Fit for Life

[DonQuixote]

BoilingPoint57
Welcome to the Fit for Life book club!
And to JUB and the Story Forum.

 

[DonQuixote]

Friday, October 15, 2010 10:40:48 PM
Subject: Reply to thread 'Fit for Life'

Dear DonQuixote,

boilingpoint57 has just replied to a thread you have subscribed to entitled - Fit for Life - in the Gay Stories forum of JustUsBoys.com Gay Community.

This thread is located at:
http://www.justusboys.com/forum/showthread.php?t=285977&goto=newpost

Here is the message that has just been posted:
***************
great story
***************

 

[Kulindahr]

I tried finding the author -- and "boilingpoint57" doesn't seem to be on the member list any longer.

 

[Kulindahr]

Huh -- the post from our new fan vanished. Oh, well.

New chapter coming shortly......

 

[Kulindahr]

Divergent Paths​

Aaron Lum stood on the crude platform, holding hands with Vaidyanaath Jhung, British-Chinese and British-Indian met as equals in a British Empire they were starting to accept was gone to them. Behind them the train lurched again; before them handlers from Rigel’s Riders were still arranging mounts and pack horses.

“Horses.” Jhung shuddered. “They stink.”

“Better than cows”, Aaron opined, keeping his voice even.

“Cows are holy.” Vaidyanaath didn’t believe it; he was no more a devout Hindu than Lum a devout Imperial Catholic; both were what were – or had been, before their bodies had been incinerated by nuclear fire in a different life – called “smorgasbjord believers”, pick-a-doctrine adherents who landed somewhere between Deist and Theist on the theological spectrum.

“If cows are holy, do you say ‘Holy shit!”?” asked Casey, though he couldn’t keep a straight face.

“Only when I step in it”, Vaidyanaath replied. He gave Casey an annoyed look. “Shouldn’t you be scouting something?”

Casey grinned impudently. “I am. I’m waiting to pull your pants down so I can tell Austin if your buns are as cute bare as they are bundled.” He dodged the laughing slap Jhung swung his way.

Lum laughed. “His ‘buns’ are very cute, but tell Austin to look elsewhere – these buns are mine.” To emphasize his point, he let go Vaidyanaath’s hand, stepped right, and squeezed both of the muscled items in question firmly. Jhung responded by rotating his rear end, a sight that made Casey wish the two weren’t a pair; they looked like attractive handles for some nice tight hugging.

“He’ll be thrilled”, Casey drawled sarcastically.

“He’s such a predator!” commented Aaron. “Chasing everyone!”

Casey started to try explaining, but decided that was for someone better with ideas. “He’s not a predator”, he said instead, “he just likes sharing life.”

Vaidyanaath snorted. Aaron linked their fingers again and got a peck on the cheek. “So where is the lusty squire?” he asked as Jhung turned and leaned lightly against him.

Casey shrugged. “Conference with Rigel, I think. They were clear in back, anyway.”


Austin was at that moment clinging to Rigel, wanting a lot more but settling for the offered comfort. “One moment I want them all, the next minute I hate them!” he whispered.

Rigel took the lick on his ear as an indication of Austin’s level of stress. In response he pressed himself into the hug. “You hate them – why?”

“Vaidyanaath and Aaron are all over each other! All the time! I never saw guys be like that except–“ He stopped and swallowed.

“Except where?” Rigel prodded.

“At drug parties”, Austin whispered. “Fucking stupid drug parties! No one cared, there, as long as they had drugs. I could have fucked a stray dog, and people would have just laughed. But they.....” Confusion was evident.

Rigel wished for Rita, but there were times he didn’t have that backup, and this was one. “Look, buddy, I’m no Wise Woman” – that brought a giggle and a quick hip grind – “but I’ll make a guess: they’ve got something you never dreamed of, because it was so far out of reach you couldn’t imagine it. Gays back home had to settle for being tolerated, for people looking the other way and not saying anything. Lots of places, they’d get dirty looks for just holding hands, and nasty comments if they dared to kiss just on the lips. They had to put up with politicians who if they were honest would have said you all weren’t really human, you were some mutants that should be removed from the race. Even at gay bars and clubs, there were straights coming in who thought they were kool but still gave off vibes that said, ‘It isn’t normal!’ Even off at places like the big festival on Summerland Key when everyone else pretty much left, you knew there was a society back there fighting over whether you were friends or filth.
“Right?” Austin’s half-sob and a wet cheek crushed against his neck affirmed it.
“So here you’re faced with people who have never seen any of that! You’ve been watching Vaidyanaath’s buns, and Aaron’s muscles and package – I’ve been talking, and I’ve learned some things, and their world is alien to us in ways that shock me every time I think about them! And you’re seeing the result of those things.
“Here’s one: Queen Mary, as in William and Mary. She ruled in both worlds, but in their world it was different: she had a lover, and when William was off kinging in Ireland or Scotland or being a general in Normandy or wherever, Mary’s lover was right out in public, even sitting in court. Mary delegated a lot of authority, because she was used to a two-monarch act. Want to know this lover’s name?”

Austin leaned back enough to look at Rigel through tear-blurred eyes, pressing them even harder together at the hips. That he felt nothing stirring told Rigel just how serious things were with his squire and friend. “George?” Austin guessed.

“Katherine – Katherine of Hannover. She was part of the family that in our world gave us King George and led to the Revolution. There, she was the Queen’s lover! Loren said Mary hanged three lords before the nobility ‘nailed their traps’, but they did shut up about it – at least once William came home and banished a pair of loudmouthed Catholics to Spain when some Duke told him Parliament wouldn’t tolerate a monarch dueling.”

Austin began laughing, a strange mix at first with his tears. Rigel braced himself to provide support to a confused friend with confused emotions leading to very uncertain and unsteady muscles. “Mary and Katherine! Like two queens!”

Rigel laughed with him. “Exactly. Mary lived longer in their world, maybe because she had Katherine. She and William hadn’t had any sons, which worried Parliament, and it left people worried about Katherine’s status. A Roman Catholic Duke demanded in front of Parliament that William send her to a nunnery and choose a queen. Let’s see if I can remember what he said.... ‘My lord, and my lords, I have a queen, as has my queen, a lady of honor and worth who has stood by our throne. She has given justice to England, and I will not return injustice for justice. Nay, my lord, I will not send her away – I shall marry her!’”

Austin gaped. “The king married a lesbian?!”

Rigel grinned. “Loren says there were suspicions he’d already ‘had’ her as wife. But listen, buddy – the thing is that the king married his wife’s lover, and it worked!”

“Yeah, everyone just said it was kool”, Austin said, skeptical.

Rigel laughed again. “Okay, not that easy. But this was a Queen – both of them – who wore dresses in public that didn’t have bras or anything, ‘cause they didn’t cover their breasts. It wasn’t topless – the dresses wrapped around – but their breasts were out to be admired. Expensive gowns had ‘lifts’, stiff platforms built to hold their breasts up out and proud.”

He regretted his inadvertent choice of words immediately. Austin’s mouth had been half-open, ready to start an answer, but at that phrase the jaw moved and no words came. What hold he had on Rigel failed as he stumbled to one knee, clutching at Rigel’s thigh. Rigel dropped, controlled, and sat cradling the head and shoulders of a mass of pain and misery in human form.



Some of the “Yankees” who come to meet the train were complaining about the unloading situation. Aaron got tired of it. “Plug it!” he hollered. He had the tone of authority, not quite the way Rigel did, but all of his Yankees and most others stopped where they were and got quiet. “When we dragged your weak arses through here the other day, there wasn’t even a platform! Our hosts have worked their arses tight to get this much. Yes, it’s for the Healers”, he conceded to head off objections, “but they did it now for us. So drop the whining and get the task covered! Yes, the smoke stinks; yes, the train lurches; yes, the platform is rough and creaks!” He paused and let them wait a bit. “At least it isn’t more” – and he shuddered visibly – “horses!”

“Yeah, but we ride horses back to the Hall!” someone called.

