Hope and Red

by Jon Skovron

  “It took a bit of doing,” said Red. “But if it were easy, everybody would be up here, right? Look at this view and tell me it wasn’t worth it.”

  He gestured with both hands to the rooftops that stretched out in all directions. The old temple and some of the other building tops were shrouded in the mist, which Red thought added a nicely magical touch. Even though it was still a while before sunset, the street lamps had already been lit in this section of the neighborhood, which made the fog luminescent.

  “Huh,” said Nettles.

  “And of course, when you look down there, you’ll see why I chose this particular rooftop.” He pointed down to the intersection below with a flourish and a sly smile.

  Nettles looked down at it, her expression unreadable.

  Red waited.

  Finally, Nettles shook her head. “Sorry. Not getting it. Why this rooftop?”

  “Because it overlooks the intersection where we first kissed!” he said.

  “Oh yeah. I guess it was.” Nettles looked around again, then rubbed her hands together. “A bit chilly. Why are we up here again?”

  “Well, I just…” The reason seemed so obvious to Red that he had a hard time putting it into words. “It’s sort of special. For us.”

  She nodded.

  “And…” Red’s heart picked up speed. His hands were already sweating. His mouth was suddenly dry. He was actually nervous. Maybe it was Filler planting doubts in his head. Maybe it was the fact that Nettles clearly wasn’t getting the whole romantic rooftop thing. Whatever the reason, he found his words catching in his throat as he looked at her.

  She gazed at him through narrowed eyes, her arms crossed. “You’re acting a bit slippy. What’s going on?”

  “I know— I— Sorry,” he sputtered. Then he took a deep breath and tried again. “You are the finest molly I’ve ever met. Won’t you be mine for keeps?” He reached his hand out to her.

  She stared at his extended hand like it was something she didn’t recognize. The longer she stared, the lower Red’s stomach sank.

  “I like you, Red,” she said quietly. “I like being with you. I like tossing with you. I would go far enough to say that I like you better than anyone I know. Except myself. I like me best of all. I ain’t nobody’s molly, and never will be. If that’s what you want, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  Red stared at her. He was still standing, but on the inside he felt himself collapsing.

  “You keen?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said numbly. “My mistake.” He turned and started to walk away.

  “Now, don’t get all poncey on me, Rixie,” she said teasingly.

  It was the worst thing she could have said, and his walk turned into a run.

  “Red? Come on, I was only joking!”

  But he jumped to the next roof and kept running. He’d spent months trying to get as close as possible to this molly, and now he couldn’t stand to be anywhere near her. He kept running from roof to roof, sliding on the treacherous angles of some of them, but never stopping until he came to a space too wide to jump. Below him was a long line of tents. He had reached Gunpowder Hall. He hadn’t come here on purpose. But maybe there was a part of him deep down that had been drawn to this place. Or more specifically, to a person in this place.

  * * *

  Off to one side in Gunpowder Hall was a small cluster of tables where the old wrinks congregated. Red saw Sadie among them, leaning back against a table, her legs stretched out into the aisle. Life was hard in the Circle, and the last eight years had taken their toll on her. Her matted hair was mostly gray, her skin sagged a great deal, and she was missing more than a few teeth. But her eyes were still sharp and her mind was still quick. Most importantly, she was alive, which was better than many of her contemporaries. Few people were savvy enough to make it to old age in Paradise Circle. So anyone who did was given a measure of respect and generally left alone to reminisce, or whatever it was the old wrinks did in their corner.

  “Well, don’t you look pissed and peppered,” Sadie observed.

  Red sat down next to her with an ungraceful flop. “I’m a bludgeon cock-dribble.”

  “Damned if you are,” said Sadie. “What’s this all about?”

  “There’s this girl…”

  “Oh, we’re there, are we?” she asked gravely. “Out with it. Who did what?”

  “She doesn’t want me to be her tom. She—she didn’t even say why.”

  “Like as not, she did. Just wasn’t something you could understand, or maybe didn’t want to hear.”

  “Maybe I’m ugly.”

  “You don’t even believe that.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t like my eyes. Some people think I’m evil, you know. On account of my red eyes.”

  “There’s a lot of stupid people in the world. This molly you’re sotted with, she stupid?”

  Red shook his head.

  “Then she don’t think you’re evil.”

  “Maybe it’s because I’m not a proper wag of the Circle.”

  “Why’d you even say a thing like that?”

  “She said it. When I told her I was from Silverback.”

  “Now that is a load of balls and pricks. Do you look out for your wags?”

  Red nodded.

  “Do you stand for your freedom and the Circle in the face of the imps and any who would take it from us?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s all you need, then.”

  “So you don’t think I’m privileged, coming from Silverback and having family in Hollow Falls?”

  “Oh, I do,” she said. “But that don’t mean you ain’t a true wag of the Circle. To my mind, it just means you have more to do. You’re smart with all them books you read. You understand better than most how it is, and more importantly what might be done to fix it. As long as you stick with that and always show your quality, I’d say you earned your place in the Circle.”

  * * *

  Red left Gunpowder Hall with Sadie’s words still singing in his head. It didn’t make Nettles’s rejection sting any less, but at least it gave him some hope that he did fit here after all.

