Cadman's Gambit

by D. P. Prior

  Elias looked up as they approached and let out an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘Suppose you want tea,’ he moaned, working oil between the frets. ‘Linseed.’ He held up the rag. ‘If it worked for cricketers…’

  Rhiannon rolled her eyes and pretended to yawn.

  ‘Have I told you about cricket?’

  ‘Nope and I don’t wanna know, before you ask.’ She shot him her sweetest smile and he wrinkled his nose back at her.

  ‘I’ll boil some water then,’ Elias groaned as he balanced the mandola against the wall and rocked himself out of the chair. ‘Unless, of course, you’d rather taste some home-brew.’ He indicated the bubbling distillery just inside the doorway. ‘Cider,’ he beamed. ‘Can’t beat a bit of the ol’ scrumpy.’

  ‘Yes!’ Sammy hopped from foot to foot.

  ‘Tea’ll be right,’ Rhiannon said, shoving him inside.

  Sammy clapped his hands in front of the assorted acoustic instruments hanging on the rear wall of the studio. Antique mandolins, banjos, ukuleles and guitars. Six-strings, twelve-strings, round holes, f-holes, resonators and solid bodies. Plain wood or lacquered, chrome and brass; maple necks, or rosewood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Elias had pointed out every detail of every instrument to her over the years, so much so that Rhiannon considered herself an authority, except for the fact that she couldn’t even whistle in tune. Pride of place was afforded to a solid body with twin cut-aways and painted a kind of pastel orange, which Elias had always insisted was salmon pink.

  The rest of the oak-panelled room served as a workshop—a clutter of benches strewn with head-stocks, nuts, bridges and strings. There were boxes overflowing with spare parts, some of which came in brightly lettered packaging.

  ‘Ah, no, no, no!’ Elias winced as Sammy started towards the orange-pink guitar. ‘I think we’ll adjourn to the kitchen, if you don’t mind.’

  Sammy whined in protest but dutifully followed them out of the studio. Elias handed him a battered ukulele, which he proceeded to thrash whilst the bard heated some water in a rusty pan.

  ‘Bit hot to be out an’ about,’ he said over his shoulder as he hunted for the teapot. ‘Don’t want ol’ Sammy getting sunstroke.’

  Rhiannon felt her lips trembling, tears welling up from nowhere.

  Elias frowned at her. ‘Not still missing him?’

  ‘Heck, no. Just something that happened on the way over. It’s stupid, really. Don’t know why it bothered me.’ Justin and Barek had been childhood friends, but ever since Shader had left, they’d been cold with her. Hostile even. ‘We ran into some lads from the White Order, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah.’ Elias gave a knowing nod. ‘Shader’s abandoned boys still looking for someone to blame. Thought they’d have got over it by now, realized what a prat he is. I mean, just ‘cause the bloke gets dumped by the most gorgeous gal in Oakendale doesn’t mean he has to run off back to the holy bleedin’ city. I reckon you made the right choice. Sounds a bit immature to me.’

  ‘But why go? He wanted to give up fighting.’

  ‘Wounded pride, my dear. I’ll bet you a brass monkey he couldn’t take no for an answer so he’s off trying to prove his manhood. He won’t forgive and forget, though. He’ll carry his tawdry little image of you in his noddle,’ he tapped his temple, ‘and his imagination will embellish it until you become a mixture of the Dark Mother of Ain and the lascivious Annie Marchant.’

  ‘He thinks I’m a slut?’

  ‘No, no, no. You miss my point. You see, Shader wants a Luminary to complement his own self image. Only he’s a geezer, just like any other geezer, so what he needs is a composite: a pious companion during the day and a wanton strumpet at night. Man, it’s gone awfully quiet in here.’

  He was right. Rhiannon hadn’t noticed that Sammy’s strumming had stopped. She had a moment’s panic when she couldn’t see him and then smiled. The boy was curled up on the floor, snoring quietly, one arm draped over the ukulele.

  ‘Stick him in the bedroom, if you like,’ Elias said. ‘I reckon it’s time for a drink and a smoke, don’t you?’

  THE AURA PLACIDA

  The ship lurched and Shader was tipped back into the cabin, clutching the doorframe with rigid fingers. His stomach heaved again, even though it was beyond empty. With a desperate surge he rebounded through the doorway and stumbled onto the deck.

