by John Ruch
“I’m pretty good at giving Night a helping hand at that chore.” Arrowmask gazed into the amber fog inside his glass. “It’s a weird thing to realize that your most enduring relationship is a twisted mess that lasts for all the wrong reasons. Like a bonfire fed by all your mutual weaknesses instead of a home built on all your mutual strengths. You ever have something like that?”
Alfie touched the adder-stone pendant at his neck and let his thoughts turn to Melthissa. “Indeed I have, old chum.”
Arrowmask dragged on the cubeb again and grinned. “Eh, you’re being nice to me when even I don’t know what I’m talking about. You always were a good sort, Alfie. You treated me like a guest, real decently, those times I visited your place in the Jadal. You didn’t have to do that. You’re the kind of guy I could imagine being stuck in a wagon with for a few months.”
“No reason to be uncivilized just because one goes into the wilds,” Alfie said with a shrug. “I haven’t said yes to this expedition,” he added.
“A wiser man than I.” Ashton finished his glass and twirled its mouth in a broad circle. “So besides redecorating your place, what can you do? Magically speaking?”
“Any number of woodspelling and stonespelling effects. Say, reshape a log into a wall of wood for defense. Heat or cool stone to a certain degree. That sort of thing. Still trying to keep up with the latest on necrocharming, though not much call for it these days. In any case, charming and spelling is painstaking, takes time and effort.”
“You don’t seem screwed up by it like the Mix-Fiends.”
“Run into them, have you? Senseless little addicts with their glug-glugs,” Alfie remarked, producing his snuff box. “Yes, one can take measures to protect oneself. Cast multiple spells entwined to counteract each other’s blowback and so forth. Opposite of what Mix-Fiends do when they swallow one elixir to reinforce or enhance another. Part of why it takes so bloody long to cast and conjure. Even then, sometimes it’s not enough. Sometimes one has to propitiate the proper god.”
“But no matter what, magica is weak. Dying, maybe.”
“Certainly weaker than it was, say, a century ago. We all know the chronicles of Triplegate. Wizards raining fire on entire cities and all that. Probably half bunk. Other half, not bunky at all, no, sir.”
“So what happened? I hear that the knowledge has been lost. Nobody knows how to make elixirs anymore.”
“Likely a lot has been lost,” Alfie said, snorting snuff from his thumb and restraining a sneeze. “Damnably difficult stuff, magica. Takes a great mathematical brain to pull it off in the slightest. Not to toot my own oboe. Hard to believe there are fewer minds for it these days, but that could be the case. Plenty of other theories. The few of us in the business argue about it from time to time, but it’s much better to put the effort into the actual magica. Get the faculty chaps together, they’re wont try an ancient cooperative gold-detecting spell, not whip up the old dreary-theory.”
Ashton leaned forward and stubbed out his cubeb on the sole of his boot, then dumped the butt in the brandy glass. Probably his idea of being considerate, the poor uncouth sod.
“You know, the counsel pointed out something strange,” Arrowmask said. “The Old Ways. One of the things that makes the Empire, the Empire. Routes we’ve all used. You probably rode them dozens of times around Greenarch.”
Alfie nodded. “Tremendous stonework, those. Wouldn’t mind another look, what with the new title I’m working on.”
“But we never thought of this kind of expedition before. I didn’t think of it for smuggling. The Tetragate didn’t think of checking on its borders this way, not for a long time. It never occurred to you, either, did it?”
“Can’t say as it did. Rather silly, come to think of it. Could have trotted off to some of the remoter tribes.” Alfie pinched the tip of a moustache. “What is Regulus getting at? We’re all losing our ideas, our memories?”
“Maybe it’s the same with magica. Maybe there’s some kind of great forgetting.” Arrowmask again gestured around the artificial cavern that was Finstickle’s rooms. “How long did it take you to craft this place?”
“A year, more or less.”
“But exactly how long? I mean, it’s an impressive piece of spellcalling. Starting that kind of work is memorable.”
“Most certainly. One always keeps a journal of experiments. Must be around here somewhere.” Alfie patted his hand on the mound of diaries and scrolls on the desk before him until he found a book and began paging through it. He frowned his way through the puzzling entries.
