Short story set in the same world as the novel. Written as a part of an anthology piece exploring new places, characters, and themes. Also some old places, characters, and themes. Download here. Full novel manuscript available upon request.
Title: The Last Leg
Helena -- 3772 AG -- Sarfur, Capital of the Kadigan Imarate.
Helena winced as the boy on her shoulders shifted again, his hands pulling her hair while his foot scratched at her collarbone. She could have screamed. Not that a soul would hear her in the din of the crowd. Valley Square was filled to the brim, and that meant only one thing: executions.
“Closer, get closer,” her charge, the young Cer, yelled into her ear. To press his point, he tugged harder. She began to push forward through the throng of bodies. It was a cool fall day, overcast, yet she was almost wet with sweat. Looking back, she grabbed the hand of her other charge, who stood stone-faced, her gray eyes indignant at her surroundings. Helena yanked her along. No point in asking about her mood—it only made it worse. She squeezed into a hole left by a teetering man. The stench of booze and questionable body odors lingered.
A cheer drew her gaze upward. Since Idris Veli ascended to Imir, there seemed to be executions every day. The Public seemed to adore them. Helena had treasured the month prior, when they’d stayed at Pasha Osma’s summer estate. She tried, but failed, to imagine herself back there. Her feet in the water. Stealing sweets once the children had had their fill.
The noise intensified as the prisoners made their way up the makeshift dais. Makeshift. The thing had been a fixture, and its wood, heavily tinted with red, was evidence enough of that. Helena concentrated on keeping her face that of stone as shaking bodies and muffled sobs passed her gaze.
“Halt,” the executor called.
The dozen prisoners stopped and turned to face the crowd. Half-eaten loaves scattered at their feet, some pinging off heads and chests. Far from the worst. Helena lurched as the young Cer threw with all the might he could muster from atop her shoulders.
Rocks. The sharpest he could find.
One prisoner fell, his head bloodied. The young Cer yelped with delight, though he was far from the only one who had chosen rocks over bread. Another figure was hunched over—no, she was elderly. Her face lifted, and Helena rippled with recognition.
Viv.
The elderly woman who had come on the boat with her. The woman who’d given her herbs for seasickness. The woman, like her, sent here by the Khannate to steal an armlet by any means necessary. And this was the cost. A pang of guilt reverberated within her as the image of Pasha Osma, her master, lounged in his summer estate’s pool, his own armlet twinkling in the sunlight. Viv, it seemed, had at least tried to win her family’s freedom.
The rain of bread, rocks, and whatever else dwindled to a sprinkle. Beyond her view, a davul drum beat rhythmically. Soon, she saw what it heralded.
A havasul. A lumbering, chocolate-brown beast, the size of two horses combined, emerged from the palace path and stepped onto the dais, which groaned and creaked under its weight. The fiara—a beast bound by an armlet. The very thing she was meant to steal.To the Khannate, armlets were an abomination of unnatural magick to be destroyed for their god. To everyone else, they meant one thing. Power. The havasul’s long front arms ended in massive, stub-fingered fists that pounded into the earth. A single horn, the size of a forearm, jutted from the edge of its nose.
“Kafa-kiri, Kafa-kiri.”
The crowd chanted in an almost mesmerizing cadence. Helena was unsettled most not by the death-dealing beast before her, but by the tiny squeak of a voice atop her shoulders, joining in.
“It’s Junior Anu Farah’s fiara. She controls it from there,” her young female charge said, shrugging and pointing to a balcony overlooking the square. Helena felt panic rise in her throat, but the world paid her no mind.
A flag waved.
The havasul raised one meaty hand above a prisoner whose legs shook like toothpicks on a beating drum.
The flag dropped.
The beast pulped the prisoner’s head like a grape. Helena flinched, her jaw tightening as bile threatened to spill from her throat. The flag rose again and fell again. This time, the havasul punched the prisoner against a pole, shattering both. The beast stepped laterally to the next in line.
