The Knowing Doll, page 27
Sharpe was foaming at the mouth, ragged with madness and anger. So unhinged was his fury that Khora barely even registered what happened when Delilah, calmly and casually, stepped in close to Sharpe, drew a knife from her belt, and opened Sharpe’s throat.
With a single, smooth flick of the wrist, Delilah drew her knife and ripped a line through the rat-man’s neck. Blood burst from the wound, onto Delilah’s face and screens – which buzzed a furious red haze of repeating lines, a colour that screamed and thrashed even as Sharpe himself did on the floor.
But soon enough the Lord Protector’s protests fell to pitiful gurgling and then to nothing. He just lay there. Dead. Blood leaking across the white concrete floor, soaking his white coat and gloves in red. No more tricks left up his sleeve and no more games left to play.
“W-wha-” Khora began, trying to speak and realising that she was trembling. Her paws shook at her sides; her ears lay flat against her head and her fur stood on end. Had she taken a step back from her friend? Khora swallowed, forcing courage into her voice at the very least. “What did you do?”
“Something good,” Delilah said, “in between the storm, sailing on clear water with the horizon in sight, I’m doing something right and true and good. I can’t say the same for yesterday. I can’t say the same for tomorrow...” She sighed, her screens flickering back to normal.
“You should leave through one of the back exits, best not to have anyone see you. No offence, my friend, but you do have a habit of drawing attention to yourself. Come on,” Delilah tossed the knife away, letting it clatter and splash into the pool of Sharpe’s blood before holding out her hand for Khora to take, “let me show you the way.”
For the longest time Khora said nothing. For the longest time she wanted nothing more than to go back just a single day, and then a day before that and another day before that, to return to a time when the blood did not pool at her feet and where more did not knock at her future.
But that was not likely to happen. So instead, Khora took Delilah’s hand and stepped over Sharpe’s corpse, following Delilah wherever The Knowing Doll might take her.
EPILOGUE - Dancer on the Horizon
“I’d never let you down, it’s not my style. That’s what I say – what I always say.
“Because how could it be anything but true? I’m supposed to be the brave one, Khora. Dashing rogue with the smile that can charm a whole room. The kinda gal who gets us into and outta trouble with the exact same style and gift of the gab. I fight with a flourish and flip through the air like it’s no one’s damn business, like I was born to it. Town muscle. Enforcer. But also, a friend to everyone. All the folk in Stonetown knew me, they trusted me to keep ‘’em safe. And I knew ‘’em all just as well cause that connection was just as vital for my job as anything my fists could do.
“But I couldn’t do it, Khora... The other night, I couldn’t do any of that. I just died. Again and again, those two Scions tore me to shreds. Fairy-Tale was toying with me. I was supposed to protect you, most of all that was my job. And I le…
“They kept killing me, Khora. They just... It was the helplessness of staring into the face of Nadir’s own cruelty, knowing I couldn’t stop it. I could only scream and thrash around and die and watch as Sharpe used that to make you...
“We almost lost everything that night, Khora. I couldn’t stop it. And it wasn’t even me who saved the day. It was Delilah. All I could do was die.
“I need... Khora... I need time. I need space.
“I need to be on my own right now. I don’t know for how long, I don’t know where I’m gonna go or what work I’m gonna... I love you so much but I... I need the room to heal without looking into your eyes and seeing you look back and knowing that I…
“Do you understand?”
When Jessica finished speaking her throat had turned raw and her cheeks were flushed red with tears as she cried. Her shoulders shivered and she gripped her elbows tight with her hands. She had barely made it through her speech and she’d been preparing it all day.
Jing reached out and placed two hands on Jessica’s shoulders, wiping away her tears with a third. “If you’re saying this to me... What did you actually tell Khora?”
Jessica swallowed.
Jing raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell her anything?”
“I left her a note.”
Jing’s face was stone. “What did your note say? Was it this speech you’ve been preparing?”
Jessica’s note had read, Gone for a walk. See you in Stonetown, Jess. Taped to the paper, she’d left a single columbine flower – proof she meant it, proof she wasn’t a liar.
Jessica looked Jing in the eyes and didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to lie to the woman. She couldn’t bring herself to tell anymore lies today. She was just too damn tired to say anything else. Jing pulled away and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and regarding Jessica carefully.
“You are a strange woman,” she finally said.
“We all are,” Jessica responded, “some of us are just louder about it. How are things going here?”
Jing rolled her eyes, “Those beggars you sent my way a few weeks back were an... interesting surprise.”
Jessica took her cup of tea and sipped at it. It had gone cold since they started talking but she kept drinking anyway, “Sorry, they needed something and I... Well, you were the only person in the city I could think of who might know how to help them in another way. ’Cause Nadir’s way just wasn’t working.”
Jing sighed, “I took them in, yeah. They freaked out my customers. They were surprised when I asked them to pick up some mops and dish rags though.”
