n of a certain age have a particular set of behaviors in common - a reaction to sudden lights and noises, an anxiety that manifests in quiet monts, bouts of anger and passion wholly unsuited for the situation in which they arise. It is impolite to admit that these are consequences of service on the continent, since such a statent might find that it has accidentally engaged in critique of The War itself - forbid such a notion!
So we have adapted, such as we may, to accommodate these peculiarities. Spectacles of fireworks have been viewed in poor taste for so long that I doubt our younger generations have ever seen a proper display. Constables take a soft hand with a man who lashes out from his cups, and there is a general tolerance for sudden withdrawals from conversation.
A more recent phenonon, however, has been the proliferation of modern lighting across our streets, in our hos and workplaces, and indeed to every corner of most cities and towns. So of the elderly have been heard to grumble about the brightness and the cost, which is not negligible. They are not wrong to note it, but I humbly submit that banishing the darkness is well worth the effort, in the sa manner that we as a society endured the loss of fireworks to soothe the pain of their cohort.
We do not resolve to banish the night, as there is nothing fearful therein. We banish the dark. For those who have served on campaign against Smoke and his ilk, a cheery light is the least we may provide to remind them that such a terror will not grip them here.
- Gunther Vogt, editorial dated 18 Waning, 684.
The light returned when they were a short distance away from the coach. Vincent had led them around a corner and into an alley, crowded with stacked wood and market rubbish. He paused only long enough to rip off his mask, toss a cloak over his ragged armor and lead Michael forward at a brisk pace. Sweat glistened on his face and matted his hair, steaming faintly in the cool Tempest air.
He did not speak, walking at a brisk and steady clip through the alley despite his labored breath. They turned once, then twice, erging onto a less-crowded side street populated mostly with old brownstone hos and a few gnarled, stunted trees. Vincent peered up and down the street, then rolled up a shutter door to reveal a dusty horseless carriage.
In, Vincent rasped, clutching at the wound in his side. Co on, be quick about it. Hand the crank.
Michael obeyed, climbing into the cab and handing Vincent a thin tal rod with a bend in it. Vincent slid the rod into the front of the carriage. His face paled as he strained against the crank. He managed to turn it once before it slipped from his grip, clanging loudly against the floor of the garage.
Damn, he gasped. His hand pressed against the wound in his side, and Michael saw that the cloth over the mail was damp with blood. Co on, help . Your old man got good.
The crank was lying on the ground in a spatter of blood, its handle slicked red. Michael cleaned it with his jacket sleeve and slid it into the engine, feeling it click ho. I just turn it? he asked.
Keep your thumb off it, Vincent cautioned him. Itll break your damn hand. Go on, start it.
Michael pulled hard on the crank, and felt the engine turn over sluggishly - then catch, jarring the crank nearly out of his hand. The acrid stink of exhaust filled the garage, and Vincent gave a low grunt of approval laced with pain. They climbed into the cab.
The unhealthy pallor of Vincents face was easy to see, sitting beside him. Will you be all right? Michael asked. Do we need to see Is-
No nas, Vincent snarled, cutting him off. Too many people listening, in the city. Just- He coughed, looking sick. Just let drive.
He drove. The sound of the constables bells faded quickly into the distance, and soon they had moved from the twisting streets of the city center into the broad, straight boulevards that wrapped around it. Vincents eyes were feverishly alert, darting left and right ceaselessly until at last they rumbled over the last of the cobbles and onto a packed-dirt road.
The houses here sat amid healthy yards, spaced out with trees and fields that gradually turned into proper farms as they rode. Finally, Vincent guided the car into a shabby barn that stood apparently vacant near the side of the road. He guided the car gently in, then slumped back in his seat as the engine rattled to a halt.
All right, he said, his eyes closed. I may need you for this next part. Help down.
Michael jumped down from the cab, his legs cramping with unspent tension that had spooled in them during the ride to the outskirts. Vincent moved with great care. His movents were pained, and a stabilizing hand gripped Michaels shoulder with crushing force. When he had descended he sat heavily on the carriages sideboard and began to strip off his armor.
The cloth went first, then the leather, then finally a ragged shirt of mail with links dropping off as he removed it.
Fucking Cutters, he mumbled, tossing the mail aside disgustedly, brushing ring fragnts from the padded shirt he had worn beneath. Co on, lets see it. He beckoned that Michael should help him tug the bloody shirt over his head.
