by Blaze Ward
The Story Road
Blaze Ward
Copyright © 2015 Blaze Ward
All rights reserved
Published by Knotted Road Press
www.KnottedRoadPress.com
Cover art:
Copyright © Designprintck | Dreamstime.com – Colorful Music Notes Photo
Copyright © Algol | Dreamstime.com – Spaceship On Black – Rear View Photo
Copyright © Meepoohya | Dreamstime.com – Women Face And Hair Made Form Colors Smoke. Photo
Cover and interior design copyright © 2015 Knotted Road Press
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This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
The Story Road
An Alexandria Station Story
For Anthea. For Sallah.
Part One: BAYONNE
One
“But why do they call it The Story Road,” the girl asked him, scrunching her face as she looked up at him, standing now beside the bed.
That just made her green eyes and dimples even cuter, but Henri could not, for the life of him, remember her name this morning. And when she had sat up in bed and let the sheet fall away from her naked chest, his eyes and his mind wandered out of what little focus he had managed until that moment.
In a pinch, he let his training take over. After all, what good was a Bard who couldn’t tell tales at the drop of a hat?
“Because all of the stories of our past came from there, love,” he purred, letting the words flow out while he carefully tuned his favorite violin, Nyange, named for the city on the planet Zanzibar where it had been made. He should have done that last night, but there had been other needs to attend. “So when I wrote this song, I simply had to call it that. The Story Road.”
“All of the stories?” she asked in a petite, wondrous voice.
Looking around, he decided that the girl’s flat might be large enough to hold the sound, but it would echo strangely off the knick–knacks on her shelves, and the woven art hangings on the wall and in the doorway.
The tune of the strings was right though, finally. His instructor, the old Master, had always insisted that he start each day with song. How else to keep the fingers and mind supple?
Henri pulled his pants on, but left his shirt and tunic draped across the chair. How had he managed to make them look so neat? Last night, he had been focused much more closely on her clothes than his.
He caught a reflection of himself in the girl’s antique cheval mirror. He had finally stopped growing and was started coming into his rangy height by adding kilos around the shoulders and chest. All those hours of practice kept him lean, and the girls always appreciated muscles.
He lifted the violin to his chin as he stood at the foot of her big, comfortable bed, decorated with the pink hearts and unicorns printed on the comforter and smiled. Probably a leftover from her just–passed teen years. Didn’t all girls have a pink phase?
The first notes were warm and inviting, as befit the ballad he had in his mind this morning.
The girl scooted to the top of her bed and leaned back against the headboard to listen. She still hadn’t covered up that magnificent chest, although her long chestnut hair was almost adequate. Almost.
Henri closed his eyes instead and lost himself in the first song he wanted to play. The Story Road.
Ξ
“That’s so sad,” she said as the last quavering notes of the third piece faded, breaking the spell.
Henri blinked, eyes adjusting again to the bright morning sun coming in through the curtains.
Sad? No. That last piece was a love song. One more ancient than starflight, if the stories were to be believed, passed down from master to student across millennia from the long–since destroyed Homeworld of galactic humanity.
But it broke the spell of romance and morning and pretty girls.
She was just a pretty girl. He was just a Bard. It was morning, and he had much to do today.
Henri pulled on his shirt and tunic, and tucked the wonderful instrument carefully away.
She kissed him with a promise of passion that was almost enough to stay another hour, but she had broken the spell, and the kiss wasn’t enough to restore that magic.
Henri wasn’t sure anything was.
Ξ
It was good that the family never ate an early breakfast. Otherwise, Henri would have had to face the day on an empty stomach. He was pretty sure that the antechamber to hell started out that way.
Father sat at the end of the great table that was capable of seating sixteen if needed. Today, it held four, although it had been set for six.
Henri was fine with that. They obviously hadn’t expected him home so early, but Sebastien, the middle brother, and his wife were still in their newlywed phase, so they had not come down to breakfast yet.
Henri took the empty place next to his mother and kissed her on the cheek with a smile. The years had been extremely kind to Emily. In public, she might be mistaken for his older sister, or his date, but never his mother.
Father lowered the newspaper long enough to study his wayward youngest son intently, accompanied by a harrumph.
“Good morning, Jean–Michel,” Henri replied brightly.
It still felt strange to address his father by his given name, but Father had insisted on the old ways, once Henri had reached his majority. Fortunately, mother was much less strict, except when she was pretending to be his girlfriend on a date, around strangers. But a woman that beautiful was allowed a touch of vanity, wasn’t she?
Across the table, Gaspard eyed him speculatively, although his wife, Daphne, grinned at him over the edge of a steaming mug before she took a sip.
“I fail to understand,” Gaspard began, in that dull, lecturing tone he took when it was the Oldest Brother addressing the Youngest, picking up the argumentative discussion they’d been having every day for a week, “why you refuse to simply import the materials you need. Why this difficult trek across deep space?”