  There was something off about the market outside the hall. It was late afternoon, still before sunset. The tents should have been crowded. But everything was shut up, as if ready for a hurricane. Except the breeze was far too light for a storm.

  Then he saw that this storm was not natural, but imperial. A squad of imps were working their way down the line of tents, harassing those who hadn’t been fast enough or smart enough to close in time. While it was true that the imps had never infiltrated Gunpowder Hall, they occasionally made raids on the market, like rattling the bars to remind people that a safe haven could just as easily be a cage. That’s how it was in the Circle, and the best thing for Red to do was move on, grateful it wasn’t him getting the beating.

  But then he stopped. It might be how it was, but Red knew it shouldn’t be. This was what Sadie had been telling him. He should know better. This was all wrong. He was all wrong. Letting the imps pound on other wags. Stealing from other wags like poor Neepman, or even Deadface Drem. Sure, Drem was a drug-peddling, murderous scum. But he was doing things for this community. He was part of this community. It was these invaders, these boots of the emperor, who were the real enemy. And they needed to understand how it was in the Circle, just like everyone else.

  Red pulled on his new fingerless gloves as he silently wove between the tents. When he drew near the imps, he saw who it was they were harassing and in that moment, he knew that no matter how things went, he’d be forever glad he made the choice to not pass this by. Because they were at the smithy tent, and they had Filler on his knees in front of the tent. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his eye had already begun to swell.

  “Making weapons so your wags can kill imps, is that it?” one of them sneered, then kicked Filler in the stomach.

  Filler doubled over, then slowly rose up again, his face f
olded in absolute hatred. He’d lost a more respectable smithy apprenticeship because he’d refused to do work for an imp officer. Now they’d followed him to Gunpowder Hall. No doubt, when they’d stepped into that smithy tent, they hadn’t expected him to put up a fight. But imps had killed Filler’s parents, and he never could show restraint around them after that.

  One of the imps came out of the smithy tent, wearing one of the thick leather smithy gloves and holding a glowing poker hot from the forge. “I don’t think you’ll be making any more weapons once we’ve put out your eyes.”

  Red’s throwing blade embedded in the imp’s arm, causing his hand to spasm and the poker to drop onto his boot, searing quickly through the thin leather. Three more blades found exposed necks. Filler grabbed the fifth imp’s head and twisted hard enough to break his neck.

  “You’re all murderous, thieving filth!” screamed the imp with the throwing blade in his arm. Blood dripped from it as he trained his rifle on Red. “Your deaths make this place a tiny bit better.”

  Red was out of throwing blades and Filler was too far away to help. The imp cocked his rifle, wincing at the pain in his arm. But the barrel remained steady as he took aim.

  Then a metal jingle rang through the air as Nettles’s chainblade shot out, the blade burying itself in the imp’s ear. She yanked hard on the chain, his shot went wide, and he fell twitching into the mud.

  “Thanks, Nettie!” said Filler.

  Red remained silent, eyeing her warily. He wasn’t sure at all what to make of this or how he felt about it.

  “When you ran off like that, I figured you’d find trouble of some kind,” said Nettles as she coiled her chain and wiped the blade clean.

  Still Red said nothing as he walked from body to body, retrieving his throwing blades.

  “Look,” she said. “I wanted a fun, easy toss. You wanted romance. I’m sorry we couldn’t give each other what we wanted. But whatever else we were or are, I will always be there to pull you out of a bind. Keen?”

  She held out her hand.

  It wasn’t what he wanted exactly. But that, too, was how it was in the Circle. You didn’t often get what you wanted exactly. Nettles wouldn’t be the molly he wanted. But she was one hell of a fighter, and in the Circle, you were bludgeon if you didn’t accept an alliance when it was offered.

  So even though there was a small part of him that still ached, he took her hand and gripped it hard. “Yeah, alright. Likewise, I guess.”

  12

  It was a four-day voyage to Dawn’s Light. Hope tried to fill her time with meditation and exercise, but there was only so much of that one person could do, even a Vinchen. While every other person on the ship had a number of jobs and responsibilities, Hope’s only true responsibility was to wait around for something everyone else on the ship hoped wouldn’t happen. Something not even Hope herself was sure she could do.

  “You seem restless,” said Carmichael in the sunny afternoon of the second day. He held the wheel loose in his hands, his brown face tilted up toward the light. “Even your footsteps sound impatient.”

  “I wish I could be more useful,” she said. “But I know nothing of ships or sailing.”

  “You could learn,” said Carmichael.

  “How?”

  “Start simple. Go ask one of the crew what they do and why. Ask Ticks about the rigging, for example. He knows the lines of this ship better than just about anyone. You learn each piece from each man on the crew, and soon enough, you’ll be a better sailor than me.”

  “I doubt I could ever be as good as you, Captain,” said Hope. “But I’ll try your suggestion.”

  He smiled faintly. “Good luck.”

  Hope searched the ship for Ticks and found him by the foremast, securing a thick line of rope. Ticks was a short man with a bald head and eyebrows like squashed hairy spiders.

  “Can you explain to me what you’re doing?” she asked him.

