Red Tigress

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  They passed rows upon rows of ships flying flags from all over the world. Ana spotted several from the Crown of Nandji, bearing multicolored sails arching over their hulls covered in gold decorative patterns. A few others, she noticed, had narrower hulls with sharper prows and sails that resembled fans.

  She sensed Linn stiffen by her side.

  “Are those…” Ana hesitated at Linn’s expression.

  Linn nodded. Her eyes were black pools. “Kemeiran,” she whispered, “and other Aseatic kingdoms. Zeishin Ko, Chi’gon, Chomingguk…”

  Chi’gon. A thread tightened in Ana’s chest as she looked at the ships, wondering whether they carried people from the kingdom that had been May’s birth home. She looked to Linn. Despite her firm muscles and the daggers tucked in her belt, Linn looked utterly lost beneath the shadows of the ships.

  Ana threaded her arm through Linn’s and squeezed.

  “Cyrilian ships,” Ramson said, his voice low. He put a hand over her shoulder and pointed. “That’s where I’m starting my search.”

  A chill ran through Ana. Sure enough, she spotted several ships emblazoned with the distinct script of her homeland and the tiger insignia.

  The crowds had thickened, converging at the end of the wooden docks. Beneath the hulls of great ships carrying goods and products from around the world, the ocean tapered into a river.

  No, not a river, a canal.

  Slim wooden gondolas glided up and down, turning to deposit travelers and immediately picking up more.

  Ramson gave the group a mock bow. “Meya damas, mesyr,” he said, “on our schedule is a short gondola ride, where we’ll see the famous winding canals of Sapphire Port. We disembark at the Crown’s Port, an inland trading post”—he lowered his voice, leaning toward Ana—“that’ll take you directly to the Blue Fort.”

  With that, he flung out a hand, and it wasn’t long before a gondola steered by a man in a ruffled white shirt and navy-blue breeches pulled up. The man exchanged some rapid-fire Bregonian with Ramson, some of which Ana caught from her childhood tutoring. The Bregonian language was sharper and cut harder than Cyrilian, its vowels short and brusque whereas Cyrilians drew their words out in lilting tones.

  Ramson turned around and gestured to them, which they took as their cue to board. And then they were off, their gondola gliding smoothly through the waters, away from the hubbub of the port.

  They turned into a narrow alleyway and passed beneath a stone bridge. For a few moments it grew dark, and when they emerged, Sapphire Port opened up to them like pages of a storybook.

  Ana had only seen Bregon—and most of the world, she supposed—in the pages of her books. She’d read about the kingdom of stone and metal, surrounded on all sides by vast stretches of ocean and perilous cliffs that made foreign invasion near-impossible.

  Compared to the vibrantly colored architecture of Southern Cyrilia, Sapphire Port was a city of muted colors. Buildings carved of gray stone rose on either side of them, tall and angular, windows narrow and evenly spaced. Here and there were drops of brass and edges of bronze, burnishing the sign of a pub or the frames of houses.

  Yet the city was alive; it opened up before them, pulsing with crisscrossing canals that ran through it like veins. The waters here were colored a deep, striking shade of sapphire, and glittered like jewels where the sunlight hit it. The stone buildings reflected the light so that it looked as though their stern façades were undulating to the rhythm of the water.

  Their gondola followed canals that wound through the entire city, cleaving through stone castles and slipping under bridges, sometimes opening to large expanses of water wide enough to fit an entire Vyntr’makt in the center, at other times turning through alleyways so narrow that only one gondola could squeeze through at a time.

  “It’s beautiful,” Ana breathed.

  Ramson turned from his seat to look at her. Something in his expression had changed, his hazel eyes dimmed and his carefree laughter gone. “I’m not sure I’d call it that” was all he said.

  Clouds clotted the sky, the sun weaving in and out. The city was bustling with daytime activity, the sound of clanging metal echoing from a blacksmith’s shop, the flutter of laundry drying in the breeze, and once or twice, the sound of song threading through the narrow alleyways toward the sky.

  At last, the gondola pulled up by the side of a wide street lined with tall, multistory houses.

