Laboured breaths alerted Viky to another’s approach. Slipping into a rough circular side tunnel she waited in the gloom. Head down, ladened with yoke and amphoras, a servant turned off the adjoining tunnel and into her without looking.
“Look out,” Viky stepped back, avoiding injury and most of the cascading water.
“Ah, Oh, no. Oh no.” the servant wailed.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s only water.” Thankful it hadn't been a servant carting refuse from a personal room.
“My Lady?” the servant, little more than a child examined her dishevelled appearance with flat, dull eyes.
“Eh, yes. Yes, I am a Lady.” Viky stood as tall as her limited height allowed, straightening her tunic and shawl and attempted to look regal.
It was not a convincing display.
“My Lady, so sorry, so sorry, this humble one makes you wet. Apologies. Apologies.”
The problem was this was a service tunnel, a confusing labyrinth of them ran behind the residential areas of the city. The servant was doing the job they were assigned, and unlike Viki, had every right to be using the tunnel. But that was not the way the world worked. Servants were always expected to apologize.
“No need to apologize, no harm done.”
She smiled and went to push a lock of stray hair back into a respectable position. The servant flinched as she raised her arm, their thin arms still clutching the yolk, face scrunched up and body trembling.
“It's OK I'm not going to hit you.”
Stormblast. The idea was repulsive, although she'd witnessed such events often since her arrival in the capital eleven months ago. Her culture, the people of The Rifts, avoided having servants, or D’char, as they were referred to in the capital. Viky estimated Chruciaal housed as many D’char as free men and women. It made a warped sort of sense. Most Commanders were only good at telling others what to do. And Ladies, a least real Ladies, existed to twitter annoyingly, engage in spiteful gossip and provide an heir and sons. Malicious scheming and subtle backstabbing adding variety on special occasions.
Someone had to do the work and keep the city running, and of course the menial work fell to the lowest of the stratified society.
“Not hit?” Bewilderment crossed the servants’ features.
“No. It was an accident.”
This was one of the slower ones and Viky’s heart melted. She was young, strong, and fit. She could have lugged twice as much water without a problem and had done so while climbing up and down rope ladders back home. But helping would only create difficulties for the servant and she was in no position to change the social dynamics of a culture that had existed long before her grand parentals had been born. With an encouraging smile she made the hand signals for respect and dismissal and attempted to pass the yoke. It spanned the greater part of the width of the narrow tunnel. The concave floor, now slippery, made the uneven footing treacherous.
“My Lady, you lost?” The D’char attempted to turn, more water splashed. Not a wise move. The servant slipped, Viky grabbed the closest edge of the yoke, to steady it, averting catastrophe.
Was she lost? Displaced would be a better word. Viky had studied geography, knew where Chruciaal, the capital of the Coalition, was located. It was the last place her parentals would have wanted her to live, but after her sister and clans’ betrayal, there hadn’t been a choice.
“Kind of. But it’s okay, don’t worry about me. I don't want you getting into trouble. I know what will happen if you are late. You work very hard for us, and I appreciate it.”
Indecision joined the confusion, the unfamiliar concept difficult for the servant to express.
“Lady in work tunnels?”
“I’m just leaving, don’t worry yourself about anything.” Ladies didn’t work, finding one in the service tunnel was perplexing.
Explaining would only cause more problems, and it was her business. Her secret.
“Be at peace.” She smiled again and slipped into the adjoining tunnel, hurrying on her way.
***
Dereniik’s right crutch slipped on the glassy marble floor. Leather straps binding it to the stump of his arm bit into the scar tissue and his sedate pace further slowed.
Entering the Healing Hall reception his senses were assaulted with sterile antiseptic smells, stilted hushed conversation, and the drudgery of meaningless delays. Idiotic idiosyncrasies rounded out the ornate and beautiful, but depressing and unpleasant environment. Dereniik shuffled to the administration desk.
The clerk, Arroon, an unranked second son, didn’t look up from parchment, his quill dry as it hovered over an unmarked page. He knew exactly how long to keep each patient waiting. A heartbeat before Dereniik thought he would pass out; the required script work was pushed across polished wood.
