The Gospel According to Verdu (a Steampunk Novel) (The Brofman Series) (12 page)

He lifted his amazed eyes to Nameer, and could say nothing.

“I think you like it very much,” Nameer said, his voice satisfied; the emotion rolling off Verdu had evidently confirmed he was the true author. “It’s an elegant little thing, no? And spreading like flames in the desert brush. How long has it been since you finished the text?”

Verdu swallowed hard. “Five days.” His voice was an awed whisper.

“I see,” was Nameer’s only reply. His mask slipped a bit, and a weariness showed through around his eyes. He wiped a hand from his forehead, over his brow and then down to scratch at his beard as he inhaled deeply. He shrugged ever so slightly and reached into his robes, pulling out a fistful of little books of varying quality.

He dropped one onto the table. “Cheap paper—in Tugrulian.” He thumbed through a second one for a moment and said, “Good quality, this vellum, and translated into Republic—naughty, that.” He tossed the next one directly to Verdu, saying, “This one has a few crude pictures of the miracles on the endpapers. Tell me, is the likeness of the events any good?” He laid three more on the table. Like the others, they were handwritten, but could hardly be called proper books as they were merely groups of mismatched scraps folded over and held together by a single binding string laced through rough holes along the edge of the cheap paper. “Those are in variants of the Mae-Lyn language. Seems like the pranav covered all eventualities. There’s no way to get even half of the copies back, as best our sources can tell. So what is the Tugrulian Hierarchy to do?

“Five days,” Nameer muttered to himself. “I can’t understand how this has traveled so far in five days.” He looked at Verdu for an answer, but no word was given. “That skinny old ghost must have the entirety of his cadre of traitors feverishly copying your account day and night! Thousands of copies!” His tone turned angry. “And now I have to make a choice. This little tale is everywhere and spreading faster than the wind. There are those in the Hierarchy who say that you need to die—now—horribly and publicly for your defiant lies—”

“
No!
It’s the truth. Every word,” Verdu said.

Nameer slammed his hand down on the table. He was not used to being interrupted. “Since when are you interested in the truth? Is she the Pramuc? Maybe yes, maybe no. But it was not for you to say. Are you a theologian? Have you studied the sacred texts with the Hierarchy? You may have had a little adventure with the girl from the West—which is also against the law here, as you well know—but you are not the leader of the temple. You are not a scholar of the One True God. Where is your ordination? What do you know of religion? At best, we may call you a sailor of the air. You have no right to speak on such things.”

“I was there. I saw everything. The truth is in my eyes and my heart and my bones,” Verdu said, calmly and with a certainty that could not be questioned.

Nameer laughed and slapped a hand on his knee. “You trust your bones, do you? When you die—and that may be very soon—where will your bones go? I do not even think you know where your bones belong. You know so much about where you have been, but you seem to not even care who you are.”

“What are you talking about?” Verdu demanded. “Don’t speak in riddles and don’t make any illusions to my fate. I know the penalty for preaching of the Pramuc: death. So if my end is near, let us just get on with it. Abandon your finger waving and your babble—let us get to the ax! According to your law, my bones belong in the ground. If you are here to kill me, then kill me.”

“Verdu, or should I say, Your Highness, your adventure with this Pramuc has put you, somewhat unexpectedly, fourth in line for the throne of Tugrulia. The quarrel now is not whether you should die, but who gets to kill you first: the Hierarchy for blasphemy, your cousins behind you in the succession who want to get ahead, or the emperor himself, who sees you as a threat to his crown and rather hates you just on principle.” Nameer sighed. “I have been assigned to be your advocate among the legitimate heirs, at the moment, sad to say. That is my duty to the emperor for the time being.” He brushed his fingers over the books on the table. “Aside from a few rebels and scribes, the whole of the Tugrulian Empire wants you dead. I am the only person with the authority to keep you breathing for a time. I am, by assignment, your ally.”

