SANITY LINE

II. Brave New World

 

              

In truth, Edward had never had much patience for sailing, whether on vessels capable of the action or on more modernized, powered vehicles. It wasn’t that the sea upset his stomach – he was as comfortable with his feet on the deck of a ship as he was with them in the water, on a narrow ledge, in the cabin of an aircraft or dangling over the sides of a horse. He was a reasonably strong swimmer, and truth be told a calm head in most situations. He was not afraid of sailing nor was he prone to seasickness. He simply didn’t like the sea.

 

Myth or no, there was something about being on the water that made him all the more prone to sunburn, and granted how studiously he to avoid that in the first place, it was little surprise that he could be found, for the entire trip, in his cabin, printing off every conceivable file he could think of himself needing to have on hard copy, making the last phonecalls he’d be able to make for a while by satellite, and otherwise obsessing over the preparations for landfall.

 

In the latter regard, he was helped by his Lieutenant, both in role and rank, one Francis LeBlanc, whose name Edward studiously avoided playing on. The two chided each other playfully about skin colour on a regular basis. Edward Coultier had been aptly nicknamed the Ghost Fencer on the fighting circuit – Casper an epithet surer than any to earn his immediate and often disproportionate anger. As for Francis, he had to put up with Edward perpetually offering him sunscreen, knowing damn well that the man would never take it.

 

“Didn’t know better, Francis, I’d say you already burned yourself to charcoal.”

Francis turned, glaring bluntly at his Captain, who had finally emerged with mirrored glasses and full uniform. “That you, sir? I can’t see for the glare.”

“Oh, Ha Ha Ha.”

 

The two now stood on the bow of the vessel, where Edward could get a good look with his own eyes at what they were sailing into. The waters off Figaro – his new province, by order of the College of Judges – were teeming with vessels. Most, he knew from having spoken to the captain of the vessel, were registered in nearby Enotekka. Lipan merchants, “helping” by capitalizing on the situation. Edward sneered, shading his eyes for a better view. “Useless gougers.”

 

“In all seriousness, sir, you should be inside. I doubt much you want to spend the first couple of days as Lord Protector recovering from a sunburn.”

Edward nodded. If there was one thing he hated more than people slurring his condition, it was having to watch them pretend not to notice how red he could turn after only a few hours in the sun. Even these days, with the sky veiled. “Yes… of course. We’re landing in two hours. I expect to be briefed in half that.”

“Of course, Captain.”

 

---

 

“Got the radio working. For a little bit, anyway.”

 

Niles nodded to that, hauling himself up through the small opening in the roof into the makeshift Harbourmaster’s Station, where Banker, in his usual role as logistician, had wedged himself. “You must climb like a monkey to get up and down from here so fast.”

“Well, I mean, I’ve got to weigh at least fifty, sixty pounds less than you.”

 

Niles accepted the rebuke gently, settling his mask on his face. Up here, he was Prince. He was Prince anywhere an outsider could see him. “Yeah, getting real fat on all that fine cooking of yours.”

“I’m doing the best I can with what I have available. And trying not to think about how we’re going to grow anything fresh with frosts in July.”

 

Niles winced. That thought had crossed his mind too. The blast, whatever it was, had been enormous. Kraterburg was now a great bay, and the tiny island of Figaro was all that remained of it. “I don’t think we’re growing anything around here, anyway. You make contact with that vessel when the radio was up?”

 

A few days ago, and without explanation, Scion had stuck his starry-masked head through the hole in the floor and informed the pair of them rather bluntly that a Maritime Self-Defense Force warship was going to arrive from the east, approach around the south side of the island (where they were), and avail itself of the floating dockyard the Lipan had brought with them.

 

Niles marvelled at that. Banker had promised the Lipan – an avaricious culture if ever there was one – would provide help immediately. They arrived two days later, as though he had commanded them to do so personally, and that command had somehow carried weight. It crossed his mind that the sharp-eared Angel was a Lipan himself. Of late, Niles was making a game of identifying those angels he did not yet know.

