The Poems of Madam Albithurst: Archonarchians

We took dinner, Mr. Porist and I, on the outer deck; a favorite place of mine on every Golden Howdah. The Velvet is a romantic view for those who are not used to it, and so it is always the most interesting of characters who find themselves wandering the decks, staring out at the effervescent void, leaning with causal admiration against the braces, or pressing hard against the railing.

Of course, there are a great deal of interesting people who avoid the Velvet, but it was merely the first day of travel, and those who were adventurous enough in spirit to brave the outer decks were my particular taste that evening.

Mr. Porist was focused on his plate, carefully piercing each slice of root and vegetable with practiced care, maneuvering the morsel through the gauntlet of nose, chin, and earlobe to his mouth, before delicately extracting the slice from the tines of his fork, and chewing with the steady pace of one who worried his teeth might protest. His eyes never traveled above the table, and his mouth remained silent, save for the soft and subtle chewing that marked his dexterous successes.

The deck was quite active that evening. It is always uncertain how a given group of passengers will behave during their journey. Some hide from each other like sullen porcupines, while others become families thrown together by circumstance. The passengers of our little vessel had decided, en masse, it seemed, to take advantage of the broad open space to mingle and introduce themselves, a mutual understanding that if they would not be friends, at least they could all be cordial.

Drinks soon followed, as a coat-salesmin produced a crate of fine wine from his home of Harquin. I myself have never had a wine more eloquent or amusing than a Red Rethaullian de Vanioui, Chateau ran Uvielle, 1243. I’ll enjoy any year, of course, but I have never tasted anything better than 1243. Harquin wine is nothing to scoff at, however, and I partook with no small amount of satisfaction.

To the delight of many, a band of five traveling Gilbrim pulled make-shift instruments from out their bags, and began to play their particular style of dance music. They hooted and hollered, their reedy voices as much an instrument as their drums and strings. Their feet and hands clapped and slapped as the braver passengers began to move along, while the more restrained simply clapped along.

Poor Mr. Porist was quite overcome by all of it. He was eager, I could tell, to make his excuses and take leave of the revelry, when from the rear of the deck came a shriek and a cry. Some of the revelers, undoubtedly mistaking the sounds for those of joy or exhilaration, continued with their conversations, their drinks, and their dancing. For those of us who were more self-possessed, we turned our heads to see what had caused such a commotion.

What did we see, but three broad obelisks cloaked in black and red, their heads covered by the vestments of the Archonarchy.

Of course, I could not let this opportunity slide, so I stepped away from the table to approach, and observe in hopes of perceiving some measure of uniqueness from the situation.

Now, even before I joined the Grandiose Guild, I was an avid follower of the delightful fashions and coutures from across the Myriad Worlds. As unfamiliar as I was — indeed, as we all are — with Archonarchians as a folk, I was not unfamiliar with the distinct arching designs of Archonarchian dress, but even the most conservative and traditional cultures must adapt to varying styles and mores of the time. This is to say, I first noticed the differences.

Perhaps the most interesting change was in the face: While the others still wore the placid smiling masks of centuries ago, The shortest of the three — a woman, I supposed at first — wore a mask that did not cover her mouth. Her lips were strikingly dark green, almost black, and her skin whiter still than the cream colored mask she wore. Thick black lines crossed the face, spreading and fanning like tiger stripes, along with a single line of red extending from the eyes.

Their cloaks were still black and red and arced over their heads to their shoulders, giving them the shape of a broad gravestone, but while the vestments I remembered from so many years ago were stark and barren, these new clothes had intricate shapes and ornamentation sewed up and down the many hems. They were small and delicate, difficult to see from so far away, but I had practiced at such observations.

For a moment, all was silent save the great and ever present Gongs. Then, the Archonarchian woman raised her hands, breaking her perfect arcing silhouette. Her green lips cracked and she spoke in a soft voice that carried over the silence.