Verdu slumped in his chair. “Drat,” he said, feeling as though he had just been diverted from heaven and into limbo. “I was really looking forward to some ice cream.”

chapter 10

Bleed

The water running from Chenda’s clothes and hair spread across the deck, reflecting what little light escaped from the open hatch near her. Finally catching her breath, she looked up to thank the people surrounding her, but held her tongue as she saw a circle of worried faces. At first she thought they were all worried about her, so she scrambled to her feet to show that she was, more or less, just fine.

However, her mobility was greeted with no sign of relief from her rescuers. They all took at least one step backward, the men standing protectively between the women and children and an increasingly confused Chenda. She chewed on her lip, uncertain what to do next and unnerved by the looks of fear all around her.

One of the men found his courage and shouted something at her. The tone was both menacing and questioning, but the meaning of the words was lost on Chenda. Another man shouted something else at her, this time in another language, one she recognized as sounding Tugrulian, but she did not understand the meaning of any of the words.

“I’m sorry,” she said, holding her hands up in surrender. “I don’t speak Tugrulian.”

The first man relaxed a bit and said, “Ah, Republic. I see.” He turned and said a few words to his fellows, who all looked nervously at one another and shrugged. “You’ve given us rather a shock, young woman.” He smiled a bit, embarrassed. “My son thought you were a
geristiana
—what you in the West say as a
mermaid
. He called to me that you were lying asleep on top of the water and that you glowed with fish light.” He raised one silky black eyebrow, as if asking her to confirm the boy’s story as foolishness.

She smiled. “Last time I checked, I didn’t have gills or a tail, so I think perhaps I’m not a
geristiana
. Not yet anyway. Any longer in that cold sea, and I might have wished to become so. Please, thank your son for me. He saved my life.”

The man beamed with pride. His boy, hiding behind his father’s leg, peered around him to get a better look at Chenda. His father slapped his hand on the boy’s back and spoke to the lad in a reassuring and fatherly tone. He frowned up at his dad and then looked disappointedly at Chenda. The tall man laughed and said, “He rather wishes you were a
geristiana
. He fancies capturing you as a pet.”

Chenda laughed and dropped to one knee, waving the boy near. He sheepishly took one step forward and then another, encouraged by Chenda’s smile.

“You,” she said, “are my hero.” She pressed her hands together in front of her chest and bowed her head, then she kissed the palm of her hand and blew it at the little boy. He listened to his father’s translation and danced with joy.

The father put his hand to his heart and said, “I am Rainor, and this is my home, my ship, the
Tao-Tallis
. We welcome you in peace and offer you the hospitality of the Mae-Lyn.”

“Thank you,” she said. The people surrounding her, hearing the welcoming tone of their leader, relaxed and moved around the ship, settling back into the routine of their lives there, listening and watching, but no longer on their guard. Chenda stood and fully faced Rainor. “I am so grateful to you for helping me. I am Chenda Dulal, of the airship
Brofman
.” She extended her hand to him and suddenly realized that all movement on the boat had stopped. All eyes stared at Chenda, and she turned from face to face, increasingly concerned at the shocked looks directed at her.

Rainor cocked his head and took a cautious step toward Chenda. He placed a hand on each side of her face. As he brought his forehead toward hers, she raised her hands to touch the back of his head. Locked eye to eye, she stroked her hands down the back of his neck and shoulders, bringing her palms to rest on his elbows, where she gently pushed him away. The Pramuc’s blessing.

“Wow,” she whispered as she stared at Rainor, who looked back at her with wonder and adoration. “It’s been a while since I had any call to do that.”

