Peculiar Soul

And the Speaker saw that the man’s heart had turned against his family in the time since they had last spoken, struck through with pain from their perfidy. To this he said nothing, since a truth understood by both requires no words.

At length, though, the man raised his head and lamented that he was an orphan, a man of no family while those who should have given him succor still walked in the world. He turned to the Speaker and asked him how this injustice could be part of the path.

“The path is pleasant or dire as it must be, and some must walk a path of suffering,” the Speaker said. “But do not resign yourself to pain in this early day of your life. You may yet find a family beyond blood, and even those who have spurned you may find their own paths bending back towards humility and reunion.”

The man protested that he did not wish reconciliation with such family as he had, and that the pain of their insults would endure until his dying breath.

The Speaker nodded and said: “That may be, but do not harden your heart needlessly. Men are as a river, changing with the shape of the moment’s course. The same waters flow fast or slow, clear or turbid in accordance with the land beneath them.”

This did not please the man, who said that some deeds lay so foul upon their makers that forgiveness could never cleanse the stain.

“That is also so,” the Speaker said, “just as some things foul a river from its headwater to the sea. But water is life, and not so plentiful that we may pass it by on a whim. Do not let your pain forbid you from waters that would be sweet and pure but for the taint in your memory.”

- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Blood. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

The wind gusted fitfully as Michael jogged alongside a hedgerow, whipping the small drifts of snow into hard, dry peaks. They crunched underfoot as he passed; a moment later, each footstep flashed with mirrorlight and disappeared to leave whole, pristine snow.

A glimpse of red caught Michael’s eye. He paused, scowling, to peer at where a drop of blood had fallen from his arm onto the snow.

“Damn,” he muttered, holding his arm out from his side to inspect a blood-soaked patch of sleeve that had escaped his notice. For a moment, nothing happened. The wind hitched around him, falling silent; when it resumed the snow was pristine and white once more.

He stayed a few moments longer, sending his sight back to scour the frozen ground for more telltale droplets. After he had cleaned two more snowdrifts, Michael sighed and resumed running.

Before long he saw a dingy farmhouse, barely visible behind a dense thicket of brambles and wild trees that had grown up around it. He slipped between their branches and entered.

“I’m back,” he said. “It was another decoy.”

“Figured,” Sobriquet’s voice came from another room; a moment later she walked into view, nearly lost under two coats that were both a size big for her. “Have to wonder how many lucigentes he’s got left.”

“They’re not precisely rare,” Michael grunted, stripping off his bloody shirt. “This was another group of three, working together. Looks much the same from a distance. One couldn’t even project a beam, he was just flaring light in time with the others.”

Sobriquet’s eyes flicked down to his shirt. “I take it that whatever the count, he’s got three fewer,” she said.

Michael nodded slowly. “And two scalptors, pair of obruors - about twenty regulars.” He wavered for a moment, his mind missing its next step to fumble in directionless fatigue. Eventually, he sighed and sat on the floor. His back settled against the wall. The bare wood was rough and cold enough that he almost felt it.

There was a rustle from the two overlarge coats as Sobriquet sat beside him; he could not help but smile as he watched her struggle with the bulk. “A bit cold?” he asked.

She glared at him. “Point to a thing in this room that isn’t covered in ice. I’m not in a position to lose any fingers to frostbite.”

Michael mustered a weary laugh, then closed his eyes. The light in the room dimmed and blurred, rippling with sudden heat. Sobriquet sighed and pulled her hood back from her face, relishing the warmth; from the far corner of the house he heard muffled stirrings and exclamations of surprise.

“Who else is here?” Michael asked. “Is Zabala back from the village already?”

Sobriquet shook her head. “It’s just Charles and Voss left here, the rest are still gone. Considering how fast we ran through the supplies from the boat, they’re grabbing extra. Should be back this evening, I’d say.”

Michael nodded slowly. “Probably a good idea. No trouble?”

