by E. S. Bell
“They tried to drop a rock on my head.” Sebastian smirked. “I’d hardly call that innocent. Yours, I presume?”
“Of course. Another test. After four years of silence from the dastardly Sebastian Vaas, I wanted to be sure you still had the lust for it.”
“They’re dead now, aren’t they?”
“So they are. Finally.”
Sebastian didn’t like the knowing tone in his voice. “To the matter at hand,” he said abruptly. “If this Aluren is so powerful, what makes you think I can kill her?”
“Bastian the Bastard doubts his own talent? This is hardly inspiring.”
“A fool’s first and biggest weakness is thinking he doesn’t have one,” Sebastian said. “And if it were so bloody easy you would’ve hired one of my cheaper competitors, yes?”
“Yes.” Zolin leaned forward with sudden zeal so that the moonlight touched his features in feathery strokes: Sebastian saw glittering eyes, a hawkish nose, a sagging chin. “You speak true. I want her death to be one of those—what did you call them?—acts of pure fucking depravity that bought you your reputation. That is why I hired you and not some nameless riff-raff. How you do it is not my concern, only that you will, and do so with your signature flair for the violent, the gruesome, and the deplorable.”
He stabbed a gnarled finger on the table, as Sebastian had with his dagger. “I hired you, Bloody Bastian, because I want Selena Koren to suffer.”
Sebastian fought to keep his features as placid as a becalmed sea, but Zolin’s eagerness for this murder brought bile to the back of Sebastian’s throat. He pushed it down; down, down into the depths of six years’ worth of spilled blood.
One last job. This one, and then I’m done.
“You have doubts,” Zolin began.
“No…”
“You do,” the High Vicar said and his sleepy, slurring words took on a sharp, biting edge, “Usually, I can read a man as if his inner heart and soul were spilled upon parchment for my perusal. But you…you’re a wily one. Walled off. A closed man, one might say of you.”
Sebastian shifted in his seat, suddenly acutely aware of the other two Bazira behind Zolin. Powerful shadow adherents, it was said, sometimes could delve into a man’s mind; read his secrets. Psyonicists, they called them. Zolin was one, surely. Sebastian wondered if any one of the two Bazira in the room were as well, attempting to read him now; crawling around in his mind like thieves searching for something shiny and valuable amid the dark clutter.
No, I’d feel it. My thoughts are mine.
“But I’m not all together empty-handed,” Zolin said, jarring Sebastian. “Would you care to hear what I have deduced?”
“I can’t wait.”
“You want my gold. No, you need my gold,” Zolin said and the slight slur in to his words was gone. “Your boots are shabby and so is your coat. It could be a ruse, a disguise to keep me guessing about your situation, but I don’t think so. I think you haven’t worked in some time—those four years, perhaps—and not because you’ve been drunk on a beach. I think you’re not working by choice. Losing your taste for it, is my thinking. You killed those two young fools I set on you, but only after you let them go first. So here you are,” Zolin said. “One big job. Maybe your final job. Maybe you’re after retiring; hanging up Bloody Bastian’s bloody boots for bloody good.”
The High Vicar chortled then, to watch Sebastian’s face grow pale. A slow smile spread over Jude’s face behind him.
“So to that end, I’m going to have to change the terms of our agreement.” Zolin emptied his wine glass and set it down hard enough to crack its base.
“Is that a fact?” Sebastian said, not bothering to hide his anger and hoping that anger concealed the fear that iced his heart. “You promised me four hundred gold doubloons. Two hundred now and two hundred when the job is done. That is standard.”
“It is standard. Our situation is not. I’m going to pay you just enough to purchase whatever supplies you might need for your voyage and not a penny more. You will sail to cut off Selena Koren’s passage. You will follow her or join her, befriend her or fuck her, and after she has killed Accora, you will kill her. And that’s it.”
Sebastian barked a harsh laugh. “Yes, you’re right. That’s it. This meeting is over and thanks for wasting my bloody time…”
“Sit down,” the High Vicar said when the assassin rose to his feet, and his adherents drew their swords. “I wasn’t finished. Sit.”
