Chapter 140: First class warfare (1/2)

I let the wafts of freshly brewed coffee caress my nostrils with its deep, bitter aroma. The ritual usually settles and distracts me, but not tonight. There is a knock on my door.

“Come in,”

Jimena steps into my temporary quarters in one of our secure New York’s compound. With the White Cabal so close, this one has been designed for discretion more than for safety. It still has all the comforts one might expect in a modern city. My bedroom is vast enough to host a small tea party.

“Ariane, sister. I am so excited.”

She then takes in my frown and shows some distress, bless her.

“Is something the matter? Are you reconsidering?”

“No! No… I am simply quite upset by a recent development. I was attending a recent English play called ‘Our American Cousin’ at the Ford Theater in Washington and I had to stop a drunk man with a gun from ruining the show. And the play was not even that good! Crass humor. But honestly. Bandits? Understandable, for what country does not have their scoundrels. Civil war? It happens to the best of them. But a play interrupted by some political action? No! No! Three times no! Thank the Watcher that I am leaving, because this entire country is going to the dogs. I wash my hands of it.”

I roll my eyes as far as they can go to illustrate my points. Jimena, that heartless traitor, takes it in stride with a light smile of her own.

“Finally, I can welcome you into the ranks of the old guard.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Only we Masters grumble and vociferate about the current developments. It pleases me that you would join our esteemed ranks, wizened and grey of heart, if not of skin.”

“Are you calling me old?”

I… had forgotten it.

“Ah yes, memory is one of the first things to go,” Jimena remarks to herself.

“Oi!”

“Do not be alarmed, it happens to all of us. The losers retreat to parochial villages out of fear for novelty. The successful ones, like the both of us my dear sister, merely sneer judgmentally at every passing new fad while adopting novelties we approve of. Like women wearing trousers.”

“Oh! Scandalous!”

“...”

“Maybe one day.”

“We can but hope. In any case, are you ready to leave? The ship is waiting.”

“Yes, yes, all my affairs are in order. There is just a small matter that I have to attend to before I leave. I shall direct your help to my luggage while I attend to it. I was just waiting for you to begin.”

“What is it? Nothing too bad I hope?”

An unusual worry seizes my heart.

“I hope not. Sheridan asked to talk.”

It is not every night that I am caught off-guard. The setting Sheridan chose is a nice cafe in the better part of the city. We are alone in the room he picked, and the sound of late diners provides a surprisingly mundane background to our conversation. One that I was not prepared for. In that defining moment, all the small details I had relegated to the back of my mind come in sharp contrast. The crows’ feet around his keen eyes. The grey in his proud moustache. Even the first wrinkles in his always tanned skin. He is still a dominating presence, but it is the presence of the experienced mentor, the battle-hardened veteran who compensates his failing body with wisdom and experience.

“I am not coming with you.”

I can see the pain in his eye, the guilt. The distress. His decision is already made and I feel a knot untying in my essence. I suffered terribly when Dalton died, but now Sheridan leaves me and his departure is soft and consensual. The cold in my mind spreads slowly like winter air from an open window. I do not resent him. I physically cannot resent him, and yet I am angry.

“It’s not that you have done something wrong. On the contrary, you have proven that your word was true. We have done good together for the past two decades, but that’s the thing. It has been two decades. I am… tired.”

It seems to be an important moment for him, and so I let him speak. My anger dissipated as quickly as it came. Even a Nirari’s natural grudge cannot stand before a vulnerable Vassal. My nature will not allow it.

“I am not as young as I used to be. The nights we spend awake take me longer and longer to recover from, despite your efforts. Spending an hour in a cold ditch to line up the perfect shot used to mean nothing. Now, my back hurts and my knees creak like a rusty carriage. I must stop now. And there is something else.”

I wave a hand to indicate that he should continue.

“Melitone is pregnant.”

I almost spit my coffee.

“You knocked up the Speaker’s twin?!”

