Parabolis (11 page)

“Yield,” said Selah, hovering over him with a look of self-satisfaction.

It was a victory she wrested from the templar while he was distracted by an intrusion. Aided, but a victory nonetheless. And she had no qualms about claiming it with enthusiasm.

“I yield,” Alaric finally said with a grunt, before rising to his feet and turning his attention to the intrusion. His junior, Sir Thomas Grail, stood at the entrance. “What is it, Thomas?”

“Forgive me, m’lord,” said Thomas. “The Bene-seneschal would like a word with you regarding the prisoners.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

The younger templar bowed and left the barn.

Selah approached Alaric as he removed his sparring vest.

“I thought the role of the Vail Templar was to protect the clerics, the temple and its relics. To keep the peace.”

“It is.”

“Since when did that include the taking of prisoners?”

“Since the SSC began unlawfully detaining Emmainites under allegations of collaborating with the Shaldea.”

“The SSC?”

“The State Security Command,” Alaric replied, wiping his face with a towel. “It’s the Republic’s equivalent of the Ciphers.”

“What exactly is the nature of our relationship with them?”

“As you know, the temple ground is an autonomous state. So the SSC brings suspects here since we are not under the legal codes of their command directorate. We are commissioned to conduct the investigations. An inquisition, as we call it.”

“So we’re basically the Republic’s proxy torturers?”

“Hardly, child. Torture is never sanctioned and certainly not on hallowed ground, which is why
we
conduct the inquisitions, not them. Our approach is one of mediation rather than enforcement. I prefer to think we’re guardians of the people caught in a war between the dissidents and the establishment. Furthermore, we offer those found innocent Sanctuary.”

“And if they’re found guilty?”

“The SSC takes them.” Alaric stored his equipment and took up his templar sword. “Now, enough of this,” he then added. “You better return to the college before the matron begins asking about you.”

Selah gathered her cleric’s robes and started for the bathhouse adjacent to the training barn. She stopped at the door.

“Alaric? What does the SSC do with suspected Shaldea collaborators? After they take them away, that is.”

The templar paused, fishing for the right words. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, child,” he finally replied. “Now, off with you.”

Alaric had no time for a bath. He left the training barn after Selah and entered the temple sanctuary. He passed the main altar and made his way down the south transept into a corridor at the end of which was a door that led into the Bene-seneschal’s study. It was guarded by a templar squire.

He knocked.

“Yes?” said a voice from within.

“Champion Linhelm here to see you, Your Grace.”

There was a brief pause.

“Show him in.”

“
Alunde andra
, Champion,” said the Bene-seneschal, without looking up at Alaric.

He stood, focused over a chessboard in the corner of the study. Judging by the many pieces on the board, the match was in its early stages.

“
Alunde ver ti
,” Alaric replied

“I’ll be with you in just a second. Please, sit.”

The room was lined with stocked bookshelves. An ancient manuscript was unfurled on a side desk, sitting under a magnifying glass attached to an arm lamp.

After some thought, the Bene-seneschal moved his white bishop to complete a
fianchetto
. With a self-assuring nod, he looked up at Alaric.

“Such a fascinating game. Do you play?”

Alaric shook his head. “Who’s your opponent?”

“Enlil Fairchild.”

“The patriarch of Parallel Mining Corp?”

“The wealthiest man in the Republic. Perhaps the world.”

“Is he any good?”

“Good enough to beat me, twice. This is my third attempt. Then again, I may not have a knack for this game.”

He chuckled as he settled into his seat.

The Bene-seneschal was nearly fifty years old. His face was cleanly shaven and he had a full head of lightning white hair. As the highest appointed overseer of both the clergy and the templar in Carnaval City, his customary gray habit was accessorized with a hooded shoulder cape and a tasseled stole draped over a scapular. It bore the regional crest on either end.

“You wanted to see me about the prisoners?” Alaric asked.

“Yes. I understand you have six men in the holding cells.”

Alaric nodded.

The Bene-seneschal dug up the prisoners’ files from below a small pile of documents.

“Have they already been subjected to an inquisition?”

