Seven Blades in Black

by Sam Sykes

“Part of it,” Tretta repeated.

  “I’ve been over the maps of the area,” Inspire said. “Paperwork, when I served in Central Bookkeeping. She described the layout of the fortress perfectly. I do believe she’s been there before.”

  “Get to the lie.”

  “But she’s not telling us all she knows,” Inspire whispered. “She claims to have been a simple soldier, yes? But why would a simple soldier be present with Prodigies like Vraki the Gate and Red Cloud?”

  Tretta narrowed her eyes. “Bodyguard, perhaps. Prodigies are not invincible.”

  “But they are valuable to the Imperium,” Inspire retorted. “So much so that they wouldn’t send just anyone with them.”

  “What are you angling at, Inspire?”

  Inspire, for the first time since she had known him, stood up straight and looked her dead in the eye.

  “There is another Cadre Command in Tranquility, a day’s ride by Iron Boar. Currently visiting there on routine inspection is one Regarn Gentle.” Something of a cringe crossed his face. “I’ve sent the paperwork to your desk before. I trust you know the name.”

  Tretta did. Even if Inspire hadn’t sent her the notification, she knew the name of Regarn Gentle, along with every person in her graduating class. Even the common foot soldiers of the farthest outpost in the Scar knew the name of the Great General’s personal interrogator.

  “High Torturer” had been the original name for his office, before the Great General had it abolished—the title, that is, not the practice. Extreme interrogation techniques were still necessary; after all, the Revolution had as many enemies as injustice did. And no one knew more about the subject than Regarn Gentle. His efforts had uncovered more Imperial plots, bandit hideouts, and counterrevolutionary insurgents than teeth pulled out of his victims’ heads.

  Or so the Great General had said.

  “He can be here quickly,” Inspire said. “Or she can be there even quicker. He could find out what she knows about Red Cloud. And the General could find out it was you—and your cadre—that did it.”

  The thought was tempting.

  More than tempting, if Tretta was honest. The images of those comfortable halls, their walls laden with the portraits of great Revolutionary heroes and applauding officers in pristine suits drifted back to her mind. Those great offices of great people who had done great things, all welcoming her as though she belonged there.

  They would hail her for finding more about Red Cloud, to take the first step on the road to avenging all those Revolutionaries slain like dogs by the Prodigy’s murderous wrath at Vigil and beyond. Justice, at last, would come to the one creature that deserved it most.

  The thought was more than tempting. The thought was exhilarating.

  And then, unbidden, her mind drifted elsewhere, to a cold room in a cold house in the coldest city in the Scar. To Sal, stretched out on a metal table, bleeding and bruised and shackled. And to those blue eyes of hers, cold and empty even as Regarn Gentle’s steady hands carved new scars on her body.

  She shut her eyes tightly.

  She released Inspire, let him slump back against the wall.

  “No,” she said. “Not yet. I will continue the interrogation. If my efforts prove fruitless—”

  “Then we have no time,” Inspire interjected with more of a spine than she thought he had. “Gentle is due north by tomorrow evening. He will be moving farther out of our grasp!”

  “Then we’ll let him go,” she said. “We’ll think of something else.”

  “But… but…” he sputtered in irritation. “What need is there to think of something else when we have the solution right—”

  “Because, Inspire,” Tretta replied, “it is not a question of need, but of duty. Mine is to get to the bottom of this, as I see fit. Yours is to trust in the wisdom the General has shown in assigning me this command.” She affixed a careful glare on him. “If you find dispute with his decision, though, I fully welcome all criticism in the form of a written letter, signed and dated by you. Which I will gladly have sent by my swiftest bird to Tranquility for Regarn Gentle’s perusal.”

  Some men, when scared, had the blood drain from their faces. Men like Inspire, who had been born scared, seemed to have their entire skeletal system ooze out the soles of their feet, courteously stopping just short of soiling himself.

  Sal was right about one thing—they were nice floors.

  “Clerk,” she said, offering a nod.

  “G-Governor-Militant.” Inspire met it with a trembling salute.

  She walked away from him, through the office, down the hall, and toward the interrogation room.

