Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  “I’m a medico. Healing cyclers and melders is my specialty.” Stomir hovered over Winslow, peering into his ears, inspecting arms and legs that were more bone than flesh, lifting his eyelids, and even checking his mouth. He grimaced several times and flicked his thumb across his nose. “You lack the experience to see it yet, but the flow of soul between his vital points has been disrupted. Whatever he did to escape, he opened them too wide, made too much of his essence flow out. He did not retain enough soul for his body to heal itself.”

  Keedar shivered, recollections of his encounter with the bronze-scaled creature in the forest coming to mind. If Winslow had fought the beast, Keedar understood the desperation that might have driven him. Focusing, Keedar tried to make out the flow of soul around Winslow or to discern Winslow’s vital points. He achieved neither. “Won’t rest fix him?” he asked.

  “Yes and no.” Stomir straightened. “A wound is often best dealt with when it is fresh, so that it can heal properly. Like a broken bone for example. A chirurgeon sets it to make certain it knits itself back in the right place. The same with soul. Winslow needs an influx of soul as strong as or stronger than his own. It will force the vital points to close, not completely, but to where they manage themselves as they normally do. Then the act of rest and eating will have their proper effect. Bring a wash basin.” Stomir began to remove the rags Winslow wore. “It’s always best to work on a clean body.”

  Keedar left and returned shortly after with a ceramic pail filled with water from the trough. He also had a thick cloth and a length of the finger-thick Koeleaf with which they bathed. The minty, slimy substance in the Koe’s middle was refreshing, and always cleared his head.

  “Clean him up.” Stomir indicated the bed with a jab of his thumb. “I’ll see about food.”

  Keedar glanced at Winslow and the dark gunk in his hair and winced. “But you said bring the basin.”

  “Yes, for you to clean him up. If there’s to be a nursemaid, you inherited the job.”

  With a groan, Keedar made his way to the bed, nose upturned at the task before him.

  “Soup,” Stomir said from the doorway, “I’ll get some going. He’ll need plenty of fluids to rebuild his strength. And solid food, but we’ll have to crush it first to make it easier to swallow.”

  “Keshka said everything I needed would be in the kitchen cupboards, above the stove.” Keedar dipped the cloth in the water, squeezed a bit of the clear substance from the Koe onto it, and began to rub gingerly at Winslow’s chest.

  “Put your back into,” Stomir said with a chuckle and disappeared into the adjoining room.

  Bathing Winslow took three leaves and five trips to refill the pail. Keedar tried not to think of the brown residue that floated in the water. To combat the stench he’d smeared a bit of the leaf’s slime under his nose. When he completed the task Keedar dried Winslow and covered him with blankets. Not once had his brother shown any sign of consciousness.

  When Keedar entered the kitchen, Stomir was humming to himself, hovering over the stove. Steam rose, filling the air with spices. The man no longer wore his cloak. Keedar found it hanging over the back of a chair, appearing like any other length of cloth. He returned his attention to Stomir.

  The medico was of a height to match Winslow, which made him a few inches over six feet. His loose-fitting garb did little to hide his lithe form. Even cooking, he moved with grace, his boots not once scraping the wooden floor.

  “Where are you from?” Keedar asked. “You could pass for Darshanese or Farish Islander, but unless I miss my mark, that hooked nose of yours isn’t natural, which rules out Darshan. You also lack Islander tattoos unless you’re one of their exiles, which I doubt since there’s no hint of their accent in you.”

  “No tattoos,” Stomir said. “And that’s good observation on your part. I could simply be Kasinian.”

  “You could fit in among the dregs, I suppose,” Keedar mused, attention drawn to Stomir’s bent nose. “But then again, for a person like myself, one who has an eye for people, the way you move speaks of a better upbringing.”

  “I’m Kheridisian.”

  “Ah.” Keedar paused for a moment, the familiarity of Stomir’s voice eating at him. However, the few Kheridisians he met previously had all been women, and each slurred when they spoke Kasinian. Stomir’s speech was flawless. “Do I—Have we …” He stopped himself. He couldn’t have met Stomir. Kheridisian males were outlawed from Kasinia on penalty of death.

