The Court Of Stars (The Commonwealth Quartet Book 1)

by Malcolm Schmitz

  “Christian... stop it.” Her lips opened a little, showing her pointed teeth.

  “Stop what?”

  Miriet's claws clicked against the floor of the ship.

  “Stop assuming that you're better than other people because you believe things they don't.”

  He wanted to say that any Christian was better than a heathen, and that he was a very bad Christian indeed, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. It wasn't worth it to get into a verbal battle with Miriet.

  "Tell you what. Go. Meet up with him. I'll come along."

  "What if he's a kidnapper?" Christian's hand clenched into a fist.

  "Then we'll escape. Whatever 'security' they've got here, it can't be as good as the Solari."

  “What if he's working for the Solari?” Christian folded his arms over his chest.

  “Now you're just being ridiculous.” Miriet's scales turned to an oily shade of greenish gray. “He saved you from the Solari. Remember?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “If he let you get away once, why would he be trying to lure you back in?” Her nostrils flared.

  “...You have a point.” Christian tried to relax his posture.

  Miriet's scales shimmered blue-gray, and her whiskers twitched.

  “Don't I always.” She sounded pleased. “So you'll let me come with you?”

  “Isn't it dangerous?” Christian frowned. “You coming, I mean.”

  “Why would it be dangerous?”

  “In case you haven't noticed, the city is crawling with Solari and their... worshipers.” Christian took a deep breath. “At least a few of them would recognize you, wouldn't they?”

  “Way ahead of you." She grinned at him, a large, toothy grin full of sharp fangs. "I'm tarking good at hiding.”

  Her scales turned brown, and she pressed against the wall of the ship. If it wasn't for her large, golden eyes, he would have thought she was just an oddly-shaped bump in the wall.

  “We both go. I get a bead on what he's really up to. You get to have moral support. Everyone's happy."

  Christian nodded.

  "All right." He felt unsafe thinking about confronting the dhunni without some kind of protection, but at least Miriet could get reinforcements if the situation required it.

  "...There's something else I could use some... assistance with," he added, slowly. “If you don't mind.”

  "Oh?" Miriet's tail twitched, lazily. Her tone was arch; she sounded more like a page than a young woman.

  "When I go to meet him next... I'm going to be armed and armored." Christian hoped she wouldn't laugh at him for this. He felt a little foolish himself, and couldn't quite understand why he felt as though he needed that protection. After all, Daniel was only a peasant, wasn't he? It wasn't as if he could do any damage to a trained knight.

  He told himself that it was if the Solari caught them, but he knew that didn't make sense. Christian had seen their weapons cut through solid metal. His armor would only slow him down.

  Perhaps what he really wanted was a thick layer of steel between himself and the dangerous world outside.

  "And you need my help with this because...?" Miriet folded her forelegs in front of her chest.

  He sighed. "Because armor is difficult to put on. And... You're the only person aboard I trust enough to help me with this."

  The crew were mostly the dregs of the earth, men with nothing to lose. At least a few were, he knew, serfs who'd run away. He didn't want them anywhere near him. Who knew what sort of things such desperate men would try? And Sara was a woman; it would be indecent to expose himself to her.

  Oh, how he wished his squire was here! But Edmund was miles and miles away, in the Castle ruled by Solari. Miriet was his only friend, now.

  "... What happened to 'you're a demon from hell and I don't trust you as far as I can throw you?'" Her tone was wry, and her whiskers twitched.

  "I changed my mind," Christian said.

  "Well, that's a start." Miriet arched her back. Her scales shimmered through green and yellow and red, and rippled like a river of flame. "What exactly does putting armor on entail?"

  "...It's a bit... difficult." He was understating, of course. There was a reason it took two people and twice as many hours to get a knight prepared for a tournament. But he didn't want to scare her away. "Much of it is just fastening things that I can't reach."

  "Lead the way, then." Miriet arched her back, and followed in his wake.

  ★★★

  "Christian, what in the names of the little gods is this?" Miriet picked up a small, sharp piece of metal in both of her clawed hands, and turned it over.

