Hildesman sat on the back porch and slowly chewed the end of his pipe. Though he had packed it, he had not yet lighted it and was merely waiting while Teach got Francine’s story. He could hear the gentle timbre of their voices through the back door, propped open to let in a cool breeze.
Teach’s house was an oddity unlike anything Hildesman had seen near the city. She had a wall, of course, like everyone who lived in the wilderness. There was something secure about even a log-pole wall, though it did little in the long run to stop direbeasts or dedicated heretics. Stone was better. Hildesman had never understood why, but for some reason direbeasts rarely attacked walls of stone or those who lived within. And heretics, of course, refused to cross them for reasons relating to their beliefs. But usually, it wasn’t considered a proper wall unless it was the height of the tallest resident. For practical reasons, the Order usually measured their walls to be eight feet in height; this made them useful against common threats such as bandits and wild predators and was certain to be taller than the tallest resident.
Teach, on the other hand, kept a wall that was scarcely two feet tall. Hildesman had offered, a year after she had retired and moved herself out here, to help her build a proper wall instead of a little fence, as he had phrased it. Teach had adamantly refused, saying that she kept the wall short for a good reason, and though Hildesman had asked and alluded to it over the years, she had never shared that reason with him.
The second odd thing about Teach’s little personal corner of the world was that she cultivated an Ilver’s Ash tree. Hildesman was fairly certain that none of the Order’s botanists knew about it, because if they had, Teach would have been beating them away with a stick as they tried to learn how she had managed it. The tree seemingly detested all attempts to domesticate it, growing only in the wild and rarely as a solitary tree, yet here he was sitting on a porch looking over a modestly sized garden, watching the leaves glint and glitter in the light of the setting sun.
The third odd thing was that Teach drew her water not from a well like with most farms, but from a carefully irrigated canal she had dug and lined herself, with help from former colleagues both in the Order and independent, including Hildesman himself. It was more reliable during a drought, since the river it drew from was one of the strongest coming down off the southern mountains, but it was still unusual to choose running water over safer well water when living away from the city. Her filtration system, a bulky arrangement of stone and wood containers with little brass knobs and copper pipes running throughout, meant that her drinking water was safe, provided she kept it maintained. He knew she did, meticulously.
The oddest thing, though, was that Teach lived here alone. Even Exiles traveled together in groups of at least five. The only people Hildesman knew to go out in the wilder parts of the country solo were trappers, and they only did it for brief stints. Nobody lived permanently outside the city without company; someone to watch your back in case of direbeast, or to care for you in illness. But Teach was a trapper through and through, for all that she was actually a retired Sister.
All of this Hildesman took in with the sort of calm familiarity of someone noting their window curtains were all there. He visited Teach only a couple of times out of any given year, usually with forewarning and rarely for more than one meal or night. But all the same, Teach’s little country house was one of the few places in the world that truly felt right to his senses. It was neither city nor wilderness. It was, in his estimation, the proper home of a trapper.
His silent contemplation was interrupted when the voices behind him started to grow louder, until he could hear the actual words Teach was saying. Her tone, to his mild amusement, was approaching gentleness, though not without her characteristic sternness. “...on the cot, there. There’s some extra blankets set aside for winter, and by the time I’d need them we’ll be able to get more sent in. Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to fill in Aaron on what is happening.”
The hinges to the door didn’t creak, but there was a slight scuff as the door passed the frame. Teach came out and planted herself heavily on the stool beside Hildesman. Without a word, he passed her pipe over, already packed and ready to light. In turn, she passed him a taper, lit from the fireplace. She had matches and even a modern flashpan lighter in the house, of course, but he understood. She couldn’t replace those without a trip to the city. Tapers were as plentiful as the trees that grew all around the short wall around her home. Her Order tattoos were mostly depleted, only the faintest glow of Tessenium energy gleaming against some silver banding on her pipe. Except, Hildesman noted, the one on her left palm, which was a bright yellow, shining nearly through the habitual fist she made to hide it. She was ready for a threat.
“You didn’t have to take her in.” Hildesman started, once both pipes had been lit and both mouths had been filled with the taste of tobacco. “Least, not for more than the night.”
“Yes I did,” Teach answered. Several minutes passed. Hildesman didn’t press the issue. Though he was, professionally speaking, now her peer, or at least not her student, he still had several old habits. No questions unless you know what you’re going to do with the answer. An odd policy for a teacher, but a practical one for someone who spends all their time focused on their surroundings. If she thought he needed to know, she would tell him.
Instead, he changed the subject. “I’ve got to leave in the morning to give my report. Write me a list and I can be back inside of the week with whatever extra you need to care for the girl.”
Teach nodded. “Was going to ask, come morning. The list is already written. Not much. Some blankets. Fabric and hides so I can get her an extra couple changes of clothes and a spare pair of boots. You don’t have to bring it back yourself, Aaron.”
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Hildesman considered, for a moment. “No, I don’t. But I should. Whatever happened to that kid before she found my camp, I promised to make sure she was safe. Those supplies are part of it. Unless there’s urgent business, I’ll do it myself.”
“Appreciate it, in that case.” Teach pulled on her pipe. Aaron finally raised a question whose answer he knew what he would do with.
“What should I do about her uncle, if he makes it to town looking for her?”
“Got a note for you. Give it to the Order. Is Sister Porriss still the Vice-Captain on the north wall?” She pulled the note out of a vest pocket and passed it over to him. It was sealed. The wax glittered with flecks of glasspetal. Important, then. He carefully tucked it into a waterproof pocket in his shirt.
