The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

Then with a speed that left her breathless, spines erupted from the eyes. They launched like porcupine quills, ratcheting hard against the black protective clothing. The knacker yelled and jerked as several found the flesh of his arm, exposed in the struggle. Instantly the spines drilled into his muscle. He swore, plucking at them with his free hand, still holding tight to the creature’s stubby tail with the other. As fast as the spines had erupted, now long pointed tongues wriggled out in their place. They flickered in the air as if seeking.

  Lucy could see the moment they honed in on the bloody arm of the knacker. The creature lunged and she almost lost her grip on its leg. Or arm—whatever it was. She saw the tips of several tongues lap at the free-flowing blood. The eyes all spasmed wide and then filled with a brilliant orange color that seemed to glow in the storm gloom. Simultaneously the movement inside turned frenzied. The body of the creature swelled, its skin stretching like a bellied sail.

  Panic seized Lucy as the bloated beast wrenched harder, its strength seeming to double. She yanked it toward the mouth of the cask. The knacker stepped sideways so that he faced Lucy with the twisting creature between them, and gave a strong push. The sylveth spawn had grown nearly larger than the cask. They battered it with the flats of their hands until they forced it inside. The lid snapped shut and Lucy staggered backward, relief coursing through her. The knacker dropped to his knees, clutching his arm. The spines of the creature had nearly disappeared into his flesh, which was turning purple and black.

  Suddenly Jordan and Marten were there. Jordan grasped the wounded man under the arms and dragged him back toward the shed row. Marten took the cask from Lucy and stood it with the other full containers before dragging her away from the capture lines. His hand on her elbow was firm and brooked no argument. Not that Lucy wanted to argue. Still she looked behind her. This was her job. She ought to be out there.

  Jordan settled the knacker against the shed, examining his arm. The wounded man’s face was rigid and pale. He rocked back and forth, bouncing his head against the wall as he moaned and whined in desperate pain. As she drew closer, Lucy realized that the spines had entirely disappeared under his skin. Worm-shaped bits of white and red bone and marrow shavings curled from the holes. Lucy pressed a hand to her mouth as bile flooded her tongue. The knacker’s legs spasmed and kicked, tears and snot running down his cheeks and chin.

  Jordan and Marten exchanged a somber look. Marten nodded, turning Lucy away. Sudden understanding hit her. She jerked back around. Jordan had his cutlass in his hand.

  “It has to be done,” Marten said close to her ear, gripping her arm again. “We don’t have time to get him in a box.”

  The truth of his words was undeniable. A majicar could have stopped the spines from burrowing clear through his body and dispersed the poison already blackening his hand. But they didn’t have one. And there was no time to fetch a spawn container. It had to be done. But Lucy wasn’t going to hide.

  She thrust Marten’s hand aside and sank down beside the injured man. He was shuddering, his teeth rattling together. His eyes rolled back in his head. Lucy started to pull her mask off, but Jordan shook his head in warning. She complied with his silent order.

  Marten and Jordan pulled the knacker down onto his back and extended his injured arm across the wind-scoured rock shelf, rolling up his sleeve. The cutlass wouldn’t cut through the protective shirt. The putrid blackness had nearly reached his elbow. Above it was a livid ring where the flesh puffed slightly. Marten yanked off his belt, sliding it around the knacker’s bicep and tightening it down to cut off circulation. He glanced at Lucy, his mask hiding his expression. Her teeth ground together. No doubt he fretted she’d faint in the middle of this butchery. Deliberately she moved around so she held the injured man’s head in her lap. She clutched him tightly, praying to Chayos that Jordan’s first stroke would cut cleanly through the arm.

  Marten straddled the knacker, pinning his right hand and lying across his chest to immobilize him before nodding to Jordan. The other man swung his blade down in a smooth arc. The knacker’s body jerked and he screamed, spittle spraying from his mouth as the cutlass bit deep into his flesh. Blood vessels burst in the whites of his eyes. His body heaved, his heels thumping wildly on the ground. Marten struggled to hold him still. Jordan didn’t pause, but raised his sword again. Lucy couldn’t help but watch in hypnotized horror as blood trickled down the steel blade. Again he struck, this time cleaving through the bone and striking rock. Jordan flung his sword to the ground and snatched the severed arm in his gloved hands, running to toss it into a collection crate as the knacker’s heart’s blood spurted and pooled on the rock.

