The Manticore's Soiree

by Alec Hutson

  The endless gloaming pressed against the large windows set high up in the warehouse’s walls, draping the jumbled bales of cotton below in shadow and turning the interior into a ruined cityscape. Vessa waited, leaning against a listing tower and watching the huge double doors, as she had just a few days ago when her life had been markedly less complicated. Her task then had been to make sure the longshoremen dragging the bales inside didn’t “lose” any of the valuable cotton as they worked; her task now was to negotiate the return of the sun to the sky. Vessa sighed and shook her head, wondering how events had led her to this.

  Would Malz come? The thought that a Vigilant of Malakesh would answer a summons to meet in a warehouse at the docks seemed preposterous, but in her note she had claimed to have discovered some vital information about what was afflicting Malakesh. Surely he couldn’t ignore that, even though she suspected he knew far more than she did about what was really transpiring.

  Vessa glanced up, trying to catch some glimpse of Del among the rafters, but her partner had hidden himself well. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to reveal himself later.

  She tensed as the scrape of metal came from outside. The heavy doors shivered, then swung slowly inwards, pushed open by a pair of guardsmen wearing the duke’s livery. Both carried lanterns hung from nightwatchmen poles. Malz followed behind them, limping, surrounded by another five warriors who seemed to move almost in lockstep as they paced the Vigilant.

  Interesting. From their spiked helms and black cloaks these were members of the Hounds, the duke’s personal guard. By bringing them to this meeting Malz was making a statement that he had the support of Malakesh’s ruler in these matters.

  “Vessa!” the Vigilant cried out when he saw her, motioning for the knot of warriors to halt. “I appreciate the sea air, but I thought I told you to come see me in Stonespear when you found your partner.” Malz made a show of peering into the shadows. “And where is Del Amoth, might I ask?”

  “He’s here,” said Vessa, pushing herself from the bales.

  “Ah,” the Vigilant said with a conspiratorial grin. “He’s watching us from somewhere with a crossbow, yes? Really, Vessa, you should be more trusting.”

  “It’s true I don’t trust you, but he’s out there because the other folk I’ve invited are more dangerous than you.”

  A flicker of uncertainty passed across Malz’s face. “Other folk?”

  As if in response to the Vigilant, noises came from deeper within the warehouse. Footsteps, ringing out so loud that they could only be meant as a warning for others. There was also muffled sobbing that made the back of Vessa’s neck tingle and her hands grow cold. She knew that voice. And . . . whistling? Yes, someone was whistling a jaunty children’s tune as they approached through the maze of cotton bales.

  She saw the eyes first, flashing golden from the light of the guard’s lanterns. Malz hissed something under his breath, and Vessa thought she saw his face harden slightly.

  The Lost Men entered the light. The Aliva who had called himself Wraith was first, flanked by a pair of tall, gangly youths who looked to be brothers. One wore a cocky smile, and the other was the whistler. Both twirled long-handled axes, as if they were wandering through a forest searching for trees to cut down. Behind them came a few less-imposing individuals: two men, one fat and one thin, each wearing white robes banded by gold which marked them as priests of Aradeth. Vessa’s breath caught in her throat when she saw Carine shuffling along beside them, her hands bound in front of her and her head bowed so that her red curls obscured her face. Anger rose in Vessa, but she tamped it down. She needed all her wits about her.

  “Greetings, Vigilant,” murmured the Aliva, inclining his head toward the guardsmen.

  “Wraith,” Malz replied curtly.

  The captain of the Lost Men smiled faintly and then turned to Vessa. “It seems we have all come for the Eye. I hope, swordmaiden, that you truly possess it.”

  “I don’t.”

  Carine’s head jerked up at the sound of Vessa’s voice, and hope flooded her face. She appeared unharmed, much to Vessa’s relief.

  The Aliva blinked, his expression bemused. “Then why did you call us here?”

  “Because he has the Eye,” Vessa said, pointing at Malz.

  Now it was the Vigilant’s turn to look surprised. “What madness are you speaking?”

