The Veiled War E-Book

Celine Jeanjean

• Herausgeber: Celine Jeanjean
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Adelma is out of action
Longinus is going on a blind date
And the Varanguards are suspended
Things are taking a turn for the disturbing in Damsport.

Rory and Longinus have their hands full. Adelma is in a bad way, and it will take a lot of work to bring her back to herself.

On top of which, Longinus has to prepare for a blind date. The premium matchmaking service he joined assures him that she’s his soulmate. The pressure in selecting the right outfit is, therefore, immense.

Distracted and occupied, it takes Rory and Longinus a while to realise that a number of worrying changes are slowly happening in Damsport. On top of which the Marchioness refuses to see anyone, and Lady Martha is nowhere to be found.

What is happening in the Mansion? And who or what is behind the odd changes taking place in the city?

Rory and Longinus are about to face some challenging times—and not just because Longinus is determined to make avocado shirts the next hot fashion item.

Read The Veiled War now to escape into another fun adventure.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Copyright

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Epilogue

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

The Veiled War

Copyright © 2020 Celine Jeanjean. All rights reserved

http://celinejeanjean.com

The right of Celine Jeanjean to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

Cover by bonobobookcovers.com

Story and stylistic edit by redadeptediting.com

Copy Edit and Proofread by Kath Macfarlane ([email protected]) 

CHAPTER 1

Longinus

If not for the gruesome bloodshed required of the military, Longinus fancied he would have made an excellent soldier. Or rather, an excellent officer—he was better suited to leadership than to performing the groundwork of a regular foot soldier.

He checked himself in the mirror. He’d selected an outfit of military feel, and it suited his bearing very well. Of course, the military jacket was a little on the hot side, the fabric thicker than what was advisable for Damsian summer, but Longinus hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d discovered so many delightful new fabrics back in Bel Stadd, the capital of the Airnian Empire, and he found it hard to go back to limiting himself to light fabrics—as wonderful and versatile as silk was.

He tugged on the jacket collar, loosening it a little. The jacket looked good enough that the discomfort was worth it. He grabbed the riding crop he’d prepared as a matching accessory and headed to the spare room. Tess was waiting for him, as per his instructions.

Having drawn in and expelled a lungful of air in a fashion that the discerning observer would have recognised as “military breathing,” Longinus headed to the guest room.

It was simply furnished but pleasant, with a focus on clean lines and understated, elegant wooden furniture. In short, he’d done a marvellous job with it.

“Now, Tess, I need you to attend me.” Longinus clasped his hands behind him, pacing slowly about the room, much like he imagined a general might when briefing his troops. “This mission will be dangerous. It will be fraught with difficulties and peril. You must be prepared to expect the unexpected at all times.” He smacked the riding crop smartly into his gloved hand and winced. The gesture might have looked good and dramatic in his head, but in reality, the stiff leather stung his palm. Best to stick to a lighter version of military speech-making.

“This will be our battleground.” He traced a wide circle with his riding crop to encompass the room, enjoying the feel of the stiff leather in his hand. “You will remove anything fragile. We must turn this room into an unassailable fortress!” He punctuated the last word by pointing his riding crop to the sky.

Truly, the riding crop is a most excellent accessory. There must be a way to incorporate it into the rest of my wardrobe. A shame I don’t like to ride horses.

Tess grabbed a nearby porcelain bowl and jug. “I think that’s it, right?”

“My dear girl, you are failing to grasp the seriousness of the situation. Look at this little side table—beautiful lacquered makore wood. Why, it could be smashed to splinters! It must be removed. Put it in my bedroom for now. And the bedding, here.” He touched the fabric with his fingers, even though he was wearing gloves. “It is of delicate linen and will need to be replaced with coarse cotton—probably best for now to get something second-hand. Everything will need to be burnt once we’re done. I have workmen arriving imminently to install bars on the windows and on the door. You can also have them remove that nice sideboard there, in case something chips the varnish.” Longinus tucked the riding crop under his arm.

It’s a shame Damsport doesn’t have an army, really.All that gold frogging and those medals…

Tess looked confused and a little worried. “What’s going to happen in this room?”

“You will find out soon enough. On second thought, have the workmen remove all wooden furniture from the room. No wood left behind. I will not have such a noble material damaged—unless it’s pine. Pine I don’t care for,” he sniffed. “A wrought iron bed will be delivered this afternoon. Then you will stock up the pantry so that we can withstand a siege.”

“A siege?” Tess looked worried.

“A siege! I leave the choice of food to you. However, no alcohol may enter the house from this point forward. You will also purchase a padlock and key—my laboratory will need to be kept locked at all times. The barred door I’m having installed in this room will come with its own lock.”

Tess licked her lips. “Sir? What are we preparing for?” She looked around the room.

“Stop scaring her,” Rory said, entering.

She wore her old fighting leathers with more cuts and lashes on them than a whipped back. Her mass of ropelike hair was loose, dwarfing her small frame. Little polished copper rings winked out from her hair, giving her a slightly piratical air.

“Ain’t nothing to be afraid of,” she told Tess. “We’re just bringing Adelma here, that’s all. She’s gonna stay with us for a little while. Problem is she ain’t likely to wanna come, so we’re going to have to force her, which might mean a bit of a scrap. And then once she’s here, we’re gonna have to force her to stay—and she might, um, break some things and try to escape.”

Tess paled visibly.

“Now who’s scaring her?” Longinus asked smugly. “You’d have been better off telling her that we’ll be wrestling a wild bear into the room. And she’s quite right to be worried, too—the gravity of the situation cannot be underestimated.”

“We’re going to force Adelma to stay here?” Tess whispered.

Rory nodded grimly. “We’d take any other option if there was one, but it’s the only way for now.” She frowned and looked back at Longinus. “Although them bars at the windows might be a bit much, no?”

