by Scott Taylor
“Oh!” the killer said as though suddenly remembering he’d done a great wrong. “Oh what have I done?”
“Sssshhh,” Emil said, laying a finger on his lips. “You could never do anything to harm me. I know it. But someone told you to come here and hurt me, yes? Please, my sweet, tell me who it was.”
“It was my Captain, Rene LeCroix. He didn’t tell me why…”
“That doesn’t matter now. Don’t trouble yourself over trifles. Not now.”
“I’m so cold! By the Saints, I just found you, and now I’m going to die!”
Emil caressed his face tenderly once more, feeling it grow cool as his fire spark dwindled, then bent low and kissed him. When he raised his head, tears streamed back over the killer’s temples. Emil stayed with him a few more seconds, looking tenderly into his eyes, until he died.
He stood. The man with the cut throat had already died. Emil checked the latch on his bracelet, then shut it.
He glanced back at the carvings behind him, but they were too deep in shadow to make them out. They could hardly have been worse.
He went inside and barred the door. Mariella had already gone to sleep, so he woke her and sent her onto the roof, where she lit the lamp that would catch the attention of the city guard.
Within the quarter hour Emil unbarred the door long enough to admit a pair of the blue-cloaked Sturgeons. He knew these men well—he’d done business with one of them some years back, and they did not treat him as though having a public name was the same as being a fugitive. He needed very little time to explain what had happened, but much longer to answer all their questions. By the way they spoke, he could tell there was something they weren’t telling him, but of course the city guard didn’t share information.
After they left, Mariella brought him a cup of tea. “Sir...” she said, and hesitated.
“If there’s bad news,” he told her, “I want to hear about it immediately.”
“Well, sir, you’ve been so busy preparing for the winter, I didn’t want to distract you, but Rene LeCroix was arrested for murder last week, and he was released today.”
Emil slumped in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. “Murder? Of his wife?”
“Yes, Sir. It seems she had taken a lover. He surprised them abed and slew them both. The Sturgeons arrested him, of course, but the magistrate burned the writ against him. He was found innocent because…“
“…because it was a crime of passion.” Emil stood out of his chair and paced around his little shop. Even the Burgunzi family wouldn’t punish him for a scandal like that. Not openly. In fact, they had probably offered him a full purse to sail away. “Damnation! I’ve been such a fool!”
“Now that word is out, though, the Sturgeons will arrest him again.”
“For the death of a Burgunzi?” Emil realized that Rene had never said the girl’s name, almost as if she didn’t matter. But with a family name like hers, she would matter very much. “The whole Razor’s Guild will be called out to hunt him. And I will be pleased to testify against him, discretion be damned.”
“Assuming they bring him back alive.”
Emil nodded. There was that. He opened the shutter a crack. There were no Sturgeons or Razors in the little plaza in front of his shop, but once word spread some number would arrive, to lie in wait in case Rene tried again.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Emil said. “The doors are locked and the windows shuttered. We’ll sit tight behind stone walls until the morning, and we’ll find safer lodgings then, until his men are all rounded up.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Mariella said.
She went to her room in the basement, and Emil climbed the stairs to his small room at the top of the building. He checked all the shutters twice and the roof hatch three times before stretching out his bed.
Sleep was impossible. A young woman was dead, and it was his fault that her killer had been set free. Scandal was the best thing that could happen to him, and the worst was to be hung as an accomplice.
After several hours, Emil heard a chair move downstairs. Thinking Mariella must have been having a sleepless night of her own, he went down to find Rene LeCroix sitting at his dining room table, naked blades lying before him.
“Don’t try to run,” Rene said. “And don’t move your hands.”
Emil stayed very, very still. “How did you get inside?”
Rene shrugged. “Does it matter? I am here. I’ve snuck into better defended homes with less motivation than I have tonight.”
“It’s too late,” Emil said. “Even if you kill me, you will be a hunted man in every port from here to Thalonia. What you did is known.”
