The Larion Senators

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  ‘It’s a tan-bak,’ Gilmour whispered.

  ‘A what?’ Garec had joined them, leaving the others to tend to Marrin.

  ‘Tan-bak. It’s a legend. Tan-bak and tan-bek are creatures that haunt the nether regions of the Fold. The tan-bak, the female, is the hunter.’

  ‘So you’ve known about these things and you failed to mention them?’ Steven said, sweating, but forcing a smile. ‘I’ve been here over five months, Gilmour, and you’re just mentioning them now?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I guess I was right, though,’ Steven said. ‘It was a lucky guess, but I figured if it was made of flesh, then I could paralyse it with a direct current.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Garec came a bit closer, still holding his bow.

  ‘As close as I can get to lightning,’ Steven said. ‘It’s a way to paralyse muscle; I hoped it would work with any kind of muscle.’

  ‘What do we do with it now? Can we kill it?’

  ‘Actually, we can,’ Steven said, ‘but I’m betting Mark will know if we do, so we have to keep it alive, but also keep it from following us or attacking again later on.’

  ‘Oh, grand,’ Garec sighed. ‘And I thought this would be a tough one.’

  Gilmour raised an eyebrow. ‘So?’

  ‘This is another gamble, but if I’m right, this thing has an astonishingly advanced brain and nervous system. It can change its physical features with a thought, or just a few moments’ exposure to a new environment. So we pith this bitch like a frog and we toss her over the side. She’ll sprout gills without trying, and she’ll float around out there for a few days, unable to think enough to grow webbing and swim, or even if she does grow webbing, she won’t know what to do with it. She won’t have any idea where she is or why her body is keeping itself alive. Eventually, she’ll die of exposure or starvation, or something nasty will swim along and eat her on a cracker. Best of all, Mark will still be able to find her, feel her, track her and, hopefully, not have any clue that she’s adrift on the tide without a brain.’

  Garec smiled. ‘You know, Steven, your whole compassion campaign has lost some of its lustre.’

  ‘This is a monster,’ Steven said, ‘a killing machine. She doesn’t get compassion.’

  With one finger, he felt for the base of the tan-bak’s skull and loosed a powerful arc of mystical current which lanced into the monster’s brain, killing the stem and paralysing much of the cortex. The shape-shifter spasmed, then fell limp again in Steven’s hands. He shut down the current and dumped the tan-bak’s body onto the deck. It lay in a greasy heap as the others came over to watch.

  ‘What now?’ Garec said.

  ‘Now we test it.’ Steven conjured up a small fireball, no larger than a penlight, and guided the orb in front of the tan-bak’s unnerving eyes. The pupils shrank away and Steven grinned coldly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I think it worked. Gilmour, help me toss her over the side.’

  Marrin grimaced as the two sorcerers disposed of the inanimate body. They watched her leathery flesh bob in the swells until she passed out of sight. Captain Ford, as if slapped, cried, ‘Rutting Pragans, the helm!’

  The spell was broken. Everyone moved at once.

  Garec and Kellin took Kanthil’s body below. Brexan, catching the captain looking at her worriedly, followed him aft and they both started shouting for Sera.

  Gilmour climbed into the rigging to retrieve a large piece of Olren Tubbsward, the Morning Star’s veteran seaman.

  Steven kept the lights burning long enough for the captain and his remaining crew to restore order and return the brig-sloop to her northerly course. Then, dousing the flames, he stepped alone into the bow and looked towards Pellia.

  Behind him, the Morning Star found the wind and corrected her course as the much reduced crew followed Captain Ford’s orders, hauling in sheets and belaying lines until the sails filled, the lines pulled taut and cracked and the brig-sloop groaned as if waking from a deep sleep.

  Below, the tan-bak’s tiny emissaries took shelter and waited.

  CAPEHILL

  Sharr Becklen huddled over one of Stalwick’s inextinguishable fires, clutching his cloak tightly around him, and shivered. It was raining again this morning; he forced a smile at a bedraggled Markus Fillin and nodded towards the sky. ‘Right on time.’