“Actually, the bars were my idea,” Cruikshank said, walking in. Her footsteps made an odd, uneven metallic sound. She’d designed a leg brace for herself, which helped remove the limp she’d acquired following the injury to her toe in Azyr. She’d stopped wearing it in Bel Stadd, but now that they were home, she wore it everywhere, and it helped her quite a bit. These days, it looked as much a part of her as the complicated cog tattoo that sleeved her right arm.

And for once, Cruikshank looked clean—no soot marred her face, and only a faint, residual grime rimmed her nails. She hadn’t been at her workshop for the last few days, in preparation for this moment.

“I let myself in downstairs.” Cruikshank gestured with the key Longinus had had cut for her. “I had to deal with the same thing with my father, Rory. If we leave the windows unprotected, it will be too easy for Adelma to smash one and climb out. Same for the door. It’s hard enough keeping your average raging alcoholic from drinking. With Adelma, it’s going to be near impossible…”

“I guess I better get to work,” Tess said, hurrying off as the workmen knocked on the door downstairs.

Rory looked worried. “I really hope this works.”

“Me too,” Cruikshank replied. “Because otherwise I’m all out of ideas as to how we can help her.”

CHAPTER 2

Rory

Rory, Longinus, and Cruikshank reached the chaotic warren of lanes that was the Rookery.

Home.

No matter that Rory had moved away or visited a whole two other countries—the Rookery would always be the place she felt the most at ease.

The lanes teamed with as much life as an anthill, and it wasn’t just because of all the cockroaches scurrying about, scrounging off the rotting scraps and general filth crusted between the cobbles. The lanes were full of people milling about, calling, shouting, fighting, hawking wares, and arguing, their voices louder than the seagulls up in the sky.

Banyan trees poked out randomly from streets, their roots upturning the cobblestones. Some idiot had once tried to make the Rookery look more appealing by planting trees in the streets, but the parasitic banyans had suffocated almost all of them, some banyans growing so enormous that they spread over parts of houses.

They sent out aerial roots that dangled in shaggy fringes, and the moment those roots found the ground, they thickened and grew, turning into something like a secondary trunk. Given enough years, they looked like many-legged, insectile versions of a tree.

The one thing everyone in the Rookery had going for them was their creative adaptability. They built shacks to rest against the banyans’ trunks, from which cobblers, minor-repair machinists, and other small tradesmen operated. They often set up tiny markets under the larger trees, where the branches served as protection from the rain.

The young aerial roots were trimmed and combined with banana leaves to make single-use baskets into which dumplings could be served for patrons to take away.

The actual houses of the Rookery sagged on rain-saturated wooden frames—very few could afford the conversion to steelwood beams. Some covered their beams with tar, and the rest made do with houses that sweated and rotted under the weight of the humidity.

In fact, the whole of the Rookery rotted—the houses, the fallen, inedible banyan fruits, the scraps of food crusted between the cobblestones. No matter the time of year, the Rookery had a thick, pungent, and slightly sweet smell to it that made the air feel like it was denser here than in the rest of the city.

It was Rory’s favourite smell, but the thought of confronting Adelma had her so worried that the Rookery didn’t have its usual comforting influence.

She knew that what they were doing was right—it had been months, and they couldn’t continue standing on the sidelines while Adelma slowly destroyed herself. But all the same, even though there were three of them, and even though Cruikshank was pretty strong, the thought of going up against Adelma was still pretty damn scary.

Longinus hadn’t wanted to try drugging her. He had no way of knowing what toxic substances would be swimming around in her body, and he didn’t want to risk some kind of adverse reaction to a narcotic.

Tess had had it right before, when she’d looked scared. It wasn’t going to be an easy day.

They reached Adelma’s house. Beyond the door a song Rory knew well drifted out, horribly off key.

“Oh, Airnia, Airniaaaaaa,

We’ve heard of your soooort,

Down here in… in… in… Damspoooort!

Brave—” Adelma hiccuped. “Braaaaaave as a farting saint,

Strong as a floating tuuuuurd—whoops.”

Something made of glass smashed.

“And smart as drying paaaaaaint,” Adelma brayed on.

The song had been made up during the troubled times of Damsport’s independence, and it still remained pretty popular among those who’d had too much to drink. Something about the rhymes, but also because it was just fun to insult Airnia.

Cruikshank banged on the door. “Adelma! Open up. It’s us.”

The singing stopped abruptly. “Go away.”

Cruikshank tried the door handle—locked. She nodded to Rory, who pulled out her lock picks.

Inside, it was dark. All the blinds were drawn, the wooden slats letting only narrow shafts of light through. Adelma’s place had always been a bit of a hoarder’s paradise, the main room filled with trinkets and mementos from all her various travels. But now it looked more like the inside of a rat’s warren.

The air was close and stuffy, and it stank. Old alcohol, vomit, and other things that Rory would rather not think about. Most of the furniture had been tipped over, lying among a sea of broken things. This had once been the front room, but Adelma had dragged a mattress into it, and she now sprawled across it.

“This is my private property,” she slurred angrily. “You’ve got no right to be here.”

Cruikshank’s lips pressed into a thin line as she took in the room, and she stepped forward. “We’ve come to help you. This has gone on long enough. In fact, we probably should have intervened much earlier. Adelma, you need to snap out of this.”

“I don’t gotta do nothing,” Adelma muttered, looking away.

“I know it’s hard,” Cruikshank said. “I have my leg brace to help with my toe. Sure it’s not the same as having a fully functioning leg, and it took some adjustment, but I’m used to it now, and it’s making all the difference.”

“You’ve got a foot and a leg!” Adelma yelled abruptly, spraying spit. “You ain’t got no right to compare yourself to me.” She slammed her good fist into a nearby side table. “And you can take that useless piece of junk back with you—waste of time. I can’t hold a drink with it, I can’t pull a rope with it—it’s bloody useless, and I don’t want it!”

She grabbed the articulated metal arm that Cruikshank had made for her and flung it at the machinist. Cruikshank dodged, and the arm crashed into one of the blinds, smashing a wooden slat. A thicker shaft of light slipped through the gap, showing the state Adelma was in.

