by L M R Clarke
Bose deposited the phial into his bag, then snatched up his hat and gloves. “Good day,” he spat.
He turned. As he did, his friends marched to the door. Bose swept off, but stopped on the threshold. He half-turned. “I detest being served by such a half-breed,” he hissed.
The following silence hung like lead.
Emmy said nothing as Bose chuckled. When he left, she stayed at her post. Her job. Her existence. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and sighed. It was going to be a long day.
When the sun finally painted the sky orange and sent the customers home, Emmy locked the door. She surveyed the shop, her shoulders drooping. Grime glimmered in the fading light. One of her eyes twitched at the sight of her prized bitterberry plant lying on its side. Soil spilled in clumsy waves. She grumbled as she righted it. No one has any respect, she thought. And they call me a beast...
Afterward, she fetched a broom and began to sweep. As the shop returned to its tidy state, Emmy’s insides fell into order. Maintaining cleanliness was an endless task. In moments of madness, she wanted to leave the place to its filthy demise. Emmy shuddered. No, she thought. She couldn’t live with it—and if the mistress ever came downstairs again, she’d beat Emmy halfway to the Dark and back.
The mistress was Madame Krodge, proprietor of the only apothecary in the port of Bellim. Emmy’s earliest memories were of watching the broad female dole out powders and liquids with an expert flick of the wrist, but the memories weren’t gilded ones. While other younglings frolicked, Emmy was forced to work. And she was beaten. And it had always been that way.
Emmy shook off the memory and wound her way to the back yard. The air was salty. Wisps of light from the three moons slipped out from behind dark clouds. They were Nunako’s three faces, the Goddess’ eyes watching over the world as inky night spread towards the horizon.
Emmy had lived with Madame Krodge all her sixteen cycles, though she was not her mother. Tormentor was closer to the mark.
Emena, get in here! Emena, you beastly Moon Rogue! Emena, come closer and receive your punishment!
Krodge was always right, and Emmy was always wrong. No matter what Emmy did or said, Krodge always had a correction or a criticism. And from Emmy’s youngest cycle to more recently, when Krodge was confined to her bed, there were her painful daily lessons.
When the shop was closed, cleaned, and ready for the next day, and Emmy had prepared the mistress’ supper, she would kneel at the end of the table. She placed her hands on the top, palms upright. Krodge would reach for her switch.
The lessons always went the same way. “What are you?” Krodge would ask.
Emmy would obediently reply, her eyes cast down. “I am a Moon Rogue.”
Krodge clucked her tongue. “And?”
“I am an inconvenience.”
“And?”
“I am truly grateful for all you have given me, Madame.”
Krodge would bring the switch down hard, once on each palm. “Don’t forget it.”
Then she would eat her meal, and Emmy dutifully stayed on her knees until the crone was finished.
“It’s for your own good, you know,” Krodge would sometimes say, but there was never any compassion in her tone.
Many of the stories of Emmy’s life were just the same. The earliest such story was one Krodge delighted in telling. She said that at first, she thought the little bundle on her doorstep was a free meal. To her unending disappointment, instead, she found a youngling—a deformed youngling. A Moon Rogue.
No one in Bellim looked like Emmy. It felt like no one in the world was like her. Emmy had the same long body; the same long, triple-jointed legs; the tall crest of horns; the pointed ears; and the long tail, complete with spikes. Granted, she was half a head taller than most, but this was hardly a detail to scorn her over. There was one inescapable difference between Emmy and the others that they did scorn.
The folk of Bellim were typical Metakalans, with brown skin and red armor—thick scales that ran across the skin in patterns. Their fronds, a mane of thinner, longer scales atop the head, were colored anything from palest moons’ light to darkest wood. But Emmy wasn’t like that.
Setting the broom aside, she raised her arm. Even in the darkness, the difference was clear. Her skin was sickly blue, her armor deep purple. Her fronds were straight and sable. These were differences that no one could, or would, ignore. Folk stared. They whispered. A demon. A Moon Rogue. Emmy was something different, and entirely unwelcome.
Emmy pulled herself from the murk of thought again. There’s no point in dwelling on something you can’t change, she thought. I wish things were different, but they aren’t. So I just need to get on with my life. Shaking her head, she finished cleaning and went to the kitchen.
