by Scott Rhine
Guessing that this was some sort of challenge, like stand and deliver, the tinker shouted, “I invoke the sanctuary of Calligrose!”
All trace of geniality faded from Jotham’s face. The name Calligrose was merely a title, like tenor. Names were just tags that humans needed in order to wrap their minds around something, or to explain a function. In the ancient tongue, it meant “one who carries writing of the gods.” He wasn’t a saint or a full-fledged god, but something in between. All the gods of the kingdoms had names ending in “os”. The god of all gods was therefore referred to as Osos. Because the gods and men could not speak to each other directly, it was necessary for Calligrose to carry messages between them.
Although there were many other names for the messenger, Muse of the Bards and the god of prisoners to name a couple, Jotham referred to his patron simply as the Traveler, the oldest of his names. If this ignorant man wanted to make this meeting a formal ed t using one of the titles of obligation, so be it.
“Are you aware of the responsibility that goes with the protection of this symbol?” asked Jotham, as he opened his cloak to reveal his own flare corpus, the sign of hospitality and needs of the human body. “I will honor your claim, but first I require a service of you.”
Tinker John’s jaw dropped open, but nothing came out. His eyes shifted from side to side as he searched for a way to dodge this claim. Sheriff bands had once patrolled these highways honorably, collecting only favors for their pay. But those true guardians had not been seen in this kingdom for a generation. Over the years the sect had splintered, and the six arms of the church had been absorbed or exterminated by the individual kings. The ones that remained were rumored to want tithes far beyond simple hospitality. “Actually the piece isn’t mine,” the tinker explained as he grabbed the last of his goods frantically.
Jotham pretended disinterest as he continued to help the man. “It’s in no need of repair. Perhaps it belongs to a family member or loved one.”
“No,” the tinker snapped immediately. “I have no family. My apprentice made it. He was all I had till he took sick.”
“Really? How sad,” said Jotham, falling into the old patterns of questioning he always used when he knew the one responding was a liar. “How long ago was that?”
“Just this morning, in Wrensford,” the man said, pointing back and to the right.
“And you just left him?” the priest asked, watching the tinker’s face as the accusation sank in. “Why? He seems to do good work.” Although this was the year of liberation, when all indentured servants regained their freedom, the New Year was over a sesterina, a month, away. No master would have freed his apprentice this early.
The tradesman blinked nervously. The smell of his sweat became almost overpowering. “Wrensford is a plague town now.” Realizing the hole in his logic, the man added. “I got out just in time, before the garrison arrived.”
Normally, when the king’s garrison quarantined a village like that, they enforced a seven-day isolation period and checked for plague signs before anyone would be permitted to leave. Even then, no blankets or clothing could depart the village. Only living things and that which could pass the fire could be taken. Everything else would be burned. This tradesman must have snuck out early in order to keep his profits. Jotham said, “I see. Does this boy… what was his name?”
“Brent, sir.”
“Does this Brent have any family that might be concerned for him?” asked Jotham.
“Not anymore. His mother died in birthing and his father was killed two years ago when the scaffolding he was working on collapsed. The lad was eight when it happened; he’s been with me ever since.”
“As your service, I ask that you escort me back to this town and point out the house where you left this apprentice.”
The tinker looked back furtively over his shoulder, and then shook his head. “I left him in the hayloft at the stockyards.”
“Could you show me?”
“You can’t miss it. The village is also well-marked. I have no wish to return so soon. Then I would have wasted my whole day and will have no place to stay the night.”
Now, Jotham was certain the man had snuck out to avoid quarantine. He looked up at the rock formations where the robbers would be waiting. “In the name of Calligrose, the protector of travelers, I ask you a third and final time to go with me to find the boy.”
The tinker brushed the request away as he rearranged the last of his gear to fit on the cart. “He’ll probably be dead by the time we get there. Besides, I have a busy day planned tomorrow. The fair is coming up soon, and with no apprentice, I’ll be working day and night to get ready.”
“What makes you think there will be a tomorrow?” the priest whispered in his high voice.
But the tinker didn’t hear. “I’m a busy man, so if you don’t mind, I can’t spare any more daylight to chat.” He began pulling the heavy cart up the next hill, already huffing with exhaustion at his exertions.
As the tinker passed, Jotham said, “Do you still have the contract for this boy?”
“Somewhere in my strongbox. But I’ll not let you trick me into opening it here.”
“I’ll buy this sign as well as what remains of the boy’s contract from you,” offered the priest.
The tinker stroked his narrow chin as he mused. “Well now, he’s got about fifty workdays left in him, and that’s a fine specimen of metalwork you’re holding. Let’s see, that’s fifteen hours for the magic talisman, and five hundred hours for the contract.”
Jotham laughed. “If he were a trained silversmith, perhaps. But a tin worker in training is paid less than a tenth that. The hexagrams can’t take you more than an afternoon to make a dozen.” In truth, the priest would have paid his weight in gold to redeem Brent, but he had very little money on him.
“Fifty-five, then,” the artisan said, licking his lips.
“Now who is robbing whom? A minute ago, the boy was half in his grave.”
