“Do we have food?” Hiressam asked. “To distribute?”
“Indeed we do,” Curatio said. “Many ships within the yards were not, in fact, emptied of their cargo. That was what the Machine was up to when we attacked. I have people out negotiating to buy the grain now. The count is hardly complete, but I believe we will have enough for a day or so, if rationed.”
“Enough for the ships that are leaving now to get back, then,” Pamyra said. “But how long will their supply last?”
“That would be hard to say until we see how many rats decide to flee what they perceive as this sinking ship,” Curatio said with a smile.
“There's a lot more uncertainty to this that I had thought,” Shirri said, brushing hair out of her eyes nervously. “Was there always this much to worry about when you did these things in the past?”
“Feeding a city is new,” Alaric said. “But yes, otherwise. There are always difficulties, some appearing insurmountable.” He drew a breath, long, trying to sound profound over the shouts coming off the Yuutshee above them. “None are insurmountable, though. We will attack the problems before us one at a time, until all are defeated.” He held tight to the helm in his hand. “Until Malpravus is defeated.”
Chapter 76
Cyrus
The breaking of the meeting was hardly surprising. The lack of direction coming out of it, other than “tend to your individual tasks,” was more so, but Cyrus regarded Alaric with a careful eye as the Ghost traced a path away. He moved up the ramp of the Yuutshee, disappearing around the bend of wood up the platform stairs, the creak of boards under his weight the only sign of his passage.
“So...what are we going to do about Malpravus?” Vaste's sharp voice turned Cyrus around to find the troll standing there, still clutching Guy, Birissa a few paces behind him.
“Kill him, eventually, I assume,” Cyrus said, catching the helpless, almost pained look in Guy's eyes at being in the grip of the troll. “Beyond that, I'm trying to focus on the wall defense. Killing him is not a thing I'm capable of, based on how our last clash went.”
“Yes, seeing you become the amazing flying Cyrus was quite a piece of visual imagery I'm not soon to forget,” Vaste said. “But you are the general, and it is your task to figure out how to defeat our enemies. Thus, I come to you with this.” He lowered his voice. “And also because Alaric seems mightily distracted with his freighter captain infatuation.”
Cyrus frowned. “Alaric does not have an 'infatuation' with Captain Mazirin.”
Birissa let out a small guffaw. “Yes, he does.”
Cyrus felt the deep crease of his brow as he pondered that. “Huh.” Thinking back on it, that did make a certain amount of sense...
Vaste dinged Cyrus's helm with a brief thump from Letum. “I need you to focus on Malpravus.”
“I told you,” Cyrus said with irritation, ears still ringing slightly from the hit, “I'm dealing with the wall and defending the docks. Malpravus–”
“Could come marching up at any moment and blast his way through the wall in much the same way as he blew you through the Citadel tower,” Vaste said. “I know you're trying to keep your focus narrow, but I'm afraid that's not an option at present. You have to think about how to beat Malpravus.”
Cyrus rested a hand against his forehead. Sweat covered his palm within his gauntlet, but the cool metal found slickness on his head, as well, exertions still lingering from the battle. “I don't think I can do that right now, Vaste. My mind is...elsewhere.”
Expecting a sharp reply from the troll, Cyrus steeled himself, placing a hand on Rodanthar so he could step back before receiving another blow to the helm. Vaste was liable to do it, he reckoned.
But what the troll did instead surprised him.
“You,” Vaste said to Guy, turning loose of the back of his neck. “Go over there and wait for me.” He gestured a wide hand in the direction of a ship across the stone road through the docks. “Don't go any farther, though, because if I have to chase you down, what I do to you next will make that corpse you were talking to look beautiful by comparison.”
“Why can't I stay and listen to the big boys talk?” Guy asked, with a breathtaking amount of gall for a man who'd just been turned loose by a troll.
