Chapter 1 – A Pimp in Shadow
From darkness, Sonata Diamante watched the old pimp hobble with a cane down the street. She did not remember Davido having a limp before, but then, she had pushed him from a fast-moving wagon several months ago. Perhaps the fall had broken his hip or had injured his leg. Serves him right, she thought, watching as the ill-tempered oaf walked past the alley in which she was hiding. A scumbag pimp like him deserves to suffer. The way he treated his women sometimes. . . . The thought of it made Sonata’s blood boil. Best thing for him would be to draw Freira across his loose throat and then watch in satisfaction as his life drained away in a gutter. But not tonight. Tonight, the old pimp had his uses.
She made a quiet nick!nick!nick! sound with the side of her mouth, and Fellfang responded by slipping out of the alley and following Davido quietly. The bullmastiff held himself back several paces, stopped when Davido stopped, and was careful not to let his sharp claws clicking against the cobbles of the street give away his pursuit. Sonata smiled. The dog had grown in skills a lot since their adventures in the southern province of Pontaboro.
She turned and slipped down the alley she was in, turned right and then another right a block away. This part of Cragsport was a little livelier, with lanterns outside each doorway into apartments or businesses. But she was Sonata Diamante, thief and swords master, niece to the dreaded and infamous Borshen Galo, ex-battle wizard and potions-maker. A few extra lights to shine upon her passing did not scare her, nor would they ever impede her progress. She slipped into the other alley without notice, tiptoed down to the street where Davido was coming, waited another thirty seconds or so, and then pushed her straight-bladed sword, Chefe, out into his path.
The blade caught just below his neck. Davido walked right into the blade and stopped just before the cold, sharp edge cut his throat.
“I’d advise caution, pimp,” Sonata said, whispering. “My father longs to drink.”
Chefe meant “father” in the Old Tongue. Her other sword, a long curved blade that she used for slashing, was Freira, meaning “mother.” They were everything to her.
Davido turned and tried slinking away. Fellfang blocked his path. The beast growled, a low, guttural sound that even Sonata feared. “Take caution in that direction, too, Davido. Fellfang is hungry as well.”
The pimp stopped again, and his shoulders dropped, defeated, as if he were preparing to pass out. “Sweet Destinado,” he said, invoking the name of the Miradan God of Death, his voice tinged with fear, defeat, “you’re alive.”
“And healthy,” Sonata said, “despite rumors to the contrary. Did you miss me?”
“Hardly. You nearly killed me that morning.”
Sonata could hear the old pimp’s breathing, a cold, gasping sound, as if he were about to have an attack. I better not scare him too deeply, she thought. I need him alive . . . for a little while anyway.
She tucked Chefe away in the scabbard harness on her back, stepped out of the alley, and grabbed Davido by the coat collar. She pulled him back into the alley and pushed him against wet building stones. His breath was rancid. She wiggled her nose. “I don’t have time to chat, Davido. I’ve just returned. I need information. I need it now. What’s happened to Cragsport?”
The small knife at his throat and the angry bullmastiff at his side, growling and drooling white, foamy spit on his worn boots, made him speak quickly and perhaps a little too loudly.
“I don’t know what you mean, girl.”
Sonata tucked the knife away, gave him space. “The place has changed. It’s colder, and I don’t mean the air. It’s quieter. There’s a tension that wasn’t here before. And I smell old smoke, as if there’s been fires. Tell me what you know.”
“It’s because of you,” Davido said, clearing his throat. “That morning, I mean. The fight didn’t stop when you disappeared, Sonata. It kept going. Other neighborhoods got into it. It spread like fire, and then fires began to spread for real. Burning, looting. Duke Ernesto imposed martial law. It went on for fifteen days, at least. All the pent up tension of years of the Night Guard sticking it to us small folk, and all their corruption, boiled over. It was a mess.”
“Who’s running the Night Guard now?”
“Rodrigo Vaasco.”
Sonata huffed. “Duke Ernesto’s stooge.”
Davido nodded. “All captains of the Night Guard fit that bill.”
“What else?”
“The city is still under a curfew . . . sort of. No large gatherings after dark, no parties, no religious or large secular meetings of any kind, which has put a strain on our taverns, dance halls, theaters.”
