Viky turned out of the servants’ tunnel and into the residential section of the sub-terranean city of Chruciaal. Lofty vaulted ceilings sent her footfall back in faint muffled echoes. A seamless melding of semi-precious gems and slices of quartz, interwoven with threads of filigree representing foliage decorated the panelled walls. Ornate statues and carvings punctuated the broad central walkway and embellished niches. The ceiling, delicately glowing and infused with ambient tones was packed with luminescent Bryophyte. This close to the cliff face strands of Gods Fire flickered merrily, reflecting off the polished stones.
Arched doorways punctuated the walkway with measured regularity but many of the enclaves beyond were devoid of life. Silent and empty. Even with the influx of this rotations graduating Commanders and the second daughters, Chruciaal held the dejected, deserted air of an abandoned orphan.
A few people on the walkway crossed her path. A couple of servants hurried about their business. A woman, babe in arms, rushed into an enclave opposite. Viky recognised her, but couldn’t recall her name. They had been gathered in the same intake, both from the Rifts, but separated, and offered different groups of men from whom to select a lifepartner. Two older women passed, trailed by six children, the youngest, a whining toddler, in the arms of a servant.
Opposite the entry to the enclave where Viky now lived a statue of Kyyl Anderseen loomed, larger than life. Worked in imposing obsidian, he was depicted with broad shoulders and a stern face. Viky had always pictured the man with a mischievous smile, someone who had laughed at the world with its restrictions, while loyally sticking to his personal convictions. Still, it was only an artist impression, an individual opinion. To most Traditionalists he was not even a man, just fable or folklore from an unimpressive and unimportant people. Her people, the people of The Rifts.
Inside the enclave a central green was surrounded by nine dwellings arranged in a fractal pattern. A colonnade and couches nestled to one side of the green, where several young women, toddlers and babies had gathered. Fragments of vaguely discernible conversation and gleeful babbles drifted across.
Viky slipped into her home and stripped out of her wet tunic, slippers and trousers and selected nine pieces of clothing as befitting a Lady. The long tight-fitting skirt was hastily secured with a sash. Two cross pieces bound around her chest; another sash keep them in place. Vaal overhead, the belt with pockets, a sleeveless vests like long coat and a shawl to complete the outfit.
It was ridiculous, possibly designed by some man to limit women's movements. And you still need to wear slippers so technically it was 11 garments which held no religious significance to even the staunchest Traditionalist.
After grabbing a snack Viky returned to the desk in the reception room to select parchment, an ink bottle and quill in preparation for a visit to the library.
Her eyes lingered on the transportable writing kit. An inlayed lightweight wooden box that contained a bound blank manuscript of thin fine fabric parchments, superb charcoal tapers and cloth impregnated with esone to fix the charcoal. It was hers, everything in the house was hers. Men didn’t own possessions. Except. It hadn’t been given to her; it had been left. A possession of value and beauty. Unloved. Unattached. Forgotten. She could relate to that.
“La’navikyya, are you in?”
A sharp rap accompanied the front door swinging open. Tushii didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. The tall woman was down the hall in the reception room before Viky collected her thoughts or replied.
“Isobeel has asked me to entreat you to meet with her. Now.”
Tushii looked down a broad elegant long nose, calm and resolute. Nothing she said was ever a request.
Now this was everything a Lady was supposed to be, and the antitheses of Viky. Statuesque and curved in all the right places, with smooth, heavy, hair the colour of onyx. She wore a series of complex braids, tied in a wreath, with ribbons that under no circumstances came loose. Not a single hair ever tumbled down at inopportune moments. Perfect makeup, her clothing always unruffled, baby drawl and wrinkle free. How did she do it? But it was the perceptive dusky brown eyes made it impossible for Viky to ever be comfortable in her presence.
“Isobeel? Whatever would she want to see me for?” Viky went to put supplies in her bag.
“If you come with me, you will find out.”
“Look, I understand you think you must be kind to me. But I don’t need your sympathy. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself and happy on my own.” Blast, the cork hadn’t been secure on the bottle of ink: what a waste of parchment.
