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~~*~~
1
The Constable
The Constable
~~*~~
IN
THE cabin of the Selaki he put the
swallow—what in truth was known as an Arrowsparrow—in a large doorless birdcage
hanging over his desk. There were seven others already in it, who welcomed the
newcomer with a round of friendly twittering. They were all crowded into one
nest of two, and made room for their fellow, who hopped in with them and got
comfortable. He checked on their food and water; satisfied that it was okay, he
tossed a dark sheet over the cage so they could continue to sleep.
>>2<<
He
sat down at his desk and absentmindedly shuffled through papers and copies of
old manifests. He pushed them away and leaned back, lacing his fingers over his
stomach.
The
Apprentice has come.
He'd
seen the message with his own eyes before it faded away. But he still couldn't
believe it. The Revolution was here.
He
looked up at the covered birdcage, then down at the bow leaning against the
desk. All eight of those birds were going to be sent on their way later with
the news.
It
was just past seven. The sun would be up in an hour or so. Already the fog was
brightening to a dull, glowing milky-white and lifting a little. He tossed the
tiny scroll into a top drawer full of them and then got up and made his way
about the singleship, giving her a good once-over. She was going to have to be
ready by this evening. Shore leave, as short as it was, was over.
~~*~~
He
was kneeling at the opened forward hold two hours later, taking an inventory of
foodstuffs, when the Imperial messenger strode onto the dock. The man waited
for Anurag to notice him; once he did he bowed and cupped his hands.
"Osz firick, Bouchard."
Anurag
stood and threw down the hold door, which slammed shut with a loud bang.
"What
do you want, Donny?"
"Donny"
was a skinny man a bit younger than Anurag. He had a squeezed look about him: a
long forehead, thin, glistening eyes, and no chin or shoulders. He was a native
to Anthtree, a hated "Native Guard," so called by the Imperials who
had conscripted him.
His
countenance darkened. "Donny" was a derogatory term meaning
"weakling" or "wimp" with connotations of betrayal and
backstabbing. His actual name—Donal—was an easy one to mangle. Anurag took the
chance every time he was presented with it.
"You
play with fire, Bouchard, without a proper return greeting. I could report
you."
"You
say that every time, Donny," replied Anurag, enjoying the fact of getting
under the other's skin. "But here I am, still 'free.' " He spat that
last word.
"You
are making ready to sail?"
"That's
what I'm doing," said Anurag, getting back to work.
"Have
you notified the Constable of your change of plans? Has he given you
permission?"
Anurag
had disappeared into his cabin; he emerged a few moments later with,
"What—?"
Donal's
agitation was clearly increasing. "I said,
have you notified the Constable of your intent to sail, and has he approved
those plans?"
"The
Constable is probably still in his big, cozy bed stuffing his latest personal
assistant. I'm busy here, Donny. Give me your message."
The
Native Guard sniffed. "He wants to see you."
"What
does the personal assistant want with me?"
"No,
Bouchard, the Constable. The Constable
wants to see you."
"Really.
That fat tub o' lard is actually awake at this hour?"
Donal
cleared his throat. His face had attained a nice plum color. "No,
Bouchard. The message was given to me last night to give to you first thing
this morning. I went by the lighthouse, but your mother reported that you had
left. Naturally I assumed you were on your vessel."
"Good
thinking."
"He
wishes to let you know that he wants to see you immediately."
The
men stared at each other.
"Well?"
demanded Anurag. "You've delivered your message, now go! I'll drop by to
see your precious Imperial crotchsniffer later!"
Outraged,
Donal turned and stomped off the dock, disappearing into the lifting fog.
Anurag watched him go. He chuckled and shook his head, then got back to work.
~~*~~
His
mother was waiting for him at the door.
"Donal
was looking for you," she said as he removed his hat, scarf, and coat,
hanging them on the hatstand.
"He
found me," he grumbled.
"Breakfast
is on the table," she said as she got out of his way. "I assume you
were tending the Selaki?"
He
could smell it from here: eggs and bacon. Though he had eaten earlier, he was
still hungry. He sat and dug in as she waited for an answer under the kitchen's
doorjamb.
