Sacrifice

by A. C. Cobble

  He sat forward, drinking deeply from his wine as he watched her, completely in the grip of her seductive spell.

  Suddenly, two of the woman’s companions joined her, and the three of them writhed and twisted in front of him, their scarves swishing back and forth, obscuring their bodies, and then revealing them. His throat was dry and his heart was racing. He couldn’t blink.

  He sipped his wine and croaked, “What do you want from me?”

  “Do you know who we are?” asked the woman, floating closer to him on bare feet, her sinuous movements never stopping. “Did your friend tell you?”

  “I… I can guess,” mumbled Oliver.

  “Men and women, we are opposite creatures, m’lord,” purred the woman. “But like life and death, like night and day, we can meet. We can come together, and that is where magic happens. We can build a bridge, and across that bridge, issues forth potential. Like women, some men have more potential than others. Some men are the fruit of prophecy, and their steps across the bridge can shake the world.”

  “I-I… what are you talking about?” he stammered, his voice catching as the woman let her scarf drop to the floor, her naked body half a yard from his face.

  “Would you like to come together with me, Oliver Wellesley?”

  He couldn’t answer, but she didn’t need one. She pushed him back on the padded bench, hovering above him, her black hair falling like a shroud around both of their faces. Her lips met his.

  He woke up, rested and refreshed.

  Confused for a moment, Oliver sat up and found himself in a wide, four-postered bed. It was comfortable, only a silk sheet covering what he quickly realized was his naked body. Beside him was another naked body. Tussled blonde hair and a bare shoulder were the only things visible, but the curves beneath the thin silk sheet hinted at her beauty.

  Bright, early morning sunlight was filtering through a curtain over the lone window in the room. He could see a wardrobe, a wash basin, and a pitcher with two cups beside the bed. The rest of the room was as bare as he and the woman. Briefly, he wondered where his clothes were.

  The details of the night before were hazy, but he clearly recalled running from what he guessed was Drake’s pirate crew. He remembered Giles leading them to the building he claimed was a witch’s coven. And Oliver vaguely recollected engaging in a stunning variety of sordid activities. They may not have been witchcraft, but he thought some of them might have been illegal.

  He smirked at that, studying the blonde woman beside him. In his memory, there had been a girl with jet black hair. Had there been more than one, several?

  Evidently feeling him stir, the girl rolled over and smiled up at him. “Good morning, m’lord.”

  “How do you know I’m a peer?” he asked.

  “You told me last night,” she claimed.

  “Did I?” He frowned and ran a hand back over his hair, feeling how long it was, deciding he needed to see the barber whenever he could find a decent one. “Were you… are you…” he stammered, trying to find a tactful way to ask if she’d had black hair several hours before. Instead, he asked, “Are you a witch?”

  Grinning, the girl sat up. “That’s about the kindest thing anyone has ever asked me.”

  He forced himself to look up at her face. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know how you meant it,” she claimed, bouncing out of the bed and pouring a cup of water from the pitcher.

  His gaze was fixed on her trim body.

  “Water?” she asked.

  “I, ah, yes,” he replied.

  “I wasn’t sure if that was why you were staring at me so hard,” she teased. “Most men, after a night like the last one, can barely open their eyes except to complain about their heads and shout for coffee.”

  “Coffee,” he mumbled, “that would be nice.”

  “After,” she said, holding up the water to his mouth.

  He drank, and a dribble of water leaked down his chin.

  She sat the cup back down on the table and offered, “Let me get that for you.”

  Pushing him back onto the bed, she climbed on top of him, kissing his wet chin, then working her way down lower.

  “No, I…”

  “You paid to have me for twelve turns of the clock,” said the girl, looking up from where she hovered above his bare chest. “I don’t want your sterling to go to waste.”

  His head fell back on the pillow and he tried to think, to remember, but in moments, all thoughts but those of the girl fled his head.

