by Jon Skovron
“We’ll get you new clothes,” Hope assured her as she pulled on her coat.
“This must be the lift, teacher.” Jilly pointed at a metal cage against the back wall of the cave. It was roughly eight feet tall and five feet wide, with a door that covered most of the front. A thick cable was attached to the top, and stretched up into the darkness above. The cable was made from thin strands of metal braided together. Hope walked over and examined it carefully.
“How is such a thing possible?”
“Not with biomancery,” said Brigga Lin as she finished putting on her gown. “Imbuing living force within metal is nearly impossible. In fact, the method to do so has been lost for over a century. That’s what makes your sword so special.”
“So it’s true that biomancers can only work with living things?” asked Hope. “Then how do you make guns explode?”
“Microscopic organisms can live on nearly anything, including gunpowder,” said Brigga Lin. “I simply make those organisms combust.”
“I thought you had to see them to do something to them, though,” said Jilly. “How can you see something that small?”
Brigga Lin arched her thin black eyebrow. “Haven’t you read chapter five of the Biomancery Praxis yet?”
“Uh, well, I started,” said Jilly. “But it’s real hard to follow. My mind keeps slipping to other things.”
“Did you think it would be easy to grasp the fundamental interconnectedness of the universe?”
“Well, no, master, but—”
“When we return to the ship, I want you to read that chapter from start to finish, and expect me to question you thoroughly on it.”
Jilly looked crestfallen, but bowed her head respectfully. “Yes, master.”
Hope didn’t like that biomancers used the title of “master.” It reminded her of the cruel Vinchen novice Crunta, who had tormented her as a girl. She always appreciated that Hurlo called himself a teacher instead. Still, she had invited Brigga Lin to participate in the radical idea of training Jilly in both traditions, and she couldn’t just pick and choose which parts Brigga Lin would impart.
She examined the metal lift. “It appears to raise and lower on some kind of pulley system.”
“Can we make it work?” asked Brigga Lin.
“Yes, but it looks like one of us will have to stay below to operate it.” She tapped a small bell next to the lift. A thin rope stretched up into the darkness with the cable. “This is probably how we signal that we want to come back down.”
“Aren’t you glad you brought me along, then?” asked Jilly. “Otherwise one of you would have to stay behind.”
“Very true,” said Brigga Lin. “We don’t have any idea what sort of reception we’ll receive up there from those criminals. It could get ugly.”
“You do realize that we are most likely considered criminals,” said Hope.
“You know what I mean,” Brigga Lin said dismissively.
They stepped into the metal cage and closed the door. Jilly began to turn a large crank. The cage shuddered, then slowly began to rise up into the darkness.
As they ascended, Brigga Lin asked, “Have you decided if you will try to recruit these prisoners to the cause?”
Hope was silent for a moment. Something still bothered her about the idea, but now she distrusted that hesitation. Weakness. Fear. Lack of resolve. If she was to be the Dire Bane everyone expected of her, she couldn’t let such things fester within her. She had to cut them out, even if it was painful.
“I will give them the opportunity to be a part of something greater than themselves,” she said at last.
Brigga Lin nodded approvingly. “Now you’re starting to get it.”
Soon they reached the top. The lift ceiling hit a thick metal hatch, which opened slowly as the lift continued to rise. Finally the lift jerked to a halt. They had reached the Empty Cliffs.
Hope locked her clamp on her sword and braced herself. She had considered several possible scenarios that included being greeted by hostile guards, hostile prisoners, or perhaps no one at all. But what greeted them when they stepped out of the lift was not any of those things.
The Empty Cliffs were a flat, mostly barren stretch of rock dotted with low shrubs and boulders. The wind shrieked all around them, making Hope’s eyes tear up. It took her a moment to clear her view and see what was before her.