"I'm
leaving tonight, Mom," he said.
"Tonight?
But you just got here! I haven't seen you in nine months and now you're heading
back out so soon?"
He
put down his fork, turned in his seat to look at her.
"The
Apprentice has come."
She
held silent for a long moment. "I see.”
It
was clear that the news disturbed her greatly.
"I
got the message this morning." He turned back in his seat and resumed
eating. "I couldn't sleep so I took a walk. The Arrowsparrow found me at
the statue."
"What
message?"
Anurag’s
nephew walked past his grandmother and into the kitchen, where he joined Anurag
at the table.
Orion
de Bouchard was a very handsome young man, a bit on the thin side, and tall for
his age, which was just a few months from five Aquanian-years. His dark eyes
and strong chin were framed by wavy, reckless black hair pulled haphazardly
back into a ponytail, one that his grandmother constantly threatened to chop
off.
"What
message?" he repeated before stealing one of Anurag's strips of bacon,
getting his hand out of the way before Anurag could slap it.
"I
assume you've finished winding the light?" demanded his grandmother.
"Just,"
he answered, chewing.
"Brinkley
is through with you? Has Tal arrived? He'll want your help with polishing
today—"
"He's
not here yet, Gran. Don't worry, I'm not going to ditch him. Now … Uncle … what
message? The way you two were whispering, it must be important."
He
waited expectantly for an answer.
Anurag
glanced at his mother. "We were whispering?"
But
she only glowered back at him.
"I
see no reason why he shouldn't know," he shrugged.
"I'll
give you one very good reason," she snapped back. "He's a boy."
"Not
according to the Imperium," replied Anurag darkly. "He's Registered
and Emasculated. They can snatch him up any time they want. That makes him a
man in my view."
"But
not in mine—"
"The
Apprentice has come," he reported to his nephew, whose eyes grew very
wide.
"Anurag!"
yelled Claire de Bouchard.
He
looked away from her white-hot glare and at Orion. "It's time to put all
those secret weapons training lessons to good use. You ready?"
"Oh—"
And with that she stomped away.
"She's
scared," said Orion when it became clear she was nowhere within earshot.
Anurag,
looking down at his plate, nodded.
"Are
you, Uncle?"
Anurag
finished eating and set down his fork. "Sure. Sure I am. But that's not
the question you should be focusing on. Everyone has fear. But few are
prepared. Prepared up here—" he tapped his own temple. "You prepared,
Orion? You prepared up here?" He tapped his temple again.
Orion
held up. "I ... don't know."
"Then
it's time you got that way. It's here. It's real."
His
nephew nodded uneasily.
"I'm
leaving tonight," said Anurag.
Noting
Orion’s downcast demeanor at this news, he reached and grabbed his neck,
ruffled his rebellious hair. "We've got work to do before I go, though.
The—"
"The
rotation!" interrupted Orion, his face brightening. "That's right!
Let's go!"
"You
head on over. I'm going to have a word with Gran. I'll be there shortly."
Orion
rose from the table. "She'll get over it," he said. "She always
does."
He
patted Anurag on the shoulder as he left the kitchen.
Anurag
sat in silence for a few moments before rising himself. He thought: She may not get over this.
~~*~~
"She
still angry?" called out Orion at the top of the lighthouse as Anurag made
his way up the spiral staircase. His nephew looked expectantly down at him.
"Actually,
she's furious," said Anurag as he stepped on the landing a few moments
later.
Brinkley
was there and gave him a short nod. Brinkley had been an employee of Claire de
Bouchard for many years and was considered a member of the family. He was a
taciturn old man, and, despite his advancing age, still freakishly strong. His
godson, Tal, had joined him in the tower four years ago. The pair were
indispensably loyal and hardworking. Anurag often gave thanks for both while
away on his long voyages, as it seemed nowhere could be found two fiercer
protectors of Claire de Bouchard and her lighthouse.
"I
told him, Uncle," reported Orion. "I told Brinkley about the
Apprentice."
"Does
Tal know?" asked Anurag.
