7.
Rael sits at an ornate oak table directly across from his employer, an Akorite merchant named Pret. Middle aged, Pret keeps his face clean shaven and keeps his dark hair trimmed in the fashion of a bowl, common to Westerners. Most successful Akorites are heavy, if not simply fat. They eat well and many, even the men, conceal the tits of good living under their silk or wool tunics, but this is not the case with Pret. He keeps his body fit and tone, for he says that if his body goes soft, then his mind will be shortly behind it.
Early in the day, Rael had asked if they could speak, and the merchant replied by inviting the Dahken to sup with him. Pret often ate in his own well lit quarters instead of the ostentatious halls and grand gardens preferred by many lords and rich merchants. Servers bring fine stoneware platters featuring slow roasted chickens basted with butter, garlic and other herbs. To the side is creamy, garlic smelling smashed tubers common to Akor. Similar to potatoes, they’re more orange and slightly sweeter.
“My Lord I am sorry, but it is time for me to leave your service,” Rael says contritely.
A fork and knife in hand, Pret looks up from his food in stunned confusion. Seeing no hint of humor or duplicity, the merchant leans back heavily into his cushioned chair and stares at Rael’s face for a long moment. “Why?” he asks quietly, calmly.
“I cannot say,” Rael replies honestly. “I just simply need to leave.”
Pret sits forward again and begins to tear at his chicken with the silver fork. “I’ve come to rely on you, Rael. I really hate to lose you. Perhaps you are going to my competition? If it’s an issue of pay…”
“No,” Rael replies more firmly than he meant. “No, it is not an issue of coin. It is not other employment I seek.”
“Always a man of few words,” Pret muses, again peering into Rael’s face. “Rael, I don’t know what race of man you are. I’m not familiar with your people or from where people with your skin come from, and I’ve done business with all colors of men. But I do know what kind of man you are, and I know you’ve never lied to me. If you must go and you don’t know why, I believe you. Should I expect you to return?”
“I do not know,” Rael replied.
“Know that my door is always open to you. That is how I pay my loyal servants,” Pret says. Receiving a nod from Rael, he asks, “Do you know to where you’re headed?”
Rael’s face takes on an aspect of frustrated confusion, and he takes his eyes from the merchant lord to stare into the distance slightly off to the right. Of course, he can see nothing beyond the stone of Pret’s eastern wall. “I wish I knew. I must go east, but I do not know where or how far.”
“You’re haunted by something, Rael,” Pret observes. “But perhaps I can offer some fair tidings. I must also head east in a few days. I have to travel to Martherus to complete a deal with a lord there. Travel with me as the final terms of your employment. I will pay you well, and when my business in Martherus is complete, we shall go separate ways as friends.”
Unable to find flaw in Pret’s logic, Rael silently nods his assent.
* * *
As a boy, Rael had heard about the great cities of the Shining West, how beautiful and powerful they looked. He’d heard of paved roads and huge buildings made of fine marble and granite with silver and gold accents. He’d heard of mighty castles and their towering battlements and of the great walls that protected them. Somi had been nothing of the sort, but Martherus… Martherus lives up to every boyhood ideal of what a city should be. He has never seen anything so great, so impressive as this place. Even Theron in Akor with its palatial estates and finery amazes not so much.
Pret had selected accommodations for his party well ahead of time, for apparently he uses this particular inn exclusively in his dealings in Martherus. The Green Gourd, named so for the pale green limestone used in its construction, is a massive three level establishment. A rich common room containing inhabitants who do not appear so common takes up most of the lower level, the rest consisting of a well-stocked kitchen and a semi-exclusive taproom. Rael finds the sleeping rooms rich and luxurious in sharp contrast to the other inns in which he has stayed in years past. Plush cotton mattresses with mahogany head and footboards, clean silk sheets and basins of marble adorn every room. Rael has never slept as deeply as he does that night.
