by J M D Reid
“Sergeant,” Corporal Huson saluted.
Ary saluted back.
Ary’s escort entered the small corridor beneath the stern deck. The captain’s cabin waited at the end of the hallway. Ary drew a deep breath as Lieutenant Ompfeich knocked once on the door.
“Captain, I have the sergeant.”
“Enter,” she answered.
Waves of cold washed through his body as he followed them into the captain’s quarters. She sat at her table, hands folded before her, eyes hard. The first officer, Lieutenant-Captain Pthuigsigk, sat beside her, his ebony face stony as he studied Ary. Chaylene, the Bosun, and the chief of the boat flanked the captain and the first officer. It took all Ary’s control to keep his back straight, the weight of his shame pressing down on his spine.
He snapped a salute.
The captain saluted back, but did not offer to let him sit. Ary fell into parade rest, eyes locked forward while sweat trickled down his forehead. His stomach twisted into a complex knot. Chaylene gave him a sympathetic smile.
“Sergeant,” the first officer growled, “you stand accused of assaulting a subordinate and of behavior unbecoming of a non-commissioned officer of the Autonomy of Les-Vion’s Navy. Court-Martial is convened on the Thirtieth of Isamoa, in the Year of Vaarck’s Founding 399.”
Ary nodded.
“Sergeant,” Captain Dhar said, looking up from her papers, “I’ve spoken to the eyewitnesses of the incident and to Sharthamen. Do you have anything to add that might mitigate your actions?”
“No, Captain.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Really, Sergeant? From what I understand, you were clearly under some duress.”
“I am a marine, Captain. There is no excuse for my loss of temper.”
The captain gave a slight nod, the corners of her lips turning. “Admirable. Warrant Officer Jayne, you are tangentially involved with this situation. Do you have anything to offer?”
Chaylene swallowed. “On the night of the twenty-second of Isamoa, I was accosted leaving the privy by Able Sailors Sharthamen and Voasin. Both men harassed me, expecting I would be eager to provide certain . . . favors on account of my Vaarckthian heritage.”
Ary’s fists clenched and his jaw set.
The captain let out a growl of disgust. “And you didn’t report this?”
“I verbally reprimanded both and warned them that if I was harassed further I would speak to the Bosun. I learned later that they were claiming our encounter had turned out differently.”
The captain fixed her gaze on the one-eyed woman. “Bosun, how long have these rumors been floating about Warrant Officer Jayne? I will not stand for such slander to any woman or man on my ship.”
“Sergeant Jayne told me before we sailed from Camp Chubris ‘bout certain rumors gustin’ ‘bout his wife and Cook Tloan,” the Bosun answered. “I spoke to the deck crew, but I guess I hadn’t scared these new sailors enough.” She cracked her knuckles. “I’ll see discipline is kept.”
The captain nodded. “Chief, what do you recommend for punishment for the sergeant's behavior?”
Chief Fossein stroked his black, bristled beard, his Agerzak eyes drilling into Ary. “Lashes. I’d say five. He broke the regs, but what man wouldn’t with the things Sharthamen claimed? Five lets the crew know it was wrong.” The chief snorted. “If he weren’t a sergeant, I’d say let him go without punishment.”
The captain raised an eyebrow before turning to the first officer. “Lieutenant-Captain?”
“Thirty lashes and demote him back to private,” the man answered, voice cold. “Doesn’t matter if his actions were justified. He badly beat a fellow crewman.”
“So you think his actions were justified?” the captain asked.
The first officer clenched his jaw.
“Tell me plain, Lnuix,” she pressed, saying the man’s name without unhinging her jaw.
“His actions were justified, but regs are regs. Thirty lashes and a demotion is fit punishment.”
Ary’s stomach twisted. I deserve it.
Captain Dhar stared at Ary. Her gaze was direct, peeling away his skin. “Would you do it again?”
“No, Captain,” he answered. I’ll never lose control like that again! Ary seized his guilt and tethered it to his anger.
“I’ll hold you to it. If you send another of my sailors to the medical officer, I’ll take it out of your hide.” Her disappointed crashed into him. “You are docked a month’s pay, forfeited to Sharthamen for recompense of his injures, and twelve lashes, shirt on, for conduct unbecoming a non-commissioned officer.”