"He
knows," said Brinkley. He turned his grumpy glare to Orion. "And
that's all that gets to know, boy. You understand?"
"Not
true," answered Anurag. He walked around the great lighthouse mirror,
whose ponderous rotation had been halted. Its brilliant beam shot out,
immobile, into a retreating fog bank due east, setting a perfect circle on it
aglow. The sea was unsteady today; a good, stiff wind had kicked up with the
dawn. It cleared the fog with unnatural haste. "We need to reset the
light's rotation from thirty seconds to twenty-four seconds, precisely."
"If
the Constable finds out …" said Orion worriedly.
"Without
a report filed or permission granted, we'll all be fed to the demon,"
added Brinkley, who twisted his steel-gray beard angrily.
Anurag
looked the two of them over. "If I've learned anything in my travels,
boys," he said, "it's this: the Imperium is an overwhelmed
bureaucracy, most especially out here, near the Edge. That blubberous Constable
couldn't care less about Anthtree or its people, and his Tracluse are rarely
seen outside the walls of the Imperial Ascendium. They've had it so easy for so
long that they've become complacent. His ass-kissing staff have no time to take
note of everyone's movements—though they certainly want you to believe they do.
They've left it all to the Native Guards. They're
the real issue.
"Is
there a chance those traitors will find us out?" He shrugged, nodded.
"Sure. Sure there is. But we have to play the odds on this one. We're all
prepared for the consequences, and besides, we're not the only ones about to do
this. But it starts here, right here, at the end of the Wolfsnake, and the
message is going to go all around the world. We've got to have the guts to send
it."
They
worked hard the next five hours. Tal had joined them; they snuffed the
brilliant darqiosi flame (knowing
full well that the local fishers would be blind without it in this fog, which
had held stubbornly on against the steady onshore breeze), and he and Orion got
busy with polishing the great mirror as Anurag and Brinkley set about retiming
the light's rotation. They checked their results. The mirror took twenty-five
seconds and change to make one turn. More work. The second try: twenty-four and
three-fifths seconds. Gran came out with sandwiches and ale. She called up from
the bottom of the tower to let them know, as she always did. She handed the
tray over to Anurag without a word, wheeling about and marching angrily back to
the house. He watched her retreat inside before chuckling silently and shaking
his head with a sigh.
The
men napped at first break in the lightkeeper's quarters just below the light.
The room wasn't nearly large enough to accommodate them, but they had solved
the problem years ago. Anurag, the largest, reclined on the landing to the
room; Brinkley took the bed; Tal, the smallest, stretched out on the work
bench; and Orion lay on a mat next to his uncle, his head next to Anurag's
thigh. The break was for an hour; Anurag snapped awake forty-five minutes into
it.
The goddamn Constable!
He
got to his feet.
"Where
are you going, Uncle?" asked Orion quietly, looking up at him. Tal and
Brinkley hadn't stirred. Tal snored on the workbench; Brinkley was facing away,
curled up on the bed.
"I've
got something I forgot in town," said Anurag. "I'll be back as soon
as I can."
~~*~~
The
Imperial Ascendium was an imposing solitary structure at the western edge of
Anthtree. It had been built by Anthtreeans under orders of the Imperium, but it
had none of the friendly commonalities to the neighboring architecture. It was
an ugly building despite its grandiose appearance: three bloated, overdone
stories of bare gray stone. It was surrounded by a wide, intimidating rampart
with guard towers at the corners. On the far side of the rampart were the guard's
quarters, which were attached to the wall by means of an underground fortified
tunnel.
The
Imperial presence in Anthtree was comprised minimally of the Constable and his
staff—eight people total; there were sixteen Tracluse guards, one pathetically
weak Dreamcatcher, and a Mephastophian (not
weak), which usually only came out during Conscription or the Lottery, though
folks had spotted it roaming atop the rampart before.
The
presence of a Mephastophian had proved more than enough deterrent against any over-the-line
rule breaking or insurrectionist activities. When the Imperium invaded, a
single Mephastophian was fed an entire corral full of villagers, mostly men,
the strongest and stoutest among them. At the points of swords the rest of the
village was forced to watch what happened to them.
