The Hand That Takes

by Taylor O'Connell

The fourth card showed a golden chalice, silver coins spilling over its rim.

  “The cup and coin, face up,” said the teller.

  Again she slid the card to an open point of the septagram and drew another. The fifth card showed a tower struck by lightning, and the sixth a man cowering beneath a shadow. Lilliana gave a sharp intake of breath as the reader placed each of the cards on its point.

  Sal knew the reader would draw two more cards, but he had no desire for the old woman to continue. Sal was no teller, but he knew things were looking worse than bad.

  The crone drew. The seventh card showed an elderly man standing near a pool of water, and in the pool the man saw his reflection. “The wise man,” said the old woman as she laid the seventh card on the final point of the star and thus completed the circle.

  For the eighth time the reader reached for her deck, drawing yet one more wooden card. It faced right side up and did nothing to calm Sal’s nerves.

  “The throne,” said the teller, as she placed the final card at the star’s center.

  III

  The Hero

  There are no heroes. Only those who act, and those who fail to act.

  —Stefano Lorenzo

  16

  Dinner

  Interlude, Eight Years Earlier

  S al knocked on the door frame. The door was open, allowing for a full view of his sister’s room.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Nicola said, looking up.

  “I wanted to talk,” Sal said.

  “Isn’t that what we’ll be doing at dinner?”

  “I wanted to talk with you.”

  “We need to get ready. You know how Uncle is about punctuality.”

  “Bugger Uncle,” Sal said.

  Nicola smiled. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Is it true?” Sal said. “Is she really going to get out of bed?”

  “Come in,” Nicola said, sitting up on the bed and patting the spot beside her.

  Sal sat. “Well, is it true? Is she going to come down?”

  Nicola pursed her lips, then put a hand over her mouth as she thought. “I don’t want you getting your hopes up,” she finally said.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Sal asked. “You know, really wrong with her? ”

  Nicola unfolded her arms and put a hand on Sal’s back. “We should go down. Uncle will be waiting.”

  “Uncle,” Sal said under his breath. “He hates me, you know?”

  “He doesn’t hate you, Salvatori, it’s just his way. He can seem cold, but—”

  “How can you say that? You see the way he looks at me. No matter what I do, no matter who I try to be, he only looks at me with scorn. And you, you could spit in his face, and he would praise you for it.”

  “Now, there’s an idea,” Nicola said, smirking. “I had considered his tea, but his face would send a clear message.”

  “Mother brought up the name.”

  Nicola scoffed. “I’d not use that name were it truly mine.”

  “He did it as a favor, to Mother,” Sal said. “She’s been asking for years now.”

  “He can keep it. I don’t want it. I may be stuck here so long as Mother needs looking after, but I’ll not be branded by that name. Mother should know that.”

  “She would rather see you married, I think,” Sal said.

  “Any man who would take a wife for her name over her merit is no man I would ever call husband. Now off with you, Salvatori. Uncle will be in a right mood if we are any later.”

  G reggings stood outside the dining hall, a stern look on his face as Sal and Nicola neared.

  “Don’t look at us so, lest those wrinkles become permanent,” said Nicola.

  “It is not my wrinkled face that should concern you, My Lady.”

  “I’m no lady, Greggings,” Nicola said, brushing past the manservant.

  “As you say, My Lady,” Greggings replied. “Still, you ought not keep them.”

  “Them?” Sal asked. “So she— ”

  Greggings nodded, and Sal felt his stomach flutter.

  The doors opened with a creak that echoed in the vastness of the hall. Uncle Stefano sat at the head of the walnut table, a sour look on his face. Beside him, looking pale, and yet far better than she had in weeks, was Mother.

  She smiled as Sal and Nicola entered and took their seats.

  “Did you mean to keep us waiting?” said Uncle Stefano.

  “Please, Stefano, there’s no need,” Mother said.

  “The mule that wanders astray and is not kicked is still a wandering ass, is it not?” said Uncle Stefano. “Should we spare the boot, ignore the mule, and hope it corrects of its own accord?”

