by Jon Skovron
“Sorry about the fiddler?” Hope asked Broom quietly as they walked through the foyer. Then she heard him. He sounded like he was attacking his fiddle with a piece of metal. And when they reached the main room, she saw that her guess was not far off. He had wild, shaggy hair and a beard like a beast. He sat in a corner and scraped a sliver of rusted iron across the strings of his fiddle, making a sound that was so unpleasant, Hope could almost taste it on her back teeth.
“Modern composers,” said Broom sourly. “No respect for the classics. But what do you think of the party?” He gestured broadly to the rest of the room.
Hope was more prepared for the spectacle than she’d expected. The room was packed with people, but no one was fighting. The air was hot and stifling, but perfumed with incense and fragrant pastries. People were drinking excessively and probably doing drugs of some kind, but no one appeared to have overdosed and there was no vomit on the floor. While many people had stripped off the majority of their clothes, and some were kissing, no one was completely naked or having intercourse. In other words, compared to Gunpowder Hall in Paradise Circle, it was quite tame.
“Very pleasant,” she told Broom. “Now, where is Alash?”
“He’s over there.” Broom waved vaguely to one side. “He’s fine.”
Hope would not have said he was “fine,” but perhaps that’s because she knew him better than Broom did. He was currently surrounded by a small group of people all vying for his attention, while Lymestria kept her arm possessively around his waist, a gloating smile on her lips. Hope knew Alash didn’t like being the center of attention, but she had to admit that while he might be uncomfortable, he didn’t seem to be in any danger. Perhaps the experience would even be instructive for him.
“Well?” asked Broom. “What should we do?”
“As long as I can keep an eye on Alash, I don’t much care,” said Hope. “You be the guide.”
“Then it will be my pleasure to introduce you to some of the greatest theatrical talents in the world!”
As the evening wore on, Hope sympathized more and more with Alash. Broom took her from one small group to the next, showing her off like she was a rare curiosity.
Hope had assumed practitioners of the creative arts to be worldly. Perhaps because she saw a connection between the craft they practiced and the meditation that was central to a Vinchen’s growth and enlightenment. But for enlightened artistic individuals, this group certainly seemed provincial. It was as if the world outside Silverback was irrelevant to them. When she asked how things were in Paradise Circle, most hadn’t even realized there had been riots. When she asked if there was any news from Stonepeak, most of them looked at her incredulously and laughed. As if the very idea they might know or care about anything going on at Stonepeak was a joke.
Finally Broom introduced her to one old man who said, “I might have heard a thing or two that way.” The man had clearly been handsome once, but years and unhealthy choices had stripped most of that away, leaving a pale shadow behind. His face was gaunt and sallow, and he had a painful-looking open sore on his lip.
“Allow me to introduce Avery Birdhouse, who has trod the boards more years than you or I have been alive,” said Broom.
“Honored to meet you,” Hope said gravely. “And eager to know what you’ve heard from the capital.”
“I know a few wags up there working with a group called the Godly Naturalists,” said Avery.
“Sounds like a religious cult,” said Broom.
“More like an anti-biomancer cult,” said Avery. “They believe that biomancers always messing with nature is the whole problem with the empire. They reckon that the biomancers have grown too powerful. That they’re even more powerful than the emperor.”
“How can anyone be more powerful than the emperor?” asked Broom. “That doesn’t make a drop of sense.”
Hope thought back to her brief time at the palace. She hadn’t seen anyone from the imperial court. Almost as if their existence was irrelevant and the Council of Biomancery acted on its own with impunity.
“What are these Godly Naturalists doing about the biomancers?” Hope wondered if they might be allies at some point. “Have they taken any action?”
“I think they have some, but they’re scared to do too much lately. The biomancers have some new creature. Folks call it the Shadow Demon, and it hunts down the biomancers’ enemies at night.”
“Shadow Demon?” Broom gave him a skeptical look. “Has anybody ever seen it?”