Jessica cocked a brow, “Quid pro quo isn’t how this is supposed to work.”
“It wasn’t,” Jing said, waving away Jessica’s complaint, “I didn’t ask them to clean the place in exchange for food. I fed them, then I asked if they could help me clean up. With full bellies, they all said yes.”
Jessica smiled, “Any of them still around?”
Jing jerked her head at the kitchen doors, “Two in the back. I usually have two every day now, they cycle in and out of shifts so they all get a turn. I still can’t afford to pay but they all know they’ve got an evening meal every night when they come through around five. Plus, we’re trying to organise permanent space for them in the shelter if we can cook food for them in the evenings once or twice a week.”
Jessica’s jaw was open. She had hoped Jing would help these folk sure, but this was beyond anything she could have imagined. For the first time in weeks, Jessica smiled a true and genuine smile. “Thank you, Jing.”
Jing shrugged, “It’s not much.”
Jessica reached out and took a pair of Jing’s hands, “Enough people, doing ‘not much’ adds up. Khora and Delilah, Ashara and Bracken... They’re the ones who fix the big problems, the kinda stuff that ruins lives or saves ’em when on good days. The kinda stuff that drives us insane. But that stuff takes time. Until they can fix things, we need to live under the way things are. And we do that by getting enough people doing the right thing together. By building enough communities, all together. You get me?”
Jing offered Jessica a wary smile, “You’re sounding like the woman who first arrived here, again.”
Jessica shook her head, “She died too many times to count, Jing. But fortunately, we don’t need her. We need you, and people like you. That right there is enough for now.”
Jessica walked. One foot in front of the other, fake leather boots thudding against the well-kept stones of Nadir’s upper district again and again until the stones grew dark and worn and signalled her arrival in the lower city.
For the first few minutes of her walk, Jessica stared at those boots, not wanting to encourage conversation from any passers-by. But this hadn’t lasted long. Not once Jessica realised how much of her own blood was still staining the boots.
I’ll need new ones.
So, she raised her eyes back up and tried to blur out the sight of the world around her, as she walked down to the docks, just as well as she tried to blur out the thoughts that swam so thick in her mind.
Khora thought Jessica was a coward. She had to think so, Jessica was certain of it. Jessica promised not to give in, promised that she was willing to die again and again to protect what she and Khora created together.
And that night, after one death too many, Jessica had begged. Maybe not to Sharpe, that didn’t matter – Khora heard her beg, and if it had been enough, if Khora had agreed to Sharpe’s terms. If Delilah hadn’t come in...
Everyone dies. Only I come back.
I just wish I didn’t.
Her footsteps carried her down to the dock in slow strides that felt like they took ages longer than they should have. They felt like lonely echoes despite the crowd around her. All Jessica wanted to do in all the world was just to disappear into herself, to disappear from herself.
But that couldn’t happen, so she would do the next best thing.
And so, she wore a false smile all the way down to the docks, pushing past the crowds and press aligned to watch the Stonetown vessel that would take Khora and Delilah home. Jessica didn’t turn her head to look at it, she couldn’t bear to consider what she might do if she saw them now.
Worse still if she saw them seeing her.
She just kept her head down and walked, turning down a long concrete platform and examining the two massive skyships docked on either side. The first was a fine ship, with a fine crew. They were all well-kept, well dressed and entirely not Jessica’s type.
No, it was the second ship that caught her attention.
The crew weren’t much to look at, there were barely a dozen of them, which made sense. The ship itself seemed to have been retrofitted to run on a skeleton crew anyway., But the ship was in fine condition for a model so old. Cleaned and polished within an inch of its life, sails proudly ready for deployment, every inch of it hammered into place, nothing straining against anything else.
And barely a single piece of it seemed to have been built for the ship itself. The ship was made from scraps like nothing else Jessica had ever seen before, but everything had found a place and been used just right, with careful and clever care.
Those pieces had been put back together more than once. The crew painted over marks of canon fire and the scrapes of boarding ropes. This ship had seen licks aplenty and probably dealt more than a few of its own. It had seen the world and let the world see it back.
This was a ship that would face the world with a song in its heart and never stop. It made Jessica smile just to see it. It had character. It had been beaten, it had died, and had been put back together by the people who cared for it the most. But it wasn’t The Ship of Theseus. It wasn’t a myth or a legend. Jessica reached her hand up to the bow, to where its name was proudly displayed for her to admire.
DANCER.
Jessica hung in that moment. There was something so strange, so wonderful, so familiar about this beautiful ship. It was a friend she had known before, she didn’t know how she knew it. She simply knew it. “Did you know,” Jessica whispered to the ship, “that the columbine flower represents hope, in some cultures.”
The Dancer was silent, but Jessica understood anyway, just as she had understood the other night, when she heard The Voice. She smiled, and climbed aboard the ship, hand softly dragging across one of the railings.
“Who are you?”