“Only the Tobias bandits and Omar Basiliech. Not yet the ranger.”

“And?”

“The Tobias bandits are nothing more than their name suggests. They are common bandits. As for the ranger—”

“Charles Valkyrie?”
asked the Bene-seneschal, noting the conspicuously non-Emmainite name from the file.

Alaric nodded. “Sayeed Errai, prior to his departure from Loreland. He confessed he used to live in a village under Shaldean protection, but that was more than ten years ago. He has since been wandering the Wilds. He claims he has no affiliation but we won’t know for sure until after the inquisition.”

“I see. And Omar?”

“It’s difficult to tell. He seems to be hiding something but the inquisition itself revealed nothing.”

“That was three days ago.”

“Two and half.”

“Not according to the logs. His family has already contacted the local barrister. If you don’t plan to turn him over to the SSC, I suggest you save us all the headache and release him immediately.”

Alaric hesitated.

“
With
Sanctuary,” the Bene-seneschal added, handing the templar a signed release form.

Sanctuary
was an official document that provided immunity from further investigation for terrorist affiliations. Any future allegation brought up against a bearer of Sanctuary was to be considered a harassment of the Holy Order itself.

“I can’t,” said Alaric. “I can’t guarantee yet that he isn’t Shaldea.”

“The time to determine that has passed. We need to make concessions to appease his family. Release the bandits as well. Without Sanctuary of course.”

“Of course.” The marshal rose from his seat. “Your Grace.”

He started for the door when the Bene-seneschal stopped him. “One other thing, Alaric. I understand you’ve been sparring with a cleric?”

Alaric looked back at the Bene-seneschal with his good eye. “Yes,” he replied. “She’s an old family friend.”

“You have family?”

“Is this line of questioning a prelude to an eventual order, Your Grace? Because if it is, just say the word and it shall be done.”

The Bene-seneschal held up his hand and shook his head. “No. No, forgive me for prying. Keep me briefed on the ranger.”

“Your Grace.”

Alaric left the study and made his way down to the holding cells below the templar barracks where the six Emmainites were waiting. The four disheveled bandits were huddled in the corner and the ranger stood in the back with his arms folded over his chest. He was in his late thirties. He had olive skin and black hair, thick and as wild as his beard. And much to the annoyance of his captors he wore a perpetual look of amusement, like he was taking everything in stride. In contrast, Omar was sitting alone in the middle of the cell with a bitter scowl.

Alaric first ordered the release of the bandits. They cheered and made crude comments and snickered as they were escorted out by a detail of templar.

Alaric then entered the cell and handed Omar Sanctuary. “We, the Holy Order of the Benesanti, find no cause to suspect you of collaborating with the Shaldea or any other terrorist organization. With the power vested in me as Marshal of the Vail Templar, I hereby release you with Sanctuary.”

“What about me?” the ranger asked.

“We haven’t made up our minds about you yet.”

Omar looked back at him. “Say nothing. You don’t need to justify your existence to these peaches.”

Then he stormed off.

The ranger shook his head. “You’re going to let
that
guy go? If he’s not a terrorist, then I’m a goddamn peach.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Alaric asked with sudden urgency.

“Maybe,” the ranger replied, with a coy smile. “Maybe he did.”

“You can tell me now or I can extract it from you.”

“Listen, Sir—”

“
Champion
,” the marshal corrected, “Alaric Linhelm.”

Like the military in structure, titles among the templar were not to be taken lightly. Where “sir” was the appropriate prefix for addressing all anointed templar from the most junior to senior, “Champion” was reserved strictly for the Marshal of the Vail Templar. To mistake one for the other was like calling a tiger a cat.

“
Champion
Linhelm,” the ranger redressed, “grant me Sanctuary, and I will tell you what he told me.”

“Squire! A flogging for the ranger!”

The ranger’s face changed, cocky ambivalence giving way to a taut tension.

“Hey, hey! No need to get excited, Champ. I’m just giving you a hard time. I thought the guy was mute until a minute ago. That’s the first I heard him speak since you dragged me in here. I swear.”

“Are you certain? He said nothing?”

