by Steven Poore
“There are no living storytellers now who have borne witness to the tales they tell,” Meredith said, in a tone so matter-of-fact Cassia could not find a reply. After he had gone she dug the end of her staff repeatedly into the ground, sending small stones skittering across the yard until Ultess came to the doorway again to glare at her. She sighed and retired to the bench she had appropriated as her own.
It was not fair, but she told herself she had work of her own to do. Her first full recital of the Call to the North had not been the success she hoped for. Karak had not laughed, but he might as well have done. He held up one hand to halt her even before she reached the fourth stanza, with a list of corrections so comprehensive she was glad that the light helped to hide her shame. Just as her defensive stances before Meredith had taken her in hand, her technique was apparently quite awful. Old mistakes, magnified ten-fold, was what Karak had actually said. Not your fault. But she felt as though it was.
Old Arca was sprawled across a bench beneath the window, comatose, so still that he might be dead. At least if he had been awake she could have practised her new phrases upon him, but for now she would have to sit alone and mutter under her breath. Just like her father, penniless in a corner of some tavern. The irony was too painful to consider.
q
“That was better. Your diction was more fluid, and the rhymes you used were not so clumsy. You thought about those beforehand, yes?”
Cassia nodded, pleased even though the comments were faint praise at best. Although what did a scholar from overseas know of the old stories of the North and how best to tell them? That question had haunted the edges of her thoughts all night, but she had forced herself to concentrate on the more practical matters of choosing the right words and creating a tale Karak would not instantly dismiss as woefully childish.
As the sky lightened and the background murmur of the city rose again, she had come to another conclusion. Perhaps her father was not as skilled a storyteller as he believed himself to be. Some of the lines Karak had called risible came straight from her father’s version, rather than from the generally accepted recital of the ancient manuscript that circulated across the North.
Clumsy. Unnecessary. She wondered what the merchants on the road outside Elbithrar must have really thought of the tales she told at their fireside night after night. Little wonder Baum had not let her try her skill in the town’s square. That would have proved embarrassing. And Hellea itself? She worked to hold back a sigh, hoping Karak would not notice.
Even if I am better than my father, that’s nothing to boast about.
Karak was saying something about the need for a martial beat. Cassia dragged herself away from her thoughts to listen again. One thing she had learned quickly was that the scholar did not like to repeat himself.
As he talked he was still methodically searching the shelves, one by one, opening each and every case and leaving her to follow him with the lantern. “The emotion is there. The passion, the will, the drive to entertain. That much, at least, has not been lost. But I thought the North was the fount of form and technique. It seems I was in error. Even the Stromondorian river songs have more to recommend them. The Southern lands have developed a passion of their own for rhythms and rhymes.”
“It’s the Emperor’s fault,” Cassia decided sourly.
“Hardly,” Karak said before appearing to reconsider. “There may be something to that, now I think upon it. There is a fashion for music in Hellea, and for dancing, but I have not seen many storytellers on any of my last visits to the city. Your trade has become heavily regulated within the city walls, has it not? Euandros made those decrees – I remember he detested the effects of scandalous gossip. I’ll wager his son inherited that along with the throne.”
“Euandros created the guild,” Cassia said, remembering what she had been told after dodging Marko on that first, failed attempt to make her own way in the city.
Karak acknowledged the point with a sharp flick of the case he held. “And a guild brings rules, closed minds, and stagnation. Something you will have felt even as far away as your little northern towns, in time.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. Even under the watchful eyes of the Factors, her father had never felt himself restricted in the stories he could tell. The Call to the North was the obvious exception of course, but that had still been passed from mouth to ear: a kind of whispered defiance.
“Sir, where do you come from?” she asked. A part of her was surprised she had not asked the question before. Another, set slightly deeper within her mind, noted that she should have been able to identify his home from his accent and the manner of his dress. “Does your land have great storytellers?”
Karak’s eyes were hooded by the shadows thrown by the lantern. Cassia, discomfited by his attention, pulled her legs more tightly beneath her. “Where have I come from? A small town on the banks of a wide river, set against the sea, under golden sunset skies. You might know of it.”
She recognised the description immediately. So many stories made use of it, and Norrow had never been above decorating his tales with stock phrases. “Galliarca! Really?”
“Why not? Every man must come from somewhere.”
If Hellea had seemed grand at first, how much more overwhelming must Galliarca be? A land so far away she had little chance of ever seeing it. Here, she had seen illuminations and border illustrations in some of the scrolls, and they confirmed her visions of grand whitewashed houses and bustling, colourful squares. The world was a place of wonder and surprise, and she knew she had done the right thing in leaving Keskor.
She sighed. “If I had come from there, I would never have left.”
“If you had come from there, you might well have envied the North for its vitality, fertility, and the strength of its convictions,” Karak said. “The Northern lands have always been so much closer to their gods than the great cities of the south. There is also the small matter of the never-ending war to keep the Hordes at bay, and that’s something you will never have to worry about in Hellea. There are other things too. No place is perfect.”
