Moral Support (Chapter 4)
By the time Gvish had requisitioned barrack space for his men and made his way back to the Inquisition lodge, the ashen sky had faded to tarry black. He left them in one of the mess halls and set out for the Inquisition lodge alone.
Bracha waited atop the lodge’s steps. Another morality officer stood beside him. This man’s uniform was similar to Bracha’s, except he wore no turban, and his open coat exposed a crimson sash of crimson silk that ran right shoulder to left hip. Gvish guessed that this man was Bracha’s superior officer.
Perfect. Someone who will make Bracha see sense, if he refuses to listen.
“Inquisitor!” he called out, crossing the street. “I need a word!”
Bracha offered a lazy wave and hailed Gvish in Habarzelan. “You’re just in time, Brother! My guest is here!”
Gvish’s rebuke died as an armored auto-carriage, which he’d seen coming but had expected to pass in front of him, blocked his path. The rear doors swung open. Two inquisitors sprang out. Seeing their rifles, Gvish circled around the front of the carriage to avoid them. He stepped up onto the sidewalk the same time that the carriage’s passenger did.
The two inquisitors – no, four, Gvish now saw – were escorting a civilian. Her pleated linen robes and long skirt were jade green, and she wore a headdress of sapphire silk decorated with silver coins. A matching kandys, trimmed with sable fur and lined with gold lamé, draped over her shoulders. A pair of goggles broke up her pale face and hid her eyes behind gold-filmed lenses.
Between those goggles and the heavy leather folio case the woman carried, Gvish might have mistaken her for an alchemist. However, she didn’t so much climb the steps of the lodge as flow up them. Like Bracha, she trained in Black Hand, the pagan marital art that invoked the Shepherd to warp one’s flesh. No alchemist could use Black Hand. One couldn’t serve as both a conduit for transmutational power and a pressurized vessel for it.
The woman and Bracha exchanged what Gvish assumed to be greetings, speaking in low voices. Bracha next spoke to his superior, gesturing as he made introductions. Gvish remained at the bottom of the steps, deliberating.
Berating him in front of his superior is one thing. Doing so in front of a civilian is another matter. I’ll need to pull him aside as soon as they’re done.
Bracha wasn’t content to led Gvish wait. “Conveniently, the leader of our escort is passing by,” he declared, raising his voice and indicated Gvish with an outstretched hand. “Euryálē, may I present Staff Sergeant Gvish, of the Kimian Ranger Corps?”
The woman swirled around, staring down at Gvish from three steps up. A frown molded itself upon her face. “A non-commissioned officer?” Her imperious voice had a crisp accent that Gvish couldn’t place. “I would have thought I rated the protection of an officer.”
Gvish was too disciplined to bristle at that. He did, however, have to bite his tongue when Bracha said, “Gvish and his squad are ideally suited for our purposes.”
“Is that so?” Euryálē’s right hand drifted towards her brow.
“Yes. He and his corporals were part of the Baig Extraction.”
Fresh rage flashed through Gvish. One of those men is now dead because of –
Gvish didn’t get to finish the thought, for Euryálē lifted her goggles and looked him in the eye.
The thunder of an iron bell scoured every thought from Gvish’s mind. His muscles seized. A dark tunnel swallowed the world around him, leaving him only with the light of two piercing, golden eyes. They seemed to rush towards him, like twin lamps hanging on the front of a locomotive.
Images, sounds, and sensations assault him. Fetid swamps. A city filled with burning skeletons. A woman being stoned before the throne made from a dragon’s skull. The recoil of a matchlock rifle as he took a shot at the sultan on that throne. Clashing swords and the roar of an undead mastodon as he and his squad fought their way to freedom.
Then, it all disappeared. Euryálē dropped her goggles back over her eyes. Gvish swayed, gasping for breath. Through the bleary haze that now settled over his mind, he heard her say, “Yes, Levi. I suppose you’ll do, after all.”
“That was unnecessary.” Bracha’s voice was suddenly steely, the way it had been when he threatened the Tamseszén shamans.
“As is your concern. He won’t thank you for it.” Euryálē pivoted towards Bracha’s supervisor. “You have half an hour to brief me, then I will depart for the outpost.”
Bracha’s supervisor nodded. “Of course. This way, please.” He ushered Euryálē into the lodge. Her escort trailed behind her.
Gvish fought to focus through the haze. Bracha made it down the steps before he fully mastered himself. “Are you all right, Brother?” Bracha asked in Habarzelan.
