Vin of Venus Read Online Free PDF Page A

understand me?" she said, leaning so close he smelled the menthol of her last cigarette-break.
    He was lying on his back. The aluminum cane lay a couple inches from his outstretched right arm. His left—the prosthetic—twitched and jerked, servo-motors whining as nerve impulses from his shoulder gave conflicting orders.
    He started to sit up. His eyes caught the glass display case and the sword hanging there.
    "He's going under again."
    The sword ...
    * * *
    The kelp-odor is so strong Vin almost gags.
    He's snuck his way through the stone barge's chambers to this place; a courtyard, open against the black sky and the echo of rolling surf.
    Not far from the pillar he crouches behind, a bizarre ceremony is reaching its climax. On one side of the courtyard stands Trinculo, hetman of the Rogue Clans. He wears a black feathered cape and a helm fashioned from a giant conch shell. Sprawled at his feet, bound and thrashing, is a jet-haired girl of no more than fourteen seasons. Vin surmises she is the bride-to-be. Her pale skin has been tattooed with spirals of cephalopod ink.
    On the other side squats the groom's party: two of the Deep Folk, their features hidden by cloaks of fine fish-scale. A human attendant ladels water from a brass bowl over their stooped and spiny forms. Near them lay piles of pale gold jewelry, worked with an intricacy beyond any Rogue Clansmen's skill.
    Vin understands this 'wedding' is more than a formalized exchange of girl for gold. The Rogue Clans are vying to expand their power through an alliance with the Deep Folk, ancient enemies of the Sea Clans and Mainlanders alike. But where is the dowry? The bridal-gift Trinculo stole from the Sea Clans, and Vin pledged to return?
    One of the Folk straightens and starts to hobble over to the bound girl. A single claw emerges from under its fish-scale cloak, grasping and opening again with each lumbering step. A leer stretches across Trinculo's narrow face.
    The bride screams.
    "Hold," Trinculo says, stepping forward. He motions to a burly clansman beside him, who thrusts forth a long bundle. Trinculo pulls the wrappings away to reveal a gleaming blade.
    "A gift, Dweller Beneath the Waves," he says, "to mark this union. An heirloom of your own king, returned to you."
    The Deep Folk's clawed hand reaches for the hilt.
    Vin yelps as the ruby bracelet burns branding-hot against his skin, filling him with murderous hate. He leaps from behind the pillar. Before he is even conscious of the action, the throwing-blade has left his outstretched hand, singing in flight, to sever the Deep Folk's claw at the wrist. Black blood spurts. The creature makes a croaking sound, its scaled hood falling away to reveal a face wrenched from watery nightmare. Eyes blaze like twin globes of yellow phosphorescence.
    But now Trinculo himself is rushing forward, snatching the Sword of the Sea Clans and raising it high above his head. Weaponless, Vin thrusts out a bare foot and catches the man in the gut. Trinculo doubles. Vin wrenches the sword from his fingers, breaking the hetman's wrist in the process. A second kick sends him hurtling against his well-muscled attendant. Both men go down.
    "Back!" Vin screams, lofting the blade. Most of the wedding-goers do just that. A faint current seems to course from the timeworn hilt, mingling with the emotional energies of the ruby bracelet.
    But a half dozen of Trinculo's feathered bravos surge towards him.
    He whirls the Sword of the Sea Clans in a great arc. The blade's edge whistles through an outstretched arm as if no more than smoke. Another man falls, clutching at the parted tendons in his neck. Vin scythes forward. He dodges the thrust of a wave-edged dagger aimed by one of the Deep Folk, and counters with a stroke that takes the creature in the gullet. If the sword was truly forged by such slimy brethren, it shows no compunction in killing its makers. The fish-man emits a croak so curdling it drowns the noise of battle and echoes out over