by JMD Reid
“Ary, Chaylene,” a woman announced behind them. “Captain Vebrin commands your presence.”
Chaylene’s embarrassment blew away, replaced by cold fear. Captain Vebrin was the assistant-superintendent of the camp. The only time she commanded a recruit’s presence was to hand out punishment. And not for small infractions like brawling or sneaking out of camp during the night.
Resigned, Chaylene turned and found the five marines of Detachment Two standing straight in their uniforms as escorts. Zeirie smirked at Chaylene. The half-Agerzak marine hadn’t forgotten losing to Ailsuimnae in the brawl last month. Chaylene returned a flat stare, swallowing her fear. She would not give Xoshia’s group of squawking hens any more gossip.
Bad enough the storming woman claims I bedded Vel on the Xorlar. Indignation surged through her. I bandaged his head. Like any good friend would. Because we’re friends! She told herself that every time she thought of Vel, of his flowers, and his fervent declarations of his love.
Her blood needed the reminding.
“All right, Xarene,” Ary said, addressing the marine at the front, a tall woman with heavy brows shadowing her green eyes. She kept her light-brown hair in a taut braid, stretching smooth her brown forehead.
“We shall keep looking through your home for any more valuables which may have survived,” Estan said, rising from his examination of the back wall of their cottage.
“Here, Ary.” Guts said, tossing a balled-up shirt. Ary caught it and pulled it over his dirty body. Chaylene winced at how filthy he was, then glanced at her own britches stained with soot.
Not the best impression to give Captain Vebrin. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. Detachment Two was already forming up around them. With her back straight, Chaylene marched with them through camp, her boots ringing in time to theirs.
~ * * ~
Ary kept glancing at his wife as they marched through camp. Her hair was a tangled mess, soot blacker than her skin staining the golden curls. More smeared her face. He didn’t care about her appearance he was just so thankful she lived.
It was Dawnsday, and every recruit serving on the Dauntless lounged outside, watching them being escorted like prisoners. Xoshia and her gaggle of hens whispered and giggled as they passed. Ary clenched his fists. Chaylene didn’t spare them a glance, but she bristled.
“Her Vaarckthian blood burns hot,” Xoshia chortled. “I guess Ary isn’t enough to keep her doused.”
Zeirie snickered next to Ary. His jaw tightened. Sparring with Ahneil had worn down his reluctance to strike a woman. He thanked Riasruo Zeirie wasn’t in his Detachment. He’d have punched her in the face for all the dung she slung at Chaylene with Xoshia. Instead, he kept his distance, and that kept his anger from gusting too furiously.
And earning him stripes. Or worse.
“I’d knock that off, Sowface,” a marine named Jhech growled. “Ary’s one of us.”
“He’s Detachment One,” Zeirie shrugged.
“So?” Jhech asked. “A marine’s a marine.”
“I’d stop gusting breezes,” Xarene ordered from the front. She glowered over her shoulder. Ary had expected her to become the corporal for Detachment Two. The Sergeant-Major had a hard time digging up real problems with her. But that didn’t stop the man from making up faults.
The group marched through the gates of their sub-camp and into the administration district. The small center of Camp Chubris bustled with dockworkers unloading a supply ship. Teamsters guided wagons pulled by black-furred boars with large bristles rising like a crest down their backs. Women hung uniforms to dry after laundering them in vats of soapy water.
A pair of marines from the Spirituous guarded the entrance to the stone administration building. Ary had spent his share of watches guarding the building. He wasn’t sure if the boredom outweighed escaping training under the Sergeant-Major. The pair nodded to Ary as he entered the building behind Xarene. He returned the nod. Jhech was right; a marine was a marine.
Even that sow Grabin, serving on the Adventurous, was one.
Inside, a clerk with a puffy face and a drooping eye sat a desk in the corner. He gave Ary a foul look. “You two, head on up to Captain Vebrin’s office. Escort, you’re dismissed to enjoy your free day.”
“It’ll be fine,” Jhech said, giving Ary’s shoulder a squeeze.
Xarene gave them a tight smile and Zeirie scowled. The other two marines, Henem and Furhen, clapped Ary’s shoulder before leaving.
