A Heavy Duty

51 Autumn 218
The Tide’s Song

Sav
After Astarael’s visit, it doesn’t take Sav long to finish writing up her summary of the events in Galoring during the ship’s jaunt out of time. She does slow down during her summation of today’s actions, as the realization of just what happened hits her afresh, but nevertheless she’s out of the study in another quarter-candle or so, carrying the folded report and heading up to the deck.

Reliving the day’s events has made her realize, though, that she has no idea what to do with a large building and the associated people. There’s really only one person on the ship with that kind of experience. (Perhaps if Paloma had been within reach, she might have turned to her first - actors had to be easier than a regiment of soldiers. Right?)

As she pads up onto the deck, her balance already automatically adjusted to the swelling and rolling of the ship, she spots Carter toward the bow, seated on a crate, one of those strange little herbal rolls dangling from her lips periodically sending a waft of smoke back over the ship. Sav hesitates, then tucks the report into her coat and heads toward the bow.

“Carter,” she hails, halting within a few feet and canting her head toward her. “I’ve some questions an perhaps a request or two, if ye’ve time.”

Carter
In front of her, kindling and guttering like a flame, Carter studies the shape she has somehow coaxed into being from air and smoke and the Stuff that she’d pulled and twisted from wherever it came from. She was getting better at it now, Carter thought. Many of the motions were becoming second nature, and she found that she no longer needed to refer to her notes.

Now, Carter cups her hands around the small, glowing, moving shape. A clump of ash falls from Carter’s cigarello - forgotten between pursed lips as she focuses on her witchcraft.

“Come on,” she says, under her breath, “I’ve seen it done. Can’t be that hard…”

At the words, the magic in Carter’s hands catches and takes shape. Carter reflexively pulls her hands away, but the magic remains - an elegant, slim fingered hand, the same size and shape as her own, but separate, and slightly luminous.

Carter laughs, sending a puff of smoke through the spectral hand, and watches as the hand moves in sync with her own, fanning away the smoke, her cigarello sending small, glowing embers into the spell despite her efforts. The magical hand faintly gray and now streaked with red light, as the smoke spirals through it, permeating the hand but also catching within it. Like a glove made of gauze.

Carter moves her own hand, and watches as the hand of smoke and ember does the same - Carter directs it outward, further than she herself can reach, and slowly, cautiously, her own fingers moving as if completing some invisible chore at her side as she watches the magical hand move to the barrel she had set up, and to her snuffbox on top of it. Carefully, Carter manipulates the magical hand, raising it and then lowering, gently, her own fingers splayed at her side as the hand reaches for the snuffbox, obscuring it, but the black polished enamel still visible through the smoke.

“And…pick it up,” says Carter, lifting her hand from her side.

The spectral hand rises from the barrel, snuffbox closed within it. Carter imagines herself coiling the Stuff like a string, using it to pull the hand, and its prize, closer to her.

“—Carter!”

Carter’s snuffbox clatters to the ground, the magical hand dissolving around it, the smoke dissipating. Carter looks up, turning, standing and brushing ash from her overskirt in one fluid motion. She sweeps the snuffbox aside with the toe of her shoe, tucking it behind her other foot. By the time she looks up and acknowledges Sav, the only sign of Carter’s successful experiment is the pink flushing high in her cheeks.

“I’ve some questions an perhaps a request or two, if ye’ve time,” Sav says.

Carter bows formally at the waist, but smiles when she straightens, “Of course!” she looks Sav up and down, “I had been wanting to know what you were able to do in the city, too, but when you returned, and with the sudden difference in time, well, it hardly seemed appropriate to…” Carter hesitates, and takes a deep breath. The filter of her cigarello sears against her lip and Carter casts it to the ground, “Damn thing,” she says, grinding the remainder of her smoke against the deck of the ship. “I thought close to Galoring I’d be able to get decent ones, but this snuff the Briarbirds have is of a different…quality… than I’m used to.”

She looks back at Sav, smiling, “Anyway, I figured you would want to reunite properly with your friends and compatriots first, and I wanted to ensure you had time to do that, you know, without me nearby seeming ever so suspicious.” Carter speaks the last phrase in a loud stage whisper, and drops a wink to Sav, “so I’m glad you’re here, now. What did you want to talk about?”

