From Hell's Heart

by K. T. Davies

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any whiskey or pel?” I asked.

  “What’s pel?” A child’s voice enquired.

  “That which put clothes on your back, and food in your belly.”

  The nest swayed on its slender anchors as the tip of a clawed foot grasped the open mouth of the pod. Then all movement ceased.

  “You can come out if you want. I won’t hurt you,” I said. There was more shuffling before the foot became two, then four, and the young arrachid emerged, blinking in the dim light. She was garbed in white satin gowns, the outermost of which was embroidered with delicate, pink cherry blossom. The child was paler than death save for her amber eyes.

  “Who are you?”

  “Breed.”

  She canted her head, small fingers fussing with the flower fastening on her dirty obi. Dried blood splatters and soot stains on the hem of her gown told the story of recent events. “That hardly seems like a name at all.”

  “It’ll do. What’s your name?”

  She straightened, tilted her chin. “Sakura Jing.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sakura Jing.”

  “I want my Gan-gan.”

  “Shu Lo?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know, but I still want him.” Outside the shouting and jostling and loading continued, but in here an awkward peace descended, soft as snowfall. “I don’t want to be here.” She made for the door, but I was quicker and put myself between her and it. She made to dart around me, but there was no space, thwarting her attempt.

  “How old are you, Samura?”

  She pursed her thin lips and glared at me. “It’s Sakura. I’m nine.”

  “Well, if you want to see ten, I suggest you stop fucking around and stay in here.”

  Tears began to roll. “I hate you.”

  “I’m not over-fond of me either, but what can you do, eh?

  The caravan was plagued by broken wheels, lame urux, and an epically stupid actor who managed to get left behind after a piss stop. By the time someone noticed he was missing, and we’d doubled back to retrieve him, it was apparently too late to continue. The wagons were drawn into a clearing near the road, and I calculated that we’d made it a pathetic fifteen miles from Appleton.

  For want of anything else to do, aside of banging my head against the side of the wagon, I tried to get some kip. There was none in me and nothing to distract me in the wagon save the sound of the arrachid sniveling.

  “Oi, Saksuma, d’you want some food or something to drink?”

  The sniveling stopped. “My name is Sakura. SA.KU.RA.”

  “That’s what I said. Are you hungry?”

  “NO!”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I left the wagon and locked the door behind me. The sniveling became full-blown wailing, impressing upon me the need to stay away for as long as I could stand the company of the theatricals. It wasn’t that I couldn’t feign civility. I was an excellent liar, a skill I’d honed to perfection over the many years I served as Malin’s chief diplomancer. Back then, I’d dealt graciously with hundreds of people I’d have rather stabbed in the face. As I was no longer the advisor to a king or the weapon of an immortal Mage Lord, I no longer felt the need to dissemble. I could just be me.

  “Breed!” It was Johann. “You look well.” He was carrying a basket of laundry, his gossamer wings shimmered in the dusky twilight.

  “All right, Jojo. Got any grub?”

  “I’m also well. Thank you for asking.”

  “Wonderful. Do you know where I can get food?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m glad to be out of the city.” His gaze tracked towards Appleton, where a thin veil of smoke still hung over the town. “These have been trying times.”

  I tried not to laugh. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Colorful awnings extended from the wagons towards an open fire pit that marked the center of the camp. I was getting to know the theatricals by sight more than by association. Of course, I knew Emma and Cobb, who were ensconced in the most commodious wagon, the sides of which were emblazoned with a rampant bear grasping a shining star, which was the crest of the troupe. Their awning was striped grey and blue and hung with a string of many-hued lanterns. Cobb was sitting beneath, smoking his pipe and soaking his legs in a tub of herb-infused water. Now that I saw them, the rolling gait made sense. His ‘legs’ were actually two, stout tentacles. When he lifted one from the tub, I saw the end had been folded under itself to form a rudimentary foot. It looked painful. The flesh was wrinkled and calloused. Every step must have hurt like hell, yet he made no complaint. I suppose there are some pains you get used to.

