Steph Swainston - Dangerous Offspring

Let me explain what craving is. Craving is when your friend manages to talk you out of the corner and gets you to put the knife down. Craving is when you ask to be locked in, because otherwise you’d fly all night from the court to score. Craving is when you wear your fingernails to bloody stumps trying to pick the lock.

What was she doing, playing with cat? But they hadn’t called it cat or scolopendium. What was their word? Jook? Jook, don’t you know, it’s the latest thing, all the rage. If I just take a little bit no one will mind. The Emperor won’t be able to tell. Shut up and help Cyan. I realised I had been holding my breath for so long my ribs were hurting. I swallowed hard, then stood up. Very slowly and judiciously I refolded the fat wrap of cat and dropped it into my pocket, where it burned.

I bundled Cyan out of the double door, hoisted her onto my shoulder and jumped onto the bank in a bound that set the pool of lamplight lapping up and down. It slid up the inside of the bridge’s brick arch, then quickly down to the mooring loops. Viscid water sloshed around the Tumblehome’ s ridged hull.

I lay her on the ground and checked her. She had stopped breathing. Her eyes had receded into round hollows as if her skull was rising to the surface. Shit. This isn’t just a dead faint, it’s respiratory failure. I tilted her head back, fingered her mouth open, pinched her nose and blew into her mouth. Her chest rose. I rocked back on my heels watching it fall gently, then blew again.

Her lips were soft, but her mouth was rank with beer, smoke and the metallic taste of death. I had to blow hard to overcome the resistance from the air inside her; my cheeks prickled and my jaw started aching. Her hair brushed my cheek every time I put my head down, but it stank of stale cigarettes. She was only a child, just as when I saved her from the shipwreck. Her chest rose, I looked sideways down the length of her body, between her breasts falling back from the bodice collar as she exhaled.

She twitched, but it must have been nerves, because she definitely wasn’t anywhere near consciousness. She gasped and began to breathe for herself again. Thank fuck. ‘Well done, girl,’ I said as I wrapped her up. ‘Keep breathing.’

I had been working so hard keeping her alive that I hadn’t been aware of my surroundings. Footsteps were running over the bridge. A boot ground on the path in front of me. I realised I’d seem like a mugger hunched over his victim, so I looked up-into the baby-blue eyes of Rawney Carron.

Two men I hadn’t seen before stood either side of him. Movement at the edges of my vision told me three more had closed in behind me. They held naked broadswords, their hair was tied back into tarred pigtails. They couldn’t be sailors, because sailors, doctors and armourers are professions safe from the draft. Ex-dock workers, then, and probably owlers, a very dedicated breed of nocturnal smuggler.

‘Is this your fyrd squad?’ I asked Rawney, calmly keeping anger out of my voice. ‘Were you coming back to check on her or to collect your payment?’

Rawney spat, ‘Comet, don’t you just know everything?’

‘Let me go, quick-she’s dying!’

‘We won’t let you arrest us.’

‘Look. I don’t care if you’re dealing. I won’t report you. Even though you’ve done this.’

Rawney shook his head. They knew that to be caught in Morenzia would be their end. One by one they’d be carted to the scaffold, bound to a cart wheel and every bone in their body, ending with their skulls, systematically broken by blows from a mace. What they don’t know is I never turn dealers in. The only time I confiscate cat from soldiers is when I’m in short supply myself.

I stood up, palming the flick knife from my boot. ‘This is an emergency!’ ‘No!’

Exasperated, I said, ‘I know two cartels that run “Ladygrace Fine” in from Brandoch. I know Emmer Rye fences everything coming into Galt. I don’t know you, so you must be kids.’

‘Fuck you. You’re one man against six. And you’re not much of a man anyway!’

‘Don’t mess about.’

The legs of one soldier were starting to bend with fear. He never thought he’d see an Eszai so close in his lifetime, let alone face one with drawn sword. I could see Rawney trying to balance this against the fact I was obviously drunk and apparently unarmed. He jerked his head and said, ‘Kill him.’

I whooshed my wings open, yelled, ‘In San’s name, with god’s will-get out of my way!’

The man on Rawney’s left and the three behind me turned and ran.

Rawney snarled and drew his dagger. I flicked my knife. The big man next to him chopped with his sword but I was already inside his reach and up against him. I hugged my arm round him, pulled him close and drove my knife deep into his heart. Blood forced thickly up the runnel, like rising mercury.

Before it reached the handle he became a dead weight. I stepped back and let him crumple.

Rawney was running, putting ground between us as fast as he could. I sprang over the dead soldier. I pounced-caught a fistful of Rawney’s hair at the nape of his neck. He cried out. I dragged his head back and pushed my knife’s point alongside his windpipe. He stumbled to his knees and I followed him down, my arm tense against his snatching hands, careful not to sever the artery. When the knife was in deep enough I levered it to the horizontal and pulled it towards me. I cut neatly through his windpipe from behind.

Rawney worked his mouth but had no air to scream. He put his hands to his throat, ducked his chin. Blood sprang out like red lips. The ends of the tube snicked as they rubbed together. He drew his next breath through the cut and it whistled.

I booted him in the solar plexus and he doubled up. He turned his head away and the stretched skin parted, laying bare more of the cords in his neck, slick gleam of a vein and the rings of cartilage above and below his severed windpipe.

I hissed, ‘You’re to blame! You fucking killed Cyan! You can’t be her boyfriend. You’re scum. Like me. See? Eszai don’t do this…’ I crouched and leant onto him, weighting him down. With four quick slashes I drew a square around his fyrd tattoo. I sunk my fingernails under one edge, peeled the skin off, and I stuck it to the ground in front of his frantic eyes. ‘But gangsters do. Never push cat on my turf! ’

Rawney bubbled. His lungs were filling with blood. Huge amounts of bright pink aerated foam frothed between his fingers clutching his throat, and bearded him down to the waist.

I lifted Cyan and jumped up fluidly into a sprint down the towpath. Behind me I heard the strangled liquid gargle, gargle, gargle, of Rawney trying to breathe through his slit throat.

I ran. I ran along the slippery pavements, over the open drains. Above the roofs the moon gave a sick light through the clouds. I swear, anyone who ever bared his teeth at me has had them kicked in, and anyone who ever bared his neck to me has had his throat bitten out.

I sped south, away from the canal, passing a sign pointing to the Church of the Emperor’s Birthplace. I ran beside the tiny portion of the original town wall that still remains-because no one had yet built over it. I passed through Watchersgate, the one surviving town gate, useless in its broken piece of north wall, with grooves where its portcullis had been. Life-sized statues with raised arms stood on top. They once held spears as if defending the town, but the spears were removed a hundred years ago after one fell off and, dropping twenty metres, transfixed both the Awian ambassador and his horse.

The venerable astrolabe clock high in Watchersgate’s tower was called ‘The Waites’. Its iron rods started to grind as I passed and it querulously struck two. The damn thing was attached to a mechanical organ that played automatically at dawn to wake the town’s workers. If they didn’t pay their taxes it was left tinkling continually to remind them. It only had one hand, because back when Hacilith was a walled town, the hour was all you needed to know.