Warsinger

by James Osiris Baldwin

  “Scars from fighting off corruption,” I muttered to myself. “That’s all it is.”

  About ten minutes later, we came up on a large, ramshackle inn built against one of the towering pylons. It was busy, with people pouring in and out of the big barn doors. Knots of men - almost all men - hung outside, chatting and drinking and laughing. There were a pair of extremely large bouncers at the door, their red hair buzzed short to their heads. As we approached, one of the men stood up with a look of disbelief.

  “Suri?!” he called her name.

  “Holy shit. Look who it is. Excuse me a minute, guys.” Suri's mouth spread in a broad grin, and I watched uncomfortably as the big man laughed, kissed her on both cheeks, then thumped her on the back. His friend seemed less impressed, chewing tobacco with the tired expression of someone who'd been working too long and wasn't paid enough for it. After a couple minutes of back and forth conversation, Suri waved us over.

  “Haffar,” she said, by way of explanation. She switched languages as she needed to, so that she could be understood by Vash. “He fights in the same circuit I used to. Good guy. Doesn't speak a word of Vlachian or Tuun, unfortunately.”

  “How you doing, brother?” I held out a hand. Haffar gave me an up and down look, then clapped his hand into mine.

  “Busy. We’ve had the Sultir’s troops wandering around everywhere, poking their noses where they don’t belong,” he grunted. “Bad for business. Bad for life.”

  “Fuck those guys. You two probably do a better job than a whole squad of those assholes,” I said. He nodded, as did his buddy, who was listening with one ear while he watched the crowd out front.

  “Sure do.” Haffar, suitably placated, turned his attention back to Suri. “I never thought I’d see you again, sister. Rumor was the Rose Knives slipped you something and sold you on to one of the Slum Queens.”

  “No, nothing like that. I got a contract in Vlachia,” Suri replied. “I’m sorry, I’d love to catch up, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. We’re here on business. I’m looking for Aksil.”

  “Nothing’s changed there. The mangy old bastard is in his usual spot, fiddling with his diamonds and his books.” The bouncer reached over and held the door open for us. “Back room. Auntie should be there, too.”

  “Thanks.” Suri kissed him on the cheek, and he gruffly returned it with a small smile.

  We entered into a cloaked-off area, where we were given rope and had to peace-bond our weapons before we were allowed into the main club. Past the drapes was a tavern area that was currently full and focused on the strippers who were performing on stages at the end of the room. Beyond the was a dusty pit fighting arena crowded with punters. A pair of very buff, heavily oiled dudes in tight leather pants were wrestling there in the dirt.

  “Hmm.” Vash nodded along as one man threw the other over his head by his neck and the seat of his pants. “Nice technique. Nice pants.”

  Suri laid a hand on the edge of the door and smiled fondly at the scene beyond. “Yeah... the Tiger is a bit of an institution in these parts. Found the first good people I'd ever met in this place.”

  “Beat up a fair share of them, too.” Karalti held onto my arm, sniffing intently.

  “Sure did.” Suri looked back at me. “Let’s go find Mamaji. She'll be at the rear bar.”

  Mamaji turned out to be a very old woman with a stack of golden rings around her neck and big gold rings in her ears, lip, and nostril. She exclaimed with joy when she saw Suri, embracing her, cupping her face with trembling wrinkled hands. I found myself feeling wistful. The bar I'd worked at had this same family feel about it, the same love between the staff who worked there. The Full Stop had been a popular haunt for Vets, a pretty good number of them in their fifties and sixties. Our proprietor had been a rave producer turned bar manager when the pandemic in the ‘20s trashed his eventing business and forced him to downsize. He'd been a pretty cool guy: older, white, a bit hippy-dippy when it came to topics like aliens and angels. He'd been a good manager and a good landlord, though: the kind of landlord who'd turn up with a blunt to share during 'house inspections'.

  “You okay?” Karalti asked.

