by James Maxey
Sorrow’s attention turned to a discarded element of Bigsby’s wardrobe. She slithered over and picked up the gleaming breastplate from the deck. The front and back halves of the armor clanged together on their leather straps as she lifted them, taking a closer look to see if they’d work for the plan she had in mind. Despite the smallness of his limbs, Bigsby’s torso was as large as most men. “If you don’t need this any more, I’ve got a use for it.”
“Take it,” Bigsby said, shaking his head. “I can’t fight. I’m nothing but a coward.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Brand. “I watched you charge at a dragon without batting an eye. If Princess Innocent was brave, you’re brave.”
Sorrow had no time to listen to Brand’s attempt to cheer his despondent brother. She snaked around and headed for Slate, who stood at the rail with his fists clenched as the space narrowed between the two ships.
She held Bigsby’s mace toward him. “I’m sure you can bang some heads together with your bare hands, but you might do more damage with this.”
“Aye,” he said, taking it from her.
“I thought you might also benefit from a little armor,” she said, presenting him the breast plate.
“It’s too small,” he said.
“I can adapt it,” she said, lining the iron plate up to his chest. “Hold still.”
She bent the edges of the plate outward, stretching them to fit over Slate’s impressive musculature. She spun him around and worked on the back, molding and sculpting the metal to his form. She tightened the leather straps, then spun him back around. She glanced toward Bigsby’s discarded helmet. She flicked it with the end of her tail, sending it bouncing across the deck toward her, then caught it and plopped it onto Slate’s head. Satisfied that it fit without any further adjustment, she ran her hands along Slate’s chest to smooth out her handiwork. Slate stared at her intently as she worked.
A little too intently.
She suddenly felt awkward. Was she really trying to perfect his armor? Or were her fingers lingering on his muscles for reasons she was unwilling to admit?
“That should be good enough,” she said.
“Your eyes,” he whispered. “I... remember them.”
“We see each other every day. You’ve not had a chance to forget them,” she said.
“No...” His face sagged as he shook his head. “It’s... it’s like a memory from... long ago. Of you outfitting me for battle. But now... it’s gone.”
Sorrow pressed her lips tightly together. Was he merely remembering when she’d fitted him with his glass armor?
But there was no more time to ponder such things, because the Circus was now within grappling range of the pirate vessel.
Captain Romer leapt beside Slate and Sorrow. “The three of us lead the charge,” she said. “Mako’s already in the water and Jetsam’s heading down. Knock everyone you can into the drink. My sons will make swift work of them.”
Cinnamon ran up, with Sorrow’s swords in her grasp. “I figured you might need these.”
Sorrow grabbed the blades. She looked across the narrow gap to the assembled pirates. Despite Mako’s attack, there were still at least three dozen. Among the pirate ranks she spotted a half-bear, a half-boar, and a long-jawed monstrosity that might have been half-crocodile. This wasn’t going to be an easy fight.
Gale cried, “Poppy! Clear a path!”
She stepped aside as a barrel shot past her, splintering against the horns of a goat-man at the rail of the Seahorse and knocking him backwards. Gale raised both her cutlasses and leapt across the six-foot gap dividing the ships, shouting, “The moment you chose to be pirates is the moment you chose to die!” She landed where the goat-man had stood and severed the head of a dog-faced boy who’d had the misfortune of standing too close.
Slate followed Gale’s lead, easily crossing the gap between the rolling ships despite his new burden of armor. He plowed into the crowd, swinging his mace in wide arcs that sent pirates flying.
Sorrow stretched across the gap. She had the misfortune of facing off with the half-bear, who slapped away the blade she drove toward his left shoulder and swatted her face with his massive right hand, full of claws. Her helmet spared her any cuts as the man-bear’s nails slid along the glass, but the impact left her seeing stars.
He opened jaws full of ugly teeth and made a thrust for her neck. The pirate’s charge was halted by Slate’s mace, which drove his snout-like nose back into his brains.
