“Things can always get worse, Felgor.”
He took another long gulp of wine. Grimaced.
“What’s the problem, Si?” Felgor asked, watching him.
“Ashlyn and I have a long journey ahead of us. Out to a place called Ghost Moth Island.”
“Never heard of it. Anything to steal out there?”
“It’s a pirate hideout in a freezing wasteland to the north.”
“Sounds terrible.” Felgor cracked a smile. “Might be you wanna head upstairs and get a little professional comfort before you go back to sleeping in a fucking boat?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Aye,” Felgor said. “Wouldn’t want the witch queen hearing about that type of thing.”
“Careful, Felgor. She doesn’t like that name.”
Felgor grabbed the jug, smiling. “You know how I can tell you love her?”
“How?”
“That little jab actually pissed you off, instead of you just pretending it did.” He took a sip. “It’s good to see.”
Bershad grabbed the jug back. The rice wine helped cool the discomfort of being indoors and surrounded by people.
“What’ll you do next?” he asked Felgor.
“You mean, what’ll I do after I’m paid, right?”
“Sure.”
Felgor pursed his lips. Thought it over. “Well, islands are shitty places for a thief to operate. Nowhere to run.”
“Ashlyn’s going to give you two hundred pieces of gold, Felgor. Even for you, that’s enough to take an extended vacation, at least.”
“I’m hurt, Silas. After all this time, you still don’t understand me. I don’t steal things for the money. Never did.”
“Why, then?”
“Because it’s fun. People put too much stock in gold and riches. I like watching their faces when I relieve them of their burdens.” Felgor polished off the wine jug. His face got serious. “Gonna miss you, Silas. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
“I’ll miss you too,” Bershad said. And he meant it.
Felgor gave Bershad a slap on the shoulder.
“But you need to be more careful without me around to protect you.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing all this time?”
“You’ve got a shit memory, dragonslayer. I’ve saved your life more than you’ve saved mine.”
Bershad frowned, thinking.
Felgor sighed, and started counting on his fingers. “You killed that Skojit in the Razorbacks right before he caved in my head, but I rescued you at the docks. The dungeon. And I found the moss after the battle of Floodhaven. Three to one. That’s significant.”
Bershad smiled. “Fair enough.”
“I can’t believe we’ve been together since you dropped down into the hull of that Papyrian dogger in the Floodhaven harbor. Last spring. Been almost a year.”
Bershad narrowed his eyes. “You gonna get weepy on me?”
“Not drunk enough for that. Yet.” Felgor raised a jug. “But when two bastards tear a swath of mischief and destruction across not one or two, but three different countries, and then part ways as friends, they got to get shit-hammered together on their last night. That is the law.”
“Whose law?”
“Mine. Felgor’s Law.”
Bershad hesitated.
“C’mon, don’t tell me Ashlyn has you whipped that bad already. Anyway, that asshole Po is buying. Remember?”
Bershad ran a hand through his beard. It was probably the last time they’d ever see each other.
“One more jug. That’s it.”
“Another jug, he says!” Felgor shouted, motioning to the barkeep.
* * *
Eight jugs of rice wine later, everyone in the Squatting Loon was sweaty from dancing and red in the face from drinking. Bershad felt the warm buzz of wine in his belly and head. Felgor was crying on Kiko’s shoulder.
“I just…” he muttered, sniffling a little. “I’m gonna miss him, that’s all. Not afraid to say it. A real man doesn’t cram his emotions down in his guts. That kind of stubborn repression leads to an early trip down the river.”
“Poor Felgor,” Kiko said, cooing at him and pressing his face into her tits. She gave Bershad an expectant look.
“I’ll miss you, too, Felgor.” He paused. “You’re a true friend. And in this shit world, that’s a rare thing.”
Felgor turned to him. Eyes wet. “A true friend,” he repeated in slurred words, nodding his head.
He was about to pass out. Bershad stood up.
