The Elementalist

28. Confrontation

ConfrontationAfter Captain Neverri and the policemen had left, Voi lay back in bed, staring up at the inert ceiling fan. It was only a few hours past midnight, and Milia had gone out for some fresh air. In the meantime, Voi listened to people in the hallway inquiring about what was going on—why the police where there, if the attackers had been caught, if it was safe to stay at the inn…

Yes, the officers assured them. Please, try to go back to sleep, they pleaded. Well, Voi had found that impossible to do.

It was another hour or so before the police left the inn. Even then, Voi could still hear guests worrying within the confines of their rooms. After all, the inn would be forever tainted by death.

Someone knocked on the door.

Voi sighed but didn’t answer. She figured that if it was Milia then she’d be able to unlock the door anyway. Sure enough, Voi heard the tumblers at work then the doorknob, until the door itself finally creaked open.

Milia welcomed herself into the room. She was wearing a trench coat and holding a bottle of brandy and two mugs, a clutch stuffed beneath her arm. She eased the door shut with her foot from behind then tilted her head—the lock engaging in response to the subtle motion. “I don’t know about you,” she said, settling onto the foot of the bed, “but I could sure use a drink. Care for a glass?” She pulled the cork out of the bottle then poured herself a mug.

“I don’t actually drink alcohol,” said Voi. Milia ignored this, pouring her a mug anyway. Voi took it with no intention of drinking it.

Milia raised her mug. “Here’s to us women successfully handling a sticky situation.”

“If you say so.”

They clinked their mugs together.

Seconds later, Milia’s was empty again. Her pupils flashed larger momentarily before she poured herself another round. “I must confess, Voi, I’m a little conflicted when it comes to how you handled things. On the one hand, you managed to aim your pistol at something besides a target board; on the other, you never took the shot.”

“Shooting people doesn’t always solve problems.” Voi set her mug on the nightstand.

“Yes, well, in this case, we came out empty-handed.”

“Actually…”

Milia arched an eyebrow.

“I learned that the leader of the Haran is named Mohmud.”

“Really? Hmm.” Milia seemed to ponder on this for a moment. “What do you say we catch some fresh air?”

“Right now?”

“These walls are hardly conducive to sensitive matters, Voi. Besides, it’s too late to be playing music.”

Voi huffed. “Alright.” She rolled herself out of bed and grabbed her leather trench coat. “Lead the way.”

Milia led them down the hallway to an access door for the roof. A draft caught Voi in a whirlwind on their way out, causing her to bury her face beneath her coat lapels. They walked to the edge of the building and sat on the ledge, overlooking the flat rooftops and streetlights of Kippoli.

The diplomat wasted no time in resuming their discussion. “Did you also get a surname?” She’d brought the brandy bottle with her and kept sipping from the mug, her clutch still beneath her arm.

“No.” Voi lowered her eyes. “All I know is he was called a sha-ka-ha-ra.”

Milia took the clutch from beneath her arm then procured a cigarette and lighter from it. “Too bad,” she said lighting a smoke. “Mohmud is a common name amongst the Kesh, though it is something, I suppose. At least we know that a real person is giving the orders.” Milia brought the cigarette to her lips, smoking as if it was the remedy to all her worldly troubles.

Voi waved the smoke from her face, though a sweet scent triggered a note of familiarity, resurrecting memories of her university days. “What is that?” she asked, half wary of the truth.

“It’s a cigarette.”

Voi gave her an incredulous look. “Naturally, Milia, but what’s in it?”

“Ambrosia—the elixir of the gods themselves, or so they say.” Milia brought her mug to her lips, took a sip, then went back to smoking.

“I thought you Followers of Orden valued something called ‘purity.’”

