Chapter 3: Wendell

The ship's bow crashed against the rolling waves of the Blue Water, churned by an autumn storm's approach. The spray momentarily obscured his destination, but Wendell kept his eyes forward. He was unswerving, unbending, steadfast in his resolve to reach his goal. A truer adventurer, was there e'er?

Truth be told, the ''Maiden's Dance'' was a sturdy vessel, and the Blue Water's notion of a storm was a quaint thing compared to the open seas surrounding the Ascadian Isles. Still, Wendell's ancestors were great sailors, and men of the sea should face a storm or two, from time to time, so as not to get rusty. Because they were made of iron. Which...doesn't get rusty...with salt water?

Perhaps the metaphors were themselves a bit corroded. An artificer knew a thing or two about metallurgy, and invoking iron for its hardness was laughable when one considered the simple reality of brittleness. Steel was steel because it was imperfect, after all--it was the impurities that made it bend, rather than break, and in some alloys could even stave off corrosion. Iron? I'll take steel any day.

Not that he could claim to be made of either. Nor even pretend to the title of Artificer. Wendell was nothing if not a dabbler, and ambitious youth, eager to prove wrong the gods who passed over him when blessing warriors and wizards. He would be a Hero, like in the old epics, and it wouldn't even require any of his father's money.

His father's vast, unending supplies of money.

Wendell sighed. He was never one to beg or borrow, and in truth had a talent for negotiations and investments, whether or not he would admit it. But he'd saved all he could, and turned silver into gold with a merchant's alchemy...and it wasn't enough. Not even close. A thousand aureii is no small sum, but it would be but a down payment on the purchase he planned to make, and would see him queued a hundred places behind richer men. Airships, after all, do not come cheap, nor quickly.

And yet, he had to have one. Travel by sea may have been good enough for his ancestors, but tallships couldn't climb the hills of Dennoth, nor sail up the Sailleen Cataract. Only an airship would suffice. If it took five years, so be it; those years would be quickly regained in a season of flight.

Of course, five years was quite optimistic by itself.

Alas.

As if to underscore his financial woes, the first building he made out on the coast was the manse of the old lord of Al-Daqir. The Sapphire Queen had put one of her Il-Khans in the seat, but everyone knew where the real power lay. He could see it clearly, even across the horizon. Behind the masts of ships were a maze of warehouses, and behind those, a train depot, the only one of its kind west of the Crowns, and the terminus of the longest and onliest lightning rail line outside of Ascadian territory.

His family's long-time rivals, House diSerccio, had built it, connecting their ambitious shipping and passage line all the way from Tir Garod to the Blue Water, linking the inner sea with the outer. Of course, half the time the trains got stuck in the eastern passes, but it was still ten times faster than a horse could travel. It was a bold play, and it almost paid off. DiSerccio might have risen above all others...

Had Wendel and his sister not whipped the cloth from under their table.

For the railroad might be theirs, but the depot on the Blue Water belonged to the lord of Al-Doqir. They'd forgotten the merchant's first rule: ''the deal isn't done until the ink is dry''. DiSerccio hadn't quite managed to secure an exclusive contract to the land--they merely leased it. The Lord of Al-Doqir had business with Wendell and his friends, and part of the deal was to sign a much more lucrative and binding agreement with House Valentinian. Now, DiSerccio's goods weren't getting anywhere with Valentinian getting their cut.

It was exactly the kind of chicanery that would have made his father proud. Truth be told, he had no stomach for it. That's not the way of heroes.

It'd been his sister's doing, primarily. She was her father's true heir, though the stubborn ass would die before seeing it plain. Wendell wasn't made for trade and investments--he was made for adventure.

It just so happened that this one was going to take place largely in a comfy sleeper car on a train.

Hey, Artifice doesn't have to apologize for being awesome.

The Maiden slipped gracefully into her place on the docks, and a massive affair they were--hundreds of ships moored at Doqir's Port (or Pontus Terminus as they were trying to get people to call it; Al-Doqir was not a man worth remembering), and thrice again floated off the shore, rowing crates back and forth. Carlotta had employed half the carpenters in Valte to expand the docks, but she could scarcely keep up with demand. The rail was booming, and DiSerccio wasn't about to let a little injured pride get in the way of profits. Goods were flowing, and passengers too, and all owed the Transfer Queen her toll.