Her eyes were so deeply bloodshot, they looked red, and her gaze was unfocused. She hadn’t shaved the sides of her head in a while, so odd tufts of hair stuck out on either side. Her usual plait looked like a knotted mess. She was sweating heavily, beads of moisture gathering on her forehead and upper lip.

Longinus stepped forward. “Adelma, the fact that I haven’t yet run screaming from this midden you call home is a testament to the feelings of friendship I harbour for you. As my friend, please heed my advice and come back with us so we can help set you on your feet again.”

Adelma looked at him while he spoke, her expression confused and unfocused. “I didn’t get none of that other than the end. And no, I ain’t leaving.”

“Think of Tommy,” Cruikshank said. “Think of your boy.”

Adelma closed her eyes and leaned back against her heavily stained cushions. “It’s ’cause I’m thinking of him.” She shook her head. “I don’t want him to see me like this…”

“At least she’s right on that score,” Cruikshank muttered. “Let’s hope Tommy never sees his mother in such a state.”

Rory felt awful. This was her fault. Adelma had lost her hand while protecting her back in Airnia. If she hadn’t been unconscious, Adelma wouldn’t have been at such a disadvantage. The guilt ate away at Rory, made all the worse because there wasn’t anything she could do. All the good will and effort in the world couldn’t make a hand grow back.

“Look, why don’t you come with us?” she said to Adelma. “Cruikshank can work on making you a better arm, one what can do the stuff you need. We can help you practice with it, right? Get you sailing and drinking with your right hand. Doing all them other things you used to do before. We’ll get you back, Adelma, I promise. But Cruikshank needs to work with you on that fake hand—ain’t that right?”

“Exactly,” Cruikshank said. “That articulated arm there was just a starting point that I can build on.”

“I could also be called upon to add an aesthetic element to the design,” Longinus said. “Give it a little more panache.”

Cruikshank looked dubious. “Er, yes…” She turned back to Adelma. “But I need your input, and I need to test things on you. The bottom line, though, is that, in time, you will go back to having a full and happy life.”

“What life? What life?” Adelma shouted. “I got no life. Those bastards took it from me, same as they took my Radish.” Her face twisted in pain. “My whole life the one thing I could always count on was my body, my strength. Radish would never… would never…” Adelma hiccuped and looked away but not before Rory saw her eyes fill with tears. “Even Radish I couldn’t rely on in the end. Not that it were his fault or nothing. But my strength, that would never leave me. It were all I had left after he went, and now look at me.” She waved the stump of her right hand. “Look at me!”

“I know it seems that way,” Cruikshank said patiently, “but—”

“No buts—ain’t nothing useful I can do with this useless piece of shit.” Adelma smashed her stump into the nearby chest of drawers. The chest was on its side, the drawers facing up. One of the metal handles caught the stump, making a shallow cut. The stump had healed well, the skin smooth and brown, puckering in places where thicker scar tissue had formed.

Rory looked around her as something occurred to her. “Adelma, where are your axes?”

“Pawned them.” Adelma took a swig from her bottle of rum.

“Gods alive,” Longinus muttered.

Rory gaped. She would never have expected that, not in a year of clear skies. She’d heard that money was getting tough for Adelma’s crew. Without her, other smugglers were muscling in on her territory, and her crew didn’t seem to be able to stop it. Adelma was drinking properly cheap, nasty rum, the kind you could strip paint with. If she was pawning her axes to pay for that kind of rubbish, things had to be seriously bad.

Another heavy layer of guilt. “I’m sorry, Adelma,” Rory said. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I should never have—”

“Stop bloody apologising,” Adelma snapped. “I ain’t lost my keys. Saying sorry ain’t gonna change nothing, and this ain’t got nothing to do with you. I got beaten. I lost. It is what it is. I gotta live with it, and that’s all there is to it.” She swigged more rum. “This is my life now. This is what losers look like.”

“Adelma, you don’t have to live like this,” Cruikshank said. “Let me help you. Let us help you.”

“D’you have any idea what it feels like?” Adelma asked. “I can’t sleep at night because the damn thing burns. And right now? Right now, my right hand bloody well itches. Now you tell me, how the hell do you scratch something that ain’t there? Huh? How d’you get rid of pins and needles in a ghost hand?”

“Alchemically,” Longinus replied at once. “I have every confidence I can create something to help. However, as with Cruikshank, it would have to be tailored to you. I can’t just create that kind of thing in a vacuum.”

Adelma shook her head. “And then what? What difference would it make?”

“Then we help you get back to your life,” Cruikshank said. “And I promise you we can do that.”

“Ha. You people—you ain’t got no clue.” Adelma struggled laboriously to her feet, swaying dangerously. She shoved past them, stumbling outside and blinking in the bright light.

“Adelma?” Cruikshank called, following.

Adelma hesitated on the threshold, looking like a tottering toddler. She pushed Cruikshank and staggered over to the Old Girl’s Arms. She’d kept hold of her rum, and she guzzled it as she walked.

The Old Girl’s Arms was a brawling pub, where people went if they fancied a bit of a friendly scrap and tumble. Adelma reached the pub, followed by Rory and the others. By the sound of things, a number of fights had already broken out—good-natured brawls, not the kind of dangerous fights you could find in other parts of town.

Adelma entered, tossed her head back to finish the rum, then threw the bottle aside, smashing it against the floor. “Alright, you ugly bastards—who wants a piece of this action?”

Everyone stopped as they heard her, and they turned to look back at her.

“Who wants in?” Adelma asked. “None of you could beat me back when I had both hands. Well, now’s your chance.” She stood at the entrance, swaying gently.

People shifted awkwardly away from her, those nearest to her looking at the floor or each other—anywhere but at her. They especially did not look at the stump of her right hand. Rory’s chest squeezed. Nothing was worse than pity, and to see so much of it directed at Adelma, as if she were no more than a weak, starving urchin, was awful.

Not so long ago, Adelma would fight two or three people at once, rolling about on the floor while the rest of the pub cheered.

