Darkdawn--Book Three of the Nevernight Chronicle

by Jay Kristoff

  Black Banshee.

  “What are those?” Bladesinger asked.

  The woman was pointing to two tall spires of stone, looming above the shoreline. Each was seventy feet high, pale limestone, covered in vast tangles of razorvine.

  “Those are Thorn Towers,” Ashlinn murmured. “They’re scattered all over Liis. It’s where the Magus Kings used to break their slaves. Torture their prisoners.”

  Butcher raised an eyebrow. “How’d you know that?”

  “My father got sent on an offering in Elai.” Ash’s voice was low, her eyes narrowed as she looked at the spires. “He made the kill but got caught on the way out. The Leper Priests tortured him in towers just like those for three weeks. Ripped his eye out. Cut his bollocks off.”

  Butcher and Sidonius shifted uncomfortably in their saddles. Mia reached back and took Ashlinn’s hand, saw the haunted look in her girl’s eyes.

  “He died there?” Bladesinger asked softly.

  Ash shook her head. “He escaped. His body, anyway. But part of him stayed in there the rest of his life. It’s what drove him away from the Red Church.”

  “I’m sorry,”’Singer said. “Must have been hard to see that.”

  “… It wasn’t easy.”

  Mia squeezed Ash’s hand, entwined their fingers together. Glancing at Tric, she saw the boy watching them, his face like stone. Torvar Järnheim had raised his son and daughter as weapons to be used against the Ministry. Ashlinn’s and her brother’s betrayal had almost brought the Red Church to its knees. And it had cost Tric his life.

  Torvar was dead now—murdered at the hands of Church assassins. Mia could see faint pain in Ashlinn’s eyes as she looked down on those towers, that dark reflection of the place her father lost himself inside. Uncomfortable silence settled on the scene. But Butcher soon put paid to it, sitting taller in his saddle and squinting at the docks below.

  “I can’t see the Bloody Maid,” he murmured.

  “Nor I,” Sidonius said.

  Mia felt an unfamiliar thrill of fear in her belly then, stamping it down with gritted teeth and trying not to think about the cat-shaped hole in her chest. She knew Cloud should’ve been here by now—if they’d had time to ride all the way from Galante, he’d surely have had time to sail here. But looking among the ships at berth, she saw Corleone’s red-sailed beauty was nowhere in sight.

  “They might be at anchor farther out in the bay,” she offered. “Those berths look plenty full.”

  “Aye,” Bladesinger said. “Let’s just cleave to the plan. Where was Cloud supposed to meet us?”

  “He just said he’d see us at the pub,” Mia said.

  Sid cast his eye over the docks below. “I don’t mean to be difficult, but did the fancy bastard narrow it down at all? Because I can spy about twenty of them.”

  Butcher grinned and shook his head. “Follow me, gentlefriends.”

  Mia glanced at Tric again, but the boy was looking out at the storm-washed seas. So, giving Ash’s hand one last squeeze, met with a small but grateful smile, she turned toward the harbor. Butcher led the way down to the crowded docks, the stench of old fish and new sewage mercifully thinning as the nevernight winds began blowing in off the bay. Wandering along a winding trail of inkdens, pleasure houses, and drinking holes. Shrines to Lady Trelene and Nalipse, tithed with cups of blood and animal parts and old rusted coins. Blind beggars and drunken louts and streetwalkers. And finally, they arrived at a large and somewhat well-to-do establishment on the edge of the water.

  The sign hanging over the door simply read THE PUB.*

  “I like it,” Mia declared.

  After a short tip from Sid, a stableboy took charge of their horses. The seven road-weary companions doffed imaginary hats to the bouncers and found themselves in the common room of a bustling, hustling taverna. The bar was wide and broad, stocked with a thousand bottles and echoing with a thousand tales. The walls were scribed with the strokes of a thousand hands—written in ink and charcoal and lead; declarations and drivel and poems and all between:

  My love I left, my heart I left, with my promise to return.

  Pilinius has a pizzle like a barnacle.

  Which of you bastards took my beer?

  Yes

  YES

  The tiger is out

  “Find a table,” Butcher said. “First round’s on me.”

  “Most generous of you, Butcher,” Mia smiled.

  “Aye, aye,” the Liisian nodded. “Listen, can I borrow some coin? I’m good for it.”

