by R. J. Louis
“Oh, you play? It’s rare to find someone outside Dusk who knows the rules.”
“All sorts come to Rezir, from all across the shards. I make it my business to keep them happy.”
“Except where blood is concerned,” Jonas says, showing too many teeth.
“Indeed. We all have our limits.”
37 - Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
The hardest thing about Eights, Lily has only recently discovered, is how to convincingly make a good showing of herself while intentionally losing and appearing to be much drunker than she is. At the same time she has to focus on not getting too drunk, despite the numerous refills her crystal goblet has undergone since sitting down to play.
Upon further reflection, perhaps she is making the game more difficult for herself. It has been several years since she’s played it, and while in her youth she could easily trounce Rishad with her perfectly manicured hands behind her back, now, the wily Solarii puts up quite the fight. Which only makes losing to him—no matter how intentionally—sting more.
“And so I said to the girl, you may have the right dress for the occasion, but you’ll never have the right occasion for this address. Honestly, nobody goes to Torrent. Underwater mansion be damned. If she wants to live out her dream of being ravished by Mermen, she’s perfectly entitled to it, but I don’t see why I had to get my hair wet.”
Rishad laughs, a rich, effusive laugh that warms her like wine. Intoxicating and dangerous.
“How droll,” he says, wiping at his eyes. “I really must travel more. You have me at a disadvantage with your stories.”
“Oh yes, well, I am glad, because I believe with this delicious wine, you have me at a disadvantage on the game-board.” Lily leans forward, considering, then moves one of her pieces.
“I’m sure you’re just going easy on me,” Rishad replies with a grin, then moves his own in quick succession.
Lily’s eyes track the movement, she recognises the play, it’s an amateurish manoeuvre. Now the question is, should she spot it, or miss it. Her mother would have a conniption if she could see her now. She narrows her eyes at Rishad.
“The Wrong Key Feint?” She sighs, and rebuffs the move with a play of her own.
Rishad chuckles. “You caught me, I was just testing the waters, this seemed the most diplomatic way to ask if you need another glass of wine.” He smiles, then rings a small bell for service. They’ve been playing now for at least two hours. He leans back, resting his head in his hands as the drinks are refilled. “So, what brings you and Master Hellion to Rezir?”
Finally. “We’re commissioning a sculpture for our atrium,” she says lazily, swirling the golden wine in her hand. “The glass-blowers here are second to none.”
“Intriguing.”
“And expensive,” she croons. “But I really must have the best.”
“Money is no object, when it comes to the comfort of your home.”
“Of course not, and even this cost is minimal, in the grand scheme. But, we must stay in Rezir while it is being built, and while I am enjoying your company, I do find the city rather dull. Poor Hellion is surely bouncing off the walls.”
* * *
Jonas bounces off the wall, affecting a drunken stumble.
“Uh, sir!” The mealy-mouthed snivel-wretch at the front door pipes at him annoyingly. “You’re going the wrong way, sir!”
Jonas turns and gives him his best drunken glare. “There are no wrong ways. Only wrong answers,” he says with all the officious heat of a wronged man. Then turns back and stumbles through the doorway labelled ‘Staff Only’.
“Sir!” The voice echoes behind the closing wooden door as Jonas ducks through into a narrow stairway. The walls are a cold, unassuming grey plaster. It feels like a basement, but of course, this is Rezir, one building’s basement is another buildings attic, with the great rambling staircases and bridges as streets and roads. Towering neighbourhoods and alleys spiral up to the very roof of the city.
Jonas looks down, where two heavy set Wolf-pack stand watch at the bottom of the staircase. They glance sharply up at him.
“You’re not allowed down here,” one of them growls. They remain resolute at the foot of the stairs, and Jonas sighs. Time to bring out the big guns. He begins fumbling with the buttons of his uncomfortable rich-man trousers.
“He said it was here... strangest toilet I’ve ever seen.”
