Points of Departure
Points of Departure
The air was bitter cold.
Or perhaps it was just his mood of late.
Turnus Rutulus stood on the docking pad, swathed in a blue cloak with a bearskin collar that tickled at his neck. Behind him, an airship waited to carry him north to Atlas.
North. Atlas. Not too long ago, he would have rejoiced to have been setting off upon this journey. This had been his plan, his cause, his dream: to revive the old alliance between the north and the east, the grand alliance that had made Remnant tremble during the Great War, to reforge the bonds that had been allowed to weaken during the era of peace and together set forth in arms across the sea to Sanus once again. Mistralian valour, harnessed to Atlesian technology, would sweep aside all opposition in the wild lands east of the mountains, expanding Mistral’s territory to encompass all that for which the Great War had been fought. The stain of defeat would be wiped clean, honour long tarnished would be satisfied once more, and many hardy barbarians would be brought under Mistralian rule to strengthen their arms and fill their ranks. Because that conquest had been but the start of his ambitions. He would have seen the glory of Mistral reborn, this ancient kingdom roused from its decrepitude to renew itself along the lines of its northern neighbour, with an army built on the Atlesian model raised from amongst the bandits who had taken the Council’s pardon and from amongst their new subjects in the west.
Turnus admired Atlas; he had been formed more by the years that he had spent there than by any other time in his life. He admired their discipline, their order, their lack of sentimental weakness, all things which he had believed Mistral could learn from the northmen.
Gross hypocrisy, of course. He was as sentimental a man as any in Mistral, and just as weakened by his sentiment.
As he had discovered, when the walls came down around his ears.
This should have been a good day. A great day. This should have been the first step upon the road that would make him King of Mistral. At the very least, he should have been able to take pride in the honour done to him by the Council, to be their envoy to Atlas, to put their case before the great men of the north kingdom, to have charge of that which he had dreamed of.
Today was not a good day. Today, he tasted no fruits of triumph but only bitter ashes, and all the ambitions that he had once held seemed to mock him.
He had been a fool.
He had been the greatest fool in Mistral, a city not short of well-born fools who counted the names of their ancestors dearer than the names of their sons.
He had thought himself so much better than them, so much wiser, so much more clear-sighted and more far-sighted, able to see what they could not: that Mistral was dying and in urgent need of change, that things could not go on as they were, that their once-mighty empire was becoming a mere tourist attraction.
He had thought himself so wise, so great, so grand that he had presumed to dream on sovereignty, fancying himself the man best suited to lead Mistral into a new golden age.
And yet, he had been the greatest fool of all.
He had let his ambitions and desires blind him to so much, blind him to what really mattered… until it was too late.
He had been so preoccupied with his pursuit of Pyrrha, brooding upon her rejection of him, that he had completely overlooked the far more lustrous gem by his side, as she always had been.
And in his ambition, in his lust for power, he had invited evil into his house, forgetting that ten thousand crowns were not as much as his family.
Forgetting… until it was too late.
Now the life of Juturna, his beloved little sister, lay in the hands of Doctor Watts and Chrysalis, servants of Salem, and since they held Juturna’s life in their hands, they thus held their hands around his throat. He was not the lord of the House of Rutulus now; he was a mere puppet to their will, and it was by their will and as their puppet that he set out for Atlas on this day when the air seemed so bitter cold.
He was not merely to speak of an alliance before the Council, but also to give messages to certain of Doctor Watts’ friends in Atlas, as though he were a mere errand boy.
So long as Juturna lived or died upon their kindness, he would be their errand boy, or anything else they asked of him.
They had him bound in a cage, one which he had fashioned by his own hand when he invited these villains into his home and let them get close to Juturna.
A cage from which he could not escape. A cage from which he might even be forced to hinder efforts to free him. Pyrrha Nikos knew of his plight, and for all that she had the right to turn her back on him in disgust, to punish him for his actions towards her, nevertheless, she had shown him a kindness that he scarcely deserved. She might, even now, be working against Salem’s agents within Mistral; doubtless she was, in some fashion, for she was sworn to oppose the designs of this Salem, whatever they might be. He wished her luck and every success, and yet, if it came to it, if Chrysalis and Doctor Watts commanded him to take up arms against her, then… then he would do it. Because the alternative was to condemn his sister to a slow death, and that… that he did not have it in him to do.
I am too much a man of Mistral in the end; I am a very poor Atlesian; in fact, I am no Atlesian at all. In the north, I daresay they would not hesitate to sacrifice their sisters to the greater good of Atlas, but I cannot.
