Sarah Remy's Blog, page 3

Green Room (2)

2.

By the time Mandy puts up the lunch break sign my hand is aching. The line’s died down which is per usual mid-afternoon. People leave the convention center in search of lunch that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. The queue will pop up again ’round 4 four a couple of hours if I’m lucky, then die off to nothing sometime before closing.

Mandy stays at the booth to field the occasional question, but I’m free. I wiggle through the mass of con-goers. It’s like swimming upstream no matter which direction you’re heading. The Exhibitors Hall is a maze of merchants each crammed into 8×8 cubicles. A few of them know me and wave. I wiggle my fingers in return and thank God I don’t have to make a living selling bobble-headed action figures.

The Exhibitors Hall empties into a massive solarium. Past the glass walls its raining on Manhattan. The Incredible Hulk glowers down from a ginormous banner above my head. The solarium smells of popcorn and boiled hot dogs. People of all sorts perch on three levels of staircase, resting their feet. I have to squeeze between them as I ascend to the first floor. It’s definitely a fire hazard, but no one seems to care. I have to step over Mjolner because Thor’s too busy sorting Pokemon cards to move his hammer out of my way.

The guest green room is on the ground floor, wedged against the north escalator. It’s curtained off from the rest of the con in swathes of black, but anyone riding the escalator can look right down into the make-shift lounge and see what their favorite comic artist is having for lunch. I show the door attendant my badge and slip past the curtains.

It’s lunchtime – the lounge is full. Three full tables are taken up by a bunch of author types. They’re boisterous, and talking George R. R. Martin. In my experience author types are always talking George R. R. Martin, exactly the way my Baptist grandma and her knitting group are always discussing Jesus. Like they’re dying for a healing from the man himself.

The other two tables are a mix of comics industry. I know most of the artists by name. We’re all in the same game, all of us beholden to ink.

Con hospitality has laid out a generous lunch buffet. I’ve got a difficult relationship with food, but my blood sugar will tank if I don’t eat, so I grab a paper plate and scan the goods. Potatoes and some sort of fish in those fancy silver warmers. Sandwiches and slices of cheese on platters. Grapes that actually look fresh and have already been pretty much picked over. And chocolate cake pre-sliced and offered up on little paper doilies.

I choose fish and grapes and two slices of cheese: cheddar and Swiss. I grab a bottle of water and take my forage to an empty chair. I fold the slice of Swiss in half and nibble. A few people riding the escalator are aiming their phones down onto our heads but most pretend they don’t see us enjoying real food for free.

The chair next to me sighs as Deadpool throws herself into it. Like the furry in the deer suit, she’s pulled off her mask so I can see her grin. She positions a plate loaded with mini chocolate cakes on her knee and gives me a two fingered salute.

“Thought I heard your buzz earlier,” she says. “Hard to know for sure if it was you working, past that crowd around your booth. Should have known by the line.”

I turn my slice of cheese sideways, nibble, quirk my brows. “Artic Fox hit Page Six yesterday.”

Deadpool’s name when she’s not cosplaying is Grace, and we used to have sex together, before we decided we were better off as friends without benefits. She inks indy comics when she’s not working her father’s Chelsea art gallery. She’d sell her soul to Marvel if she had half a chance but we both know she’s not good enough quite yet.

“Yeah, well, you’re buying tonight.” She scrapes chocolate frosting off cake with a finger and sticks the finger in her mouth, humming pleasure. I set down my cheese and start in on the grapes. “Cleo’s after close?”

“It’ll be packed.”

“So what?” When Grace smiles she looks like a pixie, all dimples and freckles beneath a bright red fringe. “Extra pickings for moi.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Too fucking true.” She sighs, and scrapes away more frosting. “Stalked the freight elevator to the celebrity green all morning and never saw anyone interesting, not even once fucking Ryan Reynolds. I need Cleo’s tonight.”

“Okay.” There’s no point in arguing that I’d rather go home, have a beer, and sleep. I’m Grace’s wingman, the guy who keeps her from getting in a cab with the wrong sort after she’s had too many martinis. Some months it’s a full time job.

