5-5
For all that he had initially complained, Gilead found himself growing used to the Kingdom apparel in no time at all. Certainly, the fabrics were far more suited for the warm climes of the Halmahera sea than had any of his habitual clothes been suited to the Holy Land. While the decorative chains around the bottom of the jacket often found themselves being caught on things, they served two very useful purposes: the first, according to Vilena, was to obscure his movements during combat. The second was to wave beautifully when caught by the sea breezes, being composed of some material far lighter than steel.
Those breezes had always been the best part of sailing, a truth made only more true by the rest of the weather. The right wind could make even the dreary British countryside sound, for an instant, with the notes of heaven’s song; but in the constant beating sun of the spice islands (maintained at great effort despite bordering so many other distinct climatic zones), wind chill was mana from heaven.
It was those same salt breezes that, in sending blonde strands flying every which way, caused Gilead to realize he had not cut his hair since his resurrection. Given he returned to life exactly as he was when he had died, minus only his wounds, it had effectively been almost three months. Gilead’s hair was starting to become shaggy and mobile, able to slip over his ears at times. He spent quite some time, during the late morning of that day at sea, contemplating whether to slice it off with his sword. But no. He would let it grow long, the better for Vilena to play with as she often did.
Thinking about his hair was one of the few things to do. Gilead’s usual default when no other action was possible was to practice his combat arts, but in tight quarters aboard ship, swinging his sword around would be lethally risky. Every heavy object which could conceivably serve to test his muscles was being used, and the crew—half composed of native Indonesians and half composed of dregs from all across Scrapyard—looked poorly upon passengers volunteering to carry barrels around.
The other thing that could be done was to watch Qi Zhen. It was like watching a rabbit forced to winter indoors in the same house as a cat: the automaton was always running hither and thither, looking over their shoulder. Who this stranger was and why Qi Zhen was so afraid of them, Gilead cared little. As long as Qi Zhen’s life and limb were not in danger, he was content merely to watch.
Dindrane was on the ship with him as well. Nobody else could see her, that much rapidly became clear; she was Gilead’s phantom alone. Rarely would she speak to him, or touch him, and when she did it was only briefly, a short phrase or a quick brushing of her body against his. Mostly she watched. Disdainful glare or knowing look, she watched. The promise was clear: the old love they had felt had not been destroyed by the dropping of death’s veil.
Was his love for Vilena bigamous, then? Surely not; “’til death do us part” was meant seriously, and the bond between Gilead and Dindrane had never been consummated in the way Gilead’s and Vilena’s had. And yet, Dindrane was more present than any phantom, her body as firm as any living woman. Would only that Gilead had access to a priest.
Late in the afternoon, Gilead was able to find Sara alone, and said he wished to ask about Pretension.
“Anything you need. What is it?”
“Thou… thou wast chosen, yes? Same as was I?”
Sara’s muscles tensed. “No, not like you. Mine and Zahra’s was… unique.”
“Not by a person, then, as Dindrane chose me?”
Sara averted her eyes, turning more stony by the second. “No.”
He asked Qi Zhen. They did not look at him, keeping watch over the main deck for the arrival of the stranger, but vocal response was all Gilead needed.
“Yes, the mantis spirit chose me just before I left the sect. Why do you ask?”
“Dost the mantis spirit appear to thee, as a vision?”
Qi Zhen paused. “What?”
Immediately, Gilead understood the answer to his question, and reframed it into something less offensive to the senses. “I cannot help but think of her. Her visage hoves afore my eyes in ceaseless revolution.”
“It’s quite the thing,” Qi Zhen admitted. “I remember everything perfectly on account of my memories being stored digitally, but I understand that life-changing events are remembered with greater clarity. It will become less overwhelming with time. Probably. I think.”
Either Gilead had gone mad, or he was being haunted. He couldn’t have said which was the worse possibility if someone had put a gun to his head.
As night approached, the ship docked at Port Gebe. Most of the poorer passengers would remain on board overnight, using the Arnhem as a floating hostel, but Gilead and company had no need of such frugality, at least so long as Vilena’s money held out. Almost immediately after disembarking, the knight began to question whether it would have been better for his heart if he had remained offshore.
Port Gebe had always been a major trade hub for the eastern part of the Sultanate of Tidore, the main port of call where Papuan islanders from further afield could trade feathers, ambergris, and the all-important clove for fresh shipments of iron and cotton and gunpowder. When it had been brought to Scrapyard, and taken most of the surrounding islands with it, Port Gebe had swollen like an un-lanced boil.