He did not come by that conclusion idly. During his time working for the SDC, he had been given the opportunity to observe the great Jacques Schnee, that titan of Atlesian prosperity, and there was not a doubt in Turnus’ mind that that great man would never let his family stand in the way of doing what was best for Atlas.
Unfortunately, Turnus did not have such strength in him. He cared too much, for Juturna and Camilla both, and for their sakes, he would bring down all of Mistral if that was what his new master and mistress commanded.
He would sooner cut out their hearts and roast them on an open fire, but vague dreams of revenge would not keep Juturna alive.
Ambition, after all, had gotten him into this mess.
He would go, and he would do as he had been instructed, and he would not say another word, not to General Ironwood nor any of the other Councillors nor anyone else.
He would trust to Pyrrha for his salvation and not dare do anything in Atlas that might reach the ears of Doctor Watts and bring his wrath down on Juturna.
I have been a fool, but I will be wiser now. I will be quiet and obedient, and I will be the best and meekest servant that they have ever known until Juturna is safe or… until Juturna is safe.
Then… I cannot let myself think of then. I dare not dream too far, not now. There is too much at stake for that.
A crowd had gathered at the edge of the docking pad to see him off: the captains and the Councillors, and beyond them, the lords and burghers and the ordinary folk of Mistral, curious and uncertain as to his mission.
They knew where he was going, of course – it was well known that he left for Atlas to seek aid for embattled Mistral – but what was not so well known was what was intended of that aid once it had been secured.
The last time Mistral and the north had joined in sacred alliance, they had brought war to Remnant on a scale unseen before or since. Now, things were uncertain enough that it no longer seemed ridiculous that such a thing could occur again.
Mistral had come to watch him set out for the north, wary of what he would bring back with him.
Turnus watched them all, his gaze flying over those who had come to see him leave, and cursed himself that it was only when he himself was full of fears and misgivings that he could recognise the fears and misgivings of others. Even if he had been setting out in happier times, the mood of those watching him go would have been just as wary of his quest. It was only now that he could recognise their mood because it seemed more the mirror of his own.
Pyrrha was right; with their existing territory embattled by the grimm and by bandits, it had been foolish to dream of expansion and further conquest, and downright criminal to think that he could climb to the throne by hamstringing the defence of the lands which they already held.
I should have defended the kingdom to win the throne, not left it defenceless. If I had stepped forward, would they have hailed me in the streets as they hail Pyrrha?
Perhaps, for I would have shown myself worthy to be so acclaimed.
Ah, well. Too late for that now. Too late for aught but regrets.
Regrets. At least I have plenty of those to keep me company upon my flight.
The airship was waiting for him. He would fly to Atlas aboard an air yacht, the Jade Princess, which he had chartered for the purpose. It was a sleek vessel, fashioned like a sailing ship, with wood panelled over the sweeping lines of the curved hull and unnecessary sails and mast rising above it for no reason but decoration. Wings fore and aft of the open boarding hatch on the side of the hull waited to lift the vessel into the air, while within, a fully furnished cabin, galley, and every luxury and comfort for an air voyage waited to receive him. The upper deck was open, in case he wished to walk amongst the clouds, while only the presence of a main gun forward in a barbette mounting and a modest battery of three guns apiece port and starboard upon the deck showed that this might not be an entirely pleasant voyage.
It was for that reason that the crew of eight men had been augmented by a further ten of his own troopers of Rutulian Security. Not his best ten men – those remained behind, with Camilla – but his second best ten men, to be sure.
If he did not reach Atlas, then he did not trust Chrysalis or Doctor Watts to be merciful simply because he had been killed by pirates or by grimm.
The airship reminded him a little of the Tiger Bright, his father’s yacht; Turnus’ father had bought the vessel – or rather, had had it built precisely to his specifications – to take his lady mother on their honeymoon, and afterwards, they had used it many times for vacations. His father had not been a man for grand ceremony and ostentatious display; not for him the finest hotels in Anima, no, nothing had pleased him better than to take the Tiger Bright to Kaledonia, or Thrace, or sometimes even across the sea to Solitas or Vale, to set her down in some quiet, secluded spot and spend the time immersed in nature, just the four of them: Father, Turnus, Juturna, and Camilla. It had been like camping, but comfortable. Some of his happiest memories were bound up with the tiger-striped yacht: his father puttering around in the galley, a lord of Mistral cooking for his own children, or else them making a fire outside as if they really were on a camping trip; hunting deer in the woods of Thrace; fishing on the coast of Kaledon.
That was why he had sold the yacht after his father died; it had too many memories for him to keep it.
