Session forty-three

After possibly too long a hiatus we have returned...with a view to providing a final chapter in the trials and tribulations of Dame Arcadia Justinian before the release of Fading Suns: Pax Alexius and we step into a new age...

While we may fill in more details of what has happened since we last met our cadre over time or in future posts (and yes, I never did write up session forty-two) it's enough for now to say that just over four years have passed. It is mid-5008. Sir Hemlock (now just Keats) and the Marquis De Havilland had an accidental and lengthy excursion across Kurgan and Vuldrok space, visiting a series of lost worlds while trying to return to Twilight. They returned about six months ago and were reunited with Sir Mal Hawkwood and the Charioteer Corteaz. They bring with them a travelling companion in the form of a female Vuldrok warrior by the name of Ylanath and both have been changed by their experiences.

In the meantime, while not operating independently, Corteaz' operation is turning a profit (both in direct trade and also fees relating to using the Jump Key, consultancy fees, commission for introductions to potential contacts on Twilight etc.). The Citadel is still a threat and travel to and from the Jump Gate and Twilight is dangerous, however ships don't travel alone and Corteaz' crew are becoming experts in the Abwehr fleet's tactics. Mal has been acting against type and has been every bit the noble, doing all he can to support the expedition in the absence of his cousin, De Havilland. 

As we begin the cadre have been summoned together by Corteaz. Keats and De Havilland have yet to travel far beyond the Ravenna side of the Twilight Jump Gate since their return but have been familiarizing themselves with the "mercantile expedition". In fact Keats has been making himself useful in whatever capacity Corteaz required.

The Charioteer, to his credit, seems both relieved and overjoyed to have his old friend back with him.

It soon becomes apparent that not all is well with the flamboyant Corteaz. He narrates how his financial backer, banker and agent, a Reeve from Byzantium Secundus is no longer responding to messages and the flow of funds has stopped. While he can keep the operation going "cash in hand" for now he still owes his "backers" for both his ship (the San Paulus) and the Twilight gate key and the lack of communication concerns him greatly.

He begs the cadre, knowing that they may be reluctant to return to the Known Worlds for their own reasons, to investigate what has happened. They all agree.

During their journeys the Marquis "acquired" a Vuldrok explorer starship and they prep this for their journey. Keats will act as pilot while an Ur-Obun guilder of Corteaz' acquaintance will serve as the ship's engineer (and contribute some additional Think Machine skills to the group).

Ylanath and De Havilland discuss his return and whether she will accompany him. She seems to toy with him somewhat but there is obviously a deeper, if complex, relationship between them.

The travel is relatively uneventful, they witness an skirmish with Citadel forces but the San Paulus, which is escorting them as an "honour guard" soon scares off the raiders. Keats has witnessed at first hand that that Corteaz' ship and crew now have a reputation amongst the enemy forces.

Once through the gate the cadre fly to Ravenna orbit and dock with a geostationary station. They seek news from the planet below and are able to find out some of what has been happening in their absence.

The most shocking piece of news is from the conflict on the Austram isles (the lands belonging to De Havilland's warring siblings). In recent days a Weapon of Mass Destruction (possibly an Atomic device) was discharged, seemingly by Count Otto's forces. This has sent a ripple of shock through out the local nobility and hostilities have fallen into an uneasy ceasefire. Tensions are high and the Amaltheans of Sanctuary Aeon, who were already a noticeable presence in the conflict, have been very vocal in their protests while also doing all they can to alleviate the suffering in the aftermath of the attack.

When it was known that De Havilland had returned to Twilight he received news from Sir Hasimir (who was acting as his regent) about his fief and lands. Upon arrival at Ravenna he is sent a more recent epistle from his old House Torrenson ally. It appears that Hasimir has fled for a new assignment, taking his ship "The Endless Turn", and a significant amount of "gifts" from De Havilland's estate. The cadre wonder if this is in any way related to the WMD.

The cadre are left to debate whether they ought to set foot on Ravenna again or just head to Byzantium Secundus.   

Interlude - Home Free

A recap for the reader.

As a child, Hemlock Justinian lost his twin sister, Tigerlily, in an attack on their estates.  Hemlock was hidden in an ore shuttle and escaped into space, where he was apprenticed to the Charioteers under the pseudonym of Keats.  As an adult, Hemlock re-emerged to claim his birthright.

Only, as we’re about to see, that’s not quite what happened.

More recently, supporting the endeavours of an old friend (the Charioteer Cortez), Keats and Anton, the Marquis De Havilland, were taken prisoner and sent to Antioch.  Two years passed.  Anton escaped from the Palindrax’s prison, and found Keats, who it seems had suffered some sort of mental breakdown and was living as Tigerlily.  Anton’s appearance rekindled Keats’ lost memories, and they escaped Antioch together.

Now, in a stolen Vuldrok explorer, Anton and Keats have jumped through to the system they last saw their friends and communicated their return.  It’s a week’s voyage, but Anton and Keats are, at last, home free.

*****

Keats un-hunches from over the pilot’s console, sits back in the chair and exhales.  ‘Course set,’ he rubs his eyes.  ‘If you’re going to keep this ship, you’re going to need a proper pilot.’

Anton snorts, amused.  The bridge is a dim, tight place: the screens show star-fields; most light comes from consoles and indicators.  Sat in the captain’s chair with his wild-man beard, Anton looks every inch the pirate.

