by Jon Skovron
ACT ONE
Death or Glory for Me (and Me!)
..........
Hope, Red, Company
A Girl Can’t Be a Vinchen!
..........
Hurlo, Racklock, Hope
That Red-Eyed Son of a Whore
..........
Sadie, Red, Wags
A Lonely Life at Sea
..........
Hope, Sailors
Angel in Black Leather
..........
Red, Filler, Hope
Riot in the Circle
..........
Hope, Red, Black Rose, Wags
Hunt for the Biomancer
..........
Hope, Red, Biomancers
Who Needs a Penis?
..........
Brigga Lin, Biomancers
Attack on Stonepeak!
..........
Hope, Red, Lin, Set, Biomancers
I’ll Wait for You
..........
Hope, Red
ACT TWO
All Hail Dire Bane!
..........
Hope, Lin, Sadie, Finn, Black Rose, Filler
Lordy, My Lord
..........
Red, Leston, Hempist, Set, Soldiers
Curse of the Jackal Lord
..........
Hope, Black Rose, Lin, Biomancers
Who Is the Shadow Demon?
..........
Red, Hempist, Leston, Set, Wags
Bless the Circle
..........
Black Rose, Filler, Wags
Wisdom of the Theater
..........
Hope, Broomefedies
Jewel of the Empire
..........
Red, Leston, Hempist, Pysetcha, Nobles
Prisoners No More!
..........
Hope, Lin, Black Rose, Wags
Am I a Man or a Monster?
..........
Red, Hempist, Leston, Pysetcha
The Horror of Dawn’s Light
..........
Hope, Lin, Sadie, Finn, Wags
Love Alone Can Save Me
..........
Hope, Red
ACT THREE
The Death of Love
..........
Racklock, Set, Biomancers
How Can I Face Him Again?
..........
Hope
I Will Find You
..........
Red, Hempist, Black Rose, Wags
Savagery of the Mole Rats
..........
Hope, Finn, Mole Rats
Here in Visionary Square
..........
Red, Lin, Racklock, Hope, Vinchen
Love Alone Can Save Me (Refrain)
..........
Hope, Red
A New Empire Awaits
..........
Hempist, Black Rose, Pysetcha, Set, Biomancers
Get Kraken!
..........
Hope, Red, Lin, Vinchen
For the Freedom of All Peoples, We Fight!
..........
Hempist, Black Rose, Wags
Death to the Traitor
..........
Hope, Red, Set, Biomancers
Don’t Give Up Hope
..........
Hope, Red, Company
Interview with a Theatrical Genius
By Thoriston Baggelworthy
Reprinted with kind permission from theHollow Falls Gentleman’s Quarterly.
At this point, it is unlikely I need to inform any of my readers of my passion for the arts and culture of downtown New Laven. The popularity of my articles has been extremely gratifying, and I thank you all most sincerely for your enthusiasm and interest. What’s more, the prestige of becoming a man known as a champion of folk culture has granted me additional access to people and places throughout Silverback, Hammer Point, and Paradise Circle that I might not otherwise have achieved. A perfect example is the following candid—and exclusive—interview I conducted with the great theater master Broomefedies shortly after the triumphant opening of his most recent theatrical masterwork,Death or Glory.
Thoriston Baggleworthy: I’ll get straight to the point, as I know you’re a busy man. I thoroughly enjoyed Death or Glory and am desperate to learn how you accomplished such a feat of theatrical genius that is both immensely profound yet also wildly accessible and popular.
The great theater master Broomefedies: I’m so glad you enjoyed it, Thoriston, my wag, considering you financed a great deal of it.
TB: Be that as it may, it far exceeded even my expectations.
TGTMB: It’s all about balance, old pot. You take a song like “Hunt for the Biomancer,” which is a real pensive, thoughtful number about that fear of biomancers we all live with each day.
TB: Dear me, yes! What was the line, Each of us a victim, just waiting for our turn. Each of us in terror to freeze or melt or burn. Evocative stuff!
TGTMB: Right. And you follow up such a serious thing with that first Brigga Lin song, “Who Needs a Penis?”
TB: Indeed! My wife isn’t as acclimated to the earthy folk humor of downtown New Laven as I am, and she was utterly scandalized.
TGTMB: [laughs] I have to admit that the brilliant piece of stage business was Madgie’s notion. She comes in one day holding a cucumber and says, “Broom, I got an idea!” She puts on her biomancer robes and stows the cucumber God knows where. Then she gets up onstage and starts singing the song. There’s that perfect line … let’s see, what is it exactly … oh yeah. I never wanted this one-eyed worm, this penis, or this cock. So now it’s time for you and me to have a little talk. And then she pulls the cucumber out of her robes and starts singing to it! The first time I saw that bit, I laughed so hard I nearly pissed myself.
TB: It was certainly some … colorful prop use. Especially when she began to caress the … eh, member that she had just supposedly torn from her own body.
TGTMB: But that’s just it, Thoriston, my wag. Give ’em something to think about, then give ’em something to ogle over. It’s what you call dialectical theater.
