Darkdawn--Book Three of the Nevernight Chronicle

by Jay Kristoff

  “I can find no fault in that, brave Centurion,” the sister said, eyes still downturned.

  “Might I enquire what you are doing aboard this vessel?”

  “You may enquire, noble Centurion.” The lass smoothed down her voluminous robes, which were blowing in the breeze from the open porthole. “But as I informed the good captain here, my task requires utmost discretion. My Mother Superior bid me speak of it to none, not even our brethren in the Light. Upon my honor, I must humbly beg your forgiveness and maintain my sworn silence.”

  Falco nodded, gray eyes glittering. “Of course, good Sister.”

  The marines finished their search, turned to the centurion.

  “The boy’s not here,” one reported, rather needlessly.

  The centurion glowered once more about the room. But seemingly satisfied, if still more than a little curious, he bowed to the sister.

  “Forgive our intrusion, good daughter. Tsana guide your hand.”

  The sister raised three fingers with a patient smile.

  “Aa bless and keep you, Centurion.”

  “See?” Cloud grinned ear to ear, relief melting his insides. “All shipshape and aboveboard, aye, mates? Let me show you lovely gentles out.”

  Falco turned on his heel, ready to leave, his men close behind. But Cloud’s belly did a small flip as the man came to a sudden stop. A slight frown appeared on the centurion’s brow as he stared at the girl’s feet.

  Gray eyes glinted in the cabin’s dim light.

  “My sister married a shoemaker,” he declared.

  The Vaanian lass tilted her head. “I beg pardon?”

  “Aye,” the man nodded. “A shoemaker. Four years back.”

  “I…” The girl blinked, looking bewildered. “I am … very happy for her.”

  “I’m not,” Falco scowled. “He’s thicker than pig droppings, my brother-in-law. He knows a great deal about boots, however. Has a contract with the Godsgrave editorii, in fact. Every guard who works the arena wears a pair of his.”

  The centurion pointed to the bloodstained leather toes peeking out from beneath the girl’s holy vestments.

  “Just like those.”

  Several things happened in quick succession here, each slightly more surprising than the last. First, the lass shouted “MIA!” at the top of her lungs toward the open porthole. Which, all things considered, Cloud thought rather odd.

  Second, she moved, flinging a knife from inside her sleeve and drawing a shortsword she’d hidden fuck-knows-where. The knife sailed into the throat of the closest marine, and as the man fell back in a spray of red, the lass lashed out at the centurion with her blade, face twisted in a snarl.

  Third, the big fellow in the corner threw back his hood, revealing a corpse-pale face, eyes like a daemon and saltlocks like … well, Cloud had no fucking idea, but they were moving by themselves. The fellow drew out his two suspiciously sword-shaped lumps from beneath his robe, which indeed turned out to be swords.

  Gravebone swords.

  And lastly, and probably strangest of all, as the girl aimed a scything blow at Centurion Ovidius Varinius Falco, second century, third cohort’s cocky neck, a shadow shaped like a cat lunged out from beneath her voluminous robes with an unearthly yowl, followed by a rather alarmed nine-year-old boy, gagged and bound at his wrists.

  For his part Falco was ready for the blow at least, drawing the sunsteel blade at his belt and speaking a prayer to Aa. The sword ignited with a shear of bright flame and he met the girl’s strike, his sunsteel scoring her blade. The lass yelled “MIA!” again, the three remaining marines cried out and drew their shortblades, Cloud spat a black curse, and before he knew it, the cabin was in chaos.

  The marines were well trained, obviously used to fighting in tight spaces. But as they stepped up to cut the lass down, the big lad struck, his gravebone blade cutting through chain mail like a razor through silk and slicing one man’s arm off at the shoulder. Blood sprayed across the cabin and the man went down howling.

  The big fellow wasn’t all that spry, though—he seemed unholy strong but stumbling slow. The third marine struck back, slicing his arm deep. And with a prayer to Aa, the fourth stepped forward and skewered him straight through the belly.

  The big fellow didn’t fall. Didn’t even flinch. With one black hand, he grabbed the marine’s wrist, pulled the blade farther into his gut and the wide-eyed soldier ever closer. His other hand closed about the man’s throat. And with the snap of damp twigs, he twisted the fellow’s neck to breaking.

