by Tom Lloyd
A local Masts crew, come to play watchmen in their district just as Teshen had predicted. Reft tries not to smile at this. The tavern is large. With just the mercenaries there would be too much space for a proper fight. Too much room to swing a chair or think about drawing a mage-gun. Or swing a cudgel for that matter.
The remaining locals have cleared out. They can sense the danger in the air and the mercenaries have the place to themselves. Too much space, too much time to think again. But with the Masts crew there is a press. When Deern decides to take the first swing – or more likely, receive the first swing – there’ll be little room for anything full-blooded. Instead there will be just chaos and grappling, men and women barging each other and heads and elbows more use than any weapon.
Anatin announces a game of Tashot. Reft sees almost relief on the faces of the older Sparrows. Cards means a focus, a contained circle of concentration – or it would in most circumstances. Anatin is as much a master at this as Deern and his words can be as inventive as insulting. Some people can ignore a stranger’s words, others can shrug off the laughter those words might provoke, but few are immune to both.
Anatin roundly curses the manhood of all those men who refuse to join him in a game. It takes him a while but he is an orator of no modest skill when the beer is flowing. He mostly insults Cards, but some of the Masts crew and the Sparrows are still left with pinker cheeks than before. He takes a small diversion to insult the womanhood of some of the women present too – a colourful and highly specific description that paints its own picture.
Reft understands this only at a remove. He’s never taken enough interest in the subject to fully picture women in all their apparent glory, but its effect is startling. For a moment the voices falter. Only Varain and Deern are so immune to Anatin’s verbosity that they chuckle their way through it. Even the men of the Cards are briefly taken aback. Even the serving staff who are keeping their heads down all stop and look.
The quiet is broken by a roar from Braqe that Reft knows is not feigned. Still, she remembers the job well enough to toss her tankard aside before hurling herself at Anatin. The tankard casts a neat arc of beer through the air before it hits a Sparrow. Anatin howls with laughter as Varain restrains Braqe. Braqe kicks wildly behind her as she struggles and catches one of the Masts crew in what appears to be a genuine accident.
What she lacks in vocabulary, Braqe makes up for in heartfelt rage. She curses Anatin then Varain, yelling things that no man wants to hear and Deern isn’t the only one jeering her. More beer is thrown. Most of it misses and there’s a growl from the Sparrows not far behind.
Braqe almost ruins the moment by rounding on one man as Varain lets her go, shouting with such vehemence that the Sparrow stops in his tracks. Fortunately she calls him a cunt in the next breath.
Deern swoops in to the rescue, a masterful touch Reft feels. By then he has established himself as the loudest mouth in the room, the one they all know because his name’s been used most often. There’s a mocking grin on Deern’s faces as he smooths ruffled feathers and drags Braqe from the stranger’s grip.
Reft sees the other Sparrows move closer, the Masts crew too – all drawn to this flashpoint by some inexorable force. Yet somehow Deern manages to calm things, to quieten voices as everyone leaves their seat and there’s a press of bodies in the centre of the room.
All eyes are on Deern as he hands the Sparrow two tankards of beer as recompense. He makes sure the man’s hands are full and unable to grab Braqe again. He makes sure the room is near silent as Deern turns away, one had pressed against Braqe’s chest to keep her still. There is a twinkle in his eye as the quiet allows him to be heard all the more clearly.
‘Cunt.’
The anger is still building on the Sparrow’s face when Braqe punches him. She’s a career merc, but not the biggest and knows not to break her hand when she’s hitting someone. The Sparrow isn’t felled. Instead he staggers back, arms thrown up and hands full of beer that flies behind him. Reft watches and a smile spreads across his faces as the remaining Sparrows surge forward. One of the biggest Cards there, Darm, puts his shoulder into the closest Sparrow and drives her across the others. Half of them trip, but there are more coming.
Deern howls with laughter and hurls himself into the mass, grabbing hold of one man and hauling him round. Estal and Layir follow him while Anatin chucks his tankard to encourage the others. Then the rest of the Cards pile in. The Masts crew charge too, but the Sparrows are full of fire and fury now. There’s no space for sense in their heads and a chair sends the first of the crew sprawling across a table. The locals don’t even pause. They lay into both sets of mercs with utter abandon and the tavern descends into a magnificent broiling mess of bodies and shouting.
