by Jay Kristoff
“A girl like you has no place in this sort of business.”
“Believe me, Captain,” Mia replied. “You’ve never met a girl like me.”
Teardrinker cursed, but true to her word, the slaver made her way to the legionaries at the entrance. Both men nodded greetings, raised eyebrows at the scrawny slip shuffling along in chains beside her.
“You lost, Captain?” the big one asked.
“Pleasure pens are yonder,” the bigger one nodded to the bay.
Teardrinker sniffed hard, spat into the dirt. “Step aside, you stinking whoresons. I’ve a trueborn fighter to hock and no time to jaw unless you’re slinging coin.”
The bigger one blinked at Mia. “ . . . You plan on selling this slip to a sanguila?”
The legionaries burst into uproarious laughter, holding their sides like bad actors in a pantomime. Mia kept her head bowed as Teardrinker squared up to the first guard. Big as he was, the woman could look the man eye to eye.
“Have I ever sold chaff in here, Paulo?” She looked to the next man. “Don’t tell me my business, you cocksure wanker. I know it well, and it’s in the fucking Pit.”
The soldiers looked at each other, a little abashed. And with small shrugs, the pair stepped aside and let Teardrinker and Mia out into the stockyard. A greasy man with a wax tablet took Teardrinker’s name, a young boy with a crooked eye marked Mia’s arm and the back of her tunic with a number in blue paint. She watched him while he worked, wondering where he came from, how he’d come to be here. Staring at the single arkemical circle tattooed on his cheek.4
Taking Mia by the shackles, the boy started dragging her toward the other slaves. The girl resisted for a moment, looked Teardrinker in the eye.
“One more thing, Captain,” she said softly.
“O, aye?” The captain raised an eyebrow. “Owed so many favors, are you?”
“You owe me your life. I’d call that the Largest Kind of Favor There Is. One turn, I might call in that marker. And it’d be lovely if I didn’t have to ask you twice.”
Teardrinker breathed deep. “As I said, girl, I pay my debts.”
Satisfied, Mia let herself be dragged away, standing in the sweltering heat with the other human livestock. Looking around, she realized she was one of only two females, and the other woman was a Dweymeri with hands the size of dinner plates. She kept her eyes straight ahead, watching proceedings out in the Pit and avoiding the curious stares of her pen-mates.
It seemed a simple enough process. Fleshmongers like Teardrinker wandered the bleachers, spruiking their wares to the sanguila. And one at a time, their offerings were handed a wooden sword, and thrown face first into a fight for their lives.
There were half a dozen professional fighters at work in the Pit’s center, each a mountain of muscle and scars. When a new prospect was pushed into the ring, a random fighter would promptly heft a wooden sword and set about trying to bash their head in. Bets would be placed, the crowd would bay and howl, and if the competitor was still standing after a few minutes, the sanguila were given the opportunity to bid for their purchase. Those who fought with promise were snatched up. Those who failed were dragged away for resale somewhere else in the Hanging Garden.
Mia glanced at Sanguila Leonides. The man was considering matches the way spiders consider flies, but he never made a bid. The Lions of Leonides were the finest gladiatii in the Republic, and Leonides spent six months a year trawling coastal markets, hand-picking the finest. If Mia wanted to call him Domini, she’d need to impress.
Fortunately, one didn’t become a Blade of the Red Church by being a slouch with a sword.
The ledgerman called Mia’s number. The holding pen door opened. The crook-eyed boy unlocked her shackles, handed her a dented wooden gladius that she wouldn’t have used for firewood under normal circumstances. And without ceremony, Mia found herself shoved into the middle of the Pit.
Jeers rang across the stands, choking guffaws and fountains of abuse. The sight of the skinny, black-haired girl standing knock-kneed in the center of the ring didn’t seem to be impressing the plebs in the crowd, let alone the blood masters.
“Aa’s burning cock, is this a joke?” one yelled.
Spit and curses rained into the Pit, the various sanguila turning disinterested eyes to their ledgers—whatever this jest was, it was clear not a one of them found it amusing. One of the pit fighters raised an eyebrow at the ledgerman, who simply nodded. The man shrugged and hefted his wooden sword, striding toward Mia. He was a Dweymeri, broad as bridges, brown skin glistening with sweat.
