Tales from Kalgachia - 39
The Slavegate border crossing between Kalgachia and Shireroth, being one of the more fortified spots of the Benacian interior, was quiet even on its busiest days. Now, smothered by a thick blanket of midwinter snow and a frigid north breeze rolling in from the boreal wastes of Oleslääd, it seemed utterly devoid of life. From frosted guardhouse windows and weapon embrasures on both sides of the border, uniformed personnel could occasionally be seen peering at each other. Aside from that, nothing stirred.
It was, as noted by many who were present, the most unexpected time for an odd-looking helicopter to appear from the Kalgachi interior - odd in that it was a half-civilianised Whirdlebirb of non-standard manufacure, fitted with an enclosed cabin but retaining its weapon hardpoints. To add to the confusion the whole thing was painted in a scandalous cherry red, bisected by a golden thunderbolt trim. The craft kicked up an immense cloud of powdery snow as it settled onto the Kalgachi-side helipad, its arrival drawing out a gaggle of military officers from a nearby bunker entrance. Wrapped in green greatcoats and fur-lined Bocskai caps, they assembled into loose formation as the helicopter's engine whined to a halt and emitted a tarry stench of aviation fuel which briefly penetrated their cold-numbed noses. Their mutual mutterings were silenced as the helicopter's cabin door slid open and the pilot, its sole occupant, climbed out.
Rubina Yastreb, the Lady Lieutenant of Oktavyan and Kalgachia's most senior government official with a public profile, had long since found a way around her father's disapproval when it came to indulging in rotary-wing aviation. Befriending the officer corps of the Kalgachia Defence Force, specifically those concerned with special operations, had given her privileges that no Credent or Troglodyte had the power to obstruct. It was this select band of oddball commanders who had requested her presence in Slavegate at very short notice, an invitation she would have rejected from anyone else. As it was, she had nothing better to do on the day in question and the officer who telephoned her, a dashing Laqi by the name of Colonel Kolbaza whom she admired a little too much, had sounded oddly insistent. He had explained that representatives of the Prince of Modan - a giant of the Shirerithian nobility who was latterly reported ill - had arrived in Slavegate by assent of the Sxiro-Kalgachi Military Coordination Council, on the pretext of returning an article of Kalgachi military hardware which had been misplaced on the borders of Modan at a point some one hundred kilometres from Kalgachi territory. Once ushered into the council's Slavegate meeting hut which bestrode the border itself, the Modanese had taken the peculiar step of requesting to speak alone with the Kalgachi delegation and the loitering representatives of Shireroth's Imperial Forces had been convinced at length to make themselves absent. At this point the Modanese had dispensed with the pretext used to enter the place and revealed their true intentions - to deliver a flat metal box of just over a metre in length, rendered in unfinished and differentially tempered steel with no visible opening point, to the most senior available representative of the House of Yastreb, in person, on the Prince of Modan's direct orders. Having refused point blank to give up the object to any non-Yastreb intermediary, they had remained in the hut while the Kalgachi military delegation had begun to make enquiries. Colonel Kolbaza, upon hearing the news, had resolved to contact Rubina before the Church or the Troglodyti got wind of the matter and tried to confiscate the mystery artifact. The fact that the Prince of Modan had specified the House of Yastreb as recipient, rather than the Kalgachi government, had triggered some intangible instinct in Kolbaza's mind - a perception of high stakes placed with very considerate intentions. Rubina, for her part, had shared both Kolbaza's hunch and his recognition of the situation's urgency - the Whirdlebirb had been fired up within minutes.
Now she greeted Kolbaza with a smile as she slid off her flight helmet and found her footing with high-heeled shoes in the snow. "Sausage!" she squeaked, throwing her arms around Kolbaza when he had finished saluting. The nickname and the body language, the stuff of late evenings in officers' mess halls, was an awkward spectable for both Kolbaza and the other assembled officers while they were on duty. Kolbaza nontheless permitted himself a kiss of Rubina's hand and a smile in return.
"My Lady Yastreb," he said, "Thank you for coming at such short notice. This is a most unusual occasion..."
