TMarkos
patreon
Chapter 84 - Familiar Faces
🕑 Added 2022-11-09 23:39:07 +0000 UTCWhen speaking of the Gharic lands, it is common to hear men cite the extreme difficulty in governing a conquered populace. A people are naturally inclined to chafe under foreign rule; indeed, our own example illustrates how a society may foster determination and will sufficient to span the gap of centuries. The immediate question that follows is obvious: are we not condemning ourselves to a repeat of our history in reverse, as the conquered Gharic peoples lie in wait for a time of Safid laxity?
We would be, were we to commit the same errors as Ghar did in our subjugation. The yoke of the emperor did not rest easily on us because we were made to feel our difference from that imperial state by dint of tax and whip, corvée and famine.
The lesson is at once easy and impossible: do not rule over foreigners. Draw no lines between Gharic and Safid, accept any earnest man regardless of his ancestry. This is perhaps easier for us than it was for Ghar, as our faith compels us to display such magnanimity regardless of the practical benefits. Faith is the open door through which men become Safid in truth, and it is the greatest of crimes to allow prejudice to close that redeeming gate.
This is not to say that disruption to our rule should be tolerated; the hand that rules must always be iron. It will lose no strength in a velvet glove, however, and will exert itself far less.
- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687
—
Michael’s eyes slid open in the darkened cabin. It was useless, vestigial habit to close them while he slept; his sight cared little for the state of his eyes. If he truly needed darkness there were vast stretches of it beneath him, quiet expanses of bedrock and water always waiting to smother his vision in blackness. He seldom indulged in it, though, preferring to let his sight drift back to his cot or fly far overhead against the windswept stars.
The choice mattered less every night; it had been a long time since he slept through to morning’s light. Sometimes he let his sight roam around while he lay still, investigating the little facets of wherever they had made camp, other times he kept his awareness tucked tightly between his body and Sobriquet’s, relishing her presence.
Today he raised himself carefully from bed, snagging a light shirt from the bedside and padding barefoot to the Helga’s deck. The night was clear, with no hint of incipient sunrise sullying the stars. He felt the thrum of the engine in his feet, the gentle caress of the water as the prow pushed it aside. They were still in the eastern reaches of the Cauldron Sea, far distant from the continent but not yet in sight of Ardalt.
Michael was quietly grateful for the extra time.
Soft, rhythmic vibrations joined the ship’s song as footsteps approached behind him; he shifted his sight and saw Otto walking up from the wheelhouse. The captain rubbed his hands together to ward against the chill wind.
“It’ll be some time yet before landfall,” he said. “Or sunrise, for that matter. Ghar’s teeth, you’re not even wearing shoes.”
Michael looked down and saw his own footprints clearly outlined in the thin frost coating the deck. “Potens soul,” he said. “I don’t seem to feel the cold like I used to.”
Otto gave him a long look, likely remembering what he had done to the lock in his cell - then shook his head. “Bah. I won’t ask, so don’t you dare tell me another word of it. Still regretting the last time I took you aboard, I don’t need more fuel for that fire.” He barked out a low, hoarse laugh, looking bemusedly down at Michael’s feet. “And I thought the old man was trouble. Should have had my eye on you instead.”
Inexorably, Michael’s sight was drawn to the spot on the deck where Jeorg had died. “What happened to his body?”
“They left him there, after they grabbed you,” Otto said, looking grimly down at the same spot. “Set off without so much as a threat to me, so I made my way forward. Your friend - it’s bad business to travel with a dead man aboard, especially one shot. He’s in the sea, with weight and sailcloth.” He frowned, then turned to Michael. “Same as I’d have done for any man who died underway. If you’re going to take exception to that, tell me now.”
Michael briefly imagined Jeorg wrapped in a pressing bundle of sailcloth, weighted down and dumped into the icy water, sinking down into the blackness; he tapped his foot against the deck once. Eventually, he turned to Otto. “I don’t think he’d mind,” Michael said. “So I suppose I don’t either.”
“Good to know,” Otto said, looking relieved despite his stoic manner. He moved to stand beside Michael at the railing. “Have to say, it’s a mite surprising to find you so eager to get back to Ardalt, seeing the trouble you had in getting away.”