“Because I really doubt your honesty in your story about what you told that corpse,” Vaste said, “and that makes your loyalties even more suspect. Therefore, I'm not going to have private and potentially damaging conversations in front of a potential spy and possible future corpse. Which would also be a spy, thanks to Malpravus being a necromantic crap-weasel.”
Guy's eyes flicked back and forth as he took all that in. “Fair enough,” he said, apparently reacting to the threat buried in it with relative magnanimity. He hustled across the road and situated himself on the other side as Birissa sauntered up to Vaste's elbow to join him, the three of them all watching Guy until he was out of earshot.
“I really don't trust him,” Vaste muttered.
“Nor should you,” Cyrus said, as Guy offered them a sarcastic wave that turned into a crude gesture. “He was only forced out of alliance with the enemy thanks to my actions, and is with us now only for lack of any other option. Desperate men make the worst friends.”
“Speaking of,” Vaste said, “Vara.”
“I hardly think of her as a desperate man,” Cyrus said. “In fact, having examined her quite closely, I can safely say–”
“I will ping your helm again if you persist in being intransigent,” Vaste said, brandishing Letum. “Don't deflect. You're not a shield, and you don't carry one for damned good reason.”
“Because they're unwieldy,” Cyrus said.
“Also, because they'd distract from your most fluid and studly movements,” Vaste said. “Don't think I don't know that's the main reason.”
Cyrus shook his head. “Okay. Sure.”
“Vara, though,” Vaste said. “I know she's on your mind.”
“She's my wife. Of course she's on my mind.”
Vaste looked around, as if searching out eavesdroppers. “Naturally. But most peoples' wives don't leave them in the middle of a hot revolution.”
A ragged tiredness had settled over Cyrus, and he felt it now, the lack of last night's sleep and all the worries that had preyed on his mind these last days. “Well, most wives probably aren't confronted with the thousand-year-old bastard results of their husbands' most hated dalliance. If they were, I imagine them leaving in the midst of a revolution could be a much more common occurrence.”
“Mmm, maybe,” Vaste said, turning to Birissa. “Would you leave me in the middle of a fight if you found out I had a bastard from before we got together?”
Birissa's eyes narrowed as she gave this serious contemplation. “I don't think that's a practical question since you were very obviously cherry before I plucked you.”
Vaste let out a nervous laugh. “But...assuming that were not the case.”
Birissa shrugged lightly. “I suppose if I found out it was coupled with some sort of lie, like you weren't cherry – though you obviously were, or else terrible at–”
“Less color,” Vaste said. “I need less color in the description.”
“Anyway, all those factors in consideration?” Birissa asked, clearly still pensive, “Perhaps I might.” She paused. “Wait, you said mid-battle? No.” She shook her head. “I don't leave in the middle of fights.”
Vaste's face flushed a darker green. “Well, that was completely unhelpful.” He looked almost imploringly at Cyrus. “Look, friend–”
“I'm fine, Vaste,” Cyrus said. “You can cease your attempts to cheer me up.”
“That's very definitely not what I'm doing.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “Then what the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to get you to focus on the task of killing Malpravus,” Vaste said, using his hands to gesticulate, “so that then you can chase after your wayward wife.”
Cyrus let out a small sigh. “I..
.”
“Crap,” Vaste said.
“What?” Cyrus asked.
“You're thinking about leaving now, aren't you?” Vaste stared at him shrewdly. “About chasing after her before the thing is done.”
“Vaste–”
“You are!” The troll pointed a wide finger with a blackly-tinged nail and shook it in his face. “You're thinking about ditching us mid-revolution and catching one of these airships out of town just now.”
“No,” Cyrus said, a little too quickly even for himself. “Well, yes,” he admitted, “but I won't.”
Birissa managed the answer first. “Why the hell not? Do you love battle more than you do Vara?”
