|
Graham yawned. That was his custom for the morning, as it often is for most people who have difficulty rising
quickly. Graham was always slow to rise; to the undying consternation of Lugh, who was always prompt when waking up and often
relied on Graham to ferry him places. Graham was taking Lugh nowhere this morning, though, public transit would see Lugh to
secondary school. Still, Graham woke at an uncharacteristic seven o'clock. He rolled over to look at the clock on his nightstand
to see if his guess of the time matched the actual time.
And stopped dead.
Hunched over him were five men, two crouching, all watching him carefully. Except that they were not men.
Insects in the shape of men was a better description. Giant, compound eyes stared at him, glowing a dull red in the darkness
of his room. Mandibles worked, clicking out an obscene set of squeals. The wicked, serrated limbs of mantids cradled rifles,
each equipped with a laser sight, causing the red dots over his heart to dance. The tallest, standing at the rear, near the
door of the room, squealed loudly. They all squeezed the triggers before Graham had the time to gasp, and he felt his chest
bloom in pain.
Graham lie there, brokenly, for a moment, leaning on one arm. Then, as he felt blood rise in his throat,
he fell off the edge of his bed and hit the floor. Despite the pain, he could still move, though breathing was difficult.
The insects congratulated each other, and began looking about his room. Everywhere but the chest, which the two lower ones
had been kneeling on.
Graham coughed up a gout of blood. Reaching feebly, he managed to knock the undone lock of the chest free
and get the lid up. The insects, apparently oblivious, continued to search. They took notice when he rammed the sword through
the first's back, though. The other four turned quickly, fumbling their rifles about, but Graham saw only their throats and
moved like a wolf. The second two died when their necks were laid open by the blade tip, and the fourth, attempting to shoot
him in the ended when Graham whipped the sword around and drove the point into its gut, spilling red, human blood on the rug
in his room.
The last spat some arthropodic curse as it tried to load its weapon, and tossed it aside in frustration.
It swayed to avoid Graham's overhead swing, then stepped forward and hit him with the crook of its claw, knocking him sideways.
A booted leg lashed out and creased his side, bringing him down. Graham's back to him, the creature bent low and jerked Graham's
head up so that it could slit his throat with a drag of its serrated arm. It never got the chance, though, because Graham
drove the sword backwards, into the creature's chest, without turning or rising. It hung on the end for a moment, before Graham
stood, lowered the sword and pushed it off with his bare foot.
Fearchara. It was whispered, and not by Graham. He looked at the sword, in his hands, covered with blood
and seeming to throb in his hands.
"What?" Graham asked of it, oblivious of the blood pouring from his chest.
You will see, the voice said.
"I'll see what?"
You will see.
"What will I see?"
You will see.
"Damn it all to the Abyss, what--"
"Graham!" the voice was Lugh's, and it came from the hallway. Graham stepped over his assailants, flipping
the sword around until he held it forehand. Keeping it close by him, he opened the door. Lugh dashed in, looking rightfully
afraid. Yet it was not Lugh.
Superficially, the being before Graham certainly resembled Lugh. The same fox-narrow face and mischievious
eyes were there (though filled with fear), but he was not dressed in anything he'd wear. A purple velvet greatcoat was draped
over his white ruffled shirt, and a cravat was about his neck. He wore breeches and knee-boots rather than trousers and shoes,
and, Graham had to squint in the light to be sure, but it appeared to be that he was wearing a layer or two of makeup. His
short brown hair was instead a most dramatic jade, and long enough to pony tailed. His ears, usually unremarkable, tapered
to slight points.
"Graham! Someone is attacking the house!" Lugh bleated. "It's by the Prophets' blessing alone that I got
here alive and--" He looked among the fallen bodies. "Ick. Looks like that swords proving useful." He noticed Graham's stare.
"What? Are y'all right?"
"Lugh, what's wrong with you?" Graham asked, still stunned as to why Lugh would be sleeping in attire appropriate
for an Elainian aristocrat.
"Me life's been threatened, thats all," he said testily. "We have to find Mum and Dad and Donata."
"I am here," Donata said, though the voice was cold and distant. She stepped over the bodies, much as Lugh
just did. And just as Lugh, she was changed. She was dressed all in silk, deep blue so dark it was almost black. A dress,
as narrow as one reasonably could be without hindering movement was what she wore, the only features being the conspicuous
lack of shoulders and the belt of what appeared to be spiders silk. Her hair was carefully arranged about her head, part of
an appliance from which draped a black but translucent veil dripping with tiny diamonds. She stepped forward, took Graham's
head in her hands and kissed him through the veil. "I was afraid you might be hurt. Come, we must see to your parents."
So stunned he was venturing towards the back leg of ready, Graham motioned for them to stand behind him,
reasoning that his new invulnerability would make him a good shield. The rest of the upstairs yielded nothing, so they ventured
downstairs. The insect-men were rummaging through his house until one spotted them, squealed, and then they all turned towards
Graham, Lugh, and Donata.
Everything happened at once. Graham and Lugh vaulted over the bannister with disturbing grace. Graham put
his shoulder into one insect and used the momentum to whirl about and decapitate another. In Lugh's hands appeared a rapier,
and he wielded it with astonishing aptitude, putting an end to insect men with heart-thrusts and neck-slashes. One insect
made to strike a treacherous blow to Graham's back, but Donata flicked her fingers and suddenly his body hit the bannister,
dragged upwards by a strand of silk as thick as Graham's thumb. With a strength her tiny body could not possibly possess,
she dragged him over the railing and plunged fingernails the length of butcher knives into his chest.
The insect men fell back through the living room into the kitchen, hissing and screeching as they went. The
three pursued to find Graham and Lugh's parents bound and on their knees, necks held steady by the arm-blades of the largest
of mantis-men. It clicked menacingly, motioning for them to stop by tightening its grip on Peter and Molly's necks, drawing
blood with the sharpened spines.
"What is it, creature?" Graham demanded. "Speak Avaloni?"
"We need the girl," it said, antennae twitching. "Give her to us."
"So ye can kill us as ye go? Why don't we fight for it?" Lugh's scowl was a thing of terror, and he shifted
his grip on his rapier.
"We only want her. You are immaterial."
"Then why did ye attempt to kill me?" Graham demanded.
"Turn her over or your parents die."
"Graham!" Peter called.
"Lugh!" Molly called.
Donata's voice was as cold as ice. "Take me to your master and you will die in a week."
"Empty threats," the insect accused. "Choose."
Graham and Lugh looked at each other over their blades. They looked back at Donata. She glanced at both of
them in turn, and nodded. As one, they turned and ran.
Cursing, shots followed them, but none hit home. "What now?" asked Lugh. "Mum and Dad are out of the equation."
"We keep fleeing."
"Where?"
"South. We will fly."
"How?" Graham asked.
"First we ride." She nodded towards the garage.
A moment later, Donata and Lugh were ensconced in Graham's coach, and he was whipping the horses urgently,
occasionally tossing a glance over his shoulder at their house. Coach? Graham wondered. I don't have a coach. I have a--
He never got to finish his thought, because they arrived at where Donata had instructed that they flee to.
Jumping down from the top of the coach, he saw where it was that they were headed. High above him, dragons soared, plying
the skies with great leathery wings. Occasionally, one would land, gliding to a graceful halt on the tarmac outside of the
building they were currently at.
Motioning, he ushered Lugh out quickly, hurrying inside the building. He cursed briefly as he saw another
insect man walking the halls of the building, looking about. He turned, tugging Lugh and Donata with him, and hurried down
another hall, skidding to a halt when he saw another insect man slip through an juncture in two hallways. He ran forward,
sure it hadn't seen him, sword ready. He turned the corner to find it already dead.
A beautiful lady, for there was no other word for her, stood, dressed as a knight, golden curls bound back,
bloodied sword in her hands ready for another assault. Behind her stood another man, dressed in voluminous red robes, not
too dissimilar to the wizards Graham had drawn in the past. "Royce, stay back," she said.
The wizard spoke in Montaigne, and so rapidly Graham had difficulty catching it all, but it sounded distinctly
like "Theus, does everybody on this planet have a sword?" A shadow stepped up from behind him and placed its arm on the knight's,
urging her away. She stood her ground for a second, then allowed herself to be pulled away.
Graham, Lugh, and Donata watched them go for a moment before the syncopated gunfire of two automatic weapons
sounded. The sound of danger galvanized them into action, and their run began again, falling in behind the knight, the wizard,
and the shadow. A pair of insects skidded to a halt at a crossing between hallways, but the wizard blinked out of existence
and appeared behind them, felling them with blows that would have dropped bears. He tossed hefted their weapons and tossed
one to the shadow.
"The insects hunt you, too?" Graham demanded of the knight.
"Yes!" she hissed back, eyes scanning the route ahead. "We're trying to get out of here!"
"So are we!" he called back. "Where are you going?"
"The Sapphire Isle." As though that explained anything.
<(_-|-_)>
Your Most Reverend Excellency,
I know that I am the last person in the world you would expect or want to see a letter from, but I must contact you
per my duty as Father Ibrahim laid at my feet forty-five years ago. If you are
reading this, then all our channels in the Holy Lands remain open and untainted, and I pray that you read these words with
as much relief as I do anxiety.