“Hold still, lass,” he growled. “This won’t hurt long.”
Mia did as she was bid, standing motionless as the big man closed. But as the giant raised his blade to stove her skull in, the girl moved. Quick as shadows.
A sidestep, the blade whistling past her head. Mia cracked her wooden gladius down on the man’s wrist, shattering bone. Several sanguila turned to stare as the big man screamed. Mia kicked savagely at his knee, rewarded with a nauseating crunch as the joint bent entirely the wrong way. The big man dropped with a bellow, and with deliberate brutality, Mia slammed her wooden blade directly into his throat, smashing his larynx to sauce.
Red froth spattered the man’s lips as he turned astonished eyes to Mia. The girl slung her hair over her shoulder, whispering soft.
“Hear me, Niah,” she whispered. “Hear me, Mother. This flesh your feast. This blood your wine. This life, this end, my gift to you. Hold him close.”
And with a gurgle, the pit fighter toppled dead into the dirt.
Bewildered murmurs rippled among the crowd. Mia curtseyed to the sanguila, like a new dona at her debut ball. Then she turned to the next fighter in the row and leveled her wooden sword at his head.
“You’re next, prettyboy.”
The fighter (who was rather pretty) looked to his fellows, the corpse on the ground, and finally to the ledgerman. The greasy fellow glanced up at the sanguila, who were now staring at Mia intently. And turning back to the swordsman, he nodded.
The fighter stepped forward, Mia skipped up to meet him. Their match lasted less than ten seconds, ending with Mia’s bootprint embedded in the man’s crotch and her wooden sword shoved down his pretty throat, all the way to the hilt. The girl turned to the crowd and curtseyed again.
“A hundred priests,” came the call.
“One hundred and ten.”
Mia smiled behind her hair as sanguila began bidding. Within moments, her bid was two hundred silver coins—a decent sum by anyone’s measure. But as she looked up into the bleachers, she saw Leonides and Titus hadn’t uttered a word. Though the sanguila watched her intently, though Teardrinker was whispering in Titus’s ear and he was nodding slow, Leonides didn’t raise his voice to bid.
Time to stoke the flame.
Mia retrieved her wooden blade from the dead fighter’s throat, turned to the third and spoke loud enough for the bleachers to hear.
“You. Next.”
The big man looked at the two corpses at Mia’s feet.
“Fuck that,” he scoffed.
“Bring your friends.” Mia smiled at the fighters beside him. “I’ve always wanted to try three at once.”
The girl tossed her wooden sword onto the dirt.
“Or are you cowards all?”
The crowd hooted and jeered, and the fighters rankled. To be bested on their own soil was one thing, but to eat a plateful of shit from an unarmed girl half their size was another. With flashing eyes and swords raised, the men stepped out into the Pit.
With a dark smile, the girl stepped up to meet them.
1 A note for would-be members of the law enforcement community: this never works.
2 The history of the Hanging Gardens is drenched in blood. Founded as a trade city, it quickly became a hub of flesh commerce after the rise of the Itreyan kings. But the port was originally named Ur-Dasis, meaning “Walled City” in the tongue of old Ashkah, and it was only after a revolt dur
ing the reign of Francisco II that the city received its new moniker.With slave labor serving as the backbone of his kingdom, Francisco couldn’t afford any sort of rebellion. When a group of slaves revolted against their captors and seized Ur-Dasis, the king sent an entire legion under the infamous general Atticus Dio to quash the revolt. Though the besieged rebels fought bravely, they were ultimately starved out, agreeing to surrender if Atticus promised mercy. The general agreed, vowing that the rebels would only be returned to captivity.Predictably, Atticus didn’t keep his word. When the rebels laid down their arms, they were strung up from the city walls in their thousands as a warning to any who’d dare revolt in future. Some of the original iron gibbets still decorate the city, and rebellious slaves meet the same fate even now—caged upon the walls to die in the blazing suns.Francisco was so pleased with his general’s performance, he renamed Ur-Dasis the Hanging Gardens in his honor.Interestingly, Atticus himself was to lead a revolt against Francisco’s grandson, the boy king Francisco IV, nearly twenty years later. And when said revolt failed, the general was transported to Ashkah and hung upon the same walls he had liberated two decades earlier.History, gentlefriends, is not without a sense of irony.
