by Mark Eller
"A broken arm," Patton said quietly. "Their technique is very crude."
Aaron looked to him, feeling irritable and defensive. "These are the youngest warriors, the neophytes. I assume the skilled ones will fight later."
Patton grimaced. "I hope so. It's harder to not hurt an amateur than someone who knows what they're doing." He rolled his shoulders, loosening them. A thin smile played about his mouth.
Melna released a gasp as a new pair entered one of the circles. "I don't believe they're making her fight!"
Aaron looked, not sure which woman Melna spoke of because much of both combatant's features were obscured by head wrappings, red for one and brown for the other. More cloth bound their ribs, but unlike so many others, their arms were left bare. Challenging smiles flashed as their hands accepted fighting sticks.
"Which one?"
Melna gave him a disbelieving look. "How long have you lived with the Tremouve? That's Villon."
Aaron looked at the two women once more and frowned. He might have heard the name before, but he didn't recognize either woman.
"The singer," Melna supplied impatiently.
"I haven't heard her sing," Aaron admitted. A signal he did not see was given. Wood flashed through the air, meeting with a hard clack. Aaron winced in sympathy. His hands stung just thinking of the force behind the strikes.
"Her voice is very mature, years older than her age," Patton said. "Her family has gained much honor from her."
"You'd recognized her if you spent more time with the people you rule," Melna chided. "Villon wears the red cloth." She raised her voice. "Go, Villon!
Her call was answered by a quick series of blows. Another signal must have been given because the sticks suddenly swept toward legs, arms, and ribs. Both women took a beating as they were struck time and again, yet the contest was not called. Neither appeared obviously superior to the other.
The wide, open-lipped smiles thinned, becoming grimaces of concentration. Even from where he sat, Aaron saw blood and bruises form across arms and legs. He shifted, started to rise, and a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
Patton shook his head. "This is sacred. You can't stop it. They'll kill you for even trying."
"Aaron," Melna added. "Stop growling."
Cries rose as Villon's stick flew from her hand. A leg sweep cracked against her shin, staggering her to the side. She fell to the ground. Her hand reached for her fallen weapon.
"Oh, no," Melna whispered.
The stick came at Villon in a straight downward blow. It crushed into her head cloth, driving Villon's head to the side as the stick glanced off her skull and cracked into her shoulder. Eyes opening wide, her body loosened and sagged.
Panting, the winner leaned on her weapon, watching dispassionately while Villon was dragged from the circle. Sighing, she allowed her tribes people to help her from the circle.
A parting of the crowd gave Aaron a glimpse of Macine's grim visage as the healer leaned over the injured girl. She nodded as her fingers probed at Villon's unwrapped head.
The power of the One God stirred inside Aaron's gut. "I can heal her."
"They know. It isn't allowed," Patton told him. "This is a test of skill and bravery. If it's to be a true test, the fighters must know they cannot escape their wounds."
"But her voice─" Melna started
"This is their way," Patton said firmly, though his face did not look happy.
Hours passed before a break was called. Aaron finally had a chance to eat, but chose not to. This deliberate brutality caused him to lose his appetite.
Fortunately, because of the yermod's close supervision, only a few other serious injuries occurred. Even so, Aaron heard more than a few cracking ribs, and several fighters bore broken fingers or arms.
Aaron used the contest's break to find Macine. She, along with three other healers, was surrounded by people waiting for their injuries to be seen.
Aaron waited until Macine finished sewing the edges of a cut together. Sterile, Aaron discovered, wasn't a word she knew.
"The girl?" he asked once he gained her attention. "Villon? How is she?"
"She will live," Macine answered. She tapped the side of her head above and forward of her left temple. "The bone is broken."
"I can heal her."
"No!" She made a sharp gesture with her arm. "Her wound is her honor. You will not take it from her."
"But─"
"No."
A hand fell on his shoulder. Another of the healers stood beside him.
"You must go," the man said.