  “The food wagon’s over there.” Johann pointed to a queue of performers and stagehands snaking away from a wagon. The smell of stewed meat and burned bread was less than enticing. “I’ll catch up with you later if you’re about?” Johann’s wings became a blur as he took a hovering step back and hitched himself into the air.

  “You’re not eating?”

  “Not yet, I’ve got to iron this lot first.” He smiled cheerily then swooped off amongst the wagons. The camp made a pretty picture, groups of friends talking, practicing their pieces, or just sitting enjoying each other’s company. It had been a long time since I’d done the same, or no time at all. Time had a funny way of contracting and stretching when you moved between worlds. I returned to the wagon. The kinch was still wailing but stopped the second I unlocked the door.

  “You should come and eat. Even if you aren’t hungry now, you will be later, and I don’t want to listen to your guts groaning all night.” She didn’t answer. “Suit yourself.”

  I headed over to the food wagon and joined the back of the line, not long after the smell of arrachid was followed by surprisingly soft but distinctive footsteps. I looked around. The arrachid had wrapped a striped shawl around her thin shoulders.

  She looked at me and blinked her four, tear-rimmed eyes. “I’m hungry.”

  “Not surprised. All that bawling takes it out of a body. If I were you, I’d aim to do much less of it.”

  “But I’m sad.”

  “As am I, but you don’t see me tearing and wailing, do you?”

  She fell silent and appeared contemplative, which bespoke a rudimentary intelligence although it was always hard to tell with the young of any species.

  While we waited, I plucked a few individual conversations from the babble. I wanted to get an idea of the character of this crew while I was amongst them. Most of the gossip was about money and sex, particularly who was and wasn’t getting enough, or who was getting too much and how unfair it all was. I cannot say such things had interested me in the past but tastes change, and I found myself quite caught up in some of the lascivious tales to the point young Sakura had to prompt me when our turn came to be served.

  I became the interlocutor for the kinch, who magically lost her voice and couldn’t decide between porridge or stew. My stomach rumbled while I waited for her to make up her mind. She hopped from one set of feet to the other, small hands clasped under her chin, lip quivering, cheeks reddening as though she’d been asked which limb she would prefer to have ripped from her with hot tongs.

  “Well, sweetling?” The most patient of cooks, a woman with wild blue curls and overlarge incisors smiled down at the anxious child. “Would you like the porridge with a nice dollop of flintberry jam?”

  “I…” a solitary tear rolled down her cheek. “I…”

  “She’d love some,” I said before the child could offer any objections. We took our food and sat beneath a tree, me on a log, her hanging from a low branch in a swing of her own making.

  “I don’t like it,” she slapped her spoon into the porridge.

  “Eat it, or don’t. It’s all the same to me.”

  “You’re mean.” The spoon slapped into the porridge again, a little harder this time, and she flexed her clawed feet.

  “I’m honest and blunt, but I�
��m not mean… not much, anyway. If you used your noodle instead of working at sulking you’d see that.” I continued to eat my stew. I had experience with children on account of spending many happy years with Malin’s brood. I knew that the best way to head off confrontation with youths was to be straightforward, which was why having a bowl of porridge thrown at me came as somewhat of a surprise.

  I scooped the glop from my face and returned the compliment. Shocked at being on the receiving end of her own ill behavior, it took a moment for the wailing to start. All of those within earshot cranked their heads in our direction, like siege engines loaded with judgment. I cleaned myself up and continued to eat until a shadow fell across me. Standing before me was either a pretty man or a handsome woman. Lurking behind the vision of loveliness was a younger, but less attractive cull. Upon tasting the air, I decided the first cove was closer to male than female; they smelled of licorice, lavender soap, and more faintly, musky vanilla. He flicked a golden ringlet over his shoulder. They were both garbed in an exotic mixture of Shennish kimonos, Pharrian doublets, and loose-fitting, silk breeches. Goldie set an arch scowl upon his perfectly proportioned mug. His second was less keen to show his displeasure but made a comradely effort.

