“The Truth’s not the problem,” Whym espoused his great-
grandfather’s viewpoint. While debating between the army and the Faith, he’d learned as much as he could about the man, adopting many of his ideas in the process. “The clergy’s and the Council’s abuses are the real issue.”
“Maybe before,” she replied flatly, “but after all of the Council’s revisions to the Truth, it’s hard to view them as separate.”
“If you strip away the revisions, you’d have Jah’s pure message again,” Whym contended, the same argument that had started the Reformers Rebellion in the first place.
“Maybe.” She seemed unconvinced. “But who’s going to do that?”
Whym didn’t have an answer. There’d been a war fought and lost in the attempt. He changed the topic. “Oh, I meant to ask…Katona? What’s the story?”
When her lips pursed and her hazel eyes turned cold, he knew he’d picked the wrong topic. “My father’s wife was afraid people might confuse his arranging the apprenticeship with concern, or, Jah forbid, responsibility for my well-being.”
Whym kicked himself for shifting the conversation to her father. There was never a right answer when it came to the man. Whym had shared his true opinions once, which had proven to be a mistake. But when he’d later voiced the opposite position, the results had been worse. After an uncomfortable pause, he tried again with what he believed was a safe topic. “Remember our old hideout?”
With Whym unable to muster the courage to say what was in his heart, they spent the rest of the walk reliving childhood memories. As they neared the Fiddlestop, though, an uneasiness crept into the conversation—a realization that this goodbye would be different and would bring a lengthy separation. They covered the last few blocks in strained silence.
The sun was just beginning to lift the blanket of fog that had settled on the city overnight when he saw the Fiddlestop. The infamous tavern never closed, but the only sign of activity was a young man leaning against the thick oak railing that enclosed the deck by the front entrance. A sign dangled above him.
..
Ye who come to drink in cheer, come near, be welcome.
Ye who come to drown despair, come near, be welcome.
Ye who come to drink life clear, come near, be welcome.
.
.
“Seems we’ve arrived.” Whym attempted to fill the lag in conversation.
Kira stopped walking and looked at him, the flecks of green in her eyes sparkling. “Please, be careful.” Then she kissed him—not with a peck, but with depth and longing that said everything he’d been too much a coward to say. Unprepared, he’d hardly begun to kiss her back when she hurried away. He wanted to call to her, to run after her and embrace her anew, but his feet refused to move. Instead, he waited, hoping she’d steal one final glance. But she never looked back.
Lamenting his cowardice, he trudged up the stairs to the tavern. Not until he reached the top, did he look closely at the young man beside the entrance. He was a half-hand taller than Whym—who, at six feet, was above average himself—solidly built, and with close-cropped hair the color of the rust on the door hinges behind him. He’d have been handsome by any standard, if not for the ugly purple birthmark that cut across his freckled face from the base of his hardened jaw to below his right eye. “She’s a pretty one.” His boyish voice contrasted with his rugged appearance. Whym guessed they were close in age. “Shame you don’t have enough of a sack to kiss her.”
Whym was taken aback. After two almost-sleepless days wrought with emotional highs and lows, he felt like a dewsap flower ready to pop at the first touch. “What did you say?” He balled his hands into fists.
“Don’t worry.” The young man’s sneer reminded Whym of Tyrus Fen. “I’m sure she’ll find someone to handle her while you’re gone.” Whym swung. His opponent evaded the punch with the suddenness of a water bug, then leaned with a taunting smirk against the rail as if nothing had happened. Whym swung—and missed again. But this time a shove against his neck combined with his own momentum to drive his face into the railing. A flash of light was followed by a moment of total darkness as Whym crashed to the deck. When he tried to stand, his legs buckled. He cringed and tightened his muscles to absorb the next blow.
The young man didn’t strike. Instead, he extended his hand and helped Whym to his feet. “You’re late. First light’s when the moon’s still being chased from the sky.”
