Teddy’s New Rules

Report, Session Three: April 28, 2007

So you know how running my mouth off gets me into trouble? Well, keeping it shut drops me in more.

Somewhere in the back of my head there’s a little voice that keeps telling me to shut up, or tell the damn truth, or stop being such a smart-arse. Except I don’t listen to it. I know it’s getting me into trouble, but I just can’t stop myself. Is that ego? A self-destructive streak? What the hell is wrong with me? And why am I hanging so much of myself on the opinion of three people I met barely two months ago?

Rule No. 8: Forget the damn rules

They get me into more trouble than they get me out of.

After the evening’s excitement I was a bit strung out, especially after adding several cups of the Baron’s coffee to the mix. I tried to have that little chat with Sava and got brushed off, on the basis that she didn’t want anything bringing down her enjoyment of the ball. Fine. I went and got a few hours sleep instead, not that it really helped.

After more coffee and a greasy brunch we all headed into the market to buy clothes for the ball. Shopping with Sava is a little like shopping with my mother – there’s a faint sense that I ought to be embarrassed about it, but I enjoy myself anyway. Sava clearly enjoys dressing people, so (just like shopping with mother) it’s best to nod and smile and hand over the firebirds. It’s the first time I’ve owned a suit since I joined the Guild, and I’m amused by what Sava regards as “Charioteer chic”. Charcoal suit with a longline jacket, white tee and a typically loud dress shirt. Wearing it, I look like a capital “P” pilot. It’s much easier to get comfy in than some of the suits mum’s inflicted on me over the years, so I shouldn’t complain. The ladies spent much more time on their dresses, which is as it should be – Sava was dangerously attractive in Decados black, and Shui-Lin her opposite in haughty Li Halan white. Put that girl in a dress and she seems to forget she’s a priest. And she says she doesn’t wear masks. Hah.

We stopped off at the Decados embassy on our way back to the Baron’s residence, to speak to Sava’s Jakovian contact. Surprisingly, he agreed to see all of us. Spooks. Go figure. He and Sava started talking about the dead Jakovian back at the residence, and the rogues in general, and for me, things started dropping into place. I’d been picking up bits and pieces of gossip and the few extra bits from Jacob just slipped into some of the gaps. Missing Charioteers, unrest on Malignatius, the rogue Jakovians, and dates that matched just a bit too well to be coincidental.

I spoke up, when I really should have kept my mouth shut. I figured Jacob had more info than he was letting on. I don’t know why I thought I could put everything together, or even why I thought I needed to. My Guild’s involved. Charioteers are missing or dead, and that pisses me off. Poster child for loyal Charioteers, me.

The conversation with Jacob was … odd. More was going on than I could immediately see, but we swapped some info, and he seemed somehow impressed. He implied that we could work together, and I showed interest but said I’d need a gesture on his part before I agreed. He promised to give me more info at the ball. I should have twigged that there was something to his change in demeanour, but at the time I put it down to surprise that I knew anything useful at all. My ingrained habit of talking in half-truths and leading questions was forming an impression of me in Jacob’s head that had little to do with reality. And I think it got the others suspicious about me as well. But me? I was for the moment oblivious.

We returned to the Baron’s residence, chatting about new theories. I again asked Sava for a moment alone, and she again insisted we not have the talk until after the ball. Didn’t want me to ruin her fun. I was practically vibrating by this point, half from stress and half from caffeine. Oddly enough, I’m at my best when I’m like that. Words come easily when you’re a bit high.

The ball was a grand affair, of course – the Duke had spared no expense. There was the usual run of beautiful people, cliques, shifty types, rumour-mongers and parasites. Shui-Lin made a bee-line for the Amaltheans, and Sava floated off towards one of the knots of nobility with James in her wake playing bodyguard. I headed for the buffet, too strung out to feel like making small talk with the locals. I’d gotten drunk with half of them the previous evening anyway, so mine wasn’t the only hangover being quietly coddled with fine food.

