by Adam Carter
“Oh, a mercy mission,” Cassiel said, clapping her hands and producing a rather soft thump considering they too were completely covered – which also made for picking the fork up to begin with all the more difficult. “Sister Ariel, they’re missionaries.”
Hawthorn had never before been called a missionary and was not so sure he liked the idea of people thinking he was some kind of busybody. “We do what we can,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”
“And modest, too,” Cassiel sighed.
Hawthorn kept his head down and concentrated on his meal. Even through her robes, he could tell the way Cassiel was looking at him. His shin took another kick from Arowana, who by this point was seething.
“We don’t have much contact with the outside world,” Ariel said. “Any local news you might be able to tell us?”
“Same old,” Hawthorn said. “Truth is, we’ve been out of touch for a while now.”
“Delivering water to orphans,” Cassiel sighed, leaning her chin on one fist. Hawthorn wished she would stop sighing like that. The truth was they had been lying low so did not have a clue what was going on with anyone anywhere. Until they figured out precisely what they were going to do with their new sword-ship, they had decided the best course of action was to stay off everyone’s radar.
“I have a question,” Wraith said and Hawthorn was glad he was diverting attention from their fictional Samaritan work. “You cover yourselves from head to foot, right?”
Ariel nodded. “So the individual is removed from society and we can concentrate on devoting ourselves to God.”
“Sexual attraction begins and ends with the flesh,” Father Dumah said rather loudly, with his eyes towards the ceiling. “Remove the temptation and remove the attraction.”
“But,” Wraith said so slowly that Hawthorn knew he wasn’t going to like this, “doesn’t the Bible start with Adam and Eve naked? Didn’t Satan entice Eve to eat of the Tree of Knowledge, which made her self-conscious about being starkers? Isn’t clothing of any kind more a worship of Satan than of God? Ow!”
It was good to think Hawthorn was not the only target of Arowana’s kicks.
Silence descended upon the table. Father Dumah trembled, although without being able to see him Hawthorn could not tell whether it was through rage or shock. Brother Temeluchus continued shoving food into his robes with such intensity that most of it was going down his clothes.
Ariel looked towards Cassiel – Cassiel looked towards Ariel – and it was Ariel who finally spoke. “A theological discussion. How wonderfully civilised.”
Hawthorn felt his heart about ready to beat again. “You’re not offended?”
“Offended?” Ariel asked, confused. “Theological debate should be at the heart of any religion. The ability to discuss and dissect specific texts of the Bible has been practised for centuries, Mr Hawthorn. Anyone who is not willing to defend their religion while at the same time being open to new ideas might as well go the way of the Neanderthal.”
“Blasphemous outsider heathen,” Dumah finally exhaled.
Ariel resumed eating. “Proves my point exactly.”
Hawthorn realised something. “Uh, should we be covered? I mean, are we causing offence by showing our faces?”
“Probably,” Ariel said. “Showing your faces could well encourage emotions.”
“And muscles,” Cassiel said. “Displaying those lovely big, well-formed muscles ...”
“We get it,” Arowana said. “Our apologies, we should have thought to cover up before leaving the ship.”
“Cover up?” Father Dumah raged. “First they appear naked and now they threaten to conceal their sins?”
Hawthorn’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Sorry, what? We’re damned if we don’t and damned if we do?”
“It’s not our society, Gordon,” Arowana said. “Not our place to judge.”
Hawthorn resumed eating. He had already reached the conclusion that he did not like Themisto and would never be coming back, so he might as well eat and just let everything flow over his head. “Let’s talk about the pirates,” he said. “Have you been having problems with them?”
“Only recently,” Ariel said. “We don’t often leave Themisto, only on pilgrimages and mercy missions – things like that. Every time we leave nowadays we seem to be hounded. This is the first time they’ve actively attacked one of our vessels, though.”
