Chương 86: Limits

Medical Group 1-5: West Tents Medical Group 6-10: North Tents Medical Group 11-16: South Tents East tents are on patrol in the morning, all groups should begin their daily maintenance for East platoons in the afternoon as they finish with their assigned duties. Medical groups without current tasks should report to Central Admin for reassignment! Note that our stocks of heavy protective gear are temporarily in use for special assignments.

Teams on rotation in section North 3 should attend to priority cases only, and reserve regular maintenance for only those soldiers tasked to ice manufacturing or other essential camp duties. South and West tents are all on duty tonight, please prioritize those quadrants over North if there is a need. It is essential that both on-duty groups be brought up to a high standard of readiness before tonight's operations. Lunch in the mess today is schnitzel with Esroun-style bean salad.

- Daily Bulletin for Waning 2, 693, Stahm Camp C Michael extended the trail forward through a dense growth of underbrush, barely noting the neat partition of the forest. They had been walking for most of an hour since sending the two terrified obruors on their way to Stahm, yet the strain of using his soul had yet to make itself felt. It might have been the benefit of practice, he supposed. It certainly wasn't that he was better-rested; he had slept only a few hours last night.

He shook his head, walking down the newly-made trail. Through the valley to the end, then up the northern pass, the obruors had said. The camp is down the slope on the far side. They had said more than that, of course. Michael had severely underestimated how much his display of Spark's power would loosen their tongues; the two men had talked freely about any question he asked, and per Sobriquet neither had dared to lie. The obruors had not had all the answers he sought, though.

If Luc was at the camp, they had not seen him. No fighting had broken out, no word had come of any mysterious sicknesses or fires. What they had seen, and what they were happy to describe in detail, was the Institute's grand plan to insulate itself from Karl Baumgart's ambitions. He let his sight drift up to check their course, orienting himself towards the distant spread of tents and rough buildings that had proliferated across the isolated valley ahead.

It was massive, putting even the Mendiko war camps to shame with its sprawl. All of the critical personnel had been quietly moved out of cities, the key ensouled and administrators relocating to prearranged camps like this one. Resources had been laid in secret against this very eventuality, caches of materials, ammunition and food stored away from prying eyes. Jeorg, it seemed, was not the only one who had taken Leire's lessons to heart.

Spark's Institute was fully prepared for the inevitability of his death, a bureaucratic machine designed to spin on when the soul at its core disappeared. It was unclear, though, what they could hope to accomplish without Assembly funding and support, a scattering of fugitives in rural backwaters without even the most basic of services. It had puzzled Michael; he had put the question to the two obruors.

One of them, a short, thin man who had done the majority of the talking, looked up at him radiating an unmistakable smug pride.

"The mission of the Institute was always to reshape Ardan society into something more perfect," he had said.

"Being cut out of its fabric doesn't make our job harder. It makes it much, much easier." The obruor's conviction echoed in Michael's ears as he led their group down the slope, crossing the small river at the valley's bottom and finally emerging onto the broad, flat basin where the Institute had made their camp. Rows upon rows of tents were set up with mechanical precision, their fabric still bearing creases from long years in storage.

The cloth glistened with packing grease; Michael could smell an odd chemical scent even at this distance. Further away they had erected proper buildings of timber and artificed stone, although each still bore signs of active construction. But no men walked in the long aisles between the tents, and only a few distant figures moved by the larger administrative buildings. There was an eerie resemblance to Spark's ramshackle city on Braun Island, with its empty facades of buildings and deserted streets.

This one was not empty, though. Michael had paused just before letting the obruors go, having given them strict instruction (and from Sobriquet, threats) to take their enthralled Ardan troops to a particular doctor in Stahm; mentioning the irascible doctor had jogged something loose in Michael's memory that now made no sense.

"Hang on," he had said, frowning at the two captives.

"If there wasn't any fighting at the camp, and no mysterious illnesses-" Michael's sight stretched forward to the nearest rows of tents, peering inside the canvas to see what he feared was there. Men sat quietly on their cots, clad in full uniform with their rifles at the ready. Their eyes were deadened, dull, staring straight ahead at whatever lay before them, be that their squadmates or blank canvas.

They might have been normal soldiers taking their ease but for that utter lack of motion, even in the face of things that would have normally spurred them to activity. One man had soiled himself, a slow drip falling from his cot to the floor; he sat unmoving, his face neutral. Another man had a sore on his cheek buzzing with flies, still another was bleeding freely from his nose. This last man's face was pale, his uniform a sodden crimson mess.