Aaron didn’t even look to see who spoken; he had a guess but didn’t really care. “So walk!” he called back, already turning to help with the next pony-barrel of supplies, “or crawl!” Laughter answered that, and he knew he’d made his point. As the next barrel rolled to his hands, he pondered its name, and liked the fit to the mixed culture: a pony-barrel was a barrel the size you could haul by pony, one on each side for balance. He’d guessed at “mule-barrel”, but they didn’t have mules. There were indeed “horse-barrels”, but few of these animals ever carried such loads; they were plainly bred for travel – and war. So were their handler’s, all part of something called “”Rigel’s Riders” – mostly Celts, but with a very few – he’d seen three – who spoke with an accent he would have sworn was Spanish.

Riding through them all he saw a figure he recognized, the Knight Protector, Sir Patrick, head of an order dedicated to protecting the Healers. Ironically, that Order seemed to number fewer than the Healers themselves, but then most of the Healers didn’t leave the Hall, and those who went among the Celts had a much more terrifying protection – he didn’t know their word or words for it, but he thought of it as Interdict, which in the Empire meant the withdrawal of all clergy – not just of the Church of Britain, but all clergy – and denial of all religious activity and comfort. It hadn’t been used in over a century, and the last time... well, that was a story he thought he should tell Squire Austin one day; maybe it would satisfy some longing the lad had that drove him to chase prong with such – to be bluntly honest, he thought – addiction.

But two figures he didn’t recognize rode with Patrick – saints and bards! but he was glad they’d shorted it from Pedhrûánåg ap Crûánåch. They looked uneasy on their mounts, rather like he’d felt about the second day of the long, agonizing ride while Healers and Druids came from everywhere near to keep his people alive. He gave his barrel a boot on its way into waiting Celt arms and went to the platform’s edge to greet the little entourage.

“Lord Lum!” Patrick hailed.

“Grand Master Patrick.” It was a sort of tease; he’d been able to tell right off that Patrick didn’t like the titles or trappings, and when the knight had started to call him “lord”, he’d spun it right back by informing Patrick that the head of a knightly Order was a “Grand Master”, and sticking with that title. By now, both appellations brought half-grins.

“Master of little, and less grand”, Patrick responded. It was creative, which meant Patrick had probably gotten it from someone else – but Aaron appreciated the effort.

“Master of enough – and the grandeur lies in your noble task.” Patrick’s grin and bow from the saddle spoke of a lance struck true. But the truly remarkable thing was that the knight’s two companions crossed themselves! “Tell, what pious companions do you bring?”

Patrick swung a leg over and vaulted from a single stirrup up onto the rough wood surface, clasping Aaron’s wrist not for support but in greeting. “Newly come, these, from the Constant Hills. They are novices.”

Aaron squeezed as hard as he could, but he doubted Patrick even noticed the effort. “I don’t know those – part of Lord Rigel’s realm?”

Patrick glanced about without turning his head. “In truth, yes; all know it, but he will deny.”

Aaron grinned in response. “So, not officially, but they follow him?” Patrick’s nod was answer enough. “Well, you’ll have to educate me. Now – what brings you here?”



“It’s not like a wound”, Rita said softly. Rigel continued stroking Austin’s back, not looking up, but realizing as he had that thought that he had tears of his own. “With a wound, you apply what’s good, and it heals, and the pain goes away. But this – you apply what’s good, and the pain washes away only to be replaced by a new pain. He’s had the pain of rejection and condemnation; now he has the pain of knowing there’s a world so much better than he had that he couldn’t have dreamed of it.” She dropped a large bag down – traveling gear, Rigel saw – and sat on it.

“What will it take....?” Rigel felt miserable, wishing he could be like Jesus and just touch someone and make the pain go away.

Rita knew his thoughts. “Even Jesus didn’t heal hearts much. How far did you get?”

Rigel grinned wryly; they’d talked about the alternate history enough – not “parallel”, Ryan had kept hammering at them; the worldlines diverged. “Mary and William, Mary and Katherine, Katherine and William.”

Rita sighed. “Hardly out of the prolog.” She swung a carry-sack from he shoulder. “Here – ice brandy. Artur gave it to me for ‘translating’ between us.” She chuckled as she detached a silver tumbler and poured. “Two men separated by a common vocabulary....”

Rigel stared at his feet and accepted the small container. “Yeah. I never really thought it was possible to use the same words and have them said to mean one thing and heard as meaning something so different. But here’s to you – peacekeeper.”

Rita shook her head. “Side effect. A Wise Woman is supposed to help people understand. That includes understanding each other.” She sipped her own portion. “But I think the more I ‘explained’ the Snatcher, the less he really understood.”

At that Rigel had to nod. “And Anaph made it so obvious. I think he’s more Celt now than American.”

She shrugged, but her head tipped in the way Rigel knew meant she was filing the thought for contemplation. A shudder shook her gently. “Wow! This is good!”

“Stolen treats always are”, Rigel commented. “You know it’s stolen, right? The Celts can’t make anything like this themselves. It would be nice to know if they stole it as wine and did the rest themselves, though.”

“Someone say wine?” Austin planted a kiss, supplemented by an intense hug, on Rigel’s neck, and sat. “Hey, Rita.”

“Hey, squire. Wine?”

“No, I’m tough.” The rejoinder lacked his usual bravado. Austin looked down at his tear-dampened, rumpled shirt, and changed his mind. “I thought I was tough.” Tears started coming again. “Why does it hurt so much to hear good things?”

Rita handed him the third little tumbler, full. “Drink. Ever played sports?” she asked.

“Duh.” He sipped tentatively.

“Ever been part of a team that just kept losing?”

“Yeah....” Austin’s eyes widened as he let the ice brandy flow across his tongue. “Damn!”

“You play on a losing team, you get used to losing. The pain of losing doesn’t go away, you just get used to it. After a while, it starts to feel like a friend – you don’t welcome it, but you can joke about it, and it seems to belong there. It seems like the way your life is supposed to be.
“Then you go to see a friend play. His team wins, and it’s awesome. But your mind is going, ‘Why couldn’t that be me?’ And you watch a different friend play, and you cheer, and she wins. Your mind is like, ‘Why couldn’t that be my team?
“And inside, you know that losing isn’t your friend. You know that always being the one to get mashed down isn’t an okay thing. Down where you can’t even hear yourself, you start arguing, and you don’t even know it.
“Then one day, your team is gone. You go your own way, and that habit of losing all the time isn’t there any more. You sort of like it, it feels good, but it’s sort of lonely, and you don’t know why. But it’s because you don’t have a team, so you’re not getting stomped.”

Austin was biting his lower lip hard enough a drop of blood popped free. “But you really want to have a team, huh?” he whispered eyes so haunted and empty Rigel wanted to look away. “Drink”, he whispered instead, to stop the bite from drawing more blood.

“Oh, for sure!” Rita agreed. “But what if there isn’t a team for you? What if the only team you had... is the one you had? What if you went around trying to get a team going, only no one understood what that was? They’d play a pick-up game, shoot some rounds, but they didn’t get what a team was.”

A massive sob escaped from Austin; Rigel shifted, spread his legs and drew his friend in, looking to Rita in appeal. She shook her head.

“Let me tell you a story, Austin. In a place called New Zealand, a royal prince met another prince – just a local prince, but still a prince. They decided to travel together, and so the royal prince took his new friend everywhere around the world. They went to Australia, and to India, and by long ship voyage to Hawaii. And the king on Hawaii looked at them, and knew they were more than just friends, they were soul-bonded, tied together before their bodies were made, and that they were mahu souls, souls that sought love with souls in bodies like theirs.
“So the king threw a feast for them. And at the feast he asked them if they would be bonded after the fashion of his people, two whose souls loved each the other – and whose love must be expressed by their bodies as well, if they chose. And they agreed, and they were bonded, because they knew they were more than friends.
“But when they came to South Africa, the Lord Governor sent men, and found the two princes together in bed. He ordered the New Zealand prince arrested, but the royal prince took the cuffs from the captain and bound himself to his soul-lover, and swallowed the key, and he said they could arrest both, or neither, for such was the law. Angry, the captain arrested them both.
“But when the news of this came to the great king, uncle to the prince, he ordered his Navy and the Marines, and Gurkha legions from India, and Highlanders, and even Westerners from North America. He would hear no apology, but tore the Lord Governor from his seat, and seized and carried away all who had cheered the arrest. Many landowners stood by the Lord Governor, so there was war for a year, and another, but at its end the New Zealand prince sat as Lord Governor, and the royal prince was made the great king’s Heir.
“Yet the great king was not satisfied. So he sent to the king of Hawaii, and asked his brother, though subject, king to send those who would teach the truth of such bonds. So wise men from Hawaii went to South Africa, and also to New Zealand, and they taught the truth, and that the Lord Governor had been in error.” She stopped for a sip of the brandy.

