by L. W. Jacobs
Ella spotted the secretary the second day, a willowy woman with almost enough strands of black in her hair to be fyelocke. She was scared out of her wits when she understood Ella was looking for the man who’d send her to Eyadin. It had taken a combination of wit and a judicious display of force—most people in Worldsmouth had never seen true resonant power—to get her to talk.
When she did, the answer was not as straightforward as Ella had hoped. No names, no position at Alsthen—though the woman had thought he did work for them—not even a meeting place. What she had known was that he was a full darkhair, tall, and always smoked cigars while they talked.
And that the man had threatened her with bluefoot fever too, if she didn’t cooperate. That more than anything convinced Ella she was on the right trail. The cigars were a strong lead too—sage-smoking had a long history in Worldsmouth, but the preferred method was by pipe. Cigar blending and rolling was a refined art, and cigar smokers tended to be wealthy men wanting to display their wealth by smoking what would otherwise be a week’s worth of sage at a go. Her father had smoked cigars occasionally, but never for pleasure.
Cigar smoking fit with her image of an archrevenant. And better yet, there were only a handful of cigar shops in Worldsmouth that such men would frequent. Hunting for a tall darkhaired man in the ranks of Alsthen could take months. Hunting for him among the cigar-smoking lighthaired elite of Worldsmouth, though? There was an easier fish to hook.
Ella started that very night, at The Gentleman Sage in West Cove. She learned two things very quickly: she stood out in a cigar shop worse than she had in Ayugen, and she hated cigars.
The first posed more of a problem than the second. Cigars smelled awful and she felt sick after just a few puffs, but she could put up with the stink and the nausea. The sheer egotism of the clientele, though? That she had a harder time with.
Barely was she in the door than the worker had smirked at her behind the polished teakwood bar, and conversation had stilled among the dozen or so men seated beyond in plush chairs. There were no women. Nor were there any darkhairs.
According to the browning spots on her hands, her resonance was starting to age her, but still the patrons eyed her like a fisherman’s prime catch. Her attempts to get some sort of useful information from the worker were entirely disrupted by a stream of smoke-belching older lighthaired gentlemen. Solicitously they asked if she needed anything, if she’d like a cigar, where she was from, etc., while stealing glances at her chest. One even asked her what her yurability was, like that had become some kind of pickup line in the years since she’d left the capital.
It wasn’t all bad—she could ferret information out of cigar-suitors as well as she could from the shop’s employee. Half of them, of course, were only asking questions to lead her into some topic they personally were knowledgeable about, so they could then explain it at length to her. The trouble was the other half, the ones who knew how to listen, were so attentive it was difficult to make her questions about a darkhaired smoker sound casual.
It felt like The Swallowtail Mistress all over again, or the wealthy suitors her parents had sent to her in her early years of confinement. Fortunately, those times gave her plenty of experience directing conversations where she wanted while coming off simple-minded and innocent.
Unfortunately, none of them knew of or had seen a darkhaired cigar smoker frequenting The Gentleman Sage. After exhausting the last of the able-to-listen cigar suitors and seeing another wave of the want-to-hear-myself-talk ones coming, Ella made a quick exit.
She sucked a delicious breath of clean air. Even the city’s sewer-delta stench smelled fresh after the green-gray haze of that place.
The sun was nearly down in the sky, conversation humming through the light foot traffic on West Cove’s broad thoroughfares. She had at least gleaned the names of the other respected cigar shops in the city—Eddard’s Pipe and Sage and The Philosopher’s Leaf. The second of those was a short river taxi away, in the old money district of Reed Heath. She spent the trip watching the fires of The Stilts and the white globes of Ylensmarsh’s lanterns slide by, wondering how old her body was, and whether it would be worse to walk the Brokewater by night as an old woman or a young one.
Still, she had her resonance, and every extra day it took her to find Teynsley was another day the archrevenant could send assassins after Tai. Better to push it. She could handle some Brokewater thugs. But Tai’s attacker had wafted, timeslipped, used the spear, and changed his appearance even without the spear’s power. She’d been avoiding the thought, not wanting to admit what Tai was up against, but since the attacker wasn’t an archrevenant himself, he must have been a shaman. Which meant Teynsley somehow had shamans working for him, though the two should be bitter enemies.