  Inspire was a coward, but not a fool. Sal knew more than she was letting on. It would have been wiser, in the long view, to have Regarn take a look at her, for many reasons.

  And Inspire knew that, too. He no doubt entertained his own fantasies of luxurious halls and powerful people greeting him. If she took too long with this prisoner, he wouldn’t do her the luxury of informing her before reaching out to someone like Regarn Gentle. By this time tomorrow, Revolutionary inquisitors would be at her door.

  It wasn’t out of concern for Sal that Tretta had refused the idea.

  She was loyal enough to the Revolution to have fought their wars and she had fought enough wars to know the realities of men like Gentle. Hundreds of innocents had been tortured to find Imperial spies, his accusations seeing as many good soldiers put to death as bad. His results had gotten him his station. The fate of a nation was on his shoulders.

  The fate of a common soldier like Cavric was on hers.

  THIRTY-THREE

  VIGIL

  When you wake up and find yourself tied up and blindfolded, you’ve either had a really bad night or you’re about to have a really good one.

  And if you’ve been paying attention, you know by now that I don’t have good nights.

  There’s an animal panic that comes, a desire to thrash and snarl and spit as though any of that could break you free. And that panic shook me awake, my heart hammering against my ribs and my breath coming swift and ragged. But—not to brag—I’d done this enough to know that panic only robs you of the strength and wit you need to escape. I managed to fight it down.

  Turns out it’s a lot easier when you can’t move.

  Feeling returned to me slowly. Warmth crawled back into my muscles, fresh aches and pains greeting me. And none were keener than the bite of hemp securing my wrists behind my back and the choke of cloth wrapped around my eyes. But the gravel rubbing against my side as I tried to move was definitely trying its damnedest.

  Still in the tunnel, I thought, drawing in a lungful of cold, still air. As feeling returned to my legs, I managed to find my way to my knees. I’m still in the tunnel.

  Everything else that happened was a blur oozing out of my brain that felt like it had been baking in an oven for the past hour. I remembered red: red skies, red clouds, red light. I remembered collapsing, unable to move. I remembered eyes staring down at me, a broad grin and…

  “Alive.”

  I froze. As if Taltho’s voice were ice water poured into my veins. And once I did, I could feel him, even if I couldn’t see him. I could feel his just-too-dark presence and his bloodshot eyes on me. His voice crawled across my scars.

  “Lucky.”

  “A Mendmage doesn’t need luck. This was skill, you creepy fuck.”

  Galta’s voice was a slight relief to hear, if only because her voice made me want to cut my ears off rather than pour acid into them like Taltho’s did. I heard her approach, her boots heavy and clicking on the stone floor, her voice echoing off the walls.

  “Skill and stupidity, anyway. For a minute there, I thought she wasn’t going to fall for it. But then she did and pow!” Her laugh was a brick hurled through a window. “You saw that, right? Tell me you saw it.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yeah, I thought so.” I felt her grin twist on her face like it was a knife in my flesh. “I never th
ought I’d see you again, Sal, after that night, let alone see you like this.” I felt the hard toe of her boot nudge me in the side. “I read stories about you, you know. Sal the fucking Cacophony, killing Vagrants and wrecking shit, just like the old days.”

  She let out a low and ugly hum that turned into a lower and uglier laugh.

  “Funny, though. They all talked about how much of a hard-ass you were. Not a damn one ever mentioned you on your knees.” I heard the click of her finger tapping on her chin, obnoxiously deliberate. “To see you like this, it’s enough to render me speechless.”

  I’d tell you that I’d been in a situation like this before and that’d be true. Hell, I’d tell you I’d been in even worse situations than this, and that’d be true, too. I could also tell you that I’d learned the only way out was to keep a calm head, a still tongue, and not say anything to make it worse.

  “Well, shit, Galta. If I knew seeing me like this would make you shut up, I’d have chopped off my fucking legs.”

  Of course, that’d be a lie.

  I felt a lot of things in the next second: her grin twisting to a snarl, the growl tearing out of her throat. Mostly, though, I just felt her boot slamming into my belly.

