3 – Fernandes the Blue

  It wasn’t until their third day aboard the living ship that Ward met another sorcerer, and it was thanks to an introduction from Trent Roy. Ward, Haley, and True were just finishing breakfast, talking about how much better True’s leg was feeling, when Ward’s sorcerous antagonist approached their table with another man in tow. The other fellow was older, with long, thick gray hair and loose, wrinkled skin that hung in folds around his jowls. He had a stooped posture and wore soft-looking blue robes that hung in layers, completely obscuring his hands in their deep, wide-sleeve cuffs.

  As he approached their table, Trent held up a hand, palm out, smiling smarmily as he tugged his lapel with the other hand. “I come in peace.”

  “Hello, Mr. Roy,” True said, saving Ward the trouble.

  “Marshal. I’m so happy to catch you and Mr. Dyer together.” He turned to Ward, “Good sir, I wanted to introduce a fellow sorcerer. I met him only last evening, and he expressed a desire to make your acquaintance. As you and I are familiar with each other, I thought it my duty to initiate introductions. This is Fernandes the Blue.” He bowed stiffly in the older man’s direction.

  Ward cocked an eye at Haley, wondering if his look could convey his opinion that Trent said very little with far too many words. She simply cocked an eyebrow at him, and Ward shrugged, pushing his chair back to stand, towering over both men. He held out a hand, and the wizened old fellow laboriously pulled back the sleeve of his right hand and reached out, wrapping long, exceedingly soft fingers around Ward’s palm. “The name’s Ward. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Oh, the pleasure is mine!” Despite his frail appearance, Fernandes had a vibrant, rich voice, and apparently, his bright blue eyes were still sharp. “I see you’ve quite a potent artifact there. Such delicate perfection! It moves just like a normal tongue, yet I can hear how it enhances your voice. Tell me, does it aid with the words?” The way he said “words” made his meaning clear.

  However, Ward had learned better than to spill his secrets to strange sorcerers. “This tongue? Nothing more than the talented craftsmanship of a master artificer. A prosthetic to correct a terrible wound.” He narrowed his eyes, aware of how the golden bands in his one-time blue irises tended to look wild and angry. “Any resonance you might hear is due to more than a little refinement of my vessel.”

  Fernandes chuckled and looked sideways at Trent. “You challenge this man? You must have quite the talent with a blade.”

  “Well,” the slender sorcerer said, tugging his lapels with both hands now, “it’s a friendly duel. No one need be maimed or killed. Isn’t that right, Mr. Dyer?”

  Ward shrugged. “True enough, though if we’re using blades, I’ve never been one to swing my sword lightly.”

  “I did say to first blood—”

  “Ahem, Mr. Roy,” True interrupted, “when you issued your challenge, you gave Mr. Dyer the option to choose another condition. When he accepted, he said, and I quote, ‘We’ll do it until someone yields, not first blood.’ I’m happy to witness your preemptive surrender, but you’ll need to provide the winner’s prize.”

  Trent backed up a step and gave Ward a careful inspection, his eyes running from his heavy boots, over his broad, muscular torso, and then up to his face—shaved only yesterday but already shadowed by dark stubble. He looked into Ward’s bestial eyes, a look of consternation on his face, but ultimately, he shook his head. “I’ll not yield before we have at each other a bit. I trust the marshal will ensure a quick halt to the violence if someone yields.”

  True nodded, tamping some fresh, dark tobacco into her pipe. “Naturally.”

  Ward could tell Trent was nervous, but he tried not to let it affect his thinking. He didn’t want to do something stupid because he was overconfident. For all he knew, Trent was an excellent actor and was seeking to lull him into a false sense of security. Even so, Ward was tired of the duel hanging over him.

  For the last couple of days, he’d spent most of his time in his room, relaxing, studying his words of power, and practicing his meditations. He hadn’t intended to do so, but he found meditating in space, with the weird sensation of the ship’s aether folding, to be very rewarding. That said, Trent Roy and his irritating challenge had hung in the back of his mind like an itchy thorn in the heel of his foot. He was done with it. “Are you ready to get this over with then?” He glanced at the older sorcerer. “You here to witness?”

  Fernandes shook his head, chuckling. “No, no. Of course, I’d be willing, but I merely hoped to make a connection with another sorcerer. I’d love to hear your tale, Ward Dyer.”