Cyrus felt suddenly pained, as though speared through the heart and pinned in place. “No. No, I do not.” He lowered his head, staring at the broken stones cobbling this makeshift path. “Vara's anger carried her away from me. Anger and perhaps concern for her sister. Chasing her, while a noble gesture, would doom this so-called rebellion to failure.” He looked up. “McCoie, Willems, the City Watch – they joined me – or at least their image of Cyrus Davidon – not Sanctuary. If I leave...you'll be guarding this place by yourselves before long, I suspect. And I won't do that to you. Or Reikonos.” There was a great lump in his throat. “Though yes...I very much want to.”
“Does your boy have any place in your considerations?” Birissa asked, peering at him intently.
“Baynvyn?” Cyrus felt the worries of Vara wash away, just for a moment, replaced by a sharper one as he reached behind his back and felt for Epalette. It still rested there, in his belt, not far from Baynvyn's stolen pistol. “No,” Cyrus said, and he lied just a little, “Baynvyn has declared himself our enemy. I'll fight him as hard as I can – trying not to kill him, of course – but no. I am here for the cause, and if I weren't...I'd go to Vara right now.” And he looked up to the western sky, beneath the smoky cloud cover that seemed to blanket Reikonos always, in these days. The faint glow of the sun reached in that direction, but it was still mostly darkness, though he could almost imagine he felt her out there, somewhere, just beyond what he could see.
Chapter 77
Alaric
The slow thump of his boots against the wooden steps that wended their way up to the side of the Yuutshee held a strange inevitability in Alaric's mind. He hadn't planned to adjourn the meeting and then immediately ascend these stairs, yet his feet seemed to carry him here, curiously, his mind justifying why, of course, it would only be polite to come up here, to inquire about Mazirin and her ship, before she left. It was all very normal, in a way, in his mind. Yet not. Clearly not.
His unease grew as he reached the side of the vessel and looked down upon a crew doing – well, roughly nothing. There were men strewn all over the deck in various states of idleness. Layabouts laying about, the occasional bottle in hand. He caught a few nearly disinterested eyes as he stepped onto the Yuutshee, but no one moved to stop him.
Mazirin's voice was coming from the deck atop the rear of the ship, where the wheel lay. It was high, furious, frenzied, even, words coming like a godly sword point spearing at some unsuspecting and entirely too slow combatant. It built to a final pitch, finished in a near-yell, and someone – a short, familiar someone, at that – thumped down the stairs to the main deck in advance of surely some device being thrown after him.
“Alaric!” Dugras said, hustling away from his confrontation on the upper deck with the captain. He looked caught between fear and relief, bustling over. Sweat was visible on his forehead, a harried look everywhere else. “What brings you to our humble vessel?”
Not sure how to answer that, Alaric went with – mostly – honesty. “The yelling.”
Dugras let out a mirthless, pained laugh. “Ah, yes. The captain is...displeased with me.” His eyes flitted, finding his shoes. “The engines are not, uh...working.”
“Oh,” Alaric said. Being thoroughly unacquainted with their operation, he felt at a loss to comment or question. “Is it...permanent?” he finally managed.
“What? No,” Dugras said, shaking his head. “I can fix it. I think I've narrowed down the problem. See, while I was kidnapped by the Machine and hanging around with you people, the engines were in the care of – well, it doesn't matter. Point is, I can get it wrapped up in a few hours.” He smacked his lips together. “But I think the lesson here is: I will never take a piss in Reikonos again.”
Alaric raised an eyebrow. “I'm not sure that's the correct lesson. Your bladder may find itself overfull.”
“I mean I'm going to stay on the ship in the future, in dangerous ports,” Dugras said weakly. “Not that I'll never urinate again while we're in places like this. Because that would be quite painful on the kidneys and bladder, as you mention.”
“Indeed.” Alaric looked past him to the top deck, where a bustle of brown coat and black hair moved as Mazirin came into sight. She surveyed the deck with clear dissatisfaction until her gaze found him and Dugras. A moment later, she was descending the steps with clear, crisp purpose.
Dugras did not miss this movement. “Gotta go,” he said, bolting for a nearby hatch and disappearing within.
