by Erik A Otto
Darian brightened, as if vindicated, and his chest puffed out again.
Baldric grabbed Darian’s reins again and turned them both around carefully. When Darian seemed ready to follow obediently, Baldric let go, and they made their way back to the squad in tandem.
Chapter 5
The Naustic
Nala and the Fringe man rode west for the rest of the day. She said nothing to him, nor he to her. When they set up camp, he gave her some doughy bread and a passable broth. When she began eating, he said, “When you’re ready, I can answer your questions. Know this first, though. As Purveyor, I will honor your contract and do you no harm.”
Nala had a hundred questions, but the very fact that he was willing to answer them made her think it was some kind of naustic trap.
The next day, however, the ride became monotonous and depressing. The ravaged countryside and despondent people made her feel lonely, and she couldn’t find any benefit to staying silent. So on a flat stretch of road she recognized as being only an hour from her parents house, she pulled up to the man’s horse. “What did you mean last night when you said ‘as Purveyor’? As purveyor of what?”
He smiled at her. “Purveyor is my title in the Fringe. My role is to collect, analyze, and purvey knowledge.”
“Like a librarian?”
He grimaced briefly. “In one aspect, but there is much knowledge that is not bound in books.”
“I didn’t know the Fringe had any librarians.”
To that he didn’t answer but only pursed his lips.
“So what should I call you? What’s your name?” Nala asked.
“Best to call me Purveyor. I’m not known by other names. It’s how Fringe folk greet me.”
“Why did you buy my contract? Is it because you think I’m a naustic? Because I’m not, you know.”
“There are many reasons, Nala. You will be helping me with odd jobs, a better use of your time than rotting in front of the Old Keep.”
Before she could ask him what jobs he was referring to, he put his finger to his lips and gestured for her to move to the side with him. Looking ahead she could see several horse-drawn carts heading their way. They were led by a ranger with a blue and gold Belidoran sigil on his chest. It looked like they were hauling timbers of various sizes, possibly to help with a rebuilding effort. Nala smiled and waved at them as they passed. The Purveyor, on the other hand, wouldn’t meet their eyes. He looked down, as if ashamed.
They returned to the road well after the party had finished passing by.
“So you still claim to be pious,” he said after some time riding quietly. “How does one stand by such an account after being ejected from the keep and branded a naustic?”
Again he was challenging her faith. She considered not answering, but what did it matter? She was far from the keep, riding into purgatory with this Fringe heathen. Telling him wouldn’t change anything.
“I am pious, only I was wrongly accused of conspiring with a Marked Man.” It was true, although she was also accused of talking about the events at the ruin. He didn’t need to know about that.
“Did you know this Marked Man well?”
“Well enough, but I didn’t conspire with him in any way. We only went to the woods together and found something…interesting. When the monks told me not to talk about it, I didn’t.”
“And yet you were branded a naustic with a sentence of ninety days,” he said with an inquisitive accent. “I see,” he concluded.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” she protested.
“It’s possible, but look at the facts from a casual observer. Maybe if I better understood the situation, I would believe you.” But he looked away from her as if he didn’t care either way.
She decided to remain quiet for a while. Her initial impression of this Purveyor wasn’t a good one.
They travelled farther west, where the ground was barren of trees and brush. The border crossing was approaching. It was something she’d always been interested in seeing. She’d lived in western Belidor her whole life but never been to one.
The road into Niknak was well guarded on the Belidoran side, with a deep moat and wooden spiked wall marking the border. The Belidoran guards paid her and the Purveyor no mind; it was people coming in from Niknak they were concerned with. Nala and the Purveyor crossed the moat over a broad culvert and on the other side were greeted by two slouching Fringe guards. These two bowed their heads to the Purveyor but said nothing else. No greeting, and no questioning. They ignored Nala altogether.
Immediately over the border was a small Fringe encampment consisting of forty or so tents littered about. Some tents were large, bigger than the biggest houses in Aston, even. These Fringe lands were strange. Everything was tarnished or dirty, and in many places there were empty boxes and crates. In other places bundles of silverstone rods, bone or baskets of oval wyg lamps were stacked in big piles. There were only a few Fringe about. When the Purveyor would pass by they would stop and do a low bow.
“Where are all the people? I thought Niknak was heavily populated near the border.”
“It was, mostly full of those engaged in trading operations with Belidor. There were also some of questionable ethics that we had expelled from the center. But the Day of Ascendency had a heavy impact on these people. Many were lost, and others scattered.”
In her mind all Fringe were some sort of outcast or criminal, so she wondered what ‘questionable ethics’ might mean in a community of heathens, but she felt it would be imprudent to ask about that. Instead, she asked, “Why do those that are left all bow to you?”
There was a pause as the Purveyor contemplated the question. “It wasn’t always this way. I suspect it’s because it was I who told them to be wary of the Day, when others told them to ignore it.”
She was beginning to realize that this Purveyor was an important person among the Fringe. “Why would you warn them? You’re a naustic. Why would you believe something written in the Book of Canons?”