He wondered how he looked, standing here upon the docking pad, lingering while Mistral waited for him to depart. He knew what he looked like; he could control that with his semblance; it could make him seem larger and mightier than he was, or smaller and weaker. It was the latter guise that he put on now; all those who watched him saw a wan, slight youth, pitiable in his weakness. Like the chill of the air, it matched his mood.
They were waiting for him, but he could not go just yet.
He had bidden farewell to Camilla and Juturna twice already, once inside his house and once at the gate of the estate, but now, he walked towards them to bid farewell a third time. They stood amongst the forefront of those gathered to see him off; Camilla stood with one arm wrapped tightly around Juturna’s shoulders, while Juturna had said shoulders hunched and her head bowed ever so slightly. Doctor Watts had provided some medicine for his own disease, enough to keep the worst effects at bay, but nevertheless, Juturna looked paler than normal, and she shivered despite the heavy blue coat in which she’d wrapped herself.
Turnus walked towards them both, ignoring all others, his eyes only upon the two of them, those whom he had realised far too late meant everything to him.
Camilla looked a little surprised to see him approach, although she let only that slight shock show upon her fair face. A part of him, and the fact that it was the same part which reproached him most bitterly for all his prior mistakes made him wonder if he ought to pay more attention to it, told him that it was a mistake not to have married her before he left, in case this dance upon the daggers in which he found himself claimed his life. If he died, then as the Lady Rutulus, she would have a life interest in his estate, its lands and incomes; she would be provided for beyond all want or need.
And if he did not die, then she would be his, to have and hold and love beyond all doubt.
But it would have been a hasty marriage, thrown together slapdash like two children joining hands in defiance of their parents, flying from Mistralian law to wed in secret. Turnus did not wish that. Camilla meant too much to him, and for that reason, she did not even wear his mother’s ring upon her finger. They would announce their engagement in happier times, when the clouds had been banished from the sky, and they might celebrate with the most lavish party that had ever been seen in Mistral since the Great War and have the grandest wedding the city had beheld in all that time besides.
And if he perished before that happy day arrived, well… he had made a will before he set out, and lodged it with the Holy Virgins: he named Camilla as Juturna’s guardian, with absolute power to order the estate as she would upon his sister’s behalf, and she inherited Rutulian Security entire in her own right. She would be financially secure, and she would protect Juturna, he had no doubt.
He reached them both and found that… he knew not what to say.
Instead, it was Camilla who spoke. “Return soon,” she begged. “And return safe.”
Turnus reached out, one hand emerging from out of his cloak, to take her hand and raise it to his lips. “I will do my utmost to oblige you, in this… and in all other things hereafter.”
Juturna broke free of Camilla’s grasp and flung her arms around him, her whole body trembling as he clung to him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m so, so sorry. I… I’ve ruined everything haven’t I?”
“No,” Turnus declared firmly, fiercely, as he bent down and kissed her upon the forehead, wrapping arm around his little sister in turn. “No, Juturna, this is not your fault. As I am your brother and your lord, the fault is mine. The fault is always mine.” He should have told Juturna to leave off politics and planning, for she had no head for it. He should have told Chrysalis and Doctor Watts to get themselves gone from his door and fie on any promises made by his little sister to their mistress. He should have left Lionheart to the mercy of fortune. He should have… he should have protected his family. He should have understood his father better.
“Protect her,” he whispered to Camilla.
“Until the moon is whole again,” Camilla declared, and then she stepped forward, throwing her arms around them both, and kissed him full upon the lips in spite of all those watching.
Turnus managed to smile. “The memory of that kiss will warm me, even in the heart of Solitas.”
Camilla smiled, though it was a smile touched by melancholy like a flower caught in a sudden frost, fitting for their situation.
Gods of Mistral, if there is any mercy in your heart, then let the summer come again for us; let me see them smile in joy once more. Let me see my son grow tall and laugh that he is blind to the affection of she who loves him best. Let us live in love and happiness.
Have mercy, I beg, upon my follies.
Turnus felt his eyes begin to fill with tears as he stepped back from them. He said not a word to anyone else, not to the Steward or to the Lady Terri-Belle, the Warden of the White Tower, nor even to Pyrrha Nikos upon whom all the hopes of Mistral rested. But, as he turned away, he caught Pyrrha’s eyes. Her expression was grim, as well it might be in the circumstances, and yet as he looked at her, she planted her fist over her heart and bowed to him, halfway from the waist.
Turnus returned the gesture, touching his chest with his own fist and bowing in turn.
