The Starfall Knight (12 page)

“Thank you, Marshal!”

“Don’t thank me yet.  Councillors, rangers and soldiers alike will rejoice that you’re taken off active duty.  No more Blind Devan to worry about.”

That was a jibe he’d thought long buried.  “I see.”

Romaine raised an eyebrow at his joke and continued, “But these moon worshippers are strange.  How did they get their hands on ingots and coin and jewellery and fine cloth?  Why had they run out of food?  Even Brother Julan keeps a vegetable garden at the back of his temple.  And trading for water?  Even a child knows what rain-barrels and buckets are for.  No, I don’t like it.”

“Do you want me to find out more?”

“Yes,” Romaine said.  “You are now a part of my personal retinue.”

“A page?”

“No.  An Officer of the Marshal.  You will act as my agent and you will report to me.”  Romaine leaned underneath her desk and unlocked a hidden compartment.  She produced a steel ring laced with emerald veins and the sigil of the city prominent on the face.  Romaine laid the ring on the desk.  “There is a welcoming feast tomorrow evening.  You’ll be invited as you were part of the ranger squad to oversee the initial contact.  But, as my officer, I’d like you to find out more from that Alessa lass.”

“She seemed nice.”

“I’m sure,” Romaine said with pursed lips.  “You may go to Verovel.  No – you
must
go to Verovel.”

“I will.”

“Good.  I want everyone else to think of you no differently.”  Romaine leaned forward.  “But I know you, Devan.  You’re Benton’s brother, you’re the son of Actinen and Serain – and if even half of what Jarrell says is true, I would not dare underestimate your family.  Most others would dismiss you, I will not.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Romaine nodded at the ring.  “It goes without saying that this conversation is to be kept between us.  If anyone asks, you’re assisting with mundane administration and data collection.  That should make your naysayers happy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  Devan picked up the ring, the metal cold against his sweaty palm.  He slid it over his left index finger and flexed his fist.

Romaine stood up and Devan followed suit, adding a salute.  “Very good, ranger.  You’re dismissed.”

Devan had never stepped inside the Council grounds for anything other than official business.  His squad entered, myriad lamps illuminating the manicured gardens such that even the glow of all three moons was outshone.  Devan and his twelve squadmates thudded along the wide slate paths that connected the various Council administrative buildings to either side of the gardens.  The Hall itself stood at the far end, a brooding structure that was more castle than governmental.  City guardsmen patrolled the complex as council staff and pages scurried between the buildings, scrolls and documents clutched in their hands.

“Best behaviour – am I understood?” Benton called out.

“Yes, captain!”

Devan adjusted his loaned vest and collared shirt.  He owned few clothes other than his ranger gear so he had borrowed some of Benton’s finery.  As a captain, Benton attended formal functions though he rarely had good things to mention apart from the free food of the upper class Centarans.  The rest of the rangers had acquired finery in a similar fashion.  The men wore formal suits that matched Devan’s – jackets, collared shirts and ironed trousers.  Sergeant Lora was resplendent in an older cloth gown of deep violet that had been treated with a wax mixture to simulate the sheen of silk.  Lei and Rika had obtained sheer dresses in white and silver with matching stilettos that accentuated their legs.  Lei no longer seemed the youngest ranger of their squad.

“Stop fidgeting,” Rika said, slapping Devan’s wrist.  “You’ll crumple the fabric.”

“The collar is itchy.”

“It’s supposed to be.  We hunt and track through all sorts of weather and cross aerocks with nothing more than a rope around our waists – surely, you can handle a starched collar for a couple hours.”

“Fine.”

Terson slapped Devan’s shoulder.  “Yes, it will be a fine last supper.”

“I’m not gone forever,” Devan replied with a glare.

“Wouldn’t make any difference to the squad either way,” Terson shot back.

“Enough,” Lora ordered.

They approached the Council Hall, lamps shining over the giant double-doors fashioned like a castle’s closed drawbridge.  Above them, paper lanterns lining the high eaves cast long shadows across the Hall’s stone f
açade.  Another squad of guardsmen stood outside with their halberds at the ready and blue tabards hooked over chainmail hauberks.  The pair closest to the double-doors opened them with barely more than a quiet creak of the hinges.

