The Beast of the Barrens

by Val Saintcrowe

  “Did the feeling ever come back?” she said.

  He shook his head. “But then I killed more men, and each time, it got worse. When I first started it, I thought that I would need to kill each of them with my own hands, that I needed to see their eyes grow dead and feel their hot blood spill on my skin. But then it was inconvenient with one of them, and it was easier to let a hired man do it, and the feeling of it… well, the feeling of it was the same whether I did it physically or not. Besides it never felt like anything, anyway.”

  “Who were these men you killed? What does it have to do with my father?”

  “Who says it does?”

  “I know it does.”

  “They paid your father for what they did. He was the one who arranged it,” said Chevolere. “He was the one who profited from it.”

  “Profited from what?”

  Chevolere shook his head.

  “You can’t think that I wouldn’t believe you,” she said. “There is little that I wouldn’t believe about my father. I know him, and I know what he is involved in. He is a street lord in Rzymn. He is a cruel man.”

  “When I came to Rzymn, I was very young,” said Chevolere. “We were both young. Young and trusting. We were lambs to the slaughter.”

  “Who?” she said. “Who besides you?”

  “I grew up in Dumonte,” said Chevolere. “I grew up on a farm on the edge of the river there. On clear nights, we could look up and see the castle high on the hill in the distance, but mostly it was obscured by clouds of red dust. There is a sliver of fertile land near the water in Dumonte. Everywhere else, it is nothing but red clay.”

  “I know this,” she said. “I have never been to Dumonte, but everyone knows who supplies the food for all the kingdoms.”

  He licked his lips. “It wasn’t one of those kinds of farms. It was only a small, family farm, and we often struggled. We had very little livestock. We only grew one thing—wheat. We had a series of bad harvests, and we had to sell all the animals and then we had to sell off bits of the land. Finally, my father grew ill, and he died, and then… then it was just us.”

  “Just who?”

  “My mother died when I was born,” he said. “I was the youngest.”

  “You had older brothers and sisters?”

  “A sister,” he said. “One. Allicionne. She was five years older than me, and she was a dreamer. She had these ideas about becoming a singer. She had a beautiful voice, but she didn’t understand anything about the reality of being a woman performer in a city like Rzymn. She would have been better off joining the sisters and singing in the choir. She might still be alive.”

  “What happened?”

  “With our father gone, she sold off what was left of the farm, which wasn’t much, and she used that money to get us to Rzymn, where she thought she would sing in the operas, but the moment we got off the boat, we were pick-pocketed and we lost almost everything. We were taken in by some kind soul, who offered us a generous loan. We didn’t know that the man worked for the Abrusse family, or what these loans were really like. We took the money, and I’m afraid we didn’t spend it well either. We wasted time living in an inn beyond our means and we bought clothes we couldn’t afford and dined in restaurants that were too expensive. And Allicionne, of course, did not have any luck trying to land a job singing for the opera. There was a man at a tavern who agreed to allow her to sing, but I didn’t like the way he leered at her, and I told her to stay away from him, and so we had no income at all.”

  She swallowed. “So, when they came to collect on the debt you could not pay.”

  “No.”

  “Did they hurt her?” she said. She knew it was common practice. Those who did not pay their debts might have their noses bloodied if it was a first offense. Later, their kneecaps might be shattered. Still later, they might lose fingers or toes or whole limbs. It was the way her family did business. Fear kept people in line.

  Chevolere drew in a breath and his shoulders rose and fell with the movement. He didn’t say anything.

  “Did they beat her?” she said. “Did they… did they kill her?”

  “No,” he said. “Not outright. It was long and agonizing. She suffered. Her spirit died long before…”

  “But who were these men you killed?” she said. “Were they the men of the Abrusse family who came to collect on the debt? The ones who beat her?”

