Aching God

by Mike Shel

  “Good. By the way, Captain Hraea may begrudge having your sorcerer at his dinner table. None of his five joined us even once. I asked him one night where they were, on the pretense I wanted them to perform a few tricks for my amusement. It puzzled me, seeing as they have honorary officer’s rank when serving a navy vessel, even if they’re just itinerant mercenaries. He hemmed and hawed, said it was one of his rules and I wouldn’t understand. Oh, but with the ferocious tattoos on your caster…ye gods! The man may just shit his britches.”

  Auric found himself grinning like a boy at her profanity. “Regardless, I can’t have Del excluded. It would be terrible for morale. How do you think he’d react if I insisted she join us?”

  She thought a moment, shook her head. “No idea. He might disinvite the lot of you, but that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. So long as he gets you to Serekirk and back it doesn’t matter if you make a friend of the man. Trust your own judgment, Auric. Stand by your woman. You’re right. It will build comradery, no matter the captain’s response. That’s far more important than having the captain’s goodwill, I would think.”

  Auric and the countess sipped their tea, rocking gently in their chairs with the palanquin’s rhythmic motion. At regular intervals came the muffled call of the mounted palace guardsman heading their parade, shouting in stentorian tones to the crowds presumably occupying the broad roads they traveled to the harbor.

  “Make way for the queen’s train!”

  Auric detected the repeated sounds of scratching on the palanquin’s walls. Ilanda saw the look of puzzlement on his face and smiled.

  “As we pass by, the common folk reach out and touch the queen’s conveyance, for luck. It’s an unusual thing for our monarch to move anywhere outside the palace. When she takes me to the theater, or museums, or Vorsey Gardens, we ride in a carriage in grand tunnels beneath the city. She stays shielded from prying eyes for the most part, aside from audiences, as you saw…though I’m not sure it’s because she’s aware that her appearance horrifies.”

  Auric stopped drinking his tea, struck by the dangerousness of this candid talk.

  “At any rate, we inconvenience the morning traffic, Auric, but they get a rare thrill in return, even though the palanquin carries no ancient royalty within it today.”

  Auric couldn’t resist the urge to inquire. “Why do you trust me so? Your words would earn you an exile hut in the Aethaali Chain, or worse, if heard by the wrong ears.”

  Ilanda looked at him for a moment, her natural beauty enhanced by only the most casual touches of make-up, unlike her far more garish adornment the day they met. She responded at last with a kind smile and surprised him yet again: “You saved the life of my brother and my husband, Auric the tanner’s son.”

  Auric nearly dropped his cup, speechless.

  “About sixteen years ago, my brother Rolphe accompanied my father on a trip to Bannerbraeke to negotiate with then-Duke Respar about supplying some of their nimbler horse breeds for our cavalry. Father is Count of Sallymont, if you didn’t know. Sallymont’s heirs have traditionally been responsible for raising herds for the cavalry needed to keep the barbarians on the opposite side of the river. My brother’s closest friend had gone with them—Lawrence, the eldest son of the Count of Beyenfort and my future husband. They were both thirteen at the time and somehow convinced my father to allow them to go riding and camp unaccompanied overnight, southeast of the city of Culver.”

  “That’s old Busker country. I’ve been there.”

  “Thank the gods you were there, Auric. Rolphe and Lawrence stumbled across an old Busker mound and decided they’d go exploring.”

  Auric’s eyes widened. “Those two boys were your brother and husband?”

  “I think you can take over the story from here,” she answered.

  “The two scamps managed to kill a wight that was pinned under a collapsed roof in an antechamber, but ended up falling into a pit with sheer walls. The blond one—”

  “My husband.” She smiled.

  “—broke his leg. Your brother hit his head rather badly. We heard your husband crying out as we passed by, heading back from another mound nearby. We fished the lads out of the pit and rode back to Culver with them, and handed them over to the town guard. They claimed to be brothers, natives of the city. The boys never said they were—”

  “No, they hoped they could keep their folly from father. But you told the story to the guard with whom you left them, suggesting he encourage their parents to cuff them on the head for doing something so monumentally foolhardy.”

