"Marfang and No Quarter!"
AUTHOR
BABBLEQUATRE: What’s the matter, Mel?
MEL: I’m feeling
slightly discombobulated.
QUATRE: *blink*blink* Er... what brought that
on?
MEL: We were kind of on a roll, so we wrote about a third of this
chapter before starting the babble, and now I can’t get into babble mode. It’s
like travelling back in time or something.
WUFEI: Only if you’re slightly
insane.
CHRISTY: Nothing ‘slightly’ about it! --Oh, don’t sit there,
Heero, I dropped a container of pins and I don’t think I got them all when I
picked up.
HEERO: ...That warning would have been timely about thirty
seconds ago. *wince*
MEL: Duo will kiss it better for
you!
[Christy’s place -- a.k.a. the House of Bishounen Torment -- is more
cluttered than usual, with lengths of fabric and lace draped over the writing
couch, dining table covered with offcuts and thread bits, and a sewing machine
sitting on the floor.]
TROWA: Christy? Apparently both your dogs and one
of your cats would like to complain about half-made quilts taking up all their
favourite sunning spots. The other cat regards fabric with pins in it as a
challenge.
CHRISTY: That would be Sarge?
TROWA: Yes. Loki and Zac
are annoyed because you won’t let them on your lap when you’re tying a
quilt--
CHRISTY: I would if they’d settle for sitting
under
it!
TROWA: --and Tash says the dining table is supposed to be left clear
in case she wants to sit on it.
MEL: She never does.
TROWA: She
wants her options to stay open.
DUO: Why the quiltstravaganza, anyway?
I’ve never seen you two sew before.
MEL: That’s because you were kind of
in limbo during our hiatus. As for why now... there was a sale.
CHRISTY:
And a Viking raid.
WUFEI: A
what?!
CHRISTY: We raided
Spotlight!
MEL: We pillaged! We got it in the right order, too --
pillage,
then burn. Not that we burned, but if we had, it would have been
after the pillaging.
CHRISTY: And we would have been wearing horned
helmets, too, only Paul couldn’t find his and Mel’s head is too big for her
hubby’s one to fit.
MEL: No comments about swelled heads THANK YOU. We
settled for singing pillaging songs that we made up on the spot.
WUFEI:
...Somehow I find all that to be depressingly plausible.
DUO: Which bit?
The pillaging songs, or the idea that they both married the sort of man who can
be relied on to own a horned helmet?
WUFEI: Yes.
CHRISTY: Shut up
or we’ll demonstrate.
DUO: Which bit? The singing or the
pillaging?
MEL: Yes.
----------------
Demon of
Justice
Chapter 38
‘Marfang and no
quarter!'
----------------“All right, you should be clear to
move back into the centre of the channel,” the dwarven pilot said, nodding to
Holderman. The halfling nodded back, turning the
Wind Dancer’s wheel a
few degrees.
The halfling ship was moving under less than half sail,
creeping upriver at a fraction of its usual speed. This branch of the Lower
Saram river was the deepest and most easily navigable, but it still had a number
of shifting shoals to be avoided; one of the dwarven trade families, based in
Saramfal and Derm, made a good income by hiring out pilots with local knowledge
of the latest hazards.
“We’re coming into a good stretch now,” the pilot
added, relaxing slightly. “Good deep bottom, no snags, and the current’s fast
enough here that shoals can’t form.”
“Safe to speed up a bit, then?”
Evark asked.
“Oh, aye.” The dwarf watched with interest as Evark barked
orders through his speaking trumpet, accompanying some with hand gestures or
sharp whistles.
“I’ve not had a chance to see Marfangers at work before,”
he said in a quiet aside to Holderman. “Got to say I’m impressed.”
“We
try,” Holderman said dryly.
“Shift back to port a mite,” Evark told him,
lowering his trumpet. “There’s a ship coming downriver, give ‘em
room.”
“Ship fine on the starboard bow!” the lookout called down. “Blue
sail, white flag with a blue bird!”
“Derm’s colours,” the pilot put in,
squinting ahead.
“...Are they, then?” Evark said slowly, frowning. “Tell
me, Kelov, does Baroness Ernos buy many ships from the Purple
Lords?”
“No, she has ‘em built herself or buys from Saramfal,” the pilot
said, surprised. “Why?”
“Because that’s a Purple Lord-built hull, or I’m
a troll,” the halfling captain said grimly, lifting his spyglass for a better
view. He held it for only a few breaths before his hands tightened and he
swore.
“Trouble?” Holderman asked quietly.
“They’ve repainted, but
there’s scars on the bow. She’s been used to ram, more than once,” Evark
muttered, and whistled sharply, two short and one long trill. Across the deck,
crewmen looked up.
“What’s going on?” Kelov asked
warily.
“Hopefully nowt,” Evark told him, planting one hand in the small
of the dwarf’s back and pushing him towards the waist of the ship. “But I think
you should spend the next few minutes over here, with Chihar, out of the
way.”
“Out of the way of
what?”
“Just you be sitting down
here next to me, eh?” the ship’s surgeon told him, popping up apparently out of
nowhere. “Now’s not the time to be asking questions. Captain’ll be happy to
explain in a bit, I’m sure...” Kelov noted that he was twirling a belaying pin
in one hand, an excellent cudgel if he chose to use it that way, and sat down
slowly. The halfling might have slender wrists, but now he came to think of it,
they were notably sinewy, and there were definite muscles under his
sleeves.
Chihar dropped his free hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and tugged
him backwards a bit, until he was tucked in beside the stairs leading to the low
stern castle. “We’ll be snug enough here,” he said, half to himself.
Up
next to the wheel, Evark whistled again, then grunted. “Best we can do without
being obvious,” he muttered.
“Aye,” Holderman nodded. “D’you want the
wheel?”
“No. You’ll do fine enough, and they might wonder why we swapped.
One of ‘em had a spyglass up.”
“Ah.” The first mate grinned sharply.
“Same as that little tiff last year, then?”
“Aye.”