“We meen you no herm,” she said, her hands pushing forward with each word she spoke. “We ere simple trevelers, on e pilgrimege from our homelend. Pleese, let us join you in your dencing.”

“Yes,” said the tallest man of the three, in a voice rich with ancient glass and sagging brick. “Dencing.”

More and more of the passengers were watching, looking to see what had caught the attention of so many. A crowd was gathering, and I could feel an urgency from them all, a willingness to blossom into a throng. From there, it would only take a nudge for the throng to become a mob, and the Archonarchians would not live to see their destination.

At last, when the crowd offered some measure of support and courage to the otherwise humble, a man dressed in brown fur stepped forward, his finger jabbing the air. “What are you doing here,” he demanded. “Who let you on board?”

“We purchesed our tickets,” the woman said, brandishing a small slip of paper. The two monoliths behind her did the same. “We were not stopped. We went to speek and eet and drink and dence. No more.”

“Bloodthirsty savages,” muttered a voice from the crowd. An answering voice replied: “How do we know you won’t kill us all?”

Alas, I too late recognized the fear behind the voice. Had I known, I might have…but no, the Guild frowns on all forms of dreaming, and I myself find their admonitions too lenient. There is nothing to be gained from musings and fantasies. I do despise them so, and shall spend no more on mere fancies.

Instead, I shall describe the tall man who stepped forward, hand on his sword, armor shining in the dim light of the lamps. He was firm of jaw and slight of skin, long braided hair dangling down like a pipe from the top of his head. His narrow features glinted like a knife-edge, and the broad shiny metal that adorned his body accented his hips and thighs most elegantly. His eyes burned with a fire I had not seen in decades, the fire of one who had seen a great many people live and die.

With a silken voice, he spoke: “Vile Archonarchians, your people have caused the death of too many to be suffered in the presence of good and honest people. By the Hewn, I will not abide your presence on this vessel any longer! Quit yourselves forthwith or I, as Doppewassl of the Arcwhite Kingdoms, will claim the right of vengeance upon you!”

“We ere not here to hurt you,” the woman’s mouth did not smile nor frown. “We heve come beyond the door in peece. We ere on a pilgrimege.”

“Pilgrimage of death!” the tall man spoke, gripping the hilt of his sword with gauntleted fist. “By the Hollow, I shall avenge my fallen sisters and brothers!”

“What is the meaning of this?” came a voice from behind the three red grave-stones. Oh, how shocked I was, how delighted and how relieved, that I should see Driver Skan climbing up from below decks. Had I but known that the Driver of our little Howdah had been someone of such good breeding and charming conversation, I should have made it a point to request his presence at dinner.

“My dear Driver Skan,” I said, sweeping forward between the crowd and the triad of red. “How simply marvelous to see you again.”

The poor dear blinked twice before he recognized me, and a grin split his face like a widening fissure in the earth. “My dear Madam Albithurst! What a delight! Had I known you were a passenger, I would have invited you to tea!”

“Yes, well, there is still time for that later, I’m sure,” I waved my hand, dismissing the demure regrets that swarmed about us, before redirecting his attention to the matter at hand. “I’m afraid that the presence of these three…citizens of the Archonarchy is causing a bit of a stir among the passengers.”

“We don’t like ’em!” shouted the bristling Doppewassl. “Let them be cast overboard into the Velvet before they slit our throats in our beds!”

“We heve no wish to herm enyone,” the female pushed her hands forward again. “We ere simple trevelers. We heve peid for our tickets. We ere on e pilgrimege.”

By some unspoken acknowledgment that neither side was willing to budge, the crowd turned to the captain, along with the three stele-shaped pilgrims, their faces blank and waiting.

My poor Driver Skan looked back and forth between the two groups, before turning to me with a look that was at once an apology and a request.

I nodded, and turned my back to the assemblage as the Captain did the same. With voice low, Driver Skan tipped his hat back on his head to scratch at the bald patch. “You couldn’t do us a favor, could you, Madam? I’m certainly not one for violence, but if we don’t do something, I’m worried about what might happen.”

