by Ren Garcia
“Yes, Sir.”
“Such operations can be rather profitable. I’m certain you had to twist the crew’s arms to get them to cooperate, yes?”
“Indeed, Sir.”
“Yet, according to our records, you have only been aboard the Sandwich for a year, while, at the same time, I have here a rather extensive dossier on the activities of the ship’s captain, Lt. Dunkster.” He thumbed through a thick file on his desk. “Let’s see … originally from Planet Fall, a lord of the House of Carew. Long suspected of bootlegging, piracy, counterfeiting, and polygamy, with over thirty-four dirty courtesans in varying degrees of disrepair belonging to his harem—which, might I say, is an offense punishable by death on Planet Fall.”
“He told me he only had fourteen wives.”
“Yes, we’ll add the inability to perform simple arithmetic to his list of crimes. He has thirty-four, not counting the ones who have passed away on him.”
The countess spoke up in a regal voice. “And that is not all, Sir. His various wives are suspected of being ex-members of the Erynes, a rather potent and feared band of dirty courtesans based on Planet Fall by way of Carina 7. Not a sedate bunch, they. Again, Lt. Dunkster appears to enjoy a dangerous lifestyle.”
Stenstrom thought about Christiana on Planet Fall: a little weather-beaten, but unbroken, still beautiful, and a loving woman worthy of honor, with her son’s merit trophy sitting on her mantle. Christiana was not a dangerous woman.
“Additionally,” the captain added, “the fine Xaphan gentleman who was spoiling to cassagrain you into small bits says that he’s been dealing in contraband with Lt. Dunkster for years. As we escorted him back to Xaphan space, he sang like a lark. Painted quite a lurid picture for us.”
“Sir, I …”
“Let’s not mince words, shall we? We know all about Fleet frigates, and the little operations they often carry on. Of course, there are all sorts of rules and punishments regarding such a thing; however, let’s be practical. We’re out here in the Kills, far away from Fleet ballrooms and all the niceties that go along with that. We both know the crew of a frigate barely make enough to subsist—and that is truly a shame, for those are good people on those tiny ships, doing a rancid job that must be done. Other captains may feel differently, but I frankly do not care what side enterprises go on aboard frigates, as long as the merchandise being passed isn’t harmful. Pushing dangerous things that have no good use, such as Remax and Magga-tabs is one thing, but selling a reputable product that is in demand is another. Xaphans might be conniving and evil, but they do enjoy a fine grain spirit as well as the next person.”
Lt. Kilos objected. “Yeah, but Dav, they were trying to pass off Zemuda as Kanan grain spirits.”
“Yes, and I imagine that’s what got our fine Lt. Dunkster into trouble. He was probably taste-testing his batch of fake spirits after having had at one of his ex-Erynes wives, apparently while soaked in The Weed. A poor combination to be sure. Well, no harm done, I suppose.”
“No harm done? Have you ever tried to survive a hangover from a night of Zemuda? And don’t even try to go to the bathroom afterwards—you’ll be in there all day,” Kilos said.
The countess, who was sitting rather properly, laughed a little.
“Thank you, Ki, we get the picture.”
Stenstrom stirred. “Sir, you mentioned that the lash might be in the offing for …”
“Paymaster, I’ve never lashed a soul aboard my ship, and I don’t intend to start now. Sounds impressive though, doesn’t it?”
Stenstrom was relieved.
The captain continued. “I am most interested in you, Sir. Are you still purporting to be the sole mastermind behind this Zemuda-counterfeiting ring aboard the Sandwich, when I have reams of evidence to the contrary?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Davage held up a small report. “Such loyalty—I value that. I have here a signed confession from your fellow mates. Apparently, they had an attack of conscience over the night and claim that you had nothing to do with the operation. Additionally, they claim it was under your leadership that they survived the affair with the Xaphan scalawag in the first place, after the captain was incapacitated.”
“Sir, what’s to be done with my mates?”
