by K. T. Davies
“It’s the Street of a Thousand Lanterns.” His lips thinned into a pensive line, dying fires reflected in his black eyes. “Whole lot’s gone up in smoke.”
I joined him, saw for myself the blackened bones of the street across the Silverlight. The roof ribs of almost every building were exposed to the night, many were still being picked over by flame sprites. “Who did it?”
“A sellspell hired by the traitors in the Pearl to kill Jing. This is yours.” The boy took my coin pouch from his coat and handed it to me. “It’s all there. With everything that happened, I forgot about it, honest.”
I didn’t for one moment believe him, but it didn’t matter. “This sellspell, does anyone know who they were?” Given the timing, I could guess but I needed it confirmed.
“Cobb saw him. He had business over the way when they attacked Jing.
“Did he have a name?”
The boy shrugged.
“Well what did he look like.” I snapped.
“Cobb said he was tall, blonde. Said he didn’t have an ounce of mercy in him.”
Standing there, looking across the firelit river as it rolled between me and death, I was neither angry, nor sad. Numbness entirely filled me as if I was made of stone.
“You feel like getting my gear now?”
“Emma will kill me.”
“No, she won’t. She loves you. That much is plain.”
He smiled sadly. “Wait here.”
Getting dressed was a slow, painful process. My gut was knitting but far from healed. My clothes had been washed and repaired, another kindness, which drove me to hasten from these people’s lives. “Where’s the rest of your crew?”
“In the bar by now. It’s also the theatre although the bar makes more money than the plays.” After returning with my gear, he’d furled his gossamer wings and sat on the window seat, knees drawn up under his chin. His gaze drifted between me and the Street of a Thousand Lanterns.
“Your man Cobb owns the whole building?” It was a fair size if the attic was anything to judge by.
“Aye. Well, he still has loans to pay off, but yes. Not bad for a tert, eh?”
“Tert?” The term was new to me, but then, I had been away for a while, I think. It was hard to tell given the many whens and wheres I’d been, although it felt like the world had waited for me before deciding to turn itself upside down.
The boy looked at me and smirked. “You have been away. The Third Estate, tertinals, tert. tertie, dirty-tertie. Tertinal from tertiary. You’re a tertinal, I’m a tertinal—”
“Stop saying fucking tertinal. I get it. This ‘Third Estate’ are half breeds like me and schism touched like you?”
He stiffened. “I prefer tertinal. Schism touched is regarded as an insult.”
“Is it, by gods?” That made me laugh. “Are humans still top of the shit heap?”
“They are the First Estate, aye, but things are changing. True deference is still given because they were the first but—”
“Are warspawn Second Estate?”
“Aye.” His brow furrowed. “Where have you been?”
“Away. So that’s how the pie’s been split since Shallun…Nothing changes and everything changes.”
“It’s not bad. Much better than when the old Empirifex was in power. We can own property now, travel without permits, there’s even a tert senator.”
“These things were denied to you just for being schism touched?”
“I told you, I don’t like that term. And yes, they were. They used to kill us. Tert babies were thrown in the river. People were hung for race-mixing.”
“You lived through this?”
“No, it was before I was born but my parents…”
“Ah.” I should have let the demon live. “How do I look?”
“Like someone who almost died a couple of days ago.”
“Oh. Better than I thought.”
“See for yourself.” He uncurled and fluttered across the room. With a flourish, he dragged a sheet off a full-length mirror.
I hobbled over and was surprised to see that I looked much better than I felt. I’d been so busy feeling shit and homicidal that I hadn’t noticed my scales were brighter than they had been in years. Not only that but my hair spines were more lustrous, deeper red and orange instead of peachy grey. But that wasn’t all. I looked younger. Deflated, sagging muscles were tight and lean once more, and the paunch I’d pretended didn’t exist, really didn’t exist. I grinned and noted the whiteness of my fangs that had yellowed over the years. I performed an unsteady twirl. “I look fucking wonderful.”
“You mean you’ve looked worse?”
