Parabolis

by Eddie Han

  The majordomo greeted him at the door.

  “Good evening, Master Fairchild,” he said, taking his coat and hat.

  “Evening, Nicolas.”

  Around him was his personal security team, a hand-selected group of men from a private security firm known for attracting mercenaries looking for easy work. Once Fairchild was at the door of the house, the security team broke formation. Two went to man the gates, six to patrol the grounds, and three to enter before Enlil and inspect every room.

  Thunder rumbled in the distant gray.

  “A storm is coming.”

  “That it is.”

  Nicolas then handed Fairchild an envelope. It was sealed with the crest of the Bene-seneschal.

  “Ah!” Fairchild took it with enthusiasm, broke the wax seal, and ripped the envelope open. Then he adjusted his glasses and read the note: Thank you for your faithful service. May the Maker’s blessing go with you. Bg2.

  “Shall I run the bath, sir?” asked Nicolas.

  “No.”

  “And what of supper?”

  “I’ll take a late meal on the train. Which reminds me, have Philippe ready the carriage by six. Departure’s at eight.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The majordomo disappeared down the gilded hallway into the east wing where the servants’ quarters were.

  Fairchild sat in the foyer as always until the head of security returned from his personal bedchambers.

  “You’re all clear, sir.”

  “Thank you, Quintus.”

  Fairchild climbed the grand staircase that stopped at a landing before curving up on either side to the second story. On the landing wall overlooking the foyer was a large, oil-on-canvas painting of himself, a rendering of his younger self. He posed with a victor’s stance—the chin cocked up, looking out into the distance, his right foot set on a conquered stone, fist over chest. The painting was commissioned by his sons and presented to him on his fiftieth birthday. He stopped at the top of the stairs to take a last look. It was something he never did. Looking at the gallant figure, he was reminded of how fleeting time was. The painting would remain with most of his furniture and his other less valuable possessions for the looting that would surely ensue. Even his servants—trusted servants—would be abandoned. The company relocation was a logistical nightmare but a necessary one. His estate and staff, however, were deemed expendable.

  He had to consider that a move would have raised questions. There were already questions about the move of Parallel Mining. Had he moved out of his private residence, there were bound to be more questions. Fairchild had been warned of the Balean invasion by a trusted source. And the less evidence of foreknowledge, the better.

  Fairchild passed the ambassador’s suite on his way to his bedchamber. In his room, he switched on the lamp beside his bed, casting a soft drowsy glow into the darkening dusk. He made his way over to the chessboard beside his work desk and studied it. Referencing the note, he then moved the white bishop accordingly.

  “Bishop to g-two. A fianchetto is it?” he muttered to himself. He flipped the note over, grabbed a pen, and jotted down the piece placements. “We’ll have to continue this in Brookhaven.”

  Then he unbuttoned his shirt, poured himself a glass from his nightcap decanter. He took a seat in his leather chair and sipped on his brandy. His thoughts went to all that would ensue in Carnaval City in the first hours of the Harvest Festival. In the silence, alone with his drink, the gravity of war descended on him. He thought about the children of the city. The coming death and destruction. Just as dread began to fill him, the bell from the front gate rang.

  Fairchild set his glass down on top of the note beside the chessboard and went back out into the corridor. He buttoned his shirt while standing against the rails overlooking the foyer. Quintus was there to ask, “Are you expecting anyone, sir?”

  “No.”

  Nicolas was already at the door.

  “Is Mister Fairchild in?”

  “May I ask who’s inquiring?”

  “Sentinel Walsh and Sentinel Helell of the State Security Command. We’d like a word with him.”

  “And what is this regarding?”

  Immediately, Fairchild thought of his ledger. His lies.

  When frequently asked by his colleagues for the secret of his success, he had always proudly answered, “I understand that a business thrives only if the community around it thrives with it. Do you know why terrorists haven’t attacked my mines? I build schools and wells in Emmainite villages.”

  The lie wasn’t in his philosophy of mutual prosperity. It was in the talk of schools and wells. Fairchild’s mines were no less guilty of exploitation. But they were left unmolested by the Shaldea only because he had entered an agreement with them—to be a funding vehicle for their cell groups within the Republic. A trained eye would have easily been able to detect the discrepancy in his accounts—the large sums of untraceable monies laundered through Parallel Mining prior to its eventual integration into Shaldean hands.

  Remembering he had already destroyed the ledger just days earlier along with other incriminating evidence, he descended the stairs with aplomb.

  “It’s okay, Nicolas. Show them in.”

  “Sorry to disturb you,” said Sentinel Walsh, flashing his badge. “Sentinel Norman Walsh of the SSC. This is my partner, Sentinel Gabriel Helell.”

  “This way, please.”

  Fairchild showed them into his study just beyond the foyer. Quintus and his comrades stood guard just outside.

  “Care for a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  They all took a seat around the coffee table on the leather sofa set.

  “Again, our apologies for dropping in unexpected,” Sentinel Walsh began. “I’m sure you’re very busy, but we believe you may be in danger.”

  “Danger?” It wasn’t what he was expecting.

