Steel Sirens Read online

  “I don’t think anyone but children and idiots have invoked my name in a century.”

  The tavern thaws. Sound and motion dance around the room once it’s clear nothing more exciting than talking is likely to happen.

  The witch turns her melted-ice eyes on me. Her gaze flicks away, far off, like Tarin that day in the forest.

  “Who told you of me? Where did you learn my name?”

  “Caiminae. You were old when I was new,” Emeree says, for just our ears.

  “Caiminae is gods-damned right. I was powerful when you were green.”

  This smacks of old pride. Not unwarranted pride, but faded. I used to hear it in Thom’s voice.

  As the thought of Thom crosses my mind, the witch draws back.

  Emeree doesn’t notice. She bows, not in subservience, but out of reverence. I really wish we could hold a conversation through our bond right now.

  “I know the secret you keep in your chest, Swordmaiden,” says Caiminae to Emeree. Her eyes fall on me. “And the secret you keep from yourself.”

  She blocks a passing maid with tray laden. “What is the coin here?”

  The maid wipes a ruddy, sweat-sheened cheek and frowns. “Coin?”

  “Payment. What do you take for payment?”

  The maid grins. “Aww love! We take near anything for payment dependin’ on fancy. But any minted coin’ll do.”

  “For their drinks.” Caiminae drops her pence onto the tray and dismisses the barmaid with a turn of her shoulder. “I don’t know mortal currency from one century to the next. It’s a fussy, burdensome institution, economics.”

  I give Emeree a look. This sounds like the strongly held opinion of someone who can fill their belly with magic and not bread.

  Emeree doesn’t smile, but her dimple shows.

  “I have business with the boy,” says Caiminae.

  This is news to me.

  “While we speak, you’d do well to keep scarce, Swordmaiden. We both know the reputation of this place under the Arundel’s of earlier days is...eroded. The Duke sees with more than mortal eyes.”

  Emeree nods a secret understanding. “I’ll wait in the croft for Oranna.”

  I really hope some of this gets explained in a minute.

  “Should I go with her?” I ask Emeree, not caring if the witch can hear.

  “The Bellagorg can be friend or foe, based on no particular reason. In this case, she seems a friend. I think... you should go.”

  “Fine,” I say, getting up. “But if I’m not back in five minutes –”

  “I know, I know.” Emeree takes a last swig of her ale. “I’ll wait longer.”

  “Very reassuring!”

  “Witches like to take their time with new blood!” She disappears with a wave down a narrow set of steps beside the fireplace.

  Caiminae gestures for me to follow. I dodge swinging elbows and the mill of drunk bodies, rushing to keep up with her.

  On the street she waits for me to catch my breath. It’s a relief, being out here in relative calm. I can feel Emeree. She’s here; she’s close.

  “What did you mean about this place’s reputation?”

  “I meant that even here, there are some of us who’d do well to not be seen.”

  “Everyone saw you come in…”

  “I am not afraid of Carven Arundel. Well, not yet.”

  When my breath slows, Caiminae hands me a palm-sized mirror of polished silver, a disk clutched by beautiful pewter fingers.

  “Look into the mirror,” she instructs.

  I hold it up. “And then –”

  Nothing. I don’t feel a thing. No change in light or sound. Just a shift of air. But we’re somewhere else.

  “– what.”

  The room is big enough for two people, two chairs and a table roughly the size of a coffin. The space may be bigger than it seems; sheer drapes in a rainbow of colors fall from the ceiling peak, a prism in the candlelight, caught back with thin ribbons. Their soft swags dampen sound, warm the air. This magnifies the heat of our bodies, the scent of them. More than this, I feel the drapes trap something less tangible.

  I reach out for Emeree; she’s a pinpoint flicker far out in the universe. Where are we?

  Caiminae slips behind the table and sits. She gestures to the open chair. “You have a lot of questions.”

  “Emeree has answered a lot of them.”

  “She has some of her own. So do I. Have you encountered a Seer before?”

  “No.”

  She swipes a plum velvet case from thin air and sets it on the blue tablecloth. “Let’s see what answers the cards hold.”

