Grimdark Magazine Issue #8 ePUB Read online

  ‘Indeed.’ Grel carefully places the paper back on the table and then presses it with his fingertips. ‘And what kind of faith do you show with this elaborate farce?’

  The tiny office seems to close in on us, and the cloying sandalwood smell chokes me. The longer I’m silent, the more his black eyes bore into me. He’s thinking of locking me in a crate again. I can’t let that happen. I hold perfectly still.

  ‘Did you prepare an explanation for why you waited this long to tell me about the auction?’

  I’m about to offer a weak reply when I see her, beyond him and through the window. A girl leans on the railing and stares at me. She stands on twisted, broken legs and one of her eyes is rolled up into her head.

  The threat in Grel’s voice snaps me back into the office. ‘Karelia Nayar… Finesse is seamless grace, not empty complexities. I taught you better than this. I will discuss Zelenrid with the officers tonight, and you will serve us while we talk.’ Grel shoves the silver tray back toward me and burning sauce splashes my wrist. He tosses the old print into the stew. ‘Take this away and bring me a more recent paper.’

  * * *

  Fuel regulations and Montglás’ impending monopoly are discussed at length over dinner. The Hegemony controls the sky through strict monitoring of fuel consumption. Getting a contract with Zelenrid would mean freedom from the Hegemony’s regulations. Captain Grel would have more mobility and less scrutiny than any other ship in the world.

  ‘Tell them what you saw in the paper, Nayar,’ says Grel.

  I try to pretend nothing is riding on this. That I hadn’t been stealing from the Steward. That the detailmen don’t know we’ll be there. The locket, a gesture of good faith. ‘We could have a fake made and switch them.’

  The grizzled faces of the officers around the Captain’s table remain stern despite the gaslights’ efforts to cast a soft glow about the cabin. The quartermaster and the first officer lean forward over their greasy, empty plates. The steward and engineer raise their brows and avert their eyes from me, as though I were a naughty child acting out in public.

  The Captain says nothing. The only sounds are the engine’s thrumming and sails’ flapping as we cruise through the moonless sky.

  ‘One man could do it, certainly no more than two,’ I say. ‘Quick, quiet, in and out.’

  The Captain would go, of course. He would slip into the auction house with the first officer, like he always does, and charm his way through the theft; but he wouldn't come back to brag this time. Hegemony law enforcement would be waiting. They'd be waiting for me, too, as soon as I snuck off the ship and escaped with them to collect my reward.

  My own ship. Freedom at last.

  I expect Captain Grel to shush me and take credit for the idea, but he doesn’t this time. He taps two well-manicured fingernails on the linen tablecloth, and glances up at the first officer. ‘Karelia will accompany me. You and the rest of the men stay aboard the ship. We’ll stop at Tav’riti station and have the fake made tomorrow, and then off to auction.’

  ‘Me, sir?’ I say.

  ‘Your idea, your mission. Let’s see how well you manage it,’ Grel says.

  My stomach turns to ice. He’ll know for sure now.

  * * *

  In the air, second watch is the best time to slip down to the underside of the ship. We bank starboard to avoid a swath of clouds. One outstretched wisp slips across deck and, quick as a whisper, I follow it overboard.

  The ropes scrape at my fingers but the thought of being cut up by them is laughable now. Every time I had done something wrong, Grel had me run up into the rigging and tie off the lines. My hands were mincemeat for the first year or so, and I would wake up in tears from the soreness in arms and shoulders. Beatings were too crude for Grel. A sharp tongue and starvation were more to his taste. Besides, it would take me too long to heal. I learned to fly for my dinner. He made me fear failing more than falling.

  I improved, I’ll grant him that; but I stopped believing him when he said he would take me on a mission.

  I crawl across the hull to the aft, tugging on the ropes as I go. I need to cut three in long enough lengths that the detailmen will see them through a spyglass at night. That doesn’t leave much room for error, especially if I want to climb back up. If Grel taught me anything, it was finesse.

