by J M D Reid
She had to get off the ship. Get away from the Navy. She joined the press of sailors eager to get off the ship as the hawsers were thrown to the dock. A slender form popped up at her side. Zori rose and fell on her toes, her body trembling.
“I know!” Zori said, nodding to Chaylene. “Just want to run around the entire base like a marine. Or tire Guts out.”
Chaylene forced a smile, struggling to find words. Before she could answer, a cheer ran through the crew; the gangplank was run out. Suddenly, she was in a flowing tide of sailors all pouring for the narrow spigot to get off the ship. Clutching Zori’s hand, she let the stream carry her along to temporary freedom, crushed in the flow. She trumped down the gangplank, hating how it flexed and warped beneath her booted feet. Then she was on the solid dock, spilling out with the crew. Here, the jostling ended, past the choke point to escaping the ship. She and Zori marched to the pier where the quartermaster for the port waited. Sailors clustered around him as he reached into a canvas bag and produced letters.
“Anything for Jayne?” Chaylene asked. One of Gretla’s letters to her brother always brought warm breezes.
“Yes, indeed, Lieutenant,” the quartermaster answered. He plucked out a letter in the bag without even looking. “Got one for you.”
“Me?” They were always for Ary. She took the letter, frowning.
The name of the sender punched her in the guts.
Gretla Jayne.
“Chaylene?” Zori asked.
“Just Ary’s sister,” Chaylene said, her stomach trembling. Why did she write to me and not Ary? “Enjoy tiring out Guts. I need to . . . to start dinner.”
“Dinner?” Zori asked. “What?”
Chaylene marched ahead, her hand trembling. Fear boiled through her guts. Was Jhevon dead? Was he injured? Was Gretla?
She needed a glass of wine to settle her stomach.
*
Ary adjusted his sabre—he had traded his greatsword with Guts for a weapon he could wield one-handed—then vanished below deck to ensure Estan’s was carried safely off the ship. He found Lieutenant Aychiov, the Adventurous’s medical officer, standing beside Estan’s litter as two sailors lifted it. “Be careful with him,” the medical officer said, concern on her face. “Don’t jostle him.”
“We won’t, Lieutenant,” muttered a scowling sailor.
“Ary,” Estan said. “I think I have made a most remarkable discovery about pain.”
“Oh?” Ary asked as he followed behind the litter through the hold.
“Just because you have lost a leg, it turns out it can still hurt. I feel it throbbing. Though I reach down and touch nothing, my brain is convinced that I still have a limb. It contradicts the direct, physical observations I make.”
Ary snorted. “You haven’t spent much time around retired sailors. Back home, Jondheth Pegleg was always complaining about his missing leg aching. He used to say, ‘The bastard surgeon tossed it off the ship into the Storm Below. Those Theisseg-damned Stormriders are gnawing on it right now.’ I always laughed as a kid.”
“Medical waste has to be disposed of,” Lieutenant Aychiov said. “I’m afraid I disposed of Estan’s leg in a similar fashion.”
“Oh, then that explains the pain.” Estan groaned as they carried him up the stairs. “I wish they would stop playing with it. It itches immensely. Does your hand itch, Ary?”
“A little,” Ary shrugged. “Sometimes I forget I don’t have fingers and try to grab something. Like when I stumble. I fell on my backside last night ‘cause of that.”
Estan blinked when they reached the deck. He looked around. “Where did your wife get to?”
“She’s exhausted,” Ary said, “and heading home.” An impatient part of him itched to do the same. To leave everything behind. Duty and friendship bound him here.
Estan nodded. “Yes, I do not blame her for wanting to get off the ship. Why don’t you join her? I’m sure these fine sailors will manhandle me to the medical building without incident.”
“I need to speak to the wounded we left behind,” Ary said. “Tell ‘em what happened.” He and Chaylene were the only surviving officers. He felt the weight of Captain Dhar pressing on them. He had to see to her crew.
