by Mike Truk
“Great,” I said, more dispirited than ever. “So not only is Aurora unalive, but she’s corrupted by the dark elf Witch Goddess?”
“Mmmhmm,” said Iris excitedly. “Fascinating! I would wager that her channel to the White Sun has been corrupted, or broken, in a way that prevents her from dying. I’d sensed - but no, this is mere conjecture. Oh Kellik, what a miraculous creation!”
“One that the Paruko Dream Eaters wished to destroy you for.”
Iris waved her hand as if brushing away dust. “They failed.”
“But what do I do? What happens now?”
“Only you can answer that,” she whispered, leaning in to bring her lips within a fraction of an inch of my own. “And once you do, you shall discover the true value in living. Believe me, my love. I know of what I speak.”When I answered, my lips brushed against her own. “But your choices led to your death.”
“And how glorious it is.” She canted her head slightly to one side to kiss me gently, the lightest brush of a butterfly’s wing against my lips. “I stand alone on a beach of stars, and see what none other has ever witnessed. And beyond those lights lies a darkness that beckons me, and when I finally surrender and dive into its depths, only the Hanged God knows what I shall find…”
The thought of losing her forever, irrevocably, was too much. I squeezed my hand about her neck, wanting to imprison her within the flesh, to keep her with me, to trap her within the circle of my fingers.
And she leaned in to kiss me, not minding in the least.
We kissed hungrily, a need that rapidly burned through sadness into a ferocious desire, but just as I was about to rise to my knees and pull her close, she broke away.
“When you know yourself,” she whispered, leaning back, the marks of my fingers livid about her throat, “when you are a whole being, and not a half shadow, then I will come to you, my love. Then we will fall into that darkness together, and see if two stars cannot become one.”
“Iris,” I began, but she raised a finger to her lips, bidding me be silent.
“I am always close, Kellik,” she whispered. “Become yourself. Own your future. And I shall return.”
Then she toppled sidelong to fall to the rooftop, and when I blinked she was gone, replaced by a grizzled old man whose eyelids fluttered and then closed.
I reared back, lurched to my feet, stared at the guard in horror. Where--? I whipped around, as if expecting to see Iris’s visage floating somewhere close, a ghost, a vision of her lovely face.
But there was nothing. Just the blank, desolate expansive of warped rooftops, the flocks of pigeons wheeling through the sky, the distant cry of boatmen on the Snake Head, and the mournful call of the wind passing amongst the tottering chimneys.
Chapter 12
I didn’t know to where at first my feet directed me. I ordered a wealthy man to gift me his overcoat, knowing he’d easily have the funds to cover the loss, and then walked home, hands shoved into the large pockets, chin buried in my chest, thoughts spinning like leaves caught in a dust devil. Thoughts of loss, of the future, of whom I wanted to be. No easy solutions came to mind, and so I wandered, crossing the New Bridge, one more shadow amongst the throngs, making my way slowly to the Bay of Ruin and the docks.
There was a fevered sense of revelry in the streets. Taverns were doing brisk business, with stalls set up on each corner to cater to those who couldn’t force their way indoors. Voices were raised in song, in ire, and the air even at this late hour was alive with a desperate desire to celebrate, to live, to eke a precious few moments out of the night before the White Lioness arrived.
I strode through these surging crowds, saw men and women spending coin they couldn’t afford to hold back their terrors, saw the shadows alive with enterprising cutthroats and gentlefingers eager to make a profit off such easy marks. The guard had little presence, with most of them being ordered to the wall, and here and there fights broke out - listless, half-hearted affairs.
I walked through all this with my head down, until around midnight I finally fetched up against a low retaining wall that edged the muddy banks of the Bay of Ruin. I stared out over the choppy waters, and found the docks strangely quiet; the taverns were doing business, sure enough, but the piers and wharves were devoid of ships. No skiffs crossed the Bay to ferry passengers to and fro, and even the river barges weren’t in evidence.
I took a moment to remember why. Of course. Everyone who could afford to pay passage had booked a berth and sailed out days ago. The only ships left in all of the docks were those unfit to sail.
The moon hung low in the sky, a smear of silver extending from the point in the bay right below her to where I stood, like a shimmering path daring me to try and walk it. A cold wind gusted past me, causing me to bury my chin deeper under the lapels of the coat, and I sighed, wondering why I’d come all this way, why I’d walked across half the city to stare out over the bay.
To search for Maestria and her ship, The Bonegwayne? She’d set sail weeks ago at Pogo’s orders, to fetch back a wealth of cargo from a northern port city.
Then why?
I frowned. There was something familiar about this spot. I glanced over the thick retaining wall that only came knee-high, and studied the bank of mud and refuse below, lapped by the waters of the bay. Some forty yards away a blocky set of steps descended from the retaining wall down to the mud. There was nothing distinctive about this spot. Then why…?
And then I recalled. The memory appeared, and I realized what I was looking at.
This was where I’d washed up after Everyman Jack had ordered my throat cut and my body tossed into the river. Where I’d croaked back to life, gull-pecked and fevered, to fight for my life, calling over the mudlarks who’d robbed me blind. Where Lugin had returned to ask if I’d meant it, if I’d reward him with gold if he saved my life.