Sebastian clenched his teeth. “The last man who talked to me as if I were a dog, died with a sword up his arse for a tail, and with his tongue hanging out of his fucking throat.”
“Chilling,” the High Vicar said, “and I’m relieved to hear a little violence out of you. Please sit, my young friend. I haven’t yet told you our new arrangement. I believe you will find it acceptable.”
Sebastian sat. Slowly.
“I am in quite a quandary,” Zolin said. “I don’t believe there is anyone on Lunos but you who can kill that Aluren bitch, except for Bacchus himself, and that is not a battle I wish to risk. However, I cannot trust you. There is weakness in you. A churning tempest in your little black heart. A hesitation—”
“I have no hesitation—”
“Liar,” Zolin snapped. “Your olive coloring speaks of the Forgotten Isles where the Zak’reth committed the worst of their war crimes. Your most violent atrocities were perpetrated on them. Selena Koren killed many thousands more. Therefore, you might think twice before killing the woman who wiped out their armada, ended their hopes of conquest, and sent the few survivors back to their islands like whipped dogs. You might,” Zolin said, “admire the bitch for such a deed.”
“I told you,” Sebastian said, “my word is my oath.”
“And I say your oath is whale shit. But your talent is worth the risk. That is why when you bring the heads of Selena Koren and Accora to me in a bag and tumble them out at my feet, I shall give you eight hundred gold doubloons. I will pay you for Accora’s death no matter if she met it at your hands or not.”
Eight hundred. Sebastian fought to keep his expression blank. I could buy my own atoll…
Zolin lunged forward, jarring Sebastian from his thoughts.
“But if you betray me, I will send every last Bazira to scour the oceans until you’re found, and when I do, believe me, you will consider death the richest remuneration.” Zolin smiled. “You will find, Bloody Bastian, I can be pretty fucking depraved too.”
Sebastian’s palms were greased with sweat and his breath was short. The chamber was wide and drafty, and yet he felt just as trapped as if they’d put him in that cell. He could feel the old man’s triumph.
“Do you accept?”
He’s right. He’s right about all of it. Do I accept? Do I agree to kill the woman who did what I have done in my dreams a thousand nights? The woman who laid waste to the Zak’reth?
“Sebastian Vaas. The Black Star. Bloody, bloody Bastian, killed the captain…” Zolin’s singing was like a small animal strangling to death. Then he ceased his tune and leaned forward.
“Do… you… accept?”
One last job.
There was a heavy silence. Sebastian could feel the gaze of the other Bazira guards on him, the young man and woman.
They’re laughing at me. I should kill them all...
“I accept.”
Mutiny
The ship rocked gently. A wooden creak accompanied every dip of the prow and slants of light infiltrated the planks in narrows shafts. Selena knelt on the floor so that one ray fell across her face and another her hands. But the tingle of heat was faint along her skin.
Thank you, my god. Thank you for Hearing me, at long last, and setting me on this course.
She thought to ask the god for peace in her heart as well, but pushed the thought away and sought to fill her soul with gratitude. But since departing Isle Lillomet six days before, every morning aboard the Grey Gull was the same: waking with a surge of hope th
at the god Heard her at last, but with vestiges of the Alliance meeting clinging to that hope like a murky shadow.
“What say you, Paladin?” Celestine asked.
I am no assassin, Selena thought and closed her eyes. She laid her hand to her chest, and heard herself say, “If these two Bazira have harmed innocent people…”
The High Reverent nodded solemnly but relief had suffused her dark eyes. “Then it is done.”
It is done. She laid her hand to the cold hole in her chest. “Thank you, my god,” Selena said loudly. “An end, at last.”
A commotion sounded from above. Scuffling boot steps and the heavier thud that could only be Ilior, pounded the deck above her tiny cabin. Selena drew on her overtunic and took up her sword.
She emerged onto the main deck to find Ilior surrounded by the crew, straight-bladed cutlasses trained on him from every angle. The Vai’Ensai had his arms out, asking for peace, but Selena knew he was ready to draw his immense blade from the scabbard on his back. She gripped her own sword and strode forward.
