by A Van Wyck
Slightly less panicked this time, he chanced a look around, though he still couldn’t see much, being head and shoulders shorter than everyone else in the crowd
“Hail, priest!” A burly man in an apron called from behind a stall counter where a school of fish was steadily losing their heads to his enormous cleaver.
“And good morning to you!” the keeper returned.
“A blessing, priest!” called a man who passed within arm’s length, balancing a keg on his shoulder.
“Goddess go with you!” the keeper complied with an upraised hand.
“What news, father?” a wrinkled woman, whose toothless gums worked busily around the stem of a long pipe, shouted from where she flipped browning cakes on a hot griddle.
“Just another beautiful day in the goddess’s country!”
“Looks like rain, father,” a fisherman with a squint offered, eyeing the cloudless sky crookedly. “How ‘bout a prayer for fair weather?”
“And deprive the farmers?” the keeper laughed easily. “Never!”
The fisherman guffawed and turned away.
“Here you go, dearie.”
Marco was left staring at the apple the bent old woman who’d just passed them had pressed into his hand.
“Thank you!” he called after her, belatedly, but she and her basket were already hidden by the crowd. He looked around. The keeper was watching him, a smile playing around his mouth.
“Do all these people know you, father?”
“These are faithful citizens of the Empire, Marco,” the keeper explained, glancing around. “They know me as a priest of the Holy Temple, even if they don’t know me personally.”
Marco pointed.
“That man there just called you by name.”
“Well,” the keeper shrugged one shoulder, looking slightly embarrassed though his ever-present smile played around his lips. “I do get around.”
Marco felt himself returning the smile. He stuffed the apple into the pocket of his inner robe and set off after the keeper as they made their way toward the docks, occasionally catching glimpses of the masts and rigging of tall ships as they appeared above the heads of the crowd and the tops of buildings. The great stone piers of the Imperial harbor slowly hove into view. From his lessons with mother Phintan, he knew that the great harbor dwarfed every other construction in Tellar except the Temple and the Imperial Palace. Although it was difficult, he cast his eyes beyond the sweeping expanse of stone. He’d seen the sea, of course, from the walls of the Temple. But he’d never actually been this close before. It looked a lot less green from afar.
He gawped at the ships tied up along the pier. Some were sleek, their masts raked backwards and exuding a sense of speed. Others were great, wallowing tubs, made to carry as much cargo as possible. He didn’t know enough about ships to know which ones were local and which weren’t but some were so blatantly exotic they were impossible to miss. He spotted one with ribbed sails, lavishly painted to depict animals in a green forest. Recognizing the form of the great striped cat from the pages of a Temple bestiary he’d read, he guessed the vessel hailed from the Jade Islands. Another strange contraption boasted not one or two but three hulls, joined by thick, arching spans of timber. It lay low in the water and seemed to consist mostly of sail.
“What are those?” he asked, pointing towards a far off, secluded part of the bay where a fleet of enormous ships floated in their own harbor, separated from the rest by a giant sea wall. The keeper looked to where he pointed.
“That is part of the Imperial fleet.”
“They’re big,” he mused.
“You should see them up close.”
As the two of them made their way up the wharf, his eyes held on the distant warships. They outstripped even the largest of the vessels that lay at anchor before him.
“What are those things stuck to their fronts?”
“Rams,” the keeper answered gravely.
Marco frowned.
“Like the sheep?”
“Like the thing you use to bash and sink other ships.”
“Oh.”
“Here we are!”
Marco looked up. He’d been so distracted by the warships he hadn’t paid much attention to where they were going. His eyes widened. They stood at the foot of a gangplank leading up to a massive ship. Three rows of circular windows marched by on the side and he counted six very tall masts. The name picked out in gold on the hull was in Ribald.
“The Isus Spear,” he translated the squiggly script.
“Well done,” complimented the keeper and he ducked his head in embarrassment.
The keeper cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Ahoy, the Spear!” he shouted up the ramp.
A sun browned sailor in knee breeches appeared at the railing.
“Ho, ye sef’,” the man shouted, hindered by his strangely sideways jutting jaw. Marco didn’t recognize the language.
“Permission to come aboard?”
The foreign man cocked his head.
“Wit chor berd’nis ‘ere dan?”
“I’m Keeper Justin,” the priest answered, obviously understanding. “I believe Captain Puttin is expecting me.”
“O, ay? Bedr’n git ye sef op ‘ere dan.”
“Thank you,” the keeper answered, motioning for Marco to follow him as he made his way up the gangplank. The wooden span wobbled alarmingly beneath his feet and he couldn’t help half-extending his arms for balance. The keeper didn’t seem to notice. They were greeted on deck by the same bowlegged sailor.
“Wol wit mah an’ tak ye ta’ cap’n ah wheel.”
“Very kind of you,” the keeper said and they followed the sailor and his swaying walk to the back of the ship and, presumably, to the captain’s cabin. They climbed some shallow stairs to a beautifully engraved but narrow wooden door.
“Wet ye ‘ere,” the sailor commanded and disappeared inside.
“What language was he speaking?” Marco asked while they were momentarily alone. The keeper turned to him in surprise.