  Markus ducked beneath the porous canvas tent that provided mean shelter at their guard post. He missed his family and worried about them often, especially during quiet moments, like this one. The rain, turning to sleet, wasn’t helping. Markus was young and handsome, but today his hair hung about his face in dripping strands and he looked like a warmed-over cadaver. ‘Lovely. This place goes from light grey to dark grey and back with the predictability of the tides. Bright and cheery, Sharr – and you live here?’

  ‘All my life,’ Sharr said, ‘and most days, I’m on the water, hauling nets or traps.’

  ‘In this? Markus rubbed his cramped fingers. ‘You’ve got ice in your bones, old man.’

  ‘Nah, it’s only dismal during this Twinmoon. Be glad this isn’t snow.’

  ‘Hoorah!’ Markus sniffed and asked, ‘Where’s our next meeting? Your friend, right? The harbourmaster’s mate or something?’

  ‘Assistant,’ Sharr nodded. ‘The harbourmaster is Malagon’s man to the core, but this fellow, Lan Hernesto, a Pragan if you believe him, has been with us all along. He makes life a bit more livable for those of us working nets or long lines offshore.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s late,’ Markus said, ‘and it’s bloody cold out here. Tell me again why we aren’t meeting these people inside someplace warm and dry, like a tavern, or a nice comfy cathouse?’

  ‘Because we’re standing a post, Markus. Come on; this is soldiering.’

  ‘I thought we were officers.’

  ‘We’re Resistance, and that makes us full-on revolutionaries,’ Sharr said. ‘Call it Gita’s progressive leadership style.’

  ‘Progressive? I don’t even know what that means.’ Markus draped a blanket over a chair, then pulled the chair close to the fire. ‘Need to keep these dry,’ he mumbled, then said, ‘I don’t see her out here standing post.’

  ‘Markus, do you know where the occupation brigade went?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know if there is a regiment of cavalry or a fleet of naval frigates coming here to slaughter us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has anyone shown us anything that leads you to believe that we’re going to live through the Twinmoon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then come here next to the fire, warm up, stand your post, and wait for Len. Later, I’ll take you down to the waterfront. I want to check on my trawler – with me gone this Twinmoon, it would be just like one of the wharf brats to stuff my scuppers full of rags. The old tub will be halfway to swamped in this rain.’

  Markus crossed to the back wall where a lone figure drowsed contentedly on a cot. ‘Forgive me, Sharr,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No. Wait!’ he cried, but Markus ignored him.

  Kicking one of the cot legs, he said, ‘Wake up, Stalwick. Come on now. Time to clear out the cobwebs.’

  Sharr groaned. ‘Did you have to do that? I was enjoying the morning.’

  ‘What? What is it, Markus? Sharr? What is it? I’m up. I am.’ Stalwick was on his feet in a heartbeat, completely lucid and talking without pause. ‘Is it an attack? What’d I miss?’

  ‘It’s nothing, Stalwick. I’m cold, is all, and I need you to stoke up our fire a bit.’ He ushered the bandy-legged, unkempt figure towards the firepit. ‘There might be something wrong with this one,’ he explained. ‘It’s plenty bright, but there’s not much heat.’

  ‘Oh, I can fix that,’ Stalwick went on without a breath, ‘I can fix that right away, right away, I tell you.’ He gestured over the fire, winced as if he had smelled something bad, then flicked his wrist with a flourish. The flames leaped to the tent’s waterlogged ceiling.

  ‘Whoa!’ Sharr cried. ‘Ea
se off a bit, Stalwick. You singed my whiskers, old man.’

  ‘Sorry, Sharr, Markus, sorry.’ Stalwick blushed. ‘I just, you know, I just wanted it to be warm for you. But I guess that was a bit overdone, a bit, anyway.’

  Sharr raised his hands in surrender. ‘It’s fine, good even, much better this way. Can you just… well, just keep the chatter to a low roar, all right? I’m trying to think.’

  ‘Sure, of course, Sharr. Sure I can.’ Stalwick paced around the tent’s interior a couple of times, ostensibly looking for something productive to do. ‘I’ll just… well, I’ll just… you know. I’ll—’

  ‘So,’ Markus interrupted, ‘where’s our man, whatshisname?’

  ‘Len Hernesto,’ Sharr replied. ‘He’ll be here.’

