Red Tigress

by Amélie Wen Zhao

  It was halfway through a section on blackstone that something gave her pause. She’d been making slow progress, arduously translating the terms from the Bregonian language and learning about how Bregonian scholars had imported blackstone from Cyrilia not to control its magen population but to study the alchemy of it.

  From studies of the properties of Bregonian searock and Cyrilian blackstone on Bregonian magen, it was concluded that the source of energy in matter is limited.

  Ana blinked, and reread the phrase. No, she had interpreted it correctly—studies of searock and blackstone on Bregonian magen. On Affinites.

  She flipped back through the pages, scouring the text. Nowhere had it ever mentioned that searock had been used on Affinites before—there were only copious notes on its use as construction material.

  She turned back to the section. It ended abruptly, but at the bottom, a scholar had carefully inked in the reference to the studies. Ana read it over, and her blood went cold.

  * Studies conducted by the A. E. Kerlan Trading Company.

  She stared at the words until they seemed to blur together. Her breaths were coming fast, and her mind felt frozen.

  It wasn’t possible. This had to be another A. E. Kerlan—perhaps it was a common surname in the Kingdom of Bregon. Ramson had told her that Kerlan had been banished from his home kingdom and driven to establish himself in a foreign empire, but—

  Ramson.

  She stood, gripping the tome so tightly that her knuckles went white. Ramson had left to investigate allegations of trafficking by Alaric Kerlan. He’d been so adamant that they were somehow missing something of the bigger picture, and she hadn’t had the patience to listen.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, loud in the utter silence of the hall. It was getting late, and the Livren Skolaren had emptied; a shadow fell over the flickering lamplight of her table.

  Ana whipped around and found herself face to face with the man she had been hoping to glimpse all day.

  The surprise on Scholar Tarschon’s face quickly shifted into caution. “Meindame,” he greeted.

  Ana swallowed, trying to steady the thumping of her heart. “Head Scholar,” she said. Her throat felt dry; she was still struggling to wrap her head around what she had just read.

  The scholar inclined his head and made to move past her, but Ana held up a hand. They were near the back of the great library; the aisles around them were deserted.

  “You lied to me,” she said. The time had passed for holding up appearances. “About several things.”

  His expression grew tight. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  She held his gaze. “Queen Arsholla is dead. You neglected to tell me that yesterday.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it and looked down. “It is not my decision as to what information is classified and what is released to the public.”

  “You run the records of the Livren Skolaren, the most important source of information in Bregon. You have a duty to the public.” Ana took a step closer to him. “Scholar Tarschon, what exactly is going on in your kingdom?”

  Scholar Tarschon flinched almost imperceptibly, but to his credit, he remained where he stood. “Meindame, I am but a scholar. My job is to document information at the government’s direction.”

  The words stirred an old anger within her. The winners write history, Ramson had said—but that wasn’t fair, and it shouldn’t be that way. “Your job,” Ana said coldly, “is to write the truth.”

  Tarschon fell silent at that.

  “You also refused to answer my questions about the artifact I described, or even tell me if such a thing existed.” She watched his face carefully, searching for clues. “But I’ve been told it does, and that it’s right here, in the Blue Fort.”

  He looked away. “I cannot help you with that.”

  Ana held up the book, open to the page she’d stopped at earlier. “Then tell me, Scholar, how is it possible to create an Affinity and bestow it upon someone else? One fundamental law of alchemy is that the source of power in the world is finite.” She thought of Tetsyev’s pale face, his fear and urgency almost palpable. “If this artifact exists as I understand it, then there must be a cost to what it does.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Scholar Tarschon, a mad empress is searching for this artifact—the same empress that would slaughter thousands of innocents. I don’t need to know where the artifact is, or what it is. But I need to understand what could happen if this thing falls into her hands.”

  Tarschon was quiet for a long time. The lamp between them burned, casting flickering shapes onto the ceiling. The figures on the mural seemed to ripple, as though the Bregonian gods themselves were watching their conversation.

  And then Scholar Tarschon said, “The artifact that you seek does not exist.”

  Ana looked at him a moment longer, feeling only flat disappointment. She’d tried her best. If he would not yield, then she would bring this to Godhallem tonight.

  Without a word, she turned and began to walk away.

  She was halfway through the Livren Skolaren when she heard the scholar speak again, his voice so quiet that she almost missed it. “We do not have such a weapon because it is impossible to create power.”

  Ana spun around. The scholar’s face was swathed in shadows; he stood as still as if he had been carved from rock.

  “To create, you must also take.” His words reverberated in the space between them. His eyes were dark, distant pools. “This weapon you seek does not bestow magen upon its bearer by creating them. This weapon bestows magen by stealing them.”

  “Two queens of steel, and a knave of coins!” Daya slapped her cards down and clapped her hands in delight. “Victory is mine, Amara bless! Hand over the coins, Quicktongue.”

  Ramson rubbed a hand over his face. How was he losing at Crib the King? “Gods be damned,” he muttered.

