by Nazri Noor
I believe the exact noise I uttered when I caved in the front door of Beatrice Rex’s atelier was “Graagh!”
“Would you please calm the fuck down?” Florian scampered in after me, worrying and nagging the whole way to the Black Market. “Don’t do anything that’s going to get us arrested.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I growled. My right hand thrust at the air, catching the handle of a golden mace as it appeared out of the Vestments. “We’re just here to talk. Loudly. With a hammer.”
“That’s a mace,” he pointed out helpfully.
“Neither the time nor the place.” I looked around the darkness of the workshop, then cupped one hand to the side of my mouth. “Come out, Beatrice. We know your dirty little secret.”
Florian walked up next to me, finally catching up. So he had the wider stride, sure. But I had the tenacity of – well, of a honey badger, I guess. A really angry one, with a mace strapped to its little paws.
“I don’t like this.” Florian shook his head as he looked around the store, seeing the same thing that I did: very little at all. “It’s too dark. Shouldn’t she be open this time of day?
“She should be.”
I sniffed at the air, hoping to catch a whiff of something amiss, but there was nothing. Beatrice’s atelier smelled as it always did, faintly of sweet perfume, but now lightly laced with the scent of leather. The place was warm, too, about the same comfortable temperature it always was when we visited, which meant that there hadn’t been a break-in, no draft. Well, apart from all that fresh air coming in from the doorway I just smashed.
“Beatrice,” I barked again. I was starting to get a little worried, admittedly, but also a little apprehensive. This didn’t bode well. “Don’t make us come look for you. Just come out and talk to us. I promise, we’ll be real reasonable.”
Which could have meant anything, which worked to my advantage. I could, for example, break her counter into wooden splinters if she didn’t give us the answers we wanted.
Beatrice’s answer was the tinkling of beads from the curtain draped over the doorway to her backroom. In the gloom, Beatrice Rex looked the same, a little imperious, a little bit of a brat. But this time her eyes seemed so hollow. I thought the same thing about her voice.
“What do you want?” She sounded like someone who was in the middle of something. Something big, and secret, and potentially dangerous. “I’m very, very busy just now.”
“You’re not too busy to tell us the truth, are you?” I lifted the mace, pointing it at her. “Not too busy to explain why you’re hiding Laevateinn from us?”
Beatrice sighed, tilting her head so she could look around my shoulder. All that stood between her and the business end of my mace was her counter, but she looked completely unintimidated, even bored.
“Listen, Mason. I’m going to look past the fact that you now owe me for a ruined enchanted handbag and a broken doorway. I’ll even give them to you as freebies. But you don’t understand the forces at play here.”
“Tell us.” Florian stepped forward, placing his hands on the counter. Not something I would have done. “We’ll listen. There’s a reason you’re keeping the sword to yourself, but you’ll get your asking price in the end. We need the sword, too.”
Beatrice’s face screwed up into a mask of anger. “But I need it more.”
“Sorry, but I find that hard to believe.” I approached the counter, still brandishing the mace, ready to turn Beatrice’s shop into a pile of kindling. “Give us the sword, and we’ll be on our way.”
She lifted her chin, glaring at me in defiance. “Feel free to take it. It’s right here in the backroom.”
“If you insist.” I feigned taking another step towards the counter, fully aware that she was going to try something on me the moment I made my move. I wasn’t wrong.
Beatrice Rex slashed her hand through the air, like she was swatting a fly, or more appropriately, slapping my face from a distance. I only just caught the enormous tangle of white that shot out of the darkness, what looked like a massive tentacle, rooted deep within the shelves that lined the back of her shop.
I fell to the ground, pressing my body low to avoid a second attack. Staring up at the ceiling, I wondered if I was even seeing correctly. Was she really attacking us with bolts of cloth?
There was a yelp from Florian as he thudded heavily to the floor, knocked over by another long curve of gleaming fabric. “Ow,” he groaned. “I felt that.”
Somewhere above us, Beatrice Rex cackled. “Fine silk, straight from the best mulberry silkworms China has to offer. Magical silkworms.”
