The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  He breathed in now, his lungs filling with smoke from the wood Mirron had left burning in the brazier. Jacrys coughed; pain stabbed through his chest like a rapier.

  ‘Pissing demons,’ he choked, ‘pissing motherwhoring demons.’ He could barely speak; his voice was a whisper, barely audible above the sounds of Carpello Jax’s private yacht, a sleek, twin-masted ketch the bloated Orindale merchant almost never used. Carpello had struggled with sea travel.

  ‘Mirron,’ Jacrys wheezed. He sucked in a stabilising lungful then cried, ‘Mirron!’

  The healer ducked in from the companionway and saw Jacrys fighting to sit upright. ‘No, no, no, sir,’ he pleaded, ‘you must lie back down. Look at you; you’re all sweating and flushed. What were you trying to do, sing?’

  Mirron Something was an army officer, but he was more a fixture in the division than a legitimate rung in the military hierarchy. He was over four hundred and twenty Twinmoons old, and he couldn’t remember the last order he had given that anyone had actually followed. He was alarmingly tall and thin, with a head of unkempt lank white hair; he looked rather like a wall torch that had grown tired of standing about in a boring sconce.

  ‘Breathe, you worthless lump of grettanshit, I was trying to breathe,’ Jacrys growled. Worn out with the effort of summoning the healer, he let his head fall back into the pillows and ignored Mirron rambling on about torn scar tissue, internal bleeding and allowing his lung to heal fully before shouting. Jacrys concentrated on his respiration. In, hollow tree… easy… out, loose gravel… easy. And again. Slowly, he regained control. ‘I wish to go up on deck.’

  ‘No sir, you mustn’t,’ Mirron said, agitated. ‘You need more rest, another Moon at the very least. Every time you tear that scar tissue, you end up all the way back at the beginning of this journey – shouting, standing up, walking around, all these things put you at risk. You may already be bleeding again in your lung-’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Jacrys snarled through gritted teeth. Sweat dripped from his face onto the coverlet that stank of smoke, spilled broth and pungent bodily fluids – even his berth revolted him.

  ‘Here,’ Mirron said as he reached into a leather pouch, ‘let me give you another application of querlis.’

  ‘No, not that. It’s like getting hit in the head with a club. Trust me on that, I know.’ He pushed Mirron’s hands away. ‘I want to go on deck. I want to breathe something other than the gods-rutting smoke you’ve got billowing in here. I want to stand up and I want real food.’

  ‘As your healer, I must tell you tha-’

  ‘You’re my subordinate, and I am giving you an order,’ Jacrys whispered. ‘If you can’t follow it, get Captain Thadrake in here, and I will have you in irons for the remainder of our journey.’ It was an empty threat and Jacrys knew it; Carpello might have left a cupboard-full of silk tunics in the main cabin, but there were no manacles on his yacht.

  ‘Very well.’ Mirron poked his head into the companionway and shouted for the captain, who arrived a moment later. ‘He’d like to stand up, go on deck and eat solid food,’ the healer said. ‘It may kill him.’

  Looking at Jacrys, Captain Thadrake said, ‘You could die. Do you understand that, sir?’

  ‘Of course I understand,’ Jacrys whispered, ‘and I can assure you I’m not planning on dancing. I just want fresh air.’

  ‘All right,’ Thadrake said, ‘we’ll see you on deck.’

  Mirron said, ‘I reiterate: he could die.’ And then to Jacrys, ‘Sir, you could die.’

  Jacrys nodded.

  The captain said, ‘Listen, Mirron, if he dies, we’ll toss his body over the side and make for Southport, or better yet, Estrad Village. I’ll buy the jemma-steaks and you buy the beer.’

  Jacrys coughed back a rare bout of genuine laughter. Clutching his chest, he wheezed, ‘That’s the spirit, Captain.’

  ‘See you on deck, sir,’ Thadrake repeated, and was gone.

  Once outside, he felt energised, refreshed by the icy cold. He stood at the starboard rail, almost hoping for a wave to splash him in the face. They had come far north, through the Narrows, and were closing in on the archipelago. With any luck, they would ride the Twinmoon tides through the Northeast Channel and into Pellia. Memories of his youth intruded as he stood there. Below, in his berth, only pain and anger kept him company – and the girl, don’t forget her. She’s been with you all along – but out here, Jacrys found himself wrapped in a sense of homecoming.

