Parabolis (23 page)

“Mister Fairchild, how familiar are you with the Machina Group?”

“I’ve done business with some of its members at one point or another. But that’s the extent of it. I knew better than to get involved in Machina. I’m no traitor.”

“Could you clarify what you mean by that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Met with blank stares, Fairchild cocked his head. “You don’t know.” The old mining mogul sat back in his chair, relishing the fact that he knew something the Republic’s premiere intelligence agency did not. He pressed his fingers together as he explained. “Machina is supporting the Kingdom of Bale. They have been for years now. Of course, they have investments in publicly traded assets as well, securities and such. But that’s just a ruse. The Machina Group has been directly financing the Thalian Regime. All of them, set to reap great fortune from a war. Hence, the mounting tension along the borderlands, the construction of the Ancile—it was all by elaborate design.”

“Mister Fairchild, are you talking about a conspiracy?” asked Norman.

“Of the highest kind.”

Norman looked as if he had just learned of a loved one’s infidelity. While the sentinels were reeling from the implications of this revelation—that Dale had been right, that war was coming—Fairchild added, “War can be quite profitable for those who stage it. Perhaps these assassins are trying to prevent that.”

“Then why would your name come up?”

Fairchild smiled. “Surely, this isn’t the first time my name’s been mentioned with ill intentions.”

“Mister Fairchild, the Samaeli—”

“Is not my concern. I trust Quintus here will see that no unwelcome guests breach my personal space.”

“All of the assassinations were successfully carried out in spite of heavy security. This may be beyond your scope to appreciate.”

“Then so be it. I appreciate you coming all this way to warn me.” Then he rose from his seat, walked over to the door and held it open. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a train to catch. Quintus, show these men out.”

“Yes, sir. This way.”

As they made their way out of the study, Sentinel Walsh stopped at the door. “Mister Fairchild, if I may, one final question. Do you know who the chairman of the Machina Group is?”

“If I knew that, I would already be dead.” Fairchild held up a finger and stated what the sentinels were already thinking. “Perhaps he’s the one you should be looking for. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Once the sentinels had been escorted out, Fairchild retreated back to his room where he removed his shirt and hung it up beside his coat in his otherwise emptied wardrobe. He took up his glass of brandy and finished what was left of it. He did not notice that the Bene-seneschal’s note he had set it on had gone missing.

He went to the washroom, relieved himself, and ran the faucet. While rinsing his face he looked at his own reflection in the mirror. The dimly lit man staring back at him was a weathered shell of the portrait that hung on the landing. Weak and feeble. He would not miss the painting.

He sighed.

Then Fairchild noticed something dart behind him. Before he could turn, something grabbed him. In the mirror he saw his nose and mouth covered by a black leather glove. The grip was so tight he felt as if his jaw was going to shatter. As the blade came across his throat, Fairchild caught a glimpse of a dark figure whose face was masked in a balaclava. The blood shot onto the mirror, covering the reflection of his assassination.

The Vengian gently laid him down on the floor. He turned off the faucet, closed the washroom door behind him and walked out of the room.

The gray turned to night, the drizzle into a storm. A knife and vapor, the Vengian was gone.

The food hatch opened. A tray of boiled cabbage, a piece of bread, and sausage appeared through it. The attending cleric who had served the meal said, “The Maker bless you,” before closing the hatch.

“The Maker bless me?” Charles Valkyrie asked mockingly. “How does the Maker bless me when I am forced to eat boiled cabbage day in and day out? All I’ve had is boiled cabbage for thirty days. Why does a benevolent God create such terrible things, like war, murder, greed, and boiled cabbage?”

Dale walked over to the door and collected his tray. Ignoring his neighbor, he sampled the sausage. It was saltier than he liked but of good quality. It was his first meal since being detained. He was hungry, and so he was thankful to have something to eat.

With his mouth stuffed with boiled cabbage and sausage, Dale asked, “You a Mystic?”

“Nope,” Valkyrie replied. “As godless as they come.”

“Strange musings for an atheist.”

