Sorcery of a Queen

by Brian Naslund

  “Oh.” Jolan’s stomach whirred. He didn’t know where to look, so he wound up giving the rafters a very careful examination.

  Oromir drank, then laughed. “Relax, Jolan. I’m a little too tired for that kind of thing after all the walking and killing today.” He made a show of sniffing his armpit. “Little too ripe as well.”

  He offered the brandy back to Jolan. He took it.

  “But since we’re on the topic, which way do you prefer it?” Oromir asked.

  “Prefer what?”

  “Screwing. Do you like men or women? Or is it both?”

  Jolan hesitated. Master Morgan never brought up sex outside of academic pursuits. Jolan mostly associated intercourse as a necessity for reproduction or the cause of unpleasant illnesses he’d needed to treat over the years, like Willem’s cock rot or the pubic lice outbreaks back in Otter Rock. But that didn’t seem like the right thing to say in that moment.

  “Well, I’ve never … done it with anyone.”

  “But you must have a preference. Weren’t you sweet on anyone back at Otter Rock?”

  “Um, it was a small town. And…” Jolan struggled for words. His mind was churning like a hurricane but seemed unable to produce coherent thoughts or words.

  “Okay, okay, don’t have a seizure,” Oromir said. “No crushes. Got it. When you touch yourself, what do you think about?”

  Jolan was fairly certain his face could not get any redder than it was in that moment.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never done that before, either!” Oromir half shouted.

  “Of course I’ve done it,” Jolan hissed, trying to quiet him down. He didn’t know what Willem and Sten would contribute to the conversation, he just knew he didn’t want them to do it. “But I don’t … I don’t think about anyone specific.”

  Oromir raised his eyebrows. “Really? That’s weird.”

  No, this was now as red as Jolan’s face could get.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Oromir said quickly. “I just always think about someone, that’s all.” He took a nip of the brandy. “So, if it’s not a specific person, what do you think about?”

  Jolan hesitated. By that point, the brandy had seeped into his blood just enough for him to have the courage to keep talking. “I think about the warmth of someone else’s touch. Their hands moving … you know, all over. I’ve never been touched that way by someone else. So just thinking about my skin against someone else’s is enough, I guess.”

  “Mmm, that’s sweet, actually.” Oromir took a long sip of brandy and stared at the ceiling for a few moments. “For me, it was this warden named Lok. He would take his shirt off and chop wood in front of his house every evening as the sun went down. Gods, but those arms.” Oromir released a long breath. He held out the brandy. “One last sip before we call it a night? It’ll be another long day of walking tomorrow.”

  Jolan nodded. Took a sip without looking away from Oromir, who watched him the entire time, too.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty more for another time,” Oromir said. Then he went back to his corner and curled up under a blanket. A minute or two later he was snoring.

  Jolan tried to go to sleep, too. But the thunder and rain and thought of someone else’s skin against his kept him awake.

  6

  VERA

  Balaria, Burz-al-dun, District Four

  Aeternita’s Grace smelled of copper and eucalyptus. The barkeep must have added some aromatic oil to his keg’s centrifuge, so that each time he filled a mug, the steam that hissed free from the opened spigot was laced with the natural scent.

  Burz-al-dun was full of machines whose work was masked by manufactured whiffs of nature. Vera hated it. She longed to return to the overgrown wilderness of Almira, or the clear, cold, and salty air of Papyria.

  But Kira was here. And so was she.

  She headed for the long bar on the far side of the room, passing copper tables ringed with patrons. Most had the wrinkled foreheads and saggy midsections of merchants who spent their days squinting at shipping ledgers from plush chairs, but two men sitting at a table in the far corner had broad shoulders. Careful eyes. They also had short swords tucked beneath their long black jackets. The grips of their weapons were corded with white thread that had been blackened by frequent use.

  Hired security.

