Blood and Tempest

by Jon Skovron

  Red jerked his blades out of Brackson’s shoulders and jumped straight up. In midair, he threw the blades, which both sank into the base of Brackson’s soft skull. Red landed on the dock, rolling to cushion the impact. Still sprawled on the dock, he looked up in time to see the lifeless monstrosity carried forward by momentum into another stack of crates on the dock. The angry shouts of the workers quickly turned to yelps of alarm when they saw what it was that had knocked over their cargo.

  Red staggered to his feet, hurried over, and shoved Brackson’s body off the edge of the dock into the water, where it quickly sank out of sight.

  A proper spy probably would have slipped away right then, silent and mysterious. Well, a proper spy probably wouldn’t have allowed themselves to get into this mess in the first place. But seeing as how he was already in the muck of it, Red couldn’t resist a little flourish.

  “Well, my wags,” he said to the smugglers, his red eyes gleaming in the moonlight above his gray mask. “I think that about takes care of your Stonepeak Strangler problem!”

  He gave them a quick bow, and ran off, his laughter trailing into the night.

  “You certainly have a curious idea of what it means to keep a low profile,” said Lady Merivale Hempist.

  She and Red were in her apartments, which were impeccably neat and minimal to the point of austere. She sat at her glass table, delicately dismantling and eating a roast quail. Despite her cool demeanor and steely gaze, there was a lush allure to Lady Hempist that Red could never quite ignore. It didn’t help that she always favored gowns that showed off her extremely inviting cleavage.

  “My lady, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he said airily as he slouched nearby in a upholstered chair, one leg hooked on the arm.

  He idly swirled the last bit of red wine in his glass and then drank it. Merivale really had the best wine. It was one of the things that made these debriefings bearable. He had enjoyed Lady Hempist’s company so much back when she was pretending to woo him. Now that she was his boss, she seemed less inclined to appreciate his humor. He knew this was the real Merivale. A brilliant tactician and spy with an almost frightening lack of empathy. He was one of the few people in the world who got to see her true self, and more often than not, he was in awe of her. But she certainly was less fun now.

  “I’m speaking about your little performance on the docks last night, of course,” she said.

  “Performance?” he asked innocently.

  “It’s the talk of every tavern in the southern half of the city.”

  “It was probably a rather heroic sight to behold,” he admitted. “But it couldn’t be helped.”

  Merivale patted her lips with her napkin. “Heroic. Yes. That reminds me, there is also a rather surprising rumor making the rounds that the person who killed the Stonepeak Strangler is none other than the Shadow Demon.”

  “How strange.” Red ran his finger around the lip of his wineglass so it gave a light hum.

  “Apparently,” continued Merivale, “people are saying he wishes to make amends to the good people of Stonepeak. I can’t imagine where they might have gotten such an idea.”

  Red flashed his most benign smile. “The imaginations of the common folk certainly are vivid, aren’t they.”

  She gazed at him for a moment, then stood up from the table, walked over to a nearby window, and looked out into the bright, cloudless blue. “You have a great many talents, my Lord Pastinas. But I am coming to believe that spying is not one of them.”

  “Maybe I would be better suited to leading the search for Bleak Hope.” He said it lightly, as if it had not been the topic of several heated conversations in the past.

  “I told you, it’s being handled,” said Merivale. “Right now, we have more pressing concerns.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your lack of discretion notwithstanding, I’m deeply concerned by this latest act of the biomancers. Sending you out to kill predetermined targets as the Shadow Demon had been one thing. But releasing a mindless creature to wreak havoc on the general populace?”

  “It does seem reckless,” said Red. “Not something Progul Bon would have done.”

  “Exactly,” said Merivale. “As much as we all loathed Bon, I worry that he was a restraining influence on the other biomancers.”

  “They were restrained before?”

  “Bon’s death has clearly altered their strategy. This creature is not the only indication. They have also apparently decided to allow the emperor to begin treaty negotiations with Ambassador Omnipora.”

  “That is surprising,” agreed Red.

  “I want to know why this sudden change of policy,” said Merivale. “I also want to know what their plans are concerning this new alliance with the Vinchen.”

  “I’ve been trying to get them to open up to me during training sessions, but they’re a slippery bunch,” said Red.

  She turned from the window to look at him. “I think it’s time to utilize your unique connection to them in a more … direct manner.”

  “Merivale, you know as well as I do that if I start pushing too aggressively, it could completely destroy that connection. If they figure out that I’m no longer at their beck and call, it’s all over.”

  “I am willing to take that risk,” said Merivale.

  “You’re that worried?”

  “Do you know the last time the biomancers and Vinchen worked together?” she asked quietly.

  “The time of the Dark Mage,” Red said.

  “Yes,” said Merivale. “And centuries later, we are still recovering from that cataclysmic event. If something on a similar scale erupted now … it’s entirely possible the empire wouldn’t survive.”

  Red stared at his empty wineglass for a moment, then looked at her. “What do you need me to do?”

