Calcifer

by E. R. F. Jordan

  “There she is,” He breathed, pinning her to the wall with his elbow. “I wondered where you ran off to. I saw that sword at your waist and knew you were going to be trouble.” He punctuated his sentence by punching July in the stomach. She groaned. “I’m not so sensitive to pain anymore––not after years of sedation––but these are going to be mighty sore in the morning. I don’t appreciate that.” July desperately took in her surroundings, looking for some way to leverage the man off her, but there was nothing in her reach.

  Suddenly, the man’s arm was off her chest, his hands scrabbling wildly at his back. He writhed and twisted, and as he turned on the spot, July saw why––the redwood handle of the forging knife was sticking out of his spine. Behind him, Mel was leaning against the wall, her face drawn in a mask of pain, her hands bloody. July seized the opportunity, lunging at the man’s back. She plucked the knife out and jabbed him four more times, all down his spinal cord. He howled, falling to the ground, a shaking mass of bleeding holes––evidently, his numbness to pain was only superficial. July stilled him with a knee on his chest and stuck the knife into his neck with surgical precision, then yanked it out, shielding herself from the arterial spray of dark red blood. The man went limp.

  July stood, her head aching, and leaned against the wall next to Mel. Moments passed with only the distant wail of the wind echoing down the stone hall. Then she stepped forward, lifting Mel’s arm over her shoulder much in the same way she carried Paulo. She lifted her back into the wooden chair, then dealt with the man’s body, dragging him out of sight.

  “Don’t move,” She said, picking up her short sword off the ground. “I have to fetch my waterskin.” Before Mel could protest, she was off into the dark, leaving the doctor alone with her thoughts and bloody hands, a deep fissure forming in the continent of her peaceful heart.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE MAN CALLED MORGAN. TO SEA AGAIN.

  For all the time he spent looking in a mirror, Morgan didn’t often see himself.

  The thought eased across his mind as he carefully twisted the brush against his face, his full cheeks diminishing under the dark brown pigment. The brush danced by his jaw, then returned to the palette in his lap. He examined the contours of his face in the mirror, turning his head to all sorts of radical angles, then placed the kit of performer’s paints on the dresser, satisfied with his work. He drifted to the window, looking out over the stone city and into the distant ocean.

  A knocking rang out from the door, three sharp raps. Morgan whipped around, every muscle in his body tense and alert. He assessed the relatively bare room, looking for suspect items. The dresser held only his makeup, a pitcher of water, a smattering of mismatched glasses, and his passport; the table by the window was empty; on the bed, a leather holster with the twin handles of his daggers poking out. The knocking came again, stronger and impatient. He leapt across the room, moving like a smooth night’s breeze. In one motion, he snatched up the holster, fastened it to his waist, and covered it with his shirt. Soundlessly, he arrived at the door, turning the dented brass knob and opening it only wide enough to peer out.

  “Oh,” He said. A pair of stony black eyes, dull and suspicious, stared back. “It’s only you.” Morgan relinquished the door, allowing the huge, grim man to enter. It had been a few weeks since he had become acquainted with Emil Bolton, but Morgan was already familiar with his sulky, introspective way of moving, as if his thoughts were so heavy they fell to his feet. Even without a suit of plate-mail, his footfalls sounded like battering rams, laying siege to the wooden floorboards. He must be violent as all hell, he thought, because his commanding air certainly wasn’t winning any medals.

  Morgan turned from the captain, drawing them two glasses of water. What character had he used with the man? Was he serious? Or had he been more playful? He affected so many these days it was hard to keep track. Turning back, he saw the man’s eyes on his hips, his expression hard. I was the Harlot, Morgan thought, smiling. He let his weight fall on his hip as he walked to the table and placed the glasses delicately. He sat, crossing his legs over the knee, and invited the man to sit with a glance. Something like disgust underlined Bolton’s expression, and as he sat down, Morgan knew he was in the right character after all. The Harlot was always one of his favorites.

