God's War (17 page)

“Yes.”

“She could be dead.”

“That may be. If she is, we’ll need
her body. As a former bel dame, you know how important it is for us to retain
at least her head, for our own purposes. However, I doubt she is dead. If
kidnapped or coerced, as you believe, her keepers would understand her
importance to the war.”

“She’s not contaminated, is she?”

“Not so far as I know.”

“So you’ve had a bunch of hunters
and mercenaries looking for her in Nasheen for a month, the sorts of people
who’d have access to every low-end cantina and fighting ring in the country,
and they haven’t found her. We’re going to have to widen the net, then.”

“That is what the other bounty
hunter said,” Kasbah said.

“The other bounty hunter?” Rhys
asked.

But Nyx didn’t have to ask. She knew
which one.

“Raine al Alharazad. You know him?”
Kasbah asked.

“Intimately,” Nyx said.

Rhys got to his feet, keeping his
hands on the back of the chair. “When you say widen the net—”

“I hope Anneke’s getting some sun,”
Nyx said. “We’re going to Chenja.”

The burst sirens went off as Nyx and
Rhys stepped out onto the busy main street. The palace filter over the sally
port door popped behind them, and for a minute Nyx thought the keening cry of
the sirens had something to do with the ringing in her ears from the quick
succession of filters.

Rhys looked skyward, and Nyx touched
his arm, nodding back down the street. “Let’s get inside and get some food,”
she said. “You hungry?” The queen had given them a generous starting allowance,
and she wanted to make the most of it. “I haven’t had good food in ages.”

“Starving,” he said, tucking his
hands beneath his burnous, hunching his head and shoulders as if his guarded
posture would ward off the blow from some burst.

Nyx heard the heavy
whump-whump
of the anti-burst guns, somewhere just to the
north of them, and though she knew better, she picked up her pace. Inside or
outside, a direct hit killed you, but it might be more comfortable getting hit
inside. She’d be drunk.

As they walked, Rhys said, “I think
Danika’s lying.”

“So do I,” she said. “I’m just not
sure about what.”

She ducked into a café on the south
side of the palace called the Grim Matron. She knew it from her year of
training in Mushtallah as a bel dame. Rasheeda had loved their little green
drinks.

Nyx and Rhys both pulled off their
hoods as they entered, and the bar matrons all lifted their heads from their
beer glasses and opium pipes and plates of fried grasshoppers. The hush of low
conversation in the dim room ceased, and the smoky air suddenly felt a lot
heavier.

Nyx pushed her burnous back over her
shoulders, so her weapons were visible, and stepped up ahead of Rhys. She
pushed through the scattering of tables to a tall, latticed booth at the back,
seeming to ignore the gazes that followed after Rhys, but tracking every one of
them with her peripheral vision, waiting for somebody to move.

Rhys followed her, careful not to
touch anything, maneuvering his slim body around the tables and matrons.

Just as Nyx reached the table, a
grizzled woman, one arm larger and darker than the other, her face a drooling
mass of scarred flesh, hacked a gob of spit at Rhys’s face. Rhys caught the
spit in his hand. Nyx appreciated that. The woman began to get up, opened her
mouth to say something.

Nyx pivoted and tugged her whip from
her hip. She caught the woman around the throat with it and stood behind the
woman’s chair, holding her taut against the seat back. Rhys said he was going
to find an ablution bowl to clean up.

Nyx leaned over and said, loud
enough for the women and the nearest three tables to hear, “This man belongs to
me. What you do to him, you do to me. Understand, my woman?”

The woman gurgled something, and Nyx
watched the faces of her table companions. They were grizzled old war veterans
as well, hard-faced and battle-scarred, and the looks they gave her were equal
parts hatred and respect.

Nyx released her hold and knocked
the woman back into her seat.

The woman grabbed at her throat and
muttered something.

Nyx wound her whip back up.

“You don’t see many women carrying a
whip,” one of the other women at the table said.

“It’s good for stealing weapons and
drinks and tying boys up,” Nyx said.

“You use it a lot, then?”

Nyx saw Rhys returning to their
table.

“You wouldn’t believe,” Nyx said.

She turned away from them and slid
into her seat across from Rhys. There were partitions between the tables, which
helped muffle the sound. The three veterans at the nearest table got up and
went to the bar; the spitter still rubbed at her throat, muttering.