She had no time to thank him. Her serpent half had now slithered fully on board and was being attacked by a dozen swords at once. Her scales proved impervious to the combined assault. As if it had a mind of its own, her muscular tail whipped back and forth, knocking pirates overboard.
Sorrow turned to face the alligator-man as Gale flew past, swinging over the battle on a rope, to land on the upper deck where Captain Stallion watched the fight unfolding in the company of the porcupine half-seed. The quill-covered creature bristled as it readied an attack on Gale, but with a flash of steel its head tumbled from its shoulders.
Stallion turned, looking at first as if he might be getting ready to flee, but instead he kicked with his back hooves, catching Gale in the chest. She went flying, falling to the lower deck, where a mob of pirates jostled for the chance to finish her off.
None reached her. Instead, the rigging unknotted and snaked to life, catching the pirates attacking Gale by their necks. All were jerked from their feet by impromptu nooses. Sorrow glanced over her shoulder to find that Rigger had come aboard and was standing on the rail, his hand upon a line leading up to the main mast.
A few of the remaining pirates on the deck turned pale as they looked at their brethren kicking overhead. They had no need to fear death by hanging, however, as Slate plowed through their ranks, bashing skulls and breaking limbs.
Gale bounced back to her feet and again leapt for Captain Stallion. The half-horse cursed as hurricane winds whipped his hair and carried Gale toward him. However, fast as Gale moved, she was no match for his equine legs. He chose flight over fight, making a magnificent leap over the railing. He hung in the air with a look of defiance, before dropping, legs kicking, arms flailing, toward the shark-infested water.
Sorrow lingered for half a second as she tossed a pig-man into the drink, studying the water below. She never saw Stallion surface. The waves were crimson with blood and countless shark fins churned the water. Mako was climbing up the anchor chain and Jetsam had jumped into the air and was swimming up to the level of the deck.
Sorrow turned back toward the action, only to find there was none. The only two animal men still alive were rather pathetic. A half-rabbit was curled into a fetal ball by the mainmast, tugging his ears.
“I-I-I-I s-s-surrender!” he shrieked.
“We both surrender,” a turtle man said in a thick, slurred voice as he slowly raised his fat, wrinkled hands.
“The b-b-boy made us d-do it!” the rabbit man cried. “I n-never wanted to be a p-p-pirate!”
Mako advanced on the cowering figure, drawing his bloodied lips wide as he growled, “I said we would take no prisoners!”
Gale placed her hand on Mako’s shoulder. “Hold! I gave no such command.”
“We dare not show mercy!” Mako screamed as he spun to face his mother. “These crud aren’t even fully human!”
Jetsam laughed. “That just seems funny when you’ve still got bits of pirate stuck between your teeth.”
Mako frowned as he glared at his brother. He ran his fingers between his lips and dug around, producing an earring, and what once might have been an ear.
“There’s no need to hurt us,” the turtle man said. “Hopper is right. We were kidnapped by the others, but the only dirty work we ever did was swab the deck.”
Mako shook his head. “If you’ve eaten their food, you’ve shared in the spoils of their plunder. Honest men would have fought their captors!”
“They w-would have k-killed us!” said Hop
per.
“Better to die an honest man than to be moved by fear to wallow in a life of sin,” said Slate.
“Let’s just put them out of their misery,” said Mako.
Gale shook her head. “We gain nothing by killing these two. If they give us no trouble, we’ll spare them.”
Mako crossed his arms and slunk away, sulking.
“I suppose you’re not going to let us keep any of the good stuff we find, either?” Jetsam asked as he crouched over the body of a dead cat-man who had a beautifully crafted rapier in his now limp grasp.
“A Wanderer must never kill in order to enrich himself,” said Gale. “But we did initially attempt to avoid this fight. They brought this battle upon themselves. We may claim the spoils of a justly fought war.”
She made a hand gesture toward Sage, still back in the crows nest of the Circus. The girl pressed her eye to her spyglass. Sorrow guessed she was searching the ship for any lurking dangers.