“Nothing,” Sobriquet confirmed. “I’m not too surprised. Institute and Calmharbor both have enough problems without bothering you for more.” She gave a weary wave of her hand; a crude sketch of Ardalt shimmered into the air between them. A line cut across it, carving out a sizable chunk of the northwest.

“The Institute has gained about half the distance south to Korbel, but they’re moving slow; the obruor-led troops need more care in the cold. There are sightings of Luc all across the front, but as you know-”

“Decoys,” Michael sighed. “I’m wondering if any of the sightings are real.”

“He’s out there, he’s half the reason the weather is so fucked.” Sobriquet made a rude gesture northward. “Remember the navy task force we saw as we were ditching the boat? He burnt that a day after we saw it, and there’s still storms on the north coast a week later. Calmharbor is snowed in, they’re running icebreakers in the Iron Bay.”

Michael frowned. “Damn. It’s not even half through Waning yet, you usually don’t see ice on the bay until late Frost.”

“Usually don’t see me in Ardalt, but it’s a strange sort of year.” Sobriquet shrugged out of her outer coat, flexing her fingers in the heat. “Ghar’s ashes. Your country has no redeeming qualities.”

“The food is decent,” Michael said.

She snorted. “Sure, whatever you lifted from the Esroun. Everything else is boiled to death and served cold, excepting the things that are fried but mysteriously left unsalted.” She shook her head in disgust. “I’m half-convinced that you lot only hold continental interests out of culinary desperation.”

“It’s not all bad,” Michael protested halfheartedly. “And it’s cold because we’re squatting in an abandoned farmhouse in the dead of winter. Helene never served anything below scalding if she could help it.” A smile flickered over his face - then faded. “I wonder how they’ve fared.”

“Helene and - Ricard, was it?” Sobriquet asked. “I’m sure their fortunes have risen with your father’s. It’s not a bad thing to be the manservant or cook to the most powerful man in the country.”

“Perhaps,” Michael said. “But they’re still alone with my father. I didn’t think much of it when I left them, but with the benefit of perspective…” He sighed, shaking his head. “I worry, is all. They were my mother and father in the ways that mattered most.”

Sobriquet squeezed his hand. “We may yet find ourselves close enough to Calmharbor that I can look in on them,” she said.

Michael laughed, letting his head thunk back against the wall. “If we’re that close to Calmharbor we’ll have plenty else to distract us,” he said. “The Government forces are leaving us alone for the time being, but I expect that’s only because we’re a thorn in the Institute’s side. If we march on the capital, Sofia will bring them down on us with pleasure; she has to know where we’re at by now.”

“Oh, she does,” Sobriquet said. “Not the specifics, but I can feel her nosing around the edges - and we’ve been here for what, three days? The Institute has their own occultors in play, but I’m hard to miss. If their troops weren’t all tied up against the Institute advance, we’d have had a welcome party here long before now.”

“Probably means it’s time to move again.” Michael closed his eyes. “Closer to Korbel, I think. Luc can run around wherever he pleases while they’re advancing over country, but Korbel is a fortified target; they’ll be hard-pressed to take it without his involvement.”

“The government won’t look favorably on us drawing closer to Korbel either.” Sobriquet inclined her head towards the east. “It’s not Calmharbor by a stretch, but it’s the Institute’s next target. If nothing else, Sibyl will be slightly put out to lose visibility of the hinterlands.”

Michael grunted. “Maybe we should let her see,” he said. “What’s she going to tell the military, that they need to go stop me from taking out Luc’s patrols?”

“She’ll tell them what she wants to tell them about the man who killed her friend,” Sobriquet warned.

“I didn’t kill Vincent,” Michael said, slouching back against the wall. “Ghar’s bones, I tried to save his life.”

The creaking of floorboards heralded Charles walking in, his coat slung jauntily over one shoulder. “All she knows is that you’re the reason he was there,” he said. “Losing battle trying to convince a woman you’re not at fault for anything, besides. Even if you win, they’ll be twice as mad at you for proving them wrong.”

