Bloody Rose

by Nicholas Eames

  Tam went up to the roof, pulled an oiled tarp off a sofa there, and played a few songs on her mother’s heart-shaped lute. The sun came out, and she shrugged off the Heathen’s longcoat when she started to sweat. Brune joined her a while later. He scared a crow out of the upper hearth, got a fire going, and brewed a pot of tea for the others, who arrived one by one and amused themselves in various ways.

  Rose and Freecloud huddled with their heads together, occasionally laughing and often kissing. Roderick swayed on the baseboard up front, smoking and swigging rum, munching contentedly on what Tam suspected was a leather glove. The satyr sang along as she played, replacing song lyrics with his own bawdy rhymes (except for Kait and the Cockatrice, which he sang almost word for word).

  Cura sat alone with a book in her lap. Tam couldn’t help but steal a glance at its title.

  “Pixies in Peril? What’s it about?”

  “Pixies.”

  “Just pixies?”

  “Also peril,” said the Inkwitch dryly.

  Tam tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear. “Sounds cool.”

  Brune chortled, sipping his tea. “Does it, though?”

  The day wore on. The blue sky faded to pink as the sun set behind them, and Tam looked over her shoulder to catch one final glimpse of home.

  Except, of course, it wasn’t home. Not anymore.

  Chapter Nine

  Woodford

  Tam awoke the next day with yet another vicious hangover, since someone, at some point the night before, had opened a bottle of wine, and then a cask of rum, and then a keg of stout Kaskar beer, after which she vaguely remembered playing cards with Freecloud and losing a great deal of money she hadn’t had in the first place.

  Roderick’s haystack was vacant, and sure enough she felt the rumble of the Redoubt’s wheels grinding below her. Brune’s bed was empty as well, and the door to Rose’s room was shut. Cura was still in her bunk, sitting with her back to the window, her nose buried in the final pages of Pixies in Peril.

  “Morning,” Tam ventured.

  “Is it?” The Inkwitch didn’t bother looking up from her book.

  Good talk, Tam chided herself. You’re fitting right in. She slipped out of her bunk, rummaged through her pack for a pair of fresh wool socks, and pulled them halfway to her knees before padding down the hall toward the galley.

  Brune was crouched by the fireplace, waiting patiently for the kettle to boil. He glanced over as Tam crashed onto one of the sofas. “Tea?” he asked.

  “Please,” she groaned.

  The shaman chuckled. “Feeling rough?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Brune shook his head, his expression veiled by his long hair. Something about him reminded Tam of the older mercs who practically lived at the Cornerstone. He had an easy smile, and moved with slow purpose, even when the kettle started howling like a wolf on fire. “I took it easy last night,” he told her.

  “Easy?” She sat up, wedging a cushion in the crook of her arm. “You and Roderick had a wine drinking contest, remember? You drank five bottles all by yourself.”

  He flashed her that gap-toothed grin of his. “Yeah, well, a bet’s a bet. And it was his wine, anyway.” Brune retrieved a set of four clay mugs from the cupboard, then swiped a glass jar off the counter and wrenched loose the lid. His tongue wedged between his teeth as he used two big fingers to pinch a ration of tea leaves into each cup. “Besides, I’m not allowed to get really drunk. Boss’s orders.”

  “You mean Rose? Why not?”

  The shaman went stiff as he poured hot water into one of the mugs, and Tam immediately regretted having pried.

  “There was … an incident,” Brune said. “Earlier in the tour. I got very drunk, and very angry, and …” He trailed off as he refilled the remaining mugs, and then set the kettle on a slate board. “Anyway, it won’t happen again, so long as I drink responsibly from here on out.”

  Only a mercenary would call guzzling five bottles of wine drinking responsibly, she thought bemusedly. Dad was right: These people are insane.

  Aware that she’d made the shaman uncomfortable, Tam decided to change the subject. “Those are beautiful,” she said, nodding toward the cups, which were made of glazed white ceramic decorated with painted blue animals: long-necked, long-legged beasts with the barrel chests of horses.

