by Erik A Otto
The merchants were often tight-lipped, but the Fringe would of course fawn in front of the Purveyor. She sometimes wondered if the Fringe people weren’t naustic but rather worshipped the Purveyor as a false god.
Not everyone they passed were merchants or Fringe. Other people, whether nobles, priests or guild members, would watch them with disgust, and some would spit at them. She didn’t recall this kind of behavior on the great roads before. It used to be the Fringe were simply ignored by the more privileged in Belidor, but now there was a greater animosity, perhaps brought about by the Day.
Of those they did speak with, she was astounded at how many people knew of Sebastian, or the “Truthseeker” as they called him. He was a popular subject of conversation, almost a legend, but not in a good way. He was the expelled apprentice who claimed to speak truth but spoke only lies. He was the insane heathen who sought the oldest Book of Canons at the top of the Snail Mountains. Not all spoke of him with negativity. Some claimed he was simply a lost soul or a misguided priest, but these were the minority.
And of course, no one knew where he could be found.
She often wondered if the Purveyor was swayed by the opinions of these travellers, and so when they were riding through a broad swath of corn stalks in eastern part of Belidor, she asked, “Are you interested in meeting Sebastian?”
“I am, actually,” the Purveyor responded. “You would be surprised at how much you can learn simply from talking to well-traveled folk, and this man will be more travelled than most, I’m sure.”
“Would you have come with me to find Sebastian if it wasn’t part of the deal?”
He smiled thinly and said, “I’m interested in Sebastian, but we aren’t picking wildflowers on a sunny afternoon here, Nala. This is dangerous, and I have many other pressing matters. No, I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t part of our agreement.”
They rode past an odd farmhouse on their right. It was unusual because the farmhouses in the Belidoran prairies tended to all looks similar: rectangular structures with long porches in the front, and tiled roofs with only a slight slant to them. This one also had a large boxy structure jutting out from the roof.
When they were closer, she realized what it was. The boxy structure was actually a guesthouse that had been poorly moored. It had been pulled from the ground to land in a tangle of loose mooring lines, upside down on the main farmhouse, roof against roof. The proprietors must have taken care to moor the main home properly but been lax with the guesthouse.
It had been forty days but still its legacy was evident, still the Day’s wake could be felt across Matteo’s lands.
In the evening they made camp near a cave close to the Great Ocean. It was a remote place, little used, but comfortable enough—a place she imagined Sebastian could have hidden on his quest. It was just a fanciful thought, for there was no sign of him, but it made her think more of his plight and the perceptions people had of him.
What could prompt a man to run so far from home, to seek out these dangers rather than a quiet and humble existence? And how could he become so shunned by a whole nation, by a whole host of nations?
The Purveyor was diligently setting up their tent for the night, splaying it out on an area slightly raised from the damper ground. Then he pulled out the dead hen they’d bought from a farmer along the road. He started plucking feathers and butchering it for the fire.
“Purveyor, do you believe Sebastian is honest, or do you think he might be lying like most of these people say he is?”
As was his way, the Purveyor took a moment to collect himself before responding. “I’m one that believes he is honest, Nala. I believe that your reports are accurate about what happened to him. Men of ill mores can spread stories like the ones we heard earlier today.”
“But why?”
“It’s a good question. One thing you should always do is assess why. In this case the nature of the stories is the tell. These tales associate Sebastian with deadly beasts, and they label him a liar, a dangerous liar, in fact, one who will trick you, steal from you and undermine your faith. The key ingredient of all these narratives is fear. Fear is the mask of the dishonest man. He fabricates fear to distract from uncomfortable questions.”
Sometimes when the Purveyor spoke she would find herself reeling for many minutes after, trying to tease apart his true meaning. That’s what happened here. Maybe it was his way of shutting her up? “What uncomfortable questions?” she finally asked, after stewing on his words.
The Purveyor glanced at her and waved his hand dismissively. “You wouldn’t want to know, Nala. It’s complicated, relating to what I said about the bone chuckers. And while the bone chuckers you may find amusing, I’m quite sure this one you would classify as blasphemy.”
“Maybe, but I still want to know. I did tell you everything I know about Sebastian, so I deserve to know what you think about him—and about what happened to him. I mean, look what happened to me. I was cast out as a naustic. Whatever your theories, it may have some bearing on me as well.”
The Purveyor had a flint in his hand and was about to light a small pyramid of wood and dried moss he’d prepared. Instead he stopped to think. He sighed and seemed to show some resignation, as he did when she so often overwhelmed him with questions. Nala enjoyed hearing his internal contrition, as it felt like she had achieved a small victory.
She took the opportunity to relish the moment, for she knew his answer was likely to be too enigmatic for her to understand.
He began slowly. “When we camped outside of Pyros several days ago, I mentioned some aspects of the theory. The information you’ve given me has been helpful in this regard, I must admit, so I suppose you do deserve to know my thoughts.”
He set down his flint and gave her his whole attention. “Your point in our last discussion—about the Palido plague—is critical to understanding. The first question is, is Palido a related phenomenon, and second would be, if so, why isn’t it being addressed by the transfer of nutrients from the bone chuckers? I believe it is a related phenomenon that’s caused by a lack of nutrients. You see, Palido is fundamentally a nutrient deficiency, different than a common cold or flu. Are you following?”
