Peculiar Soul

As phase three proceeds we have shifted the majority of our Leiko forces into plan variant 41-F-Moderate. Naval salvage efforts are proceeding apace, with at least three-hundred recovered Safid ensouled. Approximately half of these have been transferred to our affinity management specialists for retention exercises (per 50-A-Aggressive), the remainder will be officially reported as prisoners of war.

An analysis of Mendian’s performance is attached following the main report, with a revised table of promising technology acquisition targets. The punitive expedition has returned to Goitxea via expected routes.

Sever remains problematic even with Stellar’s departure from the theatre, particularly in light of his successes against the Azim Alsu outer lines. A scenario where he or the Swordsmen interact directly with the civilian population of Azim Alsu is to be avoided at all costs; given the increased Mendiko scrutiny of the front the probability of intervention in that case is unacceptably high.

Sever’s excesses also have raised the prospect of counterattack by Sustain’s primary force. This is not necessarily a negative if it can be used to reposition rogue forces and curb their premature advance on Azim Alsu without invoking a serious opinion management action against Sever. Special precaution should be taken to avoid any mismanaged intelligence assets falling into Safid hands in this event, as the Swordsmen are notably lax where information security is concerned.

- Institute Circular #3412, 12 Bounty 693.

Dim sunlight filtered in through the window of Roland’s tavern, catching the steam that rose from stew and warm bread scattered across the table. There was little conversation amid their supper; the afternoon had been spent upon the hungry work of checking and packing gear for their upcoming trip to the western front.

Roland wandered by the table with a tray of drinks - a deep crimson wine for Charles, water for Gerard, and stoneware mugs of ale for Vernon, Clair and Michael. Yesterday had been the same, as had the day before; Michael had been surprised at the speed daily routines had asserted themselves once more into his life.

The partisans were not a strictly-scheduled group, as a rule, but Clair’s stringent requirements for their impending expedition imposed a schedule of necessity. Food was checked and rechecked, packs were inspected for wear, field gear was cleaned, oiled and carefully wrapped in canvas and oilskin. Clair had been largely absent throughout their preparation, instead spending much of the past week reaching out through Sobriquet to confirm safehouses and perimeter crossings along their route.

As they sat and quietly worked through their bowls of stew Michael found himself thinking of his visit to Raven House so many months ago, to the dinner he had shared with Sofia and her small circle of friends. There had been a camaraderie between them that he found intoxicatingly novel at the time; an ease and relaxed tenor to the conversation that he had never felt in his years at the Baumgart household.

In hindsight it had been nothing truly special. Jeorg had frequently remarked that Sibyl’s circle tended towards impulsivity and overconfidence, while Michael had seen nothing in the moment but decisiveness and poise. Seeing Spark’s power firsthand had likewise colored his thoughts on Vera, her intentions notwithstanding.

For all that the night had lost some of its luster in Michael’s memory, he still treasured the experience. It had shown him something distinct and essential that he had not known he lacked.

Yet it was similarly distinct from the comfortable silence the partisans now enjoyed around their table. Silence at a meal was a thing to be avoided, per his father’s teachings. Meals were only incidentally about nourishment, serving more as a fixed point in the social schedule of Ardan aristocracy where people could come together and correspond on a variety of issues. Even Michael’s meals alone with his father had been full of one-sided diatribes about the business of Karl’s day.

Eating with the partisans was more like eating with Jeorg, and the similarity brought a welcome sense of calm to Michael’s evenings. There were times when he almost expected the smell of flowers or pipe smoke to drift through the tavern, or the sounds of the nighttime forest to assert themselves over the evening’s peace.

Today, though, the silence was broken when Clair pushed her chair back from the table and stood. “We’ve received word from the last of our contacts today,” she said. “Our passes have been arranged, we’ll be admitted through the lines as laborers for the engineering corps. We’ve got one of our embedded men working to identify the battalions that left Leik the day before the attack. If all goes well we should have broad access to their camp.”

“If all goes well,” Charles repeated.