“Will we take possession of the Seahorse?” asked Rigger.
“I don’t see the wisdom of laying claim to the only ship on the ocean more hunted than the Freewind was,” said Gale.
“W-will you g-give us s-safe passage?” asked Hopper.
“No,” said Gale.
“But the two of us aren’t enough to sail this ship,” said the turtle man.
“You couldn’t steer if we’d left all the crew alive, what with your rudder torn to splinters,” said Gale. “You’re at the mercy of Abyss now. Perhaps his currents will guide you to land before you run out of food and water.”
Before the half-men could beg for a different fate, Sage shouted, “You won’t believe what I just found!”
“I’m almost certain I will,” said Rigger, leaning against the foremast. “I’ve lost all capacity for surprise.”
“Is it treasure?” Jetsam called out. “The proverbial pirate chest of gold?”
“It’s a painting,” said Sage.
Rigger furrowed his brow. “I retract my statement. I can’t believe you’re excited about finding a painting.”
Jetsam scratched his head. “Is it... you know... a naked lady?”
Gale smacked the back of his head.
“I really think you should take a look at it,” said Sage. “It’s in Captain Stallion’s cabin.”
Sorrow was nearest to the door. She grasped the tarnished brass handle and turned it. The room stank worse than a horse stall. She covered her mouth to cut the stench, and still couldn’t quite bring herself to slither into the filthy chamber. In the dim light, she could see a painting bolted to the wall. It was a large canvas in a gilded frame. The painting was difficult to make out; the varnish had darkened, leaving only shadowy figures. Yet there was something about the colors and the poses that reminded her of paintings that had adorned the wall of her father’s mansion. If this was the work of an old master, it could be a far more valuable prize than any gold or jewelry.
“It doesn’t look like much,” Mako grumbled as he pushed past Sorrow. If the stench of the room bothered him he gave no indication. He tore the frame off the wall, more roughly than Sorrow thought necessary. If it was valuable, why damage it?
Mako carried the painting into sunlight. Now the colors were brighter, the shapes clearer, though it was also more apparent that much of the painting had been splattered with various forms of filth over the years, obscuring the images. Sorrow recoiled as she understood the subject matter.
Jetsam, now well out of Gale’s reach, said, “I was right! A naked lady!”
Indeed, one of the foreground figures was an unclothed female. But the painting didn’t portray her as a figure of beauty set against some pastoral landscape. Instead, the woman was bound with her wrists stretched overhead, fastened to a hook on a wooden pole. Kindling was stacked around her legs to the midpoint of her thighs. The woman’s face was a mask of terror. Her head was shaved and bleeding from numerous holes in her scalp.
This was a painting of a witch being put to death.
Judging from the apparent age, the canvas could possibly have been painted during the war against the witches those long centuries ago. A trio of men stood near the woman. A truthspeaker was present, reading from a scroll. Beside him was a large man in ebony armor, carrying a sword that was painted charcoal black. He was pointing toward the woman’s feet, seemingly issuing a command to the third man, a ghostly white pygmy who stood by the piled kindling with a torch in his hand.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Sage asked.
Sorrow jumped. At some point, Sage had left the Circus and was now standing right beside her.
“I’m not amazed,” said Sorrow. “My father had an extensive collection of similar art. I heard him say that one painting he most wanted for his collection had been stolen from its last known owner. The painting was called The Witchbreaker.”
“The guy with the sword that could send you straight to hell?” said Jetsam.
“If the sword did have such power, then death by flames was an act of mercy,” said Slate.
Sorrow frowned at him.
“If you were to be put to death by fire, you would have time to repent your sins while the flames were building,” Slate explained.
“So you think the painting’s worth something?” asked Jetsam.
The painting wasn’t in the best of shape, given the way the varnish had colored and cracked. Nor had Captain Stallion taken care with it. What looked like mustard hid the face of the truthspeaker, and what was almost certainly manure was smeared across the face of Stark Tower, which gave Sorrow a certain grim satisfaction. But, despite the painting’s poor condition, she knew it would easily find a buyer. “My father would no doubt pay to have this in his collection. The halls of our family home are adorned with similar atrocities. To keep it from his hands, I’ll negotiate whatever price you consider fair. Then I shall destroy it.”
