Bloody Mary Blues Read online

  “It’s true, but I’m only half Swiss.” Leo raises two fingers toward the counter, aimed at a little girl with bare arms emerging behind her rubber apron.

  “So you can trust me,” he continues, arching the two blonde forests that sit in place of his eyebrows, “at least half way.”

  Kasia looks around. The man amuses her, but this morning she doesn’t have time for diversions. Her sisters are readying the airship; anything beyond a reasonable delay wouldn’t be advisable with them waiting there, if only to save herself from a host of grumbling.

  The waitress maneuvers between the guts of two large men who laugh vulgarly through their oily beards. Their tankards clink together in a wordless toast and the hand of one of the two lingers for a few seconds around the girl’s waist, feeling under the rubber apron. She finally manages to wriggle free, to arrive at the table with the tankards, her cheeks burning and her hair stuck to her temples with sweat.

  “Sir, madam,” she says with a shrill voice and a cat-like darting of her eyes piquing Kasia’s curiosity. “That will be six pieces.”

  She studies the girl while Leo rifles through his purse. Beneath the apron she wears only a soiled sleeveless dress which ends a little above her knees. Her bare feet are enclosed in two wooden clogs, held tight by black leather straps. An orphan or a refugee, a child of the war, who works like a slave for the tavern keeper from sunrise to sunset, to earn a piece of moldy bread. And who might also have to warm his bed at night.

  But her eyes can’t lie. The witch stretches out a hand, in order to grasp the young woman’s wrist with two fingers.

  The girl looks at her with eyes open wide and tries to pull back, but Kasia has a firm grip and closes her eyelids to concentrate.

  There’s a trembling in this girl, but it’s weak. Maybe she’s too old to be trained, she must be at least fourteen or fifteen. Or maybe she’s just tired. Kasia lets go of her.

  “Why did you grab my wrist?” the scullery maid squeals.

  “Because you are a good girl,” says Leo, handing her the money. “And my friend adores good girls.”

  The waitress look at both of them as if they’re insane and dives back into the crowd.

  “Always on the lookout, eh?” says Leo, raising his cup slightly.

  “Absolutely not,” responds Kasia, tapping the rim of his goblet. “My crew is full and I can’t afford another mouth to feed. She stirred my curiosity, that’s all.”

  “So how goes business? You’ve been on the go for a year and half, correct? Give or take a month.”

  “Yes,” Kasia answers. “We left June of last year. Business, bah... it goes. The problem is the line of credit. We need to race from one port to another just so we don’t get swallowed by interest.”

  Kasia allows herself a sip of the sour beer, studying him over the top of the chipped mug.

  “And you, Mister Hunter?” she asks him. “You still haven’t told me why you were waiting for me. And if you don’t tell me in the next five minutes, you’ll need to carry the secret away in your black heart because I need to catch the wind.”

  “I imagined you’d be on the hunt for a good deal. And I’ve got a great one in the palm of my hand.”

  Kasia raises an eyebrow. “It’s hard for two people to carry out a deal together. Usually one makes money and the other loses it.”

  “Not in this case. It’s a simple trip: Londion.”

  A mirthless laugh escapes her and she sweeps a lock of red hair behind her ear. “Sure, why not? No witch has returned to Londion since the armistice; they won’t let us enter.”

  “Why in heavens not? Your permits are in order; where is it written your kind can’t go to England?”

  As if it were natural for one of them to go to England after twenty years of conflict. After the English almost managed to win that blasted war, thanks in part to the witches’ help.

  Kasia grabs her tankard and swigs three bitter drafts.

  “Leo, it’s been a real pleasure and thank you for the beer. Now I really must be going, and good luck with your business.”

  “Such haste. I see you have no need then for these hundred and twenty thousand pieces,” he says and searches in his breast pocket for his cigarette case.

  Kasia is forced to stop mid movement and sit back down on the stool’s hard surface.

  One hundred twenty thousand pieces. It would pay off her debt for the airship and advance her enough to finance a new trip.

