Blood and Tempest

by Jon Skovron

  “Come now, you are the logical choice. You didn’t think I’d missed that, did you? I just needed to make sure I’d used up as much of your previous position with the biomancers as possible before I sent you on this new mission.”

  “So no one else has been looking for them,” Red said evenly.

  “Resources are limited,” she said primly. “No point in duplicating efforts.”

  Red sighed. “You’ve bested me again, my lady.”

  Her expression softened slightly and she patted his cheek. “If it makes you feel better, I once again had to expend genuine effort in it. Very rare for me.” Then the smile returned. “But perhaps this will make up for my callous manipulations.”

  She walked over to her desk and opened the larger bottom drawer. She pulled out a tightly wrapped leather bundle. She carefully unrolled it and pulled out a pair of shiny new revolvers and a leather belt with two holsters dyed a deep crimson.

  “My lady,” he said as he accepted the guns and holsters. “This is the finest gift I’ve ever received.”

  “I expect results, Red,” Merivale said. “A Vinchen and biomancer of our own to help in the coming conflict.”

  Red bowed deeply. “It will be both an honor and a pleasure, my Lady Hempist.”

  Merivale helped Red clean up a little, then they returned to the dinner. Red was cognizant that this might be his last meal among the nobility and ate nearly as much as Lord Weatherwight and the high steward combined. He and Merivale chatted with the lords and ladies as if they weren’t constantly expecting shouting soldiers and a pounding at the door. Thankfully, neither happened, and soon Merivale was able to shoo the other guests out of her apartments.

  Archlady Bashim was the last to leave, and just before the door closed, she gave Merivale and Red a speculative look, then a knowing smile.

  Once they were alone, Red said, “I do believe Archlady Bashim thinks we’re having a tryst.”

  “I hope it won’t sully your honor too much if I encourage that rumor,” said Merivale. “I doubt the biomancers will openly accuse you of anything, and love gone awry would be an excellent alibi for your sudden departure. You might even get to hold on to that lordship after all.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer it be restored to my cousin, Alash Havolon. Or better yet, give it to my aunt Minara.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Very well, Mr. Red. But I must say, you can be tediously altruistic at times.”

  Red strapped the belt and holstered guns to his waist, then examined himself in a mirror. It was a curious look with the guns and the jacket and cravat, but not necessarily bad. He wished he had his gloves, but going back to his apartments would probably be a death sentence.

  “Are you quite finished preening?” Merivale asked. “Just because the biomancers won’t accuse you publicly doesn’t mean they won’t send out search parties for you.”

  “How am I going to get past them?” asked Red. “They’re probably all over the city by now.”

  “I promised you safe passage,” said Merivale. “I didn’t say comfortable. Follow me.”

  Merivale led him out of her apartments and down the long hallway. The lift would likely be watched, so they took the stairs from the thirty-second floor all the way down to the second floor.

  Floors two through five were given over entirely to the kitchens, laundry, and other menial tasks required to run the palace. Generally, the only people who entered those floors were the people who worked there. Red was surprised at how confidently Merivale led him past massive tubs of soapy water filled with dirty clothes. It was as if she knew the layout of that floor intimately. Was there anything that woman didn’t know?

  Past the vats of laundry was a doorway that led outside to a wide balcony on the side of the mountain. Since it was only the second floor, they were still quite close to the courtyard that encircled the front half of the mountain, and a wide ramp connected the two. All around him on the balcony were row after row of clothing racks where laundry dried in the crisp evening air.

  “My lady, what brings you down here?” asked a cheerful older woman as she hung a blue silk gown on a rack.

  “Ah, Hester,” said Merivale, sweeping over to her with Red in tow. “I’m afraid I’ve been terribly indiscreet.”

  Hester sighed. “Again, my lady?”

  “Well, he is rather handsome,” said Merivale, indicating Red with a negligent wave of her hand.

  Hester eyed Red. “And a bit of a rascal by the looks of him.”

