Hope and Red (8 page)

She opened the bag that contained the remaining food and water. The grandteacher had not packed a map. That might have helped. Or perhaps not. The sunlight beat down hard directly above, and she couldn't even be certain she was traveling in the right direction. A compass would have been helpful, she decided. But he hadn't packed one of those either.

What the grandteacher
had
packed was a suit of the black leather armor worn by Vinchen warriors. The boots, leggings, and jacket were thick enough to slow down an arrow or bullet but not so heavy that they impeded movement. They had straps with buckles evenly spaced up the arms and legs, which could be used to hold additional weapons or as tourniquets if the warrior were seriously wounded.

When Hope had discovered the armor on the first morning, she hadn't immediately understood that it was hers. After all, only a true brother of the order was allowed to don the black armor. It was something that she had assumed, even in the deepest part of her training, would always be beyond her reach. Yet here was the smallest armor she had ever seen. She remembered a night when the grandteacher had taken careful measurements of her. He had not given a reason, and it would have been presumptuous of her to ask. He must have cut and bound the armor himself, since the tanner would have been suspicious of the size. The grandteacher must have also oiled and polished it himself. She held it up to the sun and watched admiringly as the light gleamed off the black creases. She imagined him working the polish slowly into the leather with his wrinkled old hands, just for her.

She wished she hadn't left him there to be murdered by his own brothers, promises and duty be damned. But of course now it was too late. And she had sworn not to take vengeance on them, so she did not even have that comfort. She hugged the armor to her chest and swore that she would wear it with honor in his name. It was all she had.

Hope pulled off her soft monk's robes and stuffed them into the sack with the food. She paused a moment, staring at the water. Another cluster of bubbles rose to the surface. She wondered what made them. A gust of wind blew past, chilling her skin beneath her thin undergarments. She shivered and pulled on the black leather armor. It fit perfectly.

She was ready for battle.

Or so she thought at the time. It was now a day later, and she was lost and alone. She had one of the greatest blades ever forged and some of the finest armor ever crafted by one of the wisest men who ever lived. But in this battle, there was no one to fight but the sea.

What now?
Hope didn't know where she was going. And that was true not just in terms of navigating this stretch of water. She could just as easily have asked
What now?
of her whole life. Hurlo had told her she must endure. But why?

There was one reason she knew. Somewhere out there was a man who had murdered her parents and her village. She would have vengeance on that man. But she didn't know who he was, only that he was a biomancer. Now she was on her own in a world she knew almost nothing about other than what she had read in books. How could she possibly find one man?

As she stared at the horizon, she realized there was something out there. At first, it was little more than a black dot and she thought it might be a small island. But it grew rapidly larger, and she understood that it was moving toward her. Before long, she could make out the details of a merchant ship. Sails billowed from the two tall masts, and the sun gleamed wetly from the feminine figurehead on the bow. She caught a flash near the top of the front mast and realized someone had a spyglass trained on her. There were faint shouts as the sailors called to each other. The sails went slack and the ship slowed as it neared her.

A tall man with a broad blue hat and a wool sea coat leaned over the rail. What little of his face could be seen behind his curly black and gray beard was a darker brown than she had ever seen.

“Ahoy!” he called. “I'm Captain Carmichael, and this is my ship. Maritime law expects any captain registered under imperial trade to assist a ship in distress. Do you require assistance?”

“I'm lost,” she called up. “Can you point me in the direction of the nearest port?”

“Aye, but in a vessel like that it's many days off.”

“Many? I only have rations for another day or so.”

Another sailor with a long mustache said something to the captain that she couldn't hear. The captain turned to him, regarding him without expression. Then he turned back to her.

“I could spare you some rations,” he said. “But you're in deep waters and in a little boat like that, like as not the oarfish will get you.”

“Oarfish?”

“Great big sea serpents,” called the man with the long mustache. “They swim vertical beneath the surface, gazing up at the dark shadows above them until they see or smell something that looks like prey. And, as everyone knows, sea serpents of all kinds are drawn to the scent of womenfolk. They're probably tracking you as we speak.” He turned to the rest of the crew. “We shouldn't have even stopped. Now she's put us
all
in danger.”

“You best shut your mouth, Ranking,” said Captain Carmichael calmly.

“Or what?” retorted Ranking. “You've already doomed us with this showy bit of sentimentality.” He eyed the surface of the water warily. “I tell you, they could be on us at any time.” Then he turned back to the other sailors. “And don't think we're safe up here! Oarfish can—”

Hope's small sailboat vibrated beneath her feet, and the water surrounding her began to bubble, then boil. She vaulted into the air and landed on the larger ship's rail, balancing on the balls of her feet. A moment later, the smaller boat smashed to pieces as a mouth with teeth as long as her forearm shot up from beneath it. The oarfish rose ten feet into the air with no sign of where it ended. Its snakelike body was as thick around as a man's chest and a dark mottled green. It curved its head around and fixed her with its black glassy eyes, then dropped back below the surface.

