Excerpt (~2700 words) from an unpublished epic fantasy novel (adult, ~145k words). Introduces Parushi Nandina and her return to the East Island Syndicate capital. Download here. Full manuscript available upon request.
“I fuckin’ hate this pearl of a city. Never gives a good feelin’” Havard, her shipmaster and dear friend, if you could call someone who annoyed you to no end a friend, came up behind her. “When was the last time you last was here?”
“We were here five months ago, Havard. You were simply too drunk to remember.” Parushi replied, her eyes rolling.
“Oh. Like I say, if a good bender can’t fix a place, it’s the place.”
“How often I regret not having a pen handy to enshrine your endless wisdom.”
“Bah.” Havard waved her off and turned away, shouting at a crewman that caught his eye. Parushi chuckled to herself. She ducked below deck, pushing open the Captain’s door. She collected her things, stuffing them in her duffle. Documents, too many as always. A Vijayan mango she’d bought for an exorbitant price. And finally, the framed drawing of her parents. By the time she came back up, Havard was clamoring at the dockyard crew to help.
She stepped off the boat and walked right past the customs and dock agents. A beautiful benefit of working for the most powerful person in the East Island Syndicate. A porter wearing Falco’s monogram strode up to meet her.
“Dame Nandina, welcome back. Will you be staying in your flat on Stratum Three or your villa on Stratum Seven?” he asked.
Falco never missed an opportunity to remind you she knew your every move. That she owned you.
“The villa please.” She replied, handing him the duffle. Let Falco think she was headed up now. It might buy her an hour, maybe two.
The first thing every sailor should do was get a drink. It was mocking, being surrounded by all that water. Not that you drink water when you land. You do have to celebrate not being swallowed by the sea after all. Parushi walked under a bridge, down an alley and saw the sign. Tankards. She smiled at the times she’d puked in this very alley. The bouncer, Mighty Mick, saw her coming and frowned.
“Now Ms. Nandina, you know Mort barred you from the bar.”
“Yes, but he did that last time too.”
Mighty Mick looked as if you’d just given him an unsolvable math problem. Parushi pressed. “Come on, I have a meeting in the Uppers, I’m only gonna have one and be on my way.”
Mick looked at her askance, his mighty big head turning its wheels.
“Alright, but tell Mort I said no.”
“On my honor, Mick,” she said.
She was greeted by the smell of stale beer and sawdust.
“Get the flying fuck out of my bar. Mick!”
“Oh come now Mort, must we do this song and dance every time?”
“We must if you insist on destroying my bar. You’re a walking hurricane.”
Mort was all bluff— a portly man with a rosy nose no matter the weather.
“That last time was not my fault. Come to think of it, the time prior was also not my fault. I think.” Parushi flashed her smile. Mort rolled his eyes. “Oh, it’s not like you don’t profit off the famous Comtesse coming to your cute little bar now and again.”
“Dead guys are bad for business.” He glared.
“You’re a pub in the alley, you’re bad business. Plus, you’re the one that thought it a good idea to hang an anchor with a box nail.”
“Eugh, that was a mess.” Mort shook his head, almost wistful, as he pulled a mug of beer.
“I had to throw my shirt away.” Parushi mused, raising the mug Mort passed her. She drained it in a slug and tapped on the bar to signal Mort to refill it. Mort tapped the bar.
“Can’t I get a tab?”
“No. But I’ll think about it. Might be my only way to ensure you never return.” Mort grinned.
Parushi made an obscene gesture and tossed the coins on the bar, snatched the beer and made her way through the tables. Still before lunch, the place was sparsely populated. The sailors here were those who’d made an early port or had a delayed departure.
A man dressed in deep burgundy entered, approaching her.
“For fuck’s sake.” Parushi said.
“Falco says after this round, come up.” He turned to leave, stepping lightly to avoid the sticky floor.
Parushi walked up to the gondola. You could get to strata one through five without a pass. Five through eight required proof of address. Strata nine held only high level governmental buildings. Finally, there was strata ten which was where most who controlled strata nine, lived. Where Luna Falco lived. Parushi liked the gondola. The slow climb forced you to sit, to think, and to look. It was quiet too, like being underwater. The lurch of the gondola reminded her that the time for reminiscing was over.
She wondered what Falco would make of the information she’d retrieved. Knowing Falco, she was already aware of it. But The Order of Griten troop conscriptions under the guise of pilgrimage was sure to interest her. Parushi also had reliable accounts that worship times were being used as training sessions.
She hoped it would be enough to overlook her cargo skimming. All EIS captains did it. It was the incentive that made them the best merchants in Alora. Most took a percent or two, five at most. Parushi took ten.
Exiting the gondola, she spotted Falco’s head steward waiting.