The gangplank groaned as the sailors carried Estan’s stretcher down the flexing wood. Ary followed, holding onto the rope railing with his right hand. His thumb clenched against his stump. Absently, he tried to grasp the hilt of the metal sabre dangling off his left hip. His thumb wrapped around the handle, pressing it against his palm.
I bet I could learn to do some stuff with half a hand.
As they walked, Estan babbled about his insights into the world of the amputee and speculated on various ways fake legs might be improved. Ary nodded his head, barely paying attention as Estan speculated about articulating joints and principals of leverage. In the medical building, the sailors transferred him to a bed. Ary felt eyes watching him. Ienchie and the Bosun were still in the beds, recovering from their injuries.
“Just the two of you from the Dauntless were injured, Adjutant-Lieutenant?” Ienchie asked, sitting up. She swallowed. “Were there any other casualties?”
The Bosun’s one good eye studied the sailors who had brought Estan in. “It’s bad, ain’t it, Ary?”
He nodded. His insides twisted and his eyes misted. “We found the pirate fortress. While my marines, the auxiliaries, and Chaylene’s scouts were assaulting the fortress, the Dauntless was providing support when she . . .” His throat choked off his words.
“No . . .” Ienchie whispered.
Eyes burning, he cleared his throat and continued, “No one’s sure what happened, but her magazine erupted and . . .”
The Bosun nodded, her normally gruff face pale. Ienchie burst into tears, rolled onto her side, and hugged her pillow as she sobbed. Ary caught a name, Charlim, a short sailor Ary had often seen with Ienchie.
“I’m sorry.” Ary swallowed and spoke hollow words. “He was a good man. Charlim. He died to make the skies safer.”
“I know,” Ienchie answered in a strained, hoarse voice. “He enlisted. He always wanted to be a sailor.”
Ary patted her shoulder.
The Bosun stretched, gazed up at the ceiling. “The captain’s husband’s gonna be devastated. She was a good woman. Fair officer. Woulda followed her into the fiercest Cyclone.”
Ary nodded his head.
“Damn,” she muttered, closing her good eye.
Not sure what to do, Ary backed away from Ienchie’s sobs and the Bosun’s quiet grief. He strode over to Estan and sat down upon a stool beside his bed. Ary touched Estan’s wrist, inspected his friend with Fleshknitting, and detected the start of an infection.
“Such a strange feeling,” Estan whispered. “I can feel the heat pouring into me. Theisseg’s power, and yet it feels so comforting.”
“She’s no dark Goddess,” Ary answered, voice low. “That’s what I’ve learned. The Sun is false. Her warmth and light are a lie.”
“Maybe.” Estan winced and then sighed. “Hmm, I think your power is working on my imagined pain, too.”
“Explains why I don’t have any.”
“You lied?”
Ary nodded. “I know enough that I should feel it. But I don’t. No tingles or itches.”
A silence hung between them for a few heartbeats. “What will you do now, Ary?”
“Go find my wife. Hold her.”
“Well, I didn’t mean in the immediate future.” Estan sighed. “We’re both going to be discharged. We are unfit to be marines.”
“I don’t know. Suppose I’ll find some work here. I’m sure the Autonomy will give me a civilian job at the port. They usually do for spouses.”
“So you’ll follow Chaylene around from post to post?”
“What else can I do?”
“Figure out the secrets of Theisseg, the Storm, your powers and dreams. All of it.” Estan looked Ary in the eye. “I want you to come with me and meet my tutor. Ma
ster Rlarim knows more on the subject than any. With your help, maybe we can end the Storm.”
Ary froze and swallowed. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to leave Chaylene.”
“She’ll be out sailing most of the time, patrolling. She’ll be safe. No pirates will be a threat for a while. But you are a conduit to truths lost to time. With my tutor’s help, we can uncover them.”
“I . . .” Do I want to stay here and be useless? Do I want to be away from Chaylene? “I don’t know.”
“Of course, of course. Think on it. Talk with your wife.”
Ary nodded. “Well, I should—”
“Estan!”
Esty raced to Estan’s side and embraced him, kissing him while her tears rained from her eyes.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Ary nodded, pulling the curtains closed around the bed. “And I’ll think on it. I promise.”