The
corral was replaced by this structure shortly after. And Anthtreeans talked of
that day still. They didn't dare challenge the Imperium. Not enough, certainly,
for the Constable to call out the demon. Since the arrival of the Imperium it
had been summoned only three times. The lawbreakers were quickly apprehended
and their shattered and mutilated remains piled at the foot of Eliannah.
The
fog raced just overhead with the steady breeze, obscuring the sky. At the gates
of the rampart Anurag stopped. The guards on the ground stared at him flatly,
indifferently.
"Yes?"
grunted one. His voice was as dead as his gaze.
Yellow goddamn Tracluse. Because the village of Anthtree
"Anurag
de Bouchard to see the Constable," he grunted back, imitating the flatness
of the guard’s voice.
The
second guard looked up from a parchment roll. "You're late."
"And
you standing there not letting me in isn't helping," barked Anurag.
"So if you two fine gentlemen
would open the gates and let me go on my way, that'd be just really
wonderful."
"Search
him," growled the first.
"Right,"
snarled Anurag. "Because this
time might be the time I come armed."
The
second gruffly threw the parchment on a stand-up desk in a dark corner and
patted him down.
"He's
clean," he reported.
"Only
after I wash your filthy paw prints off my body," snorted Anurag.
The
first opened the gate. The second gave Anurag a hard shove in the back as he
went through.
The
gate closed behind him.
The
courtyard was well manicured and stately. The walk was lined with flowers and
shrubs and at the foot of the stairs had an ornate fountain. He looked up.
Inscribed in the portico above him were the words, written in Gyssian:
Obstaepi
Emperus vir'g nitidqua poma!
The
translation: Freedom is the Emperor's
truest blessing!
He
stared at it. When he was no older than Orion, he was forced by the
just-arrived Imperium to help with the building of this edifice. He remembered
the large slab of stone with the inscription being hoisted up and cemented into
place. He was part of the team of workers who did it.
Gyss
was the official language, and so everyone was forced to learn it. Closer to
Aquanicentra other languages were brutally outlawed; but out here, where almost
no one lived, where not even a nation-state existed before the Imperium came to
claim everything, the native languages along the Wolfsnake were minimally
tolerated if heard by the invaders. There just weren't enough soldiers to quash
violators save for the most basic infractions against the law; besides, there
was simply too much territory to cover. Gyss was the official language; but
among friends and out of earshot of the Native Guards, Anthtreeans spoke to
each other in the softer and friendlier tones of the language Eliannah herself
had spoken.
He
gazed down from the inscription and then spat to his side before mounting the
stairs and proceeding to the large door, where he knocked hard.
The
door swung open. Another guard.
"The
Constable wants to see me," he grumbled.
"Hours
ago," came an inflectionless female voice to the left. She sat at a desk,
and looked up at him briefly before marking something on a thick stack of
papers. "The Constable is upstairs—" she pointed with her
quill—"taking his late lunch. End of the hall, double doors on your right."
"I
know the way, Nenei," he said.
Her
face darkened. Anurag knew she didn't like her first name used by the
villagers.
He
pushed past the guard and into the foyer proper, staring at her. In another
life the Constable's secretary would've been very attractive. Her blonde hair
and large eyes and high cheekbones gave the impression of exquisite and lively
breeding, but the dead spirit emanating from every pore of her body told him
that she was forever wedded to the decay that fed her and ruled every aspect of
her existence. Decay that was about to be swept away.
The
Apprentice has come.
Up
the wide stairs he trudged, and then down a long, high-ceilinged hallway. At
its end was a double door of mullioned glass that led out onto a large balcony.
That was where the Constable stood when he made speeches or proclaimed new laws
or pronounced sentence against the condemned. It was also where he loomed
during the Lottery and Conscription.
Anurag
thought of Orion. It was only a handful of months until the dreadnought showed
again and took both groups away. The Lottery: Men and women and, sometimes,
children randomly picked to "bless" the Emperor—and who never
returned. Conscription: young men forced into lifelong military service to the
Imperium. When the dreadnought docked both groups would be chosen—and Anurag
was determined to his last breath to see that neither his nephew nor his mother
would ever be selected. He had long ago taken the first steps ...
