Bardian's Redemption_Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace

by H. Jane Harrington

  Kir understood the dilemma. It would be difficult for men with past criminal records to be hired on. Even most fishing vessels frowned upon taking the formerly collared as crewmembers. Such men usually ended up back in collars, or with pirate dens, for their lack of employment prospects.

  “That's where I got proposals, if you'll hear,” Kir said. “Being in this neck of Aquiline, you men got loads of time on the kaiyo-slay?”

  “More of late,” Lahmpken confirmed. “Once, could go months on the betweens. Now, seems we find more kaiyo than collar.”

  “And such is the more lucrative profession. I mean to hire you boys,” Kir said boldly. “If you want for the jobs. Not collars you'll be catching, but kaiyo. Legal-wise.”

  “You gonna pay us for the slay?”

  “I mean to buy your contract. Like a privateer, but on the kaiyo front. Call it kaiyoteering, if you will. The Crown'll issue pay based on rank of the kill. So much per. We'll work numbers on the eve, after chow.

  The slavers seemed interested.

  Kir pulled a vial of respillitan venom from the pouch at her belt. It had been one of the many varieties harvested from the pits. Kir had snatched up at least one vial of each for her own private arsenal. “You privy to such?” She tossed it to Lahmpken, who popped the cork and sniffed it for identification.

  “Blinds the beams, don't it? Dampens the deadlights?”

  “That it does,” Kir acknowledged. “Respillitan venom. Blinding agent gets a lucrative loran on the darkets. Ain't just the slay I be wanting for. You'll mostly be contracting for the harvest.”

  Lahmpken smiled for the first time, and his teeth looked sooty. He tossed the vial back. “The harvest, eh?”

  “Eighty percent of the harvest come to the Crown. Twenty you keep for market sales of your own finding. There be a station for the collection at Fort Ellesainia and at all army outposts, I'll see to it. ”

  “Twenty? Seeing's we'd be doing the busy bit, seems like forty be more to my like.”

  Kir had been ready for the negotiation. She had allowed some wiggle room to account for the expected dance. “Fair be. But the danger be accounted in the slay-bounty done set. We're talkin' harvest now. And harvest be by fair market. But I'm preparing to be generous, you being in the midst of a career change to so parlous a line. So we settle on seventy-thirty. More than fair. The market value make you rich men a'fore the moonless. Sink that fortune into a dandy, falutin yacht and retire proper like highblood do.”

  Lahmpken could not deny the lust for wealth that was promised in the prospect. Kir knew he had taken the hook right down to the gullet.

  “Whaddya say, boys?” Lahmpken called. “Up for a change of winds?”

  There was a round of laughter, and Kir sealed the deal with another clasping of arms. The typical blood contract would come later, when it was in writing.

  “General Beyhue, send these boys down a ladder. We're in cahoots now,” Kir called skyward.

  The slavers-turned-slayers were fed in the chow hall while the contract was scribed. It was a satisfying bit of negotiating that reminded Kir of days past, when her world had been abundantly different. Had she sent the slavers off into the world, they would have either ended up slaughtered at the ends of greenie blades, or collared again for other crimes. This system seemed to serve a double purpose that was mutually beneficial. In collecting a stash of kaiyo-harvest, Kir could turn the enemy's own weapons against him. She could legally employ these men to a trade befitting their skills, while simultaneously diminishing the kaiyo numbers and harvesting much-needed assets from the carcasses. It would build the coffers and the arsenal, both to feed the coming war. Kir had to pat herself on the back for the genius.

  Vann might have been gifted at diplomacy and law, but this was a negotiation that Kir was better suited for. Standing over the pits as a Princess would never have earned the trust of those men. It was only gained by being the people.

  When the contracting was run and done, the caravan had been tucked away in the barracks and everything was in order, Beyhue approached with a final requisition. The quartermaster accompanied him.

  “Highness, I was wondering what to do about uniforms,” Beyhue said.

  “What about them?”

  “It's difficult to battle wearing the colors of the enemy...” Beyhue stated carefully.

  Greenies. The troops were still wearing Soventine's colors. Kir hadn't really thought about it, not being all that keen on issues of fashionality, but Beyhue was right. They were in the process of a regime change, and the men must change to reflect it.

