The Burning Isle

by Will Panzo

  “If you’re so innocent, then why don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Sleep is the sister of Death,” Cassius said.

  “An old Khimir proverb. Pick that up in the last few weeks, did you?”

  “When else?”

  Lucian stood suddenly, knocking over his chair. He leaned down into Cassius’s face.

  “When you slept here earlier, every time you slept here, you moved the bed in your room. I could hear you moving it. Why did you do that?”

  Cassius did not respond.

  “You know what’s under that bed?” Lucian asked.

  “I moved it, didn’t I?”

  “So say it. Tell me what you found.”

  “Loose floorboards.”

  “Loose floorboards. And underneath a hidden compartment. You know what that’s for?”

  Cassius’s hands began to tremble. He lowered them into his lap. “Hiding things.”

  “People.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “When will you learn that playing dumb doesn’t suit you?” Lucian’s eyes were fierce under his severe brow.

  Cassius looked away.

  “When the war ended,” Lucian said, “Quintus had the remnants of the Native army rounded up. He killed the men. Killed them in public. Slaughtered them in the market square. The women and children he sold into slavery.”

  Cassius did not speak.

  “You hear me, boy? He sold them into slavery. These weren’t war captives. These were citizens of Antioch, same as me or you. And he sold them as goddamn slaves. Shipped them off to Fathalan flesh markets in the dead of night, for fear the senate would learn of it and send an army down here to capture him for crimes against the Republic.”

  “A devious man.”

  “But some of us still loyal to the Native cause tried to help. We harbored escapees. Chartered ships to ferry them to the mainland. There was a network of safe houses where we hid them while they waited for passage.”

  “Like this bar?” Cassius said.

  “Like this bar.”

  “In the space under the floor?”

  “That’s right,” Lucian said. “Probably we saved about three hundred people.”

  “A lot of lives.”

  “Hell, there were thousands of Natives in the city then. We saved only a handful.”

  “You did the best you could,” Cassius said.

  “You know what I sometimes think about, when I think about that time?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The orphans we saved. Children whose parents were sold off as slaves. Or who died. Sometimes I wonder what kind of life we condemned them to on the mainland, all alone.”

  Cassius’s jaw clenched. He swallowed. “Better a hard life than no life at all.”

  “I used to think that,” Lucian said. “But maybe I’m wrong. Can you imagine how hard it would be for a child like that? What he would have to become to survive?”

  “It was a long time ago, old man.”

  “A long time ago.” Lucian lifted his overturned stool and slouched back down onto it. “And my memory is bad already. Maybe in a few years, I won’t remember it at all.”

  “What a dream that would be.”

  Lucian stared at Cassius for a time, and Cassius did not raise his head.

  “Where will this end?” Lucian asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you’re not satisfied with where it’s at now?”

  “My work isn’t finished. If that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You could have killed them both,” Lucian said. “Piso. Cinna. You were close enough to do that.”

  “And what would that have accomplished? Kill them, and new bosses would take their places. And I’d be dead. And even if I’d managed to kill them both—” Cassius shook his head.

  “Quintus would still be alive.”

  Cassius did not respond.

  “You’ve hurt them both these past few weeks,” Lucian said. “And you could hurt Quintus now.”

  “You’re talking about killing Vorenicus?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it,” Cassius said. “Do you think I hadn’t thought of that? Consider where it would leave me. And besides, what crime has that man ever committed?”

  “Are we playing gods now? Judging the worthy and the unjust? What about those people in the Market today?”

  “How many of them served during the Uprising?”

  “Not everyone who died served Piso or Cinna,” Lucian said.

  “How many cheered the executions in the Market? How many turned in fugitive Natives?”

  “I don’t know that number. Neither do you.”

  Cassius looked up, his eyes filmed with tears. His face was covered in sweat, hair unkempt, like some mad hermit come from a deep cave to impart secrets he had brooded over a lifetime.

  “There was no other way.” His voice caught. “If there were, I would have found it. I would have found it. But there was no other way. And someone had to—”

  Cassius left his sentence unfinished. They sat in silence for a while, then Lucian took the bowls to the kitchen.

  • • •

  Cassius lay sweating in the dark for hours. The air stank of spoiled meat and dried blood and urine, stains worked deep into the fabric of his tunic. He whispered to himself a late verse of the Attus epic. The hero communing with the third of the four great birds, the hawk spirit that would lead him to the Battle of Maghrib. The hawk warning him that he would suffer a terrible injury in that battle and advising him to think of the wound as a sacrifice one would make to the gods, but instead a sacrifice of himself and to himself.

  When he slept, he dreamed of worms in his belly. His gut distended with a foul egg.

  He woke nauseous from the smell in the hole. He climbed out of the floor, but still the terrible odor clung to him. He tried to form his left hand into a fist but could not.