  Good Sister Ashlinn and Falco were locked up, blade to blade, the bigger man pushing the lass back with his blazing sunsteel. But as he raised his sword, the sound of a thunderous explosion tore through the air from somewhere outside, shattering the other portholes and spraying glass and the bitter black stench of arkemical fire into the room. Falco realized the blast had come from the Faithful about the same time Cloud did, turning his head momentarily in the direction of his ship. And that moment was all the good sister needed.

  Her blade tip connected with the man’s throat, slicing his windpipe clean through. The centurion fell back, fountaining blood, the boy on the floor staring in wide-eyed horror as the man’s not-quite-dead-yet body hit the deck. The cat shadow thing was tearing about the room yowling and spitting, the walking corpse had slammed the last marine against the wall and was choking him out barehanded, and Cloud Corleone could smell the most terrifying thing a captain aboard his own ship can imagine.

  Fire.

  So he did what any sensible man would have done in his boots.

  “Fuck this,” he said.

  And he ran.

  Barreling down the corridor and up onto the deck, he was momentarily overcome by the sunslight glare and the stench of smoke. The Maid’s deck was covered with crewmen, running to and fro at BigJon’s bellowed commands.

  “Cut those bloody lines! Get those grapples out, you limp-pizzled lackwits! Wet down the damned sails! Push us away, you slack-jawed nonna-fuckers! Away!”

  Cloud could see the Faithful was on fire—both her sails and her hull. Black smoke was spewing out of her arse end, which had been somehow blown apart. She was listing hard, taking water fast. Burning sailors and marines were diving into the sea, regular and arkemical flames were eating the wood, and her decks were in absolute chaos. And as he watched, trying to make sense of exactly what was going on aboard the stricken warship, Cloud Corleone found his jaw slackening in wonder.

  “Four Daughters…”

  He thought it a trick of the light or smoke at first. But squinting harder, he realized that among the flames and embers, he could see …

  A girl?

  She moved like a song. Weaving and spinning, all pale skin and narrowed eyes and long hair, black as crow’s feathers. She held a gravebone longsword in her hand, a stolen shield in the other, drenched to the armpits in gore. As he watched, she skipped up to the aft deck toward one of the Luminatii. The man cursed and raised his sunsteel blade. A wolf made of what looked like shadowstuff flew up the stairs, mouth open and roaring. Cloud blanched as he realized he could understand what it was saying.

  “… RUN…!” it roared, with a voice like winter. “… RUN, YOU FOOLS…!”

  The girl raised her hand, and the Luminatii cried out, reeling back and clutching his eyes as if blinded. The lass cut the terrified man down, striking his hand off at the wrist as he fell, tossing aside her shield and snatching up his flaming sword from the deck. And as she wove among the rest of the terrified mob, that shadowwolf howling for blood, twin blades flashing in her hands, something about her form struck him as familiar. Something that put him in mind of the smell of blood and sand, the taste of a comely lass’s lips, a bookman calling him a cockeyed fool as he’d placed all his winnings down on …

  “’Byss and blood,” he breathed.

  Another explosion rocked the Faithful, her timbers cracking, her masts shattering. Cloud realized her arkemical ammunition stores must’ve been set a
blaze, that she was tearing herself apart from the inside. Soldiers and sailors tumbled into the sea or made desperate leaps across to the Maid, only to be helped down into the waves by his own salts on BigJon’s order. Cloud watched, gobsmacked, as the girl cut the backstays securing the mizzenmast, her gravebone blade slicing through the thick, tar-soaked ropes as if they were spidersilk. She ducked low as the wind sent the mast falling with a splintering crack toward the Maid. And climbing up onto the fallen timber, she dashed along it like a cat, face twisted as she took a flying leap across the widening gap between the Faithful and the Maid.

  She didn’t quite make it. Her gravebone blade flew from her hand and clattered across the deck at Cloud’s feet as she hit the stern rail, her stolen sunsteel falling into the ocean below. She almost followed it down into the burning water, but somehow clung on, nails clawing the timber, knuckles white as she seized hold of a heavy block. Hauling herself up the pulley, her grip slippery with blood, she managed to swing one leg onto the railing and pull herself over, collapsing on the deck. Chest heaving. Coughing and sputtering.