“It’s a wonder you haven’t been stolen away from us for marriage, enlightened as your attitudes are,” Sobriquet said.

Charles grinned. “It’s flattering you think that’s the only reason I’m single.” He winked at her, then turned his gaze to Michael. “Glad to have you back, milordship. She gets downright cranky when you’re out.”

“Or when you’re in,” Michael sighed. He worked his neck from side to side, then stood. “Do we have any food left, or are we out until Zabala’s back?”

Sobriquet stood as well, gesturing towards the adjoining room. “A bit. Enough that you can eat if you’re hungry from your run.”

Michael nodded and ducked into the pantry to rummage through near-empty sacks of dried meat and hardtack. What was left had frozen, though that posed no barrier; he picked up a piece of dried meat glistening with frost and snapped through it effortlessly.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Sobriquet said, making a face. “It sounds horrid. At least take a moment to warm it up.”

“I kind of like the texture,” Michael muttered, chewing the last of it before pulsing a wave of heat into the remainder of the food he had grabbed; it let off a brief whiff of steam, and the questionable smell of hot jerky filled the room. He made a face and continued eating.

Once he had swallowed a few more mouthfuls, he took a mouthful of water and turned back to Sobriquet. “Okay,” he said. “They’re mostly pulled back, but I think I saw traces of another group to the northeast of the last one. Is there enough time before Zabala returns to make it there and back?”

Sobriquet blinked. “I thought we were moving on towards Korbel?” she said. “You may as well take the opportunity to rest.”

“I don’t need to rest,” Michael replied, taking another swig of water and setting the canteen aside. “And there’s a chance that other group might not be a decoy. It’s worth a look.”

“They’re all decoys. If Luc was ever in the field by us, he’d have withdrawn long ago.” Sobriquet moved to stand in front of the door. “You are going to stay here, eat some more hot food, and rest until Zabala comes back.”

Michael looked at her for a long moment, then sighed and turned back towards the food stores. “Fine,” he said. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m absolutely right,” she retorted. “How much have you slept since Stahm?”

Michael shrugged. “Haven’t been that tired. Probably the potens soul-”

Sobriquet walked in and ripped the food sack from his hand, glaring until Michael pursed his lips and turned aside. “I don’t know,” he said. “A few hours here and there.”

“Is it an amount of sleep that you’d consider appropriate for more than a week of travel and combat?” she asked. When Michael was slow to respond, she rolled her eyes and thrust the food back into his hands. “Eat. Take your time, chew properly. Then come lie down and at least try to sleep.”

Michael took a bite of hastily-reheated jerky, chewing slowly. “And here I thought I was in charge of this little group,” he said.

“Sleep deprivation can lead to delusions,” Sobriquet sniffed. Michael felt the feather-light touch of her veil settling closer around them; her eyes lost their humor. “It doesn’t work.”

“What doesn’t work?” Michael asked.

“Using the work as a distraction.” She held up a finger before he could reply. “I’ve heard all the excuses, so don’t try. Made a few of my own to Clair, sometimes. Eventually you have to stop running, and let it all catch up to you.”

Michael hummed, then looked away. “I’m not running from anything,” he said.

Sobriquet glowered at him, taking a step forward; Michael shook his head. “Not like that,” he said. “I haven’t been - troubled.” There was a span of silence that lingered, dull and weighty. Michael fiddled restlessly with the food bag. “We’ve been going from place to place ever since Stahm, keeping on the move, and I keep waiting for it to catch up to me, like you said. I expected it. I’ve killed men every day that I’ve been back in Ardalt, something like that shouldn’t pass easily.”

His fingers stilled, tightening around the cloth. “At first I thought it was that they were obruors and their victims, because that’s a simpler decision. But three days in, the patrol you spotted alongside the river - I punched one of them in the chest. Fist went right through. Saw his eyes, and they looked at me. He was still in there, he could have been helped save for my arm straight through him.”

Sobriquet said nothing; Michael took a slow drink of water.