It had merited the attention of a doctor, who was busy twisting up snippets of gauze to stem the flow of blood, grumbling and stained to the elbows with all manner of effluvia. The medic looked harried, and as Michael spread his gaze further he saw why. Every tent was full.

"None of them went home," Michael murmured.

"Every soldier from the continent, they kept them - here, or places like this. Pacified, waiting." Zabala frowned.

"If all of those tents are full, that's - hogei, hogeita lau. Arraio." He fell silent for a moment, performing his count again.

"There's fifteen thousand men here, easily."

"I suppose they had a choice," Unai said.

"They had these soldiers under their thumb for months, these men won't simply stand up and go back to their lives. Most of them will be like the men we saw abandoned in Daressa - catatonic at best, or a danger to those around them. They could release them, and suffer that outrage." Unai's face was blank, his eyes staring coldly at the encampment.

"Or they could press harder. The men won't bear it for long, but until their bodies fail and their minds degrade past even the point of obruor control - this army answers to the Institute alone."

"This isn't some effort at a resistance movement," Sobriquet said grimly.

"This is civil war, and I'd say the Institute has the advantage in men." Lars nodded shakily, his face bone-white.

"Decidedly," he rasped.

"I recall talking with a logistician some months before the withdrawal began, and he mentioned that Ardalt was thinning its home guard in service of the War. They didn't - the Safid had never so much as sailed a ship past our coasts. Even if that changed, our navy would see them coming, we'd have time to redeploy."

"A bad assumption, apparently," Michael said. He had been moving his sight from tent to tent as the others talked, his eyes scanning across one dull face after another. They had long since begun to blur together; he shook his head and pulled himself back to the edge of the forest. He turned to find the others watching him. Sobriquet wore obvious concern on her face while Unai and Zabala shared a granite stoicism.

Charles, by contrast, looked positively gleeful; Michael could almost see the death throes of Ardalt playing out behind his eyes. Lars was already turning back towards the camp, the terrible pull of it too much for his eyes to avoid. His eyes kept flicking back to Michael, though, as did those of the other Ardans in the squad. Even without Spark their thoughts would have been plain, almost written on their faces. That was almost us.

Except for- Michael restrained a grimace as he felt the concurrent upswell of something warmer than fear. He had done little to save these men from this particular fate; that had been Vera dancing around behind Ardan lines, breaking Institute control. He had been in no position to aid them. As with these men. He frowned and spared another glance for the camp, then turned away.

"Come on," he said.

"There's nothing for us here." Lars's eyes widened.

"Nothing?" he repeated.

"The men-""We're here for Luc," Michael said.

"And Luc's not here. His soul isn't a subtle one; if Stellar had fought here we'd know." He paused. More than a few of the soldiers had their jaws clenched, a mutinous twinkle in their eyes.

"I wish we could help these men," Michael said, softer.

"But there are limits. Most of them are already dead, or close enough to it. Maybe there are a few lucky ones I could save, but - in the middle of this?" He gestured to the camp.

"Thousands of raving, dying men, or troops still under the control of their minders? We'd be lucky to get away ourselves, much less save any of the soldiers." There was no small amount of grumbling as he said it, despite a few grudging nods. Lars remained troubled, though, his eyes fixed on the camp; Zabala watched him stonily for a moment – then sighed and walked up to lay a hand on the Ardan captain's shoulder. He murmured a few words that Michael did not hear.

Lars hesitated, then nodded slowly, his shoulders drooping.

"Back to Stahm, then?" Sobriquet asked.

"If he's not going after the Institute-" Michael frowned.

"He may yet be. We used our familiarity with Ardalt to find this camp, but Luc doesn't have that. He doesn't know they pulled out of the cities. He'll seek them out where he expects to find them."

"I agree," Unai said.

"When he went to confront Saleh, he approached him directly. A direct approach to the Institute would see Luc on a course to Calmharbor." Michael's mind unhelpfully supplied images of light bursting from the streets of the Ardan capital, its trees crisping and burning while neatly-pointed bricks cracked and melted to run red-hot across the cobbles.

"That's not ideal," he muttered.

"There are millions living there. Sibyl is there. Even if she isn't inclined to help my father's administration, she wouldn't let Luc draw close without sounding the alarm."

