by Matt Wallace
Evie’s expression turns grim. “Does it look that dire?”
Sirach unfurls the parchment scrolls in her hand and lays them out before Evie on the part of Brio’s sickbed not occupied by his missing limb.
“Confiscated dispatches,” she explains. “If they read true, there would’ve been another thousand Skrain and five hundred more Savage Legionnaires arriving at the encampment we razed by tonight.”
“Then you struck at the right time,” Brio says, trying to focus on a positive.
Sirach nods. “We did. Now, however, those forces will be recalled to the border. They’ll be combined with the garrisoned army there and that’s where they’ll wait.”
“What’s our strength?” Evie asks.
“I can field eight hundred soldiers, regular infantry and my Special Selection outriders. We have around two hundred of your Savages, and with the B’ors bands that arrived tonight we add another hundred of their warriors to that.”
Evie nods. She has no idea how the B’ors communicate over such a long distance, but Yacatek has been gathering bands from every direction, and each band seems to find the Sicclunan’s very secret base camp with little effort.
“You’ll be outnumbered almost three to one,” Brio says to both of them.
“That’s only counting the Skrain,” Sirach agrees. “If they still trust their Savages, they’ll send every one they have at our front line before we ever see a scale of armor. And the next battle will be fought on open ground. We won’t catch them unawares again. We’ll have to march in force right up to that border.”
“We could hold the line here, gather our own strength,” Evie suggests. “I began this for my own reasons. I won’t push all of you into suicide for my purpose.”
“It’s no longer your purpose. And they won’t simply allow us to sit here. We’ve tried that before. I promise you they’re already mustering more troops from the cities and every garrison in between. They’ll gather the largest force we’ve ever seen and come for us. They have to. It’s not about some upstart rebellion to your people. You’ve seen the wastelands here. They need the land beyond. That’s always been their purpose.”
Evie looks down at Brio. He meets her eyes with the same silent, reluctant acceptance. They both know Sirach is right.
“We’ve begun something here,” Sirach continues, “like moving the wheel of a great machine. There’s no reversing it. The longer we wait, the worse it’ll be. We have to strike now. It’s our only hope.”
“Is ‘hope’ the right word?” Brio asks dryly.
Sirach laughs, and it even sounds genuine. “I won’t pretend to understand why you went through all this just for him,” she says to Evie, “but for a man he isn’t entirely uninteresting.”
Brio does his best to bow his head. “Thank you so very much.”
Listening to the two of them, Evie can almost bring herself to smile, although it never quite reaches her lips.
“We may very well all die, and quite soon,” Evie says, “but at least between now and then… we won’t be bored.”
Sirach laughs again, and she’s still laughing when she turns and ducks out of the tent, leaving the two of them alone once more.
Brio’s expression and tone turn serious. “Is she right?” he asks. “Did you go through all this just for me?”
Whatever mirth Evie felt leaves her. She sighs, not wanting to confront this now, just as she didn’t before the Sicclunan’s night raid on the Savage camp.
“I allowed myself to become a Savage for you,” she admits. “But I didn’t know what that meant at the time. I do now.”
Brio cocks his head, curiously. “Do you regret it?”
“No,” Evie answers without hesitation, surprising even herself. “No, I don’t. But not because you’re worth it.”
Brio nods slowly, lowering his eyes. If that wounded him, it was only a glancing blow, judging by his reaction.
“I loved the boy you were, Brio,” she continues. “I respect the man you’ve become. But I’m not doing this for you. These people trusted me when they had no reason to trust anyone. They’re following me. I owe them a chance at reclaiming their lives, however small that chance is. I want to do everything I can to give it to them. As I said, this has all moved far beyond you and me.”
“Then you’ve moved beyond you and me, as well?”
“I think so.”
Brio nods. “I love my wife,” he says. “That has never and will never change. But… seeing you again was enough to confuse me for a time, I will admit.”
