by Erik A Otto
Hella’s face contorted, and she stopped walking. “General, we are only thirty-four days before the Internecion. You may be the one person in Belidor who can influence the course of events; you are of noble birth, the Cenarans have no leverage over you, at least as far as I can tell, and you command an army. Please, please consider the possibility that I’m right. At least send someone to give yourself comfort that I’m wrong.”
Timothur weighed her impassioned plea. Even though he didn’t trust her, he supposed he had little to lose by sending a scout to Ghopal. But she must be hiding something, and if he gave in to her mad request, he might lose some kind of bargaining chip. Maybe if he held out longer, then she would become more desperate—then she might reveal more of her machinations.
“This isn’t enough for me to hold off the monks. I’m sorry,” Timothur said.
Hella fumed. “I don’t care! Send for them tomorrow. Send for them now. In fact, just kill me here to save them the trouble. Strangle me and leave me for dead by the stream. I’m sure that would be a better end than what the monks have in store for me. Don’t you see? We will all die. You, me, Aisha, my family, your family, everyone, unless we stop the Cenarans. We must stop the conspirators at the Old Keep in thirty-four days. Otherwise we will have no hope of stemming the tide!”
Did she think him such an animal that he would kill her in cold blood, here on the path? Her words made him cringe, and he felt some regret for his maneuvering. She might be crazy, but it wasn’t his domain to take whatever retribution the monks had in store. Still, she had to be bluffing. This must all be some grand theater. She had to think he would hold off on the monks even longer, giving her time for…what? Escape?
Hella’s shoulders slumped. She looked sad, then turned away toward the brook. “It seems you are no better than your brother, but instead of being influenced by the Cenarans, you’re trapped by your own vanity and cowardice—you’re worried about trivial perceptions in the face of grave danger.”
He wanted to hit her, or throw her in the stream. She got under his skin so much. And she still reminded him so much of her, how her words would leave scars that he would tend to long after the words were spoken, yet he longed for her so…for her beauty, her wit, and her affection. He had to keep reminding himself that this princess, this Hella, was Marked. Her heart was dubious and crazed. He must have the fortitude to see through her gestures.
“I think I’ve had my fill of infidel for the day,” he said. And with their discussion at an end, Timothur escorted the princess back to the prison tent.
The stream seemed louder to him on the way back, as if a heavy rain had recently fallen upstream. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was because the remainder of their walk was conducted without discourse, and the deafening silence accentuated the sound of the percolating waters.
Later that evening, alone in his tent, Timothur couldn’t help himself from reviewing the war logs. The book was thick with loose leaves of paper, and soon his desk was in disarray. The writing was faint, and the task was lengthy. He had to repeatedly refill the wyg lamps to keep them at full brightness.
He focused on the scouting reports and Vanaden’s orders when they were in southern Sambai. There was indeed a report of lost scouts but no reports of a Cenaran attack on Ghopal—and nothing about maimed children. There were two other reports that stated that Ghopal was well stocked and preparing for siege. All seemed in order.
Timothur didn’t stop there, however, and what he found next did cause some consternation.
The two scouting reports about Ghopal were curt and exactly the same, to the word. That was strange in itself. It could have been some sort of clerical error, duplicating a report unnecessarily. What was most unnerving though was what he found in Vanaden’s orders. Vanaden had issued orders for seven scouts to survey Ghopal before the planned attack. These were selected from his elite privateers. Of these, only two scouts returned. But if Ghopal was preparing for a siege, it would be an easy mission. Why would five scouts be lost? Then, shortly after that, Vanaden had changed his orders to move east to pillage the countryside and pursue a regiment of rogue Sambayans instead of the original plan of attacking Ghopal. What changed his mind? Moreover, Timothur couldn’t find any scouting report speaking of a Sambayan regiment to the east of Ghopal.
It was puzzling. Timothur would make sure to speak with Palantos. Although he suspected Palantos had something to do with this mess, so he would have to tread carefully.
In the midst of his ruminations, he heard a knock on his tent flap.
“Sir, I apologize for interrupting. This one insists on seeing you.”
It was Nala’s guard, with Nala in tow.
“Fine, come in,” Timothur said. Maybe she was finally going to come clean.
Timothur could tell that Nala’s dander was up. She had a pouty look, like she was being wronged in some way. This should be interesting.
Nala said, “I heard about your conversation with Hella.”
“And?”
“And, well, when I met you, I thought you were stuck up, like most nobles, but a nice enough person. You chatted kindly with me, showing reserved interest, and even had fun near the waterfall below the ruin. But now you seem different. You’re acting like a horse’s ass.”
The words had little effect on him. He’d been thoroughly desensitized to verbal barrages during Hella’s earlier onslaught. “That’s nice, Nala. You know I could have you Marked for conspiring with Hella and the other infidels. Is that what you want? If you think I’m a horse’s ass, maybe I should be true to form.”
“I don’t care. At least now everyone will know about how you didn’t listen.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“I gave the High Commander a message when you met with her. She knows everything Hella knows. The Pomerians will expose the conspiracy, and everyone will know you did nothing about it.”