‘I can keep an eye on things.  Get some rest.’

Keats nods, unfolds from the chair, but stops and perches on its arm.  Warily, ‘Back on Antioch, how did you find me?’

‘A magic lantern show I saw in prison.  You were in the arena.  They said your name was Tigerlily.’

‘A magic lantern show featured me?’ Keats frowns, ‘her?’

‘Arcadia called you that,’ Anton mentions, almost nonchalant.

Keats nods.  Grey overalls, head shaved.  Androgynous.  A tattoo down the side of his face proclaims – for those who understand it – that he fought for and won his freedom.

‘I couldn’t let him be dead,’ it comes out quiet, plaintive.  Keats looks up from the floor and stares at Anton, ‘All the time on Antioch, I thought I’d saved him.  When you and I were captured things got jumbled in my head.  I thought I’d got Hemlock to safety: that they never appeared from the dark and cut his throat, that they took me away instead.  Things never seemed right, like there was something I had to do if only I could remember it.  But Hemlock wasn’t dead: he was somewhere back among the known worlds, happy, alive.  I think I was content.’

‘Will he return?’

Keats shrugs, looking lost, ‘Maybe it’s enough.  Sir Hemlock has deeds to his name!  He helped clear Arcadia’s name at the tournament of St Gavin, slew the enemy who framed her, fought an inquisitor, came out in society, hosted a Decados and was in a way betrayed, publicly duelled, made friends, madeenemies, at least one mortal,’ Keats’ eyes shine wetly, ‘He lives!  Unless –’

‘Don’t worry.  I shan’t tell a soul.  You have my word,’ which seems to calm Keats, ‘But what about Tigerlily?’

‘She was lost.  In the attack on the family estates.’ Keats hunches.  For all the world, he sounds like he grieves for a loved one.

‘Why?’

‘One of us died.  If Tigerlily were alive, then Hemlock must be dead,’ then, quietly, ‘I miss her.’

Anton strokes his beard.  It doesn’t put the beard in any better order.  He thinks he follows, that this makes a sort of twisted sense.  Maybe he should let Keats rest.  But maybe, next time he asks, Keats won’t be so forthcoming or coherent.  It seems cathartic.

‘And what about Keats?’

Keats looks up and quotes, ‘ “It would go easier on you, if you were a boy”.’  He laughs, a manic edge, and stops himself suddenly, ‘It’s what he said.  The old retainer – Hobbs – who bundled me into the oreshuttle.  The letter he gave me was the sort of thing you’d give a bastard: give this child a home and teach them a trade.  It didn’t mention my name.  So I chose to be a boy.  And no-one cared enough to pry, or to make anything of it if they saw through it.  And then I met Cortez, and was in his shadow.  It was just common knowledge that Keats was a boy.’

‘Did Cortez help?’

‘He never knew!’ Keats bites his lip, ‘I never meant to lie to him!  The longer it went on: I just couldn’tbring myself –’ he laughs again, that manic edge, and Anton wonders if he’s pushed too hard, ‘I think... I think, at the end, just before we were captured, when things got jumbled: I might’ve told him.  I don’t remember too well.’

‘Whatever happened, he’ll be pleased to see you alive.’

‘I hope so.’

‘And who will you be?’

‘Keats.  Just Keats, I think,’ looking up at Anton as if seeking permission, ‘For a while, at least.  Being a noble is just so complicated.’

Anton laughs.  Keats doesn’t know the half of it.  Keats is at the door when Anton calls, ‘You know, there’s a flaw in your logic.’

Keats turns with a look of panic.

‘Who knows that only one twin survived?’

Keats shakes his head, ‘Everything burnt down.’

‘Hemlock was just a child, and in all the smoke and darkness maybe his mistook what he saw.  Maybe Tigerlily survived, and was sold as a slave, wound up on Antioch and won her freedom.’  While Hemlock stares, thunderstruck, Anton adds, ‘And anyone who contradicts the arithmetic, well, they know something about the attack, and you might want to have words with them.’

Keats stands in the doorway as if at the edge of a precipice.  Possibilities unspool in his mind.

‘Keats.  For now, just Keats.’

Bredonia

The hole in the ground looked tiny to his eyes, but somehow the overriding sense of the depth of it upset him.  It really just felt as though they were trying to hide her away or perhaps deny that she had ever truly existed at all.  He just stood there, deep in thought, with the rain falling upon the hood of his weather-all.  He watched a few water droplets fall from the lip of his hood and listened to the clatter of the storm drum all around him. Even worse than standing out here in this wretched weather was the constant smell of freshly cut turf.  He had loved the smell of a ploughed field as a child, but after all the broken battlefields and burials he had witnessed over the years he had finally begun to loathe it.

He wondered again now why she had chosen to be buried.  It was an unusual choice for her, he thought.  He had been witness to a large range of funeral rites over the years, either after battle or because he had been off-world and just passing by.  Still, this one had been unexpected.  At least he had been able to see her before the end.  At least that was something.  He wondered, staring at this place in the ground whether perhaps before he had turned up if she had ever felt lonely or afraid?  Maybe everything turned out in the end just as she planned it? Maybe she had more regrets than she was willing to let on?  She had been a wise old bird and as he had aged himself he had increasingly begun to appreciate the time he had spent with her, under her tutelage.  He wasn't officially a pupil of hers of course, but the lessons The Brothers passed on somehow didn't seem to connect with him in quite the same way that she could.  No doubting it.  She was a one-of-a-kind.