TB: One thing that really struck me about the show is just how true to life it feels. You know, I actually met the real Grandteacher Hope and Lord Chamberlain Pastinas myself once.
TGTMB: You may have mentioned that fact on a few occasions.
TB: Yes, well, I bring it up now to emphasize just how struck I was by the masterfully authentic performances that were given. In particular, Miss Lymestria’s rendition of Grandteacher Hope struck me as astonishingly accurate. That lush sensuality combined with an almost feline ferocity is exactly how I remember the grandteacher when I met her.
TGTMB: Is that so? Well, I’m glad to hear it, old pot. Your son wasn’t bad as Red either.
TB: He worked very hard on the part, insisting on actually frequenting the infamous Drowned Rat tavern for several weeks!
TGTMB: I daresay he also learned quite a bit from Lymestria, keen? She’s always wanted a little lacy pet of her own, and now she’s got one. Seemed to work out for everyone. I just hope you’ve got a big kitchen up there in Hollow Falls. That molly can pack it away!
TB: What? I hadn’t heard—
TGTMB: Never mind, old pot. Anyway, yeah, I tried as best I could to honor the truth of what those brave toms and mollies have done for us all.
TB: And of course you couldn’t resist recounting your own role in shaping events with that most moving duet, “The Wisdom of the Theater.” I’m fond of your line just before the song begins. What are we fighting for, if not the right to make our art? What are we making art for, if not to help us fight? Truly, my mind reels at the thought that this man sitting humbly before me had such an impact on history.
TGTMB: [chuckles] You know I practically raised the Lord Chamberlain for a period when he was just a young and foolish tom more interested in chasing mollies than chasing justice. I didn’t spend a great
deal of time with Hope, or Dire Bane, as she was calling herself then. But she showed up on my doorstep at what I reckon was a real turning point in her life. I gave her the best advice I could, and it seemed to work out for her.
TB: Quite so! Sometimes even the greatest of women need the firm hand of a man to guide them!
TGTMB: I would not recommend saying that, or anything like it, in her presence.
TB: No?
TGTMB: Trust me.
Acknowledgments
I finished the first draft of this book in the aftermath of the 2016 presidential election. It was a shocking and tumultuous moment in history, and I’m not sure what the world will look like by the time this book sees print. So I am writing to you from the past, and like Hope, who is (nearly) always true to her namesake, I want to believe, despite the harsh reminder that hate and small-mindedness are still very much present, that as you read these words, the world is an even more beautiful and wondrous place than the one in which I’m currently living. A place full of possibility. Not because it must be, but because we make it so. This story of Hope and Red has been my humble contribution toward that end.
First and foremost, I want to thank my publisher at Orbit, Tim Holman, who has been tremendously supportive, especially during the stressful transition period between editors. Thanks also to Anne Clarke, deputy publisher, for pinch-hitting as editor during that transition. And of course, a huge thank-you to Brit Hvide, my awesome new editor who jumped right into the Empire of Storms with both feet like she’d always been there. Thanks also to my mapmaker, Tim Paul; my cover illustrator, Bastien Lecouffe Deharme; and my book designer, Lauren Panepinto, who have been responsible for making this entire trilogy look supercool. I also want to thank my agent, Jill Grinberg, and the incredible staff at JGLM for all of their support and encouragement. Lastly, and most importantly, I want to thank my sons, Logan and Zane, who continue to keep me sane and whole. More or less.
extras
meet the author
JON SKOVRON is the author of several young adult novels, and his short stories have appeared in publications such as ChiZine and Baen’s Universe. He lives just outside Washington, D.C., with his two sons and two cats. The Empire of Storms is his first adult fantasy series.
if you enjoyed
BLOOD AND TEMPEST
look out for
THE TETHERED MAGE
Swords and Fire: Book 1
by
Melissa Caruso
CONTROL THE MAGIC, CONTROL THE WORLD.
In the Raverran Empire, magic is scarce and those born with power are strictly controlled—taken as children and conscripted into the Falcon Army.
Zaira has lived her life on the streets to avoid this fate, hiding her mage mark and thieving to survive. But hers is a rare and dangerous magic, one that threatens the entire empire.
Lady Amalia Cornaro was never meant to be a Falconer. Heiress and scholar, she was born into a treacherous world of political machinations.
But fate has bound the heir and the mage. And as war looms on the horizon, a single spark could turn their city into a pyre.
Chapter 1
Here, my lady? Are you sure?”
As the narrow prow of my boat nudged the stone steps at the canal’s edge, I wished I’d walked, or at least hired a craft rather than using my own. The oarsman was bound to report to La Contessa that her daughter had disembarked at a grimy little quay in a dubious corner of the Tallows, the poorest district of the city of Raverra.
By the time my mother heard anything, however, I’d already have the book.
“Yes, thank you. Right here.”
The oarsman made no comment as he steadied his craft, but his eyebrows conveyed deep skepticism.
