Seven Blades in Black

by Sam Sykes

  “It’s more important than that.” I let the insult slide off me; only reason Necla insulted my bedroom proclivities was because he had none of his own to speak of.

  “Yes, I bet it is.” He rolled his eyes. “Just like the last one was. And the one before that. You’re always chasing someone, Sal, whether to kill them”—he pointedly glanced toward Cavric and Liette—“or to keep them. I’m never sure which is worse, and I am perfectly content to let it remain a mystery that doesn’t involve me and definitely does not involve the Three.”

  Behind me, Cavric shuffled out of the way as the Ashmouths hauled their load back up the ramp. Necla stepped aside and moved to go back onto the boat, sparing a snide glower for me.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Sal…”

  “I most certainly will not,” I replied, “Necladamius ki Samoria.”

  His back went straight as a blade. He turned around with painstaking slowness. And when I saw his face, it was twisted in ire.

  When a mage goes Vagrant, we leave everything about our old lives behind. We take up new professions; we take up new names. Vagrants are always touchy being called by their old names and Nightmages are touchier than most.

  See, the Lady Merchant cuts them a nice deal. Theirs is the power of illusion, able to induce hallucinations, alter the world of sight and sound to their liking—like this dense mist that surrounded us that Necla so expertly pulled out of his own head.

  But in exchange for the ability to shape perception, the Lady demands a high Barter. Nightmages give up their ability to dream. And after that, whatever nightmares they’re left mean that most of them choose to sleep as little as possible. Among the more prolific users, the insomnia is bad enough to induce madness.

  But among mild users, like Necla here, it’s just enough to make him a regular old cranky dickwipe.

  Admittedly, it wasn’t exactly wise to have done that, but it got his attention at least.

  “You know me,” I said, sounding as threatening as a woman surrounded by a Nightmage and six people with guns could. “You know I’m going to get what I want, whether you help me or not.”

  “I know you’ll try,” Necla said, “and I know you’ll die doing so.”

  “Agreed,” I replied. “But I’ll make such a fucking mess of things the Three’ll have your head for failing to stop me sooner.” I pulled my scarf back. “Or, if you’re feeling reasonable, we could work something out.”

  He stiffened, like he expected me to pull another gun out of my scarf and shoot him then and there. “Please,” he hissed, “you couldn’t possibly have anything I—”

  “Redfavor.”

  That caught his attention. Necla’s mouth hung open. Poor skinny bastard looked like he was about to topple over right there.

  “What?” he asked, breathless.

  I reached into my satchel and plucked out a jagged tooth from some badlands beast I had shot long ago. It had been a snakehead, I think, a real savage of a reptile that wanders the dark places. Their teeth are long, thin, and twisted as hell to rip their prey apart. But what’s interesting about them is that whether they’ve eaten or not, their teeth are always red.

  Which is all that mattered to Necla right now.

  “Redfavor,” I said. I held up the crimson tooth for his inspection. “Get me in to see the Three, it’s yours.”

  Every Vagrant looks at a Redfavor like this.

  It’s true that we all want the things that normal people want: love, wealth, food, safety, fancy hats. But it’s also true that we can usually just take those things with our magic. Every nation needs a currency and ours is Redfavor. It can be anything, big or small, so long as it’s the color of blood. We trade them, Vagrant to Vagrant, and it has the only thing of value we can ever offer each other.

  A favor.

  No matter what it is, no matter when they ask for it, someone holds your Redfavor, you have to give it. The Vagrant who gives it, gives it freely. The Vagrant who welches on it does so knowing he’s free game afterward. If you’ve ever heard tales of Vagrants launching themselves at a fortress they have no chance of taking or of blowing up a town for reasons no one can fathom, chances are good they did it because someone called in their Redfavor.

  Personally, I didn’t think Necla wanted anything quite like that. I didn’t know what a weirdo like that would want. But I did know that I needed to track down Vraki. And for that, I knew I needed to do this.

  Necla quietly reached out and took the tooth from my hand. He looked it over briefly and then, with reverent care, slipped it into a pocket of his coat and buttoned it. He looked back at me and nodded.

