Sygillis of Metatron

by Ren Garcia

  "I like this," she said quietly.

  Davage was intrigued. "You like the pastry? I must admit, I could eat a dozen of them at a sitting."

  "You will bring me more of these or I shall kill you," she said in a somewhat perfunctory manner.

  Davage smiled. He recalled the Clutch, and what could happen should it be broken—the bubbling up of emotions.

  Like tea boiling in a cup, the tea and the flavor bursting out of the tea bag.

  Interesting …

  Davage, putting this notion to the test, poured himself a cup of coffee. She watched him. "What is that?" she asked.

  "This? Coffee, a very fashionable drink in the League. An ancient drink."

  She took a deep breath. "It has an interesting scent."

  "Can I make you a cup?"

  She didn't answer, instead, she leaned forward expectantly. He poured her a cup and she took it, noting the heat. She took a drink, and her face cringed.

  "What is this? Poison? You cannot poison a Black Hat."

  Davage laughed and took her cup from her. "It's not poison. Here, you simply must cream and sugar it to your liking. See, two lumps of sugar and a bit of fresh cream. That is how I take it."

  He stirred the cup and offered it back to her. "Here, take it. Try it."

  Dubious, she took it and had a sip. She took another. "I require additional sugar," she said swallowing.

  "Certainly." Davage took another lump and plopped it in. She took a sip and then leaned back with it.

  "As I was saying," she said, taking another sip, "my body. You wish to copulate with it, do you not? Do you wish me to take my robes off? I am beautiful, yes? Do you wish to have …"

  She stopped speaking and started sniffing the air. She sniffed, looked around, and sniffed some more."

  Davage watched her carefully. "Red?" he asked.

  "What is that smell?"

  "That smell? The coffee, do you mean?"

  "No."

  Davage looked around. Red continued to sniff. He checked himself. "I don't—well, I have a bit of cologne on from this morning. You can smell that?"

  She leaned forward and sniffed the air near him. She closed her eyes and took several deep inhales. He couldn't help but feel a little awkward. "It … was a gift from my sister for my birthday some years back, my cologne. One of her sons is a perfumer by trade and made this scent just for me. Do you like it?"

  She stopped sniffing and then looked at him. "Of course I do not like it…" she said taking a few more deep breaths. She finished her coffee. "And again," she said backtracking to her previous topic, her thoughts apparently quite disjointed. "You certainly desire to know my body. That is obvious to me. So, how shall we proceed? Shall we set to it right here in the brig?"

  Davage realized that she was trying to go on the offensive, to pin him down on a topic and derail his attack. She was beginning to un-button her robes from the top. She was trying to use the classic sex ploy to muddy the conversation, to slow it to a crawl. Though a puerile and childish tactic, it could be effective if allowed to go on for too long. Quickly, he turned it around.

  "Actually, I was hoping to escort you to your new quarters," he said finishing his cup."

  "My quarters?"

  "Yes. The brig is such an ugly, inconvenient place and for a prisoner such as yourself, completely useless. I've ordered guest quarters be prepared for you at once. There you will have access to a proper bed, facilities, and change of clothes. I am distressed to say it, Red, but your robes are becoming a bit … stuffy as the days go by."

  Red quickly looked down and as Davage noticed, blushed a tiny bit.

  She took a few more small bites of food. "I will say, Captain, you have a knack for changing the subject and keeping me confused. Very well, I will permit you to live long enough to escort me to these quarters you offer. I will expect more of these pastries that I like to be made available there, as well as more coffee. The coffee will be properly treated. If I receive it untreated, if I receive it in its bestial form, I will kill you. And you—you will wear more of your insipid cologne at all times in my presence, understood?"

  Slowly, in a stiff manner, she stood. She was tiny, barely coming up to his solar plexus.

  Together, Fleet captain and Xaphan Black Hat, they exited the brig and made their way down the corridor.

  Davage, in anticipation of this movement, had ordered the hallways cleared. Her quarters were to be in the deepest part of the ship, close to no critical systems. The Sisters were already in place in all adjacent rooms. Though no longer in the brig, her quarters were no less closely watched, no less a prison.

  Red moved very slowly. Her movements were stiff, pained even. Davage noted she seemed to be having trouble walking.

  "I can feel the fear all about me—except from you."

  "Your status as a Black Hat carries with it a fearsome reputation."

  "The reputation is earned. We are defilers of the League."

  She looked up at him. "Why are you not afraid of me?"

  "Should I be?"

  "Yes, for I am going to kill you."

  Davage smiled. "I'm not afraid of dying. Therefore, I'm not afraid of you."

  He watched her slowly walk. "I have argued the Sisters to let you live."

  "Then you are a fool, for I am going to kill you regardless."

  As they continued down the hall, Red, the Black Hat, began limping badly.

  "Red, you appear to be having difficulties walking. Are you wounded?"

  "You will mind your own business."

  "Fine, fine. It's just, at this rate, we will arrive at your quarters sometime this evening."

