by James Maxey
The fact that no one found a woman blended with an enormous serpent more interesting than their cards was partly the blame of the man tending bar. Battle Ox was a half-seed, an eight-foot-tall minotaur with broad shoulders and iron-clad horns. Despite his fearsome aspect, during her time at the bar, she’d discovered that Battle was actually a rather gentle soul.
“Battle,” Sorrow said, drawing up to the bar, her head just above the level of his own. “Good to see you again.”
He looked up, his brow furrowed. She could see her black helmet reflected in his eyes. She pulled her helmet off and his expression changed.
“Sorrow! This is a new look for you. Are you on stilts or something?”
“Something,” she said, realizing that most of her lower body was hidden by the bar. “My additional height is one reason I’m here. I need to see the Black Swan.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Pretty sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Ever since you left, the boss has been griping that you cheated her.”
“What gall! She complained about a thousand completely fictional defaults in my workmanship and tried to avoid paying my wages. She was the one who attempted to cheat me!”
“But she did pay you. And now that she’s had time to adjust to her new body, she hates her voice.”
“She’s lucky to have any voice at all,” Sorrow said. “She has no lungs or throat. That I was able restore her power of speech using bellows and reeds borders on the miraculous.”
“In any case, when you see her, you’ll get an earful.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“Fine. But don’t laugh when she’s chewing you out. She hates that. It’s just... she does kind of sound like a duck.”
“If people think that, I’m hardly to blame,” said Sorrow. “She’s the one who chose to name herself after a waterfowl.”
Battle cast his gaze toward Slate. “Who’s the big guy?”
“I’m called Slate, half-seed.”
“He’s agreed to help me with a problem I’m trying to solve,” said Sorrow.
Battle nodded. “Let me go tell the boss you’re here.” He disappeared behind a curtain that covered a door behind the bar.
Sorrow turned to Slate and said, “Try not to sound so contemptuous.”
“Contemptuous?”
“The way you said ‘half-seed.’ It sounded judgmental.”
Slate shrugged. “His mother sullied herself with animal seed. His inhuman soul was fated for damnation from before his birth. How can you not judge such a beast?”
“Considering you don’t remember who your own parents are, you might want to keep an open mind.”
“I may not remember them, but the evidence of my own eyes testifies that they were human.”
Battle returned a moment later and said, “She’ll see you. But your bodyguard stays here.”
Sorrow had expected as much and made no protest as she slithered around the bar.
“So,” he said, as he finally saw her full form. “You’ve, uh, got an interesting new look.”
“Indeed,” she said. “It’s given me a new appreciation for the plight of your kind.”
Battle tilted his head. “Plight?”
“You didn’t ask to be born half-animal,” she said. “It’s a cruel fate, and it disgusts me that you’re treated with contempt by thoughtless fools.”
“You know what I hate more than contempt?” Battle asked. “Condescension. I happen to be proud of who and what I am. I’m bigger and stronger than any of the pathetic pink-skins who think they’re better than me. And I’d wager I’m better hung than anyone else in this port.”
“There’s no need to be crude,” she said as she felt her cheeks go red. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I just... I’m certain you’ve had a difficult life. I was trying to convey my empathy.”
“You don’t feel empathy. You feel pity. That’s just another form of judgment.”
Sorrow started to say that it was possible that a lifetime of poor treatment had left him unable to realize when someone was actually being nice, but decided to hold her tongue.
Battle opened the door at the end of the hall. “Madam, Sorrow is here to see you.”
“How delightfully ominous,” said a reedy, squawking voice.
Battle stepped aside and Sorrow slithered past. The room beyond was lit by lanterns. When last she’d been here, the room had been stripped bare, but now it was crowded and cluttered with old dusty furniture that must have been quite lovely in its day. On a low velvet couch, the Black Swan waited, stretched out in what might have been a relaxed pose, if her body were still capable of looking relaxed.
