2

Sadie was drunk that night. Far too drunk to make it back to her bed. But she couldn’t stay where she was either.

“Closing down the bar, Sadie,” said Bracers Madge.

Sadie looked up at Madge, struggling to keep the double vision at bay. Bracers Madge was the bouncer and order-keeper of the Drowned Rat Tavern. She was over six feet tall and got the nickname Bracers because she was so large, she had to wear suspenders to keep her skirts up. Madge was one of the most feared and respected persons in the slums of New Laven. It was known throughout Paradise Circle, Silverback, and Hammer Point that she kept order in her tavern. Anyone foolish or reckless enough to cause trouble would have their ear torn off and would be barred from the tavern and marked with shame for the rest of their life. Madge kept her collection of ears in little pickling jars behind the bar.

“Sadie,” said Madge. “Time to go.”

Sadie nodded and lurched to her feet.

“You got a place to stay?” asked Madge.

Sadie waved her hand as she dragged her feet across the sawdust floor. “I can take care of myself.”

Madge shrugged and started putting chairs up on tables.

Sadie stumbled out of the Drowned Rat. She scanned the block for anyone she knew who might put her up for the night, squinting in the dim light of the flickering street lamps. But the street was practically empty, which meant the police had either just come through or were just about to.

“Piss’ell,” she cursed, scratching at her dirty, matted hair.

She shuffled down the street a ways until she caught sight of the plain wooden sign for an inn called the Sailor’s Mother. It was a notorious crimp house. But she was Sadie the Goat, known in Paradise Circle, Silverback, and Hammer Point as one of the most accomplished thieves, mercenaries, and artists of mayhem currently breathing. She had a rep. Nobody was stupid enough to southend her.

She wove her way unsteadily into the inn, where she ordered a room for the night. The innkeeper, a thin, pouchy gaf named Backus, eyed her speculatively.

“And no funny business,” she said, poking her finger on his forehead hard enough to leave a mark.

“Naturally not.” Backus smiled a thin, pouchy smile. “I’ll take care of you myself. Wouldn’t want no…misunderstandings, right?”

“Sunny,” said Sadie. “Lead on, then, innkeeper.”

Backus took her up broken wooden stairs and down a dingy hallway that echoed with laughter, sobs, and some bastard playing his fiddle at this ungodly hour. Backus unlocked the last door on the left, and Sadie shoved past him toward the filthy mattress that lay on the ground.

“Want I should get you a nightcap?” asked Backus.

“That’d be real sunny, Backus,” said Sadie. “Maybe I had you figured wrong.”

“I’m willing to bet you did,” said Backus, giving the smile again.

Sadie dropped to the mattress, not bothering to take off skirts, boots, or knives. She watched the cracked ceiling spin unpleasantly for a few minutes until Backus returned with a cold mug of something nice.

Had she not been so drunk, she would have smelled the traces of black rose before she’d even had a sip. But as it was, she downed the whole thing in one go, and a few minutes later everything went dark.

*  *  *

When Sadie woke up, she wasn’t on a mattress in a flophouse anymore. She was lying facedown on a wooden deck. It took her a second to realize that the deck was rocking back and forth. A small shaft of sunlight came in through a round portal that brightened things up just enough for her to see that she was in a ship’s cargo hold.

“Piss’ell.” She struggled to stand, but her hands and feet were tied with grimy rope, so the best she could manage was to sit up. She tried to untie her wrists, but it was hard to get a grip at that angle and it was some sailor knot so bewilderingly complex, she didn’t even know where to start.

She leaned back against something that gave a light grunt. She turned and saw a young boy next to her, also tied up. He was ragged and filthy, probably some street urchin that had been picked up same as her.

“Eh, boy.” She poked him hard in the ribs with her boney elbow. “Wake up.”

“Get off, Filler,” the boy muttered. “I ain’t got nothing for you.”