  It was evening on the second day of his arrival in Bregon. The sun had set and a wind had picked up, ushering clouds over the scattered light of the stars. The air had grown cold over rippling ocean waters, but the lamp in Daya’s captain’s cabin provided warmth.

  Ramson fished out one silverflake from his pocket and flipped it to her. Daya caught it but raised an eyebrow at him. “Two more cop’stones,” she said, holding out her palm. “Don’t be petty.”

  Ramson handed her the remaining sum, watching as his money vanished through a twirl of her fingers. “I need a break,” he said, glancing out the smudged glass window. The port had almost emptied; it was time.

  He left Daya in her captain’s cabin, ducking out the door and taking care to shut it behind him. It was imperative that nobody knew they were here, camping out. He walked to the mast and easily swung himself up, the ropes stretching taut beneath his boots as he climbed. With a hop, he was on the crow’s nest, one leg dangling over as he balanced precariously, the thrill of the fall shooting adrenaline through his veins. From here, he could see most of Sapphire Port, smudges of shadows in the night sprinkled through with the light of candles inside windows. The docks, though, were completely dark.

  The sound of the ocean and gentle rock of the Black Barge lulled him into a stupor. He didn’t know how much time had passed when suddenly, he jerked up.

  Silhouettes, darting through the docks. It was too dim to make out their faces, but they were headed for the far end of the port.

  Ramson followed, sliding down the mast and stealing across the docks, from the shadow of one ship to another.

  True to his suspicions, they stopped at the very end of the quay, in front of the ship Ramson had inspected the day before. Ramson stood in the shadows of another large galley. He counted about a dozen of them.

  A long whistle sounded in the night, followed by two short ones, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. It was a code that the members of the Order had use
d.

  Daya had told him, back when they’d first met, that she suspected Alaric Kerlan still had men waiting for him in Sapphire Port. Now, watching as the gangplank was lowered and the men stole onto the ship, Ramson began to have an inkling of just how deep his former master’s secrets ran.

  Ramson waited a while more, counting the seconds to himself. It was well over five minutes by the time he heard footsteps again. As the men began to make their way back down the gangplank, Ramson listened to their low conversation, wondering if he would recognize their voices. Bogdan had to be here, somewhere.

  The sound of the Order members’ quiet murmurs drew farther away, and silence fell again. It was now, or never.

  The ship was bobbing up and down more violently as he approached it, the waves stirred up by the wind and approaching storm. Ramson shinnied up the anchor line, his hand slipping several times as the ship tossed about. He paused at the railing, peering over.

  The deck appeared to be completely deserted. Still, he took caution as he hauled himself on board, scanning the blur of shapes to catch for any movement.

  When he found nothing, he made for the hatch. This time, it had been left unlocked. Anyone else might have assumed it was out of carelessness, but Ramson had learned to never make assumptions when it came to Alaric Kerlan.

  He pressed his ear against the trapdoor and listened.

  And then he heard it. At first he thought it was the wind, but as he listened, the sound registered as human: a faint keening, like a high-pitched moan, coming from belowdecks.

  Daya had said she’d heard screaming.

  Ramson lifted the hatch a crack, and then all the way. From his hips, he drew his smallest knife—an oyster shuck he’d stolen from the Blue Fort—and slipped in.

  The air was still dank, and from the shapes of the crates, it seemed as though nothing had moved. Ramson frowned as he looked around again, slowly. The moaning sounds had stopped, but as he cocked his head to listen, he couldn’t hear the sound of anyone alive in this space.

  His eyes caught on something—a slight shift to the outline of shadows he’d seen just yesterday. There. One crate of searock had been pushed aside. And as Ramson stood, trying to figure out what it was about this place that looked so wrong to him, a realization hit him.

  The space from floor to ceiling of this hold was far too narrow for the hull of the ship. He could have smacked himself for not seeing it sooner; back at the Naval Academy, he’d studied plans of ships that had secret second layers to their holds, often to carry illegal goods.

  He’d just taken two steps forward when he heard the faint rattle of chains, the creak of wood as the gangplank was lowered again outside. The thud of wood, and then footsteps.

  Shit. He hadn’t expected them to return so quickly.

  Ramson scurried to a corner, where the crates were piled high on top of each other. With several light steps, he scrambled up and flipped himself behind the boxes. He crouched there, listening intently.

  Footsteps on the deck, muffled voices—and then the hatch swung open.

  “…arriving later tonight?” an unfamiliar woman’s voice was saying in Cyrilian.

  “Oh, yes,” came a second, lilting voice, and Ramson’s insides froze—one that he would recognize anywhere, that haunted his nightmares. “The plan is in motion. The siphons are ready for export. They’re expecting another wagon of Affinites tonight.”

  Ramson knew his old master’s mannerisms so well that he could hear the smile in Alaric Kerlan’s voice. The clack of heels on the ladder rungs, and then they were belowdecks, so close that he could hear the rustle of their clothes. The sound of a match being struck, and a moment later, lamplight blazed to life. Ramson looked at the shadows cast on the wall behind him. He counted five people.

  “Some of the test subjects are not doing so well,” the female voice said.

