Stealing Life

by Antony Johnston

  The story was supposed to bring the disparate, isolationist Turithians together, to make them feel more like kin, because each of them allegedly had some of Babbola’s bloodline in them. Nicco doubted Babbola ever actually existed, and regarded the whole thing as a bit silly. But the mythical woman had been adopted as an idol figure by sex workers and single mothers over the years, and Nicco was happy to indulge his mother’s wishes on this of all occasions.

  A small, slender hand slipped into his and closed around it. He turned to face Tabby. She wore a long white dress, and around her neck hung a small cameo pendant of Babbola. Nicco had never seen her wearing it before. But then he’d never attended a funeral with Tabby before.

  Dozens of the women at Madame Zentra’s, including the Madame herself, had asked to attend, but Nicco refused them all. He wanted a small, private affair and they reluctantly respected his wishes. Tabby had been insistent, though, and eventually Nicco relented. Now that they were here, he was glad of her company. Since his mother had become bedridden, he’d seen Tabby less and less, spending what time he could by his mother’s side. Only Madame Zentra and the housekeepers disturbed him. Tabby left him alone, perhaps guessing that when the time came, he’d go to her. And he did, three nights ago, when Lilla Salarum breathed her last.

  He returned Tabby’s squeeze of his hand, and she leant her head against his shoulder. They were out of the Nissal Straits’ river mouth and were now drifting on the open waters of the Demirvan Sea.

  The Captain shut down the engine and the skiff slowed to a halt. The three white-clad guards turned inward to face the body, then looked up to Nicco on the platform. The one nearest asked him if he wanted to say anything.

  “No,” said Nicco. “I already said it all.”

  The funeral guards lifted his mother’s body, still draped by the white cloth. One raised her by the shoulders, the other two took hold of her legs. Burial at sea was the most common type of funeral in Turith, the body embalmed to weigh it down.

  The Captain pressed a button and a small section of the deck railing at the rear of the boat slid back, exposing a ramp angled down from the deck to the water. The guards carried the body to the opening and placed it on the ramp, legs first.

  They let go and the body slid down into the water. Only the white cloth remained, floating on the surface of the sea. One of the guards took a long hooked pole from the side of the deck and leant over the side to retrieve it, but Nicco stopped him.

  “No,” he said. “Leave it.”

  Tabby looked up at him, confused. “Are you sure? Don’t you want something to remember her by?”

  “I’ve got half a room full of antiques and rubbish to remember her by. I don’t need a piece of bloody cloth.” The guard was still standing at the railing, pole in hand, looking expectantly at Nicco. “I said leave it. Let it join her in the sea. Just take us back.”

  The captain did as Nicco asked, and soon they were heading back toward the bright city lights of Azbatha. Nicco held Tabby’s head to his chest and gazed at the skyline.

  Far behind them, a square white cloth drifted on the surface of the sea.

  NICCO WOKE TO the sound of laughter. He blinked, momentarily forgetting where he was. Then he remembered: he was on a private airship bound for Azbatha. He’d cleaned up in one of the onboard shower units, then come through to the main lounge and fallen asleep on a couch.

  Bazhanka, who’d chartered the airship, sat nearby flanked by a pair of bodyguards, as he talked to Sothus. The mob boss had ditched the faux-scruffy clothes he’d worn in Hurrunda, returning to his usual business attire. Sothus didn’t seem at all fazed by Bazhanka, but Nicco guessed that a man in the arms trade—particularly one who could secure and distribute a thousand assault rifles in less than a day—had dealt with much worse. They were joking about something, and Nicco wondered how long it would be before Sothus began supplying Bazhanka’s thugs with weapons.

  The mob boss noticed Nicco had woken up and called over to him. “Nicco! Come and join us, dear boy. You’re a hero.”

  Nicco walked over. He didn’t feel like a hero. He’d just saved his own skin by returning a man as corrupt as Bazhanka—if not more so—to power in a foreign city that he had no right poking his nose into. A man who’d been perfectly willing to let him die, no less. His only consolation was that his debt to Bazhanka, and to Werrdun, had been declared void after they retook the city from the Kurrethi. Nicco could finally go back to being a normal thief again.