“Stupid,” she said and jabbed him again. “We’ve been pissing southended!”

“What?” The boy’s eyes opened. They were bright red, like rubies. It was the sign of a kid who’d been born to a mother addicted to coral spice. Nasty drug, very hooky and slowly ate the brain right out of your head. Most kids who were born coral-hooked didn’t last past the first month. Sadie figured there must be some hidden mettle in this kid for him to have survived. Hidden, because she sure as piss couldn’t see it now. The boy was blubbering and whining like a whipped puppy, tears falling from red eyes beneath a ragged curtain of brown hair as he cried, “W-w-w-where am I? W-w-w-what happened?”

“I just told you, didn’t I?” said Sadie. “We’ve been southended.”

“W-w-w-what’s that mean?”

“Are you a complete cunt-dropping?” said Sadie. “Never heard of southending? How’d you live on the streets and not know such a thing?”

The boy’s lip quivered like he was starting a fresh bout of the weeps. But he surprised her by drawing in a shaky breath and saying, “I only just landed on the street about a month ago. I don’t know much. So please, lady. Please tell me what’s going on.”

She looked at him and he looked back at her and maybe it was the first sign of soft old age setting in, but rather than laugh or spit, she just sighed. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Rixidenteron.”

“Piss’ell, that’s a mouthful.”

“My mom was a painter. She named me after the great lyrical romantic painter Rixidenteron the Third.”

“She dead then, your mom?”

“Yeah.”

They were quiet for a minute, with only the occasional sniffle from the boy, the wooden creak of the ship, and the gentle hiss as the prow broke the water. They must be sailing at a pretty good clip.

Finally, she said, “So this is the length of it. We’ve been taken aboard a ship bound for the Southern Isles. Press-ganged into service. They’ll let us sit down here awhile and stew, then they’ll come down, maybe bloody us up a bit to let us know they mean business. Then they’ll give us the choice: Join the crew or be declared a stowaway and thrown overboard.”

The boy’s eyes had grown wider and wider until they looked like big red-and-white dinner plates.

“But…” His lip quivered again. “But I can’t swim.”

“That’s the general idea. And even if you could swim, we’d be so far from shore, there’d be no way you could make it that far, even if you managed to escape the sharks and seals.”

“I-I-I don’t want to go to the Southern Isles,” he whimpered. “They say it’s full of monsters and there’s no food and no light and nobody ever comes back, that you can’t come back, that once—you go—you’re trapped there—forever!” His voice was coming out in spasms now as the sobs overwhelmed him.

Sadie had heard just about enough of it. She thought about giving him a nice kick to the head. That would shut him up. And she doubted he’d be much help when she made her escape anyway. He wasn’t even a proper neighborhood wag. He was some artist’s kid, probably suckled at the teat till he was five. How he’d even managed to survive a month on the streets was beyond her.

But he had survived. And didn’t seem to be starving either. So there had to be something going for him. She wondered what it was.

The boy’s sobs had quieted back to sniffles. As much to stop him making that annoying sound as anything else, she said, “So tell me, Rixi-whatever your name is. What was your mom like? What happened to her?”

He gave one last sniffle and wiped his teary red eyes with his shoulder. “You really want to know?”

“Course I do,” she said, nestling her back into a burlap sack of potatoes and making herself as comfortable as she could with her wrists and ankles tied up. It could be hours yet before anyone came down to the cargo hold and she’d be able to make her move. A dreary story of an artist’s son was better than no entertainment at all.

“Okay.” His expression was earnest. “But you got to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“I swear on my father’s purple prick,” said Sadie.

*  *  *

Rixidenteron’s mother, Gulia Pastinas, came from one of the well-to-do families that lived in the north end of New Laven, far away from the grime and violence of Paradise Circle, Silverback, and Hammer Point. She was the second daughter, and pretty enough, but so headstrong and fiercely independent that her father despaired of ever getting her married off. It was frowned upon in the wealthy families to let the women work, which meant he would have to support her.

