Flotsam

by R J Theodore

  “Seems to conveniently forget it whenever I gotta make a decision between keeping the engines polished or keeping us going.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Talis knew how inane they sounded. If she let the engines fail, she wasn’t keeping them going at all. Poor phrasing. Gods-rotted rum. Maybe she shouldn’t worry so much about restocking the treacherous amber liquid.

  She got up, pushed her chair back under the table, and stood with her hands on the back of it. Keeping her steady. Her head was starting to swim.

  “Not something you have to worry about today,” she said to Tisker. And to herself.

  He gave her a small smile. Nothing convincing, though, as he said goodnight and left her cabin.

  Chapter 9

  Subrosa was not a safe place.

  Forget for a moment the cutpurses, gangs, and dark alleys—even the questionable food. The black-market city itself was held together with little more than willpower, descending in hastily constructed layers from the underbelly of Rosa, the island proper.

  The proximity of Rosa to Bone skies at the seventy-third-degree border made it a convenient place to conduct trade between the two peoples. As a result, the population of Rosa had boomed. The original city had grown up, then out, and then finally over the cliffs and under. Once the undercity was formed, citizens of all five of Peridot’s races found their way there, settling into their own businesses for their own reasons. Cutter folk, no matter how prejudiced, made up the most populous customer base on the planet. And they wanted all sorts of goods and services.

  The first layer of Subrosa anchored to the rocks jutting out beneath the island, and each subsequent layer clung desperately to the one above. Cobbled together from whatever building material was available: corrugated metal, polyboard, concrete reinforced with metal mesh, wooden planks, old cargo crates, and other things less identifiable due to their age and condition. Materials were cannibalized from other structures when nothing new was available. Shops and offices grew like tumors, entrepreneurs always building new kiosks that blocked the flow of traffic and forced detours and reroutes. At every intersection, graffiti and handwritten signs were updated daily, attempting to lead customers along the best route to any location. Coded symbols and glyphs did the same for the subcity’s gangs. With the map’s ever-changing arrangement, the layers of paint and posted bills encroached more and more upon the already narrow and claustrophobic passages.

  The chaos became the spirit of the city. It was a haven for unsanctioned business in all its varying categories. Shops proffered a vast array of items with the potential to get their new owners in trouble. Assassins mingled with smugglers in the bars and brothels. Orphans and beggars worked for crime lords, or for merchants. Sometimes both. Anyone who would feed them more than they could steal for themselves (which they also continued to do). Talented buskers were forced to hone new skills to build up their worth in this place.

  And then there were the cutpurses, gangs, and dark alleys. Not to mention the questionable food.

  After mulling the decision into a spiral, Talis scraped the bottom of the ship’s coffers and paid extra for an enclosed docking berth. It would earn Wind Sabre unwanted attention from within the city. Only those who were worth a bounty or carrying a fortune bothered to pay the extra to have their presence at the docks hidden from those vessels circling outside. But she didn’t want their nose tied in and their tail-end exposed if The Serpent Rose made quick work of their repairs and caught up to them. Talis hoped the fact that she didn’t pay the optional bribe to the dock manager for his silence—sometimes silence was louder than rumors—would be enough to counter the news that a familiar ship had arrived seeking an uncharacteristic level of privacy.

  The arching frame of the dock’s outer gate slid past their lift balloon, and the yellow-green glow from the station’s interior lighting bathed them in a jaundiced hue that could make even a brand new ship look poorly maintained. The sounds and smells of Subrosa enveloped them. The lively pulse of drums and wailing from brass instruments played with more enthusiasm than skill clamored out from the restaurants that lined the docking levels. The breath of stale alcohol mingled with the aroma of fresh, hot anything and everything. The walls thrummed as thousands of feet moved along the many levels above and below, all sending their vibrations through the layers of the city. Dust and loose debris pattered down to bounce on the docks or fall past into the depths of the enclosed bay. Voices carried from every direction, a range of dialects arguing over prices, quality, schedules, or other contested terms. Dockside machinery complained of overuse with minimal maintenance as it loaded and unloaded cargo to slowly tow it through the crowds to its destination. Beneath that, the sound of the dock’s central furnace lungs, squeezed by regular pumps of steel bellows, was an ever-present pulse, sending puffs of hot air through sealed canvas tubes across the gantries at each occupied berth, keeping the lift balloons of transient ships inflated while they refueled or repaired. Grease, tar, and oil from the docking apparatus mingled with the smell of food. The latter was probably fried in something near the same as the former.

