Pinn meant to tell her to shut up, that he couldn’t stand the Awakeners’ religious babble and he wasn’t interested in becoming a convert. But she was cute, so the words came out as: ‘Really? Tell me more.’
‘I’ll show you,’ she said. She laid a hand on the cloth satchel she carried. ‘If I may?’
He waved his assent with the barrel of his shotgun. To her credit, her flinch was barely noticeable.
She stepped up onto the platform and joined him. ‘My name is Marinda,’ she said.
‘Artis Pinn,’ he replied absently. He was curious to see what she was going to do next.
The other Speakers watched from behind the pews as Marinda drew out a small, shallow wooden saucer, a metal flask and a long needle. She knelt down and poured some of the flask into the saucer, until it was full of milk.
‘A saucer of milk?’ Pinn asked, confused. ‘Is your god a cat or something?’
‘Silly,’ said Marinda indulgently. She picked up the saucer and held it in one hand, fingers spread underneath. In the other hand she held the needle. ‘The Allsoul isn’t a god. Gods belonged to the old, primitive religions, in the days before King Andreal dictated the Cryptonomicon. The Allsoul is the wind and the water, the harmonies of song, the flight of butterflies and the stirring of the earth. The Allsoul is the great system of interconnectedness, a being formed of all the processes of the world. It is the planet we live on, and we are its greatest triumph.’
‘Not a cat, then?’
‘No. Well, yes, I mean, cats are part of the Allsoul too, just like birds and—’
‘So your god is a cat?’
The slightest hint of frustration crept into her voice. ‘Not just a cat.’
‘So why the saucer of milk?’
She took a deep breath. Pinn had the distinct impression that she was silently counting to ten. When she was done, she smiled sweetly and held up the needle.
‘I need a drop of your blood.’
Pinn was startled. ‘What for?’
‘The will of the Allsoul makes itself known to us through signs. Things that seem random are not random at all. A Speaker has learned to interpret those signs. Some do it by calculating important numbers in your life. Some do it by turning cards. The Allsoul speaks to me through the swirl of blood in milk. Give me a drop of your blood, and I will tell you your future.’
Pinn snorted. ‘You’re gonna tell my future?’
‘You don’t believe me,’ she said, with a knowing quirk of her mouth. ‘That’s alright. You will.’
The confidence in her voice unsettled him. ‘Listen, right. You’re pretty and all, which is the only reason I’ve listened to you this far, but if you think I’m going to let you stab me with a—’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
That stumped him. ‘Thank you for what?’
‘It’s kind of you to say I’m pretty.’
‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘Still, I—’
‘It’s a pity you have someone waiting for you.’
Pinn gaped. ‘How did you know about Emanda?’ He felt almost guilty to be reminded of his sweetheart when he’d just been thinking deviant thoughts about the woman in front of him.
Marinda just gazed at him with those wide, honest eyes, letting him draw his own conclusion. Then she held up the bowl and the needle.
‘Give me your finger,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ he scoffed. She waited expectantly. Pinn realised that, having said so, he was now required to prove it.
‘Fine,’ he sulked. He looked out over the assembly room. Suddenly he felt like the unwilling victim of a stage magician. He brandished his shotgun in one hand. ‘Don’t anyone try anything! Remember what this gun can do! Big enough to fly a frigate through!’
Once he was satisfied his audience was sufficiently cowed, he held his finger out to Marinda. She positioned the wooden saucer beneath it and aimed the needle at the tip of his finger.
‘Hold still,’ she said, and jabbed him.
Pinn had never been stabbed in the fingertip by a needle before. The pain was unexpectedly enormous. He yelled an elaborate curse at the top of his lungs, and only just managed to rein in the impulse to shoot her.
She ignored him, stepping back, her eyes fixed on the saucer. There was considerably more than a drop of his blood in the milk. His finger was squirting enthusiastically. He stuck it in his mouth.
‘You pierced my damn artery!’ he cried, but she couldn’t understand him because he was sucking his finger at the time. She held up a hand and Pinn shut up. Half of him was convinced he was dying of a mortal wound, but the other half wanted to know what kind of prediction she was about to make.