  “Can I help you?” I enquired while trying to ignore the arrachid’s petulant wailing.

  “That’s no way to treat a child.” His voice was as deep as a desert well and equally as beautiful as his visage.

  “She started it.” I glared at the brat. She was now feigning distress, and while she continued to exercise her lungs, two of her four eyes swiveled towards our new friends and me.

  “For pity’s sake. She’s just a child.”

  “Nothing wrong with your eyesight. What’s your point?”

  He shifted position and anchored a well-manicured hand on his high, narrow hip. “Indeed, my eyesight is excellent; I can spot a jackanapes at a thousand paces.”

  I almost choked on my stew. “Jackanapes? I think that’s the sweetest insult ever bestowed upon me.”

  “’Tis unseemly to curse in front of children.”

  “Then I suggest you fuckety offety before that particular ship sails further into stormy seas, if you catch my drift?”

  He cast an artful glower in my direction. “I wouldn’t put you in charge of a gong pot, let alone a child. You are clearly unfit.”

  “Yes, clearly unfit,” the lurker chipped in like a good-over-the-shoulder hero.

  “I agree with you, gentles; I am in no way fitted for nursery duties. So, why don’t you let the shrieking, spiderling bunk with you? Word of warning, if you don’t want to ruin them splendid coiffs and exotic garb, I suggest you wear helmets and aprons at troughing time. The little spindle is apt to throw things, in addition to doling out a severe ear-battering, much like this.”

  The calculation was swift. The liar’s flush bloomed on his cheek a moment after. “I would, but there isn’t room in our wagon.”

  “And the roof leaks.” His companion added.

  This might have been true, given the handsome one’s reaction. “It’s a terrible state of affairs. I’m the draw here, the heroic lead. Well, there won’t be a show if I catch a fever.”

  His companion coughed pointedly.

  “Well, yes, there’s my understudy, but it’s not the same.”

  His friend huffed and rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this before, Kellian.”

  “Yes, Fillin, we have.”

  “I’m not just your understudy. Cobb said. You know he did.”

  Kellian dismissed his protest with an elegant wave, further infuriating his companion. “Cobb!” Fillin shouted across the camp. “Cobb…” he marched towards the captain who couldn’t avoid him without being seen to do so. Kellian followed.

  As soon as she realized that her champions had deserted her, the little princess shut her piehole. “I’m thirsty,” she announced without an ounce of guilt over her vicious, auditory assault. She just sat there, gently swinging in the breeze like nothing had happened. I had to admire her front.

  “Would you like me to fetch you a drink?”

  Face averted, she nodded.

  I could be all manner of arse, but kinchin coves are primitive creatures, driven more by base instinct than reason. To take offense at the child for sulking would be like taking offense at the wind for blowing. Although, the actors would get a smack in their pretty chops if they came barking at me again.

  The cooks gave me milk for the kinch and the fish-eye when I asked for a drink for myself. It took a fair bit of wheedling and flannel, but I eventually came away with a mug of surprisingly tasty, cold ale thanks to the ice hound who was frosting up the larder in the back of the grub wagon. I sat with my back to the tree while the kinch drank her milk. She didn’t look much like her grandfather. He was dark-haired and had violet eyes, much like the broodling who’d tried to off me when I’d tried to off him. The recollection of that wild night made me smile. I would never in a thousand years have thought I would one day be nurse-maiding the old scrote’s blood kin.

  A soft breeze drew spires of smoke through the bird harbor and wove the fractured mosaic of the gold and scarlet evening with the tattered banner of clouds that proclaimed the dying day had belonged to spring. The players weren’t the most unusual crew I’d spent time with. They were just a different strain of strange. The quarreling heroic leads had buried the creative hatchet and fallen to the recitation of poetry, each trying to out declaim the other. Niobia glided between caravans, her green scaled-tail burnished to shining bronze by the dappled light. My wagon mate and I finished our drinks in silence, ostensibly together and entirely alone, despite sharing an unlooked-for kinship that had been wrought in fire and blood.