Clair gave him a brief, annoyed glare. “Obviously there are unpredictable elements,” she said. “The front is in chaos right now. We can’t even get reliable reports on how far the Ardans have advanced.”

“But they have advanced?” Gerard asked.

“Yes,” Clair confirmed. “Well down the coast from Leik. The Safid have largely yielded territory rather than contesting it. We’ve had reliable indications that they’re sending troops to fortify Imes.”

Vernon sat up, blinking owlishly; Charles frowned. The mood at the table turned somber. “Been more than thirty years since the Safid took Imes,” Gerard said. “The parliament district is still rubble. If they fight in the city again, there won’t be a city left.”

“Better rubble than standing as Safid,” Charles grunted. “Say what you will about the Ardans, at least they’re not trying to make us Ardan. I was in Imes, five years back. They turned the Hall of Lindens into one of their damn temples, had it crammed with little Daressan children reciting the eight verses and praying to Sustain.” He spat on the floor, earning a harsh look from Roland. “Fucking zealots.”

Clair gave him a weary look. “You done?” she asked. Her eyes stayed fixed on Charles until the older man shrugged irritatedly and turned aside.

“We’re not going to the front to get the Safid out of Imes,” she said. “We’re going so that we can get the War out of Daressa. You’re going to hear Ardans talk about shelling the city to dust, or calling it Azim Alsu. What are you going to do when that happens?” She took a step to the side, placing herself in Charles’s field of view once more. “You going to rant at them too? Start a fucking fight?”

She took another step closer, and Charles met her eyes with a glare. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “I’ll do my job,” he said. “Like I always do.”

Clair pursed her lips, then turned to the rest of the table. “We’re going in quietly, but not unseen this time,” she said. “Sobriquet won’t be able to help us that far out. That means head down, mouth shut. We act like the Daressans that they expect to see - obedient, fearful and quiet.”

The others nodded, although Charles still bore a sour expression. Michael remained quiet, feeling somewhat like he was intruding on a family argument. He knew the recent history of the War only in the dry generalities of textbook history. The Safid had conquered the old Daressan capital well before he was born - indeed, he had always heard the city referred to by its Safid name of Azim Alsu.

He felt momentarily grateful that the topic had never arisen before now; Michael was certain that he’d have obliviously spoken per his tutors. He doubted that Charles’s professed restraint would have extended to cover that circumstance.

The awkward silence resolved as Clair took her seat once more and took a long, slow drink from her mug. She set it down and glanced at each of the others in turn; when her eyes met Michael’s they were resolute. “Absent any new reports we’ll leave at dawn tomorrow,” she said. “It’s at least five days from here to the lines - more, if the Ardans can keep up the advance.”

She drained the rest of her ale and stood. “Rest up while you’ve still got a cot to sleep in. I doubt you’ll see another before the month is out.”

True to her words, Clair had them on the road just as the sun’s first rays struck the nearby peaks. It was pleasantly cool; Michael had not felt such brisk air since before he left to live with Jeorg. The thought drew a melancholy sort of smile from him, one he wore as they picked their way across the worn wheel-ruts and toward the road to Leik.

Their group strayed wide of the still-smoldering city this time, their course swinging north toward the foothills. What chill had remained from the morning quickly fled, and despite Stefan’s soul Michael was soon unpleasantly warm. He was secretly glad of it; the sweat staining his shirt helped to mask his lack of exertion.

A shimmer at the corner of Michael’s vision hitched his step, but he was at least learning not to immediately look at Sobriquet when it appeared. “How far away from the safehouse can you appear?” Michael asked. “We’re well past Leik by now.”

“I wonder,” Sobriquet replied, amusement evident in its voice. “Perhaps farther than I’ve let on. Perhaps not. I find that ambiguity adds some spice to an otherwise dull day.”

Michael snorted. “I’ve been finding the taste of my days to be a bit strong as of late,” he said, noticing peripherally that the others in the group had not acknowledged their conversation; Sobriquet evidently wanted this to stay between them. “Was there something you wanted to discuss, or were you merely bored?”