“Why, Common, of course.”
Marco blinked.
“That didn’t sound like Common.”
“He has a bit of a harsh accent I’ll grant you,” the keeper conceded.
Marco shook his head in wonderment. The world outside the Temple was turning out to be very interesting indeed. And not half as bad as he’d feared at first. He stood marveling at all the spectacular things he’d witnessed in just the last three quarters of a bell.
The door opened again.
“Cap’n al see ye. Irf yehl f’low mah?”
The sailor cast a curious glance at Marco, who was frowning at him intently.
“Lead on,” the keeper motioned.
They followed the bandy-legged sailor through the portal and down an extremely short passage, barely big enough for the three of them, and to another door. The sailor preceded himself with a brisk knock and entered immediately, conveying them into the presence of the ship’s captain.
“Keeper Justin,” said a deep, rich voice.
Marco looked over at the broad shouldered man in the loose-fitting silk shirt and tight fitting leather breeks who stood by an open cabinet. He seemed to fill up the room. “An’ who be this?” the man asked, sharp eyes alighting on Marco in turn.
“Captain Puttin,” the keeper greeted warmly, walking over to grip hands with the sun darkened seafarer. “This is Marco, my ward and novice of our Holy Mother Temple.”
Marco’s chest swelled at being referred to as the keeper’s ward.
“Ah,” the captain drawled. “And were ye thinkin’ o’ sellin’ ‘im tae me, perchance? I could use me a new cabin boy.” The seafarer grinned rakishly at Marco, rubbing his chin speculatively, manicured nails rasping against fashionable stubble.
Marco’s eyes widened in shock but the keeper laughed goodheartedly.
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to afford him, sir. No, he’s here to examine the new mercha
ndise on my behalf. I regret my vision fails me with old age.”
Marco blinked at that. True, father Justin sometimes wore his spectacles when reading but, as far as he knew, there was nothing wrong with the keeper’s eyes. And besides, Heli glass was famed as the finest anywhere and the city chapter’s lens makers were true masters. There was no ailment of the eye that could stop a man reading if armed with Heli-made glasses.
“Too much starin’ intae books in the firs’ place is what’s done ye in, priest.”
“No doubt.”
“Ver’ well.”
The captain turned back to the cabinet and extracted quite a large wooden footlocker, which he carried over to the table, which was itself bolted to the middle of the cabin floor.
“’Ere ye go, then,” he invited. “Ye can use me desk.”
The keeper reached into the sleeve of his robes and held out a rolled scroll to Marco.
“This is the list of texts already in my possession,” he explained, handing it over. “Go through the contents of the chest and take anything you find interesting.”
“Yes, father,” Marco acknowledged, overawed that the keeper would entrust him with such a large responsibility.
“In thae mean time,” the captain put in, “if ye’d care tae follow me, priest? I’ve got somethin’ in me hold I think ye’d find interestin’.”
The keeper nodded.
“Come find me on deck when you’re done,” he said to Marco and disappeared out the door after the captain.
And then, quite suddenly, Marco was alone. He looked around at the sturdy construction of the captain’s cabin, littered with charts, various instruments of brass and wood, scattered coins and a lone piece of chalk. Without the captain in it, it seemed somewhat oppressive. Shrugging off the uncomfortable feeling, he got to work, setting down his scribe’s board and unrolling the keeper’s list on top. It was quite lengthy. He knew the keeper had said he should take anything he found interesting but that seemed like a bad idea. He considered that he should probably go through the list first to get a general feel for the kind of thing the keeper was interested in. A little while later, he thought a list of all the things the keeper wasn’t interested in would have been a shorter read.
He turned his attention to the footlocker, opening the simple clasp. He drew out the first of the texts – a proper hide bound book, no less – and read the title.
The Migratory Birds of the Greater Ren.
He shook his head and placed it out of the way to his right.
The next was a scroll made up of bound wooden lathes. Runic letters had been seared onto the pale wood. There was no title and deciphering the old Hidchi dialect wasn’t easy. It shared only its roots and basic grammar with modern Hidchi and he only barely understood enough of that to read it. Almost every third or fourth word was a complete mystery. But he pieced together enough to deduce it was a rambling list of ingredients and instructions. It might have been a recipe for someone’s grandma’s famous fish stew if not for the horrible depictions underscoring the words. Some kind of slavering, horned beast, cruel eyes staring from above an eagle’s beak, bursting from the chest of a prone man. He put that one aside on general principle.
A book of Renali fairytales for children followed suite. So did a big volume dedicated to the foot and mouth diseases of sheep in some place he’d never heard of.
He smiled as he picked up the next scroll. The title read, A Treatise on the Neglect of Technology. He placed it in the middle of the desk. The keeper would want to see that. The Re-emergence of Magic by P. Lorant, a Renali volume, and A Philosopher’s View of Religion, also joined that illustrious pile. He hesitated briefly before adding a Purlian scroll labeled Properties of Poisonous Blue Vein Cacti, doubting that blue veined cacti existed anywhere beyond the Purlian deserts. But there were two other texts on venomous plants and animals and general alchemy on the keeper’s list, so he ended up adding it.
