by Carmel Rechnitzer
Maya de la Rioja never felt so alive. That was the main draw of Soline and Sanjay’s intricately planned heists: pure adrenaline when they inevitably went wrong. She was crouched behind a butcher’s block, deep in the guts of one of the Ussura district’s meatpacking warehouses. The smell of blood was thicker than the Five Sails humidity, so thick she could taste it. Crouching at her side was the on-again, off-again, love of her life, Lorenzo de Zepeda. His jaw was blooming a new bruise, his orbital bone was certainly broken, and half his moustache was singed off. He spat out a loose tooth. Maya realized he’d never looked better.
“On the count of three, guns blazing?” she asked, priming both of her pistols. The sounds of two dozen curses in two dozens languages rang out through the warehouse. The Ussura district’s industrial nature brought in the desperate and the skilled from every nation and empire. If you could process the raw materials coming through the City’s ports, you had a home here. This multinational coalition of butchers, millers, smelters and tanners was coming together in bloodthirsty unity to hunt her down. Each of the tradesmen carried some unique wickedly blunt or wickedly sharp instrument to dismantle her with. That was the joy of pistols, though… They’d never get close.
“Do not worry, mi amore, I have an even riskier plan,” Lorenzo said with a wink. He used the wrong, bruising eye, and immediately flinched in pain. That beautiful fool. She leaned in to kiss him but was interrupted by the sound of a five pound iron ingot being flung at them like an overweight brick. The sluggish projectile bounced off the butcher’s block and clunked down between the two of them. Now was not the time.
“Temnota says they’re definitely here,” came a genteel voice from across the warehouse. The speaker’s cadence lyrical despite the thick Ussuran accent. “Someone find those two cats and skin them already.”
Lorenzo produced a pair of glowing bone dice from his belt. The smell of thundering ozone and seasalt waves cut fresh and strong through the bloody miasma.
“What do those do?” Maya asked.
“Let’s find out,” Lorenzo tossed them.
The world went lightning white and abyssal black at the same time. A dozen sensations overwhelmed her – a kraken’s suckered arm wrapping through her guts, the shrill screech of seagulls bouncing in her skull, the taste of drowned corpses filling her mouth. Adrenaline coursed through her like fire. She vomited a storm cloud.
She blinked repeatedly, regaining her bearings, realized that last sensation wasn’t metaphorical. She’d actually upchucked a wet handful of tropical storm. Dear Lorenzo was busy horking up the same. From the sounds of coughing ringing throughout the slaughterhouse, all of their pursuers were doing the same. The blobular lumps of black cloud raced to meet each other, to grow and spin themselves into a hurricane at the center of the building.
“Where in the Devil Jonah’s name did you find those dice?” she asked.
– Lorenzo de Zapeda plucked them from mine Own hand, and now calls upon My cursed power to aid in your escape-
Reverberated a rough voice at the front, back and center of her skull.
“We’ve got to talk about your better judgement when we get back home,” she chastised her lover.
“Preferably after a nap,” he replied. He kissed her deeply and passionately, despite his broken jaw. With nothing else to say, the two of them bolted into the rising storm. They’d forgotten to declare a direction. Each of them bolted in a different direction.
Maya wanted to turn back, to find her love and chase him into safety. But the storm was already thick, full of static and humid enough to weigh down her breaths. She couldn’t find him, and if she did, she wasn’t certain she could catch up.
She made a mental map of the warehouse, piecing together what she’d seen first when the two of them dove in through the window. Each island of work stations was built for a different function: hooks on tracks for breaking down the full carcasses. Butcher blocks, like the one she’d just left, for carving individual cuts. Drying racks and barrels of salt of preserving what wouldn’t be sent to the bazaar the same day. Massive glass windows for the day shift, mostly shuttered to keep four dozen blazing lanterns from disturbing the nearby neighbors.
Each station had its own unique set of improvised weapons and bobby trap supplies. Each might be worth scooping up and tossing. She’d need to keep one bullet ready to blow a heavy window lock to smithereens, so she could escape through the shutters. That left her only one pistol ready to dispatch whomever got in her way. She kept the pistols close to her chest, using as much of her body to block the rain from dampening her powder. She had maybe two minutes before the pistols would be useless. She wanted to curse Lorenzo as much as she wanted to kiss him. The instant storm was great for covering their trace, but awful for her sharp-shooting. Her lover was a skilled swordsman, and didn’t think about the effect it would have on her.
She sprinted at full speed, mental map accurate enough to let her weave through salt barrels and drying racks. Figures loomed in the darkness, and she kicked half cured beef into the arms and faces of each assailant.