“Great. See you!” She bounces out of the chair with more energy than she dropped into it, newly revitalized by sugar. I wait until she’s gone back to the comic clique and then stand up and dump my plate. My face looks back at me from a mirror hung on the wall over the trash can – too much eye, too little nose, the cleft in my chin. When I’m working I keep my hair out of my eyes with one of those elastic headbands, and the struggle to grow facial hair is real so the furry wasn’t wrong – I look closer to 18 than 23.

But at 23 I’ve got a quarter of a million dollars already banked, so there’s no real reason for complaint.

SKETCHBOOK is something I’m working on for fun, alongside my other more important deadlines (shhh, don’t tell). I’m not sure what I’ll do with it yet. Might be fun to toss it out into the universe and see where it lands. I’ll update here occasionally, when I remember. Because who doesn’t want to read about a trans-masculine semi-famous ink artist named Hemingway, adventures on the SFF con circuit, and scandal in the NYC art world?

Green Room

2.

By the time Mandy puts up the lunch break sign my hand is aching. The line’s died down which is per usual mid-afternoon. People leave the convention center in search of lunch that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. The queue will pop up again ’round 4 four a couple of hours if I’m lucky, then die off to nothing sometime before closing.

Mandy stays at the booth to field the occasional question, but I’m free. I wiggle through the mass of con-goers. It’s like swimming upstream no matter which direction you’re heading. The Exhibitors Hall is a maze of merchants each crammed into 8×8 cubicles. A few of them know me and wave. I wiggle my fingers in return and thank God I don’t have to make a living selling bobble-headed action figures.

The Exhibitors Hall empties into a massive solarium. Past the glass walls its raining on Manhattan. The Incredible Hulk glowers down from a ginormous banner above my head. The solarium smells of popcorn and boiled hot dogs. People of all sorts perch on three levels of staircase, resting their feet. I have to squeeze between them as I ascend to the first floor. It’s definitely a fire hazard, but no one seems to care. I have to step over Mjolner because Thor’s too busy sorting Pokemon cards to move his hammer out of my way.

The guest green room is on the ground floor, wedged against the north escalator. It’s curtained off from the rest of the con in swathes of black, but anyone riding the escalator can look right down into the make-shift lounge and see what their favorite comic artist is having for lunch. I show the door attendant my badge and slip past the curtains.

It’s lunchtime – the lounge is full. Three full tables are taken up by a bunch of author types. They’re boisterous, and talking George R. R. Martin. In my experience author types are always talking George R. R. Martin, exactly the way my Baptist grandma and her knitting group are always discussing Jesus. Like they’re dying for a healing from the man himself.

The other two tables are a mix of comics industry. I know most of the artists by name. We’re all in the same game, all of us beholden to ink.

Con hospitality has laid out a generous lunch buffet. I’ve got a difficult relationship with food, but my blood sugar will tank if I don’t eat, so I grab a paper plate and scan the goods. Potatoes and some sort of fish in those fancy silver warmers. Sandwiches and slices of cheese on platters. Grapes that actually look fresh and have already been pretty much picked over. And chocolate cake pre-sliced and offered up on little paper doilies.

I choose fish and grapes and two slices of cheese: cheddar and Swiss. I grab a bottle of water and take my forage to an empty chair. I fold the slice of Swiss in half and nibble. A few people riding the escalator are aiming their phones down onto our heads but most pretend they don’t see us enjoying real food for free.

The chair next to me sighs as Deadpool throws herself into it. Like the furry in the deer suit, she’s pulled off her mask so I can see her grin. She positions a plate loaded with mini chocolate cakes on her knee and gives me a two fingered salute.

“Thought I heard your buzz earlier,” she says. “Hard to know for sure if it was you working, past that crowd around your booth. Should have known by the line.”

I turn my slice of cheese sideways, nibble, quirk my brows. “Artic Fox hit Page Six yesterday.”

Deadpool’s name when she’s not cosplaying is Grace, and we used to have sex together, before we decided we were better off as friends without benefits. She inks indy comics when she’s not working her father’s Chelsea art gallery. She’d sell her soul to Marvel if she had half a chance but we both know she’s not good enough quite yet.

“Yeah, well, you’re buying tonight.” She scrapes chocolate frosting off cake with a finger and sticks the finger in her mouth, humming pleasure. I set down my cheese and start in on the grapes. “Cleo’s after close?”

“It’ll be packed.”

