Crownbreaker

by Sebastien de Castell

  “Again, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties.”

  He knows that’s unlikely to be an issue. It’s already late, and the stars have come out overhead. They’re pretty enough, he thinks, but to his surprise he’s discovered he prefers the stars over the desert. He’s about to pick up the squirrel cat and make their way back to their cabin when the sailor clamps a hand on his shoulder. Kellen realises then that it’s just the two of them out on this part of the deck.

  “You should remove your hand, friend,” he says. “I imagine you need it for pulling ropes and such things.”

  The sailor ignores the warning as he points out to the gentle waves. “There’s an old Gitabrian sailing tradition—if ever we’re lost at sea, we call out over the bow, shouting at the top of our lungs for the sea gods to send us that which we most desire.”

  “You mean like an extra ration of liquor?”

  The sailor just smiles. “Usually it involves a woman.” He catches Kellen’s look and says, “Ah, is that what troubles you, lad? Some sweetheart you left behind?”

  “One who left me behind is more like it.”

  The sailor gives him a disapproving look. “Self-pity is an unattractive quality, my friend. Best hope when you next find her you’ve rid yourself of it.”

  Before Kellen can reply, the sailor claps him on the back again. “Now, tell us this woman’s name. Shout it to the sky with as much force as the oceans themselves during a storm, and see what the sea gods reply.”

  “I’m not going to—”

  “Just do it, you whiny little prat, or maybe I will push you over the side.”

  When Kellen booked passage on the ship, an old man at the docks warned him every landlubber had to pay twice: the first time for the ticket, and the second for not knowing the ways of a ship. The ticket you paid for in coin, the ignorance with humiliation.

  “Best not resist it,” the old man had said. “Sailors are kind enough once they’ve had their fun with you, but if you avoid their jests, the games can turn ugly.”

  “Fine,” Kellen says at last. No doubt a half-dozen other sailors were waiting to run out and perform some kind of unpleasantly witty prank on him once he fulfilled this bizarre little ritual.

  “Go on then,” the sailor urges. “Call out that which you most desire.”

  With a deep breath, making sure to be so loud he’d interrupt the sleep of the off-duty sailors, Kellen shouted, “Nephenia!”

  “There!” the sailor says. “Feels better, don’t it?”

  “It’s embarrassing,” Kellen replies, but the truth is, there is a subtle sensation of catharsis in giving voice to his thoughts of her.

  “Again,” the sailor says.

  This time he doesn’t hesitate. “Nephenia!”

  “One more time, for the sea gods love all things in threes.”

  Kellen grabs hold of the railing, throws his head back and shouts, “NEPHENIA!”

  Nothing happens, of course. There’s no such thing as sea gods, and if there were, they wouldn’t be in the business of granting wishes to landlubbers on their first ocean voyage.

  He turns and leans his back against the railing for stability, reaching into his pocket for the steel throwing cards he’s keeping there. To the sailor he says, “Let’s get on with the rest of it, shall we?”

  The burly man shrugs, long beard bobbing against his chest. “As you wish.”

  Kellen had been keeping watch on the man’s hands, which he reasoned were likely to grab hold of him, and on the shadowy vista of the deck over the sailor’s shoulder in case others came running. That’s why he was utterly unprepared for the real attack when it came.

  The sailor kissed him.

  “Ugh. This again,” Reichis groaned.

  The man’s big, hairy face mashed up against Kellen’s, hands reaching around to hold him.

  Okay, nobody warned me about this particular sailing tradition.

  But something is off. Instead of the sensation of bristles against his mouth and chin, Kellen’s lips feel only the smoothness of soft fabric. Silk.

  Suddenly the sailor pulls back, a mildly disappointed expression on his face. “That wasn’t very good. No wonder she left without you.”

  But Kellen, though occasionally a little slow, remains an Argosi, the student of Ferius Parfax herself, and even if he weren’t, he’d still remember a time not so long ago when another stranger had kissed him in the desert.

  “What surprises me,” he says at last, “is that someone would be so cruel as to make her hyena hide out below deck for three days and nights just so she could play a lousy trick on a poor, heartbroken spellslinger.”

  “Wait—what?” says Reichis.

  The sound of paws scrabbling along the deck precede the arrival of a scruffy hyena who leaps up to put his paws against the railings, muzzle inches from Reichis’s own, and says, in a perfect replica of the squirrel cat’s own words from long ago, “A demon!”

  With a laugh, the sailor reaches up and tugs at the left side of his own face. At first it looks as if the skin is peeling off, but the instant it comes away, it changes to wide strips of red silk. Over and over the sailor unwinds the silk until it lies in a small pile at his feet and he is now her.

  “Nephenia?” Kellen asks, still too nervous to really believe it is true.

  She grins at him, that fierce, wild charmcaster grin of hers. “Told you the sea gods answer all prayers.”

  She kisses him again, and this time his lips feel hers, and as they stand there together on the gently swaying deck, arms wrapped around each other even as they sink together in a kiss that is going to last a very long time, all the while ignoring the running commentary of a particularly unhelpful squirrel cat and the yips of a highly entertained hyena, Kellen finds himself an unexpected believer in the benevolence of the sea.