The blue-sailed
ship wallowed closer, moving fast with the current and wind behind it and riding
high, not carrying any heavy cargo. It was a little longer and narrower than
Purple Lord ships tended to be, but still recognisable as something built in
Bortalik Bay; the half-elves relied on their strategic position to maintain
their stranglehold on trade, far more than the quality of their
ships.
Holderman’s hands were light on the wheel, making minute
adjustments, and several crewmen had moved to stand near particular ropes; one
or two had partially unwound their ropes from the cleats holding them in place
and were pretending to trim the sails, fussing over the tension.
“Think
they’ll time it right?” Evark asked suddenly, turning to raise one eyebrow at
his friend and officer. “We’re talking about Purple Lords, after all, or at
least people who’re willing to work with ‘em.”
“Who knows?” Holderman
laughed, grinning back. “Even if they miss their cue, though,
we
won’t!”
----------
Tyllar Du’hai Ardun’s top lip curled in a sneer
as he watched two of the halflings aboard the approaching ship laugh at some
joke. “I think my father is being overly cautious,” he told the lean human
standing next to him. “Surely if they were carrying the message we’re looking
for they’d be more wary? And we’re speaking of
halflings, of all
things!”
“True,” the dog brother snorted. “The hardest part of killing
them is likely to be chasing them down as they run. Still, orders are
orders.”
“Also true,” Tyllar sighed. “Let’s get this done quickly and
return to port, hmm? Father’s bird interrupted my lunch, and I left a delightful
bottle of wine half-finished.”
The ship’s crew -- dog brothers and
cultists, every one -- were as casual as their leaders as they moved into their
assigned places. Part of their relaxed attitude was an act, of course, and part
was due to the fact that they’d pulled off this trick three times already; and
then, of course, they knew as well as Tyllar what they were facing. Halflings.
Small, cowardly, and weak.
“Here we go,” the dog brother murmured, and
both he and the half-elf took a firm grip on the railing around the stern
castle. Most of the crew were clustered a little way back from the ship’s bow,
prepared to rush forwards onto a deck half-wrecked by impact and populated by a
stunned, demoralised rabble.
“
Now!” the ship’s captain barked, and
the steersman spun the wheel, turning hard to starboard. The reinforced bow
lurched sideways towards its target, aiming at the more fragile planks and ribs
at the side of the oncoming Marfanger ship--
--that was also turning
towards them, seeming to pirouette on its keel. Tiny figures hauled on ropes and
the foresail snapped taut as the wind filled it, yanking the bow around even
further until it was completely out of the cult ship’s way. Other halflings
stepped out from behind the forecastle and mast, arms raised as they swung
something above their heads--
Grappling hooks? Tyllar thought
incredulously. “
They’re boarding
us?!”
Iron hooks thunked
solidly into the siderail and tangled in the rigging of the cult ship, and half
the Marfanger ship’s crew ran to haul on the ropes, letting their sails flap
free as the two vessels crashed together. The other half were already climbing
their own rigging, leaping with no apparent care for life or limb across the
gap; one dog brother, braced for an impact from the front but not ready for one
from the side, tumbled over the rail to be crushed between the two hulls. Before
the half-elf could blink, a mob of short figures were spilling across the centre
of his deck, and he paled as he realised that that put them
between him
and most of his crew.
There was a breathless pause as the cultists stood
stunned, and the halflings settled their feet, swords and belaying pins at the
ready; then the human next to Tyllar swore and drew his sword, teeth
bared.
“
Sharna!” he roared, and a few of the dog brothers joined
in, shaken voices steadying as they recovered from their shock.
At the
lead of the crowd of halflings, one with brown hair and a magnificent moustache
took a deep breath. “
Korthrala!” he roared back, just as deep and just as
loud -- then the slightly taller halfling next to him grinned and took a breath
of his own.
”Marfang and no quarter!” he bellowed, and the
other halflings took up the cry as they swarmed forwards.
Tyllar whipped
out his own narrow rapier, cursing himself.
So what if they were more alert
than we thought? Here or on their ship, the outcome will be the same! This won’t
take long--The first halfling to reach him took the stairs to the
stern castle two at a time and lunged, short sword thrusting for Tyllar’s
stomach. He parried easily and flicked his blade, stabbing at his opponent’s
eyes. The halfling ducked and twisted, and Tyllar blinked as the short man
parried and jerked his head sideways, hooking one horn over the rapier and
trapping it with his own blade. As he tried to pull back, another halfling slid
past the first and swung a belaying pin into the side of the half-elf’s
knee.
He staggered backwards until he came up against the wheel with a
thump, sword coming loose with a grating rasp. The knee wouldn’t hold his
weight, glass-sharp pain stabbing up his leg as he tried it, so he clung to the
wheel with one hand for support as he brought his sword up again to face his two
opponents-- no, three-- no,
four now, plus several more surrounding the
dog brother, almost dancing as they darted in to stab and jumped back from his
counters. The ones in front of Tyllar sidled forwards, eyes wary behind lifted
weapons, and he gulped as he realised that the overlapping scales on the armour
shirt under his tunic might be excellent protection against overhand swings or
straight-on thrusts, but provided almost no defence against an upwards thrust...
like almost any attack made by an opponent half his size.
He’d been
right. It didn’t take long at all.
----------
“What’s the count?”
Evark asked grimly, looking around the deck of the captured ship.
“Kaedir
and Peross are dead,” Chihar told him. “Vannar might join them, and we’ve got
three more seriously wounded, plus the usual complement of breaks and cuts. On
their side--” He also looked around, and shrugged. “We haven’t searched
belowdecks, but if there’s anyone left alive they aren’t showing
themselves.”
“I think at least some of ‘em had fought halflings, but
they’d never fought Marfangers before,” Holderman put in, carefully wiping his
sword clean. “You could tell; none of ‘em took us seriously until they started
dying.”
Evark bared his teeth in a vicious grin. “By which time it was
too late,” he agreed. “Well, I’m never happy to pay a butcher’s bill, but at
least this one’s low.”
“What d’you want done with the
bodies?”
