Reavers of the Tempest

by J M D Reid

  Esty slapped the man and tried to jerk away from his embrace. The man held on. She squirmed, her bead braids smacking him in the face. Words spilled from her mouth in harsh Agerzese.

  Estan reached them and loomed. A deadly earnest gripped him. His hands tightened on the pommel. “The lady does not wish to provide you companionship tonight.”

  “Lady?” snorted the sailor. “No ladies here.”

  Estan grasped the man’s shoulder with his left hand, his charge crackling across his knuckles. “You will kindly remove your hand from her person, or I will—”

  The sailor’s right fist hooked up and smashed into Estan’s cheek. He stumbled back, his head shaking at the sudden burst of pain. Estan blinked his eyes and shook his head to clear his daze. The sailor drew back for another swing.

  Esty’s knee cracked the sailor between his legs. He doubled over, gasping in agony. She seized his hair and slammed his face down into her knee. Blood spurted from the sailor’s broken nose. He fell back in a heap.

  “Thanks,” she smiled at Estan then smoothed her skirt.

  Estan rubbed at his bruised jaw, glancing at the sailor. “I guess you didn’t need my help.”

  “But it was appreciated.” Her fingers stroked his swollen jaw, the touch cool, soothing. Despite the dull throb, a tingle raced through him. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs so I can tend to you.”

  “I’m fine,” Estan muttered. “I am deeply sorry to interrupt your work.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.” She took his hand, her fingers slim and warm. “I don’t mind. It’s wonderful to see you even though I knew you’d be okay. I looked down at the Storm and saw you wouldn’t even get sick.”

  “You saw that clearly, huh?” Estan asked.

  She flushed and looked around then her eyes flicked upstairs. Estan understood. The pair hurried through the crowded bar to the stairs at the back. On the second floor, they entered her small room.

  Once the door was closed, she answered, “It is easier to interpret some futures than others.” Her hand reached out and tapped his breast over his heart. “Hold what you’re most passionate about right here.”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Most passionate?”

  She nodded her head. “You’ll be badly hurt, maybe killed, if you don’t.” Her eyes grew sad. “And I would hate for that.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Estan swallowed, feeling like someone had thrown water on his funerary pyre. “Do your visions always come true?”

  “I don’t know. Some do, some don’t. Or maybe my interpretations aren’t accurate enough, and I don’t realize when they’ve happened. It’s not the most useful Gift.”

  Estan mulled that over. He dwelled in a universe of cause and effect. Actions lead to consequences. Each one happened because of the events that preceded it stretching on and on back to the formation of time. To see into the future, to know what would happen and act, felt like cheating. A violation of the orderly rules of the universe that everything else obeyed. For a moment, an entire discipline of study yawned before him, an abyss he could fall into. However, he lacked time and resources to devote to it. He had to pursue more tangible knowledge, truth that would have a practical effect upon the near future.

  So Estan pushed his speculation into the corners of his mind and produced a ruby coin, the smooth porcelain cool against his fingertips. “I was hoping to discuss Agerz and how your people came to live on the skylands today.”

  Esty shook her head and pushed the coin back.

  Disappointment soured Estan’s excitement until she said, “You don’t need to pay. Your conversation is rewarding enough.”

  “Are you sure? I know you are turning down customers. I would not wish you to suffer on my account.”

  She smiled as she sat down on her bed, her back straight, her posture enhancing certain attributes which Estan found . . . delightful. “Does it bother you what I do up here?”

  “I have not given it much consideration.” Estan said, his head cocking to the side. “It seems to me you have assets that you are leveraging for your survival. It may not be the most ideal of professions, but I imagine there are more unpleasant jobs considered more . . . uh . . .”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Upstanding?”

  “I suppose some would say that.”

  “It’s wearisome work,” she said, leaning back against the plaster wall. “But talking . . . I could do that forever.” She patted the bed again. “Come, sit. I won’t bite.” Her smile grew. “Unless you want me to.”

