There are a lot of masts on the water today. Not enough of them are upright.
David Madsen picks his way through the rubble-strewn streets of Arcadia, trying to avoid the milling citizens as much as the debris underfoot. He makes his way towards the beach, glaring at anyone who jostles him. But that's just reflex, not anger. Most of the people on the streets are too dazed to even notice him at all.
Yesterday, a storm swept across the seas like some demon from the Void and howled through Arcadia for most of the afternoon. The city was hit badly enough, but it was the poor fuckers shipboard that had the worst of it. Several vessels lost, all lives with them, as far as anyone can tell. A lot of Arcadians have lost family, friends, homes, jobs in the span of a few hours. Rumour is that even Duke Prescott had a narrow escape, might have died at the docks if his carriage hadn't been delayed.
A bad enough day for Arcadia, for Elysium too, if that was all. But Duke Prescott was going to the docks because yesterday was the day of the royal visit. King Gregory's ship is thought to have gone down just a few leagues short of the safety of Arcadia' s harbour. And if the young King's dead, without an heir to inherit his divine essence, then a miracle is the only thing that'll keep the Dukes of Elysium from tearing the country apart in pursuit of the crown.
Pity the Age of Miracles ended almost a hundred years ago. The Gods have been silent since.
David makes his way onto the beach. He was a soldier once, fought against the Northern clans, helped fight them to a standstill. He's no stranger to serving his country. But now he's a citizen and today he's got other duties. David is on the hunt. Marcus Fletcher: another lowlife gambler whose marker Magistrate Wells has called due.
It's not a job David has much taste for, but on a day like this, it's nice to have something simple to focus on. Wells might have had wine on his breath this morning, but he still made a point of telling David and his men that business would continue as normal. Even if it is tracking down a loser with gambling debts. It's reassuring to know that just because the world's suddenly skewed on its axis, there's still order being maintained. Duke Prescott's guard are busy setting things to right in the city. There's as many sailors as are able setting canvas to rigging, searching for survivors. In his official capacity, Magistrate Wells is seeing to the legal needs of the city. And in his unofficial role, he has David making sure the shady side of the street's in order.
David almost smiles, now, remembering Wells saying "Yesterday was bad, and tomorrow might be worse. So now's the time for some normalcy. For routine. We get to decide right now what sort of future we want to be living. Let's make it the right one."
Say what you will about Wells, it's an inspiring thought. Even if maintaining order means some people have no future at all.
Finding Marcus is easy enough, once David gets away from the docks. Marcus was a sailor, he knows the currents here and, being an opportunistic little weasel, he's no doubt been amongst the first looking for salvage. It's not long before David spots the ragged figure picking at the wreckage on the shoreline, tossing items either onto a blanket or back into the sea.
David smiles grimly. He slips out his knife, keeps it down by his thigh as he picks his way through the sand and seaweed. Through the cords and spars and scraps of sailcloth.
Through the bodies.
David's faith is still there, shabby with neglect, but seeing all this? He wonders if the Gods are not just silent, but altogether absent, now.
He tries just to focus on his target.
"Any luck?"
Marcus whirls round, almost pitches over. "What? Who..." He pales at the sight of David. He hasn't even spotted the knife yet.
So David shows it to him, and chuckles. "From where I'm standing, it looks like you're not having any luck at all."
Marcus starts backing up, though there's only salt water behind him. "Madsen! I...I'll have the money, soon." He gestures wildly, "I'm putting it together. I just need a little time!"
"So I should just take a walk? Leave you to your pickings, crow?" It's not the anger that surprises David, just how good it feels to let some of it out. It's even better when Marcus squawks and trips on something on the shore, landing in a heap of twisted limbs.
David closes the gap between them, choosing his steps with care. "Let you pick the dead clean so you can live to drink and gamble another day?" He frowns down at the man floundering in the shallow water.
Marcus has tripped over the body of a girl.
As Marcus thrashes around, finally coming to his hands and knees in the surf, David looms over him. But he's looking at the girl, shaking his head. She's young, can't be more than 13 or 14. She's wrapped in a naval greatcoat, much too large for her. It's a wonder she made it to the beach at all. There's seaweed in her hair, and...no, that is her hair, blue and green and purple like the ocean. David stops, startled. "Can't be...".
Both men jump when the girl stirs, coughs weakly. Opens pale blue eyes and whispers, "Dad?" Then slumps, exhausted.
Marcus is trembling, looks like he'd be sinking down to his knees, if he wasn't already on them. "She's alive. She's been blessed by the Gods! They've marked her..." He reaches towards the girl's hair.
David's lips thin. He plants his foot on Marcus's chest, shoves him onto his back.
"Don't touch her." He sheathes his knife, glad Marcus can't see his hands shake. Manages a growl. "Fetch that blanket."
As Marcus hurries to obey, David kneels down. The girl's passed out again, but she's still breathing steadily enough. David scoops her carefully out of the sand, carries her to where Marcus hovers, blanket in hand. David grabs it, clumsily wraps the girl up, making sure to cover her hair.
He fixes Marcus with his best glare. "Guess this is your lucky day, after all. Your debts are clear. But you don't breathe a word of this to anyone, you hear? Don't make me come find you again."
Then he's off, back up the beach and to Arcadia. Ignoring Marcus' babbled assurances, he concentrates on the warm breath of the child in his arms. Marked by the Gods. The first in generations.
David sticks to the back alleys, to the quiet lanes of Arcadia. There are plenty of people about on even these streets, but he doesn't draw much attention.
He's not the only one carrying a body, after all.
As he trudges back through the streets, rumour from the docks overtakes him. The King's ship has been found, ravaged by the storm. All hands lost.
The King is dead.
David's never been much for questioning faith. There's no disputing that the Gods were real, no arguing with the blessings they bestowed on the favoured bloodlines of Elyisum. Being born into the Age of Silence, he's accepted that the Gods no longer choose to intervene in mortal matters. But if the Gods were silent, there were still the priests and the blessed bloodlines, bearers of divine essence. Living proof of the will and works of the Gods. There was still an order to things.
When he was young, he felt cheated to have been born after the Age of Miracles. To have missed his chance to witness the Gods in action. Now, he's beginning to think that might have been its own sort of blessing.
He hesitates at the turning. One way to the High Temple. Another to Blackwell Scriptorium and the Magistrate.
David has little enough faith in Wells. He's a drunk, a crook and Duke Prescott's creature. He's also David's boss, and he does understand the needs of the city better than most. This is something he should know about.
On the other hand, if this really is a miracle, then surely he should take her to the priests. If the Gods' own servants don't know what to make of the girl, no one will. Then again, the priesthood isn't what it once was. The Age of Silence has lasted long enough that no one really remembers what it was like to live with the direct guidance of the Gods. The priests cling to the memory of their power and relevance, even as their congregation dwindles year on year.
What would they do to get their hands on the girl? What wouldn't they do, once they did?
It hits him, then. The child in his arms might have been marked by the Gods, but it's David who has to decide, right now, what kind of future she'll be living.
He grits his teeth, shifts her in his arms.
Then he starts walking.