Sorcery of a Queen

by Brian Naslund

  “So?”

  “Do you only kill bad people? People who deserve it?”

  Garret leaned back against the stove. “One way or another, everyone deserves it, Jolan.”

  “You speak as if there are no good people in this world at all.”

  “There aren’t. Just people you haven’t gotten to know very well yet.”

  “And you’ll kill them all for a price. Is that it?”

  Garret looked at him. “Making sense of my work is a fool’s errand. Help me, don’t help me. It doesn’t make a difference to anything except your ability to sleep at night.”

  Jolan started unpacking his supplies.

  He told himself it was because an alchemist needed to help people if he could—forget the coin and forget the person. It was just the right thing to do. But the threat of a guilty conscience moved him more than he wanted to admit.

  He took a scalpel from his pack and swiped it down the side of Garret’s shirt, pressing just hard enough to slice fabric but not flesh. He checked the wound. There was a circular hole the size of a coin in his upper left abdomen.

  Jolan put on Morgan’s sealskin gloves and probed the wound with his finger, getting a sense of things. If it hurt Garret, the assassin didn’t show it.

  “You were fortunate,” Jolan said. “The injury came within a finger’s width of your aorta, liver, and kidney, but missed all three. All you have is a small hole in your intestine.”

  Garret didn’t say anything.

  Jolan started stitching. The hole wasn’t large, but it was difficult to keep the intestine still, so the work went slow. Master Morgan had never struggled with that when Jolan had observed his surgeries, but there were a lot of secrets Morgan died without sharing. The secrets of the warrens. The powers of the Gods Moss. And whatever trick kept intestines still when you were stitching up a hole in them.

  While he worked, Jolan noticed a fresh scar along Garret’s ribs.

  “Who repaired that one? The stitches are terrible.”

  “I did it myself.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “There were some complications in Floodhaven.”

  “You fought in the battle?”

  “Not in the sense that you mean,” Garret said. “But I was there.”

  “Is it true that Ashlyn Malgrave killed Cedar Wallace with demoncraft?”

  Jolan figured if anyone was going to provide a straight answer about what happened at Floodhaven, it would be Garret.

  “She killed him with something.”

  “People are saying it was lightning. Or fire. What did you see? Was there a specific smell? Acrid? Sharp?”

  Garret looked at Jolan. “I forgot how many questions you can ask in the space of a minute, once you get going.”

  Jolan shrugged.

  “How did you wind up stealing a skyship with a crew of Dainwood wardens and Papyrian widows?” Garret asked. “Thought you were heading into the Daintree warrens to solve some great mystery. You’ve strayed.”

  “No.” Jolan tightened his jaw. “I was in those warrens for months. I saw things that you wouldn’t believe. A cat-sized lizard that could mimic the colors of its surroundings for camouflage. Talking birds with long, plumed tails. Orange eels that shocked the water with electric jolts to stun River Lurker babies, then eat them with razor-sharp teeth. Bone-white trees with iridescent red and blue leaves. And more exotic plants than most city-dwelling alchemists see in a lifetime. I collected hundreds of warren ingredients, just like I’d planned. Then I left the wilds to rent a workshop where I could conduct experiments and learn the secret of the Gods Moss. But I ran into Cumberland and his men before I reached Glenlock. They, uh, asked me to join them.”

  “Press-ganged. I’ve been there.”

  “Really?”

  He gave Jolan a look. “How do you think I got started in this life?”

  “I guess I … assumed you wanted it.”

  “No.” Garret looked down at his boots. A moth was banging against the metal ceiling of the galley over and over—dust from its wings rubbing off on the gray steel. “When I was your age, I wanted to be in a theater troupe. Always liked costumes. It felt good to spend a little time wearing other people’s skin, even before mine got so dirty.”

  “Why didn’t you, then?”

  Garret shrugged. “I was a shit singer.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t go soft because of a little backstory, kid. Everybody’s got one.”

