This Cyrus Davidon impersonator had ruined his life in five minutes.
And in the next five...it looked like he might just cost Guy the remainder of it.
Chapter 5
Curatio
The deck of the airship was surprisingly roomy, windblown though it was, traveling low over the rooftops of Reikonos. The decapitated Citadel smoked behind them, plumes of ebon wafting skyward into a cloudy sky. In spite of the pressing fatigue that accompanied such a dramatic egress of magical energy, Curatio found himself strangely invigorated, breathing the smoky Reikonos air, churned as it was beneath those spinning blades that held the ship aloft. He stared up at the rotating steel, mesmerized at the speed of their spin, almost hypnotized they moved so swiftly.
“Truly,” he said under his breath, “this age has its own sort of magic.”
“Not magic,” Dugras said, jarring Curatio out of his reverie. He looked down at the foreign dwarf – no, it was uncharitable to think of him in those terms. Dugras had, after all, just saved them. Foreign might have been a statement of fact, but his heart was brave and true, familiar like those of so many others who had pledged to themselves to Sanctuary over the years. “Technology. Engineering.” Dugras strode over to one of the wooden pillars that extended out of the deck and slapped it appreciatively. “These are my turbines. And belowdecks – the engines that spin them.” The dwarf swelled with pride.
“They are, indeed, a wonder, Dugras,” Curatio said, staring at the deck, pondering what wonders could be waiting below that made them spin. “As are you, my new friend. Your bravery back there, your coolness in the face of a mad battle – it was a marvel of its own.”
Dugras looked away, blush just slightly coloring his swarthy, fuzzy cheeks. “It was nothing, truly. I needed to report in to my captain anyway, and this – well, it got the job done.” He turned his attention to the dark-haired woman with the intense eyes who had stood at the top of the plank when they'd boarded. She'd moved to the raised deck at the back of the ship, where the wheel was manned, and Alaric was halfway up the stairs, making his way cautiously toward her, a strange reticence on the paladin's face.
Curatio frowned. He'd seen that look from the Ghost before – but only rarely. A slow, sly smile spread across Curatio's face, twisting his lips with supreme amusement. Unpredictable, that. And yet...hardly unforeseeable. “This captain of yours has excellent timing.”
“Mazirin? Yes, she's quite something,” Dugras said, and in his tone Curatio could detect the mix of respect and fear that seemed to go quite naturally together in his estimation.
“I can tell,” he said, looking around. There, at the edge of the ship, stood Vara, looking out over the city. “If you'll excuse me...”
Dugras nodded, and Curatio went on, stepping over the even planks that made up the ship's deck, the dark chestnut colors a warm brown that had weathered greatly with time and exposure to the elements. There was a pitch smell to the air, rough notes that he detected in his nostrils, and that made the corners of his mouth turn down in distaste. Whether it was just the smell or the thought of what he was walking toward that made him evince such a reaction, he could not be entirely certain. Not even, indeed, after all these long years of life.
“I know what you are going to say,” Vara managed to get out before he was even barely within ten feet, “and you can save your condolences.” She wheeled 'round on him. “Cyrus is alive. I know it.”
Curatio cocked an eyebrow at this. “He was thrown bodily from the top of the Citadel tower.”
“And once the God of Darkness chucked him halfway through the palace,” she spat in easy reply. “He survived that, he's survived this. You mark my words.”
“Consider them marked,” Curatio said, easing up next to her as she returned to her vigil, bright eyes scanning the city for – what? A trace of his landing? “But heed my words, as well – the fall was considerable, and he had nothing to break it. Cyrus's armor is indeed remarkable, but able to prevent death after a plummet like that, it is not.”
“Yet he remains alive,” she said. She would brook no argument, he recognized as much immediately. Still, he felt the need to temper her expectations. Curatio had seen, many times, hope run wild in a soul, only to have the small, niggling feeling of reality rot one out beneath the facade. It made it all the more devastating when the hammer of truth came in, crushing one's heart to pieces, leaving nothing, less than nothing, perhaps, even, when it finally hit home.