Sav
Sav gives her an odd look at the “ever so suspicious” line, the conversation with Astarael still fresh in her mind. Had she been listening in on that? Goodness knows the ship’s sections are far from soundproof, as anyone with the misfortune of being nearby when one of the ship’s extant relationships attempt to find some privacy can attest. Or is it simply a matter of being able to read their (probably not subtle) reserve around her? Carter couldn’t be ignorant of the fact that they’re a jumpy lot, given their reasons for being so, and her a relatively recent addition.

Privately hoping she wouldn’t regret telling Astarael to calm her fears, Sav looks toward where the translucent, smoky hand had been, and simply says, “Ye know that ye dinnae have to keep makin gestures to control the haund once ye’ve callt it, aye? E’en if ‘tis difficult to do so right now, ‘tis a goal to aim at.” Without her working to sight the precise shapes of the flowing Stuff, she can’t be certain of how well the rest of it went, but she’d caught the little gestures at Carter’s side and the image of the ghostly hand as she approached before Carter had been aware of her presence.

She shifts a little, then, aware that as happy as she would be to simply start talking shop, she does have other things to do and places to be. So she seats herself on a broad coil of rope nearby and says, “First, an’ prob’ly simplest - we’ve made contact wi’ the Briarbirds in the city. They’re sore underarmed, an whilst we’ve some other ideas on how to get them the supplies they need, ‘twould be a great help if ye’d write a letter to your steward or seneschal or whatnot directin ‘em to order new gear for your house guards - savin’ that that gear would then go toward the Briarbirds.” She frowns slightly. “Suppose how obvious that supplyin’ to the Briarbirds be would ‘pend ‘pon how loyal your Housefolk are to the Inquisition an’ the Church. If need be we can pose as one of your House guards on pickin’ up the supplies to steal it or stage a ‘robbery’ on the way, so’s your Housefolk’d be none the wiser.”

“Second.” She shifts again, her eyes sliding to the side uncomfortably. Doing it had been – fine, actually, the second thoughts held in abeyance by the rapid-fire sequence of events. Writing it down had been strange. Actually saying it aloud feels, somehow, as though it would make it real, a true thing no take-backs - as though the documents and actions themselves hadn’t done that just fine.

Besides, as occurs to her in this half-breath, there are always other take-backs. A deed of sale is just a piece of paper that could be drawn up again - and this time even above-board, with no threats behind it.

“I’ve come into possession of the Spindlemark Theater. ‘Tis a fearful dangerous thing we plan to do i’ the next grasp or two, though, an nae guarantee that I’ll survive. Your house, though, an’ your family line - e’en if ye fall, ‘twill continue on. An’ your family was always a supporter of the theater.” Her voice shades ironic at this. It wouldn’t surprise her if the box seats the Blackwoods and Sylases were entitled to as part of their donations had, more than once, served as a trysting spot for the Inquisitors.

An’ yet, all that time, an’ he never callt for Mum there. Nor me.

Pulling herself back to the present, she continues, “If’n I die, would ye object to ma grantin’ the place to ye, or whoever might be your heir, an ye do your best to keep the place up an the crew an troupe on?”

Carter
As Sav seats herself, turning the conversation to battleplans, Carter sits as well. She makes a small show of settling on the crate - conspicuously adjusting the lie of her skirt over her leg and the fall of her hair over her shoulder. At Sav’s request for gear, Carter makes a sound that is pleasant, but noncommittal, and before she can respond, Sav has moved on again, talking now about the Spindlemark Theater.

“Came into possession of the Spindlemark?” Carter echoes, bemused. She raises sharp brows, and looks at Sav, “is this part of the larger plan, or are you just…newly a patron of the arts?”

Sav
She looks distinctly embarrassed, shifting on her rope seat and tucking her hands up across her ribs, shoulders hunching. “Naught to do with the plan. Sommat of an, ehm, unintentional consequence of findin out some hings.” She takes a deep breath. It’s in the report in her jacket so they’ll all know eventually - why is it so hard to say?