  “Fuck me very gently,” Cloud murmured. “Then fuck me very hard.”

  Dragging a stray lock of blood-soaked hair from her lips, the lass looked up into Cloud’s eyes. The captain now held her gravebone blade in his hands, its hilt sticky with red. Her shadow twisted, shifted, and the wolf that had struck such terror into the Luminatii and their men materialized on the deck between them, hackles raised, its growl seeming to come from beneath the floorboards.

  “… STAY BACK…”

  Its voice chilled his belly, the girl’s stare, even more so. It was like the fear was a living thing, leaking out of the dark at her feet and into his own. Cloud heard footsteps on the stairs behind him. Felt a now familiar chill at his back. He could hear his crew forming up below, cudgels and blades at the ready, a little drunk on the carnage and maybe spoiling for a touch more. BigJon was holding them in check, but one word would be all it took for it to start again.

  “Mia?” he heard a voice ask behind.

  “It’s all right, Ash,” the lass replied, watching Cloud.

  “You’re the Crow,” he said, his voice trembling. “Falcon of the Remus Collegium. The Bloody Beauty. Savior of Stormwatch.”

  Cloud licked his lips. Forced his voice to steady.

  “You’re the lass who murdered Grand Cardinal Francesco Duomo.”

  She looked at him. Her face scarred and slave-marked and smudged with blood and smoke. Eyes black as truedark, circled with shadows.

  “Aye,” was all she said.

  Careful so as not to spook anyone, Cloud Corleone placed the gravebone sword onto the deck, gentle as if it were a newborn babe. And leaning down to the lass, he offered her his four-bastard smile along with his shaking hand.

  “Welcome aboard the Bloody Maid.”

  CHAPTER 12

  VERITAS

  It was the most uncomfortable dinner Mia had ever attended.

  The good captain was seated at one end of the table in his cabin, dressed in a fine black velvet shirt, unlaced a touch too far. His mate BigJon sat beside him, propped up on a stack of cushions. Mister Kindly was draped around Mia’s shoulder at the table’s other end, and Eclipse was curled up on the floor at her feet. Ashlinn was sat to her left and Tric to her right, Jonnen sitting opposite BigJon to complete the set.

  Ash had shed her sorority vestments, now clad in black leathers and a red velvet shirt. Tric still wore his dark robes, though his hood was pulled back, exposing his beautiful pale face, his black eyes, his saltlocks moving in a breeze no one else could feel. Mia still wore her leather gladiatii skirt and boots, but the good captain had been nice enough to loan her one of his black silk shirts to replace her bloodstained tunic. She quickly realized the scoundrel liked his fashion low-cut, and had to bend over carefully lest uninvited guests made an unexpected visit.

  The ocean whispered and shushed against the hull, the gentle rise and fall of the Maid on the swell setting the crockery tinkling and clinking. Sunslight streamed through the leadlight windows, the Sea of Silence spread out in azure splendor behind them.

  The silence around the table wasn’t nearly so pretty.

  The good captain had put on a fine spread and seemed intent to impress Mia—though she’d not yet fully grasped why. After his initial fear, he’d acclimatized well to the notion she was darkin, slipping easily into the role of charming host. As the aperitifs were served, he kept the talk light, speaking mostly of his ship and his travels. His wit was so quick it might’ve been pure silver he was drinking. But it soon became apparent most of his audience weren’t in the mood for a Charming Bastard routine. Corleone’s small talk had sputtered, then died. And as the dishes were cleared in preparation for second course, the table descended into an awkward quiet.

  Cloud Corleone cleared his throat. “More wine, anyone?”

  “No,” Ashlinn said, watching Tric.

  “NO,” Tric said, glaring at Ashlinn.

  “Fuck yes,” Mia said, waving her glass.

  Mia was on to her third. It was a fine vintage, dark and smoky on her tongue. And though she preferred a good goldwine—Albari if it was going, though in truth, almost any whiskey would suffice—she wasn’t quite rude enough to ask the good captain if he had any. She could get drunk on red just as easily, and turns of being cooped up together in that cabin had set everyone on edge. So drunk she intended to get.

  “Well,” Corleone said, taking another stab. “How do you all know each other?”

