by Chad A. B. Wilson
in Issue 145, February 2024
“You’ll like her,” Fenray said as they walked the Queen’s Road into the Gardenside district of Falsea.
“So you keep saying,” Grenmir said.
“Fat chance,” Hyrion murmured. “You don’t like anyone.” The invisible imp perched on her shoulder, and Grenmir reminded herself not to talk to them aloud. Sometimes she didn’t care when people thought she was crazy, but the rich district wasn’t the place to be conspicuous. Only she could hear the imp, which was good, considering the snarky comments the creature made every chance they got.
Grenmir knew the street well. She’d hit at least three houses on a nearby lane, all on the same night. No one had said a thing, either. That was the thing about nobles—they were too embarrassed to admit the Viper had ripped them off. No one called the Watch. No one sent out investigators. Or maybe they did, it didn’t really matter. Grenmir knew everyone who would be sent to find her, and they all knew better than to turn her in. She had threatened and cajoled and bribed enough of them to protect herself for life.
They turned down several side streets and stopped before an ornate wooden gate, complete with a carved owl on the front. Stone walls surrounded the palaces, more like fortresses than houses, each with their own household guards. Fenray rapped on the door built into the stone, and a hatch opened.
“Hello,” Fenray said, cheerful as always.
“Lord Fenray!” the guard called back. “What are you doing here?”
“Lord, my ass,” Hyrion said in Grenmir’s head, and she stifled a chuckle. “He’s as much a lord as I am. Lord Fenray, what a crock. You could learn a thing or two from him, you know? That man goes wherever he pleases.”
“So do I,” Grenmir whispered, trying not to move her mouth.
“He’s a man, so I guess that helps. It literally opens doors, it seems,” Hyrion said.
“I’m here to see Lady Lyata,” Fenray said.
“Well, this door will always open to you, sir.” And it did. The two of them walked through.
Hyrion shook his head. “Told you.”
“I’m afraid Lady Lyata already has company, though,” the guard told Fenray.
“Oh, really? And who is visiting my mistress this afternoon?”
“Your mistress? Ho, now! Wishing it doesn’t make it true, Lord Fenray. You’ll find out soon enough.”
Fenray stopped and looked at him, then nodded. “Will I see you tonight at the Lucky Barn?”
“If you’re giving me a chance to win back my gold, you better believe it!” the guard said, chuckling.
They walked toward the large mansion that loomed before them. “How do you do that, Fenray?” Grenmir asked.
“Do what?”
“Take a man’s money and make him cheerful to come back and give you more.”
“All part of my charm,” Fenray said. “Buy enough rounds, and they’re willing to keep on giving.”
“Yeah, it requires being nice,” Hyrion said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Shut up,” Grenmir said.
Fenray looked at her but kept moving. Her brother knew about the invisible imp, although he generally didn’t acknowledge them.
A servant met them at the door and ushered them into the sitting room. Spectacular artwork filled much of the immaculate room. It was more like a gallery than a room in a house. Grenmir had spotted what had to be a Trandora original in the entry, and there was another on the wall in the sitting room. A Yon sculpture sat on a nearby table. She might have to come back and take that one. She had a mind to swipe it right then, although it wouldn’t fit easily under her cloak, what with her two short swords already concealed there. Falsea didn’t allow open swords or other weapons, but if they were hidden, no one was the wiser.
She sighed with recognition when Lady Lyata’s guest stood. There was no mistaking the old bald man wearing a white tunic over what had to be leather armor. He was built like a stallion. When he saw her, his eyes widened, and then a smile crept to his lips. It went away quickly, but it was long enough to burn the image into Grenmir’s brain. She’d never seen Commander Brock smile before.
“Sheath take me,” Hyrion said. Grenmir almost laughed. The imp never cursed the gods. They thought it was silly that humans did it. “Why ask the Sheath to kill you?” they had once questioned her. Didn’t stop Grenmir from using the phrase, but Hyrion always commented about it. Hyrion had to be quite unhappy to mutter that one.
“Lady Lyata,” Fenray said, bowing slightly to the beautiful woman sitting across from Commander Brock.
Grenmir scrutinized her. She wore a stunning blue dress that left little skin showing. Quite unfashionable, that. Most upper-class women wore clothing more revealing than that of a sex worker. Sex workers wanted to conceal what could only be bought. The upper-class didn’t sell themselves—at least not for mere pennies—so they didn’t give ten hells what they showed off. But Lyata’s modest dress sparkled. It accentuated her figure, but the high neck concealed just about every inch of her.
Except for her face. Which was, frankly, stunning. She had strong, defined cheekbones with long black hair tied back into two twisted braids. She was maybe a few years older than Grenmir, but not by much. She held out her hand, and Fenray stepped forward and bowed to kiss it.
“May I present to you my sister, Grenmir.”
Lyata held out her hand and Grenmir took it, shaking it briefly. “Pleasure,” Grenmir said.
“The pleasure is mine, Ms. Grenmir. Would you please sit?”
Fenray and Grenmir each took a chair facing Lyata and Brock. “I wasn’t aware that my Lady already had a suitor this afternoon,” Fenray said.
Brock coughed. He’d done it to conceal a chortle, Grenmir knew. The good Commander didn’t court anyone.
“You know Commander Brock,” Lyata said.
“Of course. Commander, I hope you are busy keeping Falsea safe,” Fenray said.
“I try. So this is the bodyguard you’re hiring?”
“According to our good Mr. Fenray, his sister is the best money can buy.”
“Ten hells,” Hyrion said. “Keep your trap shut, Grenmir. I know you’re thinking it, but don’t say it.”
Grenmir decided the imp was right. Hyrion knew she bristled at the idea of being bought. Grenmir was no hired help. She was only here because Fenray had begged her. Her idiot brother hoped to court Lady Lyata, and he asked that Grenmir help as a way to have more access to the woman. Grenmir, however, saw it as reconnaissance.