  Watching the waves, he remembered his father, and evenings kneading bread dough beside the hearth. His mother had died when he was young, and he had grown up with only his father to look after him – but that was fine; he had no regrets. It had been so long since he had been in Pellia that he wondered if his father was even alive, and if they would find anything to say to one another. Would he even recognise his father if they met in the street? ‘It’s worth a try,’ he murmured to himself. They were approaching the Northeast Channel; it wouldn’t be long now.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  Jacrys jumped. In his melancholic, injured state he had permitted someone to sneak up behind him. Perhaps his decision to retire had come at exactly the right moment. Smiling, he said, ‘Captain Ellis?’

  Wenra Ellis joined him at the rail. Middle-aged, wiry and obviously tough, Captain Ellis had run Carpello’s yacht for nearly thirty Twinmoons. The sandy-haired sailor had skin like tanned hide, but she was not unattractive; still, Jacrys seriously doubted that Carpello had ever managed to bed this woman. He enjoyed a good fight in bed, but Carpello also enjoyed winning, and Jacrys didn’t think Captain Ellis was the type of woman to tolerate that sort of nonsense.

  ‘Going home?’ she asked him.

  He nodded. ‘I grew up just south of the city, on the west bank. It was a nice old place. My father did a lot to make it comfortable for us.’

  ‘Is that where you’re bound?’ She checked the main sheet and automatically tugged on a ratline.

  Jacrys said, ‘Eventually, maybe.’

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t know who you are, or what you do for General Oaklen,’ Captain Ellis began, ‘but I’m impressed that you’ve been assigned a healer and a company commander just to see you home.’

  There was no longer any point in hiding who he was, Jacrys thought. ‘I was a spy for Prince Malagon and his officers, a good one,’ he whispered. ‘Recently I killed a powerful partisan, Gilmour Stow, who was rumoured to be a Larion Senator – though I don’t know if I believe that, because when I stabbed him, he just died. No magic, no great blinding light, nothing. But I’m sick, I’m tired, and I’m hurt. And more than anything I want to go home.’

  ‘Aspy?’ She sounded a little surprised, and maybe a little impressed.

  ‘I’m out of shape,’ Jacrys explained. ‘I’ve been hit too many times, climbed too many icy mountains, stabbed too many sleeping partisans. Just now, you came up behind me, and I had no idea you were there. Five Twinmoons ago, I would have gutted you before you’d even realised I’d heard you.’

  Captain Ellis backed away a step, her forehead creased. ‘I’ll be careful next time.’ She forced a chuckle.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Jacrys said, ‘all I want now is to go home.’ That isn’t true, you liar. More than anything, you want Brexan Carderic: you covet her, you who have never coveted anything. You want to feel her, to taste the salty tang of her sweat as it runs across her skin, to taste her blood as it splashes over her breasts. And you want to kill her, and that’s what’s different: you’ve never wanted to kill anyone before, not Steven Taylor, not even Gilmour Stow. You want to kill Brexan Carderic.

  ‘Well, sir,’ she said, ‘going home can be a cathartic experience for any of us. Perhaps you’ll find the rejuvenation you need to get back to work.’

  ‘I hope not.’ He stared out across the waves. The winter sun, cool but bright, shone in blinding glints off the water.

  ‘Looking for re
demption?’

  ‘There is no redemption for me.’

  ‘Just peace and quiet then?’

  ‘A place to regroup, to decide what comes next, and especially to let go of a few things.’

  ‘I know that feeling,’ she said a wry laugh.

  ‘You do?’ It was Jacrys’ turn to be surprised.

  ‘I work for a Falkan traitor, a man who beats and molests young women. It’s no secret: Carpello Jax is a monster. Do you know how many nights he’s slept in the main stateroom while I’ve been up here, considering what an enormous favour I could do for Eldarn if I just slipped in and slit his throat?’

  ‘Many?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘None?’ Jacrys smirked. ‘Let me guess: because you have learned how to let go of a few things.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So how do you look at yourself in the mirror, Captain?’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said simply. ‘I’ve never been what anyone would call pretty-’

  ‘Now, I wouldn’t-’

  ‘So,’ she cut him off, ‘I’ve never had any need for mirrors. If I need to get a look at myself, I do my job well and then try to catch a clear glimpse of my face reflected in the silver that fat son-of-a-whore pays me to take care of his little boat.’

