by Kesia Lupo
To Mum and Dad
CONTENTS
Maps
The Holy Council of the Nine Gods
The Rules of the Mascherari
ONE: The Fighter’s Crown
TWO: The Inheritance
THREE: Bad News
FOUR: An Unexpected Guest
FIVE: Cutpurse Lane
SIX: Red Magic
SEVEN: The Masked Guard
EIGHT: Triplets
NINE: A Book
TEN: The Room of Many Faces
ELEVEN: A Lesson
TWELVE: Disguises
THIRTEEN: The Fire
FOURTEEN: The Reckoning
FIFTEEN: The Sun and the Storm
SIXTEEN: Nurse’s Story
SEVENTEEN: What the Heart Desires
EIGHTEEN: Decisions
NINETEEN: Deception
TWENTY: Beneath the City
TWENTY-ONE: In Dark Scarossa
TWENTY-TWO: The Mirror
TWENTY-THREE: The Starlight Throne
TWENTY-FOUR: No More Puppets
TWENTY-FIVE: Homecoming
TWENTY-SIX: A New Face
TWENTY-SEVEN: Fortune
TWENTY-EIGHT: Home
TWENTY-NINE: Dawn
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Extract from We Are Blood and Thunder
PROLOGUE: A Cryptling
ONE: The Hounds
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Legend has it that when the goddess Fortune was betrayed by her fellow deities and transformed into a mortal, she returned to the place that she had been born: the kingdom of the Wishes. A group of volcanic islands to the south of the continent, the Wishes was the last place faithful to her teachings. Here, before she disappeared completely, she granted the matriarchs of the two ruling bloodlines, Santini and Lupina, exceptional powers – magics she hoped would keep her faith alive as they were passed down through generations. She called these magics astromancy, for they drew their energies from the stars.
When she died, it is said, her body infused the very soil of the Wishes with her magic.
The King came to the isles from the mainland centuries later, bringing the faith of the nine gods and a demand for surrender. The isle’s ruler, a queen of the Santini line, struck a secret bargain with the god Mythris – against her Lupina general’s wishes.
In this secret bargain, the Queen of the Wishes promised to accept the lesser title of Contessa, ruling under the King. She promised Mythris that she and all her successors would use Fortune’s gift to read and guide his future and that of his temples.
In return, Mythris would grant the Contessa a fragment of his own power in the form of generations of triplet mask-makers. The masks they crafted would bear special powers, aiding the Contessa in discovering and destroying her enemies. But should the chain of inheritance ever be broken, should the Contessa’s descendants ever lose the power of astromancy, everything would be forfeit …
Richaro Mancini, The Queens of the Wishes
The Rules of the Mascherari
1.The three mask-makers of Scarossa are triplets. Taken from their birth mother, they are the adopted daughters of Mythris, destined to serve the Contessa.
2.Once the sisters have inherited their powers, they are bound together: one soul split three ways; one cannot live without the others.
3.The sisters craft three styles of mask: Ornamentals, Bestials and Grotesques. All their masks must fall under these three categories. Unidentifiable masks must be destroyed.
4.The masks created by the mascherari sisters are all called True Masks: there is thought to be only one possible human match for each mask. The masks grant unique powers to their wearer.
5.The youngest mascherari sister creates the Ornamentals, the weakest mask. The middle sister creates the Grotesques, of variable strength. The Bestials are reserved for the eldest sister alone. To deviate from an allocated style of mask is punishable by the removal of privileges.
6.The mascherari must never form a mask based on a real human face. To do so is a crime punishable by death.
ONE:
The Fighter’s Crown
Vico
‘Vico, hurry up! It starts in ten minutes,’ Elisao says, pushing me through the warm spring night and towards the warehouse. ‘For blessed gods’ sake,’ he mutters. I’d protest, but I was late and he was waiting for me at the docks for half an hour, so I can’t blame his ill-humour. I shoot him a grin over my shoulder instead. He returns a watery smile – I knew he couldn’t resist – but quickly smothers it under a frown of irritation. ‘Come on.’
