The Stygian Blades - Now on SoundCloud

Katherine Tarlton is a traveling player on the lam, wanted for the murder of a nobleman’s son, with a five-pound bounty on her head and a habit of pinching things that don’t belong to her. When she’s recruited by a small band of problem-solvers who do “dirty deeds, dirt-cheap, and with decided discretion,” and falls for a working girl they lodge with—who thinks she’s a boy—Kit figures she’s found the perfect place to disappear. Then she lifts a shiny puzzle tube on her first job. Inside is a cipher revealing a plot to assassinate the queen, and possessing it makes the Stygian Blades accessories to treason. Now the conspirators want it back, the queen’s spymaster has the scent—and he might be in on it. They can’t run, can’t inform, and can’t pretend they never opened it. The only way out is to unravel the conspiracy themselves before either side unravels them.

Listen to Act One exclusively on SoundCloud.

Preview

Kit looked up the steep stairs and took a deep breath before climbing them. Once at the top, she hesitated for a good long spell, swallowed the lump in her throat, and then knocked twice, hard.

When there was no answer, she knocked again, harder.

“Swive the Martyrs with a devil’s flaying yard,” Chócht bellowed. “Are you trying to beat the poxed door off its shite-stained hinges?”

“Sorry,” Kit called through the door. “‘Tis Kit… I mean… the lad who ain’t a lad what pinched your purse.”

She heard the scraping of a chair across a wooden floor and heavy boots thumping before the door creaked open like all the damned souls in the void.

The captain filled the doorway, and Kit craned her neck to meet his glare. His left eye twitched.

“I gave Zahra back your purse,” she said.

He stepped aside and ushered her into the attic loft. It was cramped and cluttered, lit only by a lonely guttering lamp, and smelled of stale sweat, bad aqua vitae, and regret. He turned the chair around and straddled it, the wood creaking under his weight, and leaned against the back, indicating the sagging bed with a scarred hand.

“So, Kit, is’t?” he said.

She nodded and sat on the bed, its ropes creaking. “What happens now? Zahra said you were interested in my fingers… but I don’t see why, seeing as you caught me.”

“That I did, but most wouldn’t have noticed. Me, you see”—he tapped his nose with a thick gnarled finger—“I got a knack for catching things that don’t want to be caught.”

“So you’re looking for me to pinch something for you? I’m a player first, purse-cutter second, and never a burglar.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” He pushed up his sleeves, exposing ropy forearms covered with a mess of livid scars, and then reached over to his desk and plucked up a broadside, pursing his lips as he scanned it. Pulling a pair of brass-rimmed spectacles out of his doublet, he put them on and cleared his throat. “‘By the grace of Her Majesty’s justice, a proclamation from the sheriff’s men of Fryhaven, under the command of the Right Honorable Lord Umberlow.’” 

Kit froze and her breath caught as he read on. 

“‘All true subjects, take heed! The base craven wench Katherine Tarlton, a dissembling vagrant, is fled from Elmshenge, having committed the most heinous and unnatural murder of the virtuous Master Richard Percy, heir to the noble Baron of Umberlow—”

She gasped and her hands flew to her face. If he’d died from his wounds it didn’t just mean a flogging and perhaps a long stretch in the gaol anymore—she’d be hanged.

Chócht ignored her. “‘The godly gentleman, struck down in the flower of his youth, was felled by the hand of this wicked, freckled trull, whose soul is stained with blood. Mark her well: the wanton jade hath auburn tresses, green eyes that gleam with devilry, a wan and ghostly countenance, flecked with motes of reddish hue, as if marked by Azhdrael’s own quill, and a lean, scrawny frame, unfit for honest labor. She is known to sport the motley garb of a strolling player, with a tongue honed for deceit.’” Pausing to look her up and down, he snorted and pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose.

Then he tapped the paper. “Now this is where it becomes interesting: ‘Five pounds sterling is offered for the capture of this lewd strumpet, be she taken living or dead. Let no man shelter this foul creature, lest he incur the wrath of the Flayed God and Her Majesty’s law.’ Et cetera, et cetera. It naturally continues on for some length with moralizing rhetoric and calls to civic duty.” He held the broadside out to her. “Not the most flattering depiction, I’d wager you agree.”

She peered at the woodcut of a hideous spotted woman with a bloody cleaver standing over the splayed body of a man. The artist had taken some liberties with her anatomy and dress to make her look the part of an extra wanton and lewd strumpet. 

Kit’s fingers clutched the fabric of her slops with white knuckles and she exhaled slowly as Chócht put the broadside back on the desk and removed his spectacles. 

He pointed to her with them. “Is’t true, Katherine? Did you murder Lord Umberlow’s heir?”

She considered bolting for the door, but doubted she’d make it far. After a long, tense moment she nodded.

“What were the circumstances?” he asked.

She furrowed her brow. Nobody ever cared about that. She was a traveling player, little better than a vagrant, and the randy lout was a lord’s eldest son. She’d hang regardless. 

Chócht simply raised an eyebrow and waited for her to reply.

“‘Twas an accident…” she finally said, a tremor forming in her voice as she recalled the episode. “He made… unwanted advances, and when I protested he became violent.” She cast her eyes about the loft helplessly. “The silverware was under me on the table, so I grabbed a knife and… then I ran. Haven’t stopped running since.”

Chócht grunted in reply.

“What now?” she asked. “You sell me to Lord Umberlow for the noose?” She figured it was best just to get this over with. She’d give him the slip and then…  she didn’t know what then. She’d just keep running.

“I could,” he considered. “Five pounds is a lot of coin for one wicked, freckled trull.”

“I ain’t no trull,” she replied hotly. “I might be wicked and freckled, but I’m still a maid.”

“Truly?” he asked. When she replied with a scowl, he chuckled and held up his hands. “No slight on your virtue intended. That coin’d fill our coffers, aye, but a lass who can nick a purse under my nose’ll earn us tenfold in scarce a dozen moons. So no, I don’t reckon I’m going to sell you to that cankered noble. Incidentally, due to your gender and youth, you’d likely be beheaded, not hanged. But removing your head from your shoulders would be a waste of your talents.” He pointed at her. “But that means you’re indebted to me for five pounds, so I own your scrawny arse now.”

She furrowed her brow. “Like an indenture?”

“Think of it more as an apprenticeship. You’re scrappy, not half-addled in the head, and show promise.” He tapped his nose again. “I can smell potential.”

It could be worse, she supposed. In fact it could be a lot worse. Zahra wasn’t wrong about her odds of surviving on these streets alone.  

“What exactly… do you do?” she asked. 

“Little bit of this, little bit of that.” He waggled a hand. “We’re not picky and we don’t ask questions.”

“So you’re thieves.”

He looked offended. “Nay, we’re no mere rogues or sell-swords, but problem-solvers. A fellowship of uncommon talents, if you will. We do dirty deeds, dirt-cheap, and with decided discretion.” He stood from the chair and cracked his big knuckles. “So, what d’you say? You in?”

Kit eyed him. “Doesn’t sound like I have a choice.”

“That’s the spirit, lass. Then let me be the first to welcome you to the Stygian Blades Mercenary Company.” He strode over and took her hand in a crushing grip, pumping her arm. “You can sleep in the stable loft. Zahra will see to getting you settled.”