Peculiar Soul

It should be evident by now that the War is not the same species of conflict as prior, lesser wars. This is not the polite squabbling of warlords or some noble feud; the Safid mean to make the world Safid.

Not the continent, gentlemen. The world. It is folly to think that Ardalt will be able to take its ease on our mainland and abandon the continent to its fate. We watched from afar as the Safid destroyed one ancient enemy after another, and now our own Gharic brothers face their ire.

Each time the enemy falls, they turn to the next. If there is a Safid peace on the continent then an Ardan war will surely follow. The only real question is whether that will come before or after they make their war on Mendian - and before that gives you hope, gentlemen, consider Stellar. The current Star of Mendian is not a young one, and when her time comes to a close the soul will be born anew.

In the past, nations were loath to violate the terms of the Third Mendiko Exception. Oh, men have tried - and have learned to their chagrin that Mendian’s might does not rest solely with that soul. Withholding Stellar from the Mendiko has been tantamount to suicide since that particular Exception was proclaimed.

Yet it is highly likely that a new Stellar would arise within Saf’s own borders, especially if they control the continent by that point. A Safid Stellar, the first in centuries to stay and lead the Cult of the Sun. It is not fantasy, gentlemen. It is the future looming larger with every second of inaction this body visits upon the War.

Approve the damn appropriation, as you approved the last and will approve the next. Your dithering is theater, and I am at long last too tired to pretend otherwise.

- Carolus Altenbach, address to the Assembly, 2 Seed 688.

“That’s a decent bruise,” Charles said, eyeing the blot of purple on Michael’s jaw. “Especially for a man who looks as though he hasn’t eaten in a week.” He gestured at Luc, who was groggily chewing on some of their travel food while Gerard and Sobriquet observed. “Are you sure he’s in any state to guide us through the camp?”

Michael shrugged, idly rubbing a hand over the bruise. “It’s a better option than waiting on me to look in every tent and pavilion. He’s been inside before, he can lead us right to the command area - and hopefully to the files we’re looking for. Less time inside is less risk, even if he has to lean on us a bit.”

“Annoyingly sensible.” Charles turned to Clair. “Anything stand out during your talk with him?”

“No,” she said. “But my opinion isn’t the one that matters.” Her eyes moved to Sobriquet’s dizzying form for a moment, then slid back. “I don’t think there will be anything. He seems lucid and willing to help, provided we can help him in return.”

Charles snorted. “I should hope we’re in a position to help him escape. If we can’t, it doesn’t bear well for our own fortunes.” He looked back at the other group. “Still, I have to admit that he’s held up well for an unsouled. I wouldn’t fancy my own chances in this camp, from what I’ve seen.”

“He’s no stranger to rough conditions,” Michael said. “For better or worse. I’m less worried about Luc in the camp than I am Gerard.”

His statement earned an unkind look from Charles. “Gerard won’t be an issue,” he said. “It was only the surprise of seeing the Swordsmen up close, before. Worry about your own troubles before borrowing his.”

Clair bent down to pick up some of the clothing they had collected - after a hurried wash the prisoners’ rags were still stained and torn, but no longer stinking of the corpse-pile where they had found them. It was not these that she withdrew, however, but the Ardan uniform they had pilfered from an inattentive laundress. “It will be dark soon. We have a limited window after twilight comes; Luc said that past a certain point the only prisoners left in camp are those picked to serve or entertain the soldiers. We want to be gone before then.”

She tossed the bundle to Michael. “Be ready to go. We’ll leave as soon as Sobriquet is done vetting our guide. It shouldn’t be long.”

Michael nodded and shook out the uniform. It had evidently been stolen before the laundress could attend to it, and was stained on the lapel with something dark and unidentifiable; the rest was clean, if not fresh. He sighed and shrugged out of his own shirt, looking over at Sobriquet’s conversation with Luc as he did so.

What were they talking about, he wondered? He was not so vain as to think he was the only topic of conversation that could arise, as little as he trusted Sobriquet’s assurances that it would not pursue his secrets via that route. It had heard more than enough during Luc’s prior rant to pique its interest, certainly.