It ca slowly, with several pained exclamations from Vincent as the half-clotted blood pulled free of the wound. When it was done Vincent sat bare-chested, one thin gash across his collarbone seeping blood and another across his stomach so deep that Michael could see the bright yellow fat below the skin.
Not through the muscle, I think, Vincent hissed, prodding gingerly at the puckered edge of the cut. You see why I eat so well.
Nausea prickled at Michaels gut. Should we find a cloth, or-
Nah, just - hold on to sothing, Vincent said. Dont fall on . He stretched his fingers, then extended one and shut his eyes. Light rushed towards his hand while the barn dimd into blackness. The air near his finger glowed a dull forge-red, twisting with the telltale shimr of heat.
Vincent breathed in once, twice - then pressed his glowing finger against the wound on his stomach. There was a sharp sizzling sound, a strangled sort of noise from Vincent - and then he slumped forward, breathing heavy gulps of the cooked-at air.
Vincent! Michael shouted. He dropped to one knee beside the man. The hollow feeling beneath his ribs seed to thud in ti with his heartbeat, and his focus slipped sideways for a mont - then it passed, and Michael pulled him upright. Vincent obliged with little resistance, and after a mont he opened his eyes to smile weakly.
Used to have to do this a lot before I t Isolde, he said. His voice was agonized, but not weak. I much prefer her thods. He looked down at the raw wound across his stomach, now blackened and seeping a slow trickle of fluid.
The sll of it gathered in Michaels nose, charred and almost sweet. He felt his stomach twist. For a mont he staggered away and faced the wall, breathing deep until he felt his equilibrium return.
Better? Vincent asked.
Michael laughed, though it ca out a bit manic. I should ask you, he said. Youre the one thats hurt.
Ill be fine, Vincent said, gingerly standing up. He flashed a toothy smile at Michael. Isolde will take care of the rest when Im back ho. She takes exception when anyone else scratches up.
Michael was saved from the necessity of a response by Vincent slapping him thunderously on the shoulder, then walking through a door at the rear of the barn. Monts later he reerged with two bundles of cloth, the larger of which he tossed underhand to Michael.
Put that over the car, he said. Doesnt have to be perfect, just enough to confuse an amateur spector if one cos looking. Well have it moved in a few days.
Michael shook out the crude drop-cloth and spread it over the car as best as he could, then turned back to see Vincent finishing with his own bundle - a fresh shirt, thick and dark enough to hide the bloodstains that would inevitably seep through.
If not the car, how are we traveling from here? Michael asked. I didnt see anything within walking distance.
Vincent grinned. Youre not ant to see a cache from the road, he said. Co on, follow . Short walk, then we can rest easy.
There was a path from the back of the barn that led beyond a hedgerow and into the trees, where the two n found a haycart and a horse that had both seen better days. The horse was a drab brown, idly chewing on so hay from the cart as one eye monitored their approach.
Only the best transport for you, Vincent said. Therell be so food here as well, and water. Help get Annabel hitched.
Michael followed along warily as they approached the horse, who kept a gimlet eye on them but offered no resistance when Vincent led her to the carts front. He made quiet noises and rubbed the horses nose while Michael fastened the straps he could reach, then moved to help with the rest.
Finally, the cart was ready for travel. Vincent tossed Michael one final bundle of cloth - a rough hospun cloak, brown and bulky enough to cover him entirely.
Nothing to do about your clothes, Vincent said. Not a one of them that would pass for proper wear and Ive taken the spare shirt, but we can at least keep you from looking like a little lordling on the road. Now hop up, and lets be off.
Michael looked askance, as Vincent had gestured to the drivers seat of the cart. Ive never driven a cart before, he protested. I dont even know where were going.
Vincent laughed and climbed - carefully - into the back. Youre apprenticed to Annabel now, he said. She knows the business of carting better than any two n. As for our destination - just south, for now. Follow signs towards Korbel if you see any.
The thought of objecting further occurred to Michael, but Vincents surety was infectious enough that he simply shrugged and climbed up to the bench. The reins were sun-worn leather, and when he gave them a tentative shake Annabel whickered softly and began to trot forward.
They were back on the road soon enough, and Michael felt the noise of Annabels hooves settle into a half-heard beat at the back of his mind. The road and sun seed a surreal invention of his brain, rebelling against the extres his life seed predisposed to of late.
One thing did stand out as especially real, though, jockeying for position among his thoughts until he could scarcely think of anything else.
Vincent, he said. Is my father dead?
