One sun. One night. One moon. Balance. “All is as it should be,” the Night declared. “The scales weigh even at last.” The prince of dawn and dusk looked to the infinity above them. He shook his head. “One tithe remains,” he said. And with black and burning hands, he reached for a piece of forever.
CHAPTER 49 SILENCE Mercurio stood in the dark of the Athenaeum, the scent of ashes in the air. The shelves remained untouched, but the books were all gone. Memoirs of murdered tyrants. Theorems of crucified heretics. Masterpieces of geniuses who ended before their time. The chronicler’s blaze had claimed them all, just as they’d claimed Cleo’s son himself. The shelves before the old man were empty now, the Dark Mother’s library gutted. Not a single page remained. “Marielle is looking for you upstairs,” the boy said. The Lord of Blades patted his robe, searching for his cigarillos. Finally finding one behind his ear, he struck his flintbox and breathed gray into the singing black. “Let her look,” he replied. Jonnen peered out over the railing, his eyes on the gloom. The ghostly choir sang in the stained-glass dark about them, and Mercurio wondered what exactly the boy saw. The shadows around Jonnen rippled and sighed, pooling thick about his feet and whispering with voices the old man couldn’t quite hear. “Have you any word from Ashlinn?” the boy finally asked. “Not since we hauled you two from the ocean that night,” Mercurio replied. “Somehow I think I’ll not be hearing from her again.” “A message arrived for us in Last Hope,” Jonnen said. “From Bonifazio.” “Who?” Mercurio blinked. “Cloud,” the boy replied. “Corleone.” “Ah,” he nodded. “And what did the King of Scoundrels and Tight Leather Pants have to say for himself?” “He wanted to know if we wished safe passage to Whitekeep.” “… What for?” “Sidonius. Bladesinger.”
The old man blinked. “The wedding,” Jonnen sighed. “O,” Mercurio scowled. “Fuck that. I’ll send something fancy. I’m too busy to go traipsing over the Four war-torn Seas just for a piss-up.” “And too old.” “Mind your fucking manners.” The boy looked out at the dark with eyes that belied his youth. “We may not need the seas soon.” “Lessons coming along, then, little Speaker?” The boy looked up at him. A small smile on his lips. “Marielle says it’s not to be toyed with, but…” The boy reached down, drawing the gravebone stiletto he kept at his belt. The crow on the hilt seemed to peer at Mercurio with its amber eyes as the boy raised the blade and pricked his fingertip. Blood welled from the wound, a tiny bead of scarlet against the boy’s pale skin. Jonnen frowned, whispering beneath his breath. As Mercurio watched, the blood lifted off the boy’s fingertip, up into the air. It shaped itself into the likeness of a tiny crow, flapping little wings as it performed a slow circuit of the old man’s head. “Impressive,” Mercurio said. “Magik died when Anais did,” the boy said. “It was reborn with him, too.” Jonnen shrugged his thin shoulders. “And part of him is alive in me.” If he squinted, Mercurio fancied he could see a moonlight radiance on the boy’s skin. A power, thrumming just beneath his surface. It had been strange enough raising a girl with the fragment of a dead god inside her. He had no idea how he’d manage someone with the shard of a living god inside him. But in truth, last darkin or no, he liked Jonnen. He could see the Corvere in him. The her in him. And Daughters knew there was no one else he’d trust to raise a demigod with as much lip as this one had … “Here thou art,” came a voice behind them. Jonnen started, and the droplet of blood fell, spattering upon the floor. Mercurio turned to the Athenaeum doors, saw a beautiful woman swathed in black. Her hair was bone blond, rolling in thick waves about her
shoulders. Her skin was albino pale, perfect as the statues that had stood in Godsgrave’s forum. Pink irises and blood-red lips. It made sense she’d use her magiks upon herself as soon as she realized how much they’d grown after the Moon’s rebirth. But still … “The weaver knows her work,” he sighed. “A pity, then,” Marielle replied with a beautiful scowl, “that the Lord of Blades doth not. The king of Vaan awaits reply to his missive. The four factions at war in Itreya’s ruins all seek suit from us. I have heard whisper that a new Magus King has arisen in Liis. All the lands are chaos. Dawn and dusk now stand but twelve hours apart, the Moon ascends his new throne every night, the Mother is freed from her prison. And we have not even decided what shape her new Church shall take.” Mercurio dragged his hand back through his hair. Drawing deep on his cigarillo, he sighed a plume of gray. “I’m too old for this shite…” “I concur,” Jonnen said. “Well, the joke’s on you, you little bastard.” The Lord of Blades waggled his smoke, rubbed his aching arm. “Odds are good I’ll be dead soon.” “I think you will be here for a while,” the boy replied, watching him with eyes deeper than his nine years should’ve rightly allowed. “You have much work to do.” Mercurio glanced to the dark above. The library around them. “You think she’d…” Jonnen shrugged. “The Mother keeps only what she needs.” The Lord of Blades looked to the weaver and sighed. “We’ll speak on it after evemeal. You have my word.” Marielle pursed her lips and bowed. “As it please thee.” She left with a silken swish of night-black robes. Mercurio turned to the echoing dark, cigarillo hanging from his lips. Listening to the choir and breathing the gray and savoring the ache in his heart. Finally noticing the boy still looking at him from the corner of his eye. Jonnen nodded to the empty shelves. “What will we fill them with?” “Do you not have lessons to attend?” the old man asked. “Do you not have a walking stick to find?” “I mean it, you little bastard. Off with the fuck.” “What have you been doing, spending all your time down here alone?”