That was his nickname for her. He thought it was funny. Nobody else laughed. It's not his fault they don't know what a transfer station is. Or that they think a railroad is some sort of evil sorcery. The poor, barbaric westerners. Those Kurns knocked them back into the stupid ages.

Part of the captain's exhorbitant fare had been for the choice moorage she commanded. And the rest part, he must admit, was for luggage. He could scarcely imagine what a woman needed so many trunks for. Jade had never been one to preen on her appearance, nor did he think he'd ever seen in her in a dress. And yet, she'd brought a baggage train that would beggar the Queen of Brinn, and she'd made him promise not to try to peek inside. Okay, it may have been less a promise and more a threat. With daggers. Sharp ones.

''It's all in good fun. She's just got an odd sort of humor. It's what I love about her.'' His thoughts turned to love, then to jelly, as he saw her emerge from the cabins.

The winds picked up at just that moment, as if seeking her out to tousle her hair just so. It was, as ever, wild and untamable, black as night but radiant in any light. It framed her beautiful, dusky face...that face he would kill for, that innocent, sweet beauty that hid such a wickedness he'd been lucky enough to know. She was a feisty one, it must be said, and deadlier than anyone would guess. Especially in...

"Is that a dress?" he blurted, incredulous. It wasn't, in truth, merely a blouse, corset, and skirt, as any common woman of decent means might wear. But wear it she did, and in no common way. The fabric was Sailleen cotton, or maybe silk, and the corset was green, or was it purple--okay, he wasn't looking at any of that, and couldn't possibly have remembered any such detail. She was wearing a corset, for gods' sake. He'd seen her in far less, but still...the combination of her exotic beauty and such--relatively--civilized garb, set off old triggers he didn't know he'd carried from Ascadia.

"No. This is!" she tossed a bag she'd been carrying, a tiny thing compared to the massive trunks the men had been hauling, but it had heft enough to stir him, especially caught unawares. He managed to roust his arms in time to catch it...only to find its momentum pushed him just far enough for his boot to slip over the edge of the ramp. He actually saved the bag before tumbling down. Score one for chivalry.

The Blue Water is a shallow lake, for the most part. It gets a lot of sun, and in early autumn, it hasn't been so long out of the hot season. To a sailor of the unforgiving seas about the Ascadian Isles, it would seem a warm bath. But that was no consolation to Wendell. It may as well have been barely-melted ice water. Drank by someone who liked their water muddy and full of crabs.

She laughed, for heaven's sake. Laughed! And her face was bright as the sun. Her emerald eyes shone with mirth, and, dare he imagine, a hint of sympathy. "Oh, don't help me! I'm fine! We Ascadians are men of the sea, after all!" He tried to make it sound a little bitter, and a little playful...but it probably sounded feckless and panicked, punctuated with gasping breaths. He was too focused on trying to free his boots from the mud to be suave.

"It's only two foot deep! Are you going to drown?" she called, her mocking tone somehow sweet and playful, a mockingbird's song. A lesser man might have resented her for it. But Wendell was a hero. Truly.

"It's exactly two feet deep. My two feet. And they're stuck." his nice, new shirt was completely ruined, and the mud was starting to fill his britches. Was he sinking? ''Oh gods, don't let me die in the mud off my sister's docks on the first day of my adventure. Come on. Just...come on.''

Her grip was so strong, he'd taken it for a seaman, maybe two, the burly ones who'd been hauling luggage. His feet came free--sans boots--and he rose high enough to grasp the dock and pull himself over. He only panted face-first against the planks for but a second. Truly. It wasn't minutes.