“I am much too delightful to ever be bored,” Sobriquet said. “No, I merely thought we could indulge in some idle conversation, since your life seems to be terribly interesting. What was it like to be kidnapped?”

A breath caught in Michael’s throat, and he coughed. “You’ve been researching me?” he asked.

“Michael,” Sobriquet said reproachfully. “Please, neither of us should pretend to be things we are not. I made inquiries immediately, of course. Your disappearance seems to have caused quite the furore in Calmharbor.”

It was easier for Michael to keep his voice even, now that the initial surprise had subsided. “I can imagine it did,” he said. “It was very dramatic.”

“And then after such an exit, I could find no mention of your whereabouts until you washed up on our shore.” Sobriquet’s voice took on an amused tone. “What were you up to for those missing months, I wonder, and with whom? Certainly not the Institute, given all the efforts they made to locate you.”

Michael’s heart began to beat faster; Sobriquet had learned more than he had expected in such a short time. “Are you asking me to reveal my secrets now?” he asked. “That is not how I remember the terms of our deal.”

“Merely wondering aloud,” Sobriquet said. “I find myself lost in speculation quite often these days. It is odd that the Institute was so driven in pursuing you. Their business is first and foremost that of the soul. Is the soul of a spector that remarkable?”

A stray drop of sweat traced down from Michael’s brow; for once it had nothing to do with the heat. “Perhaps you should ask them,” he said, placing his words carefully to avoid unnecessary lies - or truths. “They would know better than I what their motivations were.”

“They would at that,” Sobriquet murmured. “Unfortunately, extracting secrets from the Institute is infamously difficult. I find them rather admirable in that one particular regard. I have far better luck when I attempt to work with people tangential to their operations rather than those directly involved. Are you a durens?”

It was only his elevated guard around Sobriquet that kept him from startling at the unexpected question. “I am a spector,” he said. “Didn’t we have this conversation before?”

Sobriquet hummed. “That we did,” it said. “Yet you continue to seem so very much like a durens. I have never seen you tire, even when exerting yourself. Your appetite is rather prodigious as well.”

“Proper exercise and nutrition are essential,” Michael said. It was becoming a strain to walk the line of noncommittal answers, and he suspected Sobriquet was thoroughly enjoying itself. “What’s your relationship with Clair?”

A buzzing laugh rippled through the air. “She’s a stray cat I’ve adopted,” it said. “Was that statement true or false? Have you been hiding that you’re a verifex?”

“I’m sure that would make dealing with you easier.” Michael raised an eyebrow. “You realize you’re suggesting something that flies in the face of modern science.”

Sobriquet shifted to hover upside-down over Vernon’s balding head; none of the others gave any sign that they saw the apparition. “Yes,” it said. “I’m sure that such a thing would overturn many dearly-held maxims of animetry. I can only imagine how fascinated the Institute would be to observe such a person.”

The blur disappeared, and Michael felt a prickling close to his ear. “They would spare no effort to hunt him,” Sobriquet whispered. “To capture him, hold him close for study.”

Michael felt a chill that stemmed from more than just Sobriquet’s proximity. He had thought himself clever enough to walk the knife edge of conversation, but this was too close to the truth. His perhaps-ally either knew more than it was letting on or was gleaning more from his answers than he assumed; either way, he had to end this conversation before more damage was done.

He turned and looked directly at Sobriquet, fighting to keep his eyes from twitching as the middle of his vision turned to sparkling chaos. “I will neither confirm nor deny any details of those months you’re so curious about,” he said. “They are part of our bargain. Do you mean to renege?”

“I would never,” Sobriquet purred. “But it is no fault of mine if you choose to fulfill your obligations in advance. Are you so cross to have been tested, even though you surrendered nothing?”

Michael snorted at the obvious bait; he would not allow himself to be roped back into talking about his secrets. “I would prefer that you find other ways to amuse yourself,” he said. “We have discussed the conditions under which my business becomes yours. Right now, it remains mine.”

