Peculiar Soul - Chapter 78: Esse et Videri

Chapter 78: Esse et Videri

Efforts to locate Stellar are ongoing, with any remaining assets in western Daressa and Qalo retasked to support this effort. No direct sightings have been reported, but agents have established that BAZ personnel have infiltrated and set up wireless monitoring stations within Daressan territory and along the coast. Our agents have been instructed to monitor Mendiko activity silently, and to set up similar stations in the interior where possible. As there is now confirmation of BAZ involvement, this initiative is now formally under Director Kemper as Initiative Starfall, coded MS-PRIV-SF. Please route any requests for source-linked intelligence through the Director’s office.

While the identity of the bearer is not known with complete certainty, several indicators point to Luc Flament, formerly of the Baumgart party. Our dossier on Flament is attached in Appendix A of this circular, along with an assessment on possible avenues of approach given the extensive personality profiles recovered from Braun Island.

At this time all initiatives are suspended save for two; foreign assets are wholly tasked under Initiative Starfall, while domestic assets are to observe their prior orders under Initiative Redoubt as we approach the final stages prior to plan commencement. In the event of resource conflicts, prioritize Redoubt unless specifically ordered otherwise.

– Institute Circular #3560, 45 Gleaning 693.

In the morning the men broke fast and camp all at once, with the tents coming down as a thin porridge of oat and chopped apple began to boil. This was not happenstance efficiency; the men had simply ceased to object when Zabala gave his commands, and the rest flowed onward from there.

Michael made a point of walking by for his bowl while most of the men were still queued for their portion. Every motion of it felt needlessly arrogant, yet the men looked on with a bizarre satisfaction as Michael approached and was served, taking an extra bowl for Sobriquet.

She smirked at his approach, taking the bowl with barely-restrained merriment. “So this is it,” she murmured. “Your descent into aristocratic egomania.”

“Silence, peasant,” Michael deadpanned. He ate a few spoonfuls, then sighed. “I have no idea why this in particular should help set them at ease. It does, though, and it seems a harmless enough indulgence.”

Sobriquet chuckled. “It’s all about power,” she said. “I told you before that people found my apparition easier to follow than my figure, and this is part of it. The games, the mystery; they’re an exercise of control. If you’re pledging yourself to a side, it’s more comforting to know that those in charge have some ability to back up their cause. Social use of that power is one way to demonstrate it.” She ate another spoonful, then swallowed. “Also a good way to weed out the ones that have designs on your position, since they just tend to find it irritating.”

“I suppose you had me figured out from the start, then,” Michael laughed. He began to eat in earnest, as the porridge was rather good for camp food.

“I did, but not because of that,” Sobriquet said. “In the partisans there were always those who liked the idea of our cause much more than the business of it. They were happy to spread vitriol and make thunderous proclamations about the end of foreign occupation here in Daressa, but ask them to pick up a gun and they’d go rather quiet.”

She smirked. “Annoying as they were, though, they were necessary. If partisans seize a supply convoy, it hurts the enemy directly – but it does nothing for the life of the cause, since ideally there are few witnesses to such an act. It was an infuriating truth that blowhards with no substance became the focal points for revolutionary ire while the effective actors of our movement were mostly unknown.”

“Hence your – affectations of personality, let us say,” Michael said.

“Precisely!” she said, giving a mocking flourish with her spoon. “Who can agitate the masses while still driving a knife into the occupiers’ flank? One answer will do for both: it is Sobriquet.” She snorted laughter, shaking her head. “It still feels stupid, but you grow to realize that power lends respect even to the least-respectable actions. Arrogance and a whiff of insanity is comical until the threat of violence intrudes, at which point it is downright terrifying.”

Michael gave a solemn nod. “I was very intimidated,” he said. “You did an excellent job.”

She jabbed him with her spoon. “Liar. That’s how I had your measure, after all. You were uncertain, but not scared.”

“You were neither the most arrogant nor insane person I had met that week,” Michael scowled, rubbing at his side. “After Spark…” He trailed off, his words failing to gain purchase on the vast and insubstantial swell of feeling the name provoked.

Sobriquet frowned, letting her spoon drop and resting her fingers on his shoulder. “You seldom mention him.”

“There’s not much to say.” Michael reached up to take her hand. “He upended my life, and then my mind. I’ve done my best to right it since; it’s been for the better, I suppose, given that without that threat I’d never have mustered the courage to take that first step away from my father’s control. But-” He let his hand drop, then shook his head. “That was only the case because Spark was worse still. Given the example set by both men, I’m not sure I ever want to get to the point where that sort of thing flows naturally.”