"Quite," said Rubina. "Who else knows about this?"
"I'm afraid the military chaplaincy in Jollity has picked up on it... I'm not sure how. When I find out who's responsible, their neck will be getting acquainted with my sabre."
"But if the chaplaincy knows, the church knows..." muttered Rubina.
"Precisely so, my lady. Myself and the boys have thrown a few denials around but my friends in electronic intelligence have recorded a lot of scrambled phone calls going to Oktavyan. The Perfecti are probably being briefed on the matter right now."
Rubina motioned for Kolbaza to lead the way off the helipad. "Then we'd better get moving," she said. "If they want this.. thing... they'll have to pry it out of my cold dead hands. And Shrub help them if they dare to get my father involved..."
The other officers, following along behind, looked awkwardly among themselves as Rubina uttered words of near-treasonous defiance against Kalgachia's supreme rulers. Rumours of the woman being a Shirerithian asset had circulated ever since she had married the adopted son of the King of Goldshire, and each officer silently tried to resolve whether the current situation was proof or disproof of the idea. The loyalty of Colonel Kolbaza had always been beyond their question, however, and he seemed to know what he was doing.
The three men of the Modanese delegation jumped to immaculate attention when Kolbaza led his companions into the room. In front of them, on the long meeting table, was the object they had come to deliver. They remained silent while Rubina leaned over, studying the thing in detail - there was little detail to study except that it emitted a fierce warmth, as if it had just been pulled out of a fire.
Rubina looked up again. "At ease, gentlemen," she said, watching their shoulders sink. "Do you know who I am?"
The man in the middle of the Modanese trio bowed his head and spoke up. "Indeed so, Lady Yastreb. His Serenity the Prince of Modan has charged me to offer you his personal compliments."
"See that mine are returned," said Rubina. "I'm told His Serenity has been unwell lately?"
"He is taking a rest cure in Constancia, ma'am."
"Then give him my wishes for a speedy recovery," said Rubina. "Now, as for this..." she nodded at the object on the table, "...would you care to explain what it is?"
"May I present, ma'am... the Sword of Fire." He solemnly bowed his head in reverence to the object. "Released into the possession of your house by the resoloute will of His Serenity."
At the mention of so sacred an artifact, a flurry of excited muttering arose among the Kalgachi officers. The Sword of Fire was legendary. It had supposedly been forged by the celestial archons themselves and gifted to the ancient Khaz Modani Empire, as a token of that realm's role in birthing Benacian civilisation. For untold centuries the sword - reputed to set ablaze anything at which it was pointed - had resided in Shireroth until its titular owner, one Lyssansa Rossheim, had brought it with her on the 'Great Replanting' which established the realm of Minarboria under her leadership. After that empire's collapse, its surviving clergy had declared the sword a cursed archonic implement and refused to recover it from Lyssansa's palace - in the end a coven of esotericists from the city of &zeter had secured the thing, while the city of Sansabury was consumed by chaos and ruin. In time these enterprising agents would become the Troglodyti, the unseen foundation of Kalgachia's established cryptocracy. Their release of the sword to Kizzy, the daemon queen of the Shirerithian south, had been a calculated move to strengthen and influence a sympathetic actor within Shireroth's interminably chaotic ruling class. True to her morally-devoid form, however, Kizzy had given it up to the Prince of Modan when the latter had moved the immense military forces under his command to unseat her provincial regime. The sword's surrender had bought Kizzy a safe passage out of Shireroth, the Prince of Modan had regained the sword for the Archons, the Troglodyti were suitably humiliated, and that had seemed to be that - until now.
After a moment, the muttering officers were silenced by a terse hiss from Colonel Kolbaza and the Modanese courier spoke again:
"You will forgive me for failing to open the case, ma'am, but the characteristics of the sword have presented us with... difficulties. It has ignited or shattered every non-metal container we tried to use, and it welds every metal container shut from the inside. You will be able to cut it out with the right equipment, but any attempt to place it in another container will lead to the same results."
