Foreign Devils

by John Hornor Jacobs

  There was one officer who simply sat at the map, holding a parchment and smoking.

  ‘That’ll be our man,’ Fisk said to me and then approached the map, the orders Cornelius provided us in-hand.

  The camp prefect was a thick, burly fellow with a distracted air. He stared at the parchment he held as if he wanted to strangle it. Or the person who wrote it.

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ Fisk said, slowly. ‘We come under orders from Governor Cornelius.’

  The camp prefect glanced at us, jarred out of his brooding, and looked surprised to see us there.

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’re looking for a man. Beleth. Cornelius’ fugitive engineer.’

  ‘I have heard of him. There are wanted posters.’ He turned and bellowed, ‘Gellus! Where’s that munitions report?’

  A thin, nervous looking man piped up: ‘Coming, Mr Maelli! It will be ready in moments.’

  Maelli frowned. ‘From Harbour Town as well?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He nodded brusquely, and then waved Gellus away.

  ‘A reward?’ Fisk asked.

  ‘I believe there is,’ the man replied, his thick shoulders set in sort of a defiant shelf of muscle. It’d be easy to imagine that he was half-bear. His corded arms were covered in dark fur and he had a bristling, angry beard. ‘Not much for a man of your rank, but it would be a nice bonus, if you bring him in.’

  ‘No matter. If you know of him already, is there any intelligence on the man’s whereabouts?’ Fisk asked.

  Just like that, the prefect’s interest in us evaporated and he turned back to his parchment and resumed reading. ‘Have a slave take you to Andrae. He’s the spymaster.’

  Fisk made a curt bow and touched his heart in salute.

  A slave led us downward, into the guts of the building, revealing that there were at least as many levels below ground as there were above. The corridors became closer and more cramped and the daemonlight fixtures more sparsely positioned – which was odd because down here was where they were needed most. But the slave led us to a small conference room with a large table covered in stacks of parchment.

  Sitting at the desk was a long, lean man with hawkish eyebrows and a narrow, patrician nose. He had the full, lush lips of someone familiar with pleasures of the flesh, yet tinged toward cruelty, and his eyes possessed a keen intelligence. More Quotidians sat in neat rows behind him. There was a bottle of wine and a plate with a rime of blood on it perched precariously on a stack of ledgers and papers, a fork and knife at crazy angles. Judging by the Quotidians and lack of slaves, he’d have to eat quite a bit of meat just to have the blood for correspondence. Behind him, a mirror-backed daemonlight fixture cast a bright, yet wavering, luminescence about the room, almost like sunlight reflected through water. There were regular tallow candles strewn about the place as well, giving the conference room an air of ceremony and mysticism. I imagined he might want it that way.

  ‘Yes?’ he said as we entered.

  ‘You Andrae? Intelligence?’ Fisk asked.

  A smile hinted at appearing on his lips, little amused flickers at the corners of his mouth. But it was only hints and flickers. The smile never touched his eyes.

  ‘I hope so.’ He gaze rested on me for a moment and then back to Fisk, taking in his riding leathers, the six-guns, and the insignia of rank pinned on his shirt. ‘Ah. You must be …’

  Andrae shuffled through papers until he brought up one and squinted at it, his thick lips pursed in concentration. ‘Legate Fiscelion and companion—’ He paused for a moment. ‘Shoestring? ‘No other known name’, it says here. Hmm.’

  ‘Yep,’ I said, giving a small nod of my head. ‘That’s me.’ Strangely, I felt a small relief that this man didn’t know my name just by looking at me. Fisk didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘I’ve been tasked to find Cornelius’ engineer. I was told you might have some intelligence on his whereabouts.’

  Andrae considered Fisk very carefully. The man’s whole aspect was desultory. The slant of his shoulders. The sensuous pursing of his lips. The derisive amusement flitting about his features. In some ways, he reminded me of the stretchers – infinitely bored and desperately craving entertainment.

  And here we were, mice for the cat to play with.

  ‘Is that so? Please, have a seat. Wine?’ He gestured with one long, pale hand at the bottle on the table.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Fisk responded. ‘Just any information you might have on our man would be helpful.’

  Andrae looked slightly miffed at that. He wanted to play – banter, maybe. Gossip. Might be we should introduce him to Carnelia.