“Nobody’s seen nothing that I heard, on account of it does all its killing in the dark. Like it don’t even need light to see. As I hear it, the victims are always sliced open, but no knife has ever been found at the scene. Chilling, ain’t it?”
“Very,” said Hope. It could all be coincidence, of course. A “creature” controlled by biomancers that could see in the dark and favored blades. But what if it wasn’t? What if they had turned Red into some kind of killing machine? It would be even worse than Brigga Lin had warned.
“Where’s Lymestria and that lacy of yours got to?” asked Broom.
Hope’s focus snapped back to her surroundings. She scanned the dense crowd for signs of either of them. Her shoulders slowly tightened with each moment she didn’t see them. It had gotten more crowded since they’d arrived, and the buzz of conversation was closer to a roar as people competed with the grating shrieks of the fiddle player.
“Captain, I must tell you something!” Alash’s voice was directly behind her.
She spun to see him looking at her with wide, glazed eyes, his pupils so dilated she could hardly see his irises. Lymestria still held on to his waist, although now it looked more out of necessity than possessiveness.
“Alash, have you been taking drugs?” she asked.
“Drugs? Me?” He turned to Lymestria, who giggled and nodded. “Apparently I have. I do feel a bit strange. Not bad, though. I feel marvelous, in fact.”
Hope glared at Lymestria. “What did you give him?”
“Just a drop of black rose, my darling.” Her voice was muffled because her face was pressed into Alash’s side. “He was terribly anxious, you see. Apparently it’s the crowds. I felt dreadful, of course. So I thought I’d give him a little something for his nerves.”
“And how much did you give yourself?” asked Broom, looking weary.
“Don’t give me that look, Broomie. I can handle myself,” Lymestria told Alash’s jacket. She seemed to be slowly sliding down his body as her grip on him loosened.
“None of that is important though.” Alash gave Hope an intensely earnest look.
“Oh?” she asked. “What is important?”
“I’m so glad you asked!” He beamed at her for a moment, then put his hands on her shoulders. “You are what’s important. You are amazing! You must know that!”
“Uh-huh…” Hope gave Broom a sideways glance. He shrugged apologetically.
Alash leaned in closer, looking at her adoringly with eyes that were not quite focused. “Your keen insight. Your bold leadership. Your drive and commitment to your beliefs. Your generosity and unexpected kindness. And of course, I hardly need to mention your beauty.”
Hope couldn’t quite decide if she found his inebriated fawning sweet or irritating, but she summoned all the patience she could. “Alash, I think it’s time to go.”
“Already?” he asked.
Then Lymestria lost her battle with gravity and fell to the floor.
Broom picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. He smacked her butt and grinned at Hope. “I’ve got mine. Collect yours and let’s be off.”
Hope gently removed Alash’s hands from her shoulders, then guided him toward the door after Broom.
Alash seemed to perk up a little once they were out in the chill night air. “I hope I wasn’t being too forward.”
“It’s okay.”
“But you know, I so rarely express my full feelings toward a person. Why is it usually so difficult?”
“I
find it hard as well,” said Hope.
“What if there was someone, let’s say, a person we had strong romantic feelings for. You would think we could just tell them and it would be easy. It’s only words, after all. Only talking. It’s not so scary.”
“I suppose not,” said Hope.
“Then why?” He lifted his arms up to the starry night sky, as if expecting it to answer. Then he dropped his arms and groaned. “I think I may be in love with Miss Lin.”
“I was fairly certain you were,” said Hope.
“She thinks I’m bumbling, weak, and naive.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. She told me so.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that Hope couldn’t help herself. She laughed. Under normal circumstances, Alash probably would have been mortified, and rightfully so. But with the black rose still coursing through his veins, he joined her with his own light, merry laugh.
They walked for a while down Honey Street, which still surged with music and life. Slowly their laughter faded away to silence.
Finally, Alash said, “That won’t be nearly as funny tomorrow, will it?”
“No,” Hope agreed. “Probably not.”
17
Seeing her brother the night before gave Nettles an extra bit of edge that she knew would come in handy taking down Sharn. However, it also made her a little less gentle with others. And she was never particularly gentle to begin with.