“Hold your horses, she’s not ‘the Speaker’s twin’, she’s Melitone. A fully fledged agent of the Accords. We have been together for over a decade now. In any case, we… have been… together for a while. We were careless. I asked her to marry me. She said yes.”

“Wow. Congratulations!”

“I asked her two days ago. You are the first person to know. She thought it wiser to inform her brother after you had departed.”

I imagine the face of Constantine as he learns of everything and immediately feel better.

“Yes. I understand,” I finally admit. And I do. The truth is that Sheridan was never going to become my Servant. We make a good team, but we do not have the dynamic and mindset I would expect from someone I would keep by my side until the end. He is a conscience and a right hand, one who bridges the gap between mortals and us. I need someone different, more an accomplice than a lawman.

“You understand? I expected you to be mad,” Sheridan admits, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I would lie if I said that your decision does not affect me, but I do understand where it comes from. My perspective of time made me forget that things remain different for mortals who are always on a limited time frame. Ah, look at me babble. We had a good run, you and me.”

“That we did.”

“So, what now? Will you stay in Boston?”

“Yes. Mel says that Constantine will be insufferable unless she is well-protected, and the fortress is almost impregnable. I’ll say, it sets my mind at ease knowing that there are walls and horrors between the world and her when she will be at her most vulnerable. Do you know that a pregnant woman was lynched in the streets in Georgia? Because the mob thought she had turned a child into a goat? The world is mad, I tell you. Mad!” He exclaims, aghast.

I smile and let him rant. A Vassal is lost to me, but he remains a person I hold in my esteem and I should keep ties alive with mortals.

The cold settles in my mind as the “Cormoran” cuts the waves across the Atlantic. I distract myself from the passage of time by drawing and painting for hours every night. This year, the Parisian scene came to laugh at the “Salon des refusés”, a collection of the works refused by the French Academy of Arts. The Academy prefers realistic, precise brushwork and classical scenes. They called the thick strokes and flamboyant colors of the rebels ‘unfinished’ and ‘impressionist’, their modern settings vulgar. Uninspired. However, the audacious paintings attracted the attention of Mask and mine as well. Rather than presenting a clear and classical image to evoke emotions, the newcomers use composition and colors to grab the viewer directly by the soul. They provide the perfect answer to the spread of photography by focusing on sensuality and sensation as expressed by the painter.

I ordered two paintings I had shipped to me at great cost, even though the artists themselves are relatively unknown. The purpose was to study their style and brush stroke with a real work, not some rendition. Manet and Cezanne. I do not recognize those names, but I will hold onto the paintings just in case.

Slowly, I experiment with new techniques over a few sketches and finally decide on my first renegade painting: the view of the distant north as I emerged from Semiramis’ labyrinth all those years ago. In a few days, the painting takes shape.

I do not show the entrance of the cavern, which was at my back. Instead, I draw the polished glass of the permafrost and the fresh snow swept by endless winds. I make the mountains impossibly remote, and larger than they truly were. Above, I draw auroras animating the heavens with curtains of shimmering emerald. They provide the only light color in a landscape of dreary darkness. Even then, they are ephemeral and trickery, robbing the attention without pointing a way.

Jimena had tried to distract me from my works by presenting the captain and mates, but they do not interest me and her efforts grow more subdued when she sees the fruit of my labor. The first result pleases me intensely, and I soon find another composition.

When we visited the Fist of the Drowned God with the latest Bingle iteration, I spent a few hours crawling my way through deep passages. Once, we came across a single ray of early afternoon light piercing by luck through the layers of the earth. They would be soon blocked but for a moment the deep caverns knew the touch of the sun. I try to evoke that feeling and make the sun searing and alien. I also conceal on one side the dark shape of the deep folk’s shaman who led me through it. The light reflects on the two nacreous dots of her eyes, when one looks carefully.

“By the Eye, Ariane. You outdid yourself. Although, your choice of composition is a cause for concern.”

“How so?”