  “We figured the guardsmen could get them back home from there. We were in a hurry.”

  “The way my brother tells the tale, you left them with an admonition: if you ever found out they tried anything like that again, ‘I’ll hunt you down, skin you both alive, and sell the trophies to your mother.’”

  “I don’t remember saying those particular words,” he said, mortified.

  “When my father finally wrangled the truth from them, he did more than give them a cuff on the head. Papa saw to it that Rolphe’s head wound healed safely, but naturally, without any priestly intervention that might blunt the lesson. My brother still has the scar on his left temple. Papa also sent out inquiries to find out who you were. He monitored your life and career very closely since that time. Always said he was ready to aid you if you were ever in need, or ran afoul of some political morass. But he felt he had your measure and was certain you wouldn’t accept any sort of reward. I’m so deeply sorry about your wife and son.”

  Auric stared at the cooling tea in his porcelain cup.

  “Those boys were in that pit for nearly two days when you found them, badly injured and scared out of their wits. You saved their lives that day, the lives of two people whom I love, Sir Auric: the man who is now the able count of the most strategically significant fortified city in the empire, and the man who will be Count of Sallymont when my father dies. You didn’t mention in your telling of the tale that you Syraeic agents had to leave the loot you were carrying from that Busker king’s tomb so that Rolphe and Lawrence could ride, did you? Had your crew toss it on the ground. You risked losing a treasure hoard you’d wagered your lives on to bring two foolish and, as far as you knew, unimportant boys back to civilization. I think I have your measure, too, Sir Auric. You merit that title. And you have both my trust and my gratitude.”

  Auric surprised himself and the countess both. He set down his porcelain cup on the nearby table with a tremor he failed to conceal, rested his face in his hands, and wept.

  Countess Ilanda Padivale insisted on introducing the party to Captain Hraea personally. It was quickly apparent that her charm had captivated the man during their voyage from Harkeny, along with his junior officers, who doted on her. Hraea was tall, stout, and solid, with a full head of white hair, a florid complexion, and formidable muttonchops. He wore the traditional dark blue uniform of a naval officer, impeccable down to his gold-tasseled bicorn hat. The countess suggested to the captain that he allow them to utilize her quarters on the ship, and he hesitated only a second before agreeing.

  “But of course, Countess,” he answered in a commanding baritone, bowing to kiss her glove-clad hand. “Your vouching for these fellows certainly carries great weight with me. They are most welcome on my ship, and at my table.”

  “Thank you, Captain Hraea. You are such a darling man!” gushed Ilanda, façade again on display. “If all officers of Her Majesty’s navy had your nature…well, I don’t know. Things would be better, wouldn’t they?”

  The countess excused herself, heading to her former quarters to gather her belongings while the party’s mounts and luggage were lowered into the ship’s hold. She finally emerged carrying a flowery and elegant parasol, which she opened to shade herself from the sun.

  “Sweet goddess of beauty, the sun this far south is absolutely brutal on one’s ski
n,” she said with great seriousness. Auric noted that she also carried two small books under her arm. He tilted his head to read the titles: A Military History of the Eastern Duchies and Lucullum’s Cavalry Tactics. Noticing his gaze, Ilanda shifted her dress’s sleeve in a surreptitious gesture to cover the spines of the books. Auric smiled.

  How tedious this role must be for her, he thought. Weeks of hiding her intelligence, finding indirect means to achieve her ends when her natural preference would be forthright and assertive. Truly an extraordinary woman. The empire is lucky to have her.

  When the countess at last bid them a safe voyage, no fewer than three of the Duke Yaryx’s junior officers volunteered to escort her down the ramp to the waiting palanquin on the dock. As soon as the officers were back aboard, smiling silly, boyish smiles about something charming the countess had doubtless said to them in parting, Captain Hraea shouted orders for the ship to make way. The crew scrambled to their duties, and the Duke Yaryx was soon sailing out of Boudun Harbor on her voyage north.

