by Scott Taylor
“Some sort of parasite is eating your brain,” she said at last, and Savino laughed all the more.
“I know! It sounds insane. But I have done all my research. There is a way. And as you know, I hate to back down, I hate to lose a fight—“
“You’ve never had a fight—until now. This may be the one that undoes you. I can’t help you. I couldn’t freeze more than a pail of water, let alone the entire harbor. What you need is a Wizard.”
“Ahh, but I have the next best thing; I have you.” As Torrent started to shake her head, he reached into his doublet. “And I have this.”
He opened his lapel just enough to reveal a canvas bag, out of which peeked a large red gem set in a simple flourish of gold.
“Holy Saint Erik, what is that?” She whispered. The ambient noise no longer seemed sufficient to obscure their conversation.
“It’s a focus item, a tome-wizard’s tool, something that will channel the energies of the Afterglow Sea in major ways… in the right hands. And the right hands, in this situation, dear love, are yours.” With an over-the-shoulder glance, he cupped the bag in his two hands and extended it across the table. She took it with equal caution, trembling, and opened the drawstrings. She touched the stone.
Its power struck her like a thunderclap, a deep, pulsing boom that roared outside of normal senses. The gem felt hot, but equally and simultaneously cold; fragile, but incomprehensibly strong as well. Its presence expanded to fill the tavern, the way her hands had felt in a fever dream as a child; vast, but empty, light as a feather, but cumbersome and wild. There, but not there.
She’d experienced something like this only once before, not two days ago. A certain lady, Cenoté of the grim mask, stirred Torrent’s unease when she saw her from time to time. She sensed the water at the very first sighting. The Lady was almost certainly a Wizard—water knows water. But this particular morning the Lady’s litter passed so close that the rush of recognition took Torrent by surprise. The city became illuminated somehow, as if it were a pond, and the ripples in Cenoté’s wake revealed glimpses, lens-like, of everything beneath the surface.
So it was now. Glimmers of light moved behind her eyes, in her mind, mingling with threads of black, all tied to something else, a distant glowing source.
In shock, she zipped the drawstrings closed, and hid the bag with her hands.
“Where did you get this?”
“Well, you don’t really want to know that.”
“Then I’m out.”
“Torrent, it’s for your own protectio—”
“No. Tell me or you’re on your own.”
Savino started to chortle in nervous humor. “Dethocrates acquired it for me this very night. You remember Thock, right? It used to belong to Pelantus, the Arch Mage to High Man Tlacolotl Vash himself!”
Torrent could only stare in disbelief.
“The irony is so rich I can barely stand it. As far as the Vash family knows, it was destroyed in the mess yesterday—what a miracle that was! I might almost believe I am beloved of the gods. ” He winked. “We’ll use Tlacolotl’s tool to defeat his own nephew Yaotl.”
Torrent pushed the bag back across the table at him. “No. Sorry. I’m not messing with the Vashes.”
“Torrent—they know nothing about the fate of the gem. When this is over, we can do whatever you like: sell it, return it… or ransom it back to them for another hefty turn of coin.”
“No. No chance. You’re in way over your head this time, breeze-for-brains.”
Savino left the bag on the table where it lay. “Oh Torrent, Torrent. Don’t you see what you’re passing up? Dethocrates is already laying wagers on our behalf. We are going to make So. Much. Coin. You’ll be able to buy a ship of your own. How would that be, to put back to sea, in your own craft for a change? To be your own master?”
“Oh, there’s that tongue of yours again…”
“I know you’re not happy here. Look at you: trapped between the jungle and the sea, between your last meal and your next scam. You never even made up your mind between men or women.”
She glared at him.
“You’re stuck between, Torrent. Your whole existence here is between one thing you hate and another you can’t have. This is your chance to break free.”
She studied the tabletop in front of her, blood pounding in her ears. Carved graffiti covered it, years of defilement that echoed the frenzied life of Taux. Increase Coin is a faggot said one. Another offered only an address below crudely scratched naked breasts—a come-on from a street prostitute. A regular pattern of nicks and gouges suggested games of finger fillet, complete with bloodstains. It was all Taux: ugly, disrespectful, filthy, brazen.