I am Father Abdullah ibn Fadyn, and I serve the Order of the Glass. The
First Sign is upon us, and I have seen it.
I know you are a practical man and regard alarmists severely, so I shall explain.
Of the Seven Seals before Judgement Day, the first is the coming of She Who Comes Before, the Herald of the Fourth
Prophet. The texts within the Book of the Prophets are woefully brief on how
we know her, but the indications are so strong I dare not ignore them. I would
not think to question your command of scripture, but for brevity's sake, I have the passages here.
"From the land of river and thorn
Will come a woman on warship borne
She will return sight to three blind eyes
Ruined by a right hands rise
'Herald' will be her title beaten on drums
Know thee then the Fourth Prophet comes."
A member of the UWP's relief team, a woman
named Catrice Arrent-Lopez, has nearly fulfilled all these criteria. The Land
of River and Thorn, Montaigne, is described as such by the Numan conquerors two hundred years before this passage of the Book
of the Prophets was written. She was born there.
As a member of the military, she came here on a warship. The three blind
eyes refers to the Al-Nariq, Al-Fushwa, and Al-Yareem mosques in Kardobbia, which the UWP is currently attempting to rebuild
as a gesture of good faith to Kardobbia in apology for the destruction caused by the military dictatorship called the Right
Hand of Theus caused when they were ousted from power last year. The three mosques
refer to three of the compass points that they were built to correspond to, north, west, and east respectively. They were called the Eyes of the Prophet when built, because with them he could see in all directions (the
southern mosque was not bombed; a sloppy arming job rendered the demolitions next to it useless).
While the reconstruction of the mosques
is not yet finished, nothing short of the intervention of Theus will stop them. This,
to my mind, is the return sight referred to in scripture. Once this is done,
Father Usef agrees that only the words need be whispered and a drum stroked once to bring about the beginning of the end.
I fear what comes, but I will not run
from it, for it is the will of Theus.
I await your commands.
Father Abdullah ibn Fadyn
Priest of the Order of the Glass, Kardobbia
"Damn it," Lucia Damoclia cursed, smoothing the
letter out so she could read it a third time. "Damn it all to the Abyss." Drumming four fingers on her desktop, she hissed air between her teeth. She lifted the phone at her desk and mashed the keys with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm. "The hammer is about to come down."
<(_-|-_)>
Hugo Vert felt the shift in the Walkway. His Porté senses were the most finely tuned in the entire world, or so he knew. Norda, the last time she'd tried to kill him, mentioned a succulent cherry named Royce whose potential
exceeded even his formidable skills. Hugo deemed it possible, but not likely. Norda was good at lying, misleading, doing anything there was to lead him off track,
but if he gave her enough rope, shed hang her own deceptions out on the gallows for him.
And if there was one thing Hugo knew how to do, it was hand out rope.
Her last assault had been devastating.
Not merely statistically, but emotionally. Norda was a predator, cold-blooded
as a crocodile and just as remorseless. This last attack, though, was particularly
brutal. Instead of that tight-lipped deadpan she normally fought in, Norda actually
showed emotion pure, black-hearted rage, but still, it was emotion while fileting Hugo's friends like they insects and she
was a child with a sharp stick. It had been a long time since her last visit,
so Hugo was getting complacent. The others stopped taking him seriously.
And it cost Chanice, Etienne, Marcia, and Jean their lives. Hugo escaped. Hugo always escaped. She must think that amidst a string of curses, he thought to himself, but it was poor
balm for his wounds, real and emotional. Hugo did something he told himself he
was never going to do. He let himself get close to someone in his group. Marcia, unlike the rest, was not at all afraid of Norda or herself, indeed, she was
a study in resilience and bravery. Hugo could not help but admire that. It reminded him of himself, but her spirit was so much harder and polished than his,
he almost felt unworthy around her. He had kissed her goodbye for the first time
when he left for the market to pick up some cream for the stray cat the five of them took in, Bran.
Hugo walked in the door to find Marcia run through the
heart from behind by Norda. She never saw it coming, never had a chance to duck
through the Walkway to a safe place. Her death was painful but quick. The others hadn't been so lucky. Hugo emptied all six shots
out of his revolver at Norda before scooping up the key to his safety deposit box off the counter, Bran off the floor, and
ducking through a portal which took him to the train station downtown. He took
the few meager belongings he had there, bought a ticket to somewhere (it didn't matter) with cash and getting on the train.
Hugo was alone in this particular cabin, except for one
other passenger, who was engrossed in a book, and laying crosswise, taking up his entire bench. Hugo sat against the window, forehead pressed against the glass, one eye on the passing countryside and
one on the door. It was an instinct he had developed well in the last four years,
since Norda began stalking him. Whenever he stepped into a room, his eyes went
to the exits, measured the locations of everything and everyone in the room, judged how hard they would be to get over, around,
or under, and how well they would delay Norda if he hurled them at her. Small
things didn't work well; she had a nasty habit of cutting them apart in mid-air. People
and furniture worked well, because furniture was so large and because people had a tendency to struggle.
He also looked for points of egress, regardless of size. In fact, the smaller they were, the better.
Hugo kept a pocket full of small rubber balls on him at all times, blooded to the last.
They were easy to throw, light, bounced a great deal, cheap to buy, and if he tossed them all, shed never know which
one to follow when he stepped into the Walkway unless she stepped into the Shadows, and even then, Hugo would be stepping
out first and have the time he needed to put a bullet or two in her before dashing off again.
So, all in all, a train cabin was a terrible place to
be if you're running from her. The good news, however, is that Norda had no particular
method of tracking him that was at all supernatural unless he used his magic, which is why he left a blooded coin in a safety
deposit box at the train station. Norda would be able to follow him there, but
couldn't tell which train he'd taken. And even if she succeeded on her one-in-fifty-two
of guessing correctly, he tossed balls onto three other trains by walking past them.
If it became necessary to flee her again, hed evade her until he found two other people, poke them in the eyes, and
shove them to the other two trains while he went to the third. Even if Norda
guessed correctly on the first try, Hugo was still ahead of her.
Twice in the sixteen times she'd tried to kill him, he'd
needed such extreme measures. Both times were progressively more close. Hugo's already frayed nerves were rubbed raw by this last attack. He was beginning to wonder if it was worth it to run. She
would kill him, and given how difficult he'd been to catch of later, probably torture him for days, too. It was reasonable to call his current life torture, too. The
instant he felt something more than responsibility for some time since his foster parents were killed by a frustrated Norda
it was taken from him by the same black-clad woman that had ruined virtually everything else in his life. It was bad enough that a mundane group of paramilitary sociopaths hired by the Reiseker Corporation was
hunting him; now a boogeyman from an Eisen fairy tale was now stalking him. At
least Norda's pursuit made the mercenaries attempts to capture him seem mundane and easy to avoid.
Now all he had were two sets of clothes, a windbreaker,
a fist full of stolen monts in tattered and well-used bills, a thermos full of water, and a cat.
The cat! Bran! Hugo had put the cat in his bag when he boarded the train so it couldn't struggle
out of his grip. Likely he was surly to the point of attacking now. Hugo stood and pulled his bag down from the compartments overhead.
He unzipped the bag, and sure enough, the blue-and-white tabby leaped out and directed the foulest of all foul looks
at him, marching imperiously to the far end of the cabin. It sat, eyes still
staring murder at him, and began to clean himself assiduously. Hugo's fellow
passenger leaned over and looked down at the cat, and didn't appear to find an animal in the wrong part of the train occasion
for comment.
Done bathing himself, Bran stretched and staked out a
corner of the cabin, directing a wary gaze at he-who-stuffed-him-in-a-bag. Hugo,
seeing that this disfavor was likely to end when Bran left the train sighed and leaned back, laying so that he was positioned
similarly to his fellow passenger. His back caused the sound of crinkling paper. Reaching behind himself, he rummaged under the cushion he leaned against and found
a newspaper.
Glad to have something to read, he pored over the front
page. Terrorist Attack on Triomphal University topped the headlines. A terrorist attack on a university? Hugo thought.
That is odd. Triomphal isn't precisely known for being partisan politically. He kept on reading. Someone shot up the
library. No ideas who was responsible yet, but at least one attacker is suspected
an Eisen neo-Weissman. Just what we need before the elections, Hugo thought. He wished he could stay in one place long enough to register to vote.
He was beginning to nod off as he continued, until a sentence
slapped him right back into conciousness:
It is suspected that the potential target of the attack
may have been Jacqueline Gosse, daughter of Arthur R. Gosse V, ambassador from Gossia to Montaigne for nearly twenty years,
and spearhead of the attempts to enfeeble the strongly pro-Inhabitantist movement within both Gossia and Montaigne. Gosse's daughter was with student Royce La Due at his dormitory at the time of the attack, and neither
can be found currently.
Royce? Hugo thought.
Norda mentioned a Royce not three hours ago. As she was pushing Jean's
corpse off her swords with a her boot. How many Royces can there be in Montaigne?