  Ramson tossed a few copperstones to the gondolier and they filed off. By now, the skies had turned gray, and Ana pulled her worn fur cloak around herself as wind rattled the empty streets. A mist had begun to seep between the walls.

  Linn shivered. “It’s quiet,” she remarked.

  “We’ve left the commercial district of Sapphire Port,” Ramson explained. “We’re on the outskirts, between the city and the Blue Fort.” He jerked his chin at the cobblestone streets ahead. “We’re about to reach the Crown’s Port, which directly serves the Blue Fort. There, you’ll take a road named the Crown’s Cut; I’ll find you a wagon heading for the Blue Fort.” He motioned to them. “Follow me.”

  Their steps echoed between the stones of the buildings on either side of them. Within a few turns, the gently lapping waters of the canals had grown distant, and then fallen silent. When they looked back, fog shrouded the path behind. Overhead, a bird screamed. Ana jumped.

  “Bone gulls,” Ramson said. He walked several steps ahead of the group, leading them through the narrow alleyway. “They only eat rotting meat.”

  Another scream, and this time, Ana’s Affinity pricked.

  She whirled, and at the same time, Linn’s knives flashed as she crouched, eyes narrowed, scanning the empty streets and buildings all around them.

  “Ramson,” Ana called. Her voice bounced between the buildings. In a lower tone, she said, “There’s someone here.” She closed her eyes and the world darkened into blood. And then shadows began to burn crimson into awareness, high overhead, winking into existence like candles. There were over a dozen, crouched as still as stone on the rooftops all around them. They were surrounded.

  Ramson stopped. He slid his misericord from its scabbard. The metal hissed softly in the silence. Linn clenched her knives, the air growing eerily still all around them.

  And then, in the dead quiet that had fallen between the hollowed windows and empty doorways and drapes that fluttered in the phantom breeze, came the steady tapping of footsteps.

  They reverberated in the alleyways, flat, rhythmic, and strangely cheerful.

  Out of the swirling gray mist came a shadow that became a person. He walked quickly, his outline cutting through the fog with the sharpness of a blade. He wore a long hooded cloak, sleek and navy blue. His leather boots were tipped in steel, wicked and sharp.

  He came to a stop over a dozen paces away.

  On the rooftops and behind corners, out of sight, the watchers watched.

  Ana’s palms were slick with sweat. She hadn’t even sensed the person until she’d heard his footsteps. Even now, as the newcomer stood before them, his face obscured by his hood, Ana found it difficult to grasp his signature. There was something strange about his blood. It smelled of absence, of…nothingness.

  Ramson stepped forward. His shoulders were rigid, his weapon held tightly in his fingers. “Ane koman?” he demanded in Bregonian. Who comes?

  Moments lapsed. A draft rippled the figure’s cloak.

  Beneath his hood, the stranger’s mouth tugged upward in a phantom grin. It was a female voice that spoke, the Bregonian words sounding guttural. “Ene maden dar vanden koman.” Just a girl taking a walk.

  Ramson’s eyes narrowed. “Show your face,” he continued in Bregonian.

  The hood canted slightly. Beneath its shadows, Ana sensed clever eyes watching them. “You don’t trust me?” the stranger asked, her voice lilting mockingly.


  “Sweetheart, the word trust doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. Nothing personal.” Ramson gave a small flick of his misericord. “Reveal yourself, and we can settle this in a civil fashion.”

  A peal of laughter. “Depends,” the stranger said, “on how you define civil.”

  Ana stepped forward. Immediately, the stranger’s hood swiveled to her. “I’ve located your scouts,” Ana said in Cyrilian, raising her voice to the commanding tone she had learned from Papa and from Luka. “Tell us who you are and what you want, and we can speak.”

  The stranger’s mouth stretched, morphing into a grin. She gave a low chuckle, and, in an unprecedented move, slid off her hood.

  A slim, tanned face framed by a crop of messy auburn hair. Long nose with a snub tip, bowed lips that curved in a mischievous grin. And eyes—quick, calculating eyes the color of black steel.

  Ana blinked. The stranger was only a girl, perhaps a few years younger than Ana herself.