Currents send there were no more attacks before she got back.
Currents send Tai had gone to Ayugen. He’d be harder to track down there.
The Philosopher’s Leaf was stone and leather and dark wood inside, the air pleasantly clear, with a clever system of vents and flues along the ceiling.
The Leaf’s clientele, however, proved little different than The Gentleman Sage, and Ella kept a pleasant smile plastered to her face as she weeded out the talkers from the listeners, then carefully plied them for information about a darkhaired cigar smoker. More than once she nearly passed out from nausea as she did so—ventilation or not, the musky stench of sage seemed to stick in her nostrils, and she had to resist a primal urge to just get out, mission or not.
Fortunately, the shop was not as well attended as the last, and she worked through her possible informants in half an hour. She pitched her smoldering cigar in the fountain outside—given to her by a particularly insistent bald-headed man bragging about his position in Jeltenets—and headed for the docks. She’d learned nothing and she was exhausted, but the shop in Ylensmarsh was on her way back to Brokewater anyway. She could do one more.
Ella almost changed her mind at the wave of smoke that rolled out from Eddard’s Pipe and Sage, the interior as cramped and ancient as one might expect from Ylensmarsh. Then her eyes lighted on a selection of recent broadsheets on a side table. Her article should be out by now, possibly even republished elsewhere if it’d proven popular. She could handle one more pack of smoking suitors.
The shop’s inside was packed with men still dressed in House colors, each clutching a pipe or cigar, the room as noisy as any low-class teahouse. For once, the men didn’t turn as one to size her up. Either her resonance had finally aged her past male attention, or the place was too crowded to notice. Either way Ella squared her shoulders, breathing firmly through her mouth, and made her way to the table with the broadsheets.
And there it was, squarely at the top of Stiltspeak and Delta’s Oath, two of the main broadsheets aimed at the lower class. Ella scanned them quickly and was pleased to see they’d reprinted her without too many cuts or revisions. She didn’t trust the literary taste of men like the crier’s boss, and she hoped the higher-class broadsheets would pick her story up.
“Anything interesting?” a voice reeking of sage asked over her shoulder. Ella forced a smile and turned back to her work.
Thirty minutes later she was ready to leave. There were plenty of men there she hadn’t talked to, but the smoke was starting to turn her stomach. She was starting to feel her age—this would be easier after a night recharging with the spear’s uai. The man currently doing his best to buy her another cigar despite the smoking monstrosity she held in her hand was more of a talker than a listener, but he also claimed to frequent the shop daily. If the archrevenant had been in here, he would know it.
He paused to inhale, halfway through describing how Ergstad’s last innovation in barge hulls was going to revolutionize the shipping industry, and Ella seized on the opening to try a last line of questions.
“That’s very interesting,” she said, holding her own cigar as far from her face as possible. “I find you cigar smokers such an interesting crowd. Bu
t it really is a lighthaired man’s pursuit, doesn’t it?”
The man—Petrin, was it?—startled, as though shaken awake from his barge-hull reverie. “It is, I suppose. The damned things really aren’t cheap, is one aspect of it. Not too many mudhairs can even afford to step in here.”
Perfect. She had refined her methods of steering cigar conversations over the course of the evening. “But you would think with Alsthen, at least,” she said innocently, “there would be a few darkhairs wealthy enough to come by.”
“Alsthen.” Possibly-Petrin puffed smoke dismissively. “They’re too Seinjialese to be caught smoking these things. Northern leaf, you know. Probably all sitting around somewhere drinking that fermented swill they call lager.”
At least he hadn’t been outright prejudiced about it, like a lot of the men had been that night, when she brought up Alsthen. “But have you seen none around?” Ella pressed, walking a fine line between getting the answers she wanted and outright negating the man’s opinion, which would likely shut him down. “I’ve heard there’s at least one Alsthen higher-up that enjoys fine sage.”