“Was that really necessary?” Rhys
said, shrugging out of his burnous. Nyx caught herself admiring the breadth of
his shoulders. If he wasn’t dancing anymore, how was he keeping in shape?

“This is Mushtallah,” Nyx said.
“They push, you push back, or they’ll mow you over.” She pressed a hand to the
table. The tiny bugs inside the tabletop displayed the menu in response to the
warmth of her touch. “You think that last lens was doctored?”

Inside, the sound of the sirens was
muffled, a dull whine. The stink of the opium was making Nyx nauseous.

“Yes,” Rhys said, “and worse. Any
magician, including Kasbah, could tell that was a doctored bug. Some other
magician with access to the same bug transmissions the palace uses doctored
that last image of Nikodem and the bakkie, probably so they could edit
themselves out. My concern is that Kasbah knew that and didn’t tell us.”

“Maybe Kasbah doctored the footage
herself?”

“She’s not a complete imbecile,”
Rhys said. “If she doctored the footage, we wouldn’t have been authorized to
see the originals. She wanted us to know it was doctored but feared saying it
out loud. She feared even putting that information on the globe.”

“Which means Nikodem probably went
out with one of the palace magicians and didn’t come back,” Nyx said, “and the
palace magicians doctored the footage.”

“So the palace has black agents,
maybe black magicians,” Rhys said, shaking his head, “and she doesn’t want your
bel dames on this note. I don’t like this, Nyx, and I don’t like where this
note might take us.”

Nyx thought of Yah Tayyib. If
Nikodem had been friendly with Yah Inan and Yah Tayyib, either of them could
have set her up with someone to get her out of the country.

“I don’t see a motive for the
magicians she was friendly with,” Nyx said.

Rhys made a noise that sounded like
a laugh. “Magicians remember a time when they ruled the world. It’s the same
with mullahs and magicians in Chenja. However, the queen isn’t paying you to
take care of her internal security issue. She’s paying for a head, preferably
attached to a living body.”

“More body swapping. I’m not keen on
getting cut up over this note, but you know how that is. Wish I had my original
womb. Bet I could get Yah Tayyib out of retirement to come and deal for it.”

“Why?”

“He liked it. Said it was shaped
funny.”

Rhys quirked an eyebrow. “Shaped
funny?”

“Yeah, some big word. Biocurate.
Biocarbonate. Bicoital. Something.”

“Bicornuate,” Rhys said. “A
heart-shaped uterus.”

“What?”

“Most wombs are balloon-shaped.
Bicornuate wombs are heart-shaped.” He used his fingers to draw a picture in
the air of a stylized heart. “Makes delivery more difficult. It’s best you had
it replaced.”

“No shit? I should have sold it for
a lot more. I knew a kid who made good money selling mutant organs to
magicians.” She moved her hand back over the menu. “What are you eating?”

Rhys looked down at the table and
dithered over his choices. “Why doesn’t anyone in this country serve fish?”

“Unclean animals. All that water.”

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever
heard. Fish farming is a highly lucrative business in Chenja.”

The bar matron finally came over, looking
like she was trying real hard not to stare at Rhys. Nyx stared at her instead.
The bar matron brought them beer—local stuff—without them asking, the way Nyx
would have been served water at the coast. Nyx remembered some things from the
coast, little snatches. She’d spent the first three years of her life there,
but most of her memories were of inoculation regimens: blinking syringes,
yellow fluid, the stink of sulphur.

“None for him,” Nyx said. “Can you
bring him tea?”

The matron moved to take away his
beer.

“No, I’ll drink that too,” Nyx said.
“Can I get something with a lot of meat? Like a slab of dog and some curried
sweet potatoes?”

Rhys grimaced. “Soup, please,” he
said. “The curried noodle. Do you have protein cakes?”

“Do I have what?” the matron asked.

He asked for that Chenjan shit at
every inn, café, restaurant, and cantina Nyx had taken him to for the last six
years. In Chenja, they served that woodchip-tasting crap with rice and some
kind of brown sauce. When she was passing time across the border or as part of
Raine’s crew, Nyx had fed that stuff to the dogs.

“Never mind,” Rhys said. “Just the
soup and some bread. Plain bread.”