Mercurio looked out to the empty shelves and dragged on his smoke. “Keeping a promise,” he finally said. The boy nodded, eyes downturned. Toes scuffing, he made his way over to the mighty double doors leading out to the Mountain proper. “I miss her, too,” he said. “Out,” Mercurio growled. Jonnen faded into the shadows on soundless feet. Mercurio turned to the chronicler’s old office, shuffled inside trailing a thin finger of smoke. He sat down at the mighty oaken desk, rubbed at his rheumy eyes. And taking one last drag, he crushed his smoke and tugged out a stack of white parchment from a thick leather folio. The topmost was marked with his bold, flowing hand. NEVERNIGHT BOOK 1 OF THE NEVERNIGHT CHRONICLE by Mercurio of Liis The old man leafed through the pages until he found his place. He sighed, gray smoke spilling from his lips and into the dark above. “I remember,” he said. And he began to write.
CHAPTER 50 SILVER A house sat on the shore of Threelakes. It stood alone beneath an endless sky, the valley all about it wrapped in perfect silence. It was made of good oak, high gables and broad verandahs and tall windows looking out over the water at its back. A girl sat on the shoreline, watching the sunset. It was strange now, with only one sun in the sky. Stranger still to track its movement across the heavens in a handful of hours, watching it fall to its rest with her black and naked eyes. Aa and Niah shared dominion of the sky once more. Dark and light forever changed. Dawn the gateway to waking, and dusk the door to sleeping. All the world about her was trying to come to grips with the balance. Wondering what to make of the pale orb that waxed and waned in the new night sky. But Ashlinn knew they’d soon remember. He was rising, now the sun had fallen. Anais ascending his dark throne, the stars glittering like diamonds and steel all about him. He was beautiful, she had to admit. Casting a glittering light across the lake, turning all to quicksilver. But it struck Ashlinn as sad somehow, to watch him burning up there by himself. He was alone, just like she was. She didn’t know how to die. Didn’t even know if she could. She’d followed Tric’s directions, treading the path he’d already torn with his bare hands, his farewell kiss still burning on her brow. Her fingertips forever blacked from clawing her way through, her skin forever paled from that lightless path, her breath forever stolen by the endless dark. She had no regrets—she’d promised to kill the sky to be the one standing by Mia in the end. And looking to the Moon above, the swiftly turning night, she supposed in some strange way, she had. But Ashlinn had never stopped to wonder what she’d be when it was over. Or how she might endure forever without her.
“Mia.” The name was a prayer on her lips. A kiss to alabaster skin. A question without an answer. Because what had become of her? Where was she now? Curled up warm beside the Hearth with those she cherished while Ashlinn lingered here, ageless, deathless, loveless? Wandering with divinities on some empyrean shore? Or had she simply been annihilated, consumed with all those other fragments so that the Night might regain her crown, and the Moon reclaim his throne? An immortality alone didn’t seem a fair tithe to pay for that. And yet she’d pay it all again. Because it seemed if she tried hard enough, Ash could still taste her. Salt and honey. Iron and blood. Running the tip of her tongue along her lips. Breathing it in and sighing it out. Looking out over the smooth expanse of silver beneath the Moon’s unblinking gaze and thanking whatever god or goddess or twist of fate had brought that girl into her life. If only briefly. Mia. And then, across the silver, she saw a figure. Walking on water so still it was like polished stone, like glass, like ice beneath her bare feet. She was pale and she was beautiful, draped in a gown made of shadows. Her scars were healed, her brand gone, the marks of her trials vanished like smoke. Long black hair streamed about her bare shoulders, her kohled eyes deep as the hole she’d filled inside Ashlinn’s chest. “Mia?” she asked, not daring to hope. Ash’s eyes were wide as she took a halting step out into the water. Ripples shimmered across the silver, and Ash feared Mia might be dispelled like an illusion, a fever dream, some desperate mirage born of impossible hope. But her girl walked on, across the glass, close enough now to see the black of her eyes, the curl of her lips. And then Mia was in her arms, her flesh as pale and real as Ashlinn’s own. Their bones colliding, their bodies entwined. She’d thought Mia’s eyes were just empty darkness, but this close, this dangerously, wonderfully close, she could see they were filled with tiny sparks of light, like stars strewn across the curtains of night above. Just like hers. Beautiful.