He reached the airship. Perhaps he ought to have made a speech before he set off on his grand adventure, but there were no words; he could not conjure for the crowd with hope that was extinguished in his own heart. And so he leapt aboard, his cloak billowing about him a little, and to the captain, he murmured, “Cast off, as swiftly as you may, but… leave the doors open, for a while at least.”
He stood at the doorway as the engines whirred and hummed and the wings of the yacht began to beat and the crew moved up and down behind him at their tasks. He stayed behind, at the doorway, one hand upon the hull, his eyes fixed upon Camilla and Juturna as he was borne aloft and far away.
Away from them.
“Can you still see him?” Juturna asked.
“I can see the ship,” Camilla replied. “But not Turnus; they have shut the door.”
Juturna nodded. “Tell me when you can’t see the ship any more.”
“I shall,” Camilla said softly.
They were alone on the docking pad now; all others had departed. As well they might, for Turnus was gone, and there was nothing more to see. Except for Camilla; her semblance gave her far-sight; when she chose, she could see further and more keenly than any other eyes in Mistral. It was why she was such a good shot. And it was she and Juturna lingered here alone, because she could yet see Turnus, and neither of them wished to go until she could no longer do so.
“Turnus was wrong,” Juturna murmured. “It isn’t his fault; it’s mine.”
Camilla hugged Juturna tighter still. “It matters not whose fault it was,” she insisted. She was inclined to blame herself; she had known, she had felt in her gut that these envoys of Salem meant no good, and yet, she had done nothing to protect the only family she had in the world. Turnus’ father had rescued her from bondage, given her a home, treated her as his own daughter, and she had repaid his memory with lax watch and carelessness. She ought to have slit the throats of Doctor Watts and Chrysalis – and Lionheart, too – while they slept and trusted that Turnus loved her well enough to forgive her for it.
I slaughtered my way through the underworld of this city to avenge Lord Rutulus when he died; why did I not slaughter to protect those who yet lived?
Too late now. All she could do was wait and watch as Turnus’ airship passed further and further away, until it was lost to mortal sight, even hers.
Come back, my love.
The cheerful jazz music coming from the band on stage could not disguise the fact that this cantina was a hive of scum and villainy. Men and women so hairy that they seemed like animals, covered in grime and tattoos, drank and laughed and accompanied their growls of anger with shows of guns or knives, or else they passed lien to scantily clad companions for the promise of a little pleasure. Humans and faunus of every kind mingled here, and it was quite honestly not a place where Pyrrha would have been seen dead, nor wished to go in any case.
She was here now covered in a dark grey cloak, dressed in some of Jaune’s old and rather threadbare clothes, his hoodie and jeans, while a scarf was wrapped around her face to further hide her identity from the world. She was not worried about trouble – she was confident that she could fight her way through any of these low lifes – and though she had some concern for reputation and what people might think of her going to a place like this, her main concern was that no word of it should reach Salem’s agents in the city. If they knew that she was sending an envoy of her own to Atlas, they might try to interfere in that, and it might lead to trouble for Turnus if they found out that he had informed her of the need to send an envoy of her own to Atlas.
They had had no contact since that night. Pyrrha could hardly blame him for that; with Juturna’s life at stake, he could not afford to take any risks, and besides, he had done enough. She knew who her enemies were, even if she couldn’t prove it.
The fact that she couldn’t prove it rankled with her somewhat, not least because she didn’t understand it. She had passed the information about Lady Ming’s death to Terri-Belle, via her sister Swift Foot, and yet…
And yet, according to Terri-Belle, Lady Ming remained very much alive. They had done tests to prove it.
Since then, she had dismissed Arslan’s gladiator friend as the captain of her company and appointed a faunus named Pharynx, as well as greatly strengthening her numbers, but more importantly, she remained firmly ensconced upon the Council because she was, apparently, still the same Lady Ming who had been elected to that august body.
She might still be Lady Ming for all that Pyrrha knew, and not this Chrysalis at all. Perhaps they were working together. That might honestly be worse.
It did not change what she had to do.
It did not change what she had to ask of her mother.
Someone had to go to Atlas and plead their case for help; she couldn’t do this on her own, not with Salem’s agents in the city and burrowing into its power structures. She needed help, she needed advice, she needed… she needed anything that they could give her.
But with the CCT down, that meant first going to Atlas to ask for it, and since Pyrrha could neither go herself nor send Jaune from her side, that meant that she was sending her mother, who would – with good fortune – be able to convince General Ironwood of their need.
