by James Maxey
“No,” she said. “I didn’t. And I don’t. So what if you happen to look like him? I know nothing about who you really are, or who you were before we met.”
“Tell me again how we met.”
“You know. You were there. I was attacked by a dragon’s skeleton and you jumped up to save me.”
“Jumped up.”
She pressed her lips tightly together.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
She sighed. “This is everything. Brand and I found you buried in the Witches Graveyard. You were in a glass coffin. We thought you were dead, but you made a remarkable recovery after the bone-dragon smashed open your casket.”
Slate placed his hands upon the table and stared at them. “My nails... my hair....”
“Were rather long, yes,” she said. “You may have been underground for a while.”
“Then... I am Tower? Returned from the grave? Due to your magic?”
“I can assure you that I don’t have the power to raise the dead. If I did, I can also assure you that I wouldn’t use that power on the Witchbreaker. He deserves to rot in whatever hell may hold him.”
Slate pulled the book toward him. He ran his beefy thumb along the edge of the cover.
“According to this book, the man was a hero,” said Slate. “He abandoned his comfort and fortune in the Silver Isles to lead the battle against the greatest threat ever faced by the Church of the Book. He literally traveled to hell and back to acquire the weapon that turned the tide of history.”
“Don’t believe everything you read,” said Sorrow, crossing her arms. “You saw the damn painting. The witches didn’t have a traditional army. They mostly lived in peace among all the different kingdoms of the time. Tower’s war didn’t involve him testing his might against hordes of armed warriors in battle. It mainly involved him kidnapping women from their homes and torturing them into confessions. That’s not heroism.”
“According to the book, Avaris commanded an army of devils and beasts that threatened all of mankind.”
“History is written by the victors. I believe her crime was building a following of women and offering them an alternative to the oppression they faced elsewhere. If she threatened anything, it was to improve the lives of half of humanity.”
“Why should I believe you? You hid the full truth of how you discovered me. I was a fool to trust you.”
“You’re right. I should have told you everything.” She shook her head slowly. “In perfect honesty, I seldom feel I have people’s trust. It leaves me a poor steward of the commodity when I do stumble upon it. Can you forgive me?”
“Let me turn the question upon you,” he said. “If I am Stark Tower, would you forgive me? Or are we enemies by blood, forever? A witch and a witchbreaker?”
“Whoever you used to be, as far as I’m concerned you crawled out of that grave a new man. There’s no need for us to be enemies.”
“Even if I’m a champion of the Church of the Book?”
“But you’re not!” She slammed her fist onto the table. “You barely remember anything about the church. Your mind’s a damned blank slate! How can you want to be a champion of something you know nothing about?”
Slate grinned slightly, looking bemused.
“Did I say something funny?”
“I fear I’m a slow learner. Until just now, I didn’t comprehend why you decided to call me Slate. What is it that you wish to write upon me, Sorrow?”
“What do I wish to write?” she said. “Only the truth.”
“Indeed? And you hoped to bring me to the truth by lying about my origins? By stringing me along by your claim to be a damsel in distress?”
“I didn’t want to confuse you. I was going to tell you more when the time was right.”
“I’m ready to hear what you wish to tell me.”
She sighed. “Fine. All cards on the table. Maybe I have been stringing you along. I’ve even been trying to manipulate you. I don’t have a lot of friends, Slate. I’ve been fighting most of my battles alone for a long time. I thought... it would me nice to have an ally.”
“An ally against what?”
She took a long, slow breath. “Against the Church of the Book. My life’s goal is to destroy it.”
His eyebrow’s raised.
“Forget what Poppy’s fairy tales have told you. You may not have any memories, but I have a lifetime of moments I can never forget. My father was a judge. I watched him hang his own mother after she was accused of being a witch.”
“Was she?” asked Slate.