A gust of warm air buffeted Devan – the rumours about the high consumption of heated air and water in the Council were apparently true.  Devan expected no less from the aerock’s ruling body as their attitudes were reinforced by the complex’s location next to the avenue that led to the upper tier of the city.  Devan had never been one for politics but he thought it odd that the Council grounds were not located in the middle of the city, for easy access to all.  He put those thoughts from his mind – they were guests this night.

The stark entryway of the Council Hall led to the wide foyer that also served as a reception area for Council guests and petitioners.  Polished slate covered the floors while the solid timber walls that belied the stone exterior of the Hall were covered with long tapestries that depicted the history of Centara.  The evening’s select group of guests had already arrived, mingling amongst one another while the doors to the main chamber remained closed.

“Who are these people?” Rika murmured.

Devan shrugged as his squad of twelve stuck together as if in enemy territory.  “Romaine is here.  Jarrell and a couple of the squads from the company who were in charge.  I think that’s Councillor Arlena.  The other one is Arnst but I’m not sure.”

“He’s coming over here.”

“Relax.”

The Councillor extricated himself from the conversation with Arlena and headed towards Devan and his squadmates.  Romaine glanced over and intercepted him as a council page dressed in a black jacket and trousers approached with a tray full of fluted wine glasses.

“Councillor Arnst,” Romaine said with a wide smile.  She wore a sleek gown of deep maroon that covered her black high-heeled shoes – unlike the army, the rangers did not have formal military attire.  “May I introduce Captain Benton and his team?”

Benton took a step forward and bowed from the neck.  “Good evening, Councillor.”

“And to you, Captain,” Arnst said, taking a glass of wine from the page.  “I have heard a great many things about you.  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that your squad were the ones to make contact with the new aerock.”

“In this instance, it was merely luck,” Benton said.

“He is being modest,” Romaine said.  “Captain Benton’s reputation is well-deserved.”

The page offered the wine to the rest of the squad and Devan accepted one.  He had never handled such fine glassware before.

Arnst sipped his drink.  “I would tend to agree.  Come, Captain – have you met Vantanis and Alessa?”

Devan watched Romaine, who remained fixed on the Councillor and Benton.  She nattered on, guiding Arnst and Benton towards the moon worshippers mingling with the rest of the guests.  Devan supposed that he shouldn’t have expected any special treatment from Romaine – it was, after all, the point of a secret assignment.

They did not have to wait long for the master of ceremonies to usher everyone into the hall proper.  Devan guessed that the master of ceremonies was a theatre actor – few people were as spritely in their mid-forties and balding.  He seemed nice enough and knew all of their names.

Floor-standing candles illuminated the perimeter of the Council Hall while three chandeliers blazed overhead.  Boots and formal slippers clacked against the polished stone floors.  Two tables lay in the middle of the Hall, arranged into a T-shape.  Devan’s shirt itched against his skin as he took note of the table setting – the fine cloth napkins, gilt-edged plates and the countless forks and spoons and knives.  Moons, he could spy sets of chopsticks – were there going to be Saruwan dishes?

Rika shot him a reassuring smile as waiters dressed in council livery ushered Vantanis, Alessa, the Councillors and masters to the head of the T-shaped table.  From there, they would look down the perpendicular section like lords in a tale.

The waiters motioned to the end of the table, a good few spans separating the rangers from the guests, masters and Councillors.  Devan sat down, wedged between Rika and Olban.  Lora sat opposite while the others were sprinkled between the soldiers.  The merchants of note, guild representatives and vocational masters sat closest to the head of the table.

“What is all of this?” Olban asked.

“Eating utensils,” Devan said.

“Didn’t know we needed five different forks.”

The council pages filled their glasses with red wine or, in the case of their end of the table, mugs with frothing ale.  The first course arrived at the table within minutes and, as Devan expected, it was a choice between Saruwan fried lamprey and Saruwan grasshopper salad.

Saruwa had been the most recent aerock in the Centaran alliance prior to Verovel but in the few short years, the Saruwans had established themselves in Centaran culture.  Saruwan dishes quickly became a traditional first course due to their light but delicious morsels using produce that the Centarans would never have previously considered.  Thankfully for Devan, his friendship with Tayu had given him a taste for Saruwan food as well as mastery over their chosen utensil, the chopsticks.

