Ironshield

by Edward Nile

  What was it he'd heard, about dealing with seasickness?

  Go on deck, look out to shore.

  Aldren dragged himself onto shaky feet. On the third wobbly step outside his room, he crashed shoulder-first against the side of the corridor. He gave up on walking with dignity, instead feeling along with his hands, inching his way toward the metal staircase.

  "Ey, watch it!" A pair of booted feet skirted by him when he fell on the first stair.

  Aldren's response was a pained moan while he continued to drag himself up toward the sparse light of the deck's lamps.

  After what felt like hours, Aldren fell against the cold rail above deck and looked out over the dark ocean, hoping to see the last receding speck of Talenport on the western horizon, which he assumed would be to the rear of the ship.

  Only there was nothing to see but shifting glimmers of starlight against the gently rippling ocean waves.

  Well, focus on the horizon, at least. He fixed his gaze on the indistinct inkiness of the distant night. That's it, Al. Just keep looking, keep your stomach under con—

  He bent over the rail and vomited along the side of the ship, his thin stream of bile hitting the outer hull before disappearing into the churning blackness.

  "God damn it!" he moaned.

  "Here." Someone handed him a waterskin. "Wash the taste out. First time out to sea?"

  Aldren popped the attached cork and drank deep. "Thanks," he breathed, turning to hand the skin back. "Yeah, how could you tell…"

  The eastern woman from the trolley took her water back and replaced the cork. "It gets better," she said. "I was in worse shape, my first time." She winked and passed the waterskin to Aldren again. "Here, keep it."

  "No, I couldn't."

  "Don't worry, I've got a spare." She patted him on the arm and started walking away before Aldren could thrust the waterskin back to her.

  "Stay hydrated," she called over her shoulder. "And get some rest, Aldren. You'll need all you can get."

  Aldren's mouth hung open as he stared after the stranger climbing below deck.

  The stranger who, somehow, knew his name.

  Shit.

  **

  Meskal Karov was a mousy man in his early fifties. Balding, he wore large round spectacles that magnified his eyes to twice their natural diameter.

  One of the first things Samuel noticed upon entering the Senate House holding cell, refurbished with a table and chairs for use as an interrogation room, was a charm of plain stone set in an aged silver band on Karov's bony wrist.

  Samuel recognized it from other Eishians he'd met. The stone was a piece of the Sacred Wall, which protected their holy city. They were a nation on the northeastern edge of the Lytan Empire, conquered by the Lytans generations ago. At the end of their brief but bitter struggle for independence, the Eishians conceded their sovereignty to Lytan in exchange for a promise that what remained of their holy city would be preserved.

  Eishia was, according to its people, the center of the world, God's footprint on earth.

  "A piece of the Eishian Wall," Samuel noted. He slapped his leather file case down on the table and took a seat across from Karov. "One that size must be a cherished heirloom."

  Meskal's bug eyes moved slowly from the file case to Samuel. "My great-grandfather was given it by a high priest, a Keyholder to the Sacred City." Karov caressed the bracelet. "Passed down the family line to me. Yes, I care for it deeply."

  "So, you are devout, even now. Admirable,” Samuel said, flipping through the file. From under his brow, he could just discern Karov shifting in his seat, trying to get a better look at what he was reading without being too obvious about it.

  Samuel snapped the file shut. Damn, Paulson’s tricks really worked. "Also interesting, to me at least."

  "Interesting? How?"

  "That an Eishian would have campaigned so hard for the Empire during the Revolution. After all, it was Lytan who took away your people's freedom. Destroyed a third of your holy city in the process, if I'm not mistaken. Not to mention the thousands of Eishians killed in Imperial artillery strikes."

  Karov shrugged, adjusted his spectacles. "Nations conquer and are conquered, this happens. What matters to us is that God's city be protected. Under which flag? That is not relevant."

  "Then why live here, where it's clear that flags do matter?" Samuel inquired.

  Karov snickered. "It's no crime, speaking well of Lytan, yes?" He looked around, taking in his surroundings. "Is it?"

  "No," Samuel admitted. He tapped the assassin's Industrialist pin against the table. "But conspiring to kill state officials is." With a flick of his finger, he sent the pin spinning across the table to Karov. "Recognize that?"

  Karov picked it up and studied it, adjusting his spectacles once more. "An old pin, what of it?"

  "It's not old," Samuel replied. "That pin was cast from a custom mold. And your shop is the only one in a thousand miles that specializes in that sort of work, as well as the only shop that uses those particular alloys." He pulled a second Gearsword pin from his jacket pocket. "This belonged to an officer of the Northern Industrialist Army during the Civil War. I've seen many like it, and they were all made more or less the same." He thumbed the tiny sprockets, making them turn across the face of the sword-shaped pin. "Hand-made, fully articulated gearwork." Samuel laid it down and slid it over to join the fake. "I guess your client was on a schedule. Or maybe you just like to cut corners."

  "How dare you say these things to me? I am a professional!" Karov cried. "I give my best, always. What the customer pays for, that is what I deliver, Mr. Mutton." He spat Samuel's name out as though it tasted foul.