They kissed. Sweet as clove cigarillos. Deep as midnight. A kiss that spoke of blood spilled and battles won, of reborn moons and blinded suns, of the dark within and the light without and the shadows of the past burned away in the glow of the new dawn. They kissed like it was the first time, like it was supposed to be, like nothing, not gods or goddesses or flames or storms or oceans would ever come between them again. Their lips parted, their brows pressed together, their noses brushing against one another, ticklish. Staring into each other’s deathless eyes and understanding the meaning of Always. “How?” Ashlinn whispered. Mia’s shadow stirred, and a shape melted onto the dark shore beside them. Looking to the orb of silver above their heads with its not-eyes. It wore the shape of a cat, though truthfully, it was nothing close to a cat at all. “… one tithe remained…,” it whispered. “… now repaid…” Ashlinn sobbed. Mia smiled. They kissed again, black tears on their lips. “I love you, Mia.” “I love you, too.” All was silence about them, perfect and whole and deep. And they sat side by side on the shoreline’s gentle curve and watched Anais rise higher in the sky. Arm in arm, skin to skin, alabaster and onyx and gold. Two girls beneath one moon, one sun, one night, one heart. All and everything in balance. “… beautiful…,” the not-cat sighed. The hollyhock and sunsbell were so thick, the whole valley smelled like perfume. The lake was so still, it was like a mirror to the sky. “I’m going to be with you forever,” Mia whispered. “Just forever?” Ashlinn murmured. Mia smiled in the silver light. “Forever and ever.”
DICTA ULTIMA The deed is done. The war is won. And at the last, gentlefriend, her song is sung. I suppose you can say you know her now, at least as well as I did. The ugly parts and the selfish parts and the everything in between. A girl some called Pale Daughter. Or Kingmaker. A Queen of Scoundrels. A Lady of Blades. I like little Crow best of all. A girl who never knelt, who never broke, who never, ever allowed fear to be her fate. A girl I loved as much as you did. Look now upon the ruins in her wake. As pale light glitters on the waters that drank a city of bridges and bones, and a Republic’s ashes dance in the dark above your head. Stare mute at the broken sky and taste the iron on your tongue and listen as lonely winds whisper her name as if they knew her, too. I gave you all I promised, gentlefriend. I gave it to you in spades. And if her death didn’t unfold in the way you dreaded, I hope you’ll not name me liar for it. She did die, just as I said she would. But even the Moon loved our girl too much to let her die for long. The ink is drying upon the page. The tale is ending before your eyes. And if you feel some sorrow at this, our last farewell, know your narrator feels it, too. We are not made more by the stories we read, but by the stories we share. And in this, in her, I think we’ve shared more than most. I shall miss it when it’s gone. But to live in the hearts of those we leave behind is to never die. And to burn in the memories of our friends is to never say goodbye. So let me say this instead.
Goodnight, gentlefriend. Goodnight. Never flinch. Never fear. And never, ever forget.