  Sothus clapped him on the shoulder as he sat down. “That was a stroke of genius lad, well done. Pretty close thing at the end, I must say, but Werrdun’s entrance was worth it. The look on Ven Dazarus’ face! Ha!”

  “Thanks,” mumbled Nicco. It had been his idea to let the Kurrethi think they’d won and install themselves in power before showing any resistance. A pitched battle on the streets, even with the extra firepower supplied by Sothus, could have drawn out for days, even weeks. The entire civilian population of the city would be at risk.

  Nicco was glad it hadn’t come to that. He’d have enough trouble sleeping at night with even the small death toll the past days’ events had caused.

  Besides, this had to be a PR victory as much as a military one. It was important that Ven Dazarus be completely discredited. That was why they waited until he had destroyed the replica necklace before acting. He’d be forever remembered as a liar, exposed as a charlatan at his moment of supposed glory. And it had seemed to Nicco a fitting way to let Ven Dazarus know he’d been conned, just like he’d conned Nicco.

  Still, the rebel leader’s killing left a sour taste in Nicco’s mouth. He took some solace in the knowledge that it was, at least, a quick death. His fate at the hands of Werrdun would have been much worse.

  “It’s true,” said Bazhanka. “I had my doubts, as well you know. But the result was worth it, I think. The governor is reinstated, with greater support than ever before, and the Kurrethi are crushed. I expect they’ll be completely forgotten within five years.”

  Nicco had his own doubts about that. There would always be sympathisers. Those labourers he’d met in the café, for example. Nicco wondered if they’d try to spin this against Werrdun too, perhaps claiming it was all a plot to get Ven Dazarus to come out of hiding so they could eliminate him. They might have to go underground, and it would take a few years, but Nicco felt sure the Kurrethi would be back. Whether or not Werrdun would still be in power was another question. Surely the necklace couldn’t keep him alive forever. Perhaps his daughter Mirrla would take his place. What kind of leader would she be?

  “So are you going to remove this bloody gem, or what?” Nicco held out his palm.

  Bazhanka snorted. “Ask Bindol. You seem to have discovered a fondness for magicians during your time in Hurrunda.”

  Nothing could have been further from the truth. If anything, Nicco’s experiences had made him an even more serious arcanophobe than before. Werrdun’s magical necklace was the root of all his troubles and Nicco swore to avoid any jobs to do with magic or enchanted items ever again.

  There was, however, one enchanted item that still hung over his life. It was time to change that. He turned to Bazhanka. “I have a favour to ask.”

  The mob boss raised an eyebrow. “I have already waived your debt to me, dear boy. A favour could put you back where we started.”

  “Not this one. I think this is something you’ll want to do.” Nicco turned to Sothus. “Would you excuse us for a moment? It’s a... family matter.”

  Sothus looked surprised. He was probably thinking that Nicco meant that he and Bazhanka were family, but if so Nicco wasn’t about to correct him. A perceived connection to Bazhanka could do him good in the eyes of the arms dealer. Sothus stood up. “Fair enough. I’ll go get a drink.” He walked out of the lounge.

  “Them too,” said Nicco, indicating Bazhanka’s bodyguards.

  Bazhanka snorted, but waved the guards away then turned to Nicco. “A family matter?”


  “Yeah. I think I’ve finally worked something out. I could never understand why you’ve always been so interested in me. Asking me to work for you, paying those lawyers to come and get me off the burglary charge...”

  “Dear boy, I take an interest in you because you are an exceptional thief. But your scope is limited. You are small-time, Nicco, but I could put you in the big leagues if only you would come and work for me.”

  “...the snide remarks about my mother.”

  “Ah.” Bazhanka nodded. “Your mother and I were close once, that is all. Now that she is gone, I like to think I help to keep you out of trouble. I can see some of her in you. And I think she’d be proud of you.”

  “But what about my father?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  Nicco took a deep breath. It was time for the truth. “You think you’re my father, don’t you?”

