Blood and Tempest

by Jon Skovron

  Hope leveraged the stronger muscles in her shoulders, back, and thighs to reel him slowly back toward her and out of the line of fire. The bullet continued to close the distance, screeching like a hawk as it neared Uter’s still-excited face. It wasn’t until she saw the bullet scrape the side of Uter’s ear that she knew the danger was past.

  Then everything snapped back to normal. The bullet struck a nearby tree, Uter stumbled, and Yammy yelled out, “Oh God!”

  Hope swayed for a moment. Every muscle in her body felt bruised and swollen, but she refused to let herself fall.

  “Ouch!” said Uter as he clapped his hand over his ear. “What was that?” He turned toward the sound where the bullet had impacted, then back to Hope. “Anyway, Hope, you have to …”

  He trailed off when he saw Hope’s furious expression.

  “You knew we were shooting guns out here.” Her voice crackled like fire. She had never felt a fury quite like this before. “You knew how dangerous it was.”

  “Yeah, but you hadn’t started yet,” he said sheepishly. “So I thought—”

  “We were just starting!” Hope’s voice rose to a scream. She knew this was not the proper way for a warrior, a mentor, or a guardian to act, but she couldn’t help herself. She grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him over to the tree with the fresh, scorched bullet hole. “Take a good look, because that was almost you!”

  Uter stared at the bullet hole for a moment. When he looked back at her, his eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I … don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

  “Say you’re sorry, dear.” Even Old Yammy sounded a bit flustered. “And promise her you’ll be more careful next time.”

  “I’m sorry, Hope,” he said dutifully. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

  Hope pulled him into a rough embrace.

  After a moment, he said, “You’re squeezing me.”

  “You’ll live,” she said, her voice thick, and didn’t let him go.

  “On the bright side,” said Yammy, “it looks like you found it.”

  “I did.” Hope finally released Uter. But then she swayed and nearly fell. Both Yammy and Uter instinctively reached out and steadied her. Now that the crises and resulting anger were dissipating, her limbs felt heavy, like she’d used up several hours’ worth of energy in a few moments. Perhaps she had. She would need to do more stamina training if she planned to use this reliably.

  “Now can you come see this thing I found?” asked Uter.

  Hope smiled wearily. “What is this thing that was so exciting, you forgot about the danger of gunfire?”

  Uter’s expression returned to blissful wonder. “A two-headed snake!”

  Exhausted but curious, Hope followed him through the forest with Old Yammy bringing up the rear. After a little while, they came to a small outcropping of black rock. On the lee side were two snakes copulating.

  “Ah,” said Hope.

  Old Yammy suppressed a chuckle.

  “Uter, that’s two snakes … cuddling,” said Hope.

  Old Yammy didn’t even bother to suppress her chuckle that time.

  “Oh …” Uter looked disappointed.

  Hope patted him consolingly on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go home and have dinner.”

  “I am pretty hungry,” he admitted, and allowed himself to be led away.

  Now that Hope knew what it felt like to change her speed, she needed to be able to use it reliably. It was like exercising a muscle. First in tiny flickers, with an effort hugely disproportionate to the result. But over time, she grew more comfortable with it until finally she was able to call upon it at will. It was still physically exhausting, and she was never able to do it for more than a second or two. But as Yammy had pointed out, a second was the entire life of a bullet.

  The weather grew cooler and the nights grew longer as summer turned into fall. Yammy suggested they have a cookout on the beach before it got too cold. “It can be a celebration of Hope’s achievement.”

  “A cookout?” Wentu looked slightly scandalized. “We’ve never had a cookout on Galemoor in the many decades I’ve been on this island.”

  “Well, then, it’s long overdue,” she said. “Unless there’s something in that Vinchen code of yours against it?”

  “Not specifically, no …,” admitted Wentu.

