Salt in the Water (A Lesser Dark Book 1)

by S. Cushaway

  He sucked in a big gulp of air and beat his knuckles against the door. “Mama, you decent?”

  She called back, voice muffled, “Just a moment, Zerestus, honey, I’m gettin' dressed.”

  You mean drying off gorilla back’s duffle bags while he picks fleas outta his ass hair.

  After a moment, the door opened and Lucy Corrin peeked out, her face still unlined despite being past her child-bearing years. She smiled, green eyes merry, blond hair smoothed into a neat little bun tied at the nape of her neck. She smelled like perfume and sex. Zres’s stomach bubbled as it always did whenever that scent clung to his mother. It could not be killed with flowery bathwater, no matter how much she dumped on herself in the attempt.

  “Hi, honey. Come in and sit at the table. I made you a big pot of s’rat stew with corn cake. Oh, and we have a guest with us for lunch today.”

  The grin crammed itself on his face, as unwanted a visitor as Moad. “Oh? Who’d that be, Mama? Wouldn’t be old Harper Moad, would it?”

  “Why, yes, it is. Were you spyin’ on us, Zerestus?” Lucy scolded, a teasing note—almost coy—softened her words. But there was an edge to it Zres knew well; his mother was ticked. He stepped inside, gaze locked onto Moad’s twinkling blue stare.

  The Harper seated himself at a small, worn table near the alcove, his curly mullet slicked back and dripping wet. He wore a fine pair of slacks and a crisp, white shirt with gold cuff links winking as bright as stars. “Why, hello, Zerestus. You’ve grown up since I last saw you what, oh, ten years ago now, was it? I do declare you’re taller than me now, I think.”

  Words stuck like glue on Zres’s tongue. He tried to peel them off and speak, but could not. Clearing his throat, he broke from the Harper’s gaze as his mother pulled the jacket from his shoulders.

  “Go and have a seat, honey. I’ll get you and the good Harper a bowl of stew.”

  Zres sat. The chair squeaked under him. His mother hummed a hymn as she scooped s’rat stew into two big bowls and placed one before him. A golden slice of corn cake floated amid the thick gravy, but the rich broth looked no more appealing than day-old beans. His appetite lay dead in the pit of his belly.

  “So, Zerestus, your mother tells me you’re working as an Enforcer now?” The Harper shoveled a massive spoonful of stew into his mouth and chewed, mustache wiggling back and forth above his thick lips. He swallowed. “That’s admirable work, son.”

  Don’t call me son.

  When words finally did pop from Zres’s mouth, they were oddly cheerful. “That’s right, I am. Couple of years now. They got me doin’ the real important work of door duty and walking ruts in the water-fields.”

  Moad gave him an odd look.

  His mother sighed as she seated herself at the edge of the bed. “Zerestus, you know you do more than that. Tell Moad how you keep the threk out of the water-field at night.”

  “I keep the threk out of the water-field at night.” Zres lifted his spoon, laden with s’rat meat and tomatoes. “Oh, and I watch flies screw on the doorknob of Neiro’s office. That’s real exciting work. Just sort of like . . . hell, like watchin’ the insect version of whores right there on the old brass handle.” He bit down on his food and chewed through his smile.

  “You sound discontent, young man.” Moad’s eyes lost their bright-blue sparkle. The Harper leaned back, looking thoughtful. “I was once that way too, before I found Mary Soulmaker. Why, Zerestus, you may not believe it, but I almost worked for the Foundry when I was near your age.”

  “The Foundry?” Zres frowned, wiping gravy from his chin. “You want some applause for that? Lots of people work at the Foundry. Hell, Erid will be goin’ there in a few years. Don’t see what’s so special about it.”

  “The Junkers are a fine lot of folk, honey. Of course it’s special.” Lucy Corrin smoothed the dress over her thighs. It had been a pretty calico print once, but had long since faded to a nothing-color where nondescript flowers floated amid a sea of bland.

  Moad fixed him with a hard stare. “She’s right, young man. But when I found Mary, I changed my ways and found my true calling. We all have a calling, whether we know it or not.”

  He’s tryin’ to hypnotize me. You want to see a real stare? Go push your mustache up at a threk and see who wins that contest. Won’t be you, you old sagback.

