by James Maxey
I looked down at the cloaked figure, whose hands were busy working on the right ankle. The left leg was finished, a sleek curvy gam that would have been the pride of any bride when her groom had hitched up her hem to remove her garter. A row of rivets ran up the back of each leg like the seam of a stocking. As I drifted lower to admire the workmanship, I must confess that my eyes lingered a moment on the heart-shaped buttocks, so smoothly finished and perfectly formed that they looked soft, despite being formed of iron. The illusion of softness vanished instantly, however, when one reached the unfinished right leg, which was nothing more than a jointed steel rod jutting from the hollow of the hip to the recognizably human foot. Floating lower to better observe the sculptress (for, despite the cloak, it was apparent that the artist was female, given the slenderness of her form and her delicate fingers), I saw that she had no tools. Instead, she was shaping hard ingots of raw pig iron with her hands as if it was mere clay. Her fingers moved in a dizzying dance as they twisted and kneaded the metal, forming and fastening ankles to a feminine metal foot that sported razor toenails.
The sculptress completed the ankle by scraping away a bit of the iron rod of the leg and exposing a patch of pure bone. The lower half of the rod, apparently, enclosed a skeletal tibia and fibula. The Black Swan’s leg bones, no doubt. The sculptress spun delicate silver wires to link the bone to the ankles, which sat like bracelets upon the foot.
“Wiggle your foot,” the sculptress said, looking up.
The Black Swan lifted her skeletal right leg and twisted her foot from side to side. She wiggled her toes in an eerie approximation of life, though with the plates of the various pieces sliding silently across one another, her toes reminded me more of hard-shelled beetles than human flesh.
“Excellent,” the sculptress said, guiding the Black Swan’s foot back to the floor.
With her head tilted up, I could see the artist’s face. Her most striking features were her eyes, a shocking emerald hue that was almost certainly the result of magical manipulation. Yet if she’d manipulated her eyes for aesthetic reasons, it made little sense that the rest of her features were so much less... felicitous. Her age was difficult to judge; the right half of her face could have belonged to a teenage girl, but the left half of her face was slack and wrinkled, the flesh a pale gray next to the rosy hue of her other cheek. Though her cloak concealed much of her scalp, she appeared to be completely bald, her head speckled by large dark warts.
The sculptress rose, stretching her back. The sleeves of her robe slipped down, revealing that her left arm and hand were supported by an iron brace. She glanced back at Infidel. “I’ll step outside so the two of you may talk.”
The Black Swan’s iron eyelids clicked open, revealing empty bone sockets. There was a sucking sound within her chest, like a bellows drawing in air, followed by reedy musical notes, something like an accordion. The sculpted jaws jerked open and snapped shut as the overlapping plates of the steel lips sliced up the notes pouring from the mouth. The resulting sound was almost, but not quite, completely inhuman. And yet, however inferior the construct’s vocal apparatus might have been to a living human throat, I found, with grudging admiration, that I could understand individual words. “Stay and work, Sorrow. The princess and I have nothing to hide.”
Infidel frowned. She, of course, had many things to hide, including the fact that she was a princess. But she shrugged and said, “I can’t stay to chat. I need the money you owe me for the dragon skull.”
“You traded those funds to Menagerie,” said the Black Swan. “You used them to purchase the silence of the Three Goons when you infiltrated Lord Tower’s party in a disguise Menagerie helped to design.”
“Fine,” said Infidel. She nodded toward the dog. “This is Menagerie. Give him all the money he’s owed. Since he’s a bit impaired in the hand department for the time being, I’ll carry it.”
“This isn’t Menagerie,” said the Black Swan, turning her vacant gaze upon the hound. “This is merely a physical echo of his blood magic, a spell lingering on after the death of the spellcaster. Soon enough its magic will burn out and this soulless thing will vanish.”
“Or you could help him,” said Infidel. “He’s worked for you for years. Use your magic to restore his memories.”
“It isn’t a question of memories. It’s a question of soul. There’s no spirit within this creature. It looks like a dog, but it isn’t truly alive. Any funds due Menagerie will be sent to his family. As for this sad little pseudo-dog, I recommend you kill it swiftly and put an end to its miserable half-life. I owe it nothing.”
