IV
THE PRICE
‘THEY CALLED IT Martyr’s Cradle. They called it the City of Scarlet, Saintsholme, the Isle of Seven Sins. But mostly, they just called it Redwatch. ‘It had started like most river cities do – as a fishing town. But it rose to fame as the birthplace of the fourth martyr, old San Cleyland himself. He was a brick shithouse of a man by all accounts, a few drunkards short of a bar fight, but he had a remarkable talent for slaughter. Visited by the Mothermaid in a dream, Cleyland raised an army of faithful lunatics and marched into Ossway, intent on bringing the One Faith to the pagans of the west. ‘He died, of course. Being a martyr and all. Perished in valiant battle against a coalition of Ossian clans, or choked to death on a chicken bone during a victory piss-up, depending what you read. But not before he’d converted half the country at swordpoint, and built a series of priories to the Mothermaid that stand to this day. In return for his faithful butchery, the Almighty gave Cleyland the key to hell, and the big man stands guard over its grim gates to this day. And if you think designating the safekeeping of the abyss to a pin-headed twatgoblin who doesn’t know which part of the chicken is safe to eat sounds a terrible idea, you and I are in total agreement. ‘We reached his birthplace near the end of the second night, punting into a crowded dockside sprawl. Redwatch might’ve started as a village, but now it was a cityfort, and one of the empire’s finest. Built on a broad island in the middle of the Volta, its walls and towers were made from red river clay, hence one of its many names: the City of Scarlet. Its buildings were tight-packed and towering, citizens living atop one another like rats in a bloody maze. On its eastside, a foreboding keep punched holes in the sky, and northwards, the Priory of San Cleyland kept a mother’s watch over the city of his birth. ‘I was in some of the worst shape of my life. The thirst had me so tight by then, all the world was washed scarlet. Dior gave thanks to Capitaine Carlisle in my stead, and the man looked me over with something between pity and fear as I
my stead, and the man looked me over with something between pity and fear as I shuffled past, hair tumbled about my face. All around me, I could smell it, feel it,
taste it. Blood. ‘Blood. ‘Still, there was enough of me left to notice Dior share a small nod with a grubby fellow passenger as we shuffled onto the jetty. Last I’d seen him, the man had been laid out in his bride’s lap, dying of infection. One look at him told me his once-broken leg was now straight as a spear, and I could smell no sepsis in his veins. He bowed, hand to heart, as we stumbled past. His wife had tears on her cheeks; his daughters made the sign of the wheel, watching Dior with awestruck eyes of old sky blue. ‘I glanced down at Dior’s hand, saw a fresh strip of bloody cloth about her
palm. ‘“You didn’t …” ‘“Tits,” she said, motioning to her chest. “Right off them.” ‘“You fucking idiot.” ‘“I was careful,” she hissed. “I spoke to them at night. Nobody else saw.” ‘I shook my head. “I’m going to tell you something now, girl. And you mark these words, because they’re ones to live by: it’s always better to be a bastard than a fool.” ‘“You’re not my fucking papa, aright? I don’t need words to live by from you.
Now, tell me where this damn Night Market is so we can get you what you need.
Because if you fall over here, I’m leaving your surly arse for the bloody rats.” ‘“There,” I managed. “Up that alley.” ‘It’d been over a decade since I’d visited Redwatch, and like everywhere in the empire, all was worse than when I’d left it. It was far more crowded, for starters, streets jammed to bursting even after dark. Beggars with open sores and refugees with stricken, battlesick faces, street preachers and honeygirls, fisherprinces and riverthugs, and everywhere you looked, burly bastards in the sunflower yellow of the Emperor’s troops. We pushed through the crush, and all about me I could smell it, thrumming in every vein, rushing beneath every suit of
skin.
‘God help me … ‘“Which way?” Dior asked. ‘“The squeezeway,” I winced. “P-past the hucksters.” ‘We passed a bevy of thieves selling charms against the Dead – pendants of churlsilver, braids of virgins’ hair, necklets of “duskdancer teeth” plucked from the heads of dead dogs. Nonsense all, sold by crooked bastards and bought by desperate fools. But beyond the grifters and frauds, in the damp shadows off the Redwatch drag, a fellow with eyes could find it. A tiny puddle of dim but true
Redwatch drag, a fellow with eyes could find it. A tiny puddle of dim but true
magik, hidden in the dark. ‘The Night Market. ‘A single street. A few faceless shops. Women with needle eyes and ill- favoured men with tattooed faces, snatches of spells carved into swarthy skin with ink-stained knives. Iron in the air. Ash and the dreams of pale gods, dead long before we discovered there was only One. My every bone was aching, eyes red as river clay as we staggered up to a thin black door and I hammered six times. The sign above the threshold simply read THE PRICE. ‘“Souris!” ‘“This place makes my skin crawl,” Dior whispered.
