The International
05-03-12, 09:49 PM
Hold His Hand
…and don’t you dare let go.
Her mother’s order seemed to be easy enough to follow at first, Maelle Villeneuve being as big as she was, and her little brother, Vespasian, being as small as he was, at least smaller than the hefty, itchy, burlap sacks of food everyone else had to carry. Perhaps this was a gift from her parents, marking their eldest daughter’s seventh birthday with a new privilege. But as the family of five made their way through the city of Radasanth, crossing the treacherous corridors of equine drawn carriages, bovine drawn wagons, and man drawn rickshaws, passing the repetitive structures of stone and timbre, and navigating the thick currents of diverse peoples from all the known world, who in their commotion created a multilingual choir, that task became easier said than done, not solely because of the city itself, but because of the five year old Vespasian, who indulged in plenty of complaints and distractions. The complaints were numerous and annoying: the body heat of the crowds made it too hot, the wind from the nearby river made it too cold, she was holding too tight and made his hand sweaty, she was holding too loose and made him do all the work, it was really noisy -mostly him- and it was really smelly -all him-. This was no gift, but something else altogether, something she dreaded to admit, a responsibility! She hated that word… responsibility.
Maelle could not, however, blame him for indulging in the distractions, powerful in their magnitude and diversity, as she was distracted as well. The family passed under the Niema River Archway, a smooth brown marble monument that reached into the sky with hieroglyphic tales of the glorious city’s past, and into the Plaza of the same name, a sparsely populated clearing sporting a gravel floor that crunched at every step. It was here that little Vespasian drank in the sights and sounds of the people around them, first nearly running over Maelle as he whipped his body around to see a band of High Elves from the country of Raiaera, sporting rhinestone trimmed long coats, shading their pale skin from the harsh southern sun with umbrellas, speaking to each other in their inherently magical singsong language, and sending suspicious looks to the opposite side of the plaza, where their ancestral brothers and bitter rivals, the Dark Elves of Alerar gathered, sporting boiled leather vests on their torsos, shaded goggles around their necks, and soot stained fedoras on their heads, basking in the sun as if to mock their rivals with bronzed and ashen skin, speaking to one another in an intentionally monotone tongue, and showing off the many trinkets and clockworks of their technologically advanced homeland. Both of course sported the pointed ears all Elves were known for.
Vespasian crouched down, pulling Maelle with him and nearly stretching her right shoulder out of its socket, as he hoped to catch sight of the world’s shorter peoples, such as the Dwarves, stocky, strong, industrious to a fault, the tallest of them only reaching the smallest Elf’s chest, and the Fae, life-sized fairies, vainly showing off their ornate fashion sense, shimmering skin, and translucent wings. Among all of this was a consistent population of Humans, similar to the Villeneuve family in name only, hailing from exotic lands and cultures, like the desert matriarchs of Fallien Isle, the hardy men of the frozen Salvar Steppe, and the kimono draped nobles of Akashima, all of whom made the Villeneuves, a merchant family of no particular origin, look positively plain. No, she could not blame him for that at all, not even now as they neared the center of the plaza, and as two of the city’s greatest monuments came into view over the horizon of rooftop silhouettes.
Vespasian slipped his slick sweaty hand out of hers and attempted to hoist himself onto her back, hoping to get a glimpse of the monolithic ziggurat just beyond their mother as it kissed the afternoon sun, and greeted warriors from all over as a temple of war and blood they called the Citadel. As great as it was, it sat in the shadow of a colossal bronze statue made in the likeness of the fabled hero the city was named after, an Elf clad in smooth armor, standing in triumph with the river between his feet, hugging a buckler shield under his left arm, crossing a xiphos blade over his chest in patriotic solute with his right, casting a shadow over the otherwise monotonous city, tempting even Maelle to veer off course to marvel at its scale with baby brother on back. Suddenly, with the speed of a snapping turtle, a hand clamped down at her wrist.
“You are not good at that.” Ludivine said dryly, mercifully setting those glacial blue daggers for eyes of hers back on the path before them as she toted a bag of onions and garlic that stung Maelle’s nostrils as she looked her way – all the more reason not to engage the middle sister any further.
… But just in case. “Leave me alone.” Maelle said, attempting to mimic the lack of emotion in her sibling’s voice, but failing to realize her turquoise eyes spoke volumes as she turned her nose up. “I’m doing fine.”
