Fury of a Demon

by Brian Naslund

  “Easier to enjoy it if you don’t know.”

  Jolan shrugged. Took another sip.

  “So, what’s it like working for the witch queen?”

  “We’re trying to break through Ward’s technology, but it’s … most days I feel overmatched.”

  “Kes swears you’re both consorting with demons now. Fucking them in exchange for power.”

  “Most days, I spend eighteen hours struggling with mathematical equations to improve our lodestone orientation models.”

  “Fucking a demon sounds like more fun.”

  Outside, there was a flash of lightning. Oromir’s horse whinnied, nervous.

  “It’s all right, girl,” he called. “Just a storm.”

  “What’s your horse’s name?” Jolan asked.

  “Doesn’t have one.”

  “Oh.”

  “You gonna lecture me about that? Spout some dragonshit about how I’ve changed since I don’t name my horses anymore?”

  Jolan shrugged. “Naming horses during a war like this doesn’t make much sense to me either.”

  They both drank. Oromir refilled his cup.

  “I have nightmares about the day that Cumberland died,” Jolan said. “Do you?”

  “I used to,” Oromir whispered. Then held up the jug. “This stops them.”

  Jolan understood that. He’d brewed a ginger-root sleeping tonic for himself every night for weeks after Cumberland died. He’d only stopped when he began working with Ashlyn, who refused to abide the foggy head it gave him during their morning experiments.

  “The thing is, every once in a while, instead of a nightmare, I dream about the other times we had,” said Jolan. “Drinking rain ale in that tavern, where Willem got so drunk. Riding horses along the river. Everyone eating dinner around the fire, pretending that Sten wasn’t the worst cook in Almira.”

  Oromir didn’t say anything.

  “Sometimes I dream about that night in the skyship cabin, too. Not that often, but it happens. And it … what I’m trying to say is that I still feel something for you. Beneath all the pain and regret.” Jolan took a breath in. “I know that you blame me for what happened. I blame myself. But do you feel anything else for me? Even if it’s buried? Even if it’s different.”

  Oromir stared at him for a long time.

  “It doesn’t matter what I feel for you, Jolan. Because you’re always going to be the idiot boy who got Cumberland killed. I can’t forgive you for that. So we can share some cups of this awful drink and we can talk about old times if that’ll make you feel better, but all it does is remind me of the biggest mistake I ever made and put me in a dark mood.”

  * * *

  Jolan stumbled outside. He was crying so hard that he couldn’t find his own tent. So he just hunkered down beneath a Daintree in the darkness and the rain, hugging himself and shaking and waiting until morning.

  13

  NOLA

  City of Deepdale, Cat’s Eye Tavern

  “How much for the last of the paku?” asked Kellar, eyeing the salted meat with greedy eyes.

  “The answer to that question is what you’d call negotiable,” answered Nola as she wiped down the counter to the Cat’s Eye tavern. The previous customer had spent thirty minutes munching on a tiny handful of cashews while he drank his rain ale, and left a bunch of crumbs.

  Kellar licked his lips. “Two silvers.”

  Nola scoffed. “Two silvers will buy you a handful of fish scales, if you want those.”

  “Three silvers?”

  “Don’t insult me, Kellar.”

  A moon’s turn ago, three silvers would have bought Kellar the entire fish, and a free rain ale to boot. But times had changed, and silver was worth less and less each day. The only thing of real value was the remnants of the last Dunfarian supply shipment. The lords had taken most of it, and the rest had been snatched up by the gangs. Nola needed to earn enough coin today to buy a Dunfarian pig off the black market tomorrow, and that was going to require some close trading with what she had left.

  “Three’s all I got.”

  “Guess you’re not getting my fish, then.”

  Kellar weighed that. “How about that Papyrian lens I won off one o’ them pirates in the spring? It’s made of silver, and you can see all over the city with it.”

  “Who’d want a better look at this mess of a city?”