"I see," said Rubina, tentatively resting a fingertip on the metal case and quickly pulling back from the sting of its intense heat. "Has His Serenity offered any reason for giving it to my house?"
"My Lord has not considered such explanations necessary on this occasion."
"But it makes no sense," she muttered. "Why would a noted servant of the Archons, surrender a prized relic of the Archons... to the likes of us?"
"If you will permit me, my lady," said Colonel Kolbaza, continuing at Rubina's nod, "it is said that the blessing of the Archons, the Mandate of Heaven as they would call it, has not rested consistently with the Shirerithian state... as much as they might claim otherwise. There are many changes in Shireroth of late. The White Plague, the dissolution of the Imperial States and such. Perhaps the celestial sponsors of His Serenity the Prince of Modan have communicated to him... that Shireroth is no longer a worthy conduit for the Khaz Modani strain of Benacian civilisation. It would explain why he has left the place."
"But not why he's given the sword to my family, of all people," said Rubina, glancing down at the hot case again. "Since when were we the best hope for this continent?"
"I would posit," said Colonel Kolbaza, "that the role has defaulted to you by the simple dereliction of others. Perhaps the Archons consider you the least worst choice to achieve their ends in the world?"
"Us Yastrebs?" said Rubina. "The arch-heretics of Cedrism? A line of fallen Piscator janissaries? Maybe the celestial host didn't get the memo... we're children of the Garden now! I go to church every Byeday and pray that the Archons fall from heaven into the Garden's autumnal bonfires! There are a million sky-god dupes in Shirekeep who could lay claim to the sword before us. And yet...!" She huffed in exasperation and waved a slim green hand at the case.
"There's no such thing as bad publicity for the celestial gods, my lady," said Colonel Kolbaza. "Perhaps by wishing so hard to destroy them, you have flattered them. And this is your reward."
"They are the fount of all vanity," added one of the other officers, "so it would make perfect sense. Not that I wish to accuse my lady of the sin of archonic fixation, but..."
"Oh shut up everyone!" snapped Rubina. "Look, we are where we are. I can tell you one thing for sure... I'm not letting the Trogs get hold of it this time around. They forfeited the right when they let it slip to Queen Kizzy. The church would mostly likely try to melt the thing down, probably set off an apocalypse in the process, so they're not getting their sanctimonious mitts on it either. Dear old father is too frail to be messing around with it, and my brother is just a little too happy on the arcane trigger..."
She looked at the case and shook her head.
"...I don't know why the Prince of Modan slung it back this way but I'll take the win, if that's what it is. If it's a sword of two edges, so be it... the Tumultuous Wastes may have spat the thing out, but the Garden's let it get this far. I'm no classicist like you, Sausage, and I don't even want to know the full theological implications of this thing being in this room with these people at this point in history, but I know when there's a greater design at work. And I know it won't do us any good to stand in the way of it."
Rather too late, she became conscious that the three Modanese couriers remained in the room, their faces sheepishly studying the hut's low wooden ceiling beams.
"Gentlemen," she composed herself, "my regards once again to His Serenity. And my deepest gratitude."
She motioned the Kalgachi officers forward. Their hands, clad in thick protective gloves, lifted the long metal case from the table and gently carried it toward the Kalgachi door.
Where it had lain, the teak woodgrain of the meeting table was now defiled by a a charred, blackened rectangle.
The folowing day, arriving at the deep underground offices of the Oktavyan Lieutenancy, Rubina was not entirely surprised to find her own office occupied by an unexpected visitor - Kalgachia's ruling Perfecti rarely travelled outside their inner sanctum, but now the one responsible for the Church of Kalgachia was sitting in Rubina's plush leather desk chair.
"Oh good morning, Brother Sovereign," she said tunefully as she swung the door closed. "Was the waiting seat in the lobby too uncomfortable?"
Kalgachia's most senior cleric let the sarcasm melt away. "You will forgive the intrusion, Lady Rubina," he said, "but the Council has been briefed on your activities yesterday and wishes to discuss the matter with you. A formal summons was considered unduly punitive for an official of your rank, so they sent me here for a little chat instead."
