‘Those islands are uninhabited,’ Bralston muttered to himself.
‘And her tale only gets more deranged from there,’ Massol replied. ‘Stories of lizardmen, purple women …’ He waved a hand. ‘Madness.’
‘Not that the thought of seeking them out didn’t cross our minds,’ Sunnuk interrupted with a lewd grin. ‘Purple women? The reasonable gentleman, being of curious mind and healthy appetite, would be hard-pressed not to wonder if they are purple all over or—’
‘I believe it is time to hear from the actual witness.’ Lector Annis cut the man off, waving his hand. He shifted his seat, turning a scrutinising gaze upon the woman. ‘Repeat your story for the benefit of Librarian Bralston.’
Her sole reply was to bend her neck even lower, turning her face even more toward the floor. She folded over herself, arms sliding together, knees drawing up to her chest, as though she sought to continue collapsing inward until there was nothing left but an empty chair.
Bralston felt his frown grow into a vast trench across his face. He had seen these women who had sought to become nothing, seen them when they were mere girls. There were always new ones coming and going in Anacha’s place of employ, young women whose parents found no other way out of the debt they had incurred, girls snatched from the desert and clad in silk that made their skin itch. Often, he saw them being escorted to their new rooms to waiting clients, the lanterns low as to hide the tears on their faces.
Often, he had wondered if Anacha had cried them when she was so young. Always, he wondered if she still did.
And this woman had no tears left. Wherever she had come from bore the stains of her tears, bled out from her body. Violently, he concluded, if the bruises on her face were any indication. He slid down to one knee before her, as he might a puppy, and strained to look into her face, to convey to her that all would be well, that the places of law were havens safe from violence and from barbarism, that she would have all the time she needed to find her tears again.
Lector Annis did not share the same sentiment.
‘Please,’ he uttered, his voice carrying with an echo usually reserved for invocations. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers to suggest that he did not make requests.
‘I was …’ she squeaked at first through a voice that crawled timidly from her throat. ‘I was a merchant. A spice merchant from Muraska, coming to Cier’Djaal. We were passing through the Buradan two months ago.’
‘This is where she begins to get interesting,’ the Cragsman said, his grin growing.
‘Silence, please,’ Bralston snapped.
‘We were … we were attacked,’ she continued, her breath growing short. ‘Black boats swept over the sea, rowed by purple women clad in black armour. They boarded, drew swords, killed the men, killed everyone but me.’ Her stare was distant as her mind drifted back over the sea. ‘We were … I was taken with the cargo.
‘There was an island. I don’t remember where. There were scaly green men unloading the boats while the purple women whipped them. Those that fell dead and bloodied, they were … they were fed to …’
Her face began to twitch, the agony and fear straining to escape through a face that had hardened to them. Bralston saw her hands shake, fingers dig into her ripped skirt as though she sought to dig into herself and vanish from the narrowed gazes locked upon her.
She’s terrified, the Librarian thought, clearly. Do something. Postpone this inquisition. You’re sworn to uphold the law, not be a callous and cruel piece of—
‘The important part, please,’ Lector Annis muttered, his breath laced with impatient heat.
‘I was taken to the back of a cavern,’ the woman continued, visibly trying to harden herself to both the memory and the Lector. ‘There were two other women there. One was … tired. I couldn’t stop crying, but she never even looked up. We were both taken to a bed where a man came out, tall and purple, wearing a crown of thorns upon his head with red stones affixed to it. He laid me down … I … He did …’
Her eyes began to quiver, the pain finally too much to conceal. Despite the Lector’s deliberately loud and exasperated sigh, she chewed her lower lip until blood began to form behind her teeth. Having failed to fold in on herself, having failed to dig into herself, she began to tremble herself to pieces.
Bralston lowered himself, staring into her eyes as much as he could. He raised a hand, but thought better of it, not daring to touch such a fragile creature for fear she might break. Instead, he spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
As he had spoken to Anacha, when she had trembled under his grasp, when she had shed tears into his lap.