  “That which was made by the Lord that is Light is perfect of its own accord,” Mother said.

  “We did mean to keep you,” said Nicola, to Sal’s utter horror. “Where else to find pleasure in such a place as this but to watch you stew to a boil while your supper chills?”

  With bated breath, Sal remained perfectly still, not daring to look his uncle in the eyes.

  Stefano made a noise in his throat, something between a scoff and a snarl. He took a long drink from his wine glass and waved for Greggings to send in the footman.

  Toliver entered bearing a gold platter. A boy of an age with Sal, he had a mop of sandy blonde hair that he kept tied back. Toliver had been serving as the footman in his uncle’s house going on a year, and Sal suspected he didn’t have much longer. His uncle never kept them around for more than two years—his little charity cases, he called them.

  At any rate, it seemed a cruel practice to Sal.

  Toliver passed behind them, and before each he set a plate holding a half quail with a cranberry garnish, and what appeared to be a bowl of chopped vegetable soup in a beef broth.

  As they ate the conversation was sparse. Mother’s presence brought to the table a whole new element of tension that had been absent for weeks. Sal spoke little to anyone, focusing on his food and keeping his head down .

  “So, Brother, Salvatori tells me you are close to a decision.”

  Sal froze and his heart jumped into his throat.

  “Does he, now?”

  Sal kept his eyes on his plate, but he could feel his uncle’s stare burning into the top of his head.

  “And has he told you what that decision is?” Uncle Stefano asked.

  “It seems to me there are only two options,” said Nicola.

  Sal winced. First Mother, then his sister. Perhaps Uncle Stefano would do nothing to her, but Nicola was pushing Sal’s luck.

  Sal looked toward his mother, hoping to catch her glance, to somehow signal for her to change the subject.

  “Well, boy, out with it,” said Uncle Stefano. “What is it you’ve been telling Mommy?”

  Sal clenched a fist beneath the table.

  Mother pursed her lips.

  “You’ve no right to talk to him that way,” said Nicola.

  “He sits at my table, beneath my roof,” Stefano said, dangerously quiet. “He eats my food, drinks my wine, and fills my chamber pots. What more right could a man have? And when you’re done cowering behind the skirts of the women, boy, you can come to my solar. You’ll have your answer there.”

  “Stefano,” Mother said, “he only wants to please you, you can’t—”

  “You dare tell me, my business, woman? The boy knows the Code. Don’t you, boy?”

  Sal nodded, barely able to hold back the tears he could feel coming on. He wanted to speak, wanted to defend himself, but he could feel a knot forming in his throat.

  And just like that, his uncle gave him the look, the look that told him his moment had passed. The look that sent his whole world crashing down around him.

  “Very well,” said Uncle Stefano as he stood. “You’ll have my answer, boy, that you will.”

  Sal watched his uncle leave, helpless to stop him. A feeling of dread came over him, as he realized what his uncle’s answer would be. But as the doors to the dining hal
l closed, his uncle no longer in view, it was not the answer that came to mind, but the question.

  May I join you?

  17

  The Truth

  “ W hat is this?” Sal said, standing. “That black card. What is that supposed to mean to me? Of whose death do you speak?”

  Sal and Lilliana were in the teller’s tent. The eight wooden cards were aligned on the table, seven atop the points of the star and the eighth at its center.

  “Are there so many deaths in your life that you would ask such a question?” said the old woman, her blind white eyes fixed on his.

  “Do you speak of my death?” Sal asked.

  The teller didn’t smile. It seemed all humor had passed from her demeanor; there was a grim expression on her wrinkled face. “There are many paths, and the future is ever changing.”

  “Whose death?”

  “The cards do not say.”

  “But you’re a seer, yeah? You can read the Sacrull damned things. Tell me what it means!”

  The teller merely stared at him.

  Lilliana was looking scared.