“Leave theirs on board,” the captain directed, “and we’ll fire
the ship. I don’t want anyone going below in case there’s someone hiding down
there, so we can’t scuttle it, but burning it ought to work just as well. Carry
ours back on board and sew them into canvas, same as if we were going to bury
them at sea, but I’ll be damned if I’ll drop them in the same water as Demon
Breath’s men; keep them in the hold for now. Depending on how long this trip
goes on, we’ll either bury them at Derm or carry them back to sea with us when
we’re done.”
“Aye,” Holderman nodded.
“Before we do that, there’s
something I need to show you both,” Chihar said, jerking his head towards the
bow of the ship. They followed him, picking their way between bodies and
bloodied patches of deck, until they reached a single body lying alone; a young
halfling, lying on his back with his arms flung out to the sides, blind eyes
staring up at the sky.
“Ah, damn,” Evark sighed, crouching and reaching
out to close the boy’s eyes. “I’m not looking forward to telling his parents,
that I’m not...”
Holderman frowned, studying the body. “What killed him?”
he asked. “That blood’s not his, I don’t think.” Crouching beside his captain,
he reached for the boy’s chest, moving to feel for wounds.
“Careful,”
Chihar said sharply, slapping his hands away. “You too, Captain.” Drawing a
narrow dagger, he used the point to carefully shift the folds of cloth at the
shirt’s neck. “Kaedar and Vannar and the others have sword-wounds and the like.
Peross here... well, some bright boy had a moment to get him from range.
Here.”
Evark blinked at the tiny dart, hardly more than a whittled
splinter with scraps of grey feathers tied to the end. “That little thing?
Poison?”
“Aye. A couple of the men saw what happened; they say one of the
dog brothers put his fist up to his mouth and Peross went down like a poleaxed
horse, six feet away. I found this nearby.” The surgeon showed them a narrow
tube, small enough to be hidden in a human’s hand. “I’m not getting close enough
to that thing to sniff it, but I’d say there’s only one thing it could be, and
that’s mindanwe sap. It only takes a scratch for it to stop your
heart.”
“Korthrala’s teeth, but that’s an ugly weapon,” Evark swore. “Is
there any way to defend against it?”
“Not really. There’s no antidote --
or if there is, nobody’s ever taken it fast enough for it to save them.” Chihar
shrugged. “The darts aren’t accurate further than about ten feet, and any sort
of a wind will knock them off course, so they’re not much use outside. This was
a damn lucky shot. If it’s any consolation, my teacher told me it’s nearly as
dangerous for the dog brothers to use as it is to be on the target side; at
least one assassin’s spiked his own thumb trying to load his blowpipe, and been
found out when he fell down dead at his target’s feet.”
“Somehow, I’m not
crying for ‘em,” Holderman snorted. “So, are--”
“What in all the gods’
names is going
on?!”
Twisting to see back over his shoulder, Evark
spotted the pale-faced dwarven pilot standing by the rail. With Chihar tending
to the dead and wounded, it looked like nobody had thought to keep him under
wraps. “What’s going on, Master Kelov, is us staying alive,” he growled, eyes
narrowing.
“Well, yes,” the dwarf sputtered, gesturing helplessly at the
carnage on deck, “but-- why? Why would a ship from Derm attack
you?”
“Because they aren’t from Derm,” Evark told him, straightening up.
Huh. Now I come to think of it, an independent witness wouldn’t hurt...
“They’re a bunch of dog brothers and Purple Lords, and they were trying to keep
us from taking a message east.”
“
What?! But-- I-- all right,
Purple Lords might have their fingers in anyone’s pie, but why would
Sharna-worshippers care about some lordling’s marriage plans?”
“Well, at
least
somebody bought that story,” the halfling captain muttered, looking
around. “Pity Serthan didn’t.”
“That ain’t the message we’re carrying,”
Holderman said kindly, reaching up to pat the dwarf’s shoulder. “The real
message is something that’s likely to put a crimp in Sharna’s plans, and that’s
probably all you want to know.”
Only half listening to the conversation,
Evark bent to one of the bodies and tugged the neck of its shirt open, then
another.
One of ‘em’s got to be carrying... aha! “Here,” he called,
tugging a belaying pin out of his belt and using the narrow end to pick up a
fine chain, drawing the attached pendant out into the sunlight. The gold
scorpion was fine work, almost delicate, and the emerald forming its body was a
flawless grass-green. “Trust a Purple Lord to have the best, even for something
like this,” he added, looking down at the half-elf’s body.
“...Oh,” Kelov
said, sounding a little sick as he looked at the proof of Tyllar’s allegiance.
“That’s... oh dear. Um. I... I guess that means your message is really
important, then?”
“Oh, aye, it is that.”
“Right. Um.” The dwarf
swallowed hard and straightened up, visibly stiffening his spine. “Well, in that
case, you’d best finish up here and get under sail again before the current
takes us back onto that shoal we avoided on the way up.”
Holderman
reached up and patted his shoulder again. “You know, I think you’ll do just
fine.”
* * * * *
Waves threw sparkles of sunlight back into
Commander Morash’s eyes as he squinted at the approaching longboat, and he
frowned. “Well, whatever they’re up to, it’s not a raid,” he said dryly, nodding
at the makeshift white flag flying from a reversed oar.
“Unless they’re a
diversion and the real attack is showing up somewhere else,” Adric suggested
mildly.
Morash snorted. “Nah, they wouldn’t do that. Diversions, yes, but
if they’re going to attack then they damn well
attack; you won’t get a
peaceful-looking diversion from the Wild Wash. They think it’s dishonourable. If
they come out under a flag of truce, they mean it.”
The civilian mage
quirked an eyebrow at him. “So... they’ll steal, smuggle, pillage, and
occasionally murder, but they won’t be sneaky about it?”
“That’s about
right.”
Whitetip slowed as the longboat rowed into shouting range,
balancing between the wind and currents. “Ahoy there!” Morash yelled through his
leather speaking trumpet. “What business?”
“Well if it ain’t Headbanger
Morash!” the hradani in the longboat’s bow roared back, grinning. “Nice talking
to you without yer horns comin’ at me face!”
“Gods save us, it’s Sargrin
Brokentooth,” the commander called back, unable to hide his own grin. “Hide the
beer!”
