Joseph Lewis - Wren the Fox Witch

Fighting is all we know anymore.

By the time they reached the gates of the Sunken Palace, Tycho had only looked back through the tiny rear window of the carriage a handful of times, and each time Salvator had said, “Ah ha ha, no.” And pointed forward until Tycho turned back around.

They dismounted the carriage and turned toward the small mausoleum that led down into the cisterns, but a young Vlachian archer held up his hand and called out in broken Hellan, “Major Xenakis? If you are come for new prisoners, I am to tell you they are not being here. His Highness Prince Vlad and Lady Nerissa did summon them to the court half an hour ago this.”

Tycho frowned at Salvator. “What the devil is going on? Who are these new prisoners?”

The Italian merely cocked an eyebrow. “A Turk and a Rus girl. They say she’s a witch. And the man. Well, what else can I say? He had a seireiken on him.”

Tycho’s eyes widened. “The Osirians really are here? Quickly, quickly, you old fart, go, go!”

They dashed to the carriage and galloped back to the Palace of Constantine, where the driver deposited them at the steps of the Chamber of Petitions in the Third Courtyard. The two men ran up the steps as fast as Tycho’s legs would allow and slowed down only when they approached the doors of the audience hall. The servants opened the doors, and Tycho entered the hall.

As he strode forward with one hand on his revolver to keep it from clinking, Tycho saw the usual faces standing by the light of the windows and the torches. The merchants, the councilors, the soldiers, the tradesmen, the guildsmen, and the ambassadors from all across southern Europa and northern Ifrica turned to watch him pass. By the midday light streaming in through the glazed windows, they examined their documents, prepared their petitions, consulted with their lawyers, and cast suspicious looks at everyone else around them. But in the center of the hall, around the grand dais and the royal thrones, there was no one.

“Officer!” Tycho hailed the guard near the throne. “Where is Lady Nerissa? Have you seen or heard anything about a pair of prisoners brought up from the cisterns?”

“Yes, sir. Her Grace and His Highness are speaking to the prisoners in the council room, in private,” the young man said.

Tycho hurried back behind the thrones to the double doors and began a heated argument with the officer guarding the room about whether he and Salvator should be allowed to enter. Barely a minute into the exchange, the doors flew open and Prince Vlad strode out with a fierce glare, which only grew fiercer when he saw the dwarf. “So it’s you making all the noise out here.” He glanced back into the room, and then out at them again. “Come in. You might as well see this now.”

Tycho and Salvator followed the prince into the room and the guards closed the doors behind them. It was a small room with a tiled floor and unadorned walls. A heavy oak table dominated the space, and it was surrounded by straight-backed armchairs. Vlad sat down beside the Duchess and gestured to the two people who stood manacled before them, flanked by Vlachian soldiers.

Tycho stared.

The man appeared to be Aegyptian or Numidian, and in his middle age judging by his salt and pepper hair. He was well-dressed in a slightly wrinkled and stained but well-tailored Mazigh coat and shirt and boots, and he only glanced at his captors briefly before returning his gaze to the tall windows beside them that overlooked the palace walls and the waves of the Bosporus beyond.

But Tycho wasn’t staring at him.

The girl was deathly pale, like the maidens in old stories about the Olympians and their conquests. Her hair was a riot of long curling red tresses that bounced and shuddered all around her face with every movement of her head. Her thin lips were the palest pink rose, threatening to vanish against her skin. She had golden eyes, not hazel or bright green, but pure gold that made her pupils and lashes appear all the more perfectly black.

But Tycho wasn’t staring at her eyes.

Her ears. By heaven and hell, those ears!

Rising from her luxurious masses of red hair were two tall animal ears, broad at their bases and rising to triangular tips. White fur covered the fronts of the ears and dark red fur covered the backs.

They’re moving.

The ears twitched and swiveled like those of a dog or cat, each one moving alone, each one seeming to track a different person by the soft chuff of a shoe or the clearing of a throat.

That’s impossible.

Tycho glanced up at Salvator and saw the same dumbfounded expression on the Italian’s face that he knew must be on his own, so he blinked and closed his mouth and cleared his throat loudly. He looked at the girl one more time, into her wide golden eyes, and he saw her lip tremble, and he saw the traces of red around her eyes.

She’s terrified.

The dwarf turned around. “Your Grace, I was just informed about the capture of these two prisoners and came to interrogate them when I learned they had been brought here. How can I assist you?”

Lady Nerissa looked at him with a strange smile. “I have no idea, major. None at all. I had them brought here because this gentleman was seen speaking to the Damascena. But now I find that information rather… unremarkable.”

“I understand. If I may?”

She nodded and the prince nodded as well.

Tycho looked at the Aegyptian, forcing himself to remain focused on only him for the moment. “Sir, what is your name?”

“Omar Bakhoum.”

“Are you an officer of the Eranian army or an agent of the empire?”

The man called Omar grinned. “When I was a younger man, yes. But not for many years now.”

“What business did you have in the Strait today?”

“I boarded a ship in Varna bound for Alexandria,” he said. “I was simply passing through when my ship was assaulted, first by the Turks and then by your own marines, who took the ship and me and my poor apprentice captive.”

“You were seen speaking with the Damascena,” Tycho said.

No one speaks with the Damascena. She just appears on the battlefield, slaughters as many Hellans as she likes, and vanishes again. She’s a weapon. A terror. Something that Radu unleashes on us to destroy morale. But she’s never been seen with an officer, never giving or receiving orders. Just killing.

Tycho asked, “What did you discuss with her?”

“The Damascena?” Omar’s grin grew a little broader. “How poetic. I’m certain that she didn’t name herself that. Nadira was never one for poetry, even at the nunnery.”

A silent instant of shock rippled through the room. The Vlachians glanced at each other, and Nerissa and Vlad glanced at each other, and Tycho felt Salvator’s eyes on him, but he pressed on. “Her name is Nadira? You know that for certain?”

Omar laughed. “You don’t even know her name? But you wouldn’t, would you? Not that it matters, really. She is what she is, by any name. And yes, to answer your question, I know that for certain. I met her a very long time ago.”

“And what did you discuss with her today?”

Omar shrugged. “The weather. How time gets away from us. The old days. Better days. Old friends-”

Tycho picked up the report on the table and scanned it quickly, and then cut off the prisoner. “I find it hard to believe this woman took command of a Turkish gunboat and attacked an Espani merchant ship just to make small talk with an old friend.”

“Can my new friend sit down? She’s a bit tired,” Omar said.

Tycho allowed himself to look at the beautiful girl with the tall red ears. She was shivering. “Yes, of course. What’s your name?” he asked her.

“It’s Wren,” Omar said. “She doesn’t speak Hellan. Just Rus, and a little Eranian, though not very well just yet. She’s still learning.”