  Vessa swallowed hard. She had to be right – Carine’s life depended on it. “Not madness, Vigilant. Reason. Who has benefited most from this whole debacle? A few days ago the city was on the brink of a riot between the faithful of the Day and Night, but now their followers have deserted them, incensed by the sun’s disappearance. I saw in the Silken Cities the damage the followers of Xeno and Aradeth could do when they were stirred up, and I’m guessing you knew the danger as well, and feared for Malakesh. So you employed the false priestess Sahm – and I have my suspicions about who she is – to trick us into stealing the Eye for you. With the Lost Men scouring the city for Sahm, the only way she could have avoided being found would be if she were under the duke’s protection in Stonespear.”

  Malz flashed one of his lopsided grins. “An interesting theory. But I do not have the Eye.”

  Vessa’s heart dropped into her stomach. If that was true then she would have to convince the Vigilant to help negotiate Carine’s release from the Lost Men. And failing that she would have to free her herself.

  Malz seemed to read her thoughts, and he spared a glance at Carine. “Ah, I suppose this game has gone on long enough. Vessa, I do not have the Eye. But the one you think of as Sahm does.” The Vigilant’s voice strengthened, as if he was speaking to someone outside the light of the lanterns. “Annysia, show yourself.”

  Several moments passed, and then shadowy tendrils groped from the darkness, twisting together to form a patch of rippling black. A wind arose, strong enough to set the hanging lanterns swinging, and when the darkness blew away like shreds of clouds in a stormy sky, Sahm was revealed.

  Gone was the terrified wisp of a girl – in her place was a woman who exuded confidence and authority. She had traded her simple gray robes for a shimmering satin dress the same color as the sky outside; it seemed to ripple and twist, darkening from a deep blue to a purple that verged on black.

  “Witch!” spat the fat priest of Aradeth into the shocked silence.

  The Aliva turned toward him. “You recognize her?” he said mildly.

  “Aye,” the priest growled. “A sorceress and high priestess of the Dusk. I should have known from the sky that the Lady of Twilight was involved in this.”

  Sahm – or Annysia – eyed the priest with cold disdain. “You brought this disaster down upon your own temple, fool. Aradeth and Xeno thought to leave their sisters behind in the south, and greedily seize all these fresh believers for themselves. Now your faith withers in this city, and the people witness the power of my mistress.”

  “Annysia,” said Malz, “end the enchantment over the city and return the Eye to the Great Effulgence.”

  “It is not yet time, Vigilant.”

  “I’m changing the terms of our agreement. Both our ends have now been achieved, I think.”

  The priestess of the twilight held the Vigilant’s gaze for a long moment, and then pulled from the folds of her robes something that glittered in the lantern-light. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and Vessa gasped as the light in the windows high above began to change almost at once. Purple faded to a wan gray, then brightened, as if the sun was emerging from behind a fogbank.

  Annysia opened her hand, and the crystal orb floated toward the high priest of Aradeth, who snatched it from the air. She laughed at the look of hatred he shot her as he cradled the Eye.

  The Aliva flourished a curved knife, then cut the ropes binding Carine’s wrists. She glanced at him, and when he nodded she rushed toward Vessa, nearly collapsing into her arms with a wrenching sob.

  Malz smiled. “It seems this little drama has finished.”

  �
��Not quite,” said the Aliva. “This artifact has the power to steal the very sun from the sky. The Lost Men would be foolish to let it slip away.” He turned to the Great Effulgence of Aradeth and plunged his knife into the priest’s neck. Sidestepping the blood spurting from the wound, Wraith caught the Eye with casual grace as it dropped. The priest collapsed, fumbling helplessly with the jutting hilt.

  “Down!” Vessa cried, pulling Carine behind a pile of cotton bales as the air thrummed with the sound of crossbows. Several of the Hound guardsmen staggered, quarrels sprouting from their cuirasses, and then the Lost Men were among them, whooping as they swung their long-handled axes. A head exploded, the lantern the guardsman had held spinning away to shatter on the wooden floor. A line of flame sprung up, tracing the path of the spilled oil.

  Del, do something, Vessa thought, but before she even finished that silent plea a shriek came from above and a body plummeted from the rafters. It landed near Vessa, staring at her sightlessly, and she saw one of Del’s daggers buried in its back. Good lad.