“Nothing. I’ve dropped the charges, and they’ve already set sail—off to who knows where. They were hoping you would be joining them; a . . . Crewman Kaly did not want to leave without you—made quite a fuss, I’m told, but I’m not quite done with you, am I?”
They sat there in silence for a bit. “I had a little talk with Lt. Dunkster as he convalesced in the dispensary. I informed him that, if he is purporting to sell Kanan grain spirits to the Xaphans, then that is exactly what he better be selling. I was most strenuous about it and I think he got the point. I can’t fault the Xaphans for wanting Kanan grain spirits—it is a very lovely beverage.”
“It’s the best, Dav—come Saluting Day, that’s all I drink,” Lt. Kilos said.
Countess Sygillis smiled. “I must admit, I do enjoy a touch of it mixed together with …”
“No mixing, Syg,” Kilos cried. “You’ll ruin it with girly mixers and flavorings and little accessories that are meaningless. It’s straight or nothing!”
Davage looked at Kilos. “Well, I suppose straight with a bit of ice …”
“No ice, Dav. Lukewarm, or, if you must, warm it up a little under your armpit, and then kill it.”
“You are a bizarre person, Ki,” Countess Sygillis said.
The first officer turned to Stenstrom. “So what’s with the mask?” she asked. “What’s the matter? You scarred under there?”
Stenstrom stirred, but didn’t say anything.
“Yes, you were quite the picture, weren’t you—standing there in the hold all shackled up,” the captain said. “An apparently handsome fellow in a Hoban Royal Navy coat and a mask to boot. I haven’t seen one of those coats in quite some time. And, I must say, you standing up for your mates was probably the bravest act ever performed while wearing a Hoban Royal Navy coat. That coat, that mask, like a vigilant right out of a penny-vid. I’ve not quite seen such a thing … ever, and I’ve certainly been around.”
“I wear the coat because someone dear to me picked it out,” Stenstrom said. “Because I once had hopes of joining the Fleet, and this is as close to wearing a uniform as I’ll ever get.”
“Yes, about that. Your father is Captain Stenstrom, an esteemed warbird commander. With such a father, your place in the Fleet is assured, why didn’t you simply join? The three of us were bandying that topic about yesterday at dinner, and couldn’t come up with a suitable reason. Perhaps you’ll care to explain.”
“It’s complicated, sir. I really do not wish to go into it.”
“Well, perhaps someday you’ll feel at ease to reveal your reasoning.”
Countess Blanchefort spoke. “Your mother is the Lady Jubilee, formerly of Tyrol is that correct?”
“Yes, Great Countess.”
“I know of her—a stern matriarch and, purportedly, a difficult personality to get along with.”
“I have been told that on occasion, yes.”
“I understand she has been under Wirguild for over a hundred years.”
“Yes, though the Wirguild had been revoked.”
“Yes, for violation of terms. We also understand that you have sorcerous abilities, is that true?” the countess asked.
“Yes, Great Countess, that is true. My mother taught me.”
“May we see? We do not wish to gawk; however, we are truly fascinated.”
Stenstrom leaned forward and showed them his empty hands.
He shook them. Six silver daggers appeared between his fingers.
The captain, the first officer, and the countess all gasped.
“These daggers are the MARZABLE, the LosCapricos weapon of my mother’s house.”
The captain was truly amazed. “You had those on you the whole time? We disarmed you prior to sendi
ng you to the brig.”
“With the MARZABLE, one can never be disarmed.”
“And these … MARZABLE are the LosCapricos weapons of House Tyrol, is that right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The captain thought a moment. “I don’t think we have a MARZABLE in our collection, Syg. Paymaster, we have a hall in our castle where we’ve collected what we thought was the complete family of LosCapricos weapons from all over the League and proudly display them. We do not have a MARZABLE.”
“Yeah, you do, Dav,” Kilos said. “It’s by the …”
“No, Ki,” he replied. “We don’t. Paymaster, I would be greatly interested in purchasing one from you. It doesn’t have to be a functioning example—it can be a mock-up. I would love to add a bit of your mother’s heritage to a place of honor at our home where it may be properly appreciated.”