“This isn’t sympathy, and I am not going to argue with you. Isobeel claims her Body Chains have been stolen. We would like to ask you some questions, to consult together. You may have seen a stranger or suspicious person around, or know something that will help us locate them.”
Viky shrugged. “Strange people, there are plenty of those about, suspicious, not so much.”
She let her gaze linger on Tushii’s jaw ornamentation. Stormblast, now there was ink on the couch.
“Regardless, if Isobeel is going to start flinging accusations it would be advisable to be present to defend yourself.”
Viki fumbled with the cork. “Accusations?”
“It’s most logical that one of us living in the same enclave is either responsible for the removal, or has seen the person responsible.”
Viki frowned, Isobeel wasn’t the brightest light in the arura. “Don’t you think it’s more likely she has just misplaced it? Tell her to check under her couches, that’s where I found my missing quill.” The ink resisted absorption into the blotting cloth and the splodge spread.
“Jess and I have turned her place upside down. The jewellery is missing.” Frustration crept into Tushii’s voice.
“Body chain, like a necklace? Could have slipped off at any time.” Her fingers were now stained. It took a few days for the pigment to fade. Stormblast.
Tushii clicked her tongue impatiently “No, it’s not like that. It is an antique, hundreds of rotations old, passed to the youngest daughter in each generation. Isobeel’s from a Hunnaal First family. You would know this if you spent more time with us instead of running of on your own.”
Viky shrugged. When her daughter was born the limited freedom now available to her was going to evaporate. She had no intention of wasting the few months she had left.
“Isobeel wears a lot of jewellery, she has probably just put it back in the wrong place. I don’t know anything about it.” Viky resisted wiping her fingers on her skirt, and looked for a spare cloth.
“It would be better if you come and assure Isobeel of that yourself.” Tushii’s tone brooked no argument.
“She can’t, she can’t seriously think I have anything to do with it, can she?” Viky frowned, acutely aware of her heartbeat, and irritated that it was pounding.
“Someone must have. And it is most likely one of the Sisterhood. Someone close, able to observe our comings and goings.”
Viky was silent for a moment, mind a whirl. The ink stain slowly spread.
Tushii flicked her tongue with disapproval and produced a small baby burp cloth. “It’s clean, use this, and don’t touch anything else while I get a sponge from my suite.”
“Oh, er, thanks.”
Tushii was helpful, and afterwards Viky felt obligated to accompany her to Isobeel’s.
Lady Isobeel lounged on a couch in her reception room, makeup streaked, and golden eyes red-rimmed. It wasn’t fair, even distressed the woman was stunning. Her misery translated into a courageous, heart-broken vibe, reminiscent of a suffering princess. If Viky had still believed in crib stories, which she didn’t, any half-decent hero would foolishly consider her worth rescuing. With Hunn features, lustrous burnished bronze skin and a perfect figure she was much admired. Melodious speech, and the hint of an exotic accent added further to her allure.
Hunnaal First Family. Descendants of son’s born to the Royal Matriarchs. And people called the Rifts backward. But Isobeel moved with unaffected grace and was confident others would do her bidding. It was sickening.
Jess, perched on the edge of the couch, was holding Isobeel’s hand and making useless placating sounds. Three toddlers imitated each other’s play on an elaborate quilted rug spread on the floor. Tushii settled herself on the opposite couch as formal greeting and hand gestures were exchanged. Viky was invited to lounge.
Tushii cleared her throat. “Lady La’navikyya do you have any information about Lady Isobeel’s Body chains?”
“No, no information.”
“So you haven’t taken them?” Isobeel asked.
Viky shook her head. What response did Isobeel think she would get? If she was a thief, why confess it?
Jess and Isobeel exchanged glances, Jess giving an almost imperceivable shrug.
“Have you seen them at all?” Isobeel insisted.
“No, or at least not that I know of. I am unfamiliar with Hunn jewellery and don’t specifically know, or care, about the trinket you are referring to, and I resent your insinuation.” Viky squared her shoulders. Of course they would suspect her.
Isobeel was watching Jess, and the timid woman gave her friend’s hand a squeeze, sharing tight smiles.