Which meant finding a ship to take her mother to Atlas safely and in secret; she could not simply charter a yacht as Turnus had done without raising a lot of awkward questions as to why she was sending her mother north. It was not as though anyone would believe that Lady Nikos had decided to take a vacation in Solitas at a time like this.
To add to the question of Salem’s agents in the city was the problem that so many, the Lord Steward amongst them, still did not trust Pyrrha’s motives. Pyrrha had formed the Myrmidons and led them out to battle for no other reason than because someone had to protect the settlements from the grimm attracted to the fear and disorder and the bandits who sought to profit from the convulsions of the state, but – and woe unto Mistral that it was so – there were so many who could see no further than their own self-interest that they thought she was defending the kingdom only to possess it and who feared for their own positions in consequence.
They would hardly believe that their fears were groundless if she were known to be publicly sending her own ambassadors to other kingdoms.
It was not a step she would have taken – she had not taken it, for several months – save that their need now made it unavoidable.
And thus, she was here, in this dive, to meet with Ren and Nora who had, according to Ren’s text, found what they were looking for.
Jaune was by her side, wearing one of Ren’s dressing gowns over his hoodie and the hood up to hide his face. One hand drifted to Crocea Mors, which he wore at his hip. Pyrrha hoped that they didn’t have to use it.
She glanced around the bar, eventually catching sight of Ren and Nora approaching on either side of a tall avian faunus with a crest of red feathers instead of hair and an eyepatch covering one green eye. He was simply dressed, in a tight brown vest and green-brown pants, but he wore a cutlass at his hip and a brace of pistols shoved into his belt.
“This is Boyle,” Ren said, speaking softly – even more so than usual. “He’s the first mate on a ship that might suit us.”
Boyle nodded. “This way, I’ll introduce you to the cap’n.”
The captain was sitting alone at the private booth towards the back of the cantina; she, too, was an avian faunus, tall and slender and shapely, with dusky skin and vivid red eyes. Her hair was green and long, spilling out like waves down her back and on either side of her face, while a long tail of matching green feathers fell down to the floor between her legs. One of said legs was missing, replaced by a slender prosthetic that looked more like a peg than a foot and which had been painted the same vivid green as her hair and tailfeathers. She wore bronze armour over a dun brown coat, and a large tricorne hat with a long red feather in it sat upon the table in front of her.
So did a sword, a sabre, longer than the cutlass carried by her first mate. One of her arms rested against the wall, fingers picking at the peeling plaster, while the other was out of sight.
She watched them silently as Jaune and Pyrrha sat down, while Ren and Nora stood behind them, quiet and watchful.
The captain continued to sit silently, as her first mate sat down beside her and whispered something in her ear.
“My name’s Celaeno,” she announced. “I’m the captain of the Iridescent Rainbow; Boyle says that you’re looking for passage to Atlas.” She smirked. “I’d be honoured that you came to me if I knew who you were.”
Pyrrha hesitated. “'Honoured'?” she asked.
“You must be a pretty big deal,” Celaeno said. “You can afford to send your flunkies down here to check things out and only come yourself to close the deal. Hell, just having flunkies makes you a big deal around here.” She leaned forward. “But here’s the thing, Miss Big Deal; if you want to talk business with me, you’re going to need to show me your face. It’s nothing personal, but I find it’s easier to lie when nobody can see your lips moving.”
Pyrrha’s brow furrowed. “I would rather not-”
“Then we’re done,” Celaeno said. “Excuse me-”
“Wait,” Pyrrha said quickly. “Please, wait.” Yet still, she hesitated for another moment, before she pulled down the scarf that hid her lower face from sight.
Boyle muttered something under his breath. Celaeno’s red eyes widened. She mouthed Pyrrha’s name silently.
“Okay, I guess I really should be honoured,” Celaeno said. “Or terrified. Are things so bad around here that the Champion of Mistral wants to cut and run.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Pyrrha declared. “The passage to Mistral isn’t for me. But you can understand why I want to keep this quiet and confidential.”
Celaeno and Boyle exchanged a silent glance before Celaeno said, “I can understand that. So, if it’s not you going to Atlas then who is?”
“Two passengers,” Ren said. “And no questions asked.”
Celaeno smiled, a quiet chuckle rising out of her throat. “You do realise that just raises so many more questions, right? Starting with why the great Pyrrha Nikos is down in a dump like this looking to charter passage from someone like me?”
“Uh, you did hear the part where he said ‘no questions,’ right?” Nora said.
“Let’s just say that we’d like to keep this as quiet as possible,” Pyrrha murmured.