  “They didn’t beat her,” he said. He ran his thumb over his knuckles. “And it wasn’t the debt collectors. I don’t hold them responsible. Some of them had no other choice than to become embroiled in all of it. The way it works in this city, there is only the choice to be terrorized or to become terrifying. I chose the latter.” He raised his gaze to hers. “I think you may have too.”

  Tears pricked her eyes again. She turned back to the window. “So, then, what did happen to your sister Allicionne?”

  “We sold things at first,” he said. “Our clothing and other things we’d purchased. We moved out of the expensive inn and Allicionne started singing in the tavern where all the men leered at her, and we kept barely on top of it for a while. I went to work, too, washing dishes and clearing tables in the same tavern. But the debt, it kept growing and growing. The interest they were applying to it, it was unreasonable. We began to realize we could never pay it off, no matter what we did. And that was when a man offered Allicione a way to get out from under it entirely. He worked for the Abrusse family, and when I heard of it, I—”

  The glass of the window shattered, and something whizzed past Ziafiata’s face, barely grazing her skin.

  It was a knife, she realized.

  It buried itself in the door, inches from Chevolere’s head.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Down,” Chevolere said to her, eyes flashing.

  Immediately, she threw herself down on the floor.

  Chevolere hit the floor as well.

  But no more knives came through. Instead, a figure hurtled through the window, shattering whatever glass was left with an explosive sound.

  She cowered as pieces of glass rained down around her.

  When she lifted her head, she saw that Chevolere was on his feet now, and that the figure that had come through the window was Geolli. Chevolere had his dagger against Geolli’s sword. He was barely blocking each of Geolli’s attacks, giving ground as he did so.

  In moments, Geolli had Chevolere up against the wall. He swung the sword.

  Chevolere blocked the blade with his dagger. “We waited too long. Federo knew something was going on. He was ready for you.”

  “Yes,” said Geolli.

  “Did he offer you more money?”

  Geolli pulled the sword back and thrust again.

  Grunting, Chevolere blocked it again. “He sent you to kill me, then?”

  “Yes,” said Geolli, sliding his blade against Chevolere’s shorter one.

  Ziafiata pushed herself to her feet, pieces of glass falling off her skirts, making tinkling noises as they hit the floor.

  Geolli didn’t even turn to look at her. Instead, he pulled back his sword and swung his arm back, readying a lower thrust this time.

  Chevolere had to twist his arm to block it with his dagger. He barely did it. Geolli’s sword went into his cape, pinning it to the wall.

  Ziafiata leaped over the broken glass. She ran for the table and picked up a chair.

  Geolli’s sword cut through Chevolere’s cape. He swung his sword back over his head and brought it down.

  Chevolere caught it with his dagger, right in front of his face.

  Ziafiata heaved the chair over her head.

  Chevolere gritted his teeth, straining to keep the sword back.

  The blades screamed against each other—the sound grating to Ziafiata’s ears.

  But she didn’t let that stop her. She brought the chair crashing down on Geolli’s head.

  Stunned, he whirled, striking out with his sword.

  She jumped out of the way and land
ed on her backside.

  Geolli pushed the chair off, and it landed with a splintering crunch on the floor. “Zia, stay out of this.”

  Chevolere leaped onto Geolli’s back and brought the dagger to his throat. “Drop your sword.”

  Geolli grimaced. For a moment, he gripped his sword tighter, but then he released it and it clattered down next to what was left of the chair.

  Ziafiata scrambled to her feet and scurried over to pick it up. She raised the sword with a steady hand, pointing the tip at his throat.

  “Zia?” said Geolli. “What has this monster done to you? Why do you protect Chevolere?”

  “Well,” said Ziafiata, “he was in the middle of a story when you crashed through the window and interrupted it, and if you kill him, I’ll never know the end of it. He is awful, but he’s also enigmatic and interesting, and I have to know his secrets.”

  “Here I thought you wanted to see if I could be better in bed than Diago,” said Chevolere, amused.

  “Well, you said that would never happen,” said Ziafiata.

  “How much did Federo offer you, Geolli?” said Chevolere. “What am I worth to him?”

