The Incorruptibles

by John Hornor Jacobs

  That was a mouthful. She wasn’t even breathing heavy when she finished. She took another delicate sip of wine and continued.

  ‘And finally, to all of our guests, allow me to introduce Mr Dveng Ilys, scout of Mr Cimbri’s unit, and Mr Hieronymous Fisk of the same.’

  Fisk nodded to the assembled gentlefolk.

  ‘Nice to meet you all,’ Fisk said. I just inclined my head. These folk didn’t want to hear from a dwarf, anyway.

  The same half-dvergar woman approached the table, bearing a large tray of honeyed confections. She first presented the tray to Carnelia and Isabelle, and each took a dainty portion.

  ‘Normally, we wouldn’t eat in such a base manner,’ Carnelia said, placing the confection on her plate. She’d changed in the days since the auroch hunt. She was a dark-haired woman, pale as the vaettir, but now had deep circles under her eyes and was so very thin I felt I might cut myself just by looking at her. She had been prettier when she’d had some meat on her and some colour in her cheeks, when she’d filled out her bodice more. Now you could see her ribs in her chest.

  She went on: ‘Barbaric, really, all of us huddled round this table. We should be dining like Rumans.’ She sniffed, glanced at Fisk and me, then back to Isabelle and Banty, who grinned. I was having trouble understanding why she didn’t include Banty in her disdain, but he did cut a dashing figure in his legion blues. I peeked at Fisk, but he was either oblivious or didn’t give a damn. Carnelia continued, ‘But maybe this is more appropriate, after all, considering our mixed company. Besides, this ship doesn’t have a proper triclinium, and there’s far too little space to accommodate us all at lecti. So necessity dictates we eat our food like hogs at a trough.’

  Cornelius took a great swallow from his glass, covered his mouth, and gave a demur belch. ‘’Nelia, you could use some fattening up. You’re as scrawny as a Dolian whore and half as fun.’

  Finally, some colour came to Cornelius’ younger daughter’s face. It didn’t do much for her features; mottled and furious doesn’t sit well on many women and Carnelia was no exception.

  ‘I see you got your ears lowered, Mr Secundus,’ said Fisk. ‘But you didn’t go all the way to the scalp.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t miss much, do you?’ Secundus blushed. ‘I’ve been helping Livia tend Gnaeus. He’s in terrible pain and we fear the flesh of his scalp may have become infected. And our stores of the tersus incendia have run low.’ He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. ‘A shearing seemed prudent. It wouldn’t do for both of the Cornelian sons be missing their lids.’

  We laughed, and other conversations cropped up around the table; Carnelia, Isabelle and Banty murmured together, drinking wine, and Beleth and Samantha chatted amiably with Paterna and Cimbri.

  ‘Mr Fisk.’ Captain Skraeling possessed a rich, deep voice, like boulders rumbling down a mountainside. He had a thick barrel chest pulling tight the grey Ruman navy uniform, buttons bright and gleaming in the daemonlight. A rich shock of thick alabaster hair – no haircut for him – and thick white beard, well groomed, with a massive moustache, all gave him the appearance of a large brushy hillock covered with snow. ‘You have a familiarity with these parts, have you not?’

  ‘I imagine as well as the next man.’

  ‘How lies the river further west?’

  ‘Wide. Passing deep. Sticks to the plains with no rills to speak of. I doubt the Cornelian will have any trouble unless we steam further than Passasuego. We packing it in?’

  ‘Not immediately. But we must reach the Medieran holdfast before the freeze settles on the plains. Otherwise, we’ll be moored in ice for winter. Undefended and at the mercy of these loutish stretchers.’

  Fisk said nothing, but Livia snorted. ‘Captain, the vaettir are many things, but loutish isn’t one of them.’

  ‘I must agree with my sister, Captain Skraeling.’ For once, Carnelia’s voice wasn’t biting or filled with bile. She raised a hand to her hair, as if to adjust it, then stopped, her fingers motionless near her cheek. ‘They are more than louts. More than brutes or savages.’ She dropped her hand and reached for her glass.

  From the far end of the table Beleth said, ‘And we’re not quite undefended, sir.’ He held up a soft, lotioned palm, like one of Ia’s priests giving a benediction. ‘Should the worst occur, I will unslave the daemon driving the engine and set it to patrol.’