I duck after him into the warehouse. The noise and light surround me in a familiar cocoon, the smells of sizzling fish and sweating bodies, of cheap fortified panacea and cheaper perfume. Yellow light spills from the huge lamps suspended from the vaulted ceiling, the wooden beams casting long shadows.
I turn my signet ring round and round my finger as I slide after Elisao through the gaps in the gathered people towards the centre of the room. I nod at a familiar woman, who smiles warmly – she’s one of the stall keepers who sells grilled shrimp and deep-fried rice on the docks. A tall man with wild golden hair claps me on the back as I slide past. ‘Vico! My money’s on you tonight.’ Gerret, one of Old Jacobo’s crew. His northern accent is strong, despite the fact he’s lived in Scarossa all his adult life.
‘I’ll do my best for you, Gerret,’ I reply.
‘Vico, there isn’t time,’ Elisao says, tugging my arm. I flash Gerret an apologetic smile and allow myself to be led forward.
We’re heading for a large square space, cordoned off with ropes. The crowd is bustling with its usual mixture of fishermen, rogues, prostitutes, lovers, students, professors, tradesmen, immigrants, sailors and more – all the people who live in this city, who give life to this city. Conversation does not hum here; it roars, fuelled by panacea and shouts of laughter, and the coins exchanging hands, and the bets cried out, taunts thrown and thrown back …
I feel a rush of warmth. Scarossa is my city, but this is my world. As we reach the centre at last, I shout a hello to Old Jacobo, a crime lord and the organiser of the Battaglia, his most profitable venture. He’s taking down wagers but shouts ‘You’re late’ over his shoulder, in his usual jovial tone. I shake a stranger’s hand that’s proffered to my right, accept a chipped glass from an acquaintance to my left.
If only I could stay in this world always.
And then, through the shifting people, I see a cloaked figure, standing right at the back of the room in a pool of calm. I’m not sure exactly what about the figure draws my eyes: perhaps its stillness; perhaps the black hooded cloak that covers its face, its entire body, so that it’s impossible to tell whether they’re male or female, rich or poor, young or old. But I’m sure, whoever it is, they’re watching me. Despite the heat of the room, I feel suddenly cold.
‘Focus, Vico,’ says Elisao, pushing away a bottle of panacea poised over my cup in favour of a jug of water. ‘We need to talk about your opponent.’ I glance down to watch my cup filled – and when I glance up again, the cloaked figure has disappeared. Elisao’s voice changes as he catches my expression – softening. ‘Are you all right? You look shaken.’ His light green eyes are warm but serious behind their spectacles, his skin pale for a native Scarossan – he doesn’t spend much time outside. A student of law, he works part time in the city library – a warehouse at the docks isn’t his natural habitat. But the Battaglia draws us all here, like moths to a flame. Its contest, the Fighter’s Crown, is the worst-kept secret of the city, a glory from its legendary criminal network stretching generations into the past. Once, the winner was crowned King of the Underworld. Nowadays we fight for glory, riches and in
fluence.
‘Sorry – I’m fine. I just need a bit of fisherman’s courage.’ I swig back my water as if it’s hard spirits, making Elisao smile. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Let’s talk about the Raven.’
There’s a man standing opposite me, in the far corner, swigging straight from a bottle that I’ll wager contains something much stronger than water. He’s known as the Raven, and I can see how he got the name – though brown-skinned, like most people of the Wishes, he has bright orange, birdlike eyes, framed by a black mask, which covers the upper half of his face and beaks out over his nose. Medium build, muscular – perhaps he works on the docks during the daytime. Shaggy black hair. I’d put him in his thirties – though it’s hard to tell for sure under the mask. Elisao is leaning over my shoulder.
‘He doesn’t look like much, but he’s fast.’ His voice is high and nervous.
‘Mmhmm.’
‘He’s won his last seven fights.’
‘So I hear,’ I say. It’s at least the fifth time Elisao has told me this. ‘But I have too, you know. As has everyone else who’s reached the midway point of the contest.’
‘Apparently he’s left-handed, Vico.’
