If he’s a guard, he’s not a very good one. He’s leaning back into the wall and snoring quietly to himself.
I close the door and think about this for a minute. I open it again. I reach out and tap the guy on the shoulder. The guy jumps and his eyes startle open. The skullcap falls to the floor revealing a shaved head underneath it, and he bends down, grabs it, and places it back around his topknot. His face has the crimson glow of a blush as he turns to me.
“Khalee,” he says, bowing head and shoulders carefully. “My deepest apologies.”
I clear my throat. “Are you my guard?”
“Your guard?” He grins, though he tries to hide it. “Khalee, I’m your servant, if it pleases you. For the length of your stay.” His eyes are different colors—one of them brown, one of them blue. I didn’t know Humans could pigment that way.
“I could use some clothes.”
He nods. “Yes, khalee. I regret I didn’t anticipate…”
“It’s not a big deal. I just need something to wear.”
The servant nods. I close the door. A few minutes later, he knocks, comes in and lays an elaborate robe out on the bed. It’s a dark, rich blue material caked in semiprecious gemstones stitched into repeating patterns of herons, and the trim on the sleeves is lined with woven silver. The man bobs his head nervously, trying to read my frown, I think.
This robe would feed me for half a year.
He holds out his hand for the sheet. “Can I help you dress, khalee? Again, I offer my apologies. I wasn’t sure if your species generally wore clothing now, or if you would be able to cover your skin so soon given your condition.
He’s got a Tilhtinon accent—longer vowels, clipped consonants. “I think I can manage it,” I say.
“I hope you understand I meant no disrespect. Shall I wait outside?”
“You can wait wherever you want,” I say. “What’s your name?” I step out of the blanket, feeling the man’s eyes take in the burns and bruises. I pick up the heavy robe and stick my arms carefully into the wide sleeves. It stings, but I think I can manage it.
“My name? Khalee, you can call me whatever you want.”
“I’d like to use your real name, unless that makes you nervous or something.”
The man with the two-colored eyes nods. “I’m Semper,” he said.
“Semper.” I tie the silver waist cord without pulling it too tight and look down at myself. I feel incredibly gaudy. A decorated statue of the Old Father, ready for burning. “I’m Blackwell. Just Blackwell. Do you know why I’m here?”
“Khalee, you are the Fleet Captain’s honored guest.”
I laugh. “You mean a prisoner of war? I’m to be ransomed, then?”
“Perhaps. Many are, if they’re worth a substantial sum.”
“Well, someone has a surprise coming. Do I have to stay in the room?”
“You can go anywhere you’d like on the ship, khalee. I’d be happy to show you around myself.” He touches two fingers to the knife at his chest. “The Fleet Captain also requests your presence for dinner this evening.”
“The Fleet Captain? And when is dinner?” I’m still starving, I realize. How long was I out for?
“It might be good if we made our way up there shortly. Are you able to walk, khalee? To climb stairs? Do you require conveyance? A litter, perhaps.”
“I’ll be fine. Just go slow.”
“Then, khalee, you’ll have enough time to bathe. Do you require assistance in the bath?”
“I’ve washed,” Blackwell said. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”
“With all respect to your customs, khalee. We will need to ensure the Fleet Captain is
also
comfortable?”
He touches his knife again with two fingers, and two burly Akarii wheel a cart with brushes and combs, bowls of steaming water and jugs of scent into the room.
I sigh, and sit back down on the bed.
20.
“Y
ou’ll permit me to lead you?” Semper opens the door to the corridor. I’ve been washed, dried, and perfumed with an overlaying series of Akarii spices and oils that make my nostrils twitch. The rough edges of my claws have been trimmed, my teeth have been polished, the knots in my remaining fur have been thoroughly brushed out, and they had me swallow this glass of clear liquid that reeked of mint. I'm still burping it.
I think I’d rather come face to face with the Tel Kharan again.
Semper leads me down the long hall, and turns into a tour guide. “Have you been aboard an Akarii warship before? A First Family ship?”
I grimace. “I’ve spent my time avoiding them, to be honest.”