  Bazhanka stared at him in amazement, and Nicco wondered if he’d crossed a line. The mob boss had never made a direct allusion to it, but Nicco had had a lot of time to think about his parents—particularly his mother’s attitude to Bazhanka—during his time in Hurrunda. It seemed the most logical answer to all his questions. Why his mother never spoke of Bazhanka, and was so adamant that Nicco shouldn’t work for him. Why Bazhanka claimed to have been ‘close’ with his mother. He couldn’t imagine what in the fifty-nine hells his mother would have seen in the mob boss, but there was always the possibility that their ‘closeness’ had simply been part of his mother’s work, and Bazhanka had got the wrong idea.

  Then Bazhanka burst out laughing. His enormous body rocked and wobbled as he hooted and wiped tears from his eyes.

  “Oh, dear, dear. She didn’t... is that what Lilla told you?”

  Nicco scowled, frustrated. “No, of course not. And what she did tell me was a pack of lies. I know you’re not my father. In fact”—Nicco reached inside his shirt and pulled out the glass pendant—“this proves it.”

  Bazhanka regarded the golden teardrop. “Ah, the army tag. Brinno and Huwll mentioned it.”

  “I had it read by a wizard. I know who he was, and what he did.”

  “Really. And what was that, pray tell?”

  Nicco relayed what Hullorik had told him about his father being a war journalist.

  “I see,” said Bazhanka when he’d finished. “Well, good for you. I hope you’re happy. But I still don’t know exactly what favour you want from me.”

  Nicco put the pendant back inside his shirt. “I want to know why my mother lied—twice—about him. Why was she so afraid of me finding out the truth? There’s no shame in what he did. It’s not like my mother was a rabid patriot.”

  “Dear boy, what in the fifty-nine hells makes you think I’d know?”

  “Because you were ‘close.’ Don’t bugger me about, Bazhanka, I know you know more than you let on.”

  Bazhanka leaned back, deep in thought. Nicco watched him carefully, trying to read the man’s body language, but it was useless. Bazhanka had a perfect poker face.

  “Perhaps it is time you learned the truth,” said Bazhanka. “Lilla’s long gone anyway, so the only person it can harm is you. And I think you’ve proven yourself... resilient enough, over the past week.

  “You may not believe it, but as a younger man I was quite handsome. Yes, Lilla and I were lovers for a brief time. But I have never believed I was your father. In fact, it was your father who tore your mother and me apart.

  “His name was Nicco Miarrlak, or so he told everyone. He was Varnian, everyone knew that, but living semi-permanently in Turith as a war journalist and thus tolerated by polite society, insomuch as there is such a thing in our fair city. But mark my words, Nicco, ‘living as.’ The truth is, he was nothing of the sort.

  “One evening, Lilla accompanied me to a dinner party held by a neighbour of mine. This was shortly after Riverside had been built, and we fortunate few were getting to know one another as neighbours. Well, scoping one another out; one does not reach that level of affluence by accident, and allies are always useful. Your father was also there, as a guest of Drissen Faprassi, a manufacturer of weapons and armaments for the Turithian army. Your father was allegedly doing a story on Faprassi, knowing full well he would only be permitted to send back a propaganda puff piece.

  “But that night, he only had eyes for Lilla. And much to my annoyance, the feeling was mutual. I can hardly say I was surprised when I discovered they had met again a few days later.”

  Bazhanka stood up. Leaning heavily on his cane, the mob boss walked to the lounge windows. Ten thousand feet below them, the Demirvan Sea gleamed and reflected pink sunlight.

  Nicco joined him, gazing out across the water. Some of the larger Turithian islands—Turilum, Rilok, Kesam—could already be seen on the horizon. In less than two hours they’d be home.

  “I was a younger man then,” said Bazhanka. “And accordingly foolish with it. I thought I loved Lilla. Now I’m not so sure it was ever more than infatuation. But at the time, I was horribly jealous of this man Nicco. You must understand, Lilla’s work meant nothing to a man such as me. But she was visiting with this man on her own time, and that incensed me.

