The Burning Isle

by Will Panzo

“Say it plainly. That’s best.”

  “I am curious why you want this deal. But I don’t want to ask, lest you think I am not being discreet.”

  “I will tell you this, and hopefully it will put your mind at ease,” Cassius said. “You are a man who has an art and has work to do. And you have come to Scipio that you might do that work without interference. I, too, have an art and a job that I am here to do. And I would see it done without others impeding me. Is that fair?”

  The Yoruban nodded, his gaze fixed on the leather pouch. “Fair enough.”

  • • •

  Cassius lay on the wooden table. There were leather straps set into the table, two at the level of his wrists and two at his ankles. The straps were for restraining patients during healing, but Cassius refused to be restrained.

  The Yoruban stood at the side of the table. He held a bowl and brush and with these he slathered Cassius’s bare chest with a thin red-brown liquid. Then he set down the bowl and gathered two candles, one in each hand, and brought these to the table and wafted their heavy smoke in Cassius’s face.

  “Breathe deep,” he said.

  Cassius breathed deep and coughed.

  “You have been healed by spell before,” the Yoruban said.

  “That didn’t sound like a question.”

  “It wasn’t a question. That scar on your back is proof enough.”

  “I was hurt.”

  “Badly.”

  “Very badly,” Cassius said. “My back was broken. They thought I would die.”

  “It’s a miracle you did not die.”

  Cassius recalled a different room. Dark and damp. The ceiling dripping. His hands and feet bound. A strip of leather between his teeth for biting. And a pain so immense, so unending, the thought of it took his breath away even now.

  “Sometimes I think it would have been better that way.”

  “The healing was painful, yes?” The Yoruban set a hand on Cassius’s shoulder, as though to apologize for the pain of that healing and for the pain of the healing to come and for his profession in general.

  “It went on for days.”

  “They were trying hard to save you.”

  “They were testing a spell,” Cassius said. “Practicing on me because they thought me a lost cause.”

  The Yoruban stood stunned. He closed his eyes and whispered something in his native tongue, then kissed his fist and pointed to the heavens. Cassius thought it a prayer, and although the gesture was touching, it was also futile. He had prayed back then, and no gods had answered his calls.

  “Who did this to you?” the Yoruban asked.

  “My trainers.”

  “And where did you train?”

  “The Isle of Twelve.”

  “My goodness,” the Yoruban said. “You must be quite a spellcaster.”

  “I suppose.”

  “They train the touched exclusively.”

  “They do.”

  “And the legends of the Isle’s cruelty are true, then, judging by your story.”

  “It was a hard life,” Cassius said.

  “I am sorry for the hurt they caused.”

  “There is no need to apologize.”

  “This, of course, will not hurt as bad,” the Yoruban said. “But it will still hurt.”

  “I understand that.”

  The Yoruban set aside the candles and brought a cup of milky liquid to Cassius’s lips.

  “None of that,” Cassius said.

  “It will help with the pain.”

  “I need my senses sharp. Just be quick about this.”

  The Yoruban donned his gauntlets. He stepped to the side of the table and placed his hands on Cassius’s side, his touch light and gentle, the iron of the gauntlets cold.

  Cassius turned his head and stared across the room. On a far table, the Yoruban’s spell indices lay open, and next to the indices lay the jeweler’s loupe with which the Yoruban had inspected the jewel. And in the middle of the table, resting atop the leather pouch, sat the jewel itself.

  Cassius focused on this small speck of color, a smoky purple that shimmered in the candlelight.

  “Take a deep breath,” the Yoruban said. “And then exhale.”

  Cassius filled his lungs. He felt a thrumming in his chest. He exhaled, and as he did, a ripping pain tore through his side. He gripped the table, gritted his teeth. He could feel his broken ribs twisting inside his flesh, realigning themselves. The pain grew, radiated to his flank and his back, deep into his lungs.

  The Yoruban stood with his eyes closed, head bowed, constructing the rune in his mind’s eye. He held Cassius, pressing down on him with his large, gauntleted hands, and not letting up even when Cassius bucked and screamed.

  Another wave of pain hit, cold and shuddering, and Cassius thought this would be the end of him, the final shock that stopped his heart. Then, suddenly, the Yoruban stepped back, and the pain was gone.

  Cassius gasped. He was trembling now, his heart racing and his body coated in sweat. He sat up slowly and inspected the site of the broken ribs. The flesh there was still bruised, but when he pressed his fingers against the rib bones, he found them straight and secure, with no pain to palpation.

  “Are you all right?” the Yoruban asked.

  Cassius nodded to the pigs. “Better than your other patients.”

  • • •

  The street leading to the Madam’s Purse was blocked by a shoddy barricade of wooden logs. A dozen men stood guard in mail, sweating in the heat.

  A guard recognized Cassius as Junius’s killer and motioned for him to pass, and Cassius bent under the barricade and moved up the street to find another half dozen guards posted at the door of the Purse.

  He entered the back room of the bar and found Cinna seated by himself. The table was set with a large plate of ribs, bowls of fruit salad, cabbage dressed in red sauce, bean curd, a soup of clams and mussels.

