by Scott Taylor
He continued flaying the serpent, finally wrenching the scaled hide free of its blunt tail. Standing up, clutching the skin and his strangling cord in one hand, he snagged the slimy corpse with his dagger.
The furtive creature erupted from the reeds. Malevolent crimson patches shone like fresh blood on its black scales. It was a Candon, still low to the ground as it raced towards him, razor-toothed maw gaping. Zhada guessed it had been hunting on all fours when it caught wind of his kill.
An ignorant traveller might mistake such a beast for a gaudy crocodile, and that would be the last mistake he would make. These were no more witless lizards than Zhada was a dumb hound.
Crossing the slick of water with a few strokes of its muscular tail, the Candon reared up on its stumpy hind legs, ready to challenge Zhada’s sword and dagger with its own teeth and talons. Its dark eyes gleamed with cunning. So much for assurances that these creatures only lived in the heart of the swamp, still less for them being slow and lethargic in the cold season. This one was awake and hungry.
Zhada threw the winged serpent’s naked remains straight at the Candon’s face. The beast snatched the bloody carcass out of the air with a chilling clash of teeth.
For an appalled instant Zhada feared it would toss the carrion aside and continue its attack in hopes of warmer meat. Then the Candon spun around, tail gouging an arc in the mud. This time it ran sure-footed through the water, head held high to keep the dead serpent clear of floating scum. It vanished into the feathered canes where it had been skulking.
Zhada breathed a sigh of relief and sheathed his dagger. Turning around, he slid his backpack’s strap off one shoulder, ready to stow the serpent skin safely for his journey.
Ahead, something hissed. Something large, judging by the size of the shadow under the creeper-strangled trees. Zhada let his pack slide to the ground, dropping the serpent skin and drawing his sword. Whatever that thing was, it warranted a longer blade. He dropped into a duellist’s crouch, Ebontra style.
The creature burst through the topmost leaves, soaring upwards to wrongfoot him entirely. With a wingspan as broad as Zhada’s own outstretched arms, this winged serpent had no difficulty flying. It lashed at his head with its tail, brutal as any cudgel. He barely managed to dodge the blow, with no chance of landing his own blade at all.
Why was this creature awake? Everyone knew that winged serpents of any colour slept through this season once they were full grown. Zhada had been counting on it when he planned this hunt.
The Lowl’s indignation was nearly the death of him. The winged serpent lashed with its tail a second time, landing a bruising blow on his shoulder. He went staggering across the damp ground, his sword arm numbed. The great serpent twisted bonelessly in midair. Its gaping mouth shot straight towards his face, venom glistening on its grooved fangs.
He barely saved himself, ducking sideways, at the cost of losing his footing on the soft ground. Zhada rolled over and over, desperately clinging to his sword. Painful spasms wracked his fingers as he flailed wildly with the blade. The serpent’s hiss sounded almost contemptuous as the next sweep of its tail knocked the sword clean out of his hand. The finely-honed edge was no match to its impenetrable scales.
Zhada scrabbled backwards, digging his heels into the mud until he felt a solid tree trunk at his back. Whatever might hide in the undergrowth was surely less of a threat than that cursed serpent. Now the creature hissed with frustration, unable to strike from above, unwilling to land and fight him on the ground - for the moment at least.
He clawed at the side of his boot with his un-numbed hand. The Eldaryn firestick was sheathed where he usually carried a second dagger. He wrenched it free and pointed the open end at the hovering serpent.
Vitcoska save me.
He reached for the spark of fire which all Lowl carried in their heart, enough to light a candle or an ember. There was nothing there. He tried a second time, only to sense with growing horror the all-pervasive water magic of this sodden marsh dousing any thought of his own flame entirely
The great winged serpent hissed again, but this time it was turning towards the malodorous stream which the Candon had crossed. Rasping cries echoed across the swamp. The lizard man was returning and he had brought allies. The great serpent flapped closer to the water, tail lashing with insensate fury.
