Flotsam

by R J Theodore

  “Same’s true for knives,” said Sophie, her chest heaving as she stood over the last man to fall. There was a dark-tinged slice in one of her satin sleeves, a light kiss from the machete that was now protruding from its owner’s chest.

  “Not these knives,” said Dug, and he absently squeezed the grips on his two blades like he might the shoulder of a friend. There wasn’t a drop of blood to be wiped off their lethal edges. The same could not be said for the corridor flooring beneath the three men who had danced with Wind Sabre’s first mate.

  A tiny bell rang as the door opened into the dimly lit shop, a cheerful sound that pretended the morning was normal and benign. The cacophony of Subrosa faded to a murmur inside the carefully kept shop.

  From a low display table in the center of the shop, polished brass and copper reflected the flickering of simple candelabras which swung in small circles with the vibrations of the city beyond the shop’s walls and ceiling. Lining the walls to either side, varnished boxes with framed paper labels were stacked in neat rows on shelves, giving the impression that this was more of an archive than a store. A waist-high glass cabinet stood just within the door, with a selection of hand-carved pipes and knife handles on its lowest two shelves, and a selection of jewelry, pocket watches, and small silver trinket boxes featured below the cabinet’s glass top.

  Beside the cabinet stood a tall, narrow time piece with complicated workings, pull chains and weights of hammered copper and pewter, and a pendulum shaped to look like a glow pumpkin. The back of the cabinet was painted black and shone with inlaid chips of quartz which twinkled like a field of stars. The day-night dial placed Peridot’s sun in the late morning position over Bone skies. The disk behind the sun’s movement piece was intricately etched, but from the door and without better lighting, Talis could not make out the details. A clock that fine was a rare sight, but she could look at it on her way out, after she’d gotten satisfaction from Jasper. In the form of explanation or, better, compensation.

  Talis shouted for the proprietor, louder than necessary. The space was not large and Jasper had keen hearing. She hardly cared. Her throat objected to the burst of sound she forced through it, but she enjoyed the way the rasping bark punctuated the quiet shopfront.

  She’d nearly decided to give Jasper the benefit of the doubt, but that party outside had changed her mind. Too many people knew about the ring. Too many people for Jasper not to have some responsibility in the matter. Either he’d badly misjudged someone, or he’d told someone. He owed Talis an explanation, either way.

  But there was no response to her shout. No shuffle in the back room to indicate that he’d heard her and was moving his enormous person toward the curtained door. She crossed to the shop counter and tapped a fingernail on the brass bell that hung over the well-polished wood. A clear, sonorous tone rang out. She shouted again, then winced as her throat made her regret it.

  Still nothing.

  She looked at Dug. If Jasper had gone out, there would be a clerk left in charge, or the door would have been secured. There was too much of value in his storerooms to leave unattended, parcels inbound and outbound, and none of them strictly legal.

  She glanced around the showroom, trying to measure for a sense of trouble. The floors were swept clean, the shelves without dust, and the glass cases free of fingerprints or the haze of neglect. Nothing was out of place. Except Jasper.

  Talis and Dug drew their weapons again.

  Dug lifted the hinged portion of the countertop and moved behind it. He used the point of one knife to push back the heavy curtain to the room beyond. All was dark.

  Talis had been in the private area of Jasper’s shop a handful of times, but only passing through on the way to his office. She felt the wall inside the doorframe for a switch but found none. A pull-chain then, perhaps.

  Sophie rescued them, striking one of her matches on the doorframe, cupping her hand around it to protect the tender flame until she could get through the door and raise it above her head.

  The tiny bit of fire could do little but cast dancing shadows about them, indicating only bouncing lumps of darkness or the glint off a metal or glass item. But Talis spotted the swaying shape of a pull-chain a few feet beyond Sophie and made for it, even when the match burned down and Sophie cursed on behalf of her singed fingertips. In the final two steps through darkness to where the pull-chain hung, Talis caught her shin on a step stool or some such she hadn’t noticed, but her hand found the chain and pulled.