  The girl seemed oblivious to everything as she swung back and forth, singing some childish nonsense. I envied her the respite from grief. I carried my woes like a snail carries its house. It hadn’t always been that way. I’d once been carefree and for the most part content with my lot, taking each day as I found it. I had been anchored to my world back then by the constants in my life. Mother in the Nest; Ludo in his lair, and me, just a Guild Blade of small renown. Now everything had changed, and I was adrift; a stranger in my own life.

  I looked at my hands as though perhaps I could read some hidden wisdom in the creases. Alas, I wasn’t as talented as the fortune-tellers who plied their trade in Appleton market. All I saw was that my claws were sharp, keen-edged and that rather than a mass of wrinkled skin, the pads of my palms had thickened, and the many puckered scars had faded to fine silver. As for the back of my hands, I barely knew them at all for the scales were bright and shone once more with youthful luster. I made a fist and felt strength flow through the reinvigorated muscles of my arm. Aside from my tender gut, nothing hurt, nothing so much as twinged, which was a revelation.

  “I need the closet.” Sakura dropped from the swing looking pained. “I need the—”

  “I heard. There’s a stream over there, or just do your business in the bushes, but make sure you’re a good way out of the camp. One never…closets where one eats.”

  She frowned and canted her head uncomprehending. I pointed to the trees in the direction of the stream that I could hear burbling beneath the babble of conversation. “Over. There.”

  “I can’t go on my own.” She began to wring her hands, and nervously rake the grass with her feet.

  “Why not? Surely you’re of an age where such things can be accomplished alone? I know arrachids are a bit on the slow side, but you must have mastered the—”

  “What if there are monsters?” Tears budded in her eyes, and her cheeks were lit by a pre-wail roseate glow.

  There was a time, a blessed, wonderful time when I wouldn’t have given two shits for the fears of a kinch. Apparently, that time had passed. I finished my ale, belched, and stood up. “I’ll stand guard while you sort out your necessaries, but you’re not going to wail any more or throw anything else, deal?”

  Her expres
sion grew solemn. “Deal.”

  6

  “Have you finished?”

  “No!”

  “Fuck’s sake.” I’d gone beyond irritated, had briefly visited annoyance, and was now unhappily ensconced in bored resignation waiting for the spiderling to attend to her functions. I’d had some rough jobs in the past but looking after kinchin coves was the least desirable and that included grave robbing. I skimmed another pebble downstream and was considering throwing myself after it when the undergrowth rustled, and the kinch appeared.

  “I’ve lost a shoe.”

  “Why are you wearing shoes when you have perfectly good claws?”

  Her pout was a mix of sullen and stubborn. “I’m not a savage.”

  I raised my legs and wiggled toes. “Neither am I, Spindleshanks, but claws are better than booted feet.” Old memories rose like ghosts reminding me of a sunlit palace, of sweet breezes blowing through graceful arches. “That is unless you live in a palace with polished, marble floors, in which case the housekeepers get into a proper fury if you don’t wear slippers.”

  Her gaze drifted to the ground where new blades of bright grass speared through the loamy soil, and the coy tails of ferns were beginning to unfurl.

  “Dan Shalia, the Keeper of the Keys, scolds me if I don’t wear slippers inside…” She drew a breath, wrapped her arms around her body. “She’s gone now, and the floors, and…” Tears fell again.

  “Well, there you go. No more need for shoes.” I gestured to the great outdoors.

  Her head snapped up, gold amber eyes hard and angry, which was a vast improvement on sobbing. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Back to the camp.” The sound of hooves plowing down the road was deadened by the forest.

  She shook her head. “I mean, where are they going from here?”

  “Ah, right. They’re going to make fools of themselves playacting and then take you to find your kin.”

  A sudden realization caused her to cast off the sullen mask she’d worn since the first time I’d seen her. “Aunt Shey?”