<(_-|-_)>
Alec shrugged on his new shirt and found it quite satisfactory. He was expecting Carolina
to arrive with a truckload of unremmittingly foppish fashion victimizations, but the boggrins (so he was told they were called)
were actually quite tasteful, if overly dramatic and with absolutely no understanding of what was appropriate for a formal
occasion. He rather fancied his new slacks and shirt; he looked as dashing as
she told him he was. Probably picturing me in something like this, he thought,
smirking. He buttoned up and admired himself in the mirror in his bedroom.
Satisfied that he was now decent, since he now had clothes,
he was about to ask the boggrins to be a little more brusque about clearing out of his house when something went flying at
him.
Certain his vocal utterance was of a much higher pitch
than he intended, Alec caught it. Looking at it, he saw what it was: a rapier. An unsheathed rapier, too. He had enough
time to shift his grip on it before someone shouted "En garde!"
Another rapier came at him, but blade first this time. Alec stumbled backwards, the sword cutting the air where he was just a moment ago,
slicing a divot in the frame of his bedrooms door. The figure that appeared next
was stunning.
He was of a height with Alec, though he seemed much taller
by his graceful and effortless carriage. He was garbed as a nobleman from nearly
four hundred years ago, a velvet-red coat, knee-breeches, and a lacy cravat. His
hair, as purple as a bruise, was bound back in a neat ponytail. A mischievous
smile quirked inside an elegant goatee. His rapier, held in his right hand, featured
wrestling dragons on the guard. "Up, miscreant!
Defend yourself!"
Alec pulled himself up, keeping his sword between himself
and his assailant. "Who the bloody Abyss are you?"
"I am Count Lisanther ap Dyffyn," he announced, saluting
smartly. "I know you already, Sir Alexander ap Westin. Now, as I said, show me your skills!" He lunged forward, his
blade tip headed towards Alec's heart. Alec twisted aside, just barely missing
the sword again. He brought his own weapon to bear, but the Count parried without
visible effort. "Shameful. What
does the Queen see in you?"
"Maybe she appreciates a nice arse when she sees it!" Alec, already less than hinged by the events of the past few days, threw himself into
this new trial without hesitation. "For the record, Count Dolphin, I've dealt
with fouler insults in my day."
"And not for lack of deserving them." Alec did his best, but clearly a faerie lord with several hundred years worth of experience was more than
a match for him. Despite numerous obvious errors that would have been the death
of him if this were a true fight, Alec fought on.
"Ah, now I see.
Fire in the belly. Little have I seen such valor. I salute you, sir!" He parried a clumsy lunge, which took
them down the last few steps from the upstairs and into the kitchen. On the follow
through, he smacked Alec on the backside with the flat of his blade. "You are
a man of rare persistence. And surpassing comeliness. If I weren't fancying a full bosom and rosebud lips after this little workout, I might-" Alec stepped forward again, sliding his sword along the counts. Smiling,
Dyffyn stepped past him and caught Alec's sword hand, pressing him against the kitchen island.
Alec shifted left and right, but the count held him fast. "I win, Sir
Westin. If you had not been dead a thousand times already, you would have my
main gauche in your-" Again, he could not finish his sentence, but this time,
it was because a gunshot sounded.
"You'll pardon my sauciness, your Lordship, but my friend
the revolver begs to differ," Alec grinned, pressing the barrel against Dyffyn's crotch.
"I deliberately aimed for the cupboards last time." He shoved it in a
little deeper. "Now, I'm not."
Dyffyn scowled, but only a little, as it was busy battling
a smile. "I am defeated, then." He
released his blade, which clattered to the floor. He backed away, hands in the
unarmed position.
"That's right."
Alec kicked the sword away, into the living room.
"I imagine this is how she pictures you," Dyffyn said,
smiling. "Wreathed in sweat, rapier in one hand, pistol in the other, the conquering
hero."
"Bloody Abyss," Alec said, keeping both sword and gun
leveled at the count. "Who? Carolina?"
"No, the Grey Queen.
Carolina is her retainer. I
am impressed by your resilience, your persistence, and your firm grasp of the obvious."
He smiled wryly at the last. "I wish there were another way, Sir Westin,
but the forging of a hero is not an easy business."
"As long as we understand that you're not going anywhere
and that I have the upper hand here, I think you should sit down and answer some of my questions."
"Reasonable," Dyffyn stated, stepping past Alec and introducing
himself to a leather chair and lowering himself down quickly, seeming to turn a simple easy chair into a throne merely by
being in it. "What do you wish to know?"
"Why are you accosting me at swordpoint?"
"Your fellow champion requested a change of training regimen
of the Grey Queen. She thought his request reasonable. Thus, you are now undergoing his training program and he yours. A
very sensible suggestion altogether, given that you are mortal."
"Explain everything you just said."
"Jack Van Huizen, the chosen Champion of the Unseelie
Court, your foil and counterpart, is sick of his current instruction methodology. It is wreaking havoc with his delicate sensibilities. So he
requested that the Grey Queen pick a different method of garnering him the experience and knowledge necessary for his position. She thought his words reasonable and exchanged the current programs the two of you
are in to fulfill his request and assist you both in attaining your goal. Do
you need further clarification?"
"No. I don't
think I'll ever make sense of that. Who are you?"
"I am Count Lisanther Muidlain of the House of Dyffyn
of the Seelie Court. I am
the Master of Arms for Duke Muidlain's household. I owe the Grey Queen a few
favors, that is why she appropriated me as your instructor for the fine art of swordplay."
"You're supposed to be teaching me how to fight instead
of just fighting me?"
"Yes."
"So why didn't you explain yourself?"
"I am to do more than just show you which end of that
thing to grip. I am to teach you every inch of how to fight, which is why I assaulted
you. I wanted to see what you would do against a superior opponent. And I see you already possess an uncommonly large dollop of common sense.
That trick with the pistol was quite dashing. I'm thrilled I don't have
to teach you to think outside the situation. But you have a great deal more to
learn."
"So I keep hearing.
I really should keep taking advantage of your people's supposed superiority.
You become much more pliable when youre facing death."
"Not death, good sir.
You could not kill me, nor any sidhe at this time. You don't know how,
and aren't properly equipped. Indeed, I am reluctant to teach you that, but the
Grey Queen is insistent. Yes, you could shoot me, and it would indeed splatter
my skull across your windows, but it wouldn't be the end of me. It would take
years to heal, but my face would eventually return to its old self. In the interim,
I should imagine I'd go quite mad, being unable to eat or breathe or speak. That's
why my people never particularly cared for firearms. He busied his hands with
straightening his collar. The last thing is someone like me turning into a bane-sidhe."
"All right, as long as were on that, start explaining
about all these faerie tales I've been told since I was a boy. What's real and
what's blather?"
"We are real, but you can see that. And we still live around and beside you. All you have heard
is no more than a distortion of the truth. Yes, Cyreth of the Nelsh was half-fae,
I have never met his father, but I know those that have. The-"
"Never mind, I don't care.
Why haven't you come forward until now? The Grey Queen-"
"-has her own perspective.
Your people seem to heap a great deal of significance on the turning of the millennium."
"Are you serious?"
"As often as possible.
I don't suppose you could set that gun down, could you?"
"I'm comfortable with it here, thank you. Now, here's another question I've been dying to ask: why should I help you?"
"I think our request is quite rational. Reverse our positions, dear boy, would you not-"
"I understand that you want this," Alec barked, resisting
the urge to throw his hands up in frustration. "You people seem to believe that
my only sensible reaction is to ground arms and go along with your plan. Did
it occur to you that I might not care two wits about you?"
Dyffyn's eyes fell to his fingernails, which he polished
against his coat. "Again, the Grey Queen's policy. She insisted that we attempt to entice you into this course of action."
"Enticing someone implies tempting them. You people have railroaded me from one task to another, not to mention getting me suspended."
"Yes, my Sir Westin, I understand you find upheaval distasteful. So do we. But answer me this: when was
the last time you felt so alive?"
Alec's mouth opened to state something else standoffish,
but the words died before they were born. "What do you mean?"
"I think you know, Sir Westin. You love to play your silly little game, but it does not enriching or fulfilling at all, is it? You are a man who made a career out of his hobby. You love
to play football, but afterwards you feel empty. That's why you try so hard to
be the life of the party; you have transposed your pleasure and your perdition. So
when you try to relax, you find you must force yourself to through extreme measures.
It is why you feel so empty. No woman now or ever has made you happy,
nor could you make her happy. They see the barest fraction of the emptiness within
you and they shrink back. That is why you settle for such transitory trysts. You know you cannot have more. You are
like the salamander-"
"Stop, stop," Alec said, shaking his head. "How do you know this?"
"It's writ plain on your face, and I could see it even
if the Grey Queen hadn't told me."
"All right, I will admit," Alec began grudgingly, "that
I do feel differently. I won't say it's more alive, but it is something. I still don't know where I'm going. Given
what I've dealt with the last week or so I'm not certain I'm going anywhere productive.
Still keeping the pistol aimed at the count, he walked over to the other man's sword and picked it up. And I'm particularly not certain why an ambassador would need to know swordsmanship."
"A gentleman should know war just as well as peace," Dyffyn
said, sounding as though he was quoting someone. "You never know when either
will come in handy."