She was there, sitting with her knees to her chest, her sea-green skirts covering all but a few toes and the odd sandal strap. It was an innocent sort of posture, and it shouldn't have made him think things...this was hardly the time. She'd been mean, and cruel, and she'd laughed at him. He had to show her he was strong, and worthy. He had to be stern. Make a face, damn you. Scowl! His will flailed against his heart and lost handily. Her eyes said it all. It was all for love. She wasn't cruel, not in truth. She knew his limits, and knew he always wanted to test them. She didn't think less of him for a moment, flail and fail though he might. She'd seen him fight, seen him face horrible things, monsters and magic that would cow the mightiest knights. She knew his worth, and didn't care if he was a warrior in shining mail, or a flying dragon, or any of those superficial heroes. Her gaze penetrated to his heart, and found it there, vulnerable, warm, and...desperately in need of love. Even if he lacked the courage to say the words. Even after all this time.

Her eyes said more than his ears were wiling to hear, than his mind was willing to contemplate. But the heart knows. It knows, so the mind need not. Such was her wisdom.

He only noticed the grumbling after losing what felt like days in her eyes. The men were stumbling over themselves as they walked around him, obviously annoyed at his folly. They'd probably sooner kicked him right back off and out of their way if he hadn't been paying them so well. He wondered if he'd earned another "adjustment", as the captain liked to call his mid-course fare hikes. Could the man find some way to steal more money from him, even after reaching his destination? Like as not. A Sailleen sailor is a merchant first, just like a Sailleen anything-else, and "merchant" is Sailleen Karse for "thief".

He gathered the remains of his dignity--a light enough load that she easily helped him to his feet. She'd managed to rescue the bag that had been her impromptu ranged weapon. Other things equal, it was preferable to the others in her arsenal. He'd seen her whip a dagger fifty yards into a man's hand in near pitch darkness. And he'd been fool enough to give her a steam pistol since.

"Ready to see your sister?" she asked, her tongue dancing across the words to give them just the right edge. He hadn't thought of it until now, but was going to look an utter fool walking in there, muddy, smelly, and shoeless...and asking for money. Despair shot through him, and conspired with anger and panic. ''It's not fair! She wants this as badly as I do! Why should she sabotage this, knowing full well how Carlotta feels about-

"Coming?" her voice sailed across the water, all the way on the shore. She must have been half a minute at it. Was he standing there the whole time, muttering to himself like a fool? Sometimes, she made him doubt his own sanity.

The planks were rough and uneven against his muddy, bare feet, and the slicker ones threatened to trip him when he moved too fast. "We should find an inn or somesuch. Take a bath? Maybe find a good tailor and a cobbler?" Her laugh was music to his ears, traitors though they were. I'm trying to be annoyed here. And practical. I can't see her like this, I just can't.'' "It's Jusday, so she's probably in meeting with the dockmaster. It usually runs long." His mind raced, trying to find some advantage. She would be annoyed to learn he hadn't come to see her at once, and it wasn't as if she wouldn't know the comings and goings of her own docks. Still, it couldn't be helped. Looking like this would make him a boy again, the Little Lancer, the hero he'd played at when they were children. Even then, she was his superior, taller, more coordinated, graceful and ladylike even before her budding...yet still able to beat him at play swords. When she'd mocked, it wasn't music, it wasn't Jade's enchantment...it was just mean, in the way only an older sibling can be. "She won't even miss me."

"Truth be told, I hadn't," Carlotta's voice rang out. It was as if her words were magic, silencing all other sounds in the vicinity. He even thought he heard the bell of a mosque ring at just that moment. And were those doves taking wing just now?

He froze, and set his jaw.

No, that's a lie. That's what he would have done if he were cooler, more unflappable, more heroic.

He actually sputtered out a garble of consonants that might have been a Kurnish recipe for yak milk sorbet, twisted too fast, got a splinter in his unprotected heel, and almost fell backwards. Almost.

Jade's hand was soft, but her grip unyielding. It was almost as her touch had absorbed his momentum, and he found his footing, righting himself almost gracefully as if it had all been a dance move.

His sister was attended by a bald-headed man, one of the former slaves she was so fond of buying and freeing, who seemed to have been going over figures, and was now appraising Wendell like a fishmonger's catch. He found him wanting, and might have valued the pair of baby crabs sticking to his belt loop more than the man they were stuck to. His wary eyes saw no threat in the muddy fool beyond the time he would waste. He saw them flicker over Jade with a bit more care and calculation.

