Parabolis

by Eddie Han

  “Alunde ver ti,” Alaric replied

  “I’ll be with you in just a second. Please, sit.”

  The room was lined with stocked bookshelves. An ancient manuscript was unfurled on a side desk, sitting under a magnifying glass attached to an arm lamp.

  After some thought, the Bene-seneschal moved his white bishop to complete a fianchetto. With a self-assuring nod, he looked up at Alaric.

  “Such a fascinating game. Do you play?”

  Alaric shook his head. “Who’s your opponent?”

  “Enlil Fairchild.”

  “The patriarch of Parallel Mining Corp?”

  “The wealthiest man in the Republic. Perhaps the world.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Good enough to beat me, twice. This is my third attempt. Then again, I may not have a knack for this game.”

  He chuckled as he settled into his seat.

  The Bene-seneschal was nearly fifty years old. His face was cleanly shaven and he had a full head of lightning white hair. As the highest appointed overseer of both the clergy and the templar in Carnaval City, his customary gray habit was accessorized with a hooded shoulder cape and a tasseled stole draped over a scapular. It bore the regional crest on either end.

  “You wanted to see me about the prisoners?” Alaric asked.

  “Yes. I understand you have six men in the holding cells.”

  Alaric nodded.

  The Bene-seneschal dug up the prisoners’ files from below a small pile of documents.

  “Have they already been subjected to an inquisition?”

  “Only the Tobias bandits and Omar Basiliech. Not yet the ranger.”

  “And?”

  “The Tobias bandits are nothing more than their name suggests. They are common bandits. As for the ranger—”

  “Charles Valkyrie?” asked the Bene-seneschal, noting the conspicuously non-Emmainite name from the file.

  Alaric nodded. “Sayeed Errai, prior to his departure from Loreland. He confessed he used to live in a village under Shaldean protection, but that was more than ten years ago. He has since been wandering the Wilds. He claims he has no affiliation but we won’t know for sure until after the inquisition.”

  “I see. And Omar?”

  “It’s difficult to tell. He seems to be hiding something but the inquisition itself revealed nothing.”

  “That was three days ago.”

  “Two and half.”

  “Not according to the logs. His family has already contacted the local barrister. If you don’t plan to turn him over to the SSC, I suggest you save us all the headache and release him immediately.”

  Alaric hesitated.

  “With Sanctuary,” the Bene-seneschal added, handing the templar a signed release form.

  Sanctuary was an official document that provided immunity from further investigation for terrorist affiliations. Any future allegation brought up against a bearer of Sanctuary was to be considered a harassment of the Holy Order itself.

  “I can’t,” said Alaric. “I can’t guarantee yet that he isn’t Shaldea.”

  “The time to determine that has passed. We need to make concessions to appease his family. Release the bandits as well. Without Sanctuary of course.”

  “Of course.” The marshal rose from his seat. “Your Grace.”

  He started for the door when the Bene-seneschal stopped him. “One other thing, Alaric. I understand you’ve been sparring with a cleric?”

  Alaric looked back at the Bene-seneschal with his good eye. “Yes,” he replied. “She’s an old family friend.”

  “You have family?”

  “Is this line of questioning a prelude to an eventual order, Your Grace? Because if it is, just say the word and it shall be done.”

  The Bene-seneschal held up his hand and shook his head. “No. No, forgive me for prying. Keep me briefed on the ranger.”

  “Your Grace.”

  Alaric left the study and made his way down to the holding cells below the templar barracks where the six Emmainites were waiting. The four disheveled bandits were huddled in the corner and the ranger stood in the back with his arms folded over his chest. He was in his late thirties. He had olive skin and black hair, thick and as wild as his beard. And much to the annoyance of his captors he wore a perpetual look of amusement, like he was taking everything in stride. In contrast, Omar was sitting alone in the middle of the cell with a bitter scowl.

  Alaric first ordered the release of the bandits. They cheered and made crude comments and snickered as they were escorted out by a detail of templar.