  So the four of them gathered on the black, rocky northern shore, which was slightly warmer than the southern shore. They built a large bonfire, which Uter capered around wildly until he nearly burned himself. They roasted fish on sticks, and Wentu cracked open a cask of fine Vinchen ale he’d been saving for a special occasion.

  As the adults sat on the rocks and watched Uter toss things into the fire, Hope took a long drink of ale from her wooden cup.

  “In all my travels, no ale ever equaled this,” she said quietly. “I’m sad it’s not being made anymore.”

  “You’re not the only one,” said Old Yammy. “People were openly weeping in Silverback when word got around.”

  “Perhaps someday …,” said Wentu. Then he sighed and shook his head.

  They sat in silence for a while, with only the hiss of the fire and Uter’s chirps of delight as he threw strands of seaweed into the flames.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said regarding your prosthesis,” Old Yammy said at last. “That there’s only one person you trust to alter it.”

  “Alash,” said Hope. “Red’s cousin.”

  “What if I told you where he is? Would you find him and ask him to redesign it for you?”

  Hope sat up. “You know where he is? How?”

  Old Yammy smirked. “You might be surprised to learn that he wrote a letter to the Luscious Lymestria.”

  “Really?” asked Hope.

  “Apparently, Brigga Lin has become quite … involved with that pirate, Gavish Gray. That left poor, shy Alash lonely and despairing. I suppose his memories of his night with a famous actress are something that comforts him now.”

  “That’s heartbreaking,” said Hope.

  “She didn’t write him back, of course,” said Yammy.

  “Even worse,” said Hope.

  “But she did mention to me, rather offhandedly, that it came from Walta.”

  “Walta?” asked Hope. “The huge mole rat warren? What on earth is he doing in a place like that?”

  “Lymestria was a little vague on that. I think she only skimmed the letter. Something about him believing mole rats to have some disease-curing properties.”

  “He’ll get himself eaten,” said Hope.

  “Well, then,” said Old Yammy. “If you want him to fix your prosthesis, you’d better get to him before that.”

  “It’ll take me weeks to reach Walta,” said Hope. “Will you look after Uter while I’m gone?”

  “No,” said Yammy.

  “What?” Hope hadn’t really expected her to decline, especially since she seemed so fond of the boy.

  “And neither will Wentu. We’re too old to raise children.”

  “Old? You?” asked Hope.

  Yammy smiled, but it didn’t seem as energetic as usual. In fact, the woman almost seemed to shrink a little before Hope’s eyes. “Just because I don’t look old, doesn’t mean I don’t feel old.”

  Hope didn’t know what to say to that. Had Yammy been forcing herself to go on when all she wanted to do was rest? Hope almost asked that question, but realized to her shame that the idea was so upsetting, she didn’t actually want to know the answer. All she could do, then, was accept what Yammy said.

  “I suppose I must take him with me, then. But I’m worried he will be difficult to control. What if he kills people again? He doesn’t do it out of meanness or spite, but …”

  Uter had run out of seaweed nearby, so he was forced to run farther down the beach to gather more. He charged back and forth along the beach many times. He would sleep well that night.

  “The boy minds you a lot better than he used to,” s
aid Wentu.

  “Ever since I almost shot him,” said Yammy quietly.

  “If anyone is to blame,” said Hope, “it was me for allowing him to sneak up on us.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” said Wentu. “It was an accident. Sometimes there is no one to blame.”

  Hope bowed her head in respect. It was rare for Wentu to take a teacherly tone, and she always heeded him when he did. “Uter and I will go to Walta and retrieve Alash. We should be back in a few months.”

  “When will you go?” asked Yammy.

  “We’ll leave at dawn,” said Hope. “Every day we wait is another day Alash might end up in the belly of a mole rat.”

  “That makes sense,” said Yammy.

  Hope stood up. “Come on, Uter.”

  “Time for bed already?” he asked, giving her a petulant frown.

  “No, we must prepare for our trip tomorrow.”

  He perked up at that. “We’re going on a trip? To where?”

