The Verse of Sibilant Shadows: A set of tales from the Irrational Worlds

by JM Guillen

  Tarvis gave Barnabas a victorious grin.

  “Do you agree?” The auctioneer asked Tarvis even as he wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth with a folded handkerchief.

  “I do. Set my hand on it, I do.” Tarvis leaned toward Barnabas. “Sorry, rudder. Better luck another day, yeah?” Tarvis walked up to the notary, as did the man in the masque. Ogrim walked over as well to receive Royce’s money and presumably hand over a certain key.

  I guess I won’t ever see Barnabas’ man and find the root of all his oddment questions. Prob’ly for the better. Though a small part of me wished otherwise, just my curiosity, alive and well after all I’d been through.

  Good to know my most trouble-making part still functioned.

  I stared at the gathering crowd, wanting to see the exact moment Ogrim collected the funds his master was owed.

  “Let’s get you to the side room, sweetling. Your new owner will be along in a nonce,” said one of the auction work-hands, a grubby man with a bright-red rum nose. I thought about running then. I could easily outrun the drunk.

  But no. Not until the deal was done.

  I let the drunken workhand take me to the side room, opening a small door that led into dingy darkness. I’d scarcely stepped inside when a young boy ran from down the hallway.

  “Oi!” The boy waved his arms. “Daryn says the client wants her in the far room!”

  “Wut?” The workhand gave the boy a stupefied look. “Why would any man want—?” He shook his head, biting off his own thought. “Doesn’t matter, does it? The client gets his way.”

  “What’s the difference?” I narrowed my gaze on the workhand.

  “You’ll see, won’t you?” he grumbled. “Step along.”

  I paused for less than a nonce and then stepped down the passage. I had to push the man’s hands off of me as we started down the hallway.

  “I’m not yours,” I hissed.

  “Doesn’ belong to you either, swee’cheeks,” he sneered back as we stepped into the shadows. “Not no more.”

  4

  The far room wasn’t the dank cage I expected.

  The workhand led me through the hallway to a small awning. Underneath stood a door, ill-fitted to its hole and crooked along the top from being hammered almost too snugly into place.

  The hole opened into one of the inoxydable steel and crystal constructs. It was nothing that jutted into the sky, just one of the structures that had long been buried by newer buildings.

  I gaped as he opened it. It was impossible.

  “I didn’t think we could break through these walls,” I gasped. No one had been able to so much as scratch one of the crystalline constructs. I personally knew of less than a handful of towers we could still enter through the doors and had read of only a dozen or so more.

  Why had my buyer requested this room?

  “We can’t. They could,” the workhand sneered as he steered me through the dark hole. “All the Down Market is riddled with rooms and warrens they left. Mostly broken bits and crevices. Dunno what happened, but they left plenty holes.”

  I tried to scrutinize the jagged edges of the metal walls as I passed, but as soon as I stepped foot inside, light bloomed from nowhere, stealing my regard.

  “Oh!” I unconsciously took a step back and had to fight the instinct to make a warding sign. It was stupid, I knew, but then it wasn’t e’ry day that one of the ancient wonders bled sourceless sunlight from the walls.

  “It’s nothing.” The workhand’s voice was loud, but it had a small quaver to it. His fingers became a blur of protective gestures. “Ghostlight. Happens betimes.”

  Then why are you so startled?

  I didn’t even look at the workhand as I mused, didn’t give thought to the way his voice sounded distant and tinny. The space within seemed wrapped in dreamy gauze and shimmered like heat over a cobbled road.

  I blinked. My mind drifted out of focus. I peered into the room, trying to ignore the drunken sensation that washed through me.

  The room was cavernous. Smooth polished stone gleamed under my feet, so shiny and black that I could see my reflection staring wide-eyed back at me. The unbroken floor went on and on, a pool of ebony decorated by elegant pillars of white stone and shafts of crystal larger than Ogrim. They were lit by gentle, multicolored lights that seemed to have no source.