“What is happening here?”
The captain, a man of middle years named Angelo Olin who had seemed much cleaner cut two weeks ago when the Grey Gull set off from Isle Lillomet, turned. He glanced at her sword and ready stance.
“Now, my lady, let us not be hasty,” he began.
“Hasty? Why does the crew threaten Ilior?”
“No threats. Just changing our arrangement. It’s nothing personal,” Captain Olin said. “Or mayhap it is. Personal, as every one of us don’t want to lose his personal life on Isle Saliz, fighting a pair of Bazira magicians.”
Selena clenched her teeth. Celestine, you fool. “I thought this was already explained to you,” she said, watching, with failing hope, as two other crewmen lowered a skiff down the brig’s port side. “I will fight the Bazira. You need only bring me to them.”
The captain shook his head and several crewmen spat curses.
“Isle Saliz and its waters are bad enough,” Captain Olin said. “Even if we don’t step ashore with you, we risk our skins with all manner of beasts that lurk beneath the surface. Thinking on this, I been having second thoughts. I’ve decided to change the nature of the contract I had with your holy lady.”
Ilior met Selena’s eye questioningly from inside the ring of armed crewmen. She shook her head.
“You would betray the High Reverent of your god? The god who governs the seas upon which you sail?”
The captain had the good graces to look humble.
“I don’t mean to anger the Two-Faced any more than is wise, and I’m no murderer of the god’s own. Or her large friend,” he said with a nod at Ilior. “So we’ll be letting you go with your skins intact and with a lighter burden to carry.”
Selena frowned. “What burden?”
“Your pretty Reverent gave me a goodly sum of gold doubloons to take you to Isle Saliz and another tidy stash upon your return. The first payment is stowed safely in my cabin, but the second…” The captain rubbed his stubbly chin. “Seeing as I won’t be welcome back on Lillomet for a time, I’m going to need that second payment now.” He eyed the sapphire on the pommel of Selena’s sword. “And your blade would look ever so pleasant on my belt.”
“Scoundrel,” Ilior intoned. “You would take what you haven’t earned.” He looked to Selena. “Call your magic, Paladin, and put an end to this charade.”
Every man on the crew glanced at her anxiously and a shade of uncertainty fell over the captain’s face.
“I am no murderer either,” Selena said. Not yet. She held up one hand and spoke the prayer, “Luxari.” A globe of white light bloomed in her palm. The crew, to a man, took a step back from she and Ilior. “What island is that, yon?” She nodded her head to the sea before them. A small island was emerging from the morning mists. “Isle Uago, yes?”
The captain nodded. “Aye. Like I says, we’re merciful and offer you this skiff to take you there. We won’t doom you to the open sea.”
“How thoughtful.”
Ilior was shaking his head now, disgusted.
“Very well,” Selena said. “We will take our leave of your ship. This—“she laid her hand on the pommel of her blade—“is a Paladin’s sword, given upon attaining that rank and fit for none to wield but me. You cannot have it. Nor will you take the remainder of our coin.” The light in her cupped palm flared as if to emphasize her words. “You have forsaken your bond and have stolen from the Moon Temple of the Aluren. You have threatened a Paladin of the Two-Faced God and her friend, war veterans both. It is only by my mercy that I do not burn your ship to embers for your betrayal.”
The crew’s muttering and cursing grew louder against the wisdom of this mutiny and several lowered their blades against Ilior.
The captain’s face turned ruddy. “Burnt to embers here or overrun by monsters on Isle Saliz, there is little difference.” He drew himself up. “Keep your coin and your sword; you’ll need both on Isle Uago where the pirate scum won’t be so nice as me.”
Selena let the light in her palm die. “Perhaps not, but at the least the pirates do not pretend to be honorable as they twist a knife in your back.”
“Isle Uago,” Selena said, watching the small, crescent-shaped island draw close. “The last time we were here was after the war, though I hardly remember.” She shivered and hunched deeper into her cloak.
“Aye,” Ilior said, rowing. “No help for it. Then or now.”