Estan was too busy to answer. Ary smiled. After all the death he’d witnessed, it was a wonder to see life again. Joy. Love. Happiness. It lifted his soul out of the muck and sped his steps towards his wife. They had survived this time.
That was worth celebrating.
*
Chaylene opened Gretla’s letter after drinking her first glass of wine, steadying her nerves.
Before she had finished the letter, she had downed a second and was well on her way to finishing a third. Her body shook as she read the words again. Chaylene poured herself a fourth glass.
“I’m so sorry,” she moaned. “I let you down. I let Ary down.”
You let me down, the Vionese sailor whispered. Right down into the Storm. My wife’s never gonna know what happened to me.
Chaylene downed her fourth glass and poured the last of the first bottle into her cup.
*
Estan held Esty as her tears fell hot on his cheeks. Her slanted eyes were puffy and her alabaster cheeks seemed even paler. Her beaded braids clacked as she pulled away. She produced a handkerchief and dabbed at her cheekbones.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she sniffed. “You’re alive. You came back. I should be happy. I am happy.”
Estan took her hand. “I’m happy, too. When I was lying there, bleeding out, all I could think of was never seeing you again.”
A shy smile crossed her lips. “Shouldn’t you have been thinking about staying alive?”
“I was. For you.” Estan shifted; his missing leg itched. “That’s all I could focus on. Even when he was standing over me with the sword, about to kill me, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was a remarkable experience. My body grew quite cold as the shock set in. My brain just didn’t want to properly work. In that moment, I latched onto the most important thing and clung to it, to you, with every ounce of strength I could. I may write a paper about it. It was very illuminating.”
Esty let out a snorting laugh, shaking her head. “You almost die, and all you’re focused on is the knowledge you gained.”
“That’s how progress is made. It is a messy affair. My tutor taught me that you cannot study without destruction. Dissection, excavation, deconstruction, dissolving. All the techniques of natural philosophy are born out of it.”
Esty took a deep breath, a question forming on her lips.
“Yes, your brother is dead.” Estan’s voice grew low. He shifted and his missing leg throbbed. “But it was not I who killed him.”
“Did he . . .?” Her eyes fell to the blanket covering his body and the noticeable dip where his right leg should have extended. Lieutenant Aychiov had amputated it at mid-thigh.
“Yes.”
Estan witnessed horror, pain, and more flick across her face. “Why did I ever help him? I knew it was wrong. I knew it. But . . . I couldn’t say no to him. He was my brother. None of this mess would have happened. You would never have lost your leg.”
Estan clasped her hand. “Your brother was full of hate. Whether you helped him or not, he would have pillaged. He would have killed. You are not responsible for his acts.”
“I’m responsible for aiding some of them.”
Estan pulled her closer. She sat on the edge of his bed. With effort, he sat up and brushed away her tears. “You did not kill a single person. You did not enable your brother to cut off my leg. You turned your back on him. You found the strength to get out of his shadow. That is a remarkable thing. Familial bonds are imprinted on us from birth. Society has shaped us to react favorably to our kin. Nzuuvsk sze Vviry believed that the family was the foundation of society and morality. Civilization sprang out of that simple unit, so it is no wonder those bonds act so strongly upon us. It was hard for me to go against my father’s wish, but the work Master Rlarim and I researched was too important.”
Esty shook her head and leaned against him. “One day I’m going to find a subject that you know nothing about.”
“I accept the challenge,” Estan smiled, slipping his arm around her waist. He leaned back and she stretched out on the bed beside him. “I’m going to be discharged from the Navy when I recover.”
“What will you do?”
“I plan on seeking out my tutor in his exile. We have much to research. I hope Ary will come with me.”
Esty swallowed, her breath quickening. “Only Ary?”
Estan’s mouth dried. His stomach knotted. “I would also . . . enjoy your company.”
“So I am to be your guest? A simple companion to entertain you with my quick wit?”
Estan flinched at the edge to her tongue. “I fear speaking with women may be a subject upon which I have not greatly studied.”
“So you wish to study my conversation?”