  ‘Ain’t that a bit risky?’

  He laughed – a dry, humourless sound. ‘It is decidedly less risky than sitting unprotected on the stretcher-inhabited plains.’

  ‘I should wonder how the indigenes might fare, facing a daemon, especially one so great as Gooseberry.’

  I coughed. ‘Excuse me, Miss Isabelle. Did you say, Gooseberry?’

  She cocked her head, as though noticing me for the first time. ‘Why, yes, I did.’

  ‘A pet name, Gooseberry,’ said Samantha Decius. She had nice eyes, and who knew the other blessings Ia might have bestowed on her? Intelligence. Wisdom, maybe. No way to tell until she showed her mettle. ‘Master Beleth came up with it. Much better than Ebru Labadon, don’t you think?’

  There was a rattle. The deck pitched underneath us, and the massive crystal chandelier hanging above our heads sounded like the breaking of the world. Shouts came from the hall as the boat shifted and glasses toppled and fell.

  ‘Samantha,’ Beleth said sharply but not unkindly. ‘While you can use Gooseberry’s true name, it doesn’t mean you should. Show some respect for the damned thing.’

  She laughed and said, ‘Respect? Why? It’s a thing, after all. No better than a draft horse or a mule.’ The ease with which her words came made me think this was an ongoing debate between master and student.

  He sighed. Patted her hand. ‘It’s more than a thing, and less, all at once. Much like our guest here.’ For a moment I thought he might be speaking of me. He tossed his head in the direction of the stretcher and righted his wine glass, which had spilled in the shifting of the boat. He poured another measure of claret, lifted it, drank. ‘It’s learning as we speak. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s understood everything we’ve said.’

  ‘Is that a warning?’ Alarm and curiosity mixed in Livia’s tone. ‘Are we to guard our tongues?’

  ‘That, madam, is up to you. We have yet to discover how much intelligence the creature possesses.’

  A figure appeared at the far end of the stateroom, near the stairwell to the patrician quarters. He came forward slowly, his steps measured as though he bore a great weight or carried something easily broken. As he came closer, I recognized him by his build.

  Gnaeus.

  He tottered when he neared the table. He was dressed in a simple linen tunic of the Gallish cut, with long sleeves and matching cotton trousers. The clothes were dyed a royal blue so deep it was almost black. But the saturated clothes accentuated the pallor of his skin. He was parchment white.

  ‘Where am I to sit?’ he said, and his normally piercing voice was weaker but still unpleasant. ‘We’ve seated the plebs at our table and now I cannot be seated?’ He turned and looked about slowly. He had to move his whole torso; his neck remained immobile.

  He approached Fisk’s chair.

  ‘You, sir. Give up your seat.’

  Fisk stood up and pushed back his chair. He looked from Cornelius to Beleth and then at Livia. ‘Of course.’ He stepped away from the seat.

  ‘Gnaeus,’ Livia said softly. ‘Do you think you should be up? Shouldn’t you be in bed?’

  ‘I am as fit as I ever was, sissy.’

  As he sat down next to Livia, she motioned to a slave to bring another chair. I moved aside, allowing it to be placed next to her. Fisk would deny he wished to be seated near Livia, but I knew better.

  As I rose, I caught a good look at Gnaeus. Drops of sweat glistened on his upper lip. His face seemed waxy, as if formed from warm tallow. I looked to
his hair and stopped.

  Thin runnels of white liquid, emerging from beneath his bangs, beaded his forehead. His hair appeared normal, if a little messy. But the more I looked, the more it appeared he had some hide perched atop his skull, seams hidden.

  Ia help me, I wanted to peek underneath that scrap of hair and see what remained up top.

  Gnaeus bellowed for whiskey and Lupina filled his glass. He occupied his mouth with the drinking of it.

  A grunt came from Cimbri. ‘I just can’t figure out what the Hell these bastards want. What in damnation drives the infernal things? Why are they here attacking?’ He glanced at Livia. ‘Pardon, the language, ma’am.’

  ‘Maybe they’re the genius loci of this massive land. It’s harsh and wild, as are they.’ Cornelius managed not to slur.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cornelius. What do you mean by that?’ I queried.