Viv.
She’d only spoken to the woman briefly, but it felt like it was Helena’s sister up there. Turning, she gaped at a man and woman, a couple, she presumed, with their fists raised, mouths foaming, shouting themselves hoarse. Calling for blood. Calling for death. Helena felt outside herself.
She turned just in time to lock eyes with Viv.
There was no recognition, only fear. The havasul tore into her, and Viv was soon no more than a crumbled lump on wood. Helena felt the edges of her vision blur. She kept breathing in, but no air seemed to enter. Locking her knees, she closed her eyes and tried to slow her heartbeat.
Stone slabs repeated one after another beneath her feet.
Helena jolted.
They were walking home. The young Cer skipped along while her other charge shuffled, and the world seemed to come back into focus. Sarfur sprang to life. A pull from the young Cer brought them to a stall where shrimp were being grilled and lathered with a garlic-pepper-lemon sauce. The boy tore into the white, fleshy meat with abandon, seemingly unfazed by the earlier execution.
Half an hour later, they entered Pasha Osma’s city manor. Day slipped to dusk and then to darkness, with Helena letting her muscles rather than her mind lead. It wasn’t until she blinked in the dawn that she felt herself again. Or a version of it. Fingers balled into fists to rub at weary eyes. Then they moved, fiddling with buttons on her shirt. Finally, when they were folding laundry—right corner, left corner, final fold—they stopped, hanging in the air, suspended, waiting for the next task. She turned her hands over. For a moment, they didn’t seem her own.
Had they ever been? All they seemed to do was other people’s work. Then again, that was most. It was common. And she was a commoner. Still, some at the least sowed their own fields.
“Helena, there you are.” She turned to see Alosia, wearing the telltale linen frock of a back-of-house servant.
“The young Cer and Dame have awoken.”
“Thank you, Alosia. There was more laundry, and I thought I still had time.”
Helena allowed herself a whispered curse. She pushed herself up, knees popping like hot barley. Did they always do that? She hurried up the stairs and across the long courtyard to the front house.
The first time she’d been here, she’d admired the intricate honeycomb latticework, painted in rich ambers, that seemed to dance with the sun’s rise and fall, bespeckling the scattered plants and artwork. Now, she spared it not the briefest glance. She arrived near breathless at her young charge’s doors. Mina was there, waiting.
“You get the young Cer,” she said with a dry grin before disappearing into the young Dame’s room. Helena raised no fuss. She’d have done the same. She had—many times.
She knocked once before turning the clear glass handle. The young Cer bounced around the room, dancing forward and back, hand raised to attack an invisible foe. He ignored her while she made his bed and picked out clothes for the day. Her fingers flicked through vibrant colors and detailed patterns. She skipped over the white trousers, as usual, and chose a sandy orange, grabbing a vertical two-tone green tunic to pair with it.
“Okay, little warrior, it’s time to dress so you can battle the day,” she said. The young Cer ignored her. Then, quite dramatically, he was thrown backward by his fantasy foe, springing onto the bed and rolling against her shoulder, where he heaved a hideous sigh.
A beat later, he rebounded upright and threw his hands in the air. Helena sighed, pulled his nightgown over his head, and proceeded to dress him toe to crown. Once her fingers clasped the last button, he bolted out the door. Helena followed at ease, knowing the tiny tornado had torn off toward the kitchens. Sure enough, when she entered, he was already seated and tearing into a slice of bacon like a sailor rescued after being stranded in a storm.
“Gods above, what took you so long? Care for the boy,” Ivan, the head chef, said as he grumbled his way out of the kitchen.
Saha, his assistant, gave Helena a sympathetic nod.
“Pay ’im no mind,” she said.
Helena looked at the boy. He paid them no mind. He was a racehorse with blinders—his stomach the whip, the meal his finish line.
“Puts the cur in curmudgeon,” she replied.