“But, sir, how do you know so much about our stories?” It felt odd to be taught the forms of storytelling, especially Hellean forms, by a Galliarcan scholar.
Karak waggled the scroll case in her direction. “Knowledge and learning, boy. Mind your work.”
Cassia lowered her head and focused on the task of readying a fresh wick. Knowledge and learning. Perhaps Karak could be a god of knowledge, and that thought made her smile.
q
“Wait please,” Karak said as Cassia jogged the last few steps to the square beneath the library. The last supplicants were leaving their temples, the stalls that depended upon them had already closed for the day. It was a cold evening, with a breeze sharp enough to be uncomfortable. Cassia felt the chill working through the layers of her clothes, and she did not want to wait around too long. The hearth at the Old Soak was calling her.
Karak took his time in descending. He looked deep in thought, his gaze sweeping across the square as if seeing it for the first time, yet he also seemed tired and jaded. Cassia waited as patiently as she could.
“I would like to thank you for your help,” Karak said. “Your presence has enlivened the tedium of these last days. It is rare I employ assistants; all too frequently they are dull, unimaginative boys, looking only for ways to take advantage of the situation.”
She didn’t know what to make of that, but his meaning struck her suddenly and she gasped. “You’re leaving?”
He reached for her hand and she felt the weight of a small purse pressed into it. A decent weight too, more than Norrow ever managed to carry from town to town. But this was it; she was being paid off. As much as she had wished the length of the days away, she had not thought the end of her employment would come so soon.
“You have made me feel welcome, but this is not my home,” Karak said in formal tones. He nodded back to the library. “I cannot recommend you rep
eat your incursions there without my company, Cassia. You will be uncovered and if I cannot be there to dig you out of trouble . . .”
He left the sentence unfinished, but he did not let go of her hand until she nodded her understanding. “I wish you luck in your endeavours. I hope that, if you return to the North, your talents are recognised for what they are.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cassia said quietly, unable to meet his eyes. “May the gods favour your voyage.”
Karak’s smile was unexpected and unforced. “I would rather they stayed well away from me, but I appreciate the thought. Now, I have work to oversee before it gets too dark. My ship’s master does not want to miss the morning tides.”
She watched him cross the square, moving through the thinning crowds with long, purposeful strides. She had become used to the new routine, and for some reason this departure hurt her more than her father’s flight had done. Karak might be older than him, but he had helped her like a father should have done. Like Norrow had never done. And she had felt comfortable around him in a way she did not with Baum and Meredith.
Of course that was something altogether different. There was a contract between them; they had common cause against Malessar. Her relationship with Meredith was developing much faster than that of a student and teacher, and the thought of it caused her heart to thump. As she walked back through the streets to the Old Soak, she allowed the daydreams to rise again. Visions of Meredith, triumphant over the warlock’s cowering form, his blade slick with blood. He turned and beckoned her, his palm open, and she reached out to accept his hand. He pulled her towards him . . .
The fact that Meredith had invited her to join him in his morning exercises to hone her expertise in the forms only served to feed her fantasies. Meredith still took to the yard bare-chested, the keen edge of his blade glinting in the fresh light of dawn. The sight took her back to Rann Almoul’s house and the very first time she had watched him. She struggled to follow most of the time. Her staff was a poorly-weighted substitute, and she was too self-conscious to truly give in to the movements the same way that he did. But her mind’s eye gave her images of them flowing through the forms together, and she poured as much effort into this chapter of her training as she had into learning the more basic skills. Soon, she thought, she might be allowed her own blade.
She could see the meaning of Meredith’s forms now; the way each movement flowed seamlessly into the next. With the jarring aggressive edge taken off the exercises, she had come to appreciate how her own skills had improved, even in a short period. By moving in one direction, her staff leading in another, she might pull an opponent off-balance. Another set of movements could take her beneath a swordsman’s swing, close enough to knock his weapon away. If she went back to Keskor now and challenged the likes of Hetch Almoul, she could beat him every single time.
Cassia paused at the end of a narrow street to allow two boys to push a cart heaped with rags past her. They bickered with each other as they wheeled it around the corner.
But what now? She had not found either the warlock or his fabled scroll case. She doubted it really existed. Arca must have been feeding her a story and, like a fool, she had been all too ready to believe it. Without Karak’s authority she had no access to the library, and going back in alone would be too dangerous. So what was left that she could do?
There was nothing, she decided, resuming her journey. She had to rely on Baum to locate Malessar and pray that the old soldier still included her in his plans. She was sure she could find some way to be of use, even if it was just keeping watch on one particular house, or a tavern, or waiting at the docks to see who was taking ship that day.
He might allow her to go with Meredith. Her mind rose to the challenge and showed them sharing a quiet corner of a balcony, notionally watching for movement in the streets below. Even crouched by her side he dwarfed her, but the warmth of the autumn sun still reached her face.