  Jolan closed the exterior wound and applied a newly concocted Gods Moss poultice. Depending on how long Cumberland kept Garret as prisoner, he could see how the mixture handled any infection that might develop in Garret’s gut.

  “This is done. You’ll make a full recovery.”

  Garret looked at him. “Saving my life is a mistake, Jolan. Why do you keep on making it?”

  Before Jolan worked up a response, Oromir’s head popped into the galley.

  “There you are,” he said.

  “Here I am.”

  “You all right being alone with him?” Oromir eyed Garret.

  “Fine.”

  “I won the dice game for that feather bed.”

  “Willem must be pissed,” Jolan said.

  “Very.” Oromir paused, then added, “There’s room for two. In the bed.”

  “Oh.” Jolan’s belly churned with excitement and panic. “Um, I should check on Sten. Make sure his splint isn’t too tight.”

  “Makes sense. But if you’re coming, best do it soon. I’m so tired the backs of my eyes ache.” Oromir yawned. Smiled. “But I’ll wait up as long as I can.”

  When he was gone, Jolan went back to bandaging Garret’s belly.

  “How long are you going to drag your feet on that stupid bandage?” Garret asked after Jolan started making the seventh pass.

  “It needs to be tight.”

  “It’s fine. That boy wants you. And you want him. Get to it.”

  “What would a cold-blooded assassin know about it?”

  “More than you, apparently.”

  Jolan kept wrapping the bandage.

  “What’s the holdup?” Garret pressed.

  Jolan swallowed. “I’m afraid it won’t go right. If it stays in my head, it’s perfect. Always.”

  “You’re a smart kid, Jolan. But that is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard.”

  Jolan bristled. But Garret kept talking.

  “We almost died today. If that ship came down at a slightly different angle, you’d have been skewered by a tree branch. We’re safe in this moment, but you don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Might be none of us get out of this forest alive. Do you want to go down the river with a perfect dream trapped inside your head, or do you want something real?”

  “I want it to be real,” Jolan whispered.

  “Then go.”

  Jolan sat there for another moment, clutching his roll of bandages as if they were the gunwale of a ship during a storm. Outside, the rain started. A soft whisper of water on leaves that grew into an ear-pounding deluge.

  “I keep on helping you because it’s the right thing to do,” Jolan said eventually. “And I think you spared me in the Dainwood for the same reason. You aren’t as cynical as you pretend to be. The good man inside of you is just buried beneath thick layers of dirty skin.”

  * * *

  Jolan checked on Sten, who was snoring loudly by his fire. Then he went out and stood in the rain for a few minutes, working up the courage to visit Oromir’s cabin.

  When he was on the verge of shivering, he went back inside and knocked on the door of the dead captain’s quarters.

  “Yes?” came Oromir’s voice from inside.

  “It’s Jolan?”

  He didn’t mean to, but it came out more like a question than a statement.

  The door opened a moment later. Oromir was shirtless—a dark smudge of grimy mineral oil ran from his nipple to the muscles along his lower ribs. Behind him, his sword was leaning aga
inst the wall. A goatskin rag next to it.

  “You’re soaking wet,” he said. “How’d that happen?”

  Jolan shrugged. “I went outside to listen to the rain. Sorry, I guess I should have come sooner.”

  “Now is perfect. Come on, I can make a little fire.”

  While Oromir made a fire from broken chairs, Jolan removed his soaking cloak and hung it up on a broken pipe near the door. Then, since all the other furniture was destroyed, he sat on the feather bed. The idea of sinking into the softness made his blood pressure spike, so he just balanced his ass on the edge.

  Once the fire was crackling, Oromir dug out his familiar flask of brandy, took a sip, then passed it to Jolan.

  “Seems so long ago, back in that barn, when we did this the first time,” Oromir said.

  “Yeah.”

  They exchanged a few sips in silence.

  “What’s wrong?” Oromir asked. “You look sad.”

  Jolan took a sip before answering. “The longer I live in this world, and the more things that I see, the more I feel … overmatched.”

  “Overmatched,” Oromir repeated. “In what way?”

