Peculiar Soul

Certain aspects of the state are perceived as inevitable consequences of circumstance. Conflict exists, therefore so too does a military. Resources are finite, therefore an economic system arises to apportion them. These are simple, logical responses to the nature of the world.

There is a hazard, however, in continuing to extend this logic from generalities into the minute detail of governance. It is also the nature of the world that those humans who bear a soul represent a greater value to the state and their fellow men than those without. I do not take pleasure in stating it, but it is true - and avoiding unpleasant truths is not a path to effective governance.

So: this imbalance informs the decisions of our state, and we begin to draw certain logical conclusions. Certain opportunities require a soul to properly exploit, certain capabilities lie beyond the reach of the unsouled. It is sensible that the state should make a distinction between the two classes of citizen.

We extend this chain of syllogisms, each flowing quite nicely from the last. This opportunity is given only to ensouled, that resource is reserved for the most talented among us. By the time we recognize the danger we have already gained a terrible momentum, one that we cannot lightly divert. Optimization is the name of our vice, and though it is sometimes a laudable goal I strive to ensure that we shall ever fall short of it.

Our most dedicated servants of government are commensurately blind to this peril. That their intentions are good only deepens their distaste for moderation. As such I find myself playing the villain on occasion; it is in turns tiring, amusing and vindicating - and above all, necessary. Absent my meddling they will passionately sharpen the state’s teeth in the pursuit of an ideal, never once noticing that it has begun to drool when it looks their way.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 693.

Sleep came, finally, as Michael was shown to an alcove where mismatched cots sat in rows. Some were filled already, others bore clear signs of ownership in the rumpled bedding that lay over them. Michael picked the nearest empty spot and found it to be the most comfortable rest he had enjoyed since Jeorg had died.

It was not by any merit of the cot that he slept well. It was certainly not that he trusted Sobriquet and its band of Daressan partisans to look after his interests. He was reasonably sure, however, that they meant him no immediate harm and would provide some support until he gave them what they wanted.

It was enough. He slept dreamlessly, awakening a few scant hours later as one of the men from before shook his shoulder lightly.

“Wake up, Ardan,” he murmured, taking a step back. “We’re heading out soon.”

Michael nodded and rose from the cot, blinking the sleep from his eyes and wishing that his rest could have been longer; there was also the grudging acknowledgment that the short rest had still left him feeling better than he had in a long while. He walked out into the main room and found a small group clustered around a table.

There was a simple breakfast laid out, bread and cheese; it did not escape Michael’s notice that it was the same fare he had received from the barman. He took a seat at the table and helped himself to some food. The others did not pay him much attention past a quick glance, focused on their own meal or thinking on private matters.

He had nearly finished when someone cleared their throat. Looking up, he saw that it was the woman who had remained during his discussion with Sobriquet. She looked quintessentially Daressan, to his limited experience - dark hair and eyes with an olive complexion. Those eyes flickered to each person at the table, lingering on Michael perhaps a bit longer than the rest.

“We’ll depart before dawn for Leik,” she said. She spoke with rapid, crisp enunciation, her words clear despite a rather strong continental accent. “No heavy gear, no long guns - this is a quiet look. Two of you have never worked with us, so let’s go through roles.”

She jabbed a thumb at her chest. “Clair,” she said. “I’m in charge, you do what I say.” She pointed to the two men beside her, both of which Michael recognized from before. “Charles and Gerard. They’re our artifices for the rubble, if we have to go digging.”

“You, name,” she said, pointing to the remaining stranger.

The man blinked slowly, then straightened up in his chair. “Vernon,” he said quietly.

“You’re our auditor?” Clair asked. Vernon nodded, and her eyes gained an evaluating glint. “What kind of range do you have?”

“Depends on the environment,” he replied. “Indoor, outdoor, loud, quiet. Right now I can hear three conversations at street level, one man singing a bit farther away.” He paused, tilting his head. “Someone’s having bad sex next door or good sex across the street, hard to tell.”

“That’ll work,” Clair said, turning to face Michael. “And you, spector - anything to add to what you said last night?”