  “They work magic in that place,” remarked Giles, his eyes bloodshot, his hair standing on end, his body stinking like he’d just been hauled out of the harbor.

  “Magic,” muttered Oliver, standing in the center of the street in front of the Cat’s Tail. “Are they witches?”

  Giles laughed. “Whores, Oliver, they’re fallen women. The best coin can buy, in Durban or any other city, if you ask me. They got us through last night, though, didn’t they? I told you, you were missing out on the adventures you could be having.”

  Grunting, Oliver followed Giles as he led them back toward the hill across town where they would find the contingent of royal marines.

  As they walked, Oliver glanced back at the Cat’s Tail and stopped. Standing atop the building, under a linen shade, was a beautiful woman wearing a sheer silk dress. Jet black hair was pinned atop her head. She nodded at him, smiled, then turned and vanished inside.

  “Come on then,” cajoled Giles. “We need to get a pitcher of proper ale and a proper bath. It’s the only way to wash that poppy syrup out of our system. I won’t say I didn’t enjoy it, but it’s bad stuff, Oliver. It makes you imagine things. It’s a dark path, and one that’s hard to turn back from.”

  Oliver gestured for his friend to keep going, and said, “A dark path that I want no part of.”

  He thought about that, as they walked through the bustling streets of Durban. What had the black-haired woman been talking about? He knew he hadn’t entirely imagined it, he’d just seen her after all, but dream and memory of the night before were mixing in vague flashes. Bridges, life and death, prophecy? He shuddered. Indeed, a dark path he wanted nothing to do with.

  2

  The Prophet: a Short Story

  “How is she doing?” Thotham asked.

  Goldthwaite smirked, shaking her head slowly. “I told you when you placed her in my custody, I would keep her from you as long as I can. I meant that.”

  He grunted, his eyes falling from her gaze to his palm, which she held open on the small table between them. Her confident fingers traced the lines there, her lips pursed in concentration.

  “What do you see?”

  “Nothing you do not already know,” she replied. “You didn’t come here for your palm to be read. What is it you want, Thotham?”

  “So, I will die a violent death, then?” he asked.

  “Everyone in your line of work does,” she snapped. “Your death will not be for some time, though. For what that is worth.”

  He nodded, letting her hold his hand, the dancing flame of an oil lantern illuminating the dark cubby where she performed her palmistry.

  “I’ve told you that before. I’ve told you since you had your prophesy,” she mentioned. “Even before, I warned you what your path would bring. Violence. Blood and death. It is the way it always ends for a Knife of the Council. There is balance in this world, priest, and your kind reaps what you sow.”

  “And what about your kind?” he asked.

  “My kind can live a long, fulfilling life, as long as we avoid you and those like you,” she said, releasing his hand, “or as long as we stay useful. Is that why you are here, am I no longer useful?”

  “I will not kill you, Goldthwaite. Not now, not ever,” he claimed. He paused, frowning. “Do you see something in your future?”

  “I cannot see the end of my own path,” she said. “It does not work like that.”

  “Ah,” he responded. “I am not here to kill you,
and I do not think I ever will be. You practice sorcery, or close enough to it for Church law, but you are not what I seek to stop. You are not the evil which will spread across this world.”

  “You would sacrifice anything for your prophesy,” she replied.

  “I would,” he agreed, pausing, then he said, “It is a prophesy? You can confirm that?”

  “I cannot,” she claimed. “No one can. Not until it comes true or until it does not. It is the nature of prophesy, and of what I do as well. Sometimes, glimpses of possibility are revealed, but that is all that they are, possibility. It is not certain the spread of darkness you saw will happen. But it is possible.”

  “Then I must continue my path.”

  She shrugged, sitting back in the small cushioned booth that lined one side of the tiny alcove. She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and smiled at him. “I cannot tell you anything about your future that you do not already know, but there is one service I can provide you. Perhaps you’d like to spend the evening with one of my girls? We can help you maintain your grip on the current of life, make sure you don’t stray too far down the dark path.”