Florian rolled onto his back. “Then why did it feel like I was hit by a truck?”
Again we got another wordless answer. Florian dodged as one of the sentient bolts of cloth found him, its tip bunching up into knots, then smashing into the ground with the force of a giant’s fist. My eyes went huge as the finely woven clump of cloth cratered the beautiful parquet floor, sending splinters and sawdust flying.
“Holy shit,” I shouted, clambering back up on my feet. “Holy shit.”
I released the mace, letting it fall from my grip and return to the Vestments, then summoning its replacement. Something sharp, to deal with all these reams of possessed fabric Beatrice was using to terrorize us. I knew she was really good at enchanting things, but I’d never heard of anyone using tailoring supplies to kill.
My back was already damp from sweat, my breath hitching as I cursed to myself, waiting for a sword to appear from out of the Vestments. I whirled in place, overwhelmed by the weaving, undulating reams of cloth surrounding us, like gleaming snakes of all colors, lengths, and patterns.
“Florian,” I yelled, unsure of where he even was. “Do something. Use your nature magic.”
“Oh, sure.” I’d lost track of how he was positioned among the streamers of living fabric, but those two words were dripping with a whole lot of sarcasm. “Let me just command all of these plants you’ve seen growing down here in the Black Market.”
“This is not the time for sass, Florian!”
He was right, though. Apart from the occasional exotic plant sold by a Black Market vendor, the bazaar really didn’t have much in the way of flora. Either things simply didn’t grow in the dimension’s artificial darkness, or its proprietors, whoever they were, didn’t much fancy the idea of investing in nocturnal plants.
“The fuck am I thinking,” I muttered under my breath, realizing that I had far, far more important things to worry about than arcane real estate and landscaping. Staying alive, for example.
I closed my fingers as the sword appeared. Just in time, too. I twisted as a particularly slender length of silk shot out of the darkness, ready to punch a hole through my torso, then brought the sword down, cleaving it in half. It twitched, then rippled and fluttered to the ground, its magics depleted. These things packed a punch, but we just needed to cut them down. That was all.
Easier said than done, of course.
My sword sang through the air as I hacked and slashed at any sentient fabric that came too close for comfort. It was working, then. Anything I cut up badly enough went dormant, Beatrice’s control over it deactivated somehow. If we could beat back enough of them, we’d stand a chance against her.
But then the workshop started filling with the noises of things pinging and zinging, little pinpricks of light glimmering in the darkness. Whizzing noises joined the bizarre, tinny orchestra, followed by Florian voicing a muffled litany of “Ouch” and “Ow” and “Quit it.”
I found him ducked behind the counter, looking like a human pincushion, his skin pierced by a multitude of needles and sewing pins. He wasn’t even bleeding, though. Good thing he was as tough as bark. I wish I could say the same for myself. I took another step towards Beatrice, then hesitated, seeing the bank of sharp, silvery objects suspended in the air just above her head.
Through some oddly specific brand of psychokinesis, Beatrice had levitated an entire swarm of ne
edles, pins, and even wicked scissors, ready to use them as razor-sharp bullets. And all of them, with their gleaming points and edges, were aimed directly at my face.
33
Instinct forced my arm up to cover my face. Beatrice Rex could slice me up all she wanted, poke me full of holes, as long as she didn’t take out my eyes. I needed those to see where I could stab her, where I could put my sword to end this needle-filled nightmare.
Armor would make dealing with this problem a cinch. I called out to the Vestments, straining and gritting my teeth, but nothing answered. I’d ruined the last suit of armor I borrowed, which gummed up the works. Like Raziel told me, the gifts of the Vestments slip into our reality the way that packages come through slots in a mailbox. By getting the armor destroyed, I’d plugged up the slot for big packages.
Over the edge of my forearm, I still caught glimpses of silvery missiles whistling towards me. I winced, my eyes clamping shut as I waited for the horrible, piercing agony of being stung by so many dozens of sharp objects. No bark skin for me. This was going to be bloody. Death by a thousand cuts. I gritted my teeth, and waited.