“How can that possibly matter?” Sorrow asked. “He. Hung. His. Mother. He killed her because he loved his church more than he loved his own flesh and blood. I was ten years old when I witnessed this. I learned the truth of the world that day. My father wasn’t wicked; he was the product of an entire society of wickedness. The supposed laws of a supposed god had been warped and twisted to make evil seem like good and good seem like evil.”
Slate looked thoughtful. He said, “But if she was a witch?”
“If she was a witch, she was like the vast majority of those who practice weaving, and used her powers in secret for the good of those around her. Weavers don’t seek glory or fortune. We seek knowledge and use it to help our friends and neighbors. Weavers are sought out by mothers for potions to cure sick infants. They’re consulted by farmers who wish to learn the best nights to plant. Unlike the church, which tells men that they’ll have a better life in some distant, spiritual kingdom, we teach men to make the most of their time in the material world. We make life better here and now. How can anyone be put to death for such a thing?”
Slate didn’t answer.
“Now you know my true intentions are good intentions. I want to change the world. I want to rescue it from the cruel ideology that has corrupted it. Will you join me?”
He shook his head. “A knight shall be brave, courteous, and kind, obedient to his king, a defender of his faith, and a champion to all men of virtue.” He sighed. “If I were to go against this code, I doubt I could look Poppy in the eyes.”
“You can’t make the sole guide for your life the opinions of a ten-year-old girl.”
His head tilted slightly to the side. He studied her a moment before he asked, “Haven’t you?”
FOR THE REMAINDER of their journey to the Silver City, Slate barely spoke to Sorrow. Nor could she think of a good way to once more initiate conversation. It wasn’t that the air between them was hostile. Instead, Slate’s formerly jaunty nature had been replaced by a haunted sullenness. Sorrow had no idea what to say that might console him.
She chose to stay below deck as they sailed into Salvation Bay. From her porthole, she could see the vast walls that lined the bay. The Silver City was a fortress encompassing several square miles with walls taller than the trees on the Isle of Fire and towers that vanished into the clouds. The whole of the city sparkled in the morning sun. She felt a curious swell of sentimentality as she returned to her childhood home. But the warmth quickly faded as she glimpsed the mirrored spires of the Cathedral of the Book looming above the massive walls.
Brand, Bigsby, and Slate were on deck directly above her cabin. If she focused, she could just make out their conversation.
“Cheer up, gentlemen,” Brand said. “You seem so glum when you’re about to start new lives in the most wonderful city ever built.”
“If it’s so wonderful,” Bigsby grumbled, “why do so many of its inhabitants come to Commonground looking for happiness?”
“I would argue they come to Commonground looking for booze and loose women,” said Brand. “Which, admittedly, are in short supply here. But there are parks and theatres and opera halls and museums. Something wonderful to see every day, if you’re high-minded.”
Bigsby replied, “High-minded? I’m a fishmonger whose sole pleasure in life is wearing women’s clothing.”
“You were almost killed by Greatshadow. People do crazy things after that much stress.�
�
Bigsby sighed. “I can’t blame the dragon for my insanity. I started stealing women’s underwear from clotheslines when I was still in the circus. I’m wearing Sorrow’s pantaloons right now.”
Sorrow started to say something, but held her tongue.
“When on earth did you get your hands on those?”
“I rummaged through her bags before we left camp,” said Bigsby. “As luck would have it, she’s not had a reason to spot their absence.”
Sorrow had to admit she hadn’t even noticed that portions of her wardrobe had vanished.
Brand said, in a voice barely audible, “When you meet father, don’t break the ice with this topic.”
“Why not?” Bigsby asked. “Will it embarrass him? Will it make him disown me? He’s ignored my existence for thirty years. Why should I care what he thinks of me?”
“You’ve every right to feel aggrieved,” said Brand. “But take a look at those docks. Do you see the ships being loaded with cargo?”
Bigsby’s weight shifted on the planks above. “So?”
“What’s that cargo packed in?”
Bigsby sounded puzzled. “Crates? Barrels?”
