11

  Anytime, somewhen, back at the Shop of True Need:

  Kaazin Kylarion was a drow, of sorts. His father had been open to conjecture, his mother a cold and murderous priestess of Loeth. The one, he’d just about made up his mind not to kill. The other was trapped by a curse of the gods and out of his reach. For the moment.

  In the meantime, normal, work-a-day life intruded. The Flying Cloud had a task to perform for the pirate fleet’s shadowy patron. They knew where to go and which ship to pursue, but the Cloud had suffered heavy losses and was still undergoing repairs.

  Kaazin never went into a fight unprepared. Those aboard the Loose Ends had brought down an Imperial flagship packed to the nines with elven mages and warriors, slaying the former emperor. At least one of its crew was a demon, the others most likely as powerful. The Flying Cloud was going to need help facing that kind of trouble. They’d require the aid of its last acknowledged captain, Builder of Cities.

  It was no easy trick to press-gang a god, because Kaazin and “Lord Someday” had history. The ascended construct was unlikely to return out of sheer good-fellowship, or even a sense of adventure. He’d have to be bribed or coerced (then killed, if all went according to plan).

  Thus, the Shop of True Need. Kaazin had traded one of Titania’s perilous cards for a chance to speak to the mech god, with whom he shared a need for blood and revenge. They glared at each other now through the shopkeeper’s portal; neither one speaking, at all. Then,

  “Fine! I’ll go first,” snapped Tess, who’d just sold a bottle of hatred and shame to alter the fate of her family. “You! You’re a god, and we need a boon. I’m guessing you’re trapped in there, some kind of way, but the shop portal gives you a bolt-hole, if you’ll lower yourself to come through.”

  The dark-haired mortal girl stood with her feet braced apart and her fists on her hips. Angry, because anger was easy and safe. She was first mate on the Cloud, and a pirate. Anger was Tess Cullen’s natural state.

  “Up to you, Someday,” chuckled the shopkeeper, rubbing her paper-dry hands together. “I’ve allowed the drow to make contact, and you have fifteen ticks to respond.”

  The mech god nodded, then shifted his gaze in the manner of celestials, making all of them think that they had his complete attention.

  “What is the corpse-fly’s request?” he enquired, in a voice that was elven-musical, with buzzing and sparking undertones.

  Now, Kaazin spoke up, growling,

  “The same as last time, hero. I ask for your aid, this go-round invoking kin-bond and crew-rights.”

  Builder of Cities snorted, sounding not very god-like, at all.

  “I helped you then, in a manner of speaking,” responded the elven construct, who didn’t look like kin, being blond, grey-eyed and not an albino. He flickered back to his Val-self, briefly, a form that Tess recognized.

  “You beat me unconscious and tossed me out through a gate,” corrected the drow, very calmly. “I awoke in an alley behind a tannery, with a broken jaw and five stoven ribs.”

  Builder of Cities shrugged with a tinny clatter of plastic, metal and glass.

  “Bit excessive, I admit, but I had a great deal to convey, and I often stutter when making a point. As Ace would put it: Good times,” he said. Then, hardening up once again, “I acknowledge no kinship nor ties to that vessel of ghosts, drow… but I will hear what you have to say, someplace else.”

  The portal widened, and the shop seemed to open up like a flower, growing extra dimensions. That additional space took the form of a very strange cantina. Something so far removed in time as to make no sense at all to Kaazin or Tess.

  It was dark and noisy there, with some kind of pounding, chaotic music filling the smoky room. Numerous private booths lined the walls. Other tables and chairs simply floated like islands, none of them matching. Mechanical servants zipped through the air, taking orders and ushering very strange customers. The Shop of True Need was still present, as a very thin glimmering line. Of the mech god’s prison, there was no trace at all.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Tess was entranced, nearly breaking her neck looking around at wonders and shocks. Kaazin seemed tense and impatient, seething beneath a veneer of calm. Builder of Cities changed forms once again, manifesting as a tall, blond elf-construct wearing tan breeches, boots, a white shirt and a big leather jacket with patches sewn on. A favorite avatar apparently, and well known to this place, for one of its servers buzzed over to scan him, along with the mortal and drow.

  “My usual,” he said. Then, jerking a thumb at Kaazin and Tess, “Whatever they want, which doesn’t make them my…”

  Too late.

  “I claim guest-right,” said Kaazin triumphantly, adding, “You should have seen that one coming, day-walker.”

  The elf construct glowered but kept moving, passing a glowing sign in the air that read: 101.exe Bar.