“It’s uncommon cruel you are, Headbanger. An’ here I was bringing
a barrel to wet our whistles as we talked, an’ all,” the hradani said
reproachfully, gesturing at the keg next to him as the longboat’s oarsmen backed
water, turning to match
Whitetip’s course.
“Ah, that’s different
then,” Morash admitted, leaning on the rail. “Boys! Belay that last order; hide
most of the beer, and drop a ladder for the honourable chieftain.”
Shooting a glance sideways at the mage, he dropped his voice to a low murmur.
“Ale means he wants to talk seriously, but he’s not going as far as a lasting
truce. We’re on the same side until the alcohol runs out,
essentially.”
“What if he wanted a lasting truce?” Adric asked,
fascinated.
“Meat and salt, and it’d last until one of us delivered a
formal declaration of war,” Morash told him, stepping back from the rail as his
crewmen brought a rope ladder and a sling for the keg. “It’d be binding on the
rest of his clan, too.”
“And here I thought they just screamed and
charged,” the mage said dryly, rubbing at the base of one of his
horns.
“Oh, they do plenty of that too,” the commander grinned. “Sargrin!
What’s this all about, then?”
Swinging his leg across the rail, the
hradani looked sharply at his tiny opponent. “I was about to ask you the very
same question, that I was,” he said, tone suddenly serious.
“Oh? And
what’ve I done to make you wonder?”
Before he answered, Sargrin thumped
the keg down on deck and casually stove in the top with his fist, tossing a horn
cup to Morash and dipping his own in the dark ale. Sitting cross-legged, he took
a long drink and watched, narrow-eyed, until the halfling dipped his own cup and
took a gulp; a little of the tension went out of his shoulders then, and he
smiled thinly.
“How long’s it been since we first ran up against each
other, Morash?” he asked. “Twelve years? Fifteen?”
“...Fourteen years
this winter, if I remember rightly,” the commander mused, easing down to sit
opposite. “I cracked my right horn on that hard head of yours.”
“Aye, y’
hadn’t got yer technique quite right yet,” Sargrin snorted, one finger caressing
a scar that ran up into his hairline, sprouting a white streak that wove through
his waist-length black braid. “We’ve banged heads a few more times since then,
and I’ll give y’ this, I’ve never known you to do anything less than
honourable.”
Morash paused with his cup halfway to his mouth, eyeing the
hradani curiously. “Well, I thank you for the kind word.”
“Mmh.” Sargrin
took another mouthful. “So it’s wondering I was, when I saw with my own eyes
three Marfanger warships turn around an’ sail away, leaving a live demon behind
‘em.” His eyes were suddenly very cold, ears flattening. “Y’ wouldn’t be doin’
anything
stupid, now would you, Commander Morash?”
“...Ah,” Morash
said, leaning back. “That. And here I was, thinking you Wild Wash hadn’t seen a
thing! Your men are getting better at scouting, I gather.” Glancing aside, he
gestured to one of his officers with his cup. “Bring up that beer we didn’t
hide, and invite Sargrin’s men up to join us. This is going to take a while, I
think.”
* * * * *
Relena shoved one last carnation into the vase
with a little more force than was strictly necessary and stepped back to look
critically at her handiwork, frowning. “I’ve never been any good at this,” she
sighed. “What do you think?”
“They look fine,” Zechs told her. “There’s
really not much you can do wrong with a bunch of flowers.”
“Maybe not,
but there are a lot of things you can do
right with them, and I never
quite seem to manage it.”
“Is that what the problem is?”
She
turned to look at her brother. “What do you mean?”
Zechs didn’t turn away
from the book he was leafing through, but glanced sideways at her through his
lashes, smiling. “You seemed to have some sort of personal grudge against the
poor things.”
Relena sighed again, sitting down. “I do have something on
my mind, but I didn’t realise it was showing.”
He glanced sideways at her
again, then closed his book and turned to look directly at her. “I got the
distinct impression the other day-- impression be damned, actually, I was
directly
told that if I mess up our second chance at a family
relationship I will be answering to Duo Maxwell, and the thought does not appeal
to me. Therefore I’m not going to try to guess the correct response here. Do I
politely ask what’s wrong, or maintain a diplomatic silence?”
“Oh dear.”
She covered her mouth, visibly struggling not to laugh. “I
am sorry,
Milliardo, I didn’t realise that I was -- ah -- ‘siccing’ Duo onto you when I
phoned him.”
“I think I’ll survive the experience, so long as he doesn’t
blame me for upsetting you while I’m still tethered here,” he said dryly,
gesturing to the rig holding his leg in traction. “So. Are you going to tell me
what’s on your mind, and if you do, am I required to actually come up with an
intelligent response or just make soothing noises?”
“If you make soothing
noises at me, I really
will sic Duo onto you,” she threatened. “Actually,
if we can be serious about this for a moment, I would like to ask your
advice.”
“Ask away. I promise a serious answer even if I can’t manage a
useful one.”
Relena looked down at her hands, marshalling her thoughts,
then tilted her head to look at him. “Did... when Duo was talking to you, did he
mention anything about he and the others... leaving?”
Zechs raised one
pale eyebrow. “He did, actually. He didn’t go into details, but he mentioned the
possibility.”
“It’s more than just a possibility now,” she said, a little
bitterly. “They’re planning to go-- elsewhere. Vanish. And never come back. They
wouldn’t be able to keep in contact at all.”
He grimaced slightly. “Given
that I was planning the same thing myself, I can understand the appeal of the
idea... no matter how painful it seems, looked at from the point of view of
someone staying behind.”
“Yes, but,” she burst out, “it’s not just that
they want to. They say they
have to, and yet-- you thought you had to
disappear, and Duo disagreed. Now
Duo says he has to disappear, but when
I disagree, he just says I don’t understand!”
“Ah.” Zechs frowned. “I
have to admit, he had some excellent arguments against my plan. Did he explain
why he-- they-- think they have to leave?”
“Their main reason -- the only
one I can’t refute using the same arguments Duo used on you, in fact -- is that
they wouldn’t be allowed to stay and have a normal life. They said,” Relena went
on slowly, groping for words, “that they would be seen as weapons, not people,
and that I could protect
you, but not all of them at the same
time.”