“Gods—Stop him!” The other guard says, as Jonas feigns difficulty with his buttons, his apparently drunken fingers not quite up to the delicate task. The other guard blanches, but begins powering up the stairs. Being at the bottom of the stairs when Jonas goes would be bad, being mid-way would be even worse. The only option is to rush up and stop him.
“Blasted buttons!” Jonas curses, unable to stop the shadow of a grin passing across his face.
“Gods damn it old man, stopper yerself and turn around!” The Wolf running up the stairs yells.
“I don’t need any help from you!” Jonas cackles. “I’m cerfectly papable—No. I’m herfectly shapable.” He gives an emphatic nod, and then lunges forward.
Jonas crashes into the first guard just as the poor Wolf reaches him, arms outstretched, one hand protecting his face, just in case. Jonas makes sure to fall hard, spinning his elbow into the side of the guards head with a resounding crack.
“Woaahh,” he gives an exaggerated gasp as the guard slumps, both of them tipping down the stairs. Jonas does his best to keep his balance, careening down just behind and above the tumbling guard, but the younger wolfs legs eventually tangle in him and he flies forward, his last sight the shocked face of the second guard as two bodies come crashing down toward him. Jonas just barely manages to push forward, accelerating him. His vision goes dark as his head smacks bodily into the head of the other guard, and all three of them crumple into a heap.
38 - Calling Out
Jonas pulls himself, aching from the scrum, and glances about him. A long, narrow hallway runs along what must be the outer edge of this floor of the building, with doors leading off into the building proper. It looks like a prison. It even has the blood and piss drowned in lemon smell of a prison. They always try to hide the scent, but his nose picks it up easily enough. Once he recognises it, he knows he’s in the right place. The guard who he knocked out on the stairwell is out cold, the other though is still awake, crawling to his feet and staring vicious daggers at Jonas.
“Well don’t just stand there,” Jonas hisses, remembering at the last second to slur. “Go and get someone, can’t you see I’ve hurt myself?!” He throws in a timely hiccough, just to be safe, then looks around, feigning startlement. “How in Vhaere’s Bloody Eyes did I get down here anyway?”
It’s no use though. Jonas gets the sense the guard isn’t going to leave him down here alone. Instead, he lets himself be ‘drunkenly’ frog-marched back up the stairs, where the weasel-faced boy from the front desk stands awkwardly.
“You’re not supposed to be down here,” the Wolf growls low.
It kills Jonas to do it, but he ducks his head in deference. It’s all part of the plan, but he hates submitting to this gaudy pup. The whiskey on his breath is real, it has to be believable, but he’s nowhere near drunk enough to ease the ache from his fall down the stairs, and it does nothing for the sting of his deference. He hears a groggy groan from down below, as the other wolf wakes up. It eases his pain somewhat to know at least that pup is in his rightful place.
“Sorry again,” he says, the words ashen in his mouth. “Twenty-five year old Firewhiskey is—”
“I don’t even want to know,” the guard pushing him upstairs growls. He reaches the top of the steps and shoves Jonas forward into the Solarii boy. “Do your fuckin’ job next time kid.” The wolf’s eyes flare red. “And send down someone to take care of Carrion.”
Jonas ducks back out into the atrium, and grins. He knows where Wilhelm is.
* * *
“And you’re sure he’s down t
here?” Mudge is still dressed in Captain Thunder’s duster and hat. The dashing effect ruined by the sweat which streaks his pale make-up. The daytime heat of Flare turns the cabins of The Kingfisher into an oven. Whatever magic or skill keeps it from cooking Rezir through the glass, it clearly doesn’t work on the ship. He could have Rico and Artemis turn the shield on, but that would signal something to Rishad’s men, and right now, the only thing making the heat bearable is knowing that the shadows lining the corners of the docks are suffering too. Plus, Artemis is busy.
“Yes,” Jonas’ voice growls from Artemis’s face. “I could smell it. Blood and pain, the place was rank with it.”
