Indomitus Oriens (The Fovean Chronicles)

by Robert Brady

  “Yes.”

  She picked up the caution in his voice—already on to her. Bill raised his eyebrows, prompting her to move forward.

  “I called because I heard you were looking for a change in your life?” she asked, making her ‘provocative statement.’ She had made that up on the spot. Bill grinned a wide, wolfish grin. She felt some of the anxiety drain out of her—she was doing ok.

  “You heard that, huh?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. Now she caught herself warming to this person, too. “I called because we don’t have a rep in Pennsylvania, and if you’re looking for a change, we’re looking for a rep.”

  Bill nodded. The man seemed interested. She flashed through her cards, giving him little bits of information, making him ask for more. In five minutes he had asked her how he could get more information on this, and she set up the program to send him a mail packet while updating his contact. He wanted her to call him—this was a good lead.

  She clicked off after her prospect did, and looked at Bill, feeling six feet tall and super-charged.

  “See how easy?” he asked her.

  She couldn’t help herself—she hugged him. She felt his body go rigid like iron, but it didn’t bother her. She pressed her cheek to his beard and her breast to his chest, and gave him a squeeze.

  “Well, um, uh, good job,” he said, when she let him go.

  She adored the shyness, the gentle chivalry. A boy her age would have had his hand on her ass or worse—not Bill. He turned his body a little away from hers, not wanting for her to know she had excited him. Of course, she wouldn’t have noticed otherwise—she wasn’t a perv or anything. Now she warmed to him even more.

  “Again?” she asked him.

  His eyes widened. He thought she was going to hug him again. She found it so funny—he was so cute. Not Brad Pitt cute, but teddy bear cute.

  Her teddy bear, at least so far as training went.

  * * *

  Glynn had always seen dinner at the Uman-Chi high court as a tedious but necessary part of her nobility. Sometimes she longed for the tables of Men and Uman, who fed at the board like pigs at a trough, cramming their faces and belching, then leaving every bit as quickly as they could.

  Several hundred nobles attended, dressed in the white of Casters, the blue of Merchants, the red of Warriors and the green of Artisans. Protocols over half a millennium old dictated where they sat, each space defined by their favor in proximity to the King, who entered last, ate first, finished last and left first.

  House Escaroth sat sixty-five seats to the right hand, a respectable accomplishment but not spectacular for a High House. The favor of the Escaroths came into question with the death of her father and her brother ten short years before. Her father had sat seven to the left—left-handed not being optimum but seven seats being very respectable.

  House Escaroth boasted no males by birth now. This doomed the house unless a member of a high house changed his name.

  Today she entered the banquet hall to see the entirely unacceptable Earl Vendan Yelf of the Inner City standing by the Escaroths’ traditional chair. This man’s house had been responsible for the area around the stadium for the Fovean High Council during the Conqueror’s sack of Outpost IX—his earldom had become a shameless failure.

  Even if she must be replaced, to be replaced by that!

  But one place remained open, on the right, four seats away from the head of the table.

  No! Impossible! Four seats?

  She walked by the place setting, twirled elegantly, and took a glance at the symbol for the house assigned here.

  The Proud Falcon, in the colors of the female. This place had been reserved for her.

  Such honor stunned her speechless, even if her face described none of it to her own Uman-Chi people. A Caster remains in control, she reminded herself, even when bone weary.

  She took her place behind the seat. The other nobles chatted and danced, taking mincing steps and buzzing about her, her song, her preparations, her house. They floated before her eyes like a dream! Adriam had not simply smiled, he had positively beamed at her.

  She spoke to none of them, but held her elegance simple, her chin and her dignity high. To her left at seat five was comfortable Chaheff, her mentor, ignoring her as he swelled with pride at her accomplishment.

  Without flourish or preamble, in the nature of her people, his majesty Angron Aurelias entered with the royal train.