“Why, it’s only been three-and-a-half months. Damn my eyes, I’m better than I thought I was.”
He and Arrowmask looked at each other for a long moment.
“I’m thinking that, just maybe, the farther we go out on the Old Ways, the closer we get to remembering something. Something important,” Arrowmask said.
Alfie put two fists on the desktop purposefully. “Uncovering secrets. That would be a three-cheers for good old Night.” He slapped his hand on his knee. “Arrowmask, blast it all, you can count on me, Sir!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mieux Vigouroux perched on her threadbare velvet seat in the Morpheum Theatre with a warm quarter of a pear pie in paper wrapping on her skinny lap. She was too short for her feet to reach the floor, so she kicked them excitedly instead. Her dark eyes fixed on the stage in anticipation of today’s matinee, The Pirate Queen of Redwave Reef. “They sold her into slavery, but she bought her freedom…with their blood!” promised the super-exciting ad in Merrykin’s Digest of Popular Plays, a magazine that Mieux read with devotion.
Covering much of her head was a white cowl-like hat with two overstuffed yet limp prongs dangling from its crown. The four kings of the Tetragate Empire decreed the wearing of this and many other clothes in the theater—even though, Mieux noticed disapprovingly, many people disrespectfully disregarded the order. This, too, she had learned from the priceless Merrykin’s Digest, a copy of which was tucked into a pocket of her robe. It was still open to the notice reading, “The Twin-Tailed Fascinator is the latest headgear from Setania, official milliner to the Old Empire and New, and an absolute must-wear at any Imperial occasion!” She had carefully circled the notice with thick pencil, just as she had double-underlined the quote from The Pirate Queen.
The hat was already too warm, but such discomfort was nothing to an equilibrique who had passed the Thirty-Two Trials behind the walls of the Sénche-tasha high in the Vyrkanian Kundhmur, as the Imperial people called the great jagged mountains of Ni-kyrin. As a Purple Robe equilibrique, it was her fate to wander the world until she found something neat to look at.
Of all the wonders she had discovered in more than a year of travels, the theater was by far Mieux’s favorite, even better than swimming pools and rock candy. At first she had thought it was a temple. After all, up on the domed ceiling there was a chipped and faded mural of the goddess of Dreams floating around in a bunch of clouds. The way that people of all kinds gathered here and shared experiences, exciting or sad, was much like a holy shrine.
Also, going to plays helped her learn the strange speech of the Corcorids. She learned a new phrase every single time. She drew out her magazine and looked at the Pirate Queen ad for the twelfth time, again running a finger carefully under the words.
“She bought her freedom…with their blood!” she sounded out quietly, kicking her feet with relish.
Yes, the ticket and the hat cost most of the money she saved up working at the Blade & Ladle, but it would be well worth it.
Of course, golden treasures are heavy to carry, as the One-Thousand-And-Three Fables wisely said. Even the Morpheum had its weight that dragged on her heart. Plays taught her the Corcorid language so well that now most times she even thought and dreamed in it, but sometimes that made her feel sad as her memories of her homeland faded. Then also, most Corcorids were much taller than Mieux and she almost always missed some of the play action because she could not
see. And the groups of people sitting and laughing or crying together reminded her that, despite all of the challenges she had met on her path, simple friendship was an achievement that still escaped her. Perhaps there something wrong with her, even several things. She looked at the empty seat beside her.
“Still,” she thought, “the pie is warm and very good.”
No longer able to resist, she plucked the dripping wedge from her lap in both hands and carefully put the pointed end into her mouth. She bit down, her eyes closing slowly as she savored her treat. Half of it made its way into her tummy with one bite.
“Totally great—as usual!” she thought.
As the lights fell, her excitement rose. Unfortunately, so did the Corcorid boy sitting in front of her, who was half-a-head taller. Then, as a couple squirmed past her to fill the empty seats, the woman’s purse knocked Mieux’s pie out of her hands onto the floorboards. The man glanced over his fashionably puffy shoulderpad at her and offered a meaningless, “Sorry.” Mieux, the terror of the drunk and disorderly at the Blade & Ladle, here was just a young woman unsure of her place in the order of things with a blush rising to her round cheeks.
