Hope and Red (3 page)

For a while, Rixidenteron and his father continued to live on in the same way. But by the end of another year, his father had become thin and pale. Rixidenteron didn't know whether it was illness or the loss of his mother. Either way, his father did not seem interested in getting better.

A week shy of his eighth birthday, Rixidenteron found his father had died in his sleep. He cleaned the shit and blood from his father's body, burned the bedsheets, then left.

“But how did you live on the streets?” asked Sadie. “How in all hells did you survive when you clearly knew nothing about nothing?”

He shrugged. “I met some other boys, and they let me join them. Because I'm good at taking stuff.”

“What do you mean, good at taking stuff?”

“My hands are quicker than other people's. Maybe because of all the painting. I don't know. But taking wallets, watches, and the like is easy for me. They never notice.”

Sadie's eyes sparkled. “That is a rare and useful gift.” She looked down at the complex knot that held her hands together. “I don't suppose those hands of yours could work this out.”

“Probably,” he said.

“Even with your own hands tied?”

“I can try,” he said.

“Why don't you,” she said.

When a sailor finally came down into the hold to check on them, the sun had gone down and only faint moonlight spilled in through the portal. They heard the sailor before they saw him, his boots stumping down the steep wooden steps as he muttered to himself.

“Girls and kids as crew. What a rotten voyage this is shaping up to be.”

He was an older gaf, lots of white mixed in with his greasy black hair and beard. He wore a wool sweater stretched across a vast paunch, and he limped a little. Sadie and the boy were sitting next to each other on the floor, rope visibly wrapped around their wrists. She forced her face to remain blank as the sailor squinted at her with eyes that looked bleary with drink.

“Listen up, you two,” he said. “You've been volunteered to work on the crew of this here ship, the
Savage Wind
. If you follow orders and do just as the captain and I say, you're free to go when we return to port at New Laven. We might even pay you. If you don't follow orders, you'll be flayed within a breath of dying. It'll be like this.” He slammed his great big slab of a hand into the side of Sadie's face so hard, her lip split. “Only a lot worse. Do we have an understanding?”

Sadie smiled, letting the blood dribble out the side of her mouth. “Do you know why they call me Sadie the Goat?”

He leaned in close, his breath stinking of grog. “Because of the beard?”

She slammed her forehead into his face. While he gaped at her, blood gushing from his broken nose, she shook off the rope that had been loosely coiled around her wrists, pulled the dagger from his boot, and shoved it up into the soft skin beneath his chin. She slowly twisted, and he convulsed against her, blood spattering her face. Then she jerked the blade, opening a vertical slit in his neck that went all the way down to his collarbone. She pulled out the knife and let the still-shuddering body drop to the ground.

She wiped her face with her sleeve, then leaned over and drew the sailor's sword.

“Here.” She handed the knife to the boy. “There's bound to be more of them topside. Most like we'll need to kill them all.”

The boy stared at the knife, still wet with blood, that lay in his hand.

“Red,” she said. When he didn't respond, she gave him a swat across the back of his head. “Look at me when I'm talking to you.”

He blinked stupidly at her.

“Red. That's your name now. You're my sidekick. Sunny?”

His eyes grew wide, and he nodded.

“Now, let's go explain to these gafs how we ain't interested in being southended.”

It was dark out on the deck, with only a sliver of moon. The sailor who stood watch topside was so surprised to see them that she planted her sword in his eye before he could even say a word. He fell twitching, and it took her a moment to wrench the blade free from his skull. Most of the sailors were drunk or asleep or both. Sadie didn't care. This was what they deserved. She was no swordsman, so it was all hack and slash as they made their way through the ship. By the time they reached the captain's quarters, she was breathing hard, her arm ached, and she was covered in the blood of six men. The cabin door was locked, so she pounded on the wood with the pommel of her sword. “Come out, you fish-bellied scum!”

“Sadie!” came Red's shrill voice.

She turned just in time to see a man in a wide-brimmed hat about ten feet away leveling a pistol at her. But instead of firing, the gun fell from his hand as he clutched the knife handle that protruded from his chest.

Red's hand was empty. He smiled a bit sheepishly, his ruby eyes glimmering in the moonlight. “I was aiming for the gun.”

Sadie grinned and slapped him on the back. “Well done, Red. I knew you had some mettle under all that artsy softness. Now, let's turn this tub around. There's one more gaf back on New Laven who needs it explained to him nice and slow why nobody southends Sadie the Goat.”

Getting the boat back to downtown New Laven was tricky with only Sadie and Red, neither of them knowing what they were doing. But the wind was in their favor and they reached the docks eventually. They probably would have crashed into the docks, but luckily, Sadie knew a few of the wags in port who helped guide them in without sinking themselves or someone else.