  Alaric then entered the cell and handed Omar Sanctuary. “We, the Holy Order of the Benesanti, find no cause to suspect you of collaborating with the Shaldea or any other terrorist organization. With the power vested in me as Marshal of the Vail Templar, I hereby release you with Sanctuary.”

  “What about me?” the ranger asked.

  “We haven’t made up our minds about you yet.”

  Omar looked back at him. “Say nothing. You don’t need to justify your existence to these peaches.”

  Then he stormed off.

  The ranger shook his head. “You’re going to let that guy go? If he’s not a terrorist, then I’m a goddamn peach.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” Alaric asked with sudden urgency.

  “Maybe,” the ranger replied, with a coy smile. “Maybe he did.”

  “You can tell me now or I can extract it from you.”

  “Listen, Sir—”

  “Champion,” the marshal corrected, “Alaric Linhelm.”

  Like the military in structure, titles among the templar were not to be taken lightly. Where “sir” was the appropriate prefix for addressing all anointed templar from the most junior to senior, “Champion” was reserved strictly for the Marshal of the Vail Templar. To mistake one for the other was like calling a tiger a cat.

  “Champion Linhelm,” the ranger redressed, “grant me Sanctuary, and I will tell you what he told me.”

  “Squire! A flogging for the ranger!”

  The ranger’s face changed, cocky ambivalence giving way to a taut tension.

  “Hey, hey! No need to get excited, Champ. I’m just giving you a hard time. I thought the guy was mute until a minute ago. That’s the first I heard him speak since you dragged me in here. I swear.”

  “Are you certain? He said nothing?”

  “Not a word. He’s been sitting there like that the whole time, like he’d been sucking on a lemon. Those bandits though, they wouldn’t shut up.”

  Convinced, Alaric exited the cell. “Apparently, a contagious condition,” he thought aloud, dismissing the squire ready with a whip.

  “Hey! Wait!” the ranger cried from behind. “How long am I supposed to wait here, anyway?” The door slammed shut. “Hello?”

  CH 15

  AN EVENING WITH THE RED RABBIT

  The voluptuous woman with mocha skin sparkled in her violet dress. She swayed as she sang. Her voice was rich, silky, sad. Accompanying her on the piano was a petite pianist in a red rabbit costume. The red rabbit provided backup vocals—a tender voice to complement the sultry, a bit of sweet with the sad.

  “That’s my cousin,” Dale would’ve boasted of the red rabbit. But he was not the type to bother a stranger with boasting. Turkish, on the other hand, had no problem with it.

  “That’s my daughter,” he said, loud enough that the people two rows up could hear.

  Cora Tess gave him a disapproving poke.

  Backstage, after the show, Mosaic came out to meet them with her rabbit-eared hood pulled off. She was greeted with hugs and praise. Mosaic asked Dale, “You really liked it?”

  “Like it? You’re amazing.”

  They lingered for an obligatory mingling session in the lobby of the Concert Hall. Mosaic enthusiastically introduced her family to some of the other performers and theatre workers. Cora Tess and Turkish retired for the night beaming with pride. Mosaic thanked them for coming, told t
hem not to wait up, and invited Dale to join her and her friends for a little gathering at a nearby pub.

  The last time Dale had seen Mosaic was a week after his return to the city. They had met for brunch. Mosaic had filled him in on the details surrounding the pieces of news that had trickled down to Dale at the Academy: her studies, music, the health of her parents. She had spoken in rapid bursts, jumping from one subject to another, exploring tangents like a child exploring an unfamiliar room, realizing every now and then that she had strayed and needed to retrace her steps. She would suddenly realize she’d been going on and on and stop to chastise herself, grinning. “Enough about me. What about you?”

  Dale had responded with brief stories from his time at the Academy but tried to quickly volley the conversation back to her. He enjoyed listening to Mosaic more than speaking himself.

  On the way to the pub, Mosaic explained the inspiration and subtext behind the music. As they walked, people stared. Dale could not tell if the stares were in recognition of the sylphic talent from the concert or because Mosaic was still in costume—a hooded bodysuit with long rabbit ears sewn onto the hood and a scut on her bottom.