  “Come with me, and I’ll tell you while we pack,” said Hope.

  He seemed to forget all about the fire as he followed Hope back to the sleeping quarters.

  After Hope and Uter went to the dormitory, Wentu and Yammy sat for a while and watched the fire slowly die out.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Yameria,” Wentu said finally.

  “Yes?”

  “When you first arrived, you promised this would be the last time you meddled. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Not even I can do this forever. That accident with Uter …” She shook her head. “Stupid mistake. I should have seen it coming. That’s when I knew for certain that my time is nearly up, and if I was going to help this one last time, I needed to wrap it up.”

  “That was brilliant, by the way,” said Wentu. “I’ve been trying to get Hope to leave the Southern Isles for months.”

  “She’s been hiding here long enough.” Then Yammy gave Wentu a tired smile. “And frankly, I’ve been living long enough. You don’t mind if I let it all go here, do you?”

  Wentu looked sadly at the woman he had known, off and on, for his entire life. “It would be an honor, Yameria.”

  8

  As Red rode with Vaderton into Paradise Circle, it reminded him of the last time he’d come home after a long adventure. He’d been just a boy back then, and it was in the back of a wagon full of fruits and vegetables with Sadie instead of a fine carriage. But despite those differences, when he saw the familiar streets roll past the window, and smelled the earthy scent of them, his chest filled with a warm, comforting glow. No matter where else he went, Paradise Circle would always feel like coming home.

  “I believe the Black Rose has set her base of operations at Apple Grove Manor,” Vaderton was saying.

  “Hmmm?” asked Red, pulling his gaze from the window for a moment.

  “Do you know where that is?” asked Vaderton.

  “That old wreck? Sure …” Red’s eyes were drawn back to the window. “But I tell you what. Let’s continue on a ways through the old neighborhood for a bit. There’s not a huge rush to meet her, is there?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Red didn’t really know this naval captain, but if Yammy trusted him, then he had to be all right. Still, there was something about his demeanor that made Red suspect he knew more than he was letting on. And that whatever he knew, it wasn’t good news. Red wasn’t eager to find out what that was.

  “Driver, why don’t you leave us at the Drowned Rat. We’ll find our own way from there.” Red was eager to walk the streets once again, but he was also looking forward to a grand arrival at his favorite tavern.

  “The Drowned Rat, sir?” asked the driver. “Are you sure? That place has quite a reputation.”

  Red laughed. “I’m one of the people that made its reputation, my wag.”

  There were a lot of eyes on the fine Hollow Falls carriage as it pulled up in front of the Drowned Rat. It was possibly the finest carriage that had ever graced the block. But those eyes shifted from narrow scheming to wide surprise when Red leapt boldly from the door in his jacket and cravat. He was pleased to hear more than one person mutter “Piss’ell” under their breath.

  “Coming, Vaderton?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Of course.” Vaderton stepped unhurriedly down to the street. Although he wore a plain shirt and unadorned dark blue jacket, anyone could recognize his proud naval bearing. Red was greatly amused by the odd picture they presented as they stepped inside the tavern.

  But while he’d expected to turn a few heads, he hadn’t anticipated the whole place would go dead quiet and stare.

  As they stood there awkwardly, Vaderton whispered, “I can’t tell. Is this friendly recognition, or the other kind?”

  Red held his smile as he muttered back, “Wish I knew, old pot.” He cast his eyes desperately toward the bar and was relieved to see Prin.

  “Prinny!” He swept over to her. “My sweet provider of ale.”

  The rest of the tavern went slowly back to their business. Or at least, they made some show of doing so. But Prin looked a little queasy as she tried and failed to meet his gaze.

  “Hey, Red.”

  “What’s the matter, Prin? Someone been telling you I was dead or something?”

  She flinched at the word dead, but then forced a thin smile. “Course not, Red. And I wouldn’t have believed them if they had.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Red leaned his elbows on the bar. “Piss’ell, but it’s good to see a friendly old face.”

