Keeptown – Responsibility
Born of the chaos of Amphel’s invasion into Prunus Province and the subsequent collapse of the already weakened Blómit Empire, the Unitary Armies represent a military lineage that predates the founding of the Grove Protectorate by a century. Some, such as Company Mellivora and
The Officers’ League is a peculiarly influential organization within the political spheres of the Grove. Not only was this union of prestigious military men and women founded as a prelude to the Protectorate itself—its creation being a primary condition for the establishment of the Unitary Armies—but its membership boasts the names and families of the highest tiers and classes of the empire.
Primarily, these officers are of the privileged class, hailing from the gilded clifftops of Avium or the pietistic high streets of Alba; they are largely serving their time in the organization as demanded by their political aspirations, accepting blindly the favors their names procure for them until they can proceed to more lucrative opportunities in the private sectors of Grove society.
In stark contrast to the prestige-minded majority, another class of members wield outsize influence within the archaic organization, a small collective of particularly zealous adherents to the constitutional charter of the Unification known as Purity who pursue tirelessly the tenets of the ancient document.
Of particular concern to these adherents is the belief in the legal superiority of the Unitary over all others within the states and territories of the Protectorate; that when the empire finds itself in the binds of war, it is the armies which founded the Grove who hold executive authority over the lands.
For generations, the League has downplayed the continued existence of the insurgent subgroup. Following the complications which arose in the aftermath of the Summer Uprising and the traitorous actions of Vladi Battalion, Purity was purged from the ranks of the Officers' League. Since then, the group
-A History of the Grove 7th Edition
Maester Sophiorni of the Twelfth Tower of Avium
‘Good Gods, girl, sit down!’ Doc pan gestured Sily toward the chair conveniently sitting in the filtered sunlight of the warm, wooden corridor outside his office. ‘What’s happened to Fourth Squad today?’ he asked as he pulled a few instruments from his pocket and eyed Pica trying to sidle discreetly out of the way.
The first, a small glass bell, had a nipple at the top which he attached a rubber hose to. Placing the device first against her heart, and then against her ribs under her arms, he listened to her heartbeat and breathing as she spoke.
‘Dredge?’ He reared back slightly, appraising the young Populan soldier with a curious eyebrow. ‘And nobody forced you? Hm… that is interesting. Certainly explains your stomach, I think.’
He stood upright, sending a glaring look at Pica nearby.
‘What?’ the soldier asked, annoyed and clearly minding his own business. He wondered whether it was just that he was the one who had brought the sick woman into the hospital. They had interrupted his dinner, coming through the atrium just as he had surrendered himself to a quiet evening managing the few mild cases occupying beds nearby. Then again, Doc Pan did just tend to scowl like that no matter what was going on.
The scowling surgeon said nothing and disassembled his listening tool, turning back to Sily just as an attendant appeared with a strangely fizzy glass of water and forced it into her hand. He placed a hand over it as she went to drink, staying her until he found what he fished for in his jacket with his other. He produced a small vial and dumped it matter-of-factly into the cup with a flourish. The fizz turned to a chalky foam as the pink powder plunged into the clear liquid, turning it a cherry-cream as the solids promptly dissolved with a light swirl. He lifted it to Sily’s lips. She drank and sighed deeply, leaning back with hooded eyes.
‘Do you know what dredge is, girl?’ The doctor had affected a stern expression and looked between the two sternly.
Pica shook his head and shrugged, quite happy that he had avoided the fishy smelling, sludgy liquor. His unlucky partner moaned but opened an eye lazily to look at the scraggly man illuminated in the lamplight before her.
‘Dredge,’ Pan continued, ‘is the fermented bilge sludge that collects on ration ships. They pump it out, filter it, fortify it, and bottle it for, apparently, your enjoyment.’
A smile crept across his face. ‘By your smell, I take it you spent a substantial part of the day at the docks, no? Perhaps notice a ship called the Arothron on your adventures today?’
Slowly, the realization struck Sily and Pica; they both recoiled, the former beginning to gag enthusiastically while the latter doubled over in laughter.
‘Ah! So, it has arrived then!’ the surgeon’s cracked face showed great amusement, ‘what could have possibly pressed you into drinking dredge? You couldn’t be that desperate and as far as I know, you all aren’t one of Heteractis’ scuttling little monsters.’