  “Right. I think the Hilians can help with this issue. They have damn fine textiles,” Kir said.

  “And, what are your royal colors, Highness? We've not been privy to your selection,” the quartermaster asked.

  Royal colors. Kir hadn't given much thought to that, either. Vann had known from the first that his were sky blue and silver. The reigns of royals were considered distinct, which meant they were granted their own royal colors and seals. The army had always donned the hues of its figurehead. By asking Kir's colors, Beyhue was implying that they meant to wear hers.

  Kir's Kionfire had been burgundy, and it felt very much like her Kion was the same silver as Vann's. It made sense that a deep burgundy red should mark her banners, but allowing the army to claim her colors meant bypassing Vann. Kir had no intention of allowing him to be overlooked.

  “It's not just my voice that will command this kingdom,” Kir said. “His Majesty's will be joining it shortly. So we're going to try something new. Silver, trimmed in sky blue and burgundy, with navy accents. Those will be the colors of our collective reign.”

  Beyhue acknowledged with a fist to his chest in salute.

  “I'll be needing a tabard,” Inagor added to the quartermaster.

  Kir gave instruction, directing the style to mimic Malacar's. Vann had designed the perfect royal seal for himself, and Kir decided to claim it, too. He had worked her into it symbolically in the kiri leaves, and sharing their reign meant sharing everything. Inagor's tabard would look just like Malacar and Scilio's, except for the color: Burgundy with a silver royal seal, trimmed in her clan colors of indigo and navy. It was a way to include her Hilian ties into the symbolism. When the quartermaster was satisfied with the description, he set off.

  “Burgundy, is it?” Inagor asked thoughtfully.

  “Quite a bit different from your old yellow one. Think you'll get used to it?” Kir joked lightly.

  “Already there. But...” Something was dancing around on Inagor's tongue. He hesitated for a pause.

  “What is it? Spit it out.”

  “Don't you think this is a bit of an... I don't know. An affront, maybe? To tradition? Having collective colors and sharing a royal crest, I mean.”

  “Tradition's just a bunch of dusty old habits made by a bunch of dusty old dead guys that folks are too complacent about or too lazy to change. I've already mucked up tradition as it is, so I don't think a show of royal unity is all that big an affront. Heck, Alokien's a God, and he doesn't seem all that set on maintaining the status quo, himself. If we're ushering in a new age, we'll go all in and make our own rules.”

  Inagor nodded smartly. “Going all in sounds like a plan to me.”

  Kir smiled. “Let's round up the boys and get about our celebrating. We all need a break from soggy underdrawers. A nice warm fire and cashnettar pipe will be just the remedy for dampened spirits.”

  The Trail Terminus

  * * *

  

  -42-

  Windswept

  Master Westerfold's work is a thing to behold. I had placed little interest in the field of mechanology, for my magics have long sated my needs. But now, I see a future for the two, hand-in-hand, lending strength to the other. It is a new horizon, one where airships fill

  the skies and men can be men, no matter the rank of their birth.

  - Excerpt from the transito
ry journal of Toma Scilio, Guardian Betrayer

  Cherry pastries. The air smelled of them. The flaky, crusty layers, and the gooey, gloppy, sticky, tarty sweetness in the middle. Dailan had always liked them plenty, but he'd never dreamed about them before. He figured he must have let the luxury of Chalice House's breakfast trays go to his head.

  The smell was so strong, he half-wondered if the courtesans had set to baking them right there in the jowl. Stretching his legs and arms out like a dog on a sun warmed patio, Dailan yawned himself awake. When his mouth opened to the widest O, something got shoved in deep, making him gag and cough. It was flaky, crusty, gooey, gloppy and sweet, just like those cherry pastries in his dreams.

  “Morning, Dailan!” Emmi sang as he bolted upright.

  She was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, holding a pastry of her own. The one she had shoved into his mouth fell off his chest and into his lap.

  “You might could'a choked me,” Dailan complained. Flakes and powdered sugar flew from his lips. A few pieces clung to the side of his cheek. He wiped them off gruffly and brushed at his nightshirt.

