The Incorruptibles

by John Hornor Jacobs

  ‘Please forgive my son,’ Cornelius said. ‘He forgets his place.’

  ‘Father,’ one of the women said, ‘I want to see a vaettir.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  The thicker-set of the two sons sat upright and put his hands on his knees. He looked Fisk up and down. ‘You ever bag one?’

  Fisk ignored him.

  ‘What kind of a name is “Fisk”?’ This from the beautiful woman sitting in the wicker chair. Her gaze was cool, her eyes intelligent.

  ‘Livia’s going to make a pet of the commoner,’ one of the other girls said, voice bright and full of mirth.

  ‘Children,’ Cornelius said, holding up his hands. ‘This debriefing is getting—’

  The same young man got to his feet. ‘No, I want to know, scout. You ever kill a vaettir?’

  ‘Is that all you can think about, Gnaeus? Trophies?’ The girl picked up a slice of orange from her plate and popped it into her mouth. She spat the seeds onto a copper bowl. ‘You’ve become as droll as Papa with his dragons.’

  ‘Carnelia, there’s no call for that kind of talk.’ Cornelius bristled and swigged his wine.

  ‘You haven’t answered me, scout.’ Gnaeus slapped his fist on the table, like a schoolteacher drawing the class’s attention back to the lesson at hand.

  ‘Oh. Gnaeus is going to throw a tantrum. How delightful. It’s been so long.’ Carnelia clapped her hands, lightly, mocking. She didn’t smile. She was a lovely woman, much like the other two, but she had lean, narrow features and hawklike eyebrows that gave her face a rapacious aspect I didn’t care for. But her arms were plump and her bosom ample enough to please most men, I’d wager.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my business and let you fine folks get back to yours.’ Fisk pitched his voice up to cut through the banter.

  The beautiful woman – Livia – arched an eyebrow at Fisk’s words while Gnaeus purpled and spluttered.

  ‘How dare you …?’ Gnaeus patted at his waist for a gun that wasn’t there and then glanced around, wildly, as though looking for something with which to beat Fisk to death.

  Fisk watched him unperturbed, and Carnelia laughed.

  ‘This one prickles your skin, does he, brother?’

  Cornelius intervened. ‘Gnaeus, stop your blustering at once. This isn’t a saloon in New Damnation. Secundus?’ He gestured to the other young man, who put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and pulled him back into the wicker couch.

  The Cornelian children remained quiet for a moment, which, I imagine, was a rare occurence. There was one girl at the table who hadn’t spoken, and she was darker, more delicate. She looked Medieran to my eyes, but there were no introductions forthcoming. A pretty little thing. Maybe the wife of one of the sons, or his mistress – but the patricians don’t normally set them at the breakfast table. Could even have been the father’s mistress, though she hardly looked out of her teens. But some like them young.

  ‘So, Mr Fisk, what conclusions do you draw from the murder of the settlers?’

  Fisk shifted his weight, relieving his injured leg. ‘I reckon the vaettir’re gonna go on the warpath. Not because of some territorial nonsense regarding the aurochs. No. Most likely, just because they don’t like humans and enjoy killing us.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Mr Fisk,’ Livia said. ‘These vaettir will go to war merely for thrills?’

  He looked at her. ‘No. Not really. But they’re obscure, the stretchers are. You can’t really use reasoning to figure them out because …’ He shifted again. ‘Because they ain’t human. Don’t think like us.’

  Cornelius sat forward and put down his wineglass. ‘So how do you explain them?’

  Fisk sniffed and glanced around, looked at the Cornelian sons. ‘They’re bored. It’s easy getting bored when you’re ageless and near indestructible.’

  Gnaeus smiled and slapped Secundus’ shoulder, a playful gesture appropriate for arenas and gymnasia. With these patricians emotions were as changeable as summer rainstorms sweeping across the plains. ‘I can sympathise with that. This ship is Ia-damned deathly.’

  Cornelius glared at him, then turned back to Fisk. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Not much more to say about it. Stretchers get bored and restless and here we come, moving into their land, little mice for them to play with. They like us because we’re smart enough to be afraid.’

  ‘But we have silver. We have holly.’ Secundus pointed at the whipping brag-rags flying at the stern of the ship. One had a grey circle, and the other had a sprig of holly with crimson berries on a field of black.

