Foreign Devils

by John Hornor Jacobs

  ‘Gotta make sure the people are behind it,’ I said, letting the sneer cross my face.

  ‘Tamberlaine, and by proxy Cornelius, are always aware of appearances, as I think you know. While our beloved Father wields absolute power, he does so on the motions of appearance. Should the public lose faith in him – and consequently his power and authority – the Empire’s authority and power is undermined.’

  ‘If you look hungry, you go hungry,’ I said.

  Andrae pursed his lips and nodded reluctantly. ‘A very simple statement to sum up an extremely complicated idea but … yes.’

  I occupied my mouth with whiskey and tabac for a while, staring at Andrae. He met my gaze, unblinking. He was, all things considered, an implacable man. I did not have to like him to respect him.

  I said, ‘Any word on Fisk and Beleth?’

  Andrae put his hands together and rubbed them briskly. Then he opened a drawer and withdrew a file.

  ‘Since your period of recuperation in Porto Caldo in Sextilius and subsequent incarceration, your friend has been quite busy. On the Nones of Sextilius, he arrived in Bear Leg, remaining there a day. On six Ides of Sextilius, he arrived in Brunnen village where he, and his companion, a Missus Lomax, bought food and took separate rooms.’ Andrae ruffled the paper. ‘On three Ides he arrived at Crastus Ferry, on the ferry from Brunnen, or so my agents inform me. From there, it’s not known where he went, however he did send – via your dear bosom friends the Tempus Union – a letter for you. Here. Quite a large one.’

  He handed me an envelope, weathered and quite thick. It read, Shoestring C.O. Legatus Andrae, Fifth Legion Hqrts, New Damnation.

  Of course, the envelope had already been opened. I looked to Andrae who shrugged. Inside was a sheaf of parchment, dozens and dozens of pages, with a small note attached, obviously written in haste.

  5 Nones Geminus, 2638 Ex Rume Immortalis

  Shoe,

  Re’c word that Beleth might’ve bolted to Panem near the Whites in hopes of circling around New Damnation and possibly Harbour Town. He wasn’t there but a whole slough of daemon-gripped folks were there waiting on us, caught us behind the livery where W and I managed to hold them off, killing two or three. Watch yourself. He’s left his little playmates all over and you can’t be sure about anyone. Stretchers have been acting strangely, too, pacing us on the trail but not attacking. You don’t need me to tell you to watch yourself around vaettir.

  Spking of vaettir, I shpped the marked-up stretcher to SD in Harbour Town, sold t’other to exporter in N Damnation. There’s money awaiting you at the fifth’s treasury in my legate’s safebox. Inclded in this pcket is writ of introduction for you to access it. Also, incld are all of Livia’s mssgs to me, please place them there. New horse took a good dunking in Lake Brunnen during the crossing and all the old letters soaked & near ruined. I’m fearful for my wife (as you will read) and want to protect her mssgs to me. I know I can trust you with this.

  Tmmrw we ride to Encantata & then on to Confluence and finally Harbour Town. I do not know what keeps you, but I hope this letter finds you well. I’ll leave word with SD as to my whereabouts.

  I remain your friend,

  Hieronymous Fiscelion Iullii

  Andrae watched me as I read. Once I was through, he said, ‘You have some catching up to do and I imagine you’ll want to get back on the hunt.’

  ‘What news of Beleth?’

  ‘He was spotted in Panem, as Mister Fisk pointed out, but possibly that was an attempt at misdirection or an effort to gain something. An expatriate Medieran nobleman and gentleman farmer died mysteriously – drowned – during Beleth’s time there and I cannot help but think that was not a coincidence, but I fear we will never know why. Later a man going by the name of Agares checked into a hotel in Confluence for one night only. I recently learned Agares is the name of a daemon that was bound in Latinum, in a small boiler room. It was Beleth’s ‘journeyman’ piece, before joining the Collegium,’ he shook his head. ‘I have had no more luck finding any more daemons he might have bound.’

  ‘Turns out he’s not that good at it, anyway. Or so Engineer Sapientia in Passasuego told us.’

  Andrae made a note on a piece of parchment, drew a star by it and circled it. I realized by saying that one thing I might have brought Sapientia within the realm of Andrae’s scrutiny.

  When he was through, he nodded and said, ‘That explains much. Most engineers bind hundreds of daemons in machines, thousands if you consider munitions. Beleth? Very few.’