He bent to lay his own shirt to the ground; when he raised his head again Clair and Charles were looking curiously in his direction. “I think the sizing is okay,” he said. “I’ll know in a moment...”

He trailed off, noticing that they were not looking at his clothes at all; their eyes remained fixed on his scarred arms, his mismatched hands made obvious now that the discontinuity at his wrist was visible. Michael looked too, for a moment. He had long-since stopped noticing the scars, and had tried his utmost not to think about the hand. There was no pain or other niggling reminder of its existence so long as he did not focus on it, and it was far from the only horror competing for attention in his mind.

“I suppose it helps me to look the part,” Michael quipped, holding his arms out with their scarred backs facing up. “The rest of me doesn’t look very accustomed to battle.”

Charles coughed. “Here’s where I can tell that you’ve never actually talked to anyone who worked for a living, if you think that’s normal for enlisted men. And your hand-” He broke off as Clair jostled his elbow, although he did not seem particularly abashed. “I don’t think those marks would help you blend in as readily as you expect,” he said.

Michael glanced at his arms, then let them drop. “You’re probably right,” he said. “I don’t want some passing Swordsman to feel compelled to add to my collection.”

“You have some history with Cutters, then?” Charles asked, heedless of Clair’s annoyed frown. “We’re not going to have any problems from you in the camp, are we?”

“I don’t mind Cutters,” Michael said. “There was only ever the one that was a problem for me, and the only trace of him I expect to see in camp is his signature.” He pulled on the uniform’s shirt and shrugged. “Don’t worry about me.”

Clair regarded him for a moment, then shook her head. “No more than usual, you mean.” She bent down to grab her own clothing from the pile, then waved her arm lazily at Sobriquet. The apparition paused in its conversation, and Clair disappeared from view. A shirt materialized and dropped to the ground.

“Come on,” her disembodied voice said. “Let’s be about it.”

Michael donned the woolen jacket, feeling the scratchy fiber against his neck. It itched, a constant reminder of its presence; he wondered if that was intentional. How odd that it should be harder to become accustomed to such a thing than it was to accept his abomination of a hand or Spark’s infiltration of his soul.

Perhaps in a calmer environment they could have been left to chafe, and not to settle comfortably into the unseen corners of his mind. Perhaps, yes - were such a thing as calm to ever find its way into his life. Michael sighed and bent to grab the trousers.

The border of the camp was the manor house’s old wall, a crumbling stone fixture that barely rose to waist height. Its run was interrupted here and there by craters, or by sections where the stones were simply missing - washed out by the weather or taken for some more pressing purpose than demarcating the abandoned property line of a family long-departed from this land.

Nevertheless, the wall was an inviolable barrier between the squalor of the prisoner camp and Sever’s central compound. Men with rifles stood sentry along the perimeter, and none dared approach the aged stone save for the short queues at the access roads.

There were no entrants waiting at the gate as they approached. Michael could feel the eyes of the camp on them; after so many days spent under Sobriquet’s shroud it was doubly-unnerving to be watched by so many.

Michael worked hard to keep the tension from his expression as their group approached the gate guard; it was easier when he could check his own face without the use of a mirror. Seeing himself in a soldier’s uniform was an odd sensation, stirring childhood memories of mock wars fought between wooden figurines on his bedroom floor. That particular fantasy had not survived his father’s attention.

The guard tossed off a weary salute and extended his hand. Michael did the same as casually as he could muster before handing over a folded slip of paper. Emil, as it happened, was a forger of some skill. The work order he had produced was very convincing to Michael’s eyes, but nevertheless his heart beat quickly as the guard scanned through it.

“About time they start fixing this shithole up,” the man grunted, handing the paper back. “You know if they’re going to do anything about the latrines?”

Michael shook his head, slow and languid despite his racing mind. “If they are, I didn’t hear it,” he said. “You know how it is.”