“You seemed natural enough while speaking to the men yesterday. Was that so difficult, or so dangerous?” Sobriquet shrugged, standing from her seat. “You’re asking these men to help us track and kill one of the most terrifying souls in this world. This will make them understandably quite nervous about their safety. They’ll want to test you from time to time, to ensure that you have the strength to lead them to more than their deaths.”

Michael stood as well. “That sounds like a perpetual annoyance,” he muttered. “Everyone is convinced I’m a walking calamity save for the handful of men in my employ.”

“If it annoys you, show them in other ways,” she said. “And don’t worry about succumbing to the temptations of power. If cutting in line for your supper crafts you into a megalomaniac, well-” She stepped away and turned to face him, flashing a smile. “You will have to contend with Sobriquet, tyrant.” She struck a pose, gestured dramatically – and disappeared.

Michael blinked. After a moment of bemused silence, he sighed and went on with his morning.

They proceeded west down the road, albeit at a slower pace than the previous day; the road had seen better seasons, and had been humble in the best of them. Michael winced as Zabala drove the truck at speed into a thick branch that had fallen across the path. There was a sharp shock as they hit it, but the branch broke into splinters with no damage to the truck.

“You know, I could have moved that another way,” Michael said, gripping the seat to steady himself. “It’s not strictly necessary for you to ram your way through every obstacle we encounter.”

Zabala grunted. “This is standard procedure for convoys. Lead driver is always a fortimens, to serve as the icebreaker. Debris, animals, soldiers – we could handle much larger than that, if we need to.”

“Good to know,” Michael muttered, “but I think you’re going to make the men sick.” He sent his sight into the rear compartment of the truck, stuffed full of queasy-looking Ardans on bench seats; indeed, one was holding his helmet upturned while staring into the middle distance, his face pale and sweaty. “Maybe let me clear away the next big one?”

“If you make it an order, sure,” Zabala drawled. “The men could use some discomfort. Indolent, undisciplined dregs – they’re basically conscripts. Conscripts!” He threw one hand up in the air disgustedly. “They are a net loss, jauna. You’d be better-served leaving them all at the next town, including that drunken cockerel of a captain.”

Michael sighed. “It’s possible,” he said. “Probable, even. But it’s not as though I can ask Antolin for a squad of Mendiko soldiers, is it?”

Zabala grimaced. “No. But you don’t necessarily need this many men. A small team would be nimble, easy to supply. The men are no threat to any ensouled opponent, just as any enemy they could handle would be no threat to us. You’re a spector, so they’re of no help in a search or cordon. They’re just – weight, and mouths.”

“I can’t disagree on any particular,” Michael said. “But they’re more than just that. They’re-” He paused; Zabala let Michael order his words in peace.

“When I was coming north to Mendian, I met Sever,” Michael said. “We fought; I incapacitated him. For – various reasons, Sobriquet and I left him alive.”

Zabala snorted, but said nothing more.

Michael made a face. “I know, I know. It seemed right at the time. But when I mentioned it to Amira – Sustain, that is – she said that I should have killed him. That letting him live created a tether between us, one that would permit neither of us peace until the conflict was finished.”

“You believe that?” Zabala asked, glancing over. “Not the first part; you definitely should have killed him. The rest sounds like Safid rambling to me.”

“It very well could be; I don’t credit Amira with an abundance of sanity. But I’ve been thinking about it since we first met Lars and his men. He said that they first began paying attention to me because of Sever’s injury, and that it naturally led to the rest – using my name to taunt the Safid, half-jokingly pledging their soul to ‘the One.’” Michael made a face. “I look at them and I hear Amira’s warning.”

Zabala lifted a hand from the wheel to scratch at his jaw, then shrugged. “Might be,” he said. “Might be that you’d have even more of the idiots marching around if you’d have killed Sever outright. There’s no mystery in power drawing attention.”

Michael nodded; he leaned back in his seat. “It’s true. But affinity exists, and that bond ties me more strongly than most. The ones that didn’t join, and the ones that will likely still leave – I don’t worry about them. But the ones who follow despite everything…”

He trailed off, staring out the window. “I don’t know. I don’t have a name I can put on my fears, some concrete harm that will come from leaving them out in the world. I only know that affinity is real, and that those who have that tie with me seem to cross my path more than chance would dictate.”

“Come on,” Zabala scoffed. “Affinity is one thing, but all this business of crossing paths and fated encounters is straight out of the Safid Book.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “They had a name for me,” he said. “Not a nice name, I’ll grant you, but Ardalt and Mendian thought what I am was impossible; to Saf it was inevitable.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s all true, but there are – pieces. Pieces that rhyme with the truth, at least.”