  "A rush job on your client's request, then—"

  "I never admitted to making this thing," Karov snapped with a gesture at the fake pin. "And you, Senator, cannot prove otherwise."

  Samuel leaned back in his chair. "Meskal, you're not the one in trouble here. Not if you cooperate. Your customer is who I'm after. I found that pin on the corpse of a man who tried to gun me down. I need to know who was behind the attack."

  "And you think I know anything of this?" Karov wagged his finger. "I know nothing, hear me?" He slapped his hand on the table. "Now, I am done talking. Either tell me with what I am being charged or let me go. And you had better have more evidence than a silly pin."

  Samuel's smile was grim. "Meskal, I urge you to reconsider. Please."

  "That is Mr.Karov to you," he spat. "You are not my mother, to be talking to me in this way. I will go now."

  Samuel stood. "Fine," he said. "I guess there's no point keeping this up. Wait here, please."

  "Not for long," Karov warned. "I have train to catch back home. A business to run, too, not that your thugs cared."

  Samuel left the room and went through the adjacent door. Inside the narrow, unlit chamber, Paulson stepped back from the spy hole. This room was another new addition, built on Paulson's own request. He'd explained it would be safer for people on guard duty, like Nicholas had been, to remain out of sight in case another incident like James Edstein's escape occurred. Samuel was now convinced his secretary had really wanted the modification for situations like these.

  Samuel never wanted there to be situations like these.

  "Might be an independent operation," Samuel suggested, hopefully. "The man's not exactly a patriot."

  "Not for Arkenia, at least," Paulson agreed, leaning back against the wall. "The Eishians don't care about much except protecting their religious relics, though. The Empire's got them by the sacks there, but what stake would that give a man like our friend here in a civil war an ocean away from Eishia or Lytan?"

  Samuel shook his head. "It makes no sense. An Imperial sympathizer wouldn't stand with the Industrialists. They started a war over an agreement that merely smelled of submission to Lytan. But it's always possible he's changed his mind since the Revolution. There's certainly reason enough for one of his people to resent the Empire."

  "Possible…
" Paulson concurred. "But unlikely. He doesn't seem like much of a revolutionary to me. No, this man is the type to bet on a sure thing."

  "So, not the sort to collude with an idealist for a half-baked vendetta," Samuel said. "Yeah, that's what I was afraid of." He sighed. "Edmund, there has to be another way."

  "I'm sorry." Paulson gathered his tool case from a small table. "Conjecture isn't enough, we have to be sure. "

  "But what about your plan? Wait, see who comes for him?"

  "And if no one does? We can't keep him here forever. This could very well be our only opportunity to learn what he knows."

  "Bullshitting bastard," Samuel said. "You knew it would come to this."

  Paulson nodded, looking somber. Maybe even sober. "And I know you won't let this go until we find out the truth. Am I wrong, Sam?"

  Samuel swallowed. With an order, he could stop his secretary from what he was about to do. He could send Karov home, wash his hands of this, take his chances. And let his would-be killers remain on the loose, unknown and unchallenged.

  "No," he said. "You're not."

  He didn't bother praying for forgiveness, not this time. If Samuel Mutton were still in God's favor, it was more than he deserved. No point pestering the Almighty further. He opened the door for his secretary. "Scare him, Edmund. Nothing more, not if it can be helped. Alright?"

  Paulson patted Samuel's arm as he passed. “That’ll be up to him.” The man didn't smell so strongly of whiskey, today. Since the bombing, he'd slowed down, at least in front of his employer. And Edmund Paulson playing things safe was a very bad sign of the times, indeed.

  Sliding open the iron spyhole, Samuel leaned toward the wall and stared into the interrogation room as Paulson entered.

  "Hello, Meskal," Paulson said as he placed his tool case on the table between them. "I'd ask how you were doing, but I can imagine the answer."

  Karov scoffed. "Do you people really think you can badger me into saying something different? You are Mutton's secretary, yes? And when you fail, what, is the maid next?"

  "Erica? I think not." Paulson undid the buckle on his case. "I'll clean up after us myself and save her the sight. Guards."

  A pair of uniformed men rushed in with leather restraints.

  "What is this - get your hands off me!" The frail metalsmith struggled with the guards, but was powerless to resist as they bound him to the chair, strapping his hands behind his back. Once he was secure, Paulson waved the guards out of the room.

  "Stop struggling, Meskal, you'll only hurt yourself."

  "This is illegal!" Karov shouted. "You have no evidence against me, no case. I demand representation this—"

  "Officially, you aren't even here," Paulson interjected, carefully unrolling a belt of shining implements in front of him. "It would be difficult for your lawyer to find you. Ah, this one." He selected something with a tiny, hooked blade and set it on the table with a clack. "You know who I am, obviously." Paulson removed his jacket as he spoke, carefully hanging it on his empty chair. "Or at least who I am now. It's unavoidable, working for someone as famous as Senator Mutton, Striker Crimson himself. I imagine there must be stories about the senator's secretary."

  Meskal stared at the blade as Paulson rolled up his sleeves. As if the scalpel would gain a life of its own and shoot toward him.

