Chương 23: Sins of the Father

What should arise from possibility? Every stone contains within it a thousand stones, yet only ever appears as one. Chip the stone; countless possibilities have vanished and countless remain. Place it in the ocean; the water grinds it to sand. The thousand stones were no less real than the sand. The sand is no more real than the stone that was. The world is water, ever flowing. Men despair of this, but impermanence does not deny meaning. A brick need not be eternal to build a house.

Do not despair of the thousand men inside you that shall never be, nor dwell on your own end. Instead, rejoice; you are endowed with life and may carve your own shape. Wield your chisel and strike with conviction. The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Union. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD) The wind blew and buffeted Michael as he ran, the light from overhead dimming under the ring of stormclouds that had sprung into being around Leik.

Hard pellets of snow whipped into his cheek and brow; he closed his eyes and pressed forward. Gerard emerged from the storm ahead of him, slower than Michael - his eyes, too, were squinted closed against the wind. For Gerard, however, that meant blindness. Michael took his arm and helped the man forward. The snow turned to sleet, then at once a torrent of rain as they emerged into the late-summer air on the far side.

Sudden humidity assaulted Michael's lungs, his chilled skin flushing with pinpricks as warm rain sluiced down from above. A laugh escaped Michael's lips, he found himself lost in the exhilaration of it, the sodden mess of his clothing and their stumbling flight from the battle that still resounded behind them. There was no joy in it; not all laughter is joyful. It was only the recognition that they had brushed close to titanic, uncaring forces and somehow come away whole.

The light still flickered from the clouds behind them where Stellar pressed her assault against the unfortunate Safid navy. The adrenaline began to taper with the rain, and Michael shivered. Jeorg had spoken so fondly of his time in Mendian and of the country itself that Michael had imagined it a land of rest and peace, of calm and knowledge. Perhaps it was. What he had just seen was raw power cast into the sky and sea, though, metal turned to slag as the storm of its summoning raged over Leik.

Were these the people he had been striving to meet? Suddenly Michael felt unsure. It was difficult to reconcile Jeorg's tales of enlightened civilization and science with the irresistible brutality they had fled. Gerard stumbled to a halt, his chest heaving as he doubled half-over to catch his breath.

"Ghar's ashes," he panted, wiping rain from his face.

"And the Emperor's fucking corpse. I never want to see anything that beautiful again." He straightened up and looked around, then began to trudge wearily forward.

"Did you see the others while we were running?" Michael shook his head.

"They were ahead of us," he said.

"I think Charles and Clair are together, Vernon took off on his own."

"He was smart, he didn't stop to look," Gerard chuckled, doffing his cap to wring it dry.

"Ghar's bloody bones. It's one thing to read about the Judgments of the Star throughout history, but I had never imagined - I'm used to thinking of the Eight like they're more of Sobriquet." He plopped the cap back on his head and gave Michael a rueful grin.

"It seems I was mistaken. That woman was a storm made flesh."

"I apologize for being so underwhelming," Sobriquet murmured. Michael managed not to jump this time, the chill shock of surprise lost amid the tapering rush from their flight. Instead he turned until the edge of the blur began to shimmer in his vision and gave his perhaps-ally a tolerant look.

"From your levity, I assume the others are fine," Michael said.

"Quite so, though none so much as you," Sobriquet said.

"You're not even out of breath. Are you sure you're a spector and not a durens?" Michael pressed his lips together. He hadn't been thinking of hiding his preternatural endurance, and Sobriquet would surely spot a lie this closely-tied to matters of his soul.

"I should think it would have been obvious were that the case, back in Leik," he replied. Sobriquet only hummed in response, though Michael once again had the impression that the shimmering figure was smiling at him. After a moment Gerard stretched and walked to stand next to them.

"So where are we headed?" he asked.

"Regroup, or just meet back at the safehouse?"

"The others have already left for the safehouse," Sobriquet said.