  “Hide!” she screamed at Carine, drawing her swords as she surged to her feet. Chaos swirled around Vessa: the Hounds who had not fallen were being kept at bay by the great sweeping arcs of the Lost Men’s axes, while the thin priest of Aradeth cowered beside the splayed body of the murdered Great Effulgence. Scraps of the dwindling shadows slithered forth to twist around the sorceress of the twilight; as Annysia faded into the darkness, her eyes found Vessa’s, and she smiled.

  That’s a score to settle later, Vessa thought, then flinched as another Lost Man tumbled from above, his neck slashed. The Aliva stepped over the twitching body, his face eerily blank despite the screams and shriek of steel. He walked with an unhurried pace toward Vessa, a curving red-metal sword in one hand and a shorter, broader blade in the other. There was no hate in his golden eyes, no anger or excitement. Just calm purpose.

  Vessa set her feet and brought her swords up, watching to see which stance the Aliva adopted. Wraith raised his own blades, holding them sideways in a fighting style she was unfamiliar with.

  “The Vigilant tricked you, Vessa,” he said. “And he misled us. The Lost Men have no quarrel with you.”

  “I have a quarrel with you,” Vessa said, and lunged forward, her swords flashing. The Aliva parried her attack smoothly.

  “You would die because of the barmaid?” His scimitar flickered out, and she turned it away.

  “She had no part in this, and you threatened her life!”

  The Aliva danced back, out of the reach of her longer blades. “My people have a saying, swordmaiden – there are no innocents.” Flames limned Wraith; behind him the fire from the shattered lantern had engulfed one of the towers of stacked cotton bales and started to climb the wall.

  He came at her with startling speed, and she was driven back on her heels, struggling to ward away his attacks. She blocked his scimitar with her sword, then had to twist her body out of the way to avoid being disemboweled by his shorter blade. Vessa turned her desperate evasion into a spinning slash, but somehow the Aliva managed to lock the hilt of his stubby sword with her own, and then with a flick of his wrist he sent her blade spinning off into the shadows.

  Something struck the Aliva from behind, and he staggered. Vessa did not hesitate and leaped forward, thrusting her remaining sword deep into his chest. The Aliva gasped, his great luminescent eyes fluttering wide, and then toppled over as she wrenched her blade free.

  Carine threw away the shattered night watchman’s pole she’d struck the Aliva with, her shoulders heaving, then sank to her knees. Vessa tousled her hair as she brushed past her to pick up the sword the Aliva had knocked aside.

  A few more of the guardsmen lay crumpled before the Lost Men – now only three remained, obviously scared to get within the reach of the glittering axes carving the air. One of the shadow society men threw back his head and shrieked a laugh that made Vessa doubt his sanity. She adjusted her grip on her swords and started toward the pair, but before she could take more than a few steps she saw the Vigilant slide with surprising grace within the whirling axes and plunge a slim rapier into the side of one of the Lost Men, angling the blade upward. Vessa could tell that it slipped perfectly between his ribs and found his heart, because the crazed laughter ended abruptly. His ax-brother glanced over just as a crossbow bolt from above struck him in the face, snapping his head back.

  “Del, now get out!” Vessa screamed, grabbing Carine’s arm and pulling her coughing toward the door. The crawling flames had nearly reached the ceiling, and the air was beginning to thicken with a haze of oily smoke.

  They burst from the warehouse and dashed across the wide avenue that separated the building from the docks. Moments later the remaining Hounds followed, two of them supporting the Vigilant as he hobbled to where Vessa and Carine stood gulping down great lungfuls of fresh air.

  “Your partner?” Malz asked.

  “He’s coming,” Vessa assured him, but she felt a pang of unease watching the flames skitter across the roof and begin to devour the warehouse.

  Somewhere in the distance a fire-bell rang.

  “There!” Carine cried, pointing as a shadowy figure slipped around the side of the warehouse and hurried toward them. Relief flooded Vessa when she saw it was indeed Del Amoth.

  “What about the Eye?”

  As if in answer to Malz’s question, the beams above the warehouse’s door collapsed in a rush of flames and sparks.