He worked his way through the rest of the footlocker but didn’t find anything else of interest. Though he did turn over another Purlian volume, The Recollected Adventures of Eris Bolk – Master Swordsman, twice before putting it in the discard pile.
Finished, he copied the titles and descriptions of the discarded texts down, thinking the keeper might want to have a look for himself later. Then he cataloged the texts they would be taking, stacking them in a neat pile before returning the rest to the footlocker.
His ink bottle restoppered and his scribe’s board beneath his arm, he made his way outside to meet the keeper.
He stepped onto the deck and into some kind of commotion. Two sailors, one of them the bandy-legged man from before, were shouting angrily from the top of the gangplank. The recipients of their anger were two men in official looking uniforms, complete with swords, mail and grey cloaks, who were shouting back just as angrily from the pier. As Marco watched, one of them marched determinedly up the gangplank but halted midway as the crewmen moved together, blocking entrance to the ship. From the furious gesticulating going on, he gathered the argument was about the uniformed men’s coming aboard.
The man on the pier waved his fist angrily. His companion on the gangplank reached for his sword. Both sailors jumped back, setting their feet and grabbing at the short knives on their belts. The uniformed man drew a hand’s worth of steel from his scabbard. The sailors rose up on the balls of their feet in response. Marco’s heart was racing. Unless someone did something right now, there was going to be violence–
“Hold there!” bellowed a commanding voice.
Everyone froze.
Captain Puttin rose perilously into view, climbing the steps out of the cargo hold, the sun glinting gold off his earrings. Marco sighed in relief at the sight of Keeper Justin, climbing one step behind the captain.
“What in blazes is goin’ on aboard me ship?!”
“Cap’n!” the sailor from earlier called, launching into a brief explanation, or possibly accusation, so garbled by his atrocious accent that Marco could make no sense of it.
“An’,” the captain continued in his leisurely drawl, nearing the side with the keeper walking sedately a few steps behind, “what business brings the city watch tae me ship? The docks’re the jurisdiction o’ the port authority if ‘m no’ mistaken.”
This question was directed at the uniformed man on the gangplank.
The watch? He’d heard of them, of course. They were the general peacekeepers of the capital city. He’d never seen one before though. There was no call for them inside the Temple walls.
“Sir,” the watchman at the foot of the plank stepped forward. Marco was surprised to hear a woman’s voice. “We were told at the Temple that Keeper Justin Wisenpraal could be found here, sir.”
Hearing this, the priest stepped up to the rail beside the captain.
“You heard correctly, lieutenant,” he called, taking in the woman on the dock. “What can I do for you?”
“Sir!” There was an undertone of relief in the watchwoman’s voice, though her partner on the gangplank did not relax his wary watch of the two sailors. “Commander Grayston asks to see you at your first possible convenience, sir.”
There was no mistaking the meaning of “first possible convenience” when uttered in that tone of voice. She was asking though. The city authorities did not command the Temple or its members.
Frowning, the priest turned to his host.
“It would seem I am needed elsewhere, captain.” He held out his hand. “Until next time?”
“Indeed,” the captain said, gripping the priest’s hand. “Take care o’ yerself,” the seafarer added, casting a sidelong glance at the waiting watchmen.
“Are you done?” the keeper directed at Marco, who nodded mutely.
“I’ll hav’ yer purchases delivered tae the Temple,” the captain assured them.
The keeper smiled his gratitude and turned toward the gangplank.
“Gentlemen?”
The two sailors straightened reluctantly
. One spat pointedly over the side as he turned away. The watchman on the gangplank bristled.
“Noran!” the lieutenant shouted warningly from the pier.
The irate watchman growled but released his grip on his sword, turning to walk stiffly back down the plank.
Motioning Marco to follow, the keeper started down as well.
“Now, lieutenant,” he asked when they were all standing on the stone dock. “What is all this about?”
“Commander didn’t say, sir.”
The keeper cocked his head to the side.
“The commander didn’t say, lieutenant? Or the commander didn’t need to say?”
The blockish woman chewed her lip, considering before she spoke again.
“Reading, sir.”
The keeper’s eyes widened. He looked meaningfully over his shoulder at the ship.
“And was there no one else available at the Temple, lieutenant?”
“Commander said it was you or no one, sir.”
The keeper’s expression seemed to close. He turned to give Marco a fleeting, unreadable look and seemed to come to some kind of decision.
“Lead on, lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” the watchwoman said, turning to march quickly back the way they had come.
They fell into step behind the thickset woman, her partner, Noran, bringing up the rear. No one spoke. The two watchmen wore identically blank expressions and the keeper’s usually serene face bore a frown.
Reading, the lieutenant woman had said. Could she have meant a Reading? He glanced at the keeper. True, the keeper was a very gifted empath – the most talented in centuries, some whispered. That was partly the reason why Marco wanted so desperately to follow in the keeper’s footsteps as a streamer, since he couldn’t as an empath. Being one was strictly a born talent and could not be taught. It was also a mandatory endorsement to the priesthood. The Temple gathered all strong empaths to itself, ensuring that none would use their gifts without the benefit of Helia’s law and guidance.