“Ah.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “They may be
right, Relena.”
“That’s what I don’t understand! How is it right when
they say it, but not right when you said it? Why are they weapons, but you can
be a normal person?!”
“Because I
just piloted Tallgeese,” Zechs
tried to explain. “I was a member of a recognised military organisation; I
followed my orders for the most part, and when I disobeyed, nobody apart from my
commanders knew about it. I’m not seen as being very different from a normal
mobile suit pilot.”
“Neither are they, then!” she insisted
stubbornly.
“Oh, really?” He looked at her a little sternly. “The Gundams
were the colonies’ only weapons. They didn’t have armies around them. They
didn’t have the luxury of being able to be ‘just’ mobile suit pilots. All by
themselves, they had to do sufficient damage and be sufficiently feared to
combat all of OZ’s forces. That’s where the problem lies, Relena. They had to be
weapons of terror, and they did it very
very well.”
“But the
Resistance--”
“--were essentially negligible,” Zechs interrupted. “I mean
no disrespect towards them, they were an effective force within their
limitations, but those limitations were severe. They didn’t have the numbers to
be a serious threat. If it wasn’t for the Gundams taking up so much of OZ’s
attention and firepower, they would have been crushed. The same applies to the
Manguanacs. No,” he went on in a gentler voice, “it was the Gundams that people
worried about.”
“Then why can’t they just live quietly
without the
Gundams?”
“They did more than just pilot,” he said wryly. “Take me out of
Tallgeese and I can’t do much more than anyone else. I flatter myself that I’m
an excellent shot, but so are quite a few other people. Duo and the rest...
well. The general public didn’t get to hear much about it, but within OZ, a
Gundam pilot out of his suit was feared nearly as much as he would be in
it.”
Relena looked at him with a doubtful expression, and he laughed, a
little sadly. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Milliardo, they’re just
teenage boys! No matter what sort of exaggerated stories got passed around about
them, I can’t--”
“I first heard about Wufei when he blew up a barracks
full of trainee mobile suit pilots and killed nearly sixty men,” he cut in
bluntly. “Trowa’s favourite trick seemed to be impersonating an OZ cadet, living
on base for weeks at a time until he got access to whatever classified
information he was after, then blowing up their entire munitions stores to cover
his escape. Heero wasn’t as good at infiltration, but that never stopped him
simply walking into secure installations and killing anyone who got in his way.
Did you know he can bend steel bars with his bare hands? Quatre apparently
didn’t go in for direct confrontation as much as the others did, but we believed
he was responsible for at least half of our data losses from hacking, and he
never had a problem with using his personal wealth and influence as a
metaphorical club. I’m sure you of all people understand how that can be as
deadly as a gun, used properly. As for Duo, yes, he’s your friend now; he would
give you the shirt off his back or his last credit, and quite frankly I’m sure
he would die for you if the occasion ever came up. He’s that sort of person. And
his estimated kill count, both in and out of his Gundam, is higher than any of
the other pilots’. He never stuck to one method long enough to show a pattern --
except for liking explosives -- but his motto was ‘anyone who sees Shinigami
will die’, and he lived up to it. Need I go on?”
Relena’s eyes were wide
with shock. “...Oh.”
He reached out to gently take her hand, smiling
again. “Don’t misunderstand me! I respect them, all of them. Treize respected
them. It was a nasty, cruel war, but they did what they had to do and no more.
They protected civilians as much as possible; I can’t say the same for OZ,
sadly. But... yes. They were weapons of war, because they had to be, and they
can’t change that just by walking away from their Gundams.”
* * * *
*
“Well,” Duo muttered, staring at his laptop screen, “I guess I can’t
put this off any longer.” Grimacing, he reached out and typed a quick string of
commands and passwords, so well-remembered that he didn’t even have to think
about them any more.
A com window opened, blinking “CALLING” for a few
seconds, then clearing to show a familiar face.
< < About time you
called! > > Howard growled, leaning in close and scowling behind his
sunglasses. < < Much longer and I woulda tracked you down and kicked your
ass, kiddo. > >
“I was busy!” Duo protested, grinning in spite of
himself.
< < Busy?
Busy? With what?! War’s over, in case you
didn’t notice! > > Leaning back, Howard spread his hands and looked around
with an exaggerated expression of surprise, as if he was only now noticing that
himself. < < World seems to have broken out in a sudden case of peace!
Amazing. Which makes me wonder just what the hell Heero is smoking, sending me
this damn e-mail about not getting rid of any parts yet because you lot might be
needing them. Not planning on starting things up again out of boredom or
anything, are you? > >
“What would you do if we were?”
<
< I’d come over there and spank the lot of you until you developed sense,
> > came the prompt answer. < < And I know you have
some
sense -- at least, you did when you were working for me! Don’t tell me you’ve
gone and lost it all. > >
“I’m pretty sure we haven’t, Howie. Call
it planning for contingencies.”
< < Damn. Maybe you have still got
some sense after all, kiddo; I’ve only been telling you to plan for the
unexpected for, oh, years now. > > Howard grinned suddenly, leaning on his
elbows. < < You’re looking good. > >
Duo snorted. “Ah, you
only say that ‘cause you can’t see the crutches. You’re not looking bad
yourself, old man.”
< < Don’t you call me old, you--
what
crutches?! > >
“Ehh, the ones I need to walk on my bunged-up
knee that’s kind of in a locked brace. I get to unlock it and start therapy
tomorrow if my doctor agrees, though.”
< < Therapy?! What the hell
did you do to yourself? > >
“Popped my ACL and had to have surgery
to fix it. Like I said, I was busy,” Duo shrugged.
Howard peered
suspiciously at him from the screen. < < ...What else? >
>
“Whaddaya mean, ‘what else’?” he protested, looking away. “Major
surgery with general anaesthetic, did I mention I hate that shit, isn’t enough
for you?”
< < Nope. Something else is going on. I know you, kid,
> > Howard said seriously, sliding his sunglasses down to stare at Duo
over them. < < Whatever it is, spit it out. > >
“...This
kinda has to do with us maybe needing the parts,” Duo said, wriggling a little
in his seat. “We’re going to be going somewhere, and the supply chain is gonna
be kinda... long. Actually, nonexistent.”