  Just then, Damor Nev poked his head into the tent. “Everything all right, My Lady? ”

  “Yes, fine, Damor. I believe we are about to depart. Wait for us without, won’t you.”

  “Aye, My Lady. As you say.”

  The teller did not seem pleased with the interruption. She didn’t seem pleased with much of anything. She looked tired, as though she had aged with the telling. She held her wrinkled hands cradled before her. They looked weak and withered.

  “What does the throne mean?” Sal said, trying a new angle. He pointed at the card in the center of the seven-pointed star. “The throne, what throne is it? What is it supposed to mean?”

  The old woman tilted her head. “A throne is a thing of power, a seat of kings. A throne can mean many things—authority, sovereignty, and ascension among them—but in the end, we must derive our own meaning.”

  “Derive our own meaning? If we cannot change the future, what good to derive a meaning if it should not come to pass?”

  “The future is ever changing,” said the crone. “Every decision opens a plethora of possibility, each path taken is a new set of possibilities opened.”

  “Will you speak only in riddles?” Sal said, his frustration getting the better of him. He was standing.

  The teller had a dark look in her white eyes, her crooked old jaw set in a grimace.

  Lilliana looked as though she might run at any moment.

  “Come, My Lady,” Sal said. “It seems there is little more to gain from lingering.”

  Lilliana stood, taking Sal’s proffered hand.

  “Good day,” she said with a nod to the teller, and placed three gold krom on the tabletop.

  “You needn’t have done that,” Sal said as they moved for the tent flap, just loud enough he was certain the teller could hear. “The woman’s a fraud.” Sal held the flap for Lilliana and followed behind.

  Once they were outside the tent, Damor Nev eyed Sal threateningly and again asked Lilliana if everything was all right. She assured him that it was, but told him she was tired and would like him to have the carriage pulled around so that she could go home.

  Sal took that to mean she no longer wanted to be in his presence, and he understood. He didn’t much want to be around himself either. Especially after that reading. The lightning tower, the black card, the man cowering beneath a shadow—what good meanings could be derived from those omens? To Sal’s untrained eyes it had all looked bad, and it felt even worse once he’d left the tent. It seemed as though death walked in his wake, a cold, ominous presence, always standing somewhere just out of sight.

  At the edge of the market square, Sal saw Lilliana Bastian’s carriage.

  “Good day, Salvatori Lorenzo.”

  “Right, yeah, you as well, My Lady.”

  Damor Nev grunted, one hand on his stiletto.

  Sal watched her step into the carriage before going to look for his friends. When he returned to the wine cart, Sal found Vinny and the big man had already gone. East Market was too crowded to spot anyone. It seemed even a man of Odie’s prodigious stature could hide in such a crowd. Sal quickly gave up his search.

  The warm, glowing effects of the alcohol in his system had turned to the groggy and disgruntling type, accompanied by a dry mouth and a throbbing in his head. Physically drained and feeling down after his encounter with the seer, Sal wanted to get home and into his bed more than anything in the world.

  With the midday traffic reaching its peak, Sal reasoned the High Bridge was his fastest route home. If he tried the Bridge of the Lady or South Bridge, he would find himself hard pressed to fight the traffic flow.

  Sal cut across the Kingsway and through a few alleys, and made his way into the press of the High Bridge. The bridge was only wide enough to allow four men abreast, and made for a slow crossing over the Tamber. From the High Bridge it was through the cathedral district, along the abbey wall and past the abandoned tower he and Bartley had used as a hideout in their younger years. From Knöldrus Road he went to the Street of Steel, then down the Singing Bridge and onto Penny Row.

  The moment he stepped off the High Bridge, Sal felt eyes upon him. It seemed as though he was being watched, but whenever he turned around or glanced over his shoulder, there was no one to be seen. Sal followed Penny Row for a few paces before cutting into an apparently deserted alley.

  He had taken four steps into the alley when he heard a sound that stopped him cold.

  It was the sound of a man squealing in pain. Once, twice, three times he heard the noise, followed by grunting and a muffled crying.

