“You’re very brown today, Nal.”
Instantly remembering his poorly morphed skin, Naliah glared. “Shut up,” he groused. “Unless of course you know what I’m doing wrong. Then by all means talk as much as you’d like.”
Janie gave a one-armed shrug. She moved toward the cot pressed up underneath the window, where Rickard was sprawled and whetting his knife. She set down the linens. “Showed you how to manipulate water, I did. About all I can do for you, besides clean up your mess,” she said, picking up a dirty sock and a discarded scroll from the floor with a pointed look. “Might well ask Mr. Jacobs from the Assembly Hall, though. Think he’s a morphus. Always a little bit taller every time I see him waiting in the foyer. Thinks he’s being sneaky about it, he does.”
Naliah considered it, lifting his head to glance at himself in the mirror. His skin was already shifting back to its original yellowed tint, now the colour of soupy mud. I look like a potato, he thought. A sad, moping potato.
“Governor Venneigg stopped by herself while you were out blessing that child,” Janie said, and Naliah’s heart lurched. He wondered if he’d been caught out for burning the manor, but Janie didn’t seem worried. She shook out a down pillow and threw it at Rickard’s face, a burst of feathers exploding into the air at impact. Rickard glared up at her from underneath his unruly mop of hair, now coated in down, but after a beat, he gave a besotted smile. Janie tried to hide her own grin. “Says she wants to go over that new bit of legislation you drafted, she does. About the increased tax percentages on the noble class. Wants to introduce it to a few representatives in the parliament soon.”
Naliah nodded and rolled over onto his stomach. The wood floor was hard against the edges of his ribcage, and his tempus—hanging from around his throat—was now trapped between his chest and the floor. He was eager to put the new tax law into effect. It would eventually give the city enough money to begin building the group homes he’d drafted with a local businessman—homes for the ex-slaves of Anderton to fill, most of whom still lived in the shantytowns down by the river or in the slum streets in the south wards. If the model worked well, Naliah planned to implement the structure into the rest of the country and especially up in Ak-Ana, the capital of North Anaven, where slavery had only been recently abolished by its governor under Naliah’s executive orders as the Guardian of the Realm. The rest of North Anaven had yet to let go of its ways.
“Anything else?” Naliah asked.
“Now that you mention it.” Janie pulled a small scroll out of the cinched cuff of her dress sleeve with her teeth, then grabbed it from her teeth with her fingers. “This came an hour or so ago. White ether raven. Real pretty thing. Pecked my fingers something good, though, it did.”
Naliah didn’t bother asking for the scroll, and Janie didn’t offer it. She knew he couldn’t read. “And?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Haven’t opened it yet. Figured I’d wait for you to get back.”
She unrolled the slip of paper against her hip and moved closer to the floating prayer orb for light. It buzzed with only the quietest prayers for health and restful sleep, eerie whispers that Naliah had quickly learned to find comforting when he’d taken this job. Janie’s scarred bottom lip rolled between her teeth as she read. After a few seconds, she frowned. “Huh.”
“Well?” Naliah said. “What’s it say?”
“All Guardians are to report to a mandatory meeting at midday in the Realm of the Hidden for an urgent announcement. Signed, The Infinite High Council.” She looked up. “Have your bosses ever called a meeting of the whole Order before?”
“No,” Naliah said, frowning. “Never.” He sat up and reached for the tempus hanging from his throat. The watch’s gold was warm to the touch. When he pressed the button on the top, the watch face clicked open.
The Realm of the Hidden, he thought at it, and the tiny hands of the watch spun erratically before a little picture of a sun rose near the bottom of the watch face and the watch’s hands settled on the time six twenty-three. The meeting was a while away, it seemed.
“Why would they call you all together?” Rickard asked.
Naliah flipped the tempus closed. His stomach was a ball of nerves now. “I don’t know. The Council never calls a gathering of the entire Order. They say it’s too much of a liability.”
“Do you think they changed their minds about that?” Rickard asked, and turned over on the cot. He still had a few feathers stuck in his hair from the pillow and some dried stew around his mouth. He’d tucked his paring knife behind his ear again.
“Even if they did—” Naliah shook his head, brow furrowed. “Even if they did, what in the worlds would mean enough to make them?”
