by Jay Kristoff
“‘Not rounded and pink,
“‘As well you might think—’”
“It was grey, had four legs, and ate grass?” Jean-François interrupted.
Gabriel smiled, gulped his wine. “Heard that one before, have you?”
“It’s older than I.” The vampire tutted. “River folk.”
“They don’t change much,” the silversaint chuckled. “The Volta is the grandest river in Ossway, and folk have been plying boats along it for centuries. It was a harder way to make a living than it’d once been, but river trade had become the lifeblood of the empire since the wars grew thick. Coldbloods couldn’t fuck with it. Until wintersdeep arrives and the waters freeze solid, of course. Then the revels begin.
“‘Oi!’ Dior shouted. ‘Over here!’
“I joined her shouting as best I could, my belly still burning. But I sighed with relief as one of the polecats pointed at us. The bargemen set to it, punting closer while Dior jumped and waved. The vessel was good oak, maybe seventy feet, her prow sweeping up out of the water in the likeness of a beautiful swan. Trade goods crowded her decks, but she carried passengers also; two score or more. As the barge drew closer, I saw they were refugees, no doubt fleeing the bloodlords of the Dyvok and their war for the Ossway.
“The barge slowed perhaps thirty feet off the shoreline, the polecats watching us with suspicious eyes. An Ossian fellow with a grizzled, bearded face stepped forward, hands on hips. He had flaming red hair and was dressed as a navyman, replete with a tricorn hat and heavy duster, sea green with brass buttons and trim.
“‘Nice coat,’ Dior murmured.
“‘Fairdawn, travelers,’ the man called in a thick western brogue.
“‘Godmorrow, Capitaine,’ I nodded.
“‘Where d’ye head?’
“‘Redwatch. But anywhere other th-than here sounds lovely right now.’
“‘Angel Fortuna smiles on ye, then. Other than here’s our destination. Ye’ve coin?’
“I patted the purse hanging on my swordbelt beside Ashdrinker. The man’s gaze lingered on the blade, drifting now to Dior. I studied the passengers behind—grubby men and women, thin children, all watching with something between hostility and curiosity.
“‘Well, swim oot with yer purse and ye’re welcome aboard,’ the capitaine declared.
“‘Swim?’ Dior scoffed. ‘That water’s fucking freezing.’
“‘It’s also fuckin’ running, bairn. And ye must think me seven shades o’ shitewit to pick up two strangers pale as ye in days dark as these without a testin’.’
“My fingers were trembling too badly to manage it, so I pulled off my glove with my teeth. The capitaine’s eyes widened at the sight of my sevenstar.
“‘You’re safe enough with m-me aboard, Capitaine.’
“‘Silversaint…’ came the whisper among the refugees.
“The capitaine scratched his thick ginger beard, then turned to the polecat beside him, ordering him to fetch their skiff. Dior watched the dark waters beneath us with nervous eyes as we were punted out to the barge, but soon enough, we were aboard, my shaking hand thumping into the skipper’s. ‘Merci, mon ami. We’re in your debt.’
“‘Nae debt, Silversaint,’ the man bowed. “’Tis my honor to grant ye passage. Name’s Carlisle á Cuinn. My brother fought with two of yer lot at the siege of—’
“I grabbed my stomach, staggering as another wave of pain swept through me. Dior caught my arm, Carlisle my other. ‘… Ye aright, Frère?’
“I gritted my sharpening teeth, vision flooding red. ‘How far to Redwatch, Capitiane?’
“‘Two days,’ the big fellow replied. ‘If we move wi’ haste.’
“Dior looked Carlisle in his eyes. ‘Might I humbly request you do so, monsieur?’
“The capitaine threw a worried glance in my direction, but he was soon barking orders. Dior and I got the hell out of the way, threading among the tight-packed cargo and refugees. They were a motley lot, empty eyes and dirty hands. They watched with curiosity, suspicion, awe, as Dior and I made our way to the bow and slumped down near the figurehead.
“‘You look like shit,’ she whispered.
“‘We look n-nothing alike,’ I managed.
“Her smile was water-thin. ‘Can you last two more days?’
“I curled over into a ball, arms around my belly. ‘Want a bet?’