FIN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thanks as deep as the Dark to the following: Amanda, Pete, Jennifer, Paul, Joseph, Hector, Young, Steven, Justin, Rafal, Cheryl, Martin, Bethany, and all at St. Martin’s Press; Natasha, Jack, Katie, Emma, Jaime, Dom, and all at Harper Voyager UK; Rochelle, Alice, Sarah, Andrea, and all at Harper Australia; Mia, Matt, LT, Josh, Tracey, Samantha, Stefanie, Steven, Steve, Jason, Kerby, Megasaurus, Virginia, Vilma, Marc, Molly, Tovo, Orrsome, Tsana, Lewis, Shaheen, Soraya, Amie, Jessie, Cat, all my ladies in the Bitch Posse, Ursula, Andrea, Tori, Caz, Piéra, Nan Fe, Lesya, Iryna, Mona, Niru, TJ, Morgana, Cira, Holly, Rin, Zach, Daphne, Marie, Nael, Marc, Tina, Maxim, Zara, Ben, Clare, Jim, Weez, Sam, Eli, Rafe, AmberLouise, Caro, Melanie, Barbara, Judith, Rose, Tracy, Aline, Louise, Adele, Jordi, Kylie, Joe, Julius, Antony, Antonio, Emily, Robin, Drew, William, China, David, Aaron, Terry (RIP), Douglas (RIP), George, Margaret, Tracy, Ian, Steve, Gary, Mark, Tim, Matt, George, Ludovico, Ronnie, Chris, Antony, Briton, Philip, Randy, Oli, Maynard, Pete (RIP), Marcus, Tom (RIP), Trent, Winston, Tony, Kath, Kylie, Nicole, Kurt, Jack, Max, Poppy, and every reader, blogger, vlogger, bookstagrammer, and bookpimp who helped spread the word about this series. These books are what they are because of you. I love you, stabbykids. This book was written all over the world, from New York to Zurich, LA to Sydney. But at least half of it was written in the city of Venice. Wandering those windswept streets and walking alongside those winter canals, I discovered the story Darkdawn would become. I’ll owe the people and city of Venezia a debt forever, but special mention must go to Ola, the incredible folks at Sullaluna for their daily hospitality, the wonderful
signore del caffè at Caffè del Doge, and the staff at Torrefazione Cannaregio and L’Angolo della Pizza for helping me not starve to death. Lastly, I have to thank you, my amazing readers. This series, more than any other I’ve worked on, has resonated with people in a way I’m still coming to grips with. It’s humbling and it’s astounding and I’ll be eternally grateful for the way you’ve embraced my murderous little bitch of a daughter. Thank you for your letters. Thank you for your art. Thank you for your tattoos and your stories and your passion. Thank you for letting Mia into your heads and your hearts. I hope, in some small way, she helps. The dream I live is because of you. The life I have is because of you. I’ll never forget it. JK
ALSO BY JAY KRISTOFF Nevernight Godsgrave Aurora Rising (with Amie Kaufman) Lifel1k3 Dev1at3 Illuminae (with Amie Kaufman) Gemina (with Amie Kaufman) Obsidio (with Amie Kaufman) Stormdancer Kinslayer Endsinger The Last Stormdancer
ABOUT THE AUTHOR JAY KRISTOFF is the New York Times and internationally bestselling author of The Lotus War, The Illuminae Files, the Aurora Rising series and The Nevernight Chronicle. He is the winner of six Aurealis Awards and an ABIA, a nominee for the Locus Award and the David Gemmell Morningstar and Legend Awards, has been named multiple times in the Kirkus and Amazon Best Teen Books lists, and his books have been published in more than thirty-five countries, most of which he has never visited. He is as surprised about all of this as you are. He is six foot seven and has approximately 12,015 days to live. He abides in Melbourne with his secret agent kung-fu assassin wife and the world’s laziest Jack Russell. He does not believe in happy endings. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS Title Page Copyright Notice Dedication Maps Dramatis Personae Epigraph Book 1: The Dark Within Chapter 1. Brother Chapter 2. Boneyards Chapter 3. Ember Chapter 4. Gift Chapter 5. Epiphanies Chapter 6. Imperator Chapter 7. Be Chapter 8. Scoundrel Chapter 9. Slumber Book 2: Dying Light Chapter 10. Infidelity Chapter 11. Incendiary Chapter 12. Veritas Chapter 13. Conspiracy Chapter 14. Reunions Chapter 15. Finesse
Chapter 16. Tempest Chapter 17. Departures Chapter 18. Tales Chapter 19. Quiet Book 3: A House Of Wolves Chapter 20. Sunder Chapter 21. Amai Chapter 22. Vipers Chapter 23. War Chapter 24. Majesty Chapter 25. Heritance Chapter 26. Promises Chapter 27. Feed Chapter 28. Hatred Chapter 29. Standing Book 4: The Ashes of Empires Chapter 30. Could Chapter 31. Was Chapter 32. Is Chapter 33. Wellspring Chapter 34. Ribbons Chapter 35. Ashes Chapter 36. Baptism Chapter 37. Away Chapter 38. Momentum Chapter 39. Fathomless Book 5: She Wore The Night Chapter 40. Fate Chapter 41. Anything Chapter 42. Carnivalé Chapter 43. Crimson Chapter 44. Daughter
Chapter 45. Lover Chapter 46. Father Chapter 47. All Chapter 48. Tithe Chapter 49. Silence Chapter 50. Silver Dicta Ultima Acknowledgments Also by Jay Kristoff About the Author Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group DARKDAWN. Copyright © 2019 by Neverafter PTY LTD. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271. Maps by Virginia Allyn www.stmartins.com The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request. ISBN 978-1-250-07304-4 (hardcover) ISBN 978-1-4668-8505-9 (ebook) eISBN 9781466885059 Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected]. First Edition: September 2019
* Teenage hormones, gentlefriends. Quite something, neh?