But Wendell's eyes were on his sister. She stood like a statue, neither scowling nor smiling. Her tailor had found a way to weave Sailleen silks into patterns that harkened to her homeland, while clearly marking her as one of the west's own daughters. ''She's becoming one of them, he thought, and they love her.'' The common folk were about, and they knew who she was. It hadn't just been his imagination; there was an aura of silent awe about her, as if she possessed some mystical power, that her command of the Iron Demon might change from carrying goods to smiting her foes if they crossed her. And still, she had transformed their lives, and had brought wonders such as they'd never seen. The port town was hers more than it was the Il-Khan's, and nobody in evidence would have disputed it.

Nobody, perhaps, but Wendell. If he'd been on his game, and not starting to feel mud slip into his smallclothes. ''Please gods, don't let that be an eel.''

"Dearest sister," he began, with all his formal courtesy, but there was no time to continue. Where she'd been at side just a moment ago, Jade was now bounding toward her, and had caught her in a friendly embrace before the bald man could widen his eyes in shock. Which he did, inevitably. And, just as inevitably, the two men--local toughs, also tattooed--who'd been pretending not to be armed guards stepped forth, though she waved them off.

"I am soooo sorry about the wedding," Jade began, somehow sounding contrite when anyone else would have came off as sarcastic or worse. "I can't believe you didn't send for us!" Carlotta blushed, and...was that a smile? What is this sorcery?

"The fault was mine. We knew there would be...tumult, and a quiet ceremony seemed the only way. You know how he is with matters of the heart," she said, and Jade nodded a little too knowingly. Hmm?

"Well, we brought you a gift regardless, and you simply must accept. We should be crushed otherwise." Jade was already walking on, somehow giving Carlotta enough to room to move as if she'd been the one to invite it. Wendell could only fall in silently, amidsts the luggage-bearers. His eyes flickered over the trunks. ''Are those the gift? I suppose it'll be nice not to have to lug them halfway across the world. Still, why should she have a gift? She has the Terminus, and the wealth of a small nation. And nobody should be celebrating what they did.''

There was talking as they ascended the hill, but he tuned it out. Girl stuff. Jade was apparently moonlighting as a wedding planner, and she simply had to rub Carlotta's nose in what she'd missed out on. The muddy planks had given way to rocky sand, with only the occasional tuft of coarse grass as relief. Wendell was falling behind with each step, trying and failing not to jab sharp rocks into the soft flesh of his feet. He desperately wanted to sit down and work the splinter out of his heel, at the very least, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. He gathered his will and pressed through the pain, the indignity, and the unidentifiable emotion Jade was causing him with her casual banter.

She'd made her home in an unassuming villa, a markedly Ascadian construction amidst the native architecture, but not a hundredthpart as opulent as the Il-Khan's manse on the cliffside. The house could easily fit a large family, a curious choice for only two occupants, but perhaps she used much of it for office space. A beautiful garden, expertly kept, surrounded the grounds, and from it emerged a small pack of dogs, golden, black, and brown, all as pleased to see their mistress as they must have been devastated when she'd left them what couldn't be more than an hour or two ago. She beamed as she stroked them, and Jade joined in. ''This can't be right. What has he done to my sister? That was a giggle! And did he just...lick her?''

A sharp whistle called off the dogs, and they ran dutifully to their master.

Even without his shining mail, he was every inch a warrior. He'd traded his sword for a pair of pruning shears, and his blacksmith's apron for a gardener's smock, but neither was as striking as his beard. It made him look ten years older, maybe twenty with those folds in his eyes. He lost something in that castle, Wendell thought. We all did. But he looks less an old man and more a loving father. As if I know what that looks like. Wendell's own thoughts gave him pause, but Jade was ever on the ball.

She didn't charge or pounce, but actually curtsied if it can be believed, which Tristan laughed off at once. She fell into his embrace, a bit warmer than Carlotta's, but no less platonic, if Wendell's eyes could discern it. Notably, it lasted long enough for him to catch up with his sister, no small feat. Only then did the once-knight's eyes open, and they couldn't but fall upon the ridiculous spectacle before him. They went wide, with only a moment, then quickly warmed.