  Dale had asked if she wanted to change before they’d left but she didn’t want to bother. “This is actually pretty comfortable.”

  When they reached the pub, the host greeted Mosaic by name and with a kiss. Then he studied Dale with a suspicious smirk.

  “So is this the lucky man that’s finally managed to capture our Mosaic?”

  “Eew, this is my cousin,” Mosaic replied, laughing. “He was a Republican Guard so watch what you say around him.”

  “My apologies,” he said smiling.

  Dale smirked and nodded. He looked around the bar and wondered, how do these people, who can’t be much more than a few years my junior, look so much like children?

  “So how was the concert?” asked the host.

  “It was nice. You should come see me sometime.”

  “Oh, how I long to. But ever since you’ve scorned my advances, it’d be like bathing open wounds in citrus to see you up there with your siren’s voice.”

  “How poetic, Terry.” Mosaic gave him a demure smile.

  “Thank you. Nice outfit.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Right this way.”

  The kitschy pub called Rapture was quite a departure from Dale’s newly preferred watering hole, the Broken Cistern. It was lively for one. A collage of chatter and laughter, tied together by some background music. Under a hovering layer of smoke, men and women filled the seats around tables crafted by local artists.

  Being the first in their party to arrive, Terry showed them to a large, empty booth reserved in the back. Dale fetched himself a glass of bourbon from the bar while Mosaic settled in, nibbling an olive from the appetizer platter. When Dale asked about the host, Mosaic explained that she knew Terry from her classes at the university. Herself aside, she’d be hard-pressed to find a girl in town that hadn’t shared his bed. Supposedly, he possessed an irresistible charm. Talk of Terry led to talk of their non-existent romantic lives.

  Mosaic studied her own dim reflection in the window looking out into the evening promenade. She ran her hand, fingernails polished in green, through her disheveled, grown-out pixie cut. She pulled her hair up to see how it’d suit her. Dale noted the wispy threads of baby hair tracing her hairline and thought to himself how she still looked so much like the child he used to walk to school.

  “Dale, am I weird?” she asked, still studying her reflection.

  “You’re dressed like a red rabbit, Mo.”

  Her eyes were made for a smile. They became large, twinkling half-moons. She let her hair fall and pinned her side-swept bangs up with a barrette. “Seriously.”

  “I suppose that depends on your definition of normal. Why do you ask?”

  “I think Papa is worried. He wants me to find someone and settle down. But I don’t know. I don’t have much of an interest in all of that. Never really have.”

  “In settling down or in boys?”

  Mosaic shrugged. “Both?”

  “Do you mean in the celibate sense or,” Dale hesitated, “are you interested in girls?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Mosaic with a giggle. “I just always felt like I wanted something different, you know? I don’t want to settle on some guy just for the sake of settling down. I’m perfectly content being alone, learning, growing, and making music. For now, at least.”

  “Nothing weird about that.”

  “I don’t know. You know I’ve never even kissed a boy before?”

  “Good for you.”

  “There was Eugene Burnham but that was when I was in the third grade. And he kissed me. Does that count?”

  “No. Eugene doesn’t count.”

  “You know what it is? I don’t think boys are interested in me.”

  “What? That’s not true. Any guy in here would be lucky to be with you. That Terry kid there, he was practically drooling all over you.”

  “He’s like that with all the girls.”

  “Mo, listen to me. You’re smart and talented. You’re lovely. Anyone who says otherwise is an idiot.”

  “You’re just saying that because I’m your cousin.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Dale, lighting a smoke. “And even if I were, doesn’t make it any less true. Hand me that ashtray, will you?”

  Mosaic slid one over from the far end of the table and watched as Dale blew out two steady gray streams from his nostrils.

  “You shouldn’t smoke, you know.”

  “Why not?”

  “I heard it causes the black lung. It can kill you.”

  “Everything kills you.”

  “Well, I don’t see the rush,” said Mosaic, fanning the smoke away from her face. “And you don’t have to take me with you.”

  “Fine.”

  Dale took one last heavy drag, put it out, and rinsed his throat with a mouthful of bourbon.