“And you think you and Lily can get in and get him out?”
Artemis’s head tips back as Jonas laughs. “Easily. Rishad may be paranoid in some regards, but clearly not when it comes to his prisoners.”
“Right. Just his personal safety. You’ve met him, you think the Captain will be able to handle him?”
Jonas pauses for a long moment. “Honestly? I don’t know. I can’t say I’ve met the man. I’ve just met the nice doggy he lets out to play with strangers. What’s on the inside...” Jonas shrugs. “I think the captain and their other friend are the only ones who can answer that. One of them is dead or alive down next to Wilhelm, and the other set up this whole scheme. I guess we have to trust that she knows what she’s doing.”
“The word from the artisan is that it’s nearly ready. Are you good to go on your end?”
“Lady Sariel’s playing him now. I’ll check in with her afterwards. Didn’t want to interrupt her dance.”
“We won’t be able to confirm until tomorrow.”
“So presuming everything goes smoothly, we’ll be moving in tomorrow night?” Artemis scratches himself carelessly. “Can’t wait to get out of these bloody clothes.”
“I wouldn’t complain if I were you,” Mudge says with a laugh. “Molly’s about to come in and re-do my make-up so that Rishad’s eyes don’t suspect anything.”
“Just like the job off the coast of Calabrais.”
Mudge shudders. “I thought you swore never to mention that.”
“I was picking hay out of my chest hairs for weeks after,” Jonas admits. “Wait—” Artemis cocks his head, and then shakes.
“Jonas?!” Mudge asks sharply.
“He’s gone,” Artemis says, dusting off his shoulders. “Something spooked him. Ugh. I can still feel his memory of the hay.”
“Don’t ask.”
39 - Death
Thunder sits in the darkness of the glass-workers shop, watching the craftsmen work. Soon, they will reach the point of no return, and she’ll have to hop in. Then she’ll have to stay as still as possible while they seal the glass together using heat and a molten metal lattice-work. She’ll be short on air, short on space, and unable to do much more than sit in some sort of quiet hibernation. With the changes to her body, she’s probably the only person who could survive it for any length of time, but there’s still every chance she’ll come out crazy.
Crazy might be good.
The last time she’d fought Rishad, she’d been crazy. And that had been years ago. He would have learnt from the last time. She’d learnt too.
She remembers hesitating over his bloody body. His breath coming in rattling gasps. She remembers thinking about killing him, but she’d been younger then, young and naive. This time, she wouldn’t hesitate.
Like she hadn’t hesitated with the dragon. Or the wyvern. Or when shooting Archangel in Ray’s body. There is something there, something nagging at her thoughts. She’s not a killer, unless she has to be. Some people just need killing. If the dragon had attacked her men, she’d have defended them.
Except that the dragon had attacked them. They’d shot at its nest, what else was it going to do. And it had killed Boss, and burnt her ship. And she’d let it live.
Why? Because it hadn’t deserved death for defending its home? She twists the thought about her metallic mind. Does she really have the authority to decide what does and doesn’t deserve death. Who deserves it? The dragon had killed one of her crew. It would have killed more, they were Gods-blessed to make it out alive, and it will more than likely kill again. By any ethicists reasoning, she should have put it down. Instead, here she is, going to all this trouble to put down Rishad... a medium fish in a gaudy pond. As much as she might tell herself it’s different, rationally. He has her man, her friend, he has information she needs.
Down that way, thoughts of Rico lie dormant. He’s so far out of her control she can hardly bear thinking about it. If he were to realise... he could take the ship. His magic, whatever it is, could doom her. All she has to go on is this one lead.
Thunder rubs at the creases in her forehead. More of those too, since she’d last seen Rishad. She checks her gun, absently cleaning a smudge from the barrel. She really shouldn’t spoil her last moments in the fresh air dwelling on difficult decisions. She’ll have more than enough time for that before day’s end.
