by A. C. Cobble
“I’ve found other ways,” claimed Sam.
Bridget raised an eyebrow and sipped her wine.
“Life is about connection,” continued Sam. “Everything is connected. Some philosophers say death is merely the severing of those connections. I’ve never been to the other side, and I’ve never given much thought to philosophy, so I cannot say if that is true. I do know that by reinforcing our connections to other lives, we strengthen our hold on our own. We cannot perform our mission without dipping into the darkness, but the tighter our grip on life, swimming fully within the current of life, we are impervious to the allure of the dark path.”
“To an extent,” said Bridget.
“To an extent,” admitted Sam. “When it comes down to it, though, I’d rather maintain my presence in this world by experiencing life rather than causing death. I’d rather connect with someone, even if it’s a transitory fling, than end someone. It’s more pleasant, don’t you think?”
“It is,” allowed Bridget. “A brief fling is pleasant, but it is not our role. Whether we like it or not, we are here to kill. We kill so that others can live.”
“Perhaps it’s different in Ivalla,” said Sam, leaning on the table with her elbows, pinning Bridget with her gaze. “My mentor taught me to kill, but he also encouraged me to live. He taught balance, said that you could only be so successful at one without the other. Life, death. Day, night. Our world, the underworld. Everything is balanced, and that requires two weights on either side of the fulcrum. I’ve experienced my share of death, but that is not all I have experienced.”
“You’ve done your share of living, then?” asked Bridget, sitting back and grinning, breaking the tension.
Sam winked at her. “I will do what is necessary tomorrow, but that is tomorrow.”
“Do you have a place to stay?” asked the other woman, her lips curling into a coy smile.
“Not yet,” replied Sam.
“Come with me then,” insisted Bridget before tipping up her wine and finishing it. “I’ve a bed you can share. Tonight, we will swim the current of life together. Tomorrow night, we will do as we must.”
Sam raised her glass. “To swimming the current.”
At night, Romalla looked much the same as Westundon. Except for the main thoroughfares and the pub districts, the streets had emptied. Shutters were closed, and only street corner lamps provided illumination to the blank facades of the buildings and the vacant stone-paved avenues.
The air was drier than she was used to, and sound seemed to bounce and carry over the rambling stone architecture. The city smelled of dust and spices, the sharp scents of cured meats and rich wines. The reek of waste lingering in the gutters, waiting for a storm to wash it away. Perfume and refuse.
When they had reached the central market, she’d seen it was still bustling with laborers, finally out of work for the day, scrambling to gather whatever supplies they needed before the merchants pulled the canopies down in front of their stalls and the entire city closed its doors until dawn. The narrow aisles between the stands in the market were relatively well lit and regularly patrolled. City watchmen clustered thick in the area, either to ensure the security of commerce, or to avoid the darker places farther from the main pathways. Immediately, Sam had seen it was a terrible place to kill someone.
“We’ll wait outside of the market. Take him there,” she advised.
“We?” questioned Raymond au Clair. “This is about you, lass.”
“If we know where he is, why wait?” challenged Bridget. “Take him now. Don’t let him slip from your grip.”
Sam looked meaningfully between the two of them. “Is this my operation or yours?”
“Yours,” conceded Bridget. “How do you know where he’ll be, which way he will go?”
“Call it instinct,” said Sam.
With the two Knives in tow, she slipped along the alleyways of the market, taking few pains to hide, but passing through the shadows when she could find them. She could feel the stares of her companions on her back, but she wouldn’t explain herself, and they wouldn’t stoop to asking.
In front of them, a party of brightly dressed men shouted and hooted, trekking from one tavern to another. In truth, Sam did not know where Ivar val Drongko was staying, but she had a good guess where he’d go after the day’s business. The man had peculiar tastes, and in the Church city of Romalla, there would only be so many places he could satisfy those wants. She’d seen where he stored his goods, and she’d seen what was around it.
Three blocks outside of the market, halfway to the seedier end of the theatre district, Sam stopped at an open-fronted wine merchant’s stall. She held up three fingers, and when the proprietor passed over the wine, she and her companions clustered around a tall, narrow table the merchant had set in front of his shop. They drank slowly and quietly, waiting.
“How do you know he’ll come this way?” wondered Bridget, surreptitiously peering down the darkened street.
“How did you know I traveled here with him?” retorted Sam.
Raymond rapped the table with his knuckles. “That is the best question you’ve asked today. Perhaps the old man did impart some knowledge upon you.”
“The guard at the gate?” wondered Sam.
Raymond smiled and shook his head. Sam frowned, glancing at Bridget, but the woman gave nothing away. Both of the Knives watched her silently.
Finally, Sam shook her head. “Ivar himself?”
“He wouldn’t betray his relationship with us. He reported your presence as soon as he arrived,” explained Raymond. “We knew you were in Romalla before you located Bishop Constance. She was waiting for you.”
“If you know him, why have you not done this yourself?” complained Sam.