Selena nodded and watched as a merchant packet—a three-masted barque—made its way west. It sat low on the water, ponderous with cargo and cannon, flying the gold and green of Isle of Lords.
“Can’t sail the Marauder’s Sea without passing Uago,” Ilior said, following her eye. “Unless you’re a fool enough to try the Heart Waters. The good man who sailed us after the war was no fool. But Captain Hugh had to dock on Uago and paid one pirate bastard a fee for restocking there. The collectives were growing strong then. Stronger now, most like.”
Selena watched the pirate isle draw near. The sun sank, casting Isle Uago in hues of gold and copper, and bathing it in a soft, warm light. Like a golden scabbard holding a bloody, rusted dagger.
“Between my sword and magic and your strength perhaps we can avoid the worst of the dangers. But finding a ship willing to take us back to Lillomet, to start over again, might not be so simple.”
“I still don’t understand why the Alliance didn’t send you an armada escort. If the two Bazira are so dangerous to the Western Watch…”
“If what Admiral Crane said is true,” Selena said, “there are no armada ships to be spared. Skye’s plans dictate that Alliance bolster its fleet for what is to come. Whatever that may be.”
“It surprises me that the Justarchs and admirals and Reverents all heed the word of that woman so utterly.”
“Skye has the god’s ear better than any. She brought us victory over the Zak’reth and ended the war. For that, they honor her commands from afar.” Selena looked at him. “As do I.”
Ilior grunted.
“I know you feel she’s as much responsible for my wound as the god,” Selena said, “but that’s not the way of it. She knew what needed to be done to end the war. She could not have known what would happen to me.”
“And this time she does?”
“You sound like Reverent Gerus,” Selena said. “Skye is the High Reverent, even if another wears the title in her absence. To speak against her is impious.”
Ilior’s expression softened. “I hate to see you suffer for so long.”
“If Skye is right, then my suffering is drawing to a close. I don’t even dare to dream it.” She sighed. “But this is a terrible delay. The journey back to Lillomet will take another fortnight and the Bazira trail is already as cold as ice.”
“Merchants are often forced by necessity to dock at Uago,” Ilior said. “It might not be hard to find one to take us back to Lillomet. Or, if they are bound for the Eastern Edge, we could take passage to Isle
Saliz after all.”
“Perhaps, but most merchant packets that sail this route are fully loaded with more crew than they can handle to man guns or blades against pirates. Finding a cabin will be impossible, a hammock probable, but only when its crewman is at watch. You are skilled enough to pitch in, but I am no sailor. I’ll get in the way.” She grimaced. “Or become a distraction to the men.”
Ilior’s expression darkened. “Your gold should buy a cabin and I won’t move from its door. We won’t need return to Lillomet.”
Selena smiled at her friend. Away from Lillomet, even if abandoned to a little skiff by a mutiny, he seemed invigorated. He’d rather take his chances with pirates than priests, she thought fondly.
“Aye,” she said. “The Two-Faced God may favor us yet.”
Ilior did not reply but rowed, his oars cutting smoothly through the Marauder’s Sea.
Marooned
The tavern was called the Silver Spigot, but Selena thought the Yellow Fog would have been more appropriate. Yellow light from whale oil lamps and candles to suffuse the small confines in a dim yellow haze. She sat at a table stained by yellow beer, pirates leering at her with yellow teeth from every corner. Brassy pots were set in the middle of the room so that the patrons didn’t have to stagger far to release their streams of yellow urine. A drunken man banged on the yellow keys of a rickety piano in one corner. He sang shanties with men hanging on his neck who raised yellow bottles of grog. At the table beside hers, four pirates tossed yellowed ivory dice and either swore or cheered or threatened bloodshed at the results. The Silver Spigot was saturated: sour breath, old sweat, and piss, and the man who sat in front of Selena stank of all three.
The captain of the Sea Scar rubbed his chin with crusty yellowed nails. Rasp-rasp-rasp. She sat fought the urge to slap his grubby hand away from his grubby face and waited for him to agree or to deny her so she could move on. We are running out of time.