‘So am I,’ I say, grinning at him over my shoulder. ‘Elisao, you need to relax. You know I’m going to win, right?’
‘This one’s different, Vico. The others – they were just doing it for fun, or money, or women. They say this guy’s obsessed. He almost won the crown last year.’
‘Elisao’ – I put my hands on his shoulders – ‘I’m. Going. To. Win.’
He puffs out a breath. ‘You’d better. I’ve got a frankly indecent amount of money resting on you.’
The drums start to beat and I stand up, the crowd jostles, hushing, and the tension seems to draw in around us like a band of thieves.
‘Welcome to la Battaglia!’ Old Jacobo booms. ‘The seventh of this year’s twelve contests is about to begin!’ His face is now nearly as red as his great velvet cloak, stained and ragged from years of use but nevertheless lending him an air of grandeur. The minor crime lord puffs up his chest, pushes back his greased grey hair and spreads his arms. ‘My friends … and my enemies’ – he smiles wickedly – ‘you are witnessing the war for the city’s greatest honour, the Fighter’s Crown. This contest has been raging in the darkness for centuries. Each year, we award one winner – a man or woman who defeats every one of their opponents in single hand-to-hand combat – the grand prize of twenty thousand golden crowns.’ Whoops break out across the room, a spattering of applause. ‘You have paid well to be here – or you are already a part of our family. Either way, I welcome you and bid you place your bets while the odds are favourable.’ He grins and raises his drink, a glass of golden panacea so brimming full that it sloshes over the rim as he lifts it. ‘To this great city – to Scarossa!’
There’s a roar of appreciation as the crowd answers, lifting their own drinks. ‘Scarossa!’ I join in, raising my water cup.
Once the commotion has died, the drums start up again, a slow, tremulous heartbeat. I’m confident – I know I can win – but even so I feel the adrenalin start to flow through me, sweat prickling across my back. I live for this feeling. Suddenly I feel the heat of the room in a way I didn’t before, the snake of cool air from some gap in the wall like a blessing. Everything is heightened.
Then I catch sight of the cloaked figure a second time. Closer, now – a few rows back from the front. The darkness under the cloak unnerves me. Who are they? I shift my eyes away and push the figure from my mind, smother the feeling of coldness. I can’t afford to be distracted. I am here. I am going to win. My hands curl into fists.
Old Jacobo starts to speak again. ‘Tonight’s contests pit some of our greatest soldiers against one another – and we begin with a fight attracting considerable attention. In the west corner, four-year veteran of the Battaglia and last year’s runner up – famed for his stealth, speed and ghastly eyes, and the marginal favourite for the win tonight – we have … the Raven!’ A cheer fills the warehouse, a tremor of excitement for those who have money on his victory. Those who haven’t yet placed their bets are rushing to do so as the Raven stands up, cracking his shoulders and glaring at me across the hard-packed sandy floor. He looks mean; I’ll give him that. ‘And in the east corner, we have a challenger with all the advantages of youth. New this year, he’s lean, he’s scrappy, and he’s hungry. We call him … the Wolf!’ Another cheer fills the warehouse as I step forward, nearly as big as the first. I grin. Seven months ago, the first time I fought here, you wouldn’t have heard a sound when I was announced. ‘The first to remain on the floor for five counts is the loser. Are we ready?’
The crowd claps and cheers.
‘Good luck!’ Elisao whispers anxiously, pushing his mop of unruly curls from his face. His spectacles are slipping down his nose again. I feel a sudden rush of affection for him, the feeling I’ve been having, often, that I’d like to press my lips to his.
‘Don’t need it,’ I say, instead, knowing it will annoy him.
He rolls his eyes. ‘Just win, all right?’
And then it’s time to fight.
I drop into a low, prepared stance. The Raven does the same. He’s wearing a pair of loose fisherman’s trews tied with a belt and nothing else. Close up, I can see his torso is criss-crossed with pale scars. The world narrows to me and him – we’re alone in this shining light, in our own bright and tiny world, circling each other on the head of a needle. I can’t even hear the crowd any more, can’t even see the shapes of those watching as anything more distinct than fish in dark water.
