Foreign Devils

by John Hornor Jacobs

  ‘Don’t intend to stay for the funeral?’

  He was silent for a long time. ‘Ia dammit, Shoe. You and your strays. We don’t have time to waste.’

  ‘He was a good companion, Fisk.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We stay. Won’t leave Winfried like this.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on, then. I will join you later.’

  ‘Ia-dammit, Shoe.’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ I said.

  I lay thinking for a while.

  ‘That boy. His face and eyes. His whole damned demeanour. You know what he reminded me of?’

  Fisk didn’t answer at once. ‘What’s that?’ he said after a while.

  ‘Stretchers,’ I said.

  It was then that the Quotidian began to move, hissing and scratching, on the parchment.

  NINE

  Ides of Quintilius, Fifth Hour, 2638 Annum ex

  Rume Immortalis, A Thousand Miles west of

  Latinum in the Occidens Ocean

  My Love,

  First, let me allay any misgivings you might have regarding the health of your unborn child. He is well, if his daily gyrations and warlike exercises are any indications. A strong boy, I believe, judging by the kicks; though I fear when he is grown he will be a terror in the saddle, prone to a love of the spur.

  I have thought for a long while upon this missive: I have so much to tell you. The Quotidian itself seems the perfect vessel for this endeavour. With the sacrificial knife, I freshen that wound that joined our blood as our blood is joined within me.

  I understand now why the Quotidian is called thus. Daily I think of it; daily I consider writing to you, despite the blood-cost. I have even gone so far as to question Valerus if the messages will be … I know no other word than delivered … if more frequent messages will be delivered to you and he assures me (after a careful examination of the warding on the Quotidian device) that all messages will be received but that, if there is a backlog of missives, the blood-cost to you could be quite high and so it is common practice to have surrogates. Secundus and Carnelia have generously offered to provide our sanguine ink, and while surely an imposition on his friendship, possibly Mister Illys would let red on your behalf? How strange to think that with each word of love I send to you, it will cost you a part of yourself. In this, our nuptial correspondence mirrors the wedding wound itself. Yet I love you and wish to share my thoughts, the events of this journey, and hope, when you have a moment’s respite searching for Beleth, you could respond, though I realize being on the trail makes it difficult. Should you ever find yourself in a situation that allows you to utilize the Quotidian, Valerus informs me that you can mix five parts ink to one part blood and still be assured that the device will function as designed.

  Leaving you was near ruinous to me. My mind kept returning to you, your mission, your well-being. Never before have I felt such a connection, neither between family nor silly juvenile loves when I was but a teenager, before my father had arranged my doomed first marriage. I feel the connexion between us like an invisible filament of gold, beaten to airy thinness.

  I have let the blood. I have mixed it with the ebon stain from the Indus river valley. So much blood, my love, and ink to swell its amount. I have naught but ship, sea, swells and time to commune with you through blood and thought and pen.

  I will begin.

  Five days confined in the luxuriously appointed cabin of the Valdrossos, bypassing Fort Brust and any other hamlet or town along the way, stopping only long enough to take on water for the daemon-fired engine of the locomotive. We passed through landscapes day and night, moving beneath skies of empyrean; stupendously pure, but small and always framed in an ever-moving window. Always moving, always swaying and vibrating as the great mechanized beast of a baggage train hurled itself forward, the sound of it reverberating across the endless fields and forests of Occidentalia. With nothing to do but watch the rocks, then mountains, then trees pass in stately procession, away.

  My father, Secundus, Sissy, and I all withdrew into ourselves, as any person is wont to do on long, ceaseless journeys. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the experience, my love, of a confined journey, but it is an exercise in indolence. As the train moves through the world, so too do the passengers begin to explore the landscapes and countries of their own minds in private, internal reveries. Conversations still and die on lips. Books and poetry remain unread. All endeavour becomes still as one is arrested in perpetual forward movement. It’s a curious sensation and one I am ill-suited to over long periods.

  So it was to my great relief that Father called us to him from our various berths and explained his vision for Ia Terminalia and our audience with Tamberlaine.