In the center of the table sat the little bag. She had to admit, she wanted to touch the thing again.
“What makes you think this item will work for me?”
“It only needs a conduit. It won’t work for me. It requires someone who can touch the Afterglow. Torrent, you do it almost without thought. It might not do for you everything it did for that little red pustule, Pelantus, but anything you can do with water, it will amplify. That’s its job; to take your intention, connect it to the Afterglow, and make it real.”
“Why the Whispering Shoals?”
He squirmed. “Situated strategically, in case the range of your magic is limited. Taking no chances, but keeping you out of harm’s way.”
“And when I do this deed for you—what happens? Why freeze the harbor?”
Savino’s odd humor left again, and the ashen fear touched him. “Let me worry about that, won’t you? If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me—“
“It’s harder to believe than…than…” She indicated Savino, the bag “…all of this?”
He laughed again, but this time without the theatrical pretense. It was the first genuine laugh she’d heard from him tonight. Perhaps ever. “It’s probably better if you don’t know. I have it all worked out. All you have to do is your small part. You have tomorrow to practice with the focus item and to get in position.”
She scowled, watching the bag on the table as if it might jump into her lap.
“Please, Torrent. I’m begging you!”
A shadow fell across the table, and she looked up.
“I’ll have another go, ye cheating hussy. And this time we’ll not be spitting into our hands.” The dock man stretched and curled his arm, still working off the cramp she’d given him. “And I’ll have me tankard back. That wasn’t part of me stake.”
Torrent sighed and handed it to him.
“That’s more like it,” he said, and took a long swallow. “Now bring me coin and set y’r fine ass down at the match table.” He leaned close, his sweaty face mere inches from hers. “It’s not y’r coin ye’ll reclaim on your back tonight, but my good will.”
Torrent had done more than drink from the man’s tankard. She’d spit in it, too. She touched his sweaty arm for just a moment, feeling the water in his body and all its courses. He groaned suddenly, and then a look of horror elongated his face as a wet stain spread across the front of his trousers and a blast of wet air ripped behind him.
He fled the tavern as quickly as his hunched gait would allow, but the hot odors of urine and loose feces filled the air. Pointing fingers and jeers chased him out.
Savino held his sides and howled with laughter, but Torrent’s face burned.
She plucked the bag off the table and slid it into her doublet.
Even though she headed out early, it took Torrent most of the next day to cross the city of Taux. The vibrant quarters were all within walking distance, but the westward arm of the harbor was a good hike away. As she passed the final empty, disheveled quay adjacent to the paupers’ quarter, she realized sunset would be upon her soon, the night half done before she would return to the Black Gate district.
That wouldn’t do. She wanted a place to rest after this evening’s work, and a place to get her mind focused beforehand. That meant finding a nig
ht’s lodging in the poor district. Not a pleasant prospect—its denizen’s named it the Ghost Quarters for a reason—but it couldn’t be helped.
Unemployed sailors haunted the poor quarter, but Torrent found a waterfront hostel facing the stony expanse of the Baymourn Bridge—the very spot Yaotl Vash had chosen to exact satisfaction from Savino. She understood the choice: it was isolated, connecting only the very poor to ruins that held nothing any sane person would desire. There would be little risk of the Sturgeons—or anyone else that mattered—witnessing their illegal duel here.
But that was later. First things first.
Two coppers secured a bed. The innkeeper, a wiry old Jai-Ruk woman, led her up rickety stairs to a small room containing only a hard bench for a bed, a nightstand with a clay ewer of water beside a metal washbowl, a cracked chamber pot in the corner, and a vanishing scurry of cockroaches. Torrent thanked her, tipped her another copper for a promise of privacy, and closed the door.
