by Jay Kristoff
“I nodded, looking to Saoirse. ‘Where’s that cat of yours?’
“‘Phoebe wanders. She’ll be back when she gets bored.’
“‘Right. I might go for a look-see myself. Rest of you stay here, stay warm. Pretty please.’ I glanced to Chloe. ‘Trouble finds you while I’m gone, belt that horn of yours, Sœur Sauvage.’
“Chloe spared me a small, grateful smile. ‘Walk careful, mon ami.’
“‘I’ll be back. Quick as a bishop up an altar boy.’
“Rafa blinked, shivering. ‘I think p-perhaps your experience with b-bishops differs from mine, Silversaint.’
“I stepped out into the sleet, shoulders hunched as I made a slow circuit of Winfael. I trudged through tight-packed streets, checking houses and cellars, then down to the edge of the freezing loch. A tangle of old nets. Boats abandoned. Water cold as a bog hag’s tit. The houses were stripped, whether by folk who lived here or scavengers after, I’d no ken. But save for the vermin, there wasn’t a soul alive in this whole forsaken place.
“No Dead either, at least.
“I circled back to the main square, silver-heeled boots crunching in new snow. The ghosts in the houses whispered old secrets to the storm. Through the flurry ahead, I caught a hint of blue and silver, disappearing through the doors of the burned church.
“Dior.
“It was freezing, and I was itching for a smoke, but I trusted that fancy little shit as far as I could piss into this wind. And so, I stomped across the square and through the bucktoothed dawndoors of the Winfael Cathedral.
“It was a modest affair—circular, limestone blacked by flame. Its roof had collapsed, snow drifting into its hollow belly. The windows were old stained glass, mostly shattered on the floor. But in the nor’most wall, the glass was intact—a scene depicting Michon leading her army during the Wars of the Faith. The first Martyr was tall, flaxen-haired, fierce as a hundred angels. Dior stood before the window with a puzzled look on his face.
“‘The fuck are you doing?’
“The boy startled as I spoke, spinning on his heel. His silver dagger was out of his coat in a blinking. I had to admit it—the little prick’s hands were as quick as his tongue.
“‘I thought I told you to mind your business, hero.’
“‘And who said that you get to tell me anything at all, boy?’
“‘Your mama,’ he scowled. ‘After I rumped her on your papa’s sheets.’
“I chuckled at that, tipped my tricorn. ‘You’ve got balls, Lachance. I’ll give you that. But my boots are bigger. What are you doing in here?’
“He gestured to the broken pews around the altar. ‘Bellamy needs firewood.’
“‘Mmf.’ I nodded. ‘Fine idea. Worthless made worthwhile.’
“‘You honestly can’t imagine the relief I feel at meeting your approval, hero.’
“Dior stalked among the pews, gathering up the crushed timber. I reached into my greatcoat for my pipe, packed a neat hit of sanctus into the bowl. I’d been working my way through the new batch I’d cooked nice and slow, and that fledgling’s blood was rich as fine wine. I probably didn’t need another smoke yet. But Need and Want are two different masters entire.
“That sharp snap of iron on flint. That sorcerie of heat and vapor slipping like the sweetest blade into my chest, face upturned, snowflakes pressing gentle kisses upon my fluttering lashes, as close to heaven as I’d ever get.
“‘Any opportunity to feed that need, eh?’
“Dior’s voice brought me back to earth. I exhaled a crimson lungful and looked him over with eyes the same shade. Elidaeni haute couture on his back. Cheap Sūdhaemi leather on his feet. Nordlund blood in his veins. Button missing from his right sleeve. Left-handed. Gutter thin. Black beauty spot on his right cheek. Fingers stained grey from his traproot cigarelles. And for the first time, I saw he had scars across his palms—knife wounds carved in his skin, long and deep. Only a couple of months old, by the look.
“‘And what would you know about it, boy?’
“‘I know you suck on that pipe like you were getting paid for it.’ Dior lifted his foot and snapped a shattered pew in half. ‘I know you got a shadow on you, hero.’
“‘You know shit, Lachance. Keep talking it, see what happens.’
“The boy sneered and nodded to himself. ‘And there it is.’
“‘There’s what?’
“‘The first resort of every man like you I ever met.’
“‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking you know me, boy.’