  He undressed and paced the room, naked, grimed with mud down his legs and arms. Streaks of blood covered his chest and belly, and the filth on his neck was so thick the dirt came off in beads. The bruises along his ribs were green now, the stitched flesh of his belly a bright red and slick with pus.

  I am rotting inside, he thought.

  There was a knock at the door. He dressed himself and answered the knock and Sulla entered.

  “Cassius,” she whispered, startled by his appearance. She was dressed as he had seen her in the butcher’s shop, in an oversized tunic and cloak, her hair bundled up under a white-felt hat. “I don’t know whether you’re unkillable or the risen dead.”

  “Either way, I feel terrible.”

  “Either way, I’m astonished to find you upright.” She held a cup of wine and pressed it on Cassius. “Drink some of this. It might help you feel better.”

  Cassius drained the cup. The wine was strong, with a pungent aftertaste.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Not sure. About two hours before sunrise I think.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “A favor? After what Lucian just showed me in the pantry, it seems you need a lot more than a favor.”

  “Can you get me some discreet transport?”

  “Discreet transport to the docks, you mean?” She flashed a pained smile. “For passage to the mainland using the ticket you asked me to buy, right? That’s what you mean by transport, isn’t it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh no? To where exactly then? Somewhere else in Hightown? That doesn’t seem right. Cinna would kill you as soon as look at you. Lowtown perhaps? No, I’m sure Piso is still furious over this afternoon’s festivities. So where exactly, Cassius? Where in the world would you like someone to drag the island’s most not
orious man and the near-dead son of General-fucking-Quintus?”

  “The jungle.”

  Sulla cocked her head. “What?”

  “I already explained myself to you.”

  “You said you were here to start a war. Seems to me you did that already. Can’t you just send word to the mainland to begin the invasion? The armies of the bosses are devastated.”

  “But Quintus’s legions are still at full force. We need to weaken them as well, or they could turn the tide against the invasion.”

  “If you wanted to get Quintus to attack the bosses, you wouldn’t need to go to the jungle. You could do that by taking a knife down to the pantry.”

  “I won’t do that,” Cassius said.

  “I could find you someone who would.” Sulla’s voice was calm.

  “I won’t allow it to be done either. Just find me a way to the jungle.”

  “And what if you don’t make it out of there? What becomes of the invasion?”

  “I’ll leave you instructions. People to contact on the mainland. And a coded message that names you as my ally and a valuable resource for the invasion forces.”

  “What does that mean for me?” Sulla asked.

  “It means you’ll be taking my place in all of this.”

  “I’ll be a freedom fighter?”

  “And everything will change,” Cassius said. “You can’t go back to being the best fence on the island once you do this. Probably you won’t even be able to stay on the island.”

  “I have to stay.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m Scipian. There’s no hope for me in normal society.”

  “Now isn’t the time for jokes.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’re writing history with our actions here.”

  Sulla stared at Cassius’s face, searching. “Remarkable.”

  “What?”

  “It’s like you truly mean it. I almost believe that you believe it.”

  “Of course I believe it. It’s the truth.”

  “Agent of the Falcon Guard? Freedom fighter? Do you think me that stupid?”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid at all.” Cassius took a step back. In an instant, he seemed to transform from an overwhelmed boy to something formidable. He squared his shoulders. The pain and exhaustion vanished from his face, hidden behind the cold mask he had worn throughout his stay on the island, as he talked with Cinna and Piso, as he stared down experienced spellcasters, monsters from the void, living flame, a bloodthirsty mob. He dropped his hands to hover near his gauntlets.

  “Then you thought offering me what I desired most would blind me to reality,” she said. “That the idea of a fresh start would be too much to ignore, no matter how unlikely it seemed.”

  “What are you saying, Sulla?”

  “I’m saying I don’t want to be part of your games anymore.”

  She did not appear armed. Probably, she still bore her dirk, hidden somewhere in her clothes, but the steel daggers she had worn on display at the funeral were gone. Cassius was unsure if she meant him harm or if she was simply making her position clear. He had time only for that brief moment of uncertainty, then his head grew heavy and his vision blurred.

  He fumbled for his gauntlets, his hands cold and numb. The room keeled. He tripped and landed on his knees.

  He recalled what she had told him about not finishing a drink bought for you, about the bad luck it brought. And then the world turned black, as though a curtain had been drawn over his eyes.

  • • •

  He woke in the main room of the bar, seated at a small table. He blinked to clear his vision, then wiped his eyes and, realizing his hands were unbound, he reached for his gauntlets.

  His belt was gone, his chain and his gauntlets as well.

  “You’ll have to forgive me for taking your iron, stranger,” a voice called from behind him. “I respect your abilities too much to leave you armed.”

  Servilius circled around the table and took a seat opposite him. He was dressed in a shirt of mail overlaid with a hard leather cuirass. He had three fresh cuts on his left cheek, one scabbed and deep enough that it would probably scar. Scratch marks, Cassius realized.

  “Is that why you drugged me?”