  Everybody knows that holly and silver are like poison to vaettir, while only silver is deadly to daemonkind. Rumans like to remind their enemies that they can hurt them. So they fly brag-rags to show their might.

  Fisk said, ‘Gotta hit the stretcher to kill him. Gotta get close enough for holly to work. You haven’t seen how they move. And you scarcely can, they’re that fast.’

  Gnaeus smirked again, and Secundus looked incredulous.

  Cornelius poured another glass of wine, lifted it, and drank. When he was done, he wiped his whiskers with a sleeve and said, ‘Thank you, gentlemen. You are dismissed. Cimbri, we’re ready for the hunt once you’ve allocated today’s assignments.’

  Livia rose from her chair saying, ‘Come, Mr Fisk. I will tend your wound.’

  ‘It’s fine, ma’am. No need to trouble yourself.’

  ‘Nonsense. I won’t let you, our vaettir expert, die of a minor wound.’ She smiled – truly smiled, changing the whole configuration of her face – and I could see the wrinkles at the corners deepen, showing her age, yet somehow only adding to her beauty. Strange how polite society fixates on youth, when age and experience bring so much more richness than unlined skin. Not a young woman, this Livia, but beautiful and a little fearsome. I think I might have fallen in love with her right then, a little at least. I’ve never learned if Fisk felt similarly at that moment, but I suspect it was so.

  Secundus, his voice low but not entirely careless, said, ‘You think that’s a good idea, sis? Let the plebs take care of themselves.’

  Livia slowly turned her head to look at her brothers, her father – a slowness that seemed to arise from struggling to hold back a multitude of thoughts and words. I don’t know; I don’t spend a lot of time with womenfolk. But she was a regal one, this Livia.

  ‘I am the most accomplished healer on the boat, brother. As you know, every time you came to me with a cut or scraped knee.’

  The young man blushed, blinking. For a moment I thought he might argue, but he tamped it down and nodded.

  The wind picked up and ruffled the brag-rags. It was hard to tell if the temperature drop was due to the weather or Livia’s stare.

  ‘Come with me, Mr Fisk.’ She walked from the table and didn’t look back.

  I glanced at Fisk, who returned my look, shrugging. We both followed.

  Before we mounted the stairs, Gnaeus called out, ‘Cimbri, have those two accompany us on the hunt, will you?’

  Cimbri turned to Cornelius and waited. Cornelius tilted up his glass and finished his wine.

  ‘Damn fine claret, Gnaeus. Damn fine. It was prescient of you to have those cases brought aboard at New Damnation.’

  Gnaeus smiled and said, ‘I had some in Pauline’s and knew you’d be partial, father. It is quite good, but I prefer a good Tueton beer in the morning. Especially before a hunt. It won’t throw off the aim.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  Cimbri cleared his throat. ‘Sir?’

  Cornelius waved a negligent hand. ‘Do as he says, do as he says.’

  Cimbri turned, frowned, and stomped toward us. The woman, Carnelia, erupted into peals of laughter and, after a moment, was joined by Secundus.

  ‘Looks like you’re going on a hunt, boys.’

&nb
sp; FIVE

  Livia’s face was stern as we descended the stairs; in the close space I could smell the spice of her perfume. Cimbri and Fisk must have been aware of it, too.

  We reached the bottom of the stairwell and she announced, ‘I’ll tend to Mr Fisk in my chambers. For propriety’s sake, it would be best if one of you remained with us.’

  Cimbri’s eyes grew large. He coughed, muttered something about the guard roster, and clomped off, boots loud on the dark panels.

  She turned to me. ‘Ah, so, Mr …?’

  ‘They call me Shoestring, ma’am.’

  ‘Shoestring? That’s your praenomen?’

  ‘No, ma’am, just what they call me.’

  She stopped, put a hand on my shoulder. ‘What is your name, sir? I can’t address you by that absurd nickname.’

  Hell, I’d been Shoestring, solely, for fifty years by then and it took a bit to recollect my name.

  ‘Dveng Ilys is what my momma named me. We don’t have no cognomens, ma’am, like you Rumans, if you’ll forgive my forwardness.’

