Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  Hunting Wriavia was merely a bonus.

  Today’s conversation with Estan and Esty had put the Luastria assassin back in her mind. If he had caused the choking plague, then he must have tracked them to Onhur. If she ever saw him in her sights, she wouldn’t hesitate to put a pressure bullet in his head.

  He was no innocent sailor.

  Her eyes flashed and scanned, noticing everything. The bulk of people wandering through the market were tall Agerzaks. They all had an air of danger about them, wild and unpredictable with their woolly hair styled in a dozen ways. Even their women seemed unstable with their hair braided in complex fashions and often decorated with beads, pins, combs, and other items of various materials. It was like each had a contest to have the most unique style. Vionese also meandered, ranging from sailors’ roughspun linen to the more prosperous plantation owners in waistcoats and flowery dresses.

  She spotted Vel marching through the market, his eyes sweeping. She hesitated, not sure what to do. The deaths from the plague had sobered him. He’d retreated into himself. She never felt his hot gaze any longer and he rarely smiled. Her emotions broiled into a jumbled stew about him, a mix of remembered childhood, shame at her own actions, and anger at Vel’s. She sensed he ached for the friendship he’d destroyed while knowing Vel hurt Ary too much for its repair.

  Relief sighed out of her when kept moving without noticing her.

  With her shopping complete, she didn’t have an excuse to prowl the market. A wave of frustration washed through her. Ary was expecting her. He wouldn’t be pleased if he learned she was hunting Wriavia alone. But she felt safe in the market, and she had her knife tucked into her boot.

  A glint off a bottle caught her eye. A merchant displayed orange, lemon, grape, and pineapple wines. Chaylene swallowed. She had slept peacefully the night before. Her fingers brushed a bottle of orange wine.

  *

  Esty rested her head on Estan’s arm, her beaded braids biting into his skin. A euphoric feeling pumped through his veins as he held her. The setting sun’s last orange glow lit the room, the shadows growing longer.

  “You’ll be sailing away again,” Esty whispered.

  “Undoubtedly. My life for the next four years.”

  “It will be soon, right?” Her voice was quiet, almost childish.

  “Day after tomorrow. At dawn.” Estan swallowed. “We’ll be hunting the pirates.”

  “The Bluefin Raiders . . .” Esty bit her lip, her amber eyes growing misty.

  “I will be fine. I have far too much to learn, to discover, to die.” Estan caressed her cheek. “Trust me. Ary is a fascinating case to study. And thanks to you, I’ve uncovered so much. The mysteries that the Church has concealed may finally be unraveled. It will change the skies.”

  “Is that all I am to you?” She rolled onto her side, facing away from him. “Just useful information?”

  Estan gaped at her. “I . . .” What do I say to that? “Of course not. You’re . . .” His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. “When I sailed, all I could think about was you. I have never worried over a piece of knowledge as thoroughly as I studied every minuscule memory I had of you.” He kissed her shoulder. “Even when . . .” He swallowed memories of Offnrieth. “Even when the plague was burning throughout the Dauntless, I was afraid I would die which would prevent me from ever conversing with you again.”

  “So you would lose out on my knowledge?”

  He flinched at the accusation. He had to find the right words. What were they? “No. I would miss enjoying your company. We could talk about any topic. We could idle every hour away with an in-depth discussion on the fruiting of molds.”

  “Molds?” She rolled over. “You want to discuss molds with me?”

  “Well, they are a fascinating lifeform as you yourself pointed out with your clever analogy of Human adaptability. Molds and fungi are found everywhere. They often thrive in environments that others have abandoned. They are tough and strong. They survive.”

  “Are you comparing me to a mold?” Esty’s eyes narrowed. “That is the least flattering thing you can compare a girl to, Estan.”

  He blinked. But you compared all Humans to molds. He felt saying that wasn’t the right solution to the problem before him. He tried to put to words those nebulous, ephemeral feelings swirling through him, struggling to find a way to describe the color red. “Beauty can be found in every corner of the skies. Even in the way scarlet mold grows across a granite rock, spreading out in a delicate pattern of lace. As intricate as any webbing spun by a spider or the worms from which the Soweral make silk.”

