2.9. The Verdugo and the Maiden
Annalise hauled into the booth at the dimming edge of the taphouse’s torches and slapped the bench next to her, looking expectantly at Seth.
He folded his arms. “Did you just here boy me?”
She grinned and did it again. “Heeere, boy. Don’t make me whistle, now.”
Seth scoffed and slid in next to her.
“That’s not your kid.” She hooked her hand around his waist and boosted him closer until his leg was pushed up onto hers. “Told you that’d happen. You’re a strolling scandal.”
“You don’t seem to care.”
“Well, I was prepared for it. Consequences of robbing a cradle.” Annalise waved their position to Tiago and Ofelia, who were picking past the muttering farmhouse tables, carting two foaming steins apiece. “More to the point, you’re unlit now, boyo. It’s gawks and lawks for the rest of your life. You worry about the way they look, you’ll go spare.”
“Mom’s right.” Tiago thumped a stein in front of Seth and sat across from him. “You’ve got your Darkness now, il Gutierre. You’re a fully fledged unlit.”
Ofelia sat down next to her brother. Somehow, she’d scored a straw hat. “Welcome to the zombie plague.”
“Hey.” Seth took his stein up from the table. “Cheers to Team Zombie.”
“Cheers,” they chorused. Their steins clattered together.
Annalise took a deep, indulgent gulp and wiped the foam from her upper lip. “You’ll be sharing that fish around, Tiago.”
“You can get your own,” Tiago said.
“Nah. I like it seasoned with my boy’s angry tears.” Annalise smiled prettily at the tureen that wobbled to their table and the tiny waiting-woman precariously hauling it. “Thank you, cailín.”
The girl bowed and backed away from the chattering unlit. “Madam Verdugo.”
“How many towns do we have left on the route?” Seth asked.
Tiago ladled himself some stew. “About half a dozen.”
“Ahh, let’s just skip ‘em,” Annalise said. “What do you think? Give them the green letter.”
Seth ladled stew into his bowl. It really did smell lovely: the broken-down sugars of the onions and carrots sang sweetly atop the rich, dark stock. “What’s the green letter?”
“I suppose a place as far south as Prossimo wouldn’t get one,” Ofelia said. “If a Verdugo finishes their business early, they can post ahead a signed and sealed notice to the Corregi on the remainder of their route, to pass their own justice on the deferred cases. The envelopes are traditionally green.”
“And signed as foofily as I can sign them.” Annalise received a basket of battered fish from their hard-working waitress and passed it to Tiago. “And sealed.”
“Seems unfair to the Corregidors at the beginning of the route,” Seth said.
“That’s by design,” Tiago said. “The closer a settlement is to the Necropolis, the less keenly they require a yearly reminder of the Legion’s power. Mom, you can get your own.”
Annalise lifted a piece of fish from the basket and basted it with a squeezed lemon wedge. “I will, yeah.”
“You don’t want to get as much hexis as you can?” Seth asked.
“Not much room left in the sword,” Tiago said. “It tops out at sixty-six. You fill it up and give it no head room, you’re liable to cause cascade leakage and lose more than you gained.”
Annalise nudged him. “Head room. Eh?”
Tiago grimaced. “Not intentional.”
“That’s when you’re the funniest, Sunshine. What do you think? We take the time to introduce the new Verdugo in town, or we pitch some parchment and gallop on home?”
“A green letter is as fortuitous a first impression as we’re like to get,” Tiago said. “Erheis’s records are bare of them.”
“Which means we’ll need to clean out the carriage until we find that signet ring.” Annalise slurped her stew. “Saints, that’s tasty. Reckon we make this stop a tradition.”
“I held onto the signet ring this year,” Ofelia said. “You always lose it.”
“That’s the death penalty,” Annalise said. “Stealing a Verdugo’s signet.”
“Let me have my last meal first. Pass the fish.”
“You could all have gotten your own goddamn fish,” Tiago said.
“My poor boy.” Annalise passed Ofelia the basket. “Let us give praise to Saint Tiago, Our Martyr of the Battered Cod.”
Tiago waved at their waitress and pointed at the emptying tray. “More of these, please. Thanks much.”
“We are cleaning the carriage regardless though, little beasties,” Annalise said. “Be rolling into the Necropolis before long. No more pigsty. I need a good impression for all of Erheis’s former functionaries.”
“What was he like, Erheis?”
Seth, who’d been letting the stew coat his tongue with warmth and the happy needling of the al Ydrises coat his heart with the same, realized Ofelia had directed this question to him. He looked up from his broth to an audience of curious al Ydrises. “You didn’t meet him at the end-of-year Verdugo party or whatever they’ve got up there?”
“Only in passing.” Annalise wiped her mouth. “A bit of a gobshite, he seemed, and his books didn’t endear me to him.”
“The rest of him wasn’t endearing either,” Seth said. “You’ll have to take it from a thief who he’d have gladly lopped the head from. I admit to bias.”
“See, I don’t much like that either,” Annalise said. “Headtaking for petty thievery. Not the way the al Ydrises operate.”