  “Are you hungry?” Cinna asked. He wiped sauce from his soft chin.

  “No.” Cassius took a seat at the table.

  “Eat something, or I’ll be offended.” Cinna snapped a rib in half, sucked its marrow. “Have you heard about last night?”

  “The accounts vary. I don’t know what to believe.”

  “We were attacked, out by the city gates.” Cinna pointed the cracked rib at Cassius. “By Piso’s men.”

  “And what are the casualties?”

  “Three dead. Including a spellcaster.” Cinna belched, then sneered, as though tasting something unpleasant. “Two more injured. That makes ten casualties in two days.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Witnesses at the scene claim it was a one-eyed man,” Cinna said. “Piso has a killer that fits the description. Man by the name of Servilius.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We? I didn’t realize you were a part of my inner council.” Cinna glared at Cassius. His words hung in the air, as foul as his burp. “I have men at work to uncover what happened exactly. In the meantime, I’ve increased forces in the main avenues leading into Hightown, as well as our presence in the Grand Market.”

  “What of the back routes and the alleyways?”

  “I don’t have enough men to cover all the streets. But we need to show force. This is the best way. Piso’s doing the same.”

  “Why attack us now?” Cassius asked.

  “I have my suspicions.”

  No one spoke.

  “Do you have something to say?” Cinna asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re worried about my suspicions.”

  “I worry you might think this is retaliation for your hiring me on,” Cassius said. “Maybe Piso is seeking revenge for that man of his I killed.”

  “And if he is?”

  “It puts
you in a difficult position.”

  “How so?” Cinna snatched up a cluster of grapes, nibbled them three at a time.

  “You don’t want to lose more men on account of me. But you can’t exactly turn me over to Piso and be rid of me, either.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “Would you so publicly betray a man who wore your mark? Roll over for Piso like a beaten dog?”

  Cinna sucked his teeth. He tossed aside the half-eaten cluster of grapes.

  “No one likes a man who thinks too much, Cassius. It makes people nervous. You don’t want me to be nervous, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “At a bathhouse,” Cassius said. “And then playing a bit of dice.”

  “And where did you sleep?”

  “In a hostel.”

  “Why didn’t you sleep here?” Cinna asked. “With your new associates?”

  “I don’t like the company of whores.”

  “You’ll spend tonight here with me,” Cinna said. “To be safe. These are dangerous times. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Would it matter if I did?” Cassius asked.

  Cinna smiled.

  A pair of serving girls entered and began to clear away the plates.

  “I saw legionnaires in the streets this morning,” Cassius said. “I thought they didn’t patrol Scipio.”

  “They don’t. But they want to learn as much about the trouble last night as they can. Do you fear them?”

  “I don’t fear anyone.”

  “You have no reason to fear them so long as you’re under my protection. Should you leave my employ, though, I don’t know how they’d treat you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The legion here are notorious for their brutality,” Cinna said. “Have you heard about the Uprising yet?”

  “Just a little,” Cassius said. “Only rumors.”

  “A difficult time in the history of this island. But there are many lessons to be learned from it. The wrath of the legion, for instance. Do you know what the reward for turning in a runaway savage was during the Uprising?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Nothing. Quintus paid not one dirty copper for aiding his cause. But do you know what the punishment was for harboring a savage?”

  Cassius shook his head.

  “Death,” Cinna said. “Death by hanging or by decapitation for the savage. And death by crucifixion for the Antiochi. For sheltering even a woman or a child.”

  “A stern measure,” Cassius said.

  “But fair. Quintus was more eager to punish the betrayer, the Antiochi, than the savage. To him, betrayal was the ultimate offense. Such was his sense of honor. Do you know what the punishment was if they discovered you knew someone was harboring a savage but did not inform on him?”

  “No.” Cassius shifted in his chair.

  “They cut out your tongue. If they want to be silent, Quintus said, let them be silent forever.”

  Cassius nodded.

  “This was a great man,” Cinna said. “A terrible man. A thousand years ago, they would have written epics about him.”

  “And now he rots in a jungle,” Cassius said.

  “And his betrayers rot in graves. There’s a lesson in that, boy. You’d do best to learn it quickly.”

  5

  Cassius passed a fitful night in the Purse. He kept himself awake with snuffs of Garza-root powder, which left his nose raw and with a rank dripping in the back of his throat. In the middle of the night, Cinna had sent a young Native girl to his room. Cassius paid her to lie next to him and sing him a Khimir song about rain and a river, a lullaby to put children to sleep. The girl had a sweet voice.

  Breakfast was served in the back room of the Purse. Cinna was there and Nicola and a man Cassius had never met, this new man middle-aged and with a pockmarked face. The table was set with platters of eggs and sausage, fresh bread, bowls of sliced melon, pitchers of water and wine.

  Cassius sat watching the others eat. A pair of gauntlets rested in the new man’s lap, and Cassius eyed these and eyed the new man.

  “Why are you not eating, Cassius?” Cinna gnawed a chunk of sausage, his lips coated in grease. “Is my food not good enough?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Cassius said.