  Gita’s Falkan Resistance forces, essentially a battalion with the dregs of a couple of companies that had wandered in over the past several days, still held Capehill. They hadn’t lost a soldier, nor had they encountered an enemy. Unsurprisingly, the handful of Malakasian soldiers apparently left behind had gone missing, most likely in civilian clothes, and none of the locals they’d met so far had any clue as to where the rest of the Malakasians had sailed. Sharr hoped Len would be able to shed some light on the situation, on the condition of the import–export businesses still operating, and on the availability of food stores, in Capehill and on the Eastern Plains. Gita needed to know if there would be enough food to see Capehill and its new lodgers through the winter Twinmoon.

  Sharr had met the harbourmaster’s assistant in a local public house the previous evening. Unwilling to talk there, Len had offered to join Sharr and Markus after the dawn aven, but now he was late. Sharr tried not to worry as Stalwick carried on about whatever desultory topic had sparked his interest. Sharr had about given up trying to focus Stalwick’s attention on anything.

  As Len arrived, slogging through the sleet and mud, he heard: ‘—and that’s how you tune a bellamir, Markus, but I guess you might have known that, coming from the Plains, right? I mean, lots of farmers are bellamir players, aren’t they? What else is there to do at night? There’s nothing else out there, I mean, no towns or cities to visit, so music makes sense, right? Music or chainball. Rutters, I bet you all play some chainball out there. Don’t you, Markus? What with all that space, the courts would be huge, twice regulation size if you wanted.’ Stalwick took a seat on the cot, somehow knowing that he should avoid the small table and maps set up in the centre of the floor. ‘And speaking of chainball, you know that squad from Timmon’s old platoon, the one with that big fellow from Wellham Ridge and that kind-of nice-looking woman from the Blackstones? Anyway, anyway, they’ve challenged the third squad, the one from Brand Krug’s company – where is Brand, anyway? But they’ve challenged the third squad to a chainball game tonight, with archers around the Common, of course, but it ought to be fun, don’t you think? Markus? Maybe we should all go together. You, me and Sharr, when we get off duty, we can find some food and then head down to the Common. I know I could do with a chainball match, especially a muddy one. We could even stop by the boarding house and see if Gita wants to come with us. She might like a break, too. I mean, she works so hard, all the time. She’s like you and Sharr, Markus. She’s a tough one, and I’m going to miss her when she’s gone, but maybe she’ll like a chainball game as well. What do you think, Markus? Sharr? What do you think?’

  Sharr held the tent flaps open; Len Hernesto slipped inside.

  ‘Stalwick,’ Markus said.

  ‘Chainball,’ he went on, ‘we never played much around here. Did you, Sharr? You’d think in a place this size, we’d have—’

  ‘Stalwick!’ Markus shouted.

  ‘What?’ Stalwick said, ‘what’s the matter, Markus?’

  ‘Sharr and I are going to speak with Len. We need you to step outside and stand the post, just for a bit. All right?’

  ‘Take a bow and quiver with you,’ Sharr added, ‘just in case someone approaches through those trees to the north.’

  ‘Sure, I mean, I can do that. Sure.’ He pulled his hood up and stepped outside.

  The silence that followed was welcome, even to the harbourmaster’s assistant, who had been in the tent for just a moment. Outside, the wind had picked up and the freezing rain was a noisy fugue on the walls.

  ‘Len,’ Sharr said finally. ‘Thank you for coming. This is Markus Fillin, one of our lieutenants.’

  ‘Markus,’ Len nodded. He was a full two heads shorter than Sharr and at least fifty Twinmoons older. Clad in an all-weather cloak that dragged on the mud behind him, he had the wind-worn look of a lifelong sailor. His grey hair was close-cropped and his beard trimmed. Despite being shorter than his old friend, Len weighed nearly as much as Sharr, evidence that he had given up hauling nets for the relative comfort of the harbourmaster’s office, through his forearms were still heavily muscled and his hands remained as strong as ever.

  ‘Welcome, sir.’ Markus hung Len’s cloak near the fire then offered the older man a chair. ‘Can I get you a goblet of wine?’

  ‘Please,’ Len said, settling himself, after several tries, on a small camp chair. He glanced at a map Markus had set out earlier that morning.