* Of the three breeds of drake found in Itreyan waters—White, Saber, and Storm—the stormdrake is by far the stupidest. The beasts eat virtually anything that will fit inside their mouths, including fellow stormdrakes and their own young. A complete list of oddities found in stormdrake bellies is kept in the zoology archives of the Iron Collegium, and includes, in no particular order: a full suit of plate armor a leather chaise lounge a six-foot-long timber saw an entire family of (presumably enraged) porcupines This habit of eating anything vaguely interesting has earned them the moniker “sewers of the sea” among Itreyan fishermen, since upon catching one and cutting it open, you’re likely to find all kinds of strange … Well, yes. You get the idea.
* Four foot, three inches.
* As you might recall, gentlefriends, even the murderous bastards of the Red Church operate under a code of sorts, known as the Red Promise. Its five tenets are thus: Inevitability—no offering undertaken in the history of the Church has ever gone unfulfilled. Sanctity—a current employer of the Church may not be chosen as a target of the Church. Secrecy—the Church does not discuss the identity of its employers. Fidelity—a Blade will only serve one employer at a time. Hierarchy—all offerings must be approved by the Lord/Lady of Blades or Revered Father/Mother. It should be noted that, since its inception, the Red Promise has never been broken by a Church Blade. The cultists of Our Lady of Blessed Murder consider it Very Serious Business, and will go to extraordinary lengths to see it remain inviolate. One famous tale of dedication speaks of a Blade known only as Forde, employed to murder Agvald III, king of Vaan. Agvald was far fonder of excess than running his kingdom, and after a lengthy session of passing the hat, his nobles managed to scrape together the coin necessary to have him professionally done in. And so, on the nevernight of the king’s thirtieth birthturn, Forde infiltrated the king’s bedchambers and waited there in the dark for her quarry. Agvald had decided to celebrate his thirtieth year in style. After an extended session of drinking with his court, the king retired to his boudoir with six concubines and an entire suckling pig. During the debauchery that followed, Agvald attempted to eat a rack of ribs whilst being serviced by three of his favorites simultaneously. Sadly, the feat required rather more coordination than anticipated, and unlike his concubines, the good king inhaled when he should have swallowed. Agvald toppled to the floor, clutching his throat and slowly turning blue. But as the royal concubines watched in amazement, Forde appeared from the shadows and proceeded to pound upon the king’s back until the offending rib bone was coughed clean across the bedchamber. Forde offered the grateful king a cup of water, soothed his ruffled nerves. And once the sovereign was adequately calmed, the Blade proceeded to stab Agvald six times in the heart and cut his throat from ear to ear. “Why?” cried one of the horrified concubines. “Why save his life only to kill him?” The Blade glanced to the pig’s rib and shrugged. “The promise was mine.”
* You will recall that the servants of Our Lady of Blessed Murder are divided into two main categories—Blades, who serve as her assassins in the Republic, and Hands, who do almost everything else. Though many join the order of the Dark Mother with aspirations to do bloody murder in her name, very few have the unique blend of skill, callousness, and lunacy necessary to become professional killers. Most folk who join the Church actually end up assisting in logistics and administration, which isn’t very romantic, and hardly the stuff of sweeping epics of high fantasy. But the average life expectancy of a Blade is around twenty-five years, where most Hands live until well past retirement. Would you rather have books written about you, or live long enough to read books about others, gentlefriends? We seldom get to do both.
* In Itreyan folklore, the dead were once sent to the keeping of Niah and held forever in her loving embrace. But after the Mother’s fall from grace, it was deemed that Niah’s daughter Keph would take care of the righteous dead instead. Tsana, Goddess of Fire, created a mighty hearth in Keph’s domain to keep the dead warm. And there they dwell in light and happiness, until the ending to the world. Wicked souls, however, are said to be denied a place by the fire. Known as the Hearthless, they are common figures in Itreyan folklore, blamed for almost everything that goes wrong in ordinary life. Sheep goes missing? Must’ve been the Hearthless. Can’t find your keys? Bloody Hearthless. Last sugarcake got eaten? It wasn’t me, love, it was the Hearthless! Why people insist on blaming the supernatural instead of owning up to their own bullshit is one of life’s great mysteries. Still, they make for good spook stories.
