Wrath of Storms

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Wrath of Storms Page 6

by Steven McKinnon


  ‘Ryndaran Switch,’ Gallows answered. ‘Ten aerons minimum.’

  Morton threw a ten aeron chip down—then another. ‘Folk call me “Lucky” for a reason.’

  Serena watched them play, listened to the banter they exchanged. He might have called himself Lucky, but Morton lost more than he won, though he took his losses in good spirit. Between that and his roaring laughter, Serena reckoned the pilot was luring Myriel and Gallows into a false sense of security—but every time Myriel looked about to crash out, she salvaged a last-minute victory.

  Morton looked at Gallows. ‘You ever get the feeling we’re bein’ hustled?’

  ‘She’s a mage,’ Gallows explained. ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘A mage, eh? Like telling fortunes, conjuring gold and communing with the dead?’

  Gallows shuffled the deck and dealt. ‘Heard she once turned someone into a newt.’

  Myriel waved Gallows’ comment away and played the knave of harps. ‘Nothing of the sort—more like sitting on one’s ass and reading dusty old books written by dusty old men.’

  ‘Sounds like you need to get out into the world for a spell.’

  ‘I could not agree more, Mister Brunswick.’ Myriel beamed, collecting another pile of chips. ‘I could not agree more.’

  ‘Me? I’ll be spending a few days in Kvel when this gig’s done.’

  ‘Kvel?’ Gallows asked. ‘Is that home?’

  ‘On occasion.’ Brunswick arranged the cards in his hand. ‘Grew up outside Rhis, but ever since the Air Force of Ryndara decided they didn’t need my services, I try and steer clear o’ the capital.’

  ‘Why’d they kick you out?’ Serena asked.

  The question earned a look from Myriel, but Brunswick didn’t seem to mind. ‘Well, friend, let’s just say they didn’t appreciate my… enterprising nature.’

  ‘That why you’re a merc?’ Gallows asked. ‘To stick it to the AFR?’

  ‘Truth is, I’m just good at flying—damned good. But when you spend your days aboard a ship like this, surrounded by the rich during the day and the creak and groan of machinery at night, well… A few days in a quiet fishing village is just the ticket. Plus, the local Watch don’t mind the underground games.’

  Myriel set another card down. ‘Always on the hunt for new game, Mister Brunswick?’

  ‘Always.’

  Serena bent closer to Gallows. ‘Kvel—isn’t that where Damien’s from?’

  Gallows nodded.

  Brunswick cleared his throat. ‘Pardon my asking, but how does one get into the… magehood?’

  ‘Mages’ Guild. And it’s open to anyone, really—provided you’re willing to study hard, try your hand at alchemy—and, oh yes, attend all the blood orgies.’

  Morton tossed another Æ10 chip in. ‘Follow the Indecim myself; most reckon I favour Aerulus, being lord of the skies and all that, but I prefer Feria the Wanderer—blesser of journeys.’

  ‘On that, we are agreed. Your hand, Mister Brunswick.’

  Serena often asked Myriel what she did before she became guildmaster of Dalthea’s Mages’ Guild, but more often than not, the old woman would reel off a story Serena had heard before and change the subject.

  Gallows knew how to scrap and Enoch was an undead scholar, but Serena reckoned Myriel was the most interesting of them all.

  And she’d just won another pile of money.

  ‘Definitely hustling you,’ Serena said, and Morton laughed.

  ‘Ah, making money at a table is so much easier than a real job,’ Myriel said as she collected the chips.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Brunswick. ‘I’ve put a ton of effort into being as lazy as possible.’

  Myriel examined her pocket watch. ‘I’d hoped Genevieve would speak to us before taking to the stage this evening. Ah, well—more time for tea.’

  ‘None of you drinking real drink?’ Morton asked.

  Gallows shook his head. ‘We’re from Dalthea. Taking as much water as we can get.’

  Morton nodded. ‘Aye, well, at these prices, I don’t blame you.’ Morton slipped a silver flask from his jumpsuit. ‘Why I make my own.’ He took a deep draught.

  ‘You always drink and fly?’ Serena asked.

  ‘Of course. That high in the sky, at the mercy of the elements, getting shot at? You’d be mad to do that sober.’

  Serena couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

  ‘You been running the Stormriders long?’ Gallows asked.