Another faint laugh came from the blur. “Don’t forget that I can see the scope of that secret you carry,” it said. “Your business concerns everyone, and that concerns me.” The edges of the apparition flexed once, then began to fade. “I will respect your wishes, however. The front will demand your full attention. Keep your guard up and return alive.”

“I’m sure that concern has nothing to do with the secrets I owe you,” Michael said.

“It is a factor,” Sobriquet acknowledged faintly. “And not a small one. But in the end we are all more than just our soul. I’d rather you not die, Michael Baumgart.” The haze paused in its diffusion. “You’re far too interesting.”

Then it was gone, and Michael was left with only a headache.

Their third day of travel saw the terrain open up around them, falling away in a gentle slope of waving grass marked with wooded hollows. The wind set waves rippling across the hilltops and racing down to the valleys. It was a beautiful landscape; it cheered Michael’s heart until it occurred to him that Jeorg would have loved the view.

That thought was not enough to rob the lightness from his step, but it did add a flavor of melancholy to his thoughts as they walked. Jeorg might have seen this landscape before, in some distant past. Michael was not sure which thought he found more disquieting - that he was still following in Jeorg’s footsteps, or that he was walking somewhere the old man had never before ventured.

An idle impulse spurred him to reach for Stanza’s power, to see the flickering light of possibility dancing along the edges of the world as Jeorg would have. After a moment, he frowned; the soul was there, but its response was tepid and muted compared to what he had experienced on Spark’s island.

Memories of the island brought an image of the gnarled tree to Michael’s mind, and he shuddered. Perhaps that was it - that he had once again disjoined the pieces of his soul and used Stanza to encyst Spark. He strained once more to reach Stanza’s vision, the sense of pathways branching ever-outward. For a moment he saw the bright mirror-light rippling over the grass, blossoming in waves from every footfall.

The tree reasserted itself, and Michael stumbled as the momentary sense of clarity faded away. The scuff of his feet on the trail drew Clair’s attention; she paused to look at him, then at the position of the sun. “I suppose we could use a break,” she said, shrugging her pack off and withdrawing a canteen. “Take a moment. We’ve a long way yet to walk.”

Michael was not tired, but since he had inadvertently inspired the pause he let his pack drop to the grass as well. By the time he finished taking his swig of water, he found Clair standing close to him. She fixed him with an evaluating look.

“How’s your condition?” she asked.

Michael shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “Nothing to complain about.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she took a step closer. “You’ll gain no favor with me by playing the stoic,” she said. “If you have an issue that could impact the mission, I expect to hear about it promptly.”

“Noted,” Michael said, meeting her gaze. “But I’m fine, really. I’m not nearly as manly and dedicated as you’re implying.”

“Never crossed my mind that you were,” Clair said. “I noticed that you didn’t pack a pistol, when we were setting out.”

Michael blinked, looking down at his pack. “It didn’t occur to me,” he said. “I thought I was coming along in my capacity as a spector.”

“That’s the ideal case,” Clair said. “Firing shots on this trip would mean that things have gone very wrong.” She reached behind her back and withdrew a small, boxy pistol, holding it toward Michael. “If that happens, though, we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“I’ve never fired a pistol before,” Michael said, looking at the gun but making no move to take it from her. “I’m not sure I’d be of any use.”

Clair stepped forward and placed the gun on top of his pack. “We’ll be far from any towns tonight,” she said. “You can practice.” Her eyes locked on his for a moment, then she turned away to walk back to her pack. “Break’s over, let’s go.”

Michael picked up the gun, finding it surprisingly heavy for its small size. After a moment’s consideration he carefully stowed it in the top of his pack and moved to follow the others down the trail. The weapon seemed to have increased the weight of his burden by an undue amount, giving each step an uncomfortable solidity.

After a few dozen paces, Vernon dropped back to walk beside him. He was already flushed from walking and sweating profusely, but his eyes were thoughtful as he glanced over at Michael. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said wryly, tapping the side of his head. “She’s right, you know. It’s unlikely we’ll be using our weapons on this trip, but you should be prepared.”