  “You look different,” Bolton noted, although his eyes were firmly planted out the window. Morgan only nodded, keeping his smile subtle but sultry. “Is this part of your…”

  “Act?” Morgan finished. It was the captain’s turn to nod. “Yes, you could say that. I am an actor before a fighter.” He lifted his glass gently to his lips. The day he had met Emil Bolton, he had been in a bar in Casmer, an unfortunately wet and miserable town in the south of Warden. It was one of his preferred places to meet patrons––nobody went to Casmer if they could avoid it, and so the only ears to eavesdrop were those of drunk and despondent farmers, lamenting their soggy harvests in slanted tones. He had already been curious about the job––Bolton’s letter bore the Lhord’s serpentine crest, after all––but when he learned of his mark, that curiosity intensified tenfold. It was not often one was hired to hand folk legends. “Did the mentor speak any more? Bachman?”

  “No. He would only say she’s headed west. The prince grows irritable with him.”

  “I know she’s here, in Pelf. I’ve been watching.”

  “They came in on a boat this morning,” He agreed. “The doctor and her bodyguard.”

  “Trouble rarely travels alone,” Morgan purred. “You seem like trouble, captain. Where’s your bodyguard?” Bolton’s face flushed with anger, but Morgan had to credit him––his tolerance ran deep, equal parts discipline and fear of the spoiled prince’s temper.

  “Bodyguards are conspicuous,” Bolton measured his words carefully. “It is sometimes safer to travel alone.”

  “You’re not worried about bandits?” He leaned forward, still smiling. “Pirates? Scrappy little women from farming fields?” Bolton stood up, but Morgan continued. “Tell me, captain, how did she kill so many soldiers with only a mushroom strapped to her chest?”

  Then Morgan was rocked back into his chair, his face stinging. He had hardly registered the slap coming––the man was very agile for his size. He took in the scene––the captain, high and broad, dark brown makeup on the reddened skin of his callused hand. “I don’t care what Bal’Szukin says. You’re disposable,” Bolton hissed. “Don’t forget that.”

  Morgan didn’t miss a beat. “Assertive. I like that in a man.” Bolton clenched his fist around the handle of his sword, then seemed to think better of it, turning and storming out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him. He heard stomps, like sinners beating on the gates of paradise, travel down the stairs and into the street. He turned back to the window and watched the huge brown cloak disappear into the crowd of sailors, merchants and sellswords.

  “What a sulk,” He said, to nobody in particular. Then, after a moment of reflection, he returned to the dresser, replacing the patch of contour that the captain had taken with him. “I will be much kinder with you, Dr. Saul. Much kinder.”

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  “Where to next, Mel?” July shouted over the uneven waves. It had been three long, hot days since leaving Pacifica’s church. After fetching Paulo from the cell upstairs, the three of them fortified a leftover room in the basement and set up makeshift bed rolls. Paulo slept soundly, nestled in the corner of the room alone. Mel took longer to fall asleep, but it appeared the incense had not yet worn off completely––in the end, she couldn’t resist. July had stood watch, a golem of leather and cloth in the soft candlelight. Then they were off, the pair stealing away in the early hours of the morning––Paulo had already disappeared.

  Mel poked her head up from one of the ship’s storage compartments, holding a map between her gloved hands. “Pelf. It’s the closest port to Amora. We took the long route, but once we pass Pelf, we’ll hit Port Ginzo, the largest
harbor in the west.”

  “Are we taking Circumstance past Ginzo?”

  “Doubtful.” Mel was on deck now, watching the horizon. “The waters north of Ginzo are unclaimed, and for good reason––it’s all rocks, spires, and deepfolk.”

  “Deepfolk? I’m not twelve, Mel. I don’t believe in mermaids anymore.”