“How about Aurora? Do you owe her anything?”
“She collected the last of her wages when she left my employment.”
“I’m not talking about wages. I’m talking about the fact that she was your loyal companion. She’s dead now, killed by Greatshadow. I’m in possession of the Jagged Heart, the sacred relic she died to defend. Stagger made a promise to return it to her homeland. I intend to keep this promise. I’m hoping you’ll help.”
The Black Swan shook her iron head in a smooth, mechanical motion. “Stagger could make no such promise. He’s dead. You killed him.”
“You of all people should know that being dead isn’t the same as being done. Stagger’s ghost has been following me. He’s with us right now, I think. We were reunited in the spirit world.” She rubbed her ring finger where the band of hair I’d woven for her sat. When we’d returned to the land of the living and my physical form faded back to nothingness, the ring of hair had remained intact. Why this should be, I don’t know. Perhaps there’s genuine magic in a wedding vow after all. “We were married there.”
“Now you’re merely a widow.” The Black Swan sounded mocking, with her squeaking, artificial voice. “And you’re pregnant, as I foretold.”
“On the assumption that I’m pregnant, I need to return the Jagged Heart as quickly as possible. I’d rather not be adventuring in some faraway land when I start dealing with morning sickness. But that doesn’t kick in for about a month, right?”
“I’m uncertain. I myself was childless,” the Black Swan said.
“A month. Six weeks,” said the sculptress as she fastened the plates of the calf to the shin plate. “Not that I’ve had personal experience.”
The Black Swan’s empty orbs gazed toward the Gloryhammer. “My dear, I can’t help but notice you’re in possession of a magic artifact known to grant its owner the power of flight. Why do you need my help? You can simply fly to Aurora’s home in Qikiqtabruk.”
Infidel shook her head. “Flying isn’t as easy as it looks. If I go too fast, I can’t breathe. Even flying slow wears me out. Flying for an hour is like hanging from a branch for an hour. I’d rather not have my arms give out when I’m over the middle of the ocean. I need a ship, a very fast ship, if I’m going to complete this mission. As luck would have it, the Freewind is in port.”
“The Freewind?” The Black Swan tilted her head and gave what might have been a look of skepticism, though her empty eye-sockets made it difficult to interpret her expression. “You can’t seriously intend to seek passage aboard what’s currently the most wanted pirate ship on the seas. Every navy on the planet is hunting the Romers.”
“And no navy can catch them,” said Infidel. “The Freewind is the fastest ship in the Shining Lands. And we both know that the charge of piracy is bogus. Gale Romer is an honest woman who’s been branded a pirate because of her opposition to slavery.”
“She’s scuttled entire ships and stolen their cargo.”
“She’s raided slave ships and released men from their chains,” said Infidel, crossing her arms. “The fact that she’s an outlaw is an indictment of the law, not of her.”
The Black Swan nodded slowly. “Captain Romer’s moral code isn’t truly the issue. Whether the charges against her are just or unjust, you place yourself in great danger by seeking passage on her vessel.”
Infidel shrugged. “I’m a wanted c
riminal in the same kingdoms hunting her. It’s not like I’m safe anywhere outside of Commonground. I’ll take my chances with Captain Romer. She tells me the Freewind was chartered weeks ago by a single passenger; she’s not at liberty to tell me whom. But her employer didn’t show up to depart this morning at the prearranged time. If they don’t show up by sundown, the contract is broken. She says that if I’m there with money in hand when the sun sets, she’ll let me hire the ship.”
“Very well. While I question your wisdom, I must admit that the Freewind’s reputation for speed is unmatched. Perhaps, in your shoes, I would make a similar choice. Since the Gloryhammer is of no use to you as transportation, I’ll give you the money you need in exchange.”
Infidel laughed. “I’m in a hurry, but I’m not an idiot.”
“What else do you have to offer me?”
“Information. You must be dying to know what happened with Greatshadow.”
“I know the dragon is alive. You failed in your mission to kill him, placing the world in great peril when he seeks revenge.”
“That’s nowhere near accurate. I’ll give you the complete story for the money.”
