Needle Rain (2 page)

Trinketton
- a magical device made by a trinketologist. These are powered by the animus (essence) of an animal or, rarely, a plant.

*****

There was no warning sign to Samos of what was to come when he walked into the barracks – not a single thought or dream of needles or of being on fire. Just an ordinary end to an ordinary morning patrol.

Last night Pela had told him of her pregnancy, and he couldn’t stop remembering, savoring the excitement.

A father. He was going to be a father. The whole world was his.

Swinging his sweaty under tunic about his head, Punka jumped onto his bunk and yelled it out, “Hey! Samos has been a naughty boy. He’s going to be a father!”

Telling Punka had been a mistake.

Samos grinned and kept on unlacing his cuirass, waiting for the ribbing from the roomful of men.

Punka was joking. Haplanders thought getting pregnant before marriage a good omen. Unless he didn’t marry her but then every Haplander in the city, including her father, would likely be chasing him with a spear.

“Attention! Respect for the commander!” bellowed Sergeant Smithy from the doorway.

They stood to attention, heels clicked together, eyes staring straight ahead.

Commander Yunge stalked in, leather harness creaking against metal. He was in ceremonial armor with the snarling liger of the Imperator emblazoned against the black of his chest plate. A scroll was tucked under his arm

“Evening, men.” He went up on his toes. “Who among you wants a cozy spot in the sun in their old age to sit and suck up oatmeal? And who among you wants to be an Immolator? A supreme warrior! To sacrifice our enemies in the name of the Imperator! I know what I would choose!”

Load of bullcack, Samos thought. Though their name meant a sacrifice, only priests and the overly devout thought Immolators sacrificed to the gods and the Imperator. They killed to protect the Imperator and that was that.

“I have an announcement to make regarding the next intake! One of your number has been honored with selection.” He looked them over, smiling, savoring the moment.

Samos tensed. It would be crazy. The gods could not be that cruel. Pela would laugh when he told her of how he had worried. Yet still he ran through a quick prayer in his mind.

“Samos Goodkin! Step forward.”

His face must have gone as pale as a corpse’s. He gaped at the commander. Knowing of nothing else that he could do, he stepped forward. The room was silent except for the sound of his heart beating in his temples and the thump of his hobnailed boots on the floor.

A puzzled frown creased the commander’s forehead for a second. He unrolled the scroll and held it up for all to see. Fastened in a top corner was a black lock of hair.

“Samos Goodkin, the priests have divined the gods’ desires and picked this lock of hair from among the ten thousand. It belongs to our next Immolator. Is it yours?” He tapped the words next to it.

He squinted. “Um.” The letters swam on the page.

“Sir!” said the sergeant. “Samos is a little slow on the reading when under pressure!”

“Ah.” The commander raised his voice. “This is the name of Samos Goodkin!”

The cheering was loud and joyous, but it was hollow to his ears. It was the sound of his gravestone being rolled into place.

Some survived their time as one of the Imperator’s elite. Those who survived to be de-needled would be left with, at most, half of their true life span. Forty years instead of eighty. Less if unlucky. Unlucky was when you were made a Full Immolator. Once fully needled, they might move like a hurricane and strike like an earthquake but they lived like a butterfly – a few days only, with their sped-up metabolism. It was an honor that he had once dreamed of, but not now, not today.

He smiled grimly at the commander, knowing deep in his marrow that he would not survive. How was he to tell Pela?

“Good man. Well done.” Commander Yunge shook his hand. “I’ll leave the rest to you, sergeant.” He left the room.

Sergeant Smithy barked, “You are to report to the Imperator’s Needle Master on Marksday after parade for partial activation! You may visit your closest loved one or next-of-kin tomorrow, if you so wish! Report for a permission token and an escort for outside the garrison base, if you need one! Understood?”

“Yes, sergeant! I understand completely. Uh, sergeant, could I talk to you? Outside?”

This drew a hard look. The sergeant wasn’t a man for dithering. He believed in doing things once, efficiently and without questions. “Okay, Samos. Outside it is.”

Samos followed him out the door.

The sergeant strode a few yards along the corridor then stopped. “What is it?”

Samos turned things over in his mind. How did he say this? “I’ve got a girl, sergeant, and she’s pregnant. We’re to marry.”