  ‘Secundus and Livia, you two will, of course, attend him and bear our presents, as it would be unseemly if I bore them myself. Yet it would be an insult to him if I had a slave or some servant present them to him. Sadly, you’ll have to debase yourselves some so that I might save face.’

  ‘What will we give him, Tata?’ Carnelia asked.

  ‘I have not yet decided. But,’ he paused as my father likes to do when making proclamations, ‘You shall be in charge of presents, of course, my dear, as of all of us, you are most suited to such activities.’

  This, of course, pleased Carnelia very much as it does every year. She is, among other things, very particular when it comes to presents and she and Father are of the same mind when it comes to the Ruman pastime of snark. While Father is a practitioner, Carnelia is a master.

  A few words on Carnelia, love, if I may. I fear she did not impress herself well on you and I can understand why that might be, for she is a creature ruled by desires and a need for attention. Somehow, the assurance and poise of Cornelian blood did not manifest itself in her with any measure of strength. I fear she will always be a cunning woman, prone to outrageous histrionics and half-imagined slights. She is pretty; she is bright. But she is not abundantly pretty or remarkably bright and often unwise. And so she is often snagged by the hidden thorns of her own blooms. I pity her. And love her. And detest how she acts sometimes.

  But the news that Father placed her in charge of the Ia Terminalia gifts lifted from her the travel-malaise and made her companionship spritely and gay. Secundus – taking himself far too seriously – scorned it.

  Sitting with a wax tablet and stylus, Carnelia made notes.

  ‘To Metellus,’ she said, glancing at me, ‘We shall send a cask of garum, namely because that is all he deserves and also because the wife he’s replaced you with, while immensely wealthy, has a face like a fishwife. ‘“To Quintus”,’ she wrote on the tablet, ‘“A fine fish-pickle for you on Ia Terminalia. It is sour! But you should be accustomed to that!”’

  Secundus stood from the cushioned chair he’d been lounging in, making his own notes – most likely for his own coming suit against Metellus – and said, ‘These are but frivolities. Give our valued servants and slaves gifts befitting their station, and give our friends and allies gifts to cement bonds of friendship and loyalty. Do not waste time with spite and petty cruelty.’ He looked at her crossly. ‘This negativity is unbecoming a Cornelian.’

  ‘Are you not, brother,’ Carnelia said, raising an eyebrow archly, ‘intending to besmirch Metellus in the courts of law?’

  ‘Besmirch him? No,’ Secundus said, shaking his head. ‘I’m intending to have the man recant his accusations against our sister and restore the Cornelian name. I am removing a taint.’

  ‘I am doing the same work, Secundus,’ Carnelia said, smiling at him. ‘In my own way.’

  ‘It seems to me that you are only being childish and spiteful. That does nothing to satisfy our honour.’

  ‘Yes, but it does pass the time,’ Carnelia said.

  He did not respond, but went down cabin to join my father at his cups.

  Carnelia, fazed not in the least, went on. ‘To Marcus Claudius we shall give sardonyx from the Indus Valley and a crate of oysters.’ She s
miled at me, for I was looking bemused. ‘For him to keep up his … strength.’ She made a notation on her tablet. ‘To Mincus Drusus, the foal of a wild ass, if available. If not, a small ass.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘His hawing on the senate floor. Word has it he voted to remove Tata from his Governorship after the … after what happened to Isabelle.’

  Carnelia was quiet for a moment. Of all of us, she was closest to Isabelle. My sister is uncomfortable with her own emotion, like most of those who live on impulse. Life is simply falling into one situation after another amidst a storm of desires. After a short bit of silence, Carnelia went on. Clouds passing across the face of the sun on a summer’s day.

  ‘To Sabella Maximus, sweet onions from Covenant – his wife was known for her chastity at school so this might loosen her legs. To Senator Gillesus, some lovely murex shells to set off his eyes!’

  ‘Carnelia! That might be going a little too far,’ I said, frowning. ‘It’s one thing to joke with our friends, our family, and poke fun at our rivals, but Gillesus is one of Father’s staunch supporters.’

  ‘He minces a bit, though, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Not that gift.’

  ‘Very well,’ Carnelia said, scratching at the board. ‘A Gallish mirror for Gillesus.’

  ‘You’re still doing it, sissy,’ I said.