One man steps towards the Cards’ table, seeking some space to raise his cudgel. Reft frowns and reaches forward. Cudgels are not in the spirit of fun. When the man makes to hammer it against Haphori’s skull, he wrenches his shoulder hauling on a stick that does not move. The man yelps in pain, the sound lost in the bedlam, and Reft tosses the stick away. The man finally sees who’s taken his cudgel and gasps as he takes in the size of Reft, but before he can recover his wits Reft shoves the table. It knocks him back into the fray where he collides with a Sparrow and the two fall, tangled about each other.
Even Anatin has thrown himself into the fray now. The attractive Sparrow has him by the collar, dragging him in a circle to keep Anatin off balance and punching him in the gut at every opportunity. The man catches a stray elbow from one of his own and Anatin, ever the opportunist, plants a knee right between the Sparrow’s legs.
Reft heaves a regretful sigh as the man’s legs wobble. Haphori barges into Anatin before the commander can damage Reft’s hopes entirely however, locked in a grapple with some local woman. He’s stronger but she’s slamming her knee into his side and he’s unable to do much about it. The sweat’s pouring from his face, the thick hair of his eyebrows, beard and neck glistening in the lamplight.
‘Reft!’ he hears Deern yell. ‘Dammit, what are you doing?’
His partner’s pale face pops briefly out of the crowd. There’s blood smeared around his mouth and his cheek is purpled, but Reft can tell Deern’s enjoying himself. Two Sparrows hang on to him like dogs tugging on a piece of meat, getting in each other’s way more than anything else. Reft raises his drink at Deern and the smaller man ducks, hooking one of his assailant’s legs.
The man tumbles and Deern falls on top of him, slamming an elbow into his neck as he falls. The other, a woman, sprawls across Deern only to have him grab a fistful of loose hair. He uses that to push himself up to his knees as he drives her face into the floor. There he pauses for a moment and Reft tenses. He sees the dark thoughts that are crossing Deern’s mind, but then Deern releases her head and hops up.
Deern gives the woman a perfunctory kick on the ribs and then he snags a chair, drawing it around as he surveys the brawl before him. There are Cards everywhere. Reft sees that Deern can’t take a swing without likely hitting one, but still Deern considers it. Then he just shoves it forward to trip one Mastrunner throwing a punch at the Sparrow he’d been tussling with.
The brawl ebbs and flows. For a moment Reft thinks he’s seen the bald head of Brols in the centre of it. Then the bloody smile in a freckled face becomes another man’s, someone Reft doesn’t know, and Brols is dead once more, his body left to quietly rot in the Labyrinth of Jarrazir. He takes another drink and ponders the thought as Estal drags a man’s arm from around Layir’s throat. She snaps a finger or two by the shriek that pierces the hubbub. In some strange maternal moment, Estal plants a big kiss on the cheek of her man’s adopted son. In the next they part company and return to the fight.
Reft nods approvingly at the sight. Death, life, fighting and fucking; all inextricably bound together in this world. A local has Darm by his red hair, dragging him back before landing a thunderous punch that lays the big man out. Just behind them Crais is busily
and methodically smearing a Sparrow’s nose across his face.
From somewhere over the noise Reft hears Deern yell again.
‘Shift yourself! The fuck’re you waiting for?’
The voice is drowned out by the wordless yells and noises of the brawl.
More people slip, more people fall or are laid out. The blood’s flowing now, they’re all bloody and battered. Clothes are torn, headscarves dislodged and trodden into the dirt and blood. The attractive man is still on his feet, Reft notes, but he’s looking woozy. Anything more than fending off stray blows is beyond him now. The Cards are certainly not winning; Darm is out cold, Crais and Burnel down too from what Reft can see. Anatin’s slumped back in a seat, exhausted and unable to fight for long at his age.