  “Aren’t they?” Brune picked one up; the teacup almost disappeared in his huge hand. “I bought them at the Winter Souk. Cost me a whole gig’s pay almost, but it was worth it. They take their tea very seriously in Narmeer.” He closed his eyes and inhaled a noseful of fragrant steam. “Every court’s got their darling drink, come to think of it. The Agrians like their simple summer beer, the Kaskars their whiskey. The Phantrans have their coffee, and their rice wine, and their rum. Boy, do they love their rum. And the Carteans, well, have you ever tasted sagrut?”

  “Sagrut?”

  “Vile stuff,” Brune declared. “Tastes like sour milk and horse blood.”

  Tam wrinkled her nose. “What’s in it?”

  “Sour milk and horse blood.”

  “Oh.”

  “Here.” Brune came and handed her two cups. “Take one of these up to Rod, will you? I’ll bring the other to Cura.”

  “What about Rose and Freecloud?” Tam asked.

  “Don’t expect we’ll see much of them today,” said the shaman with an exaggerated wink.

  “Okay.”

  “If you know what I mean,” he added, winking again.

  “I do,” Tam assured him.

  “Because they’re having—”

  “Bye,” she said.

  “—sex,” Brune finished, but she was already headed for the stairs.

  “What’s with the hat?” Tam asked Roderick as they sipped their tea and watched the wintry forest roll by on either side of the road.

  The satyr, who’d produced a flask from somewhere and was adding a nip of some amber liquid to his cup, glanced over. “Fancy, right?”

  The bard admired the bushel of stiff white fox-tails. “That’s one word for it, sure.”

  The booker’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s dumb.”

  “So dumb,” Tam admitted. “It’s maybe the dumbest hat I’ve ever seen.”

  Roderick snorted, and offered her the flask despite her remark. “Brandy?”

  “No, thanks. I’m already hungover—”

  “Best thing for it,” he insisted, pouring her some anyway. He stowed the flask and sipped from his cup, sighing contentedly afterward.

  Tam’s tea was almost finished, so her next mouthful was mostly booze. It wasn’t near as bad as she’d expected, however. The taste of plum lingered in her mouth and a pleasant warmth went coursing through her. Her gaze wandered north, where the Rimeshields marched across the horizon beneath snowy cloaks. The air was crisp, and the late-morning sunlight sparked off the barding of the horses hauling the argosy.

  Roderick was right, she thought. My head feels better already.

  “This hat,” Rod said, reclaiming the reins from between his knees, “keeps me safe, as sure as any helmet. This shirt, these pants”—he indicated his offensively pink blouse and baggy white trousers—“protect me like armour. The boots, too.” He stomped on the baseboard with his hard leather soles.

  She inspected the hat again, trying to discern if there was a skullcap hidden beneath it. There might have been iron rods inside the tails to keep them erect. “How so?” she asked.

  “By hiding what I really am. My horns, my hooves. All of this, really.” He waved his cup over his legs. “If people found out what I was, they’d despise me.”

  A peal of laughter sounded some distance behind them. Tam turned to look at the train of carts and wagons snaking along the brown strip of road. “Do the Outlaws know?” she asked.

  “Some of them. Penny does, obviously. Most of them have toured with us for years—they’re practically family. But if a wrangler caught me with my pants down?” He drank again and li
cked his lips. “I’d end up in a cage, or worse: fighting for my life in some backwater arena.”

  “Rose wouldn’t let that happen,” Tam said. A silly thing to say, she told herself, seeing as you’ve known her for two whole days.

  The satyr eyed her sidelong, probably thinking the same. “You’re right, she wouldn’t. But it could cause the band a lot of trouble. They might have to find another booker, and I … I don’t know what I’d do, to be perfectly honest. Fable’s all I’ve got. Well.” He grinned at her. “That, and this fancy hat.”

  When they arrived in Woodford there wasn’t much of a crowd to greet them. The townsfolk had no doubt assumed that Fable would forsake their tour and head west along with everyone else, so when the Outlaw Nation rolled into town they were met by a few dozen wary onlookers, including one very shocked young woman whose hair was hacked short and dyed hucknell-bean red. She took one look at Rose and screamed until her lungs gave out, then hit the ground like a sack of yams.