Zhada seized his chance to flee. Risking his life one last time, he snatched up the juvenile serpent’s skin and his strangling cord. Before the winged beast could react, he was racing away down what remained of the path. His backpack and sword lay behind him, abandoned.
A dagger and the cord should suffice to see him home. As long as they did, the serpent skin in his other hand should more than repay him for his losses.
“And you couldn’t spark it?” Lareo shook his head, mystified, as he examined the firestick in a discreet corner of the Emerald Serpent. ‘sorry, no refunds.”
Zhada knew the feeble joke for the old Eldaryn’s gesture of apology. He could smell Lareo’s contrition.
“I don’t imagine there’s anything wrong with it,” he said hastily. “It was drowned by the magic in the swamp. But I don’t want to keep it around me, not with what I’m carrying.”
Lareo’s gaze followed Zhada’s down to the two cloth bags on the floor by the Lowl’s chair.
“Has your quest prospered then?” he asked delicately.
“That remains to be seen.” Zhada carefully retrieved the bags and stood up. “I should know one way or the other before sunset.”
Lareo nodded. “Come and let me know.”
Zhada answered with a smile before heading out of the tavern. Skirting the stadium, he headed for the Black Gate itself. Squaring his shoulders, he walked out through the gaping mouth of the great carved skull, not looking to left or right. After his experiences in the swamp, just seeing the winged serpents writhing across the gate’s mysterious reliefs sent a shiver down his spine.
He headed towards the harbor. Halfway there, he cut through an alley to follow a northbound high road. Unsurprisingly, his presence was soon turning heads. Out here in Taux, fewer than one man or woman in twenty was anything other than Human.
That didn’t bother Zhada. He’d grown used to the stares when he’d lived here as a child. His father had been the first Lowl to buy a house in the modestly prosperous Turquoise Turtle District. His mother had been the first to worship at the local shrine to Saint Erik of the Thousand Faces. Vitcoska wasn’t a jealous goddess, and it never hurt to keep local demons happy.
Zhada took a side street to look at his childhood home. The house itself was still in good repair; the shutters recently painted and the fruit trees in the garden had been pruned back. Satisfied, he nevertheless made a mental note to visit his father’s man of business down by the docks, to make certain that the current tenants had already been warned they should not take their lease’s renewal for granted.
He followed the long lazy curve of the street around until he reached a house seemingly some good distance away. However, Zhada knew this dwelling’s long gardens reached back to join the grounds where he had once played.
How much simpler life had been then. When Human children wanted to know if a Lowl pup really had a tail as their nursemaid claimed, they had simply asked, as readily as Zhada himself had dropped his trousers to prove it was a lie.
As he went up the steps to the house’s door, his mouth was so dry that his tongue felt like a length of matted felt, and he could feel his hackles bristling. He hadn’t felt so scared when he’d been facing that winged serpent in the swamp.
Well, all that foolhardy bravery would be for nothing if he didn’t see this through, whatever the outcome might be. Drawing a deep breath, he yanked on the bell pull.
A lackey appeared so swiftly that Zhada realised his approach had been noted from some upper window.
“Yes?” The servant looked him up and down.
“Good day.” Zhada bore the scrutiny with composure. He was dressed in his fin
est clothes. “I wish to see Master Mesare.” Though he could have wished for an easier name for a Lowl to pronounce.
“The master?” The servant queried.
“Correct,” Zhada said crisply.
“Enter, please.” The servant retreated to allow him through the door into the cool, tastefully tiled hall. “I will see if he is free to receive you.”
“Thank you.” Zhada dared allow himself a little hope. After all, he could have been left standing out on the steps. He gripped the necks of the bags he carried, feeling the sweat from his palms dampening the creased cloth.
The servant quickly reappeared at the door which he had vanished through. “This way, if you please.”
“Thank you.” Zhada followed him into the light and airy chamber where Master Mesare sat behind a broad table piled high with ledgers and scrolls.
