by Glenn Wilson
Ian realized she laughed at Brodie’s jokes. But that was nearly all.
“I’ll be back shortly,” Ian said, deciding it was an appropriate enough time.
Stepping back over the stone floor, up the steps, past the bits of lively spirited guests, he waved off one of the Dervish servants that made a motion to him, offering what looked to be some other vintage wine, then he pressed through one of the smaller entrances, onto the plush crimson carpet, between the marble pillars and lengthy portraits, around a corner staffed by immaculate ceremonial guards, under a hedge of smoke issuing from an alcove of laughing gentlemen, through and over and into a place where the expensive music couldn’t quite touch—Ian tried to come back to himself.
His trajectory remained practical, however, as he began trailing a pair of men who looked to be on a similar direction. Slowing his pace a little, Ian took a series of long, measuring breaths. As wonderful, as generous as all this was, he realized he really did not like it. The only consolation was that it was a rare opportunity, and it was only for one night.
But why did it feel so gross beneath his gut, he asked himself as he ran his finger along the curvy stone pattern on the wall.
It was indeed wonderful accommodations, hospitality.
He bowed his head to the left, then the right as he watched the swirling patterns in the carpet that his feet stepped past.
Stifling. That was the only word that kept coming to mind. It was a generous opportunity, with so much opulence shed on their behalf, but it also didn’t mean anything. It was a waste of resources. And aside from a few memories, his condition would hardly have been any better tonight if he would have had a filling but meager supper of meat and potatoes and an average night’s rest on his cloak.
He ran his hands over his shoulders, not used to the weightlessness his shoulders insisted on feeling in the absence of his watcher’s cloak. It was an almost self-conscious feeling, not that there were any odds of any Dervish men here wanting to take a shot at him from behind.
Ian reached what had all the credentials of a lavatory door and decided that his feelings would have been much different if there had been other men that he could have met and talked to. It seemed like that was the primary purpose of such events as this, and as it was, despite being full of more expensive things than a month’s worth of his pay could probably buy, he felt empty, hollow.
But it could be worse, Ian thought with a smile as he stepped into the lavish lavatory. There was much to admire, to be thankful for in an evening like this.
Stepping around a guard that was on his way out, Ian’s step hitched at the sound of a composed kind of gagging. He was just thinking that something must be wrong when another small congregation of them came. But upon seeing it, as he turned the corner to find a line of Dervish gentlemen in various stages of readjusting their dinners, Ian found such thankful sentiments to be suddenly much more difficult to hold.
Chapter 12
“Is not My word like a fire?” says the Lord. “And like a hammer that breaks the rock in pieces?”
—Jeremiah 23:29
He had no thought of sleep on his bed. The ceiling of their room was fortunately of an endlessly elaborate network of tumultuous swirls—much like everything else in the chateau, so it gave something for his eyes to trace over in the dark without growing too bored.
He wasn’t really restless, but falling asleep didn’t seem all that reasonable either. The others didn’t seem to have the same disposition, though the captain had only just recently returned and hadn’t immediately fallen asleep.
Ian’s mind drifted from the things Elizabeth’s hair did with the light to distractedly attempting his jump-click exercises. It was getting increasingly difficult, and he found himself starting to confuse or outright misplace some of the early jump-clicks he had thought he’d had a permanent grasp of.
His thoughts had no ultimate goal, which was probably why he felt no consternation at their lack of progress. They weren’t necessarily happy thoughts, but all the bits of non-happiness weren’t exactly all that ambitious either.
Ian didn’t start, or even really register the jump-click at first. He’d put his yeoman over with his other things on the table beside his bed not long before. But after several seconds, he looked over to where its indicator light had already faded. After chewing his lip for several more seconds, he quietly eased himself up and out of the bed and picked up his yeoman. Pulling up the yeoman’s memory, he found the simple jump-click it had picked up.
“Come.”
Peering back over his shoulder at the others, Ian couldn’t think of any routine explanations why anyone in their party would use their yeoman here within the chateau. Doing a little more investigation into the transmission, he saw that it had been a general, unsecured message. It had come from a location lower and to the northwest of their room. It was of legitimate Bevish origin, the kind of transmission that was only used by rangers in the Over Guard. And no follow up had come, which such leading transmissions were required to give.
Pondering for just a moment more, Ian quickly pulled on his clothes, even before he had made up his mind to go.
Luckily, he was able to move through and out of their room without much noise, the somewhat old-fashioned door being the most tedious element to handle. But, he thought as he finally made it into the softly lit hallway without any apparent notice, if there had been no follow-up on a general channel, then it had to of been a mistake.
Quickly moving down the hallway in his stocking feet, Ian cast one last look over his shoulder to make sure he saw no sign of movement from their rooms. Continuing on and reaching a junction, he carefully peered around the corner, but that hallway was deserted as well.