There were many veterans just like Airi within that retirement home on Bredonia.  The proximity of the home to the Lextius Academy often allowed some of the residents to visit the school and offer their own insights.  Airi had never taught any official classes despite being as cunning as a fox.  But more so, Anton considered her to be extremely wise with it.  Somehow he could see all that residing deep within her from the very first moment of their meeting.  Without her presence here he doubted he would have made it through the academy at all.  He really would miss her.  Greatly.

De Havilland felt a hand gently brush at his elbow, and he carefully turned round in the rains.  He nodded to Ylanath and then turned back to the grave.  He sighed, and then turned and left.

___________________


“You have the key?”, asked the robed official.  De Havilland pulled up at a chain from around his neck.  Extending it fully outwards the key drops from the neck of his tunic and is suspended next to De Havillands hand.  He lifts the chain and key from round his neck and hands them both over.

The key is unlike any he has seen before, or more precisely any that he has had a cause to see before.  It is large, golden, tubular and contains a series of pins all around its mechanism.  It reminded him of some kind of musical box.
The official takes the key over to flat marked section of the wall behind him and inserts it into a keyhole.   After a few moments of key rotations both left and right, the face of a box snaps forward with the key still at the very centre of it.  The official brings both the box and key to De Havilland.

“The viewing room is to your left sir.  May I remind you though that both the key and box belong to this establishment.  The contents are yours entirely, of course.”

___________________


The old man sighs deeply, pulls his glasses from his face and drops back into the faded leather chair.  He rubs at the stubble on is chin and looks up from his musings.  Ylanath is sat in a chair opposite him, with De Havilland resting back on a metal frame seat to the far0 corner of the orangery.  The Marquis is peering out of the window, the rain hammering at the panes of glass surrounding them.  He is looking over to the garden of the retirement home, watching rivers of rainwater run across the face of an elaborate water feature.

The old man leans forward and jabs a finger into the pages of a leather bound book sat open on the table in front of him.

“Are you sure no one else has read this?” has asks, looking to De Havilland.

Not turning, De Havilland raises his left hand and brushes away some condensation on the glass beside him.

“You know who she was Southerby. No one knows...yet.”

“I do hope you aren't making the mistake of blackmailing me boy” the old man responds.

De Havilland's eyes snap over to the veteran Hawkwood.

“I do not...” he whispers, “as I do not need to.”

The old man bites at his lip, staring intently at the younger Hawkwood; this Phoenix Knight.  Curse Alexius and his bloody meddling!  Picks the best and then trains the buggers to go messing in other peoples affairs.

“You are certain that this is the only copy?” he asks.

“As certain as any of us can be.”

The rain continues its unending drum upon the glass of the orangery.  Other than that there is complete silence.  A faint smile spreads across the lips of Ylanath as Southerby eyes her suspiciously.

“Is your witch reading my mind, boy?” he asks.

De Havilland exhorts a laugh.  “Ha! No Southerby, she is reading your face.  Now lets stop pretending this isn't what you wanted and give me what Airi asked for.”

___________________


“Are you perfectly sure sir, this is all highly unusual?” suggests the robed official.

“Yes Lowry, I want you to open my box and hand it to me.  There is something in there I need to give this Phoenix Knight.”  Those last words dripped from his lips like a poison.

The robed official did as he was asked and when Southerby opens his box he takes out a manuscript from a bundle of other documents, books and letters and hands it over to The Marquis.  He then places Airi's book into his own collection and then hands the lot over tothe official to have the box returned safely to its own burial place.

Interlude - Provenance

“What about that one over there, then?” queried Keats.

De Havilland raised a set of digital binoculars and started focussing on the details of the vessel.

“It's The Provenance” responds Ylanath, her mouth turning sourly downwards after she had spoken.  “It belongs to the the Paladindrax.  It transports all his own personal wares and interests.  We should keep well clear of that one.”

Ylanath and Keats started looking back across the range of the spaceport for alternatives from the edge of the cliff edge they were lying upon.  De Havilland had kept his eyes firmly on The Provenance, a faint smile spreading across his lips.  Keats turned round and noticed it.  He looked back to the ship and then quickly back to De Havilland.

“Anton, it's unnecessarily risky.  We don't need to do that.”

“It's the last place they would ever think of looking for us.  You have got to admit it.”

Keats turned back to look at the ship.  It was beautiful to behold, the sweeping arcs of the lines across its fuselage suggested subtle power lay underneath that grim dark exterior.  A little spark lit up in his mind as he toyed with the idea of letting lose with such a majestic beast.

“I'm with Keats, Anton”, spoke Ylanath, “It will be well guarded. They wont really be looking for us here now, too much time has passed since we escaped.  We would be wise to seek passage on another vessel.”

The more he thought of it the more the idea pulled at him though.  Having been a guest of The Paladindrax for many months the idea of leaving this domain in his own ship really appealed to him.

“Keats, you have the final say here.  If things go south then it would all be down to you to navigate us back to Twilight safely.  Its your call.”

Keats nodded and looked back at the options laid out below. Lots of good ships, all prospects. 

“We should look to the dock schedule.  That would tell us when ships came in and when they are due to leave. If it were down to me, I would look to that first to determine our best option.”

