Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  They did, in fact, had exceptional eyes, as the sudden neighing proved. They also, unfortunately had yet bathed for a week, as their stench was enough to topple even the hardiest of farmers.

  “Hey! You there!” From the wagon’s sedan popped the slaver, the mustachios gnarled against his red face. “What are you, witless? Leave before I –” Too late the slaver saw the fire in the librarian’s eyes and paused – and colored again at the realization of his cowardice. “Fools! What do I pay you for?”

  Not much, their plain faces said. Each spearman had saggy jowls and lazy eyes, their hands twisting too easily on their steel. Mykel pressed forward without a second glance. “I wish to buy!”

  Immediately the arrogance was gone. “I mean to have her in an auction in Milez, a few leagues from here. Since she’s new, I’d thought of pricing her...at one hundred dragons.” The ape of a man smiled as though he already knew Mykel had not that much.

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Mykel said through his teeth. I am no hero.

  “Pleasure.” With that the slaver ducked back into his wagon, suddenly alive with giggles.

  Mykel cast a final glance at Caryl before striding away. His heart came alive with sweet hate; so consumed of it was he that he barely noticed Shayna bouncing off him. Her words were lost in the berserker’s red haze. He turned to an inn. The innkeep, smiling at a new customer, wilted under the rage of the librarian’s eyes. Coin passed hands, and Mykel stomped upstairs to the paid room. Shayna quickly followed.

  “We have to wait till nightfall. That’s the only chance we’ll have.”

  Shayna edged towards him cautiously, trying to at once sit next to him and avoid the fire roiling in his eyes. “What chance? What are you talking about?”

  Mykel glanced upon her as though he’d just recognized her. “We have to break her out.”

  “Who? The whore?”

  “Do not speak of her like that again. Ever.” Suddenly he lunged forward, grabbing her arms so tightly that little hisses of pain whispered between her clenched teeth. “We have to save her.”

  “We have to save her.” Shayna echoed flatly. “We have to save her. Was it not long ago that you could not be bothered by a father wishing his daughter free?”

  Andrew, the Weirwynd butler. “That was different.”

  “Oh yes. I see. It is different because it affects you! What kind of person are you, to pick and choose who should be saved and who should be abandoned? You dismissed Andrew out of turn. Yet one look at her –” She faltered at his back. “Where are you going?”

  “Something stupid.”

  Twilight found him at the bar, with no plan. Hours of thinking and for every plan that unraveled were a mug to drown thought. Every plan, however seamless, went to pieces with the cold certainty of logic. Everything he thought up took more money than he had; indeed, more money than he’d see in a lifetime. Theft was the only choice, but it was the choice that held the most danger. Flight would be needed, swiftly and urgently, vanishing into the night, leaving with naught a print to tell where they’d gone. And for that, he needed Shayna. He could not just abandon her.

  “Mint tea.” The Companion slipped into the stool aside him. “We will have to be quick.” She didn’t meet his gaze, she just stared ahead. The flatness of her words betrayed her true feelings of the matter.

  “Shayna...thank you.”

  “You do not have leave to speak to me.” The words were barbs, twisting slowly into the librarian’s gut. It is a miracle she agreed in the first place.

  “Tell me of your plan.”

  So, for half a turn of the glass Mykel told her of his plans. Just as he suspected, Shayna arrived at the same conclusion. “That has to be the worst plan I have ever heard.”

  “I know.”

  “You do not speak of the guards, or the pattern of the encampment, or the other whores. They might not like being encaged when one of those own is spirited away. They can raise an alarm.”

  “I know, Shayna.”

  “And the slaver. He isn’t stupid. He’s encountered this situation a hundred times. He will see this coming.”

  “I know, Shayna.”

  “Do you expect to just waltz in and take her away? What will you do, pull the door off its’ hinges?”

  “Shayna!” Quick glances showed no eyes drawn to their attention. The next words were whispers. “I have thought of all this. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Then why do you not have a plan?”

  “I have a plan. Just not a good one.”

  “Men!” After a moment of silence, she met his gaze. “Bring the horses to the eastern wall in three turns of the glass.”

  “Huh?” The stool scratched against the wood floor as Shayna rose. There was something in her eyes, something...dangerous. Something stupid. “Shayna, what are you doing?”

  “Give me the money.” He just stared, trapped by her gaze. “Give it to me, I said!”

  Woodenly he fished the pouch from his belt and laid it upon Shayna’s waiting hand. “Remember. Three turns of the glass. At the eastern end of the building. Can you do that?”

  “Y-yes. I can do it.”

  “Good. Try not to attract attention. It will be blood in the water for these fools.” Without another word Shayna walked from the tavern. Mykel followed her with his eyes, frozen in confusion. What the hell does she plan to do? For a moment, he considered tracking her down, but he remembered the fire in her eyes, the quiet threat in her voice. No, tracking her down was not the best idea. He had to trust her. Even if he did not know what he was trusting in the first place.