  Mia sighed and handed over a few beggars from her stash. Tric made his way through the throng with the group following, and just like the folks in the streets outside, the crowded commons parted before him. They found a booth on the dockside of the room, still scattered with empty mugs and small puddles that smelled suspiciously like piss, but they were so weary and cold, it mattered little. They were close to the fire and in from the rain, and after two weeks in the saddle, that was miracle enough.

  They huddled into the booth, Jonnen sandwiched between them. Tric fetched a stool from the crowded bar and sat at the other end of their round table so he could better keep an eye on the room. The pub was a tangle of friendly conversations and heated debates, of drunken rebuffs and accepted advances, of tall tales and deadly truths. A trio of minstrels were sat in a corner near the fire, strumming a lyre and beating a drum and singing the bawdiest tune Mia had ever heard.*

  Butcher soon returned with a tray loaded with pints of ale, slapping one down in front of each of them, including Jonnen.

  “What should we drink to?” Bladesinger asked.

  “The Lady of Storms?” Sidonius offered. “Perhaps she’ll ease off a bit.”

  Butcher raised his drink. “A man may kiss his wife goodbye. The wine may kiss the frosted glass. The rose may kiss the butterfly, but you, my friends, can kiss my arse.”

  “How about to friends absent?” Mia said, raising her tankard.

  “Aye,” Ashlinn nodded. “Friends absent.”

  “TO LIVE IN THE HEARTS WE LEAVE BEHIND IS TO NEVER DIE,” Tric said softly.

  Mia met the boy’s eyes and murmured agreement. Ash gave a grudging nod. The group hoisted their mugs and took a quaff, all save Jonnen (who eyed the drink with appropriate suspicion) and Tric (who didn’t look at his drink at all).

  “So where the fuck is Corleone?” Sid asked, wiping his lips.

  “Is my face red?” Butcher demanded.

  “Not particularly,” Sid replied.

  “Well, I s’pose he’s not up my arse, then.”

  “Let’s not venture too far into the realm of what’s been up your arse, Butcher,” Mia said.

  “Speaking of, your ma says hello,” the man grinned.

  “Oi,” Mia warned, eyebrow raised. “Leave my mother out of this.”

  “That’s just what your da said,” the Liisian chuckled.

  Mia couldn’t help but guffaw, raising the knuckles into the man’s face. He slapped her hand away, raised his mug again. “Cheers, you beautiful bitch.”

  Mia blew the man a kiss, took another swallow.

  “You all have filthy mouths,” Jonnen muttered.

  The group drank in silence, content to listen to the pub’s hubbub and the song of the minstrels in the corner. By the time they’d reached the seventh verse* their glasses were empty. Ashlinn looked about the table wordlessly, eyebrow raised in question. And met with no dissent, she set off in search of another round.

  “First time I got drunk,” Sidonius ventured, “I got so sloppy I vomited on myself.”

  “I fell into the ocean and almost drowned,” said Bladesinger.

  “I got married,” Butcher said.

  “You win,” Mia nodded, lighting a cigarillo.

  Jonnen pushed his ale away with both hands.

  “Good lad,” Mia smiled, kissing the top of her brother’s head.

  “I need a bath,” Bladesinger said. “And a bed.”

  “Aye, we should
get some lodgings here,” Sid said. “With good fortune, Corleone’s just been delayed a turn or two.”

  “And with ill fortune?” Butcher asked.

  Sid had no answer for that, nor Mia either. She puffed away on her cigarillo, felt the kiss of cloves on her tongue, wondering what they’d do if Corleone failed to arrive. They had coin, but not enough to book passage for seven. They’d still no answer to the problem of the Ladies of Storms and Oceans. And looking around The Pub’s innards, Mia couldn’t see many folk she’d trust the way she trusted the captain of the Bloody Maid. Now she was settled in, she could feel what Butcher spoke of, catch a glimpse of it in a silvered smile or at a knife’s edge or in the bruises at the corners of a serving lass’s mouth. An undercurrent of violence. A streak of cruelty in this city’s bones.

  Tric stood slowly, pulling his hood low, hiding those black hands in his sleeves.

  “I’LL WALK THE JETTIES, SPEAK TO THE HARBORMASTER,” he said. “PERHAPS THERE’S SOME WORD OF THE MAID AND ITS DELAY.”

