Sorcery of a Queen

by Brian Naslund

  “I got a tapestry of her back at the Proving Ground.”

  Simeon looked at him. “You and your fucking tapestries. Is that the one you’re always jerking off to?”

  “Naw,” said the one with the dragon-bone shield, smiling to reveal a mouthful of gold teeth. “That’s his other Malgrave one. The younger sister.”

  “Fuck off, Howell.” Cabbage spat. Looked embarrassed. “My point is, that woman’s either the spitting image of Ashlyn Malgrave, or we just lucked into the biggest ransom of our lives. You know she’s Okinu’s niece, right? And Papyrians always put a premium on the safe return of royal blood.”

  Simeon sucked on his teeth. “Aye. Papyrian ransoms are good money.”

  “Easy money, too,” added Cabbage.

  “Well?” Ashlyn asked.

  “Don’t rush me, woman. I’m thinking.”

  He scanned the others again. His eyes stopped on Felgor, who was huddled behind the stem of the mushroom.

  “Show me your face, little man.”

  Felgor stayed put. Pretended he hadn’t heard.

  “Show it to me, or Cabbage will put a bolt through the top o’ your skull. He’s ugly as sin, but he’s a good shot.”

  Felgor sighed. Looked up. “Hey, Simeon. Been a while.”

  “It’s been five years and two months, Felgor. A man remembers when his favorite ship gets burned to cinders in Taggarstan.”

  “The Esmerelda was your favorite ship? She wasn’t that nice as I recall.” Felgor scratched his ear. “Don’t think I lifted more than a week’s worth of loot. Only worthwhile part was burning the thing down, to be honest. And that was just for a smile.”

  Simeon’s face darkened.

  “What?” Felgor asked. “You’re not still raw about that whole thing, are you?”

  “Yeah, Felgor. It turns out I am a bit raw.” He tapped an armored finger against a scale on his thigh a few times. Wiped a strand of greasy red hair away from his face. “I’ll take the alleged queen for the ransom, and Felgor for the tormenting. You Naga Rock boys are going into the chattel cages up in the Proving Ground until I decide how forgiving I wanna be about broken pacts.”

  His gaze settled on Bershad. “You, though. You got a bad look in your eyes, lizard killer. And I got no use for taking that back to the Proving Ground. But you’re free to see if that scrap of fungus can navigate the rest of the Bloody Sludge. You get lucky, it’ll wash you clear out to the Big Empty.”

  “I go where they go,” Silas said.

  “Nope. Either you go down the river in a literal fashion, or your soul takes the figurative journey. Your choice.”

  Bershad darted forward. Crossed the rocky beach in the space of a few heartbeats. His sword came down on Simeon’s head in a blur.

  Simeon caught the attack with a grunt. The impact of the blade rippled up Simeon’s arm, making the Ghost Moth scales twitch. Ashlyn could hear gears straining from the impact.

  “You hit hard, lizard killer,” Simeon said, then squeezed the blade so hard it cracked. “But not hard enough.”

  Simeon slammed an armored fist into Bershad’s chest. Sent him flying backward into the shallows of the red river. He slumped over in the water and went still.

  Silas’s sword was wedged between two of the scales that protected Simeon’s palm. He pried the blade loose, gave it a once-over, then threw it into the water. The scales on his left arm kept twitching. Gears hissing. He rotated his shoulder and muttered a curse under his breath.

  “Take ’em,” Simeon muttered.

  Before anyone else could react, Simeon’s men were hauling them out of the mushroom boat. Binding their hands and pulling black hoods from their belts.

  “Simeon.”

  Everyone turned to see Bershad back on his feet. There was a massive and still-swelling contusion over his heart where Simeon had punched him.

  “We’re not done.”

  Simeon smiled again, wide and terrible. “I’ll give you points for perseverance, lizard killer. Maybe you are the Flawless Bershad. But I am done with you.” He whistled to his men. “Porcupine him. Then let’s get moving.”

  Simeon’s men raised their weapons. Aimed.