“It is nothing,” she murmured, realizing with a sinking heart that she would have to stand all the time to see anything at all. The Sénche-do’s training was silent on the subject of ruined pie, but it did teach perspective in disappointment. She would earn more coins for more snacks at another time, and if the couple were a bit rude, at least they obeyed the fashion edicts of their kings.
The curtains swung open with loud squeaking to reveal a super-fancy bedchamber with furry wallpaper and a chandelier of multicolored glass. A young woman of chiseled features—Mieux recognized her instantly as the famed actress Placidia Pulchra—leaned back in a long-chair, clad in a wedding gown, brushing her golden hair with a blissful smile. Half the audience hushed and the other hooted. Mieux squirmed to lean over the seat in front of her, next to the towering boy, to attempt to widen her view. Her lips parted in wonder at the scene.
“Oh, happiest of days!” the woman cried into the air over the audience’s heads between brushstrokes. “By morn’s end, I, Justina Amissio, shall be wed to my sweet betrothed, Knight Vitus, after this long year’s wait.” She rose from the chair to moon over a portrait of a dashing gentleman that hung above the fireplace.
She went on like that for several minutes until the lights fell and the stage unexpectedly rotated. The lights rose again to reveal another fancy room containing another woman. But this one was brooding, crouched on her chair, her hair dark and knotted back severely. Mieux’s eyes narrowed.
“My sister thinks herself blessed and about to wed the fair Knight Vitus, who by all rights belongs to me, Furta!” the woman shouted in a steely voice. “It was I who first laid eyes upon him. It is I who am lovelier, smarter, cleverer—oh yes, more devious by far. If I cannot have him, none shall, certainly not the fair-but-foul Justina!” she continued to boos and hisses from the audience. “Already the poison courses through his veins, the vial from whence it came hidden in Justina’s chambers, and a letter in her forged hand tucked in his breast pocket—a letter decrying their love and announcing her betrayal with a swineherd!”
Furta tossed her head back and cackled. “That is totally crazy!” whispered Mieux.
“Soon I shall be rid of them both and have the estate of Tribunium all for myself!” Furta said with another cackle.
The lights lowered amid her echoing laughter, and with a rattle and the muffled groaning of stagehands, the scene rotated again to show a dandy standing before a fireplace, greasing back his hair in a large gilt mirror. His features matched those of Knight Vitus in the portrait over Justina’s fireplace, and the corner of an envelope could be seen sticking out of his jacket.
“Ah, to look my best on this best of days!” he began in a voice that was all smooth and warm like the wood armrest of Mieux’s chair. “To spend eternity with my beloved Justina… ah!” he cried, turning awkwardly toward the audience. “The wretched Furta shall be my sister-in-law, but that small blemish, like a mole on a lovely face, only emphasizes the special love and joy I shall share with my bride!”
He turned back to the mirror. “Now, to finish dressing my hair… Hello! What is this?” He looked down at the envelope peeking out from his jacket and plucked it loose with his grease-free left hand. He deftly flicked it open and held it before his increasingly widened eyes.
“My Justina—abandoning me to a swineherd!” he said.
“For a swineherd!” came a muffled voice from the pit in front of the stage.
“I mean, for a swineherd!” Vitus proclaimed in a louder voice. He turned back to the crowd. “I am betrayed! My greatest day turned to eggshells in an omelet! My—ack—choking—poisoned!”
He staggered around the stage, knocking over a vase, but carefully so that it landed unbroken on a couch. “Ack—life fading—killed by my own true love—so disappointing! I die! I die!”
Knight Vitus collapsed, pitching headfirst in the roaring fire. His head instantly burst into flame, giving off sizzling streamers of fireworks. Half the audience gasped and the other half cheered.
Mieux brought her small fist to her mouth, sweat beading on her upper lip. “No!” she thought. “Not only to die, but to pass in the false belief his companion had murdered him! And with his hair wax set on fire shamefully also!”