  ‘Let me look in my files.’ He rang a bell, and from the other door a young man, his secretary, scrambled in, dressed plainly in a white tunic with a torc around his neck. Looking at his hands and wrists, it was quite easy to see the scar tissue there and recent wounds. Fuel for the Quotidians. ‘Go fetch the file on Mr Beleth—’ He stopped, turned to Fisk. ‘Full name?’

  ‘Linneus Gauis Beleth.’

  ‘Right,’ Andrae said and waved his hands at the secretary. ‘Go.’ He picked up the bottle and poured himself a glass. ‘It will be a while. Our files are … extensive, to say the least. Please join me.’

  ‘Water would be nice,’ Fisk said, dusting his britches and taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. Andrae focused on Fisk. He ignored Fisk’s request of water and poured a small earthen cup – a settler’s cup – of wine and then one for himself. Fisk ignored the cup, hooked his thumbs into his gunbelt and put a boot on the table, tilting his chair back on its hind legs.

  Andrae now paid me not the least bit of attention. Dvergar, of course. Hardly worth noticing. That can be a blessing, at times. The man made my skin crawl.

  ‘Nasty business with the Diegal girl,’ Andrae said. ‘Nasty business.’

  Fisk remained silent. His stillness was a warning to me, if not Andrae.

  Andrae went on: ‘You were tasked with recovering her from the indigenes, were you not?’ He waved his hand negligently at me.

  ‘That’s right.’

  The spymaster tsked, and shook his head. The sound was loud in the quiet of the room. Fisk did not respond.

  ‘It’s interesting that Tamberlaine would saddle you with this task, then, in light of your previous failure.’

  To someone who didn’t know him, Fisk would’ve seemed as still as a statue. But I know him. The muscles in his cheek tightened and shifted.

  ‘There was nothing we could do about that,’ I said. ‘It was the stretchers. You ever seen one? We got one on Fisk’s black in the stables.’

  Andrae blinked, slowly. A bit of artifice, that, the slow closing of his eyes before turning to look at me. Only his head moved, pivoting on his long – almost gimballed – neck. ‘No. I hear they’re quite vigorous in their carnal appetites.’ The way he said carnal made me uneasy. ‘I’m sure you did all you could.’

  We all remained quiet for a bit, Andrae sitting there, sipping the wine from his cup, Fisk meeting his gaze placidly.

  ‘I understand you wedded the Cornelius girl.’ Andrae tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling, as if trying to remember. ‘Livia?’

  Fisk nodded. I don’t know if the other man realized how treacherous the ground he trod upon was.

  ‘Fascinating,’ Andrae said. ‘It’s hard to believe that a proconsul – the governor of this region, in fact – would allow his daughter to wed such a man as yourself, Mr Fiscelion. If you’ll pardon my saying so.’

  ‘Seem to me that you’re free to say whatever you like, mister,’ Fisk replied. ‘You seem to know quite a bit about me. So much that it doesn’t seem like I need to do much talking at all.’

  ‘Quite,’ the spymaster replied. ‘Those are nice guns, I see.’ Andrae cocked his head. ‘Might I see one?’

  ‘Sure,’ Fisk said, whipping it out so fast that it was as if he went from one state to the other simply by thinking. A blur. Fisk popped open the cylinder and
emptied the Hellfire Imp rounds into his palm. He then presented the six-gun to Andrae grip first.

  The man took it, holding it lightly in both hands. ‘Hmmm. Judging by the wear, this has seen some action,’ Andrae said. ‘And here, “Labor Ysmay”.’ He ran a finger along the underside of the barrel. ‘I’m aware of this engineer. From Harbour Town. Not an adept, but a reliable and expensive provider of munitions.’ He offered the gun back to Fisk, who took it, thumbed back in the rounds, and replaced it in his holster. ‘How ever do you afford such weapons on a scout’s salary?’

  Fisk tapped the legate’s emblem on his chest with a finger.

  ‘Ah, yes. You have risen quite far, quite fast, as well,’ Andrae said. ‘That seems a bit odd to me, though. Why should Cornelius allow you to wed his daughter and raise you – the son of an exiled traitor – so high?’

  The sound, at first, rose like a cough, dry and wracking. And then Fisk laughed. It was a short, brutal sound.

  ‘That’s what all this is about? You’ll have to chase down my father, I’m afraid. I don’t have Tamberlaine’s money.’

  Andrae’s smile became brittle. ‘I had already surmised that, judging from your garb and …’ He sniffed and glanced at me, ‘your companions.’