  The clouds were thinning and the rain had slowed to a spit. The storm-head was roiling off the stern back towards Latia. The tail end of the gale bloated the great square sails on the main-mast and set them snapping. The yards groaned and creaked as he slipped and skidded his way below them and bent into the wind to climb the steps to the forecastle.

  Captain Amidio Podesta was leaning on the prow railings, black hair streaming like wet seaweed behind him, his gaudy finery looking like the cheap rags they really were, all sodden, clinging, drooping about his stout frame. He seemed to sense Shader’s approach even above the din of the passing storm, turning and cramming his tricorn tightly onto his head. The man had an unnatural link with the ship that alerted him to every shift of the sea, every step upon the deck.

  ‘You see, I told you.’ Podesta gave a gap-toothed grin, his usually sleek moustache dangling limply, jowls hidden by a braided trident beard. ‘Some storms you run before, eh? And others,’ he flicked his hand after the dark mass fleeing from the aft, ‘you take head on. It’s just like the great Nicolau Rama said, eh? A ship has a bowsprit for two reasons.’ He rubbed affectionately at the base of the pole projecting from the prow, loops of rope hanging carelessly, jibs creased and furled along the length. ‘An anchor for the forestays,’ he indicated the standing rigging in front of the closest mast, where a couple of mangy sailors still hung like spiders challenging the wind to dislodge them. ‘Everyone knows that, uh?’

  Shader only knew because Captain Diaz had bored him senseless with endless nautical lessons on the voyage from Sahul. Diaz’s point had been that every able-bodied passenger needed to be a sailor just in case. The sea was a capricious beast who gave no mercy, listened to no excuses. When the crisis came, as it would, either you stood up and did your part, or you went down with the ship along with everyone else.

  Podesta frowned, forcing his chin into his neck and giving Shader a look that was at once confused and worried, like the one a father might give a child who had not grasped the most elementary point about playing with fire. ‘You don’t want the foremast falling into the main, uh? You understand? Good, good. Two points, he says, and the second you will like, you being a pious man.’

  There was no hint of mockery. Indeed, Podesta gave the slightest of bows and touched his finger-tips together.

  ‘It is like,’ the Captain swept his arm along the line of the bowsprit thrusting out over the waves, ‘the point of a spear piercing a wall of shields, uh? You understand these things, no?’

  Shader did, but quite how Podesta knew that he did was beyond him.

  ‘It is like the horn of a charging unicorn. It is like…’ and here he paused, gazing into the grey distance. ‘…a needle-point of love piercing the heart of Ain. You like, eh? You see, us Quilonians are not so ignorant as you think.’

  They might have punched their way through the storm, but the carrack still reared and fell heavily in the troughs, and off of the starboard side white horses frothed and spat. Podesta followed Shader’s gaze and slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘The Narala Reef, my friend. We are closer to Numosia than Latia now, you know. Didn’t I tell you I knew a fast route? Faster than that charlatan Diaz, eh? And the Aura Placida,’ he swept a hand out to encompass the ship. ‘She might not be as swift as Diaz’s caravel, but she is bigger, no? And she has comfort, strength and soul.’ He thumped his chest and stuck his chin out as if the superiority of his vessel were plain to see.

  Shader agreed about the comfort. The Dolphin had indeed been fast, but her quarters were cramped and she’d had scant space for cargo. Diaz had taken the long route to Aeterna, skirti
ng the coast of Britannia and sailing through the channel between Quilonia and Gallia. They’d not landed at Britannia, and Shader couldn’t say he minded. The feel of the place had altered since his father’s death, and he suspected he now saw it as it really was. The dappled sunlight piercing the leaves of Friston Forest, the scent of fresh-cut grass, the comforting presence of the Downs: the world seen through a child’s eyes; but when Jarl had rotted, when the wasting had transformed him from a titan into a repugnant sack of meat and shit, the child had died with him. There was a joke in Aeterna that Shader had been the butt of as he rose through the ranks: Britannia was the bowel of Nousia, the cesspit of the Templum’s empire. The Latians had made no attempt to conceal their scorn for Shader’s heritage. Britannia, for them, had more in common with the barbaric forests of Verusia than with Nousian culture.

  ‘No,’ Podesta continued to blather on as he stared out to sea, ‘your friend Diaz would not have the guts to take this route. He’d never navigate the reef, and even if he did, he lacks the stomach for the Anglesh Isles.’