Mustering the willpower to deflect him, let alone tell him off, was too much at the moment. Gvish gave ground and replied in Habarzelan. “What … who is that?”
“Officially, I’m not allowed to say … but between us –”
Gvish had enough wherewithal to stop him. “If it’s need-to-know information, you shouldn't share it, Inquisitor.”
“Of course. And I’m sorry, Brother. I genuinely thought we would have until tomorrow, but this is Euryálē’s operation now. We need to leave right away. Could you gather up your squad?”
Gvish’s mind had cleared a bit now. This was his moment, he knew. He had Bracha to himself.
Duty first. Bracha isn’t giving the order, just relaying it. Nothing you can say will change what your squad has to do not. The last thing we need is for the both of us to be distracted on the roads at night.
Once we’re back at the outpost, I can deal with him.
In Kimian, he said, “Certainly, Inquisitor. I’ll rally them now.”
“And one more thing.” Bracha glanced back towards the lodge. “See if there are any of the chatter bikes are in the motor pool. We may need one.”
* * * * *
For all its flaws, the motorbike had a functional elegance to it. The chatter bike didn’t even have that going for it. The standard gunner’s sidecar was too small to mount a rotary cannon, so engineers at Fort Jahangir had cobbled together double-sized, reinforced sleds and attached secondary carmot engines to them. Gvish had once seen a savanna warbler cozied up against a cuckoo chick. The effect was much the same.
Unlike a warbler, his squad realized something was very wrong when they saw the chatter bike. The Tamseszéns had only one asset that needed to be put down with a rotary cannon, and it wasn’t the giant pigs. Still, they prioritized their duty over their fear. When Daneshvar asked who would man the cannon for him, Private Eskandar volunteered after only the briefest hesitation.
Gvish shared their concern, but he was more worried about how they’d get the chatter bike to the outpost. The fort hadn’t had time to dispatch a Spartoi and clear the road. Getting the standard motorbike and sidecar past that toppled tree had been hard enough. Hauling the chatter bike around that obstacle would leave them extremely vulnerable to attack.
Bracha and Euryálē waited on the steps of the lodge when the squad pulled up. Euryálē studied the chatter bike, eyes unreadable behind those tinted goggles, before smirking and giving the slightest nod. Gvish couldn’t help but wince when she turned her gaze towards him.
“Very good, Staff Sergeant. I appreciate the initiative.” She offered him her hand. “If you would be so kind.”
Gvish dismounted his bike and helped her into the sidecar. Her left foot peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirt as she stepped over the rim. She wore lacquered, split-toed boots.
Except, no. Split-toed boots didn’t have so wide a gap between the toes. Nor should a boot be angled to force the wearer to always stand on her toes.
Gvish did a double take, but Euryálē had already moved far enough for her skirt to cover her foot once more. He was, however, in time to catch a glimpse of her right foot as she shifted her weight to pull that leg up into the sidecar as well.
Euryálē must have felt his hand stiffen, because she murmured, “I forgive you, Staff Sergeant.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am?” he blurted out.
“I already said you are forgiven.” She folded her lanky form down into the sidecar’s seat and hugged her folio case to her chest. “My pedicure had been ruined by worse things than mineral oil and ash.”
Gvish looked sharply at Bracha. The morality officer was close enough to hear their conversation. He pointedly avoided Gvish’s gaze as he jumped into the sidecar of Private Almasi’s bike. For once, Gvish regretted not taking advantage of Bracha’s lack of professionalism when he’d had the chance.
Why, in Truth’s name, is the Inquisition working with one of them, Inquisitor? Why are you going along with it? Why, if you want Habarzelan brotherhood, would you order me to help one of them? Are you trying to corrupt my soul, too?
“No need to dither over it. Let’s be off,” Euryálē insisted. She drew a lamé scarf from her bag and wrapped it around her face and neck, leaving on the slimmest slivers of flesh visible around her eyes, and pulled on a pair of gloves.
Gvish swallowed. “Roll out!” he barked at the squad, a little sharper than he intended.
The squad rolled away from the lodge in formation, rolling towards the northwest gate. Soon they were roaring across the concrete roads that led to the tree line. Gvish monitored the chatter bike’s position relative, barking further orders to ensure the rest of the squad didn’t pull too far ahead of the slower, more cumbersome vehicle.
The additional effort almost let him forget that Euryálē’s feet were cloven hooves.