  The wounded man thrashed beneath Marten. His screams were awful. Lucy clutched his neck. Rocks filled her throat and tears rolled down her cheeks. She wanted to stanch the flow of blood or offer better comfort. Do something, anything, to actually help.

  A sudden memory galvanized her. Abruptly she scrambled up. She ran past Jordan to the black building. Just inside the door was a tall cabinet. Lucy grasped the two handles and yanked the doors wide. The shelves were lined with jars, bandages, vials of powders and pills, blankets, bags, and pegs holding different-colored stone talismans on leather thongs.

  Lucy snatched up a jar with a red wax seal, a stack of bandages, and a yellow talisman. Hugging the items to her chest, she fled back out into the wind. She returned to find Jordan tying off the wound with a strip of cloth torn from his waistcoat. Marten had taken Lucy’s place by the head of the knacker, who twitched weakly against his agony. The pool of blood had spread, salted with blown sand. Lucy stumbled, her eyes snagging on it. There was so much.

  Tearing her gaze away, she fell to her knees next to Jordan. She passed him the jar. As he cut away the sealing wax, she unraveled the bandages. Jordan held the jar while Lucy dug her fingers into the cold, sticky ointment inside. A businesslike detachment overtook her as she quickly slathered the green goo on the stub of the knacker’s arm. He moaned, a spasm rippling down his body. Lucy ignored it, daubing more on before wrapping the wound tightly with bandages. When she was through, Marten lifted the knacker’s head to help her ease the amulet around his neck.

  Within an instant, the man slumped against the ground, unconscious. Lucy sat back on her heels with a heavy sigh. He probably wouldn’t live. But the amulet would keep his body from shutting down in reaction to the injury and help him fight any remaining poison. The ointment and bandages would keep him from losing any more blood and prevent infection.

  Jordan and Marten carried the man back to the salvage shed to put him in the care of Hig. Deliberately she adjusted her mask, gloves, and socks and returned to the beach. When the two men returned, Jordan offered her another drink of Meris’s tears. Lucy refused.

  The capture continued until nearly dawn. Lucy left a handful of knackers on the beach to guard against any stragglers and ordered the captured sylveth spawn to be hauled back to the black shed. Inside, she saw to the wounds of the other knackers. Several had lost their masks in a particularly difficult capture. Lucy had to order a man’s ear removed and a woman had breathed in something that was colonizing her insides. Threads of gray unwound like spiderwebs beneath her skin and her two front teeth had lengthened into tusks. With a cold dispassion, Lucy settled a black amulet around the infected woman’s neck and ordered her sealed inside one of the black crates. The amulet would hopefully slow or stop the changes to her body until the majicars could have a look at her, and the box would contain the trouble if not.

  Next Lucy passed out vouchers authorized with her seal, thanking each of the exhausted, grim-faced volunteers. When all the capture gear had been returned and everyone cleared out, Lucy resealed the black building. Dawn was just breaking as Jordan and Marten accompanied her back to the busy salvage shed. Despite their company Lucy felt remote and alone. The horrors of the night gnawed at the edges of her calm, and exhaustion dragged on her. But she had no intention of letting either man see her weakness, and outwardly
adopted a mask of brisk control.

  Jordan interrupted her when she turned to bid him good-bye, his voice rough and worn.

  “Surely you aren’t returning to that mess?” He gestured at the bustle inside. “You need to rest.”

  Lucy lifted one shoulder. “Until my replacement arrives, there is work to be done.”

  In truth she didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to sleep. Or dream. And most especially she didn’t want to suffer Blythe’s smothering ministrations and questions. She sighed. She had to have a lady’s maid; her mother insisted it was only proper. Lucy had settled on Blythe, who was an outspoken cousin several times removed. When she’d hired the other woman, Lucy had been explicit and specific. She wanted a lady’s maid who would help her dress, oversee the running of her home, and leave her alone as much as possible. But Blythe was like a dog with a meaty bone. And Lucy was the bone.

  “Try not to push yourself too hard. I’ve got to shove off. They’ll let us cross the cordon soon, and we’re due to pull the Firewind’s rigging. Marten, are you coming?”

