RatHeart

By J Simon

“You’ve been exiled from six kingdoms, cautioned for gambling, arrested for stealing, and censured for ‘conduct deleterious to the practice of virtue’. You are beyond hope and beyond help.”
“I debate that,” I argued. “You haven’t seen how virtuous I can be when people threaten to kill me.”

Shale expected the great oceanside city of Vinsama to be easy, profitable, and fun. All right—so there were giant mutant squirrels, and mad scientists assembling monsters from bits, and a power-mad tyrant threatening his life on a semi-regular basis. It wasn't anything that marked cards, a silver tongue, and a prediliction for faking his own death couldn't deal with.

“My dear friend!” I said, shocked. “I do not lie. I uplift my audience with salubrious falsehoods, telling them the world as it should be, filling their lives with wonder and hope! The fact that I keep ending up with all their money is sheer coincidence.”

Everything was fine until Shale found himself blackmailed by both sides at once. Save the city or betray the city, his life would be forfeit either way. Chased by bloodthirsty pirates and murderous mechanisms, mired in a labyrinth of insane mutant monsters, he might just have to pretend to be a hero. The only question was—who in their right mind would believe him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J Simon
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463593318

Book preview

RatHeart

J Simon

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Copyright © 2018 by J Simon, all rights reserved.

Smashwords edition.

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Books by J Simon

RatHeart

Fossilized Gods

Lithified Saints

Majra

Songs of Sa’bahr

The Great Celestial Machine of Saithan

http://majra.org

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Cover :

Turtle by Mark Catesby (1683 - 1749)

Ship by Jacques Callot (1592 - 1635)

I

I never figured on dying in prison. I’m just not important enough. I’ve never tried to conquer the world, not even a little. Who needs that kind of aggravation? Sure, the dice have a habit of rolling my way (palm-and-switch, edges shaved with a renderer’s scalpel, accuse my opponent of cheating as a distraction), but I’ve never been caught at it. Accused—yes. Caught—no. Here’s a tip. If your opponents are a little too sharp, get their attention by accidentally dropping some gaffed dice, and then play honestly. They’ll be too busy watching the dice to notice you short-changing the bets.

Which brings us to Vinsama, the great oceanside city of seaweed and flowers and peculiar fermenting spices. The Changewinds are strong there, striking capriciously and mutating life into weird and inexplicable new forms. Animals, fine, who cares if your cat turns gigantic or sprouts nine extra arms—but sometimes it hits people. Renderers are expensive, and they can’t fix everything. Which means a fearful, concerned populace… which means vast new realms of undiscovered profit for the man selling a map of the Changewinds!

My plan was simple. Step one: Sprinkle some nausea-inducing drugs around a candy shop so that the shopkeeper, alarmed by the sight of children enthusiastically barfing all over the place, would throw everything out. Two: Root through the garbage. FREE CANDY!! Three: Run a ‘treasure hunt’ for hundreds of children by throwing the stuff into the deepest and darkest corners of Vinsama. Altruistic, right? Some would say, a gift straight from the overflowing bounty of love in my heart. Plus, I could map the Changewinds by seeing which children came back… altered. Four: Don’t actually do any of that, as it would require effort, but tell people I had, which would enable me to sell my made-up maps for precisely the same amount of money. It was a good plan. It could have worked. It should have worked. I had to run into the one guard too stupid to understand the fundamental principles of economics, which is to say, bribery.

The door of my cell rattled open. I squinted as someone raised a lantern against the utter blackness, illuminating hard stone walls weeping with water.

This way, said a no-nonsense voice.

"You have to understand, I love children, I’d never hurt children! I just told people I had, so that my fake, made-up map would seem more plausible! See how considerate I am?"

My mother bought one.

And a handsome woman she is. Urk!

The second guard poked a dagger into my side, apparently eager to play a thrilling game of ‘find-the-kidney’. My new friends hustled me up and out of the prison, through a servant’s hall, and into the royal palace of Vinsama. I was taken to a room of staggering opulence: So many paintings had been crammed on the walls that they actually overlapped; the floor was wobbly and soft thanks to two or three dozen layers of story-worked carpets; and there were so many crystal-and-silver chandeliers blazing with candles that the entire ceiling seemed to be made of light. Everywhere I looked were exquisite (and valuable!) statues, vases, and bright gilded armor. There was only one small problem: Nothing I saw would fit in my pocket.