Celaeno stared at her for a moment. “Okay,” she said. “But it’ll cost you something extra.” She paused. “Twenty thousand, all in advance.”
“Twenty thousand!” Jaune gasped. “Twenty – we could buy our own ship for twenty thousand.”
“Yeah, but that wouldn’t be very quiet and confidential now, would it?” Captain Celaeno replied. “And besides, who’d fly that ship, kid? You?”
Jaune scowled, but did not reply.
Pyrrha felt as though they didn’t really have much choice; she was about to agree to the captain’s terms when Ren said, “We’ll pay you five thousand now, and twenty five once our passengers reach Atlas. And the same terms to bring them back again once their business is concluded.”
Celaeno’s eyebrows rose and her eyes widened. “'Sixty'?” she said. “Sixty thousand, round trip? Okay, you’ve got yourselves a ship. We’ll leave as soon as you're ready, docking bay ninety four.”
“Ninety four,” Pyrrha repeated. “Thank you, Captain; we’ll be there very soon.”
Boyle held his peace until their guests had departed; only when they were out of the cantina did he say anything. “Are you sure about this, Cap’n?”
“I’m sure this is shaping up to be the biggest payday we’ve had in a while,” Celaeno replied. “Sixty thousand. I mean, I know she’s got the lien, but even so, they must be desperate.”
“Yeah,” Boyle muttered. “That’s what worries me.”
Celaeno would have been lying if she said she didn’t know what he meant. Sixty thousand lien and no questions asked, this wasn’t just ferrying some little rich girl to Atlas for fashion week.
Whoever had gotten them onto her in the first place would have told them that Celaeno was a smuggler first and foremost; you didn’t go to someone like that unless you were involved in something pretty shady.
All the same… sixty thousand lien.
“We need this,” Celaeno said. “With sixty thousand lien, we can get out from under Li’l Miss Malachite. I’m telling you, Boyle, this is really going to save our necks.” She stood up, putting her hat on her head and thrusting her sword into her belt. “So let’s get the crew together and head back to the ship and get her ready to sail.” If they wanted to leave immediately, then they would get no argument from Celaeno.
The sooner they were gone from Mistral, in her opinion, the better. So she and Boyle rounded up the crew, from a bar even less salubrious than the cantina if you could believe it, and made their way to the docking pad where their beloved ship was waiting for them.
The Iridescent Rainbow was a beauty of a vessel, sleek and fast – very fast, when she was well handled – with lovely lines curling backwards from the prow shaped like a bird’s beak, and myriad colourful sails that looked like the plumage of a parrot spread out in a kind of crest above the hull. She relied on speed rather than firepower to get out of trouble, but with the two heavy guns mounted forward, she could take care of herself if she needed to.
Yes, sir, she was a lovely lady.
She was also, at this moment, surrounded by armed goons.
“Celaeno!” Li’l Miss Malachite yelled up at the silent ship. “Get down here and face me, Celaeno!”
“I’m right here, Mal,” Celaeno declared as she stepped into view from behind Miss Malachite’s thugs, spreading her hands out on either side of her to show she wasn’t reaching for a weapon. Her crew spread out behind her, even as Malachite’s people turned to face her, some of them taking aim at her and others just keeping their guns handy in case they had to aim at her. “Matter of fact, I’ve been waiting for you.”
That was a lie, and Li’l Miss Malachite seemed to know it too, because she put her hands on her hip and sounded distinctly sceptical as she said, “Oh, have you now?”
Celaeno smiled. “You didn’t think I was just going to run away without saying goodbye, did you?” she asked. That had, in fact, been the plan, and she was very disappointed that Malachite had seen it coming.
Li’l Miss Malachite sighed as her armed heavies closed in. “Celaeno, I am so disappointed in you. Ain’t I been like a mother to you?”
Celaeno glanced at Malachite’s actual daughters, standing on either side of her looking like they wanted nothing better than an excuse to carve Celaeno up. “I’m not ungrateful, Mal-”
“And yet this is how you repay me?” Li’l Miss Malachite demanded. “By not repaying me?” Malachite closed the distance separating her from Celaeno, reaching out to put one arm around her. “Now, you know I love you like my own daughters, but I can’t make exceptions in this business. What happens if all my smugglers decide to dump their cargo at the first sign of Atlesian cruisers?”
“Even I get boarded sometimes, Mal,” Celaeno insisted. “I didn’t have a choice; they came out of the clouds right on top of me; there was no getting away from them.”
