112. [Red Tide] Plaything

Red Tide, Enchantress of the 5th Renown, the Reef, a fish out of water

Throne Gazer, Trident Master of the 5th Renown, the Reef, working on his diplomacy

***

10 Clocksend, 61 AW

Aboard the Last Line, a merchant gellezza

20 days until the next Granting

Inside the cavernous trolkin castle in the far north, Red Tide had stumbled into a room filled with nothing but mirrors. She had seen her own reflection there in a warped and smudged pane of glass; seen herself twisted and gnarled, old and spent. Maybe it had been the lingering effects of the frosswiss, but the vision had unsettled her. A blurring of what was true and what was not.

The same queasy unease came upon Red Tide as she stared down the oca’em woman before her.

She wore a flowing black dress stitched with angular patterns, like what the land-walkers wore when they strolled the beaches. The fine fabric dipped off her shoulders playfully, revealing smooth, freckled skin. The white spots traveled up her neck and across her cheeks. The woman was pretty, small-boned and thin, like the dancer in a music box that Red Tide had seen once. She kept her hair unnaturally straight, free of ornaments, neatly brushed down her back.

“Good evening,” the woman said, and dipped into a curtsy. Her eyes widened just slightly at the sight of Red Tide, but that was the only indication. Otherwise, her face was a mask.

Red Tide could not help herself. Her wet feet slapped across the glossy deck of the merchant gellezza as she lunged for the other woman. Somewhat surprisingly, the woman did not flinch. Perhaps she had worked up a tolerance for being jumped upon. Red Tide buried her nose in the woman’s neck and took in a deep, snorting breath. Her soft, speckled skin smelled like cinnamon perfume. She was older than Red Tide, but didn’t look it. At least, Red Tide noted, the woman still had the dolphin Ink upon her throat.

“Look how they've dressed you up,” Red Tide said. “Like a toy.”

“Step back, please,” the woman said, her accent flat as grasslands, but her words tight. Red Tide sensed a shift in her posture, saw the woman reach for a small knife on her hip, and barked a laugh. She snapped her hand around the woman’s upper arm and shook her, resisting the urge to activate her [Poisonous] and watch the courtesan melt.

“You smell like sucked dicks,” Red Tide snarled.

Red Tide enjoyed the flash of fire in the woman’s delicately lined eyes, but by the tides, the urge to slash open her neck still surged through Red Tide like steam without vent. To live upon one of these ships that assaulted the waves with their presence; to dress herself like a lady of the Bay; to make herself desirable for these merchants. Even the beggars who scuttled about the Horizdock had more pride. Here, in the flesh, was the object of every enticing song that Red Tide had used to lure sailors into danger. The way this woman pouted her lips made Red Tide tremble with rage.

“Let go of me,” the woman ordered, again with her discordant land-walker accent. There was no music in her words.

That only made Red Tide squeeze tighter and lean closer, snapping her teeth in front of the woman's upturned nose—and then, Throne Gazer was behind her, his hand shoving through her hair to grab her by the scruff of her neck. He pulled Red Tide away like she'd seen him do with the dogs when they misbehaved on the way back south. Red Tide rounded on him with a growl.

“Enough, Red Tide,” he said, and shoved her back, interposing himself between the two women. He glanced up at the masts towering overhead, the sails pinned, the surrounding deck deserted. “You make too much chaos.”

Red Tide straightened, leered at the woman, but bit her tongue. She tossed her head, the coral bits in her wet braids clicking together.

“What is your name?” Throne Gazer asked the girl.

“They call me Alysetta,” she replied. Her posture remained rigid, but Red Tide could see how her chest moved, the fast rise and fall. The breathing of someone still ready to fight.

“There's no song in that name,” Red Tide snapped.

“Do you want to jump in the ocean together?” The girl twirled her finger like a whirlpool. “Frolic about and hear my naming song?”

“Bay's Plaything,” Red Tide said. “That will be your song. That’s what I’ll call you.”

The woman—Playing, Red Tide had decided—looked up at Throne Gazer, perhaps hunting for some sympathy. He maintained a face of icy detachment and so the woman shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. It doesn't matter.”

“What are you doing here?” Throne Gazer asked her.

“I live here,” Plaything replied.

“What are we doing here?” Red Tide asked Throne Gazer. “Your mother arranged a meeting with this low whore—”

“You are to meet with Clementi Pescetti, domin of the thirteenth family of Merchant's Bay. You stand upon the Last Line, where Domin Clementi is captain.”