“So what?” When Grace smiles she looks like a pixie, all dimples and freckles beneath a bright red fringe. “Extra pickings for moi.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Too fucking true.” She sighs, and scrapes away more frosting. “Stalked the freight elevator to the celebrity green all morning and never saw anyone interesting, not even once fucking Ryan Reynolds. I need Cleo’s tonight.”

“Okay.” There’s no point in arguing that I’d rather go home, have a beer, and sleep. I’m Grace’s wingman, the guy who keeps her from getting in a cab with the wrong sort after she’s had too many martinis. Some months it’s a full time job.

“Great. See you!” She bounces out of the chair with more energy than she dropped into it, newly revitalized by sugar. I wait until she’s gone back to the comic clique and then stand up and dump my plate. My face looks back at me from a mirror hung on the wall over the trash can – too much eye, too little nose, the cleft in my chin. When I’m working I keep my hair out of my eyes with one of those elastic headbands, and the struggle to grow facial hair is real so the furry wasn’t wrong – I look closer to 18 than 23.

But at 23 I’ve got a quarter of a million dollars already banked, so there’s no real reason for complaint.

SKETCHBOOK is something I’m working on for fun, alongside my other more important deadlines (shhh, don’t tell). I’m not sure what I’ll do with it yet. Might be fun to toss it out into the universe and see where it lands. I’ll update here occasionally, when I remember. Because who doesn’t want to read about a trans-masculine semi-famous ink artist named Hemingway, adventures on the SFF con circuit, and scandal in the NYC art world?

Sketchbook (1)

1.

“Does it hurt?”

I’m perched on a swivel stool, disposable razor in hand. The booth is too tight for easy work; the portable lights Mandy brought in because the exhibitor hall is dank as hell make me sweat. My customer’s sweating too, down the crook of her jaw and under her chin. She’s got glitter paint on so under the lights her perspiration looks like a smeared constellation.

I can’t remember her name, but that’s fine because customer relations is not my job. She wants a bee – one of those tiny fat winged bumblebees you find on bottles of expensive tequila – inked onto her collarbone. It’s her first tattoo, and she’s eager, and also a little drunk off cheap Con beer.

Usually you’re not supposed to ink anyone who’s relied on liquid courage for balls, but this is NYC’s biggest comic convention of the year, and honestly most of my sit-downs are at least half buzzed.

“Depends on the person, depends on where.” That’s Mandy, working the customer relations game from the front of the booth. We’re so close her ass almost nudges my elbow as I set aside the Schick and pick up an alcohol swab instead. Bee Girl shivers when I swipe her collarbone, disinfecting an inch square.

“Will that one hurt? The one he’s doing there?”

The kid asking all the questions is wearing reindeer suit: round-bellied brown and white, plush worn through in places. He’s taken off the fat-cheeked, solemn-eyed, antlered headpiece so Mandy can hear him, and is cradling it under one arm like some sort of gruesome hunting trophy.

Mandy doesn’t like the furry crowd; she thinks they’re creepy. She’s going to blow him off just to get him to move down the line and away from our booth. We’ve got the standard queue wrapped almost once around our small square of commerce. A single lost sale won’t kill us. But the kid – he’s probably almost sixteen, which means I really couldn’t ink him, not today – is as wide eyed as his head-piece and I’ve personally got no problem with furries.

“Yes,” I answer before Mandy can shoo him away. “On the collarbone hurts.” Bee Girl twitches in my chair but smiles gamely.

The kid looks past Mandy and our pile of display books. He doesn’t quite meet my eye. His gaze skitters sideways and back again. He’s got spots on his skin and his hair’s been flattened by his headpiece but at least he’s not sweating like the rest of us.

“You him?” He asks, looking not at me but at the banner hanging at the back of our booth. “Hemingway?”

I nod. Hemingway’s my surname, but its what I go by, have done for the last ten years since escaped Idaho for safer places.

“Huh.” He’s reluctantly impressed. “Did you really do Artic Fox in their hotel room before their last show?”

Mandy hides a snort in her hand. Bee Girl giggles. I check my ink cup before ripping a pair of latex gloves from a box and stripping them on one finger at a time, making sure they’re sound.

“Matching tatts and all,” I agree. It hadn’t been a very exciting job, they’d been specific and unimaginative, but rock bands mostly are. “Pictures in the red book, there. Take a look.”