“The Archonarchy makes people nervous,” I explained to him. “Cease-fire or no, there are enough memories that it might be safer for you to, indeed, tip them overboard, as that remarkable knight in tarnished armor suggested.”

Driver Skan winced at my advice. “Safe? And will it be safe if word gets out that Driver Skan takes the vow of a ticket no better than a wink? That he kicks travelers into the Velvet if he takes a mind to?”

Now while I was well versed in all manner of Guild law, I knew nothing of the Guild of Drivers, and so I was forced to accept that my dear Driver Skan knew more about what was and was not acceptable than any Sensate such as myself. “Then you know what you must do,” I answered, “but it will not do for it to seem an easy answer. We simply have no choice but to say here longer, speaking of this and that, until it appears you have given the matter sufficient thought.”

“Aye, madam,” he heaved a beleaguered sigh. “I had hoped to chat over tea, but this will have to do, I suspect. Heading to the Junction, are you? And where to from there, if I might ask?”

“To the Sibilants,” I said, adjusting the placement of my hands to make it appear our discussion was a deeply intellectual and moral one. “I have it on good authority that there is someone there I should speak with.”

“Hoo,” Driver Skan scratched his head again. “I’d not travel there for love nor coin. A brave one you are, Madam Albithurst, and no mistake. What might you be finding there, then?”

Now I am hardly a suspicious person, and there was little enough reason to be wary of any Driver of a Golden Howdah, much less my dear Driver Skan. We had, over our lives, shared no less than seven meals together, discussing many subjects. I had no reason to keep my goal a secret, and so I told him: “I’m afraid, my dear Driver, that the Duke of the Ten Vials is dead. Murdered, it seems, in a home not his own.”

“Murdered?” Driver Skan gaped most fetchingly. “How? Are the Seven Maidens still whole? Is the Encinidine safe? Have they found a suspect?”

“The Anointed Bulwark,” I began, carefully avoiding the questions that I did not know the answer to, “has indeed found at least one suspect, though I know for a fact they are searching in precisely the wrong direction.”

“Oh? And who’s that, then?”

“Myself.”

Now I will not be ashamed to admit that I expected a barking laugh of derision from my dear Driver, or perhaps a scornful snort. But again, I found myself perturbed, if not a little put out, that the man gave only a slow nod. I will confess, however, that I did not feel at all insulted, as I had for my dear de’Laisey’s suspicion, as Driver Skan did not know me nearly as well as the Captain. Nevertheless, there was indeed a moment of disjointed discomfort as he slowly shook his head. “I cannot say, Madam Albithurst, that I envy the attention you must be receiving at the moment.”

Thankfully, I had left the region before the Anointed Bulwark’s attention could fully descend upon my person, but I did not want to be impolite and correct the man. Instead, I said: “As for the Encinidine itself, I have it on good authority that the High on High are searching as we speak. They have released the Torquates.”

“Oh?” came the quick reply. “And like as not are the Arcwhite kingdoms and the Archonarchy searching as well, if not the hundreds of Guilds, kingdoms, councils, and organizations across the Myriad Worlds. Here, you don’t think our trio of notables there are agents of the Archonarchy? Perhaps that sword-gentleman is an agent as well?”

It was indeed something I had considered as possible, though I doubted I would ever know for certain. I offered a shrug as a commissary answer, and said: “I cannot say; any man, woman, child, or object might have bent its sights to acquiring even a single part of the Encinidine, and more will take up the struggle by the hour, as word spreads of the opportunity.”

“And you are no doubt one of them? Not for the High on High, I suspect. Are you a free agent in this endeavor? Working for yourself?”

I did not distrust him, but that was no excuse for impolite abruptness on my part. “Now my dear Driver Skan, what makes you think that I would be so selfish and reckless as to seek out the Encinidine for myself? I have no wish for either favor or wrath from the High on High.”

