by J M D Reid
Ary puffed out his chest.
Chaylene looked around their small house as he attacked his second fish. “We need curtains.”
Ary blinked. “We do?”
“Of course we do. Every house needs curtains. Even my hovel had curtains, Ary.”
“I mean, we have a second floor. That disgusting piece of sow’s dung can’t peep on us now. He’d have to stand on a ladder.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ary, that’s not the point of curtains.”
“They’re not to keep people from spying in on you?”
“Of course not.”
His forehead furrowed. “Why else would they exist? You shut them to keep people from looking in.”
“Well, yes, that’s their practical purpose, but that’s not what they’re truly for. They’re to make a house into a home.”
“Curtains?”
She nodded her head, her lips shiny with greasy juices. She sucked on her finger, cleaning it before continuing, “Curtains are the defining thing that makes a place your home. You pick out the style of fabric, the color, the patterns on them, and then you hang them up. They’re a statement about who you are, a declaration to the world that this is your home. That you live here.”
“I guess so.”
“So what sort of curtains should we have?”
Ary shrugged.
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s it. Just a shrug. Do you care at all about what sort of curtains we’ll have?”
“I mean, it’s just cloth and . . .” He swallowed as she arched an eyebrow. “And I can see how important it is to you, so I’ll be happy with whatever you choose.”
“Because you don’t care?”
Ary reached his hand over the table, searching for a way to escape this conversation. He grasped her hand and chose flattery. “I trust you to pick something that’s perfect for us.”
Her eyes narrowed, a suspicious look forming in them even as a smile played on her lips. “Fine, I’ll pick them. But you’re hanging them.”
“Sounds fair.” Ary squeezed her hand. “I know they’ll be, uh, beautiful.”
“And some doilies. The furniture is so drab. It needs some doilies to decorate them. Nice and lacy.”
Ary didn’t bother asking what the point of doilies were. He just nodded his head.
“More wine?” Chaylene asked as she pulled her hand away. “This is a good vintage.”
“Sure,” Ary said. He held his glass. She poured the wine into his then refilled her own. “To our home.”
She beamed at him and tapped her earthenware glass against his, the dull-brown clay making a hollow thud. “To our new home.”
“You know, anywhere I’m with you is home,” he said after taking his sip of the wine, the sour and tart drink lighting up his taste buds.
“Ary,” she said, her voice growing tight. She shook her head. “You always make me feel so loved.”
“You say that like it’s bad.”
She bit her lip.
“Because you are, Lena.” His cheeks warmed as the shameful memory of his cowardice rose in him. His throat constricted. He wanted to beg her forgiveness for what he’d done, for abandoning her for so long while she lay dying.
“Lena,” he said and then coughed to clear his throat. “Lena, I just—”
A heavy fist hammered hard on the door, rattling it in its hinges.
“Great,” Ary muttered, his shame flashing into irritation that verged on anger. “I wonder what fresh disaster is about to befall us.”
Chaylene took a deep sip of her wine like she braced herself against calamity.
Ary marched to the front door and yanked it open.
Zori stood there, face flushed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You need to come, Ary.”
“What?” he asked.
“Vel’s been assaulted. It’s bad. Real bad. He’s asking to speak to you.”
*
Darkness fell.
“Let’s do this,” Xaipiai chirped.
Wriavia nodded. The assassins flapped their wings and took to the skies from their room’s balcony. Each carried a pouch with all the supplies they’d need to sabotage the shots.
Chapter Thirty
Wriavia and Xaipiai spiraled out of the darkness on currents of warm air rising from the ground as the evening chill set in. Wriavia touched down in the soft sand of the pottery yard. Around him, the clay shots were stacked into four pyramids.
The assassins padded to the Dauntless’s pile. They exchanged no words. None were necessary. They worked by dim light. Both moons were waning crescents, slivers of blue and red. The pale, violet light provided Wriavia’s keen eyes just enough illumination.
Wriavia grasped his drill with his distal feathers. Xaipiai worked on the opposite side of the pile. Wriavia examined the round shot stacked neatly and selected one near the top of the pyramid, knowing it would number among the first to be loaded. He pressed the ceramic drill bit at the seam sealing the sphere’s two halves together.