“If he’s riding piggy back,” Ludivine said, not bothering to keep her voice down. “How can you hold his hand and not dare let go?”
Is she trying to get me in trouble? As she felt her freckled face become flush with fury, Maelle prepared to retaliate, only to be paralyzed by the burning hazel gaze of their mother, who starred her down from over her shoulder, and gripped a coiled whip at her right hip with her free hand, a whip that she often threatened to resort to, but never actually did. Now was not the time to call her bluff, but the stunned Maelle did not know what to do. It was a wonder she was still walking.
“I like it up here.” Vespasian said, apparently able to interpret their mother’s body language, but unable to comprehend the amount of danger they were in. Maelle and Ludivine would have suffered greatly had either of them objected to her like that, but Vespasian was different. He was The Baby, and more likely she would be punished for letting him jump on her back in the first place.
Then came her rescue just in time, a giant hand resting on her shoulder, another lifting the weight of Vespasian off her back, and the jolly deep voice of their father tickling her inner ear from behind. “But she’ll tire. You don’t want that, do you, son?”
“No.” Vespasian said with a lack of sincerity.
Ludivine leaned in towards Maelle and spoke quietly. “Mother tells him stories.”
“He knows all of mine.” Maelle shrugged her shoulders as she nodded her head at their mother, “They came from her.”
“She asks him questions too.”
“What kinds of questions?” Maelle glanced at the middle sister, whose face was hidden under a veil of sable black hair.
“Things right in front of him because they keep him going straight. What’s right in front of you?”
She turned her focus to what was right in front of her, only to balk in a mixture of surprise and disgust, as her sister’s sinister chuckle rang in her left ear, at the object perfectly level with her eyes – her mother’s leather laden apple shaped ass!
“And to think,” Father said. “You will inherit that someday.” She looked up as their father looked down at her with a pair of eyes that Ludivine inherited, except now instead of being cold as ice, they were as warm as the afternoon sky they stood under. “Ask him about colors. He likes colors.”
“Vespasian,” Maelle said as she secured his hand, “What color is… the Citadel?”
“I don’t know.” The boy once again attempted to scale her shoulders. “I can’t see it anymore. Let me up!”
“You can remember.” She calmly pulled away and firmed her grip.
“No, I can’t.” He rolled his amber eyes and shrugged his shoulders.
“Fine. What color…” She spied the thick solo scarlet braid on the woman before her. “Is Mother’s hair?”
“Red.”
“What about her tunic?”
“White.”
“And her trousers?”
“Black… and shinny.” Vespasian tilted his brown shaggy head. “I think I can see my face on her right..."
“Continue!” Mother belted out without turning. “Challenge him, Maelle, or else he’ll get bored.”
...And difficult. Maelle looked at Mother’s sun kissed arm sprinkled with cinnamon freckles, something she had inherited from her already. “What color is Mother’s skin?”
“… Snickerdoodle.”
They all halted for the first time.
“Your son is calling you a cookie, Alix.” Father said with another chuckle as he patted the bag of baked goods in the sack over his back.
“Correction: he’s calling me sweet.” Mother curtsied as she feigned innocence. “I’m flattered, Vespasian. Thank you.” No one was fooled.
Not even Vespasian. “Nuh Uh! I was calling you… OW! Hey! Why did you?” A cat like strike drew blood on the boy’s arm. Ludivine was quick; Maelle didn’t even notice her there behind Vespasian. “That hurt!” He yanked his hand out of Maelle’s grasp, struck back at the middle sister, and thus the two of them began their daily slapping match.
If Maelle could have grinned and grimaced at the same time she would have, grinning because her sister had just saved her brother from offending their mother by scratching him and getting herself into trouble, but grimacing because she had failed miserably in controlling the youngest Villeneuve, and all three would likely be punished when they got home for embarrassing their parents in public like this. All she could do was stand there with the blank face of a person who had given up. Just as Father had scooped Vespasian up under his arm, and just as Mother had yanked Ludivine back by the collar, a call from the side halted the scene. “Esme Villeneuve!”
It came from a man with well kept silver hair and lines along his slightly aged face that bracketed a courteous smile. Instead of inquiring, like Ludivine so foolishly did, Maelle used the skills of deduction that her parents taught her, focusing on his clothes: a crimson doublet with matching trousers; a pair of leather boots polished to perfection; a crème cape held together by a bronze Seal of The Republic. She took in the spicy scent of the expensive cologne, which he must have bathed in for her to be able to smell it at this distance, and she recalled the voice, which carried even in two words an authoritative base rarely used by anyone to address her father. He may have just been a merchant, but as he liked to say, he was the merchant. She quickly tossed her right hand over to her left shoulder and bowed to solute the Senator. She seemed to catch on just in time, as everyone in sight bowed, Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Fae, everyone except for the man he had addressed.