“Ah,” Skan tapped the end of his blunt nose with a thin finger, “but you are still a Sensate, I’ll warrant. It’d take more than a Giant could spare to pry you away from that calling. And it is not uncommon to hear the members of the Glorious Guild of Sensationalists to profess a — shall we say passion? — for getting to taste even a portion of the Encinidine.”

I will say, I found it quite charming that my dear friend thought himself able to condense the modus operendi of the Sensates into such a simple maxim. There are, of course, no less than seven Edicts of the Guild, and some factions proclaimed a need for even more.

“You are, of course, correct,” I nevertheless admitted. “My fellow guilds-folk can become quite insistent about things never before experienced. I daresay in the history of the Myriad Worlds, no one outside of the High on High has ever even seen the Encinidine, much less experienced it with the full strength of a Sensate in good standing.”

“What do you think it will be like?” he asked me, soft smile brimming beneath his nose.

“Driver Skan,” I said in a tone of voice that had once caused the curdling of a young xhinogala into a firm block of cheese, “I will thank you not to ask me to dream in front of you again. I find such practices unbecoming, if not outright insulting. We are here, Driver, we are now. If you must insist on bending your thoughts to the as-yet, please do not do so in my presence.”

For a moment we stood there, purposefully avoiding each other’s gaze, until the dear chap rubbed his jaw and turned back to the assembled crowd.

“They have paid for their tickets. The Law protects them, as it protects you all. I’ll not have quarreling nor fighting for blood, love, nor money.”

The grumbling of the crowd was dissatisfied, and I daresay was ready to crest into a riot before Driver Skan turned to the three red-hued arcs where they stood, mute and stoic, “As I said, the Law protects us all. I will not confine you to quarters, but for both your safety and the safety of my other passengers, you will have to be escorted whenever you leave your cabins. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I will not have violence on my decks.”

“We ere peeceful pilgrims,” the woman Archonarchian said in her self-same sing-song voice. “We went no violence. We hed no idee thet the people beyond the door were so bloodthirsty.”

“I did,” rumbled one of the tall obelisks behind her.

The grumbling continued, both from the three Archonarchians and the slowly dispersing crowd. No one was happy with the situation, least of all the tall armored man who I just happened to find myself walking next to as we returned to the deck’s edge. “Those damned grave-stones killed ten of my closest friends,” he grumbled, rubbing his metal chest with a chain-link glove. “I just don’t like ’em. Pilgrims. Pheh! Where would they even pilgrimage to? Their whole lives are behind that damned door.”

“They certainly aren’t behind it now,” I said, thinking back to the woman’s melodic droning. “Perhaps the eating and drinking they mentioned is part of it? But do forgive me, I am being unconscionably rude. My name is Madam Marabella Albithurst,” and I extended a hand to the gallant, in hopes of forming a more formal acquaintance. “You said you were a Doppewassl? A Double Servant?”

“I am indeed,” the man grinned with pride, shifting his posture to a more upright stance. “My name is Juhrooz. Sir Juhrooz the Circumspect, to give my full title. I have the honor of being Doppewassl to the Arcwhite kingdoms, for my service during the glorious campaign against the foul Archonarchy,” and here his face grew dark, “for all the good it seems to have done.”

“How fascinating,” I said, while slipping my arm through his with the practiced charm of my years. “And did I hear you invoke the name of the Hewn and the Hollow? Are you by any chance a devout of the Angry Pantheon?”

Juhrooz’s eyes narrowed at my question, and I do not blame him for his suspicion. “I am indeed,” he said at last. “And I know you are not, good madam. I will ask you not to pry into matters beyond your ken.”

“Pry? My dear good man, I would never dream of asking you anything of a private or personal nature,” I lied, because good manners and truth are so rarely intertwined. “Please, my friend Mr. Porist and I are just finishing our meal, and I would consider it a great honor that one of your great service should join us.”