“I’m shoving off,” he said. “And I’m taking this with me. You’ve had enough.” Bershad snatched the last, half-full jug of wine from the table. “Stay out of trouble until you get paid, yeah?”
“Sure,” Felgor muttered, eyes closed. “Outta trouble.”
Felgor started snoring with his head cradled in Kiko’s arms.
“Poor thing,” she said.
* * *
Bershad walked back to the rooming house Okinu had cleared for them. The streets were quiet, and Bershad took occasional pulls from the jug. Even though he’d put more than a gallon of expensive and strong wine into his belly, he was barely drunk. A year ago, he’d have blacked out from that kind of drinking. Woken up with splinters in his cheeks from the barroom table.
The Nomad was circling overhead. She’d mostly stayed above the clouds during their journey, but now that Bershad was in one place—and night had fallen—she was drifting lower.
The closer she got to him, the sharper his senses became. The odor of earthy pitch rising from every chimney filled his nostrils as it mixed with fresh lavender and lilac incense that rolled out of the rice-wine shops and public houses. The wheels of wooden carts rolling over a distant cobblestone street thundered in his ears. He passed an alley cat and could smell mouse blood on her paws.
“Best keep your distance,” Bershad whispered to the Nomad. “Don’t wanna set off the lizard alarm and cause the whole city to crap themselves. Or start firing arrows at you.”
To Bershad’s surprise, the dragon seemed to hear him. She caught a thermal and headed back above the clouds.
“Huh.”
The innkeeper told him that Ashlyn was in the bathhouse attached to the main building. Bershad crunched along the small gravel path leading to the separate structure. He yanked his boots off and laid them by the door before entering. Steam and heat rushed out of the room when he opened the door.
“Sorry,” he muttered, moving to close the door again.
“No,” came Ashlyn’s voice. “Leave it open for a second. It feels good.”
Bershad stood for a moment between the heat of the room and the cool night air.
“Okay, that’s enough. Get your tattooed ass in here.”
Bershad had to take a few steps into the hazy steam before he could see Ashlyn. She was leaning back in a small cedar tub—breasts and arms rising out of the water. The sawtooth lines on her scars were ignited from the heat of the water, pulsing bright blue. She’d removed the bandage on her arm, leaving the charred thread visible. There was an empty glass of rice wine on a small table next to her.
“Brought more, if you’re thirsty,” Bershad said, lifting the jug.
“Just a little,” Ashlyn said, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
Bershad came over and filled her glass to the brim.
“I said a little!”
“It’s a small glass.”
“And that’s a huge jug of wine,” Ashlyn said. “How do you drink so much without passing out?”
“Practice.”
He took off his clothes. Ashlyn smiled as he struggled with the buttons of his shirt.
“You’ve slain sixty-six dragons, but still can’t conquer a set of buttons. How is that possible?”
“Life’s full of contradictions.”
He stepped into the tub, which was just big enough for both of them to fit if they intertwined their legs. The water level rose to th
e lip of the tub, but didn’t spill over.
“What have you been up to?” he asked.
“Trying to get more information about this island. Osyrus Ward was extremely opaque in his letters. The other alchemist—Kasamir—published dozens of reports, but they were all focused on the cultivation methods and medicinal applications of Cordata mushrooms. He had some interesting ideas for healing degenerative tissue, but that doesn’t do me any good right now.” She paused, lost in thought for a moment. “We need more current intelligence, but most of what I’ve found is focused on reasons to avoid that stretch of the Big Empty entirely.”
“What kind of reasons?”
“Well, the whole area around the island is a hunting ground for Naga Soul Striders. So that’s a natural deterrent. Most sailing charts and captain’s logs that I dug up don’t even mention the island, just the dragons that can tear a merchant carrack in half with a single tail swipe.”
“And the ones that do mention the island?”