Leave us, said a quiet voice. The guards bowed and departed, closing the great golden doors behind them. The man who had spoken had a great flowing lion’s-mane of white hair, but that was his only softness. His eyes were grey, hard, like twin chips of steel, and his face was scarred, twisted into a sardonic smile that seemed to whisper unsettling things about Man’s Place In Nature. His silk shirt, his belt, just about everything he had was defaced with the sign of the scarred circle. Also, he was wearing slippers with fluffy balls at the tips. Only a rich jackass could get away with wearing something that ugly.

Your majesty, I said, bowing.

None of that, he said, choosing a glass from a table bristling with wine flutes. Vinsama hasn’t had a hereditary king for over two hundred years. I am Lord Dreiva, ruler of Vinsama, chosen of the people.

And I am Azaq of the Eternal Lament, haunted by the memory of six adoring little daughters who died because I couldn’t afford to feed them. I have therefore devoted my life to giving candy to children, in between beating my chest, rending my hair, and sobbing wildly as tears pour down my cheeks. Please, if you must punish me for what happened today, consider the burden of suffering that weighs me down already!

Lord Dreiva sipped, considered, and quite deliberately poured the rest of his wine onto the fabulously costly carpet. I winced. He turned to me, his eyes cold and grey. I employ many renderers, he said softly. "They can do all kinds of things to a man’s body. Lying to me is… perilous. Remember that."

Um.

Your name is Shale, or at least, that’s what you call yourself these days. You’ve been exiled from six kingdoms and city-states, cautioned forty-six times for gambling, arrested sixteen times for stealing, and censured sixty-six times for ‘conduct deleterious to the practice of virtue’. You are beyond hope and beyond help.

I debate that, I argued. You haven’t seen how virtuous I can be when people threaten to kill me.

Lord Dreiva limped toward me, that eerily unchanging smile twisting his face. You are also, he said, extremely unimportant. So tiny, so pathetic, so small that you could never be a threat to me. I like that. It means you won’t get ideas.

You know, your renderers could fix that face, I said conversationally. Plump your lips up at the same time. Have I mentioned my pathological fear of people pouting at me? Way worse than torture.

If you must know, Dreiva said, "I asked my renderers to do this. What a traitor a face can be. Wear a mask, and your enemies see only what you choose. Now. As to your assignment…"

Assignment?

Dreiva picked up another wine flute, held it up to the light—and then, in a single swift movement, threw it in my face. I forced myself to remain still, dripping soddenly on a carpet worth five times more than my life.

Very good, Dreiva said softly. "Please do consider the deeper implications of power while I tell you a story.

Two hundred years ago, he said, "Vinsama had a cruel and incompetent king. A Syndicate of nobles, merchants, soldiers and crafters united to depose him. They chose one of their own to be the new king, one they hoped would be pure and true. It didn’t work. They had to replace him, and then his replacement, and so on. Even when they found an adequate ruler, the most ambitious among them continued to strew unhappiness and dissent, insisting that they deserved the throne. Vinsama has had a new ruler every four or five years since."

They could’ve done a hell of a lot better than you, I said. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling, but Lord Dreiva seemed amused by my small act of defiance.

"Perhaps. I was but a merchant until three years ago, when I was made king and put into action a plan I’ve been crafting for most of my life. The Syndicate is already turning on me. I rather thought I’d have more time. No matter. I’m releasing you, and half a dozen like you, with a simple assignment: Infiltrate the Syndicate and find their secret headquarters. I suggest you carry out your assignment quickly. If one of the others finishes first, I’ll have no further use for you. Not alive, anyway. My renderers can always use parts. He chose another glass of wine, sipped, considered. You have until nightfall on the third day."

Fine. I agree. Now can I go?

Lord Dreiva shook his head, that frozen, mocking smirk becoming more and more unnerving the longer I was forced to look at it. Now, now, Shale. We both know you’ll run away the instant I release you, never to be seen again… unless I have my renderers forcibly adjust your attitude. Their surgical techniques can be crude, but are certainly—shall we say, ‘motivational’. He clapped his hands. The doors opened, and the two guards came in. Take him upstairs.

Wait! I said as they grabbed my arms. "I’ll make you rich! I’ll drown you with treasure! I’ll give you everything you ever wanted! Please!"

But Mr. Shale, he said, "you can give me all that just as easily after they’ve operated on you."