“Because I know I’m capable of it,” answered Raymond. “I do not know if you are. If you are to be one of us, you need the instinct to kill. If you’re going to be given leeway on certain matters, to bend the rules as we do, then you have to prove your heart is with the mission. The work we do is critical to the safety of the people under the Church’s domain. To do that work, we must be as hard as the steel of our daggers. And like those daggers, we should do only the bidding of those who direct us. You’ve gotten sharp, I admit, but are you still directed by the hand of the Church?”
“You think I’m a sorceress?” scoffed Sam.
“You wouldn’t be the first to have taken a step too far on the dark path and found it difficult to turn back,” remarked Bridget. “Your mentor coddled you, it seems. Our line of work requires ruthlessness. We use those we must to achieve our goals, but despite the help they may have given us, they are not of the Church. They are still subject to its laws. They must face the consequences of the choices they have made.”
“And when the Church decides that despite your hard work, you are also in violation of those laws?” questioned Sam.
“There’s a reason there are no old Knives left to take seats at the council table,” claimed Raymond.
Bridget shook her head. “What we do is sanctioned by Church leadership. We skirt the outline of the rules, that is true, but that is the core of what I’m explaining, Sam. We operate at the direction of Constance and the Council. We’re a blade, sharpened by tools and tactics that may be illegal, but we always remain in our master’s firm hand. That, Sam, is what we must find out tonight. Will you be wielded by the guiding hand of the Church? Bishop Constance is not sure, and she requested we find out.”
“Let Samantha decide on her own,” muttered Raymond.
Sam sipped her wine and eyed the two of them. They looked calm and ready, predators comfortable on the hunt. These two could speak Church law until they were out of breath and blue in the face, but she knew why they did what they did. It wasn’t because of some benevolent light shining through the Church’s circle. It wasn’t because as younglings they’d been inspired by a priest shouting from the pulpit. They were killers. They enjoyed it. They used those like Ivar val Drongko and then discarded him
when they were done. They used each other. They would use her. They’d have no regrets if it ended in bloodshed.
Studying them, she guessed most often it did end in bloodshed. The reason there were no senior Knives to join the Council was because they turned on each other. Without active sorcerers, they found other prey. One day, Raymond and Bridget might face each other, and they knew it. They’d slide a knife between each other’s ribs as casually as they had shared wine and a bed. They’d do the same to her without blinking.
She still needed them, though, a dagger in the sheath. She hid her grimace with her wine cup, her eyes seeking the dark streets that led to the square they occupied.
When he got close, Ivar would sense her. She didn’t know how close it had to be, but based on her passage through the Church grounds, he would need to be within fifteen or twenty yards to feel the cold shadow of the underworld that surrounded her. That should give her enough time. She would see the man before he sensed her. Once he did, he’d turn the other way. The three Knives standing together, surely the man would realize what it meant.
When he fled, he would lead her companions away. Away from where she suspected he was going. Away from his companions there. Away from the hidden stores of his merchandise she knew he did not keep in his market stall. With luck, Raymond and Bridget would only know of the stall, and the rest of his wares would be hers alone.
A sharpened, uncaring blade indeed.
She’d grown to like Ivar on their journey together, but her companions were right. He’d violated Church law. He facilitated sorcery and the terrible kind of violence she’d witnessed in Enhover. He’d known the risk he was taking. She was a hunter, and despite her feelings toward the perfumer, she needed help from the other Knives and she needed his potions. The game she hunted required more than she had to give.
She tapped a finger on the table, and her companions leaned close. Whispering, she said, “There he is.”
“What is next?” asked Raymond, experienced enough not to turn and look for their quarry.
“When he sees us, he will flee,” she explained. “He knows his potions are illegal. He has no choice but to run. He’ll fly like a fat rabbit, and we will hunt him like one. We let him get a few blocks away and stay behind him until he turns down a quiet street. Then we will strike. I imagine in Romalla, even for us, it’s best to conduct this business in darkness and avoid discussion with the city watch.”
“It is easier to leave them out of it, to be sure,” agreed Raymond, nodding in appreciation. “The watch commander loves paperwork. When you move, we’ll be right behind you.”
Smiling tightly, Sam waited as Ivar val Drongko walked closer, his slippered feet falling silently on the paving stones, a tune whistling through pursed lips. Then, it stopped.
She stood from the table and nodded to the perfume merchant.
He cringed and spun on his heels.
The chase was on.
The Cartographer X
The platform shattered underneath him, and his planned graceful leap off the top into the courtyard below turned into a cartwheeling, flailing fall. He slammed against the side of the barracks and bounced off, hands clawing helplessly against the bamboo slats that made the wall of the building. Fingers slipping, toes scrabbling, he barely slowed himself as he dropped another several yards and landed hard on the sandy ground.
In front of him, the giant lizard crashed down, its carriage-sized head landing and bouncing with a thunderous boom. Its eyes, still wide-open, were glazed with shock. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the life had left them. He gasped in pain as the air filled his lungs, pressing against a rib that he offered a quick hope to the spirits wasn’t broken.
Struggling to his feet and collecting his broadsword, he looked at the ruined wall and platform. The cannon had disappeared underneath the lizard, and at the moment, its body was blocking the gap it’d crushed in the barrier. He knew there were over a hundred native warriors on the other side of that wall, though, and within moments, they’d be scrambling over the corpse of the giant lizard and into the compound.