In the morning, Rael dresses plainly in a wool tunic and breeches, for his sword and chain mail are unneeded in a business deal with a Lord of Aquis. After a fine breakfast, he escorts Pret through the great city, or rather, the merchant leads Rael as he gawks open mouthed at the wondrous buildings of Martherus. In an hour’s time, they stand before a miniature castle that gleams brightly of white marble in the morning sun. Heraldic symbols of Martherus, Aquis and Garod adorn it, and a forty foot tall statue to Garod almost as tall as the castle itself stands outside. The main entrance, double doors of a dark hardwood and banded with iron, stands ajar to admit entry to any who pass by. Inside, they find an area in which to worship that is no different from any of Garod’s other temples, except for the sheer size of it at well over four thousand square feet.
A thin, short man robed in plain white robes shambles quickly toward them upon their entry. He is clean shaven of both face and head, a task Rael would never dare undertake for the pure maintenance of it. It is hard enough to keep one’s face clear of a beard; he cannot imagine how hard it is to keep one’s head smooth.
“Lord Pret I presume?” the robed man asks in a nasally voice. “My Lord commanded me to bring you to him. He awaits your arrival. Might I ask you to follow me?”
As quickly as he had come, the man turns around and strides through the middle of the temple. Neither Rael nor Pret had expected such an abrupt action from the man, so they find that they are already fifteen or twenty feet behind before they start to follow. The two men rush to close within a comfortable distance.
“Your name?” Pret asks of the man’s back.
“My name is unimportant.”
“You serve Lord Pagus then?”
“I am an Acolyte of Garod, and I serve Him as I am told,” their guide replies as if all questions are now answered. He leads them through a door in the temple’s rear and down a crisscross of halls. He stops at a set of double doors, identical to those that lead into the temple, though much smaller. Two plate armored men flank the door, and their surcoats and shields present symbols of Aquis and Martherus.
“Lord Pret of Akor,” the acolyte announces, and the guards open the doors in response.
Grand decorations furnish the room beyond. It is divided into three sections by lode bearing pillars, for it is one great room when it should be several. In the back, Rael sees the largest bed he has ever seen anywhere, even in Pret’s own chambers, and he does not doubt its softness. To the right is a marble tub, ten feet across, and a beautifully carved dining table with four matching chairs, all made of ebony. Standing before them in the room’s main section is a twenty foot long table of elm, perhaps, and a dozen matching chairs. Highly detailed tapestries with brilliant colors hang around the room such that the walls can barely be seen, and plush carpets and obscure animal skins cover the floor. With no windows to the outside air, the room is well lit by torches that glow with an unflickering white light and give off no smoke.
As they follow the acolyte into Lord Pagus’ grandiose chambers, one last decoration catches Rael’s attention. Against one of the marble pillars and encased in a rectangular prison of glass stands a gleaming suit of plate armor. While plain, its workmanship is truly flawless, and it appears to have never been in battle, for not a scratch mars its surface. A rather plain double edged longsword leans in the corner of the glass box, and a medium sized kite shield with a blue gemstone the size of a man’s fist lay at the armor’s feet. Rael stares at the armor and sword as if enthralled, perhaps for the odd blueness of the steel, as he and Pret follow the Acolyte to the long table.
“My Lord, the merchant and his associate have arrived,” the acolyte says.
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Rael snaps out of his trance and focuses on the man sitting in a chair at the end of the table. The chair itself matches the others in make, excepting for its seven foot high back. Lord Pagus wears silk robes of the purest white that cling to the powerful, rigid frame underneath. Rael cannot determine his age, as his head and face are smoothly shaven like his acolyte’s, and the priest’s jaw, chin and forehead are sharply defined and bold. He has the appearance of a fighting man, though he wears the robes of Garod’s priests.
“I did not realize Lord Pret intended to bring an associate,” Pagus replies without looking up from the mountain of parchment on which he writes. “It is of no matter. You may attend to your other duties now, Hal.”
As the acolyte bows and exits the room, Pret and Rael wait patiently for the priest to acknowledge their presence. After a moment, Pagus sighs and pushes his work to one side of the table. He stands from his chair and smiles warmly as he looks at Lord Pret, but his hard gray eyes do not share the emotion.