  “All ways, I guess.” Jolan sipped the brandy again. The warmth in his bloodstream gave him the courage to keep talking. “I spent the first half of my life helping the smartest man I knew try to stop a plague in Otter Rock, and we got nowhere. We failed. And when I left, I wanted to help people. Use the things I learned to make this world … better. But somehow all I’ve managed to do is save the lives of killers. Their hearts are so hardened and cold.”

  “You’re talking about wardens and widows. People like me.”

  Jolan looked up, saw the sadness in Oromir’s eyes.

  “No, Oromir. Not like you. You still name your horses. You’re not like the others.”

  “Not yet.” He sighed. “But I worry about it. Maybe it’s just because I’m younger. What will I be like in ten years, leading this life? Or twenty? Cumberland cares about us, I know that much. But sometimes he seems so … empty inside. Like whatever joy he had—true joy—died a long time ago, along with the Bershad lords.”

  Oromir held out the flask of brandy. But instead of taking it, Jolan took his hand. Squeezed it.

  “Do you remember what you asked me in that barn? About what I … you know … think about.”

  Oromir looked embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. It was crass.”

  “I think of you,” Jolan said quickly. “I think of you all the time. The way you brush your hair off your face when you’re watching a bird in the sky. The way your hips move when you ride. And the way your fingers rest on the reins or your sword or my hand. It’s always you.”

  Oromir had such a serious look on his face that Jolan thought he’d said something wrong. But then Oromir’s eyes welled up and a tear fell down his cheek.

  “Come here.”

  Oromir wrapped him into a tight embrace. For a moment, they just held each other. Then Oromir took Jolan’s jaw in his callused hand and kissed him.

  Jolan had never kissed anyone before. Oromir’s stubble was rough against his face, but his lips and tongue were soft and wet. He tasted like brandy and spearmint. Jolan placed his hands on Oromir’s waist. Let his thumbs explore the ridges of his hips.

  “That tickles,” Oromir said, breaking away.

  “Oh! Sorry…” Jolan tucked his hands against his own chest.

  “It’s okay,” Oromir said, laughing, then put his hands on Jolan’s shirt. “Here, let’s get this off. It’s wet.”

  Oromir unfastened the button of Jolan’s shirt with easy dexterity and pulled the garment over his head. Jolan felt self-conscious. They were the same age, but where Oromir was all wiry muscle and lean strength, Jolan was bony and awkward. His chest looked like a boy’s chest. Oromir ran his hands along his collarbone and rubbed his shoulders, then kissed him again on the mouth, jaw, and neck.

  Before Jolan realized what was happening, Oromir had guided him back into the enveloping softness of the bed. The blanket was torn and covered in splinters, but it didn’t matter. Oromir’s skin was burning with warmth. Jolan rubbed his hands along his strong arms and back.

  He shuddered as Oromir’s hand drifted down past his belly button, then undid his pants. Drifted farther. He gasped as Oromir touched him, teased the tip of his cock with the same dexterous fingers Jolan had been watching for weeks as they fastened buttons, held ale mugs and horse reins. And now they were on him, making his entire body tremble. All of a sudden, the hand was gone again and Jolan was aching to have it back.

  “The first time can go by fast,” Oromir whispered in his ear, then sucked on the lobe. “We should make it last.”

  Oromir lifted his hips and pulled his own leather riding pants off. Jolan found himself momentarily frozen as he watched the young warden strip naked in front of him. He had a hard time looking away from his cock.

  “You’re making me blush, Jolan,” Oromir said with a laugh. “C’mon, I know you’ve seen plenty before. Gods, you’ve been helping Willem with his cock rot since we met.”

  “Don’t make me think of cock rot right now.” Jolan smiled. “And it’s different this way.”

  Jolan pulled his own pants off, fighting how vulnerable it made him feel. Then he lay down alongside Oromir and started kissing him again. He did his best to casually move his own hand lower and lower—trying to make it seem like his every thought and heart fiber wasn’t focused on the place his hand was going to arrive.