  “One of your girls?” he questioned. “No longer willing to do it yourself?”

  “Our relationship is complicated enough, don’t you think?” the mistress asked him. “One of my girls is better, or two, if you’re feeling energetic. I’ve decided we should stop what we were doing, priest. And no, not because of some potential I read in your palm, but because of my intuition as a woman. What you do, and what I do, are difficult enough as it is. We do not need to let our feelings twist us even tighter.”

  “The girl has potential, then?” he guessed. “I sensed something, but I was not sure…”

  “We should not speak of her,” declared Goldthwaite.

  “My apprentice, the girl’s friend, has potential as well,” said the old priest. “I believe she is the answer I have been seeking, the one who can bear the weight after I have fallen. Am I right?”

  “Perhaps,” answered the seer, nodding slowly. “Perhaps she is.”

  “We should keep them close, then,” suggested Thotham.

  The mistress shook her head, “We should not. If the spirits will it, they will come together again. But for now, they must walk their separate paths.”

  Thotham grunted.

  “A girl, then,” replied the mistress, “or two?”

  The old priest laughed, rolled his shoulders, and answered, “Two. Why not?”

  Blank-faced, the seer pulled back the curtain to the common room of the Lusty Barnacle and led the priest out of the small alcove where she performed her palmistry. Before waving to a pair of her girls, she caught the sleeve of his plain, cotton priests’ cassock. “At the new moon, Barnaby House, midnight.”

  Thotham raised an eyebrow at her, confused.

  “An auction,” explained the mistress. “There are two items from the Darklands that I believe your apprentice may find useful.”

  He nodded.

  “Arrive disguised,” instructed Goldthwaite. “Bring coin or a dagger of your own.” Without further word, she waved to two nearby girls. She dispatched one to fetch a jug of wine and the other to escort the priest upstairs.

  Thotham, letting the fallen woman lead him, walked toward the stairwell. His eyes remained fixed on the back of the mistress, the seer, wondering what other secrets the woman hid. What she did was illegal under Church law, and she’d earned a death sentence many times over, but she was useful to him. Useful for what she could decipher through the mists of the future, and useful for training the foundling that he’d placed in her care. He meant it, that he would not kill her. His apprentice would need help from such as them. He could feel it.

  Sitting at the back of the room, he peered at the cowled heads in front of him. Two score attendees all there to bid on artifacts purported to have magical powers or some supernatural blessing. There were a few texts and manuscripts as well that the auctioneer suggested might include references to occult knowledge, but even from a distance, Thotham could see they were innocent at best, more likely fakes.

  It seemed the crowd agreed, and bidding had been subdued.

  Two score attendees, all aware of the occult auction. It made Thotham distinctly uncomfortable that this type of meeting was happening in Westundon, and that he had not known about it. Even if none of the artifacts for sale were legitimate, the people in the room were seeking the dark path. Some of them may have found it.

  He wondered what else Mistress Goldthwaite was aware of happening in the city that she had not shared with him. Briefly, he resolved to press her on the matter, but with a sigh, he admitted to himself he would not. Hunter and prey. His relationship with the woman was awkward. So awkward, he wasn’t always sure which was the hunter and which the prey.

  A spat of ferocious bidding caught his attention and he leaned forward, looking through the forest of seated, cloaked figures in front of him to see an undisguised man standing at the side of the room. Glass of wine in one hand, bidding paddle in the other, the man’s cheeks were rosy red from too much drink and excitement. A bushy-white mutton-chop beard bristled as he raised his paddle again.

  “Thirty silver sterling,” cried the auctioneer, “do I hear thirty-five. Thirty-five. Anyone at thirty-five?”

  The room was silent, but Thotham caught a glance between the auctioneer and a hidden shape at the front of the room. Another bidder?