"And what about where I'm going," Westin asked, a half-grin
quirking his face. "What do you have to say to that?" He tossed the sword to Dyffyn.
"I cannot tell you that, Sir Westin," the count said,
catching his sword and saluting Alec smartly. "Not even Theus can tell you what
rests in the hearts of mortals."
Alec tossed the gun aside, and their swords met again.
<(_-|-_)>
"Good afternoon."
"Poppa?"
"Jacqueline! How are you?"
"Good, Poppa. Yourself?"
"Fine, fine. What brings you to my ear this evening? Did you get to Montaigne all right?"
"I did. I'm there now. Leaving, actually."
"Leaving! Didn't you just get there?"
"I've been here for four days, Poppa."
"Yes, I knew that. Where is my calender?"
"Poppa, I need you to listen to me. I think I might be in trouble."
"Trouble! What did you do?"
"I think I saw something I wasn't supposed to see. I'm coming home as soon as I can, and I may need a place to stay."
"I'm getting very concerned, Jacqueline. What did you see? What's wrong?"
"Do you promise to believe me no matter what I tell you?"
"Jacqueline, this is your father. Please remember, no one knows you better than your mother and I, I know you aren't given
to fancies. If you tell me something, I'll believe you."
"Magic is real. I'm sitting in a car next to a sorceror."
"I can see the need for that preface. What leads you to believe this?"
"Because he can teleport from one place to another. I've seen him do it. I'm not crazy, Poppa, he's a real Porté mage."
"Okay, all right, Jacqueline. I need you to listen now. Come here as soon as you get the chance. Who are you with?"
"Royce, the man I told you about last time I called, the one I was going to visit. His roommate is with us, his name is
Stephen. That's all of us."
"All right, three guests. When do you think you'll be here?"
"Three days, maybe. I don't know what kind of circus it's going to be to get Royce's passport. He's never left Montaigne
before."
"What's his last name?"
"La Due."
"Royce La Due. Right. Don't worry about that, I'll take care of it. Do you need any money?"
"No, I'm fine. We'll be fine. Thank you, Poppa. I love you."
"Anything for my favorite daughter."
<(_-|-_)>
Virgil typically used his hand mirror when shaving. He took his appearance very seriously, and along with that, he was immaculate about his beard. Miranda had termed it an obsession. Erica just found it amusing. Today, however, he was using his mirror to look at another mirror. The bathroom mirror behind himself. He was using that mirror
to look at his back.
"Theus damn it," he cursed, keeping himself composed but
still letting his anger off its leash. He wanted to throw something. He wouldn't, though. That would be too dangerous.
Erica, having wrapped herself in sheets, leaned in the
doorframe, watching him with a lazy and languid smile. "Good morning, Virgil."
Virgil twisted his arm around and scratched at the dried
blood on his back. "That was completely unnecessary."
Erica made a great show of gathering the sheets in one
fist and using her teeth the scrape the dried blood out from under her fingernails.
She grinned smarmily and swallowed the dark flecks. "Maybe you shouldn't
be so good next time. And you sound Avaloni."
"I am Avaloni. Half,
anyway."
"Your breeding seems to change to meet the needs of the
moment."
Virgil didn't take the bait. As he'd discovered in the last few weeks, Erica wanted him to take any bait, regardless of its size. Because she would use it as an excuse to punish him later. In their mutual bedroom. After dark.
Virgil was, quite truthfully, absolutely bewildered. He was a manipulator par excellance, and he was manipulated with brutal simplicity
two weeks ago. He'd've been lying if he said he didn't find Erica's power and
personal dangerousness intoxicating. He'd started flirting almost immediately
after they met, but that had backfired catastrophically when she took his immature jests as genuine interest. Truthfully, the two of them had little in common beyond occupation, and being around her was beginning
to make his skin crawl. Even the sex was beginning to lose its novelty. Erica was having the time of her life, however, and it was keeping her happy, so Virgil
kept coming back.
The only thing which ruined this already tense tightrope
walk was the talk circulating amongst the other pirates. Bad things were being
said about Virgil. Words like 'bedwarmer' and 'whipping boy' were being passed
around, and about him, not in reference to his most recent fling. His reputation
amongst the men was taking a sharp about-face. Where before, people tread carefully
around Virgil, wondering if he was using them directly or just obliquely. Now
no one feared his words and insinuations, indeed, there was a joke circulating about Virgil now. Everyone thought he hadn't heard it yet, but there were some people who would never do anything to Virgil,
regardless of his new reputation. It was some permutation of the following:
"What's the difference between Virgil and a scratching
post?"
"Baine doesn't make a scratching post call her 'Captain.'"
He jumped when a chime sounded from the far end of the
cave. It struck him as odd that he and the rest of the Hawks should live in caves,
but it was not as though they could have contractors come out to the islands to look into building beachhouses. Besides, the caves were adequately insulated from the weather, mild all year long, and getting electricity
into them was not nearly the hassle Virgil had thought it would be when he first joined up, years ago. His abode had the feel of a mine, but it was still well-lit and wanted for nothing. Except, perhaps, for a less violent and commanding lover.
The chime belonged to his computer. Now, in practice, Erica's computer, since any attempts by him to assert his ownership involved an automatic
weapon jabbed into his chest right where his aorta would be. She used it and
some form of military clearance she still had despite her discharge to follow the UWP's records of who moved into and out
of national waters. As much he disliked admitting it, Erica's method was cheaper
and often more accurate than his, which involved bribing the right people. Despite
the debacle that cost the lives of twenty men and the near mutiny that followed, Erica maintained her hold on the helm of
the piracy operation, primarily by making sure her primary detractors disappeared. She
was good, Virgil had to admit. He only once caught her hurling a body (or, at
least, a bag with some body parts in it) off the cliffs on the leeward side of the island.
The chime signified mail.
Erica insisted that at least every fifth man in the outfit have a computer if they weren't going to have radios on
this island. By another trick of her training, she managed to find them all modem
access despite not having a single inch of electrical cable on the island apart from what was needed to power the caves from
their generator. Any urgent message could be to virtually every grotto on the
island instantly. This particular message came from Byron Miller, one of the
de facto security men on the island:
ship off the northeast shore
skirting the reefs
Private vessel?
at least 24 men on board
begging to be let ashore!
"That's odd," Erica commented. She pushed her hair over her shoulder, dropped the sheet, and typed a message back. "We have a guests," she tossed back to Virgil, only to find that he was standing right behind her.
"I saw. How
did they find us? And what do they want?
Miller'd've said something if it were a military vessel. And if they're
close enough for the scopes to fall on them, he'd've picked out a stealth operation."
"Very few stealth operations occur at ten o'clock in
the morning," Erica said, stroking her jaw. "Let's go say 'Good morning!' before
we shoot these people. I'm curious as to what would cause people to come looking
for us."
"You do plan to get dressed first, right?" Virgil asked. "They might developed even odder ideas than the ones already rolling around in their
skulls about us if you show up like that."
"Best to appear dangerous if possible," she mused, appearing
not to hear him yet doing so. "Go get my desert gear and the tank of the same
color."
"Tank, Captain?
You have a tank hidden somewhere in your things?" Virgil fished a pair
of khaki shorts off the floor, found they were the one's she had ripped off him last night, and pitched them into the nearby
garbage can before departing to find another pair.
"Tank top," she clarified, directing an exasperated glare
at him. "A shirt with a low neck and no sleeves."
"Oh, one of those," Virgil said, suddenly manifestly irritated
that he was being sent to fetch clothes. "How did you operate before you had
me to obtain things for you?"
"The same as now, but I shot more people."
In a few minutes, they were dressed, and both standing
in front of the huge mirror Virgil had bought some time ago and mounted in the alcove of his cave that served as the bathroom. Virgil ran a comb through his hair, arranging into his standard rakish disarray. Erica disavowed the typical hair styles she favored (ponytails and buns), and stuck
her hair underneath a tan bandanna decorated with a symbol she also had tattooed on her shoulder, the flag of the People's
Republic of Gossia. A pair of rapiers wrapped by a pair of olive branches. When she rose, whipping her hair back, Virgil spoke.
"What do you think?"
"About?"
"Our guests!"
"Oh. I'd
give you an even split. Some badly misinformed military op that thinks they can
get a look at us covertly, or some terribly courageous thieves who're looking to join up."
She shrugged her fatigues jacket on, but didn't fasten any of the buttons or zip it up.
Virgil had seen her do this before, and didn't know why she did it until she explained it to him. While not an extraordinarily well-endowed woman, Erica was tall, which put her chest just below eye level
for most men. Virgil, indeed most men she talked to, had difficulty keeping eye
contact, especially when their opponent was such a form-fitting shirt as the one she wore now.
Add into this that a shoulder harness for her pistol had a strap that connected just under her breasts, and not many
men knew where to look when she was like this.
It was slowly occuring to Virgil that she was just as
good at manipulating people as he was. Regardless, he still had most of his dignity
and his welfare to worry about, so he kept his teeth together.