"Lingering here would be unwise. That storm will eventually spread, and the Ardans will be in a foul mood for dealing with it." Gerard nodded and set off, evidently having regained his bearings; Michael fell in behind. After several steps, however, he looked to the side and found Sobriquet still floating alongside him.

"You're going to accompany us?" he asked, looking away from the shimmer.

"I thought you said that would draw attention." Sobriquet laughed.

"I stand out rather less now, I think. What spectors or auspices the the Ardans have are undoubtedly drawn to the forces of Mendian rather than our little party. Besides, I had rather hoped to hear your thoughts on the matter, as one so closely-tied to events." Michael felt a small chill once more.

"Oh?" he asked.

"Your travel plans," Sobriquet said, sounding amused.

"Obviously. You intend to visit Mendian, and here they are visiting you first." It moved to drift along on his other side, brushing close behind him.

"I tend not to believe in coincidence. What we call coincidence is often just a veneer of happenstance over obscured intentions - don't you agree, Michael?"

"Sometimes things just happen," Michael said, gritting his teeth.

"It's difficult to argue that there were obscured intentions in this event, since most parties involved were fairly overt - with you as the exception." Sobriquet floated a bit closer, bobbing along beside Michael as he walked.

"I cannot help but be who I am," it said.

"Nor can anyone, I suppose. Still - one's origins and nature can weight preference, but it is ultimately our choice what to become. I wonder if you have thought closely on the subject, given - recent revelations." It drifted closer still, its voice dropping low.

"I wonder if you will tell me what you want, Michael Baumgart," it murmured.

"People keep asking me that," Michael said, his brow furrowing in irritation.

"Must I always have an answer ready?" Sobriquet's form spun further away, though its voice still sounded close to Michael's ear.

"They only ask because the answer threatens to be relevant," it said.

"Noteworthy. Potentially problematic."

"Then what is it that you want?" Michael asked.

"I rather prefer when we keep our exchanges of secrets balanced."

"But that is no secret at all. You already know what it is that I want." There was a pulse of light around the blur, illusory and faint.

"Daressa for Daressans, free from the boots of Ardalt and Saf on its soil. And yes, even free of Mendian. I wish for my country to exist in quiet prosperity and fear no aggressor." Michael smiled.

"And I wish the same for myself," he said.

"To exist quietly, content and without fear."

"Ah," Sobriquet said, twirling slowly in place.

"Such a simple request, yet so hard to achieve. There are so many who insist on being intrusive."

"I'm sure I've never met any of those," Michael muttered. Sobriquet made an indistinct noise.

"You wound me. I am merely inquisitive, since knowledge is the tool I wield in pursuit of my goal. Should I allow trivial things like decorum to rob me of capability? What use is it being circumspect if it costs the liberty of a nation?" There was a pause, and Sobriquet swung back to float on his other side.

"I have an inhuman power," it purred.

"And my adversaries can boast the same. Why then should our conflict tiptoe within human limits?" Michael pressed his lips into a line.

"Do you think it is a good thing to abandon your humanity?" he asked.

"There are things souls can do that should not - must not be done. Mere capability does not justify an action."

"You really are a little lord," Sobriquet murmured, its voice quieter and closer than ever before.

"Things that must not be done? What sort of things are those? I imagine you refer to actions like arranging the death of thousands of innocent Daressans for a strategic advantage, yes? It seems a hazy concept, but then again I did not have a father such as Karl Baumgart to teach me."

"I'm not defending him," Michael said, clenching his fists.

"He isn't a good man, but his actions do not excuse further evil. There must be limits-""Where?" Sobriquet asked, its voice dropping to a low monotone.

"Tell me where the limits are, Lord Baumgart. Was it too far, to subject that soldier to torment as I did? The man who helped feed and quarter murderers, who strained to protect them despite the horrors I inflicted on his mind? You wept to see the bodies of the dead; I can assure you that I showed him far worse." The blur floated uncomfortably close; Michael felt the prickling energy of it on his skin.

"Call me uncivilized as you will," it said.