‘No, no, no. Stop that now.’ He pushed Sily’s shoulder to sit up straight in her chair, ‘you won’t be vomiting nothing, not after what I just gave you. Just close your eyes for a moment and let it work.’
He was right, of course, and Sily would have feared for the state of her internals if not for the man who had put them in their current state. Of primary concern, her stomach had stopped hurting and was slowly beginning to cease its incessant churning but seemed to be doing so as a result of having been completely paralyzed. It didn’t move as she retched, all contents therein seemingly frozen into a solid object that would not budge regardless of the commands of her brain.
‘Don’t think on it too much now, won’t kill you. Far as I know.’ Doc Pan turned to Pica sharply and focused sharp eyes on the young soldier. He leaned forward to look into his eyes.
‘Been feeling alright since returning to Keeptown, then? Nothing strange with you two beyond the odd adventure in Dredge? Been a fair amount of Mellivora in here since returning, mostly First and Second Platoons, mind you, but all the same.’ He peered at them intently.
Pica shrugged and leaned away reflexively. ‘No worse for wear.’ He hadn’t thought about the raid much since they had arrived at the Gatekeep, he reflected. ‘Why do you ask, Doc?’
‘Ah, no reason. Just was a hard ride to get to Cera to offer medical support once we received the word to do so; I imagine a battle following a few day’s running over the Aurums would have created more than the usual aches and complaints. You took a good strike to the skull as I remember it.’ He fingered the smooth skin already almost finished in its journey across his jaggedly torn ear.
Pica paused looking at the man who simply stared back and repeated his shrug. ‘Feeling good, like I said.’
‘As for her,’ he motioned toward his incapacitated friend, ‘she’s been fine as usual. Grouchy, cynical, and generally bitter, yes, but if that was a sickness, you both would’ve been institutionalized by now, I think. All this…’ he gestured again at Sily broadly, ‘well, we know how this happened.’
‘Eh, very funny, lad. Good.’ The head surgeon took a final quick assessment of Sily, taking an especially close look at the whites of her eyes before opening her mouth to inspect her gums and under her tongue. Pica imagined her shock at being treated as if she were one of the horses she had grown up alongside and stifled a laugh. The Doc stood with a click of his heels and spun to face the young soldier.
‘I want you both to stay here for a few hours.’ He pointed across the hallway for emphasis. ‘Zingi will come find you with another dose of tonic here shortly, grab that room there and get some rest while you wait.’
With a grunt, Pica assented and helped Doc Pan to lift Sily back onto her feet. They walked across the hall and he deposited them both on one of the four bunks crammed into the claustrophobic space. Without another word, he walked away, closing the door behind him with the finality of one who is clearly finished and on to other, more important things.
‘Drink this’ Doc said as he entered the room, offering them dirty little cups he held clutched in his clawlike old fingers and forcing them to take them before they could manage any other reaction at all.
‘Two for you’ he motioned the bottle toward Sily who obligingly threw her first dose of the liquid back without question, eyes squinching in anticipation and entire mind put to the task of turning off her taste buds.
The flavors were strong but not unpleasant: the dark, cloying sweetness of molasses; a nutty, salty savour balancing with floral lavender and rosemary; a barking heat not unlike the acerglyn Pica had developed a taste for. His eyes opened in delighted surprise; his little cup already disappearing from his suddenly stable hand. He looked up to find himself peering into the deeply golden eyes of Zingi, the beautiful foreign nurse who Doc Pan had recruited and brought back from some voyage to the south long-ago. She was bent over at the waist with hands on her knees, staring hard into the man’s wide, brown eyes.
‘Mmhmmm,’ she said as she stood back up smoothly. ‘See what I mean, Pan? The ginger and the lavender make it much more effective.’
Her accent reminded Pica of the emissary from the market but where his had been nasally and condescending, hers was thick and smooth, friendly and warm; like the molasses flavor still clinging to his mouth from the restorative in the tiny cup.
‘So it seems so to me.’ the doctor replied reaching into a jacket pocket, pulling out a heavily worn notebook, and finding a blank corner somewhere in the middle to jot something down. Sily and Pica exchanged a look, wondering just how many clips he had just lost to the bizarre woman. He turned to the young troopers peering up at him and the woman in confusion and a bit of concern at being guinea pigs for experiments and wagers.