“And then I left,” Michael said. “There was nothing I could do, not for a wound like that. And on the run back, I thought about ways I could have seen it. You know what I decided?” He took another swig of water. “There wasn’t a good way to go about it. More time spent on each group, one or two men saved, and then what? Guide each one back to health, then once more back to some safe resting place? They’d get picked up by the obruors again, or fall into harm with innocents. All the while, Luc gets farther away.”

He handed the bag of food back to Sobriquet. She took it, slowly folding the cloth over itself within her hand.

“It’s a question of time,” Michael murmured. “That’s what the decoys do, they waste time. Every aspect of them is crafted towards that end. The lucigentes to draw our eye. The obruors to drive them, lengthening the chase. But the men - the men are there for me. He doesn’t need to include a full squad with the decoys, they’d be faster with fewer men.”

Sobriquet’s face darkened. “He’s doing it to be cruel.”

“I don’t know that he is,” Michael said. “He sees a different person in me than most. The same man that turned aside from killing those soldiers outside Stahm, who couldn’t bear the sight of wading through fifteen thousand corpses to get to one. Against that man, the man he hopes I am, his tactics would work.”

Slowly, he closed his fingers into a fist; dried blood still crusted around his fingernails. “There’s another man he described to me, though. The man he feared I might become. The one Leire said she’d kill rather than suffer to walk the world. And the more I become who I need to be to pursue Luc, the more I recognize that second man.”

Sobriquet punched him in the face. It took Michael by surprise; he rocked back on his heels, uninjured but startled nevertheless. She shook her fingers out, wincing.

“I really enjoy that I can do that without hurting you,” she said. “It’s an immensely satisfying way to interrupt you when you’re being an idiot.” She shook her head. “Luc always had a way of bringing out your unfortunate maudlin tendencies, and that much hasn’t changed. You’re letting him get to you. If this much is enough to send you into a funk, then you wouldn’t stand a chance against an old monster like Saleh.”

“I had hoped to avoid a fight with Saleh,” Michael grumbled.

She snorted. “Too bad, because he’s looking forward to fighting you,” she said. “And he’ll use everything he knows about you to do it. What you hate, what you don’t want yourself to become. Just like Luc, but all Luc can do is throw your past back at you. This is the same as what the Ardans tried during the first days of the invasion, scattering broken, violent men across the country to force us to put them down. He saw what it did to you then; he’s trying again now.”

“I expect the context is poor consolation to the men I kill,” Michael said. “However inconvenient or painful I may find it, it’s undoubtedly more so for them.”

Sobriquet smiled at him, though her face bore no happiness. “And yet it changes little about the struggle. They didn’t use obruors to this extent during the occupation; the men I killed would have gone home and lived normal lives. That part doesn’t matter. Men like Saleh and your father, they’re happy to use those lives as a shield to further their ambition.”

“And Luc?” Michael asked, giving her an exasperated look. “This is everything he always hated about war. Why is he throwing these men in my path?”

“To slow you down?” Sobriquet shrugged. “To taunt you? To punish Ardalt and the Institute, or to use you to put those broken men out of their misery? Or maybe he’s just lost what small store of sanity he had left, and is inflicting himself upon the world until someone puts a stop to it. In the end it matters very little why he’s being a horrible bastard. It only matters how quickly we can stop him.”

“So we’re back to time again,” Michael sighed.

Sobriquet nodded, settling back down against the wall. “It tends to remain important. But it’s not your concern until Zabala gets back. Right now you need to stop, and rest, and remember that you’re not the one responsible for all this.”

Michael tossed the food bag into the depleted pile of their stores, then lay down on the floor with his head in Sobriquet’s lap. “I can give it my best try,” he said.

“Stop talking and rest,” Sobriquet said sweetly, “or I’ll render you unconscious.”

A response came to mind; Michael left it unsaid. He closed his eyes and laid still, but resisted the urge to let his sight drop into the soothing blackness belowground. He watched Sobriquet as she cradled his head, her own eyes drooping closed after a span of time had passed. Eventually, sleep came for Michael as well.