“He shook his head, glanced to my pipe. ‘I’ve known people like you all my life. No matter if it’s the bottle or the needle or the smoke, the same’s true for every one of you. Once that hook’s in your skin, it just drags out the worst in you.’
“‘You’ve never seen the worst in me.’
“‘I’ve seen enough. You treat the people around you like shit.’
“‘I treat the people around me like they deserve. It’s just most people deserve to be treated like shit.’ I fixed him in a bloody stare, watching his eyes. ‘Liars, especially.’
“The boy matched my gaze, unafraid. ‘Everybody lies.’
“‘That they do. But you’re not half as good at it as you think, boy. With your big cock swagger and your beggar’s boots and your fancy coat.’
“‘Not just fancy, hero.’ The boy brushed his midnight-blue lapel. ‘This coat’s magik.’
“‘Magik.’ I scoffed. ‘Bullshit. Just like the rest of you.’
“‘As you like it.’
“I lifted my pipe, staring at the stained-glass likeness of the first Martyr.
“‘The Grail of San Michon, eh? You want to tell me how a gutter-born thief from the arse end of Sūdhaem learns the whereabouts of the most priceless relic of the Holy Church?’
“‘No,’ Dior replied. ‘No, I don’t.’
“I stepped closer, watching his pupils dilate, listening to his heart beating a touch quicker. ‘Danton Voss. Sisters of the Inquisition. Dūnnsair slayers. Soothsingers and holy men. You’ve got a strange crop tangled up in this bullshit of yours, Lachance. And normally, I’d be struggling to find a reason to care. But the silver sister in that taverne back there who believes in you so hard? She’s a friend of mine. And they’re thin enough on the ground these nights for me to feel overprotective about the few I have left.’
“Dior clenched his jaw. ‘Sister Chloe saved my life. I’d never do anything to hurt her.’
“‘Except drag her through hell for the sake of a cup that doesn’t exist?’
“His eyes twinkled then. ‘But there’s the joke, hero. It does exist.’
“‘Is that right?’ I smiled, stepping closer. ‘Why don’t you tell me where it is, then?’
“‘And why would I do that?’
“‘Because if anything happens to my friend because of your bullshit…’ I put my hand on his shoulder, teeth sharp against my tongue, ‘… it won’t go well for you.’
“‘There it is again,’ he whispered. ‘The first resort of every bad man I ever met.’
“‘The world needs bad men, boy. We keep the monsters from the door.’
“‘But that’s the problem, hero. Bad men never realize when the monster is them.’
“‘Gabe? Dior?’
“I turned, found Chloe at the broken doors, wind howling at her back. Her cloak was up over her curls, scarf about her face. But her big green eyes were fixed on me.
“‘Are you two well?’
“‘Just chatting.’ I gave Dior’s shoulder a squeeze. Hurting just enough to let him know it could hurt far worse. ‘Man to man.’
“‘… Dior?’
“The boy shrugged my hand off, and spitting on the ground at my feet, he hefted his armful of broken lumber and stalked out the doors. Chloe watched him go with a mother’s eyes, and I wondered what in God’s name made her cleave to this lad so hard.
“Mayhaps because she’d never have a son herself?
> “Could it be that simple?
“‘Phoebe just returned,’ Chloe murmured. ‘Saoirse says we may have problems.’
“‘Well, there’s a pleasant change.’
“I crunched across the broken pews toward the doors, but Chloe grabbed my arm as I tried to pass. I looked down: barely five feet of her, nunnery-raised, small and slight. But I felt the strength in her grip. Saw the fire in her eyes. ‘Can I trust you, Gabe?’
“‘Why wouldn’t you be able to trust me, Chlo?’
“‘You seem … different. What you said to Rafa the other day. About God—’
“‘I said I’d see you to the Volta, and I will. I’m not the one you should be fretting on.’
“‘Dior’s not what you think, Gabriel.’
“‘A grifter? A thief? He’s all that and more. I can smell it in his sweat. Hear it in his heartbeat. He’s a fucking liar, Chlo. And I’m wondering if all those years you spent buried in those books have turned you so blind you can’t see the horizon. If you want to believe in this holy cup nonsense so badly, you’ll swallow anything anyone hands you.’
“‘Trust me,’ she whispered.
“‘Why? What makes you so fucking certain?’