“I can only agree,” Brock said.
“Oh, you know Ms. Grenmir?”
“We have met,” Brock said. “She is, indeed, quite good.” He stressed that last word, like he hoped it were true. At least that was how Grenmir read it. “I trust, Lady Lyata, that you will alert the Watch or myself if there is another attack. We need to know who is behind it, and not just prevent them from kidnapping you.”
“Of course, Commander.” She held out her hand, and Brock took it. He didn’t kiss it, but he turned to Fenray and nodded. Then he looked to Grenmir. “May I have word in private, Grenmir?”
Grenmir glanced to Lyata, who looked rather surprised at Brock’s familiarity. The Commander hadn’t used her honorific, which probably struck Lyata as out of the ordinary. Lyata obviously didn’t know Brock like Grenmir did. Brock wasn’t one for niceties most of the time. He walked to the back of the room, and Grenmir nodded to Lady Lyata. “With your permission.”
Lyata nodded.
“Nice one,” Hyrion said. “You’ll get the hang of it yet. Next thing you know, we’ll be able to take you out into polite society.”
Grenmir met Brock in the entryway.
“Sheath take me, Grenmir. If I hear about anything being stolen from Lady Lyata, I know who to arrest.”
Grenmir feigned innocence. “Oh, Commander, you insult me!” she mocked. “I’m just here to keep her from getting killed. Once I stop whoever’s attacking her, I’m done.”
“And then you’ll come back and rob her blind.”
“Come now, Brock, you know it’s fair game at that point. Even you couldn’t blame me. She has more than she needs, I think you’ll agree.”
Brock shook his head. Say what you would about Brock’s stoic chivalry, Grenmir knew he didn’t take kindly to the rich. He really did see himself as the Protector of Falsea. It wasn’t just the title the queen had given him after he stopped the crime lord from destroying the city. The man oversaw both the Watch and several garrisons of the Queen’s Finest. No one had the ear of the queen more than he. Yet he still lived at the Barn and Bauble, a regular inn in Hemis One. He still considered himself a mercenary more than anything.
“If I have to come after you, I will. You know I will.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I expect you to keep me in the loop. The Watch can help. If someone’s after Lady Lyata, we should work together.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Fine. But my men are going to be around. I’ll tell them to keep their distance, but they’ll be there.”
“And once I kill all the bad guys, they’ll come running to save the day. Sounds good, Commander.” She smiled her best fake smile.
Brock’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“How about letting me do my job?”
“Oh! Oh! Make fun of his bald spot! He’ll love that!” Hyrion said.
“I hope you’re as good as she believes you are.” He opened the door to leave, turned back to her, shook his head, and left.
“Call me crazy, but I’m not certain he likes you,” Hyrion said.
“Oh, he’s in love with me, make no mistake.”
“That’s gross; he’s old enough to be your grandfather.”
“Maybe. The man is old.” Grenmir walked back into the sitting room.
Fenray had already moved his chair closer to Lady Lyata. He beamed at her.
“Ugh,” Hyrion said. “I can’t watch this. I have to go.” Grenmir gave the slightest shrug of her shoulder. Hyrion took the hint and jumped off, running to the side table to inspect the Yon sculpture. It was a bronze bust of a naked woman that seemed to erupt from a large granite base. Hyrion moved as if to tip it over, and Grenmir suppressed a smile.
She turned back to Lady Lyata, and, to Grenmir’s surprise, the woman appeared to be watching Hyrion. Then Lyata blinked and turned her attention back to Fenray, who was busy describing what a fine time they would have on the date he had planned.
Did Lyata see Hyrion? That would be a first. Grenmir had bonded with the imp, so she could see them, but she thought no one else could. Not once in her ten years with them had anyone ever so much as glanced at them with a hint of recognition. But Lyata seemed to look right at them. She turned to Grenmir.
“Your brother saved me at the Roos ball, Ms. Grenmir.”
“Did he? How gallant of him. He’s always saving damsels in distress, you know? One time, he fished a poor soul out of the False Sea itself. She may have been a bit … befuddled at the time. Perhaps she’d been drinking so much, she’d forgotten she wasn’t a fish.”
“Ahem. My sister japes. Sometimes she is … unkind to me. And I merely pursued Lady Lyata’s attention in the garden when I found her beset upon by several ruffians. The guards had already engaged them. I merely escorted her back into the house and recommended that you, dear sister, be her new bodyguard.”
Lyata smiled and watched her. “I won’t stop going about my day, Ms. Grenmir.”
“I hope not. That sounds boring.”
“You will accompany me, of course.”
“You won’t leave my sight, Lady Lyata. My goal here is not just to keep you safe, mind you. You can stay safe in your house surrounded by armed guards day and night.”
“Then what exactly is your goal?”
“To catch the kidnappers and figure out why they want you.”
Ms. Terlime must have been pissed that she’d been ousted from her usual spot as Lady Lyata’s maid—she glowered at Grenmir whenever she passed by. Ironically, Grenmir knew nothing about how to be a maidservant. She’d never served anyone in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now. Hyrion joked that she couldn’t serve anything, including a racquetball, which was the truth, too. Only the upper crust had leisure time to play games. Grenmir and Fenray had been born in the tenements, but they’d worked their way up—Fenray through gambling and Grenmir through stealing. They’d never be equals with the Lady Lyatas of the world, but they weren’t servants, either.
Terlime helped Lyata out of her clothes behind a screen, taking the woman through her nighttime ritual. Grenmir sat on the sofa. “I’ll sleep in here with you,” Grenmir said.
“No, you will not!” Terlime shot back.
“Damn,” Hyrion said. “She’s possessive.”