Stenstrom shook his hand, and they disappeared. He shook it again, and one dagger appeared, shiny and silver. “Sir, for your fair-handed treatment of my mates, and for your understanding of the Xaphan trader’s position …”
Stenstrom placed the dagger on the desk and slid it toward him. “I offer it to you as a gift.”
Captain Davage took the dagger and looked at it with wonder. He then opened his desk drawer and pulled the NTHs out and placed them on the desktop. “I believe these belong to you. These I have on my wall. Remarkable weapons.”
Stenstrom picked them up and returned them to his sash. “Thank you, sir. So, may I ask, what is to be done with me?”
“That is an interesting question. What shall we do with you? Have you ever been aboard a Triumph-class vessel?”
“No, sir.”
“We have over a thousand souls aboard: officers, crewmen, a smattering of civilians, and a changeable number of Sisters; they come and go as they will. This is a big ship, a complex ship, and, in order for it to function, I have to know that I may count on every soul aboard to do their duty, to be their best. There are no unneeded souls aboard my ship. All have worth; all have value. All are people of quality, from top to bottom. You, Sir, you were willing to give yourself up for your mates after I had promised prison and the lash. As an eye-opener and attention-getter, threat of the lash has no peer, and I saw how scared your mates were. You saw it too, and you took it upon yourself to bear the brunt of our wrath. I’m certain that you, with your family name and Belmont fortune, could have bought your way out of any troubles that might have been pending; however, such a thing is inconvenient, troubling, time-consuming, embarrassing— the list goes on. You jumped in front of your mates without fear or hesitation. Your actions say a lot about you, and, though I don’t know you personally as of yet, I know your father, and I see him in you. I find favor with your character. You sit there in a mask and a Hoban Royal Navy coat, and odd sight to be sure. All the same, if those accessories empower you to be yourself, then they are well-served and most welcome.”
“What are you trying to say, Sir?”
“I’m saying that Paymaster Milke, my Paymaster of old, is soon to retire. When he does, I would like you to replace him.”
“Me?”
“We believe you would make a fine addition to our family aboard the New Faith—there is certainly no shortage of characters here,” Countess Sygillis said.
“We mix it up a lot,” Kilos said. “Get into it with the Xaphans all the time. Somehow, I think you’d like that.”
They talked for a bit more, Stenstrom soon warming to these people.
28 A Regretful Competition
A few days later, the New Faith dropped Stenstrom off in Bern, where he took up residence in the IBBAANA apartments. There he caught up with Lady Alitrix, and she marveled at his attire and his stories. He was glad to hear she’d moved on, found a good man with whom she could be happy.
He also sent word to Kaly, who was frantic. She was certain he’d been lashed raw and thrown in prison. He told her what had happened, and she was overjoyed—though she was also very upset that he wasn’t to be returning to the ship. He met up with her when the Sandwich arrived in Mercia again, and he was hailed as a hero by the crew. He and Kaly also shared each other’s bed a few more times—”one for the road,” as she said. He was going to miss Kaly—she was a good friend.
He also wrote to Lilly to share his good fortune. Lilly was silent. He received no reply.
As he waited in Bern, Stenstrom’s Com chirped.
It was his sister Lyra. “Hello, Bel,” she said.
“Lyra! This is a great surprise.” It had been a long time since he’d last seen her. She wore a university pin on the shoulder of her gown.
She seemed sad. “Bel … you need to come home.”
“Oh, Lyra, you’re starting to sound like Mother. What is it this time?”
“Bel, Mother’s dead.”
He sat there and tried to comprehend. “What? How? It can’t be …”
“Mother was old, Bel. It was just her time. I think she knew it was coming. She asked us all to come home. I think she wanted to see us all one last time.”
He thought about that for a moment. He hadn’t come home. He did what she asked. He resisted.
“We are all lingering here, to hold vigil with Father and celebrate her memory. You need to come home, Bel. We need you here—I need you.”