“He’s got his knickers in a twist, alright. The Pasha volunteered his services to his Dame Liara tonight. So instead of a night off, he’s cooking for the Pasha and all his Cers and Dame friends.”
Saha shrugged.
Helena was about to reply when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her young charge finish. She snatched his greasy hand just before he could turn his tunic into a napkin. She shepherded the young Cer to his lessons, then to temple, before winding back up in the kitchens for dinner. Before she knew it, she was slipping into her nightgown. That was how most days went. They weren’t bad, as standards went. She had a full belly, clothes on her back, and time to think. Maybe her sister Sylvia had found a situation too. The Khannate wouldn’t harm Sylvia for failing to return with an armlet. The Khannate couldn’t track her. They just hoped their hooks in you were deep enough to try. Should she try? If she did not then she’d surely never see her sister again. But for all she knew, Sylvia could have died from a random fever and she’d come back to her slavers only to find them with nothing to give in return. Don’t think like that Helena. She chided herself. But what if it worked out? They could have lives they could call their own, no matter what troubles came. They could work for themselves. Together. Helena thought of her sister. Her dimpled smile. The way her blue eyes would alight when she’d sneak a sweet. Her shriek as they dragged Helena away. It was right after that they’d given her the choice to go to Kadigi. She pushed herself out of bed, her mind too much in turmoil, and wandered down the halls. Cracking the kitchen door, she was surprised to see the lights already lit. Then, a tall figure turned to face her.
Pasha Osma.
His dark eyes blinked, as if to confirm her presence. A step forward sent him reeling sideways into a table stacked with flour bags. On instinct, Helena moved to help. She grabbed one of his flailing arms and heaved to no avail. Again. A little movement. Helena stopped at the sound: a deep, rich laughter, like a bass drum. Dumbstruck, she looked down at the Pasha, who was wiping tears with flour-dusted fingers.
“Try again. This time, I help.”
His words slurred, sliding like butter. She grabbed his arm, and her fingers brushed the metal. The armlet. She heaved, and the man launched to his feet, wobbling like a two-legged table.
“Uhh.” He looked down at her.
“Helena,” she responded. He nodded.
“I need your arm,” he slurred. “Take me to my qurtrs.”
Without missing a beat, he hooked his arm in hers, engulfing it like a link of salami wrapped around a piece of jerky. The stench of alcohol enveloped them, mixed faintly with perfume and body odor. They waddled through the house and saw no one as they slunk through the heart of the night. By the time they reached his room, Helena felt hot with budding sweat. She pushed the door open. The Pasha chugged straight ahead and struck the side of his bed, hunched over. He turned with a groan. Helena hurried to light a few lamps, and soon the opulent quarters glowed in flickering yellow light. The Dame was out, visiting her father, recently returned from the Cenonian Front. With the room lit, Helena returned to the Pasha and began undressing him—just as she had with his son hours earlier. Once in his smallclothes, she finagled him under the covers, his eyes aflutter.
“Good Helen, good. Gold for you, yes, yes, gold for doing good,” he fumbled.
“Most sweet of you, Pasha. Now, you must rest.”
“Hmm,” he replied. A snore escaped him before she’d even turned.
She went to blow out a few of the candles. Her eyes raked slowly over the riches that filled the room. When she reached the candle, her gaze caught on its flickering reflection. There his armor and axe hung.She blinked.In the low light, she could see the edge was sharp.
Helena reached for the handle but stopped, her hand suspended in the air, as if set in amber. She glanced at the Pasha, his arms splayed over the covers, his armlet visible on olive flesh.
The Gods seemed to offer it to her.
This was the chance she’d waited for.
The one her sister had hoped for.
The one Viv would never get.
Her fingers wrapped around the handle, and the cool wood seemed to electrify her entire being. Carefully, she slid it up and out of its hold. She caught it quickly with her other hand to account for the weight. Then, she tiptoed to the side of the bed even though she knew the Pasha was unlikely to wake, even if a havasul came charging through his room.