Terlime undid the rows of buttons along the back of Lyata’s dress. Lyata was hidden from her by the screen, but Grenmir watched Terlime work each button with care.
“It’s okay, Ms. Terlime. She may sleep on the couch at the foot of the bed. She’s here to protect me.”
Grenmir sat on the couch and scanned the room. This woman had valuables everywhere. There was a set of what had to be stone phalluses nailed to the wall, a collection of decorative and probably useless daggers on a shelf, and two paintings of naked women, both of which drew Grenmir’s attention.
She stood and held the lantern up to one of the paintings. “She looks like you,” Grenmir said.
“Miss, would you like me to remove Ms. Grenmir?”
Lyata walked out from behind the screen wearing a lady’s sleeping gown with long, flowing sleeves. Grenmir caught a glimpse of something on Lyata’s arm as she pulled the sleeve down. A tattoo? Now that was unusual. One thing really poor people and really rich people did not do was get tattoos. Either Lady Lyata was not who she pretended to be, or there was something else going on.
“No need, Ms. Terlime. Thank you, but you may retire.”
“But Ms.–“
“Thank you, Ms. Terlime.”
Terlime grimaced at Grenmir as she left.
“That woman does not like me.”
“She likes everyone. You, however, are a threat, and she doesn’t trust you. She would also say you don’t know your place. Do you know your place, Ms. Grenmir?”
“I’m in your house. You invited me.”
Lyata chuckled. “Your metaphorical place, that is.”
“Fat chance!” Hyrion said.
“I’ve never been adept at knowing my place. I’ve been told that all my life.”
“Fenray is a gambler by trade, it seems. He plays rich. It’s like he’s a player on the stage, and he’s learned his lines well. You, however, refuse to accept that you even have lines. I ask you a direct question, and you don’t answer it. How did brother and sister turn out so differently?”
“Different skill sets, I suppose.”
“And what are your skills?”
“Killing is the only one that concerns you.”
“I get the feeling you are not a professional bodyguard.”
“Are you paying me, Lady Lyata? Then I’m a professional bodyguard.”
She nodded at the painting in front of them. “So yes, that is my mother, believe it or not. My father had it painted. He loved her so.”
“Looking like that, I bet he did.”
Lyata gazed at the painting. “She acts like she’s never seen it before,” Hyrion said, perched on Grenmir’s shoulder where he always was.
Lyata sighed and sat on the bed. “Ask me,” she said.
“All right. Who’s trying to kill you?”
“No one. Not yet, at least.”
“Okay, who’s trying to kidnap you?”
“I don’t know the exact name of the group.”
“Then why are they after you?”
“Do you know how old I am, Ms. Grenmir?”
“A little older than me.”
“I am thirty-two.”
“Why aren’t you married? Any one of these rich sots would love to be your husband.”
“That’s not the issue, Ms. Grenmir. Try to stay with me.”
“I’m two steps ahead of you. What are the tattoos? Were you adopted? I know your parents didn’t get those tattoos for you, and I can’t imagine you had them done yourself.”
Her eyebrows shot up, a look of surprise on her face. Then a nod.
“I think that’s enough for tonight, Ms. Grenmir.” Lyata lay down and blew out her lamp.
Grenmir sat back on the couch and pulled up the blanket. Then she dimmed her light and watched Lyata lie on the bed. Eventually, Lyata closed her eyes.
“What’s she hiding?” Hyrion asked, settling in beside Grenmir.
“I’m not sure,” she whispered back.
Grenmir and Lady Lyata walked through the streets, people bustling on each side. They crossed the Leine and turned west. Two guards walked right behind them, although Grenmir was doubtful they would be much help in a fight. Paid guards were only as good as the money their loyalty was printed on.
Why did Grenmir care, then? What made her want to protect this woman? She wasn’t certain. It was unlike her. Why had she taken the job in the first place? Was it her brother’s request that made her do what she vowed she would never do—work for someone else? At first, she’d thought it might be fun. But then she met Lyata, and now the mystery of the woman nagged at her.
Grenmir wore a white dress just like Lyata’s, but Lyata had a flowered headband. That was the woman’s only adornment. Most upper-class women would have all sorts of jewels on. Ten hells, they might even be carried in a litter if they ever left Gardenside at all. But Lyata walked on her own, even through crowded streets.
“Why are we going to the church of Yeran again?”
“I have business there,” Lyata said. “An appointment, actually.”
“Are you a member of the Order of Yeran?”
Lyata didn’t answer.
“Hey, I’m just trying to figure out who’s after you. Or better yet why they’re after you.”
“As I tried to tell you last night, I already know why. But you were too busy being two steps ahead of me, remember?”
“Wait, what? You know why they’re after you? Does it have to do with the tattoos?”
Lyata remained silent.
They turned down a side street and then another. This area was less crowded. Grenmir’s eyes darted everywhere. She’d learned early on to always know her surroundings. If she could see it, she could get away. If she never saw it coming, she didn’t have a chance. From the rooftops to the alleyways to each window in between, Grenmir examined everything.
“I don’t see anyone,” Hyrion said.
They entered the churchyard to the temple of Yeran and walked quickly through the abandoned space until they reached a large square building separated from the main sanctuary by an ivy-covered walkway.
“I studied here,” Lyata said. “I still attend lectures sometimes.”
“Really? We’re here for a lecture? Sheath take me, I can’t sit through a godsdamn lecture.”
“Come,” she said. “You may like this one.” A few men and women, all wearing nice robes, mingled around outside a set of double doors. Ten guards stood off to the side. Lyata turned to her two guards. “Wait here for me,” she told them. “You, come with me.”