"And who will respond?" Lars asked.

"We've just learned that the bulk of Ardalt's forces are bound up in camps like this, with the remainder to shortly come under their fire. There is Lord Sever and his Swordsman, of course – but against Stellar I would not say their victory is assured." Sobriquet exchanged a glance with Charles.

"Did you ever think, at the start of this," she murmured, "that we'd be in a position to save Ardalt?" Charles sniggered unkindly, oblivious to the stares the soldiers were directing his way.

"Must we?" he asked.

"There's plenty here that should burn." Michael gave them both a reproachful look, then returned his attention to Lars.

"I suppose it's down to us," he said.

"It's what we came here to do, after all. We'll need transport to Calmharbor – another ship out of Stahm, perhaps, we should have enough funds left for that. With any luck we'll be able to find Luc before he causes any harm – and before the Institute escalates whatever this madness is they have planned into real conflict." Lars looked back towards the camp for a long moment.

"Is there truly nothing we can do to help them?" he asked.

"But for a touch of luck, it would be us in those tents." Michael pressed his lips together, then slowly shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Lars," he said.

"But our pursuit of Luc must come first. You heard the obruors talking; the Institute's plans are already in motion, their forces are consolidated. There's nothing a handful of men could do to stop a new war in Ardalt, not at this juncture – but we may yet be able to prevent one in Daressa." He grimaced.

"We can at least spare the people here from whatever destruction Luc's presence might inflict upon them." There was only a small nod of acknowledgment from Lars; Michael could tell that their inaction did not sit well with the men. The camp demanded their focus, loomed in their minds until they could think of nothing else.

"Come on," Michael sighed, turning back towards Stahm.

"We have work to do." It was late afternoon by the time they made it back to the port. Michael made a beeline for the harbormaster's office, marching past rows of posters with his father's leering face until he reached the rickety, salt-marked door. The clerk inside greeted him with an unimpressed stare. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"I'm looking for passage to Calmharbor for sixteen," he said.

"Any ships available?" A slow blink from the clerk was his only response. Glacially, the man reached across his desk to take a sheet of paper marked with timetables; he studied it at length. Michael would have almost thought his presence had been forgotten, save that he could feel the amusement bubbling away behind those disinterested eyes. Michael stared in mild disbelief at the clerk as he continued to pretend at studying the paper.

"Our timetable is rather strict," he said, keeping his voice even despite a steady swell of irritation within him.

"If there is a fee for expedited processing-""Tomorrow," the clerk said.

"I don't have any more ships setting out today, not for Calmharbor. There is a freighter departing just after midday that has some free stowage; if you wish to inquire with the captain I can direct you to him." Michael opened his mouth to thank the man, but the clerk raised his hand.

"For a fee," the man said.

"Five crowns." Michael glared at him; the sum was tantamount to robbery. The clerk seemed unbothered by his expression, though, leavening his amusement with slight anticipation for the money. The man's smug entitlement spurred another flare of irritation. Lives hung in the balance while this milquetoast bureaucrat held up their course for a bribe, sapping their limited funds.

The impulse came upon Michael to do anything but pay the man – to seek elsewhere for information, to talk to captains directly, to stalk up to the desk, grab the infuriating little man by the neck and see how he resisted a question asked in Spark's voice- Michael's eyes slid closed, and he took a breath. What was wrong with him?

The port town teemed with restless emotion, yes, and his own day had been trying thus far, but there was little call to contemplate violence against a man who was, although admittedly annoying, not harming anything save for his pocketbook. That it had come into his mind so readily disturbed him. He took another breath, long and slow, letting the light within him spread out to every corner of his being. It was warm, solid; it felt as though he was fixing himself more firmly into the world.

After another moment he opened his eyes to see the clerk looking at him.

"If you are unable to pay," the man said, "I will do my best to provide the information, but I cannot guarantee when I might find such a captain. The delay could be extensive."

"No," Michael sighed, reaching into a pocket and withdrawing five large coins; he placed them on the desk one by one, pressing each with his finger until he heard the wood creak. His smile grew.

"I'm sure the fee reflects the quality of the service I'm about to receive." The clerk paled; the paper slipped from his hands. His eyes flitted to the coins on the table, then back to Michael. Slowly, he picked up one of the coins, his attention lingering on the slight indent they left in his desktop.

"I may have spoken in error," he said quietly.