I’d worn a country gentleman’s coat and breeches, to avoid standing out from my seedy surroundings. I was glad not to risk skirts trailing in the murky water as I clambered out of the boat. Trash bobbed in the canal, and the tang in the air was not exclusively salt.
“Shall I wait for you here, my lady?”
“No, that’s all right.” The less my mother knew of my errand, the better.
She had not precisely forbidden me to visit the pawnbroker who claimed to have a copy of Muscati’s Principles of Artifice, but she’d made her opinion of such excursions clear. And no one casually disobeyed La Contessa Lissandra Cornaro. Her word resonated with power in every walled garden and forgotten plaza in Raverra.
Still, there was nothing casual about a Muscati. Only twelve known copies of his books existed. If this was real, it would be the thirteenth.
As I strolled alongside the canal, my mother’s warnings seemed ridiculous. Sun-warmed facades flanked the green water, and workers unloaded produce from the mainland off boats moored at the canal’s edge. A bright, peaceful afternoon like this surely could hold no dangers.
But when my route veered away from the canal, plunging into a shadowy tunnel that burrowed straight through a building, I hesitated. It was far easier to imagine assassins or kidnappers lurking beyond that dim archway. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d faced either in my eighteen years as my mother’s heir.
The book, I reminded myself. Think of the book.
I passed through the throat of the tunnel, emerging into a street too narrow to ever see direct sunlight. Broken shutters and scarred brickwork closed around me. The few people I passed gave me startled, assessing glances.
I found the pawnbroker’s shop with relief, and hurried into a dim wilderness of dusty treasures. Jewelry and blown glass glittered on the shelves; furniture cluttered the floor, and paintings leaned against the walls. The proprietor bent over a conch shell wrapped with copper wire, a frown further creasing his already lined face. A few wisps of white over his ears were the last legacy of his hair.
I approached, glancing at the shell. “It’s broken.”
He scowled. “Is it? I should have known. He asked too little for a working one.”
“Half the beads are missing.” I pointed to a few orbs of colored glass still threaded on the wire. “You’d need an artificer to fix it if you wanted it to play music again.”
The pawnbroker looked up at me, and his eyes widened. “Lady Amalia Cornaro.” He bowed as best he could in the cramped shop.
I glanced around, but we were alone. “Please, no need for formality.”
“Forgive me. I didn’t recognize you in, ah, such attire.” He peered dubiously at my breeches. “Though I suppose that’s the fashion for young ladies these days.”
Breeches weren’t remotely in fashion for young ladies, but I didn’t bother correcting him. I was just grateful they were acceptable enough in my generation that I didn’t have to worry about causing a scandal or being mistaken for a courtesan.
“Do you have the book?” I reminded him. “Muscati’s Principles of Artifice, your note said.”
“Of course. I’d heard you were looking for it.” A certain gleam entered his eye with which I was all too familiar: Cornaro gold reflected back at me. “Wait a moment, and I’ll get it.”
He shuffled through a doorway to the rear of the shop.
I examined the shell. I knew enough from my studies of artifice to trace the patterns of wire and understand the spell that had captured the sound of a musical performance inside the shell’s rune-carved whorls. I could have fixed a broken wire, perhaps, but without the inborn talent of an artificer to infuse new beads with magical energy, the shell would stay silent.
The pawnbroker returned with a large leather-bound book. He laid it on the table beside the conch shell. “There you are, my lady.”
I flipped through the pages until I came to a diagram. Muscati’s combination of finicky precision in the wirework schematics and thick, blunt strokes for the runes was unmistakable. I let out a trembling breath. This was the real thing.
The pawnbroker’s long, delicate fingers covered the page. “Is all in order, then?”
“Yes, quite. Thank you.” I laid a gold ducat on the table
. It vanished so quickly I almost doubted I’d put it there.
“Always a pleasure,” he murmured.
I tucked the book into my satchel and hurried out of the musty shop, almost skipping with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get home, retreat to my bedroom with a glass of wine, and dive into Muscati’s timeworn pages. My friend Domenic from the University of Ardence said that to read Muscati was to open a window on a new view of the universe as a mathematical equation to be solved.
Of course, he’d only read excerpts. The university library didn’t have an actual Muscati. I’d have to get Domenic here to visit so I could show him. Maybe I’d give the book to the university when I was done with it.
It was hard to make myself focus on picking turns in the mazelike streets rather than dreaming about runic alphabets, geometric diagrams, and coiling wirework. At least I was headed in the right general direction. One more bridge to cross, and then I’d be in polite, patrician territory, safe and sound; and no lecture of my mother’s could change the fact that I’d completed my errand without incident.
But a tense group of figures stood in the tiny plaza before the bridge, frozen in a standoff, every line of their bodies promising each other violence.
Like so many things in Raverra, this had become complicated.
Three broad-shouldered men formed a menacing arc around a scrawny young woman with sprawling dark curls. The girl stood rigidly defiant, like a stick thrust in the mud. I slowed to a halt, clutching my satchel tight against my side, Muscati’s edge digging into my ribs.