‘You’re going on a journey,’ she said, studying the saucer. ‘Somewhere you’ve never been before.’ She frowned. ‘I see death.’
‘Death?’
‘Death.’
‘The good kind, or the kind that happens to me?’
‘Don’t interrupt. I see death. That’s all.’
‘Okay,’ said Pinn, although privately he was a little put out. The specifics were sort of important.
‘I see a stranger with dark hair.’
‘Is she hot?’
‘It’s a man.’
‘Oh.’
‘You will find something. Something important. Something you never knew was there.’
Pinn was relieved. ‘I reckon I can’t be dead, then. Not if I’m busy finding stuff.’
Her face turned grave. ‘Tragedy will fall on someone you hold dear.’
He was suddenly worried again. ‘Is it Emanda?’
‘The signs are unclear. But one thing is certain. When all these things have come to pass . . . you will believe.’
Their eyes met. Pinn felt himself held, caught by the certainty within, the challenge he saw there.
Then the door of the assembly chamber was suddenly pulled open, and someone called his name. He jumped and discharged his shotgun into the platform at his feet with a terrifying roar. Marinda recoiled from him with a shriek, blood and milk spilling everywhere. The Speakers disappeared behind the benches like rabbits into their holes.
Frey was standing in the doorway. He surveyed the scene with one eyebrow raised. Pinn became suddenly aware that he was standing at the head of the room as if he was the leader of a congregation.
‘I won’t ask,’ Frey said. ‘We’re done here. Let’s go.’
Three
The Broken Anchor – Port-Wine & Pinch-Face – Pinn is Recognised – Chickenshit – Ashua Learns of a Death
On the western side of the Hookhollows, in the depths of the Forest of Aulen, lay Timberjack Falls. At that spot, several rivers gathered into one great flood before plunging into a horseshoe-shaped valley hundreds of feet below. The base of the valley was shrouded in mist, and the noise was never-ending. Birds winged in groups through the red winter evening, silhouetted against churning walls of water.
At the top of the falls there was a town, divided among three forested islands connected by arched bridges with gates set at their midpoints. Mansions hid among the evergreens. In the narrow, cobbled streets where the shops and markets clustered, lamps were being lit. The only noise to be heard over the rumble of the falls were the cries of water birds which made their home here, or the sound of a motorised carriage as it rattled along the winding lanes.
The Broken Anchor sat on the island nearest the lip of the falls. It was the only island of the three with a public landing-pad for aircraft, and the only point of entry for visitors passing through the town. That third island was where all the unseemly commerce of freebooters and merchants took place, out of sight of the rich folk across the bridges; and the Broken Anchor was the hub of it.
‘Three Dukes,’ Frey said, laying his cards on the table in a fan.
The other players cursed and tutted. Frey’s opponent, a burly man with a port-wine birthmark on his neck, tossed his cards down in disgusted resignation. Frey scooped up t
he pile of money that lay between them, careful to keep his satisfaction off his face.
‘Getting all the luck tonight, aren’t I?’ he commented innocently.
‘Luck’s only gonna get you so far,’ muttered a pinch-faced man whom Frey had been bluffing off the pot all game.
Frey gave a helpless little shrug, calculated to annoy, as if he just couldn’t help winning no matter what he did. He pushed away from the table. ‘Sitting this next one out, fellers,’ he said. ‘Never play a hand after a big win, that’s what someone told me once.’
The man he’d just beaten shook his head in anger, robbed of his chance for immediate revenge. Let him stew awhile, Frey thought. A frustrated man was apt to do something stupid.
He took a swig of grog and tipped his chair back, surveying the bar with the kingly air of a satisfied man. The gas lights were low, woodworm-ridden ceiling beams mere shadows in the tobacco haze. The room rang with shouts and laughter. Harmless drunks jostled with dangerous strangers. Just his kind of dive.
We did it. We took that freighter down. And it was just as loaded as the whispermonger promised.