  Estan’s cheeks burned. “Do men want that?”

  “Some like an adventurous lass.” Her giggle was earthy and frank. “Other men want a trembling waif. It’s as much theater as anything else.”

  Estan sat on the bed. “Do they have any theaters in Onhur?”

  “Yes, though my kind aren’t allowed in too often.”

  “Whores?”

  “Agerzaks.”

  Estan frowned. “Even citizens?”

  “Some of the Vionese landowners do not think highly of Agerzak citizens, even those that served in your Navy.”

  “Our Navy. You’re an Autonomy citizen, right? You do have the Blessings.”

  Esty shook her head. “My mother never wanted us to worship your Riasruo. She wanted us to honor the Eye of the Storm. Dhessech needs all our pity.”

  “Why?”

  “She is bound and trapped. The Storm is her prison. My ancestors were supposed to free her.”

  “It is that simple? The Stormriders attack us because they want to end the Storm?”

  Her expression fell, her gaze flicking to the floor. “Wouldn’t you if you were trapped down there? No sun. No light. Always raining. Smothered in the Murk . . .”

  “I suppose I would. I must confess I do not even understand how your ancestors survived without the sun. Farmers have long known plants thrive on Riasruo’s light, and they form the basis of the food chain.”

  “People are like mold.” Her eyes flashed up to his. They trembled as she spoke. “We can be ugly and foul. We can squeeze into little cracks and crevasses, filling them with our lives. We can survive anywhere, even if it’s not the best circumstances. And we spread. Year by year, we grow across our skylands unless war or plague or famine strikes. And even then, we fester on.”

  Her words stirred something in Estan. Every beat of his heart brought a touch of pain. Her lower lip’s quiver, the liquid emotion in her slanted eyes, the wavering timber of her voice all made Estan ache to hold her. To pull her to him.

  But was that too forward?

  He shifted, not sure what to do. His cheeks burned. He placed a hand on her shoulder, shame filling him for how insufficient the gesture felt, for how hollow the words, “I am sorry,” sounded.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Esty turned away, her beaded braids striking together, rattling. She inhaled deeply. When she looked back, the forming tears had vanished. A smile spread bright on her lips, but delicate like it were made of spun sugar. “Now, you want to know about Agerz. I believe I told you about his early life?”

  Estan nodded, unsure what else to do. He kept his hand on her shoulder, delighting in the feel of her warmth, afraid removing it would be an affront to her. Or make her notice he’d touched her. “He found a picture book in a crashed ship as a child after his mother joined a Cyclone.”

  “It inspired him. He wanted to see the skies above. He wanted to do more than eek out a partly existence beneath the Storm. He’d seen what life was like up here. So he searched out the elders. He wanted to understand the Song.”

  “Song?”

  “That’s how the riders are bound to the engine powering a Cyclone.”

  “I’ve seen one. It pulsed like a heart and shot lighting off into the clouds around it.”

  “You’ve fought a Cyclone?” Esty whispered. Her eyes dropped to his sword. “That’s where you got this.” She touched the pommel. “May I see it?”

  Estan drew it. “It is a much
more elegant blade than your Agerzak greatswords.”

  “I see that.” Her finger stroked down the edge. “The Wrackthar have improved their swords while the Agerzaks cling to the past,” she said, switching to her race’s harsher-sounding language. Only when she spoke it, the words came with a melodic ease, water flowing over jagged rocks, the surface smoothing out the edges below. “We are chained to our heritage.”

  “Chained?” Estan asked, saying the unfamiliar Agerzese word “reihniech.” “What does that mean?”

  “It means bound or roped. A reihn is a rope made of metal.”

  “I see.”

  “So Agerz searched for the meaning of the song. He met an old woman named Hestril. She taught Agerz about the song. He traveled long and wide, leaving his people to find a tribe ready to send a Cyclone.”

  “There are tribes?”

  “I guess. That’s what the stories say. Each tribe would spend generations readying for a Cyclone. They would need arms and armor, and a population sufficient to survive the loss of so many adults.”