Zabala and the rest of the men returned in the evening with a mixed bounty of food, water and other essentials, and they set out towards Korbel before dawn the next morning. Between Michael’s easy paths through woodland and Zabala’s subtle reinforcement of the mens’ strength, they made excellent time through the frozen landscape.

“We’re well past the Institute’s front by this point,” Sobriquet noted. “Just a question of how close to Korbel we want to get, to ensure we’ve got a chance of intercepting Luc on the approach.”

Michael nodded. “I’ve only been to Korbel once, when I was very young,” he said. “And not on this side of it. I’m afraid I’m somewhat useless at the geography in this region.”

“At this point it might be easier to list the subjects your tutors did cover,” Sobriquet grinned. “Flatware arrangement and cravat-tying, I expect. Not doing it yourself, of course, just enough to spot when someone else has done it wrong so you can express the proper amount of disapproval.”

Michael gave a long-suffering sigh. “Nobody even wears cravats anymore,” he muttered. “Only old men and the sartorially-challenged.”

“I like a good cravat every now and again,” Lars said. “For parties only, you understand, but it can add a nice splash of color.”

“So you’re in the latter category, sir?” Richter asked innocently.

Lars gave him an arch look. “Perhaps our dear captain is simply a traditionalist,” he said, “and hasn’t kept up with fashion trends outside of Calmharbor. Cravats are all the rage around here.”

“Seeing as this is your old stomping grounds,” Michael said, giving Lars a thin smile, “maybe you have a suggestion on where we might lay low?”

“Ah,” Lars said, looking discomfited. “Well. It’s been some time since I’ve lived in the city, of course. There’s a port to the northwest, along the coast, but further inland along our route the land is mostly farming villas.” He paused. “My father keeps a country house a half-day’s ride from Korbel.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Any reason you didn’t mention this straightaway?” he asked. “That sounds like an ideal destination.”

“Ideal in many respects, save for the possibility of interacting with my family,” Lars sighed. “They’re a mite difficult at times, and if I were to come tromping in with you lot - no offense, you’re lovely, but we are engaged in treason and trespass and all manner of problematic affairs at the moment.”

“I suppose I can sympathize,” Michael sighed. “It’s not as though I’m rushing to reacquaint myself with my father. We can find another place to operate from.”

Lars bit his lip, then shook his head. “Unfortunately the house I have in mind is frightfully ideal for our purposes, with a proper stove and plenty of spare beds. I’d be remiss not to mention it.”

“You didn’t mention it,” Zabala said. “Michael asked.”

“We’re still quite distant, there was plenty of time,” Lars shot back, sounding nettled. “And I did mention it. There are simply - complications that I had to consider. I don’t expect that you know what it’s like.”

“Owning a villa?” Zabala replied. “Actually, I have a nice cottage that looks out over the strait, just a bit north of Untzi.”

Charles took a deliberate step away from Zabala, a disgusted look on his face. “I didn’t know you came from money,” he said. “You seemed almost decent.”

“I’m not from a wealthy family.” Zabala gave him a bland look. “My country is just better than yours.”

“Yes, yes, Mendian is superior in every aspect,” Sobriquet sighed. “You’ve mentioned. Give us a moment, we just got ours back - hasn’t been time to hand out villas and cravats and such to all the suffering Gharic barbarians yet, although I’m sure Emil has drawn up plans.”

“Do we get villas, then?” Richter asked. “As part of our pay for all this?”

“Villas for everyone,” Michael said tiredly. “Sure, why not. We’ll start with this house of yours, Lars - can we reach it today?”

Lars nodded, peering up at the lightening horizon. “I should say so,” he muttered. “If we step to. Zabala, my good man, could you - oop.” He stumbled as Zabala flared his soul, causing half the men to trip as their muscles gained sudden vigor.

Zabala smiled. “Lead the way.”

True to his estimate, by the time the sun had risen to its peak they found themselves walking up a well-laid path on a hillside. At its top sat an attractive country house, done in stained wood with no small amount of polished stonework.