  “Thirty-two, we have thirty-two!” called the auctioneer. He glanced toward the inebriated man on the side and asked, “Thirty-five?”

  With a snort, the man raised his paddle again, and the auctioneer’s piercing, high-pitched cajoling continued. The competitor remained silent, and Thotham surmised the hidden figure was not another bidder, but a plant whose job was to encourage others to spend more of their coin.

  Cloaked in black silk, like many of the attendees, the auctioneer had only masked the upper half of his face. His mouth and jaw were left bare, and Thotham had little doubt the man was a member of Barnaby House. He was revealing enough of himself to gain the trust of potential clients who might bid, showing them who he was, even if they were reluctant to show their own faces.

  Aside from the auctioneer and a few unmasked men like the drunken one bidding, most of the room was hiding their identities. With reason, smiled Thotham. It was his job, after all, to kill those in pursuit of this type of knowledge.

  Though, so far, he had not seen anything go under the gavel that might be truly dangerous. Curiosities for the most part, along with some authentic old artifacts, though none that appeared to have any connection to the occult. He’d browsed the collection earlier, finding nothing of interest, except for his fellow auction-goers. How many, he’d wondered, were truly seeking the dark path, and how many were involved in a sort of participatory theatre? Did any of them really believe this would work, were they merely attending the auction as it was expected of them? Most, if not all, were involved in the occult because of the decadent, sexually charged ceremonies the secret societies practiced. He couldn’t blame them, and he’d chosen not to kill men or women who were merely deviants. But sometimes, involvement in Enhover’s secret societies led to true knowledge. The wealthy bidders in the room had the means to pursue the dark path, if they found it. They deserved Thotham’s attention.

  He was distracted, though, because so far, he hadn’t seen any items which Goldthwaite would have sent him to find. It was not her style to waste his time. She hadn’t mentioned the meeting at Barnaby House for no reason. Many of these people here would be her clients, after all, and she knew what he might do to them. Goldthwaite was nothing if not protective of her business. No, she’d told him about the auction because she believed something dangerous would come up for bid. Something she thought better in his hands than in any of these people’s.

  For another hour, he wondered, then his heartbeat quickened when the auctioneer unveiled a pair of gleaming, sinuous blades. Two kris daggers, t
hat even from the back of the room, he could see were inscribed with arcane symbols and patterns.

  “Some new additions to tonight’s lot, ladies and gentlemen,” stated the auctioneer. “Don’t be shy, come up and take a look.” A muffled question, and the man continued. “From the Darklands, m’lord, brought back just today by a merchant who visited the Company colony in the Southlands. Rare, even in that exotic place, I am told.

  Thotham joined the shuffling throng who moved closer to look at the steel weapons. The edges sparkled in the low light of the room, the inscribed patterns dark with age, and he guessed, old blood. He leaned close, ignoring the pushing from behind, and felt his jaw clench.

  He knew those patterns. He had learned them during his time studying in Romalla in the Church’s grand library. It was necessary for Knives of the Council to own weapons inscribed like these. With them, they could banish a shade with simple contact. With weapons like this, a Knife became more than a well-trained soldier, they became a priest-assassin, able to vanquish summonings and pierce the sorcerous protection the summoners raised around themselves. There was truth etched into the steel of the two daggers. Truth about this world and the next.

  “Four hundred silver sterling!” said the auctioneer after the room had a chance to view the weapons. The man’s voice had none of the brisk excitement he’d called out with earlier. Instead, he intoned slowly, acknowledging the high price, trying to add somber assurance it’d be worth it. “Four hundred sterling. Just two hundred a piece, though they must be sold as a pair. Who will bid four hundred sterling?”

  No one did.

  The auctioneer, frustrated at the lack of interest, continued his plaintive calls, hoping someone would open their purse wide.

  “Lower the bid, ey?” shouted a man.

  Frustrated grumbles bubbled through the crowd, but the auctioneer shook his head.