Evie grins ruefully. “Good. I was confused for years. It took a war to clear things up for me. You deserve a little of that, at least.”
Brio grins back, but there’s a sadness in his. “I know you said the past and our feelings about it don’t matter now, but I’m still sorry. You risked your life to help me. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
Evie takes a deep, cleansing breath.
“Let’s just hope we live long enough to need your particular skills,” she says.
THE BLACK TURTLE
THERE IS A PART OF Taru that believes that if they return to the Bottoms alone they won’t be allowed to leave again. In fact, if Taru has one recurring nightmare, it is that. The retainer never minded revisiting the streets and docks that bore them when accompanying Brio in his capacity as pleader for the Bottoms. It was Brio’s father who had pulled Taru up from these same streets and the docks and oversaw their training as Gen Stalbraid’s retainer, who tasked Taru with protecting him and his son and their kith-kin. That mission, and Taru’s singular focus upon it always overrode any fear entering the minor nether realm of the Bottoms would otherwise inspire.
It is much different on their own, Taru finds.
Taru presents arms for the inspection of the Aegins with their steel tridents stationed at the arch. They take far too long scrutinizing the proofs on each blade that signifies its lawful carry within the city limits. Taru listens disinterestedly and silently to their grumbled diatribe about how the law allowing Gens to keep armed retainers should finally be repealed, and how it is an affront and danger to every Aegin brave enough to strap on a baldric and dagger. Taru flatly ignores their predictable suspicions concerning the retainer’s race and the Aegins’ thinly veiled disgust toward Taru’s obvious Undeclared status.
The smell of the water and the perpetual odor of fishmonger’s fare churns Taru’s stomach, but only for the memories those olfactory assaults recall. The retainer marches past the grand row of Crachian merchant and military vessels, all of them as tall as keep walls. The wood of their hulls is polished as finely as steel and flashes in the sun in almost the same way.
The Black Turtle is an ugly wedge of wood that doesn’t appear to bob atop the water as much as it appears to be sinking with imperceptible sloth. The sails are the color of mud and the rust sheen over its anchor chains are like a muted rainbow. The masthead is a turtle carved from solid blackwood that appears to be diving from the vessel’s bow, its stubby limbs spread as wide as their limited reach will allow. A pattern of stars is painted on its belly, an entire constellation that itself forms the vague shape of a turtle.
At the top of the gangplank Taru spies a boatswain calling out orders to the deck crew. The man is stumpy and ugly and he’s made even uglier by sucking the juice from a piece of dragonfruit.
“Permission to come aboard!” Taru calls up the gangplank.
The boatswain turns and stares down at the retainer, tossing the deflated piece of fruit into the bay. He squints against the sun, scrutinizing Taru closely for long moments before answering.
“You one of them Undeclared?”
Taru draws in a deep, calming breath and exhales. “I am.”
“Never seen one of you up close before.”
“I hope you are sufficiently impressed.”
The boatswain shrugs. “I’ve stuck it in plenty of worse lookin’ women. Men, too.”
Taru white-knuckles the tsuka of t
he short sword sheathed at their hip, teeth grinding murderously.
“May I come aboard?”
“Crachians ain’t allowed on Rok vessels unless they’re conducting state business.”
“I’m a member of Gen Stalbraid here in an official capacity.”
The boatswain licks the excess juice from his lips, seeming to ponder those words.
“Yeah, okay, why not. Come on up.”
Taru carefully stalks up the flimsy gangplank, the boatswain magnanimously stepping aside and bowing to the retainer with a smile on his face. Taru notices both his upper and lower teeth have been filed perfectly flat and straight.
“I need to speak with your captain.”
“I kinda expected you’d say that.”
The deck is filled with salty hands, all whom are at least two heads shorter than Taru. The retainer is unfamiliar with the island of Rok or its people. Like the boatswain, every set of teeth Taru can see has been filed down.
The man leads them across the deck to a shaded arch, under which a small puffy figure is reclining.