Sorrow had been hired by the Black Swan to build an iron shell to encase her old bones. Any fair-minded person would have judged Sorrow’s handiwork to be a masterpiece of sculpture. The Black Swan’s new skin was, of necessity, much less flexible than a body of flesh. The lacy black dress that the Black Swan wore over her iron limbs somehow made her look even stiffer. She brought to mind a manikin that had toppled over. Still, with her slender limbs and long fingers, the old witch possessed pleasant echoes of the female form. Indeed, her face might even be thought beautiful, though her eyes were made of glass and her eyelashes fine wires. But one had to admire the symmetry and proportions of her visage. The plates that formed her cheeks slid silently as the Black Swan’s iron lips parted. Her polished teeth chopped the squeaking notes produced by the bellows and reeds inside her chest into a voice that was eerily musical.
“I know why you’ve come,” the Black Swan sang. “You’ve found a letter.”
Sorrow raised her eyebrows. “How could you know that?”
“Because Brand arrived yesterday. Only I had the resources to negotiate a fair price for such a large hoard of dragon bones. When he recounted the story of their discovery, he mentioned that you’d found a letter signed by Avaris herself.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right. Brand. Do you know if he’s still in port?”
The Black Swan shrugged. “He seemed eager to depart for the Silver City. Perhaps you’ll meet him there.”
“Doubtful. I was merely curious as to his whereabouts. I’m hardly going to follow him to a city full of my worst enemies.”
“You will if you wish to have the letter translated.”
“You can’t translate it?”
The Black Swan shook her head. “Why would I know the lost script of the weavers? For this, you need an authority on dead tongues. The person best fitting this description is Equity Tremblepoint, who resides in the Silver City.”
“Tremblepoint? Why do I know that name?”
“Given your upbringing, my dear, I’m surprised by your ignorance. Lord Tremblepoint was the author of a dozen of the world’s most beloved plays. Equity is his descendant.”
“Oh,” said Sorrow. “You’ll have to forgive me. I fear I’ve limited education in the fine arts.”
The Black Swan released a string of squawks that might have been laughter. “I would hardly describe Tremblepoint’s work as fine art. He was a horrid playwright, possibly the most dreadful of all time. He acquired his family name because, in each scene, his stage directions require the actors to tremble and point as they deliver their melodramatic soliloquies.”
“I thought you said his plays were beloved?”
“Indeed. While his works are meandering, long, and riddled with inconsistencies, they’re also rife with the lowest forms of humor. The public has a hunger for jokes involving bodily output and the most shameful forms of sexual congress. His works have been popular for centuries. Equity Tremblepoint makes a healthy living as a thespian due mainly to the fame attached to the family name.”
“And this actor is also an authority on dead languages?”
“Indeed. The Tremblepoint family has collected a library of literary manuscripts that date back centuries. It’s only natural that Equity would learn to read them.”
“And you’re certain y
ou can’t read the letter?”
“Why would you doubt me?”
“Because, despite your denials, the world believes you to be a weaver.”
“This would not be the first time that a thing commonly believed has proven baseless. I’ve not a single nail in my skull,” the Black Swan said, tapping the solid dome of her forehead with a razor-sharp fingernail. “You know this.”
“True. But I recently encountered a ghost named Purity. She hinted that the nails were only one crude method of becoming a weaver. She said emotions could be as powerful as physical spikes, and that hatred and the thirst for revenge had opened channels in her mind to grant her powers.”
“Interesting. Might I suggest you discuss this matter with her?”
“Unfortunately, Purity was intent on murdering the sun. Stopping her required killing her.”
“And in the course of stopping her, you took the drastic step of merging your soul with that of Rott.”
Sorrow frowned. “Brand couldn’t have told you that. I never explained my powers to him.”
“My dear, you crawled into the room on a serpent’s belly. You’re covered in dragon scales. There’s a nail in your scalp of a matching ebony hue.”