  “Their population is growing,” Estan realized. “The Wrackthar are learning how to better survive down there. This improvement has resulted in their population expanding. That is why they are mounting more and more Cyclones.”

  “They are?”

  Estan nodded. “They are on the rise. Three a year, and it is increasing at an exponential rate.”

  “So they’ll destroy the Storm,” she said, a wistful tone to her voice.

  “And crash the skylands. They’ll kill us.”

  “We left them to die down there. Your people and mine. Perhaps they have the right to seek redress and justice.”

  “We are not responsible for the crimes of our ancestors. We can only answer for our own actions. That is not justice, but tyranny.”

  “And that makes their suffering right? They have to continue to live in misery?”

  “What about our right to live?” The words burst hot from Estan, rising out of the blood-smeared memories of Offnrieth. His heart thudded. Explosions filled his ears. Men and women howled for his blood. He gripped the sweat-soaked handle of his sabre, muscles in his arms burning as he hacked over and over. Sparks burst from his left hand’s open palm.

  The dead fell at his feet. A crimson mist drifted through the air, caressing his face. His chest grew tight as thunderclaps ripped through the mob. Viscera spilled across the docks. How many had died for his survival?

  “Estan?” Esty asked, her hand trembling.

  “I didn’t want to die. Does my life not have value? Do I not have the right to defend it, Esty?” he demanded.

  “Of course,” she said. “Your life has great value.”

  “And if it . . .” If my life continues because of the suffering—the deaths—of so many others, does that make it right? Moral? I only fought to preserve my existence.

  “What happened?” She moved closer, her head craning. “Estan?”

  He stared at her, wanting to ask her if what they did at Offnrieth possessed any good. That those who died had perished for a reason. Or should he have died? But then, he never would have gotten to see her again. He ached to cup her cheeks and demand absolution from her.

  But what right did he have to ask for it?

  “Please, Estan.” Her hands cupped his face.

  The words lodged in his throat. For once, he couldn’t divulge knowledge. The information of Offnrieth refused to be shared. He didn’t understand the chaotic madness of the docks. The Agerzaks had howled for his blood. He didn’t want to die. He’d had to kill them.

  But . . . but . . . he was the interloper. He brought death to their town. To their families.

  “I . . .”

  “You deserve to live, Estan,” she said, her eyes peering into his, reaching past his soul. “Never doubt that.”

  He nodded his head. He had followed orders. They hadn’t been there to kill. If the pirate ship had never attacked the Dauntless and inadvertently shelled their own people, none of those deaths would have happened. The Dauntless was there to prevent misery. To deny those who preyed upon the weak safe harbor. It had to be a moral act.

  It had to be . . .

  We were making the skies a safer place for the benefit of all. Consequentialism dictates that a greater good will come of this. Fewer raiders now plague the skies. One less ship sails to attack men and women pursuing honest trade.

  Stopping the Stormriders is no different.

  Estan drew in a deep breath. “Allowing the skylands to fall, while freeing your Wrackthar cousins from the oppression of the Storm, shall only lead to greater suffering. It will result in the deaths of millions. That must be balanced against the millions who merely live in harsher circumstances.” Saying the words relieved the tension about his heart. “Though they have the hardship of dwelling without the sun, they still dwell. They still exist.”

  “So it’s right for them to live without the sun?”

  Estan shook his head. “But it is moral to deny them their justice if it means that you, me, and all the others who dwell above the Storm must perish. We do not deserve to die for what those in the past did.”

  Silence clung to the room. Other moral philosophy systems danced through his thoughts, ones arguing against the dangers of consequentialism. Tyranny could also be birthed from putting the greater good ahead of everything. It did not allow for the individual to flourish, but it was the best one he could see to judge this circumstance.

  It was moral of me to survive.

  “I do not think there is a right answer,” Estan said. “They do not deserve to wallow in darkness, but their freedom cannot come at the cost of all our lives.”

  Esty sagged forward. Her hand clasped his. “I don’t want to die, either.”

