Year: 553 I. A., New Year

  It was with the rising of the Thirteenth Moon that Xheng Wu, first-mate of the White Snake, brought their ship into the port of Daggerhand.

  It had been a long and hard three moons at sea, stopping at the many port-towns on Aurelia’s western flank, and although he had more business tonight, Xheng was hopeful of a drink, respite, and some modicum of celebration.

  The city was abuzz with the fervour of a New Year approaching. The Thirteenth Moon always heralded celebrations in the East and West. It was one of the few occasions both cultures shared.

  The wharves and pontoons of Daggerhand were as thickly crowded as an anthive. Men and women ran to and fro with huge cargo-loads of supplies. Xheng guessed most of it, including the White Snake’s cargo, would be alcohol. Rum and ricewine from Qi’shath, Daimonwine from the south of Aurelia, and ale from Yarruk.

  He walked down the gangplank, a small leather bag slung over one shoulder, carrying his few possessions. He had once prided himself on his many treasures: tapestries, paintings, artefacts from Sumyr, and stored gold. But now, there was no treasure he could possess greater than the one soldered to his flesh.

  Beneath a cloak he carefully draped over his left shoulder lay the arm of Beltanus. Over the last three months, it’d begun to feel more and more like a part of him, less like a wound he was constantly aware of. But still, the sense of power was always there, lurking in the background of his awareness.

  The arm had not only replaced the one that was lost, but given him access to a newfound strength. He’d only had recourse to use it once, when the White Snake was attacked by a sea lion. Before it could emit its deadly breath, Xheng had leapt across the deck and struck it—without thinking. The fist had wreathed itself in lightning before he landed his blow. The force of the strike had broken the creature’s skull and sent it reeling back into the Winedark Sea. The crew had stood, bewildered. Kwei Shin, some of them whispered. Xheng had been quick to correct them. He was no god, but he bore the talisman of one.

  Qala’s prediction had been right: the arm leant him an authority he otherwise would have lacked. When he said he spoke on behalf of the Lost Princess, the true and rightful heir to the Jade Throne, people believed him.

  Xheng wove through the bustling crowds towards the city gate, which was manned by a handful of bored-looking guards. The port would be closed at night due to significant smuggler activity, so he had arrived just in time.

  Though the city was walled, he thought the defences were poor. He’d been born in Qin’yad, the fortress-port known as the Horn of Insolence for how it broke arrogant invaders. The walls of that city were fifty feet high, made of granite blocks from the mountains of Wuzin, and had never been breached.

  The walls of Daggerhand, by contrast, could be scaled by anyone with a grapple. They looked to be raised from limestone, which was eroding with the battering of high tide. A single blast from a black powder cannon could unmake them. The Empress is wrong to be afraid of Aurelia, he thought. Aurelia is ignorant of how weak they are compared to us.

  He wished Aurelia no ill will, of course, but he was now caught up in the grand politics of the world, and had no choice but to think such things through.

  The air was bitingly cold on the docks. He found he suffered the cold more, these days. Perhaps because he was literally bonded to metal? The arm ached. Sometimes, the pain came without warning. Other times, he felt the chill of the air turning the metal into a slow blade eating into his torso. He had not asked Qala about the magical process of bonding the arm to him—he did not want to know—but he suspected that within the metal there was some organic component, some remnant of Beltanus’s crippled limb, encased in god-steel.

  He believed this because his dreams had changed.

  Most nights, now, he saw visions of a world he had never seen with his waking eyes, nor could ever have imagined. Xheng was a man of many talents, but imagination was not one of his great strengths. But now, he dreamed of golden skies, of cities rising so high they pierced atmosphere, of fields of violet that stretched farther than the eye could see, of mountains that eclipsed the stars, of caverns that ran so deep beneath the planet’s crust they were themselves a world. He woke shaking, always, from these dreams. But the worst ones were where he saw faces. They were abnormal faces, faces that should be human but were not quite right, every part of them exaggerated. Xheng wondered if this is what Beltanus had looked like beneath his mask and armour and machinery. Maybe he hid his face partly to spare human beings the uncanniness of a god’s mien.

  He passed the gate without so much as a glance from the guards. Even in the city, where the streets were crowded with merchants and celebrants and guardsmen, he could feel winter’s chill. He had never seen Aurelia in the winter before, always returning to Qi’shath for the Fifth Season of Shinten.