Old Yammy stood as if she had been waiting for them to arrive, her arms folded in a ragged cloak. Next to her stood Brice Vaderton, the captain of the Guardian. He wore a simple green coat instead of a nice white and gold uniform, his hair was shaggy, and he had the beginnings of a thick black beard, but it was definitely him. Behind the captain and Old Yammy stood a large gathering of men and women, looking tired and hungry, but resolute. There was a strange air of expectancy that hung over them all.
“Dire Bane, champion of the people,” said Old Yammy. “Thank you for coming to rescue me. As a token of my gratitude, I have gathered a small group of souls willing to follow you so that they and their families might finally throw off the cruel oppression and fear of the biomancers.”
Vaderton dropped to one knee. “Though we have been enemies in the past, I now see the narrowness of my thinking. Dire Bane, you spared my life. I beg you to allow me to repay that generosity by serving under your command.”
As Hope looked at the crowd before her, she almost felt like she was floating in the sea once again. Rebellion on such a grand scale had never truly been her intention. She had only wanted to shake the biomancers up enough for them to release Red. But it was as if the world was thrusting this role upon her. Everywhere she turned, people looked to her to lead them. She had taken the name Dire Bane and they wanted Dire Bane. Perhaps they even needed Dire Bane. Could she in good conscience deny them? Perhaps it was time to cast aside the humility of the Vinchen, and completely embrace the power and strength she knew dwelt within her.
“Understand, all of you, that it isn’t for me you fight,” she said loud enough for it to carry over the endless, shrieking wind. “Nor is it for yourself. It is for the good of the empire, which is not limited to the rich and noble, but all its subjects. There are dark days ahead, make no mistake. But if you join me, we will face them head-on with courage and resolution. And when we are finished, the empire will be a better place for all of us. Do you swear to this?”
“I do,” said Old Yammy.
“As do I,” said Vaderton.
An echo of “as do I” spread through the group.
As Hope surveyed her new recruits, she felt an odd tickle deep in her chest. A strangely pleasant bubbling feeling. It took her a moment to understand that it was triumph she felt. Before she could stop herself, a grin split across her face.
“Then let’s give ’em all hells!” she shouted, and the newly freed prisoners cheered.
21
Nettles stared down at Filler’s body. He had been cleaned up, dressed, and now lay stretched out on a table in a small room in Apple Grove Manor. The curtains were drawn and the only light in the room was a single lantern that hung over him. His body seemed to float in the darkness.
Nettles had put out the word that any true wag of the Circle was welcome to come and pay their respects. People had been coming all day, an endless train of bewilderment, sadness, and anger. Some had left flowers; some had left booze. Some even left small metal items, perhaps something he’d smithed for them. As quiet and unassuming as he’d been, Filler had been known and loved. Mick, in his arrogant ignorance of how things truly worked in the Circle, had made a grave mistake.
Nettles had not been there when people came to show their respects. Handsome Henny had stood by the body, greeting people on her behalf because she was too busy planning what was to come. But now, before she began her retribution, she allowed herself to be with him, alone, one last time, and let the memories come as they will.
She remembered when she’d first met him, along with Red, and got caught up in their slippy plan to rob D
eadface Drem on the opening night of the Three Cups. Filler was Red’s roommate at the time and he had volunteered to sleep at Henny’s house so that Red and Nettles could toss in private.
She remembered the hours she and Filler had sat together designing and constructing and tweaking her precious chainblade. She’d been so fussy about it, and he’d been so patient. She held it now tight in her hands, the metal links biting into her palms.
She remembered all those times when Filler had been the peacemaker between her and Red. Likely they wouldn’t have remained friends if not for him.
And then there was that time Red came to them, begging them to come with him to Hammer Point and see something Big Sig would show them. It had been Filler who convinced her to go along with it. Not because he had a way with words, but because she couldn’t look in those big, honest eyes of his without at least giving Red a chance.
There had never been a more loyal wag. Nettles gazed down at him like she was memorizing every line of his face. Burning it into her brains so that she would never falter in what was to happen next.