“Welcome to Martherus, Lord Pret,” he says. “I appreciate you coming the distance to finish these affairs. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
The men clasp arms as if old friends, and then Lord Pagus looks over Pret’s shoulder at Rael. The warm smile vanishes suddenly, and the priest only stares at the Dahken, dumbstruck as if the specter of a relative long since passes hovers before him. He almost whispers, “What is the name of your associate?”
“This is Rael, one of my best men,” Pret answers as he searches the priest’s face. “I intend to release him from my service once we conclude our agreement.”
“Best men,” Pagus repeats. “What does he do for you?”
“Occasionally Lord Pagus, a man in my position has uses for a sword.”
“Indeed. I am sure he is able,” Pagus replies, his voice still low. He seems to shake off the trance and asks with a cold smile, “Shall we sit and discuss the final terms then?”
As Rael takes a chair to Pret’s right, he notices that the priest’s eyes never leave him. He instantly realizes that he may have made a serious mistake. He should have asked with what manner of lord the agreement was to be made. Had he known Pagus is a priest, he may not have agreed to accompany Pret on this final task. From what Rael remembers in his reading, Garod’s priests warred upon the Dahken at the end of the Cleansing. That he sits here now is most unwise, and yet, it feels as if lightning hits every nerve in his body when he notices that the longing to travel east is gone.
“Rael what?” Pagus asks forcefully, his voice pushing away Rael’s thoughts.
When he does not answer right away, Pret interjects, “Rael hasn’t a second name. His people apparently don’t see the need for one.”
“And what are your people, Rael? I am not sure I have ever seen the likes of you,” Pagus replies quickly. His eyes, gray and hard as steel feel like lances straight into Rael’s soul.
“I hail from a city named Somi, across the Narrow Sea,” Rael lies, and it is a lie he has told so many times that he almost believes it in a way.
“You neither look nor sound like a Tigolean,” states the priest, flatly.
“Regardless, that is where I am from,” Rael replies, and Pagus falls silent for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought.
“If I may, Lord Pagus,” says Pret, breaking the silence. “I’d like to begin the final negotiations.” This is the part of Pret’s business where Rael’s eyes tend to glaze over and he half falls asleep, for he has no interest in understanding the complicated mind of the merchant. The merchant lord, though baffled by Pagus’ reactions toward Rael, aggressively pursues his own ends, and it seems that the priest can do nothing but accede to all of his wishes.
Rael feels the danger in Pagus’ sudden preoccupation, but at the same time, he knows he has been led here for a reason. He’s fairly certain that reason stands encased in glass against a marble pillar. But why this particular suit of armor and it’s odd blue steel? He catches himself staring at it more than once as Pret talks, and he hopes that Lord Pagus has not noticed the same.
Within an hour, the negotiation ends with Pret beaming and thanking Lord Pagus heartily for agreeing to do business. Rael ignored most of the conversation, as he usually does with Pret’s dealings, but he knows when the merchant has struck a very profitable bargain. They stand from the table with courteous bows, though the priest lords does not deign to repay them. Nor is there the clasping of arms as friends as when they met.
As they begin to leave, Pagus calls after them, “Master Rael, perhaps you would dine with me this evening? I might have use for a fighting man with your… talents.”
Rael turns back toward the priest, who still sits at his long table with a twisted mouth as if something distasteful sits in his mouth. The Dahken half bows and lies, “I apologize, Lord Pagus, for I intend to leave Martherus immediately upon collecting my pay.”
“Indeed,” Pagus replies, a hint of venom in his voice, and he returns his gaze to the length of his table.
8.
