Malachite

by Kirby Crow

  Boys and men were crowded in a tight knot on the forecastle deck, arms locked to the rails, clinging to life.

  “It's moored below,” Marion said. “Heavy anchor, probably.”

  “I'll get a hook.” Jean reached for the door.

  He grabbed Jean's elbow. “Too late. The chain's tangled in her rudder. It'll tear her apart.” Deliberate murder. Anger uncoiled inside him like a rousing serpent. “Bastards,” he ground out.

  Jean waited with his hand on the door, looking to him for an answer.

  “Marion?”

  Marion looked at the helmsman, who shook his head.

  “We go closer, maybe catch our own chain, huh?” the helmsman said with bleak resignation. “She bigger boat than us, too. Too close and she take us under with her, all the way down.” He shuddered.

  Marion met Jean's anxious stare. “Can they swim to us?”

  “In this? Half of them are boys. They'll be dead in a minute.”

  Marion clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. “Not all of them. Take us closer,” he commanded the helmsman.

  The man stayed rooted to the spot.

  “Do it!”

  The helmsman obeyed with stilted movements, spitting out a string of words that were either curses or prayers.

  Jean flung open the wheelhouse door.

  The wind tore at their limbs, made their eyes tear. Marion wrapped his fingers around the handrail and held on grimly. Jean's slipped an arm around his waist and helped.

  “Stay with me, Marion.”

  Marion flinched when the sodium lights flickered and went out. Lightning flashed. The deck shook with thunder. He could feel it under his boots as the terrified screams of the boys rose to a pitch.

  He turned and shouted into the wheelhouse. “Make for that barrel! Trap it between us!” It was a mad plan, to isolate one of the barrels between the ships in hope of crushing it. If he did nothing, everyone on that boat was dead anyway. Perhaps a few men would make it to shore in darkness, if the current did not drag them down. Most would not.

  The lights came back on, and a black, roiling wall of water rose before him. The tall wave swept over them and the deck tilted sickeningly, knocking Marion off his feet. He flailed for Jean's hand, caught him and was hauled up.

  “Damn you, hang on!” Jean shouted.

  The deck slanted again, riding the wake of the rogue wave under their hull. The bow rose, the sea falling away beneath them, and then their nose slammed into the other boat. Wood screeched and shattered as the two hulls impacted. Ugly tearing sounds of wood and chains. Another tremendous jolt, and Marion was thrown back, his boots sliding helplessly on the wet boards. His feet left the deck. Time slowed.

  Lightning bloomed across the sky, granting him a split-second vista of the Lion Sea stretching out like a dark, breathing beast. Riding the waves was a many-angled shape rising over the waters like a giant. Marion gasped in shock, and then the back of his head connected with the wheelhouse glass.

  When he opened his eyes, Jean was leaning over him and it was raining hard. He was on his back on the main deck, strange faces looming over him. The sea was calmer, the engines chugging along. They were back in the lagoon.

  Rain ran into his mouth and he coughed. Jean turned him over and slapped his back.

  “Safe?” he croaked.

  “All but one,” Jean said.

  He looked up at Jean, muscles shaking with delayed stress.

  Jean's face was tight, guarded. His coat was ripped and a red gash in his temple dripped crimson down his cheek.

  “The other captain didn't make it.”

  Marion hung his head, guilt creeping over him. He hadn't wanted Jean to have to do it. “I pray that Paladin watches over him.”

  “Pray to Triton,” Jean said. “He threw himself overboard.”

  He gaped at Jean. “Jumped?” Then he remembered. In his last instant of consciousness, when the lightning seared the sky and night became day, he had glimpsed on the horizon, against a backdrop of gathering storm clouds, the soaring black sails of a man o' war.

  The Starless Men.

  JEAN

  Aequora, Dodici

  (Day 12)

  Jean woke aching and bruised in the middle of the night to a furtive knocking on his door and a scurry of footsteps. He lay in bed and counted his pains as the footfalls faded away. Since the rescue of the foundered ship, his body felt like it had been thrown in a sack and beaten with clubs. Marion had gone to the dottore with some story, the truth of the night being reserved for Kon, who hadn’t reached out to Jean to validate or dispute Marion’s report.

