Peculiar Soul

“What, then, is a path?” the priest cried. “If every creation bends towards destruction in the end, what is the result save for despair?”

“To destroy is to create,” replied the Great Sword.

“To create is to destroy,” replied the Great Shield. “There is nothing that exists without purpose, and nothing that fails to leave its mark upon the skein of the world. With each footfall upon the path, the divine grows and learns.”

“But we shall not see the wisdom of the divine,” the priest objected. “We will live and die, contributing only a grain of sand to a greater work.”

“This is true,” replied the Great Seer.

“But the truth is more,” replied the Great Seeker. “For you are already the wisdom of the divine, lacking only the sight to appreciate it.”

“How cruel, then, is the spread of time?” the priest asked. “To deny us the sight of our own form?”

“Time cannot be otherwise,” replied the Great Light.

“Through time, we separate the unknowing divinity from the wise, and draw the path between them,” replied the great Flame. “This separation is a gift you provide, for the world knows all time and none, and cannot walk the distance without your guidance.”

“Then our lot is to suffer for the divine?” the priest wailed. “How, then, is the divine worthy of our devotion?”

“The divine cannot be otherwise,” replied the Great Speaker.

“You are the divine,” replied the Great Caller. “And the divine is you. Do not despair in your quiet moment of time, small and insignificant against the vast world. Have faith that the vaults of the sky shudder with each footstep you take, and the foundations of the land shudder beneath that grain of sand. You do not lack importance. You only lack vision to see your importance, and where vision fails faith may serve.”

- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Division. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

There was really only one question that Michael needed to ask the mourners, acquaintances and various passers-by at the funeral, but it wore a different mask for each person. One was asked how they knew the missing man, another when they saw him last. When it came time to talk to the widow Michael simply asked if there was anything she needed.

Eventually, though, they all answered in their own way. Old Bachir had been a sometimes-fisherman, sometimes-salvager who made port in Rouns more often than not. He had four men in his crew, sometimes five. Yes, he had been known to take passengers on short trips. Yes, he had been seen talking to a strange young man with dark hair the day before setting off east across the bay.

Michael gave the widow his condolences and turned from the gathering, head strenuously protesting the effort of rising to his feet. As with those they had spoken with earlier, Spark had been close at hand for each conversation, smothering any distrust that Michael’s Ardan features might have spurred.

He stumbled, his hand shooting out to grasp a corroded handrail on the quay; it crumpled under his grip. Flakes of rust fluttered down as he tried to slow his breathing, quiet his pounding heart. Touching the widow’s mind with his soul had been no harder than talking with the others, but when he did-

An echo of borrowed grief flashed through him again, buckling his knees. He knelt quietly at the quayside and imagined his souls entirely contained within him, deaf to the outside world; his mind drew and redrew the boundary between himself and the world until the feeling passed.

He opened his eyes to see Sobriquet crouched in front of him, looking on with no small concern.

“I’m fine,” he panted. “Not used to using Spark like that, it got - loud.”

Sobriquet looked unconvinced. “You can scarcely stand upright,” she pointed out. “How is that-”

“I’m fine now,” Michael amended, rising to his feet and brushing the dirt from his trousers. He reached out to touch the deformed handrail, pinching it experimentally between two fingers, then shook his head. “Though I should probably be more cautious about my use of Spark. People don’t normally come through that strongly…”

Unai stepped forward, looking Michael over. After a moment, he nodded. “You seem to be in good health,” he said. “Although I concur with your assessment. Spark and souls like it are not to be used lightly.”

“It was necessary, in this case,” Michael said. “Or we’d never have prised the time of day from them, much less the course of that poor fellow’s ship.” He turned, peering to the east. “East across the bay. To Ardalt - unless there’s another likely port?”

“He’s hardly about to return to Leik,” Sobriquet snorted. “And everything past there is Mendiko waters. I doubt he’d try to escape through the Strait.”

“Nor would he be successful if he tried, I have no doubt Lekubarri has people monitoring every ship crossing the locks.” Unai shrugged. “Of course he may do any manner of thing, but what we know strongly suggests that Luc has gone to Ardalt.”

Michael pressed his lips together and nodded. “To Ardalt,” he repeated. “Well. I suppose there’s no avoiding it now.”