The other soldier snorted in amusement. “That’s the truth,” he muttered, swinging the gate open for them. “All right, head on in - and keep ‘em quiet. Swordies are in some sort of mood today.”

“Thanks,” Michael nodded, motioning for the others to walk ahead of him. Charles, Clair and Vernon passed with their heads lowered and eyes to the ground. Gerard had likewise lowered his head, but his eyes were up and scanning with cold, sharp movements. Luc stumbled along in the rear, looking only somewhat better for his recent meal.

After Luc had passed, Michael turned to follow - and then several paces later let himself breathe. Clair steered the group towards a secluded space between tents, and within a span of moments they were invisible once more.

“Nice job, milord,” Charles murmured. “Your impression of a moron is impeccable.”

Clair swatted him on the shoulder. “Time and place,” she said, giving Charles a level stare before turning to face Luc. “All right, where are we going?”

Luc nodded and raised one arm to point down the row of tents. “The back garden,” he said. “They’ve got another little house there for some reason, the command staff have taken it over.”

“Groundskeeper’s house,” Michael said absently, craning his head to look at the squat structure behind the manor. “They’re not uncommon on an estate this size.”

“And yet not precisely common at all,” Charles said. “Does your daddy have one on his estate?”

“He does,” Michael replied, not rising to the bait. “So I can tell you that it’s likely set up as two structures in one. You see the lower roof there, to the left?” He pointed, and Charles looked reluctantly toward the house. “It’s the coach-house, and usually also the shed. Drafty, cluttered and uncomfortable, so I doubt anyone is idling in there. It should be a decent place to enter.”

Charles looked back at Michael. “Don’t tell me how to rob a house.” He began walking toward the building, and the rest followed - Clair moving up to walk beside him.

“Oh, we’re walking toward the shed?” she asked sweetly.

There was another irritated grunt from Charles. “Shut up.”

The other four began to walk as well, and Luc smiled thinly at Michael. “So, I didn’t expect to see you again,” he said. “And certainly not so soon. You vanished into nothing, yes? Another trick of yours?”

“Not a fancy one,” Michael said. “I stole the boat at the docks and went to the continent.”

Luc’s eyes widened. “You - that was a rowboat.”

“I wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice.” Michael scratched at his neck where the wool collar pressed against it. “Didn’t fancy my chances with the Ember steamer.”

“But how - ah, you had Stefan row,” Luc said. “Handy to have a durens around, yes? Where did he end up?”

Michael’s lips pressed into a line. “Stefan is dead. They killed him back on the island.”

“Ah,” Luc said, his voice dropping lower. “Ah, I see. I’m sorry. It was the doctor?”

“Yes.” Michael walked forward, and Luc kept pace beside him.

Finally, Luc raised his head to speak once more. “I’m sorry for my part in it,” he said. “I am, for what that’s worth. It’s clearer to think now that I’m away from the doctor. Not because of his soul, but more his - presence. I ran to him that day because I always had, and - you two would have made it away without me.”

Michael shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “They had those steamers, I doubt we would have made it all the way. I’m not sure-” He broke off, then met Luc’s eyes. “I think it had to happen the way it did, or none of us would have been able to leave.” He frowned. “And you did, with some speed. How did you come to be here, of all places?”

A flash of pain crossed over Luc’s face, quickly masked by a smile. “Ardans,” he said, gesturing vaguely outward. “And their inability to stick to a plan. That first day they said we were staying on the island, but they brought in soldiers to keep things orderly right after the doctor died. Lots of people, plenty of space to put them - not much food. The new director told them to ship us back to the continent to solve that problem, said we weren’t ‘immediately useful.’”

Luc shrugged. “So we went. We thought the ship was headed to Esrou, and then hours later we were in sight of the Daressan coast. There was a city in the distance, and warships.”

“Leik,” Michael said. “Had to have been.”

“We didn’t see it for long,” Luc said. “Hung back near the coast, like we were waiting for something - then the airships came.” There was a glimmer of excitement in Luc’s eyes as he spoke, and for a moment he looked like the man Michael had met weeks ago on the island.