Her shoulders slumped a little further, and she turned back to Cruikshank. “There, you see?” Her voice had gone completely dull. “Your fake hand can’t fix that. Nothing can fix that.” She staggered into the pub, all the way to the counter. People moved carefully out of her way.

Kriss, the Arms’ owner and bartender was behind the bar. She was about Adelma’s age, a sinewy woman with dark Damsian skin and quick eyes. She and Adelma were good friends, and Kriss had looked after Tommy while they were all in Airnia. She gave Adelma a pleading look. “Tommy’s just next door. Give me a moment—let me go fetch him.”

Adelma glared at her. “Don’t you dare,” she growled. She grabbed a bottle of rum from behind the bar, and Kriss didn’t stop her.

“At least give me a message for him. He misses you. He asks about you all the time. He doesn’t understand why you had to leave him again so soon.”

Rory knew that Kriss had told Tommy that Adelma was out at sea again rather than let him know his mother didn’t want to see him.

Adelma blinked at that, her face twisting with pain again.

“I’ll go get him,” Kriss said quickly.

“No!” Adelma barked. “No.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please don’t do that. He can’t see me like this.”

She and Kriss exchanged a long look, and Kriss looked anguished, but she nodded. Adelma looked away, shame written all over her features. She turned and stumbled back out of the pub.

“She came in a few weeks ago,” Kriss told Rory quickly. “She wanted a fight, and someone gave her one. Didn’t realise how weak she’d become. He beat her almost immediately. Everyone were so shocked, the whole pub fell silent. Now no one wants to go near her.”

Rory winced at that. This was bad. Real bad. She looked at Cruikshank. “What do we do now?”

Longinus walked out after Adelma, calling over his shoulder, “Come come, ladies. Now isn’t the time to be discombobulated.”

Rory frowned as she and Cruikshank followed after him. “Er, Longinus, ain’t no one ripping out our insides.”

“That’s disembowelled,” Longinus said, marching quickly after Adelma. “I’ll explain the difference later, as those are two words you don’t want to be confusing. But for now… Adelma? Adelma!”

Adelma was shuffling away from the pub unsteadily. Longinus caught up to her easily and stood in front of her to block her way. Rory and Cruikshank stayed close, Rory worrying that Longinus was going to get swatted like a fly.

“Outta my way.” Adelma made a clumsy attempt to swipe at him.

“Now, I have to say, that was a good little display you put on for us,” Longinus told her.

“What? What display?”

Longinus put on a lofty expression, placing a hand on his chest. “As a writer, I am most impressed with the amount of pathos you have generated, truly. You may even inspire some writings—my creative juices have been quite stimulated.”

Adelma’s face scrunched with disgust, a feeling Rory shared. She had no interest in hearing anything about Longinus’s juices, creative or otherwise.

“Well good for you,” Adelma said. “Now, let me—”

“With that in mind, I was thinking that I’d like you to come back to our house so I can continue to observe you. I’m thinking of penning a longer work—maybe even a novel—and I shall need suitable inspiration in order to adequately capture the plight of the common woman. I hope you don’t mind, but if I write someone based on you, I shall have to make her smaller, or people will think I’m being unrealistic.”

“What? You utter weirdo, I got no idea what you’re on about.” Adelma frowned. “You gonna make me smaller?”

Longinus appeared to have managed what, a few moments ago, seemed to be an impossible feat. He’d distracted Adelma from her wretched state of mind. Many things about Longinus defied reason or logic, nothing more so than the friendship he and Adelma shared. Sometimes it seemed to Rory that of the five of them, Adelma felt most at ease with him. On the surface, that made very little sense, and yet Rory got it. Longinus’s mind worked in highly mysterious ways, but when it really mattered, he somehow always seemed to be at the right place, saying the right thing.

“So, shall we? Shall we get back so I can begin to study the depth and layers of your pathos?” Longinus asked.

Adelma shook her head slowly and shuffled to the nearby wall. She sank with all the grace of a sack of seagull shit until she sat on the ground. “You ain’t getting your hands on my pathos. I’m staying right here, and it’s staying with me. I’m gonna drink till I pass out.” She gave a deep, ragged sigh then tipped the bottle back.

“Let’s just stay here and wait,” Cruikshank murmured. “Once she passes out, we can take her back.”

Rory nodded. “Good plan.”

CHAPTER 3

Cruikshank

Carrying Adelma up the stairs to the room Rory and Longinus had prepared was a bit like trying to roll a massive boulder up a muddy hill. Even with Tess’s help, the four of them almost fell over several times, and by the time they reached the upper floor, Cruikshank knew from the painful twinge in her back that she’d pulled a muscle.

It seemed like an age before they heaved Adelma’s unconscious bulk onto the bed. Even out of her house, the stink followed Adelma, and Cruikshank couldn’t blame Longinus for having covered the lower part of his face with a perfumed handkerchief.

“Tess, we will need some hot water, a lot of soap, and those rags you prepared before,” Cruikshank ordered.

“And we will all need to disinfect ourselves afterwards,” Longinus said. “Adelma’s house was like a biological hazard zone. I don’t want anyone catching anything.”

Cruikshank got to work removing Adelma’s boots.

“I am… perhaps I should…” Longinus turned away. “For modesty’s sake.”

Rory shrugged. “I really don’t think Adelma would care if you saw her naked.”

“She might not, but I do. I’m not a part-time gentleman, after all.”

“Well, you’ve already seen her pathos,” Rory said. “What’s that, by the way? I didn’t see any parts of her poking out her clothing back at the Old Girl’s Arms. Is it like a nipple or something?”

Longinus sighed. “Remind me to buy you a dictionary.”

Cruikshank, Rory, and Tess got to work in silence after that, only communicating when they needed to move Adelma. What was there to say? Cruikshank could see her own sadness reflected in Rory’s expression as they stripped and washed Adelma. At least it felt good to do that much for her.

It was a relief when she looked human and clean once again. They slipped a large tunic on her, having decided that trying to put other clothes on her would be far too complicated.