  “It’s beautiful.” I took a deep breath, the room seeming to sway just a touch. Peering between the crystals, I made out several rounded-out nooks. Each one held something different: a graceful statue, richly cushioned couches, a small library.

  Oh! My hands itched to hold the ancient, leather-bound tomes. So many books! In all my life—!

  “Ysabel.” The voice behind me didn’t belong to the workhand.

  Startled, I turned.

  No one was there. Not even the workhand. The door had vanished. For some reason, this didn’t concern me in the least. I whirled seeking that voice.

  I was alone.

  “Hello?” I stepped forward, noting how slowly I moved. The entire world seemed stretched thin, like warm toffee.

  I took a single step forward but was forced to an abrupt stop as the center crystal of the room trembled and rose up from the floor at my feet. A wordless yelp tumbled from my lips. Fortunately, I stumbled backward into one of the columns, so I steadied myself against it.

  Then I noticed I wasn’t wearing my collar.

  “What—?” My hands grasped at my neck, finding only my warm skin. With wide eyes, I peered around the room.

  What was this place?

  “Ysabel Dartange.” The voice became slightly louder. “Aetne Numoin. Das Troi-il.”

  My brow furrowed as I listened to the odd, sourceless voice. I didn’t understand the words, but the cadence seduced my mind with the powerful familiarity of the ancestral songs my mother had taught me. Yet the words weren’t in tradespeak or any of the dozen pidgin-tongues that babbled in Calyptin Station.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think it Thyriin, but no one had spoken the Du’anni tongue for ten generations at least.

  “This isn’t real.” I hadn’t been silk-tongued when I told Barnabas about my dreams, and I indeed remembered them well. Right now, my mind drifted exactly as it had in those odd nighttime visions, but—

  But I wasn’t asleep.

  “What?” I reached forward, as if I could grasp the vision of this room, which ran before my eyes like melted wax.

  It faded, as if it had never been there at all.

  The room turned darker now and smelled of woodsmoke. In fact…

  It wasn’t the same room at all! Yes, veins of the crystal still ran through the walls, but now everything turned to brass, wood, and inoxydable steel.

  “—even know why anyone would want this rutting room. It’s a cursed thing.” He took a breath. “I need a drink.” The auction hand that had brought me in here swore as he lit a lantern.

  He… he hadn’t seen any of that, had he?

  “Can’t agree more,” I murmured.

  I looked around. The room’s initial glow had faded, and now it looked much more as I had expected. Still on the large side, the floor was well-worn wood with a small carpet lying near the door. A large, new couch rested against the gleaming metal and blue stone side wall. A desk sat next to it on a thick, boar hide rug. A large fireplace trimmed with gleaming brass filled one corner.

  “This isn’t…” I broke off, not really knowing what to make of it all.

  If the workhand had experienced anything similar to what I had, he made no show of it.

  I must be losing my mind. Being a debtslave had obviously driven me over my edge. My hands drifted up to my neck, where the cursed collar sat, snug and secure.

  “We put this stuff in here when we first found the place,” the sobered hand told me. “On occasion it… acts up.” He gestured, at a loss for words.

  “Acts up.” I shook my head, chuckling at the understatement.

  “Ghostlights. No
rhyme or reason.” He glanced about uneasily. “Well, you’ll be waiting here, not me.” The man shook his head as he set the lantern on the desk. “Yer buyer’s got some questions a’fore takin’ you.”

  “Right.” I blew out a shaky breath. “I’ve been asked all manner of things today, and now some strange gent owns my every word and move. Ask your questions.” Can’t be any stranger than what Barnabas wanted.

  “’S not me tha’s askin’, baby.” He edged his way out, his fingers making warding signs again.

  I watched as he shut the door.

  “What in the name of the lost gods was that?” I peered around the room, my hand worrying at my collar. The light had faded to a dull glow now—all that remained of the odd phantasms that had danced before my eyes.

  It was obviously just some vagary of the structure. People thought these structures were haunted, but I had never expected the experience to be so visceral.