‘This is Zingi, of the Taher’I. I am sure you recognize her; she has been billeted with me at the hospital since…’
‘Two summers last.’ Zingi supplied musically from his rear, apparently used to the introduction after all this time. ‘And an absolute pleasure.’ She smiled broadly, displaying snow white teach that were studded with small gold and diamond studs in the upper canines.
‘Mmmm. Perhaps not then.’ Doc Pan amended.
‘Thank you so much, I feel so much better.’ Sily grinned and sat up more fully on the cramped bed. ‘What even is dredge?’
‘Oh, you’re welcome! Very much indeed’ her eyes glowed as she smiled once more. ‘I am glad you enjoyed my tonic and I do hope you stay away from that slaves’ swill.’ She stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose for emphasis.
The mention of slaves made Pica and Sily alike blanch, Zingi leaned forward concernedly and Doc Pan groaned.
‘They’re gonna puke.’
‘No,’ Pica swallowed, ‘just… did you hear about the docks today?’
Doc Pan frowned and Zingi straightened. ‘No? What about the docks today?’
‘There was a ship of slaves.’ Sily glanced at the foreign doctor briefly. ‘They came ashore and were escorted into the city by Sinea.’
‘Outrageous!’
‘Slaves?’ Doc Pan frowned even deeper somehow. ‘No slaves in the Protectorate, girl.’
‘I know, but they were slaves. Fully.’
‘It’s true, they were whipped and chained to the wagon and everything. Slaves if I’ve ever heard one described.’ Pica looked to Sily. ‘And Tacca tried to free them when they reached land.’
‘I take it they arrived on a ship?’ Pan looked between them quickly. ‘What was the ship?’
They paused.
‘I don’t know, a big one?’ Pica sounded apologetic. ‘Likely the largest I’ve ever seen.’
Sily shrugged. ‘Only the Sergeant went down the pier to see it close.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Uh?’ Pica looked to Sily imploringly, she returned the favor. ‘We were trying to help the people, none of us were that close to the Sergeant or the emissary besides Scribe, and we haven’t seen him since then anyway.’
‘I think Sergeant Tacca said they were ‘Tahar’i?’’
‘Taher’I?!’ Zingi flooded forward, incensed and snarling at the word. ‘You say they were Taher’I?’
The two troopers recoiled.
‘Uh? Yes? I think that is what she said anyways.’ Sily looked to Doc Pan and was puzzled by his non-reaction to his associate’s outburst.
‘Impossible,’ she stated flatly, ‘no Taher’I keep slaves. Any who did so would be considered worse than vermin in Nib ‘u.’ She turned her back for emphasis, dismissing the entire concept.
‘I am sure,’ Pan began cautiously, ‘that the troopers are misinformed.’ He held a silencing hand preemptively to their coming objections. ‘As they said, they couldn’t really hear and were much too busy to know for certain.
‘Sily, Pica, you have rested enough. Please return to your barracks and report yourselves treated to Sergeant Tacca.’
‘But- ‘
‘Furthermore, do not inform her of this conversation. I will find a time to clarify it with her myself in the coming days. Are we clear?’
They nodded, exchanging glances once more and eyeing Zingi as she fumed still.
‘I... I’m sorry,’ Sily offered, ‘I didn’t mean anything of it. And maybe the Doc is right, maybe I misheard or am misremembering.’
‘This is ok. I understand that you do not mean personal offence in your words. We Taher’I are a proud, free peoples, long ago liberated from the chains of our old enslavers. I hope you can understand for yourself the thought such an accusation might bear for myself as well.’
They nodded silently.
‘Now, do as you’re told.’ The Docter was gentle yet firm, and he guided Pica to his feet while Zingi likewise assisted Sily. ‘Go on now.’
‘What do you mean I can’t go?!’ Pellia’s shouts floated from the Fourth Squad bunkroom. ‘That isn’t fair. I’ve been doing my job and helping about!’ She held a hand out, offering Pica the opportunity to second her words as he walked in with Sily draped over one of his shoulders.
He stopped, stunned and angry at having walked in on a conversation he had been meticulously avoiding for the better part of the week. Sily groaned a bit excessively and slogged blindly across the conversation to collapse on Rusa’s bunk below her own. She lay unmoving as Pica looked between the two more coherent women.
‘What?’ he managed.
‘Tacca. Tell her that I should be able to come out with you guys!’