  “Don’t you want to rest?” Mia asked. “Warm yourself by the fire a spell?”

  “ONLY ONE THING IN THIS WORLD CAN WARM ME, MIA,” he replied. “AND IT’S NOT A HEARTH IN A DOCKSIDE COMMON ROOM. I’LL RETURN.”

  She watched him leave, sensed the Falcons around her exchanging glances. Remembering the feel of his heartbeat under her palm. Bladesinger headed off in search of the innkeep to arrange lodgings, Butcher and Sid nursed their empty glasses. Mia smoked in silence, watching the room around her. It seemed a mix of regular citizens and salted, the pirates in their colors mixing with crew of other ships, gambling and carousing, occasionally joining in with the bawdier verses of “The Hunter’s Horn.” There seemed to be a birthturn revel or some other celebration up on the mezzanine. Mia heard breaking crockery and howls of laughter and …

  “Get your fucking hands off me!”

  Ashlinn’s voice.

  “Watch Jonnen,” she told Sid, rising from her chair.

  “What’s—”

  “Watch him.”

  Mia stalked into the crowd, pushing through the crush until she found herself in a semicircle of folk that’d formed around the bar. Ashlinn was in the middle of it, a spilled tray and empty tankards and puddles of ale about her feet. Three young men were stood in front of her, all leering grins and yellowed teeth. They wore greatcoats and leather caps and lengths of rope tied in nooses around their necks.

  Salted, for certain.

  Ash had her fists clenched, fury scrawled on her face as she addressed the tallest of the group—a fellow barely out of his teens with lank red hair and a monocle propped on his eye in an attempt to look lordly.

  “You put your hand on me again, whoreson,” she spat, “you’ll be learning to toss with a stump.”

  The lad chuckled. “That’s not very nice, poppet. We’re just having a play.”

  “Go play with yourself, wanker.”

  Mia walked out into the ring of amused onlookers, took Ash’s hand. Drawing attentions was in no one’s interest here. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “O, and who’s this? Haven’t seen you about before?” Monocle turned his stare to the twin circles branded on her cheek. “What’s your name, slave?”

  “Ash, let’s go,” Mia said, leading her away.

  The two other thugs moved to cut off their escape. The crowd closed in a little tighter, obviously enjoying the sport. Mia felt a slow spark of anger in her chest, drowning out her fear. Trying to reel it in before it burst into flame. Without Mister Kindly in her shadow, she had the option to be cautious here. To let her fear have its sway. She knew starting a ruckus wouldn’t end well.

  Hold your temper.

  “I asked you your name, girl,” Monocle said.

  “We seek no quarrel with you, Mi Don,” Mia said, turning to face him.

  “Well, you’ve found it all the same.” The lad stepped up to her, glowering. “The crew of the Hangman aren’t the kind to brook insult from freshwater tarts, eh, lads?”

  The two behind folded their arms and murmured agreement.

  Hold. Your. Temper.

  “Unless … you can think of a way to make amends?”

  A smile curled the corner of Monocle’s mouth.

  Hold.

  Your …

  And reaching down slow, he placed his hand on Mia’s breast.

  … All right, fuck it, then.

  Her knee collided with his groin the way falling comets kiss the earth. A flock of gulls burst from a nearby cathedral spire and took to the sky, shrieking, and every male within a four-block radius shifted in his seat. Mia grabbed the lad by the noose and slammed his face into the edge of the bar. There was a sickening wet crunch, a horrified gasp from the onlookers, and the lad collapsed, lips mashed to mince, the splintered remains of four teeth still embedded in the wood.

  One of the thugs reached for Mia, but Ashlinn punched him square in the throat, sending him reeling backward, wide-eyed and gagging. She fell atop him, snatched up one of the fallen tankards, and started pounding it into his face. The second reached for the nearest weapon that came to hand—a wine bottle, which he smashed upon the edge of the bar to craft what was colloquially known as a “Liisian jester.”* But as he stepped up, Mia curled her fingers, and his shadow dug into the soles of his boots.

  The lad stumbled, falling forward, and Mia helped his descent by grabbing both his ears and bringing his face down into her knee. Another ghastly crunch rang out as the boy’s nose popped across his cheek like a burst blood sausage. Mia put a boot to his ribs for good measure, rewarded with a lovely fresh crack.