  Sophie waited by the railing while Tisker and the dock workers cooperated to secure Wind Sabre to their berth via windlass and bracers. She was dressed for the outing, following Talis’s example. A cropped long-sleeved jacket of blue and green satin displayed only a small expanse of skin above her halter-necked dark leather corset. Though the corset accentuated the line of her waist and darted toward the buckle on her belt, mostly its line drew the eye to the pair of mercyblades in metal clasps beneath her ribs. A pair of shotguns crossed Sophie’s shoulders. That was in addition to the two pistols at her hips, the brass-knuckled knife at her thigh, and three or four other weapons that Talis knew were hidden out of sight. She wore gold rings in her ears, a thick golden torque around her throat, and a gold chain with quartz and citrine beads looped between the toggles of her vest. All the gold played nicely off the bruise that sat darkly across her cheekbone. Just the right effect.

  In a city where many interactions happened without the benefit of introduction, visiting crews needed to communicate to Subrosans of every vocation that they were capable of handling themselves. It was a balance between dissuading thieves and instilling confidence in potential customers. To look both ready for a fight and worthy of the effort.

  The captain donned her weathered jacket, each scuff and patch a testament to a hardship she had walked away from. Beneath it, a simple three-button long-sleeve black cotton shirt. Under that, the ring’s pouch was tied to a leather thong around her neck and tucked into her undershirt, between her breasts where it would make no visible lump. Her boots were buckled over a pair of soft pants with reinforced knees and no shortage of pockets. Double gun holsters at her hips. Shoulder holster beneath the jacket. Knife sheathed in its case on the back of her belt. Tool wrist cuff on her left arm. Her hair was braided with strands of turquoise beads, a gift from Dug many years ago, exotic and rare among Cutters. She capped her prayerlocks in more beads of gold and brass and let them fall over her left shoulder. Beneath her belt, she wore a scarf of pale green silk, doubled around her waist to disguise the shape of her money belt. The scarf’s gold floss tassels brushed the backs of her knees.

  Dug, on the other hand, lost layers. He bared his tattooed chest and scarred back. A pair of loose twill cotton pants gave him complete range of movement, and he squared his shoulders under the familiar weight of a half dozen sheathed knives and daggers. He had washed up, and shaved his scalp higher on the sides, so only the very top of his head sprouted purple-black hair and feathers. The style lengthened the bone structure of his face, the pointed tips of his ears, and the angles of his cheek hollows. To increase the effect, gold powder highlighted his sharp features.

  It was yet to be decided whether Talis needed Jasper to see the jewelry or the weaponry. The swagger or the danger. The Breaker giant was unlike many of his kind in that he h
ad just enough greed to do well in business. Most Breakers who opened shops still suffered from philanthropic tendencies, which almost inevitably bankrupted them. Jasper instead focused the experience of his age to be a nearly infallible judge of character, and his innate craftsman’s eye to recognize the market values of items that passed through his shop. Add to that his massive size, accompanying stubbornness, and thick hide, and he had cut out quite a respectable place in Subrosa. One of the few thieves to be trusted, or Talis had liked to think.

  But now, what to think? Either he’d misjudged the agent who brought him the salvage contract or he had knowingly given Talis a job likely to turn sour. She didn’t like the implications either way.