3 Literally, “blood masters.” Keepers of human stables, who fight their stock in the various gladiatii arenas across the Republic.Successful sanguila have popularity to rival the most beloved Itreyan senator, though they lack the noble blood that would allow them to stand for political office.Most content themselves by crying themselves to sleep in the arms of beautiful concubines on vast piles of money.
4 Slavery in the Itreyan Republic is a highly codified affair, with an army of administratii devoted to overseeing it. Slaves are broken into three main categories, and branded with an arkemical symbol on their cheek to indicate their standing.Slaves with one circle are the rank and file: chattel who serve as housebodies, laborers, brothel fodder, and the like. Two circles denote a person trained in military matters: gladiatii, houseguards, and members of the Itreyan slave legion—the infamous Bloody Thirteenth. Folk marked with three circles are the rarest and most valuable, their brand indicating they’re possessed of an education or some exceptional skill; scribes, musicians, majordomo, and some highly prized courtesans.And if you’re wondering why skilled prostitutes are so valued in the Republic, gentlefriends, you’ve obviously never spent the night with a skilled prostitute.
4: offering
“Maw’s teeth, are we going to be here ’til truelight?” Mia snarled.
Pietro raised an eyebrow, poured another measure of goldwine onto her bloody shoulder. Mia winced in pain, took a drag of her cigarillo with a shaking hand. She was sat on a low stone bench, Pietro behind her, swathed in his customary black robes. The Hand was busy sewing up the bloody gouge in her shoulder, and he’d padded a wad of gauze about her backside, soaking through with red.
The chamber was sparse, dark stone walls and dim arkemical globes. Like most rooms in the Galante Chapel, it was perfumed with the faint stench of shit. The servants of Our Lady of Blessed Murder here in the Cityport of Churches1 had built their hideaway among the vast network of sewers beneath Galante’s skin, and it was hard to escape the smell. In the eight months she’d served here, Mia had become accustomed to it, but as a preference spent as little time down here as possible. Unless she needed stitching up or resupply, she really only visited when she needed to speak to—
“Well, bugger me all the way backwards,” said a familiar voice. “Look what the shadowcat dragged in.”
Mia looked up, saw a woman standing in the doorway, dressed in leather britches, long boots and a black velvet shirt. She was finger-thin, light brown hair cut in a distinctly masculine style, dark shadows under her eyes. She walked with a singular swagger, and wore more knives than anyone in her right mind would know what to do with.
“Bishop Tenhands,” Mia said, inclining her head. “I’d stand and bow, but the crossbow bolt in my backside isn’t too agreeable.”
“An interesting nevernight, then,” the woman smirked.
“Some coul—ow, fuck!” Mia glared over her shoulder again. “’Byss and blood, Pietro, are you stitching me up or sewing a dress?”
“All right, all right, bugger off,” Tenhands told the beleaguered surgeon. “I’ll finish her up. I’d like a word with our Blade alone.”
“My Bishop,” Pietro nodded, slapping a bundle of gauze none too gently on Mia’s bleeding shoulder and leaving the room. Tenhands sauntered around behind Mia, pulled away the bandage, the girl wincing as the blood stuck it to her skin.
Tenhands was a figure of infamy in Red Church lore, a long-serving Blade of the Mother with near twenty sanctified kills to her name. Old Mercurio had told Mia tales about the woman when she was younger, and Mia had grown up as something of an admirer.2 Serving in the Cityport of Churches, she’d learned its bishop wasn’t much for civility. Or frivolity. But she liked results, so fortunately, Tenhands liked her.
“This looks like it hurts,” Tenhands muttered, eyeing the horrid wound across Mia’s back and shoulder.
“It’s far from ticklish.”
The bishop took up the bone needle, began sewing Mia’s wound with steady fingers. “I trust the pain was worth it?”
Mia winced, taking a long drag of her clove cigarillo. “Senator Aurelius’s son is being fitted for his death masque as we speak.”
“You used the lament?”