Grenmir groaned but followed. She may have to rethink this job, after all. “At least I can leave without anyone knowing,” Hyrion said, giggling. “You’re stuck.” Grenmir groaned again as they entered one of the largest auditoriums she had ever been in. Tiered benches created in a half-circle led to a podium at the front of the room. Lyata walked quickly past row after row of men and women all the way down to the first row.
“Really?” Grenmir protested. “We have to sit in the front?”
“Only the best for you.”
Grenmir hated to be lectured at about anything. Whether it was why she shouldn’t steal her brother’s food or the mating habits of the who-gives-a-crap that lives in everybody-sucks-land, Grenmir couldn’t stand any of it. When people started talking, she tuned out. It explained a lot, she knew. But she didn’t care. Never try to explain to her why it was wrong, either.
“Welcome,” a man on the podium said. “Our speaker today is a graduate from this very institution. She studied with the great Yeran philosopher Urmil and has since published widely in subjects such as ethics, moral authority, the morality of religion, and what it means to be good. Please welcome our very own Lady Lyata.”
Everyone clapped as Lyata approached the podium and the man moved off.
“Sheath take me,” Grenmir said.
Hyrion laughed uncontrollably. Grenmir had to shush him so she could hear.
“Empathy is the opposite of reason,” Lyata began.
No one made a sound. With the first sentence, the audience was rapt.
“Notice that I did not say it wasn’t right or wasn’t morally correct. But it is the opposite of reason.”
Grenmir looked around as Lyata spoke. The place was impossible to defend. At least she was in the first row and could get to Lyata before anyone else could.
“Imagine two inns, both across the road from one another. A terrible rainstorm is raging. One destitute stranger enters each inn at the same time. In one inn, the stranger hails the innkeeper and says, ‘I’m sorry sir, but I don’t have any money, I’m starving, and this rain will be the death of me. Can you loan me the money for room and board?’”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Hyrion said. “I’m not giving either one of them a cent.” They jumped down from Grenmir’s shoulder and ran up the steps. And there it was again. Lyata watched Hyrion climb the steps as she lectured.
“Across the road in the other inn, the other stranger enters and says, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have any money, I’m starving, and this rain will be the death of me. Can you loan me the money for room and board?’ A man in the common room—a poor man with only ten coppers to his name—takes pity on the stranger.”
“Finally, ladies and gentlemen,” Lyata said. Grenmir blinked.
She hoped she wasn’t asleep. No, she hoped she wasn’t snoring. Ten hells, she’d told Lyata she didn’t want to go to a lecture.
“I submit to you that it is indeed true that empathy is the opposite of reason, but it is also reason’s parent. Without empathy, there is no reason.”
Wait a minute, how in the ten hells did that work? Now where was Hyrion?
Hyrion came bounding around the corner as they made the first turn on their way back to Gardenside. “I’m back,” he said in her head before climbing up her dress and perching on her shoulder. “Man, that was even worse than I thought it would be.”
Lyata’s face showed recognition when she turned to Grenmir. She must have been able to see the imp on her shoulder.
“How is it that you can see Hyrion?”
Lyata nodded. “Is that his name?”
“I’m not a ‘he,’” Hyrion said.
“Hyrion doesn’t have a gender. They’re an imp who escaped one of the ten hells sometime in the last couple centuries. Doesn’t remember a lot of it.”
“He’s with you, huh?”
“Ugh,” Hyrion muttered again.
“Hyrion’s my friend. They’re helpful.”
“So he’s invisible to everyone else?”
“Godsdamn, if she calls me a ‘he’ one more time—“
Grenmir sighed. People had trouble with those who didn’t fit their molds. Even smart people like Lyata. Even people who seemed to believe in the power of empathy. Who preached the power of empathy. Well, maybe not preached. If Lyata had been a preacher, the auditorium would have been empty. She was too boring to be a preacher.
“Hyrion’s invisible to everyone except you. Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But you suspect.”
She nodded, and they turned down another side road, this one more like an alley with no one at all on the street. No. One. At. All.
“Umm, Grenmir,” Hyrion said.
Lyata kept walking. “Sheath take me,” Grenmir said, noting two figures just ahead in second story windows directly across the alley from one another. She pushed Lyata to one side and leaped across the alley to the other side. She pinned herself to the building and slid to the ground. Hyrion leaped off her shoulder onto a door’s awning. Arrows flew down the alley, two missing their intended targets, but two more hitting Lyata’s guards, who were both still standing in the middle of the lane wondering why Grenmir was taking cover. One guard fell immediately. The other managed to at least pull his sword before another arrow slammed into him.
Then the archers were upon them—with swords now. Four of them. Two walked toward Grenmir, who stood and tried to reach up under her dress to retrieve her blades. “Ten hells,” she said, her face scrunching up as the swordsmen came closer.
The other two assailants grabbed Lyata. The ones coming her way—a man and woman—seemed to be confused by her odd display. First, she hiked up her dress, then ripped it most of the way down the front. The two turned to one another, and Grenmir shrugged, half-smiling.
The man had a rather lewd expression on his face, waiting with anticipation for what was going to happen when the dress was ripped all the way. The woman beside him slapped him on the arm, and he said, “What?” and gestured toward the nasty woman ripping her dress in two.
Finally, the cursed dress ripped all the way, revealing her swords and leather. Out came the weapons, and the smile spread across Grenmir’s face.
Once Mr. Sicko realized Grenmir had a blade in each hand, he rushed forward, but Grenmir blocked his stroke easily. Then the woman tried to thrust from her position behind the man, but Grenmir forced the woman’s blade up and toward the man, where it sliced into his side, making him step away from the fray.
Four more figures appeared from doorways with ropes in hand. They went to Lyata, but Grenmir couldn’t tell what they were doing. “Do you need help?” Hyrion asked in Grenmir’s head.
“Not really,” Grenmir said. “I can handle these two idiots.”