Alaric held himself steady and upright, watching Dugras retreat with an attempt at vague disinterest rather than watching Mazirin's approach. When she drew close, he shifted his attention to her in time to catch her last few steps. She stopped crisply a few feet from him, drawing herself up to full height – which was still a good foot shorter than him.
He felt strangely intimidated nonetheless. With a slow nod, inclining his head to acknowledge her, he said, “Captain.”
“What do you want?” she asked, brusque verging on rude.
“I heard the yelling and noticed that you had not departed,” Alaric said, his heart beating a little harder than he should have thought under the circumstances. He was hardly preparing for combat, after all. “I thought it might be polite to check in and see how you were faring.”
Mazirin did not hesitate. “My ship is broken thanks to the long absence of my engineer. It will take hours or possibly days to fix it. Therefore, we fare poorly.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Alaric said, giving her another inclined-head nod. “Is there anything we can do to help? Your ship is...important to our continued supply of this city.”
“Unless you know how to pick up a wrench and fix an engine,” Mazirin said, “no. There is nothing you can do. Good day.” She turned on her heel, long coat whirling behind her.
“Perhaps you'd like us to send some bread,” Alaric said.
She turned on him again, and whatever restraint she'd possessed in her last exchange seemed greatly weakened. “I can feed my own crew, thank you.”
“Apologies,” Alaric said. “I did not mean to suggest you could not.”
Mazirin's eyes flashed, and now Alaric could see that she'd gone beyond her usual self, whatever that might have been. “I can understand how you might not think I could, given how much difficulty you seem to have with it yourself, but I have things as much under control as I can, given how many events have occurred that were outside of it. We will be ready when we are ready, and we will make do ourselves until then.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “That is the Amatgarosan way.”
Alaric wasn't quite sure what to say to that. “Self-sufficiency is an eminently worthy virtue. Still...if there's any way we can help–”
Mazirin let out a high, short laugh. “You cannot even help yourself. I cannot see how you could possibly help us, other than to stay out of our way.”
Alaric froze. He did not say anything.
Mazirin apparently took this as a sign of weakness, for she continued. “I do not know what it is about this part of the world. The afflictions that mar your lands? That scourge beyond your gates? The tyrant upon your throne? The poverty, the backwardness that mars your every interaction? I should have known better than to lead my crew to this place. The gold you can make is not worth the risk of running these trade route
s, where order is in shorter supply than grain, and where the people are as likely to kidnap crew as to employ them. Your problems are your own, and I should have known better than to come. Dugras should have known better than to involve himself after getting free. And we should have sailed back east the moment we dropped you off in dock.” She shook her head as though in disbelief. “Every hour I spend in this city is an hour I regret, and I cannot think of any reason to become more embroiled in your revolution.”
She raised her voice, shouting something in her native tongue at the men on the deck. Five of them snapped to their feet, bolting into the same hatch as Dugras had fled down.
“I am sorry you feel that way,” Alaric said, unsure what else to say.
“I am having my men retrieve the gold you paid us in deposit for the grain,” Mazirin said, holding his gaze with a steady, burning look. “I can no longer justify to myself involvement in this pit of a city.”
“This is my home,” Alaric said quietly. “And these people did not choose their leader.”
“But they did,” Mazirin said. “By action or inaction, they chose this man you war with. Perhaps you and your people will be a better choice – should you win.” She watched as the men emerged from below deck, carrying between them a chest of gold. “But your problems are your own, and I want no part of whatever fall is coming – yours or his.”
Alaric tried to muster a retort but failed. “I am sorry you feel that way,” he said, aware that it was not even a bare defense of what he was doing here with the others. “And I hope you never find yourself faced with a government that has turned on and is trying to starve its people.”
“My nation has stood as it is, led in the same way, for a thousand years, always in justice,” Mazirin said. “Because my people make it so. A rebellion to me is inconceivable. The corruption of this place is mind-boggling.”
Call of the Hero Page 30