  “That day in the Smear.” Stomir stopped stirring the soup and took a sip. “I saved you, Winslow, and the other one.”

  “The man in the blue cloak!” Keedar exclaimed. Stomir nodded once. After a quick glance at the medico’s cloak, Keedar asked, “How does it extend and move like it does?”

  “It’s Alchemy, Magnification, and Casting rolled into one.”

  “You’re a Philodar?” Keedar asked with a frown.

  “I’m a little more than that, actually. I just mentioned three types of melding I used, but I did not say I was limited to only those three. Anyway, to answer your question, through magnification I increase the length, strength, and flexibility of my cloak; I attach a part of my soul to it through my Alchemist abilities; and lastly, I can apply a combination of elements to it.” Stomir smiled wistfully. “It comes in quite handy when I wish to scare the Dominion out of someone.”

  Keedar chuckled. “Thanks again for the help.”

  “It was nothing.” Stomir returned to his soup, adding ingredients stacked on the table near the stove.

  Keedar frowned. Soul spilled in copious amounts from a glass jar filled with red, viscous liquid. He recoiled, consumed by sudden memories of Succession Day and the auction in the secret chambers under Ainslen’s mansion. “Wh-What is that?”

  Stomir picked up a cover, peered at a label, and said, “Keshka’s blood.”

  “What?”

  “Keshka’s blood.”

  “Why would you … why …” Keedar couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

  “Your brother needs soul. This is some of the most potent I’ve come across in years.” Stomir scooped out a spoonful and dropped it in the soup. “Think of it as you would a blood transfusion. Sometimes they’re needed to save a man’s life or can be used to transfer soul, making the receiver a bit stronger.

  “However, in the case of those like us, we’re normally poisonous to our own. Winslow and you are fortunate not to have completed your full transformation, making you both viable for a transfer such as this.”

  “But—”

  “There are no buts. We do as needed to survive.”

  Speechless, Keedar could only watch as Stomir finished the soup and put out the fire in the chamber beneath. Stomir poured the steaming food into a bowl.

  “Here, feed your brother,” the medico said.

  Keedar cringed. “I can’t, not with that.”

  “It must have hurt Keshka greatly to part with this much of his soul. You can either feed it to Winslow or watch him become an invalid or worse. Your choice.” Stomir placed the bowl on the counter, picked up his cloak, and fastened it with a Shipman’s clasp under his neck. “I’ll go snag us a deer or a few rabbits and then keep watch.” He headed outside.

  For a long time Keedar sat, staring at the steaming bowl and the glass jar. He suppressed the need to retch. When he finally stood and picked up the soup, the last bit of the conversation with Stomir repeated. As terrible as feeding the meal to Winslow seemed, as unconscionable as Keshka’s departure had felt, to know the man had thought far enough ahead to prepare for Winslow’s possible injuries, and had suffered greatly in the process, made Keedar regard him in a different light.

  15

  Wenches and Blades

  Thar slapped the swarthy Darshanese bruiser on the back. Corbant’s hooked no
se and bushy eyebrows gave him the appearance of a hawk, an old grizzled one with silver sprinkles in his beard and mustache.

  “What’s new, Corbie?” Thar motioned to the barkeep. “Two cups of mesqa, Marin. The good, clear stuff.”

  “Greetings, Keshka. Damn Farish Islanders causing trouble is what,” Corbant grumbled. “Don’t even know why the king gave ‘em leave to come to Kasandar again. Nothing good will come of it, I tell ya.” Corbant glared at a group of the tattooed men who entered the tavern.

  Almost any Darshanese would repeat Corbie’s sentiments. The two kingdoms no longer warred, but competition was fierce among them for the most lucrative waters, sometimes resulting in small skirmishes between ships. Laughing amongst themselves, the Islanders walked with the swagger of men who had coin to spend. Their cloaks said as much too. They were made of lida hide, the mottled tan, deep brown, and black colors giving them away. Hunting the giant sea worms of the same name had made many a Farish Islander famous and rich. Thar suppressed a shiver at the memory of seeing one of the lidas coiled around several ships in his flotilla during King Tolquan’s failed western expedition.