  The room was bathed in red as fluorescent lights buzzed, strobed a few times, then held steady. They were not the room’s main lights, but a pair over the table that had been darkened with thick red film over the bulb housing.

  “Cheery,” commented Sophie. She struck another match and used it to light a cigarette. Its cherry glow was right at home in the red-lit space. She puffed out a cloud and the sharp tobacco and clove flavors hung in the still air.

  The lights weren’t the back room’s main lights, but meant for Jasper’s hobby. The man was fond of daguerreotype. On several occasions Talis brought him silver plate, amberlith, and chemical solutions from photographers in inner radii cities as a personal favor. But the red illumination, however innocent, made Talis’s skin prickle. She looked for, but failed to find, another light switch. The aisles of the stockroom were filled with shadows deeper than reason allowed for. Everything the color of blood.

  By the feeble light, they saw that the room was in disarray. Items tossed from shelves littered the floor. A chair was pushed up against one set of shelves. The step stool she’d knocked herself on was under the shelves on the other side of the main aisle. Items had been swept off the table and scattered. Even Jasper’s framed daguerreotypes were askew on the walls.

  The narrow door to his private office, its frame half as wide as a Breaker might comfortably fit through, was unlocked. Bad sign. Anything that could be locked, in Subrosa, generally was.

  “Sophie, bolt the front door.” Talis kept her voice low.

  Jasper probably had a rear exit. Probably, but she didn’t have the first clue where and she didn’t want them pinned down if more menace was on its way.

  Dug came up behind to cover her in the narrow doorway. She inhaled, held it, and pushed the door inward.

  It stopped after a few inches, blocked on the other side.

  She exchanged a look with Dug, then pushed harder. Something heavy slid on the floor within, but she gained the room.

  This time she found a pushbutton switch next to the doorframe and pressed it. She blinked for a moment against the brightness of standard lighting. She heard the hiss of Dug’s breath taken in through teeth, and squinted her eyes to see what he could.

  Jasper was dead, slumped against the door.

  His face was battered, his forearms bloodied. Defensive wounds. One of his silver-tipped tusks was broken, and the lip around it had bled. His eyes were still clear, though the sparkle of his humor was gone. The giant’s forehead sported the entry wound of the bullet that had killed him. His skin was still warm under Talis’s hand as she searched for his pulse.

  She remembered the missing bullet in the cylinder of one of her new guns.

  Her anger at Jasper was forgotten, and she felt shame flood in to replace it. The five men outside hadn’t come for her. A Breaker might be stronger than a horse, but they were passive. Defend themselves, sure, but not attack. Not even in return. Not even to protect what’s theirs. Five thugs with bats and knives were more than enough for that job. Breakers were ancient. Their population were the originals created by Helsim Breaker, gifted with the long life that made them so excruciatingly patient, and so far the only dead ones Talis knew of were ended by violence. That didn’t happen often. Shouldn’t need to happen, ever.

  “We could have stopped this.” She had trouble saying the words, and they came out in a croak that had nothing to do with the recent abuse to he
r throat.

  Dug did not argue, but put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She leaned her cheek against his forearm, closed her eyes, and felt the burning behind her lids that threatened tears. She’d been so ready to hang the blame for Hankirk’s appearance around Jasper’s large shoulders, but he was as thick in it as she was. Dug’s grip on her shoulder remained firm, and he gently pulled her backward toward the exit. Nothing left but to sort out those who had done this. The shame went red, forged into vengefulness.

  A small gasp sounded from behind them, as Sophie returned from securing the shop’s entrance. Her hands went to her mouth and her eyebrows arched high in surprise. She’d seen her fair share of bodies before, and had been responsible for half of them at least, but they’d all been Cutter folk and unremarkable. A living Breaker was a rare enough sight, let alone a dead one. And this one had always been kind to her.

  “I thought he took off,” she said. “A frightened Breaker would have been bad enough. It didn’t cross my mind that anyone would actually kill him.”