“Promoted, few years back. Now she’s an Administrator. Third, last I saw her, but if the fellow that hired me for survey was sent by her orders, she’s probably been promoted again. Deals with supply logistics for the Corps. Still a mean shot with her custom bolter though.” He added, with a touch of humor. Teach and Margaret Porriss had always been rivals in the city’s yearly marksmanship competitions.
“The Third Administrator who hired you?”
“Younger fella. Well, relatively speaking. Gane Thestle.”
“Give that to Brother Thestle then, when you make your report. It has instructions for Percy Walthers, if he should make it to town. Brother Thestle will know what to do to get it to him.”
Hildesman nodded. “Okay. Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Yes,” Teach replied. Ten minutes passed before she elaborated. Hildesman finished his pipe, tipped the ashes out into a can on the table, and pulled out his last flask of trapper’s tea. Teach grabbed some cups from a hook by the door and he doled out a long pour for each of them. Silently, they raised their cups and drank deeply.
“Or rather, there’s something you need not to know, but you already know it.”
“How’s that?” Hildesman asked, confused.
“Francine said she told you about what happened before she met you? On the farm.”
“Yeah.”
“The voice?”
“The woman who called herself the Listener? Said a poem, promised Francine power?”
“Don’t talk to anyone else about that. Don’t even bring it up. I don’t mind if the Order knows I’m looking after her out here, cause she’s Marked. It’s legal. In fact, they encourage it, after a fashion.”
“Didn’t know that.”
“Doesn’t come up much.” She finished her cup, turning it upside down on the table. “How many Marked do you think there are per year?”
“Dozen or so. More some years, less others. More, if you count the Exile caravans. Lots more, if you count the ones they give a Mark instead of just the natural ones.” Like Francine, hopefully.
“You’re about right. And almost all of them pass across the Order’s eyes, sooner or later. But not all of them choose to stay in the Order.” She tapped her pipe, long extinguished, into the can as well, and held a hand out. Hildesman obligingly supplied his pouch of tobacco for her to fill it again. She passed it back and nodded at his pipe. He filled his as well, and lit them both with his spark lighter. He’d be back in town to refill it soon anyway.
“There are some things that Marked know, that the Order doesn’t want to become general knowledge.”
“Things to do with voices?”
“Things to do with voices. We call them Sponsors. We don’t know what they are, how they contact us, or why they modify us into Tessenium Engines with legs. That’s scary, for the order. But as far as we do know, every Marked has one, natural or branded. And like I said, we see most everyone in the city with a Mark, sooner or later.”
Hildesman considered, then offered a theory. “But the Order isn’t sure whether the Sponsors come to the Marked or create them theirselves, and the Order don’t want rumors getting out that might lead to heresy. People enacting rituals to try to attract the attention of a Sponsor, stuff like that?”
“Pretty much. But you know about the Sponsors, so now there are really only two options.”
“Keep my mouth shut or be ‘gently’ asked to never go to the city again.”
“Again, pretty much. I recommend the former. Life out here is…bearable, despite what most people would think. At least, for someone with our skills. But I wouldn’t ever call it pleasant. And on a personal note, I wouldn’t like everyone knowing for Francine’s sake. And for mine, of course.”
“Thought we didn’t talk about that,” Hildesman offered. He knew Teach didn’t like discussing her history, before or during her days with the Order. She’d tell him, though, if she thought it was important. Part of his mind was already tensing, ready to leap towards or away from a threat that hadn’t yet revealed itself.
“Today, we do. Because Francine’s story is something new. I already established the Order keeps track of the Marked. We thought we knew all of the Sponsors. None of ‘em have names, but descriptions, titles. Every Marked had a Sponsor. Mine was called Patience. We thought there were nine.”
“Only nine?”
“Nine’s enough, when we’re talking about entities that seem to ignore every ounce of logic levied against them. The Marks thesselves, those are easy enough to understand. Or, not easy, but possible. Vivisection in the early days, dissection once the city started to learn some manners, gave us plenty of knowledge as to how the Marked do what they do. A lot of early artifice was based on the Marks. But the Sponsors don’t seem to be…real.”
“Mental figments? Something in the body’s chemistry changes when the Mark forms?”
“One theory. Frontrunner, or it was when I left the Order. We already know that whatever people are built from follows some sort of blueprint. It’s why everyone has two arms, two legs, a head, organs all in the usual places. There’s gotta be some sort of plan. We figured that just like eyes tend to come in certain colors or blends between them, the Sponsor figment is written into the blueprint. Room for interpretation, like everything else, but within bounds. Francine having a new Sponsor (and with it, incidentally, an entirely new Mark not in any of the records I ever read, which was a lot) is going to shake that up.”
“What if she’s just an…accident? A, lack of polite option, freak. Like those fellas who grow too much hair, or too little, or albinos.”
“That’s the hopeful option.”
“What’s the not hopeful option?”
Teach reached across and grabbed the flask of trapper’s tea, draining the whole thing in one long pull. The Order tattoos on her face and neck, previously barely visible through her brown complexion, glimmered as she drank, drawing whatever dregs of strength remained in the bitterwater. Somewhere on her right bicep, covered with her sleeve, Hildesman knew that her Mark was doing the same. If she used it, it would shine bright enough that no shirt could hide it, but just charging like that, it was hidden to the world. The glimmer flowed down her neck until her palms were each shining dimly through the darkening night, not brightly, but calm and insistent. Thus fortified, she answered. “The not hopeful option is that the Order was wrong about the nature of Tessenium. Magic, or something so close as to make no difference, really exists. And, if Francine’s manic poem from the Listener is anything to go by, it’s very upset that we’ve been stamping it out for the last three centuries.”