  ‘He’s more interested in stuffing them in humans.’

  Andrae inclined his head. ‘Yes, I inferred as much from Mister Fisk’s letter to you. I have informed Tamberlaine and Cornelius of this possibility and made recommendations to their security. What else can you tell me about the “daemon-gripped”, as Mister Fisk calls them?’

  I ran down a short description of our interactions with them – the boy in Hot Springs, the Grantham woman in Passaseugo, the Tempus guard on the Gemina. I did not mention the curious help I received from the vaettir there. Not because of any desire to keep Andrae in the dark (well, not much of a desire, anyway) but more of a growing unease that the stretchers had some deeper purpose than killing settlers and eating young girls. There is more to their intelligence than simply hunger and instinct, I know that now.

  Gynth. We are kin.

  When I was through, I asked, ‘Any other news?’

  ‘You may purchase a Cornicen on almost any corner, Mister Ilys.’

  ‘News of your particular stripe, Mister Andrae.’

  He narrowed his eyes, thinking. After a moment of inscrutable consternation, he gave an almost imperceptible shrug and said, ‘Your people are organizing.’

  ‘You mean dvergar.’

  ‘Yes. Under the guidance of a man who calls himself Neruda. Many tinkers and diggers—’

  ‘Don’t call us that. We are dvergar and there is more to us than just making trinkets and digging mines.’

  He nodded. ‘My apologies. Many dvergar are migrating out of the larger cities and into the Hardscrabble Territories. Some heading for Tapestry, others Wickerware, some to Dvergar.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘A sort of independence movement. They’re calling themselves The Vaettir.’

  I whistled. That’s a statement and a half. And one from folk who’ve never spent time out under the shoal-grass sky. ‘Why do you figure?’

  ‘I can only assume because they feel that’s more fierce than calling themselves The Turkey Buzzards or Lickerfish or some other form of life indigenous to Occidentalia. Would you fancy a reassignment, Mister Ilys? I could use some good intelligence on what they are planning. The silver and goods flowing from the dvergar settlements have stopped and a half century of legionnaires have not reported in for three days.’

  ‘A half century?’ I asked. ‘Marcellus must be hopping mad!’

  ‘He is mobilizing, but cannot allocate too many legionnaires toward subduing the dvergar in fear of separating his forces. The Medierans are quite numerous in the Bay of Mageras and are staging on Chiba.’

  I whistled. ‘That ain’t good.’

  ‘Agreed. I fear this region is quickly going to—’

  ‘Shit?’

  ‘Yes, Mister Ilys. To shit.’ He straightened the papers on his desk. ‘What say you regarding the reassignment?’

  ‘Become one of your spiders?’ I feigned thinking about it. I would rather have a daemon squirming inside me than spy on my own people for this vile man. But I said only, ‘I think I will be of better use tracking down Beleth.’

  For a long while, Andrae was still. Then he smiled, showing teeth. ‘Of course, Mister Ilys. I would not have you work against your conscience.’ A secretary entered, bearing a stylus and wax tablet. He handed it to Andrae – I could see the fresh marks of knifework on his forearm – said a soft word in his ear, and left.

  ‘You must excuse me. I have much to do,’ Andrae said.

&n
bsp; I left him there.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ides of Sextilius, First Hour, 2638 Annum Ex Rume Immortalis, Jiang City in Far Tchinee, In the Manse of Sun Huáng

  Dearest love,

  We have spent the last fifteen days at sea since my last use of the Quotidian, and the steady thrum of our thrice-damned vessel is constant, a susurration at times, never ceasing. The seas grew large, waves tumultuous and higher than all imaginings. It has been so long since the Malphas has seen shore, I fear at times that we are lost, lost upon an unimaginably large expanse of ocean, an infinitesimal spark burning in the desolation of salt and wave. Yet Captain Juvenus assures us that we are nearing Kithai and the great port city of Jiang. How he knows this, I have no idea, though when the skies are clear and he can sight the stars, he spends an inordinate amount of time looking at the sky with a collection of strange devices whose functions have not been explained to me.

  Life on board is strange – much like on the Valdrossos – it seems as if we’re stilled and only the waters flow around us. But Juvenus tells us we travel near four or five hundred miles a day, which I have trouble believing though I have to assume he would not lie to us in jest. We should arrive within the next few days, or so I am told.