“Bloody hell, my whole body’s aching,” Rory muttered.

“You three go get some rest,” Cruikshank told them. “The hardest part’s about to begin.”

Tess nodded gratefully and left.

“I’m staying,” Rory said.

“Me too,” Longinus added.

Cruikshank shook her head. “I’ve been through this before. The next few days are going to be ugly. There’ll be plenty of time for you both to stand watch, but I want to be the one here when she first wakes up.”

Cruikshank grabbed the only metal chair in the room, sat herself down, and waited. She’d gone through this process enough times with her father to know exactly what was coming. Of course, her father had never managed to stay sober for very long. He’d drowned one night in a puddle of rainwater barely two inches deep after he’d passed out face down in it.

Cruikshank was damned if she’d watch Adelma throw her life away in the same way.

* * *

Adelma came to, muttering indistinctly. She made wet noises, smacking her lips together, and mumbled about something to drink.

“Here you are.” Cruikshank handed her a cup of water.

Adelma drank, dribbling some of it down her chin, but after a couple of swallows, she stopped and threw the cup aside. She winced at the noise, putting a hand to the side of her head. “Not that,” she croaked. “Something proper.”

“There is nothing proper to drink,” Cruikshank told her. “There’s water, or if you want, you can have hot tea, coffee, fruit juice, or iced tea—basically anything, so long as it doesn’t have alcohol in it.”

“What you doing to me, you stupid woman?” Adelma pushed herself up on her elbows and tried to climb off the bed. She missed and sprawled clumsily to the floor. She groaned and lay on her back for a moment. “Where am I?”

“We’ve set you up in the house that Rory and Longinus share.”

“What the hell? Why?” She sat up and this time successfully got to her feet, although she looked anything but steady.

“So we can keep an eye on you. You badly needed a wash, and you really need to get sober.”

“Like hell I do.” She stumbled over to the door and threw it open. Beyond it was the second door of metal bars that Longinus had had installed. Adelma turned back to Cruikshank. “The hell is this?” she snarled.

“To make sure you don’t get away to drink.”

“Alright, enough of this nonsense. You let me out right now.” She grabbed one of the bars with her left hand and shook it, but the men had done their work well. The door was locked, and the bars were solid.

“I’m sorry,” Cruikshank said. “But you have to stay here.”

“I’m only staying if you gimme something to drink.”

Cruikshank shook her head. She could see the start of trembling in Adelma’s left hand, and she knew what was coming. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I saw my father go through withdrawal enough times to know it’s not a pleasant process. The headaches, the nausea, the shaking hands, and the shivers. The sleepless nights and cold sweats… you’re at the start of a rough time. You’ll get through it, though.”

Adelma licked her lips, clenching her left hand to stop the shaking. “Give me a drink, woman.”

“No.”

Adelma shook the bars at the door again. Cruikshank could see fear and desperation creep across her face. Adelma slammed the wooden door shut and stomped over to the windows, but the bars there were solid as well. She turned back, glaring at Cruikshank. “You… you been nothing but trouble since I met you. I had the right of it back then. You’re worse than rot. I should have thrown you overboard the day you first set foot on my ship.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” Cruikshank remarked mildly.

She’d been expecting some sort of attack, but she hadn’t quite expected Adelma to move as fast as she did. The large smuggler threw herself at Cruikshank and grabbed her shirt front, tearing part of her collar off. Adelma slammed Cruikshank against the wall. Cruikshank made a strangled whooshing noise as her lungs emptied of air.

“You let me out of here right now,” Adelma snarled.

“No… key,” Cruikshank wheezed, which was the truth. She’d arranged for Rory to keep the key for this very reason.

“Let me out of here!” Adelma roared, letting go of her and slapping her left hand against the wall repeatedly.

Cruikshank heard tapping coming from the other side of the wall—the agreed code from Rory asking if she was alright. Cruikshank knocked back with one hand, signalling the all-clear. If she’d given the distress code, Rory and Longinus would have come in to help, but Cruikshank still felt confident that she could handle the situation.

Adelma didn’t seem to notice the knocks, stepping back and looking about the room. Her breathing was growing heavy and ragged.

“This is just part of the process,” Cruikshank said calmly. “It will pass. I promise it will pass.”

Adelma staggered back a few more steps. The shaking in her left hand was growing worse and spreading up to her arm. She licked her lips, eyes wild. “Alright, alright. You’re right—I shouldn’t have been drinking as much as I was. It weren’t sensible. I… I see that now. I promise to be more controlled, alright? You can let me go now. I get it.”

Cruikshank shook her head silently.

“I mean it. I promise I won’t drink much. Just a little. Enough to keep me feeling normal.” Adelma made an odd gesture with her left hand, moving it in front of her stump, and Cruikshank realised that she had tried to scratch her missing right hand.

“You need to get sober,” Cruikshank replied.

“Look, you don’t have to be all or nothing like that.” Adelma gave an awkward, nervous laugh. “Ain’t you the one what’s all about moderation? A little drink to keep me ticking along—what’s the harm in that? I’ll even stay here, nice as pie, so you can check on me.” Adelma opened her one hand in a placating gesture. “Just give me a little something—just enough to take the edge off. My hand it… it itches. It burns. I get pins and needles in it. Drinking helps numb that, see? Just give me a bit so I can think straight.”

Cruikshank bit her lip, feeling torn. She knew Adelma was speaking the truth about her hand, but she also knew that with drunks, it was never just one drink.

“And then what, Adelma?” she asked gently. “You can’t just stay here for the rest of your life, drinking just enough to keep yourself from feeling anything. You need to rebuild.”

“Rebuild what? With what? You need hands to build. I got nothing to build with, and I got nothing to build on.”

“Tommy—you’ve got Tommy.”

Cruikshank saw the haunted look in Adelma’s eyes before the smuggler screwed them shut and passed her good hand over them. The shaking in her hand increased.