  I know these cards, though I’ve never seen a deck. My parents forbid anything like them. We were heathens, not lunatics.

  Caiminae deals with slim, almost skeletal fingers, but her hands are lovely. She lays out nine cards, some arranged on top of others.

  She pulls a tenth and lays the deck aside. Air thickens in the room; time swells in the space of her sliding the card and flipping it.

  “Do you know where you come from?” Caiminae asks, eyes on the card.

  “Braemar. In the high wilds. My parents came there decades ago.” An electric trill runs up my spine. “Why? What do the cards say?”

  “This one matters most.” She taps the last one. “The Naked Duke.”

  The card depicts a lean, manipulative woman with gold skin. A man lurks within a bush at her back. They secretly copulate while she speaks to a pair of nuns. In her hand she clutches a dagger; it could be aimed for the holy women or the man who pleasures her. She cannot see the pointed crosses concealed behind the nun’s backs.

  This token is associated with a mystery, a reckoning, and balance. Inverted, it represents fear, lust, and retribution.

  Caiminae stops murmuring and flips the card. Its reverse is dark grey with a ship.

  “What does this mean? Is it inverted? I don’t know enough about this…”

  “It means you should go to Castle Lowe.”

  “I’ve been to Castle Lowe.”

  “Enter it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “The cards say you can. A Siren and all that you are...come now, Ewan.”

  “What am I?”

  Caiminae taps the cards and begins to pack them away. “You will enter the castle, and if you do as you ought, your actions there will be felt across realms. Fate says you will win.”

  “Why are you telling me all this? Helping me?”

  “Because you may help me later. And…” She looks me over, “you’re useful to me now.”

  In all the stories I know, mortals are useful to witches as food or thralls.

  “There will come a day when my kind need you. The Sirens, but specifically you.”

  “To do…?”

  When she snaps the cards vanish. “Whatever is needed.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  She shrugs. “How do I know I can trust you? You’re arguably a greater danger to me than I am to you.”

  How honest is she? “Let’s do each other a boon.”

  She nods.

  “My family was taken. I want to know if my brothers are all right.”

  Her eyes grow distant, speculative. She’s silent a moment before her attention sharpens back to me. “Yes. Perfectly safe. They’re worried about you.”

  “That so?”

  “Mmm. Especially because you can’t remember one of them is a girl.”

  Caught, I laugh.

  “They’re alive and hale. Nearing open water,” Caiminae frowns, “and nearing the Rookery.”

  “Emeree mentioned the Rookery.”

  “Did she tell you what it is?”

  “No. We’ve been...occupied.”

  “I’ve given you a boon. Now it’s my turn,” says Caiminae.

  “The Rookery?”

  Her face closes; she isn’t going to answer. “What do you want?”

  “I want inside Castle Lowe.”

  “Y
ou’re a witch; can’t you just...go in?”

  She laughs and gives me a look.

  “That’s it; you want us to sneak you inside?”

  “No. I want in once you’ve cleaned the place up. Five minutes at most.”

  “You want me and Emeree to go into a place you won’t?” She must see the irony in this.

  “A threat to one being may not be a threat to another.” Caiminae gets up. “When you’ve secured Castle Lowe, call for me.”

  “I haven’t figured out how we’re getting inside. We don’t have any money.” The witch reaches down as I speak, pulling forth her mirror. “You’re asking a lot for something that’s –

  “Hey! Easy now, love!” The barmaid puts her hand on my shoulder, steadying us both against a collision.

  The taproom’s noise claps my ears. Yeast, pipe smoke, sweat; the smells are heavy after my time in the small room.

  Caiminae is gone.

  12

  Emeree huddles at the bar, near our table, head bent to her companion so she can be heard over the din.

  Oranna. It must be; she has the same imperious aura Emeree described. Her silver hair is shot with streaks of dark brown, face creased as old paper, but she radiates vitality. And something sensual. Oranna’s generous bosom rests on the bar, half exposed by her low ruby tunic. She doesn’t care; this seems a regular pose. Judging by a cloak forgotten halfway down her arms, she’s only just arrived.

