Hope and Red (17 page)

“Even so, if we
did
bring in a third party, that would mean splitting the take three ways instead of two. Now, I know you aren't too fond of maths, so to give you a sense of it, we'd each have to give
half
of our take to make a third equal share. Does that sound like something you want to do?”

“No,” said Filler, his nervousness already deflating into defeat.

“Agreed. So, Filler, my wag, swallow the fear and let's be men about this.”

He nodded gloomily, still eyeing the horse.

“If you'd like, we can club an imp for his helmet,” offered Red. “Don't know what good it would do against horse hooves, but—”

“I ain't wearing no pissing imp hat,” said Filler, his expression hardening.

“That's the spirit!” Red slapped him on the back. “Now, that cart should be along here soon, so let's get ourselves ready.”

They'd been watching it for weeks now. A horse-drawn cart that came through every morning escorted by two imps in full riot armor—one in front, one in the rear—plus a driver. The riot armor prevented Red from solving the whole problem with a few quick throwing blades. What's more, the cart itself was really just a strongbox on wheels, black iron secured by a key lock. He'd learned from reliable sources that the key was kept by another mounted imp who took a separate route through the city. Red thought that was a nice touch. Inside the strongbox were the imperial taxes on the previous day's earnings from gambling houses and dance halls. Those earnings also included the money from the quiet backroom sale of coral spice. In general, Red tried to be an open-minded sort of wag. But for personal reasons, he was not fond of coral spice dealers or those who profited from them.

Filler had taken the horse off to his post, and Red stood alone in a narrow alley, his back pressed against the wall as he listened to the splash of hooves out on the muddy street. A few moments later, the lead imp on horseback trotted past, his leather-studded police helmet gleaming faintly in the sickly morning light. His gold-and-white riot armor stuck out in the drab city streets. A few moments after him came the horse-drawn strongbox cart, the driver looking half-asleep. A few more moments, and the cart was followed by the rear guard.

Red held his breath, listening to the steady clop of hooves as the rear guard passed. When they came to a halt, Red let out his breath and smiled.

He peeked around the corner. Filler sat astride the horse, silent and brooding as he blocked the road. His height and broad shoulders always made him an intimidating presence. On horseback, the effect was magnified. The rear guard moved to the front, and together the two imps approached him cautiously.

“Step aside,” said one of the imps, pushing his gold uniform jacket aside to show the pistol at his hip.

Filler did not respond.

“We'll give you to the count of three.” The second imp drew his pistol and the other followed suit.

By this time, Red had already snuck to the back of the cart and was working at the lock.

“One,” said the imp.

As he worked the pins, Red noted that this lock had not been well maintained.

“Two.”

Red wondered how they even opened the damn thing with a key, it was such a disaster.

“Thr—”

Filler slapped his horse's flank and took off down the next alley before they finished the word.

“You continue with the cart!” shouted the rear guard imp to the other. Then he took off after Filler.

The front guard moved forward. The cart driver snapped his reins, and the cart followed.

Red silently mouthed a curse. There wasn't anywhere to sit on the cart, so he hooked his legs on the struts and straddled the strongbox, praying that the driver didn't turn around. He had never tried to pick a lock that bumped and shook. He found that it was impossible. He was almost there, but he needed the cart to stop, just for a moment, so he could get the last pin.

He pulled himself up as far forward as he could go, only a few feet from the back of the driver's head. He took a deep breath, then at the top of his lungs, shouted, “Stop in the name of the emperor!”

The driver started and instinctually yanked back on the reins. The horse and wagon came to a sudden halt. Red slid his pick into the lock, heard a satisfying click. The door popped open and he grabbed the bag of coins inside. The driver turned in his seat, fumbling with his pistol. Red jumped to the ground, then took a single coin from the sack of money he had just rescued and flicked it at the horse's flank. The horse surged forward. The driver pitched back and slammed into the strongbox, dropping his pistol into the mud.

“Guard!” shouted the driver.

But by the time the imp wheeled his mount around, Red had ducked down the alley. From there, he climbed the gutters and pulled himself up onto the roof. He lingered long enough to watch the imp try to coax his horse into the narrow alley. But when Red laughed out loud, the imp saw him and fired his pistol. The shot glanced off the edge of the gutter, and Red took off across the rooftops, still laughing.

“Stop in the name of the emperor?” asked Handsome Henny.