  ‘Dvergar, then – your mother or your father?’

  ‘Mother, ma’am.’

  ‘Ah. I see. Well, Mr Ilys, it is a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry it couldn’t be under more commodious circumstances.’

  By Ia’s beard if she didn’t reach out and shake my hand. I don’t think Fisk noticed my blush.

  She led us on, down the hall to the door we’d examined before, across the hall from the engineer’s room.

  ‘So, all this wardwork is supposed to keep you safe from stretchers, then? The silver?’ Fisk kept his voice even but I could hear the discomfort in it. He’s a stoic one, Fisk is, but he can’t fool me.

  ‘Not quite,’ Livia said, an amused smile teasing her lips. ‘Engineers make their living summoning the infernal. Surely you must know that much?’ She waited until Fisk gave a terse nod. ‘The wardwork is to protect the ship should Beleth’s negotiations turn … troublesome.’

  ‘Beleth’s his name?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He dabbles in munitions? Or only the big stuff?’

  ‘You must ask him. While we all inhabit this same, very small space, our paths do not cross frequently; I suspect he is not on board very often.’

  I was curious. ‘What? The lascars put him ashore? Surely we’d have noticed that.’

  ‘I am told there are other, distant shores, Mr Ilys, and Beleth knows other ways to …’ She paused, tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. A worried expression crossed her face. ‘To disembark.’

  Fisk and I thought about that for a bit while Livia withdrew a silver key on a chain from her bodice, unlocked the door and ushered us in.

  It was a small berth, maybe six by ten feet, with a single bed, a desk – loaded with papers, quills and ink, and a built-in armoire fastened to the hull. Two Gallish doors, slatted with mahogany, opened up on a miniature gallery, large enough for one person to stand above the waters and look out on the shore. A small bookcase, near the armoire, was crammed with tomes of all sorts. Above, a strange wooden-bladed contraption hung – the centre wrought of copper, with a dangling cord. Livia tugged the line, the copper contraption hissed and belched a small puff of steam, and the wooden blades began to spin, generating a light breeze.

  Amazing, really, what daemonwork can get you. But what does it get you, in the end? The damnation that threatens us all. Don’t these conveniences just add to the staining of our souls? Hellfire pistols, bound daemons propelling the Cornelian, driving the steam through its innards, turning this bladed fan above our heads without even the faintest whiff of brimstone. Does it even matter? I figure it does, but even here, in the midst of so many daemon powered contraptions, I couldn’t sense that sullying I felt every time Fisk fired his pistol.

  ‘There is some baffling.’ She pointed to a folded, lacquered enamel screen. ‘Deploy it to protect your modesty, Mr Fisk.’

  Fisk looked at the screen, then at me. He blinked once, but no surprise crossed his face. He unslung his gunbelt, carefully so as not to mar the warding on the ammunition, and then dropped his trousers.

  Livia straightened, then coughed. ‘Mr Fisk, allow me to get my medical kit. Please sit on the bed.’

  He straightened his leg, and then sat.

  She opened the armoire, withdrew a large wooden box – again filigreed in silver – and withdrew a phial and woven cotton bandages. ‘Mr Ilys, there’s a dry-bar there. I’m not normally one for raw spirits before afternoon, but, in this situation, we might all like a bit of port, or brandy … My father was negligent in his duty as host.’

  I looked to Fisk, who nodded and said, ‘Brandy.’ There was a crystal decanter of amber liquid, and another the colour of blood. Snifters and glasses sat upside-down on small, padded horns, so I removed three and poured the booze. I had never had port before that day. It was quite tasty, a bit of mellowed fire that burned the tongue. The brandy bottle housed less liquid, so I figured Miss Livia was partial to it, and I poured her one of those.

  She had out her medical kit by the time I was through and waved me to set her glass down on the desk. The stained black leather box had a very clever hinged lid that she popped open, revealing neatly wound cotton cloths and various bottles. I saw needles, thread, a paraffin candle, and several bright steel cutting utensils. Much nicer than my barber’s kit, and it had seen some bloodwork, for sure.

  ‘Now, Mr Fisk, let’s see that wound.’

  As indifferent as he had seemed when he dropped his britches, he kept his hands over his privates while she cut away my bindings and then wiped the flesh around the wound. Fisk sucked air through clenched teeth.

