by D. J. Butler
Chigozie shook his head. “Why would you want to do that?”
Chigozie, Ferpa, and Kort stood before the General on a street in Etzanoa. The general stood on the back of a cart, from which he had been shouting orders to a succession of messengers and junior officers. He had fallen into a silence when he’d seen Chigozie and his beastkind approach. The hounds standing around the cart had growled, baring long teeth as spiky as their fur.
“I have to decide what to do with you,” the general said. “I’ve received interesting intelligence, news that may present an unparalleled opportunity in our war with the Heron King, or possibly may herald an unprecedented threat.”
“You should let me go, with my people.” Chigozie spread his hands apart to show that he was unarmed. “My people are the Merciful. We have no wish to fight with Zomas. Indeed, we would gladly trade with your people. So far, though, your outriders have chased us from our first home and threatened to chase us from our second.”
“I know the terms our outriders offered,” Varem said. “You could have chosen to join us.”
“As slaves,” Chigozie said. “But the gospel of John teaches us that the truth shall make us free.”
“Only some of you would be slaves,” Varem said. “The others would join us to fight.”
“We aren’t fighters,” Chigozie answered. “My people have retired from the rampaging of their kind. They have chosen peace. They have chosen to give mercy, in the hope of receiving mercy.”
“That is Matthew.” Varem smiled without humor. “You see, I know scripture, too. There was a time when I thought to take orders and become a monk. A Cetean of all things, would you credit it? I had enough of coercion, I believed my father and the king were wrong, and I knew better than they.”
“What changed your mind?”
“My father was killed. And my mother. They were eaten, in fact, by rampaging beastkind. And that was years ago, and long before the beastkind began to rage en masse.”
Ferpa slowly knelt in the snow. “I grieve with you.” Kort followed her example.
“I rejoice in your fellow feeling.” Varem’s face showed no emotion.
“We are peaceful people,” Chigozie said. “Let us go.”
“Other than you, I understand that you are not people at all.” Kort and Ferpa made no response to the Zoman’s insult. “Tell me how a New Orleans priest comes to make his home with the children of the Heron King?”
Chigozie shrugged. “It is where I feel God has called me.”
“You see that we are entirely aligned. You feel God has called you here. Your friend with the cow’s head shares my grief at my people’s suffering. And you are all in a position to help me. To fulfill your calling, priest. To show mercy to Zomas, a land eminently in need of it. You do one thing for me, and I will let you and your people live in peace. I will protect you, with such protection as I can offer. I will extend trade recognition to your Merciful, and the right to come and go in Zomas as you please.”
“These are great boons.” Chigozie was wary. “What do you need?”
“I need you to rescue a woman.”
Unbidden, memories of the women he had killed—to save them from a longer and more painful death at the hands of Kort and other beastkind—flooded into Chigozie’s mind.
“I would gladly rescue a woman,” Kort said. He must be remembering the same episode. “Without any promise of recompense.”
Naares Stoach grunted an objection. “Are our own men grown so weak that we can’t mount a rescue raid to seize a prisoner?”
“This would not be a raid,” Varem said. “At least, you would not ride to the rescue in open hostility. Instead, you would sneak. Having found the woman, you would bring her here.”
“I repeat my question,” Stoach said. “What about our men? What about me?”
Varem’s eyes flared, but then softened into something that looked like exhaustion. “You should go. I will send other aid. But not warriors, not outriders. They are needed in battle.”
“And having rescued the woman?” Ferpa asked.
“We run,” Chigozie said.
Varem nodded. “I imagine so.”
“You want the help of my people because they are beastkind.”
General Varem nodded. “That will be useful where I need them to go. And I also want their help because they give the impression that they can be reasoned with. Or at least, you can be.”
“You don’t need to reason with me.” Kort rose to his feet. “You need to tell me how to find the woman.”
“Here is how we’ll proceed,” Varem said. “I’ll send men to your valley to watch over the remainder of the…what did you call yourselves? The Merciful. If you fail, or if you attempt to flee your duty, I’ll have your people massacred.”