The guards dragged me out of the room, the doors slamming behind us. I struggled uselessly, gasping for air, eyes wide. At some point, since there wasn’t anything better to do, I just starting screaming…

* * *

I blinked groggily, slowly opening my eyes. I was lying on the shore of Vinsama Bay, where hundreds of ships lay at anchor, hailing from every bizarre and peculiar land the winds could reach. There were ships like double-hulled canoes of vast size; ships bristling with so many lantern-bedecked pagodas that they looked like forests gone mad with light; colossal turtles, supremely bored, with cloth-and-wood platforms mantling their backs. I tentatively touched the back of my neck, which felt oddly stretched, like a blister that hadn’t popped. It was uncomfortable, but didn’t really hurt. Say what you will about Lord Dreiva’s renderers (and I had, loudly, in seven different languages, until the knock-out drugs took effect), but they knew their business.

Someone cleared his throat. Shading my eyes, I looked up and saw a mercenary wearing the sign of the scarred circle.

Take this, he said, handing me a scroll.

What is it?

Something of value. Do as his lordship bid and buy your way into the Syndicate. He paused. Or don’t. Our archers could use the target practice.

Is this a treasure map? I said with growing excitement. "You know, a treasure would be wasted on the Syndicate… but if I showed up riding a gilded palanquin while scantily clad nubiles fed me grapes, they’d have to respect me. It would accomplish precisely the same thing!"

Shale…

No, no, you’re right, that’s pretty cliched. How about… having scantily clad nubiles ride around in palanquins while I used a slingshot to shoot passersby with gilded grapes?

Take as much time as you want, Shale. But in three days… The soldier sliced a finger across his throat, then turned crisply and walked away. I got to my feet, rubbing the back of my neck. Well, I’d deal with that later. Turning my back on Vinsama Bay, I beheld the city itself.

Rumpled hills marched away from the sea, crossed by zagging cobbled streets and tilting vertiginous houses that towered four and five stories above them. Flowers were everywhere—each wall clothed with vines, each windowbox overflowing with a mad excess of growth, each streetlamp a mass of whirling, questing tendrils. The Changewinds had been at work here, too, turning morning glories into enormous blooms an armspan across. And the people! They were colorfully garbed, crazily coiffed and weirdly bearded, and trust me, I’ve been enough places that I know. The best word for the streets was busy. Not crowded, exactly; there was just a constant stream of humanity flowing around and past ground-level shops and push-cart merchants.

I glanced at the treasure map in my hand. I was supposed to buy my way into the confidence of the Syndicate. Right. But let’s examine the logic, shall we? Let’s say I promised you a hundred gold if you rolled double sixes. Wouldn’t the offer be precisely as touching whether you succeeded or failed? In other words, it’s the offer itself that has value, not the end result. Especially since my gaffed dice always roll double sixes and I hand the money over without hesitation (after which some unnamed person tips off the city guard that you’re carrying a large amount of counterfeit money, and collects a sizeable reward for turning you in). Anyway, since handing over the map would be precisely the same gesture whether it led to a real treasure or a dug-up pit, it would be stupid of me not to claim the gold first!

I carefully unrolled the map. Vinsama is bounded to the south by the ocean, to the west by a vast empty marshland, and to the east by a huge river. A large island in the river’s mouth houses the royal palace. A smaller island just off-shore was marked with an ‘X’, which I took to represent the Shale Friendly Society And Benefit Fund. Smirking just a little, I sighted down the shore of Vinsama Bay and headed east.

It didn’t take long to reach the river. I guess my stabby little friends hadn’t bothered to drag me very far. The river was almost half a mile across as it neared the sea, and I could see the royal palace on its island nearly halfway across. It was truly lovely, all crisp clean white like frosting on the world’s largest cake. Which, if I were in charge, it eventually would be, no matter how many bakers I had to enslave for how many years. Talk about a public works project we could all get behind! A ways to the south, a much smaller island boasted trees but little else. It looked to be uninhabited. All I had to do was get there.

The river was far too wide for bridges. Instead, a collection of rafts, ferries, and boats waited for customers along the shore, from dilapidated platforms big enough to carry four horse-carts at once to lacquered skiffs as lovely as petals strewn from a maiden’s hand. I chose one of the latter, crewed by a lugubrious old man who appeared to have given up on life.

The island, please. The little one.

You have money? he asked.

That’s right! I do!

And you’ll be paying it to me? he clarified.

"What do you know—another win-win. It’ll make us both happier if you assume that!"

He looked at me for a long time. You’ll have a hard time swimming back, he finally decided. There’s things in the water. Sea Devils. Sharks. Worse.

With sharp, crisp strokes of his paddle, he sent the little boat skimming across the water. I hummed merrily as the island grew closer and closer. It wasn’t long before we crunched up on shore. I headed straight inland, looking for the rocky spire depicted on my map.

I stumbled into a clearing. The spire was there, but so was something else. Specifically, a very fat man wearing a very fine silk robe. He was having what looked to be three picnics at once, and he’d obviously been there a long time. Around his neck hung a medallion bearing the mark of the scarred circle.