There it was his arm, a branch waiting to be lopped.
She saw it so clearly.
She didn’t remember bringing the axe down—
—but the sheets suddenly became richly red.
She stepped forward.
A gurgle came from his lips. A half-word?
She watched in horror as the Pasha opened his eyes but only the whites showed. They fluttered. His head lolled to the side, toward the wound. He stopped moving. Adrenaline poured through her like a dam had broken. Spurred into action, she scampered across the room to replace the bloodied axe. Then she grabbed a leather shoulder bag, spilling out its contents as quietly as she could, before returning to the bedside.
The pool of red had grown in the seconds she’d been away. She reached out for his hand. Upon touching the flesh and finding it still warm, she heaved then cut it short with a sharp intake of breath, afraid of being heard.
She held it for a moment. A log. The fingers dangling like fat chilis, waiting to be plucked. She wrapped the stump in a shirt and stuffed it in the bag. On her way out, she stopped and returned to the Pasha. She waited. And waited. After what felt like a lifetime, his life was confirmed by the rising of his chest. With that, she darted to the door. Cracking it, she peered into the dark hallway. There was no one.
Why would there be?
After raiding the kitchens, she slipped out onto the cold, cobbled streets. She cursed, having forgotten to check the water clock. No going back now, she thought, and headed away from the house at a hurried pace. Helena clutched the leather bag with both hands, focusing her mind on the words she’d been told by the Khannate:
Once an armlet is in your possession, you must reach one of our agents as quickly as possible. If you are in Sarfur, go to the Nych Night Inn in the University District or the Pente’s Phalus, the brothel north of the temple. When you arrive, comment on the architecture. Then wait for an agent to collect you. Once you return to the Khannate, you will be given your just reward.
She cursed again. She’d forgotten a map. Lucky to leave with my clothes, she thought with dry mirth.
Still, she had a rough idea of where the inn was and would find it in time.
Time.
How much did she have?
Thirty minutes later, she entered the University District, having not seen a soul. She pleaded to Shoul that her luck might last. Chances decreased with every minute. The twin moons of Alora seemed to be entering their swan song as a wisp of light gathered on the horizon.
“Miss?” She nearly jumped.
“Are you lost, Miss?” A city guardsman stepped out of the shadows.
Seeing her, he softened. “I didn’t mean to frighten you so. What are you doing out so early?” He ran a hand over his mustache, glancing around.
“I—I was returning to the inn of my master. He wanted to leave at first light, and I was completing a last errand,” she replied, clutching the leather bag tight. It was then she felt a sticky wetness that could only be one thing. She readjusted the bag away from the guard.
“This master of yours must not have been to Sarfur recently. It’s not as safe as it once was. The streets can be dangerous in these hours.” He paused. “And I see he’s sent you out without a cloak. Which inn is it? I can escort you there.”
“Oh, that’s quite alright. The inn is just up the road. If only I’d stumbled upon you earlier,” she said with a tittering laugh.
A wetness tickled her ankle.
She glanced down just in time to catch another red raindrop splatter against the orange brick. Her head snapped up.
“On second thought, a little conversation to ease out of such an early morning would be welcome. Do you know of the Nych Night Inn?” she asked. The guard’s eyes narrowed, then softened.
“Aye, I know it. Known for dissidents, but then again, Sarfur University has always attracted rebellious types. It’s good we finally have an Imir willing to put them in their place. It’s right up the road, here.” He looked at her expectantly. She walked forward as if the street were a mountaintop peak. In mere minutes, they reached the inn, the Nych Night name cut into a circle of wrought iron.