  “Yeah. Head’s fine. Just homesick.” I breathed deeply of the scent of old alcohol. “I just heard Aksil's name, though, so I bet we're about to go meet Suri's appraiser.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  Suri returned, then jerked her head to the right and led us through a dark doorway to a quieter series of booths, all of which would be great for lapdances, murder, or fencing stolen goods. Aksil, to my surprise, was a Meewfolk. The lean, punkish cat had the same rough-as-guts feral look that Taethawn did, but he was much older. The fur along his cheeks and around his eyes was shaved off, revealing lines of crudely inked tattoos. His eyes were crossed, but they were a very brilliant blue.

  “Ahh, now here is a face old Aksil has not seen in a long time,” he said. As he spoke, I noticed he only had one front fang – but unlike almost every Meewfolk I’d met, he had no trace of an accent. “Our Red Lioness has come crawling back to Auntie’s House, has she?”

  “Not crawling, you old fleabag. Very much walking.” She eased down onto the bench across from him. “I don't have any more time for small talk, though. Can you speak Vlachian? My friend here, the one with the artificed arm, doesn’t speak any Dakhari.”

  “I can, yes,” he replied, in that language.

  “Great. We got something for you to look at. What's your going rate for identifying artifacts, these days?”

  “Artifacts?” He reached up to stroke his whiskers, purring softly to himself for a few moments. “Between old friends, let us say... ten Vlachian olbia? You are dealing in that currency, yes?”

  Suri chuckled. “Olbia are worth a lot more than dinari.”

  “It's true. But for artifacts, that is my price. Likely it is worth a lot more than my humble fee.” Aksil spread his hands. Like cats, his long, dexterous fingers had pads on the tips.

  “Make it five,” I said.

  His ears twitched and swivelled toward me. “Ohh, a haggler? Well, five is impossible. I have four children, and my family must eat. Eight.”

  I brought the star-shaped medallion out. “For this thing? You have to be kidding. I already know it's made out of electrum-”

  “Wait.” Aksil's face closed down, and he made a grabby motion with one paw. “Let me see that.

  I glanced at Suri, who nodded. Vash and Karalti peered in curiously as the appraiser took the necklace, donned a magnifier headset, and began to examine the script.

  “Ten pure gold pieces,” he said, in a firm whisper. “That is a fraction of what this is worth to the right buyer. And in terms of non-monetary value...”

  “Then ten gold it is.” I held up a hand before Suri could protest. “But you get five now, and the rest after you tell us what it is.”

  Aksil took his money from Suri, then glanced between the four of us. “This is either one of the Shields of the Firmament, or a very good copy. They are artifacts made in the lost Shrine of the Anvil, reputedly the first temple to Khors ever built by human hands. It was crafted by none other than the Arch-Smith Pranad Ba’nadi, He of Many Talents. He was the first human Forgemaster in our history, the first to learn the esoteric secrets of high artificing from the dragons.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, passing him the rest.

  The Meewfolk’s eyes hooded as he added the five coins to a pouch. “Trade secret. What I can tell you is that this script is comprised of tightly compressed Words of Power, the kind mages of today wish they understood. Do you know much about magic? Any of you?”

  We all shook our heads, even Karalti.

  “Magic is a language which, when properly spoken, shapes the nature of reality itself,” he said. “Before the Destroyers appeared in our world, the dragons were able to use formulas beyond our imagination to traverse space and time, raise the dead and heal the sick, create and destroy mountains. Much of their sophistication was lost in the cat
aclysm that ended their civilization. The Aesari regained some of it once the ashes settled, enough to raise cities into the sky and oppress all the other races of the planet. But they, too, fell… and we have not yet been able to recover the knowledge lost with their extinction. Few human minds were able to learn and practice magic of that level, but the Arch-Smith was one of them. It is said Sachara owed her divinity to his artificing, and the lines you see here on this medallion are highly compressed formulas, instructions for some kind of magic I cannot even fathom.”

  “Interesting.” Suri frowned, looking down at it. “No idea what it says?”

  “No. No artificer alive could probably make sense of the formulas engraved on this piece. I know they are historical, but I cannot read them.” He nodded. “In truth, whatever role it played in history is probably long past. However, as a historical artifact, it is exceedingly valuable to the right people.”

  “Right. What else do you know about the Arch-Smith?” Suri asked. “Like, places he’s been, places he might have lived?”