The child was having a wonderful time sliding down the rocky dirt path leading up the hillside strewn with weak, weedy stems. He may have been the dirtiest little boy Fenimore had ever seen, but happy nonetheless. The sled upon which he rode was a scrap of sheet metal. From where Fenimore hid among the rocks he could just make out the remnants of the word
vent
and the stencil of an arrow printed in fading paint on the bottom of the sheet as the boy gleefully picked it up and struggled to lug it up the hill again. The makeshift toy did not work particularly well, but the lad was having a high time. Once up the hill, to the very top of the least rocky patch of the path, the kid would carefully and deliberately place the scrappy sled facing down, holding it still with one hand as he sat on the ground next to it and scooted his little bottom onto the metal. The child’s face was gleeful each time he settled onto the sled, his eyes full of anticipation for his slide to the bottom. Getting started was the trick; the boy thrust his whole body forward, leading with his chest, willing the sled to start moving down the path. To Fenimore, the kid looked like he was hopping while seated. Once the sled overcame its inertia, the boy bounced downward atop it, gleefully hooting throughout the brief ride.

The payoff, Fenimore thought to himself, seemed dwarfed by the effort, and he wondered why the child did not just give up and find some other activity. Perhaps it kept him happy because there were few other opportunities for entertainment here in the decidedly backwater region of Tugrulia. Perhaps having a toy, even a rather useless one, compensated for a lack of playmates. Or, most likely, the child, barely three years old, had not lived long enough to realize the futility of a slide, how it keeps one busy all day but in the end, one is roughly in the same place where one started.

Fenimore began to feel impatient. Unlike the boy, he had little time to waste. He needed to get past this bit of open hillside and into the rocky tunnel system without being seen. The kid, however, was decidedly slowing his progress. Fenimore combed through his options: he could backtrack and go around another way, but that would set him back considerably, or he could wait for the kid to finish up his playtime and leave, but the lad seemed to be ready to enjoy himself for hours more. The most expedient choice was to snatch the child the next time he slid past and make sure he would not be able to tell anyone of the man on the hillside. The work of but a moment.

A small part of Fenimore’s brain screamed in protest against his justifying thoughts of collateral damage. The pure soldier within him pushed hard against his compassionate self. A year ago the thought of killing a child would have repulsed him. A month ago, with Chenda’s arms around his neck, her legs twined around his, he dreamed of a child not unlike this one: strong, curious, industrious, beautiful; part his, part hers. A week ago, he tossed it all away, thinking he did not deserve her. He longed to hope he could find a way back to her.

The juices of his stomach rose into his throat, and a small groan escaped him. His gaze shot toward the child, now toddling back up to the start of the dusty run, struggling with the metal scrap. Swallowing hard, he pushed down the vomit along with his better self, knowing that in doing this, he would never be right with himself or Chenda again, but clinging to the hope that it would get him to Verdu so he could fulfill his mission. Perhaps that would mean something, he thought over the screaming in his head, against the vile taste in his mouth, through the cold sweat on his skin.

The boy set his sled down and placed his hand on it to steady it.

Fenimore grasped the knife handle at his boot.

Scooting his bottom onto the sled, the child relaxed his grip, and Fenimore tensed his legs beneath him, preparing to spring. The boy thrust his chest out, moving the sled a mere inch.

A shrill whistle sliced up the hillside, and both the boy and Fenimore turned their eyes to the sound.

At the bottom of the hill, standing at the door of a whitewashed mud hut, a thin woman in an acid-green gown held two fingers in a circle to her mouth. When she was sure the boy had met her gaze, she raised her hand and scooped air toward herself, signaling the boy, her son most likely, to come to her. She pantomimed spooning food into her mouth.

The boy sighed deeply, the resentment at abandoning his fun clearly reflected in his wrinkled brow. He waved at his mother and called to her, “Ya-ya!” Then his expression returned to joy as he thrust his chest out, inching his sled forward in what would be his last run for the day. Below, his mother waved back and leaned her slight form against the door’s edge, watching her boy happily bounce down the dusty path. When the makeshift sled finally ground to a halt, Fenimore watched him carefully rest it upright between two large rocks a few feet off the path, pat it respectfully, and skip back to his mother for his supper.

It was not until the boy grabbed his mother around the leg in greeting that Fenimore relaxed his grip on his knife. The woman below swabbed at the boy’s face and hands with her apron hem as she pushed him into the small hut, and then they were gone from sight. The world around Fenimore was once again silent, and there was no other soul around.