The bald merchant looked up as the door closed behind the departing lackey. “It’s Icael’s friend, isn’t it?” He was clearly intrigued.
Zhada was impressed. So few Humans could reliably distinguish between two Lowl with the same colour fur. He nodded. “Good day to you, sir, and I hope that your son prospers?”
“He does indeed.” Mesare’s eyes strayed to a fat leather bound book before he looked back at Zhada. “But he’s not here at present. He’s learning our family’s business over in Thalonia.”
‘So I had heard.” Zhada carefully set the bags he carried on the polished wooden floor.
Mesare frowned, puzzled. “I thought your family had returned to Lowl lands.”
“We did,” Zhada agreed, “Though my father retained the properties which he owned in this city.”
“Properties?” The plural caught Mesare’s attention. “So you”ve come to – what? Manage them for him? Sell?” His eyes brightened.
“We have no wish to sell,” Zhada said, apologetic, “nor any need,” he added. “I have come to Taux to trade as my grandfather did.” He looked around the luxuriously appointed room. “Like your forefathers and your son.”
“Trade?” Mesare rubbed a thoughtful hand over his expertly shaven chin. “What do you have to trade from the North?”
“Not from the North.” Zhada hunkered down and loosened the first bag’s drawstring. “From the Black Swamp.”
He lifted out the black winged serpent’s skin and laid it carefully on top of the bag. The hide was not yet cured but a touch of Zhada’s own fire had dried it sufficiently not to rot and summon every hungry rat in the city with its reek.
“A black—” Mesare stared, rapt, at the treasure. “What are you asking for it?” he demanded abruptly.
“Who knows what it could fetch across the ocean?” Zhada shrugged. “I am content for one of your ships to carry it, then to split whatever coin it brings us equally, especially if Icael is to sell it.” He couldn’t help a loose-jawed grin at the notion of his childhood friend’s astonishment.
Mesare nodded slowly. “An equal division of profits—”
Zhada raised a polite hand. “Equal division of the coin earned. I know you have your ship’s costs to cover – still, I also have my expenses.”
Mesare stared at the iridescent scales, at the shimmering beauty of the wings, doubtless picturing the New Kingdom’s wealthiest men flaunting belts and boots trimmed with the glittering leather, their ladies’ high-piled hair secured with combs dressed with those astonishing feathers.
The corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been a rueful smile. “Very well. An equal division of the price paid, and that will be a handsome sum, I’m sure.”
Zhada didn’t doubt it. He knew just how much the human traders paid for winged azure serpent skins from the estuaries where the Hilani rivers met the seas near the Opal Gates, and for the cinnabar serpents’ scales and feathers from the far side of the fire mountains in Dravaria.
Mesare looked up. “Can you get more of these?”
“I think so,” Zhada said cautiously. “I wish to hire some Lowl to hunt with me.” He wasn’t going back to that swamp without someone to watch his back, and besides, what better way to show the likes of Durrau or Varrach’s lapdogs how a Lowl’s dual nature gave them advantages over Human and hound alike.
Mesare pursed his lips before nodding slowly. “Then I believe we are in business, my friend.”
He rose from his seat and came around the table, offering his hand to Zhada. As he did so, he looked acquisitively at the second cloth bag. “Do you have more wares to trade?”
Zhada looked Mesare straight in the eye. Among Humans, this promised good faith. Among Lowl, it was a challenge. Both suited him well enough.
“It is a gift for your daughter.”
“My—” Mesare was more taken-aback than he had been by the serpent skin.
“May I speak with her?” Zhada didn’t drop his gaze, tucking his hands behind his back so he could clench his fists unseen.
This time Mesare took an age to make up his mind. Finally he nodded, his faded eyes hard as agate. “You may give her your gift.”
He turned to the table and rang a crystal bell. The lackey opened the door so fast Zhada guessed he’d been listening at the keyhole.
“Please ask Asalyan to join us,” Mesare said tersely.
“At once.” Wide-eyed, the lackey fled.
