Bershad kept the pickaxe in his hand as he stood up to face the last smuggler, whose hair was waxed into four large spikes. There was so much blood on Bershad that it dripped off him like water from a heavy rain. The man was holding a machete, hands shaking.
“Fuck this,” he muttered, then turned and ran toward the door.
He didn’t even make it halfway to the exit before Vera put a hole in his skull. He collapsed on the stones and started twitching.
Bershad turned back to Devan, who’d picked up his sword again. But it hung heavy in his hand now. Blood was pouring from his ruined nose.
“The fuck are you, lizard killer?”
Bershad flipped the pickaxe around so the spike was facing out. Moved forward.
“What are you?” Devan shouted.
Bershad just kept walking. Every step burned with agony.
When Devan brought his sword back to attack, Bershad jammed the pickaxe through Devan’s wrist and left it there. Punched him in the throat. His eyes bulged to the size of chestnuts and his cheeks turned deep red. Bershad stabbed him in the stomach with his sword, twisting the blade inside Devan’s guts and feeling them churn.
“This is for killing my friend, asshole,” Bershad hissed.
He ripped the sword out of Devan’s chest and slammed it down on the top of his head so hard that he split his skull in half, lodging the blade in the middle of his collarbone.
A moment later, Bershad heard footsteps from his left. He turned to see Liofa charging, sword raised. He was coming from behind a stack of crates so Vera wouldn’t be able to get a clean shot. Bershad tried to pull his sword free, but it was stuck in Devan. Liofa rushed forward—his blade aimed at Bershad’s heart.
At the last moment, a dark blur slammed into Liofa, driving him into a shipping crate.
Felgor.
They fell to the ground and started grappling. Liofa snaked around Felgor’s body and got the upper hand. He was just about to slit Felgor’s throat when Bershad got to him, grabbed Liofa by the back of the head, and slammed it into the quay again and again.
“Rat. Fucking. Bastard!” Bershad screamed as he pounded the last ounce of life from Liofa’s body.
When it was done, Bershad sat back on his haunches, breathing heavily and looking around. Trying to push the animal rage in his body back down. He wanted more men to kill—anything to slake the bloodlust that had consumed him—but everyone was dead. Felgor had scooted away from him and was trying to wipe Liofa’s blood and brain off his face.
There was movement from the ship. Vera came down, sweat on her brow and sling in her hand.
“What the fuck happened to waiting for my signal?”
* * *
Bershad needed time to calm down after the fight. He sent Felgor and Vera outside to figure out where they were. While they were gone, he pulled off his soiled bandages and dug up some more moss from one of the opium casks. Stuffed it into the new wounds on his hand and back, plus the old ones he’d reopened during the fight. He wouldn’t be at full strength for a few days, but the moss was enough to keep him moving.
When that was done, he packed the smugglers’ corpses into a large cargo crate, then washed his face and arms in the water. Vera and Felgor came back just as he was about to deal with Devan’s and Liofa’s bodies, which were still lying where he’d killed them—faces broken and ruined.
“So?” Bershad asked.
“We’re in the theater district,” Felgor said.
“Do you know how to get to the palace from here?”
“Yeah. We’re pretty close. As long as our seals have the right checkpoint codes, we should be fine.”
“Codes?”
“You’ll see,” Felgor said. “There’s something else.” Felgor held up a wrinkled piece of painted canvas. “Found this posted on the street outside.”
“What is it?”
“They spread these around when there’s going to be an event open to the public. This one’s down in the central garden district the day after tomorrow.” Felgor hesitated. “It’s a wedding.”
Bershad grabbed the canvas from Felgor. The writing was in Balarian but the image of a marriage cape was painted clearly. And Kira Malgrave’s name was drawn in large, black letters.
“Shit,” Bershad muttered. He passed the fabric to Vera who looked it over.
“We’ll wait here until nightfall,” she said. “Then we’re going into that palace.”
