Free Pinion by Jay Lake

Poinsard around her, sheddingthe dead woman’s duchess-arrogance but keeping close grip on the confidence, the power, the purpose.
    “No one would doubt that, Mistress . . . ?”
    The question hung in the air as if the fate of nations depended on her answering it. Which in a sense was true. “You may call me Mask.” Her right hand flickered in a birdlike gesture.
    His eyes widened in recognition, but he returned no signal, instead saying, “I am Father Francis, of the Archdiocese of Goa. Please allow me to tender my apologies for our poor welcome, but we were not expecting an invasion of the fleet of Erehwon, peopled by charming villainesses such as yourself.”
    “I charm no one.” Childress admitted some of the talking-to-students tartness back into her voice. “I merely speak of what I see before me.”
    “A far too uncommon failing,” observed Father Francis.
    “What I see before me seems to be a man who has been gravely ill.”
    The priest nodded, a frown easing onto his sun-drenched face.
    Childress continued. “One not sympathetic to the flight of the white bird. A follower of the Silent Order, perhaps.”
    She did not mean to twit the man, but there was little point in failing to declare themselves openly at the outset. Not here, not now, where guile counted for little and clarity weighed much in the balance.
    Father Francis shifted in the saddle. The mule snuffled mournfully. “Though you and your ship full of vile miscreants see things differently, I say a pox on both your houses. God left us His word and His world. There is no need for further interference from spiritual parvenus.”
    “I am a librarian, Father.” She smiled at him. “I have spent my life among priests at their training. I am quite sick of interference from spiritual parvenus myself.”
    “Oh, my poor child.” Though his words were heavy-hearted, the smile had returned to the priest’s face. “Did yon vessel of wrath liberate you from such bondage?”
    His words brought old regrets to mind. She took hold of those emotions before continuing. “In a manner of speaking, yes. I am here today seeking aid and counsel.”
    “You’ve certainly come to the wrong place, then.” He nodded at
Five Lucky Winds
. “If your crew is not set to storm the beaches in a body, perhaps you would take a morning tea with me?”
    “I would be delighted.” Childress turned and gave the agreed-upon signal for her personal safety, then favored the priest with another smile. “Lead onward, Father.”

    Childress sat in a wicker chair on a tiled porch, a small rattan table between her and Father Francis. An Indian boy had laid out the tea service, along with slices of fruits she didn’t recognize, glistening wedges of pastel flesh. The ceiling was high above them, and in another place might have hosted a fan. Here they were merely hot.
    A cathedral loomed close behind this rectory, its location implied but not explicit from where she sat. No other priests had been visible on her walk upward with Father Francis, but then there were few other people of any calling here. The porch was large but empty, innocent of furniture except for their little setting. An errant breeze carried the scent of distant jungle, and a spice she could not name.
    Goa Velha was a pleasant place. She wondered where everyone had gone.
    Her host fussed with a pitcher of musky cream that she had already declined. After he had adjusted the color of his tea to his liking, he tipped in a bit of grainy brown sugar. That was followed by a bright smile directed at Childress. She could see the handsome young man he had once been in the gleam of his eyes and the lines of his face beneath the sagging envelope of skin.
    “The Portuguese moved the capital to Panjim after the plague of 1843,” Father Francis said. “Your map must be very old.”
    Not just a priest, but a thinking man, Childress realized. Even though he was probably an adversary, she found herself delighted. “It was not