At this point, it became less straightforward. Calling up the location of the transmission again, his yeoman could only give him a very general vicinity in this general direction, and there hadn’t been any further indicators, and no other yeomans were showing up.
Not that he had anything better to do, Ian thought as he hurried to the balcony he had walked to earlier that evening. And the worse that could happen was getting caught by the Dervish, which should only earn him a scolding from them and his captain, though he was probably due for that anyway. It had been at least a full day since his last from the captain.
It was dark out on the balcony, with the evening air calm and full of insect noise and distant birds. In the distance, he could see lights and some movement along the perimeter of the chateau’s walls. Evidently, there were guards for defending the outsides of the chateau, but not as much for the inside.
Leaning over the edge and stilling his somewhat elevated excitement, he listened hard for as long as he could hold his breath.
Failing to hear anything, he was about to pull himself back up when a brief reflection caught his eye.
It had been fleeting and almost above what he could see of the first floor from underneath the bottom of the balcony. Rolling himself further over the railing edge again on his stomach, Ian watched for as long as he could hold that position. But there was nothing further. After he had pulled himself back and looked around, he decided that he didn’t have much else to go on.
He tried not to narrow the situation down in his mind as he made his way to the nearest stairwell and crept down to the first floor. It felt like the longer he could prolong the question the better, though he found himself already drawing to the bottom of the short list of explanations.
The hallway he exited into was all hardwood floors and had a more echoing feel. This necessitated taking more care in his footsteps, though he tried to keep up his pace and keep a sharp ear out as well. How well he managed all three of these contrasting aims was up for debate. But the halls were dark and deserted, and he covered a healthy amount of ground.
He quickly passed where he estimated the reflection must have come from without noting anything. He had certain sense of confidence that he didn’t have to look too hard into the shadows, as he suspected whoever he was
pursuing had to have some sort of reason for being out at this hour, and they would have to take some care and hopefully a little bit of light to reach it. And the whoever had to be at least two whoevers, hence the transmission.
How many more could there be? No—he tried to wipe that from his mind. He’d find out soon enough. In fact—
He heard a soft clicking sound, and he skidded to an abrupt stop. Holding his breath again, he spun toward the small hallway he’d just dismissed and passed. Not receiving any follow-up, he pursed his lips and carefully made his way to the corner to peer down into it. It was nearly pitch black, not having the benefit of the nearby courtyard windows that parts of this hallway did.
Experiencing doubt at whether he had actually heard anything, Ian began internally debating whether he should talk himself out of the notion that he had. But then he caught the faintest shifting of shadows near the opposite end of the hallway. Faint, but definite.
He began again, far more slowly, surely now. There was just enough he could make out in the darkness to keep an idea of the hall’s dimensions. He knew he had no cause for having brought any sort of weapon, and indeed, it would have no doubt only made things worse. But he couldn’t help the uncomfortable feeling that tried to assure him that he should have.
Nearing the end of the hallway, he saw another shift in the darkness. This time he could see that it came from some sort of indirect illumination from the hallway to the right in the upcoming tee-section. Making sure to even out his breath, Ian put himself against the corner and eased his eyes around it.
Another long hallway lay beyond, from what he could tell, and another opening was in the left wall not far from him. And it was from this opening that he could see the bobbing, flickering light.
He took a quick chance and rushed to the next corner, already able to hear the whispers before he put his back against his last corner. The weak bits of light played across the hall’s opposite wall.
“—is it?” Ian could just make out a low voice saying, accompanied by a clinking sound.
“If you don’t know, then it must be—”
Ian sighed, more dramatically than he had intended, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t change things.
He was still contemplating what his entrance should be like when he turned the corner and took it, trying not to clench his jaw.
“Wait—” one of the two dark outlines hissed—Brodie, Ian thought.
“Who’s there?” Ian called out, regardless.
Two lights quickly wheeled into Ian’s face.
“Kanters?” Kieran asked, sounding surprised, irritated. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s a funny question,” Ian said, “without a very funny answer.”
Drawing closer and squinting his eyes against the relatively harsh light from their yeomans, he was able to catch only a few painful snatches of the area between them. It was necessary, however, and he made sure not to look away. He was able to surmise that the two rangers were standing around a short table with some tall object on it. The little he was able to catch of their faces was hard, scared.
“Can’t sleep?” Brodie asked, in something of a conversational attempt.
“Would you mind not shining that in my eyes?” Ian asked, striving to keep his own voice neutral.
The light on the right—Brodie’s light—wavered a little, but apparently decided to take reassurance in the rigidity of the other light.
Kieran tried to start. “Were you going somewhere in particular—”
“What’s in your hands?” Ian asked.
“Nothing,” Kieran said.
“Fine, what was in your hands?”
“Nothing,” Kieran repeated.
“Don’t lie to me, Anglas,” Ian said.
“There wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me, Anglas,” Ian said again, louder. “It’ll only make things worse.”
“Make what worse?” Kieran asked, his light drifting down low enough that Ian could see his derision. “Are you going to taddle that we’re out of bed?”