  ‘Aye, for a spell. Flew sorties here and there when the Ryndarans saw what the Idari were up to. O’ course, that was before Horizon Bridge got knocked over—after that, they insisted we wore Ryndaran colours. I said no—you don’t kick Lucky Brunswick out of the AFR and beg him back. Anyhow, if me an’ mine are putting our asses on the line, then we do it our way. You ever serve?’

  Gallows nodded. ‘Dalthean army, Fourth Platoon. Sanctecano Islands was my last gig. Not in a rush to pull the uniform back on.’

  Morton raised his flask to that.

  Myriel started a new game by placing the knave of daggers down. ‘If I was going to war, I rather feel I’d have preferred the Air Force of Ryndara by my side.’

  ‘Fat lot of good the AFR did.’ Morton lifted the knave of daggers and put down the ten of wings. ‘You gotta trust the pilots who got your back—need to know their instincts like your own. The Stormriders ain’t in this game to make friends—we get in, get the job done, get paid. Don’t matter if it’s a Ryndaran prince or Dalthean beggar—don’t matter if the client follows the Fayth of the Indecim or uses the Codex to wipe their arse every morning—long as they got the coin.’

  ‘Spoken like a true mercenary,’ said Gallows.

  Morton’s mouth curled. ‘The Val Candrians got it right; them nomads don’t believe in patriotism, and neither do I. Not any more.’

  ‘Back in Dalthea, Gallows was a Hunter,’ said Serena. ‘Lifted thieves for money.’

  ‘Is there a better reason to lift thieves?’ Gallows asked.

  Brunswick placed a card down. ‘Might be we got more’n common than I realised. Can you fly?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Can you fly fighters?’

  Gallows shook his head, eyes pinned to the cards in his hand.

  ‘Pity, that. Always got my eye on new talent. What kind of name is “Gallows” anyhow?’

  Gallows placed the four of crowns down. ‘I come from a long and illustrious line of hangmen.’

  Serena didn’t know if that was a joke or not. ‘How about yours?’ she asked Morton. ‘I reckoned you lot all had names like “Ace” and “Deadeye”.’

  Morton laughed again. ‘Reckon the broadsheets and the penny dreadfuls can keep that crap. No, friend—we keep our heads down, let our actions do the talking. Can’t allow no man or woman to be bigger’n the company. I need a cohesive unit, not some vanity project for a kid who wants to make his name on our time. Behaviour like that is like to get you and your wingmates killed.’ He placed the four of harps down, and his eyes widened in genuine surprise. ‘Reckon that’s won it.’

  Gallows’ cards fluttered to the table. ‘Reckon you’re right.’

  ‘Or have you?’ Myriel asked with a conspiratorial look. ‘Could one among us, in fact, be harbouring the queen of wings, ready to deploy it and sweep the winnings into her hands?’

  Morton stared at Myriel’s calm hands.

  Serena held her breath.

  One by one, Myriel placed her cards down.

  The queen of crowns.

  The queen of daggers.

  The queen of harps.

  They were all useless.

  She and Morton laughed together.

  ‘Another hand?’ the pilot suggested.

  Gallows was about to speak, but something made him stop.

  Serena followed the ex-Hunter’s gaze: He was looking at Genevieve Couressa.

  The singer swept across the room, voices hushing as she passed. Her presence made everything brighter. ‘If you’d fol
low me to the captain’s quarters—we have much to discuss.’

  ‘Serena, my dear!’ Fabian announced. ‘You look… um, marvellous!’ The Ryndaran embraced Serena in a tight hug.

  ‘We’re surprised to see you so soon,’ beamed Aulton. He was a good twenty or thirty years older than Fabian, but he hugged Serena with more vigour. ‘Surprised, but overjoyed.’

  Serena flushed. ‘It’s good to see you guys, too.’

  Fabian Aereli and Aulton Carney were walking contrasts with one another; Fabian was youthful, with porcelain features, flowing mahogany-brown hair and delicate skin. Aulton, on the other hand, possessed a face full of lines and a head with less hair than a newborn baby’s. When he smiled, it showed more in his eyes than his mouth.

  ‘I wish it were under better circumstances,’ said Myriel. ‘But the worst is behind us.’ Aulton took her hand and kissed it; Fabian was too busy glancing at his reflection to notice her.

  The captain’s personal storeroom was large but full of various trinkets and chests, and impossible to be comfortable in. According to Morton Brunswick, this was where the captain had stored Gallows’ weapons and Myriel’s flashpowder and other concoctions.