Red had made it safely to the Drowned Rat and met up with Filler to split the money. Now he sat comfortably at his usual table with his usual drinking wags. Filler, of course; noseless Handsome Henny; and the Twins, Brimmer and Stin, who weren't actually twins, or even brothers, but whose ginger-colored hair was so out of place in the predominately dark-haired population that everyone initially assumed they must be related. By the time anyone realized they weren't brothers, the name had already stuck. In the Circle, a name always stuck.

Red grinned at Henny. “You sore Filler and I didn't invite you on this one?”

“Are you kidding?” Henny leaned back in his chair. “That was a suicide attempt, plain and simple. You got lucky, as you do more often than any man should. But one of these days, an imp is going to shoot you right between those pretty red eyes of yours. That is, if they don't hand you over to a biomancer for some unspeakable experiment.”

“They don't even do that,” said Brimmer. Then he looked uncertainly at Stin. “Do they?”

“I hear they do,” said Stin. “My aunt? She said her nephew got taken once because he was on some citizen protest group. And when they brought his body back a month later for burial, it didn't even look human anymore.”

“Your aunt's nephew, huh?” Red sighed and shook his head. “You wags are worse than a bunch of wrinks, you know that? Fact is, don't matter what they would have done to me if they caught me. Because they didn't catch me.”

“They almost caught Filler,” said Henny. “What'd you have done then, I wonder? It's all fine to risk yourself, I suppose. But what about your best wag?”

“They didn't almost catch Filler.” Red turned to the large man. “Did they?”

Filler shrugged. “He was good with his horse. I wasn't. Only reason I got away was because he heard the shot the other imp took at you and realized I was just the decoy.”

“Just as I'd planned,” said Red.

“Liar,” said Henny.

“Look, how's about I buy us all a drink, and we let it wash away this bad taste you all seem to have.” He signaled to Prin. “A round of dark for the table, Prinny. On me.”

Prin raised an eyebrow at him. “You got coin for that?”

Red gave her a hurt look. “Why of course, Prinny. How could you doubt me?”

“Experience, that's how,” said Prin. “Show me.”

Red held up his hand, a shining coin between each finger.

Prin's eyes widened. “That'll set you the rest of the night.”

“Then you'd better start 'em coming!”

“Seriously, Red,” said Henny. “Anytime you want to knock over a grocery or roll a lacy from uptown, you know I'm your wag. And even if you've got a grind with someone like Big Sig and his crew, I'll back you right up. But messing with the pissing imps in broad daylight? That's bringing unwanted attention to the whole neighborhood. That's making it harder for all of us.”

“But don't you see, Hen, it's the pissing imps who
deserve
it,” said Red. “Robbing some poor wrink's grocery is just balls and pricks. That kind of inside violence is what really hurts the neighborhood. Instead of picking on each other, we should join together. Strength in numbers.”

“Except Big Sig,” said Stin. “We can't never join up with him.”

“Rot and damnation to Big Sig and the whole of Hammer Point,” agreed Brimmer. “May all their cocks and cunts drop off from the blight.”

“If I thought it would give us an edge against the imps, I would work with Big Sig in a drop,” said Red.

“Balls and pricks, you don't mean that,” said Henny.

“I do,” said Red. “Look, they're just like us. Maybe not as smart or good-looking. But they're just as poor, and just as put down by the imps.”

“But—” said Henny.

“Let it go, Handsome,” said Filler. “You're only getting him more wound up. It's that uptown blood of his. He can't help it, he just gets ideas.”

“It's gonna get him and maybe us killed one of these days,” muttered Henny.

“But until then…” Red gestured grandly as Prin brought over five metal tankards of foamy dark ale. “Let's drink!”

The evening wore on, and Prin refilled those tankards many times. Although Red was paying, his was refilled the least. That's the way he liked it. To be the sharpest one at the table. So he nursed one drink most of the night, playing stones with Henny and beating him more easily with each round. Other wags came and enjoyed his hospitality here and there, and he'd tell them of that morning's adventure, the number of imps increasing with each telling. He never said where the bulk of his score had gone and nobody asked, which was for the best. It was okay that Nettles knew he was taking care of Sadie, but he doubted any of those other saltheads would understand or respect it. Red was used to being alone in that. He liked it that way, too.

As evening set in, and Prin came out from behind the bar to light the oil lamps around the tavern, Red put his mud-encrusted black boots on the table.

“Filler, old wag,” he said. “Would you say you're content?”

“Eh?” said Filler, blinking through his drunken haze.

“Happy. Are you happy?”

Filler shrugged. “I s'pose. Never really thought about it.”

“That's the key, I suspect.” Red held up one of the gaming stones, a smooth rectangle with a painted number four on it, watching the glaze catch the lamplight. “Not to think about it so much.”