  “Silk is made from worms?”

  “Yes. They are cultivated on mulberry trees. It has to be mulberry trees. They eat something in the leaves which allows them to spin silk which the Sowerese then weave into cloth.”

  Esty gave a snorting laugh and rolled over to face him, her expression soft. “It’s hard to stay mad with you. You pour out so much knowledge, I’m inundated by it and my annoyance is washed away.”

  He nodded in satisfaction. “Can you read?”

  “I was taught Vionese letters.”

  “They are properly Luastrian letters, only modified for the Vionese language. The Luastria, both flocks, use far more shades of vowel sounds, but do not have the richness of consonants found in any Human tongue.”

  “Ah.”

  “Perhaps if I found the right book for you to study, it might help to fill those nights while you pretend to entertain your custom.”

  “Aren’t they expensive?”

  “I don’t have much upon which to spend my pay. I only send some back to help my tutor in his exile. Besides, we are in combat, so the pay has increased.”

  Esty squeezed her eyes shut. “You better come back. You better not let my . . . the pirates kill you.”

  “They won’t.”

  Esty’s lips planted hot on his. Estan would come back for her. She was so fascinating. He wanted to discover every aspect of her. He was beginning to think it would take quite some time. Perhaps his whole life.

  Estan was a patient scholar and eager for his study.

  *

  Vel stalked through the marketplace to a cluster of boarding houses. It occurred to him while carrying rigging onto the Dauntless that day that Wriavia needed a place to stay. Vel entered the first, which had a faded sign reading: “The Poor Sailor’s Berth.” It was a disreputable building, the wooden siding sagging and the whitewash peeling to expose the weathered-gray wood beneath.

  He opened the door and stepped into a parlor, the musty reek of mildew wreathing the air. A woman snored in a chair, her fleshy, pale chin leaning on a flabby arm exposed by the short cut of her dress’s sleeve.

  “Madam?” Vel asked, putting on his winning smile, the one with which he’d melted so many hearts and parted so many thighs.

  The woman started awake, wheezing as she drew in a sharp inhalation. “Well, well, what have we ‘ere?” she rasped, eyeing Vel. “Are you lookin’ for a room, sailor? Because ol’ Netsi can help you out.”

  “Not a room. Just looking for a friend.” He pulled out the sapphire penny from his pocket.

  The woman’s pudgy fingers snatched up his coin. “Well, what’s your friend’s name?”

  “He’s a Luastria named Wriavia,” Vel said. “I’m hoping to find him. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  His hand itched to grasp the metal sabre hanging at his side.

  “‘Fraid there’s no Luastria here.” Ol’ Netsi’s fleshy hand grasped his wrist. “Though there’s one been stayin’ up the street at Madam Feitsa’s.” The woman snorted. “If you can call that collection of rotten timber a—”

  “Really?” burst from Vel.

  “But you don’t need to run off to that dried fish. She got no meat on dem scrawny bones. But I can still help you out with that room. We can even negotiate the price down.”

  Vel kept his grin from slipping as his stomach roiled. “Thank you for the kind offer, but
I have to see my . . .”

  His words trailed off. Through the dirty window, a Luastria strutted by, red feathers peeking out of a brown robe. Vel gaped for a heartbeat as the figure passed, shocked by the sight. Then anger battered him to action. He turned to leave, but the Agerzak woman possessed a fierce grip.

  “Are you sure, young boar?” cackled the woman. “I can show you a thing or three, I reckon.”

  “I need to go,” Vel snapped, prying at her fingers. “Let me go, sow.”

  “Sow?” she hissed and slapped him.

  Vel shoved her back. The woman stumbled over her long skirts and crashed into a chair. He didn’t care. He darted out into the busy street, craning his neck for Wriavia. The Luastria was shorter than the surrounding Humans, but Vel caught a glimpse of his bobbing gait. Hand on his sword hilt, Vel dived into the flowing crowd in pursuit.

  *

  It was only by chance that Wriavia spotted Vel trailing him in the marketplace.