  No matter. Kon would believe Marion, in any case.

  Jean looked out the window to the Alley of Sparrows below. With Aequora under their skin and the moon waxing, the Colibri was all but howling. Through the chaos of dancing and jostling men, he spied one smallish figure gliding through the melee like a snake through sand.

  Fucking Franny. Again.

  Jean grunted and rolled out of bed. Out in the dim hall, on the floor, was a torn sheet of yellowed paper with smudged ink: Sagittario.

  He lit a candle, burned the paper, and shook his boots for scorpions.

  The lowcoach ride to the Martello was expensive, but he didn't want to risk an open sandolo until he reached the Rio Avorio. Once at the canal, he found the waterway choked with dilapidated sandolii vying for patrons. He pulled his hood over his face and hid his badge, signaling for the nearest sandolier.

  At his direction, the sandolier took him to the curved, dank shelter of the Archetto Bridge and left him there. He searched the bridge high and low, but found only an abandoned sandolo with a leaky hull. He searched among the damp cushions and under the seats, but found nothing, no blood, not a coin or button. Either Franny’s note was a lie, the man who had been here was dead, or Jean was in the wrong place.

  Jean wiped his sweating forehead and looked up and down the canal. Archetto was the old word for bow. He'd thought he was being clever.

  He decided to go deeper into the heart of the slum. To the east was the Fortezza: the last remaining battle-fortified structure in the Zanzare, a remnant of some former century when the Island of Thieves was the power in the city, and not the Citta Alta. The fort was used now as a supply depot and for grain storage in winter, but it was falling into disrepair. Men down here were too busy trying to feed their bellies to take up carpentry.

  Jean was conspicuous in his search; lounging in broken doorways with his lapel pulled aside to display his badge, asking for news loudly in the meanest taverns. The spy—if he ever existed—did not appear, and by dawn, Jean’s feet ached in his boots and he was no closer to a rendezvous. He’d wasted his night for nothing, and Marion would be furious that he’d dodged another Aequora.

  Keep this up and you won’t have to worry about Kon sacking you. Marion will do it.

  The Zanzare had no fashionable Colibri district where actors, artists, and cortigiani mingled with upper class men who were eager to rub shoulders with beauty, or to purchase it for a night or an hour. There was no Falena where the most beautiful men gravitated, no Bailey where every man was available, and no Court of Undines where masked Lamiae engaged in exotic carnal acts. There were no Pae, no veiled danseurs, and certainly no telegraph kiosks.

  Of them all, Jean wished most for the kiosk. He could have sent word to Marion. They'd tried erecting kiosks in the Zanzare before, but the poles always went missing, the copper wires turned into jewelry or melted down. It was as much a hatred for the things of the Citta Alta as it was simple greed.

  The further his boots took him from the salty breezes of the Rio Avorio and deeper into the ramshackle insulae and narrow alleys, the worse the smell. Rifiuti lived here, the trash of the city. Men who drank too much, fought too much, stole too much, or simply hated too much. Few of them held steady jobs or knew a trade.

  The remnants of the disbanded Teschio gangs were also in residence, men who had lived to see the fall of their warlords a
nd the shining rebirth of Malachite, but who took no joy in it. Some able-bodied men worked the docks as loaders or fisherman. Many cobbled boats together out of planks and driftwood to launch their own fishing skiffs, labored as coachmen or oarsmen, or hired themselves out in one of Kon Sessane's endless rebuilding initiatives. The rest fought, drank, fucked when they could find a partner, and stole when they could get away with it. There was a brisk protection business in the Zanzare, but Jean hadn't been able to smoke out the ringleaders. Marion didn't consider it a priority.

  Marion's gone soft, he thought.

  Not that Jean was overflowing with love for the Zanzare. In time, he'd wound up hating everything it stood for. Then, Kon promoted Marion out of the slums, out of his old life and into a new one that didn't include Jean.