“By whom?” Rene asked. “A pair of stuffy old guardsmen with aching feet and feeble swordplay? They never had the chance to tell anyone.” He gestured toward the corner of the room, where a pair of swords identical to those the Sturgeons carried leaned against the wall.
Emil forced himself to take a breath. No one knew what Rene had done. “I must admit, my friend,” Rene said, “I underestimated you. Not only because you killed four of my best men, but because you were so damnably right about this potion of yours. My heart is aching with the loss of my bride – sometimes I start weeping uncontrollably. Me! I can’t fight off these feelings, even though I know they’re counterfeit.”
“Because they’re not counterfeit.”
Rene took a deep, quavering breath and released it. “Be that as it may, this heartache would be reason enough to cut your throat, even if I did not need to silence you. Don’t move! You cannot imagine the things I could do to your horse-faced apprentice downstairs. If you try to use a potion or powder on me, I will make her an anvil for my grief. If you let yourself be taken quietly, she will die in her sleep, peacefully.” He stood. “So make sure your hands are empty.”
“You’re right about one thing,” Emil said as Rene moved toward him, rapier held high. “I need a potion, fume, powder or salve to make someone fall in love. But I don’t need any of that to destroy love.”
Emil spoke a short, powerful incantation.
Rene staggered, his sword clattering to the floor. His eyes went wide with horror, and his mouth twisted in revulsion. He cried out in disgust, and then cried out louder.
Emil moved toward him and took his dagger. “Every human being has a mix of self-love and self-loathing, my friend, but your arrogance has been like a suit of armor, has it not? Any self-doubt, and twinge of empathy, any speck of conscience has been swept away and drowned by the deep and abiding love you feel for yourself.” Emil moved close to him. “Or should I say the love you used to feel for yourself.”
“By the Saints,” Rene said. “By the Saints, what have I done?”
“You’ve murdered the only person in this world that you loved, Sir. Have I mentioned that I met her? I didn’t recognize you at first, no, but I recognized your wife when you mentioned her family name. She came to me in tears, wounds on her wrist, and twice now I thought I was helping her be rid of you. Sir. To think that you imagined yourself a great man. Sir.”
Rene suddenly shuddered as though he wanted to jump out of his skin. “I can’t bear it!” he shouted. “I can’t bear what I’ve done! Help me! Please!”
“There’s only one thing that will take away your pain,” Emil answered, and tossed the dagger onto the table.
Emil backed away and went down into the basement to wake Mariella. She was a strong young woman, and he would need her help to move the corpse.
Illustration by Todd Lockwood
BETWEEN
Todd Lockwood
The Emerald Serpent seethed with everything Torrent hated most about Taux. The Jai-Ruk smelled of dirt and the things dirt covers; the Lowl, when they were in their cups, reeked of dog. The Kin were as inscrutable in their daytime masks as in their nighttime shadows. And the humans were ever doing, never at rest; even in relaxation they gamed or chattered or fought. The whole city stank of wasted lives and frustrated ambitions.
It wore her out. She wanted nothing more than to return to the sea that had given her birth. Her people, the Corsairs, carried the salt of the oceans in their blood. Even at its most torrid the ocean moved with tempo and cadence. It soothed. Uplifted.
It was so close. When the wind blew in from the North, its salty tang cleansed Taux’s fetid air.
For the moment, however, she could not escape the stench of Taux. Almost a month ago now, her erstwhile employer, Rene LeCroix, had killed himself over some failed love affair. One of his ships vanished the next morning with half its crew, most of his wealth, and all his officers. The courts impounded the rest of his fleet against the suit of the family whose daughter LeCroix killed before taking his own life. Torrent wouldn’t give a hanged cat for any of them, except that cursed Taux now harbored a surplus of seamen and a shortage of berths. She was no swab—her sword was what she sold to any ship that would have her. But that didn’t matter. There was no work to be had.
