The Justice in Revenge

by Ryan Van Loan

  “Here, let me help,” Eld said, bending over her. Quenta looked up through her knotted gold locks and squeaked, turning a shade that matched Eld’s red collar.

  “Only one or two got wet,” he added. “And we’ll buy those from you, since Buc here was the cause of you dropping them.”

  “Easy with the accusations,” I told him. “You didn’t waste time hoarding that coin, did you, lass?” Quenta managed an even deeper shade when she met my eyes. “Might have been a little too enthusiastic.”

  “The seamstress said this was the latest fashion,” the girl said quickly, dropping another paper as she touched the edge of her new jacket. When I’d last seen her, she’d been in the threadbare greys of most criers and messengers, but now she wore a jacket nearly the same cut as mine. The fabric, though truly fine, was a shade of yellow close enough to that of a gold lira that it was borderline garish. Her trousers were tight and a little short, but unpatched and a black dark enough that it’d take a few months for sun and rain to fade them to grey. Her boots, trimmed in faux gild that caught the sunlight, put her over the top.

  “With these clothes I can sell my papers in the nicer Quartos,” she concluded.

  “Your maestro give you permission to have a corner there?”

  “He will! When he sobers enough to see I’ve come up in the world,” Quenta said.

  “Uh-huh. Until then, how’d you like to earn another coin?”

  “I ain’t heard nothing what you were asking of,” she said. “It’s only been a couple of suns since you asked!”

  “Easy, lass,” Eld said, standing up with an arm full of newspapers. “You don’t have to shout, Buc’s not interrogating you.”

  “That’s her normal voice,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  “Aye.” I sighed. “I just need to know who is running the head beggars’ guild these days,” I told Quenta, turning back to her. She took the stack of papers from Eld, avoiding his eyes while her ears turned pink. “And where they can be found.”

  “B-beggars guild runs out of the Tip,” Quenta said. A man in an orange-and-green plaid coat that was so patched with other colors the plaid was beginning to look like a rainbow interrupted to slip her a copper and take a paper. “Thank you, sirrah!” she called after him.

  “The Mosquitoes,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, “have their hall, well, it’s an alley, really, along the Foreskin.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Eld hissed.

  “What?”

  “The Mosquitoes call their home the Foreskin?” Eld snorted. “Gods, I can’t believe I just said that sentence in front of a young woman.”

  “I’m not offended,” I said.

  “Not you. Her!”

  “And here I thought you were being a gentleman,” I mocked. Quenta giggled. “The Foreskin is what locals call the southern bend of the Tip, where it curves down and hangs a bit,” I explained.

  “And the Mosquitoes are what beggars call themselves,” Quenta added. “They name themselves that, sirrah, because they only take a little bit at a time, but enough of them take and it adds up.” Eld’s face was still crimson from a moment before, but he laughed at that.

  “She’s not wrong,” I said. “I read a book on the Northern Wastes, about where the Quando clans lay claim. The author said that in the late spring, when the bogs have unfrozen, the mosquitoes come out in swarms large enough to eat horses alive. Even griffins have been known to fly south until true summer arrives.”

  Eld whistled. “Mosquitoes, eh?”

  “Aye, but that presents another problem,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You. You can’t walk into the Tip in all that silk, not unless you’re heading straight for a brothel, and even then you’d want to have half a dozen others with you for, uh, moral support,” I said, glancing down at Quenta.

  “You’re joking.”

  “She en’t,” Quenta said.

  “Well, you can’t go alone. Not to the Foreskin. I’m coming with you,” Eld said.

  “That’s what all the prostitutes say.”

  Quenta burst out laughing and Eld’s face turned purple.

  “You can come along,” I said, “but it’s going to need something.”

  “W-what?” Eld asked, his voice still tight from my joke.

  “A disguise.”

  Eld went apoplectic.

  “For a gentleman, he sure knows a lot of curse words,” Quenta said in an awed voice.

  “It’s a failing,” I agreed. Eld’s tongue tripped him up and he began choking out gibberish, which was probably just as well, given Quenta’s presence. “A real failing.”