“You calling me petty?”
Annalise chuckled. “There is a big end-of-year Verdugo party, y’know. Headtaker’s Ball. I’ll take you.”
Headtaker’s Ball. Seth didn’t love the name. “Can I wave that off?”
“Ah, sure. I’ll bring Tiago in a frilly doily and do a mother-son dance.”
“Fall on that sword for me, il Gutierre,” Tiago said. “You owe me for the fish.”
“I haven’t had any,” Seth said, and Tiago shoved the basket his way.
“It’s good.” Annalise’s elbow poked into Seth’s side. “Yours is better, though.”
“I haven’t made fish for you yet.”
“So yours isn’t better?”
Seth waggled his spoon at her. “I didn’t say that.”
Out in the brightly lit center of the taphouse they’d cleared the crockery from a banquet table, and a pair of musicians—a mitegrinder and a fiddler—were taking requests. “Don’t be shy, now!” The mitegrinder snapped shut the trap on his boxy instrument’s toggle and its low drone began. “For a solitar we’ll play what you please. For a brace we’ll play it sober.”
“Hey!” Seth whistled and waved a score coin. “Do The Verdugo and the Maiden!”
“Where’d you get that—” Annalise patted her pocket. “Oh, you blighter.”
“C’mon,” Seth said. “This is your profession’s anthem. Don’t tell me you don’t love it.”
Annalise snatched her purse back from him with a dry laugh. “I dunno if I’ve heard it, pet.”
The musicians were looking askance at the clutch of unlit. “Begging your pardon, master.” The fiddler’s swallow bobbed his instrument where it lay at his neck. “Perhaps it’s not a song for a mixed crowd.”
“She loves it. Don’t worry about it.” Seth added a second score to his palm. “C’mon now. You gonna catch these?”
Annalise scoffed. “How the feck d’you keep robbing me.”
“You need to pay me more regularly.”
“He’s got the Forked Tongue on his back,” Ofelia called to the dithering players. “He’ll join in.”
“C’mon then, goodman,” the fiddler cried. “And bring your braces.”
Seth balked. “Oh, hold on now. It’s, uh—it’s not active.”
“Yes it is.” Ofelia gave him a kick forward from their booth. “Get up on that table, Mr. il Gutierre. That’s an order.”
“You don’t give me orders.”
“I do,” Annalise said. “And I’m apparently paying good money for this. Get up there, Seth.”
Seth scrambled onto the table as the music rose, and with his new colleagues, he sang.
The Verdugo with his thirsty sword came riding on his bay
Sing who’s the one whose pretty head I’ll have for me today
He startled himself with the sound of his own voice. The Forked Tongue hadn’t applied much to his conversation; maybe a bit more bass to his brogue, but nothing more. He’d been vaguely disappointed. Now, though, singing, he felt it. Felt all the imperfections stripped away as if by an acidic bright dip bath. Annalise beamed.
And up the scaffwood he did climb, and whistling all the way
The Legion calls and one must fall whose head I’ll take today
A head, a head, a pretty head! A head for me today!
Seth had never been particularly afraid to sing, especially once you got some corn whiskey in him. But he wasn’t a singer. Not a one you’d beg to hear, or toss braces at his feet. And yet here they were. Clattering by the toes of his boots. He laughed aloud at the joy of it. He was soaring like a songbird over the hairy-headed revelry. He was good.
Forward came a maiden fair with dainty doily dread
O Verdugo all in black, O mercy lord, she said
My father stole a stallion, yet I’d weep to see him dead
So spare the man your thirsty sword and take my maiden head
O take, and take, and take again! And take my maiden head!
There were four more verses, each more obvious than the last. By the finale Seth had been outfitted with not one but two straw hats.
And okay: when the reels and dances began, the first girl who offered her arm blanched with sudden remembrance and snatched it back before it could graze unlit skin. But Seth already knew who he wanted to dance with, and she never hesitated to touch him.
“Was it worth your scores, Madam Verdugo?” he asked, as she twirled him off the table.
“It was a bleeding slag,” she said. “But I love how you sang it.”
Her utter fearlessness of the world’s attention, when she kissed him, screamed in the face of his thief training. A life spent in the shadows, now dragged into the light and kissed by a gorgeous, indulgent giant. It would take practice to get used to this.
Wet, wonderful practice, he reflected, as Annalise led him back toward the table from whence they’d come.
“Your worships.”
Before his laughing lover could take him all the way back to her family, their waitress intercepted them, standing nervously beside a man in Legion sable. A solemn frown showed from beneath his roadwarden brim.
“Terribly sorry to interrupt,” the waitress mumbled. “But this gentleman says he’s from the Legion Skywire. Says he’s got a message for you.”
“Well, now.” Annalise furnished the last of the smile she’d saved. “Lucky thing you caught us.”
“Aye.” The man reached into a structured-leather sling bag and removed a folded strip of vellum. “We’ll take what luck we can, I reckon.” He handed the paper over to Annalise. “Saints keep you, Madam Verdugo.”