  ‘Why is the dwarf even allowed to speak at this table?’ Gnaeus asked loudly. He tilted sloppily in his seat, then righted himself. ‘Or the other cowherd?’

  ‘Brother, I think it would be best if you—’

  ‘Nay, woman,’ he said and gulped from his glass. ‘I would not miss dining on my kill.’

  Carnelia snorted into her glass. Gnaeus did not bestow on her even the smallest of glances, and I wondered if he could not move his head abruptly for fear of dislodging his ‘hair’.

  ‘Brother, I might remind you that without Mr Fisk’s actions, you would surely have been trampled underfoot by the stampede.’

  Gnaeus lolled in his seat. I would have wagered a gold talent that neither of the two elder Cornelian men could have sat upright unaided. A sodden pair, both grievously wounded and in much pain.

  ‘Bah. A glancing wound. I would have been fine in a trice.’

  ‘Brother, your horse had—’ Secundus searched for the words, ‘rebelled—’

  ‘I’ll have the beast slaughtered and boiled down to grease our wagon-wheels.’

  ‘I’m sure our Gnaeus would have been fine,’ Carnelia said, smirking. ‘Just might have taken him time to find his hat.’

  Livia signalled disapproval of her younger sister’s comments.

  But Carnelia ignored her. ‘Or the top of his head.’ She looked contemptuously at her brother. ‘Maybe you should start hunting hares, Gnaeus. Brown ones. They will match your shade quite nicely.’

  ‘As I was saying—’ Cornelius broke in loudly, gesturing with his glass, petulant at being ignored. ‘Genius loci. The protective spirit of a place. Much like the lares at crossroads. Or household gods. Numina. The old spirits we Rumans did away with when Ia came to the land. In this case, the stretchers are the genius loci of the Hardscrabble Territories.’

  All eyes turned to Gnaeus to see if he would respond, but he sat silently, loosely holding his glass and staring somewhere between the brass buttons on Skraeling’s uniform and the lands beyond the Whites. His eyes were unfocused and watery.

  I said, ‘I don’t know about that. For many years, the vaettir raided in the Imperial Protectorate. They were known to appear in the Thousand Acre Wood, far to the east, though that might have been old-wives’ tales.’

  Cornelius frowned at me, and shifted his bandaged stump on the pillow.

  ‘Half-man, don’t ask questions if you don’t want to hear the answers.’

  Fisk stiffened. Livia, too. They didn’t need to worry about me. I like living, uncrucified. So I bowed my head in acceptance and occupied my mouth with wine.

  ‘No matter,’ Cornelius continued. ‘The vaettir are no match for the ingenuity and resolve of Rume.’ Cornelius laughed then and emptied his glass. ‘See there? She watches us. She’s bound! We are her masters.’

  Fisk said, ‘She is bound by wardwork?’

  ‘A strange coincidence indeed that both daemons and vaettir show an abhorrence of silver,’ replied Beleth. ‘She’s bound by silver-threaded shackles, caged in holly wickerwork, and set at the centre of a warding circle, the orbis argenta. That was Samantha’s idea, and I think it’s a good one. But we’ll see how effective it is.’

  ‘She remains under guard?’

  ‘Of course. Two legionaries at all times.’

  ‘That’s good. Very good.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Gnaeus said, as though waking from a dream. ‘A stretcher here?’ His hand went to his side where a six-gun would have ridden. I was reminded of Carnelia mocking him for impotence.

  Gnaeus tried to stand, pushing up from table. ‘I would kill it and take it back to Rume as a trophy.’

  Livia, surprisingly gentle, placed her hand on her brother’s shoulder. ‘We will make sure you have ample time with the creature. After dinner.’

  ‘She’s mine, lad.’ Cornelius motioned for another drink. ‘Getting too big for your britches, you are.’

  Carnelia clapped her hands together lightly. ‘Ooh, goody. Father and Gnaeus will have a spat!’ She turned to where Banty and Isabelle were murmuring to each other. ‘They’ll have their usual individual tantrums until they’re exhausted and the slaves come to fetch them to dinner.’

  Both Cornelian men ignored her.

  ‘What need for all these guards? They are mere indigenes,’ Gnaeus said, trying valiantly to twist at the waist far enough to look down the length of the table. ‘Wogs. Slap them in chains and be done with it.’