So she found herself in the Emerald Serpent, across a rough plank table from a burly longshoreman with a shaved head, her coin on the table to her right. He hoisted a tankard of ale—his sixth, by Torrent’s count—and laughed. “Ye don’ look so tough to me, sea sprite! I think you’ve prolly had a few too many if ye challenge me in me own demesnes!” He gave out a great booming HAR! and scanned the tavern for support in his mirth. His companions cheered drunkenly.
Torrent gave him half a smile. “If you doubt my intent, I can increase the ante,” she said, placing another silver coatl atop the first.
Together they represented the sum of her wealth.
“I feel sorry for ye, I do, but far be it for me to stop a woman who wants to give her money away.” He slapped his tankard down on the planks and extracted two coins from his purse, then arranged them on the opposite side of the table from hers. He leaned across, grinning wickedly. “Because I am a fair man, I might be of a mind to let ye earn your money back afterwards.” And he winked, dropping his gaze to her breasts. One of his friends tittered like an old lady.
Sometimes the marks set themselves up. Torrent smiled her most sultry smile. “What makes you think that two silver birds would buy you a night with me?” She leaned closer. His breath stank of garlic and beer. “I’ll throw a night with me into the pot if you’ll add four more coatls to your stake.”
The dock man’s eyes grew wider, then squinted in rheumy drunkenness, then wrinkled up with glee. “Y’r on, ye raven minx! Six for your two and a night ye’ll ne’er forget!” Clearly enjoying himself. “I knew tonight would be lucky!” He fumbled four more coins out of his purse and stacked them with exaggerated care atop the others.
She gave him the whole smile now, spat in her hand, and held it up for him to clasp. He spat dryly into his own palm, and they grasped each other’s thumbs, wrists crossed, elbows planted firmly on the rough-hewn planks. She only needed to mingle his water with hers. The sweat of his palms would be enough, but saliva worked better still.
He didn’t know it, but he’d already lost.
The barkeep and de facto referee approached, wiping his hands on his apron. Torrent concentrated on her opponent. She had the touch, same as her mother before her. Perhaps there had been a Wizard somewhere in their ancestry—Torrent didn’t know if that was even possible, but unlike humans, and all but a very few Corsairs, she could manipulate water in small, but meaningful ways.
The dock man’s pulse throbbed under her fingers, hurried by alcohol, which only made it easier for her to sense the liquids in his hand, his arm, his shoulder. Liquor had dried him out. This would be simpler than she thought.
The barkeep placed his hand atop theirs. “You’ll begin when I say 1, 2, 3, go.”
She grinned wider, which made the longshoreman burst into laughter. “Ye cocky wench! I’ll have y’r coin in a heartbeat! And then I’ll have y’r—”
“1, 2, 3, go!”
The longshoreman’s entire arm clenched in a spasm. Torrent slammed the back of his hand to the tabletop and snatched his coins before the first tear of pain squirted out of his eye. He doubled over, clutching his arm to his side. “Me arm cramped!” he insisted, but his friends erupted into jeers and laughter. Torrent took the longshoreman’s tankard and held it up, as if to toast him. “Because I am a fair woman, you’re welcome to try to win your money back at any time.” The dock man shrank beneath new peals of laughter.
She took his tankard to a quieter table in the corner. Normally she’d have made more of a show of it, to entice the next patsy into a match. But her gambit had paid off well enough. She’d won sufficient money to wait out this dead air, to stay fed until new opportunities blew into the harbor.
Hopefully. Surely this wouldn’t last longer than another week…
“Up to your old games, eh, Torrent?” She looked up to see dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, a perfectly trimmed goatee, rakish clothes on lean swagger, a charming grin. A familiar sinking feeling hit her stomach.
“Savino. How nice to see you.”
The rogue slid into the seat across from her. “I heard you were back in town. Just can’t stay away, can you?”
She tried to smile convincingly. “The winds of fate are stalled. I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice.”
