Legend of Ransera

Jhin's pistol was old—a copy of a copy of a copy of something that had been effective however long ago. Oren didn't know a lot about projectile firearms, but he could spot that much. It had a dragon stamped into the leather of the handle. He might have laughed at his cobra and his dragon, but instead, he dry-swallowed another tablet. It lit his mind up, sent lightning through his blood. He went forth to do business. It seemed as though his tail was gone, and that was all for the better.

Setting off, he trotted a block toward the port and entered an ugly brick building. It had a name, but everyone just called it the cheap hotel. He had rented the smallest available room on a weekly basis for months now, but he never slept here. He slept in cheaper places. The lobby smelled of cigarettes and perfume, and a youth sat at a rickety desk, reading by candlelight.

"Messages for number nine," he said. The kid passed him something from a cubby under the desk. It read, Good to hear you got the stuff. We have a cash flow problem. Can you front? "Fuck." He lit the scrap of paper in the kid's candle flame and leaned over the desk to drop it into the metal basket he kept back there.

"Sorry," said the youth as Oren limped away.

"No worries," he replied, worried.

It was an hour before dawn when he walked into Hellshouse, both hands in his pockets, caressing his weapons like lovers. Maus was at a rear table, drinking sparkling water from a beer pitcher, the weight of his doughy flesh balanced precariously upon the back legs of his creaking chair. There was a kid tending bar, the crowd mostly silent drunks at this hour. Maus' shaven head was slick with sweat.

"You look bad, my artist friend." The wet ruin of his smile was not reassuring.

"I'm fine," Oren assured him. His grin was reminiscent of a skull. "Fine, fine, fine." Sagging into the chair opposite Maus, his fingers continued to fondle his rented weapon and the desperate purchase.

"Yeah, fine. Armed with booze and shielded by drugs. Barely feeling a thing, hey?"

"Lay off, Maus. You seen Dett?"

"Invincible against fear and loneliness," Maus continued. "You should listen to your fear. It can be your best friend."

"Have you heard anything about a fight in the arcade market tonight, Maus? Did anybody get hurt?"

"Some madwoman cut on a thug there to police the place," he said shrugging.

"I've got to talk to Dett, Maus, I..."

"Ah." The ugly mouth narrowed, compressing into a thin line. His eyes were looking past Oren now, toward the entrance from whence he had come. "You're about to."

Oren imagined those star-shaped throwing knives as the drugs sang in his veins. The weapons in his hands were slippery from his sweat.

"Master Dett," Maus greeted, extending his hook as if he expected it to get shaken. "You honor us with your presence, so rare a gift." He flashed his rotting smile.

Oren turned and looked up into Dett's face. It was tanned and blandly handsome, though his sea-green eyes were what really stood out. He was flanked by his goons, two mountains of young muscle, strong but not agile.

"And how are you, Oren?" Dett asked, mild and amiable.

"My lords," Maus said, his tone anything but unctuous as he scratched his hook along the weathered, pitted wood of the old table. "I don't want any trouble here. Do you understand?"

"Hey, handsome," said one of the goons. "Why don't you try that on me?"

"Aim for the legs," Maus said. "A warning."

Confused, Oren's gaze finally found the young bartender aiming a crossbow at one of the goons. It looked to have some clockwork contraption that would allow it to be used repeatedly without having to be forcibly reloaded.

"I owe you one, Maus," Oren said.

"You don't owe me shit," Maus spat. "These should know better than to try to take anybody out in the Hellshouse."

Dett coughed delicately. "Who said anything about taking anybody out? I'm just here to talk business. Oren and I, we work together."

Oren pulled Jhin's pistol out of his pocket and aimed it at Dett's crotch. "What's this I've been hearing to the contrary?" But Maus' hook hooked Oren's wrist and he let his arm go limp.

"Oren, what the fuck is going on with you, man? What's this bullshit about me wanting to kill you?" He turned to one of his boys. "Head back. Wait for me."