“It ain’t good business,” Li’l Miss Malachite replied. “I’m still on the hook for my cargo, which you dropped in the ocean somewhere, and in the meantime, my guy in Atlas wants to know where his product is. There are some folks who say I oughtta have made a feather headdress out of you already, just to set an example.”
“Well, then I’m lucky that you love me like a daughter, aren’t I?” Celaeno replied. “Listen, I’ve got a nice, easy charter lined up; as soon as I get back, I can pay you everything I owe, plus a little extra.”
“You are lucky you're pretty,” Li’l Miss Malachite declared. “And even luckier that you’re the best pilot I’ve ever had. So, for an extra twenty-five percent-”
“Twenty,” Celaeno said. “Don’t push it.”
“I ain’t the one who’ll lose a hand if you try and push me again,” Malachite declared. “For an extra twenty-five percent, we can put this whole thing behind us.” Her eyes narrowed. “But if you disappoint me again, I’ll put a price on your head so big you won’t be able to set foot in Anima again.”
Celaeno forced herself to smile. “You’re the best boss anyone could ask for, Mal.”
“And don’t you know it,” Malachite replied. “Okay, pack it up everyone, let’s go.” She set off with her goons trailing after her. One of her daughters – Celaeno couldn’t keep them straight in her head, the one with the claws – paused as the armed thugs filed past, looking Celaeno in the eye.
“Until next time,” she said, a smirk on her face as sharp as her claws, before she rejoined her mother and sister and all the rest on the way out.
Celaeno clenched her fist and seriously contemplated staying in Atlas, for all that it was much harder to make a living there than it was here in Mistral.
“Cap’n,” Boyle began.
“Just get the ship ready,” Celaeno snapped.
Boyle winced. “Aye aye, Cap’n.”
As she, Jaune, Nora, and Ren – and now Sun and her mother as well – made their way to docking bay ninety four, Pyrrha was not blind to the fact that a stream of armed men and women, most of them sporting visible spider tattoos somewhere about their person, passed them by going the other way.
Nora hid herself from them, although if what Pyrrha had heard was true, then those criminals would be more likely to flee in terror than try and seek revenge. Regardless, she was glad that Nora had decided to avoid trouble with Pyrrha’s mother here, and a little concerned about what the Spider Gang had been going so close to the ship that she had chartered.
She very much hoped that it was a coincidence.
They arrived at the docking bay, and Pyrrha had to admit that the ship, the Iridescent Rainbow, was a sight to behold. Possibly too much of a sight to behold, given the importance of secrecy.
“Afternoon,” Captain Celaeno said as she swaggered down the boarding platform with her hat atop her head, its long plume trailing out behind her as her tail raised just off the floor. She gestured to Sun, who was dressed as he always was, and to Lady Nikos, who was wearing an all-encompassing black dress, a mourning dress which Pyrrha remembered her wearing after Father died; it was probably the least conspicuous thing she owned.
“Are these our passengers?” Celaeno asked.
“We are,” Lady Nikos declared stiffly.
“Then greetings!” Captain Celaeno declared, sweeping her hat off her head as she bowed. “My name is Celaeno, captain of this ship, and I’ll be responsible for your safe journey. If you’d like to get on board, then we’ll be underway right away.”
“Just one moment please, Captain,” Pyrrha said. “I saw rather a lot of armed people heading away from here just now.”
Celaeno grinned. “No questions asked, Lady Pyrrha.”
Pyrrha flushed, but stood her ground regardless. “This… this is my mother,” she declared. “If you do not bring her back safe and sound-”
“Then it will be because of your business, not my negligence,” Celaeno declared. “I’m not in the habit of letting my clients down.”
Pyrrha paused for a moment. This was not the sort of woman she would ordinarily have trusted, and yet, in the circumstances, she had no choice but to trust. “Very well, Captain. If you will give me just one moment with my mother?”
“I’ll see you on board, Lady N!” Sun said cheerfully as he carried the luggage – two suitcases for Lady Nikos and a rucksack upon his back for Sun himself – up the ramp and aboard ship.
Pyrrha turned back to face her mother, reaching out to take her by the hands. “I feel… as though I should not be doing this. I feel as though I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in this.”
“I feel as though this dialogue should be reversed,” Lady Nikos observed dryly. “What a topsy turvy world we live in now, when my daughter should be fearful to involve her mother in affairs on which the fates of kingdoms hang.”
“It is the nature of the secrets which we hold, I fear,” Pyrrha murmured. “You do not have to go.”
“Then you do not have to fight for Mistral in the field against its enemies,” Lady Nikos said.