“Thirty hours and not a beat lower. The tax on the document alone cost me that much,” the tinker asserted. Jotham nodded, and withdrew his only three complete rods of silver coins. Each stack of coins was referred to as a day. He now had less than a day’s change left to his name.
The tinker grinned slyly, and pulled a square of parchment out of a pouch on his cart. After he had inspected the coins, and stowed them out of sight, the tradesman gloated, “Maybe you can use that to light a fire tonight for all the good it’ll do you. Our business is finished, sir?”
Jotham nodded. “As you say, finished.” Then he hurried toward Wrensford, hoping to arrive before night curfew. He also wanted to be far enough away that he wouldn’t hear the tinker scream.
Chapter
6 – The Plague Village
The hamlet of Wrensford was founded at a shallow point on an inconsequential, mountain-born stream in a valley where small birds once sang. It had never come to a mapmaker’s attention, nor was it ever likel to in the future.
After the snow melted and flooded the lowlands, rats made their way to the drier, more comfortable buildings of men on higher ground. Not only were the small villages warm, but people kept vast reserves of grain around so that the rats could multiply with ease. As repayment, the small, hairy horde brought diseases to share. Outbreaks of the plague could be minimized or avoided altogether by following the holy codes. Even if the peasants couldn’t understand them, the principles were effective. Yet no one remembered the codes the Traveler had given them.
In the space of two weeks, a thriving village of fifty would be reduced by a dozen souls. Then, more dangerous than the disease, would come the fear. Half the remaining population would flee. Those remaining would look for a scapegoat, someone to kill in order to lift the curse. Some, anxious to profit from their neighbor's loss, would loot the homes of the sick and the dying. Blankets, clothing, and the thatch in the home itself carried the contagion. Two-legged vermin would further spread the infection. The sheriffs of o
ld would shoot looters without hesitation to save nearby communities. Though he appreciated the logic, Jotham could never have killed another human being.
Past this point, even these drastic measures would only save a handful of people. Jotham had witnessed similar dramas played out during his years of intelligence gathering for the Babliosian Consulate. The stench in the air and the soldiers standing guard around the wooden stockade told him that this play was already in its final act. The ruler of Semenos had sent armed guards the moment he heard of the outbreak, for such diseases kill kings as easily as commoners.
The soldiers had built two irregular rings of wooden fencing around the village to enforce a strict quarantine. Wherever possible, the walls of existing structures were incorporated in order to save work. People of Wrensford who still survived made their way to the outer ring, where they had food and supplies lowered to them, but were kept isolated from the outside world. From two watchtowers, the entire isolation zone could be seen. Any structures within seven paces of the inner wall had been leveled to improve visibility. No one was permitted to bring any items out of the inner zone unless the items first passed through a cleansing fire. This was the last bastion between the living and the dead.
Any person who survived a week in isolation with no signs of the contagion would be set free. Often one of the kingdom’s priests would inspect the victim, even shaving the person’s head to check for the disease’s trademark lesions. After three weeks, everything remaining of the village would be burned to the ground. The ashes wouldn’t even be sifted for precious metals. Survivors would leave this place carrying no more than on the day they were born.
Very near dusk, Jotham strode up to the gate, trying to keep his eyes in the shadows. A priest of Semenos might recognize his mixed ancestry and keep him out on principle. Fortunately, the guards for that evening sympathized with an Imperial fallen on hard times, the legal guardian of a twelve-year-old boy who had been wrongfully abandoned. He was able to pay these guards the last of his silver for clean clothes that could be sewn to fit the boy, a place of shelter in the quarantine zone, and passage into the inner stockade. The building assigned was a forge, warm and serviceable, with stone walls. It had the advantage of being set a goodly distance from any other building. After assembling workmen’s benches together to form a crude cot, he stoked a roaring fire in the forge. As his final preparation, Jotham left all his belongings except his loincloth and gloves ooor. He had no fear of theft with so many armed guards and no money.
He put on the Traveler’s gloves to avoid touching the boy or any other diseased item directly. The gloves were finely woven, dark blue, and fit perfectly. They stretched from his wrist to his elbow. Jotham didn’t feel any magical effects while wearing them. Then, the priest walked into the stockade where not even the bravest warrior would march. The silence of this inner prison was complete.
In the last dim hour of twilight, the priest found Brent in one of the stables as the tinker had predicted. He looked a little taller than the average twelve-year-old, perhaps the reason he’d been apprenticed to a more physical profession. Delirious in the hay, the boy was pale with dehydration and fever. After an examination of the boy’s skin and listening to his breathing, Jotham proclaimed, “You haven’t got the plague, child. But you’re sick enough to die just the same. If we don’t break this fever, you’ll not live out the night. And I’ve walked too far to let you get away from me.”
While he was stripping off the boy’s diseased clothing, which would not be allowed to cross the zones, Jotham brushed his elbow against the bare skin of the boy’s arm. He felt a small shock pass at the bare-skin contact. Some of the virtue he had accumulated on the long journey passed to the child like a spark to a brass doorknob in wintertime. All of the lice that had taken up residence on the boy’s body jumped off at once, leaving him suddenly parasite-free. Exerting his will, Jotham held back the rest of his energy for the necessary ritual.