  Dominating the far end of the cabin was a high-backed, red wood throne. Serena didn’t recognise the material, but its cabriole legs curved and formed into armrests with silver lion’s heads. The lions’ teeth were made of polished silver, and their eyes were inset with blood-red rubies. A teapot and china cups sat on a table next to it—Myriel hovered close by.

  Pieces of armour stood in mismatched suits, piles of Phadrosi rugs lay on the floor, and—from the looks of their curling corners—portraits of famous princes, kings and queens had been cut from their frames and abandoned in a heap on the floor. One of the portraits was of a young man with long, blonde hair and a braided beard; he looked familiar.

  Serena peeked beneath a dust sheet to see baroque, golden frames filled with portraits of Captain Inganarré. He was a young man in most of them, gradually growing older. He must replace his portraits every year.

  ‘Our Vabrizio’s in love with himself,’ Fabian said, examining his reflection in a silver-framed mirror.

  Aulton cleared his throat. ‘I can’t imagine.’

  Serena tapped Gallows’ arm. ‘Hey, where’s Enoch?’

  ‘Left him in our room, humming his weird tune to himself.’ Gallows sat on the edge of a trunk and locked his arms across his chest. ‘Can’t blame him—people tend to stare when a big undead monk stomps past you.’

  Serena knew how it felt to be regarded as a freak. ‘Fair enough.’

  Aulton stepped forward to address Gallows. ‘Damien Fieri—is he with you?’

  Gallows shook his head.

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  Crashing against the wall, the storeroom’s door burst open, and—flanked by Genevieve Couressa—Captain Vabrizio Inganarré strode in.

  ‘—and if you could interact more with the audience, particularly the front row. Those seats are not cheap, my dear, not cheap at all.’

  ‘I’m not a damn comedian,’ spat Genevieve. She marched inside with a grace and poise at odds with the scowl on her face. She wore a resplendent, silver, floor-length gown that gleamed like the ice statue in the Queen’s lobby.

  ‘I don’t care if you’re Aerulus Storm-Lord himself,’ said Vabrizio. ‘You will make your audience feel special. Who cares if it’s the hundredth time you’ve performed Angelique of Adeline or Thistles From Aludan—act like you’re having fun.’

  Serena reckoned Vabrizio was in his fifties; shallow lines notched the skin around his glinting green eyes, and he wore a short, sculpted, grey beard. His medium-length hair had been tied back into a short tail to—Serena suspected—make the golden ring on his left ear more visible. He wore a double-breasted, red velvet waistcoat with gold threading over a crisp, white shirt with an open winged collar. His tight trousers were the colour of charcoal, and the buckles on his black shoes gleamed like sunlight on a stream.

  Most prominent was his polished antique pistol in its holster.

  The captain took a bow, keeping his hands behind his back. ‘At last, I meet our esteemed guests. Truly, it is my distinct pleasure to have you.’

  Ushering Genevieve deeper into the suite, Vabrizio motioned to Gallows and said, ‘And you must be the bounty hunter.’

  ‘Guess so.’ Gallows let Vabrizio’s hand hang in the air for a moment before shaking it.

  ‘I hope your accommodation is to your liking?’

  ‘Slept in worse.’

  Serena had seen Gallows’ room—it was a poky utility room with cheap, pull-out cots like the ones on the Liberty Wind. And he shared it with Enoch.

  Vabrizio marched to his throne. ‘Apologies for the delay in making your acquaintance formally.’ Vabrizio settled into his throne. Its size made him seem much smaller. ‘This is a twenty-four hour job, and we boast dignitaries and politicians aboard the Queen of the North.’

  ‘May I?’ Myriel motioned to the pot of tea.

  Vabrizio snatched the pot away before Myriel could reach it. ‘Allow me.’ Without vacating his throne, Vabrizio leaned forward and poured the tea, adding only the barest hint of milk. ‘Now, I’ll get to the point: When are you leaving?’

  ‘We’ll be outta your hair as soon as we reach Rhis,’ Gallows said. ‘We won’t get in your—’

  Vabrizio laughed. ‘You’ll be gone before that. The Queen of the North is scheduled in Tuss the day after tomorrow, then the Côte de Foudre. It’ll be a week before we land in Rhis, and I will not harbour… whatever you are for that length of time.’

  ‘We can reschedule shows,’ Genevieve cut in. ‘If we change course and flew directly for Rhis, we’d be there in a fraction of the times.’