Ary led the way to Captain Vebrin’s office, his wife following. His skin grew tight as they marched upstairs. His hands shook, so he balled them into fists. Different punishments flashed through his mind. Locked in the stocks and left for the ridicule of the entire camp, lashed, or even dishonorably discharged. He flinched at the thought of Chaylene’s back bloodied by the Bosun’s whip, forced to watch with all the rest of the camp as the Bosun hurt her, helpless to stop the pain.
If it comes to punishment, I’ll take the blame.
He thought they had doused the lamp before falling asleep, but Ary doubted his memory. A fire didn’t start for no reason. What other cause could there have been? Even Estan agreed it had been started by their lamp.
At Captain Vebrin’s door, he knocked hard. “Private Jayne and Scout Jayne reporting!”
“Enter,” a brusque woman called.
Ary seized the door’s bone handle, twisted, and pushed it open. A small window let in the rising sun into Captain Vebrin’s small office. The light landed on a polished wooden desk bare save for a neat stack of parchment, an ink jar, and a quill resting on a blotter. Captain Vebrin’s severe face, made worse by her graying hair pulled back into a tight bun, studied them. She pursed her narrow lips, rising as they strode in.
Ary and his wife snapped a salute.
She returned it.
Three others crowded the small room. The Sergeant-Major glowered as he stood, back straight, to the right of Captain Vebrin’s desk, his red coat buttoned tight. His black beard bristled with even more ferocity than usual. Chaylene’s commander, Warrant Officer Veld, leaned against the wall to the left, his uniform rumpled, his shirt untucked. He stroked the bushy mustache on his upper lip. Captain Dhar, the commander of the Dauntless, stood behind Vebrin. Her green eyes were thoughtful, her bloodless lips pursed.
“This is an informal disciplinary hearing,” Captain Vebrin said, sitting back down on the only seat in her office. “Private Briaris Jayne and Scout Chaylene Jayne, one or both of you may be responsible for the destruction of Naval property, whether through negligence or deliberate action.”
“Deliberate action, Captain?” Warrant Officer Veld asked, arching an eyebrow. “Do you really think they set their cottage on fire while they were both inside? It was an accident.”
“Did either of you deliberately set the fire?” Captain Vebrin asked.
“No, Captain,” Ary answered as Chaylene gasped, “Absolutely not, Captain. Why would we do such a thing?”
“Marital issues,” the captain shrugged.
“Our marriage is just fine, Captain,” Ary said, anger surging through him. “It was an accident. The lamp must have somehow fallen over while we slept and started the fire.”
“Are you asserting that you fell asleep with a lit oil lamp? That would go against camp regulations.”
“No, I remember the lamp being out when I fell asleep,” Chaylene said.
“You’re positive?” Captain Vebrin asked.
“Fairly, Captain.”
The officer’s eyes flicked to Ary. “Is that what you remember?”
Ary hesitated, struggling to recall. Normally, it was such an inconsequential thing to remember. “Yeah . . . I’m sure I snuffed it out.”
“It’s possible the lamp could have fallen over in the night,” Captain Dhar said. “A spark could have been struck as it hit the floor, igniting the oil.”
“More likely, it was left on,” Captain Vebrin decided. “That’s negligence.”
“Private Jayne is a ca
reful marine,” the Sergeant-Major growled. “He takes care of his equipment and those of his detachment.”
Ary blinked. Did the Sergeant-Major just praise me?
“Perhaps his wife is at fault,” continued the Sergeant-Major. Ary’s jaw tightened.
Veld snorted. “Because she’s one of us carefree, reckless scouts?”
“Gentlemen,” Captain Vebrin growled. “Do I need to speak with you two in private?”
“No, Captain,” the Sergeant-Major answered with alacrity.
“Nope.”
“I recommend a light punishment,” Captain Dhar said. “I talked with the first recruits on the scene. It is quite surprising they survived. Half the building had already collapsed when Private Jayne kicked down a section of the wall and pulled himself and his wife out.”
“Chaylene helped,” Ary added. “She guided me to the wall. I couldn’t see anything in the smoke.”
“If the fire wasn’t their fault, I’d recommend them for a Merit of Distinguished Service,” Captain Dhar continued.