“Shirt on?” the chief of the boat asked in surprise.
“I need him fit for combat,” the captain answered. “We’re too short to lose a marine to the sickbay over something as stupid as this fight. Bosun, assemble the crew. Secure the sergeant to the mainmast.”
Ary followed Lieutenant Ompfeich out of the cabin and back out on deck to the mainmast, the taller of the two masts that was located near the middle of the ship. The crew was already gathering, pouring out of the hold, finding whatever space they could on the Dauntless’s three decks. The Zzuk Auxiliaries stood on the foredeck, nodding their scaly heads to Ary, their pink tongues flicking in and out.
Ary removed his jacket, taken by Guts, and hugged the mast. Its circumference was thick enough he could just bring his fingertips together. The lieutenant bound his wrists, rough hemp digging into his flesh. Ary held back his fires, letting the rope abrade his skin.
“For the pain,” Lieutenant Ompfeich muttered as he brought a tube of leather to Ary’s mouth.
He bit down hard.
CRACK!
Ary flinched at the sound of the Bosun testing the hoghide whip. The crew went deathly silent. The ship creaked as it floated in the night skies. Dread squeezed Ary’s heart and quickened its beat. His rib cage felt too tight, crushing his lungs, making every breath shallow.
“For conduct unbecoming a non-commissioned officer of the Autonomy of Les Vion’s Navy, Sergeant Briaris Jayne is sentenced to twelve lashes, shirt on!” Lieutenant Ompfeich announced. “Bosun, you may administer the punishment.”
“Aye, Lieutenant,” she growled.
Ary scanned the crowd until he found Chaylene standing with his marines, Zeirie beside her. His wife trembled, hugging herself. Ary swallowed, seizing control of the healing fire and damping it down. He imagined stepping on it, like putting out embers.
He had to accept the pain. He deserved the pain.
The whip landed.
Even striking through his shirt, Ary felt it. He grunted into the leather tube. The agonizing stinging melted into sharp heat radiating out through the muscles of his back. He hugged the mast and clamped down on the gag.
“One!” the Bosun counted.
The whip hissed through the air and cracked against his shirt. More fire striped down his back. It blazed hottest where it crossed the first welt. Sweat poured down Ary’s face as he grunted into his gag.
Chaylene’s eyes were wide, liquid, supportive. He clung to her gaze.
Pain fell.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each strike painted a line of agony across his flesh. He grunted like a stuck pig. He bucked, pulling at the rope, the fibers ripping into his wrists. The mast creaked. His fires simmered in him, waiting to burn hot and soothe it all away.
The seventh lash landed. His shirt ripped. His flesh tore. Blood ran down his back, hotter than sweat. His power flared. He ached to unleash it. The pain would fade, vanish. Ary let only a trickle out as he braced for the next blow. Just a small touch of healing to stem the bleeding and—
CRACK!
The eighth lash ripped the rest of his shirt open, exposing the entirety of his back. He bucked hard, more blood sheeting down his skin. The ninth blow left a long, bleeding slash across his upper shoulders. The tenth tore deep into his flesh above his right kidney. Ary howled through the gag. He couldn’t fight the p
ain any longer. His legs tottered. He collapsed, held up by his arms bound around the mast. He struggled against his power. It would be so easy to let it heal. He could end the pain. The eleventh lash landed, agony racing through his body.
I can make it to the end.
Ary sucked breaths through his nose as he struggled to control himself. Can’t heal! Can’t heal! He stared at Chaylene; tears were falling down her cheeks. She believed in him. She knew he was strong enough to endure. Only one more.
Can’t heal! Can’t heal!
The twelfth lash fell.
Ary screamed.
He drank in the pain.
The world spun around him as he denied his body relief, clinging to his guilt. He deserved more.
Chapter Nineteen
Wriavia descended into the Rheyion Naval Port’s pottery yard out of the night sky. His wings flapped hard as he touched down on the sandy surface, damp from a recent shower. His head twitched, scanning for any movement, listening for any footsteps. His claws dug into the clumpy earth, his heart fluttering as he prepared to take flight.