  ‘Reschedule shows?’ Vabrizio wagged his finger. ‘No, no, no—I am a man of my word.’

  Serena doubted that. ‘Isn’t there a way we can stay until you do reach Rhis?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but you can catch a train from Tuss.’

  Serena turned to Gallows. ‘Can we catch a train to Tarevia straight from Tuss?’

  He shook his head. ‘Only Rhis.’

  ‘You’re bound for Tarevia?’ Aulton asked. ‘Wild country, vast and passionate.’

  ‘Yeah.’ In front of Vabrizio, Serena chose not to reveal that she was seeking a temple that she hoped had answers about being a Siren. And the weird vision I had in Dulwin.

  Vabrizio leaned towards Gallows. ‘What business do you have in Tarevia, hm?’

  ‘Not the kind you can make a profit from.’

  ‘You’d be surprised at what I can turn a profit from. Take your stone-skinned monk, for instance—he intrigues me. I own a circus in Tarevia, and from what I gather, he would fit in quite well. Does he do any tricks?’

  Serena balled her fist. ‘You’re not putting Enoch into a damn circus.’

  Myriel set her cup down with a loud clatter. ‘This tea is exquisite, Captain Vabrizio. Now, we have no money but let’s talk real business, shall we? I’m sure we can reach a mutually-beneficial arrangement.’

  Vabrizio scoffed. ‘I’m only interested in profitable ventures.’

  ‘Ah, Captain, when you’ve lived a life as long I have, one hones one’s business acumen. Even as a young woman, I ventured into the great headquarters of Campbell, Coutts & Crawford, where I spoke directly to the Executive—’

  ‘Shut up, crone.’

  Myriel’s smile fell like paint running down a portrait.

  ‘Now just a minute,’ Aulton started, but Vabrizio waved a hand and cut him off.

  ‘I want you off my airship,’ the captain announced. ‘Your presence here sows discontent, and it is my experience that scared patrons don’t spend.’

  ‘That’s the heart of it?’ Myriel asked.

  ‘That’s the heart of it. Unless your anecdotes put aerons in my pocket, mage, you can keep them to yourself.’

  Gallows cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we’re getting off on the
wrong foot, Captain. That’s a nice piece you got. Eighteenth century Phadrosi, if I ain’t wrong?’

  Vabrizio beamed and withdrew his antique pistol. ‘A fellow collector. You’re quite correct; Aurien tal Varaldo found it on a deep-sea wreckage once—he said he was keeping his last remaining shot for Denri tal Culaire. When he died, his estate refused to auction it—I changed their mind.’

  ‘May I?’ Gallows asked.

  Vabrizio holstered the weapon. ‘As with everything aboard the Queen, Mister Gallows—’ Vabrizio glanced at Genevieve. ‘—you can look, but you can’t touch.’

  Gallows squared his shoulders. ‘Fair enough—I don’t have much interest in replicas anyway.’

  Vabrizio flushed. ‘A replica?’

  Gallows threw his hands up. ‘But hey, if you wanna go around carrying a useless toy and telling people you bought it from Aurien tal Varaldo, go ahead.’

  Vabrizio looked like he’d just been slapped. ‘Come to think of it, we’re due a waste jettison—you can leave with the rest of the shit.’

  ‘Vabrizio, listen to me,’ Genevieve said. ‘These are my friends. They require help, and we have the power—’

  ‘I have the power, and I’ll wield it how I please. There is no profit to be made from harbouring outlaws.’

  ‘We ain’t outlaws,’ Gallows pointed out.

  Vabrizio huffed. ‘If that were true, my mercenaries wouldn’t have had to save your skin—a decision I’m quickly regretting.’ Vabrizio stood. ‘This discourse wearies me. Our next stop is Tuss. You may remain aboard until we disembark—providing you stay confined to your cabins.’

  ‘Vabrizio,’ Genevieve repeated. ‘Let me pay for their passage.’

  ‘And what of the inconvenience, Genevieve? The risk? I think not.’

  ‘Wait.’ Serena squeezed between Gallows and Vabrizio. ‘We can make a deal. I’ve… I’ve got an idea. Captain, you’re a gambling man, right?’

  Vabrizio appraised her. ‘When I know I’ll win.’

  ‘You got a week before the last show in Rhis, right?’

  ‘If you’re going somewhere with this, girl, then kindly get there faster—your friends’ presence offends me.’

 

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