“You’ll forgive me Senator…”
“Yarborough.”
“As you can see, my right arm is occupied.” Father motioned to Vespasian hanging off his arm. “Lest you care to see me solute you backwards like my son is doing right now.”
“I find such formalities to be flattering,” The Senator spoke over a few chuckles in a crowd his presence had otherwise silenced. “But altogether unnecessary and a waste of valuable time.”
“As much as a waste of time as stating it to be a waste of time?” Father said with eyes to the sky in contemplation… or confusion.
“It certainly isn’t less of a waste of time.” Mother mimicked his look, as did Ludivine and Vespasian, whom it fit quite well. An embarrassed Maelle took a step to the side in a futile hope that she wasn’t associated with a family that insulted a Senator of the Republic of Corone.
“Consider it for future reference.” The official’s plastered on smile persisted, surely choosing to omit the offense.
“Oh!” Mother gasped and dropped her sack of dried vegetables as she looked at their father. “Love, he expects to see us again!”
“Now that’s flattering.” Father put his son and his sack down, then placed his hands on his hips. “Senator Yarborough, is this the beginning of a beautiful relationship?”
“I bet it is.” Mother winked at the few fellow pedestrians who still indulged them.
“Mr. Villeneuve.” Yarborough clasped his hands together. The two had managed to erode his courteous façade a bit for his smile wasn’t as big, and his voice carried a hint of exasperation “The matter at hand is of grave urgency.”
“Right.” Father took a deep breath and wiped his smile off of his face with an invisible rag. “My apologies. What can I do for you?”
“As you know, The Republic is hours away from renewing the Hand That Feeds The Treaty with the Kingdom of Alerar. We assumed it would be as simple as signing the same treaty on new parchment, but complications have risen. The Queen’s ambassadors demand new conditions that are unacceptable, and we would like for you to lend your expertise.”
“My expertise for what per se? I am but one merchant, not a Senator or Noble.”
“This is true, but the treaty is very much a matter of trade in addition to security, and both countries would do well to hear your take on the economics of the situation, so if you would please accompany me to…”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. As you see we have produce to carry and must get them to our ship post haste.” Father motioned to the burlap sacks now sprawled across the ground.
“And I’m afraid the well being of this great nation of ours supersedes your need to keep your food fresh.” The smile was all gone now.
“Well.” Father paused a moment as he looked around. “Unfortunately for you, I see no men of the City Guard, CAD, or the Rangers to enforce an official summoning. Thus your administrative pull is nil. Come, everyone.” He picked up his food and began to walk. Maelle snatched Vespasian by the elbow, Ludivine picked up her food, and Mother did so too as they all followed behind their Patriarch, but before they passed the Senator, Esme halted. “By the way, I believe you meant to say great nation of mine as I am not a native of Corone.”
With a quick pop of the cotton on Father’s sleeve, the Senator stopped him and looked into his eyes with a somber face. “Esme… Brother, do you truly prefer to have it this way?”
“I have no brothers. I have a wife, two daughters, and a son, but no brothers. And I prefer…” Father raised his voice to let it echo about the plaza. “I prefer a duel. By the power vested in me by the Private Settlement Law of the Age of Dawn, before the pedestrians of the Niema River Plaza, and under the all seeing eyes of the Coronian Trinity, I hereby challenge the Senator Yarborough to a duel of honor. Do you accept?”
With a sigh. “It seems I have no choice.”
A beat of silence befell the Plaza, and then chaos. Mother spun around to Maelle and her siblings, kneeling down as she neared them, spreading her cotton draped arms like white wings, and scooping them up all at once to save them from the scrambling myriad of people. The naturally segregated ethnicities and nationalities melted together as they reorganized themselves, their multilingual conversation rising from an ambient hum to a deafening chorus of commands and expletives. Finally, after the men locked hands, after the women shoed away the clueless, and after a Dwarf warrior volunteered to call the duel, the chaos ended with the creation of a makeshift arena, a vast clearing surrounded by a circular boundary of what seemed to be a hundred men to Maelle. Mother placed them down between two of those men, a plain faced Coronian to their left and a flat faced Akashiman to their right, just behind their linked hands so they could easily see the combatants in the middle of the circle.