Ian started toward them again, firmly enough to make sure that they stepped apart a little so he could examine the ornate object in question. Even looking at it hard for a moment, Ian found he couldn’t make out much more of a plausible explanation for it than they had, though he agreed with their conclusion that it looked expensive.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Kieran said. “You think we were going to take that?”
“Shut up, Anglas,” Ian said, staring down hard at the object. “Would you really be ridiculous enough to do it?”
“You can’t—”
“Shut up!” Ian whirled on him. “You’d throw everything all to rubbish for—for what? Some money? Throw the whole company off to look like a bunch of beggars in front of these people?”
There was a long, low pause. “Don’t lecture me, private.”
“I’ll do what’s best.”
“Best?” Kieran asked in disgust. “Is any of all of this what’s best? Look around you, Kanters. There’s nothing good about this whole place. These are the people we had fight against, and they live out here, filthy rich, with more than they know what to do with. They’re nothing but daft, Dervish robber barons. That’s all. Fine. You know what we were doing. You know everything else evidently. What are you going to do about it?”
“You know what I’m going to do,” Ian said.
“I know what you think you’re going to do,” Kieran said. “But you’ll only talk about it. You’re all talk, Kanters. You won’t tell anyone.”
“You don’t think so?” Ian asked hotly.
“Keep it down,” Brodie hissed at them. “Someone’s going to hear.”
“Wouldn’t that be too bad,” Ian said, deciding that they were stalling too much. Or he was, he wasn’t sure. They had already admitted to it, he just needed to resolve it now as quickly as possible. “What else have you taken?”
Kieran stared at him, his expression not entirely discernible in the darkness. For a long moment, Ian didn’t think that he was going to assent, but then Kieran reached around and grimly pulled out something small from his uniform.
“There,” Kieran said tightly. “Does that make you happy, Kanters? Want to see it?”
“I’m not stupid enough to touch it,” Ian scoffed.
“Then what are you going to do about it?” Kieran asked.
Ian clenched his jaw. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Of course—”
“No, you don’t,” Ian said, raising his voice before he thought about it. He shook his head, feeling his fists clenching too hard into themselves. “If you had any idea at all, you would have never—oh, but what am I telling you for? You’re obviously too stupid to—”
“What difference does it make?” Kieran hissed back at him. “What difference will it make at all? Look at this—no one is going to miss it at a place like this. You could feed a whole house for a long time with something like—”
“Oh? Is that what you’re going to do with it?”
“What business is it of yours?” Kieran shot back.
“It’s stealing,” Ian said.
“It’s not stealing as long as it’s from someone—or something that will never need it.”
“Do you think,” Brodie spoke up from behind him, a little more calmly, “that any of these people deserve to have things like this?”
Ian backed away so that he could look at both of them, suddenly finding that he had lost some of his confidence. He stared at Brodie, not so much for his words or his tone, but the quiet, steady way he stared back at Ian.
“It’s wrong,” Ian said, his voice steady, but not as firm as he’d imagined it would sound.
“Why?” Kieran asked. “What does it matter? Who is it going to hurt?”
“You’ll put it back wherever you found it,” Ian said slowly, “or I swear … I’ll get the captain.”
There was a stony silence. And for th
e first time, Ian began to wonder whether he could take both of them in a fight if he had to. He was drawing some sort of consensus that it would be possible, though difficult, when Kieran moved a bit.
“Fine,” Kieran said quietly. “If that’s what it is. But don’t think you’re so holy, Kanters. You would wake up the fat, Dervish baron himself if you were.”
And as much as Ian shook his head—and as firmly as he escorted them back to where they had snatched the object, brought them back to their rooms, and through a number of careful and minor miracles, inside without rousing anyone, to end up staring back up at the same ceiling in much the same way he had not long ago—he wasn’t sure who exactly was right.
Though as the night bled away, he felt sure that something had been taken from him that he’d held before.
* * * *
Their departure the next morning was polite but expedient. Ian thought that Lord Wester’s handling of it was perhaps a bit overly crisp, but all in all, Lord Beaumont didn’t seem to mind, or perhaps it was more a matter of not noticing it.
Regardless of the emotions, they set off early on a clear Friday morning, their party in generally merry spirits, something of a fullness in their content, which was greatly contrasted in the sullenness of the two who made sure not to look at Ian.
“Did you sleep well, Private Kanters?” Elizabeth Wester asked in passing, shortly after they had departed.
“No,” he said, without looking at her. It took some short but tangible amount of time after that to realize he should’ve been more diplomatic.
But a fog lay over him, a cognitive haze that was more than just the effects of a night without sleep. It was like the morning after he had drank too much in Carciti and had felt so emotionally horrible about it. Thinking about that now still made him want to cringe, hide his face away from the fact that had been him, even several days after. It had felt like he had lost something then, and though his standings within his company hadn’t really changed all that much, this felt akin to that.