by J M D Reid
“If she hadn’t broken off their betrothal, he would never be your fellow,” Chaylene pointed out.
“Doesn’t matter. She. Hurt. Him.”
Chaylene gave her friend a hug. “Enjoy tonight. We’re going to be in for a long few days. Flying around a skyrift will be tricky.”
“I hope you tell me what causes your bad dreams,” Zori whispered. “Just remember, we’ve all done some nasty things in the Navy. I’m glad I saved your life. I’m glad I survived. Because I have no idea how I would explain crushing a man with my Blessing to my ma. She was a delicate, sweet woman, even if her head was full of downy fluff.”
“Maybe.” A sudden gust of wind howled down the street, growling with fury as it rippled their clothing. Chaylene jumped, head whipping around as her heart thudded in her chest.
“It’s not a Cyclone.”
Chaylene’s tension relaxed. “It never is. Goodnight, Zori.”
*
Estan wandered through the marketplace, searching for a book merchant. A certainty gripped him that he had spotted at least one, only now he couldn’t locate it. He marched through the chaotic jumble of stalls and the press of townsfolk and sailors. A pungent smell—a mélange of rotten fish, unwashed bodies, and sour muck—tickled his nose.
Estan wanted to find Esty a book to read while he was gone. He hoped it would occupy her mind and keep her from fretting for him. Estan knew he’d worried enough about Esty on the last voyage, and she wasn’t in any danger.
The sun had set over an hour ago, the dark hindering his search. The days grew ever shorter, marching towards the start of winter. A cold wind gusted from the direction of Grion Rift. On a clear day, you could make it out as a gray smudge on the horizon, separating the Fringe from the Great Empty.
Estan tried not to think about the skyrift.
Chaylene nodded to Estan as she worked through the crowd, a basket slung over her arm. He nodded back, but didn’t try to fight through the press to reach her. She was heading back to camp with the food for her and Ary’s dinner. Estan would dine upon the cheap, greasy food of the tavern again. The trips to the jakes were worth spending as much time as possible with Esty.
Estan would find her a book. He yearned for her happiness and comfort. And to hone the edge of her mind, enhancing its natural sharpness. He ached to polish her intellect to a gleam as burnished as the metal of his sabre then witness what ignorance she would dispatch on her quest for truth.
His perseverance to find the book seller paid off.
As the shadows grew longer and the merchants began closing their stalls, he found one of the book vendors sandwiched between a stand that sold some sort of cooked meat stuck on thin skewers and coated in a sweet sauce and a bonecarver hawking fine kitchen knives.
“I am much relieved to discover you, good merchant,” Estan said as he perused the selection on the shelves.
“A literate marine?” asked the Vionese merchant, his right, red eye spotted with a white cataract. He paused in closing his stall.
“And educated,” Estan answered as he glanced at the disappointing selections on display. Most were romantic adventure stories about swashbuckling pirates and damsels in distress. The sort of dross a bored housewife would purchase to idle away an afternoon, or the juvenile tales that would capture the mind of a young apprentice slacking from his work.
“Do you have any scholarly works?”
“A few.” The merchant rubbed at his runny nose and then sneezed. “Damn bad vapors.”
Estan froze, his throat tightening.
“You okay?” the merchant asked as he bent down to a hay-packed crate. “Never seen a Vaarckthian go so gray.”
“I’m fine. Just . . . remembered something.”
The merchant hefted the box onto the counter. Sitting in the hay were five books, their leather spines faded. “Don’t get much call for these books. Bought these from an estate sale last spring.”
Estan examined the titles. He pushed past Observations of the Internecine Conflict of the Zzuki Tribes and The Complete Catalog of Vionese Corals and Polyps before his finger lingered over the third one. Embossed on the spine in flaking black ink was: Treaties on the Principal of Gravity as It Relates to the Binding Forces of the Skylands. Estan had read Iolsuimn Oovthionick’s book several times. He flipped it open, nodding at the intact diagrams beside the printed letters. Estan glanced back inside the box and shook his head at The History of the Age of Isolation, Volume 3.
Why would anyone have any desire to own Qack’s myopic history? he wondered.