The rangers and soldiers consumed the bite-sized course in a matter of minutes, banter soon crossing the table.  Benton had ordered a minimal consumption of drink amongst the rangers to curb any potential embarrassments but it seemed that the soldiers had not received similar instructions.  Devan watched as mugs were downed and refilled multiple times.  Terson, Enkel and Arrot – usually the most boisterous of their squad – were soon left behind in a bubble of sobriety.

The tables soon settled into the second course, a choice between steak on the bone or roasted stuffed quail.  Devan’s mouth watered at the sight of the meats accompanied by grilled yam and fresh greens.  Perhaps formal gatherings weren’t so bad afterall.

Alessa sipped from her wine glass and looked down the long table full of sycophants and hangers-on.  Despite their flaunted prosperity and food, these Centarans were no better than the gang followers on Sirinis.  She could see the soldiers relegated to the far end, even though they had been the ones trekking through the mud, scouting the area and setting up the way-station.  Alessa shook her head – was she sympathising with them?

“You don’t agree, Sister Alessa?”

“Apologies,” Alessa said to Councillor Arlena.  “I am not well-versed in the intricacies of food distribution.”

“Of course, you have better things to worry about.”  Councillor Arlena continued nattering on to the rest of the table.

Vantanis shot Alessa a tight smile – pay attention, was the unspoken message.  Alessa sliced into her quail and silently berated herself.  As she bit into the moist meat, she examined the soldiers, finding the young man she needed to exploit.

“I see you’ve taken an interest in our military,” Councillor Arnst said.

Alessa nodded.  “They must be grateful to have been invited this evening.”

An older woman in a flowing black dress and short-cropped hair leaned over.  “Does your aerock have a standing military?”

“Not formally,” Alessa replied, “but many of our order are trained in the martial arts.  It is an unfortunate necessity.”

“We have not seen maurauding aerocks in several months,” the woman said.  Tendons and wiry muscles rippled as the woman reached for her wine glass.  Names swirled in Alessa’s mind – was it Romaine?

“I would think that the sheer size of Centara would ward off most.”

Councillor Arnst said, “This is true.  Perhaps Marshal Jarrell could enlighten us.”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary.”

“I am curious,” Romaine said, “as to your aerock’s acquisition of the jewellery, gems and materials that you’ve been trading for food and water.”

“Oh, we receive many donations throughout our travels,” Alessa replied.  “Of course, we do prefer donations of supplies but we take what we can get.”

“Have you ever encountered bandits?”

“We have.  But we steer away from any suspect aerock.”

Romaine and Arnst shared an incredulous look.  The Councillor said, “Steer away?”

“Yes,” Alessa replied.  “We avoid them.”  At this, the guests on the tables quietened, although the soldiers at the other end continued their loud banter and drinking games.

Marshal Jarrell, a man in a formal military uniform, said, “We are all subject to the weather – the winds and air-streams.”

“Only if you’re without a pilot.”  The looks on their faces told Alessa all that she needed to know.  With all of their wealth and civil society, they were still mercy to nature.  She suppressed a chuckle.

Alessa must have looked as confused as the rest of them as her father said, “You have no pilots?  An aerock of this size?”

“What is a pilot?” Councillor Arnst asked.

Alessa almost spluttered her mouthful of food.  Her father’s forehead furrowed and he looked up and down the table, meeting everyone’s gazes.  Vantanis said, “A pilot guides the aerock.”

“One of those?” Arnst said.  He laughed and the rest of the guests joined him.  “They don’t exist but in children’s tales.”

“We have a pilot,” Alessa said.  She gestured to her father.  “He’s sitting right there.”

Arnst guffawed.  “Oh, Sister Alessa, Brother Vantanis – your jests are almost too much.”  He raised his wine glass.  “Cheers!  Thank you for bringing such joy to this evening.”

“Cheers!”  The guests clinked their glasses together.

Alessa felt her flush face slowly clear.  If these Centarans didn’t believe her, it was not her job to convince them otherwise.  Her father shrugged at her and the conversation turned to more mundane matters.