With the greatest of care, he cranked the drill. A curling flake of hardened clay broke off and drifted away in the breeze.
You will not escape Riasruo’s adjudication this time, Briaris.
*
Ary jogged behind Zori. The slim woman moved with a stiffness as she hurried, gripping her side. Chaylene caught up, falling in at Ary’s side. His stomach twisted. Vel was wounded? Why does he want to speak to me?
“What’s going on, Zori?” Chaylene asked.
“Vel had his guts ripped open,” she answered. “It’s real bad. A pair of sailors carried him in from town screaming the whole way.”
The memory of wounds raking down his back, buttocks, and thighs flashed in his mind. “Torn? Not cut?”
“I don’t know. His entire front was red. He had a shirt tied across his belly. It was almost black with blood. He’s been asking to speak to you, Ary. Alone.”
“Why me?” Ary frowned. It couldn’t have been Wriavia. Why would the assassin target Vel?
Zori led them through the naval base, passing the warehouses and the barracks. A few sailors lounged around, but most would be in Onhur. The medical building lay next to the administration building, a two-story, whitewashed building. It looked immaculate, like the outside had to be kept as clean as the inside. Zori paused at the door, joining Guts who stood rigid outside, the big marine’s face taut.
“I know he’s a sow’s backside, but . . .” Zori shook her head. “Listen.”
A muffled moan of sobbing agony drifted through the wall.
“No one deserves that amount of pain,” she said.
A Goddess sang in Ary’s mind. He took a deep breath, his heart thundering in his chest. He didn’t want to go in there. He didn’t want to see Vel dying. Once, he had been an energetic friend. They’d spent endless afternoons playing, fishing, and lounging.
I could heal him. Just enough so he doesn’t die.
Chaylene’s fingers touched his shoulder, giving him a squeeze.
Ary grasped the door’s bone handle and yanked it open. Torturous screams resounded through the building. A foul smell filled the air, reeking worse than a manure pile. Vel lay on the nearest bed, writhing as the medical officer bandaged up his guts, his face contorted into flushed agony. Captain Dhar stood nearby, watching, her back straight, her face hard.
Ary swallowed. The younger Vel, the pale-faced kid for whom Ary had fought the Shardhin boys, shone in Vel’s pain-wracked features. A weight settled on Ary as he edged closer. The medical officer tied off the bandages, crimson bleeding through the pristine linen.
“Riasruo, please!” moaned Vel, his head arching, his right leg twitching beneath the blanket covering them.
Lieutenant Jhoch broke away to join the captain. Ary heard his whispered words: “There’s nothing I can do. His bowels have been punctured and torn. He’ll be dead of sepsis by morning. All I can do is make him comfortable.”
The captain nodded before glancing at Ary. “We’ll give yo
u a few minutes,” she said. “He’s been pleading to speak with you.”
Ary nodded, his stomach squeezed high in his chest. He swallowed as he marched to Vel’s bed. The captain’s crutch and new wooden leg thumped as she crossed the room. Vel let out an explosive breath, his face relaxing. His gaze fell on Ary.
A smile tried to cross his lips before he groaned again.
Stones dragged at Ary’s feet, making every step heavy. He lumbered to the bed and sat upon a stool beside it. “Hey, Vel.” He had no idea what else to say. “I . . .”
Through a mask of flushed pain, Vel groaned. “I’m sorry . . . Ary.”
“You already apologized,” Ary said. He took Vel’s hand and gathered his warmth.
“Not . . . for everything.” Vel’s eyes flicked down. “I tried to . . . to kill you.”
Ary’s heat dissipated. “What?” Ary shook his head. The words made no sense to him. They spilled across his thoughts like rainwater across the slick scales of a fish. “You . . .?”
“I wanted Chaylene . . . so bad . . .” A spasm wracked Vel’s body, his head twisting on the pillow as he screamed through clenched teeth. “I burned to have her . . . so . . . I planned to kill you . . .”
An icy sweat broke out across Ary’s body. He struggled to grapple with these words. He knew Vel hated him, but this?