  That night, Red sat in his apartments and painted. He’d been doing it regularly since he got back from Lesser Basheta. Whenever he felt the darkness within him begin to rise up inside like a tide, painting helped drain away the excess. Not that he really thought he’d lose control of himself again. But it was an unpleasant feeling, and Red was generally the sort of wag who liked to feel sunny, even when bad things were happening. He’d never seen a whole lot of point in brooding.

  “Drown it all, but that’s a frightening creature!” Prince Leston peered over Red’s shoulder at the painting.

  The prince had a tendency to come and go as he pleased. Red was fine with that, because it meant he could do the same. And the prince had better food and drink, so it generally worked in Red’s favor. Besides, the casual ease of it reminded him of simpler times when he and Filler shared an apartment.

  “Don’t you like it, Your Highness?” Red asked as he continued to work on the painting of Brackson emerging from under the boat. He’d thrown aside his jacket and cravat and now worked with his shirtsleeves rolled up.

  “It’s very well done,” Leston said quickly. “But generally speaking, people paint pleasant things, like flowers, or scenery.”

  “Of course,” said Red. “Those people want to sell their paintings, so they paint things people want to look at. But I don’t plan to sell any of my paintings, so I don’t have to worry about what other people want to see. I just paint for myself.”

  Leston pulled a stool over and stared at the picture of Brackson.

  “But why would you want to paint such an unpleasant image?” he asked.

  “If I can get it on the canvas properly,” said Red, “then it doesn’t feel quite so stuck in my head.”

  Leston was quiet for a moment. “It must be a great and terrible thing to be an artist.”

  “Oh, come on, my wag. I’m sure being prince has its moments.” Then Red’s expression grew serious and he put his paintbrush down. “Listen, I may have to … go away for a little while.”

  “What do you mean go away? Leave the palace?”

  “Leave Stonepeak altogether. I’ve got to do something that could get me in a lot of t
rouble. Like as not, I won’t be too welcome around here for a while.”

  Or ever again, but he didn’t say that.

  Leston frowned. “Lady Hempist is putting you on another assignment already? Something even worse?”

  “The one she hired me for in the first place, I reckon.”

  “Something to do with the biomancers?” He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. I forbid it.”

  “Sorry, Leston,” said Red. “This is something that must be done. And the order comes from Her Imperial Majesty, so it outranks you.”

  “What about Hope?” Leston gave him a pleading look. “Didn’t you strike a bargain with the biomancers that they wouldn’t harm her as long as you remained here?”

  “Yeah, and they wiggled out of that one by having the Vinchen go after her instead. So even though they technically kept their word, the bargain is as good as broken to me.”

  “But can’t someone else do this?”

  “I’m the only one who can get close enough.”

  “But …” The prince’s face creased with frustration. “After everything you’ve already gone through …”

  In all Red’s life, with all the crazy things he’d dreamed about, he would never have imagined he’d one day become friends with the heir to the imperial throne. And what surprised him even more was how much he truly liked the wag. Sure, the prince was sheltered beyond reason, entitled beyond bearing, and spoiled beyond belief. Yet, somehow, he was still a good person.

  Red squeezed the prince’s shoulder. “Thanks, old pot. I’m glad somebody agrees with me. But it doesn’t change a thing.”

  “So … when are you leaving?” Leston looked heartbroken. Red was painfully aware that he was the prince’s only true friend.

  “Tomorrow, most likely.”

  “Are you going to say good-bye to Nea?”

  Red gave the prince a wry smile. Even after several months, things between him and Nea were still distant. He didn’t blame her, of course. Biomancer control or not, it was understandable that she might not want to be around the person who nearly killed her. But Nea was not some poncey coward, and Red wondered if she might have also learned that Red was working as a spy for Merivale. If that was the case, her avoidance was more political than personal. In a way, he hoped that was it, because he rather liked the ambassador of Aukbontar.

  Regardless, she was the ambassador of a foreign country, and absolutely didn’t need to get wind of something this sensitive.

  “You know what,” he said at last. “Could you do it for me, Your Highness? I’d appreciate that. But not until after tomorrow.”

  The next morning, Red stood alone in his small sitting room and stared at the furniture. It was really nice furniture. There were two chairs and a love seat. The frames were made from the fine dark wood exported from Merivale’s island of Lesser Basheta. The wood had been smoothed and stained until it gleamed almost like glass. Both the seat and back were upholstered with a soft, silken fabric of a dark midnight blue from the island of Fashlament, where, according to Merivale, it came out in threads from the asses of worms. Or maybe she had been joking. It was hard to tell with her sometimes. That was one of the reasons he liked her.

  Beside the chairs was a rectangular glass tabletop set in a fine wrought iron frame with little seashell shapes etched into the corners. A silk runner stretched from one end of the table to the other. It was decorated with images of seabirds and fish, and Red had always wondered whether it was supposed to be flying fish, or underwater birds.

  Not that Red was complaining. About any of it. He’d never had such fine furniture in his sitting room before. Hells, he’d never even had a sitting room before. And he expected it was unlikely he ever would again.

  He sighed and brushed some nonexistent dust from the back of one of the chairs.

  “Well, it was nice while it lasted.”

