by J. C. Staudt
As the words formed on Curznack’s lips, the guilt inside her changed to something else. “Kehn se viirn. Kehn… se viirn,” he was saying. They’ll find you.
Lizneth remembered Bilik’s words, too. ‘Don’t be dumb,’ he’d said. ‘Do you know what Curznack and his family will do when they realize the ship is gone?’ She hadn’t gotten an answer to that question, but if Curznack’s own taskmaster was unwilling to turn against him, then maybe his allies were worth being scared of. Both their wounds were white now, leaking a milky fluid. If Lizneth was going to give Curznack the antidote, this might be her final chance.
She fingered one of the vials, pulling it halfway out. The glass was ribbed with gentle waves, the tiny cork set tight. Liquid sloshed within—the only thing that could save him now. She spent a moment in consideration, searching for a reason to save Curznack’s life besides being afraid of what would happen if they—whoever they were—found her. She let herself feel every cut, scrape and bruise Curznack had given her, letting the evidence of his cruelty speak on her behalf. That convinced her she was justified.
Lizneth’s bloody fingers left a smear on the glass as she pushed the vial back into place.
“Die knowing this,” she said, kneeling beside him again. “The Halcyon will return to Bolck-Azock, and every slave you own will go free.”
“Is that what you think, scearib?”
She hadn’t heard the hatch open, but when she looked up, Azhi and Qeddiker were halfway down the stairs, coming at a leisurely pace. Curznack’s older brood-brothers were armed, as were the four other sailors who’d followed, Giddho among them. Lizneth stood and backed toward the wall, beginning to feel faint. What was I thinking? I don’t know how to fight. Even a poisoned dagger can’t make me brave. Now that the Halcyon had returned to shore, the rest of the crew was on board. Getting to the rowing hold wouldn’t be as easy as weaving her way through a few sleepy drunks, like she’d done earlier.
“Give him one of those vials. If my brother dies, so do you,” said Azhi, the larger of the two bluefurs.
Lizneth dropped the dagger. As soon as she did, they came rushing at her, threw her to the ground, and pummeled her with fists and feet, yanking the belt away and pressing her into the floor. She saw Azhi uncork one of the vials and pour the liquid down Curznack’s throat. Qeddiker rolled Bilik over and fed him another, but he looked much worse; so did his wound, even without taking the poison into account.
“I don’t care what Curznack wants with her. We’re selling the scearib in the morning,” Azhi said. “Chain her to her oar. If she gives you any more trouble tonight, slit her throat and feed her to the gulls.”
Curznack’s brood-brothers hefted him up the stairs, moving with great care. The others took Lizneth by the chains and dragged her across the ship to the rowing hold. When she entered, the rowing slaves grimaced at the sight of her. The sailors chained her to her ring again, and two of the taskmasters stayed behind to stand guard.
“Zholiqeh,” Fane swore. “They got you good, leparikua… again. Your face looks like a pile of bricks.”
“Bizhigt,” Bresh said sharply.
Fane shut his mouth.
“You’re very brave, cuzhe,” said Bresh.
“I’m very weak, and very foolish,” Lizneth said. She hated the way she sounded, barely able to sound out the words past her bruises, every facial movement causing her pain. “I couldn’t release you.”
“We didn’t ask you to. We only wanted to help you escape.”
“You should’ve run while you had the chance,” said Fane, shaking his head.
Bresh glared at him. “Fane…”
“Quiet down over there,” said one of the taskmasters. “Any trouble from you tonight and you’re gull food, scearib.”
They sat for a long while in silence while the crew continued to load the boat with supplies, the occasional sound of clinking chains and murmured conversation slipping past the taskmasters’ notice. All Lizneth wanted to do was lay down and rest. I could sleep for days, she thought. The excitement of her elevated state was wearing off, and the pain was starting to come through in new places. But she knew that despite her suffering, now was not the time to surrender to it. There was much more to be done before she could sleep again.