Unhappy, Aaron left wondering why other emperors seemed to have so much more influence with their people than he did.
The T'chung soon started once more, continuing into the early evening. When it became almost too dark to see, fires were built and the contest continued. The battles became less injurious as older challengers proved themselves more skilled. The wild enthusiasm of the youngsters disappeared, replaced by respectful recognition and greater ability. Battles rarely lasted longer than a minute before a winner was declared. Sometimes an opponent stepped back and bowed after only a few preliminary blows.
Finally, long after midnight, a winner was declared. She was paraded around the victory circle three times before coming to a stop before Aaron. Ignoring her emperor, she set a challenging stare on Patton.
Patton sighed. "I better get this over with." He rose effortlessly, even after the long hours of sitting.
"You don't have to do it," Melna said, her voice worried.
"Oh, yes, I do," he answered. "I have to keep their respect. If I'm to remain effective I have to prove I'm at least as good as a chorai." Clasping his hands together, he stretched his arms over his head before lowering them back to his sides. "Here goes."
The contest was anti-climactic. In less than ten seconds, Harvest Patton had the woman disarmed and on the ground. This feat was met with a stunned silence which soon grew into murmurs of excited approval.
"Melna," Patton called out in Jut. "Why don't you come up here so we can show these people what real staff work looks like?"
"Should I," she called back.
Something perverse stirred within Aaron. He found himself standing, though he had no memory of rising. "I'll do it."
Harvest shook his head. "I haven't worked out with you in a while. There's less chance I'll hurt Melna since we have a session almost every day. Melna?"
"Oh, all right." She rose to her feet. "Sit down, Aaron. You're the emperor. Emperor's don't get involved with fighting."
"And empresses do?" Aaron protested.
Grinning, Melna strode toward Patton, taking a stick from the hand of a startled woman along the way. Small and tall, their contrasts caused raised voices in protest. Holding her stick aloft, Melna glared the protests down. Taking her stance, she stared mockingly at Patton.
"I don't intend to lose," Aaron heard her say.
"Neither do I," Patton answered, and then his and Melna's sticks blurred.
Aaron felt torn between pride, worry, and envy as he watched. Both shorter and weaker, Melna did not have Patton's reach, but it soon became apparent he did not have her speed.
His wife, Aaron admitted, had been practicing. She was far better than he'd ever been, surprising since he'd begun her lessons shortly after their marriage. Apparently, she and Patton trained together more frequently than Aaron suspected before this day. They almost seemed to anticipate each other's every feint and strike.
One minute passed, and then two. Standing, Aaron strained to see the battle by flickering firelight.
After five minutes, they each took a step back. Lungs heaving, Melna and Patton regarded one another with respect before closing once again. Several further minutes passed while the watching Chins grew more and more silent, watching a display of martial skill beyond anything they had seen before. Aaron doubted most realized no serious blows were being struck. The only time force was applied was when wood met wood, not when a stick encounte
red unpadded flesh.
The end was sudden, unexpected, and anti-climactic. Patton danced away from Melna's strike at his knee. He seemed to stumble. Melna's stick hit his thigh, and Patton inadvertently stepped outside the circle.
Patton groaned disappointment, but his grin answered Melna's. They were soon surrounded by Chins offering congratulations and begging instruction. Several Tremouve complained it wasn't right for the emperor's tent to have been moved to the Jondar encampment, because the Jondar would be the first to gain this new training.
He was, Aaron realized, alone. Not one of his subjects looked toward him. They, each and all, surrounded Patton and Melna, the heroes of the day.
Feeling more tired than hungry, Aaron left. From this night until the emperor's tent passed to another tribe, he would live with the Jondar. He'd have new names to remember and new traditions to learn. Surrounded by strangers, he would be alone in a crowd. He was their emperor and they his subjects, but as relationships went, this one seemed very shallow.
