Steel Sirens

by Maxx Whittaker

  “One finger on my boy and –”

  “And nothing. You won’t do a thing. There won’t be enough left of you.”

  “Enough,” murmurs Carven, sounding drunk. “Coming back to the beginning, my answer is no.”

  Myranda shakes her fists. “You have hundreds of them! There’s no point travelling hundreds of miles with a source right here.”

  “They are mine. My girls. They are not for you; Arkis agrees.”

  “And isn’t that funny?” she bites out. “Arkis the Unquenchable, demanding more and more slaves and yet several hundred right below his feet are sacred.”

  “You can go,” says Carven.

  “I’ll go. But don’t summon me back. I won’t come. You can hunt me and kill me, but I want come back.”

  Carven folds at her threat.

  “Oh, you’ve remembered! That’s right. My gift is all that keeps you alive against their siphoning.”

  “Arkis lets me have my girls,” Carven mutters petulantly.

  “But not a cock to plough them with. Just a paintbrush. Pathetic.”

  “Kill her,” spits Carven.

  “Go!” Straithe shoves Myranda’s shoulder.

  No, don’t go. Kill her. I don’t like anyone present, but I really hate Myranda.

  Arkis’ trilling fingers crackle with dark lightning. “It would be best for your health if you left our lands entirely.”

  I grudgingly admire how she eyes Arkis with defiance. He clearly could end her right now, and she doesn’t care.

  Without another word, she snaps up her helmet from the table. There’s no fear, no hurry to her movements.

  Maybe she’d put up more of a fight than I thought.

  Pella and I step back, clearing the exit all we can.

  The only door is next to me. I stand my ground, spine straight, and studiously avoid looking at her as she crosses the room. Emeree pulses soothing waves over me.

  Myranda reaches the gallery door and I exhale.

  She turns back. “Your girl is very pretty.”

  “Thank you,” I manage. Pella curtsies.

  “You don’t look old enough to be her father.”

  Damn it. “My wife had children when we married.”

  “Ah.” Myranda saunters close. She slides a finger up my chest, her fingernail raking my stolen shirt. Her touch is disturbingly intimate. I breathe through my mouth to avoid her stench; this doesn’t filter everything. I catch a whiff of sandalwood and purple flowers, which seems wrong. She should smell like death, putrefaction, not a spring meadow. Her finger skips over my collar and runs along the skin of my neck, just hard enough to make me wince with pain and pleasure.

  “Where did you say you’re from?” she murmurs.

  “Braemar. Portreeve of Braemar.”

  Myranda raises my chin and peers into my eyes. Her look and her posture are sharp.

  She knows. I’m sure she knows.

  “I was just elected.”

  Her smile is wicked as she leans slowly forward until her head is next to mine. “I’m sure,” she breathes.

  Her tongue paints a wet line up my neck. She doesn’t care when Pella clears her throat. Myranda’s teeth catch my ear and nip. She chuckles when I flinch.

  “Mmm.” She inhales. “You smell like the forest.”

  She doesn’t know. There’s no way she learned Thom’s name, and if she had, would she remember it now? This is all my imagination. I’m going to out myself before she ever catches on.

  But her eyes hold mine a second too long. There’s no acceptance, no retreat.

  Footsteps save me.

  “There’s a young lady present, Lanlath.”

  Straithe has saved me. But he’s also saving her; he and I are not allies.

  “Arkis still itches to fight; I’d be gone before he exits if I were you.”

  Myranda stretches, catlike. “But I’m not you. However, I am going.”

  Why doesn’t she tell him? Why doesn’t she shout for Carven?

  Inside the meeting chamber, Arkis is in conversation with a guard; Carven stares out toward his gallery with the same drooling smile. It’s all he can think of.

  Myranda hates them. She doesn’t care if I’m a counterfeit portreeve. In fact, she probably hopes I am, and takes some pleasure in mocking them for idiots and dupes.

  Straithe watches her go, flinty. “Good riddance, Myranda Lanlath. Hope the portcullis doesn’t close on her.”

  “Would that kill her?”

  He makes a tight-lipped smile. “No.”