“She pressed her lips thin. ‘You remember when you used to train me in the Library? Always look your enemy in the eye? Never draw your sword unless you mean to use it?’
“‘I remember.’
“‘I took those lessons to heart.’ She pulled off her glove, and I saw her palm was callused, fingers rough where once they’d only been papercut. ‘I’m not that little girl anymore, Gabe. I know what I’m doing. And if I can’t tell you all, then I beg you forgive me. But God above, truth told, it’s best you don’t know all.’ She squeezed my hand in her tiny fist. ‘I need your blade, mon ami. I need your strength. But most of all, I need your faith.’
“I reached down, slowly pulled my hand out of hers.
“‘Faith’s a hard thing to come by these nights, Sister.’
“And head bowed, I walked out into the cold.”
VI
THE PLAN
“‘WRETCHED,’ SAOIRSE REPORTED. ‘A pack o’ them. Headed this way.’
“We were gathered in the commonroom of the Hammered Smith, the dark sun slinking toward the horizon as if it’d earned a rest. Bellamy had got a fire roaring, and I had my gloves off, warming my hands in the twice-blessed heat. Saoirse crouched beside Phoebe, scratching the big cat under her collar. The lioness yawned, steam rising off her russet fur as she stretched out beside me, close to the flames.
“Old Rafa’s voice was muffled inside the blankets he’d stolen from upstairs.
“‘How many?’
“‘A dozen, mebbe,’ Saoirse replied. ‘Phoebe spied them a few miles east. Moving slow in the storm, like. But they’ll move quicker when the sun goes all the way down.’
“‘They may pass us by,’ I said. ‘We’ve no reason to think they know we’re here.’
“Chloe met my eyes. ‘They know, Gabe. They’re coming for us.’
“‘… How can you be certain?’
“Saoirse hefted her axe and shield. ‘They’re comin’, Silversaint.’
“I sighed, dragged my hand through my hair. A dozen wretched were nothing to scoff at, but at least we had warning they were on the way. So I reached out to give Phoebe a grateful pat. ‘Merci, mademois—fuck!’
“The lioness snarled and bared her fangs, and I snatched my hand back before she took it off at the wrist. Saoirse looked down at my tattooed fingers and grinned.
“‘Might want to be keepin’ yer hands to yerself. Like most lasses, Phoebe’s not wild about touchin’ without permission.’
“The she-lion licked her scarred chops, growled deep enough for me to feel it in my chest.
“‘So noted.’ I slipped my gloves back on and stood. ‘Right, well. If we’re certain these unholy bastards are on the way, we’d best get our garters up and our pants back on.’
“‘You mean to fight them?’ Rafa asked.
“‘We sure as hell can’t run in this storm. Once we repair the palisade, we have a fortified position. And we’ve a lake behind us.’
“Bellamy frowned. ‘Old ballads speak ill of armies that fought with water to their backs, Chevalier. If memory serves, you yourself won the battle of Tarren Moor by—’
“‘What do you get when you add a priest to water, Bouchette?’
“‘In this weather?’ Dior frowned at the shivering Rafa. ‘Pneumonia?’
“I picked up a dusty wine bottle and twisted the old candle stump from its neck. ‘Watch and learn, you little shitweasel.’
“We set about it, and though Saoirse still rankled a little at being told what to do, Chloe’s faith in me was enough to carry her over the line. I drew a map of the town in charcoal on the Hammered Smith’s floorboards and set each member of the company a task. Thinking swift. Talking swifter. It’d been more than a decade since I led the defense of anything more than a moment of peace and quiet on the privy, but the mantle slipped over my shoulders like a well-worn coat.
“Bellamy and I set about repairing the defenses, tearing timbers from abandoned houses and piling them in the palisade breaches. I took another hit from my pipe, blood-red and brimming, and the young soothsinger stood wide-eyed as I rammed broken timbers into the frozen earth by hand, smashing them deeper with a sledgehammer scrounged from the stables.
“After an hour or so, Dior came crunching through the howling snow, pushing a barrow piled with wine bottles full of cloudy loch water. Climbing the stairs, the boy began stacking them on the highwalks beside the breaches.
“Bellamy tipped his cap and grinned. ‘All’s well, M. Lachance?’