“You have no idea. Now, show me the best way out of here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To kill Ludo.” I drew Volund’s sword and would have had a practice swing had I not felt suddenly light-headed. I chose instead to lean upon the blade like I’d planned to.
The boy paled. “You can’t. You’re hurt.”
His little voice chorused with my own. I sheathed the sword and tried to ignore them both. “Just show me a back way out of here.” He scowled, clearly torn. “Fine. I’ll find my own way. Stay out of trouble, Johann.” I dug out a handful of coins and stacked them on the table. It didn’t come naturally to pay my debts, but I’d learned a few niceties over the years.
Step by painful step, I made my way from the attic down to the galleried balcony that overlooked the tavern theatre. There was a bar at one end of the room and a stage at the other. Up here, lurking in the shadows like a gargoyle, I got my first look at the Theatrical Company of the White Star. Some of the players were rehearsing on the stage. The majority were clustered by the bar at the other end of the room. I couldn’t see the snake woman, Cobb, or Emma. What struck me about the company, indeed, all of those gathered below, was that there weren’t any humans or warspawn. There were plenty of exotic variants but no exemplar of any particular race.
That peculiarity aside, they talked the same game as any crew of theatrical I’d come across. Those at the bar were drinking too much and talking too loudly. Those on the stage were overacting or playing the fool. A group of rough-looking coves were packing crates by the side of the stage. Foremost amongst them by dint of his size was a wild-looking cove garbed like a mountain barbarian, with unkempt hair and beard, and the biggest dabs I’d ever seen— out of scale even on his hulking frame. Before I continued on my epic journey, Cobb appeared in the wings and beckoned to the barbarian.
I might have been deluding myself, but as I continued to limp down the stairs, I felt stronger than a cove should have done who’d recently been hammering on Death’s door. I followed my nose to the stable yard. Fractured memories of Mother calling me back from oblivion intruded on my thoughts. Was it my fault? Had she left herself open because she was trying to save me? As a timely distraction from my gloomy meanderings, I stumbled on a stair. Stitches popped. All concerns aside of not tearing myself in half vanished. Like a good thoasa aught, I put aside my dark ruminations and concentrated on the here and now; on simple things like walking and breathing and not crying like a baby because my gut bag was leaking.
After a few wrong turns, I found my way to the tack rooms and stables, most of which were full of theatrical scenery and outlandish costumes. The few people I bumped into paid me no heed. Here I was just another ‘tert’ amongst many. I confess, after being a notable sorcerer and dragon I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I’d grown used to my dark renown; of being feared and scorned, and dare I say, infamous. Being taken for granted was new to me. I was pondering how I felt about being merely ordinary when I heard raised voices coming from the yard. I put my ear to the stable door.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Cobb.”
“I told you, Thero,” Cobb hissed. “It all turned to shit before I got the stuff.”
“And I told you, I believe you. But Evard thinks you got something.”
“I got burned, is what I
got.” Came the gruff rejoinder. In case anyone came my way, I hid behind a giant dragon puppet that was hanging by the door, before shoving it open a crack and having a shufty. I could see Cobb on the far side of the yard. He was standing beside a wagon. The wild-looking stagehand with the oversized maulers was looming at his shoulder. Before them, a beaked cove clasped his chest with a raptor claw.
“Hey, now. Don’t get worked up, Cobb. You’ll do yourself an injury.”
“Or I will,” said a grey, wormish wench who was standing with the bird man. She had four arms and swords for each.
The barbarian snarled. She stepped back, reached for her swords. The beaked fellow raised his hands. “I believe you. I know you ain’t got the balls to lie to me, but Evard’s the biggest fish in town now Jing’s gone to the ancestors, and he wants his dues.”
“Listen, Thero. Tell your boss to take it up with Jarill and his damn sellspell. You know, the one who singlehandedly slaughtered Jing’s crew.”
You know, the apporting, backstabbing shit weevil. I clenched my teeth so hard that I bit my lip.
