Princesses of the Ironbound Boxset: Books 1 - 3 (Barbarian Outcast, Barbarian Assassin, Barbarian Alchemist)

by Aaron Crash

  “So, out with it!” he said, a bit too loudly.

  A few people looked up from down below.

  Jenny took his hand. “Not ready. I have my reasons. You trust me?”

  He looked directly into her eyes, smiled, and said, “No.”

  He knew his gaze told a different story. He’d trust Jenny with his life. He told her about the words, kingly and other-spirited.

  Jenny sat staring, thinking. “Other-spirited. It reminds me of some swamp magic—orishas. Those are spirits we can supposedly summon to help us, though every tale ends with an orisha eating you.” She shrugged. “Which is why summoning anything is a bad idea. You figure out a way to get us the Scrolls of Octovato?”

  Ymir nodded. “I’ve found some Flow cantrips that work directly with our dreams, though the magic is complicated. They were written by Rona Aroon. Alphabetically, that puts us in the As. We need to be in the Os.”

  “We could ask Professor Leel,” the swamp woman suggested.

  That made them both laugh.

  “We need a good spell, a believable spell, written by an author whose name begins with ‘O.’ The Princept has made it clear she is watching us, and we have to be careful, very careful.”

  “Especially during the Third Exam.” The smudges under Jenny’s eyes seemed to darken.

  Ymir thought of a passage in the Sacred Mystery of the Ax. The Axman held his ax over the world, and at any time, he could let it drop and destroy all of reality. The clansman had spent his life not caring, trusting in the Shieldmaiden to stay her lover’s hand. And if not him, there was the Wolf, who wouldn’t want his brethren slain by the god. Regardless of the grace of women and wolves, there was nothing Ymir could do to save himself or the world. If the Axman dropped his ax, that would be the end.

  However, now Ymir felt the impending doom keenly. They had six weeks until the Third Exam, at the end of March. There were four major exams—five if you included the Open Exam—during the school year. The First Exam started the year. The Fourth Exam ended it. June was a long way off.

  He needed more time to prepare, and that meant he had to quit this work study business. That meant money, which should be taken care of when they started selling their xocalati.

  “We’ll be ready,” Ymir said. “The Princept wasn’t given much information, only that time frame, and a couple of images. You’ll be lying lifeless on stone stairs. I’ll have two hands wrapped around my throat, choking the life out of me, while I turn blue.”

  “Well, that’s lovely.” Jenny sighed. “It must be this Midnight Guild. They’re afraid of you and want you dead.”

  “Or afraid of us.” He emphasized that last word. “The demon went for you, Jenny. It turned its back on me to get to you.”

  “Which means it could be Auntie Jia sending her love.” The swamp woman shook her head. “It’s not our way, though. Sure, maybe there are swamp witches who can summon orishas, but Josentown royalty would want a murder to be more personal and bloodier. They’d hire a girl here. Fuck me dry, but Nelly would do it for free.”

  “Any more sand letters from Auntie Jia?” Ymir asked.

  “A few. Just normal auntie business, is all.” Jenny grew distant.

  Ymir understood the basics of the sand letters. There was a room in the Imperial Palace where sand fell in a stream. You took a letter, written in magic ink, and set it under the fall of sand. Casting Form magic, the sand took the ink from the paper and sent it across the world to another chamber, where more sand fell. If you held paper under that sand, in that distant place, the ink would appear. It was Knowing Lore, and powerful Form magic, and useful. It also made him uneasy. Was he breathing in the ink when he drew too close to the room? Could someone access the words, to read them, or to ruin them? What if, using Form major arcana, they wrote something different? In a war, that could be devastating.

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “Auntie and I are having the conversation without having it. I say there’s no way you would ever marry Arribelle, even with the Lover’s Knot. Auntie says she understands. I say I’ve found others. She says she’s happy. It’s all just the piss, shit, and spit of a watertooth terror.”

  Ymir had looked the animal up. It was a large lizard-like creature with rows and rows of sharp teeth. They could grow to be twenty feet long.

  The Josentown princess frowned. “I mentioned this Midnight Guild to Auntie. She said it was a story. She also said that I shouldn’t dig any deeper into it. I shouldn’t even mention it. Because, and I quote, ‘it is bad luck.’”