“You made that up”, Austin accused, not believing his own words, but not daring to believe otherwise.

“Nope. Loren told me that one, and others added details. But that’s not the end. See, when King Steven of Britain had a stroke, he made Prince Ethan his co-monarch. Ethan was in Boston when word came, and he sailed to South Africa to get Prince Hohepa. When they sailed for London – well, Spain’s king, being a thickheaded Catholic with a Pope for a brain, decided it was his job to keep such a wicked thing from happening, so he had their convoy attacked. Ethan didn’t believe it could happen until the first broadside rippled out, but Hohepa hadn’t trusted anyone but the two of them since the moment a lookout reported a Spanish sail on the horizon. So he’d made promises to two handsome midshipmen” – Austin actually grinned a bit at her use of the adjective – “and convinced Ethan that a moonlight paddle in the Maori sea canoe he’d hauled all the way from home would be so too romantic. The first sail was reported three hours before sunset; two hours later Ethan finally surrendered to the fact that the midshipmen weren’t taking orders from him – and that they didn’t mind at all when Hohepa stretched out blankets in the middle of the canoe and they got a little exercise of the heavy-breathing kind.”

“Where’d they go from there?” Austin demanded.

“The four of them paddled onto a beach in south England near a place called Rimsey, I think it was. King Steven was in a rage, and had had another stroke because of it. Princess Anne was giving orders, and even once she learned the two were alive she didn’t budge: the Royal British Navy went to war against the kingdom of Spain. It became a war against all the Roman – Roman Catholic, that is – kingdoms, before it was over.”

Rigel was chuckling; he’d just noticed something he’d missed before. “You mean Britain went to war?”

Rita laughed; it was an awesome part of the story to her. “No, just the navy. In fact, Anne got Parliament to actually draft a declaration of war of the Royal Navy against the Spanish Navy. She made it very clear that she had no quarrel with Spain itself, only with the notion that they could send out ships and attack the Empire’s ships over a matter of ‘private personal lives’. King Steven didn’t care; he just wanted every single port those Spanish ships could have come from burned to the ground.
“And that’s pretty much what it came to. The American part of the Empire provided ships and sailors by the hundreds and tens of thousands, India provided eager troops to thoroughly level port cities – somehow they’d become convinced that the Pope had made a league with sea demons and insulted Lakshmi – I don’t know that goddess at all, by the way. By the time it ended, the British Navy had more ships in service than all the rest of the world’s navies combined... and again. And there wasn’t a single port city in a Roman Catholic country on the European coast, Atlantic or Mediterranean, with even a single brick in one piece. The war debt wasn’t paid until Ethan’s son Richard was knighted, but the point was made.”

“Don’t attack princes at sea”, Austin concluded.

Rita shook her head. “You missed the point. Anne made sure their enemies didn’t. Everyone knew it wasn’t bright to attack princes at sea or anywhere else; Anne pounded home with fire and ashes the point that what British princes choose to do with their private lives is, first, not an excuse to break with common sense, and, second, no one else’s bloody business to approve or disapprove. She even managed to get into the peace treaty the provision, now international law there, that nothing in the private lives of rulers is to be treated as germane or even of interest to any dealings between nations – period. “She grinned. “Guess who signed quite enthusiastically?”

“The Chinese?” Austin guessed.

“Well, yes", she conceded, "but the majority of the signers of the Protocol – as Opposed to the Accord itself – of Tangier were Muslim nations.”

Rigel laughed. “Get it, Austin?” His squire shook his head. “They all had harems, didn’t they, Rita? And the Roman Catholic countries didn’t like it.”

“Bingo.” Rita looked Austin right in the eye, and caught his chin with her hand. “Ethan married Anne, and they had Richard who became king, but he married Hohepa first, in Hawaii. While he was king, Hawaiian-style same-sex marriages became accepted not just in Hawaii and New Zealand, but in India and Australia. While his son was king, they spread everywhere in the Empire except the places the Puritans and other Radical Reformation offspring dominated. The first gay wedding in a chapel of the Church of Britain was performed before our world had a transcontinental railroad.” Austin was starting to cry again, but she pressed on.
“William VII – if I’m counting right – founded a knightly order for gay men; his will decreed a sister order for lesbians. In the Imperial military, gays were often called on to take greater risks, because they had no offspring, but were given more than matching greater honor. When they started having offspring – they had all along, but it became officially acknowledged and popularly approved – the call to take risks was reduced, but the honors weren’t.
“Back when our world was having Nazis out to play, in theirs researchers demonstrated conclusively, with a study population of a hundred thousand, that gay men serving beside their partners make far more ferocious fighters; man for man, gays have a higher count in almost every medal the Empire has. Why, they argue about, but more than once since then an important military command has been awarded, from otherwise equal candidates, to the one who is gay – because they are counted on to have that edge, whatever it is.” Rigel found himself crying as well, he and Austin clinging to each other through the sobs.
“In our world, people with gay friends were often embarrassed about it – in theirs, it was a mark of pride... if you didn’t have a gay friend, people would wonder what was wrong with you. When Aaron and Vaidyanaath visited London and walked down the street holding hands, or with an arm planted on the other’s back, people not only didn’t glare or stare, they smiled and waved, and came up wanting to meet two of the Empire’s treasures.
“Austin, you’re used to a world where, if you’re lucky, people won’t spit on you for being gay, where if you have the money you can get away to a place where haters won’t come and stare at you like a lower life form. You got here, and there aren’t any Governor Templetons saying you’re not fit for life, there aren’t any of us telling you you’re dirty for banging a guy instead of a girl – but have any of us told you it’s awesome we have you, a gay guy, with us? And now here are people who aren’t only not afraid to be seen, not only aren’t worried what others will think, they expect to be appreciated for exactly what they are, because they’ve never known anything else.”

Rigel wanted to say “Damn you!”, but he couldn’t control his mouth. Austin had turned into one tortured wail trapped in a boy’s body. Rita waited. At long last, Rigel remembered his tumbler of brandy, all of about two tablespoons, and slammed it. Then he held Austin still long enough to get the squire to drink his. That ended the sobs, and their sort-of-token gay young man lay across his mostly-straight friend and lord.

Rita leaned forward with a mischievous smile. “Austin? One more thing: you were here first – they have to join your team.” She got to her feet, slung her should pack, hefted her travel bag, and walked off, whistling the tune to “Johnny Comes Marching Home”.



Ryan frowned at the last car in the train. Everyone was off, people heading in their different directions. He shrugged and turned to Aaron Lum and the others. “Rita’s been with them; something important happening, I guess. But the train can’t wait, and you can’t sit out here in the cold, either. Lumina, take care these noobs. Casey, pick the people you need and get moving – the train heads back in the morning. Oh, Aaron, Lumina, if I can have just one of the new people....? I know, don’t push.” He looked up at the sky, where the most threatening clouds of the winter were creeping in from the west.

“Only a mild storm”, Anaph assured him. “Last year, we would have thought it nice to be out in.”

Ryan laughed. “Thanks for the perspective.” He looked at the track, rails of blue oak, stretching out to the west. “It was nice to all be together again for a while”, he noted wistfully. “Rails allow just one route – we have divergent paths.” The whistle sounded ahead, signaling “full steam, ready to roll”. “Okay, all – until whenever.”



“Be well, Lord Ryan”, Aaron said under his breath as the train began to move. As it pulled even with the platform’s end, the last cars door swung open and two figures jumped out. They jogged over to him as the storm’s first flakes started coming down; it was the squire Austin and Lord Rigel – Earl Rigel, he corrected.

Austin seemed a bit worse for some sort of wear, but he had his boisterous energy about him as he bounded up. “Hey, stranger!” the squire said, offering a hand, “wanna be on my team?”

Looking on from the other end of the platform where she’d quietly slipped out, Rita heard, and smiled.

 

[DonQuixote]

Kuli,
A great way to bring us all up to speed about this alternate reality.
You've brought a huge gay presence to the story in one large swoop.