  We have established our rhythms now. Mornings, when the weather permits, we adjourn to the deck, where Huáng leads us in the Eight Silken Movements – it is a wonderful way for me to remain fit while nursing our son within – and then trains with Tenebrae. And something strange has occurred – something strange, wondrous, and possibly unbelievable to you – our Carnelia has joined in the training. It happened in an odd way.

  Sun Huáng who, I should say, is a taciturn man, sat down at our breakfast table and looked closely at Carnelia and me, in a very judgemental fashion.

  ‘The things you perform while a child grows within you will colour its whole life,’ he said in his halting thick accent. ‘Come, come. Stand and join in the qigong,’ he said, taking my hand. ‘For your son’s sake.’

  When Carnelia snorted at this, his attention turned to her. ‘You are sharpened. Your mind better suited to blades than this … indolence. Your hand suited to a jian. Come, wicked girl. Come.’

  We looked at each other, Carnelia and I, and somewhat bemused, we joined in the exercises. Afterwards, having performed the Eight Silken Movements a few times, I returned to my seat but Huáng bid Carnelia to stay, which was odd.

  ‘In Rume, women sometimes train as gladiatrix and in games and for physical contests, but rarely for war. Is it so different in Kithai?’ I asked Min.

  Min, who has taken to breaking her fast with us, nodded. ‘In great Kithai, girls learn the ways of the flesh. The hard and the soft. The streets of Jiang, the alleys of Palikao, they are full of beggars, rapists, brutes and desperate men and women who would take what society does not provide them. We learn to fight early, and use weapons to protect our bodies and family bloodlines. It is only once we are married do we complete our knowledge of the ways of the flesh.’ She blushed prettily, though I fear her association with Carnelia has increased her knowledge of the arts of the bed. Min frowned. ‘It is strange, though, that my grandfather would single out your sister. An honour, surely, but maybe he sees within her something others do not.’

  ‘All things are possible,’ I said.

  Min shook her head. ‘Rarely. But I am puzzled by this.’

  Tenebrae seemed puzzled too that suddenly Carnelia had joined him in training. They moved through stances and postures – very little of the instruction Huáng gave Tenebrae up to this point had involved sword work.

  Tenebrae asked why they did not work with swords, and the old man replied, ‘A sword is just a thing, no mind, no hazard.’ He held up his hand. ‘This is my sword.’ He extended his arm. ‘And this.’ He touched his head. ‘And this. I am the sword. Even when unarmed.’

  The Praetorian looked puzzled but Carnelia nodded, a strange expression on her face.

  It was later that morning – the morning of 1 Nones of Sextilius – a clear day with relatively calm seas and visibility – that one of the lascars began bellowing and ringing a bell. Suddenly the deck was full of men racing about, attending to the big cannons. Two of Tenebrae’s Praetorians tried to bustle us below-decks but I flatly refused and moved to join Juvenus on the upper deck’s lookout roost where he stood, gripping his looking glass, conferring with his junior officers and the Engineer Tricomalee.

  ‘A frigate running the Medieran flag,’ Juvenus said when Secundus and Tenebrae joined us. ‘Twice-damned, possibly, though we’ll test their speed and range of their swivels.’

  ‘Is it wise to engage when we’re on a diplomatic mission?’ Secundus asked.

  A lascar yelled ‘She’s turning, Captain!’

  ‘War is declared, and we are a vessel of war, Mister Cornelius,’ Juvenus said.

  In the grey-blue distance, the Medieran man-o-war belched black smoke into the blue sky, and began to narrow its profile, turning toward the Malphas. And then, as it turned, behind it another column of smoke was revealed.

  ‘A brace of frigates on some bellicose errand. Do not worry, Livia,’ the Captain said, placing his hand on my arm and not giving me a chance to say I was not. ‘Our girl is the fleetest of ships on the seas and her claws very long.’ He gave a rapacious grin, showing teeth. He was in high spirits, spoiling for a battle. He bellowed, ‘Tea for the cannoneers! Swivels on marks!’

  His junior lieutenants made hasty charcoal scribbles on the flat top of the railings, figuring some sort of numbers and calling them out to the cannoneers who would respond by yelping ‘Mark!’ A grinding sound filled the air as men, some above and some below decks, guided the cannons in their trucks. The Captain’s seconds called out numbers and continuously shouted commands, training the massive bores of the cannons on the oncoming Medieran frigates, adjusting their angles and gauging wind.