He was thrilled when she told him that she was joining an artist group down in Silverback. It was fashionable at the time for the children of wealthy families to dabble in bohemian culture. That was all he thought it would be. A nice break from his troublesome baby girl.

But it turned out that she was an immensely talented artist, and that she would not be coming back within a year with her tail between her legs. That, in fact, she would not be coming back at all. First, because she was far too busy being the toast of the downtown New Laven arts community. Later, because she was far too sick to return to him. Not that she would have returned even if she could.

Rixidenteron’s father was a whore, descended from a long line of whores, male and female. It never occurred to him that there was a problem with his profession until he was at a party and met a beautiful, dark-eyed artist who, after talking to him for ten minutes, declared she would rescue him from his life of misery. She was flush from the sale of a new batch of paintings, and bold from a recently acquired coral spice addiction. She took him home that night and insisted that he give up his life in the sex trade. He smiled his soft, warm smile and nodded agreeably, so smitten with her poised charm and fiery passion that he would have done just about anything she’d asked.

So she would paint and he would cook and clean, and for a while, they were happy. Then Rixidenteron was born and everything changed, as it always does when people become parents. Their son was born with the telltale red eyes of a coral addict’s child, and friends told them he wouldn’t last more than a week. But perhaps he did have some hidden strength. Or perhaps it was because his parents spent every waking moment caring for him, doing everything they could think of to keep him alive. They went without food so that they could afford the medicine her sister brought down from the uptown apothecary. It got so bad that Rixidenteron’s father offered to go back to work. But she refused and instead painted so much and so fiercely that her hands were perpetually stained with color. Years later, art critics would call this her finest period.

And Rixidenteron did survive against all odds. When they celebrated his first birthday, they figured the worst was behind them.

Except his mother’s paints contained a jellyfish toxin, harmless in small doses, but it had been seeping into her skin for years now and was beginning to attack her nerves. Between that and the coral addiction, it was increasingly difficult for her to paint. By the time Rixidenteron was two, she could no longer hold a brush steady. Again his father offered to go back to work. Again she refused. Instead, she taught Rixidenteron to paint for her. She had him wear a pair of leather gloves so he wouldn’t suffer the same fate. Then she put him to work. By the time he was four, he could create any image described to him with breathtaking precision. Rixidenteron flicked away at the canvas for hours a day while his mother lay on the battered blue couch in their apartment, trembling hands covering her eyes as she whispered the images in her head. And he would make them real.

He cherished this time they spent together and was proud that he could help his mother, the great painter, with her art. But as time went on, it got harder. Rather than steering her away from the coral spice, Rixidenteron’s illness and her subsequent infirmity pushed her deeper into addiction. By the time he was six, her descriptions were nonsensical, and he was making up most of the images himself. But while he had her dexterity, he did not yet have her vision. And the paintings made that evident. People said she was through.

This time, his father did not ask. He just went back to work. He was older, and life had taken its toll on him. But he was still reasonably handsome and able to make enough money to anonymously buy his love’s paintings. So she continued to think she was supporting her family. Rixidenteron knew the truth, but by the time he’d worked up the courage to tell her, she was too far gone to understand what he was saying. Or so it seemed. He always wondered. Because the night that he told her, she overdosed on coral spice and died.

For a while, Rixidenteron and his father continued to live on in the same way. But by the end of another year, his father had become thin and pale. Rixidenteron didn’t know whether it was illness or the loss of his mother. Either way, his father did not seem interested in getting better.

A week shy of his eighth birthday, Rixidenteron found his father had died in his sleep. He cleaned the shit and blood from his father’s body, burned the bedsheets, then left.

*  *  *

“But how did you live on the streets?” asked Sadie. “How in all hells did you survive when you clearly knew nothing about nothing?”

He shrugged. “I met some other boys, and they let me join them. Because I’m good at taking stuff.”