  “So the Guild is real,” Ymir said.

  “And a total mystery,” the swamp woman agreed. “To make matters worse? It’s scared the hell out of Auntie Jia, and nothing scares her. Nothing. Have you found anything?”

  That was a difficult question to answer. Ymir shrugged. “As you know, sand letter lore isn’t just used to send letters. They also spread news, and there are many bulletins from the many guilds, newsletters from so many universities, and then you have the sand criers.”

  Jenny laughed. “Sand criers, like town criers—every hamlet and two-bit city thinks their news is so important. It’s a waste of sand and parchment. Can you imagine it? All those sand chambers getting those letters all the time. There are indexes for some of ’em. You checked those?”

  He nodded. Bulletins, newsletters, and the sand criers were sometimes bound and kept in the periodical shelves. Some poor librarian—not Gatha, she wouldn’t lower herself to that—went through and tried to index the main topics. No one was talking about the Midnight Guild. No history mentioned it. If it had only been a rumor, someone would have written about it, but the very absence gave it more weight, like a tribal taboo or the words of a ghost spoken by a soothsayer.

  Auntie Jia’s reaction had been the same as the Princept’s. They said it was a story. Then they left it unsaid that the story scared them.

  “They think I’ll rise to power,” Ymir said. “They think I’ll storm the continent as another Aeno Akkridor.”

  “Worse,” Jenny said. “You’ll be the next Aegel Akkridor, and we’ll have a thousand years of Ymir, son of Ymok, of the Black Wolf Clan.”

  Hearing his full name, that old name, made him shake his head. “No, Jenny, I’m Ymir, love of Jennybelle Josen and Lillee Nehenna, of the Majestrial Collegium Universitas. The clans will never accept me again. Perhaps if I returned to conquer them, but even then, I would only gain their fear and not their love. Sometimes I think that would be enough for me. Other times? I would imagine that would be its own special kind of hell. Holding someone is far different than strangling them.”

  “Unless they liked to be choked,” Jennybelle said.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. He was being serious.

  She wasn’t. Her laugh proved it. “Love and hate, pain and sex, fucking someone while choking them—certain people like that. I’m sorry. I’m too tired and nervous to be serious. Tonight?”

  “Tonight,” he said. It had taken weeks of work, money, and planning, but they would make their first batch of xocalati later that night.

  Ymir, Jenny, and Lillee ate together that night, and they made sure everything was as normal as possible. Tori worked in the kitchen, Ymir and the princesses sat at their table, and after dinner they went their separate ways. Lillee went to her sea cell, and Jennybelle went to the Unicorn’s Uht with some of her Swamp Coast friends who sided with her over Nelly.

  Ymir was back on the second floor, paging through a bound copy of the prior year’s Four Road’s town crier. The criers were filled with gossip, some fiction, some reports on petty crimes, and long treatises on the wonders of the Holy Theranus Empire, which had few lands and less power. He did find an interesting piece on Morbuskor women, and how rare and wonderful beardless dwabs were. It seemed men loved having them around because they were easygoing, loving, and ingenious.

  He could understand all those sentiments. One complaint, however, was that the dwabs didn’t much like sex. Since most of the empire
’s men had multiple wives, that wasn’t an issue. It meant less jealousy and more work, since dwabs liked to work.

  There was no mention of the Inconvenience and what that might mean.

  Ymir couldn’t imagine kissing a woman with a beard. Perhaps that was why the southern men preferred them beardless, or was there more to it than that? With the Morbuskor, there always seemed to be.

  Sandals slapped the stone, and Gatha walked by with an armload of books. She didn’t say hello. She didn’t acknowledge him. She did let her thigh swish the back of his chair, just barely. After just the merest touch, she kept on walking.

  For the she-orc, that was like a loving kiss. She’d meant to let him know that she liked him sitting in his normal seat with his books.

  Ymir smiled and wondered if he wouldn’t win her heart over yet.

  At midnight, he left his seat and left the Librarium.