The anger mushroomed in his chest. He tried to quell it but he couldn’t stop his fists and jaw from clenching. He stood up and paced the room to expel the energy, chiding himself for including Nala in the meeting—for not seeing the potential for this kind of scheming from her.
When he thought through it more, though, it didn’t concern him much. What would change? Aisha already knew the main thrust of Hella’s story. The only additional details might be relating to Jawhar or her interactions with the other infidels. What of it? Two mad women passing messages wasn’t worthy of concern. Everyone would see them for what they were: crazed lunatics writing gibberish to each other.
And he couldn’t give Nala what she wanted. He couldn’t reward her defiance with his anger. He calmed himself, and slowly sat back down in his chair. Then he said, “That’s nice, Nala. Is there anything else?”
Nala reddened. It wasn’t the response she expected.
At times Timothur felt sorry for Nala. She was no infidel, but she had definitely drunk whatever potion Hella had brewed for her. Maybe it would be best if he let her go. No one would listen to her stories. As long as he ensured she didn’t meddle in Belidoran affairs, what harm could she do? Maybe then she would find something useful to do with her life.
“Nala, I’m letting you go,” he said.
Her mouth opened wide. “Let me…what?”
“You will be expected to leave Belidor, and if any Belidoran soldiers see you here again, you will be Marked for conspiring with Hella. I will send someone with you to take you to the Pomerian border. I suggest you find a place for yourself there. Find a job, something that makes you happy, maybe an arborist in Albondo if that pleases you. Pomeria is apparently the nation you serve, so serve them well. And please reconsider this madness the princess has afflicted upon you. I’m sure, in time, you will see it for what it is: utter nonsense.”
Nala was stunned speechless, so Timothur addressed her guard next.
“Collect her things and take her to the border. Actually, escort her halfway to Pomer City. We don’t want her coming back, for her
own good.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And before you do, send in a scout. What’s the name of the one with long hair?”
“Astello, sir.”
“Yes, him, I have a mission for him. He will be traveling far into Thelonia, so he should pack accordingly. Send him in as soon as he’s ready.”
Yes, he was throwing a bone to the princess. In fact, it had more to do with understanding the war logs. He doubted there would be any sign of Cenarans, but something strange had indeed happened in the north. Something that made Vanaden make unusual strategic decisions.
He needed to get to the bottom of it.
Chapter 8
The Purveyor
Paulo found Zahir in the library hall of the Child.
The library was many times bigger than the council chamber, modeled to be of similar blueprint to the Great Library at the Old Keep. Yet the library lacked what a library needs most: books. Less than a tenth of the rows were full, and those few were limited in breadth of topic and uncatalogued. Aside from the most crucial books for trade and construction, the rest had been donated from recent Spoons immigrants in charity. The remaining shelves would have to be populated over time.
Even after the final brick was placed at the top of the Child, this great fortress wouldn’t be complete in Paulo’s mind until the last book had been inlaid and catalogued as well. Then it wouldn’t only be a bastion of defense, but also a center of knowledge.
Paulo first spotted Zahir from the upstairs entryway that overlooked the hall. He was near a recessed corner of books, studying an open tome on one of the few tables.
Paulo approached Zahir slowly. He could tell that Zahir noticed him coming but didn’t acknowledge it. Zahir appeared to be reading the Trader’s Guide to Jawhar.
“I didn’t take you for a learned man, Zahir,” Paulo said.
“I’m not. I read slowly, but I know the use of it.”
“Do the libraries in Judud Jawhar compare to this one?”
“I come from Managash, and no, especially because they have books and this one doesn’t.”
Paulo sighed. “I think it’s time we spoke earnestly, Zahir Farreya of Kalianca.”
The sneer returned after a day’s absence.
Paulo continued, “Yes, I know much about you, some of which I learned from the book you’re reading now.”
Zahir stared at Paulo blankly for some time, then finally responded, “What of it? I was the hand of a depraved man on the Jawhari council. What is surely not written in books or spoken of openly is that I had no choice—that my family was held to blackmail me to do these things. If you don’t believe me, I don’t care.”
When Paulo found out that Zahir was the Jailor of Kalianca, it gave him much pause. The accusations were troubling indeed. Torture, mass killing, and inhuman experiments were all attached to his name. Irrespective of whether there was truth in them, the simple knowledge that he was the head of a prison that held generations of depraved people made him uneasy.
Yet despite this history, well known to at least the Fringe intelligence gatherers, it was true that Zahir was also a top aide to Wahab the Weak, a key council member in Jawhar. It made for a strange paradox. Wahab was one of the most tenured and respected council members, at least from a Fringe perspective. He must have been astute enough to know of this man’s undertakings, yet he let him take a role as a prime operative. This was a dangerous man, no doubt, but it was possible it wasn’t his volition to run the prison. It was possible that someone else was pulling the strings.
He needed to test the waters.
Paulo said, “There’s one thing that I don’t understand. It’s something that I didn’t read in the book but rather I learned from a man I met in Niknak—a trading representative for Jawhar. He told me that the Jailor built trade schools and even taught the Usaim Doctrine to these Belidoran prisoners, all while conducting these hideous experiments. This trader said that when the prisoners behaved more human, the Jailor derived more enjoyment out of torturing them, which is why they instituted these changes. What do you say to this?”
