From Hell's Heart

by K. T. Davies

  “It is what it is. We owe the sorcerer, and that’s that,” she said emphatically. “And they ain’t dying.”

  Cobb’s eyestalks flicked towards her. “What? I thought you said they were stabbed through?”

  Emma shrugged. “Aye, right through by the looks of it, must have lost half a body of blood. Eight hours ago I’d have said they were a goner. An hour ago? Well, you know thoasa. They heal well, really blood well in this case.”

  “So they ain’t going to die?” Once again, he sounded disappointed.

  Emma glared at him. “I don’t think so.”

  “Fuck. Just what I need.” Cobb hunched over his mug. Minutes passed until the ululating cry of an urux floated up from the street and in through the attic window, breaking the sullen silence.

  “You sure that’s the whole tale, lad?” All ten eyestalks bent towards Johann.

  “Aye, more or less.” Johann tried to shrug his way from under Cobb’s close scrutiny. “Give or take.”

  Cobb’s eyestalks bent towards the table as though he might divine the future in the grain. “This is a bad do,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Wish you hadn’t brung ‘em here, Em.”

  Emma’s muzzle wrinkled in a frown. Anger flashed in eyes as bright as the faux diamonds that hung from her furry ears. “And where else could I take ‘em? What with greenshanks crawling all over the place, and gangs fighting in the streets. Or should I have just left ’em to die in a rat-infested sewer as a thank you for saving our Jojo?”

  “It’s more trouble, is all I’m saying.”

  She snorted. “That’s rich given the parcel of trouble you’ve brung home.”

  Cobb shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “That’s different.”

  “Aye, if by different you mean, ‘worse’.”

  The captain cleared his throat, swatted her hard stare aside with a wave of his mug. “Anyway, back to the meat of the matter. If Jojo has the right of it, and if nobody saw him, or you, or our friend, and given the corpse farmer’s decree is obeyed, we might get away with it.”

  “I’m sorry, Cobb, I shouldn’t have got involved.” Johann tried to sound contrite, but he was quietly relieved that Emma had declared her support.

  Cobb took a swig of ale. “You did what you thought was right, lad. We all did, gods help us.” He belched a long rumbling note. “Ah. That’s better. Nothin’ like a good belch to relieve tension, eh?” He stood up, swayed on his stumps, and set his velvet tricorn on his head. “Right then. Keep the ale cold and the stew hot. I’ve got matters to sort.”

  Emma took hold of his arm. “You’ve done enough, Cobb. This is Midnight Court business. We need to stay out of it.”

  “We’re already in it, love.”

  The sound of something heavy hitting the storeroom floor claimed their attention. All eyes turned to the door. Jojo felt a peculiar mix of excitement and apprehension as something crashed into something else. A string of muffled curses was followed by the sound of claws scraping on the floorboards. Cobb pulled a knife from his boot and tried to shove Emma behind him. She shrugged him off and snatched the ale jug from the table. Johann clutched the blanket as the door burst open.

  Breed staggered in, yellow eyes ablaze with fever and fury. “Where’s my fucking mother?”

  2

  “Lediss! Did you tap that fucking barrel like I said?” Mother hoisted another tray of beer onto the bar, swept a handful of coin into her apron pocket, and slapped an old sot’s hand away who was groping for her breasts. Had I the wherewithal, I would have applauded given that those fulsome dugs belonged to me.

  Alas, all I could do was gurgle and roll around in my apple crate crib that was wedged between two brandy barrels behind the bar. It was the best seat in the house, affording an excellent view of the saloon of the Mouse’s Nest.

  “Lediss!” Mother stood on her tiptoes and scanned the crowd, her gaze as sharp as a prison shiv. “Fuck’s sake, where is that idiot?”

  The press of bodies parted before the ogren as he shouldered his way through the crowd. He was holding an unfortunate drunk by the scruff of her puke stained shirt. When he saw Mother standing there hands on hips, he tossed her aside. “I thought you asked Sana to tap the barrel,” Lediss grunted.

  Mother shook her head and turned away from him. “I don’t know what makes him so stupid, but it really works.” Sweat beaded her brow, and her cheeks were flushed. More than one of the patrons looked longingly at her bare shoulders, at the fall of midnight curls that tumbled down her back.