The kid opens the book and flips through. Behind him my line shifts because I’ve been talking too long. I turn on my machine and Bee Girl holds her breath in anticipation. Past the buzz of the machine I hear the kid ask Mandy one last question.

“How much for the one with the swords?”

“You’re not old enough,” Mandy retorts. “Come back in three years.”

“It’s a stupid law,” the kid complains, and a few people in my line mutter agreement. “Shit, he barely looks eighteen, anyway.”

“His license is right there,” says Mandy. “Beside the price list and all the big fat awards and testimonials. So fuck off and come back when you’ve grown a few pubes.”

Mandy can be a real bitch. But so can life.

SKETCHBOOK is something I’m working on for fun, alongside my other more important deadlines (shhh, don’t tell). I’m not sure what I’ll do with it yet. Might be fun to toss it out into the universe and see where it lands. I’ll update here occasionally, when I remember. Because who doesn’t want to read about a trans-masculine semi-famous ink artist named Hemingway, adventures on the SFF con circuit, and scandal in the NYC fine art world?

 

 

Sketchbook

1.

“Does it hurt?”

I’m perched on a swivel stool, disposable razor in hand. The booth is too tight for easy work; the portable lights Mandy brought in because the exhibitor hall is dank as hell make me sweat. My customer’s sweating too, down the crook of her jaw and under her chin. She’s got glitter paint on so under the lights her perspiration looks like a smeared constellation.

I can’t remember her name, but that’s fine because customer relations is not my job. She wants a bee – one of those tiny fat winged bumblebees you find on bottles of expensive tequila – inked onto her collarbone. It’s her first tattoo, and she’s eager, and also a little drunk off cheap Con beer.

Usually you’re not supposed to ink anyone who’s relied on liquid courage for balls, but this is NYC’s biggest comic convention of the year, and honestly most of my sit-downs are at least half buzzed.

“Depends on the person, depends on where.” That’s Mandy, working the customer relations game from the front of the booth. We’re so close her ass almost nudges my elbow as I set aside the Schick and pick up an alcohol swab instead. Bee Girl shivers when I swipe her collarbone, disinfecting an inch square.

“Will that one hurt? The one he’s doing there?”

The kid asking all the questions is wearing reindeer suit: round-bellied brown and white, plush worn through in places. He’s taken off the fat-cheeked, solemn-eyed, antlered headpiece so Mandy can hear him, and is cradling it under one arm like some sort of gruesome hunting trophy.

Mandy doesn’t like the furry crowd; she thinks they’re creepy. She’s going to blow him off just to get him to move down the line and away from our booth. We’ve got the standard queue wrapped almost once around our small square of commerce. A single lost sale won’t kill us. But the kid – he’s probably almost sixteen, which means I really couldn’t ink him, not today – is as wide eyed as his head-piece and I’ve personally got no problem with furries.

“Yes,” I answer before Mandy can shoo him away. “On the collarbone hurts.” Bee Girl twitches in my chair but smiles gamely.

The kid looks past Mandy and our pile of display books. He doesn’t quite meet my eye. His gaze skitters sideways and back again. He’s got spots on his skin and his hair’s been flattened by his headpiece but at least he’s not sweating like the rest of us.

“You him?” He asks, looking not at me but at the banner hanging at the back of our booth. “Hemingway?”

I nod. Hemingway’s my surname, but its what I go by, have done for the last ten years since escaped Idaho for safer places.

“Huh.” He’s reluctantly impressed. “Did you really do Artic Fox in their hotel room before their last show?”

Mandy hides a snort in her hand. Bee Girl giggles. I check my ink cup before ripping a pair of latex gloves from a box and stripping them on one finger at a time, making sure they’re sound.

“Matching tatts and all,” I agree. It hadn’t been a very exciting job, they’d been specific and unimaginative, but rock bands mostly are. “Pictures in the red book, there. Take a look.”

The kid opens the book and flips through. Behind him my line shifts because I’ve been talking too long. I turn on my machine and Bee Girl holds her breath in anticipation. Past the buzz of the machine I hear the kid ask Mandy one last question.

“How much for the one with the swords?”

“You’re not old enough,” Mandy retorts. “Come back in three years.”

“It’s a stupid law,” the kid complains, and a few people in my line mutter agreement. “Shit, he barely looks eighteen, anyway.”