When night had fallen to its deepest, and the slaves were hunched over on their benches, chins to their chests, or lying on the floor asleep, she listened. The sounds of the crew working above had long since subsided, and the drunken carousing that followed had done the same. It sounded as if most of the crew had settled into their bunks and hammocks for the night. As for Lizneth, her heart was throbbing fast enough to keep her wide awake.
Cautiously, she lifted her arms until her chain went taut through the deck ring. She began to pull on it, starting with a soft, steady lifting. The ring held fast, so she pulled a little harder. Soon she heard a small ping, and felt something give way. She glanced over at the taskmasters; both were dozing, their heads leaning back against the posts. One let his head fall forward and came awake. Lizneth looked away, keeping her head down, hoping he hadn’t seen her. When she glanced up again, the taskmaster was scanning the room, as if checking for the source of the noise and unsure whether he’d dreamed it. Convinced he had, he let himself relax again.
Lizneth began to lift the ring, inching it upward little by little. There was no resistance anymore, and soon the bolt had come all the way up through the floor, free as driftwood. It worked. Then she got excited and moved too much. The bolt came loose and fell, sending up a clatter. Both taskmasters jolted awake, as did some of the slaves. It was now or never. Lizneth might not have been able to fight off the ship’s crew by herself, but all the slaves in the rowing hold had a chance.
She leapt up onto her bench and shouted at the top of her lungs, flailing her manacles to show the others she was free. “Pull out your chains. Pull out your chains. Pull them out.”
The hold sounded with dozens of metal pops, one after another, as the rowing slaves stood and forced their rings from the floor. Lizneth had noticed the bolts coming through the ceiling in the cargo hold before the Halcyon had arrived in Sai Calgoar, but there hadn’t been time to work at them until tonight. It had only struck her then that the cargo hold was beneath the rowing hold. She’d had to use scraps of wood and bits of bone at times, anything she could find to get the nuts turning. She hadn’t had time to loosen all of them, but the ones she’d loosened would be enough. They had to be.
“Take the ship,” Fane was shouting. “The ship is ours.”
Fane and Dozhie were free, but Bresh’s chains weren’t budging. A group of slaves swarmed the two taskmasters, wrapping them up with their chains before the startled slavers could draw weapons against them.
“I’ll come back for you,” Lizneth told Bresh.
She shouted for the rest of them to follow. The chorus of feet on the stairs sounded like war drums pounding in the ship’s bowels, deep and urgent. The slaves exploded onto the deck and surged forward, fueled by some reckless mixture of rage and desperation.
“Lock the crew in their quarters and bar the door,” someone screamed.
“Burn them where they lie,” shouted someone else.
Before Lizneth knew what was happening, someone had taken a lantern off its hook and tossed it down the stairs. She saw it burst against the wall in a maelstrom of oil and shattered glass. The flames began to climb the wood paneling like reaching fingers. A few of the slaves slammed the door shut and held it closed while others pushed crates in front to block it off. Most of the crew was still below.
The crewmembers on deck were bewildered. Rowing slaves rushed over them, fighting as best they could with their hands and feet bound. One of the crew drew his rapier and cut down three slaves before the others overwhelmed him. Another was fighting for his life, slashing at the chained mob to hold them at bay while he backed up the fo’c’sle stairs.
Lizneth raced down to the cargo hold and found Bilik’s body still t
here. Rolling him over, she cursed under her breath. His key ring was gone. She’d been hoping the others had overlooked it, but that had been too much to hope for. She took a short knife from Bilik’s belt, something he’d probably used more for eating than for fighting, before she went topside.
By the time the battle was done, four of the crew and three times that many slaves were dead, with several others hurt. Lizneth had searched the bodies of the other fallen crewmembers, but she hadn’t found the keys on any of them, either. Smoke was pouring out around the door to the crew’s quarters, while the crewmembers within pounded their fists and threatened to punish the slaves with unrestrained wrath if they weren’t let out immediately.
“We have to let them out,” Lizneth said. “The ship will sink unless we put out the fire.”