“I wish to love you,” Estan forced himself to say. “I want you to come with me because . . . I would miss your smiles. I would miss that delightful scent and the way you crinkle your nose when you are thinking, and the endearing way you snore.”
“I snore?” she blinked.
“Not much.” Estan grinned. “And it is very cute. Almost like a piglet snuffling.”
Her black eyebrow arched. “That is not nearly as flattering as you intended.”
“I fear my poor knowledge of intersex conversation has failed me again.” Estan smiled. “Will you come with me?”
“As your lover?”
“How about as my wife?” Chaylene was correct; he knew.
“You’d marry a prostitute?”
“I’d marry you, Esty.”
“What an interesting proposal.” She gave him a considering look. “Traveling with my invalid husband . . .”
Estan’s smile froze as his heart stopped beating.
Esty giggled. “Yes, you need to practice your intersex conversation skills,” she nodded. “I saw our marriage in the Storm yesterday. I knew you were coming back to me.”
“So how is our marriage?” Estan asked as she snuggled up to him.
“Shadowy,” she shrugged. “The future always is. So, whose last name shall we use?”
“What?” Estan frowned.
“I know Vionese customs is for the wife to take the husband’s last name, but it’s the other way round with my people.”
“I did not know that.” Estan shifted. “Well, my family had adopted Vionese family names, using the matronymic of my great-grandfather. Vaarckthians don’t take each other’s last name. But the children actually use the mother’s first name and add either the suffix -igk, for boys, or -ick, for girls.”
“Well, which culture are we going to follow?” Esty asked.
“What is your family name?”
“Eiroff.”
Estan frowned. My father has already disowned me. “Well, that is easier to say than Bthoovzigk.”
Esty blinked. “That sounded more like a sneeze than a word.”
Estan laughed. “Eiroff sounds lovely. What does it mean?”
“Sunbeam.”
*
Ary’s jubilation, his urge to celebrate their survival, vanished when he entered his house and found his wife sitting at the tabl
e, sobbing. An empty wine bottle lay on the floor, a second rested open before her. She held a letter in one hand, a wine glass in the other.
Fear spiked into Ary’s heart. He darted to her and, taking the cup from her hand, asked, “What’s wrong, Lena?”
She shook her head.
“Lena?” He frowned at the letter and caught a glimpse of his sister’s looping script. His stomach tightened. “What is it? Did something happen to Jhevon?”
She shook her head. “Your family’s fine, Ary,” Chaylene said, words choked and slurred. “Nothing happened. It’s just. . . I . . . I failed,” Shudders wracked her shoulders as more tears ran down her face. “I failed you and Gretla.”
“How did you fail me?” Ary pulled a chair around beside hers and sat down. “Or my sister?”
She didn’t answer, the fresh tears shaking her body. None of this made sense. He reached his closest hand, his left, towards her, almost brushing her cheek before he realized he had no fingers. Her head turned, and her eyes focused on his bandaged appendage.
She jumped. Her chair knocked out from beneath her. With a gasp, she fell on her backside on the floor. Her blonde hair tumbled about her ebony face. Ary bent down to attend to her, kneeling on the hard, cold floor as she shuddered on her side.
“Come on, speak to me. How did you fail me?”
“I . . . I missed.” A violet sob wracked her body, choking off her words for a moment. “If I had only killed him . . . if I had only protected you better . . . I’m so sorry, Ary.”
Ary pulled her sobbing face to his chest and kissed her blonde curls. He fought an irritated groan. “You didn’t have time to aim properly. Plus, you were just hit in the head and dazed.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “I didn’t miss the sailor, but I missed that pirate and now . . . now you can’t be a farmer. I can’t stop replaying it in my head. I see it over and over again.”
“Missing the pirate, or shooting the sailor?”
“Both.” Her words poured out of her as she shuddered. “What if I was faster? What if I’d taken half-a-Storming-heartbeat to aim? I would have killed him. I would have protected you!”
“You did protect me,” Ary objected. “Your shout saved my life. He would have cut my head off if I didn’t look behind me.”