  “It’s because”—she kicked me in the side, driving me back to the ground—“only I, Galta the fucking Thorn”—she added another kick to my ribs as I tried to crawl away—“could bring your pompous fucking ass to her fucking knees”—she paused to let me scream as she drove her foot into my side—“you shit.”

  “Asses… don’t… have knees,” I said, though I imagined that line would have been cleverer if I wasn’t about to spit up blood.

  She kicked harder than I remembered.

  I shouldn’t have done that, I knew. Galta would be a vicious little fiend even if she weren’t a Mendmage.

  It’s not considered a high art, but the Imperium appreciates the work of the Mendmages. As the name implies, their power is to heal. Their magic means that so long as they’re conscious enough to use it, they can come back from almost any blow, be it a gunpike blast, poison, or specifically, my sword through their fucking chests.

  They’re the savages on the front lines, the unkillable terrors who wade through enemy soldiers without bleeding or dying. Soldiers under their command do not die and no weapon harms them for long.

  “You piece of shit…”

  I felt her fingers at my side, drifting across my skin before she pushed just a little harder. I let out a shriek as a talon pierced my middle, sinking up to her first knuckle and drawing a gout of blood that wept down my skin.

  “How mighty are you now, Cacophony?” Her hand shot out, wrapped around my throat. I felt something hard and sharp graze my neck as she started to squeeze. “How fucking mighty are you now, you—”

  “Patience.”

  As bad as she hurt me, the sound of Taltho’s voice hurt worse. Galta let out an aggravated sigh as her hand disappeared from my throat and wrapped around my arm, hauling me to shaking feet.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “Let’s get this done.”

  Someone with a stiffer spine might have resisted, might have struggled or at least cursed at them. Hell, a minute ago, I might have, too. But getting the shit kicked out of you changes your perspective. I knew Galta. I knew she needed only the barest reason to hurt me, to kill me.

  And Taltho? I knew he needed even less of an excuse.

  So I walked on shaky legs, trying to catch my breath, as she dragged me blindly along the stone floor. We walked until she jerked me to a halt, shoving me up against a wall of the tunnel.

  I could feel her eyes on me—eyes like hers, I could have felt all the way across the Scar. And by the ache in my scars, I knew what she was looking for. That ache belonged to her, as much as me, and she sought it out. Her fingers traced the scar across my eye. My lip curled up in a sneer.

  “I remember when you got this one.”

  Her whisper was soft, almost reverent. Her hand slid lower, pulled back the collar of my shirt and saw the ink of the tattoos scrawled on my collarbone. Her fingers ran along the length of my arm, found another scar beneath the inked birds and clouds, and rubbed it with an unnerving affection.

  “These are new,” she almost purred. “How long has it been, Sal? How is it one of us isn’t dead?”

  “I was getting to it,” I replied, a little shakier than I would have liked.

  “Yeah…” Galta’s voice dropped low in her throat. “I fucking bet you were.”

  A pair of fingers hooked the blindfold, tore it off. I blinked, let my eyes adjust—it was dark, darker than evening could have possibly been, but not dark enough to mask the briar of a woman standing before me.

  Galtathamora ki Zhandi, I’m convinced, was not so much born as she was hammered out of a bunch of broken swords and ax heads by a real dick of a blacksmith. She was a scrawny, five-foot-nothing mess of sharp angles, a thin face with thin eyes and a thin little scar of a smile, sporting tattoos of twisted masses of briars running down her temples.

  Frankly, she would have looked unnerving enough even without the spikes jutting out of her.

  Out of her knuckles, out of her fingers, out of her skin, her namesake blossomed: tiny black thorns spreading in chaotic, chitinous rashes. A broad plate had grown across her chin, a jagged horn burst out of her brow, giving her the impression of a perpetual scowl. Even her hair was oiled up into little spikes to match.

  A Mendmage’s power is immense. But so is the Barter. The Lady Merchant gives them incredible healing capabilities, but she takes their blood. And her thirst for it is endless.