Captain Vebrin nodded, her eyes growing distant as she rubbed her thumbs together. “I agree.” She looked at Ary and his wife. “Private Jayne, you claimed to snuff out the lamp. I place the greater responsibility on you. The pair of you will be docked a week’s pay, you both will have your liberty for today revoked, and Private Jayne will also have his next Dawnsday liberty revoked. You shall draw new uniforms from the quartermaster without penalty and be assigned a vacant cottage.”
Ary blinked, his stomach unclenching at the light punishment. “Thank you, sir.”
“Accidents happen, Private,” she answered, her face relaxing. “You both are lucky to survive. You are dismissed.”
~ * * ~
Wriavia lounged near the largest flower peddler in the Shon Market, watching the bustle of recruits pass through the narrow spaces between the stalls. Myay Xion was an old female with a bulbous wart on the end of her nose. She owned the only stall peddling red daisies in the village. Three times in four nights, the stalker had lurked outside Briaris’s cottage and left a red daisy for Chaylene.
Wriavia expected the stalker to appear today to buy more flowers.
The assassin’s first plan had failed. It was time to explore other options. Another fire would only bring suspicion. Too dangerous to risk without exhausting other ideas.
The young male appeared, dressed in the clean, white linens of a sailor. He sauntered through the crowd, moving with the same arrogance Wriavia had observed when the male had stalked through the camps at night. He possessed a lean face with a strong chin and penetrating eyes.
“Back again,” cackled the old female. “Has she spoken to you yet, Vel?”
Assigning a name to the young male’s face brought Wriavia satisfaction.
“Not yet, but she will,” he declared. Such forceful passion, with almost an obsessive drive buried in the young man’s timbre.
“If she won’t, I can show you a trick or two,” Myay cackled.
The assassin strolled to the stall as Vel snatched a bundle of red daisies, a week’s supply to leave on the windowsill. “My mate loves those flowers,” Wriavia said, stepping beside Vel and resting a feathered wing on the stall’s counter. “Your sweetheart is a lucky woman.”
Vel blinked, his eyebrows furrowing as he stared down at the Luastria.
“She’s not my sweetheart,” Vel answered, pulling out a few blue porcelain sapphires. They weren’t imperial coins but Autonomy pennies embossed with the country’s two-headed griffin.
Wriavia sang a brief, joyful song. “You are courting her? That is always the best. The chase is exhilarating, and the rewards can be so sweet.”
“I’m trying to court her, but there are . . . difficulties.”
“How can there be difficulties?” Wriavia spread his wings wide. “You are young and handsome, and I am certain she is as beautiful.”
Vel’s face grew mushy, a broad smile crossing his lips. “Like the stars.”
“Perfect. That is what being young is all about. Don’t let your fears of rejection hold you back. I persevered. That is how I won my Nwiuasria.” Wriavia placed his wing across Vel’s shoulders. The difference in height, the Human tall and lanky, forced Wriavia to rise on his three front toes.
“And if she’s married?” Vel muttered with a bitter curl to his lips. He turned to leave.
Wriavia held the Human from departing with his wing. “That just makes the chase even more exciting. My Nwiuasria had a mate when I met her. But I did not let that stop me from possessing my beautiful hen.”
The assassin forced down his embarrassment at chirping such words. No respectable drake would pursue a hen in such a blatant manner. The hens did the chasing. The Humans did everything backwards.
Vel studied him. “How?”
“Why don’t we talk about it over a mug of beer at the Friendly Maid?”
Vel raised an eyebrow. “I assume I’m buying?”
“What a generous young Human you are.”
His lips curled into a smile.
They crossed the street to the Friendly Maid, Vel’s eyes devouring a maid’s half-unbuttoned blouse. Wriavia did not see what was so fascinating about the mammaries hanging from a Human female’s chest. They were just sacks of fat. Drab sacks, just dull brown or black like the rest of their skin.
The pair found a table in the corner. Vel slouched into a chair while the lack of any perches forced Wriavia to stand. So few Luastrians came to Shon that no one had furniture for them. The tavern owned reinforced chairs for Gezitziz and smaller stools for Zalg, but no perches for a Luastria. At least their mugs had wide enough lips for him to dip his beak in and drink the foamy beer.
“So how did you win the heart of Nuweeasreea?” Vel said, mangling the beautiful name. Wriavia had no mate. The name belonged to his youngest sister, and it pained the assassin to hear it so maligned by the Human’s clumsy mouth.