Tomorrow was another day. The Tremouve would be behind him. Aybarra would lead them in the war. The Jondar would have Mac Harris leading them while Aaron looked on.
Caught in his brown study, Aaron slowly moved away from the crowd, the noise, the fires, and the celebration. He made his way through the Jondar camp, to his tent-home, and to his cool bed.
He slept, but woke near morning when Melna's naked body crawled in beside him. They kissed and made love, but their lovemaking was an empty act, devoid of feeling or passion. They made love because married people did that on occasion.
He and Melna were friends, Aaron knew. Partners. If they were to part tomorrow, neither would miss the other for more than a few days.
It was a hell of a way to run a life.
Chapter 10
"It's the learning what makes this exciting," Armand Crowley expounded. "The expanding of horizons and the realization of just what tiny pips we humans are on this planet."
"You know, husband mine," Faith Crowley panted, "I've always heard travel is good for a person. I've been told it's educational and all sorts of other crap. It's said visiting foreign lands introduces a person to whiskeys she'd not encounter otherwise, to concepts she never before imagined, and to romance more powerful than anything she ever before experienced."
Faith took a swipe at her wet, stringy hair in a useless attempt to remove it from her eyes. Licking her lips, she tasted salt and grit before giving Armand her best glare while refastening her hands on the shovel handle leaning against her abdomen.
"Then you should thank me for this opportunity," Armand told her. "You've traveled thousands of miles. Your body is stronger than ever before. Adventure awaits, and what romance could be more passionate than mine for you?"
"Yeah. Right. I'm sure you remember I haven't seen the sun in weeks." Faith frowned at the boiler's pressure gage. The needle had crept downward. Stifling a curse, she lifted the shovel and jabbed its blade into the ship's coal pile. Armand nonchalantly opened the furnace door so she could throw the heavy black chunks into its interior.
"Each to their talents," Armand said lightly. "You're a woman used to working. You'd have grown bored with my job."
"I could learn to live with it," she said, throwing in a second, and then a third scoop, because the ship's captain liked the steam pressure to stay within a narrow band. Unfortunately for Faith, the only way to maintain the demanded pressure was to have someone add coal and water to the boiler when needed. One of the people chosen for the task was her.
Armand Crowley, her dear husband, light of her life, stud muffin extraordinaire, with Tap's input, had landed them jobs where they could work as a team, he on ship's maintenance, she shoveling coal. Since ship's maintenance required only a few hours of work each day, Armand spent much of his spare time near Faith, reassuring her she was doing a great job while building impressively bulging muscles.
The bastard.
Tomorrow they would reach land. Her career as the idiot on the end of a stick would be over, and she'd start her campaign on making her husband pay.
After closing the furnace door, Armand latched it. He shifted, resettling the tool pouch slung around his hips. "Look at the bright side, darling. Somebody paid the captain good money to make a fast trip. Because of your efforts, it's been full steam all the way and damn the sails. We're two weeks ahead of schedule so there'll be bonuses all around."
"Because I shoveled a mountain of coal into this hungry beast," Faith complained, pointing at the furnace door. "When we hit shore, we're getting a room, and you're giving me a backrub."
"Grover," a voice called out. "Steam leak on turbine two."
"That's me," Armand told Faith. "Got to go."
In her more honest moments, Faith had to admit Armand's cavalier attitude sometimes irked her. After all, she had more training than him. She had twice as much field experience. So why did he always come out on top.
Giving her a wink, Armand adjusted his tool belt and turned away. Watching his swagger, Faith contemplated picking up a lump of coal and throwing it at him. She beat back the impulse and smiled instead.
"Mister Grover," she called, "you're showing butt crack."
He threw a cocky grin over his shoulder. "Course I do, love. Part of my disguise. People wearing tool pouches are honor bound to show a bit of cheek. It's only twelve more hours to Benue if you shovel hard enough."