“Precisely. And our father has a near monopoly on their manufacture. He’s a very wealthy man. You, dear Bigsby, are his eldest son, and rightful heir. I’m throwing away a grand inheritance by bringing you here. Is it too much to ask that you at least pretend to be happy about this?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s got to be better to be a wealthy dwarf in stolen underwear than a poor one?”
“I mean, why did you come and find me? Why throw away your inheritance?”
Brand didn’t hesitate with his answer. “I’ve seen how father’s silent guilt has hollowed him out over the years. If I’d gone on a false quest, and returned and reported you dead, I would have inherited only shame. It’s in my own self-interest to do what is right, my brother. It lets me sleep soundly at night.”
Bigsby said, “I can live with that.”
“Nice speech, Brand.” It was Gale’s voice, at some distance. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you said it just loud enough that you’d be sure I overheard and thought better of you.”
“Did it work?”
Gale laughed. Sorrow thought the laugh sounded derisive, but perhaps it was flirty. She was a poor judge of such things.
“We approach a city of marvels,” Brand said, sounding as if he was once more speaking to Bigsby. “Anything can happen.” There was a pause and Brand asked, “Has it changed much since you were last here?”
Sorrow thought this was an odd question to ask of Bigsby, who’d only been in the city as an infant.
It was Slate who answered. “I’ve no memory of this place.”
“If you really are Stark Tower, you’ve arrived at an interesting time,” said Brand. “The current Lord Tower got himself killed fighting Greatshadow. He has no heir, so the family fortune will be fought over by various cousins. If you can find a truthspeaker to verify your identity, you might have the best claim to the estate.”
“I’ve no interest in wealth. What I crave more than anything is purpose. Having no past has robbed me of any future.”
Sorrow bit her lip to keep from shouting out that she’d offered him a purpose.
“If you’re the Witchbreaker, you might find things kind of boring. There aren’t many witches left these days.”
“If you were the Witchbreaker, would you kill Sorrow?” Bigsby asked.
The ship had turned so that Sorrow could see Slate’s shadow on the water as he placed his hands on the rail. “I’m choosing not to dwell on the prospect.”
“It would be a shame to rid the world of a pair of such beautiful eyes,” said Bigsby.
“Aye,” said Slate, sounding dreamy. “Like emeralds.”
Sorrow’s jaw went slack. She’d never before heard men describe even a portion of her appearance as attractive. It was unsettling.
“She’s bald and covered with scales,” Brand said. “You guys need better taste in women.”
“Says the man who’s moon-eyed over a woman old enough to be his mother,” said Bigsby.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Brand said loudly, “she’s the only woman in the world.”
“I’m not,” Gale called out.
SORROW WATCHED THE bustle of the docks from the porthole in the master cabin. She found it distasteful to be hiding, but there were simpler ways to contact Equity Tremblepoint that didn’t require her catching the attention of guards.
She’d had Jetsam hire a messenger to deliver a letter requesting that Tremblepoint come to the ship to verify the authenticity of an ancient manuscript. She’d thought of offering a fee for the service, but decided against it. A genuine scholar would be drawn by the sheer intellectual curiosity of reading a newly discovered manuscript.
Hours later, when the messenger reappeared at the gates and began to walk toward the docks alone, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. Where was Tremblepoint? Perhaps Jetsam had made a poor choice of a courier. Judging by his unruly hair and soiled clothing, the messenger was from a family of low character, if indeed he had a family at all.
Sorrow frowned as she felt the prejudices of her youth bubbling up inside her. Her father had been disdainful of the poor, viewing them as too slovenly and weak-minded to improve their lot. He’d believed a person’s station in life was determined solely by talent and ambition. Strip a wealthy man’s fortune away, and he would make another within the year. Perhaps there was a little truth in this, as she’d been without a coin to her name many times in her travels, but always seemed to have an easy enough time getting her hands on whatever funds she needed.