It cost as much to leave the island of Gebe as it did to arrive, meaning that the human debris of Scrapyard inevitably accumulated, filling the port town with the desperate and the destitute until it was full to bursting. Human stench was thick in the air, wafting heavy off of the rows of driftwood shacks that housed much of the population. There was nowhere that the eye could fall where sickness and starvation were not in evidence. Beggars held out their hands, gums bleeding as they smiled at the passersby.
Gilead leaned against Vilena, whispering in her ear. “Could we not help them? We have money.”
“A shilling to each of them and we would be as poor as they were long before we ran out of poor souls. The poverty of Scrapyard will not be fixed by one charitable soul.”
“There must be something that can be done.”
Vilena nodded, her expression growing more grave. “Take this money and found a soup kitchen. Recruit until you have enough loyal men to seize the treasure-ships of the sultans and use the wealth to craft this island into a worker’s paradise. But I imagine that is not what you wish to do here.”
Gilead was sorely tempted. With his chastity having deserted him, retirement from warfare in favor of a life of quiet, God-serving charitable work would be a square means of redemption. But he knew that Vilena would never accept such a life, and Sara and Qi Zhen had their own objectives. Would a missionary be able to save Zahra’s life?
Vilena held out her palm, a pile of large silver coins in it. “This is two weeks good pay, six weeks bad. Enough to change a family’s fortune. Sterling silver, so they’re good anywhere. We can afford at least a little charity.”
Gilead took the coins and split off from the others. The calculus of charity was not unfamiliar to him, as a Catholic; widows and orphans were first in priority, followed by the sick, then the abled man. The coins were heavy in his fist, fate in his hands; but he did not have to search long. He spotted a woman leaning against the wall of a shack, her clothes all in ruins and her body pockmarked with signs of sickness. He drew up alongside her.
“Good madam? I have something for you.”
The woman startled, and for a second seemed not to know where she was. “And what…” she said, her voice clotted and deep. She blinked, gently covering her mouth with waxy, starved hands.
“I mean, who are you?” she said.
“I am hight Gilead du Carbennic, a knight of good standing. I noticed that you seem to be in a bad way. Have you any home, anyone to support you?”
The lady stood stunned a moment, then said. “No. It’s just me and my children, ever since their father left.”
Gilead nodded, his chest burning at the cruelty of knavish men. “Then, take these,” he said, holding out the coins. “And may they change your fortunes.”
She smiled, showing yellowed teeth. “Give the coins to my boys yourself,” she said. “It’s just past Christmas, you see, and they’ve had no gifts. You don’t look like much of a Santa Claus, but late is better than never, aye?”
Gilead should have been suspicious of this (especially given as he had never heard of Santa Claus), but he was not. He nodded at the woman’s suggestion, and followed her into the winding labyrinth of narrow passageways, where every footstep rapidly filled with rotten water. She said nothing, and he asked no questions, even as it became clear that the poor woman’s children were a long ways away. She was a poor woman, in need of Gilead’s charity. What else was there to think?
That Gilead was walking alongside a perfectly harmless charity case was not reason to entirely put his guard down, though. It was a single sound that gave it away, a crunch of sand being stepped in that shouldn’t have been there. Immediately, Gilead’s hackles went up: a normal person would have been easily audible, so a single out-of-place sound meant someone was trying to be stealthy.
He whipped around, and no sooner had he seen the stalker from the corner of his eye than he incorporated the drawing of his blade into that turn.
“The coin isn’t worth the effort of brigandry. Ask nicely and this lady may even give you a sum.”
The man who had been following Gilead was handsome, dressed in the loose fabrics of Furat, black shorts and a long-sleeved shirt in blue and white stripes. That he had been trying to remain stealthy was made clear by his footwear: he’d removed his shoes, and one would need a very good reason to be walking around this part of Port Gebe in socks alone.
His response to Gilead’s accusation was about as plain as his appearance. “First Pretense: Private Eyes.”
A brilliant flash of light caused Gilead to throw his arm in front of his face as he cried out to the poor woman, “Flee, now! This will be dangerous!”
When the flash faded, Gilead wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at. It was a assemblage of black plastic and dull metal, only vaguely humanoid, and studded with glass lenses set into cylindrical outlets. (Dozens of cameras, melted and molded into a humanoid shape.)
Gilead swung his shield around from its usual position on his back, and not a moment too soon, for as the enemy Pretender’s cylindrical snout extended, there was suddenly a tremendous heat, a single point containing the concentrated power of a roaring bonfire. The shield, being decorative, was made of thin metal, meaning that the beam (a laser) could not penetrate; but even still, the shield heated up to agonizing temperature in seconds. Pain was no dissuader; Gilead charged, crouching low as though the heat would not find him. The plastic Pretender backpedaled, but couldn’t outrun him, not on unsteady ground and not with his head locked in the direction of the charging knight.