  “We believe the deaths of the investors in the Machina Group is part of a larger plot. We believe they were, in fact, assassinated by members of a highly sophisticated subversive group known as the Samaeli. We recently interrogated a suspected affiliate and your name came up.”

  Fairchild’s expression changed. “Why would my name come up?”

  “We were hoping you could help us answer that.”

  “Excuse me a moment.” Fairchild rose from his seat, opened the door and invited Quintus into the study. “I’d like my head of security to hear this.”

  “Of course.”

  “Sentinel, no one believed the official reports,” Fairchild added, as he returned to his seat. “You’d be a fool to think every lead investor of Machina fell ill or died in an accident in a span of mere months. But what does this have to do with me?”

  “Mister Fairchild, how familiar are you with the Machina Group?”

  “I’ve done business with some of its members at one point or another. But that’s the extent of it. I knew better than to get involved in Machina. I’m no traitor.”

  “Could you clarify what you mean by that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Met with blank stares, Fairchild cocked his head. “You don’t know.” The old mining mogul sat back in his chair, relishing the fact that he knew something the Republic’s premiere intelligence agency did not. He pressed his fingers together as he explained. “Machina is supporting the Kingdom of Bale. They have been for years now. Of course, they have investments in publicly traded assets as well, securities and such. But that’s just a ruse. The Machina Group has been directly financing the Thalian Regime. All of them, set to reap great fortune from a war. Hence, the mounting tension along the borderlands, the construction of the Ancile—it was all by elaborate design.”

  “Mister Fairchild, are you talking about a conspiracy?” asked Norman.

  “Of the highest kind.”

  Norman looked as if he had just learned of a loved one’s infidelity. While the sentinels were reeling from the implications of this revelation—that Dale had been right, th
at war was coming—Fairchild added, “War can be quite profitable for those who stage it. Perhaps these assassins are trying to prevent that.”

  “Then why would your name come up?”

  Fairchild smiled. “Surely, this isn’t the first time my name’s been mentioned with ill intentions.”

  “Mister Fairchild, the Samaeli—”

  “Is not my concern. I trust Quintus here will see that no unwelcome guests breach my personal space.”

  “All of the assassinations were successfully carried out in spite of heavy security. This may be beyond your scope to appreciate.”

  “Then so be it. I appreciate you coming all this way to warn me.” Then he rose from his seat, walked over to the door and held it open. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a train to catch. Quintus, show these men out.”

  “Yes, sir. This way.”

  As they made their way out of the study, Sentinel Walsh stopped at the door. “Mister Fairchild, if I may, one final question. Do you know who the chairman of the Machina Group is?”

  “If I knew that, I would already be dead.” Fairchild held up a finger and stated what the sentinels were already thinking. “Perhaps he’s the one you should be looking for. Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Once the sentinels had been escorted out, Fairchild retreated back to his room where he removed his shirt and hung it up beside his coat in his otherwise emptied wardrobe. He took up his glass of brandy and finished what was left of it. He did not notice that the Bene-seneschal’s note he had set it on had gone missing.

  He went to the washroom, relieved himself, and ran the faucet. While rinsing his face he looked at his own reflection in the mirror. The dimly lit man staring back at him was a weathered shell of the portrait that hung on the landing. Weak and feeble. He would not miss the painting.

  He sighed.

  Then Fairchild noticed something dart behind him. Before he could turn, something grabbed him. In the mirror he saw his nose and mouth covered by a black leather glove. The grip was so tight he felt as if his jaw was going to shatter. As the blade came across his throat, Fairchild caught a glimpse of a dark figure whose face was masked in a balaclava. The blood shot onto the mirror, covering the reflection of his assassination.

  The Vengian gently laid him down on the floor. He turned off the faucet, closed the washroom door behind him and walked out of the room.

  The gray turned to night, the drizzle into a storm. A knife and vapor, the Vengian was gone.

  CH 31

  FREE

  The food hatch opened. A tray of boiled cabbage, a piece of bread, and sausage appeared through it. The attending cleric who had served the meal said, “The Maker bless you,” before closing the hatch.

  “The Maker bless me?” Charles Valkyrie asked mockingly. “How does the Maker bless me when I am forced to eat boiled cabbage day in and day out? All I’ve had is boiled cabbage for thirty days. Why does a benevolent God create such terrible things, like war, murder, greed, and boiled cabbage?”

  Dale walked over to the door and collected his tray. Ignoring his neighbor, he sampled the sausage. It was saltier than he liked but of good quality. It was his first meal since being detained. He was hungry, and so he was thankful to have something to eat.

  With his mouth stuffed with boiled cabbage and sausage, Dale asked, “You a Mystic?”

  “Nope,” Valkyrie replied. “As godless as they come.”

  “Strange musings for an atheist.”

  Valkyrie laughed. “Perhaps not so strange, my friend. Even an atheist will speak of the Maker when he needs to blame someone for his troubles. And you? Have you placed your faith in the Maker?”

  “No.”

  “Good for you. People believe what they believe. Who can explain it? It’s when they start telling you what they believe, taking all sorts of creative liberties with the unknown, you end up where the Shaldea and cultists are. You end up spewing all kinds of dogma. I know there’s nothing original about my pragmatism, but the way I see it, religion is, at its core, all about self-improvement. Trouble is, once you’re all self-improved, it’s near impossible to avoid a kind of elitist contempt for everyone else.”

