Sacrifice

by A. C. Cobble

  Oliver swept the other man’s dagger hand aside again and grabbed the back of Drake’s head, shoving it down and planting the man’s face into the bar counter. There was a satisfying crunch as his nose impacted the wood and the pirate howled.

  Around them, most men were scrambling back to avoid the confrontation, while others pushed forward.

  Oliver retreated, and Drake came up swinging, the gleaming steel of his dagger carving deadly arcs in the air as he tried to put the weapon into Oliver’s flesh.

  Empty-handed with nothing but his purse and coat, Oliver stumbled away. Behind him, Giles cursed and spit, but the factor didn’t have an angle to attack or to defend. Oliver bumped into the man and growled. Giles, either trying to help or too drunk to get out of the way, was directly behind him. Flailing out with his hands, trying to knock the Drake’s dagger away, Oliver took a deep cut on one wrist. Then, his other hand found the half-full jug on the counter.

  Drake, blood pouring from his shattered nose, murder in his eyes, drew back his dagger, moving deliberately now. His wild slashes were gone, and Oliver knew without a doubt, the man aimed to kill him.

  So, he swung the jug with all of his might and caught the surprised pirate on the side of the head. The thick glass of the jug clunked against the other man’s skull, and to Oliver’s amazement, didn’t shatter.

  Drake collapsed like the bones had been stripped from his body.

  “You’re cheating us with a heavy jug!” cried Giles, turning to the shocked barman. “Think that thick glass is going to fool us? There ain’t enough liquor in there. You owe us—”

  “Giles!” hissed Oliver.

  The factor’s babble slowed, and he looked down at the motionless pirate. Blood streaked half the man’s face and was forming a quickly widening pool at their feet. He didn’t appear to be breathing.

  “I think you cracked his skull,” murmured the factor.

  Oliver, stunned, glanced around the room, wondering if the watch was about to descend on them, wondering if Durban even had a watch.

  But instead of hurrying soldiers, or the Prancing Pig’s muscular bouncers, he saw others slipping through the crowd toward them. Rough men who’d seen the nasty side of life. These weren’t cartographers, these were pirates. It looked like an entire spirit-forsaken crew of them.

  “Time to go,” declared Oliver, then he spun, grabbing his factor’s arm and tugging the man toward the back of the room.

  They burst out the back door of the Prancing Pig and skidded across the thick slime that coated the alley. Refuse, some from food, some from… well, all of it was originally food, thought Oliver, as he wrinkled his nose and tried to ignore the foul stench underfoot. He hauled the drunken Giles after him and charged into the dark night.

  They found a corner and Oliver turned, not familiar enough with the streets to know where he was going, but knowing where he wanted to leave.

  Behind them, he heard shouts as men poured out of the Prancing Pig, looking for signs of the fugitive’s passing. The noxious odor around them, the tracks they must have left in the muck, Oliver knew they’d be easy to follow.

  Company House, the harbor, and the barracks all had royal marines stationed there. If they reached them, the marines would easily stand against a group of Durban’s thugs, but they had to reach them. The Company relied on local law enforcement in the residential districts like the one around the Prancing Pig, and Oliver wasn’t going to trust help from a local.

  They were a quarter league away from the nearest station of marines, and Oliver was quickly becoming lost in the ancient, twisting sandstone streets and alleys. Every building they passed, every block they raced down, looked identical to the ones before it. Half the time, he couldn’t tell if they were in an alley or a street, as there were no lights on the corners like in Enhover. Few of the buildings were lit at all.

  “I can’t believe it,” hissed Giles. “You killed a pirate in a tavern brawl.”

  Oliver swallowed, shaking his head.

  “The stories…”

  “You can’t tell anyone the story if we die tonight,” growled Oliver. “Be quiet.”

  Giles, mollified, followed behind somewhat more quietly, though his heavy steps still nearly hid the sound of approaching feet. A man, running lightly, launched out of a pitch-black alley and crashed into the surprised factor, knocking him sprawling. Giles grabbed at the man, catching the sleeve of his shirt and pulling him off balance.

