by Jon Skovron
* * *
They made port the next day. As Captain Carmichael eased the ship into the docks, Hope stared with wonder at the cluster of buildings, some two storied, that ran along a clean grid. It was larger than her home village and the monastery of Galemoor combined.
“What city is this?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t call Vance Post a city,” said Carmichael. “More like an oversize trading station.”
“Cities are even bigger than this?”
Carmichael smiled. “Much.” He cleared his throat and addressed the whole crew. “Let’s get this cargo unloaded so we can get paid.”
The crew were back to their drunken idle selves, but mention of getting paid brought new life to their eyes, and they quickly secured the ship to the pier and unloaded the cargo onto the dock. The dockmaster inspected the cargo, then signed the shipping paper Carmichael gave him.
Carmichael held up the signed paper for Hope to see. “Now we take this down to the Imperial Trade Commission and exchange it for money.”
The streets of Vance Post were crowded with merchants, some in fine dress, others in simple dress, but all neat and clean. After several days aboard the Lady’s Gambit, where bathing was too high a luxury to afford, Hope knew how grimy she must look to them, her skin streaked with tar and salt, her yellow hair clumped together in spikes from repeated soakings in seawater. She pushed those self-conscious thoughts to the back of her mind, though. Her primary responsibility was the safety of her captain, so she scanned the streets carefully, her hand close to the pommel of her sword.
“You can relax a little, Southie,” said Ranking. “I don’t reckon we’ll see a lot of action in this place.”
“It does seem very orderly,” admitted Hope.
“It’s a place where people do business, and not much else,” said Carmichael. “The only people who live here are merchants and their families. It’s the largest port of call in the southeastern part of the empire. If you’re trading in this region, you’re coming through Vance Post.”
“In other words, this is where the money is,” said Ranking.
“That would seem to make it a tempting target to thieves,” said Hope.
“It might,” said Carmichael. “If it weren’t for the fleet of imperial naval ships stationed here at all times.” He gestured to a large square building across the street from them. Above the dark wood door hung a sign that read IMPERIAL TRADE COMMISSION. It was fixed with the imperial crest, a bolt of lightning colliding with a wave. “It may not be as impressive as Stonepeak or New Laven, but Vance Post is one of the most important ports of call in the empire. Now, come on. Time to do business. My least favorite part of being a captain.”
He led them through the front doors of the Imperial Trade Commission. The room inside was lit by dim sunlight that filtered in through the windows. Several men lounged idly on benches that lined the walls. On the far side of the room, an imperial officer in a white-and-gold coat sat at a large wooden desk with a small oil lamp. A man stood in front of the desk, his hat in his hands as he talked quietly to the imperial officer. Carmichael stopped a respectful distance from them and waited.
The desk was flanked on either side by an imperial soldier, their gold chest plates glinting dimly from the lamp on the desk. Hope unconsciously tensed up at the sight of the uniforms. It was the first time she had seen those colors since the massacre of her village, and they hadn’t changed in the slightest detail. She felt the dark hunger of vengeance beginning to spread and took a deep breath to anchor herself against it.
“Not fond of the imps, eh?” Ranking whispered to her as they waited.
“Imps?” Hope whispered back.
“Imperial soldiers. Thought you Vinchen would be all cozy with them, but your jaw just turned steel, so I reckon you’ve got a grind.”
“I do not trust imperial soldiers,” she admitted.
“Maybe we do have something in common, then.”
Hope wanted to ask him what he meant, but the man in front of them was gone and the desk was now open, so Carmichael stepped forward.
“Captain Carmichael of the Lady’s Gambit with a delivery.” He placed the rumpled, salt-stained, signed paper on the clean desk, awkwardly smoothing it out with his rough hands.
The officer held up the sheet with one thumb and forefinger, squinting as he tried to make out the sun-bleached ink. “Lamp oil, whale bone, salted meat…and lumber.”
“Aye,” said Carmichael.