  “For someone not claiming to be a Mystic, sounds like you’ve put some thought into this.”

  “I’m Emmainite. We’re born thinking over our heads. I think the Great Ur Aremis had it right when he said, ‘Religion is the taint of an unbroken spell that beckons man to believe in the extraordinary.’”

  Dale did not understand what this Ur Aremis meant or what made him so great. Dale was not in the frame of mind to try to understand it. He hadn’t slept much. All night, every little sound stirred him awake. Each time he sat up, hoping the sound was Selah’s promised return. Each time he lay back down in disappointment. The disappointment turned to worry. In his mind, there was a good chance the Shawls had heeded his warning. Replaying the scene at the bakery in his mind, Dale told himself that Uncle Turkish and Auntie Cora Tess were convinced. He thought he remembered that they had agreed to flee. It was too late for the city. Even if the officials and the Benesanti had believed him, it was too late to get everyone evacuated. Maybe it’s not too late to organize a defense. Maybe even a counter offensive. And then there was Darius. Sparrow had told him the Ancile would not be able to hold back the invasion. If the Ancile falls, Darius would surely lose his life. How do I get word to Darius? I got to get out of here. These had been the thoughts swirling in his head, depriving him of sleep. For hours he had drifted in and out of the waking world, his mind racing with all that Sparrow had forewarned.

  Dale finished his meal. He set the tray next to the door. He tried to wiggle the trap door open. It did not move.

  “How was it growing up an atheist Emmainite?”

  “I wasn’t always like this,” Valkyrie replied.

  “No?”

  “Lots of things happened, but I think the turning point was the day I learned the Shaldea were dealing with the Zaal’mavorte. I realized if my people were willing to deal with the devil, then God was inconsequential. And all that rhetoric, that radicalism behind the Shaldea, it was all political, not spiritual. So I left.”

  “You just picked up and left?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How’d you end up here? I mean, not in this dungeon, but here, in Groveland? In Meredine?”

  “I’ve ended up everywhere in my life at one point or another. Nothing special about here.”

  For a fleeting moment, Dale felt the sharp piercing of envy. A life of freedom. His childhood dream of life on the sea, journeying to distant shores with no pull neither here nor there. It was a life that died at age twelve, in that alley with Marcus Addy. It got buried at the Academy and aside from these moments of painful regret, long forgotten.

  “How’d you make a living?”

  “I worked odd jobs mostly. Shepherding. Lumberyard. Deckhand. Even dabbled in smuggling. I ran with some gravediggers for a period. Then one day, while I took up work as a porter for a posse of game hunters, I discovered I was a natural tracker. So I tried to get around people who could teach me about nature, terrain, and survival. Lived with a tribe of druids in the northern coasts, spent a year of solitude in the fjords of the arctic, roamed the Saracen deserts with nomads. Once I felt prepared, I started to hire myself out. Became a freelance ranger. Ran with anyone, from bandits to bounty hunters. Whatever. As long as they paid. And when business was slow, I’d gather ingredients from the Wilds for apothecaries.”

  “Or swindle them.”

  “Or swindle them,” Valkyrie repeated, appreciating the jab.

  “You ever miss it—Loreland, I mean?”

  “All the time.” After a pause, Valkyrie added, “What I wouldn’t give for some fried hallume right now.”

  Just then the door down the corridor opened. Dale stood and approached his cell door in anticipation. He heard the footsteps come down the corridor and stop at his door. It was unlocked and opened. Standing in the thresho
ld was Sir Thomas Grail. Dale heard a commotion next door.

  “Move it, ranger! You too,” he heard another templar bark.

  Dale was led out into the corridor where he saw his hall mate, Charles Valkyrie, for the first time. Valkyrie’s black beard and bushy hair had grown out wild, but he wasn’t unkempt. As he did every morning, he dampened his hair and matted it down to one side. He glanced back and acknowledged Dale with a flick of his brows. They both appeared to the other different than envisioned.

  They said nothing as they were led out into a connecting passage on the opposite wall of the long hall. They were taken through the temple’s less-travelled underground passageways into a dark chamber. At the end of the room was a raised platform with a long desk designed to seat a panel of twelve men, the seal of the Benesanti in the center. Alaric Linhelm was standing in front of the desk.

  Valkyrie was stopped at the chamber entrance while Dale was led up to where the senior templar stood.

  “Hello, Dale. I am Champion Alaric Linhelm, Marshal of the Vail Templar.”

  Dale nodded.

  “As you have been informed, you’ve been deemed a saboteur and thus, I cannot offer you Sanctuary. I can, however, offer you your freedom. I’ve heard you confessed to a great many things during the inquisition.”

  Dale offered no reaction.

  “Something you said is especially disconcerting. It is regarding the Balean invasion. Is it true? Is Duke Thalian planning to initiate a war?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “But do you believe it to be true?”

  “I have no reason to doubt my…source.”

  “You mean your friend.”

  Dale didn’t reply.

  “Prioress?”