  A flush of warmth went through Estan. Her breasts rose and fell in her low-cut dress, ivory and round. He licked his lips, studying their curves. A coin burned in his pocket. He’d never lain with a woman, but that could change. He just had to reach into his pocket, produce it, and she would be his.

  “So Agerz found a tribe and joined their Cyclone,” Estan said, his throat hoarse. He coughed to clear it.

  “And convinced the crusaders he’d found a different way. His Cyclone launched at some weak Luastria nation.”

  “The Empire of the South.”

  “They were unable to stop Agerz’s Cyclone. He was lucky. The Wrackthar Cyclones are launched blind. They have no idea where the foci are.”

  “The Sky Towers?”

  “False Towers,” Esty corrected. “At least, that’s what Agerz called them. He broke the harmony tying his riders to the Cyclone’s heart instead of destroying the False Tower. Within two or three generations, the Agerzaks had conquered and butchered all the peoples of the Petty Kingdoms. They were savage. My ancestors showed no mercy. They put to death all they came across.

  “We were free of the Storm. We just had to leave our kin behind and butcher thousands.” Esty sighed. “They must hate us down there.”

  “I doubt they even know about your people,” Estan told her, his mind whirling. “So, the False Tower can do more than just crash the skylands.”

  “I guess.”

  “So what anchors the skylands in the sky also binds the Storm.” Estan frowned. “But how can that be? The Storm came first and then the skylands were raised by Riasruo.”

  Esty shrugged. “Our stories agree on that.”

  “Did Kaltein create the Storm and trap your Goddess in your history?”

  “I guess. My ancestors cared more about survival after the Storm was summoned than preserving our history.”

  Estan shook his head, a smile growing on his lips. “And yet you have answered so many questions that have plagued scholars for a hundred years.”

  Amusement played on Esty’s lips. “Your scholars never asked us.”

  “They did. Your answers came at the end of swords.”

  Esty’s smile slipped.

  “Sorry,” he wh
ispered.

  Her hand tightened on his. They sat in silence for a few more moments. Downstairs, a roar of jolly laughter erupted. Estan swallowed, growing uncomfortable in the silence. Unable to withstand the pressure, he said, “I thank you for the information and the conversation.”

  “Are you leaving?” she asked, her voice tinged with disappointment.

  “I feel guilty from depriving you of your livelihood. We can continue in the morning.”

  “Please, don’t,” she whispered. “I . . . I don’t want to . . . work tonight.”

  Tears blurred her amber eyes. Estan had no idea what to say. He witnessed her pain and longed to heal it. But how? His mind raced, struggling for something he had read in a book or learned from a tutor. No one taught me how to comfort a crying woman.

  “Then I will stay,” Estan said. “If you are not . . . I would hate to think of you forcing yourself . . . to do . . . that.”

  “We could . . .” She glanced at the bed. Her cheeks grew even more crimson. She looked down, shoulders pulled in. Her sudden coquettishness belied her frank talk from earlier.

  “That is not necessary,” Estan reassured her. “I am only interested in your pleasant conversation.”

  “Really?” She straightened her back and pushed out her impressive attributes. “You admire these, right?”

  “I do,” Estan said, his cheeks burning, flummoxed by her changing behavior. “But I do not feel comfortable in buying your service.”

  “Why? No other man has such reservations.”

  “Because. . .” Estan’s tongue was thick. “I would never want to cheapen you by paying such a partly amount.”

  Her arms went around his neck, her lips nearing his. “What amount wouldn’t cheapen me?”

  His heart thudded faster. Her eyes were liquid and amber, her eyelashes thick. “I do not think the skies contain enough money to equal your value, Esty.”

  “You really mean that?” she whispered, her lips nearing his.

  “I do.”

  Her lips touched his. Estan’s eyes closed. Fire rushed through his body. Her kiss banished thought. His hands tentatively touched her sides. He let instinct move them. They slid higher, brushing the bottom swell of her bosom.