“Comtesse Nandina, a pleasure. If you’ll permit me to escort you to the sitting room, Councilwoman Falco is finishing a meeting,” he said, offering a slight bow and his gloved hand, clearly pleased at his use of her informal title.
“Steward Xavier, such a shame I missed you at my previous ball. Though I know we don’t quite satisfy your...particular tastes,” Parushi replied with a devilish smile, taking his hand. It was well rumored Xavier had an appetite for boys barely grown. His smile soured. He dropped her hand like a plague-ridden handkerchief.
Parushi made a show of wiping her own on her coat. She followed him to the manor. It was shrouded by immaculately groomed fauna, trees clearly chosen for their density. A small pathway took them through fountains and flowers in every shade of red. Xavier deposited her in a room of crosshatched wallpaper, decadent in their rich browns, dark oranges, and deep reds.
She spotted a decanter of brown liquor and popped back up to make herself a drink. Bringing the drink to her nose, she breathed in the faint notes of toffee apple, citrus, and wood spices. A sip brought vanilla and ginger to mind.
She raised the glass again but heard boots stomping along the hall. Falco would never move so crudely. Parushi crossed the room and peered around the doorframe, just in time to see silvered robes vanish around the next hall. Order colors. But what was The Order doing here?
“Parushi, I expected you to rebuff at least two of my summons before gracing me with your presence.”
Parushi hadn’t heard her. She turned to face the de facto ruler of EIS: Luna Falco. Known as the Nighthawk. She looked to be in her mid or late fifties, with thick white hair coiled into a meticulous braided bun. She was tall and thin, a white nighthawk feather tattooed on her left cheekbone under her eye. Her dress was gray-white, offset by a burgundy shawl trimmed like feathers, draped across her shoulders. And on that shawl perched a nighthawk, her prestige fiara, her namesake. Moon-colored, with crimson-tipped wings and a long carnivorous beak that curled like a blade.
“I’d hate to keep my news from your ears too long,” she said with a desert dry throat.
“A long leash, as ever, for one of my favorites. Now tell me before I reel it in.”
Parushi pulled out several documents, spreading them on the table for Falco’s inspection and resisting the urge to drain her drink dry. Falco examined them, turning each over more than once before setting it aside. Her face was impassive, a portrait save for her methodical blinking. She raised a hand to stroke her nighthawk’s feathers. The bird cooed softly near her ear, one eye fixed on Parushi.
Parushi tried for nonchalance and failed, cycling through three awkward positions in rapid succession. A particularly loud shuffle drew a glance, then an eyebrow from Falco. Ten long minutes passed before Falco finished the final page. She sat back, leaned toward the nighthawk, and whispered. The bird cawed. Xavier appeared in the doorway.
“Xavier, I see important business has taken you elsewhere seeing as Parushi here had to serve her own drink.” Xavier’s neck flushed red but he kept an even face. He was about to stammer out an apology when Falco held up a hand.
“No matter. Please, refill hers and pour one for me.”
Once poured, Xavier went to exit when Falco stopped him.
“Bring Morris up in…ten minutes please.” A wicked grin spread on Xavier’s face before he hid it, ducking out.
“The trouble with religion is that, like a virus, once it’s infected its host it soon develops the desire to find another. That’s how it survives, a parasite poisoning mind, removing rationality, siphoning it away like a tick.”
“Not a believer of The Pente?”
“Bah,” Falco sliced her hand like an assassin’s blade. “I believe religion is a tool like that of wealth or status. The founding five gods of Alora have plenty of use though our fanatics in The Order show us how tools can become dangerous.”
Parushi sat back, wondering where Falco was going. And who was Morris?
“The winds of war rustle not only in The Order. I received notice just this morning that Duke D’Orla’s prophetic warrior met his end in the Emperor’s Teeth. Apparently those mountains bite.” Falco took a sip.
“But what of The Order? For them, the Duchy is an ocean away.”
“While others look hungrily at the Duchy, The Order can find opportunity. Now I have no intel suggesting The Order was behind this. D’Orla’s been the perfect champion of his own incompetence for years. But with the West occupied, The Order looks around hungrily.”
“The Tamar States.”
“My smart little butterfly as always. Let’s say The Order’s target is Tamar. That means they’ll quickly find themselves in a three versus one. While they might not doubt their God’s power in public, They’re not addled enough to know that’s a losing fight.”
“So they have an ally—likely Aldalan. Kadigi. Or EIS.” Parushi cocked her head, hoping for a reaction.
“I hold interests elsewhere.”
‘I’. Parushi admired the sheer stones on the woman. She was so comfortable in her control of EIS she didn’t bother with ‘we’ anymore. She probably woke up angry at being unable to control the weather.
“Kadigi would be better as it puts Cenonia in a two-front war. Amongst all, their faith in The Pente is most cavalier. But the Imir is more builder than destroyer. A sharp, cautious type. Yet, carving out some of Cenonia for their own might be worth the squeeze.”