“But it was . . . Chaylene that almost died.” Vel looked away. “When you . . . were in the brig . . . I put . . . Riasruo Above . . .” He shuddered again. “I put what I thought . . . was poison . . . into your food.” He convulsed again.
A clammy horror squeezed Ary’s guts. He shook his head. “But . . .” he spluttered, “Chaylene ate it . . . you . . . you . . .”
A sick writhe spilled through Ary. His forehead scrunched as he stared down at the stranger lying in the bed. Vel’s hand slipped from Ary’s loose grip.
“I watched . . . and didn’t say anything . . . as she ate it . . . I was . . . afraid, Ary . . .” A sob burst from his lips. “I . . . didn’t want to get caught . . . but it wasn’t poison . . . Wriavia lied to me.”
“Wriavia?” The room spun around Ary. It overwhelmed him. “What about Wriavia? How do you know that name?”
“He told me it was a poison, but it . . . was the plague.”
“Riasruo Above,” Ary gasped. He stood up, and the stool clattered behind him. He swayed as he stared in horror at Vel. “The . . . the . . .”
“If you hadn’t healed her . . .” Vel’s tear-drenched gaze met Ary’s. “You undid so much of my selfish act.”
Ary took a step back. “I . . . I . . . thought . . .”
“Wriavia’s here. He’s the one that . . .” He spasmed. “Theisseg dammit! He’s here. He’s staying at . . . Madam Feitsa’s boarding house . . . on Swineherd Road. I’m so sorry, Ary.”
Ary opened his mouth. What could he say? He felt hollowed out. Vel pleaded, begged for absolution, but . . . it plowed into the weight crushing Ary’s heart. Chaylene’s visage, neck swollen, face sickly-gray, filled his mind. “You didn’t say anything? You let her eat it?”
Vel nodded his head. “Wriavia . . . wants you dead . . . he’ll kill her . . . to get you . . . I tried . . . to . . . but . . . he . . . he was too fast . . . I’m sorry, Ary . . . I am . . .”
Ary nodded his head, taking another step back. “I’ll kill him, Vel.”
More pain crossed Vel’s face as he nodded his head.
A cold resolve filled him. Not the fiery storms of his typical wrath, something darker. Wriavia, through Vel, had tried to kill his wife again. This time, Ary knew where the vulture was. He’d find Wriavia and snap his neck.
Before Ary reached the door, Captain Dhar thumped to Ary, her eyes wary. “What did he say?”
“A Luastria gutted him,” Ary said, his voice calm, flat. “He told me where to find the bird.”
A dark storm burst across the captain’s face. “Get your men, find this bird, and put him down,” she hissed. “No one hurts my sailors.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Ary burst outside. “Guts.”
Guts saluted. “Adjutant-Lieutenant.”
“How many marines are on base?”
“Just me and you.”
“That’s enough. Follow.”
“What’s going on, Ary?” Chaylene asked as he strode away. She raced to catch up and grabbed his arm. “Ary? What about Vel? Is he . . .?”
“Vel’s dying,” Ary stated. “A Luastria named Wriavia gutted him.”
Chaylene gasped. Then her face hardened into porcelain. “I’m coming along.”
“No! Me and Guts will handle it.”
“Just the two of you?” Chaylene’s unspoken words hung in the air. Wriavia was dangerous.
“Yes.”
“I’m going, Briaris,” she insisted.
Ary rounded on his wife. Chaylene faced him without flinching, strength shining in her eyes. “Fine. You can support us from the air.”
“Good. Zori, you’re with me.”
“Okay.” Zori glanced askance at Chaylene. “You know this Luastria?”
“Let’s move!” Ary growled.
Ary marched to the armory and produced his key. He unlocked it. Racks of sabres, crossbows, thunderbusses and pressure rifles stretched out before him.
*
Watching Ary march away hurt Vel almost as much as his torn-ragged belly.
I ruined everything, he thought.
He trembled as another wave of stabbing pain rippled through his guts. He spasmed, the bed creaking as he groaned through clenched teeth. They ground on each other. He gripped the sheets, waiting for the pain to wash through him and diminish, to give him another few heartbeats of dull lassitude.
I didn’t have to say anything. Ary would have healed me.