  To keep their hearts beating and lungs breathing, they quaff alchemics whose names I can’t even pronounce. It keeps them alive, but alchemics were never meant to replenish that much of a human body. It alters them, changes their body makeup, until they’re less human and more…

  “Holy shit, Galta,” I said, wincing. “Have you been using your magic a lot or did you just fuck a rosebush?”

  I thought that was clever. She didn’t. She rewarded me with another talon dug into my side. I screamed, buckled, slumped against the wall of the tunnel. Her sneer was sharper than her thorns, drinking in my pain.

  “There’s so much I want to take from you, Sal,” she said. “But shit isn’t one of them.” She gestured to her clothes, chuckling. “Thought I’d start with this, though.”

  It took me a moment to see through the pain. She wore something fancy around her waist. Her black blade, the one she’d taken from the Imperium, hung there. Along with my satchel. Along with my sword. And around her neck was a scarf…

  My scarf.

  My eyes widened. My heart raced. The pain was forgotten as I looked toward its hidden pocket.

  The list, I thought, everything forgotten except that word. She’s got the fucking list.

  She didn’t know what she had, I was sure of that, or how bad I needed it back. But she knew I was angry. And, if the big, jagged grin on her face was any indication, she was drinking it up.

  “What do you think?” Galta ran her fingers along the scarf’s cloth. She saw my scowl fester on my face, reached out and took me by the cheeks as if I were a child. “Aw, don’t be mad. It looks better on me, anyway.”

  She pulled the scarf’s tail aside. And if my heart hammered at the sight of her with my list, it dropped into the pit of my belly and turned to stone at the sight of what was draped across her hips.

  “Not as good as this, though.”

  Of all the angers I felt, I could feel his the keenest. Even as he hung in his holster across her hips, I could feel his heat. It’d sound crazy to say it, but I knew at that moment, the Cacophony was staring right at me and whispering the dirtiest word he could think of.

  “You always had the neatest stuff, Sal,” Galta purred, sipping my anger like it were a fine brand of whiskey and she was planning on getting fucked. “Makes me glad we were the ones picked to come out here. Isn’t that right, Taltho?”

  My
gaze drifted over her shoulder. In the darkness beyond, his bloodshot eyes stared at me. His yellowed teeth glistened, no lips to show whether he was smiling or frowning.

  “Fortunate.”

  Her words didn’t hit me so much as sink into me, knives up to the hilt.

  “Vraki sent you,” I muttered. “He knew I’d come looking for him and he sent you to ambush me.”

  “Maybe he did.” Galta sneered at me. “He is cunning like that.”

  “He’s a piece of shit that sprouted legs and learned how to walk,” I snapped. “And he knew I’d come looking for him where he took his first steps.” I narrowed my eyes, searched her face. “No. He sent you here for another reason.”

  “Yeah?” Galta’s sneer twisted into a smile. “And what’s it say about you that we caught you by chance, Sal? Sal the fucking Cacophony captured while we were running errands?”

  Errands.

  I ignored the shrill mockery of her voice—with considerable effort—and focused on that word. Galta was paranoid, but paranoid doesn’t mean careful. They hadn’t come out here to find me. Not just to find me, anyway.

  “Yeah, Vraki knew. We all knew, Sal.” Her eyes narrowed to razor-thin slits. “We’d be fucking idiots not to know after that day.” Her thorns clicked together as her face contorted in a sneer. “That day you fucked up everything and made us all Vagrants.”

  I felt myself slipping back. Back to that dark place. I felt the cold stone on my back, saw my blood dancing in the air, heard that voice whispering that apology.

  But I didn’t fall. Not like I did back on the river. I held on. I tightened my hands so hard into fists that I thought the ropes might just snap them off. I swallowed that fear, buried it under anger, stared at Galta the Thorn until I just saw a thick neck waiting for me to strangle.

  “I remember,” I replied. “I remember all the words Vraki used to say he could fix the Imperium. I remember you all believing them.” I forced the smallest, cruelest smile I could manage onto my lips. “I remember your face when you finally figured out he was lying.”

  I expected a slap for that, at the minimum. I expected cursing, spitting, maybe a stabbing—two, if she was really feeling up to it. But what I got, after she gave me that long, cold stare of hers, was worse.