Daphne winked at him as her husband spoke.
Henri fought down a smile. His family deserved a better answer than something flip and trite. It wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t understand him. He was the youngest. Weren’t they always passing strange?
“Dear brother,” Henri replied, “while I appreciate the sentiment, and I believe that Baudin & Sons could import quality materials from a variety of worlds, the cost/benefit ratio of materials acquisition would be far too high to justify the semi–random nature of relying on agents in the field to adequately identify the correct components that I need to produce master–craft instruments capable of subsequently bearing the family name.”
Father smiled at that, pleased that his wastrel son had learned something useful about business, seated at this table and learning at his father’s knee.
Henri wasn’t a businessman. That didn’t make him a fool.
Gaspard blinked in surprise. Mother and Daphne shared a snort, almost perfectly in unison.
“So instead, you’ll take a wander year to find the perfect wood, the perfect materials?” Gaspard’s voice trembled between annoyance and incredulity.
Henri smiled and paused while an elder woman, his old nanny Kai, emerged from the kitchen
and filled his mug with coffee. She had been his other mother, a family retainer for nearly thirty years, so she also kissed him on the top of the head.
It was so pleasant being home. What fool would decide to set off for the stars, surrounded by such love and luxury?
Henri could almost see those words in thought bubbles over Jean–Michel and Gaspard’s heads. The women knew better.
“The wander year is for Journeymen, Gaspard,” Henri corrected him lightly. “Now that I have achieved my Mastery, I have no other Lord to answer to, save to Erato, Muse and Mistress of Music. However, in this instance, it would be more accurate to consider this an exploratory mission with the potential to open new trade routes, lucrative enough to enrich the Trading House. I am not just looking for the perfect wood, although that is my primary mission.”
“You should take one of the company’s vessels,” Jean–Michel joined the conversation, perhaps a little hotly.
Emily placed a calming hand on Jean–Michel’s. He blinked and smiled at her.
“At what cost, Jean–Michel?” Henri focused on his father. “Are we so wealthy that you could afford to take a freighter out of service for up to a year with potentially no return on that investment? I can make no promises of success, let alone that you could recoup the vast expenses that such an enterprise would entail.”
Mother leaned close and kissed Henri on the cheek. “I like you better when you are an artist, my son, and not just another businessman,” she said. “I already have three men around who talk nothing but business.”
“For you, dear mother, anything,” Henri replied. “But I must converse with such esteemed gentlemen in a language they will understand.”
“Business over breakfast I will accept. We are done now, and I would like to enjoy my coffee. Perhaps you could play me a love song,” she purred with a smile. “It will aid the digestion.”
Henri smiled back at her and rose from his chair. He leaned over her hand and kissed it formally. “Madame.”
He had left Nyange’s case just inside the door when he arrived home, so it was a quick step to retrieve it. And it was already tuned for play this morning, so he was free to simply open the case and draw her forth.
The notes began vague and somewhat remote, as befit that first awkward glance across the room between two potential lovers. It built slowly, nearly fitfully. The look, the glance away, three steps to close, the whisper, the kiss. The seduction. The fire. The climax. The quiet kiss. The sunrise.
Henri opened his eyes, coming back from that other place where he went when the music was perfect. Emily and Jean–Michel were engaged in a kiss far too passionate for the breakfast table. Daphne had her head on Gaspard’s shoulder and her hands entwined with his on the table. Both were crying through their smiles.
Past them, in the shadows, he saw her.
The music summoned the woman, but only when Henri achieved perfection in his playing. This morning, she seemed almost solid for a moment, fading slowly as though engulfed by a rising fog. Long hair, strawberry–blond and flowing to her waist. Eyes the blue–gray of the tempest. Gown of the deepest red, a maroon nearly black in some lights, looking like fire in others. Around her neck, a string of four pearls, each separated from the next by several silver links. Below them, a fifth hung separate by a pair of gold chains.
She blew a kiss to him and faded from sight.
Henri remembered to breathe again.
Emily rose from her chair and kissed him on both cheeks, followed closely by Jean–Michel. Not to be outdone, Gaspard and Daphne as well. Even Kai had another kiss for him this morning.
Jean–Michel smiled proudly at him, perhaps for the first time treating the two of them as equals. “When your mother insisted on a musical career for you, Henri, I had my doubts,” he said, wrapping an arm around his wife’s waist and pulling her close to him. “He should learn the business, I argued. But you have. And I am glad I did not get my way, because you have also learned the Music.”
Henri blinked himself, shocked at such warm words from the grim patriarch of the clan.
“You will do me proud, son,” Father continued. “Wherever your travels take you. Just be sure to come home frequently, for your mother’s sake as well as mine. This House needs music such as yours.”
Henri bowed to the man, and to the memory of the ghost in the corner.
Two
As starships went, it was a small one. But even small interstellar vessels were still huge compared to the sorts of country craft that worked the Bayonne system.