  Mel seemed troubled, but she smiled. “Believing doesn’t make things so; but the reverse is also true.” Her cryptic bit of wisdom said, she disappeared into storage again. July sighed and turned back to the sea. She would miss the feeling of being afloat; the power of the ship’s nose skimming the waves on a sharp wind; even the smells, salt and fish, carried on bitter winds that whipped your skin pink. She resolved to buy a boat someday, and nestle her in the pier in Lochan with the other colorful sails and sterns. She even knew what she’d name her; Circumstance II. She sighed again, this time more happily.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  After docking in Pelf, Amelia took the opportunity to venture into the town and refill her supplies. July initially expressed concern about her going alone, but once she saw the lively mob of travelers, she changed her tune, staying and guarding the boat instead. Mel didn’t mind––she could feel a dark cloud settling over her head, and wondered if a little time alone wouldn’t help.

  She set off down Pelf’s main avenue, a flat sandstone road wide enough for two carriages to comfortably pass in opposite directions. The buildings were squat, made of yellow stone, corners rounded with the intense pelting of the desert winds on one side and the salty ocean breeze on the other. Many of the owners and residents of Pelf took to painting with savagely bright patterns to mask the weathered yellow stone, drawing your eye in every direction at once. The older patterns were chipped away in the heat and wind, but the residents didn’t mind––they saw it as an opportunity for a new face. Pelf is a city of rebirth, Mel thought. Chipping away the old and embracing the new.

  Turning a corner, she came onto the bustling market avenues. Each alley seemed to specialize in a different merchandise––there were sections for carpets and rugs and furniture, for porcelain and cookware, for exotic foods and spices, for weapons of all different varieties, and, of course, galleries of paintings. The era of the artist still ran strong in Pelf. Mel set off towards the alley of exotics, ignoring the shouts of merchants and hustlers prospecting for rubes.

  Mel looked over the wares uneasily, the dark cloud in her head drifting lower. She could feel its edges now, hot with guilt. Although she was looking at jars of Zelan spices, she saw the underbelly of the church, deep in the sands. She could feel the weight of the incense on her muscles, as if she were still under its thrall. She saw candles.

  “Blades for sale! Fine blades, smithed in Lhord Historia!”

  She saw herself plunging the foraging knife into Father Pacifica’s spine.

  “Finest jewelry in the Rose Hills! Bronze, silver, copper plating, we have watches–”

  She saw the gouts of copper blood; the glint of his gold fineries.

  “Fresh from the bay! Tuna, carp, copperling, lobster, crab, spineshell, burrower–”

  She saw his muscles twitching, like a hooked fish in the air, gasping for breath.

  “Amelia Saul!”

  Mel froze in place, the enchantment of her thoughts broken. Sense returned. Of all the times to be recognized, the middle of a market of swindlers and pickpockets was not the greatest. She turned to identify the voice. It was a woman, short and hobbled with poor posture. She smiled up at Mel and beckoned her over, tossing the sheer veil off her face.

  With the thin material missing, Mel recognized her immediately. “You’re looking very well, Professor Denys.” The woman’s smile widened, and she waved a hand dismissively. Mel had spent three years under her tutelage in Amora––and she guessed that at least one of those years was spent listening to the stories of her travels across the known continents. Zelan had always been her favorite, Mel recalled. “You can’t be on vacation at this time of year. Are you taking a leave of absence?”

  Denys laughed hoarsely and began rooting through the wares on her own table––a selection of baked delicacies. “No, no. I’ve been retired for years now. You were among my last. Here––rose-bread for the flower child.” She held up a pink bun, sprinkled with lines of sugar and another spice Mel didn’t recognize. “But I do appreciate the groveling.”

  Mel took the bun without argument. “Is this where you’ve settled, then?” She took a bite. The bun was bittersweet––emphasis on bitter.

  “I spend half the year in Pelf and the other half in the Republic,” She explained. “But it’s the journey between that’s really worthwhile.” Mel nodded in agreement, finishing the bun in another bite. “Pelf is a long way from Prycoast. What takes you so far from home?” She began to elaborate, but was cut off by booming voice from the mouth of the alleyway.

  It was a man in dark red, a blazing gold symbol on his cloak––the crossed arms of the Lhord’s Army. “By order of the Bal’Lhord Prince, I beckon you, listen.” The noise of the alleyway mostly drowned him out, but a couple heads turned. He looked to another man at his side, wearing much lighter cloaks and holding a horn. He lifted the instrument and blew, hunching over with the force of his breath. The horn bellowed tonelessly into the sky, echoing over the stone city.