“It was Stellar. She threw light from her perch on the airship, called a storm around her - it was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. I had no idea a soul could be so grand.” The light danced in his eyes for a moment more before the smile faded. “And then we landed. They told us we were not going to Esrou, but to the front. Laborers. Some objected, and they were shot. The rest of us were taken here.”

A soldier passed closer to their group than was comfortable, and Luc stopped talking as their eyes tracked the man. He did not need to say the rest of the story; the faint clacking of the wooden tokens he wore under his shirt heralded the end of the tale well enough.

“You said that the Ardans on the ship waited,” Sobriquet murmured. Luc startled and jumped back from the shimmering form, still unused to its particular mode of entering into conversations. “They knew the blockade would fall. Another mark in the column.”

Luc looked quizzically at Sobriquet, rubbing his chest. “Another mark for what?” he asked.

“You didn’t tell him?” Michael asked incredulously.

Sobriquet bobbed forward lazily. “It’s not like he needed extra motivation to help us, and I’m not in the habit of unnecessary disclosures.”

“Unnecessary-” Michael bit his lip, then turned to Luc. “The Ardans baited the Safid into attacking Leik, thereby causing the death of thousands of civilians and prompting the Mendiko retribution that you saw. My father appears to be one of the architects of the plan.” He pointed at the small house they were walking towards. “With any luck, the proof is in there.”

“…ah,” Luc said. “That sounds about right.”

Michael blinked, nonplussed. “Right?”

“Do you want me to be shocked that Ardans have committed atrocities?” Luc asked, gesturing back at the prison camp. “I’ve been in one for weeks. You seem calm enough about your father’s role in it all, yes? I’d guess you don’t find it all that surprising in the end either.”

Michael sighed and shook his head. “I suppose not,” he admitted. “I - ah?” He drew up short as Sobriquet halted suddenly to hang motionless.

“Still,” it hissed. “Quiet.”

Michael froze, uncomprehending, and saw Clair and Charles do the same. Clair turned to look at Sobriquet, her eyes wide and fearful. They stayed immobile for a moment while the camp bustled around them, and amid the gentle motion of it all Michael felt the barest sensation of something brush past them, a breath of wind heading entirely the wrong direction - and then it was gone.

Sobriquet let out a long, buzzing exhale and resumed moving once more. “Our time is limited,” it said grimly. “The Ardans are beginning to notice they can’t see everything in this area. They will begin to look more closely, now.”

“How long do we have?” Clair demanded.

Sobriquet hummed. “Hours,” it said. “Maybe a day, although I wouldn’t recommend dallying that long.”

“I told you-” Clair clenched her jaw, then turned back toward the house. “Never mind. Let’s move.”

They began to walk once more, Clair moving decidedly faster than she had before the pause. Luc looked between her and Sobriquet, then at Michael.

“So exciting,” he said dryly. “I go from knowing I would die here to merely dreading it. You have a chaos about you, you know.”

“This is hardly my fault,” Michael muttered, as they drew up against the nearest wall of the shed. “Hold on a moment, I’m going to look inside.”

He let his sight drift in and found little more than what he had predicted - boxes of equipment, parts and other miscellaneous supplies stacked haphazardly, along with the ruins of a coach that had been enthusiastically stripped for materials.

“Nobody inside,” he said. “We’re good to go in. Rear door.”

Michael pulled back to himself and found Luc staring at him. “You’re a spector?” he asked. “But-”

“Not the best time for this discussion, Luc,” Michael said, giving him a warning look. “Be happy to talk about it later.”

“Ah,” Luc said quietly, a troubling realization spreading in his eyes. “Ah. Yes, we should.” He motioned for Michael to lead on.

Michael did, although not without a glance back at Luc - and Sobriquet, who was hovering quietly as though it had not just heard their exchange. Charles tested the doorknob and found it locked; he tightened his hand on the metal and closed his eyes for a moment.