Pica did not need to look at his Sergeant to know what the look on her face would say if he did. She was stuck in the inconvenient position of her empathetic and compassionate mentorship meeting the demands of instilling discipline in a strongheaded new recruit.
‘Pell-’
‘Listen young Pellia,’ the sergeant cut him off deftly, ‘and for both our sakes, pay attention.’
Without direction, Pica began building a fire in the small hearth that heated the room. He ignored the déjà vu that swelled in him as he placed the kettle beside the fledgling flame and began shredding chunks of birch bark for tea.
‘When we found you and nursed you back to health,’ Tacca began, ‘we told you that you had two options: you could stay with us until we finished our work in the Hematis, taking your leave upon our return to Oxycarpa Citadel, or you could become a provisoria and submit to unitary assessment and enlistment upon our return to Keeptown. We have reached the end of the choice you made then.’
She took a moment to allow her words to settle over the young woman, giving her ample opportunity to consider them and offer a response. When none was forthcoming, the Sergeant nodded smartly and carried on.
‘It is unfortunate, but while they are utilizing their travel passes, your time has been non-optionally requested elsewhere. Master Monachus, recruitment contact for Mellivora at the battle school, is sending his man to talk with you.
‘This has been done as a favor of the lieutenant via Captain Haidarum and will ensure you do not have to wait eight months before shipping out as a raw recruit. Do you understand what I am saying?’ Tacca looked imploringly at the woman who remained indignant despite an inability to mount any argument.
She had said she would do as the sergeant described, spending the last eighteen months alongside Fourth Squad under the expectation that when they finished the season and returned to Keeptown, she would immediately submit for recruitment. That was the law of the land, and while she may have done it out of fear after near dying in the icy Ochre bay, she did not regret the intervening months since.
‘Yes,’ Pellia nodded smally, ‘I understand, Sergeant.’
Tacca offered a fractional smile and a softer tone. ‘If you assess well, you will be able to cut a substantial amount of time off of your training in Pyrus. You will already have the eye of a recruiter and will be back with Mellivora in as little as two years.
‘You know I don’t want you to go, that I wouldn’t be here telling you this if we had any choice. The law is the law. If you refuse your oath of enlistment, they will expel you from the gatekeep if you’re luck, and conscript you aren’t.’
Pica couldn’t bear to turn back as he continued the small chores he had been finding as a way to remain out of the conversation. He knew that the Sergeant was only telling a half truth, that the punishment for reneging on an agreement to serve could include the penalty of death if the commanding officer of the foster unit decided that such was necessary. He was confident that Haidarum would take Lieutenant Strozzi’s word into account if it came to that.
The leader of Fourth Platoon had taken a personal shining to Pellia over the last few months, making it known in the form of extra beratings distributed to Pica and Simen over her welfare. It wasn’t attracting undue attention, the entirety of the platoon had taken a shining to the ‘orphan soldier’ in some form or other, but Pica wondered how far that went when it was positioned against his loyalty and responsibilities to Company Mellivora. And if he had stretched his neck out to get the visit from Pyrus arranged, which way would that sway things?
‘Pica.’ Tacca spoke his name and the moment he dreaded most came unsparingly. He turned to face them.
‘Tell her.’
This time the tawny man had no choice. He looked into the eyes of his young friend from the north and hoped he could sell her the lie.
And then he did.
Pellia was absent as the Badgers began filtering into the hall for the week’s end company meal. It was a committee night, and after they dined, they would bring any concerns, desires, or other items to the table of Captain Haidarum for consideration amongst the greater membership of the Company. No such petitions had been discussed or distributed amongst the soldiers of Fourth Platoon prior and it was assumed that, as usual, it would be a brief affair.
Rusa and Alces, large Populan lads that they were, were accustomed to a hotter clime than was found on the coast and pushed in quick to claim a wide section of territory next to the sweeping hearth. Sily followed close on their tail, leading a distracted, but perfectly capable of navigating himself Scribe by his oversized belt. She chose a place for them both across from her brothers at the end of the long, oak table and near the hissing flame, brushing aside a small basket of fresh milk rolls and relocating a few pitchers of cool water to make room for his array of fine felt pens and inks.