The sailors ran to the cabins and the rigging, shouts, curses, and prayers filling the air.

“He ain't done yet,” Captain Carmichael said as he looked up at Hope, who was still balanced on the rail. “You might want to get down from there.”

She smiled slightly as she looked down at him from her perch. “You might want to clear to one side.”

The oarfish burst from the water again, this time angled so that it came directly at Hope. At the last instant, she darted to one side and the oarfish blew past her. The Song of Sorrows slid from its sheath, sunlight glinting on the blade as it hummed through the air and came down just past the gills, slicing cleanly through. The head continued on its trajectory, the gaping maw still open, until it slammed into the main mast, the teeth embedding into the wood. The headless body slammed onto the deck, spraying blood and seawater as it slid to the starboard rail before coming to a halt. Only then did Bleak Hope jump from the port rail to land soundlessly beside the captain.

“You see?” shouted Ranking. “She brought in an oarfish as sure as anything. I was right!”

“Whether she brought it in or not,” said Carmichael, “she sure as piss took it out.” He turned to her. “Are you retained?”

“Retained?” she asked.

“Do you swear loyalty to anyone? Does someone pay you?”

She shook her head.

“You aren't thinking of bringing her on board, Captain?” said Ranking. “A woman? That's the worst kind of luck!”

Carmichael looked from Ranking to Hope, then to the headless oarfish. Finally, he addressed the whole crew. “Man, woman. Don't see how that makes a whole lot of difference. What I do see is a
warrior
, the like of which you don't come across too often in your life.” He turned back to Hope. “How about it? Care to join my crew for a spell?”

Hope considered it. The captain had stopped to offer her assistance. He had called her a warrior. He seemed to be a somewhat honorable man. “Do you travel a great deal? All over the empire?”

“We do.”

She looked around at the ship. It was true she didn't know much about the world. But she couldn't think of a better place to learn.

“Very well, Captain,” she said. “You have my sword for a time. Until I feel I must move on.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Doubt I could keep you from going anyway.”

“Captain, no—” Ranking stepped toward them, but he jerked to a halt when Hope whipped her blade around, setting the point an inch from his throat.

“Contradicting the captain could be considered mutiny, punishable by death,” she said quietly.

“She has the right of it,” Carmichael said. “So you want to tell me how you planned to end that sentence?”

“Uh…” Sweat trickled down Ranking's temple as he eyed the blade that was still wet with the dark blood of the oarfish. “I was saying, Captain, no, please let me be the first to welcome her aboard, seeing as how I was so rude to her at first.”

Carmichael grinned, showing yellow teeth in his black beard. “Anyone else with an objection?”

The ship was silent.

Captain Carmichael nodded approvingly, then turned back to Hope. “What's your name, warrior?”

“My name is Bleak Hope.”

“Well, Hope, welcome aboard the
Lady's Gambit
.”

8

I
t was the grand opening of the Three Cups dance hall, and Red had no intention of sleeping that night. The sun had just set, and already the floor was packed with young toms and mollies hoping for a little flash in their otherwise muddy existence.

“It's awful crowded,” observed Filler, who stood next to him at their spot against the wall. Eight years later and Filler was still the tallest wag Red knew, and thanks to his recent apprenticeship at the smithy, also one of the strongest. He kept his hair close cropped, and had the wispy beginnings of a beard on his chin.

“Crowded is good,” said Red, brushing his dark hair out of his ruby eyes as he scanned the room. The band sat off in the corner: a guitar, horn, flute, and drums. They were playing nice and fast, but despite that and the crowds, no one was dancing. The toms and mollies stood on opposite sides of the room, eyeing each other, not quite sure how to proceed. He remembered Sadie had said that back before Jix the Lift ran Paradise Circle, dance halls were common. Jix had turned them all into brothels and drug dens. Red's generation never had the opportunity to experience a dance hall. But now Jix was gone, and it was a new era. The era of Deadface Drem.