  “Well you weren't waking up fast enough. I let that cherrypopper dangle over your nose for a good five minutes before you even stirred,” Emmi complained right back, like she was the one being inconvenienced. She cocked her head sweetly and grinned, handing him another pastry from her tray. She tickled over toying with him too much.

  “How come you're so chipper this morning? You were on the verge of running away last night,” Dailan noted sourly. He took the fresh one from her, then picked up the pieces from his lap to eat, too. He wasn't one for wasting edibles.

  “Bahnli and I had a long talk. It's all settled and satisfied,” Emmi said between bites.

  “Glad to hear that.”

  Dailan glanced about the quiet room as he ate. Emmi's ankle was bound up tight in a special contraption that was meant for walking on sprains. Dailan didn't figure he'd have to be toting her around on his back anymore. Grydon was sitting in a chair beside the layer cake bed where His Majesty was resting. He was eating a pastry of his own. A book was propped in his hand. He seemed to be stealing glances over the top of it when he thought Dailan and Emmi weren't looking. His eyes were smiling and laughing, like he was getting good entertainment out of their jabber.

  “I thought you were a Prince,” Emmi said thoughtfully.

  “What of it?”

  “Bressalin told me you turned down a room of your own to stay in here. I just can't imagine why a Prince would be sleeping on the floor like a mongrel.”

  Dailan had always grabbed his sleep wherever he could get it. Beds weren't always in ready supply. He'd grown accustomed to the ground, and sometimes even preferred it over the mattresses that seemed too soft for his liking. Since he had been rooming so much with the Guardians, it was good form to sleep up against the foot of their cots, to keep from tripping anyone making a midnight head call. Maybe it made him look like a dog, but it was really because he was trying to be polite.

  “Why would I want to take up a whole big room, just for me? Makes more sense to be here on guard at night, especially since Tosh—I mean, Guardian Scilio—was off in his own. Besides, it wouldn't seem right, sleeping on that frilly layer cake with His Majesty. I'm not the best bed partner, so I've been told. Toss and turn a lot.”

  “You drool, too,” Emmi cackled.

  “I do not,” Dailan argued, throwing a chunk of pastry at her face. It fell short.

  She didn't argue back, but her long string of cackling answered for her.

  “So, Guardian Scilio and Bahnli will be gone for a while,” Emmi said when her fits were over. “They'll be on a kind of treasure hunt in the Prophetic Archives. Bahnli said it might take weeks or more, and not to expect them back very much.”

  “Yup.”

  “Truth is, I'm going to be off for a while, myself. I have something important to do for the Underground, now that I'm a genuine core member.” It felt like Emmi was throwing out a bobber for him to nibble. She wanted him to ask on it, and he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of folding under her wenchlet wiles.

  “Good to hear it.”

  “It's hard to say how long I'll be gone. It was a real open-ended assignment...” She was waiting for him to nibble some more.

  Not willing to bite her bait, Dailan bobbed his head and bit his tongue instead. He really did want to know, but he wasn't about to give in and ask.

  “Have a good trip,” Dailan shrugged like he didn't care. “Can I eat your share of the breakfast tray while you're gone?”

  Emmi almost seemed disappointed that he wasn't biting. “The truth is, I'll be needing a good guard. Someone with sword skills, like the Saiya Kunnai strike and such. Know anyone like that?”

  “Might. Mercenaries don't come cheap. You'll have to sell off your trinkabobs to pay for one.”

  Emmi huffed. “I can pay. The Underground's funding. But it's troublesome to go out hunting for the hire. Why don't I just hire you?”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. You're right here, and I've already seen you stand up against those men on the street. You'll do just fine. Bahnli even said it's alright with her.”

  “I already got me a job.” Dailan pointed to His Majesty, all tucked into the layer cake.

  Grydon, who was listening in with squinty, smiling eyes, put his two centinars in. “I am sharing the responsibility of Vann's care and guard with the courtesans, Dailan. I'm sure Kir would relieve you of your Guardianship duties for a time, knowing that he rests in capable hands. Run along. Don't worry about us here.”

  Dailan had been wanting to make Emmi work a little bit more for it, but he gave in with a shrug. “I guess it's settled then. You're not gonna make me haul that heavy trunk all over Havenlen, are you?”