  Her poignard gaze fell on me. The rabble became a smoke-hazed, muted background as she lit up my small, simple world with her wicked smile. “You’ve lost your covers, silly.” She came over and tucked the soft, red blanket around me. Healing warmth spread through me. I was content, and safe in the Nest with my mother and nothing else in any world mattered. “There you go.” She didn’t seem to notice that blood was oozing from the blanket and soaking her arms and her blouse. “Now go to sleep, kid, Mother’s proper, fucking busy.” I caught hold of her hand before she could leave. Uncharacteristically, she yelled and tried to pull away, but I wasn’t going to release her. I knew that if I let her go, I would lose her forever.

  I opened my eyes and saw red. I wasn’t holding Mother’s hand. Although similarly bony, I was holding the ankle of the runty cove I’d rescued upon my return to the old hometown. The world I thought I’d left behind tilted. I released him. He fell and tried to scrabble away in a panic but only succeeded in sliding around in mine and mother’s blood.

  “Please, let me go,” he squealed. “I meant no harm. I thought you were dead.”

  “Aye, me too,” I said, and then I must have passed out.

  Thereafter, consciousness came and went without rhyme or reason. One minute I was lying beside Mother’s cooling bone bag, the next I was being carried through the sewers by a great, hairy wench. After a few more attempts at waking, which were punctuated with pain and whispers, I regained a consciousness of sorts. I was lying in a cot in a dusty storeroom. I was alone. My wounds had been dressed, and I was wearing a fuchsia nightgown cut for someone with terrible taste in clothes, twice my width, and two-thirds my length. More tired than I’d ever felt, I fell back and might have drifted off had I not been struck by the sudden, gut-punch recollection of what had happened. Fatigue vanished faster than morals in a brothel. Without a plan, but driven by fury, I attempted to leap from the bed but caught my foot in the nightgown and fell amid a flurry of fuchsia ruffles. Undeterred, I hauled myself to my feet and stumbled through the door. A familiar, ogrenish wench was standing beside a fellow with a shockingly scarlet beard and an eyepatch. The little thief was sitting at a table wrapped in a blanket.

  “Where’s my fucking mother?” I heard myself say. My thoughts were fractured, contused by grief and pain.

  The wench said something that I didn’t quite catch as I pitched forward, breaking my fall with my face. Lights flared, stitches tore, and my gut smiled beneath the bandages.

  A raging fever turned the usual run of meandering dream-muddles into flights of the wildest fancy. During one particularly vivid hallucinatory interlude, I thought I saw a sinuous, snake tailed woman reciting poetry in the room next door. She saw me and smiled; her bifurcated tongue flickered between full lips and she recoiled when she tasted my pain. Before we had the chance to converse, she vanished into the irrational madness that held sway over my delirious mind. I awoke sometime later to find the snakish woman had slithered from my dreams and was standing at the foot of my bed. She reminded me of someone.

  “Padma?”

  “Niobia. Niobia Proudfoot.” She inclined her head, whipped her tail around with a flourish. “And yes, the irony isn’t lost on me. Who’s Padma?”

  “Someone I knew. You remind me of her.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “She was. She’s dead.”

  “Oh. Right.” We were in a storeroom that smelled of onions and lamp oil. “I hear you’re called Breed. That
’s an unusual name.”

  “Isn’t it?” I sat up. I was shivering cold despite the fact we were in an attic and the suns were up. “Why is it so fucking cold in here?”

  “Ika’s under your bed.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  She shrugged. “You were burning up, so Emma sent Ika to cool you down.”

  I peered over the edge of the bed and saw that ‘Ika’ looked like a miniature ice hound. About the same size as a domestic canine, the silvery grey wolf-dog was snoring soundly on a bed of blintering ice, its brush tail draped over its nose. “Is that an ice hound? It’s a bit small.”

  She smirked. “She’s a runt. Cobb bought her from a fur trapper when he ran the traveling menagerie. Now he’s gone legit she keeps his ale cold.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Not really. She’s small because her mother was ill-treated. It’s a miracle she survived at all.”

  “Not the ice hound.” I prodded my stomach. It was tender but nowhere near as painful as it should have been. “My gut. It’s healing.”