In weaving through the crowds though, I overheard a familiar voice, and winced at the thought of running into Swallow again. He was deep in serious conversation with a young guildswoman, and as I passed I caught a drift of their words – they were talking about the missing Charioteers. Now, I couldn’t pass up the chance to gather more info on the subject, so after filling my plate I wandered back over in their direction, and much to my surprise Swallow approached me. He clearly regarded me with lingering dislike, but in the absence of James I suppose I was a bit more accessible. We swapped fake pleasantries and rather than waltzing around the subject I dove right in (I had no desire to spend any more time with Swallow than was absolutely necessary). As usual, I was all hanging comments and half-truths, leaving Swallow to leap to conclusions as he would. Under normal circumstances this is a pretty effective way of getting information. Your opponent either gives you info out of competition, trying to prove himself more knowledgeable than you; or he takes your knowing, slightly superior attitude for the mannerisms of a more competent man, and tells you things out of a need to be on the “inside” with you. Humans are pack creatures, after all.

Somewhere in the conversation, Swallow’s demeanour changed. Something I said, or didn’t say, made him think I was in on something. Once I picked up on that I kept it up, pushing for more clues. He gave me some useful info, too, and I told him I’d give him more if I came across anything else. He seemed pleased, or relieved, to discover that he wasn’t on his own. I was in on it with him. When the conversation ended, I discovered what “it” was. He left me with a salute that any ranking Charioteer would recognise. Kilroy.

I’d just convinced a Kilroy, purely by accident, that I was also a member of that organisation. Which would have been bad enough, but it put into perspective Jacob’s reaction to me – I’d also convinced a Jakovian that I was a Kilroy. Shit.

I headed straight for a drinks tray, and had sculled a glass and was starting on a second when Shui-Lin insinuated herself. She said I looked grey, and asked me what was wrong. I gave her the brief version. She gave me that look – the one that makes you feel suddenly guilty. At least she had the decency to recognise that during a ball was not the right time to give me a lecture.

The ball grew quiet then for the big event – Sir Lexine Hawkwood got to deliver her “come join the Emperor in a glorious crusade against the barbarian hordes” speech. She dealt well with the hecklers. I was amused that Shui-Lin was very quietly one of those – when Sir Lexine spoke of the Emperor’s offer to ennoble those who followed him, Shui-Lin made a sotto voce remark about cheapening the nobility. I’m going to pull that one up the next time she accuses me of being egotistical…

After the speech, people started milling around again, and not ten minutes later a thrill of interest went through the crowd – somebody had been challenged. I immediately thought of Sava, and wasn’t disappointed. She’d managed to annoy a young Hazat lord. She looked pretty pleased with herself, actually. Seconds were gathered; Sir Lexine for Sava, and a Decados lady for Juan Hazat (his name was rather longer than that, but I’m paraphrasing). Shui-Lin was called into service as medic.

Quite a crowd had gathered by this point, some of them taking bets. The Decados ambassador wandered over, looked in briefly, than pronounced the whole thing a bore and wafted away. His lackey trailed behind him, drooling gently. The rumour is that the lackey is what happened to an enemy of the Ambassador’s; tortured into imbecility and forced into service. Which would have been a good story if the lackey in question wasn’t Jacob in a silly hat.

Anyway, the duel went off as expected – the Hazat nearly got himself killed and didn’t even touch Sava. My little sister’s deadly with that sword, I can tell you. The funny thing was, after the first strike, which was clearly an awful wound, the Hazat refused to concede the duel. He was egged on by his second. Even after the second blow, when Sava’s sword had gone clean through his guts, the second was still trying to egg the poor bastard on.

James and I joined Sava and Lexine, watching while Shui-Lin patched up the Hazat. Sava was a bit rattled by the experience, seemingly because of the Hazat’s casual refusal to wear a shield. Hazat are a bit mad like that. Still, nobody died. Hovering near the scene was the second, who I noticed collect Juan’s sword, wiping it off a bit too carefully given it hadn’t tasted blood. Juan got to his feet, rather unsteadily but thanks to Shui-Lin no longer in mortal danger, and thanked all and sundry before staggering off. Sava seemed a bit embarrassed. Then Shui-Lin commented that Jacob had seemed alarmed by the duel, and had indicated the second.