  A pause steeped in displeasure. “Well,” Kerlan said, “let’s see. Our Bregonian ally seems to have used it quite successfully.” He switched to Bregonian. “Scholar Ardonn, would you do us the favor?”

  Ramson’s heart thudded in his chest. Not only was Alaric Kerlan working with a Bregonian ally, he was also working with someone within the Blue Fort. A scholar, no less.

  “Yes, meinsire,” came a third voice. Ramson watched as the shadows on the wall moved to the center of the hold. A click of a lock, and the sound of a door opening. Ramson suppressed a groan. He could kill himself for not having thought of a trick compartment in this ship last night. Now, the chance was gone.

  There were footsteps; one by one, the shadows of Kerlan and his companions disappeared as they descended through the trapdoor. Ramson waited, counting to three, before he turned and peered out.

  The landing was empty, the lamplight flickering out from the trick opening in the center of the hold.

  He steeled himself, drew a silent breath, and stood. And that was when he heard the moans—clearly, this time. It sounded like someone pleading from behind a gag. Something about the voice struck him as strangely familiar—but then again, Ramson thought as he slid over the pile of crates, he’d stood by for so many of Kerlan’s torture sessions, they’d all started to blend together.

  When he drew close enough to the trapdoor, he dropped to his hands and knees. Sending a prayer to the gods, Ramson pressed himself flat against the floor and peered over the opening.

  It looked like the inside of a laboratory, built in the hull of the ship. Metal tables had been nailed to the floor, and makeshift shelves were strapped to the walls, holding jars and scalpels and scrolls. Two figures clad in long white robes sat at the table, scribbling notes on parchment beneath the glow of the lamp.

  “Well? Is it working?” Alaric Kerlan stood almost directly beneath the hatch. He had changed from his Cyrilian-style purple suit to a sharp-cut Bregonian vest and breeches, studded through with gold. By his side was a woman that Ramson recognized by the blue-black sheen of her hair: Nita, his Deputy, the Affinite who specialized in manipulating strength. There were two others behind them, cronies that Ramson recognized from his days at the Order.

  “The siphon works. But the subject is in frail condition.” The scholar who spoke was barely visible from Ramson’s vantage point; all he saw was a flash of white robes.

  “Show me,” Kerlan commanded, and the scholar turned, his robes vanishing from sight. Ramson heard the click of locks, and a low groan. When the scholar returned, he was dragging someone by a set of chains. Roughly, he shoved the prisoner to the floor.

  The scholar held out a hand. In his palm was an ingot of gold. “Lift this with your new magek,” he crooned in Cyrilian, the words sounding harsh and clumsy. “Like we practiced.”

  The man let out a moan. His hair was matted and hung over his face; his shoulder blades protruded from thin, tattered clothes. It was odd, Ramson thought, peering closer, that the prisoner’s jacket looked to be made of velvet, in the fashion of a Cyrilian nobleman’s outfit. He could swear those were gold stitches at the collar.

  It was when the prisoner lifted his head that Ramson realized why. He nearly dropped the hatch door in shock.

  Looking up was the once-handsome face of Bogdan Ivanov, the Penmaster of Novo Mynsk, and Olyusha’s missing husband.

  It had taken Linn little time to find the walled-off courtyard that King Darias had mentioned. The ironore doors indeed bore the carving of a scroll, but they were guarded by an entire squad of Bregonian guards surrounding the courtyard. Linn had sought out a vantage point to observe and found that within the walls was a second set of doors that looked to lead into the back section of the Naval Headquarters itself.

  There was no way she would get inside with the guards watching in broad daylight, so she had settled onto a nearby veranda directly overlooking the courtyard, watching and waiting.

  The day had gone by unremarkably; though courtie
rs and other members of the Blue Fort passed by the Naval Headquarters frequently, no one had neared the courtyard. The sun crawled across the sky, falling into the sea; the winds turned urgent, carrying with them the distant scent of rain.

  The bells chimed six hours of the evening, and Linn had just gotten to her feet, ready to head for the Livren Skolaren to meet with Ana, when something caught her attention.

  From far off, threading through the other sounds of the night, came the clacking of heels against stone. For some reason, all of Linn’s hairs stood on end. Her muscles tightened as she peered out.

  A familiar figure emerged from beneath the canopy of the trees. Linn would have recognized that erratic gait anywhere.

  Sorsha wore her regular Sea Court livery, but even in the semidarkness, Linn could see that there was something different to her posture. She cut through the stone paths of the courtyards with a brisk efficiency that Linn had only seen her display in Godhallem.

  And she was making straight for the walled courtyard.

  The guards saluted her as she approached. Sorsha held a hand up and barked a few orders at them in Bregonian. They leapt to her command, pulling open the doors into the courtyard and bowing her through.

  Linn watched as Sorsha stopped before the second set of ironore doors inside, retrieving something from her waist. Keys, by the sound of their clinking. With a series of complicated clicks she unlocked the doors and dragged them open. She stepped inside and vanished, the doors slamming shut behind her.