"Because Fifi doesn't have the guts to come and see me himself," said Rubina, circling around to the Perfectus' side of the desk. "I can only apologise for the inconvenience to you. Now shift..."
"Oh..." The Perfectus rose from his chair, gathered his glittering green robe off the floor and seated himself on the visitors' side as Rubina indicated. Such abrupt treatment from anyone else would have got them summarily composted, he thought to himself, but Rubina had always been a special case.
She settled into her seat, checked herself over in a hand mirror adjusted a pin in her deep red hair. From beneath her desk, a pair of high-heeled shoes were pushed smartly aside by her bare foot. "Go on then," she said.
"The most salient point," said the Perfectus, "is that while the Council appreciates your initative in securing possession of the Sword of Fire, we feel it would have been preferable if you had followed the proper protocols for an event of this nature."
"Are the Council really getting themselves worked up about protocol?" said Rubina. "I always liked to think you were beyond such things..." Her hand rattled around in a glass bowl of sugar candy and she picked one out. "Sweet?"
"Uh, no, thank you" the Perfectus held up an apologetic hand as Rubina flicked the confected morsel into her own mouth and worked it around the inside of her cheek. "I agree that we shouldn't unduly distract ourselves with matters of procedure," he continued. "It's an insidious archonic habit and I reminded the Council as much. But even your friend, the Perfectus for national defence, was unnerved by the complicity of his military juniors in the matter... especially in letting you near the container before its contents were examined. There was nothing to stop the Modanese visitors from putting a bomb in the thing, in the manner of Fall Endsieg."
"If Fall Endsieg was still a viable Shirerithian plan," said Rubina, "it wouldn't have been leaked to us. If they wanted a pretext to get me in a room with a bomb they would have cooked up something more subtle. I accepted the Modanese invitation because it was so peculiar."
"Even so, my lady, it was a risk."
"A risk that paid off, Brother Sovereign. You can't keep a Garden without taking chances. You of all people should know that."
"Quite," said the Perfectus, "which is why I am not inclined to press you greatly on the matter. Off the record, I like to think this incident will keep my brother Perfecti from being swallowed by mechanistic hubris. While we have all benefitted from the... arcane insights of your younger sibling as Chairman of the Council, I must admit there are times when I have feared the pendulum swinging too far."
"I quite understand," said Rubina. "Fifi will be fine as long as he has the rest of you to keep his feet on the ground. That's why it's important that you don't wind him up about this sword business."
The Perfectus squirmed in his seat. "I fear it may be a little late for that, my lady," he said. "We were engaged all last night on whether to convene an Extraordinary Grand Council on the matter. Getting all the Lords and Ladies Lieutenant together at such short notice is not something one does casually, but..."
Rubina giggled. "My Brother Sovereign, are you all quite mad? There's only ever been one EGC before, when Lord Toastypops found his way back to us. This doesn't approach anything like the same situational gravity. The sword is in a stable condition and I'm familiar with its characteristics. Well, most of them. I'm reading a book on it."
"All the same, my lady, would it not be a sound precaution to allow the church to examine it? For authentication, if nothing else."
"The thing is red hot and I've already blown a door off its hinges trying to point with it... what more authentication do you need?"
"Then at least inform us of its whereabouts, as a precaution..."
Rubina's shook her head. "I'm not telling you where it is. I may take it out for formal occasions. You can take a look at it then. For now, you can go back to the Council with my compliments and tell my little brother, your Sovereign Chairman, to shut up and swallow his pride. Oh and give him this..." She hurriedly took a piece of paper from a drawer, scrawled a message onto it with a fountain pen, folded it and slid it across the desk.
"Very well, my lady," he said, taking the note and rising to his feet. "May the blessings of the Garden be upon you. Hortus Manet."
"Nunc et semper," echoed Rubina with a smile, rising to escort him to the door. "Have a jolly day, won't you?"
The Council of Perfecti were in session within the hour, gathered as ever around an anticlimactically bare circle of raised granite. The Perfectus responsible for the Church of Kalgachia was the first to raise business:
"Brother Chairman, I have been in contact with the the Lady Lieutenant of Oktavyan and she has asked me to give you this."