Wincing, he broke into a quick trot and headed toward the back of the compound to Company House, which would offer the most defensible position. The lizard’s impact had knocked down the wall of the compound and the corner of the barracks. There was no hiding behind those structures anymore.
Above him, the Cloud Serpent rumbled and shook as another salvo of cannon fire erupted from the starboard side. On deck, he could hear small arms cracking in irregular intervals, and the deck guns barked sharply, sending apple-sized balls of heavy lead screaming over the walls with enough force to rip through half-a-dozen bodies if they caught them packed tightly together.
It was an impressive display of force, but it wouldn’t be enough. On the ground, individuals would be too mobile to be caught by the full brunt of the airship’s artillery. They could move and scramble out of the way of the cannon quicker than the sailing master could adjust. The small arms barrage would strike some of them, but from the deck of the airship, aiming a blunderbuss was an exercise in pure chance.
Cannon was impressive and devastating against ships on the water or static structures, but against unorganized foot soldiers, they needed the royal marines. Oliver saw with dismay that they were quickly running out of those. Just thirty of the boys in blue had survived the initial uprising, and as he scanned what remained on the walls, he saw the contingent wasn’t more than half of that now.
“Duke Wellesley,” called a voice emerging from Company House.
Oliver looked to see Senior Factor Giles trotting out, bloody cutlass gripped in his hand. The merchant, his old friend, advised, “It’s time to see you off, m’lord. You need to be on the next lift up.”
Scurrying across the courtyard to meet his old friend, Oliver saw panicked women, determined men, and screaming children clustered within the entrance to Company House, all waiting their turn to evacuate on the airship.
“Not until we get the women and children out,” declared Oliver, gesturing as another rope jerked tight around an evacuee.
A grim-faced woman rose into the air, a small child clutched snug in her grip.
He turned from the crowd awaiting rescue and raised his broadsword, knowing that in moments, the first wave of attackers would arrive.
“I was worried you’d say that, m’lord.”
Oliver looked over his shoulder and frowned at the factor.
“What’s that?” gasped Giles, pointing to the walls.
Spinning to follow his friend’s finger, Oliver didn’t see the butt of the cutlass that crashed against the back of his skull. The world went black.
The Priestess IX
The colorfully attired man lumbered out of view.
She scampered after him, Raymond and Bridget close on her heels.
“Don’t let him get—”
“I know,” hissed Sam, cutting Raymond off.
They made it to the street Ivar had disappeared down and saw a flash of color as he turned a corner ahead of them. Traveling at a loping jog, Sam pursued. She’d been worried the perfumer would bolt straight for the watch or some other official agency to seek protection, but evidently, the knowledge that he was violating Church law was enough to encourage him into a different, and more foolish, plan of flight. For crafting potions, the watch would toss the man in the gaol. She and her companions would kill him. Of course, it quickly became evident the corpulent perfume master had no intention of being caught by anyone.
“Faster than he looks, ey?” asked Bridget, breathing evenly as they chased after the man.
“Not fast enough,” said Sam as they spotted him hurrying across another intersection and down a nearly black street.
They ran after him. Then, she stopped.
“What?” growled Raymond, taking steps past her toward the direction Ivar had disappeared.
“This way,” declared Sam, turning the opposite direction.
“I saw him!” sc
reeched Raymond.
“You saw someone,” replied Sam, breaking back into a trot.
“If you’re wrong…”
“If I’m wrong, we’ll track him down,” assured Sam. “The man is big, colorful, and far too full of himself to remain in hiding for long. He’ll be easy enough to locate.”
Silently, Raymond followed her. Either he was also certain they could find the man later, or he was cautiously avoiding a strenuous objection on the off chance he’d be wrong. Cautious. Not what she would have guessed initially, but it seemed the killer could contain himself when necessary. He could think about his next step before taking it.
Sam took them down another side street, this one narrow and grim. She could reach out and span the alley with her arms. Above them, rickety, wooden scaffolding allowed the tenants the means to ascend and descend from the higher floors. Perhaps someone had built the structures originally as a fire escape, but looking around the area they were passing through, she guessed it was an escape in case the watch ever came bashing down the front door.
“This doesn’t look like the perfume purveyor’s normal haunts,” worried Bridget. “We all saw him. Why do you think…”
Sam touched her nose and winked.
“Ah,” said Bridget, drawing a deep breath and then appearing to immediately regret it.
“I’d wait until we’re away from the refuse,” suggested Sam, pointing at a slimy pile on the side of the alleyway.
Twenty paces later, she paused at an intersection. The three of them turned, glancing down two dark pathways in front of them.
Cautiously, they sniffed the air, and Sam glanced down at the dry streets below their feet. “Pavers in an alley?”
“Welcome to Romalla,” said Raymond. “Home of the Church.”
“Pavers are unusual in the poor areas,” said Bridget, glancing at the bricks beneath their feet. “I believe we’ve stumbled into someone else’s domain.”
“Someone else’s…” said Raymond, trailing off in confusion.