  The range. The track. The bridge. The rigging. I felt like a prize pony on a lunge line. No mistakes, Karelia. Three millimeters off target, Karelia. Aim for the face, Karelia. Climb faster, Karelia.

  He chanted trite phrases, pretending they were idioms from his Quechua ancestors. Listening gives you an advantage. Talking throws it to others. Gold is born from the earth, and returns there in dead hands. He loved that one. Gold is born, gold returns. He would never say “you can’t take it with you” like everyone else did. He talked about gold all the time, but he thought it was bad luck to hoard it.

  A coin in the hand is a knife in the back. Envy and murder are old friends, Karelia. Never hold a coin in your hand for too long.

  I believed that he could do anything, and he tried to make me forget that I could too.

  I feel along a length of rope, shift my body just to the right of it, and saw at it until the fibers fray and it drops. The netting jerks to one side. I tug at it a bit before moving further aft to make sure I have a secure route.

  I slice the second rope, and it drops easily without much tug. I don’t find a good place to cut the third until I’m almost all the way aft.

  I hook my knees in the rope and let go. I dangle for a moment, then swing up and grab the rope net. My legs slip free and I dangle that way. Stretching feels good. Even with miles between me and the ground, this feels safer than the crate. I clamber up over the curve of the hull and hear the click and whir of the rudder, responding to the helmsman far above. Five years ago, this would have terrified me to be out here—but tonight, it just sounds like something’s grinding in the rudder stock that shouldn’t be.

  I glance down at the dangling rope, remembering the first time I had to fix a steering problem by myself.

  We had been hired for a light run, bringing spices from Chalapuhar back to the west. Captain Grel once told me that in this part of the world, children were cheaper than spices. By the time we had the cargo loaded, a bunch of slum kids had clambered onto the hull to play. They got one warning to get off, and they didn’t listen. Three of the men gunned them down as we took flight. Twenty minutes later, we had no pitch. I was the best climber, so Grel had ordered me to check on the rudder and tiller, and take care of it.

  There was a kid out there. She was tangled in the auxiliary tiller ropes. Broken arm and broken leg by the way they twisted. She was still alive, and the wind was fierce. I couldn’t get close enough to free her by hand. Her struggling made the tangle worse, so I shot her. The first bullet hit her just above the eye. The second cut the primary rope that held her up, and the third shot cut her loose. The wind yanked her to the filthy city below. A minute later the ropes fell free.

  I remember standing there, watching the ropes flapping in the gale. I was thirteen, and that was the first time I had shot a person. There had to have been a better way. It had taken three bullets rather than one.

  It wasn’t until her body was long gone that I started to see her. She kept cropping up, one eye rolled up under the putrefying wound in her head. She always stood on twisted broken limbs. I kept seeing her until she told me we were the same. She could have been me.

  I cut the third rope and begin the climb back up to the main deck.

  I’ll be seventeen soon. Old enough to know that Grel had made me a killer the moment he strapped the guns to my belt. He shook my hand and slapped my shoulder, smearing me with blood that I couldn’t see until now.

  I think Grel knows about the ghosts and the stains; he was just waiting for me to see them, too. I tell myself that he’ll understand.

  Grel and I sleep while the crew flies us to the sou
thern coastal region of the Western Territories, a pastoral treasure far from the sprawling cities at the heart of Hegemony lands. We arrive when the morning is still dark. The ship drops into a wheat field where the indentured farmer who lives up the way has been paid for his silence. Grel and I slip into bright, formal silk waistcoats—I’ve worn men’s clothes since he bought me—and prepare to meet the auction house’s proprietor. He’ll be expecting us. Or Grel, at least.

  If Grel taught me nothing else, it was to watch for mistakes. Mistakes haunt like ghosts, following you and chaining you to your failures forever.

  I slip my gun belt around my waist, sliding the two revolvers into place. I watch Grel do the same. I still remember the day he had given these to me. I was eleven, and so proud of myself. I had no idea what he’d done to me, not even two years later when I finally used them.