  “Emma’s a seamstress amongst other things. She fixed you up.”

  “With magic?”

  “No.” She laughed. “With a needle and thread.”

  “I should have snuffed it.”

  “Now there’s ungrateful.”

  “You have no idea.” And then I remembered again that Mother was dead, and the sudden stab of pain hurt worse than the gut wound.

  “Nice to meet you, Breed.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Nia?” A voice I knew called from the room next door. “Nia! They’re doing Act Two.”

  “I have to go. See you later, Breed,” The snake woman turned tail and rippled out.

  “Your friend’s awake.” I heard her say just before the runty cove I’d saved breezed into the storeroom. The last time I’d seen him he was near naked, pale as puke, and shivering in a blanket. Now he was rosy cheeked, wearing a pair of embroidered slippers and a suit of pleasantly faded, brown velvet. His dark curls had been washed and combed and were tucked under a brown velvet cap from which hung a long, bronze tassel. He was holding a long-stemmed pel pipe. His scintillating wings were unfurled, and his black eyes were red-rimmed from smoking. “You look well.” He smiled.

  “So do you.” The sudden, if vague recollection of what had occurred left me in no mood for small talk. “Now, who killed my mother?”

  The lad heeled the door closed behind him. “We should talk about this later. Emma said you need to rest.”

  “Fuck Emma. Who killed my mother?”

  He paled. “I don’t really know. I followed you, but I had to hide. From what I could see, your mother was snuffed by a…well, a mangled grotesque.”

  “This is Appleton. You’re not narrowing it down.”

  “This fellow was a rum cove, even for Appleton. He was garbed in a ragged, patchwork coat. He had too many faces and frightful, mocking voices—like he was possessed by demons. And that laugh.” He shuddered and drew deeply on his pipe. “I’ll never forget it.”

  Based on the description and who was there before I succumbed to my injuries, I knew who he was describing, but some masochistic urge within me needed to hear it confirmed. “Pray, did this murderous clown have a name?”

  He nodded, before exhaling a cone of sweet, blue smoke. “Ludo.” He wheezed through the drug. “He attacked her when her back was turned while she was tending to your wounds. It was so fast. There was nothing I could do. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t fret yourself. Given her winning personality, I’m surprised he didn’t do it sooner.”

  “Really?”

  “No, of course not. Fuck’s sake.” I felt faint. My guts tied themselves in a painful knot. The sound of approaching footsteps and the slap-in-the-face aroma of Grundvelt Blast Whiskey yanked me back from the Void’s sweet embrace.

  “I told you to leave our guest be, Jojo.” It was the stalk-eyed cove with the scarlet beard. He was unarmed unless you counted his outfit as a weapon, garbed as he was in a shocking, crimson frockcoat and breeches. Over his left eye he wore a red, velvet eyepatch. A bunch of booze-bright, azure peepers protruded on slender stalks from the right socket.

  Judging by his well-worn countenance, he was either middle-aged or had lived a hard life. His bulbous, ruddy nose bespoke of a deep admiration, if not outright love of strong liquor. Not that this fellow was a slobbard, his long red locks were neatly combed as was his fulsome beard. An over-abundance of silk ruffles spewed from his collar, and gem fired rings glittered on his barnacle-knuckled fingers. By the odd way he barreled in like a galleon under full sail, I guessed he was less human below the waist than he appeared above it. He had the usual amount of lower limbs for a human but was possessed of a peculiar, boneless gait. Aside from whiskey and pel, he smelled of cloves, lime oil, and fish that had been stewed with peaches.

  He smiled affably enough, but there was flint in his many eyes that said he was uncomfortable in my presence, entirely understandable given the circumstances. “M’ name’s Captain Cobb. You can call me Captain if you’re feeling formal ‘though Cobb is most usual. Either way, I’m the leader of the Company of the White Star, the best theatricals in the whole, damn Empire.” He aimed all ten eyestalks at me. “And you’re Breed, the sorcerer who saved our Jojo. I’m sorry for your loss, young un.”

  “Don’t mention it. Am I your guest or your ‘guest’? I don’t mean to be blunt, but I’ve the devil of a headache.” I really wasn’t trying to be rude. As you know, that comes effortlessly, but all that grins isn’t necessarily golden. Despite all the smiles, this cove was as jumpy as a hanging man.