He grins. “That’s truly unfortunate, khalee! Short of Tilhtinon, or perhaps the Twelve Citadels at Balashiev, I think you’ll find the warships to be some of the best examples of Akarii craftsmanship. Certainly one of the best integrations of form and function the Family has produced in these difficult, modern times. Were you aware that there are seven of these ships in use now? Each one of them it’s own city, complete to itself? That’s nearly as many as were in service to the Lunar Council in Dekheret’s time.”
He stops at the base of an intricately carved spiral stair, waits for Blackwell to join him—I’m moving pretty slowly—and we begin climbing. “Confidentially, khalee, I’m told that another is nearing completion in the deep harbor at Khaspinon. Five years to complete! They say that it took an entire forest to frame in the hull. That so much gold was inlayed into the ceiling of the great hall that it weighed more than a thousand men.”
We climb up a level, take a series of turns through interconnected corridors, walk for a long while, and climb up to another level. To be honest, I can’t tell I’m on a ship at all. This could be any contained city anywhere—we’ve come out of a residential section and into a commercial one, with shops and public squares, that’s full of activity. The higher we go, the more elegant it gets, and the halls grow bigger and busier until I’m pushing my way through rowdy crowds, trying to keep up with Semper’s topknot. It’s like one big roving party here—hard to believe we’re on a ship at sea that’s going to war.
The whole fascination that Tamaranth has, and apparently the Akarii have now, with Earth is something I find just plain weird, probably because I’ve hung out there a lot and no one else has had the chance yet. I see Japanese girl-band t-shirts on Stona, a Talovian eating what looks like a corn dog, and I swear I pass someone dressed up in goth.
Vendors are hawking I Heart New York posters and cheap San Francisco cable car souvenirs, donuts and dim sum, malai kofta and latkes and stir-frys.
Many of the Akarii we pass on these levels, though, are robed and capped much like Semper.
One of them, I notice, is short and very round and looked suspiciously like Fehris. He even limps past slowly, leaning on a carved Akarii staff. But the man avoids looking at me. I can’t be sure.
Other Akarii are dressed in gauzy silk. Silvered bracers cover their forearms, and some of them have elaborately constructed plumages of birds across their heads and shoulders, despite the fact that they’re clearly human. Their faces are painted in silver and terracotta, they’re wrapped in thick, feathered cloaks, and they wear thin tiaras studded with bright gems. Each of them seems to have their own group of bodyguards, too.
These Akarii study me, as much as I study them.
Some of them even stop and stare as Semper and I push past, and then break into excited whispers and strange, bird-like chirps.
Semper continues to talk about the ship back over his shoulder, and I swivel my ears forward to hear him. He stops at each of the major squares to talk about the artist or the layered metaphors the ships’ designers had intended in the positioning of the work in relation to other works throughout the upper decks of the ship. He points out tapestries and wall hangings. (All of the depicted scenes relate to magework or war or birds.) He talks about the various sources of the wood used to line the floors or the walls, the worms that produced the silk used for the hangings across the skylights, and how the hangings themselves are precisely angled to help direct the wind deeper into the ship.
Frankly, I’m overwhelmed by the wealth on display everywhere. My room in Tamaranth is small and dark, with barely enough space for a dirtnest and chair, and the tiny window looks out into one of the long airshafts that shoots down through the Warrens. If I’m lucky, I’ll see interesting trash drifting down from the upper levels. Tamaranth itself has been a city without a family, and one that’s been at war for a long time. While there are a few of the wealthier districts that have pulled it together, many of the streets are lined with trash and the buildings are streaked with grime. Some days even the people on the streets seem coated with grey.
This ship is spotless. The people are all bright and glittery, like jewels. There are pleasant smells drifting on the sea breezes.
It all makes me deeply suspicious.
Semper stops me at one particular small piece of art, set into the wall of one building, that I would have walked right past. It’s a war scene, realistically carved across a series of alternating pieces of copper, jade, and moonstone, no wider than the spread of my two hands. On top of a rocky outcrop, a young human girl in the armor of the Tel Kharan stands at the head of a battle matrix of Akarii marines. The group is backed against a steep drop, and they are surrounded by a crowd of Grohmn-Elite, the intelligent version of that herd animal. Not something you want to meet unprepaired. They're masked and armored in their squat, bulbous suits and all of them pressing murderously forward. The stance of the marines was firm, noble—and the face on the girl is triumphant despite what seemed like overwhelming numbers of the Grohmn and what’s probably about to be a massacre.
