by R J Theodore
It was well known that the aliens had been curious about Peridot. Poring over libraries, excavating ruins, collecting whatever information they could. It was even rumored that the aliens had visited the Rakkar alchemists in their subterranean laboratories. Unlocking Peridot’s secrets, apparently. The gods would certainly be able to provide any of the missing pieces of information.
This time the laugh really did almost escape from Talis’s mouth. The Divine Alchemists barely communicated with their own followers. They definitely didn’t conduct interviews.
She felt that seventy-five thousand evaporate before she even got to touch it.
How do you know The Five’s interests? something in her head asked. Maybe they’d like to meet the alien visitors.
If they wanted to meet the aliens, she argued with herself, they’d have done it. Gods don’t wait for an invitation.
Everyone in the room was looking at her, she realized. Waiting for her reply.
“If the governments of our planet each refused to sponsor an audience request with The Five,” said Talis, carefully, “what makes you think that I have the ability to provide such access?”
The alien in finery moved then. It lifted its veil, then reached out with a spindly finger and ran the tip along the edge of the battered ring.
“You already do more what your government cannot.”
It turned its head to look at Talis directly. She shrank, inwardly, from the strange sapphire eyes, wide as Zeela’s own sightless ones, but all darkness. No pupil, no cornea. In the rigid skeletal face, they had no expression except what the fixed carvings across the brow ridge implied. Something glittered deep within those eyes, though. Not any sort of personality, Talis didn’t sense, but a definite vastness of intelligence.
“Lady captain makes stories.” The first speaker took over again as the leader replaced its veil and sat back. “Repu-ta-tion.” It spoke the last word for itself, and the translator sputtered it back to the room in the alien language.
Talis wouldn’t have recognized the word, as the alien struggled with the softer consonants and the vowels disappeared almost entirely. Except she held that particular word dear. Her reputation had gotten her good deals in the past. Big contracts. Because she’d get the work done, whatever it took.
Curse my reputation now, she thought, to all five hells and what’s left to flotsam.
But they’d appealed to the right element of her personality. And Zeela must have known what Talis knew: She could take them to talk to The Five. Or one of them, anyway.
So then. She was going to do it, wasn’t she?
“It will be very expensive to escort your ship on a venture like that.”
The alien gestured, and the other two rose, moved behind the bolsters on their side of the room, and lifted a crate between them. They carefully stepped back over the cushions and placed it before Talis. One of them flitted its hand across the alien latch, and it popped open just slightly. Then the pair stepped back, pulling the lid open on silent metal tracks as they retreated.
Somewhere far away, Talis heard herself make a tiny sound. The room spun, sparkling with silver, gold, and a rainbow of twinkling gemstones. Her mind took several heartbeats longer than the communication pad to process the alien’s next words.
“For second request we make first payment of five hundred thousand coin equivalent. Second same payment after.”
Chapter 14
Talis left Zeela’s House of Antiquities by the front door.
The wooden porches and suspension bridges of the Platform District were kept freshly sanded by sighted custodians paid for from the coffers of the district’s shopkeeper co-op. No paint marks made along the walls here would remain for more than a few hours. The golden boards reflected the tawny warmth of delicate lights strung along railings and overhead. Around each glass bulb, duskfey flew in spheroid circuits, their luminescence competing with that of the electric and gas street lights. The cheer of the setting belied the chill of the cold winds below Rosa’s dark mass, and the danger of the undercity.
In the Platform District, where the Vein who came to live in Subrosa kept their shops and offices, wind chimes replaced the painted signs and graffiti that visually cluttered the rest of the black markets. The shopkeepers’ delicate hangings—tinkling metal, glass, and ceramics—competed for attention with the gangs’ makeshift cups, pins, and thin metal takeout trays as they danced in the open spaces just past the archway that led from the Tined Spoon District.
Talis’s hands trembled like those chimes. All the adrenaline that flooded her system during the meeting had abandoned her in its aftermath. She paused to lean against the railing of one open bridge. Her head spun as she stared into the skies beneath her. She was lightheaded, chilled. She hugged herself for warmth.
Gods. Dealings with the aliens now? How am I going to tell the crew?
The multi-octave sounds of the chimes announced a gust of wind before it reached her, and she braced her legs as best she could on the swaybacked bridge that would take her back to the docks.
Show them the money. Worked on you, didn’t it?
The trunk and its glittering contents would soon be on its own way to Wind Sabre, repacked into a cargo crate bearing customs forms for tea and herbs. Lighter, of course, by Zeela’s eighteen percent. Talis didn’t begrudge her the generous amount. She would have given Zeela an even bigger commission. The woman had saved her. Saved Wind Sabre. But for Talis, haggling was like breathing, and Talis talked her down because the initial amount Zeela requested would have been higher than she’d hoped for. If Zeela had pressed, Talis would have given up ground. She’d still come out well ahead thanks to the antiquarian and her clients.
Paranoid that the aliens might exit Zeela’s shop and catch her alone on the bridge, she pushed off, heading back to the docks. She still felt odd for not having haggled with the aliens, but what they’d offered was beyond her ability to properly appreciate. The mind stopped understanding numbers above a certain count.
