Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  Pembo Sint, ever the weasel, decided to speak up. “We have yet to hear what the Governor of Twelve Towers has to say. It is only fair that we give both sides—”

  “Will you now abandon the construction of the Runeway?” At that moment the man drew his sword, its nearly silent loosing from its scabbard a stark counterpoint to his shouted words, which echoed sharply around Chambers. More than a few were discomfited by the outburst; some were even startled. Yet the moment they were over the shock, many stared in open awe at the blade.

  Yarid found himself among them. That dual-edged sword was unlike anything he had ever seen. From what he could see in this light, it had a matte texture, like fired, unglazed clay … but it was a color unlike any he had ever seen in a sword. Blue as a clear afternoon sky. It was remarkable, so much so that Yarid had to force his mouth shut after a few seconds of gawking.

  Briefly he wondered just how effective such a blade could be. Yarid’s clumsy servants were always dropping his dishes, which shattered with the slightest mishandling. Now that he thought about it, he remembered hearing rumors about an indestructible sword—though of course there was no such thing. He doubted, however, that a man such as this would ever do anything merely for effect, inadvertent showman though he may be. Yarid knew from the short time he had been watching this man that the Naruvian was an immanently practical man. At least when it came to things like clothing and weapons.

  In more abstract matters, he was turning out to be much more foolish and idealistic.

  The Naruvian’s stance, while clearly martial in its intent, was something Yarid had never quite seen before. His feet were planted shoulder-width apart and he held his sword above his head, such that the blade was parallel to his shoulders. His hand gripped the hilt so tightly Yarid felt his own knuckles burn just watching it. The flat of the blade faced the same direction as the man’s drilling eyes. It seemed as if the fact that his sword had a flat texture was all that kept you from seeing your own doom reflected in it.

  Sherin Firnaleos was the first to recover herself. “Enough of this!” She stood and slammed the palms of her hands down on the railing. “You say you will not deal with those who bully you. But what are you doing now? Waving your sword around in a room filled with unarmed people with no one to protect them?”

  The fact that the Sentinels had all left the Chambers suddenly revealed itself in a new light. A few here and there shifted uncomfortably in their seats, evidently not wanting to be in the same room as this mad, blade-wielding Naruvian without any Sentinels.

  Sherin didn’t seem frightened at all. Merely scandalized. “How dare you?” she continued. A trickle of sweat trickled down the curve of her cheek. Whatever she had felt when Rannald made his exit were obviously quashed by the moral raving she exhibited now that there was a scent of violence in the air.

  Much to everyone’s surprise, Tharadis sheathed his side and bowed to her deeply. “I apologize.” He sounded genuinely contrite. When he stood back up, he was staring at her expectantly.

  She got the hint. “As of this time, we have not decided to discontinue the construction of the Runeway.”

  Tharadis nodded. Of course, Yarid mused. A direct answer to his question was all he wanted.

  How often is such a thing sought in these Chambers?

  Gorun leaned over to him, whispered hoarsely, “You’re letting your Lesser brethren seize control of this situation.”

  “Hasty fools,” Yarid said. “And if you think they have control of this situation, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  Gorun sat back with a huff, but he had no retort. He likely felt as out of his depth as many of the others. That was what happened when the ability to comprehend frank speech atrophied from years of neglect.

  Yarid was amused, to be sure. But that wasn’t the only reason he wasn’t taking the reins. Something here wasn’t exactly as it appeared, and the disappearance of the Sentinels was a variable that upset most of Yarid’s predictions. Even Erianna, the proxy, seemed somewhat subdued, as if uncertain how to react.

  Everyone seemed to be wondering what the man with the sky blue sword would do next.

  Yarid settled deeper into his seat with a slight smile.

  They didn’t have long to wait. “All right,” said Tharadis, calmer than his sword-waving a moment ago should warrant. “I have tried to dissuade you from continuing construction on the Runeway by appealing to your sense of justice. That, apparently, has failed. I will now attempt to sway your decision by presenting my second argument.” He raised two fingers, as if his audience were naturally disinclined to count that far without help.