After stoking the fire that blazed in the pit, Emmy filled a heavy kettle with water and hung it on an iron hook. Its thick bottom hovered over the smoldering wood. Krodge would want tea, and it had to be on time. Every night was the same.
Too young to strike out alone, too strange to be accepted anywhere else, Emmy stayed with her mistress even though it was torture. What choice did she have?
As the water boiled, Emmy sat on the stool by the fire and folded her arms. She closed her eyes. Another day over...
Sudden hammering sent her heart into spasm. Emmy leapt up and loped to the shop, keys jangling. A dark hand cupped against one of the gleaming window panes. A red eye peered underneath. When it spied her, the familiar face erupted with relief. “Emmy!”
She rushed forward, fumbling for her keys. When the door swung open, her only friend was there.
Zecha. And he was cradling a body.
A dead body.
CHAPTER THREE
Emmy
“Emmy, I need your help. Please!” Zecha cried.
He pushed his way into the shop. He laid the body on the ground. She was Linvarran by her colors, green armor and yellow skin. Her blood was red, like anyone’s, and pooled on the clean floor.
Emmy shook her head. “What have you done?”
The pool of blood crept outward in a crimson arc. Emmy clenched her fists. I’ve told Zecha a thousand times not to include me in his disasters!
She glared at him, but it didn’t matter now. He grabbed her forearms, his claws like vices.
“Emmy, please,” he said. “I found her in the Wailing Woods. She’s been stabbed, but I think she’s still alive. Please, help!”
Emmy stared at the body of the young female. Her age could have been anything from twelve and newly gendered, to forty cycles or even more. Her limbs were well-muscled, the sort of muscles servants got from scrubbing pots and hauling rocks. But the female was short, which gave her a stocky appearance. Her face was crisscrossed with enough scars to speak the unspeakable, of torment and a life not worth living.
Emmy shook herself from Zecha’s grasp. His expression fell. “Emmy, please!”
Her eyes met his. She stared into the red pools. She sighed. I can’t escape from this one... “All right.”
Her heart could never turn Zecha away.
Emmy dropped to her knees. Blood soaked her tunic as she held the palm of her hand to the female’s mouth. She was still breathing, just. Fear closed Emmy’s throat. Regardless, she exposed the wound: the female had been stabbed between the ribs, right near her heart.
The female’s yellow skin was covered with uncountable bright scars. Blood wept unendingly from the deep gash. It had the almost-diamond shape of a knife. Emmy schooled her breathing and dug deep in her memory, trying to remember all Krodge had taught her about wounds near the heart. Krodge had knowledge others didn’t, of the placement of the organs in the body. She had travelled the world, learning everything she could from different folk, imbibing their medical ways. Krodge even said she’d cut into the chests of dead folk, but Emmy wasn’t sure if that was a gruesome truth, or a wicked lie to frighten her.
“All right, Zecha,” Emmy said slowly, pulling off her apron, “take this. Ho
ld it against the wound.”
Zecha’s eyes widened and he shook his head, but Emmy thrust the cloth into his hands and pressed it to the slice. The female didn’t flinch.
“Don’t take it off until I tell you.”
Emmy slipped under the counter, keys jangling. She unlocked several cabinets, claws flying across the shelves. She crushed the ingredients—bindlewart, juice of the arra fruit, a cornucopia of herbs—to concoct a well-rehearsed healing paste, and tried not to consider the futility of it all. She should be left in peace to die, Emmy thought. But Zecha has no sense, so here we are.
She fell to her knees at the female’s side again. Gesturing for Zecha to withdraw the sodden apron, she thrust the concoction into his hands. “Cover it.”
Giving him no time to argue, Emmy ducked off to retrieve her stitching box.
By the time she returned, the bleeding had lessened. Emmy motioned for Zecha to slide back. From the box, she withdrew a glimmering knife, a thick fish-bone needle, and a roll of thinly-pulled animal guts. Sixteen she may have been, but she had the skill of someone twice her age, or more. It’s the only gift Krodge ever gave me.