De Havilland nodded his agreement. “Good call Keats”, he responded and turning to Ylanath asked, “Any idea where they would keep such a thing?” 

*******

Keats poured over the document within the dimly lit office.

“Well, anything?” asks De Havilland urgently. 

Keats lowers the desk lamp further and runs his fingers across the pages.

“Actually, The Provenance is due to set sail in 7 days time.  Not the first ship to leave but its not as far down the list as I had anticipated.  It might be enough time.”

“Enough time?” queried Ylanath leaning over Keats to get a look at the document.  De Havilland held an office door open ajar and was peering into the darkness of the corridor.

“Yes...”, followed Keats, “Enough time to work out how the hell we are going to get on board... AND, before you suggest it Anton they wont be taking any laundry baskets aboard”

De Havilland had his mouth open but promptly shut it again and turned his attention back to the corridor.

*******

There exists only the low pounding drum of the engines whirring not so very far away.  Ylanath and Keats are packed snugly into a small service room that acted as an interlnk hub between different service tunnels for the ship.  The whirring is endless, but comforts Keats, for whom the cold embrace of space feels like sanctuary, like home.  Keats eyes Ylanath unflinchingly suspiciously.  Ylanath looks distinctly uncomfortable about it and starts looking around the room at something else.

The original introduction by De Havilland to Ylanath had been kept very brief and momentum since then had meant that there had not been time to really begin to determine much about her.  There were a few clear observations though; she was breathtakingly pretty, something which Keats was certain De Havilland would not have failed to miss.  She had high cheek bones and dark brown eyes which she emphasised with a mist of black make-up.  She was very tall, long limbed and looked way too thin.  Keats had seen such creatures before in images of court from Masque magic lantern shows.  All beauty and no brains, and not much good in a fight either.  Having said that though, Keats suddenly thought of Chastity. Deadly beauty, brains and lethal at a pinch.

Ylanath wore mostly dark clothes, a mix of leggings, warm layers with an overlayer of finery, similar to lace. She had good boots now that Keats came to think of it, more practical than he had perhaps realised before.  Clearly she was used to walking long distances.

Keats leant forward slowly, “Ylanath, I feel I need to speak plainly with you.”

Ylanath looked at Keats and waited expectantly.

“Our entry on board this ship.  I cannot explain it.  I don't think anyone can explain it.  Certainly not anyone I have ever met.”

Ylanath just looked on at Keats clearly wondering what to say next.

Keats continued, “That is not to say that I am not grateful.  Because I am.  But...”  there was a pause as Keats thought through the next words carefully.

“Anton”, responded Ylanath suddenly, “You are worried for him...”

Keats rested back against the metallic wall behind.

“He's been a good friend to me over recent years.  Stuck by me.  I value that loyalty, Ylanath,  and would gladly repay it tenfold.”

Ylanath leant forward and was about to speak when a grill next to her was suddenly swung open and De Havilland pushes his way though.

“Bloody awful squeeze”, he gasps, “Their engineers must be midgets.”

Keats and Ylanath look to each other knowingly.  Perhaps more would have to be said in the future but for now at least perhaps Ylanath would understand this Keats a little better

Where are they now? - Part 4 - Notable non-nobles

In preparation for the restart of our campaign here's some further updates concerning some of our previous supporting cast.  This time we look outside the nobility:

Father Konrad

Still acting as confessor to Lady Stephanie, Konrad sees heresy and apostasy at every turn. He enforces Orthodox worship within Stephanie's lands and has regular public floggings of those who are "insufficient in their devotions or showing of wanton sinfulness".  The peasants fear him but do seem to enjoy the spectacle of the punishments.  The floggings draw sizeable crowds after Luxday worship and many serfs are eager to gain favour by reporting on their neighbours (or rivals...or old enemies...or simply people that are different to them...). 

While not an official inquisitor Konrad has worked on their behalf in the past (such as following the "Husk Incident") and he has recently been receiving visits from Inquisitional colleagues who are working in Baron Samuel's library. It is possible that they may engage him in the investigation of Baron Tochiro, especially as he has a history with some of the parties involved.

Sister Cassie

Now a penitent psychic, "sister" Cassie is a constant shadow around Father Konrad. He makes use of her gifts in his "Pancreator ordained work" but treats her with the contempt she deserves as a corrupt and sinful heretic. She seems to accept her place in the Celestial Order and follows his bidding without hesitation, whether it is pulling the truth from other sinners' minds or amplifying the impact of the Father's righteous fervour during his sermons. She continues to serve, quietly and penitently...

Boss "Frisky" Wilson

With the Church's investigation into Baron Tochiro's activities and the black market trade in artefacts the Ravenna branch of the Scravers Guild has become extremely quiet. There is a general assumption that the Guild were involved, the issue is who and how deep. Frisky is typical of the local bosses; he is too high ranking and notable to just disappear but also so connected that the expectation is that he must have been involved in some way.  As such he is keeping his nose as clean as possible, conducting open and legitimate business and being very public in doing so. 

Chief Louie

Louie is gets by as always, making deals, trading goods and trying to remain one step ahead of his creditors, over observant Reeves and the the prying eyes of do-gooder church types. Rumours that the jump route to a new lost world may soon be open for trade has peaked his interest but he's not necessarily in a financial position to exploit it. Yet.