“Perhaps,” Curatio allowed. “I have never cared to waste good gold betting against Cyrus Davidon. I don't imagine I'll start now.”
“Which is good, because you owe me – so – much – gold,” Vaste's weak, straining voice came from somewhere behind him. Shooting a look over his shoulder, he found the troll grimacing in pain upon the deck, crew members picking around him with nary a glance, as though a troll bleeding and quipping upon their deck was an everyday occurrence. Birissa, for her part, knelt next to him, attending him. Vaste smiled when he recognized he'd caught Curatio's attention. “All of it, perhaps, I daresay.”
Curatio just rolled his eyes and ignored the troll. “It would seem Vaste shares your opinion of Cyrus's survival, judging by his uncaring demeanor.”
“I also consider it possible that he would not let so small a trifle as my husband's – his friend's – death get in the way of a good joke,” Vara said, stiffening slightly. “But it is irrelevant.” Her voice turned steely once more. “For he is alive. You will see.”
Curatio took a slow breath, in and out. “Perhaps I shall. I have seen much in my long days. A welcome return from such an ignominious end as Malpravus offered...indeed, I would like to see that undone. Very much so.”
He offered Vara an unsteady smile, one she did not return as she turned her attention back to her vigil of scanning the rooftops of Reikonos as they started to arc, slowly, bending back around. But over the rooftops Curatio saw no sign that her faith would be rewarded, even as his heart told him through experience that the loss of this hope, when it came, would be all the more devastating for its denial.
Chapter 6
Alaric
The ship was a wonder, the clatter of machinery belowdeck and the unceasing, rapid spin of the blades above it working in tandem to sow wild discord in Alaric's belly. He could feel the discomfort that came to him with every shudder of the ship beneath his feet, the worry that had sunk into his gut when Cyrus had been flung out the side of the tower.
It had not been made better by his arrival on this flying monstrosity, nor had it been soothed by the appearance of Dugras's dark-haired captain, who surveyed everything around her with something akin to an air of unflappability girding over something else in her eyes. It was obvious a storm raged on the surface by the way she flicked her gaze intensely about. Yet there was a calm beneath, perhaps, or some deeper well that he detected but could make little sense of.
Alaric had caught but a glimpse of it as he arrived on the deck. She had moved off immediately thereafter, tending to her duties, only one glance at him as he'd arrived and not a word said to anyone but Dugras. For all he knew, she spoke nary a word of their common tongue.
Still, one leader to another, Alaric felt compelled to speak to her, and so he ascended to the rear deck of the ship, up its wood-planked steps, one slow foot placed before the other in an effort to give the captain plenty of warning of his approach.
She seemed to take notice of it with one smooth look, then returned to a calm yet still somehow barked command at the helmsman. He nodded and smoothly turned the wheel as the ship groaned beneath them, swinging left.
Alaric looked out at the commanding vista afforded him from this higher deck. Below, Vara and Curatio stood at the prow of the ship, looking out over Reikonos, speaking quietly. Vaste and Birissa lay in the shadow of one of the massive wooden masts that stretched up, and from whence the spinning blades extended, some hundred feet or so above where Alaric stood. Dugras flitted about below, while Hiressam kne
lt a few feet away, his blade across his knees as he watched the goings-on through thinly slitted eyes.
But the view beyond them...beyond the slightly raised foredeck of the ship...
The wall that encircled Reikonos was there, not far ahead, and beyond it...
Arkaria lay, black and dead as any wasteland he'd ever laid eyes on.
It nearly stole the heart from him as Alaric stood looking out over this land where he'd lived, this land he'd called home for some ten thousand years. There was not a single speck of green anywhere to be found on the horizon, only dark earth and grey sky, covered over by the smoke from the factories of Reikonos.
