The Worlds of J D L Rosell Read online

  Putting away his bow and picking up his sword, he stared at the kill again. That much meat couldn't just be left; it'd draw carrion eaters for miles around, and some with strong enough stomachs to withstand the chimera’s acidic flesh. And after this night, he’d had more than enough evils from the East to last him the year.

  When hunting a chimera, it paid to have a shovel. But that was one detail Tal Harrenfel had overlooked.

  His horse was a mile away; the nearest shovel, several more beyond that. And this was a task that was better done soon.

  "Legends never sleep, do they?" Tal muttered, then set off on his long trek through the night.

  Tal’s adventures continue in A King’s Bargain, Book 1 of Legend of Tal.

  * * *

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  Secret Seller

  The Famine Cycle: Prequel

  It wasn’t the first time I had watched Xaron drink a skin of wine at once, but it was the fastest. With lifted eyebrows and a reluctant smile, I shook my head as he wriggled the sack to drain the last drops, then threw it aside with a satisfied sigh.

  “How’s that?” he asked, grinning lopsidedly at me. “All in one go!”

  I mustered up every bit of lackluster in me. “Very impressive.”

  “You’ve been practicing,” Nomusa observed from next to me on our patched divan. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

  I shook my head and looked out the large bay window before us. Oedija, our home city, spread out before us in a shimmering sea of lights. Canopy, our loft, provided a fine vantage point, even if the derelict tower, was drafty, leaky, and often chilly. In the daytime, we could see all the way to the western seafront where the ocean extended ever outward, far and away to the lands from which my ancestors had come.

  Xaron belched, drawing my gaze back inside, and I shook my head. He often acted the fool as well as dressed like one in bright coats and fine trousers, but Xaron was far more than his appearance. Barely taller than Nomusa and willow-lean, he possessed a lithe strength suited to a man who often visited the gymnasiums. His position as our tracker and house-breaker kept him fit, even if his lifestyle tended him toward slothfulness. But most surprising was the secret gift he hid from all but us, his accomplices. For if it were known, we could all be killed for it.

  He chuckled as I glanced at him. He didn’t have the decency to look ashamed. “You’re always invited, Nomu, you know that,” he said to our third companion. “Airene, on the other hand, has to work on her constitution before I can be seen with her.” He couldn’t resist lightening the gibe with a smile.

  “Pardon me for practicing moderation,” I said drily. “A foreign concept for you two, I know.”

  “Don’t listen to her.” Nomusa waved a hand as if to disperse a foul odor. “It’s not our fault she doesn’t know how to relax.”

  I nearly rolled my eyes. Nomusa knew far too well how to relax in my opinion. She liked to indulge what Oedijan society deemed “vices” — drinking to excess and finding different strangers with whom to spend the night — though her own Bali culture didn’t frown upon such behavior. She easily managed it, too, blessed as she was with a fullness of figure, natural charisma, and a finely featured face to leave a woman jealous — including me, in my weaker moments. While I had inherited a certain prettiness from my mother, I was but a candle to Nomusa’s beauty. She used her talents to keen advantage in our work, manipulating those who had valuable information into tipping their hand, whether by guile or charm. She, too, bore a hidden past, if a less dangerous one. For if her parents hadn’t been killed and herself exiled from her homeland eleven years before, she would be the ruler of her home chiefdom.

  I didn’t protest, but smiled thinly. “I just don’t celebrate every small job we complete.” Supposedly, this was what my companions’ revelry was all about: satisfying another client in our line of work as Finches, surveyors of whispers and rumors, who turned happenstance and hunted knowledge into a profit. Yet after seven years of running down common mysteries, I found little reason to celebrate.

  I continued. “Even a city guard could have discovered that it was a disgruntled apprentice breaking that potter’s wares. Give me something significant, and I’ll be happy to drink myself silly afterward.”

  “I doubt you would even then,” Nomusa said snidely.

  Xaron studied me for a long moment. Or perhaps he squinted because his vision was starting to swim. “I think the monsoons have you down again,” he concluded. “Happens every year, doesn’t it? It was bound to come again.”