Interlude - Home

A shapely hand moves over the items on the table and plucks a round piece of fruit from a shallow wicker basket. The woman lifts the fruit up to her face and tries to sniff at it. It is not as easy as she would have liked, the metal veil she is wearing just makes everything smell of rusted steel. She lifts the veil a little higher and tries again. This time she gets the scent she is seeking. The fruit is good.

The woman lowers the edge of her veil and looks across to the old man manning the stall, “Okay, that doesn't smell quite as bad as I expected. Lets see about the rest .”

She starts looking through the other items on the stall and places a few choice pieces into a wooden bowl. Having piqued his curiosity the stallholder starts to assess the woman thoughtfully. At first she appears to be just like any other Vuldrok warrior, but it is clearly evident that she is certainly no shield-maiden. The metal Kurgan veil she is wearing suggested she was well travelled, perhaps a mercenary just passing through with her tribe or perhaps a loner who has come here to settle from foreign lands? She had the height of a shield-maiden, that much was true enough, just not the frame. She was far too scrawny from what he could tell, no real bulk to speak of. He doubted whether she would be much good at lifting up shield at need, or much use at swinging anything heavier than that spear she carried. Her eyes looked pretty enough though, that much he could discern. They were richly dark brown, very alluring, which she seemed to have enhanced within a mist of dark face-paint.

“I'll take everything in the bowl. Throw in those herbs as well” she says pointing to a small bowl of crushed medicinal leaves.

They agree on a price; the woman hands over a cloth bag and the stallholder starts to place all of the provisions inside. Once he has finished he raises his hand and looks at her expectantly for payment. It is only then that he notices that she is looking in a completely different  direction. He watches the woman as her head starts turning this way, and that. The stallholder clears his throat a few times and the woman hands him the coins without ever looking back. Suddenly and without warning she grabs at the bag and starts to walk off at a great pace through the pressing crowd of the market. Her strides are long and filled with a tremendous sense of purpose, her lithe torso twists and turns between the passers-by; the little bag of groceries still clutched firmly in her hand.

Eventually she breaks free from the crowd and steps out into a small pathway that is flanked on either side by a row of small dwellings. A few metres immediately ahead of her is the static form of large wretched man. The man appears to be clothed in an array of sorry-looking rags and armaments, his wild hair and bushy beard are caked with a veneer of forest filth. The wild man's face appears to be fixed upon one particular side of the pathway, perhaps focussing in on some of the houses that were pressing in around them. From what she could tell he does not yet appear to have noticed her. The warrior-woman silently affixes her bag to a clip on her belt and then brings her spear around, forcing it out in front of her. Carefully, and with great skill she creeps forwards.

Her heart is racing now; her steps are faint but to her own ears they sound like the trumpeting of heralds. So close to him now, just a mere moment away...

Suddenly, and with great speed the man raises his forefinger to his lips. Ylanath stops dead in her tracks, barely breathing.

They stand like that, motionless, for what feels to her like hours. Eventually the wildman raises both his hands upwards and places them palm-down on to the crown of his head. Ylanath shakes her head in disbelief. This cannot be happening, this cannot be right! They had come too far already.

“Anton! Please! Don't!” she begs. Without turning The Marquis pushes one hand out towards her in a gesture for quiet and returns it back to the top of his head. Slowly The Marquis makes his way forward, his whole being in a state of perfect surrender.

_____________________________________________

Hesitantly, Anton pushes at the door with his fingertips. His other hand he still keeps placed firmly on the top of his thick crop of filthy hair. He steps purposefully through the doorway and into the small room the other side. He does not turn round and he keeps his eyes downcast and his movements passive and unthreatening. With great care he slowly turns around to face the scene in the room.

In one corner of the room stands a man dressed in the common finery of an Antioch freeman. He appears of average build and so does not carry the imposing form of De Havilland. Of more immediate relevance and concern is the fact that in his right hand he appears to be holding what looked to be a fairly sizeable flechette pistol.

Opposite him, lying on a table with a cushion under her head is a woman in local dress but fair-haired, sharply pretty, with tattoos tracing the edge of her cheek and jaw.  And although they're convincingly female, De Havilland is certain it's Keats, apparently going by the name Arcadia had called him (her?): Tigerlily!

“What have you done with my friend?” starts De Havilland.

“Stay away from my wife!  I don’t know what you did to her in the market that gave her seizures, but she’s sleeping now so I would bloody well appreciate you leaving the same way you came in.”

“I am afraid I can't do that...” followed De Havilland.

The stranger smiled, teeth poking through the veil of amusement. “I think you may be about to make a really big mistake Wildman.”

De Havilland shakes his head. “No, I don't think so, you see I actually know your wife very well.”

The stranger looks De Havilland up and down, and smirks. “From the look of you I find that very hard to believe”

De Havilland smiles back. “The really astounding thing for me, and to be honest this came as quite a surprise, is that now I have met her husband I just suddenly realise that I know who you are as well.”

The stranger’s eyes narrow very sharply. “Explain...” he calls.

However, hearing a sudden noise from outside the stranger turns his gaze back over to the doorway but keeps the gun firmly pointed at De Havilland. Slowly and with her arms outstretched Ylanath steps bravely into the room.

“What is going on....” she asks, pointedly looking at De Havilland. “What are you doing, why are you talking to this man?”