  Her eyes lock on my approach and she smiles. Emeree waves me on.

  So much for going incognito.

  Oranna leans in and smooths a lock of Emeree’s hair. “As I live and breathe. I was sure you were dead. The whole world thought so, lass.”

  Emeree takes Oranna’s hand. “I’m not so easily killed.”

  “And this is Ewan?” asks Oranna, beaming at me again.

  “I am.”

  “How did it go with the witch?” asks Emeree. “Did she eat your bone?”

  “Well...about the way I’ve ever heard of any exchange with a witch going. She wants something and she’s angled us into getting it for her. And I heard that.”

  “Exciting,” Emeree whispers, making Oranna laugh again.

  How does she keep happy in a place like this? “I hate to interrupt the reunion,” I say, “but if I don’t get a plate of whatever you’re cooking I may gnaw off my leg.”

  “Oh you. Now I see why Emeree’s taken up with you. Silver tongued, sparkle eyed devil of a – Jor!”

  Her shout rattles a picture on the wall; the patrons seem used to this. Dishes rattle on cue from the kitchen. Jor, I presume.

  “Jor’ll have you sorted in a moment.”

  “We can’t pay,” I stammer, remembering my empty purse.

  “Pay! You’re not going to pay for a thing.”

  Emeree takes my hand atop the bar as I beam. “Oranna, I could kiss you.”

  Oranna hefts a wooden cudgel from beneath the bar and cradles it. “Try it, lad.” She bends again and sets a jar in front of me.

  Teeth. It’s a jar of teeth, some whole, some hardly more than grit. Oranna winks. “You’ll not be the first.”

  I raise my free hand in surrender.

  “We need a little jingle to get around. Can you help?” Emeree asks.

  Oranna’s glow dims. “I’ll barely make the taxes this autumn. They confiscated my father’s lands; this place is all I have. For a little longer, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry. Don’t worry yourself; Ewan and I can sort out the money.”

  “I can still feed you. And you’ll have a room. Count on that.”

  “Thank you,” Emeree and I say in unison.

  “Lamb! Customers!” Oranna shouts so suddenly that I flinch back. How long does it take to get used to this?

  A mountain of a man rises from a nearby bench, the muscle I noticed earlier posted by the door, ready to escort any troublemakers.

  He towers a head over everyone in the room, ducking the braziers. Lamb lumbers through the crowd like an iceberg in a churning sea.

  He stops before us and gestures with unexpected grace. He takes us in, blinking eyes twinkling with surprising intelligence. “Lady Oranna.”

  “Such a love, using a stripped title like it’s my baptism name. Give ‘em the third floor, aye? There’s a beast.”

  Lamb’s expression doesn’t change. I’m not sure his granite face is capable of emotion, deep hollows and jowls a permanent fixture of his bear-sized skull. But he’s capable of surprise. I hear it in his low choir-like voice. “The apartments?”

  “Aye, the apartments. For an old friend.”

  Lamb shrugs, seeming relieved none of this is his decision to make. He hefts up our bags and gear and trickles one stomp at a time toward the stairs.

  “The apartments are for good company. Expensive company. Best view of the city and you have the whole floor to yourself. I expect you two will appreciate that.”

  I cough, jostled by Emeree’s elbow. When she smiles, I can’t catch my breath. She so godsdamned beautiful. There’s a thrum to the night, subtle inertia that tightens as we prolong the inevitable. Relish it.

  Her eyes dance as she chats with Oranna, words I hear but don’t process, and I remember her body under mine, the taste of her lips, her skin, her pussy. I want to drag her off now, take her to our rooms, and the idea that I could…

  “Dinner!” I say a little too abruptly. Emeree’s eyes drop to my crotch, and she gives a throaty laugh.

  Oranna obliges, showing us to the owner’s table in an alcove off the kitchens. It reminds me of our greatroom at home, simple wood and warm light and a lot of loving touches that are obviously Oranna’s hand in things.