Gradually, she became aware of another presence in the room. She turned and saw Mister Hatbox in the corner. He held his black top hat respectfully in his hands. His dark, carefully oiled hair gleamed in the faint lantern light and his expression was as bland as ever.
“Well?” asked Nettles.
“We’re ready,” he said.
She nodded and turned back to Filler. She leaned over and kissed his cold, broad forehead. “At least you made it home, my wag,” she whispered.
Where it’s cold, and it’s wet,
And the sun never gets.
But still it’s my home.
Bless the Circle.
She stood back up and clutched at the edge of the table, forcing the tears away. There would be no tears, ever again.
“I swear I won’t let him have it, Fill.”
Nettles turned and walked out of the room, followed at a respectful distance by Mister Hatbox.
Gavish Gray waited for her in the darkened hallway. He looked worried beneath his mop of prematurely gray hair.
“Hey, Nettles. You sure you don’t want to wait a few days? You know, cool off a bit so you have a more level head going into this?”
She regarded him for a moment. She’d known Gray a long time. He was the wag who’d helped her start the whole southending side business at the Slice of Heaven. He spent a great deal of time at sea, as smugglers and pirates were wont to do. But he’d always come back looking for her. If she’d been the marrying type, he’d have been high on her list. Not the top, mind. But pretty far up.
“Smartly said, Gavish.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “You’re a reasonable wag, and I know you’ve got my best interests at heart. Trouble is, there’s nothing reasonable about what’s been done to Filler. And there’s something deep inside me that demands I respond in kind.”
There was a gaf named Donkey Bray who was known to be one of Mick the Sick’s boots. He was at the Drowned Rat drinking heavy. Maybe to shut up a guilty conscience, or maybe just because he liked to drink. Either way, he started choking and spitting blood. It was a slow death, but quiet enough, so no one else in the tavern paid it much mind. A curious wag later found tiny slivers of metal in Bray’s tankard. Someone remarked casually that Prin the barmaid seemed a bit raw from crying, and that he’d always had a hunch she’d been sotted with Filler.
Another boot named After Atticus went to the Slice of Heaven for a toss. While he stood with his cock in Tosh’s mouth, Misandry came up behind and strangled him with a fishing line. Mo’s only response was to remind them to clean up after themselves.
All over Paradise Circle, gafs known to work for Mick the Sick started dying. Hangings, drownings, and fire were a few of the more common causes. Nothing quick or painless. The body count was high enough and public enough that the imps should have noticed. But they didn’t seem interested in pursuing the matter. Even they understood Paradise Circle justice enough to not get involved in this one.
The smart boots started declaring they were deserting Mick. Soon they were leaving him in droves. He needed to do something as a show of strength, or he’d lose more. So he gathered up what was left of his crew, about forty strong, and they marched on Apple Grove Manor. Perhaps he’d heard stories of the raid on the Three Cups and imagined he would garner similar enthusiasm.
But no one joined in the march. No one even came to watch. In fact, he’d never seen the streets so empty.
He learned why that was when he and his men came in view of the manor and a storm of bullets erupted from the windows. He lost eight men in the first five minutes. There was a pause as guns were reloaded, and Mick urged them to charge. But Nettles must have drilled her people on loading rifles relentlessly, because they fired again in less than a minute. After two more rounds, the men broke in all directions. Fewer than ten stayed with Mick as he fled.
It was pretty clear who was winning the fight for control of Paradise Circle. It was also pretty clear that was no longer the point. Because those that survived the raid continued to turn up dead.
Finally, Mick and his remaining men were holed up at Gunpowder Hall. It was the largest building in Paradise Circle, and known to all as a safe house or shelter. Again, he showed his poor grasp of the neighborhood. Because the hall was only a haven for true wags of the Circle.
Still, it appeared to be like any other day at Gunpowder Hall. Rows of benches and tables housed gambling and negotiations over drugs, robberies, and assassinations. Open areas offered tents for whores who could afford them, and straw mats for those who couldn’t. The place was filled with shouts and laughter, groans of pleasure and pain, things and people breaking, lives beginning and ending. Nothing unusual.