Falco nodded. Of agreement, Parushi wasn’t sure. She pressed on.
“Aldalan on the other hand would give The Order a chance at naval superiority…” Parushi hesitated. “But I don’t know what they’d get in return.”
“Hmm. It seems you’ll understand your next mission. Well known is Kadigi’s push northward to develop their lands by the sea. This culminates in the dockyards, which, if completed, would be the largest in the world. Once complete, they’d have the resources capable of matching both EIS and Aldalan at sea. The only limitation is lumber.”
“The Pearl Forest sits right across the border in Cenonia…” Parushi said.
“Exactly. I want maps, names, civilian and military numbers. I want to know when patrols happen down to when they take a break to shit. I have intel that the dockyard has some operational capacity. I want what ships are being built, what’s in the queue to be built, and where their lumber is coming from. You’ll leave tomorrow. The Order is moving fast.” Falco said.
“Tomorrow.” Parushi left the word hanging.
“A problem?”
“No, no, just mental gymnastics.” She pointed to her temple. Parushi’s question died as the nighthawk cocked its head, drawing Falco’s gaze. “Ah, Morris. I’ll fill you in on the rest momentarily. Now, we have to talk about your graft. Come in.” Falco said.
Parushi paled.
Ursula walked in, another of Falco’s captains. A giant kajul ducked in behind her. Of course. Morris was the name of her kajul.
Falco took the palm of the kajul. The hand was eerily human-like, despite being twice the size, with five fingers and a long thumb.
“Kajuls are viewed as brutes, all brawn and little brains. No more than fists. But it’s underestimated just how delicate they can be.”
“I’m no use injured. How will I carry out my mission?”
“The trip takes two weeks. You’ll heal. You’ve had a long leash but sometimes you have to remind your dog who holds the end of it.”
Parushi stood up. The kajul stepped forward and pressed her back down like she was a small child.
“Restrain her.”
A few others came into the room and tipped the chair over so Parushi was on her back. The kajul, with its long snout, peered down on her. The absence of malice in its eyes, let alone curiosity unsettled her most.
“Ursula, if you would begin.” Falco commanded.
“If I could commission a painting to enshrine your face, I would. Put it right in my powder room so I could enjoy it everyday.” Ursula said.
“A businesswoman never gloats.” Falco reprimanded her. Ursula closed her mouth and gave the silent command to her kajul. Parushi looked to the armlet attached to Ursula, the cold metal latched onto her skin like it wanted to become part of her.
“I look forward to the day you ask me for one.” Falco said, following her eyes.
“And let you really own me?” Parushi quipped.
Falco laughed in surprise, a genuine light thing that’d normally bring a smile to anyone who heard it. Parushi had never heard that laugh before. Before she could think more, the kajul’s foot hovered in front of her face. Flat, wide, the length of her belly. It came down in between her ribs. The pressure increased from there and gradually her body protested.
Falco didn’t want her dead. Falco didn’t want her dead. She said the litany over and over. The first rib surrendered, with it a horrific cracking. A second followed. Then a third. The pain took the air Parushi didn’t know she still had in her.
“Enough.” Falco said in the voice someone may order a pastry. They tilted the chair back upright. Parushi keeled over.
“Don’t worry, Morris has done this before. Clean breaks,” Falco said, gesturing. “Now, what’s your least favorite finger?”
“You’ve made your point.” Parushi mumbled.
“Hmm. I did, did I? Well if you say so…I’m guessing you’re ring finger. Not like you’ll be needing it.”
Morris grabbed her finger. The fiara’s hand was warm as it just held it, waiting. Falco nodded. The pop was a boom in the quiet room.
Parushi felt the pop reverberate through her vision as the pain settled into a constant pulse.
“Next time, Morris tears it off and you watch him feed it to Carion.” Falco said, gesturing to her nighthawk who cooed. She came to stand over Parushi, her own nose a menacing beak. “Do you understand where you stand? You exist because I allow it. I can undo you. Return you to the bottom of the sea at my pleasure.”
“Point taken.” Parushi coughed, causing more pain.
“Up.” Falco commanded. Ursula passed the order. Morris scooped Parushi up like a melon at the market.
Falco picked at a nail, “Since time is of the essence, I’ve gone through the trouble of letting Havard know your crew will be bolstered this trip with a few with a more specific skill.”
Falco stepped in and cupped Parushi’s cheek. “Come back to me. You can have my favor again.” She lightly pressed her lips onto Parushi’s. At the same moment, something pinched her neck. Falco drew back and waved her away, already turning to other matters. Parushi shuffled out of the room. Her hand floated to her neck. When she brought it back down, she saw blood. The nighthawk’s kiss. Warnings layered upon warnings. If she failed Falco, her finger might not be the only thing Carion feasted on.