  We tuck in with relish, and it’s as delicious as it smells. Simple fare, not expensive, but filling; pork, potatoes, leeks, slathered in some sort of gravy. We wash it down with a light ale that tastes vaguely of elderberries. Before I’ve finished my first cup my head swims. It’s been too many days since my belly was full.

  Still, I don’t turn down a second cup when Oranna slides it across the table. “You ranger lads are a hearty lot. Some captain down at the quay would snatch you up in a second.”

  This is very exciting. I could work on a boat. I’d wear one of those tan knit caps and wide canvas pants. This ignites a whole sailor fantasy.

  I’m drunk.

  “Things have certainly changed,” Emeree says to Oranna, getting down to business.

  Oranna’s joy dampens, and her face falls. “And not a bit of it for the better.” She leans in. “After that wizard arrived, and Iver died, it’s been shite.”

  “You mean Iver died and the wizard appeared?” I ask through my fog.

  “No!” Oranna breathes. “Just the opposite.”

  Emeree and I exchange a look. She leans forward, elbows to the table. “So, there was something to the murder claim.”

  “The witch said something about danger to one person not being a danger to another when she wanted us to get inside the castle.”

  “A magus or wizard would definitely qualify as a danger, to a witch.”

  “Sounds like a danger to us, too.”

  “Matter of perspective,” says Emeree on a long sip. “Witches are the only creature I know of who possess inherent magic. And for that reason, they have power and abilities unmatched by any other being. There are factions dedicated solely to discovering how to ‘skin’ witches.”

  “I’d believe that’s just the sort hanging out in Carven’s hall right now,” spits Oranna.

  Emeree sits straighter. “Some church sect? Cult?” I hear her over-eager tone.

  “No one knows. There’s only three things folks agree on,” Oranna taps the table. “One, an ambassador fitting the same rumor as the magus was hanging about court around five years back; saw him with my own eyes when I was still permitted there. Two, there’s talk of them in every city in the West Midlands. Wizards, nullifiers, necromancers; little of everything across the kingdom.”

  “Necroman
cy,” mutters Emeree, looking at me.

  The Orpha; she’s thinking it as clearly as I am.

  “And three?” I dare, decently sobered by all of this.

  “It’s probably too late to stop whatever they’re aimin’ for.”

  Her words fall into my chest like a drop of frigid water.

  “I just can’t imagine an Arundel letting this happen,” says Emeree.

  “Oh, Carven.” Oranna clucks and traces a slow pattern on the tabletop. “Such a handsome lad, so like his father in character. I think we among the noble houses never feared for Iver’s passing; Carven was his successor in every way.”

  “Iver?” says Emeree.

  “They said it was the end of his natural life.” Oranna shrugs. “Rumors get out. And I have a few allies left. Body all shriveled up. Eyes had a greenish cast, and his white hair, too.”

  “Subjugation magic,” Emeree bites out. “Over a long time. The body dies around the mind. So much suffering, but the victim can’t show it, can’t stop it.” She shudders.

  “Carven,” Oranna says, real hate in her eyes. “After the worst of the beginning, his taxes, arrests, insupportable laws –” She falters, mouth working silently for a moment. “The Church sent a delegation. That was the day we found out the ambassador was a mage. He melts those good men; just waves a hand and they die screaming. Or that’s the story my contact told. The men are still missing.” She exhales a ragged breath.

  “The Church isn’t exactly clean.” I know this from some experience. “And they’re not telling our people the truth.”

  “They do a lot of good. And they suffer a lot of corruption.” Oranna raises a brow. “Would you want your flock knowing there’s something out there more powerful than you? And that something is a dire wolf right at the edge of their pasture?” She shakes her head. “The Church might be more scared than any of us.”

  “Oranna,” Emeree whispers. “Why don’t you go? Retire into the foothills?”

  “When they throw me in the hole, then I’ll be retired. I’m no fool; I know I don’t have many years left. There’s a resistance. Still a baby, mind you, but what I do have goes to them; I want to see Minster Lowe restored or the resistance strong before I die. Maybe both, so this never happens again.”

  “We have to fight this.” Delaying here doesn’t feel so much like a delay anymore. This is as much a part of Briet and Kel being taken as the slavers, as Tarin.