That fantasy sustained her all the way back to the Old Soak and into the yard behind the tavern. It took her a moment to realise Meredith was not in his usual place beside the stables, waiting for her to return. She scuffed the ground with one foot and reached back for her staff. Her breathing deepened and steadied, and she settled into an approximation of the stance Meredith always began with. It felt peculiar to be here alone, without the weight of his presence by her side.
She saw the hearth-boy peering out at her from the empty stables, but she ignored him as she started into a slow circular defence, imagining her staff was a sword as brilliant as Meredith’s. These forms were very simple. She had learned them simply by reacting correctly to Meredith’s own movements. But today was harder, and not for any reason she could think of. Her concentration wavered as her mind tried to focus on something else, something just beyond her comprehension. It was like listening to the rhythms of her father’s stories when he was on the cusp of inebriation.
After a few minutes she became aware that somebody else was watching her. Ultess stood in the doorway, staring at her with a vaguely surprised expression. “Is something wrong?” she asked, breaking off in mid-step to face him.
Ultess rubbed his chin. “Could be,” he said. “I thought you were all on the boat, away down the eastern Castaria.”
“What?” The staff became a leaden weight in her hands. She must have misheard. Or Ultess was mistaken. “On a boat?”
“Didn’t the young lord find you?” The large man’s face, lined with age, wrinkled further as his frown deepened. “Obviously not. You’ll need to hurry, girl, or you’ll be left behind.”
For one moment her feet remained rooted to the ground, and then she raced into the back room of the tavern after him.
“What do you mean? They’ve gone?”
“That’s what I said.”
She felt the panic rising in her gullet, pressing hard against the back of her head. Even her father’s cowardly departure had not felt so terrible. “But . . . why?”
Ultess paused, a rough chunk of bread poised over the bowl before him. “You think Baum ever told me anything? Great gods, child, he goes where he wills, and he does what he wants. Not my place to question him.” He sighed. “He said the warlock was done with the city. He was going to the coast. That means one of the grain barges, down on the far quays. You might be lucky . . .”
The far quays . . . She skipped around the edge of a bench that was in her way, and bounded up the stairs. Her pack – the one meagre bundle of clothes and small charms she still possessed – was gone, along with the saddle and riding tack. Her patched-up storyteller’s cloak remained, hanging forlornly from a nail. She snatched it up, feeling the weight of the stone charm hidden in the lining.
Her breath caught as she burst through the door into the room Baum and Meredith had shared, a door which had always been closed to her. Baum had kept it locked when he was not in there, and she never dared to intrude on his privacy. Even if she knew for certain Meredith was in there alone, she had never knocked on the door.
The room was bare. All their packs, the weapons and Meredith’s armour, the canvas shelters rolled into tight bundles behind the saddles . . . all gone. Her breathing sounded loud in the empty space.
He might still be there.
She took the stairs at a run, momentum carrying her forward before she could fall, and swung through the main room of the tavern. Arca was gone too, and she called a farewell to Ultess over her shoulder, not waiting for the reply.
Luckily the streets were quieter now. She still caught herself on the sides of barrows and the corners of tenements, squeezing through tight spaces and small groups of people. By the time she reached the temple squares her robe was torn in several places. She regretted spending so much time in the cramped confines of the library, as her tendons howled with pain and her throat burned with the effort of running. The daily sessions in the yard had never prepared her for this.
She forced herself to pause for a moment to take her bearings, remembering the shrines she
had passed on the day she arrived in Hellea. The spires were visible over the temple roofs. She only needed to work out which was which. The far quays lay on the eastern side of the city, which meant she needed to be on the other side of those spires . . .
A hand fell upon her shoulder, almost knocking her to the ground. She twisted around, wincing as the grip tightened, and realised she had to crane her neck to see the man who had seized her. A large man, his face blotched and livered, his cloak tattered and patched. A storyteller’s cloak, she realised, her memory tolling an urgent alarm.
“I think we have unfinished business, my young storytelling friend,” Marko said. His voice was thick with drink. She tried to pull away, but he was far too strong.
“You owe the guild their dues,” Marko said. “Shall we see what you have?”
She kicked at his shins. Marko simply pushed her back until she could not reach him.
“Let me go!” she shouted.
The man’s eyes narrowed, focussing on her more intently. For a moment Cassia could not think what she had done. Then cold reason pushed past the anger and panic. Back in the taverns she had deliberately lowered her voice, in keeping with the rest of her disguise, but Marko had heard something different now. A higher-pitched cry.
He grabbed at her breast with his free hand, causing her to cry out again, and now his smile turned thin and hungry. “Oh, here’s a tale! Cress! Cress – come see this!”
She spat into his face, thick spittle sprayed his cheek and the corner of his eye. Marko pulled one hand back, and with a bright clap of pain he sent her reeling to the ground. Her shoulder jarred on the flagstones, and she heard her staff clatter a few feet away. The side of her face was numbed, her vision blurred. But despite the pain and the suddenness of the blow, her instincts kept her moving to avoid the follow-up; she’d lived with her father’s temper for years, after all.