“Not a word. He’s been sitting there like that the whole time, like he’d been sucking on a lemon. Those bandits though, they wouldn’t shut up.”

Convinced, Alaric exited the cell. “Apparently, a contagious condition,” he thought aloud, dismissing the squire ready with a whip.

“Hey! Wait!” the ranger cried from behind. “How long am I supposed to wait here, anyway?” The door slammed shut. “Hello?”

The voluptuous woman with mocha skin sparkled in her violet dress. She swayed as she sang. Her voice was rich, silky, sad. Accompanying her on the piano was a petite pianist in a red rabbit costume. The red rabbit provided backup vocals—a tender voice to complement the sultry, a bit of sweet with the sad.

“That’s my cousin,” Dale would’ve boasted of the red rabbit. But he was not the type to bother a stranger with boasting. Turkish, on the other hand, had no problem with it.

“That’s my daughter,” he said, loud enough that the people two rows up could hear.

Cora Tess gave him a disapproving poke.

Backstage, after the show, Mosaic came out to meet them with her rabbit-eared hood pulled off. She was greeted with hugs and praise. Mosaic asked Dale, “You really liked it?”

“Like it? You’re amazing.”

They lingered for an obligatory mingling session in the lobby of the Concert Hall. Mosaic enthusiastically introduced her family to some of the other performers and theatre workers. Cora Tess and Turkish retired for the night beaming with pride. Mosaic thanked them for coming, told them not to wait up, and invited Dale to join her and her friends for a little gathering at a nearby pub.

The last time Dale had seen Mosaic was a week after his return to the city. They had met for brunch. Mosaic had filled him in on the details surrounding the pieces of news that had trickled down to Dale at the Academy: her studies, music, the health of her parents. She had spoken in rapid bursts, jumping from one subject to another, exploring tangents like a child exploring an unfamiliar room, realizing every now and then that she had strayed and needed to retrace her steps. She would suddenly realize she’d been going on and on and stop to chastise herself, grinning. “Enough about me. What about you?”

Dale had responded with brief stories from his time at the Academy but tried to quickly volley the conversation back to her. He enjoyed listening to Mosaic more than speaking himself.

On the way to the pub, Mosaic explained the inspiration and subtext behind the music. As they walked, people stared. Dale could not tell if the stares were in recognition of the sylphic talent from the concert or because Mosaic was still in costume—a hooded bodysuit with long rabbit ears sewn onto the hood and a scut on her bottom.

Dale had asked if she wanted to change before they’d left but she didn’t want to bother. “This is actually pretty comfortable.”

When they reached the pub, the host greeted Mosaic by name and with a kiss. Then he studied Dale with a suspicious smirk.

“So is this the lucky man that’s finally managed to capture our Mosaic?”

“
Eew
, this is my cousin,” Mosaic replied, laughing. “He was a Republican Guard so watch what you say around him.”

“My apologies,” he said smiling.

Dale smirked and nodded. He looked around the bar and wondered,
how do these people, who can’t be much more than a few years my junior, look so much like children?

“So how was the concert?” asked the host.

“It was nice. You should come see me sometime.”

“Oh, how I long to. But ever since you’ve scorned my advances, it’d be like bathing open wounds in citrus to see you up there with your siren’s voice.”

“How poetic, Terry.” Mosaic gave him a demure smile.

“Thank you. Nice outfit.”

“Thank you.”

“Right this way.”

The kitschy pub called Rapture was quite a departure from Dale’s newly preferred watering hole, the Broken Cistern. It was lively for one. A collage of chatter and laughter, tied together by some background music. Under a hovering layer of smoke, men and women filled the seats around tables crafted by local artists.

Being the first in their party to arrive, Terry showed them to a large, empty booth reserved in the back. Dale fetched himself a glass of bourbon from the bar while Mosaic settled in, nibbling an olive from the appetizer platter. When Dale asked about the host, Mosaic explained that she knew Terry from her classes at the university. Herself aside, she’d be hard-pressed to find a girl in town that hadn’t shared his bed. Supposedly, he possessed an irresistible charm. Talk of Terry led to talk of their non-existent romantic lives.