  I kept my expression carefully neutral and looked out the bay window again. Now, I didn’t see the lights of the city as a sea blending together, but as islands. Whole demes — Iris and Bazaar most notable among them — were wreathed in light; pyr lamps filled with bioluminescent pyrkin lined their cobblestone streets and lit their alleys. But other districts like our Port only half-shone, the local government only allocating funds enough to illuminate street crossings. Still others, like those located outside the walls, were nearly dark. And it was never darker than now, in the midst of the monsoon season, when the moons shone dully through the cover of clouds and the radiant winds, green rivers of light cast off from the spirit realm of the Pyrthae that encircled the world, were reduced to ghostly wisps.

  “Airene?” Xaron broke the silence, looking at me with growing concern.

  “Maybe,” I murmured.

  Nomusa’s eyes suddenly lit with understanding. “Ah. I had almost forgotten it was nearing.”

  Xaron’s brow crinkled. “Nearing? What’s nearing?”

  Nomusa looked at me, and I grudgingly nodded my consent. “The day her brother died,” she explained softly.

  The swift change in mood was palpable. I cringed at how I’d precipitated it, but there was no help for it now.

  “Oh,” Xaron said. His eyes searched me, seeking some sign of how to proceed. “I didn’t know.”

  I let out a long sigh. “No reason you would. It happened eleven years ago. Long enough that I shouldn’t let it get me down every time the anniversary comes around.”

  “Yes, but still…” Xaron hedged. “I feel bad.”

  “Don’t. You couldn’t have known, and it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy yourself when we succeed.” I lowered my eyes. “I really didn’t mean to rain on your celebration.”

  Xaron knelt next to me and pressed my hand. His sour his breath filled my nostrils. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said fiercely.

  I smiled and squeezed his hand back, his fingers burning against my skin, the heat emanating from them a quirk of his hidden talents. But kind as he was being, I suddenly wanted nothing more than to be alone.

  I stood. “I think I’ll get a breath of fresh air.”

  Xaron stood as well. “I’ll go with you.”

  Nomusa pulled him down next to her. “Not you, you sweet fool. She wants a moment alone.”

  “Oh.” Xaron looked at me with a sheep’s innocence, or maybe the dumbness of a drunk.

  I fondly patted his cheek. “I’ll be right back. Save some wine for me?”

  He brightened and nodded. “Sure we will.”

  Nomusa snorted. “No, we won’t. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  Xaron shrugged helplessly. “I’ll do what I can,” he amended.

  “That’s all I could ask.” With a lingering smile, I turned to the door and exited onto the balcony.

  The twittering of birds greeted me as well as the cold, wet night. I closed the door behind, shivering and drawing my arms around me. Even clad in a chiton thick enough for the chill that the monsoons brought, it was nowhere near sufficient to keep out the steady drizzle and the cold gusts of wind that drove against our loft. Yet I didn’t retreat inside, but approached the finch cage that hung beneath a small sheltered alcove.

  Finches had long been the preferred messenger birds of Oedija. Trained to recognize locations by scent when their beaks were dippe
d in jars of perfume that matched their destination, they were perfect for delivering messages across a sprawling city within a turn of the sandglass. On a clear day, one could see the colorful birds flitting to and fro above the rooftops, delivering thousands of messages each day. In Xaron, Nomusa, and my work as merchants of rumors, quick access to information was critical to our success, and it wasn’t without reason that we were called Finches. We hosted a healthy population of the birds within the cage of every color and pattern.

  I liked to take care of them, despite the hassle of hauling seed up the eleven circles of stairs to the top of our tower, and the messy chore of cleaning out the bottom of their cage. My fondness extended beyond their usefulness though. In the few idle moments I allowed myself in our daily work, I liked to watch the birds and admire their delicate beauty. So small, yet their impact was often great.

  Ignoring my body’s shivering protests, I cooed to the finches and refilled their trough with fresh seed. Two immediately hopped over and began pecking at it, and I smiled as I watched them eat.