  As I pass the steward’s office, I see the correspondence piled up on his desk. I couldn’t have arranged this without his carelessness. My plan had two parts: removing Grel, and assuring my own escape. The Hegemony wanted Grel arrested, and their obvious desire made them easy to woo. Devising a code and a reliable contact was simple, and required only a few months’ patience. As for my escape, that required not only a physical extrication but a safe place to go to ground once I was out from under Grel’s boot. I wanted my own ship from Montglás, so I’d have to offer them something substantial as well. Then it fell into my hands—the key to their last remaining rival, Zelenrid Aeronautics. Grel’s contacts were laundering money for Zelenrid’s primary backers.

  By midday-meal, all the sentimental gifts in the world wouldn’t buy Grel an exclusive contract. Zelenrid would no longer exist. The Hegemony gets their bandit, Montglás gets their monopoly, and I get my freedom.

  Good allies show good faith.

  I knew I would be proving myself when the plan goes into play, but I had planned to be far away where I wouldn’t get caught. Captain Grel has held me back a thousand times before. I don’t know what changed. If he had shown that he trusted me a month ago—a week ago—I would have stayed. Now it’s too late.

  I don’t know which one of us is the bigger fool.

  * * *

  The farmer whose field we land in brings horses for us. We have one hour until dawn. I sweat despite the cool mists, and the crickets are deafening.

  We arrive at the auction house within twenty minutes. The only other buildings for miles cluster around this spot—a nightstay, a bar, a dance hall. In the dim lantern light I see people I know. Constables pretending to be groundskeepers. They frown for just a moment, recognizing me. I’m not supposed to be here. I wonder if, when the time comes, they’ll take Grel alive or dead. I wonder if those orders now apply to me. I’m sure they do. The slum girl must have arrived ahead of us, whispering to the guards what I’d done to her—and what I was about to do to my Captain.

  We dismount onto a gravel road and step through the gardens on a stone path leading to the auction house. Grel squeezes my shoulder and gives me an almost fatherly look. Calm down, he seems to say. You’ll give the game away.

  Oh, Captain. I can’t find it in my heart to be calm. Or sorry.

  We trot up the steps between two green-veined marble columns and the Proprietor meets us at a stained-glass door. Captain Grel extends his compliments on the azaleas outside. The Proprietor trills his modest gratitude and leads us in.

  The first room is the conservatory, a long hall with huge urns lining each wall. Glass doors, glass ceiling, gold filigree and fragrant flowers everywhere. Gas lights hang like glowing bubbles from above. The sweet scent of chambeli blossoms and pink featherhearts make my head throb.

  Grel’s talking to the Proprietor, and I can’t lift my eyes off the huge black and white tiles. I have to stifle a laugh. I am walking into my own trap, and I’ll either die a pawn or come out a queen. A knight would have the sense to slip out to the side.

  I’m a little sad I couldn’t tell him about my plan for tonight. He would have appreciated its genius.

  Maybe he does know, and invited me along just to spoil it.

  The conservatory narrows into a small hall to a back gallery behind the showroom, where the various works of art, intricate devices and foreign plunder wait to be snatched up by the wealthy. Grel and the Proprietor laugh like old school friends while the Proprietor produces a crystal bottle from the chaos of beautiful objects. Grel’s clothes are tighter than necessary. His coat buttons glint in the candlelight as he gestures, knowing his beauty lies in movement. I smell his beloved floral notes in the whiskey when the Proprietor pours a glass for each of them. The Proprietor stares at Grel, and I curse myself for not knowing this detail. Grel playing on secret wants again.

  If I hadn’t seen the Captain with women I would have doubted his preferences. He knew mine before I did. I think he refused to hire any other women as deckhands purely to frustrate me. No companion but him. No distractions from my training. I had become one of the men without having to endure the awkwardness of boyhood.

  Grel and the Proprietor finally put their glasses down and look at a painting of some battle. Grel has him entirely engrossed. I should play along but I don’t. I can’t pay attention. What other details does he know that I don’t? I look at the two guards in here with us. Grel has his back to them, totally relaxed. The guards look straight ahead. The Captain and the Proprietor laugh together, and one guard clenches his jaw. Do they know the plan? Does Grel suspect? Am I showing my hand?

