Read Online The Sea Thy Mistress by Elizabeth Bear - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Bear
Tags: Science-Fiction, Fantasy
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beach and the rolling tide, until her ears swiveled at a shout. She turned away from the water, boardwalk not so much as creaking under her padded feet. Ahead, she saw a scuffle. Teenage gangsters and a middle-aged blond woman with a net marketing bag full of those very lemons and oranges. The fur on the back of Selene’s neck rose. Her gray-ringed tail lashed.
Banded ceramic and leather armor creaked as Selene grinned behind her whiskers and sprinted toward the fight, not bothering to draw her sword Solbiort or uncoil her whip.
The young men saw her coming. They didn’t stand their ground. Selene had something of a reputation in Freimarc by then; moreaux still weren’t common in this city, though they traveled to the limits of the Eiledain diaspora. Though the Technomancer who had created them was no more, Selene and her brethren were peacekeepers still.
She helped the woman to her feet. While Selene crouched to collect spilled blood oranges, the woman thanked her profusely. The snow leopard glanced up, looking into startlingly blue eyes framed by a twist of honey-colored hair shot through with ash.
“Thank you,” the woman said. She reached out to offer Selene her hand, and Selene refused politely, showing her glittering claws by way of explanation. It was one thing if she scratched one of her brother einherjar by accident: they would heal.
Humans were fragile.
Those eyes really were distressingly blue. Selene glanced away, found herself looking at a glittering necklace peeking out from behind the woman’s collar. “You should keep that covered,” Selene said, gesturing to it. “It’s probably why they bothered you.”
“Oh,” she said, and put her hand on her throat. “You’re right. I’ll be more careful from now on.”
There was something in the woman’s tone that continued to haunt Selene long after she returned to the little flat she sometimes shared with a friend. It was a bright and simple space, tile-floored, the furniture simple wooden benches and chairs and a desk constructed of a salvaged door balanced across a cabinet and two stools. There was no bed, for Selene did not sleep, but she’d painted the walls warm shades of umber and red echoed by the blankets folded for comfort on the benches, and five of the seven walls of the crooked two-room space were lined with waist-height racks that held books—a few bound volumes, a few etched tablets, and far more traditional scrolls—salvaged from all over the ruins of the world. The curtains were red and gold wool that kept the sun back in the summer and the cold out in the winter, though the shutters beyond them were currently closed anyway because glass, even salvaged, was still dear.
Selene sat down in front of her viscreen to check the news and message Cahey and his son. Recollection distracted her while she typed a casual greeting and a brief, newsy mail.
Humans’ motivations were often mysterious to her. More mysterious than they knew, than—she suspected—they could ever be to one another. Her years in law enforcement, her experience as a Black Silk, one of the commanders of the Technomancer’s militia, had taught her that humans were complex and contradictory in ways no animal—and certainly no moreau—could predict. But the woman hadn’t seemed as frightened by her misadventure as Selene would expect, and she’d had an air about her when Selene refused her hand that could have been embarrassment over being rebuffed, or could have been something else. Thwarted malice, calculation carefully concealed.
Selene made a note to remember the woman’s face, and cursed herself for not getting a name. A failure of instinct and professionalism. But there weren’t that many people in the world. She’d keep an eye out, that was all, and chances were they’d meet again.
Her ’screen beeped, a message back from Cathmar, typed awkwardly with an eight-year-old’s spelling. Strange how an eight-year-old angel was still an eight-year-old
Banded ceramic and leather armor creaked as Selene grinned behind her whiskers and sprinted toward the fight, not bothering to draw her sword Solbiort or uncoil her whip.
The young men saw her coming. They didn’t stand their ground. Selene had something of a reputation in Freimarc by then; moreaux still weren’t common in this city, though they traveled to the limits of the Eiledain diaspora. Though the Technomancer who had created them was no more, Selene and her brethren were peacekeepers still.
She helped the woman to her feet. While Selene crouched to collect spilled blood oranges, the woman thanked her profusely. The snow leopard glanced up, looking into startlingly blue eyes framed by a twist of honey-colored hair shot through with ash.
“Thank you,” the woman said. She reached out to offer Selene her hand, and Selene refused politely, showing her glittering claws by way of explanation. It was one thing if she scratched one of her brother einherjar by accident: they would heal.
Humans were fragile.
Those eyes really were distressingly blue. Selene glanced away, found herself looking at a glittering necklace peeking out from behind the woman’s collar. “You should keep that covered,” Selene said, gesturing to it. “It’s probably why they bothered you.”
“Oh,” she said, and put her hand on her throat. “You’re right. I’ll be more careful from now on.”
There was something in the woman’s tone that continued to haunt Selene long after she returned to the little flat she sometimes shared with a friend. It was a bright and simple space, tile-floored, the furniture simple wooden benches and chairs and a desk constructed of a salvaged door balanced across a cabinet and two stools. There was no bed, for Selene did not sleep, but she’d painted the walls warm shades of umber and red echoed by the blankets folded for comfort on the benches, and five of the seven walls of the crooked two-room space were lined with waist-height racks that held books—a few bound volumes, a few etched tablets, and far more traditional scrolls—salvaged from all over the ruins of the world. The curtains were red and gold wool that kept the sun back in the summer and the cold out in the winter, though the shutters beyond them were currently closed anyway because glass, even salvaged, was still dear.
Selene sat down in front of her viscreen to check the news and message Cahey and his son. Recollection distracted her while she typed a casual greeting and a brief, newsy mail.
Humans’ motivations were often mysterious to her. More mysterious than they knew, than—she suspected—they could ever be to one another. Her years in law enforcement, her experience as a Black Silk, one of the commanders of the Technomancer’s militia, had taught her that humans were complex and contradictory in ways no animal—and certainly no moreau—could predict. But the woman hadn’t seemed as frightened by her misadventure as Selene would expect, and she’d had an air about her when Selene refused her hand that could have been embarrassment over being rebuffed, or could have been something else. Thwarted malice, calculation carefully concealed.
Selene made a note to remember the woman’s face, and cursed herself for not getting a name. A failure of instinct and professionalism. But there weren’t that many people in the world. She’d keep an eye out, that was all, and chances were they’d meet again.
Her ’screen beeped, a message back from Cathmar, typed awkwardly with an eight-year-old’s spelling. Strange how an eight-year-old angel was still an eight-year-old
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