Rael sits on the West’s most comfortable mattress, the weight of his body and chain armor causing him to sink deeply into the plushness. Pret paid him promptly, as always, and bid him farewell with a warm embrace. “My door is always open to you,” the merchant had said. Rael has not moved from his position in nearly an hour, lost in quiet consideration of his predicament. He actually has no intention whatsoever of leaving Martherus. He knows he has been led here by his blood for a purpose, and he’s sure that purpose is encased in glass in Lord Pagus’ chambers. But what to do about it? Rael knows that he has no right to the armor, and he is no thief to be certain.
A hard rapping at his door breaks into Rael’s thoughts, and he looks at it with some consternation. He stands, and even before he opens it, he wonders if perhaps Lord Pagus has again invited him to dine. As he cautiously cracks it, an armored soldier roughly pushes it all the way open. The armed and plate armored man follows the door inside, and three more stand in the hall beyond. Rael glances briefly at his sword; it still lays on the bed, his belt threaded through the sheath’s clasp.
“Lord Pagus desires your presence,” he says curtly.
“I have no business with Lord Pagus,” Rael replied in the same tone.
“Lord Pagus has commanded that I’m to take you by force if necessary, Master Rael. My Lord is not used to people dishonoring his requests, and I promise that you will not reach your sword before we are upon you.”
Rael sees the lack of sympathy in his gray eyes. It’s a color common to Westerners, but this man has the uncommon resolve of a professional soldier. “Very well,” Rael assents, and he turns toward the bed, “Allow me to gather my effects.”
“They are unneeded for now, but one of my men will collect them,” the soldier replies. He turns half way and motions toward the hall behind him.
Rael considers making a leap for his sword, but thinks better of it when he sees that all four soldiers are ready to attack. As he moves past the leader, he asks, “Will I survive the night?”
“I’m not privy to My Lord’s plans, but I suppose that depends on you,” the captain says as he joins Rael in the hall.
As promised, one of the rearguard gathers Rael’s sword, shield and purse and retakes his place at the rear as they march down the hall toward the inn’s common room. The voices and commotion normal to such a place cut off immediately when Rael and his newfound company pass through the room. Rael finds Pret in the crowd; it seems the merchant was drinking and laughing amiably with other merchants, but now he stares after Rael with concern. Rael simply shrugs by way of reply, and the group leaves the inn. Before long, they have returned to the very chambers Rael had left only a short hour or two before.
“Thank you for joining me on such short notice, Master Rael,” Pagus says crisply.
The lord, a priest of Garod, sits in his grand seat at the head of the table fully armored in a suit of beautifully polished plate armor. The armor appears as silver with ro
se shaped accents of gold across the chest and up the arms, and it shines in the room’s white light seemingly more brightly than the sun. A matching visored helm and set of plated gauntlets rest upon the table to Pagus’ left, and a four foot long mace leans against it to his right. The head of the mace, instead of a large spiked ball as is the norm for such weapons, is shaped in the manner of a steel thorned rose. The workmanship of both the armor and weapon captures Rael’s attention so fully that he ignores the diverse meal spread across the table and the fact that Pagus’ men do not leave the room.
“I beg you sit and feast,” Pagus says around a mouthful of quail, pointing with a small knife toward the empty chair to his right.
Rael takes the proffered chair but moves no food to his plate. He silently watches the priest as he tears at his food, and Rael finds that his eyes wander to the imprisoned armor. Its beauty captivates him, draws him in even though it is not nearly as ornate as Pagus’ own. He realizes with a start that the priest watches him intently.
“Please eat something, Master Rael,” Pagus repeats as two of his soldiers close and bar the double doors from the inside.
“I am not hungry, My Lord. Let us be honest, you did not call me here because you are in need of my talents.”
“Indeed that is true,” agrees the priest, and he returns his attention to his plate.
Rael finds his eyes again pulled to –
“Do you know the story of that armor?” Pagus asks. Before Rael can answer, he further asks, “Shall I tell you? You seem enthralled with it. Perhaps you have seen it before? Or maybe heard of it in a bedtime story? It belonged to my brother, a once great man who is now dead. I keep it both as a reminder and in the hopes that one day his murderer would come to claim it. Is that why you have come?”
Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael Page 6