  “Seducing ugly, rich, old men is wearying work, Hester. A woman needs a break now and then.” Merivale’s eyes narrowed conspiratorially. “But I’m afraid Lord Weatherwight would be most distraught to find my little plaything still lounging about when he arrives at my chambers.”

  “The jealous type, is he?” asked Hester.

  “Please, Miss Hester,” said Red, looking as frightened and humble as he could manage. “Won’t you save a poor, bludgeon tom from the gallows?”

  Hester laughed. “This one’s full of balls and pricks,” she told Merivale. “But how can I say no? Don’t you worry, I’ll have him at the docks in time for the morning cargo ships to depart.”

  “My thanks, as always, Hester,” said Merivale. “And how does your daughter like working in the grand ballroom?”

  “It’s a damn sight better than the laundries, my lady, begging your pardon. I’m forever grateful to you for securing that job for her.”

  “Always happy to help a smart young woman find a better place,” said Merivale. She turned to Red. “I’m afraid I must be off, my darling. Hester will see you safely to the docks. Once there, look for the ship called the Harrowing Sky, where you will find Captain Yevish. Give him this paper.” She handed him a short note in her own handwriting. “That should see you safely on your way. I hope when you have made your fortune, we may meet again.”

  “I shall win the prize and return directly, my lady,” Red said as he bowed deeply.

  “See that you do.”

  He watched her return the way they’d come, weaving swiftly between the vats of laundry.

  “Alright, you leaky tom,” said Hester chidingly as she pulled him deeper into the forest of damp, hanging clothes. “She’s better than you deserve, I’m sure.”

  Red smiled. “You think so?”

  Hester led him to a ramp. There was a wagon at the bottom filled with large bins of clean soldier uniforms. “Lady Hempist is better than any man deserves.”

  “Maybe that’s her tragedy,” suggested Red.

  “It’s not for the likes of you or me to say.”

  Hester pointed to one of the laundry bins on the wagon. “In you go. I’ve got a schedule to keep. Cover yourself up until I tell you it’s safe to come out.”

  It was a long, bumpy ride to the docks at the bottom of the wagon. The piles of uniforms weren’t nearly as comfortable as Red had expected. He hadn’t realized there were so many decorative bits of metal threaded into them, and the faint sulfuric stench of gunpowder still clung to the fabric.

  They stopped at a few imperial garrisons along the way to drop off bundles of clean clothes. Red worried there wouldn’t be enough to cover him by the time they reached the docks, but Hester had brought along a large sailcloth tarp to cover him for the last leg of the trip. When they reached the dock garrison, the sun was just coming out, and he could make out faint shadows against the rising sun as Hester chided the soldiers with the same ornery concern she’d shown Merivale. Finally, they continued on to the docks.

  “Alright, you leaky tom, out with you,” she said from her seat at the front of the wagon.

  Red slipped out of the wagon, wincing at the new sun as he hurriedly put on his tinted glasses.

  “I wish there was some way I could repay you,” Red told the woman.

  Hester shook her head. “Nothing to repay.” Then she gave him a hard look. “Just make sure you do whatever Lady Hempist has set you out to do.”

  Apparently Hester hadn’t believe
d a word of their cover story. Rather than insult her further, he merely bowed as low as he had to Merivale. “You can be sure of it, Miss Hester.”

  “Get on with you, then.” She flicked the end of her reins at him, then at the horses. The wagon began its slow trip back to the palace.

  Red scanned the docks and soon found a large, clumsy three-masted cargo ship with Harrowing Sky painted across the stern. The crew were hustling to get the last of the cargo on board before the tide started to go out. Captain Yevish was easy enough to spot among them. Partly because he was the one barking orders, and partly because he was the tallest man Red had ever seen. He was even taller than Filler, although he wasn’t nearly as muscular.