"There's no need for a fee-""Rules are rules," Michael said cheerfully.

"Even if they mandate a steep fee. Wouldn't want to get you in trouble, would we? Now – you said there was a ship tomorrow afternoon that we might make use of?"

"Let me check my files," the clerk said, licking his lips.

"There might be an earlier departure I can direct you to." Michael clapped his hands together sharply; the clerk flinched.

"Excellent," he said.

"I'm confident you'll find something appropriate." He waited by the desk as the clerk rifled through folders with barely-restrained nerves, looming only slightly. There was a disembodied chuckle by his ear.

"You're horrible," Sobriquet's voice said.

"The poor man."

"Five crowns?" Michael murmured.

"I'm basically letting him pick my pocket."

"To be fair, you look like you can afford it," she replied.

"If it bothers you that much, you could take the coins back. I don't think he'd object at this point." Michael hesitated, then shook his head minutely.

"No," he said.

"I need to pay him."

"You really don't," Sobriquet said.

"We could use that money for-""Sera." Michael's voice rose a little more than he had intended, and the clerk looked up in alarm. He smiled and shook his head, gesturing for the other man to return to his work.

"Not going to use my soul here," he said, dropping his voice once more.

"I'm going to pay the man, just like anyone else would."

"When I said I wanted to break you of your aristocratic habits, this is not where I had imagined we'd start," she grumbled.

"But fine; you do as you please." She fell silent, and a few moments later the clerk handed Michael a slip of paper with a pier and a name noted.

"The captain should be there after first light tomorrow," he said hesitantly.

"The ship leaves before midday. Was there anything else, sir?" Michael favored him with a smile.

"No," he said.

"I think that will be all. You've been very helpful. Perhaps the next time I come through here, I'll seek you out again." The clerk paled.

"I shall look forward to it," he rasped.

"Have a pleasant day."

"And you." Michael gave the man a friendly nod, then turned to leave. Once outside, he walked back to join the others where they were idling in a disused corner of the quay, well away from pedestrians who might bump into their veiled figures.

"Tomorrow morning?" Sobriquet asked.

"That's what it looks like," Michael agreed.

"I suppose we'll have to find a place to rest in Stahm for the night. Voss, any suggestions?" The soldier looked up at hearing his name, startled.

"Not sure," he said.

"When I lived here, I had a house. Plenty of inns by the quay, though they're not the most reputable." Zabala snorted.

"I'm sure we'll manage," he muttered.

"What pier is the ship leaving from? If we're going to sleep in a sty, it may as well be close to our berth."

"Looks like – fifteen," Michael said, squinting at the clerk's spidery handwriting. The man's hand had been shaking when he wrote, which hadn't aided matters.

"I believe that's north from here." They proceeded north without incident, managing to locate a relatively clean inn across from the indicated pier. After some awkward negotiations with the innkeep and yet more of their coin, they were able to rent the top floor of the building. By the time they managed to get everyone upstairs without colliding with the other patrons or arousing suspicion from the innkeep, the sun was mostly set.

Michael moved to his room's sole window, peering through the smudged glass at lights kindling up and down the dock. People still moved through the market despite the late hour, vendors eager to unload product while the light was too poor for their customers to get a proper look at it. He watched for a moment, then turned as Sobriquet slipped into the room carrying two mugs in her hand and a small box of food tucked under her arm.

"The men are eating in one of the other rooms," she said.

"If you wanted to stop by." He shook his head.

"Not tonight," he said.

"Not in the mood."

"Is it the camp?" she asked.

"I know it's troubling them too." After a moment's consideration, Michael shook his head.

"Maybe," he allowed.

"It certainly didn't improve my mood. I keep thinking about that clerk." Sobriquet snorted.

"That weasel of a man? What, you want to go get your money back?"

"I almost didn't pay him," Michael said.

"When I realized he was going to ask a bribe, I got – very angry. I don't know why, it's not as though he was particularly unusual. Jeorg had to bribe the harbormaster when we caught Otto's ship to the continent, same scenario." He sighed.

"In that moment I only saw a petty, venal little man stepping in my way, and I thought about how easy it would be to move him. How trivial to push just a little and make him tell me." Sobriquet's jovial manner had slipped as she listened to the tone of his voice.

"So why didn't you?" she asked.

"Because I didn't have to." Michael looked up at her.