  The hours dragged along. Early on Mykel realized that leaving abruptly would cast him in a suspicious light – not that there was anyone to seem suspicious about – but with all the running and the hiding, it was hard to dismiss such a possibility. So, the librarian retreated to his room to wait. He watched the sands from an hourglass spill in a twisting current, and then flipped it over to watch anew. Aside from that, he didn’t move.

  Thus, the hour of truth arrived. The notion of being watched stayed with the librarian, so he decided on a maneuver well-liked by old adventure stories: he stripped the bed of its blankets, twisted them into one long line, draped it out the window and rappelled down the rope before the blankets twisted free. It was only in the middle of his descent that perhaps a one-armed man was not the best candidate for such an escape – not to mention the ground’s nasty habit to swim nauseatingly even from a brief glance – but what was done was done. Fortunately, no one was there to see him thump the ground on his ass, nor anyone guarding the stables. He freed and brought the horses to the eastern wall, out of sight from the glass windows, the drunken jeers and the raunchy songs. The wind carried a chill; Mykel only barely felt it. The darkness seemed a living thing, towering over him, a great wave cresting to slam down like a hammer upon him. Where is she?

  Shayna appeared out of nowhere, leading another person from the dark. Only when they were inches apart did Mykel see the person. Caryl. But that wasn’t what made him gape.

  Caryl was pregnant.

  Mykel did not know how he could miss such a sign. The fact rebounded within his skull. A sharp retort snapped the librarian from his haze; he followed Shayna’s words woodenly. Caryl was not fit to ride a horse, yet speed was of the essence, so she sat sideways, her legs hanging over the horse’s side. It was a precarious situation, but Mykel held onto her tightly. “I will not let you fall,” he whispered to Caryl, but she was too moonstruck to register the words.

  Shayna, on the other hand, had no problem save for a vicious need for speed. Mykel did not know the reason until a booming explosion shattered the silence, accomp
anied by a blast of harsh desert heat. Something was on fire within the town. With dawning horror Mykel realized it came from the square where the flesh-peddler kept his lodgings. Did she...No. She couldn’t have. Could she? The question dogged him every step of the way.

  They finally stopped at a sparse forest some leagues away. The trees were lean to the point of skeletons, but there was no ice and the winter wind had lost its chill; who knows for how long. Mykel cared for Caryl until he was sure there was nothing wrong, and then turned to Shayna.

  “I want to thank you,” he told the back of her head. Her back was facing him, her hands moving rhythmically; she was skinning a rabbit. “I know you were against this, and I cannot tell you why, but you have done me a service I won’t forget.” Of its volition, the living hand came to touch her shoulder, and froze. The bruises; a purple blotch, no larger than a toddler’s fist, marred her cheek. Scanning her frame, he could see hints of purple on her neck, on her fingernails, and a dozen other places he glimpsed; mostly what little he could see upon breast and thigh. The bruises there looked suspiciously like fingers. “What happened? Did someone hit you?” She shuddered at his touch as though it was scalding water. “Shayna...”

  “If you know what is good for you, you will turn over.”

  Mykel knew what those bruises meant. He had seen plenty of them on Caryl. Some men liked their whores beaten; others, to use and dismiss them as if they were broken tools. Words died on his tongue. With an awkwardness not felt since early youth, the librarian retreated to Caryl’s side.

  Caryl was shivering in front of a fire. “Here, take the blanket.” It was a woolspun cloak, laid over Caryl’s frame as gently as cradling a bird in one’s palm. Still it was not enough. After a moment, the librarian stripped his own cloak from his body and swaddled Caryl within it. When still she shivered, Mykel fished a small wineskin from his person, filled it with the biggest rocks the leathern jack would allow and put it to the bonfire. A minute and the wineskin were warm to the touch. Gently the librarian slipped the ale-skin under her knees. Caryl moaned with relief. Good.

  “Are you hungry? Well of course you are. You’re pregnant. You’re eating for two. Well, let me get some water boiling. Shayna, do me a favor and get some water from the river. A bucketful will do. Well, no, I don’t have a bucket on me. Here, take this wineskin. Yes, I know it’s small, but that’s all we have. Well, you’re going to have to make several trips, I guess. What are you waiting for? Go.” The quick shuffle of gliding feet, and Shayna disappeared into the dark. “Don’t mind her. She’s a very gentle person. We’ve been very busy lately.”

  “Yes milord.” Caryl squeaked, her head hanging down so as not to meet his gaze.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me, you know. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Of course not, milord.

  Mykel asked a question he’d been waiting to ask for a decade. “How old are you, Caryl?”

  “Ten and seven, milord.”

  “Mykel, please. I am not a lord.”

  “Very well.” That’s good progress. I’m not some kind of royalty – huh? So deep in thought was he that he only now saw Caryl’s face cradled in her hands, her entire frame bobbing up and down with the shake of sobbing. “Are...are you okay? Was it something I did? I’m sorry. Uh –” His mind was racing so fast he almost did not register Caryl’s hand on his. “Uh –”

  “I’m...I’m all alone. They rejected me – Steven, mother, father – everyone.”

  The dead hand shivered, its shortened, crooked fingers tangled in hers. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. You have me, and I promise I won’t abandon you. Okay?” He held her gaze until finally she smiled at him. The living hand joined atop hers. “I promise you, you will be safe with me.”