We've had the fun of the sexual innuendo, the gay/bi/straight discussion and occasional scene, though not a lot explicitly. This represents a paradigm shift of sorts. It will be interesting how you continue to integrate the newly snatched into Earl Rigel's world.

It's late/or early as the case may be, and time for me to head on up at long last.
The morrow will come too soon, and I must have needs be up to greet the day.

 

[Centexfarmer]

We're waiting on mod action to swap the last two chapters, which are in the wrong order.....

I hope that I fixed that for you.

 

[Kyanimal]

WOW! What a RIDE!!

Though they don't appear to be "fixed", in my current sign-in mode, I think I have the chapters sorted "right" in my mind. What an AWESOME new experience!!

My work schedule kicked in, so I missed a few days of "catch up"! And, I'm sorry that I wasn't available to help out with the "Druids' Inn" problem. But, I'm so happy to see that all of that got sorted out!

Kuli, those voices in you head have reached an astounding plateau! And, yes, even presented a totally different Style than I've read from you before! OUTSTANDING!!

I am truly adoring the "Newly Snatched"! (Though the conditions surrounding their arrival are sincerely scary! )

Their introduction into the "World of the Snatched" has yet untold myriad possibilities. I'm glued to the edge of my seat!

Keep smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Críostóir]

This. Is. Fabulous.

 

[Autolycus]

BoilingPoint57
Welcome to the Fit for Life book club!
And to JUB and the Story Forum.

To clear up any confusion regarding this greeting from DQ, I regret to have to inform everyone that I have discovered that Boiling point57 has been banned, although I am unaware as to why a ban was imposed.

 

[Kulindahr]

138

Books and Lessons​

Casey glared at Oran unhappily. To him it felt like his territory was being, if not invaded, at least intruded on. He hadn’t liked it when Rigel ordered Oran to travel with him, and it wasn’t because he was outranked – at least he didn’t think it was, it was just that he was used to doing things his own way.

He had to admit that the training Oran had worked on for their recruits for the mission had really sharpened some skills, and stomped on some bad habits. Oran had a knack for teaching the slow and stumbling that he lacked; he was great with the talented and eager, but lost patience with those who didn’t get something in the first few tries. So their eight trainees had advanced a lot in the three weeks they’d spent getting to Padillo – slower than Casey would have taken, but then Scout Two didn’t feel the urgency Scout Three did.

Maybe it was a good idea for them to both go on to Corazon dos Reyes, then: if Oran met Bishop Theodoro, and his little protection crew, he might understand better. In that case, standing here disagreeing wasn’t helping. He sighed. “All right. I wish you weren’t coming, but I can see some good reasons to do it. So let’s get our rears in gear.”

The surrender didn’t surprise Oran; that was inevitable. But Casey’s concession that there were good reasons did; he wasn’t used to the junior scout thinking things through that way. Usually it was growl and glare and finally cave in – this was a nice improvement. “Awesome”, he responded. “While we get going, we can compare good reasons.”


The scout who’d brought Benjamin Naegli to Rigel, Meccheagh Waretii, had been one of Oran’s picks. She needed tempering, for one thing; hers was a wild talent barely touched by discipline, her skills full of gaps in need of filling – though fortunately she had almost no bad habits, except being impulsive, and in what she did know she was very thorough. But Scout Two’s other big reason was that she had proven to be a dead shot with that rifle, better than he was beyond middle range – and he had a much better rifle, the Mark III-b, with improved bore and rifling. Their sights were the same, because he’d had hers retrofitted before they left, something done in an afternoon – something Master Kamlin had done eagerly, because it gave him a chance to show two of the newcomers the craft’s tools. Master Bannon, though, had been disappointed; he firmly turned down the offer of one of the prototype rifle scopes: he wanted at least the sights of rifles in the group to match, whether Mark I, II, or III.

“I’ve decided something”, she announced as they checked their rifles thoroughly, a habit both had developed independently and each approved of in the other. “None but my own clan really pronounce my name rightly. I am joining the Scout-clan, so I may change my name. So I shall spell my name the way all of you say it: I am now Meckayh.” She caught Oran’s eye. “Do you approve, Scout Two?”

“It’s your name”, he pointed out, “so you’re the only one who needs to approve. But I like it; it tells all the Scouts you belong to us now. Now”, he went on, changing topics, “how many rounds do you have?”

Meckayh grimaced. “Fifty-four. It seems few to me.”

Oran nodded agreement. “To me, too. But the stores really got drawn down when all of you got rifles. And your other forty-some weren’t wasted; three deer on the way and lots of target practice.”

“Five ruined in that mud”, she pointed out, not complaining.

It was Oran’s turn to grimace. “That was bad stuff. But remember what it did to brass? I think Wizard Ryan will be excited.” It felt odd to be giving everyone their titles, almost like they weren’t quite friends any more, but as Chen – who hated it far more than did Oran – pointed out, as Rigel’s realm and the reach of the Snatched grew, they needed the emphasis. “How’s the hand?”

“Eemee aided it again today.” She wiggled all the fingers, then ran through the exercises the new Healer, a Hawaiian native, had given her. Oran couldn’t have asked for better when the girl’s hand had gotten burned by acidic mud by the black spring they’d found; Eemee was a physical assistance engineer, which had required significant physical therapy training, who’d found that here he was a Healer. Lumina had protested Oran’s choice, but Rigel had said he could pick whoever he wanted, and the choice had felt right.

“Good. Casey, ready?” he asked, finishing his rifle inspection and ammunition inventory.

“Red-eye, mister Morsel, sar!”

“Latrine duty, mister.” Oran went on more quietly. “Casey, why do you do that?”

Scout Three set his jaw stubbornly. “It doesn’t bug Chen.”

“I’m not Chen, and if you did it in front of a bunch of trainees, it would bother him.” Oran shook his head. “You miss it being just us, huh?”

Casey chewed his lower lip. “Yeah. And I’m used to being in charge, up here.”

“Hey, I’m just temporary”, Oran assured him with a smack on the shoulder. “Look, listen, learn, report”, he quoted from Rigel’s instructions.

“And act in any situation if you think it’s a good idea”, Casey completed, unhappy.

“Yeah, well, let’s just try not to find any.” Oran looked around; he, Meckayh, and Casey were ready, as were Healer Eemee and Druid novice Vincent. If they were, the rest were. He hoisted his pack, slung his rifle, and stood, feet wide.

“Okay, people, let’s move”, he ordered. As he watched his little command move out, he glanced over again at Padillo, where they’d been hosted graciously by don Delgado’s man Juan Ruiz and his betrothed. It was a nice town, fairly quiet, governed not too badly by its lord – but he wondered if it would remain that way, after Ocean’s “vision”. Our job to make sure, he thought, and turned to bring up the rear.



“One book”, Anaph repeated firmly. “You want the Imperial Handbook of Physical and Chemical Properties, you want Lord Templeton’s Guide to Tools and Machining, you want Smythe-Masterson’s History of Ores and Refining, you want the Royal Society’s Making and Principles of Alloys, you want Lady Knudsen’s Optics, and now you’ve decided you want Ramasingh’s The Development of Circuits, volume one.” He faced the gathered representatives of the new Snatched, the Yankees, Aaron Lum at their head. “You can’t have all of them.”

“Eraigh said–“

“Eraigh was speaking of the process, and he did not say you could have all those.” Anaph stopped leaning on his staff and casually bounced it on the floor of the great foyer of Healer Hall, letting it come to rest standing vertically all on its own. Just a handful of his petitioners had seen that before, and it got silence better than anything he could have said. “Listen: I can grab one book. When I did this before, I was alone; now I have Eraigh’s College to aid. Yet I will not try for more than one! Having obtained one, later I will try for a second – at least a week later. But with each book I bring here, the chance of finding another of your choices decreases. I don’t know why – but Wizard Ryan’s conjecture is that each success drives me farther from the worldline you came from.”

“Eraigh said you could get two at once.” The speaker was Benjamin Naegli, the first of these Yankees they’d met. “Some special condition.”

“True”, Anaph conceded, “and I’ll try that: if I can find two of your choices physically in contact, I can do it. But remember I’ll want a longer rest time. So: which one do you most want? I’m not going to go fishing for all of them at once!”