  “With all the business their seamen bring, it can’t be half bad,” Thar said.

  “I say send them back where they belong. They’re spies for the west, mark my words. Can’t be trusted, just ask any Darshanese and he’ll tell ya like it is. ”

  “Your drinks.” Marin placed the two cups between Thar and Corbant.

  “Thank you.” Thar slid five copper bits across the counter. He downed his mesqa in two gulps and asked for two more, grimacing as a sensation like liquid fire sped down his gullet into his stomach. Corbie finished his in one.

  Smoke hung thick in the Cask and Cork: the sickly sweet scent of Bloodleaf and the minty freshness of Calum powder. Both had become popular over the last few decades. In the back, near the tables, a guiser spun a tale of the Crystal Skies and Ilsindin, the last Dracodar king. Raucous laughter erupted as the man detailed Ilsindin’s stunted seed and how Cortens Kasandar had chopped off the king’s balls. Serving girls and courtesans drifted among the patrons, the former in dresses with aprons, trays held high, the latter with as little clothes as the weather allowed. Despite the roaring hearth winter’s breath still chilled the tavern. Thar sat back, relishing the entertainment, and made certain to keep the supply of drinks flowing. They’d spent the better part of two hours drinking and catching up on recent events when the Winds of Time gonged for midnight.

  “So Corbie, why are you bruising down here at the Cork? I thought the Myth and the Maiden hired you to keep their Kheridisian wenches in check?”

  “Watch yer mouth,” Corbie admonished after his fifth cup of mesqa. Thar peered over his own nose before giving up on seeing his mouth. Even a mere glimpse of his top lip proved impossible. “Them Kheridisians are the best ladies in all the River Quarter, in all Kasandar, in fact. Always satisfy their man, even when they beat them a little.”

  “A little?” Thar chuckled. Despite his sarcasm, he had enjoyed the pleasure of the big-boned, voluptuous women a time or three. It was amazing how pain enhanced certain acts.

  “Too bad most of them fled to Melanil after Succession Day,” Corbie said with a wistful shake of his head. “I don’t blame them either, or any of the other peoples who did the same, what with all the fighting that’s started since. Bloody Empire War all over again same as the days of Hemene. Sooner or later there won’t be anyone left. Anyways, I’m here because there’s been trouble.”

  “Trouble the watchmen can’t sort?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So what’s your part in it?”

  “I’m here to watch the door.”

  Frowning, Thar leaned forward and stared at the thick oak door. He remained that way for a good few minutes without speaking.

  “What ya doing?” Corbie asked.

  “Same as you, watching the door. There must be something special to see if I stare at it long enough. Who knows?” Thar shrugged. “It might dance for us.”

  Corbie’s face contorted and he looked from Thar to the door and back again. Eventually he shook his head. Seeing the man’s confusion made it harder for Thar to hold in his laughter. Marin must have heard because he had the back of one hand to his mouth, hiding a wide grin. Thar winked at the proprietor and ordered more mesqa.

  When the drinks came, Corbie leaned over and said, “It’s Felius Carin.”

  “The Minstrel Blade?”

  “Pipe down, ya fool.” The big man peered around.

  “Sorry.” Thar lowered his voice. “So what’s this about Felius?”

  “The king dismissed him from his service, took his pin.”

  Thar’s eyes widened, and although he knew the implications he couldn’t help but to ask, “You mean he’s no longer a Blade.” Corbie nodded. “But that’s not possible. Being a Blade isn’t just about the title or the pin. It’s who you are. The king can’t possibly take that from him.”

  “Well, tell that to Felius. With the way he’s been treating the taverns in the Quarter lately, particularly this one, he seems convinced of what the king did. He takes out his anger on the girls, and the patrons too if they get in the way. It’s gotten so bad that the place empties when he shows up.” Corbie downed another cup and his words did not so much as slur.

  Thar’s head was feeling quite large since the second cup. The man could drink. Thar had to give him that much. “What made the king do it?”