Oh. Right. That was why she’d written it rather than having to say it in front of everyone on deck.

It’s just one person, now, though. That’s got to be easier, right? She steels herself and blurts out, “Sylaswasmadabutbecausehe’sanInquisitorhewouldnaeacknowledgeafamilysohesentmoneytoReisatthetheaterasa’donation’butactuallysupposedtosupportmeanmymumbutReisjuststoleallthemoneyanIfoundthatoutandingettinthatmoneybackfromhimweendedupgettingthetheater.”

She lurches to a halt, staring at Carter, eyes wide to see how she’d take it.

After a few breaths looking at Carter’s politely attentive but blank expression, she realizes that it had been far too fast and far too mumbled - and with how people sometimes had a difficult time understanding her voice, likely incomprehensible.

Flushing, she says, more slowly, “Sylas Remnant told me he had memories that told him Adelard Sylas was my da, but said something about stipends, which wasnae correct - we ne’er had two coppers tae rub together, though my mum did her best. After she died, I stayed at the Spindlemark an’ worked there as a sweeplass and stagehand, but after a few years Reis Auldaran, one of the stage managers, accused me of stealin from the donation funds an’ I got booted.

“True story is, all that time Adelard was sendin gold to Reis to be gi’en to my mum, an later me, but we ne’er saw a glimmerin of it. I sneaked into Reis’ house - right fancy, much better than he could’ve had on a manager’s wage, an better than he’d had when I knew him - an found letters from the Inquisitor, talkin about a ‘Safrid’ an ‘tutors’ an commendin Reis on trips an sich he supposedly took me on, e’en after I was gone an away.” She snorts, an inelegant blat through slightly congested passages.

“Then I looked through the accountin books of the theater, an found the tracks of the stealin - numbers that didnae add up here or there, columns that got rewritten wrong, an all. E’en later I found the other half of the letters in Adelard’s house.

“I wasnae aimin to do much with that - eh, mayhap collectin proof an seein what ye knew of the justice system an what magistrates might be bribable - or opposite, less bribable an more like to see the plain breakin of contract Reis had done. Figured takin awae the stuff he’d stolen would hurt more than just killin’ him could, an do more good on top, wi’ what I could do wi that gold. But it could ha’ been dealt with after the Baroness, when they might be friendlier or at least there might be less reason to keep secrecy. Or I might be deid an it’d all be moot anyhow. But then ye all disappeared–” She flushes again, remembering the days of worry, the sick panic gurgling in her throat, and shakes her head. “An to rebuild e’en a tatter of our plans, we needed a lot of gold.

“So Ethan came up wi’ a plan to wring the mannie out of his stolen gains. Worked all right, save the bit where he didnae want to give up all the money an expected us to be satisfied with a sixth of the whole. Tell true, might ha’ been enough anyway, but Ethan disagreed, so we scairt off Reis’ bully-boys an forced him to sign over the theater an his house to us.” She swallows. “Well, me.”

She pulls her hands from their folded position and spreads them. “So. Got a theater, an no idea what to do wi’ it, now or after. All I know is that I dinnae want it to fall into the hands of those who’d simply see it dismantled or would treat its crew poorly. An if ye havnae guessed, mosta those I know have as little future an experience managin hings like that as me.”

Carter
Carter leans forward on her crate and studies Sav for a moment. She’s younger than Carter initially assumed - Carter can see this now. Watching the color spread over the girl’s face, watching her shrink into herself…Sav seems, for the first time since Carter has known her, to be unsure. To be young. A girl who had to rely wholly on herself for so long.

The wind picks up, stirring Sav’s hair, sending wisps of blonde across her face, the severity of the blunt cut softened by the movement.

“Adelard Sylas was your father?” says Carter, at last.

The color on Sav’s cheeks confirms the question, and Carter continues before Sav can respond.

“Well, the man has good taste, in looks at least,” Carter says, with an approving nod, “Presuming you look like your mother.”