The officer nodded, reached into his desk, and counted out a small stack of coins. “One gold, twenty silver,” he said as he slid the stack to Carmichael.
“Thank you, sir,” said Carmichael. “Any new cargo we can pick up?”
“It’s been a slow week,” said the officer, nodding to the sailors sitting on the benches. “Some of them have been waiting days for decent cargo.” He moved a few sheets of paper around on his desk, then held one up. “The only thing I have right now is a shipment of food and spirits bound for Dawn’s Light.”
“Dawn’s Light?” asked Ranking. “But that’s—”
“I’ll take it,” said Carmichael.
Ranking clamped his mouth shut, but Hope could tell something about the destination alarmed him. The officer seemed surprised as well.
“You can handle the voyage?” he asked.
“I can,” said Carmichael.
The officer shrugged, wrote something on the sheet, and handed it to Carmichael. “Take this down to the dockmaster and he’ll see your cargo gets loaded.”
“Thanks kindly, sir.” Carmichael turned and headed for the door, Hope and Ranking following behind.
As soon as they were back on the street, Ranking said, “Piss’ell, Captain. Dawn’s pissing Light?”
“I’ve never heard of that island,” said Hope.
“Military outpost way out on the eastern edge of the empire,” said Carmichael. “Last spit of land before the Dawn Sea.”
“It’s pissing no-man’s-land,” said Ranking. “You run into trouble out there, you’re on your own.” His eyes were wide and he kept looking around as though the mere mention of the place might somehow magically transport him there instantly.
“I don’t plan on us getting into trouble,” said Carmichael.
“You know it’s out past the Breaks,” said Ranking.
“I can handle the Breaks.”
“I hear there’s pirates lurking in the Breaks.”
“I’ve heard the same,” admitted Carmichael.
“Pirates? Like Dire Bane?” asked Hope. The infamous pirate that her teacher brought to justice was the only one she was familiar with.
Ranking spat. “This lot is nothing like Dire Bane. No honor, no mercy. They’re barely more than animals. I hear when they raid a ship, they kill the entire crew. And then instead of dumping the bodies overboard, they eat them.”
“Dawn’s Light is a risk,” admitted Carmichael. “But we need a new main royal, which is going to eat up a fair chunk of what we just made. And like as not, soon we’ll need a new mainmast entirely. We need the money. We could be there and back by the time any other cargo shows up here. Otherwise we’ll just be lolling around like the rest of them, losing money to those ridiculous overnight dock fees. Besides, Hope can take care of any pirate trouble we run into, isn’t that right?”
“Of course, Captain,” said Hope, because that was what he wanted her to say. But she wondered if it were true. Her skills were still so untested. Her only real combat experience had been with one lone, overconfident Vinchen warrior and a big stupid fish. She felt a cold prickle of trepidation at the idea of a new adversary. But even stronger, she felt a yearning to meet the challenge and know herself as a true warrior.
The code said a Vinchen should never crave battle, so as they returned to the ship, she tried to put those thoughts aside. But the feeling chased her the rest of the day as they waited for their cargo, and even into her dreams, where she cut down pirates dressed in white and gold.
10
When Brigga Lin arrived at the temple of Morack Tor, he’d expected to find more than a pile of wind-worn rubble. It was said Morack Tor, one of the first true biomancers, built it centuries before the birth of the empire, and it had been a repository of knowledge for the order. But in the early days of the empire, long after Morack Tor was dead, the head of the biomancer council, Burness Vee, had it destroyed at the urging of Selk the Brave of the Vinchen order. Some knowledge, they said, was simply too dangerous to exist. But that was exactly the sort of knowledge Brigga Lin sought.