Ashlyn sighed. “They read like drunken tavern stories. A Ghalamarian admiral who allegedly shipwrecked on the island wrote an account. He said that it’s a demon-infested wasteland with an open hole to the underworld in the middle, and claimed his entire crew was eaten by demons. He barely escaped with his life and braved the Big Empty on a raft made of flotsam.”
“Colorful.”
“Oh, that’s just the beginning. In Taggarstan, it’s apparently common knowledge that Ghost Moth Island is home to a band of murderous pirates who sold their souls to the demons in exchange for black magic. Dragon scales grow from their skin, wretched and blackened teeth sprout from their mouths. They eat everyone aboard the ships they raid and never leave survivors.”
“If they kill everyone, then I guess they’re splitting time between the island and telling stories about themselves in Taggarstan.”
Ashlyn snorted. “You of all people should know how rumors go. There’s a kernel of truth that gets inflated each time it passes from one drunken mouth to the next, until you have an enormous dragonslayer with a foot-long cock pissing down the neck-stumps of decapitated dragons.”
“Or witch queens shooting fireballs out of their nether regions.”
“Who said that?”
“One of the companions at the Squatting Loon.”
“Ugh. That’s as crude as it is inaccurate.”
“I know. And the rumors about you will probably only multiply while we’re sailing to this remote island.” He leaned forward and gave her a long kiss. “On the bright side, before we plunge into this demon’s lair, we’ve got one night together on a bed that doesn’t rock back and forth constantly.”
Bershad was about to move in closer, but she pushed him away.
“Seriously, you smell like a distillery. And I bet Felgor is on the floor of the Squatting Loon if he tried to keep up with you.” She studied him. “Has it always been like that?”
Bershad leaned back on his half of the tub with a sigh. He knew he wouldn’t get anywhere until he satisfied Ashlyn’s curiosity.
“No,” he admitted. “My hangovers never last long, but I spent most of my exile stone drunk. Don’t even remember some of the dragons I killed. But ever since Burz-al-dun and the dungeon…”
“Osyrus Ward changed you.”
“Removing and regrowing my limbs was bound to have an impact.”
“Sure. But sometimes I wonder if that part is a symptom of some other alteration. You said that there were jars and beakers in the workshop when you woke up.”
“I did?”
“Yes. What was in them?”
“I don’t even remember saying that.”
“Try, Silas. Try to remember.”
Bershad thought back. “When I woke up, they were empty.”
“Osyrus might have injected the contents inside your body. Sparked the regrowth of your limbs in the near term, along with other changes. A higher tolerance to alcohol would mean increased liver function.”
“What does it mean to have a dragon following me around?”
“I don’t know, but it’s all connected somehow. And it all leads somewhere.”
“But you don’t know where,” Bershad finished.
“No.”
Ashlyn looked away again. Started chewing on the thumbnail of her left hand, which gave Bershad a clear look at the thread wrapped around her wrist.
“Do you want to talk about the fact that those black lines running along your veins are growing?”
She flinched. Put her hand in the water. “Not particularly.”
“Looks like they’ve spread about four finger’s widths since the day it happened.”
“I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Sure. We can dissect the changes to my body that were brought on by brutal torture to your heart’s content, but the dragon tissue that’s bound and spreading through your body is obviously an off-limits subject. That’s fair.”
“I’ll figure out what’s happening to both of us,” Ashlyn said, rubbing her wrist. “But the answers are on that island, not in this tub.”
“True. But there are some interesting things in this tub that are less mysterious.” Bershad lowered himself a little further into the water and started running his hand up her leg. “You can try to understand what’s happening to us both all you want. But it won’t change who we are. Comes a point, you just have to accept your fate and enjoy the time you have left.”
“That’s a terrible strategy.”
“Strongly disagree,” Bershad said, as his hand drifted above her knee, and then higher still.
“Careful, dragonslayer,” Ashlyn warned.
