by B A Simmons
“Hey, I’m learning,” John said.
Pete laughed, “Yes, I’m noticing that John is becoming quite comfortable on the farm. Have you already written him into your will?”
“He was written in a long time ago.”
Pete looked perplexed, so Lisette explained. “His will dictates the dowry for anyone marrying me or Greta.”
“You’re already planning on getting married?!”
“We’re just waiting for everyone to get back. We want you all to celebrate with us.”
Pete leaned back in his chair. It wasn’t such a bad day after all.
The eleven remaining council members met the next day in Harrisville. Pete was surprised to see Roger enter with Lewis Johnson. After a moment of perplexity, the solution presented itself. Roger was overseeing the fortification of the island. It made sense that he would give regular reports to the council.
There was a mix of responses to Pete’s report of their actions taken against the Falcon Empire. Most were impressed that they had captured another ship. All were grieved to hear of the death of Shawn Campbell. Even though Pete explained that his death came from a creature attack, Mister Jones used it to his advantage.
“That’s another of our young men needlessly dead!” he shouted over Pete. “And how are his family members supposed to grieve his loss when his memorial was on another island?”
“Mister Jones, that is enough,” Shipley said. “There is nothing to be gained by complaining about the Campbells’ loss.”
“I do not wish to augment their sorrow in any way, Mister President, but I will say again what I have said oft of late. We should be seeking peace with the Falcon Empire and end this war. Mark Engleman, the younger, should be arrested upon his return and tried for the gross endangerment of this island’s people, along with any others responsible for starting the conflict.”
“Your motions have been heard by this council twice before, and rejected . . . twice. Now please allow this Mister Engleman to finish his report.”
Shipley nodded to Pete, who continued, “We were warmly received by the Barony of Isle de James and gained new recruits there. We’ve even had the chance to prove these recruits in battle and they’ve performed well. We destroyed two cannons the Falcons had guarding their deep-water port. We’re making it quite difficult for them to live peaceably on Alimia and this is, as Mark said, how we drive them off.”
“Perhaps,” said another council member, whose name Pete did not know. “Or perhaps we’ll only anger them more and increase their aggression against us. I move that we attempt reconciliation with the Falcon Empire. Specifically, we should draft a letter proposing peace terms.”
“I second the motion,” Jones said.
The council voted immediately and the measure passed with six council members voting in its favor. It seemed to Pete that by getting rid of his uncle, Mister Jones was finding it much easier to get his way with the other elders.
Then to the surprise of everyone, Lewis Johnson rose from his seat and spoke.
“Members of the council, I move to fill the vacancy recently created by the resignation of Mark Engleman. I nominate Roger Cunningham.”
“You can’t nominate him!” Jones shouted. “He’s not even native to this island. He’s nothing but a mercenary!”
“What are you trying to pull here, Lewis?” McClain asked.
“Gentlemen, during the last couple of weeks I’ve done some digging into our island’s history,” Lewis began, and he produced an antique book from his satchel. “Namely, I read, re-read, and read again, the original charter drafted by our forefathers when they came to this island. An interesting observation for you. I found it buried at the bottom of a chest in our library. I have no doubt that mine were the first eyes to look at this in at least eighty years or more. In any case, I discovered something that you might find interesting. Before I tell you what I found, I want to make sure we’re all aware of the difference between policy and tradition.”
“This isn’t a trial, Mister Johnson, just get to the point,” Shipley said.
Lewis Johnson smiled shrewdly, “That is my point, Mister President. We’ve been arguing tradition for years thinking it was policy. Policy is written down to assure understanding. Policy dictates rules and regulations. Policy is law. However, as I discovered by reading our island’s charter, there is no policy stating that a member of this council must be from one of the founding families. Nor is there anything regulating the election of a nonnative man to this council. In fact, though this isn’t relevant to the matter at hand, our original charter doesn’t even regulate that members of this council be men. It may interest you to see this.”
He opened the book to a specific page upon which a list of names was printed, accompanied by signatures scrawled in ink. The pages of the book were amazingly white, given its age, and the ink was only slightly faded.
Lewis continued, “These are the names of the original Council of Elders. These are the people who wrote our charter after landing on this island and establishing themselves and their families. These are our forefathers, and as I wish to show you, foremother.”
He pointed to a specific name about two-thirds of the way down the list. “The name printed here and accompanied by her signature—is Dianna Engleman.”
Grumbles erupted in the courtroom. Voices talking over voices as each expressed their opinion about what they had just heard. Several voices sounded negative and harsh, but a surprising many had a more conciliatory tone. Finally, one sounded out over the others. Not to anyone’s surprise, it was the voice of Raymond Jones.
“This is preposterous! Even if what Mister Johnson says is true, we have no reason to go back on years of tradition. We need to keep this island pure. Pure from foreign influence. To allow a foreigner on the council just because the charter doesn’t say anything against it . . . Well, it doesn’t say anything for it either!”