Sadie gave the sailors a terse grunt of thanks, then stomped down the docks, her blood-encrusted saber still in hand. Red scurried behind, eager to see how his new hero exacted her revenge.

It was too early in the day for Backus to be working at the Sailor's Mother, so Sadie headed for the Drowned Rat. When they reached the tavern, she threw the door wide. “Backus! You shifty assworm!”

Backus lifted his thin, pouchy face up from his mug of ale and looked across the tavern. Every patron of the Drowned Rat went quiet, and all eyes bounced from him to Sadie and back again.

“If it ain't Sadie the Goat.” His calm tone sounded forced. “I didn't expect to see you again. Too ugly for sailors even, is that it?”

“I'm about to make you a whole lot uglier than I left them.” Then Sadie lifted her sword and charged.

Backus looked at first incredulous. Everybody knew you didn't start trouble in the Drowned Rat. But as she drew near, his expression turned to terror.

Then Bracers Madge rose up, seemingly out of nowhere, and caught Sadie's sword arm. She yanked hard enough to lift Sadie off her feet, a snarl on her thick lips. She slammed Sadie's hand down hard on the nearest table, sending tankards of ale flying and forcing Sadie to let go of the sword.

“You know better'n to start trouble here, Sadie.” Her voice was a throaty growl.

“He's gotta know!” said Sadie, trying to twist her hand free of Madge's iron grip. “Everybody's gotta know they can't southend Sadie the Goat!”

“I understand you,” said Madge. “But everybody's got to know,
even you
, that nobody kills nobody in my bar. Now get the hells out of here.”

Everybody knew that Madge liked Sadie. She was giving her an out right then. Sadie could have taken it, and that would have been the end of it. But she didn't.

“Not till I show them all!”
She lunged toward Backus with sudden strength.

Bracers Madge only grunted, her hand still tight around Sadie's wrist. She reeled Sadie back in close, grabbed her head with her other hand, leaned down, and with a wet tear and a spurt of blood, bit off Sadie's ear.

The wail that came from Sadie's throat was loud enough to rattle the glass behind the bar, as much from rage as it was pain. Sadie clutched at the bleeding side of her head. Madge held the ear between her teeth, along with a tuft of hair that had gotten in the way. Sadie ran out of the bar, choking back the sobs of shame.

All eyes were riveted to Madge as she walked calmly to the bar, took out an empty jar, spit the ear into it, and added it to the rest of her collection.

Red saw Sadie's bloody sword still on the table. He didn't know what would happen next, but he knew Sadie would probably need that sword. He sprinted across the tavern, just as Backus was turning toward it. Red snatched it up before Backus could lift a hand. Then he dashed out of the tavern after Sadie.

He found her stumbling back toward the docks. She was cursing and crying as she held the side of her head, blood leaking out from between her fingers.

“What happened?” His voice was shrill.

“I'm through,” she howled. “Sadie the Goat, shamed in front of everybody. Bracers Madge has my ear in her collection and I can never show my face there again.”

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“We?” she snarled. “What do
we
do?” She looked like she was about to haul off and smack him. But then she stopped and stood there, frowning. “We,” she said again, this time a little quieter. She looked out at the docks. The
Savage Wind
was still tied up where they'd left her. “We,” she almost whispered. Then she grinned at Red.

“
We
are entering a new business enterprise, my best wag. Who needs the filth of Paradise Circle, Silverback, or Hammer Point when so many other points of interest lie waiting for us, just begging to be plundered? Sadie the Goat may be through. But Sadie the Pirate Queen is just getting started.”

3

T
he coast of Galemoor was comprised of jagged black rock worn smooth by the constant crash of icy waves. Further inland, the dark soil was hard but, when churned properly, rich and nourishing enough to grow an abundance of crops, particularly the barley and hops the Vinchen monks used to brew the brown ale that was prized all through the empire.

Most of the island was given over to agriculture, but in the center was the Vinchen monastery, hewn centuries ago from the black rock of the island by the disciples of Manay the True, one of the wisest grandteachers in the history of the empire. The long, rectangular buildings formed a large closed square around a courtyard, and in the center was the temple. The south side of the monastery contained the communal living quarters for the monks, and a separate—but still humble—dwelling for the grandteacher. The north side contained the kitchens, and the west side contained the brewery.

Grandteacher Hurlo had seen many boys arrive at the black iron gates of the monastery with looks of horror in their eyes. Most of them were rich, spoiled, and likely sent to become Vinchen because their parents found them difficult to manage at home. Hurlo remembered a time when being a Vinchen had been desirable. Fashionable, even. But those brought to him now took years to appreciate what he and the other sworn monks were trying to give them. Still, he had grown to accept that it was the way of things now.

He didn't know what to expect of the girl, though. She was something completely new, both for him and for the order. Captain Toa brought her to the gates dressed in filthy rags. Her dark blue eyes took in everything around her, yet gave nothing away.