  The alleys of merchants fell begrudgingly silent. The first man continued. “The Lhord’s Army does not make a practice of inciting vigilante behavior, but in this case makes an exception. Prince Bal’Szukin, heir to the Throne Historia, seeks the capture of two individuals, to be brought to Old Amora posthaste.” Sensing what was to come next, Amelia reached back and lifted the hood of her cloak, obscuring her face. “Amelia Saul, and her bodyguard, an unidentified Amoran woman, are wanted by the Throne Historia for crimes against the Empire. Anyone involved in the arrest of these individuals may be entitled to a sum of money, or a pardon on crimes minor and numerous.” The man began to rove the alleys, repeating his description of Mel and July loudly, and talking to merchants.

  Mel felt Denys’ hand on hers. She turned and saw her dark blue eyes, full of caution and alarm. “You need to go,” She said. “Now. Get to the Republic. It’s the only place they can’t follow you. Connect with Chancellor Sonya, she will hear your appeal. I will write ahead.” Mel felt panic begin to swim in her blood.

  “Thank you, Denys,” Mel couldn’t manage anything else.

  “I don’t believe them. Sonya won’t either. Now get moving, flower child.” She smiled––an anxious ghost of her former beauteous grin, but a smile all the same. Amelia turned and walked away in the shade of the buildings, slow enough to seem uninterested but fast enough to ignore the nervous shaking in her hands.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  LAYERS OF PAINT. JULIUS OMEN.

  Mel kept one eye on the mouth of the alleyway as July pulled the clothing out of her linen bag and began to exchange layers. She had gotten them cheap on the back end of the market; meanwhile, Mel had found a safe spot outside the public eye. Anonymity was their only way across the Amoran Channel and into Ginzo.

  She felt her hand sneaking up to her face and suppressed the urge to touch––the heavy makeup on her cheeks felt like dried mud, and itched in places. She forced her hand back to the silken material of her pants. “You’re sure this is enough?”

  “Trust me,” July called over her shoulder, “I’ve done this before.” She pulled the tight band of fabric over her chest. There was an odd quality to her voice that Mel couldn’t put her finger on––but then, there were more urgent itches she couldn’t put a finger on, and that made focusing hard. “For the first few years I worked for the fighter’s guild in Lochmount, they still weren’t accepting women––kind of silly considering it’d been years since Amora’s Angels took off in the Republic, but it takes a while for that stuff to filter down. I spent a year apprenticing under my guild-master, Andre, as ‘Julius’. I had a cover story and everyth
ing––I lived with my uncle Joseph by the sea, where we were fishermen. I worked at the pier at the time––the smell seemed to help convince them.” Mel observed that the swell of her chest was almost completely suppressed by the fabric band. Paired with her square hips and short hair, it was even easier than usual to mistake her for a young man. “Of course, it didn’t last. During a training exercise, I got nipped in the side with a dagger and it cut my band. But Andre didn’t seem to care. I think he knew all along.” She smiled nostalgically, then reached into the linen bag and produced a wide, floppy straw hat. She tossed it like a disc, and Mel fumbled it out of the air.

  “Thanks,” She said, jamming the hat on her head. “I feel a lot better out of direct sight.”

  “Don’t worry,” July grinned. “You’re so plain normally, the makeup and Zelan silks will go that much further.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Mel ducked out of the alley and began walking back towards the pier. July caught up easily and kept a step ahead, walking with a wide gait and head held high. She was right––she had the character mastered, down to the way he took up space. “Doctors are supposed to be plain. If I wore this much makeup to see a patient, I’d–”

  “Make a friend?”

  “I shudder to think.” They turned the corner towards the outgoing ships. The pier was wide and open, like the one in Aja, but much more crowded. Amelia spotted their ship almost immediately––not the Circumstance but a gaudy green and yellow ferrying vessel, dressed in the same bright geometric paint as the city itself. There was a long queue getting on, and the pair had no trouble slipping in undetected.