  Oliver, taking advantage of their assailant’s stumble, swung a vicious uppercut and caught their attacker directly under his chin, lifting the man off his feet and bringing him down on the sandy street with a heavy thump.

  Crouching beside the unconscious pirate, Oliver collected a small hatchet the man had been holding. He asked Giles, “You alright?”

  “I don’t even know what happened,” muttered the factor, struggling to his feet.

  “We have to get off these streets,” said Oliver, glancing around nervously. It occurred to him they hadn’t seen anyone else since fleeing the Prancing Pig, and strange, alien whistles were rising all around them. Warnings, he guessed. Either telling the citizens of the city to stay inside, or communication between those on the hunt. Durban may officially be a Company colony, but tonight, it was a pirate town.

  Giles, brushing himself off, looked in confusion at the unconscious man on the ground beside him.

  “Giles,” demanded Oliver, “how do we get off the streets?”

  The factor shivered and then glanced around. “We need to find an open space so I can get my bearings. No locals will let us inside and risk the wrath of… of Drake’s associates, no matter what we offer them.”

  Oliver, not seeing any obvious signs of life, pointed down a narrow road they hadn’t been through yet, and they started off.

  Around them, sandstone walls closed in tight where buildings had been built on top of each other, stretching into the public spaces, and sometimes combining above them creating narrow, pitch black tunnels which they hurried through at a near run.

  Finally, they broke into an open avenue, twice as wide as some of the other streets, and with a view of the distant hill which held Company House, the governor’s mansion, and the barracks.

  “A league and a half, I’d guess,” muttered Oliver. “We’ve been going the wrong way.”

  “The opposite direction they’d expect us to run,” mentioned Giles hopefully.

  Seeing a narrow stairway that led up to a second story door, Olive carefully crept up it, placing his feet cautiously to avoid creaks in the wood and sounds which might bring out an angry tenant. When he reached the second floor, he looked out, and far below them, over a maze of sandstone roofs, he saw the harbor. He didn’t bother to estimate the distance. Instead, he clambered down and huddled close to Giles.

  “We have to find somewhere safe, somewhere we can lay low until daylight and blend in with the crowds as we make our way back into Company territory,” he said. “We’re too far from our men to risk walking through these streets and getting even more lost. Those calls earlier, who knows what they could have been signaling.”

  Giles nodded, looking up and down the street.

  Oliver saw the recognition in his eyes. “What?”

  “We’re in the old religious quarter,” said the factor. “Not many taverns around here, but there is one place…”

  “A tavern?” questioned Oliver. “That means strangers. Strangers who could go running to the pirates the moment they see us.”

  “No, it’s… ah, I’ve never been to this place,” admitted Giles. “It’s the only place around here that I know of, though. The rest is apartments, places where the locals reside, or worse, practice the old religions.”

  Oliver frowned at his companion.

  “This place I know is dangerous,” murmured Giles. At Oliver’s skeptical look, he added, “The rumor is, it is run by witches.”

  “Witches?” hissed the nobleman.

  The factor simply shru
gged.

  “Witches or no, I don’t have a better idea,” said Oliver. “Take us there.”

  Looking resigned to their fate, Giles led them down the street. They passed dark, quiet buildings, the residents asleep for the night, until several blocks later, they found what Giles was looking for. A simple plank door set in a windowless sandstone facade. In brackets beside the door, torches flickered, casting dancing shadows across the blank front of the building.

  “It looks like every other place in this town to me,” complained Oliver. “Are you sure?”

  Giles swallowed and nodded. “I-I was told the trick by a local man who was too far in his cups, and too far down at the table to complain about my questioning. The rumor of this place is all over the city. There are dozens of doors which are claimed to be the entrance, but the trick is that the torches don’t burn. That’s how you know.”

  “What?” asked Oliver, stepping closer, frowning at the flickering lights.

  “Look at the brand itself, not the fire,” advised Giles.