They watched as the goons took their leave, the place deserted now but for the bartender and one drunken sailor curled up at the foot of a barstool. The bartender's crossbow turned back on Dett. Maus unloaded Oren's weapon and set it all down on the table in pieces.

"Who said I was going to hit you, Oren?" Dett persisted. Jamila. "Who told you, man? Is somebody trying to set you up? Me up? Us up?"

The sailor moaned then started vomitting. Maus sighed. To the bartender, "Get him out of here." The bartender stowed the crossbow and lit a cigarette, face setting as he prepared to toss the drunkard out into the street. Oren felt the weight of the whole night settle on him at once, like gravity was coming for him specifically. He took a package out of his pocket and handed it to Dett.

"All I got. It's pure. Could get you five hundred if you move it fast. Had the rest of my stock tied up in some magical paraphernalia, but that's long gone by now."

"Are you all right, Oren?" The package had already disappeared upon Dett's person. "I mean, this is fine. This will square us. But... you look like shit. You had better go somewhere and sleep it off."

"Yeah." He stood up and the Hellshouse swayed around him. He laughed, but it came out almost like a giggle. "Well, I had a shiny silver, too, but I gave it to somebody." He picked up the pieces of the pistol and stowed the parts in different pockets, collecting, not rearming. "I've got to see Jhin, get my deposit back."

"Go home," said Maus. He shifted his bulk in the creaking chair, his manner almost embarrassed. "My con artist friend, go home."

He felt their eyes on him as he crossed the room, careful to avoid the pool of watery vomit, and shouldered his way out the doors. He nodded to the young bartender taking a bit of the air with his cigarette, went to find some coffee, and watch the sun come up.

Jamila. "Bitch," he muttered at the watercolor beauty of the sky over the river. It was her fault, too, that he had burnt his tongue. "Fly away, bitch. This place is for people who like the downward spiral." But that wasn't it—not really. He was finding it difficult to hang onto his anger, that sense of betrayal. She just wanted her ticket out of here, and his goods would buy it for her if she could find the right fence. He had probably promised her a way out, way back when they were fucking and fucking in love. And that business with his heavy silver coin; she had almost turned it down, knowing she was about to rip him off for all he was worth.

When he came back inside the ugly brick building, it was the same boy at the desk. Same boy, different book. Good for him, wanting to read his way out of here or at least into more money.

"Oh, my young friend," he said as if he were all that much older, as if everything was fine. "You don't need to tell me. I already know. A pretty girl came to visit and she had a key. Probably even tipped you a nice silver coin, eh?" He put down his book, perplexed. Oren smiled, though, and he smiled back broadly. "Thanks, asshole," he muttered when he was past and out of earshot.

He had trouble with the lock for number nine. She must have messed it up in her hurry to rob him. Beginner. But he knew a thing or two about picking a lock, and so he managed to fiddle it open. He even knew where one could purchase a quality set of lockpicking tools that could give her carte blanche to the entire building because Oren knew how to get things.

As he fumbled for the light, a voice said, "Close the door real slow, kiddo. Have you still got that shite pistol you rented from that waiter?"

The dim lights came on and he carefully closed the door behind him. She sat with her back to the wall at the far end of the room. Her knees were up, her wrists resting thereupon. A sleek-looking firearm was pointed right at him.

"Was that you in the market? Where's Jamila?"

"Lock it," she said. He did. "Was that your girl? Jamila?" He shrugged. "She's gone. Took your loot. Really nervous. What about the gun, kiddo?" Her sharp beauty was perfectly familiar. Her clothes were black, both utilitarian and fine. The heels of her boots dug into the bed he never used.

"I took it back to Jhin, got my deposit. Had to sell the ammunition back at half what I paid. You want the money?" He sounded petulant, he knew, but he couldn't manage to manage it.

"No."

"Want something intoxicating? My capacity for entertaining is severely limited right now."

"What got into you tonight?" she asked. "Why did you pull that scene at the market? I had to mess up this beefy bitch who came at me with fucking nunchaku."

"Jamila said you were going to kill me."

"Jamila said? I never saw her before I came up here."

