Prophecies, Libels & Dreams

by Ysabeau S. Wilce

  Hardhands whispers an Invocation, gently puffing the bright Gramatica Words outward. The letters twine and entangle, forming one squiggly glowing coldfire Sigil. He catches the Sigil in cupped hands, and it fills the bowl of his palms with an oozy coldfire glow. Raising his hands above his head, he lets the Sigil dribble down, shivering slightly at the exhilarating sensation of magick sliding liquidly over his skin, coating him a coldfire rime. When he is well-coated and thus well-protected, he steps forward into the water’s surge.

  The cold tide slashes against his ankles, and he whoops his shudder. He knows from experience that hesitation just heightens the pain, and so he plunges in, pushing outward against the inward pull of the water, answering each slap with another yell, until he reaches the point of no return and ducks his head down into the icy stew.

  The water surrounds him a lover, a lover who wants to claw his eyes out, to swamp his lungs, to cut his flesh into a thousand tiny ribbands, to suck off his phallus, to rip his hair out by the roots. He knows, from experience, that the only way to placate such a lover is to give in, to lie passive beneath her lust, to acquiesce to her love and bleed. The heart-sound pumping in his ears, he drifts downward, his eyes open to the salt-sting, and gives into the water’s terrible embrace.

  VI. Hoisted!

  Only a bit earlier the dollymop’s night had been improving. After the cadet ditched her, she swanned her way into the affections (and purse) of a masher who introduced her to a rum bubbler who then passed her on (sore but not done yet) to a cardsharp who is a poker buddy of Captain Theobald, Colonel Melacton’s aide-de-camp.

  Thus, the Redlegs’ Birthday Bash, and thus caught in the stampede caused by Colonel Melacton’s calamity. As small as she is, she is no match for stinging, shouting, shooting officers, and she finds herself stranded on top of a red velvet settee, trying to hold her marvelous hair against the frantic martial tide. From this trap, she is rescued by the sweeping broad arm of a sweeping broad man, drunk as hell, but still a commanding figure. Borne along in these safe arms, her marvelous hair-style bobbing against the Warlord’s stubbly, yet firm, chin, the dollymop feels her tide turning and is very, very glad that earlier that evening she had been moved to put on her very best chemise: a bit worn, but with tremendous lace panels on the front. The Warlord’s tastes are bland, but his tips (and his parts, rumour has it) are large, his generosity legendary. The dollymop tightens her grip around the Warlord’s sturdy neck. Now that she’s been lifted, she’s not about to let go.

  The hullabaloo lasts only shortly. Though signals are called and fires are lit, it quickly becomes apparent that the Redlegs are too damn drunk to be effective agents of search and destroy. And anyway, once Florian gets a good grip, all firm and bouncy, on what he has rescued, his enthusiasm for chasing after Colonel Melacton’s hair is transferred into enthusiasm to exploit his role as heroic rescuer as far as exploitation will go.

  “I shall put a bounty on the wig,” Florian says soothingly to Captain Theobald as they stand on the steps of the Redlegs’ HQ. He glances at the dollymop, who is now sitting in his barouche, patting her curls and adjusting her cleavage. He is in a hurry to get to his fun before his drunk runs out. She is just as he likes them: sweet and dainty and a bit the worse for wear.

  “A price on the head of the shearer,” Captain Theobald says. “We can not let this outrage stand—sire—”

  “Ayah, so, tell Hardhands to so advertise, and I am sure that someone hard for flash will answer. There’s always a squealer. Come now, go tend to your colonel and leave the rest to Hardhands. Go then, that’s an order.” The Warlord turns away.

  Captain Theobald almost protests, and then realizes herself at the last minute. The Warlord is going down the front steps, he’s grinning at his dolly, she’s grinning back, and his heart ain’t with the Redleg tragedy anymore. The Warlord climbs aboard, and an equerry snaps the door shut handily, and Captain Theobald thinks, ah hell. She’s loyal to her regiment, but Colonel Melacton is a trite old bastard, and he looks better bald anyways.

