by K. T. Davies
“My arse. Given the smell of that swill, I’ve done you a favor.”
“Listen, you fucking tert.” My lank-haired assailant jabbed a grubby finger at me before realizing his mistake. “I want my beer.”
All the stagehands were tertiaries and didn’t take kindly to being insulted, even if it was by way of me. Work ceased, some of them ambled over and stood behind me, tools in hand.
I smiled. “What did you call me, pissling?”
Now he saw his mistake. “I just… Watch where you’re going.” It was an uncannily swift reversal for someone so apparently deep in his cups. Although, perhaps not quick enough to save him from a paneling. Before things got all unnecessary, a redheaded wench threw her arm around his shoulder and steered him away. Muttering, the others dispersed.
I turned. “Oh, I didn’t see you there.”
Hammerhand laughed. “No?”
“Well, I smelled something.”
10
“Pass me that.” I chinned at the screw turner that had rolled beyond my reach. Sakura leaped upon it enthusiastically, almost knocking the barking iron from my hands and dislodging the screw I’d painstakingly cleaned and replaced.
Repairing Crane’s handcannon had been an onerous task on account of his hands being melted to it. After scraping the majority of Crane off his gun, I discovered that the barrel was straight, and the stock only superficially burned. The claw that held the zanth crystal had bent a touch, but I’d been able to hammer it back in place. The calthracite pan had a hairline crack, but nothing that a half-decent blacksmith couldn’t repair and nothing that would stop me using it in the meantime if I had call. I hoped the need didn’t arise because between you and me, I’d scared myself. Handcannon aside, what I’d done in the glade and how shit I’d felt after wasn’t something I wanted to repeat. I shook the dark thoughts from my mind and focused my attention on the barking irons and sundries, which lay on the floor before me.
Thero’s piece was in better shape than Crane’s and had just jammed on a wad of gritty mud. All it needed was a good clean. Or so I hoped. I’d test fire them when we were in open country again. Aside from the guns, I’d managed to scrounge a pouch of shot, a half-full flask of calthracite powder, three unused zanth crystals, and a cleaning kit. I was set.
“Grandfather says handcannons are dishonorable weapons,” Sakura offered.
“Didn’t stop him arming his crew with them.”
“They armed themselves.” She thrust out her chin and adopted an amusingly petulant scowl. “They had free choice.”
Lying and hypocrisy were amongst the least of Shu Lo Jing’s sins, but it wasn’t my place to put her right. “Needs must when the demons drive.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s what people say when they’re bored of a conversation.” I tightened the screw. “Personally, when it comes to weapons, I prefer a pair of long knives. There’s skill in blade work— you have to get close enough to smell a cove’s breath before you slot ‘em. And if you’ve got to off someone from a distance, there’s nothing like a good bow.” Or magic. Magic’ll kill everything. “You see these?” I gestured to the handcannon. “Any fool can use ‘em.”
“Are you going to use them?”
“I do hope so.”
She canted her head, the bruise on her cheek where the thoasa had belted her had faded to a yellow stain. “Why?”
“They get the job done. They’re loud and messy, but they’ll turn even a Mage Lord’s head into jam.” If I get the drop on him.
“You say terrible things.”
“I’m just being honest. It sounds terrible because the world is full of liars.”
She sank onto her cushions. “You could try being nicer.”
“I could. I sometimes do, but it doesn’t work.” I laughed. “Being half thoasa and with a mother like mine, it’s a miracle I’m as nice as I am.” I gave her a toothsome grin, which despite her best efforts, she responded to in kind.
“Well, I think it is better to be as nice as you can be.”
“Of course you do, you’re young, and even though you’ve seen a lot of late, you lack life experience. You’ll change your mind when enough cunts have tried to kill you or ruin your life.” I sighted down the barrels of the cannons. They were both a good weight. Thero’s barker had some small embellishments, a little horn inlay, and some scrollwork on the butt. Crane’s was plain save for the ghost imprint of his hand on the grip where his fat had soaked into the wood, marking it forever. I’d have to dry it out in chalk powder when I got the chance. If nothing else, it would get rid of the smell of cooked meat. As much of a chore as it was cleaning up the barkers, both of which appeared to work, I was starting to remember the tricks of the trade; old skills I’d long forgotten.
