Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

Soffjian tapped her butt spike on the ground as she walked, approximating Hewspear’s gait somewhat, though without needing to support her weight or suffering pain with every step. “I was merely appreciating, brother. One professional to another.” With that she fell silent, though I got the distinct impression she was merely biding her time for more questions, or trying to taunt her brother into a misstep or thoughtless revelation.

I turned to say something to Vendurro but he had moved off again, and was talking quietly to one of the men. Maybe complimenting him on exceptional bloodletting skills. The knot in my stomach pulled tighter.

Even with Hewspear trying to spare the captain, Bloodsounder got bloodied once again. Was Braylar feeling the effects already, absorbing a memory or two? More? I couldn’t ask, not with his sister nearby, and he likely would have only scolded me for acting the nursemaid anyway.

We made our way to the horses without incident, mounted up, and headed to a wider street that intersected Broadbeef, so we spread out a bit and weren’t riding nose to tail. When I realized someone was riding alongside me, I assumed it was Vendurro again, and turned to say something to him, surprised when I saw Skeelana’s pierced heart-shape face instead. She was looking straight ahead, expression blank. But she didn’t move off when she felt me watching her, saying only, “Must be a welcome change, not having to stare at an unshaven ape for once. But still, you are staring. Just so you know.”

I was tempted to turn away, but I knew if I stayed alone with my thoughts I would only dwell on throats being slit and men being dispatched in the mud. One of them by me. So I said, “Skeelana, is it?”

Half her mouth rose in a grin, the other couldn’t be bothered. “Always been, always will be.”

I tried to think of the best way to frame the question, but gave up, saying simply, “I’m curious… back there by the Grieving Dog, when you did… whatever it was you did to the soldier.”

“Most curious people ask questions. Was that intended to be question? It felt like it was going that direction, but then… just sort of didn’t.”

“Yes. Sorry. Why didn’t you simply do what Soffjian did? Why distract him, or whatever you did, rather than simply… take him out.”

“Well, that’s a question at least. Impolitic, to be sure, but a question. They call you Arki, right? On account of you being an archivist?”

It was my turn to smile. “On account of my given name being Arkamondos.”

She looked over then, surprised. “Arkamondos the Archivist? Well, that’s fortuitous, isn’t it? Or did your parents just think that passed for clever to push you into the role?”

My smile disappeared. “I never knew what my father thought, and my mother thought only of herself. Maybe I chose the path because I thought it passed for clever.”

Skeelana let that go. “Oh, exceedingly. But you are an archivist, correct? A chronicler of sights and sounds, a cataloguer of all you survey?”

“That might be overselling things a bit, but I witness and record, yes.”

“So now you’re trying to make sense of what you saw, in order to better record it later. Sound about right?”

I nodded. “About.”

She tilted her head at the Syldoon riding ahead of us. “Well, you might not have noticed, but the Syldoon aren’t particularly fond of our kind. Memoridons, that is. In fact, they’re about as unfond as you can get. And if you’re seen consorting with me too much, getting chummy as it were in order to puzzle out what it was you witnessed back there, well, you might find yourself losing some station, archivist.”

“And you must have failed to notice, but I’m not exactly held in high regard. Hard to fall in station when you occupy the bottom already. Or near enough to a Memoridon to make little difference.”

Skeelana laughed, and then seemed surprised she had, camouflaging it with a cough and her hand.

When the nearest Syldoon turned back around, I said, “So answer the question, please. Very difficult to record what you don’t understand.”

“I could, and probably should, really, tell you to ask the Syldoon. They could explain it well enough, and maybe it would help your relationship.”

It was my turn to nearly laugh. “By pressing them about their least favorite subject? Somehow I doubt that.”

She didn’t answer immediately, and seemed to be considering it. Finally, she replied, “I’m not sure how Soffjian would feel about this. We might both end up in poor estimation.”

“We’ll keep each other company then.” I tried to finish with a smile, but the thought of an angry Soffjian turning her attention my way made me very uncomfortable.

“Fair enough.” After a pause to mull it over, she said, “I didn’t do what she did for the same reason the infantry, cavalry, generals, cooks, grooms, and prostitutes all do something different in the army. Each player has a purpose, and skills. Memoridons are no different.”

I thought about that. “So, does that make you the cook?”

An uneven grin tilted on her face again. “More like the sutler. I try to stay as far from any front lines as possible. Not even a fan of the back lines. But orders carry us where they will.”

She might have been brighter than Lloi, but it seemed she would prove just as difficult to redirect in conversation. “So, your skills are different than Soffjian’s then. What did you do to the Hornman who seemed so very eager to pin me to a post?”

Skeelana said, “You noticed me looking around quite a bit, before the battle? Of course you did-you gave me at least two queer looks.”

“I noticed.”

“Well, I was memorizing.”

“Memorizing?” I tried to recall what there was in that narrow deserted street worth recalling. “What? And probably more important, why?”

Skeelana made sure he voice was just low enough for me to hear, though as she pointed out, most Syldoon already had a grasp of what the Memoridons did, even if they’d rather not. So it wasn’t exactly like she was spilling something secretive. Was it? “As you might have gathered from the name, all Memoridons have keen memories, more precise and deep than any untrained. And some of us are remarkable, even for Memoridons.” She broke into a broad grin that was alarmingly charming. “So, when I say memorizing, I mean nearly everything. I could tell you which shop signs had been most recently painted, where the rust spots were on the hinges, the single wooden awning that was most warped and in need of repair, the exact location of each puddle, and on and on. And I did that looking in as many directions as I could, but especially behind us, away from the Hornmen.”

If anyone else had been making the boast, I would have been skeptical, but given what I’d seen Skeelana and Soffjian do, I was more than willing to suspend disbelief. “Behind? Why is that?”

“I needed to remember what every portion of that deserted street looked like when it was actually deserted. Even with none of us in view. Completely deserted.”

I waited for elaboration; unlike Lloi, Skeelana obviously knew I was waiting, and seemed to delight in raising my curiosity, but also appeared just as perfectly content to let the conversation die whenever I did, so I pressed on. “Why was that important?”

“Do you remember the expression on the Hornman’s face, just as he was about to spear you, and I intervened? Confused? Dazed, disbelieving, and afraid?”

I nodded. “Hard to forget a face like that. Even for us non-Memoridons.”

“Well, I planted a false memory in his head, just as he cocked that spear back. One second, he saw a thin archivist who was very close to pissing his breeches-no insult intended-and then next, he saw the shop, the doorway, the horn shutters, and everything else behind you. As if you weren’t standing there any longer. As if he were staring at a deserted section of street.”