  ‘So I am. I just can’t help myself,’ she said, and then giggled. ‘Our household, then. For Lupina, some nice whiskey – don’t think I haven’t noticed her knocking back the dregs of our cups! For Rubus, pornographic etchings, either from Aegypt or Accre, to facilitate his epic masturbation sessions. For Cilas, sow’s womb stuffed with figs and Lucanian sausages – the man truly is grotesque at the table.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little cruel?’

  ‘None of them are bright enough to be offended,’ she said, bringing the stylus to her lips. ‘Even if they are, the gifts are what they’d want for themselves, anyway.’

  ‘And for Father?’

  ‘I’ve spoken with Valerus. While he doesn’t have the artistic bent of Beleth, he’s confident he can create the logos of a single legged-bear on a silver phalerae.’

  ‘Ah, that will please Father greatly.’

  Carnelia nodded. ‘We’ll add to that Pannonian birds and pomegranates, some nice Falernian amphorae, garlands of thrushes, mushrooms, and possibly some truffles. I shall visit the Lampurdae Market on our return to Rume.’

  ‘This is good.’

  ‘I have a terribly wonderful idea!’ Carnelia whispered, her hands covering her mouth. ‘To Tamberlaine, we will give the mount of the vaettir.’

  ‘He will be pleased,’ I replied. ‘Our father, quite the opposite.’

  ‘He is strong, Livia, and will endure it.’

  ‘Let us hope so,’ I said, letting some of my fears creep into my voice. ‘The alternative isn’t one I relish.’

  Carnelia put down the tablet and stylus. ‘Are you scared?’ she asked, in the small voice she would use when we were children and she’d sneak into my bedroom.

  ‘For myself? No,’ I said. ‘But I worry about my son.’ I placed my hand on my stomach, testing for the life contained there. A strange feeling, my love, containing something within myself. In some ways, this must be the polar opposite of what you endured with the daemon hand around your neck. One suffused with love and growth, the other with hatred, madness, death. I love you, Hieronymous, for who you are. And what you bore.

  ‘I wish that I could come with you, sissy,’ Carnelia said, suddenly welling with tears. ‘I don’t want to be left behind while you and Secundus leave for Kithai.’

  For a moment I thought of the issues that might arrive on a long sea voyage, captive, with Carnelia. But it was very likely that the baby would come while we were away in the far reaches of the known world. I would have more family with me than just Secundus.

  ‘I will speak with Father,’ said I, smiling. ‘I want you to be with me when the baby comes.’

  ‘We’ll need a midwife!’ She looked about. ‘Do you think Father could part with Lupina?’

  ‘Never. Who knows his drink better than her?’ I said. ‘And these years gone, I don’t know any of the slaves from the family villas. Any suitable ones?’

  ‘After Vaella died from wasting, I stopped learning their names.’ Vaella was our childhood nurse, a thick-chested and loving slave from somewhere beyond Aegypt.

  ‘I’ll want an accomplished midwife. Preferably not a slave, if we can help it.’

  ‘She’ll be expensive. And taking her to Tchinee!’

  ‘Yes. Will you help me find one?’

  Carnelia squealed a little in excitement, and clasped my hands. ‘Oh, sissy. Do talk to Tata.’

  I would wait, though, until a more opportune moment.

  The Valdrossos took on water at Centre Spike, and then made the last stretch to Novorum without stopping. There was rain, and the world outside the windows grew clouded and full of fog; the fields and vast forests became shrouded and mysterious. The rain, pattering on the window, hypnotized me and I spent long hours in my seat, staring at the land passing, amazed at the fertility and wildness of Occidentalia.

  But Nova Ruma, if you haven’t been there, is different. It’s a city made in the mould of Latinum townships – neat and orderly; wide streets with a place for everything and everything in its place. And it had grown since my last visit. As the train pulled into the station, we passed the fabulous new amphitheatre on the Anteninium Hills, beyond the Sub-Urba. The streets, as we passed, teemed with pedestrians and horsemen, surreys and carriages, wagons and teamsters and tradesmen – all heedless of the rain, pursuing their industrious commerce with vigour.