“Never took you for a religious man,” Zabala said.

“I don’t think I am,” Michael laughed. “But I have eyes, and I’m paying attention.”

Zabala grunted, sounding unconvinced. “Seems like coincidence to me,” he said. “Or men scrambling after your soul. There’s enough chaos in this world without adding false meaning to its whims.”

“I suppose we’ll see,” Michael said. “The next month or so will be a good test of the theory.”

“You think your men will do something odd?” Zabala asked.

Michael shrugged. “Perhaps, but I didn’t mean them.” He turned to stare out the window, letting his sight float high above the dust kicked up by the trucks. “When I fled Spark’s island, I crossed half an ocean to arrive at the continent. I found Sobriquet, agreed to help her cause in exchange for passage to Mendian. She took me to Leik, and from there towards Imes.”

He reeled his sight back in to look at Zabala. “That’s where I found Luc – the man bound to me by affinity so strong that my soul seems to touch him. I left him half an ocean away, and two weeks later our paths crossed by seeming happenstance.” He flexed his left hand, curling it into a fist. “I wonder how long it will take this time.”

Their road wound down through low hills and patchy forest until it met a larger road that followed the river up from Rouns to the northwest. Zabala slowed the truck at the upper extent of the river valley to inspect its winding course.

Even from this distance, the heavy traffic on the valley road was plain to see. It was not choked with people, as a city road would be, but it was telling that they could count six carts and a scattering of travelers afoot while so far from the coast. To a man, they headed northwest towards the Safid border.

“I knew there had been a mass exodus from the Safid-held provinces,” Michael said, “but it’s something else to see it in person.”

Zabala drummed his fingers upon the steering wheel. “This is probably light compared to the first few days of the Safid withdrawal. From the initial reports, there were many residents who effectively withdrew with the army. Wives and children, many of them – but not all. Merchants, workers. Ordinary people who felt the change in the wind.” He nodded towards the few carts on the road. “These are the ones who were delayed, either through misplaced hope or unpreparedness.”

“I wouldn’t call it misplaced,” Michael said. “Many of these towns have been Safid for thirty, forty years. Some of these are people abandoning the only home they’ve known.”

“I’m sure the Daressans felt the same way, thirty or forty years ago,” Zabala said. “I can’t muster too much sympathy for them.”

Michael pursed his lips, looking down at the slow crawl of traffic on the road as Zabala put the truck back into gear. Their descent was slow, winding through a few switchbacks on the valley’s slope; it gave him ample time to inspect the travelers as they drew closer.

He had grown used to Emil’s cart during their travels, but the hodgepodge assortment of belongings stuffed into the refugee carts would have sent the merchant into conniptions. It looked like nothing more than a house’s contents roughly upended and cloaked with tarpaulins, which was likely not far from the truth. All of them – drivers, passengers and pedestrians – were grim-faced, their eyes locked forward on the road.

That changed when the trucks approached the junction. The unfamiliar noise of motors drowned out the soft whispers of the river, their dust cloud raising a banner for all to see. There was little change in the travelers’ expressions, but Michael felt the swell of emotion begin to build up and down the road.

There was fear, of course. It was always first, and always strongest. But after that came anger, resentment, and no small quantity of acid hate simmering atop the brew.

It was not universal, nor was it particularly focused. It clustered in sickening knots around the cartless pedestrians, mostly younger and bearing little more than a laden pack. A few of those were couples with children in tow; Michael steered his sight close to one child who looked up at the trucks with nothing more than innocent awe.

Then her father said something; her eyes changed. The girl seemed to gain years in a few moments, the joy on her face slackening into something blank and weary. It never feels like history in the moment, Unai had said, but in that particular moment Michael felt it clearly. It felt like the dying of futures, of possibilities withering away until the only paths left bent inexorably back towards conflict and destruction.

He pulled his sight inward once more. Zabala made no comment as he maneuvered the truck deftly around the travelers, sounding its horn when carts were slow to clear from their path. A few of the drivers looked back, simmering with mutinous indignation – but none contested the convoy, in the end, and they drove onward.

They held to the main road for most of the day, pausing only once to refuel the trucks from the dwindling store of canisters they had brought. As evening drew near, Michael used the last of the day’s slanting sunlight to peer at a map.

“We’ve got – Rouissat, that looks like the only town nearby. Small, though, and who knows how many are left by now.” Michael frowned. “It may be worth the detour to resupply, not to mention the chance for better lodging.”

Zabala grunted. “We can get food anywhere,” he said. “Fuel for the trucks is in shorter supply.”