  "Insolent cur. I have a mind to put an end to you right here and now. My death will be a blessed respite to this—"

  Red stumbled and fell with a cry. Davage looked down and noticed she was leaving a trail of blood in small droplets.

  Davage reached down and picked Red up; it was like picking up a sack of laundry. Feebly she thrashed around and even tried to strangle him with her tiny hands.

  "Unhand me!" Red screamed.

  Davage carried his struggling, unwilling passenger all the way to her quarters.

  7

  ENNEZ THE HOSPITALER

  "Are you out of your freakin' mind, Dav?"

  "My 'freakin' mind,' Ennez? You are watching too many puerile League shows, I'm guessing."

  Davage stood in the dispensary, which was little more than a small office with two medical beds and several blinking medical scanners. Tinctures in colored bottles lined the walls. The Elder-Kind, with their robust, disease-free existence, generally didn't need an overly elaborate medical setup. Ennez, the popcorn-haired Hospitaler Samaritan, sat with his feet up on the desk. His silver winged helmet glinted on a peg nearby.

  The Hospitalers …

  Second in age only to the Sisterhood, the Order of Hospitalers was a sect of warrior-healers. They were notable for being the only major faction within the League that had Brown, non-Vith roots. They always wore black, accented with silver.

  They started their existence long ago as fighting valets to the old Vith Lords. They were the loyal servants, the trusted and beloved companions, always on hand to lend an ear, to offer good advice and give their Blue Lords an added sword in battle. They were always regarded for their ability to fight. Armed with their silver Jet-Staves and magnetic accessories, a good Hospitaler could out-fight a squadron of armed Marines, moving with the speed of a Hulgismen, walking the walls, fighting like a demon.

  Then, long ago, on the blood-soaked lands of some forgotten battlefield, a Hospitaler did something unheard of—he treated his fallen Lord's wounds. Elder-Kind, being blessed with eternal youth and no disease or congenital defects, had little if any need for medical arts. Still, the Elder-kind often lived dangerous lives. The blood could be poisoned, wounds could be deep and unfastened, disease could set in if preventative steps were not taken, limbs could be lopped off. Slowly, by trial and error, the Hospitalers
began the frustrating and halting quest to expand their medical arts knowledge. The warriors became healers too.

  Eventually, they became adept at quelling blood poisoning, at thwarting decay, at closing gaping wounds, repairing broken bones, and stitching lacerated flesh. They became masters at re-attaching fallen limbs and counter-acting poisons. They devised a battery of scanning equipment, developed healthy baselines and case-studies. Eventually, through hard work, this Brown sect became every bit as powerful and sought after as any other. Even the mighty Sisterhood of Light often solicited the Hospitalers services. No other sect could make that claim. The Xaphans, too, were keen for the Hospitalers' services, for almost none had joined them in their Great Betrayal of 00000ax, and many battles had been fought to steal Hospitalers in space and press gang them in service. Not until the flimsy and misnamed art of Xaphan Cabalistry came into being did they have any medical arts skills at all.

  And they were known for being a bit cantankerous, a bit insubordinate, and they had no issue saying no when the League Lords, Sisters included, came calling. When one or more Hospitalers were needed, the requesting representative—a starship captain or whatever— had to petition the Order. They then decided if the representative was worthy of the request. They always meted out Chancellors, the lowest Hospitaler rank, but to get one of higher rank, a Caduceus, Mercurian, or a Samaritan, was an honor. To get one of those meant you were well-favored.

  And so Davage went to Ennez, his Samaritan, to convince him to examine a Black Hat, the enemy.

  "Ennez, it's time to go to work. You've a patient awaiting treatment."

  "The Black Hat, you mean. Let her fix herself if she's hurt."

  "She cannot fix herself, Ennez. If she uses any of her powers, she'll be killed on the spot by the Sisters. She is in medical distress and needs your help. She can barely walk."

  "I've been reading her file, this Sygillis of Metatron. Have you read her file?" Ennez asked. "It's soaked in blood."

  "I haven't. I've been too busy trying to stay alive in her presence."

  "Do you realize how many people she's accused of murdering?"

  "Are you coming with me or not?"

  "Do you remember what happened to the 30th Marines a few years back, remember that? She happened to them, Dav, for Creation's sake!"

  Davage crossed his arms and shook his head. "Answer my question, please."

  "Well, what if we go in there and she kills the both of us?"

  "I've been in protracted close contact with her on several occasions. She has not killed me, though she makes frequent reference to doing so. And I don't think that, at the moment, she's in any fit state to be killing anybody."

  "Okay, what if we go in there and she lets you live and decides to kill me instead?"

  "Well then, Ennez, I guess I'll be petitioning the Hospitalers for a new Samaritan, provided, of course, that I myself survive. Maybe one with better hair next time."

  Ennez's strange, poofy hair was a constant running joke between them.

  Ennez smiled and stood up; his silver instruments jangled in the pockets of his black uniform.