If anything the sergeant’s face stiffened more. “And you think you want out?” He snorted. “No way, soldier. You should have told the clerks of your intention to marry. Would have excluded you from the draw. Now, it’s too late. Legally, you’re out on a cold lonely plain with the wind whistling about your ears. Nobody, but nobody, will listen to you. You should have read the rules. Got it?”

Samos nodded slowly.

“Good! This is an honor! Treat it that way! Get inside and celebrate!”

He watched the sergeant’s back as he marched away then went back inside.

A few came to shake his hand but he ignored them, too mired in his despair to really notice. There were black looks from some when they saw how little he valued this honor. Only Punka held back as if he knew exactly what thoughts churned in Samos’s head.

Samos sat on the edge of the bunk, elbows on knees, looking at the floor. The solid, rounded mass of his biceps reminded him of how hard he’d worked at being a good soldier. He could climb ropes, beat anyone in this room at any weapon they cared to name, drive a spear through the eye of a target, but it didn’t matter to him anymore. He’d rather be the puny thing he had been four years ago.

If he had told them he meant to marry her, filled in that stupid paper, that was all it would have taken. He couldn’t read that well, but Punka would have read it if he’d asked him to.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Now he was a traitor if he even tried to argue against activation. A traitor if he ran. Hells, he would have executed himself for thinking such thoughts a year ago. Having the needles inserted was the highest of all honors.

The parades he had watched as a boy, eyes wide with envy as the Immolators strode past under the scorching sun of the Burgla’le Empire, their golden needles glinting with each flex and roll of their muscles. No soldier on this earth could match them. Strength, speed, reaction times and the ability to take deadly blows – all these became better than human when the needles went in.

He shook his head slowly. What was he to do? Nothing. There was nothing. The gods had deserted him. Once an Immolator he would be imprinted with the image of the Imperator like a newborn pup with its mother, and as utterly loyal.

****

Just as the sergeant had told him, it was easy to get permission to see his closest loved one. This would be last time he could see them until he was discharged or dead. He supposed if the priests spoke true he might see them after death, as a ghost. But ghosts couldn’t feel, couldn’t touch their wife or daughter or son.

As the ghost of an Immolator he might not even recognize them or remember loving them.

A chill had swept him at that thought.

And so, when a friend of Punka’s pulled him aside on the way to the commander’s office and told him about a certain Needle Master who had a desperate need for money, he listened very carefully and memorized the name.

Trinketologist
– a magience practitioner who makes magical objects

from wood, metal, or plant.

*****

“Oh Gods!” Heloise sat up and threw back the sheets. Sun streamed in the window. Nana’s rooster next door was crowing. She could smell the bacon frying upstairs, so Jana was up. It was late.

“Got to go! She shoved at Kane but he only grunted. His bare, muscled back looked tempting and she almost leaned over to give him a bite. Instead she shook her legs free of the sheet and began to clamber over him.

His arm snaked up and he wrestled her back to the bed with a grin then rested above her propped on both arms. The delicious press of his skin against hers and his deep black Hastino eyes reminded her of their love-making the night before.

“One kiss?” he murmured, his deep voice reverberating in the pit of her stomach.

“No!”

Kane stooped to lick at her nipple, circling it with his tongue.

“Mmm. Nice.” She wriggled. “One. One kiss.”

The melting sensation as they kissed made her wish she hadn’t work to go to, but it was the day of the Needle Master. She tried to get up and Kane held her tighter. With a quick push on his chin to bend his head back, a chop to the inside of his elbow, and a flip of her body, she sent him off balance and tumbling to the side.

“Hey!” From the look on his face she’d startled him.

Too bad. No time to explain where she’d learned the move.

As she tugged on her red leggings and a white shirt, and laced up her gray vest, he watched her lazily. She brushed her short, straight hair. The ends bounced up with that annoying wave. Disgusted, she tossed the comb onto the dressing table, scattering a hodgepodge collection of glass toys, coins, bead bracelets, a booklet on known-to-be-extant trinketton armaments, and a stuffed owl.

It being Sonday, this would be Kane’s day off. Legal clerks mightn’t work rest days but this was the best time to visit Uncle’s customers. It unsettled, made them realize they were up against the wall.

She strapped on a slim Sung steel knife then went to her strongbox, unlocked it, and took out Dogrose. Dogrose was a compact dartzinger she’d found at the dock markets a few months ago –a gorgeously detailed trinketton. The tiny embossed daisies snaking round the octagonal barrel and the butt spoke of a plant animus. Every few months the daisies went through their cycle and changed from buds to tiny blossoms. The perfume the weapon exuded was subtle and elegant.