  “Aye. I want a bed and meal myself.”

  Jordan pushed his draggled hair from his forehead. He was gritty and dirty. He glanced up. “It’ll be fair weather today.”

  Lucy followed his gaze. The clouds were breaking apart, and the rain was a bare sprinkle. The wind had lightened considerably, though the sound of it still roared in her ears.

  A clatter of wheels and horses’ hooves signaled the arrival of a four-horse barouche. The seal of the customs service was emblazoned on the door. The carriage pulled up, the footman dropping off from behind and hurrying to let down the stair. A bald, portly man in a saffron surcoat that matched Lucy’s emerged. A fringe of gray hair circled the back of his head, and his round face was clean-shaven with drooping eyes and a plump, moist smile.

  “Ah, Lucy, my dear! You look dreadful.”

  “Hello, Henry. It’s very good to see you.”

  He shook out the folds of his cloak. “Right, then. You’re relieved. The carriage will take you home. Report to Alistair the day after tomorrow—after you rest.” His voice mocked the last word. He’d overseen knacker gangs before. There was no such thing as rest after that, only nightmares and cold sweats. He scuttled inside without waiting for her reply.

  “Well then, I suppose I am going home. In high style, it appears,” she said sardonically, gesturing at the coach. The carriages were usually reserved for higher-ranking customs officers. She’d ridden in them occasionally, but only as a guest of someone else. She thought of the long trip back into Sylmont and the soft cushions within. She went and fetched her satchel and said good-bye to Hig. He merely grunted and shooed her away. Outside only Marten waited for her.

  “Miss Trenton, I hope I might impose on you—would you allow me to accompany you back into Sylmont?”

  Lucy looked at him in annoyance. For all the damage the wind and sand had done to his clothing, face, and hair, he still looked ridiculously unruffled and collected. She, on the other hand, felt sand scraping in every crease and crevice of her body, and expected she looked like a rag doll tossed in the rubbish heap after years of hard use. She wanted to refuse him and ride away in solitary luxury. She sighed. But she couldn’t. His help in the night had been too valuable.

  “Very well,” she said, and went to get in.

  He followed her, settling on the opposite bench. Lucy took a folded blanket from the stack on the seat and spread it over herself before leaning into the corner and closing her eyes as the carriage jolted into motion. She started when she felt his hands on her arms. Marten finished tucking the blanket around her, his dark eyes glinting at her obvious annoyance.

  “Are you quite comfortable?”

  “Quite. But there’s no need to make idle conversation. I surely do not expect it.”

  “You are a bit irritable, though,” he said, tilting his head. “But then it’s been a difficult night. I suppose you are to be forgiven.”

  Lucy stiffened, anger heating her up faster than the blanket. She caught herself before she retaliated. That would only feed his insolence. She forced herself to relax back against the cushions and feigned a yawn, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Since it is highly unlikely that we will find ourselves in company with one another again, let us end this acquaintance on a quiet note. Wake me when we arrive back in Sylmont, won’t you?”

  And with that, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. But in the quiet of the carriage, her eyes closed, she again became sickeningly aware of the cipher’s cold weight on her arm. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why had she gone searching for it? For certain death? But she knew why. And in the silent darkness of the carriage, she could not run away from the memories. She was trapped between Marten’s mocking curiosity and her own past.

  Chapter 5

  Lucy had been four years old when she had first realized that unlike anyone else, even majicars, she could detect the presence of majick. No one believed her. They thought she was just trying to get attention with the new baby in the house. She defended herself by pointing out the spells she sensed, but they only laughed. There was so much majick about, spells tucked into every corner and cupboard of Sylmont, that she could point anywhere and likely hit one. Her brothers teased her until she was driven to silence. She promised herself one day she’d prove it to them.

  The opportunity came when she was nine. Her father owned a small trading company. Lucy had been chasing after one of the cats who kept the rats at bay through the warehouse when she sensed the stranger’s arrival. Majick engulfed him. Its presence was so powerful that it made her eyes blurry and her legs shake. She hadn’t known then how to control her reactions, how to tolerate the pain of strong majick. She watched him in awe. Her brothers laughed at her, thinking it was because of his finery and his handsome features. But Lucy couldn’t see any of that.