  Sophie’s emotions tipped the balance of her own, and Talis felt tears finally appear. She blinked them away. Tried to breathe deeply to steady herself, but the office smelled like faint musk, clove, and allspice. Like Jasper.

  “Do we search his office?”

  Sophie looked around the small room. It may have once been a broom closet. Or maybe it was just the size of the furniture, made by Jasper to his own dimensions, that dwarfed the small square space around them. There was barely room for anything but the desk, two chairs, and a built-in case of shelves. They were empty now, their contents spilled onto the floor. The desk drawers were pulled all the way out, on their sides. Papers, pens, and ink bottles were emptied out into the mess on the floor.

  Talis swallowed. Sniffed. Ran her palm over Jasper’s eyes to close them—for his size she had to do one at a time.

  “No point,” she said, standing. “Those stinking woodrots outside weren’t carrying anything but their weapons. We know what they were here for.”

  She patted the lump under her shirt where the ring nestled in its velvet bag. Beneath it, her heart beat against her ribcage.

  A side door to Jasper’s shop led out into Assessor’s Hall, which was little more than a dimly lit maze of pawn kiosks. The kiosks were little more than makeshift chicken coops stuffed to bursting with collateral and sale items and guarded by their attending shopkeepers. A brighter corridor opened up ahead, spanning two levels with catwalks that crossed and looped the space above their heads. Talis eyed the balcony, feeling like a fish in shallow water at the bottom of a barrel. Crowds pressed around them as they merged into the flow of traffic. She became hyper-aware of any movement in her purse, now perceptibly weighted by their attackers’ coins.

  “And now, Captain?” Dug asked it quietly, but she bristled that he had asked her at all. Here, in the open, on the promenades of Subrosa where everyone was listening for a hint at weakness. And he knew it. He wanted to know she had a plan, and that it was a good one. And he’d make her think hard about her answer before she spoke it.

  “Curse your hide, Dukkhat Kheri,” she hissed, using his full name for effect. She was surprised at the volume of her own voice. No heads had turned their way at the outburst, which pretty much guaranteed everyone was listening.

  Sophie certainly was, though she kept her mouth shut and watched the streets for ambush and mischief.

  That question had been bouncing around Talis’s own skull since they’d found Jasper. Sad as she was to see the gentle old dealer murdered on her account, it left her with that question echoing louder with each pulse of the headache gathering in her temples.

  She stopped short and turned to face them both. “You two head back to the ship,” she said.

  A purple-capped dandy walking behind them, who had been looking down at papers in his hands, ran up against Dug’s back. He looked up in surprise and irritation, opening his mouth to brandish insults at whatever lug had stopped in the middle of traffic. But upon observing the multitude of knives sheathed across Dug's back like rail ties, he closed his mouth with a snap and ducked away, losing himself in the crowd as quickly as possible.

  Sophie started to protest, but Talis held up a hand. Breathed deep and popped them a smile. Made sure it was broad enough to flash light off her gold canine.

  “I’m going to knock on a few doors and set up some appointments. See who’s around that we can deal with. You go back, give Tisker a break on watch. Both of you—four eyes, four ears. Make sure the gentlefolk of Subrosa don’t give us any more trouble than they’ve already done.”

  Dug hesitated. She hadn’t exactly answered his question. Because she didn’t have the answer he wanted. She’d pawn the ring if she had to, but she’d rather find a respectable Subrosan fence to get her what Jasper’s death had convinced her it was worth. With the Breaker gone, she had to go down her list of contacts here. See who was still around. See who might already have the wind up their backs about her blasted little cargo. Someone’s lips had been to the ears of more people than she cared for, and she was now convinced it hadn’t been Jasper’s. Which left someone still living out there, making trouble for her.

  She could fix that, if she could find them.