“Yes, I think so. You’re saying that people who have Palido aren’t getting enough of these nutrients. And you think…there’s some unnatural system of providing these nutrients that isn’t working, but it isn’t the bone chuckers?”
“Exactly. I believe this system is distinct than the one for vegetation. Eating this vegetation isn’t enough for people and animals, since we don’t absorb enough of these nutrients second hand. I believe there has to be a more robust way to get us what we need, and the easiest way would be through the watershed.”
“Wait, what does this have to do with what happened to Sebastian—with what happened to me?”
He raised his hand. “Patience, Nala. I’ll get there. Do you want me to explain?”
She nodded and tightened her lips.
He continued, “There is a little-known Fringe Arcana theory that suggests that the supplements come from the sky, in the form of the Red Rains. They reestablish the nutrients in the soil, and these nutrients in turn get absorbed by us through our water sources to resolve any deficiencies not addressed by the bone chuckers.”
“But that makes it sound like the Red Rains are actually good for us.”
The Purveyor shrugged. “There are indeed few who believe the theory. Even among naustics in the Fringe, most do not believe.”
“Well, I’m not surprised—it’s crazy. Everyone knows the Red Rains are a terrible omen, the blood of Matteo.”
The Purveyor didn’t respond, so Nala asked, “Why do you believe this theory?”
The Purveyor said, “I have been researching questions like these for many years, and I believe it is a plausible hypothesis, not quite a theory yet.”
Nala didn’t know what a “hypothesis” was but guessed that the Purveyor suspected it to be true. The Purveyor often
sounded unhinged, and using words like that wasn’t helping him. Maybe she should tell him what he sounded like? “Seems like a fairy tale to me,” she responded instead, not wanting to offend him.
“And why do you believe that the Red Rains are only a bad omen, or the ‘Blood of Matteo’ as you say?”
“Because it says so in the Book of Canons, of course.”
“The Fringe Arcana is a book as well.”
“Ha.” Nala laughed at his ridiculous argument.
“But I don’t believe everything that is written in books, Nala. Which is why I look for evidence and observations to support any hypothesis.”
“And what kind of ridiculous evidence do you have?” Nala was really interested to hear what he would conjure up.
“Well, what it hinges on is the second part of the theory, which involves the gargoyles.”
Nala laughed even louder. “Oh, there’s a second part, and I’m sure it does,” Nala said sarcastically, “and don’t forget magical pellets and flying to Matteo’s moon. Make sure to include that.”
“Do you want to hear the evidence?” the Purveyor asked.
“Sorry, yes. I must admit this is entertaining,” Nala said.
“What do the gargoyles do to their victims?”
“They terrorize and kill them.”
“No, there has not been a documented death for many hundreds of years, not even in the Book of Canons. What the gargoyles do is take blood, and remarkably little. Most people could deny this, but you cannot.”
As far as she knew, what he said was true. Nothing really happened to Sebastian other than having a small cut on his arm. He had her there.
She waited for him to continue.
“The hypothesis is that the gargoyles assess the nutrient composition of the blood to see if there are any dietary deficiencies. If they notice any deficiencies, it triggers the Red Rains, and voila, the deficiency is rectified. Over time, of course.”
It was sounding more and more preposterous. How would a gargoyle assess the nutrient composition of someone’s blood? It was a horrific monster. She frowned and shook her head. “This is a nice story, Purveyor, but if that’s your so-called evidence, I think I will stick to the Book of Canons.”
“You are quite right, Nala. It’s not evidence but rather an anecdotal explanation. No, the evidence is the fact that every nation that has wiped out the gargoyles has become a morass of disease. Look at Valdera, who were one of the worst, having killed off the gargoyles many hundreds of years ago. The Ghost, which is actually a deadlier version of Palido, came a hundred years after they had eliminated the gargoyles. The deficiency was so great that it wiped out the entire nation. In Sambai, the gargoyles weren’t eradicated as early as Valdera. It was about a hundred years later. As a result they have been having more and more illness, most noticeably the proliferation of goiters in what I think is a deficiency of a nutrient called iodine. As for Belidor, the gargoyles were mostly eradicated seventy or eighty years ago, and so now signs are emerging, like Palido.”
Nala had to admit that he had at least thought this through, but it was still too ridiculous to even contemplate. “That could be a lucky coincidence.”
“Or it could be evidence.”
“But of course there’s no way to test this theory of yours. It’s a nice story, and a blasphemous one, but that’s all.”
“On the contrary, the test has just been performed. Sebastian’s blood was sampled, the Red Rains came, and now Palido is retreating in western Belidor.”
For the first time, Nala had to stop to consider what the Purveyor was saying. Something like butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She was just talking about his silly theory for the sake of conversation, but he was actually making some sense. The Red Rains did come after Sebastian’s incident with the gargoyle, and indeed Palido seemed to be dissipating near the Old Keep and Pyros, exactly where the Red Rains fell. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen anyone with the symptoms in the last week. No mottled, puffy faces, eczema, or any other signs.