  Kellar shifted his eyes from the fish to her face. For a moment, she thought that he might draw that little thumb-knife he kept in his belt. If he did that, Nola was in serious trouble. But she returned his gaze with just as much malice—more, even. That was the key to these kinds of deals: Never back down. Never tuck your tail.

  “Well, if we’re negotiating, and my coin and wares are apparently no good here, make me a fucking offer.”

  “Don’t curse around my sister,” Nola warned, looking over to Grittle, who was struggling to open a half-empty jar of pickled radishes.

  “The words released from your mouth aren’t exactly pristine, Nola.”

  “All the same.”

  Kellar sighed. “Well? Your offer?”

  Nola smiled. She didn’t have any use for a Papyrian lens, but the mention of it had given her an idea.

  “How’s that stash of rice wine you keep in your cellar doing?”

  Kellar’s face flattened in a way that told Nola his stash was running low, but it wasn’t fully depleted.

  “Got a few bottles left, I think.”

  That was good, because while the tavern had a half-full cask of rain ale she could burn through at a high markup, that wasn’t going to be quite enough to afford the pig she had her sights on. But there were two old Papyrian sisters who’d come to Deepdale by way of those pirate ships that had brought the Flawless Bershad back home. The two sisters usually visited the Cat’s Eye in the evenings to watch the sunset.

  Nola had a feeling the Papyrians would pay a heavy markup for the drink of their homeland.

  “Bring me two bottles, your silver, and the Papyrian lens. Then you’ve got a deal.”

  “Thought you didn’t want the lens?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  The thing was useless for trading now—all that anyone wanted was food or drink—but times had to change eventually. That’s what she hoped, anyway.

  “Fine. Fine. Give me the fish now, and I’ll bring the bottles around when I—”

  “What, you make a mud totem that would turn me into a moron or something? If so, you did a crap job. You get your fish after I get my payment.”

  Kellar grumbled something, but he slid off his stool and headed for the door all the same.

  “And none of the swill!” Nola called. “I got sweet, sweet fish, so you best bring me the good shit!”

  After he was gone, Grittle looked up from the jar.

  “What word is worse: fuck or shit?”

  “Huh?”

  “Kellar said fuck. Well, fucking. But you said shit. Whose was worse?”

  Nola weighed that. Couldn’t think of a good answer.

  “Here. Let me help you with that jar.”

  * * *

  Nola watched Suko and Kiko—the two Papyrian sisters—drink their rice wine. She smiled. They’d paid a very high markup for their bottle. The swine was nearly within her reach. All she needed was a decent night from the regulars, then she’d be kept in bacon for weeks.

  Nola’s eyes lingered on the two sisters, who laughed as they drank together. She wondered if she and Grittle would live long enough to do that under some other sunset, seventy years from now.

  With this war on—and a sky filled with dragons and skyships—that seemed about as likely as her turning a profit on the Papyrian lens she’d coerced from Kellar.

  Nola was jostled from that dark thought by the sight of Trotsky and Pern, who were walking down the hill right on time. They were two of her regulars. Retired wardens, both of them. Trotsky made the journey on a pronounced limp he’d earned during the Balarian invasion. Per
n didn’t carry a limp, but he had the distant look in his eyes that Nola had come to recognize in men who’d spent time fighting Balarians. She saw it in Pern, and she’d seen it in her eldest brother, too. But she also saw it in the younger Jaguars who came back to Deepdale after fighting Wormwrot and the gray-skinned monsters. She hated that look.

  “My two favorite customers!” Nola said happily as they came through the door. “I assume you’ll be starting with rain ales?”

  “Correct!” Trotsky said. “And if you water ’em down again, I will cut your ears off.”

  “Grittle does the pours,” said Nola. “You gonna cut a little girl’s ears off?”

  “I don’t discriminate punishment based on the age of the culprit who’s screwing with my beers.”

  “I take offense to that,” Grittle said as she got their drinks. “You know that I’d sooner choke on a seashell than water down the drinks of war heroes.”

  “You’re trying to escape justice with flattery,” Trotsky responded, then turned to Nola. “You teach her that?”