Janie and Rickard went quiet for a long time, and the humid air began to stick to the back of Naliah’s neck in an uncomfortable way. His two attendants exchanged sheepish looks, and he couldn’t keep himself from biting at his thumbnail, already bitten down to the quick, waiting for one of them to speak up.
Finally, Janie said, “Do you think it— Well… Do you think it has to do with those disappearances, Nal? The ones the other shrines have been talking about?”
Naliah had been trying to forget about those rumours since he’d first heard them last week. For days, the tower had received flurries upon flurries of ravened letters from other shrines, all seeking answers, wanting to know if anyone had any more information about what was going on, if it was all true. Naliah doubted there was a Guardian out there that hadn’t heard the frightened gossip.
“Svahta and Nori-Rin were convinced those disappearances were nothing,” Naliah offered unsteadily. His stomach gave a small, nauseated lurch. “Said those three just wandered off. It’s happened before. Penthoseren’s been missing for millennia.”
“But do you believe it’s nothing, pratta?”
“No. Not now. Not really,” Naliah said, and stood up. He dusted off his knees. “It can’t be. The Council wouldn’t risk assembling all of us to announce something trivial, would they? Something has to be wrong, and I’d bet all my coin on that.”
FUCK THE COUNCIL
_______________________________
Upon the discovery of the shipwrecked Razorfin, expedition divers uncovered six bottles of three-hundred-year-old rum. When they were presented for appraisal at the local distillery, the owner laughed. I bottled those myself. Gave them to Captain Rathbone as a gift, he claimed. Looks like he never got around to drinking them.
excerpt from Under Salt and Sea: Finding the Wreckage of the Razorfin, penned by D. S. Graham, published in the Realm of Choppy Waters
THE GRAND REALM OF THE INFINITE
THE SOLEMN SEA, OFF THE COAST OF VEIRA-OHN,
THE NORTHERNMOST CITY-STATE OF THE ONE COUNTRY
The ship’s ratlines were digging hard into the underside of Artysaedra’s ass, but she couldn’t find it in herself to move.
She reclined further in the netting of the four-masted barque’s ladder instead and knocked back another swig of Sajateen whiskey straight from the bottle. Behind her, the square crossjack sail snapped and flapped, and a gust of wintry air fingered down the back of her loose blouse. She fought the chattering of her teeth and smiled as she stretched out her numb fingers. Tucked between her thighs now, the bottle of whiskey was cold against her cunt.
Waves slapped against the sides of the barque far below. Underneath the racket, a man was violently swabbing the main deck while singing fragments of Bonnie Anne’s Port, the song punctuated by the wet plops of his rag against the wood. Artysaedra listened to the other sounds around the ship, adjusting her demonic senses, wolfish ears swivelling and nose flaring. Captain Albryant was snoring deep inside his cabin, breath rancid; someone was chewing unspiced chicken that had almost gone bad with age in the crow’s nest; ink-stained fingers plucked and tuned a fiddle; a rat scurried through the barrels of the hold, its tiny nails skittering across oak grain; and there was even a woman below deck, somewhere near the bow, who was moani
ng, her voice raspy, slurred, the sounds of sex wet and sloppy. If Artysaedra listened closer, she could even hear the acid inside the woman’s stomach shift like seawater.
She could also hear the man that had been following her since they’d set out from port in Lutana. He was picking at his nails below, scuffing his boots against the mizzenmast. After they’d docked earlier that day, he’d tracked her through the musical streets of northern Borello de Sajate, following her into brothels, gambling dens, and the pawn shops where she’d sold off the last of the rings her mother had given her.
Now, the man was waiting below.
Talk to a girl at least, Artysaedra thought idly. You’re going to give me a complex.
Her stomach was pleasantly warm from the alcohol whereas the sea breeze and moonlight were cold against her face. It was a nice contrast, she decided, though she wished she were drunker for the confrontation she was getting ready to have. Her head wasn’t swimming quite yet because she didn’t have the heart to drink Captain Albryant out of his stores, not after he’d let her board with barely more than a raised eyebrow.
“Am I to be gettin’ another strongly worded letter from your queen-dam? Last time, she kept me tied up at port for a fortnight with litigation.”