She threaded the needle and, with the greatest care, used the knife to cut away the ragged edges of the wound. Then she set to work, passing the fish bone and hair through the skin in a practiced cadence. Her hands tingled with a strange coldness, the same as they always did when she was healing. She’d never spoken of it to Krodge, but it was always there, a secret, knowledge for her alone. If she asked and found that all apothecaries and healers felt this same odd sensation, it wouldn’t be anything special. For Emmy, it being special gave her something Krodge never could. It gave her a thin sliver of self-satisfaction, of pride.
The wound stitched tight, Emmy tied the gut-thread and sat back. Her hands warmed. Her work was likely all for nothing, she thought. The female might already be dead. Even so, she leaned to check her breathing, surprised when warmth ghosted her palm. Emmy pressed her tongue into her cheek and raised an eyeridge. Well, there you have it. She’s alive—for now.
“Will she live?” Zecha asked, his brown skin pallid.
“I don’t know,” Emmy answered. When Zecha’s face fell, she relented. “You got her here in time, so it’s possible.”
“Good.”
Zecha exhaled, and cycles fell away from him. He had a thin face, a short horn crest, and muscular arms most males didn’t possess. His armor played against the darkness of his skin, shimmering like a coat of amber jewels. Zecha railed against what males were supposed to do. He always had. He balked at cookery and sewing. He hunted, and in fact was the best shot with an arrow Emmy had ever met. As a youngling, Emmy had struggled to make friends, but had gravitated to Zecha’s strangeness. Similar in age, neither accepted, they became outcasts together.
“Well,” Emmy said, placing her tools on the counter, “alive or dead, I can’t leave her here. Help me carry her to my room.”
“My hands are filthy,” Zecha said.
“Mine too,” Emmy said, one corner of her mouth rising. “It doesn’t matter.”
Emmy took the female’s torso. Zecha took her legs. Together, they edged their way to Emmy’s bed.
When they placed her on top of the mattress, Emmy tutted. The creature stank. “I’ll have to wash her.”
Zecha ran a hand through his thick fronds. Their straw paleness grew streaked with healing paste.
“And I should go,” he said. “The sun’s down, and I’m not supposed to be on the street.”
“Why were you out so late, anyway?” Emmy asked. “You know it’s not safe.”
Zecha looked at the scuffed toes of his boots.
Fury rose in Emmy’s throat. “You were hunting again, weren’t you?” she asked. Bashful, Zecha nodded. Emmy crossed her arms. “One of these days you’ll get caught with that bow, and you’ll be tossed into a cell—or even killed!”
“I know,” Zecha said, his words soft. “It’s just...” He raised his head, eyes ablaze. “I can’t understand why they won’t let me join the service. Just because I’m male doesn’t mean I can’t fight.” His indignation faltered. “I keep thinking that if I practice hard enough, become good enough, they might change their minds.”
His knife-edge sorrow made Emmy’s heart ache. He dropped his gaze again. Emmy laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It isn’t fair, I know,” she said. “You’re as good with a bow as anyone I’ve ever seen, maybe even the best. But that doesn’t matter to them. When they look at you, all they see is a male, and males don’t fight.” She gave a soft laugh. “Just like when they look at me, they see a demon.”
Zecha placed a hand on hers. His claws were callused from his bow. “You’re not a demon,” he said. “You’re my best friend.”
Emmy found herself enveloped in a sudden embrace. She stiffened for a moment. Zecha was tactile, and Emmy wasn’t. She never had been. It was hard to embrace others when the only touch she was used to was the strike of an open palm. However, she relented and returned the squeeze. Zecha wasn’t like Krodge or Bose or any of the cruel others. He was kind, and a true friend.
Emmy drew an arm’s length away and tipped her head towards the kitchen. “Use the rear door,” she said. “You won’t be seen.”
Sorrow expelled, Zecha flashed a bright smile. “You really are my best friend, you know.”
Emmy planted her hands on her hips. Her lips quirked.
“It’s not hard to be the best when I’m your only friend. Now, shoo. Be safe. And don’t trample my herb garden!”
Grinning, Zecha waved and slipped away like a wisp.
Returning to the shop, locking the door, Emmy stared at the new mess that shone in the moons’ light. A heavy thud grabbed her attention, and she closed her eyes. How long has Krodge been calling? She won’t be pleased...