  Trent Roy stopped worrying at his lapels and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m willing to duel you today, certainly. Noon? My blades need some honing.” He looked at True. “Marshal, will you confirm the full terms of the Noble Dueling Doctrine for this duel?”

  True sighed and stood, clicking her pipe stem between her teeth. “Sure enough, there, Mr. Roy. Ain’t me first time round this sort of situation.” She reached into her blazer, pulled out a palm-sized black leather-bound book, and began to flip through the exceptionally thin pages, squinting at the tiny text. “Hmm. ’Ere we go, ‘On noble duels betwixt sorcerers on passenger vessels.’ Hmm…” She read silently for several seconds while Ward let his gaze drift from her face to Trent’s. The other man looked away, stifling a yawn, clearly trying to seem unperturbed.

  “Right, so, if the duel’s not to the death, then the participants need to put their stakes in the hands of an impartial party, preferably a representative of the Assembly—yours truly in this case. The Noble Dueling Doctrine requires that stakes be of distinct and original value—duplicates are not permitted.” She looked from Ward to Trent Roy. “Understood?”

  Trent answered immediately. “Of course. Everyone knows you cannot offer up duplicates from your grimoire. To quote the Doctrine, ‘The loss must sting, the victory sing.’ Isn’t that right, Mr. Dyer?”

  Ward had no idea if that was the case, and it foiled his burgeoning plan to copy all of his spells before offering them up for collateral. He could always lie… but the idea left a bitter taste in his mouth. He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Yeah, sounds fair.”

  “Good.” True nodded, flipping a page in her little book without looking up. “Right then, it’s clear—no Words of Power are to be spoken during the contest. Passenger vessels and dueling sorcerers don’t mix well without rules, and this one’s ironclad.”

  “Naturally,” Roy said with a faint smile as if it didn’t matter to him in the least.

  Ward gave a short nod. “Understood.”

  “Right, then, gentlemen. Noon it is. I imagine that observation gallery would make a lovely spot for a bit o’ swordplay.” True smiled, stuffed her book into her inside pocket, and, with a final nod to everyone, walked off by herself, every other step whirring softly as her clockwork knee bent and straightened. Ward chuckled, watching her go, and then he looked at Haley, who was still sitting at the table.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Yes, but I need to do my Gopah.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Dyer,” Fernandes said. “I’d love to have a chat with you if you’ve the time for it.”

  Ward didn’t really feel like chatting, but he had time to kill. Besides, hadn’t Grace told him to make friends with some other sorcerers? It wouldn’t hurt to try. He looked at the older man and nodded. “Sure, and you can call me Ward.”

  Still standing there awkwardly, Trent said, “I’ll see you at noon, then.” He held out a hand, and Ward took it. He wasn’t such a bad guy, but Grace had gotten his number right from day one; he was a pretentious dandy, and his pride wouldn’t let him back out of the duel he’d gotten himself into.

  Ward gripped his hand tightly and stepped close to him, leaning over to speak in a low town. “I won’t make you give up a spell if you want to call this thing off.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He recoiled so vehemently, you would have thought Ward had spit on the man’s boots. Trent’s jaw tightened, and he pulled his hand away sharply. “I’ll thank you not to insult me with such charity, Mr. Dyer. I honor my commitments, no matter the stakes. Or do you think me so faint-hearted as to back out of a challenge I, myself, issued?”

  Ward sighed heavily, letting his hand drop. He shook his head. “Have it your way.” Trent turned and stomped away, and Ward sat back down, gesturing to True’s empty seat. “Sit down, won’t you, um, Mr. Blue?”

  “Just Fernandes, please.” The older fellow took his seat with a groan, and Haley stood up.

  “I’ll find you when I’m done, Ward.” She waved, then curtseyed delicately to Fernandes. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Fernandes pushed on the arms of the chair, his elbows wobbling with the effort as he moved to stand, but Haley hastily waved a hand. “Don’t get up, sir! I appreciate the effort—” She glared at Ward. “—but I’m off. Take care, gentlemen.”

  Ward chuckled, watching her go, and Fernandes said, “An interesting young woman. I’ve never seen coloring quite like hers. Those eyes! I almost wonder if she doesn’t have albinism?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.” Ward shook his head, determined not to elaborate. He still had much to learn about the prejudices and customs of this strange new world, and he didn’t want to give Haley’s secrets away. Fernandes nodded, either accepting Ward’s response or choosing not to press the issue, much as he had when Ward had lied about his tongue. The old fellow had eyes that glowed at least as brightly as his, but if Ward were being honest, the brightest eyes he’d seen on the boat belonged to Trent Roy. Sorcerous skill wouldn’t help in their duel, though, whereas Ward had high hopes for his lycan bloodline turning things in his favor.