  Even the least savvy of Burz-al-dun’s politicians understood that the soldiers of Balaria were ultimately loyal to Actus Thorn, not them. So private mercenaries were common in the villas and manses of wealthy ministers and merchants. But it was rare to see them in a tavern. Most public establishments relied on the strict checkpoints and the Balarian soldiers who operated them to keep the peace.

  About half the patrons stared at Vera as she crossed the room. She’d kept her widow’s armor on, which always attracted attention, but the fact that she had Bershad’s sword slung across her back attracted far more. She’d considered leaving the big weapon in the palace and dressing in a courtesan’s silk robe and cloak in an attempt to blend in and run subtle reconnaissance. But her dark and smooth Papyrian features stood out against Balarians’ sharp noses and pale complexions like a black heron in a snow-covered field—there was no hiding her nationality or her nature in this city, so she amplified it, instead.

  Plus, subtlety took time. She did not want to be gone from Kira for any longer than absolutely necessary.

  Vera swung the sword off her back and placed it on the bar in front of her. From the spot she chose, there was nothing behind her except a wall, and she had a good view of both the main entrance and the secondary supply door behind the bar. Vera had checked the tavern’s floor plan and surrounding area in the imperial records before leaving the palace, and that second door made her nervous. It led through a small pantry and then into a narrow alley that snaked north for almost a league before it dead-ended against the district wall, which was seventy strides of sheer marble. That was all normal for Burz-al-dun, but that league of alley connected to twenty-seven undocumented basements. Those could lead anywhere. Or be filled with anything.

  Vera remembered what Felgor had told her as they snuck into the Imperial Palace using the sewers—there were entire communities of criminals living below the surface of Burz-al-dun. And she’d seen how dragon oil and opium changed dirty hands in the covered docks of the city, moving from Balaria to the smugglers’ nest of Taggarstan. That was how she’d gotten into Clockwork City to begin with.

  The capital of Balaria presented itself with aromatic and clean skin, but the meat and bones beneath were black and rotten. In her memories, Himeja was a different kind of city. Quiet and honest and clean. But Vera’s memories of Papyria were more than a decade old. She wondered what she would think of her homeland now, after all the dark things she had seen and done on foreign soil.

  “Your order, mistress?” the barkeep asked, raising an eyebrow, which he’d oiled into a point. He worked very hard not to glance at the sword Vera had placed onto the bar. “We have fine bubbled wine. Juniper spirits—”

  “Just ale.”

  “A most excellent choice, mistress. We use hops from the free nations of Juno for our brew, one of the few taverns in this district with a steady supply.”

  “Wonderful.” Vera leaned forward. “Is there anything else this tavern might have a unique and steady supply of?”

  “Not sure what you mean, mistress.”

  “Dragon oil, for instance.”

  The man barked out an uncomfortable laugh. “That’s a good one. I’ll get your ale.”

  Vera scanned the room from her vantage point while the bartender poured. There was a group of three soldiers drinking near the main entrance. Their purple cloaks were pinned to their armor with silver clasps shaped like arrows. Longbowmen. Two of them were visibly drunk. The third just seemed tipsy. Probably not a threat, but worth keeping an eye on.

  When her drink arrived, Vera took a long gulp. Then she waited.

  She’d barely finished ha
lf of her ale before the least-drunk longbowman came to the bar. He sidled up next to Vera, despite a huge swath of the bar being empty.

  “Nice sword.”

  Vera glanced at him. He was about thirty years old, and had the pale eyes and long nose of a Balarian, but his features were rougher than the palace froth Vera was used to—sun-weathered skin and a few small scars on his forehead and cheeks that looked like they’d come from some kind of shrapnel. Even with his armor and cloak on, it was easy to tell that he had powerful shoulders and a broad chest. A trait all longbowmen shared. It was the only way they could draw their massive weapons.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m Decimar Baurus, lieutenant of the seventh platoon of the Royal Longbow Legion.”

  Vera didn’t say anything.

  “What’s your name?” Decimar pressed.

  Vera gave him a long look. “You know my name, Lieutenant.”