  10

  Duke Yaryx

  A warship called the Duke Yaryx had been a part of the Hanifaxan Royal Navy for the last one hundred and ten years. It was named for the admiral who had commanded Queen Geneviva’s fleet that had so expertly cleared the Cradle Sea of all Azkayan maritime mischief early in her reign. The three-masted galleon in which Auric and his companions now sailed was the fifth such vessel to bear the illustrious name. Hraea had captained the warship for the last fifteen years. He guided Auric around the vessel’s deck, with Belech and the rest trailing behind them. The man provided commentary both elementary and so filled with naval jargon that Auric managed to comprehend only half of what was said.

  “This, of course,” the crimson-faced captain said without pointing, “is the main mast. The topsail’s, well, on top, the main course beneath it. Like the other sails, they’re made of honest Hanifaxan linen, woven from flax grown in the rolling fields of Kelby. The mizzenmast is abaft, and you’ll note that it sports but a single sail, shaped like an abbreviated triangle. Now, if I might direct you to the steps up to the aftcastle…”

  Auric had difficulty focusing on the captain’s tour with so many distracting sights, sounds, and smells. He hadn’t been off the main island of Hanifax since he was last in the Barrowlands, and found himself exhilarated: the reassuring roll of the ship, the salty tang in the air, and occasional sheets of misted seawater caressing his face. The white sails were filled with robust winds, summoned by the resident aeromancer. The decks and rigging were a flurry of activity, with no member of the crew idle save three. Clad in leather attire dyed red and black, two women and one man leaned casually on the port railing opposite the mainmast. Auric thought they looked like actors auditioning for the same role: pitch-black hair slicked back and gathered in a ponytail, oval ruby embedded in the center of the forehead, fingernails painted black, feral, toothy smiles that announced contempt more than humor. He imagined their conversation mocked those around them, and they laughed often. One of the women caught Auric staring at them, and she waved with feigned playfulness, fluttering her fingers. At the tips of each sprang a tongue of blue flame. Then she extinguished them by shoving the burning digits into the mouth of her male companion. She said something to the other sorcerers, and they looked over at Auric and again laughed.

  Bloody pyromancers, thought Auric. He maintained his gaze for a few moments longer, refusing to be intimidated. He had to admit that most sorcerers made him uncomfortable, their facility with the shadowy speech of long-dead Djao mystics seeming somehow…unnatural. Del Ogara was one of the few who didn’t leave him feeling cold inside. Despite her sumptuous tattooing, so reminiscent of disturbing paintings and bas-relief sculptures he had seen in Djao ruins, the young sorcerer was warm and affable. So many of the breed couldn’t help evincing samples of their unearthly skills, like the mocking pyromancer and her finger candles. One sorcerer from Auric’s early Syraeic days had a penchant for levitating food to his mouth at meals. What was the man’s name?

  “Larl Harkingmas,” he recalled aloud.

  “Pardon, Sir Auric?” asked Hraea, halting his tour.

  “Forgive me, captain. I’m afraid being aboard your impressive ship is stirring old memories for me. I was remembering a man I served with on several previous expeditions. We sailed many times on ships like this, to the Barrowlands as well as the eastern empire.”

  “Busker tombs? In the east, I mean.”

  “For the most part, though we crawled through some old temples and buried homesteads on occasion.”

  “He was a fighting man like yourself?”

  “No, sir. A sorcerer. He had a talent for levitation and summoning helpful beasties from the Netherplanes.”

  “Ah,” said the captain, bringing a fist to his mouth as he coughed. “That reminds me. I must refuse your sorcerer attendance at my table on our voyage, Sir Auric. I don’t allow my own spell-sellers to dine in my cabin and can’t stomach the type outside of their regrettably necessary roles. I even restrict them from drinking alcohol while at sea, not knowing what alien impulses might occur if their restraints are weakened. I didn’t want to mention this in front of the countess. I don’t think she understood my aversion. Simple woman, really. Easily entertained by low conjurer’s tricks. Though I admit she is quite charming, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would certainly agree that Countess Ilanda is charming,” Auric answered. “But I can’t abide the inhospitality regarding my sorcerer. First, she’s no spell-seller, but a devoted agent of the Syraeic League, a graduate of the RC, and deserving of the respect those accomplishments recommend. With regret, captain, if you must exclude Miss Ogara, I’m afraid none of us can attend.”

