Black Recluse

by Anna Bowman

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  He stretched his neck to one side.

  A barefoot boy in tattered clothes strode up and down the length of the docks, carrying a sack of rolled up broadsheets.

  He yelled in a grating voice, “Get your latest news—everything you need to know right here. Just the facts.”

  Solomand scowled and spit on the ground.

  “Trash-peddling swindler.”

  He raised his voice, and passers-by scowled at him, crossing to the other side of the street. Hands on his hips, Solomand looked satisfied he had scared the boy’s customers away. He wagged a finger in the air.

  “The only thing those damn things are good for is—”

  “Another High-Brow assassinated by mysterious sleepwalking culprit.”

  Solomand’s eyes narrowed as the boy walked past.

  “Jank.”

  The engineer jumped. His face, Rayn noted, was a sickish yellow color. Solomand nodded toward the Broadsheet boy.

  “Pay the swindler, will you?”

  Mouth half-open, Jank looked like he meant to protest, but swallowed in a pronounced way instead. One hand tugged inadvertently on his ear, and the other was in his pocket reaching for a coin. He went through a series of movements where he dropped the coin and fumbled to pick it up before finally managing to carry out the order. He thrust the Broadsheet into Solomand’s hand like he thought it might burn him.

  “Here.”

  Solomand produced a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. Jank looked at the paper like Solomand was trying to offer him a venomous snake.

  “The supply list, Jank.”

  The engineer snatched the paper, uncrumpled it, and held it to his face as he read, moving his mouth noiselessly.

  “Back here by noon,” Solomand said. Jank ignored him and kept reading. “Twelve o’clock.”

  Solomand thumped him on the head with his fist.

  “Owe! Sh—.” Jank bit back a swear. “I got it,” he said, glowering at Solomand. “Come on, Zee.”

  He shoved the envelope in his pocket and took the girl by the hand, hurrying away.

  “Trash?” Rayn glanced over Solomand’s shoulder at the scrupulous headlines. “What was it you were going to say those were good for?”

  Solomand cleared his throat and smoothed the creased paper.

  “Alright. Maybe two things. On occasion, a fact manages to accidentally slip into the endless stream of propaganda. If you know what you’re looking for.”

  “Right.” She gazed after Jank, who seemed even more on-edge than usual. “What’s wrong with Jank, anyway? Looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

  “More like what he heard.”

  Solomand’s eyes narrowed. His finger following the words to the story about a dead mayor. Rayn rocked forward onto her toes to see over his shoulder:

  Mayor of Syracuse murdered in his sleep. The culprit, Samuel McGentry was caught without incident. He claims he was asleep and halfway across the town. This is the third such story in the past five months of similar slayings throughout the Plains cities. Could this be the work of the mysterious Professor Falcon?

  Rayn rolled her eyes.

  Sensational garbage.

  “Mysterious Falcon? Where’s the fact slipped into that mess?”

  Then again, there was that word sleepwalk again. She finished the rest of her coffee and set the empty mug inside the airship on a crate.

  Solomand raised his eye from the Broadsheet to look at her.

  “Now see. It’s what you’d least expect to be true that is in these things. Sleepwalker.”

  He balled the sheet up and raised his arm, gauging his aim before pelting the paperboy on the back of the head with it.

  “Now then, off to find you some harmless metal scraps, eh?”

  He was already walking into town when the boy turned to see who had thrown the paper at him.

  Rayn hurried to catch up, adjusting her gun belt as she went.

  “What is a sleepwalker supposed to be?” she asked.

  Solomand dragged a hand through his hair.

  “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  Rayn’s voice was flat. She wondered if keeping secrets was always second nature to him.

  “Alright. It’s someone who can be in two places at once while they’re sleeping. Not everyone can do it. Only people who have a particular gene.”

  “Two places at once? You’ve got to be joking.”

  He was either crazy or feeding her a line of horseshit to keep her from asking questions.

  Solomand gave her a crooked grin and shrugged.