Michael shook his head. He had already resolved to be completely honest with the partisans about Beni’s soul. As a spector he was a known quantity, and he did not want to invite further scrutiny by being caught in a lie, not when any one of the others in the cots or around the side of the room could be a verifex.

Charles and Gerard rose at that point, tapping Vernon on the shoulder and beckoning for him to follow. He did, with a brief backward glance at Clair and Michael. Her eyes had remained locked on Michael in a way that said their conversation had not ended, and so he waited for her to speak.

“You’re Ardan,” she said, slowly tapping her finger against the table. “Why are you here if you’re not a soldier?”

“I told Sobriquet,” Michael replied. “You were there. If you want more secrets than that, we’re going to have to strike a separate bargain.”

There was a pause. Clair raised an eyebrow. “I’m not interested in your secrets,” she said. “You want a bargain, here it is: tell me something that makes me think you’re not bait, and I’ll take you with us. Don’t, or tell me something I don’t believe, and you can find another way to pay for your passage.”

Michael held her gaze for a moment, feeling irritated and quickly clamping down on the emotion. He thought of the tree, growing sturdy and strong.

“I killed an important man,” Michael said. “They’re likely looking for me in Ardalt, so I’m not in Ardalt. Does that suffice?”

There was a small shift in Clair’s posture, and her eyes narrowed for a second - whether she doubted him or was concerned by his claim, he could not tell. Eventually, though, she shrugged.

“As good a reason as any,” Clair said, rising from her seat. “Come. We have packs and supplies in the side room. It’s a day’s walk to Leik, and we’ll be traveling on side paths. Take what you need, meet at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Will Sobriquet be joining us?” Michael asked. He rose to fall into step beside her.

Clair snorted. “Only if we foul things up,” she said. “The idea is to avoid notice. That means we are unremarkable. Nothing highly visible, nothing highly invisible. Either extreme will bring attention from some quarter.”

She glanced down, the corner of her lip twitching. “To that end, I suggest you find some new boots when you’re preparing. Clothing is in the trunks to your right. In fact - just dress yourself from there, you look ridiculous.”

Michael ignored the slight, finding himself more than a little eager to wear clothing that was not acquired from dead men. The supply room proved to be comprehensively stocked, with shelves that held packs, boots, folded stacks of canvas that he took for tents or tarpaulins, and other assorted items that were held in bags or tightly-wrapped oilskin.

The first trunk he opened held womens’ clothing; he found rough but clean mens’ clothing in the next. Michael exchanged his looted shirt and ragged red trousers for simple white and grey homespun, then on a whim grabbed a dark vest that had been wadded into the trunk’s corner. Dark boots came from a nearby shelf.

When he was done he felt the restoration of some part of his humanity that had been missing until that point; the act of dressing reminded him of Ricard, who would surely cluck his tongue in disapproval of the poor fabric and inelegant cut of his current apparel. Michael found himself smiling, and wondering if the old man was well.

His musings were cut short by a clatter from behind. Michael shook himself from the reverie and grabbed a pack from the shelf. It was shortly filled with rations, a military-issue canteen, spare socks and other sundries that he deemed of possible use. Last was a battered folding knife; he had learned the utility of keeping a small blade when living with Jeorg.

Michael followed the partisans upstairs feeling like a new man. In many ways he was, for he doubted the Ardan soldiers who had held him would see the ragged man they had captured past his fresh Daressan clothing.

Leaving the town was simple; they walked out. The two men at the gate inclined their heads to Clair as they passed, and in short order they were on a narrow track that wound its way between fields to the depths of the Daressan countryside.

It reminded Michael of his regular walks with Jeorg, and he felt a deep peace settle through him as they wound their way past crops and woodland in the valley surrounding the town. It was not the same - never would be, in fact, but the veneer of that idyll was better than he had enjoyed for some time.

Once they left the valley, however, the scenery began to change. Michael might have overlooked it at first had he not spent those months in Jeorg’s woods, but now he saw unnatural touches scattered among the scenery. Here, a tree had been splintered apart with unnatural violence. There, a freshly-churned divot of soil was scooped away from the loam.

The signs of combat became more frequent as they pushed on. The ribs of skeletal horses glinted from beneath fallen tree trunks, and a few times Michael thought he glimpsed smaller, more-familiar bones amid the brush.

