Steel Sirens Page 15

  “We saw the nobles in the castle square. Do you know anything about the girls?” I ask Oranna.

  “Carven,” she snaps, taking a pipe from under her tunic and beginning to scrape its bowl. “Boy like that, comely with power and money, black magic? Carven’s taking those girls; make no mistake.” She stops, face dark. “No one knows what he’s doing with them.” She puffs a few rings like a warning signal. “That’s why my grandbabies all live in Vauclase. I never see them, but they’re safe.”

  No, my mind screams. No. My sister lived in the High Wilds. We were obscure, untainted. My family was taken from the safest place in Graysmere. I don’t tell her this, but it swells inside my chest. “We have to get inside.”

  Emeree nods. “Siri is in there. If we can just get inside, we’ll be immeasurably stronger getting out.”

  “Now, that’ll be a magic trick to put that wizard to shame. Carven is afraid of the nobles, the merchants, the peasants, the clergy. You probably saw that for yourself. No idea what would open the gates for you.”

  I need to think, away from the noise, the drink, Oranna’s smoke. This is when I would usually turn to the Wood. “I’m going to step out for a minute.”

  Emeree raises in her seat. “Are you all right?”

  “Don’t fret. Provincial nerves; that’s all.”

  Tavern Row is raucous when I step outside. The street isn’t all that loud, but it’s busy; travelers, staggering men slurring at one another, a fisherman with a painted woman draped around him, both giggling. This is magnified by the tense silence further out in the city. The silence before a slap. Fortingall was like this, before a storm or a wildfire. This I understand. My muscles unwind and drink wears away.

  I walk the Row’s length, adapting to the odors of stale beer, urine, and coal smoke rather than animal dung and moss. Down, back, I start to get a feel for this place beyond what’s on its surface.

  On my next pass, a voice breaks over the ambient sounds of a public street. “Ser, ser!”

  I ignore it. No one here knows me.

  “Ser!”

  But the voice seems familiar. I skim the wandering figures. At first, I miss her; she’s so much smaller than everyone.

  “Sister Pella.”

  She nods, out of breath, small body heaving inside her dense habit. She holds up a finger, and spits. “Sorry; we’re not allowed to run in the convent.”

  “Take your time. Run another lap.”

  She laughs. “We already break so many rules, we’re in danger of killing Mother Marin. Here…” Pella does some sleight of hand where one whole arm disappears into the habit and comes out the other sleeve, clutching a wool coin purse. Its well-worn fibers strain, strands unravelling at its clasp.

  “Hide it good; some Heminite with a polished bald spot will snatch it before you can blink.”

  I take the purse and don’t involve myself in this religious tension. “Where’d this come from?”

  She grins, still a little winded. “I took the coppers you gave us and put them on the rat races. Then the pig races. Then...the cock fights! I couldn’t lose. But then I thought I might lose so I quit while I was ahead.” Pella clears her throat. “I quit at the height of the Father’s blessing, I mean.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway, I won so much coin. Enough to pay the convent’s tax and for what’s left of us to go to the abbey in Cor Torvan.” She lifts her habit a bare inch, showing an ankle that glistens in the lamplight. “And maybe a pair of silk stockings for our girl, yeah?”

  “Yes. You deserve them. I think the Father would want you to have them.”

  “Lucky as I am, it must be his will. Like you finding us in the square.”

  “Like it was meant to be.” I start to say my goodbyes and stop. An image of Caiminae’s last card springs to mind. The Naked Duke.

  “Pella, how old are you?” She looks younger than Briet.

  Pella draws up, wary.

  “I’m not going to hurt you; I have an idea.”

  “Just sixteen, ser. Or close; I was left at the convent by my ma and da. Why’d you want to know?”

  “They teach you how to play anything in the convent?” I know from Thom that wealthy families send their daughters to convents for an education.

  “The rebec, sure. Play it right as a Sabbath morning.”

  “A what?”

  Pella’s eyes narrow. “Strings and a stick…”

  “Good enough. My companions and I need to get into Castle Lowe. I think you can make that happen.”

