Soul Jar

by eden Hudson

  “Forget it,” Nick said. “Let’s just go.”

  I seriously doubted that Nick had the wherewithal or the presence of mind to be playing along, but his genuine-sounding disgust worked out in our favor.

  The greasy kid stood, hands up as if I were pointing a knuckgun at him. “Just wait. Just a second. I’ll see if he’s done yet.”

  I checked the timer. “One minute three.”

  Before the kid could trip over himself to knock on the faux oak door, it opened and a balding man in a tailored suit breezed out. Old Hubie must’ve been standing right behind it, listening.

  “That went well,” he said to the greasy kid. “Make sure we get a follow-up on them next week.” He pretended as if he were just now noticing Nick hulking by the exit and me with my sneaks on his odds table. “Ah, you must be my ten thirty. Sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen. I wasn’t expecting that com to run so long. Come right in.”

  Nick glanced at me. I swung my feet off the odds table, not making any effort to avoid knocking over the stack of business cards on the corner or acknowledging them as they scattered across the fake hardwood floor. Money doesn’t stop to clean up its messes.

  Nick followed me into the bookie’s office, but didn’t sit in the plush chair beside mine.

  The bookie joined us, closing his faux oak door behind him.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, reaching out to shake with me first, as I was the entitled, well-dressed one, and clearly the money in this relationship. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Marinette said she was booking with you this round, so I am too.” I pulled up the unnamed throwaway account I’d set up in preparation for today. I flicked my eyes over to where Nick was standing. “He’s undecided. Not used to doing it the refined way. He was looking for a hwaryna the whole trip over—I shit you not—as if they would be able to pay out a return on a bet of a half million. New money, amiright?”

  Hubert put on what he probably thought of as a friendly smile and looked at Nick, now undoubtedly seeing a poor slum-kid in a grown man’s plasty-augmented overcompensation of a body instead of the Guild knight he obviously was. “Well, Mr…?”

  “Ronin,” Nick said, looking away.

  “Mr. Ronin, I can assure you that Hubert & Sons can honor the payout on any size bet. The hwaryna you’re used to, however, will probably drop out of the running at around ten thousand. That is, if they didn’t take your money and disappear outright. To one of those scobby bastards, a half mil is enough to retire on.”

  “See?” I waved my hand at Nick as if proving a point. “Anyway, we need the scratch on tonight’s fights.”

  “The odds just came in,” Hubert said, reaching across his desk for a pair of tablets scrolling numbers identical to the ones on the odds table in the waiting room.

  Nick took the tablet offered to him. I jerked it out of his hand and shoved it back at Hubert.

  “We don’t want your balance-book odds,” I said. “We want to know what’s really going down tonight, and we’re willing to pay for it.”

  Hubert gave me an assessing look. “We do have an elite package, Mr.—”

  “Vincent,” I said, not waiting for him to turn it into a question. “And I hope your elite package is more convincing than your office. When Marinette said she was booking through you, I was expecting something more legit than all this fake wood and composite.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Vincent, but I don’t believe I have a Marinette on record with our firm.” Hube’s expression didn’t twitch when he said it, and his tone of voice was bland, but not exaggeratedly so. He was either telling the truth or a very practiced liar.

  Didn’t matter either way. This stop was for Nick. Dropping Marinette’s name just made it look as if I were trying to catfish out info.

  “Whatever name she uses when she’s gambling,” I said, shaking my head. “How much is this elite package you keep yammering on about?”

  “Fifty thousand flat fee for the package, with a minimum bet of two hundred fifty thousand,” Hubert said. “My margin on the elite works out to only four point three percent of any overall winnings.”

  “I’ll pour out an ounce of scall in honor of your sacrifice,” I said. “We’ll take it.”

  “No, we won’t,” Nick said.

  “Don’t wet your pants just because they sound like big numbers, Ro,” I said. “You can afford it now. There’s no point in having money if you’re going to keep living like you’re poor.”

  Nickie-boy glared at me.