There was another long pause. “There’s much you don’t know, Nala. The Day of Ascendancy is not only written about in the Book of Canons but also in the Usaim Doctrine, the Valderan scripture, and even the Cenaran papers, as sparse as they are. These consistencies cannot be overlooked. And…there are other reasons.”
It was another incomplete answer, and Nala doubted that there was any truth behind it. It sounded like the Purveyor would believe in Matteo, but only when it was convenient for him.
Eventually the road widened and the tents multiplied. Then a distinctively round hill rose from the horizon. A smoky haze hovered around the top and a number of more substantial buildings circled the base.
“Welcome to Round Top. We will be staying here for a while,” the Purveyor said.
“Is that the name of the hill in the distance?” Nala asked.
“Yes,” the Purveyor answered, his eyes squinting, “but it’s not a hill.”
The naustics outside the Old Keep were often labelled hogs. She had even been called a “snout” once or twice. They were terms derived from the fact that they were chained up in the mud in what looked like pig pens. It wasn’t so bad; a hog evoked welcome images of playing in the mud.
She would have much preferred playing in the mud to working at Round Top. With her new life she had descended into something much worse than being a hog.
When she wasn’t swatting away flies, she worked at tearing the cartilage and tissue away from the bones in the way the Purveyor had taught her. Then she would polish the bone until it was altogether devoid of flesh. Others around her carved the harvested bone into useful implements or building materials. A few tables down from her, precise silverstone tools were being used to cut geometrical shapes in gelatinous eyeglass chunks harvested from the mound. They would then clean and encase these shapes in a protective coating for shipping. Occasionally she saw Fringe couriers come from the mound carrying a block of especially clear eyeglass, devoid of coloration or veins. These
were transported down the lane to an even more distant workstation. People would follow and comment in awe of the great find.
Every day the workstations had to be thoroughly cleaned of all the rotting flesh. The cleaning didn’t seem to diminish the flies or the stench.
Some jobs she envied. A few tables down around the circumference of the mound was where they would refurbish wyg lamps. They would use tools made of silverstone to peel out the sheets of wornout ingredients from the oval devices, then mash in a fresh batch of some concoction that would enable the “chemical reaction” to work, or so said the Purveyor. This job seemed to have nothing to do with flesh or bone or the mound at all.
The only job that she imagined could be worse than hers was that of the bands of men who hunted down the constant onslaught of bone chuckers assailing the mound. The bone chuckers would come from miles and miles in every direction. Once they managed to catch and kill the animals, they had to dispose of the partially digested flesh in their trailing sacks. Butchering new flesh from the mound was dirty work, but dealing with these vermin was even more repugnant.
She slept in a small tent next to the Purveyor’s much larger and more lavish one. Around Round Top everyone bowed to him, just like on the road. People would come up to his tent and ask him countless questions about new substances found in the mound. It occupied much of his time. He also had to attend meetings with Fringe merchants and officials, sometimes coming back late at night. She knew this because she would often still be awake, crying quietly.
She prayed to Matteo more than she ever had. She prayed for a reprieve from the precipitous tumble her life had taken. She begged for forgiveness for failing as an apprentice, for being cast out as a naustic, and for being indentured to a Fringe man and forced to work in this prison of flesh. She asked why she was chosen by Matteo to follow this path. She could think of no one else so besieged by ill fortune.
That’s not true. There was one person.
She often thought about Sebastian as well. She had some childish hope that, despite his intense devotion to the faith, he would fall for her. It was a fantasy; she always knew he would rise above her to become a Sandalier. But instead, like her, his life took a terrible turn. He’d been cast out and turned into a Marked Man. She had to admit, it was even more of an injustice than her travails, particularly because he was more devoted than she ever was. He had done nothing wrong, whereas she could at least be blamed for being a poor student. And there was no worse fate than being Marked, or so it was said.
The musings about Sebastian sometimes helped her feel less alone. At least one other person under Matteo’s moon was facing adversity with her. Or maybe she just longed for someone to talk to, to complain and commiserate with. The Purveyor certainly wasn’t this person, and she dared not speak with the other heathen Fringe around her.
Chapter 6
The Jailor
Zahir and the princess had taken great pains to plan out their approach into Managash. He was to be a merchant from Judud Jawhar seeking opportunities to open a fishery in Managash. To do so, he would need to charter a ship to survey the local coastal waters. Hella was to be his wife, originally a naïve villager and Sambayan orphan, without a good handle on the native Jawhari language. They wore carefully prepared disguises and practiced the pitch they would make to the shipmasters in advance.
Upon entry into the city, they would first go to Calvek Hayzan. Zahir hoped to have support from Hayzan’s men on the ship, so as to properly influence its course toward Belidor in lieu of returning to Managash.
Zahir had been to Managash twice before. Neither visit had impressed him. On his last journey the town had seemed stark and uncared for, devoid of life and culture. The inhabitants lacked the vitality of Judud Jawhar, and the quiet friendliness of Kalianca.
Managash wasn’t lifeless this time. That wasn’t the word, although it did reek of death.