  It didn’t matter. I needed to sharp up.

  I sat on the couch, plotting my escape. It frustrated me that I didn’t know anything about the man who’d bought me except he wore a masque. That was all I had. I assumed him to be disfigured. Perhaps that was my key to Teredon. He bought a woman because he was hideous. If I were kind, pretended not to be horrified, perhaps he would let his guard down…

  Then he walked in.

  I stood.

  “Ysabel Dartagne.” His voice came deep as night. He didn’t look up at me as he scanned my papers.

  “Sir.” I kept my tone as respectful as I could.

  I could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again. “At least you are respectful. ‘Sir’ is exactly what you should call me until we get back to my ship.”

  “Ship?” I smiled. I couldn’t deny how his voice made me long to hear more. It wasn’t as deep as Barnabas’, but it had a ring of authority to it, a tone of strength.

  I liked it.

  “So, you’re a captain too…?” Likely a man of influence with a voice like that, and a captain would light in Teredon eventually. I started gleefully adjusting my escape plan.

  “Too?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing.” I cleared my throat. “I was thinking of someone else. Not important.”

  “We have a lot to discuss before I put my stamp on your papers,” he remarked, unfurling the scrolls he carried.

  “You… you don’t own me yet?” I cocked my head to the side.

  “I like to make certain I want to own a thing before I buy it.” He stepped close enough that I could smell his cologne. After he captured my chin with a large hand, he turned my face from side to side.

  The man smelled wonderful, like the wind blowing off a wild, untainted forest. I took slow, deep breaths, trying not to gasp while taking in as much of the scent as I could.

  “You certainly look the part,” he murmured. “The eyes, the hair, the skin.” He ran one finger down my cheek and stepped back.

  “The part?” Of a whore? I bristled.

  “Here’s what happens next, Ysabel. I’ve been looking for a very special girl. If you are she, then I will take you away from here. You must, however, do as I say.”

  “And if I’m not?” I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “If you are not the young lady I’m looking for, then I will use my option to sell you to one”—he read from my papers—“Mister Tarvis Gentry. I will wash my hands of you and walk away.” He turned away, giving me his back for a nonce. “No insult intended.”

  “I’m certain.” Belonging to Tarvis sounded like the worst of those two options. Yet it really wasn’t my choice at all.

  I needed this to work.

  “Set your tests,” I invited.

  He turned from me then, pacing the room as he perused the papers. For a moment, he paused, leaning his hand against the crystalline traceries in the wall.

  “Your father is Alman Dartagne. Your mother… your mother’s name is not marked.” It wasn’t a question, but I could hear the wondering.

  “Why does my mother’s name matter? Nobody’s cared about it for over fifteen years, and now everyone’s afire to know.” I was heartily sick of the subject already.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was soft, caring. He turned back to me, cocking his garish masque to one side. “Who was she?”

  I was stunned by how that brightly painted, leering grin jarred against his tender words. With a shrug of one shoulder, I twined my wrists about one another in front of me.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be awful.

  “She’s gone.” I shrugged. “Why do you care?”

  “Answer me, Ysabel.” He stepped closer, his voice soft as he spoke. His eyes were intent.

  “She died when I was young. A cart ran over her in the market street.” I shrugged again. “I never really knew her. I’m told I look like her. The hair, the eyes.”

  I knew that the only way I could possibly get through this was to take the lead here. I had to be strong. I had to make going with him my choice. After all, I knew what men like him really wanted. Might as well see if I can get this ship in the sky.

  I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and arched my back just a touch, shifting my weight to thrust out one hip invitingly.

  “I even got her good breeding hips.” My voice came in a sultry purr.

  He just stood there until the weight of his silent regard made me shift my stance and look away. That uncomfortable silence stretched through the room for a long nonce.

  “You are Du’anni. Of the clans.” Again, it wasn’t a question.

  I felt compelled to respond anyway, with a small dip of my head.

  “So I’m told.” Was that what sparked his rut? Maybe it was something I could use against him. Somehow.