  I sighed. “Fine. I’ll take the elite package. He’ll take the sucker’s odds.”

  Hubert tapped the tablet in his hand and entered a command. “I can understand being a little skeptical on your first sizeable bet, Mr. Ronin. I believe in watching out for my money, too. How about this? I’ll set you gentlemen up with a little first-booking good faith, front you the outcome of one of tonight’s fights free of charge, and if you like the payout, we’ll hope to see you back at Hubert & Sons for many more.”

  Nick’s upper lip curled with loathing, but he didn’t refuse outright.

  “That’s his way of saying thanks,” I told the bookie. “I’m a little more cultured. I say it like this: Can you honor the payout on a bet of more than three million?”

  THIRTEEN:

  Carina

  In the days following that first tithe and celebratory feast, Miyo spent most of her time at the temple, advising villagers, blessing their children and homes, and repeating their entreaties to Envishtu over the holy fire. Miyo didn’t mind that aspect of her position as high priestess. She liked knowing that her prayers to the cold and distant Envishtu gave her fellow fleshers peace and comfort.

  The time spent among the people also afforded Carina the opportunity to pack on the Appearance and Conduct points and improve Miyo’s rapport with the villagers until nearly everyone in Tsunami Tsity was Adoring toward her, and the few who weren’t yet were listed as Friendly. In another life, Carina kept thinking, it would’ve been fun to be a prophet or a missionary. In the real world, she knew she wasn’t built for mission work. She’d been built—literally by way of genetic upgrades, and figuratively by her bloody family history—as a weapon. The Guild pointed Carina Xiao at problems and she killed them. But maybe someday, when the Guild didn’t need her knuckgun anymore, she and Nick could retire to a quiet chapel somewhere and serve God in peace and quiet.

  Carina wasn’t sure how much time had passed in the real world, but according to the in-game clock, one week had gone by when the men formed another raiding party. The notification came while Miyo was in the temple, blessing a newborn.

  The men are riding out tonight for a dangerous raid on the Southern Spearers. They must receive the Blood of Envishtu from the god-blessed hands of their high priestess to ensure success.

  Objective: Obtain the Blood of Envishtu from the apothecary, then anoint the raiding party with the Blood of Envishtu

  The grinding roar of waterbikes filled the air. Carina finished the invocation over the newborn, then with her own blades, she scored the tiny finger pads where the child’s blades would be embedded in a few years. She packed the wounds with holy ash from Envishtu’s Cauldron. With that finished, she excused herself from the mother.

  The men and older boys were forming up on the edge of the village, checking their engines, nets, chem bombs, leather armor, and weapons—all of which were blunt force, not edged, so as not to break the hides of their slaves. Women and girls kissed their husbands, brothers, and fathers goodbye, several giving last-second instructions on what size and color of skin they needed to finish this or that elaborate piece of clothing.

  The girl with the aquamarine eyes was down below, too, mixing a bloody red-orange concoction in a large clay bowl under the elderly apothecary’s watchful eye.

  Carina slid down the bamboo into the water, Miyo’s bare feet sinking into the sticky layer of swamp mud, and started toward the girl.

  “The raofrog extract, Yisu,”
the apothecary said. “They must be stealthy on the water or the entire village of Spearers will be armed by the time they attack.”

  The girl with the aquamarine eyes, Yisu, snatched a phial from the cluttered table without hesitation and released two tiny drops into the bowl.

  The apothecary hmmed. “Is that all?”

  “Never more than two drops from the raofrog,” Yisu said, as if repeating something that had been beaten into her head through endless repetition. “Lest its poison silence you forever.”

  “And how do we know this extract is still effective?” the apothecary asked.

  “Its color matches the purple of the stardust in Envishtu’s night sky and is consistent throughout. When it darkens to violet and begins to curdle, it’s no longer viable for potions, but the curds can be burned to induce sleep in the sleepless.”

  “Very good,” the apothecary said. She looked up at Miyo. “Here’s the priestess now! Give her the Blood, Yisu.”

  “Almost.” Yisu picked up a square flask full of white sand and poured in several grains.