  ‘That sounds like overly simple cynicism, Captain Ellis.’ Jacrys gripped the rail with both hands. The talking was wearing him down.

  ‘Overly simple cynicism, Jacrys?’ Captain Ellis laughed. ‘You have many mirrors in your house?’

  He was beaten – but he felt a bit better. The truth was doing him good. ‘No, I suppose I don’t.’

  Captain Ellis changed the subject. ‘You don’t look good. You’re too pale; you ought to have some water, maybe some fruit. I’ve got tempines in my personal stores.’

  Jacrys managed a smile of thanks. ‘I am hungry, a little.’

  ‘You want to go back below, lie down for a while?’

  ‘No. I’d rather stand here a bit longer and then maybe try to eat something, maybe drink a beer.’

  She nodded laconically; Jacrys guessed that Captain Ellis wouldn’t waste a great deal of energy flailing about out of control. ‘Very well,’ she said, walking away, ‘suit yourself.’

  ‘Captain?’ Jacrys called, and fell victim to another coughing spasm. Something came loose in his chest, something lumpy, tasting like salt. Whatever it was threatened to make him retch, and he swallowed: he didn’t want to think that he was bleeding internally, and he especially didn’t want to be spitting blood in front of Captain Ellis. Bleeding into his lungs was bad enough; having Ellis see it, somehow, would be worse.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she called, hurrying back. ‘Let me get Mirron. Where is he?’

  ‘No!’ Jacrys wheezed, ‘no, I’m fine, I just need a minute.’

  She guided him towards the forward hatch and helped him sit, then offered him water.

  Jacrys ignored her, asking instead, ‘Captain, have you ever coveted anything? Anyone?’

  Surprised, Captain Ellis tilted her head for a moment, considered the sea rushing by and said, ‘Just this, I guess, the chance to feel this degree of freedom, to earn my silver doing my job, rather than peddling something – bread, wine, my tits and backside – you know.’

  ‘I understand.’ As another who had revelled in his job, Jacrys felt an unexpectedly strong kinship with the Falkan sailor.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, ‘what is it you covet?’

  Again Jacrys surprised himself by being truthful. ‘A woman.’

  Captain Ellis laughed. ‘Isn’t that always the way it goes?’

  ‘Not like that,’ he interrupted, ‘she beat me – she was a beginner, a clumsy pawn in a dangerous game and I could have killed her several times over. Probably should have, now that I think about it. But oddly, I didn’t. And in the end, she sneaked into the most secure barracks in the Eastlands. I have no clue as to why. It was essentially suicide, even to try, but she knew my personal password, killed my guard and stabbed me in the chest before leaving me for dead.’

  ‘She broke in just to kill you?’ the captain asked. ‘What did you ever do to her?’

  ‘I killed her commanding officer.’ Jacrys frowned. ‘He was just a platoon lieutenant, a nobody.’

  ‘Maybe she was in love with him – was it a him?’

  ‘Yes, and maybe you’re right, maybe it was love.’

  ‘So, you covet killing this woman? This clumsy traitor-spy who tempted death just to kill you and avenge her platoon commander?’

  ‘I do.’ Jacrys shifted on the hatch, trying for a comfortable position.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ Jacrys said, ‘and if you don’t mind me speaking plainly, it’s more than that, because I don’t know if I want to screw her like a whore, or just kill her and open her up to see if what’s inside is really flesh and bone.’

  ‘You realise, Jacrys, that we can sail this little boat all the way across the North Sea and back again, but you aren’t going to find any redemption, any peace, any quiet, anything at all, until you deal with this irritating little fixation of yours.’ She absentmindedly tugged her tunic straps tight and pushed her hair more securely beneath her hood. ‘There is no rest for those of us who covet.’

  Jacrys smiled, then, afraid his teeth might be coated with blood, pressed his lips together. ‘I know, but maybe I deserve it. A measure of unrest might help me remember who I have allowed myself to become.’

  ‘A measure of unrest does that to all of us, Jacrys.’ Captain Ellis patted him on the knee. ‘I’ll send Thadrake; he’ll help you find something to eat.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ Jacrys said. ‘I hope I haven’t frightened you, or made you feel uneasy. That wasn’t my intention.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Perhaps we can talk again later?’