“And I suspect the brothels as well. Madam Carla must be—”
Sonata saw Davido’s expression change. “What?” She asked. “What’s the matter?”
Davido winced, sniffed, cleared his throat, and eyed Fellfang carefully before speaking. “She . . . she’s gone, Sonata. Her house is boarded up.”
Sonata felt her heart sink. She grabbed Davido’s collar, pulled him closer. “What do you mean? Where is she?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. She was taken away by the Night Guard. Vaasco cleared out all the brothels. The revolt started there, he said, so he ended it there.” He cleared his throat again, then chuckled. “It’s been great for me. I’m able to put my bitches back on the street, with no threat of being—”
Sonata grabbed him and pulled him down the alley. Fellfang tagged along, yelping and nipping at Davido’s heals. “Where are you taking me?” The old pimp asked.
“Shut up,” Sonata said, slapping him on the back of the head. “Be quiet, or you’ll be the next one the Night Guard disappears.”
✽✽✽
She had to see it for herself. The butcher shop and the wine distillery were still there, but in-between, only the empty, burnt carcass of Madam Carla’s brothel remained, boarded up, dark, and silent. She could still smell the charred wood and the musty old scent of the heavily-ornate furniture that Carla’s “girlies” would lounge upon while awaiting customers. Sonata felt a tear well below her left eye. She felt Sacudente do Mundo, World-Shaker, rise through her veins, her muscles, flesh. She knelt and hugged Fellfang. He nuzzled her face, whimpered, and licked her cheek. She breathed deeply and calmed herself.
“What happened to her girls?” she asked.
Davido, rubbing his sore leg, shook his head. “Some were killed, I think, in the riots. Some were taken away like Carla. Some I own.”
Sonata fought the urge to smack him across the face. You own no one, you filthy— She wiped her face again, turned to Davido, and said, “What else can you tell me? What news from abroad?”
Davido paused and screwed up his face. He probably hadn’t talked or used his brain like this in years. He scratched his head, and Sonata stepped back a pace in case he roused lice. “Not much I can tell. I’m just a foolish old pimp. But people are pretty mad that Agadano tried to form an alliance with Pontaboro. The duke is livid about it. He’s putting together an army is what I hear, and a fleet perhaps? They don’t tell me nothing, you know, and what I hear is rumor mostly. But there’s a war footing at play. You don’t have to be too smart to see it. Lots of weapons moving to and fro. Lots of young men pouring into the city from all over Viscano.”
“What of the Rosa Blanca incident?”
Davido shrugged. “Don’t know much about it. All’s I know is that it had to do with the Agadano and Pontaboro alliance. They say a two-headed dragon was there, and that it was killed in battle by some bitch they call Lisetta. But that’s bullshit. Ain’t no dragons alive anymore, if there ever was any. You been away. You been out and about. Do you know anything about it?”
Sonata placed her hand inside the satchel that hung at her side. She touched the gold and silver dragon masks that lay there, safe and out of sight.
“Not a thing,” she said. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
“Well, that’s all I know.” Davido paused, then asked, “Where’d you go, Sonata? That morning?”
“None of your business, Davido. That’s where I went.”
“I’m just surprised to see you back, is all. You’re marked in the city. The Night Guard has a warrant for your arrest. It’s big money, girl. They catch you, you’re going to die.”
“I’ll take my chances” Sonata said, drawing Chefe again and whipping it through the dark air to freshen its edge. “And we’ll just have to make sure no one knows I’m back.” She lowered the tip so that it rested under Davido’s chin.
He put up his hands in surrender. “Not a word.”
“Good,” Sonata said, nodding. “We’re done here, but one more thing, Davido. Your ‘bitches,’ as you call them, are women. They are human beings, mothers, daughters, and not your property. You get me? If I hear you call them bitches again, or if I see you mistreat them in any way, you won’t recognize your head from a corpse’s asshole. Understand?”
Sonata turned to walk away, toward the place where Uncle Galo lay in wait. Davido called after her.
“Why are you such a mean bit—I mean—woman, Sonata? Why?”
Sonata paused, turned, smiled, and said, “I was born that way.”