  “Ah, interesting,” the apothecary said. “For added vigor?”

  Yisu nodded. “And together with the shadespark, it will improve their sight in the darkness.”

  The apothecary clapped her gnarled hands. “Inspired!” She looked at Miyo, radiating pride. “Yisu’s mind is as Envishtu-blessed as your hands are, Priestess. She’s been out-mixing me since she was just a little cutter. Half the new potions we mix now are owed to her experiments. And the cure for needleskin? That was her as well.”

  At the praise, Yisu’s cinnamon cheeks and the bridge of her nose blushed pink.

  “Envishtu deserves the praise,” Yisu mumbled. “Without his blessing, I couldn’t mix anything.”

  “Damned true,” the apothecary agreed heartily. “Damned true.”

  Yisu waved her hand over the potion as if to waft the smell to her nose, then picked up the bowl and held it out to Miyo.

  “The Blood of Envishtu, Priestess.”

  “Thank you.” Miyo smiled into Yisu’s aquamarine eyes as she took it.

  Yisu looked away, suddenly intent on studying the red-black swamp water.

  Good job, Miyo! You obtained Blood of Envishtu from the apothecary. A daring feat, to be sure! Luckily you came out of it entirely unharmed.

  By now Carina was used to the prompts’ mocking tone. It wasn’t there so much to keep players on track as it was to troll them. She was more interested in Yisu’s lack of eye contact. In the real world, that could mean a lot of things, from an overwhelming feeling of self-conscious awkwardness to a sudden pang of guilt. But Carina didn’t think it was a display of teenage insecurity. In the world of fiction, every choice must serve the story. The devs would’ve chosen to program Yisu not to look Miyo in the eyes at this moment for a reason.

  Hurry, Miyo, the raiding party is waiting!

  Objective: Spread the Blood of Envishtu on the face of each man in the raiding party (0/31 done)

  It seemed like the entire population of Tsunami Tsity watched Miyo as she dipped her hand into the bowl and pressed her palm one by one to every face in the raiding party. At the corner of Carina’s vision, the counter ticked each face off as she did it—22/31 done, 23/31 done, 24/31—until she anointed the final raider, a boy barely old enough to have hit puberty, sitting astride a waterbike older than he was.

  With that done, Miyo raised her Envishtu-bloodied hands and spoke the words her superimposed memory banks told her saw off the raiders every time. “It is through Envishtu that the strong consume the weak. The strong go out now to become stronger, as is Envishtu’s will. The weak cannot oppose us or our mighty god.”

  FOURTEEN:

  Jubal

  Once we had laid our bets with the bookie and our tickets had arrived on our wristpieces, Nick and I headed back out into the bright light of a rare sunny afternoon.

  Nick glared at the whole world as we walked, sorer than a newly deflowered virgin after a primae noctis gangbang.

  I sucked in a huge lungful of briny air coming off the ocean. “Cheer up, Nickie-boy, it’s too nice out to waste your day pouting.”

  “Five hundred thousand,” he growled.

  “Trust me, you’ll get that back and then some,” I said. “Betting on compiled odds is for suckers. Bookies set them so they’ll make money either way the competition washes out, not so people can tell who’s most likely to win. Going with their special packages is the only way to ensure that you get paid.”

  Nick scrubbed his massive paws across his face. “Then I’m screwed either way. Carina’ll know I didn’t make that much off my patents.”

  He couldn’t see through my ventilator mask, so I let loose the manic grin I felt at watching him dig his own grave five hundred thousand shovelfuls at a time, but contained my glee before it reached my beautifully expressive eyes. Those I rolled at him.

  “Jeesh, Nickie, I knew Carina was the man in your relationship, but I didn’t realize she was your boss out of bed, too. What happened to Mr. Ronin, the warrior without a master? I mean, she agreed to marry you before the sunken city job, so she obviously doesn’t care about your financial situation.”

  “It’s just more.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “More stuff not to tell her. More secrets.”