“My dear, I employee the most gifted diviners from the furthest reaches of the known world. I personally have lived though the events of this day a dozen times in my efforts to avert the impending apocalypse. I know all I need to know of your dragon hunt.”
Infidel crossed her arms. “You didn’t know Stagger is still around.”
“What does it matter if his spirit lingers? He’s hardly the only ghost in this port. What’s more, he can’t endure for long if he has no anchor to the material world.”
“I’m his anchor.”
“This isn’t accurate. The bone-handled knife was his anchor, but you lost this in the ghost lands.”
Infidel furrowed her brow. Zetetic and Relic were the only other entities to know that my soul had become trapped in the dragon bone in the handle of my grandfather’s hunting knife. Technically, we hadn’t lost the knife. It was tucked into the belt of the pants I was wearing when we came back to the material world. It stayed in the ghost realms with me. The pants, too. I can take the knife out and hold it, despite the fact it’s as much a phantom as I am now. What good an intangible knife does me I can’t say. If I had some intangible toast perhaps I could butter it, assuming I had some intangible butter.
But I digress. The Black Swan continued scolding Infidel. “You also lost the battle against Greatshadow in the spirit realm. Lord Tower dealt Greatshadow’s physical body a mortal blow with the Gloryhammer; Aurora slew the beast with the Jagged Heart, but was killed by the creature’s death throes. Father Ver’s mission was to kill Greatshadow’s spirit before the beast could grow a new body. But he died, so the mission fell to you. And Greatshadow banished you back to the material world before you could strike the final blow. Have I missed any significant detail?”
A few. Greatshadow hadn’t banished Infidel; he’d opened a portal for her after she spared his life in exchange for a promise not to seek revenge. Infidel had convinced the beast that the element of flame was well served by mankind. We cut down forests and hollow entire mountains of coal to feed Greatshadow’s appetites. Were he to wipe us out, he’d be one hungry dragon. We left the spirit world with Greatshadow feeling a grudging appreciation of mankind rather than a deep bloodlust for revenge. We count that as a win.
Infidel had a few bits of information the Black Swan hadn’t hinted at. She knew that Relic had turned out to be Greatshadow’s own child, an infant dragon named Brokenwing with genius-level intelligence and an excess of ambition. And, she knew that Zetetic, the Deceiver, had also survived, and where he was heading next. Would she try to barter this information?
Infidel pressed her lips tightly together. With what looked like great reluctance, she said, “Fine. You’ve forced my hand. I do have one thing left to trade. Stagger’s boat is stuffed with old books, maps, and notes detailing his explorations. Plenty of treasure seekers would pay through the nose for these documents. I’ll trade you the entire collection for the Freewind’s fee.”
The Black Swan shook her head. “You can’t seriously believe that a heap of mildewed notes scribbled by a notorious drunkard are worth anything.”
“We both know they’re worth a great deal. Stagger recovered hundreds of artifacts from the ruins of the Vanished Kingdom. He left behind hundreds more, too big to carry. He documented his explorations carefully, just like his grandfather.”
The sculptress looked up. “This Stagger... is he the grandson of Judicious Merchant?”
My grandfather was famous throughout the scholarly world for his masterwork, The Vanished Kingdom. The legend surrounding him and the book had only grown larger when he disappeared four decades ago, swallowed by the jungle-draped ruins he’d spent his life exploring. We’d recently discovered Judicious was still alive, living in a treetop village with the Jawa Fruit tribe. Just shy of a century old, my grandfather spends his retirement lounging naked in the sun, attended by his countless pygmy offspring.
Infidel studied the sculptress for a second, her eyes lingering on the woman’s withered face, before she answered, “Yes. Stagger was an explorer like Judicious.”
The Black Swan released a single, high-pitched accordion note. It took me a second to recognize the squeak was intended as a scoffing laugh. “Judicious Merchant was a gentleman scholar who braved the dangers of this island to expand human knowledge. Stagger was a wastrel who exploited his grandfather’s research to loot ancient treasures to slake his thirst for whiskey.”