The ship took a leisurely turn north, a slow left, and Alaric was given a commanding view of the old heights and their manor houses, and beyond that—
The Torrid Sea looked considerably less torrid than he'd ever seen it. Placid, even, he would name it, the waves crashing at the shoreline fractional compared to their old heights. He'd known that there had been some strange magic perpetrated upon the oceans around Arkaria by the old gods, a calculated move designed to keep this land isolated from any other, to keep their control unchallenged from without. The old swells had started a mile, perhaps two out from shore, and threatened to wreck any ship that dared them. Few had tried, even fewer had probably succeeded, to his knowledge, though there had been some to make it to the Reikonos of old a thousand years ago. Always a novelty they were, such a strange sight amid all the ships of elves and humans and other, familiar races.
Alaric tore his attention from all this and focused it back on the captain of this vessel, who watched him approach out of the corner of her eye as she stood with her hands clasped behind that long brown coat of hers, feet spread shoulder-length apart, braced against the tilt of the deck on their slow turn. Her tunic was plain leather beneath the coat, her pants some cloth, the outline of both hidden under the coat's bulk. Still, she seemed petite under it all. He gathered his thoughts, the things he wanted to say, to express to her – gratitude, questions – he prepared them and took a step forward toward her–
“Dugras tells me you are called the Ghost of Sanctuary,” she said, turning her head to him, her jet black braids sliding down the back of her coat. “Alaric Garaunt?” There was a fierce intelligence in her eyes, behind the coolness of her question. “Did I say that right?”
“Yes, flawlessly,” Alaric said, his questions and gratitude momentarily forgotten in his surprise. “How much did Dugras tell you about us?”
She showed little emotion, though her eyes danced slightly, reminding him of a camp's fire on a cold night. “Some.”
“I wanted to thank you for your intervention back there,” Alaric said, letting his own gaze turn to the smoking remains of the Citadel. “Without your timely arrival, it seems safe to say we would have met an unfortunate end.”
“I have a commitment to keep my crew safe,” the captain said. “When I saw Dugras's signal flare, I had no choice but to come immediately.”
Alaric blinked. “I admire that level of loyalty. It's something I aspire to myself, as part of my code.”
“A code?” She cocked her head, ever so slightly. “As though you are one of the Arkarian knights of old?”
“Indeed,” Alaric said. “May I trouble you to ask your name?”
“Mazirin,” she said, inclining her head at him, some sign of deference perhaps. “Captain Mazirin of the Yuutshee.”
“It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Mazirin,” Alaric said. “Where are we headed now?”
“Back to the Reikonos dockyards,” Mazirin said, her accent heavy but still easily understandable. “They are the only docking facility in the city, and I am not ready to leave quite yet.”
“That is bold,” Alaric said, looking back once more at the smoking Citadel. “Will the authorities in the city not realize that it was your ship that was next to the Citadel just before the explosion?” He felt a very slight twinge of nerves, considering once again the possibility that he'd involved Captain Mazirin and her crew in a matter that might produce adverse effects for her.
Mazirin raised a single eyebrow. “Amatgarosan freighters of this class bear a uniform design. There are sixty-seven in anchorage at the Reikonos airship docks as of this morning, with a further fifteen intended to arrive today.” She turned and barked an order at her crew, who snapped to move. They ran in different directions, the nearest moving to a sign at the back of the boat. He fiddled with it a moment, removing somehow two plates of ivory that were roughly the length of Alaric's arm. They had writing on them of a kind that he wasn't familiar with, presumably Amatgarosan, a squibbling hash of marks. The crewman ran the marble plates down from the top deck, disappearing below the hatch of the ship with them under his arm.
“You change the name plating?” Alaric asked as another crewman ran up with new plates. They could have read the same for all he knew, but it would have been folly if they did.
Mazirin nodded, once. “No point agitating the authorities. We will blend back in, dock at a different section of the yard. We flew low enough and a far enough course around to lose any watchful eyes.” She turned her back on him, looking to the horizon. “Once we are docked, you will be able to disembark. Just pretend you are passengers from Firoba.”
Alaric nodded in return. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Alaric Garaunt,” she said, once more inclining her head. “But I did not do this for you. I did it for Dugras, who is of my crew.” She drew herself up, seeming to swell. “Whatever your fight is here – it is no business of mine.” She turned away, looking back to the horizon. “Kindly keep our paths from crossing in the future.”