  Abruptly, a cascade of violet lightning curled across the sky, followed by the booming crash of thunder. I flinched. It was not fear of the lightning; it rarely hit the city itself. Rather it was the way the lighting had curled together, arcing in towards a center point like silk in a spider’s web. Without warning, my last memory of Thero seized me.

  He’d been dead for days by the time the city guard found him. My older brother, seventeen years old, had seemed invincible and utterly in control to my eleven-year-old self. Yet Thero had ended up like Mother had always warned he would: tangled up with nefarious activities among bad folks, and unable to extricate himself from it before it was too late.

  I had worshipped him growing up. As Mother was far from a nurturing parent and distracted with our youngest brother and simple oldest sister, and Father was constantly working as a boatwright, it was Thero often looked after me. Yet rare was the time that I felt like a burden. Instead he took me out into the Oedijan streets he loved, showing me his favorite rooftop perches, and instructing me in navigating the streets safely. He showed me the best times and places to eavesdrop on conversations, and how to get those who looked at you with ill intent to disregard you and leave you alone. Reckless he might have been, and most might have frowned upon the places he took me. But at the time, I knew he would always protect me, no matter what happened.

  Whoever killed him had dumped him into the canal, likely hoping he’d be washed out to sea before anyone found him. His flesh bloated, horribly disfiguring the handsome face I remembered. My parents had warned me and my siblings not to look, yet I’d never been able to contain my curiosity. Even more, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all a mistake, that this wasn’t Thero, but some other young man caught in the wrong situation at the wrong time. But when I saw his face, even distorted as it was, I knew it was him.

  His green eyes had always been laughing in life, but now they were glassy still and discolored with blood. His skin was marbled and puffy. Yet the thing I found strangest was the jagged lines around his eyes. Thin and violet, they were inked into his skin like tatu, but without a discernible pattern or shape. Just a mess of ragged lines, like lighting in a storm cloud.

  Horrified and distraught as I was by the sight, I couldn’t look away, and Father had to pull me back so they could take him to the furnace and release his spirit to the Pyrthae above. Yet the sight had stayed with me all of these years, as had the lingering mystery of his death. At one point in my self-deluded youth, I had believed I would find his murderer and bring them to justice. I never had, nor even discovered a trace of what had happened. One boy’s murder in this polis was too unremarkable to be much noted. Yet still, eleven years later, it sometimes haunted me.

  I shook my head and turned to go back inside. But as I did, something flitted by in the corner of my eye. Another finch had alighted on our railing and announced its displeasure at such a wet voyage with a flurry of high-pitched protests. My curiosity was aroused. A bird in the rain promised an urgent message. And a distraction from my morose thoughts.

  I murmured to the finch as I drew it under the sheltered alcove and gave it seed. While it ate, I fumbled to untie the wet twine wrapped about its leg, then extricate the case that held a tightly wound scroll. I recognized the seal, a vase set in the wax: Maesos.

  The glimmer of excitement faded. Maesos had been my first employer when I’d started this line of work at fifteen. At that time, no one had taken me seriously as a Finch, scoffing either at the profession as a child’s invention with no practical value, or simply at my youthful age and lofty sense of self-worth. Yet Maesos had seen something in me. After he hired me on as his shop’s clerk, he soon set me loose to gather my whispers, and together we made him the most successful glass smith in Port. Since that time seven years ago, he had remained mine and my companions’ most loyal client.

  While I always liked to hear from him, it was unlikely he could provide the sort of distraction I craved. Though, with this bird coming in the rain, who knew what he had to say. I cut it open and unraveled it. The message inside was brief and splotchy with moisture, but I could still make out Maesos’ scrawl:

  * * *

  My Finch,

  Visit tomorrow, the earlier the better. I might have the job you’ve been waiting for.