Charles gave a low whistle. “My, my,” he said. “Do you think your pop would notice if some of the fine silver were to wander off?”

“Honestly, no,” Lars sighed, “although I’d take it as a kindness if we didn’t utterly ransack the place.”

“No promises.” Charles tapped one of the wrought-iron gates as they passed through, coming away with a tiny ball of metal that glittered in his fingers; Sobriquet rolled her eyes.

“Let’s not forget why we’re here,” she said. “We can rob Lars later, if we have time.”

Lars looked as though he wanted to protest, but was distracted by their arrival at the opulent front door of the house. The mens’ eyes settled on him expectantly; after a moment of hesitation, he tested the handle. Finding it locked, he raised his hand to the heavy knocker and rapped it smartly upon its plate, three times.

“Do you think anyone is actually here?” Michael asked, deciding a moment later to answer the question for himself. He stretched his sight into the foyer, managing only to dazzle himself against an array of polished wood and mounted antlers before Sobriquet spoke.

“Someone’s coming, actually,” she said. “Just one. He-”

The door swung open, whisper-quiet on oiled hinges; standing in the doorway was a short, well-dressed man in formal clothes, his face twisted into a dour expression. His eyes flicked from Michael’s ragged, stained shirt to the soldiers’ firearms, finally landing on Lars.

“Master Lars,” the man said, his tone a perfect match for his unimpressed expression. “How to see you here. And your - companions, as well.”

Before Lars could reply, Michael stepped forward with a smile, inclining his head the barest amount. “Good day,” he said. “And my apologies for the imposition.”

The servant slowly turned to face him. “And you are?” he asked.

“Michael, Lord Baumgart,” Michael replied pleasantly. “Along with Lady Sobriquet, and our personal guards. If our presence is an inconvenience…”

It would have been kinder to punch the man, Michael suspected, though to his credit the servant’s face did not budge an inch. A flurry of panicked calculations rampaged behind his stoic eyes, subsiding into a quick, resigned exhalation.

“No, Milord Baumgart,” he said, his voice sounding only somewhat strangled. “No imposition at all. Might I inquire as to the nature of your business here?”

Unai stepped up behind them with a frosty look. “What a remarkable man Master Webel must be, to permit such temerity in his help. I wasn’t aware it was customary in Ardalt to interrogate guests on the front step.”

The servant regained some of his haughty look, though Michael suspected the veneer grew thinner with every passing moment. “And you are, Milord…?”

“Unai Goikoetxea, representative of the Mendiko Batzar,” Unai said smoothly.

Michael couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy at seeing the servant’s dignity annihilated so thoroughly; the man paled and stepped aside to clear the doorway.

“Won’t you please come inside?” he rasped.

Unai gave him a thin smile and strode in, followed by Lars and the remainder of the men; Michael did not move, however. Sobriquet noticed his reticence, giving him a curious look.

“Are you not going to enjoy Master Webel’s hospitality?” she asked.

“In a moment,” Michael said. He looked out over the countryside; the estate had a magnificent view of rolling fields and hills, with Korbel a distant mirage half-lost in the haze. “I was thinking on the way back about what you said. About letting things catch up to you.”

She took a step closer to him. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Michael smiled. “I’m fine,” he said. “But I think you were right. If we want to catch Luc quickly, if we want to put a stop to the suffering he’s causing, then we need to do some things that we don’t like.” He pursed his lips. “I want you to stop veiling us.”

Sobriquet blinked, then scowled. “Michael, when I said that I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s the right thing to do. Let the veil drop, then - give me a moment alone.”

“If you’re sure,” she muttered; Michael felt the subtle pressure of her soul slip away from around them - and then another presence shortly after, like hot summer sunlight glaring from an impossibly distant star. He squeezed her shoulder, then watched as she walked inside after the others.

A moment later, he turned to face that ephemeral radiance, feeling the hostile light play over his skin, under his flesh, peering within his very bones.

“Hello, Sofia,” Michael murmured. “We should talk.”