"You aren't working with Dett?"

She shook her head. She gazed at him with blue eyes too wise for her face, her fine, pale cheekbones framed by red hair cut in a rough shag.

"I think you crewed up, Oren." Again. "I showed up and you just fit me right into whatever you're hallucinating."

"So what do you want, Mum?" He sagged back against the couch.

"You." He laughed harshly at that, but she continued. "One live body, brain mostly functioning. Ava. My name is Ava. I'm collecting you for the man I currently work for. Just wants to talk is all. Nobody wants to hurt you."

"That's good." He was just too tired to fight what felt like an inevitability right now.

"Except you know I hurt people sometimes, Oren. I guess it's just the way I am." She wore a bulky black coat over the more fitted clothes beneath. It was all matte leather and fabric that seemed to gather shadows rather than stick out for the fine tailoring. "If I put my weapon away, will you be easy? You look like you like to take stupid chances."

"Hey, Mum. Ava. I'm very easy. Total pushover."

"That's fine, kiddo." The firearm disappeared into her jacket. "Because fucking around with me would be the stupidest chance you'd ever take."



The fête at the Choi estate was quite fine. If the trouble of getting there was any indicator, it was quite fine. Aurin, wearing the face of his character, Darus of Haqs, had taken a taxi up from the landed parts of Adira's Promenade to the floating parts with Ashoka on his arm. Ashoka knew everyone and so introduced him to Lord Yserloo Choi, who was magnanimous in comportment and quite the host.

Ashoka introduced "Darus" around and Aurin played the part of the foreign merchant prince. Hinting at connections throughout and beyond the Free Cities, Aurin was able to glean some useful knowledge about what was going on with exportation and importation, more context for the Shinsei's delegation to Zaichaer last season, and all manner of things that he would have to bring up with Ashoka later so he could work some financial tricks with the information. But by that point, the Rathari had left him to his own devices, which was fine by him. For all that he was a fox, Ashoka was a social butterfly and when Aurin observed him at work, he was glad they were on the same team. He moved as effortlessly here as Aurin did through the Cabaret. It was the same with Elwes in the Low-City and the Middens.

He was going to have his eyes and ears and hands in all parts of the City. Perhaps someday, he would even be as well-connected as Darus of Haqs purported to be.

"You are a friend of Lord Yserloo?" he asked in a supercilious tone as if he didn't believe it possible.

"Colleagues," Celisa corrected. She hadn't needed much encouragement, but he had gotten her to drink faster than she ought to have been. "He is the angel investor for the Golden Peacock Theater. I am the managing director."

"Ah, money I understand. Money, the common language throughout Ransera." He smiled. "I have heard of this theater. Rumors of... financial difficulties."

She froze. It was a slight thing, but he was looking for it. "Someone must have misspoken," she assured him. "Lord Yserloo donates, of course, and oversees fundraising from the upper echelons of society."

"And the lower?" he persisted, stopping a caterer to snag her a fresh flute of champagne. His own was barely touched.

"Thank you. Yes, well. The budget is massive," she admitted. "We work with the temples to help preserve religious works, with the Academy to deepen the wealth of study in Ranseran culture. Thankfully, resources are shared for some of these endeavors."

"Ah, yes, of course," he said. He pretended to notice the games of chance and skill. "Oh, would you like to play dabo with me?"

"O-of course," she said. It took an addict to know an addict. He offered her his arm and they walked over toward the table with the spinning wheel.

"You were saying something about donors from the less august members of society?" he pressed politely. He was going to find out who kept dealing her back into her position at the Theater, and he was going to find out tonight.

"What do they say about dabo?" he asked, a bit of charm slithering through his voice. "Watch the wheel, not the girl?"

He smiled at her. She flushed and smiled back.

"Yes, well..."

"I'm not snob enough to overlook opportunities to do business with the common folk."

"I didn't think you—"

"And I'm generous with those who tip me off to lucrative business deals."

Hook, line, sinker.

"Dabo!" shouted the guests at the table as they arrived.