  “As you know, I am not without resources. So I put them to use. I wanted to discover everything there was to know about this ‘Nicco Miarrlak.’ Where he was from, where he had been, what skeletons were hidden in his closet. I wanted to destroy him in your mother’s eyes, do you understand?”

  Nicco nodded. Bazhanka was taking this in a direction he had never expected, and all he could do was listen.

  “Ah, but the things I found... It took time, of course. At first, everything confirmed what he said about himself. He’d been allowed into the country as a journalist, so of course Turilum had done their own checks, and as far as they were concerned Nicco Miarrlak was clean.

  “That was the problem, you see. He was too clean. He had no real past to speak of, no history with the Varnian police, no escapades or scrapes as a young man. It was too unlikely, so I kept digging.

  “In a way, I wish I hadn’t. Your mother was happy with him, and if I hadn’t tried to tell her the truth... well, she might at least have deigned to see me once before her death. She never did, though.”

  Bazhanka turned and looked Nicco directly in the eye.

  “Your father was a spy, Nicco. His name wasn’t Miarrlak, it was Pallad. The pendant you have there, his papers and records, they were all forgeries made by the Bishlurram army. He was in Turith to pass secrets back to the Varnians, to sabotage the Turithian war effort and spy on the work of men like Faprassi. He was one of Varn’s top men.

  “But Lilla wouldn’t believe it. I shouldn’t have been surprised, of course, but as I said, I was young and foolish in those days. She insisted I had made it up, fabricated a reason for her to stop seeing ‘Nicco’ and return to my side. Eventually, I had the police follow them back to his house one night and arrest him on charges of espionage. It was the last time she saw him alive.

  “Lilla never forgave me.”

  Nicco was suddenly very aware of the pendant’s weight around his neck. He ran his fingers over it. “So what about this?”

  “I expect she took it from his house. A keepsake perhaps, a memento of some kind. She named you after him, which I think proves the strength of her feelings for the man. Lilla never believed the charges, you see; never stopped protesting his innocence. But it did no good. She received news he had been executed when you were about six months old, as I recall the date.”

  Bazhanka walked back to the table and passed it, heading out of the room. Nicco called out to him. “Wait! So what do I owe you?”

  Bazhanka looked back from the doorway. “Nothing,” he sighed. “I think you were right. That was one I owed you.”

  Then he turned and left, leaving Nicco alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  TABBY WAS WAITING for him at the airship port.

  Nicco had no idea how she’d known he’d be here, but Bazhanka pr
obably had something to do with it. Whatever, he was just pleased to see a familiar face. He ran to Tabby, threw his arms around her and kissed her.

  “By the watery saints, am I glad to see—”

  She slapped him in the face.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I had to find out from Madame!”

  “Tabby, love, it wasn’t safe. I was just trying to protect you.”

  She pulled herself away from him and pouted. “I don’t need your protecting, thank you very much! I’d been trying to call you for days, and all this time you were over there! I didn’t even find out until they said whatsisname was dead on the news stream. I thought you were gone forever!”

  “Ah.” Madame Zentra had kept her promise not to tell anyone; and when the news broke that Governor Werrdun was dead, why shouldn’t the Madame have believed it? The only people in Turith who knew the truth were Bazhanka, the governor’s security team and Mirrla Werrdun, who’d announced his death to the media. Zentra must have concluded that with Werrdun gone, Nicco would either be on the run for the rest of his life or already dead.

  Clearly the Madame hadn’t told Tabby about her own life being in danger, or she might be a bit more understanding. But at what cost? Even now that it was all over, Nicco couldn’t bring himself to tell her. She was no innocent, but he didn’t want her looking over her shoulder all the time.

  He changed the subject. “How did your audition go, with that producer?”

  “Don’t change the subject Nicco. I’m still angry with you.”

  “I’m not, I... not exactly, anyway. How did it go?”

  She looked down at the floor. “He was a scumbag.”

  Nicco chuckled. “I could have told you that. What happened?”

  “He asked me to go down to his place in Riverside, and... well, I think he forgot I was there to audition as an actress. If you know what I mean.”