  11

  “This is turning into a Godsdamned waste of a day!”

  “Hey, at least you’re comfortable,” Eld grumbled. “I knew we should have gone to a proper tailor and not that thirdhand thrift hawker—this coat is too short.” He fought to cross his arms and the grey wool made an ominous tearing sound. “And too damned tight.”

  “That’s because you’ve too much muscle, which I’ve never heard you complain about before. Besides, there’s an upside you’re missing.”

  “Aye, and what’s that?” he asked.

  “It shows off your arse to great effect.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me,” I said. “Come on,” I added, slapping him hard on the butt.

  “Buc!”

  “Do you always call my name when a woman slaps you?”

  “Buc!” he rasped.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you what they say when you do. Wouldn’t be polite.”

  I kept walking, and after a moment he caught up with me, his face a study in marble that gave nothing away, but I noticed a trickle of sweat on his brow despite the gusty wind that had returned. Even in our woolens, we stood out here, where every third person wore rags and the rest a hodgepodge of stained, patchwork jackets, trousers, and dresses.

  Women wore trousers not because of fashion but out of necessity; many wore faded army pantaloons from a few campaigns back, paired with ill-fitting sandals in place of boots. They gave us a wide berth and an even wider one to a small group of nobles who laughed uproariously as they marched down the center of the street, hands on swords or pistoles, faces ruddy from drink. Either getting an early start or a late walk home.

  I stepped in a puddle and bit back a curse at the acrid stench of urine that rose from it. It hadn’t been a feast day yesterday, but when the sea storms broke that hard upon Servenza there was little to do but batten down the hatches and wait it out, and all work stopped as a consequence. This being Servenza, nothing stopped the drinking. Or the whoring. Or the begging. We’d tramped all through the Foreskin—much to Eld’s chagrin—and seen not a scrap of beggars. The motley collection of folks who leaned against hovels along the harbor front or sat on rickety porches of homes missing windows or, in some cases, roofs, claimed not to know where the Mosquitoes were—despite the coin we’d implied was in it for them. None of them were begging either. Drunk or sleeping it off or too poor to have done either and sullen for it, not a single one could tell us where all the fucking beggars had begged off to.

  “It’s enough to make me want to tear these clothes off, make a bonfire of them, and scream,” I muttered.

  “Now that might get their attention,” Eld agreed. “But I’m not sure if yon ladies of the night would appreciate the competition.”

  I almost asked him if he would appreciate it, but that was a canal too far. I’d already pushed him as hard as I could and, from the tautness in his shoulders, he half wanted to storm away. But you can’t leave me now, Eld. Not here. I smiled at that, put my arm through his, and steered him up Redlight Row. Here the cobblestones weren’t missing and the houses had fewer holes, and all had roofs. The Tip was the latrine of Servenza and used as such, but none wanted to fuck where they shat, so here, at least, was a modicum of decency. The whole Quarto set a fire within me … if not for a f
ew stray chances seized upon, this could have been my home. Nearly was, until Eld found me.

  “Now home is a place famed for the perfumed air of the trees,” Sin said.

  “I’m not going to feel guilty about success,” I told him. “Not when it means I’ve a chance to give every soul here what I have today.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “You know I do.”

  “I know you think you do, but you really believe that you’ll destroy the pillar that is Ciris, the pillar that the world is built upon, and suddenly lire will rain from the sky and everyone will live happily ever after?”

  “I’m not a fool,” I growled. “There is no happily ever after—but there will be a chance. Something we’ve never had, thanks to the Gods. And now your religious war threatens to destroy us all. Ciris is no pillar … she’s a chain around our necks. No, killing her and the Dead Gods won’t fix this,” I agreed.

  A small boy, half-naked and pallid from the cold despite his bronzed skin, darted amongst the nobles ahead of us. They were making for one of the houses, where half a dozen men and a few women in scraps of silk and lace stood invitingly. Another child played with a headless doll, her look so vacant I hoped she was gazing on another reality.