  Snowflakes fell from an indigo sky, settling on the battlements and rooftops, hushing the noise of celebration. The city’s flags, bearing the Scorpion of Dashar on them, hung limp and wet.

  Dashar was the farthest northern state of Aurelia. It was a far cry from Virgoda’s lush forests or Tezada’s deserts. Here, the trees grew sparsely, and the homesteads were more crowded together. Roaring fireplaces blazed in the Houses. Even the horses were different: stockier, muscle-bound, and thickly furred with pale winter coats. They dragged carts laden with supplies through the shin-deep snow, snorting and whinnying with the effort.

  He saw very few Engines, here, for there were not the same supplies of Daimonic remains to mine. But he saw every variety of metalwork imaginable, from brazen jewellery to iron-wrought tavern-signs to esoteric weapons—more for show than use. Dashar was the land of metallurgy, gifted with deep ore-mines and a longstanding tradition of smithery.

  As much as he enjoyed discovering new places and cultures, he found he missed Qi’shath more and more. If he had been asked a year ago where his home was, he would have said his true home was the sea. Since he was five years old, he had sailed sloops and skiffs. Hunted the shallows for fish with his father and older brother, Wong. By sixteen, he obtained a position aboard his first galleon. By eighteen, he was a first mate.

  Now, however, he wasn’t so sure. He missed the smell of jasmine and lotus. He missed the fertile mud that gave rise to such darkly gorgeous flowers. He missed the cormorants that flocked to the bays and the jabber of silkweavers and haruspexes. He even missed the architecture. He had spent too long among western buildings. Yes, there had been a change from southern to northern Aurelia, but they still had the same blocky look, like hollow flagstones, the thatching on their rooftops like moss. He missed the flying eaves and the way their tiling gleamed in the rain, like dragon scales.

  He found the building he was looking for off the main road. The door was wooden, and unmarked, but the sound of revelry emerged from within. This was a House, but not one of the grand, competitive Houses that touted itself on the main highstreet. This was a place that only wished to be found by a select clientele.

  He knocked on the door thrice. He heard footsteps on the other side, then low Qi’shathian words:

  “Xi’qi quel’da mara Qi’shath’sha?” Know you the ways of Qi’shath?

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  Xheng replied, “Ichi Qi’shath’yad namida dur’xi.” I was born on Qi’shath’s beautiful shores.

  The door opened, revealing a short man in black silk, a dagger at his belt. He bowed stiffly and stepped aside, allowing Xheng to enter. The door was shut swiftly behind him.

  Within, there were perhaps ten Qi’shathians, crowded into a very small space. A few were puffing on pipes of Goldleaf, so the air was thick with smoke. There were bottles of Daimonwine and other spirits littered about the place. A waitress, who was surprisingly Aurelian, darted between tables, bringing the eager customers more beverages.

  “The man you are looking for is at that table there,” the doorman said, still speaking in Qi’shathian, then he bowed once more and left via a small door that Xheng thought might lead to the kitchens.

  He wove through the tables, drawing a few eyes. He made sure to give small nods of his head to acknowledge any who met his gaze. There were Qi’shathians of many different ranks and social standings here, and so caution was best. If in doubt, offer deference. He had learned the hard way politeness cost nothing.,

  Vivid as an explosion, he recalled the day he had first met Qala Jin. He remembered mocking her, spitting upon the pontoon in her presence, denying her divine right.

  Then he had witnessed her sorcery.

  The invocation had put the fear of god in him in the literal sense. Again, cliché though it was, up until that point his only god had been the sea. Its whims and mercies and cruelties seemed far more divine than the idea of some conniving spirit in a sky-ship, or on some far off planet, precisely because it was felt. It governed his everyday survival. To learn its ways was the only way to triumph.

  But meeting Qala Jin had made the gods very real for him. He would not again make the mistake of dismissing the spiritual world, even if he did not fully understand it.

  He found the table the doorman had indicated. There were two men and one woman sat at it. Judging purely by their postures and appearance, he judged the middle of the three to be the captain. He was short, in middle age, with hair cut incredibly short to conceal a balding scalp. He had flesh like weathered leather and a slight squint in one eye, no doubt from glaring into the sun. To his right sat a young woman whom Xheng would judge to be a bosun. Given the careful cultivation of her appearance, he imagined she was equally meticulous and organised with the assignment of tasks. The man to the captain’s right was a huge, muscle-bound giant. Probably the first-mate.

