Jade War

He crouched down and helped Mudt out. Nuno started up the backhoe and used it to pack the disturbed soil back into place. When he was done, the grave looked much as it had before. A keen eye inspecting the site would notice footprints in the dirt and an irregular, loose wall, but they weren’t counting on scrutiny. Bero and Mudt untied their kerchiefs and wiped the sweat and mud from their faces as Nuno led them briskly back down the hill. It was fully dark now, and no one was paying attention to them, but if someone had been, they would’ve seen what appeared to be a trio of cemetery maintenance workers finishing up for the day.

At the gate, Nuno said, “Give me back those shirts and hats, quick.” They tore off the soiled disguises, stuffing them back into the garbage bag. “You got what you came for, didn’t you? Damning your souls and all.” Nuno spat. “Now, about the other half of the money.”

Bero nodded and crouched down to unzip the side pocket of the duffel bag. From behind, Mudt swung with all his strength, hitting Nuno in the back of the head with the rock clutched in his fist, then shoved him to the ground. Bero stood up with a compact pistol in his hand and fired twice, putting the first bullet in Nuno’s forehead and the second in his cheek.

Both boys stared dumbstruck for three or four long seconds after the sharp report of gunfire faded. Rolled over, Nuno’s eyes were frozen open in alarm and surprise; the entry wounds were surprisingly small, and the blood was already being sucked up by the dry ground.

Bero’s first thought was that the plan had worked surprisingly well and he was right to have kept Mudt around after all. His second was that it was a good thing the groundskeeper wasn’t a large man or they would’ve had a real problem moving him. The two teenagers were panting and pouring sweat from exertion and fear by the time they dragged the body into a shallow hollow under the nearby shrubbery. Bero dug hastily through Nuno’s jacket for the man’s wallet. “Get his watch, too,” he hissed at Mudt. “Make it look like a robbery.” They snatched the key ring from the groundskeeper’s pocket, then kicked leaves and branches over the body and ran for the gate. As Bero cursed and struggled with the lock, Mudt bent over, gasping, hands on knees, the rolling whites of his eyes visible under the greasy mop of his hair. “Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit.”

The gate swung open at last. They pulled the heavy metal bars shut behind them and Bero clutched the duffel bag tight as they sprinted into the cover of Widow’s Park ahead of the guards’ sweeping flashlights, toward the lantern glow of the city below. 

CHAPTER 2 The Passing of the Torch

Kaul Hiloshudon stood at the head of the vast assembly of mourners who’d come to offer their final respects to his grandfather. There were a great many people paying close attention to him today, and they would notice if he seemed distracted or agitated, so he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the coffin draped in expensive white cloth and moved his lips dutifully to the penitents’ chanted recitations. Still, he found it difficult to pay attention to the service, impossible to gird his sense of Perception against the presence of so many enemies.

His grandfather had lived a long and important life. Kaul Sen had fought for the liberation of his country, and later, through politics and business and the great clan he built, he’d shaped the nation of Kekon in lasting ways. At the ripe age of eighty-three, he’d passed away quietly in the middle of the night, sitting in his usual chair by the window of the family house. A sign of favor from the gods, surely. If, in the final years of his life, with dementia and declining jade tolerance, Grandda had become a cruel, unbearable old man made bitter by regret and loss, who had nothing but unkind things to say about the leadership of the No Peak clan passing to his least favored grandchild—well, that was something the average citizen did not know. For two days and nights, a great public vigil had been held in the Temple District, and it seemed to Hilo that half the population of the city had turned out for the funeral. The other half was probably watching the event on television. The death of the Torch of Kekon marked the end of an era, the passing of a pivotal generation that had secured Kekon’s freedom from foreign occupation and rebuilt its prosperity. Every public figure of importance was here to take part in such a profound commemoration—including Ayt Madashi.