  When it did, Oromir let out a long, almost surprised breath. Jolan wrapped his hand around Oromir’s cock and stroked it. He nearly blurted out how much different it felt than touching his own, but realized that wasn’t a very romantic comment. Instead he just kept on touching and kissing and pressing his body into Oromir, who did the same things back. For moments or minutes or maybe hours, Jolan got lost in the sensations of their bodies touching. And the tastes of Oromir. His mouth. The sweat on his skin.

  Oromir was right, the first time didn’t last very long. But the second and third times did.

  * * *

  Oromir fell asleep first, snoring lightly with his head nestled into Jolan’s armpit. Every few minutes he would shift a little, or scratch the tip of his nose, then go still again.

  Jolan fought against sleep for as long as he could. If he fell asleep, it would be over.

  His life had been dominated by other people’s ailments for as long as he could remember. Defined by cures and tonics and the weights of herb packets. And after the apothecary, it had been defined by the pursuit of a lofty goal—to find an explanation for what he saw the day the Flawless Bershad killed that dragon. For the first time since it happened, Jolan didn’t care about the answer. He only cared about staying near Oromir for as long as possible.

  As if he could hear his thoughts, Oromir opened his cool blue eyes.

  “I don’t think I want to be a warden anymore,” he whispered.

  “Then don’t be,” Jolan said. “Once this is done, we can disappear. Find some little cottage in the woods and live there. It’ll be just you and me. Peaceful. Safe.”

  Oromir smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  He went back to sleep. Jolan studied the line of his ribs and hip. Fought against the drowsiness that was flooding his body. There were still a few hours left in the night. A few hours to hold on to this feeling.

  Jolan closed his eyes, just for a second.

  The next thing he knew, dawn was streaming through the cabin’s window and Iko was shouting from the top of a tree she’d climbed.

  “More skyships on the horizon!”

  40

  VERA

  Almira, Floodhaven, Castle Malgrave

  Osyrus Ward’s machine summoned the entire Balarian armada to Floodhaven during the night. Twenty-eight skyships.

  They hung like black storm clouds, lashed to the ground by anchors that Osyrus Ward’s machine had compelled them to drop in the harbor. There was no movement on the
decks. No sign of life.

  Despite Vera’s protests, Kira had insisted that she go with the boarding party to Actus Thorn’s skyship, the Black Clock.

  “I need to see his fate with my own eyes,” she’d said.

  Decimar’s men crewed the Blue Sparrow and ascended to an even height with the Black Clock, then Vera, Kira, Osyrus, and Decimar boarded via a thick gangplank.

  Inside the ship, each man had died the same way: The clock on his chest had exploded inward, tearing his chest cavity to shreds and, in many cases, spraying his innards all over the wall and floor behind him.

  “Gods, this is foul,” Kira said, holding a silk scarf over her mouth. “Why do they smell so bad? I thought you said that they only died a few hours ago. Don’t corpses take longer to fester?”

  “They aren’t festering yet,” Decimar said. “People usually shit themselves after they die.”

  “Gods,” Kira said again. “Ending lives is a disgusting process.”

  “I think it’s fascinating,” said Osyrus Ward, bending over to examine a man’s ruined chest. He dipped one knobby finger into the open cavity. Rubbed the blood between finger and thumb. “Ever since Mercer Domitian was killed, I have been forced to spend most of my time creating simple machines that mimic life with clockwork and pistons and steam. But that’s all a machine will ever do on its own. Dumb imitation. The possibilities are far more interesting when you bind the two. Mechanical and organic, fused together in a perfect harmony.” Osyrus looked up from the corpses, eyes bright with passion. “I would greatly appreciate access to these corpses for my research. It has been quite some time since I was given the opportunity to study so many fresh human specimens.”

  Kira hesitated. “They had to die, but there is no reason to disrespect their bodies. They should be given seashells.”

  “When we began our work together, you promised me that you would provide me with the materials that I need for my research. It is time for you to keep that promise, Empress.”