  The steel release of the crossbows rattled through the blighted forest. The volley of bolts spun Silas around and put him on his knees in the water. The pirates’ crossbows whirred, clicked, and reloaded themselves. They fired another volley into his back.

  Silas was thrown into the current, which grabbed him and pulled him down the river.

  Simeon spat. “Reckon that’ll do it, boys.”

  Wendell tried to run into the water, but Vash grabbed him. Held him back. “Nothing you can do for him, boy.”

  “But he came after me!” Wendell cried, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “I know. I know.”

  Everyone watched as Silas disappeared around another bend in the river. Then Simeon moved up to the shore and kicked the mushroom into the current.

  “Such emotion outta you lot over one dead exile,” he said. “You’re a bunch o’ soft-shelled crabs.”

  He motioned to his men.

  “Get the hoods on ’em. Then let’s get back to the Proving Ground. I’m hungry.”

  PART III

  27

  VERA

  The Soul Sea, Aboard the Blue Sparrow

  Vera checked and rechecked her daggers, Owaru and Kaisha. Then made sure her sword was secure on her back. She still needed to give Bershad’s old blade a name.

  It was ten minutes after dawn. Vera had wanted to go in at night, but Decimar and Entras had both insisted that they needed at least some light to guide them, or they’d risk crashing into Floodhaven instead of flying over it.

  “Increase thrust by ten percent!” Osyrus shouted to Entras, who pushed down on a lever. The Blue Sparrow jolted with acceleration.

  “Good. Good. Now deflate the levitation sack and adjust the wing sails to a ten-percent gradient against the horizon.”

  “You sure?” Decimar said. “That’s against standard procedure.”

  “There is nothing standard about this ship, Lieutenant. Trust me, that is all we need to stay airborne. Deflate the sack.”

  Entras followed his orders—there was a hissing release of air over their heads while the sack deflated and was then pulled down into the bowels of the ship by a series of ratcheting gears and cranks.

  They approached Floodhaven from the east, flying low and using the freshly risen sun to mask their arrival. With the glare—and the deflated levitation sack—it would be easy to mistake them for a Soul Strider going for an early-morning hunt.

  “More speed! Fifty-percent increase. Nobody will mistake us for a dragon unless we move like one.”

  The ship jolted forward again. The wind rushed around Vera’s ears. Kira cackled with delight.

  Vera looked down at Floodhaven. The city was built at the crest of a peninsula that speared up from the earth between the Atlas and Gorgon rivers. The walls and towers paled in comparison to the heights of Burz-al-dun, but when it came to natural fortifications, Floodhaven was among the best in the realm.

  The harbor was empty, but the city and castle walls were manned with wardens, their armor glinting in the sun. They still hadn’t noticed the skyship.

  “Remember, we’ll come back around in exactly ten minutes to pick you up,” Kira said.

  “I remember.”

  “He should be in his chambers at the top of the King’s Tower. You must take him alive for the rest of this to work.”

  “I understand.”

  Vera picked up the rope and wound it around her wrist. Rolled her shoulders in a few quick circles to loosen them up.

  “Thirty seconds out!” Entras shouted above the roaring engine and rushing wind.

  “Perfect,” Osyrus said. “Cut power to the Kor on my mark.”

  Vera stepped onto the gunwale, lowering herself into a squat to balance against the unsteady lilt of the ship.

  “Mark!”

/>   The engine went silent. The ship glided forward on the power of wind alone. After so many hours of dull engine roar, the quiet seemed strange.

  Vera looked down—they were passing over the harbor, and approaching the seaward wall of Castle Malgrave. There were two wardens on the rampart, both of them squinting up at the rapidly approaching object. Vera took a breath. Waited for the angle to be perfect.

  Then she jumped.

  There were two seconds of free fall. Then the rope ran out of slack and whipped her forward. Vera was ready for the jerk, positioning herself so the pressure on her shoulder was dispersed through her body. She swung through the air in a long arc, headed directly toward one of the wardens on the wall.