Mia nodded. “On the lips, just as you suggested.”
“I shan’t ask how you got access to the young don’s mouth, then.”
“Never kiss and tell.”
“And where’s young Dove?”
“Sadly,” Mia sighed, “my young Hand won’t be back for supper. Ever.”
“Shame, that.”
“He was never the sharpest blade on the racks, Bishop.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Tenhands dug the needle in for another stitch. “Since the Järnheims gutted us, quality around here is in short supply. Present company excepted, of course.”
Mia chewed her lip and sighed. Bishop Tenhands spoke truth—good Hands and Blades were hard to find in the Red Church these turns. Galante was never a glamorous appointment, and most of the servants of Niah posted here dreamed of grander things. But matters were worse than ever since the Luminatii attack.
Eight months on, Our Lady of Blessed Murder’s congregation was still bleeding from the blow Ashlinn Järnheim and her brother had inflicted at the behest of their father. It wasn’t simply Lord Cassius’s murder that had the Church reeling, although the loss of the Black Prince would have been grievous enough. But Torvar Järnheim hadn’t merely had his children serve up the Ministry to the Luminatii—the old assassin had also revealed the location of every Red Church chapel in the Republic.
And so, while Justicus Remus was invading the Quiet Mountain, the Luminatii had launched simultaneous assaults across greater Itreya. The chapels in Dweym and Galante remained unscathed.3 But every other chapel had been destroyed.
Worse, Torvar had supplied names. Aliases. Last known residences. Between Torvar’s treachery and the Luminatii attacks, Our Lady of Blessed Murder had lost near three-quarters of her assassins in a single nevernight.
As the bishop said, the Red Church had been gutted; that was probably the only reason a Blade as young as Mia was even entrusted with offerings like the one on Gaius Aurelius. In the eight months since her posting to Galante, she’d ended three men and one woman in the Black Mother’s name. Most Blades her age would be lucky to have been sent on their first kill.
Mia was thankful for the chance to show her worth. But problem was, her list of throats to slit was growing longer, not shorter. She’d killed Justicus Remus, but Consul Scaeva and Grand Cardinal Duomo still lived. Her familia were still unavenged. And with Tric’s murder at Ashlinn’s hands during the Luminatii attack, she now had one more windpipe to open before her vengeance was done.
And stuck here in Galante, she was no closer to any of t
hem.
Mia clenched her jaw as the bishop continued to stitch her, thinking about . . . that . . . thing that had accosted her in the necropolis. Truth was, it had saved her life. Her near-death should have left her shaken, but as ever, her passengers ate any sense of fear inside her, twice as swift now as when she carried Mister Kindly alone. She felt nothing close to afraid. And so, she was only left with questions.
What was it?
What did it want with her?
“The Crown of the Moon”?
She’d seen that particular phrase before, buried in the pages of—
“Heard about some trouble with Aurelius’s guards,” Tenhands remarked, ceasing her needlework long enough to take a pull of the medicinal goldwine.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Mia replied.
“You normally operate with a little more discretion.”
“Beg pardon, Bishop, but you didn’t ask for discretion,” Mia said, faint annoyance in her voice. “You asked for a dead senator’s son.”
“One doesn’t necessarily preclude the other.”
“But given the choice, which would you rather?”
Mia hissed as the bishop poured more alcohol onto her now-closed wound, bound it in long strips of gauze.
“I like you, Corvere,” Tenhands said. “You remind me of me in my younger turns. More balls than most men I’ve ever met. And you get your killing done, so you’ve earned a little ego. But word to the wise: you’d best leave that lip of yours behind when you head back to the Mountain. The Ministry aren’t as fond of you as I.”
“And why would I head back to the Mountain? I’m posted to—”
“Speaker Adonai sent a blood missive just now,” Tenhands interjected. “You’ve been recalled by the Ministry.”
Mia’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Goosebumps on her skin.
“ . . . Why?” she asked.
Tenhands shrugged. “All I know is they’re leaving me a killer down, and a pile of throats that need slitting. If I could use Blades on more than one offering at a time, that’d be something. But that’d breach the Promise.4 So when you see that bastard Solis, be a love and knee him in the codpiece for me, will you?”