  “Ya haven’t heard? Where ya been? Hiding in a cave?” Corbie ignored Thar’s blank stare. “Rumor has it that Blades been disappearing. And then someone tried to kill Ainslen. It was Felius’ job to solve the mystery of the missing Blades and capture the escaped assassin. He failed. I heard he failed in the Parmien too, when he went after some guild leaders on Succession Day. Doesn’t do a man well to have the king mad at him, even if he’s a Blade. Ruthless bastard, he is.” None of it was news to Thar, but he still allowed himself the open-mouthed expression of shock, which got a nod from Corbie. “That’s how I felt. And because of Felius’ issues, I get to deal with this.” The bruiser gestured to the tavern’s smoky interior.

  “What’s House Jarina doing about it? Or any of the Ten Hills for that matter?” As far as Thar knew, Jarina Hill still owned the rights to the brothels throughout the Empire. “With Cardinton gone, most likely dead, surely one of them has taken over ownership of House Jarina’s properties.”

  “Jarina Hill belongs to Shaz now, Ainslen’s pet Marishman, the one with the funny eye and the face that looks like someone tried to cook him. Used to be a member of the Shaded Snakes, or so I heard.” Corbie hawked and spat. “Blasted spies.”

  Thar remembered Shaz. He’d warned Delisar about the man, but considering who Shaz’s father had been, they’d let him into the Consortium. Only to have him betray them later in Shaz’s need for revenge against anyone who had not helped his father. At least Shaz hadn’t discovered the importance of Jarina Hill’s holdings, as evidenced by Cardington’s ability to still pass orders to the courtesans. “Then what’s this Count Shaz’s position on the whole thing?”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  Puzzled, Thar narrowed his eyes. “We?” He studied the tavern’s patrons, this time really looking at the men and women. After a moment he could tell them apart from the others, those who didn’t belong. A couple whose laughter was a bit too strained. In one corner sat a pale-skinned Kasinian, dressed in gold embroidered linen, who would fit right in with the nobles along Walker’s Row but not here in the River Quarter’s middle class. At one of the tables along the wall a man leaned forward to place his lips on the slim wooden tube of a Calum pipe, the black powder turned to tar bubbling in the bell-shaped glass base. Not once did he suck in the smoke. They all had sintu engaged, but it was simply the cycle, not part of a meld. That alone revealed mu
ch about them.

  “Cyclers? You don’t stand a chance,” Thar said, “not against a Blade … especially not the Minstrel Blade. Any fight will be over before it really begins.”

  “We did well enough on Succession Day,” Corbant replied acidly.

  Thar knew his friend didn’t believe his own words. “You did well enough against boys raised to Blades when they didn’t deserve it. What made you agree to this folly?”

  “Ten silver monarchs a piece.”

  Thar whistled. “What does this Shaz expect you to do? Kill him?”

  “Nothing so drastic. We just get him to leave, not make a mess of the Cork or the girls.”

  “Seeing as we’re friends, and I’d hate to see a friend of mine get hurt, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Thar leaned in. “Felius has a thing for Thelusian girls, the darker the better. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “He does?” Corbie asked, bushy brows furrowing.

  “I came across him a few times at the Wild Rapids, heard him bragging about two of them that put him to sleep.”

  “Maybe we can find one or two here willing to please him.” Corbie’s eyes shifted side to side as he perused the folks in the tavern. Thar followed his gaze.

  “Hazline shines his luck on us,” Thar exclaimed. “I think I see the very same two.” He held up his cup in the direction of the women, their skins like silky obsidian, hair down to their necks, curves enough to make a man wince and whisper his amazement.

  “Neseny and Senebnay,” Corbie said with an appreciative nod. “Any man would get worn out dealing with those two. But they’re already expensive. Getting them to stay for Felius will be even more. I don’t have that kind of coin to spare.”

  “Fortunately, I do.” Thar passed Corbie two silver monarchs. The bruiser’s eyes bulged. “Anything to save a friend’s life.” He clapped Corbie on the back.

  Corbie pushed up from the stool and weaved through the crowd to the two courtesans who were having a laugh with a Farish Islander. One glare from the bruiser and the Islander scooted away. A few words, the exchange of coins, and the women gave Corbie a kiss on each cheek. When he turned to walk away, one of them squeezed his bottom. Red-faced and grinning, the man made his way back. Thar raised his glass to the two women and received smiles.