“Are you sure?” Isobeel asked Jess.
“Yes, she is speaking the truth.” Jess softly answered.
Viky exhaled. “Reading, you have Mind-Reading?”
“What, no, of course not.” Jess gave a nervous half laugh, and like a child with its hand caught in a jar of sweets, a blush crept up her cheeks.
“Yellow fractals don’t exist anymore,” Tushii stated.
“And Jess is a little young, don’t you have to be like ninety-nine, to have developed Mind Reading if you inherit as a woman?” Isobeel added.
Viky shrugged. Not all common knowledge about fractal powers was the truth. “But you have some inherited yellow fractal power?”
“Maybe. I just, I can sometimes tell if someone is lying.” Jess faulted.
“Don’t spread it around,” Tushii warned.
“I won’t.” Viky nodded, looking at Jess with new eyes. Truth and Lies, a diluted variation of a yellow Reading Communication fractal. Interesting. She had wondered why someone like Isobeel was friends with Jess. But influential women often surrounded themselves with talented people.
Isobeel teared up, fortifying herself with sustaining breaths. A bit overly dramatic. It was just a piece of jewellery. Why was she milking the situation for maximum spectacle?
“Are you sure it just hasn’t dropped of your neck the last time you were wearing it? A faulty clasp or something. Tushii said you have searched your suite of rooms, but what about the green?” Viky suggested.
Tushii flicked her tongue, Isobeel rolled her eyes. Viki got the distinct impression she had just said something stupid.
“Body Chains cover, well, the whole body. I mean, not the feet, although it has matching anklets, but they don’t just have one clasp.” Jess finished lamely.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“And if it fell off while I was wearing it, I’d be naked, and I think someone may have noticed that.” Isobeel sighed, then gave a realistic delicate sob.
Viky felt her interest piqued despite herself. “When was the last time you wore it?”
“New Rotations celebration, but because I was breast feeding they were tight and uncomfortable, so I packed them away. Arabeel is now weaned, but it won’t be long until I am with child again, I possibly am now. I wanted to wear them to the memorial for Maddie’s parent in a few days.” Isobeel answered.
“Even if I couldn’t tell if you were speaking the truth, we didn’t seriously suspect that you would have taken them.” Jess added.
“Well, it would have been the best solution.” Isobeel waved a languid hand.
“Isobeel you shouldn’t say that!” Jess twisted the fingers in her lap.
Viky shrugged. “Why not, it’s what you would all be thinking. Tushii already told me you think it’s most likely someone in the sisterhood, although I don’t see why. You have been together, a rotation-and-a-half, thirty-eight months, I’ve been with you seven months. I’m the outsider. A replacement, and from a despised people. I didn’t take your Body Chains but logically, less winds would rock the trees if it had been me.”
“It is horrible to suspect one of our friends,” Jess said quietly. “But we want you to be our friend as well.”
Of course Jess would say that.
“I want them back. I don’t care who took them. I have other inherited items of value, expensive fabric, artwork, jewellery, manuscripts, I will offer a reward or an exchange for their return.” Isobeel said.
“I am sure that won’t be necessary.” Tushii said.
“Yes, just invite everyone over while Jess is present, like you did with me.” Viky said. Isobeel was a fool, only an idiot would casually offer to give away a manuscript.
“It may work, but it’s not as effective on some people when they know I have the talent. I can feel some people hiding themselves from me. I haven’t had any training.”
“It’s called Blocking, also a variation of the yellow fractal family of talents.” Tushii explained. “We don’t know if any of the other sisters have that ability, but they all knows Jess recognises Lies.”
“How are you sure I can’t Block?” Viky asked.
Tushii became interested in their daughters, a faint blush crept up Jesses cheeks.
Viky met Isobeel’s eye, and the beautiful woman shrugged. “Well, it’s obvious, you’re from The Rift’s.”
“I suggest then that you report the theft, either to the Godmothers or Deputised Operative Commanders.” Viky’s reply was frosty.
“The penalty for a crime of this magnitude is capital punishment, do you know this?” Tushii asked.