Plaything paused as if waiting to be thanked for her hospitality. Or, perhaps, she expected them to ask her permission to board the ship, pretending like they hadn’t already done so. The Bay had their strange traditions. None of that concerned Red Tide. More interesting was the fact that one of the Bay's powerful patrons had an interest in them. The thirteenth. That meant one of the weakest. Well, who else amongst the merchants would seek alliance with the oca’em?

“Joining Domin Clementi is Santini Violetta, champion of Merchant's Bay,” Plaything continued. “Sword master of the eighth renown.”

Red Tide twirled one of her fingers. “Which one are you fucking?”

“Both,” snapped Plaything. She stared at Red Tide, her features tightly controlled. “The older doesn’t know about the younger, so I would appreciate your discretion.”

Red Tide held the other woman’s gaze. Perhaps letting the champions in on her sordid little secret was an attempt at a peace offering, or maybe Plaything only wanted to show them how deeply she’d insinuated herself amongst the merchants. Fine. Red Tide could play her silly game of pretend.

“We won’t… compromise your situation,” Throne Gazer said.

“Good,” Plaything responded, turned, and led them across the deck. Throne Gazer followed close behind, while Red Tide took a moment to spit.

“How did my mother place you here?” Throne Gazer asked.

“Your mother?” Plaything snorted. “She didn’t do anything for me except give me the evil eye when she found me here. It was the domin himself who Deep Dweller recruited.” She glanced over her shoulder. “But don’t worry. At the domin’s table, there’s enough for all of us to eat.”

 Beneath her feet, Red Tide felt the thrum of music and stomping feet. In the decks below, the sailors were partying, dancing with little rhythm to the jangling strings of some land-walker musicians. Plaything led them toward the front of the gellezza, padding across a passageway with the sea on their left and quiet compartments on their right.

“Where are you bringing us?” Red Tide asked.

“The domin opened some casks of wine and gave the crew the night off, to keep us from being observed,” Plaything responded. “We go to the captain’s office. Front of the ship.”

As the bow came into view, the overhead decks gave way to stars and sails. Red Tide could partially see the Last Line’s masthead—a great octopus with tentacles spread, curving and grasping. Beneath the tentacles, a door decorated with woodcarvings of harpooners awaited.

Plaything showed them into the captain's office, a space that might have seemed opulent were it not so cluttered with overflowing bookshelves, pinned maps, and sketches. Red Tide paused in the doorway, reminded again of the trolkin palace filled with decades of spoils. This merchant domin didn't live so different from those northern beasts. Her eyes lingered on a diagram of a fish cut in half, its guts all labeled with words Red Tide had never seen.

“Yes! Come in! Come in!” The excited old man tried to rouse himself from the deep canvas chair he had sunk into, but fell back with a sigh, his swollen ankles flashing above his delicate slippers. The merchant domin reminded Red Tide of a seal—bald, with wrinkled flaps of skin, and unkempt whiskers. His dark eyes twinkled as he sized them up, scooting forward to the edge of his chair though he didn't try to stand again. Red Tide's lips curled back at the thought of someone like this commanding such a powerful ship or running a family—she glanced at Plaything—or laying with an oca’em less than half his age. An embarrassment.

“Deep Dweller sends the prince in waiting, yes?” Clementi squinted. “And the infamous outlaw, if I'm not mistaken? Excellent, excellent.”

“Don't waste your breath with niceties on these two,” Plaything said. She floated across the room like it was hers, leaving Red Tide and Throne Gazer to stand by the door. “They are very rude.”

“Oh,” said Clementi. “Well. A brusque people, I've found. Can't hold it against them. We should offer them a drink, at least, no? Champion?”

Santini Violetta, the merchant champion, stood beyond the desk, at the wheel of the great ship which was positioned beneath a window. He idly tilted the wheel with his pinkie finger, and Red Tide got the sense that perhaps the steering column was decorative. He glanced back at the oca'em, pretending like he hadn't heard them come in. He was handsome for a land-walker, tall and leanly muscled, with a mop of curly black hair and brows that shaded his eyes. He wore a scimitar at his hip, the weapon of those islander fools, not typically something chosen by the more refined people of the Bay.

“The master favors liqueur made from fermented kelp and seaweed,” Santini said with the hint of a smile. He swished his own glass of clear, green-tinted liquid. “You might have more of a taste for it than me.”