He paused at the final tome, Volume 6 of Uolvaex Zhnoagsick comprehensive History of the Skies, but decided Oovthionick’s work would stimulate deeper conversations.
“Ah, a good choice, if a dense read,” the merchant nodded, tapping the book. “Definitely the best I own.”
Estan nodded his head in agreement. “Yes. A fine work. How much?”
“Oh, I could part with it, say . . . for a diamond and two rubies.”
Estan blinked. It was over a week’s pay; a marine earned a ruby a day. “That much?”
As he reached for the buttons of his coat—he kept his money pouch in an inner pocket—the frowned at the surprise on the merchant’s face. Why is he . . .? Right, haggling. Growing up, his father’s valet did the purchasing for the household. Estan would hand the man a list of supplies at the start of every week and they would appear in his bedroom after a few days.
“Well, maybe you could knock a few rubies off,” Estan said, not sure on the protocols of bartering.
“Nope,” the merchant said, his lips curling with a smile.
Estan flushed. He knows I’m willing to pay the original price. With a sigh, Estan unbuttoned his red jacket, produced his coin purse, and counted out seven rubies. Next time, he would remember to haggle from the start.
“Well, here you are.” Smiling, the merchant handed over the book. “I hope you find satisfaction with your purchase.”
“It’s a gift. But I know she’ll treasure it.”
“She? Your sweetheart?”
Estan nodded.
“It’s a rare girl who expects books over flowers. And I don’t mean to imply you’re buying the wrong gift.”
Estan smiled. “Else you’d lose my business.”
The merchant nodded.
“I know my sweetheart. She will be delighted. Esty has a keen mind and quick wit.”
“What a rare blessing.”
“I think so.” With his jacket open, Estan slipped the book into a different inner pocket, higher up. He felt the solid weight pressing against his chest as he buttoned up his coat. “Well, enjoy your evening, master merchant.”
His steps light, Estan headed for the Last Port Tavern and his waiting Esty.
*
Every time Wind’s hoofs struck empty sky, sparks flew, sending pulsing light flaring around galloping legs. Nrein hated riding with a Skydancer. There was nothing below the horse but the ever-churning Storm. It rumbled and growled, hungry to eat them.
Nrein had lied about the bluefin shark being the fiercest in the sky. The Storm’s hunger dwarfed all.
He stared up instead at Tlele. It hung above them, growing larger and larger as they approached it from lower down. The sun had sunk beneath the skyland but hadn’t vanished into the Storm, illuminating the craggy, rocky bottom of the skyland dotted with patches of coral growing upon out-thrusting rocks.
Tlele wasn’t its proper name; the Autonomy had bastardized the Fringe’s skylands after the conquest. It galled Nrein. When he reconquered the Fringe, Tlele would regain its rightful title: Talchien. A good, proper Agerzak word, not the fluffy, weak sounds the Vionese squawked.
They almost chirped like the rusting birds.
“Hold on, Cap’n,” growled Methen. The cripple had replaced Keddalr as commander of Nrein’s archers. No man was a better shot than Methen, nor knew how to avoid detection.
Nrein gritted his teeth, keeping a strong grip on Methen’s
waist as the horse galloped upwards like it climbed a steep hill. Fumpf, a second Skydancer, galloped behind them. They raced towards the edge of the skyland. The pirate hated this part. His body wanted to fall back off the horse’s saddle and plummet to the Storm Below while his stomach sank at the sudden rise. His ears felt the pressure.
“Come on, Wind!” hissed the Skydancer, pushing the horse to race faster. They were at their most vulnerable. All it took was someone looking over the edge and seeing a pair of Agerzak Skydancers. They would race to alert the Naval Base. His surprise attack would be ruined if the Autonomy sniffed out his three ships.
But he had to pull his sister out of the town. He couldn’t risk her getting killed or despoiled when his men raided the town.
They climbed past the coral growing on the side of the skyland, disturbing the sleeping fish, which scattered or darted deeper into the twisted maze of tubes and fans, scurrying out of reach of larger predators. The lip of the skyland neared. A tree loomed on the edge. A breeze rustled its branches thrust out over empty air, its roots bursting out of the ground and entwined with coral polyps.