  His heir, Avek Noir, followed on the right behind him. He would sit one seat to the right. Next came the former heir, Ancenon Aurelias, who would sit one seat to the left. Both wore the white robes of Casters, however like D’gattis, Ancenon’s robe bore a strange hook symbol and a dot, his in purple.

  The mark of the Daff Kanaar—mercenaries currently turning Fovea into a war zone.

  Other members entered in the train, but they were lost on her. Angron wore the ceremonial Black Cloak of Change, reserved for funerals, weddings and those who changed house, but no one had died or would be marrying.

  However Ancenon wore the Proud Falcon on the golden circlet that held back his hair, in the colors of the male.

  The next hour passed as a blur. Servants piled food high before them; they picked their favorite portions from their favorite plates. Glynn was voracious; she had extemporized her being several times, and on the last effort Chaheff had spontaneously attacked her, forcing her to throw out his energy into the Bay, making the water boil and the fish die in Adriam.

  “She is of a healthy appetite,” Angron commented, having waited politely for her to swallow, that she could easily respond.

  “She fills the air with her power,” Ancenon commented before she could, the proximity of his chair making this his prerogative.

  Now any other could answer, but did not, and so she did.

  “I am honored,” she began, in perfect etiquette, “and am graced,” she added, in response to Ancenon, “and remark that the food is excellent. I have found the training exhilarating and uplifting under Chaheff’s tutelage.”

  Angron nodded, and acknowledged her perfect manners.

  Angron spoke no more to her during dinner, but from that point on she must consider Ancenon her brother, an Escaroth, and her house saved. Its prestige rose, her prestige rose, her whole life changed with the color of a cloak. Ancenon would address her at a time he deemed appropriate, probably after the meal.

  She would sing and, in so doing, she might die. Ancenon’s conversion ensured House Escaroth would live on. This told her much about his opinion of her chances and of her abilities.

  A lot to digest with dinner.

  * * *

  The girls in the ladies room were giggling—well, like girls. Probably why Melissa hated that expression. However, they got quiet when she came in.

  That meant she had to do mirror time before she peed. She did the obligatory primp and refresh to her own image, and then reached for a lipstick when she saw she was fading.

  “So how’s the archeology going?” one of the girls, Amanda, asked her.

  Melissa threw her a dark look. “Digging the fossil, you mean? Grow up.”

  “I dunno, Melly,” Trina, one of her girls, said. Trina was a leggy Spanish girl who always had ponytail hair. They shared rent, but she could still be mean if she wanted. “Spending a lot of time with that guy.”

  “Yep, sure am,” she said. She put down the lipstick and checked her lips. They were good. She turned back to the three girls.

  “He’s nice,” she said, lowering her chin in challenge. “He helps people here, which is pretty cool of him.”

  “Well, yeah, seeing as he gets paid for it,” Amanda said.

  The third girl, ‘lexis, chimed in, “Doesn’t explain you chasing him out to the smokers’ lot.”

  “I’m sorry, ‘lexis,” Melissa squared off on her, faking real concern, “where were your numbers this week?”

  “My numbers?” ‘lexis drew herself up to the challenge.

  “On
the board?” Melissa asked. “You know—the one you can’t make it on to?” She waved her hand. “What am I even wasting my time with you, bitch. They’re gonna can your sorry ass.”

  Trina raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Whoa,” she said.

  “Really,” Amanda added. “Like, chill out, girl.”

  “Like, no, girl,” Melissa squared off on Amanda next. “You’re right after her. What are you, like, one sale for the week? I probably made that while I was in here.”

  Trina put her hand on Melissa’s forearm. “Really, girl, what’s with you?”

  Melissa turned to her. “Well, these bitches piss me off,” she said. “What do they care if I learn from Bill—are they learning from anyone? Can they even make it here?”

  “So, you’re just learning from him,” Amanda backed down. Melissa had a lot of friends here. She went to The Mill three happy hours a week, with and without her girls, and the boys lined up to talk to her. Amanda must have thought to get her props by teasing her and now felt worried she’d find herself on the outside for going too far.