Varain’s too stupid to know when he should go down and drinks so much he can’t feel pain, so he’s still trading blows. Deern’s bloodied grin darts in and out of view still, while Braqe’s basic level of anger can never be quenched. Half the furniture in the room is smashed. There’s blood and staggering figures everywhere. Reft is pretty sure Toil will be happy that her instructions have been carried out.
He finishes his drink and pushes himself upright. With one hand Reft lifts the table and sets it on end to give him a clear path. The nearest Sparrow sees this and is gawping as he’s backhanded across the room. Reft surveys the heedless mass of people still fighting. He’s almost a head taller than any of them. With slow, deliberate movements he rolls his shoulders and flexes his hands. His great muscles tingle slightly as he’s been sitting for an hour or more, but in moments the feeling fades.
Reft grins, gold canines flashing in the light. He steps forward and bunches his fists. The time for watching is over.
Interlude 2
(now)
Outside a different bar, four days after Reft’s dramatic intervention, Teshen felt the cool night air like a slap across the face. He blinked and felt the fog of beer start to fade from his head. Behind him the sounds of the bar continued; Deern’s grating laugh, Kas’s musical laughter, Varain’s gravelly voice raised in song.
The sky was a blaze of stars, a great glittering whorl overlaid by the thin blade of the skyriver. Lower on the eastern sky, the moon was almost full and startlingly bright. This close to the equator, the skyriver cast no more light than the moon, but the two together provided more than enough to see by.
‘You can come out now,’ Teshen called softly. ‘I can see you.’
There was a long moment of silence in which, distantly, there came the peal of a bell. The sound provoked a pang in his heart and quickened his blood.
‘Do you feel it still?’ she replied from the darkness away to his right.
‘Not dead yet.’
The bell was the signal for a game of Masts. They often took place at night if the moon was full, fewer citizens around to get in the way. Some of his greatest moments in this city had been under the moonlight, feats witnessed by one other at best, but worthy memories all the same.
‘One last game?’
Teshen gave a snort. ‘That’s all behind me now.’
‘True, you’ve put on weight.’
‘I’ve learned how to enjoy life. Turns out that’s one of the side-effects.’
She came out into the moonlight, darkness smoothing out the faint lines around her eyes and masking the grey in her hair. The effect was as good as a punch.
Teshen gave her a small bow. ‘Kaboto Sanshir,’ he said in greeting.
‘That must have hurt to say.’
‘Not so much. Like I said, I’ve learned to enjoy life a little more. And I’m mindful of the last time we met. You won, I lost. I’m old enough to honour that.’ He glanced to the side. ‘Aren’t your friends going to come out to say hello?’
‘So this is the Bloody Pauper?’ answered a voice from the shadows.
Six heads popped into view and a tall man stepped forward. He was half a head bigger than Teshen, with parallel scars down his cheek. Dark skin and fine features announced a south-shore heritage, but his accent and the stray braid of hair creeping out from his black headscarf were all Vi No Le.
‘Once, perhaps,’ Teshen said. ‘No longer. I’m just Teshen now. The Bloody Pauper is dead.’
‘Unlike the death sentence he left behind. That’s still got life in it.’
‘I’m careless.’ Teshen looked Sanshir in the eye. ‘I left a few things behind.’
The man unsheathed his long knives. ‘This one’s been waiting for you.’
Teshen snorted. ‘Your new First Blade, Sanshir? Times must be tough.’
The man took a step forward, but Sanshir raised a hand. ‘Calm yourself, Bolereis. Now isn’t the time to test your blades.’
Bolereis gave a snort. ‘Whatever his reputation, it’s long behind him now.’
‘He’s not so far gone he can’t draw that mage-pistol at his side,’ she pointed out. ‘And the man I used to know was always ready for trouble. It’s likely a spark-bolt in there.’
‘Still sharp I see,’ said Teshen, who’d totally forgotten he was wearing the gun until he got outside, and he certainly hadn’t remembered to swap out the icer.
‘Sharper still now,’ she corrected.
‘And a blunt instrument to hand when needed,’ Teshen said, nodding at Bolereis. ‘We all have our roles in this life, I suppose.’
‘And what’s yours?’ Sanshir said as the tall man growled.
‘A humble mercenary, nothing more.’