  Word of their arrival swept through town like a spring flood, and before long Woodford’s thoroughfare teemed with folk eager for a look at Bloody Rose and her bandmates.

  Roderick came strutting down the Redoubt’s steps wearing flared gold trousers and a green silk shirt buttoned low enough to show off the satyr’s unruly chest hair.

  The booker, accompanied by a few burly Outlaws, barged his way toward Rose and Freecloud, who were being accosted by a cluster of innkeepers, tavern owners, and the hopeful proprietor of a local brothel called the Mindflayer’s Mistress, all of whom were vying to provide lodging for the band.

  Wherever Fable stayed, Cura explained to Tam as the negotiations went on, they stayed for free. Not only would the lucky establishment reap a fortune selling food and booze to Fable and their entourage, but the notoriety of having hosted Bloody Rose would drum up business for years to come.

  “They’ll never wash the sheets she sleeps on,” Cura said, and then smiled wickedly. “But they’d better burn mine.”

  The “lucky” establishment turned out to be an inn called the Crowded House, which certainly lived up to its name once Fable and their ilk moved in. The place was long and narrow, its walls hung with clouded glass mirrors that made it seem even busier than it was. There wasn’t a proper stage, but a bard was crammed on a corner stool doing his damndest to contend with the noise.

  Roderick left to meet the local wrangler. Freecloud managed to con a few of the inn’s regulars into a one-sided game of Shields and Steels before he and Rose retreated to their room. Rose, Tam noticed, was clutching a glassy black orb to her chest as she and Freecloud climbed the stairs.

  Cura was accosted by a full-lipped woman who declared herself the Inkwitch’s biggest fan and was eager to prove it. The two of them disappeared, which left Tam and Brune to hold the fort on Fable’s behalf.

  Thankfully, the shaman was happy to keep her company. He polished off four tankards to every one of Tam’s, and occasionally passed her a pipe of something that left her lungs burning and her body tingling. He drew the line at scratch, however. When a sallow-faced man offered Tam a knife coated with dazeworm venom, the shaman growled so deep and low she feared he might become a bear right then and there. The dealer skulked off, and Brune laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Promise me you’ll never do that shit,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes. “You sound like my dad.”

  Brune laughed, but his grip on her shoulder tightened. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then, ’cause your dad’s a fucking legend. But seriously, promise me.”

  A legend? Tuck Hashford? Tam had to crane her neck to meet the shaman’s eyes. “I promise.”

  “Good.” He beamed down at her. “Let’s get some grub.”

  They found a booth and shared a bowl of spiced potatoes. Penny passed out on the seat beside Brune, and Roderick slunk in next to Tam a short while later. The booker was lamenting the “slim pickings” he’d been offered by the local wrangler when a harried-looking woman approached the table.

  “Excuse me …” she interrupted.

  “You’re excused,” said Roderick. “Now fuck off.”

  “Rod.” Brune’s voice was a chiding rumble.

  “Apologies, love,” the booker muttered. He slapped on a feeble smile. “What is it you want? An autograph? Did you bring a quill? Parchment? If it’s a tumble you’re after, I’m afraid you’re too skinny for Brune’s tastes, and far too meek for mine. Though perhaps Tam here would fancy—”

  The woman untied a leather purse from her waist and dropped it on the table with a very heavy clink.

  Roderick’s ears perked up at the sound. “Your room or mine?” he asked.

  The woman ignored him, her eyes fixed on Fable’s shaman. “Please, we need your help. My village is just south of here. We’re under attack!”

  Brune swiped hair from his eyes. “Under attack? By who?”

  “Our dog! He’s gone mad!”

  The shaman eyed her skeptically. “You want us to kill your dog?”

  “He’s already dead!” she cried. “A pack of grill got him two days ago, stripped the poor bugger to the bone! We buried him in the yard, said our prayers to the Summer Lord, and stood vigil all night by his grave—”

  “You stood vigil for a dog?” Roderick blurted.

  “But he came back,” the woman screeched. “Broke out of his coffin and dug free of his grave!”