"Wendell, it...could only be you." He strode forward, covering the distance in only a few broad strides. Damn your freakish Gallic physique, he cursed to no god in particular, but soon clasped the larger man's wrist, with as tight a grip as he could muster. Gardening and animal husbandry, it seemed, hadn't softened his smith's arms a whit, and it was all Wendell could do not to try to overcompensate.

"Tristan, old friend. I...apologize for my state. There was trouble at the docks." His eyebrow arched, his warrior's instinct unfaded. "No, nothing to worry about, just a little..."

"Mermaids," Jade filled in, already on her way inside. "They took a fancy to him."

Wendell blushed, despite himself, and the absurdity of it all. ''Gods, but she can't know about that? Can she? She would be wroth! She'd slit my throat in my sleep, or cut off my...''

"Mermaids it must have been," Tristan's deep voice rang with some concern. "It's plain enough to see." His eyes quested over Wendell's face for how long he couldn't say; it was impossible not to turn away, to find something interesting to look at, maybe out at sea. "Come in then, friends. We have food. And...washing tubs."

And indeed they did.

The house was new, but it was as a home loved for years. Plants grew in every corner, where light shone strategically down through skylights. The floors were impeccable, despite the running of dogs and cats, and the chirping of birds that echoed such that it only could have come from inside. Ascadian touches were everywhere, but no more so than Brinnish colonial stylings--the crown mouldings, the paneled plaster walls, the shining oaken floors. And yet, it was open and breezy, like his father's villa, bringing a welcome coolness while retaining the warmth of wood and thick woolen rugs.

And there was food. Oh, blessed food.

Now, Wendell was no ingrate, and he was nothing if not adventurous. He had taken to Sailleen cuisine, spices, salted coffee, fried scorpions and all. He'd even come to like some of it. Scorpions are just little lobsters after all.

But his sister was unrepentantly Ascadian, and her kitchen staff knew it. There were sweet rolls, honey-cakes, and bread that could have only been the work of a Brinnish master baker making magic with imported Sendali flour. The cheeses numbered more than the Little Islands, and that could only be the Brinnish Prince's work. And the wines...''this match might only have been made for wine. Ascadian red in Brinnish barrels? The gods couldn't be so kind.'' Whether or not they could, the hosts were, and Wendell would eat like a king.

Right after a wash, that is.

He found a servant, and began to peel off his attainted blouse. "I hesitate to ask, but if you could, it's worth a scrub before giving up and calling the tailor." He stopped when he noticed that the girl was frozen, her eyes wide, unsure what to do or say. They soon shifted over and upward as he entered. Wendell felt oddly reproached, and shrank a bit.

"Father, I-"

"Go tend your sisters, Sareen," he said in a calm, commanding voice, and the girl rushed off to do as bid. His face held no reproach, nor judgment, nor even pity--even that, the knight had learned long ago not to show, in his damnable kindness. Wendell was dumbfounded, angry at himself, and confused. And suddenly finished listening to her words.

"Father? Can it...I mean, I know we fell through that hole in time, but surely...that is, I, er..."

"We have no servants here," Tristan said, helping him out of his shirt. Wendell couldn't think straight enough to resist; he just followed meekly as Tristan led him to a washing room.

"But then who-" he started, but couldn't seem to figure the right way to phrase it. There were children all about, he'd noticed even from outside. There must have been a dozen or more, from young to nearly budded. Most were dusky-skinned locals, and few looked much like any other, much less like their fair-skinned master and mistress. "I don't understand-"

"One hundred fifty-nine slaves remained after the Caliph took his pick," Tristan explained, wringing the muddy shirt in the wash bowl like a common washer woman--right up to the practiced hand. "Charlotte bought them all. Most had a trade, or could serve, and she made sure to find work for every one, and a place to live. There were families, and she each reunited. But there were some..." he trailed off.