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Mr Fisk. The vaettir narrowly missed a major sanguiduct …’

  She withdrew a vial of clear liquid from her kit, poured some over bleached cotton balls, and continued to wipe the blackened blood. Once she had the wound clean, she made him roll over – I saw him tug down his shirt tails to cover his nether regions – and she addressed the other side of his leg.

  She threw away the dirty cotton, re-stoppered the clear liquid, and then drew out another phial, this one holding a dark, viscous fluid.

  ‘What’s that?’ Fisk asked. As he looked over his shoulder at the vial, his face clouded.

  ‘It’s called tersus incendia, and it will clean the wound, but it will hurt – perhaps more than you imagine, Mr Fisk.’

  He looked at her, blinked once, then nodded.

  Livia poured the black liquid slowly, dribbling it like honey. When it touched the raw opening of the wound, which now oozed blood, it bubbled and hissed as though entering and fusing with his flesh. Fisk’s body went rigid, his eyes growing large. Livia placed a hand lightly on his thigh. He remained frozen until the bubbles from the liquid died, and she covered the wound with a clean cotton cloth before gently urging Fisk to turn back over. He did so, but slowly.

  ‘Again now, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘Hold on a moment, ma’am.’ I brought Fisk his brandy, but he waved me away and nodded to her.

  She poured the tersus incendia, and Fisk again went through the silent contortion of pain from the bubbling liquid. Only when she had bandaged his leg did he take the brandy from me and knock it back.

  ‘I’ve never heard of that stuff before,’ I said, pointing at the bottle she was stoppering.

  ‘Ah, it’s a discovery from the natural philosophers. It combats the numina animus – the evil motes that cause infection in wounds.’

  ‘Motes?’

  She smiled and fastened Fisk’s linens. ‘Invisible, infinitesimal creatures. Numina. Malicious and disease-causing spirits. Something in the tersus incendia combats their presence. The fire of it, maybe. I must admit, I don’t understand all of the theory, but, in my experience, it certainly works.’

  ‘I’
m familiar with the numen of the world, the spirits of rock and tree and river. But I don’t hold with the old religion.’

  Livia smiled. ‘I think the philosophers mean something a bit different from the old gods.’ It wasn’t said with any condescension or aloofness. Just a statement of fact.

  She stood up, straightened her dress, and put away her kit. She tossed the soiled linens into a trash bin. In the corner of the room was a copper bowl fitted against a column of pipes with various levers and handles. She tugged one and the bowl began filling with water. She washed her hands. She dried them on a small hanging towel and turned back to us. When she saw my expression, she laughed.

  ‘Mr Ilys, would you like to examine the basin?’

  There were a few knobs that I couldn’t figure out, but three open pipes protruded over the basin, each one topped by a handle. Each had a letter pressed into the metal. C, T, and F.

  I put my hand on the handle labelled C and began to turn it. It hissed and sputtered and hot water poured forth into the bowl that had a hole in the bottom to carry away any superfluous liquid. For now a small bit of cork stoppered the hole.

  ‘Careful. It gets quite hot. Hot enough to burn.’

  I cupped my hands and felt the water. It was indeed hot, but my skin is very coarse – a gift from my mother and her kin – and a little hot water doesn’t bother me. I brought it to my nose. I couldn’t smell brimstone.

  ‘Why, Mr Ilys, it’s safe to drink.’

  I let the water slip through my fingers, dried my hands, and moved toward the door. ‘Yes, ma’am. This truly is a miraculous ship.’

  She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, and I was forcibly reminded that she wasn’t some ignorant miller’s daughter or farm matron. She was highborn, beautiful, and sharp.

  ‘Well, I thank you, ma’am, for your care of my leg,’ Fisk said. ‘Thought I was like to die when you put that stuff on it.’

  She looked at him, and smiled again.

  ‘So, I asked before and you chose to ignore me: what kind of name is “Fisk”?’

  He shifted his weight on the bed, leg sticking out at an angle, tugging his shirt over his nethers. Never thought I’d see the day that Fisk was bare-arsed in front of a highborn woman. I don’t think he really cared if she saw, but rather seemed to cover himself because he thought he ought to.