The Iron Ship

by K. M. McKinley

  “Even so...”

  “I understand,” she said. “Better than you. You shouldn’t make any distinction. They’re all dangerous, brother dear. Every last one.”

  THEY LEFT THE Watermarket quickly, Katriona’s purchase hidden at the bottom of her clutch bag.

  “I say, I say! Goodlady Katriona? Is that you? Is that Goodfellow Guis?”

  Guis pushed his sister on. “Keep going,” he said.

  Katriona did not heed her brother, but stopped before they got to the kerb of the road.

  “Countess Mogawn!” she exclaimed.

  “It is you! How delightful.” The Hag was wearing a candy-striped suit favoured by the glamour boys of Perus this year. A monocle filled her left eye socket, a matching fascinator decorated with the emblems of the lost goddess Alcmeny sat on her head.

  Katriona curtsied. “An intriguing outfit,” she said.

  “Isn’t it? I asked my tailor to make me the most outrageous outfit he could. He came up with this. Terrible, isn’t it? But absolutely perfect. I have a reputation to damage, after all.”

  Both women laughed. Guis thought she was trying too hard to shock.

  A pair of servants puffed in the countess’s wake under the burden of many bags and boxes.

  “You’re lucky to catch me. I must be back to Mogawn before midnight, when the causeway will cover over for the next week or so. My coach will be here in a moment. I’ve been shopping. I don’t come to town often during the day. I’m more of a night owl myself.” She ladled implication onto her statement. Katriona blushed. “Much fun to be had in Karsa of an evening. Although, my work of late has kept me from the city. That’s the advantage of marriage, I suppose. If there is one.” She smiled. “Forgive me. It is a blessed state, but not one for me. How is old Demion? Such a gentle soul, if a little dull. I have always secretly held that he could be instructed to please a woman if given enough tuition.”

  “Countess!” gasped Katriona. She was pretending outrage. She had a smile of a kind Guis had only seen once or twice before on her face.

  “Oh come now, don’t tell me you are one of those old frumps? We were made to take pleasure in love, more so than men. That is why they try to deny it us. If I am regarded as shocking it is almost solely because of my embracing of this one, fundamental truth. And you, Guis. You seemed eager to come to Mogawn when we spoke at your sister’s wedding some three months ago. Have you decided not to visit? You never replied to my invitation.”

  “A terrible lapse on my part, countess. I have been meaning to reply.”

  “Of course,” she said, fully aware of the lie. “The life of a writer must be full of incident and drama. Where else would you find your inspiration?” Her eyes were provocative. “My invitation stands. I would dearly like to host you. I realise that there is a certain stigma attached to my company in refined circles, but I have much that you would like to see. My work is genuinely fascinating. I had heard you were something of a polymath.”

  “I read a little.”

  “You must not read, dear goodfellow! You must experience. Come to me, and I will show you the stars.”

  “Of course.”

  “Besides, I find you fascinating. Shall we say in three weeks? The final week of Frozmer is a fine time to be on Mogawn. Cold, but spectacular. If the ocean is generous enough to give us a calm night, there is no better time to practise astronomy. And other arts.”

  She gave him a long, lingering grin.

  “I will be in Stoncastrum until the twenty-third of Coldbite,” he said.

  “Then come then. It is uncommonly cold then, but if anything the skies are clearer. There!” she clapped her hands. “It is settled. I will send for you. A coach. Bring warm clothes. As I said, Mogawn is cold that time of year.”

  Guis could not refuse without severe embarrassment. The necessity to agree neatly outdid his annoyance that she had bedded Qurion. And he realised that he wanted to go.

  “Very well,” he said. “I shall attend Mogawn on the twenty-seventh, if I may. I have matters to deal with here first.”

  “Better and better, for the Twin nears the end of his approach then. Until the twenty-seventh. Goodlady, goodfellow,” she inclined her head. Guis bowed.

  The countess’s coach arrived, pulled by six dogs, heads crowned with plumes in her family colours. She got in. Her servants piled her boxes and bags onto the roof, and secured them under a tarpaulin. The dogs were well-trained, and pulled the coach away silently.

  “My my,” said Katriona.