Sobriquet punched him in the shoulder, not bothering to moderate the blow. “You’re talking like it’s sewn up. How do you propose we get there?”

“The same way Luc did - talk to the captains in port, find one to take us across the sea.” Michael frowned at her exasperated expression. “You don't think that will work.”

“Michael, these are all Safid captains,” she said. “They’re not going to agree to sail to Ardalt, they’d be shot as soon as they came portside.”

Michael blinked. “Wait, then how did - ah.” He winced, his imagination supplying images he’d rather not see. “I hadn’t thought that through. You’re sure there’s not an Esroun captain somewhere close by, or one from some other neutral country?”

“I can’t exactly inquire as to their parentage,” Sobriquet muttered. “But this was a Safid port until yesterday, and if Esrou wants to trade with Saf there’d be little reason to come here instead of sailing down the north coast to Khem. We’d be better off returning to Leik, most of the captains sailing from there were accustomed to making that crossing; the fighting can’t have driven them all away.”

The suggestion prompted a flash of annoyance in Michael; he frowned. “It feels like retracing our steps,” he said. “And I doubt the truck has enough fuel to reach the nearest Mendiko depot.”

Sobriquet nodded towards the behemoth Mendiko battleships looming over the harbor. “A ship like that probably has some landing craft, no? I bet they could spare enough fuel for one truck.” She looked to Unai, who waggled his gloved fingers noncommittally.

“They should be able to help us,” he said, “but they’ll want to know why we’re requesting it, and our answers will inevitably filter back to Lekubarri’s ears.”

Michael thought a moment, then shrugged. “It’s worth the risk,” he said. “I’d rather risk Lekubarri finding Luc first than lose a week or more of distance while we walk back to Imes.”

“I concur,” Unai said. “But it merited a mention.” He surveyed the harbor. “We could likely find one of the captains willing to take us to the Mendiko ships, albeit for a substantial sum of money - but if it’s only the three of us, it would seem more expedient to steal one of the dinghies tied up at the pier.”

“Steal one?” Michael asked, looking up at the slender anatomens with some surprise.

Sobriquet gave him a sly grin. “It’s not as though it’d be your first time,” she said.

“That was - entirely a different scenario,” Michael protested.

“If it makes you feel better we can endeavor to return it afterward,” Unai said. “Ah. As long as the navy doesn’t shoot us on approach.”

“Is that likely?” Sobriquet asked.

Unai paused.

“On second thought,” he said. “Perhaps we should have the young mistress make contact remotely. The ship can send a landing craft for us.”

“You’ve just realized that they would have shot us,” Michael said. “That seems like a fairly major oversight in the plan.”

“Things were different the last time I was in Rouns,” Unai sniffed. “Less-inclined to gunfire as an opening move. Come on, I imagine you’ll want to drop your veil when you make contact. We should find one of these abandoned buildings…”

Michael watched him walk somewhat-stiffly towards a burnt storefront, then turned to Sobriquet. “He’s definitely stolen more boats than I have,” he said. “I imagine quite a few more.”

“Come on, then,” she said, nudging him in Unai’s wake. “You might learn something.”

A short while later, they found themselves standing on the rocky coast west of the port as one of the battleship’s squat landing craft puttered close. Its ramp swung down to reveal flint-eyed Mendiko soldiers, their rifles leveled at the trio; Unai raised his hand and called out something in Mendiko.

There was a pause; one of the soldiers yelled something back. Unai frowned and replied, his tone growing somewhat irritable. The soldiers relaxed after this second exchange, though, and one of them beckoned that they should board the craft.

“What was that about?” Michael muttered.

Unai shook his head. “Just nerves, I expect,” he replied. “He didn’t accept my usual passphrase, he asked for my contingency response instead. It’s an extended countersign that can be modified to indicate the speaker is under duress.”

“He thought we were holding you hostage?” Michael asked incredulously. “We were part of the main Mendiko force until last week.”

“As I said, I expect it’s just nerves,” Unai shrugged. “But keep your eyes open, nevertheless.”

They boarded the landing craft, taking free spots on the benches lining either side of its bay. The soldiers aboard said nothing as the boat pulled back into the water, making its way home to the nearer of the two Mendiko ships in the harbor.