Milia let smoke escape from her mouth. Slowly, it billowed against her nose in a smooth, even blanket. “I do.” She held the cigarette over the edge of the building then tapped the butt end lightly, watching the ashes fall below. She then held the stick in front of Voi’s face and said, “This thing is stuffed with one hundred percent ambrosia leaves. Can’t get any purer than that!” She laughed then gave a crooked smile as she brought the cigarette to her lips again, taking another draw.

Voi moaned, waving the smoke away, then got off the ledge to distance herself. She shivered in her coat and said indignantly, “Brosie’s illegal.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Then how did you manage to get hold of it—and with such a high concentration?”

“Well.” The diplomat smiled coyly. “Diplomacy does have its perks.”

Voi shook her head. Even so, intrigue lurked beneath her initial disgust, so she asked innocently, “Say, what’s it like, smoking ambrosia?”

The woman’s cheery demeanor grew suspicious as if Voi weren’t entitled to such knowledge. “Why?”

“Curiosity.”

Milia narrowed her eyes.

“Well, when I was studying at S’escúl fer jes Artin di Du Mon, some of the more… deviant students managed to get their hands on ambrosia. They experimented with it from time to time. I was invited on occasion to join their sessions, but I chose to restrict myself to observation.”

“Really?” Milia looked surprised. “And what observations did you make during these sessions?”

Voi pursed her lips. “Well, the more they inhaled, the more they displayed quasi-elít tendencies—gradually becoming prone to notions of grandeur and godliness and would-be intellectuality.” She stifled a laugh. “It was amusing for a time, though some of my friends became… friendlier than usual.” She sighed, reminded of her former lover, Micál, who’d dabbled in the d**g himself. It had made him especially accepting of her, which was attractive to Voi because she’d always been paranoid about him discovering her condition. It also made him abnormally affectionate and otherwise uninhibited.

She’d learned to tolerate his growing number of forward advances, even indulging in some of his more unconventional fantasies for the sheer sake of feeling wanted.

Apparently, to no avail.

Milia responded, “Brosie does tend to affect some more than others.”

Funny, thought Voi, it hardly seems to affect you at all—which made her wonder why Milia bothered to smoke the d**g in the first place. Voi waited for some kind of clue to reveal itself, though Milia went on puffing and closed her eyes.

Giving up on this mystery, Voi sighed, thinking back to the encounter with the emissaries. “Before, you called the man who,” she hesitated, “well, the man you shot, you called him a word I’d never heard before: a jeen-goo, jeen-ga… I don’t recall what, exactly.”

“Jinghul,” Milia supplied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yes, that one. What does it mean?”

“It’s a derogatory Heinuan term for a South Darmoilen person, namely a Kesh or Maelt—a generalized term often applied carelessly. Literally, it means ‘servant,’ though the connotations go much deeper than that.”

“Oh?” said Voi.

“Most of the Kesh and Maelts’ ancestors had been enslaved as ‘servants’ to Northerners in the past. Jinghul is an insult of the highest order, as it refuses to acknowledge s*****y for what it is. The term is received especially injuriously when it comes from the lips of a Northerner in Darmoil, or even a Nolikul.”

Voi blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“A Noliócci, a Nolian—how the Darmoilen refer to us as Windi and Apexians, descendants of the clans of Nole.”

Voi raised her chin, impressed by Milia’s use of the Borellian term. “And… somehow, it’s perfectly fine to call a man a jinghul when he’s dead?”

Milia took another swig of brandy, finishing her second mug. “Well, I never said that.” A smile crept onto her face.

Voi decided to probe the subject further. “Is it true those men came to you in the name of peace?”

Milia looked down, exhaling her last puff of smoke. She dropped her cigarette then ground it with her heel before meeting Voi’s eyes. “So they claimed.”

“Then it’s also true you killed them in cold blood.”

Milia stared at Voi for a moment then licked her lips. “Don’t be naive, Voi. Those men were fully prepared to do harm.”

“They only carried the bone knives because they knew you could manipulate metal. It was never their intention to use them unless you posed a threat!”

Milia’s eye widened. “Whose side are you on?”