  “So, you said you’ve refined your vessel a time or two, something I’ve failed to manage in these last fifty years or so. I did it once when I was younger, but I’ve not had much luck finding a refinement treasure on the second-hand market, at least not one I could afford. They’re so rare.” Fernandes fumbled around in his robe while he spoke and pulled a small leather pouch from an inner pocket. He set it on the table and then waved a hand at one of the wait staff.

  Ward watched him and thought about not speaking until the man asked an actual question rather than just vaguely fishing, but decided Fernandes hadn’t done anything to earn his reticence. “Yes, I had some luck in the challenges back on Cinder.”

  The old fellow nodded, but before he could reply, a young man with a waiter’s apron approached the table. “Good lad, would you bring me a pot of hot water and a teacup? I’ve my own tea here.” He patted the leather satchel.

  “Right away, sir.”

  As the waiter hurried off, Fernandes began to speak. His voice was breathy, and he paused frequently to take breaths, but his words fascinated Ward. “It’s quite lucky indeed that you found such treasures, though I’ve long believed that the popular categorization of worlds as ‘low’ and ‘high,’ with Cinder at the bottom, is quite erroneous. I don’t believe any world is truly above any other, save perhaps Primus. Challenges are ubiquitous and varied on our capital planet, whereas worlds like Cinder have only a dozen or so. Still, why would Cinder be the lowest of the Vainglory worlds when there are places like Ferris with but two challenges on the entire planet, both considered death traps?”

  He didn’t wait for a response, perhaps not expecting one, before continuing, “I believe that there are worthy challenges on every world—saving perhaps Ferris—no matter a person’s refinement tier. Why, it’s said that Brighthome, the so-called third Vainglory world, has the greatest likelihood of awarding artifacts as treasure in its challenges. If that’s what is sought, wouldn’t that world be ‘above’ even Primus on any imagined hierarchy? It’s not well-documented, but I’ve heard from several adventurers that they were very ‘lucky’ to find refinements on Cinder. Could it be that some ancient explorers labeled Cinder as the ‘lowest’ Vainglory world to protect their favorite resource?”

  When he stopped speaking to shake his head and chuckle softly, Ward took that as a cue for him to chime in. “I’m new to the system, so you might be asking the wrong fellow. I will say this, though: if my only impression were the two challenges I attempted on Cinder, I’d say refinements aren’t rare at all.”

  “Aha!” Fernandes snapped his fingers, nodding. “Another data point for my mental calculus. Perhaps I should have disembarked back there.” He shook his head, sighing. “Obligations await me, however.”

  “Are you going all the way to Primus?” Ward watched over the other man’s shoulder as a waiter approached with a tray—the old fellow’s hot water.

  “Ah, would that I could, Ward, but I’ve business on Nangee.”

  Ward frowned. “Nangee?”

  “Forgive me, I failed to remember that you said you’re new to the system. It’s the primary moon of Aetheris, the ‘sixth’ Vainglory world. It’s the final stop before the ship makes its way down to Primus.”

  Ward nodded, watching as Fernandes scooped some leaves from his leather pouch and put them into the teapot. “Thanks for explaining.”

  “Ward—” Fernandes paused, concentrating as he took a slender spoon and stirred his leaves into the hot water before closing the pot. “—I’ve known a fellow with eyes much like yours. Those golden bands and your predatory gaze give away your lycan bloodline.” He glanced up, probably to judge Ward’s reaction, but Ward didn’t give anything away. He wasn’t worried; he’d learned from True and others back in Westview that there wasn’t anything illegal about having a particular bloodline. Few people woke bloodlines like his, not to the extent he had, but it was well-established in the Assembly’s law books that no judgment could be made against a person based on their blood; what mattered were a person’s crimes or lack thereof.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I can see you have strong control over your inner beast, but I would like to offer a word of caution. You see, I know you’re bound to duel that other young man in a few hours, and if—hypothetically speaking—you happened to lose control and frighten the crew, they’d be quick to try to put you down. They won’t risk a madman—not my words!—on the loose because if you were to frighten the void leviathan, it could disrupt its course, endangering everyone.”

  Ward smiled, shaking his head. “You don’t have to worry.”