  Wriavia left the boarding house to fetch dinner. Tonight, he and Xaipiai would commit their sabotage. Rumor gusted that the Dauntless would sail the day after tomorrow. Per Autonomy Naval Doctrine, the last item loaded on a ship would be ballista shots. They had to tamper with the Dauntless’s stockpile before they resupplied their ship.

  The sun sank fast behind the skyland. Full darkness was only an hour away. Enough time for him to have a dinner of grilled fish, sold by vendors in the market, and return to the boarding house. Xaipiai had already ventured out for his dinner and now was mixing the solution of fortified water into a pair of glass vials.

  Sabotaging two shots would double their chances.

  While navigating through the crowded market—weaving through the crush of large, Agerzak Humans who did not seem to pay attention to where they stomped—Wriavia had collided with a sailor. The force knocked him back, his wings flapping to keep his balance. His head twisted, and he spotted Vel’s face in the crowd.

  An expression of vitriol twisted the young male’s brown face. Death shone in his eyes.

  Wriavia’s heart fluttered faster. His tail feathers twitched, taloned feet scratching on the dirty cobblestone. His head darted around, searching the crowd, plans spilling through his mind. He spotted an alleyway between a spice merchant’s stall and a netweaver’s.

  The assassin did not rush, but strolled to the alley. He wove through the crowd at his normal pace, his beak clucking and his gizzard clenched about the stone. He passed into the alleyway, the beige, mud-plaster walls rising on either side of him. He stepped through a layer of muck and detritus as the noise of the market faded. At a narrow intersection, he went left. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of Vel following, face set, gripping the pommel of a sword.

  Wriavia took five paces around the corner out of sight of any crowd. He spun, his wings stretching, brushing the rough walls, and waited between the windowless testaments of the poor of Onhur. A sour reek pervaded his noise. He ignored the offal oozing between his toes.

  Steps slapped into mud. Vel rushed down the alley. The young man burst around the corner, the sabre rasping against leather as he drew it. The blade gleamed the way only metal could. Wriavia’s gizzard tightened as rage burned in Vel’s eyes.

  “You gave me a plague!” the young man spat, advancing. “Chaylene almost died!”

  Wriavia did not answer.

  “She would have died if it wasn’t for Ary!” Tears ran down Vel’s cheeks; his hand trembled.

  Wriavia studied the youth and settled on a plan. “It was not the first time I tried to kill her.”

  Vel’s face hardened. His breathing grew ragged.

  “It was, in fact, the third time.”

  Vel’s nostrils flared. Anger contorted his features into bestial fury. He aimed the curved blade’s gleaming point at the assassin. Wriavia shifted his stance, sliding back his right foot through the alley’s mud, putting all his weight on his left.

  “I burned down their house,” Wriavia added. “I almost gutted her with my talons. She didn’t matter to me. I just needed to kill Ary. Everyone else, including you, was just—”

  Vel screamed in rage and lunged.

  Wriavia’s tail feathers twitched as his provocation made Vel’s attack sloppy. Wriavia pivoted on his left foot. The sabre thrust past the assassin’s outspread wing. Wriavia whipped around and slashed with his right foot. Sharp claws scythed through the air and ripped across Vel’s stomach. Cloth and flesh tore. Wet heat spilled over his talons.

  The young man stumbled backward as his ropy intestines spilled out before him. The sabre fell from his hands. He screamed, a pitiful sound to Wriavia’s ears. His knees buckled and he collapsed upon them in the muck. Spasms wracked the young man as panic flashed across his face. Wriavia watched as Vel scrambled to pull in his guts. Blood spilled over his hands as he drew up viscera covered in the muck of the alley.

  “No, no, no,” Vel groaned. The fear in his voice sent a flutter through Wriavia’s gizzard. The young male shot the assassin a look of desperation. “I . . . I . . .”

  Wriavia stared down at his victim, one of Riasruo’s children. The assassin had twisted Vel, goaded and guided him to murder Briaris. A flutter of pity rippled through his zealous gizzard. Vel’s eyes swam with tears as he fumbled with his intestines.

  He bent over and toppled onto his side into the mud. His legs kicked and spasmed. The screams bursting from his throat echoed through the ally. They were deep and guttural. His tan face darkened to a ruddy crimson as every muscle in his face contorted.