  ‘You may fire when you are ready, Mister Gridlæ, while we have the advantage of range.’

  Mister Gridlæ, a portly man with great bristling whiskers and a belly like a cask of ale barked an order. And then the Hellfire cannons erupted.

  We all have experienced the dismay of Hellfire, the unease during the release of the infernal. But the Malphas’ cannons? Hell on earth. The air shivered with the thunderous noise. The sound passed through my flesh like a tremor sundering the earth. I put my hands on my stomach – Fiscelion twisted and kicked within me. And there was the despair that came with whatever daemon’s release pushed the cannon shells through the air. The stench of Hell filled my nostrils and all of my muscles contracted, involuntarily, as if awaiting some blow that would never fall.

  Far off across the expanse of salt and waves, geysers of water erupted, a short distance in front of the oncoming Medieran boats. Plumes of smoke billowed out from the opposing ships and then the booming report of their cannons reached us. Nearly a half-mile away, their shells fell in the indifferent foam of the Oriens.

  ‘They are uncertain and tentative!’ Juvenus howled. ‘Mister Gridlæ! Respond! Rume’s arm is long!’

  ‘Reload!’ Gridlæ yelled, his face engorged with blood and thick runners of sanguiducts standing out in relief on his neck, disappearing like snakes into the collar of his uniform. In a rush, cannoneers unlatched the rear of the swivels, freeing the smoking casings of the cannon shells, two teams working in tandem, one removing the spent cartridge, the other swiftly placing the ward- and glyph-encrusted next cannon-shot inside the gun itself, pulling them from a cotton swaddled crate. Inside each nestled a daemon ready to be loosed upon the world. ‘Fire!’ Gridlæ screamed.

  The battery of guns exploded into smoke and sulphurous Hellfire.

  Looking around, I noted the grimaces on the cannoneer’s faces, the surprise and consternation of the lascars. But Captain Juvenus remained gleeful.

  ‘More! Pour it to them, men! Pour it to them!’ He turned.

  Gridlæ yelled for the cannons to fire again and they answered his call.
>
  When the monstrous sounds and infernal despair died away, the distress of the nearest Medieran ship became visible. Black smoke poured from locations on its hull other than the stacks.

  Gleefully, Juvenus yelled, ‘We have scored on them, boys! Again!’

  After a moment, the Malphas’ cannons boomed once more. The sound of that outrage ripped at the sky. The far off Medieran ship became consumed in smoke.

  The engineer, Tricomalee, said in a low urgent voice, ‘It is time to turn away, Captain. Their engine room is breached and the daemon—’ But he could not finish.

  A new sun rose on the horizon, a fire so great that even miles distant, it burned my eyes and I was forced to turn away. For a moment, in that bright fury, was the triumphant shape of some massive, fiery thing clawing with glee at the heavens, freed from its cage. And then an explosion filled the world – a release of energy so great this language of mine is beggared to describe it. The sound became deafening, what was left of the Medieran ships wreathed in steam. Far off, the seas rose.

  ‘Turn her, Ia damn it!’ Juvenus screamed. ‘Full ahead and turn hard to port! Put her nose in it!’

  I didn’t quite know what was happening until the shockwave from the blast hit, a wind tearing at my clothing and hair like a hard punch. I fell to the floor of the roost, blood filling my mouth, and cradled my stomach – our child. For a long while I was insensible, as the air around us turned wet and hot all at once, and the Malphas shuddered and moved.

  Our ship began to nose downward – slowly at first but then picking up speed – and I found enough strength to push myself from the roost’s floor and rise. We were in a trench of water and a mountain approached us, rising a hundred, two hundred feet into the air.

  ‘Full ahead, or we’re thrice damned!’ Juvenus yelled. His teeth were bloody and his eyes bugging but there was a mirth, a desperate glee, matching the daemon’s that clawed at the sky. A man who met danger with wildness and abandon, almost assuredly. In that one instant, it gave me a fleeting impression of the totality of the man – a suicidal motion, a scrabble for meaning. Encapsulated in that one look was an implicit acknowledgement of some fallen state from a purer one: instead of Ruman nobility, he had traded fierceness for it. That spreading terrible smile was his little attempt at banking some sort of flaw in his character. Men. They are fragile and weak, as are we all, yet they strive so hard to deny it.