“Captain, you have a guest. Here on official business, they say.”
Staz, the Rok merchant vessel captain, looks like a human lounge chair. She’s one of the smallest women Taru has ever seen, and she’s utterly engulfed in a full-length wool coat that might’ve been stung by a thousand bees, so swollen are its folds. Captain Staz’s tiny wrinkled face and her head, covered in a cloud of dark, gray-threaded hair, barely rise from the top of the coat, like the turtle the ship is named for recoiling into its shell. Her equally tiny hands are folded in front of her. There are darkened rounds of glass guarding both of her eyes from the light of day.
“You don’t look Crachian,” the Captain observes.
Taru stiffens. “So I’ve been told.”
“I imagine they confuse you for one of us, don’t they?”
“It has been implied a time or two.”
Staz grunts. “You don’t look like one of us. But your everyday Crachian can’t tell the difference between an Islander and a B’ors outrider anyway.”
“My name is Taru. I serve Gen Stalbraid as retainer. I am here on behalf of Brio Alania. He left certain articles in your charge. I must claim them.”
Staz cocks her head. “Where is Brio?”
Taru expected her voice to match her stature; perhaps high and squeaking like a creature from a folktale. Instead Staz sounds like a sage speaking from atop a mountain.
“He was… taken. We do not know where. We only know he is alive, or at least he was several weeks ago.”
The Rok captain’s lips purse tightly, though she doesn’t seem entirely surprised by this news.
“I don’t know you,” Captain Staz says, less an accusation and more a puzzled observation.
“Brio always chose to visit you alone,” Taru explains. “To keep your confidence as well as his own. I often accompanied him as his protector when he came to the Bottoms.”
“Brio is a good boy. His father brought him here many times when he was a child. I enjoyed watching him run around the deck, playing pirate. I never had any children of my blood. The sea gets jealous, you know.”
“I am afraid I do not. I have never been one for boats or the water.”
The Black Turtle’s crew laughs, though its captain remains quiet.
“Brio told me nothing of you,” Staz said. “What did he tell you of me?”
“The same.”
Staz nods. “A good boy. His father also saved my life, a long time ago. I was a guest in your dungeons during the Fifth Invasion of Rok, the last invasion, as it turned out. When the war ended, Brio’s father negotiated the release of all Rok’s children from Crachian custody. No small feat, I assure you. Your Protectorate Ministry wanted to murder us out of spite.”
“I… have never heard of this conflict before. This invasion you speak of.”
Again, the crew laughs at Taru’s ignorance.
Staz does not. She only smiles thinly, staring at Taru’s knees through her blackened shades.
“Of course you haven’t,” she patiently explains. “Those who rule over you without name don’t tell your people about the wars they win, let alone the ones they lose. Crache tried for generations to conquer our mother island and her children. They even succeeded briefly a time or two. But no matter how many ships and Skrain they sent, Rok’s children always repelled them in the end. We refused to be conquered. It must have frustrated your nameless rulers to no end, that the great machine they’ve built that feasts on many kingdoms and realms and nations could not eat one tiny island. In the end, they chose to do the one thing Crache never does. They compromised. Rok possesses qualities whose grace they require, you see. So, now we trade instead of fight. We are permitted to dock and offload pieces of Rok, as long as we do not ‘taint’ the citizenry by leaving the ship.”
It makes sense to Taru, with what they know about the Savage Legion; that Crache could wage such silent war, although Taru can’t believe Crache could not defeat a small island nation.
“I tell you all this so that you know who I am, and what I owe Brio and his Gen.”
“I can appreciate that.”
“I know Crache has no love for what they call the ‘Undeclared.’ So I doubt very much you’re a spy for them. I would offer to take you back to Rok. We have no such prejudices against the twin-spirited there. But this also is part of our bargain with your people. We do not mix among you and none of you are allowed to travel to Rok.”
“Again, I appreciate your words. Does that mean you will give me the articles Brio entrusted to your care?”
“No.”