“Singlehanded eh?” Thero chuckled. “My, what stories you tell. You should be a writer. Flekka, Matis, Corath!” He called over his shoulder. The yard gates opened and three more of the crew strolled in. They were crudely tooled-up with enough spiked mauls, hammers, and butcher knives to make a proper mess should the need arise. “Search this shithole.” Thero paced, mindful to keep the fuming giant in his line of sight. The gutterscum started with the wagon, which I noted had a scorched canopy and smoke-blackened wheels. Boxes were tossed into the yard. The barbarian stomped towards the worm woman who drew all four of her wicked looking stabbers.
“Now you stand down, Hammerhand. Or by the Holy Eye, this will end badly,” she said, her thin lips drawn back over tiny, razor teeth.
“Maybe for you,” He balled his hands into fists so big it was a wonder he could raise his arms. Still, if he landed a blow he’d knock her pin head from her shoulders. Before the bout could get going, Cobb interposed himself between his man and the worm. “It ain’t worth it.” He turned to Thero. “Because there’s nothing here. And I’ll be sending the bill to Evard for this.”
“Do what you must, Cobb.” Thero waved dismissively as one of the thugs ripped a plank from the floor of the wagon.
“Oi, now that’s just malicious!” Cobb cried. “We’re going on tour soon; I need these wagons.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have any merchandise?” said the wench with four swords.
“I’ve got a good play.”
Everyone save for Cobb and his man burst out laughing. Cobb’s face turned as red as his suit. “Aye, you may laugh, but it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.”
“Cobb, Cobb, Cobb.” Thero chuckled. “If I was you, I’d beg Evard for a job. You’re a perfectly reasonable smuggler but you’re a terrible playwright.”
Laughing even harder, the gang continued about the business of thuggish intimidation. As they were in a stable yard there wasn’t much to break or throw to really ram home the message that they were in charge. To truly crush the spirits of the common herd you need the best porcelain to smash, or grandmother’s fine linen to tear and stomp into the mud. There wasn’t much you could do to stamp your authority with just hay bales and a few piles of steaming urux shit. With a start, I realized that they were working their way towards me. Old habits die hard and forgetting my earlier mishap, I tried to apport. Blinging pain burst behind my eyes. I yelped and grabbed hold of the nearest thing to try to stop myself falling. It was the dragon puppet’s tail. Something ripped, and the whole thing came down on top of me. Shortly thereafter the door was thrown open. Wormy Four-Arms and Thero loomed above me.
I raised my hands. “I can explain.”
4
“You heard the captain.” Fathands grabbed me by my doublet and hauled me to my feet. “He said, get up, sorcerer.”
I shrugged him off. It was dark, save for light that spilled from an overlooking window, which illuminated patches of the yard. He loomed over me.
“That’s enough, Varcan,” said a weary, bloody-nosed Cobb who was sitting in a stuffed armchair and being tended to by Emma. “Varcan!”
Why an armchair was in the yard, indeed, why I was in the yard was confusing. I guessed I must have passed out shortly after being discovered. I squinted up at the oaf. “Aye, Varcan, back off. I didn’t turn the place over while you just stood there playing with yourself.” Possibly not the most sensible thing to say, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. The great lump grabbed me and shoved me up against the side of a wagon. My feet left the floor. “Put me down,” I spoke calmly, and in a bid to cool the situation I refrained from calling him a cunt. He tightened his grip. For all that he had shovel hands, he seemed put together much like any humanish male, so I took a gamble that his jewels were in the usual place and hoofed him in what I hoped was his nutsack.
He let go. His hands flew to his groin and he decided to have a little sit down. The pain of being dropped even from a foot was provoking. I was tempted to draw my sword and trim his beard, but as I wasn’t a monster I stepped away. Clothes, scenery, and broken furniture were scattered around the yard. Glass from smashed windows sparkled amidst the debris.
I tried to pretend that my shirt wasn’t sticking to the bandage that was sticking to my leaking guts. “What in Gog’s Eye did you do, Breed?” Cobb asked.