  ~Your Gaffer

  * * *

  My breath caught. With our long history, Maesos wouldn’t say he had such a job lightly. For he knew I’d always waited for a hunt to come along where I’d be proud to call myself a Verifier like those of the Order of old. The Order of Verifiers had been a governmental body from over a hundred years ago that had routed out corruption in Oedija. The Conclave disbanded them after just three years of existence, as the Verifiers had been so competent at their jobs that every wealthy patrician and politician feared for their positions. Someday, I wished to have that sort of notoriety, that purity of purpose.

  If Maesos’ promise held true, it looked like tomorrow would not be the restful day Xaron and Nomusa craved. I smiled and turned back inside.

  The season was finally starting to look up.

  Nomusa and Xaron didn’t take well to the change of plans. “But we just finished a job,” Xaron complained as he lay back on the divan. “Can’t it wait a day? I had big plans to stuff myself and practice my juggling.”

  Nomusa snorted. “You think that’s important? I was going to see what I could catch at the taverns. If this is what it sounds like, I might not have another chance for a span — faresh, perhaps even longer!”

  I crossed my arms. “He said the earlier the better. I’ll be waking you both before dawn.”

  Xaron sat bolt upright. “Before dawn?” he exclaimed, sloshing wine over the already much-stained divan in his violent protest. “That’s preposterous!”

  I only smiled in response.

  True to my word, I roused my wine-logged companions in the gray light before dawn, and with much cajoling and promising, managed to herd them to Maesos’ shop within the turn of the sandglass. It was gray and drizzling outside, but my mood was better than it had been all during the season. Xaron, on the other hand, gazed out miserably from the hood of his cloak. “Did it have to be so early?” he complained for the tenth time. “It was supposed to be a day off.”

  “If you don’t want to feel bad,” I chided, “you shouldn’t drink a barrel of wine at a time. You’re not Nomusa.”

  “I wanted the record,” he muttered as Nomusa smirked at him. Unlike Xaron, she was as alert and ken as ever. As far as a night of wine and revelry went, last night had been a tame occasion for her.

  I raised my hand to knock again, but it opened and revealed a familiar grinning face. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite Finches!”

  “Your only Finches, I hope,” I said with a smile, entering as he stepped aside. I would have hugged him, but he had on his glass smithing gear, and I wasn’t keen on smearing ash and sweat over myself. As Xaron and Nom
usa entered after me, I studied my old friend. His white hair stuck out at odd angles, seared gray at the ends where he hadn’t been careful with hot tongs. His shirt, ragged and ridden with holes, hung loosely from his thick body under a dirty apron. But his kindly eyes had always been his best feature and made all the rest endearing.

  “Sit down, sit down.” Maesos gestured to a few chairs he had out for customers. Xaron gratefully complied, and I politely followed suit, while Nomusa continued to stand. Maesos shook his head with a small smile at her. “Always so stubborn. But no matter — I know you’re allergic to small talk when there’s interesting business about, Airene.”

  “Yet here you are, chattering away,” I said with an arched eyebrow.

  Maesos bellowed a laugh. “Guilty indeed! Well then, here’s what I have.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Late yesterday, I received word from an acquaintance that a certain patrician, one Agmon of Iris, fell dead in the middle of the evening worship.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Xaron protested. “People fall dead all the time. Especially old people.” He raised his eyebrows irreverently at Maesos.

  The glass smith chuckled. “Indeed they do, though don’t expect it of me yet! But it was the manner in which he died that made this curious.” He cleared his throat again. “It appears that his, ah, stomach burst open.”

  “Burst open?” Nomusa said with a frown.

  “That’s right. And what’s more… Red pyrkin spilled out.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Hold on. Agmon of Iris… Wasn’t he portly, liked styling his beard, particularly fond of red robes lined with gold?”

  Maesos nodded. “The very one.”

  “He owned a glass shop himself, didn’t he?” I pressed. “Was it the glassblower who warned you?” Before Maesos could answer, my mind galloped ahead to its own conclusions. “Oh, Eidola above. He’s worried that people will think it was you? Some kind of sick way of trying to get ahead of the competition?”