by David Bokman
But, as fate would have it, Jaio brought himself closer to Samson instead. It happened perhaps an hour after Sam had entered the port, and by this time he had all but given up on his search. Sam had found a bench to sit on while planning his next move, which also gave him a brief respite from all the workers running around. When the Laentarian left the inn, it did not take many moments for him to identify his friend; Samson looked as out of place in the port as a king in a pigsty. “Young Aeni!” the Laentarian exclaimed. His voice held equal parts of surprise and excitement. “What wind of fate blew you out this far?”
“Jaio! The same wind as you, I think. You spoke of travelling far away from here?”
“That I did. And that I intend to. I leave tomorrow, on that ship there,” the Laentarian indicated to the northern ship, “heading somewhere far north to a place I have never heard of.”
“You said we were welcome to come with you. Is that offer still available?”
The Laentarian’s smile widened. “You bring happiness to a dull place, my friend. You are most welcome to join me, both on my journey tomorrow and on my adventures today. May I ask what made you change your mind?”
“You may, but I don’t know if I have a good answer to that. Wanderlust, I suppose.”
“Ah, a most powerful motivator. I shall pry no further. Now, we have fish to catch!”
“We… Sorry, what?”
“If you wish to join me, that is! I have an entire day to get rid of. To begin with, I intend to learn how to fish. And, in the evening, I have been invited to the Sermon of Storms. The fishing I can do alone, but the sermon you must join me for, good friend. I am not brave enough to embark on such a journey alone.”
“I’ll join you for both, I think.”
“Excellent!” The Laentarian brought his arms to the sky in a victorious gesture. “The day is saved.”
Jaio proved as inexperienced in the arts of fishing as Samson. The one thing they did know was that they needed equipment, and reasoned they could probably ask all the necessary questions once they had found a suitable merchant. Luckily, fishing shops appeared to be one of the few things in abundance in the west, and they soon located one they deemed sufficient: Tark & Tork’s Tackle. A shop in surprisingly good condition given its surroundings, which unfortunately meant the two men would not be able to blame their equipment if the fishing proved uneventful. Tark was ill, so they conducted their business with Tork, the son. Despite his young age, Tork had much knowledge about the fishing trade, and was more than happy to share it. He also had a wide array of fishing gear, and probably made sure to sell the most overpriced items to Sam and the Laentarian, but they did not complain; all in all, it did not cost them more than six moons each.
With their rods and lures acquired, the duo thanked Tork for his advice, and set off trying to find a calm place to fish in. This search proved difficult, as the entirety of West Kardh’Ao had woken up by now, and none were too keen on sharing their fishing spot. The rain was pouring down on the port, but Tork had informed them that this would work to the fisherman’s benefit, and they reasoned they could probably find a sheltered place to fish from. Eventually they found an empty fishing spot, but shelter was nowhere to be seen. Close to the edge of the land, in a spot so murky and muddy it would disgust a pig, without any shelter, they found solitude and got to work.
“I have had an epiphany!” the Laentarian exclaimed after a few minutes of fishing.
“What?”
“I do not envy the fishermen. I do not envy them one bit. In fact, I shall make it my goal to never fish again. It is cold, it is wet, and most of all, it is boring.”
He’s not entirely wrong, Sam thought to himself. Even so, if it weren’t for the rain… “I don’t think what we are doing can rightfully be called fishing, Jaio,” he answered. “We are probably more fools than threats in the eyes of our prey.”
Another few minutes passed in silence, save for the continuous downpour of the rain, before Jaio had finally had enough. “Bah!” he spat out, throwing his rod into the murky water. “This toy has brought me naught but boredom and anger. I have half a mind to pay a visit to our friend Tork again.”
Samson could not help but laugh. “That was a good rod you just threw away, Jaio. Perhaps the truth of it is that you are not cut out for this work.” The Aeni retracted his lure and put away his rod. “And I don’t think I am either.”
Jaio looked as bothered by his failed fishing as another man might look if a storm had capsized his boat. “Let us leave this godforsaken spot and find some cover.”
While the west had already been unpleasant before the rain, it had now quickly been transformed into a hell of mud and filth that would impress even Haara himself. And I’d rather visit the God of Death than spend another minute here, Samson thought. The irony was not lost on him, however. All his life, he had lived in a small village where water had been their most pressing concern. Now, he found himself in a city flanked by water both horizontally and vertically, and only wished it would go away. The rain seemed unrelenting, hitting the ground with the fervor reserved for a mortal enemy. Regardless, Samson and Jaio had no choice but to carry on; they would not find a tavern this far away from port.
The two men soon found something else that caught their attention. Between a pair of buildings, lightly obscured from the street, two people were having a loud argument. One of them appeared to be some sort of merchant; he had a cart of wares beside him. The other looked to be a poor man, dressed in clothes that he had probably worn since last winter. The poor man, Sam saw, was brandishing a seax. “Give it up! Last warning!” the poor man hissed.
The merchant looked both scared and annoyed. “The audacity, in broad daylight? The Portsguard has no control over you people, do they?”
“The money!”