Jessica, shook from her stupor, spun to see a man sitting at a table on the deck. He had a large frame, dark, tattooed blue skin and spoke with a thick Scottish accent. “Yeah, you. Fondling my ship.” The man did not open his plastic surfaced mouth, but the voice was coming from him. As Jessica approached, he reached for his hip and rested his hand on the revolver at his belt.
Jessica came to a sudden stop. She could come back but... That didn’t mean she wanted to die again... Not so soon after... Not ever again...
But when the man drew the gun, he did not level it at Jessica, only laid it out on the surface of the tabletop and gestured at the seat opposite him.
“Come, sit down. You here for travel or you here for work?”
Jessica slowly approached the chair and sat, “Work.”
“You don’t look like much,” The Captain said.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Jessica replied.
The captain laughed. But the man remained completely still, and it was only then that Jessica realised, to her own frustration, the large man was not the captain of this ship. The captain was the revolver on the table in front of her.
“My name is Samantha Black” spoke the living revolver, “I’m the Captain of The Dancer.”
“Jessica.”
“And what kind of work are you looking to do, Jess? Not everything my people do is... savoury.”
Jessica looked over her shoulder, watching the Stonetown sky ship as it took off, slowly rising through the air and carrying her friends, her wife, back home. She sighed, and looked back at Samantha Black, “Doesn’t matter, I’m up for anything.”
“Uh-huh. And any destinations in mind? Some folks just work with us till we land at a port they wanna get off at.”
“I’m not looking to stop any place, any time soon.”
The revolver was silent for a moment, “I can see a few uses for you. Alright, Jess. You’re in.”
Jessica stood up, still staring at Khora’s ship as it disappeared into the distance, “Thanks, you won’t-”
“But Jess,” Her new captain interrupted, “I can see a gal carrying baggage half a mile away. And that’s fine, same can be said for my whole damn crew. But I gotta know. Is that gonna get in the way of business?”
Jessica shook her head and turned away from Khora’s ship at last, a sad smile touched her lips.
“I won’t let you down. That’s not my style.”
Afterword
Every step of the path on this journey leads me to the exact same thought: “I absolutely never thought I would get this far. What the fuck.”
I’ve been writing books, on and off, since I was about eight years old. I don’t even remember the name of the first epic fantasy I wrote. All I remember was that it was, as is common with everyone’s first epic fantasy novels, an obvious ripoff of Tolkien.
The Knowing Doll was a pandemic project and has been writing, on and off, for the last five years and, given how angry many of its scenes are, I think that likely comes across. But I want to make clear, here and now, that the thing I want you to take away most of all is not the violence of the protagonists. I want you to think of the community they fight for, and the one Nadir is stealing from its people. Think about your neighbours and ask yourself if you even know their names.
I used to, growing up.
I don’t, anymore. And it makes me sad.
More than anything, that is what The Knowing Doll is about. Go out into the world and love its people, hold them close, teach them to trust again, and fight for that community in your way. My way is the way of words. I hope it helps.
I hope it moves the world at least a single inch.
Acknowledgements
But I think it’s time to set myself aside. You’ve learned enough about me in the last 85 000 words, it’s time now to talk about other people. The people who made this book possible.
First of all, I want to thank my parents, Karen and Shayne Robinson. There has not been a single moment where they’ve blinked at my pursuit of art. They provided me with love, support and education. My mother did not even blink at the thought of bankrolling this book because all my parents want is my happiness.
My editorial team are both miracle workers. Saskia Brandewijn was responsible for the first two drafts and did a magnificent job. Susan Cooke provided proofreading services, and I know no one in the world with a finer eye for detail than her. Thank you, so very much.
If you were drawn to this book by its cover art then for that please join me in thanking the cover artist, Moonkipp. She took my strange designs and incredibly specific instructions and worked hard to see them through into a far more beautiful reality than I could have imagined.
Next, my thanks go to my younger sibling, Beatrice Nebula. They have listened to every hairbrained idea and plot beat in this story, and not just in this story, but in every story that I plan to publish for the rest of my life, sitting in the kitchen, offering ideas and thoughts. With all that in mind, you all still need to understand that… Bad Neb.
It is important to acknowledge my oldest friend, Christian Stroud. We always used to joke that our friendship started with us meeting in a gutter and that pretty much set the tone for the next twenty years. And I still make that joke because it’s very funny. But if there’s one memory that I think defines the tone of our friendship even more, it’s sitting in my room every morning, enjoying a cup of tea. Christian isn’t in here to be acknowledged for contributions to the book, he’s here for being my friend, during the five hard years I spent writing it.
My final thank you is reserved for a particularly dear friend, Milano Mikhail. I’ve worked with her for years on many projects, so even now when embarking on a solo venture I couldn’t help but consistently seek her advice on this story. She knows the ins and outs of this world and its characters as well as I do and challenged me to push further, push harder – to find the truth of what I believe and to give it to my characters, to let them grapple with the uncomfortable anger of that truth. I’ll be forever grateful to her.