 

“No,” Banker answered. “Not a damn thing. It’s possible the set wasn’t getting enough power to reach the ship, but if I can see it that means it’s on our side of the horizon.”

“Maybe Scion knows something,” Niles allowed a beat or two to pass, and then remembered something. “Oh, right. He wants to see you. Something about your notes being too cryptic.”
“The man’s a fucking geneticist.” Banker handed off the headset, standing up heavily. “ How come he can’t read a chart of accounts?”

 

---

 

“How’s the little girl doing?”

 

The most annoying thing about his new role in the leadership of the Grey Angels, Niles thought bluntly, was how Scion knew things you hadn’t told him yet. Granted, bringing the little girl back with him was a rumour that would likely have spread, but that didn’t excuse Scion’s more direct methods of learning. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Trust me, I wish I could turn it off, too, or stuff up my Third Ear, or whatever. Until we get some better power supplies and have the current to spare, it’s a luxury I’m going to have to avoid.”

 

Niles studied Scion closely. The two were, at present, the only ones occupying the makeshift barracks where the balance of their company slept – others on duties or still too wakeful to sleep. A napthaline lantern – one of perhaps a dozen identical favours the Angels were going to owe Aaron Cluny for – burned away just behind Niles, where he had placed it to read by.

 

Scion was not an old man, but he wasn’t a young man, either. His face was too worn, features too rugged, to be in his twenties. Too youthful and exuberant for his fourties. James Derrida (for that was the man’s real name) was, apart from that, a mystery. He took his age personally, and kept it personal. Metrosexual to a fault, perhaps, though the relatively poor conditions in Figaro meant that he’d fallen from his usual preening, and after a month of trying to form some semblance of order here, Niles could now see that the barely-visible blue tint on the black hair was as artificial as he had suspected.

 

Odd trait for a university professor, but university professors were odd people, and so were hipsters and other fashion-foreward individuals. Niles took the oddities in grooming in stride. Scion’s powers, after all, were far older, as was his respect and admiration for a murderer ten years his junior.

 

“So… are you going to tell me how the little girl is, or are you going to keep staring at my face like it’s a puzzle?”

Niles shrugged dismissively and returned his gaze to his book. “She’s fine, I guess.”
“You guess?” James wavered on his feet, sitting on the edge of Niles’ bunk. “… You left her with Prodigal.”
“Prodigal offered to take her to chow,” Niles looked up sharply, glaring. The interruption was starting to bother him. “Did you find out anything about her mother?”

“I have Banker looking in the records. If she’s under protection we’ll know where.”

 

The pair continued to stare at each other, brows furrowing. Niles was growing increasingly annoyed, and James, concerned. “… It’s not like you to be so dismissive. Not of a child.”

“I don’t think,” Niles said finally, “that you have known me long enough to make judgement calls about what is and isn’t like me.”

 

The two stared each other down a moment longer. “… You’ve spent every night since the Battle reading that damn book. More of each night than you wisely should, all things considered. Unausprechen Kulten isn’t a book for casual pursuit. And you are no necromancer.”

“Neither are you,” Niles said bluntly. “And, unlike you, I owe Archangel one. I owe him my life.”

 

James smiled sadly. Archangel, their former leader, was dear to most of the Horsemen – the council of four he had specifically nominated, according to Scion, to take his place in the leadership of the group. Scion, like all four of the horsemen, owed Archangel his life. “You’ve missed your mark, Detective. You are unique, perhaps, in that you owe Archangel the least.”

 

He rose, gently taking the book from Niles, and the detective, confused or frustrated, did not resist. “… You are not a necromancer. You have a mind bent on justice and the heart to match, and it would be a shame to waste them on that forbidden craft. Besides, Archangel was a necromancer himself.  I would not be surprised to learn he had plans for his death that went beyond an orderly transition of power and the disposition of his belongings.”

 

Niles thought about that, slow realization dawning on his face as the other paced down the room to his own bunk, and secured the book in his footlocker. Niles followed him with his eyes. “… You know something.” He had to. He was a mind-reader, after all.