Methen heeled his horse hard to the right when they crested the skyland. Once silent hoofs now thudded on grassy soil. The horse neighed as it slowed to a stop, flank lathered. Nrein suppressed his instinct to throw himself from the horse—how he hated the beasts—but he could never show a moment of weakness. His crew were all sharks. One whiff of blood . . .
He didn’t mind the danger. It kept him sharp. Besides, he’d done the same to his own captain.
Nrein dismounted with purpose. Methen hobbled out of the saddle, his left leg twisted. The archer landed with a grunt, clutching the bridle to stay upright. He patted his horse on the shoulder, whispering in his ear. Skydancers possessed a bond with their mounts, communicating with them in some strange fashion. Well, not all. Fumpf spat as he dismounted, not giving his horse a glance.
“I’ll be back by dawn,” Nrein growled as he unbuckled the half-sheath that held his Agerzak greatsword strapped to his back.
“Aye, Cap’n,” Methen nodded.
He thrust the blade over to Methen, his skin itching. Nrein hated trusting anyone. If Methen left . . . But Methen had long proven faithful in the past. Hopefully, he would again. Nrein spat. Another weakness. Men didn’t hope for a future, they seized it and beat it towards the destiny they wanted, or died trying.
“Don’t you fret, Cap’n,” Methen said, gripping the blade. “Me an’ Wind’ll be waitin’ for your return. Just give that sweet sister a kiss from me.”
Fumpf laughed. “And why would she want a kiss from an ugly stonefish?”
“Trust me, Fumpf, last time I saw sweet Hestril she was more ‘un happy to plant one right on my ugly face. After kissin’ all them Vionese boys, she was achin’ for a real man.”
Fumpf gave a snorting laugh. “And I bet your pockets were light once she was finished.”
“And here I thought I just lost my coins gamblin’. I was mighty in the drink that night.” A grin swept his black-bearded face. “Well, it was worth for a taste o’ Esty’s charms.”
Nrein chuckled as his men bantered. He didn’t mind. They could boast all they wanted. No man had ever touched his sister. Unlike their mother, Hestril only pretended to writhe beneath her customers, weaving her illusions with such skill they felt real. Nrein only possessed the First Gift of Stormsight, another useless Gift to join his unmanly Fleshknitting, instead of the Third.
If he were a Skydancer, he wouldn’t have to ride behind another raider to cross the skies.
The pirate captain marched through the grassy field to the hard-packed road that led to Onhur. He felt naked and vulnerable as he marched the road without his greatsword, dressed simply as a common laborer. It was death for an Agerzak to be caught carrying one in Autonomy territory. He had no illusions about his skill; he was a fierce swordsman, but one man could be overwhelmed. Tonight’s task wouldn’t require reckless bravery, but low cunning.
Another weak, unmanly thing.
He yearned to stalk into Onhur with his sword in hand and cut down any of the Vionese militia or Zzuk auxiliaries who dared stop him. He longed for the exhilaration he’d felt battling the Gezitziz brute on the deck of the Bravado.
A true contest.
Nrein passed through one of the Vionese plantations, a vast estate growing sugar and pineapples on the backs of Agerzak laborers. The Vionese colonists called themselves farmers, but they did none of the work. He couldn’t wait to carve out a Kingdom of his own in the Fringe. If the Autonomy tried to defend their territory, the Empire would stab them in the back. Nrein knew war lurked only months away. Why else had the Empire supplied an Agerzak pirate with warships?
The Vaarckthians didn’t care if he lived or died. He was merely a pawn in their ambition to reclaim all the territory they’d lost over the last hundred years. He used them, too. Opportunity abounded if a man had the steel to seize it.
He passed the plantation and entered the shanty shacks sprawling on the fringe of Onhur. Dirty-faced Agerzak children peered at him from doorways while their fathers, drunk off cheap beer, lounged on porches. Their bodies were tanned dark by days spent working in the fields. The wives and mothers slept, exhausted from working as servants at plantation manors.
The shanty slums gave way to the plaster-walled houses of craftsmen and tradesmen dotted with market squares and shops. He worked his way south towards the Last Port, the closest tavern to the Rheyion Naval Port. Soon, he could see the three masts of the Gallant, Dauntless, and Adventurous rising over the tops of the small buildings.