< < There ain’t nowhere
on this planet you can go that I can’t get parts to you
somehow, >
> Howard objected. < < Hell, there ain’t many places
off this
planet where I can’t get parts to you! > >
“How are you at
interdimensional deliveries?”
Howard blinked at him. < < ...What
the
fuck are you talking about? > >
“Somehow I knew you were
going to say that,” Duo sighed, resting his forehead on one hand. “Oh
boy.”
----------
Fifteen minutes later:
“Quatre!” Duo
yelled, leaning around his laptop’s screen to direct it at the door.
“I’m
a little busy, Duo,” came Quatre’s voice, sounding slightly
stressed.
“Can you get un-busy? I need you to come tell Howard I haven’t
gone nuts, I’m not smoking dope, and I’m not on any
painkillers!”
“...Fine,” Quatre answered after a brief pause. “While I’m
doing that, you can come here and tell Rashid the same thing about
me.”
Duo reached for his crutches, then paused halfway through levering
himself up out of his seat. “Q, are you seriously telling me that Rashid asked
any of that?”
“No,” Quatre grumbled, appearing in the doorway, “but I
know his expressions, and he was thinking
really loudly.”
“That’ll
be a nice change from Howie just
yelling loudly.”
< < Like
I’m gonna keep my mouth shut when you try to tell me some sort of bullshit--
> >
Swinging out of the room, Duo let the door slam behind him,
cutting off Howard’s aggrieved rant. Quatre’s laptop was set up on the dining
table, and he dropped into the chair in front of it with a loud sigh. “Hi,
Rashid. Quatre told you what we’re doing?”
Rashid’s naturally grim face
was nearly expressionless, but a certain tightness about the eyes could have
indicated either anger or worry. < < Master Duo, > > he said
politely, half-bowing. < < Master Quatre says that you are... planning a
trip. > >
“Yep,” Duo confirmed, leaning his crutches against the
table and getting comfortable. “To another world, via a huge explosion. Did he
explain the bit about the Trousers of Time, or hadn’t he gotten that
far?”
< < Master Duo, > > the huge man said in a strained
voice, < < you... this... you cannot be
serious. >
>
“I prefer being casual, but yeah, we’re serious.” He shrugged.
“Wufei got blasted into another world, and we’re going to try to follow him. We
aren’t joking, insane, drugged, or otherwise not in our right minds. The Doctors
think they can pull it off-- actually, you should probably talk to Instructor H!
If anyone can explain it properly, he can, though it’s anyone’s guess as to
whether he can do it without lapsing into higher mathematics. At least you can
be sure
he isn’t joking.”
< < I shall, > > Rashid
agreed reluctantly. < < I must admit that Master Quatre is not the type to
make such a joke... and although you might joke, Master Duo, you do not insist
that you are not joking after being asked. > >
“Ha. Tell Howard
that, will ya?”
On his way back into the lounge room, Duo bumped into
Quatre, also apparently finished talking to Howard.
“How did it
go?”
“He doesn’t want to believe it, so I passed the buck and told him to
talk to H,” Duo shrugged. “How about you?
Quatre laughed. “I did the
same! He’s calling Doctor G right now, I think.”
“Why didn’t we think of
that before?” Duo complained, rolling his eyes. “I coulda gotten out of fifteen
minutes of Howard ranting at me!”
“You probably didn’t think of it
because Howard was ranting at you,” Quatre told him dryly.
“Why
didn’t you think of it, then? Don’t tell me Rashid was ranting at you, ‘cause I
won’t believe it. Damn, Q-man, you’ve got to think faster than that; I’m
disappointed in you!”
“Don’t you start! If we’re blaming each other, why
didn’t you get Howard and Rashid into a conference call with Orfressa?” Quatre
teased. “You’ve got a goddess willing to vouch for your word, so why not use
her? They’d have to believe us then.”
“Aw, man, that would make it easy,
wouldn’t it?” Duo sighed, looking wistful. “I wish I could-- hang on. Maybe I
can get her to talk to other people!” His eyes lit up with an unholy joy.
“That would be
awesome!”
“I’m going to regret suggesting that,
aren’t I?”
“Only if it works.”
* * * * *
The
Osprey
was under way again, moving with a rhythmic lift-and-swoop motion over the
waves. The weather was staying fine, so that the members of the Order of
Torframos only had to deal with the natural results of a Marfang Island
captain’s desire for speed, and Vaijon had finally adjusted to the ship’s
motion.
Thank all the gods that we got passage on a ship that normally
transports cloth and grain, he told himself, stooping almost double as he
passed through a low doorway into one of the large cabins Captain Grantik had
made available for his passengers.
I’d still be turning green every time I
came below decks if I had to deal with the smell of fish!He sat down
on his pallet, not much more than several blankets on the floor, and leaned back
carefully after making sure he wasn’t directly under one of the heavy beams
holding up the deck above; he’d nearly concussed himself twice and didn’t want
to do it again. Built to maximise cargo space without sacrificing speed, the
Osprey’s below-decks spaces were cramped even for her normal halfling
crew and positively claustrophobic for a human as tall as he was.
Even
Sir Wufei wouldn’t fit, Vaijon mused, one hand moving to press against the
slight bulge under his tabard.
Though I can’t imagine him being careless
enough to hit his head. I wonder how he’s dealing with the trip? I think that
little room inside Nataku is large enough for him to stand up straight, but it’s
not much wider than it is tall...He was alone in the cabin, everyone
else having gone up on deck for fresh air. A little guiltily, he reached under
his tabard and pulled out a handful of silky black fabric, spreading it out over
his knee. The light was dim, with no windows and only one lamp lit in the cabin,
but he didn’t need to see; his fingers knew every curve and snagged thread in
the embroidery, tracing the outlines of the dragon that snarled up at him from
the remains of Wufei’s sleeveless shirt.
He wasn’t sure how much time had
passed when a footstep and a muffled curse from the corridor alerted him to
another passenger approaching, and he hastily stuffed the ragged square of cloth
back under his tabard. When Terrin shuffled in, almost tripping over the door
sill, Vaijon was rummaging through his scanty roll of possessions, pulling out a
sharpening stone and oil.
