by Jon Skovron
“Here is my way of making friends,” said Hope. “I do nice things for you, and you do nice things for me.”
Uter continued to gaze up at her for several moments, until he realized that was all she had to say. Then his eyes widened. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And … when does it end?”
“As long as we keep doing nice things for each other, it never has to end.”
“You mean your friendship is forever?”
“It can be.”
He let his head drop to the ground. “Fine,” he said into the dirt. “You win.”
“Your way doesn’t last that long, I take it?”
He shook his head, his forehead still pressed into the dirt. Without looking up, he pointed unerringly at the bird, his finger following its slow circle. “Just watch. It’s almost over.”
Hope watched the bird make a few more rounds. Then it suddenly dropped out of the sky, lifeless once again.
“Is it difficult to make it alive again?”
“Nah.”
“I thought it took days, and the body needed to be treated with various chemicals.”
He lifted his head up, smiling once again. There was a large smear of dirt on his ghostly white forehead. “That’s the normal way. But I have a special way.”
“A special way?”
“Yes. Because I’ve been wighted!”
“Wighted?”
“I’ll show you.” He snatched up his sickle, held it between his clenched teeth, and scrambled across the grass on all fours to the dead bird. He sat down cross-legged again and placed the bird in his lap. He sliced open his palm with the sickle, then tossed the blade to the side. He held his now-bleeding palm over the bird, letting the blood drip on its open beak and eyes. Then he stared down at the bird, smiling with anticipation.
After a moment, the bird shook itself and once again flew into the air.
“I can do it as many times as I like,” he told Hope. “But the body keeps rotting, so after a while they can’t move, and that’s no fun.”
“Did Vikma Bruea teach you how to do that?”
He leaned forward eagerly. “You know my lord? When is he coming back?”
“He isn’t coming back,” Hope said quietly. “I killed him.”
“You killed him?” He didn’t look upset by the news. If anything, he looked impressed. “Nobody has ever killed the lord before! I tried five times!” He held up one hand, the fingers splayed out. “Five! And it never worked!”
“Was … Vikma Bruea your father?” asked Hope.
“Father?” Uter didn’t seem to understand what the word meant.
“Was he your parent?”
“Oh, I don’t have parents. Because I’ve been wighted.”
“What does that mean? To be wighted?” she asked.
He looked confused. “It means me.”
“I see.” Although, really, all she saw was that the boy didn’t know what it meant either, and didn’t appear to comprehend the larger ramifications of his ability.
The boy had lost interest in their conversation and was now pulling out long strands of grass and braiding them together, humming eerily to himself again. Hope watched him for a little while, wondering what she should do. It was abundantly clear that the boy was damaged in some way and, despite his youth, might already be beyond repair.
She looked down at her clamp. Being irreparably damaged was something they had in common. And she had killed his only guardian. Perhaps, in a way, that made him her responsibility. It didn’t seem right to leave him here alone. He might be able to survive by foraging and hunting, but he seemed desperate for friendship. He needed to be among other humans.
Maltch was the one who had sent her here. Perhaps he knew what wighting was. Perhaps he could be a mentor to the boy as well. Gull’s Cry was not luxurious by any means, but there was a community there that Uter would most likely benefit from.
“Uter?”
“Yes?” He didn’t look at her, and instead kept his eyes on the braid of grass he was weaving.
“Would you like it if I took you away from here? To live with other people?”
“More people?” He leapt to his feet and squinted hard at her. “You mean it?”
“I do.”
His face widened into a big smile. “So many friends!”
Then he capered across the grass, jumping, summersaulting, cartwheeling, and beheading wildflowers with his sickle as he went.
“I think we’ll leave the sickle behind, though,” she said.
3
Red had no idea how many times he’d stood in this shooting range far beneath the palace in the biomancers’ underground lair. How many times he’d loaded this revolver. How many times he’d hit the bull’s-eye at the far end. How many times the biomancer Chiffet Mek was still able to find some small criticism. He’d never even thought about counting before. It was funny how the knowledge that this was the last time held a certain bittersweet tang on his tongue, even for this.