"But civil society does not exist despite such acts of barbarity, nor in opposition to them. If you want to see the bare knife of civilization, turn around and gaze at the Star. This is the price of its upkeep. You will not see Leire Gabarain agonizing over exercising her will and power." Michael felt a little shock as Sobriquet spoke, his thoughts interrupted by the familiar name. Sobriquet, too, paused. Stolen novel; please report.

"I suppose I should not be surprised that her name is tied to your secrets," it said.

"But you did not know that she was the Star of Mendian? You once again prove to be a curiously-made sort of person." The apparition faded, and Sobriquet's voice echoed faintly in his ears.

"You are connected to great workings, even if I cannot yet see the role of a mere spector. If your time comes to intervene, remember that those who act to defend an ideal do not always have the luxury of following it." The voice faded, and Sobriquet was gone - though its words lingered in Michael's mind. That was Jeorg's friend and mentor, hurling incandescent death down upon the ocean? This was the woman he had come to the continent to see?

There was a disconnect between the wise, kind woman Jeorg had described and the one who was killing men behind him as the unwitting pawn of his father's ploy. Jeorg had tried to adapt her teachings to Ardalt and ended up with the Institute. Michael had assumed its state was a result of Spark co-opting the organization for his own ends, but the reality of the Institute seemed to adhere much more closely to Mendian's example than he had assumed.

He found himself questioning much as his feet trudged forward past fields and trees, numbly following Gerard away from the city. Eventually, Gerard moved off the side of the trail; Michael did not notice the diversion until the other man stopped. Michael looked up, then around.

"We're not going to the safehouse?" he asked.

"We won't make it before nightfall," Gerard said, shrugging his pack off and stretching.

"I don't want to be caught out at night, not when we've got that storm about to spill out on top of us." Gerard walked over to a small outcrop of rock, letting his fingers rest on a protruding ridge. The stone flowed and bent at his touch until he stood before a small opening, invisible from the road and sheltered from the elements by an overhang. Stone disgorged from within to form a loose windbreak that further disguised his work from casual inspection. The artifex withdrew his hand and stepped back, pleased.

"There," he said.

"A damn sight better than sleeping outside." Michael moved his sight to peer through the entryway and found two small raised platforms inside, as well as outcrops for their gear. It was impressive, especially for the short time Gerard had spent forming it, and he said as much - to which the other man laughed and shook his head.

"Never thought I'd impress an Ardan lord with my shaping," he chuckled.

"I thought your beds would be made of more comfortable stuff than stone."

"I'm not - that was an act," Michael protested, feeling off-balance at Gerard's casual tone.

"Sobriquet-" Gerard waved him off.

"You're as bad a liar as the boss," he said dismissively.

"You think I care where you're from? Everyone here had different lives, once. You helped us out, you pulled my ass through the storm well enough - and the boss vouched for you, one way or the other."

"Yes, well - I think Sobriquet may be reconsidering that decision," Michael grumbled.

"We don't see eye to eye on a lot." There was a short, quick laugh from Gerard.

"I think you've got the wrong impression of our little group," he said.

"We're not in this together because we like each other. Charles - he's an animal. Likes killing a bit too much. But right now we need someone who can do a bit of killing, and he's reliable. The boss is a fanatic, but right now we need someone who has that strength of belief." He raised an eyebrow and looked at Michael.

"And you, you're kind of a spoiled shit. But you're young, and you're out here instead of wherever they normally keep people like you. I figure if you can spend enough time with your head out in the air instead of up your own ass, you might actually turn into a decent kind of person. As decent as they get in a war, anyway."

"I - thanks?" Michael ventured, unsure whether to feel insulted.

"I didn't come here to get involved in your fight, though."

"Seems like you were already," Gerard pointed out.

"Life's funny like that. We don't always get to choose what we fight for, or who we fight with. Sometimes you're just clawing to keep whatever scraps you can." He bent down and picked up a loose bit of rock, rolling it around in his palm as the stone flowed into a round ball.

"We're lucky, you and I. Folks like us can change things if we want to - if we're willing to risk what it takes to make that change. Most men will never have more power than a gun in their hands, and they'll likely die as a part of someone else's gambit. What they want doesn't matter. What we want - well, it might someday."