  “Your Gods don’t care about the Painted Rock Quarto or the Foreskin or the Tip—they probably find the names amusing and proof of these people’s lot in life. But I’m going to disabuse them, Sin. All of them. I’ve already started with you.”

  “How did you arrive at that conclusion?” he asked. His presence was ash and sparks in my mind. He hated everything I’d just said.

  But you didn’t call me a liar.

  “Because you know I’m right and you’re listening, aren’t you? Enough.” I cut him off. “We’ve a Mosquito to find.”

  * * *

  “Eld.”

  He glanced down at Buc’s harsh tone and arched his eyebrows.

  “It’s me.” Buc’s voice grew deeper, more languid, and Eld felt his breath hiss between his teeth. “Sin.”

  “I—I thought we agreed you weren’t going to do this again,” Eld growled.

  “I hadn’t planned on it,” Sin said, his words coming through Buc’s mouth sending gooseflesh down Eld’s arms. “Yesterday, between saving the Doga’s life and then saving our own, I used too much of my magic. The wards I placed around Buc’s mind faltered in one or two places.”

  “The places your magic can’t heal?”

  “I could fix them”—Sin’s voice grew frustrated—“if she allowed me to Possess her.”

  “She’d rather die first.”

  “Which is why I haven’t been able to fix her mind. Not completely. Your not keeping up your end of our … arrangement hasn’t helped either.”

  “The fuck I haven’t,” Eld snarled. A would-be hawker, who’d stepped away from the tattered canopy she’d rigged against a pitted, grey building, saw his face and threw him a hasty curtsy before ducking back amongst her rusted pots and pans. “You said if I told her the truth, like I did the last time, that you wouldn’t be able to contain the madness in the broken part of her mind.”

  “True,” Sin said.

  “So I haven’t told her the truth. I’ve kept my distance.” That last tore at him. Mages had killed everyone he was supposed to protect, they’d tried to kill Buc and him half a dozen times, and he hated magic to his core. I don’t hate you, Buc. I should have told you that as soon as we touched Servenza’s shore. Only then, he had thought that she needed space—and he certainly did, if his newfound feelings for her were to cool. She needed a friend, not some doe-eyed schoolboy. After the fire he’d realized his mistake, but it was too late. So Sin said, and Eld was forced to take him at his word.

  “Aye, but you’re a terrible liar,” Sin said. “Every time the fire is brought up, your presence seems to remind her of what happened and threatens to send her back to the wreck she was after.”

  “We can’t allow that.” Eld swallowed the lump in his throat. Finding Buc’s still form buried under burning rubble had been the scariest moment of his life. Scarier than watching his friends and comrades destroyed by magic and his folly. Scarier than feeling the creeping death of the Ghost Captain’s spell as it turned him into a mindless Shambles. Or so he’d thought. Until she awoke a week later and the raving began. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep your distance. Aye,” Sin snapped, “I know you’ve been trying, but it’s not enough. You need to find a reason why you shouldn’t be at her side constantly. A reason she’ll believe. Maybe that Lucrezia?”

  “I fucking hate you,” Eld muttered.

  “But you love her,” Sin whispered, and hearing those words on Buc’s lips, her emerald eyes boring into his, Eld felt his heart burst from half a dozen emotions. He nodded. “Then try harder,” Sin said, grinding Buc’s teeth. “I’m not sure I can erase her memory again.”

  “I’m never not going to be there for Buc,” Eld said, his cheeks flushing. They both knew what Buc would think if she knew the truth … because Eld had told her the truth once before. “You told me to hold her at arm’s length, to not talk about your magic, to play the fool. I’ve done that. Yet here you are, saying you can’t protect her. If you can’t protect her, Sin, then I will.”

  “I am protecting her,” Sin said. “Without completing the ritual I’m not as powerful as I should be. I need time, and with the Doga’s offer and the Chair’s new threats I don’t have that luxury.”

  “The Chair’s new threats?” Eld asked. Buc didn’t say anything about that. He frowned. “You mean telling the Dead Gods we offed the Ghost Captain?”