  “While we’re on the subject of dying, let me ask you something,” he then began. “If Uncle Turkish had a rare disease and his only chance of survival was an organ transplant and the only donor was some perfectly healthy guy, and one night you found him—the donor—lying drunk on the train tracks, would you try and help him or would you just let him die so Uncle Turkish could get the organ? Assuming the organ stays intact, of course.”

  Mosaic stared at him with her big brown irises that gave her big round eyes that look of youthful wonder.

  “Maybe weird runs in the family,” she replied.

  “Seriously, what would you do?”

  “I don’t know. What kind of question is that?”

  “A hypothetical one. It gives you insight into a person’s character. Just answer it.”

  “I’d try to help him.”

  “You mean the drunk donor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Really? Even if it means Uncle Turkish dies.”

  “Of course! Wouldn’t you?”

  “No, not necessarily.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t even know him. You’re not responsible for what happens, right? It’s not like you put him there in that situation. The guy got drunk and passed out. And you’d still choose to save him over your own father?”

  “Did you see someone lying on the tracks or something? Dale, did something happen?”

  “No, no. It’s just, someone asked me the same thing and I wasn’t sure how to answer it.”

  Mosaic poured herself a cup of tea. “Well, sometimes doing nothing is as bad as doing what’s wrong.”

  Dale gave it some thought and was about to comment on how wise beyond her years she sounded when Mosaic jerked back in her seat.

  “Hot!” she cried.

  Despite hovering over the teacup and blowing on its contents, she had taken an eager sip too soon. Dale burst into laughter.

  “It’s not funny. I think I burned my tongue.”

  “Are you okay?
”

  “Psh. Now you ask?”

  “Be careful.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Mosaic tapped her tongue with the tip of her finger before adding, “So what did my answer tell you about my character?”

  “That you really are weird.”

  Mosaic rolled her eyes and popped an olive into her mouth. Dale went for a sip and got only ice.

  “I’m going to get another. You want anything?”

  “No, thanks.”

  By the time Dale was well into his second drink, the rest of the party had begun to trickle in. Mosaic’s friends were of the sort that made her appear about as exceptional as a plum hanging from a plum tree planted in the middle of an apple orchard.

  There was Rudy, short for Ruadah—the voluptuous mocha-skinned singer from the concert. As soon as Dale met her in person, sans stage make-up and elaborate costume, he could see why Mosaic was friends with her. She was loud, crass and fun, full of unbridled energy. Beside her was a lanky-framed bespectacled young man with a receding hairline hidden below a bowler cap. He had a thin mustache under a pointy nose. Under his arm was a book penned by some obscure author only literary elitists were familiar with. His name was Sebastian, an eccentric intellect. Whether anyone cared to listen or not, he’d carry on about the injustices of the world and the Republic’s need for political reform.

  “The Republic? It’s just a farce,” he said. “Just like every other government. The true god of Parabolis is gold. And where is the gold? Look around. The nobles know. The bankers know. The bureaucrats. They own the unions and the lobbyists. They fund the senate. They hold the strings from within the shadows. They’ve taken the throne and nobody’s doing a thing about it.”

  “Oh dear,” said Rudy, rolling her eyes. “Here we go again. Don’t mind him, Dale. Sebastian grew up in the slums so he’s always vilifying anyone who can afford a ruffled tunic.”

  “Mock it all you want. But when you’re on the short end of the stick, soon enough, you’ll be wondering how we ended up under the thumb of a plutocracy.”

  “Not me. I plan to marry a noble and end up on top. I always end up on top.” She winked.

  “Herein lies the problem,” Sebastian continued. “The majority of us are sedated like good sheep, content to jest and squabble and graze on the latest and greatest at the Halo. No offense, Mo, but it’s true. It’s all just smoke and mirrors, a propaganda machine to keep us preoccupied, dumb and numb, while they rob the world from beneath our feet. If this government spent more time on education than they did protecting business interests, then maybe our country wouldn’t be spiraling into the shit storm that it is. Never mind a Balean invasion, which, mind you, is nothing more than a contrivance of the profiteers invested in our military industry.”