The door swung wide. They filed in and shut it behind them. Even though the walls of the shed added little to their cover, Michael felt a certain ease from the visible barriers around them. He walked up to the brick wall of the house that adjoined the shed, letting his sight drift up once more.

Luc had been right. The house was a hive of frantic activity, with stacks of paper both organized and otherwise jostling for space with wireless equipment, maps, charts, tables and the hundred other tools of the logistician.

“We may have a slight problem,” Michael murmured. “This house is full of files, I have no idea which ones might be the ones we came for. It’s also full of soldiers, so looking around blindly is out. Sobriquet, can you narrow it down at all?”

“Upstairs, I’d say,” Sobriquet replied. “There are more than a few secrets held in a place like this, but the flavor I’ve been pursuing seems strongest up there.”

Michael nodded, shifting his sight into the smaller space on the second storey. It was more of a loft than a proper floor, with sloped ceilings and cluttered sides, but the end of it had been turned into what looked like a small office. An older man sat in a chair there, quietly reading through a sheaf of papers.

“Not as many people upstairs, but there is one - might be the commander. He’s - oh, wait, he’s getting up.” Michael watched the man rise and look down with an annoyed expression.

“People talking inside,” Vernon said, closing his eyes. “Angry. Soldiers shouting - no, Swordsmen. At least one of them.”

Michael found the confrontation easily enough. There were two Swordsmen in the doorway of the house, unsteady on their feet and glaring blearily at a short soldier who was trying to herd them out of the command post.

The older man from upstairs stormed in, taking in the confrontation and gently guiding his subordinate back. The Swordsmen looked at him; one paled, the other squared his shoulders and began to talk.

“Asking what they think they’re doing,” Vernon murmured. “Drunk, a disgrace to the uniform…”

“Lordling,” Charles hissed. “You said the man upstairs left? Is there a clear path?”

Michael pulled his vision away from the confrontation and checked. “Yes,” he said. “The door-”

Charles was already off, slipping through the house door and threading through the crowd of officers nervously watching their commander confront the drunken Swordsmen; none noticed the motion of the door as the artifex made his way invisibly upstairs.

The sounds of the confrontation drifted through the door now that it was ajar, and the rough voice of the post’s commander made itself felt. “…this corner, at least,” he thundered, “this one post under my command will remain possessed of the dignity that you have abandoned - if you ever had it.”

Something slurred and angry came from the drunken Swordsman, heedless of his fellow tugging at the arm of his jacket. He stood upright and narrowed his eyes. Michael’s heart pounded as he watched the thin edges of the man’s soul coalesce around him - then dart towards the post’s commander in a flurry.

Shreds of cloth drifted down, revealing unmarred skin below. A faint gurgling noise came from the observing officers; one had been too slow to duck and was clutching his neck against an upwelling tide of blood. Others leapt to help him, calling for an anatomens.

The commander turned, glared, and punched the offending Swordsman in the chest. There was a crunch, then a crash as the man’s body barreled through the door to leave a bloody skid along the dirt outside. It came to a rest halfway across the lawn.

A bloody fist grabbed the other Swordsman by his lapel, hauling him bodily off the ground as if he weighed nothing. “Tell Kolbe I want to see him,” the commander growled. “Now.” He tossed the man outside and shut what was left of the door, moving to stand over the wounded officer.

“Shallower than it looks,” one of the others said. “He’ll pull through.”

The commander nodded and used his unbloodied hand to brush at the tatters of his shirt. “Get him to the anatomentes,” he sighed. “And if any of you want to walk with them, I won’t hold it against you.”

About half of the officers left with the wounded man, filing out the rear door in a huddle of nervous glances and whispers. Those that remained stood looking at their commander as he paced slowly back and forth along the bloodstained floor.

Michael shifted his sight upstairs and found Charles turning the man’s office upside down as quietly as he could. Papers were strewn everywhere, drawers opened, and the front half of a small safe had been neatly pulled away to reveal its contents.

Charles was leafing through papers from one of the commander’s desk drawers when Sobriquet jerked forward urgently; the artifex narrowed his eyes and began to read the paper he had just withdrawn. Michael moved to snoop over his shoulder.