“The boy shrugged, called over the roaring wind. ‘Saoirse found an old barrel of tallow in the pub cellar, and Sister Chloe is fashioning some fire arrows with it. Père Rafa’s spitting blessings fast as he can.’ Dior hefted one of the bottles in hand, glanced at me. ‘I have to admit, I’m two-thirds of one-eighth impressed, hero.’
“I slammed another timber downward, teeth gritted as it crunched into the ground. ‘You honestly can’t imagine the relief I feel at meeting your approval, boy.’
“‘If you’re impressed now, Dior, wait ’til tonight. You’re like to see a sight unrivaled.’ Bellamy pulled his cloak tighter, grinning. ‘To witness the Black Lion himself in battle … the Ashdrinker unleashed. God Almighty, that’ll be worth a song and no mistake.’
“I slammed another timber home. Dior climbed down from the palisade, gazing at Ashdrinker. I worked easier with the blade off my hip, and so I’d set her against the barricade. The boy’s eyes roamed the beaten scabbard, the silvered maid on the crossguard.
“‘Does it really … speak to you?’
“‘More’s the pity,’ I grunted, slamming another beam down.
“‘Where’d it come from?’
“‘Ah, there’s the rub, Dior,’ Bellamy replied. ‘No one knows. A mentor of mine, the famed soothsinger Dannael á Riagán, sings that the Black Lion took the blade from the halls of a sleepless barrowking, deep in the weald of Nordlund. But the historian Saan Sa-Asad tells that the chevalier won Ashdrinker in a riddle contest with a nameless elder horror, deep in the bowels of the Godsend Everdark. I even heard one tale that the Lion took Ashdrinker from the trove of the dread faequeen, Ainerión. Her kiss spells death for any mortal man, Dior, and yet the Lion loved Ainerión so long and so sweetly, he was able to steal the enchanted blade from her bedside after she collapsed in exhaustion. But as far as I know, the chevalier has never once confirmed any of these tales.’
“Bellamy looked to me hopefully, one eyebrow cocked.
“‘Shut the fuck up, Bouchette.’
“‘How’d it break?’ Dior asked, eyes still on the sword.
“‘Eh?’ Bellamy blinked.
“‘The end,’ the boy said. ‘The pointy bit, whatever you call it.’
“‘The tip?’
“‘Oui. I saw it when we came through the walls. It’s been broken off.’
“Bellamy tilted his rake’s hat back and rubbed his chin. ‘I confess I didn’t notice. No tale ever mentioned the blade being broken at all. But … to the bold, the bouquet.’ The youngster walked toward Ashdrinker, hand outstretched. ‘Mayhaps we can ask her?’
“‘Oi!’ I snapped. ‘Touch that sword and you’ll be playing your lute with your fucking toes, Soothsinger.’
“‘I jest, mon ami.’ Bellamy tipped me a wink and a roguish smile. ‘A fellow who lays a familiar hand on another man’s blade might as well be laying hand on his bride. And I never touch brides without express invitation.’
“‘You’re a bastard, Bel,’ Dior grinned. ‘A scoundrel, a bounder, and a cad.’
“‘I’m a romantic, M. Lachance. Stick with me long enough, I’ll teach you how.’
“‘Meantime, how about the pair of you get the fuck back to work?’ I growled.
“The soothsinger pulled his cloak tighter and scratched his dark curls. Dior scoffed and trudged off into the snow. We piled the breaches as high and thick as we could, leaving only the main gates unlocked for Saoirse to return by. Stacking the boulevard and narrow streets with broken furniture and timbers, we created an inner ring to fall back to if things went tits up. It was bitter cold, and by the time we were done, night had fallen like an anvil. But still, I was satisfied. Between our walls and weapons, we could see off a dozen wretched. With the storm raging on, Bellamy and I trudged back to the Hammered Smith.
“The company were within, Rafa bent over a pot steaming in the hearth.
“‘Is that fucking potato again?’
“‘I have turnip, if you prefer,’ the old priest smiled.
“‘Where’s Saoirse?’ Chloe asked.
“‘Still scouting with Phoebe,’ Bellamy replied. ‘They’ll return anon.’
“I grabbed a bowlful of accursed spuds, scoffed them quick enough not to touch the sides. Walking a slow circle, I scuffed the charcoal map I’d drawn on the boards with my bootheels. For a moment, I was reminded of San Michon’s Library; that great, grand map of the empire across its floor.