  “Who is the client?” Kasia whispers.

  “This is not the place to disclose details.” Leo raises his cup, takes a couple of swigs and wipes the foam from his moustache.

  Kasia opens the palms of her hands in front of her. “What would I be transporting? Documents in a sealed envelope? No thank you. I have already been in prison, one large as an island, for twelve years.”

  “No,” Leo leans forward and gestures for her to come closer. Kasia tilts her head lending him her ear and he draws in close enough to brush it with his lips. “We are dealing with the transport of a man,” he murmurs.

  “For two thousand pieces,” she replies, keeping her voice low, “anyone could do that. Maybe with a few stops along the way.” Kasia searches deep into his bright eyes. “But it’s not a question of speed, is it?”

  He lights a yellow cigarette, shakes his head slightly and extends his strong paw halfway across the table. “Agreed?”

  Kasia looks at that hand, pink and free of callouses, for a few seconds seeming to last a few centuries. She’s just been readmitted into commerce after the long years of exile on Gothland. After having risked extermination, for the sole crime of having served under the English who lost the war. Her papers were valid for travelling anywhere. It’s true, they were issued by the Dutch authorities, thus they were only fully recognized on the Continent. In England, theoretically, she would need a new visa. However Dutch and German traders have been travelling back and forth for years, heedless of the required authorizations. With the arrogance of victors.

  Kasia extends her bony hand, black lacquered fingernails glistening again her alabaster skin, and seized that of the Swiss merchant.

  “However,” she says, without loosening her grip. “You need to sign a bill of lading for me. Stamped by the Frank Fort Chamber of Commerce.”

  Leo smiles under his moustache and runs his thumb over Kasia’s knuckles. “I gain nothing from the deal, apart from these fleeting moments with you. But perhaps I may be able to obtain that letter.”

  “If it smells counterfeit, the deal’s off.”

  “Of course,” Leonardo concludes. They let go of each other’s hands. “That’s enough talk for now. Let’s go.”

  Before leaving, Kasia directs one last glance toward the counter. The waitress is focused on feverishly buffing the gray marble with a cloth. The witch is about to turn away, when the tavern keeper appears behind the girl and slaps her across the face, without any explanation beside a menacing look and a curled lip. The serving girl falters and catches herself with her elbows against the counter.

  The man slurs some insulting words and returns to the kitchen. Kasia turns and raises a finger to Leo then makes her way toward her. The girl is still leaning against the bar, a purple impression on her cheekbone.

  “Hey,” Kasia stoops her head down close to hers, “are you alright?”

  “Yes… It’s because I made a mistake… I made a mistake.” A droplet of blood forms below her left nostril.

  “What is your name?”

  A sob. “Elene.”

  “Do you have strange dreams?”

  She suddenly lifts her head, looking around eyes agog; a thousand shivers course through her. “Every four weeks, when the moon is dark. I dream of fire. How did you know?”

  “You have it hard now. Hold on for a few months and I’ll return, or I’ll send someone. You have a great gift, Elene, but keep this conversation to yourself.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s not important who I am, but
what I am. And you’re like me. Take this.” She offers her a couple of coins. She would have liked to give her more, but her tips were almost certainly confiscated and there was no point in enriching her tormentor. “Don’t give in and keep your mouth shut. Try to stay alive, I’ll come back to fetch you.”

  Kasia caresses her cheek, but she’s unable to accompany it with a smile. Promises. The currency of fools.

  Having left the tavern, they head into the market once more, lazily wandering between one stall and the next. Kasia scrutinizes the faces surrounding her, but she’s unable to identify any suspicious expressions.

  After a few minutes of walking in silence, Leo takes her by the hand and pulls her behind a boot seller’s stall, slipping between the opened cardboard boxes piled behind it. He puts a finger to his lips and guides her into the back alley. It’s a damp, dark place where small animals race along the walls, quickly searching for shelter in a crack between the bricks.

  …

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