  “Oh, right, because Carina’s always so open with you. She told me about leaving you in the dark when she had that little run-in with my father’s copycat. And you wouldn’t even be in this situation if it wasn’t for her running off to avenge her dad without telling you.”

  Nick didn’t say anything to that, which I gathered was a sign that I was convincing him.

  “Look, it’s just money,” I said. “We’ll tell her I needed some extra muscle on a job with a quick turnaround and I couldn’t wait for her to get done with Tsunami Tsity, so I hired you instead. Whatever you end up winning tonight is what I paid you.”

  “You don’t get it,” Nick snapped. “A marriage is a partnership. It’s supposed to be built on honesty, not lies and secrets.”

  “Unless those lies and secrets keep her from finding out that you sold your soul, right?”

  He glared down at the sidewalk.

  “Right, Nick?” I pushed. “That’s what this whole expedition is about, isn’t it? Keeping your future wife from finding out what you did so she won’t leave you? And if she doesn’t notice or ask, then it’s really her fault, isn’t it?”

  Instead of trying to respond, Nick stopped pouting long enough to point down the street to our right.

  “Our hotel’s that way.”

  “I know where the hotel is, Nicholas,” I said. “It’s too nice a day to be cooped up inside. Besides, we’ve got another stop to make. And this time, the betting’s on me.”

  ***

  I was expecting to have to walk all the way to the Cryst Rider’s Cathedral before we found a hwaryna, but on impulse I ducked into an upscale smoke bar just six blocks from our hotel. The place was called The Black Pig—as in the symbol of the Forsaken’s patron antisaint. It couldn’t have been a more obvious front if the Guild had secretly set up a weapon store and named it The Cross.

  To his credit, Nick didn’t ask what we were doing there, just followed me to the bar and sat down.

  I got the smoke stewardess’s attention.

  She drifted over, her tawny irises nearly swallowed by her pupils. “Can I get you can I something I can you get something?”

  Nick leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

  She giggled and tried again. “I can I you can I get something good for you. Good?”

  “She’s high on jraliu,” I told him. “It disrupts the connection between her vocal cords and aural nerves, so everything she says she hears on a delay. The more she talks, the more messed up her speech patterns are going to become. Like a retard who’s just had a stroke.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow at me.

  “I told you, everything is my business,” I said.

  I ge
stured to the stewardess, and she gave me her hand. On her wristpiece, I wrote, Point us to your resident hwaryna.

  She giggled again, then flourished both hands at a corner booth where a little man with a hollow jaw sat sucking on an incensor and messing with his wristpiece.

  I gave the stewardess a wink and slid off my stool. Nick followed me to the booth.

  “Are you taking bets on tonight’s dogfights?” I asked the hwaryna.

  The little guy sized Nick up, then shook his head. Brown smoke rolled out of his mouth and nose as he said, “Don’t know ’bout any dogfights, bruv.”

  “Good instincts,” I said. “But what you’re looking at is a flunk-out, not a knight. Guy couldn’t even make security at the airport with his record.”

  “And you?” the little guy said, turning up an amused eyebrow.

  “I’m the best thief in the history of the Revived Earth.”

  “Best thief, yeah? Didn’t even know there was a contest.” He waved his incensor hose through the smoke. “Congrats.”

  “Thanks, I deserve all that and more.” I slid into the seat across from the hwaryna, leaving plenty of room for Nick to stay standing. “We want to put some money on tonight’s fights.”

  The hwaryna took another long hit off the incensor, then blew brown smoke at me. “Supposing I did know who you could lay a bet wif, how much you want on what?”

  “What’s your max?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  I whistled. “Kind of rich for our blood, but I got a hot tip on Sawtooth and a few hundred burning a hole in my pocket.”

  “Sawtoof, yeah?” The hwaryna entered something into his wristpiece. “Victory, disqualification, or body bag?”

  “Three fifty on a body bag.” Part of our previous bookie’s elite package had included a tip that Sawtooth’s handler would slip him a slow-release tranq before the fight. “What’re your odds on his opponent?”