Maelle kept her eyes on Father as he rolled the sleeves of his tunic up in a pre battle ritual that only she seemed to notice. She had seen him duel, sometimes winning, forcing another man to yield and walking away with his head held high, other times loosing, being forced to yield himself and still walking away with his head held high. It was never a dire matter; just a simple way for two gentlemen to settle a dispute, but this time it was different for Father hadn’t resorted to his normal self deprecating humor to ease the tension, and Mother would usually be cheering him on by now.
“Gentlemen.” The Dwarf’s burly voice matched his appearance: long braided brown beard, boiled leather plate armor, wider than he was tall, and a mace tied to his earthen sash. He began to pull at that sash as he spoke. “Might I say it is a great honor to officiate this duel. Please show the people of Radasanth your weapons of choice.”
With a grinding slice, Yarborough drew his weapon, a longsword so polished it reflected the heavens it seemed to cut, and then with a charming little chime, Father drew his, an age stained rapier in his right hand and an equally tarnished parrying dagger in his left. The Dwarf continued. “We all know the parameters, but law dictates I speak them. The following shall be a battle of honor. He who yields, sustains critical injury rendering him unfit to fight, or dies by fatal blow submits victory to his opponent. Do you both hereby agree to halt upon declaration of defeat by your opponent?”
“I do.” Both opponents recited.
“Do you understand that refusal to yield is tantamount to agreeing to fight to the death even if your opponent does not.”
“I do.” They both recited again.
“Any final words?”
“… I gotta pee.” Vespasian said from their little corner. A few suppressed laughs arose from the crowd.
“Did you hear that, Villeneuve?” The Senator said with a smile. “Perhaps we should make it quick.”
“Let the boy piss his breeches.” Father shrugged his shoulders.
“All the better.” The official entered his battle stance, knees slightly bent, shoulders square, pointed tip of the blade leaning forward towards its target. “Let him do so in fear for his father’s life.”
“Um.” Vespasian leaned in to Maelle with amber eyes truly unknowing. “Why? Is Daddy sick?”
“Shut up!” Maelle hissed as she yanked him reproach. “He’s about to fight.”
“Well I know that,” Vespasian set his eyes on the pebbles on the ground as he mumbled. “Stupid.” Clearly the novelty of the duel had worn off even for the five year old Vespasian, but Maelle wasn’t about to tell him that the Senator more or less had just declared his intention to kill Father.
“Very well.” The Dwarf said as he raised a ripped piece of the sash into the air. “You may begin as this cloth touches the ground. May it become soiled with blood, sweat, tears, and honor.”
All fell silent, as if it weren’t quiet enough to begin with, as the Dwarf released it from his thick hand, and time seemed to stop as it floated to the ground. Yarborough attacked first, unleashing a bevy of horizontal and vertical strikes, moving with an ease uncommon for a man his age, but tainted with an unexpected haste throughout. All the while, Father eluded the longsword with ease, hopping just out of reach, skipping to the side, meeting the blade with his own, but never clashing with the senator outright for even Maelle knew the outcome – that flimsy rapier would snap in half. It was clear after the first wave of action, that he was at a disadvantage with that cheap pair of weapons even now as he moved nimbly along the edges of the ring and the Senator stood in the axis square with him.
The official attacked again with a series of diagonal strikes, perhaps hoping to force them to meet blades directly, but he only succeeded in further winding himself, as Father ducked lunged and ever so subtly redirected his strikes with the dagger’s protruding hilt. And yet he attacked a third time, bringing thrusts into the mix, causing suspicious murmurs among the crowd as he pressed forward and attempted to corner father in the living boundary of the arena.
“The Senator fights with haste.” The plain faced Coronian to their left said with a quizzical tilt of the head. “Thus he sacrifices technique and endangers himself with every advance.”
“This is true.” The Akashiman who held his hand said. “What’s the rush?”
“What would be the rush, Mother?” Maelle narrowed her eyes at the combatants as the dust they kicked up slowly floated their way. “They’re supposed to take their time so the City Guard can get here.” Once a duel had begun there was no legal way of stopping it, but the peacekeepers of Radasanth would enforce the results and put them on record. That was a good thing for the law and a man’s pride.
“Surely they will recognize the Senator.” Said the Coronian.