“Will you show me how to use them?”
The question was unexpected, but it was good to see the kinch was taking an interest. “Aye. When we leave wherever the fuck we are.”
“Senc River.”
“Never heard of it. Oh no, wait a minute. I remember. It’s named after…” I laughed as I recalled Mother recounting the hilarious tale of Senc River, which, because of the sudden fashion for senc scale tippets, became the center of a thriving industry some years ago. The locals hunted the harmless critters to near extinction. They drowned them to preserve their pelts, and then discarded the useless bodies in the river. Apparently, it all went wrong when the corpses dammed the river and the town flooded.
“After what?” Sakura inquired brightly.
“Sencs. It’s named after the sencs…that live hereabouts.
Her eyes widened. She bounced up, rocked the wagon, and hit her head on the decorative branches, showering us in glitter. “I love sencs! They’re adorable with their sweet little faces and those tiny claws. Can we go find some, can we, please?”
“Er…” The image of a tonne of greened bones and grinning skulls bobbing in the river flashed into my mind. “They’re hibernating.”
“They hibernate in spring?”
“I know. Strange, eh?” There was a loud, collective gasp like a crowd at an execution. It was followed almost immediately by a raucous cheer. “Time for you to get your head down now, Salami. And no snoring tonight. I’m just going for a quick nosey.” I tucked the refurbished barkers into my belt and alighted.
“I don’t snore, and my name’s Sakura!” she called after me.
Her good-natured bellowing followed me across the camp. Mistaking her name had in the first place been born of not caring to learn it, and now it was a game we played for her pleasure and my peace. It paid to keep her happy; she was the key I needed to unlock the favor of the Midnight Court.
A sizable crowd had gathered to watch the play and judging by the way they were cheering, which was loud and with great gusto, they’d enjoyed it. The sweating players were standing hand in hand upon the apron, taking it in turns to glide forward and humbly accept the adoration of the crowd. While they soaked up the adulation, Emma and the stagehands moved through the audience to collect their gratitude in coin. Kellian, the handsome lead was waving and blowing kisses to a knot of peasant wenches clustered before him, waving and shrieking for his attention. He bestowed smiles like benedictions upon them, milking their affections like a four-handed dairymaid. He was also leaning heavily on his understudy.
Caught up in melodramatic euphoria, some of the rowdier members of the crowd tried to climb the stage in an attempt to touch their ephemeral greatness; to stand amongst the greasepaint gods. To placate the drunken assemblage, some of the actors took up instruments and began to play a lively jig, which was an excellent way to tempt the unruly back to the square for dancing. Meanwhile, the local innkeepers were tapping barrels in anticipation of a profitable night. If all else failed, Hammerhand and his team were standing by with saps and cudgels ready to persuade the invaders off the stage.
Those lucky performers lacking skill or obligation to further entertain the crowd sli
pped away like shadows, shedding their smiles with their wigs, their dazzling personae enshrined in the faux magnificence of sweat-soaked costumes left to dry upon the rack.
Before the applause faded, collection boxes were taken through the crowd, guarded by the cudgel wielding stagehands. The donations were mostly small denominations; copper, tin—the odd silver. More than one of the ebullient spectators paid with a jug of cider, a basket of vegetables, or a jar of pickled fruit. Most offerings were graciously accepted, but I saw Emma refuse a squealing, baby tusker.
Comestibles and livestock aside, there was a satisfying ring of chink validating Cobb’s claim that this was the best play he’d ever written. I shouldered my way through the raucous crowd, enjoying the rowdy atmosphere while resisting the urge to dip a few pockets. Not taking the chance to practice a skill I hadn’t used in years might have been a missed opportunity. I’d have to live with it because I couldn’t countenance the idea of being caught and hanged for attempting to steal a clipped penny or worse, granny’s lucky tooth.