‘Tell us only what we need,’ he said gently. ‘Leave the pain behind for now. We don’t need it. What we need’ – he leaned closer to her, his voice going lower – ‘is to stop this man.’
The woman looked up at him and he saw the tears. In other circumstances, he might have offered a smile, an embrace for her. For now, he returned her resolute nod with one of his own.
‘When the other woman wouldn’t scream anymore,’ the female continued, ‘when she wouldn’t cry, the man burned her.’ She winced. ‘Alive.’ She paused to wipe away tears. ‘I’d seen magic before, seen wizards use it. But they always were weak afterward, drained. This man …’
‘Was not,’ the Lector finished for her. ‘She witnessed several similar instances from this man and three others on the island. None of them so much as broke into a sweat when they used the gift.’
And this couldn’t have been sent in a letter? Discussed in private? Bralston felt his ire boil in his throat. We had to drag this poor thing here to relive this? He rose and opened his mouth to voice such concerns, but quickly clamped his mouth shut as the Lector turned a sharp, knowing glare upon him.
‘Your thoughts, Librarian.’
‘I’ve never heard of anything purple with two legs,’ Bralston contented himself with saying. ‘If it is a violation of the laws of magic, however, our duty is clear.’
‘Agreed,’ Annis replied, nodding stiffly. ‘Negating the physical cost of magic is a negation of the law, tantamount of the greatest heresy. You are to make your arrangements swiftly and report to our sister school in Port Destiny. You can find there—’
A ragged cough broke the silence. Lector and Librarian craned their gazes toward the grinning Cragsman, their ire etched into their frowns.
‘Pardon us for not living up to your expectations of noble and self-sacrificing men of honour, kind sirs,’ Shunnuk said, making a hasty attempt at a bow. ‘But a man must live by the laws his fellows put down, and we were told that gents of your particular calling offered no inconsequential sum for reports of all deeds blaspheming to your peculiar faith and—’
‘You want money,’ Bralston interrupted. ‘A bounty.’
‘I would not take money from faithless hands,’ the Djaalman said sternly. ‘But I will take it from his.’ He gestured to Shunnuk.
Bralston arched a brow, certain there was a deeper insult there. ‘A report of this nature carries the weight of ten gold coins, typical for information regarding illegal use of magic.’
‘A most generous sum,’ the Cragsman said, barely able to keep from hitting the floor with the eager fury of his bow. ‘Assuredly, we will spend it well with your honour in mind, the knowledge of our good deed only serving to enhance the lustre of the moment.’
‘Very well, then.’ The Lector hastily scribbled something out on a piece of parchment and handed it into a pair of twitching hands. ‘Present this to the clerk at the front.’
‘Most assuredly,’ Shunnuk replied as he spun on his heel to follow his companion to the door. ‘A pleasure, as always, to deal with the most generous caste of wizards.’
Bralston smiled twice: once for the removal of the stench and twice for the relief he expected to see upon the woman’s face when she learned of the justice waiting to be dealt. The fact that she trembled again caused him to frown until he noticed the clenched fists and murderous glare on her face. It was then that he noticed the particular hue of the purple discoloration on her face.
‘These bruises,’ he said loudly, ‘are fresh.’
‘Yes, well …’ The Cragsman’s voice became much softer suddenly. ‘The laws that man has set upon us and such.’ Seeing Bralston’s unconvinced glare, he simply sighed and opened the door. ‘Well, it’s not as though we could just give her a free ride, could we? After what she’d been through, our company must have been a mercy.’
‘Not that such a thing means anything to heathens,’ the Djaalman muttered.
Bralston didn’t have time to narrow his eyes before the woman cleared her throat loudly.
‘Do I get a request, as well?’ she asked.
The two sailors’ eyes went wide, mouths dropping open.
‘You did give us the actual report,’ the Librarian confirmed.
‘You …’ Shunnuk gasped as he took a step backward. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘What is it you desire?’ the Lector requested.
The woman narrowed her eyes, launched her scowl down an accusing finger.
‘Kill them.’
‘No! It’s not like that!’ The Cragsmen held up the parchment as though it were a shield. ‘Wait! Wait!’