“Tests,” Dumah said. “The Lord sends obstacles our way to test our faith. We must show strength and purge our spaceways of the infidel.”
“Little aggressive, isn’t he?” Hawthorn asked.
“Father Dumah may speak brazenly,” Ariel said, “but he has a point. If the pirates are becoming bold enough to attack our youths, maybe it’s time we did something about them.”
“Yeah,” Hawthorn laughed, forking some fish into his mouth, “good luck with that.” He noticed the silence and could sense there were several pairs of eyes staring at him. The fish swam circles in his gut. “I’m not volunteering.”
“You have a sword-ship,” Ariel pointed out. “And you have a well-trained crew of bloodthirsty killers.”
“The problem is,” Hawthorn said, thinking quickly, “we’re already too busy at the moment. We can’t take on more work right now. Have you considered appealing to God?”
“We have,” Ariel said. “And He sent you.”
“I’ve been appealing to God as well,” Cassiel said, “and you’re exactly what I was asking for.”
Hawthorn coughed, tried not to splutter.
“We’d pay you, of course,” Ariel said.
“How much?” Wraith asked.
“We of Themisto do not encourage personal wealth, so we don’t have much. All our subjects donate their excesses to the church, where Father Dumah assumes the burden of all our sins.”
“It is a tough challenge,” Dumah said, “wallowing in such wealth and decadence. But I endure it for the sake of our people.”
“So,” Wraith said, “you’re offering all this wealth and decadence to us, just to run off a pirate ship?”
Hawthorn could see where this was going and said, “No. Wraith, no, absolutely not. Iris, help me out here.”
Arowana shifted her weight while she thought. “I don’t know. I feel bad about leaving that girl with the pirates.”
“Girl?” Ariel asked.
“A lost soul,” Hawthorn said. He desperately wanted to talk to Arowana and Wraith without the Themistonians present, but sneaking off with them would have aroused suspicions. “Iris, I’m not happy about it either, but we might have a few problems in fighting pirates.”
“Why?” Arowana asked stonily. “As Sister Ariel just said, we’re in possession of a Carpoan sword-ship. We have the strength, we have the reputation. We have the power to destroy those pirates if we want to.”
Hawthorn neglected to mention they lacked the missiles necessary to accomplish that. When the sword-ship had departed Carpo it had no doubt been fully stocked, but its former crew had depleted almost all their missile stocks. What had remained had since been all but exhausted by Hawthorn and the others and they could not return to Carpo to resupply. If they should ever get themselves into a pitched battle with another vessel, Hawthorn did not fancy their chances.
However, he had seen that look in Arowana’s eyes before. It was not something he ever liked to argue with, mainly because he knew it would be an argument he would lose. Hawthorn had decided long ago that fighting his case against women was pointless. It was why he had sworn off them after his divorce, and was probably why he tended to hate having to deal with women whenever they were in charge of anything. That Iris Arowana had somehow come to be in charge of his heart angered and thrilled him in equal quantities. It did not help, of course, that Arowana was almost always right.
Hawthorn hated it when women were right.
He plastered a false smile onto his face. “I think we might be going after your pirates. Do you have any information which might he
lp us?”
“We could ask Harman,” Cassiel said.
“We don’t know much about the pirates,” Ariel said quickly. “We only know they lurk out there waiting for our people to poke their heads out.”
Temeluchus shook his head. Hawthorn had the feeling he had something important to say but was too devoted to his vows to voice it.
“Who’s Harman?” Hawthorn asked.
“No one,” Ariel replied.
“Well clearly he’s someone.”
“No one,” she repeated, her voice sounding a little sterner. “How are you finding the fish, Mr Hawthorn?”
“It’s good. You have oceans on a world this small?”
“The Lord provideth,” Dumah said.
Hawthorn decided he could do without knowing.
“If we’re going to solve this pirate problem for you,” Arowana said, “we need to have all information to hand. If this Harman can help, we should talk with him … her?”