“No,” Kort murmured.
Ferpa stood, a look of pain in her eyes.
“We have a witness, someone who knows where the woman is being kept. And also, one who has the art to find her. Your party here, and Naares Stoach, will go along. As prisoners.”
“The beastkind don’t take prisoners,” Chigozie objected. He tried not to think about what exactly the beastkind did do to their victims. He looked at Kort.
Kort bowed his head.
Chigozie thought through what he knew about the Heron King and his people. “When do the beastkind take prisoners, Kort?”
“If Simon Sword’s warriors are taking prisoners, it is for a sacrifice.” Kort’s face was expressionless. “Simon Sword drinks the blood of men.”
“In large quantities,” Ferpa added.
“I can tell you from personal experience that the beastkind are taking prisoners.” General Varem scrutinized Kort’s face as he spoke. “What do you say, priest? You walk alongside these beastkind and you call them your friends. Do you trust them enough to wear bonds and walk into the presence of their former god?”
Chigozie didn’t hesitate. “I trust them. I know Ferpa and Kort want mercy.” He looked at the beastkind and felt tears sting his eyes. “And I know they can have it.”
“They can indeed,” General Varem said. “As can all your people. Mercy, and your little land in perpetuity, by whatever deed or pact you require. Only bring me the woman.”
“If the Shepherd trusts his flock, then I trust them, too,” Naares said.
“Good.” Varem nodded. “Five beastkind leading prisoners to the sacrificial altars of the blood god of the Mississippi and the Ohio Rivers. This will be easily accounted for.”
“Flight will be less easily explained,” Naares said.
“Then be ingenious in your explanations,” the general told him. “Or be very, very fast.”
“I understand your king has died,” Chigozie said. “Who is the woman? Someone in the royal family? A princess, a queen? Or someone you need for your war effort?”
“The woman comes from New Orleans,” Varem said. “She’s a witch. A mambo, they would have called her there. And my seers and stargazers tell me that it is imperative for our war effort that we take her out of Simon Sword’s hands.”
“When you say the woman is a prisoner…” Chigozie said slowly.
“I hope she is a prisoner. It is possible she regards herself as Simon Sword’s ally.” Varem’s face was stony.
“And if we cannot persuade her to come, you will tell us to compel her to come.” Chigozie shook his head.
“And if we can’t compel her?” Naares asked.
“Kill her,” General Varem said simply.
* * *
“You got a spell that’ll ward off bullets?” Sarah asked.
The Pennslander wizard nodded. “I’ve got a strong braucher charm for the purpose.”
“Good.” Sarah nodded. “It’s gonna take all my energy to fly this boat.”
After the unsettling conversation between Sarah and thin air, in which Sarah had appeared to hold hands with invisible people and weep at their inaudible words, Montse had followed Sarah and Luman Walters back down the mountain. Josep had sen
t a boat for them, but on return to the Verge Caníbal, Sarah had stayed in the boat and held back her two companions.
Josep laughed as if Sarah had told a joke, but when he realized she was serious, his face fell flat and he nodded vigorously.
“I could turn us into birds,” Sarah said, “only it’s a bit of a flight, and I don’t know how many hungry raptors there are between here and there. Or hungry Missourian refugees with scatterguns. And I suppose I could just fly us all individually, but then I have to worry about holding us together as well as keeping us in the air and moving the right direction. If we all sit in the boat, then I only have to worry about the boat.”
“Why not La Verge?” Josep grinned and swept in the ship with a gesture.
“Too big,” Sarah shot back. “Obviously.”
“The boat is an excellent solution,” Luman Walters said.
“Montserrat Ferrer i Quintana,” Sarah said.
Montse didn’t love hearing her full name enunciated. Had she made some mistake and earned a dressing-down? “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“My sister Margaret lives.”
“Margarida.” Montse found her eyes suddenly full of tears.
“Margarida viu!” Josep shouted.