“
The Battle of Mardiket
. Carved in 822, I believe,” Semper says. “Forty-nine years after the invasion itself, by the Akarii reckoning of course. The artist was Tockre tiAkarii. Do you know your Family history?” I shake my head. Semper takes a small magnifying glass out of a pouch near his left shoulder, and offers it to me. “The Fleet Captain’s grandmother is there, in front.” Semper indicates the girl. “And you should notice this figure,” he says. He points to the first marine in the matrix. “You need to look closely.”
I lean in. Though the details of the carving have worn with time, the figure in Akarii armor, leading the matrix from the first position, has the unmistakable features of a Hulgliev.
I feel some of my remaining fur stand up in surprise. I look a question at Semper.
“And there’s another one you should see, down this way,” Semper says, leading me down a side passage. He opens a door that leads off the corridor into a small sitting room, and on the wall of the room is a stark oil painting on canvas of two Tel Kharan marines in full battle armor. The style is realistic and detailed—I can see the sharp edges of the archaic steam armor, the detail on the clothing. Their helms are open, and their features leap out as though they’re alive.
“That’s Dekheret there,” Semper says, indicating the marine to the left. The founder of the Lunar Council wears a benevolent expression on her full and open face. A thin circlet of silver lies across her brow, and lines of merriment crease her eyes. But what really draws my gaze is the Hulgliev that stands next to her. He also wears the full powered armor of a Tel Kharan marine, but his face and head are lined with silver and red pigment, traditional Hulgliev war paint. He’s huge and muscled, powerful and serious, and he’s so real I want to salute him.
He takes my breath away. I sit down hard on the floor.
You have to remember—I grew up with men grown old and bitter, or at least resigned. The few of us that are left hide in distant forests or mountains. We’re farmers now, or thieves, or beggars.
This man is from another world entirely.
There is no sheath for a knife across the Hulgliev’s chest. Instead, his left hand is held out, palm up, and in it stands a silver flower with a large, glowing blossom carved from a red gem. It stands vertically on his palm as though balanced there, without support.
I don’t have any words, but I turn to Semper. “That’s Farsoth,” he says. “Do you know of him?”
“A little. But not very much.”
And I want to know more.
“General Farsoth was Dekheret’s right hand in all matters, her most trusted ally and friend. He founded and led the Tel Kharan, though they will deny it now. He stood by Dekheret when the Council was formed and the city of Tilhtinora was raised into the air.”
“And the flower?”
Semper nodded again, as if expecting the question. “
Te’loria
, of course. The flower of the Akarii.”
“Peacemaker.”
“Yes, khalee. The peacemaker. Dekheret had it forged from an elemental glyph by the Khrytin, specifically for Farsoth as a sign of her gratitude and trust and, we believe, her love. Farsoth and Te’loria were the keys to Dekheret’s founding of the Lunar Council. Your race, and the Akarii Family, have long been tightly linked, Blackwell.
"The Fleet Captain and I think it’s important you know this.”
I nod. I’m still out of words. I stare at the image of Farsoth. The man is magnificent, and I feel a familiar sinking feeling inside myself, one I got used to while listening to my aunt’s endless stories of great Hulgliev of the past. She was damn clear that I would never measure up to what the Hulgliev had once been.
Looking now at this picture of Farsoth, I’m thinking she might be right.
I sigh, and then climb to my feet, refusing Semper’s offer of support. The tight collar pulls at my throat. “Let’s talk to this Fleet Captain of yours,” I say.
Semper smiles.
21.
A
fter the overwhelming ornamentation of the city-ship, and the extreme costume of the head servant outside of the Fleet Captain’s door—he's a tall, elegant heron shaped from silver and feathers, covered with tiny sapphires and crowned with a long, beak-like platinum tiara studded with diamonds—the Fleet Captain’s cabin is startling in its simplicity. The room is immense and mostly empty, except for some spare furniture set back against the large bank of windows that look out from the stern of the ship. Plain dishes and cutlery are set out on a slim wooden table with two simple chairs. Woven cushions with simple geometric patterns are scattered around a large globe of glowing magefire. The walls are a calm shade of pale blue.