As she ran, her stolen booty rattled in her satchel and bruised her hip. This stupid magic arm Sanjay wanted her to steal was heavy. Made of stone. Easily ten or eleven kilograms, with odd and unforgiving angles that rubbed and dug into her side. She’d have to smack Sanjay with it for the inconvenience. And stealing from the Usduran district captain? Too bold of a plan by far.
The distracted moment of noticing her pain, of thinking about Sanjay, cost her dearly. A screeching raven, eyes ablaze with purple magics, dived at her face. The claws left two trenches through the fat of her cheek. She nearly spun off her feet, and thank Theus for that. If she hadn’t moved with the blow, the raven would have taken out her eye
She had no doubt what this stupid thing was. Some Ussurans could shapeshift to-and-fro. Soline studied this magic relentlessly, hoping to truly turn into a cat, but unfortunately… This was not a sorcery someone could steal. It was, however, a magic that really hurt. Without a second thought, Maya shot the stupid bird.
Even over the thick, black clouds and rumbling thunder, this was enough light and sound to catch someone’s notice. A hunter lithely made his way to her, moving too casually through the harsh rain. He seemed completely unperturbed by her firepower. Instead, he was busy sweeping the drenched locks of blond hair back from his forehead.
Maya studied him quickly. He was so classically handsome that it swung back around into incredibly annoying. Any boy who looked that good had an ego too large. She’d learned that lesson too many times. She knew the next words out of his mouth would be worthy of shooting him over.
“My name is Valeri Mikhailov,” he lilted, “and I’d like to ask for your hand. Flesh or stone, either would satisfy.”
It took a lot of discipline not to blow a hole through his smarmy smile. She holstered her last good pistol. With one smooth motion, she kicked the support out from a rack of now-wet-again-meat and drew two folding navaja knives from her belt. The man battered the jerky aside with a smooth, dancelike motion of his much longer saber.
She leapt forward, snapping her navajas open and striking instantly. Her blades were nine inches apiece, and his saber was easily three feet. She had to push forward fast and deny him the reach advantage.
By the time she finished her dervish lunge, he was already standing at a dramatic pose right behind her. The flat of his blade soft flicked across her back, clearly mocking her.
“Funny we should meet at a butcher’s,” he said. As they reset and circled one another. It was a blind dance, only occasionally lit by a flash of lightning. Apparently happy to give away his position via sound, he began monologuing insufferably.
“I was just sitting for tea with Ren and some of our Khitai companions,” he continued, as casual as a Sunday stroll. She lunged, blades licking out at the dark, slicing away at the thick clouds and thunderous after images of where he’d used to be.
“They told me of a myth,” he said, “of a foundational text of their faith. About how artistry is close to godliness… A butcher is brought before the young king of Khitai. The philosophers and magisters declare him a perfect man. He had no ambitions past his station, did not dream of power or riches or glory. Instead, he took pride in his artistry. A bull was brought out with him, so he could demonstrate perfection.”
Over and over, she made sweeps and stabs at his voice, and he was never there. To her horror, she couldn’t see him anymore. She could only see the raven, somehow still alive, somehow still glowing purple through the clouds, circling and mocking her. The little creature had a weeping hole in its chest, and it bled a vicious lavender light. Enough light for Valeri to see her, apparently, but not enough to see him.
“The butcher bows before the prince of Khitai, and shows him a blade as dull as a chopstick,” Valeri continued. “Its edge had been blunted by years of work, and by years of going unsharpened.”
As he spoke, his saber lashed at her again. The blade – she realized it was dull – found the side of her throat, the space between her ribs, the back artery of her thigh. It didn’t cut, but it illustrated just how dead she ought to be.
“Despite the bluntness of the cleaver, the butcher goes about his work,” Valeri said, “and he is so practiced, that each cut is beautiful regardless. He drops the blade, and picks up one magister’s walking cane instead. Effortlessly, he continues his art. Chop, chop, chop.”
This time, she caught his saber between her two knives, stopping the blow. With anger coursing through her veins, she kicked his blade out of his hand. After she heard the saber clatter to the ground, she let her foot fall back to the floor, launched forward with her knives, made another wild attempt to gut him like one of the carcasses in need of butchering.
The stupid raven dove at her, blazing color and screeching louder than the storm. Maya barely dodged back in time, avoiding razor-sharp knives digging into her throat or wrists. While Soline would normally demand mercy, and it was bad enough she’d shot this wizard… She drove a knife through it, pinned it to the nearest workstation.