“I’ll be glad to get off this ship in
Belhadan,” Terrin muttered, nodding politely to the knight-probationer. “They’re
good people, but m’back’s never going to be the same.”
Vaijon had to
laugh. “I feel your pain, Goodman Terrin, but I think I have to fear permanent
bruises on my forehead more than a bad back.”
Terrin grinned back at him.
“Just you wait a few years, Sir Vaijon. After a while, things start complainin’
at a man if he bends funny.” Digging through his own pack, he pulled out several
new arrow shafts and a cloth bundle, turning to head out
again.
Impulsively, Vaijon called out to stop him. “Goodman Terrin? Might
I have a moment of your time?”
“...Aye,” Terrin said, looking back at him
curiously. “What is it, Sir Vaijon?”
“Might I ask--” Vaijon hesitated,
blushing slightly, then went on. “I understand why Cord and his daughter chose
to accompany us, but -- excuse me -- I don’t believe I’ve heard your motive. May
I ask why you came along?”
Terrin grunted, easing down to sit on the
floor and rubbing the back of his neck. “Huh. Well, you wouldn’t have heard my
motive, no, for I’ve not told it to anyone here.”
“I beg your pardon. I
don’t wish to pry if you would prefer not--”
“Nah, ‘tis all right.”
Terrin waved off his protests. “I’m not sure why,” he added, looking searchingly
at Vaijon’s face, “but I think you’ll understand.”
There was a long pause
as the hunter looked down at the deck below them, frowning as if he could stare
through it if only he looked hard enough; then he sighed, looking up with an
almost shy expression. “It’s Sir Wufei. I’m following him.”
Vaijon
blinked. “Why?”
Terrin laughed. “Damned if I know! It’s just-- it feels
right, you know? It didn’t occur to me to question it. Your Champions said Sir
Wufei would be travelling with you, and I just thought, ‘Well, I guess I’d
better pack’. It wasn’t until my brother asked me why that I thought about it,
and all I could tell him is what I’m telling you; it feels right. I think about
Sir Wufei going to other lands, doing whatever it is he has to do, and it’s like
part of me says ‘I’ll be there with him’. I can’t... I can’t
not follow
him, somehow. I’d always thought that I’d live out my days in the village where
I was born, but now something tells me that my place is here. With him. D’you
see?”
The knight-probationer swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes. I do
understand, I think. It’s very like...” He swallowed again. “Ever since I can
remember, I’ve believed -- I’ve
known -- that I was meant to serve one of
the Gods. That I was
needed. It’s why I joined the Order.”
“Yes!”
Terrin burst out eagerly. “That’s it exactly. Like he may not know it yet, but
he’ll need me sometime.” He was relaxed now, smiling, as if telling Vaijon had
taken a weight off his mind. “I knew you’d understand, Sir. It just took me
longer than you to find who I had to follow.”
After Terrin had gone,
Vaijon stayed sitting on his pallet, one hand pressed to the cloth hidden under
his brown-and-gold tabard.
I’m not so sure, Goodman, he thought
glumly.
I think you found him first...* * * * *
The secret
temple of Krashnark beneath Navahk was still empty most of the time, which made
it the perfect place to discuss things best kept secret... or to argue about
them.
“I’m saying we need Arsham,” Yurgazh said stubbornly.
“And
I’m saying I’m not about to trust one of Churnazh’s sons any further than I can
spit,” Mathel said, just as stubborn and considerably more angry. “He might be
the only one of ‘em as hasn’t been sniffing after every skirt in the Palace, but
he’s still Black Churnazh’s blood!”
“And I don’t think he’s any happier
about it than you are,” the Guard captain persisted. “He’s no knight in shining
armour from a bard’s song, no, but he’s at least decent -- decent enough that
Churnazh’s toadies call him ‘weak’ and ‘over-civilised’.” He snorted. “A’course,
they say that because he doesn’t rape, isn’t a bully, and won’t let them suck up
to him for favours. The important thing is, if it’s a choice between him and
Churnazh, most of the army will follow him.”
=*You’re going to need the
army,*= Krashnark said out of thin air, and Yurgazh flinched violently, ears
flattening. Mathel ignored his reaction, standing straight and glaring
upwards.
“We can get the army without bringing in Arsham
Churnazhson!”
=*Not easily, and not nearly quickly enough,*= the god told
her calmly. =*You would need to recruit individuals one by one; sooner or later
one would betray you, and when the time came to move our forces would be
disorganised. If you recruit Arsham, not only will you gain the army as a unit,
you will avoid arguments over the succession.*=
“You want to put him on
the
throne?!”
=*Yes.*=
The flat acknowledgement took some
of the wind out of Mathel’s sails, and Akar tentatively patted her shoulder.
“There’s sense in it,” he told her. “The courtiers won’t follow him because he’s
illegitimate, so Churnazh and his other sons don’t see him as competition, but
we don’t want their support anyway.”
“If this works, we’ll be getting rid
of the lot of ‘em,” Yurgazh put in, sounding almost gleeful at the
prospect.
“Aye.” Akar nodded. “The old noble families, those that are
left, will likely accept him; they’d squabble if we tried to suggest someone
from their own ranks.”
“...I still don’t like the idea,” she told him,
glaring until he took his hand off her shoulder. Nobody was foolish enough to
tell her she didn’t
have to like it, but it was plain from her frustrated
expression that she understood.
“Well,” she said eventually, putting her
hands on her hips and glaring upwards again, “do you have any useful suggestions
as to how we’re to convince him? Bastard or not, he’s got to be wary of people
inviting him to join them in a conspiracy; he’ll likely decide that either we
want him as a figurehead, or one of his brothers is trying to trick him into
being caught betraying his father.”
=*Bring him here.*=
Akar
looked doubtful. “Are you sure, Lord? If he takes the idea badly, we’d have to
abandon the temple if he knew where it was. He could bring all Churnazh’s forces
down on top of us with a word.”