  “He didn’t offer me money,” said Geolli, his face grim. “Zia, surely you have heard of this man’s unnatural appetites. Surely you can’t be drawn to that.”

  “What did my father offer, then?” said Ziafiata, ignoring the rest of what he’d said. It probably wasn’t wise to banter with Chevolere, but she was feeling more alive than she’d felt since she and Chevolere had burst out of the inn when she’d killed Diago. It was as if sharp weapons suited her.

  “He has captured my son,” said Geolli.

  “You don’t have a son,” said Ziafiata. “You were never married.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t have a son,” said Geolli. “Just that he’s not legitimate. He’s eight years old, and I never acknowledged him, never visited him, never did a thing to let anyone know about him. I never wanted him to be in danger like this. But somehow, the accounts that I set up for him and his mother were discovered. Your father found them. He took the boy. And now, he says that if I don’t kill Chevolere, he’ll kill my son.”

  Ziafiata lowered the sword. “We can’t let that happen.”

  “Blazes,” growled Chevolere, tightening his grip on Geolli. “You’re useless to me now. Federo doesn’t trust you. You can’t get close to him.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Geolli. “But I can’t allow anything to happen to my son.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Chevolere. “I have no choice but to kill you.”

  “No!” said Ziafiata, raising the sword again, but this time pointing it at Chevolere.

  “Ziafiata, this is a fine time to start showing any kind of softness,” said Chevolere.

  “If you kill Geolli, my father will kill his son. An eight-year-old child!” She drew herself up. “He is a vicious man. He would do it. It isn’t a bluff.”

  “That’s very sad,” said Chevolere. “Can’t be helped.”

  “Where is the boy being held?” said Ziafiata to Geolli.

  Chevolere sighed heavily.

  “The tower,” said Geolli.

  Ziafiata let her sword drop, thinking that through. “All right. I can handle the tower. I’ll get him out.”

  “What?” said Chevolere. “You most certainly will not. That’s preposterous. Isn’t the tower guarded day and night under one of your father’s most vicious men, Rocco?”

  “I’m not going to fight my way in,” she said. “Let go of Uncle Geolli.”

  “No, I have to kill him. If I let him go, he’ll try to kill me,” said Chevolere.

  “Uncle Geolli, you have to promise not to. I’ll bring back your son. What’s his name?”

  “Zia,” said Geolli. “This is foolish. But if you are insistent of it, I must come with you.”

  “No,” she said. “There is no way to disguise you. They are expecting you. They would never let you in.”

  “They will recognize you as well,” said Geolli.

  “I don’t think they will,” said Ziafiata. “Not if I cover my head with a scarf and wear the right clothes. I have exactly the sort of skirts and blouses from Marta. It will work.”

  “I can’t let you risk yourself,” said Geolli. “You can’t do this alone.”

  “Well,” said Ziafiata, “if Chevolere wanted to come along, I would permit it. I could use his assistance.”

  “Oh, that wouldn’t work at all,” said Geolli. “What of his mask?”

  “He doesn’t have to wear it.”

  Chevolere barked out a laugh. “I’m going to slit his throat right this instant and end this discussion.”

  “If you do, I will never forgive you,” said Ziafiata.

  “You think I care?” said Chevolere.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t,” said Chevolere. He made no move to slit Geolli’s throat. “Give me one reason why I should help you with this.”

  “Because you could save another lamb from the slaughter,” she said.

  He flinched.

  She lifted her chin.

  He sighed and he took the dagger away from Geolli’s throat. “Very well. But he will be chained and locked up while we’re gone. I can’t trust Geolli Varti to run free.”

  “Acceptable, as long as he isn’t hurt,” said Ziafiata. She looked him over. “You’ll need different clothing as well.”

  * * *

  Chevolere felt naked without the mask. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt outside air on his face, and the sensation wasn’t pleasant. The mask was more than a piece of leather. It was his armor. Without it, he was pink and vulnerable.