For the last decade, the biomancer council had grown increasingly alarmed by the threat of invasion from the north, beyond the Dark Sea. Every biomancer in the empire had been desperately searching for some new weapon that would show the emperor’s dominance over the encroaching foreigners. But typical of the old, their thinking was too narrow and conventional. Not Brigga Lin. While he had been completing his novitiate at Stonepeak, he learned that the ruins of Morack Tor still existed, untouched since the time of the Dark Mage. He suggested to his mentor that they should explore the ruins. Surely, if the Dark Mage had found something worthwhile, so might they. His mentor had said it was a waste of time. That it was only a pile of rubble now. Despite those words, Brigga Lin had expected to find more. But as he dragged his small boat onto the beach, that was all he saw.
It was a small island, roughly rectangular, and barely a quarter mile across. It was fringed in gray sand that gave way in the center to a dark green moss that covered the piles of carved stone that had once been the temple. That was all there was.
Brigga Lin sighed and sat on one of the moss-covered pillars. The council had refused his request to bring a squad of imperial guards, and he was glad of it now. They would have mocked him soundly for this disappointment. The imperial guards held the older biomancers in a reverence that bordered on fear. But they held no such respect for a newly ordained biomancer, especially one with such a lackluster reputation. It was true that Brigga Lin had not been the most adept at transformation, and that even his scholarly endeavors had been unimpressive. But what he lacked in talent, he made up for in resolve. He would find something among these ruins, or he would die trying.
So he began his search among the ruins of Morack Tor. And he nearly did die. Though he carefully rationed his supplies, they ran out after ten days. Still he searched, keeping himself alive by drinking the rainwater he squeezed out of the foul green moss. When he got hungry enough, he ate the moss as well. Unfortunately, the moss caused mild hallucinations. But even that did not stop him. Finally, one afternoon, while the clouds above seemed to pulse angrily and the stones seemed to melt into each other with agonized expressions, he found an underground passage.
It took him some time to make sure he was not hallucinating. But the visions came and went in waves, so in one of his lucid moments, he was able to verify that there was a square stone piece on the ground with a large metal ring. A diet of nothing but rainwater and hallucinogenic moss made him weak, but by using the wooden rudder of his ship, he was able to fashion a lever and pry the hatch open. He climbed down into the dark, underground room, muttering to himself about how they would all rue the day they doubted him. But then he thought perhaps he’d spoken too soon. There was nothing in the room. It was lined with bookshelves, but they were filled only with ash. There were also char marks on the stone floor and ceiling, as if someone had lit the entire library ablaze.
Brigga Lin dropped to his knees. He stared down at his white biomancer robe, now stained with mud and moss. Waves of dizziness rolled through his body as the toxic moss ran its course. He wondered if the moss would kill him. He hadn’t even considered that until this moment. They were all right. His parents, his mentor, the council. He was nothing but an arrogant fool.
Then he noticed a perfectly round hole in the stone floor. He’d thought it strange that the floor was stone. Why not just leave it dirt? Unless there was something hidden beneath it.
There was text etched into the stone near the hole. He leaned over, fighting to read with his moss-poisoned vision. The letters seemed to ripple and undulate, so it took him a while to read the simple message, and longer before he thought he understood it.
He who is brave enough to reach blindly into the darkness will be lost to the darkness, and the darkness lost to him.
It didn’t sound very promising. It was common knowledge that traps had been laid in many of the old biomancer temples, and being lost to the darkness sounded like a threat. But it was that last phrase that made him pause. How could the darkness be lost to someone? Perhaps it was the moss that clouded his thinking, but that didn’t make sense to him. He sat and pondered it a long time, but came to no conclusion. Twice he stood as if to go, only to remember that this was his last hope. He either reached into the hole or returned empty-handed to Stonepeak and the rancor of his mentor and peers.
“Damn it to all the hells in this life and the next,” he muttered, then knelt down and shoved his hand into the hole.
11
Little Bee had an aunt in Hammer Point who took her in. Red didn’t feel right about letting her leave the Circle for a neighborhood that everyone knew wasn’t near as nice. But as Filler pointed out, there weren’t any other options. When Red had suggested they take her in, Filler just stared at him like he’d gone slippy. Red had to admit that they were probably not ideal choices to care for a little girl, and it was fortunate that Little Bee had anyone at all. Or Jilly. Nobody would call her Little Bee now, Red realized. That idea troubled him perhaps more than any other part. In Paradise Circle, a name meant something, whether you chose it, or more often, it was chosen for you. And in the Circle, a name stuck.