He flicked the stone and it popped into Brimmer's mouth just as he was yawning. Brimmer started hacking as Stin pounded on his back, while Henny let loose with a high-pitched giggle, and Filler gave one of his rumbling guffaws.

Red smiled. “Me? I don't think there's a thing more in the world that I need than this.”

Later, he would think back ruefully on that statement and admit that he had more or less asked for what came next.

An older man walked into the Drowned Rat with the rolling gait and wool coat that marked him as a seaman. He had a broad blue hat, a curly black beard, and skin nearly as dark. Red barely paid him any mind, but what he saw next made him sit up and put his boots squarely on the floor.

Behind the seaman walked a woman around Red's age, with the golden hair and pale, freckled skin of a Southerner. Red had always considered Southies to be somewhat sickly-looking. But there was nothing sickly about this woman. She moved like liquid steel, each step confident and utterly precise. And her eyes…they were like the frozen depths of the sea, forged into tiny daggers that stabbed him in the chest when her gaze swept every patron in the bar, assessing them.

“Who…,” he hissed, grabbing Henny's arm hard. “Who is that wondrous creature?”

Henny followed his gaze and smirked. “That molly? I heard about her. Landed a few days ago with Captain Carmichael, the gaf she's with there. He's made port here times before, brings down fruit from Murgesia. Apparently, she's his bodyguard.”

Red sighed. “She's a pissing angel in black leather.”

“You know what that leather suit is, right?” asked Stin. “It's a pissing Vinchen uniform.”

“Girl Vinchen?” asked Brimmer. “That's not even allowed, I don't think.”

“Tell that to
her
,” said Henny.

Captain Carmichael and his bodyguard walked to the table all the way at the back of the hall, where Deadface Drem sat with his crew.

“I thought you said this captain traded in fruit,” said Red.

“Maybe he traded
up
for something more lucrative.”

“But Drem? That's serious.”

“Maybe why he got himself that ice-maiden bodyguard.”

Red watched Drem look up from his table at the sea captain, frowning slightly. He looked at the angel bodyguard, and his frown deepened even more.

Another sailor came into the hall, this one with a long mustache. He hurried over to the captain and the ice maiden. When Deadface Drem saw this latecomer, his face went blank.

“Piss'ell,” Red muttered.

“I think your molly is about to be in a world of trouble,” said Henny.

15

W
hen they first arrived at Murgesia on a sunny afternoon, Hope thought it was the prettiest island they'd ever made port during her two years aboard the
Lady's Gambit
. Curling palm trees and smooth, white sand beaches, so different from the rocky quays that she grew up with. They'd come to Murgesia to buy citrus fruit. Captain Carmichael said they should be able to sell it for double the price on New Laven.

Hope and Ranking accompanied him into the village to meet with the merchant. It was a small but neat community, with simple wood and mortar buildings. The narrow dirt paths bustled with villagers who watched them curiously but were quick to give a friendly smile when Hope caught them staring.

The fruit storehouse was at the center of the village. It was the largest building on the island. Out front, a man lounged in a wooden chair with an umbrella to shield him from the sun. When he saw them approach, he smiled warmly.

“Captain Carmichael!” he said, getting to his feet and walking over to them. “So good to see you. Seems like it's been ages!”

“I hope you've been keeping well, Ontelli.” Carmichael clasped his hand.

“Oh, sure, keeping.” Ontelli nodded. “It's been an interesting couple of years.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Carmichael. “Personally, I like to keep my years nice, dull, and predictable. Helps a person live longer.”

Ontelli kept nodding and smiling. “Right enough. Well, I hate to do this to you, Captain, but do you suppose you could come back later?”

“Oh?” asked Carmichael.

“I'm just so busy right now.” Ontelli gestured vaguely to the storehouse behind him.

“Busy?” asked Carmichael, his black-and-gray eyebrows rising. There didn't seem to be any activity at the storehouse.

“Yes,” said Ontelli. “I don't suppose you could come back later? Perhaps a little after sunset? I should have your cargo packed by then. Same as last time, right? And we can do it all in one smooth transaction.”

“I suppose…,” said Carmichael.

“I realize I'm putting you out a bit,” said Ontelli, his smile still firmly in place. “Tell you what, if you humor me and come back after sunset, I'll take an extra ten percent off the price for you.”

Carmichael shrugged. “Well, now, that is friendly of you. Sure, we'll be back after dark with a few extra wags to help haul the cargo back to the ship.”