  ***

  Oranna slams her hand against the table. “A getaway? We can help with that. There are people all over who’d love the chance to give those fuckers a black eye. Or two. Horses, weapons, rations.”

  “Ewan!” Emeree beams as I sit. “We have the back end of a plan.”

  I grin at the women. “And I have the front half. All we have to sort out now is how to kill a mage.”

  Emeree’s eyes flash. “I have experience killing mages.”

  Oranna and I trade a mildly terrified glance.

  “Good,” she says. “You get in, find Siri and some sign of the girls. Handle the mage and Carven, too, for all I care. My people can hold the town and handle the Arundel men. Leave all the rest to us.”

  “You sure?” I ask, thinking of those men in the guardhouse, fat and happy and not looking keen to be disturbed.

  “General Straithe.”

  “An ally?” says Emeree.

  “Don’t know if you can say that. He hasn’t taken care of Carven. But he hasn’t increased his army’s force, either. Carven’s own guard have, and of course the earls are having sport making up their own little mercenary platoons. I tend to think Straithe’s laziness is a quiet rebellion. But we don’t know that, and I wouldn’t trust him on the face of things. Just know he could be an instrument for you under the right circumstances.” Oranna takes a last drag on her dying pipe. “Remove Carven and his magus…”

  “Power vacuum. General steps in.”

  Oranna nods. “At least until the king can sort things out.”

  “I like it.” She turns to me. “Just have to get inside…”

  “Our daughter will do that for us.”

  “Our what?”

  “Sister Pella is a prodigy on the rebec.”

  “The what?”

  “Right? That’s not important though, because I’m the portreeve of Braemar, you’re my lady wife, and our daughter is so eager to play for the Duke of Minster Lowe.”

  Emeree clicks her fork with a fingernail as she mulls my words. “That gets us in, but how does that help us get Siri?”

  “Oh, Lord Carven, I see you have exquisite taste in weapons. I too have exquisite taste,” I gesture at Emeree, “in weapons.”

  Emeree nods, faster, grasping my plan. “Show him my sword. Ask to see his collection.”

  “Exactly.”

  “This is lunacy.” Oranna hammers her pipe on the table. “It will probably work.”

  We sit silent. Tavern sounds ebb away, even the midnight crowd beginning to surrender to drink and fatigue.

  “I like it,” Emeree says at last. “Surprise will go a long way toward getting us in. When we have Siri, getting out will be simple. I just worry about Pella.”

  I hand Emeree the coin purse. “Cock fights. I don’t think you need to worry about Pella.”

  “When?” Emeree asks, looking from me to Oranna.

  “Day after tomorrow. Lay low for a bit and I’ll make preparations.”

  A night and day holed up with Emeree? Part of me grates at the delay, but another is overjoyed at the prospect.

  “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Emeree brushes raven hair from her eyes. “No longer than that. This...Myranda’s slavers are still out there. We know that from the refugees.”

  Oranna nods. “That’s a promise.”

  Emeree clasps her hands. “Thank you, friend.”

  “My absolute godsdamned pleasure.”


  I feel out of my depth, but I don’t care. There’s a gut twisting excitement to all this, like a part of myself I’ve never known is waking up, stretching its arms. A part that craves this feeling, craves the dangers, craves her.

  Emeree watches me, a knowing look in her eyes. On impulse, I lean forward and kiss her, a quick press of our lips that nevertheless leaves me breathless.

  “Anyway!” Oranna belts, leaning out to see the taproom. “Enough subterfuge. Now we celebrate. Amaria! Give us something lively!”

  We move out to the bar.

  A pretty girl with short black hair and flashing eyes smiles and nods at Oranna as she takes up a lute from the mantle.

  Tables are dragged away by the remaining patrons.

  Emeree wipes foam from her lips and takes my hand, yanking. “C’mon, hero. I know they dance in the High Wilds!”

  I laugh, draining my ale.

  She tugs me alone me along. “Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you’ll have to prove it to me.” Her smile is infectious, wild.

  Our hands cup shoulders, waists, and then we spin into the crowd. I lead, turning her as her black hair whips behind her, and we move in and out in a variation of a harvest dance I’ve known since I was a boy. Her footwork is better than mine, more complicated, but I hold my own.

