Chris Wooding: The Ace of Skulls

Once he was satisfied his audience was sufficiently cowed, he held his finger out to Marinda. She positioned the wooden saucer beneath it and aimed the needle at the tip of his finger.

‘Hold still,’ she said, and jabbed him.

Pinn had never been stabbed in the fingertip by a needle before. The pain was unexpectedly enormous. He yelled an elaborate curse at the top of his lungs, and only just managed to rein in the impulse to shoot her.

She ignored him, stepping back, her eyes fixed on the saucer. There was considerably more than a drop of his blood in the milk. His finger was squirting enthusiastically. He stuck it in his mouth.

‘You pierced my damn artery!’ he cried, but she couldn’t understand him because he was sucking his finger at the time. She held up a hand and Pinn shut up. Half of him was convinced he was dying of a mortal wound, but the other half wanted to know what kind of prediction she was about to make.

‘You’re going on a journey,’ she said, studying the saucer. ‘Somewhere you’ve never been before.’ She frowned. ‘I see death.’

‘Death?’

‘Death.’

‘The good kind, or the kind that happens to me?’

‘Don’t interrupt. I see death. That’s all.’

‘Okay,’ said Pinn, although privately he was a little put out. The specifics were sort of important.

‘I see a stranger with dark hair.’

‘Is she hot?’

‘It’s a man.’

‘Oh.’

‘You will find something. Something important. Something you never knew was there.’

Pinn was relieved. ‘I reckon I can’t be dead, then. Not if I’m busy finding stuff.’

Her face turned grave. ‘Tragedy will fall on someone you hold dear.’

He was suddenly worried again. ‘Is it Emanda?’

‘The signs are unclear. But one thing is certain. When all these things have come to pass. . you will believe .’

Their eyes met. Pinn felt himself held, caught by the certainty within, the challenge he saw there.

Then the door of the assembly chamber was suddenly pulled open, and someone called his name. He jumped and discharged his shotgun into the platform at his feet with a terrifying roar. Marinda recoiled from him with a shriek, blood and milk spilling everywhere. The Speakers disappeared behind the benches like rabbits into their holes.

Frey was standing in the doorway. He surveyed the scene with one eyebrow raised. Pinn became suddenly aware that he was standing at the head of the room as if he was the leader of a congregation.

‘I won’t ask,’ Frey said. ‘We’re done here. Let’s go.’

On the western side of the Hookhollows, in the depths of the Forest of Aulen, lay Timberjack Falls. At that spot, several rivers gathered into one great flood before plunging into a horseshoe-shaped valley hundreds of feet below. The base of the valley was shrouded in mist, and the noise was never-ending. Birds winged in groups through the red winter evening, silhouetted against churning walls of water.

At the top of the falls there was a town, divided among three forested islands connected by arched bridges with gates set at their midpoints. Mansions hid among the evergreens. In the narrow, cobbled streets where the shops and markets clustered, lamps were being lit. The only noise to be heard over the rumble of the falls were the cries of water birds which made their home here, or the sound of a motorised carriage as it rattled along the winding lanes.

The Broken Anchor sat on the island nearest the lip of the falls. It was the only island of the three with a public landing-pad for aircraft, and the only point of entry for visitors passing through the town. That third island was where all the unseemly commerce of freebooters and merchants took place, out of sight of the rich folk across the bridges; and the Broken Anchor was the hub of it.

‘Three Dukes,’ Frey said, laying his cards on the table in a fan.

The other players cursed and tutted. Frey’s opponent, a burly man with a port-wine birthmark on his neck, tossed his cards down in disgusted resignation. Frey scooped up the pile of money that lay between them, careful to keep his satisfaction off his face.

‘Getting all the luck tonight, aren’t I?’ he commented innocently.

‘Luck’s only gonna get you so far,’ muttered a pinch-faced man whom Frey had been bluffing off the pot all game.

Frey gave a helpless little shrug, calculated to annoy, as if he just couldn’t help winning no matter what he did. He pushed away from the table. ‘Sitting this next one out, fellers,’ he said. ‘Never play a hand after a big win, that’s what someone told me once.’

The man he’d just beaten shook his head in anger, robbed of his chance for immediate revenge. Let him stew awhile, Frey thought. A frustrated man was apt to do something stupid.

He took a swig of grog and tipped his chair back, surveying the bar with the kingly air of a satisfied man. The gas lights were low, woodworm-ridden ceiling beams mere shadows in the tobacco haze. The room rang with shouts and laughter. Harmless drunks jostled with dangerous strangers. Just his kind of dive.

We did it. We took that freighter down. And it was just as loaded as the whispermonger promised.

Frey could hardly believe they’d pulled it off without any of the crew getting hurt. Despite their close shave in the clouds, all they’d suffered was a few bullet-holes in the Ketty Jay ’s hull. In return, they’d come away with a haul of trinkets and artefacts which would see them right for a good while, once they flogged them to a fence. And that was after he’d deducted what he needed for tonight’s little investment. All in all, it was the kind of success that warmed a man’s heart.

His crew were sat round a table on the other side of the bar, visible in glimpses through the press of bodies. Some were deep in conversation, some were raucously drunk. Harkins and Jez looked like they’d rather not be there at all, but they’d made the effort for the sake of their companions. It had become a tradition to celebrate together after a score, and Frey didn’t want anyone left out.

Even Silo had joined them, drawing unfriendly stares from people nearby. Murthians were a slave race ruled by the Samarlans. Many Vards still remembered them as enemies from the Aerium Wars; others considered them potential spies for their masters. In the past, it had been sensible for Silo to keep out of sight. But he was no one’s slave these days, and he refused to hide in the Ketty Jay ’s engine room any more. It had caused a scrap or two over the last few months, but Frey’s crew didn’t shy from a good scrap, and anyone who messed with their first mate ended up regretting it.

Frey watched them across the bar while a new hand was dealt without him. Malvery was drunkenly explaining something to Crake, who’d leaned close and was nodding gravely. Frey could guess what the subject was. The civil war, as ever. Awakeners versus the Coalition. Those who sided with Vardia’s dominant — and only — religion versus those who sided with the Archduke. All over the land, people were fighting and dying for their god or their country. Frey thought both were pretty absurd things to die for.

The crew of the Ketty Jay might have been instrumental in starting the war, but Frey was doing his level best to ensure they didn’t get tangled up in it. They owed nothing to either side, as far as Frey could see. It wasn’t their fight.

Malvery and Crake would disagree. Malvery was a patriot — he even had a medal from the First Aerium War — and Crake had a misplaced sense of civic duty that probably stemmed from being born with a silver spoon in his arse. Both of them had been grumbling about profiteering from the war when they should be fighting the Awakeners. Frey had patiently explained that they were fighting Awakeners by depriving them of their valuables, but his paper-thin veneer of morality didn’t fool anyone. They were pirates, at the end of the day. Frey was alright with that.