If push came to shove, Samson did not have high hopes for the merchant; he looked a foot shorter and four stone lighter than the assailant. “You New Port people have no honor. You think I’m your enemy? It’s the Portmaster you should go after! I hate him as much as you—” the merchant's words broke off into a scream of pain as the criminal’s seax slashed into his shoulder.
“I said last warning!”
“Good sir! Excuse us!” shouted Jaio.
“Stay out of this!”
Instead of heeding his command, the Laentarian approached the two men, giving Sam no choice but to follow. “You are part of The New Port, are you not?”
“I said stay out of this!” The ruffian slashed the air with his seax, but Jaio paid no attention to the weapon.
“If I understand correctly, you hide in the sewers. No judgment, of course, we do what we must to survive. Samson, did we not pass a sewage drain just up the street?”
Sam did not answer.
“A man as fast as you would no doubt have time to disappear into that drain before we had time to get any Portsguard involved. That sounds like a far better outcome than staying here and getting captured.”
“You asked for this!” the poor man bellowed, lunging towards Jaio with his seax. The Laentarian, as unphased as if he was practising with Samson, stepped to the side and walked past his opponent. Quickly regaining his bearings, the criminal prepared to strike at Samson, but found that he had somehow been disarmed.
“You conduct your robberies with this quality of blade? This will not give your organization a good reputation, sir,” said Jaio, observing his newly acquired weapon. This seemed to be all the motivation the thug needed; he pushed past Samson and made a run for greener pastures.
“Guards!” shouted the merchant to no-one in particular. “Seize that man!”
Sadly, no Portsguard seemed to be in earshot, and the criminal quickly disappeared. Neither Sam nor the Laentarian seemed too interested in hunting him down. “Samson, my friend! Are you unharmed?”
“Thanks to you, yes.”
“Ah, it was my pleasure. And are you unarmed?”
“I’m afraid I am.”
; Jaio sighed. “It breaks my heart to have to present such a barbaric and mishandled weapon to you, yet it will have to do. Take this man’s seax, and may it serve you better than it did him. If nothing else, the rust is sure to work better than any toxin I could ever produce.”
With his speech complete, Jaio passed the blade to Samson, and they both turned their attention to the merchant. “Oh, right, thank you, strangers,” the merchant mustered, ripping a piece of his shirt off and pushing it against his wound.
“No trouble at all, friend. Tell me, is it common for these ruffians to strike even when the sun is out?”
“More and more common as they realize the Portsguard can’t do anything about it,” said the merchant. “They do about as good a job at keeping the city safe as I do selling my wares. Speaking of which…”
“You are in no shape to work today, friend. Go home and rest your shoulder, lest you want it to become infected.”
Begrudgingly, the merchant agreed, and let the two men help him pull his cart back to his humble abode. There, they bid each other farewell, and, to their delight, found that the rain had finally begun letting off.
Their afternoon proved terribly uneventful. Discouraged by the bad weather, Samson and the Laentarian spent a long while in Fisherman’s Feast, a basic yet warm tavern. They stayed long after their meal was finished, sharing tales of their adventures and exploits with the locals. None of the locals they spoke to had heard of the rifts, and unless one appeared on their doorstep, Samson did not think they ever would. The locals did have many tales to tell of fishing accidents and the monsters of the seas, though, and told them with great enthusiasm. An old man with a white, bushy beard spoke of a fish he caught in his youth which was the size of a young man, to which the man next to him countered with a fish the size of an ox, to which the first man responded with a slap to the face. Once the fish measuring stories were over, the topic changed to one that seemed all too common in the west: discontent. This time, it was about the lack of respect given to the west. “This city started out as a fishing village,” said Whitebeard. “We in the west built this city, and now the people in the east treat us like scum.”
“Torsten built the city, but we laid the groundwork, yes,” said his friend.
Jaio had heard that name before. If the stories were to be believed, Kardh’Ao was originally nothing more than a small fishing village called Westwater, until this ‘Torsten’ came along. Torsten Kardh had allegedly been deeply involved with The Trade, although it was hard to say exactly how entrenched he was due to his secretive persona. Some six hundred years ago he had come upon the fishing village by chance and seen great potential thanks to its location. As it had been told to Jaio, Torsten had worked from the shadows to expand the village into what it is today, and had done such a good job at it that he was almost revered like a God. Upon his death, the locals had renamed the place to Kardh’Ao, which in the local tongue roughly translated to “Kardh-made”. Other stories said he was a mere fisherman who caught a big fish, and others still said he was nothing more than a myth. “They lack respect, them higher-ups, this Zena woman most of all,” continued Whitebeard. “Not done a day of real work in ‘er life, and ‘er brother is as honest as an eel.”
“Maybe we ought to treat him like an eel!” said the other fisherman. “Roast him and eat him!”
“No talk of coups in my tavern, please,” said the barkeep.
Whitebeard slammed his tankard down on the table. “What they’s done is a coup! Not us! They’s the criminals.”
“Aye, but they’ve got the army, we don’t. Now be quiet and drink your ale.”