"I had another path I could take, one that worked as well. There was no need for violence – and it would have been violence, no matter if he never showed a mark. I've been too free with Spark's soul lately, too focused on Luc. I needed to practice – moving slowly, going through all the right steps."

"That sounds suspiciously similar to Luc's whining," Sobriquet noted.

"Not everything he said was wrong. There is a danger in letting your soul guide you down the easy path every time." Michael took a drink from the mug of ale.

"I need to set limits."

"Surely no harm would have come from denying that man his bribe." Sobriquet opened the box and took a piece of cheese, which she ate.

"As you said, it was extortionate." Michael turned to her, frustrated; she met his gaze.

"You don't worry?" he asked.

"You know what I am, what I'm going to be in the coming years whether I like it or not. I can't become accustomed to using my soul for every task, because soon enough it will encompass every task. Everything around me falling into place as I desire, and I worry that at the center of it there will be no space left for me." She did not answer immediately, finishing her mouthful of food unhurriedly before turning towards him.

"I don't worry," she replied.

"Mostly because you do, and do it enough for the both of us. But more than that, there's no place in you that loves power. Most of us do, at least a little bit; you're one of the few men I've met who downright hates it."

"Yes, well – I saw what benefit my father gained from all of his, I suppose," Michael muttered. Sobriquet's brows drew together; she moved closer to him.

"Is that what's bothering you?" she asked.

"Those men we caught earlier, they were planning to kill him." Michael considered for a moment, then shook his head.

"I don't think so?" he ventured.

"At least, that piece doesn't trouble me as much as all the rest. It's not as though I was looking for any sort of reunion with him. I should never like to see him again, and that's much the same as death." He frowned.

"Better, even, since even in death I'll likely have to deal with him one last time." Sobriquet said nothing in response; for a time the two sat and picked at the contents of their meal. When the food had gone and the mugs along with it, Michael rose and strode towards the window once more.

"You haven't been sleeping well lately," Sobriquet observed.

"I've noticed."

"Haven't felt a need to. Not sure why. A few hours feels like a full night these days." Michael shook his head.

"I'm feeling a bit melancholy tonight, is all. Don't let me keep you up. I can walk outside-""Get in bed, you idiot," she said, throwing one of their understuffed pillows at him.

"I'm not going to leave you to mope around outside like some cow." Michael tossed the pillow back and sat on the bed.

"I won't be able to sleep," he noted.

"Then don't. Lie in bed and mope there, if you must." She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, then stretched out on her side of the mattress.

"Weren't you just saying how it's good to live your life as if you didn't have your soul's power?" She pointed at the bare half of the bed.

"Lay down and act like you're a normal, reasonable person."

"Well, when you put it like that," Michael laughed, doing as she asked. She smiled at him, then closed her eyes; Michael did the same, though he only did so to focus on his sight as it lofted high over the city. It was surprisingly bright, for all that it was past dark. Lanterns hung from buildings and carriages, and along the docks some forward-thinking councilman had arranged for a lovely row of gas lamps.

He admired them for a moment more before letting himself drift through streets and alleys, inspecting the tops of buildings and their dark, cramped basements. Eventually, though, he let his vision turn back upwards toward the stars. They twinkled high over the rooftops of Stahm, obscured only by a few wisps of cloud. It brought to mind the vast river of souls, streaming high overhead as they cycled back from death to life once more.

Even up here, he could feel the steady warmth of Sobriquet lying next to him, could hear the soft noise of her breath. It was another mooring, one that brushed away his tenebrous feelings of distance and solitude. There was at least one person who remained there, and close, and the thought of it swelled his heart with warmth. Michael felt a smile on his face as he listened to her sleep. He turned his attention back to the stars. His smile faded.

There were fewer of them than there had been moments ago, the clouds gathering to shroud the bright sky from his view. More swarmed overhead as he watched, turning the night to darkened murk. People on the street clutched at awnings and bags in a sudden wind. His heart beating fast in his chest, Michael swung his vision about wildly; scanning across the city. In the distance, there was a bright flare of light, casting the buildings in sharp shadows and throwing the clouds overhead into unnatural relief.

People on the street began to shout, and screams echoed in the alleys; Michael stood abruptly from the bed. Sobriquet had already risen, grabbing at her coat.

"Something's happening," she said, her tone clipped.

"Can't tell where-""North side of the city," Michael said, feeling a deadly calm sweep over him.

"He's here."