“I can’t have him see me like this,” she whispered. “I can’t bear it. He lost his Da. I can’t have him lose his Ma too.”

“If you continue like this, he will lose his Ma.”

Adelma shook her head. “No. He thinks I’m at sea. The old me, the real me still exists for him, in his mind. And the old me will continue to exist so long as he don’t see me. It’s better like this. Better…”

“You’re still real now, Adelma,” Cruikshank said. “You’re still you.”

Adelma’s expression snapped to a rage so strong Cruikshank faltered. “This ain’t me!” she roared. “I don’t accept this. I don’t!” She smashed her stump into the wall over and over again, leaving a noticeable dent in the plaster. “Give me something to drink. Give it to me now!”

Cruikshank stepped back, steeling herself and her resolve. She shook her head. “There’s only water.”

Adelma raged and ranted, stomping about the room, throwing the metal furniture around, giving full vent to her fury. It was like watching a tornado in human form. Cruikshank dodged as best she could, staying calm, not saying anything to further fan the flames. She knew that with Adelma, anger was simply a more comfortable default setting. Easier for her to feel that than the haunted pain Cruikshank had seen flash into her eyes earlier.

She kept herself out of harm’s way as best she could, waiting for Adelma to tire herself out. The smuggler slowed eventually, her anger petering out. She was sweating heavily, her body shivering, and she was seriously out of breath. Deep circles rimmed her eyes, which were bloodshot and painfully red. They were unfocused once again.

“Radish, why ain’t you here?” she whispered in such a low voice, Cruikshank wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

Adelma’s face crumpled. Her shoulders slumped. She shuffled back to her bed and curled up on it. A low, animal keening noise rose up from her as she rocked back and forth.

Cruikshank’s chest squeezed from the awfulness of seeing Adelma reduced to this. She had to breathe hard to keep herself from welling up. Right now she’d have given almost anything to get Adelma’s hand back.

But wishing that things were different was pointless. Things were as they were, and the best they could all do was find a way to help Adelma get through it.

Cruikshank picked up the chair and came to sit next to Adelma again.

She put a hand on the smuggler’s shoulder. “This will pass,” she said soothingly. “I promise you, Adelma, it will pass. Life will be good again someday.”

Adelma made a choking noise. “I don’t wanna live like this. I can’t live like this.”

“I know.” Cruikshank squeezed her shoulder. “But we care about you too much to either let you go or let you stay in this state. You’re going to have to come back, Adelma.”

CHAPTER 4

Rafe

It had been agreed that for the first couple of days of Adelma’s forced sobriety, it would be best for Rafe to stay away. He and the large smuggler didn’t always get along too well, and she’d taken a bit of a dislike to him after his indiscretion at the card tables back in Bel Stadd. Not that Rafe blamed her.

Thankfully, since returning to Damsport, life at the barracks had gradually worked its magic, and things almost felt right again. He was back to himself—or rather, he was no longer himself but had gone back to being Rafe Standorr, Varanguard.

The life of a Varanguard was simple and structured. No empty hours, no idle thoughts, no difficult questions. Instead there was the peace and quiet of hard work, discipline, and continual training.

He’d obtained the morning off, just in case Rory and the others had need of him, but they’d managed to get Adelma back without too much trouble. She’d apparently been angry and aggressive earlier this morning, but she was calm now.

Rafe had spent most of the morning training, and as he still had an hour to kill before the start of his shift, he decided to go visit his old captain.

Cosstar had retired quite a few years ago, and these days he lived in a little house in a quiet neighbourhood with a nurse to look after him.

Rafe found Cosstar in his usual chair, a blanket across his knees in spite of the sweltering summer heat. It always squeezed Rafe’s heart to see how frail the man now looked. He wasn’t that old, and he should by rights be in far better shape. But the muscles on his arms, shoulders, and legs, once impressive despite being past his prime, had wasted away to nothing in no time.

His health, both physical and mental, had declined with staggering speed. The doctors had been unable to slow the illness that had turned him into a doddering old man within the space of a couple of years. His skin was drawn tight over his skull, his hair brittle and so thin, his brown scalp showed beneath.

The captain’s wheelchair sat by a window that looked out over a pretty garden. A couple of books had been placed on a nearby side table—within reach—and on top of them was a newspaper with the crosswords he used to be so fond of doing. Only a couple of answers had been written out, the other squares glaringly white. Back in the day, the old captain had completed the puzzles while timing himself, refusing the use of a dictionary.

“Ah, Young Master Standorr! Just the man I wanted to see.”

“I’m glad to see you too.” Rafe smiled.

“Don’t smile at me, lad. I’ve been hearing reports on your behaviour recently, and they’re not complimentary. What’s this about you answering back, hmmm?” The old man glowered at Rafe from beneath a set of rather impressive bushy eyebrows.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Rafe replied, formally standing to attention.

“Varanguards do not answer back. It isn’t our place—you know this, lad. How many times will you make me remind you?”

Rafe did his best to look contrite.

“And where’s your uniform? You know my rules—I’ll not have my Varanguards presenting themselves to their captain in civilian clothing.”

“I’ve got time off, sir.”

“Time off? I didn’t allow any time off for you. You know damn well that you can’t have any time off for now.”

Rafe didn’t argue—that would only confuse matters. He didn’t mind being lectured—in fact, it felt almost nostalgic.

“Remember what I told you when you joined us,” Cosstar continued. “You are now first and foremost a Varanguard. Everything comes second to this. You should always look like a Varanguard, and you should always act like a Varanguard. Varanguards do not lie.”

“Yessir. Sorry, sir.”

The old captain shook his head and looked back out the window. Rafe wondered what he saw, if his brain somehow managed to convince him that he was looking over the Varanguards’ training yard.

“I worry about you, lad. I do,” Cosstar said more gently. “You can’t afford to be as relaxed as the others. You know that. Remember the three cardinal rules.” He raised a hand, showing three fingers. “Maximum effort, perfect discipline, exemplary clean living. That’s the way you make amends for your past, boy. That’s the way you become the man you were meant to be.”