Another few minutes later, after Byron gave them the message
to guide the ship through the reefs to the island, she was standing on the docks, hands draped over her signature shotgun
(which was over her shoulders), Virgil at her side, and two dozen other Blackhawks behind her, she cut a very impressive image.
The boat pulled up and docked with some degree of competency. Most aboard were clearly armed and made no secret of this when they saw that the Hawks
were going to greet them cautiously. "Not military," Erica noted, noting the
sloppy way the group went about virtually everything. One man, wearing a leather
vest over his grey T-shirt despite the weather, didn't wait for a plank to be dropped before leaping bodily off the boat and
onto the docks. Five of the Hawks flinched despite his complete lack of obvious
weapons. Erica corrected her previous assessment; if this man wasn't military,
he was at least Artidenot. Despite the three meter gap he just jumped, he stuck
the landing and didn't look as if there was a speck of doubt he would.
"Good morning, I trust I've found the Blackhawks?" he
asked in Avaloni, speaking with a strong Coastal accent. "I also trust I'd be
dead right now if you weren't intensely curious. Allow me to explain myself."
"Please do," Virgil motioned for him to go on, already
in his reproachful authoritarian mannerism. "We're difficult to find for a reason."
"Not if you know how to look," he grinned. "My name is Roger Mensing, though most people would call me Grey Roger these days." Murmurs passed amongst the Hawks; the name was known. "I hope
I'm known here?"
"Grey Roger?" Virgil asked. "As in the trafficante currently in Chateau du Vite? Never
heard of you."
"I trust my escape will make the headlines in a few days,"
he said, smiling. "Never underestimate the use of blackmailing people like prison
guards. And trafficking in narcotics and hallucinogens is a hobby, not my occupation. But on to the more crucial question: what is such a man doing here, two thousand miles
south of where he's supposed to be?"
"The thought had crossed our minds," Virgil replied.
"Well, given my recent change in employment status, I
and my associates," he tossed a glance backwards at the men behind him, "are entertaining thoughts of seeking a different
benefit plan."
"And that is why you risked life and limb trying to find
us."
"You have a reputation for excellence," Roger said, fishing
a folded up newspaper clipping out of a pocket. It was an article on the debacle
from a few weeks ago with the Vodacce freighter. The pictures in it were taken
by a Montaigne who happened to be on the Vodacce ship at the time. Including
a very obvious and crystal clear photograph of Erica, including her fist streaking towards the photographers head. The caption was illegible given Roger's current distance, but the heading was visible: RED ROBIN? it asked,
obviously referring to Erica's signature red coat.
"Not our best work," Virgil said, pursing his lips. "You'll forgive me if I brutally parse what I take you to insinuate. Are you, in effect, asking 'Let me join up because youre the smashingest pirates ever?'"
"That was brutal," Roger said, maintaining his good humor. "I don't beg, I'll tell you that for certain.
As such, I haven't come empty-handed. If you'll be willing to take me
on, I bring not only my manpower and considerable clout, but I also possess a great amount of funds which just recently became
unfrozen. Take me aboard, and I'll help you with your little operation. It is possible to be so much greater."
"So now you're lowering yourself to talk to us? You had ten times what it takes for a man to live in luxury when you were caught, Roger. What aren't you telling us?"
"I still have half that.
I have no interest in retiring into boredom for the rest of my life. And
the lot of you certainly have a lot of excitement to keep you busy. I wanted
a piece of the action."
"And your men?"
"As I get rich, so do they. I'm a fair thief, if such a thing can be. Most of them have
no sea legs to speak of, but they're willing to learn."
"Your proposal-"
"-is still suspicious, Erica finished, speaking for the
first time since touching the docks. I can understand the 'life of adventure'
story. I believe that you're looking for a safe place to stay. What I don't understand is why you're coming to us. With your
money, you could do it yourself."
"If you let that weasel do your talking, I think you already
know why," Roger said, jerking his head towards Virgil.
Silence coated the docks for a moment. Then Erica extended a hand to Roger, who took it and shook it firmly.
<(_-|-_)>
"Jack!" an aide called, practically shoving a manilla
file filled to bursting into Jack's hands. "Thank Theus you're here. Benitez needs to talk to you."
"Thank you," Jack said, still looking bewildered. From the instant he put his feet inside the building to now, the abode of the Prime Minister of the State
of the Coast was a flurry of activity. No, Jack thought. A blizzard. Televisions buzzed in every room that had one,
all turned to the news and creating a terrible cacophony if one managed to tune out the din of Jack's coworkers. Tempers were clearly short, and patience was evident on no one's face.
Jack sidestepped numerous dashing men and women. He thought about asking
someone what was going on, but decided Benitez might have a slightly more complete idea of what's going on. To that end, he had to find Benitez.
Grinning, he plucked a pen from his pocket and concentrated
on it, reciting a rhyme in the tongue of the sidhe. The pen spun around on his
palm, then pointed deeper into the building. Jack began forward, dodging people
as necessary, following the pointing pen towards where it indicated. It was a
simple spell, one he learned early on, which Dame Barcleigh told him was a basic but useful divination spell. It only worked if the person he was trying to find had touched the item doing the pointing, and Benitez,
had, borrowing it for an endorsement yesterday.
After ducking into a few rooms and through a few corridors,
Jack found his way into the Red Room. He walked into a sea of people, but spotted
the Prime Minister in the center of the chaos. He looked up from grasping the
pen and breaking the spell in time to see Ambrosio Benitez look relieved and announce "Mr. Van Huizen! I need to speak to you privately!"
Elbowing his way through the crowd, Benitez physically
took Jack by the arm and brought him into one of the adjacent rooms. It was an
ambassadorial meeting room, rarely used. As soon as the Prime Minister shoved
the door shut and locked it, he walked away from it, sighing heavily and massaging his temples between a thumb and forefinger. "Thank Theus for your arrival, Jack."
People seem to keep saying that, Jack thought. Feeling he might be here awhile, he returned his pen to his pocket and set his briefcase down on a table,
the file on top of it. "Is something wrong, sir?"
"That is possibly the greatest understatement I've ever
heard," Benitez said, sinking into a leather high-backed chair. Though his hand
covered his face, Jack could feel the anguish rolling off him in waves. "They
know. Someone let loose a scandal and I've got no chance of stifling it. It's arriving at the newstands this instant."
"What scandal, sir?"
"Do you remember when I gave that long list of campaign
sponsors to you, so that they could be properly acknowledged in our TV ads?"
"Vaguely," Jack replied, truthfully.
"It was a front.
I didn't get a dime from any of them, but they agreed to claim they sent me money in exchange for considerations."
Jack's stomach was suddenly far too small for his breakfast. "Sir, how did we fund your campaign?"
"Every speck of money beyond what came out of my own pocket
came from the Reiseker corporation in Montaigne. They did a good job covering
their tracks, but apparently not good enough."
"They paid for it?
How? Why?"
"Rivera," Benitez said, referring to the previous Prime
Minister, "would never touch Reiseker. He wanted us to concentrate are industrial
efforts on home-based companies, not bringing foreigners aboard."
"This is about pride?"
"In part. I'd
agree with Rivera, I would, but the fact of the matter is that people want foreign products.
Were shifting over from product to service industries faster than we know how to, Jack.
Rivera stood in the way of that and called on national pride to support his view.
You remember how that election went."
"Rivera barely won, and not on that issue."
"Yes. A representative
of Reiseker, Luc Montegue, came to talk to me about considerations and modernizing the State.
I know it sounds weak, Jack, but I believed him. Bought the whole sale. Reiseker fanned the money out and I scooped it all up.
Thats how a no one from San Lucas won the Prime Ministry."
"This is a violation of political law-" Jack began.
"I know," Benitez said, lowering his hand and opening
his eyes. "The grossest violation in our august history. And if this Louisa d'Argeux can prove what she claims, I'll go from the Red Room to prison in the blink
of an eye."
"Could she prove it?"
"I don't know, Jack.
No one can find her. Her publication gets messages from her, but they're
always traceable to a payphone booth in some other country. Montaigne is standing
on their right to publish whatever they want, to the Abyss with what I think. If
this were in the State, there's a chance I could step on it, but its in Montaigne, Jack.
If she's not bluffing, you can take me out of the oven and put me on the table, because I'll be done."
"Everyone knows this?"
"No, something else has the entire building up in arms."
"I don't understand, sir," Jack said, carefully. "Why did you need to speak to me about this?
I'm just-"
"My salvation," Benitez said. "I'm going to ask a favor Jack, and I'll be damned if it's not the greatest favor I've asked of anyone. I need a diversion so I can make off with the truth."
"Sir? I don't
understand."
The Prime Minister rose from his seat and walked forward,
opening the file Jack was given. "Do you know what this is, Jack?"
Jack squinted at the picture. "A very bad photocopy?"
A ghost of a smile crossed Benitez's face. "It is that, but more accurately, this is a picture of two pistols made in the year 1665. They were made in Avalon for the infamous pirate, Jeremiah Berek."
"Jeremiah Berek?" Jack blinked. "You mean THE Jeremiah Berek?"
"I mean the very same man who saved Allende from captivity
in Vodacce," Benitez nodded gravely. "These are his pistols. I want you to go find them."