“I must,” Pyrrha declared. “You know I must, if-”
“And I must do my part also, however small a part it may be,” Lady Nikos said. “I am too weak to fight, but not yet to speak, thank the gods, and if with words, I can do as much for you as many Myrmidon swords, then I will count myself very well pleased.”
Pyrrha nodded. “For so long,” she confessed, “I thought… I feared that I was utterly unlike you. I feared that Sunset was so much more like you than I was, so much more the daughter you wished for than I. But it seems, at last, that we are at least well-matched in our sense of duty.”
“Indeed,” Lady Nikos said quietly. “I, too, thought and feared, I must confess, that you were… I should have spent less time thinking on the daughter I wished to have and recognised sooner the quality of the daughter that had been given to me.”
Pyrrha blinked rapidly, a feeling of embarrassment mingling with inappropriate joy in her chest. Her eyes stung a little with the beginnings of tears. “Mother, I-”
“I have always known that I gave strength to Mistral when I brought you into the world,” Lady Nikos declared. “And now I know that I could not have given it a finer gift. Mister Arc!”
“Yes, my lady?”
“I charge you to give my daughter the wisest of counsel in my absence,” Lady Nikos commanded. “You are her staff, Mister Arc; I trust you have the strength for it.”
Jaune smiled, at Pyrrha and her mother both, as he bowed his head. “I will not break, nor bend, my lady. I give you my word.”
“Then I am content,” Lady Nikos declared. “And I should not keep Mister Wukong or our good captain waiting.” Yet still she took pause a moment, before she said to Pyrrha, “'Always be the best, the bravest-'”
“'And hold my head up above all others'?” Pyrrha suggested, finishing the quotation.
Lady Nikos smiled thinly. “That was never your preference, was it? And in these times, perilous as they are, the holding of your own head is of less import, but I fear Mistral cannot endure without you at your best and bravest. And so: fight well and be superior to all your foes. And now I really must go. Farewell, my daughter, farewell, Mister Arc. Goodbye, Mister Ren and Miss Valkyrie, and thank you for the aid you have given Pyrrha these last months.”
Ren bowed. “It has been our honour, my lady.”
“Good fortune be your companion, Mother,” Pyrrha murmured. “And your guide.”
Lady Nikos had cited the impeccable authority of the Mistraliad to her, altering it just a little to account for their situation, but as she watched her mother board the Iridescent Rainbow, Pyrrha felt another quote come to her mind.
Be strong, saith my heart, I am a warrior,
I have seen sights far worse than this.
And yet those words brought her no comfort. They did not ease the aching in her heart, nor banish away the sense that it was in some way perverse for the daughter to send the mother away into peril, casting her from a place of safety into the mouth of grave and desperate struggle.
As the airship rose into the sky, Pyrrha felt someone take her hand and knew that it was Jaune.
“She’ll be fine,” Jaune assured her. “And I’m not just saying that; I really believe it.”
“Why?” Pyrrha asked, wanting to believe it too.
“Because it’s Atlas,” Jaune said. “I’m not sure there’s anywhere safer to be, with Remnant as it is now.”
He made a very good point. Atlas was safe; in fact, it was probably a good deal safer than Mistral, what with Mistral having Salem’s forces in the city and Atlas having its fleets and armies to defend it. And yet, even knowing that, her heart fretted.
“Have I done the right thing?” she asked.
“You’ve done the best you could,” Jaune replied.
“That is not the question I asked,” Pyrrha murmured.
“I know,” he said softly. “But it’s the only answer there is.”
Pyrrha pursed her lips and hoped that fate would be kind as she watched the airship bear her mother away.
Hope, after all, was all that she could do. Hope that the journey be safe and uneventful, hope that her mother would make contact with their friends and allies in the north. Hope that aid and counsel would be forthcoming.
Hope, in spite of everything, that all would be well in the end.
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And moments like these are why I like this story.
Lots of Star Wars references in this chapter, it tickled my amusement...
And so the players are moving once more. But what is Salem planning? We haven't seen her hand in a while, besides her agents working in the field at least.
Everyone thinks Atlas is safe... but against the Queen of the Grimm, that may not be the case.
Oh, that was glorious in ways I could not have imagined. Now, its time to be awesome
So... Sunset and Lady Nikos, Blake and Sun may all be reunited soon... to face diplomatic excitement in Atlas...
Now I want to see some fan art of captain Celaeno frozen in carbonite. Also, I can't get the idea of Malachite the Hutt out of my head.
10841649
I assume they are the Sirens from Equestria
10843113
That was Raven.
10843502
I did consider that, but decided that she shouldn't become too nice too soon.