“I’m a bit surprised myself,” Michael admitted. “But that’s where I need to be.”
Otto grunted. “Sometimes that’s the way of it.” He pulled a pipe from his jacket and busied himself lighting it. Once he had taken a few good draws, he leaned on the rail. “Not the same place you left it, I’d say. I’ve been there and back on a few trips since we last parted ways. Harder to find a friendly face or an open door than it used to be.”
“Oh?” Michael asked.
“I expect you’ll see for yourself once we’re there,” Otto said. “I won’t tell you what to do with yourself. There’ll be no favors owed between us once you’re off, this time. No passcodes, no dead friends, no unfinished business. I feel your leash tickling at my throat, boy, and I don’t like it.” He looked up at Michael, his expression blank. “Not one bit. I didn’t take to the sea to find ties on me.”
Michael blinked, taken aback; Otto’s tone was not hostile but his words had a definite unfriendliness to them. “I didn’t come looking for you,” Michael said. “Nor do I expect to again.”
The old captain smiled at that, drawing on his pipe and looking back out to the sea. “Nor do you expect to,” he chuckled. “Time was I had a woman, you know. Long ago. An auspex, but not one like you find in the papers. She bore it hard, turned sickly. Drifted farther away-” He shook his head. “I’d catch her staring in the market sometimes, eyes fixed on some stranger like their coat had caught fire. Folks she said were ‘bright’ in her eyes. You know what she said to me, when I asked?”
Otto fixed him with a look. “Stay far away from the bright folk, she said. Hard for a man to break free from their current, once it snags them.” He held Michael’s gaze. “As I’m finding.”
“I’ll do my best,” Michael said. “Though I’m not sure how I’m meant to prevent our paths from crossing again.”
The smile crept back onto Otto’s lips. “Leave that to me, lad. Old Helga has some steam in her yet. I’ll sail - well.” He tipped his pipe towards Michael wryly. “Nowhere that I’ll be sharing with you.”
“Fair enough.” Michael straightened up from the rail to look at the old captain. “But you should know that it may not be far enough. You’re not wrong about me. If you-” He paused, considering his words. “Even if you manage to stay far away from me, you may find yourself drawn back one day. I can turn you away one final time, but it will mean your - end.”
Otto straightened up to face him, latching onto something in Michael’s tone that robbed any levity from his weathered face. “Then that’s where I’ll end,” he said.
Michael held his gaze for a long moment. Otto wasn’t a friendly man, but neither had he been unkind or treacherous. He was only Otto, and apparently had little interest in being anything else.
“All right,” Michael said.
He turned without saying anything further. There was little to say, after that, and if Otto wished to minimize his ties with Michael - every moment they spent talking was a danger. Perhaps he would slip free, as he wished. Perhaps not. Michael tried to banish the thoughts from his mind on the way back to his cabin.
His attempt at a stealthy entry was less successful than he planned, though, as Sobriquet was sitting up groggily when he swung the door closed.
“Trouble?” she yawned.
Michael shook his head. “No. Just talking with Otto. We’ve got some time before we dock.”
“He have anything interesting to say?” she asked.
There was a pause. “He asked me to kill him,” Michael said. “The next time we meet.”
Sobriquet sat upright, the quiet of sleepiness replaced by the quiet of focus. “Did he, now.”
“Not like that,” Michael sighed, rubbing his eyes. “He didn’t want - it’s complicated.” He sat down on the cot next to her, then looked up to meet her eyes. “Do you ever wonder where you’d be if our paths hadn’t crossed?”
She snorted. “Dead, maybe. Or taking potshots at Saleh from hidden basements.” Her tone quieted at the look on Michael’s face; she reached out to take his hand. “What does it matter? That’s not the life we’ve lived.”
“I suppose.” He scratched his head. “Something Otto said set me wondering about it.”
“We’ve got too many real worries to begin borrowing imaginary ones,” she said. “Come on. You should try and rest before we reach Ardalt.”
He felt no hint of sleepiness, but Michael nodded and lay down beside her. His sight drifted down at first, dark and quiet, but it was too close for his taste. The sky was in the other direction; Michael raised his sight up and turned towards the east, looking for the first signs of dawn.