Frowning, Faith closed her eyes and dreamed of what it would feel like to have a bath, of what food uncorrupted by coal dust would taste like, and of exactly what she would do to Armand Crowley the next time they accepted an assignment. Most of all, she thought on how her dear husband would squirm once he realized she had a secret weapon in her arsenal. She had an ability which was normally inconsequential, but in Halimut it would be very useful indeed.
* * *
"Back wheel! Easy on back!"
The ship shuddered as the paddlewheel braked and then reversed direction. Glaring at her tossed aside shovel, Faith wiggled her fingers, stretching them to work out knots and kinks.
A hand roughly pulled her away. A weather worn face peered at the pressure gage before nodding. "Good. Good. Seventy pounds and dropping. We can ease into the dock without the risk of hurting anyone."
Glaive Heuise, below deck first officer, turned her dark eyes on Faith. "You learned your job well. Told the captain I never got a word of complaint out of you. Told him you're the best we've had in two years. Are you sure you won't be making the trip back with us?"
After working up a wad of spit to clear coal dust from her mouth, Faith spat into the open furnace. "I'm sure."
"Well, then," the first reached into one of her pockets and handed over a thin packet. "Here's your pay. The captain, she added an extra fifteen percent because of how hard you worked. We made this trip in double time. Three weeks." She shook her head wonderingly. "I remember when it took three months to make the same crossing, back before Alfred Grondenburg thought of making his steam engines do something useful a couple years back."
Faith took the packet, giving the paper currency a good going over, though how she could tell if the money was fake she had no idea. She was used to seeing gold or silver coins when she got paid, not paper. These sovereigns were a strange thing, especially since she was being paid Jutland money when they were docking inside Halimut. Fortunately, the service had provided them with local funds.
"Full off!" a distant voice called. Faith heard a valve thrown somewhere. The wheel stopped, and the remaining pressure on her gage fell at a faster pace. She felt a brief bump, and then heard a grinding noise.
"Tied off!"
"We've arrived," Glaive said. "Clean up your area and wait at least an hour before leaving. That'll give the owner a chance to clear away before you come up and get coal dust on everything." Looking though the doorway, she frowned.
"Got to find the new fellow, that Grover. He's another one who only wanted to sign up for half the trip instead of making the
round." She shook her head. "Hate to lose him. Best lazy man I ever saw."
"What!" If the no good louse had been lying about and doing nothing while she busted her behind, she'd kill him.
"Man hates work," Glaise explained, "so he sits back and looks a situation over. After a bit, he starts tinkering and banging, and then before you know it, something that's always been a problem doesn't act up anymore. Watched him spend three extra hours fixing up a leaking seal. Most mechanics, they just change the seal. This Grover fellow, he put the spare pump in service and removed the old pump. He cut and filed on it before putting the pump back and aligning everything. We've had problems every few days with those seals since our maiden voyage, six months back. Since he's worked on it, not a problem."
"That doesn't sound lazy," Faith observed.
"Only a lazy mechanic puts so much effort into easy fixes. Grover wanted things repaired right the first time so he could get arse time later. The four maintenance people we had in the past kept fairly busy fixing the same things over and over. This one worked his butt off for the first week and barely lifted a finger the second and third. He had time to read every magazine on board. Good man." She turned to leave, paused, and turned back.
"It was good having you aboard. You ever need a berth or recommendation, you come to me."
Faith watched Glaive leave to go pat Armand's ego. She shook her head, not the least surprised. Armand Crowley always left an impression. The Lord and Lady knew he'd
been impressing her for the last several years.
Sore but smiling, Faith picked up an escaping lump of coal and tossed it back onto the main pile. She took a look around, seeing the close walls and the large furnace, the piled coal, and the hated shovel. Her skin, she noted for the ten thousandth time, was as black as the coal. She hated thinking about what her hair looked like.
A month-long soak would take care of the matter while she worked on repairing her nails. None were broken, but her labor had done horrible things to their razor sharp edges, and the hardened polish was only a distant memory.