* Gravebone is a curious material, found in only one place in all the Republic—the Ribs and Spine at the heart of Godsgrave. It is light as wood, yet harder than steel, and the secrets of working it are lost—or at least tightly guarded by the Iron Collegium. Even if an enterprising thief had the tools to chisel off a chunk, defacing any part of the Ribs or Spine is a crime punishable by crucifixion. Gravebone weapons and armor are highly prized as a result. But possession of any item made of the wondrous substance is a sign of prestige and wealth, and the Itreyan nobility were infamous hoarders of the stuff. Before the rebellion that killed her husband, Queen Isabella, wife of Francisco XV, was an ardent collector of gravebone curios—it was said she was amassing the baubles in the hopes of opening a museum for “the little people,” as she so fondly termed Godsgrave’s citizens. Her collection of gravebone trinkets included letter openers, shoehorns, teething rings, a multitude of hairbrushes, combs, and pins, a seventy-four-piece dinner set, and a dozen “marital aids” commissioned by at least seven different Itreyan queens. And who said money can’t buy happiness.
* It did not. All plans for an illustrated second edition of The Definitive Guide were scrapped after Fiorlini’s wife absconded with the profits from the first edition, along with their Liisian houseboy, Lorenzo, and their dog, Teacakes.
* The harbormaster of Godsgrave is one of the most powerful titles in the entire city. Many years back, the role was appointed by the city’s administratii, but the profits generated by controlling what comes in and out of the ’Grave by sea didn’t escape the notice of the local braavi—the thieves, extortionists, and thugs that constitute Godsgrave’s organized criminal element. Murder was rife, and harbormasters were dropping faster than a groom’s pantaloons on his wedding eve. It was Julius Scaeva who suggested the gangs themselves be allowed to appoint the role—a stroke of political genius that earned him favor with the city’s merchants (who just wanted their bloody shipments to arrive on time), the braavi (who were getting rather tired of having to neck a new harbormaster every few weeks), and the administratii (who were, by that stage, having trouble finding anyone fucking stupid enough to take the job). After discussion among the gangs, the new harbormaster was appointed, the murders stopped, and everyone settled back to the business of making barrowloads of money— including Julius Scaeva, who had, in a further stroke of genius, decided the harbormaster’s office should pay a one percent tithe of all profits to the consul’s chair. You have to admire the bastard’s testicles, don’t you?
* The Sorority of Flame is an offshoot of Aa’s ministry, venerating Tsana, the Lady of Flame. Consisting entirely of women, those of the order take vows of chastity, humility, poverty, and sobriety, and generally spend their lives in chaste contemplation inside walled temples. It should be noted however, that in addition to being a patron of women, Lady Tsana is also patron to warriors, and that along with arts such as illumination, herbalism, and midwifery, sisters of the sorority are schooled in the arts of bow, shield, and sword. It’s not only for reasons of chastity that the sisterhood is not to be fucked with, gentlefriends.
* Two copper beggars at an average dockside whorehouse, with an ale thrown in if the publican is feeling generous. Self-care, gentlefriends. Self-care.
* Chartum liberii are the focus of any slave’s existence in the Republic of Itreya. Also known as “redsheets” for the scarlet parchment they are scribed upon, they signify that the bearer has, through dint of self-purchase, a merciful master, or governmental edict, earned their freedom. Almost impossible to forge thanks to the arkemical processes of the Iron Collegium, redsheets are an incredibly valuable commodity. A flourishing black market has arisen around their acquisition and resale, and clever purveyors of redsheets can expect to become very rich very quickly. Less clever purveyors can expect to be sold into slavery for life, along with their relatives, friends, colleagues, familia, pets, and people who owe them money. The entire Republic runs on the oil of slavery, after all. If you fuck with the system, gentlefriends, be prepared for the system to fuck you back.
† Five, it turns out. Six if you count the one riding his back.
* Built by King Francisco III to entertain his many mistresses (and hide his dalliances from his bride, Annalise), the garden mazes of Whitekeep are one of the city’s treasures. The mazes extend for twisting miles, and in the years since the monarchy’s fall, have become a common place for lovers to meet and bang like shithouse doors in the wind. One infamous Minister of Aa’s church, Marcus Suitonius, attempted a foray into the Senate on a platform of “moral reformation.” Complaining loudly that “one can hardly throw a rock in the mazes without killing a fornicator,” he vowed to put an end to the amours being so energetically conducted there. Sadly, his campaign for a “return to family values” came to a groaning halt when he was discovered buggering a sweetboy in the very mazes he proposed to clean up, and to this turn, they remain a sanctuary where every citizen of the Republic is free to fuck their tiny brains out with a partner of their choosing. Ah, romance.