“Ah! Breed!” Cobb bellowed, red-cheeked and grinning, drunk on success. He rolled towards me and clapped me on the shoulder. “They loved it! Did you see? I told you, I told everyone this was the best play I’ve ever written.”
“It’s certainly gone down well. What happened to Kellian, he looked a bit grey?”
Half of Cobb’s eyestalks flicked towards backstage where Kellian was sitting, gripping the arms of his chair. Fillin was dabbing his forehead whether he wanted it or not, and Niobia, still garbed as the leading lady, was gently easing off his boot.
“He fell off the stage during the fight scene. It was very dramatic, and he carried on to the end like a proper trooper.” He steered me through the crowd back to the camp.
“You not going to check on him?”
Cobb gave a lopsided grin. “I’m going to count the takings. What did you think? Be honest now.”
That he was wasting breath asking showed how little he knew me. “It was… sublime?”
“The fart jokes worked then?” All eyestalks bent towards me.
“Oh, they were the best part, very moving.”
He squeezed my shoulder and guided us towards the wagons in the ruins. “I knew it! He laughed. “Ah, there’s Mrs. C.” He waved to Emma who was making her way through the milling crowd. She traipsed through the ruins clutching an ironbound box to her bosom. Cobb swept her up and they waltzed outside of their wagon, talking excitedly over each other so that their words wove together into a knotted tapestry of joyful noise.
“Keep an eye out would you, Breed?”
“Only if you’re counting coins. If you’re making the beast with two backs, you can find someone else to stand outside.” Cobb winked before closing the wagon door. Time passed, and the players drifted back to camp enthusiastically discussing how marvelous they had been, and how wonderfully discerning the audience had been. The only one of them who wasn’t in the highest of spirits was Kellian. He was carried to camp chaired between Fillin and one of the stagehands. His face was ashen and his left foot twice the size of the right. Although, solicitous to his face, as soon as he deposited his boon companion by the firepit, Fillin made directly for Cobb’s wagon.
“I need a word with Cobb,” he said confidently, and made to brush past me. I interposed myself between the player and the door.
“He doesn’t want to be disturbed. Come back later.”
The rebuff was met with an expression of shocked reproof. “I beg your pardon?”
I cleared my throat. “I said—”
“I heard what you said.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because my business is urgent.”
“Cobb knows your paramour is injured.”
Fillin leaned in. Close up, I could see the pale outline of gills on his slender neck that had failed to fully develop. The discrete folds of skin were artfully hidden by his flowing locks. It wasn’t much of a touch, but enough to cause him to hide it and condemn him to the lowly rank of the Third Estate. “It’s not about Kell, as such. It’s about something more important.” He winked as though we were conspirators.
I tapped the side of my nose. “I’ll tell him you came by. Now piss off.”
To give the slender youth his due, he was wise enough not to act on his first instinct, which if my reading of his body language was correct, was to try to barge past me. He loomed a little and scowled a lot before striding angrily to the fire. On route to his companion and rival, he replaced the fury of his gaze with a finely crafted expression of solicitude. It was an impressive transformation, bespeaking the pretty mercenary’s undoubted talent.
The Company of the White Star descended from the counterfeit fugue by way of wine, pel, and chatter. A homely air was contrived from their laughter, the air foxed and blended to rich, oil paint warmth by lamplight and pipe glow.
I was on the cusp of relaxing, of basking a while in the borrowed radiance of their camaraderie when I noticed a pair of dubious coves pretending not to spy on the camp. It wasn’t uncommon or unexpected and, given that they were sitting in plain sight, anything to be feared. Thieves were drawn to money boxes like flies were drawn to shit. That it was the redhead and the lank-haired twat from earlier perked my interest beyond merely marking their presence.
I guessed they were either fixing to rob Cobb, who hadn’t made much of an effort to hide his takings, or they were waiting until I was on my own before taking up where we’d left off earlier. I hoped it was the former as I’d had my fill of killing for a few weeks. As there had been five of them, I casually surveyed the area for the others. The remains of the ruined temple beyond the camp were dark and quiet, save for the scrabbling and snuffling of roaches and rodents. The windows of buildings that overlooked where the wagons were drawn up were shuttered, and the crooked alleyways leading from the square appeared untroubled by idle loiterers.