“Pure from foreign influence?” Pete shouted. “You think that attempting to make peace with the Falcon Empire will keep us pure? I’ve seen what they do, and not just on Alimia. Right now on Copper Isle, the Falcon’s ambassador is trying to get them to accept Falcon currency. On Isle de Joc, they’re controlling the exports from that fair island and levying a tax on them to feed their troops—all without setting foot on the actual island. There is no staying pure! Not the way you see it. And if these traditions are the result of keeping our people pure, then I say we need some fresh blood on this island!”
Lewis took over from Pete, “Again, I move that we vote in a new member to this council. I nominate Roger Cunningham who, as I have recently learned, is engaged to Mayor Smith’s daughter Alphina. That pretty much makes him a native Engle Islander.”
Pete reared and looked over at Roger, who had thus far stayed quiet. Roger’s honest face betrayed his feelings. It was obvious he was overwhelmed by the course of events. However, nothing shown there made Pete suspect that what Lewis Johnson had just said was untrue.
“I second the motion,” McClain said. “Any arguments against Mister Cunningham’s nomination?”
Jones looked like he wanted to scream, but nothing came out.
“Then let the council vote,” Shipley said. “All in favor?”
Pete counted the hands. One, two, three, there was a fourth . . . and then fifth. It seemed for a moment that the measure would be defeated. Then Mister Shipley raised his hand at the last moment. Six votes.
“And all against the motion?” Shipley asked.
Pete noted that only Jones and two others raised their hands. Two council members had abstained, including the one who had proposed the letter of reconciliation.
Jones made one final protest, but no one really listened. He again stormed from the courtroom. After those who had voted for him shook his arm and congratulated Roger, Pete made his way over. Roger spoke before Pete had the chance.
“Pete, I didn’t know you liked Alphina. Honestly, she never told me.”
“You didn’
t figure it out when I named my ship the Alphina?”
“It didn’t even cross my mind. I can honestly say, I wasn’t even looking to fall in love. She, well . . . she more or less . . . proposed to me.”
Pete smiled, though only half-heartedly. “I wish you both the best, Roger. And congratulations on being elected to the Council of Elders.”
“Pete, thank you. I’ll do my best to make sure Mark isn’t arrested when he comes back.”
“Just serve this island. We’re your people now.”
As he left the courthouse and made his way home again, Pete thought about the ups and downs of the day—not even a sea dog like himself could feel steady. A memory, nearly a year old, placed itself in the forefront of his mind. He remembered when Max Claythorne had come in with the Entdecker. He reminisced with a fond smile on the excitement he felt when Rob revealed to him and Tom his desire to leave Engle Isle. Rob wanted to explore the world. Mark came along to keep Rob out of trouble, at least at first. Of course, that changed when he fell in love with Anna. Edwin had never felt any strong attachment to the Entdecker. Tom had loved the little craft from the moment he laid eyes on it. Pete could understand that attachment now that he had a ship of his own.
As Pete walked the dusty road to the town where he’d been born and lived out his childhood, he came to a realization: Engle Isle was not his home. The Alphina was just a tool. His home was on the sea, and he’d never be comfortable anywhere else.
15 – Aruth
The island of Aruth was, by far, the largest Rob had ever seen. He and Doctor Morris had taken passage aboard a returning lumber ship, which came in sight of Aruth a day after passing Aura Isle. Aura itself was magnificent with its vertical cliffs surrounded by millions of seabirds and the dozens of lumber ships bobbing up and down in the waves around it.
Yet, after three days of sailing along its coast, Rob’s perception of Aruth became fixated on a mystery. What was on this island?
Doctor Morris spent those three days educating Rob on Duarve culture. At least as much as the teacher himself knew. The Duarves were a secretive race. Dwelling primarily in caverns, most of which they excavated themselves, and shunning contact with other races, there really was little that humans understood about them.
“It’s because of their size and their subterranean lifestyle that we call them Duarves. This is the word our ancestors used to describe a mythical race of beings from our folklore.”
Rob smiled, “How interesting that they were mythical until discovered to be real.”
“There is much that falls into that category,” Morris said. “However, what is most important about the Duarves is that they believe this world is theirs. They have always lived here, according to their traditions, and we humans, the Quillian, and the Ferlies are all foreign invaders.”
“But you also said they don’t like to travel the seas.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then how can they claim to be the original inhabitants of a world that is mostly sea, if they don’t like to travel on those seas?”
“Whether or not their claim is true, it is still their belief and there are Duarves who will kill anyone who defies it.”
“The Duarve I saw on Hellhound Isle looked so small, I have a hard time believing they’re that much of a threat to humans.”
“Looks can be deceiving. Never underestimate a Duarve, and never insult their beliefs. Especially since we seek their help.”
“We do?”
“The acquaintance I told you about back on Engle Isle is a Duarve. It lives among the courtiers to the Baron of Aruth.”
“It? Oh, that’s right. They’re hermaphrodites. Wait, do they mind being called it?”
“This one doesn’t, at least. Unlike most Duarves, it is willing to be around humans so as to help maintain a healthy relationship between our races. Do not make the mistake of thinking it likes us any more than the rest of its race does. Yet, we need to convince it to translate our Duarvish figures.”
“Do you think he . . . um, it will do that for us.”
“I think that’ll depend on how well it remembers me.”