  “If they decide to kill you for interrupting them,” he said, “I’m not responsible.”

  “Understood,” I said.

  “And if your friends make a move they shouldn’t, they’re fair game.”

  “WHAT?” Cavric shrieked, though Liette merely glared.

  “Right,” I said, holding up a hand to cut off his protest.

  “And if you even think about repeating what you see—”

  “For fuck’s sake, man,” I groaned. “I get it. You’re a very scary man who works for very scary people. Can we hurry this the fuck up already?”

  Necla scowled at me, but to his credit, he at least shut up. He slinked back onto the ship. I gestured for the others to follow as I went up the ramp. The deck was modest and unfurnished, designed only for carrying its tremendous cargo. The boat’s engine purred to life. I heard the hiss of spray as it drew away from the shoreline. Metal groaned and the ramp began to draw itself back up.

  “This doesn’t feel right,” Cavric muttered to me. “We can’t trust them.”

  “The Ashmouths’ integrity is technically spotless,” Liette pointed out. “Though, in fairness, that reputation is specific to their assassination contracts.”

  “Oh, well, good,” Cavric muttered. “I would hate to impugn their honor.”

  “What, just because they’re a bunch of thieves and murderers, you think we can’t trust them?” I tugged my scarf up over my face. “Aren’t we judgy.”

  “His wariness is not misplaced,” Liette said. “Your humor, though, is.”

  “They’re not going to kill us. The Ashmouths don’t operate like that.”

  “What? They have some thieves’ code of honor?” Cavric scoffed.

  “Thieves only have honor in opera, darling.” The deck slammed shut with an iron groan, and in the silence, the mist enclosed us. “In real life, they have standards.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE WEARY MOTHER

  If I could ever see myself saying anything to him that wasn’t an insult, I’d say that Necla the Shroud’s talents as a Nightmage were exceptional.

  Even on the transport ship’s deck, I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. The mist he had conjured was thicker than night, smothering me like it wanted to choke me. Knowing Necla, it just might. Normally, I’d be worried about that, but the only way out of a Redfavor is death and I knew he wouldn’t toss his away so easily.

  If he wanted to, though, he need only push me over.

  I could barely see them, but I could hear them. And I knew they could sense me. They giggled and laughed to each other in lilting, disjointed noises. I could see the silhouettes of their slender shapes through the mist. And I could feel the Kelpbrides’ hungry smiles on me.

  Their giggles quieted. Water splashed as, one by one, they vanished under the river. I was left at the bow of the boat, staring into an endless gray. I had only barely begun to wonder what had scared them off when I got my answer.

  Before us, the mists began to part. Looming out of the endless gray, I saw it only as a shadow.

  A great fucking mountain of a shadow.

  Its sides were heavy iron, yet it glided through the water like a ghost. A pair of titanic waterwheels propelled it, yet it made not a sound. It was as big as a township, yet you’d never have seen it if you weren’t meant to.

  You’ve heard ab
out it, I bet. In the tales that get passed back and forth by drunks, there’s always one story about it. Some say it’s a black barge that plies through the rivers of the Scar, appearing as a black shadow at night and disappearing during the daytime. Others say it’s the ship that takes the dead to the other side, stopping to collect the lost souls from the river. And just a few call it a superweapon that the Ashmouths keep in case they ever just want to extend a big old exploding middle finger to the world.

  At the very least, I bet you’ve heard its name.

  The Weary Mother. The floating fortress of the Ashmouths.

  When every land power in the Scar wants you dead, the water is the only place you’re safe. The Mother wanders up and down the rivers, surrounded by predators and shrouded from sight, thanks to the likes of Necla and every other Vagrant on the Ashmouths’ payroll. Like wasps from a hive, their assassins flit out from the ship and return to it once their contracts are filled. No one finds it unless they’re meant to find it. And no one outside the Ashmouths who goes in it ever comes out again.

  So, you knew what I was about to do was a pretty stupid idea.