‘Librarian Bralston …’ Lector Annis muttered.
‘As you wish.’
The next words that leapt from the Librarian’s mouth echoed off of the very air as he raised a hand and swiftly jerked it back. The door slammed, trapping the two men inside. The Cragsman barely had time to feel the warm moisture on his trousers before Bralston’s hand was up again. The tattooed man flew through the air, screaming as he hurtled towards Bralston. The Librarian uttered another word, bringing up his free palm that glowed a bright orange.
Shunnuk’s scream was drowned in the crackling roar of fire as a gout of crimson poured out of Bralston’s palm, sweeping over the Cragsman’s face and arms as the tattooed man helplessly flailed, trying desperately to put out a fire with no end.
After a moment of smoke-drenched carnage, the roar of fire died, and so did Shunnuk.
‘Back away!’ Massol shrieked, holding up his holy symbol as Bralston stalked toward him. ‘I am a man of honour! I am a man of faith! I didn’t touch the woman! Tell them!’ He turned a pair of desperate eyes upon the woman. ‘Tell them!’
If the woman said anything, Bralston did not hear it over the word of power he uttered. If she had any objection for the electric blue enveloping the finger that was levelled at the Djaalman, she did not voice it. Her face showed no horror as she watched without pleasure, heard Massol’s screams without pity, no tears left for the carnage she watched lit by an azure glow.
When it was done, when Bralston flicked the errant sparks from his finger and left the blackened corpse twitching violently against the door, the Librarian barely spared a nod to the woman. Instead, he looked up to the Lector, who regarded the smouldering bodies on his floor with the same distaste he might a wine stain on his carpet.
‘Tomorrow, then?’ Bralston asked.
‘At the dawn. It’s a long way to Port Destiny.’ The Lector raised a brow. ‘Do bring your hat, Librarian.’
With an incline of his bald head and a sweep of his coat, Bralston vanished out the door. The Lector’s eyes lazily drifted from the two corpses to the woman, who sat staring at them with an empty stare, her body as stiff as a board. It wasn’t until he noticed the pile of ash still clenched in the charred hand of the Cragsman that he finally sighed.
‘Waste of good paper …’
Two
TO MURDER THE OCEAN
There was no difference between the sky and the sea that Lenk could discern.
They both seemed to stretch for eternity, their horizons long having swallowed the last traces of land to transform the world into a vision of indigo. The moon took a quiet departure early, disappearing behind the curtain of clouds that slid lazily over the sky. With no yellow orb to disperse the monotony, the world was a simple, painful blue that drank all directions.
The young man closed his eyes, drawing in a breath through his nose. He smelled the rain on the breeze, the salt on the waves. Holding up his hands as though in acknowledgement for whatever god had sent him the unchanging azure that emanated around him, he let the breath trickle between his teeth.
And then, Lenk screamed.
His sword leapt to his hand in their mutual eagerness to lean over the edge of their tiny vessel. The steel’s song a humming contrast to his maddening howl, he hacked at the ocean, bleeding its endless life in frothy wounds.
‘Die, die, die, die, die!’ he screamed, driving his sword into the salt. ‘Enough! No more! I’m sick of it, you hear me?’ He cupped a hand over his mouth and shrieked. ‘Well, DO YOU?’
The water quickly settled, foam dissipating, ripples calming, leaving Lenk to glimpse himself in ragged fragments of reflections. His silver hair hung in greasy strands around a haggard face. The purple bags hanging from his eyelids began to rival the icy blue in his gaze. Lenk surveyed the pieces of a lunatic looking back at him from the water and wondered, not for the first time, if the ocean was mocking him.
No, he decided, it’s far too impassive to mock me …
How could it be anything but? After all, it didn’t know what it was requested to stop any more than Lenk did. Stop being the ocean? He had dismissed such thoughts as madness on the first day their tiny sail hung limp and impotent on its insultingly thin mast. But as the evening of the second day slid into night, it didn’t seem such an unreasonable demand.
The sea, he thought scornfully, is the one being unreasonable. I wouldn’t have to resort to violence if it would just give me some wind.