Her feet bounced on the wooden planks strung between platforms, and her spirits bounced higher with each step. It was done. The troublesome ring was out of her hands and the money was forthcoming. Barely an hour after her dark moment in the alley outside The Docked Tail, the engine repair was a non-issue. Bills could be paid, overdue shares balanced for her crew, and luxuries still afforded beyond that. And all before they accepted the second payment at the other end of this. Her mind turned fanciful and the numbers turned to vapor. The math still made sense, but only in terms of abstracts. Everyone aboard Wind Sabre could afford their own ship after the shares were distributed.
A knot formed in her stomach at that thought, and she slowed her pace.
But why shouldn’t they all go on with their own careers? Or retire, buy an island? Hells, an inner island! Plague the aristocracy with their presence.
Gods, woman, don’t get ahead of yourself.
The money wasn’t aboard the ship yet. She could be anxious over that at the right time, which wasn’t now.
What Zeela gained in the bargain went beyond wealth. Beyond eighteen percent of one million seventy-five thousand presscoins. She could now declare herself the official trade representative to the aliens. Wouldn’t that be something to put on her shop sign? ‘Herbal Remedies, Antiques, Alien Trade.’ The Yu’Nyun had provided her with a communication tablet and as Talis left the shop, they were in the midst of arranging some sort of exclusivity contract.
Zeela would probably backward-engineer the translator and have a corner on that market, too. Good position to be in, if the aliens didn’t conclude their exploration too soon and return to wherever it was that they came from. Whatever kind of world would birth beings such as those.
Too soon? Laughable thought. Talis might have accepted their money, but if they returned home yesterday it wouldn’t be too soon in her mind.
Sh
e didn’t reckon that Onaya Bone was going to give the aliens the information they wanted. There was a fair chance they wouldn’t even get the audience with her that they sought. She rarely spoke to her own people. Other races of Peridot even less frequently. And here were these outsiders, skulking around, behaving like cosmic stalkers. Acting as though Peridot was a public archive, forgetting it was people’s home.
Talis considered herself worldly. Believed she stood apart from the rest of Cutter folk, who were ignorant and isolationist. They stared at and avoided the other four races, spreading rumors and folklore to amplify their differences. She was proud that she darted here and there across the territories, and that she considered anyone who could be trusted beyond the edge of her eyesight as a potential friend. That she could drink firewater with the Rakkar, play skill games with the Vein, consider a Breaker man her closest business partner, or share her deepest secrets with a Bone warrior. So it came as an unsettling surprise to her—and an unsettling blow to her ego—that she felt so much discomfort around the Yu’Nyun.
All the same, Talis was not as annoyed at their presence as she had been before. Her skin prickled a little less in picturing the gaunt forms of her new clients. Her instinct to run had settled back down in her stomach. Which resumed its normal operations, reminding her she hadn’t had anything to eat all day.
The vision of sparkling precious metal and gems was now mated in her mind with the thought of the aliens. The flesh beneath their carved, bony husks might as well be polished sapphire.
Not that she thought she’d ever get used to seeing them. But at least she wouldn’t have to spend much time in their company. They were going to stay on their own ship. Wind Sabre would escort them to Fall Island, a day and a half’s cruise on the other side of the Bone border.
Hells, customs crossing is gonna be fun.
Talis entered the Tined Spoon District, where the biting fresh air of the open platforms was replaced with the hot spiced breath of Subrosa’s eateries. They were clustered together in one mostly fireproof concrete construction, centrally located and anchored directly to the inverted pyramid-shaped mass of Rosa above. All cultures were represented in the food stalls and restaurants, their smells mingling in the still air and the heat from the ovens and cooktops ensuring healthy sales of cold drink.
Her stomach rumbled and she changed course. She’d taken a scoop of the money from the coffers before departing Zeela’s back room. Tried not to look desperate. But now that her money belt was full and overdue expenses weren’t flowing in an endless list behind her eyes, it seemed reasonable to indulge in a tray of her favorite takeout. She had yet to figure out just how to tell her crew about their new contract, but a hot meal might help warm them to the idea.
Talis passed by stands of peppered sausages, kiosks where folded grain pockets were filled with crumbled mince and corn, and restaurants where thin cuts of meat and vegetables were served in bowls of fragrant broths. Past steaming stalls where batter-dipped indeterminate shapes were fried crispy and golden on the ends of wooden sticks. Headed for a tiny shop on the edge of the district, hiding in a back alley. Unnamed, the food stand mostly served the residents of Subrosa rather than trying to attract docked visitors. No pretense of friendly service, clean facilities, or tables that didn’t wobble. It was one of the best-kept secrets of Subrosa, and that was saying something. Either you knew the food was fantastic, and how to get there, or you stuck to the main thoroughfare, living on in ignorance.
At ease for the first time in months, Talis was rounding the last turn before reaching the food stall she sought when Hankirk nearly collided with her. He froze in surprise, a skewer of roasted poultry half-bitten between his teeth. One hand holding said skewer, the other supporting a tray containing the rest of his order. His face was something to see. Probably mirrored her own shock, though his eyes sparkled with something like delight. Well, sure. About to finally make that arrest, wasn’t he?