  In the distance behind us, thunderclouds gathered ominously. I heard the rumble of the heavens, as if in agreement of the stupidity of my idea. Or maybe that was just another one of Necla’s tricks.

  The transport ship pulled up alongside the great black barge, affixing itself to a loading ramp built into its hull. Ashmouths leapt onto the ramp, expertly landing and rigging chains to hook the transport to the ship. A gangplank lowered, and Necla led me down one ramp and up another onto the deck of the ship, Cavric and Liette following close behind.

  Cabins sealed with iron doors marched the length of the deck, a narrow walkway that wrapped around the ship. In and out of them flitted Ashmouths, clad in black from head to toe, sparing us only a wary glance behind their masks before opening doors, careful not to reveal what was inside, and disappearing. They spared us no particular respects as Necla led us around the deck, but I noticed they gave him a wide berth.

  And hey, they didn’t shoot us. So, you know, small victories.

  “They won’t attack you.” Necla must have sensed my anxiousness—or maybe he was just being a dick—as he approached a long door at the end of the deck. “But if they did, you have to know there’s little you could do about it.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured that once I decided to hop aboard a ship full of assassins, shithead,” I grunted. “You’re the big man here, I get it.”

  “I’m not a big man.” He pushed the door open. “I just happen to work for big people.”

  I’ve only ever seen three things that made me whistle in astonishment in my life. Once after witnessing a particularly difficult maneuver in a brothel called The Cat’s Lament, once after the events that led to me fleeing The Cat’s Lament as it exploded in the background, and once when I saw what was behind that door.

  There were a shit-load of guns, to be sure: gunpikes arranged in delicate rows, pistols heaped into piles, cannons swaddled in the dark. There were glistening flameglaives and frostbrands, humming with subdued magic. There were suits of giant mobile armor, crates of bottles of substances whose purposes were best left to the imagination, and more than a few extremely old portraits of extremely ancient secrets.

  From wall to wall, the Mother’s hold hosted a hoard that would make a dragon blush. But only monsters have hoards.

  The Ashmouths have a business.

  “By the General’s endless wisdom!”

  It was an understandable response to the sight. I was feeling much the same, though Cavric used different words than I would have. He pushed past me, rushed into the hold, and stared around, wide-eyed.

  “How… What… This is…” He fumbled over his own lips, trying to find the words. “These are our weapons!” He pointed to the row of gunpikes. “Those are Revolutionary guns!” He pointed to the giant armor. “That’s a Revolutionary Paladin! They don’t even make those this far south!” He rushed to a nearby crate, pried its lid off, and pulled out what appeared to be a bundle of bright red sticks bound together with black bands and rigged with an impressive-looking mechanism. “These are Righteous Fires of Indisputable Truth!”

  “You sure?” I pulled my scarf out of my eyes. “They look like… sticks.”

  “Bombs,” Liette added, inspecting them. “Highly adhesive incendiaries, technically speaking.” She attempted to illustrate with her hands. “They explode into this sticky, flammable… goop, I guess you’d call it. It burns so bright, even water can’t douse it. Incredibly painful way to die, I suspect.” She plucked one of the devices up and squinted. “I always wanted one to study.”

  She turned a glare upon me. I rolled my eyes. She was never, ever going to let me live down forgetting her birthday.

  “And they’re illegal,” Cavric shouted. “The Revolution outlawed their use because they were inhumane.”

  “Oh, yes.” Necla rolled his eyes. “As opposed to the giant cannons, repeating guns, and other humane ways the Revolution kills thousands of people.”

  “That’s… that’s not the same thing,” Cavric said, haltingly. “Those are honorable deaths in battlegrounds. There’s a difference.”

  “Like… what?” Liette blinked. “In how many pieces a person is in after the slaughter?”

  “It’s not a slaughter!” he protested.

  “What else do you call killing a lot of people?” I asked. I was genuinely curious, actually.

  Cavric’s mouth hung open, wordless.

  Necla pushed past him, waving a hand. “The Cadre’s engineers discontinued them to better refine their blast radius. We managed to persuade them to part with their prototypes.”