  He was a stranger to her family, a stranger to Sylmont. And, she realized gleefully, he was the proof she’d always sought. She could identify on him more than a dozen different spells. Then she didn’t know the word for them. She could point each of them out, though not what they did. Her curse was that she could sense majick, but she couldn’t tell what any spell was actually for. But that didn’t matter. All that was needed was that he would corroborate their existence, and then everyone would know she was telling the truth.

  Always cautious, she approached him in a quiet moment when the warehouse was largely deserted. Better to be sure he would cooperate rather than have him deny her and make her the butt of her brothers’ bottomless amusement.

  “Your pardon,” she squeaked, and chastised herself for sounding like such a baby.

  He halted, turning, one eyebrow lifted. “Yes, child?”

  Lucy swallowed, steadying her breath.

  “Come on, then, out with it. What do you want?” He lifted his chin, his nostrils flaring slightly, the corners of his mouth curling downward.

  Licking her lips, she said, “The spells you wear—I wondered…that is, I hoped—”

  She fell silent at the look on his face. Incredulity and something else. Something that made Lucy’s skin turn cold. She took a step backward.

  He followed. “Where are you going, little girl?” His voice was soft and sibilant.

  Lucy stared up at him, fixed in place by the diamond glitter in his eyes. She pressed against a pallet piled high with small crates roped together. He bent over her, bracing his hands on either side of her head. Lucy heard herself whimper.

  “Why, my dear, is something the matter?”

  He reached up and traced a long white finger down the side of her face, across her cheek, and over her mouth, rubbing back and forth over her lower lip. She felt the tingle of majick through her skin and tasted it on the back of her tongue, like wood ash and wire.

  “Now tell me, just how did you know about my ciphers?”

  His breath smelled of anise and caraway. A gold pin gleamed on his collar. It was square with a
complex design molded into it. Lucy’s eyes crept back up to his. Somehow, she knew not to tell him the truth. He would believe her. And that would be very bad indeed. She scrambled for something to say, something convincing.

  “I…I just thought…you dressed so fine…you just must have majick and my brothers…” She halted. His finger didn’t leave her lips.

  “Yes, your brothers…?”

  “They make fun of me and—”

  He shook his head. “You are a very bad liar, my dear.” His voice hardened. “Tell me how a chubby, snot-nosed, carrot-headed child like you knows about my ciphers. It would serve you to speak quickly, before anyone interrupts us.”

  His hand crept down lower, beneath her chin. His fingers tightened slowly around her throat. He squeezed, his long, polished fingernails cutting into her skin.

  Lucy’s panic lit a fire inside her. She wrenched herself from side to side, knocking her head against the crates and kicking out at his knees. He grunted and jerked back as her heavy-soled boot connected.

  “You little bitch,” he ground out, his hand smashing against her face.

  Pain exploded along Lucy’s cheek and behind her eye. She sobbed and struggled harder, seeing him cock back to strike again. She kicked out again. He made a high, whining sound and doubled over, clutching his cods as her foot struck. She scrabbled away, dodging in and out of the maze of goods. She ran as fast as she could, to the back of the warehouse and out a side door. She sobbed, her face aching. Her teeth felt loose in her jaw. She pressed the back of her hand against her lips and realized her nose was bleeding.

  Behind her she heard the thump of feet and a scrape of metal. Fear streaked through her. She ran along the alley and back to the storage yard and dived into the graveyard of empty shipping containers. She threaded between them, hunching low and swallowing the sobs that tore at her throat. Her heart pounded in her ears so that she couldn’t hear anything else.

  It wasn’t until after dawn the next morning that her brothers found her. She’d taken refuge in a hollow beneath a massive storage container, one large enough to hold two carriages. In the night she’d reached a state of exhaustion where fear no longer suffocated her. But what came then was utter humiliation. That she should have blundered so stupidly. That she’d let him touch her, that she’d just stood there and babbled nonsensically and then run away like a mouse from a cat. Her stomach burned with shame. She had wanted so badly to prove her talent, to prove she wasn’t lying, that she hadn’t considered the danger. And when all was said and done, what was the point? What use was this talent? More like a curse. It gave her headaches and made her sick to her stomach and what was it good for? She couldn’t actually do anything majickal.