Chapter 54: We Learn Things

Some of you might accuse me of that same hubris, given my temerity in lecturing this august body. I know I have earned your contempt for refusing to participate directly in the War. There is no lofty rhetoric I would offer by way of an excuse, because the answer is simple enough to understand - though my soul is often thought of foremost as a general’s soul, a conqueror’s soul, those are the wrong terms for it.

Used in war, it is a tyrant’s soul. To kill, to destroy with a soul such as mine, requires that one hold in their heart the surety of another man’s death. For most of its bearers, this was easy enough - they did not care. The vaunted example of Leo Artabasdos has always rung hollow with me, because I know what historians could not - that to slay the enemies of Ghar as he did, he had to view them as less than animals.

I continue to affirm my decision to abstain from combat. I believed that the best course was for me to devote my mind, body and soul to the creation of an Institute for the advancement of Ardalt, so that we might rise as a nation against the relentless tide of history.

It is with my utmost regret that I inform you of my failure.

- Stanza’s Complaint to the Assembly (excerpt), 671.

The low drone of engines came from over Michael’s shoulder; he turned to watch as a tight formation of fighters and bombers flew past the airship. The lead plane waggled its wings as it passed their fore quarter; the squadron was past them in moments, receding into the distance until his eyes could barely pick them out amid the haze.

“An advance group?” he wondered aloud, looking back at Sobriquet.

She shook her head, looking exasperated. “They’re dropping leaflets,” she said. “Advisories to the Safid containing the summary of the Batzar’s judgment and instructions to vacate Daressan territory immediately.”

“And they think that will work?” Michael asked, turning to raise an eyebrow. “Against the Safid?”

Sobriquet rolled her eyes. “Mendiko law dictates that the targets of an enforcement action must be advised of the nature and scope of said action prior to its commencement.” She sighed and leaned back against the hull of the airship, the wind tugging at her hair. “I overheard Antolin talking about it. He was very insistent about permitting them adequate time to read and circulate the messages prior to moving in.”

“He knows that all he’s doing is surrendering the advantage of surprise,” Michael asked. “Right? The Safid aren’t simply going to pack up and walk away, not when we’re leaving the Ardan lines alone - for the moment. Antolin has to know that.”

She shrugged. “I imagine he thinks it will make little difference if they choose to fight,” she said, stepping forward to peer over the balcony’s railing. “Not when Saf will have to contend with that.”

Michael followed her gaze; her eyes were tracking a small plume of dust just below a ridge. Through the dust and treetops Michael could spot a line of vehicles making their way down the switchbacks to the valley floor. The Mendiko “armor” had proved to be something wholly different from his expectations, massive tracked vehicles clad in thick slabs of metal. Each one was a mobile bunker and emplacement, providing the power and protection of ensouled to crew that were largely not.

He was becoming accustomed to interpreting Mendian through the lens of Leire’s philosophy, so Michael saw this for what it was - parity. There was little use for a durens or potens when Mendiko factories could churn out automobiles and machines to let an unsouled work with greater efficiency and precision than either; these tanks extended that logic to the base tiers of combat ensouled.

What were scalptors against thick steel, or potens against a withering hail of gunfire? Three men without a soul between them could stand off an entire company of minor ensouled from within the bowels of one of these “tanks” - and the Mendiko had brought scores of them, accompanied by truckloads of infantry, fuel, food and ammunition. This was an army that owed its health to the artifex, not the anatomens - and it was much easier to come by the former than the latter.

Still, Michael frowned. “Perhaps,” he muttered. “I don’t doubt that the Mendiko could turn away the Safid rank and file. Their officers are ensouled, though, and there’s Saleh and Amira to contend with. How does Antolin plan on dealing with them, should they choose to object?”

Sobriquet didn’t answer; Michael turned to find her giving him an odd look. She smiled at the confusion on his face before drawing closer. “You dolt,” she whispered, resting her forehead against his. “That’s what we’re here for. Leire, me - and you.”

A shiver danced up Michael’s spine, even as he relished the close contact. “Ah. The Eight, to fight the Eight.”

“And we have more than they do,” she murmured. “Better. Saleh should know he can’t win this, but if he does stand against us then I will fill his shiny, bald head with horrors.” She kissed him lightly on the lips, then drew back, still smiling.

Michael blinked. “That’s a very odd thing to say right before you kiss someone,” he pointed out. “It muddles the feeling somewhat.”