He must have stood right here when he’d looked down at me.
I followed his line of sight. I tried to remember the youth who’d lain below in the mud, propped up against the stone wall, feebly fending off death with the last of his will.
This was where everything had begun.
Where my king troll nature had first materialized and saved my life.
I sat on the retaining wall and swung my legs out to hang down the side. Clasping my hands together, I stared down at the featureless mud.
Why had I fought on? What had kept my heart beating, long after most others would have slipped into the Ashen Garden?
A desire to understand why I’d been betrayed by Everyman Jack. That’s what it had boiled down to. A desire to find out why the closest I’d ever had to a father figure had betrayed me so.
What had followed was a complex series of improbable events that had led me back to the Sodden Hold and my confrontation with him. Where he’d revealed my nature and why my heritage had damned me since the day I was born.
I’d killed Jack, but kept moving, fleeing to Port Lusander.
Why?
To get revenge on my father.
Which I’d since done. The Paruko had dragged him into oblivion.
Leaving me with what?
Who was I? What did I want? And why did I want it?
I thought of Iris’s heart-shaped face. Her funeral dress, her black-lined eyes. Her complete and utter lack of judgment. If I decided to murder the whole city she’d not care for me any the less.
It was freeing, to be so loved. Yet terrifying, as well.
For it was easy to choose one’s course of actions based on what those you cared for would think of you. To navigate by the stars of Cerys, Tamara, and Netherys’ opinions of me. To ensure they loved me.
But Iris.
She didn’t care what I did. Literally. As long as I was being true to myself.
Which meant I couldn’t ascribe blame or responsibility to anyone else.
Whatever I chose had to be my choice alone.
But who was I?
Once everything had been so simple. I�
�d been an aspirant thief, cruel, callous, and daring, fixated on joining the Family and rising in its ranks.
That youth had died the night Jack cut his throat.
Then Tamara had healed me, and in doing so, changed me. I cared for the first time about justice. About doing the “right” thing.
Was that person really me? That artificial do-gooder? What had seemed so clear then now appeared muddy. I’d freed the swamp goblins of Port Lusander out of a sincere desire to improve their lives and right a terrible wrong.
If I was back there now, facing the Nautilus company and all its ills, would I make the same decision?
When I thought of Yashara, of Cerys, of Tamara, I wanted to say yes.
But when I thought of Iris, I didn’t know.
Perhaps my king troll nature - now that it was finally in full bloom - was healing the changes Tamara had wrought upon my soul. Undoing the artificial good she’d injected into me, that drive to help the oppressed.
Maybe I was reverted to my true moral self. Or amoral, as the case might be.
Did I want that? Where did it leave me?
Did I want to save Port Gloom, or destroy it?
The waves washed in, and ebbed back out. The sounds of the city flowed past me and into the silence of the bay. I gazed back down at the mud. Just as Lugin would have seen me.
I frowned. Where was he now?
Seized by whimsy, with nothing better to do, I climbed off the wall, turned, and strode back into the city. Last I’d heard, Jessin the innkeeper was holding onto Lugin’s gold and watching out for him. Perhaps he could tell me.
It took me a little less than five minutes to find the old building. From the front, it was grand yet dilapidated, in sore need of restoration but still exuding a fine sense of hospitality and warmth. The windows glowed golden, the large front door was open, and flowerboxes under the windows were overflowing with drooping blood-of-the-sun daisies.
I buttoned up the overcoat, pulled the belt tight around my waist, and entered, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the bright light.
I’d never been into Jessin’s place of business. I’d only ever frequented the back, where Tamara had had her shack hard up against the pig’s sty.
The common room was… simple. Everything looked old yet well cared for, shone with heavy layers of varnish, and the shadows were set to dancing by the large fire in the hearth. Heavy rafters overhead, trestle tables packed with patrons, a fiddler sawing out a freewheeling song, and plenty of conversation at the bar so that the sound made an indistinct wall.
The scents of smoke, ale, and cooked meat filled the air, and my mouth was set to watering by the platters the barmaids were serving, slices of pork with mounds of sauerkraut and wedges of cheese, all of it slathered in some sweet-looking pink sauce.
But I’d not come here to feast, nor to blend in, nor to rest by the fire. Instead, I stopped one of barmaids, who looked askance at my strange appearance - perhaps she could tell I was nude under the coat - and paused when I bid her listen.
“Wait a moment,” I commanded. “Where can I find Master Jessin?”
“He’s right there,” said the stout lady, nodding toward an even stouter, bearded man behind the bar.
“Thanks, you can go about your business,” I said, releasing her from my power.
Giving me a queer look, she resumed her path toward the kitchen.
“Master Jessin?” I pitched my voice to carry over the hubbub as I bellied up to the bar.
“The same,” he said, not looking up, busy tallying something on a tablet.
“I’d like a moment of your time. Can you spare me a minute?”
“Ask one of the girls if you’ve a mind to eat or drink. If it’s a room you be wanting, we’re full.”
I guess I’d had to be a little more forceful. “Please grab two ales and join me at a table,” I commanded.