Not many trinketologists played with the spirit energy of plants.

Some days she wondered about its history. Surely a master trinketologist had created Dogrose?

She’d never fired it in anger, and she hoped she never needed to. She weighed it in her hands, wondering if she should’ve applied fresh tincture to the darts last night.

“What’s that? Are you planning to use that?” Kane’s voice sharpened. “Where is it you’re going, Heloise?”

She slipped Dogrose back into the strongbox then clicked it shut. “Out. Don’t worry your pretty little head.” She took two strides and ruffled his thick brown hair, jumping back when he tried to grab her again. “Don’t forget to lock up!” Last of all, she knelt in the doorway to give her cat, Grunt, a pat. “Bye!”

One day she’d have to tell Kane what she did for a living. Collecting debts might not be glamorous but she made good money. Why she hadn’t told him already, she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t illegal. Maybe tonight. He’d ask her again about the dartzinger anyway.

Outside, the streets were freshly washed. Rainwater ran down the cobblestones of the sloping street toward the bay, pushing along leaves and the detritus of garbage thrown out windows. She skipped over one such slow-moving pile. Down one side street, a crowd gathered round a man in the distinctive half-white, half-black attire of a ghost trapper. He held high a silvery bottle. No doubt they were ogling his latest catch.

As she drew near Greeble Street, she saw that Sonja and Bull were already there. They were her back-up this time. Second visit Uncle wanted her to take more, a whole battalion just about. She wrinkled her forehead. He didn’t yet trust her to do the job by herself. Hells. Until she did it, she wasn’t sure either. She squared her shoulders and made sure to keep her tone of voice low and confident.

“Sonja. Bull.” They nodded to her. Both of them had on the Bruno uniform – black leggings, black leather cuirass and a black shirt with the company badge – a purple and very spiky echidna. Bull, the size of two men, relied on his fists and knives if he had to fight. Sonja had her two curved Sung swords at her waist. Full gear.

Heloise fought the urge to lick her lips or swallow. “Let’s go.”

“You’ve got the affidavit?” Sonja asked.

“Yes.” She tapped the scroll tube hanging at her waist.

Thom Drager’s clinic was a good three miles further round the bay, so they flagged down a carriage and hopped aboard. Heloise sat facing the driver. Past him were the long ears of his horses. It was difficult pretending to be calm and professional while sitting opposite Sonja and Bull.

Sonja patted her hair, checking the pins securing her intricately constructed bun of dark dreadlocks. She grinned. “Don’t worry, Heloise. We’ll take good care of you.”

“Sonja,” Bull rumbled. “Don’t tease her. She’ll be okay.”

“Yes, I will. This is the same job I’ve done before, just for a little more money.”

“A little!” Sonja hooted. “When I have this ‘leetle’ money I will be rich girl!” She leaned forward. “Look, I know you can be a devil cat, so does Bull, but I also know you’re only two years older than my nephew and he’s got the brains of a headless chicken. So. You listen to what we tell you. Yes?”

“Sonja. We’re friends, right?” She took care to keep her voice level, unhurried, smooth as honey.

“Sure are. That’s why I’m helping you.” Sonja’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Heloise looked at her straight on. “Well, I’m glad of that, but Uncle said I’m the boss on this job. And I am. I’ll take your advice in, I’ll think about it a lot, but I have the final say.”

Bull grinned widely. “Now, I see Uncle in you!”

“Thanks, Bull. Sonja?”

She glared back at Heloise, her mouth a hard line then the corners twitched and spread to a smile. She guffawed and half rose from her seat to give Heloise a quick embrace, with her swords clattering against the timber. “Girl! It’s nice to see some guts around here, Bull being partial to petunias and all!”

He snorted.

“Shake?” Heloise held out her hand, knowing from sparring exercises that Sonja could probably break her hand off at the wrist if she wanted.

“Sure.” And they shook. It only hurt a bit afterward.

Now Uncle would know she meant business. This would be her responsibility and her success. If only the butterflies in her stomach would quit flying around so much.

The smoothest way to get to the Needle Master’s clinic was via Trader’s Road, even though it followed the curve of the bay. Soon they’d left behind Defatt’s Bakery, with its delicious aromas of warm, crunch-brown pastry and cooking meat, along with all the other small shops near her home. Heloise lay back against the hard seat. The sea was visible through gaps between waterfront warehouses and buildings. She squinted against the wind and concentrated on counting the seagulls and terns gliding on the breeze.