  ‘You just get busy healing.’

  ‘I think I already have,’ Jacrys whispered.

  WRECKAGE

  Steven watched Kellin’s horse reach the riverbank. She was shivering, blue with cold, and caught in the numbing throes of a panic attack, but she sat tall in the saddle, seemingly immune. Her soaking cloak dripped river-water, leaving a trail through the patchy snow. Her wet hair was matted against her head.

  Garec followed a few paces behind Kellin, still in deep water. He had slipped off the saddle and was furiously trying to regain his seat, using his reins to tug and clawed his way astride the nervous horse. He’d managed to regain the saddle, however ungainly, when the shivering duo clambered onto dry land.

  Steven clung to his own reins, his knuckles white with the effort, and tried hard not to look upriver. Unimaginable devastation was coming, but watching that wall of water and debris roll down on them would only distract him from his goal: reaching the riverbank.

  But the need to know was unbearable, and Steven glanced west. There it was, a roiling, tumbling mountain of water, littered with corpses, rigging, bits of boats of all sorts, and pieces of houses, farms, barns, stables, whatever it had managed to scoop up on its way across Falkan. There was a deafening roar, like a perpetual thunderclap. Steven gripped the saddle-horn – the reins were no longer up to the challenge – and regretted ever looking back.

  I’ll never make it. None of us will.

  He felt the magic around him, warming the water to a comfortable bathtub temperature as it had in Meyers’ Vale. He tried to project some of that energy into the swirling current around Gilmour’s horse, but he couldn’t tell if it was effective; he was too distracted by the incoming tide and the thunder. Whilst he wouldn’t die of hypothermia, Steven didn’t have much hope that his power would be able to stave off the wave.

  He leaned over and urged his horse, ‘Just a couple more feet, sweetie. C’mon, you can make it; swim, girl, swim!’

  When the flood finally reached him, it didn’t strike with the force he’d been expecting. It didn’t shatter his bones, or break over him like an ocean wave, like
one of those waves out at that beach Mark’s always talking about, Jones Beach. Instead, Steven felt himself lifted, gently at first, and carried on a burgeoning swell. It felt strangely like a roller-coaster ascent, slow and steady to start with, then careening downhill, unchecked. First he could see the top of the riverbank, then the tops of the trees in the distance, the naked branches stark against the slate grey of winter. He was still on his horse, still facing north and still swimming along in the warm-as-a-bath current, when he saw the wave swallow Garec and Kellin and their horses, all disappearing without even a splash. The world pitched perilously as he heard Gilmour shout something, then everything was brown, turbid, cold, and tumbling wildly, both in his mind and in reality.

  Steven held his breath, summoned the magic and let it burst forth, a flailing explosion of self-preservation, but he had no idea if it helped at all, because he kept rolling, lost somewhere beneath the surface.

  He tried to swim, but it was pointless. The wave was carrying him at better than forty miles an hour. He felt his horse slip from between his legs and go spinning off. For a few moments he gave up and let himself be carried. The muddy water reminded him strangely of the riverscapes of his life in Colorado; it was always the same, no matter which river, no matter what time of year: light brown, almost beige near the surface, giving way to murky brown, then black in the depths, and whether he was swimming, leaping from a rope swing or tumbling from a raft in whitewater, the underside of all rivers was the same, and this one, however huge and deadly, was no different.

  Then he was hit A log, or maybe a heavy beam struck his leg just below the knee. He was sure it was broken, a compound fracture, skin and muscles shredded, the knee hyper-extended… he screamed, but he kept tumbling east towards Wellham Ridge.

  Tibia and fibula again, he thought. I can’t believe I broke those fuckers again.

  His lungs burned, and he grasped his magic and filled them. Thank Christ for that spell. He wouldn’t drown, not yet, anyway. Something hit him in the small of his back, not a bone-breaker this time, but a puncture by something thin and sharp. He cried out, swallowed a mouthful of muddy water and reached back to feel for the injury, but he couldn’t find it. Instead he clamped his mouth shut, biting his tongue when something hit him in the back of his head. That was a rock. His shoulder scraped against something rough, the ground perhaps; then he was following his feet, upside down but moving fast towards the surface and the lighter-coloured water. A foot broke free of the river; he could feel it jutting into the air, as dissociated from himself as the spinning bits of flotsam and jetsam pelting him from all sides.