  “What?” said Guis.

  “She really was not letting you back out of that now, was she?”

  “What of it?” said Guis.

  She gave him an impudent look. “She has her hooks into you, brother dear.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Oh, absolutely not.” She elbowed him in the ribs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Feast at the Fort

  REL’S LIFE SETTLED into a dull routine. His training continued, and that he enjoyed, in spite of, or perhaps because of, Major Mazurek’s unorthodox methodology. But much of his time was taken up with tedious sentry duties, the endless servicing of equipment and the writing of reports that said essentially that there was nothing to report.

  The views from the walls were splendid, less enjoyable in the biting wind of late autumn. And such an autumn. To Rel it felt colder than the depths of winter. Snow crept lower and lower down the mountains. By the time Coldbite sank its teeth into the steppe, Rel thought he might die. He was provided a firebowl for his room, but the glass of the walls sucked away any heat that it provided. Most days it was cold enough to freeze his ink in its pot. The unglazed window let in the full ferocity of the weather. Inquiries after a shutter were met with laughter. He stoppered the gap with rags, but it did little to stop the cold. He came to regard it as a bitter irony that in a fort made of glass, there was none for the windows. He regretted not bringing more clothing, and spent what little funds he had on a heavy fur coat that he took to living in.

  The one warm time of day was during the evening meal. Breakfast was a freezing affair with miserable food. But by evening the refectory had ample time to warm, fired by the heat of the kitchens underneath. Rel was very glad of this, as it was the custom of the garrison to turn out in full dress uniform to dinner and he had to leave his fur in his room. Dinners were a parade of bright colours and ostentatious buttons, presided over by Colonel Estabanado and his senior officers, all also in their pomp. Even Major Mazurek made an effort. An entire table had to be set aside to hold their hats while they ate.

  It was at one of these meals that Rel was finally introduced to Kalesh Jakkar. Rel had struck up a friendship with the garrison’s warlock, a blue-skinned Amarand by the name of Deamaathani. Amarands had a reputation for licentiousness and dishonesty. On at least one of those counts, Rel figured he probably could claim no moral superiority, and Deamaathani was personable, lively, and infinitely curious.

  Veremond too provided a ready source of companionship. Inevitably their relative rank precluded true friendship. There was no such issue with Deamaathani.

  Rel was sitting with Veremond at table, but it was Deamaathani who was responsible for introducing him to Jakkar. He performed his social function with a twinkle in his eye. Veremond groaned and ran his hand down his face when he saw who the warlock had brought to join them.

  “Rel, may I introduce to you Kalesh Jakkar, the fort engineer, and unofficial archaeologist.”

  By his side Deamaathani had a small, round man whose face was mostly occupied by beard. Long and full to the middle of his chest, it crept most of the way up his cheeks, and all of the way down his neck. Those parts of his face that were not covered in this black thicket were overshadowed by eyebrows hairier than caterpillars. Grey eyes peered out, fiercely accusing whatever they lit on, though of what none knew. The hair on his head was similarly black, but there was less hair on his scalp than his face, the top b
eing shiny bald, the hair, though long, confined to a wild sweep around the perimeter. What skin there was on display was ruddy, and growing more florid by the moment in the heat of the refectory.

  The man held out a thick-fingered hand knurled with calluses, dark and dirty as a Tyn’s.

  “They sent me a Kressind, marvellous. There’s much work to be done. I am responsible for the obelisks, along with all my other duties. It is good to have another engineer. You will help me.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” said Rel. “And I am Rel Kressind, pleased to meet you.”

  “I know that,” said Jakkar sharply. “Don’t tell me you stand on all that ceremony.” Jakkar turned to Deamaathani, his brows bristling even more. “You told me he was a good sort, not another popinjay more concerned with seating plans than battle plans! You deceived me. Ah, such is the Amarand character. Deceitful!”

  “There is no deceit, he is a good sort. Saying hello pleasantly is not an unnecessary social adornment!” said Deamaathani sternly, although he was grinning.

  “Bah,” said Jakkar. He pushed himself onto the bench next to Rel. Rel moved up and Deamaathani took the seat to his left.