  “That is three claims on my aid,” he snapped, leading the way to a booth and taking a seat facing the door. “Kinship, crew and now guest-right. What the drek are you planning to ask for, eternal life? It’s not as good as everyone thinks, dung-fly.”

  Kaazin waited for Tess to thump down across from the cyborg. Then he slid into the booth beside her. A sort of privacy spell came over the wooden-and-leather enclosure, blocking most of the music and crowd noise.

  Food appeared on the table without the bother of ordering. Day-brew in a big, heated mug for the cyborg, shredded, blood-rare dragon steak topped with a raw egg for Kaazin, something deep-fried and dusted with sugar and kelab for Tess. Drinks, too.

  In the manner of elves, no business took place until all of the food was gone. Tess ate with gusto, but she observed a great deal, even so. Setting her fork down, she swallowed a mouthful then washed it down with a big gulp of spice-water. The mech god’s avatar reacted to all of it, not seeming especially pleased.

  “You can taste what we’re eating, can’t you,” she accused him, leaning forward over the table.

  He shrugged.

  “Somewhat, because asking for help is akin to worship, and that leaves you open,” the cyborg admitted. There was a glowing panel beside him which displayed his face and a lot of text that Tess couldn’t read.

  “It isn’t worship,” grunted Kaazin, distracting her efforts to work out what the panel said about Builder of Cities. “Gods are nothing but trouble, you in particular. But the Cloud is going to need its captain for an upcoming job. That’s all I want.”

  “Gods can’t eat regular food?” probed Tess, ignoring the drow. Thought she could make out ‘V’ a number, and ‘Pilot’.

  “It doesn’t taste right anymore, and it will not sustain,” replied the blond elf, slumping a little.

  “What is it you’d want to eat?” asked Tess, hoping to win him over. “I dunno about kinship or timelines… drow-boy gets strange ideas sometimes… but we’re after the bunch that assassinated the emperor. They gotta be powerful, or they wouldn’t have brung down Majesty with all hands and His Nibbs, too.”

  A sudden hand-meal of bread, grilled meat and cheese appeared on the table in front of Tess. She wrinkled her nose, but picked it up and started in, taking an overlarge bite to get the thing over with. Some kind of tangy white sauce was inside, but on the whole, she hated it all.

  Kaazin took over their pitch, sensing an opening.

  “The elvish monarch was my grandfather,” he claimed. “Your twice great grandparent, day-walker. This is a personal matter, as well as good business. The assassins need to be dead. Publicly, with all the sauce we can put on that deed. We have their whereabouts through a recent crew acquisition, a wounded skin-changer. Finding them won’t be the problem.”

  “Need a… finish ‘em… erf,” sputtered Tess, chewing with difficulty. “Stormy’s been… in three fights n’… still unner repairs.”

  Kaazin turned to regard her, icy calm and very intense.

  “You are going to choke, First Officer, and I don’t wish to punch the food back out of you, even if he feels it, too,” said the drow, taking back over. His hard red eyes slid back to the mech god, unwillingly.

  “Three days aboard the Cloud, or until we’ve run down and slaughtered the assassins,” he stated. “In return, I offer you these.”

  Kaazin gestured with his spell-hand, conjuring up a trio of small, glowing orbs. Builder of Cities straightened, forgetting hand-meals, day-brew and just about everything else. What Kaazin held were souls, belonging to Orrin, Alfea and the child who had never been born, back in a long-ago timeline.

  The entire cantina commenced rattling and vibrating as if gripped by a sudden ground-quake. People screamed and ran for the doors. Small objects crashed to the pour-stone floor, which developed a network of cracks.

  “You killed and ate them,” accused the cyborg, turning back into a god.

  “Shadow did, but I’ve retained their spark all this time, in case of need,” replied Kaazin, smiling a little. “And I think you will treat with me, day-walker.”

  Having a god for an enemy was dangerous. Having one hate you, drekking suicidal, but Kaazin was clearly enjoying himself.

  Tessa hurriedly reached for and gulped down Builder of Cities’ day-brew (which contained three shots of jolt, leaving her half blind for several heartbeats). Her spasms broke up some of the tension, at least.

  “Urgh… guh… Seriously, how can you take this stuff?!” she demanded, blinking watery eyes. “Stand down, both of you! He gets his shinies, we score a captain for three days or until those assassins are dead, with no hard feelings or feuds after that. Deal? I said, deal?!”

  Both of them nodded, not breaking furious eye-contact.

  “Of course.”

  And…

  “Naturally,”

  They answered at once, not meaning a word of it.