It was interesting, the lengths to which she went for the silent man with no true name. There was nothing wrong with it, of course, and leadership had long ago done away with any pretensions of maintaining celibacy within the ranks of Mellivora. So long as all parties maintained their ability to execute their respective duties, nobody was going to bat an eye at the odd relationship or discrete encounter. What was odd was the fact that as far as anybody could tell, it was an entirely one-sided relationship with her following or working around him seamlessly as he went about his work. They didn’t speak, so nobody was sure how she knew what he wanted or predicted when he had to leave for business of his own. Simen maintained they had a sign-language they used and would point to them when he thought they were so engaged. Nobody else had seen it yet though, and Pica assumed it was yet another of his and the brothers’ ongoing jokes against Pellia.
The ink-spotted man was drawing another rendition of the airship -the seventh thus far that Pica knew of- and was this time focusing on the elaborate underbelly of the gargantuan airship. Sily smiled at him as he worked, pouring water in a small cup for him to rinse his pens in as needed and settling where she could watch him work, careful not to block the light of the roaring hearth beside them.
Simen looked over Scribe’s shoulder as well as he took a seat with his peers. He stopped short as he lowered himself onto the bench. ‘What are these?’ He pointed at a series of glyphs the silent illustrator was scribbling along one side of the linen paper.
As usual the mute man said nothing, raising his pale, green eyes balefully to Simen before returning to his intricate work.
‘Specifications, he’s trying to understand the true scale of Parotodus.’ Sily didn’t look up from buttering a roll with delicate sweeps of the pewter blade that accompanied it. Perhaps feeling the collective pause of her squad as they looked at her questioningly, she placed half the bun next to her silent companion and took a relishing bite of her own, chewing eagerly before continuing.
‘See here?’ she gestured at a series of lines beside the illustration, ‘these equations tell him how big the ship is inside and therefore how much it can hold versus the size of the wings.’
Scribe nodded approvingly to her words as he worked.
‘Hold inside?’ Pellia glanced around. ‘Like what?’
‘Cargo, soldiers, weapons. Whatever, I suppose.’ Simen answered, claiming a seat and swiftly shuffled close to Scribe. ‘Just a big boat, isn’t it? Should carry things boats do, I reckon.’
The silent man began flipping back through his book with the ease of one who knows where he is heading. He stopped on a page which showed an impressive two-page spread of the fore of the ship as it had looked as it borne down upon them on the highroad. The eyes were immediately drawn to the silhouette of the airship, the subtle curves of the body and balloon contrasting against the sharpened edges of its fins and giving it the look of a great sea hunter.
Pica didn’t remember the ship as it appeared in picture, he leaned over the table to look closer himself. Scribe had emphasized aspects of the vessel, seeing things in the way that only he did as he copied the world about him into his little book. It made his images strange and distorted, yet somehow more accurate than the real thing, bringing to life the subtleties which make a thing rather than just what the fickle eye chooses to see and remember. Then his eyes saw what he was supposed to see, the name of the thing, ‘Parotodus,’ emblazoned in gold across the port side of the sleek bow.
In a flash, it was hurtling overhead once again and Pica was just as awed by the spectacle as he had been on the day. It was no wonder that he hadn’t seen it, that nobody had, and he thanked whichever gods might be hanging around for creating Scribe as they had. He wondered at Sily’s intimate knowledge of his work, how she kept up with his dealings alongside her own with no sign of tiring of either.
‘What is that bit there?’ Simon pointed to a large rectangle that stood out from the smooth lines that ran the length of the vessel’s wooden underbelly. He leaned closer, appreciating the fine detail that the silent illustrator was able to capture and gesturing to what appeared to be large rings at each corner and a bold line running down the center of the shaded shape. ‘Some sort of door?’
Scribe nodded once more and Sily added voice to the gesture. ‘Looks like? See those threads hanging there? They look like little silk shadows, just under the big crack in the center?’ She pointed for emphasis to make sure they did. ‘Looks like something didn’t quite fit or got caught in the hatch. Like a skirt caught in a carriage door.’
Simen and Pica exchanged glances at the thoroughly unrelatable analogy.
‘Interesting,’ Simen ventured past a gulp of ale, ‘curious what the boat is hauling then?
Sily shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll get to ride it and find out!’ She giggled at the look of disgust mixed with fear that crossed Simen’s face and turned to Alces and Rusa across the table. ‘Anyone seen Tacca and Pell?’
‘They’re fighting again,’ the latter started slowly, ‘it’s about the oath.’
The table nodded knowingly, all exceedingly aware of what that meant.
‘Any progress?’