(Brinkley
and Tal were both too old to be Conscripted; as for the Lottery, they had
received special exemptions from being selected due to their indispensability
to the community-at-large. Even the Imperium in its violent bluntness
recognized that one cannot haul off certain members of a village or city
without causing utter mayhem among the populace. Brinkley and Tal, having roots
in Anthtree that went deeper than almost everyone else’s, were two such
individuals. Anurag had been exempted from both by virtue of his unique
knowledge of the Wolfsnake, having as a young boy been selected by the former
courier as the one who would replace him when he retired. That selection had
literally saved his life.)
At
the last doors on the right he knocked and waited.
The
doors opened. The man staring at him he knew well; he had gone to school with
him.
"Where
is he?" demanded Anurag.
The
man—his name was Jen—had the look of an abused child. He shook his head. Very
quietly he said: "He isn't happy with you, Bouchard."
"When
is he ever?" said Anurag in a plain voice as he stepped past him towards
another set of doors, which he opened over Jen's hissing: "No! No, Bouchard! He isn't finished with his lunch yet!"
The
Constable sat at a table facing a large picture window. The window looked out
on the side courtyard and the penned stable where Lottery picks were chained
before being shipped off. His back was to Anurag.
"Jenen,”
he growled, chewing, “I'll have your skinny ass whipped; I've told you a
hundred times if I've told you once—"
"It
isn't Jen," said Anurag.
The
Constable cut off. Without glancing over his shoulder, and in no particular
hurry, he finished chewing, swallowed. Jen approached him from behind with a
knife and fork, hastily cutting more of his steak and pouring him more wine. He
whispered something into the fat man's ear before hurrying past Anurag back out
of the room, closing the doors behind him.
The
Constable speared a cube of meat. Without looking up from his plate, he said,
"We've got a problem, Bouchard."
Anurag
waited. He was certain "the problem" was he and wasn't about to
incriminate himself. He clasped his hands behind his back and studied the
layers of stubbly pinkish-gray blubber packed around the Constable's neck. The
silence of the room was punctuated only by the lonely sound of one person
eating and the occasional muffled busyness coming from Jen beyond the doors.
The
Constable, chewing, chuckled. He swallowed, burped in a very genteel fashion,
then patted his mouth with the large cloth napkin stuffed into the front of his
robe. He grunted. "How's that good mother of yours?"
"She’s
fine," said Anurag.
"Such
a dear woman," said the Constable after spearing and consuming another
cube of meat. He took a sip of wine and added, "I spoke with her outside Market Square oh,
probably six months ago. I'm always impressed with her grace. It's ... it's
tangible. She carries herself with such grace. Grace and pride. She'd have made
a fine queen in another age."
Anurag
held silent.
"I
don't want to be indelicate, and so I have never asked about the scar on her
cheek. It's always fascinated me. Most scars ... they don't fit their owners.
They don't belong with them. They're intrusive, a mark of violation. But her
scar ... it fits her. It's long and
clean and perfectly situated, just like it belongs there. It gives her queenly countenance
an air of unyielding severity. Fascinating ...
"I
wonder ... has she ever shared with you how it got there?"
Anurag
lied. "No."
"I
see."
The
Constable cleared his throat.
"Such
pride she has, Bouchard. She has somehow made that scar add to it, not subtract
from it. And that pride ... my goodness, how it shows in her offspring!"
He continued staring out the window in front of him. "I saw your nephew as
well. It must be two years since I saw him last. What's his name—Orion, is it?"
"Yes,"
said Anurag shortly.
"Fine
lad," said the Constable. "Very fine lad. How he has grown up! So handsome—mm! My goodness!"
Anurag
held his temper in check. He could feel it bubble in his colon, could feel it
clawing its way up towards his lungs. He considered Jen, the fourth
"personal assistant" to this vile pig.... Jen, who was probably this
instant hurrying here, hurrying there, cleaning, or perhaps readying the
Constable's bed for a nap, or washing his clothes, or ...