The waitress was bug-eyed as the man moved away, back toward the darkening evening. Annalise unfolded the paper, laid it on the table, then snatched it up and held it close, so no merry passerby would witness.
She sat heavily down, and pressed her forehead into her palm. “Fuck,” she said.
Tiago frowned. “What’s that?”
Silently, Annalise passed it to him. He read, gave it to Ofelia, and took a long, focused drink of his ale.
“Fuck,” he said.
“Fuck,” Ofelia agreed. She pressed the paper into Seth’s hand. His fried fish sat cooling before him as he read.
Skywire Bulletin — Highest Priority — All Legion Agents Exark & Superior
Seraph breach reported upon Central Plainland Corridor route. Traced inbound to Shaheill, to reach on 6th Drozt at 2100.
The seraph Enna-Belum has breached the deathspell. Blackfeather, est 20 tons, moderately wounded on front right appendage. Containment efforts have failed. Immediate interdiction requested.
May the 100 Saints preserve you.
“Fuck,” he said.
”We have a night and a day and a night, and then this fucker will be on us.” Annalise strode from the taphouse, sliding her road leathers back over her shoulders. “Feeli drives.”
Ofelia tossed her straw hat into the carriage’s accumulated clutter. “Why do I have to drive?”
“Cause you know when Draka is about to do her fusspot routine,” Annalise said. “And we have to push them. Canter when they can, trot when they need, let ‘em rest around the crossroads to the Artery checkpoint, then push ‘em hard. The carriage’ll make it in two hours, I reckon.”
She let out the rest of her breath in a heavy expulsion and let her face drop into her palms.
“God, I’m too buzzed and fearful for this bullshite. I need to change out.”
Ofelia clambered onto the driver’s box. “Lisa’s fireballs would certainly not go amiss.”
“Not Lisa. No.” Annalise opened the carriage door and sat for a moment on its step. “The skywire’s out and spreading. This far North we’ll get a handful of sorcerers answering the summons.” She pressed her fingers into her temples. “No. This is a blackfeather. I need Anna for this one.”
The already damaged mood cracked further. Tiago chamber-checked the boxy pistol Seth had given him. “Makes sense, I suppose.”
“You two get the carriage ready, yeah?” Annalise tapped her thigh. “C’mon, Seth.”
The al Ydris twins swarmed across the carriage like industrious black beetles, battening and harnessing. Annalise led Seth into the darkness. The crunch of threshed grass beneath her boots and the keening warble of the night insects nearly overshadowed the anxious breath she took. If Seth hadn’t been listening for it, he’d have missed it entirely.
She halted and turned. The waning crescent moonlight was dim, but her skin was ghostly pale enough for Seth to make out the sorrow deepening the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes.
“Knew this was coming,” she said. “Came a bit quicker than I’d have liked.”
“You knew about the blackfeather?”
A shake of her head. “Anna.”
“It’s really no big deal,” Seth said. “It’s not like I’m about to fall out of love with you as soon as you put her on.”
“I know, pet.” She took him into her arms; her shovel-spade hands met on his lower back. “But maybe you oughta do an impression of it.”
“No way.”
“I don’t know how I’ll be, exactly,” she said. “But I doubt I’ll be grand craic. I might…”
A hitching hesitation. The cicadas crooned obliviously through the loaded moment.
“I’m scared,” she said. “Of hurting you. Not laying hands on you, but of saying some shitehawk thing to you.”
“I hurt a lot less easily than I used to,” he said.
“I know you do. My soldier boy.” She rubbed the curve of his spine. “You keep a running tally of all the ways I’m a geebag to you. Soon as I’m back to Annalise you can come up with nasty ways I have to make up for each of them.”
“Careful, Madam Verdugo,” he said. “You remember last time you told me how to handle Anna?”
She laughed. “Eat shit. I remember. You pricked my bleeding ears with that one.”
Two huge fingers tucked under the protrusion of his chin and raised his face. Her plush black lips found his and claimed them in that slow, sweet, unrelenting way she had.
“I love you round the Turning Wheel and back, Seth il Gutierre,” she whispered.
“Te chasel tuo’mie krei, Annalise al Ydris.”
She giggled, silvery and soft. “Bleeding awful, your pronunciation.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He kissed her throat. “Go stuff your head in a box.”
Hand-in-hand, they returned to the carriage. Tiago was holding a bucket of water up to Draco’s rhythmically schlupping snout. Ofelia was furtively finishing her dinner in the driver’s seat, her own slurping sounding like a soprano version of their horse.
“Be right back,” Annalise said, her usual refrain when she switched heads. Seth wondered, as his girlfriend stole into the carriage and squeaked its shock absorbers beneath her beautiful bulk, whether she meant right back as in the moment she stepped out, or however long she’d take before Anna al Ydris was put away again.
The muran-headed seraph hunter emerged from the carriage, tight and coiled like a spring. She prowled past Seth as if he weren’t there. “Let’s kill a seraph.”