  “I am not just learning from him,” Melissa pushed right back in her face, surprising herself with how angry they’d made her. It had occurred to her this would get back to Bill, and then Bill would get shy, start being afraid of her, and she wouldn’t be able to talk to him anymore.

  So better to address it now, and let the right word get around.

  “He’s my friend,” she said. “I like Bill, and the person who ruins that, I am not going to like—I’m not going to like that person a lot, bitch.”

  She stabbed Amanda right in the collar bone with her right index fingernail, literally driving the point home.

  “Do the math, ‘manda,” she said, looking right into her eyes.

  Trina immediately changed sides, turning her body to be shoulder-to-shoulder with Melissa. Trina could be mean, but not stupid. She had also learned a lot from Bill, and she probably liked how easy paying the rent had become.

  “If you were smart, you would be listenin’ girl,” she said. Her Spanish accent usually presented itself when she was angry, and it did now. “Bill puts people on the board. Don’t be messin’ with my meal ticket, ‘neither.”

  Melissa gave Amanda a last look, turned and headed for the stalls. She could retreat, after a few grace-saving comments to her friends, with most of her dignity intact.

  Which was good, because Melissa felt the tears coming on, and she didn’t need anyone to see it, hear it or be a part of it.

  Melissa’s mother had died when she had been a little girl. Her father didn’t know how to raise a daughter, and didn’t have a lot of places to turn.

  It galled him to buy pads, or any of the other things girls needed. She had to learn how to put on lipstick from a cosmetics girl at Sears. Her monthly cycle had been a trial and miss nightmare. She had no idea how to date.

  In the middle of college her sister got busted and her father pillaged her college fund to pay for her defense. Lysette got five-to-twelve in Warren Correctional Institute and Melissa got to learn how to wait tables.

  That’s when she met Mike. He looked so handsome it almost made him beautiful, with a line so smooth she’d been hooked before she knew it. They went from dating to living together to moving to Portland in record time, he pursuing his career and she pursuing him.

  Mike had been her first love, which was the only thing they had in common. He cared about himself alone and, when he couldn’t make it in Portland, he bailed with all of their money, and not so much as a good-bye.

  She’d had to do some things she wasn’t proud of after that, before she turned her life around and come here. Three years had passed since then, and she still didn’t trust handsome or young men.

  When she was pretty sure that the ladies room was empty, she got up and left the stall. Who stood at the counter checking her makeup but Eileen?

  “You okay?” she asked.

  She took a look in the mirror, her mascara a disaster. She sighed and got out her compact.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  “If that’s an allergic reaction to Old Spice,” Eileen told her, touching up her curly hair with her fingernails, “you better stay away from Bill.”

  Melissa laughed despite herself, wiping away the streaked mascara.

  “I noticed he was wearing it,” she admitted.

  “I know you did,” Eileen said. She took a sideways glance at the younger girl, one that Melissa didn’t miss. “He is doing a lot of things different. Eating with people, eating better, I think he lost a few pounds thanks to the salads.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t let a man eat the crap he eats,” Melissa said, then caught herself.

  She had cared for her dad that way, while she could.

  She looked at Eileen, and Eileen focused right on her.

  “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life,” Eileen said, which of course meant that was exactly what she wanted to do. “But keep in mind that men get funky as they get old.”

  Melissa got her eyeliner right and looked at Eileen. “Funky?”

  Eileen nodded, and washed her hands. “Men get a strange idea about what their chances are and who loves them. A man over forty-five is one hundred times worse than a boy under seventeen.”

  “Oh,” Melissa said. “You mean crushes and junk?”

  Eileen nodded. “Be careful,” she said. “He’s a good guy, and he is scared to death he is going to be made fun of or worse by you kids.”

  Melissa knew what she meant. “I just like him for a friend,” Melissa said. Well, it might not be a complete lie.

  “Uh, huh,” Eileen said. She dried her hands on a paper towel and tossed it into the receptacle.