  “See, now, this worries me.” Cinna talked with his mouth full, spitting flecks of sausage as he grew agitated. “A man not eating my food in my house is a disgrace. It’s my duty to provide for you. That’s the order of things. I provide for you, and you, in turn, serve me.”

  Cassius filled a cup with water. He held the cup but didn’t drink.

  “I don’t mean to lecture,” Cinna said. “But boys your age have to learn these lessons.”

  “What lessons are those?” Cassius asked.

  “Lessons of loyalty. Of service. Honor. The young don’t know these things.”

  “Or maybe the old don’t care to teach.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that.” Cinna produced his opium pipe and lit it from a nearby candle. He took a long pull and exhaled through his nose. “I intend to teach you, boy.”

  “You’ll find I’m a lethally quick study.” Cassius looked to the pockmarked spellcaster.

  The spellcaster grinned.

  “There’s trouble coming,” Cinna said. “And if you’re to help me in the days ahead, I’ll need to know how strong you are. Now I know you’re strong enough to beat one of Piso’s men in a goddamn street fight. And strong enough to scare a shopkeeper out of his money. But how strong are you really? Today, we’ll find out.”

  There was a knock at the door, and a serving girl entered. She whispered to Cinna and he nodded to Nicola and both men stood and left the room.

  “What’s your name?” Cassius asked.

  “Aulus.” The pockmarked man sprinkled tobacco into a wide, dried leaf, then rolled it and licked it sealed, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he knew he was being watched.

  “How much is he paying you to do this?”

  “What makes you think he’s paying me, boy?”

  “You make a habit of killing people for free?”

  Aulus’s mouth twitched. He plucked a candle from the center of the table and lit his cigar and set the candle down.

  “If Cinna wanted you dead, he could have killed you last night.” The cigar dangled from the corner of his mouth as he spoke. He exhaled a dart of white smoke.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It would have been a lot of trouble if he had tried. The way I see it, though, this match of ours has two outcomes, both of which benefit Cinna. If you kill me today, then Cinna will know I wasn’t as powerful as the rumors. And he’ll be rid of the headache of my history with Piso in the process. And if I win, well, then he’s got one hell of a killer on his hands.”

  Aulus smiled. “Always so paranoid?”

  “It’s served me well in the past.”

  “Spellcasters fight. It’s in our nature. Sometimes we die. If you expect me to take it easy on you, then you’re in the wrong line of work.” Aulus removed the cigar from his mouth and blew on its tip and the ember flared. “Of course, if you’re nervous, we don’t have to fight. Just set your gauntlets on the floor and walk out of here.”

  “Are you Cinna’s best?” Cassius asked.

  “A man like me, who counts modesty as a goddamn virtue, I couldn’t answer that question. But if I did say yes, there aren’t many around here who would challenge the claim.”

  • • •

  The betting odds were against Cassius. He had expected a more favorable spread after his victory over Junius, but Aulus was a skilled spellcaster and a prizefighter of some renown. He had won his last fifteen matches, eight of those fought to the death.

  The testing ground was
an empty storehouse two blocks from the Purse, a training facility where Cinna’s killers could spar with their own without risking their gauntlets and their lives against unknown opponents in the street.

  The crowd was small, roughly twenty people, and made up of Cinna’s men exclusively.

  A short, pale man presided over the fight. He stood by the far wall, near the small cluster of onlookers, and called for silence, and the crowd grew quiet.

  A young boy moved across the ring to Cassius. The boy held an earthenware bowl, the bowl filled with sea salt, and Cassius scooped out a handful and tossed the salt onto the floor. The boy then approached the pale man and approached Aulus, each man salting the ground in turn.

  “May the gods keep you both,” the pale man said.

  He threw up his arms. The spellcasters donned their gauntlets. Cassius felt a flutter in his chest as Aulus began to draw on the rune energy.

  Without further introduction, the pale man dropped his arms. Cassius saw his mouth move, but he did not hear the words announcing the start. The sound of fire hit like a rush of wind. A wall of flame had risen in the center of the room, and now it was toppling forward, collapsing onto him.

  Cassius crouched reflexively. With his mind’s eye, he drew the rune for his fire ward, then felt a great release, a spasm through the muscles of his back, from his shoulders to the base of his spine.

  The wall of fire was on top of him now, but he felt no heat from the flames. The fire washed over him and he breathed sharp smoke and shut his eyes against the glare, but he did not burn. When he opened his eyes, the flames had died to low wisps.

  Aulus spat, his discharge sizzling as it struck the hot earth. He circled to his right, and Cassius moved counter to him.

  Cassius pointed two fingers before him, and the air there grew hazy, like heat waves rising from pavement, then a massive boar stood between the two spellcasters. It seemed a trick of the eye.

  The boar was four feet high at its shoulders, with stout legs and bristly hair the color of red mud. It lowered its head, aimed foot-long tusks at Aulus, and charged.

  Aulus clapped his hands and spread them wide. Cassius felt a thrumming in his chest. Steam curled up from the floor, and when it cleared, a lizard lay on the ground. It was small, little more than a foot long. It lay motionless, so still that Cassius wondered if it was not an illusion.