  The thing was already in motion.

  I look for the locket. I see a bell jar on a pedestal in the centre of the room. There’s an engine part on it. It looks absurd there, shining and unused—like a sledgehammer on the Queen’s lap.

  My throat is dry as rope. I look at Grel’s glass, a few drops gleam amber, reflecting the mahogany table. The whole room’s soft plush interior suffocates me. Overstuffed velvet, fine crystal glasses, expensive spirits, and carpeting so soft I feel embarrassed each time my grimy boots sink into it. It’s too much. My attention splinters on every detail instead of honing in on what’s relevant—what’s important. I hate this stuffy charade. Once I have my own ship, I will never have to do this again.

  I could warn Grel. He’s been in tighter spots than this. He could get us both out, probably in time to get to Zelenrid and warn them about what was coming, to warn the official to hide her books. We could help set them up somewhere else, too, with new suppliers willing to work outside the government regulations. Start over. But then, Grel would want to know how I knew about all this.

  The prospect of dying in a crate rises up to swallow me. I step backward, and bump my rear against the edge of a long display table.

  I’ve drawn attention to myself. Grel sees, and compensates. They move on to examine a portrait. Grel urges the Proprietor to give his thoughts on the piece, quizzing him. I turn away from them and walk slowly around each of the three long tables at the other side of the room, playing my part.

  Where is that confounded locket? I cross the room and see it on a table, tagged and laid out with a dozen other pieces.

  It’s gold. The fake we made is polished brass. A trained ape would know the difference. I should leave, now, before it’s too late. Make something up. Run.

  ‘Karelia!’ Grel snaps at me.

  I look up. Grel holds his gun to the Proprietor’s shiny pate. The guards’ pistols clatter to the floor. I look at Grel, startled that we’ve arrived at this stage already. He knows something is wrong.

  ‘Have you wandered off in the thick of it, girl?’ he says. ‘Let’s do what we came here to do, shall we?’

  The switch. My own plan gone awry. I had emphasized that the transition should be as seamless as possible, and I’m not sure which one of us even has the fake. I wander over and pluck the locket from the table. I fish around in my pocket for the brass copy, and find it.

  ‘A bit late to bother with that,’ mutters Grel.

  I leave the fak
e in my pocket and stow the real necklace in there with it. The real one is much heavier. Grel nods toward the window. I circle the room, gathering up the guards’ pistols and take them to the window. I open it with sweaty fingers, flip the cylinder release on each gun and shake the bullets out into the garden. I drop the empty guns outside and they thump to the earth below.

  Only now do I realize that neither Grel nor I were asked to surrender our weapons when we came inside. That’s quite a detail to miss. If either of us drew our guns, the detailmen wouldn’t bother with a trial. The guards look tense, but not upset or surprised. They were expecting us.

  Does Grel notice any of this?

  He gives me a quick nod, and gestures toward the door.

  He’s got a gun out, I don’t. Maybe if I keep my hands empty, the detailmen won’t—

  ‘Watch our backs,’ Grel murmurs.

  Grel strong-arms the Proprietor to walk out ahead of us. Simpering coward won’t shut up. I feel my heart in my throat as I grip my pistols. I slip them free of their holsters. I should have been watching for more guards, but I can’t look away from Grel. He moves with a dancer’s grace. I’ve hated him for so long, I’d forgotten why I admired him in the first place.

  He has his back to me. I could present the detailmen with a corpse… but I don’t want him dead.

  Grel keeps his composure. His voice never rises above conversational tones with the terrified Proprietor. He walks him back across the conservatory. Every flower disturbed by a breath of air sets me on edge. My arms and shoulders ache with stress. They nearly creak as I sweep the guns back and forth. I almost fire twice, forgetting myself. The lanterns are bright inside, and moths drum against the glass. We are completely exposed.

  We’re almost back across the black and white tiles, and I still don’t know whose side I’m on. The rules change if you cross the board, don’t they? How much time did I have left to decide? It’s still too dark to see beyond the glass.