Savino settled back, studying her, allowing his eyes to linger perhaps a little too long. “Ah, but it’s good to see you again, my dear water sprite. You look…well. Taux hasn’t been the same without you.”
“You seem to be getting by just fine.”
“It was better when you were here. We were quite the team.”
She nodded slowly. “I smell a pitch coming.”
Savino laughed, hearty and melodious. His theater background informed his every move. Suave charm came as naturally to him as breathing, and had tempted her more than once.
But she’d given in only once, only to learn that air and water don’t always mix. Of all the people Torrent knew in Taux, his winds blew with the most intensity. Dashing, scheming Savino always had an angle, a ploy, a mark. For a time she found it irresistible, and they combined their talents—Torrent’s subtle ability to manipulate the water in a body she had touched, and Savino’s deceptive swagger and stage artistry. He posed as a duelist, though his skills with the blade derived only from stagecraft, the mock fight. He could never have won an honest fight.
But then, he never engaged in an honest fight. His opponents always seemed to tire quickly, or pass out from the heat, or suffer a painful cramp or blinding migraine at a critical moment. Then he and Torrent shared the winnings—there were always wagers on the side—until finally few would challenge him; his reputation ended many duels before they began.
Eventually Torrent wearied of the game, the stench of the low streets, and the energy it required. She took a position on a LeCroix merchant ship headed to the Carribé, glad to be quit of Taux and its many poisons. The Saints only knew what Savino had been doing in the meantime.
“You read me too well,” he smiled.
“So you are up to something.”
“Let us say rather that the winds of fate have blown an opportunity your way.”
“How did you get by without me?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “A potion here, bravado there, the convenient accident in other places… I have more tricks than you have curses by which to name me.”
She couldn’t help but smile at that.
“But when I heard you were back in Taux, I saw a way out of a predicament.” His smile vanished, his face fell ever so slightly, if only for a moment—but his normally dark complexion paled, even in the dim lantern light of the Emerald Serpent.
Savino never let his guard down. This could only be bad news.
She leaned toward him. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
Savino never failed for words, either, but his mouth worked against silence.
“That bad, eh? Whose daughter did you bed unknowing?”
She’d meant it to be sarcastic, but S
avino whispered, “Yaotl Vash.”
Torrent felt the color drain from her own face. “You. Are. Fucked.”
“She was slumming it; I had no idea who she was. Raven-haired, like you—”
“You would be wiser to flee town.”
“If you could leave town, don’t you think I might have left town?” He swallowed.
“True. Point won. But you have managed to offend the one member of the Vash family who is also a member of the Razor Guild. And no pushover.”
“Trust me, I know.”
“I won’t be able to get near him. Worse, he’ll have protections, and bodyguards. How do you think I’m going to perform the old magic?”
Savino squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “Believe it or not, I have a plan…”
She laughed a gallows laugh. “But of course you do! I hope it’s a good one.”
He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned closer, his eyes wide with fear… or was it excitement? The two were often joined with Savino. “You have no idea.” His eyes twinkled with something that bordered on manic glee.
Her brow pinched into a frown. “I’m listening.”
“You won’t have to get near him. But you will use your talents, in a way you’ve never used them before. In fact you won’t even be there. Yaotl has summoned me to the Baymourn Bridge at midnight tomorrow. You will be across the harbor by the Whispering Shoals, beyond sight…”
She shuddered. Rumor made the Whispering Shoals a place of slumbering magics better left undisturbed. “By all the Saints, why would I—”
“Just listen. You’ll be completely safe. All you have to do is perform one very simple task.”
“And that is?”
“You will freeze the harbor, for fifteen minutes between the chime for the watch change and the twelfth bell of the midnight hour. I’ve timed it out; it works perfectly.”
Torrent knew her mouth hung open, but she could not find rationale to wrap around the words he had just spoken. Seeing her astonishment, Savino summoned up his charm and grinned broadly. She shook her head as he broke into nervous laughter.