“… In much the same way he evaded you, Niles, Eli Sharona was unusually talented in blocking me out. I can only guess at the true depth of his skill, or the full extent of his plans. But there are ways, if the stories have a grain of truth to them.” James looked aside. Niles knew he was caging, but couldn’t figure out the right angle to crack them, and eventually, they parted ways.

 

Niles wondered at that for the rest of the night, staring at the springs that held the mattress above his bunk in place. He’d heard some of those old stories himself, including, at one particularly elaborate escape, where he had once again just barely caught up with Eli Sharona after months of chasing him down for murder. In the moments before Sharona had plunged himself off of an overpass onto a passing train beneath, he had said, clear as day, “Old Necromancers Never Die.”

 

At the time he’d chalked it up to insanity, but now he didn’t know. He didn’t know much anything.

 

When and if Archangel ever came back, though, they were going to have to have a little chat.

 

---

 

When the time had finally come to disembark, Edward had a change of costume, descending the gangway onto the floating dock in a crisp black three-piece which had been tailored for him – as a Coultier, he’d rarely worn clothes that weren’t, at least not in public. The civilian clothes seemed more appropriate to him – he was here as a governor, rather than to impose martial law.

 

Amusingly, he found he was unrecognized – or, at least, the dozens of lipan, with their angular faces, were too busy with their tasks. Lipan women were fiercer than the men, it was said, but much as with the rest of the union, that gender rule had blurred. The League Tournaments, of which he was a reasonably recent Champion, were popular in Enotekka, among both the men and the women. These sailors, men and women both, seemed less than interested in the subject.

 

Call it a mercy on his bad mood, then, that nobody recognized him, or at least attempted to draw his attention. Francis, walking at his shoulder, had not changed – he still wore the uniform of the Crimson Knights. Edward had made it his first act as Lord Protector of Figaro to deputize all of the Crimson Knights who would accept the charge – all of those who trained in the school of highly specialized swordplay he had created. Swordplay designed specifically to thwart those who would use magic, either subtly or overtly, to have their way over honest folk.

 

Magic had been responsible for this disaster, or so went the public line. It was fitting, then, in his mind, that the disaster should have trumpeted magic’s ending. So much he had told Francis several times.

 

His lieutenant, less an idealist than a pragmatist, had yet to be convinced. “Controlled, maybe. Corralled. But eliminated completely? Larger forces than ours have tried.”

“Nonsense. People always cite the witch trials-“

“I can name a small handful of crusades…”

“Ah, gentlemen, there you are.”

 

The pair looked away from their conversation, and in the early-morning gloom, Edward could easily make out one of the men he was told to expect. He wore a blue-grey jacket, long blond hair kept back in a simple pony-tail at the back of his neck. His ears, both in shape and in manner of piercing (in the case of the left) marked him out for a Lipan, but the rest of his face was concealed behind a mask, which was, on closer inspection, decorated with a mail-like pattern of silver coins. “You must be Banker.”
“The Lord Protector of Figaro needs no introduction,” Banker un-answered, shaking the man’s hand in both of his own. “Though I wish I could say I was happy to see you. Your performance at the Zvanesburg Invitational cost me a fair amount, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Nobody is more disappointed with the outcome of that contest than I, I assure you,” Edward gestured, falling into step with banker, who seemed intent to lead them onward. “My deputy, Lieutentent LeBlanc.”
“A pleasure, to be…” Banker trailed off from the polite and expected reply, and it took Edward a moment to realize he was watching a forklift some distance off, before the man raised his voice. “Stop! Never mind Pier Three – not enough catch to waste fuel on a forklift. Come here.”

 

The driver pulled over, and Banker spoke rather animatedly with the man in the Lipanese trade language, before the vehicle headed down the pier toward the berth of the ship Edward had arrived in. “… Sorry about that. The handling of the docks is ultimately my responsibility.”

“Then the rumours we’d heard from the Trade Fleet are true,” Edward said, letting some of his displeasure sink into his voice. “There’s some semblance of government on Figaro after all.”