“You brought one as well?” Michael asked. “I had thought any fighting was more of a job for the others.”

Vernon nodded. “As she said, that’s the ideal case. Compared to Charles and Gerard, one man with a pistol is a marginal asset.” He looked up toward where the other three were walking, then shook his head. “Sometimes the margins are thin, though. It’s good to be prepared.”

“You’ve used yours before?” Michael asked.

Vernon gave him a thin smile. “You mean to ask if I’ve shot a man?” he said. “Shot at, yes. Not precisely sure if I hit him. Distracted him enough that our group’s Cutter took his head off, though, which renders the point somewhat moot.”

“Ah,” Michael said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Vernon said. “I’m not. It was that or die, and I chose not to.”

Michael let the dirt crunch under his boots for a few paces while he pondered Vernon’s resolute tone. Spark’s death had been close, visceral and brutal; the memory evoked many emotions in Michael, but regret was not among them. In Claude’s case he felt remorse, but only for leaving him to suffer. The reconciliation was an uncomfortable one - his immediate aversion to the pistol sat poorly beside the cool, rational light in which he held his own past actions.

Vernon spoke again before Michael had managed to collect his thoughts. “You’re thinking about it too much,” he said. “I did too. I lost sleep. I wondered about what would happen if I drew the gun. Whether it would be worse to find my finger frozen on the trigger, or to find that it was all too easy.”

“Is it wrong to dwell on it?” Michael asked. “Some things shouldn’t be easy.”

The smile returned to Vernon’s face. “You said you killed a man. Was it hard? Or was it just necessary?”

Michael shrugged. “It was different. He had - hurt me, and would again. Life and death, like you said. I had no option to avoid that situation. So, yes: it was necessary.”

“Just so,” Vernon said. “And yet you’re still conflicted. You’re trying to find the choice that lets you carry the gun without using it.”

“You think I should resign myself to using it?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “It’s not supposed to be anything more than a contingency.”

“I think you should accept that you’re carrying a gun,” Vernon replied. “And recognize that we’re at war. Violence exists here whether you participate or not, and it behooves you to know your capacity for it.” He paused. “I am not a violent man, never was. I’m not a revolutionary, or even much of a patriot.”

“And yet,” Michael said.

Vernon nodded. “And yet. Do you know why?”

Michael shook his head.

“The same as before: life and death. Not anything as immediate as a firefight, but the War is choking the life from my country every year it continues. Daressans die. Our cities are burned, our fields and forests destroyed. The stakes have already been raised to death, and absent my action that death will be my own.” Vernon paused again, then reached over to clap Michael on the shoulder.

“I won’t say it’s always so simple,” Vernon said. “Or that I’m some jaded veteran. But I think it’s easier when you recognize that there is also violence in standing aside. How many bullets in that gun, and how many lives will we save if this works? Think on it, but not too much. When it matters, it won’t be difficult.”

The other man began to walk back to his former position in the line, and Michael cleared his throat. “Vernon?” he asked, not bothering to raise his voice - he would be heard regardless. “What did you do, before this?”

Vernon turned and gave Michael a wan smile. “I was a cellist,” he said, “in a little town to the north. The Safid took it about five years ago. Music is sacred to them - they cherish it, but only the songs of their faith.” He shrugged, then gave a little self-conscious laugh. “It’s silly, I know. You ask everyone else and they’ll tell you they lost family or friends to the War. I did too, but - well. Fear is a funny thing.”

“I don’t think it’s silly,” Michael said. “It sounds as though you loved it.”

“I did.” Vernon shrugged. “I do. There’s just no space for it right now. One day someone will give a speech proclaiming the end of the War in whatever is left of Imes, and they’ll want to play Forth Daressa right after. The cello part is just awful - repetitive, very dull to play. Essential, though. They’ll need a good cellist. That’ll be me. All of this is just - a necessary prerequisite, to get us from here to there.”

He smiled and turned to the front once more. Michael heard him hum softly as he walked - the same sequence of eight notes, over and over again.