The flechette pistol was moving back and forth between them now.

“Keep it on me, keep the weapon on me!” cries De Havilland still keen to look as much a supplicant as he could.

The stranger looks at them both, calculating a next move. He was outnumbered now and in a small space. He would still have enough rounds to take the big man down first though. He was still in control here.

“We've met before” interjects De Havilland, “Off-world....somewhere...very far away from here.”

Ylanath looked over at the man. He looked typically local to her. Part of the reason for De Havilland’s ragged hair and beard was to help cover up some of that noble pampered skin he had cultivated over the years. This stranger looked entirely native to her. De Havilland had clearly made a mistake.

The stranger’s eyes were peering intently at De Havilland now. He tilts his head ever so slightly to one side, trying to get a better look at the filthy human in front of him. De Havilland lifts some of the mucky hair away from his eyes so that the stranger can get a better look.

After a few moments the briefest flicker of recognition spreads across the man's face, but he keeps the gun extended on De Havilland anyway.

“Who is she?” he asks pointedly, gesturing with his head in Ylanath’s direction.

“She helped me escape the Paladindrax's prison. We were both being kept deep underground, right under his palace. She helped me to get out.” answered De Havilland, still not moving a muscle. “We've both been on the run ever since for just over a year now. It’s been desperately close on more than a few occasions, but I am sure they have no idea we are here at the moment.”

“You really haven't answered my question Phoenix Knight”, followed the stranger, “WHO IS SHE...?” Slowly the gun moves round to Ylanath.

“Woah, no..wait!”, calls out De Havilland, “She was a prisoner. She had attempted to break into a store of some of the Paladindrax's personal effects; Some ancient artifacts and suchlike. He was just making up his mind about what to do with her when we escaped. That's all”

“Still don't buy it. You steal from the Paladindrax you get executed”, continued the stranger.

De Havilland looked over at Ylanath who was looking nervously back at the knight.

“She never took anything. She was just there to study it. That was all” finished De Havilland.

Ylanath spoke next, “He speaks the truth. Nothing was taken. They found me there, that much is true,  but they know I would never need to take anything. My people have no need of trinkets and baubles. I follow the old ways. Those in charge know of this. I meant no harm to anyone.”

“I still don't get it” retorts the stranger, “but I guess it really doesn't matter all that much right now. What I have to determine now is what to do with you.”

They stood there in absolute silence. De Havilland speaks first.

“Why don't you and I have a quiet little chat somewhere, discuss a good solution for everyone?”

The stranger shakes his head, “I don't think so Knight. I kind of like keeping this weapon on the woman to be honest. Besides, you know this isn't a two-way conversation. I make the decisions and I get to decide whether you two live or die right here.”

“I don't think so” copied De Havilland, “If you wanted me dead you would’ve shot me by now. And your wife, well, she’s a noble scion of House Justinian.  This isn’t her home, it’s just where the slavers sold her.”

More silence, with the man and the wildman looking across at each other.  The man’s smile falters, grows uncertain: De Havilland’s suggestion is preposterous, but it’s the word of a Phoenix Knight.  It explains things about her.

Finally, after a protracted and tense period the stranger nods slightly, “She’s a free woman.  She can go where she damn well pleases. But you, you two have to leave.”

De Havilland looks over to Ylanath. They had discussed this eventuality at great length during the preceding months.  Antioch was indeed her home but staying here after their dramatic escape from the prison in Nicaea was simply not possible any longer. Still hidden beneath the metal veil she was wearing, she nods her head in agreement.

“You leave when I say and how I say. No questions asked. No side-missions, no retribution on the Paladindrax, De Havilland. Am I making myself clear, here?”

“Absolutely” grins De Havilland, slowly dropping his hands to his sides, “Besides, I’ve had plenty of retribution already…”

_____________________________________________

  

Keats felt the familiar rumble of a ship’s engine vibrating through his body. How often had that rhythmic tune sung him off to sleep in the early years of his travels? He’d had peace on Antioch too: tenuous, the false contentment of forgetting. How many more years would he have to endure before he would experience those same feelings of peace and happiness?

Keats looks over to the Marquis. De Havilland was now sound asleep on a great pile of woollen blankets within their shelter. Keats decided it would probably take explosive decompression to wake him up right now. Keats laughs despite himself, imagining the Marquis floating around in space still completely unaware of his comical predicament.

The Vuldrok woman De Havilland had been travelling with now lay close by his side. Once or twice Keats had watched her move over to him completely unaware in her sleep. She had removed her disguise since coming aboard ship and it came as no surprise to Keats that the woman was exotically beautiful. Keats lay there, watching the two of them close up; together. He took a deep breath and fought back the gut-wrenching twist in his stomach as thoughts of Cortez came rushing back. Their last exchange had been heartfelt, raw and excruciatingly painful. He wondered if Cortez was still alive or not; wondered if Cortez cared if he was still alive. One small tear pooled in an eye which Keats immediately wiped away and fought back.

There was no time for this right now. No time for sentimentality. No time for daydreams. Keats quickly commanded his mind to start thinking about something, anything else really. He started trying to think about the ship they were on. 'The Provenance' was just one of the many ships that belonged to the Palindindrax, he reminded himself. It was used as a small personal freighter and passenger vessel for the office of Paladindrax and was often used to traffic any number of his ongoing personal interests. From what Keats could make out it was probably a fairly luxurious vessel. Forays into the cargo deck during quieter periods of their travel had suggested that no expense had been spared in terms of the choice of materials used within the build. Keats had spent many years walking the length and breadth of ships in his time, and this one was certainly one of the more extravagant crafts. He wondered who had been commissioned to design such a craft and marvelled at how ancient it now must be.