Maybe-Petrin pulled on his cigar, cherry blazing red as he gathered his thoughts. “There is one,” he said on exhale. Ella’s heart surged. Finally. “Don’t see him too much, but when he comes in seems like he’s shopping for his entire House.”
“How interesting,” Ella said. “I’d like to talk with the man. As part of my studies on sage culture, you understand.” This had been her cover story from the start, one the men seemed only too happy to believe in. Of course someone would want to study them. Everyone thought their own lives were fascinating. “You don’t happen to know his name, do you?”
“Uhallen,” He said, tapping ash into a wide ceramic bowl. “The man’s name is Uhallen.”
18
Marea took her time climbing the tower stairs. She’d woken still exhausted, eyes red and puffy, to firm knocks on her door. She’d been sure it was lawkeepers come to arrest her for Josell’s murder.
It had been Lineila instead, summoning her to a breakfast in which her uncle eyed the copious amounts of food she put away and muttered about layabout nieces. She hadn’t had the words to tell him about her meeting at Mattoy—the whole thing felt so petty compared to what she’d gotten involved in—and time had been short. Whatever else happened, she was not missing her meeting with Uhallen. The shaman had promised her power, enough to ‘ease your friend’s pain.’ Yesterday had been a scatstorm, but if it dried out to her helping Rena, it would all be worth it.
Marea circled higher and the redstone roofs of West Cove appeared beyond Ylensmarsh, hazy in the sweltering noonday air. She found her footsteps slowing. Felt a sudden urge to turn and go back down the stairs, to stop before she got in too deep with shamans and murders. To go and apologize to Nawhin and Rena and pray that she made enough from the Mattoy deal to keep them comfortable while Rena died.
To accept that she wasn’t strong enough to do this.
“No,” Marea whispered, forcing her feet into motion again. She’d wanted control of her life for years: while living under her parents’ wings in Newgen, then constrained as an orphan in a rebel city, and the weakest person on the long and dangerous journey north. All the while she’d felt capable of more, and just needed the chance to prove it. Avery revealing her fatewalking to her had been that chance—but she’d blown it by believing the rest of his lies.
Running away from Eyadin’s murder would be accepting she didn’t have control, that she couldn’t fix her own mistakes. The first step was saving Rena’s life. And if that meant she got a little bloody on the way, so be it. This didn’t tie her to Uhallen, or anyone else. No commitments and no attachments, she reminded herself. Get your power and get out.
She cleared the top floor, northern winds carrying a bit of cool from the ocean, to find Uhallen was not alone. Three people sat on chairs near the far edge of the circular space—a young man and two older women. No, they didn’t sit—they were tied there, heads lolling.
She glanced from them to Uhallen, who leaned against a column smoking his ever-present cigar. At her gaze, he exhaled. “They’re not dead,” he said. “Just unconscious. We’ll need them for today’s session.”
Marea steeled herself. “Am I going to have to kill them?”
Uhallen barked a laugh. “No! Not at all. Was the mission so bad, then?”
It was awful, Marea wanted to say. I cried half the night afterwards.
“It wasn’t great,” she said out loud. “Josell figured me out, and the revenant attack didn’t work. Or, it did eventually, but things got messy.”
“Mm,” the shaman said. “But you learned something too.”
“I learned a few things,” she said, trying to sound confident. “That you can have more than one shamanic arm, for one thing. And that you have to pull a revenant off for an attack to work. But most of all, that I can’t keep murdering people in broad daylight in this city.”
“It wasn’t murder,” Uhallen said, voice hardening for a moment. “It was justice. I told you Josell’s past, and you surely got a sense for the man while you were fighting. He deserved to die.”
That made her feel better, if marginally. Uhallen could be lying, but Josell had seemed like a meckstain. “I didn’t see any revenants to thrall though,” Marea said. “I’m not sure he had any.”
“He had three,” Uhallen said, examining the lit end of his cigar. “I took them.”
She started. “You were there?”
“Close enough,” the shaman said. “I had to make sure you survived.”