Still woozy, Whym watched the stranger enter the Fiddlestop, then followed him inside once the ringing in his ears subsided. At dawn, the tavern was a far cry from its reputation. There were no musicians, bards, or revelry of any kind. Instead, most of the few patrons were asleep, hunched over their tables or curled on the floor. A sweet fog of pipe smoke hung dense in the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of scentar. Whym had never experienced it, but he’d heard that tavern keepers burned the herb to quell the rowdiness their ale encouraged.
Across the room, Seeker Sandoval was conversing with a big man with greasy black curls clinging to his back. When the young man with the birthmark took the seat beside them, Whym’s stomach sank. “Seeker Sandoval—” Whym started as he approached the table.
“Call me Stern.” The seeker pointed to the knot forming on Whym’s forehead. “I see you’ve met Kutan, my senior apprentice.”
Kutan smirked. “A brief introduction.”
The black-haired man spun around and offered his hand. “Salazar.” Whym flinched. Before him was the villain he’d imagined in childhood stories of the bogeyman—a predator who lived in the shadows, a monster with coal-black eyes that fed on his secret fears. “I get that response often,” the man laughed, the gap in his mangled upper lip parting to reveal stained and crooked teeth, “but normally from little girls. Startlingly handsome, I guess.”
The apprenticeship couldn’t have begun worse. Humiliated, Whym tried to salvage some dignity by reaching to shake Salazar’s hand. “Pleasure—”
“Don’t make me wait again!” Stern interrupted. He cracked his knuckles against the table and yawned. “I’ll stink of scentar the rest of the day, now.”
“Quit being a grump,” the big man countered. “It’s better than your normal stink.”
“Thank you for the information.” Stern stood, his rigidness in sharp contrast to Salazar’s relaxed movements and speech. “We’d best go before the scentar takes hold and we end up waking here for the midday meal.”
“By all means, go,” Salazar said. “Ale’s the best around, but the food’s fit for a pig trough.”
Whym swallowed his gasp and his head tilted upward as the man stood. Salazar wasn’t just big. He was gigantic. Whym couldn’t pull his gaze from Salazar until he’d followed his new master outside.
Stern stopped on the front deck. “I don’t expect any trouble, but be on guard. You two follow at a distance.”
“Trouble?” Whym asked.
“Later.” Stern strode away and, despite being old enough to be Whym’s grandfather, set a brisk pace. Instead of crossing the Inge and leaving Riverbend through the Victory Gate as Whym had expected, the seeker led them the opposite direction into the Maze.
The city was waking around them, the sounds and smells of morning creeping into the narrow alleys as vendors removed the canvas coverings from their carts and arranged their wares. The earliest risers were already hard at work, the sizzle of cooking oil and the snaps and pops of frying meat advertising to the empty stomachs around them. Whym was shocked by what he saw. His perception of the Maze, conceived by warnings and cautionary tales, was of a place of dark spaces and darker motives. He’d not expected to see children fetching buckets of water or playing in the streets among the flow of ordinary-looking people. As they wound a circuitous route through the twisting streets, he realized how little he knew of the world beyond his own familiar paths.
“H
ow’s the head?” Kutan asked when the seeker stopped to speak with a woman stirring a pot of rice porridge.
“Fine.” Whym didn’t mention the throbbing behind his eyes. “What type of trouble?” he asked now that the ice was broken. “Why would anyone care if we three travel together?”
Kutan’s eyes scanned the area as he spoke, increasing Whym’s unease. “Just men talking. Ale gives ‘em courage they’ll lose when they wake.” His gaze returned to Whym. “Ellenrond and Sandoval together again stirs up strong emotions. There’s always those who wish to refight past wars.”
“Is that why Stern claimed me? Because of my name?”
Kutan regarded him sideways, one eyebrow raised. “If you have to ask, you’re not as sharp as your marks would indicate.”
Stern was on the move again, so Whym had no chance to respond or pose more questions. He walked a few steps behind, mulling the other apprentice’s words. As far as Whym was concerned, being an Ellenrond had brought him nothing but trouble and hardship. Judging by the start, he feared this apprenticeship would be more of the same.