‘Humble?’
‘Most of the time.’ Teshen grinned. ‘Compared to the rest, certainly.’
‘Hired by whom?’
He sighed. ‘You know already, our job’s finished. Why ask questions you’re not going to believe the answers to?’
‘Because truth hides in the strangest places.’
‘Aye well, truth means nothing to an enemy, if we’re swapping empty sayings.’
She cocked her head at him. ‘Is that how you see me?’
‘Nah. Your crew, mebbe, but never you. I can’t say more’n Anatin did back there, though. We’ve no employer from these parts, just a standing contract from elsewhere that doesn’t affect any o’ the Mage Islands or the kabats.’
‘He’s lying.’
Teshen turned to Bolereis. ‘Back in my day, First Blades weren’t so chatty. The grown-ups are talking now, so button it until your mistress calls.’
The man actually drew a knife at that, but Teshen only laughed and slipped a hand around his pistol’s grip.
Well, look at that, he thought as Sanshir forestalled Bolereis with an angry wave of the hand. Turns out I do care who’s First Blade after all. I’d gladly kill this knife-spanker given the chance. Death by nostalgia, that’s a nasty way to go.
‘Like I said to your commander, it’s time to leave the Islands.’
Teshen shook his head. ‘Not so simple as that.’
‘What then?’
‘None of your business.’ He took a breath. ‘San, this is me, remember? Not some fool come to visit. Vi No Le hasn’t changed so much a crew of forty could tip the balance against you. The Siym were ripe for the taking, everyone knew it. The Jo-Sarl family falling to an outside force, though? Not so much.’
Even as he spoke, he could see the memories in her eyes. The day he’d attempted just that, supporting a cousin of the Jo-Sarls in a coup.
‘A man of ambition might try it,’ Sanshir said. ‘A commander of no small opinion of himself might, especially when he’s got mages in his company.’
‘Making last night just a pretext for being here? Mercs like to live long enough to get paid, they’re not fanatics.’
‘Mercenaries are easily led.’
‘Not by me.’ Teshen felt his jaw tighten as he spoke. ‘I ain’t in command, I’m not even Anatin’s second. You were there the night I found out I wasn’t the best at giving the orders.’
She inclined her head as he felt a pang in his gut, shameful memories welling up fast. He thought he’d d
one his best, but it hadn’t been anything like enough back then. Things went south mostly because of Sanshir and the kaboto of the day, but enough time had passed since then. Teshen no longer kidded himself about his own failings.
‘I was there,’ Sanshir said. ‘I remember that day as well as you.’
Without warning she turned and walked away. Her crew went to follow her, Bolereis last to go. The tall man fixed Teshen with a crooked grin and pointed at him with his knife.
‘You’re full of shit, old man, now and back then. Remember my face, I’ll be there to end you when the time comes. By my reckoning, it’s coming soon.’
Teshen looked the man in the eye. He was younger, but not so young he wouldn’t remember that day. Might even have been a novice in training when it all went down, dreaming of Masts glory then finding blood all over the streets.
‘Don’t worry,’ Teshen said. ‘I’ll remember your face.’
Chapter 9
(four days earlier)
Temples were not by and large a place Lynx spent much time. He didn’t have a lot to say to the gods under any circumstances and with a hangover they became even less enticing a prospect. The fact that this one served food was a big point in its favour, he had to admit, but for some reason the bastards hadn’t gone so far as to include coffee.
The morning was unexpectedly, insultingly beautiful. A brilliant blue, cloudless sky was marked only by the pale halo of the skyriver. Below it the lagoon sparkled with sunlight. The breeze was a soft caress on his cheek, enough only to lift
the tang of salt water and carry the sweet, earthy scents of the spice islands. It was early still and the morning progressed calmly around Lynx while he slouched at a wooden table in the pillared courtyard of the Water Temple.
Before him was a now half-empty bowl of deep-fried dough sticks that had been sprinkled in sugar, beside an untouched plate of raw fish in lime juice. There was only thin tea to drink and he’d received startled looks when he asked for bacon, but slowly the horror of the early hour was fading from Lynx’s mind.