  Podesta’s route would take them past the mawg homeland. Shader was in no hurry to reacquaint himself with the beasts that had fallen upon the Abbey of Pardes, showing up his contemplative dream for what it was. He’d been the only one with the skills to oppose them, the only one to track them as they rampaged south to Oakendale.

  Podesta pulled a metal flask from his boot and unscrewed it. ‘Don’t you worry, my friend. The Aura Placida will look after us, and my crew are as ferocious as any mawg, eh?’

  Shader doubted that, although they looked a hard bunch: the sort of men who’d stick you for a bronze dupondii. Podesta caught him observing the sailors spilling over the deck, shouting to each other and striking up a shanty that seemed to be composed mainly of expletives.

  ‘They’re good boys, eh?’ Podesta rubbed his beard and frowned. ‘If you know how to treat them. Rum?’

  Shader declined and looked away as the Captain took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Looks like you need something to put the colour back in your cheeks, eh? The worst of the rough is past us now. Go and see Sabas. Tell him you need melted cheese and bread. Say the Captain sent you.’

  ***

  The Aurora Placida bobbed contentedly, the calls of sailors, the creaking of yards a muffled reminder of the world outside the galley. The salty scent of grilled cheese set Shader’s stomach rumbling, his tongue moistening his lips. Sabas set the plate before him with meaty black hands and lowered his bulk onto a stool, watching Shader intently as he sniffed the bread-base and lifted it to his mouth. It was an effort not to wolf it down to fill the void in his guts. Under the expectant eyes of the chef, Shader nibbled a corner, savoured its tanginess and made appreciative grunts as he swallowed.

  ‘You like how we eat in Numosia? Cheese of the goat and sourdough.’ Sabas opened his hands, thick lips chewing the words languidly rolling from his mouth with a lisp. ‘A touch of mustard from Verusia,’ he gave Shader a sideways look with wide eyes, ‘and a sprinkling of black pepper. How do you think I got so fat?’ He slapped his paunch, double-chin rippling as he gave a deep belly-laugh. ‘Oh, Mr Sabas,’ he rumbled like a passing storm, ‘you one big blubbery man.’

  A red-faced lad stuck his head through the door, more acne than skin, hair a greasy mop of ginger, eyes darting over his shoulder and then at Shader’s plate.

  ‘Got any spare, Chef?’ he whined, rubbing his stomach. ‘I’m ‘alf starved.’

  Sabas slapped a big hand down on the table, belly rolling with mirth.

  ‘Ah, Elpidio. Always hungry. You sit down and don’t you breathe none. Maybe you won’t be missed.’

  The youth slid through the crack of the door and crept to a stool, offering Shader a nervous smile.

  ‘Elpidio is like a son to me,’ the black man said as he sliced some bread and started to top it with shavings of cheese. ‘Ain’t that right, boy? You been eating that grub I send you? You sure don’t look like it.’

  Elpidio’s eyes didn’t lift from the table, his fingers fiddling with a fork.

  ‘It eat it right enough. When it don’t get took from me.’

  ‘Cleto?’ Sabas closed the lid of the pan and thrust it into the flames.

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Don’t you go messing with that fork, boy. That’s a clean one. Don’t want to wash it for no good reason.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Sabas dropped onto the stool beside him and lowered his head to look up at the lad.

  ‘Don’t go being sorry now. Everything all right?’

  Shader took a bite of cheesy bread and chewed vigorously. ‘Who’s Cleto?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle. Ain’t that so, boy?’

  Elpidio nodded, face breaking into a smile. ‘That’s right, Chef. Is it done yet?’

  Sabas rolled his eyes and went to check on the pan.

  Elpidio’s gaze flicked to Shader and then back down at the table. ‘You a priest?’

  ‘No. Not yet in any case.’

  ‘What, a soldier then?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, Elpidio.’ Shader took another bite and poured himself some water from the jug.

  ‘It’s just the lads. They been wondering. Say you’re a bloody Nousian, and you wear that symbol thing on your tunic, but Cleto says you brought a sword on board.’

  Shader swallowed and set his bread down. ‘There’s a lot of Nousians outside Quilonia. Pretty much the rest of the world, save for Sahul and parts of Numosia.’ Sabas grunted at that. ‘Not forgetting Verusia, of course.’