Frey could hardly believe they’d pulled it off without any of the crew getting hurt. Despite their close shave in the clouds, all they’d suffered was a few bullet-holes in the Ketty Jay’s hull. In return, they’d come away with a haul of trinkets and artefacts which would see them right for a good while, once they flogged them to a fence. And that was after he’d deducted what he needed for tonight’s little investment. All in all, it was the kind of success that warmed a man’s heart.
His crew were sat round a table on the other side of the bar, visible in glimpses through the press of bodies. Some were deep in conversation, some were raucously drunk. Harkins and Jez looked like they’d rather not be there at all, but they’d made the effort for the sake of their companions. It had become a tradition to celebrate together after a score, and Frey didn’t want anyone left out.
Even Silo had joined them, drawing unfriendly stares from people nearby. Murthians were a slave race ruled by the Samarlans. Many Vards still remembered them as enemies from the Aerium Wars; others considered them potential spies for their masters. In the past, it had been sensible for Silo to keep out of sight. But he was no one’s slave these days, and he refused to hide in the Ketty Jay’s engine room any more. It had caused a scrap or two over the last few months, but Frey’s crew didn’t shy from a good scrap, and anyone who messed with their first mate ended up regretting it.
Frey watched them across the bar while a new hand was dealt without him. Malvery was drunkenly explaining something to Crake, who’d leaned close and was nodding gravely. Frey could guess what the subject was. The civil war, as ever. Awakeners versus the Coalition. Those who sided with Vardia’s dominant – and only – religion versus those who sided with the Archduke. All over the land, people were fighting and dying for their god or their country. Frey thought both were pretty absurd things to die for.
The crew of the Ketty Jay might have been instrumental in starting the war, but Frey was doing his level best to ensure they didn’t get tangled up in it. They owed nothing to either side, as far as Frey could see. It wasn’t their fight.
Malvery and Crake would disagree. Malvery was a patriot – he even had a medal from the First Aerium War – and Crake had a misplaced sense of civic duty that probably stemmed from being born with a silver spoon in his arse. Both of them had been grumbling about profiteering from the war when they should be fighting the Awakeners. Frey had patiently explained that they were fighting Awakeners by depriving them of their valuables, but his paper-thin veneer of morality didn’t fool anyone. They were pirates, at the end of the day. Frey was alright with that.
Jez was sitting at the end of the table, talking to no one. Her gaze darted about the room like that of a wary animal; her whole body was tensed. She’d never been the sociable sort, but these days she could barely handle crowds at all.
Frey worried about her. The crew had been able to accept a half-Mane in their midst because she only flipped out on rare occasions. The rest of the time, she’d just been . . . well, just Jez. And they all used to like Jez. But now it was different. Now she unsettled everybody. He noted Harkins’ petrified glances, and the way the crew unconsciously moved along the table to be further away from her. They sensed the change in her.
He hated to admit it, but Jez – loyal, reliable Jez – was becoming a problem.
Her head snapped around and she stared at him, right into his eyes, across the width of the room. Frey’s blood ran cold.
As if she heard what I was thinking.
‘Oi! Are you playing this hand or not, Mr Lucky?’
It was the angry man with the port-wine birthmark whose money Frey had just taken. Frey turned back to the table, grateful for the distraction. He coughed into his fist, took a swig of grog, and waved them on. ‘I’m in,’ he said. ‘Deal.’
The cards came out, three for each player. Frey peeked at his cards. Two Dukes and an Ace of Crosses. A good hand, a very good hand. He bet big. Port-Wine and Pinch-Face matched him, while the last player dropped out.
The middle cards were dealt, three face up and three face down. Frey felt a flutter of excitement as he spotted the Duke of Fangs. The thought of beating Port-Wine with Three Dukes twice in a row was too much to resist.
He was first to pick up. He took the Duke. Port-Wine took the Four of Wings, and Pinch-Face took one of the face-down mystery cards.
Frey bet big again. He knew Port-Wine would match it. That man had too much pride to fold, and it was going to cost him.
Port-Wine more than matched him. He pushed all his money in.
Oh, damn, now he’s made me think he’s got something.