  The school had relaxed into the peace of a Sunday night. The rain stopped for once, allowing the stones and rooftiles a much-needed break from the constant pounding. Downspouts gushed into gurgling gutters. Every cistern was full. Even the moat around the citadel was filling, and Ymir had thought that it was infinitely deep. All those thoughts of pounding, gushing, filling, and depth made him think of more pleasant things than rain. Maybe he’d stir up something more than xocalati that night. He smiled as he leapt down the stairs, taking two at a time.

  In the wet night, he smelled the fires of the kitchen, still hot, though they should be cool. More than likely, people would just assume it was the fires of the scholars, keeping their cells and apartments warm.

  Ymir went directly to his sea cell. Inside were the three women: Jenny, Lillee, and Tori. All were dressed in dark clothes, Jenny in her blouse and pants, Lillee in a black tunic and cape, and Tori in a black dress. Their storm cloaks hung from their shoulders.

  Tori had found velvety black paper and red ribbons in a kitchen storage room—that was her story, though Ymir thought she might have bought them herself. Regardless, they could package their xocalati in finery. Ymir wanted to pay her back, but the dwab refused, saying the xocalati would be payment enough.

  The dwab was a good worker and strong enough to haul a single bag of beans herself. Jenny and Lillee would share their bags. As for Ymir, he would haul up the dwab’s processing machine on his first trip. They’d have to make several as they dodged the Gruul guards. That wouldn’t be too hard. Their movements were scheduled, and Gharam, who was in charge of security, made sure they were disciplined and punctual. That was good if no one timed their watches. It was bad if someone did.

  By the time they hauled their contraband up the Sea Stair, the taverns were closing, and few people were there. Those still there were too drunk to care about some people in storm cloaks.

  Ymir and his friends made it to the kitchen without a problem. The clansman and Tori made extra trips while the princesses gathered the ingredients and set up their work areas. It was a little after one by the time Tori cast the Form magic, a simple cantrip, to get her machine working.

  Tori stood next to a crank. “Lutum lutarum,” she whispered.

  The metal arm circled around as metal ground on metal. She grabbed a measuring glass, scooped up nibs from one of the bags, and poured them into the grinder. The machine churned a bit louder, but not much, and a black paste oozed out into a beaten tin container in the middle of the machine. She turned that container on hinges and spooned the thick paste into the left part of the device, under a flat sheet of tin.

  She ran several glasses of nibs through the grinder until they had enough to try the press. She pulled the left lever, and the tin pressed down. A clear, viscous liquid oozed from the spouts into little trays that collected the xoca oil. Raising the crank, a fine powder was left. Tori had even thought to include a brush as wide as the tin, as well as another collection tray.

  Brushing it off, they had the oil, and they had the powder, and could start the cooking. Ymir kept watch as Tori handled the machine. Lillee worked the pots. As for Jenny, she had a bag full of her supplies to do a modified version of the Lover’s Knot.

  They’d processed half of the xoca nibs when Tori cursed. “Bless my stone bits, but this xoca oil is dense. And that powder isn’t as fine as I want. I forgot a tool in your cell, Ymir. I have to go. Keep this running.”

  “With what Form magic?” he asked.

  Tori giggled, then had to quiet herself. “I gave it enough juice to run some.”

  “Hold for a moment.” The clansman had to think. The Gruul guard would be down in the Sea Stair, doing their sweep.

  Lillee, as an Ohlyrran, was quieter and stealthier than anyone. He suggested she go. But Tori said her toolkit was far too complicated for her to explain what she needed.

  “Why didn’t you bring it with you?” Ymir asked, keeping his voice patient.

  Tori grinned and shrugged. “Well, you know, I was bringing beans up. Figured I wouldn’t need it. Of course I do. Funny thing, if I’d brought it, I wouldn’t have needed it. Since I didn’t, I do. Ha. Life can be a crazy thing.” She snapped her fingers. “I got it. Lillee can run ahead to make sure the coast is clear. I’ll follow up. We’ll be right back.”

  They left, and Ymir took over the machine. The magic soon wore out. He’d be forced to wait for Tori’s return.

  He worked on cooking the xocalati, then he added a mixture of xoca powder and beet sprinkles to oil from the nibs, cream, beet sprinkles, and vanilla. He heated them over a weak flame, melting it down without letting it boil.