  “What else?” Sin asked. “I know you don’t trust me, but we both care for Buc, Eld. Do this and with enough time, I’ll find a way to fix her, but until then…” Buc sighed. “I’ve got to go before she realizes what’s wrong. Her mind is the strongest, most pain-in-the-arse of its kind I’ve ever encountered.” Grudging admiration softened his tone.

  “What can I do?” Eld asked.

  “She needs food, or rather I do,” Sin said. “Plenty of it. And for you to keep any mention of the fire from her.”

  Eld studied the short woman at his side, black braids piled down one side, scalp shaved bare on the other, dark, delicate features in sharp relief beneath the amber jacket and trousers that were tight enough that he had to look away before his mind wandered. He wasn’t fast enough, looking away, to not see Sin in her eyes. Buc was infected and he wasn’t sure a cure existed. Until he found one he’d have to trust the creature lurking beneath her skin.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Eld said, finally. I’m sorry, Buc. “Anything for her.”

  * * *

  “Well, are you going to tell me?” Eld asked.

  His question passed through my mind, dispersing the sudden fog that had clouded it. Where are we? A woman sauntered past, her skirts clean and bright, marking her out where every other soul I could see wore rags. Beyond her and the row of collapsed hovels I could see the faint glow that indicated brothels nearby. Redlight Row?

  “Tell you what?” I couldn’t remember. The headache building along my temples was a now-familiar feeling. Something was wrong with me. With my mind.

  “You said you’d enough of these liars and you’d a plan to find these beggars here and now.”

  “Beggars?” I pulled up beside a building with a half-worn-away painting of a clog on its door. “What nonsense are you spouting, Eld?”

  “Buc, if you’re having a go—” Eld glanced down and frowned, his bright eyes dark with concern. “It was your idea to speak to the beggars after one of their own murdered the Doga’s look-alike. For all the good it’s done us so far,” he muttered. “And then you said you had an idea that might lead to answers we couldn’t find on our own.”

  “When?”

  “Just now … don’t you remember?”

  “I—” My mind was a blank. I remembered this morning, sharp as a paper fresh off the press: the Painted Roc
k Quarto, Quenta and the Mosquitoes, and our plan to search the Tip. But the moment before this one was a fog that kept slipping through my fingers no matter how I grasped at it. Sin?

  “I remember us leaving Joffers at the canal at noon,” Sin said. “But past that, I don’t think we’ve done much beyond walk the streets awhile.”

  “Noon was hours past,” I reminded him.

  “I know,” he said slowly, “but I don’t know what else we did. Which is strange.”

  “Is this like last time?” I asked.

  “No—that was truly strange,” he said. “I still don’t know how we ended up in the middle of the Crescent in that boat.”

  “Or where the blood came from?”

  “Or where the blood came from,” he admitted. “At least it wasn’t ours.”

  “I’m fine,” I told Eld, whose worry creases had grown deeper in the wake of my silence. “Just testing you,” I lied, forcing a laugh that I didn’t feel. My head hurt, but the ache was dissipating. He smiled uncertainly and I touched his elbow, which provided the distraction I knew it would. “I think I just lost my line of thought there, for a moment. Probably need some lunch.”

  “After that lot you put down before we left the Painted Rock Quarto?” Eld asked. “Gods, Buc, you ate enough of that hot pepper fish and bread for three.”

  Now that he said it, I did feel a little full, but I needed the energy for Sin’s magic. Magic. “Can you use your magic to figure out what the fuck’s going on?”

  “On it,” Sin whispered back.

  I stepped hard on the fear in my mind and it squished out along the edges, filling me with a dread that made my mouth twist. My intellect had gotten us this far. And Eld’s brawn. And a little bit of luck. All right, a lot of luck. For all that, it began with my mind, and now the sharpest blade I owned was losing its edge.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Sin told me. That made feel a little better; if I couldn’t lie to him without him knowing it, at least he couldn’t lie to me either.

  “We walked Redlight Row,” Eld said patiently. “Asked a few of the whor—prostitutes, but they said they haven’t seen a beggar in a fortnight.” He frowned. “They didn’t seem to find that strange.”