by Taven Moore
This gift, however, had been far more than it appeared. At first glance, it was no more than a book of myths and tales of Starbirth, but handwritten notes in the margins had proposed the notion that the event was more than a myth.
Furthermore, the book held a secret compartment, carefully cut from the final pages of the book. The compartment held two items of note. First, the locket housing the first purple sourceshard, now kept safely around her neck.
More significantly, it also contained a crisp-edged flier for this very auction, with a single item circled in red. A jeweled tiara, whose central stone was described as being a unique purple crystal.
Those few hints had led her on a frenzy of research, culminating with her hiring of the Miraj and its crew and now with the auction ticket in her pocket.
If the red-circled item did indeed contain another purple sourceshard, then her adventures truly were beginning.
She had only six months to collect as many shards as she could and prove Starbirth as reality. Six months—no, less than that, now!—to make her mark upon this world, before the Seraph curse killed her.
She bit her lip and her wings strained against the cage of her corset. Surely that would be enough time.
Spying a nearby accessories vendor, Remora detoured and began evaluating the parasol collection. Her current wardrobe boasted only a single umbrella, and the dress she wished to wear to the auction necessitated something less youthful and whimsical. Her quest inspired a feeling of maturity and solidity, but her wardrobe had yet to be updated.
Jinn’s deep, measured voice interrupted her careful evaluation of a black parasol edged with blue lace. “Miss Remora, I wish to voice my displeasure at your intent to attend the auction without my protection.”
Remora lay down the black parasol and picked up a brown one accented with an orange and gold paisley pattern. “While I do understand your concern, Jinn, I have no choice in the matter. The rules specifically forbid your presence.”
“The rules forbid me from protecting you,” he said, and something in his voice made her look up at him.
His red eyes met hers only for a moment before shifting immediately to the crowd, clearly evaluating every nearby shopper and stall vendor for potential threats. That brief moment of eye contact was enough, however.
His eyes had been filled with despair.
Remora replaced the parasol and moved to Jinn’s side, placing a hand on his forearm. “Jinn, I think we need to talk about what happened on the Swan.” When you found out that I am part Seraph and fed from my life essence, she left unsaid.
Beneath her hand, she felt the muscle of his forearm tense. “I disagree,” he said, tone carefully neutral.
“I am no different than I was before you knew. You do not need to treat me as if I might shatter at any moment.”
“I disagree,” he said again, forearm hard as stone.
She sighed. She could hardly force him to speak on the matter, and this was certainly neither the most opportune location nor moment for the conversation. If she could, she would shake him roughly and ask him to at least explain why he disagreed.
Perhaps a change of subject. “Very well, let us discuss something else. Your brother, for example. I have promised to assist in his rescue, yet we have made no steps to that effect. The auction is not for another day. We can use this time to our advantage.”
Jinn’s eyes narrowed for just a moment, the tiniest flicker of an emotion she could not read. “I absolve you of your promise to assist in the rescue of my brother,” he said. “While in Helion, I learned more of his whereabouts and no longer believe that he can be rescued.”
Remora stared dumbly at him. “Why did you not say something?” Her promise to rescue his brother had been the crux of their agreement. She would assist him, and he would act as her bodyguard. “Does this mean that you shall be leaving?”
“Never,” he said, tone thick with emotion. “I shall protect you, Miss Remora.”
“Nonsense, I shall not accept charity,” she argued. “Tell me what you learned, and we shall see what can be done about your brother.”
Jinn’s stony silence was all she received, and she withdrew her hand from his forearm and placed her hands on her hips. “Really, Jinn! You’re acting like a stubborn child. I swear, if you were a few feet shorter, I should like to take you over my knee and give you a spanking!”
The tall Shinra’ere warrior finally reacted, startled red eyes flying to her face.
“If you cannot behave like an adult, I shall request Hackwrench’s company the next time I visit the city. At least he speaks to me as a colleague.”