They settled on three – the Imperial Handbook of Physical and Chemical Properties, Knudsen’s Optics, and History of Ores and Refining. Anaph checked with Eraigh and decided they could manage that, though it meant some reassigning the members of the College.


He’d done this before, and it had drawn the Snatcher’s attention. This time he wouldn’t be surprised by that, and besides, they had a sort of accommodation now. Glad he was beyond the need for chants and ritual for the process, Anaph closed his eyes, and reached. The Stone was there, and the LifeGem, and there the College. From Druid Hall he felt Eraigh notice his reach, and watched the connections already enabled spring to life, come full of Life. It was just a framework, waiting for the final touch. Yet he hesitated; there was no sign of the Snatcher, and for some reason that bothered him. But he pushed it aside; they were ready, so... almost on its own, his right hand rose, reached – and the middle finger touched the staff, light as a seed blown by a breeze.



“Corazon dos Reyes”, Casey announced nine days after leaving Padillo. They were dug in on a narrow strip of crumbled tableland, looking across. “Only two of us go in.”

Oran nodded, frowning slightly. “I wish we could bring Eemee, but you’re right – if he Heals anyone, and gets caught, we’re all crispy critters. Okay – while we’re gone, Meckayh is in command. Streaker and Runner come with us; SwiftBreeze doesn’t know towns at all.”

>stone forest< The thought came from the female cat who belonged to Meckayh, passed on by Runner. Oran chuckled.

“Man-caves”, he said, agreeing. It was Runner’s label for where humans lived, an image of men stacking up heaps of rock with a hollow middle, and crawling in like beasts. “Three hours to dark, I make it. Vincent, choose a watch; we sleep.” It wasn’t exactly chain of command, but Vincent had shown an ability to tell who was alert and would stay that way, and the scouts had come to trust his picks.



Horses stretched out, supplies on many, more supplies on the backs of Celt packers. Rigel had really wanted another quiet month, but with Antonio, Oran and Casey gone one way, Lumina and Devon and others focused on integrating all the newcomers into the various Crafts, and Ryan immersed in delegating – mostly to eager volunteers – he’d felt useless, then restless. With Anaph certain they weren’t going to have any blizzards for a while – he wouldn’t promise anything beyond two weeks, though – he’d decided to head south far sooner than intended.

“Maybe not a vacation, but relaxing, isn’t it?” Rita asked. She took a slow, deep breath – the weather was too cold, several degrees below freezing, for sudden deep breaths – and savored the aroma of the forest as the trees hungrily soaked up the mid-morning sun and gave off their scents.

“Until we get to Hills’ Edge”, Austin cut in, reminding Rigel of a point he’d made during the planning: every day past that border spot was a day for which they had to carry supplies. Yes, some of those planned castles might be out there now, but they’d be just getting started, not sitting with stores to share – in fact, it was more likely they’d be in need of stores, at the north end of the route.

“Yes, and I get it”, Rigel replied. “Which is why we’ll re-organize and stock up there while Anaph’s blizzard blows by.”

“Weird, not having all that snow”, Austin muttered.

Rigel shook his head. “Anaph talked with chiefs and all the lore-keepers who are now Druids. Last winter was the weird one, blizzard after blizzard slamming down. This is the other way, but it’s closer to normal.”

“Don’t forget the pattern”, Tanner pointed out. It made Rigel jump.

“I thought you were back with the troops!” he exclaimed.

Tanner grinned mildly. “Too much supervision stifles them. Anyway, the pattern Eraigh’s flock of Druids worked out says there will be less and less snow for the next two or three years – just lots of cold. So Austin, get used to it.”

“Oh, yay. I’d rather have snow-ball fights.” Titanium caught his partner’s annoyance, and bucked a little. With a laugh, Austin blew on the stallion’s right ear, and they were off at a gallop.



Casey didn’t need the indirect link through their cats to feel the grim mood of his friend. “They won’t leave him alone!” Esteban swore vehemently, wiping at a tear. “God sent him, and they won’t leave him alone!” The source of his irritation was yet another intruder caught in the cathedral, now facing the bishop, held by two guards while Tacito Vargas stood with blade bared, covering the space between. He’d only told Casey of the previous intrusion hardly an hour before, and now they were seeing another!

“They could just kill him”, suggested Scout Two. “Or are they questioning him?”

Esteban shook his head; for all his incredible skill as a scout in the wilderness, his friend just didn’t understand how things were. “The bishop doesn’t kill. One of his protectors” – he laughed softly, for at that moment a hidden door in the bishop’s study opened and a figure in a monk’s robe, with the ragged belt of a penitent, slipped through. “That’s him -- Brother Sodalis. He was an Inquisidore assassin. The law says he has to die, but Bishop Theodoro said it doesn’t say when. So the assassin got to learn, and decided his life’s penitence was to protect the bishop he was sent to kill.”

“Brother Sodalis.” Casey repeated the name as he watched. Before he finished it, while wondering what ‘Sodalis’ meant, if anything, he felt things in the room change. “Fuck! The bad guy recognizes him!”

Esteban disagreed. “Only the profession. He’s shocked.”

“He’ll panic. Then–“ He sighed and pointed. “Here goes Oran.” He’d felt it before Scout Two moved; with three great cats sharing what they sensed, it had been hard not to.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing!” Esteban hissed.

Casey had to defend his friend. “He’s not stupid. Listen to Pounces – why’s he going?”

“The bishop’s in danger”, Esteban conceded, “or he thinks so. If he just doesn’t make it worse.....” He shook his head at the thought of this foreign, woodland Scout crashing in where he didn’t belong.

Oran had been thinking of what to do if he decided to go in. He’d want a distraction, to confuse them – and realized he had the perfect thing. Getting it done in the first place had been an impulse, really a way to work on his Spanish language skills, but now it would serve a different purpose. Or maybe two, he realized on further thought. But the moment came, and thought stepped aside in favor of action. He was up, running along the larger branch he’d been consigned to because Esteban’s branch wouldn’t hold any more, and Esteban wasn’t about to surrender that perch, diving, aimed by senses honed to the level of instinct – and guided a bit by Runner, he knew – to the lip of the garden wall. He paused – not that anyone but a highly skilled and very alert Scout would have noticed – just long enough to verify his trajectory was going as planned, did a back flip – a strange feeling, he was wiling to bet, if he did it in a kilt – landed by the barely-ajar door, and was inside before anyone in the room even knew he existed. The long knife he’d used to flip the door open was in the prisoner’s face before anyone reacted, and at his throat before anyone spoke.

Centurion Vargas was that “anyone”. “Bishop, you have another protector”, he noted calmly, but with amusement – and no little tension, because when his guards had checked the perimeter before Mass, only the young thief who was supposed to be there had been in the only tree this apparition could have come from.

Theodoro blinked, taken aback as he hadn’t been in a long time. “Perhaps he thought to not leave this spot unwatched while at Mass”, he ventured.

The prisoner was glaring at Oran, but the intelligence the Scout saw in those eyes was deadly, and had to be diverted. He and Casey had, in fact, been a bit confused to arrive and learn that their informant hadn’t been accurate: Esteban had not been on the branch they’d been directed to. “¿Quién vigilará a los vigilantes? ¿Quién guardará a los guardianes?” he asked, misdirection in answer to hypothetical question. Then he remembered the Latin original: “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” Reaching into his vest, he pulled out a slender volume he’d hardly used – well, not more than fifty times – and tossed it to the Bishop. “You should have this, your Grace.” While his quotes, asking who will guard the guards, or watch the watchers, had puzzled the prisoner, the appearance of the little book brought tension and uncertainty as it was supposed to.

Theodoro actually laughed, though not at the book, which was caught by the apparent monk – Oran knew better, from the way the man moved; the man may not have had any spark, but he was very, very good in a way monks just didn’t aspire to. “‘My’ grace? I have but the grace of God, and stand greatly in need of it.” Then his eyes went wide at what the throw and statement had drawn his eyes from: Runner was now in the room, and, moving far faster than any human, closed in behind the prisoner. The Bishop stood dumbfounded, accepting the book in its dark green leather binding with gold letters, watching with no possible way to intervene as two great paws landed on the prisoner’s hips and talons slid out – and in through cloth into human skin.

“Demon!” the prisoner hissed, and began frantically chanting what sounded like a prayer.