  He smiled, relaxed and confident. “I do indeed. It’s an honor to meet you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m glad I have those two with me. They may be drunk, but they’re still witnesses. Otherwise, nobody back at the barracks would believe me when I said I shared an ale with Vera the Papyrian widow.”

  “We’re not sharing ale, though.”

  “Not yet,” Decimar said, flagging over the barkeep and ordering a fresh ale for Vera, in addition to another round for his comrades. “So, what brings you to Aeternita’s Grace?”

  “I should ask you the same thing,” Vera said. “Soldiers below the rank of major are only given access to districts five through ten. What are you and your men doing here?”

  “I’m surprised a foreigner like yourself has such command of the district policy.”

  Vera had memorized maps of the fifteen districts—along with the access requirements to each—within a week of arriving. In Balaria, laws were enforced by the seals, and she couldn’t do her job if she didn’t understand the rules.

  “Answer my question.”

  “Very well. The longbowmen have been granted special travel privileges for the night—our seals switch back to their regular codes at two in the morning.” He checked his clock, which was embedded into the bracer on his right wrist. “So, we have time to share one round, at least.”

  Longbowmen weren’t part of the regular army. Their tactics and equipment differed so much from standard infantry that it didn’t make sense to lump them in with the grunts. Plus, longbowmen had to start training when they were little boys—ten or eleven—so they’d be strong enough to draw the enormous bows they used by the time they were eighteen. In many ways, the longbowmen reminded her of the widows. They both traded their childhoods to become lethal adults.

  “What did you and your comrades do to earn such generosity?” Vera asked.

  “Classified, I’m afraid,” Decimar said. “But it was a good day.”

  He had no way of knowing that Vera was well aware of exactly why they were celebrating. Nothing like reducing an entire foreign navy to cinders to earn the men a drink.

  Behind them, Decimar’s two comrades burst into laughter over some private joke.

  “Beware of a soldier’s delight,” Vera said. “They tend to portend violent times.”

  Decimar cocked his head. “Where did you learn to speak Balarian so well?”

  “I speak every language that might come out of an enemy’s mouth.”

  In truth, Vera’s Balarian had been weak when she arrived, but Kira had drilled with her for hours each night until she could understand and reproduce most of the local idioms. Some of the gutterspeak still got past her, though.

  “I see. Any enemies in this tavern tonight?”

  The barkeep came over with their drinks, pretending not to eavesdrop as he slid the mugs forward.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call them enemies,” Vera said. “A few smugglers perhaps, but that’s all.”

  The bartender’s pointed eyebrows flicked toward the ceiling, surprised and alarmed. He hid the reaction a moment later, but was too late.

  “Sounds serious,” Decimar said, raising his mug to his lips.

  “Not for very long.”

  “Why is that?”

  There were many ways to hunt an animal. For rabbits, you used a trap. For deer, bait. But for boar, you simply found their lair, flushed them out, and trusted yourself not to miss when the beast attacked.

  This was a boar hunt.

  “Because I’ve come down here tonight to kill them,” Vera said, raising her voice just enough so that the bartender—who had turned his back and was pretending to clean a glass—would have no trouble hearing.

  Decimar froze, mug halting a finger’s width from his lips. He put it down again without drinking. “So, it’s true what they say about widows.”

  “I’m not sure.” Vera took a drink. “What do they say about widows?”

  “That you’re not to be fucked with.”

  “Most people come to regret it,” Vera said, looking past Decimar and watching the movement of the barkeep, who’d scampered down to the edge of the bar and said something to a squat man in a white silk robe while passing him a glass of bubbled wine. That man, in turn, had moved to the two patrons with careful eyes and poorly concealed weapons. Relayed something to them. The taller of the two departed using the front door of the tavern, but something about his posture and the way he gave the merchant a little nod on his way out told Vera that he’d be back soon.

  “What about the man who took your finger?” Decimar said, gesturing to the missing pinky on Vera’s left hand.

  “Who said it was a man?”

  Vera stared at Decimar until he gave a helpless shrug.