Vel leaned back on his pillow. Despite the pain, despite the fear of knowing he wouldn’t live to see the sun rise, a weight fell away from him. He was unburdened. He had confessed his crimes. He stared up at the ceiling to the sky above where Riasruo dwelt.
Maybe I’ll be able to float up to her. I don’t have my secrets dragging me down into the Storm. Her fires will cleanse me.
Lieutenant Jhoch loomed over Vel, a spoon in the medical officer’s hand, a fatherly smile fixed on his lips. “Drink this, son,” he said, bringing the carved wooden spoon to Vel’s lips. “It’ll help.”
A bitter liquid filled Vel’s mouth. His tongue and gums fuzzed numb. He swallowed, the tingling liquid flowing down into his guts. A blissful lethargy spread through his body, driving back the needles.
“Here’s a second one,” Lieutenant Jhoch said, returning the spoon it to Vel’s lips.
He swallowed. More of his pain washed away. The room grew darker.
“I’m sorry there’s not more I can do for you,” the older man said, sitting down on the stool. He took Vel’s hand. “But I’ll be here until the end.”
“Thank . . . you . . .” Vel whispered. He squeezed the doctor’s hands with a desperate grip as the narcotic crept into his mind. His thoughts slowed. His eyes grew heavy. He closed them. The pain was gone. The feel of the doctor’s hand drifted away.
Vel saw his mother’s smiling, round face. His father nodded to him, and his older sister squeezed his hand. Last, he saw Ary and Chaylene, smiling and holding each other. For once, Vel found joy at witnessing the happiness of his childhood friends.
I’m so very sorry . . .
He floated away into the light.
*
Ary stalked through the streets of Onhur, holding his thunderbuss ready, charge crackling in his left hand, barrel aimed down, and the stock set against his shoulder. His Agerzak greatsword hung diagonally across his back. Guts stomped beside him. The sailors carousing through the dock district of Onhur melted out of their way, flinching from the violence written across both men’s faces.
Above, a pair of pegasi circled. Ary could only spot his wife and Zori by the stars they occulted. He felt their eyes upon his shoulders,
watching through the scopes of their pressure rifles. Ary didn’t think that was necessary. He and Guts could kill Wriavia.
But it comforted him knowing Chaylene protected him from above.
Every booming step fanned a growing bonfire in Ary, devouring the coldness Vel’s confession had left inside him. Wriavia had almost killed his wife again! The sneaking, greasy-feathered vulture prowled around Ary, picking at those in his life. Eleven dead on the Dauntless. Men and women Ary had failed to heal. He wanted to unleash his flames upon Onhur.
“Who is this Luastria?” Guts demanded. “I’ve never seen you like this, Ary. You’re . . . cold.”
Ary didn’t know how to explain any of it. How to even try. He couldn’t admit the Luastria was an assassin trying to kill him, that the plague on the ship which killed eleven was an attempt to cleanse Ary from the sky. The scar on his side prickled.
“He’s . . . just trust me, Guts. He’s bad.”
“I trust you, Ary . . .” Guts shifted his shoulders. “Do you trust me?”
The words stung. Ary swallowed them. “I trust you to watch my back. I trust you to fight with me. I trust you to help me stop this Storm-cursed demon from hurting anyone else.”
“Besides Vel?”
“Just . . .” The scar itched worse. “Just Storming follow orders! We’re putting down this bird for assaulting Vel. That’s all you need to know.”
“Yes, Adjutant-Lieutenant!” Guts’s hulking body bristled. His face was hard, his jaw tight. The fake nose made Guts seem even more ferocious. Wood creaked as Guts gripped his thunderbuss.
Guts’s words slapped Ary. He didn’t know what to do, what to think. Later, after Wriavia was dead, he could figure out how to explain this to Guts. But he had a chance to end this. He knew where Wriavia was.
“We take no chances,” Ary said. “Lethal shots. He killed our crewmate.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Take your anger out on him. We’re sharks, Guts. Let’s tear this storming bird apart.”
They reached Swineherd Road. Signs hung from several buildings. Most were boarding houses. Their eyes swept from each one. The fifth one was Madam Feitsa’s, a tall and well-kept building. Unlike some of its neighbors, its plaster walls looked scrubbed clean and cracks patched.