“His license is right there,” says Mandy. “Beside the price list and all the big fat awards and testimonials. So fuck off and come back when you’ve grown a few pubes.”

Mandy can be a real bitch. But so can life.

SKETCHBOOK is something I’m working on for fun, alongside my other more important deadlines (shhh, don’t tell). I’m not sure what I’ll do with it yet. Might be fun to toss it out into the universe and see where it lands. I’ll update here occasionally, when I remember. Because who doesn’t want to read about a trans-masculine semi-famous ink artist named Hemingway, adventures on the SFF con circuit, and scandal in the NYC fine art world?

 

 

#SFFchat

Back in December, a bunch of Harper Voyager US/UK authors got together on the #SFFchat hashtag to talk about writing, publishing, and the sci-fi/fantasy genre with aspiring SF/F authors. We had a fantastic discussion (read the highlights), so we’re going to do it again.

Come find us on Twitter Wednesday, June 22nd at 3pm Eastern and 9pm Eastern. 18 very friendly and knowledgable Voyager authors will be answering questions on Twitter under the #SFFchat hashtag. Also, there will be virtual snacks and a chance to win free books.

 

Sarah at Phoenix Comicon

Thursday 1:30 PM Mixed Media Publishing

Thursday 3:00 PM Signing (Lounge)

Thursday 6:00 PM Signing (Exhibitor Hall)

****

Friday NOON Adventuring Parties, Still Cool?

Friday 1:30 PM Signing (Lounge)

Friday 6:00 PM Signing (Exhibitor Hall)

***

Saturday 10:30 AM Harper Collins Publisher Spotlight

Saturday NOON Signing (Lounge)

Saturday 1:30 PM Trope Talks: Unlikely Heroes

Saturday 4:30 PM We’re Not in Europe Anymore

***

Sunday 1:30 PM World Building

Sunday 3:00 Signing (Exhibitor Hall)

And Wednesday night*, straight out of the gate, at Scottsdale’s fantastic Poisoned Pen:

*Because this is such a squee-worthy event (I’m vibrating), The Poisoned Pen will have to limit the number of Sanderson and Rothfuss books (per person) to 3 each. The event will be issuing colored wristbands corresponding to 45 minutes units of time. They will begin issuing these wristbands at 6:00 PM, the first group will run from 7:00-7:45 PM, and so on. Wristbands are free, and will be issued either at the store’s front desk or by staff members outside the store.

Thanks to the fantastic Kevin Hearne for letting me crash...

Thanks to the fantastic Kevin Hearne for letting me crash Elevengeddon this year! I absolutely cannot wait!

Hunt

 

 

Bear’s track ran straight west. The barrowman, if it had come from Trapper Farrow’s land, seemed to be doubling back. The hound’s prints were clear in the soft ground. Less distinct were the sidhe‘s footprints, long narrow toes and flat arches scuffed into the topsoil.

“They’ve got bones like birds,” Holder murmured as they paused where Bear had pressed a patch of the crop flat with her circling before continuing on. “Hollow inside, but strong. Makes them light across the ground, and fast.”

Liam frowned. “Do you know, or are you guessing?”

“Caught one in my barn, once.” The farmer glanced up at the sun, checking its place on the horizon, before striding on. “A long time ago, when I was about your age. Aye, it was quick, but all the iron in the building muddled its head, like. We backed it into a corner and used our cudgels to strike it down. Da struck off its head for safety and we trained the dogs on its bones.” Holder hummed thoughtfully. “It never made a sound as it died. I thought mayhap it lacked a tongue, but Da wrenched open its jaw and it did have, just like our own, behind sharp teeth.”

Liam gulped back bile. “You might have left it alone. Could be it meant you no harm.”

Holder’s dark mirth shook the wheat. “It must be true what they say in the taverns and on the city streets, then. You’ll defend the sidhe folk, will you, even after they marked you all over with their sign? I wonder, are your bones hollow or have you marrow like a man?”

“I am a man,” Liam retorted. “A better man than you, I ken.” He ached with wanting to knock the farmer into the dirt and bit the inside of his lip until desire passed.

“You’re young, yet,” retorted Holder. And then: “Hsst! Softly, now. Bear’s spoor ends here with the wheat. That’s Farrow’s smokehouse up ahead.”