Henri had far more experience traveling on the smaller ships than on something this large. This would only be his fourth trip into interstellar space, and the first time he was not traveling on a ship owned by his father or grandfather.
He took a moment as he stared at the great ship to adjust his forage cap. The short–brim was ideal for most worlds, just enough to shade the eyes from sun or rain, but not to bump into things in the narrow confines of a ship.
His brown hair was already longer than he normally kept it, but he had decided to let it grow as long as it would, since the other option was getting himself sheared like a sheep regularly. Besides, girls enjoyed running their hands through his hair. Best to keep them happy, no?
In one hand, a satchel fit to transport his daily needs. A notebook to jot down tunes and ideas. A pocket orchestra he could program to provide rhythms, brass, or a backing string quartet as needed. Several spare sets of strings for the journey, since he had packed away all of his tools and sent them ahead for long–term storage aboard the freighter. Snacks in small bags and a flask for water.
In his other hand, a rigid violin case holding Nyange and protecting her from the rigors of travel. It was an oversized case, almost too large for a viola, let alone a violin, but it had been heavily reinforced to the point that you could possibly drive a wheeled vehicle over it without risk. And Nyange had traveled too many light–years to be risked. She wasn’t just priceless, but simply irreplaceable.
He smiled to himself at his vanities and crossed the last open space to the bottom of the boarding ramp. A man awaited him as he reached the top.
“Good morrow, Master Baudin,” the man said politely. He sized Henri up with a sharp eye.
Henri returned the welcome. “Fairest greetings, Captain Dunrathy,” Henri replied. “It is good to see you again. I trust I am on time?”
“Very much so, Henri. We are perhaps two hours from having everything stowed away to lift.”
“In that case, sir,” Henri said, “allow me a few moments to put things in my cabin and I will be down to help.”
“Henri,” Captain Dunrathy continued, “you have already paid for your passage. You do not need to work as a common spacer as well.”
Henri smiled. This would be the third time he had had this discussion with his father’s old friend and competitor. “Evanston Dunrathy, if your shipping margins are so fat that you can afford to simply carry a Bard across space, perhaps I should look at how Baudin & Sons can compete more directly on these routes. Obviously, there is a great deal of profit we’re missing out on.”
Captain Dunrathy shook his head with a smile. “Lad, your help is always welcome. But what will the other captains say if I put a master musician to work as a common stevedore?”
Henri smiled back. “They’ll be jealous at what a terrible taskmaster you must be, Dunrathy.”
“Well, then, lad,” Captain Dunrathy laughed. “Let’s get your arse to work.”
Ξ
He had originally been introduced to the tall, pretty woman as the navigator of Captain Dunrathy’s freighter, Marrakesh, so it had been something of a surprise to Henri later, to end up shoulder to shoulder with her shoving the last few pallets of goods into place and locking them down for transit.
It was an even bigger surprise to find her here, now, in the kitchen, stirring a pot of stew and cutting vegetables. The smell of bread, either fresh from the oven, or just about ready to come out, h
ad drawn him here from his tiny cabin just fore of the primary cargo hold.
“Dinner will be ready shortly, Henri,” she said brightly as he entered.
“Thank you, Katayoun,” he said, walking close enough to peer into the pot. The smell of rich beef broth filled his mind with ready memories of home. “I’m surprised you aren’t up on the bridge.”
Her laugh was a pleasant contralto as she stirred. “Ev won’t be ready to jump for several hours. Marrakesh travels best at a slow, steady pace.” She reached out her free hand to touch the bulkhead affectionately. “But she’ll get us there.”
“I see,” Henri replied. “What can I do?”
“Nothing much here,” she shook her head. “This kitchen is too small for more than one person.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps some music? Ev says you are a pretty good fiddle player.”
Henri smiled. He had been called worse, and by women not as pretty as Katayoun. Not that she was a stunner. Too long and skinny, almost his own height, and the long black ponytail made her seem somehow fierce. And too old, she was at least in her thirties. Henri preferred soft blond girls, curvy in all the right places. And still young and naive.
Still, what better way to keep in practice?
“A moment, madam,” he said as he went to his cabin and retrieved the case.
Henri took up his stance in the far corner, by the table, where he could watch Katayoun move as she cooked. He considered a number of songs he might play for a pretty girl, and settled on something up–tempo and simple. This was going to be a long journey, there would be other women to charm at various planets along the way. Best to keep things professional aboard ship. At least for now.
Henri and Nyange played a reel. Light and airy, the kind of tune that caused your feet to start tapping when you weren’t looking. It kept the fingers and the mind supple.
Another face appeared shortly, drawn by either the smell of baking bread or the song he played. Isaac was primarily a stevedore, no great shakes as an intellect, but a man who could place a three–meter shipping cube into a space with exactly one centimeter clearance, and never scratch the paint. It had been amazing, educational, to watch the man rotate shapes in his head, unerringly.