‘“Souris!” ‘“… His name is Mouse?” ‘“Her name. Just keep your eyes on the w-well side of down and your mouth on the right side of shut. This is d-deep water.” I pounded again. “Sour—” ‘The black curtain in the window beside the door was pulled aside, and I saw a pair of eyes, utterly white and apparently blind, peering through the grubby glass. I pressed my sevenstar to the window, leaving sweat misted on the pane.
Even my gums were aching. ‘The curtain closed. A moment as long as my life passed before I heard six locks and six chains being loosed. With a slow creak, the door opened, revealing a woman, ancient and wrinkled, bent back draped with a smoke-grey shawl laced with charms of silver. But though her pupils were white with age, still she narrowed her eyes at the sight of me. ‘“Lion Noir,” she purred, smiling with empty gums. ‘“M-madame,” I winced. “I’ve a will to b-buy, if it please you.” ‘Those blindworm eyes turned to Dior, roaming head to toe. And finally, Madame Souris shuffled aside. “Enter freely and of your own will.” ‘We stepped within, Dior whispering a soft curse. The scene was chaos; like a junk store had a drunken hate fuck with a lunatic asylum. Every square foot was packed with shelves, and every square inch of those shelves was filled – books and bottles, herbs and scales, tiny pickled things in cloudy jars, hourglasses in skeletal hands. The store was lit by a hundred softly burning chymical globes, and stank of cat piss and insanity. ‘“We heard you were dead, Lion,” Souris called, shuffling ahead. ‘“They t-tried.” ‘She smiled over her shoulder. “Well. God loves one of those, doesn’t he?” ‘We followed the old woman through the mess, Dior close on my heels and studying every nook and corner, until Souris propped herself at a long counter.
Among the twisted curios and dusty jars and books of skin, sat a rocking chair.
Among the twisted curios and dusty jars and books of skin, sat a rocking chair.
Seated in it, wearing a pretty dress of timeworn silk and a powdered wig, was a human skeleton. ‘“Look who it is, Minou,” Souris cooed. “Our Black Lion, back from the dead.” ‘I bowed at the bones. “Good seeing you again, madame. You haven’t aged a night.” ‘“Whereas you,” Souris tutted, “have seen far better days.”
‘“I’m hoping you can r-remedy that.”
‘“Hoping not praying?” ‘“Not my business any more.” ‘“So we hear.” Blind eyes flickered to Dior. “What is your business these days?” ‘“All due respect, madame. But none of yours.” ‘“Fair play.” Lighting a bone pipe, she breathed a plume of thin yellow smoke into my eyes. “Your desire? We’re fresh out of pretty nuns with bad taste in men, I’m afraid.” ‘I spoke the word as if it were chocolat melting on my tongue. “Blood.” ‘“Plenty of that for free right outside. Presuming you’re willing to dodge the soldiery and risk a tickling from the Inquisition.” ‘Dior tore her eyes from the curios about us. “There’s Inquisition in this city?” ‘“Arrived six nights back.” The old woman tilted her head. “That troubles
you, girl?” ‘“I’m not a girl.” ‘Souris chuckled at the skeleton. “You hear that, Minou? She’s not a girl.” ‘“Our concern,” I hissed, “is commerce. And the blood I need is of a darker sort.” ‘“Mmm.” Madame Souris rose and wandered along her shelves. Taking down a timeworn, dust-covered book entitled A Complete and Unabridged Historie of Elidaeni Floristry, she opened it to reveal a dozen phials of desiccated blood inside a carven hollow. ‘“All from foulbloods, I’m afraid,” Souris declared. “Slow trade these nights.
The Dyvok have made a sow’s ear out west, and the Voss a terrible ruckus eastways.” ‘“They’ll serve,” I whispered, wiping the sweat from my cheeks. “I’ll need a chymist’s foundry, too. Mortar and pestle. Hollyroot. Some redsalts and—” ‘The old woman raised her hand and nodded. “Blood for blood?” ‘“Blood for blood,” I replied, dragging up my sleeve. ‘Souris fished about beneath the countertop, produced phials and a glass tube tipped with a silvered blade. Then she turned to Dior, staring with blind eyes.
tipped with a silvered blade. Then she turned to Dior, staring with blind eyes.
‘“One should do it, ma chérie.” ‘Dior frowned at that. “… What?” lle ‘“That’s the question isn’t it, MNotagirl. What.” The old woman leaned closer, smoke drifting from wrinkled lips. “I’ve walked the halls of the king in yellow. Tasted delights in the arms of bleakborn princes and danced naked ’neath black stars with brides of the Neverafter. And not once in all my years have I smelled the like of you. So what are you?” ‘“Not for t-trade is what she is,” I growled. ‘Souris tilted her head, watching the empty air just above my left shoulder.
“That’s the price, Lion Noir. I’ve no need of what’s in you. I’ve plenty of paleblood a’ready.” ‘I clenched my teeth. “That’s the only blood on offer, madame.” ‘Souris sniffed, packed the foundry and phials and herbs below the counter.