  Jean cursed Kon for a bastard as he made his way through the intricate maze of close buildings painted in shades of terra cotta and blue. The rising sun glowed red on the flat horizon, filling some streets with sullen illumination while pouring broad blocks of it into deep shadow. Most of the plastered-brick structures were three or four storeys high, topped with wooden levels built over the centuries to accommodate the burgeoning Zanzare population. The timber dwellings had not held up as well as the brick under the briny winds. When the winter storms came, the skyline of the Zanzare swayed as if teetering on the verge of collapse.

  Jean’s boots had low heels that landed soft on the smooth cobblestones, making little noise. That was a benefit in this district, but the man following him through the alleys believed bare feet gave him an edge.

  Jean waited until he was rounding a sharp corner. At the turn, he let his eyes flash to the right without turning his head and saw a lone figure following him at thirty paces. He'd have liked to get a glimpse of his face, but the shadows didn't allow it. He turned the corner, ducked immediately into an alley, and continued to tamp his heels softly on the stones to imitate the sound of his retreat. He counted to ten. Just as he expected, the man's shadow fell over him at eleven. Jean's arm shot out.

  The man yelped, and Jean realized that poor light and haste had made him misjudge. He seized a handful of his follower’s shirt and dragged him out of the alley into the light.

  “Are you stupid, boy?” The youth was fifteen or sixteen, long hair tied into a messy braid. He didn't answer. Jean shook him until he whimpered. “Start speaking or start losing teeth.”

  “He made me!” the boy blurted.

  “Who?”

  Tears sprang from the boy's eyes and rolled down his beardless face. “Argenti.”

  Fucking graycloaks. He shook the boy again. “Name!” Jean slapped him across the mouth. The boy blubbered and cried.

  “L'arciere,” the boy whispered. “He says to follow any man from the Citta Alta, report where he goes, who he sees.”

  “Give me his name.”

  He whipped his head back and forth. “Non posso!”

  Cannot. More like the kid was too terrified to say. Jean dropped him with a grunt. Like a mouse, the boy remained still where he fell.

  “Can't say I blame you,” Jean sighed. “If I was your size, I wouldn't cross the bastard either. Well?” He waved his arm. “Off with you! Go pick a pocket.”

  The boy darted off and was swallowed up by the gloom. Jean stalked through the shabby streets in a different direction. He could feel eyes on him. The area between his shoulder blades itched with it, and he no longer knew if they were real or his own sense of survival.

  He passed the Street of Olives, which was a hopeful name when he was a boy, though no olive trees had ever grown there. His footsteps slowed and he paused, turning right to gaze down the long, stone-paved avenue that dead-ended into a square canal access. Motley, many-storied insulae high lined the street, most of them deserted.

  During his childhood, this street had been the hub of his world, noisy with shouts and smells and a hundred snot-nosed, scabby-kneed boys. Thirty years ago, Aureo Marigny had walked this street like a king, and like a king, he had the power to grant miracles. Jean had rushed to give him homage. Later, as a man, Jean had learned what Aureo truly was, but he always remembered the long saffron cloak with the sunburst emblem, and the jovial warmth of Aureo’s smile. Aureo had come striding into Jean's life like sunlight, bringing hope and food and a family to belong to.

  It hadn't all been a lie. Aureo was generous to those he cared for, but if he didn't care for you, you might find yourself tied in a sack at the bottom of the Lion Sea with crabs nipping your privates. The trick to staying on Aureo's good side was following orders without question, not balking at even the most brutal jobs, remaining loyal.

  He hadn't failed at loyalty. Not really. He'd merely been forced to choose between devotions, and he'd chosen Marion.

  Jean found himself turning right, his boots scraping on the loose, neglected paving stones underfoot. A black cat crossed his path, soft as a shadow, quick as a lie. The red glow filled broken windows and stabbed through empty insulae and shacks, until the street seemed doused with blood.

  It seemed like an omen.

  Scrawled with hammer and chisel on the stones was the same rough sunburst symbol that Aureo had worn. Everywhere he looked, he saw Aureo's mark etched on posts and carved into doors, a warning that this street and all its contents were protected by the Teschio. The Street of Olives near the Lowgate had been Aureo's hunting grounds, the place where he found new talent and trained them up to be men.