“Margarida!” the smugglers cheered.
“Visca Margarida!” Josep shouted again.
Sarah smiled.
“Is she out of danger?” Montse asked.
“No,” Sarah said. “But she’s out of her bonds. She’s with my brother, so I think they’ll soon be headed my direction.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“I’m going into danger. No oath binds you to me. I would understand if you preferred to climb aboard your ship and sail south.”
Montse wiped tears from her cheeks. “No, Your Majesty. Your mother was the greatest friend of my life. I won’t abandon either of her daughters now. And Margarida…I raised her as my neboda, my niece. I don’t think that’s changed.”
Sarah nodded, and then turned to the magician. “Luman?”
Luman shook his head slightly and grimaced, as if saying something he didn’t think needed to be communicated. “All my life, I’ve been looking for the great initiation into the mysteries of the universe. Your Majesty is penetrating deeper and faster than I ever did, deeper and faster than I ever thought possible. There’s nowhere else I would want to go.”
“You ready with that spell, then?”
Luman made the sign of the cross as he began to speak, first over himself, then over Sarah and then Montse.
Die himmlischen und heiligen Posaunen, die blasen alle Kugeln und Unglück von uns. Wir fliehen under den Baum des Lebens, der zwölferley Früchte trägt. Wir stehen hinter dem heiligen Altar der Christlichen Kirche. Wir befehlen uns der Heiligen Dreyfaltigkeit. Wir alles verbergen uns hinter des Fronleichnams Jesu Christi. Wir befehlen uns in die Wunden Jesu Christi, daß uns von keines Menschen Hand werde gefangen noch gebunden, nicht gehauen, nicht geschossen, nicht gestochen, nicht geworfen, nicht geschlagen, eben überhaupt nicht verwundet werde; das helf’ uns.
He produced a tiny toy trumpet from one of his many pockets and touched it to his lips, pantomiming blowing notes.
Sarah was staring. “I was tempted to crack a joke about you using too many words, Luman. My charm against bullets takes exactly two. On the other hand, I like your Baum des Lebens very much.”
“And I like yours,” Luman said.
“But watch me do this with just one word.” Sarah winked at Luman. “And hold on tight.”
Josep waved. Montse and Luman both gripped the sides of the small boat. Sarah took feathers from her leather shoulder bag and touched them to the boat’s prow. “Vola!” she shouted at the vessel.
Smoothly, at a gentle incline, the boat rose from the water. Montse laughed, to cover her nerves as well as from delight. The craft moved forward, passing La Verge and then leaving the ship behind. Wisdom’s Bluff seemed to shrink and sink into the earth as the boat continued its rise. It pivoted around the hill, turning into the course of the Mississippi.
A bitter wind struck Montse in the face. Perhaps ironically, it made her feel more comfortable, as if she were leaning forward into a storm, hanging off La Verge’s ratlines.
“I don’t have any spells to do this,” Luman said.
“Accelera!” Sarah shouted at the boat.
The boat rose again and shot forward, punching into a thick bank of cloud that obscured the land and the river below them. Now Montse truly felt as if she were sailing, with the icy crystals of winter stinging the skin of her face and hands.
Sarah sat in the front of the boat and Luman in the rear. Montse could hear Luman’s breathing, occasionally felt the faintest warmth of a breath that touched the back of her own neck. Sarah threw off heat like a fire. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, as if she were fighting a fever. Montse wanted to touch the girl, reassure her as she might have reassured Margarida during a bad storm, but it was not her place.
“Once you land, we’re going to have to get inside the walls.” Montse shouted, to be heard over the wind whipping through her hair and around her ears. She wanted to include Luman, too. “Will we go underground, as we did before?”
Sarah said nothing.
“Sarah?” Montse touched the girl’s shoulder. The heat blazing through the witch’s wool dragoon’s coat nearly burned Montse’s finger, and she pulled back.
“Sorry,” Sarah gasped. “I’m concentrating. I was exhausted before. Now I’m trying not to throw up or bleed.”