—
The coast appeared in late morning, a dark sliver marring the horizon under the sun. Michael watched from the hold as the land drew closer, the tiny shapes of watercraft and buildings resolving themselves against the terrain. Stahm was not as large as Calmharbor, he remembered, but was nevertheless a sizable port city. It sat squat and dirty against the shore, vast docks and cranes huddled close against the water as ships approached to unload their wares.
He pulled his sight back to take in the men shifting restlessly in the hold. They had gathered belowdecks long before the shore came into view so that Sobriquet could veil them within the smallest possible area.
Michael had no notion of where Sofia was currently, but it seemed likely she was at her estate in Calmharbor. The risk of detection under Sobriquet’s veil was therefore not high, but until they knew better Michael had opted to take the conservative approach.
A great shudder went through the ship as they pulled close to the pier; shouting voices outside filtered down through the vents. The air in the hold thrummed with tension from the men.
“Do you think they’ll search us?” Voss asked.
Zabala snorted. “Even if they did, the harbormaster is scarcely going to have a man who can see through Sobriquet’s veil. It’s just normal port operations, we’ll be on our way before long.”
Voss bit his lip and slouched against his pack, waiting. Michael indulged in watching the outside of the ship as Otto clomped out to pay his docking fees, leaving the ship’s doors and gates wide-open in his wake. A few moments later he had gone away to the harbormaster’s office, and with him went the majority of the men around the ship.
“All right,” Michael said. “Let’s go.”
They moved quickly to disembark, though Sobriquet cautioned them to avoid stepping heavily on the pier. Michael moved within the bulk of their company, barely noticing his immediate surroundings as he took in the harbor.
Sooty brickwork and faceless crowds dominated what he could see from the pier, people traveling to the fishmarket or about their business at the harborside shops. It was a normal day - disorientingly so for Michael, for it was indistinguishable from any of the waterfront streets in Calmharbor. The sights and smells pressed close around him, tickling his memory.
The stonework in Daressa was subtly different from Ardalt, he realized. The buildings tended to sit lower to the ground, lacking embellishments at the crown of the facade. It was one of a hundred things he had never noticed, through inattention or lack of comparison; they all settled into place in his mind as it shouted incessantly that he was home, home, home.
His heart began to beat faster, his skin flushing. Home. The noise of carriage wheels over cobbles carried across the market’s din, indistinguishable from the clatter of his father’s old carriage; he snapped his head towards the source of the noise, half expecting to see his father scowling at him through the carriage window-
But, no. They were many days’ travel from Calmharbor, he reminded himself, taking a slow, deliberate breath. His father had no idea he was here. Even if he had, Michael had no more to fear from his father’s soul. What Sever had failed to destroy would certainly not fall to Karl Baumgart.
He allowed himself a small smile at that, lifting his eyes - and freezing as his father’s face stared back at him. The cold eyes, the sneer - they pierced through him in an icy rush, leaving his heart thudding with wild abandon against his ribs, his mind racing.
The man behind him collided with Michael, giving a surprised grunt. Michael whirled and dropped to a half-crouch, Stanza flooding into him with its golden filigree; the others turned to look at him-
Michael shut his eyes and clenched his fists as his mind caught up with his unthinking reaction. He opened them again, slowly, so that he could see the poster with his father’s face. There was more than one, at second glance, a neat row of posters all glaring out with that hateful face stamped upon them.
Sobriquet was the first to follow his gaze; Michael felt a quick ripple of feeling burst from her before her eyes came back to him; she stepped forward to gently lay her hand on his shoulder.
“That’s him?” she asked.
Michael nodded, not taking his eyes away from the posters. “That’s him,” he confirmed, speaking deliberately; he was not confident in the steadiness of his voice. “He’s doing well for himself.”
“He looks like an ass,” Sobriquet muttered.
“I’ve been told I resemble him somewhat,” Michael said.
She nudged him. “I said what I said.” Her fingers curled through his. “We should keep moving.”