“Pity.” ‘“Hold now.” Dior glanced at me, back at Souris. “He needs those.” ‘The old woman held up a needle-tipped phial between ink-stained fingers. lle “Everyone needs something, MNotagirl. And every need comes with a price.” ‘Dior rolled up her leather sleeve. “Then I’ll—” ‘“No,” I growled. “Not like this. N-not for me.” ‘“As you like it.” Souris smiled like the cat who stole the cream, sold the cow, and fucked the maid. “They’ll be waiting here when you change your mind. I’ll even wrap them up for you, Chevalier.” ‘Dior had sense enough not to dance a fuss before the old woman, and after a small bow, we were limping out of the Price. But as soon as we were back in the dingy streets, the girl clutched my wrist and hissed, “Are you mad? You need
that blood!” ‘“N-not that badly.” ‘“You can barely stand! How bad does it need to get?” ‘“Listen to me, girl.” I grabbed her arm, fury in my eyes. “I know Souris well enough to buy from her, but that doesn’t mean I trust her. Forget gibbets and pyres, forget peasant superstition. There’s a whole world beneath the one most folk see around them, and there’s true witchery in it. Coldbloods aren’t the fucking half of it. Duskdancers. Faekin. Fallen. Leave aside the Forever King, Chloe’s prophecy, all the rest. What do you think would happen if that world knew what you could do?” I shook my head, wincing. “The cure to any ill, any wound, just the stroke of a knife away? God, the things they’d do to own you
…” ‘“But you need it!” ‘I gritted my teeth, coughing. “I’ll figure s-something out.”
‘I gritted my teeth, coughing. “I’ll figure s-something out.” ‘The hour was late, and the ache in me was blinding as we trudged back out into the crush of the Redwatch streets. We found a dockside dosshouse – a nowhere fancy affair called Mandy’s Kiss, its walls crusted with dead hollanfel vines and runs of shadespine. I paid the publican twice the owing, told him we weren’t to be disturbed, and with a knowing glance to the “boy” at my side, he winked as we trudged upstairs. Locking the door behind us, I fell on the bed, curling into a very small, very miserable ball. ‘Dior plucked the curtains, muttering. “This place smells like someone died in
it.”
‘“Someone probably d-did.”
‘“What are you going to do now?”
‘“Repeat p-performance?”
‘“Fucksakes, hero, you’re—” ‘“I’m thinking!” I snarled. ‘“Well, think quicker! Because you’ve the look a man half dead and all dying!” ‘I growled between clenched fangs, threw her my purse. “If you’ve a need to make yourself useful, go find me something to drink instead of pissing in my fucking ear.” ‘“How about I piss in a cup and save you the coin, you surly prick?” ‘“Great Redeemer, girl—” ‘My half-hearted moan was silenced as the door slammed. Thirsting, miserable, I curled up tighter and tried to think past the crushing pain in my skull, the cold lice in my skin. I was in no shape to threaten violence, and Souris wasn’t a dame to be gently fucked anyway – a man who brought quarrel to her door had better be carrying more than a broken sword. I could offer a greater sum, but the old bitch had those blind eyes fixed on Dior now. A tie of service might suffice, but I’d no wish to bind myself to the likes of her, and besides, I’d business to the east. Business bleak and all kinds of bloody. Business that had dragged me far from home and hearth already, and still, not even begun … ‘As if to remind me, I heard scratching at the window. Sharp fingernails drifting across cold glass. My stomach did a burning roll, and lifting my head, I expected to find dark eyes staring back at me, reminding me of that debt due.
But there was only the wind, blowing a dry hollanfel vine across the pane. ‘I closed my eyes. Cursed it all. This beast I was and must soon become. The door opened, and something cool and heavy cracked me across the cheek.
Gasping, I squinted at what had hit me, saw a bottle of paint-thinner that might’ve passed for vodka. Dior stood on the threshold, glowering. ‘“Anything else, Majesty? No? Good.”
‘“Anything else, Majesty? No? Good.” ‘She made to close the door again as I croaked, “Where you going?” ‘“It stinks in here,” she spat. “And there’s a pretty maid downstairs with a pouch of cigarelles who seems a damn sight more pleasant company than you.
So when you’ve done your thinking and pulled a civil tongue into your head, come find me. ’Til then?” ‘She slammed the door harder, making me wince. And like a beggar, like a dog, I cracked the wax on that bottle and downed the lot of it without pause. It was nothing close to what I needed, nowhere near the thing I craved. But it served enough to drown me, push me down into soft black arms, where the pain might not find me. The fear in me was rising, one thought beyond all others – the thought of what I’d do when I broke. Dark rising around me, cold stone, wet and sticky, the colour of my lady’s lips the last time I kissed her. ‘And though there was naught but dark outside the window, still I heard her voice, echoing in the black behind my eyes.
‘“Remember why you left us.” ‘Remember why you left us.’