  “Um, I have it.” It was a voice she hadn’t heard before, and Vessa whirled around with her hands on the hilts of her swords, but it was just the thin priest of Aradeth, his white robes blackened by soot and smoke. “I suppose I’ll, uh, return it to the temple.”

  “Excellent idea,” Malz said, clapping the priest on his shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “And I’d like a word with you, so that we might come to a mutual understanding of what happened here tonight . . .”

  Laughing, Vessa pushed open the door to the Grot, then held it wide for Carine and Del Amoth. Her partner was closely examining one of the shards of colored glass he’d found in a pocket, prodding it with a finger.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before, but there’s a strong glamour here.”

  Vessa squeezed his shoulder. “Your greed blinded you. I think we were both guilty of that. Nevermind, set it aside. I think we’ve earned a good long rest, along with the chance to spend some of the duke’s gold.”

  “Carine!” bellowed Kell from behind the bar when he caught sight of them. “Where have you been, girl? Off having fun with your penniless friends? Get in the kitchen and start cleaning!”

  Carine glanced at Vessa and sighed. “Yes, Uncle. Coming, Uncle.”

  “And you!” Kell continued, jabbing a finger at Vessa. “I thought I just told you to go talk to Alberon. You need to find some work so you can begin paying off your debts!”

  Vessa frowned. “I think you must be thinking of someone else, Kell.”

  “What, are you into the dreamsmoke again? You were in here not a half-watch ago, just before the sun finally jumped back into the sky. Asking all kinds of crazy questions.”

  Vessa froze. What was Kell talking about?

  Oh no …

  “The mirror!” Del Amoth cried, grabbing her arm and shaking it hard.

  And she’d been so looking forward to a little rest.

  A RED BIRD WITH blue wings flickers between branches studded with purple blossoms. Sunlight drenches the trees outside Akara’s window, warm as her mother’s embrace. Slowly she raises her hand to the light, trying to catch it before it melts away again, before it slips between her fingers – but she cannot hold on, and it dissolves once more into the dimness.

  Akara returns to herself. She lies upon a bed damp with sweat that is not hers. She breathes in carefully, filling her aching ribs and chest with air. So heavy. This Uncle had been so heavy. Gently she brushes her nipples, wincing at how tender they feel. She doesn’t remember much – she never
does. But the weight – the crushing weight – she cannot forget. Like drowning. Like the time she slipped on the muddy bank of the river and Brother pulled her out and pounded her back until she coughed up the water in her lungs.

  She aches everywhere, but less where it hurt the most before. Is that good? She feels like something is broken.

  Akara stares at the red light hanging from the ceiling. Slowly she moves her arms in the soiled sheets, imagining that the light is the sun, and if she wills herself hard enough she could lift from this bed and fly away. Back to the village. Back to her tin-and-wood house perched on stilts beside the stream with its small frogs, back to her mother’s arms and the smell of amok simmering on the burner.

  The sound of a glass falling over in the next room brings her back. She knows what that means: Big Uncle is sleeping now, and he won’t wake up until morning. Then he will be very angry, and he will hit and pinch her if she makes any noise. And after that she will lie and wait for another Uncle to come and visit her, as she has done every day since she first came to this room.

  She must fly away.

  Trying not to gasp from the pain, Akara sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed. She lowers herself to the floor, taking great care not to press down on the wooden slats that creak and groan. She scoops her crumpled shirt from where the Uncle tossed it and pulls it on again. Her pants are harder to find; they are balled up under the sheets, her underwear still tangled inside.

  There are pink slippers next to the bed, painted with the happy faces of rabbits. They are big for her, but she can walk in them. She puts them on and nudges open the door.

  Big Uncle slouches in his chair, his arms dangling down and his head lolling to one side. A glass bottle is tipped over beside him, and some dark liquid has crept out to stain the floor. She can hear his slow, steady breathing.

  She steps out into the room, crossing a threshold she has been told she must never even approach. Her heart leaps, so loud she’s sure Big Uncle will wake. Then he will lurch from his chair red-faced and he will punch her again in the stomach until she’s curled up into a ball coughing up blood. Like the first time she tried to run away, when Uncle and his friends pulled open the container’s door and told her in Khmer that she was in America now, and that she was his.