“Wonderful!” said Ontelli. “Thanks for being flexible, Captain. I'll see you tonight.” He hurried to the storehouse and went inside.

“I don't like it, sir,” said Hope. “That whole exchange seemed off to me.”

“I agree,” said Carmichael. “But we need the cargo.”

So they returned to the ship and waited. After nightfall, they set out again for the storehouse. Hope took the lead this time, followed by Carmichael. Behind him came Ranking and after that, Sankack and Ticks pulling an empty cart that would be used to haul the fruit back to the ship.

There were no lights in the village. No torches to mark the paths or intersections, and strangely, no lights were coming from inside any of the houses. The only light in the entire village was the lantern that hung from the cart pulled by Sankack and Ticks. It was as if the entire place was deserted.

Except it wasn't. Hope caught glimpses of figures lurking in the darkness, creeping outside the reach of the lantern light with jerky, unnatural movements.

“Captain,” she said quietly, her hand going to her hilt.

“I see 'em,” he said.

“What are they?” Ranking asked. “Don't move like people.”

“Long as they keep their distance, I don't much care what they are,” said Carmichael. “Let's move. Once we reach the village center, we should be safe enough.”

But when they reached the center of the village, it was as dark as the rest. A small group of people were clustered in front of the storehouse, waiting for them.

“Alright, Ontelli,” said Carmichael. “We came at night. Just like you asked. And now you want to do business in pitch-black? What in the hells are you playing at? Last time I was here, this was a nice, easy, profitable deal for both of us. I hope you don't plan to screw that up.”

The gathered figures were still and silent.

“Ah, but Captain Carmichael,” came Ontelli's voice, sounding strained. “I don't have plans anymore. Not really. Not like I used to. There's no point. You see, we had a visitor to Murgesia a while back. And now things are a bit different. We have different priorities. Different…needs.”

Hope sensed the shadowy figures creeping in closer from all directions. “Captain, we're surrounded.”

“Damn you, Ontelli,” said Carmichael, sounding almost tired. “You think you're going to roll us, do you? Take the money
and
the cargo? I'm telling you, that's not happening. If you won't trade, let us back to our ship and we'll be on our way. Otherwise, a lot of your people are going to die.”

“You misunderstand, Captain,” said Ontelli.

He stepped into the lantern light, and there was a strange, wild look in his eyes. He was drenched in sweat, and his mouth was curled up into an expression somewhere between a smile and a painful grimace. The other figures began moving into the light. Ranking had been right. They weren't people. They were unnaturally thin, with round heads, huge eyes, and short curved beaks where their mouths and noses had once been. Mottled feathers poked out of their skin in clumps instead of hair, and instead of arms they had scrawny, feathered wings.

“It's not your money we want,” said Ontelli. “It's your flesh.” He shuddered. A beak emerged from between his lips as his whole face peeled back like a sack, exposing wet feathers and sharp owl eyes.

Sankack screamed, dropped his end of the cart, and bolted. He didn't make it far. One of the owl creatures jumped, flapping its wings. It didn't fly, but it got enough lift to reach Sankack. It dug its talons into his back as it knocked him face-first into the ground. A group of them swarmed in and pecked at him, tearing away chunks of meat as he thrashed and screamed.

Captain Carmichael drew his pistol and leveled it at the thing that had once been Ontelli. “May God grant mercy to your soul, because he sure as piss didn't grant it to your life.”

The thing stretched its curved black beak wide and lunged at the captain, but its face exploded in a cloud of bloody feathers as the pistol fired.

“Captain?” asked Hope.

“Clear us a path back to the ship,” he said as he slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of another creature's head.

Hope drew the Song of Sorrows and lopped off the head of the nearest creature in one smooth motion.

“Ranking and Ticks,” said the captain. “Leave the cart. Follow behind Hope and keep them off her back.”

Ranking drew his cutlass and Ticks a short mace. Once they were behind her, Hope worked her way forward. She twisted first one way, then the other, her sword flashing in the moonlight amid the hoots and screams of the creatures. The blade swam like a porpoise through the dense cluster of feathers, down and up, as it hewed through the spindly limbs. Hope's feet pivoted smoothly, her muscles taut and buzzing with warmth as she worked. She could almost hear Grandteacher Hurlo's crackling voice in her ear, saying,
Faster on the outside, quieter on the inside
, as she made her way through the throng.

“God, they just keep coming!” shouted Ranking. “We'll never make it!”

“Shut up and fight,” said the captain.