  “I am sorry, Vel,” Wriavia said, wings fluttering. “Briaris Jayne has to die. No matter what.”

  Vel rocked on his side, holding his mangled guts. More blood flowed out of him. There was so much. It soaked into the muck, staining it scarlet. It covered his hands. Soaked into the white of his linens.

  “No!” croaked the young man. “Please, Riasruo, no! I don’t want to die!”

  “The fire cleanses us all, Vel,” Wriavia said. He bowed his head. “Even you. Soon, you shall ascend into—”

  With a snarl full of agony, Vel threw a handful of bloody mud at Wriavia. It splattered across his robes. Vel collapsed into another scream, his agony echoing off the walls. He curled into ball, cradling his severed abdomen.

  Wriavia needed to end his suffering. He raised his talons to deliver the killing blow—a slash across the Human’s throat—when new shouts echoed through the alley. A pair of shadows moved ahead, a man’s footsteps, slapping into mud, approaching.

  Wriavia’s training took over. Without thought, he darted from Vel and vanished around a corner before he could be seen. He couldn’t take flight, the alley too narrow, so he could only flee. Behind him, the man screamed for help.

  I gutted Vel, Wriavia thought as he reentered the crowds flowing through the streets, muck clinging to his feet. He kept his wings folded tight to hide the stains on the front of his robes. He’ll be dead by morning.

  Pity fluttered his heart. The assassin did not enjoy leaving the young man to die in agony. The sun set before him. Riasruo’s warmth bathed him. Certainty filled him. Briaris Jayne must die.

  Vel’s life, the lives of the Dauntless’s crew, were necessary sacrifices to save the skies.

  Riasruo’s fires shall cleanse your soul, Vel. She’ll welcome you to the paradise soon. One day, I’ll join you and you’ll forgive me.

  *

  Ary, resting on the chair before the table, looked up at the creak of the door. Chaylene entered their house, a straw basket slung beneath the crook of her arm. A growl rumbled through his stomach. “Dinner?”

  She nodded, a fond smile on her lips. “We have to cook it first. Did you get us a pan?”

  “Requisitioned it from the mess.” He pointed to the ceramic pan atop their stone, wood burning stove. A fire already burned, the granite top growing hot.

  Chaylene nodded in approval. She sat the basket on the counter and emptied the supplies. Ary rose to view her supplies and frowned, snatching up
the bottle.

  “I thought it would be nice,” she said. “Let’s fry these fish up.”

  Ary’s stomach growled in answer. “Lemon fish . . .? Delicious.”

  “Better than fish stew,” Chaylene noted. “You clean them, and I’ll cut the lemons.”

  Ary found it strange to cook a real dinner. For four months, outside of the one night at his family’s farm, they had only eaten what the cooks prepared. He’d always enjoyed sitting at the table and watching as his ma prepared the meal. Even after her mind had cracked, she’d found peace in the kitchen.

  “This is more how I pictured married life,” Ary said. “Me and you, in our cozy croft on Master Arshev’s land.”

  “Really?” she asked with an arch to her eyebrows. “You were going to rent a croft?”

  “Didn’t I ever tell you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, I had planned on telling you after proposing, but . . .”

  “Life happened.” Her smile softened. “We should make a habit of this. Whenever we’re in port. We have this house, so we might as well use it.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He sliced the knife through the fish’s belly and yanked out the guts. Then he filleted them while Chaylene picked out the small bones. The fish sizzled on the pan, their scales covered in lemon juice. Chaylene hummed as she flipped the fish with her spatula.

  Soon, they sat at the table, two fish on Ary’s plate, one on hers, the bread sliced. Ary grabbed half a lemon and squeezed more juices and pulp onto his fish before taking a bite. Chaylene popped the cork on the wine bottle and poured them each a glass. She drank half hers down before taking her first bite of the fish.

  “This is good,” Ary groaned after polishing off the first.

  “I had to cook for myself for years. I learned a trick or two.”

  Ary chuckled. “I just scavenged the kitchen after my ma finished dishing up hers and my siblings’ plates.”

  “You must have been quite the scavenger,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. She sipped her wine. “Considering how big you grew.”