Sensing that the mood had soured, Jaio and Samson bid their friends farewell, and continued with their day. To the Laentarian’s delight, evening was creeping ever closer, and with it would come the sermon. Before evening fell, they had enough time to substitute Samson’s seax for a weapon of better quality. While the number of blacksmiths in the west was certainly lower than the number of fishing shops, Jaio eventually found what he was looking for. “You lack the advantage of reach,” he told Samson. “So I am not certain a sickle is the correct weapon for you. No point having such a fine weapon if you will never be able to reach your opponent before he reaches you. I suggest instead…” the Laentarian presented a dirk with a well-sharpened blade and a fine leather grip, “this dirk, which should negate the disadvantage.”
“Underappreciated weapon, that,” agreed the blacksmith. “Eleven-inch blade, capable of far more damage than a normal dagger, but not too tricky to conceal. Used one myself for a while, and served me well. Three suns is a bargain.”
The Laentarian looked as if someone had thrust an eleven-inch blade into his heart. “Three suns? Normally I would barter with you all day, but I fear I do not have the time. We will give you two suns and this seax.”
The blacksmith, seemingly having feared a far longer negotiation, quickly accepted, and handed Sam his new blade. “Its technique is a bit different from my sickle, but we will not have to alter our training too much,” Jaio reassured his armed friend. “But first, we have a sermon to attend!”
Jaio and Samson were not the only ones intent on attending the Sermon of Storms. Even though they made it to the church well before evening had struck, a large number of people had already gathered in and around the building in anticipation. They seemed to be from all walks of life that existed in the port; there were fishermen, dockworkers, merchants, and guards. “Jaio!” hissed Samson. “The whole port is here! What exactly is this sermon?”
Jaio, as was often the case, answered with a smile. “I do not have the faintest idea, friend. But we Laentarians always honor an invitation.”
Thanks in equal parts to Jaio’s agility and Samson’s size, the pair managed to maneuver their way past the human wall surrounding the church, and into the building. Inside, space was scarce, but nevertheless they managed to negotiate a spot for themselves, albeit standing behind the rows of benches. On their left stood a young woman. On their right, next to a guard, stood a thin-faced, long-haired man in his early thirties, surrounded by guardsmen in all four directions. The noblemen are too scared of their own people to come here unguarded, Jaio thought to himself, getting a measure of the guarded man next to him. Yet not even they can stop themselves from coming here.
The sermon did not start for another half an hour. By the time it did, so many people had crammed themselves into the church that it was impossible to move in any direction. Many more squatted outside, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of the action. Amara and two other women, who Jaio assumed to be priestesses, slowly made their way up to the altar. They were dressed in immaculate and intricate blue robes which could be nothing other than religious garbs of Vatin. Three bowls filled with glistening, clear water were positioned at the altar, along with several statuettes and figurines depicting Vatin and other unknown creatures of the sea. “People of the port! Friends!” Even though Amara was shouting, her voice remained soft and controlled. “Once a year, we gather to plead to Vatin. We plead that he takes pity on us and does not lead any storms our way. That time of year is now. This last year has been hard for us all, I know it has. Vatin has not seen fit to reveal his plan to me, but I know there is a reason for the hardship we have faced, and that we will be stronger for it. I may not know how the coming year will look, but I know that we will get through it. Together. No matter how many food ships he decides to take, no matter how many of our loved ones get lost at sea, we will prevail.”
The High Priestess paused for a moment, gathering her breath, and using this opportunity look upon the people who had gathered. “When I look upon all of you, I am filled with hope. Never before have so many attended the sermon. Never before,” she said, locking eyes with Jaio and giving a warm smile, “have I seen so many new faces among us. And never before,” Amara turned her eyes to the guarded man next to Jaio and Sam, “have I seen the Portmaster himself attend the sermon. We are most honored to have every one of you here with
us.”
Samson and Jaio suddenly lost all interest in the sermon. Their eyes were now solely on the man next to them. Him? Jaio thought. This is the Portmaster? It would explain the presence of the guards, but this man did not look like a ruler. Truth be told, he did not look much different from the merchant they had helped earlier in the day, except for the long hair. “It is an honor to meet you, Portmaster,” Jaio whispered. “You are most brave to come here; many of your constituents do not seem to harbor much love for you.”
The Portmaster, not turning his head away from Amara, said, “No blood has been spilled in a holy house since the days of Celie Sharktooth. I feel quite safe.” Even though he spoke in a whisper, something about his voice demanded respect, obedience.
“I shall trust your judgment, of course. My name is—”
“I would like to listen to what the priestesses have to say.”
With a quick bow, Jaio followed the Portmaster’s example, and shifted his focus back to Amara.
“And so,” the High Priestess continued, “let us now begin the sermon. I sense that Vatin sees us, that he is among us today.” He has to be, she thought to herself. He has to be, for all these peoples’ sakes.
⧫ CHAPTER XIII ⧫
The guards all came to a sudden halt. It was as if someone had flipped a switch which made them all battle-ready. Those who were unarmed rushed towards the nearest armory, and those who were armed lined themselves up in a defensive formation, ready to ward off any attack on the premises. “Hey!” Cadwell’s voice boomed across the grounds. “It’s not a bloody attack! It’s one of those earth-holes! Spread out, damn it!”