  “That so?” Zres swallowed another mouthful of stew, tasteless against his sharp anger.

  “That’s so.” Moad nodded. “Zerestus, the world is a hard place, as I’m sure you’ve heard. There are many trials. Trials of the soul, and trials of the body. Mary sends us those trials to test us. To teach us, son, that She is the Light of the world in the Blackness of sin; a beacon. Now, young men usually don’t find that very appealing. I didn’t either at your age.” His lips quirked into an ironic smile Zres wanted to kick right off the jowly face.

  “But that was before I had to face my own test.” The Harper took another bite of stew. “And one day you may have to face a similar trial and make your choice. Dark or light.”

  “So, like. . .” Zres tapped the spoon against his chin. “An epiphany?” He ignored his mother’s sharp look.

  “Yes, an epiphany.”

  “Is that considered a Harper Milestone, or just a detour on the road map of Zerestus Corrin’s journey to enlightenment through Mary Soulmaker? May She bless you forever and ever, a-fucking-men!”

  “Zerestus!” Lucy Corrin gasped, a hand pressed to her rosebud lips. “You apologize to Harper Moad right this moment!”

  “That’s quite all right, Lucy. Young men are supposed to show some skepticism. Means they have fire in their spirit. Why, there’s not one among the Harper’s Legion that didn’t start out questioning the Good Book and all that went with it, including me.” The winning, white smile curled over Moad’s lips again. He winked as he rubbed a thick finger under his mustache, sniffing delicately.

  You son of a bitch!

  Lucy Corrin reddened, but said nothing.

  Zres pushed himself up from the table and tossed down his spoon, almost dumping the bowl over in the process. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to playing hide Moad’s streamer in the hair tunnel. I’ve gotta go see to that important task of staring at Neiro’s door.”

  Before his mother could scold or protest, and before he had to watch Moad taking another whiff of stink-finger, he grabbed his jacket from the door hook and tossed it over a shoulder. Pushing his way past his mother without a word, Zres slammed the door shut behind him. He paused at the sound of Lucy Corrin’s soft, sorrowful voice.

  “I just don’t know about him, Moad. Are you sure he’ll come around?”

  “Time will tell, Lucy. But I’ve seen worse come to and realize the calling. Why don’t I sing you that hymn you like so much? Get your mind off your troubled boy a while.”

  The sonorous voice of Harper Moad rose above the sound of Zres’s retaliatory kick to the wall. Lucy Corrin’s girlish, pretty soprano followed him all the way down the hall.

  Light o’er the dark

  A dove in my heart

  Through the night She shines

  Beacon o’er waters

  Calm this stormy soul ‘o mine

  Your grace triumphant

  O’er this grim death

  Mary brought me home

  And took me in Her arms

  She soothed my poor soul

  With Her, never alone I roam

  Mary, Sweet Mary . . .

  Their voices faded as he left the Bin and marched down the street, blind with rage. Something deeper stirred in his belly, too, raw as a sore. He began to hum under his breath, mouthing his own lyrics to the hymn.

  Mary, sweet Mary, My mom’s a whore

  Harper Moad just banged her

  And he’ll probably bang her some more

  One day I’ll get out of this town

  And go far down south

  And fuck all of Dogton forever

  But right now, Sweet Mary

&nbs
p; I gotta stand by the door . . .

  Zres decided that version did seem a hell of a lot more fitting.

  Synth

  Neiro opened one eye as the door opened and Viyr stepped into the room, a bottle of Synth tucked under his arm.

  "What the hell took you so long?” He spread the washcloth over his shoulders, the tension in his muscles lessening. The water in the brass tub sloshed as he leaned forward. “Clean that up after you pour me a shot, will you, Viyr?”

  “Of course.”

  Viyr opened the tall cabinet near the bed. There, neatly stacked shot glasses sparkled like crystal—pure and clean, unlike the grimy glasses in the Bin. Most of the locals never noticed of course; they were filthy pigs who had no idea clean utensils existed in the world.

  He watched as the Mechinae poured the shimmering blue liquid. “But what took you so long, Viyr?”

  Viyr screwed the lid back onto the bottle and stood straight. “Forgive me. Zres Corrin felt the need to voice some discontent at being left behind.”