Nothing was said. Nothing was ever said. It had taken Dereniik seven months before returning the scowl. Leaning against the desk, it took considerable skill to balance on his single leg, relinquish his grip on the left crutch, and scrawl the glyph depicting his name. It was almost legible, but didn’t represent the effort required to perform the action.
The visits were labour intensive and unproductive. Dereniik saw the same Healer on the first day, of the second Nine-day, each month. Healer Cedriin shook his head, and for the last eight months, in the same dry monotone, reiterated the same prognosis, with the same indifferent attitude. Dereniik was dying, wouldn’t last more than a few months. This futile action, his whole current existence, was a heavy weight on his now hunched shoulders.
Parchment work complete, Dereniik clicked across the room and slumped onto a couch next to an artistic display of fresh fruit. Available in the reception room of every Healing Hall throughout the Coalition this custom made the lengthy walk and negotiating the treacherous floor surface worthwhile. Attending the monthly appointment was a duty. Being able to eat once he arrived made it a viable prospect. His current energy levels affording him the luxury of either making it to the closest public baths or canteen. He only ate on alternate days. Not that food performed its function anymore. Re-appearing one way or the other, in a revolting and uncontrolled manor, within half a hands-breath of consumption. His knowledge of personal room locations, and the necessary to be always within a short distance of one, bordered on obsession. With hunger a constant companion, and often only associate, his decent into nonexistence was accelerating.
Selecting a piece of orange Great Tree fruit the smooth texture and sweet taste delighted an appreciative pallet.
Opposite, ancient Commander Tapaani nursed a bandaged wrist while waiting with a vacant stare, his D’char, Vit gave Dereniik a respectful nod, wain smile, and then averted his eyes in well trained subjection. A couple of youths conversed in clipped, hushed tones. Another D’char discreetly waited in an alcove. Healers in this wing of the fractal shaped Healing Hall only ever attended to male Commanders with injuries. Finishing the fruit Dereniik worked his way through a cluster of Ceader nuts.
A trio of young men clomped into the room. A fresh purple and scarlet slash disfiguring the right forearm of the central figure. A Phase Burn. Dereniik did not glancing to the remnant of his right arm and supressed most of the spontaneous shudder.
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Phasing seared the skin, cauterizing blood vessels, so blood lose was not an issue. The resulting scar tissue was also insensitive to pain, but for Dereniik that did not stop the random uncontrollable phantom pains from a hand that no longer existed.
“Sir, we’ve been told to ask for Commander Flagsteen.” A lilting Rift accent informed the man behind the administration desk.
Raising his eyes Arroon, with deliberate lassitude, turned to a file and lethargically selected the correct parchment. Placing it on the desk every glyph was given a detailed inspection.
Restless, the Phase burned man fidgeted. Severed muscles spasming his right hand.
“I’ll take care of this mate; you be resting up.” The other companion, whose blue-black skin and swirling gem imbedded tattoos indicated Wild Waters ancestry, gestured to an empty couch.
Delay tactic thwarted Arroon reluctantly slid the parchment over to the waiting teammate and flicked a finger. The silent D’char sprang into action, sprinting off to take a message to Healer Flagsteen. The Rift man and his injured companion settled themselves. Dereniik kept eating.
The injured young man glanced about for a distraction, recognition reflecting in his eyes. “My Lord, are you Commander Dereniik?” He reverently asked.
“Yes, I am. And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“Murro, Er, Commander Murroon, my Lord. And great is the pleasure to meet the hero of Piraack.”
The respect was nauseating.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Commander Murroon.”
“I am Commander Jieleem Sir,” the Rift man grinned and Dereniik altered his original evaluation. The man’s accent was from The Rift, but he had none of the broad features or red skin tone, no doubt the son of a Commander whose team had been assigned to administrations in The Rift and therefore raised his family there. “Thank you for your sacrifice and service to the coalition.”