  "It's a gadling. Put it down."

  Christian sat on the floor of his cabin, tying closed the padded shirt he wore beneath his chain mail. The cloth was thick and rough, and scratched his skin. It was hot as the devil's temper, and sat heavily on his shoulders.

  He'd become accustomed to all that through years of training. He'd grown accustomed to the lurch and roll of the ship, too, though now that he was in port, that was much easier to bear.

  "What's a gadling when it's at home?" Miriet poked at the piece of metal, a quizzical look spreading across her face.

  "...A gauntlet spike?" He motioned to her. "Come, help me tie the back."

  As she helped him tie up the back of the padded shirt, Christian put his sabatons on. Miriet eyed them curiously.

  "Metal shoes?" she asked. "When you said 'armor', I thought you meant a bulletproof vest."

  "A vest wouldn't hold proof against a sword stroke."

  “Isn't this hot as hell, Christian?” She tapped the sabaton. “You're gonna make yourself sick.”

  He felt his face growing warm.

  “It's a disguise.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Her ears flattened.

  “There were some knights from Mepestha in port,” Christian explained. “I know my armor isn't quite Mepesthan, but... if I cover my shield with a white cloth, I'll look like a newly-made knight.”

  He lifted up his greaves, the plates of armor that protected his legs below the knee. His were simple, not covered with the gaudy ornamentation that was Court fashion, but they were solid-heavier than one might think. Their weight was comfortably familiar.

  “And if I'm not a knight, I can't wear my sword in public.”

  He began to strap the greaves on his legs.

  "If you could help..." he began.

  "Sure, I can," Miriet said. "Just say the magic words."

  "...Please?" Christian said, grudgingly.

  "That's more like it."

  It was a long, slow process getting the armor on. Miriet couldn't properly hold up any of the pieces. After all, most of them were two or three times larger than she was. So Christian was forced to do most of the lifting on his own.

  When it came to small pieces of armor, like the kneecap plates and the besagues, it wasn't too hard. But when it came to things like the mail shirt, or the breastplate-each, easily, the weight of a small child-he was hampered by his own weakness. The extra pair of hands that Miriet provided was useful, but he still wished that either of them could do more.

  Finally, he stood, stiff and weighted-down as a stone statue, in the middle of the cabin. The helmet restricted his vision to a narrow 'T', and he felt almost more vulnerable with his armor on. Miriet scrambled onto his shoulder, her claws clinking against the smooth metal.

  "...You know you're stupid, right?" She said it affectionately, in the manner of a younger sister to an older brother.

  "Why am I stupid this time?" Christian allowed himself a half-smile.

  "If you're really worried about getting kidnapped, putting a bunch of metal on you is just going to make it harder for you to get away." Miriet snorted. "I think you just want to hide from him."

  Christian scowled.

  "It's a disguise, Miriet. We should leave," he said.

  "Fine, fine," Miriet said, chuckling. “Aren't you going to be late for your date?"

  Sh
e climbed up his side, using the edges of each plate of armor as handholds, and settled on his shoulder.

  Christian took a tentative step forward, and began to walk, slowly, down to the docks.

  ★★★

  Christian leaned against the wall of a small shanty, trying to breathe. The armor was far hotter than he'd expected. It was like being sealed inside one of King Leonard's infamous bronze bulls, instruments of torture designed to burn a man to death; he was having trouble staying upright.

  Miriet's voice came from the wall beside his head.

  “You okay, there?”

  “I'm fine.” Christian frowned. “Just... a little winded.”

  “Don't kill yourself,” Miriet said, warningly. “Sara will have your head on a pike if you do.”

  Christian managed a smile, though he knew she couldn't see it.

  “She's already going to have my head,” he said. “I made her send the crew to get supplies.”

  “I think she's angrier about you insisting she must be a man.” Miriet laughed. You couldn't see her if you didn't know what to look for-the faint line of her golden eyes, and her shadow against the peeling wood, were the only clues. In all other respects, she looked like part of the wall.