“What do you mean, good at taking stuff?”

“My hands are quicker than other people’s. Maybe because of all the painting. I don’t know. But taking wallets, watches, and the like is easy for me. They never notice.”

Sadie’s eyes sparkled. “That is a rare and useful gift.” She looked down at the complex knot that held her hands together. “I don’t suppose those hands of yours could work this out.”

“Probably,” he said.

“Even with your own hands tied?”

“I can try,” he said.

“Why don’t you,” she said.

*  *  *

When a sailor finally came down into the hold to check on them, the sun had gone down and only faint moonlight spilled in through the portal. They heard the sailor before they saw him, his boots stumping down the steep wooden steps as he muttered to himself.

“Girls and kids as crew. What a rotten voyage this is shaping up to be.”

He was an older gaf, lots of white mixed in with his greasy black hair and beard. He wore a wool sweater stretched across a vast paunch, and he limped a little. Sadie and the boy were sitting next to each other on the floor, rope visibly wrapped around their wrists. She forced her face to remain blank as the sailor squinted at her with eyes that looked bleary with drink.

“Listen up, you two,” he said. “You’ve been volunteered to work on the crew of this here ship, the Savage Wind. If you follow orders and do just as the captain and I say, you’re free to go when we return to port at New Laven. We might even pay you. If you don’t follow orders, you’ll be flayed within a breath of dying. It’ll be like this.” He slammed his great big slab of a hand into the side of Sadie’s face so hard, her lip split. “Only a lot worse. Do we have an understanding?”

Sadie smiled, letting the blood dribble out the side of her mouth. “Do you know why they call me Sadie the Goat?”

He leaned in close, his breath stinking of grog. “Because of the beard?”

She slammed her forehead into his face. While he gaped at her, blood gushing from his broken nose, she shook off the rope that had been loosely coiled around her wrists, pulled the dagger from his boot, and shoved it up into the soft skin beneath his chin. She slowly twisted, and he convulsed against her, blood spattering her face. Then she jerked the blade, opening a vertical slit in his neck that went all the way down to his collarbone. She pulled out the knife and let the still-shuddering body drop to the ground.

She wiped her face with her sleeve, then leaned over and drew the sailor’s sword.

“Here.” She handed the knife to the boy. “There’s bound to be more of them topside. Most like we’ll need to kill them all.”

The boy stared at the knife, still wet with blood, that lay in his hand.

“Red,” she said. When he didn’t respond, she gave him a swat across the back of his head. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

He blinked stupidly at her.

“Red. That’s your name now. You’re my sidekick. Sunny?”

His eyes grew wide, and he nodded.

“Now, let’s go explain to these gafs how we ain’t interested in being southended.”

It was dark out on the deck, with only a sliver of moon. The sailor who stood watch topside was so surprised to see them that she planted her sword in his eye before he could even say a word. He fell twitching, and it took her a moment to wrench the blade free from his skull. Most of the sailors were drunk or asleep or both. Sadie didn’t care. This was what they deserved. She was no swordsman, so it was all hack and slash as they made their way through the ship. By the time they reached the captain’s quarters, she was breathing hard, her arm ached, and she was covered in the blood of six men. The cabin door was locked, so she pounded on the wood with the pommel of her sword. “Come out, you fish-bellied scum!”

“Sadie!” came Red’s shrill voice.

She turned just in time to see a man in a wide-brimmed hat about ten feet away leveling a pistol at her. But instead of firing, the gun fell from his hand as he clutched the knife handle that protruded from his chest.

Red’s hand was empty. He smiled a bit sheepishly, his ruby eyes glimmering in the moonlight. “I was aiming for the gun.”

Sadie grinned and slapped him on the back. “Well done, Red. I knew you had some mettle under all that artsy softness. Now, let’s turn this tub around. There’s one more gaf back on New Laven who needs it explained to him nice and slow why nobody southends Sadie the Goat.”