  I love the Hardscrabble and its wild fierceness, but cobblestone streets are appreciated in travel. We disembarked and were met by one of Tamberlaine’s attachés stationed in Nova Ruma. He was clad in a black suit that was almost glossy, and he held himself with a great ease, even languor. Yet something about him broadcast danger. Of course, Carnelia was immediately smitten.

  ‘Senator,’ he said, waiting on the station platform holding a large umbrella in a big hand. ‘I am Marcus Tenebrae and I will be your escort to the Malphas, and further, back to Rume.’ He managed to perform a neat bow while keeping the umbrella stable. A bow that was the exact right amount of deference to Father’s gravitas (or lack of it, but that is a family matter). And that is a rare bird in the course of honour, an underling giving the right amount of deference without obsequiousness. He wore a longknife – like the ones you and Shoe seem to favour – and a small pistol on his left hip. Neither interfered with the slim cut of his suit. Perched atop his head was a sheened billycock, dewed with moisture.

  ‘Welcome to Novo Ruma. If you, and your family, will come with me, I will take you to the wharf, where our ship awaits.’

  Father, a bit taken aback, balked. ‘Not even a single night in Novorum?’ he said, using the elided name of Novo Ruma in the east parlance. He’d villaed here early in his governorship. ‘I had hoped to visit Ventolo’s for a bit of braised beef.’ He didn’t add anything about Ventolo’s famed wine cellars.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, sir,’ Tenebrae said, regretful but firm. ‘Captain Juvenus wants to be off on the turning of the tide. I have porters waiting to convey your personal effects, and transport slaves and servants. A party of twenty-five, is it not?’

  Father looked somewhat confused. The number of our party was a detail he was not likely to consider. I stepped in. ‘Lupina here will organize the household affairs, and Rubus will provide you with a complete accounting of all members of our entourage.’ In my experience, the problem with Father – and proconsular imperium in general – is that the constant deference by those of lesser rank eventually denudes the honoured of any ability to deal with straight, unvarnished talk. Which is why, possibly, I have butted heads with Father on occasion. The night I cut off his leg comes to mind. But this Tenebrae was forceful and that force came from the autho
rity of Tamberlaine behind him – which Father knew well.

  ‘Lead on, man, lead on,’ Father said, regaining his composure rapidly. ‘Don’t keep us standing out in the weather all day.’

  Tenebrae gave another curt bow and said, ‘Of course. Right this way. Step lively.’

  He trundled us into a spacious cab, leaving Lupina and Rubus to direct the rest of our entourage. We came to the wharf almost too quickly.

  ‘Everything’s happening so fast, sissy!’ Carnelia said, glancing at Tenebrae who sat opposite us, at ease, a half-amused expression on his face. Not mocking, not self-absorbed. The best I could describe it would be content. A man absolutely content with himself.

  The Malphas was a sleek ship, girded and banded with a steel hull. ‘She’s nearly a frigate, and could level a small town with her guns,’ Tenebrae said, as our coach drew down the long wharf and pier. ‘Four pivoting Hellfire cannons on deck. And thrice-damned.’ The smell of sea and salt filled the air, spiced with brimstone from daemon-fired stacks, while seagulls cried and swooped out on the Novorum bay as we exited the carriage and stood standing on the continent’s edge looking at the vessel. The wharf, half cloaked in mist, clanged and rang with bells and the raised voices of porters and stevedores, of tradesmen and harbourmasters and customs agents. Wooden cranes lifted cargo onto and from the holds of ships. The sea was wind-whipped and breaking, sending a spray up to dampen our hair. A multitude of boats lined the piers, and hung moored off-shore: skiffs, skipjacks, ferries, sodden coracles, dories, naphtha launches, sloops, frigates, racers, barquentines, Ruman nemi transports and frigates, even shikaras. And of course, the Malphas.

  ‘Thrice-damned?’ Secundus asked.

  ‘Damned for the daemon that turns the screws,’ Tenebrae said, the rich timbre of his voice carrying over the wind. ‘Twice damned for the devil that cooks the food. Thrice damned for the lascars beneath the blue.’

  Father looked at the gloom of the sky, the wind-wracked waves. He sighed. ‘Well, that’s a damned depressing nursery rhyme.’

  And so we boarded the Malphas.