“They were never a long-term solution,” Michael said. “Just a way for us to reach the western region quickly and narrow Luc’s lead.” He tapped his finger on the map. “We can ask in Rouissat to see if any travelers have carried word of Luc, or of sickness in his wake.”

“That’s a better reason to stop,” Zabala admitted. “But we shouldn’t look for welcome, or supplies. The refugees will have taken all they can, trading heavy valuables for supplies or transport.” He gave Michael a flat look. “You’ll have to keep a leash on these men, if we visit. Ardan soldiers have always liked to grab what wasn’t theirs, whether that’s food, drink or daughters.”

“Sera will see if they try anything,” Michael said. “And probably mete out a creative punishment.”

Zabala shook his head. “Not good enough,” he said. “She’s with you, but she’s not you. When it happens – and one of these morons will try something – it will need to be you that sees it, and you that stops it. That can mean she tells you, and you hand the offending cretin to me for discipline, but if you mean to captain this company then they must be made to understand that authority flows from you, and you alone.”

Michael pressed his lips together, stretching his sight backwards to inspect the bored, half-asleep troops sitting in the truck bed. “Noted,” he said. “I’ll hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it does I will involve myself.”

The other man gave a noncommittal snort, then slowed as a junction appeared around a bend. A small and weathered sign pointed left to Rouissat; Zabala looked to Michael for confirmation.

Michael nodded. They turned off the main road, away from the crowds of hostile travelers; it felt like stepping into cool water on a hot day, refreshing and very welcome. Michael luxuriated in the feeling for the short time it took them to reach Rouissat.

His stiff joints protested as he jumped down from the cab, turning towards the small town. It was picturesque, with wide streets and a few orchards hemming in a respectable cluster of houses that made up the city center. There were few other buildings – a granary and small tavern stood just off the square, but the largest structure by far was the town’s temple.

Frowning, Michael sent his sight closer to it. The rest of the buildings in town were well-maintained – immaculate, even, with obvious care given to the brick and tile. The temple, by contrast, was ransacked. Its windows were shattered, soot marking the walls above where fire had burned inside. Its doors were missing, its roof collapsed.

Michael’s eye for destruction had been well-honed by his time on campaign; he knew at a glance that this damage was fresh, and had happened since the last time it had rained.

Zabala cleared his throat loudly, drawing Michael’s attention back; a small crowd of men had formed at the entrance to town, standing protectively in the middle of the roadway. They were a greying and bald lot, clad in simple clothing and bearing farm implements instead of true weapons – though one man did hold a battered-looking rifle, resting it warily on one shoulder.

“I suppose that’s our welcoming committee,” Michael said, walking towards them. “Let the men dismount, but keep them well back until we’re done talking.”

If Zabala acknowledged the command, Michael did not hear it. His attention was fully-focused on the knot of men blocking the road, feeling their fear and suspicion intensify as he drew closer. He adopted a smile, stopping well short of the group to wave his hand in greeting.

“Hello!” he called. “My name is Michael Baumgart. We’re in need of supplies and information, and will compensate you for either.”

The men shifted uncertainly; the one with the rifle stepped forward. “Ardan?” he called out.

Michael spread his hands, palms open in what he hoped was a nonthreatening gesture. “Most of our company is Ardan, but we came here after fighting for Mendian,” he said. “We’re not part of the Ardan military.”

There was a brief outbreak of whispered conversation among the town’s defenders, after which the man who had spoken took a few cautious steps closer. “You’d best move on, then,” he said. “There’s no fighting here, and no call for travelers. We’re just humble folk, and Saf’s men took what little food we had on their way back.”

The crunch of footsteps came from behind him; Michael turned to see Sobriquet approaching. She looked the men over, frowning.

“I suppose there are liars even among humble folk,” she said.

Michael arched an eyebrow at her tone; the man brandished his rifle menacingly. “What was that, missy?” he demanded. “We’re decent folk here, you can’t-”

He fell silent as Sobriquet manifested her avatar between them, stumbling back with his mouth hanging open; the rest of the men made exclamations of panic, averting their eyes.

“I am Sobriquet,” she said. “These men are here with the authority of free Daressa, for they helped to make it so.”

The men dropped their weapons, save for the rifleman who laid his gently aside, straightening up to show shaking, open palms. “Milady Sobriquet,” he said hoarsely. “Please forgive us, we didn’t know-”

She let the apparition drop. “Well, now you do,” she said. “Michael asked about supplies and information; do you want to try to answer him again?”

The man licked his lips, nodding fervently. “Apologies, milady – milord. We have food and drink aplenty for guests such as yourselves. As for news – we don’t hear much, but if you’ve got questions we’ll answer what we know.”