Rafe saluted. “Sir, yessir. Effort, discipline, clean living.”

The old captain nodded. “Good. Now get back to work—I have a lot to be getting along with here.” He frowned and turned back to the window, peering at it intently.

Rafe let himself out of the room quietly. The visits never lasted long, but Rafe still liked to come by whenever he could.

“I’m so sorry he keeps talking to you like that,” the nurse said as soon as the door closed. “Some days he’s alright, but recently he’s been getting so confused. He keeps thinking that he’s still captain of the Varanguard.”

“No need to apologise. If anything, it does me good.”

The nurse nodded, looking relieved. “I’m glad to hear it. Most people take offence. He doesn’t get very many visits anymore.”

“I’ll try to come more often,” Rafe said. It seemed tragic for such a great man to finish his life like this—wasting away in a little room, no longer aware of the real world, his body withering away. “I’ll be back soon.”

He hadn't lied to the nurse—he did enjoy his visits to the old captain. It truly did him good to hear Cosstar’s lectures—a reminder of how far he’d come since those days when he’d first joined the Varanguards. Back then he’d only joined because his sister, Catterina, had been obsessed with them, dreaming of becoming one when she was old enough.

After she’d died, Rafe joined up in her memory, as a way of trying to keep a part of her alive in some way. And somehow, through the hard work, the training, and Cosstar’s supervision, he’d changed. Become someone he could actually stand to look at in the mirror.

Indulging Cosstar’s confusion was the least Rafe could do for him. The Varanguards had given Rafe everything—the life he had now. Airnia had been a dangerous reminder of what waited if he didn’t stick closely to his life at the barracks. He’d nearly unravelled, and that couldn’t happen again. That would never happen again.

Despite the oppressive heat and humidity, Rafe broke out into a jog once he was out in the street, making his way back to the barracks. He had some new recruits to train today, and he wanted to start warming his muscles up.

* * *

Rafe’s entire body ached. His arms and legs trembled from the exertion, while the metal armour cooked rivers of sweat from him. He gritted his teeth and swung his arms up, preparing to flow through the next steps of the kata. It was late afternoon, and the training yard offered little shade at this time of day. The sun beat mercilessly down from a perfectly blue sky. Rafe was training alone, the others having finished up for the day.

The armour absorbed the sun’s heat, so it felt like he was encased in an oven. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and licked his lips—they tasted salty.

“One more,” he muttered.

He already knew that his attempt at training with the heavy armour was a failure, but he’d committed himself to three katas, so he would see them through. He stood in first position, when a voice rang out behind him.

“You’ve done enough for the day.” The current captain walked over. She was in her mid-forties and only slightly smaller than Rafe. Same as every Varanguard, she had a lean, wiry strength to her, and she moved with a grace that hinted at her fighting expertise.

She frowned at Rafe, her concern obvious. “You’re going to overexert yourself if you continue this way. It’s too hot now anyway—you shouldn’t be training at this time of day if it’s sunny.”

“I know,” Rafe gasped, trying to catch his breath. “But this damned armour—we’ve got no chance of fighting properly in it.”

The captain nodded pensively. “I agree. They’re impractical, and yet if the metal were any thinner, bullets would be able get through.”

“I know we need to integrate guns into our fighting style,” Rafe wheezed, “but the armour means moving slowly and shooting from a still position.”

“These guns”—the captain said the word with distaste—“are changing everything. Luckily, very few of them are in circulation for now. But we have to assume that anyone who wishes to attack the Marchioness might be wielding one. I’ve been thinking of a paired setup—one person with heavy armour paired with a Varanguard in traditional combat gear—combining speed of attack with proper protection and the ability to shoot back. But that’s for later. For now, you need to rest.”

“I could instead—”

“That’s an order,” she said firmly but not unkindly. “Take the evening off.”

Rafe wanted to remind her that he’d already taken the morning off, but the captain silenced him by raising her hand. “That’s also an order. You’ve been working too hard since you came back to Damsport, Rafe. If you burn out or injure yourself, you’ll be of no use to anyone. So take the rest of the day off. I heard a rumour that you found a girl willing to put up with you,” she added with a wink. “Go have fun.”

Rafe nodded, feeling a little awkward discussing his personal life with the captain. The old captain would never have stood for that kind of thing. But he felt a little jolt of happiness at the thought of seeing Rory, and it would be good to hear how Adelma was doing.

He headed back to the barracks and removed the metal armour, his body sagging with relief. He took care to clean and store it all properly, the old captain’s lecture still ringing in his ears. He wanted nothing more at that point than a shower and to lie down for a bit, but he forced himself to stretch his exhausted arms and legs. That was the routine post-training, and he wouldn’t deviate from it one iota. That was how he kept his life working properly.

He was heading to the bathroom block when he crossed paths with Brandt—one of the many people working for the Marchioness, and one of the more annoying ones. Brandt was an odd-looking man, with an overly fleshy face, and he oozed condescension the way Adelma’s pores oozed alcohol. He only had a tiny bit of power, but he liked to hold it over people and act like the world’s most sanctimonious ass.

“Where have you been?” Brandt asked, his voice irritatingly nasal and disdainful.

Rafe bit down the sarcastic reply that bubbled up. You are first and foremost a Varanguard, the old captain had reminded him. “Can I help you?” he asked instead.

“The Marchioness wanted to summon you, but you weren’t in the barracks, where the roster said you’d be.”

“The Marchioness summoned me? When?”

“Almost two hours ago,” Brandt informed him smugly.

Rafe cursed. “I was in the training yard—couldn’t you have come to look for me there?”

“Nothing was written on the roster saying that you were in the training yard—it’s not my job to go running after errant Varanguards,” Brandt sniffed.

Rafe cursed again, and Brandt frowned at him. “Mind your language. I’m a direct report to the Marchioness, and I’d appreciate it if you would treat me with the respect that befits my rank.”