  Talis, Sophie, and Dug left Wind Sabre in Tisker’s care. He was at home, though somewhat reluctantly, in Subrosa. He read the stale air currents like pheromones. Any anomalous behavior on the docks, and he’d spot it and be ready before it turned into something treacherous. Talis would have loved to have his instincts at her side, but she wanted Dug with her more. If the ship was to only have one crew member as guard, she wanted it to be Tisker. Sophie could hold her own in a fight but wasn’t suspicious enough to be left alone with the ship in a port where everyone—down to the dock manager—was going to steal from them at the first opportunity.

  There was no direct route to where they were going. Talis marched them through the corridors and access ways, up loosely bolted ladders from one level and up rickety spiral staircases on the next. Through a noisy bar that stank of body odor and grain alcohol and out the back, into a cluttered alley where uncollected garbage mixed with puddles of condensed moisture that dripped from the concrete walls. Sophie made a small noise as the smell of fermenting garbage reached her, and held her sleeve over her nose and mouth. Talis didn’t enjoy it any more than her mechanic did, but she refused to look like there was any Subrosan offense she couldn’t take in stride. Sophie picked up on the silent rebuke and dropped her hands back to rest on her pistols.

  Talis led them through another back door, into the red lighting and smoke-filled halls of a pleasure house. Simpering music oozed from a dark corner of the foyer, enhancing rather than covering the carnal noises coming from the curtained-off rooms along the hallways that led deeper into the establishment. Their noses were accosted with perfumes, oils, and incense. Talis was thankful that was all they could smell.

  They exited through the front door and found themselves in a wider corridor with high ceilings. The traffic was heavier here but there was room for it, and in the slightly more open space, Talis felt like she could breathe again. From somewhere the benign and inviting scent of fried dough reached her, and her stomach rumbled.

  A young child, bony and barely covered by rags, dashed out of the brothel behind them and ran ahead into the street. Talis pursed her lips. Likely the madam inside sent the street rat ahead to warn Jasper of their approach. That was to be expected in Subrosa, but today it added to the prickling sensation on her neck. She didn’t let it slow their steps, but she did cast a glance at Dug. He nodded slightly. She sensed Sophie move in closer behind her.

  The façade of Jasper’s shop was a masterpiece of Breaker artisan wood carving, crafted by the proprietor himself. Abstract twisting cords, trailing ivy, and gracefully sweeping reeds were a testament to the planning and care that had gone into the design. That the whole thing hadn’t been pried off by thieves and relocated to the illicit art markets was a testament to the respect Jasper commanded within the community. Then again, Talis noted that there were a few recent chisel marks around the frame of the door, bright pocks against the dark-stained wood, made since her last visit. Someone was always willing to try.

  A cart overloaded with rugs and pulled by two ailing goats forced them to pause before they could cross the street. A short, sour-faced man with a switch shouted obscenities at the animals, whacking their rumps to urge them along. The goats trundled on without seeming to pay him any mind.

  When that obstacle moved out of the way, five new ones stood between Talis’s group and the entrance to Jasper’s shop. Cutter men. Lean and mean, combat-ready.

  They were dressed well enough for the city in cotton and leather. Their clothing was free of any patches, or at least had been patched by someone who knew what they were doing. Three of the five brandished blunt weapons: a bat, an iron bar, and a well-notched fighting staff. The fourth had a large flat blade, designed for utility but certainly well suited to damaging flesh. The fifth, front and center of the group, wore a gray felt hat with a rounded crown and a golden grosgrain ribbon. He held a pair of barreled six-shot revolvers leveled at them. An expensive set of guns, well above the station he otherwise represented.

  Dug’s knives were in his hands with the barest twitch. Sophie tensed, elbows bent and hands neutral, ready to draw any of her weapons.

  “Trust you had a prosperous voyage, Captain,” said the man with the pair of sixes. His hungry gaze lingered on the pouches at her hips.

  Talis crossed one arm over her stomach and rested the other elbow on its hand, then made a show of examining her fingernails. “Sorry, boys. Haven’t got time for fun today.”