* * *
Lily can’t quite stop a stumble from stealing into her step as she sways away from the gaming table. Despite her best efforts, wine has made its stealthy way into her better senses, and so she makes a hasty retreat. Half the thrill of a beautiful game of Eights is knowing when and how to pull back, in order to draw your prey deeper into your web, and then ambush them.
“We really must play for higher stakes than you getting me drunk next time,” she calls back to Rishad, who seems minimally effected by the empty glass beside him. The servant, a young boy about Rico’s age, had refilled his glass just as often as hers, and it certainly had looked like wine. Of course, she knows as well as anybody that things aren’t always what they seem. She has made a living out of it.
“What can you offer me that’s better than that?” Rishad says with a wry smile. She takes the flirting in stride, winking playfully.
“Perhaps I should ask my husband that,” she says, tapping her chin with a lacquered fingernail. “I’m sure he’d have much to say on the subject.”
“Of course, tell him. You know I don’t bite.”
“No, but he does,” Lily grins. “Perhaps I can offer you something just as likely to get me in trouble, albeit trouble of a different sort.”
“You should know well enough not to gamble anything you can’t bear to lose.”
“I have an idea, and Hellion can suffer through it. I will bet you our art-piece, finely crafted glass and gold, I can tell you it was very expensive, and, should I lose, it will mean we will have to stay here longer commissioning another piece. And what are you eager to bet?” she asks playfully. “I don’t want any more money.”
“No money then. Perhaps I could offer you information? I like to keep my ear quite close to the ground you see, and I have valuable news from your home-world.”
Lily cocks her head, actual surprise flitting across her face. “Oh? What kind of information?”
“Uh uh, that would be telling.”
“Well, yes. To a point, but you can’t very well bet me information about Dusk and then turn around and tell me that it is full of Shadewalkers when I thrash you.”
“Very well, how can I put this without giving too much away? I have delicate, timely and specific information about changes to the political sphere on Dusk and the Guild Leadership. The kind of information that could make a well-placed Shadewalker a lot of capital.”
Lily blanches. That complicates matters. “Deal.”
40 - Family
Rico sits on the deck, lost in thought. He stretches out his mind, his fingers tapping an odd rhythm on the wood beneath him. His legs are crossed, eyes half-lidded. His mind seeks and finds. He can feel the humming of the runes inscribed on the hull of the ship. They speak to him in barely audible whispers, whispers he can’t quite understand. They are both ominous and reassuring. Familiar and frightening. Like the shadowy memory of an old friend, lingering. Within the gentle humming of their speech, he feels t
he bright lights. The lights of his family. Some glow stronger, others weaker. Mudge burns like a furnace, he’s in his element, not as Captain, but fooling her enemies and making the crew laugh. Rico can sense others spread out beyond the walls of The Kingfisher, shining in the city. Lily is bright, pulsing with energy. Jonas has been dull and dim, but he’s grown brighter as the last days have passed. Below, Thunder is... muddy. He can sense the conflict. His captain is torn. He can’t lift the burden on her shoulders, but he can sense it, she sees a path, but doesn’t know how to reach it. How does she forge a disparate crew who joined on for gold and freedom into a true team, and burden them with responsibility at the same time. She doesn’t know, or doesn’t trust herself... The crew, the core of the crew, they follow her lead. They follow because Rico in some unconscious, instinctual way made sure they would when he found them. Because something in him knew that would be needed.
Except that the thing in him that knows that, also knows that he could make them follow, with practice, and that he could make them follow him instead.
Wilhelm’s light is faintest of all. Fluttering like a moth in the darkness, storm-grey and shuttered out of the warmth. He reaches out, he brushes across Wilhelm’s troubled mind, and calms it. He isn’t sure how he does it, so much of him is instinct. So much of him has just been going through a long, slow waking. Still, Wilhelm’s mind settles, then sharpens. Whether from resolve, or a fear of mental attack... Rico can’t tell so much. Soon, he tries to say through the connection. We’re coming for you.