moving? There's a lookout spot I'd like to show you."

"You really aren't going to let me sit down for five minutes?" Had she actually missed that peevish note in his voice? "I sent word earlier, so you'd be ready for me-didn't you get it?"

"Oh, we got it," said Ji-hyeon, waving her bandaged hand at him and blinking away tears from even that little motion. "I've just been too busy waging your fucking war to set out kaldi for you like a good little girl."

"Oh, Ji," he said softly, reaching for her hand but thinking better of it. "Fennec told me, but... but what the devils were you doing out there, anyway? I've told you once I've told you a hundred times, a general leads from the rear, the rear! Fellwing's protection isn't some magical bubble you can step inside and then jump into a volcano! If you ever-"

Ji-hyeon jabbed his chest with her good hand, got right in his face, and said, "If you ever speak to me like that in front of my troops again, I'll have you run out of camp and close all future negotiations. Is that clear, Kang-ho?"

"Really, this is too much," he blustered, lifting her hand off his armor, when one of her guards took a step behind him, asked: "General?"

"It's all right, soldier, the emissary is from foreign lands and his ways are strange. We'll acquaint him with Cobalt discipline soon enough." Ji-hyeon beamed at her father's gobsmacked expression. "Now, oh welcome ambassador, I am eager to hear the Empire's terms. The vantage point is this way, if you would be so kind?"

"Here, Kang-ho, mine's already packed," said Fennec, ever the peacemaker. In his glove he held out the thick briar billiard he was so proud of, the one whose mix of straight grain and birdseye made it appear to have two many-branched trees on the side of the bowl. "I believe you and the general have much to discuss, so the sooner we stop debating the location the better."

"Hmph," said her father. "I see you've done a fine job of keeping her in check."

"I live to serve my general," said Fennec with a bow, and as Kang-ho snatched the pipe away Ji-hyeon caught Fennec winking at her. If he thought a little ass-kissing now would spare him a harsh reproof for his desertion of the general's bodyguard during the Battle of the Lark's Tongue, the old fox was in for an even bigger surprise than her second father. Well, maybe not quite that big...

"I hope I didn't keep you," said Hoartrap, ever the gentleman as he flicked his fingers and the unlit lantern flared up, blinding Zosia after the dark of his tent. "If I'd known you wanted an audience, m'dear, I wouldn't have tarried. Oh, and you've brought my favorite little doggie-woggie in all the Star!"

Zosia was pleased to see her pep talk had done some good, for Choplicker didn't twitch, lying on the floor by her stool and watching the sorcerer as casually as he'd observe any other mortal. She puffed on the corncob pipe she'd bought off an old-timer earlier that evening, since she'd been fool enough to do the right thing and give Maroto back his briar. Someday she'd have to carve herself a real piece, but for now it was back to loaner pipes and cheap cobs.

"I'm in no hurry, Hoartrap, I've only got one more stop to make tonight."

"And here I hoped that handsome outfit was for my benefit," Hoartrap said wistfully, eyeing her dirndl. "Ah, but you've tied your apron wrong! If the knot's in the back like that everyone will think you're a mourning widow, Zosia. Let's move it around to the front, so the suitors will know you're available."

"If I tied it in the front they'd think I was a virgin," said Zosia, trying not to betray her annoyance with Hoartrap's damnable perceptiveness. "It's fine where it is."

"Well, whatever your status, you still look good in a dress, old friend. Far better than I did at your age."

"Oh, I'm sure your calves are as shapely now as they ever were," said Zosia. "Now, unless you've got any more beauty tips for me, why don't you pull up a seat, pack a bowl, and let's have us that blather you proposed the other day. I want to talk devils and secrets."

"I heard what happened with Diggelby's pet and dear Tapai Purna-was that the first time you've actually seen one set loose?" Hoartrap had a hard time keeping his eyes off Choplicker whenever the devil was around, Zosia could see that now. "Not pretty, I'd expect, but then passage from one world to another never is; death, birth, other roads..."

"Not pretty, but effective. She's good as new. More or less."

"I'd say improved. More or less." Hoartrap wasn't sitting, which was good, too-she was making him nervous. "Considering your options for our mutual friend, now that you've seen the efficacy of a devil's wish?"

"Hadn't occurred to me," said Zosia, and Choplicker drummed his tail on the dirt floor of the tent. "Not that he'd listen if I did."

A bark from the devil, and a chuckle from Hoartrap. "Yes, yes, I remember your difficulties in that regard. I've been pondering it, and I wonder if he isn't a special sort of creature, just as I've always said."

"A special wart on your vag is still a wart on your vag," said Zosia, and pulled in a mouthful of hot ash. She never could get the hang of cob pipes.

"You know, there are other ways of getting what you want than ordering one about." The pipe she'd made Hoartrap appeared in hand, already smoldering with the familiar aroma of cheap perfume and burning garbage. "Asking nicely. Begging. Offering something in trade beyond the usual terms."