“Him,” Cassiel said. Hawthorn hid his wry smile that the girl had fallen into Arowana’s trap and provided more information.
Ariel set down her cutlery and exuded irritability. “All right, it seems you won’t be happy until we tell you. Wyatt Harman is a wanderer, a gypsy. He has no affiliation to the pirates, so he won’t know anything.”
“If he travels,” Arowana said, “maybe he’s heard things.”
“Then I’ll ask him myself.”
“Can we speak with him?”
“Harman’s a prisoner. I’m sorry, but we cannot allow anyone to speak with him.”
Hawthorn glanced at Arowana, mentally shouting at her not to push the issue. So far the Themistonians believed they were Carpoan warriors, which was likely the only thing preventing Father Dumah from throwing them out on their ears. The Themistonians were as afraid of them as they were of the Themistonians. If they began probing into the Themistonian legal system, though, their tenuous welcome would be over.
Thankfully, Arowana understood this perfectly. “It would be appreciated if you asked him,” she said, “but you’re right – we have no need to speak with him ourselves.”
“We’ve dodged the important issue,” Wraith said. “Payment.”
“Only the sinful desire,” Father Dumah said.
“And only the desiring sin.”
Dumah digested that. “I may add that to my sermon.”
“Take it for free,” Wraith said. “The pirates, though, come with a price tag.”
“We’ll discuss payment later,” Arowana said. “Right now we need to plan and then sleep. We’ll return to our sword-ship and let you know what we come up with.”
“The sword-ship?” Ariel asked, offended. “No, no, no, we have chambers prepared for you here. You are our guests and never let it be known that Themistonians do not take care of their guests.”
Hawthorn had no intention of staying in any room their hosts had prepared for them, but could not think of a good enough argument against it.
“We need to check on our people,” Arowana said, saving him from having to think of anything. “They’ll already be worrying about us, and none of us would want a few hundred bloodthirsty Carpoan warriors getting agitated.”
“Of course,” Ariel said. “You can tell them what’s going on before retiring to the chambers we’ve arranged for you.”
It was a shame, for Arowana’s argument had been a good one.
“All right,” Arowana said, smiling. “In that case, how could we refuse? Wraith can return to inform the crew of our progress and can join us in our room.”
“Rooms,” Ariel corrected.
“Rooms,” Arowana said.
“We have little space, but can spare three rooms.”
“Actually,” Hawthorn said, “we only really need the two. Iris and I can sleep together.”
“Oh,” Ariel said, “are you married?”
“No, but …”
Father Dumah thumped the table with both hands.
“Separate rooms would be lovely,” Arowana said. “It would be just like back on the sword-ship.”
That seemed to placate Dumah a little, but Hawthorn could swear he could still see steam coming from his robes.
Cassiel rose. “Mr Hawthorn, I would be honoured to personally show you to your room.”
“Sit,” Ariel said.
Cassiel sat.
Arowana kicked Hawthorn again under the table. He had no idea how any of this was his fault, but he had never in his entire life wanted to understand the workings of a woman’s mind.
He could already sense this was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER FOUR
They were good people, but Iris Arowana and Gordon Hawthorn were too concerned with keeping their heads in the sand. They did not understand that if ostriches truly did such a stupid thing their species would have become extinct long ago. Wraith was not of such a mind-set, which was why he had decided not to tell them what he was doing. The Themistonians had showed them to each of their rooms, which were all small and sparse, and left them to it. They were able to freely move between each other’s rooms, although spending the night in the same one would have been asking for trouble. Themisto was a small world, and everyone would know one another’s business. It was like Carpo in that respect, and as a native of Carpo that was something with which Wraith could sympathise.
He banged his head and bit back his automatic response, not wanting to cause too much noise. Having feigned tiredness, Wraith had gone to his room and locked the door; then he had pulled aside some floorboards and gone wandering. The architects of Themisto had used stonework in their materials, with great blocks to make everything resemble castles and the like. He did not know whether this was because they favoured such aesthetics or because they had never progressed beyond them. It certainly fit in with the way Father Dumah and the other males saw the world.