Hope couldn't stop to see if he did, though. They were nearly through the densest part. It was all one continuous blur of motion. She felt as if she were disappearing, and there was nothing except the Song of Sorrows humming its terrible melody. The owl creatures may not have understood human speech, but they clearly knew the language of that sword and began shying away from it even before it came near.

Finally, she was through the mass of creatures. Before them was the unlit street that led to the ship.

“Go!” yelled Carmichael.

The group took off at a run, with the creatures close behind. They couldn't run as fast, but occasionally, one would get enough momentum to vault off the side of a building and drop down on them. But Ticks would knock it to one side with his mace, and its light bird bones would shatter on impact.

The ship came into view, her twinkling lanterns shining like a beacon.

“Captain, nearly there!” Hope chanced a glance back and saw what Carmichael did not. An owl creature jumped at Ranking. Rather than face it, he dodged behind Ticks, who was busy fending off one from the other side. Ranking stayed clear while Ticks was brought down with rending talons and beaks.

“Coward!” screamed Hope, lifting her sword to strike Ranking. But Carmichael grabbed her arm.

“The ship!” he shouted in her face. “Now!”

Hope gritted her teeth and spun back to the front. A small pack of the creatures had out-flanked them and circled around. She was glad of it and lashed out so hard their twitching bodies flew several feet back and crashed into a stack of old crates on the dock. The crates toppled over, revealing a large sign driven into the wood. On the sign was painted a black oval with eight black lines trailing down from it. The symbol of the biomancers.

Hope jerked to a halt. The shock of recognition constricted her chest as old memories came flooding to the surface. She could not catch her breath and she staggered forward, clawing at the air in front of her, her vision beginning to narrow.

“What now?” barked Carmichael.

She could only gasp and point at the sign. When he saw it, his eyes narrowed.

“I might have known.” He lifted his head to the ship and bellowed, “All hands! All hands on deck! Prepare to cut and run!”

He leapt aboard as some of the crew scrambled for their weapons to fend off the attackers, while others hurriedly prepared to make sail.

Hope didn't follow. Instead she stood on the dock, gasping and shaking, feeling like a little girl again. The old darkness rose up inside and she heard her mother calling to her as she was ripped apart from the inside. She could smell the piles of dead bodies left to rot. She could feel the ache of endless days spent digging graves in the frozen, rocky soil. When it had come time to bury her father, she saw his face still twisted in the agony he felt at the moment of his death, like his soul would feel that pain for eternity. She had looked down at the sea glass necklace, and for a moment she had considered keeping it, as a way to remember him. But its beauty no longer held any appeal to her. The warmth, the color, it had been crushed out of her. It was better off with him, buried there in that cold, dead place…

“What in hells is wrong with you?” Ranking grabbed her shoulder as he stared fearfully at the swarm of descending owl creatures. But then he turned to her and seemed to recognize her expression. He paused, as if deciding something. Then he slapped her hard across the face.

The shock of it brought her back. He pulled her arm, and the two stumbled aboard the ship as the crew closed ranks after them, allowing them both to catch their breath.

Ranking stuck his finger in her face. “You don't say anything about Ticks, and I won't say anything about this. Keen?”

Her face hardened, but she nodded.

“Sunny. Now, let's get the hells off this cursed rock.”

The owl creatures seemed endless as they boiled out of the darkness and across the docks. Hope and Ranking rejoined the crew and together fought the creatures off until the sails were ready, the lines were cut, and the
Lady's Gambit
made her way swiftly out into open waters.

“Thank God they can't properly fly,” said Ranking as the island shrank rapidly in the distance. He winked at her, like they were friends who shared a secret.

A little later, Carmichael summoned Hope and Ranking to his quarters. The three sat around the small table that was bolted to the floor. Carmichael and Ranking passed a bottle of dark rum back and forth while the captain laid out their situation.

“Losing that cargo has put us in a bad way,” said Carmichael. “The ship is in need of repairs. I was counting on selling the cargo we picked up here in New Laven to pay for those repairs.”

“Can't we pick up cargo somewhere else?” asked Hope.

The captain shook his head. “We'll barely make it to New Laven. We can't risk going any further out. One strong storm on open water, and we go down.”

“What if we picked up cargo in New Laven and made a quick run up the coast?” asked Ranking. “No risk of open water. Just up and back for a nice bit of cash.”

Carmichael sighed and scratched at his curly beard. “Smuggling?”

“I know a wag in Paradise Circle who's always looking for freelancers. Ships that the imperial police don't know on sight.”

The captain took a pull on the bottle of rum and sat for a moment, lost in thought. “I don't see much choice. We'll try this contact of yours. Set course for New Laven. We'll sail straight through.”