  The Warlord doesn’t wait until they get back to Saeta House. He doesn’t even wait until they get off the post. He’s hungry, and his evening’s appetite is only sharpened by the evening’s activities. He dives right in. In a matter of five short minutes, the dollymop finds her head back, her boots aloft, her skirts elevated, bouncing up and down to the Warlord’s enthusiastic thumping. The jostling of the carriage accentuates their jumping, and the dollymop holds onto the Warlord’s shoulders with a tight grip, ineffectually trying to brace her boots against the bench opposite. With each bump, she slides downward on her silken skirts, until she’s lying squashed on the floor of the barouche, with Florian grinding away on top like he is making flour, not love.

  The dollymop bites Florian’s ear, which only makes him groan. She bites harder, and he tosses his head away, which gives her the necessary leverage to refuse his ardour.

  He protests. She says firmly, “You are wasting yourself, my lord. Why take five minutes when you can take five hours?”

  Florian’s motto is fast and frequent, but there’s a promise in the tone of her voice that makes him pause. She takes advantage of this pause by sliding an artful hand between them, and then, suddenly he is on the bottom and she’s on the top. Though he normally don’t care for the bottom at all, right now there is no place Florian would rather be.

  And thus continuing, until he realizes that the dollymop has stopped bouncing because the carriage has stopped jostling, and within this halt is the sound of voices: murmur, protest, murmur, protest. Then a thump, and a thud. The Warlord sits up, the dollymop scrambling off him in a crush of petticoat and skirt, and his saber is trapped beneath them, too, and he can’t remember what he did with his pistol, and then he is blinded by lantern light.

  “Stand and deliver!” says a happy voice.

  “I’ll deliver your guts on a toasting fork,” Florian roars. The audacity to interrupt his bounce, to disrupt his ride. “Do you dare—”

  “Alas, I do dare, sire, but I promise I shall do so quickly. I seek only one small thing from you—”

  “Do you know who you bother, you squareheaded pimp?” Florian bellows. He is scrabbling through the dollymop’s skirts, but he can’t find his saber, and since he traded access to pistol for access to a tool of another kind, his only available weapon is blustery indignation.

  “What sort of a jacker knows not the value of her hoist?” the road agentess says agreeably. “Surely, this moment shall be the pinnacle of my career, the very cream in my cake, the jam in my tea, and an anecdote to share with my grandchilder, when the goddess shall bless me so . . . But enough of this repartee . . . I shall conclude my business quickly and then allow you to go on your way. My lord, I only ask one small thing—”

  “And that is?” Florian says, a tiny bit mollified by the road agentess’s liberal sprinklings of flattery. “I do not carry coin, and I wager that my jewels will be no good to you, for everyone knows the Warlord’s appointments, and you’d be in fetters within five seconds of setting foot through a pawnshop door.”

  “Ha! What care I for such tawdry trifles?” The lamplight elevates, and an enticing heave of bosom leans into the coach. “I seek a jewel far more expensive, and though, perhaps not particularly rare, still worth the having.”

  A swift sword, crack aim, and devilish dimples Florian has, and he hasn’t climbed from Huitzil stud slave to Warlord just on brawn and blood: he does have brains. But these brains are currently addled by punch-drunk love, and the rest of him is dazzled by the white flesh bouncing in front of him, and thus he does not take the road agentess’ meaning immediately. “And that is?”

  The road agentess says, all sweet-pea sugar: “A kiss, my lord! Give me one small sweet dainty kiss, as light as love, and petal soft, and then we shall be square and I shall go on my way, the happiest jacker of them all.”

  This bit of flattery hits Florian right below the belt buckle, or thus it would have hit, had Fl
orian’s belt been actually buckled. His anger fizzles into humour. He’s never before thought of his kisses being quite so precious, but now that he considers the thought, he enjoys it tremendously.

  “My lord—” says the dollymop warningly. She tugs on the tail of Florian’s shirt, but it’s too late. The road agentess tilts her head and closes her masked eyes, her lips are like a red red rose just barely opened, moist with anticipation, and quivering breathlessly. Florian could no more resist such a perfect pout than he could resist a sharp slice of cheese, or a city ripe for the sacking. He’s hypnotized by the ripe red lips, by the bouncing breasts, by the thought that his kiss is worth stealing. He’s forgotten all about Colonel Melacton’s earlier misfortune, and thus he puckers up his own smackers and leans right into the trap.