“Not much. Tried to cast a spell, failed, fell over. That’s about it. It seems the Light Fingered Brethren have you in their thoughts.”
“I’m going to fucking have you.” Glaring at me, Hammerhand climbed to his knees.
“No you’re not.” I chuckled. With or without magic, I could take this fool.
Cobb slammed his hand on the chair. “No, you’re bloody not! If anyone’s going to have anyone, it’s me.”
“Enough!” Emma bared her fangs as she hauled Hammerhand from the cobbles. “All of you, behave yourselves. Haven’t we had enough trouble for one day?”
I was in no condition to gainsay the snarling half-ogren and so, like Hammerhand and Cobb, adopted an attitude of shamefaced contrition. She scrutinized us and when she was satisfied we had taken her comment to heart, she threw Hammerhand’s arm over her shoulder. “I’ll take this one inside.” She turned to Cobb. “You speak to Breed.”
“Yes, love.” Cobb stood up, pulled a plug of bloody cotton from his nose. “Come with me, Breed.” He hobbled over to one of the stables.
I followed him beyond the urux stalls where the docile animals were contentedly eating hay and farting. When we reached the end of the block, he pushed open a door, the lock of which had been smashed leaving a pale, splintered scar. He beckoned me inside and pushed the door to behind us. Half a dozen chairs were arranged around an old table and the room was piled with urux harness and hay. He drew a thin silver whistle from his pocket and blew a silent note. Even though I couldn’t use magic, I could still feel when it coalesced in the air.
“Cost a goodly sum to get this, but it’s proved its worth a hundred times,” he said and gave me a sprinkle of winks. “You’re lucky I convinced Thero and Ziphen you were just a drunk patron.”
“I am?” I felt no such blessing as I tugged my shirt from the crusting scab to which it had stuck.
“Aye, you are. They first took you for a sellsword.” He gave me a pointed look.
“Lucky they didn’t think you’d hired a sorcerer.”
He shrugged.
“You don’t believe that I’m a sorcerer?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, only, ’cept for Jojo we ain’t seen any evidence of your skills, and it’s a rare tert what can cast spells.” The outline of a trapdoor appeared on the floor. A recessed brass ring was set in the door and had been etched with the winking visage of Gog the Trickster. Cobb grabbed the ring and grunting, hauled it open. Glowstones woke in the walls lighting the way down the stairs.
“I’m not feeling myself becaus
e I’ve been grievously injured, Captain. I thought I’d come home to die. That I’m still breathing is a testament to my mother’s powers.” I followed Cobb who kept eyes ahead and behind him.
“My Emma did her part in bringing you back from Void’s Edge.”
I had the feeling that, had they left me there I would have recovered because of Mother’s efforts, but this was not a battle I needed to fight. “Indeed.”
He led me into a barrel-vaulted cellar that was piled haphazardly with theatrical ephemera and whiskey barrels marked with the triple-headed eagle of Grundvelt. Had they been full of the real stuff, they would have been worth a prince’s ransom. Noting the track of my gaze, he grinned before blowing his whistle. “As you can see, I used to smuggle fake booze.” He rummaged in one of the many boxes stacked under and around his desk.
“What made you quit?”
“Too dangerous. The stills kept blowing up. And it tasted like shit.” When he found what he was looking for a smile lit his face. The label read ‘Grundvelt Blast Whiskey’. It was old, the writing was faded, and the parchment torn, but the bottle was still a quarter full. “This is the real thing,” he declared proudly.
“Nice place you have here.” Everything in the room looked like junk and yet was evidently too precious to throw away. It was an insight, a peek behind the garish brocade armor of Captain Cobb. He bluffed confidently and yet he was insecure enough to nest himself within the trophies of past triumphs, both theatrical and nefarious.
“Pull up a crate.”
Exhausted by my little adventure, I was happy to oblige and found a suitable crate upon which to perch. Cobb uncorked the bottle and freshened the musty air with the smell of good whiskey. He smiled as he drank in the aroma of burnt peat and butter before filling two cups, one of which he slid across the age-patinated desk.