  Jean came to a narrow alley where the slumped stories leaned in toward one another over the alley, as if about to topple onto his head, and stepped around a pile of mixed refuse and seawater where the cobblestones were flooded. It looked as if the foundation for this entire area of the slum had failed and was sinking. Mosquitoes whined past his ears and tangled in his hair. He slapped at them and turned up the collar of his coat.

  The Zanzare men on the street were intent on their own errands and indifferent to him. They were more interested in the quality of his boots. Jean noted the avid and greedy glances at the fine leather, but he was bigger than most and he undoubtedly looked healthier. He changed direction and strode west for another ten minutes, then had to turn south again when the street ended in a stagnant canal with the walls falling in. Before he knew it he was in the Lowgate section near where his father had died, next to the scarred wooden door of a tavern.

  He remembered the tavern. It had been called the Gaffed Whale in his youth, and the place had been filthy and falling down even then. The words burned into the wooden board proclaimed it to be La Strega del Sale, or Salt Witch. Jean was amazed the building was still standing, but what drew his attention were the words burned beneath the name: D. Sagittario, owner.

  The rust-scaled hinges screeched as Jean swung the door inward and stepped into the dark, holding the door wide with the toe of his boot. A man snarled at him to close it. Jean ignored him, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the new light before he moved.

  Tables were sparse and men sat on crates inside the ample space. The wooden ceiling had large patches of black mildew and the walls were plaster yellowed with age and smoke. The salty air at low tide was rank with piss, spilled beer, and fish. A scruffy cat brushed by his ankles and meowed. Jean sidestepped the animal and made his way to the bar.

  A bartender in a plain tunic mopped the long wooden bar with a towel, trying to clean what would never be entirely clean again. He was a boy barely out of his teens, blonde and skinny with a bright calico scarf tied around his head. A cheap green jewel winked from his ear. Jean nodded at him and held up a finger for one of whatever he was serving.

  “Look who it is. Il principe di fango!”

  He'd been called worse, and by much better men than the broken-toothed gaggle of bleary-eyed hangovers who were staggering about here.

  Jean turned around and leaned lazily against the bar. The wooden floorboards creaked with his weight, and he counted six men facing him with hostile looks. They were standard ex-gangers, or what passed for them thes
e days; clad in rough-cloth shirts and knee-length breeches, bare feet and ratty hair tied back with red ribbons. None of them had youth on his side and Jean recognized no faces, but that didn't worry him. At one time, the Teschio had boasted of magnificent fighting men among them. He'd put dozens of them into the sea himself. These remnants were nothing like the men he'd killed.

  Jean smiled slowly and relaxed his shoulders. He flexed his hands. “You know, no matter how many times I hear the skull of a crossbones crack, it never stops being funny. Bring it on, ragazzi.”

  Behind him, he heard the boy running for cover. One man spit on the floor and rushed him, feet pounding the boards, his fist broadcasting a move a child could have seen coming. Jean sidestepped, grabbed the ganger's arm and neck and banged his head against the bar, once to subdue him, the second time just for fun.

  Jean hurled the unconscious man at his fellows and spread his arms. He laughed. “Who's next?”

  “Cessare,” a voice as cold as the depths of the sea commanded. Stop.

  A man in the shadows at the very back stood up, and the hairs at the nape of Jean's neck prickled. The laugh died in his throat. He'd always been able to tell when he was looking at a killer.

  The man broached the gloom and came into the lamplight. He was tall, clad in good leather boots and spotless trousers, wearing a hooded gray cloak.

  Jean sneered. “Argenti.”

  The graycloak wore the three-pointed silver mark stitched on his breast. He folded his arm across his middle and bowed.

  “That will do for a name, for now. Please,” he pointed at the bar. “Drink. These men will return to their merriment.”

  As if commanded by the voice of Paladin, the gangers turned their backs on Jean. One of them hauled the beaten man up and pushed him toward a stack of crates near the door, where he sat nursing his head.