They didn’t stop again until exiting the Maze into Founders Square. Above them, the massive stone structure of the Plenary Tower, the original home of the Council of Truth, jutted from the city wall to dominate the skyline. Stern headed toward the monument to the Council’s founders in the center of the square.
Kutan turned into the Jangwa Jua, an eatery famed for serving the fiery hot cuisine of the Changa, a nomadic tribe who roamed the borders of the Endless Sand. The Jangwa Jua, “Desert Sun” in ancient Changanese, was a popular hangout for the spice merchants as they passed through Riverbend on their way to the Vinlands and the mining city of Colodor.
“We’ll wait here.” Kutan motioned for Whym to follow.
They entered a kitchen surrounded by open-topped barrels of spices, the air infused with their exotic scents. As they passed through, Whym recognized a few of the colorful powders his mother saved for special occasions. Most, though, he couldn’t name. After leaving the kitchen, they walked through the dining area toward an outdoor porch overlooking the square. As Whym pushed aside the hanging beads and stepped onto the porch, a table of turbaned merchants eyed him.
“Two karfa chai,” Kutan called out as he slid onto the bench of one of the outermost tables. In the square, Stern sat on the stairs of the monument beside a man tossing crumbs to pigeons.
“Ever eaten Changa food?” Kutan asked once Whym took the bench opposite. “It’s an experience.” He looked as comfortable in the environment as Whym felt out of place.
“Two cads.” A buxom, middle-aged woman approached wearing a broad hat with small boxes sewn onto the brim. She gave them each a squat clay mug and placed a heavy, squared stone between them on the table. The mugs were wider than Whym had seen before—almost bowls. He had no clue to the stone’s purpose.
Kutan dropped the two coins, a little less than one-tenth of a silver, into her hand. She tucked them into the pouch at her waist, then took two pigeon eggs from the boxes on her hat and cracked them into the mugs. “Ai yee,” she yelled toward the kitchen before moving on to the table of turbaned men.
A bare-chested man soon arrived carrying a wooden pole, on which was hung a still-glowing kettle. Kutan pushed the rock in front of his mug, and the man used it to tilt the kettle and pour its scalding contents. When his mug was full, Kutan slid the rock toward Whym, and the process was repeated. “Mmmm.” Kutan waved the steam toward himself and sucked it in.
Whym inhaled also, trying to mimic the elder apprentice. The unfamiliar smell—he detected cinnamon and black pepper, but the other ingredients remained a mystery—stole his breath and led to a violent coughing fit. The other customers, the server, and Kutan all broke into raucous laughter. “It tastes better than it smells,” Kutan assured when the coughing abated. Then he added in a hushed tone, “Sometimes it’s best to be noticed when you don’t wish to stand out.”
Still flushed from embarrassment, Whym took a reluctant sip. The disparate spices combined to create a concoction unlike anything he’d tasted. He drank more. “It really is good,” he admitted, though he’d found gulping the semi-cooked egg like swallowing a lump of mucus.
Kutan spoke in a quiet tone—not loud enough to be understood by those nearby, but not secretive enough to draw their attention. “Would you believe the man with Stern is one of the richest in RatsNest?”
After Whym’s episode of coughing, the turbaned men were no longer watching. Whym counted Kutan’s earlier advice as his first lesson as an apprentice—second if he included the definition of “first light.” He looked toward the square. “The beggar?”
“That’s no beggar,” Kutan corrected. “That’s Fink.”
Whym had never heard the name. “Didn’t realize feeding pigeons paid so well,” he mocked, thinking the claim was a joke.
But the elder apprentice’s expression was not one of jest. “Fink’s the spider in our web. Look, if you know anything about the business—” He stopped, realizing Whym knew nothing about being a seeker. “Let me start at the beginning,” he backtracked. “There are two types of jobs for seekers. The first, which I’m sure you’ve heard about, are posts. These are bounties available to anyone.”