* Arkemist’s salt is a solidified variant of the fuel that powers many of the wondrous devices in the Republic, such as War Walkers and the great mekwerks beneath the Republic’s arenas, as well as mundane items like flintboxes and arkemical lanterns. The fuel is reduced to a solid state by dangerous processes, and the salt itself is highly volatile—its production is outlawed outside the Iron Collegium. However, its yield per pound is five times higher than liquid fuel, which means smugglers have the option of earning five times the profit if they’re willing to risk hauling a bomb in their bellies. One famous incident concerns a ship called the Iron Codger, which had been badly loaded with forty tons of arkemist’s salt in Dawnspear harbor. The nevernight before the ship was due to set out, one drunken sailor desperately in need of a tobacco fix decided to defy his captain’s strict “no fucking smoking” policy by ducking down to the hold for a quick ’rillo. The resulting explosion was heard all the way up in Stormwatch. Even in seaside taverna today, one can hear the words “lighting the Codger” used to describe a particularly marvelous fuckup.
* This always struck me as a peculiar turn of phrase, truth told. While a donkey’s accoutrements might be of particularly impressive scope to an average littleman, according to annals in the zoology department of the Iron Collegium, a donkey’s proportions simply pale in comparison to some of the other denizens of the Itreyan animal kingdom. The whitedrake, for example, Itreya’s largest ocean predator, has an average body length of twenty-five feet, and their harpoons of love can measure almost three feet long—a ratio of 10:1. Liisian blackbulls stand near seven feet tall, with a chief of staff that can measure over three and a half, a ratio of near 2:1. (Interesting fact—when slaughtering their unneeded male calves, Liisian farmers often save the penises, dry them out, and feed them to their dogs—a treat known as a “bully stick.”) The image of the flayer squid, a hooked horror that roams the Sea of Stars, can be made all the more horrifying with the knowledge that its babymaker is as long as its entire body (and yes, hooked, to boot). But the clear winner in this struggle of the ages, the sovereign of swords, the capan de phalli capanni, as it were, is none other than the humble barnacle, whose undersea admiral can extend to fifty times the length of its body. To put things in proportion, that would be the equivalent of a six-foot man with a threehundred-foot phallus. Thank your gods, ladies and gentlefriends. Thank your fucking gods.
* In actual fact, it doesn’t. Like most occupations in the Republic, piracy is a highly regulated affair. The Itreyan navy is part of an impressive military machine, gentlefriends, and could crush any individual privateer with ease. But the Four Seas are very big places, and being in all of those places at once is somewhat tricky. Truth is, gentlefriends, no matter what you have, there’s always some bastard out there who’s looking to pinch it. And this is especially true of fellows with a penchant for drinking grog, wearing eyepatches, and ending each sentence with the word “matey.” Since the Battle of Seawall, the idea of working together has sat rather comfortably with Itreya’s freebooter population, but it was quickly realized that governance by anarchy among a pack of thieving pricks simply wasn’t going to work. Give everyone a platform, and everyone will think they’re entitled to voice their opinion, and yes, while everyone’s technically entitled to an opinion, everyone’s also technically entitled to take a shit once a day, but that doesn’t mean I want to hear about it. Monarchy, strangely enough, was discovered to be the solution. And not monarchy in a “pomp and pageantry” kind of way, more monarchy in an “I am king and these fellows agree, so you will do what I say or you and everyone you ever loved will be cut into pieces and fed to the drakes” sort of way. But with a centralized authority came a neat arrangement with the Itreyan navy. The navy accepted that a certain number of ships would be plundered each year, so long as the pirates agreed that, should this quota be exceeded, they would police their own and save the navy the trouble of hunting all Four Seas for the offenders. Sounds a sensible solution to me, matey.
* Sunsteel is the traditional weapon of the Luminatii Legion, issued to anyone ranking Second Spear or higher. The secrets of its production are tightly guarded, and Luminatii smiths must serve the legion faithfully for twenty years before being taught the art. In theory, only the most devout of Aa’s legion can ignite the steel, but truthfully, not every member of the Luminatii is a humorless god-bothering fool. Were you considering joining the legion, gentlefriends, there’s no end of fun can be had with a sword that bursts into flame upon command. Just don’t let your superior officers catch you using it to dry your laundry or light a dona’s cigarillo, and you’ll be fine.