Carrying Brent to the edge of the icy stream, he said, “What I am about to do may be traumatic at first, but it is the only way I know to cure you. Normally one must consent, but your master has given me his writ of authority and that is sufficient.”
Singing in his high, clear voice, Jotham waded out into the stream and lowered the boy into the frigid, snow-fed waters. Immersion pained him as much as it did the boy, but the action was essential. Conveniently, the gloves shielded his hands completely from the cold.
After performing the extensive rite of cleansing, he carried the blue-lipped, blue-fingered boy back to the sweltering-hot forge. The guards who opened the gate didn’t harass them, but kept a respectful distance from the white-haired Imperial and his ward.
He lay the boy down on the blanket-covered cot. Once both were dried and the priest had donned his vestments, the boy’s shivering turned to sweating. For the fourth time in his life, Jotham began the Ceremony of Freeing. To increase the chances, he used the boy’s own tin healing talisman in the ritual. Because he had no ink, Jotham used a small quantity of his own blood to draw the appropriate protective runes on the boy over each of the body’s points of spiritual nexus. “These won’t be permanent,” he apologized. “But they should last until you learn to resist on your own.” There was a brief spark of static electricity that passed between the boy and the talisman at the completion of the ceremony, the surest sign of success. Then, he placed the holy symbol on a lanyard around Brent’s neck.
Every member of every kingdom was linked by invisible threads to the god of that kingdom. Gods fed from men in this way, sometimes weakening the human body beyond its capacity for self-repair. The Freeing was the earliest mystery given to man by the Traveler and the sole rite of passage common to branches of his church. The ceremony both cut a recipient off from all national bonds and eliminated this drain, enabling the sick to utilize all r own energies for healing. Although those who decided to walk the path of the Traveler had their cultural ties ripped away from them, they often lived longer by way of compensation.
Such karmic detachment rarely happened naturally but had been known to occur with half-breeds, drowning victims, those who fasted to extremes, and people with traumatic head injuries. Once detached, that person stood out like a bonfire to spirits. He would be regarded as different by all the attached humans around him without knowing why. Freed people seldom stayed in a kingdom for long because of the animosity of those surrounding them. Reattachment of some kind was inevitable unless the individual could learn to resist it through a regimen of rigorous mental and physical exercises.
Jotham had experimented for years to replicate the ceremony properly from the ancient scrolls. To further complicate matters, the ceremony would only work when performed by a free individual and with the consent of the recipient. Any attempt to bribe or threaten either the recipient or the liberator would negate the transaction. In this respect, the ceremony of freeing was more of a meta-legal maneuver than a spell.
Having tended to Brent’s spiritual needs, the priest wrapped him in baggy clothing and blankets and then fed him a lightly medicated paste made of tubers. Adding wood to the fire, Jotham noticed that the gloves protected him from extreme heat as well. Making sure no one was watching, he touched a live coal with the glove’s fingertip in order to cleanse it of all trace of the disease. It turned black, but no heat transferred to the wearer. Interesting. He passed each glove through the flames to satisfy the strictures. His loincloth had to be burned and replaced with a clean one.
Once the boy’s fever had broken and he passed into a true sleep, Jotham curled up on his own cloak on the floor.
At dawn, the town’s remaining rooster crowed, causing the boy’s eyes to flutter open. “I had the strangest dreams,” he said groggily.
Tall Jotham sat up. His wild hair was even more matted and deranged-looking from laying damp on the floor. In his high voice, he piped, “You can tell me all about it later, Brent. For now you need some rest.”
“But the cock crows, and I mu
st attend to my duties or my master will be cross. Who are you, sir?” the boy asked, barely able to lift his own head. He noticed that he had his favorite symbol back again, hanging from a new cord around his neck. It comforted him to see that the stranger wore a similar device.
“You may call me Jotham the Tenor. You’ll be my apprentice for the rest of this year. The tinker is… no longer with us.”
The boy formed a small o of understanding with his mouth. “What must I do?”
“First recover from your illness. Fortify your mind and body against disease. When you are judged whole, we’ll travel together to meet someone, another friend.” This friend had led a hostile mob in the opposite direction so that Jotham could escape unseen. Yet he had no doubt that the capable swordsman would meet him again somewhere near the northern tip of the Emperor’s Road.
The priest was braced for all manner of curious questions from the child. He was almost disappointed when the lad murmured, “Sure,” and fell promptly back to sleep. Such was the way of the innocent, Jotham mused.
Chapter 7 – Greeting the Sun
Fully awake, Jotham stretched and stepped into the next room to begin the morning ritual called “greeting the sun”, which was part prayer and part exercise. Because he would not be travelling any time soon, the priest spent extra time on the deep leg bends that kept his muscles limber and strong. The circular, flowing motions looked more like dance than the foundations of a centuries-old, martial art. Jotham had lost track of time during the meditative workout, so there was no way of knowing how long the boy had been sitting there watching.
In his high voice, the priest asked, “Did you need something?”
Brent shrugged. “I had to pee. What are you doing?” the boy asked bluntly.