  “Wasn’t my idea. Sulla thought you might react poorly when you spotted us in the bar. So we disarmed you. But we were gentle. Didn’t hurt you while you were out. Nor shackle you. I hope those small kindnesses speak to our intent.”

  “Our?”

  “Me and a few of the brothers.”

  Cassius turned to see two men stood behind him at the bar. One geared in mail and leather and the other in an old steel chest plate, salvaged at some run-down market, but otherwise unarmored so that he looked like a half-dressed Murondian knight. The man in mail wore a longsword sheathed at his hip. The ill-dressed knight had a spiked cudgel resting to hand on the bar. Cassius saw no sign of Sulla, no sign of Lucian.

  “What are your intentions?” Cassius asked.

  “We’re here to talk,” Servilius said. “Boss needs answers about what happened today. I need answers.”

  The bar was sparsely lit. Small flames flickered in the tall candelabrum near the table, cast grotesque shadows along the walls.

  “There was a fight in the Market,” Cassius said.

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. What I want to hear is the role you played in that fight?”

  “Survivor.”

  “Quit toying with us,” one of the men at the bar called. Cassius didn’t turn to see which.

  Servilius raised a hand to call for quiet.

  “Why not come back to Lowtown after the fight,” he asked. “Join your brothers as they regrouped?”

  “I ran into something unexpected.”

  “Is that the something in the pantry?”

  “It is.” Cassius struggled to keep his voice calm.

  “What were you planning to do with him?”

  “I hadn’t decided yet.”

  Servilius considered this. He adjusted his eyepatch, as though it were obscuring his view of the truth.

  “Why not bring him to Lowtown?”

  “Transportation was an issue. That’s why I came here. To get help from Sulla.”

  “But that didn’t go as planned.”

  Cassius shrugged. “I don’t know what she told you, but you can’t believe her.”

  “I know that devious bitch can’t be trusted. That’s why I came up here personally. I wanted the truth. And I intend to get it.”

  Servilius nodded to the men at the bar. They entered the back room and emerged a moment later, herding Lucian and Sulla before them, each gagged and bound at their wrists and their ankles so that they moved with short, shuffling steps. As they reached the table, the armed men forced Lucian and Sulla onto their knees. Even in the dim light, with their faces awash in shadow, Cassius could see that both were bruised and bleeding.

  “What is this?” Cassius asked.

  “This is a negotiation. And these are my terms.” Servilius pulled a knife from his belt. Candlelight danced along its edge like white flame. “I’m going to ask you questions. And you’re going to give me answers. If you give me the wrong answer, if I even think that you’re lying, I start to cut on your buddies here.”

  “You don’t need to do this. We can just talk.”

  “I hope so, stranger. I very much want to believe you’ve been straight with me. But the girl here has been telling stories. And I’m starting to have doubts.”

  “This isn’t the way to get your answers.” Cassius sat forward. “What do I care about a broken-down old bartender and some second-rate fence? You have my word as a brother in arms that I’ll be truthful.”

  “We’re not brothers,” Servilius said. “Not yet. You
don’t bear the brand. And the more I learn about you, the more I start to think you might be just a little too tenderhearted for our club.”

  Servilius brought his knife up under Lucian’s ear. Lucian grunted into his gag and made to stand, but the ill-dressed knight held him down by the shoulders. Servilius secured the ear with his free hand, tugging so that the skin drew taut, then advanced the blade.

  “All right,” Cassius shouted, leaping from his seat. He slapped the tabletop. “Talk to me. Ask your questions, damn it.”

  Servilius paused. He smiled and withdrew the blade. He flicked Lucian’s earlobe playfully.

  “There it is.” Servilius sat. He pointed the tip of the blade at Cassius’s seat, and Cassius sat as well. “See, I knew you were a do-gooder at heart. A man of honor who can’t bear to see an innocent suffer. Isn’t that right?”

  Cassius did not respond.

  “Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That you’re a do-gooder.”

  “I’m a do-gooder,” Cassius said.

  “Excellent. An honest exchange. Maybe the first we’ve ever had. But certainly not the last.” Servilius kicked Lucian in the ribs, and Lucian gasped and toppled.

  Cassius gritted his teeth and looked away.

  “I wonder who this old man is to you,” Servilius said. “Are you two in on this together?”

  “In on what?”

  “Whatever the hell it is you’re doing here.”

  “I’m a mercenary spellcaster. I came here for work.”

  “A familiar story. Yet you find yourself in some unfamiliar territory.”

  “The bartender introduced me to Sulla.” Cassius breathed deep, tried to stop the words from spilling out in a rush. It was reasonable for him to be nervous. But a show of fear would be his undoing. And Sulla’s and Lucian’s. “She was supposed to find me prizefights at a gaming hall. I had an argument with Junius at the fights, and it escalated. Afterward, I fled to Hightown because I thought Boss Piso would want my head. I needed Cinna’s protection.”