Dereniik nodded. He hadn’t served the Coalition; he’d served people. Part of a team using his skills to benefit others. A Deputised Operative Commander, keepers of law, peace and justice.
“I be Stephaan,” the big friend clomped across the room. Ignoring the usual honorific, and the drawled Wild Waters accent was thick. “It be heard you survived in the jungle for a whole month, that be truth?”
Variations of this conversation had been repeated too many times.
“Yes, although, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Reverence was replaced by awe.
“Sir,” Dereniik could almost see the cogs of Jieleem’s mind turning. “How was that even possible? Everything in the jungle is dangerous.”
“Not as dangerous as man. Most of my injuries were caused by the members of the drug cartel my team was investigating.”
The word ‘team’ still hurt. Only two of his nine-man unit had made it back to civilization, both hanging to life by treads finer than Rustepheen web. He was the lucky one, only missing two limbs.
“Moss and Mould.” Murro swore, and shifted his wounded arm to a more comfortable position, body language indicating he would love a story.
Dereniik selected a handful of berries.
“Sir, you lost your whole team, all your friends, are they going to reassign you?” Jieleem’s empathy was almost tangible.
Dereniik shrugged. Why bother? He was dying. Why cultivate friendships that would only lead others to sorrow? “It’s unlikely. What happened to you?” Dereniik addressed Murro, changing the subject.
“Haven’t the knack of controlling the strength of me Phase Bolt. Flicked myself with the kick-back.” Murro shrugged and gave a self-depreciating half grin.
Dereniik wasn’t sure if the man was being completely honest, not that it mattered. It was none of his business and evidently the story the three had agreed to tell.
The young men all had purple streaks in their hair indicating a variety of Phasing abilities. Stephaan’s streaks were a blue/purple, possibly a Carver, certainly not a Bolt Maker. Jieleem's hair and eyes were predominantly blue/violet, but he had rich amethyst in his sidelocks, a Manipulator, and the streaks of Red/ purple, in his and Murro’s hair indications of Bolt Phasing Fractal abilities. All fractal talents had dangers associated with their use, but the purple Phasing family were perilous and renowned for their insane unpredictability.
“You’re doing better than me,” Jieleen chuckled. “I can’t get much more than a splutter. Bet when I start serious training with Bolt you’ll need to be helping me out plenty.”
“Jo-jooh him duck for cover faster than lightning in Brightstorm.” Stephaan chuckled.
“And the look on Commander Faizeen’s face, priceless,” Murro added. “Recon he’ll end up with a black eye the way he face planted.”
Dereniik kept eating. All Commanders trained for three rotations and were required to pass multiple exams before graduating. His team’s education had continued for a further rotation, twenty-six months, to become Deputized Operative Commanders. The elite group charged with maintaining the Coalitions laws. These men were Constructors, the antitheses of what their powers could so, and they would hone skill and be used for combat and defence.
“I remember your team hosting an item of entertainment at last New Rotations celebration, it was certainly colourful.” Dereniik commented. Eleven months, a life time ago. Before everything had gone wrong.
“Yeah, that was us, this is our second rotation in Chruciaal.” Murro said.
“The training’s he is good, we need extra training.” Stephaan added glancing at Jeileen.
Dereniik enjoyed the continued friendly banter of teammates, felt included but required to contributed little. God’s Light, he missed his team, and his family. Dereniik forced himself to stop that train of thought as constrictions started obstructing his breathing.
“Murro, I’m sorry to see you back here. Stephaan and Jeileen good to see you again.” Honourable Commander Flagsteen entered the room at a trot, but stopped as his eyes came to rest on Dereniik. The cheerful childlike voice softened. “My Lord, Commander Dereniik.” Then he brightened. “Are you here to see me too?”
“No, Honourable Sir, I’m here to see Healer Cedriin.”
Flagsteen pulled a face. The youth was already the ugliest person Dereniik knew, and the expression did nothing to enhance his appearance.