“During my orientation we were all warned, as I am sure you were, taking items of value from Chruciaal would result in dire punishment.” There were worse things than death. Dire punishment sounded far crueller. “But no. I didn’t realise our magnanimous Coalition championed capital punishment for theft.”
Jess ignored Viki’s sarcasm. “We would like to see if we can find the Body Chains ourselves first. Maybe whoever has taken them don’t realise the value of Hunn jewellery or how important they are to Isobeel. There may be some mistake, some misunderstanding.”
Viky didn’t believe that for a heartbeat, but Jess, yes she was soft-hearted and gullible, she believed, hoped her words were truth.
Tushii, met her eye, took her measure. That woman wasn’t a fool. And Isobeel, Viki didn’t know what to think, the woman may not be quite as vacant as she had first assumed.
“I have nothing else to contribute to this conversation. If anything else comes to mind I will let you know.” Rising Viky made the hand signal for respect when leaving.
Isobeel floated from the couch. Intercepting Viky the beautiful woman lay a warm trembling hand on her elbow. A waft of sweet floral scent tickled Viky’s nose.
“Please Viky, you are smart, we know you are always in the library, or with your head in a manuscript or scroll, please help me look for my Body Chains.” Tears glistened in eyes of liquid gold.
“Would you really part with a manuscript, in exchange for a piece of jewellery?”
“In a heartbeat, I could even give you a choice of manuscripts, I have at least five different ones.”
“I didn’t think you were interested in literature?”
“Oh, I’m not. I haven’t read the things. You look upset.”
“Good, that means my face is working.” Viky came to a decision. “I’ll investigate for you, and if I find your chains, I will take you up on your offer of a manuscript.”
Isobeel nodded. “Thank you, you see it’s got to be one of us, and if we don’t find them, there will always be that suspicion, in the back of our minds.”
No, not vacuous, but still an idiot.
“I’ll go to the library and do some research.” Viky told her.
Tushii flicked her tongue, Jess sighed, had she known Viky intended to research other topics? It hadn’t been a direct lie; she was going to have to be careful around Jess. Isobeel nodded and smiled.
The tiny flicker of a sensation, a warmth stirred Viki’s heart. The jewellery was unimportant, but the decision, having a purpose, accepting a responsibility, it meant something. Viky wasn’t exactly sure what the something was, but it was an interesting sensation.
And she only had three manuscripts, and two scrolls, the prospect of another manuscript was exciting.
***
His visit to Healer Cedriin concluded, Dereniik lingered in the reception room of the Healing Hall, seeking to satiate a raging hunger. During previous visits a small portion of the fruit display assuaged his appetite. Rotations of carefully cultivated self-control were overpowered by strong physical demands. As the decoration dwindled and cravings triumphed, the desire for sustenance outweighing all natural reticent.
Arroon’s belligerent glares became increasingly hostile. Dereniik was certain if there had been a prohibition about eating the food, the application would have been decisive and swift. Last morsel consumed, ignoring the death stares, Dereniik visited the now perfectly clean personal room, before hobbling from the Healing Hall.
Once outside Dereniik resisted his initial impulse to turn right. His former office in the Directive Committee Chambers lay in that direction. Between graduation and the tragedy earlier in the rotation he had travelled extensively, but Chruciaal had become his home, his office a sanctuary, and he had thought of the people who worked there as friends. But he hadn’t had a visitor in months. Not being re-commissioned was understandable, but the sense of abandonment was heartbreaking.
Starting the trek back to his suite Dereniik had only just reached the intersection of two walkways when his right crutch, strapping loose, skidded on the slick marble flooring.
Dereniik stumbled and flailed futility. Leg stump impacting with the ground, a wave of agony race through what remained of his body, superseded the next heartbeat as his shoulder slammed into the floor. Dereniik rolled inelegantly. Gods Light, that hurt. How many layers of pain could a man endure?