Valkyrie laughed. “Perhaps not so strange, my friend. Even an atheist will speak of the Maker when he needs to blame someone for his troubles. And you? Have you placed your faith in the Maker?”

“No.”

“Good for you. People believe what they believe. Who can explain it? It’s when they start telling you what they believe, taking all sorts of creative liberties with the unknown, you end up where the Shaldea and cultists are. You end up spewing all kinds of dogma. I know there’s nothing original about my pragmatism, but the way I see it, religion is, at its core, all about self-improvement. Trouble is, once you’re all self-improved, it’s near impossible to avoid a kind of elitist contempt for everyone else.”

“For someone not claiming to be a Mystic, sounds like you’ve put some thought into this.”

“I’m Emmainite. We’re born thinking over our heads. I think the Great Ur Aremis had it right when he said, ‘Religion is the taint of an unbroken spell that beckons man to believe in the extraordinary.’”

Dale did not understand what this Ur Aremis meant or what made him so great. Dale was not in the frame of mind to try to understand it. He hadn’t slept much. All night, every little sound stirred him awake. Each time he sat up, hoping the sound was Selah’s promised return. Each time he lay back down in disappointment. The disappointment turned to worry. In his mind, there was a good chance the Shawls had heeded his warning. Replaying the scene at the bakery in his mind, Dale told himself that Uncle Turkish and Auntie Cora Tess were convinced. He thought he remembered that they had agreed to flee. It was too late for the city. Even if the officials and the Benesanti had believed him, it was too late to get everyone evacuated.
Maybe it’s not too late to organize a defense. Maybe even a counter offensive.
And then there was Darius. Sparrow had told him the Ancile would not be able to hold back the invasion. If the Ancile falls, Darius would surely lose his life.
How do I get word to Darius? I got to get out of here.
These had been the thoughts swirling in his head, depriving him of sleep. For hours he had drifted in and out of the waking world, his mind racing with all that Sparrow had forewarned.

Dale finished his meal. He set the tray next to the door. He tried to wiggle the trap door open. It did not move.

“How was it growing up an atheist Emmainite?”

“I wasn’t always like this,” Valkyrie replied.

“No?”

“Lots of things happened, but I think the turning point was the day I learned the Shaldea were dealing with the
Zaal’mavorte
. I realized if my people were willing to deal with the devil, then God was inconsequential. And all that rhetoric, that radicalism behind the Shaldea, it was all political, not spiritual. So I left.”

“You just picked up and left?”

“Pretty much.”

“How’d you end up here? I mean, not in this dungeon, but here, in Groveland? In Meredine?”

“I’ve ended up everywhere in my life at one point or another. Nothing special about here.”

For a fleeting moment, Dale felt the sharp piercing of envy. A life of freedom. His childhood dream of life on the sea, journeying to distant shores with no pull neither here nor there. It was a life that died at age twelve, in that alley with Marcus Addy. It got buried at the Academy and aside from these moments of painful regret, long forgotten.

“How’d you make a living?”

“I worked odd jobs mostly. Shepherding. Lumberyard. Deckhand. Even dabbled in smuggling. I ran with some gravediggers for a period. Then one day, while I took up work as a porter for a posse of game hunters, I discovered I was a natural tracker. So I tried to get around people who could teach me about nature, terrain, and survival. Lived with a tribe of druids in the northern coasts, spent a year of solitude in the fjords of the arctic, roamed the Saracen deserts with nomads. Once I felt prepared, I started to hire myself out. Became a freelance ranger. Ran with anyone, from bandits to bounty hunters. Whatever. As long as they paid. And when business was slow, I’d gather ingredients from the Wilds for apothecaries.”

“Or swindle them.”

“Or swindle them,” Valkyrie repeated, appreciating the jab.

“You ever miss it—Loreland, I mean?”

“All the time.” After a pause, Valkyrie added, “What I wouldn’t give for some fried hallume right now.”

Just then the door down the corridor opened. Dale stood and approached his cell door in anticipation. He heard the footsteps come down the corridor and stop at his door. It was unlocked and opened. Standing in the threshold was Sir Thomas Grail. Dale heard a commotion next door.