As the silence in the room lengthened Zhada tried to recall the layout of this house. How far away could she be? How long would it take for her to decide if she wished to obey her father’s summons? Were her curls still as golden as they had been? He’d noticed how Humans’ hair often darkened as they grew older. Not that it would matter to him.
He looked down at the cloth bag with the bulk of the earthenware jar inside it. What would he do with that if she didn’t come?
“Father?”
After a seemingly interminable interlude, Asalyan appeared in the doorway. As she took a step into the room, her hazel eyes softened with recognition.
“Zhada? You’ve come home?” she whispered.
Mesare stepped forward. “We have some business together. Zhada was good enough to bring you a gift.”
He only had eyes for Asalyan. She had remembered him. Better yet, she had remembered his name which her father clearly had not. What else did she recall of their games in the garden? Or their later conversations, with Zhada perched in the tree overlooking the garden wall and Asalyan sat on the grass on the far side. When Zhada had explained so much of Lowl nature to her. Had he ever told her that his people only ever chose one true beloved, lifelong?
“A gift?” she prompted, her delicate lips twitching with amusement much as her father’s had done.
“Of course.” Fighting to stop his hands shaking, he drew the earthenware pot from the bag. As he removed the lid, a glorious perfume sweetened the room.
“Roses? You remembered?” Incredulous, Asalyan came close to look into the pot. “At this season?”
“A tiny rose tree, such as the Lowl keep, for when we move from place to place.” Zhada shifted slightly so that Master Mesare could see the miniature shrub.
The merchant looked puzzled. He passed his hand over the vessel’s wide mouth and his face cleared. “Ah, you use a touch of fire to keep it warm.”
Ansalyan frowned, concerned. “I cannot do that. Will it die?”
Zhada strove to answer as casually as he could. “Not if I help you tend it, when I have cause to call on your father.”
Then he could court her as steadily and as patiently as he had ever pursued any quarry.
He couldn’t help looking at Mesare though. Now was the time for the merchant to shatter all his hopes as surely as a dropped pot. He wished he could sense something from the man’s scent but the rose’s perfume was filling his nose.
Did the merchant guess that Zhada was determined to be as much a pathfinder as his father the merchant, and as his grandsire, the leader of that first expedition sent to discover why letters and envoys from the city’s merchants had ceased so abruptly?
Zhada d
idn’t care that the notion of Human and Lowl pairing was only the stuff of tavern tales, from the sentimental to the obscene. There had to be a first couple to walk the streets hand in hand, unashamed.
Mesare ran ink-stained fingers over his bald pate. Though he didn’t turn his head, his eyes slid sideways, as though to look at the black serpent’s skin still lying on the desk.
‘Since we will have business together, that should present no problem,” he allowed. “Provided that’s acceptable to you, Ansalya?”
“Most acceptable,” she assured her father. She took the rose jar from Zhada’s hands. “Why don’t we take this to the conservatory now and you can tell me how best to care for it.”
Mesare pursed his lips again before nodding. “Very well. I’ll join you when I’ve dealt with my correspondence.”
“Of course, father.” Ansalya’s glance shared her amusement with Zhada. “I’ll send for a pot of chocolate and some cakes.”
“Go on with you then.” Mesare couldn’t help a fond smile as he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Zhada was still tongue-tied as he followed her into the hall. But if he truly had had a tail, he would have been wagging it.
Illustration by Jeff Laubenstein
THREE SOULS FOR SALE
Michael Tousignant
After nearly a full day of scrambling through the dark, slimy abyss with only a torch and his paranoia for company, Syrtuno had assembled an extensive mental catalog of unpleasant sensations. The dampness and constantly looming shadows were mere annoyances; the sounds of skittering insects, and the bat dung under his fingers, were much more distasteful. Now, Syrtuno added yet another sensation to his list – a nauseating stench, growing stronger as he progressed. Still, he had expected such discomforts when he slipped into the dank caverns that ran beneath Taux’s bay, and as long as he could find what he sought, it would be worthwhile.