The covered dock was small, but quiet. Vera squatted in a corner and sharpened her daggers. Felgor sat as far away from Devan’s and Liofa’s corpses as possible. Bershad checked and rechecked his armor, then put it all on. Looked back at the boat. The captain was still hiding in his cabin. Bershad could leave for Taggarstan right now if he wanted. Head back to kill Vallen Vergun.
“I wouldn’t stop you,” Vera said, watching his eyes and guessing his thoughts.
“What?”
“If you want to go,” Vera said, “I understand.”
Bershad looked at his hands. He didn’t feel better now that he’d killed Devan and Liofa. Rowan and Alfonso were still gone. Nothing would change that.
“No,” Bershad said. “You were right. The only thing to do now is move forward.”
“Good,” Vera said. “But if you’re coming into the palace, I need to know you’re not going to do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Lose your fucking composure. You were…” She trailed off, looking at the bloodstains all over the quay. “Like some kind of animal. If you do that in the palace, you will get us all killed.”
Bershad swallowed. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
At least, not until he found the emperor.
“There’s something else I need to ask you about. What you said to me back in Taggarstan, just before the fight.”
“I didn’t come to Balaria to save Kira.”
“That’s clear,” Vera said. “Why do you want the emperor of Balaria dead?”
Bershad hesitated. Tried to think of a way he could explain it.
“You told me once that if you were like me, you’d use the strength to protect the people you care about. I’ve lost so many people in my life. A family. A lover. And now my only friend.” Bershad pushed down into the wound on his hand. Winced at the pain. “The emperor wants to destroy the last things in this world that I still care about. If there’s a chance I can stop him, I have to take it.”
Vera looked at him for a long time. “I trust that.” Vera wiped a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “But you’re wrong about one thing. Rowan wasn’t the only friend you have left.” She motioned to Felgor. “There’s him. And there’s me. Might be we didn’t start off with much between us, but things have changed. For me, at least.”
They’d changed for Bershad, too.
“Rowan liked you both,” he said. “Up in the mountains, he told me that a woman like you was good for me. Took a while for me to realize why that was. We’re all outcasts, one way or another, walking a path along the fringes of this world.” He looked at Vera. “I’ll help you get to Kira. But then I have to go my own way.”
Vera nodded. Stared at him a while. “I wish things were different.”
“Me, too.”
Bershad looked back at the boat. “There’s something I have to do before we leave.”
“What?”
“Send a message back to Taggarstan.”
He used one of the machetes to hack Devan’s and Liofa’s heads off, gathered the pieces, since Devan’s had been sliced in half, and carried them by their hair to the pilot’s cabin. He found Borgon hiding underneath a table of crumpled, dirty maps.
“Get out from under there,” Bershad said.
Borgon obeyed, staring at the heads. “I saw them bring you onto the boat,” he said, looking at Bershad through jaundiced eyes. “Never seen a man with that kind of damage done who was still breathing a day later. But you’re…”
Bershad took a step forward. Borgon took
a step back. “After we leave, you’re going to bring these back to Taggarstan.” Bershad dropped the heads, and snatched Borgon by the collar. “You’re going to tell Vallen Vergun what you saw me do. And you’re going to tell him I’m coming back to do the same thing to him. Tell him that the Flawless Bershad wishes him sweet dreams while he waits.”
When he came off the boat, Bershad noticed Felgor was still in the corner of the dock, massaging his hands together. There was a small pile of dried, crusty blood between his feet from where he’d rubbed it off his skin and let it fall.
“You saved my life,” Bershad said, coming over and sitting next to him.
“Did I?” Felgor asked, looking up. “Would it even have mattered if he’d put that sword through your heart?”
“Yes.”
“You’re fucking terrifying, you know that, right?”
“Why’d you save me, then?”
Felgor went back to his hands. “When we started, I just wanted a way out of this mess. But I guess you could say my perspective changed somewhere up in those mountains. I couldn’t just let the bastards kill you, not after what you’ve done for me. Or after what happened to Rowan.” He paused. “Whether you’re a demon or a dragonslayer or something else entirely, you’re also my friend.”