For a moment, she thought perhaps Jinn was going to break, say something. Say anything. Even if he yelled at her, that would be a start. She could work with yelling.
His eyes flicked away, and the brief crack in his stone warrior mask disappeared.
She sighed, then turned to the vendor. “I’ll take the paisley parasol,” she told him, “and a matching fan and pocket square, if you have them.”
It took only a moment to complete the bartering for the transaction, but Remora’s heart wasn’t in it. She paid twice the value of the items simply to leave as quickly as possible, her customary delight at new purchases absent as the vendor placed the brown-wrapped package in her arms.
She turned to leave, but was halted by a tiny hand on her sleeve. She looked down to see a boy—a young cat dresl with wide blue eyes wearing a dirty brown hat.
Delighted at the opportunity to practice her newfound skills, Remora shifted her package to her other arm so that she could sign down at him, “Hello.”
The boy’s eyes widened and his tail flicked behind him. For a moment, she feared he might actually bolt. She was reasonably certain it had indeed been “Hello,” that she had signed, and not something rude or inappropriate. Granted, “Hello,” was remarkably similar to the gesture for “You look lovely today,” so perhaps the boy thought she was flirting with him?
Finally, the boy’s near-fidget relaxed. At his side, his free hand twitched once. Had that been a flicker of return greeting? It had been so swift, she could not be certain.
In his other hand, he held up a scrap of dirty paper. She took it.
“221B Baker’s Street,” it read. An address?
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said aloud, turning back to the boy, “but I’m afraid I don’t underst—”
The boy was gone, as silently as he’d arrived.
12. Two Tickets
Assuming he made it to his destination without attracting the attention of Bespin peacekeepers, Hank resolved to kill both of the shonfra and be done with the whole mess.
From his perch on Hank’s shoulder (and clearly oblivious to Hank’s murderous thoughts), Mosley chittered something to Hackwrench. Whatever he’d said must have been hilarious, because the other shonfra immediately loosed a shrill cascade of laughter directly into Hank’s ear, echoed on the other side by Mosley’s slightly lower-pitched burbling.
It had been an hour since they’d left the Miraj in Bones’s care. One hour. By itself, one hour didn’t seem such a significant time frame, but he’d felt every second like sandpaper against his soul.
One hour ago, he’d donned his Paladin disguise, placed a shonfra on each shoulder, and strode off into the Bespin sunlight.
One hour ago, he’d turned off the translator that Hackwrench had given him to wear on his wrist. Speaking shonfra would garner attention they could ill afford, but the action had rendered the previously understandable conversation between the two shonfra into ear-splitting chittering.
One hour ago, his throat had not been repeatedly throttled by the long tails of two shonfra seeking balance on his shoulders.
One hour ago, he had been in a good mood.
Hank was no longer in a good mood.
By contrast, the shonfra were in a fantastic mood. Using the leather straps of his skullcap and mask for balance, they took turns pointing and commenting at everything they
saw, as if they were tourists on vacation.
If it weren’t for the fact that stopping to throttle Hackwrench and Mosley would destroy his Paladin disguise, the two would already be no more than furred splotches upon the roadway.
It was only that disguise which ensured they were not troubled. No matter his direction, a clear path formed itself at his feet as people around moved out of the way. Not even Bespin peacekeepers dared more than a sour, warning look.
They’d left the glittering upper streets of Bespin almost immediately, taking a dark and sullen stairwell down to the lower city to emerge in the raw underbelly of Bespin’s Merchant Ring.
In his former life, as Daniel McCoy, he had visited Bespin’s upper city countless times. Only as Hank had he dared the lower city, and then as briefly as possible. Wanted-and-presumed-dead Hank McCoy would never have made it past the docking area. Paladin Gerard, on the other hand, could walk almost anywhere unmolested, so long as he stayed away from Bespin’s innermost ring—the Seraph Ring.
Paladins were not known for their great friendship with the Seraph race.