Zahir looked at Paulo curiously. He may be a sociopath but he wasn’t dense. He knew he was being tested.
Zahir sat back in his chair and pushed away the book, then crossed his arms on his chest and spoke with a furrowed brow. “You know this place, this Spoons, reminds me of Kalianca in some ways. For one, the two ridges that descend into the lakes, they are like smaller versions of the mountain spines near the town of Kalianca. This so-called Savage Mountain is weak compared to the impassable mountains behind Kalianca, but the backdrop has much likeness. That’s not why I think this, though. These similarities of earth and sky are not what I mean.”
Zahir seemed to be taking a significant tangent. Paulo knitted his brow in confusion, but he remained patient. Zahir continued, “You call this a refuge against the Cenarans. It’s that, and it’s impressive. I admit, it’s perhaps the most impressive fortress I’ve seen, but to what end?”
Zahir looked to see if Paulo was still following, then shook his head. “Let me tell you what will happen here. The Cenarans will come. They will take the town of Spoons with their beasts and hundreds of thousands. You will flee to this fort and be safe here. Perhaps, if it’s well stocked, you could live here for a year, maybe even two. And then, it’s not a fort any longer. It’s not the Child of the Savage Mountain. It’s not even a refuge. It’s a prison. The Cenarans will come to destroy you, and they will camp out in the surrounding area, farm your fields, live in your houses, until you surrender or are all dead. You see, since you have nothing to fight back with they will stay outside your walls for years, or decades even. Then you will get desperate. You will turn on each other. You will become depraved. You will be no better than the prisoners in Kalianca.”
Zahir nodded to himself, as if confirming his own conclusion. “This is why this place reminds me of Kalianca, more than anything else.”
Paulo thought about what Zahir was saying. Despite how tangential it was to his question, the truth of it hit him. He couldn’t deny the possibility; the Child could become a prison for them all. Their greatest accomplishment could become a deathtrap.
“I know these things, Purveyor,” Zahir continued. “I have seen things other men haven’t. I know what the Cenarans are capable of simply because I know what a compromised man will do to protect his family. This is how it will end for you. If you won’t fight back, you might survive, or at least live longer, but only if you don’t turn on each other—only if can make your prison self-sustaining. You will need something to tell you life is still worth living.
“So to answer your question, Purveyor, that is why I made trade schools and brought faith to the people of my prison. I did much more than that, in fact. The world we created for the Belidoran descendants gave them hope. These were children who’d never seen their homeland—who’d never seen the world outside of the walls of the prison. They needed some reason to live, some challenges to face. Otherwise they would have gone mad and killed each other. At the same time, they couldn’t know about their families in Belidor or even that they were prisoners of war. The information needed to be controlled, or they would rebel, and I’d have to kill them. I didn’t enjoy this game we played with them, but I had to do it. I did this to keep them alive and to keep them human. Or at least close to human.”
Zahir looked down as a flash of anguish subdued him. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Paulo waited patiently, giving Zahir time to wrestle with his inner demons. This man surely had plenty of them.
After a few moments of silence, Zahir opened his eyes and continued, “So I would think on this place carefully, Purveyor. For there may come a time, years from now, when these words will make sense to you, but it will be too late. If you wish to escape the Cenarans, you need to survive, and to survive you need more than huge walls of Brickstone. You need hope and faith and something to strive for that’s more than living to see the next day. Survival alone isn�
�t enough.”
It was more than the Jawhari man had ever said to Paulo, and it was said with unusual passion, which in itself earned Paulo’s attention. Paulo could question Zahir’s comments about the need to instill hope and faith for his prisoners, but he wasn’t paying much attention to that aspect of his story. The allegory of the Child to the prison of Kalianca had fallen on him like a rod of wrought silverstone being dropped on his foot. No matter how big the fortress, no matter how many reserves, without allies to come to the aid of the Fringe the Cenarans would never give up, and the Fringe would all die here. And maybe he was right. Maybe the Fringe would even turn on each other, eventually. The Cenarans have waited for hundreds of years for the Internecion, so they could wait a few more. The Fringe would slowly go mad, starve, and die, with the horde watching casually.
The realization made Paulo’s need to influence the council even more acute.
He leaned over the table and locked onto Zahir’s eyes. “Zahir, I go to the council again today, to plead for assistance against the Cenarans. I need you to vouch for the princess. I also need you to convince them of the conspiracy in Jawhar and the Great Herald’s predicament—that you support checking the Cenarans in Jawhar and Belidor. Lastly, to the extent that you can, I need you to claim that Jawhar will continue to grant the Fringe neutrality. Can you do this?”
Zahir raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot to ask,” he said.
When Paulo didn’t flinch, Zahir just shrugged and said, “I will do what I can.”
It wasn’t a definitive commitment, but Paulo knew it would be pointless to push him. He was either a loyal servant to Jawhar, aligned to Paulo’s cause, or he was a madman. In either case, there were no more words Paulo could use to influence the outcome.
Paulo could only hope that he had gauged the man correctly.