  “Damned Enforcer brat.” Neiro took the offered drink and swished it around in the glass, admiring the way it almost seemed to float. He took a sip, savoring the chemical jolt—ozone and ice and something no word could describe other than Synth. A warmth spread through him, mild as the bathwater and even more pleasant. “I’m going to have to talk to Orin soon about that boy. He’s trouble. Damn it all, they’re all trouble. Problem for another time. Was there anything else, Viyr?”

  “There was a message from Phineas Moad on your VDA. Your sister also sent a transmission.”

  “I’ll deal with that later. But what about Moad? Is he held up again?” Even the Synth couldn’t chase away his irritation at the thought of the Harper arriving so late. “If he says he’s canceled, I’m going to have Avaeliis send someone right to the Harpers’ Citadel and haul him here by his fat neck.”

  Viyr shook his head. “That will not be necessary. Harper Moad arrived late this morning and is at the Dust Bin, resting. He’s requested a meeting with you Monday afternoon.”

  “Good. I’ve got Frell on my schedule Monday morning, but that shouldn’t take long.” The warmth in his belly became fire with a cold, frosty edge. Energy buzzed through him, making him feel almost young again, ready to take the exile handed him and make a kingdom from it. “Has Leigh reported in?”

  Viyr locked the bottle in the cabinet and turned toward the tub again. “Yes. She reported they had some trouble with threk last night, but no one was injured. They are en route to the Old Tree Well and will be there well before noon tomorrow.”

  Neiro nodded, swallowing the remaining Synth. “I want to talk to you about this whole Moad business.” He held the shot glass out. Viyr took it, holding it between his pale fingers gracefully. Neiro amused himself with the idea of Viyr wrapping his slim hands around Evrik Niles’s scrawny throat and squeezing until the ugly face turned purple.

  “Viyr, I want your honest opinion on this one. The whole business with Rosie and the caravan . . . well, that woman Kaitar found was Rosie. And we don’t know if the damned cargo can be recovered. Given all this, what are the chances we could get the Harpers to back us against Glasstown, should things go sour with Niles?”

  Viyr inclined his head as he always did when calculating some possibility. His eyelids drifted downward until the neon stare was almost hidden. The Mechinae’s calm, contemplative expression gave Neiro the immediate impression of a statue he’d seen once in the Avaeliis Spire—white marble inlaid with Excerii and Worm Glass decor. Aloof and flawless, that statue had given him nightmares as a child, despite the serenity depicted on the still face. The cold, carved perfection had always truck him as somehow awful, a thing too beautiful for the likes of mortal men or women to ever achieve.

  Verand Eleid, First Among Cynops, Founder of Avaeliis, the inscription in the brass plate below the statue read. The father of the Veraleid Corporation would never be remembered as anything but glorious in the Avaeliis Data Archives. No one would recall anything about him—it—except how he’d been a genius, building Avaeliis and working with the other Cynops to save mankind from the Toros disaster. The Syndicate had erased everything else about Verand Eleid. In the Archives, there’d be nothing about Verand’s Enetic research, nothing about the Cursor project, or his fall from grace. Certainly, there’d be nothing about being sentenced to Permanence.

  Not a single log about Viyr, the Mechinae.

  Neiro slicked back his freshly shampooed hair in an attempt to wash away those thoughts. “Well, Viyr, I’m waiting to hear what you’ve got to say about this Glasstown mess.”

  Viyr’s eyes blazed open. “The chance of garnering the support of the Harpers will reside solely on if you decide to open up talks about a new bargain. Despite Rosie’s death, I believe Harper Moad will expect you to uphold the agreement.”

  Neiro snorted. “I guessed that myself. Basically give them something for nothing at this point. But Moad isn’t going to be very damned happy, is he?” It was a redundant question, but he wanted to talk. Wanted to be reassured that, even if the whole business with the Harpers fell to ash and ruin, he would still have an ace up his sleeve. Niles was going to try something, of that he had no doubt.

  “No,” Viyr replied smoothly. “I do not expect Harper Moad will be pleased. But that may be irrelevant. Rosie may yet be replaced.”