A single window looked out across the channel to the harbor island beyond. The Whispering Shoals were at the far end, on the point of the island. Beyond, she could just make out the Temple of the Sun in distant haze. Savino’s answer to her question, Why the Shoals?, leapt into her thoughts: Situated strategically, in case the range of your magic is limited. The Whispering Shoals were across the harbor from the Baymourn Bridge; how was that the center of his little operation? Surely his plans didn’t involve the Temple of the Sun… that would be true insanity.
No, no, she corrected herself, that would be Savino.
Blessed Saints, what have I gotten myself into?
For some reason, she kept picturing Savino’s charming smile… meeting her fist.
She closed the window shutter. It was time to experiment with this magical stone. She poured some water into the washbasin, no more than a cup or two. First: a test with her own, native abilities, for comparison’s sake. She dipped her finger in and concentrated on making it freeze. After a few seconds it grew extremely cold; she swished her finger once and ice crystals formed, streaking away from her finger. Within a second the water froze solid. She nodded, pulling her finger out and leaving a digit-shaped hole. With another small bit of effort, she thawed it again. After some consideration, she poured the rest of the water from the ewer into the basin.
Then she took the bag containing the stone from her belt, held it, stared at it. Finally, she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and pulled the drawstring open.
The ruby pulsed with a subtle illumination, like a cat’s eye in dim light. She didn’t recall it glowing last night. Interesting. Even without touching it, a taught feeling of potential rippled through her skin, at once exhilarating and terrifying. She held her breath. Could it really be as easy as Savino made it sound? Pulling one of the drawstring loops over her wrist, she stuck two fingers into the bag and touched the stone.
Instantly the roar of cold, untapped possibility surrounded her senses, as if she had plunged into a deep and turbulent pool. The close walls of her tiny room retreated, the space between filled with swirling shapes like heat shimmer. At the boundaries of her perception were flames, air, stone. They were beyond her reach—perhaps someone else with a different connection to the Afterglow could have touched them. But water presented itself everywhere: in the air, coating every surface, permeating every pore of fabric or leather. Once again she sensed more than saw the tendrils of light connecting all to a luminous source.
With shaking hand, she reached toward the water in the basin again.
Before she’d quite formed the thought or touched the surface, it hardened with a crack; the bowl rang as swirls and florets of frost dashed up the sides, inside and out, across the tabletop, ending with a snap against walls suddenly dusted with glistening ice.
With a cry of surprise, she dropped the stone, and it dangled in its little bag from her wrist.
“Saint Erik’s balls!”
Bright motes of crystallized water hung in the air, and her exposed skin stung with the bite of cold. At the same time, she felt a light twinge in her right arm, the slightest of aches. She shook it off, but made note of it. What price does the “conduit” pay for channeling such energies?
She had no idea what sort of power she dealt with here. Did Savino? What made him think she could freeze the entire harbor? Was he mad?
Ha… No more than she was for trusting him. Her stomach churned with that old sinking feeling again; too often in the past Savino’s machinations had led her into trouble.
She imagined his smile. She imagined her fist.
She pulled the drawstring closed again, poked the bag into her shirt, and took a deep breath. The sun would be down soon, and she wanted to get there early. Perhaps she could experiment again with a tidal pool…
As she pulled the door to the hall closed behind her, voices rose from the entry below.
“Ye can’t bring that… that whatever it is in here.” The old Jai-Ruk woman said.
“Step aside, old girl,” said a husky male voice—gravelly, like another Jai-Ruk. “We’re only going to have a look around.”
“You’re not Sturgeons, you can’t tell me what to do.”
Scuffling noises.
The old woman, angry now, said, “You pay to go up these stairs! No coin, no stairs!”
“Out of the way, hag,” another voice, with the growling tonality of a Lowl.
Something crashed, and Torrent pressed back against the wall. The old woman shouted a name, and more footsteps clomped into the room. “What’s going on here?”
A shout, a stifled groan, and a scream. A crunch. Something heavy fell to the floor.
Then silence.
Followed by strange snuffling, dry and raspy.