“You’re still compensating slightly with your left hand when you pull the trigger,” Mek said in his rusty voice as he stood in his habitual spot ten feet behind Red’s right shoulder.
Over time, the biomancer had become less and less concerned with hiding his face in the deep shadow of his white hooded robe. Now Red could clearly see the strange bits of metal that poked out here and there, and the strands of wire that laced through patches of the biomancer’s skin. It looked like it hurt like all hells, but Chiffet Mek never gave any indication of it. Maybe it didn’t actually hurt. Or maybe Mek was so accustomed to living in constant pain, he was no longer aware of it. Red had come to understand the biomancers to some degree during his captivity. They were cruel to everyone around them, but first and foremost, they were cruelest to themselves. The entire order was built around that premise. In some ways, it reminded Red of the Vinchen, with their punishing self-discipline. But where the Vinchen used that masochism to hone themselves into weapons, the biomancers used it to turn themselves into monsters. Red used to think one was better than the other, but after seeing Racklock and his followers, he realized that it really just depended on how the “Vinchen weapons” were used. Now that they were being wielded by the monsters, he wondered if anything could stand in their way. After all, together they had united an empire, then centuries later vanquished a near-omnipotent tyrant.
“Are you even listening to me?” demanded Chiffet Mek.
“I don’t know why you even care, now that you’ve got the Vinchen at your beck and call,” Red said offhandedly as he continued to load his gun.
Mek paused for a moment. Poor gaf. Of the three biomancers who had taken charge of him, Mek was the least skilled at talking clever. Progul Bon had been the best, by far, but according to Merivale, Bon had been slain by Hope at Dawn’s Light. Ammon Set had a tendency to talk a lot, but did it in circles, with at least half his words used to obscure meaning instead of providing it. Mek spoke little, and Red suspected it was because he didn’t trust himself to keep all the secrets. It didn’t help that biomancers couldn’t lie.
“Which Vinchen are you referring to?” asked Chiffet Mek finally.
“Come off it, old pot. You and I were both there when Racklock and his wags came strolling into the council chamber.” Red still kept his tone light, but he had just crossed the line, and now there was no turning back.
“How could you remember …,” began Mek. Then his bloodshot eyes widened. “You’ve broken Bon’s control!”
“And such a shame he’s no longer alive, or he’d have noticed months ago.” Red turned and fired four shots: one into each of Chiffet Mek’s shoulders and one into each of his knees.
Mek fell back into the stone wall behind him, and slid to the ground. He couldn’t stand or lift his arms, but he didn’t cry out from the pain. Instead, he glared up at Red.
“After everything we’ve taught you, you ungrateful street trash.”
“Oh,
sorry, I was supposed to be thankful that you tried to turn me into your own personal murder puppet?”
“In time, you would have been truly great,” said Mek with a ferocity that suggested he honestly believed what he said. “With our guidance, you could have become something the world had never seen before. A warrior of the future. Something the empire sorely needs as we plummet headlong toward chaos and war for the first time in centuries. But apparently you have chosen to remain just another smart-mouthed criminal who cares nothing for the empire that has always protected him from the darkness that exists beyond its borders.”
“You mean Aukbontar? At least they don’t torture and mutilate their own people.”
“If you think Aukbontar wants peace, you’re a fool. They want to dominate us. Use us. If we give them a foothold, it will be the end of the empire as we know it.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Red said quietly.
Mek’s eyes widened. “Treason!”
“An empire that no longer looks after its people is about due for a change anyway.”