“Move it, ranger! You too,” he heard another templar bark.

Dale was led out into the corridor where he saw his hall mate, Charles Valkyrie, for the first time. Valkyrie’s black beard and bushy hair had grown out wild, but he wasn’t unkempt. As he did every morning, he dampened his hair and matted it down to one side. He glanced back and acknowledged Dale with a flick of his brows. They both appeared to the other different than envisioned.

They said nothing as they were led out into a connecting passage on the opposite wall of the long hall. They were taken through the temple’s less-travelled underground passageways into a dark chamber. At the end of the room was a raised platform with a long desk designed to seat a panel of twelve men, the seal of the Benesanti in the center. Alaric Linhelm was standing in front of the desk.

Valkyrie was stopped at the chamber entrance while Dale was led up to where the senior templar stood.

“Hello, Dale. I am Champion Alaric Linhelm, Marshal of the Vail Templar.”

Dale nodded.

“As you have been informed, you’ve been deemed a saboteur and thus, I cannot offer you Sanctuary. I can, however, offer you your freedom. I’ve heard you confessed to a great many things during the inquisition.”

Dale offered no reaction.

“Something you said is especially disconcerting. It is regarding the Balean invasion. Is it true? Is Duke Thalian planning to initiate a war?”

“That’s what I was told.”

“But do you believe it to be true?”

“I have no reason to doubt my…source.”

“You mean your
friend.
”

Dale didn’t reply.

“Prioress?”

Selah approached and placed her hand on Dale’s shoulder. She held up his sword and his shirt.

“Thank you,” he muttered softly, retrieving his effects.

“Sir Grail, escort Mister Sunday out and wait for me in my office. I’ll be by shortly.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“And see to it he gets onto Republic soil unnoticed.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“As for you, I suggest you get out of the city.”

“I plan to,” Dale replied.

“Good luck, kid,” said Valkyrie, as he passed him on his way out.

Alaric excused the remaining templar and ordered Charles Valkyrie forward. With no one but Selah present, Alaric addressed him.

“Mister Valkyrie, given your past involvement with the Shaldea, I’m afraid I cannot award you Sanctuary either.”

“I figured. But you can grant me my freedom.”

“Yes. Yes, I can. Before I do, I have something I’d like to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“How familiar are you with the Wilds?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a ranger, correct? The Wilds—how familiar are you with them?”

“Seeing it’s been my home for the past ten years, I’d say I know the Wilds better than anyone. Why?”

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

“
You?
You want a favor from
me?
Oh, this is going to be good.”

After showing Dale off the temple premises by way of the less-traveled Northern Wall, Sir Thomas Grail sat in Alaric’s office, waiting as instructed. Aside from the large windows with their diamond-patterned etchings, the cold, dark gray stone room was nearly indistinguishable from the dungeon cells. The room was largely bare. A rug, a hearth, a desk, and an iron chandelier that held candles were its only features. The marshal’s office was located in the part of the temple that was not yet wired for electricity.

When Alaric Linhelm entered, Thomas shot up from his seat, snapped his heels, and with a crisp salute, stood at attention.

“M’lord.”

“At ease, Thomas. I have something I want to tell you. Listen very carefully because I will repeat none of it. When I am done, you are free to ask questions, but know that I will be stingy with my answers. I neither have the time nor the disposition to explain myself, understand?”

Clearly concerned, Thomas hesitantly nodded. “Yes, m’lord.”

“Kneel.”

Thomas kneeled before the marshal.

“I, Champion Alaric Linhelm, appoint you, Sir Thomas Grail, my successor and hereby declare you Champion of the Holy Order of the Benesanti, Marshal of the Vail Templar.”

“M’lord?”

Alaric stopped him with a raised hand before continuing, “As such, you will be taking over my office and its duties. I bestow upon you all rights, privileges, and responsibilities of this office. Effective immediately, I vacate my seat, and relinquish my sword and shield to you. They will serve as proof of this appointment. The Maker’s hand of righteousness be upon you. May he guide you and protect you as you protect all entrusted to your care. Rise, Champion Thomas Grail.”