Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1)
Page 28
Despenser leaned back and hooked his thumbs in his robe. “Outside my purview.”
“Then to hell with your vow!” said Deim. “I won't help you, and I'll do everything I can to get Elena off that ship!”
Despenser's eyes narrowed. “Don't make yourself an obstacle, boy. I warn you once as a courtesy to your more level-headed friends.”
“No,” said Nakvin. “It doesn't matter what Teg and Jaren say if we refuse.”
Jaren shot a bitter look at his senior Steersman.
Despenser sighed. “Very well,” he said. “If it will get the ball rolling, you have my guarantee of the girl's safety.”
“That's not enough,” said Deim. “Guarantee her freedom.”
“Now you do forget yourself,” the baal hissed. “You haven't the faintest notion of what you're asking.”
“She’d be free if not for you,” said Deim.
“The young lady might not exist at all without us, have you considered that?”
Jaren racked his brain for a compromise, but none that would move his steersmen came to mind. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Despenser’s wrath passed like a summer storm. He favored Deim and Nakvin with avuncular smiles. “It’s agreed, then. Safe passage to the Middle Stratum for each of you, plus freedom for the young lady whose company we are sadly denied this afternoon.”
“Speaking of freedom,” Jaren said with a long exhale, “where’s Sulaiman? Are you holding him hostage to keep us in line?”
“Not at all,” Despenser said. “You’ll see him when you return to the Exodus.”
Jaren looked to his friends. When none objected he said, “You’ve got a deal.”
“Then swear,” Despenser commanded in a voice dripping with malice. “Swear to deliver the stones to the oracle’s temple with all haste, under pain of Mephistophilis’ curse.”
Jaren gave his oath first, followed by Teg, Deim, and finally Nakvin. Their bargain struck, the corpulent figure fell silent.
“Are we done?” Nakvin asked. Despenser sat perfectly still and gave no reply.
“What about my pox?” Teg asked.
“We’ve got a ship to liberate back on the Fourth,” said Jaren. “You said yourself that time is running out.”
A wet, sucking noise emanated from the portly figure's side. “You are quite right, of course,” said a watery voice. “Allow me one moment to compose myself, and we shall conclude our business.”
The fat man's mouth remained closed, his chin drooping against his chest. Jaren searched for the source of the gurgling baritone, but Nakvin’s scream nearly drowned out its next words.
“If everyone would kindly wait outside—excepting Mr. Cross, of course—we can make the final preparations,” Despenser said.
Alerted by Nakvin’s cry, Jaren saw the partially dissected walrus rise into a sitting position on the table. Its flayed, eyeless face bore a skeletal grin. The mangled beast sat propped on its left flipper, which affected a comical imitation of a hand. The monstrosity's right appendage moved slowly into view as it exited the bloated human figure, revealing itself as a hideously long human-like arm stained to the elbow in blood.
Jaren met the creature's empty gaze and said, “A deal is a deal. I always hold up my end, and I hold my patrons to theirs.”
42
Fallon’s perch in a dark mountain cleft gave him a perfect view of the Third Circle gate. He could smell Tyrmagan’s ragtag demons before they crept from the tunnel where the blood river flowed into the Fourth. Contempt inflamed the kost’s frozen heart. His master’s binding once again bid him pay the balance of Stochman’s debts.
Fallon turned his loathing on the demons. His fangs dripped caustic slime as he waited for his foes’ full number to emerge. When the demon company had gathered on the bank, he swept down upon them. The first four he crushed beneath his feet. He devoured a fifth, whose screams lent savor to its bitter flesh.
Several ranks of fiends broke from the main force. The kost marked their escape but suffered it in his frenzy. He had time enough to finish his sport and drive the survivors from the mountains. An expression that few would know as a smile wreathed Fallon’s maw at the thought of chasing Tyrmagan’s men across the desert.