"And what do you want?" Michael asked. Gerard laughed again.

"The same thing you do," he said, wagging a finger at Michael's stricken look.

"My hearing isn't that bad. I want to wake up late in the morning with a sweet girl by my side. I want wine in the evening, and music. I want to make statues and little carvings out of stone and give them to the people I love."

"That's very specific," Michael noted. The other man's smile fell, and he let the stone drop.

"You're out here risking your life," he said.

"You should know what for. The world doesn't wait for you to figure it out. If you're not out there hammering it into shape, someone else will - and most of the time, you're not going to like what they have in mind." Gerard seemed on the precipice of saying something else, but instead shook his head and ducked into the impromptu shelter he had made. Michael sat behind the windbreak and watched the sky as it darkened - first to twilight, and then with the hazy malevolence of storm clouds spilling out from Leik.

When the first fat drops of rain began to fall he went inside and laid on the vacant platform. He did not see his future with Gerard's clarity, nor with Sobriquet's vehemence. What definition he had for it mostly centered upon things he did not want - violence, fear, control. Yet bereft of these he was left with a blank. A void, and he had rejected that before any of the others. It began to disturb him that he could not think of anything to paint over it. What did peace look like, for him?

The time in Jeorg's garden had been peaceful, but it had been Jeorg's peace - and by his own admission, a paradise borne of avoiding responsibility. Sibyl's refuge was isolation. Spark's idyll had been a peace of dominance, where he stood alone among those he controlled. His father did not believe in peace at all, at least not as a lasting state. Perhaps it was enough to start with what he did not want, and search for what he did along the way.

Gerard was right, there were other men attempting to beat the world into a particular shape - men like Karl Baumgart. He had seen the world his father meant to make in Leik, strewn with dead children in the name of further violence. He could not see his peace yet - but whatever form it took, Michael did not think he could find it alongside his father's war.

Michael stared up at the darkened roof of their shelter until sleep began to show him dreams of endless dead with his father's signature dripping bloodred from each corpse. He woke amid the ghoulish spectacle, heart pounding and sweat soaking his clothes. Michael did not sleep more that night, nor did he want to. Gerard and Michael returned to the safehouse as the rains diminished the following morning, gratefully dropping their packs and washing up in the cramped living quarters.

The underground space was bustling with activity, full of quiet conversation and dim metallic sounds as partisans stripped, cleaned and reassembled rifles.

"Took you long enough," Charles said, punching Gerard roughly on the shoulder.

"Did the little lord make you carry him?"

"Closer to the opposite," Gerard replied cheerfully.

"How long have you been back?" Charles made a face.

"Since late last night. Clair wouldn't hear of waiting out the storm, charged right on through the dark like a maniac." Gerard gave Michael a smug look, then coughed and glanced around the room.

"Where's she at?" he asked.

"Giving Sobriquet an earful," the metal artifex said with a grimace.

"She's been behind the screen for over an hour now - the boss is keeping it from leaking through but I guarantee she's been shouting the whole time-" The last panel of the screen swung aside to reveal Clair, who stormed out with murder written in every line of her face. She veered towards the living quarters without a sideways glance at those who had stopped their business at the clamor. A moment later she had vanished into the darkened sleeping area, and the safehouse slowly buzzed back to life.

Michael turned to Gerard with an inquiring look, but the artifex only shrugged.

"Happens," he said.

"Clair has never withheld her opinion. The boss, the Ardans, us - it matters not a bit, if she has something for you to hear then you're damn well going to hear it."

"I'll take that under advisement," Michael said.

"I expect she's got some things to say to me." Charles snorted.

"Don't flatter yourself. You're not the first Ardan we've worked with, nor the first with a title. If she had something to say about that, you'd have heard it already."

"At this point I'm wondering why Sobriquet bothered with that lie at all," Michael said, raising an eyebrow.

"It seems like none of you were convinced." Gerard sucked in air through his teeth, shooting a glance at the dividing screen.