Dereniik wasn’t sure why the coalition had decided to accept the recruitment of a child. Men, or at least those whose mothers could afford to purchase them a fractal, had the option to join the program at the start of any rotation. But fractals only attached to adult males, so most trainees were at least ten before they commenced. You needed to be in peek condition to survive the gruelling physical drills and the academic rigorous were mentally strenuous. A smattering of older men started, but the death rate among them was always higher. A child becoming a Commander was unprecedented.
“Oh, I have applied to see you Sir, I mean professionally, as a Healer, not just in the library while we are doing research.” Flagsteen blushed and stepped hesitantly towards him.
How could this shy, scrawny kid help? His Elders, with countless rotations of experience and nine-score spent developing skills, had failed. Still, there had to be more to him than appearances suggested. After all, he was still alive, and had somehow achieved the rank of Ninth Maull, before graduation. Among Dereniik associates only their team’s trainer and mentor held that rank, receiving the honour well in his sixties. Dereniik, graduated at top of his rotation with a very respectable ranking of Fifth Maull, and had been promoted to Sixth after the tragedy at the beginning of the rotation.
“Honourable Commander Flagsteen it is very kind, and unexpected, that you have thought of me at all.”
“Yeah, well, Flags is like that, always ready to help out,” Jieleem said.
“Saved my sorry ass more than once,” Murro grinned.
The kid’s blush deepened, light tan skin becoming blotched. “Oh, just Flagsteen or Flags is good enough. I’m not really a Commander, I have two fractals but they are not attached yet.”
Chruciaal was rife with rumours about the child and although Dereniik was no longer in the loop some news still filtered in his direction. The kid ran one hand back through his messy green and gold waves and placed his other small fine boned hand on Dereniik’s remaining forearm.
Dereniik frowned, an objection to the multiple levels of protocol being breached on his lips. Unexpected warmth burst from the contact, radiating up Dereniik’s arm in a heartbeat and halted his words. Simultaneous flashes of heat and a biting cold followed a somewhat bitter, almost smell, not quite taste, that caught at the back of his throat.
Powered Healing. And the kid was strong. The world had run out of green fractals, and Healing talents were seldom inherited, but occasionally a descendant was found and recruited.
The scent sharpened, becoming pungent as the temperature fluctuations stabilised into a delicious glowing warmth. Dereniik inhaled. God’s Light, it was wonderful.
Flagsteen withdrew his hand and whispered. “Okay, you’re going to have to go to the personal room, right now, and throw up. It may take a while, but purge everything you can.”
Stomach churning, Dereniik made it to the personal room, but not the bowl. Contents of his stomach reappeared as he lost control of body functions. A green clad D’char appeared with a fresh skirt and Cowl, explaining they had been instructed to assist.
By the time Dereniik was presentable the trio of young Commanders had been attended to and were leaving.
“Commander Dereniik, how are you feeling now?” Flagsteen unobtrusively inquired.
“Washed out, and famished, what did you do to me?”
“Honourable Healer Flagsteen, you are not interfering with my patient are you.” Healer Cedriin entered the reception and glared.
“Oh, well, that wouldn’t be ethical would it?” Flagsteen’s inept attempt at feigning a nonchalant attitude was unsuccessful.
“My Lord, he was here for me,” Murro waved his previously afflicted arm. “We was all just chatting like, while we was waiting. Not often the likes of us meet a real-life hero. It’s a real honour to meet you Lord Commander Dereniik, Sir.”
Murro made an elaborate, excessive and unnecessary bow of Amaranthaan origins in Dereniik’s general direction. Flagsteen turned his attention to Murro and gave him post-procedural information Dereniik had heard before.
Healer Cedriin frowned, indecisive. “Well, Lord Commander Dereniik, if you are not too busy, enthralling these men with tall tales of your supposed heroics, would mind gracing me with your presence?”
Dereniik moved with difficulty. The strapping, attaching the stump of his right arm to the crutch had come loose, so he was dependence on the other. The action emphasised his lurch and hunched shoulders.
Reality re-asserted itself.
The brief interlude of inclusion and companionship had been beautiful.
But he not a hero, just a washed-up cripple waiting to die.