Carter feigns a melodramatic sigh before continuing. “And we know he found Holland attractive, and that was certainly not because of my brother’s lovely personality,” Carter pauses a beat, and grins, “It’s the old Blackwood family tradition of being attractive enough to make up for it.

“I’ve been thinking about that sort of thing. Family traditions and inheritances and the responsibility of it all,” she shrugs, looking politely away from Sav, giving the girl a moment to compose herself. “There’s a lot of things I can do now, as Baric,” Carter says. “I could order new arms for my household guard - it wouldn’t seem strange to update and change the livery from the things my father and brother selected.

“It’s a gamble, though,” says Carter, “I don’t know if news has even traveled of Holland’s death.” Carter gestures toward Sav. Her fingertips are stained dark from the mediocre tobacco and she can smell the smoke - sour and acrid - settling into her hair and clothes.

“Presuming Ethan and Warbler didn’t stop by my townhouse and inform my staff, that is,” she adds, “and I don’t think they did - I’m certain Mrs. Miller would have given them my correspondence, and I do expect an invite to this wedding.”

Carter is silent for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice has lost its ironic tone.

“Why do you want me to look after the Spindlemark?” Carter asks, “Why not Ethan? Or Astarael? You know. Someone who you can trust.”

Sav
Her mouth sags for a moment at the off-handed compliment, the red in her face left unabated.

Fortunately, it seems to need no addressing as Carter moves on, so she snaps her teeth together with an audible click and returns to her previous position, arms folded in around herself, looking not dissimilar to a wet owl-Aloysius in her posture.

She neither confirms nor denies whether the boys stopped by the townhouse, though perhaps her silence is denial enough. Instead, she says, “Isnae it the case that ye were runnin the place while your brother was awae doin Church business? Whether or no the news has reached the city, would it be strange for ye to be the one to make these orders?”

She chews her lip a little at the idea of an invitation to the wedding. “If ‘tis so, ‘twould be risky for ye to go as yourself - especially gi’en that the Baroness must know as that he’s deid, as he hasnae returned - but I’m uncertain if there’s aught to link ye to the Briarbirds or to us, so it might be worth the risk.” Her face falls. “Ach, nay. The prison in Pashat, I near forgot.” It feels like years ago, not merely two grasps. Less than a grasp, for the folk on the ship.

At the last question, she falls silent, longer than Carter had just a moment ago, brow furrowed and face reddening anew for reasons unclear. She gazes off the side of the ship, toward the shape of Galoring in the distance, sprawling across the shoreline - hunched, crooked, rising tall and squatting low, its edges spilling into the lake and loping southward unseen on the other side of the horizon, a haze of smoke from cook-fires and forges and a myriad other trades lingering lowly among the rooftops. “Ye’re the only one wi’ a…” She gropes after a word, and comes up with, “…a groundin. Not just your family - though that’s a big part of it. I reckon ye have someone, some cousin or aunt or summat, to carry on after ye, e’en should all of us die.” Her brows twitch a little and she adds, “I suppose Ethan’s sister could ha also been a possibility, but I don’t know her an’ ‘tis a bad idea tae make contact anyway.

“More’n that, though, none of the rest of them have any roots here, an most ha plenty of reasons to not stick around after our main business here is done wi. ‘Star’s got her Morathi hings, an Talith wi’ her or his own family bits to deal wi, where’er she be. Ethan could probably run it, an’ I do reckon he’s most like to survive all this, but he’s no real reason to stay here if most of his friends end up leavin - an where’er Danica’s road leads, I dinnae reckon ‘twill end in Galoring. Athelia’d be great, but she seems a wanderin’ soul wi her own mission, an she already has the Tide’s Song. Ringo’s no a city mouse an I wouldnae ask it of him. Sylas…” She grapples with the image of Sylas trying to run a place full of actors, dealing with customers and accounting, and can’t hold back a bark of laughter. Then she remembers he may well already be lost, and the smile drops.

“But ye. Ye ha experience already runnin hings. Ye’re born to Galoring an Isendel. Seems the most natural fit for ye.” Sav shrugs. It seems as simple as that, for her.

Carter
Carter is nodding by the time Sav finishes her explanation. “Of course I’ll take care of the Spindlemark,” she says. “I love the place.”