  “He's coming. Silence yourself.”

  Christian held up a hand in greeting.

  “Daniel? It's me.”

  Daniel came towards him, headscarf glowing in the light of the early afternoon. He walked with his staff in front of him, like a shepherd, and he seemed lost in thought. When he noticed Christian, though, he smiled, and waved madly.

  “Christian!” he called. "What did your Captain say?"

  "We're in." Christian stared him down. He seemed earnest enough. Maybe it wasn't a trap after all.

  "Praise be!" Daniel cheered. “Papa said it's fine, too. He wanted to know, are you going to bring your own supplies, or....?”

  He left it hanging, and Christian wasn't sure of how to respond.

  "The Captain didn't say." He was feeling uncomfortably warm, and he wasn't sure if it was nerves or the armor. His skin was almost damp with sweat, and he shivered.

  “Are you all right?” Daniel asked. “Why are you wearing so much metal? You're going to cook yourself.”

  “I'm fine,” Christian said gruffly.

  He heard the clicking of claws on the wall above him, and looked up.

  “Miriet?” he said.

  “Yeah?” The voice came from the height of his ankle-just as he'd feared. The shape above him-faint, hard to make out even if you weren't wearing a helmet-was another Teliat.

  “We need to go,” he muttered.

  “What's going on?” Daniel's voice was high and panicked.

  Christian could hear Miriet trying to explain, but he didn't bother to try to listen. If one alien was nearby, there'd be many more. They needed to run.

  He grabbed Miriet-whose scales turned yellow as he picked her up-and motioned to Daniel.

  “Come on!”

  Christian began to lumber forward. He couldn't run, not properly, in armor, and he couldn't take it off. That would take too much time. He could only hope that he'd be fast enough to get away.

  “Told you the armor was a bad idea,” Miriet grumbled.

  He tried to ignore her. He wasn't feeling well at all-his skin prickled with cold sweat, and his heart raced.

  “Through here-” Daniel ran ahead of Christian, using his staff to propel himself forward faster. He ran towards a gap between buildings, slipping through with ease.

  Christian feared he'd get stuck, but he followed Daniel. Cold sweat pooled on the back of his neck and ran down his sides. His armor clanked against the walls and the ground.

  He heard someone speaking behind him in the Solari tongue-a high, inhuman voice, not too different from Miriet's. Damn, why hadn't he seen it before they'd arranged to meet?

  That all-too-familiar sound of clanking metal came towards him. He pulled his staff from his back. Ariador would do very little here.

  Just as he'd feared, he turned the corner to meet six Solari goblins. Two of them had the guns he'd come to expect, but most of them had swords. That, at least, was a relief. Christian knew how to fight a swordsman.

  "Christian..." Miriet's voice was high-pitched and panicky.

  He ignored her, moving with as much measured speed as he could. The staff felt light in his hand. He turned the heat up to the highest setting he could, so it glowed blue-white, and struck.

  Its heated tip pierced the first swordsman's armor. Christian smelled the reek of burnt flesh and heard the crunch of bone. But there was no time to look at the damage he'd done.

  The gunners were firing at him. Their weapons fired red light that left that burnt-air stink behind it.

  He moved forward, one careful step after another. He strode like a colossus, but he felt like a sitting duck.

  A bolt of light pierced his greave. Christian's armor crumpled like foil, digging deep into his leg. He gasped with pain and lashed out.

  His staff hit another swordsman square in the chest, knocking him back into one of the gunners. Both fell, and the swordsman did not rise again.

  Christian's heart pounded in his chest. He moved to attack the second gunner, hands tight around his staff. He knew all too well there was no middle ground here. He would conquer here-or die horribly.

  As he moved to strike, he heard a cold voice behind him.

  "Stop."

  He froze mid-blow. Though he wanted to move, desperately, he couldn't shift an inch. He couldn't even lower his staff. His breath sounded loud and shrill in his own ears.

  "Lower your weapon."