No one rushed to help. One floor below, on the residential level, Dereniik could have been sure someone would have born witness to his humiliation. But Coalition administration facilities, including the Healing Hall were located on the level above. Only men who had reason to visit the Healing Hall, or Armoury needed to enter this section of tunnel. The structure’s built into the rock opposite were empty. With prominent Xianees architecture and design features it wasn’t likely they would ever be used again. Xian hadn’t been part of the Coalition since the Power Wars. Rotations ago planks of wood had securely boarded up the doorways, except for one small door to the side. Val had joked with him about exploring the structure one day, but that day, like so many other had never come.
Dereniik assessed the damage while manipulating himself into sitting position. Refastening the offending strapping while catching his breath. A process involving the use of a free hand, teeth and a few choice words.
Getting up was problematic, requiring additional support and if possible, leverage. A hideous Welcoloon statue, carved from deep crimson wood, stood to the side of the intersection. Within crawling distance. Fresh bruise throbbing on his shoulder Dereniik made his way to the forest predator. Bracing himself, he forced an uncooperative body to haul itself vertical. Breath coming in short gasps the animal’s rough scales and spikes provided plenty of fingerholds.
Few citizens would have seen a live Welcoloon. They were solitary animals that avoided humans, even skirting human habitations during the Month of Migration Assaults. Slaves, gathering or foraging from the forest, could live their whole life and never see a representative of the species. Dereniik had not been that lucky and the reminder was as unwelcome as the accompanying panic attack.
Panting and dizzy he was forced to lean into the uncomfortable statue. Vicious spikes pressing cruelly into his side. Even as an inert carving the animal was a health hazard. An internal battel raged to control Dereniik’s mind. Seething blind terror attacked reasoning and logic. A fragile voice weekly protested. Dereniik closed his eyes, blocking the creature from his sight. He wrestled to catch a breath, then another. Couldn’t lose control.
The dread abated. Dereniik opened his eyes. Blinking until the dancing black spots faded.
A glint caught his attention, light refracting of an iridescent thread of fine, twisted, fibre, snagged in the spikes. Preservation instinct activated Dereniik glanced at the ceiling. He could off kicked himself, only of course he couldn’t, there wouldn’t be a Rustepheen inside. The overreaction was unwarranted. Again. It had been months, and his inability to cope with reminders of his forest ordeal were not abating.
Anyway, the thread was crimped, it had been used in garment or weapon construction. Natural thread, or web, was smooth, silky and viscous. Used to snare and then swathe pray.
Dereniik forced himself to look at the thread until his breathing normalised and the shaking ceased. Determined to conquer his irrational fears the strapping on his crutch checked again before setting off. At least the continence of his stomach had stayed in place.
A frail and bent man from Wild Waters, skin more blue than black with intricate tattoos and embedded gems passed him heading to the Healing Hall. Dereniik arrived at the main walkway. One more block, then he would use a personal room and rest.
Two rest stops later he entered the reception room for the offices of the Education Committee, Dereniik availed himself of a couch. D’char with folios and sheath’s bustled, conveying correspondences and dispersing supplies. A couple of younger Commanders, swaggering with self-importance, issued instructions.
“My lord Commander, this humble servant is delighted to be of service. What is your will for this one today?” the D’char approached, bowing gracefully from the hips.
The ability to produce neat script with his left hand had so far proved elusive. But he needed to keep trying. There had to be something useful he could do with what remained of his life.
“Wait up, I will serve this honourable Commander. You continue filling that requisite.” An order was barked.
With hast the servant backed away.
Gods Light, now Dereniik was required to stand. Striding forward the young Commanders beamed with too many teeth. Dereniik knew the type, overeager and ready to ingratiate himself with anyone considered important. He would be disappointed. Dereniik had retained his rank, but held no influence. Rising awkwardly, hand signals of respect and greeting were exchanged. The young man's hand signals so crisp they could have been audible.
“My Lord, Commander Dereniik, I have noted you visit each month and in anticipation had pre-prepared this satchel with quantities of your regular supplies.” A self-satisfied smile graced the young man’s face.
“Thank you, that is much appreciated, Commander Arleed.” It had taken him a few moments to recall the young man’s name.
The accompanying salute was sharp. “Is there anything else you require?”