“Do you think so?” Sobriquet asked. “We’re going to war, and it’s our war. We began it together. We’ll fight it together.” She leaned forward to kiss him again. “I won’t lie to you, Michael. I’ve been fighting my own war since I could walk, and I know what we’ve committed to. You don’t, not really, and I can’t describe it to you. The best I can do is be honest, and not shroud the corpses in kind words.”

Do not hide behind euphemism. Some things should not be palatable. Michael shook the echo of Jeorg’s voice from his mind and nodded slowly, meeting her eyes. “I understand,” he said.

Michael felt something small and fragile crumple within Sobriquet; her eyes slid to the side. “You will,” she said. “I’m - sorry, for what it’s worth. There might have been another path for you, one with less death upon it. You might have found a better way if not for me.”

“I think we both know I was going to end up on a troubled path no matter what,” Michael said, stepping closer to loop his arms around her. “My soul isn’t like Jeorg’s. It won’t let me exist quietly. It draws men like Spark and Saleh; even Leire would have sought me out on her own, if she had known the truth. I’m sure of it. They can’t imagine a soul like mine without seeing the worst - or best, depending on their view. Sooner or later, they would have drawn me in.”

He bent to kiss her on the forehead. “So I’m glad I found you first,” he said. “I would have been lost, alone.”

“You really would have been,” she murmured. “Lordling.”

Michael made a face. “Now it just feels like I’m hugging Charles.”

A delighted grin spread over Sobriquet’s face, her soul flexed and shimmered; her appearance shifted to match that of the older artifex.

“Gah,” Michael spat, taking a step back. “Don’t make him smile like that, it’s unsettling.”

Sobriquet waggled her eyebrows, then let the illusion drop. “You’d prefer someone else? Amira? Leire?”

“Shit, Leire,” Michael muttered, hurriedly raising his hands as Sobriquet’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m meant to meet with her before we get too far underway, I’m probably late.”

Sobriquet swept her arm wide, stepping back to clear the way between Michael and the door. “Far be it from me to stand between you and true love,” she said. “Be gentle with her.”

“You realize she probably has an auditor listening to us,” Michael sighed, walking over to turn the door’s heavy handle.

“Oh, I imagine she does,” Sobriquet laughed. “But being late won’t improve her sense of humor. Go.” She waved him towards the door.

Michael flashed her a final smile, then ducked into the hallways of the airship’s upper decks. It was less-difficult to navigate than Leire’s home, but still a lengthy walk from the top platform to the enclosed observation deck where he and Leire regularly met.

They had discussed many subjects in the past weeks - Michael’s soul, the fires he carried, the potential bound up inside Spark and Stanza. Some days Leire had been irritable and restless, others distracted or nearly manic in her enthusiasm.

He could feel as he approached that today would be a melancholy day. Behind the usual glare of her soul, Leire brimmed with a tense, dour energy.

“You’ve been accustomed to keeping a lax schedule,” she said, her voice betraying none of it. “It’s an easy habit to fall into - natural. Especially if you’re unmoored from the normal trappings of social obligation, I might add.” She shifted in her chair, turning to look at him. “We’re going to be fighting the Safid soon, and no mere raid. We’ll have Mendiko soldiers down there. They’ll need our help. Prompt help.”

“I’ll be here when the fighting starts,” Michael said.

Leire snorted. “Habit isn’t a beast that can be raised in a day,” she said. “But you’ll learn.” Her head turned to look back out the window, where the dust plume from the tank column rose against the sky. “It’s been a long while since I’ve supported men on the ground.”

The melancholy note redoubled, and she slumped back into her chair. “Men,” she muttered. “Most of them weren’t even alive the last time Mendiko ground forces left our borders. They’re children, and we will see some of them die before the end.”

Michael followed her gaze, then shook his head. “People are dying now,” he said. “All across Daressa. That’s why we’re here.”

“Daressans don’t look to me as a leader,” she said. “They don’t look to me for safety. These - men, these soldiers, they’ve followed me to war because I said it was necessary. From the youngest recruit all the way up to Antolin, they’re here because they trust me. And yet some of them will fall with their eyes turned skyward, wondering why I didn’t help when they needed it.”

Michael fell silent, walking closer to the window. The line of men and machinery wound through the forest like a trail of ants, distant and dark. He couldn’t feel the pulsing humanity of the soldiers from here, couldn’t see their faces.