“Will we travel under the river again?” Montse asked. “To get inside the Treewall?”
Sarah shook her head, a stiff motion. “When this spell ends, I think I’ll pass out, so I’m aiming to land inside the walls. I’ll do it as gently as I can, but they’ll be shooting at us, so we’ll be approaching fast. Be prepared to be knocked about.”
Montse wasn’t accustomed to being a mere passenger. “Anything else I can do?”
Sarah laughed drily. “Be ready to shoot back.”
* * *
“Nathaniel!” Margarida yelled.
She knew her hair was standing on end. She could feel it, not in her scalp alone, but all along the strands of hair. The air she moved through struck the tips of her hair as an irritant. Her feeling of annoyance, wounded indignation, and wrath grew with each step.
She stalked across a wooden-walled chamber she knew must be belowdecks on a ship, because the floor rolled like a ship, and a mast sank through the room from floor to ceiling. She threw open two doors, looking for her brother.
Nothing.
Somewhere, she heard an animal roar.
A file of soldiers clattered down the ladder into the room with her. Three of them held clubs, two came at the rear holding a net between them, and one advanced in front, hands open placatingly.
“Relax, girl,” he said in Dutch. “We’re all friends here.”
Then he tried to grab her.
Margarida caught both his hands in hers, fingers interlaced as if to play pat-a-cake. She squeezed her fists together and shattered bones in his hand. He screamed and stumbled, sinking toward the floor—
but she picked him up and threw him—
into the spread net. The two men holding the net fell together around the screaming man.
The other three charged, clubs swinging.
Margarida ignored the clubs. They thumped her head and shoulders, and the irritation of the blows made her blood boil. She didn’t feel wounded; she wasn’t going to fall down—she felt as if a cat with a rough tongue were licking her face and body, and she wanted it to stop.
She grabbed one of the three by the throat. Her attack caught him by surprise, and his eyes bulged as she squeezed.
“Nathaniel!” she yelled.
“Alsjeblieft!” the sailor gasped.
She slammed him to the boards with such violence that they shattered, then raised him a second time into the air and hurled him down through the floor.
The third man swung at Margarida again, face full of anger. She grabbed his weapon arm, took two long steps to get the leverage she wanted—
and flung him against the mast.
His spine snapped in two with a wet sound and a scream that ended abruptly.
The two men holding the net dropped it and ran back abovedecks.
“Please, please,” begged the man with shattered hands. She ignored him.
Roooooar!
She heard the animal bellow again and followed the sound.
A door standing in her way was no impediment. With a single kick, she reduced it to splinters.
In the room on the other side, she saw her brother Nathaniel, lying on the floor beside a chair. Over him crouched a shadowy apparition that had the shape of a bear and emitted bearlike growls.
In a second chair, tied, bloody, and still, was the Dutchman Jacob Hop.
Standing and facing her in a corner of the room was the man she’d tossed across the hotel lobby in New Amsterdam. Temple Franklin wore a narrow, smug smile on his face. He held a pistol in each hand. Both were pointed at her.
“Perhaps you should—” he started to say.
She charged.
Bang! Bang! Both guns fired at once. Bullets struck the left side of her body, one in her hip and one in her side. She spun sideways with the combined force of the blow, landing flat on her back on the floor.
Roar! The bear-shadow swiped with its paw, not at her, but at Temple.
“Foolish girl,” Temple Franklin said.
Margarida rolled over and stood up. “No es fote mai amb una catalana,” she growled.
Then she grabbed him and threw him against the wall.
When he struck the heavy beams of the ship’s hull, Margarida saw a dull white flash. Franklin bounced off the wall, then struck the floor and rolled to his feet. He didn’t look hurt.
Franklin jammed his hands into his coat pockets. He might be grabbing for a gun or something equally pointless, but Margarida had no patience in this state. She punched him in the chest, twice, blows that should have crushed his ribcage and left him drowning in his own blood.