 

To Edward’s comfort, Banker seemed eager to reassure him. “A semblance is all that it is, Lord Protector. We Grey Angels are doing what we can to keep the peace. You’ll be briefed in full when you meet with my esteemed confreres.”

 

Another nod. Edward had heard of this development as well, albeit tangentially, and in passing, from those who had gone to shore before he had. “The Four Horsemen. You sure like your biblical imagery, for a street gang.”

“It is merely convenient that there are four of us to fit the title. Perhaps, if this had happened a few months earlier, Archangel might have named us the Three Wise Men.”

 

Banker produced an umbrella, and offered its shade to Edward, who reluctantly accepted. “It is some distance to where we are meeting. Tell me, Captain, how is your father, the Lord Field Marshall? Has he been keeping up with his tennis at all?”

“Obsessively. How did you know that?”

“… Perhaps, in time, you might realize where you have met me before.”

 

---

 

Niles had his own definition of professionalism. If someone did their job – whatever that job was – to the best of their ability, and with full effort regardless of performance, then damn it, that person was a professional. This definition did not include a high tolerance for etiquette and protocol, regardless of the tin of shoe polish he carried in his pocket in case he scuffed his boots.

 

A meeting with someone bearing the wonderfully archaic title of Lord Protector sounded like almost everything he could think of that wouldn’t be fun, short of another trip through the land of the dead. Scion must have sensed that in him. That’s a pretty good mask. You could always nap through the meeting.

 

Niles stirred uncomfortably, returning his attention back to what was being said. Banker must have finally made it to answering the Lord Protector’s question. “… All told, seven-fifty for civilians, plus about six hundred in the Trade Fleet, and about fifty of us, if you include the Apocalyptids.”

Apocalyptids. That’s what Scion had taken to calling the newest members of the Grey Angels – unmasked individuals who volunteered to be placed under the command of the Four Horsemen and the other Old Guard Angels in order to help with disaster relief and law enforcement.

 

He returned his attention to the Lord Protector. I snore too loud to nap anyway. Edward Coultier was a young man. Mid to late 20s. Short, but not quite below the national average for height. Athletic build, which was unsurprising considering his exemplary reputation as a prize-fighter. Albinism, a trait inherited from his mother. Shared, at least in part, by his younger sibling, which was odd. Niles hunted further back into his memory, his collection of trivia. He’d been a fan, once, before the man’s first fall from grace five years ago. Before the drugs. Edward Coultier was the son of Lord Field Marshall Vincent Coultier (and there was an interesting tidbit there which the librarian in the back of Niles’ mind couldn’t quite dig up), and had two siblings – a twin sister (probably fraternal, given the opposite gender and the baseline complexion being closer to the family’s mediterranian roots) and a younger brother (teaches at a private Post-Secondary). He was busy trying to remember why he knew anything at all about the sister when he realized the conversation was moving to him.

 

“That falls under Prince’s area of expertise.”

Before Niles could panic, Scion mentally prompted him, knowing full well he hadn’t been paying attention. Law Enforcement.

Reluctantly, Niles found himself thankful as he nodded. “Right.  I have two-dozen of the new members  under my authority as a sort of ad-hoc constabulary. It’s a pretty high ratio so far as law-enforcement to citizenry goes, but it’s pretty badly necessary. Figaro’s a business district, and for every rich bank in the area there were two or three low income housing projects stacked on top of independent businesses.”

“There have been problems with looting,” the newcomer suggested, toning the statement like a question, though Niles could see the man had drawn his own conclusions.

 

How white can you get? Niles thought, and Scion shifted, perhaps trying not to laugh. “Among other things. Larceny, theft, rape. Murder, because, you know, the Blast didn’t kill enough people in the first place. My boys have their hands full preventing the crime they can in a relatively isolated section – the south end of the island. The north is still pretty lawless, but we don’t have the manpower to civilize it, even if there is a Grand Mart and an old hardware store over there.”