“Here.” Sonja shoved a paper bag toward her. “Breakfast. I can tell you ain’t had breakfast. Your stomach growling is deafening me.”

Inside was a half-eaten potato fritter.

“Bull! What you got? Give the girl some of that sandwich!”

Startled, he offered her a meat sandwich so squashed it was near impossible to see what the contents were.

Heloise eyed it. “No, thanks, Bull. You need it more.” Before he could offer again she took a bite from the fritter, chewed quickly, and gulped it down. “Thanks, both of you.”

“Nah, it’s nothing. Next time you starve.” She chuckled. “Remember to bring food.”

When they turned left onto Dedication Way, the air changed from the hurry-scurry urgency of the trading district to become gentler, calmer. Dominating the skyline was the Monument to the Highest Gods, its emerald spire reaching to the heavens. Priests in the tunics and robes of several religious disciplines walked along the roadside paths.

One priest stopped and stared up at them. His burgundy robe and his tonsure – half his scalp smooth, the other half with waist-length hair – marked him as a dedicate of Amora.

Heloise took a deep breath once they passed the monument. The district of Magience practitioners was up ahead.

This early, the doors to the clinic were closed. It was an immaculately clean, white-washed building, two-stories high, with a white stone wall around it. Wave-green stained glass adorned the front doors.

“I can see how it’s worth two and a half thou grints.” Heloise whistled in appreciation.

“Yeah, it’s nice. Now let’s get in there. Bull, why don’t we knock on the door.”

A young woman in a pastel blue dress, with a ribbon tie beneath the bodice, answered the door.

“Good morning.” Heloise put on her best friendly look. “We’re here to see Mister Drager on a business matter.”

The woman’s polite smile turned to an anxious frown but she didn’t move.

“An urgent business matter. Regarding the payment of some fees.”

“Oh.”

While she dithered, Heloise, Sonja, and Bull sidled through the door.

The first step:
Get In The Door.

Check
, thought Heloise.

The woman stared wide-eyed at them. “I’ll ask Mr. Drager if he will see you. Clinic starts soon so he may be unavailable until later.” She hurried off, past a desk and through a silver-and-glass beaded curtain. Her footsteps echoed down a long hallway.

Heloise nervously tapped her fingers against her thigh.

Soon, the young woman returned and took them through the curtain and down the hallway to a room furnished starkly with bright satin floor cushions and a centrally placed low square table. On it were a plethora of writing implements, notepaper, pens, plus an abacus and, displayed prominently, a hand-tinted photograph of a pretty young girl – the daughter, probably.

A man attired in a close-tailored suit rose from a cross-legged position on the floor. The suit was sea-blue cotton with an embroidered dark design but no other embellishments to its elegance. His hair was straight and fell like a black waterfall to his shoulders. Though Bull was heftier and slightly broader of shoulder, this man was the tallest in the room, a novelty for Heloise, she was used to being taller than most men.

She glanced downward. A small golden tattoo on the back of his left hand marked him as a Needle Master. This was Thom Drager.

The décor and clothing style were Sungese. Since the man was obviously not Sungese, she found herself wondering how he’d acquired his tastes.

For just the smallest of moments, pity and sorrow swept her. Some clients moved her not at all, but this man...what a waste.

“That will be all, Grace.” The young woman left the room. “Please, be seated.” His voice was warm and welcoming, and his eyes met Heloise’s for a long second before he broadened his invitation to include Sonja and Bull.

“I’ll stand,” rumbled Bull.

Heloise and Sonja settled as comfortably as they could on the cushions then made their introductions.

He knows why we’re here. Sonja and Bull could flatten him with their pinky finger. He’s a sucked-in-to-the-core somm addict. Yet he’s as smooth as those satin shoes. Controlled. How did he ever get himself into this pile of excrement?

Only the tightness of his smile spoke of tension.

“You seem young for this occupation, Miss Heloise.” He shifted focus and she was certain he studied the tattoo on her forearm.

Were those words meant as a slight? Or was he just curious? Both, she guessed.

“We all have to start somewhere.” Sitting cross-legged as she was, with her forearms on her knees, she kept her hands still and her face calm. “I was born into it, sir. But I’ve not come here to make small talk, Mr. Drager. You are seriously in debt to a client of ours.”