“We can’t be perfect,” Leire said. “We’re human, and would be lesser without our imperfections. But they - cut, in a war. Every one of your faults will accrue needless death.” She paused, then waved her hand toward the door. “I have nothing to say to you today. You can’t learn these things through words. Go and sleep, if you can. Sleep is a very human thing, and it’s one of the first you’ll give up.”

She said nothing more; after a moment Michael turned to leave. He walked back to his quarters quietly, Leire’s words echoing dully in his head. He had not been looking forward to the coming conflict, far from it, but now his emotions had converged towards something like dread. Leire and Sobriquet had seen different facets of war, but both had warned him that he was unprepared for what they had seen.

The sound of his footfalls resonated in the corridor, his eyes wincing against the alternating light-and-dark as he walked past the ship’s tiny, armored portholes. He arrived at his cabin and eased the door open, looking at the cramped interior with its uninviting cot.

A second door opened just beside him; Luc poked his head out curiously. “Oh,” he said. “Welcome back, Michael. You’re normally with Leire around now, yes?”

“She told me to get some rest before the fighting starts,” Michael said. “Seemed like a good idea.”

Luc nodded, a somber look on his face. “Are you worried?” he asked. “About the fighting, I mean.”

Michael turned to face him, then slowly nodded his head. “I suppose I am,” he admitted. “Perhaps not as much as I should be. How are you?”

“Me?” Luc asked. “I’m fine. I’ve been continuing my lessons with Unai, he says I’m progressing to a point where I’ll be useful with the wounded. I don’t-” He frowned. “I don’t know if I agree with him. It doesn’t feel right to think of someone’s life in my hands.”

“What if it was?” Michael asked. “What if you find yourself there, and a man will die unless you help him?”

Luc blinked, seeming taken aback by the question. “Then I would try to help him, of course.”

Michael tilted his head. “And if he dies anyway?”

“Then I would tell Unai that I might need more training,” Luc muttered, smiling nervously. “Why do you ask?”

“Just something Leire said,” Michael sighed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pester you about it. It’s my problem.”

Luc nodded, his expression pensive. He took a half step back into his room, then raised his head. “When I was at the orphanage, there were women that would come sometimes, when one of the children was hurt in the machines. Not anatomentes, just normal people with bandages and water. They couldn’t - fix anything, they couldn’t give back the hair or the fingers that the machines took. But they sat with the children, and held them.”

Michael gave Luc a curious look. “Just held them?”

“We were orphans,” Luc said, as if it explained everything. He frowned, then sighed. “We weren’t worth healing. Nobody with any skill would try. All of the children died or healed as cripples. But - the women came, and they held them all the same.”

He shrugged. “They did what they could. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t good enough. They tried, and we loved them for it.” Luc scratched his head, borrowed fingers ruffling through his hair. “So my answer to your question is - I’d try to do what I could, because it’s better than nobody trying at all.”

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The two men were silent for a moment, then Michael nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m going to try and rest. I don’t know how long we’ve got, but - it’s not long now.”

Luc made a soft noise of acknowledgment, smiled, and ducked back into his room. After another moment, Michael entered his own.

He didn’t know what time it was when the airship’s alert horns began to sound, but there was still daylight in the windows as Michael burst from his room into a suddenly-crowded corridor. Luc’s door was ajar, his bunk empty; Michael pushed through the crowd until he caught a glimpse of Charles, looking as if he too had just awoken from sleep.

“You know what’s going on?” Michael asked, raising his voice over the sound of the horns.

The artifex shook his head. “Just heard the siren, I don’t - hey, Vernon!” Michael turned to look, spotting Vernon looking out a window some distance away. The two men made their way towards the auditor, who was standing serenely despite the deafening racket.

“How in Ghar’s bones are you okay?” Charles asked. “Doesn’t this hurt?”

“I never fixed my ears,” Vernon replied dreamily, his eyes somewhat glassy. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just - a lot to hear. So much noise.” He smiled, then giggled.

Michael and Charles exchanged a look. “I’m not sure if this is better,” Charles muttered. “Hey, focus here for a moment.” He snapped his fingers, twice, and Vernon pivoted towards the noise with a bemused expression.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Michael asked. “Are we under attack?”

“No, no,” Vernon chuckled. “We’re over attack. Tanks attacking. The Safid lines, they’re about to draw close. Heard someone talking about it that, that-” He swiveled and pointed towards the ship’s fore. “That way.”