  “And what,” said Councilwoman Frandera, “might that be?”

  Chapter 44: Appeal to Reason

  The Naruvian drew a small roll of parchment from a pouch on his sword belt. “I have here,” he said, voice carrying throughout the hall, “a sealed document from a Patterner from Naruvieth named Larril. Now, I am no Patterner myself, so I can’t vouch for the basis of his claims. He has explained to me somewhat the grave danger that the Runeway presents, but he said the bulk of his findings would only be comprehensible to someone who was an expert on the subject.”

  “Danger?” Pembo Sint, recovered from the last thrashing of his ego, sneered. “Whatever danger are you going on about?”

  Gorun made a gesture with his skeletal, liver-spotted arm, and a thin young man standing in the Pit—one of Gorun’s personal staff, judging by the slashes of green in his garb—rushed forward to retrieve the scroll. Gorun moved his arm again and the man rushed up the stairs. It wasn’t long before he had been admitted to the balcony Yarid shared with Gorun, panting and sweating. Yarid shot the young man a withering look. It wasn’t as if he had run a very long way—not that Yarid could comport himself much better, but he wasn’t a courier. He had people for that.

  Gorun cracked the seal on the scroll and stared at the paper with only a finger’s length between it and his face. Yarid was amazed the old man could still read at all.

  “Patterner Gherao,” said Gorun without looking up from the paper. “Are there any Larrils in your ledger book at the Academy?”

  A portly, balding man with a trim beard, wearing the brown of the Academy Patterners, stepped out of the crowd in the Pit. “No, Greater Councilman Gorun,” he said. “I looked into it earlier in the week when I learned Warden Tharadis would be presenting his case. I can confirm that Larril of Naruvieth is no Academy-trained Patterner.”

  “Thank you, Patterner.” Gorun handed the paper back to his man. Each word he spoke was slow and measured. “We the Council have endowed the Academy of the Higher Sciences with a certain degree of trust—trust that is not easily won. There are certain things that most of us simply can never know, and in regard to those things we must put our faith in those that do.” He shrugged fatalistically. “We are, after all, only human. But tell me,” he said, now solely addressing the Naruvian, “why should we trust this Larril when he has not demonstrated to us the depth of his understanding?”

  “A valid point,” said Tharadis. “Which is why I am not asking you to trust his character. He has told me that all the evidence of this danger is in what you already know about the Runeway and Andrin’s Wall, and all the Patterns surrounding them. He merely spells it out in that letter.” He lifted a hand in Gherao’s direction. “Give it to your man and see what he thinks of it.”

  Gorun seemed to weigh this—though Yarid knew his show of concern hid a search for something to exploit. Gorun sent his man down to Gherao, who read the scroll after fishing a monocle out of his pocket and affixing it to his face.

  He read it several times, frowning more deeply with each passing moment. He looked up at Gorun, holding the paper aloft. “I cannot substantiate these claims.”

  “Is there sufficient reason to hold construction until they can be substantiated?” asked Councilor Jacobs. A hungry light had entered his deep-set eyes. With his investments in the Rafters’ Guild, he was one of the few who
wanted the Runeway to fail.

  Gherao frowned briefly at the paper again. “What he claims is certainly … unorthodox. Some of his ideas are a bit outlandish, I would say. But if they are true …” He withdrew into himself, staring intently at nothing in that way that scholars did. Finally, he seemed to remember that all the most powerful people alive in the world today were staring at him. “Yes, well. He used untested methods to come up with his determination. Even before we could attempt to verify what he says could happen, it would take years of study just to confirm his methods.” The man looked worried.

  “Well,” said Jacobs, “what does he say? And keep in mind your audience.”

  Gherao nodded and wiped his face with a kerchief. “Well, to put it simply, he, ah, believes that the Runeway’s completion will create certain … stresses. He does know quite a bit about certain aspects of the Runeway.”