  “What was that, my lord?” asked Hume as he walked past with a stack of clean bed linens in his hands.

  “I wouldn’t bother changing the linens, Humey, old pot,” Red said cheerfully. “I won’t be sleeping in that bed tonight. Or any night after, most likely.”

  Hume turned to him, his iron-gray ponytail perfectly in place, his posture erect. Only a few folds in his forehead suggested he was genuinely worried. Red had been trying his damnedest over the last year to shake him, and there was a certain rightness that this is what did it.

  “My lord?” Hume asked carefully.

  “You were good to me, Hume,” said Red. “A pissing angel, really. Better than I deserved. To be perfectly honest, as much of a show as I made about not needing you, I’m going to miss you.”

  “If I may say so, my lord, your words have a certain … finality to them.”

  Red gave him a wan smile. “Merivale needs to know what the biomancers are up to. I’ve always fancied myself a silk talker, but I’ve been trying for months to wheedle something out of them without success. Those cock-dribbles are better at keeping secrets than the owner of the Slice of Heaven in Paradise Circle. And let me tell you, that’s saying something.”

  “I am familiar with the person you are referring to,” Hume said dryly.

  Red’s eyes lit up. “See now? What a shame I’m only finding out now that you and Mo were once wags. Ah well. Anyway, Merivale needs results, and it’s my job to get them.”

  “You are about to do something rash, aren’t you, my lord,” Hume said gravely.

  Red grinned. “Humey, my wag, it’s what I do best.”

  He was fond of dramatic exits, so with that, he turned and headed for the door.

  “One question, my lord,” said Hume.

  Red paused and turned back to him.

  “What would you like me to do with these?” Hume pointed to the stack of paintings leaning against the wall.

  “Whatever you want, Hume. I paint to keep myself myself. I don’t need them after that.”

  “Perhaps I should give them to Mr. Thoriston Baggelworthy of Hollow Falls? He seems particularly appreciative of the Pastinas inclination toward the arts.”

  “Only if you sell them to him for an outrageous sum of money and buy yourself something nice with it,” said Red.

  A thin smile curled up at the corners of Hume’s mouth. “As you wish, my lord.”

  2

  She hadn’t been to the island of Bleak Hope since she was eight years old. And yet, somehow, it felt as though she had never left.

  She had been named after this place so that she’d never forget it, or the terrible events that occurred there. Perhaps the idea had worked too well, because she had not only remembered, but carried the burden of the island’s fate all these years.

  That was why she returned now. To lay down that burden. Maybe then she could find new direction and purpose.

  As the island came into view, she didn’t sail straight for the dock. Instead, she guided her small boat along the barren coastline until she saw the rocks she used to climb on as a little girl. It was high tide, so she steered carefully between the jagged black boulders until she reached the waterline. She hauled her boat up onto the shore, then sat on the small prow. She pushed back the hood of her black robe, and waited.

  She watched attentively as the tide gradually revealed the base of the rocks. She had been doing this a lot lately: watching the slow processes of nature. Sunsets and sunrises, the movements of clouds across the sky. Once she had even watched ice melt. There was something about the steady but unstoppable flow of these things she sought to understand. In his journal, Hurlo remarked that he used examples in nature as a means to elevate his mind. After all, what could be more elevated than a sunrise?

  When she first began the practice of observing these slow processes of nature, it had felt tedious. So much time spent watching something that she couldn’t even perceive was changing from one moment to the next. But she forced herself to continue observing the movements of the sun, the moon, the tides, and anything else she thought might help her to understand �
�� something. She couldn’t say what, exactly.

  She had continued to watch these natural processes every day, week after week, month after month. Gradually, she lost her impatience and began to truly see their movements. She adapted her perceptions to fit the event she was observing. Words like slow and fast lost much of their meaning for her when she was in that state. Time became elastic, and perception became unique to the individual moment.

  So now she watched the tide reveal what lay at the base of the rocks as if it were the flourish of a magician performing a trick.

  She smiled as she caught herself, even after all these years, scanning the rocky sand eagerly for sea glass. Her pulse sped up when she caught sight of a piece, but she didn’t immediately run to it. Instead she stood up and slowly walked over, enjoying the delayed gratification even as her hand longed to touch it.

  She knelt down and picked it up. This one was not red or blue or green, but colorless. She held the small opaque triangle in her hand and rubbed it with her thumb, enjoying the satin feel of it.

  Colorless. Uninflected. Perhaps it was a sign. Or a reminder.

  She slipped the sea glass into the deep pocket of her robe. Then she pulled the hood back over her head and turned toward the ruins of her village. As she walked, the tall grass didn’t seem as tall as it did when she’d been a girl.

  When she reached the village, she found that it had remained undisturbed by human hand. The sign of biomancery was still planted on the dock, and that was enough to keep people away. Her home had been left to slowly, quietly dissolve from the wind, rain, and snow. Among the burnt-out husks of buildings, several walls had collapsed. A few others now housed nests for seagulls. And yet, even so changed, the sight of it brought back memories so vividly, it was as if she were looking at two images superimposed on each other. Then, and now. Living, and dead.