  “Sorry to be nosey, but you don’t sound like friends.”

  “Politics,” he declares, remembering himself.

  Arkis appears, pushing the Duke in his wheeled high-back chair.

  “Was that your son, the page?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Straithe’s face closes. “Yes.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.” Straithe emphasis this with a desperate look.

  I almost take a gamble, signal him.

  It’s not worth the risk. If Oranna didn’t know his loyalties, I can’t take a chance.

  He glances from me to Pella, who’s been obediently silent all this time. “Now! Let’s join His Grace in the gallery. Your daughter may sit in here, if she likes.”

  Is he sparing her the obscene collection?

  I don’t want Pella out of my sight. “We don’t have many opportunities to experience great art in the High Wilds. Pella, who don’t you stay with me?”

  Arkis reappears at the gallery door. His face is still a dim shadow, eyes milky blue orbs far back beneath his hood. I swear he’s sniffing at me. He waves off Straithe.

  “Carbry says you have a weapon. An artifact.”

  “That’s right. I’ve heard His Grace is a collector. I hoped to see his armory and get his opinion on my blade. It was found in a witch cave!” I draw deep on Thom’s snake oil enthusiasm for useless junk.

  Arkis ripples. Crackling intensifies along his fingers.

  “Between us, I was actually hoping he’d buy it. I’ve never wielded anything more dangerous than a pen!”

  “It’s true; he writes ever so many letters,” dares Pella, giggling.

  Arkis’ contempt is palpable, but so is his relief. I’m an idiot. I don’t know what the sword is or how to use it, and I’m dying to get rid of it. The magus is dying to kill me and steal, Pella so this all works out.

  “His Grace is always happy to give a tour of the armory. Come.”

  His Grace doesn’t let pigeons inside his walls. He is not happy to give tours. Pella gives me a look; our thoughts are the same: Arkis loves getting two people in a secluded room with minimal witnesses.

  Arkis stops. “You do have the sword with you? Because I could send one of men to bring it here...”

  My men. Not the Duke’s men. Arkis has his own men.

  I pat my greatcoat shoulder. “Right here. And I really think you’ll both be surprised.”

  15

  The Cowardly Widowers

  This card depicts two old men in red cloaks clutching gold funerary jewelry. Wraiths chase them from a churchyard while their wives’ spirits hover atop their grave mounds, pleading. It is associated with opportunity, an auspicious purchase, or fortune at great cost. Inverted it speaks of cowardice, avarice, and exile.

  It bears an azure border. Its reverse is gold with a knotwork wolf.

  The paper shows countless worried creases.

  Arkis shuts us in the armory; a dead bolt thuds home.

  “Pella,” I pull her attention from the long hall. “When Arkis and I pass, find a spot and stay put.”

  She eyes a suit of armor in one corner, an axeman’s statue in another. Weapon cupboards hug the walls at intervals; hand behind her back, Pella tests the closest one to see if it’s locked. She knows what to do.

  Arkis wafts past, waving me on.

  “Stay put,” I whisper again. Pella nods.

 
; Carven waits at the far end. Arkis has parked him near at a pair of open balcony doors. They give a view of the hills, the vast lake. They give a more immediate view of the motte.

  Carven croaks out bits of information as we go.

  “Look! Look there.” His voice is strong, youthful. He sounds a lot like me.

  “That scythe is imbued with demon blood. It can cut water. Not slice through; it actually –” He chops with a wilted hand, “Cuts the water.”

  Its pole is fashioned from heartwood, spiked with thorns of black iron. I don’t know how anyone could wield the thing. Maybe demons aren’t bothered by it.

  “Broadsword. It was taken from a Carthian monastery after a slaughter. The blade is a femur bone of a saint.” He smacks his lips on the last word.

  “Imbued with soul energy. That means it can only be forged on a moonless Hallow’s Night. And now...none can be forged at all.” Carven sniffs. “The priests are all dead.”

  I assume he knows this for certain because he had them killed.

  Axes, bows, daggers; something resembling a butter knife with wicked fangs. Emeralds, red metals, dragon skin. The year it was forged, the place, the season. A spear he claims draws power from the tide, and a riveted leather shield that can summon a bear spirit. Carven sounds like a boy with his bug collection, listing off esoteric science about each one that a lay person could never appreciate.