  “May . . . may . . . may. Maybes are a dick tease, Viyr. Will she be replaced? And how? That’s what I want to know.”

  Viyr did not respond. Could not respond, for he had no definite answer to give. Neiro eyed him as he stooped to clean up the water on the floor with a linen towel. Viyr’s long queue of silver-blond hair fell over his shoulder, swaying to and fro as he worked. On impulse, Neiro reached out and gripped the smooth tendrils.

  “Why don’t you cut this thing off? You’re not a Cursor. This isn’t twenty years ago, when this ridiculous hair fad was all the rage back home.” He flung the lock of hair away, suddenly irritated by Viyr’s statue-perfect composure.

  “I will remove it, if that is your wish.”

  “No. Go get me a towel.”

  “Of course.”

  The weight of his body pulled against the buoyancy of the water as he rose.

  Old and fat. Wish I could just sit in that fucking tub all day. Floating. No. Too much work to do.

  “What’s your suggestion then with this Harper business, Viyr?”

  “I believe if we allow them to build a small chapel here, with the agreement that they are secondary to you in authority, it may be possible to win their full support. I believe there may even be an available replacement for Rosie, in due time. I cannot imagine she is the only Harper woman willing to marry a man of power and influence.” The Mechinae unfolded another linen towel, hung it neatly on his arm, and extended a hand. His grip was gentle as Neiro climbed from the tub.

  “The thought of marrying any Harper makes my dick curl, but I suppose you’re right. It has to be done. Let’s talk about it later. Dry me off.” He held his arms out. “Tell me, Viyr, do you ever think about it?”

  Viyr paused, a ghost of bemusement on his face. “Forgive me, but I do not take your meaning. Think of what?”

  The day you died.

  “Verand Eleid.”

  “The founder of Avaeliis? I’ve never met him.” Viyr went back to work drying his legs. The linen towel was a far cry from the fine cloth back in the city, and Viyr’s touch was cold.

  Neiro wondered if the Mechinae were lying. Sometimes, he felt a nagging suspicion Viyr did remember those days in some rudimentary way. Perhaps he did not feel anything about the memories, but Neiro was almost certain he had seen a faint, brief flash—a glitch—in those glowing eyes.

  Maybe it’s the Synth. Drinking too much of it after a dry spell makes a man paranoid. Yes. Just the Synth. Heady stuff.

  “Forget the question,” Neiro said. “Go find Orin and tell him I want to talk to him about Glasstown. We need that inventory fini
shed and I want Vore and Garv to patrol the perimeters until I know exactly what Niles is up to.”

  “I’m happy to oblige.”

  No. They took that away from you, too, Viyr. You’ll never really be happy again, or sad, or anything except obedient. The Syndicate’s cure. Permanence.

  “Go do it, Viyr. I want to be al—I’ll go read that message from Nyia, now.”

  In the Rot

  Mariyah.

  The name trickled down into his mind like water seeping from a deep spring far under the mountains. And there, through the fissures and blood rushing over him in a painless agony, he heard her voice: “I can’t see . . . I can’t see . . .”

  “I’m here.” His cracked lips bled, and the salt in that blood stung. Spilled over. Dripped down his chin. “Mariyah? I’m here. Look at me, this way.”

  “I can’t see . . . it’s dark.” She turned her head and stared, wide-eyed, through the crimson light of morning. Her face was so gaunt the cheekbones poked against her translucent skin, moving as she spoke. She’d been pretty once, before Madev had thrown her in the cell to starve. But that beauty had melted away to become ghoulish, and now—even if Madev forgave her—there was no more food. No more water. Nothing.

  The sunrise slanting through the high window gleamed against the bars until they seemed coal-hot. But when he reached to touch them, they were still cool from the long night.

  “I’m here,” he said again.

  “Kaitar? You’re still alive?” Light as a wasp’s wing, her voice hummed in his ears until he wanted to shriek and tell her to stop. Over and over, that scared, trembling question—“Kaitar? You’re still alive?”

  “Yes,” he said, and wished it wasn’t so. Pressed so hard against the cold cell bars his arm hurt, he reached across the space between their cages. His fingertips gripped the ends of hers, but there was no warmth in her touch; her hand had gone as dry and thin as ancient acacia twigs.