But instead of the grotesque sound of needles and shears penetrating my flesh, I only heard the clinking of Beatrice’s many projectiles against metal. Slowly, I opened my eyes, mouth hung open in disbelief at the sight of the golden kite shield strapped to my arm.
“Holy crap,” I murmured.
“No!” Beatrice stomped her foot, gesturing again as she summoned more and more of her little silver soldiers from out of the depths of her workshop. They came like salvos of tiny missiles, swarms of hideous metal insects, but all of them collided with my shield, then tinkled as harmlessly as bells when they fell to the ground.
I glanced down at my other arm, by then no longer surprised to find that the sword was still clenched in my hand. “Well. Would you look at that.”
This was Raziel’s doing somehow, his silly lessons worming their way into my brain and manifesting themselves through practical application. I never thought it was possible to conjure more than one armament from the Vestments at the same time. The few times I’d attempted to use my talent too often in succession, things had backfired in a pretty painful way, like a jagged electrical jolt ripping through my body. Now I could summon two whole things. I grinned to myself. I was getting better at this, and fast.
With shield in hand I barged my way through the store, Beatrice harrumphing in frustration as her magics fell to nothing against my defenses. Any piece of cloth that came too close was quickly turned into scraps and rags with my sword, and the shield held her storms of shredding metal at bay. I chuckled deeply when my eyes met hers, as I found the fury and frustration building there.
“Give it up,” I called out, barely containing the laughter in my voice.
Beatrice smiled. “Never.”
She thrust her hand out, fingers splayed apart, and out of the end of each sprayed a fine, almost invisible filament that looked very much like spider silk. My muscles stiffened, then I bent closer to the ground, ducking behind my shield, prepared to slash at the shimmering threads. But they weren’t headed for me.
Florian cried out as Beatrice’s silk ensnared him, wrapping each of his limbs and a good portion of his torso in gleaming threads. One last thread wrapped itself lovingly around his neck, like a noose. I hated the echo of what was happening, this reversal, how this was almost a mockery of how he liked to fight and entangle others with his own vines.
Beatrice pulled. Florian choked.
“No.” I dashed straight at Florian, using my shield to bat away the last of Beatrice’s needles, cutting sentient cloth to ribbons. Beatrice meant business. She was actually strangling him, his skin turning blue.
Her eyes glimmered with an awful, distant rage, as if the woman we knew was somewhere far, far away, at least mentally.
“Stop this. Beatrice, stop this, or I’m going to have to do something drastic.”
No response. Her teeth were bared and clenched, the corners of her mouth hitching. Part of her was enjoying this. I had to end it. With my sword upraised, I approached. She was too focused on keeping Florian entrapped to really notice me, or so I thought, until I attempted to bring my sword down like a guillotine.
I aimed for her wrist.
Beatrice shrieked. She twisted away at the last moment, her fingers just narrow inches away from the edge of my blade as it bit through her silks. It took a second swing to really sever them. Beatrice fell over in the process, retreating farther behind her counter, but I managed to cut every cord sucking the life out of Florian. He gasped for air, the silks coming loose from his limbs and his throat. His eyes were wide as he lifted his head, heaving and wheezing.
“Are you okay? Florian?”
He didn’t answer – probably couldn’t – but he nodded.
Anger flooded my chest again, and even through my clothes the light of my sigils flooded the darkness of the workshop. Around me the moving swathes and fabric and flying needles fell gently to the ground, disarmed and harmless. And behind the counter, her knees pulled to her chest, was Beatrice Rex.
I raised my sword at her as I stepped closer, a warning and a promise, but she flinched, then yelped. This wasn’t the Beatrice from before, not the ruthless seamstress witch with the fucked up and oddly specific telekinetic powers. Her eyes were different, no longer distant. She was crying, too.
“The workshop – you guys – my things. I’m so sorry.”