“Let it burn,” said Zhigdain, a gray-and-white buck whose emaciated frame made his big ears look even bigger. “Opening that door is liable to get us all the worst beatings of our lives. No more. It’s time they learned what it’s like to suffer.”
Several others agreed.
Lizneth would rather not let them destroy the vessel that could bring her home, but the other rowing slaves were too crazed and bloodthirsty at the moment to be reasoned with, it seemed. And she needed them on her side, now more than ever.
A noise came from the door to the captain’s quarters at the far end of the ship. Someone was trying to get out, but the slaves had blocked that door with crates as well.
“One of the bluefurs is bound to have the key to our chains,” Lizneth said. “Are Curznack and his brood-brothers all still in the captain’s quarters?”
“They must be,” said Fane. “Let’s go find out.”
The slaves went aft and surrounded the door, taking up the weapons of the fallen crewmembers. Lizneth climbed to the quarterdeck and perched on the railing above, drawing the knife she’d taken from Bilik’s body. Fane delegated three bucks to push the blockade away when everyone was in place.
As soon as they moved the crates, the door flung open and Azhi and Qeddiker emerged side by side, blades drawn. Lizneth looked for Bilik’s key ring on their belts, but neither bluefur seemed to have it. They fought with prowess, slashing their way through the slaves like the practiced swordsmen they were. The slaves were hard pressed to keep up, bound with short lengths of chain that made anything involving long strides or wide fathoms impossible.
Lizneth found her moment. Her toes left the decking, and she landed on Azhi’s back with the knife bearing the full force of her fall. She felt the blade delve through hard muscle as it pierced his shoulder. Azhi cried out and almost dropped his rapier, but the big buck whirled and struck Lizneth with the pommel, throwing her to the deck. When he turned on her and drew back to swing, the opening was enough for Fane to run him through with his blade. Azhi fell beside Lizneth on the deck. There was no fear or anger in the buck’s eyes; only the quiet passing of bewilderment into death.
She searched Azhi’s pockets, but the keys weren’t there. Fane made sure she was okay, then fell into the melee surrounding Azhi’s brother. So far, Qeddiker was proving more difficult to best. He was smaller, quicker on his feet, and either he was better with a blade, or he was good at bluffing. With Azhi fallen, he was having a tougher time fending off the slaves, who were now coming at him from every side. Spinning to keep them on the defensive, he lashed out in sudden strokes that started to seem more reckless than programmed.
Noticing Azhi’s defeat seemed to have thrown Qeddiker off-balance; his battle cries, at first gruff and intimidating, were turning into wails of grief and frustration. He put his back to the wall and managed to keep himself from being surrounded. Lizneth raised herself up on her elbows, peering into the captain’s quarters through the open door. There were fallen slaves all around her, some lying still, others groaning. She would’ve helped them all if she could, but now was not the time. It had been hours since Curznack’s brothers had given him the antidote. Was he dead? Was he still sick? Or was he skulking somewhere in the shadows of that room, hoping not to be found?
Lizneth stood and took the bloody knife from where it lay on the deck, then wielded Azhi’s rapier in the other hand. The sword was heavy, and she felt even more clumsy and outlandish trying to hold it than she’d felt holding Curznack’s dagger. She could smell the wood smoke and see the flames sprouting from the fo’c’sle behind her. Even at this distance, she could hear the crew shouting threats through the door as their cabin burned.
Bystanders from Sai Calgoar had begun to gather on the shoreline to watch the scene unfold. Qeddiker was still holding off the slaves, growing more savage and careless as his despair set in. Fane had driven him almost to the railing at the edge of the ship, and it looked as though it wouldn’t be long before the fight was over. The sights and sounds faded from Lizneth’s attention as she approached the darkened doorway. She thought of Bresh, felt the heat of the fire growing behind her, and knew that finding those keys was the only way to save the old dam’s life.