  Ramson had been shifting his balance between his feet; he now went completely still.

  The girl cocked her head, her grin cutting her face in half. “ ‘Just a girl taking a walk,’ ” she repeated in near-perfect singsong Cyrilian, looking between Ana and Ramson. She spread her arms slightly, and her eyes took on a hard-edged glint. “Do you trust me now?”

  Linn spoke, her voice quiet and low. “You have fifteen scouts surrounding us. I have found them all. What is the purpose of this?”

  The girl’s mouth opened wide in glee; she gave a scream of laughter. “Oh, I like this, I like this!” she yelled, and moved forward so suddenly that Ana took a startled step back. But she hadn’t missed the way the girl’s hood fluttered, revealing heavy bronze hilts of swords saddling her hips. “You really don’t recognize me?”

  “You’re with the Navy,” Ramson said.

  “Yes, no, maybe so!” the girl sang, giggling, still advancing. “Oh, but here’s a clue: I certainly do not know who you are!”

  There was the slightest pause, and then the slice of metal as Ramson raised his blade.

  The girl’s teeth glinted like fangs as she unsheathed one of her swords. Slowly, deliberately, she brought it to her lips and trailed her tongue down the length of the blade.

  “Liar, liar,” Ramson crooned.

  “Burn by fire,” the girl quipped, and sprang.

  Ramson danced out of the way as his opponent lunged at him, sword flashing, the whites of her eyes rolling. She barreled past him with a growl, and he allowed himself a smirk.

  Bregonians valued honor and courage—and their sword-fighting style showed it. A Bregonian Navy–trained soldier would have parried that blow head-on.

  So Ramson dodged.

  He’d spent the last seven years of his life training with Kerlan, sparring with criminals and cutthroats of all backgrounds and styles. When it came to swordplay, his versatility was his greatest strength.

  But he never expected the girl to match his move.

  With a deft twirl, she was attacking again, cloak slashing, the metal tips of her boots stabbing into the ground. She leapt and this time Ramson barely had time to raise his misericord.

  The impact jarred his bones, steel screeching in his ears as he met her blow head-on. Ramson twisted, and with a second dagger pinned her blades between his.

  The girl shot him a wicked grin over their crossed swords. Spittle dribbled down her chin, and her eyes had a wild look. “Who knew that seven years abroad would have turned you so weak,” she hissed, “brother of mine?”

  With a scream, she shoved him back. Ramson stumbled, caught off-balance.

  He’d known. A part of him had, at least, as soon as she’d dropped her hood. That long face, hawklike nose, and cunning eyes that cut like the darkest of ocean waters.

  It was, without a doubt, her. Her face, stretched slimmer and crueler now, brought back memories—whispering alder trees, maroon walls, locked doors, the cold shoulder of a familiar figure. He’d only seen her face in portraits, those auburn curls and that quick grin now turned vicious, standing in the spots where he should have been.

  That face had a name: Sorsha.

  Sorsha Farrald.

  Ramson repositioned himself, yet something in him had become unhinged, like an unmoored ship. The hilt of his weapon felt slick in his palm, the ground uneven beneath his feet. What was she doing here? The possibilities left him cold as they reeled through his mind. Had his—their—father somehow gotten wind of his arrival? The thought made him sick. No, that was impossible…unless someone at the docks had somehow recognized him, chances of which were slim.

  Sorsha giggled. “By the look on your face, you’re probably wondering how I found you,” she said happily. “My Royal Guards patrol the port, but security is especially tight around Crown’s Port. When I saw you, I couldn’t believe my eyes—I thought I’d made a mistake at first—but then that whore of yours called your name.”

  Anger surged in him. “You—”

  Before he could move, Ana stepped into his field of vision. Her hands were clenched. “What do you want?” she demanded, looking at Sorsha. Linn and Kaïs flanked her, their weapons drawn. “Stop right now.” She paused. “Or I’ll make you.”

  Sorsha licked her lips and tilted her head. “Get the hells out of my way.” She pointed a sword at Ana. “This is a family affair. You or any of your little friends interfere, and my scouts’ll shoot those arrows faster than you can blink.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Ana snarled, and Ramson imagined she was assessing the other girl’s blood, fighting the urge to hurl her across the street.