Like a ghost or some fabled figure, the guard vanished with a bow, and air returned to Helena’s lungs for the first time in hours. She remembered asking about his wife, kids, commenting on the weather, the executions, the crime. Talk of anything to keep from screaming about the severed limb dripping against her. What he’d said in return, she couldn’t recall. She still clutched the bag tight, afraid of the stain it might reveal, and pushed the door open with her other hand. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped into the poorly lit inn, the air thick with dusty haze. It was a mismatch of woods from floor to ceiling to furniture, with dashes of velvet cushions in every color. In the center stood the square reception, bar, and kitchen as well as a bubbling cauldron whose long-stewed meat she could smell from here.
When had she last eaten? she wondered. But the leather bag at her hip quickly silenced her stomach. The scattered patrons paid her no mind as she approached the innkeep, a man who looked like someone had given a face and limbs to a giant sausage.
“The architecture is, uh… something,” she said, realizing she didn’t know what else to say. She’d never commented on architecture. A building was a building, was it not? The man stared down at her, his gaze pummeling, and she felt herself hunch under it. She opened her mouth again, only to be silenced by a hand—five long, fat sausages.
“Wait over there,” he said, motioning to a small corner nook swathed in sunlight despite the dirtied windows. Helena went and sat on the worn blue velvet. The heat of the sun felt good on her back, but she hardly noticed, her eyes fixed on the door. Her mind spiraled in horror:
The guard, bursting in with officers.
The Pasha, stump still dripping, axe in hand.
The agent. Some disfigured Khannate man, come to take the arm and exchange it for her sister’s head.
“Ahem.” A voice cleared beside her.
Where had he come from?
She’d been so focused on the door, she hadn’t seen him approach. He was surprisingly normal-looking. About her age. Short blond hair, deep green eyes. She could’ve passed him at the market without a second glance.
“May I?” he asked, his tone soft but firm. She nodded. He sat beside her. Close. Close enough to grab her if she ran. He gestured to the bag. “In there, I presume?” She nodded again.
“May I?” he asked once more, though again there was that quiet ring of command beneath the words.
She passed him the satchel, both glad and terrified to be rid of it. She watched as he undid the latch and flipped the flap, diving in with precision like one of those lithe boys over at Su Palace.
“Tell me everything,” he said, satisfied with the contents. He didn’t react. Then again, this was what he did.
“I worked at Pasha—”
“No. Start at the beginning. Why you came here, how long you’ve been here, and then what happened.” She recounted the story, hurriedly.
“When can I see my sister? Will you get me away? Will you bring her?”
“The Architect’s plan will unfold naturally,” he said, drawing a line on the floor with his hand. Some religious gesture, she assumed.
The Architect. The Khannate’s god. She’d never known much about him, but she figured he was like the gods here; absent.
“Come.”
He had stood. When had he stood?
“We don’t have much time. They may have found your master’s body.”
“He wasn’t dead. I don’t think he was dead.”
He ignored her, taking her hand and leading her into the kitchen and down the stairs to a leaden door. Helena slowed instinctively, but his grip tightened.
“It’s only the cellar. I need to put this,” he lifted the bag, “into a safe space. You’ll be safe here. Eat what you’d like.” He added with a wave of his hand. She opened her mouth to speak, but he shut the door. The darkness was nearly total. She wanted to scream, but wasn’t sure a soul would hear her. She’d only draw the guards. A shiver ran up her spine.
What had she done?
Her hand went to her head and her wrists blotted out her vision. She was back under their authority. Back where she’d started. At their merciless mercy. She’d done what they’d wanted. A moan escaped her lips. Freedom. For her, for Sylvia. It was never part of the bargain. The walls seemed to close in.
Epilogue
“Wait, look here.” One of the soldiers called. He was bent down on the street, peering at the stones. Corporal Alpar turned and followed his finger. The stones were stained a dried maroon-brown.
“Blood?” He looked to the guard beside him.
“Yes. Yes, I spoke with her here just before we went to Nych Inn.”
The Corporal nodded sharply and began marching toward the inn. Steps away, he realized something was wrong.
“Smoke.”
A guard beside him.
“Fire!”
A pedestrian now.
It was then Alpar saw the first flames curling, like fingers, over the inn’s roof.