“Hello, child,” Hurlo said to her. “I am Grandteacher Hurlo. Welcome to the Vinchen monastery.”

“Thank you,” she said in a barely audible voice.

“Good luck, then, Hurlo.” Sin Toa offered his thick, hairy hand.

“Good travels,” said Hurlo, taking it warmly.

Once Toa had left, Hurlo gathered all the monks and students in the courtyard. They eyed the little girl beside Hurlo with varying mixtures of surprise, confusion, and distaste.

“This is Bleak Hope, a child left orphaned and homeless because of the actions of a biomancer,” he said. “She will be staying with us, helping with chores and other menial tasks until she is old enough and strong enough to depart.”

None of the monks were disrespectful enough to speak out, but Hurlo heard several gasp audibly. This didn't surprise him. No female of any age had ever stepped inside the monastery. Now they would be living with one every day, possibly for years.

“You may return to your duties,” he said calmly. As he watched them slowly disperse, casting frequent glances at him and Hope, he decided it would be interesting to observe how they handled this adjustment.

The Book of Storms
said that there was only one Heaven, but many hells. Each hell was unique, but just as cruel as the next. This, the book said, was because there was no limit to human suffering, and no end to the number of ways the world could inflict it.

Grandteacher Hurlo thought often of that passage. He suspected that to the young boys who had recently joined the Vinchen order, Galemoor itself might be a hell. Far from the large cities and luxurious northern estates of their childhoods, it was located in the center of the Southern Isles, as far from the warm, sunny capital of Stonepeak as one could get.

For many of the older brothers, change alone was a kind of hell. Adding one unexpected element to a routine that had become rigid from years of repetition sent these men into something like panic. They seemed not to mind the girl as long as she didn't affect their day in any way. But if she cleaned their rooms, they complained to Hurlo, sometimes even that their rooms were too clean. If she spooned food onto their trays at mealtime, they complained to Hurlo, even if it was that she had put too much on their plates.

For other brothers, hell was the sudden presence of a female in their midst. When she drifted past in the baggy, hemmed old black monk robe that hung down to her ankles, silent and pale as a wraith, her eyes lost in the shadow of her hood, Hurlo could not have even said that she was female. Yet, somehow, these brothers seemed unable to focus on even the simplest tasks when she was in the room.

The Book of Storms
said that a man's hell told a great deal about him. So, too, did his reaction to that suffering. Hurlo found it interesting that while some complained about Hope, and others ignored her, still others tried to befriend the tiny blond agent of their suffering. But after a few attempts at flattery or gifts of sweets, those well-meaning brothers faltered under her unfathomable blue gaze, and slunk away.

After a few days of observation, Hurlo's attention drifted back to his studies and meditation. So he didn't notice at first when yet another reaction began to surface among his brothers. Cruelty.

It had been a week since Bleak Hope had entered the Vinchen monastery. She would not say she was happy. She was not sure she would ever be able to say that again. But she was comfortable. She had a warm place to sleep and three meals a day.

She didn't really understand what the Vinchen brothers did. They meditated, they read, and they exercised. Every evening just before dinner, they gathered in the temple for prayer. None of those activities had been popular in her village. In many ways, this life among the quiet monks was even more unfamiliar to her than those raucous few days aboard Captain Toa's ship.

She understood her work, though. Small rooms that needed to be kept neat, plain food that needed to be served, simple clothes that needed to be washed and mended. She took no pleasure in the work, but there was a certain peace to getting lost in the monotony of it. She treasured that peace, because the rest of the time, her thoughts were weighted with death and a dark hunger for revenge. Night was the worst time. She lay on her straw mat in the kitchen, and the thoughts pressed down on her until she could barely breathe. When sleep finally came, it was restless and full of nightmares.

“You there. Peasant girl.”

Hope stopped. She had been walking back to the kitchen from cleaning the outhouse. She turned and saw Crunta leaning in the doorway of the building where the brothers slept. Crunta was one of the younger brothers, about thirteen, and still in training. When Hurlo had first given her the list of tasks, he had mentioned that most of her chores would be for the older brothers. That the younger ones must perform chores for themselves. So she was surprised that Crunta was calling to her.

“Me?” she asked.

“Yes, you, stupid,” he said, and waved her over.

Not sure how to handle the situation, she went over to him.

“Come in.” He turned and went inside.

Hope followed him. The inside of the building was all one room. The smooth wooden floors were lined with neatly spaced straw sleeping mats and small, cylindrical pillows. Hope watched as Crunta pulled his black monk robe off. Underneath he wore a small undergarment that left his upper body and most of his legs bare. His body was lean and tightly muscled with almost no hair on his chest.

He balled up his robe and shoved it into her arms. “Wash this and bring it back to me right away.”