Pica began to nod but then shrugged. ‘Who knows. I hope so, for her sake.’
The table was silent as they weighed their hopes for the woman against their knowledge of her temperament. Pellia may have been in their company for near two years, but she also wasn’t one of them, not really.
She was a northerner of some type, coming from a place beyond even the frontiers of Picea. She had proven her adaptability within the intimate company of the Badgers, but now she faced the bureaucracy of the Grove. They were concerned that she did not appreciate what that could mean and that her origins had not prepared her for this particular flavor of politicking.
‘She’ll do it.’ Simen was gruff and said what they all already knew. Then, never the type to brood if it could be avoided, he flawlessly changed the subject. ‘Wanna hear what Lates told me?’
He didn’t wait for an answer as all their eyes turned to him, even Scribe ceasing his work to look at him blankly.
‘It’s bullshit,’ he was proud of himself for debunking the rumor, ‘pretty much all of it.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice, ‘except the boxes.’
‘Of all the crap in that boy’s story, the hand in the saltbox is the true part?’ Rusa scoffed.
‘No, it wasn’t a hand. And it wasn’t salt either.’ He leaned back as a pitcher of frothing bitter ale appeared between him and Pica. ‘It was some weird yellow crys-’
The cooks and their kitchen aides were suddenly upon them and Simen’s voice was lost in the cheers that erupted throughout the hall. They invaded through the two arched doorways which connected the long main hall from the kitchen rooms, carrying all manner of dishes and fanning out with the efficiency of the army they served as they distributed their burdens across the ten long tables. The story, while not forgotten, went thoroughly ignored as a feast unrolled before them.
They gawked, three years of cold meals on the road or in backwater taverns flashing before their eyes as the keep-famous kitchens of Mellivora opened before them. There were long boards of meats and cheeses, oblong slices of fatty salami stacked to falling alongside soft wedges of creamed goat cheese decorated with small bits of fennel.
Breads of every variety followed, supplementing the waning milk rolls with thick loafs of cracked barley and boules of dense black rye still crackling from their last-minute refiring in the blasting heat of the baking ovens. Baskets of pretzels, studded with rough salt and dripping with motes of melted butter cream, were placed about alongside stoneware bowls of ground mustard sauce and malted vinegar.
The Triplets fell upon these with a particular vigor that hinted at their nostalgia for their first home in Tremula. Rusa and Alces poured their mugs to brimming with crisp ale and toasted to one another with a grin; Sily removed a small bottle of what Pica knew to be red absinthe from where it lived behind her breastplate and poured a small amount into a wooden cup to do the same.
Slices of meat pies in aspic slid onto the tables, thick larded crusts flaking delicately onto the rough table and the jelly loosening its hold on the sausage filling as the heat of the kitchens sank in fully.
Great bowls of vegetables of every preparation and proportion. First, there were smashed young potatoes, griddled under a heated stone with garlic and rosemary until sealed in a golden crust. Then came piles of tender roast carrots and parsnips seasoned with red pepper and thyme, massive acorn squash halves stuffed with all manner of fillings both sweet and savory, and bowls of fresh spinach and lettuce, topped with onions, sunflower seeds, and crumbles of blue- and green-veined cheese.
Innumerable gravies, jugs of vibrant vinaigrettes and fragrant oils, and pots of crisp chiles, caramelized onions, toasted seeds, and fried lardons followed in quick suit, displaying the riches of the Grove’s expansive reach and providing all with ample opportunity to spice and alter their food as preferred. Competitions for spice tolerance quickly ensued across the dim room and another wave of disciplined waiters appeared with pitchers full to overflowing with all manner of ales, juices, wines, liquors, and other imbibements.
The Triplets and Simen all shifted impatiently as the moment they awaited finally arrived. A dozen cooks, all adorned in thick gloves and equipped with belts of meticulously sharpened knives, descended upon the hearth. As one they lifted the prize therein, pulling a massive spit and its burden from the flames and setting it on a rack for serving beside the hearth. A crackling, golden boar was presented for a moment. It glistened with its own fat, the skin scored in a diamond pattern to release the oils and allow them to run free over the animal as it cooked. It was dissected in moments, the cooks attacking it with precision and attendants swiftly apportioning it throughout the room.