Despite their silence, Michael read volumes from the men. He did not intend to; indeed, he tried not to. Spark remained irrepressible, though, still niggling at the forefront of his mind after he had gone wading into the funeral’s maelstrom of grief and loss. Every pang of recognition from the soldiers, every frisson of worry or fear at their presence reverberated through him unpleasantly, setting his teeth on edge. Michael spent much of the ride sitting quietly, trying to redraw that invisible border between his mind and the world.

Just as he had it mostly settled, a clang from the outside announced their arrival at the battleship. Curt words beckoned them onto the pristine grey decks of the ship, and from there to a small, windowless meeting room.

They had scarcely enough time to take in the undecorated walls and rude metal furnishings before the bulkhead door swung open to reveal a short, frowning man. He stalked up to Unai with a question in Mendiko, to which Unai replied; this went on for a few sentences before the man turned his attention to Michael.

“You want to go to Ardalt?” he asked. “Why?”

Michael weighed his responses only briefly; he did not know what Unai had told the man during their brief exchange. He decided on honesty. “We’re in pursuit of the man currently holding the Star of Mendian. We believe that’s where he’s gone.”

The man considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Petro Yaben,” he said. “I’m captain of the Enpresa.”

“Michael Baumgart,” he replied. “I’m-”

“I know,” Petro said irritably, making a shushing gesture. “And the Whisperer. Come.”

Michael followed bemusedly as the squat captain led them through a series of narrow hallways out onto the ship’s fore deck, stopping abruptly next to a guardrail on the port side.

“It’s my duty to assist in recovering the Star, when it’s lost,” Petro said. “I have a ship you can use.” He scowled at Michael’s delighted smile, making a sharp gesture. “Not this one. Eromena. Can’t bring a navy ship to Stahm - no, there’s one in impound. Picked it up recently-”

The captain squinted, then pointed to a small ship tied up to a buoy just off their port side. “That one. Caught it two days ago. Not a local ship, not Daressan or Mendiko, so we didn’t let it dock. Captain took exception, made a passable attempt to fake Mendiko clearance. I didn’t like the odor of it, though, so he’s in the brig.”

“Ah,” Unai said. “Hence the oddly-strict security.” He looked at the boat. “Seems big enough for our purposes. Have your men made sure it’s seaworthy?”

Petro snorted. “No. But it’s the boat I have for you, and it looks to be in decent enough shape. Some cargo aboard, no contraband. Even had a valid passphrase,” Petro said, taking his cap off to run his fingers through short, bristly hair. “Couldn’t pronounce it to save his life, though. Idiot. We’re going to hand him over for questioning when we rotate back to the Strait next month. The Directorate will want to know who leaked their clearance to him.”

Michael peered out at the ship gently bobbing in the harbor, his heart beating faster as his sight drew near, taking in its boxy hull and soot-marked stacks, the deck which had been scrubbed clear of any trace of the blood which had marred it-

“Don’t bother,” Michael said, his mouth feeling suddenly dry. “I can tell you what happened.”

Otto shot up from his cell’s bed when he saw Michael come in, his eyes widening. Moments later, his face relaxed into a rueful smile. “Guess you made it to Mendian after all,” he chuckled. “I never did get that last fifty crowns.”

“That was upon arrival in Arenga,” Michael countered. “I’ve still never been there.” He paused a moment, taking in the sight of Otto’s greying beard and leathery skin as memories rushed back, some coming easily and others working their way warily out from the crevices that Spark had made in his mind.

“I suppose we’ve all had our detours,” Otto said, tapping a cracked fingernail against the bars of his cell. “So what brings you here? If I were a gambling man, my money would be on you explaining to these fine men why in Ghar’s dusty dick that old man sold me a fake Mendiko passcode.”

A pang of well-worn grief echoed in Michael’s chest. “It was real enough,” he murmured, walking forward to let his fingers rest upon the cold metal door. His sight strayed down to the lock, Stanza flaring momentarily within him. A moment later the door creaked open.

Otto stared at Michael through the gap. “Seems you’ve had an interesting time these last few months.”

“You wouldn’t believe a word of it,” Michael said. “I’ve cleared things up with the captain. You’re to be released.”

A smile grew under Otto’s whiskers, only to fade moments later. “Ah, lad, I’ve been sailing too long to miss when a man leaves the bad news unsaid.”