But then I glimpse the cloaked figure – at the front of the crowd now. A few paces away. Why don’t they show their face? I feel a coldness on my skin, prickling into goosebumps. I notice something I hadn’t noticed from a distance: a gold pendant hanging around the figure’s neck, flashing as it catches the light. A flaming sun on a long chain. I frown.
‘What’s the matter, boy?’ The Raven growls. ‘Scared?’
I wipe the frown from my brow, forcing myself to focus. But I don’t reply. I’ve found it’s best not to talk in a fight; silence is more unnerving for your opponent.
He lunges towards me – he’s quick, but I’m ready, and I duck under his fist. It’s a test, really – he’s figuring out what I’m capable of. I stick out my foot as he retreats, a move that’s worked well in the past – but he doesn’t trip.
I clench my fists tighter. This isn’t going to be easy – but I’m glad. There’s no fun without a challenge.
I duck another two blows – then send my own fist up towards his chin. He’s gone, and out of nowhere I feel his knuckles connect with my stomach. I stagger away, somehow swooping ungracefully out of the reach of another blow aimed at my head.
Damn, he’s good.
I see an opening and ram my shoulder into his gut, hear a satisfying ‘oof’ of pain.
I try to trip him, pull his leg out from beneath him with a jerk of my hands, but he recovers – and I change tack last minute, aiming a punch at his jaw, which – to my surprise – actually connects. He’s dazed, staggering.
I haven’t been listening to the crowd, haven’t even been aware of them since we started fighting, but a shrill scream pierces through at exactly the moment I’m raising my fist again, pressing my advantage, and panic floods me, freezing my muscles. My arm drops. The air has changed – excitement has shifted subtly but surely towards fear. Some people are watching us, but others are glancing over their shoulders. There’s something else too, something other – I can feel it. I think of the cloaked figure. Where are they? They were right there, at the front – and now they’ve disappeared.
What’s happening?
A punch in my face: my nose makes a deafening crack and time slows as blood splashes on to the sand. It’s broken – I can tell by how it feels, loose and wet like a sodden rag. The Raven’s on me, pushing me down, my mouth in the dust, my entire face
throbbing with pain. Old Jacobo should be over us, counting down to his win, but instead there are more screams, and I see a nearby lamp being extinguished by an unnatural swirl of sand, as if the desert is rising up to reclaim what man has stolen. No one’s watching us now – and I feel the Raven’s weight lift from me as he too realises there’s something more important happening.
Sand whips up nearby – between shuffling legs I see the shape of … What is that? A shadow, a flash of yellow light like a flame behind dark glass. The Raven curses, then runs away from me, glancing once over his shoulder with an unreadable expression before he shoves his way into the crowd and disappears. Elisao is at my side, hauling me up, as more lights go out. The huge warehouse is alive with shouts.
Blood is pouring from my nose. Elisao pushes something in my face – a handkerchief. I try to pinch the bridge of my nose shut, but touching it feels like a burning poker is being shoved into my brain. So I hold just the handkerchief there, feel it grow wet.
‘Vico, we have to go! Come on!’
‘What’s happening?’ My voice is thick, muffled. I try to walk but feel dizzy – I clutch my signet ring, turned inward towards my palm, as I always do for courage. People shove past us towards the door. The warehouse is emptying fast – those wide doors designed for wagons releasing people into the cool night. I see a body on the ground in the darkness. And another further on towards the door. Out cold or dead, I can’t tell.
‘I think … I think sandwolves,’ Elisao says, his voice trembling with fear, tugging my arm. We start to press forward, my legs moving of their own accord.
‘Sandwolves?’ I frown, feel a thrill of mingled fear and excitement, tracing the outline on my ring. The emblem is a sandwolf howling up at the stars. But there have been none of these beasts in Scarossa for fifteen years or more. My whole body is sprung tight as I scan the room. But why am I bothering? You can’t fight sandwolves with your fists.
‘Come on,’ Elisao says, looping my arm around his shoulders.