  “He lived wherever his queen needed him. The Arch-Smith was one of the Empress’s husbands, which is why you need to take this and hide it immediately,” Aksil replied. “There's a pogrom happening right now, and talk of the old dynasty is enough to get someone killed. Fireblooded women like yourself are in the firing line.”

  Suri recoiled. “A pogrom? On Fireblooded?”

  “The Sultir's soldiers have been hunting and arresting any Fireblooded women unfortunate enough to draw attention to themselves, along with every mage and artificer below Cloud City level. The ‘official’ stance is that Fireblooded terrorists were responsible for the destruction of Al-Asad, and they have declared 'war' on all Casteless to deter future violence.” Aksil rolled his eyes, reaching up to gently stroke his whiskers. “The rumor on the street is quite different. It seems that someone, or several someones, appeared in court and began whispering this madness in the Sultir's ear, convinced him to declare this 'war on filth'. The days where soldiers would beat you and throw you back down into the Undercity are gone. Anyone caught upstairs is killed, burned alive in Martyr's Square in front of the city jail. If they don't make their quota, they come down here and raid our homes for victims.”

  Suri and I glanced at each other. The Dakhari Emissary in Taltos hadn't even hinted about this taking place. Ignas hadn't mentioned it... which meant either he hadn't known, it was being done in secret, or both.

  “Would anyone know who those new faces in the Sultir's court might be?” Suri asked.

  The Meewfolk wagged his head. “I do not, nor do I care to. That information is too dangerous for the likes of me. Only the Slum Queens and the Guilds trade in that kind of gossip. I DO happen to know one thing that might assist you in finding your source, but I am a poor appraiser, and your fee only covered one service.”

  Suri grinned mirthlessly at him. “After forking out ten olbia for that pap, it'd better be less than two dinar, or you'll be giving us that other tooth of yours, too.”

  He held out a hand. “How convenient. Two dinar is the price for my information.”

  Suri flipped him the equivalent Vlachian coins – a single copper lintz. “There. Pony up.”

  The Meewfolk made a soft sound under his breath, and leaned forward. “The Morning Stars are searching for Sacharan artifacts like these, for reasons that have nothing to do with revolutionary fervor. And that is because they are relying on the protection of Davri the Laundress.”

  Suri clicked her tongue, reeling in her chair a little. “Oh jeez.”

  “Mmhmm. Talk is that she is sparing no expense on researching the subject of the Demon Queen, up to and including hiring a sage from the over-city... a noted historian and genealogist, name of Mehkhet the Illuminator.”

  “A genealogist?” I rubbed a hand over my mouth, thinking. “Is this Davri person a Sachara fan-girl or something?”

  “She's one of the Slum Queens. Arguably the worst of the Slum Queen,” Suri said. “Fireblooded tribes are matriarchal. All six of the city’s Slum Queens claim to be the descendants of Sachara's line.”

  “I thought the matriarchal line was wiped out?” I frowned.

  “It was.” Aksil wagged his head. “Queenship and names were passed down through daughters in the Old Kingdom, but Sachara was Starborn. Many Fireblooded women are sterile, but she was a fertile woman in her prime for over a hundred years. Sachara and her brood had sons, many of them. Those sons went on to father daughters, and those who knew they were of royal blood passed that knowledge down as the centuries rolled by. Davri has recently been obsessed with proving her ‘birthright’, for some reason. The pogrom has wiped out several key figures in the Slum Guilds and the Syndicates, so perhaps she is trying to legitimize herself?”

  Suri's eyes flicked to the side, pulling over a quest alert we couldn't see. “Guess we're about to visit the laundries, then.”

  Chapter 37

  The laundry zone was worse than the rest of the Undercity, because not only was it dark and rank, it was wet. My lungs seemed to clench up around the odors of bleach, mildew, food waste and sewerage. The air was smokey from the trash the locals burned to fuel the industrial copper boilers that filled the workshops around here. They didn't only do laundry here, despite the name. We saw carts laden with garbage, small bent metal pieces and broken pottery. Children sorted through heaps of trash on the muddy sidewalks, separating out useable scrap from food waste.