  His arms moved of their own accord, loosening at the shoulders, dropping the staff to the ground. He stood as slack and limp as a puppet with cut strings.

  "Oh, gods, not a neural inhibitor..." Miriet's voice was even more panicky than before. "Chris, try to fight it-"

  "Grab that thing."

  The man who'd been speaking moved in front of Christian. He was tall, with long hair that was so blonde it was almost white, and dressed in white robes. His face was fair, almost elfin, and his entire form was surrounded by a pearly glow.

  The 'god' Piyan had come for him, and he was using devil's magic to possess Christian.

  Christian tried to fight it, but his body wouldn't obey. He watched helplessly as the remaining goblins tied up Miriet-trussed her like a turkey, at that-and tried to stay upright. The cold sweat chilled his whole body, and he felt vertigo wash over him.

  "Kneel."

  Christian felt his knees buckle, and he sank, kneeling with his head bowed. His heart hammered at his ribs.

  Lord forgive me, he thought.

  "Stand." Piyan gestured, and Christian stood, unable to help himself.

  "Follow me." Piyan began to walk. The pearly light that surrounded him shed dark shadows on the walls around them.

  Christian's feet pushed him forward. He tried to fight it-tried to move his arm to grab Ariador or his staff, tried to scream for help, anything he could do-but it was no good. He had no control over his own body. The thought alone made his blood run cold.

  The false god led him through the twisting alleys of Jihrat, through a flock of nazarene birds and under canopies and balconies. They were going in one direction, though-down, no matter what twists and turns the path took.

  Finally, Piyan stopped in front of a great dark door, set into the wall of an old stone building. The air in front of the door was cold, and Christian shivered.

  "Follow," Piyan said again, unlocking the door with an iron key. Inside the building, it was as dark as the inside of a bottle of ink. It smelled like a tomb.

  Christian wanted to run, but his feet pushed him on. His eyes widened with horror, and his muscles stiffened; he couldn't help but move forward.

  He entered the dark building like a lamb going into a slaughterhouse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The false god, surrounded by his pearly glow, led Chri
stian down a long, dark corridor. Christian could barely see anything, and his eyes couldn't adjust. The air was cold, which felt good after the desert heat, but it smelled like burnt air and death. He kept moving, as though pulled towards Piyan by invisible fetters.

  "Stop." Piyan gestured. Christian instantly felt frozen again.

  "Take off the helmet."

  Christian's arms moved up, and his hands grasped the sides of his helmet. They lifted it off his head, and then dropped it. His heart sank as the helmet hit the floor with a clatter. He'd just dented it, maybe beyond repair.

  "...So they weren't wrong. You did come here."

  Christian wanted to spit a curse in his face, but he couldn't even speak. He stood, as mute and frozen as a statue of a knight, trying desperately to move, to break the curse somehow.

  "Turn around."

  Christian turned, his back to Piyan. He felt a chill go up his spine.

  "Walk."

  Christian took a few slow steps.

  "There's a door to your right. Open it."

  He turned the knob. It felt strange and clumsy trying to do it with gauntleted hands. The metal of his gauntlets slid against the knob, sounding like a knife on a plate.

  "Hurry." Piyan's voice was cold. "You're wasting my time."

  Christian struggled with the knob for a moment more, but opened it.

  The room was a dark cell. It wasn't much larger than a horse's stall, but it was filthy enough that Christian would never have kept a horse in there. The walls looked damp, and black, oily mold stuck to the corners. A small window, the size of Christian's hand, let a ray of grayish light into the room. There was a dank-smelling wooden bucket in one corner, but apart from that, the room was bare.

  "Give me your sword."

  Christian desperately wanted to resist, but his hands moved against his will. He unsheathed Ariador, looking at it for a long moment, and then presented it to the false god, as though he was giving it to the king. His fingers trembled. He felt unmanned.

  "Go into the cell."

  Christian's feet pushed him into the cell, and he heard the click of a lock behind him. His hands were shaking, but at least he could move them on his own.