The
previous three to Jen had all died brutally, spent and battered and left to rot
outside the gates.
No
one investigated the cause of their death. It wasn't illegal for Imperials to
kill any of the conquered populace.
"Our
good Donalius Shas informs me that you're planning to sail tonight."
Anurag,
with clenched teeth: "With your permission, of course."
"Why
so soon?" The Constable took another sip of wine. He still hadn't turned
to look at him.
"Raretail
Holm."
"What
of it?"
"My
orders give me variable leave. I want to get back before the Edge storm season
starts."
"Jen!"
Jen
was back at the Constable’s side instantly. He stood straightly, unsurely to
his right and waited.
"Retrieve
Bouchard's latest orders."
"Yes,
sir," simpered Jen, who hurried out of the room.
"I
don't recall variance in the orders," said the Constable.
"They're
there," said Anurag.
"No
matter. You'll be delaying your departure for a few days."
"May
I ask why?"
The
fat man grabbed his napkin and tossed it on the table. He finished his wine,
set down the glass, and pushed his seat back. He rose with a grunt and,
finally, turned to look at him.
The
Constable's face reminded Anurag of melting wax. It pooled thickly in
increasing ripples at his shoulders. His sagging eyes, though flat as all
Tracluse were, still held great intelligence in them. They looked him up and
down with a sick relish that clashed oddly with the dour tone of his voice.
"The
Mephastophian is missing, Bouchard."
"Missing—?"
He
noticed that the Constable was just holding onto his temper. Jen was back at
his side, parchment in hand.
"Out,"
the Constable snarled, snatching it.
Jen
scurried out of the room, the doors closing with a silent and fearful click.
The
Constable poured himself more wine, raised the fine crystal to his thick lips.
It wasn't a sip this time, but two large gulps. He set the glass down.
"Locals
have an intimate knowledge of the surrounding terrain," he murmured, what
Anurag thought was mostly to himself.
His
face was almost bursting with rage.
And
then Anurag figured it out.
This
must not have been the first Mephastophian to go missing. He wondered how many
others had. The guards had been dispatched to find them, all without success.
The Constable needed a local to guide them.
"Hmm
..." said the Constable, who hadn't opened the parchment or even brought
it up to his face to look at it. "I see no mention of a variable
directive, Bouchard."
He
dropped the parchment at his feet. "So here's what you’re going to do.
You'll head a team of my choosing and take them into that godforsaken
wilderness and find out JUST WHAT THE HELL HAS HAPPENED TO MY MEPHASTOPHIAN! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
He
ground the paper under his heel, tearing it into pieces, his eyes wild.
Anurag
did not cower. He stood straight and tall, his hands still clasped behind his
back.
"You
will meet the guards at the front gate tomorrow at dawn,” said the Constable in
an obvious fight to compose himself. His forehead was beaded with sweat. “You
will keep quiet about what you're doing. No one will know. I hope we understand
each other as to the consequences should you talk."
"I'm
clear."
The
threats against his mother and nephew had been very clear.
The
men stared at each other in silence for a long, porcine, bilious moment.
"Is
that all?" Anurag finally asked. He wasn't sure he could stand here much longer.
The
Constable grunted. "Take your orders with you.”
Anurag
held up, then approached. He dropped to his knees and scooped up the torn
parchment. The Constable's crotch was right in front of his face. He went to
stand up, but a meaty hand slammed down on his head and grabbed a fistful of
his hair.
"We
do understand each other, don't we,
Bouchard?"
He
pulled his head back so that Anurag would have to look him in the eye. He
sported a grotesque, wicked smile.
"We
do ... don't we? Don’t we?"
"Yes,"
said Anurag, very quietly.
The
Constable held onto his hair another ten seconds. He licked his lips.
He
released him. Anurag got to his feet, the remains of the parchment in his
grasp.
"Tomorrow at dawn," said the Constable lightly. "And please—give my very best to your mother and your handsome nephew, won't you? That will be all, Bouchard. Good-bye.">>2<<
~~*~~
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