Red looked down at his gun. He’d learned from Merivale that the only reason the empire had revolving pistols was because Chiffet Mek had obtained an Aukbontaren model and reverse engineered a biomancery-based version of it. That single advancement had allowed the imperial police to dominate the lower classes of New Laven in a way previously impossible. Those same revolvers had enabled Deadface Drem to capture Paradise Circle and turn it into a laboratory for the biomancers. God only knew how many other terrible things had come from it. And therefore from Chiffet Mek.
He pointed the gun at Mek’s head. “Now, let’s talk about why you’re suddenly letting the emperor negotiate with the ambassador. What’s the new strategy?”
“Threatening to kill me is not a very smart way to get me to talk,” said Chiffet Mek.
“I don’t have as much experience in tormenting people, so I’ll defer to your judgment.” Red shot Chiffet Mek’s foot. “Now, are you ready to tell me?”
Mek’s face didn’t change, but a harsh grunt escaped his throat. “You’ll still kill me anyway, so what does it matter.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, old pot. I prefer not to murder defenseless people. Even when they’re complete cock-dribbles. Call it my sensitive artistic nature.” Then he shot Mek’s other foot. “Not that sensitive, though, I guess.”
Another grunt escaped Chiffet Mek’s throat, but he continued to glare up at Red.
“Looks like we’ll be at this awhile,” said Red. “I better reload.” He turned back to the small table that held the powder cartridge and bullets. As he worked, he said, “I can’t stop thinking of all the people I’ve seen biomancers kill. There was Thorn Billy. I think that was my first time seeing it all the way through. And then all those poor wags when we stormed the Three Cups. There was also that sailor Hope knew. And then those imps you turned into beasts to attack Hope and Brigga Lin. I know you’re not personally responsible for every one of those horrible deaths. It’s probably not fair to take it all out on you. But as a professional gambler, the first thing you learn is that life is anything but fair.”
He turned back to Chiffet Mek with his loaded gun. The biomancer was sweating, his chest rising and falling with harsh pants. No doubt the blood loss and accumulated pain was taking its toll.
“Ready to tell me why you’ve changed your mind about letting the emperor negotiate with the ambassador? No? Where next, then, I wonder.” Red pointed the gun between Mek’s legs and watched the biomancer’s eyes go wide. “Just kidding, old pot. What kind of a tom do you think I am, shooting a man’s cock off? Some things just aren’t done. Maybe one of the hands.”
The moment he pointed his gun at Chiffet Mek’s closed fist, the biomancer’s face crumpled. “Wait! I’ll tell you!”
Red wondered why he was more protective of hand than cock, but he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. “Okay, why, then?”
“It was Bon! He was the one who managed the emperor.”
“So he did to His Majesty what he did to me?”
“Not exactly, but the same general idea.”
“I would almost be flattered, if it hadn’t been so pissing awful,” said Red. “Okay, so you’re telling me you’ve actually lost direct control of the emperor?”
“Yes,” admitted Mek.
“So your old plan is out. But obviously you’re not just going to give up and let Nea negotiate with the emperor. Not with all those terrible warnings from the Dark Mage burned into your addled brains. I need to know the new plan.”
Chiffet Mek glared at him and said nothing.
Red slowly moved his gun back and forth. “Which hand would you rather I take first?” he asked. “I guess it depends on whether you favor your left or your right. If I remember correctly, you typically use your right.” He pulled back the hammer on his gun and aimed it at Mek’s right fist. “So let’s go with this one.”
“Fine! We do have a plan!”
“And it is?” Red pressed the barrel to the back of Mek’s fist.
“Ammon Set will make the ultimate sacrifice, and he will be forever revered for it,” Mek said quietly.
Then Chiffet Mek suddenly rotated his hand, opened his fist, and grabbed the barrel of the gun. Red released it just as the weapon began to wilt and liquefy. Mek was able to raise his hands high enough to touch his knees, and they healed instantly. Mek smiled grimly at Red as he stumbled to his feet.
“A disobedient dog must be put down,” he said through gritted teeth as he forced his hand up to touch first one shoulder, then the other. “What a waste you are, Lord Pastinas. You could have been among us, exalted beyond ordinary men. But it’s too late for that.” He reached his hand for Red.