  … Maybe.

  Maybe it doesn’t happen that way. Maybe he sails clear across the ocean in search of her, only for her to have to rescue him from pirates, or—more likely, if past is prologue—they have to save each other. But I don’t know for sure, because right now that story, that kiss, belongs to you as much as me. So let’s allow, in this moment as the last page turns, for our individual imaginations to take over, and not look for a single, definitive answer to all our questions.

  Because the only thing I know for sure is that when Kellen next sees Nephenia, he’ll stare at her in wonder, as he so often has of late, amazed at how different she is from the shy, demure girl she seemed to be when they were younger. Then he’ll remind himself that his own story is unfinished, and for all his flaws, for all his failures, both real and imagined, he, too, is so much more than the sum of his upbringing.

  So am I.

  So are you.

  Sebastien de Castell

  August 2019

  Vancouver, Canada

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  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Pink Monkey Studios

  SEBASTIEN DE CASTELL is the author of the acclaimed swashbuckling fantasy series The Greatcoats and the Carnegie Medal–nominated Spellslinger. His debut novel, Traitor’s Blade, was shortlisted for the Goodreads Choice Award for Best Fantasy, the David Gemmell Morningstar Award, the Prix Imaginales for best foreign work, and the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. He spends his time writing, traveling, and going on adventures. Visit him at www.decastell.com.

  Find out more about Sebastien de Castell and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

  if you enjoyed

  CROWNBREAKER

  look out for

  THE LAST SMILE IN SUNDER CITY

  The Fetch Phillips Archives: Book One

  by

  Luke Arnold

  I’m Fetch Phillips, just like it says
on the window. There are a few things you should know before you hire me:

  1. Sobriety costs extra.

  2. My services are confidential.

  3. I don’t work for humans.

  It’s nothing personal—I’m human myself. But after what happened to the magic, it’s not the humans who need my help.

  1

  “Do some good,” she’d said.

  Well, I’d tried, hadn’t I? Every case of my career had been tiresome and ultimately pointless. Like when Mrs Habbot hired me to find her missing dog. Two weeks of work, three broken bones, then the old bat died before I could collect my pay, leaving a blind and incontinent poodle in my care for two months. Just long enough for me to fall in love with the damned mutt before he also kicked the big one.

  Rest in peace, Pompo.

  Then there was my short-lived stint as Aaron King’s bodyguard. Paid in full, not a bruise on my body, but listening to that rich fop whine about his inheritance was four and a half days of agony. I’m still picking his complaints out of my ears with tweezers.

  After a string of similarly useless jobs, I was in my office, half-asleep, three-quarters drunk and all out of coffee. That was almost enough. The coffee. Just enough reason to stop the whole stupid game for good. I stood up from my desk and opened the door.

  Not the first door. The first door out of my office is the one with the little glass window that reads Fetch Phillips: Man for Hire and leads through the waiting room into the hall.

  No. I opened the second door. The one that leads to nothing but a patch of empty air five floors over Main Street. This door had been used by the previous owner but I’d never stepped out of it myself. Not yet, anyway.

  The autumn wind slapped my cheeks as I dangled my toes off the edge and looked down at Sunder City. Six years since it all fell apart. Six years of stumbling around, hoping I would trip over some way to make up for all those stupid mistakes.

  Why did she ever think I could make a damned bit of difference?

  Ring.

  The candlestick phone rattled its bells like a beggar asking for change. I watched, wondering whether it would be more trouble to answer it or eat it.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Am I speaking to Mr Phillips?”

  “You are.”

  “This is Principal Simon Burbage of Ridgerock Academy. Would you be free to drop by this afternoon? I believe I am in need of your assistance.”

  I knew the address but he spelled it out anyway. Our meeting would be after school, once the kids had gone home, but he wanted me to arrive a little earlier.

  “If possible, come over at half past two. There is a presentation you might be interested in.”

  I agreed to the earlier time and the line went dead.

  The wind slapped my face again. This time, I allowed the cold air into my lungs and it pushed out the night. My eyelids scraped open. My blood began to thaw. I rubbed a hand across my face and it was rough and dry like a slab of salted meat.

  A client. A case. One that might actually mean something.

  I grabbed my wallet, lighter, brass knuckles and knife and I kicked the second door closed.

  There was a gap in the clouds after a week of rain and the streets, for a change, looked clean. I was hoping I did too. It was my first job offer in over a fortnight and I needed to make it stick. I wore a patched gray suit, white shirt, black tie, my best pair of boots and the navy, fur-lined coat that was practically a part of me.

  Ridgerock Academy was made up of three single-story blocks of concrete behind a wire fence. The largest building was decorated with a painfully colorful mural of smiling faces, sunbeams and stars.

  A security guard waited with a pot of coffee and a paper-thin smile. She had eyes that were ready to roll and the unashamed love of a little bit of power. When she asked for my name, I gave it.