“What did you do that for, road-filth?” The Jai-Ruk voice. “They weren’t going to—“
“Shush,” said the Lowl. “Look, the dweoler have picked up the scent again.”
Torrent stiffened. The what?
She slipped back into her room as quietly as possible, closed and barred the door, then listened as footsteps creaked on the stairs, accompanied by scrabbling and clacking. They paused outside and for a few moments she heard only that sickly snuffle.
She pushed the shutter on the window aside and swung her leg over the sill. As she dropped down to the street below she heard the door crash open and the rattle of debris. She hit the ground, rolled, sprang to her feet and dashed to the side. At the corner of the building she pressed flat against the wall and chanced a look back around the corner.
A Jai-Ruk head stuck out the window and looked down the street in the other direction, then two Lowl poked their heads out too, scanning both ways. One of them pointed and shouted, “There!” Torrent cursed and dashed down the side street as a cry erupted behind.
“Whitey!” Shouted the Jai-Ruk. There came a more distant answer, then, “We’ve got something!” More shouts came from the direction of the Haunted Quarter, and crashing from inside the hostel. Torrent ran for the closest narrow alley and ducked in, bowling over a beggar as he shook his cup. She turned left in another alley—a dead end—spun about and hurried across the other way.
At a juncture she paused in deep shadow, crouching behind a rain barrel. Pounding footfalls approached, then two Jai-ruk and a Lowl sped past the far intersection. Black livery: Vash colors. These were Tlacolotl Vash’s goons.
How many of them were there? And what in Saint Erik’s codpiece was a dweoler? They must have been right on her heels all day long. The dweoler have picked up the scent again, the Lowl had said. The scent of what? Tlacolotl couldn’t know anything about her…
The scent of magic?
As soon as the word crossed her mind, she knew it must be true. Whatever the dweoler were, they knew the “scent” of Pelantus’ gem. They were tracking it.
She pulled the ties on her sword, releasing it. Please, good Saint Erik: if you truly love vagabonds and scoundrels, let there not be a tome-mage among them.
A glance at
the sky showed orange clouds and the evening flight of crows. The sun had set; soon it would be dark. She couldn’t play cat and mouse all night in the Haunted Quarter—she needed to get across the Baymourn and down to the Whispering Shoals. But she had to shake these vermin first.
The sounds of pursuit dwindled, so Torrent tiptoed down the alley to the next juncture and peeked around the corner.
“Here!” cried a Lowl, not forty feet away, and charged. Another came from between two wagons and joined him.
Torrent sprinted back the way she’d come, but two more Lowl spied her from the far end of the street and came running. She ducked into a side alley, only to find another dead end.
She pulled her slender, curved sword and readied her stance. Footfalls thundered closer as she studied her surroundings, planning her defense. Cramped, her only cover the…
Rain barrel!
With all her strength she heaved against it, tipping it, slowly at first, but then spilling it all into the intersection of the two streets. As the first of the Lowl charged from her right, she knelt down and touched the water in the road with the knuckles of her sword hand, while sticking fingers of her left hand into the bag with the gem in it.
Freeze, she thought, as her sensory world expanded.
The two Lowl tried to turn the corner, but slipped and fell on the sudden skating rink and slid into the legs of the other pair rushing in from her left. She ran the nearest through as he struggled to rise, ripped her blade free, spun, slashed through the neck of another as he lurched to his feet. The remaining two were entangled, the one on top with his sword arm on the ground, seeking leverage. Torrent pinned his blade with her boot as she stabbed the Lowl beneath him, then let go her sword long enough to grab his face. With a thought, all the water in his head boiled. He dropped without a cry, steam hissing out of his nose, mouth, ears, and eyes.
Panting, she pulled her blade free, shaking her head in disbelief at what had just happened. Her right arm ached, and her fingers stung from contact with boiling flesh. More running footfalls and shouts spurred her to action. As she ran down a fourth way, she pulled the loops of the drawstrings around her wrist and stuck her entire left hand into the bag with the stone. When she needed it, she could grab it. Until then she would let it dangle just out of reach.