“Nwiuasria is a perfect creature. I was smitten from the first time I saw her,” Wriavia lied, his voice chirping with passion. “But she was married to a cruel drake. She made a mistake, but I helped her to see it, and now we are both very happy.” He let out a laughing chirp. “Well, when business does not keep me away from her lustrous feathers.”
Vel leaned forward, an eager smile on his face. “How’d you do that? How’d you win her from her husband?”
“I spoke to her. I got to know her. I was her friend, the one she could trust to chirp about the problems she had with her mate. Once she trusted me, I helped her to see how bad he was for her.”
“You make it sound easy,” Vel sighed.
“It wasn’t. But if it was, would it have been worth doing? You say you love this married female?”
“I do. So bad. I just want to hold her and kiss her and . . . and other things with her.”
Wriavia clucked his beak in amusement. “That is always wonderful to do with your songmate. What are you doing now to win her song?”
Vel glanced around, searching for any eavesdroppers. “I’ve been sneaking to her window at night. I leave her favorite flower on the windowsill. I know she finds them because her husband doesn’t know. One night, she’ll have the courage to come out and meet me. I know she loves me. We kissed. On the Xorlar.” His smile grew. “And did more. She surrendered to me. We loved each other. It was a perfect moment. But her husband . . . He’s a dangerous man. She’s afraid of him.”
Wriavia cocked his head, wanting to cluck his beak in pleasure. Human males, it seemed, did not tolerate hens who visited another’s nest.
“One night, she’ll sneak out and I can talk to her. Then it will be different. Then I can make her mine.”
“You can’t make her. You must guide her. Show her a new path to walk. But you need to take chances. You can’t just wait outside her window hoping she’ll find the courage to slip out. You need to approach her, speak to her. You need to show her she has alternatives to being with her mate.”
“I�
��ve tried. She’s avoiding me.” He bit his lip, then added with haste, “To protect me. I’ll have to be careful. Real careful. Her husband . . . He almost killed one man who showed interest in her.”
“What a barbaric male.”
“It’s my strong Vel,” a female purred. One of the friendly maids, a half-Vaarckthian with blonde hair, sprawled across the young male’s lap, her mammaries popping out of her dress. “Whoops,” she giggled, putting them away with a practiced air. “I missed you.”
Vel’s grin grew. “How much have you missed me?”
“You’re all I’ve thought about all week, my strong sailor. Why don’t you carry me upstairs? I’ll show you just how much I’ve missed you and your handsome face. All the other maids are so envious that you choose me. They all are in love with you.”
“It was nice talking with you,” he said to Wriavia, his grin broadening. He drank the female’s flattery like coral drinking up a spring shower. “I’ll keep your advice in mind.”
“Tell me how it goes,” Wriavia said. “Your story stirred me. I want you and this . . .?”
“Chaylene.” Vel sighed her name like a promise.
“I want you two to be happy.”
The whore giggled. “Until then, I’ll be your Chaylene.”
Wriavia dipped his beak into the beer as Vel and the whore went upstairs. Plan after plan tumbled through the assassin’s mind. He saw several different ways he could use the young male. If Chaylene’s affections for him were true, and she wanted to be with him, her husband would have to die. She would hardly be the first female to kill her mate to nest with another. Or Vel could be induced to kill Briaris and clear the way for him and Chaylene to be together. Or Briaris could be enraged by jealousy and murder Vel. Then the Autonomy would kindle a pyre and Riasruo’s fires would cleanse him.
So many plans to explore. One was bound to flower.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Coajyoa 21st, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Two days after the fire, Ary swaggered as he walked to the mess hall, his bone sabre hanging from a heavy, leather belt. The excitement of being awarded the right to wear his side-arm banished any lingering concern over the accident. At the end of training today, the Sergeant-Major had proclaimed, “You clumsy-footed, downy-brained, Storm-tossed guppies have finally reached the minimum skill required not to cut off your own Theisseg-cursed noses when you draw your storming swords! I’m not saying any of you have figured out what to do with the lightning-struck things, but you are competent enough to wear them at all times!” He sneered at the grins. “Don’t preen like a bunch of vain hussies in an alabaster mirror. I expected you all to reach this minimum level of skill five storming days ago! Dismissed for dinner.”