Hank had absolutely no intention of approaching the innermost ring, let alone getting near one of the winged bastards.
According to Mosley, one of these streets was where he could meet with a representative of the Underground Skyroad and secure safe passage for both shonfra and dresl to the city of Ardel, where rumor had it shonfra and dresl were as free as humans.
Mosley’s chittering reached a new speed and he launched himself from Hank’s shoulder, dual pairs of dragonfly wings blurring into invisibility as he darted ahead. They must be getting close.
Hackwrench’s tail tightened once around Hank’s neck, but if he wished he could join his winged brother in flight, he said nothing.
Mosley chattered from some unknown location, but his black and purple coat was invisible in the poor undercity light. With no sunlight to brighten the streets, wan yellow gas lamps were all that combatted full darkness.
Hank stepped forward, but moved his hand into a slit in the wide black pants of his Paladin costume, closer to the hilt of the alchemist gun strapped to his thigh. A true Paladin wouldn’t need a gun, but he’d be damned if he’d surrender so fully to a disguise that he’d disarm himself.
Eyes adjusting to the gloom, Hank saw Mosley perched on a twisted wrought iron signpost nailed beside a door.
The sign swung crazily, one of the chains that should have held it to the iron bar snapped. Hank couldn’t read the lettering, but the proprietor must have thought of that because the sign also had a rough picture of two hands, one holding money, and the other holding jewelry.
A pawn shop.
Well, he could hardly have expected a welcoming committee and signs with images of free dresl walking hand in hand with humans. The Underground Skyroad was illegal, after all.
He nodded to Mosley, who flew back to his previous perch, black tail joining Hackwrench’s blue one around Hank’s neck as they opened the broken and much-patched door.
Inside, the place looked . . . like a pawn shop. Every available inch of wall and shelf space was covered with pawned items bearing tiny white price tags. Two flickering lamps lit the seedy room, illuminating the register and the thin clerk standing behind it.
The clerk looked up once as he entered, a look of profound irritation behind his wire-frame glasses quickly shifting into stammering fear as he saw Hank—or rather, Paladin Gerard—standing in front of him.
“I d-d-don’t want no t-t-t-trouble,” the man said.
“Good,” Hank said, voice deep and raspy. “Two tickets.”
The man took off his glasses and began to polish the lenses with the corner of his dirty shopkeeper’s smock. “I, um, what?”
Hank let his glare reply.
With trembling hands, the man replaced his glasses, tucking the thin wire behind his ears. One of his hands dipped behind the bar and Hank tensed, letting his own hand stay close to his alchemist gun. If the shopkeeper wasn’t fingering the hilt of a weapon, Hank would eat his hat.
The man checked a watch on the wrist of his visible hand, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “I, um, we don’t, that is t-to say, this is a reputable pawn brokerage and I’m sure I don’t . . . “
The man’s voice trailed off as Hank stood in front of him, unmoving and unmoved, blue and black shonfra adding the weight of their displeasure to Hank’s.
“L-l-lovely weather we’re having this morning,” the man offered, checking his watch again.
That was the line Mosley had told Hank to listen for. “Yes, but I always carry an umbrella,” he rasped back.
Hank didn’t relax until he saw the clerk’s hands once again rise into view. Whatever weapon he had back there, he’d clearly decided not to use it.
The clerk straightened. “Just a m-m-moment. That is, if you c-c-could wait just a small span, I am sure I c-c-can . . . “
The man’s eyes flickered once again to the watch on his wrist, and Hank’s unease sparked into full suspicion. Why check his watch three times in the span of a minute? What was he waiting for?
Hank had written off the earlier reach below the counter as a defensive twitch, the sort of healthy paranoia anyone in the business of illegal things should have. Had he been wrong? Had the man been triggering some sort of alarm?
Was this a trap?
Wary now, Hank tensed. Feeling the tightening of his shoulders, the two shonfra disembarked—Mosley flying off, and wingless Hackwrench clambering down his arm to leap for the flat surface of the desk.