  "Look, Dav, you know I'd never disobey you, right? If you order me in there, I'll do it. Are you ordering me to go?"

  "I don't want to have to order you in there. I want you to want to go in. I want you to want to help someone who is in need."

  "You want me to willingly subject myself to examining a bloodthirsty, Marine-killing monster?"

  "I do. By the Elders, I've already had this conversation with the Sisterhood. She's not a monster, Ennez. She's just a tiny woman, one who's hurt and needs assistance. She wears a little bow in her hair, for Creation's sake!"

  "She does?" Ennez put his helmet on. "What about the 30th Marines?"

  "I hate to say it, Ennez, but that was on the battlefield, and she fought them fair and square, though the outcome was obviously tragic and gruesome for us. If a whole squadron of Marines couldn't handle one tiny woman, then their tactics appear to have been flawed, and I suppose if she hadn't wiped them out they'd have wiped her out. That's war."

  "Might have saved us a lot of trouble if they had. And what about the Sisters?"

  "What about them?"

  "Being in the position that I am in, Dav, I get to hear a lot more of the Sisters thoughts than most people. They are scared for you, Dav. They are already mourning you as dead. And that makes them sad. They like you—love you even. One of them really seems to like you— almost like she has the hots for you."

  "Sisters do not get 'the hots' for people."

  "Really—want to tell her that? Do you know on how many ships the Sisters barely know the captain's name? But here you are, cherished by them. What Fleet captain could say that?"

  Davage stood there for a moment, not quite sure what to say. "I am truly touched that the Sisters feel that way, though I do not know what I have done to earn such regard."

  "You're a good fellow, Dav. People like you—I like you, Lt. Kilos likes you … and the Sisters too, I guess. They aren't so much different from anybody else."

  "I suppose, then, that the real trick will be to see if I can get a Black Hat to like me too." Davage paused. "She looks a lot like Captain Hathaline, the Black Hat does. You remember her, Lady Hathaline of House Durst?"

  "I do. She was a beautiful woman. Is that what this is about, Dav— some sort of cosmic atonement for the loss of your dear friend?"

  "I don't know what this is about, Ennez, I really don't. But I can tell you this. Deep down, I don't think she's as bad as we believe her to be. I've currently no evidence to support that, but that's my gut instinct. And she's a fellow soul who's hurt and needs help. Maybe an unsolicited act of kindness will help bring her around, make her a little less hostile."

  "What are you thinking, Dav, that if we're nice to the Black Hat—"

  "Red. I've been calling her Red."

  "—that if we're nice to Red, then she'll be nice to us? Then everything will be okay?"

  "Ennez, perhaps that is exactly what I'm hoping. Has anyone ever thought to consider it could be just that simple? Now, come on—let's you and me go and be nice to her."

  * * * * *

  Davage entered the room. It was dark and cold inside. It was a tiny room near the ship's secondary plumbing core; he could hear pipes clanking overhead. He allowed himself the luxury of clear Sight. With it, he saw that Red, the feared Black Hat, was lying on her side on top of the bed, still clad in her robes, which, as Davage had touched on earlier, smelled of wear and sweat. He could see she was awake.

  The 30th Marines, Ennez had said. Lost on the battlefield. Dead to a man.

  She did it. The loss—all those people dead.

  She fought them fair and square …

  Hathaline. She looked just like Hathaline. She … also dead.

  Her body quaked with small tremors; she was in pain.

  The Sisters already thought he was dead, soon to join poor Hath.

  "Red?" he said quietly.

  "Get out," she replied.

  "Red, you are clearly wounded. I've brought a Hospitaler. I wish him to attend to you, to determine the problem."

  Silence.

  After a moment, she stirred. "Anyone entering this room dies."

  Davage strode up to the bed. "Red, I am becoming fatigued with your continued threats. So, you have five seconds. Kill me or otherwise be silent, relax, and let us help you."

  She regarded him for a moment. "Do not call me 'Red'. My name is Sygillis of Metatron. I am certain you already know that. The Sisters know me. There, I have told you my name. I have opened my soul to you."

  Davage smiled. "Very well then, Lady Sygillis. That is very lovely name. May I use it?"

  "Do what you must. Then leave me in peace."

  Davage went to the door and brought Ennez in. Tentatively, his silver helmet glinting in the darkness, Ennez approached and began scanning Sygillis. Davage noticed his collapsed silver Jet Staff was protruding from his black unifor
m, ready for use should it be needed. Davage also noticed he was wearing his magnetic bracers and knee gerts. Ennez wasn't taking any chances. He was ready to start walking the walls if he needed.

  "Umm, where are you in discomfort, ma'am?" he said, voice shaking slightly.

  "I will speak to none, save Davage, Lord of Blanchefort."

  Davage threw up his hands. "For Creation's sake, you are stubborn!" he said. "Fine then—Lady Sygillis, Davage, Lord of Blanchefort wants to know where it hurts?"