* All jesting aside, Einar “the Tanner” Valdyr, Blackwolf of Vaan, Scourge of the Four Seas, is the 107th king to sit upon the Throne of Scoundrels, and without a doubt, one of most brutal bastards in the history of the Itreyan Republic. His first murder, that of his older brother, Hakon, was committed with a frying pan at the tender age of twelve, though it should be noted he hideously maimed his younger brother, Jari, at age ten by throwing him to a pack of dogs. He also reportedly beheaded his father on the same turn he cut out his mother’s tongue, though the only man to ever seek confirmation of the rumor, his former first mate, Oluf Dahlman, was kept alive through three months of nearconstant torture (Valdyr would drag him out at revels and beat him with hot chains for the “amusement” of his guests), and no one has dared to ask about it since. Valdyr was sold into slavery at age sixteen and fought undefeated for two years in the gladiatii circuits around Vaan for the Wolves of Tacitus, where he first earned the name “Blackwolf.” Valdyr was on his way to compete in the Venatus Magni in the keeping of Tacitus’s son, Augustus, when their ship was attacked by a Liisian privateer named Giancarli. Valdyr killed seventeen of Giancarli’s men during the attack, impressing the pirate so much that he offered the slave a berth on his crew. Valdyr agreed, slitting his former master’s throat and reputedly fucking the wound while Augustus drowned in his own blood. You read that right. Within twelve months, Valdyr had murdered Giancarli and taken over the man’s ship. He earned early infamy by sinking three Itreyan navy triremes, and fostered a reputation as a bloodthirsty combatant who favored boarding actions over cannon. It was around this time he began flaying the faces off the captains he killed, sewing them into a leather greatcoat that is now reportedly so long, he needs train-bearers to follow him wherever he walks. This habit earned Valdyr his second moniker, “the Tanner.” Within five years of taking up piracy, and at the ripe old age of twenty-three, Valdyr murdered the 106th king to sit on the Throne of Scoundrels, Saltspitter of the Seaspear clan, and claimed the title for himself. He has ruled Itreya’s pirates undisputed for the past five years. The mere sight of his ebon-sailed ship, the Black Banshee, is enough to make the average merchantman shit his lower intestines, and recent estimates put his personal death toll somewhere in the vicinity of 423 men, women, and children. Apologies, gentlefriends, I know I usually try to inject some humor into these footnotes. But believe me when I say this bastard is no laughing matter whatso-fucking-ever.
* Yes, I know that’s only three. Use your imagination, smartarse.
* One of the most successful taverna in Liis and indeed, the entire Itreyan Republic. The Pub’s original owner, “Red” Giovanni, was a privateer who sensibly spent his ill-gotten gains on establishing the drinkhouse (rather than wasting it in someone else’s drinkhouse) back when Amai was still two rotten jetties and a lean-to stable. He’s also credited in the annals of the Iron Collegium as a genius behind the greatest marketing campaign of all time. Giovanni stumbled across the idea that you didn’t need dancing girls or good ale or fine decor to beat out the competition—you simply needed a name that even the most piss-addled, bowlegged, slack-jawed inebriate couldn’t forget. When in doubt, keep it simple, stupid.
* An alehouse classic known as “The Hunter’s Horn,” in which a poacher named Ernio learns several lessons from various young ladies about the value of possessing of an enormous … O, never mind.
* In which Ernio learns that blowing one’s own horn is almost entirely … O, never mind.
* Guaranteed to make you smile from ear to ear, gentlefriends!
* Autoerotic asphyxiation, in case you were wondering.
* Blacksteel, also known as ironfoe, was a wondrous metal created by Ashkahi sorcerii before the fall of their empire. The metal was said to be forged from fragments of the stars themselves, which could sometimes be seen tumbling from the night skies above the empire. Wily sorcerii hunted down these star fragments and forged the metals they contained into peerless weapons. Blacksteel never grew dull or rusted and could be sharpened to an impossible edge. Even a fragment of the material was worth a living fortune—pound for pound it was far more valuable even than gravebone. How Mouser got hold of an entire sword made out of the stuff is anyone’s guess, but if I were the gambling sort, I’d wager he wouldn’t be able to produce a bill of sale.
* The final volume in the extraordinarily popular and fabulously licentious Six Roses series, which chronicles the life, times, and jaw-dropping bedroom antics of six courtesans in the court of Francisco X. The series was biographical and named many high-ranking members of court along with the king himself. So explosively titillating were the contents (Cardinal Ludovico Albretti was said to have suffered heart failure reading the climactic bordello scene in volume three), publication of the fifth volume caused a major riot in the streets of Godsgrave. The series was declared illegal by Aa’s ministry and, under pressure from his queen, Ilse, the king agreed to ban it—though it should be noted Francisco X was actually something of a fan and only outlawed the books under marital duress. The author, Laelia Arrius, was imprisoned for life in the Philosopher’s Stone and sadly never completed the series, hence the presence of the final volume in the library of the dead. I’ve only skimmed them, myself. The politics are rather silly. The smut is top-shelf, though.