  “Persuade?” Cavric asked, wide-eyed. “You mean stole!”

  “Or bribed. Or threatened. Blackmailed. Whatever answer you like, feel free to substitute it.” Necla gestured back to the crate. “Only put it down, would you? It was expensive.”

  “No!” Cavric held up his hands. “I can’t abide this! Dealing with assassins is one thing, but allowing them access to something like this is—”

  A pair of Ashmouths seized him, hauled him through the door, and disappeared by the time I had even reached for my gun.

  Necla held up a hand with a sigh. “Relax,” he said. “He won’t be harmed.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, hand on my gun. The Cacophony’s brass giggle rang in my ears. And, if the fear on his face was any indication, in Necla’s, too.

  “You have my word,” he said.

  “The word of an illusionist isn’t comforting,” I growled.

  “I’ll go with him,” Liette interjected as she started after Cavric. “Just to keep an eye on things.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I said, “I don’t want one of you in their grasp, let alone both.”

  “I assure you, I will be fine. The Ashmouths still respect the old treaties with the Freemakers, I assume?” At Necla’s shrug, she sighed. “At the very least, I can keep Cavric from becoming particularly harmed.”

  “Fucking splendid,” I sighed, and without realizing it, muttered under my breath, “And are you going to fix him next?”

  I hadn’t expected to say it, let alone for her to hear it. But she had. And she didn’t so much scowl at me as sharpen her eyes into daggers and plunge them into my throat before turning around and slamming the door behind her.

  “Your… friends, if that title fits, will be perfectly fine,” Necla offered. “The Three are rather leery of strangers, in general, much less thralls of the Revolution. They’re simply ensuring the Revolutionary doesn’t see anything that might further shatter that fragile little mind his Great General has so painstakingly polished.”

  “Birdshit,” I snarled. “You’re going to hold them to make sure I don’t start shit.”

  “Really?” Necla placed a hand to his chest, pouting as we walked to the end of the hold and another door in its wall. “Are you suggesting we might believe that Sal th
e Cacophony, wielder of a gun that shoots explosions, might ‘start shit’?” He grinned. “Or give a shit about someone?” He shook his head, pulled the door open, and gestured inside. “I’m afraid I can’t bear to look such an accusation in the eye, madam. After you, please.”

  It blistered my ass to see that smug smile on that smug face. And normally, assassins or not, I wouldn’t have hesitated shooting one off the other. But that would make me a rude guest. And the Three didn’t like rudeness.

  “So,” he said as he walked in after me, “been busy?”

  But you remember what I said about hope in the Scar.

  The door opened into a stairway, switchback steps leading up and lit by dim lanterns. My boots rang out on the iron as I trudged up the steps. I stomped, trying to drown out Necla’s noise.

  “So, tell me about your new friend?”

  It didn’t work.

  “You do collect them, don’t you?” Necla knew he could push me. His bosses had something I wanted and he had my Redfavor. While I knew he wouldn’t waste the latter, I also knew that dickwipe enjoyed having it over me. “How many has it been since I last saw you, anyway? Ten? Twenty? More?”

  I politely refrained from telling him what he should do as we ascended the stairs. You don’t hear many operas about a hero’s patience, but I fucking expected a whole verse about mine for putting up with this shit.

  “But I suppose that’s your business,” he sighed. “Still, it’s tragic, isn’t it? That was rather a tense exchange, wasn’t it? I assume things didn’t work out with Liette.”

  Remember what I said about raisu ath naccori? My favorites were the ones with big, dramatic monologues leading into declarations of love.

  Funny enough, mine wasn’t that dramatic. When I get mad, things just kind of happen.

  And somehow, without quite knowing how, my forearm was on Necla’s throat.

  And the Cacophony was in my hand.

  And the barrel was shoved right between his eyes.

  “You spew whatever shit you want to me.” My voice was slow, easy, and cold. “But you ever say her name again, you even think it, I’m going to blow your head off with the Cacophony.”