  Well, this fella was definitely wanting some perforations. A hole right there, above his heart, would look quite fine.

  ‘But that does not mean you do not have information that could be helpful locating it.’

  ‘I haven’t seen my father since I was twelve and living on the eastern coast. Last I heard, he was living in Chiba working for the Medierans.’

  ‘Twelve?’ Andrae said incredulously. ‘That seems hard to believe.’

  ‘I don’t give a frog’s fat ass what you believe; I left with one hundred aureus and a bundle of clothes.’

  ‘And headed west? Into the brand new world?’ He smiled again, the lush flesh of his lips curling with some mockery. ‘How clichéd. “The promise of the shoal grasses”.’

  A half century ago, the Lex Manciana was passed to encourage settlers to move west and Rumanize the Hardscrabble Territories – and counter the growing Medieran presence in Passasuego – allowing any settler who could keep and hold a farmstead west of Fort Brust for ten years to own it. He would be free from Imperial taxation during that time, and only subject to lessened taxation for the next five. All of the papers in the east touted the ‘promise’ of the west.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Andrae. The lure of the shoals,’ Fisk said. ‘Anything was better than staying at home.’

  ‘We all have sob stories, Mr Fisk,’ Andrae said, taking a drink from his wine. ‘My mother was a whore and my father a sot. And now I’m stuck in this shithole of a place, sniffing out little secrets of settlers and common folk and natives.’ His smile fulfilled its promise. It bloomed into a full-grown sneer.

  ‘My condolences,’ Fisk said.

  The secretary returned, looking very nervous and scratching at his arm. He held a sheaf of parchments covered in a neat, orderly script.

  ‘Ah,’ Andrae said, and there was a little disappointment in the tone of his voice. ‘Here are the files.’ He took the papers and ruffled through them. ‘A fortnight ago an agent in Hot Springs said one of the junior engineers working there in the rebuilding efforts—’ He paused, raising an articulate eyebrow and glancing at Fisk, ‘was found murdered in his lab, and his reserves of silver taken. A man by the name of Labadon and matching Beleth’s description had been seen entering the premises.’

  ‘That old devil,’ I said, voice hushed.

  Andrae glanced at me, lips pursed. ‘You recognize this alias?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Fisk looked at me and waved his hand in an out-with-it sort of gesture. He’d had his fill of this spymaster and was happy to let me take over the palaver, if only for a little while. ‘The name of a daemon. Ebru Labadon is the devil that drives the Cornelian’s paddlewheels.’

  ‘I see.’ He made a notation on the file. ‘We will see what other daemons Beleth has bound in vessels or engines of war. If he used that alias once, he will have used another. This is a boon.’

  A strange sort of satisfaction suffused the man: I realized that whatever else our spymaster was, he was suited to his work, a strange amalgam of gossip and archivist. And if he was the eyes and ears of Rume, possibly murderer.

  ‘Any other details on his whereabouts?’ Fisk asked.

  ‘My agent lost contact. But he did not remain in the town. And I can say with certainty he’s not here in New Damnation. My contacts in Breentown and Panem have reported nothing and both would be hard to reach in the time since the murder. So that leaves either Passasuego or Harbour Town.’

  Fisk looked at me, his eyebrows raised. ‘The Medieran Embassy is in Passasuego.’

  ‘That’s right. He’s got some silver now, too. He’s probably trying to find a new patron.’

  ‘I imagine old Diegal would love to know Beleth’s secrets,’ Fisk said.

  ‘He was privy to Cornelius’ counsels for a long while,’ I agreed. ‘And Samantha mentioned he was arch level member of the college of engineers. That means he’s on the council, and what I know of Beleth, he wouldn’t be content just being a member of a council.’ I picked up the settler’s cup of wine and drank it. ‘He’d want to be in control.’

  ‘So,’ Andrae said, slowly. ‘You believe he’s in Passasuego, trying to gain new patronage. And deliver all Rume’s secrets of engineer and leadership to a new master.’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ Fisk replied.

  ‘This is not good,’ Andrae said.

  Fisk pushed his chair from the table and stood. ‘Can’t say it’s been a pleasure,’ he said in the drawl that I knew and not the wary, guarded tones of the legate, the son-in-law of Cornelius and the husband and equal of patricians. Not Fiscelion Iulii. Just Fisk. My old partner. ‘But it’s been educational.’