A new arm and leg. The ability to walk more than a few blocks without having to sit and catch his breath. To really live again, rather than just go through the process of existing. And the relentless pain, a reprieve, even a few days, would be appreciated. But if those things couldn’t be found at the Healing Hall they wouldn’t be available anywhere.
“No, but thank you for your consideration.” Even if the action was not well thought out. Dereniik forced a smile and reminded himself Commander Arleed meant well.
The young man thrust the satchel forward and Dereniik raised an eyebrow. People seldom understood. What did he do with the crutch in his left hand if he was expected to take an item with that hand? Balancing on a single leg and the right crutch was possible, although not ideal.
The familiar demeaning experience of explaining his limitations was followed by Dereniik sitting, relinquishing his crutch, taking the satchel with his left hand and unceremoniously draping it over his head. A great variety of traditions existed among the nine realms, Dereniik could hazard a guess somewhere men wore satchels, but a Commander carried them in their hands. Commander Arleed gestured, and took the required reverential three back steps. But they lacked the enthusiasm of his earlier display, and the retreat was hasty. Arleed needed someone to explain that disabilities were not contagious.
On the Boardwalk again Dereniik found a nearby bench. Further along an Amaranthaan emporium with a large selection of goods on display attracted attention. Women stood about in small groups admiring the latest shipment of glossy fabric.
He was almost back at his suite before he saw Honourable Eminent Senior Healer Commander Orator. A tall, older man with a high forehead and deep-set eyes, acknowledged Dereniik with a nod of deference as they approached.
“No dead yet?” His twinkling green eyes were the same colour as the robes he wore.
“Apparently not, most Honourable Lord.” Dereniik smiled, the man had always been irreverent. People from Chinquaar often were, which was possibly part of the reason they had pulled out of the Coalition. Orator stopped to chat. “Good, prove them wrong. Keep them guessing. I bet five sequin you would last at least the rotation. Don’t let me down son.”
“My Lord,” Dereniik hesitated, then changed his mind. “You have bets going on me?”
“Childish aren’t we?”
Dereniik was lost for words. Orator never was.
“Listen son, you have done the impossible before, the way you solved that problem in Xiaan last rotation. And that issue in the warrens of Amaraanth. Surviving the jungle. I have confidence in you.” Orator’s wrinkled face crinkled into a cheeky grin.
“My Lord, those cases, that wasn’t just me. I was part of a Team.” A great team. The words caught in his throat.
Orator grunted. “Modesty, in a Commander! Maybe you are sicker than you look.”
Dereniik shook his head.
“Well, they are not going to reassign you, tragic waste of talent I say. Heard you have been spending time in the library, good move. What have you been up to, learning another language?”
“Yes my Lord, or at least brushing up on a couple.”
“Excellent, but do something for yourself. Something you enjoy. A hobby, what did you do for fun as a boy?”
Dereniik shrugged. “Mostly studied and prepared to be a successful Commander.”
Orator laughed. “Great God man, no games? No fun?”
“Puzzles, My Lord,” Dereniik muttered, he’d even made a few of his own up for his younger brothers and sister to solve.
“Good. Get creative. Get a little ensemble together and solve puzzles together. Or there’s no shortage of mystery and intrigue around Chruciaal. Plenty of people with little dilemmas that could use you experience and expertise.”
“My Lord you are most generous. We were unable to fulfill our last Commission.”
“Baaa, one failure, out of how many? Nobody’s perfect. Where is that modesty you are supposed to possess?”
Dereniik could have pointed out he had never claimed to be modest, but arguing with Orator was an exercise in futility.
“Do you know if the situation at Wild Waters was ever resolved?” Dereniik asked.
Orator snorted with evident displeasure. “Politics. Storming infuriating. I try not to get involved. You shouldn’t either.”
Dereniik absorbed the information. The man was on the High Council, how could he not be involved in politics? Although Healers were an inscrutable group and Orator the most unorthodox of them all.
“Listen son, I’m already fashionably late, if I linger any longer even my great wit and charm won’t be enough. Don’t give up, and next time you have an appointment at the Healing Hall come and see me after.”
Dereniik vocalised his consent and the men parted. Would he even be alive in a month? And what sort of intrigue could a disabled man help with?