  Captain Hraea pursed and un-pursed his lips in rapid succession, vexed. It was apparent the man wasn’t terribly familiar with defiance in any form. Auric wondered if the man would throw a tantrum befitting his rank.

  “Sir Auric, we are men of some breeding,” said the white-haired man after a moment, hands folded behind his back. “I dare say I am expert at reading this in a person. I am an officer in Her Majesty’s navy, while you are a knight of the realm. Surely you can appreciate my natural distaste at having practitioners of the filthy Djao arts—the wrong word, really—arts—share my table. I mean, those tattoos. Lords of Perdition, she looks like a bloody savage! They practically stink of the Djao! Their kind are…well, unnatural, sir.”

  Unnatural. That stung; the same word that had come to his own mind just moments ago, while he woolgathered about sorcerers. Auric chastised himself for his own prejudice and decided to unleash a broadside at Hraea. “Captain, are you familiar with the tanning trade?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The skins arrive at the tannery stiff and soiled, bits of gore still clinging to them. After saturation in water and scouring the dead flesh from them, they’re soaked in urine, to remove the hair. You are mistaken about my breeding, Captain Hraea. I am a true Hanifaxer, the son of a tanner from the Woolly Coast, west of Falmuthe. I arrived in Boudun as a lad with the odor of urine on my person. I convinced a Syraeic preceptor to ignore the stink and take me into the Citadel. The League has not regretted its decision, I think. I’ve learned from long experience, having spent many hours with both highborn and hayseeds, that the measure of a man or woman is contained within their character and conduct, not in outward trappings.”

  The captain’s lips danced madly for a few moments, causing his muttonchops to flap like a bird’s wings. At last, looking out at the churning waves, the old man made his choice.

  “I certainly did not mean to offend, Sir Auric.”

  “I may depend on that woman for my life, Captain. How could I refuse to break bread with her?”

  “Yes, yes, I understand, of course. Very well. I’ll make an exception, in this case.” He cleared his throat with a stately rumble and made an announcement to the group. “I trust all
of you will join me in my cabin at six bells. My own spell-throwers, of course, will be detained by other duties. Now if you will excuse me, I have other matters that demand my attention.” And with that, the tour was over. Hraea turned and marched toward the ship’s bow, shouting both encouragement and derision at sailors amid their labors.

  Auric felt a hand on his shoulder, missing a pinky, rings on the other fingers. “I heard all of that,” said Del, her voice soft. “Thank you.”

  “The countess forewarned me of his attitude, so that wasn’t entirely unrehearsed.”

  “Sorcerers have been part of naval life since high magic was discovered in the Barrowlands nearly eight hundred years ago,” said Gnaeus, joining them. “For a man who seems to pride himself so much on tradition, it is an odd prejudice.”

  “We all have our failings, Gnaeus,” answered Auric. “Understanding one’s own is the measure of wisdom.”

  Lumari took a large vial filled with a muddy brown liquid from a bandolier and gave it an abrupt shake. “Dung water, from a tanner’s bating vat. A surprisingly valuable compound in several alchemical formulae. Never know what might prove useful if one is open to discovery.”

  That evening, when six bells sounded, Auric and his companions presented themselves at the captain’s cabin. It was a sizable room, large enough to fit a long dining table that could accommodate both the Duke Yaryx’s officers and their Syraeic guests. The table was a formal affair, with stark white linen cloth draping its surface, upon which were arranged expensive place settings for each diner. Captain Hraea sat at the head, Auric to his left as the senior guest. The first officer of the Yaryx, a supercilious-looking man with narrow features named Hobesson, was seated to the captain’s right. Auric’s companions sat interspersed among the other officers, with Del seated at the far end, next to an unoccupied place setting. Apparently, Hraea wanted as much distance between himself and the sorcerer as could be politely managed. Following introductions, the meal commenced with a toast to the queen, made with the best wine aboard. Auric alone sipped a goblet of plain water.