Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

“A false memory? Truly?”

“No, a false memory, falsely.” The grin jumped back into place. “The problem was, it was hastily cobbled together. And not made to hold or stand up to prolonged scrutiny for very long.”

I tried recalling his face, bleaching out all the terror I was experiencing in the moment, and attempted to simply recall the exact expression he wore. It did seem as if he saw a ghost. Or sorcery at work, at least. And was equally frightened, but incensed as well. “Why… why wouldn’t it hold?”

“Far too many reasons. As I said, done in haste. I hadn’t studied the scene behind us from every possible distance or perspective. I caught most details, but hadn’t had time to get every single one. And then there’s the matter that all of our memories are branded with our own storylines and histories. You look at a squalling child in the middle of a crowd, maybe it reminds you of your own babe, so it makes you smile a little, and you recall it fondly later. I look at the same red-faced infant, maybe it reminds me of the babes I’ve lost in birth, so it’s a melancholy memory. You see?”

Though I didn’t entirely, I nodded and she continued. “If I know a subject, can study him, tour his own memories and the storylines they’re lodged in, I have a decent chance, well, some kind of chance anyway, of possibly creating a falsehood that is convincing. Feels real. Contours, texture, validity. Dovetails with his own experience. You get it?”

I didn’t, but before I could say as much, she added, “And the height issue, of course.”

“Height issue?”

“He was tall, if you recall. Not like your friend Matinios. Sorry, Hew-spear. So, not freakishly tall, like him, but this boy was tall enough, and I’m freakishly short, so it doesn’t take much for the difference to register. I’d looked at the building and street from my perspective. I would have needed a stool to see it from his vantage. Always irked I wasn’t born taller, but never so much as when I try to plant a false memory and it fails on account of short parents.”

I thought about it, again remembering the Hornman’s various reactions. “So what he saw… or didn’t see…he knew it wasn’t real?”

Skeelana replied, “Exactly. It stopped him cold for a moment, but the illusion was spoiled fast. He couldn’t see either of us, but he knew it was just a trick. We hadn’t disappeared, not really-his mind knew that-and what he saw, the deserted street, flickered around the edges and wouldn’t hold true. That’s why he kept attacking. Now some, dealing with memory magic, will turn and run, illusion or not. But he seemed more angry than afraid. Until you shot him in the neck, that is.”

That did stop the conversation for a moment. We turned onto the broader street, Olive Way, and began heading west. There were more people about now, here and there, opening awnings, throwing open shutters, pouring out night soil in the tight alleyways, but it was still relatively quiet and calm. Braylar was leading us toward a broad, low fountain. I tried not dwelling on the bolt in the soldier’s neck, or the fact that I was the one responsible for putting it there. “You mentioned different skills. Among Memoridons. I take it that means Soffjian wasn’t creating or planting memories like you did.”

Skeelana suddenly looked more serious than she had before. And I couldn’t be sure, but she might have even shivered. Which could have been attributed to the damp chill, but she hadn’t done it before that I noticed. She opened her mouth to respond, when we both realized we’d gotten to the fountain.

Braylar said, or rasped rather, “Nothing draws unwanted questions at a gate like fresh splashes of someone’s else blood on your hands and armor. Rid yourself of any. And be quick about it. A bunch of soldiers bathing in a fountain also tends to make the natives quite nervous.”

This earned a few chuckles and most of the Syldoon dismounted to at least rinse their hands and forearms, as that seemed to have been the likeliest target for blood splatter. I looked around the small plaza-while it wouldn’t get near the traffic of any of the more significant ones, there were several merchants already setting up their stalls around the perimeter. The gloom and early hour would hide the fact that the Syldoon were turning the shallow pool all kinds of pink, but Braylar was right-the less attention we attracted the better.

Skeelana and I looked at each other at the same time, as if to check for any stray sprinkles of blood, but we were clean. That was one of the benefits of a crossbow, after all.

Since neither of us dismounted to wash up, I said, “I’ve only ever read about sorcery, and never expected to meet anyone actually practicing it, but I always imagined if I did, it would involve glowing runes in the air, or fireballs lighting up the sky, or…”

“Something flashy?” She laughed.

“Right. And as far as I could tell, you and Soffjian adopted the same sort of stance, did the same kind of thing with your hands, but the results were… different, to say the least. So, my question still stands: what did Soffjian do? How did she strike that Hornman down without so much as touching him?”

Skeelana’s eyes were fixed ahead. I looked where she was, and saw Soffjian crouching down around the edge of the fountain, dipping her fingers in, tips only, and rubbing them delicately along some scales on her armor. Her cloak disguised any blood that might have landed there. Without taking her eyes off the other woman, Skeelana said, “Oh, she can do a bit of memory planting as well if she has to, though frankly not as cleanly or clearly as I can. That isn’t her strength. Her skills are far more… aggressive in nature.”

“She does seem pretty comfortable in combat.”

“What makes you say that? The shiny armor or the long pointy weapon she totes around?”

I saw the gently mocking grin and mischief in her pale eyes. “So, Soffjian is some kind of… martial Memoridon then?”

Skeelana’s smile tilted across her lips. “Never heard that before. I like it. Catchy. Yes, something like that. Like the Syldoon, we are trained according to what talents we seem to possess in abundance. Soffjian showed early on that her mind was… very sharp.”

It was my turn to smile, as I looked at Braylar on the opposite side of the fountain. “Runs in the family, doesn’t it?”

“That it does. So in addition to being trained in a different branch of memory magic, she also underwent quite a bit of combat training as well. She might not be fully-fledged Syldoon trooper, but-”

“She can hold her own well enough.”

“That she can.” There seemed to be a mixture of both pride and trepidation there. “And as for what she did to those poor Hornmen who made the mistake of thinking her easy prey, well, I’m not even sure if I should say.”

It was hard to tell if this was earnest or if she was enjoying baiting me. “As you said, the Syldoon know a fair amount about how this works. Or its effects anyway, right? It’s not as if I’m asking you to reveal secret details about your arcane instruction. Though you can if you like.”

We watched the others climb back into their saddles, and then we were moving again, across the plaza and over to Canal Street, which led to the western gate. Or so I thought. I still hadn’t mastered reading the trails of ceramic tile markers above all the avenues that were supposed to designate what district you were in and where you were headed.

I hadn’t noticed it from the far side, but there was a pillory in one quarter of the plaza, very close to the entrance to Beacon Street. I was hoping it was unoccupied, but as we closed in on it, I saw a man there, head and hands sticking through one end, body the other, kneeling on the stones. His head was hanging, and I wondered if he was dead-while the temperatures at night hadn’t plummeted and the heat during the day wasn’t completely oppressive, that was with the options of taking shelter. Who knows how long he’d been out there in the elements, or how frequently they fed him or tended to his ailments. He looked gaunt-not quite skeletal, but surely not subsisting on much. His head jerked up at our approach, face stubbly, eyes in dark hollows but still hopeful. He licked his chapped lips and said, “A bit of water? Gods defend you, just a few drops?”