*  *  *

Getting the boat back to downtown New Laven was tricky with only Sadie and Red, neither of them knowing what they were doing. But the wind was in their favor and they reached the docks eventually. They probably would have crashed into the docks, but luckily, Sadie knew a few of the wags in port who helped guide them in without sinking themselves or someone else.

Sadie gave the sailors a terse grunt of thanks, then stomped down the docks, her blood-encrusted saber still in hand. Red scurried behind, eager to see how his new hero exacted her revenge.

It was too early in the day for Backus to be working at the Sailor’s Mother, so Sadie headed for the Drowned Rat. When they reached the tavern, she threw the door wide. “Backus! You shifty assworm!”

Backus lifted his thin, pouchy face up from his mug of ale and looked across the tavern. Every patron of the Drowned Rat went quiet, and all eyes bounced from him to Sadie and back again.

“If it ain’t Sadie the Goat.” His calm tone sounded forced. “I didn’t expect to see you again. Too ugly for sailors even, is that it?”

“I’m about to make you a whole lot uglier than I left them.” Then Sadie lifted her sword and charged.

Backus looked at first incredulous. Everybody knew you didn’t start trouble in the Drowned Rat. But as she drew near, his expression turned to terror.

Then Bracers Madge rose up, seemingly out of nowhere, and caught Sadie’s sword arm. She yanked hard enough to lift Sadie off her feet, a snarl on her thick lips. She slammed Sadie’s hand down hard on the nearest table, sending tankards of ale flying and forcing Sadie to let go of the sword.

“You know better’n to start trouble here, Sadie.” Her voice was a throaty growl.

“He’s gotta know!” said Sadie, trying to twist her hand free of Madge’s iron grip. “Everybody’s gotta know they can’t southend Sadie the Goat!”

“I understand you,” said Madge. “But everybody’s got to know, even you, that nobody kills nobody in my bar. Now get the hells out of here.”

Everybody knew that Madge liked Sadie. She was giving her an out right then. Sadie could have taken it, and that would have been the end of it. But she didn’t.

“Not till I show them all!” She lunged toward Backus with sudden strength.

Bracers Madge only grunted, her hand still tight around Sadie’s wrist. She reeled Sadie back in close, grabbed her head with her other hand, leaned down, and with a wet tear and a spurt of blood, bit off Sadie’s ear.

The wail that came from Sadie’s throat was loud enough to rattle the glass behind the bar, as much from rage as it was pain. Sadie clutched at the bleeding side of her head. Madge held the ear between her teeth, along with a tuft of hair that had gotten in the way. Sadie ran out of the bar, choking back the sobs of shame.

All eyes were riveted to Madge as she walked calmly to the bar, took out an empty jar, spit the ear into it, and added it to the rest of her collection.

Red saw Sadie’s bloody sword still on the table. He didn’t know what would happen next, but he knew Sadie would probably need that sword. He sprinted across the tavern, just as Backus was turning toward it. Red snatched it up before Backus could lift a hand. Then he dashed out of the tavern after Sadie.

He found her stumbling back toward the docks. She was cursing and crying as she held the side of her head, blood leaking out from between her fingers.

“What happened?” His voice was shrill.

“I’m through,” she howled. “Sadie the Goat, shamed in front of everybody. Bracers Madge has my ear in her collection and I can never show my face there again.”

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“We?” she snarled. “What do we do?” She looked like she was about to haul off and smack him. But then she stopped and stood there, frowning. “We,” she said again, this time a little quieter. She looked out at the docks. The Savage Wind was still tied up where they’d left her. “We,” she almost whispered. Then she grinned at Red.

“We are entering a new business enterprise, my best wag. Who needs the filth of Paradise Circle, Silverback, or Hammer Point when so many other points of interest lie waiting for us, just begging to be plundered? Sadie the Goat may be through. But Sadie the Pirate Queen is just getting started.”