“Emena!” the old female screeched. “Where is my tea?”
Each word was punctuated with a strike of her walking stick. Dust fell from the roof beams.
“Coming, Madame!” Emmy called, hurrying to the kitchen.
A haze of steam hung in the air. Emmy prepared the tea. An expensive import from Mellul, a country far across the sea, it smelled of smoldering parchment. Emmy sliced hunks of bread and slabs of white cheese to accompany it, then journeyed up the creaking stairs.
She listened at Krodge’s door for a moment before she knocked.
“Get in here!”
Emmy acquiesced.
Krodge’s tawny eyes were on her straight away. Her thin lips curled with venom.
“What in the name of Nunako, Lady of Light, is going on?” she snapped. For someone allegedly dying, her voice was powerful. “I’ve been listening to a commotion in my own home, wondering if I’ll be murdered in my bed. And where have you been? Ignoring the poor wretch who brought you up when others cast you aside! Come here!”
A scowl framed Krodge’s eyes, and her face was haloed by a tangle of fronds.
Though she knew what was coming, Emmy did as she was told. She always did. Setting the meager meal by Krodge’s bedside, she approached, knelt, and waited for the blow.
It soon came. Krodge brought her stick down on Emmy’s head with speed and strength that defied her age.
Stars danced behind her eyelids. Emmy’s knees buckled and her claws dug into her scalp. She didn’t make a sound. The pain ran in rivulets down her skull.
“Inconsiderate little Moon Rogue!” Krodge cried. “I’ve given you a home. I’ve given you a profession that will keep you for the rest of your life. You’re to inherit this place when I’m dead. And considering what insufficient morsels you bring to me, my death is close at hand!” She jabbed a finger at the tray, though stopped short of toppling it. “You don’t understand just how much you need me! Once I’m dead, there’ll be no one left to protect you!”
Emmy clutched her head, suppressing a groan as her sight returned. Through tears and blood, she stared at the creature in the bed. No one left to protect he
r? When had Krodge ever protected her?
Krodge never admonished the bullies who called Emmy names. She encouraged the insults, joining in with glee. Moon Rogue, Moon Rogue! Go back to your hole and die! Emmy’s chest tightened. Her head burned.
She pictured herself snatching the stick from Krodge’s gnarled claws and driving its point straight through her dark heart. Shame and frustration filled her. She swayed on her knees, sucking in a hard breath.
Krodge glowered. “Get out!”
At that, Emmy fled. Lurching to the kitchen, she leaned on the door frame. She clutched her head, her talons freshly red.
Then her ears twitched. Her brow furrowed. What’s that noise? Someone was knocking. This time, it was on the rear door. Still pressing her head, she crossed the kitchen. She lifted the latch.
It was Zecha. “Emmy?” he asked. “What happened?”
His tone was soft, almost loving. Emmy lifted her hands from her head, staring at the blood.
“She hit you again, didn’t she?” Zecha asked. His lips were pursed into a thin line. “This is why we need to leave this place.”
The pain in her head muddled her thinking. Emmy tried to speak, but only a groan escaped. Her claws went back to her head. More warm moistness greeted her.
“Come on,” Zecha said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Bandim
How tragic. How dreadful. How convenient. Bandim’s lips curled in a vicious smile. His father was dead. His brother was dead.
Bandim had never been happier.
For the past day, he’d played the grieving brother and son. He’d donned the white of grief, pretended to enjoy the comfort and succor of others’ tears and condolences. Yes, it was a shock. Yes, it was a tragedy. News of the emperor’s death was expected, for Braslen had been ill for some time. But Mantos’ sudden passing had cut the population to its core. It was the subject of talk at every meal and on every street corner.
To the outside world, Bandim wore a mask of pain. But to his military advisors, he wore a face of determination. Already his plans were in motion, ships sailing for the weakest links in Metakalan defenses: the unfortified port towns on the southern coast. There had been some protest against the practice. It wasn’t the Masvam way. Masvams had only fought armies for hundreds of cycles, said the wizened advisors. Masvams didn’t build their empire on dishonor and the targeting of innocents.