They stopped for none of it. Clair led them through the woods with a sure, quick pace that brooked no delay. Michael had no trouble keeping up, the warm glow of Stefan’s soul pulsing through him with each breath. Vernon, on the other hand, seemed especially unused to physical exertion. His face was red and beaded with sweat by midday.

Michael wondered at the organization of the Daressan partisans. Sobriquet acted as a central figure, and Clair of some importance - but were there other cells? Councils, organizations, committees? He did not ask, of course, since Clair already viewed him with suspicion, but he did wonder how a man like Vernon found himself working with an underground resistance. If Michael had seen him on the streets of Calmharbor he would have guessed him to be a clerk or a banker, not an outlaw.

A splintered wagon wheel lay partially across the trail. Michael stepped around it, looking at the gouges of shrapnel in the wood. Perhaps this was what happened to clerks in a war. He did not feel particularly suited for his own role in events, either. The earlier recollection of Ricard and his idle mornings trading witticisms had been nostalgic, painfully so, but not for a minute had Michael yearned to go back to those days. Perhaps they all had grown beyond their past.

“Wait,” Vernon gasped from behind. “Stop here.”

Clair halted, and Charles turned to raise an eyebrow. “You need a break?” he said, a slight note of derision in his voice.

“Two men talking, ahead down the trail,” Vernon said, regaining his breath a bit with the pause. “Also, go fuck yourself.”

Charles laughed and followed Clair off the trail through a break in the brush. She led them behind a small copse where they would be hidden from any passers-by on the trail.

“How far now?” she whispered.

Vernon frowned. “Close. Should be in sight soon. Sounds like more than two men.”

Her eyes moved to Michael, who nodded and sent his sight high above the brush until he had a good vantage on the trail. It was not long before he saw Ardan uniforms emerge from amid the scrubby trees. It was a small patrol, eight men, which he relayed to the others by holding up an appropriate count of fingers.

The soldiers appeared unconcerned, talking idly and walking without much attention paid to their surroundings. At least one was a durens of some variety, for although his pack was laden far beyond the others he bore no signs of strain from it. If there were other ensouled among their number Michael could not spot them.

Michael thought of Elias as he watched them pass. How many of these men would meet the same fate in a year or two? How many would ever return home? He found some small consolation and a surprising swell of pride in the knowledge that none would ever again follow Stefan’s path. That was something Michael had done, however inadvertently; what was worst in the world had been lessened by a small amount and all were better for it.

He let himself smile, and watched the soldiers walk.

They waited until the patrol had passed, then again for a few moments to ensure they were out of earshot. Vernon confirmed their departure with a nod, and they returned back to the trail.

“Would they have truly caused us trouble?” Michael asked. “Surely they have their own business to be about, and we’re trying very hard to be unremarkable.”

Vernon shot him an incredulous look, while Charles and Gerard frowned. Clair’s brows furrowed in a way that immediately made Michael regret opening his mouth.

“We do not need to be remarkable to be diverting to a group of bored soldiers, Ardan,” she said. “Out here there is no one to see what they do, so they may do what they please with no consequence. Perhaps one would like to take your pack. Perhaps another would like to fuck me, or shoot you just to see the blood flow.”

Michael blinked, taken aback, and Clair stepped closer to him, her eyes burning. “Go ahead,” she murmured. “Say what Ardans always say. They wouldn’t really do that, would they? Not Ardan soldiers. Not those fine young men.” She took another step closer, and Michael saw the fine scars tracing along her cheekbone. “Ask. Ask me if they really would.”

He held her gaze for a moment and thought of his father, hiding violence behind a calm veneer. Of Leon, selling him to the Institute and earning his own death in payment. Of the Institute itself, wrapping its tendrils around every aspect of Ardan life to shape the country for bitter, endless war.

“Of course they would,” Michael said. “I apologize, I spoke without thinking.”

Clair held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned around. “So think more,” she said, walking back to the head of the line. “And speak less. We’ll all be happier for it.”