  Emmi giggled. “I wasn't planning to, but now that you mention it...”

  Dailan waved to Grydon and saluted His Majesty, then set off after Emmi out the door at a lope.

  Dailan thanked the twin moons that Emmi only brought her pack with her, and not the trunk. With her ankle bound in the contraption, she didn't seem to have any problems walking, even if she did have a slight hobble. Dailan didn't have any stuff of his own to bring, so he didn't have to waste time packing.

  When they were safe in the tunnels, he finally asked the question that had been burning a hole in his will. “So, where are we going, and what's the secret mission?”

  Emmi tugged on a cord around her neck and drew out a key from its hiding place below her collar. It looked to be the same lumanere key that had opened Westerfold's mech lair.

  “Hey! Ain't that...”

  “Yep!”

  Dailan clicked his tongue. “Did you nick it?”

  “Nope. Bahnli left it in my keeping.”

  “She gave it to you? On purpose?” Dailan raised an eyebrow.

  Emmi dropped the antics and got all serious. “We had a long talk last night, Dailan. She wants me to be a reliable member of the Underground now. She's trusting me with the legacy of Professor Westerfold. I'm to guard the key while she's gone.”

  “So then, we're going to his lair?”

  “I can't really feel like he's my father unless I get to know him better,” Emmi explained. “Bahnli understands, and she thought the best place for me to do that is where he spent so much of his life. She says it's a part of himself he left behind, and I'll know him that way. I'm going to be camping out there for a while, to soak him up, if that makes sense. To really figure him out. Then, maybe I can accept him.”

  “Sounds real smart, I reckon,” Dailan said slowly, since he didn't have nothing better.

  “That's what Bahnli wanted, and what I agreed to. But I have another reason. I'll show you when we get there.”

  They hustled through the underground until they reached Westerfold's hidden chamber. Rather than sticking around the front mechshop, Emmi made right for the second chamber, where
the airship was. It didn't take long to figure out what she had in mind. She pricked her finger on the special blood-bonded lock contraption. It hissed open.

  “Bahnli said I can enter because Professor Westerfold keyed it to his and her blood. Since I share both, the lock will let me pass,” Emmi explained as she pushed the door open. She sucked on the tip of her finger that got pricked.

  The giant airship loomed before them, calling like it had been waiting. Dailan could have sworn he heard choirs of bards singing from on high, and a beam of light shone from somewhere, making the airship blazing and bright like it was on fire. It was all in his imagination, but Emmi stared like she was seeing and hearing it, too. It was something to behold.

  They stood there gawking for a moment, almost unbelieving that an airship was about to be theirs for a time. Dailan got a funny taste in his mouth. It was the yearning for open skies and distant horizons. He didn't really know why it had a particular taste that way, but it did. When they had let the sight of their new home sink in good, they both hit their capacitors and bolted for it. They raced up the gangplank. Dailan let Emmi beat him to the Captain's cabin. It was her father's ship, and the man had spent his days in that super big swingy bed, so it was her right to claim it.

  Her pack was tossed into the wardrobe and Dailan helped her remake the mattress with fresh linens.

  “You're all set, Captain Bounty,” Dailan reported. “What orders first?”

  “Let's give her a good check-up. You take the mid-decks. I'll take top. Meet back here when you're done and we'll make out a list of all the chores to do.”

  Emmi and Dailan worked tirelessly for over a week, barely stopping to sleep. They caught naps here and there when they needed to. Being so excited about finishing, neither of them were all that interested in resting their eyeballs. Antsy as they were to get back to the airship, they didn't even spend more than a few minutes with Shunatar and the Magister when they came back for a brain-strain-break. The newfangled shipwrights didn't let on about what they were really doing, either—Dailan took Emmi's lead and explained that their camping excursion in Westerfold's lab was mostly about cleaning and tidying the dusty abandonment, which wasn't a lie, in fact. It was easier to get away with telling tales, especially to the likes of Shunatar with his masterful ability to detect falsehoods, if there was a good bit of truth in the fib. Shunatar and the Magister were so book-worn and weary, they didn't even question Dailan further, both looking ready to fall face-first onto their beds. Dailan and Emmi left them to their recuperating.