Annabels hooves clopped softly against the road for a few beats before Vincent replied. Probably not, he said. I dont know if I got him or just made him go for cover. Most of the ti Cutters dont have the stomach to stay calm under fire - even if they could chop a bullet, it wouldnt change the outco much.
Michael made a distracted noise of assent, thinking of the faint sounds he had heard as they left. I suppose it doesnt matter now, he said. One way or the other.
Of course it does, Vincent said, sounding annoyed. I wanted to pull you out without putting a scratch on the old man, but he got good enough to break my concentration and, well-
There was a bit of quiet about the right size to fit a helpless, exasperated gesture.
-here we are, Vincent concluded. Probably with a bit of extra pressure on us given that I just assaulted an Assemblyman. Quite a bit extra if hes dead, or in a bad way. Fortunately, Im even more talented as an escape artist than as an Ember, so we should be fine.
Should be, Michael repeated. Vincent did not elaborate, and the cart rolled on in silence for quite so ti. Once or twice there was a muffled bit of cursing from the back as Vincent presumably disturbed his wounds, but save for that the journey passed quietly.
Michael had seldom traveled outside of Calmharbor, and those trips had not been along humble farm roads such as this. There was a strong vegetal scent on the wind, along with the more earthy slls of animals and well-irrigated mud. Insects flitted around him to investigate the sweat on his brow.
There were no fellow travelers on the road, and only twice did Michael see a farr working one of the expansive fields that lined either side of the path before they too faded away and the cart was rumbling along a lightly-forested track.
The air was cooler amid the trees. It felt wonderful after the days untempered heat, and for a few minutes he simply closed his eyes and let the mild breeze of their passage chill his skin. The heat faded, but as it did he felt that hollow pang in his chest once more, an emptiness that only seed to grow stronger the more he considered it.
It had happened too often, and he felt it too strongly to simply put it as coincidence. Vincent, he asked. Are you awake?
Sothing of a self-defeating question, Vincent grumbled. The answer, once asked, is inevitably yes.
Sorry, Michael said. I was just wondering - what does your soul feel like, to you?
An odd question, Vincent noted. Any reason for it?
Michael imdiately wished that he hadnt indulged his curiosity. He was committed now, though. Ive had this strange sensation lately, he said. Sort of hollow, if that makes any sense.
Ah, I get that, Vincent said. Not uncommon, actually. The soul wants to be used, it longs to exert itself on the world. I get to feeling a bit funny if I dont indulge it every so often. Not sure what that ans for you, given your circumstances.
There was nothing Michael could say to that, but Vincent shifted amid the hay after a few more monts. Probably nothing bad, he said. Ive never heard of anyone suffering ill effects from not using their soul. Vera never uses hers, and shes healthy as can be.
Vera? Michael asked. So she does have a soul after all?
A wry note of amusent crinkled Vincents voice as he replied. Probably shouldnt have said anything, shes a bit sensitive about it. I think shed approve of you knowing, considering - well. He coughed. Shes a Shine.
Annabels hooves clopped on while Michael processed that. Shines-
Arent real? Vincent laughed. Everyone always says that. They always say it right away, with such confidence. Its enough to make a man think. There was another rustle of hay as Vincent sat up. If I asked a hundred n to whistle a tune, what do you suppose would happen?
I expect youd get punched a few tis, Michael replied absently, still rolling Vincents claim around in his mind.
Like as not, Vincent allowed. But if they agreed?
Michael sighed. Theyd whistle a tune, I suppose.
Vincents grin was nearly audible. The sa one, or different?
Not all the sa, Michael said, ducking his head to avoid a branch that dipped low over the road. Thatd be unlikely.
So what would you say it ans, Vincent asked, that whenever I ntion Shines to anyone they all whistle the sa damn tune?
Um, Michael said, feeling mildly unsettled. Maybe its just that everyone knows theyre not real. Plenty of people are unnaturally charming or charismatic, it doesnt an theyre Shines. Theyre just - nice, like Vera.
Vera is nice, Vincent said. You dont notice if nice people are Shines, they dont need any help being lovely. They care, and give, and worry for others without a scrap of concern for themselves. His voice had dropped, losing all of its levity. But what if a person could do what they wished, knowing that in the end you would forgive them? What if they could deal in horrors and receive only love in return?
Wood creaked as Vincent raised himself up from the bed and leaned forward until his hay-flecked, sunburnt face was beside Michaels.
Believe , my Lord Baumgart, he said wearily. Shines are very real. What else do you think weve been running from?
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