She held her breath as she listened to the conversation above deck.
“Why did you bring the letter back?” Jetsam asked.
“Sorry, sir,” the courier answered. “But Equity Tremblepoint has left the city. Just last week, in fact.”
“Where has he gone?”
“If you want to know, you have to pay me first.”
“You don’t get paid. You didn’t deliver the letter!”
“I ran five miles across the city. I deserve remuneration.”
“I bet you didn’t even go, you liar.”
Sorrow banged on the ceiling of the cabin. She shouted, “Just pay him so we can find out where Tremblepoint is now.”
She listened, but Jetsam was now talking so quietly she couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Five minutes later, there was a rap on the cabin door. She opened it and Jetsam handed her the letter.
“I was going to haggle to pay half to find out Tremblepoint’s new address before you butted in.”
“You were insulting him,” said Sorrow. “He would have left.”
“You don’t know a thing about haggling,” said Jetsam. “I’m a natural. I could have talked until he wound up paying me for the privilege of listening to the new address.”
Sorrow rolled her eyes.
“Anyway,” said Jetsam, “I’m told that Zetetic the Deceiver recently saved the world and has been rewarded with his own private island. He’s paying scholars to come live there so he can have sparkling dinner conversations.”
“Really?”
“The messenger told me Zetetic is bringing scholars to his island. I’m just guessing about the dinner part.”
Sorrow brought her fingernails to her lips, but caught herself before she chewed them. She’d not given a great deal of thought to Zetetic’s presence in the same painting as the Witchbreaker. Hearing he was involved with Tremblepoint, even tangentially, made her feel as if she was catching glimpses of larger forces at work. She was only looking for Tremblepoint because the Black Swan had told her she should. The Black Swan claimed to be a time traveler. Did she have something to do with the painting?
“I guess Zetetic has really earned the title of Deceiver,” she said. “If he’s claiming to have saved the world from Greatshadow, I h
eard the real story from Stagger and Infidel, and it was mostly their doing.”
Jetsam shook his head. “According to the kid, Zetetic put the sun back on course after it started slipping backward in the sky.”
“No, he didn’t!” said Sorrow. “That was me! And, you know, Infidel and Stagger.”
“Maybe you can explain things to the king and wind up with your own island fortress.”
Sorrow chuckled ruefully. “Did you learn where we can find Zetetic’s island?”
“Sure thing. It’s in the Spittles. That’s a string of tiny islands halfway between here and the Isle of Storm.”
“I know where they are.” She reached for her purse. “I’m going to need you to hire another messenger. We need to get word to Brand to see if we can take the Circus to—”
She never completed her thought. Sage shouted above, “All hands on deck! Release the moorings! Hurry!”
Jetsam went to the hatch and called out, “What’s the emergency?”
Gale looked into the hatch and said, “You weren’t ordered to ask questions, you were ordered to report to the deck.”
“Yes, ma,” Jetsam said, heading up the steps.
“Captain,” said Gale.
“Captain, Ma,” mumbled Jetsam as he flew up the stairs.
Sorrow started to follow, but had to slip back into her cabin to avoid Poppy and Cinnamon running past to report for duty. Once they passed, she started out again, only to pull back as Mako jumped down the steps into the hall, charging toward a door near the end.
“Rigger!” he shouted as he banged on the door. “Wake up!”
“What’s going on?” Sorrow asked.
“Don’t know yet,” said Mako. “But this port is the home base of Brightmoon’s navy. We knew the second we sailed into this bay that we might have to leave in a hurry.”
He pounded the door again, so hard that Sorrow wondered if it would come off its hinges.
A sleepy voice came from the other side. “Whassa...? Huh?”
“Get out of bed, you layabout!”
The door opened. Rigger was unclothed saved for a pair of briefs. Dark bags lined his eyes as he hoarsely protested, “It’s still light. I’m not on watch until sunset.”