No one approached. Midnight ebbed towards dawn. The sailors and civilians who worked the port had long sought their beds.
His gaze turned to the four pyramidal stacks of ballista shots spaced ten ropes apart. The assassin’s carousing in the bars of Onhur had sailed him to clear skies. He’d met a loquacious Agerzak pottery worker named Chieb who was more than happy to explain every aspect of his job for a few pints of the pineapple-sweetened beer the locals brewed.
Tonight, Wriavia tested if he could tamper with one of the clay shots of the Dauntless, and other Autonomy ships, fired from their ballista. From a satchel hanging off his shoulder, Wriavia produced a porcelain drill attached to a wooden crank. It was built for the smaller hands of a Human so before Wriavia wasted more energy on this plan, he needed to know if he could drill through a shot.
Wriavia approached one of the four stacks, moving with the head-bobbing gait of his species, claws digging into the clinging soil. For accounting purposes, each stack belonged to a different ship. The warships were allocated a finite number in a quarter for training. According to Chieb, the Dauntless used the southeastern-most pile.
Wriavia’s gizzard tightened as he placed the tip against the reddish clay surface right at the plastered joint between the two hemispheres of the shot. He sucked a breath through his open beak, his talons biting into the sand as he steadied his gizzard. His brown distal feathers grasped the handle, which jogged out to the side, forming an incomplete square to provide torque. A round, polished-smooth butt capped the drill. Wriavia pressed his left wing against that, seating the drill tip against the clay shot.
He turned the crank. The bit skipped around the smooth surface of the ball. He clucked his beak and readjusted. He pressed harder on the tool’s butt, applying all the pressure he could as he struggled to work the Human device.
He worked the drill.
A silver of ceramic curled up around the spiral groove cut into the bit. Emboldened, Wriavia pressed harder on the drill as he turned it, his wing feathers rustling together. Twice, the tip slipped out of the indent. The wooden handle of the drill rubbed at his distal feathers, tearing off small tufts of down that drifted like brown snow onto the shot.
Wriavia’s gizzard tightened as he drilled deeper and deeper. The clay wasn’t thick. If he wasn’t careful, the porcelain drill’s penetration into the cavity could strike a spark off the gravel. His tongue lolled out the side of his beak as he concentrated. He slowed as he worked it deeper. His heart sped up, his body tensing for the explosion.
I wouldn’t have to do this if that flightless crow Vel had bothered to infect Ary with the choking plague!
Never again would Wriavia use a lovesick Human. Their entire species was too unreliable. Riasruo should have left your kind to rot with your kin! His gizzard worked its stone in slow circles, shifting it around inside of him as he watched the curling slivers of clay spiral around the white drill bit before breaking off.
The drill punched through into the black powder and gravel mix.
No sparks ignited.
Wriavia clucked in relief, his gizzard relaxing on its stone. He removed the drill and lowered his head to inspect the hole. He’d have to scoop out some of the black powder with a narrow spoon to create a cavity for the vial. He’d have to ensure he didn’t spill any of it; he couldn’t leave any evidence of tampering. Satisfied that his plan was viable, Wriavia produced a pot of reddish clay he’d mixed up earlier and smeared it over the hole, covering the damage. He applied it liberally with a thin slat of wood. When it dried, it would merge with the patch sealing the two halves of the shot together.
Finished, Wriavia flapped his wings and climbed into the air. No heat rose off the skyland to give him lift. He beat hard to gain altitude as he winged back to Onhur. In heartbeats, he soared over the city. Few lights burned below; few witnesses to spy him. He circled the boarding house where he’d rented a room as he descended and landed on his room’s balcony.
Wriavia clucked in relief when he witnessed his solution was still boiling on the small oil burner in his room. It violated every rule Wriavia had learned at the Aerie as a hatchling to leave his chemistry unattended. But in the field, necessity ruled. During his training, he’d studied all manner of chemistry—the distillation of poisons was a vital part of Adjudication.