  ‘You spent the latter part of the hunt dangling from Mr Fisk’s saddlehorn, Gnaeus.’ Carnelia grinned. ‘So you missed the vaettir.’ But her grin faltered as she looked down the length of the table at the stretcher caged there. I’ll be damned if a shudder didn’t pass through her frame. She was far less venomous when she continued, ‘They are fearsome, brother. I have never seen the like.’

  ‘You’re mewling babes, afraid of your own shadows,’ Cornelius said, grabbing a honeycake from the platter. He popped it into his mouth, talking around the food. ‘Fearsome warriors, I can believe it. But you children are ascribing … I don’t know … supernatural abilities to these wogs.’ He chuckled. ‘There’s no creature that some fast gunwork won’t take care of.’

  It was Livia’s turn to snort. ‘Is that right, father? Including a bear?’

  He spluttered, spewing wine. ‘I say, Livvie, that was uncalled for.’

  ‘I disagree. It was very called for. Look at Gnaeus. Visit the riverside graves, if you can stand and walk on your own. The vaettir are beyond fierce.’

  ‘And yet we have one here bound.’

  Fisk said, ‘Thanks to Livia. She downed the creature.’

  Gnaeus tried to turn to look at his sister sitting next to him, but turning his whole torso was too much effort.

  Livia glanced at Fisk. She gave him a smile and placed a hand on his, squeezing. Ia help them if Gnaeus spied them playing pattycakes.

  Then Fisk did a thing I hadn’t seen in many years. He smiled. It softened the hard edges of his jaw and loosened the tight flesh around his eyes and for a moment another man sat there, a young man, his life before him, a thousand roads untaken, a thousand hardships yet to be encountered. I was struck again by how closely Banty and Fisk resembled each other.

  But the moment passed. Fisk realized Livia held his hand, and he pulled his away, took another drink, raised his arm as though to wipe his mouth on the sleeve, stopped. He picked up the linen napkin, dabbed his lips.

  Ia save us from love-addled boys and men.

  The honeycakes were gone and the half-breed slavewoman tidied the table while another slave brought in a massive tureen of soup and began ladling it into bowls. It smelled amazing, of sweetgrass and mushrooms, onions and garlic, and was delicious.

  Gnaeus ate nothing, but sat very still – as still as he was able – and drank whiskey, uncut with water.

  ‘Soup isn’t quite the course you want on a sea-going vessel,’ said Samwell Kliment, smiling. He seemed a good-natured man, ginger as
all get out but at ease around the high-born and ladies. ‘High seas and you’d wear more of it than you’d eat.’

  ‘Give me a horse to ride and enough Hellfire for a thousand foes. Ia save me from long sea voyages,’ Gnaeus said and then stared into his glass.

  The table was silent for a moment.

  Skraeling slurped his soup and said, ‘Long sea voyage, Mr Kliment, you have to make your rations last. You’d know that if you’d spent more time off the river and on the ocean. Soup’s more common than you’d think. But served in mugs rather than fine bowls like these.’

  ‘As you know, Captain, I’m a river pilot. And content to be.’

  Beleth gave a little laugh and said, ‘Whatever you do, Samantha, don’t mention Gooseberry’s real name now!’

  There were a few chuckles and general murmured assent. The party remained silent except for the sounds of spoons clacking on bone china and the slurps of the men.

  The next course was buttered trout, rolling in onions and pepper and bristling with tiny bones. Not too fond of trout, myself, since that winter I spent snowbound in the Smokey Mountains above Dvergar. That stream held nothing but the colourful fish, and I spent too much time chest-deep in that Ia-damned freezing water trying to get a hold of their slippery skins.

  Between Gnaeus’ presence on my left and the stretcher at the far end of the stateroom, I could not rest easy. But these were Rumans. They lit their tables and bedrooms with daemons. The party paid no special heed to the near-demented scalped man and the otherworldly creature in our midst.

  When they brought out the roasted haunches of auroch, the great room filled with the smell of savory meat and coals and garlic. A slave with a massive carving knife hewed great chunks of meat from the leg and speared the daintier bits – liver and tongues – from an accompanying platter piled with more onions and potatoes.