Didn’t waste any time, did you— He checked a small sheet bearing six or seven small painted likenesses. —Shale. His lordship didn’t think you would.

Who the hell are you?

I am Brugah, his lordship’s chancellor and confidant. Sadly, I must do as I was bid and give you an extra dose of motivation—which is to say, pain.

Yeah? I glanced left and right, but hulking, spiky soldiers failed to step out of the woods. And how do you intend to do that?

Brugah sighed. Please don’t think me crude. This is not my way. Anyone can bash away with swords. Few are daring enough to ensnare with words, to enslave with obedience and steal with gifts… but… my orders were both clear and direct.

He touched a device in his pocket. Whatever Dreiva’s renderers had implanted in my neck began to tighten uncomfortably, constricting around my spine.

Wha— I started to say. He touched it again.

Pain… I’ve never felt such pain. Molten iron searing through my flesh. I fell. No chance to scream. Lungs frozen. Body frozen. Brugah sighed and touched the device one more time. The pain stopped.

Do you understand? he said gently.

You… gave up too soon! I gasped. The instant it started, I converted to atheism. Smart, huh?

Brugah looked intrigued. Explain.

"Look. There are fifty thousand religions in the world, and they can’t all be right. If I pray to just one god, odds are I’ll pick wrong and no one’s home. But! If I convert to atheism, but promise my soul to whoever saves me, I can tempt fifty thousand gods at once!"

Brugah snorted. I see a flaw in your reasoning, as exemplified by the complete and utter lack of divine intervention just now.

I know! I said, aggrieved. "Fifty thousand gods, offered the gift of my undying soul, apparently decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It only confirms my opinion that all gods are jerks, and that I should devote my life to the long and pleasurable process of breaking every single one of their commandments."

Brugah laughed, his whole body moving with infectious merriment. I like you, Shale. I’d hate to kill you. In fact, I rather think I won’t. But his lordship will. Stop larking around and do your job. Infiltrate the Syndicate. Find their headquarters. If you don’t— He tapped the back of his neck meaningfully. —you’ll learn that there are worse things than pain.

Look, I said cagily, you can’t be any happier than me about being forced to work for Dreiva. If we joined together—

Brugah roared with laughter. Oh, no, he finally said. "I haven’t been forced to do anything. You don’t understand, do you? I figured out long ago how to live a life of comfort and ease. I serve the ruler of Vinsama, whoever he or she may be. I make myself indispensable in a thousand little ways, and offer my service to whoever happens to be in charge. I served a dozen lords before Dreiva, and I anticipate I’ll serve a dozen lords after him. It really doesn’t matter who wears the crown. They quickly see it’s in their best interest to keep me happy."

Sure, sure, I said, improvising wildly, but together, we could depose Dreiva and take the throne for ourselves. Whatever you have now, you could have twice as much!

Brugah snorted. "A man can only take one bath at a time. Having two bathtubs is precisely the same as having one. And having enough gold for two lifetimes is precisely the same as having enough for one. I like being second-in-command. I get everything I want, and I get it forever… as opposed to the king, who spends three or four years fearfully looking over his shoulder until the axe inevitably falls. No, Shale. Whoever is lord, I will obey. Go. Do your job. Don’t ask more."

Yeah, about that. I held out my hand. I need money for the ferry.

* * *

Finding the Syndicate should have been easy. A dread secret society running things from the shadows? Try and stop people from gossiping about it! Sadly, none of my usual techniques worked. I gambled with sailors, bought beer for musicians, and chatted up merchants (who didn’t notice that, while I kept buying, I also kept paying the same coins over and over). I learned, from top to bottom and in alphabetical order, nothing. I guess Dreiva wasn’t the first lord to go after the Syndicate; they’d clearly developed ways of staying hidden. Which—uncomfortable thought—made me wonder what sort of extreme measures they had in store for the hapless fellow who did learn their secret. On the other hand—even more uncomfortable thought—I kept seeing a vision of my head popping clean off my body when Dreiva triggered the time-bomb in my neck. Call it quaint, but I have an aversion to dying. For one thing, it makes it really hard to eat pie. So I kept going, doggedly trying to nudge the conversation back to the Syndicate when all anyone wanted to talk about was the Sea Devils and their latest horrifying midnight atrocities. What are Sea Devils? Great question!

Giant mutant clams, a grizzled old sailor assured me, grown arms and come to avenge their kin!