Oran put his long knife away and crossed his arms. “Cat”, he said. “Just an animal – a very special animal”, he added fondly. Runner’s answering purr silenced the chanting and froze the man even more motionless than he had been before.

The monk moved calmly – glided, practically, Oran noted – over to just out of arm’s reach of Runner. “Cat, and quite large.” The expression that came across his face was what Rita called “the Aha! look”. “There are books which speak of cats, Bishop, but they were suitable for laps – not like this. Although... a moment.” He flowed out of the room.

The prisoner summoned courage and spoke. “You keep company with traitors!” He spat at Theodoro, which Oran didn’t like, and so intercepted it on his right sleeve. Quite deliberately he stepped forward and wiped it on the man’s neck.

“You should know something about those claws”, he said quietly, sensing the man was ready to try something, anything. “There’s a substance that comes out at the base – like right here”, he explained, tapping where his fingernail emerged from under the skin of his right index finger. “It oozes onto the claws, and dries there. Dirt and blood – too thin to see, but they’re there – usually cover it, so it’s sort of harmless.” His audience of one regarded him with suspicion, but quite attentively. “But stick a claw in something alive, and the blood and dirt soften. If the cat is careful, he can pull the claws out and you just have a dirty puncture. But if you try to tear away, well, the substance goes into your blood. Unless you’re immune, it will bother you.”

“‘Bother’?” Tacitus echoed. “How much? We’d rather he wasn’t dead.”

Oran pretended to be surprised, as though he’d forgotten anyone but his temporary student. “Oh! Well, I don’t think it’s ever actually killed anyone. Some people just get horrible itching. But some people”, he went on, noting the speculative look in the “student’s” eyes, “get nauseous, and throw up until they’re vomiting blood, and have diarrhea just about the rest of their lives.” Runner purred in amusement at the last, which was an outrageous exaggeration – and that terrified the cat’s present pincushion more than thoughts of vomiting and diarrhea.


“He’s doing okay”, Casey commented.

Esteban just grunted. “I should be in there. They don’t know who he is. Vargas is worried. I think he’s afraid Oran is there to kill the prisoner.”

“Ack. Okay, it’s your town and your bishop”, conceded Scout Two.


The “monk”, Brother Sodalis, returned with a stack of pages that might have once been a book. Carefully he turned to one he’d already marked. “Here, Bishop. The writer speaks of cats becoming scarce, but those which lived of a litter – a group of newborn cats – were larger than their parents. Each new generation was fewer, but the animals were larger. The ones who didn’t survive suffered from their hair seeming to forge itself into armor, and their teeth getting longer. People bitten by them suffered similar things, and died. The Duke then made a decree that any creature, cat or other animal, or even human, which showed signs of this affliction was to be burned. Some decided the cats were being taken over by demons. La Inquisicion decreed that cats had been stolen by Lucifer, and were no longer God’s creatures. A campaign was decreed to gather and kill them all, but the cats, by then half as large as this one, from the description, all disappeared. The High Bishop then took it as a sign of God’s deliverance, but there were many reports of the cats leaving their human households, gathering together, and departing south into the forest.” He frowned. “A note in the margin, hard to make out and partly missing, tells of later reports – far later – that the cats had settled with the barbarian tribes, but the affliction struck again and the cats left to go farther south, though the tribes mourned at the departure.”

Theodoro was nodding. “Have you read....?” He shook his head. “No, this is not the time. There are two other accounts I know of where that same affliction struck. One was on deer in the forest, and the Duke ordered a great hunt – and the Celts aided. The other helped bring an end to horses, striking just before the War against the demon hives.” Oran kept his face impassive, but inside was chuckling. No, they didn’t end, he thought, they did the same thing the cats did: they survived, and they got smarter. To him it was sufficient explanation for why mounts often picked riders, just as cats picked Scouts, and why so often they anticipated what the riders wanted – and how Titanium and Austin were more friends and partners than anything.

He realized then that right here was something worth the trip all by itself: this news of a repeating affliction, one that sounded like something Lumina and Anaph had talked about! Casey couldn’t object to him coming, now – doubly, because not even Antonio knew just how many times Theodoro’s life had been threatened, and Rigel needed to know this soon! Or Ryan, he conceded, if Rigel left like he was talking about.

Something in the stance of the prisoner made Oran suddenly worried. Felt through Runner, it seemed like desperation. A willingness to trade life for life, Oran realized grimly. He didn’t consciously decide to draw his long knife; it was just in his hand, then its tip was just touching the man’s Adam’s apple. He moved it to touch right over the jugular. To his right, the centurion crossed himself; almost reflexively Oran spoke familiar words: “In the name of the Father”, he began, pressing the knife till it drew blood, an impulse that came from Runner. Why the prisoner’s face went white, why Brother Sodalis gasped just audibly, he didn’t know, but Scout Two stopped with those words, knowing he’d gained some sort of advantage. But what do I do now? He was out of his element, and knew it, but didn’t dare let on.

“Hi, centurion.” It was Esteban’s voice, and to Oran it meant rescue. “He didn’t come in past me.”

“Greetings, young protector”, the captain of Theodoro’s guard responded. “This visitor also has a cat companion. Is he yours?”

Esteban was surprised enough at the question he let out words he instantly wished hadn’t been spoken. “Lord Oran, mine?” His hand flew to clap over his mouth; he turned it into grabbing his chin and looking thoughtful – though the twinkle in Theodoro’s eyes told him he hadn’t fooled everyone. “Better to say we’re allies.”

Oran liked that description, and nodded. “Esteban, would you like a turn? I think he’s ready to answer some questions.” Centurion Vargas and Brother Sodalis both nodded agreement.

Oran turned back to the subject of their attention. “Runner is going to take his claws out now. Don’t think that makes you safe, though – see that other cat, in the doorway? If you look like you’re going to attack the bishop, Runner can tear your throat out, break your neck, rip off your head and toss it into the bishop’s trash basket while the other cat pulls your body out into the garden fast enough no blood hits the bishop’s floor. So don’t try anything but standing there unless you want the cats to use your head for a toy until the flesh rots off.” Just to see the effect, he whispered, “...and of the....” as he took his knife away. The man shrunk back visibly.

Esteban was already there was a blade of his own, an odd rounded thing that looked like it was made of some kind of grainy rock rather than metal. Oran backed away, eyes still on the prisoner. He had to admire the thief’s style, stepping from side to side as though dancing, running a finger along the curved side of the weapon, not quite touching. Then suddenly he held the knife – if it qualified for the name – up as if becoming really aware of it, and beyond it the prisoner. He stepped close, glancing right then left, and spoke quietly, in a tone like he was confiding a secret.

“This is an interesting blade”, he related. “Have you seen one like it? It has tiny, tiny grooves on the sides, the long way.” The prisoner plainly wanted to back away, but Vargas’ two guards were there. “The grooves hold stuff”, Esteban went on, nodding vigorously. “I scrubbed this really clean, and then I stuck it into the shit of a man with ruptures – in and out, in and out.” He moved the blade just enough to suggest that motion. “Then I patted it off – the clumps, I mean.” The thief frowned at his weapon. “It looked bad, then, so before it was really dry I took and rolled it in the sticky liquid running off a piece of rancid meat – you know how it smells, when it starts to rot and there aren’t any maggots to eat up the worst? That made it shiny. But it wasn’t really the sort of thing to just have around. I found some membiz and carefully painted the juice over it all. Looks nice, doesn’t it?” He held the tip five centimeters from the prisoner’s nose, twirling it, staring into the man’s eyes. His expression changed, the result chilling Oran – and he knew Esteban was a friend!

That friend’s voice went cold. “Know what happens if I stick it in you? The membiz gets in your blood, and makes you feel wonderful. Then the meat slime gets in, and starts to make you sick, really sick. But you still feel wonderful, and sick, too. At last the shit gets into you, and you get ruptures. You won’t notice, because you’ll still feel wonderful, and sick. Except all at once, the membiz quits, and there you are, shit and blood all over.” Esteban let the blade drop to his side. “I’ve always wondered how someone with ruptures feels while he dies. Want to be the one to tell me?”

Oran didn’t know what “ruptures” was, or were, but Vargas looked like he was about ready to vomit, and Brother Sodalis had moved back. Bishop Theodoro only looked very disappointed; his hands had sought out his rosary and were moving along the beads. But the prisoner was in a state of near-panic, and Oran judged him willing to answer anything to get this madman away from him.