  Sal wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen like a bloodless coward. He took a sharp breath, shook his head, and snapped from the daze. He steeled himself and took one step, then another, until he was once again walking, then running toward the sounds of the crying man.

  Rounding a corner, Sal saw two men kicking something on the ground, a white pile—a large bundle—no, a man, curled up on the ground, a fat whale of a man in white robes.

  The man on the ground cried out once more, and Sal realized he knew him. Nabu Akkad.

  Sal rushed the closer of the two men assaulting Nabu and shoved the attacker.

  The man stumbled back, and the other turned to face Sal.

  He was an ugly brute of a man with a jutting jaw and a tangled mess of hair. He didn’t carry any visible weapons, but his knuckles looked to be red and raw from throwing punches.

  “Leave him be,” Sal said, thinking to reach for his pigsticker.

  But before he could grab for the knife in his boot, the man rushed him.

  Sal reached for his neckline and grabbed hold of the locket. He felt the flowing tendrils of energy and he unleashed it, willing forth all the power of the locket’s magic.

  Only, nothing happened.

  There was a sharp crack of pain on the side of his head, and white lights burst behind his eyes. Before he could get a grip on the situation, he took another blow to the other side of his head. His knees went weak, and he dropped to the cobblestones.

  The air was driven from him as a booted foot collided with his ribs. He heaved for air, gasping and sputtering, tears welling in his eyes as he curled up to shield himself from the blows. He took a breath, a wet, shuddering thing, and braced himself for another kick, but it didn’t come.

  There was shouting and the sound of scuffling. A new voice had joined the fray.

  Sal could hardly think through the pounding in his head, but he had enough presence of mind to scramble to his hands and knees. When he looked up, he saw the attackers fleeing. A man with sword drawn stood over Nabu.

  Sal clambered to his feet, a bit wobbly at first, but he soon got his footing and made his way over to Nabu and the armed man. His mind hazy, his vision partly obstructed by the blood streaming down his brow, Sal had difficulty deciphering the identity of the man holding the sword.
/>   He was tall, broad-shouldered, and clean-cut. When Sal saw the mustache, a name came to mind, but it made no sense.

  Dizzily, he reached for his pigsticker.

  “No need for that,” rumbled the voice of Damor Nev. “They’ve gone.”

  The voice fit the man, but the man did not fit the place. What was Damor Nev doing there? Where had he come from?

  “Damor Nev?” Sal asked, blinking and wiping at the cut above his eye with a sleeve.

  “Aye,” replied the bodyguard.

  “Salvatori Lorenzo?” said Nabu. “Young Salvatori, this is you, yes?”

  “Here, Nabu, and still living.”

  Nabu had managed to roll onto his stomach, but lacked the strength to press himself up to his hands and knees.

  “A hand, if a hand you can spare,” Nabu said.

  Sal and Damor each grabbed hold of Nabu beneath an armpit and helped him to his feet. His right eye was black and swollen, a dark bruise had started on the side of his jaw, and his lips were cut and bleeding, but otherwise he was visibly no worse for the wear.

  “All right there, Nabu?” asked Sal.

  The fat man coughed and smiled weakly. “Sacrull damned debtor. The dock scum owes me seventy krom. That one walked past my shop. Asked him for my coin, yes, but he tells me he will not pay. When I go after the man, this friend of his helps him to attack blameless Nabu with fists and boots.”

  “You are unscathed, are you not?” Sal said. “I know of a mender who would aid us if you are in need.”

  Nabu scoffed. “I am a bull, my boy, a bull. I need no such magickers in my affairs. Ah, but who would this be?” the fence asked, turning to face Damor. “It would seem I am in debt to you, good sir.”

  Damor Nev dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

  “The brute with the bastard sword is Damor Nev. As to what he is doing here I haven’t the foggiest,” Sal said, fixing the bodyguard with narrowed eyes. “Unless he was following me.”

  Sal had never expected Damor Nev could blush. Yet blush he did, and a frightening sight it was to behold.