"It's something you get used to after a while," he said.

"The boss will tell obvious lies or avoid answering when the conversation draws too close to certain topics. It's a hint to stop pushing. Their soul works in secrets, and sometimes that means certain things stay unspoken."

"So in the tent, Sobriquet lied knowing none of you would believe it?" Michael asked. There was a quick, flinty grin from Charles.

"The words were a lie," he said.

"The message was that your identity wasn't a problem. True in generalities, and wrong in particulars." Michael looked back at the artifex; there had been an unsettling tone to his voice as he spoke.

"And just like that, it's not a problem?" Michael asked.

"Oh, it matters," Charles said, idly drawing a strand of metal from one of his armbands. It flowed between his fingers, amorphous and shimmering in the dim light.

"It's just not a concern for the moment." Gerard rolled his eyes and gave Michael an apologetic look.

"We don't worry about spies or saboteurs here," he explained.

"We don't need to. If you've been vetted by Sobriquet, you're either an asset or you're dead."

"Clair still seems to worry," Michael pointed out.

"At least in my case." Charles gave Michael an unkind smile.

"Clair has her own reasons for not relying on-" He cut off with a gasp as a fist slammed into his kidney from behind, then staggered sideways. Clair stepped forward into the space he had occupied and gave him an arch look.

"Gossip is a filthy habit," she said, kicking him lightly in the leg; the strike deflected off of hard metal under his clothing even as the impact sent him down on his rear. Charles shot her a murderous glare; she had already turned away to face Michael.

"So, my lord, it would seem you've fulfilled the initial part of your bargain. Unfortunately, we must act first on the leads you helped obtain before sending you on your way. You'll be safe here until we're ready to move you." Michael nodded, feeling an oddly hollow ache that had nothing to do with his soul for once. The bloody scrawl of his father's handwriting lingered in his mind, the dream-images all too persistent. Clair's words were a dismissal. He could simply wait and go to Mendian.

Mendian, land of pragmatic butchers. Michael thought about revealing his soul to them, of explaining to Leire Gabarain that he held two of the Eight within him. She would teach him to control Spark, and perhaps Stanza as well. He would have nothing to fear from his soul - and Mendian would have gained a powerful asset. Another image drifted into his mind, of an airship like the one from the previous day.

Michael stood on the platform at its fore, and on the side was emblazoned a great tree with its roots wrapped snakelike around a human heart. A city sat below him, indistinct in the haze but buzzing with alarm as they espied the airship, heard the deafening voice informing them of Mendian's judgment. Michael stretched out his hand and saw Stanza's light limn the distant edges of the city- He shook himself, feeling faintly sick.

Michael noticed that Gerard was giving him an odd look; he had no idea how long he had been lost in thought but it had apparently been noticeable. Clair had not changed her expression, looking at him with detached disinterest.

"You're going to the western front first?" Michael asked.

"You think you can find the proof you're looking for there?" Clair shrugged.

"It is the lead we have. If we can prove to Mendian that Ardalt made fools of them, their vengeance should be swift and comprehensive. It is the best chance I can see for clearing the War from Daressan lands." She tilted her head to look at Michael.

"Why? You think it isn't worth the risk?" Michael bit his lip, feeling the thready chill of adrenaline in his chest. Jeorg had wanted him to go to Mendian, so Michael had tried to go. It was safe there, at least against the more immediate dangers that he could perceive. A part of him screamed to sit quietly in the safehouse and let Sobriquet whisk him to Mendian, let Leire shape him into whatever she pleased. That path was clear and bright in his mind, all the way to its eventual end.

Michael shuddered as the image of the airship once again intruded into his mind. Yet, there was no sure footing if he stepped off the path. The only other ways forward he could see were twisted and murky, choked with the bodies of his father's victims - and perhaps Michael's own. Jeorg's amused voice sounded in his head. Never fear risk, or change. But - only seek it deliberately. For things that matter.

"Actually," Michael said, raising his head to look Clair in the eye.

"I was wondering if you could use a spector."