“The girl looked at her hand, running a thumb down her forearm. I could see the vein beneath her skin, light blue, pulsing with that maddening, beautiful life. ‘Maybe you c—’
“‘Don’t,’ I snarled, my fingers snapping around her wrist.
“‘You’re hurting me,’ she whispered.
“I released my grip, ashamed and sickening. ‘I’m sorry, just … don’t ever offer me that again, aright? Don’t even think it.’
“‘Why? If it’s the choice between that and starv—’
“‘Because I’m not a fucking animal. So just promise me.’
“She looked me over, her lips thin. ‘I promise.’
“And so, it began. Two days of hell as we punted up the Volta at what seemed a snail’s pace. Carlisle came by to check on me after an hour or so, but I gave monosyllabic answers until he got the message and let me be. I was probably the first member of the Ordo Argent these folk had ever seen in the flesh, and I’m sure the good capitaine and crew were disappointed in the show I was putting on. But I was just struggling to hold myself together. I kept my head down, conscious of Dior sitting vigil beside me. The girl didn’t move an inch until the bell rang for dinner, and then she was gone only a moment.
“‘There’s a man dying back there.’
“I blinked through the haze, looking up as she handed me a wooden bowl of—you fucking guessed it—potato stew. ‘What?’
“‘Back there.’ She nodded. ‘At the arse of the boat.’
“I lifted the bowl and forced a mouthful down. ‘A boat’s arse is called a s-stern.’
“‘He’s with his famille. Refugees from Dún Cuinn. All these people.’ Dior brushed her hair down over her face. ‘The man got his leg broken on the journey. It’s turning black.’
“I glanced down to the stern, saw the famille Dior was talking about among the mob. A snaggle-faced fellow with a slender wife, two young lasses with eyes of old sky blue. The poor bastard was laid out in his love’s lap, sheened with sweat despite winter’s chill.
“‘I can smell him from here,’ I nodded. ‘Leg’s gone septic. He’s a d-dead man.’
“‘His name is Boyd. His wife is Brenna. Their eldest is—’
“‘You’re not contemplating what I think you’re contemplating…’
“Dior looked down at those scars on her palm. Up into my eyes. ‘And what’s that?’
“‘Something that’ll get you killed,’ I growled, low and deadly. ‘Look around. These are peasantfolk, girl. They don’t hold truck with magik, and they don’t believe in miracles. What they believe in is devilry, and dark sorcerie. You start opening veins and laying on bloody hands to heal folk their ills, they’ll burn you for a fucking witch.’
“‘I don’t need lectures from you, hero.’
“‘Then pull your head out your arse,’ I hissed.
“‘Right, I know you’re in a state? But I’m going to need you to march all the way off my tits here.’
“I glanced down at her thin chest. ‘You’ve got no tits.’
“Dior gasped, gobsmacked with outrage. ‘You fucking—’
“‘Listen, you get to San Michon, you do whatever bullshit they need you to. ’Til then, keep your head all the way down. Because I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but if we hit trouble, I’m going to be as useful as a taddysack on a priest.’
“Dior scowled and started scoffing her dinner. Pouting. Sullen. She was a piece of work, this girl. A thin streak of seagull shite with scabs on her knuckles. Always ready for a scrap, to answer back, to spit. But, turns out there was a good soul under all that front
. Eyes that saw the hurts of the world, and a heart that wanted to fix them. For a moment, she reminded me so much of my own Patience I had to catch my breath.
“‘Look.’ I gritted my teeth. ‘Apologies. I’m shabby company when I’m thirsting.’
“‘I’ve news for you. You’re not a bucket of chuckles when you’re not thirsting either.’ She glowered. ‘I’ve tits that’d make angels cheer, you grumpy shit.’
“‘I’ll take your word for it. But I’m not riding your scrawny arse for the fun of it. We’re in a world of enemies here, girl. Danton aside, there’s that masked bloodmage chasing you, and as far as we know, the Inquisition are still hounding your trail.’ I scowled, gulping down a scalding mouthful. ‘Fucking Rafa. Why he and his brethren sent word to the Pontifex about you is beyond me. Augustin is a nest of vipers. Always has been.’
“‘Welllll.’ Dior gave a sad sigh, chewing her lip. ‘The Inquisition isn’t really Rafa’s fault. Those two bitches who chased us out of Dhahaeth…’
“‘The ones I shot? You knew them?’