“Yeah, catching criminals and bringing them back to face justice.” This was all Whym knew of the profession, and what he’d thought he’d be doing when he signed the apprenticeship agreement.
“Mostly criminals,” Kutan agreed, “but sometimes runaways, debtors—anyone missing. But it’s the other jobs that make life interesting. We seekers call these jobs whispers. Posts put food on the table. Whispers are where the money’s made.”
Whym leaned in, curious. “Why would whispers pay so well?”
“Because getting caught means death for the client and seeker alike.”
Whym tilted his head, waiting for the young man opposite him to laugh. Instead, Kutan continued, blue eyes intense. “With whispers, we don’t deliver the person. We deliver a head.”
“What?” I didn’t sign up to become a murderer! He must be joking. “And what does that beggar—Fink—have to do with this?”
“He’s the middleman—the only source for whispers in Riverbend. He matches clients with seekers and handles the payments. If all goes well, neither the client nor the seeker learns the other’s identity. Safer for both that way.”
“Why wouldn’t the Council just arrest Fink?” Whym had started to wonder if his counterpart was actually serious. The prospect horrified him.
Kutan leaned in farther. “The lords are his best clients.”
The Council? Hiring assassins? “And Stern’s getting a job now?”
Kutan sat back and glanced toward where their master was standing, readying to leave. “No. Today he’s making certain no one’s whispering about the two of you.” Kutan stood, gulped the last of his drink, then vaulted over the railing onto the street below. “Let’s go.”
Whym, stunned by what he’d just been told, was slow to react. He grabbed his pack in a daze and slid under the railing, hanging a moment before dropping the short distance to the street.
“Good news?” Kutan greeted their master.
Stern’s grim face didn’t look as if he’d received good news. “No news,” he replied. “But Fink promised to warn us should the winds change direction.” Without saying more, he led the way across the square to the Commerce Gate, where merchants were lined up waiting to pay the tax to enter the city with their wares.
Whym reluctantly followed. Having seldom ventured beyond the city wall, he took in the view as they exited the gate. In the valley below, crossroads met amid the shacks of the small town named the Dung. A tributary to the Inge paralleled the north-south passage, making the Dung the ideal location for merchants to congregate and water their animals before either continuing their journeys or visiting the walled city of Riverbend.
“Be glad it’s a sunny day.” Kutan stepped around a fresh pile of manure in the road. “The Dung’ll still smell like crap, but at least we won’t have to slosh through it.”
RatsNest was the poorest and dirtiest section within the city walls, but people from the Dung regarded RatsNest with the envy Whym’s neighbors reserved for NewTown. The area was a place where impermanence was the norm. Merchants came and went. Even the buildings were temporary, thanks to the spring flooding that annually washed the valley clean. Only the smell endured, sometimes drifting into town with the breeze. The stench clung to hair and skin and clothing, making Heap—the derogatory term for the people who lived in the Dung—a common slur in Riverbend.
As they descended toward the crossroads, Stern’s mood brightened to the extent he started to sing:
.
.
A bit o’ meat in my belly
A mug o’ ale with it, too
A pretty lass on my right knee
And one on the left to make two
Forget now your worries and sing ‘long with me
And imagine how happy a man you could be
If life were but filled with these simple things three
.
.
Whym, on the other hand, remained troubled. Kutan had all but confirmed his fear that he was chosen by the seeker because of his surname. To also find out seekers were assassins left his stomach churning. The anxiety increased until he couldn’t take another step. “Wait!”
Stern turned at the sudden outburst.
“Is it true? Are seekers assassins?” Whym had practiced more circumspect ways to ask as they’d walked, but the words tumbled out.
Kutan shifted uncomfortably, and Stern glared at him, scratching the stubble on his chin before answering. “There have always been,” he shifted his eyes to Whym, “and will always be, those who must take the life of another. Executioners and soldiers kill whom they’re ordered to kill. Some seekers are the same. Others are not.”
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 4