Michael nodded and turned to Charles. “Put him in his bunk,” he said. “I’m going to the observation deck.” He began to run down the corridor as fast as the press of people would allow; from behind him he heard Vernon yell something unintelligibly supportive.

He did not slow until he reached Leire’s booth, but she was not there; Michael wondered for a moment before he realized that she’d be down lower, on her exposed platform - ready to use her power on the Safid, should it prove necessary. His nose pressed against the glass as he looked outward, the ground below covered in a sporadic dusting of white.

Not snow, he realized, but the leaflet drops from before. Just ahead he could see the leading edge of the armored column spreading out from the road they’d used, approaching the long and sinuous shapes of the Safid trenches.

There was no movement amid the trenches. Michael sharpened his sight and saw only wet paper and rusted wire; to the south the Ardan lines were similarly-still, but he could see the shapes of men huddled amid their fortifications. They made no move to take advantage of Saf’s absence. They only watched the Mendiko advance, quiet and motionless.

Michael turned; there were other crew on the deck, though none of them he recognized. He approached the nearest, a man with a short goatee and an officer’s cap.

“Where are the Safid?” he asked.

The officer blinked at him, then looked out at the trenches below. “They’ve left,” he said. “That’s why we dropped a warning. We’re here for territory, not troops. If they want to leave before we arrive, so much the better.”

“They won’t have just left,” Michael muttered. “Saleh wouldn’t leave. He’d - where’s Antolin?”

The officer blinked again, a bit slower this time. “The Grand Marshal? I haven’t the faintest idea, I assume he’s on the command deck.”

Michael turned from the window and took a step toward the center of the room. “Sera!” he called out; the officer jumped back with a muttered curse. “Sera!”

“You don’t actually need to shout,” she said, her avatar materializing next to him. “I can hear you.”

“Can you see down below?” he asked. “Are there veils down there, something to hide Safid forces?”

She paused a moment, then shook her head. “No,” she said. “Nothing that I can see.”

“Sir,” the officer said, sounding mildly offended. “We did not advance blindly. The Grand Marshal has ample reconnaissance at his disposal. Every trench and culvert has been inspected, every field probed. There is no force hiding out there that could trouble us.”

“I can’t disagree,” Sobriquet said. “The only people down there are the Mendiko and the Ardans, and the Ardans are staying put on their side of the line.”

Michael frowned and stalked over to the other side of the observation deck; Sobriquet trailed along behind him. He looked at the Ardan lines for a moment, then turned to her.

“They’ve been watching the Safid lines constantly,” he said. “They must have seen them leave.”

“What do you want me to do, ask them?” Sobriquet retorted. “After Sever, I’d rather not find out what a regular Cutter’s blade feels like. I can snoop around, though.” Her avatar fuzzed, then became still.

“My sight isn’t the best for this,” she said. “Seems like they’ve seen some fighting recently.” There was another long pause. “A few field hospitals, full of men. Bodies. Lots of bodies. Stacked up in the forest, maybe to keep them out of the camp - I can’t see how they’re going to bury that many before they rot, even with artifices.”

Michael frowned. “Did the Safid attack to a man instead of evacuating?” he wondered. “That seems like an odd choice, especially if they didn’t have the numbers to overwhelm the Ardans.”

“They certainly gave it a good try,” Sobriquet said. “It’s hard to see detail like clothing unless I focus, but every man there looks bloodied. Shirts torn.” There was a long beat of silence; Michael looked out through the window at the Ardan lines while Mendiko tanks continued to pour out from the road.

Suddenly, Sobriquet’s avatar was right beside him. “Michael,” she said urgently. “They’re not wounded.”

He looked at her, wincing as the avatar’s face loomed large in his vision. “What?” he asked.

She leaned closer, her voice gaining a panicked edge audible even through the avatar’s distortion. “I couldn’t see it at first. Their shirts are torn and bloody, but they’re not wounded. The bodies in the forest are naked. Those aren’t Ardans.”

Michael looked back out at the trenches, wide-eyed. “Ghar’s bloody - tell Antolin!” he spat, running past the startled officer towards the corridor. “And Leire!”

Halfway down the corridor, the world turned to darkness. The lack of light made him stumble, heart pounding as he reached for Stanza. Clair and Vincent flared bright in his chest, and the world sprang into sharp-edged lines around him.

He kept running. The report of explosions reverberated through the ship, the low drone of the engines ramping up to shudder through every beam. Michael threaded his way past stumbling crewmen and through bulkhead hatches until he reached the ship’s command deck; he burst into the bridge and sought out Antolin.