  “Not bad,” she says, breathless with laughter.

  “Not done yet!”

  I swing her, under my legs and over a shoulder, and then spin her back down so we’re side by side, hand in hand. When I whip her back to me, her teeth are on her lip, biting hard, her cheeks flushed rosy.

  The tune ends and we find our seats again.

  We drink deep, draining our tankards at the same time. One of the barmaids asks me for a dance. Emeree pushes me back out to the floor. My partner is short and slim, with a dusting of freckles and mousy brown hair that bounces as I swing her. We don’t speak, just laugh, and in the background Emeree floats by with one of the laborers. She says something that makes him guffaw, but her eyes are on mine, and the promise in them sends my heart beating faster than the dance.

  The song finishes, and then someone else’s hands are in mine, an older matron with greying hair and sharp, dark eyes. She smiles with one corner of her mouth and we’re off, laughing, dancing for what seems like hours. More partners come and go, but Emeree is always there, taking her turn, or watching me. I lose track of how many girls I dance with, and more ale makes it harder to remember anyhow.

  “Oranna, I thought I told you to hold a fucking table for us!”

  The bellowed words fall on the tavern like a guillotine’s blade, and everything stops. The singer, the dancers, all conversation ends almost comically quickly.

  I crane my neck, searching for the source of the voice. There. At the front of the inn is a man almost as large as Lamb, with at least ten cronies spread out at his sides. His skin is dusky blue, and long, delicate ears contrast with a body that looks like an overturned barrel. He’s huge, with a slab of a face and cruel eyes, sharp teeth that curve over leathery lips.

  A dray. I’ve heard of them but have never seen one before. A race from the far north, hearty and warlike. I’ve heard that they can run for days without stopping, can outdistance a horse, and are some of the best warriors in the world. Hundreds of years ago, they came pouring and screaming out of the mountains, sacking towns and killing as they came. They were beaten back, and though most survivors went home, some still remain, leading mercenary companies or acting as personal guards.

  “And I told you that we don’t take fucking reservations, especially for whoresons like you, Chomarr!” Oranna’s voice, rising from across the room like a thunderclap. I have to admire her courage; the Dray is built like a house, and the humans he runs with look dangerous.

  Chomarr growls a curse, fists balled, knuckles white. I don’t see any weapons among his crew, but they don’t look like they need them. They look dangerous and ready for a scrap, to the man.

  But Oranna’s guests aren’t pushovers, either. There are dozens of men in the room, lean and muscled, folk that live hard. Their women stand with them, defiant, and more than one look more ready for a fight than do the men.

  There’s a long moment when he and his crew stand, a wall of muscle and sneers that block the door. Across the short divide, the guests, staying back, waiting. But Lamb is there, holding a cudgel, and, unspoken, Emeree and I flank him.

  Chomarr sneers at us, dismissing, until his eyes lock on Emeree. “My,” he says. “Maybe we don’t want to stay, after all. Maybe we take a prize and find somewhere else for some fun.”

  Emeree sneers, derisive. “Tired of buggering each other? Feel like switching it up, eh?”

  The crowd laughs with her, and even if it’s thinned by the tension, it has the desired effect. Chomarr’s face darkens.

  Lamb steps forward, heavy cudgel over his shoulder, as Oranna scurries up. “Now, knock it off, Cho. No one around here wants any trouble. You want to stay? Then take it easy, have a drink, and stow any weapons. Right now.”

  Emeree and I move up with Lamb. Looking dangerous as hells comes naturally to the two of them, and I feel like a fraud standing, swaying slightly with drink. But I feel wild, angry, and days of frustration course through me. I want these assholes to start something, want to feel the satisfaction of my fist burying in someone’s gut. The fight with the slavers a few days earlier was different: desperate, sudden, terrifying.

  But this...This will be satisfying.

  Chomarr’s eyes slide past Lamb, lock on me. “What the fuck you gawkin’ at, runt?”

  Emeree watches me, and her excitement is a mirror of my own. She was born to fight, and she’s ready. Oranna’s eyes are on me, too, trying to tell me something, a warning. I don’t heed it. “Filth,” I say, and I spit at his feet.