Michael gave quiet assent, letting Sobriquet lead him on a clear path through the docks where their band wouldn’t disrupt the throngs of people choking the quay. The men followed in their wake, but Michael’s vision stayed fixed forward, never turning towards the glares that hung stubbornly in the corner of his vision. He felt the heat of it, like standing next to a forge; it was only when they turned down a side alley and found themselves standing in a disused lot that he felt his breathing return to normal.
Sobriquet looked at him, a wordless question in her eyes. Michael nodded thankfully back - paused, then nodded again. “I’m fine,” he said. “We’re fine. Everyone make it through okay?”
There was a muttered chorus of acknowledgments and affirmatives from the group.
“Good,” he said. “We’re going to be staying close together while we’re here, at least until we know where Sibyl is at. If we get confirmation she’s in Calmharbor we can relax a bit - Sera?”
Sobriquet nodded. “She shouldn’t be able to see a blind spot easily from Calmharbor to Stahm, based on what I know of her,” she said. “We can probably risk any of the men but Unai and Zabala walking unveiled for a time. You and I need to stay veiled at all times, of course.”
She turned to look around the tight confines of the lot, buildings growing up around them in sooty, dark silence. “I didn’t notice any sign of Luc as we came away from the port, but that doesn’t mean much - it’s a busy city, and who knows if this is the port he landed at.”
“It’s the major port on this coast,” Unai said, scratching at his jaw thoughtfully. “The surroundings at least bear investigation. In port cities I expect the doctors are familiar with the signs of fishrot; we’ll want to look to see if there have been any unusually severe cases.”
Michael frowned. “That might be difficult. The only licensed anatomentes and physicians are with the Institute. There are others, but it’s not as though there’s a central directory for us to check.”
“I know a few places we could check,” Voss said hesitantly. “I’m from Stahm, I worked as a Freezer for a few years before I enlisted. There’s a clinic just north of the market, for a start - that’s where most of the dockworkers would go for injuries and the like.” He paused and flushed, seeming to realize that he was the focus of attention. “Can’t say for fishrot. Everyone knows doctors can’t do nothing for it, so most don’t waste their money.”
Zabala’s head came up. “You have to pay?” he asked, scandalized. “What about public clinics?”
Unai shook his head. “No public clinics in Ardalt, at least none that I’m aware of.” He and Zabala exchanged a look; the younger man turned away grumbling something in Mendiko.
“That sounds like a decent enough place to start,” Michael said. “Thanks, Voss. Can you lead us there?”
“Been a few years,” the Freezer mumbled. “But sure, it was up the Fischmarktallee…” He began to walk uncertainly down the street, his movements growing more sure as they turned onto a broader boulevard.
Their group clumped together, weaving through the free areas in traffic with some difficulty; Stahm was not a calm city, and the day’s business was beginning in earnest. But while the people on the street increased in number, there was an odd silence to the crowd. The normal chatter of friends meeting in the street was subdued, the cries of street vendors all but absent.
Michael stretched out hesitantly with Spark, tasting the air. It carried the familiar taint of fear, though a duller and quieter species of it than he usually encountered. This was not a battlefield fear, nor the uneasy quiet of those forced into close quarters with him. It was familiar even so, though it took him a while to realize why.
It was his own fear, the fear of a boy trapped in a house with a violent and dangerous man, writ large onto the streets and avenues of Stahm. People kept their eyes down, their mouths shut. Now that Michael knew it for what it was, he found it impossible to ignore.
Each of them was trying to avoid notice.
Michael walked a bit slower, dropping back to where Unai trailed the group. “Had you heard anything more about my father’s efforts here?” he said. “The town seems - I don’t know, beaten.”
“I’ve been noticing that,” Unai said grimly. “And no, I haven’t heard much else. I can guess, however.” He nodded towards where a group of women were walking quickly down the street, their eyes firmly fixed on the cobbles. “It’s no small thing to cow a populace this thoroughly. There have been arrests here, I’d say, and not just a few. There are probably constabulary auditors lurking throughout the city. Spectors too, most likely. Even if Sibyl isn’t here, we may not be able to rest easy.”
“Arrests for what?” Michael asked.
Unai waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. Saying the wrong thing. Seeming threatening. After the first disappearances, most of the people will govern their behavior to avoid doing anything they think will provoke a response - which is, of course, the entire point. The notional crimes of those first few don’t matter, although I imagine there were a few journalists and outspoken men of means among their number.”