“Perhaps not.” Mother said from the other side of Ludivine and Vespasian, still strangely stoic as she rested a hand on Ludivine’s shoulder and led her back as the entire group shifted. The Senator had Father on the boundaries again, now closer to them, but this time he pranced out of reach like a dressage horse.
“He runs!” The red faced senator shouted to the audience. “Tail between his legs, skirt in a twist. It’s no wonder his wife wears pants. She should be the one in this duel.”
“That bait was in bad taste, ‘brother’.” Father said with a smile in the midst of gasps. “But I’ll bite.” He stepped back even more, now almost at the opposite end of the ring, as he began to mumble incoherent phrases in a strange melody. What was he doing? It reminded Maelle of herself when she made up random songs to pass the time. All of a sudden the High Elves in the crowd began to cheer, and she began to put the pieces together.
“No!” The Senator shouted with eyes grown wide as he chased the chanting man along the edges of the circle, but to no avail being the older man with the heftier weapon. “You don’t know how to do that!”
“Does he really know how to do that, Mother?” Maelle whipped her head around to look at her mother, who now donned a sinister smile. All she did was nod. It was only now that her heart pounded at its ribcage prison as if attempting to escape, not from paralyzing fear for her father, but from the pure exhilaration of what she was about to witness, something so few in this world were able to do.
Her heart seemed to stop and watch along with her as Esme Villeneuve came to a sliding halt, turned to his opponent, hit his two blades together, and became the origin from which a blinding crack in reality reached out to the senator faster than a striking snake and more deafening than a clap of thunder. The lightning bolt struck Yarborough’s longsword, but clearly shocked his hand as he was forced to drop it. He was the one in retreat now as the entire crowd voiced their approval in roaring glee. Father brought his blades together again, his lightning striking Yarborough in the foot this time, immediately charring his boot, compelling his leg to jerk about and force him to the ground. He charged with a molten tangerine rapier & dagger in hand, only to be stopped by two fingers – index and middle. Senator Yarborough had yielded.
“Foul play that was.” The Senator said through clinched teeth.
“You never said I couldn’t use any song magic. Besides they seemed to like it,” Father looked to the cheering band of Raiaerans, whom had pioneered the discipline and saw it coming before anyone else. “And you were in such a hurry I thought it only appropriate to assist you in ending things as quickly as possible,” The sound of an off tune goat horn dissolved the boundary and ushered in a brigade of men clad in rose and amber, armed to the teeth with swords, knives, bulky armor, and most notably long spears. He shrugged his shoulders. “But alas I have failed.”
The men of the City Guard were charged with enforcing the laws and officiating the results of any duel. Mother herded Maelle and her siblings along just as the highest ranked Guard addressed the Father.
“Villeneuve the Merchant in yet another duel.” The top Guard gave him a critical glance as he took a scroll from an assistant and shot him a nasty scowl. “Tell me why is it you don’t just use the Citadel? We wouldn’t have to chase you and your opponents down, and you can fight to the death knowing the monks would revive you.”
“Because we are busy folk, and the Citadel is all too often out of the way.” Mother said as she handed Father his sack of food. “Tell me, why do you see it necessary to give my husband such grief every time we go through this process?”
“Tell her to hold her tongue.” The guard mumbled to her.
“Need I have another duel on behalf of her honor?” Father mumbled back. Maelle didn’t think they had the time for another duel. It was a good thing the Guard allowed it to pass. “Anyways I seldom have the honor to clash swords with someone as prestigious as a senator.”
“Senator? This man?” The Guard cocked his head back at the statement. He looked at Father’s twitching opponent of a moment then he turned away and shouted. “Who officiated this duel?”
“I, Sir.” The Dwarf said, compelling him to look down. “I am.”
“He claimed himself a Senator?”
“That he did, Sir. Senator Yarborough is what he said. He never spoke his given name.”
“He’s not?” Father feigned an astonished gasp in a jest that even Vespasian was able to catch.
He laughed as he said “Daddy knew.” but once again failed to comprehend the gravity of the situation. Maelle did, but she tilted her head in confusion.
“No. There are only a few dozen of them to represent the entire island nation and we know them all personally…” The Guard put his hands on his hips and shot yet another scowl at Father. “And you do too, Mr. Villeneuve. You hold audience with them on a regular basis.” That scowl slowly transformed into a smile of revelation. “Clever.” he said as he gave him a jovial punch on his shoulder.
“He’s an imposter!” The Dwarf warrior barked out. “And you knew?”