  Ash finished up her tankard work. She turned to look at Mia, chest heaving, a savage grin on her face. Mia licked her lip, tasted blood, dragging her eyes away from the girl to the crowd around them. She pointed to her breasts with bloody hands.

  “No touching save by request.”

  One of the scullery maids burst into applause. Folk in the crowd looked at each other, shrugging assent. The band picked up their tune and everyone turned back to their drinks. Mia grabbed Ash’s hand, pulled her up off the fallen privateer. Ash pressed close, still a little out of breath, looking from Mia’s eyes to her lips.

  “I’d like to make a request for touching, please.”

  Mia smacked Ash’s arse and grinned, and Bladesinger pushed her way through the mob. Sidonius and Butcher soon found them, holding Jonnen’s hands. They stood together in the crowded common room, speaking in hushed voices.

  “Think we’ve attracted enough notice for one nevernight,” Sid growled.

  “Should we go elsewhere?” Ash asked. “Avoid undue attentions?”

  “Aye,” Butcher said. “You don’t fuck with the salted in this city. We should head to another inn, far from this one as we can get and still be in Amai.”

  “Corleone was supposed to meet us here,” Sid pointed out.

  “We can leave word for Tric with the doorman,” Mia said. “It’s not like he sleeps anyways. He can wait here and watch for when Cloud arrives.”

  “If he fucking arrives,” Butcher growled.

  Mia looked at the crowd around them, caught a few sideway glances. Adrenaline was running through her veins after the brawl, her heart beating quick. Mister Kindly’s absence left her empty, and Eclipse was still riding Jonnen, so she was left with her fear. Fear of reprisals. Fear for what could happen if Corleone left them hanging. Fear for Mercurio, for Ash, her brother, herself.

  She looked at the bloodstains on her hands. Realized they were shaking.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

  CHAPTER 22

  VIPERS

  Adonai was hungry.

  It had only been two hours since last he fed. A deep sup from between the blood-slicked thighs of some nameless young Hand (but they were all nameless, weren’t they?), listening to the lass’s heart beat in time with his mouthfuls, swift as bird wings against the cage of her ribs. Her pulse thudding red upon his tongue, lub dub lub
dub, so sweet and warm he could have swallowed the girl whole.

  But he drank too much. He’d been ill afterward, spewing crimson over the bone-white planes of his palms, on his knees and shaking. The perfection of his torture never failed to amuse and outrage in equal measure, the bitterness of his curse made all the crueler by the fact he’d chosen it for himself. He knew the tithe his power would take before he claimed it. Knew the price to be paid for dredging up magiks long buried in the calamity of Old Ashkah. To have power over the blood, he must be enslaved to the blood. Just as Marielle was a slave of her flesh.

  Blood was a speaker’s only sustenance, but it was also an emetic. To drink too much was to know awful sickness. To drink too little was to know awful hunger. A constant, flawless sanguine torture.

  What price, power?

  “Any word?” Solis asked.

  The Revered Father’s chambers were nestled high in the Mountain, atop a twisting spiral of tightening stairs. Since he’d been given the role by Drusilla, Solis had done very little to redecorate. Arkemical glass sculpture on the ceiling, white furs on the floor, white paint on the walls. An ornate desk stacked high with papers and tomes, overflowing bookshelves lined the chamber left and right.

  Behind the desk, the wall was carved with hundreds of recesses. Inside them, Drusilla had kept keepsakes from her turns as an assassin—jewelry and weapons and trinkets taken from her victims. There was still a gleam of silver to be seen there—hundreds of blood phials, sealed with dark wax. But the only trophy Solis kept from his past was a pair of rusted, bloodstained manacles, hanging on the wall above his head.

  “How many didst thou slay, Lastman?” Adonai asked, a small smile on his lips.

  “What?” Solis asked.

  Adonai glanced at the Revered Father. Heavyset. Heavy jaw. Heavy hands. Marielle had mended his burns, but she couldn’t regrow his hair—his ash blond eyebrows were mere shadows, his once-spiked beard reduced to bedraggled fluff. His dark robe strained at the muscles in his arms, drawn up around his elbows to show the scars etched on his forearm. Thirty-six deaths wrought in the Mother’s name, each scribed in the smooth song of his skin. But …