The centurion waved Esteban back, and stepped in to confront the man his guards again held. The prisoner spoke first. “There are things I cannot tell you.” He wasn’t terrified, Oran judged, but he was close.

“Patterning”, Brother Sodalis said. “To keep from revealing secrets, men may be patterned, trained until there are things they cannot speak – whether they will it or not they cannot.”

Vargas nodded. “I have heard of this. Only the Duke, and the counts, do this.”

Sodalis was shaking his head. “The Grand Inquisitor also, and certain cofradias.”

“We call it conditioning”, Oran offered. “You have to want to, or it doesn’t work. But you already knew he had to be from someone powerful.”

Bishop Theodoro frowned at this. “Lord Oran, your people use this ‘conditioning’?”

Oran shook his head. “No. Where we used to be, yes. But there’s no going back.” He considered saying that the Druids wouldn’t allow it, but decided they didn’t need to hear about Druids. “Though if there was an important mission, and someone asked.... No”, he decided, “I don’t think any of us even knows how.”

Theodoro relaxed again. “Do you know how to question one, to defeat the ‘conditioning’?”

“If it can be done, I don’t know how”, Oran admitted. “Drugs – herbs and compounds – might help. But the mind is a powerful thing, and his mind will cling to the training it chose.” He took a deep breath and went further. “Sometimes if you press a question, the subject will go insane.”

Vargas frowned now, first at Oran, then at the prisoner. “Then we must be careful.”

“Take the chain off his neck”, Esteban said suddenly. Oran caught the sense of urgency, and moved before Esteban’s sentence was done. Lifting the jerkin would have been slower; he slit it, scratching skin but not drawing blood, reaching for the chain. It was beautiful work; seeing the catch, he dropped his knife and undid that, freeing the chain and what it bore – a small pendant.

“How did you move that fast?” Esteban’s whisper punctured Oran’s elation at carrying off the snatch without a problem. He realized that no one else had moved, though Vargas was getting started and the prisoner was reaching to grab the chain.

“I don’t know”, he confessed. “I just need–“ That was when the cramps struck; the chain slipped from his fingers as his legs went on strike, and his arms. Esteban caught him, and the pendant.

“Seeker!” the young thief hissed, recognizing the pendant. “I should kill you where you stand!” He actually brushed his blade across the man’s sleeve.

Runner growled. >true-fear, not<

>scared - confident< came Pounces’ comment.

He’s afraid, but not enough to disturb his control, Oran thought, absently accepting the cup of tea Theodoro himself brought. He needs his world rocked. “Lord Antonio wouldn’t appreciate that, Esteban. There are things he needs to know.”

>caution - confusion<

>push< Oran couldn’t tell which cat was which.

“Maybe we could take him there – it might be educational for him.” That tipped things in the man’s mood.

“You are from outside the Realm!” their prisoner exclaimed -- and accused.

“At least he can think”, Oran commented, to Brother Sodalis. “That would make it easier. Don Renaldo would like questioning someone who can think.” The prisoner looked – and felt – apprehensive, with a heavy dose of uncertainty. Oran forced himself to his knees, then sank back to sit on his heels. “You never imagined there was really anything outside the realm, did you?” He put amusement into his voice. “Don Antonio and his vassals like it that way, actually. He has a very nice place, a whole tableland with castles and the great manor house. It’s close enough he can trade with Pueblo Alvarez – though I think Tree Hall Village is closer. Perhaps his friend don Octavio would know; he travels enough.”

Esteban had figured out the game. He shook his head. “No, don Raimundo. He has reasons to be interested.”

Oran considered that; he wasn’t impressed by Raimundo, but the Lady Ismelda Iglesian’s heir certainly would be interested in a Seeker – the boy thought a Seeker had killed his father. “Maybe”, he conceded. “But there is that matter of the other Seeker.” A humorous image from Runner let him know he was on the right track: a flying bird suddenly missing half a wing. “Well, we don’t get to decide that. I report to Lord Ryan, and he tells Earl Rigel, and he gets to decide.” Right after the word “earl”, Runner’s bird image returned – featherless.

“Lord Rigel has so many things to do”, Esteban opined, working purely from what Casey had told him. “And Lord Ryan has those new vassals.”

Oran sucked in a breath and thrust himself to his feet, right into the prisoner’s face. “You know nothing!” he practically hissed. “My lord Earl commands barons, as your Duke commands counts. His barons command lords, as do your counts. The barons have knights, the knights have squires! You think you know the game you play–“ Oran stopped and snorted. “You are a small toy in a small place. But I will try to get word of your little games to Earl Rigel before he sees Earl Osvaldo or the king.”

Runner’s bird image plummeted, wings of bone flapping futilely.

Oran turned to Centurion Vargas. “I think he’ll answer anything you have, now. But you can never let him get away.” He pitched his voice low enough only the guard captain heard.

“Our thief will call, and you can get him", came the equally quiet reply.

Oran shook his head slightly. “Probably won’t be me. But Esteban will know.” It still wasn’t time to reveal Druids, but a little hint couldn’t hurt, he decided. “We might even be able to undo the conditioning.”

Vargas smiled grimly. “Then we will try not to ruin him, before.” He turned to his master. “Bishop – chains, now?”

Theodoro nodded sadly. “Yet, no torture.”

Oran shook his head. “Bishop, we already broke that rule – you just can’t see the marks.” He straightened his clothes and retrieved his long knife from the floor. The prisoner followed his every move, eyes haunted. Oran faced him again. “Pray with all that is in you that your master does not anger mine”, he admonished, soft and certain. Tortured eyes, the eyes of a man whose world has been tumbled irreparably, held his. There was almost a plea there.... Purposely he turned his back. The cats understood, and departed silently; Esteban bowed to the bishop.

That sight touched something in Oran. “Bishop, I have not tasted the Sacrament in... far too long. Is there a priest....?” He kept his voice low enough the Seeker couldn’t hear.

Theodoro smiled. “Use the hall to leave, and ask the first guard you see.”



“Scout Meckayh, they’re moving.” SwiftBreeze shook herself and ended her volunteer stint as a pillow. The two crept to the vantage point the scouts had shaped on the ridge.

“Rifles”, she called softly after a few seconds of observation. She didn’t like the timing: Oran and Casey should be coming back any time, and these were moving – and since it didn’t feel right to her, and SwiftBreeze said the dozen smelled of death, she’d take care of it. She didn’t dare try to get closer; whoever they were, her crew of novice Scouts were no match. That meant they just had to become carrion food.

Four scouts snuggled down in the depressions pounded out for the purpose. Only two were good enough shots for this; the others would reload, rotating weapons. The shooters called “Ready” when settled.

“‘The last shall be first’”, she called back, quoting something she’d heard at Cavern Hold. She didn’t know what it was supposed to mean, but it made sense here: with luck, they could kill half before the rest even noticed. “By rank.” That told who got which man, lowest rank at the rear. “On ‘free’”, she instructed, then said oh-so-softly, “You are free persons.” But no one heard the last word as their rifles roared.

The echoes shrouded the source in misdirection. She calmly reloaded while the others switched weapons. Her grin got wide and feral; the targets had stopped and were looking around. “Fire”, she whispered, a moment before her target saw that the last three in their party were down. “Burn!” she swore; he’d moved, and instead of hitting him in the chest, her bullet took out a chunk of his neck. Of course he screamed – badly; his windpipe must have been torn.

But she wasn’t waiting, and there wasn’t time. “Fire at will!” she snapped, and reached for her reserve, the just-in-case, hope-I-don’t-have-to backup: Oran’s Mark III, with the bolt that let her put in new rounds without even taking her eye from the sights.

Another man went down; another clutched at his gut. They were taking cover now, so she assigned herself the most difficult. He made the mistake she asked Life for: down low, he stuck his head up to see if his comrades were safe. His head came up there, so his chest would be there... except one of her comrade’s bullets zipped close enough he ducked, and she knew from the way his neck jerked that the ground behind him was pink. Feast well, little creatures, she wished, and sought her next target.

“We only got ten”, Eemee told her. He’d been their watcher, high in a redtree. “One’s wounded, though.”