Jaren wondered if Despenser had returned him, Nakvin, and Deim to the Exodus as promised; or if he’d confined them to an especially dismal corner of his fortress. A chill haunted the air, and a harsh fluorescent glow lit the steel-paneled walls. Much like the baal's study, a table occupied the center of the room. Unlike Despenser's table, this one consisted of four concrete slabs supported on the backs of four patchwork corpses. Parts of several other bodies littered the tabletop. A set of three chairs stood to one side, all assembled from human bones; two still wet.
“Is no one aboard this cursed ship allowed privacy?” Vaun's hollow voice boomed.
Jaren turned and saw a cloaked figure standing in the door of a walk-in freezer. Jaren’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Just the man I wanted to see,” he said. “Where were you?”
Vaun shut the freezer before facing his guests. “Here,” he said.
Jaren waved a hand over the charnel house. “And you stayed behind to do…this?”
“Necromancer,” Nakvin breathed. She clutched the red cloak to herself like a shield.
“What would you know of it, harpy?” Vaun hissed.
Jaren headed off the coming argument by aiming his zephyr at Vaun. “I recognize some of these bodies,” he said. “They were my men, Vaun. Tell me what happened before I drill a third eye hole in that mask.”
Vaun cackled softly. “Put away your toys, Peregrine. They pose more danger to you and your steersmen than to me. As for what transpired in your absence, you had only to ask.”
Keeping his gun pointed at Vaun, Jaren said, “I’m asking now.”
“What has changed while you were gone?” Vaun mused. “In a word: everything. Stochman has taken the ship, aided by powers you cannot fathom.”
“Another baal?” Jaren asked.
“Nothing so mundane,” said Vaun. “Stochman's benefactor could, I suppose, rule this Circle as Achlys does the Second; but that is not its concern at present.”
“Our cargo is,” Jaren said.
“Most clever for a half-breed Gen,” said Vaun.
“I should kill you for mutiny.”
“You're welcome to try,” said Vaun. “Though unless you can kill me and reclaim the ship before Stochman’s patron returns, my death will likely mean your own.”
“You’re always so helpful,” Jaren said, “as long as you help yourself first.”
“Aiding Stochman served my ends, yes,” said Vaun. “Now he’s become a nuisance.”
A wry smile curled Jaren’s lip. “You hope we’ll get Stochman out of your way.”
“Pride is your besetting vice,” said Vaun. “I meant to remove him without your aid. That our goals have once more aligned is mere coincidence.”
“Kill him,” Nakvin said in a voice so cold that Jaren hardly recognized it. “He'll do the same to us when Stochman’s out of the way.”
Vaun’s laughter sounded like the night wind howling through the bole of a dead tree. “You pretend to publish my secrets harpy, but your own heart lies bare. Your love for the girl is vain! She and I enjoy a bond that you can never share, and thank what gods you will for that!”
Nakvin’s silver eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, peals of laughter filled the room; coming not from Vaun, but from Deim. Tears streamed from his eyes, and his olive face turned deep red. Nakvin stared in shock, and Vaun fell silent.
“We’ll sort this out later,” Jaren said, holstering his gun. “Whoever wants a piece of Stochman, follow me!”
The outer door opened at a gesture from Vaun, and Jaren dashed through it, followed by Nakvin and Deim.
The pirates took counsel after leaving Vaun's laboratory; by necessity on the move.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Teg and Sulaiman?” Nakvin asked.
“So what do we do?”
“We make for the bridge,” Jaren said. “They’ll only have a skeleton command crew since the ship’s not in flight. Routing the others will be easier if we take the nerve center.”
Jaren and his two cohorts proceeded as quickly as they dared and as quietly as they could. They’d reached the hall outside the senior crew quarters when a loud disturbance startled them to a halt. The noise—a cacophony of banging and smashing punctuated by a series of wrathful bellows—issued from one of the cabins on the right.
Jaren signaled for Nakvin and Deim to wait and crept toward the cabin. He’d only gone a few steps when the tumult ceased. The door slid open, revealing a disheveled yet familiar figure.