They’d come farther, faster, than Liam had realized. Bear’s trail – or the sidhe‘s – had indeed run straight as compass point through the crop. Golden stalks fell away to puny brown stems and then cleared dirt. The trees they’d glimpsed from the road were green even in the heat, leaves large as dinner plates. Farrow’s sturdy stone cottage squatted atop a low, grassy hill on the other side of the pleasant grove. On the flat land between trees and wheat field, up off the soil on short stilts, stood a square brick building with a high, peaked roof and a narrow chimney.

Two tom turkeys hung by their feet from a hook outside the smokehouse door. The birds were headless, and much fatter than the hens the barrowman had chased through the crop. A draining bowl lay overturned on the ground beneath them, contents spilled. Flies buzzed hungrily around a slop of drying gore and scattered feathers.

“That explains it,” Holder said as they cautiously approached the brick outbuilding. “Barrowman filched his supper here and filled his belly while he tracked the hens.”

Liam studied the pair of sundered talons hanging alongside the two toms. The feet were knotted in the same rope. Flies feasted on dangling flags of flesh where the rest of the corpse had been pulled away.

“Sidhe couldn’t loosen the bindings,” Liam hazarded. “Easier just to wrench the meat down. But why didn’t it take the whole brace?” He tested it. The birds were heavy, but it took strength to snap bone and tear flesh as the barrowman had done.

Liam looked away from the turkeys and through the trees at the cottage. It was a pretty plot, carefully tended, with flowers in clay pots near a regimented vegetable garden. Hens scratched in the dirt beneath a sturdy coop. A sandy path on the opposite side of the rise wound toward a separate stone cellar.

The cottage door was shut; painted blue shutters obscured the single window. Liam smelled old wood smoke but the chimney was cold. Except for the busy chickens, the homestead felt deserted.

“Something scared it off,” Holder agreed. “Not Farrow, he wouldn’t have left this mess untended.” The farmer bared his teeth in resignation. “Draw your sword; this place is too quiet for my comfort.”

They passed beneath the trees, briefly escaping sunlight before stepping back into heat. A nanny goat lay on her side in the shade against the cottage stoop. She watched them as they crossed the knoll, ears flicking indolently. Her udders were distended. She bleated as they neared the house, but didn’t make to rise.

“Hello the house!” Holder shouted. “George Farrow, are you about?”

They had no answer but the nanny’s imperative cry.

“Try the door,” Holder said.

The latch fell easily open to Liam’s hand. He pushed and the door swung open. The house breathed out warm air and with it the scent of stale lard and fresh beeswax. Past the square of light falling through the open door onto rough floorboards, the single room was dark.

“Mistress Farrow?” Liam called over the threshold. “Mistress? Are you in?”

“Move aside,” Holder ordered. The farmer set his scythe down on the stoop, took a stub of candle and a flint form his belt, and lit the wick. Cupping the flame in with one hand, he stepped into the house, saying over his shoulder: “Stay here.”

Liam did as he was asked, although with growing trepidation. His fingers cramped and sweated on the pommel of his sword. His mouth was dry. In the practice yard he might stop, and take a drink, and rest his sword hand. During battle on Roue he’d been gripped with excitement and immediate fear, focused on staying alive, and not at all concerned with aches and pains of his body, at least not until after Khorit Dard was routed and the war over.

Waiting, he thought, as the low sun beat across the back of his neck and his sword grew heavy, was hard.

Holder threw the shutters open from inside, startling both Liam and the nanny goat. The goat jumped up and shook herself all over. Liam scowled.

“Forsaken,” the farmer declared over the sill. He blew out the flame of his candle. “Come in and see for yourself. Bring my blade.”

“What about the Fairy Court?” Lolo asked a while later, ...

“What about the Fairy Court?” Lolo asked a while later, just as Summer was dozing off. “What’s it like?”

“Bright.” Summer smiled, more asleep than awake. “Mama says it’s bright. Like a star. And warm, and sweet, like lilacs in Central Park in the spring. Papa says there are bees the size of baseballs, and flowers all the colors of the rainbow, and garnets in the trees, and there’s dancing in the evenings, and games, and poetry.”

She could imagine it so clearly, see it on the backs of her eyelids.

She couldn’t wait.

______________

In January 2017, the wait is finally over.