What Meckayh had in reserve this time was cats; three of them, for Streaker and Runner both were close enough for SwiftBreeze to call. “Cat meat”, she said, then grinned at the memory of one of Casey’s accounts. “More demon stories.”



Alone in his study, questions asked which raised more, Theodoro’s wandering gaze came to rest on the small green volume the young Lord had tossed him. The move had been a distraction, so he hadn’t given much thought to the book since; he didn’t even remember retrieving it from wherever it had landed. But the cover was fine leather, the dye a beautiful one, and the embossing seemed to be real gold – this was no worthless thing to be tossed and forgotten. And Lord Oran hadn’t seemed one to throw away valuable things, either.

His scholar’s eye noticed that one page in the book got opened frequently. So it was a favorite passage of Lord Oran. What would such a one – young, daring, skilled, and with that ability move so swiftly – find to comfort, or inspire, or calm him? for it was such things that drew a man to read a page again and again. It would be as good a place to start as any – as a scholar, “the beginning” didn’t hold any particular importance to him; all too often he found he’d begun somewhere in the middle. So he picked up the book, nodding at the servant who was delivering tea he didn’t recall asking for, opened to Lord Oran’s page, and began to read.

Creo que ni por mi propia razón, ni por mis propias fuerzas puedo creer en Jesucristo, mi Señor, y allegarme Él; sino que el Espíritu Santo me ha llamado mediante el Evangelio, me ha iluminado con sus dones y me ha santificado y guardado mediante la verdadera fe, del mismo modo que Él llama, congrega, ilumina y santifica a toda la cristiandad en la tierra y en Jesucristo la conserva en la única y verdadera fe; en esta cristiandad Él nos perdona todos los pecados a mí y a todos los fieles diariamente con gran misericordia, y en el postrer día me resucitará a mí y a todos los muertos y me dará en Cristo, juntamente con todos los creyentes, la vida eterna. Esto es ciertamente la verdad
– I believe that I cannot by my own reason or strength believe in my Lord Jesus Christ or come to Him, but the Holy Spirit has called me by the Gospel, has illumined me with His gifts.... He forgives us, to me and all the faithful daily with great mercy.... This is most certainly true.

Theodoro dropped the volume to his desk. It bounced and fell to the floor, but he hardly noticed. Here in words given to him almost accidentally was the truth he had always known but never set down so clearly. Such words! “Your grace”, Lord Oran had said, and he had assured the young man that he had no grace, only God had grace, but compared to this he hadn’t known what he said, at all. He shook his head; it was so simply, so powerfully put: God’s grace was everything, did everything, through the simple tool he, Bishop of Corazon dos Reyes, longed to give his people clearly and plainly: the Gospel, the word of grace, planted in souls by the Holy Spirit. Tears blurred his eyes, and he knew he had his next sermon – and several more after! For a moment he tried to believe that they would leave him alone if he preached on the great Creed of the church, and let the scriptures lie, but he knew sooner than the thought was complete that this was a greater bombshell than any he’d dropped yet, for it told the truth in a way that mocked all the circus of relics and donations and... of ceremonies and rituals, even as the prophets said.

Prayer became a need, yet an invitation: the Holy Spirit was calling him by the Gospel, to illuminate him. His own closet, as it were, wouldn’t do; he would pray before the Sacrament, beneath the Presence lamp. Forgetting his tea, he went.

Behind him, on the floor, the small green volume fell closed under the tension of its leather cover. A third of an hour later, Centurion Vargas found it there. Setting it on the desk, he remembered that Lord Oran had tossed it to the bishop as a distraction. It was beautiful; had the young lord forgotten it, or meant the bishop to have it?

He didn’t recognize the title, exquisitely embossed in gold letters: Los Catecismos, Menor y Mayor, del Martín Lutero, Doctor por Todos Cristianos.

The craftsman who’d gotten one word out of place would never comprehend the storm he’d stirred into motion.

 

[Críostóir]

Seriously scary and amazing. I need to read it more carefully a second time to understand what's going on, especially in the "torture" sequence.

And what one word changed the meaning so much? Does it say that Lutero is a "doctor for all Christians," instead of saying that the Catechism is for all Christians?

 

[DonQuixote]

Kuli:
That was another great chapter. The tension/minor resentment between Casey and Oran ~ Scout 3 being used to doing his own thing, his own master, and here is "Morsel" in command.

Oran, for his part, did a good job talking to him, reminding him.

And our new Scout in the Rough
Then there are the three "pussy cats" ROWR, lol

Plus. Anaph being "put upon" to "snatch" SEVERAL (NOT!) books from their newly arrived's former world ~ apparently sans "The Snatcher".

But, the REAL action is in town, with the good Bishop Theodoro.
Who is this "Seeker", this scum of humanity? WHO is he working for?
Very interesting "discussion" they carried on.

Then, the book - a very important book. My command of the finer points of Spanish don't give me the significant word out of place of "Los Catecismos, Menor y Mayor, del Martin Lutero, Doctor por Todos Cristianos".

I am reading that as "The Catechisms, Minor and Major, "of"/By Martin Luther, Doctor for All Christians.

I did a Yahoo Search and found "The Small Catechism of Martin Luther by Martin Luther" as a free download in any of several formats.

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1670

 

[Críostóir]

LOLAM! I didn't even notice that Martin Lutero was Martin Luther!

 

[Kulindahr]

And what one word changed the meaning so much? Does it say that Lutero is a "doctor for all Christians," instead of saying that the Catechism is for all Christians?

Bingo!

I'm surprised DonQ didn't pounce on that. In front of his name, it merely specifies that Luther achieved a doctor's degree, i.e. someone judged competent to teach others. In front of "for all Christians", it ceases to be merely a title and specifies that he is regarded as someone from whom all Christians should learn -- in RC terms, it makes him a "Teacher of the Church".

 

[Críostóir]

A comma would also disambiguate, yes? "Martin Lutero, Doctor, por Todos Christianos."

 

[DonQuixote]

A comma would also disambiguate, yes? "Martin Lutero, Doctor, por Todos Christianos."

Críostóir,
I think the moving of a phrase is really what's needed --
"Los Catecismos, Menor y Mayor, del Martin Lutero, Doctor por Todos Cristianos"
change to

"Los Catecismos, Menor y Mayor, por Todos Cristianos, del Martin Lutero, Doctor "

Kuli,
I did pick up on the verbiage meaning ML being a doctor for all Christians, but, in the context of the current world, I didn't see that as being fundamentally terra-shattering. He wasn't known as the instigator of the Protestant Reformation to the people of this world, by and large. Hence why I didn't key in on it quite as much as I should have.

 

[Críostóir]

But what was he in the world the Quistadors come from? Maybe he wasn't as forceful, and no Reformation was set off. Of course, that would lead to the Church just continuing to get more corrupt...which would explain its nature among the Quistadors.

 

[DonQuixote]

I suspect he wasn't really much of anything - The Inquisition was most active 1478 - 1530, aimed initially at ensuring the conversion of Moors and Jews was "proper" and the converts adhered to the faith appropriately. The geography of this was Seville, Granada, Valencia - Southern Spain

Luther was born in 1483; As a German Roman Catholic Priest, he challenged the concept of "buying indulgences" - your way into heaven in 1517 with a festering relationship that peaked, as it were, with his refusal to retract upon command from Pope Leo in 1530.

But, this was Germany and Rome, not Southern Spain. And he was of the "proper race", let alone a prominent priest of the faith. Plus, communications was slow, at best.

So, I don't know how much of his skirmish with Rome made its way to the Inquisition, which had much more pressing matters to attend to in their own back yard.

 

[Kulindahr]

Isn't history fun?

First, the title should read with "del Doctor Martin Lutero". The wording as is makes a parallel with "Doctor of the Church", a title given to very few, e.g. Thomas Aquinas (who in my opinion was a heretic because he set Aristotle above scripture). So once the bishop notices the title, he's -- but no, I'll let you speculate.

Meanwhile, I'm in the middle of fixing Bammer his birthday steak, two days late because of circumstances. So back to the stove; he's not so picky how his is fixed, but I want mine just right.

Second, these Conquistadors were Snatched before Luther's student got the bright idea of nailing the disputation topics -- i.e. the infamous Ninety-five Theses -- on the door of the Wittenburg church. I think that was indicated earlier, but I'm not certain.