  “He and I often eat together,” explained Deamaathani. “He’s been out for the last three months.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Jakkar. “Inspections. Repairing, and where I can, cataloguing.” He said this last like a challenge. “The obelisks.”

  “Well. I’m sorry to disappoint you,” said Rel. “I suppose you’re referring to my father’s reputation.”

  “Yes, yes, what else? A Kressind aren’t you? You have the type! Renowned engineers, every one.” His stare challenged any of them to disagree.

  “Not me, I’m afraid,” said Rel. “I never really got the knack. I’m afraid you want my brothers and sister for that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, well. Useless. Never mind.” Jakkar helped himself to a large portion of food from the pot in the middle of the table, one of six dotted at regular intervals the length of the board. Rel took rather less. The pomp of mealtimes at the fort was overblown as a coronation, but the food was simple soldier’s fare.

  “More beans,” Rel said. “Marvellous.”

  “Do not dismiss the humble bean!” said Jakkar. He was fat enough that Rel reckoned Jakkar never dismissed foodstuffs of any kind. “It is full of much nutriment.”

  “They do little to kindle the appetite,” said Veremond sadly.

  “Jakkar has a great many interests,” explained Deamaathani. “The proper maintenance of the human body among them. He is the best read man in this fort.”

  “I am the best read man for five hundred miles!” he protested. “Where’s the bread? Bread! Bring me some bread.” He shook his head disappointedly.

  Rel leaned in close to Deamaathani. “He’s an odd fellow.”

  “A lot of them are here,” said Deamaathani. “Are you any different?”

  Rel shrugged. “I cannot judge myself. That’s for others.”

  “What?” said Jakkar. “What are you good for?”

  “I haven’t really decided,” said Rel. “It was always intended that I go into the army, as befitted the fifth son of a true noble.”

  “But your father is a title buyer,” said Jakkar.

  “He is a real social climber.”

  “A title?” said Veremond, perking up. “I didn’t know of this! That makes you a lord.”

  “Not me. My brother though. He will be Lord Kressind when father passes.”

  “I’ll have to call you goodfellow and sir,” said Veremond wryly. “You are nobility.”

  “You have to call me that anyway, Veremond, I do outrank you.”

  “Fair point. Sir.”

  “Another soldier!” said Jakkar, as if only then noticing Rel’s uniform. “We don’t need more soldiers. We need more scholars!”

  “The colonel does not agree,” said Veremond. Jakkar gave him a black look.

  “The colonel is short-sighted.” The clattering of knives and spoons on pewter plates, the hubbub of voices and the fragile, edged quality that the glass walls lent to the sound made it hard to catch what the man opposite you was saying, but Jakkar spoke with such loudness that Rel glanced worriedly at Estabanado, sure he must have heard. “Look at this place!” Jakkar raised his hands and cast his eyes upwards. The others could not help but follow. For a moment Rel took in the soaring vaulting over their heads, made like everything else in the fort from seamless black glassy stone. “A world of wonders around us, and it is treated as a common barracks!”

  “Come now, Jakkar,” said Deamaathani. “This is not a common barracks. The place is full of disgraced lordlings. It is a fascinating place. There is no better collection of military uniforms in all of Ruthnia. It is a fine display. And then there is the interplay of character and etiquette. It is truly fascinating to watch. I could do it all day, I could. Look!” Deamaathani sucked his spoon clean and pointed it across at another table. “The military attaché from Macer Lesser will not sit with the attaché from Maceriya. Both of them vie for the friendship of the military attaché from Marceny. But, and here’s the thing, the Maceriyan is a captain, the Marcenian is a lieutenant, and therefore believes that the lieutenant should be courting his attention.”

  “Why? Is the Marcenian some beauty?” joked Rel.

  “The only beauties here are from the Queendom, and they keep to themselves,” said Deamaathani. “The Maceriyan successors’ kingdoms’ shy wooing of one another is not about mutual affection. There’s trade rights at the root of all that.”

  “Aren’t these people here to be soldiers?” said Rel.