  “I tried to tell you.”

  “And this Professor Falcon?”

  She couldn’t keep the cynicism from her voice.

  Solomand’s smile was replaced by a somberness, which made it difficult to tell whether he was lying or not.

  “That’d be Jank’s ghost. He’s no joking matter.”

  There was something in the way he spoke that bothered Rayn. Whoever this Falcon was, Solomand believed he was real, and—more to the point—he seemed afraid.

  “If you believe the stories, he can make you sleepwalk where he wants—offing an official, for instance. The sleepwalker is seen, takes the fall, and he’s in the clear. No risk whatsoever to him.”

  Solomand scowled, sounding almost disgusted for a moment.

  “That what happened to Jank?” Rayn asked.

  Solomand didn’t answer, but his eyes raised slightly. If it were true, it would explain the engineer’s jumpiness.

  As they rounded a bend, rough looking people eyed them with suspicion before turning up their collars and tramping away. Aside from the paperboy, who seemed to be around fifteen, there were no signs of children anywhere. Messenger hawks filled the air with wing-beats as they took to the sky from makeshift, wooden cages; not the most efficient means of communication, but still, the most trusted to avoid interception by authorities.

  “Nice place,” she said, coughing into her hand, trying to avoid breathing in with her nose.

  “Isn’t it?” Solomand’s sarcasm was almost indistinguishable from sincerity.

  He ducked under a crumbling doorway, which turned down another alleyway. It was empty and quiet. Their boots splashing in fetid puddles of water were the only sounds.

  “Where are we going?”

  Rayn walked faster to keep up, eyeing the dark windows. Her hand moved to grip her revolver.

  “Just up ahead.”

  Solomand nodded towards a door hanging on by one hinge.

  Fantastic.

  Rayn was beginning to have doubts. Maybe it would have been best to stay behind after all. As Solomand pushed the door open, Rayn eyed the hinge, expecting it to break.

  “Down the hall, to the left,” Solomand said.

  Low flames flickered behind cracked and dirt-smeared lamp covers.

  Shards of glass crunched beneath their boots. Rayn cringed at the layers of trash. The smell of urine and dead rodents was worse than the colorful aroma of the rest of the town. She swallowed back a gag, trying to stay close to Solomand. She searched his face for any kind of shared disgust but found none. Did nothing bother him? A rat skittered across their path, and he kicked it to the side without missing a beat. It squeaked and burrowed away behind empty bottles and stacks of moldy newspapers.

  Oh god!

  Rayn clamped both hands over her nose, trying not to look as sick as she felt.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Cap’n Blacky come to see Ol’ McKlane,” a croaky voice rasped. A thin man sat in front of a table littered with oddities at the very back of the room. “Can’t avoid a good bargain, eh Cap’n?”

  He grinned, revealing a few half-rotten teeth. His watery eyes ran up and down Rayn.

  “What’s this, then? Dealin’ ‘n high dollars now, are ya?”

  What the hell does that mean?

  Rayn tensed, her heart pounding. Her hands lowered fro
m her face and rested on her gun belt, giving the old man a look that could have cut stone. She had never seen a slave but had heard stories that slaving was a flourishing enterprise on other continents. She pretended to be interested in the mechanical trinkets strewn out before the old man. There was nothing of much value: a variety of knives, solar pocket-watches, and a necklace with a glass pendant caught her eye. A firefly glowed intermittently from within the glass oval.

  A mechanical spider made its way across the table. It would raise one ink-colored leg and place it over an item as it navigated through the maze of trinkets. Intricate black gears whirred inside the glass bulb of its body, weaving around a liquid-filled center in the shape of a violin

  Solomand stepped in front of Rayn and slammed his hands down on the table.

  “I don’t deal in that shit, McKlane, and you know it.”

  His voice was low and threatening. Rayn relaxed her shoulders, feeling somewhat safer. The spider scuttled behind a dusty bottle with life-like speed. McKlane shrank back as Solomand jabbed a finger in his wrinkly face.