Hope was sure the younger brothers were supposed to do their own washing, but she was afraid to say so. “Yes, brother.”

His hand flew out and smacked the side of her face. “I'm not your brother. Call me master.”

Bleak Hope stared up at him, a dark rage spreading through her body. She imagined him screaming in agony as worms ripped through his skin. But she knew she could do nothing. She was just a weak little girl. So she swallowed her anger and said, “Yes, master.”

He sauntered over to his mat and lay down. Then he picked up a book. “Hurry back.”

Hope carried the robe, which stank of sweat and stale beer, over to the washtub outside the kitchen. As she scrubbed the cloth hard against the ridges of the washboard, she imagined that it was Crunta's face. As she stretched the robe across the smoldering coals in the kitchen to dry, she imagined the coals searing into Crunta's bare chest. She knew these thoughts were wrong, but they gave her some relief. Even so, the feeling of helpless rage ate at her as she walked back across the courtyard with the robe neatly folded in her arms.

She found him still lounging on his mat in his undergarments. She laid the robe at his feet. “Is there anything else, master?”

He looked at her over the top of his book for a moment, then stood. Ignoring the robe, he walked over to her. He stood several feet taller than her so that her face was level with his chest. She stared at it now because she liked the look in his eye even less. She didn't understand his gaze, but something about it made her skin crawl.

He pushed her hood back. She watched the rise and fall of his chest quicken as she felt his hand close on a lock of her hair. Her entire body shook, though from fear or loathing, she couldn't say.

“Brother Crunta!”

Hope turned her head, pulling her hair loose from Crunta's fingers. One of the older brothers, Wentu, stood in the doorway, a frown on his lined face. “Do not stand before the girl in your undergarments! It's indecent!”

Crunta took a slow, leisurely step back, a smirk on his face. “Yes, brother.” He leaned over and picked up his robe, then pulled it over his head.

His brow knit together and he pressed the cloth to his nose. “Ugh, this stinks of the kitchens! Do you want me to smell like a servant?”

“S-s-s-sorry, master,” stammered Hope. “You wanted me to be quick, so I dried it over the coals. I didn't—”

He slapped her across the face again.

“Young brother…,” said Wentu disapprovingly.

“You're lucky I don't beat you senseless!” Crunta said to Hope, his fist raised. “Get out of my sight, you filthy peasant.”

Hope ran to her straw mat in the back of the kitchen and curled up into a ball. She felt like crying, but no tears came. Only black thoughts of violence and revenge. She thought Crunta must be the cruelest brother in the monastery.

But she hadn't yet encountered Racklock.

Bleak Hope's favorite job was to care for the temple. The floor, walls, and altar were all made of the smooth black rock on the island, but in this place, it had been polished to a shine that made it feel at once solemn and bright. She loved the smell of the prayer candles, which gave a hint of jasmine as they burned. Most of all, she loved the tall stained glass windows at the top of the temple. She didn't understand the pictures they showed, strange creatures and black-armored warriors, but the colors reminded her of the necklace she had made for her father. She had supposed that she could never enjoy such things again. But there was a tiny ember that remained, and grew slightly warmer at the sight of sunlight streaming in through those colored windows.

“So here is where you shirk your duties,” came a deep voice.

Hope tore her gaze from the windows and looked at the short, powerfully built brother known as Racklock. He stood with his arms folded, his face hard. Hope knew Racklock was second in the order only to Hurlo, and all the other brothers feared him.

“It's my duty to clean the temple every day, master,” said Hope.

“I saw no cleaning.” Racklock took a step toward her. “Only idling. We feed you, clothe you, give you a place when the world surely would have been rid of you. And this is how you repay us?”

Hope had learned from Crunta that defending oneself could be dangerous. So she only bowed her head and said, “Sorry, master.”

“You are not a woman yet, but already your forked tongue tries to aid you.” He said it with calm disdain as he walked over to a cabinet. He opened the cabinet, which was filled with an assortment of items, and pulled out a long, wooden cane. As he examined it, he said, “Others may be fooled, but I see what you truly are. A vile sickness that seeks to destroy this order from the inside. An evil to be purged.”

It was on that sun-dappled afternoon in early fall that Hurlo was shaken from a deep meditation by the sound of a little girl's screams. He rushed from his tiny room, across the sunny courtyard, and into the temple. There he found Bleak Hope cowering on the ground, her face pressed against the cold stone floor, her black robe wet with blood. Racklock loomed over her. His thick shoulders surged as he brought the cane hard against her back and she screamed again.

That was the moment Hurlo understood that he had not rescued the girl. He had merely moved her from one hell to another. That was also when he discovered a new hell of his own. The hell of allowing an innocent to suffer. True, he did not wield the cane, nor did he ask that the girl be brought to him in the first place. But as he looked down at her ashen face, he knew he could not stay in this hell a moment longer.