With the enemy’s defenses wide open, Gilead had little stopping him from unleashing a withering combination attack, slash into false-edge cut into thrust to the head, a combination that would have killed an ogre. The Pretender’s body was metal and glass and plastic, more durable than flesh, but each blow left dents, cracking lenses and leaving segments of his body dangling, barely connected. The heat vanished after the first blow knocked his head to the side, some of the sand scorching into glass as he looked at it.
Gilead understood: like the legendary Medusa, this Pretender’s power was focused into his gaze. He drew back into a defensive stance, but circled to the right, hoping to stay out of the line of sight. The flaw in this plan was one he uncovered very quickly, when his shoulder bumped into a nearby wall.
“Second Pretense: Dust in the Wind.”
The supposed pauper, having succeeded in her mission of luring Gilead away from the rest of the troop, no longer needed hide her true intentions. The sudden realization, the cloud being lifted from his mind, was not dissimilar from when Sara had broken him out of the combat haze in the suture. But this time, there was no one to save him. He turned to defend against her attack, but there was nothing to defend against: a cold wind went around his shield and dove down Gilead’s throat.
It wasn’t suffocation that came next, but neither was it wholesome breath. Gilead’s heart beat with frightening speed, his pupils dilated until he was nearly blind, his skin stirred with need even as his muscles softened and he fell backwards, boneless, into the wall at his back.
Gilead was blurred, the heat that engulfed him recalling the same heat that had drawn him to Vilena, that had enticed him into committing his second-greatest mistake. He shut his eyes, panting softly as his heartbeat slowed and slowed. There was no need to escape this, no need to do anything at all. He was sinking into something larger, something greater than himself, something that he could not bear to let go of. At least, unlike his desire for Vilena, this slothfulness was not selfish, for soon enough there would be no more “self” for him to be centered on.
Something inside of Gilead got angry. Something inside thought of never seeing Vilena again and became so incensed that the bones containing it threatened to burst open. Something inside needed to fight, and knew only one way.
Gilead’s lips worked, and to his shock, the vaporous hunger filling his lungs did not prevent him from speaking.
“First Pretense: I Am Subhuman.”
Gilead burst open, his flesh spilling out of his confines like ink injected into water. Instantly, he ran into a problem: the shacks were built tightly packed, with no consideration made for fitting in half-ton reptiles. When he solidified once more, his flanks were mere centimeters from the walls on either side, and his tail was forced to coil over his back by a kink in the path.
The second problem was that the transformation had done nothing to actually expunge the insubstantial being; she had merely been taken along for the ride, and still sat warmly in his lungs. The suffusing numbness had been beaten back, but returned with each second that passed.
In a panic, Gilead did the only thing he could think of. The hidden valves deep in his chest clenched, his jaw was forced open, and he let forth a burst of his venomous breath, praying that there were no innocent souls nearby enough to be harmed by a short burst. Even a short stream caused ugly damage, one of the nearby shacks partially collapsing as a chunk of wall was rendered unto ash.
The ghostly woman fled, a shrill screech emerging as the venom, deadly beyond all logic, threatened to burn and consume her. The glass man was more resilient: the venom pitted and clouded his body, but the damage was only superficial, and he pushed through the pain. The female Pretender, seeing Gilead was stuck in place, promptly vanished over his shoulder. As he could barely even look behind himself, so tightly-packed was that alleyway, he had little choice but to collapse into human form.
Gilead stood, armed and ready, aware now that he faced two opponents, not one. The odds were grim to say the least; Gilead had only once defeated a basilisk, and that creature lacked the benefit of a human intelligence; that there was also a ghostly assailant ready to flank him meant this was far beyond what Gilead had ever faced on his own.
How lucky, then, that he would not have to fight on his own. (At that very moment, several meters above him, two opponents were locked in aerial combat. One, seeing the fight down below, kicked off of the other, hurling themself to the ground.) A vaguely humanoid shape slammed into the ground, embedding themself in the wet sand slightly to the left of Gilead, who responded with a loud yelp. The plastic Pretender swore in confusion.
Qi Zhen’s dignity was mangled by the filth, and their joints creaked with sand. But they were nothing if not agile, and so the fall didn’t stop them from springing to their feet. “Hello, Gilead.”
“Qi Zhen,” Gilead replied, looking up at the evening sky in search of any explanation. “How did you…?”
“Focus on the fight,” Qi Zhen replied, putting their back against Gilead’s as they dropped into a fighting stance. “Oh, but do be wary of the eagle.”
“Eagle?”
It was right about then that the eagle attacked.