The folded note was passed around the table until it reached the hand of Falcifer Yastreb, Rubina's younger brother whom history had determined to be Kalgachia's head of state. Within a second of opening the note, his expression assumed a citrine sourness.
"No secrets, brother," said the Perfectus responsible for internal security.
Falcifer sighed, leaned back and flung the note forward. As it span to a halt in the middle of the table, the other Perfecti leaned in to read it.
FINDERS KEEPERS, it said, with a little smiling face drawn beneath.
Rubina's private abode, within the granitic depths of Oktavyan's sub-surface sprawl, had proven an awkward place to keep the Sword of Fire. The accident she had mentioned to the Perfectus in her office had occurred here - she had absent-mindedly gesticulated with the thing a little after getting it home, whilst discussing it with her husband Roy. Fortunately he had been standing away from the axis of the sword's blade but the door of the marital bedchamber was less lucky, being blasted from its hinges and enveloped in hissing flames. Roy had ruined a silk blanket while smothering and stamping out the conflagration as Rubina ran to shut off the dwelling's ventilation system, lest the smoke seep into the city's communal ducting and trigger the alert sensors of the Oktavyan Partisan Fire Brigade. After that, remembering the advice of its Modanese donors, Rubina had hung the sword on the wall of her living room from a loop of wire. There it had contentedly remained, a fact she noted with relief on returning home from the office.
"You back yet, my dear?" She called as her shoes were flung off once again.
"Yerp," came the voice of her husband from the bathroom. Having seen his father succumb to another coma in Goldshire and being relieved of his duties on the board of ESB by the new Constancian management, Roy Stone had been spending more time at home in recent times. These days he only left for his sinecurial assay job at the Reserve Bank of Kalgachia and the occasional excursion with Rubina herself. His face, its comical ugliness somehow more formalised with age these days, poked out from the bathroom doorway. "So how much trouble are you in?" he said.
"Just some wibble from the Church," said Rubina, approaching Roy to kiss him. "I think Fifi knows better than to kick up too much of a-" She stepped back suddenly. "Shrub almighty, what's happened to your hand!?"
"Wha?" said Roy, trying to ignore his right hand until Rubina lifted it by the wrist. "Oh that, uhh... just a little accident in the kitchen. You know me..."
"But the whole thing's burned, Roy! Look at the blisters! Doesn't it hurt?"
"Eh, not so much now. I've been running it under cold water for about an hour..."
Rubina glanced at the sword, then back at her husband. "Roy..."
"I only touched it a little bit!" he said.
"Why didn't you take it by the handle? It's the only part cool enough to touch!"
"That's what I don't get," said Roy. "I did, but it burned the crap out of me. Have you got asbestos fingers or something? I saw you holding it easily enough..."
Rubina paused, feeling a certain tingling of fine hairs on the back of her neck. She went over to the sword and slowly grasped the handle. It was warm, but tolerably so.
"It's only cool for me..." she muttered. Then, quite unexpectedly, she felt tingling in other places.
She turned back toward Roy with a telling smile. "Oh sweetness," she sighed, "it's got me all in the mood."
"For what?"
She was already removing her clothes.
"Oh."
She stepped out of her dropped skirt, bounded over to Roy and leaned into his ear. "I want to do it like a Tee-al," she whispered.
"What?" said Roy, recoiling a little. "But Tee-als... AAARGH!" He winced as a set of teeth sunk into his shoulder and he was pushed off balance, his breath knocked out of him by a hard landing on the rug-covered floor. He began to suggest a relocation to the comfort of the bedchamber but his wife, rising over him like a frenzied animal, clamped a hand over his mouth. She would be getting what she wanted then and there.
Throughout their twenty-one year marriage, the lithe unnmotherly modesty of Rubina's figure and Roy's apparent invirility had seemed to conspire against conception - but both of them would attribute the coital proceedings of that evening to the discovery, a few weeks later, that Rubina was pregnant.