“Fine. You’ve diagnosed my problem correctly. Is there nothing you can do to help me?”
“You drove that nail into your scalp seeking great power. Why did you do so if you weren’t willing to pay the price?”
“I had no idea my body would change like this. I want it to stop.”
The Black Swan shook her head slowly. “It won’t stop. I’m sorry, Sorrow, but your fate was sealed when you chose to access Rott’s powers. As a dragon, Rott had centuries to study the elemental force he blended his soul with, and still his mind was decayed by entropy.”
“Perhaps my mind is stronger,” said Sorrow. “My life has toughened me.”
The Black Swan shook her head. “You risk the world if you approach your current problem with arrogance. You’ve been given a great opportunity to change the fate of mankind, but doing so will require that you alter your goals.”
“But my goal is to change the fate of mankind.”
“By waging a pointless war against the church, when the true threat to humanity lies with the primal dragons. What use will it be to overthrow your fellow men if humanity is wiped from the world by the collective power of these beasts?”
“I’ll deal with the dragons when and if they’re a problem,” said Sorrow. “For now, I know who my enemies are. It’s just my friends I’m still having trouble identifying.”
The Black Swan nodded. “We may not be friends, but I feel I owe you the courtesy of a warning.”
“A warning against what?”
“Despite your confidence, Rott is an ancient power whose will far exceeds your own.”
“I met Rott in the Sea of Wine. He’s dead. I don’t think he has any will at all.”
“You saw his physical body in the Sea of Wine. His form would only persist if some flickering hunger for survival were left within him. By blending your soul with his own, you may stir this hunger enough to wake the dragon. If the beast awakes while he shares your form, the dragon will devour your spirit and digest your intelligence to nourish his own quiescent mind.”
Sorrow found that she’d unconsciously begun to chew her fingernails. She pulled her hand away from her lips. “You can’t know that. You’re like all prophets, speaking in vagaries.”
“Let me say this as directly as possible. I believe that Rott’s energies are too powerful for you to control. You can halt your slide toward total domination by the beast by removing the nail you carved from him and giving it to me for safe-keeping.”
“That’s not going to happen,” said Sorrow. “I finally have the power I’ve sought for all these years. I’m going to learn to control it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but that’s never stopped me. I’ve become an expert at defining my most dangerous areas of ignorance, then learning what I must to survive. I know it’s possible to tap a primal dragon’s power without losing one’s intelligence because Purity did it. I saw it with my own eyes. If a thing can be done, it can be duplicated.”
“You’re a fool,” said the Black Swan. Her iron fingers clanked as she clamped them to her chest. “If you have such command and control over your abilities, why did you produce such poor work on my breasts?”
“By the vacant moon,” said Sorrow, closing her eyes and rubbing them. “They’re made of iron! They’re never going to look real!”
“So you admit you’ve delivered an inferior product,” the Black Swan said. “I insist you remain here until they’ve been remade to my satisfaction.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Sorrow muttered. “When the worms ate your brains, they shat out your sanity.”
“I was a fool to have faith in you,” the Black Swan said in a low squawking tone that might have been intended to convey disappointment, though she sounded more like a duck with a sore throat.
Sorrow curled around to face the door, resisting the urge to curse. She slithered down the hall and found Battle and Slate leaning on opposite sides of the bar, engaged in an arm wrestling contest. A score of gamblers had gathered around them, staring intently at the match. Slate had removed his helmet, and his face showed signs of strain. The cut on his neck she’d stitched shut was bleeding freely again.
Suddenly, Slate’s arm went down, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Battle pumped his fists in the air. Slate rose, rubbing his wrist, then extended his open hand.
“An honorable victory,” he said. “Well fought, my friend.”
Battle shook his hand. “You had me worried for a minute, buddy. Thought we’d break the damn bar. The Swan would take that out of my pay.”
