The Glass Galago

 

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The taxikite banked as it approached
Constitution
, wheeling in an arc that encompassed it and two other great ships of the Fleet of Nations.
Temperance
led the formation, sharkskin hull slick and seawet, decks staffed by sinewy, heavily-armed veterans. Her figurehead wore a necklace of blood pearls, over a hundred of them, one red bead for every vessel she had ever sunk.

Breadbasket
, to her starboard side, was three times larger but far less martial, clad in the greenery of her abovedeck park and towing a skirt of grain barges that bobbed in the sea as their crops ripened. Her masts were living trees, sheathed in sails of spidersilk. Aft, her serpentine tail rippled sinuously, providing a boost to propulsion as well as steerage.

Behind the triad of lead ships were hundreds more. Sails of canvas, silk, woven reed, and even fur snapped in the wind; the seagoing city was making a leisurely crossing of the southern deeps, as it did every year, before hurricane season. Ferries darted between the big vessels. Kites circled above, wheeling raptors with fares their prey.

Their kite bounced a little, the struts of its wings flexing as the driver caught a last gust of wind, gliding down to
Constitution
‘s landing deck. He got the door open smartly, bowing to the young sailor seated beside Gale Feliachild.

“Charge the Courier Service for the ride,” Gale said, giving the driver a government chit and nudging her first mate out of the taxi.

“Fair weather, Kir,” he said, answering as if Parrish had spoken. He pocketed the chit and, by way of a complicated manipulation of the kite's ribs, rearranged its silky orange wings into a flaccid balloon. Throwing back his head, he breathed fire into the apparatus, inflating it. He would be aloft again in minutes.

“Been aboard her before, Mister Parrish?” Her first mate was having a look around
Constitution
, taking advantage of the height of the cab pad.

“At Graduation, yes.”

Temperance
had been built to terrify,
Breadbasket
to comfort and nurture.
Constitution
, meanwhile, was dressed in the formalities of governance: white rails, gleaming decks, smartly lettered signs, and a flag for every island nation represented by the Fleet Convene. The ship was steeped in quiet importance. Its lifeblood was information, borne by the uniformed messengers trotting everywhere.

One young officer who'd been sprinting after their cab stopped short before them. Parrish drew attention wherever he went: he had a sensual beauty that brought stares from people of every age. But this woman wasn't flirting. If anything, she seemed shocked.

“Fair morning, Septer Birch,” Parrish said.

The woman pushed on, silent, her jaw set.

“Not a friend, I take it?” Gale asked. Perhaps Parrish had broken her heart. He couldn't be as pure as he seemed.

“We served together, before I was discharged from the Fleet.”

“I'd meant to get that story from you by now.” The captain of Gale's personal sailing vessel,
Nightjar
,
had tapped young Parrish to be his successor. She was in the first stage of getting to know him. But the seas on their last journey had been bad. Long nights at the ropes, turbulent seas, and howling winds: there had been regrettably little quiet, no time for conversation.

“I'd meant to share it.” To her surprise, he laughed. “I've worked out why you were so fussy about my clothes. You want to be taken for my servant.”

“I don't fuss.” She'd got him several tailored outfits: doublets and breeches, black with copper embroidery at the collar. They were expensive, suggestive of wealth and power. Gale herself was clad in nondescript grey. “Besides, people stare at you however you're dressed.”

“And ignore you regardless.”

That was true. In childhood, her parents had her enchanted—cursed, really—so that people found her unremarkable and hard to remember. It was the next best thing to being invisible.

“Be grateful you're in black, Parrish; with that lovely dark skin of yours, I considered red with gold trim.”

“The better to sell me to a circus?”

“Depending on price,” she said. “Do you mind?”

“People do stare anyway.” Which wasn't precisely an answer.

“We could get you a cloak with a nice deep hood, some kind of mask for contagion.”

“No.” A thread too much weight in his voice, as he refused even her whimsical suggestion of aid.

She reached out to snag a passing messenger, a uniformed child of perhaps fourteen. “We're looking for Convenor Gracechild.”

“The government is in debate, Kirs; it may be an all-nighter.”

Gale handed over her card. “When they break, give her this.” He bowed and ran off.