I left Sava with Lexine and the others, and caught up with Juan. He was pale, but his body will likely recover much faster than his ego. I warned him to clean off his sword carefully before using it in any more duels. By the look on his face he knew what I meant. I asked him the name of his second and how he knew her. She was a fellow student under the Baron Kruschev’s tutelage, he said, and her name was Freka Decados. Freka. The name the captured Jakovian had given us. The leader of one of the rogue cells. Great.

I passed this on to the others, and smilingly asked Sava if I should make life difficult for her. She agreed that it was a good idea. She noted that Freka had slunk into the garden by herself, and that the Ambassador and Jacob had followed her not long after. I set off to point another spook in her direction: Swallow.

I found him still at the buffet, though now drinking instead of eating. I told him I’d checked up on him and he’d come up clear, so I’d give him what else I knew. He was suitably impressed, though it made me feel even more guilty. I told him about the rogue Jakovian cells, and added that the leader of one of those cells had been spotted, describing Freka to him. Grimly, he put down his glass, thanked me profusely, and vanished into the gardens after Freka and Jacob.

The party died down after that, and though I wanted to hang around and wait for Jacob, it didn’t seem likely that he’d resurface. The Ambassador was still sitting in the garden when we left, gazing vacantly off into space.

Despite all the excitement (and stress) I slept very well that night, mostly on account of Shui-Lin giving me a sleeping draught. Tasted like shit, but it did the trick.

---

Morning was breakfast, coffee, and a conversation I wish I’d never had. Actually, two.

I was feeling pretty bright after a good night’s sleep, but my euphoria quickly vanished when James started quizzing me. Threateningly. And threats from a man like James are neither lightly given nor easily taken. He’d finally gotten sick of me, and was at the point of thinking I might be a threat to Sava. A threat he’d be only too happy to remove.

It’s funny; besides this group and some old friends on Cadavus, the only people I’ve spent extended periods with have been other Charioteers, who expect (and in fact emulate) that kind of manner; and my mother’s friends (both Decados nobles and other Courtesans), who do much the same thing for slightly different reasons. My friends on Cadavus were just used to it, I guess. We used to play games with rumour and reputation, and although we were never as poisonous as the nobles, we were unholy terrors to anybody we disliked. I was always the face man; a scrawny kid with an easy smile and an ingratiating manner, talking merchants into believing we were saints while my mates robbed them blind. Or convincing teachers that I should get extensions, or better grades, or days off. My mother was wise to most of my bullshit, mainly because she taught me how to do it.

James, like Shui-Lin, is a black and white kind of guy. I don’t lie (at least, not baldly; it’s too easy to be caught out), but to his mind I dissemble enough that he sees it as lying. He doesn’t trust me. He kept asking me why I was with Sava, wanting me to give him some reason that he could understand. And I couldn’t give him one. I could feel Shui-Lin staring at me the whole time; if anybody knows why I stay, it’s her; but I was damned if I was going to explain anything real to him. Stupid pride, I suppose. He’s already got too much power over me – he could snap me like a twig – and I don’t want to give him any more hold on me. Maybe I don’t trust him. He pretends to be so straight and simple, but just like Shui-Lin he’s kidding himself. And in my experience, the ones who aren’t aware of their masks are far more dangerous than the ones who do. You never know what’ll make them snap.

Shui-Lin left in disgust, and James gave up on me not long after. He couldn’t get whatever answers he was after, so with a last careful threat he stalked away.

I must have sat alone in the dining room for a good half hour, working up a good funk. A part of me was surprised by James’ reaction. He’s a Brother Battle, so I figure he’s been around enough Charioteers and he knows how we act. But maybe he’s not had enough conversations with us. Not that this is his fault, so I should just shut up, eh?

Sava joined me in the dining room after his training session. In hindsight, I guess she’s been getting suspicious of me, too. She certainly didn’t react the way I expected her to. Not that I’m sure I know how I expected her to react.

I handed her Yevgeny’s amulet and told her the story. She didn’t ask many questions. Was pretty calm about the whole thing, really. She gave back the amulet with a casual “well, it seems genuine”. Seems. Huh. She was too calm about it, really. She probably thinks it’s part of some elaborate fiction. Not that I’d blame her for coming to that conclusion, really.