On Antioch, she had just been Tigerlily. Tigerlily who’d saved her brother and been captured. A gladiator who’d earned her freedom. With a home, a husband. They were going to adopt. All her roles - Keats, Hemlock - had been lost, memories buried alongside Cortez. Now Keats’ life is unveiled, stark, while Tigerlily’s time of simple contentment feels like someone else’s recollections.  The goodbye was hard.  Keats still knew what Tigerlily felt for her husband.  But he had to go.

And what of De Havilland?  Ragged but powerful, dirty and wild-haired, sharing his bed with an exotic Vuldrok.  Is he any less changed?  Can he too just cut his hair and return to who he was?  He'd come across half a planet searching for Keats with the forces of the Paladindrax at his heels, found Keats’ secret and stuck with him nonetheless.  Things would never be quite the same again.

They were going home.

Interlude - The Assault

Beyond the known worlds, beneath the surface and nuclear winter of the planet Twilight, Keats walks alone through bunker tunnels.  Today he could just be Keats: Sir Hemlock Justinian was not required.  No dinners, no negotiations.  At the entrance to the diplomatic suite, Keats swipes the lock and heaves the door open.  It shuts heavily, cutting off the bunker’s clamour, leaving just the hum of the air units, quiet as a cargo-hold when a ship is drifting.  An emergency lamp above the door throws the only light; the room is intimated in amber and shadow. That’s good: Keats can use the washroom before anyone else gets back. He starts to unfasten his jacket and is half-way across the room before he notices the man in the chair.

‘I am sorry, Keats,’ Cortez raises a glass; the chair’s wings cast his face into shadow, ‘I did not mean to startle you.’

‘Are you alright?’ one hand re-buttons the jacket, the other puts the knife away.

‘I consider things.  It is quiet.’

‘I thought you were entertaining Miss Jessica.’

Cortez laughs, ‘I think she prefer blondes,’ then, lifting a bottle from his side-table, ‘Would you like some?’

Keats smells spirits and shakes his head, and though he doesn’t say anything Cortez reads the concern.

‘I need the practice,’ Cortez sets down the bottle and shrugs in the depth of the chair, ‘Negotiatory lubricant.’

Keats nods and leaves him, but at the door to the washroom stops and turns back.  Cortez had said his name, quietly, something childlike in it, needful.  Keats pads back in and peers into the chair’s shadows.

‘Do you think we overreach ourselves?’ Cortez, thick-voiced.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is the most horrible planet I have ever descended to,’ Cortez continues and Keats’ response is cut short, ‘And deadly!  I would call it a nest of vipers, but vipers are not so heavily armed.’

‘Nuclear vipers?’

Cortez snorts, ‘I look at how this can end, and nine in ten end with us shot and our ship turned to cooling debris,’ Keats gets a sense of Cortez’s head turning, facing up at Keats, ‘I fear I have doomed us all.’

Keats shakes his head, ‘There are trade-routes with other planets, and the Heidgards are impressed with the Marquis De Havilland.’

‘The trade-routes are a jump we have no key for; the Heidgards are a weak faction in a war-scoured hell.’

‘I’m glad we didn’t side with the Citadel,’ softly, ‘I have no stomach for slave-trading.’

‘I saw the hand of the Pancreator in our endeavours, a galaxy to explore,’ Cortez spreads his arms and growls, ‘The gleam of opportunity!’ he drops his hands, voice cracking, ‘Was I deluded?’

Keats stares down at Cortez, silent.  He finds a glass, pours himself a measure from the bottle and sits in the chair beside Cortez, but leaning forward, elbows on his knees.  Eyes adjusting, Keats sees the stray coils veiling one of Cortez’s eyes; the other glistens.

Keats is used to Cortez’s dramatic moods.  Sometimes Keats would joke with him, sometimes just listen, or sit in companionable silence.  This is different.  There’d been an urgency to him since he turned up with his own ship and jump-key, Keats had thought maybe desperation, but dismissed it since Keats was never much good at understanding people.  Should Keats have stayed with his friend instead of leaving him to play Hemlock?  What if Hemlock was a mistake, a lie too far?  Keats kicks off his boots and curls his legs up in the chair, leaning on the wing so he can look at Cortez.  Cortez asked if he was deluded.  Keats could tell him about delusion.

Through the years of lies – or, if not actual lying, then allowing a false belief to perpetuate – the truth sometimes intruded on Keats and he longed to share it with Cortez.  But would he see it as betrayal?  Keats couldn’t endure that.  Meanwhile, a little part of Keats dreamed that Cortez would fall for the person beneath the lie, and they’d skip hand in hand into the sunset.

But not now.  Cortez has problems enough without his best friend’s betrayal.  And now Cortez, the decisive one, the captain with a plan, sees only doom.  Keats pats his knives and shield unit.  His sword hangs by the door.

‘Yesterday, you did not see,’ Cortez murmurs, ‘Miss Jessica gazing at you all evening?’

‘I thought she was looking at you.’