  “And it isn’t Cap’n Blacky, you goat-faced weasel!”

  McKlane threw up his hands.

  “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Get all kinds here, ya know—'specially these days.”

  Solomand frowned with disgust.

  “I came here to find some parts for a gunsmith,” he gestured to Rayn.

  The old man shifted his wily gaze to her and back to Solomand nervously.

  “Sure, sure—ol’ McKlane can get anything ya need.”

  Rayn dug in her pocket and pulled out the list she’d drawn up before they left the Castle. She passed it to Solomand. He looked from it to her and shook his head in an annoyed way. She imagined the words running through his mind: Really Rayn? You couldn’t just give this to me?

  No, I wanted to come.

  She wrinkled her nose at him in return. Rolling his eyes, Solomand passed the list to McKlane.

  “Everything on here. I need it delivered to the docks in an hour.”

  McKlane bit his fingernails, which had a layer of dirt embedded underneath them, as he looked over the paper.

  “An hour’s a bit tough to swindle.”

  Solomand squared his shoulders and crossed his arms. McKlane shrank back again.

  “Not impossible—not impossible! Cost’ll be steeper, though.”

  Solomand glared at him. McKlane’s face hardened.

  “Look here, ol’ McKlane’ll cut ya a deal, but fair’s fair...”

  “Alright,” Solomand said. “But no payment ‘til delivery.”

  “But, come on Cap’n,” McKlane started to protest.

  Solomand’s lips formed a tight line.

  “You know I’m always fair. Even with lowlife scroungers like you.”

  McKlane’s scratched his head. It was hard to separate where his grungy white hair stopped and his beard started.

  “Alright, Cap’n,” he nodded. “Ya got yourself a deal. His eyes darted around the room.

  Solomand shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a large, copper coin. He tossed it on the table, and McKlane snatched it up.

  “They better be there, McKlane.”

  He scooped up the firefly necklace.

  McKlane bit the coin between his remaining yellow teeth.

  “McKlane’s guarantee!”

  He winked as he tucked his prize into a ragged pocket and scurried away, presumably, to fill their order.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Solomand turned to leave, turning up his collar over his mouth. “Place is starting to turn my stomach.”

  “Starting to?” She had to take two steps to keep up with one of his. Solomand didn’t offer any response. His pace quickened as they exited the rundown building and weaved through the dark alleys, taking so many turns that Rayn knew she could never find her way back to the docks without him.

  Rayn walked faster until she was walking beside him.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see an old silversmith—might know something about your S. L.”

  He shoved a hand in his pocket and fumbled out a cigarette. Rayn took the hint. He didn’t want to talk.

  It wasn’t long before they arrived at another building, standing alone in the center of what once might have been a courtyard. The remains of a shoddy steeple leaned from the top.

  “Let me do the talking in here, eh? Stay in the shadows.” He paused. “On second thought, wait out here.” He held out his hand. “I’ll need your medallion, though.”

  Rayn frowned but dug the necklace out of her pocket and dropped it in his hand. If the church was anything like the last place they visited, she could wait.

  “I shouldn’t be long.”

  Solomand’s hand closed around the medallion, and he kicked open the door, unleashing a flurry of dust that swirled into the alley. She glimpsed a black emptiness and heard the sound of scurrying as he stepped inside.

  Mice or roaches? Rayn’s thoughts turned to the mechanical spider, and a chill worked its way up her spine as the door closed behind Sol.

  Chapter 17

  Solomand

  “I know you’re here, Zishay.”

  Solomand’s voice reverberated off the high, slanted walls of slate stone. Then, he spoke in a different language; the language of his mother. It sounded strange on his tongue after all these years; it was a lyrical, bitter, foreign.

  “Show yourself, Priest.”

  At first, only the creaks of the floor and the echoing of his own words answered from the vacant building. Then, something scraped against the floor and a low voice answered in the same ancient language. “

  “You tell me to show myself? You are the one hiding in the shadows.”