  A yard away, Oliver peered at the dark brand, noticing that it was wrapped in black cloth. At night, it looked like any dark wood, but why would they have— at the end of it, where the fire danced merrily, he saw the cloth was pulled back, and a small patch of yellowed bone was exposed. He could tell from the ridges it was a joint. Stepping back, he tried to ignore that the length of bone was a near match to his leg between the hip and the knee.

  “You see?” asked Giles. “I told you, this place is dangerous. Perhaps we should search elsewhere. It’s been a quarter turn since we’ve seen anyone at all. Maybe they’ve given up the search.”

  Ignoring the man’s pleading, Oliver moved to the door. A plain leather strap hung from it. He grabbed it and pulled on it, easily opening the simple plank surface and inadvertently inhaling a wave of sweet-smelling smoke. He stepped inside.

  Giles followed behind him.

  They entered a room that was dimly lit from no discernible source. There were no sacrificed goats, or any other signs Oliver would have associated with a witch’s coven, but there were soft fabrics hung around all of the walls, a scattering of short couches with glass water pipes and decanters of wine staged within easy reach, and small, glowing bowls of incense.

  A woman, barely visible in a nearly black doorway at the back, gestured for them to sit. “Welcome to the Cat’s Tail.”

  “We-we are running from someone,” stammered Oliver. “We need your help.”

  “Everyone is running from something,” acknowledged the woman, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Sit, relax, and I will fetch the mistress.”

  The woman’s dark shape disappeared, and Oliver and Giles were left alone in the room.

  “A drink then?” suggested the factor.

  “Do you think that wise?”

  “I don’t think killing a man in public was wise, but you did that didn’t you,” reminded Giles. “Compared to that, having a little wine seems quite reasonable.”

  Sighing, Oliver walked to one of the tables and found a glass decanter of wine surrounded by small, silver cups. He filled two of them, handed one to Giles, then his own.

  It was smooth and rich, high quality, but had a hint of clove, or some other spice that he wasn’t familiar with. Not grapes from the United Territories, he decided, or perhaps they added something to it? He and Giles stood awkwardly in the center of the room, sipping the wine from the tiny cups.

  A moment passed, and they were still alone.

  “Do you think they’re running to find someone to sell us out to?” worried Oliver.

  “I don’t think we have any other options,” remarked the factor. “Another of these?”

  Grunting, Oliver poured another, and then another. Before long, he and the factor were sitting, leaning back on a comfortable couch that seemed to float on a sea of gentle waves. The light, dim and sourceless, rolled in waves across the cloth covered ceiling.

  Finally, a polite cough drew his attention, and he glanced toward the back door to see six or seven women standing there. They wore diaphanous dresses that covered them from the neck down, but left their arms bare. He saw thin bands of brass around their biceps, though the lead woman had silver on hers. Most of their hair was pinned up, showing thin elegant necks, but a few had long curls cascading down around their shoulders. Their eyes were smoky, their lips painted, and their cheeks rouged. He knew enough about women and their wiles to see that much.

  He gasped though as they stepped further into the room, coming to stand in front of him and the factor. The sourceless light shone through the thin fabric of their dresses, revealing the silhouettes of the bodies underneath.

  The lead woman spoke in a soft voice, her words barely hanging on gentle breath. He had to strain to hear her. “The men who seek you will not find you here, but there is a price.”

  “A price!” cried Giles. “We’ll pay it.”

  The woman smiled at the factor. “I knew you would, Master Giles, it is your companion I am curious about.”

  Oliver, his thoughts swimming like a man moving through a pool of honey, mumbled, “Was there something in that wine?”

  “There was,” acknowledged the lead woman.

  He blinked at her.

  “Poppy syrup and a few other herbs you may be unfamiliar with,” she said. “Most have only one thimble, or ask for clean wine instead.”

  “Oh,” he said, his head threatening to roll back onto the couch.

  “Are you witches?” wondered Giles.

  “All women are witches, don’t you think, Factor?”

  He grunted, not in disagreement.

  “What is your price?” asked Oliver.