  “Is that all that difficult?” asked Pembo Sint. “After all, it’s no secret.”

  Gherao cleared his throat. “The existence of the structure itself is no secret. But most of its Pattern is, and that is what he was able to ascertain purely from extrapolation of data available to him in Naruvieth.” What was clear on his face was that it was something he himself could not have done.

  “But what does this mean?” asked Sherin Firnaleos. “Does this show that the Runeway a threat?”

  “It’s certainly irregular—”

  “Allow me to preempt your question, Tharadis,” said Gorun. “I am not swayed by your second argument.” And if Gorun wasn’t swayed, it was unlikely that anyone else in the Greater Council would be either.

  Tharadis glanced around the Hall to see if there was anyone else who had something to say. Yarid could feel the eyes of several other members of the Lesser Council upon him.

  Looking to him.

  For guidance.

  He stifled a smile, sent it inward. Outward, he opted for a mask of compassionate resolve, and stood.

  “You have given us much to think about,” Yarid said. “However, you yourself have indicated that these are pieces of a greater whole. How are we to make any decision at all in the face of incomplete knowledge?”

  “You don’t need complete knowledge, nor will you ever have it,” Tharadis replied. “If you wait until you know everything there is to know about even the most mundane topic, you will never reach a decision again in your life. Which,” he added, “in my view, is preferable to the current circumstances. However, all I intend to do is provide you with sufficient justification to cease construction. If anything I say achieves this, my job here is done.”

  “Very well.” Yarid kept the bitterness out of his voice; sophistry was a strength of his, and he didn’t like it very much when he was beaten in a verbal spar. Not such a bumpkin after all. “Sufficient justification has not been met. Please proceed.”

  Tharadis nodded in acknowledgment without a ripple of anger or frustration on his face. Where does he get his patience? Shores knew that the Council tested Yarid’s often enough.

  “I find this whole matter of four arguments very tedious,” said Sint, not quite under his breath.

  Gorun leaned forward. “I assure you, Pembo Sint, that I would not stop you if you wanted to quit the Council.”

  “Of course not,” Sint said in his most amicable tone, much like a snake hissing in a friendly fashion.

  Tharadis addressed the Council. “I have tried to dissuade you from continuing construction on the Runeway by appealing to your reason. I have presented to you an argument that shows there is reasonable suspicion that continuing on this path is dangerous. You have chosen not to heed my warnings or the evidence presented by a Patterner. Appealing to your reason and sense of self-preservation has failed. I will now attempt to sway your decision with my third argument.”

  Chapter 45: Third and Fourth Arguments

  Iadmit,” the Naruvian said, “that my third argument isn’t a very good one.”

  Pembo Sint leapt to his feet like the avatar of some long-forgotten god of exasperation and cried, “Then why are you wasting our time with it?”

  “In the hope that it isn’t a waste of time. I don’t believe it will convince you, but if there is a chance that it will, no matter how small, I will take it.”

  “You understand,” said Yarid, “that this little preamble doesn’t inspire much confidence.” Despite his words—and the still-sharp humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of this Naruvian—Yarid found himself eager to hear what madness the man had in mind for his next argument.

  “Yes.” Tharadis folded his hands and looked down at them. Silence stretched. All his forcefulness, his strength, seemed leached out of him. He raised his eyes.

  “Deep in the lowlands outside our city is the Wishing Well. It is a place that is important to the history and culture of Naruvieth and explains how Wardens have since governed it.”

  What followed was a story of a small family, sent out into the desert to die by a cruel and vicious Warden who felt threatened by the father’s defiant words. The family prayed to the World Pattern, but instead of saving them, it created a useless oasis around them right before they died. Of course, the way Tharadis told it, the Wishing Well was some great boon to the dying family, but Yarid couldn’t help but see the story for what it was—one of a spiteful world, spitting on the faces of weaklings as they drew their last breath.