What to say to that? “I will do my best,” Alaric said, nodding once more, and taking a step backward in polite retreat down from the top deck. “I wish you well in your endeavors. You have my gratitude, and should you desire repayment for your assistance...I am in your debt.”
If she heard him, she did not acknowledge it, launching instead into a ferocious patter with the man at the ship's wheel, pelting him with words that prompted him to nod, furiously, at her assault.
Alaric watched her remonstrate the man and finally turned away when she did not so much as glance at him again.
“That sounded like it went well,” Dugras said, easing up to Alaric once he was back on the main deck.
Alaric looked down at the dwarf. “She's quite a commanding woman, your captain.”
Dugras shot a nervous look around. “Indeed. I don't know that I've ever heard her talk quite so deferentially to a foreigner before. At least not one she wasn't doing business with.”
Alaric blinked at him. “Beg pardon?”
Dugras cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just...thought she'd bite your head off, that's all.” He brushed bare knuckles against the side of his neck where his collar rose from his undershirt. “She certainly did mine.”
Alaric frowned. “Perhaps she lacked the time.”
“Doesn't take her long, if she's of a mind to,” Dugras said, sparing only a glance up at the top deck. He stiffened.
Alaric turned. Captain Mazirin stood at the rail some ten feet above them, looking out, sparing a glance their way before turning her attention forward again.
“I should go,” Dugras said, an unmistakable air of nervousness bleeding through as he headed for the hatch belowdecks. “I need to check on the engines. It's been a few days and my second-in-command is occasionally incompetent.”
“What will you do when we dock?” Alaric asked as the dwarf walked toward the hatch.
Dugras stopped. “Well, uh...I suppose it depends on a few things – the state of the engines, how long the captain intends to remain docked here...”
Alaric offered a subtle nod. An aura of guilt wafted off the dwarf, and an unfair one at that. “You hardly pledged your entire life to our cause, Dugras,” he said. It seemed only fair to offer the man a way out. Caught between his prior loyalties and a pledge he'd made
Sanctuary coming out of captivity with the Machine, Alaric felt a pang of his own guilt at the thought of weighing the smaller man down with a hasty decision. “If you need to move on with your captain...”
“Yeah, I probably do,” Dugras said, nodding slowly. “It's nothing against...any of you.” He turned to look at Hiressam in his quiet repose, Vaste and Birissa beneath the mast, the healer once again turning a glowing hand toward his injury. He even looked to Vara and Curatio, both staring out over the side of the ship. “You seem like fine people, and I appreciated the opportunity to inflict some righteous vengeance on my kidnappers. It's just...” He shrugged, almost helpless.
“This is hardly your fight,” Alaric said. “And Reikonos is not your city.”
“Exactly,” Dugras said, a little sadly. “And I think maybe I've done all I can do, especially given...” He turned to look at the Citadel, almost out of view save for its smoking top. “Well, given all...that.”
“It will not be an easy struggle,” Alaric said. “And while we will miss the aid you could give, we shall surely triumph even should you wish to go on.” He forced a smile.
“Right,” Dugras said, nodding once. “Well...” He looked down at the deck, and it was hard for Alaric to tell exactly what he was thinking, though he had some idea. “...I should get to the engines.”
“As you say,” Alaric nodded. “In case I don't see you again—”
“Don't,” Dugras said, waving him off. “Farewells aren't the Amatgarosan way.” He looked up. “We will meet again, in this life or the one beyond.” And with that, he moved on, disappearing down the hatch into the dark below.
Alaric watched after him only another moment, then looked up, again at the top deck. He thought he caught a flash of dark, stormy eyes, Captain Mazirin's attention on him, but it was gone before he could even be sure she was looking. Ahead, the Reikonos airship docks grew closer in view, a field of wood galleys and ships cradled within them, and he watched as the Yuutshee grew closer, pondered what had just happened – and what he had lost in the last hour.
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