“Then you know I almost didn’t,” Marea said, unable to keep a touch of anger out of her voice. “You could have stepped in.”
“I had to make sure you were resourceful as I hoped,” the shaman said, “and you were. You did well.”
Marea blushed, realizing the man had likely watched her scrub herself in the courtyard, and panic, and lose herself to tears.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to get control of herself. “So the three revenants you got—”
Uhallen nodded. “You are owed one and a half, as per our agreement. Though I think I will give you two, as one is not so strong as the others, and you need uai more than I.”
A weight lifted from her shoulders she didn’t know she’d been carrying. “Great,” she said. She was going to get power. Uhallen hadn’t been lying or using her, or if he was he at least intended to honor this part of their bargain. She could help Rena. “So how do we do it? Do you just stick them on me?”
The shaman pulled on his cigar. “No. Sticking them, like you practiced yesterday, will cause a revenant to start feeding, once it seats. What we want is to get fed. You have to do it backwards.”
“Backwards,” Marea said, trying to imagine what that meant.
A revenant rose from the floor, pinkish-gray, pointed toward her. “Think of the revenants as shadows of their human bodies. Not only does their size and shape and color reflect the quality of that human’s experience, their morphology also approximates their creator’s.”
Marea frowned at the bulbous thing. “Meaning?”
“Meaning they have a mouth and an anus,” Uhallen said, breeze catching his smoke and drawing it out over the bay beyond. “A place to consume uai and a place to get rid of what they haven’t used. So far we have been working with the mouths—that is what you’ve been thinking of as the front.”
Marea thought back to the revenants she’d pulled from people. Many of them had vaguely raw circular spots where they’d attached, like sucker fish.
“Exactly. Their exit holes are harder to find, but that matters little for our purposes. Now. If our intention is to thrall rather than stick a revenant on someone, how would you expect to do it?”
“Thralling means to get the uai they’re… not using,” Marea said, trying to ignore the anus metaphor. “So we need to attach their—backs to ourselves, rather than their fronts.”
“Good,” Uhallen sa
id, and casually ripped the revenant from one of the sedated women. Her head jerked up, then lolled back in slumber. “Because those ends are so hard to find, we do it thus.” A second shamanic arm extended from him and pushed into the mouth of the revenant, disappearing inside before appearing from the rear of the pinkish-gray blob.
“Having found the end,” he said, “we attach it to ourselves.” He circled his shamanic arm around and pointed to the spot between his brows. The revenant slid down his arm and stuck to his eyebrow crease. He pulled his arm free.
Marea stared. “Aren’t you risking an archrevenant sensing the loss of power and coming for you?”
“These are what we call unaligned revenants—they don’t vibrate at any of the six regular frequencies. And anyway,” he grinned, “the archrevenants are likely not as sharp as you think.”
“Unaligned,” she said. “So—their hosts don’t have one of the six resonances?”
“No,” he said. “Their abilities are all over the place, and often useless. They’re also exceedingly rare, which is why shamans struggle so many years to increase their uai stream. There just aren’t many targets out there. Most cells have a ranking system that counts by the individual thrall, and plenty of seekers only have two or three themselves. I don’t doubt Josell got these from the shamans he killed during Aymila’s time. When Tai took the spear and her power evaporated, these few remained.”
“So that’s—one of Josell’s revenants?”
“Yes,” Uhallen said, swiping at the thing impatiently. It spun away, leaving a gossamer trail like a silk moth. “You can see it’s pinkish-gray—an in-between color. If you see these, thrall them. They are the safest bets. Solid colors like blue and black and red stand for solid resonances, and you do stand a chance of raising a god’s ire if you thrall them. Now. Take a revenant and try it.”
Hesitantly, Marea extended her arm and pulled the revenant from the young man on the left. Like Uhallen had said, it was a mottled greenish yellow, not the simpler colors of the revenants she had seen so far. Nauro had been so adamant about not thralling unknown revenants that she still hesitated after summoning her second arm, imagining a lightning bolt suddenly striking from the sky the moment she attached it to her forehead.