  “My lord – you are very generous, Mykel. If you should desire payment...” Her shaking fingers lowered to the catches of her dress, but Mykel held them tight.

  “You never have to do that. Not for me. Not for anyone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Her smile was the dawn cresting over the horizon. Suddenly her eyes lit up as she gazed past the librarian. “My thanks to you as well. You risked much to save me.”

  “Yes, we did.” Shayna came into the firelight with narrowed eyes. “Here. This should be enough water for you, I think.” She retreated to the far side of the camp before any thanks could be uttered, eyes intent on the dark.

  She must be tired. He told Caryl as much, detailing various feats of Shayna’s generosity.

  “You tell your story well. Is that your trade?”

  “Uh...no. I’m a librarian. Though I did write poems and tell stories for extra coin. It’s nothing special.”

  “Poems?” Caryl smiled, the picture of innocence. “Would you be so kind as to recite some for me? Please?”

  Long into the night the pair talked. Neither one chanced a glance to Shayna, but if they had they might have spotted the tears gleaming in the shadows.

  LX

  I can’t do this.

  Yes, you can, Mykel told himself, despite Lazarus’ laughter.

  Well, not really Lazarus. Not the real one. The real Lazarus was some ungodly distance away, doing whatever it was that a Khatari did in this day and age. Despite some strong objections to the contrary, the librarian did know the difference between fantasy and reality. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the irrationality was all his own doing.

  And yet the crimson curtain remained as impassive as ever, mocking him. This is stupid. I’ve done this a thousand times. To an imaginary audience. My parents always enjoyed the performances. Unless they thought it was the most horrible thing ever and lied to spare his feelings. Just run.

  He turned to do so and stopped under Shayna’s steel-eyed glare. The librarian cleared her by a good two inches, but with her arms folded beneath her breasts and wore the face of an angry hornet, she almost seemed a giant. “It’s just one story, Mykel.”

  She’s right. Behind the curtain were two dozen chairs, and sitting in those two dozen chairs were two dozen people. People who probably haven’t heard Sefiros Cayokite before. People whose needs stopped at a full mug and a nubile dancer. People with flat, judging eyes. “Oh God. I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can.” Shayna snatched his ears to pull their gazes level. “You’re always telling me you know every Sefiros Cayokite story backwards. That you can read them in your sleep. This is no different than anytime beforehand. You can do this.”

  Only the stories weren’t there anymore, just a big wide gap of nothingness. “They’re gone.”

  “What do you mean, they’re gone?”

  “The stories. I don’t remember them. They’re gone.”

  “Mykel.”

  “How am I supposed to do this? I don’t have the stories or the audience –”

  “Mykel.”

  “They’re going to boo me. They’re going to throw rotten eggs and tomatoes–”

  “Mykel.”

  “Do you know how many chairs are over there? Two dozen. I’ve counted them. Two dozen. That means two dozen people are out there –”

  She punched him. Hard. The librarian knocked over a stool, a chess board and finally a foot-tall cloak rack on his way to the floor. “What was that for?”

  “Did it hurt?” She asked while pulling him back up.

  “Did it hurt? Of course it hurt!”

  “Good.” Then she shoved him through the curtain.

  Two dozen chairs. Two dozen people. Two dozen eyes. Weighing, dissecting, judging.

  “The Senator’s Court was a marvel of engineering.”

  Shayna? “What are yo
u doing?”

  “Feeding you the lines. Just repeat everything I say.” She gave out a small cough. “It’s glimmering crystal suggested a purity unknown to the mass of the denizens who dwelt there, for whom temptation and greed was a daily trial.”

  Here goes nothing.

  ***

  At the heart of the Court, the Dapple Tower glittered in the sun. Its eleven levels were noteworthy both for the bands of color spiraling upward and the denizens that lived within it. Freedan the Earthshaker, champion of the Realm’s lesser citizens and its wasteland city Ghoul, The City Within the City. Or Marathon, whose winged feet raced against time to enact the Unified Solution, bringing peace to the warring Council by bringing the long-ago stolen Items of Great Import back to their respective cultures. Or Moonlight Masquerade, who hunted the terrible Betrayer halfway around the world using his wits and the loopholes of Sanctuary protocol.

  The twelfth level, the White, housed perhaps the greatest senator the Royal Court had ever seen: Penelope Amelia, the last person one would think of having secrets. But she did have secrets. And they were going to kill her.

  “Sefiros.” Her embrace was so pure and empathic it burned. Stay focused. She deserves to know.

  “Sefiros? What’s wrong?”

  “You’d best sit down, Penelope. I’ve...there’s much to discuss, you and I.”

  “Oh, gods. It’s about Ariel, isn’t it? Something happened to him. He’s all right, isn’t he? Tell me he’s all right.”

  “We will get to Ariel in a moment. First there’s...there’s something I must tell you. Something I should have told you at the beginning. Penelope...I am a man out of time. I am from a future in which Ariel’s deeds are legend.” From the first Cayokite knew he had lost her. “I know this is difficult to understand –”