“What?” the woman asked as she blocked one of Grenmir’s swings. Mr. Sicko was back in the fight now, his sword coming at Grenmir from the side.
“But what are they doing to Lyata?”
“It doesn’t concern you!” the woman screamed, and Grenmir sighed. So many misunderstandings with an invisible imp only she could hear.
“They’re tying her up,” Hyrion said.
“What? Why?”
She blocked each sword again. She finally went on the attack, and the man stumbled back. Two of the others joined the battle with Grenmir, each with longswords. One had a drooping right eye that grabbed Grenmir’s attention. She wondered if he could see out of that eye the same as the other. It seemed to move in unison with its left cousin, but Grenmir couldn’t help but wonder about it.
“Umm, Grenmir?” Hyrion asked.
“What?” Grenmir cried out as she ducked and parried and sliced at three opponents at once. They forced her back a few steps. Whoever these jokers were, they were not that bad.
“Can’t you see we’re trying to kill you, bitch?” the woman screamed at her.
Now that was just uncalled for. Grenmir pressed forward, focusing on the woman. One thing she couldn’t stand was being called a bitch. What was the name of a male dog? A dog? Just didn’t have the same curse effect. But “bitch?” Totally unfair, stereotypical “insult” that amounted to the same thing as “woman.” And coming from another woman? Oh, that she could not abide.
Then again, given the chance, she might have made fun of the guy’s droopy eye. Which wasn’t fair of her. Not only was it sloppy swordplay, but it was wrong, to boot.
The woman’s eyes widened as Grenmir pressed her attack.
Hyrion continued his commentary. “They seem to have her tied up.”
Something flew overhead. She looked up as she blocked a sword. It was a rope—caught by a person in the second story window. Another rope flew up and was caught by someone across the street. What in the ten hells were these people doing? The guards gained on her due to her momentary loss of concentration (and coordination, godsdammit). She had unconsciously moved back several feet and noticed the look of glee on the woman’s face. Really, now. This woman-on-woman violence was just unacceptable.
Grenmir maneuvered herself so she had a better view of Lyata, who—Sheath take her—was suspended in mid-air in the middle of the alley. Two ropes pulled at her arms from the second story windows while two people on the ground pulled ropes attached to her legs. Her hair flopped in the breeze behind her.
Then Grenmir saw something else—a robed figure walking toward Lyata from the other end of the alley. His black robes concealed most of his body, but sandaled feet touched the ground softly, purposefully, and folded hands revealed themselves from within the long sleeves. One hand held an ornate ceremonial dagger. He strode toward Lyata.
“Umm, you seeing this, Grenmir?”
Grenmir was, indeed, seeing this, and she didn’t like it one bit. She needed to end this stupid battle and rescue Lyata. Lyata, for her part, didn’t scream at all. Not even as the priest cut away her dress.
Grenmir had trouble concentrating on her swordplay once she caught sight of Lyata’s naked body. Not only did the older woman’s curves command attention, but her flesh was completely covered in writing. It wasn’t just the woman’s arms—her entire body was tattooed. From her neckline to her wrists to her ankles, her skin was like the pages of a book. It looked as if an entire story had been written into the curves of her body. The black ink and the beautiful bare ass ten feet in front of her made Grenmir nearly lose her footing.
The robed man began to speak, his voice like the grating of a gate on its rusty hinges, a low-pitched metallic whine. It was some infernal language that would make even Hyrion stand up and take notice. Smoke wafted up from Lyata’s body, almost like the tattoos were burning and dissipating as the priest read the words.
Grenmir turned as she ducked a swing, and one of the other men yelled, “Watch it!”
Smoke emanated from Lyata’s arm, and the smell of burning flesh filled the space between the buildings. The man’s voice continued its recitation and the letters burned as he read them.
Lyata screamed in pain.
“That’s it!” Grenmir yelled. She swung and slashed and the woman screamed and crumpled. Grenmir had drawn out the main priest, so now she could end it. She hated using Lyata as bait—well, not really, truth be told, but it was time to catch the guy.
“Stop him!” she yelled.
Hyrion leaped from the awning and onto the robed priest’s back. Grenmir ducked and sliced at least three legs at once. The remaining attackers went down. Then she ran at Lyata and cut through the rope holding her burning arm. Her other sword sliced through the opposite rope next, and then she threw one of the swords at the man on the end of another rope. The blade slipped right into him, and the rope on Lyata’s left leg loosened. Then Grenmir grabbed the robed priest’s neck and pushed him back. Hyrion, meanwhile, cackled as they straddled the back of his neck.
The priest’s hood fell from his face. He was middle-aged and slight, with graying brown hair. Grenmir expected him to have glowing red eyes or to be covered in demon tattoos or something, but no, he was just a regular old man in a robe. He brought up his dagger and caught Grenmir on the arm.
“Bah!” she said, more angry than hurt. She let go of the man’s neck and grabbed her bleeding forearm. Hyrion boxed him on the ears, and he screamed. Then Hyrion looked up and leaped away suddenly. Grenmir spun, and arrows came at her. She hit the deck.
Flying arrows kept her pinned until she realized that members of the Watch were nearly upon her. She flipped over and sat up, but the robed man was gone.
“I told you to stay away!” Grenmir yelled at Brock, who stood there stoically before her in Lady Lyata’s sitting room. He sucked in a large breath. Yeah, Grenmir knew she was taking advantage of the situation. Commander Brock could have her thrown in a dungeon for the rest of her life if he wanted.
“I know,” Brock said.
At least he was man enough not to follow that with a “but.” Godsdamn, she hated that part. “I know, but…” was the worst thing anyone could say. Well, right next to “I’m sorry, but…” Yeah, that was worse. Not that Grenmir ever apologized. It was one of the benefits of living a solitary life. No one to apologize to.