  He hadn’t addressed her by name. It was possible this robbery was of the standard Subrosan variety, innocent in its way. If so, the place and timing were an unholy coincidence.

  But he only brought four men with him. Dug had a reputation here, and not just for throwing punches in the bars. If they knew who they were fighting, if they were Subrosan natives, there would have been twice as many of them.

  “Market values being what they are,” the man said, pulling back the hammer on his guns, “you won’t find anyone willing to pay more than we’re offering for that little item.”

  Chapter 10

  Talis felt her eyelid twitch. They were here for the ring.

  She let her hand fall to rest on the butt of her holstered gun. Casual, largely posturing. The real threat was Dug. “And who can I thank for the courtesy?”

  The man chuckled. “Got so many friends in Subrosa, haven’t you?”

  Could be Talbot. Could be Cormack. Could be Ellanis. Perish the thought, it could be Jasper.

  “Always happy to make a few more.”

  Then she rushed him.

  When guns are leveled at someone’s head, generally the expected response is that the target will be subdued, act slowly, avoid any sudden movements. Those who do the leveling, as a result, tend to get a little overconfident. This man’s hands were relaxed, his eyes still scanning her person for the most likely hiding place of the trinket in question. Talis had wagered on his inattention. The hammers were cocked but, in response to her unexpected advance, the man actually brought his hands up a smidge. By the time he thought to pull the triggers, he was pointing high. And Talis had dropped low. She aimed a shoulder at the tender space beneath his sternum as she barreled him over.

  Dug and Sophie were right behind her, and Talis could hear the grunts of the other men as they clashed with her crew.

  She had enough concern left for Jasper to feel a brief twinge of remorse as the wood of his shopfront cracked under the impact of their two bodies. Then she was wrestling the man for his revolvers. They’d landed hard, him crumpled against the wall and her on top. She got her knee up and onto his right forearm. She worked the gun in that hand loose as he fought for breath against his malfunctioning diaphragm.

  He got off a second shot from the other gun, which went high over her shoulder again, but it was close enough to her ear that all sound was replaced with ringing. In the brief instant when light flared in her eyes, he got his empty right hand up and pushed it up under her jaw, forcing her head back.

  They were still a tangle of limbs, so aiming for his chest with the appropriated six-shooter was no issue, even as he switched his grip to her larynx. She had just inhaled, so she held her breath. The crushing pressure on her windpipe was temporary, she told herself.
No time for panic. He squeezed her throat, and she squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing.

  The hammer!

  She didn’t have a limb free to stop him from bringing up his left hand. She saw the grime on that thumb as it came up for the hammer. She involuntarily swallowed as he pressed the warm barrel against the soft flesh under her jaw.

  He squeezed her throat harder. Her lungs protested against the held breath. In slow motion she saw the cylinder of his gun rotate to a fresh chamber and the shadowy dimples in the points of the glistening copper-cased bullets. He’d spent a shot before she arrived. The barrel had three empty chambers, and she was reminded of the day-night dials in the workings of a clock face. His finger moved toward the trigger.

  The report from a single shot rang in her ears. Scorched cotton and gunpowder clawed at her throat, and she gratefully inhaled it. Wiped the blood spray on her hand across the man’s jacket. Blood soaked his shirt in a blossom that seeped outward from the bullet wound in his chest. Blood bubbled from his mouth and nose as he worked his jaw, forming a wordless final protest. His eyes were unfocused. She untangled her leg from his and stood.

  “A gun can always be taken and used against its owner,” Dug said from behind her. His distaste for the weapons was made clear at any opportunity.

  A glance over her shoulder showed Talis that he and Sophie had dispatched the other men neatly. There was barely any blood on her crew, and not much of it their own. Good. There would be fresh bruises, though. She swallowed hard against her battered throat.

  She claimed the other revolver from her would-be assassin. The custom holsters, too. Figured she’d earned them. She found his pouch of ammunition and took that, along with his purse. What honor she had was not wasted on such decisions.