He’d assembled a collection of containers on a work table in his boarding room. A bulbous glass vessel filled with boiling liquid sat atop an oil burner. Red gas rose from the solution, flowed through glass tubing, and collected in a ceramic distillation bulb. As it condensed into a liquid, it ran down the sides into a funnel and dripped into a clay pot.
He checked the boiling solution—a mix of saltpeter, green vitriol, and powdered limestone—and nodded in satisfaction at how much remained. He had spent half the day scouring Onhur for the components. The hardest to find had been the green vitriol, but he’d discovered a supply from a parchment merchant, as it was the chemical used in making inks.
The three ingredients, when boiled in water, produced fortified water, a caustic substance that dissolved many materials and, hopefully, would react violently with the black powder. Fortified water would eat through a glass vial before spilling out into the ballista shot, detonating the ordinance. Wriavia had seven vials prepared and as soon as he had distilled enough of the fortified water, he would experiment to find the right dilution—the more water he added to the mixture, the longer it would take to eat through the vial—that would allow him to tamper with the shot but not detonate it for two or three days.
Dawn was approaching when the distillation finished, the red gas condensing into a clear liquid with a bitter scent. Wriavia handled the clay jar carefully. Fortified water was a strange substance. It could eat through glass, wood, or flesh, but clay stood impervious. Regal water, another caustic substance, could devour clay, but glass could hold it.
Using a clay funnel, Wriavia quickly poured out a measured amount of the fortified liquid into each of the waiting vials. Smoke curled the new solutions, burning Wriavia’s nostrils. The vial with no water smoked the most as the caustic substance devoured the glass. That tube failed in a quarter of an hour, spilling the acid onto the work table. More smoke rose as the liquid attacked the wood. Wriavia wasn’t worried. There wasn’t enough to do more than pockmark the surface.
The second vial failed after two hours. Wriavia watched the third.
*
Isamoa 31st, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Vel didn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep. Dread pumped ice through his veins. As he lay in his hammock, he stared at where Chaylene slept. She still lived. Midnight had come and gone, and she still lived. The poison hadn’t done anything to her. Hours passed, and she wasn’t ill.
Relief absorbed his terror.
She’s gonna live. She’s gonna live.
All during the whipping the night before, Vel had focused only on Chaylene. He’d s
tudied her face for any signs of discomfort or sickness. He’d barely heard Ary’s grunts of pain, hardly noticed the blood sheeting down his back. He hadn’t taken a single ounce of satisfaction at witnessing the brute’s agony.
Chaylene shifted on her hammock.
Fear lanced through Vel’s stomach, bracing for signs of the poison ravaging her. Clammy hands squeezed his entire body. He sucked in a breath, holding it as he watched her settle onto her other side, her face buried beneath her blonde hair.
Breath exploded out of his lungs.
She’s fine. The poison didn’t work, thank Riasruo. Vel formed the sun, touching his thumb to his little finger.
As his terror dwindled, his gaze turned to Ary. He slept on his stomach, his arms dangling off the side of the hammock. Bandages covered his back. A bitter, antiseptic tang tickled Vel’s nose.
It would have been your fault if she’d died. Yours and Wriavia’s! Vel balled up his fist. That was your food! Why didn’t you eat it?
Vel ignored that tiny voice whispering, Why didn’t you stop her?
All you do is hurt her, Ary! Vel’s clenched knuckles whitened. You don’t love her. You don’t care for her the way I do!
That night, they would go into battle. Vel had new orders. Normally, his duty during combat was to run crossbow bolts to the defender and act as reserves if any fell, but with all the marines deploying to the docks, he would man the starboard gunwale of the stern deck. If I happen to shoot and miss my target . . . accidents happen.
Vel smiled. Chaylene lived. During her grief, she would need a friend and apologize for claiming she hated him. For insulting him. She would see how much he loved her. His fear dwindled, releasing its last holds on him.
Vel drifted to sleep, imagining the crossbow bolt burying between Ary’s shoulders.
*
The back of Chaylene’s throat tickled her when she woke up the next day.
Ary slept beside her on his stomach. It looked awkward and uncomfortable until she saw the blood-stained bandages covering his back. She rubbed his arm as she stared at him, proud of her husband for enduring the pain, for finding the strength to keep from healing himself.