Though the man in the doorway was slouching, his golden hair nearly touched the lintel. Stripped to the waste, he wore loose-fitting black pants girded with a red sash. Black, steel-plated leather sheathed his hands and feet. Sapphire eyes gleamed at Jaren, and recognition shone through their anguish.
Something’s wrong, Jaren thought. He recalled that these were Teg’s quarters, and the recollection only heightened his unease. “Sulaiman?” he asked.
The bright blue eyes grew wide at the sound of the priest’s name. Then they began to waver. Their owner cried out again and slammed a gauntleted fist into the doorpost.
“Calm down,” Jaren said softly. “You'll bring the whole navy down on us.”
Sulaiman’s mouth loosed a harsh, dismissive laugh. He strode back into Teg's cabin and bowed before a shattered mirror; his hands pressed against the wall.
Jaren realized what had been bothering him. “When did your arm grow back?” he asked.
Sulaiman’s voice answered with someone else’s words. “Despenser said he’d stop me from becoming a monster—not turn me into one!”
“Teg?” Nakvin said. Her expression was distant, as when she touched another’s mind.
“What—,” Jaren began. But the sound of Sulaiman’s laughter silenced him.
“He played me good,” Teg said in the priest's voice. “Said it looked bad, but there was one hope for a cure.” Teg stared at his fractured reflection. “I was better off diseased!”
“Gripe about it later!” Jaren said. “There's work to do.”
Teg sighed. “Don't you get it? Sulaiman was right. We made a deal with these bastards! If this is how they make good, what do you think happens when we offload the stones? You expect them to throw us a parade and pay our cab fare home?”
Jaren's voice hardened. “I expect them to cheat us any way they can, and we'll deal with them when they do. But without this ship, we have no leverage. Stochman's people forced this bargain on us. If you want payback, it’s waiting on the bridge.”
A feral gleam shone in Teg's new eyes, and he smiled. He turned from the mirror and bolted past Jaren.
Stochman paced under blood red banners, waiting for inspiration. His view alternated between two great circles: the window and the Wheel. The only sounds were the clicking of his footsteps and the jeering cacophony of his thoughts.
A full day had passed since his successful seizure of the ship, yet Stochman’s triumph was soured by his inability to get the accursed vessel underway. His men had endured hellish pain, made pacts with unspeakable entities, and committed appalling violence; all for a chance to return home—to sanity.
The technicians couldn’t explain how, but Braun’s daughter was integral to powering the ship. Recalling her silence in answer to his desperation brought a scowl to Stochman’s face.
The only thing for it was to make the girl see reason. Stochman would go back down to the brig. There, he would use every means at his disposal—specifically, means acquired from the industrial workshop—to show that his pain was fundamentally joined to hers. That freak Mordechai had interrupted him once. Next time, he would—
Someone screamed. The disturbance didn’t halt Stochman’s pensive pacing. In due course, he turned to find the bridge doors open. The carnage that confronted Stochman then should have filled him with rage, or even dismay. Instead, he was mildly surprised to feel a wave of relief as he realized that the Exodus never was and never could be his. Take the damned thing! A voice deep inside him cried. This burden was always yours. Take it, and let me be done with it!
Peregrine's steersmen were being rather liberal with their glamers and Workings, setting his men against each other or mowing them down with wanton disregard for collateral damage. Still, one had to admire their effectiveness.
Stochman saw no sign of the one he most feared. That psychopath Cross was apparently doing his butchery elsewhere. But the priest ably filled the cutthroat's shoes as he tore into Stochman’s men with his bare hands. Not exactly bare—the lightning-quick fists were sheathed in fingerless gloves with metal plates affixed to their backs. They and their matching steel-shod boots were driven into heads, throats, stomachs, and groins with a wild fury that Stochman had always suspected lay behind even the most placid believer’s eyes.
Stochman was so intent on the battle that he almost overlooked Peregrine himself advancing up the center aisle. A couple of officers tried taking him down with their sidearms but missed. The Gen put a zephyr slug through one, and his humming sword decapitated the other.
The strange calm that had dulled Stochman's wits suddenly fled, making room for fear. He turned to the remaining allies who manned their posts behind him.