“What?” Sage said. “You can’t destroy this!”
“Why not?” asked Mako.
“You stumble onto a mystery like this and your first instinct is to destroy it?” asked Sage.
“What mystery?” asked Sorrow. “The Silver Isles are rife with such paintings. The Church of the Book is ever eager to celebrate the torturers of women. Entire cities are named for these ancient witch slayers.”
“But—” Sage shook her head and chuckled softly. “Sorry. I’m an idiot. I sometimes forget that not everyone sees the things I see. Look.” She licked her thumb and rubbed the grime obscuring the truthspeaker’s features. Details of his face emerged. He was a dark-haired man with his hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. Oddly, a large red ‘D’ was painted on his forehead. “Don’t you know who that is?”
“I can’t say that I do,” said Sorrow.
“That’s Zetetic the Deceiver! He came to us a few years back seeking passage to the Sea of Wine.”
“We didn’t do business with him,” Gale said. “He offered good money, but how can you enter a contract with someone who openly calls himself a deceiver?”
“It does kind of look like him,” said Jetsam. “But it can’t be. Zetetic is, what, maybe forty? This painting’s got to be hundreds of years old.”
“I’m positive it’s him,” said Sage.
“I admit there’s a resemblance,” said Gale. “But I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”
“Maybe,” said Sage. “But what do you make of this?” She pulled down the sleeve of her blouse and spat on it, then scrubbed away the filth that covered Stark Tower’s face.
Gale’s eyes widened. Jetsam let out a low whistle. Mako’s monstrous jaws gaped. Sorrow’s breath caught in her throat.
In unison, they all turned to stare at Slate.
Slate cocked his head as he realized he was the target of their combined gaze. “Does something trouble thee... I mean, you?”
“I think we have a clue as to why you talk like you’ve walked out of another century,” said Jetsam.
CHAPTER TEN
SUCH A BAD THI
NG
THE ROMERS WERE still sorting through the items found aboard the Seahorse. Sage could identify some of the rightful owners of the stolen objects, and there was a great deal of political goodwill they could purchase among their fellow Wanderers by reuniting them with property taken by Stallion.
Slate had grown quiet after discovering his resemblance to Lord Stark Tower. Sorrow had been speaking with Sage about the possible fate of Numinous when she’d noticed Slate discarding his armor and returning to the Circus. Her initial instinct had been to let him have time to think things over. Perhaps his memories would be jogged further. But she noticed that Poppy was also absent, and wondered if the girl might be trying to cheer him up. The girl’s romantic notion of knights bore little resemblance to their real world cruelty, and she worried that Slate might receive false impressions from her.
Sorrow found Slate and Poppy in the galley.
“You should be excited,” Poppy said to Slate as Sorrow slithered silently through the door. “Stark Tower is one of the best knights ever. He saved the whole world from evil witches!”
“Your book tells you this?” Sorrow asked.
Poppy turned her head swiftly, looking startled that Sorrow was right behind her. She swallowed, then said, “I know that not all witches are bad.”
“Your book tells you that?”
Poppy shrugged. “The book really only has one kind of witch. But you’re a nice witch. Aren’t you?”
Sorrow frowned. It was a simple enough question. Why couldn’t she bring herself to say, “Yes, I’m nice?” Instead, she said, “Can I speak to Slate in private?”
“I guess,” said Poppy, who looked a little worried as she glanced at the big man. He was normally cheerful in her company, but now his expression was completely neutral.
“Leave us,” he said.
Poppy left the table, leaving her book of knights resting where she’d been sitting.
The door closed behind her. Slate and Sorrow eyed each other without speaking. It had been a long day. The daylight was fading. Neither made a move to light the lantern.
“You knew who I was,” he said.