=*And you the man who called it ‘this
bloody huge useless temple’,*= Krashnark said mildly. =*I would have thought
you’d be delighted at the opportunity to get rid of it. It’s a risk; he is a
hradani, after all, so he could very well tell me to mind my own business and
leave him to his. Still, it’s a risk that needs to be taken.*=
“I have to
admit, Lord, you’re convincing when you want to be,” Akar said ruefully. “It
could work.”
“If his heart doesn’t stop when you talk to him out of thin
air,” Yurgazh muttered quietly, ears still half-flat. “I know
I’m never
going to get used to that...”
Mathel’s ears were slowly shifting
backwards as well. “First you say we can’t get the army ‘quickly enough’ without
Arsham, and then that we need to take risks. Just how fast do we need to be
moving here, Lord?”
=*Probably faster than is prudent,*= came the answer,
in serious tones. =*There are forces moving that you
must be ready to
meet.*=
“Hurgrum?” Yurgazh asked. “But we’re heading into winter! The
Horse Stealers aren’t fool enough to start a campaign
now!”
=*The
Horse Stealers are not the only problem. Bring Arsham here if you can,*=
Krashnark said shortly, and then fell silent in a somehow final
way.
“...He’s not going to explain that, is he?” Yurgazh asked
eventually.
“I don’t think so, no,” Akar agreed.
“
Lovely. I
hate heading into battle without clear intelligence. Ah well.” Yurgazh cocked
one ear at Mathel. “If I get us in to see Arsham, d’you think your unspeakable
eloquence can get him to come here without a full explanation?”
“My
what?!”
“Well, you got
me here, didn’t
you?”
----------
Krashnark leaned back from his scrying window,
letting it blur as its focus moved away from the Navahkian temple.
They’ll do
well enough, he decided, turning his attention southward.
Now, if
I--=*KRASHNARK.*=
He looked up, startled, and then followed
the brusque summons, flicking directly into his father’s chambers without taking
the time to walk the corridors between.
“Yes, my lord father?” he said
respectfully, sinking to one knee and bowing his head.
=*YOU SEEM... MORE
INDUSTRIOUS LATELY,*= came the heavy thought, almost a physical weight against
his mind. =*I AM PLEASED TO SEE YOU TAKING AN INTEREST IN YOUR CHURCH ONCE
AGAIN.*=
“Thank you, my lord.”
The thought darkened. =*IT WAS
UNSEEMLY OF YOU -- MY GENERAL -- TO NEGLECT YOUR RESPONSIBILITIES SO. IF YOU HAD
ALLOWED THIS STATE OF AFFAIRS TO CONTINUE MUCH LONGER, I WOULD HAVE HAD TO MAKE
MY DISPLEASURE APPARENT.*=
Krashnark bowed his head further, eyes on the
stone floor beneath him. “Forgive me, my lord father. It shall not happen
again.”
=*SEE THAT IT DOES NOT.*= Phrobus’s attention sharpened on him,
an almost palpable sensation. For a fleeting moment, Krashnark wondered if it
was anything like Wufei’s sense that told the little human-demon when he was
being watched, then dismissed the distracting speculation.
=*I NOTE THAT
YOU HAVE NOT SUCCEEDED IN RECRUITING THAT DEMON TO YOUR SERVICE.*=
He hid
a wince. “No, my lord father.”
=*FAR FROM IT, IN FACT. HE APPEARS TO BE
CONSIDERING ENTERING TORFRAMOS’S ORDER.*=
“Ah... I think not, my lord; he
has merely made friends with some of Torframos’s servants, and travels with them
because he has no reason to do otherwise,” Krashnark said carefully. “He resists
overt persuasion. I have adopted a more... indirect strategy for the time
being.”
=*I SEE.*= There was a tense pause before Phrobus seemed to
shrug, directing his attention elsewhere. =*DO NOT ALLOW YOUR CONCENTRATION ON
THIS ONE DEMON TO DISTRACT YOU FROM YOUR OTHER DUTIES.*=
“No, my lord
father.”
=*YOU MAY GO.*=
“Thank you, my lord.” Rising, Krashnark
took a couple of steps backwards before turning to go, lifting his gaze at the
last moment for one quick glance at his father. The indistinct dark blur that
was Phrobus’s presence hovered over and around his immense throne, cloaking it
in shadow, and Krashnark hid a shiver as he flicked back to his own quarters.
Phrobus’s amorphous non-physical body was simultaneously a reminder of what he
could do, what he had once dared to do... and what he should never have
done.
--------------
End chapter
38
--------------MEL: Damnit, Christy, stop that! How am I
supposed to read you the chapter for editing purposes if you keep
burbling?
CHRISTY: I can’t help it!
MEL: Try harder! *ahem* “I
think about Sir Wufei going to other lands, doing whatever it is he has to do,
and it’s like part of me says ‘I’ll be there with him’--”
CHRISTY: In his
pants!
MEL: Christy!
CHRISTY: In looooooooooove!
MEL:
Terrin is not thinking that! Stop channelling-- um-- who are you channelling,
anyway?
CHRISTY: The section of our readership that keeps coming up with
sex pollen and so on.
MEL: Well stop it. They’re a bad influence on
you.
CHRISTY: Fair’s fair. We’re a bad influence on them,
too.
MEL: True.
[On the other side of the room, Trowa, Quatre, and
Duo are sitting next to the fish tanks with assorted cats and dogs draped over
their laps.]
TROWA: ...
ORFRESSA:
//amusement/agreement//
TROWA: ...
DUO: Yeah, but at least they’re
leaving us alone right now.
ORFRESSA: //sympathy//
[Quatre’s head
is swivelling like he’s at a tennis match, looking between Trowa, Duo, and a
point above their heads.]
TROWA: ...
ORFRESSA:
//delight!/amusement//
KRASHNARK (yelling from somewhere at the back of
the house): That’s not funny, Great-grandma!
DUO: Yes it
was!
QUATRE: How come I can’t understand this conversation?
DUO:
You’re an empath, not a telepath.
QUATRE: Neither are you! Or
Trowa!
DUO: ‘Fress likes me, and Trowa’s just really good at non-verbal
communication.
TROWA: ...
ORFRESSA: //affirmation//
DUO:
Exactly.
QUATRE: Stop that!