  Thinking of Filler gave Red a sharp jolt of eagerness. He’d already decided that the first place to start his search for Hope and Brigga Lin would be New Laven. Someone there would have heard about where they were. And while he was there, he’d probably see some of the crew. Maybe even his oldest wag in the world, unless the salthead was still off keeping Hope out of trouble. No, that’s what he should be doing, Red told himself. Not waiting around for him to suddenly and unexpectedly show up. Red needed to steel himself for the possibility that none of the people he held closest would be there. But hopefully he could at least pick up a lead on where they were. Maybe from Old Yammy, or whoever was running the Circle now.

  “Captain Yevish!” he called to the tall man.

  The captain gave him a suspicious look. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was asked to give this to you.” Red held up the sheet of parchment with Merivale’s message.

  Yevish made his way slowly down the gangplank to the dock, barking a few more orders to his men as he went. He took the parchment from Red and squinted at it for a moment. Then he rolled his eyes.

  “Ever at the beck and call of Her Imperial Majesty, I suppose. It was one time I got caught with goods I shouldn’t have. And that conniving Hempist somehow turned it into a life of service to the throne.”

  Red grinned and offered his hand. “You and me both, my wag. I think we’ll get along just fine.”

  Yevish gripped his hand. “You drink? I could do with some drink and conversation on the voyage.”

  “Those are two of my specialities, Captain,” said Red.

  “Welcome aboard, then, Mister …” He looked at the parchment again. “Red?”

  “Red’ll do fine, Captain. A wag like me doesn’t go in for formalities. Especially after having to spend as much time at the palace as I have.”

  “Got any good stories?” asked Yevish as he led him back up the gangplank.

  “Captain, stories are what I’m best at.”

  The tall man smiled for the first time. “Well, now. I do like a good story.”

  A short time later, Red stood at the stern and watched Stonepeak recede into the distance. He’d spent more than a year on that island, and it saddened him to see it go. He was glad he’d at least said good-bye to Leston. And he felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t said anything to Nea. If Leston didn’t tell her, no doubt Merivale would make up something colorful.

  It occurred to him that he’d actually spent more time with those three people than he ever had with Hope. If he was being honest with himself, he was a little nervous about seeing her again. He had changed so much, and probably so had she. Would he still be sotted with her? And what would she think of him?

  He sighed and turned his back on Stonepeak. He would find out one way or the other, and soon. Then at least he’d know how it was.

  4

  Hope and Uter sailed west from Height of Lay back to Gull’s Cry. As Hope guided their small craft through the slate-gray waters, she watched the white-haired boy pretend that a small bit of rope was a snake. He hummed quietly to himself, punctuating the song occasionally with a playful hiss from his rope snake.

  They tied up at the rickety dock at Gull’s Cry and walked through the small village toward the elder’s hut. Uter walked beside her, holding on to her metal clamp. He had been fascinated by the clamp ever since he noticed it during their climb out of the valley. Later, he’d spent hours on the boat trying to understand its mechanics.

  Now he held on to it tightly as he stared at the clusters of squat huts that lined both sides of the dirt path.

  “So many people,” he whispered excitedly as he watched the hard-faced villagers that pretended not to notice the new arrivals. “Aren’t they amazing?”

  Hope smiled, wondering if he’d ever seen this many people before. “I suppose all people are amazing, when you think about it.”

  “Do you think they’ll be friends with us?”

  “Perhaps,” said Hope. “But first we must go and talk to their elder.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the polite thing to do, and because I think he may be able to help us understand where you come from.”

  “I already know where I come from,” Uter said boastfully.

  “Is that so?” Hope doubted his answer would be accurate, but she was curious what his perspective might be.

  “Yes.” Uter nodded. “I come from the land after death!”

  “That may be true,” Hope said carefully. “But you came from somewhere else before that.”

  “Did I?” He seemed thrilled by this idea, as if it was something he’d never considered before.

  When Maltch answered his door, he gave Hope an uneasy look. Then he noticed the boy, and his expression became panicked. He tried to close the door, but Hope held it open. He strained with it for a moment, then all the fight suddenly left him, and he let go.