“Let me rephrase, Commander: I need you to stay away.”
“I know,” Brock said.
“If all I’m doing is stopping them when they attack, then I’m just playing defense, and I can never win. She’ll need bodyguards the rest of her life! The only way I can find out who is after her is if I capture one of them!”
“I know,” Brock said, his voice lower, more resigned. “Are you done now, Grenmir?”
Grenmir stepped back. “Yeah. I know you get it, Brock. I was just waiting to see what they were doing. When I figured it out, I put a stop to it, and then your guys showed up.”
“My men were tailing you, and when they saw what was happening, they went into action. You can’t blame them.”
She moved to protest.
“No, I know you can blame them, but they were trying to do good.”
“I know something about the road to hell,” Hyrion said in her ear. “And it isn’t paved with good intentions.”
“I know,” Grenmir said. She poured two glasses from the sideboard and handed one to Brock.
“Making yourself at home, I see.”
“You know, I don’t even think Lady Lyata drinks. She just keeps it for guests.”
“Well, cheers,” Brock said. They clinked glasses and downed the whiskey.
“Now,” Grenmir said, “we have four guards on the premises. And then there’s me. If I’m imagining right, they’ll show up here tonight. Let me take care of it. Yes, I want your Watch here. But outside. I can handle them, trust me.”
Brock nodded. “One thing I know, Grenmir, is not to trust you.”
“Well, you’re a smart man, Commander. But I do what I say; you should know that, too.”
“I do.” He looked around. “Are a few items going to go missing in the fray?”
“Well, sometimes things happen.”
“As I told you before: as long as I don’t hear about it, I don’t care about it.” Brock handed his empty glass to Grenmir and left.
“I’m fine,” Lyata said as Grenmir entered her sleeping chamber.
“No thanks to you,” Ms. Terlime countered, her voice full of more vitriol than that of a drunken Blandther. Lyata’s arm rested on the bed, wrapped in bandages, the rest of her beneath a blanket.
“Does it still hurt?” Grenmir asked.
“No. The burning stopped pretty quickly once he stopped—“
Grenmir cut her off. “May I speak with Ms. Lyata alone?”
“That’s Lady Lyata,” Ms. Terlime said.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Ms. Terlime, may I please—“
“It’s okay, Ms. Terlime. Please leave us alone.” Thank the gods Lyata had said something. Grenmir had been tempted to rip Terlime’s head off. She couldn’t stand that kind of fake moralizing based on class distinctions. Because Lyata was born with a set of silver spoons stuffed in her mouth, she deserved a special title?
Grenmir waited until Terlime left. She stood at the foot of Lyata’s bed.
“Time to explain things,” Grenmir said.
Lyata nodded. “I will grant you that,” she said, “although from appearances it seems the Watch saved me, not you.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Not for a second. I know what you were doing.”
“And because I let it go on, we now know what they want from you. I’m just not sure why. What are the tattoos?”
“I can’t say for sure, like I told you before.”
“What do you suspect, then?”
“Did I tell you how old I am?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Do you know what happened 32 years ago?”
Grenmir thought, but she couldn’t come up with anything.
“The dragon,” Hyrion said.
“Your friend knows, doesn’t he?” Lyata said. “I was born the night the last of the dragons attacked Falsea. My mother’s birthing screams were drowned out by the burning city and the wails of thousands. My father fled, carrying my mother as she bled. When he finally pulled me out of her, I was covered in markings—these tattoos. My mother held me as she died. My father, despondent, retreated to this house and tried to figure out why his wife died birthing a demon child. No one knew why I had the tattoos or what they meant.”
“Is that why you can see my imp? Because you’re, what? Dragon born or something?”
“I suppose. It’s never happened before. He is cute, though.”
Hyrion sat a bit straighter. “Oh, I like her! I’ll even forgive the ‘he’ part,” the voice in her head said.
“Cute? I’ve thought a lot of things about Hyrion, but cute was never one of them.”
“Hey!”
“You studied the tattoos, right? Is that why you went to the university?”
“For much of my life. I eventually learned the script was an ancient language used by dragons. I kept it hidden, but now it seems someone has found me out.”
“A dragon cult, I suppose.”
“I assume so. Either the Crimson Tongue or the Red Sunset. They’re both competing cults, both trying to bring dragons back to Searithia.”
“I’m aware of them. Had run-ins with both. The Crimson Tongue once hired me to bring them a dragon’s eye.”
“Did you?”
“I did. Right before I killed them all. With Commander Brock’s help, of course.”
“Ah, yes. So I suppose this is the Red Sunset, then.”
“Did you figure out what the writing means?”
“From the little I have been able to decipher, it seems to be an incantation that may raise the dead dragons back to life. I’ve never encountered anyone who could actually read it.”
Grenmir gulped. “Sheath take me.”
“You just might get your wish,” Hyrion said. “I told you it was a silly phrase.”
“If they know that’s what the tattoos are, then they won’t stop, even if I manage to stop their next attack. And if they know about you, it’s just a matter of time until some other group finds out.”
Lyata nodded and propped herself up. “Did you listen to my lecture, Ms. Grenmir?”
“Some of it. I admit, I had trouble following parts.”
“It was about ethics. About how to judge right actions. I believe that empathy and reason must work together. Those two abilities tell me what I must do. There’s only one way to guarantee that the cults are not able to raise the dragons.”
“I follow,” Grenmir said, “but I think there may be another way. Even if you die, they’ll just dig up your corpse and read the spell from your cold, dead body.”
“Not if my body is destroyed beyond recognition. You could do that for me.”
Grenmir nodded. “I could. But what about you? What about empathy for you? That would be merely choosing the greater good for the most people, wouldn’t it? But not for you. What if we could save the world and save you?”