  Chapter 11

  The Docked Tail was as disreputable a place as any establishment in Subrosa that dared to call itself a restaurant. ‘Restaurant’—as though the food were not an afterthought to the watered-down ale served to sullen patrons at the long, ring-stained bar. One could, and did, count on poor service and little attention if they sat in the dimly lit booths along the far wall, across the expanse of wobbly-legged tables that customers ignored entirely. You either came for the drink and wallowed at the bar, or came for the relative privacy and wallowed in the shadows. You certainly did not come for the cuisine.

  The walk there had calmed her jangled nerves to some degree. She still felt the chill of horror at Jasper’s death, but her heartbeat steadied and her mind cleared a bit with each step. This was not, she told herself, entirely unexpected. All the islands had their industries. Subrosa’s primary export was trouble, and there was little reason to be as nonplussed by it as she’d allowed herself to become. Trouble was a long-standing partner of hers. It was not her master.

  Talis slid into one of the booths, opposite a lanky Cutter man with a too-well-considered goatee and mustache. He was dressed down in a blue twill cotton jacket, the primary feature of which was an oversized hood, which he now wore pushed back, freeing carefully groomed hair that fell in loose curls to his shoulders along with five of the smoothest prayerlocks Talis had ever seen. Fingerless kidskin gloves revealed a series of tattoos down each finger. Enough to show they were tattooed, not enough to see what the designs were. But Talis already knew.

  “I see you got your set finished, Talbot,” she said, signaling to the bartender to bring them a round.

  There was already a full mug of the pitifully pale ale in front of Talbot. The refill was a courtesy.

  He held up his hands between them and splayed the fingers, as if admiring the ink work through the gloves. He had invested a small fortune on the alchemical sigils that strategically marked the backs of his hands, down to just above the bed of each fingernail.

  “Aye, I did. Just got back yesterday, matter of fact. You would’ve missed me had you come any earlier, you know.”

  “Lucky me. You try them out yet?”

  Talbot wiggled his fingers, connecting first his thumb and forefinger, then thumb and middle, and so on to his pinky.

  “Aye, I gave it a go.”

  She raised her eyebrows as he raised the mug of ale to his lips to draw out his tale.

  “Hard to say, really,” he admitted, when he replaced the mug into its condensation ring on the discolored table. “When your fingers are as light as mine to start.”

  She laughed. “You were had.”r />
  His amiable smile soured at her jest. “I’ll cut that Rakkar ink-slinger’s throat if that’s the case.”

  “Try something tougher, then?” she suggested, not wanting to put his mood off before she got what she came for. “Maybe the dock officer’s safes?”

  “Nah, I’ve done them.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “You’re right, though. Need me a challenge to know properly. Wait until they’re right healed. Fingers swelled up like corpses under the needle, and they still sting.”

  She nodded, though the corner of her eye twitched in sympathy. “You’ll have plenty of chances, no doubt. Somehow folks keep walking around with heavy purses, however often you keep relieving them of the weight.”

  He grinned, crooked smile flashing white teeth. Drinking overpriced half-watered ale at least didn’t stain like the stout Talis would have preferred. Sparkling green emeralds winked in the centers of Talbot’s incisors, even in the low light. Talis knew he’d spent as much money on his looks as his tattoos. Everyone had their money pits, she figured, and couldn’t help but wonder if he’d skipped any necessary maintenance on his ship in pursuit of beauty.

  With Talbot’s mood restored and a fresh pair of ales delivered to the table, Talis leaned forward to get to business. The bar was quiet this morning and, with no music, she felt as though her voice carried farther than she’d like. Probably her nerves. But Subrosa was never what she’d call quiet. This afternoon it was eerily so.

  Talbot held up a hand before she could speak, though. His grin had lost some luster.

  “I know what you’re here to propose,” he said.

  He cast a glance around the barroom at the other patrons. One other booth, its occupant slumped and asleep. Three heavy-lidded and overweight men at the bar, noses inches from the tops of their steins. The bartender, studiously wiping glasses with a discolored cotton rag, eyes trained on his work. All inattentive demeanors either sincere or practiced.