It seemed the building they were in had a great deal of space between the floors. It likely had something to do with ventilation, but Wraith rather liked the thought that Themistonians used the crawl-ways in order to sneakily move to wherever their sweethearts were sleeping. That was of course because Wraith was a romantic. It paid to be a romantic when one was from such a bleak community as Carpo.
He banged his head again and decided if any raunchy Themistonians really were sneaking around the ducts, they would have to leave all their robes behind just to fit. It would also aid them in evading detection, for no one knew what anyone else even looked like. That was the oddest part of their society that Wraith simply could not grasp, but he had never been one to judge people on their beliefs. The Themistonians themselves were famous for not shoving their beliefs down people’s throats, so the least he could do was respect their religion.
“God in hell!” he swore as he banged his head a third time.
He saw streaks of light ahead and was pleased to see he had arrived at a grille. Peering through, he could see a corridor beyond. There was no one about, and nothing he could use. The grille was only half a foot wide so there was no chance of his squeezing through, which meant he had to continue.
A little farther on, he came to a second grille and this one proved more fruitful. Again there was no one around, but through the slats of the grille he could see a sign on a wall. It did not specifically indicate the direction of any prison cells, but from how everything else was labelled he figured out which directions not to take.
Scrabbling back along the stone tunnel, Wraith would be glad once his journey ended. The stonework was rough and tearing his knees, so he would welcome the opportunity to get this over with. There was no real need for Wraith to be doing this at all, but he had always been a curious soul. It came, he suspected, from his upbringing in a small community, where there were simply no secrets to be had. Now the entire Jupiter system was his playground and it seemed everyone had at least one secret worth uncovering.
There was an opening ahead, larger than the former grilles, and Wraith reasoned he would be able
to squeeze through so long as he could get the hatch off. Peering into the corridor beyond, he saw two acolytes loitering. They were not doing much of anything, just talking, and even that wasn’t very interesting. It sounded as though they were reciting portions of the Bible, which was a positively riveting pastime. He was tempted to pretend to be the disembodied voice of God and ask the way to the prisons, but that would have been disrespectful at best, suicidal at worst. So instead he continued shuffling through the vents, always trying to remember the way back.
Soon enough he came to an end to the vents and wondered what he should do. Since there was no longer a way forward, he headed back to where he had seen the two Themistonians. They had by this point moved off, so Wraith carefully tapped at the edges of the grating until it gave way a little. A hard shove tore it from its frame and he struggled to catch it before it could strike the ground. It would not do to be caught sneaking around the castle ducts.
Dropping quietly to the floor, Wraith repositioned the grating over the hole as best he could and began to walk. So far as he was aware, prisons were always kept in the lower levels, where people could be left forgotten in dark, dank cells or even oubliettes. As such he was looking for a stairwell, and soon found one. Taking it as far as it would go, he emerged into a short corridor containing six stout wooden doors. There was a burning torch on the wall, indicating the area was patrolled regularly, and he had a good feeling he was in the right place.
Each of the doors held a small opening at eye level – a wicket, he believed such a thing was called. The first two cells proved empty, but then Themisto could not have too many prisoners. The third was identical to the other two – a compact area containing a rough bed, a bucket in the corner and little else. This chamber, however, held something the first two did not, for there was a man sitting on the bed, his head resting on knees brought up to his chin.
“Psst!” Wraith hissed. “Hey you, you wouldn’t happen to be Harman, would you?”
The man looked up. He was rugged and unshaven, but managed to pull it off in a handsome sort of way. He was dressed in a dark green cloak and a shirt which was at the same time faux-nobility and peasant-garb. The man’s eyes were tired, and there was very little curiosity at Wraith’s appearance.