Carter smiles. “My father and I - we used to go together.” She continues speaking as she briefly abandons even the pretense of decorum, awkwardly sweeping her skirt aside and retrieving the fallen snuffbox. Her fingers are shaking, but the feel of the box in her hand steadies her. “Holland was so much older and already focused on his studies,” she hesitates, opening the snuffbox and wrinkling her nose at the contents. “That’s not to say I wanted Holland there. I really valued that time, when my father wasn’t busy with the Estate and we could spend the day in the city together.

“And you’re right, I have been running much of the Estate already, these past several years.”

Carter snaps her fingers, igniting the end of what passed for a cigarello amongst the rebels. She takes a drag, but holds the smoke away from herself as she speaks, trying to keep the scent downwind.

“I don’t really know how to explain it,” Carter says, “but while Holland was alive and out there somewhere,” she gestures, indicating the wider world with a flick of her hand, “it didn’t matter what I did. Not really. I could afford to be…freer. I could take risks that Holland couldn’t, because I wasn’t actually important.

“Holland was loyal enough for both of us. And he was the heir, and then after our father died—” Carter’s voice catches, and she clears her throat. “Even this. The rebellion.

“When we were in prison in Pashat - Sylas, Athelia, Warbler and I - I wasn’t even frightened. If Holland had shown up there, he’d have had me sent home and put under guard. But now that he’s dead, I worry…”

Carter glances at Sav, trying to read her expression, but the wind makes it impossible.

“I don’t want my people to be punished, if I fail,” Carter says, at last. “I’ve been trying to plan contingencies, myself - there’s obviously no heir, yet, and who knows if there will ever be one, half elf birthrates being what they are. When the Blackwood line dies out - if I die - the estate would go back to the crown, and I don’t imagine Tyr Isendel will be sympathetic toward my smallfolk.”

Carter takes another long pull of the cigarello, steadier now that her hands are busy.

“You should do it,” says Carter, with a nod to Sav. “Not if I die, necessarily, but if we lose.” She pauses, tapping the ash from the cigarello. “Someone needs to get to the Estate and dissolve it, before the Swans reach it. Sell everything you can, and distribute it to my smallfolk and for the light of the Torch, warn them to flee…”

She lets out a sigh and looks levelly at Sav. “A fair trade, I think - If you die, I’ll take care of the theatre. If I die, you’ll see to my people.”

Carter’s face breaks into a smile, and she extends a hand. “Of course, if we win I need you to help me build New Isendel.

“What do you say?”

Sav
She nods, slowly, understanding at least a little. Sav had, of course, actually been thoroughly unimportant, and thus overlooked and - outside of her time with the Two Shoes - never responsible for anyone else’s well-being. Until she became enmeshed in this tangle of witches, her workings forming trusses and pillars that they depended upon to carry out their plans, to the degree that she could no longer feel easy risking herself on ventures like the Feywild, however innocent the people lost there. Until she’d taken the Spindlemark Theater from a man who, while a venal thief, had kept it afloat in the seven or eight years since she’d last seen it.

“An if we both die?” Sav grimaces. She hadn’t realized estates and families reverted to the Crown in the absence of an official heir, or that Carter didn’t have a larger family (isn’t that supposed to be a thing? Sprawling aunts and uncles and cousins all champing at the bit for a chance to take over? Maybe that was more a human thing, or maybe just a thing of the dramas). The Spindlemark going to Tyr Isendel in the event of both their deaths seems the worst possible outcome.

Well, perhaps there would be a way to get around that. Something like a will where, if she or Carter didn’t return in a Turn, it would go to one of the crew - Margret perhaps, if she’s still there - she had a diplomatic bent and her wife had a steady head.

Slowly, though, she nods. “A heavy duty,” she says. “I assume ye’ll arrange it so’s they’d heed me in that event, should I need to do so.”

She inspects the hand, her gaze running up the arm to Carter’s face, before she spits in her palm and claps it against Carter’s. “Ye really—” She shakes. “—really needtae come up wi a better term for your commonfolk an’ servants than smallfolk.’”

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A Heavy Duty