  “For hiding you, or something else?” asked the woman, her lips curling languorously. She licked them, and Oliver’s heart began to beat faster. “Perhaps we can come to an agreement, Oliver Wellesley.”

  He frowned, confused. “How do you…”

  “Come with me,” suggested the woman. “Your hunters are in the neighborhood, and it won’t be long before they knock on our door. I promised you they will not find you, and I intend to keep that promise, but not if you are still lounging in our front room when they arrive.”

  “They’ll find us!” cried Giles, thrashing about, trying to stand.

  “Not if I do not want them to,” assured the woman. She gestured, and two of her girls moved forward to help the struggling factor to his feet.

  “What is it you want from us?” asked Oliver.

  “Come, I will show you,” replied the woman.

  Oliver got to his feet. They felt like leaden weights, though his head felt entirely weightless, and he shuffled after the woman and her retinue of ephemeral girls, his head seeming to lift his body, dragging his sluggish feet behind.

  She led them into a hallway that was even darker than the front room, and they passed doorway after doorway covered by curtains. Behind some of the barriers, Oliver thought he heard motion or quiet discussion, but he couldn’t make any specifics, as if the sound was muffled by the curtain, or more likely, by the poppy syrup they’d ingested.

  Finally, after what seemed like too far a walk to remain inside the building, they reached a larger room. It was open, with thick sandstone columns supporting a ceiling made of a series of arches and brick domes. The lighting was diffuse, barely reaching the ceiling, but this time he spotted a globe of a fae light tucked behind a thin sheet of fabric. He smiled at the theatrics. Simple tricks to fool a dulled mind.

  Plush cushions were piled on the floor, an impressive bar lined one wall, and a table was set with water pipes beside it. The scent had changed from calming to… exciting, he supposed was the word. Cinnamon, maybe, and crisp citrus. Lighting, scents, the tactile feel of silk, it was all designed to enhance the senses, to make men see things that were not there.

  He walked deeper into the room, nearly tripping over a pillow he didn’t see, only saved by a blonde woman’s steadying hand on his arm. He admitted th
e theatrics were working on his sluggish mind. Skilled courtesans or witches, he didn’t know, but he admitted these women were working a certain kind of magic upon him.

  Offering faint, half-hearted protests, Giles was led by three of the women to a dark, curtained corner of the room.

  Oliver glanced after the factor, concerned, until one of the women reached up and unfastened a clasp around her neck. Her dress cascaded to the floor to pool around her feet. Oliver could only see the woman’s smooth back, plump bottom, and toned legs, but around her he caught a glimpse of the factor’s stunned, delighted expression.

  Oliver turned back to the women around him.

  “Here,” said the leader, pointing to a cushioned bench. “Would you care for wine? Do not worry, no more poppy. We need you to be awake for this.”

  “Awake… what do you mean?”

  “Sit on the alt— bench. Have some wine,” suggested the woman, her companions looping arms around his, pressing their soft flesh against him.

  He let them steer him to the bench, and he sat, wishing it had a back, or even an arm rest. Another woman appeared with a goblet of wine, and after a tentative sip, he glanced sharply at the leader.

  “You’re right, not just wine,” she said with a sultry smile. “It has a few herbs to keep you alert.”

  “I don’t understand,” he mumbled.

  “I want you to watch me dance,” said the woman.

  She reached up and unfastened her dress, letting it fall to the floor, displaying a body that Oliver could only think of as perfect. The woman unpinned her hair and a silken curtain fell around her, black hair caressing her shoulders. Her red lips were curled in a smile, not showing her teeth, and she shifted, showing the smooth curve of her neck. Her silky hair slid off her shoulders, down her back, exposing the clean lines of her naked collarbone. His gaze drifted down, but she raised a diaphanous scarf, and began to dance.

  Enthralled, he could watch nothing else as the black silk scarf, thin enough to show her silhouette and nothing more, waved in front of her bare, bronze skin. His breathing quickened as he caught glimpses of rounded breasts, small, erect nipples, a thin waist, and hairless skin between her legs.