She laughed. “I don’t see any way to guarantee they won’t retrieve the incantation.”
“Well, promise me this: we’ll try my way first. If it doesn’t work, I’ll make sure no one can ever read from your body again.”
Grenmir stood on the window ledge with a complete view of Lyata’s bedroom. The windows swung inward and were nearly floor-to-ceiling. Lyata lay on the bed, obviously nervous. She said something to Hyrion, who clung fast to the molding in an upper corner of the room.
“I hear them coming,” Hyrion said in her head. “I’ll let you know when it’s almost over.”
She hoped everyone had followed her orders. First, she had told all Lyata’s servants to leave the premises. Then she told the two downstairs guards to flee the grounds before the cultists could get to them. Maybe the cultists would see through it all and know they were walking into a trap, but Grenmir imagined they would be too eager to reflect critically about what was happening. Perhaps they would think Lyata was a bit too confident in her mansion’s security.
Grenmir could have broken in easily, of course. And yet, instead of robbing rich people of their not-so-deserved valuables, she was out here on a ledge less than a foot wide, thirty feet up, in the middle of the night, hoping she could pop in at just the right time.
In they came.
Lyata screamed, and Hyrion appeared to … smile.
Figured. The imp loved crap like this. Luring idiots to their doom was his bread and butter. And dragon cultists were the definition of idiots, to both Grenmir and the imp.
The cults had popped up after the death of that last dragon—the night Lyata was born, apparently. That last dragon was the first dragon anyone had seen in over 150 years, and the people were enthralled and terrified by it. After it was dead, some turned to worshipping the giant beasts. That evolved into trying to bring them back. Grenmir’s first encounter with the Crimson Tongue had been retrieving an actual dragon’s eye that granted its wielder the ability to control fire as well as the ability to reanimate the giant reptiles.
Commander Brock had told her that some other cultists had tried to assassinate Queen Oleanna as revenge for the death of the last dragon. In reality, it was Brock who had killed the dragon, not the queen, but everyone thought the queen had done it. After all, Brock didn’t want the accolades and didn’t correct their misconceptions.
But trying to bring back dragons? Beyond folly. It was just plain stupid.
A single dragon had nearly destroyed the capital city.
Ten of them could destroy Searithia.
Four cultists, including the priest, rushed into the room. Three grabbed Lyata and tied ropes to her hands and ankles. They held her limbs down as the priest in the black robe entered and cut off Lyata’s nightdress, revealing the creamy tattooed skin beneath.
Grenmir couldn’t get over how striking the woman’s body was. She reminded herself that Lyata was her employer. Not that that would stop her. Grenmir didn’t play into the employer-employee relationship thing. That was partly why she worked for herself most of the time. Her room back at the Laughing Lion was stuffed full of enough baubles to buy a lordship. Grenmir didn’t care about that stuff. She liked what she did and wasn’t going to stop.
Brock had told her once that he only wanted enough money to keep him in drink. Grenmir liked the expression. Just enough to keep a roof and food. And sometimes the roof was optional.
But Lyata was something else. And the tattoos made her that much more alluring.
The cultists held her down on the bed while one stood at the foot, a sword in his hand. The priest climbed onto the bed and began speaking in the strange dragon language. Grenmir could barely hear it from outside the window, but it still sounded eerie. Dragons had one screwed up, scary language.
As the priest read, the letters smoked, literally going up in wisps. They disappeared as his eyes flowed across her skin. The letters each lifted off the surface of her body and turned to smoke by the reading of the words themselves.
It wasn’t pretty, and, judging by Lyata’s screams, it was quite painful. She writhed on the bed, but the men held her down. She thrashed and yelled, but the priest kept reading. Maybe Lyata would wish she were dead by the end of it. But the pain should be momentary. Lyata told her it didn’t last. She’d make it; the woman was tough, no doubt. Yes, she would pull through.
“You better hope she makes it,” Hyrion said inside her head. “I can’t wait to get my claws on that booger priest again. I’ve seen a lot of torture, Grenmir. Ten hells, I’ve experienced my share. But this looks like agony.”
The man read on. Smoke rose and filled the room.
“It smells like burning flesh, Grenmir. I’m not sure I can handle much more.”
The cultists grabbed Lyata’s arms and flipped her over onto her stomach. The priest had completed the first part of the book of dragons, Grenmir supposed. Now they were reading the book of her ass. And it was … smoking—literally.
“I think it’s about time to end it, Grenmir. Once this priest is dead, no one can ever read the incantation again.”
Hyrion was right. The priest didn’t have to read every word. He only had to read enough that no one could ever cast the spell. Once it was read, it went up in smoke. It was a once or nothing deal. And Grenmir was here to make sure it was nothing.
Grenmir pushed the window open, and no one noticed as she stepped inside. Damn, Hyrion was right: the smell was overwhelming. The worst part was it reminded her of grilled meat—the mixture of cooking flesh and burning wood. She nearly gagged from the association, not the smell itself.
Hyrion, meanwhile, leaped from his perch in the corner onto the cultist with his sword drawn, standing at the foot. The man screamed and flailed, waving his sword around the room.
“Watch it!” Grenmir yelled, knocking into a table under another window, grabbing onto something on the wall to steady herself. Whatever it was came off the wall in her hand, and she nearly fell over again. Something clattered to the floor, and the others turned toward her. She was surprised to see that she held a stone phallus. And it was quite … girthy.
The priest sped up his reading while the cultist closest to Grenmir let go of the rope and pulled his sword. Great, another one. These cultists definitely weren’t swordsmen. Swordswomen? Swordspeople? Damn these gendered nouns.
She lobbed the stone dick at the cultist’s head, and the man tripped over himself trying to dodge it. Grenmir thrust her sword through his chest, and the man went was done.