For those with other cravings, poultry flooded from the kitchen in waves. Dark-breasted ducks with rubied skin that had been roasted to melting on the tongue and plump little capons basted in butter were served on beds of southern wild rice pocked with grains of black, brown, and red. These were accompanied by small fowl, grouse and pigeon and pheasant, roasted, fried, or gently poached in broth, arriving half-shredded atop oval trays, and glistening with pork fat just drizzled over top.
Pica was saddened that Pellia was missing her first of such meals. He was sure the excess of it would have impressed and sickened her as much as it had himself and Simen the first time they participated in one of these meals. He was aware that it was one of the supreme privileges which they enjoyed that even many in their own profession did not and when it came to those outside Keeptown, there really was no comparison at all to any not residing in the estates that marked Clifftop Avium. Would it have made her decision easier?
He wasn’t sure about that. The more time they spent in garrison, the less she had left with them. The anxiety of what that actually meant in terms of the coming years of her life had clearly begun to weigh on the young woman since they had returned. Pica worried she was questioning the oath she gave in Oxycarpa to join the Unitary Armies and wondered how they would judge a reneging foreigner.
Three loud knocks cut the din of the room as the agenda of the evening continued its inexorable grind forward. The hall fell silent immediately, all conversation or engorgement coming to a halt as Captain Haidarum’s rich voice floated overhead.
‘Mellivora. A moment of your time for official responsibilities if you don’t mind.’ He stood and mounted the table to stand before them all in a way that would be comical were it not for who the man was. He began his oratory obligations.
‘As required by the charter of the Unitary Armies and to ensure our duties to that body, we now enter into committee. At this time, we will review any petitions submitted by platoon leadership and their respective bodies. Following that, any claims of an individual nature may be put forward if any so wish.’
The captain looked about the room, the silent looks of his soldiers confirming their assent to his words.
‘Now, let us begin.’ He called each of his lieutenants in turn. ‘Lieutenant Naja.’
The officer of First Platoon stood slowly, his lithe form unfolding as he shifted the long, black cloak he favored over his uniform. ‘Nothing to submit, sir.’ His voice was smooth, yet nasal, creeping like treacle as he eyed the gathering past a mess of salt-and-pepper hair. He sat again as Haidarum nodded.
Lieutenant Naja made Pica generally uncomfortable. On the odd occasion that they had directly interacted with First Platoon, he had gotten the impression that he was the type of leader who preferred to lead by implication rather than example. His soldiers were a shady lot, the type who competed amongst one another deviously and preferred a less hands-on approach to most problems. The man himself, was said to have been of a similar species to Scribe at some point, an old-world intellectual trained in a host of interdisciplinary methods of science and society which he applied zealously to the Company’s cause.
‘Lieutenant Carpitalpa.’
The man next to Naja stood with effort as he leveraged his bulk from the chair, almost destabilizing the furniture and repositioning his weight over the hand that gripped the table to better stabilize himself. He was the leader of Second Platoon, a force which distinguished itself amongst its peers in Mellivora by nurturing a talent for engineering and machine-assisted methods of warfare. It had been Carpitalpa’s passion for experimental slaughter that led to both his horrific maiming at the hands of one of his own devices as well the subsequent recruitment by Haidarum himself in the halls of Doc Pans hospital. It was the Captain’s visits which he attributed to his own survival and for that he was viciously loyal to the Mellivora leader. The marks of that time a decade ago were still clear on the man, the knotted scars which marked the licking of flame marching down the back of his head and disappearing down behind his high collar. He kept his head shaved to the splotched skin, the follicles of his skull being unable to produce hair uniformly across three-quarters of its surface. He sweat profusely.
‘Nothing-ahem-nothing to submit, sir.’ His voice was soft and most in the hall strained to catch it as it pushed past pursed pink lips. He nodded and deposited himself once again in his chair with a sigh.
‘Lieutenant Heteractis.’
The only female in Haidarum’s inner-circle, the officer in charge of Third stood with a flourish that was appropriate to her sea-faring roots, bowing to the Company and her captain once before offering her own response.
‘Nothing to report, sah!’
She collapsed back to her seat with a clatter of the diverse items which hung from her armor on thin strips of leather. It was a holdover of a past spent sailing the brutal northern waters of the Grey Sea, a way to ensure that all of your essential instruments were easily accessible in a panic and that you did not get drug down by a tool stuck in a pocket once inevitably cast into the open water.