The matron nodded and left them.

Nyx took a slug of her beer and kept
her eye on the front door. This was bel dame country, and the war vets at the
bar had moved off. Word of a Chenjan man in a café would get around.

“I need to have Taite hack Raine’s
com,” Nyx said. “I want to see how far the old man’s gotten on this one.”

“Do you want me to find out who the
other mercenaries are on this note? I’m sure there’s a record at the Cage.”

“Call up Taite once we’re outside
the filter and have him send Anneke and Khos to do that. I want that
information in a file when we get back to Punjai.”

“You think Khos will stay on?”

“I can’t afford to spend time
looking for another shifter.”

Nyx heard the burst siren dying off.
She felt her body start to unwind. Fucking siren.

Then she heard someone snicker.

It was a very familiar snicker.

Nyx had kept an eye on the front
door, but the two women had come in the back.

Rasheeda was older—not as beautiful
as Nyx remembered, though that wasn’t because of her age. Warm, crinkle-eyed,
matronly women were some of the most sought-after bed partners in Nasheen. But
Rasheeda lacked the warmth.

Rasheeda was still shrugging her
shoulders, shivering, as if she had just finished shifting. Luce stood next to
her, head just reaching Rasheeda’s shoulder. She had a grim little face.

Nyx leaned back in her chair. She
saw Rhys’s hands twitch toward his pistols. It was illegal to kill a bel dame,
but using whatever force necessary short of killing to subdue them in
self-defense was all right. Bel dames were tough to kill.

Nyx knew.

Rasheeda kicked one of the chairs
around and sat backward on it, folding her arms over the headrest. Luce
slouched in the chair next to her and let her burnous fall back to reveal the
ivory hilts of her pistols. Rasheeda didn’t usually wear weapons—it made
shifting easier, and she didn’t have to worry about losing anything when she made
a quick escape. Not that Rasheeda being unarmed was any comfort. Nyx had
watched her claw out women’s eyes and eat them.

Rasheeda snickered again.

“Small town,” Nyx said. “You two had
your fill of the local boys?”

Luce hadn’t bedded a boy in her
life. They made her nauseous, as Nyx recalled. Rasheeda usually just ate them.

“You had business with the queen,”
Luce said.

“I did. And that business is none of
yours.”

“Funny woman,” Rasheeda said. “You
know we know all business.”

“The council asked us to tell you
that working on this bounty isn’t in your best interest,” Luce said.

“Well, then, let me hang up my
guns,” Nyx said. “You know what high regard I have for the council.” And some
fucked-stupid queen who couldn’t keep bel dame bugs out of her palace. If the
council had bugs in the palace, it meant the animosity between the queen and
the council was a lot deeper than Nyx realized.

Not your problem, Nyx reminded
herself. But staring into her sisters’ faces, she had a hard time figuring out
why it wasn’t her problem if what she didn’t know ended up getting her killed.

“Drop the commission and Dahab won’t
drop you,” Rasheeda said.

“Sister, where’s your sense of
subtlety?” Nyx asked. “How about
you
fuck off? I’m
working a queen’s bounty. You try to pin some silly shit on me and I’ll have
your heads.”

The matron brought Rhys’s tea.

“Can I get a little green drink?”
Rasheeda asked.

“What kind?” the matron asked.

“A Green Beetle,” Rasheeda said.

“That’s not their best drink,” Nyx
said. “I recommend the Holiday Beetle. I’m sure you know it.”

Rhys sipped his tea. His other hand
stayed near one of his pistols.

“Just drop the fucking bounty, Nyx,”
Luce said. “The last time you pissed the council off, you lost everything, and
you have a lot more to lose this time.”

Nyx took a pull of her beer. “I
don’t drop notes.”

“It’s not a note,” Luce said. “You
aren’t a bel dame. It’s a bounty. There’s no honor in bounties.”

“I know what I am. Does the council
have you working actual notes, or are you just here to bully like a couple of
border toughs?”

“We’re always working on notes,”
Rasheeda said. She snapped her teeth at Rhys. “I ate a Chenjan just yesterday.”

“I hope you choked,” Rhys said.

“Keep your mouth locked, black man,”
Rasheeda said. “My business isn’t with dumb bags or baby stealers.”