"Me? Sir,
I'm just a scheduler, I don't-"
"You're my man, Benitez said, crossing his arms. Everyone's seen you on TV during my first speech in the Falcon's Pavilion two days
ago. You were the one who tried to swallow his cough, remember?"
"Sir, I trust your judgement implicitly, I always have, but this smacks of
desperation beyond reason."
"I won't you lie to you, Jack, I am desperate. This probably won't work, but your hide may not go to the tanners with mine. It's an odd way of granting a favor, I admit, but I don't know of anything else I can do."
"But sir, the populace must be smarter than this-"
"People don't believe what they don't want to believe. You know that, Jack, it's one of the pillars of politics. I'm trying to save your career, and if I save mine in the process, so much the better. While the Montaigne woman has me pictures of me parked illegally, she can't prove the car is mine. I've only been in office a month and I haven't done anything that could be connected
towards favoring the Reisekers even tangentially. Right now, it's the difference
between owning the murder weapon and being the one who pulled the trigger. Admittedly,
if I wanted to sell the State straight into the Reisekers' arms, I could, but I haven't.
I'm hoping for some kind of leniency. But that aside, I'm trying to throw
the treacherous pack of dogs that calls itself the media off the trail until I can set up some satisfactory propaganda. That's your job, Jack."
Jack, sick of being cut off, counted to ten mentally,
then said "What do I have to do, sir?"
I"'ve already spoken with a prominent gentleman in Avalon
about the project; he supports it as a possible feather in the cap of both Avalon and the State. His clout in the Triple Kingdom is not concrete per se, but he called in a few favors with the Avaloni
military. You'll be the provisional commander of a joint peace operation"
"Operation?" Jack asked, eyebrows rising. "This is military?"
"They're only providing the boats and the security."
"The Navy?" Jack said.
"Why the Navy? Wouldn't a civilian airline be more conducive to scooping
up the PR from something like this?"
"Too many extranational tangles," Benitez said, shaking
his head. "Part of the idea behind this mission is to make you visible and interesting
to the public. A streamer-laden boat looks more," he groped for the word, "adventurous
than a jet." He massaged the bridge of his nose.
"I'm sorry Jack, but I have so many other things to do. The project coordinator
for this jaunt can tell you more. Señorita Jaspers?"
At her name, a pale and tall Avaloni woman swept into
the room, heeling a door shut behind herself. "Gracias, Sr. Benitez," she said
with an eerily perfect accent. "See to your business. Ill handle this."
"Gracias, Carolina," the Prime Minister said, then saw
himself out.
Jack stared at this Carolina Jaspers for a moment. Something about her gait and brusque manner seemed familiar, reminding him distinctly
of someone he knew. Not Dame Barcleigh (though they were of similar heights),
her step was too starchy and measured. Perhaps the Grey Queen? She was dressed in business casual, like most of the women working in the State's Estate (since he learned
how to speak Avaloni, Jack understood why other nations found the Prime Minister's office to be possessing of such an amusing
name). Her long, wavy brown hair some how managed to stay in a bun, despite the
apparent support of only a pair of chopsticks. That must be it, Jack thought. When I saw the Grey Queen for the first time, her hair was up like that, too.
Jaspers heaved a file that more than tripled Jack's in
size down on a table and began rifling through it. Since her back was to Jack,
he didn't feel quite as embarrased as he normally would have been when he caught himself admiring her long, well-shaped legs. Realizing that he was being quiet, Jaspers peaked over her shoulder at Jack. "They work, you know."
"I'm sorry, what?" Jack asked, blinking.
"My legs. They're
not only fun to look at, they're also good at walking, and occasionally running, should the need arise. And should it not. I jog a few miles every morning."
"Oh. Ah,
they're ideal specimens." Jack hoped that wasnt as stupid as it sounded.
"You're a real charmer, aren't you?" she asked, going
back to sorting. "The ladies must line up to talk to you."
"You know, I can speak Avaloni, too," he said, switching
to the aforementioned language smoothly.
"Really?" she asked, returning to her native tongue. "Splendid." She turned around, leaning
on the table she was sorting at and spread her arms wide, propping her up at either side.
"So, Mr. Van Huizen. What do you know about Berek's pistols?"
"Uh," Jack began, feeling as stupid as he sounded. "They're pistols. They belonged to Jeremiah
Berek."
"Uh-huh. How
encyclopaedic. Allow me to explain a little further. In addition to be a national treasure to both your people and mine, there's been a bit of a pissing match
over who should get them once they're found. Not the silliest job for a pair
of ambassadors to tackle, but I've heard worse. Berek was a native of Avalon,
he was a patriot despite his odd occupation, and he came back from the dead. I
count the number of people who faced Captain Reis in combat and lived on this many fingers," she held up three, "and Berek
was one of them. But, he was sworn in with the same words anyone who's ever come
to this island has spoken, so, in theory, by a law made and never repealed three hundred years ago, Berek was also a naturalized
citizen of the State of the Coast. He rescued the founding father of your nation,
though I'm sure if the man were alive today, he would deny the title. He was
a hero to both countries, but also a citizen of both. Because we both belong
to the UWP, we in Avalon have to respect that."
"And that irks you?" Jack asked, finding that idea amusing.
"Me, personally?
I couldn't give a toss where the guns go. They can stay where they are
for all I care. The Crown, on the other hand, feels differently."
"The Crown? You
mean the royal family cares about the guns?"
"Ill bet Beni didn't tell you his friend was who got this
operation approved was, did he?"
Jack leaned forward.
"You don't mean?"
"I do. The
King."
"But I thought the Royal family was just a figurehead-"
"Of course it's a figurehead." Carolina sighed then said "No one is totally powerless. Especially
not the King. Is he a glorified diplomat?
Yes. But please remember how he became King."
"Wasn't there some confusion about a family member dying?"
"His older brother, in theory, should have been King. But the little boating accident that was barely publicized outside the Triple Kingdoms
took Roland's life, and left his younger brother, Prince Robert, next in line. Robert
was pursuing a thoroughly unexciting career in the military when he got the call. Now,
thirty-seven years later, the other boys Robert was in boot camp with are now generals and admirals. His friends are similarly in positions of power. When the
King calls on you to help your country, don't you think you'd at least try to do what he says?"
"But how does he know Benitez?"
"Not important," Carolina said, dismissing it with a broad
chop. "We need to talk about the particulars of your mission. And how it affects your training."
"My training?" Jacks
sense of distrust reared its head like a disturbed cobra. "What training?"
"Your training that will one day make you the Unseelie
Champion. Really, Jack, please do stay on your toes."
"The Grey Queen sent you."
"Yes, and she'd be astounded to hear how slowly you're
progressing. Hop to, you and I have work to do."
<(_-|-_)>
Skirnir breathed the air of the isles of Vestenmannvnjar and felt alive. Though his body still sat in a shabby, ground-level apartment, his spirit sat in the
skies above the city. Unfettered of his mortal limitations, he exulted in his
freedom. He stood from his sitting position, his spectral feet catching on the
chill spring winds of his homeland. Looking about, he saw all the islands, dots
of light like stars beneath the night sky. Pushing off a thermal current, he
glided down, soaring with the speed of a falcon. He skimmed over cities, skipped
over mountains, plunged into the sea, and leaped from island to island. He danced
over each part of his home until he was shot from the sky.
The final island in the
Vesten chain, the one that remained forgotten because it could never be found. Skirnir
would have missed it had he not seen its beautiful glow from his stratospheric position.
Upon seeing it, he banked in mid-air and descended, wondering what could give off such a radiance, until the older
half of his soul remembered the Ninth and First Among Islands. The Throne of
the Grey Wanderer. Grumfather's Hall. Thingvallvatn.
And, this time too late,
he remembered that when the last rune left Thingvallvatn for the last time, he sealed it to outsiders. He hit the edges of the glow and plummetted downwards. In the
darkness, he lay upon the surface of the water, his spirit creased and buffeted by the barrier enough to cause physical pain
to his body in Kirk. Once he was certain his souls had not been torn asunder,
he pushed himself up on the crest of a wave.
Before him he beheld a
soft orange glow, as peaceful and serene as a campfire, but as strong and commanding as a whole bonfire. He walked across the ocean until he reached the beach, where the glow intensified as though a fog bank. It flowed high above him, seeming to encase Thingvallvatn in a glowing egg-shape. He extended a wraithly arm into the glow, causing a sensation like fire and thunder
to roll beneath his skin. Hissing in a metaphysical sense, he withdrew his arm. The field kept him back, or at least his spirit.
He could not measure the distance that the field covered in width by his spirit-eyes alone, but he was sure that it
at least far enough to scorch his souls from the inside out.
What is this? he wondered. Who would bar me from Thingvallvatn? He
stood, staring at the vexing field for a time, until people crested the dunes of the beach.
Four men and a woman appeared,
and Skirnir didn't know whether to rejoice or recoil. They were attired as the
Vesten should be. Countless memories from his nations past flooded Skirnir's
mind, showing him hundreds of thousands of people dressed the same way, the different cuts, the tribes of Vesten they belonged
to. It made Styrke sing to see his people amongst the Vendel. Schuyler's slightly more practical mind, however, picked the evidence of machine-manufactured fabrics. Despite the traditional appearance of their clothes, each of them bore the earmarks
of clothes made in factories. The axes and and swords borne by the men were all
forged by machines, even if the runes carved on their surfaces were not.