  “Fetch Phillips. Here to see the Principal.”

  I traded my ID for an unimpressed grunt.

  “Assembly hall. Straight up the path, red doors to the left.”

  It wasn’t my school and I’d never been there before, but the grounds were smeared with a thick coat of nostalgia; the unforgettable aroma of grass-stains, snotty sleeves, fear, confusion and week-old peanut-butter sandwiches.

  The red doors were streaked with the accidental graffiti of wayward finger-paint. I pulled them open, took a moment to adjust to the darkness and slipped inside as quietly as I could.

  The huge gymnasium doubled as an auditorium. Chairs were stacked neatly on one side, sports equipment spread out around the other. In the middle, warm light from a projector cut through the darkness and highlighted a smooth, white screen. Particles of dust swirled above a hundred hushed kids who whispered to each other from their seats on the floor. I slid up to the back, leaned against the wall and waited for whatever was to come.

  A girl squealed. Some boys laughed. Then a mousy man with white hair and large spectacles moved into the light.

  “Settle down, please. The presentation is about to begin.”

  I recognized his voice from the phone call.

  “Yes, Mr Burbage,” the children sang out in unison. The Principal approached the projector and the spotlight cut hard lines into his face. Students stirred with excitement as he unboxed a reel of film and loaded it on to the sprocket. The speakers crackled and an over-articulated voice rang out.

  “The Opus is proud to present…”

  I choked on my breath mid-inhalation. The Opus were my old employers and we didn’t part company on the friendliest of terms. If this is what Burbage wanted me to see, then he must have known some of my story. I didn’t like that at all.

  “… My Body and Me: Growing Up After the Coda.”

  I started to fidget, pulling at a loose thread on my sleeve. The voice-over switched to a male announcer who spoke with that fake, friendly tone I associate with salesmen, con-artists and crooked cops.

  “Hello, everyone! We’re here to talk about your body. Now, don’t get uncomfortable, your body is something truly special and it’s important that you know why.”

  One of the kids groaned, hoping for a laugh but not finding it. I wasn’t the only one feeling nervous.

  “Everyone’s body is different, and that’s fine. Being different means being special, and we are all special in our own unique way.”

  Two cartoon children came up on the screen: a boy and a girl. They waved to the kids in the audience like they were old friends.

  “You might have something on your body that your friends don’t have. Or maybe they have something you don’t. These differences can be confusing if you don’t understand where they came from.”

  The little cartoon characters played along with the voice-over, shrugging in confusion as question marks appeared above their heads. Then they started to transform.

  “Maybe your friend has pointy teeth.”

  The girl character opened her mouth to reveal sharp fangs.

  “Maybe you have stumps on the top of your back.”

  The animated boy turned around to present two lumps, emerging from his shoulder blades.

  “You could be covered in beautiful brown fur or have more eyes than your classmates. Do you have shiny skin? Great long legs? Maybe even a tail? Whatever you are, whoever you are, you are special. And you are like this for a reason.”

  The image changed to a landscape: mountains, rivers and plains, all painted in the style of an innocent picture book. Even though the movie made a great effort to hide it, I knew damn well that this story wasn’t a happy one.

  “Since the beginning of time, our world has gained its power from a natural energy that we call magic. Magic was part of almost every creature that walked the lands. Wizards could use it to perform spells. Dragons and Gryphons flew through the air. Elves stayed young and beautiful for centuries. Every creature was in tune with the spirit of the world and it made them different. Special. Magical.

  “But six
years ago, maybe before some of you were even born, there was an incident.”

  The thread came loose on my sleeve as I pulled too hard. I wrapped it tight around my finger.

  “One species was not connected to the magic of the planet: the Humans. They were envious of the power they saw around them, so they tried to change things.”

  A familiar pain stabbed the left side of my chest, so I reached into my jacket for my medicine: a packet of Clayfield Heavies. Clayfields are a mass-produced version of a painkiller that people in these parts have used for centuries. Essentially, they’re pieces of bark from a recus tree, trimmed to the size of a toothpick. I slid one thin twig between my teeth and bit down as the film rolled on.

  “To remedy their natural inferiority, the Humans made machines. They invented a wide variety of weapons, tools and strange devices, but it wasn’t enough. They knew their machines would never be as powerful as the magical creatures around them.

  “Then, the Humans heard a legend that told of a sacred mountain where the magical river inside the planet rose up to meet the surface; a doorway that led right into the heart of the world. This ancient myth gave the Humans an idea.”

  The image flipped to an army of angry soldiers brandishing swords and torches and pushing a giant drill.

  “Seeking to capture the natural magic of the planet for themselves, the Human Army invaded the mountain and defeated its protectors. Then, hoping that they could use the power of the river for their own desires, they plugged their machines straight into the soul of our world.”

  I watched the simple animation play out the events that have come to be known as the Coda.

  The children watched in silence as the cartoon army moved their forces on to the mountain. On screen, it looked as simple as sliding a chess piece across a board. They didn’t hear the screams. They didn’t smell the fires. They didn’t see the bloodshed. The bodies.