They drew close enough to Leik to see smoke by the early afternoon, but their pace slowed to a crawl as they picked a circuitous route through the maze of Ardan defenses surrounding the city. Although the battle lines were concentrated to the north and west, soldiers patrolled the eastern access with some regularity.

Michael was tasked with scouting in tandem with Vernon, walking more often than not with his sight as high as he could reach. It was an odd sensation, to watch himself scrambling over the rubble from high above, but he found himself adjusting to the new viewpoint in short order.

There was also some help from Sobriquet, or appeared to be. It was nothing so obvious as the complete invisibility from the other night, but it became evident when a quiet, motionless knot of soldiers escaped their notice and gained a clear sightline on their group.

When it happened Michael had frozen, heart pounding with sudden vigor, only to frown in puzzlement as the soldiers stared directly past them and went about their business. Clair had not offered a comment; Michael, still wary from her tirade earlier, had not asked.

It was increasingly hard to keep focus on his watch as they drew closer to Leik. It was a fascinating sight, a low sprawl of whitewashed and boxy structures that flowed upward from the shoreline onto a low ridge. Atop the ridge lay a denser concentration of buildings in the monolithic Gharic style, festooned with columns and colonnades that held the warm glow of the evening’s sun in their facets.

Those that were standing, that is. Other buildings lay half-collapsed in jumbles of blackened debris, columns broken and tiles scattered from the roof. Conspicuous gaps in the skyline told of still more that were less fortunate.

In the lower city the damage was worse. Smoke billowed from fires at a dozen points along the outer wall, and from twice that just beyond its curve. Some were low, smoldering fires that still lingered in blocks that had been reduced to rubble by the barrage, but others were smaller and more intense. As Michael watched he saw figures feeding the flames, and in the motion of their far-off bodies he realized that they were pyres for the dead.

He looked around again and saw how many there were, feeling nausea creep slowly over him. He had marveled at the barrage as it happened, feeling only a bit guilty for his awe afterward when he reflected on the toll. Now he staggered and sank down onto a piece of debris, lightheaded at the enormity of the slaughter.

“What?” Clair hissed. “This is no place to stop.”

“Sorry,” Michael muttered, pulling himself to his feet. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”

There was a pause, and Clair looked out to see the columns of smoke. Her eyes lingered on them for a moment. “That’s why we’re here,” she said. “S-”

She broke off. After a moment, she looked back toward Michael. “Sobriquet says we don’t know the whole truth. This is too big for doubt.” She looked out toward the sea and the distant specks of the Safid blockade, adjusting her pack with an irritated, quick movement. “When we kill the ones who did this, we want to be sure we’ve got them all.”

Michael nodded, and the group moved on through the brush around the city. Their progress eased somewhat once they moved past the outer lines and into the fringes of the town, but what they gained in cover also benefited their adversary. He found himself moving his sight more, peeking around corners and over rooftops to ensure that none were so close that Sobriquet’s boons would fail.

“Pause here,” Sobriquet said, speaking close in his ear. Michael had been so absorbed in his scouting that he lurched to the side in shock, heart pounding - then glared at the distorted form of his perhaps-employer with irritation.

“Was that strictly necessary?” he asked, rubbing his chest. Charles and Gerard were smirking, while Clair and Vernon were looking pointedly away from the shimmering blot.

“No,” Sobriquet said. “Consider it a lesson in situational awareness, if you must. I interrupted to tell you that you’re approaching one of the nearer - confluences, let us call them. Secrets have a weight to them, and a spread. The spread is simply the array of locations where the truth resides, and the weight roughly corresponds to the impact should that secret diffuse beyond them.”

Sobriquet paused, and Michael felt the sensation of being closely inspected. “While not as weighty as some secrets,” it said pointedly, “this one is important enough to get a sense of its spread despite being fairly diffuse. You are approaching one of the relevant points. It lies perhaps two blocks forward and one block left of your current path.”

The apparition lingered for a moment before fading, leaving Michael with swimming vision and a headache. When he regained his equilibrium Clair motioned impatiently for him to continue on.

“Next time don’t stare like an idiot,” she said. “You can speak just fine without looking at that mess.”

Michael shot an annoyed glare back at her, a feat he was rather proud of considering his vision was elsewhere at the time. “Thank you for the helpful advice,” he muttered. “Your timing is somewhat less fortunate.”