Wendell could see it clearly, if not in his sister, then in Tristan. The powerful man choked on a word, and took a moment to reflect. He'd seen that look only a few times...when the knight prayed, or when his prayers were answered. "You adopted them," Wendell explained, grasping it. "Every child without a mother."

"She did." His words came hard, like a sword thrust with a wounded arm. He'd come by the wounds honestly. Tristan was a hard man to hurt, but this wasn't pain. She'd cut through his armor, through a lifetime tempered with loss. She'd reached into his heart, and rekindled it. She had done for him what previously only his faith could, and perhaps even more so.

I can relate. His thoughts turned to Jade, and how irrational, how utterly mad it all seemed sometimes. She was his...everything. More than his greatest ambition, richer than his father's vaults, more beautiful than the thousand horizons he might see from an airship. She was there the first day his adventure began, and was a greater prize than anything he might have won. And yet, Tristan's love, while no less real, was entirely rational. Carlotta was everything he dreamed of. His heart was gentle and kind, and he had a lot of love to give. In her, he'd found a kindred spirit, someone worth infinitely more than a kingdom. There was nothing mad about it. It seemed mad to think of any other bride, or a crown, or a sword.

What am I saying? Carlotta? Nice, gentle, and kind? It boggled the mind, truly. This wasn't the sister he knew, and yet...Tristan was an honest man, moreso than anyone Wendell had ever met. And this was a matter of the heart, in which there could be no doubt of his conviction. If the man said Carlotta was a saint, then she was. ''She's free enough with her money, at any rate. I'd say she's the lucky one. He's a prince among men, and not just the literal kind. I mean, what the hell is going on here? A prince is washing my fricking clothes and I'm standing here like I'm about to ask when he's going to get around to powdering my hair!''

He quickly bent to help, but a strong hand stayed him. "Work is honest," he said far too knowingly, and with too much wisdom. "Love is honest. And what she does here is worthy. Just look out there," he turned his head toward the open window. "It isn't a port city. It isn't a depot. It's a new start, the seed of something great. She means to transform lives. Thousands. Maybe millions."

"She always was good with her coins," Wendell had to admit. He was a little shy about dropping his britches in front of his old adventuring companion, but Tristan didn't so much as bat an eye. "I...think I understand. Say, is there a..."

It was good that he didn't finish. Speaking the words might have jinxed him. Instead, he found something whose like he'd not seen since Avila: a real, honest-to-gods bath house. Two pools, hot and cold, wide and square, deep enough to soak long and to the bone. And he did just that. He might have even dozed off. But then, she might have just been that silent.

When she slipped in beside him, his eyes were too slow, and by the time they were open she was already beneath the water. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen her a hundred times, but each time was like the first, like Podrin sneaking into Hellas' bedchamber, every bit worth having his eyes burnt out. Her skin burnt like flame, her hair like a mantle of smoke. Her hips were the curves of scimitars, deadly and swift. Her breasts heaved like the dunes of the Red Sand, and he would climb every one of those dunes to reach those tips. And her eyes, such a wicked glint. She had secrets. Even now. Could he ever truly plumb her depths? Could he touch her heart as she did hers?

"It's all taken care of. Less than you wanted, but more than you were going to get," she was explaining. It occurred to him that she'd been saying something.

"Um...what? Yes, well--truly? It's already done?"

Her answer was only a naughty curl at the edge of her lip. And yet, he knew it was so. All that mucking about in the mud, all that mummery with wedding gifts and floral arrangements...she was negotiating! And damn her for being better at it than either of them! She was talking Carlotta out of her smallclothes and the Transfer Queen hadn't even noticed the corset strings loosen. Since when is she Caros Coinmaster reborn? What I am to her if not at least that? But the thought seemed absurd. Surely, she didn't love him for his business acumen. Did she? Or, dare he wonder: did she love him in the first place?

As if in answer, she settled about him, having slipped through the water soundlessly, impossibly. Her hot, bronze flesh was all he could see, and he lost himself in those dunes. When he touched her, his mind at last quieted. There could be no doubt. When goddesses burn out your eyes, you know you are unworthy. When they take you inside them, you know are blessed among all men, and know what worth itself means. She was fire, and he burned gladly.