  Vera coiled into a ball to get the most speed possible. At the last moment, she shot her legs out and slammed into the warden’s breastplate. He crashed into the far side of the rampart, cracking a crenellation and crumpling to the ground. Vera released the hemp rope and hit the stones at a crouch, sliding behind the second warden, who was still looking at the sky, trying to figure out what had just flown over the castle.

  She grabbed him by the straps of his pauldrons and threw him into the sea.

  Vera glanced back at the ship, which was rising fast. There was a loud boom as they relit the engine, but from that height and distance, it was easy to mistake it for a dragon’s roar. A few moments later, the Blue Sparrow was hidden among the clouds.

  The other wardens on the walls were focused on the strange object that had just flown through the sky. None of them had noticed the Papyrian widow who had dropped behind their fortifications and now had a clear path inside the castle.

  Vera checked her watch.

  “Ten minutes,” she muttered, then went inside.

  * * *

  Vera knew the way to the king’s chambers well. She’d escorted Kira up there anytime her father wanted to see her. She moved through the familiar halls and stairwells of Castle Malgrave with a purpose, passing servants and stewards in the halls. She didn’t see any wardens.

  “Was that a Papyrian widow?” one woman carrying an armful of laundry asked a bookish steward when Vera shoved past them.

  “Gods, no. That was one of the actresses for tonight’s play.”

  “She was carrying a lot of weapons for an actress—”

  Vera passed out of earshot, then sprinted up several flights of stairs to put some distance between herself and the servants. She hustled down another long hallway with tall windows. Two more servants were in the hallway, but they were staring out the windows, pointing to the west and muttering to each other.

  “A Soul Strider, maybe?”

  “They don’t go inland, though. Could have been a Red Skull?”

  “Wrong color.”

  “Whatever it is, we best make totems.”

  “Agreed.”

  Vera reached the end of the hallway, went up two more flights, then jumped out the window. She landed on the top of a covered bridge that connected to the King’s Tower. She sprinted across, then without breaking stride jumped onto the wall and began climbing.

  She reached a large circular window—grabbed the top sill—then kicked her way through. Landed on the soft carpet in a spray of broken glass. Her eyes darted around the lavish room.

  No king. Just a serving boy who was about fifteen years old. He was pouring a pot of coffee into a ceramic cup.

  Vera crossed the room, which sent the boy stumbling backward. He spilled the coffee all over the front of his shirt.

  “Where is Linkon Pommol?”

  “I don’t … I don’t know. I just bring the coffee, whether he’s here or not.”

  Vera thumped her sheathed sword onto his shoulder. “Tell me where the king is, and this sword doesn’t get drawn.”

  The boy quivered. Eyes glassy with tears.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Dennys.”

  She nodded. “It’s all right, Dennys. You can tell me. I’m here to help him.”

  A wave of relief washed over the kid’s face. Vera was always amazed by the things that terrified people will believe if you look them in the eye and speak with confidence.

  “I think he was going to eat breakfast with Lord Brock this morning. Brock usually takes it in a ninth-floor dining hall since they’re closest to the main kitchen. Get can get his seconds hot.”

  “Good.”

  Vera turned to leave.

  “Is it a dragon?” the boy asked. “I heard people shouting about something in the sky.”

  “Yeah, Dennys. It’s a dragon.”

  * * *

  Eight flights of stairs and seven hundred paces later, Vera reached the ninth-floor dining halls. The smell of smoked pork and burning bread filled the air. Smoke wafted from the door to the kitchen, which was built into the center of the tower and had corridors leading to the four dining halls on this level. Vera checked the first hall, but found it empty, so she cut through the kitchen to reach the next.

  A cook with white dough flecks all over her forearms was frantically pulling burned loaves of bread out of the oven.

  “Fools,” she muttered, to herself. “Ran off to look at the dragon and damn near burned the castle down.”

  Vera considered slitting the cook’s throat. Witnesses were problems. But they could be useful, too. She dropped her voice into the best Almiran accent she could muster, and hoped the distracted cook stayed that way.

  “Urgent message for King Pommol,” she said. “He’s needed elsewhere. Which dining hall?”