Edward thought about it. He was still adjusting to the concept of scarcity as it was experienced on Figaro – the rationing of electrical energy and fuel, the hording of items still commonplace back home… on what he had to keep remembering to think of as the mainland. It was like walking from the set of a disaster movie into an actual disaster. “… That’s a lot of supplies to have to ignore.”

“The Lipan provide us with much of what they need, though perhaps not as quickly as we might like,” Banker interjected softly.

 

Scion nodded. “Allow me to answer the question that has been hanging over this room since you entered it, Edward Coultier. We have no more idea what caused the blast than you do.”

“… Could it have been anything other than Gloria Creena’s magic?”

Scion and Niles exchanged glances behind their masks. This was an idea only they had discussed. Even Prodigal and Banker did not know of the hypothesis. “… We think it might have been.”

 

---

 

“You’ve gone over my head,” the Crown Prince was saying, “And you have done it behind my back.”

“Quite the contortionist am I,” countered Isambard Louis, Third Viscount Rainwright.

 

The pair were meeting in one of the grander portions of the grander royal properties in all of Galba Dea – the greenhouse of Greenwood Palace, where the Crown Prince and his Master of Spies lunched alone on the sort of light foods one would expect at tea. As was their common tone, unlike the Viscount and the Late King, the two were at odds.

 

“I am most curious to know, Viscount, how an entire task force of the South Fleet could have been ordered into the bay without my express permission.”

“That would be an excellent question for Admiral Sharp,” the Viscount said evenly, sipping his tea delicately. He had a ring – a red, bullet-shaped stone set in silver – on his index that the Prince found absolutely gaudy. “Since he is the one who agreed to the request.”

“Who authorized the expedition in the first place? That, I think, is the important point…”

 

The expedition – a small flotilla of commercial salvage and scientific observation vessels and their naval escort  - had been the topic of over ten minutes of pointless verbal evasion. Carefully, and with a cultivated air of consideration, Rainwright stacked his cup onto his saucer, and set both down, returning his arms casually to the arm of his chair and the head of his cane. “… The expedition is a private enterprise. A chartered company, in fact, organized by private backers, including the Royal Arcane Society and the Society of the Wheel and Pinion.”

“Who just so happened to agree upon you as the head of their work?”

 

Rainwright shrugged off the young man’s disbelief. The young man, he thought, and therein lay the problem. Rainwright had to be over a hundred and fifty years the crown prince’s senior, though the younger man was apt to guess thirty, if the Viscount had a read of his mark. “I have experience in finding secrets quietly; a reputation which seems to occasionally precede me.”

 

Crown Prince Valarian narrowed his eyes. When he was crowned, he promised himself, he would dispose of the Viscount for good. “How fortunate for you.”

 

---

 

“Your theory is that an accident with a governmental project resulted in the destruction of an entire city and much of its surrounding area.”

“It’s preposterous,” Niles agreed, trying to recover what little credibility his mask had left him with.

Edward rose his eyebrows higher, if that were possible. “A surrounding area of up to three hundred kilometres away from the epicentre of the blast…”
“Much of which you yourself theorized was secondary damage,” Scion reminded him, calmly and confidently.

Edward wasn’t convinced. “And this just happened to coincide with the precise moment of the conclusion of a ritual enacted by the Cult of the Sleeping Eye… who have a history of, for want of a better word, eldritch terrorism.”

 

Niles closed his eyes behind his mask. Suddenly, everyone was so prepared to accept magic as an explanation. Even him, pragmatic as he was. “For a fencer, my Lord, you have a low appreciation for precision.”

 

There was a stunned silence in the room. Edward was still young enough to have blood that boiled fast, and whether anyone in the room liked it or not, he was the official representative of whatever was left of the College of Judges. In role if not in name the Governor of this small island. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can beg all you want, but you won’t have it. The blast, whatever the cause, took place a full… what, fifteen, sixteen minutes…?”
Scion shrugged. “Fifteen minutes fifty three seconds.”

“After the conclusion of the ritual. Including, I will add, all of its light shows, and the appearance of the unidentified male suspect on the scene.”