  He gave her a guarded look. “Why’s that, miss?”

  “I want to learn about sailing.”

  One of his hairy spiders rose up. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, miss. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to another line.”

  She tried Sankack next. Sankack was a tall man with a droopy face and almost no chin. She found him back in the stern of the ship, sitting on a stool, a sail in his lap, a large needle and thread in his hands.

  “Are you mending that sail?” she asked.

  “Hmm,” he grunted, not looking up.

  “Was it torn in the storm?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Would you mind showing me how you do it?”

  “Hmm.”

  Hope tried several more times, but never got anything more than that sound out of him. Finally she gave up and went looking for the captain. Ranking was taking his shift at the helm, so Hope went back to the captain’s quarters. She knocked quietly on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Hope, sir.”

  “Ah. Come in.”

  She found Carmichael seated at a small table, a quill in one hand and a logbook open in front of him.

  “Well?” The faint smile came back to his bearded lips.

  “It’s like they don’t trust me,” she burst out.

  “They don’t.”

  “They don’t think I can pull on a rope? Stitch up a sail?”

  “None of them have ever seen a female on board a ship except maybe a captain’s wife, who never does anything useful except berate the captain for being a lousy, brutish drunk. They seen you kill that oarfish, sure. And the next time there’s an oarfish troubling them, they’ll go straight to you. But the idea that you could do what they do has barely even brushed the tops of their thick skulls. A few will come around eventually, then the rest will follow.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t. But it’s the captain’s job to always say something he wants to happen like he knows it’s going to happen.” His smile broadened into a wide grin. “There, see? I’m teaching you my part, at least.”

  * * *

  Hope tried again the following day, moving from one crew member to the next. She was either ignored or brushed off by each in turn, except Ranking, who laughed right to her face. After a discouraging few hours, she again retreated to Carmichael’s company at the helm.

  “You’re not helping any by sticking close to me,” he told her. “They need to get accustomed to your presence. And the only way that will happen is if you’re actually present.”

  So Hope reluctantly returned to the crew that afternoon. She didn’t push or pry this time, though, but simply watched and listened. They looked uncomfortable with her presence for the first hour or so. But then it seemed they forgot she was there, and went about their work. Some things she was able to pick up by observing. She learned other things by listening to them talk to each other. They spoke with no regard for courtesy or decorum. At first it made her uncomfortable. But over time she grew accustomed to it just as they had grown accustomed to her.

  On the morning of the fourth day, the Lady’s Gambit reached the Breaks. Hope stood with Ranking, Ticks, and Sankack at the port bow and gazed at the distant line of jagged gray reefs that stretched north to south for a mile. They jutted up from the water into the cloudless blue sky, fighting against the prevailing current so that the water around the base churned an endless frothy white.

  “I hear them reefs rose up from a burning hell beneath the ground, carrying the heat up with them, and that’s why the water boils,” said Ticks.

  “I hear a biomancer was the one who made them, as a shield against invading demons,” said Sankack. “And it’s the frustrated rage of the demons on the other side that makes it boil.”

  At the mere mention of the word biomancer, Hope’s pulse jumped, but still she kept her silence.

  “Don’t be bludgeon,” said Ranking. “Biomancers can’t change rock, only living things. Everybody knows that.”

  “Oh yeah?” Sankack
scowled at him. “And you’re an expert on biomancers? Bet you never even seen one.”

  Ranking stared coldly at him for a moment before speaking. “Once. Back when I was still in New Laven.”

  There was a moment of silence as Ticks and Sankack exchanged looks. Then Ticks cleared his throat. “So, are they as bad as people say?”

  Ranking smiled bitterly. “Well, I chose to be out here on the edge of the world with you sorry wags instead, so what does that tell you?”

  Once they were within a hundred yards of the Breaks, Carmichael pointed the ship so they ran parallel to the reefs, heading for the north end. As they came around the northern edge of the Breaks, Carmichael called out, “I need eyes up high!”

  The Lady’s Gambit didn’t have a proper crow’s nest, but Mayfield scrambled quickly up the ratlines of the foremast until he reached the topgallant yard about three-fourths of the way up the mast. Once there, he straddled the mast, hooked his legs over the yard, and pulled out a spyglass.

  With Mayfield in place, the captain turned the ship and they headed east, the northern end of the Breaks on their port side. Once they were past, Hope and the others were able to see the far eastern side of the Breaks for the first time.

  “It’s a pissing ship’s graveyard,” Ticks said quietly.

  Dashed all along the line of ragged, frothing gray reefs were ships of every shape and size, from tiny one-mast sloops to massive three-mast imperial frigates. There were even some strange ships Hope didn’t recognize that seemed made more of metal than wood.

  “Why so many?” she asked, but no one answered.

  Then their ship gave a lurch and began to shudder. A low, wooden groan came from deep within the hull.

  “Something pulling on the keel…” Ranking leaned over the rail and stared down at the water, then looked back at the reefs. When he turned back to them, his face was pale. “The current’s pulling us in toward the rocks.”

  “All hands!” roared Carmichael at the helm. He was fighting to keep the wheel still. “Get ready to jibe hard!”