  "Well?" Paulson stepped around the table, the tips of his fingers sliding across its surface. "Tell me, what is it they say about Edmund Paulson? I'm curious."

  Karov gulped. Behind his spectacles, his magnified eyes flicked from the knife to Paulson. "I-I don't listen to gossip. Too busy at… at the shop."

  "And fine work you do there, from what I've seen. But if you know who I am by sight, I imagine you've read the papers. Avoiding gossip is one thing, being completely oblivious is another. So, Meskal, I'll ask again, and don't make me repeat myself further. What is it they say about me?"

  Karov shrank back in his seat as Paulson came up beside him. The restraints creaked.

  Samuel watched the man's lip quiver and felt nauseated. He could practically count the beads of sweat on the bookish craftsman's pale brow.

  Is this what I'm turning into? He recalled hearing Paulson's report about the execution of the spy Yannick Mal, and how sickened he'd been to know an Arkenian official had allowed a citizen, even an enemy spy, to be treated such in his final moments.

  This man? Karov was right, there was no real evidence he'd done anything whatsoever.

  "That you're a d-drunk!" Karov whimpered. "That you're out of... out of control. A... damned madman!"

  "Mad? Tsk." Paulson scraped the scalpel off the table. Karov let out a squeal.

  "Shh." Paulson grabbed Karov by the ear and waved the blade in front of his face. "None of that. If you keep writhing about, who knows what I could cut off by mistake?" He moved the blade under the table, and Karov went stiff, motionless but for the involuntary quiver of his lips.

  "I know what you're wondering." Samuel could barely make out the words Paulson hissed into Karov's ear. "'He wouldn't. This is a bluff.' You wouldn't be the first to think it, Meskal. Because the fools you hear talk about me either don't know who I am, or choose to forget just what it is I did for my country, before the senator hired me."

  Karov yelped as Paulson pressed the blade.

  "While you were handing out leaflets during the Revolution, I had a very… different job. One I thought I'd left behind me. Then, people started trying to kill my employer. My friend. So now it looks like I'm back, Meskal. Care to find out if I've lost my touch, or are you going to tell me who ordered you to make that fucking pin?"

  "I… I don't know!" Karov cried. "I never got a name. He p-paid me extra not to ask. Oh, God, by the Sacred Stones please STOP!"

  "Funny of you to mention stones," Paulson said. "My good man, we're about to find out what yours look like."

  Stop this, now. Paulson was going off script here. By the Savior, he's actually going to start cutting the man.

  Samuel began to pull back from the spyhole when the interrogation room door burst open, letting brighter light from the hallway illuminate the scene. Paulson's knife disappeared into his pocket as he looked at the intruder. "I made it clear we were not to be disturbed."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Paulson, but—"

  Someone shouldered past the guard. "Of all the sadistic - untie this man at once!"

  Samuel rushed out of the observation room. The Senate House was under his authority. Who could have gained entrance? Who had enough clout to order and shove his guards?

  He emerged into the hallway in time to see Meskal Karov, freed from his restraints, being led by a pair of uniformed men Samuel didn't recognize. His own guards hung back, looking to him for instructions.

  Elliot Salkirk stepped out of the interrogation room after his men, his expression livid. "Is this your doing, Samuel?!" he demanded. "Is this how Striker Crimson sates his bloodthirst now? By torturing harmless civilians?!"

  "Senator Mutton?" Paulson poked his head from the doorway, looking surprised, scared. "Sir, I thought you were still away with Mrs. Mutton!"

  What are you doing, Edmund? Samuel tried to ask the question with his eyes.

  Paulson's chin moved from side to side, a motion anyone not staring the man in the face would miss.

  God damn you. Samuel wrestled with a writhing creature in his gut, a ravenous serpent of shame and anger. Just as he had at Quarrystone, and during his duel with Theodore Kolms, Samuel wanted nothing better than to announce himself and take what would come.

  What stopped him were his secretary's eyes, the note of urgent pleading with which Paulson held his gaze.

  Fine, old friend, Samuel thought. If you've trusted me this far, I'll trust you. "Care to explain this to me, Paulson?" Samuel barked. He didn't have to force the anger in his voice. Samuel was furious enough with himself to pull off the act.

  Paulson drew himself to his full height. "If you won't do what it takes to find the bastards, Sam, I will."
/>
  "That's enough, arrest him." Salkirk motioned his men toward Paulson with a snap of his fingers.

  "Stand down, Elliot," Samuel said. "You, and your men. My guards will take Paulson into custody. Paulson, you will be confined to your apartments until—"

  "Dear God Samuel, this isn't the war and that's not your wife," Salkirk shouted. "You can't protect him from this—"

  "And this is not your house," Samuel interjected. "Nor are you the senator in this province. And this, whether you approve or not, is a provincial matter until courts decide otherwise." He met Meskal Karov's gaze for a moment. "Senator Salkirk, you can take Mr. Karov and your men, and leave these premises, if you please. We will be in touch."

  "Oh yes, Sam, we will be." Salkirk sneered. "You're digging your own grave, this time."

  "Better than letting you dig it for me." Samuel glared right back at his opponent. "Now get out of my house."