Red Tide watched the champion's gold bracelets sway as he moved his hands. His finely tailored shirt fell open, revealing a decent collection of Ink. She got a read on him easily enough. He wasn't some honored child from one of the fourteen families, but a jumped-up swashbuckler that had fought his way into their graces. A younger version of Gucco, then, who hadn’t yet developed the maniac tastes of a longtime killer. The kind of champion that liked his money and hadn't accumulated enough to get bored with fine things and fucking. She smiled at him and he smiled back. The merchant champions that Red Tide had met so far gave her hope. They were the types of men she would find easy to kill.

“Nothing for me,” Throne Gazer said.

“Gods, can't trust a fish that turns down a free drink,” Santini muttered.

“You can pour me something, land-walker,” Red Tide said.

“Ah, well, that brightens this dreary evening,” Santini replied.

She sauntered across the cluttered room to meet the champion at the bar, bumping papers off an end table on the way and not bothering to pick them up. He sized her up while she approached—just like they always did. Then, while he poured Red Tide’s drink, Santini’s eyes shifted to Plaything, as if comparing the two. The other oca’em woman bent over to open a drawer on the domin’s desk, producing a jar of salve.

“You are overdue for your treatment, my domin,” she said.

“Ah—now? While we have such honored company…?”

Clementi’s protests were half-hearted. Plaything sat herself on the arm of his chair, took one of his swollen hands in hers, and began to massage an oyster-scented goo between his fingers. She made a point of making eye contact with Red Tide while she did this. Red Tide swished the liqueur from cheek-to-cheek and made a face like she might throw up.

“My mother indicated some arrangement might be reached between us,” Throne Gazer said with his customary bluntness. “But I do not yet understand why we’re here.”

“He cuts to the chase,” Santini said to Red Tide.

“Best fucking someone does,” Red Tide replied.

The domin cleared his throat. “Do you know the theory of biocenosis?”

Red Tide glanced at Throne Gazer. Neither rushed to answer.

“They are not educated in such matters,” Plaything said, rubbing her thumb against his palm. “You will have to explain.”

“A food chain, yes?” Clementi said, wiggling his drooping whiskers with delight at the prospect of explication. “Whale eats shark. Shark eats porpoise. Porpoise eats salmon. Salmon eats shrimp. Shrimp eats alg-“

“Merchant eats oca’em,” Red Tide said. “That where this is going?”

“No. No, no, no.” Clementi shook his head. “That, my dear, is society. Not natural at all. I am speaking of the ways our ocean works.”

“Our ocean,” Throne Gazer said.

“Yes,” Clementi replied, not understanding the emphasis before continuing on. “Too much salmon? Not enough shrimp. Do you see? There is a balance to things. Biocenosis. Your god made it so, but has allowed us to tinker too much.”

“He’s a fisherman, is what he’s trying to say,” Santini interjected. “And his catches are for shit.”

Clementi nodded vigorously. “Each family in the Bay rose upon a commodity, you see? For the Pescetti, it was the bounty of the sea. Fish, yes, but also pearls, squid ink, tinctures from mosses and coral. The gifts of our ocean are without end, or so my predecessors thought. I have studied patterns. Accountings that stretch back centuries. You would be surprised how much can be learned from good bookkeeping. In short, the adjustments made to our ocean have hindered my commerce. Fewer fish. Less growths. Year after year, worse and getting worse.”

Red Tide thought of the great bulk of a ship around them and of the dedicated currents the Bay had wished into existence—unnatural tides that crisscrossed the ocean like roads, steering their vessels from one port to the next and sending everything around them into disarray.

“Your people made it so,” she said. “Fucked it all up.”

“Yes,” Clementi replied. “Short-sighted. The other families benefit from the ocean only as a means for trade. They did not make their fortunes on the sea’s gifts.”

“Why should we care about your profits?” Throne Gazer asked. “Those were never your gifts to take.”

“Debatable,” Clementi said. “Perhaps, we merchants have been too greedy. Perhaps, you oca’em have been too territorial. A middle ground could be found.” He smiled up at Plaything; she smiled back. “Yes, I have faith that could all be worked out. But first, paramount, is the restoration of the ocean. I have done many studies. Private research. I know how the sea can be made fruitful again.”

“Leviathan,” Red Tide said.

“Yes!” Clementi grinned at her. “Very good. They sat atop the food chain, yes, but they provided other benefits. Important elements, gone for decades. Their excrement alone…”

“Here he goes,” Santini said. “Talking about mythical shits.”

“When we wish them back, it won’t be safe for you on the water,” Red Tide said. “Bad for your business, isn’t it?”