Cobb threw open the door to his wagon and jumped down. He was followed by Emma, who was carrying a barrel of brandy. They were both beaming, Cobb in particular looked to be caught upon the point of either roaring with laughter or crying tears of joy. It had never occurred to me that he actually cared about how the foolishness he scribbled was received, and yet here he was trembling with emotion.
“You’ve done me proud my loves.” His voice broke sweetly enough to draw an affectionate hug from Emma. “You’ve done yourselves proud, and I salute you!” He raised his tankard.
Emma set the barrel on the table under the awning and wiped the brass spigot with a lace kerchief. “Come, everyone. Let’s celebrate…but not too much. This stuff costs a fortune.” Laughter greeted her words, and a rowdy queue formed. When Hammerhand and the other stagehands returned, I slipped away and snagged a dark cloak from backstage. As a precaution, I cut the thieves mark for ‘protected’ on the back of Cobb’s wagon. Those who could read it should walk by.
I wasn’t one for social gatherings, so while the Company celebrated, I decided I’d watch the watchers. When they moved off, if they moved off, I’d follow them, just to satisfy myself as to what they were up to. I’d done enough killing for Cobb, so as a professional courtesy, I’d warn them off if it turned out that they were on the rob. If they belonged to a bona fide crew they’d step back. If they weren’t recognized, I’d threaten them with the consequences of not being in the union. And, if they were just local toughs after me, I’d avoid them. Either way, I was confident that I could head this one off without blood being shed.
I slipped into the fold of long shadows that softened the jagged profile of a collapsed transept, now the haunt of roaches and rats. I’d forgotten how at home I felt in the places nice people feared to tread as I crept past the discarded pieces of a broken cart and the rag-curtained nest of some homeless cove. They’d moved out or died some time ago leaving a shrine to abject misery in the form of a broken jug and a half chewed shoe.
The smell of sweaty bodies, the apple tang of aged cider, and the sound
of music and laughter wafted from the town square. I climbed one of the few intact walls of the temple and crouched atop the remains of a section of decorative frieze. Rain and wind had robbed it of its color, but the carvings were still sharp, and depicted a procession of pious saints. My sacred perch afforded an excellent view of the fallen portico where the two would-be spies were loitering. If I craned, I could also see the stage and the square where the revels looked set to continue long into the night, or until the ale ran out—whichever came first.
The wench and her companion were still intently not spying on the camp. Her face was in profile, his head and shoulders visible above the broken wall of the temple. Both were perfectly placed to receive an arrow had I a bow, or the inclination to kill them. I settled in, remembered how much I enjoyed this kind of work while acknowledging that taking pleasure in stalking people from the shadows was possibly not entirely normal.
The band struck up a jolly air, and the dancers formed into concentric rings. Arms linked the circles, which turned like living cogs in wheels powered by music and ale and the simple pleasure of being alive, all cares forgotten. When the last sun bled out against the blade edge of the horizon, the pair of scallywags got up and made their way between the temple and the market square away from the players’ camp. I ran along the frieze, leaped across the gap where the portico had collapsed, and onto the opposite wall. Down below, the street split into a T-junction. They headed east along a narrow alley. I was about to jump down when a sharp breeze at my back and the sound of furious wing beats caused me to stop, turn, and draw.
“There you are!” It was Jojo. He came to hover a few feet below me, his wings flashing in the darkness of the temple. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Redhead and Lankhair’s heads shot up. They saw me and legged it.
11
I glared at Jojo and sprang off the wall. It had been a long time since I’d trusted myself to the sky without the aid of wings. I focused on a nearby roof and kept it sighted as I tumbled and landed precisely where I wanted. Nothing hurt, nothing twinged. My back didn’t crack, and my knees didn’t creak. I laughed, exhilarated. I had missed this.