“Who would believe little old us?” Mother said, lifting her shoulders to her ears, lightly kicking the rocks on the ground, and feigning a smile of innocence. Now these were the sarcastic cynical parents she knew.
“I beg to differ! Was it not worth attempting to speak out?”
“Hey hey hey. When was the last time the masses have seen a member of the government on a regular basis.” Father said. The head City Guard slowly raised his hand as he narrowed his eyes, clearly taking offence to the fact that Father, along with many people, didn’t hold him in high enough esteem to be a member of the government. He was though. “You know what I mean! We read about them in the local papers, but they rarely provide sketches. It would have been his word against ours. Don’t take it as an insult to your intelligence. The man is wearing the best forgery I’ve ever seen. The broach, the cape, it’s all real.”
“And punishable by death.” The head Guard snapped his fingers and his subordinates apprehended the imposter.
“And on with us. We should have set sail by now. Hey!” Mother clapped her hands in Maelle’s face. “His hand!”
They continued their trek home resuming their formation, Mother leading from the front, Father guarding from the back, all resuming the normal bickering as if he hadn’t just participated in a life or death duel, used magic, and exposed an imposter, and put him to death. Was this only apparent to her? Surely her parents were just keeping up appearances… like she was. Disappointing as it was, she knew neither Ludivine, who maintained her signature nonchalance even through the battle, nor Vespasian, who was a slave to every little stimulus around him, were plagued by the questions that she was. It was just another day in the life – a small reprieve from plaguing hers, as Vespasian resumed being a pesky responsibility and Ludivine resumed being a subtle critic of all her actions. Relief came in the feint smell of waste and the sound of distant waves beating at the shore. The crowds became thick again, and the turning and winding around the buildings resumed, but this was a good sign now. They were almost home, and knowing this, Maelle began to shrug it all off.
“Finally.” Father said as they reached the crest of a hill looking over the lifeline of the world’s greatest maritime power, the Niema River. “Just get a whiff of that rotten river of dung and dough.”
And there sitting along the busy docks, built of timbre so beautiful it resembled bronze, draped of canvas so clean it resembled the powdered clouds above, The Continental was a home like no other - a swift three masted galleon capable of carrying them to far and exotic lands, and introducing them to strange and fascinating peoples, complete with a quartet of castrati to mind it at all hours. As far as Maelle was concerned there was no need for a boastful so-called world class city like Radasanth if her very home served the same function.
“Where do we go next, Daddy?” Vespasian said as he waved at the castrati.
“Scara Brae.” Father said as their feet pounded on the wood panels of the pier. “So we’d best prepare for rough waters. It’s hurricane season.”
“Will we get to see the Great Lagoon”
“We sure will. In fact we’ll have to sail through there to drop anchor.”
“It would be nice to see the dolphins this go round.” Maelle said as her voice grew sad. “Last time they were hiding because of the jellyfish migration.”
“I like the jellyfish more.” Said Ludivine in her typical contrarian role. “Remember when they were glowing at night? There were so many, and they were so big, some even bigger than The Continental.”
Maelle could hear an undertone of excitement in her sister’s voice. As she watched the castrati extend the ramp she wondered if she was truly excited about the jellyfish, or simply excited to be different. Either way, it was genuine. She contemplated the possibilities as they stood there in silence waiting for the ramp to settle.
And then it all ended without warning and within seconds. Three massive thuds came from within the belly of the ship, each inflating its pristine wooden hull like a balloon until it finally gave way, planks fracturing, giant splinters flying free, and the three masts falling like giant cedars – slow and crying in agony, all of this preceding an invisible wave of pressure and heat that smacked Maelle’s entire body and seemed to knock her half way across the world. If only. She landed on the docks, head first, shoulders second, sending a sharp pain from her throbbing skull down the length of her spine, that pain holding her entire body hostage, not allowing her to cry, barely allowing her to even breathe as she lay there on her back, her blurring vision on the rain of splinters falling from the sky, her wavering sense of hearing muffling the screams of terror from all around. She was ready to slip out of consciousness, but not before her father descended upon her with a face riddled with cuts, bruises… and a smile.
“Good job, Maelle. Good job.” He said between shallow breaths. “You held his hand. When it counted the most, you held his hand.”
She closed her eyes with a sigh of relief, grasping the little hand in hers as her consciousness faded.
“… Now let go. He just pissed himself.”