Artysaedra chuckled and took another swig of Sajateen whiskey. The last few drops were bitter on her tongue. She licked the smooth rim of the glass bottle, hiked back her arm as far as her perch in the ladder allowed, and tossed the bottle out into the darkness, over the edge of the ship.
The clouds, pulled into wisps like bits of harvested cotton, cradled the pregnant moon. The jagged coast of the city-state Veira-ohn was a faint silhouette ahead, off the starboard side of the barque.
Unwilling to put it off any longer, Artysaedra stood up, balanced in the ladder netting, and leapt down from her perch. The air rushed past her, and she hit the deck with a thud. A brief ache twinged through her shins.
“Come out, come out,” she called into the shadows with a smirk. Her tail curled over the top of her belt, and her ears perked on the top of her head.
After a beat, a man slunk out of the darkness and into the silvered beams of moonlight. He was black-skinned and tall, with a top hat that was pulled low enough on his head that all Artysaedra could see of his face was the stern set of his mouth, which was framed by a clean-cut beard. His suit was sapphire velvet, and from a tight knot at his throat, a jabot spilled down his chest in a wave of ruffles and lace. It was Lutanan garb. His dreaded hair was long in Lutanan fashion, too.
When the man took a final step forward, his massive wings—which were pressed flat against his back—dragged the deck. Harsh moonlight gleamed off his feathers in iridescent shades of blue. There were only half a dozen feet between them now, the air swelling with light and salt. Artysaedra watched the way the man’s fingers twitched toward his waist. It must have been for the hilt of the sword that wasn’t there. She nearly snorted.
The man’s breath smelled of freshwater carp, sweet red peppers, and fatty butter. The dried mud on his boots had hints of red clay in it, caked within which were bits of black-onion weed that she knew grew in copious amounts at the base of Mount Drakis. The calluses on his right hand spoke clearly of swordwork, as did the smell of oil and leather wafting off his palms and the rigid way he held his shoulders. His clothes reeked of Lutanan lye—the kind used in the Iron Keep by the royal guards, just a hint different from the lye used for the servants in the castle. There was minimal effort in his spying. Without a doubt, Artysaedra knew who this man was, even though he wasn’t wearing the full armour he normally donned like a second skin or brandishing the bear sigil of his house. She knew why he was following her, too.
“Kah Nordus,” she greeted, lips thinning into a tight smirk. It pulled at the deep scar in her right cheek. One of her father’s personal guardsmen this time—she hadn’t expected that. It seemed her parents wanted to send a very clear message about how seriously they took her sneaking out of the castle tonight, though the matter couldn’t have been too serious, she figured. Yet again, they’d only sent the one guard, and he wasn’t even her father’s favourite. That honour fell to one seeress witch-soldier, Kahvi Grimyaenath da Veig, a woman who was likely back at the castle continuing her role as a permanent affixation to Artysaedra’s father’s spine.
Pity, Artysaedra thought. The witch is better at banter.
Slowly, a rumble of a laugh rolled from Nordus’ mouth. When he spoke, his voice was a heavy bass, more like shifting rock than words. “Princessa Veiyel.”
“Saedra,” she corrected with a roll of her eyes. “Princessa Veiyel is my little sister, as you well know.” She dipped down into a lazy bow and tipped an imaginary hat. “The dearest dam and sire must not trust me to return home—not if they’ve sent a decorated officer of the law such as yourself to fetch me, Nordus of House Reegon, the great Eastern Blade.”
Nordus’ face was inscrutable. “We both know my orders tonight ultimately come from much higher than your parents, Princessa Veiyel—”
“I said stop calling me that.”
“You know I cannot, Princessa. As the daughter of our Saeinfinae, it is your title.”
“I have a lot of titles,” Artysaedra said flippantly. “Most shouldn’t be said in polite public, Nordus. Gives Mother this look about her face. But I prefer them. So do stick with something classic, would you? Like you tawdry bitch or stop putting hats on my cows, you crazy whore. Good old farmer Inias. He’s a delight. Of course, when it comes to names, there’s my personal favourite: Lady Whiskey-Breath of House Cheats-at-Cards. Naliah gave me that one just last month. Granted, he was plastered at the time and a dog had just stolen his shoe, so forgive how on the nose it is.”