The Grand Marshal was standing calmly at the room’s central table, dictating orders to his command staff in measured tones. They dispersed those orders to others, and those to tactical officers or radiomen in an orderly progression.

What gave Michael pause, however, was not the utter lack of urgency with which Antolin was speaking. It was that the luminous world Stanza showed him faded to chaos around Antolin. Lines wavered and broke, spinning out into shards and fractals that settled into new order before breaking once more.

He had seen this before. Jeorg’s soul, his soul worked in much the same way, drawing out permutations of what was into what could be. Antolin lacked the grand scale and power that Stanza boasted, but he clearly had some skill with its use; Michael was reminded of a concert his father had dragged him to years ago, of watching a pianist’s fingers dance across the keys.

In an instant, the darkness vanished. Michael blinked involuntarily at the sudden light; there was a chorus of muffled curses from around him - followed by a halfhearted cheer from some of the lower officers. Antolin turned a tolerant smile toward the cheering officers, then let his gaze settle on Michael.

“Welcome to the bridge,” he said. “Your friend was just telling me how we were about to be ambushed by a treacherous lot of Safid hiding in the Ardan trenches. Fortunately, I am a hard man to surprise.”

Chuckles came from his command staff; Michael felt suddenly foolish. “You’re a bonifex,” he said.

Antolin shrugged. “In the Ardan classification,” he said. “Ask Leire about the differences sometime. In the present, we have a skirmish to mop up.” He gestured towards the windows along the port side of the airship; Michael moved to look.

In the bare land between the two trenches was an abattoir. Safid soldiers lay dead or dying in the mud between the lines, blood running in streams between the corpses. Fires burned here and there where a spark had caught clothing; Michael thought he could smell the faint odor of burning flesh even from inside the bridge.

The Mendiko column was largely untouched, save for some dents and gouges in the tanks’ armor. The only substantial damage was at the head of the column, where two tanks were aflame while several more wheeled backward, shooting sporadically from their machine guns.

A single tank lagged behind the rest, its tracks damaged and a broad scorchmark along its side. Flames danced over its top; a mob of Safid soldiers hid behind its bulk even as they hammered relentlessly at its front armor. There were one or two scalptors there, and at least one potens - he could see the metal denting under the man’s fists.

“Can you do something about that?” Antolin said, close behind him; Michael jumped, startled.

“About those soldiers?” Michael asked.

“That tank won’t make it back, and the others won’t be able to flank around. You have about twenty seconds before they pierce the armor. I’d like to save that tank crew.” Antolin looked at him expectantly. “The tank is shielding them from direct fire, but that doesn’t apply to you. Fifteen seconds.”

Michael spun back to stare at the foundering tank. True to Antolin’s words, an element was moving to flank the attacking Safid - but too slow, if his estimates were correct. Michael didn’t doubt him. He grit his teeth, calling on the fires in his chest.

Stanza surged within him, but there was no direction for it to flow. The soldiers swarmed around the tank in a mass. They were indistinct to Michael, and every effort to separate them into people that he could act upon left his mind considering them as individuals which he rebelled against harming. And they were distant, so distant, despite the fact that Jeorg had acted at a longer range against Spark-

Hard to get your mind to think outside of the room it’s in. Jeorg’s words from that day echoed back, and Michael frantically pivoted to one of the bridge’s exterior doors.

The tank burst into flame as he gripped its handle. Michael breathed hard as he watched the other tanks complete their flanking maneuver and tear the last of the Safid to ribbons.

“Hm,” Antolin said, looking out at the burning tank. “I see.”

Michael’s cheeks burned. “I’m sorry,” he said. Explanations swirled through his mind, but they all seemed like excuses. He looked at Antolin to find the other man’s eyes already upon him.

“We learn things,” Antolin said, “and we act upon what we’ve learned. Today my soldiers learned that their training was not in vain. Saleh Taskin learned the measure of his enemy, which I imagine was precisely his aim with this wasteful stunt.” He gave Michael an evaluating look. “When we return from the ground, consider what you’ve learned today.”

“From the ground?” Michael asked. “Why are we landing?”

“Because I learned something today too,” Antolin said. “Etorri, with me. This will be important.” He made a few sharp gestures to his command staff; they nodded and rushed away to other parts of the bridge. Michael heard the airship’s great frame groaning as it began to sink down lower.

He steeled himself and followed Antolin from the bridge.

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