  Chomarr blinks in surprise. Bullies are always surprised when someone stands up to them. His eyes narrow, weighing, even if his jaw grinds in anger.

  One of his lackeys isn’t as smart, and roars in anger, charges. He’s human, a gangly, muscled man who looks like he’s been built out of parts from several different people. He leads with his fist.

  Lamb’s cudgel comes forward, faster than thought, taking the thug in his outstretched arm. Bones shatter, startlingly loud in the hushed room, and the thug screams, falling to the floor as shards of white jut through ruptured skin.

  Everything goes to shite.

  Chomarr’s men rush us, as one, and Lamb goes down underneath three of them, including the dray. Oranna squawks, ducking under outstretched arms, and punches one of them in the groin, earning a strangled cry.

  Two dart at Emeree, and she dances backward, untouchable, chopping with her hand in some fighting style I’ve never seen. After blocking a clumsy strike, her hand connects with a thug’s neck, and he shrieks, his shoulder and arm seizing as he goes down.

  From somewhere in the morass, I hear Oranna shriek, “For Ora’s sake, don’t kill anyone!”

  Then they’re on me. Two of them, lumbering forward, smirking, confident. I’m tall, but wiry, and they probably see me as an easy mark.

  I’m going to wipe those shite-eating grins off their faces.

  The crowd thrashes behind me, pushing me stumbling toward danger, and despite their lack of fear, none of them rush to help. My drunkenness saves me from a fist and an early exit; I trip and fall, turning it into a roll, and come up behind the thug that missed me. He’s about my size, wearing mismatched, dirty tunic and pants, and has a scar that bisects his entire face, from temple to chin. He turns, slow to react, and as he comes around, I punch him as hard as I can in the kidney.

  He howls, tripping back, clutching his gut. I chase after him, determined to take one of them from the fight, but through his haze of pain he strikes back, a hit I don’t expect. It takes me in the shoulder, spinning me like a top, and I go down hard. The pain is intense, unexpectedly powerful, and I can’t help but moan as I lie blinking at the low ceiling.

  Damn. I
must be smarter than this.

  My opponent looms over me. His face is still pinched with pain, but his fist licks out, a crushing blow aimed for my recently healed nose. I try for a roll to the side that’s more like a twitch, and he misses his target. He still grazes my temple and ear, a searing line of agony, but then his fist impacts the wooden floor. From a finger’s-width distance, the sound of his knuckles shattering is like thunder, and is so, so satisfying.

  Emeree is here, flowing through the fight, and she kicks the thug in the side of the head. He tumbles off me, into a crowd that rewards him with a shower of kicks and punches.

  She mock pouts, yanks me to my feet. “Already taking a break?”

  “I had him right where I wanted him.”

  Her laugh lingers as she skips back into the fight. Lamb is still down, under three of them, including Chomarr. Fists rain down on him, though he’s giving as good as he’s getting, and one of his meaty fists connects with the jaw of a bald thug whose head is entirely covered in the tattoo of a skull. His head snaps back, and he falls, unconscious.

  I surge forward, arms wide, every part of me screaming that this a mistake. But I don’t stop, and at the last moment I dive, wrapping the necks of Chomarr and the remaining thug on Lamb, taking us all down rolling and grunting across the floor.

  One thug’s head whips back, cracking hard against the ground and lolling to the side. He’s out.

  Chomarr is hardier, though. Bellowing his anger, he surges up as I climb to my feet, slower. He bounces on the balls of his feet, fists upraised, hissing in fury. “You fucked up, kid.”

  I skim the room. More of them are funneling in the front door, and Emeree’s entangled with them, a storm of chops and kicks, and everywhere she moves, someone falls. Lamb and Oranna are back-to-back, laying into another group that’s diving in and out of the crowd. No help there.

  I look back to Chomarr, who grins, triumphant. “Just you and me.”

  I crack my neck. “Can’t wait.”

  He narrows his eyes, just a moment, probably wondering why I don’t seem afraid. I realize, in that moment, that I’m not. The dray can probably kill me with a punch, but I don’t care. After everything that’s happened, meeting Emeree, almost dying a half dozen times, worry has evaporated.