“She looked at her wrist. That thin scrawl of blue, like cracks in pale marble. ‘Let’s just say I don’t need a lecture on what folk do to witches these nights.’
“‘All the more reason to keep your gift on the quiet.’
“‘… Maybe.’
“‘You can’t save the world one inch at a time, girl. Believe me, I’ve tr—’
“The thirst surged again, blood-red and stabbing. I clenched my teeth, felt them growing long in my gums, doubling over so my hair might hide my twisting face.
“‘Maybe you should sleep?’ Dior murmured.
“‘Maybe you could b-beat me unconscious?’
“‘God, gladly.’
“‘Just not the f-face, aright?’
“She sighed. ‘Will this do?’
“I glanced up, saw a beaten tin flask in her hand. ‘Is that…?’
“‘It smells like dog shit soaked in flaming hair, but I’m fairly sure it’s liquor.’
“I unscrewed the lid, my nose burning at the scent. ‘Where’d you get it?’
“‘Six years on the streets of Lashaame, remember?’ She shrugged thin shoulders. ‘Picked it from the capitaine’s pocket. So maybe you’d best down it quickly and…’
“Her voice faded as I tipped back my head, guzzled the entire flask. The liquor burned like fire, but still, it helped douse the flame in my belly a little. I lay down and curled into a ball, aching and miserable, wanting only to be numb.
“Dior sighed. ‘You’re a bloody mess, hero.’
“‘Don’t blame the blade. Blame the b-blacksmith.’
“She sighed, drummed her fingers on her knees.
“‘I’ll keep watch. Sleep now.’
“I closed my eyes, sinking into the black behind them. Searching for quiet. The Almighty hadn’t been doing me many favors lately. And as I’d told Rafa, it was only a self-entitled fool who fancied the bastard would listen.
“Still, I almost prayed anyway.”
IV
THE PRICE
“THEY CALLED IT Martyr’s Cradle. They called it the City of Scarlet, Saintsholme, the Isle of Seven Sins. But mostly, they just called it Redwatch.
“It had started like most river cities do—as a fishing town. But it rose to fame as the birthplace of the fourth martyr, old San Cleyland himself. He was a brick shithouse of a man by all accounts, a few drunkards short of a bar fight, but he had a remarkable talent for slaughter. Visited by the Mothermaid in a dream, Cleyland raised an army of faithful lunatics and marched into Ossway, intent on bringing the One Faith to the pagans of the west.
“He died, of course. Being a martyr and all. Perished in valiant battle against a coalition of Ossian clans, or choked to death on a chicken bone during a victory piss-up, depending what you read. But not before he’d converted half the country at swordpoint, and built a series of priories to the Mothermaid that stand to this day. In return for his faithful butchery, the Almighty gave Cleyland the key to hell, and the big man stands guard over its grim gates to this day. And if you think designating the safekeeping of the abyss to a pin-headed twatgoblin who doesn’t know which part of the chicken is safe to eat sounds a terrible idea, you and I are in total agreement.
“We reached his birthplace near the end of the second night, punting into a crowded dockside sprawl. Redwatch might’ve started as a village, but now it was a cityfort, and one of the empire’s finest. Built on a broad island in the middle of the Volta, its walls and towers were made from red river clay, hence one of its many names: the City of Scarlet. Its buildings were tight-packed and towering, citizens living atop one another like rats in a bloody maze. On its east side, a foreboding keep punched holes in the sky, and northward, the Priory of San Cleyland kept a mother’s watch over the city of his birth.
“I was in some of the worst shape of my life. The thirst had me so tight by then, all the world was washed scarlet. Dior gave thanks to Capitaine Carlisle in my stead, and the man looked me over with something between pity and fear as I shuffled past, hair tumbled about my face. All around me, I could smell it, feel it, taste it. Blood.
“Blood.
“Still, there was enough of me left to notice Dior share a small nod with a grubby fellow passenger as we shuffled onto the jetty. Last I’d seen him, the man had been laid out in his bride’s lap, dying of infection. One look at him told me his once-broken leg was now straight as a spear, and I could smell no sepsis in his veins. He bowed, hand to heart, as we stumbled past. His wife had tears on her cheeks; his daughters made the sign of the wheel, watching Dior with awestruck eyes of old sky blue.