  He could rule the entire kingdom with these artifacts. “This is a lot of power; a lot of magic. Will you demonstrate the shield?” I’m genuinely curious.

  “That’s not possible,” says Arkis, interrupting.

  “Oh?”

  “The magic is on loan,” Carven explains, not sounding like he understands what this means.

  “On loan?”

  Arkis ignores me.

  Closer, in better light, I see elements of Arkis’ face. Middle-aged with a smooth jaw, bright eyes and lips I feel like Briet was always describing in her book heroes. I’m surprised. His voice and demeanor...I assumed his hood concealed hideousness.

  “Show me your witch-sword,” says Carven. “I bet I can tell you everything about it.”

  I draw the blade slowly, not wanting any suspicion. Carven cradles it like an infant in his bloodless palms.

  “What do you think?”

  Carven doesn’t answer. I’m not sure he’s heard me. He gives an experimental swing, blade whizzing past my shoulder.

  Considering his frailty, I feel closer than I’d like to potential decapitation.

  The duke seems in awe. Arkis, however, watches my sword like a mouser, his tail twitching.

  “So light,” Carven whispers, looking grateful to hold anything aloft. “I’ve never seen the like of this metal.”

  “Nor I,” says Arkis, slithering around me in a circle. “Where did you say you came by this, again?”

  “Sod off, Arkis,” wheezes Carven, smiling for the first time. “Who cares where it came from? It’s no one’s business where any of my pretty things come from.” He traces the blade with a palsied finger. I know Emeree can’t feel it, but I still want to slap his hand away. “Beautiful.”

  “Captivating.” Arkis schools his expression, but only after he’s struck me with the full weight of his bitterness. “I truly want to know where you found it. Such a place must be a wonder in itself.”

  “Almost unreal.”

  I see his game. If I wondered about Myranda, I know about Arkis.

  He thinks he’s figured me out, and now he’s going to prove it.

  He didn’t count on Oranna.

  “One day in the Tiral Gap.”

  “You found this in a single day?” asks Carven with wonder.

  “The Gap is unreachable, uncrossable,” says Arkis.

  “That’s why I only had a day. Our guide died before we reached the Marches again.”

  “Come now; you’re among friends. Be honest: You must have known where to look before you arrived.”

  “A map from a forest dray led me to the cave,” I say, voice low for effect. “It was a nightmare. There’s no such thing as abandoned when it comes to witches. Arcane sludge, magic residue, enough putrid blood seeped into the stones to draw flies for centuries. And poison a man. That took our porter, in fact.”

  Carven stares at me with wide, cataract dimmed eyes.

  “Perilous,” Arkis drawls. But he can’t deny any of this; this is fact where witches are concerned.

  “An imbued mask stuffed with herbs and flowers helped me combat the stench and poison. A bow I recovered in the Dwarflands managed bear-rats.”

  “A bow,” Carven breathes, like this is favorite thing, still holding Emeree’s sword. He takes a few more swings.

  Arkis stares at me. “The dray,” he asks. “What was his name?”

  “Her name is Sandira. And damn me if she wasn’t a dray. That night… Have you ever bedded one?”

  “No.”

  “Best visit the apothecary for an endurance preparation. Dray women aren’t easily satisfied.”

  Arkis wipes hands down his long robe and shudders. “I wonder if we’re thinking of the same dray. Describe her.”

  Keldan used to play this game with me all the time once he reached something like manhood. Everything, everything became a contest, and I was never allowed to know something he knew. I call the game Prove It.

  Now, I’m playing Prove It for my life.

  I know why they’re called the Inquisition.

  “Tall, skin dusky blue. Notch cut from one ear; some battle earned amongst her own people. Dark blue eyes like a storm at sea.” I sigh, recalling my ‘conquest’. “Had a grip like an orc milkmaid. Gods, do I miss her.”

  Arkis purses his lips. “I’ll seek her out, someday. Information like hers is hard to come by.”

  Go ahead, goat fucker. I’ll be long gone.