Taru stares down at the small plush pile.
“No?”
“Brio left me no such instructions, though the ones he did leave were very clear. I am to relinquish what you seek to no one save him. Perhaps he did not wish to endanger anyone else. Perhaps he simply did not think to provide a contingency. He seemed hurried. In either case, I can only follow the instructions I have.”
“Captain Staz,” Taru begins carefully, “I cannot leave this ship without those dispatches.”
The old bundled-up woman shrugs. “Then you cannot leave this ship.”
In scarcely the blink of an eye Taru’s hands are filled with both short sword and hook-end.
The jovial mood pervading the deck is snuffed out in that hiss of steel against leather. Every member of the crew not standing leaps to his or her feet. Taru watches half a dozen weapons drawn, hears twice that many being drawn and picked up. Rok blades are strangely curved, turning forward toward the end, almost as if each sailor is holding their dagger backward. Taru can imagine the chopping power of such blades.
The retainer slowly kneels and places both their weapons upon the deck, relinquishing them there and standing.
“I hold no man in this world more dear than Brio Alania,” they announce to the deck. “He held fewer dear than Captain Staz. You are her crew. I will not disrespect Brio by taking the life of any hand on this deck. But I am leaving here with Brio’s possessions.”
Staz smiles her thin smile. “You intend to defeat us all with your bare hands, do you?”
Taru nods. “I intend to try.”
Many of the deckhands tense at those words, choking the handles of their weapons a little tighter. Several edge just a few spare inches closer toward the patch of deck supporting Taru. The collection of hardened sailors is like one animal with many limbs, all of them preparing to strike.
The Rok captain laughs. It’s the sound of a file dragging against soft steel. She claps her tiny, barely visible hands together in appreciation of Taru.
“Little Brio chose his people well,” Staz says. “Very well, I should say.”
Taru feels the mood of the deck shift once again. Bodies relax and several of the sailors add to their captain’s laughter.
The retainer feels a modicum of relief, but quickly tamps it down. Nothing has been resolved yet, and a fight may still
come.
“I have a question I need ask you,” Captain Staz says to Taru.
The retainer nods.
“You know you cannot win. My crew will cut you to pieces, many of them, seeing as you are a big one. Even if you take two or three of them with you, there’s no hope of victory here. You cannot retrieve the thing you want. Why fight knowing for certain you will die?”
“I don’t fear death,” Taru says without hesitation.
“That is half an answer. What is the rest?”
Taru is caught only for a moment, and then, “I fear failing the ones who’ve put their trust in me. The ones… the ones I love.”
“This is worse than death?” Staz asks as if she’s surprised by the notion, though it’s clear she’s only baiting Taru.
The retainer nods. “It is to me.”
“I wish we could take you back to Rok with us. I believe you would thrive there. You are very much like one of her children. I would have enjoyed having a child of my blood like you.”
Taru recognizes the scope of such a compliment, but is ill equipped to respond. Luckily, Captain Staz isn’t awaiting an answer. She summons a deckhand and whispers something in the young girl’s ear before sending her scurrying away. After several moments the girl returns with her hands clasped around a worn binder fashioned from thick horsehide. It’s enclosed by a flap and toggle bound together with a cord of catgut. The binder is large enough to hold a stack of parchment.
Staz takes it from the girl and extends the binder toward Taru. “Go with whatever gods watch over you. And tell Brio he owes his old Aunty Staz a visit… when he returns to us.”
Taru quickly bends down and snatches up the short sword and hook-end from the deck, sheathing both weapons expertly. The retainer reaches out and takes the binder from the small, bundled woman.
“I thank you. I give you my word I will use this as Brio intended.”
Captain Staz refolds her hands and nods.
Taru carefully fits the binder beneath their leather breastplate and bows deeply to the Rok vessel’s mistress. The retainer turns and tromps across the wooden deck. Taru halts just short of the gangplank, uncertain, but in the end the retainer turns back to address Staz.