“Two. Tickets. Now.” Hank let all the anger and frustration of his trek into the undercity roughen his voice and narrow his eyes.
The man immediately faltered, hands falling below the level of the desk.
“You don’t want to do that,” Hank growled, hand closing over the warm leather grip of his alchemist gun.
The man looked up, his glasses magnifying the dilation of his pupils. Hank slipped the gun from its sheath just as a large section of wall behind the desk pushed in and to the side.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped forward, a black cowl shadowing his face and a heavy alchemist pistol held in his hands.
“It’s a trap!” called Hank, as many things happened at once.
First, the clerk’s hands once again rose into view, this time holding some sort of gun. The weapon was massive, its muzzle projecting several inches past the man’s hand and stock reaching back to rest on his shoulder. Twin vats of glowing green liquid jutted from the top of the weapon, fueling its ammo.
Second, the newcomer lifted his arm, forcing his hood to fall back and revealing a thin face ringed with thick black hair and broad lips topped by a thin black mustache. He pointed the weapon straight at Hank, with the air of someone who knew what he was about.
Mosley dive-bombed the newcomer, reaching around his head from behind to throttle him, tiny clawed fingers scratching at the man’s cheeks.
Hackwrench leaped at the clerk’s face. His tail held some sort of metal pipe he’d found on the desk and he chittered an ear-piercing battle cry as he scrabbled at the man’s eyes, tail lashing forward with the business end of the pipe to the man’s temple.
Hank raised his own weapon, smoothly lifting it to point at the newcomer’s face. He would need to have a talk with Hackwrench to find out just exactly what role the shonfra had filled while in the Swamper ranks.
Finally, and most significantly, the tiny bells at the shop door sang out, heralding the arrival of a new customer.
The tableau froze and a painfully familiar voice rang out. “What, pray tell, is happening here?”
13. Baker Street Brawl
“I do not like this place, Miss Remora,” Jinn said, voice tight. “I believe we should depart.”
Baffled, Remora paused to look at him. No expression crossed the Shinra’ere’s face, so she looked to their surroundings for a clue as to what bothered him. Small pools of thin, yellow light illuminated the immediate vicini
ty of each flickering gaslamp, barely enough to keep the hungry shadows at bay.
Following the address on the mysterious note, they found themselves in the Bespin undercity, a vast catacomb of streets and buildings beneath ring level.
Remora found the entire concept of the undercity stunning. It was a brilliant and elegant solution to city population growth. Indeed, if she lived long enough to take the idea back to Westmouth, she would recommend the immediate pursuance of an underground presence for the people of her home city as well. Not only would it double city capacity, but such fortifications would have been a boon during the Great War, sheltering its citizens from bombardment.
Not that humanity was planning any wars that she was aware of, but a bit of defensive preparation could hardly be amiss.
Something that she rather hoped was a rat skittered into the darkness and she amended her mental building plans to include better lighting and more cats. Odd that the Bespin Seraph had developed such an incredible feat of engineering only to have it fall into disuse, but that was not her concern.
It was, however, an obvious concern for Jinn, who had grown increasingly twitchy in the short time since they had descended the stairs into the undercity.
“Do cease fidgeting, Jinn. Look!” she pointed to the next street sign whose carved letters flickered into readability by the light of the nearest gas lamp. “There’s our street. We’ve almost arrived.”
“I wish you would reconsider, Miss Remora. I believe this entire venture to be ill-advised. We should return to the Miraj.”
Remora stopped to look at him fully, her new parasol—currently acting as a smart walking cane—tap-tapping against the stone walkway. “A mysterious note delivered by a disappearing messenger, a hidden underground city—does this truly not pique your interest? Have you no sense of adventure at all?”
“None whatsoever,” he said, with great fervor.
“Well I do,” she replied, tapping her parasol once more with authority, rather liking the sound of it.
“I believe you have enough sense of adventure for half the population,” Jinn added sourly.