But Red’s doubts about Little Bee didn’t linger, especially once she was gone. Because more and more, his thoughts and energy were spent trying to figure out how he could see Nettles as much as possible.
She wanted to be near Filler while he worked on her chainblade, as she’d started calling it, but didn’t want to be a pest. So she spent a lot of time in Gunpowder Hall. The inside of the hall was one big open space with tables, benches, and tents scattered here and there. It was a popular spot for gamblers to get a game of stones, for whores to bring their clients, and murderers to dump their bodies. There was no judgment at Gunpowder Hall, and no imps either. The authorities had tried to raid the place a few years back, and after five days and heavy losses, gave up. Some places just couldn’t be ruled.
“I was thinking I might want a custom weapon of my own,” Red said by way of greeting when he sat down next to her.
“Mmf?” she said, her mouth around the roasted fish on a stick she’d picked up at one of the tents outside.
He pulled out one of his throwing knives and held it up, looking at it thoughtfully. “Sometimes when I throw one of these, they accidentally strike with the handle. Now, if I’m aiming for the head, it’s still enough to stun them or even knock them out. But if I’m aiming elsewhere, say the chest, all it does is make them mad. So I was thinking, why not have a blade at either end, so I don’t have that problem anymore?”
“Because where would you hold it, you salthead?” said Nettles.
“I thought of that, too.” He gave her a smug grin. “See, I don’t need to hold it, I just need a way to fling it. If there was like a loop or something in the middle I could get my finger through, I could hook it and whip it out right from the sheath.”
“Even if the loop was stiff leather, you’d risk it being flat and closed up when you needed it,” Nettles said. “Better to make it metal. Like a ring of metal you can easily get your finger through.”
Red’s eyes widened. “That’s a sunny idea, Nettie! What if the ring was actually what joined the two blades? Three pieces, easily joined. I bet Filler could whip me up some in no time.”
“After he’s done with my chainblade,” said Nettles.
Once he’d met up with her, he would try to extend their time together beyond the
initial conversation. He would show her some strange little place he’d found in the neighborhood, like the underground pond in Apple Grove Manor. Or he’d get her over to the Drowned Rat for a pint and a game of stones. Or he would take her down to the docks and get Missing Finn to lend them some fishing poles. Sometimes she went along with his plan. Sometimes she said, “Nah, let’s go back to your place and toss instead.” And sometimes she just said she wasn’t interested. Red tried not to show the sting he felt when that happened. He knew she would think him soft for it, call him artsy or a ponce. About the only time he could count on her to come along with him, no matter what, was when it was a job.
“What’s this one, then?” asked Nettles as she sat down with Red at a table in the corner of the Drowned Rat. She coiled her shiny new chainblade around her hand. Filler had done a fine job. The chain was thin and light, but linked so tightly that it wasn’t brittle. The blade was double-sided and a little longer than her forefinger.
“It’s like this.” There were few things Red enjoyed more than sharing a new plan. “You know the wrink who owns that butcher shop down on Manay Street? Calls himself Neepman?”
“I know the shop,” said Nettles. “Never met the old man.”
“Because you’re not a people person, Nettie. You have to talk to folks. Smile and make nice.”
She made a sour face. “Too much work.”
“Work brings work, though,” said Red. “I got to talking with Neepman, and find out he also owns the bakery over on Tide Lane. He was complaining what a chore it was to have his shops so far apart, transporting things between them. I couldn’t help but wonder what things he might be transporting. An afternoon of friendly talk over at the bakery, and a few nights of careful observation on the route between the two shops led me to the discovery that there is no safe at the bakery. Not enough room, what with the ovens. So old Neepman has the day’s earnings transported to the butcher’s after closing by one of his shopgirls.”