  “May we come in?” asked Hope.

  He glared at her, then sighed and turned his back on her. “Might as well. It’s too late anyway.” He shuffled over to the table in the center of the room and sat down.

  As Hope walked into the hut, Uter scampered in ahead of her. She watched him move around the room, examining the contents of cupboards and pantries. Since he no longer had his sickle, she decided he wouldn’t do any lasting harm by poking around, and let him be.

  She sat down at the table across from Maltch. “There were no written records on Height of Lay. Nothing to be learned about the Jackal Lords or their relationship to the people of the Southern Isles. Only this boy.”

  “He is the relationship between the Jackal Lords and the people of the Isles.”

  “So you knew he’d be there?”

  “I never been to Height of Lay myself, so I didn’t know anything.”

  He watched the boy for a moment. Uter peered through the bottom of a glass bowl at them, his face oddly distorted by the convex shape.

  Maltch’s eyes remained on Uter as he said, “I never actually seen someone who’s been wighted before.”

  “He used that word, too,” said Hope. “What does ‘wighted’ mean?”

  Maltch looked back at her briefly. Then his eyes strayed to a nearby shelf, which had a sickle and mask exactly like the ones Hope had found in Shamka’s hut.

  “I understand your reluctance to speak,” Hope said quietly. “And I would rather not resort to violence. But understand, I am not leaving without answers.”

  He nodded wearily and rubbed his eyes. “All the islands of the south must pledge their allegiance to the Jackal Lords. They protect us, keep us safe. And in return, once every seven years, a child is chosen from among the islands. A little boy no older than two years. He is taken to Height of Lay and left there on the beach. It’s been like that for as long as anyone can remember. No one’s ever been sure what happens to these boys. Some say they’re sacrificed. Some say they’re trained as necromancers. And some say they’re wighted. I guess now I know which it is.”

  “But what is it?” pressed Hope.

  “The way my dad told me, when someone is wighted, they’re treated with all kinds of strange potions, medicines, and ointments. Things only necromancers know how to make. These things are poisonous, and they push the person to the very brink of death, where they s
uffer for days in more pain and torment than you or I could imagine. Most of them eventually die. Their bodies just can’t take the suffering and give out. But every once in a while, one of them comes back.”

  He watched as the boy pulled open a drawer filled with cookware and utensils, examining each one with fascination.

  “It’s said that those who come back are given the power to raise the dead with only a drop of their own blood. But they are marked with bone-white hair, and their minds are broken beyond repair.”

  “Is there any way to help him?” asked Hope.

  Anger flashed across the old man’s face. “You still don’t get it. He belongs to the Jackal Lords. A child that survives the wighting is a rare thing. They’ll be coming for him. And when they do, they’ll kill all of us. And if we’re very lucky, they’ll let us stay dead.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that,” said Hope. “They won’t be coming for him, because the Jackal Lords are all dead.”

  He leaned back in his chair and looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “The Jackal Lords don’t die. They are masters of death. It bends to their will!”

  “Even so,” Hope said. “I met Vikma Bruea, who claimed to be the last of the Jackal Lords, and I slew him. Since there was no one else on Height of Lay besides Uter, I can only surmise that he was telling the truth, and the Jackal Lords are no more.”

  Maltch looked stunned. “You … really killed a Jackal Lord?” He shook his head. “That’s not …” His face pinched with fear and he suddenly stood up, knocking his chair over. He backed across the room, his eyes locked on Hope. “Get out, you … blasphemer! You’ve doomed us all!”

  Hope stood up slowly. She kept her hand open in front of her to show she meant no harm, but she suspected it wouldn’t make much difference. “Calm down. Tell me how I have doomed us.”

  “The …” He looked so enraged now that he could hardly get the words out. He jabbed his finger off to one side. “The Northerners, you idiot! They’ll sweep down on us without mercy! It was only their fear of the Jackal Lords that kept them at bay!”