“It’s not all bad news,” Michael said, nudging the door wide with his foot; it groaned and hung open, leaving Otto standing in the empty doorway. “For one, you’re about to earn those fifty crowns.”

None of the men was unhappy to see Rouns behind them, though Voss proved to have a powerful fear of open water that left him quivering belowdecks as the Helga set out across the bay. The rest of the men took whatever space they could in the mostly-empty cargo holds - though there was an undercurrent of nervous energy that underlaid their idle chatter.

Technically they had all committed treason by allying with the Mendiko, and then with Michael, though it seemed unlikely that Ardan authorities would be on the lookout for these particular men. Some seemed almost eager at the prospect of returning to familiar shores, others closed and sullen.

Michael could sympathize with either case. Ardalt held little appeal for him, but nevertheless he felt his nerves sing with the thought of seeing it again. It was irrational, or perhaps just nostalgic-

He shook his head, clearing his spinning thoughts away and leaning against the railing as the water slid by. The evening air was chill over the bay, but he could not feel its bite. No fatigue gnawed at him from the busy day, no aches or pains from crouching through the cramped bulkhead doors.

The world was finding it hard to gain purchase on Michael Baumgart as of late, and he wasn’t yet sure how he felt about that.

Soft waves against the hull didn’t hide the tremor of approaching footsteps, and Michael turned to see Unai walking up along the rail. He nodded and shifted to the side, making space for the old man to join him. A span of time passed where the two men said nothing.

“You know,” Unai said, “I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I last sailed on the water, rather than over it. Traveling with Her Radiance meant that the airship served at our pleasure, and it was by far the easiest way to cross the strait when the need arose.”

Michael chuckled. “We’d find it hard to escape notice if we showed up in that beast,” he said. “Otto’s ship is a meaner form of transport, but it shouldn’t raise any eyebrows.”

“You could arrive on a raft and still attract notice.” Unai nodded in Ardalt’s general direction, the horizon lost in golden haze. “We’ll need to remain veiled for the duration of our stay. From what I know of your history with Sibyl, she is unlikely to overlook you.”

“Ghar’s bones, I had almost forgotten about her,” Michael sighed - then frowned. “But she knows Luc’s face, or at least should. She had plenty of opportunity to sight him as a member of our party during the trip north. If you’re right about her - and I think you are - then Luc will earn her attention almost as quickly as I would.”

Unai nodded, leaning down to rest his elbows on the rail. “I imagine Luc’s whereabouts are already known to her,” he said. “But knowing and doing are two separate things. She may inform the authorities of his presence - or she may wait, and watch. Involving herself directly is a risk; letting your father stumble into it is a different sort of risk, and one more removed from what remains of her power.”

Michael furrowed his brow, dredging up dusty memories of Assembly politics. “She has no great love for my father, I’d say,” he muttered. “And if Luc does mean to go after Sever - Father has little real relationship with him, but Friedrich is the core of the military’s image.”

“Just so,” Unai agreed, a smile touching his lips. “Ardan politics has always been a game of introducing knives to backs. Even during my time in the directorate we were warned not to involve ourselves; our local contacts had a nasty habit of subverting Mendiko intervention to wrest power in the Assembly.”

His smile died. “It never ends well. I fear this time will be no different. If she informs the Assembly of Luc’s presence there’s a chance they might prepare adequately to slow him, or at least mitigate the damage he would cause. If she leaves them unaware - then by the time she realizes the true danger he poses, it may be too late for the Ardans to mount an effective response.”

Michael’s mind unhelpfully supplied images of Leire’s light scything through stonework, only this time it was the sooty brick of Calmharbor melting under the relentless torrent of brilliance, clouds swirling around the Iron Bay, the Assembly building engulfed in flames-

“She would tell them before it went too far,” Michael murmured. “Sofia - we have our disagreements, but she’s not a monster.”

“Is she not?” Unai asked. “Hasn’t Ardalt behaved monstrously under her watch? The attack on Leik, the abuse of their own soldiers, the pillaging of Daressa - she knew of those, and what did she do? Nothing, and I submit that she will do the same again.”

Everyone is justified in their own mind. Sofia’s voice echoed in Michael’s head, quiet and sad as they rode together. We cannot compromise the end in order to make the journey more pleasant.