James came back down then, wondering about the escort for the errands I needed to run before we left Istakhr. I expressed some reticence to going anywhere with James, briefly summarising my earlier conversation with him. Sava snapped something about duty which had James practically at attention. She pushed a whole lot of buttons on me as well, though I refused to bite – I don’t need Sava to tell me how to do my damn job.

We headed out in what could charitably be called a professional silence. I’m glad that James was prepared to be all business about it – it made me a little less nervous about being around him. We drove down to the Embrace to check up on the repairs, which were pretty much finished by that stage. However, some disturbing news was being flapped about – Swallow had been found dead, and the Decados Ambassador was as good as, physically fine but with his mind gone. Nobody mentioned either Jacob or Freka. That got me feeling hellishly guilty about sending Swallow after the Jakovian – if I’d been thinking clearly, or if I’d liked the man more, I wouldn’t have sent him off without back up. Stupid.

Next stop was the Guildhall, to arrange a pilot. I took myself up to the Chief to talk about Swallow. Mostly I wanted to assuage my own guilt by making sure his body was being sent home, and possibly to join in on whatever wake might be being arranged. Sort of backfired on me, though. What started out as “I’m a friend of Swallow’s” got misconstrued as “I’m Swallow’s Kilroy partner”. It all went downhill from there. Once the Chief thought I was a Kilroy (and partner of the getting more saintly by the moment Swallow) getting out of the situation became difficult. No, that’s wrong. It was just easier not to set him straight. He practically fell over himself arranging a pilot for our run to Nowhere (the long-suffering Captain Rothwell). He also gave me a key to a safety deposit box, saying that Swallow had entrusted it to him, and that in the event of his death, somebody would come to collect it. Clearly that somebody was me.

I am going straight to hell, you know.

The safety deposit box contained half a bottle of rum (which I don’t drink unless desperate), three hundred firebirds (which I thought about taking, but left behind on the basis that as there were over three thousand in my pocket I really didn’t need it), some Ukari porn (no, I don’t know either) and a document box. A quick glance inside the box revealed Swallow’s meticulous notes on his investigation. I decided to take that with me, and made a promise to myself to return it after adding my own report.

We intended to go home via the Decados embassy, in the slim hope that I’d be able to catch up with Jacob. Sitting in a café across the street, I noticed a broken window on the second storey, and the glare of a laser sight. Since people weren’t running about, it was fair to assume the window had been broken some time ago. I suppose Jacob had bugged out after the Ambassador’s demise. In any case, I wasn’t getting any more info out of the Decados.

On snooping around, James found an empty tripod on the roof of a building across from the embassy, though whoever had been operating it was long gone. Feeling a bit stonewalled, we started back, both of us keeping an eye out for tails. We weren’t disappointed. Krushchev’s driver got his car chase, and on a sharp turn James exited the car, intending to take on whoever was in the beat-up jalopy following us.

The gunfire started almost immediately, punctuated by James’ calm recitation of the situation – “two targets, pinned down”. Now, James is good at what he does, but I don’t think he’d really though his plan through very far. He’d fought one of these Jakovians previously, and had commented on how good they were. And in broad daylight, with little cover and limited ammo, he was going to take two of them on? Yeah, right.

I ordered the driver to turn the car around, and we went barrelling back towards the scene. James was pinned down in a doorway, sending sprays of bullets at his two opponents, one of whom was shooting from the front seat, the other taking cover behind the rear of the car. I managed to get a round into that guy’s back (I’m pretty impressed that I hit him at all, given the speed we were doing), and he dragged himself into the car just in time for the impact.

Car crashes. Just say no.

I don’t think I blacked out. I was in a hell of a lot of pain. The driver had fared better, but was clearly in the first stages of shock. I coaxed him out of the car and we navigated our way gingerly back across the major thoroughfare we’d only moments before somehow managed to cross without killing ourselves.