‘Have you ever been in love, Keats?’

Keats looks away, hiding behind a sip of the spirit, ‘I think so.’

‘Who?’ Cortez leans forward.  Keats wants to reach out and tuck the fallen curls back behind his ear.

Instead, he sits frozen and turns red, ‘I never mentioned it to them.  I doubt I’m their type.’

‘I had often wondered about you.  I thought, perhaps, you might be gay.’

Had he seen it?  Keats’ breath catches.  He should’ve been more thorough, manufactured an affair or two, but that was its own risk: Keats never was a good liar, protected by others’ assumptions and that the lie had become so part of him that it sometimes felt like the truth.  A shield of delusion.  Instead, Keats was asexual, not risking comments about young ladies for fear the falsehood might shine through.  But had he let an errant gaze slip?  Keats mouth opens, closes.

‘Because,’ Cortez meets Keats’ gaze, ‘I am.’

Keats’ eyes glaze.

‘I always dreamed,’ Corteaz breathes, ‘that you were too.’

Keats laughs.  It snaps out high, hysterical.  A sense of something shattering.  He sets down his drink, unfolds from the chair and starts to undress, still laughing.  His shaking fingers slip on the buttons.

Cortez starts to rise, ‘You do not have to, not like this.’

But the look Keats gives him, manic, scares him and he falls back into the chair.

Keats stands naked before Cortez.  He turns so the light falls on his front, silent now, barely breathing.

It takes Cortez a moment to realise what he’s seeing.  Eventually, he asks, ‘What happened?’

‘It would go easier on you, if you were a boy,’ high and fragile, but deliberate, quoting.

‘What?’

‘He said it, before he put me on the shuttle.  Then he died.  And everyone, everyone else.  All dead. Just me.  And up there, in the black, it would go easier on me, if I were a boy.’

And for once, Cortez is lost for words.  His expression changes as the last dozen years reconfigure.

‘I’m sorry,’ Keats is crying, and despite that, Keats’ higher-pitched voice seems easier, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Then, who is Hemlock?’

Keats’ head shakes: don’t go there, ‘I can’t let him be dead.’

After a moment, in disbelief, ‘Tigerlilly?’

Keats stands, shaking, and doesn’t deny it.

‘You’re insane,’ Cortez breathes.

Keats laughs, wild-eyed.

Cortez chokes, ‘I loved you.’

The laughter comes so hard, so hysterical that Keats collapses, clutching ribs, crying and laughing and curling up in a ball on the rug.

Cortez slams down his drink and rises to slap Keats, but the drink makes him unsteady, and Keats – or whatever rolls and laughs on the floor – frightens Cortez.  He staggers out.

In time, the madness passes, and Keats dresses in panic in case anyone else comes in.  As he creeps to bed, he whispers to Cortez’s door, ‘I loved you too.’

*****

Distant cracks and rumbles wake little Tigerlilly.  A tremor runs through the room.  Trinkets rattle.  Then the alarm bells start to sound.

Distant thuds and rumbles wake Keats.  A tremor runs through the room.  Masonry cracks.  Then the alarm sirens start to sound.

Hemlock grabs Tigerlilly’s hand and runs into the corridor.  People are shouting and fleeing.  Hemlock slips through the press.

Keats fastens shield unit and buckles sword and knives over his pyjamas.  Cortez emerges in damask dressing-gown.  Keats grabs his hand and runs into the corridor.  People are shouting and fleeing.  Keats slips through the press.

The corridor smells of smoke.  Light of distant fires.  Masked men step out of the shadows and cut down guards and civilians.  Hemlock ducks into a side-corridor.

Bits of ceiling fall in showers of dust.  A closer rumbling, cracking, tearing and soldiers appear, masked men that shoot the guards and panicking civilians.  Keats ducks into a side-corridor.

Tigerlilly runs, stuffed tiger in one hand, the other clutching Hemlock’s.  People screaming, dying, the sound of buildings collapsing.

Keats runs, sword in one hand, the other clutching Cortez’s.  He has a pistol.  People screaming, dying, the sound of tunnels collapsing.

The ceiling falls, the way blocked, sound of fire and death beyond it.  Smoke billows black.

The ceiling falls, the way blocked, sound of fire and death beyond it.  Smoke billows black.

Losing Hemlock’s hand.  Separated, smoke washing between.  Masked men with blades emerge from the shadows.

The ground shakes.  Losing Cortez’s hand.  Separated, smoke washing between.  Masked men with guns emerge from the shadows.

A hand over Hemlock’s face and his throat is cut.  Tigerlilly runs.

Keats screams Hemlock’s name.  The solders turn their guns: his shield flares.  Keats kills them, then takes Cortez’s hand.

Tigerlilly, found by the family retainer, spirited out through the tunnel to an ore shuttle and bundled in with an envelope and satchel, and the advice, ‘It would go easier on you, if you were a boy.’

Near the shuttle, enemies closing.  Keats slips his shield onto Cortez and pushes him toward the door, ‘Go, Hemlock!  I’ll slow them.’

The shuttle tears upwards, shaking and roaring, Tigerlilly all alone.  Below, Hemlock is dead.

Enemies rounding the corner.  Keats emerges from the shadows and cuts a throat open.  He slips around bayonets and carves a bloody path, alone with a sword.  Until they shoot him, and he falls, knowing that Hemlock is safe.