“Not enough meat on those bird bones to be worth the work, my dear,” Valeri offered his opinion. She spun wildly, trying to catch his voice. There were other forms in the storm, now. Other men coming forward slowly, carefully. Looking to encircle her.
“Lorenzo, I need you!” she cried. For the first time in a long time, the heist was no longer fun. The adrenaline was still there, but the confidence was not.
“He’s already left,” squawked the raven, despite the knife in its chest. “and he thinks you’re not far after. The Devil Jonah’s made him blind, and your lover cannot help you.”
“You’re surprisingly tough, Temnota,” Valeri observed. “And not usually this chatty. Tell me, where did my saber go? I want to see if I can cut her with a dull blade. I think I’m enough of an artist.”
“Stuff your pompous ego and kill her already,” Temnota demanded.
It was time to bargain. Maya unslung the clunky artefact, unwrapped it from the cloth. The Syrneth arm was a small trophy of… was it ivory? It was as dense and cold as marble. Despite its stone construction, the fingers swayed as if articulate.
“Let me live, and you can have it,” she said. She spun, eyes desperate, blind in the storming dark, unable to find her assailant.
“We’ll take it from your corpse,” Temnota laughed.
“Does Yevgeni know you’re such a rotten bastard?” asked Valeri.
“Don’t tell him! I’ll show you how to cut flesh with a dull blade if you don’t tell him,” the Raven promised. ‘I’ll teach you to be a real artisté.”
“Why is the arm so important to you, little bird?” Valeri asked. Maya hated this moment more than she’d hated anything in her life. They were so casual. Acting like her death was a foregone conclusion.
In response, Maya readied her second pistol. She’d think of something after. Find an exit somehow, after. Even if she couldn’t blast the locks on any window, there were doors. There were hatches to the roof. As soon as she’d done away with Valeri, she could –
Valeri appeared from the cloud in front of her, placing a hand on the Syrneth artefact. She fixed the pistol flat against his chest and pulled the trigger. She heard it click, but heard no boom. She was too wet. The powder was too wet. The gun didn’t fire.
“Not very sporting of you,” Valeri said. “And thank you, Theus, for the rain.”
With prejudice, he plucked the Syrneth arm from her hands. In an instant, the stone gauntlet wrapped itself around his arm. Stuck tight to his flesh, like he’d dipped his arm in melted wax. He swung casually, as if to tap her on the cheek. Like a parent scolding their child for being too silly. The Syrneth arm hit her jaw with the kinetic energy reserved for raging boars or cannonballs. Maya flew backwards several spans, and felt the side of her head smash into a work station. The world went blacker than it already was.
“I did not mean to do that,” Valeri said. His voice was somber, a little sad. Mostly disappointed. “I think I cracked her skull? That was not artfully done.”
“This is why we need the arm, fool,” chirped the raven. “If we assemble the pieces of the Colossus, Yevgeni could rule the world by strength alone.”
“Yevgeni, you say?” asked Valeri, voice smooth and devious.
“You could rule the world, Valeri,” the raven responded.
Damn them both. Maya tasted blood.
“Maya! Maya! Where are you!” Lorenzo shouted, somewhere in the distance. His voice sounded desperate.
“I’m right here, love,” she burbled. He loved her back. He would hear her, right?
“What makes you think Yevgeni or I would deliver your style of Tyranny, my naughty little bird?” asked Valeri.
“I have my secrets,” the raven whistled.
“Teach me, friend, or I’ll let your secrets out,” Valeri insisted. “Is she dead?”
Maya grunted to contest the question. She’d survive this. She couldn’t die like this.
– Do not worry, little Maya –
Came that same voice in her skull. A voice diametrically opposed to the light of Theus and his angels.
– Your mortal flesh won’t perish here, and neither will your Soul. Your Lorenzo cast my dice, and now your fate is mine –
Maybe dying wasn’t so bad. Maya wanted to call out to Valeri, but couldn’t find the strength. Lorenzo called out to her again, and she could not answer him either. She couldn’t even cast a last insult at her opponent. Valeri and the bird chattered about their vile plans and disappeared into the depths of the storm.
– We will have a fruitful friendship, Maya. Do not fret. All who join the Devil Jonah’s crew are richly rewarded –
Maya wanted to protest, but her mouth was full of so much blood.
Thunder flashed, but the light showed Maya nothing. She blinked once. She blinked twice. The darkness receded, and the storm unveiled its secrets. Maya’s undead eyes watched in desperate horror as Lorenzo gave up his search and fled the scene.