  “It’s … good to see you, too, Red,” she said haltingly.

  Why was she and everyone else in this place so askew? he wondered. “How about a round of …”

  Red trailed off when he saw another familiar face at the big table in the back of the tavern.

  “Well, well, Nettie!” He hurried over to her, grinning and feeling almost giddy. “Aren’t you putting on the lords. Sitting at Drem’s old spot like you own the place.”

  Nettles sat at the table, her expression oddly distant. Almost detached. He was surprised to see her with two gafs from his old pickpocket gang. Moxy Poxy had gotten even rangier and more ragged since he’d seen her last. Mister Hatbox, with his black top hat and pristine black jacket and white shirt, looked as creepy as ever. Red had never really liked them, but it didn’t seem like they were wags with Nettles either. The way they deferred to her made them seem more like loyal boots.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Red?” Nettles asked, her voice just as distant as her expression.

  Red decided to play along until he had a better sense of things. If she was playing it pat, so would he. He pulled out a chair and slouched into it. It appeared Vaderton was content to remain at the bar.

  Nettles signaled to Prin, who hurried over immediately with a tankard of dark for him.

  “Thanks, Prinny,” he said when she handed him the drink.

  She flashed him another thin smile, then hurried back to the bar.

  “How’d you escape Stonepeak?” asked Nettles.

  “Made some friends on the inside.” He grinned.

  “That so?” she asked.

  “You know me,” Red said airily. “I make friends everywhere I go.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “So what is all this, Nettie? Are you running the Circle now?”

  “These days, wags call me the Black Rose.”

  “Really? You’re the one Vaderton wanted me to talk to?”

  “Who’s Vaderton?” asked Nettles.

  “That gaf over at the bar with the black beard and the pole up his ass. Friend of Yammy’s, apparently.”

  Nettles glanced over at him. “Looks vaguely familiar. Can’t remember from where, though. He say why he wanted you to talk to me?”

  Red shook his head. “Just that there was something important you had to tell me.”

  She looked at him for a moment, then said, “I reckon there is.” She gestured to Prin again. When the bartender hurried over, Nettles said, “Red an
d I need to talk privately. Can we use your office?”

  “Of course, Black Rose. I’ll get the key.” She headed back toward the bar.

  “And a bottle of whiskey,” said Nettles.

  Prin stopped and glanced first at Red, then at Nettles. After a moment, she nodded tersely, and brought over a key and a very quality bottle of whiskey.

  Nettles stood. “You two, stay,” she told Hatbox and Moxy. “Nobody goes near the office until I say. Keen?”

  They nodded silently.

  “You,” she said to Red. “Come with me.” Then she turned, the keys in one hand and the bottle in the other, and headed toward the office door at the side of the tavern.

  As Red followed her, he decided she’d taken rather well to ordering people around. An effortless surety combined with a total lack of pretension.

  The office was small, with room for little more than a desk, a large filing cabinet, and a safe. To this day, Red was impressed that Prin had run the tavern all by herself ever since her parents passed away. Everything from serving to accounting. Not many people could do such a wide assortment of jobs.

  “The old office, huh?” he said as he sat down on the desk. “Only time I was ever back here was when Prin and I tossed a few times. I wanted to do it on the bar after closing, but she said it wasn’t hygienic or something.”

  “Drink.” Nettles shoved the bottle at him. He’d expected her to drop the pat ganglord act once they were alone, but she didn’t. He was beginning to suspect it was more than just her neighborhood status that had changed.

  “Yeah, alright.” He uncorked the whiskey and took a sip. He held the bottle out to her, but she shook her head. She was still standing, too, even though he’d left her the chair.

  “Would you sit down at least?” he asked. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “Have another drink,” she advised, and continued to stand.

  He took another sip, the burn of the liquid almost enough to smother the dark unease that was growing in his stomach.