“Shit,” he muttered. “She might at that. To hamstring the Committee of War, to keep Ardalt isolated and peaceful - she would watch and say nothing if she believed it necessary.”

“Careful, even so,” Unai warned. “Predicting motivations is a trap; only actions reveal a person’s true aims. Sibyl is embroiled in Assembly politics, by dint of her soul and family both. When she does something that gains her no advantage in that battleground, then you may presume ulterior motives.”

“She helped me,” Michael said, feeling somewhat mutinous. “Despite my father, not because of him. I’m not defending her, I don’t think she’s some paragon, but neither is she a political animal like you seem to think. She’s a woman with a vast, cold soul, yes, and I’d be worse than dead without her.”

Unai nodded, keeping his eyes on the ocean. “They’re all humans, in the end,” he said quietly. “Even Sever, or your father. Even Her Radiance - Leire. But if they prized their humanity over their title then they would have given up the latter when conflict arose.” He gestured behind them, his smile returning. “Like the young mistress did, back in Imes. Leire would have loved to see that.”

“Really?” Michael said, nonplussed. “I find that surprising.”

The smile left as quickly as it had come. “There were times when she would have wished the same for herself,” Unai said. “But the Star doesn’t permit abdication.”

A chill finally made itself felt, worming its way beneath Michael’s skin in a way that the sea air had not yet managed. “I suppose I may understand her better,” he said. “In the fullness of time.”

“I wonder,” Unai said. “In many ways you are more trapped by your fate than she ever was, yet it has not managed to confine you.” This time, the smile reached his eyes; it remained there. “I don’t believe wagering against you would be productive or wise, where your desires hold sway. You have been most singular in pursuing them.”

Michael blinked, straightening up from the rail. “I - thank you?” he mumbled. “I don’t know that I’ve ever considered myself to be a particularly driven individual.”

“Gharics,” Unai laughed. “I often wonder if it was you or the Safid that inflicted that particular malady upon the other; it seems a fitting curse either way.” He turned to face Michael, laying one hand gently on his shoulder.

“Do you know why an oak grows at the center of the Batzar?” he asked. “Not a statue of our great leaders, or the Stars from years past; only a tree. It has no grand ambition, it does not know or care about the nation of Mendian. It only seeks to be more of itself with every passing day. Rocks splinter beneath its roots, wind cannot topple it, winter passes each year leaving it renewed rather than defeated.”

Unai let his hand drop from Michael’s shoulder, taking a step back. “It cannot be denied, slowed or stopped. It will be as it is meant to be, greater each morning it arises. Not all ambition manifests in men slain or commanded, columns of numbers increasing ceaselessly to no apparent end. Power exists, yes - but it is not the point.”

His eyes twinkled for a moment before he sketched a shallow bow, turned and walked back inside.

Michael turned his eyes back to the water, watching the dark waves play with the reddening highlights of dusk. The light waned and shifted; stars began their dance over the ink-dark bay. He turned towards his cabin - the same one he had shared with Jeorg, a few months and a lifetime ago.

Sobriquet raised her head blearily as he walked in. “You were out for a while,” she said. “I’d have thought you would jump at the chance for some rest, with the day we’ve had.”

“Not really that tired,” Michael admitted.

She levered herself the rest of the way upright. “Anxious about going back home?” she asked.

Michael sat down beside her on the bed, leaning in for a kiss. “Not really,” he said. “Calling it home is a bit of a stretch. I have - memories, there, but not much else.”

“Mmm. That’s what home is, silly.” She flicked her finger ineffectually at his forehead. “The place where you build those memories.”

He smiled. “I recently heard an alternative theory,” he said, leaning in closer. “Would you like to hear it?”

“I’d say I’m all ears, but that’s manifestly not - mmph.” She broke off as Michael kissed her again. When she broke away, her cheeks were flushed, her voice low and soft.

“I thought you had resigned yourself to living alone in a cold glass palace,” she murmured. “What changed?”

“Nothing.” He smiled at her. “I was just reminded of an old lesson about fools and chains.”

“Ghar’s blood, I’m in love with a crazy man,” she muttered. “Stop talking nonsense and kiss me.”

Michael laughed, and did as she asked.