Rafe ignored him, storming back towards the barracks and cursing him repeatedly under his breath. He briefly wondered whether he should take the time to wash and change before he headed over, but it had been two hours, and it might be something urgent. He wiped off the sweat with a towel, grabbed a clean shirt, and threw it on, before hurrying over to the Marchioness’s office.

Every muscle in his legs complained loudly at being forced to jog, but Rafe ignored the pain in his thighs, even taking a little enjoyment from it. Maximum effort and perfect discipline.

He slowed when he got close, not wanting to be out of breath when he entered the Marchioness’s office. His curiosity was definitely aroused—it had been a while since the Marchioness had summoned him privately.

It had been nice, actually, to be solely focusing on regular Varanguard work these last few months. Damsport was now in a secure position, and so the Marchioness had told Rory and the others on their return to Damsport thatthey wouldn’t be needed for hopefully a long while.

Which was fortunate timing, given Adelma’s state. They’d decided to keep Adelma’s downward spiral hidden for now, but if the Marchioness needed them for something, the truth of Adelma’s condition would have to come out. Rafe hoped that wouldn’t cause problems.

As he turned down the corridor, he frowned at what he saw.

Normally, the door to her office was watched by two Varanguards at all times. Now, though, there were two men—from the size of them—wearing uniforms he didn’t recognise. They wore full body armour, all made of iridescent, articulated metal that connected to helmets, which covered their heads and the tops of their faces. Only their mouths and jaws were visible. Each one held one of Cruikshank’s guns.

Did the captain know about this? Was this why she’d mentioned the double pairing? Maybe this had something to do with the Marchioness summoning him.

Rafe approached the two guards.

One of them put a hand up. “Stop.”

“I’m here to see the Marchioness.”

“The Marchioness isn’t seeing anyone at the moment.”

“Well, she summoned me. My name is Rafe Standorr, and I’m a Varanguard.” It annoyed him to have to introduce himself—normally any Varanguard on duty knew him.

The guards didn’t budge. “We’re under strict orders not to let anyone into the Marchioness’s office.”

Rafe’s frown deepened, but he hesitated. Whatever the issue was, maybe the Marchioness now required privacy, and he could hardly go barging in if she’d given orders not to be disturbed. All the same, he didn’t like the guard’s tone of voice.

“What are your names?”

They didn’t answer.

“I asked for your names. I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.”

“You don’t need to know that. Now leave before we send word to your superior that you’re causing a disturbance at the Marchioness’s office.”

Rafe glared, sorely tempted to snap back at them. You should always act like a Varanguard. He took a breath, gave the guards a final dirty look, and walked away.

Paranoia was an important part of being a Varanguard, so he went to look up who was supposed to be on guard duty at the office right now. One of the two Varanguards was Agatha, who he knew well. He found her at the barracks reading a book.

“I just came from the Marchioness’s office,” he told her as he walked in, not bothering with greetings. “Why aren’t you there? Have you seen her? And those armoured guards, who are they?”

Agatha looked up. “She gave us the rest of the day off. She’s apparently looking to experiment with having armoured guards with guns at her office door.” She grinned. “Don’t worry, it’s all above board.”

Rafe nodded, relieved. “Glad to hear it. But you saw the Marchioness yourself? She was fine?”

Agatha frowned. “Of course she was. Would I have left if she weren’t?”

Rafe shook his head ruefully. “You’re right. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be critical. I was just making sure. It’s such an unexpected change to see them at her door instead of Varanguards.”

“Yeah. Hopefully it’s just temporary. I didn’t like them, either, especially since their eyes are hidden. It makes them look dodgy.”

Rafe heartily agreed with that.

CHAPTER 5

Longinus

Longinus rubbed a hand over the thin stubble he had decided to wear today—little more than a five o’clock shadow, nice and neat, to complement his military attire while adding a little ruggedness. He’d finally listened to Rory’s repeated suggestion that he shave off his moustache. While taking any kind of advice from Rory on matters of appearance was like asking a blind man for his opinion on colours, Longinus had to admit he quite liked himself sans moustache. 

He was looking over a set of documents he’d received earlier in the day—he hadn’t had a chance to read them until now, given everything with Adelma—and he was feeling more than a little bemused. 

“She’s still sleeping,” Rory announced on entering the sitting room.

Longinus looked up. “That’s good news. Her body will need time to recover from all the abuse it has suffered. Once she’s had a few days to get through withdrawal, I shall begin my work to help with her phantom hand pains.” 

“It’s awful, seeing her like this,” Rory whispered. She dropped into a chair. 

“I know. I hate it too. However, I haven’t lost my faith and confidence in Adelma. If anyone’s indestructible, it’s her. This is just a temporary setback—she’ll come back to herself, bigger and stronger than ever.” 

“Will she? She’s lost a lot, Longinus. Radish, her right hand…”

Longinus nodded. Their return to Damsport had made clear how much everyone had been fooled by Adelma’s tough facade all this time. The loss of her hand was bad, but Longinus, and indeed everyone, had expected Adelma to fight her way through in her signature style. 

Reality, however, had failed to match their expectations. Adelma seemed to have broken in some way, the loss of her hand acting like the last nail in the coffin of an already bad situation. He guessed that Adelma hadn’t been herself for a while, but she’d managed to keep that very effectively hidden. 

“What was she like before she lost Radish?” he asked. 

“That’s the thing. She was the same as before she lost her hand. Always liked a drink, always liked a fight, always seemed like nothing could affect her.” Rory shook her head, her shoulders sagging further. “I should have spotted that she weren’t doing well. And it’s because of me that she lost her hand, so now—” 

“Rory, the blame for that lies squarely at the White Hornet’s door. We don’t have the luxury of letting despair or sadness or guilt take over. Yes, we can acknowledge the tragedy of seeing someone of such strength and character be suddenly so reduced, but we cannot wallow.” Longinus’s military outfit was the perfect accessory for this. It simply wasn’t possible to give in to negative sentiment when wearing such a jacket. 

He stood up, setting down the documents and picking up his riding crop once more.