  “You’re telling me the most powerful crime boss in the city lives HERE?” I asked Suri. “This is like a shithole among shitholes.”

  Suri had her eyes straight ahead, back stiff. “Careful what you say around here, Hector. We’re tough and all, but this neighborhood is like one great big perimeter fence, and every part of it’s designed to protect Davri. It might not look like much, but she didn’t reach her position by playing fair.”

  “Crime bosses are, at least, relatively predictable.” Vash strode along to my left, nose wrinkled. “Greedy, self-centered, generally dull people.”

  “Hmm.” Karalti’s nose was working. “I don’t like this place. I can tell we’re gonna have to fight our way out.”

  “There’s a good chance. Davri’s main gig is human trafficking,” Suri said. “She makes most of her money scouting girls to fill the hareems in Cloud City, but she owns every sewer cleaning service, nightsoil collector, tannery, and laundry under the Royal Quarter. Doesn’t sound like much, but those are services that receive contracts from the city – and not only this city, but other cities in the country. Slavery’s technically illegal in Dakhdir now, but in practice, indentured laborers do ninety-nine percent of the grunt jobs.”

  “So Davri takes the contract money from the government and doesn’t have to pay anyone except her security,” I finished.

  “Yep. And as long as she brings them girls and luxuries, they let her do it.”

  Vash cracked his knuckles as a tall, thin man leaning against a wooden beam outside of one of the shops tracked us with his head. “She sounds like someone in dire need of facial reconstruction.”

  “Seriously, don’t start anything until we know what we’re here for.” Suri shook her head. “Ask me again when we have a Warsinger.”

  A tall, gold-capped fence was the first hint I had that we were approaching Davri’s home: that, and the dozens of guards stationed around the huge mansion-courtyard complex. The building had the shabby splendor of a Moroccan temple. The walls were intricately carved and tiled, the paving stones glittering with flecks of crystal. The gates opened up into a lovely courtyard with a tinkling fountain and floating mana-powered lanterns. No fewer than five guards held post outside of the gate: two with what looked suspiciously like shock batons, three with Bluesteel spears that radiated a sickly olive-green light. Repeating crossbow turrets were mounted on the building across the street.

  Suri motioned us to let her lead, so we hung back behind her as she strode up to the guards. “Hoi. We’re here to request an
audience with the queen. We have something of interest to her.”

  The one at the front, a lean Fireblooded man with a bandanna and the cold, reptilian gaze of a hardened killer, arched his eyebrows. “You someone you think I should know?”

  “I heard Davri is buying Sacharan artifacts. We just got back from the desert and have some leads,” Suri replied.

  The man regarded her flatly. “As if I don’t hear that three times a week. Piss off.”

  “Aksil referred us from the Tiger’s Den,” Suri said. “You might not know what you’re looking at, but he does.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Syndicate?”

  “Dhul Fiquar.”

  “I don’t see a tattoo.”

  Suri half turned, and lifted her hair. There, between her hairline and the back of her ear, was a small inked rose punched through with a dagger.

  The guard grunted, then turned to bang on the gate with his baton. A paunchy older man slumped across, eying us warily through the bars.

  “Go tell the queen some Rose Knife slag has something she might want to see,” he said, before turning back to Suri. “Just you and the girl. Spear boy and Smashed-Face here can wait outside.”

  “We’re a package deal,” Suri retorted. “Either we all go, or we’ll sell our goods to a museum in Vlachia.”

  The guard eyed us. “No weapons in the compound. If she lets you leave, you get ‘em back.”

  Vash turned out his pockets. “Not carrying anything worth your while.”

  Karalti pulled out the pistol she’d been carrying, handed it over, and shrugged.

  “You.” One of the spear guards jerked his chin at me. “Hand it over.”

  Suri looked over her shoulder at me and winked. In Vlachian, she said: “These guys don’t speak Vlachian or Tuun. Might be a good idea for you to keep them thinking you can’t understand anything they say.”

  I snorted, then grunted as if she’d given me an imperative. I tossed the Spear of Nine Spheres to him.

  Suri nodded. “There. Don’t try anything funny.”