“The ocean isn’t meant to be safe,” Clementi replied. “A net gain for me, a net loss for the other families. Good business.”

Red Tide set down her glass. “So, you want us to have our wish? Plump old-ass cheering us on. Should we feel warm about that?”

“Well-”

“She wants to know how you will help her,” Plaything said. “She hears only what might benefit her.”

Santini leaned against the wall, swirling his drink. “For starters, I won’t kill you.”

Red Tide made a show of sizing up the sword master, much like he had her. She snorted.

“Lucinda Elivo, one of our other champions, she won’t be bothered with you, either,” Santini continued. He pushed a hand through his thick head of hair and sighed. “We have the sunburnt freaks of the desert to deal with. If it’s possible, tell your Quill to set you up far from the Gen’bi. Gucco thinks you will do as he’s asked and help us kill them. Keep your distance, instead. I will stall the smelly bastard. Maybe he even gets killed by the Gen’bi. No great loss, as far as we’re concerned.”

“Alas, Milena Russi won’t be so easily deterred,” Clementi added. “Especially, considering…”

He waved his glistening hand in Red Tide’s direction, as if she knew the rest. The name itched at the back of her brain, but she stared blankly at the domin.

“You killed her brother,” Santini supplied.

“Some say,” Clementi added. “Milena won’t be convinced otherwise.”

By the tides, Juseph Grice-Russi, of course. He was Red Tide’s greatest accomplishment and the crime that got her into this whole mess. The fool merchant conducti who Red Tide had lured into his own demise. His sister would be on the island. But wait—

“Fuck you mean some say?” Red Tide asked.  “I did kill him. Got the scars on my back from the flames his ship gave off.”

Clementi hesitated, as if weighing what to say next. “Do you have much experience with chanic?”

Red Tide had a vial of the crimson gunk stashed with her things, courtesy of the little bitch from Penchenne, but she wouldn’t tell the merchants that. She shrugged.

“Highly unstable, yes, and much we still don’t understand,” Clementi said. “But it does not simply explode. Certainly not from contact with a bit of coral and sea water. I have heard whispers that, unbeknownst to him, Juseph wasn’t transporting chanic at all. Much better, though, to have you as a scapegoat, an oca’em villain, than for the Grice-Russi families to admit their fool son may have been taken in by other unsavory elements. Regardless of the truth, Milena will very much want your head.”

“She might settle for just you,” Santini said with a flick of his fingers. “We could still have our leviathans, then, but…”

Clementi cleared his throat. “As many as possible should be our goal,” he said.

Red Tide swayed slightly, unmoored. The scar tissue on her back felt warm, as did her cheeks. These gods damned land-walkers with their machinations and lies. She could not make sense of them. She did not want to be in this stuffy room any more, with its old man smell, and the dark eyes of Plaything upon her, the woman smirking as she massaged her domin.

“The legendary outlaw…” Plaything snickered. “A beautiful song, at least.”

***

They stayed for another quarter hour. Maybe longer. Red Tide lost track. She felt caught in a net and had to fight the physical urge to shake herself free, to sprout coral between her knuckles and rake the edges across Plaything’s eyes. She found herself focused on the woman as the merchant domin and his servant champion went on about strategies. The Bloodless Executive would hire champions from other cities to hunt the oca’em—ports like Ruchet and Noyega who did business with the Bay and might find a year of more favorable terms worth the trade of some oca’em scalps. She trusted Throne Gazer to take all this in. Let him listen and form their strategy. Red Tide could think only of answering humiliation with murder.

And then, they were outside, the night air warm and salty, the music of the Bay still loud from the underdeck. Red Tide had her feet on the gellezza’s railing before she realized Throne Gazer had a hand on her arm.

“Get off,” she whispered.

He did not. “Their story means nothing, changes nothing,” Throne Gazer said. “You are still the same as you were before. You are still the Red Tide. It doesn’t matter.”

She looked up at him and registered the surprise in his features—surprise at the hot, angry wetness in her eyes.

“It matters,” Red Tide said. “It matters that she knows.”

“Who?”

“What game is your mother playing at?” Red Tide asked sharply. “Did she know?”

Throne Gazer shook his head. He was having a hard time following her thinking.  “About—about Grice-Russi? I doubt—”

“About the whore,” Red Tide jerked her chin back the way they’d come, toward the captain’s office where, as if on cue, Plaything’s laughter rang out. “My sister.”

Throne Gazer blinked. His hand dropped away.

Red Tide dove into dark waters.