Bershad looked at Felgor. “I’ll make sure you live through this mess. If you get us into the palace, you’ll be done. You’ve earned that.”
Felgor nodded.
“I found something for you,” he said after a while, and passed Bershad a small metal tin. “Nicked it from a theater troupe’s setup while Vera and I were having a look around.”
Bershad opened it. It was a makeup tin—looked to be about the same shade as Bershad’s skin.
“For the bars on your face.”
Bershad nodded. “Rest up,” he said. “We leave in an hour.”
33
BERSHAD
Balaria, Burz-al-dun, Theater District
Even in the thick of night, Burz-al-dun was alive. Bershad had never seen anything like it. The cobblestone boulevards and avenues were lit by hundreds of copper lanterns—all of them burning dragon oil—that allowed people to carry on with their night’s business.
Almiran lords could burn as much dragon oil as they pleased. It was a luxury of the nobility, just like their thousand-acre farms and their armies of wardens. But the notion that a city would burn hundreds of gallons of dragon oil every night for public use was verging on an unfathomable kind of extravagance. It would be like buying a fleet of ships every day, setting them on fire each night, and doing the whole thing over again each morning.
The three of them walked in single file. Felgor led the way, car rying a lantern that he’d plucked from the wall. Bershad wasn’t sure if that was legal, but nobody had stopped them. Along with the makeup tin, Felgor had stolen an ostentatious jacket for himself—all colorful slashes and white frills—and two almost equally flamboyant cloaks for Vera and Bershad that hid their weapons, faces, and armor. Bershad balked at the garments, thinking they would draw attention, but Felgor insisted.
“I grew up ’round here,” Felgor said as they walked. He waved a hand toward a group of five boys who were perched along a low wall off to the side, scanning the crowd. “Just an urchin like one of them who got into the theater district on a work seal to pick up trash or shovel horse shit for the rich folks come to see a show. Most of those boys’ll probably just keep on watching all their lives. Jealous of the nobles and the rich merchants, but lulled to sleep by steady food and the warmth of endless dragon oil. Living their whole life never breaking routine. But one of ’em just might realize the truth.”
“What truth?” Bershad asked.
“The Clock’s rules and laws look unbreakable when you’re standing on this street looking up at the high towers, but they’re not.” Felgor smiled. “Nothing’s unbreakable. And once a kid from the slums across the river realizes that, he’s the one with the power, ’cause he’s got nothing to lose. Only a matter of time before he starts slipping checkpoints and causing trouble.”
“Speaking of checkpoints,” Vera said. “How many do we have to cross?”
“Some good news there. Just one. First we need to cross this district, which is big. Balarians like their theater. On the far side, there’s a checkpoint that leads to a shit-ton of fancy villas and manses near the palace. Yonmar actually set this part of the deal up pretty well, even if he was an asshole.”
“There’s no checkpoint leading into the palace?” Bershad asked.
“There are nineteen checkpoints leading into the palace, but we’re going a different way.” He turned around, the torchlight reflecting off his small teeth. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”
The buildings rose on either side, the shortest still twice as tall as an Almiran holdfast. The sides of each building were wreathed with copper pipes and pulley systems. Noises rang from the taverns and alehouses they passed—laughter and music and mugs clanging together. They crossed a wide bridge and were met with a throng of people who were pushing toward an open-air amphitheater built down by the water. All of them wore the same style of silk tunic and neat, closely cropped hair.
“Should have trimmed this up,” Felgor said, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Long noses and short hair, that’s how you can spot a Balarian. Oh well.”
Below the rows of seats, a massive paper dragon sailed around the stage—red and glowing from candles inside of its belly. Naked dancers who were painted pitch-black moved the thing forward with small handles made of wood. Every once in a while a dancer near the head blew a stream of blue flame from her mouth. A young boy began singing something in Balarian. His voice was a high, clear falsetto. Bershad didn’t catch all of it, but he understood enough.
It was a song about him. The seventeenth dragon he’d killed along the northern coast of Almira.