Michael smiled. “That sounds fine,” he said, motioning for the man to be at ease; the trill of acute fear emanating from the villagers was distracting. “I took no offense; these have been dangerous times. Are you the headman here? What’s your name?”

“Thomas, milord – and I do speak for the village on most things, when there’s call for it.” He scratched nervously at his arm. “The soldiers, are they – is there trouble coming here? Does Saf mean to return?”

“Not that I know of,” Michael said. “For the time being the War is over, though I couldn’t say for how long. We’re not here to fight, just looking for someone – not anyone from your village. A young man, about my age, with dark hair and an Esroun cast to his features. He’d be traveling alone.”

Thomas frowned. “Esroun, you say? Haven’t laid eyes on an Esroun in years, save those that came down from the Savvy half now and again.” He spat upon the road. “Would have been a welcome sight, but no – no Esroun passing through.”

Michael let his breath out, feeling oddly relieved to know that they hadn’t managed to follow Luc’s path that precisely. “How about the people heading north? I imagine some of them must have stopped by on their way up from Rouns, did any of them mention a strange encounter with a young man? Any mentions of fires, flashes of light or an odd sickness?”

“Sickness?” Thomas asked, looking alarmed. “We’ve heard nothing-” He coughed suddenly, then calmed himself, looking abashed; Michael frowned. There was a flutter of odd emotion from the man, but not one that he could place. “Sorry, milord. We’ve had few enough – travelers through here, and the ones we’ve had didn’t have much to say. Is the illness among the folk heading north?”

“There’s no outbreak that I’m aware of,” Michael said, trying for a reassuring tone. “Just asking to see if you heard anything out of the ordinary.

“Nothing at all, and we’re looking forward to getting back to what’s proper,” Thomas said, mustering a relieved smile. “Saf gone and the filth out of free Daressa, eh? If that’s your business, then you and your men are more than welcome.” He peered past Michael at the men milling around under Zabala’s watchful eye. “We’ve plenty of spare houses left, with the Savvy bastards gone. You’re welcome to them, and anything left within. We’ve gathered most of what’s good already, though – let me talk to our innkeep and we’ll see about some dinner.”

The headman clapped his hands, suddenly animated. “Guests, guests!” he shouted. “Yann, go get Mathieu and tell him to start cooking! We’ll – sorry, milord, but you’ve caught us a bit by surprise. If your men come by the tavern around sundown, we’ll have a little party to toast the end of the War and talk about whatever else you might need.”

Michael nodded, trying to keep pace with the rapid shifts in tone, then turned away to walk back towards the trucks. Sobriquet fell into step beside him. “Odd folks,” he said when they were out of earshot. “They seem friendly enough, but they’re keeping a lot unsaid.”

“Michael, you just arrived with half a company of foreign soldiers – and me, to boot.” She gave him an exasperated look. “It’s a miracle that nobody fainted. These are not people well-used to excitement, and even less to the positive sort.”

“Point taken,” Michael conceded. He waved to Zabala, then filled him in on their situation; in short order the trucks were rumbling into the town. A few of the men pointed out the vacant houses available for their use, and Zabala began to assign the men to them. At a significant look from Sobriquet, Michael interceded to take one of the smaller houses for their own.

The echo of acceptance and satisfaction was still bizarre, but his conversation with Sobriquet had at least stripped the sinister aspect his mind had lent it. He walked up to the house and pushed the door wide – easily, for the latch had been hacked away from the door, leaving only splintered wood behind.

Frowning, Michael stepped into a small but well-made house, albeit an empty one. The floors were well-laid wood, the walls sturdy plaster. Aside from the main room there was a small kitchen, a bedroom stripped bare of all but a frame, and a smaller room with an upturned and broken bassinet.

The walls of this last one had been decorated inexpertly, but not so poorly that Michael couldn’t recognize the simple shapes – eight men and women rendered in colorful paints. Michael saw a pair in white and black, another carrying a shield and sword, a third in matching grey robes and a fourth carrying scepters – one of gold, the other of gnarled wood.

All of their faces had been scratched away, pits in the plaster showing raw brick below. The odd sight captured Michael’s attention until Sobriquet grabbed his arm; he startled, but managed to avoid making any undignified noises.

“Come on,” she said, drawing him close. “We’ve got some time before supper. Who knows the next time we’ll get a room to ourselves?”

Michael nodded, turning back to fetch their gear and bedrolls with a motivated stride. The empty room with its ruined paintings lingered in his mind, though; even as he walked, he let his sight stray back to peer at the faceless figures, their expressions hidden in the plaster dust scattered across the floor.