But the Purveyor was shrewd and manipulative, and she knew little of these Fringe matters. There was surely a counterexplanation in the Book of Canons that would refute what he was saying. Maybe if she had studied the Book more, a retort would be easily forthcoming. Sebastian would be able to show the Purveyor where he’d gone astray, she was sure.
She couldn’t help herself from contemplating the Purveyor’s ideas, though. It fascinated her that he could make up such a sophisticated story. He might be deluded, but he did at least have a well-constructed argument, and she could see how it might bring about contentious questions for the Sandaliers. “If you’re right, it means that over time we’ll all die without the gargoyles. Belidor would be doomed.”
He answered plainly, “Yes, that’s true, but I believe gargoyles remain in many parts of our world. Just as you and Sebastian have found one of them, more must exist. In Jawhar there must still be gargoyles, for example, and in Cenara. I suppose they could be brought back to Belidor.”
“So if this could cure Palido, why aren’t you telling everyone about your theory?”
“I’m the first to admit it’s just a hypothesis, even though I believe it to be plausible, but that’s not the reason I don’t think this it a priority. The reason I’m not raising an alarm is because we face much greater perils, and much sooner, than the gradual decline over decades caused by this phenomena.”
“Oh really? Like what?” Nala asked, looking forward to hearing the next zinger.
The Purveyor was quiet for a while, and for a minute Nala thought he wasn’t going to answer. He seemed to retreat into some darker introspection, his eyebrows furrowing. Eventually he said, “There are a number of problems with our world, and some that are accelerating, but what I’m most concerned about is one that is of human origin. I’ve told you of it before. It’s the Cleansing that concerns me most.”
The Cleansing again. There was a sobriety with which the Purveyor spoke that told her she shouldn’t laugh or mock him. The Purveyor was genuinely concerned, and she could tell. Nala felt like she was treading somewhere she shouldn’t, delving too deep into the twisted mind of this heathen.
Nala didn’t pursue any more questions that night. Instead, she and the Purveyor spent the rest of the evening eating and preparing for bed in silence.
Chapter 19
The Jailor
Hella and Zahir both looked forward to a reprieve. The Winter Solstice didn’t require all seven men to sail, but two were hardly enough.
Hella had been mostly listless the day after Zahir had freed them from the Fringe. She performed all the duties Zahir asked of her, but she hovered cautiously when near him, and kept a watchful eye at all times. It didn’t bother Zahir. This was normal for anyone that knew him as the Jailor of Kalianca. Eventually, toward the end of that day, as if it took her mind that long to settle, she stopped acting paranoid.
Then the storm came.
First there were heavy, dark clouds on the horizon. Soon after the occasional squall would hit the ship, and they saw the wall of rain approaching. By that time they’d managed to take down all the sails except one.
When the rain hit it made climbing the mast more difficult. Each step required a feat of concentration on the slippery wooden rungs. Adding to the challenge was the constant rocking as the ship thrashed about over steeper and steeper waves.
It made Zahir feel ill, very ill.
He couldn’t help himself from leaning off the ladder and retching bile onto the deck. He cursed his weak stomach and cautiously descended the few rungs of the mast he’d climbed. There was no way he could tend to the sail in these conditions.
Hella was waiting for him at the bottom.
“I’ll do it,” she said, her face resolute.
He nodded. If they didn’t take the sail down they could be pushed way off course. The ship could even capsize.
She climbed faster than he did, several stories up the mast, and begun
working at the rope. But it was wet and bound tightly. The princess was tough but not nearly as strong as your typical sailor. She couldn’t pry the ropes off enough to untie them, and most of her attention was being placed on maintaining her tenuous grip on the mast.
Another squall hit. The sail caught it and the ship turned. Hella was whipped around and slid off her rung. She managed to grab hold of a rope and climb back up, but she had gashed her arm on the mast ladder rungs.
Zahir cupped his hands and called up to her. “Come down. I have an idea.” There was no point in saving the ship if they were going to crack their skulls on the decking.
After casting a skeptical glance back at him, she came back down the mast.
“What is it?” she yelled through the gusts of rain.
“Come with me. Let’s go inside.” He was feeling sick again. Being inside the ship could alleviate the symptoms.
They held the rails and swayed with each step as they made their way to the Captain’s cabin.
“Well?” Hella asked once inside, her hair was drenched and her arm streaked with blood.
“We need to abandon the ship.”
She gawked. “But why? So what if we go off course. We can always find our way back later.”
“We may lose our bearings, but no, the main danger is that we capsize.”
She looked down, considering his words in earnest.
He continued, “We’re near Thelonia, less than a day away. If we remain on board, it would be difficult to attempt any kind of inspection in Thelos with a suspiciously undermanned ship, and we don’t know what papers to sign or who to bribe. So we would have to abandon ship soon anyway. I would rather take our chances in the skiff, before Matteo has his way with us.”
She looked into his eyes. It wasn’t distrust, or fear, and yet she was gauging Zahir again, testing his mettle. She eventually sighed. “Fine, Zahir. You’ve gotten me this far, and I can see the logic in it.”