  Andrae stood as well. The sneer and the smile were gone. Standing, he looked gangly and slightly unkempt. He extended his hand.

  ‘My job,’ he said, slowly, ‘necessitates some subterfuge and a level of mendacity that has …’ He shrugged, slightly, as if searching for the right phrase. ‘Coarsened me. And my superiors … are at the highest level.’

  Fisk looked at his hand for a long while. Finally, he took the other man’s wrist and they clasped forearms.

  ‘Might I invite you to dinner?’

  If Fisk was surprised, he did not show it. ‘Many thanks, but my partner and I have to tend our horses, grab supplies from the quartermaster, and then light out early for Passasuego in the morning.’

  The spymaster nodded once, abruptly, as if he expected the rebuff. ‘Of course. I’ll have the list of Beleth’s possible aliases delivered to you there by one of my agents.’

  ‘How will we know him?’

  He smiled, and this time it was genuine. ‘You won’t. But the list will be delivered all the same.’

  ‘Many thanks,’ Fisk said.

  ‘I’ll have Stefan lead you out,’ he said.

  ‘Much obliged.’

  When we’d emerged from the praetorium centre, blinking in the light of the afternoon sun, I said, ‘What fascinates me is how we got out of there without you killing that man.’

  ‘You’d never want to visit Novorum or Felix Sulla, Shoe. Every person you meet is just like him.’ He rubbed the stubble on his chin and then spat into the dust. ‘He takes his orders directly from Tamberlaine. I’m very lucky I was able to leave at all.’

  He turned and walked off, his hand resting lightly on his six-gun.

  SIX

  5 Ides, Quintilius, 2653 ex Ruma Immortalis

  ‘We’ll take a boat upriver to Bear Leg,’ Fisk said that night, after we’d found lodging in a dingy hotel with livery near the docks. He’d removed the legate insignia pin soon after leaving Andrae.

  After a dinner of greasy soup and stale bread in the common room, we bunked down in the stable – as is our wont on the trail. Bales
of hay might be prickly and uncomfortable, but they’re an honest sort of bunk and not prone to bedbugs or the peculiar sort of human stain that often goes with rented rooms. ‘Give the horses a rest. From there we’ll see what we can see. Beleth might’ve passed through.’

  ‘Sad the Cornelian won’t still be there?’

  ‘Sad?’ Fisk said. ‘I guess so. There’s good memories, and bad, tied up with that boat.’

  ‘True.’

  In the morning, we found the only barge going up river with room for our mounts that didn’t look as if she’d sink the first league away from the wharf. Her name was the Quiberon and she was a daemon-less slave-driven paddle-barge. Slow, ugly, and low-slung. She carried livestock and casks of salt-pork and piled sacks of hominy and was home to a large glaring of semi-wild cats and captained by a brusque woman, quite young and of a matter-of-fact demeanour, named Maskelyne. There were also a couple of other paying passengers, who looked a bit put out when we clambered aboard. Especially at me.

  Maskelyne bit our coins when we gave them over, and looked us up and down. ‘You two should be good in a pinch if them stretchers come a’leapin. Clear?’

  ‘I imagine we’ll hold our own, ma’am,’ Fisk said.

  ‘Don’t ma’am me, braw, I was shitting me diapers when you were full grown,’ she said. But she handed back a couple of coins. ‘You’ll use them little devils in the Quibby’s defence else there’ll be a reckoning come Bear Leg.’

  ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘How long is the journey?’

  She was an intense-looking woman, bright blue eyes, and a compact muscular form. She wore simple garb, dungarees and a fitted shirt with numerous pockets brimming with styluses and a Hellfire pistol on her waist. ‘Water’s high and the paddle-teams are rested, braw. Shouldn’t be more than five days, barring stretchers or shoal beastie,’ she said.

  ‘Much troubles with the vaettir lately?’

  ‘Not too much since winter. Very quiet, really, braw, but better safe than slitted or scalped, me mam always said.’ She laughed, showing a mouthful of white, snaggly teeth. ‘Anywho, if you two gents would be so kind as to get your arses out of the way of my slaves, there you go—’ she said as we clambered onto the barge’s roof – an area that served as a wide, open-aired berth – away from the workers and livestock. Maskelyne then bellowed at the slaves in the river patois called Craulia by the speakers of it but Brawley by those who were not. A mixture of Medieran, Gallish, Tueton, and some other indistinct, indefinable linguistic spice that had yet to be determined.