Nestled into a narrow valley on the northern shore, Port Aruth was the largest city on the island. Rob’s first impression was that it looked militaristic. A large stone keep sporting cannon turrets greeted them on the edge of a well-protected jetty. The jetty was surrounded by an extensive wooden barricade that reminded Rob of Roger’s friction horse. A tall, defensive wall separated the wharf from the rest of the city. Once inside, Rob noted that the wall actually enveloped the city on three sides, while a river the locals called the Firth, formed the east side. Port Aruth, however, was not the capital of the barony. That was Edinburgh, which lay upriver, some fifteen miles in the interior, and this was their destination. For at Edinburgh, they would find the court of the newly elected Baron Eric Williamson, and in that court, the Duarve Ambassador Poulustus Sahko. This, Doctor Morris informed Rob, was as close to correct as any human tongue could pronounce its name.
They found a coach headed to the capital, and after paying the fare found themselves in the company of an older gentleman and woman. Craig and Melissa Abernathy, their names were, and they were wealthy grain merchants. While conversing with them about Aruth, Rob learned of the presence of a Servi chapel in Edinburgh.
“We sell most of our grain to the Servi, blessed be Ayday,” Craig said. “As you know, they refuse to eat anything that isn’t crocker.”
“The word is kosher, darling,” Melissa corrected. “They believe certain foods are tainted as they are also commonly consumed by Duarve or Quillian.”
“Not the Quillian. They only eat seafood . . . or human flesh, if you believe such stories. No, it’s only for the Duarves that the Servi have such antipathy when it comes to food. In any case, it makes for a good profit. We sell them wheat, oats, and sorghum at premium prices as we can guarantee the purity of our crops. Some farmers will use asino dung as fertilizer, which means the Servi will turn up their noses at them. We have the best acreage on the island, therefore we don’t need fertilizer.”
“Do the Servi have much influence on this island?” Rob asked.
“Oh, most folks here worship Ayday regularly, as is proper. Some are more devout than others, but I think it’d be difficult to find an ative on Aruth,” Melissa answered.
Craig added, “Unless you go up around Three Forks, at the center of the isle, up in the mountains. That’s where the Duarves live, up in the mountains. Some of them come down to Three Forks to trade.”
“Are they allowed to trade?” Rob asked.
“Of course. That is, there are no laws against such. Again, depending on how devout you are in your faith for Ayday, there are those who refuse to touch anything a Duarve might have handled,” Craig said.
Melissa asked, “Not to pry into your personal lives, but um . . . you gentlemen do believe in Ayday?”
“Of course,” Rob and Morris said together.
“Ah, of course,” Melissa repeated.
Their conversation continued intermittently throughout the daylong journey. Asinos are slow amblers. They discussed the royal court, the increase in Falcon aggression and, of course, the economics of grain production. Craig was equally impressed with Rob’s understanding of both wheat cultivation and politics. As they approached the city, the Abernathys recommended an inn. Rob peered out the window of the coach to see more stone walls and towers standing tall above grain fields, cabbage farms, and cattle pens. Rob had never before seen a cow, though Doctor Morris had described them. Rob’s mind worked to match the description with what his eyes beheld. The experience was both as intriguing as when he examined the dead hellhound and as funny as when the Fishhook Islanders encountered the goats.
A night spent in a comfortable inn was a welcome change from an ever-swinging hammock aboard a ship. In the morning, they walked the half-mile distance from the city to the baronial castle. While not as grandiose as the Citadel on Fallen Dome, it looked
as formidable in a military sense. Rob found it difficult not to think in terms of military use when it came to such structures. He had even evaluated the lumber ship they traveled on and the coach in these terms. It was a new habit he found both fascinating and annoying.
Sadly, they were not to enter this castle that day. The guards at the gate informed Doctor Morris that the Duarve ambassador was not in, nor expected until the next day.
“No matter,” Morris said to Rob. “There’s something back in the city that I believe will occupy our time for today.”
“What’s this?”
Doctor Morris led him to the center of Edinburgh. Among the oldest buildings, there stood a museum of history. Once again, the years seemed to reverse themselves for the old teacher and his excitement was barely contained as he led Rob through the doors.
The building was slightly larger than the courthouse in Harrisville, yet it seemed to Rob to be larger than the baronial palace on Isle de James. Doctor Morris paid a fee for their entrance, and the two of them were checked by armed guards to what they had on them. Morris explained that they were cautious about thieves, as many of the items in the museum were extremely rare and valuable. After gaining entrance, the two began to wander the hallways, all of which were lined with glass cases and displays of antiquity.
One of the first they came to was a suit of clothing. It was silver in color, and like the suits worn by the Duarve mummies on Hellhound Isle—no seams or weave were visible to the naked eye. It also sported an odd helmet. It was far more rounded than any Rob had seen and it had a glass visor. The display for this artifact called it a pioneer suit and explained how it was worn by one of the original settlers of Aruth. Part of the explanation of its use made no sense to Rob, it said: The Pioneer IX vacuum suit was designed to be used in both planetary and nonatmospheric conditions. The emergency canister (not displayed) held a supply of three hours’ oxygen.