Before Nordus could open his mouth to respond, Artysaedra turned on her heels and traipsed over to the railing that lined the barque’s deck, the metal soles of her boots clicking across the planks with each of her half-drunk, sinuous steps. She propped her elbows on the railing’s sleek wood and cocked out a hip. When another breeze caught her shirt, she could feel her nipples tighten against the cold. She licked whiskey and crusted salt off her lips. “How long until those orders the guards have to live up my ass are withdrawn, Nordus?”
“Until the Council finds your missing comrade Maluviahl, I would imagine, Princessa,” Nordus replied.
Artysaedra ducked her head and suffocated a quick bark of a laugh. It died in her mouth, and a strand of her hair caught in her eyelashes. “A permanent stick up my ass then. The Council doesn’t even know if that woman was kidnapped or if she ran away. She could have eloped with a badger, or maybe she’s just so drugged out of her mind in an opium den somewhere that she forgot to go home. I don’t understand why it has a thing to do with me.” Artysaedra bit the inside of her lip and released it. “You know, you can’t keep me from running off, Nordus. Not if I really want to.”
“No, but the Council can.”
Artysaedra snorted, loud and ugly. “One Guardian has already gone missing under their noses. What’s another?”
She could hear the clear distaste in Nordus’ voice when he said, “This is a serious matter, Princessa. Do treat it as such.”
At that, Artysaedra’s last nerve snapped. “Oh, suck my fucking cock, you pompous, two-bit sword-maid. The blade on my scythe is longer than that thing you call a prick, and you’ll do well to remember it. Everything is a serious matter. We all live. We all die. So why not try to have a little fucking fun in between? They can’t keep me locked up in a tower forever. They can’t protect me from the whole wide world and all its terrors.”
“But they can try.”
The black sea churned under the moon, and sails snapped. Somewhere below, a cannon shifted across the gun deck with the rock of the barque. Artysaedra smiled, tonguing a fang. “Oh, they can try, Nordus. They can definitely try.”
One more day, she decided. If her security detail didn’t lift in one more day, she’d slip through its cracks and disappear into the mul
tiverse without looking back.
Because fuck the Infinite Crown. And fuck the Council both.
IT ENDS HERE
_______________________________
Sweet darkness, my mistress,
You leave so soon in the morn
And slink back so quickly at night
excerpt from The Festival Songs of Western Nijagi of the Moorlands, compiled by Lady Anaala III of House Younger, published in the Realm of Black Waters
THE MULTITUDINOUS REALM OF BLACK WATERS
RATLIN STREET, THE SLUMS, NORTHEASTERN LINDENNACHT,
COUNTY KAVETT, NORTHERN OSNASTEDT, FJORDE
“Lana!” Oliver screamed into the night.
He tried to find a hold in the slanted, half-collapsed building he was scaling one-handed, but each handful he grabbed crumbled away and skidded down the wall into the rubble some three storeys below. Oliver was nearly at the top of the stone building now, his broken wrist tucked against his stomach. The crest was in sight, a little over two feet above his head.
He pressed his body against the building and took a slow breath through his mouth. The angle of the wall was too steep to walk up, but it was difficult for him to climb, too. It was getting harder to find holds the higher up he got. His one good hand was dusty and kept slipping, and his arm was burning and trembling with his efforts, barely able to support him anymore. To get to the top, he was going to have to reach out with his other arm, the broken one. He knew it.
Move! he yelled at himself. By the saints, move!
Wedging the toes of his boots into the wall as much as he could, he took another deep breath through his blood-crusted lips, let go of his hold, and quickly reached up with his uninjured hand again before he could fall. He jammed his fingers into the grooves of the wall, into a crack. It felt sturdy, but the small hold was barely deep enough for more than his fingertips, though he didn’t have a choice but to use it to hoist himself up. As he did, his arm shook and his boots scrabbled against the stone wall for traction until they found it. The second they did, Oliver threw his weight up, catching the ledge of the building overhead with his opposite hand, broken bones screaming.
A Shard of Sea and Bone Page 6