  Elpidio lifted his head, eyes wide, mouth rounded like a guppy’s, then looked back down at his fingers drumming on the table-top. Sabas set some cheese-bread before him and he snatched it up and tore a great bite out of it, spitting crumbs as he spoke.

  ‘Lads ain’t got no time for Nousians, begging your pardon. Reckon we’ll stick to our own ways.’

  Besides Verusia, which was more a scattering of tribes than a country, Quilonia was the only northern land to resist Templum protection. Nousia spread from the Islands of Ice above Britannia, across Gallia and Latia, to the lands east of Graecia, and the mighty continent of the Great West. Most of Numosia had converted too, except for the southernmost tip which was now in Sahulian hands. The world split in two, although by far the biggest portion belonged to the Ipsissimus ruling from Aeterna. The Sahulian Emperor Hagalle’s inroads into Numosia had come to an abrupt halt when war had broken out with his own eastern kingdoms. Nousia, the combined lands of the Templum, had absolute hegemony elsewhere, and yet Quilonia, right on Aeterna’s doorstep, remained proudly independent.

  ‘Do you Quilonians still vote for your leaders?’ The idea had always struck Shader as bizarre: entrusting the governance of a country to the whims of an uneducated mob. No sense in it. No continuity. Not to mention that a canny would-be tyrant could easily hoodwink the masses into electing him. It was one small step from freedom to dictatorship.

  ‘Don’t know about that. No interest in politics.’

  Just as Shader thought. If that was the general attitude then he’d much rather stick with the Ipsissimal succession. At least that way there was order, everyone knowing their place in the greater scheme of things.

  ‘Elpidio’s a country boy, from a hard-working family, ain’t that right, son?’

  ‘Vintners.’ The lad grinned proudly in mid-chew.

  ‘As good a trade as any. What made you leave?’ Shader asked.

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’ Elpidio pushed his plate away and stood. ‘Some of us have work to do. Thanks for the food, Chef.’ Without meeting Shader’s gaze he stalked from the galley.

  Sabas leaned forward on the table, big fingers interlaced. He kept his voice to a low rumble.

  ‘The vines were burned to the ground. His folks and sister killed. The boy was in town at the time, delivering wine. Captain was a customer. Took the news real bad and went after the folk that did it. Kil
led them all real bad too, no messing. Good man, the Captain, but a hard one. Has the crew’s respect, and with these dogs that’s saying something.’

  Shader started as light spilled through the open door and Captain Podesta poked his head in.

  ‘Nousians value people over profit. Regrettably, in Quilonia it’s the other way round. Elpidio’s family had the misfortune of being too successful. Shame for the boy. Shame for my wine rack, eh? Down to my last dozen, but I’m willing to open one if you’d join me, uh?’

  ‘Maybe some other time.’ Shader lifted the prayer-cord from his neck, picking at a largish knot. He’d been meditating on that one for days and almost had it.

  ‘I see,’ Podesta said. ‘Prayer ahead of wine. Very good, eh Sabas? A holy man on board bodes well for our voyage.’

  Funny, Shader thought. One of the oldest stories in the Liber, involving a very big fish, made it seem like the worst possible luck.

  THE SCENT OF IMMORTALITY

  A cock crew way off in the suburbs causing Cadman to look up from his book. Something about the sound always startled and reassured him at the same time: an intrusion upon his peace and the death of the night and all its terrors.

  He’d given up on Blightey’s grimoire. There was only so much mumbo jumbo he could take, and what he’d read had unsettled his sleep. It was bad enough surrendering to the little death, as he called it, without being frightened out of his wits by nightmares from the Abyss. He patted his breast pocket and plucked out his cigarette case, all shiny silver and engraved with his initials. A parting gift from Mama before he’d set off for Verusia. He frowned and thought of some numbers to drive away the memories. Sixes and sevens mostly, with the odd nine thrown in for good measure.

  He lit a cigarette with his ancient Zippo and relaxed against the leather back-rest of his chair, chunky legs stretched out beneath the desk. He spent a moment eyeing the faded sepia pictures in their tarnished frames. What had happened to the proud young man in the gown and mortar-board clutching the scroll? The boy all in white with the cricket bat kneeling at the front of the team? He knew where the others were—his teammates, his family, his friends. Dust and ashes, like I should be. Back to the elements or lost in the Void. Why did he go through this ritual every morning, clinging onto the memories of the dead? Because I must remember. Because that’s all I am; all that stands between the last wispy threads of my being and oblivion.