  If that happened, they’d all be dead within seconds. Ramson darted a glance at the rooftops above, at the hidden guards and archers waiting to strike.

  He spoke before Sorsha could. “Ana, meet Sorsha Farrald.”

  “Why so formal?” Sorsha shrieked. “Why don’t you introduce me as…your sister?”

  Panic shot through him like lightning. Ramson threw a glance at Ana. Her face was creased in confusion.

  “Oh.” Sorsha looked between them and gasped with delight. “Oh! Don’t tell me she doesn’t know! My dearest guests,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery as she gestured to the rest of the group, “meet my dearest brother…Ramson Farrald.”

  And then she was charging again, landing one, two blows that he parried with grunts. Ramson ducked as her sword sliced the air where his neck should have been. He danced back, back, focusing on leading her away from Ana and the others as she bore down on him, his arms rising to meet her challenge with each slash of her blades.

  She was good. No, not good—she was extraordinary. She fought with all the skill of a well-trained swordsman, each move vicious and each blow immaculately placed. She would have outranked even Jonah back at the Naval Academy, Ramson thought, in skill—but she struck with a wild vengeance that Jonah had lacked.

  She struck to kill.

  He twisted, slamming both of their swords down so that the tips plunged into the cracks between the cobblestones. Dirt flew in their faces. “Did the Admiral send you as part of a welcome committee?” he gritted.

  “Oh, Daddy Dearest doesn’t know yet.” Sorsha’s voice was saccharine, coated with venom. “I’m extending you my own welcome, as Lieutenant of the Royal Guard!” And then her blades were out and she slashed up—

  Ramson spun. Sorsha was still caught in the momentum of her blow, her sword tracing an arc through the air.

  He curved forward and drove his misericord toward her waist.

  He didn’t see the metal tips of her shoes swinging toward him until it was too late.

  Something sharp and hard slit open his flesh and slid into his side. Pain, bright and burning, slashing through him. Warmth blooming through his tunic and trickling down his side.

  Behind him, Ana cried out.

  Blo
od, Ramson thought, and dared a look down.

  Sorsha’s boot had connected with his ribs—but the metal tip had slid out and turned into a small, sharp dagger, buried inside him.

  Sorsha wriggled her foot.

  Pain shot through him. Ramson grunted and sank onto one knee.

  There was the sound of a click, and then the blade disengaged from her boot. With crude casualty, Sorsha yanked the blade from his flesh. Ramson’s vision blurred. Blood—his blood—speckled the air like rain and painted the cobblestones crimson.

  “I don’t think…Daddy Dearest…would want you to murder me before he met me,” he managed, wiping the spittle from his chin.

  Sorsha was laughing, dangling the hilt of the small blade like some prize, blood coating it and drip, drip, dripping onto the ground. “You really think Father wants the world to know his bastard son is alive, after all these years?” she yelled. “He’d thank me on bended knees if I brought your head to him on a golden plate!”

  Ramson pressed a hand to his side. His breaths came fast, shallow, and as warmth seeped from him, so did images—images of that arrow turning, curving, through the air, and the crimson that drenched Jonah’s shirt. Of the image of his father’s turned shoulder and cold gaze that had been carved indelibly into his bones.

  He’d never planned to see that man again.

  There was the sound of metal scraping stone, punctured by a rhythmic tap, tap, tap. And then Sorsha stood before him, face shadowed against the dark storm clouds overhead.

  “You little half-breed runt,” she whispered. “You’ve been running all these years. It’s time that I put a stop to that.” Slowly, lovingly, she lifted the blade that was slick with Ramson’s blood to her face and ran her tongue down the length. Her cheeks came away stained crimson. “As I suspected. Gods, it tastes filthy, like the scum from the whoring districts of Sapphire Port.” Her sword flashed. “Good-bye, Brother Dearest.”

  Two things happened at once.

  Sorsha swung her blade down.

  The arc cut short—and she soared back through the air and slammed into the opposite wall.