START OF BOOK THREE

Chapter 1: Pieces in Play

"Exterminate them all."

-Ario Merini, MOG Commander, 189 U.E.

Month of Seed, 190 U.E.

Taira was eerily still. The coffee cup she cradled had almost gone cold, and she stared out the window of the Sweet Devil from her seat behind one of the tables. She looked uncomfortable in the tight-fitting clothes she wore to resemble her sister, holstered revolver hanging limp off her hip.

Stephan lingered awkwardly behind her. In the months since they had parted ways, they had gone from lovers to strangers. He wasn’t sure if there was still something to be salvaged between them.

“Are you alright?” he finally asked, somewhat sheepishly.

Taira glanced back, then returned her gaze to the window. “Yes. Well, I… I think so.”

Stephan found the courage to bridge the distance between them and pull up a chair next to her. “You don’t sound okay.”

She smirked. “I missed that.”

“Missed what?”

“You have a way about you. Pull people’s problems out of them. It’s sweet.”

“I don’t know where I get it from. I was a diplomat, not a shrink.”

Taira bit her lip, looked down. She pushed the coffee cup across the table, away from her. “I like the bar. You really made it your own.”

“Thank you,” Stephan said. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on Taira’s shoulder. “But that’s not what you want to talk about. You’ve got something on your mind.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to say it.”

“Why?”

“Because I know… I know what needs to be done. My feelings don’t change anything.”

“They’re still important.”

“Are they?” There was a sarcastic twist to her words that made Stephan swallow.

Changing the subject, he said: “I saw you using some new tricks out there. Where’d you learn those?”

“I’ve been practicing. That’s what I’ve been doing since I left.”

“Hey, boss,” came Amaline’s voice from behind, followed by quick footsteps. “We’re running out of vodka and draught beer, and our resupply is still a few days out. What should we do about it in the meantime?”

“I’ve got some off-brand vodka in the back,” Stephan said. “We’ll just have to do without the tap beer for now.”

Taira looked up. Her eyes narrowed. “Classy,” she muttered. “This is, what? The new model?”

“Nope!” Amaline chirped. She bounced over to Taira’s side of the table, not intimidated in the least by the latter’s continued derisive stare. As usual, the pink-haired woman wore a scandalously low-cut dress, spilling out enough enhanced cleavage for a man to drown in. “I’m just, like, the waitress. My name’s Amaline. And you’re Quin—I mean Taira!”

Amaline leaned in and whispered something in Taira’s ear. Her eyes widened, then settled on Stephan. She hid a smug half-smile behind her hand.

“What’d she tell you?” Stephan asked, but received no response. He looked pleadingly to his employee. “What did you tell her?”

Amaline clapped his head. “Good luck, boss,” she chirped before sauntering off.

“Your waitress. She’s…” Taira said, trailing off as she watched Amaline head behind the bar.

“A bit special,” Stephan finished. “But she’s precious. She’ll grow on you.”

Taira shook her head, smiling. “We’ll see.” Her good mood quickly faded, and she was left gazing longingly out the window once more.

“I—” Stephan started, but was cut off as Taira hastily undid her gun holster and threw the weapon on the table with a heavy clatter.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “I know you need me, but I can’t do it. It’s too gruesome. Too raw. Too much.”

Stephan sighed. “I know. And I’m sorry I even asked. Impersonating your dead sister… It’s a vile thing, and the blame lies solely on me. It’s vile, it’s disrespectful, it’s dangerous, and yet…” He sucked in a deep breath. “Taira, this city needs you. Ario Merini, the Concord… In a month or two, they’ll get exactly what they want. By the time their ships actually land on our docks, no one will put up a fight. Tumba will be so choked dry that we’ll surrender on the spot.”

“And you’re saying I’m the only one who can change that?”

“Yes.”

“Why me?”

“Because Quintilla is a symbol for the Free Cities. She gives them hope to this day.”

“Why not the Golden Son? He’s twice as famous, and he can’t be beaten in a fight.”

“Except he only does what he wants, and only shows up when it’s convenient. He holds no allegiances, and no one knows a thing about him, other than the fact that he’s a bastard of epic scale. But you showed up. Word is already spreading about what you did to the Barandi Crew. If you keep going, the city will rally behind you. You can be their savior.”

Taira looked over. There were tears in the corners of her big, dark eyes. “What if I don’t want all that?”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Stephan wanted to wipe her tears away. He wanted to hold her and let her cry herself out. But he couldn’t be the good guy. Not this time. She had her role to play, and he had his.

“And let it all burn?” he finally said. “Is that what you want?”

Taira’s gaze fell a hair. “No. I suppose not.”

Stephan cupped her chin and brought her gaze level with his once more. “Hey. You can do this.”

“I’m not a fighter like Quincy was. I don’t have the stomach for violence.”

“You handled yourself perfectly against the Barandi Crew. Besides, we don’t need a mindless bruiser. You’re twice as smart as Quintilla ever was. Don’t discount that.”

Taira hugged herself tightly. “I don’t know… Is there really no other way?”

Stephan shook his head. “None I can think of.”

“Then I’ll do it. For you.”

Stephan’s heart squeezed tight.

For me.

Codes, what am I doing to this woman?

*****

Ario watched from the wide, glass-paneled pilot’s cockpit as the two pirate vessels were bombarded with shells, suspended above the uncaring Shipbreaker Sea.