  A match struck, the flame glowing, then dimming as it bent to the wick of a lamp.

  Solomand stepped forward, squinting against the light.

  “I’ve nothing to hide, Zishay.”

  The thin man stooped over a cane, long, silver hair draped over his black cloak. Bony hands tightened around the cane as he scraped it across the ground and hoisted it up with ease, catching Solomand in the ribs.

  “Owe!” Solomand doubled over. “What the hell old man?”

  He cringed, looking up reproachfully.

  Zishay was not the man’s real name. It was the name given him by the Crow Clan during his time with them. It was there Solomand met him.

  “You have not come to see me for many years, Solomand.” Zishay’s eyes were like black marbles beneath thin, arched eyebrows. “And the paths you travel…” He shook his head sadly, bringing his cane back down to lean on. “What would your father say? And your mother? They would expect more of you, Solomand.”

  The old priest was skilled with his use of guilt. His words struck deep in a way that Solomand would never admit. He straightened, still clutching where Zishay had jabbed him. But the real sting burned from the inside and was starting to spread.

  “Their courage—.”

  “I know the story!” Solomand interrupted, his face dark. He fought to keep the memories in check. “I was there, remember? I have not come here to speak of them.” He couldn’t speak of them.

  Zishay leaned forward on his staff, worn hands coiling on the handle.

  “Misfortune. It still follows you. It is the curse of the Kree.”

  Solomand suppressed the urge to role his eyes at mention of the curse.

  “I did not come here to talk about ancient superstition.”

  His people were wanderers, nomads, gypsies; they could never call a place home or misery would settle on their shoulders. He recalled his grandfather, lying on a colorful, woven blanket in his tent, his eyes burning in accusation at Solomand, then ten-years old.

  “That is why my daughter died!” The old man insisted, clinging to hurt and disapproval even as he drew his last breaths.

  Lemuel Falcon had been there, his hand on Solomand’s shoulder—one of the few moments he felt reli
ef at the close friend of his parents being there. Then, his grandfather had handed him a tarnished copper sphere crisscrossed with lines and engraved with cyphered markings.

  “Your destiny.”

  Another thing he had to admit he owed Lemuel, who had later told him in his pervading manner.

  “Your destiny is what you choose it to be.” He dismissed the old man’s ramblings as foolishness. “Stay with the Crow if you wish, or I will return you to Corcyra if you wish. Your life. Your choice.”

  Solomand chose the latter, taking the sphere with him. As grandson to the Crow Clan’s chief, the device was his birthright. Lemuel explained what it was: an ancient navigational device made by their ancestors. It could interface with any airship or be used as a compass on its own. You could program it to take you anywhere on the world, and there was something else; it was a key to a safely guarded secret of the Kree Clans.

  Solomand, however, did not care about what secrets the device held. He only needed it for one purpose.

  Zishay scrutinized him, looking almost like a badly carved statue.

  “Why have you come?” He asked.

  “I had something sent to you for safekeeping some time ago. I need it back.”

  “Ahh, the map of your destiny.”

  Zishay shook his head, looking disappointed. His knobby hands tightened, traveling to the top of his cane.

  “It will do you no good, Anim—.”

  “That’s not my name.” Solomand stopped him before he could finish.

  He breathed in slowly, transferring one hand to his pocket. Lines were more pronounced on Zishay’s forehead.

  “Even if you gain what you seek, the price will be too great. Even for a pirate.”

  Solomand’s chest felt tight.

  I’m not a pirate!

  To the old man, he said, “Are you finished?” Then, because he couldn’t bear the accusatory glint in the old man’s eyes any longer, he looked away. “Where is it?”

  Zishay shuffled forward.

  “I will tell you, Solomand, but first you must tell me something.”

  Solomand raised a hand to his temple, closing his eyes. Sweat trickled down the side of his face.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What is it you seek? Revenge?”

  “Yes. Among other things.”