  The musqueteer uniform that he was wearing didn’t fit well either. There was a seam in one of the arms that had been badly repaired and it chafed against his skin. Right at that precise moment, he was reaching inside to try to adjust the seam, even though he’d been doing that since he put it on to no avail.

  “We haven’t a moment to lose,” Ziafiata was saying. She was speaking to a man who was guarding the door of the tower. Her hair was wrapped up in a threadbare scarf, and she was dressed like any common girl one might see in the streets of Rzymn. “Geolli Varti is a desperate man, and he may well try to come here. But if he does, and he does not find his son, he will be convinced to do as he’s bade. Why are you gaping at me like that? Hand over the child.”

  Chevolere didn’t know how he’d allowed himself to be roped into this ridiculous enterprise. There was no reason to take a risk for Geolli Varti. This didn’t further his interests in the least. He had no reason to try to make Ziafiata happy, either. That was also ridiculous.

  The man at the door to the tower had a hand on his sword. “Now, see here, lady. No one said anything to me about sending the kid off with anyone else. Of course his father knows he’s here. But he’d be foolish to mount an attack.”

  “I think the idea is that when he tries, you should show him the tower is empty,” said Ziafiata. “Break his spirit.”

  “Why would we bother when he’d simply get himself killed trying to get in?” said the man. The tower used to be a bell tower in a cathedral. The cathedral itself was gone, having been washed out in a bad storm a generation ago, but the bell tower stood and had been taken over by the street lords. It had changed hands numerous times, sometimes in the hands of the Caputios and sometimes the Abrusses. It had only one entrance, at the bottom of the tower, and there were only small, narrow windows through which no one could climb. The place was said to be impenetrable.

  “I don’t know,” said Ziafiata, exasperated. “No one thinks to share strategy with a girl. They simply snap their fingers and tell me what to do. Give me the child. Now.”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t know who you are, and—”

  “I told you, I owe the family a debt, and this is how I can repay it. Please. Hand him over.”

  “I can’t simply do that on your
word,” said the man.

  She leaned in closer, her voice dropping as she glanced over her shoulder at Chevolere. “I overheard them saying that if I fail, this musqueteer can do what he likes with me. He’s here to protect the child, not me. Please. You wouldn’t subject me to that, would you?”

  The man eyed Chevolere, who shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Was he to pretend he hadn’t heard that? Of course he’d heard it. Truly, he wished Ziafiata had given him a better idea of what to do besides, Follow my lead, which was all she’d said.

  The man said, “I don’t know. I—”

  “Oh!” Her eyes lit up as if she’d just had an idea. “They taught me something. A complicated set of steps with my hands. They said if I had any trouble, I could show you that. That would prove I’m from the family, wouldn’t it? No one else knows it.”

  “You know the sign of Abrusse?” said the man. “Fine. Let’s see it.”

  She held out her hand, palm up.

  The man put his fingers on top of hers.

  She enclosed his hand with her thumb and her pinky finger and then slid her other fingertips against his palm. She placed her hand against her heart, and the other man did the same, wary eyes on her. She crossed her middle and ring fingers and bowed her head and then lifted it. “Come the victor,” she intoned in a low voice.

  “Abrusse prevails,” said the man. He shrugged and opened the door. “Fine. Wait here. I’ll have him for you in a moment.” He left the door open and disappeared up the steps into the darkness of the tower.

  “That’s the sign of Abrusse?” muttered Chevolere.

  “Shh,” she said under her breath.

  “I thought it would be more complex.”

  “Shut up.” She glanced at him, eyes flashing.

  He couldn’t wait for this to be over. Once it was, he would go back and give Geolli his son, and then be right back where he started, with no way to get close to Federo and no way to carry out his revenge. Everything was ruined.

  Moments passed.

  Overhead, a night bird crossed in front of the moon, cawing out a mournful cry.

  In the distance, the sounds of the city at night were a muffled roar of music and laughter.