Sighing, I placed my sword on the floor, not even caring that it might have scratched the perfect parquet. Come on, Beatrice had much bigger things to worry about. I slumped to the ground, sitting cross-legged just a foot or so away from her. In my mind, I told the sword not to return to the Vestments. Just – just in case.
34
Beatrice Rex wiped under each of her eyes, more frustrated than anything, her hair in disarray. I breathed deeply and brought the back of my hand across my forehead. To say that the fight made me break a sweat was an understatement. I studied her face as her eyes flitted from me, to Florian, then to the surrounding devastation of her workshop. She sniffed, her gaze falling to the ground.
“So,” I said, massaging my temples. “Would you care to explain what happened here?”
Her eyes were wet as she looked up at me, and I could see the glow of the runes in my skin fading as she paused to form her words. It was hard to stay angry knowing that the attack wasn’t completely Beatrice’s fault. Something had taken over back there. Something different, and angry.
“Do you remember how we met?” She wiped the last of her tears away, then raised her nose, regaining her composure, dignified. “The spider silk that you helped save from that thief?”
I nodded. I remembered. It wasn’t so long ago. I was out in the Black Market looking for an enchanter to help me with a cloaking spell when I ran into some dude who had stolen something from Beatrice Rex. Well, I didn’t run into him, exactly. He ran into a mace that I just happened to be holding at chest level.
“That lace I showed you, the stuff that the guy tried to steal? I’m sure it was obvious that it wasn’t just any old piece of cloth. It was woven from Arachne’s own silk. That’s why it’s so valuable.”
The floor creaked as Florian walked over, his insides full of oxygen again. “So that silk came straight out of Arachne’s butt?”
Beatrice frowned. “No, it didn’t come from – will you listen to yourself?”
“Then get another supplier,” I said. “You have tons. You’ve said so yourself.”
“You don’t understand. I can weave literal magic with it. It’s sturdy, but lightweight, perfect for something like a cloaking enchantment.” Her eyes flitted rapidly up and down my body. “If you could ever afford it,” she added under her breath.
“Hey, now,” I said, glancing at my sword. “This thing is still here. Don’t get all sassy with me.”
She rolled her eyes. Good old Beatrice. “The point I’m trying to make is that y
ou can’t just walk into a store and ask for the Arachne special. Arachne – she needs favors. And this time the favor was to keep Loki’s sword hidden, somewhere even Loki himself couldn’t find it.”
I frowned at her. “What would that even accomplish? Why would Arachne even care?” I raked my hands through my hair in frustration. “And is that really worth a scrap of lace?”
Beatrice eyed me guiltily, then shook her head. “It’s not just about the lace. This is – it’s about my soul.”
Florian’s body thumped heavily against the floor as he sat himself down. “Oh, Beatrice. Oh no. That’s a little too intense.”
She nodded. “It’s called patronage – surrendering your soul to an entity in exchange for power.” She looked down at her hand, flexing her fingers. “What you saw just now? That was a taste of what I could do if I gave everything up to her. And it fits so well, too. The greatest weaver in the universe lending me her talent? You don’t understand. That reverberates through everything for me – my art, my workshop, even the magic I can use to defend myself.”
“But Beatrice. At what cost?” I shook my head. “Did you even remember what you were doing? You almost killed Florian.”
She glanced at him apologetically, her eyes wet again. “I really am sorry. I lost control and it all – I just slipped away. Some people can give up slivers of their soul and be perfectly fine. But I – I don’t think I’m cut out for this.” Beatrice thumbed over her shoulder, her gaze on the ground again. “Take it. Take the damn sword. It’s in a pouch in the backroom. You can’t miss it.”
The beaded curtain rattled as I parted it, and she was right. There was no way I was going to miss the fuchsia fanny pack sitting on a lone stool in the center of what looked like a very neatly organized stockroom. It had a few ribbons attached to it, along with some pink rosettes. Some gaudy, jangly gold clasps completed the effect, making it look about as stylish and as wearable as a three-tier bubblegum birthday cake at a sweet sixteen.