Mick and his men were clustered at a table in the center of the room. It seemed a smart idea, since it would be difficult for anyone to sneak up on them. To be sure, the crowds were thick in the hall and people bustled by constantly, but it was nobody dangerous. Just old wrinks, children, junkies, and perfumed whores. And that was Mick’s third and final mistake. Because even he should have known that everyone in Paradise Circle was dangerous.
So Mick and his men sat nervously sipping on tankards of ale, their eyes never leaving the entrance. Maybe they thought Nettles and her crew would come bursting in through the front door for a big shootout. After all, he’d learned the hard way that they weren’t lacking in firepower.
But if that was what Mick thought, he knew his sister even less than he knew Paradise Circle.
As the day wore on, a strange sort of weariness crept up on Mick and his crew. They found it harder to keep their eyes focused. Their limbs began to feel heavy. Their mouths grew dry and the more they tried to wet their parched tongues with ale, the stronger their symptoms became.
Black rose was a curious sort of drug, with all manner of applications. A large dose of about three drops in a drink would knock a person out within minutes and keep them that way for hours. This was particularly useful for crimp houses selling unsuspecting lodgers to ship captains in need of crew. A medium dose of two drops into a drink would produce an intoxicating effect that might or might not end in unconsciousness, depending on the size of the person and their particular tolerance to narcotics. In either case, the uniquely bittersweet smell was still strong enough to be detected even in the hoppy bite of Paradise Circle’s finest ale.
But black rose stayed in the system a long time. If one delivered only a half drop, the smell was undetectable. A single such dose would have a negligible effect on the user. But if it was delivered many times over the span of several hours, the cumulative effect could eventually bring down even a full-sized mole rat (a fact verified and documented ten years earlier by the biomancer Fitmol Bet).
Mick the Sick was a large man with a robust constitution. He was used to being less affected by drink. So he was more annoyed than concerned when his boots began nodding off around him. He only became alarmed when he
tried to wake them up and even a sharp slap across the face had no effect.
He was not completely bludgeon, so he immediately put down his tankard. Except somehow he missed the table and it spilled all over his lap. He stood up, and the world wobbled beneath his feet in a way he didn’t like at all. That’s when he realized just how bad the situation was.
His vision dimmed, and the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was his sister walking toward him, her face as dark as a thundercloud.
“Rose…,” he whispered in both longing and fear.
Mick awoke in a small, hot space. The walls appeared to be made of leather with tools and weapons hanging from them in neat displays. He was staked down spread-eagle on the warm dirt. When he lifted his head, he saw a seething blacksmith forge at the other end. A woman with matted hair and a long ragged cloak was stoking the fire. The orange light flickered on her dirt-streaked face. Next to her stood a man in a pristine black suit and top hat. He gazed expressionlessly at the glowing end of a pair of long-handle pliers he held in one gloved hand.
“He’s awake.”
Mick couldn’t see the speaker, but he didn’t need to.
“Rose,” he whimpered. “Come on, sis, you gave me a good scare. Joke’s over.”
Nettles stepped into view, the light of the forge playing on her heavy lashes, smooth high cheekbones, and dark painted lips. Mick again felt the old longing, tinged with new fear.
She wasn’t looking at him, though. Instead she stared down at a long, thin chain in her hands. It was the thing she’d hit him with that night a few weeks ago. There was a blade attached to one end that was clean and polished, the light reflecting brightly off its metal. Nettles always was careful with her things.
“I’m no expert, but the only lethal wound I saw on his body was the hole in his stomach that you made for your cock.” There was something eerily mild about Nettles’s tone. As if she was pondering what he’d eaten for breakfast. “So I can’t help but wonder if you had your fun before or after he died. It used to be only after, but who knows? We’ve both changed since then, isn’t that right, Mick?”