  Silence.

  Long as years.

  “We studied together,” Mia finally replied.

  “O, aye?” Corleone smiled, intrigued. “Public institution, or Iron Collegium, or…”

  “… it was a school for fledgling assassins run by a murder cult…”

  “Ah.” The captain glanced at the shadowcat and nodded. “Private tutors, then.”

  “SOME OF US BECAME MASTERS OF IT,” Tric said, staring at Ash. “MURDER, THAT IS.”

  “That shouldn’t surprise,” she replied. “Given what we trained for.”

  “A KNIFE IN THE HAND OF A FRIEND IS OFTEN A SURPRISE.”

  “It shouldn’t be, if that friend thinks to come before familia.”

  “Erm…,” Corleone stammered.

  Mia drained her glass.

  “Pass the wine, please?”

  Corleone complied as the galley boy brought in the main and started serving. It was fine fare considering they were aboard a ship—sizzling lamb and almost-fresh greens and rosemary jus that made Mia’s mouth water despite the tension in the air. As Corleone began carving, the meat almost fell off the bone.

  “I saw you best that silkling at the Whitekeep games,” BigJon said to her around his mouthful. “Won a strumpet’s cuntful of coin on you, too. Bloody magnificent, lass.”

  “Four Daughters, BigJon,” Cloud scowled. “Mind your cursing at table, neh?”

  “Fuck,” he said, biting his lip. “Apologies.”

  “Again?”

  “Fuck. Sorry. Shit … FUCK…”

  “No, it’s all right,” Mia said, leaning back in her chair and enjoying the feel of her head spinning. “I was bloody magnificent. I trust you spent your cuntful on something fucking marvelous.”

  The littleman grinned with silver teeth, raising his glass. “O, I like you.”

  Mia raised her glass in return, downed it in a gulp.

  “What about you, young don?” Cloud said, turning to Jonnen for a change of subject. “Do you like ships, perchance?”

  “Do not speak to me, cretin,” the boy replied, toying with his food.

  “Jonnen,” Mia warned. “Don’t be rude.”

  “I will not entertain inane chatter with this lawless brigand, Kingmaker,” the boy snapped. “Further, when I am returned to my father, I will see him hanged a villain.”

  “Well…” Corleone’s lips flapped a little. “I…”

  “Don’t mind him,” Mia said
. “He’s a spoiled little shit.”

  “I am the son of an imperator!” the boy cried shrilly.

  “But you’re not above a spanking! So mind your fucking manners!”

  Mia glowered at the boy, engaged in a silent battle of wills.

  “Ah…,” BigJon tried. “More wine?”

  “O, yes, please,” Mia said, holding out her glass.

  A more comfortable silence settled over the table as Mia got her refill and folk got down to eating. Mia had spent the last eight months dining on the various questionable broths and swills cooked up in the Remus Collegium—this was the first decent feed she’d had in as long as she could remember. She started stuffing her face, using more wine to wash her ambitious mouthfuls down. The lamb was delicious, hot, perfectly seasoned, the greens crunchy and tart. Even Jonnen seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “Are you not eating, Don Tric?” Corleone asked. “I can have the galley fix something else if this displeases.”

  “THE DEAD HAVE NO NEED OF FOOD, CAPTAIN.”

  “And yet they insist on coming to the dinner table, regardless,” Ashlinn muttered around a mouthful.

  “… EXCUSE ME?”

  “Pass the salt, dwarf,” Jonnen demanded.

  “Oi!” Mia thumped the table. “He’s not a dwarf, he’s a littleman!”

  “No, I am a little man,” the boy said with a smug smile, pointing to BigJon with his fork. “He is a dwarf. And I will be taller tomorrow.”

  “That’s fucking it,” Mia said, rising to her feet. “Go to your room!”

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked. “I am the son of—”

  “I give no fucks for whose son you are. You’re a guest at this table and you don’t talk to people that way. You want to be treated with respect, little brother? Start by treating others to it. Because it’s earned, not fucking owed.” Mia leaned forward and glowered. “Now go. To. Your. Room!”

  The boy stared at his sister. His eyes narrowed. The shadows about him shivered and snapped like bullwhips, echoing the rage in his eyes. Some of the cutlery began rattling on the tabletop.