Voi said nothing.

After a minute, Milia gave Voi a deceptively friendly smile, though this had the undercurrent of something more nefarious to it. “One of them attacked you, even disabled your abilities, yet you sit here now defending them.”

Voi remained silent. She knew how her protest looked. Still, something was amiss.

Milia sniffed. “You were lucky those darts weren’t poisoned, too.”

“What was on them?” asked Voi.

“A very potent form of urche, I suspect, very much lethal to an otherwise defenseless elementalist. Takes but seconds to sap one’s ability to tap into the aether.” She snapped her fingers. “Works almost instantly.”

“So,” said Voi, “urche can be used as a weapon?”

“Urche was a weapon long before it was ever dubbed ‘medicine.’ In fact, urche has always been used to suppress our kind, particularly the most dangerous ones. It’s what makes our covenant of peace with the allied nations possible. Without it, the League’s efforts to manage the elementalist population would be hopeless.”

There’d been a haunting sincerity in the emissary’s last words that weighed heavily on Voi’s conscience now. “The man who spoke to me in your room… he said that his leader, Mohmud, wanted an alliance with our kind and preferred not to involve the League. He warned that if we were to intentionally seek out the Haran then they would utilize whatever means necessary to protect themselves.”

Milia watched Voi with a detached interest. “Go on.”

“When I started my training with Ronny, he told me that the elementalists in Darmoil were hunted for execution, if they weren’t tortured first.” Her eyes widened. “Milia, is this true?”

“Yes,” she said, unflinching.

“So,” said Voi, “these people—these Haran operatives—aren’t all necessarily criminals or terrorists, but rather people who are wrongfully persecuted. And it is because of this persecution that they do things such as pirating and raiding and what have you in retaliation against those they perceive to be threats. Surely it must have occurred to the League at some point that these men simply want help, that their one true desire is to put an end to their persecution. What if they’re telling the truth about this, Milia?”

Suddenly, the woman shot off the ledge. “Well, they’ve really done a fine job of brainwashing you, haven’t they?”

Voi stared blankly at her. “What?”

“Do you even know what the word hara means in Keshema?”

“Well, the emissary… he mentioned something about ‘liberation.’”

“Yes—so add the ‘n’ and you get its plural form, haran: ‘those for liberation.’ That is how these people view themselves, Voi. ‘Liberators.’ Yet they’ll thieve and murder and harass, stopping at nothing to pursue their goals.”

“But if Darmoil’s laws were meant to kill them in the first place,” said Voi, “then don’t they have the right to defend themselves?”

Milia gave her an indignant look.

“How can you continue to court a dynasty that treats its people as if they are wild game to be preyed upon?”

Milia sat back down on the ledge. “Well, for one, Voi, the Fyupei Dynasty doesn’t endorse killing its adepts unless they pose an immediate mortal threat. And like it or not, history has proven time and time again that many of Darmoil’s elementalists can’t be assuaged by mere diplomacy.”

Voi frowned. “You know what I think, Milia? I think this is all about power. It’s suppression and colonialism, plain and simple.”

The woman scoffed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She stood and began to pace the roof, her hands on her hips.

Voi went on, “I may not know all the details about which historical figures were elementalists or ordinary people and such, but I do know that Darmoil and the Western nations have shared a long history of hatred and bloodshed. How does segregating emelesiacs between those with superior genes deemed worthy of becoming super spies and those with undesirable traits deemed fit for institutionalized lives on urche solve the greater problem?”

Milia stopped pacing. “Alright, Dr. Román. Since our methods clearly aren’t good enough, how do you propose we solve this problem of hatred between the races and those with or without abilities, hmm?” She spread her hands. “Shall we grant the Haran their freedom and allow them to increase in number, wreaking havoc on the world? Permit another war to breach the shores of Borellia? Perhaps this time we should allow it to spread into Apexia—oh yes, I’m sure your fellow countrymen would appreciate that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Milia. That’s not what I—”

“No, you stop being ridiculous, Voi, and open your eyes!” Milia jabbed a finger in her direction.