Slate chuckled as he nodded. Sorrow slithered around the bar and grabbed him by the arm.
“We’re leaving,” she said.
Slate allowed himself to be pulled toward the door. “Must we depart in haste?”
“I don’t need you rough-housing in here. Battle’s right. The Black Swan will bill us for any damage.”
“No harm was done,” said Slate as they stepped outside.
“I suppose I should be happy you just arm wrestled instead of getting into a brawl.”
“We had no cause for combat,” said Slate. “Ours was a friendly contest.”
“Fifteen minutes ago you thought he was an unholy abomination. Suddenly he’s your friend?”
Slate shrugged. “We talked as we waited. Beneath his beastly exterior, he’s a good soul.” He sighed, and leaned against a piling on the dock. He removed his glass gauntlet. His arm was covered in blood. “I could have bested him if my stitches hadn’t torn.”
Sorrow shook her head. “Was it so important to find out who was stronger that you’d risk hurting yourself?”
He grinned. “A day isn’t well lived until I’ve spilt a little blood, even if it’s my own.”
“You don’t have much extra to spare,” she said. She removed her helmet and took his arm to examine her torn handiwork. “Let’s find a room for the night. I need to fix you up again.”
Slate chuckled. “How is it, if thou art the damsel in distress, I’m the one who requires constant mending?”
Before she could answer, a voice called out, “Sorrow?”
The curious thing about the voice was that it came from directly overhead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CIRCUS
SORROW LOOKED STRAIGHT up. A teenage boy with curly black hair was floating fifty feet above her. She raised her hand and cried, “Jetsam!”
Jetsam smiled broadly as he kicked his legs to swim down through the air. When she’d parted company with the Romers, the family had been the most miserable creatures in all of creation, Wanderers without a ship. The Freewind had been transportation for Sorrow, but for the Romers it had been home. They’d escaped with little more than the clothes on their back. Now, Jetsam was outfitted in
a crisp white uniform of cotton breeches and vest, with a bright green sash for a belt and a matching bandana serving as a cap.
“Zounds!” Slate cried as he spotted the flying teenager.
“Zounds?” Jetsam asked. “What are you, an actor?”
“An actor?” Slate asked, confused.
“The only place I’ve heard that word was in the Tremblepoint play, The Merchant of Monkeys.”
“When would you have seen a play?” Sorrow asked. “You’ve lived your whole life on a ship.”
Jetsam’s head reached the level of her own when he stopped swimming down through the air. He spread his arms and brought himself to a halt, his feet still sticking straight up. “I’ve done more than seen the play. I performed in it. I played the role of second monkey when I was eight. The show was staged on the fo’c’sle of the Horizon.”
“I had no idea Wanderers had thespians among them,” said Sorrow.
“We’re sailors, not barbarians. One of the reasons Commonground even exists is so we can get together and enjoy plays, concerts, dancing, and so on.”
“How is it that thou dost fly?” Slate asked.
“‘Thou dost?’” Jetsam responded, eyebrows raised. Then he shrugged and said, “My family rescued a mermaid princess. As a reward, each member of my family got to blow a note on the mer-king’s magical conch. We all wound up with different powers, based on our names, more or less.” He performed a loop in mid-air, righting himself so his feet were pointing down. “I got the best power, if I do say so myself.”
“Aye. ’Tis quite a talent.”
Sorrow said, “Forgive me. I was so surprised to see you, I haven’t made the proper introductions. Jetsam, this is Slate. Slate, Jetsam.”
The two men shook hands.
“Speaking of surprises,” Jetsam said, glancing at her serpent tail. “You, uh, look... different... somehow.” A few awkward seconds passed, before he asked, cheerfully, “Have you lost weight?”
She sighed. “I’m surprised you recognized me, to be honest.”
He laughed. “I have an unusual level of experience with looking at the tops of people’s heads. Believe me, even from fifty feet up, the second you took off your helmet I knew who you were.”