  “Sire!” says the dollymop frantically, but he’s forgotten her too.

  WHAM! In an instant, the Sparkage fills the coach with blinding white light and a sharp reverberating sound that rattles the coach and makes the horses jump and shudder. A sharp pink sugary smell fills the air, and when the dazzle clears, the Warlord lies poleaxed on the seat, a thin trickle of smoke drifting up from his lips.

  Of course, his wig is gone.

  VII. Oops

  Some time after that, the cadet stands in the pisser of El Mono Real, staring at her wavery warped reflection in the mirror. The pisser at El Mono Real has none of the tropical glories of the What Cheer House. It’s a small dark room, with a swampy toilet and a moist floor. The walls are covered with knotty graffiti, some of which burn dimly with a coldfire afterglow. (For obscure reasons, the pisser at El Mono Real is a favorite conjuring site for the radical chaoist crowd.) Someone has written across the glass, in long swirly letters: Console your loss with vice and pour vinegar on an open wound. The word loss cancels out the cadet’s eyes, and vinegar blurs her mouth. Vinegar and a scowl.

  The Glamour has worn off. Though she looks the same as always, to herself—expecting to see herself, so she sees herself, yet she can tell by the flatness of her blood that the magick is all gone. Before, the bubbly Current had made her buoyant and daring; now she’s drained and dull. She should feel triumphant. Her night has come off as planned.

  (Almost.)

  Nyana Keegan would have been proud. Such stealth, speed, and smartness. She out-snuck them all. Maybe not a ranger, but still ranger-y.

  (But not her ultimate target—her nerve failed her there.)

  Melacton’s bald head, the blank look in Florian’s eyes; ha-ha!

  (Never flinch, said Nyana—she had flinched.)

  She should feel crowned and conquering.

  (But what about Hardhands, damn him?)

  She has failed the ordeal set to her by the Skinners, but she also has failed the ordeal set to her by herself.

  (Confronting Hardhands, blast him.)

  Instead of feeling triumphant, she is thinking about the gun on her hip, heavy and comforting. When the cadet draws, the etchings on Bedb’s grips glitter with coldfire and the bluing of her barrel shines like quicksilver. The solid bone warms her hand even through her glove. The chamber under the hammer is empty, of course, but she could spin the cylinder just slightly, and death would click into place. If only she had the nerve to do it, to put Bedb’s metal mouth to her own, accept the bitter goodnight kiss.

  (And leave Hardhands to win?)

  She sighs and slides Bedb back into her holster. Primps her hair, tho’ there’s not much she can do with those hated braids. They make her skull feel tight, and the dye has crisped her curls to straw. Leans around vinegar to reapply her lip rouge and exits.

  El Mono Real’s motif, of course, is monkeys. They cavort on the wallpaper, dangle from the ceiling, scamper on the carpet. Happily for the customers, these monkeys are two-dimensional representations only, otherwise the din would have been deafening and the dung throwing extremely bad for business. Even during the day, El Mono Real tends towards uncrowded; this late at night (or this early in the morning, depending on your perspective) the café is almost completely empty. The barista (thankfully not a monkey) leans against the bar, polishing his tamp; by the door a newsie waits for the early edition to be delivered.

  Kanacheta has taken over her table and is slurping down her abandoned xocolatte. He wiggles the straw at her. “Here she is, Girl of My Dreams!”

  The cadet drops her sack next to her chair and sits: “What does that mean?”

  “It means I hail a job well done.”

  “Huh. That’s my drink you are drinking.” But she makes no move to take it back.

  “The Glamour worked well, eh?” Kanacheta waves the straw towards the barista, who takes his meaning and begins to grind another round. “You have gotten away free and clear, and now they shall never look for you.”

  “Huh.”

  “And the most clever of all—to throw the blame elsewhere so it shall stick, and thus you to get away without a squeak.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The busboy sits the xocolattes, splashily, on the table between them, and takes the coin that Kanacheta flips in his direction. “Didn’t you hear the commotion? The Warlord’s guard arrested the wig thief—the Scalper, the papers have already dubbed her.” Kanacheta grins wolfishly. “The nickname Skinner already being taken, of course.”

  The cadet almost chokes on the cherry she has just popped into her mouth. She swallows hard and says: “What? Who?”