  “Me? I would never instruct my only sister to resort to such vile means of manipulation as flattering two of the most fearsome and brave wardens the Dainwood has ever known.”

  In fact, Nola had taught Grittle that exact thing. And while Nola prattled on about some story Trotsky had told her half a hundred times, Grittle watered down both of their beers. Although she didn’t dilute them as much as the other customers that day. Grittle had a soft spot for Trotsky and Pern.

  So did Nola, if she was being honest with herself.

  “Thank you, darling,” Trotsky said when Grittle came around with their drinks. “What’re our options in terms of grub?”

  “Limited. I sold the last of the paku a few hours ago, but Sebita caught some crickets that I’ve been roasting. Two per person, max. Interested?”

  “Hm. Any limes to go with the chirpers?”

  “Limes. That’s funny. I haven’t so much as dreamt of citrus since spring.”

  “Fine, fine,” said Trotsky, pushing his coins across the table. “I’ll take two.”

  “Pern?”

  “No, thanks. Chirpers hurt my gums.”

  “You have to eat something,” said Trotsky.

  “You aren’t my mother,” said Pern, taking a sip of his beer. “And rain ale counts as dinner.”

  Nola had used a mug of rain ale as dinner more than a few times since the war started, but looking at Pern’s skinny arms and gaunt face made her heart hurt. “How about I boil yours down so they’re a little softer?”

  Pern sighed. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Nola nodded. Headed into the kitchen to work up their orders. As she prepped the bugs, she made the mistake of starting to daydream on the pig she’d buy tomorrow, which got her stomach rumbling and—against her better judgment—she cooked up a third chirper, telling herself that it was because Grittle would be hungry, and knowing that was half a lie. Or half a truth, if she wanted to cut things in a generous direction for herself.

  When she came back into the main room, Trotsky and Pern were still the only customers. Damn.

  “Come on over, Grittle,” Nola said, sitting down with them. “I made one for us to share.”

  Tiny meals lasted longer if you shared them with good company.

  “Grittle, I heard you exchanged words with Lord Bershad when he came through,” said Trotsky. “That true?”

  She nodded gravely. “He helped me with the paku. It was exactly where he said it would be!”

  “That’s because the gray dragon told him. They speak a secret, magical language to each other.”

  “I asked him about that,” said Grittle. “He said it wasn’t true.”

  “Well, he obviously can’t discuss his magic with a little girl. But how else would he have known?”

  “The fact that he grew up in Deepdale might have been a factor,” said Pern.

  “I grew up here, too!” said Trotsky. “I didn’t know where the fish was.”

  “Maybe the Flawless Bershad is a better fisherman than you,” said Nola.

  “Bah! Dragonshit. He’s using magical powers.”

  Nola cut the third cricket in half with a dull butter knife and gave Grittle the bigger half. All of them munched on their bugs for a little while.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time that I saw him kill a Blackjack?” Trotsky asked after he’d swallowed a bite.

  “About three hundred times, yeah.”

  “It was seven years ago,” Trotsky continued, ignoring her. “And I was making a trip through the Gorgon Valley to trade some limes, back before the Balarians incinerated them all like assholes.”

  Nola listened to Trotsky’s story patiently. He usually bought a second and third rain ale on nights when he got to telling stories, and a captive audience was the key to getting him all wound up. Grittle did a good job of asking questions she already knew the answer to, which helped extend his story by half. She knew that telling stories made Trotsky thirsty, too.

  By the time he was done, half a score of patrons had wandered in. The shady-side cobbler, Jakell, and his wife Vindy. Dervis, a younger warden who’d lost his arm in the war and just recently healed enough to leave the castle surgery. All the Jaguars got a portion of silver for losing a limb, and Dervis seemed intent on drinking his away. Nola always made sure he got some food in him, too.

  There were others that Nola knew well enough to bullshit with, but couldn’t place all their names. That was a good thing, though. She couldn’t survive off her regulars alone.