  “Relax, Lieutenant. I’m just giving you a hard time. The man responsible died in the Razorback Mountains. The man who actually cut it off is … gone.”

  Vera had tried to piece Bershad’s fate together as best she could, but the intelligence coming from Almira was both fragmented and filtered through Osyrus Ward’s spies, which made it untrustworthy. As best Vera could tell, Bershad and Felgor snuck out of Burz-al-dun on a stolen schooner, then disappeared. There were unconfirmed reports he’d been spotted with Ashlyn during the battle of Floodhaven, but the truth of that mess was impossible to glean from the far side of the Soul Sea.

  The only certainty was that nobody had seen Bershad, Ashlyn, or Felgor alive since the battle. Vera knew they were probably dead, but in the back of her mind she remembered watching Bershad’s body knit itself back together in the hold of that ship after he’d taken a dozen wounds that would kill a normal man.

  If Bershad truly had lost his life, it hadn’t been taken easily.

  “Come on, soft star!” one of the other longbowmen called. “Stop flirting with the Papyrian and bring that next round over!”

  “Soft star?” Vera asked.

  Decimar took a sip of his drink. “You need good eyes to join the longbowmen. And you need to start young if you’re going to build the strength to work one of our bows. So recruiters trawl the slums on clear nights, look for boys with strong arms, and have ’em look up at the stars. Tell ’em what they see. Anyone who can spot four of the six stars that make up the Falling Ghost Moth constellation gets a chance to join.”

  “How many did you see?”

  “Seven.”

  “I thought you said there were six?”

  He nodded. “The seventh star is the furthest away, and so difficult to see it’s not even considered a part of the constellation.”

  “The soft star,” Vera repeated, understanding. “I suppose that means you have good eyes.”

  “Better than most, anyway.”

  Vera didn’t say anything.

  “So, you know how I got my nickname. How’d you come by such a big sword?” Decimar continued.

  Vera turned away, scanned the room again. Decimar had served his purpose, and now she needed him to leave.

  “You should return to your friends, Lieutenant. They sound thirsty.”

  Decimar gav
e a defeated shrug, then left. His two friends slapped his back when he returned to their table, laughing and taking gulps from their fresh drinks.

  Vera ignored the rest of her ale. She needed to keep her head clear. Instead of drinking, she spent the next hour staring at the merchant who’d relayed the message to the hired thugs. He squirmed under her gaze, but was clearly waiting for something specific to happen before he moved. When Decimar and his friends left, Vera pretended not to notice. Just kept staring at the merchant.

  Eventually, the tall man returned. Sat down at the table with his partner, giving the merchant another nod. Very subtle. The merchant dabbed his sweaty forehead, revealing a disgustingly damp and yellow armpit. He downed the last of his bubble wine and moved to leave. But he headed for the pantry door, not the front.

  Vera slid a Balarian copper onto the counter, picked up her sword, and followed him. She didn’t bother checking to see if the hired thugs came, too.

  She knew they would.

  The alley was poorly lit and dominated by sprawling copper pipes that hissed and rattled as if large rodents used them as transportation tunnels. Steam leaked from the pipe seams, creating a hazy mist. The merchant had turned left and scurried deeper down the dead-end passageway. As Vera followed the pale flicker of his robe, she slid the sword off her shoulder and held it next to her left hip, where it would be easy to draw.

  Vera turned a few corners, letting the merchant stay about fifty paces ahead of her, just barely in sight. She counted the basement hatches as she passed them. Counting things always kept her calm.

  After passing the twenty-third door and turning a corner, the merchant was gone. Replaced by three men with drawn short swords. They wore leather jackets that were probably reinforced with steel shanks, but were otherwise unarmored.

  “You’re not very subtle, Papyrian,” said the man in the center. He had a neatly trimmed black goatee and hazel eyes.

  “I wasn’t trying to be.” Vera angled her shoulders so she could quickly check behind herself. The other two were approaching, also with their weapons drawn. “But if all of you were trying to spring a surprise attack, you did a piss-poor job of it.”