“It… is nothing. Probably a temporary side-effect.”

I shrug and let the days pass by. We feed only a few times, and spread them between willing crew who know what to expect and will be compensated for their sacrifice. Their essence is pleasant enough, though I admit that without our regular spars, I would have been restless.

As expected, her style is still direct and to the point. While Nami is graceful and unpredictable, Jimena shows her drive and directness by employing very few feints, instead overwhelming her foe through chains of precise strikes. I delight in ruining her rhythm through aggressive and sometimes illogical movements, and she is quick to show me that she can adapt. What shocks me the most, perhaps, is how evenly matched we are. In fact, I believe that I could overtake her if I relied more on my raw speed and intuition. I refrain from doing so since it would simply defeat the purpose of the exercise, but it shows how much I progressed over the past few decades. I remember a time when she could effortlessly stab me in the heart. Now, I could beat her four times out of five if I used everything including magic.

Between painting, gossiping, and practice, Jimena also finds the time to tell me what to expect from the training to come.

“As soon as we arrive at the fortress, you will be tested. The knights do not expect all of their recruits to be zealots in the service of justice like myself, but they do want to make sure that you are committed to your engagement.”

“I imagine that they would take their precautions.”

“Yes. There will be a few oaths and promises to swear. Before you protest, they are quite reasonable. After all, half of those who join our ranks are vampires who decided to, ah, remove themselves from their worldly troubles.”

“You mean disgraced people.”

“Need I remind you that I am supposed to be the brutally honest one?”

“Forgive me, oh shrewd one.”

“I shall consider it. In any case, there are many crises to handle and few volunteers, even fewer who wish to commit for all of eternity. The oaths protect the organization as much as it protects its members. Once the compulsory service time is over, you will only be bound by simple vows of secrecy. The test I mentioned also covers battles, duelling, infiltration, politics, culture, tactics, and language.”

“Really?”

“Yes. If you are accepted, and you will be with just duelling alone, you will join a group of squires in a designated role. The training will be extensive. Knights pride themselves in their ability to take down superior opponents through superior teamwork.”

“I am not convinced…” I remark.

“You are probably referring to Anatole’s embarrassing display when he faced Lord Suarez,” Jimena continues without missing a beat, “I would not let that give you a wrong impression. Coordination can only carry you so far against a warlord of the Cadiz. You should not expect a band of puppies to take down an old lion.”

“I will trust your judgement.”

“Good. After you and your squad perform to the satisfaction of your trainers, you will be sent on a few missions. The first tasks will be relatively simple according to knight standards. Such as preventing a war.”

My surprise must be obvious, because Jimena reacts immediately.

“Yes, you must forget about the American squad’s role so far, and realize that the Accords are more effective than you give Constantine credit for. The old world is saturated with cabals and interest groups. Conflicts flare and die off with the phases of the moon, sometimes in terribly bloody fashions. You will have your hands full. In any case, let me address the training part once again as it is why you have joined after all. All members of a squad receive personal guidance on top of their team-based practice from the best trainers around: the founders of the Knight Order.”

“The founders? They still handle the day-to-day affairs?”

Jimena’s gaze burns with the fire of the true believer.

“Yes, when they are not in deep slumber. They sometimes take on apprentices for more private lessons. Your profile is unusual enough to attract some attention. I am confident that they can guide you on the path to ladyship, not just with your current problem, but also to allow your fighting style to reach the highest spheres. I am not merely boasting, the Knights elite are among the best fighters in the world, or we would have been irrelevant from the start. You will be in good hands.”

“I hope that you are right.”

The trip passes quickly between all those distractions. The Cormoran is faster than the previous ship I traveled on, and I cannot help but wonder if, one day, we will be able to cross the Atlantic in mere days! That would be incredible. It would also make visiting my dear Torran so much easier…

Ah well, one may dream.

By the end of August, we moor in the port of Brest where a night train will take us to Paris and more private travelling arrangements.