“Always.” Bershad slipped one finger inside of her. Ashlyn let out a slow breath. “But if you’re not interested in the current moment, we can keep talking about liver function and dragon threads and—”
“Shut up,” Ashlyn whispered, putting one hand on Bershad’s submerged forearm and squeezing her nails into his tattooed skin. “And keep doing that.” She pulled him a little deeper inside of her. “Right … there.”
For a few minutes, there were no sounds except moving water and Ashlyn’s rising breaths. Her cheeks and neck flushed, and she arched her back with pleasure.
“Mm,” she said, opening her eyes again afterward. “Well, seeing as you can’t get drunk anymore, there’s no way you’ve had too much wine to give me a proper fuck before we go to this island, correct?”
Bershad smiled.
“Correct, my queen.”
PART II
11
CASTOR
City of Taggarstan
Castor watched with disgusted fascination as Vallen Vergun ate his breakfast.
Vergun was eating the same dish he’d eaten the previous morning, and every morning since Castor had entered his service: a heavy slab of gray-pink meat, seasoned with pepper and turmeric. Both spices were ludicrously expensive. Imported from Juno, the land beyond Taggarstan. A little juice lingered on Vergun’s pale lips, which were the same color as the rest of him: bone white.
The only part of Vallen Vergun that had color was his bloodred eyes.
The origin of his daily carnivorous breakfast was a source of wild rumor and conjecture in Taggarstan. Half the city was convinced that Vergun ate part of a human every morning. The other half believed it was just an odd cut of pork, although their conviction never stood on firm ground.
The meat came from a back-alley butcher named Lim, whose larynx had been removed with a spoon twelve years earlier over some kind of unpaid debt. The man sold meat to nobody else, and all attempts by curious criminals to gain clandestine access to Lim’s ramshackle warehouse had failed. The only man who’d ever managed to creep through a back window never came out again, fueling the rumor that he’d become Vallen’s breakfast the following morning.
Personally, Castor was constantly trading sides between the cannibal and swine camps. Today, the dish was markedly reminiscent of a plump woman’s bottom. But yesterday�
�s had been very lumpy and piglike.
Castor suspected that this waffling doubt was exactly what Vergun wanted his meals to achieve. Most people will be afraid of a man who might eat people for breakfast.
Vergun stabbed his meat with a fancy silver fork that only a baron or prince would use, but cut it with a massive knife made from a dragon’s tooth. That blade generated almost as much attention as the meat Vergun cut with it. Far as Castor knew, it was one of a kind.
And so was the man he’d taken it from.
Castor hadn’t been in Taggarstan for Vergun’s duel against the Flawless Bershad—an issue with a crooked smuggling crew had taken him to Graziland on a flat barge. But according to the flood of rumors that surged through the city upon his return, Vergun had crippled Bershad, killed his donkey, and taken his priceless dagger before throwing him in a riverboat to die. Some of the alleged witnesses said that Vergun also ate Bershad’s foot and made the poor bastard watch.
Castor didn’t believe the foot thing, but the dagger aspect was undeniable. Vergun flaunted the evidence of it during every meal, despite the fact that the weapon was better suited for stabbing bears than slicing plated meat. When Castor had asked Vergun about his choice in cutlery, his boss had said that he enjoyed the dichotomy.
Castor knew what dichotomy meant—Horellian guards were trained to operate in the Burz-al-dun palace without sounding like simple thugs—but he couldn’t puzzle out why it was enjoyable in this instance.
“Tell me again,” Vergun said, putting a fresh slice of juicy meat into his mouth before finishing his sentence. “How exactly did Tumbler Tom manage to lose my Papyrian asset and put the Dice Den belly-up in a single night?”
Castor fidgeted. “Well, I wasn’t there personally, so—”
“But you are here now, giving me the information. So, give it.”
Tumbler Tom was the proprietor of Tumbler’s Dice Den—a high-end gambling establishment that was bankrolled and silently owned by Vallen Vergun. The fact that Tom had gone bankrupt last night meant that Vergun had lost a decent amount of his own money, too. So things were tense.
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