  “Make sure he knows it,” Eileen warned, and left it at that.

  * * *

  Ancenon Escaroth had been born Ancenon Evoprosee, of a respected house, where he as third son had a brilliant career ahead of him as a hanger on, had he wanted it.

  He had not.

  When his older brother Haldan had joined the Casters, and his next older brother the Merchants, Ancenon had taken it on himself to join the priesthood of Adriam, a rare and usually ignominious destiny, as priests did not normally seek more power than that of a god.

  In the priesthood Ancenon had come to the Ultimate Truth, and then combined the power of a Caster with his existing teachings to make himself a rarity among a rare people, the only priest and Caster among them.

  From there, he’d been adopted by the King himself and married to the King’s daughter, taking on the name Aurelias and enjoying the title of Heir for more than 100 years.

  Then had come the Conqueror, and the Daff Kanaar, and a fall from favor that cost him his title of Heir, his prestige among his people and the favor of his own wife, who in his absence laid shamelessly with their Uman servants. It had been a matter of time before another, with an infusion of gold which Ancenon knew well had come from Outpost V’s hidden treasury, had replaced him, and Ancenon had become an Aurelias in name only.

  Today Ancenon lost that name, and became an ‘Escaroth,’ the sole male of a dying house responsible, at least, for a portion of the city wall. His new ‘Proud Falcon’ could be seen from Outpost IX’s southern towers.

  Contagious in the Conqueror’s weird sense of humor, he allowed himself a smile as he contemplated flying the purple hook of the Daff Kanaar beneath it. Walking beside him through the stone halls of Outpost IX, to those southern towers, his new sister took note.

  She raised her left hand and turned her wrist out in the form of the Inquisitive Relative, and said, “You are in good spirit, Lord Brother.”

  He nodded and, still walking, put his knuckles to his hips and informed her, “I was considering my house.”

  For every condition, etiquette defined over centuries by the Uman-Chi, shared only among themselves, differentiating them from lesser races, lesser species, persons to whom form was barely more than excusing their own farts in public.
>
  “Are you familiar with our proud history, brother?” Glynn asked him, placing her left hand in her right palm at her waist before her, in the position of the Eager Teacher, Supplicating.

  He nodded. He’d studied their scrolls. “My concern for you, sister, is more for your future than your past.”

  She smiled, and returned her hands to her side. “My song?” she asked him.

  “I regret I cannot hear you sing it,” he said, “however my cousin, D’gattis, will attend in my stead, as I am unavoidably detained.”

  Glynn extruded her lower lip for just a moment—an actual younger sister deprived of an older brother’s approval. He extended her his elbow, to walk beside him as Equal Companion, all he could offer her at this time.

  Because of my ambition, your father and your brother were killed, he thought to himself, walking beside her. Both were friends of mine. In penance for that ambition, I take their names now, and extend their house’s life.

  She took his arm, this young girl, so promising, so full of Life among the Uman-Chi. Every one among them knew Glynn, the youngest of the Casters. Her father, of the Caste of Warriors, had been so proud to claim her and her extraordinary abilities.

  Some among them thought her the answer to the Conqueror’s wife, Shela Mordetur. Ancenon knew better. He’d never seen Power represented so clearly in another. Shela wielded a magic Uman-Chi had no answer for. Power where their grace could be overwhelmed completely by her raw might.

  Ancenon’s ambition had cost him much, and rewarded him much more. Angron ruled Trenbon but, with his companions beside him, Ancenon could actually buy it out from under him, or take it by force. Ancenon had incurred great debts along his path, and the lives of the Escaroths were high among them.

  He would do a lot of things to repay that debt, however watching Glynn Escaroth die was not one of them.

  * * *

  By the end of week two as Trainer: Bill Howard, the other employees just assumed they could go anywhere with him, ask him for advice on any topic, and that he would answer any personal question about his past life, having kids, why guys were horny jerks or how to close a sale, including what it was okay to say.