The International
05-05-12, 11:40 AM
A gas lamp coated the inn room in a fleeting orange glow as it sat on a small table in the corner. It lent that light to the opposite side of the room, where a veiled canopy bed harboured three snoring children in plush maroon sheets, to one wall, where nothing but a window and a set of drapes separated an anxious pacing Esme from an all to familiar Radasanth, to another wall, where Alix softly pounded her head on a set of double doors, and to the floor, where a massive canvas map of all the known world was sprawled out.
Along the south of this world sat three island nations, the matriarchal dessert society of Fallien Isle to the west, the tropical outlaw haven of Scara Brae in the center, and the maritime empire of Corone, the largest of the islands and the one on which they were stranded, to the east. They framed the mainland, which was dominated by three nations: Raiaera, the magical land of the High Elves, sitting on the eastern side closest to Corone; The Dark Elf Monarchy of Alerar, a country of steam and science held dominion over the western side; and the Aristocracy of the desolate frozen Salvar Steppe lay itself along the north of both Elven nation’s combined. The issue of the evening, which had driven them both to drink, argue through clinched teeth and muted screams, and shed tears until their eyes were bloodshot, was not the acquisition of a new ship for they were resourceful and neither The Continental nor its crew truly belonged to them, and it was not about the imposter who attempted to abduct Esme and then kill him in front of the family for he had been properly dealt with, but it was about where to find sanctuary from the people who destroyed the ship and sent the imposter, the people whom they once called friends, nay, family.
Alix rubbed her eyes. “Six countries, a dozen races, nearly twelve million square miles of land, and we have nowhere to hide?”
“Tis the nature of the beast.” Esme rubbed his temples.
“What of the governments?”
“We don’t know who is in the Coalition’s pocket. We’d have to trade secrets for protection, and their ideas of protection may leave us more vulnerable than ever.”
“What if we retreat to the temples.”
“Just as vulnerable to corruption than the governments. Plus we may have pissed off a deity or two in our day. T’would give them perfect opportunity to pay us back in kind.”
“So…” Alix started for the lamp. “Should we stay in one place for long enough, they will find us and find a way to get us.”
“Yes.” Esme peeked out the window.
She picked up the lamp and hung it over the map. “We must stay on the move.”
“Yes.”
“Acquire a new ship?”
“Easy enough, but we must get our hands on one as soon as we can. As long as we stay on Corone, we’re as good as dead.” He pointed to the kids. “And they get sold off.”
The thought paralyzed her for a moment. “We’ll keep to the coasts. Stay inland for no more than two or three days.”
“Which is to be expected of good merchants to begin with… but they’ll always be after us.” He approached, and put his arm around her as they both looked their children. “Do you remember what that assassin in Scara Brae told us about our line of work? It was millennia ago, but it rang so true.”
“That? You want to bring up that at a time like this?” Alix pulled away and looked at him.
“So you do remember?” He said with a laugh.
She bit her lip and took a moment before she spoke. “Good purveyors of the world’s second oldest profession must learn to take advantage of the things their targets love, whether it be a vice, possession, or person and… and in the unfortunate but inevitable event that they become targets themselves, love nothing, for those enemies can and will aim for it.”
“That’s what’s happening right now, and it will continue to happen until they kill us.”
Alix looked at her husband as she put the lamp down, sat at the little table, and pulled at her hair with a look that screamed No Shit.
Esme crossed his arms and stared into the distance, choosing his next words carefully. “We should amend this axiom with a question.” He took another long pause. “What if the ones you love are fully capable of not only defending themselves from our enemies, but strong, resourceful, and ruthless enough to drag our enemies through every door of the Pyre some call Hell? I know it wasn’t the plan. It wasn’t even considered, but.”
“It’s our only option, no doubt, the exact opposite of the plan.”
“In a way, this is the life of all.” Esme shrugged.
Alix narrowed her eyes – another one of those weird sayings. The man wasn’t a sage, but he damn sure tried to be.
“One generation, being aware of its own mortality narrowly escapes death day by day in all its forms, while simultaneously preparing the next generation to face death as well.”
“That’s a bit fatalistic.” Alix rolled her eyes as she pointed to a moleskin sketchbook at the top of a pile of belongings in the corner. “Especially given our unique situation.”
“First off,” Esme pointed to himself. “Do you see a depressed face or hear a somber tone? No. second, I refuse to give into the temptation of hubris. We are still one of many cogs in this complex clockwork we call Althanas.”
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