A crew of pirates, lost at sea, who fired their brains out of cannons and into the bodies of sharks, lest they starve to death, a smoky-voiced singer insisted, and also something about buried treasure, but I haven’t figured that out yet.

You know how renderers dump their failed experiments in the river? a tinker told me, well, there’s a city-sized blob of flesh and machine down there, and it won’t rest until it kills us all!

Everyone agreed that the Sea Devils struck, unseen and unknown, in the middle of the night, and always from salt or brackish water. Ships sank for no reason. Waterfront warehouses collapsed. Docks were found torn to pieces. Something was out there, and it was real, and it was terrifying. It was also a major pain in the ass, since it kept me from finding out anything useful.

SYNDICATE! I bellowed at the perplexed tinker. SYN-DI-CATE!

You want Roaf the Baker, she said. He’s high in the Syndicate, he is, and people go over there all the time to complain about the Sea Devils. Has a shop right on Knucklebone Point. She paused, suspiciously hefting the last coin I’d given her. Wait. Why is this so light?

Well, it’s sure not painted candy, I scoffed. If it were, you could bite right through it.

Glaring suspiciously at me, she promptly bit the coin in half, released the knock-out drop concealed within, and keeled over on the spot. I shrugged, helped myself to an extremely tacky monkey’s-arm back-scratcher, and headed for Vinsama Bay. It was already late afternoon, the sky golden as I cut across a park lousy with trees and flowering grasses. A gaggle of children ran past, shrieking with laughter, acorns as big as my head strapped to their backs. Shortly afterward, a Changewinds-altered titano-squirrel bounded thunderously after them, cocked a barrel-sized head at me, and stated ‘CHIRP.’

Some game, I said faintly.

Knucklebone Point wasn’t far, nor was the shop of Roaf the Baker. The purple, five-story house smelled wonderfully like baking bread, and its Changewinds-enhanced vines sagged under such a mad excess of flowers that falling petals turned the ground into an unbroken shroud of cream and bone, berry and flame. Shrugging, I walked across it and tried the door. It was open.

Hello? I called.

Straight back, please! called a jovial voice. Unless you’re here to buy something. Then you can hop in spirals like a frog with a head injury for all I care!

I crossed a dusty, empty foyer, only to be socked in the face with moist, buttery, dough-scented air as I stumbled into the bakery proper. Roaf was almost as big as Brugah, but compact instead of corpulent. He rushed back and forth between six oversized ovens, his black eyes crinkled in anticipation of the wonders he’d find there, his huge mountain-man beard defying all expectations by not constantly bursting into flames. There was another customer there, a young woman in stained and well-worn travel leathers. The bone traps hanging from her belt marked her as a delver; someone crazy enough to hunt down bizarre mutant monstrosities, tough enough to catch them, and smart enough to make money selling them. I have to admit, I was impressed. Healed stitches wandered across her face, and one of her eyes was huge and wet and brown. A cow’s eye, I think. I liked it. It was friendly.

—you have to tell the Syndicate, she said passionately. "This is important!"

Is it? Roaf wondered. They tell me that stress makes people eat, Greya, but you haven’t bought a single muffin since coming into my shop.

Greya stared at him. Three, she said, slapping down some coins. Roaf served her, and Greya promptly smashed all three into her mouth.

Lhhk! she said, spraying pieces of muffin into Roaf’s beard as she brandished a broken plank at him. Muddy circles of various sizes crossed and re-crossed it, forming an oddly enticing pattern.

Uh fuhd thu— Greya paused, forcing herself to swallow. I found this at a Sea Devil attack site. Look at it! Look!

That’s a mighty fine piece of wreckage, he said admiringly.

"It’s a piece of art. Animals don’t make art, Roaf! Someone’s directing the Sea Devils, controlling them. Someone’s making them attack us!"

All I see is a bunch of muddy rings, he said apologetically. Maybe if you treated me to my famous double-rum cake, my eyes would cross hard enough to see what you see.

"It’s proof. Proof that all this terror, all this fear in the night, someone’s doing it on purpose. You have to tell the Syndicate."

Muffin? he said.

I’ve spent all my money.

Oh, that’s all right. I’m sure your mother will make good on your debts, he said cheerfully. Here, have two. And a third for your friend! He glanced at me. "And how many do you want?"

None.

I see. You’re a merchant captain, aren’t you? I can always tell. You want to know about the turtles!

Um…

Roaf danced from one oven to another, literally putting out fires, before grabbing a loosely heaped stack of nautical charts and shaking them at me. "Up-to-date. Accurate. Cheap! I know where all the island turtles are. The big ones, with their own forests and streams. The really big ones, with their own weather. I know which