As they approached, Zahir noticed a broad haze of smoke snaking into the sky. Caravans streamed out from the city along the main road. These caravans were laden with all sorts of goods, from foodstuffs to furniture to livestock. Zahir asked the people where they were going. Some didn’t respond at all. Others said the city was no longer safe. “There had been rioting since the Day,” one woman mentioned to him as she hauled a cart behind her. Many were taking what remained of their belongings and heading to Hasudah, Rabat or other Jawhari cities.
Despite the evident turmoil, the gate was only manned by two guards. These guards seemed to be just as concerned with people coming out of the city as people going in. Perhaps they sought criminals in their midst? They certainly weren’t looking for Hella. They simply motioned impatiently for Zahir and Hella to come inside.
Zahir managed to gain the attention of one of the guards. “Sir, I’m a colleague of Colonel Calvek Hayzan. Can you please direct me to where I might find him?”
“Hayzan is dead,” the guard answered, “killed in the riots after he broke his leg on the Day. Rashid Munjida as well. Usaim Uthman is in charge of his division. You can find him in the Noram Tower. Please keep moving.” He waved them along.
Zahir nodded and guided their horses inside the gate.
The guard’s words gave him pause. Zahir knew something of this Uthman. He was a supporter of Mahmood and couldn’t be trusted. And without help from Hayzan, their plan was precarious at best. Simply getting through the city could be dangerous without military escort.
He could see no other viable options.
They moved through the streets hastily in the direction of the wharf. Zahir kept one hand firmly on the pommel of his sword and the other on the reins of his horse. The princess showed some adept riding, keeping pace with him at every turn. Perhaps there was some truth to the rumor that Pomerian riders were the best in Matteo’s lands.
After passing through the administrative center and by the merchant’s square they saw only a few people about. These people moved quickly, sneaking down streets and casting glances of suspicion and fear. The occasional distant yell could be heard thrumming the air.
Some houses lay in ruins, some smoldered, and one he saw was still aflame, with no one there to douse it. In the more fortunate neighborhoods the houses were intact, but unfriendly eyes glanced out at them between tightly drawn curtains.
As they turned a sharp corner around a nondescript warehouse, they passed an untended pile of dead bodies in military uniforms. There was a smear of blood coloring the cobblestone around them, and a host of flies infested the area.
Zahir resisted the urge to inspect the situation. He knew his corpse might be added to the flies’ feast if he lingered.
A few turns later they came across a shirtless girl standing in the middle of the street, no older than Zahir’s youngest, Shimah. She had mangy black hair and a half eaten piece of dirty fruit in one hand. She didn’t run or even flinch when Zahir and Hella nearly bowled her over.
He pulled the reins of his horse and stared down the child.
It could have been the child, or it could also have been the untended pile of corpses, but he felt uneasy, and he couldn’t bring himself to skirt around the girl. He would freeze like this, on occasion, when he would recall one of the more violent days in Kalianca. When this happened he would succumb to a sort of sensory overload, and he would need time to rest. It was silly, really, and it brought him shame. During these times he had trouble looking into the faces of his girls. He would have to leave Gharam’s embrace, sometimes for hours. But Gharam, she understood him. She knew what he’d been through as jailor. She always took him back willingly, passionately even, when he was ready to return.
“What are you doing?” Hella asked. She had a confused look on her face.
“I’m resting,” he said, still staring at the fearless child.
Hella threw up her hands. “Okay then,” she said.
Several minutes passed this way, and the feeling gradually abated. He kept his gaze on the little girl the whole time. She stared back, finish
ed off her fruit and tossed the pit into the dust.
This child should have more fear, he surmised. Fear can be a good thing. Fear can mean the difference between life and death.
“Boo!” he yelled, and the little girl scampered across the street.
“Well, that was nice,” Hella said.
He ignored her, and they continued on their way.
The wharf wasn’t busy, but it was still active. The military quay at the far end was heavily guarded, with several ships stationed there. Farther down most of the merchant ship berths were vacant except for twenty or so, and each had heavily armed men guarding the vessels. Most of these were private, but four of them looked to be charter vessels. It was toward these that they rode.
At the gate that led to the first charter vessel there was a man with a dark triangular scar lining half his chinbone and crossing up his cheek. The wound looked to be newly formed, perhaps a few days old. This man took his sword out and pointed it in Zahir’s direction. “Go away” was all he said.
Zahir had no choice but to comply.
On the second charter vessel the gate attendant didn’t stonewall them immediately. He was a squirrely-looking man with a lightning bolt of silver hair. “State your business, and be quick about it,” he said.
“We wish to charter a vessel. I’m a merchant from the north, and I would like to explore the fisheries near Managash.”
The man frowned cynically. “How much do you have for such a venture?”
“Two thousand Jawhari notes.” It was probably three times what one would pay, but Zahir wanted to be sure they were taken—and treated well.
The man laughed. “Are you new to Managash? I suspect so. Otherwise you would know that many in the city would pay more than ten thousand to escape. This ship isn’t leaving its berth for less than that.”