  He plucked Johann’s pipe from the boy’s nerveless fingers. “Aye. Understandable.” He tapped hot ash into his calloused palm. “As for whether we’re friends, well that’s as maybe, sorcerer.” He dipped into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a small silver box from which he re-stocked the oily bowl with a pinch of pel before lighting it off a wall sconce. After a few pulls, the sweet, heady smell warmed the air and gentled the atmosphere. His eyestalks drooped and blinked lazily in the haze. “Jojo says you saved him. He called you a hero.”

  “I did,” said the little cove. He smiled bashfully. “And you are.”

  I wasn’t interested in flattery, my thoughts were more concerned with murder. “Where did Ludo go?” I asked.

  Jojo looked to Cobb who gave him a hard, ‘shut your mouth’ glare.

  “Ika, come out from under there.” Cobb stamped his foot. The dog roused herself, and after a leisurely stretch and sniff of the cot, padded from the room. Cobb laughed. “She’s a good girl but like me she’s getting on a bit.”

  I fixed my gaze on the little cove. “So, Ludo.”

  “You’re in no condition to go hunting down that monster,” Cobb interjected.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” My forbearance surprised me. There was a time I would have compelled them to tell me what I wanted to know long before now.

  Heavy footsteps heralded the arrival of the half-ogren wench who’d carried me from the sewers and whose face had loomed large in my fevered dreams. “You’re not fit to go anywhere,” she said, as though that was the end of the matter.

  “You’ve met my lovely wife and business partner,” said Cobb.

  “I have. Thank you, mistress for all you’ve done. When I find my pouch I’ll be sure to reimburse you.” I gave the little fellow a pointed look. He avoided my gaze.

  The seamstress chuckled, and her cheeks flushed beneath the light dusting of golden fur that covered her face. “No need to pay me. You saved Jojo.” She was as big as an ogren but with decidedly human features, not least of which were a pair of furry dugs each as big as my head.

  “You’re too kind. Now, if you’ll fetch me my gear.” I fixed my gaze upon the runt. “All of it, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Jojo, run along and fetch Breed’s things.” Cobb seemed as keen for me to leave as I was. The we
nch did not seem to share the sentiment and scowled her displeasure.

  “You’ll do no such thing, Johann,” she said. The boy shrank under the withering gaze of both parties. Having cowed the boy, she turned her attention back to me. “I’ll admit you’ve healed faster than I could have hoped. Certainly, when we found you, I thought I’d be sewing your shroud not your gut bag. But you’re still not fit to go anywhere.”

  “I assure you, I’m well enough.” I lied, I felt like hammered shit. “Pray, fetch my things, lad.”

  Johann made to leave.

  “Don’t you dare,” said Emma. He froze.

  “Go,” I said.

  “Just leave, Jojo,” Emma growled. “Breed needs to rest.”

  I wrapped a sheet around me and stood up. “Very well, mistress. I’ll get them myself.” Intent upon casting a spell of compulsion, I reached within me for the magic and a flash of intense pain lit behind my eyes.

  3

  When I came-to, the storeroom was dark, the door was open, and I was alone. I could hear the drone of wings close by, and shadows flitted across the red glow of firelight in the other room. My head was pounding and the very thought of trying to cast a spell made me want to puke.

  “Oh, Mother, what have you done to me?”

  “Breed?” It was Johann.

  I threw back the sweat-soaked sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. The room began to spin. I dug my claws into the worn floorboards to try to anchor myself.

  “Breed?”

  “I heard you the first time,” I growled; my weakness transformed into irritation. The droning wingbeat grew louder, a few pages of script fluttered across the table before Johann flew into the kitchen, stirring air that was redolent with the smell of urux stew and burning thatch.

  “What’s on fire?”

  “Everything. Come.” With a flick of his iridescent wings, the boy flew from the kitchen. I stood up. My vision was blurry, my limbs leaden.

  Like a drunk, I staggered through the kitchen and into a large, attic sewing room that ran the length of the building. Along one wall, dozens of windows threw light across the cutting tables and sparked flashing scarlet off paste stones and sequins. The windows faced the river. Outside the sky was sickly orange, fading to burned black. Jojo landed beside a window.