Michael hummed, feeling mildly nauseous as he looked around once more at the people on the street. Another row of his father’s posters stared balefully from across a boarded-up shopfront as they passed.
Before too long they found themselves turning down a side alley towards an unmarked door; Voss looked back at Michael for confirmation and, receiving it, rapped his knuckles sharply on the wood.
Free from the need to wait, Michael sent his sight inside. There were only a few rooms, one of which was full of listless patients on cots. The others were a storeroom and a small office, in which an older man sat hunched over a desk. He looked up irritably as Voss knocked again, though he made no move to rise from his seat.
Michael pulled his vision back and turned to Sobriquet. “He’s in there,” he muttered. “Might need some encouragement to come to the door.”
She grinned, then closed her eyes; a moment later there was a sharp yelp of surprise from inside the office. Footsteps sounded, and the door opened to reveal a short, fat man with a thin buzz of white hair glaring at them.
“What?” he snapped. “I’ve already told your friends where they can put their summons, I’m not leaving my patients.”
Voss looked confusedly back at Michael, who stepped forward. “You have us confused with someone else,” he said. “We don’t have any friends who would have stopped by here.”
“Pah,” the doctor spat. “Don’t lie to me. Who else comes knocking on my door with ensouled and soldiers, eh? You’re Institute, just like the rest.”
“Institute?” Michael muttered. “No, we’re - look at them, do they look like Institute men to you? Do I? We’re just here on the trail of a - public health emergency, of sorts. Want to know if you’ve seen any strange cases of fishrot lately.”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Fishrot?” he asked suspiciously. “Nobody comes here for fishrot. Can’t treat it.”
“But have you heard of any odd cases?” Michael asked. “Fishrot, or perhaps intense burns.”
There was a moment of silence; the doctor’s eyes narrowed further still. “Fishrot and burns, eh?” he said. “Haven’t heard anything like that, no sir. Wouldn’t tell you if I had. You and your thugs can go lean on someone else to find your little rogue lucigens-”
“I never said we were looking for a lucigens,” Michael said, somewhat taken aback.
The old man surged up to stand in his face. “As good as said it!” he rasped. “Or do you think I’m an idiot, hm? Hmm? Burns and fishrot, burns and fishrot! What else could you be looking for?” He made a disgusted gesture and turned away. “Take your thugs and run back to whatever factory makes men like you, you useless fancy twat. I wish I did know where he was, I’d derive that much more pleasure from not telling you. Off my doorstep!”
The doctor huffed and turned back to slam the door; Michael slid his foot into the gap before it could shut. The doctor scowled and began slamming the door on his foot with gleeful abandon.
Unaffected, Michael leaned closer. “We have two anatomentes in our party,” he said. “Tell us anything you’ve heard, and we’ll heal every patient in your office.”
“Liar,” the doctor spat, still resolutely hammering the door into Michael’s foot. “Double liar, since you said you weren’t from the Institute - so which is it, hm? Not from the Institute, not an anatomens? Because if you expect me to believe-” He paused, the door slipping from his hand; his eyes went round.
Michael turned to see Unai walking up behind him, holding his hand up so that the doctor could see the tree device stamped into his glove. “Good evening, sir,” Unai said smoothly. “I can assure you that my friend here is telling the truth, and that we are not in any way affiliated with the Institute.”
“You - you’re.” The doctor shook his head. “You’re all fucking crazy, is what you are. Mendiko! Wandering around Stahm! I’m surprised you’re not all arrested, and me along with you.”
“Hello,” Sobriquet said sweetly, walking up to stand beside Michael. “I’m Sobriquet.”
The doctor blinked, then scowled. “Well, there’s not enough space inside for the lot of you. The pretty girl can come in. And the Mendiko.”
“And the fancy twat?” Sobriquet asked innocently. “He’s our other anatomens.”
“The fuck he is,” the doctor muttered. “Fine. Pretty girl, Mendiko and fancy twat. The rest of you, try not to drool in the alley. It’s unsanitary.” He opened the door and stepped aside. “Come on, I’m not getting younger.”
Michael sighed and ducked through the doorway.