“You sure you want me to stay behind?” asked Filler as he sat and watched Nettles work a nick out of her chainblade with a pumice stone.
“Don’t be bludgeon, Fill. You can’t go creeping around with that thing.” She tapped his leg brace with the toe of her boot.
“Yeah, alright.”
The others were all getting ready. The room was filled with a quiet, eager tension as knives were sharpened, strangle wires were coiled, and darts were dipped in poison. Filler’s shoulders sagged as he watched them. Nettles felt a tiny prickle of guilt for leaving him behind.
“Sorry, Filler, that’s just how it is.”
“I know.”
“Look.” She placed her chainblade on her lap and put her hand on his big shoulder. “I need you here anyway.”
He eyed her warily. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m talking true. I need someone to keep an eye on Mick. He’s got some plan or other. He might try to make a move while I’m gone tonight, so I need someone I can trust to tell me what’s what the minute I get back.” She actually had Tosh and Misandry on that task, but she couldn’t let poor old Filler sit around with nothing to do.
“I suppose that could happen, couldn’t it?” he admitted.
“This is a big operation we’re running here, my wag. I can’t be everywhere at once and you’re my number two, aren’t you?”
“Sure, Nettie.”
“So I’m counting on you to be in charge when I’m not here.”
“I can do that.”
“Thanks, Fill. I owe you.” She squeezed his shoulder and went back to working on her blade. It was strange, getting people to do things. She’d seen Red do it countless times, sometimes even been on the receiving end. But she hadn’t done it much herself. It was easier than she expected. That was good, because if she really was going to take the Circle, she needed to get used to it.
Once the sun had set, Nettles and her crew said good-bye to Filler and headed for Hammer Point. There were eleven of them in total. Nettles in front with Handsome Henny and the Twins, followed by Gavish Gray, Fisty, Moxy Poxy, Built Slim, Snakefeet, Ladyarch, and Mister Hatbox.
Along the way, they walked past the Three Cups. Its windows and door gaped open like the head of a corpse.
“Nobody’s moved in there?” she asked Henny.
“Nah. A biomancer died there, you know.”
“I know. I was there when our own Bleak Hope took off the top half of his head.”
“Right. Well, folks reckon any place a biomancer gets killed must be haunted by the worst sort of ghosts.”
“Load of balls and pricks.”
“You want to move in there, then?” asked Henny.
“Not in Drem’s place. Sets the wrong tone.”
“There, see? Biomancer, Drem. Whatever name or reason you like, the place sits badly in everyone’s mind.”
After they’d walked past it, she said, “Still, it’s where I first met Red, you know. So I guess it’s not all bad memories.”
“I been meaning to ask, Nettie.” Henny glanced at the Twins, who gave him encouraging looks. Then he turned back to Nettles. “Filler said you and Hope are working on a way to get Red back from the biomancers. That true? I mean… do people ever come back from the biomancers?”
Nettles walked in silence for a little while. “Don’t tell Filler, or anyone else for that matter. But honestly, I ain’t so sure.”
“Then why you been sailing around with her for the last year?” asked Stin.
“I didn’t sail on the Kraken Hunter for him. I did it for her.”
“Why?” asked Brimmer. “She ain’t even in the Circle.”
“She’s better than the Circle. I thought I was, too.”
“But you’re back,” pointed out Henny.
“Yeah. Reckon I was wrong.”
“About which part?”
But Nettles didn’t respond. The truth was, she wasn’t sure. All she knew is how good she’d felt since she’d come back. How right she felt. In charge of her own crew, knowing every street like it was a part of her. Maybe it was a part of her. Like she’d told Tosh, she’d sailed all over the empire to find a “better” her. Wouldn’t it be strange if it wasn’t until she came home that she actually found it?
They met Palla and his crew at a place called Pit House. Nettles didn’t know Hammer Point well, so she hadn’t known what to expect. Pit House turned out to be the charred foundation of a building that looked like it had been blown up from the inside. Part of the front wall still stood, including the door frame, but the bricks and beams were blackened and cracked in places. The roof and the other walls were all gone. Most of the floor was missing as well, exposing the dirt basement level beneath, which Nettles guessed was where it got the name Pit House.