Voi leaned back.

“Good grief, what sort of censored rubbish do they publish in the papers these days? Is the West so out of touch with the rest of world that they honestly believe the Haran are just a bunch of political protestors or some minor pirating nuisance left over from the war? I’m afraid the situation is far worse than that.”

Voi said nothing.

Milia prowled back and forth across the rooftop for a moment. “You seem to think there’s a simple solution to the problem, that things would be better if the League took the Haran at their word.” She gestured flippantly. “Fine. Let’s pretend the Haran are telling the truth when they claim to want an alliance with the League’s elementalists. What do you think they’ll do once they have their alliance, Voi? I mean honestly.”

Voi shrugged. “All I’m saying is that perhaps they have legitimate grievances against the Darmoilen Empire. If talking won’t do, then perhaps something along the lines of a trade would be more effective.”

“A trade.” Milia scoffed. “What could we, or Darmoil, possibly have that the Haran would be willing to trade for? Besides weapons and money, of course.”

“Land,” said Voi.

“You’re kidding.”

“Milia, you said so yourself: South Darmoil used to belong to the Kesh and Maelts. Perhaps, if the League could negotiate with Emperor Fyupei to grant the Haran their own portion of land—if not a full secession—then they would be less likely to invade other territories. With their freedom—”

“They’d effectively use it as a license to further promote their violent goals,” said Milia, “then continue to push beyond their boundaries, only this time with a much larger base of operations.”

“There could be,” Voi gestured agitatedly, “conditions for the land granted to them; they could be asked to sign a treaty!”

“And what happens when they decide to break said treaty because they no longer find it convenient?”

Voi sighed. “We’re not even giving them a chance, Milia.”

“The Haran aren’t interested in peace talks, Voi. Trust me: it’s been tried to death and beyond. My last mission in Durge ended with me defending my life against a dozen operatives; their bodies lie in the wake of my attempts at diplomacy.” She sighed. “There’s only one thing the adepts of the Haran movement are interested in.”

“What’s that?” asked Voi.

“A return to the power our kind once held over this world—when elementalists were regarded as avatars and demigods amongst men, a time when they, and their supporters, held the most powerful positions in governments. But attempting to revert to this archaic model will only invite catastrophe on a global scale. How do you think the War of Ages came to be?

“A delicate balance has been struck over the years between adepts and non-adepts. Everything mankind has worked for to achieve peace will be lost if the Haran succeed in reaching their goals. Yes, South Darmoil once belonged to the Kesh and Maelt people, but that was the past. If we’re to rise above the mistakes of our ancestors, then we must also learn to move forward and coexist with one another.”

“Coexistence is still possible with an independent nation, Milia. Think of what the League could do if they supported the Kesh and Maelt peoples’ right to govern themselves, the trust that we could earn from them!”

Milia was silent for a while. “You don’t have to agree with the League and all of its policies, Voi, but if you’re going to continue working as an elementalist, then you need to understand your place in Sector One. We didn’t hire you for your expertise in political optimism; we hired you as a pilot.”

Voi stepped back. “I… I see.” She took a deep breath. “And how does me spying over Darmoil help the situation?”

“There’s a lot about the Haran’s motives we don’t understand yet. This mission could provide answers that will help League leadership navigate future negotiations with Darmoil and ensure a fair balance of power amongst our decision-makers.”

“I see.” Actually, Voi had a lot of unanswered questions. However, she realized that her time for questions had run out. Instead, she lowered her eyes, heeding Milia’s position as her superior. “So… the attack hasn’t compromised my mission?”

“No, Voi. Nothing’s changed. Just make sure you’re ready when the time comes.” With that, the diplomat went back inside the inn.

Voi exhaled, staring up at the night sky. Things were looking much foggier now from where she stood.