  The cook extended her dough-dusted arm and pointed to a door on the far side of the kitchen. “Eagle’s Roost.”

  “Is Lord Brock inside as well?”

  “Just the king,” the baker said. “Lord Brock went to use the privy before eating his second course.”

  “Thank you.”

  By the time the cook had turned around, Vera had already shouldered her way through the door and disappeared. She found the proper room and barged inside.

  Linkon Pommol was seated at the far end of a very long table. Three wardens with turtle masks stood behind him. Everyone turned to her.

  “You are not Lord Brock,” Linkon said, frowning.

  Vera threw Owaru into the closest warrior’s throat, drew her sword, then rushed forward and stabbed the second through the heart. The third came at her hard, but got tripped up on a chair and only managed a clumsy side swipe. Vera parried and took his head off with a counter-riposte.

  “Oh gods,” Linkon muttered. “Oh gods, no.”

  “Quiet,” Vera hissed, crossing the room and shoving Linkon onto his stomach. She used one of her slings to bind his wrists.

  “Stay there.”

  Vera grabbed one of the dead wardens and threw him out the window in a crash of stained glass. Watched to make sure that he landed in the sea below. Satisfied, she threw the other two as well. With nothing but blood and glass as evidence, it would look like a dragon attack.

  “You’re next.” Vera grabbed Linkon by the collar.

  “No, no. Please! Please don’t—”

  Vera threw the king of Almira out the window.

  But instead of dropping a thousand strides to the sea, he only fell ten. Landed on another bridge that connected two of the castle’s towers. Vera jumped down after him. Hauled Linkon to the halfway point between the two towers, then looked up at the sky. Searching.

  The Blue Sparrow was coming around from the west, banking hard over the forest of Almira. She watched as the ship leveled out. Headed directly at her.

  “Good,” she muttered to herself. “They see me.”

  A single black rope dropped from the hull of the ship. Vera tightened her grip on Linkon’s wrist bindings, then held out her other hand.

  Two hundred strides.

  Osyrus Ward had assured her that given enough slack, her shoulder wouldn’t be damaged in the pickup process, and that they could reel her in within a few seconds. All she had to do was hold on.

  One
hundred strides.

  The vision of her arm detaching and her falling off the bridge in an arc of blood filled her mind.

  Fifty strides.

  A heartbeat later the rope connected with her open hand. She tightened her grip and was vaulted through the sky, taking the king of Almira with her.

  28

  JOLAN

  Almira, City of Black Rock

  “This isn’t going to work,” Jolan said, stomach churning with panic and fear.

  He was having trouble controlling his breathing, and he was sweating profusely from everywhere a person could sweat from. They were a hundred strides from the gate to Black Rock, and he was driving the wagon. He counted ten Balarian soldiers ahead.

  “Not if you keep on speaking Almiran,” Oromir responded calmly. Jolan had spent four hours teaching the wardens common Balarian phrases, and Oromir had the best accent, so he sat up front. Jolan was glad to have him close by. “Keep a grip on your composure. This will work.”

  Jolan’s armor didn’t fit him. It was loose around his hips and heavy on his shoulders. He’d been forced to leave his backpack of ingredients in the woods back at their campsite, but Oromir had helped him bury the pack and promised they’d come back for it. Jolan had stuffed the most valuable ingredients—Gods Moss and a few other rare items from the warren—into a small satchel and wadded that up behind his breastplate. It was already starting to chafe.

  Jolan pulled up on the reins as they reached the gate. Two of the Balarian sentries came over with hands on their swords. A third and fourth kept their distance, but watched them closely. Jolan heard the click of their crossbows locking.

  They’d waited until dusk to approach so their faces would be harder to see. Nightfall would have been better, but the gates would be closed then. It had taken the wardens almost half an hour to get their ring-laden hair stuffed into the helmets. The widows had offered their blades during several points of the process and been refused each time.

  “What’s all this?” the first soldier called to Jolan. He had a gold sergeant’s insignia above the clock on his breastplate. “You two take up farming in your free time?”