At least they'd been there a second ago. The forward part of the bridge was empty, though thin voices whispered on the edge of hearing.
Stochman turned again to see Peregrine standing within arm’s reach. Before the commander could draw the zephyr at his side, take a backward step, or even think, the Gen's oscillating blade flashed low across his midsection. A sudden shock raced through Stochman's body, as if he'd been lifted a few inches off the deck and dropped back down. A hot band burned across his abdomen. He tried to speak, but the first syllable slurred to incoherence as his guts spilled onto his mirror-shined shoes.
Jaren flicked the blood from his sword before sheathing it. “You can have him,” he said to someone behind Stochman. The commander reeled; then slipped on the gore at his feet and fell backward into a grey-cloaked shape. Strong arms seized him in their icy grip, and shadows consumed him.
43
Nakvin hastened after the trail of cords, but Deim ran ahead and reached the brig first. “Elena,” he whispered as he knelt beside the prison cot. “I came back to free you.”
Elena's eyelids fluttered; then opened to narrow slits. Her rose quartz irises glistened. She favored Deim with the hint of a smile. “I know.”
“Move,” Nakvin said, shouldering Deim aside. She stooped down and tenderly ran her hand through Elena’s soft wavy hair. “Are you all right?”
“They didn't hurt me,” Elena said. “Stochman tried, but Vaun stopped him.”
Nakvin bit her lip at the mention of the necromancer’s name.
Footsteps approached. Jaren stood in the doorway, his hair blending into the red stains on his coat. “Sorry to interrupt the family reunion,” he said, “but we have a delivery to make.”
Nakvin glared at Jaren. “Can’t you put people before business just once?” she asked.
Elena rose from her cot and strode toward Jaren. “He's right.”
“Who unplugged you?” Nakvin asked when she saw the girl’s empty sockets.
“The engineer.”
“I owe you one, Mike,” Jaren said as he turned to leave. “Let's plug her back in.”
Nakvin rose and clenched her hands into fists. Her nails threatened to pierce her palms. “That's insane!” she said. “How can you even suggest that after what she’s been through?”
“Any objections?” Jaren asked Elena.
The girl remained silent.
“Deim,” Nakvin pleaded. “You threatened a baal to
free her, for gods' sake!”
Deim’s dark eyes betrayed no emotion. “Her chains aren't physical,” he said.
Elena turned toward Nakvin. “It's true. Tethered or not, he'd find me.”
Nakvin cupped the girl's face in her hands. “Who would find you?”
“He's sleeping. Naming him might change that.”
“Elena, we're not Stochman or your father,” Nakvin said. “How can we protect you if we don't know who’s threatening you?”
Cracks appeared in the girl’s calm façade. “I know you want to help me, but you can't.”
Nakvin's hands fell listless to her sides as Deim wrapped a protective arm around Elena and followed Jaren into the hall. “It’s all right,” he said. “I made them promise to free you.”
Elena glanced back at Nakvin. “It’s not up to them.”
In the early light of morning, Ydahl stood atop a rise behind the Freehold and looked west. Many days had passed since the prefect had led the garrison out to storm the Ogre Fang, and Ydahl was starting to worry about her living friends—especially Nakvin.
With a sigh, the dead girl bent to retrieve the branch she'd chosen as a walking stick and glimpsed shadows in the distance. She straightened and focused on the western horizon. There it was—an irregular dark mass roiling in the desert. It was impossible to make out individual figures, but the girl knew that the dust cloud signified a marching column.
At first Ydahl thought that the Freehold garrison had returned, but the approaching company seemed loose and chaotic. A troubling question occurred to her: if the ship was won, why were they on foot?
Ydahl dropped her stick and raced down the path to the Freehold.
After reconnecting Elena to the engine, Jaren called a senior staff meeting. The captain's mess once more served as the venue. The four ranking officers of the Shibboleth were present—more or less. Teg wore Sulaiman's face, Nakvin glared in defiance, and Deim brooded silently.