Her soldiers were better referred to as a ‘crew’ rather than a platoon for most purposes and had acquired the derogative nickname of the ‘Bilge Rats’ due to their devil-may-care attitude toward most things. They snickered and jostled as their leader kicked her feet up and onto the arm of Lieutenant Strozzi’s chair beside her. The man ignored her, stoic as he awaited his name.
‘Lieutenant Strozzi.’
He stood smartly, smoothly knocking the foreign feet from their perch with a sweep of his arm.
‘Nothing to report, sir.’ He waited a moment too long to regain his seat, the Captain noticed.
‘Lieutenant Strozzi?’
The grizzled officer, by far the oldest of the group at the high table, stood himself again slowly.
‘Sir?’
‘Is there something else?’
‘Ehrm… well Cap-’
‘I have a petition!’ A light voice, peaking far higher than any other in the room, shattered the hushed silence and all turned to find the small woman adopted by Fourth Squad standing near the atrium door. Sergeant Tacca stood behind her, a black look clouding her brow and blood rosying her cheeks as she stared daggers into the room.
A new type of silence filled the space and all looked between the women and the officers’ table.
‘Well, do please tell us, young Pellia’ a cautiously bemused Captain Haidarum offered, beckoning her more fully into the room with a sweeping motion of his arms.
She nodded and did as requested, standing tall as she walked past the long rows of tables and turning to stand before the Officers Committee and the assembled soldiers.
‘This is a bit unusual,’ Lieutenant Naja sneered, looking around the room but remaining silent at a look from the Captain.
‘While we have seemingly skipped a few formalities,’ the commander noted crisply, ‘let us continue to the individual petitions directly. Proceed northerner.’
Pica couldn’t tell if he meant any implication in using the label, he knew it could be seen as derogatory by some and that others used it that way exclusively. But in the way of the Captain, the man said the word in a way that was sufficiently neutral so as to appeal to both camps without any consideration otherwise from either. Pellia spoke again.
‘In accordance with the rights of the soldier as described in the Unitary Charter and under the assumption of those rights as a duly recognized provisoria of Company Mellivora, I hereby submit my petition and demand it be recognized here today.’
The surprise many showed at the textbook perfection she displayed in her submission went unchecked, some staring with jaws hanging at the small northerner reciting words they had likely read only once and uttered never during their tenure in the Company. Simen was one of these, though whether he had ever even cracked the Unitarian Handbook wasn’t something Pica was likely to wager for. Haidarum was nodding his ascent and grinning a broad, genuine smile as he ceded the floor fully and reseated himself.
‘Company Mellivora,’ Pellia began, turning to look upon all gathered, ‘thank you for allowing me the privilege to come before you.’ Her words, precise and measured, were noticeably lacking in northern accent, a perfect imitation of the mid-city Avium accent common to most in the markets. ‘The petition I bring is unusual. Some among you may find it to be unacceptable and even taboo, a breach of what being a trooper of Mellivora means. To those among you, I beg your understanding, and if I cannot have that, please at least loan me your silence-’
‘What the fuck, Pica?’ Sily hissed silently beside him. She grabbed his collar over Scribe and pulled his face close to hers violently, ‘what is she doing?’
He had no words, no ideas.
‘-and as such, I request the exercise of my right to enlistment by examination.’
If the silence had been complete before, it was now deafening as her final words sank into even the thickest skull. Lieutenant Naja came to his feet with a hiss and peered down his thin nose at the woman below, a raucous sound arose from his troopers across the room.
‘And by what means do you find yourself worthy to exercise such a right, northerner?’ The meaning of his intonation was clear, it was immediately echoed in both form and inflection by his followers.
Pica was impressed, Pellia didn’t blanch under the commotion and stood stoic until Haidarum calmed the room with a silently raised hand that returned Naja to his seat.
‘The Lieutenant is right, young Pellia.’ Haidarum looked between them, ‘At this point, I will do you the benefit of assuming that your words and performance up until now indicate a deep understanding of the Unitarian way and of the beliefs by which we abide. I am inclined, therefore, to expect that you know both the meaning of what you are asking and what is required to even make such a request.’
He asked a question with his statement, a challenge to the small outsider that she was prepared for.
‘I do.’
With those two words, Pellia sealed the interaction and there were mutterings of satisfaction across the hall. Many, it seemed, appreciated the courage displayed by the provincial Badger. They exchanged significant glances and nodded toward Fourth Squad as she once again left the room.
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