  “Yet you don’t wear your hair in tribal braids. Did you lose your mother before she could teach you?”

  I frowned at him. This was not how a new slave owner was supposed to act. All the stories agreed. My acidic tongue moved before I could think.

  “Do you want me to sing you the lay of my foremothers? I’m more than jus—!”

  “Would you?”

  “What?” Was he serious?

  “Would you sing the lay of your foremothers for me?” He sounded… wistful?

  I could only stare at him.

  “You’re from the Al’dal region, right? Only those clans create foremother songs.” His voice had a smug lilt to it. “It’s been long since I’ve heard one.”

  “You…” I stopped. “You know a lot about the Du’anni for someone who isn’t one.”

  He gave a bark of a laugh. “How do you know I’m not?”

  “Because no clan member would ever ask to hear the lay of my foremothers. Not unless we were related and it were a holy day. Or a feast day. Or at a funeral. Or—”

  He laughed, cutting me off.

  “You caught me. I’m not Clansfolke. But I’ve heard enough for now.” The man set my papers on the small work desk.

  He started to say something, but three sharp knocks on the door interrupted him.

  “Come in, Barnabas.” The man didn’t even turn.

  I gasped. “Wh—? Barna—?”

  When Barnabas walked in, he gave me a broad, toothy grin. My head whipped back to my owner.

  “Then you’re—?”

  “I am Captain Argent.” His tone held ample amusement as he gave an elaborate, mocking bow. “Though remember to call me ‘sir’ when we step outside. I don’t want anyone to know I am present.”

  While Barnabas closed the door, his captain took off his masque.

  I steeled myself. Now came the horror.

  Oh.

  I was wrong.

  The captain had deep, black hair pulled back in a rough tail. His beard was meticulous, and his smile was charming, roguish. Like a man who knew exactly who he was and what he was for, he was at home in his own skin.

  In another life, where I wasn’t a debtslave, I would have given much and more to attract a man like him. Even the way he grinned
at me, both possessive and cunning, made my breath catch just a bit.

  I tried not to stare.

  Then something occurred to me. I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “Captain Argent?” One eyebrow rose. “As in, the Sabre of the Riogiin Line?” He might as well have claimed to be Altheus or Isanor the Ever-Even Hand.

  He chuckled. “Yes, Ysabel.”

  Oh certainly. I looked the man up and down. He was certainly handsome but a hero of the Riftingwar?

  Unlikely.

  “If you’re Captain Argent, why was Barnabas bidding against you?”

  “Clever girl.” He made a clicking sound against his teeth. “I didn’t exactly expect to bid on a debtslave today. I’m a private man, and certain unsavory folke are always on the prowl for me. Barnabas here is my First Man and rather flashy. He draws the attention I don’t want, you see?”

  I nodded, even though I wasn’t certain I did see.

  “Ysabel, I’ve come very far to find you. I didn’t expect this”—he glanced at one of the small, tissue-thin papers—“Royce fellow to get wind of my search, but he apparently did.”

  “Why were you looking for me?” This man, who had seemed so dashing and confident only moments ago, now had my hackles up.

  And why did he specifically request this odd room? Superstitious?

  He cocked his head at me for a long moment, as if trying to make a decision. Then, he sighed. “Ysabel, I’ll explain more once we’re done with this unsavory business, but you’re a very special girl.” He paused. “I need you to trust me.”

  “Says the man who trades in flesh.” I scowled. “Why can’t you tell me now?”

  “It’s complex.” Gears spun behind his green eyes. Then, he seemed to come to his decision. “Your mother’s name is Iryniå.” He stared straight through me, his eyes like a green fire. “Not was. Is. I spoke with her less than a month ago.”

  “What?” Literally nothing the man could have said could have thrown me further off my stride. “I mean, yes, it was her name, but—”

  “We have a lot to discuss, Ysabel.” He turned to Barnabas. “Fetch the papers and whatever witness they want. We need to be quick.”