Her new revolvers were free of their holsters and leveled at him, with the food still half in his mouth. Their weight was strange in her hands, but she was thankful to have the advantage.
“No witnesses,” she said, pulling back the hammers with audible clicks. “I could save myself a lot of trouble right now.”
In truth, there were plenty of witnesses. There was a line snaking out of the door of the restaurant. But this was Subrosa. They had looked up when she drew the weapons but now turned uninterested eyes back to the menu boards in front of them. Shots fired, throats cut, inert bodies left in busy streets; these were all part of the place’s charm. She thought of the assassins. Of Jasper’s cooling body, and gripped the guns tighter.
Hankirk wasn’t even wearing his Imperial uniform. Of course he wouldn’t declare his allegiance in this place. Bad enough his ship was in full regalia. It was likely he’d anchored at some smaller island nearby, and come in on a local transport. No one would know to report the death of an Imperial captain, if they cared to report the death at all. He had two days’ scruff of growth on his cheeks. He almost looked the part, almost fit in with the brigands. In her experience, he was the worst of them.
But she stayed still. Wasn’t a murderer. Killer, sure, when given provocation. The guns were testament to that. Survivor. She liked the sound of that better.
Hankirk recovered, finished the bite and dropped the skewer back on his tray. Held the now-empty hand up in the air in surrender while he chewed and swallowed. There was no gun at his hip, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
“I see you met my friend Geram.” He nodded at her guns.
“Briefly,” was all she said.
But she could have kissed him. A huge weight was removed from her shoulders. The men outside Jasper’s shop hadn’t been in Zeela’s employ, and there was no anonymous third party at play here. Just more of Hankirk’s tangled work, and that much she was already handling. Veritors wouldn’t hesitate to murder a Breaker. It made so much sense, and largely cleared up the rest of her questions.
This was turning out to be a fine day.
“Talis,” he said calmly. Addressing her like a friend, though she knew his raised hand could grab for her wrist at any moment. “You don’t know what you have.”
“Getting a better idea every time you make an attempt on my life, you motherless bastard.”
“Are you hurt? They were only supposed to rob you.” His confusion was almost convincing. “Just take the ring and put you off of it.”
She scoffed, leaning her weight into one hip. The guns were heavy. “You were going to put us off a hangman’s platform. They were going to put us off the docks. You’ll have to try harder if you want to fool me.”
“Just give it to me, Talis. This is a bigger thing than your little ship can carry.”
She stared at him but didn’t reply. Her nose itched, but no way was she moving the revolvers.
“Give it to me and I’ll drop the charges. I’ll even let your Bone man live.” He retained that self-assured tilt to his shoulders, but she’d almost swear he was begging. Far cry from the elitist disdain he’d put off back in front of his crew. “Or come with me, and we can finish this thing together.”
“What thing? What’s the course you’re plotting here, Hankirk? You want the ring for what? You can’t get much richer, can you?”
She squeezed her elbows against her rib cage to keep her hands steady. This conversation was lasting too long. She wondered if she could safely holster one of the guns without appearing to back down. His eyes flicked momentarily to the movement of her hands. She abandoned the idea.
“You remember what I told you, back at the academy?” He looked as though he wanted to take a step toward her, but had the sense not to.
“Oh, I remember. You remember I removed myself from your company after?”
“Just give me the ring, Talis. Please.”
She delighted in disappointing him.
“I don’t have it.”
His eyes dilated. Contracted. Dilated again. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Shock and anger battled for control of his face.
She enjoyed the show. He was desperate for it.
“What’ll it get you? Another promotion? An even bigger ship with even more brass to polish?”
He started to take that step forward, but she motioned with the gun in her right hand. He put his foot back.
“Where is it?”
She wished she’d pulled a knife instead of the guns. These things easily weighed twice as much as her usual pistols, and she’d already climbed half across the width of Subrosa since breakfast. Hankirk’s desire for the ring went beyond orders and laws, she realized. What did he have to prove? He was Fens Yarrow’s heir, wasn’t he? He’d told her so.
Or maybe that was just it. Prove he was up to the legacy? Do something more dramatic and foolhardy than his forebear had? Try to kill a god and actually succeed this time? The ring must be at the center of that. She had no proof, but the look on his face made her certain. She was suddenly very glad it was out of his reach.
“Sold it. Got myself a buyer, no thanks to you or the flags you sent up. Ought to thank you, though, for forcing me to hold out for the right price. Made a nice tidy profit after all.”
Tidy was hardly the word. She wanted to pour that coffer out on the deck of her ship and look at the bright shiny mess it would make, then enjoy picking up every gem and gold bullion rod again to stow it. She decided she was feeling generous. She holstered the guns, put her hands on her hips instead. The muscles in her arms and shoulders nearly shook with relief, and she didn’t need her arms trembling just now.
Hankirk barely noticed that she’d put down the weapons. He almost dropped his tray of food, and had to catch it in a spasm of movement. “Who was your buyer? That ring is the key to everything. Talis, what have you done?”