“Yes, Lyra, yes. I’m coming at once.”
* * * * *
The four hour trip to Tyrol on the large liner was guilt-ridden and phantasm-filled. His mind was ablaze.
I knew something was wrong, I knew it. Why didn’t I come home?
His mother’s voice rang in his ear: I told you to play the game, Bel. To the very end, I played the game. There’re no give-backs.
The Black Maidens, the Soul Devourers … creatures in the mirror and the stain on his soul—Mother was playing the game.
Why didn’t she tell me?
As he waited for the liner to come in from Bern port, he wondered at the lack of Black Maidens—they were crawling after him previously, but now there were none; he even took off his bolabung. Nothing. Now that he wanted one to zap him home straight away, there were none.
He thought about finding a quiet spot and summoning a Black Maiden or two. The bad thing was he was terrible at it. The summoning was quite hard despite the fact Mother made it look rather easy—even Lyra wasn’t very skilled at it. Virginia was quite adept. Even if he could summon one, it wouldn’t do any good. They weren’t a taxi service—”take me here, take me there”—they would send him back to the place where they’d been summoned, period.
So he waited for the liner and felt the pounding throb of guilt seep into his mind.
He wondered about all the usual things. Did Mother know how much he loved her? Did Mother know how grateful he was for all she’d taught him? The recriminations could go on and on.
Surrounded by ghosts and pointed fingers, he drifted off to sleep as the liner lifted off and headed east.
SNAP!!
The old dream again. The sand pit, the afternoon sun, and the stars shining in broad daylight.
This time, the dream was different. This time, all twenty nine of his sisters and his father were there, watching him sailing through the air.
He landed in the sand. Something lurched out of it.
Everything went black, just like always.
“Open your eyes, Bel,” he heard a voice say.
He opened them, and there was his mother, leaning over him, her swoop of Pewterlock hair shining in the sun.
“What’s bothering you?” she asked.
“You died.”
“What’s so strange about that? I was two hundred and fifty years old. How old do you wish I get?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I told you to resist me. Telling you I was dying would have been cheating.”
“Mother, I wasn’t there when you died.”
“No, but you were there all the other times. You were in your crib every morning, snoring away�
��how I loved to watch you sleep. You were there in the manor, filling the halls with your laughter. You were there at the dining table, sitting right where I could see you. You were a good friend to your sisters, and a good son to your mother. I’m glad you weren’t there, Bel. I’m glad your last memory of me wasn’t one of weakness, of me on my deathbed. Remember me as I was, as a strong woman and a proud mother. Perhaps you’ll tell my grandchildren someday of their old grandmother, and let them know she wasn’t all bad.”
The dream faded.
He heard one final thing. “I didn’t send the Soul Devourers after you. Why would I do that to my beloved son? Farewell …”
* * * * *
He stood there in the yard with his hat in hand. Mother’s new tombstone was there, odd and big. He was wearing his HRN coat and his mask, which he still could not take off—Mother’s spell holding even in death. Lyra stood next to him.
He’d been all through the manor. Mother’s bed was fresh and made—Mother wasn’t there. He’d been to the dining room where Mother held court for all those years, and the sitting rooms and the libraries she once haunted—no Mother.
Here she was, out in the yard under her gravestone. She would never again sleep in her bed and terrorize his sisters in the dining room, and she would tell no more gossip in the sitting rooms.
Mother was dead.
Crushed, unable to face the moment, he dropped his hat and fell to his knees in the new dirt of her grave.
He felt like he did when he was a child: he wanted his mother. He wanted to claw his way into the dirt and pull her out and shake her awake.
Lady Jubilee could not be dead. Death could be no match for her.
Mother, wake up! Wake up!
“Did you see her, Lyra, at the end?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did she wonder where I was?”
“She wanted me to tell you it was all right. She understood. She wanted me to tell you that she was proud of you—of the man you’ve become.”
He glanced down at his coat and felt the fabric of his mask, suddenly feeling very silly. “Yes. And just look at me … What am I?”