The men fanned out, weapons
ready, scanning the area. The woman crossed her arms over her breasts and began
to chant in a language that soothed Schuyler's ears but were thundering commands to Styrke's.
The men continued to search, clearly unable to see him. Then the voice
crashed into his astral mind.
GET THEE HENCE, EINHERJAR. RAGNAROK IS NOT COME YET.
"What did you call me?"
Skirnir shouted, feeling he would have to with the wall separating them.
BEGONE, SPECTER. THOU HAST NO BUSINESS HERE.
"Be that as it may," Skirnir
replied. "I must know! Why is Thingvallvatn
barred? Why can it not be found?"
THAT MATTER IS NOT THY
CONCERN, WRAITH. RETURN TO VALHALLA AND AWAIT THY FATE.
"I have never resided in
Valhalla," Skirnir protested. "Look upon me! I am not a dead man; I live! I have only stepped from my body
for a time. I am the Styrke! Look
upon the proof!" He displayed the silvery mark burned into his palm, both in
this world and the realm of mortals.
The woman gasped at the
sight. Her knees sank as she saw the symbol, and her words broke into Vesten
rather than the mystic tongue. The three men saw her falter, and hurried up the
dune to her. She pulled herself up by one of their shirts and stood firm again,
and began her chants anew.
HOW CAN THIS BE? THOU ART DEAD, BEING TORTURED WITH THE OTHERS FOR THY FAILURE.
"No, we were all dead,"
Skirnir corrected. "It was necessary to return us to life. We are not the Living Runes, we are the Runes Reborn, as per the prophecy given by the Rune of Journeys
before he left forever."
WHY HAST THOU RETURNED?
"We do not know," he admitted. "We hope to find the Rune of Knowledge, so that he might tell us."
WHY HAST THOU COME TO THINGVALLVATN?
"I saw it below me while
flying through the ether. I came to investigate, and remembered what it was. Why is it barred to me?"
THINGVALLVATN IS BARRED
TO ALL.
"Why?"
IT IS THE ORDER OF THE
HIGH KING KARLEGEL. BEFORE HE DIED, HE BID US CLOSE THE BORDERS AND SHROUD THINGVALLVATN
FROM SIGHT TO PROTECT IT FROM THE VENDEL BEASTS.
"Surely it is not barred
to me! I am the Styrke, I am a jarl! I
bend knee only to the High King!"
THEN THOU DOTH BEND KNEE
TO NO ONE, BECAUSE THERE HAS BEEN NO HIGH KING SINCE KARLEGEL.
"How long has that been?"
ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-SEVEN
YEARS.
"And only the High King
can rescind your charge?"
HE OR THE GRUMFATHER HIMSELF.
Styrke cursed under his
spiritual breath. "I shall return!" And
in a flash, he snapped back to his body in Kirk. Such a swift transition was
difficult for him, and he had difficulty fitting back into his concrete form at first.
He was only dimly aware that he was slapped the first time it happened. On
the third report of hand against flesh, he caught the striking limb.
"Skirnir!" the striker
cried with joy, prying his eyes open to see that his soul was inside them. "You
have returned! We were so worried! You
made us wake you after twenty minutes, but it has been thirty! What happened?"
"Halis," Skirnir said,
rubbing his cheek, referring to the woman who was once Alene and Sinne. "I flew
over the isles, seeing them all. And I found Thingvallvatn."
"Grumfathers Hall!" Halis
exclaimed, prying her hand out of his grip. "It is still there?"
"It has moved," Skirnir
explained, rising from his sitting position on the floor and placing himself on the couch.
"I think perhaps the High King learned a trick or two from the sidhe. But
I could find it again, if called to."
"Is it safe? Was anyone there?"
"Yes, there were people
there. Vesten people, I think. They
bore traditional clothes and were ready to battle with axe and sword, but I saw that the fabrics were Vendel before they were
made into what they are now. Their armaments were titanium, not steel."
"I wonder," Halis pondered,
suddenly looking away from him. "Did the Enhedsfolk keep their promise?"
"It is possible."
"We should speak to them. I will--"
"They will not hear us.
Their order comes from the High King, and our wishes cannot gainsay his. They will stand against us until Ragnarok if he never comes to tell them to stand
down."
"Then what shall we do?"
"We shall find the High
King."
<(_-|-_)>
"So what are we doing, precisely?" Neil asked, arm draped over the square, metallic unit.
"As the petite Vodacce woman put it, Neil," Rory said, his face lit by the white glow of the fluorescent
light within. "We are using low-level radiation to generate heat in massive amounts, effectively causing the water that's
been soaking this book for over three hundred years to evaporate at an amazing speed. It will happen so fast that the water
particles will have barely a speck of time to mutilate the constituency of the book.
"So, this is, in effect, a microwave oven."
"If you wish to be brutal about your generalizations, yes. It's just a really blooming fast one." There was
a deep humming sound, then a sort of electric snap. "A moment more, and well have a dry book that's cool enough to touch."
After a mental count of five, Rory swung the door to the unit open and fished the book out. And proceeded to exhale sharply.
"Hot! Hot!" He fumbled the fragile book almost immediately, causing it to fall.
For what seemed to be a minute, everyone in the room watched breathlessly as the book plummeted towards the
floor. Only Renzo moved with a competent amount of speed, snatching up fist full of newspaper and using it as a mitt to catch
the super hot book. He directed an irritated gaze at Rory, which was mirrored by Amaretta. "I said it would be cool enough
to touch, not pick up," she stated archly. "Bring it here, Renzo."
Her bodyguard needn't've been told; he was already striding over to the table. He set the delicate mass of
paper and leather at the edge. Since she wasn't particularly large, Bridget slipped past him and under his arms with
little difficulty. Pushing her glasses higher up on her nose, she hip-checked Renzo's massive frame out of the way as decorously
as she could. "What a mess," she commented, using a pair of tongs to pull the cover open. It was hanging by a scant tail of
leather, so when it came off in the tongs, no one was shocked. "Right, lets hope this isn't like Reyzial's Diary." She set
the cover down further away. "Very good, given how long it's been down there."
"Well?" Eliza asked, eager to see what she had found. The effort of getting the book intact with the clumsy
manipulator arms was a harrowing experience, and the truest test of her nerves.
"I'm looking," Bridget said, carefully turning the pages and poring over each one. "If this man were
the slightest bit literate, this would be easier. I've found perhaps five words that werent misspelled. Add into this the
fact that I'm trying to work my way through a three-hundred-year-old idiom and his musings on how terrible the food is in
Vendel and I have my work cut out for me."
"I think we have a bit of downtime ahead of us," Rory announced, making the calm down motion with his hands.
"Let's all give Bridget her space, what say?"
José, Eliza, and Neil all dispersed immediately, having worked with Rory long enough to know when he was
ordering them to do something politely. The newcomers, Amaretta and her hulking shadow, Renzo, remained, the former reading
over Bridget's shoulder.
Sighing, Rory continued with "Signorina, may I speak to you?" Amaretta's head came up, and her nostrils flared
slightly. Taking a final glance at the journal, she swept forward in her usual officious gait. Renzo began his customary half-step
behind march until Rory shot him down with an icy glare and a clarification: "Alone."
Neither of the two looked pleased at being parted, but they suffered it. The Raggia followed Rory up to the
deck of the Grey Horizon, then immediately staked herself in place with her balance on one foot and crossed arms, bearing
a stare that could cook skin, and asked "What is it, Commander?"
"You're new here. I understand that," Rory began, scrubbing a hand through his thinning hair. "I understand
that youre not precisely thrilled with being ordered around, but per the agreement I made with your superiors, I am in charge
on this boat. Understand? I am the Captain, you are the Financier. You have say in everything we buy and the like, but the
instant the situation is about Exploring, then it's my call. If you want your Chalice found by us, then shape up. If you'd
rather someone like Ducheski or Avion find your cup, then by all means, let us know. Most of us have better things to be doing."
The Vodacce woman bore the Inishman's scolding in silence until he paused. "Most of you. If you thought you
were in trouble before, Cathal, you don't know pain yet. The intevention of the ABS has made this matter more complicated
than it was before. The Ruota has been monitoring the ratings of this television show. The first episode alone dragged in
viewers from all over Theah once it was properly translated. Cathay is drumming its feet, demanding a version. The ABS can
hardly keep up. If I or you back out now, there will be financial windstorms. Your one grace as a worthless drunk is that
you didn't do anything illegal, just immoral. You back out on Wayfare and he'll have you for a footstool."
"Wayfare has an investment on this?"
"He staked his job on the success of your television show, Cathal. So far, he's delivered. If I take my spoon
out of the pot, the Ruota gets a kick in the ribs by the ABS. Nothing we can't handle, but that money could be going to other
places, like Kardobbia. I am staying close to this operation and stomaching the interviews your crewman's husband's people
ram down my throat because we are all invested in this endeavour. Like it or not, Cathal, the eyes of the world are all on
us and what were doing. So, if you think you can cart me away, consider fifteen to twenty years in prison."