  Xheng bowed and took a seat before them.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”

  The captain nodded.

  “I will tell you now: I have come more out of curiosity than any serious desire to commit.”

  “That is understandable, but I hope by the end of this meeting you will reconsider your position.”

  The captain’s mouth twitched. Xheng guessed that was the closest he ever came to a smile.

  “Firstly, there is the matter of truth. How can you prove to us that the Lost Princess is indeed found?”

  “A wise question,” Xheng said. “This is how.”

  He slid back the cloak he had carefully draped over his left shoulder, revealing the gleaming black arm. It was evident to anyone with eyes that it was not of human origin.

  “The Kwei-Shin have blessed Qala Jin and those who serve her,” Xheng whispered. He slid the cloak back into place.

  He did not feel guilty about this lie, for he did not really consider it an untruth. Though Beltanus had never explicitly granted him the arm, his hammer had rejected those it deemed unworthy to wield it, only accepting Jubal as its new custodian. If such power existed in these talismans, the arm, Xheng reasoned, could easily have done the same. But it had accepted its bond with him. Indeed, it seemed an act of Fate that he had lost the very same arm as the god.

  He suppressed a smile at the thought of having two right-arms. Little things tickled Xheng.

  The three crewmembers before him conferred. The captain then cleared his throat.

  “We are satisfied on this point,” he said. “Now, onto the second: why?”

  This caught Xheng off-guard.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why does Qala Jin wish to reclaim her throne?”

  Xheng frowned. He opened his mouth to answer with the obvious statement: Because she was wrongfully deposed. Because Quen Yu lied and forged an assassination attempt to blacken her name. Because a great injustice has been done.

  But that was only the literal answer to the question. In Qi’shath, the literal mattered nothing at all. What lies beneath his question? Xheng considered it a moment, then found his answer.

  “This is not a quest for revenge,” Xheng said, carefully. “Her mission is to bring justice to the people. They have suffered under Quen Yu. He understands not the needs of the common man and woman.”

  The captain nodded, but gave away little. He seemed to be weighing Xheng’s words very carefully. Then he spoke, “You speak rightly. Quen Yu’s mandates for production have become a burden. He does not respect the Balance. Even now, our country enters the Fifth Season of Shinten, when the cold abates and the soil breaks open, allowing us to plunder its rich store of ore and saltpetre and Daimonic remains… But Quen Yu has put in place an imperial tax for the first time since the Serpent War. A full half of all resources are being redirected to the Palace. He claims it is to prepare for Aurelian invasion, but we both know Aurelia will never willingly go to war with Qi’shath. No, he has some other scheme afoot. And he is bleeding the land and its people dry to do it.”

  This news troubled Xheng. The Fifth Season was a time of hard work but also great prosperity in Qi’shath, a time where the peasants of the Mudlands and the lesser provinces might reap great windfalls due to the bounty of the land. To see that subverted was disturbing, somehow. Not just a break in tradition, but a defilement of it.

  “How many ships have promised themselves to you?” the captain asked, now leaning forward. “Do not lie to me, now. I will know if you lie.”

  “Twenty-two,” Xheng replied. It was half of what he’d hoped for. An army, certainly. But enough to break the walls of Qin’yad? He doubted it.

  The captain nodded slowly.

  “Well…” He extended his hand. “You have one more. The Vow of Mikana will answer the call. What is her plan?”

  Xheng allowed his smile to show. He took the captain’s hand and shook it.

  “She is currently in Memory—”

  “Memory?” the bosun interrupted, sounding alarmed.

  Xheng nodded.

  “She had… an important promise to uphold.”

  “With the Kwei-Shin?” the captain whispered.

  “That is part of it. However, she has also found resources for our cause in Memory.” The last letter he had received from her, via an ill-trained dragonling, had been brief but informative. Memory was proving more useful than they had realised for the furthering of her mission. “I await her summons, but when it comes, we will be asking all to gather to her in Wayfarer’s Rest.”

  The captain nodded.

  “Then we shall drink tonight, and await your call.” The captain’s mouth twitched again, that ghost of a smile. “Why don’t you join us, Captain Xheng? The Thirteenth Moon is for celebrating, doubly so if we shall see a wrong righted in the coming year.”

  Xheng grinned.

  “I’m not a captain, anymore, sadly.” He waved to the barmaid, who began to make her way over. “But I do love to drink.”