“Don’t hold back, Swan,” I said. “Say what you really thought of me.” She’d been much more diplomatic when she’d haggled for some of the junk I looted. I mean artifacts I looted. I mean artifacts I rescued from their forgotten tombs and brought back so they could be properly appreciated.
“I want those papers,” said the sculptress. “I’ll pay for your use of the Freewind. I’m the mystery client who failed to show up. This project has taken longer than I’d anticipated. I fear I’ve lost track of time.”
“Indeed,” said the Black Swan. “I hope you don’t plan to pass on the expense of your additional hours to me. I’m not to blame for your poor time management.”
“I certainly believe you are to blame,” said the cloaked woman. “You made me rework your breasts eleven times!”
“I remain unsatisfied,” the Black Swan grumbled. “They don’t look natural.”
Given that they were cast iron, it was impossible to dispute this. On the other hand, I thought they looked like a reasonable approximation of boobs, about the size of grapefruits, nicely proportioned to her chest, with decorative floral rivets for nipples. Still, no matter how well sculpted in size or shape, they lacked a certain quality – Pillowiness? Bounce-factor? Jigglability? – that hampered their ability to stir lust.
The sculptress sighed and rubbed her eyes. She turned from the Black Swan and approached Infidel, extending her hand. “We’ve not been introduced. I’m Sorrow Stern.”
“My friends call me Infidel,” said Infidel, with a handshake.
Menagerie raised his left paw.
“How cute,” said Sorrow, shaking the paw. “You’ve trained your dog well.”
“I can’t take credit. I can’t even call him my dog. No matter what this old witch says, Menagerie’s a person. Somehow, I’ve got to help him remember this.”
“Hmm,” said Sorrow, taking the dog’s head between her hands and staring into his dark eyes. “The Black Swan is right. I sense only magic animating this creature, not a human soul.”
“Menagerie once told me he felt like his soul had been long ago devoured by all the animals that lived inside him. I’d be happy at this point if we can change him back into his human form. I think if he could see his human self in a mirror, it might jog his memory.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help. I’ve yet to master the art of sculpting living flesh.”
“Wouldn’t
that be easier than sculpting solid iron?” said Infidel.
“To the contrary,” said Sorrow. “You’re familiar with the teachings of the Church of the Book? The foundational belief that all of reality is formed of four base elements, matter, spirit, truth and lies?”
“I just spent a few weeks in the company of a Truthspeaker and a Deceiver. I’ve heard the subject debated, yes.”
“I’m a materialist,” said Sorrow. “By manipulating the proportions of truth and falsehood in certain matter, I’m able to shape it to my will. Iron is simple, being almost completely devoid of spirit. It possesses no internal conception of itself to resist alteration.”
“I’m sure this is a fascinating subject,” Infidel said, “But sundown is, like, ten minutes away. Let’s talk about our deal.”
“Of course. As I said, I’m the client who reserved the use of the Freewind, paying for passage both to and from the island with the advance given me by the Black Swan. There’s no need for money to exchange hands. I’ll simply write a letter informing Captain Romer that you’re representing my interests and taking command of the charter. Supply her with whatever destination you wish. I’ll be remaining on the Isle of Fire for some time, if Stagger’s papers are as extensive as you say.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
“I’m sure I won’t be,” said Sorrow. She walked back to the Black Swan and knelt. On the floor beside the ingot of pig iron lay a notebook covered with elaborate sketches of the iron woman that now stood in a semi-finished state before us. She turned to a fresh page and, using a razor freshly minted from the raw iron, cut free a sheet of white parchment. She then ground the razor to dust between her fingers, allowing the black iron to sprinkle on the page. With a fingernail, she twirled the ebony filings around, lining them into looping letters. I admired the crispness of her handwriting, and felt a stirring of familiarity as I watched the care with which she crossed her T’s and dotted her I’s. While the shape of her letters were softer and more rounded than my own handwriting, I recognized the same underlying rigidity that had been drilled into my penmanship by the monks at the orphanage in which I was raised. The whole authority of the Church of the Book rested upon the sacredness of the written word. Learning to write correctly was as important as learning to pray. Sorrow’s handwriting would have delighted any monk. Booze, a lack of piety, and general laziness had rendered my own once neat calligraphy somewhat less pleasing to the eye.