Pinch-Face dropped out, as Frey had known he would. He was easily intimidated. But now Frey had Port-Wine to deal with. What could he possibly have that could beat Frey’s Three Dukes? All he could think of was that Port-Wine had picked up three fours in his original hand, and added a fourth, but the odds against that were ridiculous.
He just wants to beat me. He wants to see me fold.
Frey pushed his money in too. ‘Show ’em,’ he said.
Port-Wine laid down his cards. Frey felt a little bit sick.
Four fours.
Port-Wine leered smugly. He knew before Frey showed his cards that he had the hand sewn up. Frey thought of all the money on the table, and resisted the urge to punch his opponent.
‘Reckon you need another Duke,’ said Port-Wine, running his finger through the air above the two face-down cards on the table. ‘You think it’s one of these?’
‘It ain’t,’ said Pinch-Face. He flipped over a card from his own discarded hand. ‘I had it.’
‘Well,’ said Port-Wine. ‘That just leaves the Ace of Skulls.’
The Ace of Skulls. The most dangerous card in Rake. It could turn a winning hand to shit or make a losing hand unbeatable. Frey reached out, let his hand hover over the cards, as if he could sense through his palm which of them could save him.
Probably none, he thought. He flipped a card.
‘Oh, look,’ he said with a smile.
Port-Wine had to be physically restrained by the other players. Frey gathered up the money on the table and left before the urge to gloat got him shot. His impoverished opponent was still yelling abuse when Frey was intercepted by a tall man with waxed black hair, polished leathers and a shoulder cloak.
Frey raised an eyebrow at the stranger’s attire. He took care of himself far too well to belong in a place like this. ‘Reckon you’re Pelaru’s man.’
‘I’ve come to ensure his payment arrives safely,’ came the reply. ‘There’s transport outside.’
‘Right you are,’ said Frey. He looked over at the table where his crew were carousing. ‘Silo! Jez! Doc! We’re going! The rest of you . . . I dunno, amuse yourselves.’
Ashua raised a mug to him. ‘We’ll manage!’ she shouted.
The three he’d call
ed got to their feet. As they walked over, the men and women in the crowded bar drew away from Jez like oil from a drop of soapy water.
‘Pinn? Artis Pinn?’
Ashua looked up at the two shambling drunks who’d just materialised at the edge of the table. They were gawping at the Ketty Jay’s outflyer with something akin to awe in their eyes.
‘Did I hear someone say you was Pinn?’ asked one of them.
Pinn looked around the table, unsure whether he was in some kind of trouble. Nobody else knew either. ‘Might be,’ he said neutrally.
‘Artis Pinn the pilot? The man who beat Gidley Sleen in that race at the Rushes? Who brought his craft down out of the sky with no engines and lived to tell about it?’
Ashua felt Harkins go tense next to her.
‘Yeah!’ said Pinn, brightly. ‘Yeah, that was me!’
‘We’d be honoured if you’d come join us for an ale,’ the other drunkard gasped.
Pinn beamed, his tiny eyes almost disappearing in his chubby cheeks. ‘Why not?’ he said magnanimously. He squeezed his short, round body from out behind the table. ‘ ’Scuse me, everyone,’ he said. ‘Some fans want to say hello.’ He disappeared into the sweat and heat and murk.
Ashua turned to Harkins. His narrow, hangdog face had gone a strange shade of purple.
‘Didn’t you do that, not Pinn?’ she asked him.
‘Yes!’ Harkins fairly screamed it, before his voice wobbled back to normal pitch. ‘Yes, that was me! But I . . . I had to fly under his name . . . It was . . . I mean . . .’
Harkins gave up speaking. He looked like he was about to strangle on his own neck veins.
‘Why didn’t you stand up for yourself, then?’ Ashua asked.
‘Oho!’ said Crake, who’d been watching with wine-addled amusement over the rim of his cup. ‘Now that’s quite a question to ask our Mr Harkins.’
‘I . . . you . . . I mean . . . It’s not as simple as that, now, is it?’ The ears of his battered pilot’s cap flapped about his unshaven cheeks as he waved about in agitation.
‘Why not?’
The Ace of Skulls Page 3