Red saw Drem over by the bar. A bit on the tall side, with a long face, pale, almost colorless eyes, and thinning, carefully combed hair. He wore a pat gray jacket and a black cravat like the kind lacies wore. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Deadface Drem was the most powerful gang lord in Paradise Circle and notorious throughout all the neighborhoods for being a cold, unscrupulous smuggler, pimp, murderer, and even occasional police informant when it suited him. He'd started running a rival drug operation to Jix a few years back. It had been a long time since anyone had tested Jix, and maybe his reaction was a little excessive. One night when Drem and his molly were walking home from a tavern, Jix and a group of his wags cornered them in an alley. Jix said he would let Drem go if he could watch his girl get tortured, raped, and murdered without getting upset. Drem watched the whole thing, his face dead calm, and that's how he got his nickname. True to his word, when they all had their fun, Jix let Drem go. But every night after, one of Jix's men was found dead, brutally mutilated, until finally it was Jix they found one morning, strangled with his own guts. That was how Drem got his reputation.

That night, Deadface Drem sat at the bar of his new dance hall and looked out at all the people not dancing in it. He did not look pleased.

“Let's do old Deadface a favor and get the dancing started,” said Red.

“What?” The look on Filler's face was absolute panic. Ever since Red had gotten back from his pirating adventures with Sadie, Filler had fallen in behind Red as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He had followed Red into many dangerous, potentially deadly situations since then. But Red could tell at a glance that asking him to dance in front of people was too much a test of even his loyalty.

Red patted his best wag on the shoulder. “Alright, then. Wish me luck.” He scanned the line of mollies on the opposite side, looking for a likely candidate. Someone attractive, of course. But she also had to be bold enough to join him in the first dance this hall had ever seen. Then he saw her. Long curly dark hair and smoldering brown eyes. High, perfect cheekbones and full lips. She wore a short wool jacket and breeches instead of a dress, but that seemed to accentuate her curves even more. Her high leather boots were set in a square stance that said she was not taking any nonsense from anybody. Red had seen her around and had thought about approaching her. Now was the perfect opportunity. Two loops in the knot.

The hall didn't go silent as Red crossed the empty dance zone between the two groups, but he felt like maybe the general volume of conversation dipped a little. And maybe it seemed like the guitarist was giving him a grateful look. Red imagined there were a lot of people depending on the success of this club, and this could be his way of helping them out. Make that three loops in the knot.

He crossed the rest of the empty space and now stood in front of the dangerous, dark-eyed molly he'd spotted. She had watched him approach with a cool, studied expression. He flashed a grin and said, “Good evening.”

“What's wrong with your eyes?” she asked.

“Terrible sad story. Just now, when they witnessed your otherworldly beauty, they went fiery red with passion. I fear it might be permanent unless I'm allowed to dance with you.”

“That so?” she said. “Never had that effect on a leaky tom before.”

“That's because you never met a tom like me before. What's your name?”

“They call me Nettles.”

“Who does?”

“Anyone smart enough to realize they better call me what I pissing well want to be called. And you must be Red.”

“You heard of me?” Red was pleased.

“Mostly that you're a thief, liar, and cheat.”

“It's more fanciful embroidering than actual lies,” said Red.

“Some of the mollies say you ain't a real person. That Sadie the Goat made a deal with a necromancer and raised you up from some hell, and that's why you've got red eyes.”

Red felt like this conversation was rapidly going leeward, and he fought to keep his grin intact. “Some mollies will always say things.”

“I also heard trouble follows you as loyally as that big ox of a wag you always have with you. That you'd steal from your own grandmom if you had one, that the imps use your portrait for target practice, and let's see…oh yeah, that your dad was a whore.”

Red thought about trying to refute those accusations, but he had to admit, at least to himself, that most of them were true. He could try to keep pushing, but at a certain point, there was more dignity in a graceful retreat.

“Well, Nettles. I guess you must know me pretty well for never having met me.” Then he turned and steeled himself for the slow, sad walk back to his side of the room.

“I didn't say any of that bothered me,” said Nettles.

His smile slowly returned as he looked back over his shoulder at her. “Not even the bit about being from hell?”

She shrugged. “Depends on how good of a dancer you are.”

He turned back and held out his hand to her. “The best in Paradise Circle. Care to verify it?”

“Might as well. I was getting bored just standing here anyway.”

The two walked out into that great big empty space, and this time he was sure the musicians were smiling at him as their tune suddenly surged with energy. They danced for a while. Red was as good as he said, but Nettles was slightly better. She moved like water, a constant flow that never missed a beat. She was not shy about getting close either. They pressed together, hip to hip, her breasts against him, her warm breath on his neck. She smelled like sandalwood and spice. Then she slid her hand between them and pushed him back, keeping her hand pressed flat against his abdomen, a wicked smile on her face. Then she let him ease back in for a little while, so close her thick eyelashes brushed his chin. She pushed him away again, but not so far that he was out of reach. It became a game of sorts. How close could he get? And for how long?

Red fought through the heat of his leaky brain. He was getting distracted. The main plan was working. Other couples were stepping out onto the dance floor. He glanced at Deadface Drem by the bar and saw that he looked, if not happy, at least satisfied.