Justina’s situation became ever more dire as the tale went on. She had only a short time to howl in stunned grief until she was dragged, still in her bridal gown, before a hastily arranged court. As a final insult, the hall still decorated for her wedding banquet had become her courtroom, and the lights rose to reveal Furta, seated in a wicker throne intended for the bride, ruling over the scene as the judge.
Furta grinned down wolfishly. “It falls to the lady of the Tribunium estate to judge evildoers in her lands. But as Justina, my own dear sister, is the heinous criminal, this sad duty devolves onto me!” she announced.
Justina attempted to sound a protest over her sobs. “Silence!” Furta shouted. “Enough of your false tears! You are already convicted by the container of poison in your possession and the letter in your own hand!”
Justina hung her head. She clearly was not a fighter, and despair was already shackling her.
“And there is still more!” Furta continued. “There is the swineherd you so piggishly love! Bring him to the stand!”
Justina lifted her head to see her supposed partner in crime. Mieux could not see his part of the stage at all, but she could hear his dubious testimony, delivered in an oily tone that caused her to believe this was all totally not fair.
“Swineherd!” Furta called. “Have you a lover?”
“Most assuredly!” he replied in language that seemed fancier than a pig farmer usually would use, though Mieux admittedly had not met many pig farmers yet.
“And do you see your lover in this courtroom?”
“Yes! It is Justina Amissio! She still wears the wedding dress that I bought her and that, she pledged, would remind her of me when she removed it on her honeymoon night!”
The courtroom spectators gasped, as did the audience.
“Lies!” Justina shouted in a cracked voice with sudden fire. “Why should I love a swineherd over my beloved Knight Vitus?”
“Why, because I bring home the bacon!” the swineherd replied. “And of course, you always said my sausage was bigger and spicier!”
The crowd hooted gleefully. “Rude!” Mieux thought, crossing her arms. “Plus there is no way a knight would ever make sausage!”
Furta banged a gavel on the table beside her, where stood the couple’s wedding cake until it collapsed on the third blow.
“Enough! Justina, my depraved sister, I find you guilty of murder, poison-mongery, pre-emptive cuckoldry, and perversion of a solemn ceremony, to wit, marriage! Guards, strip her for her sentencing!”
Two armed house guards stepped forward and tore Justina’s w
edding gown from her, leaving her standing completely bare before the crowd. The applause was deafening. The boy blocking Mieux’s view squirmed as his father slapped a hand across his eyes. Justina turned helpfully to display her backside as well, giving it a suggestive wiggle to more applause. Mieux’s huge eyes opened to their fullest extent.
“The usual punishment,” Furta began shouting at the top of her lungs, “is hanging by a chain until you are dead, in the meanwhile having your eyelids and fingernails plucked away with hot pincers!”
The crowd hooted at this graphic possibility. Mieux balled her little fists and shook her head slowly. It was so wrong, and there was no sign of anyone to make it right. Her eyes narrowed and she fought the urge to run to Lady Justina’s aid.
“But you are my sister, so I shall be merciful,” Furta said with a crocodile-type smile. “I order you to be taken from this place and sold into slavery in the privateer galleys on the Godsblood!”
Justina was limp and silent as she was dragged away and the evil fake courtroom emptied. Furta leaned back in her stolen throne, cackling once more, as the swineherd finally came into Mieux’s view. He was very well-dressed for a pig farmer, and when he approached Furta, he cast aside his herding crook and kissed her passionately.
“Ah, what a performance, my dear Perfidium!” she said. “We shall keep this hall decorated for our own wedding within the tenday. Tribunium is ours!” They both laughed in a way that was not funny.
Mieux would not have thought it possible, but things were even worse in the depths of the ship, where men and women pulled the oars while being flogged with salted whips. Surely the audience would have been overwhelmed with despair as well if it were not for the fact that all of the slaves were topless. With each pull of the oars, they drew fresh catcalls.
But the slaves were not just forced to row; they were made to fight. The greedy Captain Cruentus, a kind of official pirate commissioned by the Empire in this era of the Weàlae invasions, regularly goaded the crew to board the vessels of other pirates, smugglers, and enemy nations. The battles were shown through moving backdrops of billowing seas and buckets of real water hurled into the seats.