Immortal Longings (1) (Flesh & False Gods)

Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1
A living thing, when faced with a break or injury, is compelled to heal itself. A cut will clot with blood, trapping in a person's qi. A bone will smooth over, knitting new threads at every split. And San-Er's buildings, when an inconvenience is identified, will rush to mend the sore, pinpointing every fracture and hurling remedies with vigor. From the top of the palace, all that can be seen are the stacked structures composing the twin cities, interlocked and dependent upon one another, some attached to a neighbor from the ground level and others connected only at the highest floors. Everyone in the kingdom of Talin wants to be in its capital-in these two cities masquerading as one-and so San-Er must grow denser and higher to accommodate, covering up its offenses and stenches with utter incoherence.

August Shenzhi tightens his grip on the balcony railing, tearing his gaze away from the horizon of rooftops. His attention should be with the marketplace below, which bustles at high volume inside the coliseum walls. Three generations ago, the Palace of Union was built beside San's massive coliseum-or perhaps it's more apt to say it was built into the coliseum, the north side of the elevated palace enmeshed with the coliseum's south wall, its turrets and balconies pulling apart stone and slotting itself right in to close the gap. Every window on the north side has a perfect view of the market, but none better than this balcony. Back when he still made public appearances, King Kasa stood here to make his speeches. The market would be cleared out, and his subjects would come to gather in the only plot of open space inside San-Er, cheering for their monarch.

There's nowhere quite like the coliseum. San-Er itself is only a small protrusion of land at the edge of the kingdom, its border with rural Talin marked by a towering wall, the rest of its perimeter hemmed in by sea. Yet despite its size, San-Er functions as a world of its own-half a million inhabitants crammed into each square mile, again and again. The needle-thin alleys between every building sag, the earthen ground always muddy because it is sweating with overexertion. Prostitutes and temple priests share the same doorway; drug addicts and schoolteachers nap under the same awning. It makes sense that the only space protected from builders and squatters is the coliseum, under the vigilant eye of royalty and untouched by the desperate expansion pressing in on its walls. They could raze the coliseum and build ten-perhaps twenty-new streets on the land cleared, squeeze in hundreds more apartment complexes, but the palace won't allow it, and what the palace says goes.

"Give me leave to strangle your uncle, August. I'm tired to death of him."

Galipei Weisanna strolls into the room, his voice echoing out onto the balcony. He speaks as he always does: clipped, terse, honest. Galipei is rarely willing to tell a lie, yet finds it of utmost priority to be running his mouth too, even when silence is a better option. August tips his head back to look at his bodyguard, and the crown in his hair shakes loose, hanging lopsidedly to the left. By the light of the palace, the red gems resemble fragments of blood encircling his bleached blond curls, its position so precarious that one wayward breeze would sweep the band of metal right off.

"Do be careful," August replies evenly. "High treason in the throne room tends to be frowned upon."

"So I suppose someone ought to be frowning at you as well."

Galipei comes to join him upon the balcony, then nudges August's crown back into place with a practiced familiarity. His presence is domineering, shoulders wide and posture tall, in contrast to August's lithe sharpness. Dressed in his usual dark work garb, Galipei looks a part of the night-if the night were decorated with buckles and straps holding various weapons that wouldn't otherwise keep against heavy leather. There's a melodic clanking when his body comes into contact with the gold-plated railing, his arms resting atop it to mimic August, but the sound is easily lost to the clamor of the market below.

"Who would dare?" August asks matter-of-factly. It's not a boast. It's the profoundly confident manner of someone who knows exactly how high his pedestal is because he hauled himself there.

Galipei makes a vague noise. He turns away from the walls of the coliseum, having searched for threats and finding nothing out of the ordinary. His attention shifts toward August's line of sight instead: a child, kicking a ball beside the closest row of market stalls.

"I heard that you took over preliminary organization for the games." The child draws nearer and nearer to the balcony. "...