“Perfect,” he muttered, pulling the hood of the cloak tighter around his face.
There were street vendors set up at the mouth of the amphitheater, selling admission, food, and bottles of wine. Felgor stopped at one and filed into the back of the line. Vera jabbed him in the ribs with two fingers.
“The fuck?” she hissed. “We’ve no time for this.”
“I’m hungry,” Felgor said. “And I’ve not had a cranberry tart in two years. If I’m gonna die tonight, I want to have a treat first. C’mon. Blend in, watch the show a while.” He turned to Bershad. “Just don’t ask him what happens, he’ll ruin it.”
“Everybody knows what happens,” Bershad said.
While they waited in line, Bershad noticed that almost every Balarian around them was wearing a clock around their neck. The gentle, metallic ticking made his skin crawl.
When it was their turn, Felgor bought four cranberry tarts and a jug of wine from a man with such a sharp nose it could have been a dagger. He doled out the tarts—keeping two for himself. They watched the show until the actor playing Bershad appeared—he was a seven-foot-tall giant with bulging muscles and a stupidly long spear. He began a long, intricate dance that was mixed with a song about his glorious duty as a dragonslayer to save the people of the town.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Bershad muttered.
Just as he’d gotten everyone moving, there was a commotion in the crowd. Bershad panicked for a moment before he realized people weren’t pointing at him, they were pointing at the sky. There was a group of dragons flying overhead—a Blackjack mother leading a dozen or so juveniles east, their reptilian silhouettes flashing in front of the moon. The crowd oohed and aahed, pointing excitedly.
“Why all the fuss?” Bershad said. “You can’t go more than a day or two without seeing a Blackjack in the Dainwood.”
When Felgor didn’t respond, Bershad looked down to find him gawping at the sky just like the other Balarian citizens.
“Felgor.”
“Huh?” He looked down. “Oh. Well, this ain’t the Dainwood. Pretty much the only time a lizard’s
seen flying overtop Burz-al-dun is the days and weeks leading up to the Great Migration,” Felgor explained. “Even then, it’s rare. I never saw one when I was living here, but when I was eleven, a Red Skull flew directly over the house while I was taking a shit. That’s what my older brother said, anyway. But he’s a known fabricator.” He paused. “If they’re flying overhead, the migration must be getting real close by now.”
“Very close,” Bershad said, reminded of what he’d come to Balaria to do. “Let’s keep moving.”
They continued pushing east. Felgor took large, greedy pulls from the wine. The crowd started to thicken on the left side of the street—it looked like washerwomen and cooks, mostly. But Felgor guided them to the right side, where there was hardly anyone.
“Won’t we stand out?” Vera asked, adjusting the weapons she had hidden behind her cloak.
“Nobody’s gonna mistake us for the hired help.” Felgor motioned to the line of servants on the far side of the street. “Anyway, if Vergun made our seals properly, it won’t matter.” Felgor drew his metal disc from his pocket. Bershad and Vera did the same.
The seal was no larger than a tea plate. Made of smooth, gray metal. One side had a complicated series of holes, the other had a physical description etched in Balarian. That was a problem for Bershad. The makeup hid his blue bars, but it didn’t turn him into an entirely different person. And he didn’t share a resemblance with Yonmar.
“What about the description on mine?” Bershad asked.
“I asked the same thing back on the boat,” Vera said. “He ignored me.”
“Will you two just relax? This isn’t my first time slipping a checkpoint. Just make sure the dragonslayer goes last. And give me more of that wine.”
Felgor took four or five long gulps and cast the jug aside. They turned a corner on the avenue to find a massive metal fence blocking the road. It was built from dozens of thick bars that were made of the same gray metal as their seals and crisscrossed each other in a geometric pattern. The fence rose all the way to the top of the adjacent buildings—two hundred strides at least. There were narrow gates on either side of the street, and two sentries shuffling people through. Some kind of metal contraption was set up next to each gate. Four copper pipes ran out of each machine, then disappeared beneath the street.
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