He frowned, set down his quill, and looked at me for the first time. “All right,” he said, clearly confused, and after he’d poured two flagons full of good heavy, I followed him to a corner table that had just been vacated by a group of dour dwarves.
“What’s this about?” he asked, settling down on the stool and frowning at me. “I’m a busy man, and don’t have time for -”
“Just a simple question,” I said. “Not too long ago you were entrusted with a fair amount of gold to take care of a young mudlark called Lugin. I just want to know how he’s faring. I gave him some advice, told him to make something of himself. Is he about? What has he been up to?”
“Ah,” said Jessin, sitting back with a different kind of frown. “That’s a sad tale, that is.”
I felt numb. “How so?”
“He died, the young lad. Not three weeks after his little fortune was entrusted to me. And just as he was making a real go of it.” Jessin shook his head. “Very sad.”
“Tell me what happened,” I commanded, and made no attempt to disguise the power in my voice.
Jessin shot me a startled glance but immediately complied. “He’d taken your advice to heart, if you’re the man who sought to set him straight. Took him a week of thinking, but he chose to apprentice himself to the dockmaster. Proud he was, when he got himself accepted. Had cleaned up, bought himself a new set of clothes, second-hand but nicely cut. He looked a different youth altogether! I asked him why the dockmaster’s, and he said it’d teach him numbers, which he was starting to think were the best thing to know. He went on and on about how numbers were the real magic in any city, and if the dockmaster could teach him to tally and how to account, there’d be nothing he couldn’t accomplish with his little pot of gold and enough ambition to last a lifetime.”
I drank from the good heavy but didn’t taste it. I couldn’t think. The words were being seared into my mind as Jessin said them.
“One week to get the job, and then two weeks there. That’s all he got. Was doing well, by all accounts. Small pay, but with the gold he weren’t concerned. Would chatter my ear off if I let him, about how easy it was to work sitting down after a life spent mud larking, how clean and nice everything was, and how he’d learn the numbers if it were the death of him. But his change in station brought attention. Even though he didn’t splash his gold, his rise from mudlark to apprentice at the dockmaster’s office raised eyebrows. And sure, I’d bought his way into the ’prenticeship by spending a couple of the gold coins to open the doors for him - there was no reason for the dockmaster to give him a chance otherwise - but…”
Jessin sighed and hunched over his good heavy, looking tired and worn out and depressed. “I could have sworn he’d not last a week there, but he made a real go at it. The numbers were coming, not easily, but… anyway. Some lads who used to mudlark cornered him on the way home one evening. Demanded to know where he’d gotten his gold. Lugin wouldn’t tell ‘em, so they cut him up. Took him all night to crawl back here, and by the time he did he was near dead from blood loss. Tamara was gone, so I sent for another healer, but they did more harm than good. He hung in there, thinking Tamara would come back, hung in longer than I thought he would, but died of black blood two days later.”
I nodded numbly, blinked, felt hollow inside. Three weeks. He must have died while we were all sailing to Port Lusander. Felt like a lifetime ago. And I’d never found out. Had kept thinking of him, taking pride in how I’d helped him, feeling good about that one pure act.
And he’d been dead of black blood infection all this time.
“Thank you,” I said mechanically, and stood up. Wrapping the coat tightly about my neck, I stumbled back out into the night, not seeing, not feeling, uncaring of the shouts my bumping passage aroused from the patrons whose tables I knocked.
Out into the night air. Out into the febrile darkness. Around me the shouts and catcalls of those intent on enjoying their night out felt discordant, the sounds crashing about me like waves on the reefs outside Port Lusander.
I ducked my head and hurried away from the people, from the masses, the lights
and sounds and desperate lives. Along the docks I strode, not thinking, mind whirling, until I left everything behind and reached the far southern tip, where the old lighthouse arose high above the waves on its craggy bluff. I saw there, huddled below it, the abandoned building which for a few months Iris had called her home.
My hands were numb with cold, my body soaked by the continual light mist which was falling from the heavens. Unsure as to my own intent, I followed the narrow path out to the dismal building’s gaping front door, and there paused, gazing inside, allowing my eyes to acclimate to the darkness.
My heart was pounding. I lurched inside, moved to the trapdoor in the center of the floor, and hurled it open, the crash of it falling back deafening.
I gazed down into that dark throat, and saw nothing but impenetrable black. No lantern, no nest of silks and carpets, no Iris lazing amidst her shaped corpse toys.
I sank to my knees and grabbed at my hair, body shaking, feeling as if impossible stresses were about to tear me apart.
Yashara was battling a demon, and perhaps now worse than lost to me. Iris dispersed amongst the city. Lugin long dead. Havatier reduced to rubble. Who would I lose next? And could I lie to myself and say I didn’t care? That I could murder and destroy without concern?
Oh no. Staring down at my hands, I realized the truth. I did care. I wanted better for those I loved. And for the Lugin’s out there. The innocents whose lives had been strangled and warped by forces beyond their control. The weak who never had a chance. The abuse who were crushed by the unfeeling forces of greed and rapine and the desire to dominate. For the mute victims of Imogen’s Web, for everyone who’d suffered and lost while others prospered unfairly and gained.