  Jenny hovered over a bowl on the counter. In it, she burned sandalwood, swamp moss, and a red ribbon, reducing them to ash using a Sunfire cantrip. She then murmured over them a chant:

  Lover god, lover god, fire, heart, and blood

  Lover god, lover god, flesh, cum, and mud

  Goddess, goddess, burning bright

  Goddess, goddess, of the night

  Give us minutes, give us lust

  Give us love before we’re dust

  Ymir had to bite back a curse. This was witchcraft. This was the darkest of magics. And yet, here he was, hoping she succeeded. Was this her own soul casting the charm? Or was she asking some demonic goddess for help? Would this summon an orisha—an akkor, one of the other-spirited?

  Demons were real. He’d now seen two of them.

  It got worse.

  Jennybelle lifted the bowl to his lips. “Spit in here. As much as you can.”

  By the Axman, he did. He spat into her bowl.

  She mixed it in and whispered, “Caelum caelarum.” Moons magic. The ashes rose from her bowl and then settled back down, not a single mote out of place.

  She then took a spoon and added the ashes to his mixture of xocalati.

  Well, since Ymir was damned already, he might as well go to hell rich.

  They poured the xocalati onto a tray edged with a special paper that Tori had showed them. Having a dwab around was incredibly useful—the Four Roads sand crier hadn’t been wrong about that.

  They made tray after tray, putting them on the racks to set and dry. Then they could cut the xocalati into pieces and package them later, in Ymir’s cell. They wouldn’t be pretty, and they wouldn’t be sculpted, but they’d be delicious. And they’d get people horny. People liked to get horny.

  Tori and Lillee were due back any minute, and yet, every second they didn’t show was a second longer they had to wait. At any moment, they could get caught.

  Where were those two?

  Chapter Seventeen

  LILLEE NEHENNA WATCHED the Gruul guard—her name was Agneeyeshka—stop in front of the Unicorn’s Uht. The green-skinned woman stopped to smoke kharo, the dried leaf rolled up in paper. She gazed up at the sky, which was cloudy but wasn’t spitting rain for once.

  Lillee was glad for that. She wasn’t glad that this guard wasn’t moving on past them. The elf girl had seen her right in the nick of time. She’d pulled Tori into an alley, and there they waited. It was a tight sque
eze, and Lillee could smell the little woman. Part of her fragrance was the bitter powdery smell of the xoca beans. She also had a little sweet soap still in her hair. And then there was her heavy musk from the work they’d done.

  The elf girl knew, on some level, that the heat of the Morbuskor maid, and her strong fragrance, could’ve turned her on if she wasn’t wearing the essess. As it was, she noted them, and then moved on, waiting for Agneeyeshka to finish her smoking.

  There wasn’t an official curfew at Old Ironbound. However, guards did ask what students were doing, what business they had, and why they were about. Ymir had prepared them with various stories, but it would be better not to be seen at all. The more normal the night felt for the security officers, the better. Getting caught in the kitchen would raise all sorts of questions, and Francy Ballspferd might analyze her inventory more closely. That would be trouble for Tori. For Ymir, he might very well get expelled if they were caught.

  The Gruul guard didn’t finish her kharo. However, Agneeyeshka did move on up the Sea Stair, smoking while she walked. Of course she had to—she’d have to do her rounds, hitting checkpoints at precise times. Lillee was glad that Ymir was so smart. He’d had them memorize the sweeps.

  The guards would eventually check the feasting hall and the kitchen but not for another few hours. They generally hit them right before sunrise, as the breakfast staff filtered in to cook. They had some time. Still, Lillee wanted to hurry.

  Tori had to work to keep up with her since the dwab’s legs were so short. They turned into the sea alley.

  Tori stopped suddenly at the entrance. “Oh, oh, no. Lillee. Oh, no. It’s happening.”

  Halfway down the hall, Lillee turned.

  The little woman stood there, in her cloak and her dark dress, buttoned high up to hide her pale, freckled skin. There was a look of intense emotion on Tori’s face. What it was, Lillee didn’t know, but Tori looked a little terrified.

  Lillee didn’t want to wake up anyone in the sea alley. Again, the fewer questions, the better.