Masala

 

 

Baldebert set the heavy kettle in Avani’s hands before she could refuse. She could feel the gentle slosh of water in the vessel’s belly. She thought of Mal and how his body had burned fever hot in the depths of madness, of the sparks shed from his fingers as he tossed and groaned and raved. She’d been afraid he would set his bedding alight; she’d stamped out the embers of his wild magic even as she’d fought to bring his fever down.

Russel shifted uneasily. Baldebert quirked a brow in the soldier’s direction.

“Apologies,” he said, yellow eyes bright. “If I’m mistaken. But I was led to understand you and Malachi had certain rare qualities in common. In fact, I’m told you filled the space he left behind, and very competently.”

“You want a demonstration.” In spite of everything, Avani was amused. “To see if I’m worth stealing back across the water. That’s why you asked me to tea.”

Baldebert’s grin vanished. “Not if Roue depended on it – again. No,” he said, flat, “I’m not so foolish as to test fate once more on that account. Deep water breaks a magus. I didn’t believe it until I saw it, and then it was too late. We barely made it across the sea intact. I dreaded the return trip, believe you me, even with all the protection we could muster.” He brushed knuckles across the manacles on his belt.

“But you brought him back anyway.”

“I’ve reputation as an honorable man,” the admiral agreed. “I’d given my word. It wouldn’t do to break it, no matter the risk.” He added, “And there was also the matter of proposed matrimony. The horizon grows dark again to Roue’s east, just as it does to your north. A storm gathers. The desert is vast, the desert lordlings fractious, but if they can be goaded into cooperation – well. I know the way of the desert and water both intimately, and I fear the sand as I never have the sea.”

Beneath the unruly flop of blonde curls Baldebert’s expression was grave. Years spent on deck had given him lines at the corners of his eyes and at the edges of his mouth. Lines graven by worry, and joy, love and loss, and wisdom and regret. For a moment she could read his history on his face. Then he caught her looking and smoothed the lines, but not before she’d decided to believe him.

“Ai, it’s not a difficult trick,” she said, tilting her chin, drawing his attention back to the kettle in his hands. “A simple cant, not so different from one used to kindle flames on the hearth or cook fire. The theists have a sigil for heat, but a magus needs only flex a thought and murmur a word.”

In truth, it had taken her hours of practice to bring flame to her hearth, but with the Red Worm running rampant tinder within the city had been scarce, spring nights chill, and Avani had been determined. She’d celebrated when the cant had at last gone right, glad of one more skill learned even as she promised herself she’d use the spell only when needs must.

She knew that same lick of triumph now as she uncurled a focused tendril of power and warmed the kettle with a word – warmth spread from her palms and up through water and silver. She could feel the lift of magic from the tips of her fingers. More delicate work than sending a blast of intention at the hearth, and as carefully crafted as the silver.

Within two heartbeats the water bubbled and boiled. Avani’s palms buzzed but felt no hotter than the sultry summer air. She beamed.

“Amazing,” Baldebert breathed, leaning close. His lips parted in quiet delight.

“Cups,” Avani suggested, and the admiral hastened to obey.

They poured out in companionable silence, adding milk to the mixture of masala and tea, content to let thoughts rest as they waited for the liquid to cool enough to drink. Avani heard bees bumbling through the tall grass. Russel’s breathing was a soft meditation of inhales and exhales. Past the glass panes she could see figures moving in the orangerie. The heat made time seem slow time to a lazy trickle.

Baldebert sipped from his cup. He sighed in appreciation. Avani drank. The tea ran over her tongue and down her throat. It tasted of childhood and broken promises. She bowed her head over her lap and wept.

“My father,” the admiral said after a moment, “was a decidedly cruel man. When the refugees on our shore at last stirred themselves to beg Roue for surcease – food, water, even medicine – Khorit Dard took those he believed sound enough to work his poppy fields. The rest he ordered killed for fear they’d drain our resources. The old, the very young, the infirm. His soldiers cut them down on the beach. They had nowhere to go but back into the water, nowhere to run but into the waves. Entire families, lost. There was so much blood, more blood than a little boy knew existed in all the world.

And that’s why I invited you to share tea, Avani. As I asked Deval, though he refused, and I cannot blame him for it. Because I’m sorry, so deeply sorry.”

– excerpt from The Bone Cave (M&A Volume 3)

Volume 1 & Volume 2