Grenmir ducked. Hyrion was attempting to gauge the other cultist’s eyes out, and the poor man swung his sword wildly. Grenmir maneuvered away from the flailing cultist and plunged her sword directly into the main priest’s belly.
The reading stopped immediately, while the man’s insides—the blood and guts held in by the bag of skin that was his body—poured out when she removed the sword. He stood above Lyata, bleeding all over her. She stopped screaming, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Grenmir glanced down and felt a pull to grab Lyata’s hand, a desire to comfort her. But not yet.
She looked to the last cultist on the other side of the bed. He had dropped the rope and pulled his sword. He backed up against the wall, looking for a way out.
“Your turn,” Grenmir said. She hopped onto the bed, straddling Lyata, and pushed the eviscerated priest backward. He collapsed like a statue, falling off the bed, and the other cultist—the one with Hyrion on his back—slashed him in the neck. He hadn’t meant to, of course; it was just that he had lost one eye and was in the process of losing the other. Hyrion cackled the entire time. They were enjoying torturing the poor cultist. You’d think an imp who spent eons being tortured would be against the practice, but no, it just made them more adept.
Grenmir jumped off the bed toward the cultist who was still looking for a means of escape. “We only need one of you alive,” Grenmir said. The man looked at the cultist thrashing around and then threw his sword down hastily.
“I give up!” he screamed.
“Good man. Kill that one!” she called out. She didn’t even turn to watch, but the cultist’s eyes went wide in front of her. She knew what he was looking at. He watched Hyrion slit the man’s throat. Well, that wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t see Hyrion. No, he just saw a gash appear in his throat, and his blood gush out. The cultist gurgled as he collapsed, and Hyrion leaped onto her shoulder.
“That was fun,” the imp said.
“You—down on the floor,” she told the remaining cultist. Then she took Lyata’s hand. Lyata breathed uneasily, still on her stomach, covered in blood and whatever else had come out of the priest’s belly. “You’re all right,” she told her.
Sounds of battle came from downstairs. They heard footsteps getting closer, and then Brock burst in. “Just in time,” she said.
“They’re not all crazy fanatics,” Grenmir told Brock as they walked along the Leine River the next day. Lyata was recovering in bed, attended by Ms. Terlime, of course. Terlime was furious that Grenmir had “allowed” such a thing to happen to her boss, but Lyata would be fine. Only the cultists had died, so Grenmir’s plan had worked. If Lyata had had her way, she would have died, as well. As it was, the only casualties were a bunch of idiot cultists. “The last one surrendered as soon as I gave him the chance. How’d the interrogation go?” Grenmir asked.
“They’re smarter than we give them credit for, I’m afraid. We went to the place where he had told us, and there was nothing there.”
“Hmm. They’d already left, huh?”
Brock nodded. “At least Lady Lyata’s safe.”
“You going to stop these idiots?”
“That’s what I’m saying, Grenmir. They’re not stupid. They knew about Lyata, and they created a plan to get to her. The dragons have everyone in thrall. I don’t know how to preemptively stop them.”
“But the alternative is just defense. Rescue the queen. Rescue Lyata. It’s getting boring, isn’t it?”
“Not sure about boring. But yes, we need to squash them once and for all. Damn giant lizards.”
“Aren’t they reptiles?”
“What’s the difference?”
Grenmir shrugged. “I don’t know. Do I look like a giant lizard/dragon/reptile specialist?”
“Can’t say you do.”
“But if they keep it up, I may become an expert at killing dragon cultists. Be warned, Commander: I’m gonna kill every one I come across.”
“Not if I get to them first,” Hyrion said.
“Sometimes there’s nothing to be done. Have you read any of Lady Lyata’s work?”
“Not quite.” Grenmir could read; she just never bothered with it. And books weren’t exactly easy to come by. “What makes a big brute like you pick up a book on ethics?”
“Her work is … provocative. She says that just because people stop believing in the gods doesn’t mean they don’t want to believe.”
“You mean they’re searching to believe in something?”
“That’s her point, yes. Without the gods to believe in and direct their answers, they’ll fulfill the same need by another means.”
“Like worshiping dragons.”
“Exactly.”
“Looks like you have your work cut out for you, Commander.”
“If you ever want to help, you know where to find me. And hey, keep your brother away from Lady Lyata.”
Grenmir laughed. “My brother’s incorrigible. He can’t be stopped,” she said as she walked away.
“You keep getting chummy with old baldy there, people may start to wonder where your loyalties lie,” Hyrion said.
“I think we both know my loyalties lie exactly where they should.”
“Ah, selfishness, the philosophy of the unimaginative.” Hyrion snickered.
“I think of it as the philosophy of last resort.”
“Too bad you’re developing a sense of empathy.”
“Shut up. Maybe I’ll boil and eat you.”
“You love me too much, my dear.”
“You wish.”
Grenmir felt her bag of gold coins under her tunic and walked to the Bronze Falcon. It was time to get stupid drunk and forget all about empathy, whatever that outmoded concept was. It was time to return to what she was good at.
“Can I steal money from their piles when they’re not looking?”
“No,” Grenmir said. “Just tell me what their cards are. That’s all we really need.”
“That’s kind of boring, you know? Maybe I can nibble at their ankles or something. Make them think there are rats.”
“There probably are. And fleas, don’t forget about those.”
“True. Glad to see you didn’t learn anything from this whole episode.”
“I do my best.” Grenmir smiled and opened the door to her favorite gambling hall. With any luck, her purse would be at least twice as heavy when she left. And she’d be drunk as a skunk. Maybe she would even get into a brawl. A good brawl always guaranteed a good time.
©February 2024, Chad A. B. Wilson
Chad A. B. Wilson’s stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines including the Dragons & Heroines anthology, Vanishing Point Magazine, Savage Realms Monthly, and previously in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.