  Fernandes smiled, his ancient-seeming lips wan and cracked with dryness, and lifted the pot, pouring it over a small brass strainer into his cup. “I wouldn’t be worried, Ward. I know a spell or two that would cut short any hypothetical rampage. I’m glad to hear I won’t have to stand ready to defend our host.”

  “Our host?” Ward’s mind flicked through the different members of the crew he’d met. He’d only seen the captain from a distance.

  “The leviathan!” Fernandes chuckled, sipping his tea. “Ah, that’s quite nice. I should have asked for two cups!”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Ward was getting a little tired of the man and his veiled threats offered in the guise of concern. “I should be going—”

  “A moment, Ward! I don’t want to come off as prejudiced. I wonder, should you survive your duel and avoid losing control of your bestial nature, would you be interested in discussing a trade with me? I find the exchange of spells through a friendly dialogue far more pleasant and productive than fighting over them. What do you say?”

  Ward knew Grace would kill him if he refused, but there wasn’t any risk of that. He was always eager to learn new words of power. He nodded. “Sure, we can have a…dialogue if I survive.” He couldn’t help smirking at his words and instantly wanted to kick himself. Why tempt fate?

  “That’s wonderful! We’ve weeks yet to enjoy this lovely vessel’s accommodations. I’ll look for you when you aren’t so pressed.” Fernandes lifted his cup and sipped noisily.

  Ward pushed his chair away from the table. “Later then.” He nodded, and when Fernandes did the same, Ward left, walking across the dining hall toward the stairs that would take him to one of the access hallways and then to his room.

  The one thing he didn’t like about the strange, living spaceship was that he still felt like he was on a luxury ocean liner. He had the urge to walk out on the deck and get some fresh air, but that wasn’t an option. There were plenty of large spaces and even an entertainment level where one could go to plays and musical performances, gamble, and purchase odds and ends, but it wasn’t the same as getting a waft of fresh air on your face.

  When he returned to his quarters, Grace immediately pounced on him. “Ward! That was an interesting breakfast, wasn’t it? That old fellow seemed far too confident for how frail he seemed! Do you think he has some rare, potent spells? You’ve got to try to make friends with him! Are you ready for your duel? Do you think Trent Roy can harm you? If he stabs you, you’ll just heal, right? Just don’t let him make you too angry—we don’t want everyone trying to kill you if your wolf comes out! What about—”

  “Grace, take a damn breath!” Ward laughed. He walked over to the trunk at the foot of his bed and fished the key out of his pocket. “I won’t let myself get too mad, and, yeah, I think I’ll be all right if I get stabbed. I’ve healed from some pretty bad injuries.”

  “What are you do—Oh!” Grace watched him lift his grimoire out of his pack and lock the trunk back up.

  “Gotta let True hold this during the duel, I guess.”

  “Ward, you could make some copies. How would they know?”

  “Grace, I’ll know. Besides, worst-case, I’ll only lose one spell.”

  “Oh, lord. Old man, you’re impossible!” She flopped dramatically onto the bed, and Ward snorted.

  “Back to that one, huh? I thought we were pals now.”

  “We are; that’s why I’m not throwing a fit and tormenting you until you copy those spells down.”

  “Well, thanks.” Ward shrugged out of his coat, took his hat off, and hung them both by the door. He wore a plain, button-up white shirt and gray woolen trousers over his boots. His sword was strapped to his waist, and other than that, he only carried his grimoire. His money and other small belongings were all locked away in the trunk. “Any final words? I’m going to go and do some limbering up before I have to fight.”

  “Final words? Are you going to die?” Grace leaped out of the bed and flew across the room, her bare feet thudding on the hardwood planks. She grabbed his lapels and looked up at him with fiery eyes. “You better be taking this seriously!”

  “I am! It’s not to the death, so—”

  “You know how many people I’ve watched die from stupid wounds in my life? Where’s your healing tonic?”

  “You think I’ll need—”

  “Idiot!” Grace shook him. “Get one and have True hold it for you. I’m sure she’ll already have one, seeing as she has more than half a brain, but you might as well be certain.”

  Ward sighed, nodding, then went back to the trunk to fish a tonic out of his pack. “You’re right, Grace. It’s not like we’re having a fistfight—accidents happen. I’ll try to be careful, okay?” When he stood, he opened his arms, indicating he wanted a hug, and she obliged, squeezing him tightly.

  “Okay, Ward.” She mumbled, pressing her face into his chest. “Do me a favor, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kick his ass.”