James was down, and it looked bad. Faced with a choice between looking after a shocked driver and a dying Brother Battle, or going after the rapidly retreating surviving Jakovian, I went with the safer option. I wasn’t in any condition to be chasing after a bad guy, anyway. Luckily for James, Sava and Shui-Lin arrived shortly afterwards, saving me from having to perform first aid.

And here’s an odd thing: Shui-Lin was nearly fainting over James’ wounds; he was leaking blood all over the place and looked as close to death as any living man could; yet Sava didn’t seem to care. He went wandering off to look at the Jakovian’s body and the pranged car. At first flush I put it down to Decados coldness, which was uncharitable of me, since I learned later that in fact Sava just hadn’t noticed. Now that’s oblivious. How the hell does anybody miss that much blood? Clearly James (and to a much lesser extent, myself) were being far too stoic.

---

We returned to the Baron’s residence in a poor state; two of us heavily wounded, one car destroyed, and with the cheering news that the bad guys had a rocket launcher. Shui-Lin had barely finished bandaging James before Sava dragged him off to scout the port for Jakovians. Like I said, Sava simply hadn’t noticed just how badly banged up James was.

Swallow’s reports added a few more pieces to the puzzle, and not in a good way. It seems the missing Charioteers had all at some point visited the Zuviev Institute. Man, the people I’m related to… I added my own report to the box, ending it with an apology for how things had turned out. Two things I’ll be leaving off my resume: wanted for murder on Cadavus, and impersonating a Kilroy on Istakhr. I am never getting promoted.

Oh, and just when I thought I couldn’t possibly make it any worse…

Knowing there was a Jakovian or two out there with a rocket launcher, just waiting for us to take off and be blown out of the sky, we went back to the Guildhall to arrange a distraction for them. My idea was to convince the Chief to push off a couple of extra ships at the same time as our departure, and hopefully confuse the bad guys. The thought of somebody else getting accidentally shot down gave me chills, but I hoped it was an acceptable risk. I told the Chief that there were bad guys after me (and of course, I was sporting a lot of cuts and bruises and had one arm in a sling, so I certainly looked the part). I spun quite a line on him. If there’d been money involved I would have made a killing. In this case though, the Chief was wiping away patriotic tears and swearing to help me in whatever capacity he could. Anything for Swallow’s partner. From the look on my companions’ faces, I’d convinced them, too. I’m never going to live down this Kilroy thing. Stars…

Visualise the port at Istakhr – dusty ships squatting in their berths, crowds of people filling the air with the sounds of furious commerce. Engines begin to hum, lights flicker on across the noses of first one, then two, then ten, then thirty trading ships. Skerries of dust swirl up as the first lifts off, and as the others follow the whole area is swathed in choking dust, cutting visibility down to dull lights and cursing. A hail goes out to the ships departing: “For Swallow!”. A small vessel – nothing much to look at, really – nudges up through the air, her pilots struggling to take off as quickly as possible. She gains height, then lurches suddenly, her engines stalling, and she drops like a rock out of a space suddenly filled with the contrail of a rocket which misses her by sheer luck. She nose-dives, engines sputtering and gasping, then suddenly finds her voice and with a great juddering lurch leaps skywards again. Amidst the dust and engine haze of thirty other ships a second contrail appears, and in the tiny ship’s cockpit one of the pilots is wishing he had a shot of strong vodka; the other is triggering the door release and ordering the Brother Battle to shoot the locked-on missile out of the sky. A tall ask, but James is a good shot. A bright flare bursts from the little ship, curving across the missile’s path and misdirecting it. The ship makes good its escape.

And in Istakhr port, and on thirty Charioteer trading ships, captains are congratulating themselves that they were there when Swallow’s partner made his dramatic escape.

If I’d painted “Kilroy was ‘ere” on the Embrace’s flanks it couldn’t have been any worse…

No, wait. There is one more wrinkle. Our pilot. Captain Simon Rothwell. He of the good taste in vodka and complete lack of funny bone. Just a hunch, a little niggling feeling. I think he’s a Kilroy. And he outranks me. And I’m spending a month on a boat with him. Maybe if I can keep my mouth shut it won’t be a problem.

Oh, who am I kidding?