  Kanacheta grins. “Some dollymop. After she snatched Melacton’s rug, she made a play for the Warlord, but he weren’t caught as easy as Old Corn-pie. His guards grabbed her. I reckon she’ll go to the block. The Redlegs’ll demand it, and the Warlord will be sure of it. No one messes with Florian’s hair. He’s that vain.”

  “Where did you hear all this?” the cadet demands.

  “It’s all over the City, Tiny Doom. No one talks of anything else. The papers are all coming out with special editions. It’s the biggest story of the last five years.”

  In a flash of stomach-turning guilt, the cadet’s poor me changes to oh hell! That wasn’t part of her plan, to pin the blame on someone else, particularly not on some poor innocent like the dollymop. The cadet recollects the dolly’s spectacular hairdo, and her kind smile, and thinks of that spectacular hairdo wilting atop a head on a pike, the kind smile transformed by torture into a screaming rictus.

  “But she didn’t mess with Florian’s hair,” the cadet protests. “She was just a bystander.”

  “Florian thinks otherwise. Better her than you. I’ll finish your drink if you won’t.”

  “But they have no proof—I have the proof.”

  “Since when did Florian need proof before condemning someone? Count your happiness that it’s not you going down, and let it lie,” Kanacheta advises.

  The cadet lets Kanacheta slide her glass to his side of the table and dig in. She bites her lip, and then a finger’s edge of glove. The leather tastes oily, feels tough beneath her teeth. Looks at the sack which sits on the seat between them, which contains the snarl of horse hair and ribbands that is Colonel Melacton’s wig, the tangle of blonde-and-green-striped human hair that is the Warlord’s. As an ordeal, she was sent to cause someone’s death, and in intending to avoid just that, she has done just that. The Goddess, that bitch, loves her jokes.

  Kanacheta is watching the cadet brightly. He scoots the straw around the bottom of the glass, sucking up the last little bits of coffee, and then says: “You won’t do anything foolish, will you, Tiny Doom?”

  So intent upon her own thoughts is the cadet that she doesn’t object to the nickname. Nor does she answer.

  “Never pick up your own tab,” Kanacheta says. “Didn’t Nyana Keegan always say?”

  “I pay my own bills,” Tiny Doom says absently, still nibbling on her leathery finger.

  “And how are you going to pay this one? With your own life? It’s a good joke, but that is going too far.”

  “Not with my own life,” Tiny Doom says. She’s do
ne chewing, done considering. She pats at her waist, the side opposite from Bedb’s heavy holster. A scabbard dangles from her belt, short and narrow. The hilt of the knife is the perfect size for her small hand, fitting just right in a way that Bedb does not.

  “With what then?”

  “More hair.”

  VIII. Press Darling

  Finally: Hardhands emerges from the foam, shaking water dog-like, and he’s feeling terrific. It’s been long, too long since he’s flirted with death just for the hey-ho-hell of it, and he’d almost forgotten that crazy euphoric feeling that comes from knowing that he’d come oh-very-close-but-not-quite-yet. He’s been in the water for hours, but it had felt to him, protected by his sigil, like only seconds. The moon has made it to the top of the sky; in its skimpy light the beach shines like a sliver of silver, but the cliffs above are black as smoke. Hardhands glances northward; the lights of Bilskinir are still on, awaiting his return. During his absence, the night has quieted, the alarms silenced, and by this he reckons that either the Redlegs found their quarry or they have all passed out.

  The Sigil has washed away, and the night air is cutting cold on his bare skin. He’s ravenous now, and his mouth waters at the phantom taste of hot steak sprinkled with hot spice. He could eat an entire cow. He tosses the wet flag of his hair back, curling its length around his hands and wringing as he walks towards where his clothing lies abandoned.

  And then pauses, for he sees before him a figure standing firmly over his clothes, a figure all too familiar to him, though he has not seen it in years: his sister, fourteen years ago drowned in the same ocean he has just emerged from. Once such ghostly occurrences were common. Once Sidonia haunted her brother’s dreams, his waking moments and everything in between, gibbering of murder, of honor, of revenge. Once he thought of nothing but avenging her death, but upon his success, her visitations ended and his thoughts turned elsewhere.