 

Edward had been there. Like the Grey Angels, who had escaped with his younger brother’s help, he had made use of the same magic he was eager to eradicate in order to affect his escape. “Glory, like as not. Surely a sleeping god could destroy so much so quickly.”

“Sure he could. And then vanish without a trace, having destroyed his entire base of followers,” Niles countered.

 

Banker, who had remained silent through this entire exchange, suddenly sat up straight. “Flip the table.”

Edward frowned at him for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“We flipped the table. Or, more accurately, Agency Division flipped it for us.”

Niles nodded slowly. “You want to take our city from us, well, you can’t have it. I’m taking my ball and going home....”

 

Edward’s brow furrowed. “… Regardless of the culprit of the blast, we have our futures to consider. I will retire to my vessel for the evening. And tomorrow… tomorrow, I will address your fellow survivors.”

He closed his notebook dramatically, and rose. “That will be all, gentlemen.”

 

The four horsemen rose, watching the newcomer depart, before taking their seats again. Once Scion was satisfied the other man was out of earshot, he slowly reached up to remove his mask, setting it aside. The occultation was heavy and humid to wear. “You didn’t tell him about the photograph.”

“If we had produced a satellite photograph, he would want to know where we got it. And Edward Coultier is about the last person you want knowing you’ve done business with Infernals.”

 

Niles had never been happy with that arrangement – but, much as he had done when he joined the Grey Angels themselves, he had chosen to make the best of an opportunity to stay alive. It was a sentiment he had shared with most of the other men at the table – only Scion had seemed comfortable with Aaron, as though Scion himself knew the man personally.

 

Banker joined the others in removing his mask, and setting it down. Locke LeCruset was a svelte man – most lipan were – and the relatively light tone of his skin betrayed a life of indoor work far from the harsh suns of Razeland, where his tribe originated. “His hatred for the infernals is well noted. And if we are to convince him to leave…”

“Why would we do that,” Niles demanded?

Prodigal left his mask in place – it was little more than a bit of gauze and, in fact, did not make him uncomfortable in the least. “Because he’s a tit from the College and a perfect example of their nepotism?”

James leaned back in his chair, playing idly with the Scion mask. “You want to start the fight about nepotism again? Really?”
“Never mind that.”

 

Niles flattened his palm on the table rather emphatically. “The Lord Protector, in spite of stupid title, unfortunate surname, and ridiculous lack of experience, is by all accounts the duly-appointed representative of the College of Judges. If he’s here to enforce the law then we have reached our objective.”

Locke shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no, we haven’t. We came here for a reason – to civilize the island and put the people living on it in the right frame of mind.”
“Perhaps there was a misunderstanding,” James said slowly, pouring himself a glass of water without getting up to get either the pitcher or the glass itself, “because I don’t remember the second part. Civilizing an area and inspiring the people with a sense of community, yes. You’re implying gathering followers.”

 

Chastized, the Lipan said nothing further, and Niles considered matters. “Five million,” he said finally. “…Sounds about right.”

“You’re overestimating again,” Locke said quietly. “We only spent about three.”

“Five million is what we get paid.”

Prodigal perked as he caught on. “I like it. A hundred grand a piece to keep the peace.”

Niles looked to Locke. “Presumably less. Two mil split fifty ways?”

“Normally we’d take a bit extra off the top, too, but yeah. Call it… 30k a year, a piece.” Locke shrugged. “I make more than that at my real job.”

“Your real job might not exist a year from now,” Niles muttered, looking to James. “Now, you know how I feel about killing for pay. That’s not what we’re talking about.”

 

“We’re talking about joining forces with the Crimson Knights, our principle rivals, and over-policing Figaro?”

Prodigal shrugged. “It’s about the only way to cut our losses. We chase Vincent’s brat back into the sea and the next ship we see coming over the horizon’ll be an aircraft carrier.”

James’ mouth drew into a fine line. “It could work, but… let me do it. I’m the only one he isn’t disgusted with yet.”