  “Four days into the Hartwood from where?”

  “Snowshill.”

  “Hm. I didn’t imagine you get to places so far beyond the Midlands.”

  “Valen’s Rest. Have you been, master mage?”

  “I have!” he says, eyes triumphant. “What inn?”

  “The Dove Cote,” I say, equally triumphant.

  “Near the market square,” Arkis says, coming closer. Air cracks between us. He’s ready, hungry to finish me off. “There’s a statue in that square. A nymph or a satyr…”

  A statue? In all of Oranna’s coaching she didn’t mention a statue. I sweat for the first time.

  Arkis watches me, eyes glittering. He knows he has me.

  Noblemen who come for the hunt run their horses down the middle of the square and near trample townsfolk. Constable levies fines when he can catch them.

  It’s not in what Oranna said; it’s what she didn’t say.

  I glance openly at Arkis’ charged fingers and smile. “You’re thinking of the succubus sculpture inside the Dove Cote. Gorgeous, isn’t it? Horns as long as my arm and tits big as my hand. Not the only thing made of marble in that entry hall, eh? Damn if the man who carved her hadn’t seen a real one.” My enthusiasm cools. “But there is no statue in the square.”

  Arkis hisses and draws back. “Your vulgarity shouldn’t be a surprise, considering your origins.”

  “Portreeve!” Carven has remembered us. Thankfully, no one has remembered Pella, who casts a shadow from behind the statue. “I want to show you my special relics.”

  Special? I look around us.

  Arkis hisses. “Your Grace, a portreeve?”

  “A guest.”

  “A bureaucrat. When he tells the masses what he saw here, you’ll face a whole new rebellion from the peasant class. Jealous, ignorant.”

  “They don’t need stories to think that. Stop harassing him. In fact, Arkis, you can go.”

  Arkis looks something other than disdainful for a change. “Your Grace?”

  “I want to enjoy my treasures and this lovely sword. Your nattering is ruining it.”

  Arkis’ mouth works. He’s
not used to the Duke slipping his leash. I’ll pay for this if Arkis gets a chance.

  “I don’t think you should allow a stranger in there.”

  “Leave us or I won’t allow you in there either.”

  Arkis eyes my sword one last time. “I’ll be back, in my own time.”

  Carven shakes, watching his mage retreat. “I wish they would leave me to my beautiful things. Come.”

  He manages from his chair, legs surprisingly steady for the state he’s in.

  Pella emerges from behind the statue.

  This startles Carven. He stumbles. “How did you get out?”

  “Your Grace, the portreeve is my father…”

  “Mm. Oh, oh.” His eyes are far off; he seems to think of something else. Carven compulsively rings his bony hands. They clack like driftwood.

  “Someone should check the bookcase.”

  Pella gives me a look. I shrug.

  In the gallery, Carven caresses one of the paintings. The girl is nude, like nearly all his subjects. She lays on her belly amidst a sea of blankets and pillows, skin stark against deep reds and blues. He traces a path down her back, along the curve of her backside.

  “She’s wonderful, Your Grace,” says Pella brightly.

  I can’t speak, rooted and fighting revulsion. Those fingers trailing along the girl’s thigh. That mother in the square. The parents on the road.

  Carven is not a frail old man. He’s not an ally.

  “Yes,” he says, almost to himself. “They are wonderful.”

  He totters back from the painting unwillingly. “Have you sat before?”

  Pella ducks her head. “No, Your Grace.”

  “We’ll remedy that.”

  “My mother says it’s vanity. I wouldn’t want to cross her.”

  Carven hardens just for a moment. Then he exhales and claps my shoulder. “Come. I want to show you my treasures. You can appreciate them.”

  “I hope he doesn’t mean girls,” whispers Pella after he passes.

  “Right?”

  We trail him through a labyrinth of unremarkable corridors, bald and bland as the other degenerate parts of his castle. I can’t believe it’s been a year or two since Iver died. The decay feels like decades.

  “Arkis is jealous of your sword, I think. He fiddles with one of the axes in my treasure room every chance he gets. It’s a lot like your sword; every man has his tastes. And fears.”