A half-moon array of Concordian ships stood against them, the result of a trap sprung on the simple-minded rabble. The first few volleys shattered the wards of the two smaller ships. Their piddly returning fire stood no match against superior Concordian engineering. Nothing but one final tantrum, a child’s futile rage.

“Shall we finish them off, sir?” the pilot asked, turning in his seat.

“No,” Ario said. “Use stickies. I want the crews alive, for now.”

The pilot nodded and set to work.

Ario stood on the largest ship of his fleet—a cruiser-class warship with room for a little over two hundred crew. The Argent. Sleek. Beautiful. State-of-the-art. And, of course, armed to the teeth.

The cockpit rattled as the Argent fired whistling spheres of blue light from its innumerable cannons. Dozens of them swarmed together as they homed in on their targets. The spheres—stickies, as they were colloquially known—attached themselves to the hulls of the two pirate vessels and emitted pulses of arcing anima across the battered metal. Within moments, the pirates’ great guns drooped low, rendered inoperable.

“They’re dead in the water, sir,” the pilot announced. “Orders?”

Ario turned to leave, hands clasped behind his back. “Bring them aboard. I’d like to interrogate the captains.”

By the time he had made his way from the top deck down to the hold, his order had been fulfilled. The two captains knelt on the floor of a containment chamber, bound, four soldiers watching them. The rest of the filthy dregs had been taken to another, where he would not have to lay eyes on them.

Stepping inside the chamber, the two captains looked up. One was old and wrinkled, the other barely a man. They had been stripped naked and hosed down, dripping wet, but he still caught a faint stink from them that made his nose wrinkle.

“Now then,” Ario said, looking from one captain to another. “I’m sure you’re both aware who I am. I have some questions for you. I’d like you to answer truthfully. If you do—”

The younger captain cleared his throat noisily and spat a clump of brownish phlegm right on Ario’s loafer.

Ario pursed his lips, then sighed and stepped out of his shoes. He handed them to a soldier behind him, who hurried off to see them cleaned. Then he pointed to the younger captain. “Kill him.”

Before the customary begging and pleading could take place, a soldier placed his rifle against the back of the man’s head and blew his brains out through the front of it. The corpse hit the floor, a sagging mass of grey matter sliding out through the shattered skull.

Ario noted a speck of blood on his suit with some annoyance and wiped it away with his pocket kerchief. With his lack of patience firmly established, he turned to the older captain.

“Well? Are you going to prove difficult, as well?”

The old man shook his head. He even managed a smile. “Nah. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Ario squinted at the man. He was vaguely familiar. “You are Captain Jens Verdulion, are you not?”

The man nodded. “I am. Didn’t know I was important enough for you big folk to take notice.”

“You’re not. I’ve simply taken care to familiarize myself with most pirate crews of some renown running out of the archipelago. Now, tell me—I’ve heard some rumors that Quintilla Wenezian has returned to Tumba. Is this true?”

“Look, I’ll talk, but can we at least have some privacy? I don’t feel so chatty with half-a-dozen rifles pointed at me.”

“I don’t know what gave you the impression that you have any power to bargain. Speak, or die.”

Verdulion scoffed, his weathered face full of contempt and rebellion. “You should’ve said that before you killed the other guy. You won’t get the info you want from some regular deckhand. Now you need me.”

Ario stepped forward and slowly bent down, maintaining eye contact with the old man. “I don’t need you. I just need…” He placed two fingers on Verdulion’s forehead. “...Your skull.”

Verdulion did not flinch. “Good luck talking to my corpse, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Ario stood back with a harrumph. This man knew how to play it cool. “I would prefer to learn what I need to know from lips yet living.”

“Good. We both know you’re going to kill me as soon as I’ve told you what I know, so all I’m asking for is a few simple courtesies. I want a bit of privacy, and I want a quick death.”

“Fair enough,” Ario muttered. He motioned to the soldiers, and they swiftly left the room, leaving him alone with the captain. “Is this to your liking?”

Verdulion nodded with a tired smile. “Much better.”

“Then say the words.”

The captain’s smile widened to a yellow-toothed grin. “Wenezian is back.”

Ario worked his shoulders at the bittersweet news. On one hand, Wenezian could come to present a slight challenge when enacting his plan. On the other…

He had long hungered for a chance at revenge.

“I see. And what of her ship?”

“The Tits Up?”

“No. The other one.”

“The Quickdraw? Aye, she’s been sighted. A beautiful creature, or so I’m told.”

“The Quickdraw.” Ario tasted the name, found it repugnant. Oh, well. He could always rename it when it inevitably came into his possession. “Very well. I have just one more question. Where is—”

Verdulion staggered up. He darted forward, and before Ario could react, he brought his shackled hands down over Ario’s head, chain snapping taut against the back of his neck. The old captain pulled, bringing Ario off balance, and kneed him in the gut.

Ario gasped and doubled over. Verdulion knocked his feet out, causing him to fall to his side, and rolled him onto his back. He straddled Ario’s waist and raised both hands to slam down on his head.

Ario brought up one hand in defense. “Klya,” he spoke. With that one word, his soul extended, took solid form. A blade of burning-hot light shot out of his palm and cut clean through the captain’s throat, coming out on the other side. With a swift flick, the head came off altogether, bouncing to a stop against one wall.

With a rage-filled cry, Ario kicked the dead captain away. He stood and let the spellborne blade dissipate. He gave the headless corpse a few kicks until his bare feet ached.

“Disgusting fucking animals,” he growled. “Very well. I suppose your skull will become useful after all.”

Leaving the chamber without a second look, he gave the order for his men to execute the remaining pirates.