The captain’s quarters were silent, cast in pale orange around Lizneth’s flickering shadow. The lanterns hung dead and cold on their hooks. She could see the table covered in maps and miscellany, smell the stench of buck haick and spilled rum, feel the hot wind flooding in from outside. She halted for a moment to breathe the room’s air and listen for any sound she could pick out above the din. Curznack’s haick was muddled and thick among the other scents, but all the beds were empty; if he was in this room now, he was hiding.
Lizneth took a step inside, holding both her blades out in front of her as if she were trying not to spill a drop from a cider mug filled to the brim. Her shadow played over the shapes of objects in the dark, turning the fire’s every flicker into the form of some nervous specter. She could see the muted stain of her vomit still on the planks, and the ring in the wall where she’d hung while Curznack beat her.
Another step into the room and a look over each shoulder confirmed that Curznack wasn’t hiding in the doorway. She gave it more time, listening, scenting, knowing it was time she didn’t have the luxury of wasting. This is pointless, she thought. The fire will eat Bresh and the others alive if I don’t find those keys. With her weapons still in hand, Lizneth began combing through the items on the table—tipping goblets and bottles, sliding maps and navigation equipment aside, sending candlesticks and godechente pieces bouncing across the floor.
There was a soft whistling sound beside her. She turned her head and froze, searching for the source. A virulent scent flared in her nostrils, soft but discernible.
“Curznack,” she said. “Curznack… your ship is taken. Come out and surrender yourself.”
The sound came again—a whistle, or a sigh. It lasted only a second before stopping. This time Lizneth thought she could tell where it was coming from. The lower left bunk, its sheets tousled and stained, sounded like it was breathing. She approached with caution, holding the rapier out to ward away anything that might jump out at her.
As her first footstep landed past the edge of the table, a dark fang with a glimmering green edge swished out from beneath the bunk, biting her leg as it flew past. The gash it opened on her shin went warm, then numb, almost before she could feel any pain. Then she stopped feeling the leg altogether, and an unsettling sense of tranquility and malaise washed over her. When she stumbled backward and caught herself on the table, she couldn’t feel her fingers. Every part of her that had tingled with pain before felt like a great colorless nothing.
Curznack crawled from beneath his bunk and labored to his feet, his breath whistling through his crushed windpipe. He looked tired and sallow. His eyes were crusted with red mucus and he stood stooped over like a twozhe, as if he could’ve used a good walking cane. Lizneth told her body to back away, but it wouldn’t follow orders; instead, she slipped off the edge of the table and landed on her back.
“Amarpid venom,” Curznack said, his voice sounding like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel. “The great serpe
nts of the Omnekh wield the most powerful neurotoxin on the Aionach. Sometimes we catch them in our trawling nets. I learned how to make the poultice and its antidote from the Halcyon’s former captain, before his death. Soon you’ll feel nothing. Your lungs will forget to breathe, your heart will forget to beat, and your mind will drop you into an endless black pit while your insides scream out. That’s when you’ll know it’s the end. A marvelous thing, really.”
Curznack stepped over her, his movements slow and arduous. He slipped into the shadows beside the doorway and peered outside to gauge the situation. The two remaining vials of purple liquid were strapped into his belt. Lizneth could hear the flames crackling over the ship now, but the sounds of fighting had died away.
Rapid footsteps approached, and Fane appeared in the doorway. “Lizneth?” he said into the darkness. Then he looked down and saw her lying there.
Lizneth wanted to warn him, but the simple act of drawing breath was taking all the strength and concentration she had.
Fane rushed forward. Curznack’s blade flashed from the shadows, orange firelight reflecting in oily green runnels down the slicked steel. Fane cried out, and a confused grimace fell over his face as he dropped to his knees beside Lizneth, clutching his side. Behind him, Curznack slipped through the doorway and was gone.
CHAPTER 35
The Scarred Child
“Hold on there, Sister,” said one of the men in gray fatigues, turning his gun on Sister Bastille. “I don’t want to shoot you, so I think you’d better stop where you are and get in here.”
“Only if you point that thing somewhere else,” said Bastille.