  “A coffin? Like a dog coffin?” The booker looked around, grinning. “Is this a joke? Did Cura put you up to this?”

  “He killed our horses, then our pigs, then he went after our neighbour, Mary.”

  “Did he … kill her?” Brune seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Poor Mary managed to escape,” she said, “but in the dark she stumbled into the open grave and broke her neck.”

  A snort escaped Roderick before he slapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said, when Brune and the woman both glared at him. “Go on,” he urged, “please. You said your dog—”

  “Phoenix.”

  The satyr stifled a chuckle, smothered a giggle, then abruptly left the table. Tam could hear him cackling madly somewhere behind her.

  “And now Mary’s come back as well,” said the woman, “only she’s some sort of devil! My husband hit her with the shovel, knocked most of her jaw clean off, and she just kept after him. We’ve got her locked up now, and all she does is stare at us with those white-fire eyes. We don’t—”

  “Hold on?” The shaman forestalled her with a raised hand. “Did you say there was white fire in her eyes? The dog’s, too?” The woman nodded, frantic, and Brune pushed the purse of coins back toward her. “Take your money,” he said. “You don’t need mercs, just a few strong men. Tell them to search the houses in your village. Keep an eye out for chalk drawings, candles, scrawny old men in black robes—things like that.”

  The woman sniffed. “What? Why?”

  “Because Mary’s not your problem, lady. Phoenix ain’t either. You’ve got a necro in the neighbourhood.”

  “A what?”

  “A necromancer,” Brune said, but was met with a blank stare. “A sorcerer who uses dark magic,” he clarified, prompting the woman to trace the Summer Lord’s circle over her heart. “You could chop Mary’s head off, or burn her. Same goes for the dog. But you’re better off going after the one responsible for bringing them back. Find them, kill them, problem solved.”

  The woman retrieved her coin purse and clutched it tight. “So if we kill this nekkermancer—”

  “Necromancer.”

  “—then Mary and Phoenix will be at peace? For good?”

  The shaman nodded. “That’s right. A puppet can’t dance without someone pulling the strings.”

  She thanked him and hurried off.

  Roderick returned a few minutes later and passed out cups of something he called “Corn and Oil.” It was dark as coffee, but thick as syrup, and smelled cloyingly sweet.

  “What’s in this?
” Tam asked, peering into the black mirror of her mug.

  “Phantran rum, raw sugar … They drink the stuff like water back east.” The satyr nudged his hat from his eyes. “You’ve never had one? My mother practically raised me on the stuff.”

  “What was your mother like?” Tam ventured.

  Roderick stroked his pointed beard. “Like me, I guess, but with bigger horns, hairier legs, and a fouler mouth. Ah, and she could sing like a siren in heat.”

  “Mine too,” Tam said. And then, because she was more than a little drunk—and because Rod had said could instead of can—she asked, “How did yours die?”

  “Monsters killed her.”

  The bard blinked. “Monsters?” She’d assumed satyrs were monsters until yesterday, and wondered what exactly qualified as one to Roderick.

  “Ever seen a raga?” he asked.

  She had, back in Ardburg’s Monster Market. “They’re like great big cat-people, right?”

  “Close enough. Well, a few of them killed my parents when they refused to pledge allegience to the Heartwyld Horde.”

  Tam thought of the raga she’d seen in the market. He’d been imprisoned, but had smiled toothily at her through the bars of his cage. Hey, kid! she remembered him saying. How many kobolds does it take to saddle a horse? She’d ignored him, hastening on, and never did hear the end of that joke.

  “Are all ragas monsters, then?”

  Roderick didn’t seem willing to meet her gaze, and instead took a long sip of his drink. “Only if they choose to be,” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  The Spectacle of Suffering

  Woodford’s arena was called the Hysterium. It wasn’t nearly the size of the Ravine, but it was shaped like a bowl and made entirely of metal, so in Tam’s fragile state it sounded just as loud. Every stamp and scream from beyond the armoury split her skull like an axe through kindling. Her guts were a roiling cesspool of ale, wine, whiskey, and too many cups of Roderick’s “Corn and Oil”—each of them vying to be the first one out.