  “Half of them are, the rest are sent with a whole library of orders to pursue. If you want an education in the application of national interest within the Hundred, then this is the place to be,” said Deamaathani. “Deals are struck here. It is one of the few places that so many different nations mingle without the restrictions experienced at the Assembly of Nations. A delightful paradox—these men are all here for some minor misdemeanour or other, and yet they are given sensitive tasks that would stretch a diplomat. They try very hard, of course. All of them would much rather be somewhere warmer.”

  “Some of them are diplomats, I am sure,” said Rel.

  “There are a few,” said Deamaathani. “You can tell; those are the ones the real soldiers will not speak with.”

  “I find it all immensely complicated, and therefore tedious,” said Rel.

  “You think the Maceriyan triad complicated? “said Deamaathani gleefully. “The various rankings and intrigues of the Oberlanders outmatch that by far. Listen, I am a master of the seventh magisterial art. I am equally well versed in true magecraft. I can imbue steel with will, bind fiends from the fifth hell to my command, and softly fry you where you sit with a gesture like that.” He snapped his fingers decisively. “And I find their squabbles incomprehensible.”

  “I became a soldier to avoid complicated issues such as this.”

  “Really? You call seducing the wife of your commanding officer’s close friend uncomplicated? You are more stupid than you appear,” said Deamaathani. Veremond chuckled.

  “I probably am,” admitted Rel. “I trade a lot on my looks.”

  Deamaathani grinned. “Fine they are too.”

  “Really,” said Rel, snapping his fingers. “Like that?”

  “It takes a little more effort than just that,” Deamaathani snapped his fingers again. “But I can do as I say, so tread carefully my friend.”

  “I always thought magisters were dry, dusty academics,” said Rel. Deamaathani was anything but; young, vital and muscular as the soldiers.

  “I am a warlock, a battle wizard,” said Deamaathani. They all grinned at the ridiculous title. “Estabanado has me sending his messages because there is no one else with the talent to do so, unless you count that dried up old witch in Railhead, but it is not the pinnacle of my ability.”

  “There’s not much money in all that fairy-tale stuff, is
there?” said Rel. “That’s what I heard.”

  “There are more remunerative branches of my calling, but nothing can match the feeling of raw power that manipulating wild magic in battle can bring.”

  “But you are a magister.” said Rel. “Not a follower of the Iapetan School.”

  “It is possible to follow the new tradition and respect the old. Few of my colleagues accept this, but there is wisdom inherent in both paths. That is why I am here. It is an unpopular philosophical standpoint at the university.”

  “I wish you had arrived earlier sir,” said Veremond. “He’s never been so candid.”

  “I find him fascinating,” said Jakkar. “And I am bored. I bore easily. Easily! You people are no stranger to magic, surely captain. Karsa is overrun by Tyn.”

  “I suppose so,” said Rel. “I never really thought about it. They are just there.”

  “There are more Tyn there than you can believe,” said Veremond. “Have you ever been to Karsa?”

  “No,” said Deamaathani.

  “You see them everywhere, as workers, servants. Shopkeepers! I was rather scared when I was there the first time.”

  “So you should be,” said Deamaathani. “There is one forest in Amaranth where Wild Tyn are reputed still to dwell. Nobody ever goes in there, because if they do, it is reputed that they do not come out again. It is not true, sadly. I went within its borders and found no Tyn.”

  “They don’t like to be found unless they wish to be found,” said Veremond darkly.

  “I’ve never had any trouble,” said Rel. “My tailor is a Tyn. He’s always in his shop.”

  “In your land the Tyn live among you. Elsewhere, they are the subject of fear. Have you never thought why?” said Deamaathani.

  “There was a king or somesuch. It’s just a legend. I mean, they’re just there. People, like you and I.”

  “They are not,” said Veremond.

  “You listen to your grandmother overly much,” said Rel.

  “Tyn. Interesting,” said Jakkar. “But the Morfaan are the most interesting. The Tyn are woodland creatures, little better than beasts. They have never built, never triumphed, they simply are, tied to rock or stream or tree. And so they fall before those who are not, who do build and who do triumph and who can leave such ridiculous impedimenta behind. The true culture of this world was Morfaan. It has not been bettered. Nor will it be. I will prove it.”