“Piss’ell,” muttered Henny. “What kind of a bomb could do that much damage?”
“Not a bomb, but a drug-making laboratory.” Palla and his crew emerged from the recesses of Pit House. “Someone trying to mix things to make their own coral spice. It didn’t go well.”
“I’d say,” said Gavish Gray.
Both sides were tense with suspicion. Nettles could practically taste it in the air. To show everyone how it was, she walked over to Palla and pulled him in a rough embrace. “Good to see you, Palla.”
“My, my,” Palla murmured. “Does this mean I can call you—”
“Don’t push it.” She turned to her crew. “We got no time for bluster and grudges. I want Sharn and her crew taken down and half her guns and ammunition in our possession by sunrise. Keen?”
Everyone nodded.
“Sharn’s territory is the far eastern portion of Hammer Point,” said Palla. “She has sentries spread throughout, all of them well armed. Her headquarters is a mill set right on the water.”
“You move your crew down from the north, I’ll move my crew up from the south. We’ll take out the sentries as we go, picking their weapons. By the time we meet at the mill, we should be well armed enough to deal with whatever resistance we find there.”
Palla nodded. “Remember your promise.”
“Right.” Nettles turned back to her crew. “You’ll recognize Sharn as an older woman with white hair and an eye patch. Nobody takes a shot at her. She sold out Hammer Point to the biomancers, and we’ll leave her to Hammer Point justice. All we want are the guns, keen?”
“One question,” said Moxy Poxy, more growl than voice. Like always, she was dressed in tattered brown and green robes. Her thick matted hair hid h
er eyes from view. “Can we take trophies?”
Nettles sighed. “As long as it don’t slow us down, I suppose that’s fine.”
“Trophies?” asked Palla.
“You probably don’t want to know,” said Nettles.
Nettles had her crew fan out into three groups. Henny took the Twins and Ladyarch. She knew Gavish Gray to be a solid wag, so she put him in charge of Fisty, Built Slim, and Snakefeet. She kept Moxy Poxy and Mister Hatbox with her. Not that she didn’t trust them, but they were… special cases, and not the sort you wanted to just let loose on an unsuspecting neighborhood.
Nettles and her two wags came across their first sentry shortly after entering Sharn’s territory. A woman standing on a street corner with a rifle in her hands and a revolver at her side. The thing about being so well armed, Nettles decided, was that it tended to make a person overconfident. The woman didn’t even see Moxy until she had a razor at her throat. Moxy opened her from ear to ear with one smooth motion. Then, while the woman was still alive, thrashing and struggling and gushing blood, her eyes wide with terror, Moxy pulled out pruning shears and cut off one of her fingers.
“Piss’ell,” muttered Nettles as she took the rifle and revolver. “You could have at least waited until she was dead.”
Moxy Poxy grinned as she wiped the blood spatter from her face with her ragged cloak. “Just using my time wisely. You were the one who said don’t let trophies slow us down.”
“It does have a certain logic to it.” Mister Hatbox wore a severe black coat, white shirt, and black cravat. His bland expression gave nothing away beneath his black top hat.
“Like you’d know,” said Nettles.
Hatbox shrugged, looking unconcerned.
“Come on, let’s keep moving,” said Nettles.
They spotted the next sentry sitting in a second-floor window, his legs dangling over the sill, and his rifle in his lap.
“Mine,” said Mister Hatbox.
He moved in a wide arc, then closed in at the peripheral until he was directly beneath the sentry. He used the sill of the first-floor window as a step and carefully inserted a pin into the gaf’s ankle. He stepped back to the ground and watched, his expression still bland, as the sentry yelped and grabbed at his suddenly spasming leg. He fell from his perch and landed on the cobblestones and a moment later, Mister Hatbox darted in and inserted a pin into the sentry’s shoulders and neck.