It was his father’s handwriting, describing in dry and exacting detail how they had appropriated several crates of intact Safid shells from a wreck. How those shells could be made to detonate at will, and how it would appear if those detonations took place amid certain residential neighborhoods in Leik.

He had predicted that twenty-five thousand casualties were a sufficient number to ensure Mendian’s intervention, but that with careful planning their shells could account for nearly twice that.

Michael was spared reading more of it as Charles lowered his hand, his face tight and furious. Sobriquet showed no reaction.

A disorienting shift made Michael pull his sight back to its natural position; he had sunk to his knees on the floor of the shed. Gerard knelt beside him, concern on his face.

“They found it,” Michael rasped. “They’ve got the proof. The Safid didn’t kill any of those people, the Ardans had their shells-” He shook his head. “My father planned the murder of fifty thousand people, and he got away with it.”

“Not if those papers find their way to Mendian,” Clair said. Her voice was low and hoarse, vibrating with energy. “We can leave right-”

The door to the house slammed open. Charles, who had been creeping toward the stairs with a small folder of papers, froze in place to stare. A huge, barrel-chested man stood shirtless in the doorway, dragging the unfortunate Swordsman who had been sent running from the house minutes before.

“Galen,” the shirtless man said cheerfully. “I heard you wanted to talk to me.”

“Friedrich. You smell like a bordello.” The commander gave him a disgusted look, then gestured to the bloodstains on the floor. “Your men came in here, assaulted me and injured one of my command staff. We have an arrangement, and you are not keeping to it.”

Friedrich gave a solemn nod. “That is concerning,” he said, hauling the remaining Swordsman forward. “What about it, lad? Did you and that bloodstain we passed raise your hand to Oberst Wahl?”

The man gave a tremulous nod. “He did, sir, and I tried to stop him-”

“And failed,” Friedrich said. “And now he’s dead. You’re wearing a Swordsman’s jacket, I assume you know the words that I used to organize this company.” He peered down at the man. “You do, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier said. “Keep up.”

Friedrich smiled down at the man, reaching down to grab him by the arm. He hauled him upright until the man’s feet were barely touching the floor. “Good,” he said mildly. “I prefer when a man understands his death.”

There was no motion, no flexing of muscle or soul. In an instant the Swordsman became a spray of vibrant red, the ruins of organs and shattered bone collapsing wetly to the floor. Behind the commander, one of the other officers began to retch.

“You should discipline your staff, Galen,” Friedrich said. “You see that I’m willing to do the same with my men.”

“Was that what that was?” Galen replied. “What did he learn from that lesson?”

Friedrich smiled, brushing the gore off of his arm. “The only lesson worth learning,” he said. “The limit of his power.”

Galen snorted. “I wonder when you’ll learn that one,” he said. “Or is the mighty Sever above such silly trifles?”

“Please,” Friedrich said. “There’s no need to resort to insults. You know very well the answer to that question. I’ve told you more than once. Did you forget?” He leaned close, baring his teeth in a smile. “I’ll learn that lesson the day you all stop being so laughably weak.”

There was a moment of silence, during which Galen met Friedrich’s gaze. “Perhaps we should talk privately,” he said. “If you’re of a mind to be uncivil.”

“Perhaps we should,” Friedrich agreed, starting toward the stairs where Charles was crouched, unmoving. The artifex’s eyes widened, but before Friedrich had reached the bannister Galen cleared his throat.

“The blood,” Galen said. “You’re dripping with it, and I’d rather not have it on my floor - again. We can talk in the shed.”

Michael reeled his gaze back, looking around at the others with sudden alarm. Gerard was white-faced, and Vernon was already running for the corner.

Clair grabbed Gerard, and Michael steered Luc towards the same corner Vernon had fled into.

“So,” Luc said, a high nervous pitch to his voice. “I just want to be clear on our plan-”

Vernon clapped a hand over Luc’s mouth just as the door to the cottage opened.