The Last Port was a frequent haunt of sailors and junior officers from Rheyion, renowned for its good beer and friendly companionship. His stomach tensed as he entered, the tavern crowded with brown-skinned Vionese sailors and a smattering of officers in rich-blue coats. He didn’t dare show his fear. The Vionese sailors would turn vicious if they learned that the infamous Nrein of the Bluefin Raiders strode among them.
Opportunity has to be seized, he muttered as he threaded his way through the crowd.
He hated the press of the crowded, low-ceilinged room. It squeezed around him. He missed the open skies sailing brought. Nothing too close in around him. Nothing to trap him in a tight space. His heart beat faster, his skin crawling as he pushed in deeper and deeper, flashes of the dark room, that dreadful—
NO!
He battered back the fluttering edge of panic. He wasn’t weak. He didn’t have to fear being trapped here. The ceiling was an arm’s length above him. It wouldn’t crush down on him. Fists balled, he pushed through the throng, working towards the stairs.
A large marine in a red coat crashed into him, spilling beer down the front of Nrein’s shirt. A violent, vicious snarl rose in Nrein’s throat. His hands reached over his shoulder for the handle of his—
He didn’t have his sword. He wasn’t here to fight.
“Sorry,” the big man grinned, patting at his own shirt, trying to brush off the foam.
“Don’t spill my beer, Guts,” a short Vionese woman in a light-blue jacket shouted.
Nrein’s fists clenched. He didn’t need his greatsword to kill this man. A hard punch to his temple to stun him, a knee to the groin to drop him to his hands and feet, then he would kick the marine again and again in the stomach until he puked up blood and guts. If Nrein had his greatsword, he would carve a bloody swath through this drunken fool, clearing space for him to breathe.
The metal hilt hanging at the marine’s waist stayed his anger. That’s not an Agerzak blade? Where did he get a metal sabre from? A Cyclone?
“S’alright,” Nrein muttered, forcing down his anger.
“Good man,” muttered the marine before heading over to the table where the impatient woman waited.
Nrein turned away, teeth grinding, and spotted his sister. She crossed the common room, a flagon of ale in hand, a saucy smile on her lips. She was as lovely as ever, her short, black hair twisted in a dozen
beaded braids that clicked and clacked. Her hips swayed and her simple gown’s neckline plunged for the enjoyment of all the men she passed. Her amber eyes caught his, betraying no reaction to his presence.
Nrein took a seat, not watching her directly, but observing her as she laughed and flirted at a table of sailors after dropping off the flagon. His hands tightened. She squealed in delight as their brown hands took liberties with her body. She danced away, shaking her head in playful admonish on her way to his table. Her head cocked when she reached him, leaning over slightly to display herself like she would for any patron.
He glanced down her dress; he couldn’t afford to be her brother right now.
“What can I get you?” she asked. “Some good beer, a flagon of orange wine, or are you looking for some amiable companionship?” Her eyebrow arched and her smile grew . . . interesting. He felt heat flush through him—she could act with the best of them.
“I’ve been without any companionship for ‘while.”
“You will not be disappointed with my conversation,” she said, her hand grasping his. “Ain’t none friendlier than me.”
“I bet.”
She gave a wicked laugh. “Companionship’ll run you three rubies.”
He forced a derisive laugh. “I may be starved for affection, but that don’t mean I’ll let you cheat me.”
She shook her shoulders, jiggling her breasts. “Do these look cheap? Have you seen a friendlier sight?”
He swallowed, trying to remember it was an act, that she was his sister. “But not three rubies’ worth. One.”
“If you’re gonna waste my time, I can find me a man who appreciates my friendliness.”
“One ruby and two sapphires.”
Her eyebrows raised. “Two rubies and a sapphire.”
Nrein hated haggling. Men took. “Bah. I’m sure there’s a woman here who can be friendly for one ruby and four sapphires.”
“Try the Pockmarked Sailor. There’s a poxy whore there who’d tumble you for that amount.”
“Fine; two rubies.”
“And a sapphire,” she added. Hestril always had to get the last word in when they were children.