Nettles pulled him in close and pressed her soft lips to his ear. “Why do I feel like you've got a whole 'nother thing in play here?”

“I'm a complicated wag,” he said. “I've always got a few things in play. But you are by far the prettiest.”

She slipped her fingers into his waistband and tugged gently. “Oh, I'm part of one of your schemes, am I?”

“The centerpiece.”

“What if you're part of one of my schemes?”

“As long as they don't conflict, I have no problem with that.” The floor was full of dancers now. He wouldn't attract attention if he left. But there was still the matter of this molly tugging at his pants. He was tempted to save his plan for another night and pursue this beauty tonight. But if he was going to roll this place, tonight was his best chance of success. “Tell you what, Nettles. If you let me slip away quietly right now without any fuss, I swear I will commit myself wholeheartedly to whatever scheme you have in mind at another time.”

“Interesting proposition.” She considered it for a moment. “Yeah, alright. Tomorrow at noon. Outside Gunpowder Hall.”

“I'll be there.”

“I know you will.” She released him, a slight smile on her face. Red felt like she had one on him. He wasn't used to that feeling, and decided he didn't like it at all. Well, he mostly didn't like it. There was a tiny part of him that liked it quite a lot. He gave her one last look, then slipped into the crowd.

Filler still stood against the wall with a couple of other toms. He was a full head taller than anyone else in the room. Sometimes Red wished his best wag didn't stick out so much. But his size was helpful as often as not. Especially if things went leeward, which, Red was the first to admit, sometimes they did. But this wouldn't be one of those times. This plan was solid.

“You ready?” he quietly asked Filler.

Filler nodded, and the two made their way through the crowds toward the exit. Then, at the last moment, they veered off down a side hallway, the staff entrance that led toward the back of the bar. Had they tried that move earlier when no one was dancing, it would have been in plain view of the guards on the floor. But now there was a wall of people between them. Filler still had to hunch down, but soon they were moving quickly down the service hallway to the back of the bar. Both bartenders were over by Drem, ready to get him anything he needed. All three were still watching the dancing.

Crouching again so their heads couldn't be seen above the bar, Red and Filler eased past them to the stockroom. There was a large door at the back of the stockroom that led to the alley behind the building, where casks of spirits and barrels of ale were delivered. There was also a large wooden hatch in the floor of the stockroom. Filler popped it open and they followed the sturdy wooden steps to the cellar. The space stretched under most of the building, with hard-packed dirt floors, casks and barrels stacked neatly on either side. The ceiling was high enough that Red could stand up straight, but Filler had to stoop a little. There was a narrow aisle in the center that stretched the length of the cellar. At the far end, barely visible in the dim lamplight, was a massive safe. Red knew the wag who had installed the thing, which was why he knew it existed. He also knew it was where Deadface Drem kept all his money.

They walked noiselessly on the dirt floor to the safe. It was the largest Red had ever seen, spanning from floor to ceiling and just as wide. It was impressive. But a lock was a lock. If anything, the size of the keyhole might make it even easier to pick.

Filler kept an eye on the steps while Red took out his lock-picking tools and went to work. It was new and well oiled. That and its size made it the easiest lock he had ever picked. Within minutes he heard the satisfying
click
of a job well done.

As the massive door began to swing slowly open, he said, “Filler, my old pot, we've got—”

He stopped when he saw what was in the safe. His informant had been right. There was more money in that safe than Red had ever seen in one place. What the informant hadn't known about was the armed guard inside with it.

“Hello, boys,” said Brackson, Drem's number two. He pointed his rifle at Red's face. “Drem had a hunch someone stupid might try something like this.”

Red held his hands up. “Would you believe I was looking for a place to piss?”

“Turn around,” said Brackson.

Red turned back toward the steps and joined Filler, who also had his hands up.

“Now, up to the stockroom,” said Brackson.

Red and Filler walked side by side up the steps.

“Hey, Red,” said Filler.

“Shut up or I'll shoot that pathetic attempt at a beard right off your face,” said Brackson.

Once they reached the main floor, Brackson had them stand in front of the door that led to the alley.

“Drem don't want no commotion on his grand opening, so we're going to go out back to…discuss this.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Red was confident that once they were out in the open, dodging this boot wouldn't be that difficult.

“Oh yeah?” Brackson sounded amused. “Why don't you go ahead and open the door, then.”

When Red opened the door, he saw why Brackson was amused. Seven more of Drem's boots sat in the alley, playing stones and looking bored. But when they saw Red and Filler with their hands up, they stood, looking a lot less bored.

“Got us a couple of safe-picking gafs here,” Brackson called to them.