"I didn't know any of that."
"Clearly not. I recommend a long period of contemplation. Good day. I think we've given enough extra material
to the cameras for today." Before departing, she nodded towards the camera running across the bow, on the starboard side of
the boat, capturing their argument. Rory's teeth gritted, and he started to march over to have unkind words with the director.
Amaretta shook her head, wondering why Cathal hadn't done all his homework. It certainly wasn't a lapse she'd
expect from his profile. Then again, his profile was six years old and failed to take into account alcoholism. She turned
to retrieve Renzo when Neil's lanky frame loomed in front of her with surprising speed. "You're nobody's fool," he alledged,
arms crossed in a bizarrely accurate imitation of her just moments ago.
"I never claimed to be," she stated archly, making to move past him.
Neil obstructed her again. "Then you know the real reason for this jaunt." He shifted to the other foot.
"You know the Chalice is a hoax."
"It is reputed to be a hoax," Amaretta corrected. "Nonetheless, it must be found."
"Why? Whats the significance of a fake cup?"
"You are similarly a discerning individual," Amaretta said, seeing she was not going to get past him. "Use
your Theus-given insight to puzzle it out."
"Oh, believe me, love, I've been trying. I daresay it's been causing me a nasty bout of insomnia. But there
are a few parts that don't add up. I know you're here on the behalf of the Ruota; they'll claim that front and back. Which
they have, mind. Not that I submit that anyone is foolish enough to claim their sanction without actually having it. But what's
the Ruota's interest in a stinking old cup from the Crusades? Especially when it might not even be real. Your people certainly
have no stake in proving its existence or lack thereof to the historical community."
"We do not. Nor is it a piece of sentimental value, as you might guess. The Chalice's worth to the Ruota
is measured in what it is worth to another."
"It's a bargaining chip, you say?" Neil smiled. "I considered that, too. And to whom is it valuable?"
"A better question for you, Signore Hall: what could we possibly want from such people?" Amaretta smiled
as Neil's grin disappeared, replaced by bafflement.
<(_-|-_)>
"Dr. Laconte?" Tasya inquired, leaning in the front door of doctors open office door, peering about. The
man in question was seated behind his desk, going through a pile of paperwork, most of it forms.
"Who are you?" Laconte demanded, taking his reading glasses off. "I told--"
"Tasya Tvarovich, Adjunct to the UWP's Paranormal Investigation Agency." She produced a fake badge and ID
quickly. In theory, the current agreement between Ussura and the UWP should permit her enough authority to barge in unannounced,
but as Tasya discovered in recent months, it's often better to pretend to be someone more recognizable. "I'd like to talk
to you about Claude Renoit."
Laconte's suspicion did not diminish. "What about him? He's dead, and it was a murder. I've already spoken
with a dozen inspectors; why another?"
Tasya, not waiting for invitation, sat down across from Laconte and crossed her legs, setting her notes in
her lap. "It is believed Claude's death may be of slightly more sinister nature." She leaned forward slightly. "What do you
know about 'Norda?'"
Laconte massaged the bridge of his nose. "Norda was an advanced hallucination conjured up by Claude's mind.
He was very lonely and didn't feel he was being properly cared for, thus he created a nurturing lover personality unconciously.
It's common enough, though the clarity of his hallucinations was startling."
"You don't believe that, though."
"Yes, I do. He--"
"Do the words '"Norda" is an alias?' remind you of anything, doctor?"
"You have been going through my notes!"
"Yes, the agency requires that we do things like that when you turn them over."
Laconte opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated. "I gave those notes over?"
"You have a habit of scribbling in the margin." She produced the document in question for his edification.
"I'll be damned." He leaned back, then rose and closed the door to his office. "Off the record, Agent Tvarovich,
I find Claude's hallucination highly suspicious. Schizophrenic disorders do not often spawn personalities as complete as Norda
was described to be."
"And by often, you mean ever."
"Unfortunately, as we only have Claude's accounts of her to go on, I can't be sure. He could have filled
in the blanks himself, that has occurred in documented cases before, but even then, Norda seems for all intents and purposes
to be a real person."
"Your note suggests she is a real person."
"I was considering that Claude might have assembled Norda from personal and physical traits of people he's
known before. Rare, that, and indicative of a phenomenal memory for a schizophrenic, but not unheard of. I suspected that
possibly Norda was another name for someone he knew, like a sister or cousin."
"Did you look into that?"
"Of course. His parents were little help in that regard. I even got a sketch artist to take down Claude's
description of her." He turned about in his chair and pulled open a filing cabinet, fingers hiking over the folders. After
finding it, he handed the drawing to Tasya.
The face that looked back at the Owl agent was younger than she suspected. Norda wasn't far beyond Claude
in age, possessing of a soft, round face so as to suggest someone younger than her years. Pouty lips reinforced this illusion
slightly, but all of it fell flat when one looked at her eyes, which were so dark as to seem a solid layer of graphite on
the paper. Her black hair was held back in two pony tails falling past her shoulders. The shirt she was wearing was high-collared,
as a turtleneck, and as black as her hair.
"She looks like a demon crawled into a cherub's body," Tasya commented.
"A very visual method of describing her, Agent Tvarovich," the doctor said. "But I agree. Claude asserted
that she usually smiles around him, and that he was describing her from a night when she was angry."
"I see. May I make a photocopy of this?"
"Of course."
"One more thing, before I go. You keep saying that Claude was schizophrenic. His files cite his problems
to be delusional paranoia with occasional hallucinations."
"It was my hope to get him reclassified," Laconte said. "And thus moved to a different wing. Schizophrenia
isn't my specialty, but the paperwork didn't cycle through before"
"I see. Merci, Dr. Laconte."
<(_-|-_)>
"So, what do you think?" Jacqueline asked, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in her pants.
"I think you're bring alarmist," Royce said, rubbing his jaw. "It's probably not as bad as you think. You did lie about
who you were, you might be in trouble--" At seeing her expression darken, he hastened to add "But I will say this, you do
look genuinely spooked. You're not normally an alarmist; that's why I'm trusting you on this."
"Normally you wouldn't?" she asked, suspicious.
Royce sighed. There really was no way you could say certain things to a woman. "Look, it's hard to explain."
"It must be," she said, cross beyond her face's ability to portray it. "Royce, if what you say about your heritage is true,
then you could be a step on the road to the creation of people like Fenêtre."
"But why? What's the point of letting me roam about the world like a normal human? I'd only get myself in trouble once
I found my powers. It was by sheer luck that I remembered that shutting my eyes is necessary for going through portals. How
many siblings do I have that never figured that out? How many of them got eaten by a something in the Walkway?"
"Perhaps they tried raising your predecessors a certain way, and that failed, so they tried a normal life in society--"
"That doesn't explain Fenêtre. She was like a well-trained animal. Who raises their child like that?"
"I don't know. Maybe they took her for training after a certain age?"
"That's possible. How old was she?"
"Good point, she wasn't much older than you if at all. If you were destined for the same place, wouldn't they have gotten
you by now?"
"And they know right where I am, so its not as though they couldn't find me."
"Maybe--"
"NO!" Royce said, a little loudly. "I don't want to talk about this any more."
"Look up, please," said a third voice. Royce looked up in time to see a camera flash. "We'll have your passport together
in another hour, Mr. La Due," said an airline employee.
Royce stuck his head back in his hands. "I hate my life."
Jacqueline's lips creased in a half-sneer. "Are you a starving orphan in Taj-Neter?"
"I know, I'm an ungrateful wretch who should thank Theus for what I have," Royce moaned. "It's difficult to maintain perspective
sometimes. That's what they call it in my sociology classes."
"My parents arent going to kill me," Stephen said, hand over the mouthpiece of his cellphone. "I'm just going to have to
endure another hour of lectures."
Jacqueline swung her legs off the magazine-bedecked table in a waiting are in the airport and leaned forward, placing a
hand on Royces shoulder. "Royce, you have a pulse, you have a wonderful mind, and you're capable of love. If that's not good
enough to merit a soul, I'm going to have words with Theus."
Royce managed a weak smile. "Blasphemy can be funny," he commented. "Where are we going once we get to Gossia?"
"To stay with my parents. Dont worry, Royce, once the length and breadth of whats going on is known, poppa will have everyone
from Blador Palace to the janitors closets aware of what the Reisekers have done."
"I'm not sure thats what I want. What if--"
"What if's tell no futures," Jacqueline snapped. "I hear a lot about not being sure from you a great deal, Royce. If you
don't want someone else running your life, you'll have to stand up and make some real decisions."
"And what if I make the wrong decision?"
"Then you'll have to live and learn. Whining about isn't going to grant you anything other than a group of people who make
drinking games about what you're going to say."
Royce took his head from his hands, inhaled deeply, and leaned back. "That is the oddest way of saying 'Get off your arse!'
I've ever heard." His eyes fell to the floor. "You're right. I should take charge a little more." He took her hand from his
shoulder and kissed it. "Thank you for your kind words, my lady."
"You had better be careful, Royce, we women are far too easy to flatter."
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