Red dodged the hand that no doubt carried with it some slow and gruesome death, and stepped back, wishing he’d had a second gun or some knives on him.
“Better to be among ordinary men,” he said, “than a dog to the supposed exalted ones.”
He flipped the small table at Chiffet Mek. He’d left the powder cartridge open on the table, so black gunpowder sprayed up at Mek’s face, causing him to stumble backward. Then Red ran.
Red didn’t bother to knock when he reached Lady Merivale Hempist’s apartments. He barely broke stride as he threw open the doors and pushed past startled servants. It wasn’t until he reached the dining room that he stopped to catch his breath. That’s when he realized Merivale was entertaining. And probably working, as well. She was always working.
She sat at the head of her table, a glass of wine halfway to her bright red lips as she calmly regarded the sweaty, disheveled Red. To her right was the corpulent Lord Weatherwight of Wake Landing. Next to him sat the elderly high steward, looking as disapproving as ever. To Merivale’s left was the thin, anxious-looking Archlord Tramasta of Fashlament. Next to him was Archlady Bashim, who it appeared had given up hope of catching Prince Leston and had now set her sights on the archlord. From what Red knew of Tramasta, however, he wasn’t the marrying kind, and preferred his mollies young, without title, and easy to bully.
There was a moment of awkward silence as they all stared at Red. He smoothed his jacket and straightened his cravat as he tried to think of something clever to say. For once, he was at a loss.
But then Merivale put her wine down and stood up.
“My apologies. Lord Pastinas and I must speak for a moment concerning a pressing business enterprise we have undertaken together.”
“Business, my lady?” asked Tramasta. “You?”
She gave him a mysterious smile. “I have discovered that managing assets can be just as entertaining as managing men. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure this will only take a moment. Please continue with dinner.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice, eh, Steward?” Weatherwight said as he held up his empty wineglass for a servant to fill.
“Indeed, my lord,” said the steward, helping himself to another quail from the platter i
n the middle of the table.
Merivale motioned to Red, and he followed her into the small library next to the dining room. She shut the doors, then turned to him.
“Since even you are not normally this indiscreet, I assume this is a matter of desperate urgency,” she said quietly.
“I pushed Chiffet Mek as far as I could,” said Red. “Got some information, but I’m not sure it was worth blowing my cover.”
“Don’t worry about that. What do you have for me?”
“They haven’t been letting the emperor negotiate with Nea. Progul Bon was the key to controlling him. Now that Bon’s dead, the old man has gone rogue. They’ve got something else in the works, but I wasn’t able to get the details. Mek said Ammon Set would be making the ‘ultimate sacrifice.’ Maybe dying in some grand biomancer experiment?”
“Perhaps …” Merivale seemed to have other ideas, but as usual kept them to herself.
“Sorry,” said Red. “I know it’s not a lot. I wish I could help more, but now that my cover’s blown, I don’t know what else I can do.”
“It’s true that I no longer require the services of Rixidenteron, lord of Pastinas Manor. Or perhaps I should say the soon-to-be former lord of Pastinas Manor.” Merivale sighed, as if mourning the passing of his nobility. Then she flashed that brilliant smile of hers. “But I do require the services of a certain thief and scoundrel who sometimes goes by the unlikely name of Red.”
“Oh?” Red was surprised by how thrillingly the idea struck him.
“I will sneak you out of Stonepeak, past imperial soldiers and biomancers, and get you safe passage to New Laven,” said Merivale.
“And in return?” Red knew her well enough to know there was always a price.
“You will find these two women, Bleak Hope and Brigga Lin, that worry our enemies so much. You will warn them of the Vinchen that are hunting them, and recruit them to our cause. Preferably before Ammon Set puts his new plan into action.”
Red stared at her, openmouthed. “Merivale …”