  As he told his story, Tharadis appeared … sentimental was the only word Yarid could think of to describe it. Under any normal circumstances, it would have rung false—even more so than the usual lies in the Council Chambers. However, this Naruvian seemed as naive, and perhaps as innocent, as a child.

  Yarid had been a child once. He did not trust the little bastards.

  He could see others going through the same dilemma, rarely-felt compassion and oft-felt skepticism warring on their faces. The Council sessions were typically as regular as ticking of a clock or the workings of some obscure Crafter-made mechanism. Even supplicants like Erianna, bold and strange as she was, did not upset the workings of the machinery; she was merely another piece of it for a time, and her inclusion was an expectation and did not interfere with the course set. This man, though …

  Machines, in order to properly function, could not suffer dilemmas.

  It was time for action. Yarid couldn’t allow this to fall the wrong way. It was time to get the machine working again.

  Once the tale was done, Yarid stood. “I—no, we, all appreciate what you have shared with us today.” He spread his hands to encompass the Council. “We sympathize with the people in your story. It is a hard thing to lose what you hold dear. It is a fate that many of less fortunate in Accord lands have suffered. Business opportunities dry up; homes are lost. Families displaced because of hard times in their area. Many people go without food, a situation that we of the Council of the Wall are desperate to counter.

  “That is why we have come together with the Governor of Twelve Towers to build the Runeway. Time has shown that the public works projects that the Council has undertaken, including the roads,” he didn’t mention how much in the way of taxes it took to build those roads, of course, “have improved the lives of all of our citizens.

  “You ask us,” Yarid continued, “at what cost? I now ask you the same. You come here with the pain of your people. What of the pain of ours? Whose pain is the greatest? And what is best course to relieve such pain? We are convinced that the Runeway is the way, and we are sure that once it has been built and the benefits made clear, our brothers and sisters in Naruvieth will be convinced as well.”

  Yarid had been waiting for this moment. When the other Councilors were closest to recanting was also the time when they were weakest. They are looking for an excuse to return to the familiar, the comfortable. Yarid had made a science of determining when these moments occur, and he had made a name for himself by turning them into moments of strength. Before now, Tharadis had made an interesting, if flawed, case. Now everyone could see the nature
of those flaws. Now they could see that all the man was after was pity, but it was a pity that he was unwilling to return to others.

  Yarid settled back in his seat, feeling more than a little satisfied with his performance.

  Tharadis sighed. “As I said, this was my weakest argument.”

  There were a few chuckles. Yarid felt a sudden surge of anger, though none of it showed on his face. Instead, he wore a knowing smile, as if he had been in on the joke the whole time.

  “I take it this means you haven’t decided to end construction.”

  Yarid merely shook his head.

  “So,” said Councilor Frandera, “is it finally time for the main course of the evening?”

  “Indeed.” Tharadis’s demeanor suddenly became grave. “I had truly hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I have tried to dissuade you from continuing construction on the Runeway by appealing to your compassion. As you rightly asserted, anyone can claim that an action hurts their feelings, but that doesn’t mean that the action was unwarranted. That is why we have justice, to determine the rightness of an action. This rests on your reason, because that is how we determine the facts upon which justice depends.

  “But you have abandoned all of these things. You treat the people of Naruvieth as dogs to be trampled and beaten when they have something you want. You regard them as less than men and women, incapable of taking care of themselves and doing what is right. You regard them as beasts. As sheggam.”

  Protests sprang up instantly at the word sheggam, but Tharadis wasn’t finished. He raised his arm to regain their attention and projected his voice. “I appeared here before in the hopes that we could work together, peacefully and freely, to achieve goals that were in our common interests. No one from Naruvieth, no representatives of its government or private citizens, were present when the Accord was signed. Nevertheless, you treat us as a territory, subordinate to the whims of those who were present. This meeting could have changed our relationship for the better, had you been willing to respect the rights of our people. Since you did not, the government of Naruvieth will cease to recognize any claim to authority over it given by the Council of the Wall and the members of the Accord.”