“I don’t spoil the fun unless it’s relevant to the mission. Unfortunately, you are. Let’s move to the spot.” Clair motioned the others forward and began to walk once more.

The block in question had been shelled rather thoroughly, with divots taken out of the streets and massive sections of wall blasted away from every building. Fully half the structures had fallen into mounds of rubble, and the rest looked like they would do the same at the next stiff breeze.

As they drew close Michael could smell rotting meat under the omnipresent smoke, although he could not see any of the bodies from his current vantage. He curled his hands into fists and kept walking.

“What are we looking for?” he asked. “Do we know?”

Clair let out a sigh and shook her head. “No,” she said. “This is the annoying part, we won’t know what the relevant information is until we learn it. At that point it changes the spread of the secret, and Sobriquet will tell us.”

“So in effect, we’ll know it when we see it,” Michael muttered. “But there’s a whole block to comb through, this is going to take forever.”

“Imagine how long it would take us if we didn’t have a spector,” Clair shot back. “Come on, Ardan. Time to pay your fare.”

Michael sighed and walked close to the rubble, finding a less-visible nook to stand in before sending his sight into the debris. It was chaotic and jumbled, his vision often cutting out entirely as he found himself watching from within some fallen bit of masonry.

For the first minutes he made little sense of what he was seeing, disoriented by the tight spaces and obstructions. Slowly he began to gain a sense for it, however, and as he did he began to see the fragments around him for what they were.

A phonograph, half-crushed. An icebox that had burst open when a wall fell on it, spilling its contents onto the floor. A piece of cake was left, decorated with fine yellow swirls of icing. A book. Shards of a decanter still stained with wine. A child’s doll, with a tiny, bloated hand wrapped-

Michael sank to one knee and vomited, heaving his trail lunch onto the debris pile in front of him. He felt Gerard’s hand on his shoulder, helping him back upright; he waved the man off and let his vision return to his own view for a moment.

“No secrets here,” Michael panted, wiping his mouth. “Just - people.”

Clair’s mouth pressed into a line. She nodded and stepped back into the street as Michael began to walk to the next building, and the next. Sometimes there were people, sometimes only pieces of a life lying destroyed. They were each tragic in their own way, and full of their own secrets. A letter half-finished spoke of a love its writer had yet to declare. A suitcase of golden crowns lay exposed from its hiding spot under shattered floorboards.

Sobriquet said nothing for these, or the other minor secrets that Michael happened upon - so Michael said nothing, and let them rest with the dead. He was peripherally aware of his body amid the flood of eerie, poignant images. His face was gritty and wet with tears, his throat burning with the sting of bile.

He saw the others looking at him when he pulled back to himself for the walk between buildings; Clair with a slight frown, Gerard with evident concern. Charles and Vernon were inscrutable, keeping watch on the street for passing soldiers. More than once there were patrols, and they all squeezed into a broken foyer to wait out their passing while Michael cast his gaze through the destruction.

At one of these times, when he sat with Gerard pressed awkwardly against him and Vernon looming close on his other side, Michael saw the small glint of a metal button reflecting from under a fallen beam. He shifted his vision closer and saw an Ardan uniform jacket, bloodstained where it was not blackened with fire.

It did not belong in this block, Michael knew. He was a stranger to this town and to this neighborhood, but he had been dragging his soul through the intimate shards of its ruin since he arrived; the jacket was out of place.

Michael shifted around the body. Most of it was pinned under the fallen beam. A fire had gnawed at the remnants for some time, leaving one arm blackened and skeletal where it draped over a leather courier’s bag.

The top flap had fallen open, leaving the charred edges of paper visible. Michael felt his heart begin to pound in his chest as he recognized the seal of the Assembly on one scrap. Stamped next to it was a single word in red ink: SUNBURN.

As he read the word, he heard Sobriquet’s voice in his ear once more. “That’s it,” the voice purred. “That’s what we’re looking for.”

Michael did not answer, nor did he move. His attention was fixed on the text that lay just below, barely protruding from the bag.

Committee of War, it read. Then: Vice-chair, Karl Baumgart.