  Sharr joined him. ‘I understand you couldn’t talk last night, but I hope you can stay the aven. I’ve got a number of questions – we’ve got to come up with a plan to fortify the town, feed the populace, house the army – such as we are – and make a decision about where to strike next. Orindale seems an unlikely target – they’ve got a full infantry division – and Malakasia is out of the question, but if we can reclaim parts of the Central Plains, dig in around some of the ranches and farms, we can hold the East and the Merchants’ Highway until spring, oversee the planting, protect the winter stores.’

  Len spoke, his voice the raspy burr of a long-time smoker. ‘Sharr, you wouldn’t have believed it. I was here, and I still don’t believe it. No one knew anything. They just commandeered every ketch, catboat – anything that would float, in fact – loaded up a brigade of scared and cold soldiers and set sail for the North Sea. Don’t worry, though. Your old bucket is still on her mooring; I think trawlers made them nervous: too many nets and lines. It was rutting madness!’ He paused to cough, sighed, and said, ‘I’ve been here a long time. You and I have known each other, what, a hundred and fifty Twinmoons? Two hundred? Anyway, I’ve had the opportunity to develop some lucrative relationships with Prince Malagon’s officers, some of the captains, even a few of the brigade commanders, and I tell you, Sharr, no one knew anything. The order came in from Wellham Ridge, if you can believe it, that little shit-splat in the Blackstones, and the ships were loaded and on their way within a few days. It was madness, pure madness.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Where could they be going?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d answer that for us,’ Sharr laughed.

  ‘I wish I could.’ Len Hernesto looked like a man overmatched by the challenges ahead. He breathed heavily, despite the fact that he was sitting, warm and dry, beside Stalwick’s fire.

  ‘How is traffic along the Highway?’ Markus asked.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Len said. ‘They took care of the roads, even the farm roads, running back and forth across the Plains in a spiderweb. It was their rutting food as well, I guess.’

  ‘And the stores?’

  ‘Of that, I’m not certain. They emptied most of the waterfront warehouses onto the vessels that picked them up. None of us have ventured into the barracks buildings here or here.’ He pointed to two places on the map. ‘They left several stables full of good horses, but they’re gone already. Thieves were bold enough to sneak the animals out, but no one’s gone inside the barracks proper, not that I know of yet. So there might be food, clothing, maybe bits of useful junk in there. It’s certainly a more comfortable place for you to sleep than how you are.’

  ‘Too risky,’ Sharr said, shaking his head, ‘at least for now. Gita won’t let us anywhere near those barracks, not to sleep in, anyway.’

 
‘I suppose she’s right,’ Len agreed. ‘That’s all you need, to get in there all snug and warm, and then have a regiment of irritable stormtroopers arrive unexpectedly.’

  ‘Still, we could get in and out, pillage whatever they left behind. Gods know we’ll need the food,’ Markus said.

  ‘That you will,’ Len said. ‘And we need to get the commercial fishermen out again. A Moon’s haul off the banks will feed this town for some time. Bloody tragic, the way everything they brought in – you brought in, Sharr – had to go to those wet-nosed motherhumpers. Lords, but I won’t miss them.’ He spat a mouthful of viscous phlegm between his boots.

  ‘Hold on,’ Sharr held up a finger, ‘say that again.’

  ‘What?’ Len looked puzzled then said, ‘They’re a bunch of clods, you know it, Sharr. They’re a worthless drain on the land, a waste of food, wine and warm places to sleep. The lot of them aren’t worth one Capehill baby, naked at birth!’

  ‘Yes, yes, that, but after that—’ Sharr cut himself off, then shouted, ‘Stalwick! Get in here!’

  Sharr and Markus slogged through the mud and sleet, trying to run and shouting for help at every turn. Stalwick, his assorted weaponry clattering like a skeleton, followed as closely as he could.

  Len Hernesto, his days of sprinting well behind him, remained in the little tent, standing the post.

  ‘Where is she?’ Markus yelled above the wind and rain.

  ‘The boarding house,’ Sharr wheezed, ‘go ahead of me. Take Argile Road towards the town centre. I’ll be right behind you.’

  Markus, younger and faster, lowered his head and sprinted for Gita Kamrec’s apartments. He hadn’t known Stalwick long enough to experience his strange propensity to foretell the future in unpredictable snippets, but he trusted Sharr: something Stalwick had said that morning had Sharr convinced that Gita was in danger.