“I glanced down at Dior’s hand, saw a fresh strip of bloody cloth about her palm.
“‘You didn’t…’
“‘Tits,’ she said, motioning to her chest. ‘Right off them.’
“‘You fucking idiot.’
“‘I was careful,’ she hissed. ‘I spoke to them at night. Nobody else saw.’
“I shook my head. ‘I’m going to tell you something now, girl. And you mark these words, because they’re ones to live by: it’s always better to be a bastard than a fool.’
“‘You’re not my fucking papa, aright? I don’t need words to live by from you. Now, tell me where this damn Night Market is so we can get you what you need. Because if you fall over here, I’m leaving your surly arse for the bloody rats.’
“‘There,’ I managed. ‘Up that alley.’
“It’d been over a decade since I’d visited Redwatch, and like everywhere in the empire, all was worse than when I’d left it. It was far more crowded, for starters, streets jammed to bursting even after dark. Beggars with open sores and refugees with stricken, battlesick faces, street preachers and honeygirls, fisherprinces and riverthugs, and everywhere you looked, burly bastards in the sunflower-yellow of the Emperor’s troops. We pushed through the crush, and all about me I could smell it, thrumming in every vein, rushing beneath every suit of skin.
“God help me …
“‘Which way?’ Dior asked.
“‘The squeezeway,’ I winced. ‘P-past the hucksters.’
“We passed a bevy of thieves selling charms against the Dead—pendants of churlsilver, braids of virgins’ hair, necklets of ‘duskdancer teeth’ plucked from the heads of dead dogs. Nonsense all, sold by crooked bastards and bought by desperate fools. But beyond the grifters and frauds, in the damp shadows off the Redwatch drag, a fellow with eyes could find it. A tiny puddle of dim but true magik, hidden in the dark.
“The Night Market.
“A single street. A few faceless shops. Women with needle eyes and ill-favored men with tattooed faces, snatches of spells carved into swarthy skin with ink-stained knives. Iron in the air. Ash and the dreams of pale gods, dead long before we discovered there was only One. My every bone was aching, eyes red as river clay as we staggered up to a thin black door and I hammered six times. The sign above the threshold simply read THE PRICE.
“‘This place makes my skin crawl,’ Dior whispered.
“‘Souris!’
“‘… His name is Mouse?’
“‘Her name. Just keep your eyes on the w-well side of down and your mouth on the right side of shut. This is d-deep water.’ I pounded again. ‘Sour—’
“The black curtain in the window beside the door was pulled aside, and I saw a pair of eyes, utterly white and apparently blind, peering through the grubby glass. I pressed my sevenstar to the window, leaving sweat misted on the pane. Even my gums were aching.
“The curtain closed. A moment as long as my life passed before I heard six locks and six chains being loosed. With a slow creak, the door opened, revealing a woman, ancient and wrinkled, bent back draped with a smoke-grey shawl laced with charms of silver. But though her pupils were white with age, still she narrowed her eyes at the sight of me.
“‘Lion Noir,’ she purred, smiling with empty gums.
“‘M-madame,’ I winced. ‘I’ve a will to b-buy, if it please you.’
“Those blindworm eyes turned to Dior, roaming head to toe. And finally, Madame Souris shuffled aside. ‘Enter freely and of your own will.’
“We stepped within, Dior whispering a soft curse. The scene was chaos; like a junk store had a drunken hate fuck with a lunatic asylum. Every square foot was packed with shelves, and every square inch of those shelves was filled—books and bottles, herbs and scales, tiny pickled things in cloudy jars, hourglasses in skeletal hands. The store was lit by a hundred softly burning chymical globes, and stank of cat piss and insanity.
“‘We heard you were dead, Lion,’ Souris called, shuffling ahead.
“‘They t-tried.’
“She smiled over her shoulder. ‘Well. God loves one of those, doesn’t he?’
“We followed the old woman through the mess, Dior close on my heels and studying every nook and corner, until Souris propped herself at a long counter. Among the twisted curios and dusty jars and books of skin, sat a rocking chair. Seated in it, wearing a pretty dress of timeworn silk and a powdered wig, was a human skeleton.
“‘Look who it is, Minou,’ Souris cooed. ‘Our Black Lion, back from the dead.’