  Grittle tended to their drink orders and Nola handled the roasted crickets. She also made promises there’d be pork coming tomorrow. She even managed to squeeze a few advance payments off two patrons in exchange for choice cuts.

  She cruised by the Papyrian sisters, who’d come inside now that the sun had set and joined Jakell and Vindy at their table.

  “I have one more bottle of rice wine if you’re interested?” she asked.

  “Oh, my,” said Kiko in a thick accent. “This one was so good, perhaps we should save the next for tomorrow. What do you think, Suko?”

  Shit. You better not save my swine money for tomorrow.

  “It was good. Reminded me of home.”

  Suko smiled. Paused. Before she could answer, Grittle came over.

  “Trotsky says it’s dangerous to put treats off until tomorrow at his age,” she said. “Since there’s always a chance he might die in his sleep.”

  “Grittle!” Nola said. “That’s very rude.”

  But the Papyrians were both laughing.

  “No, no, she’s right!” said Kiko, still laughing. “These days, it’s always a risk. We’ll take it. And bring enough cups for our friends.”

  Nola gave Grittle a little nod of approval. They’d practiced situations like that, where Grittle could get away with saying inappropriate things because she was still little.

  Nola went to fetch the last bottle of rice wine, along with an extra set of cups. By the time she came back, Jakell had finished his crickets and was using one of their legs to pick at something stuck between his brown teeth.

  “So, Jakell, were you able to finally convince Lord Silas to purchase a pair of shoes from you?” she asked.

  “No, he turned me down once again.” He eyed Nola. “You enamored with him like all the other women in this town?”

  Nola shrugged. “He’s not really my type.”

  Jakell snorted, then smiled, showing off his horrific teeth even more. “Hear that, Vindy? Not really her type.”

  “I heard,” his wife said lightly. She was still munching on the last of her cricket. “And I respectfully disagree.”

  “My wife here would run away with Lord Bershad in a heartbeat, given the chance.”

  “His cock is a foot long.”

  “That’s just a story,” said Jakell, waving a hand at the notion.

  “No, no. Becki Stark used to run a tavern in some Atlas Coast town, and she screwed him twice. O
nce on his way to Vermonth and again on his way back. She confirmed it. A foot long.”

  “Becki is known for exaggerations.”

  Grittle frowned. “What’s so special about a big cock, anyway?”

  All of the women looked at each other. Then broke into laughter. Vindy patted her on the head. “You’re a little young for that, my dear.”

  Nola was old enough to understand what they were talking about in theory, but didn’t have any practical experience with the issue. If she was honest, the prospect of letting a cock of any size inside of her wasn’t very appealing.

  “I never liked the really big ones myself,” said Suko. “Turns their owners into lazy lovers.”

  “The Flawless Bershad does not strike me as a lazy lover,” said Vindy, voice wistful.

  “Definitely not,” said Kiko. “Queen Ashlyn might only be half-Papyrian, but we islanders are famous for molding men into generous lovers. I bet Bershad knows exactly how to use his giant cock.”

  “Can we please stop talking about Silas Bershad’s cock?” Jakell asked. “Grittle is too young, and it’s upsetting my digestion.”

  “You’re the one who brought him up!”

  “No, that was Nola!”

  Nola put her hands up in mock surrender. “I asked about shoes. I didn’t realize we were going to wind up talking about his cock, either.”

  “Well, what do you want to talk about instead?” Vindy asked. “This terrible war? The latest man we know to be eaten by a dragon?”

  “Lemmy, right?” Nola asked.

  “Yeah. Nicked by a Blackjack three days ago.”

  Everyone went quiet a moment. Lemmy had been a good customer. He never paid with coin—even before the war started—but always had fruit available to trade that he picked from Daintrees. It was a risky way to scrounge food, seeing as you shared those Daintrees with the dragons. And Lemmy’s luck had finally run out.

  “Well, we can always talk more about making shoes,” Jakell said. “I’ve been trying a new way to cut the soles that works just as well and uses a fraction less material, which is important in these times.”