“Now what?” Parrish asked.

“Try her office, of course.” She led him belowdecks, into the bureaucratic warren of the government at sea.

*   *   *

Annela's secretary had once commanded an ambulance crew, and Gale had never seen her flustered. But as they came in, she clapped the hatch shut behind them, her movements jerky.

She saw Parrish, and—naturally enough—froze.

Gale let her take a good look at him, with his handsome, sensitive face, his lush lips and good clothes. Only after the secretary had caught her breath did Gale slap down a box of wine-soaked dates from Zingoasis. The dates were one of those questionable local delicacies. They tasted all right … once you got past the smell of pickled dung.

As the aroma worked its way through the outer office, Gale could see the secretary go through the usual reactions: surging revulsion, first, then an effort to cover disgust. Gale could almost hear her thinking:
These again, why me, why does everyone keep giving me these revolting confections? Well, maybe it isn't everyone, just our one horrid kinswoman …

Being unmemorable forced you to get inventive.

“Kir Feliachild!” the secretary said, falsely bright as she made the connection.

“It's Gale, Bettona—”

Clattering interrupted her.

Something shiny dropped from a curtained portal to the desk, wrestling the wax seals on the box.

“Is that a galago?” Gale asked. It was a small primate, with tiny hands and big eyes. But it had been enchanted: its skin was leathery but transparent, its fur composed of clear shards. Within, where its organs should have been, she could see dense blobs of colored light. Its brain shimmered pink-gray through the hard glass of its skull; a crimson glow throbbed in its chest.

“Careful, it's wild—” the secretary said, but Parrish had taken the dates. He held out his hand, rock steady. The animal climbed on him, cooing hopefully.

“May I?” Parrish asked, flipping open the box and intensifying the smell of camel waste. The thing chirped.

“Small pieces, no pits,” Bettona instructed. “Its teeth are delicate.”

“Since when does Annela keep oddities?” Gale asked.

The secretary shook her attention off of Parrish, who had smeared date onto his index finger. The galago licked it off; once in its mouth, the fruit vaporized into caramel-colored smoke and moved foggily toward its gut.

“The glass galago's tied to the current debate in the Convene. There's a woman from the Patents Office in the same condition.”

“A woman, turned to glass?”

Bettona nodded. “The inscription's been stolen; there's no way to restore her. She may die.”

“Would there be a briefing in Annela's inner office, by any chance?”

Bettona nodded. “She had me prepare it yesterday.”

Gale led the way into her kinswoman's sanctum, finding the report atop her papers.

“There's a hairline crack between its toes.” Parrish sat on a low couch, mashing more date for the galago. It nibbled, wide-eyed, seeming every bit as enchanted with her first mate as everyone else.

“It's not magic, is it, Parrish?”

“Pardon?”

“Your stunning good looks.”

“No, I'm not scripped.” He stroked the creature behind its ear. So young: she felt her doubts about him swelling. Could she hand her ship and the safety of her people over to a boy? “The crack's small, but it will spread. And here's another.”

“Living beings aren't meant to be turned to glass. Does that surprise you?” She paged through the report. “This is all happening as the Convene debates whether Patents needs to be more heavily regulated.”

“If magical inscriptions can simply go missing, maybe they do need more regulation.”

“Don't be naïve, Parrish—the issue might be debatable, but the situation with the glass woman has been contrived to force the vote.”

“Understood.” The galago had apparently eaten enough: it was playing with Parrish's buttons. “Who benefits from more rules?”

She flipped pages. “Anyone with a body of well-established spells and a fat treasury. Patents is already a difficult and expensive process. Increased regulation will make it harder on small suppliers and innovators.”

“Says Kir Gracechild?”

“Do you have another expert in your pocket?” Gale said.

“I meant no disrespect.”

“But you dislike politicians on principle.” She'd figured out that much about him.

“You'd like me to withhold judgment until I meet her?”

“Seems fair, doesn't it?”

The concession was good-natured. “Yes.”

“Nella says this particular wrangle will pit big island interests against little ones, hurting those still working to build up their magical economies.”

“She wants you to find the inscription?”

“I'd say it's the obvious place to start.”

*   *   *