Nynra also decided to stay with the caravan.
"No interest in the city?" asked Fared.
The small infertile shrugged. "If everybody is going to stare at me, then I'd rather stay here."
"Suit yourself."
Fared watched the others leave, all displaying some excitement at being in a strange place. He wandered around the three wagons before helping Nynra light a small brazier. Once done, she pushed an alovak can into place to make a brew.
Fared wandered to the other side of the wagons to take a look at the other caravan. It too had a solitary guard watching over the two wagons, a friendly-looking man who handled his spear as if he knew how to use it. Fared assumed he probably did.
The man smiled and nodded. Fared nodded back.
"Here for long?" asked the other guard.
"No idea," replied Fared. "Not up to me."
"Course." The other man shrugged. "Strange city this. Can't put my finger on it exactly, but it's just not normal. Somehow."
"Oh?" Fared raised an eyebrow.
"Folk here all seem honest enough, but there's not a single one gone though the gates in the three days we been here. Folk come in and the same folk go out, but the city folks stay within the walls. So far as I've seen anyway. Just odd. No crime here, or not much. That's weird as well."
"Perhaps." Being a believer in the rule of law, Fared thought that a good reason to make this city home.
"That sylph of yours a good worker?"
"Yes," replied Fared, only just stopping himself from saying that Nynra wasn't his and that outright ownership of another sentient being was disgusting. "Very good."
"Never seen a mist child this far south," said the guard.
"Plenty of 'em where we're from."
The other guard changed the subject. "Going far?"
"East, possibly to Marka."
The other's breath whistled as he drew it in. "Long way that. Never seen the place." He moved closer and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've heard they got an Emperor again. A sylph." He giggled, a surprising sound. "A sylph! I ask you. Maybe it's just rumor and maybe it's not. Strange times we live in."
Fared grunted. "A curse to live in interesting times. Perhaps we offended in a past life."
The other man shook his head. "I don't think the governor here likes the idea of an Emperor in Marka. Prefect, whatever the fellow's called. They all have different names in these parts."
"As you say, strange times." Fared turned as Nynra joined him.
"Alovak?" she asked.
***
At first, Samrita was unaware of any oddness in the city. She strode through the streets and left Charel struggling in her wake. From the moment she had again seen Turivkan, she felt compelled to seek out her old mentor's grave. As if she must pay homage or try to exorcise Marasil's shade. She felt foolish; gwerins did not haunt each other after death. She pushed everything else from her mind, except reaching the graveyard where her friend was interred.
Many buildings had changed since her last visit, but the streets were laid out to the same pattern she remembered. And the style of the buildings had not changed much over the years. The local pink sandstone faced most, but here and there, paler stone was used. Samrita preferred the local stone; it made the city glow.
She turned a corner and knew she was getting closer.
Somewhere to the left stood the Prefect's Palace. She and Marasil had been made very welcome there. The older gwerin more so, but sudden illness and death stalked her old tutor.
To have so august a personage die while a guest had deeply embarrassed the then Prefect. He had insisted on paying for all funeral arrangements.
"Don't get too far ahead!" warned Charel. "Do we race?"
"Sorry." Samrita slowed her pace, but offered no explanation.
Turivkan's streets were as busy as she recalled, though there were fewer beggars than on her last visit. Every city was infested with beggars; even Kelthane had a few. But this city either had enough work to soak up all surplus, or else beggars were persecuted and had found easier pickings elsewhere.
In Samrita's experience, it was usually the second reason.
But beggars were unimportant right now. Samrita caught her breath and halted so suddenly that Charel almost cannoned into her.
The temple fronted onto the street and the fence surrounding the graveyard had been replaced since Marasil's funeral. But the grounds inside were completely neglected. The paths were clear, if narrower than she remembered. The trees at the entrance were perhaps the same trees, if larger.
The small temple looked silent and unkempt and the gate set in the fence was secured with a rusty chain.
"Looks like it's no longer used," remarked Charel.
Samrita agreed. "This was the Prefect's temple. I understand it is the fashion now to have the temple in the palace."
"Wrong to let it get this neglected." Charel sounded shocked.
"Happens all the time in cities," replied Samrita, absently. She fumbled with the chain, which came free in her hands. "That was easy enough. Coming?" The gwerin entered the graveyard.
Charel paused. "Should we?" he asked. "It might be forbidden: that chain's there for a reason."
"Wait out here if you like."
Charel shrugged and followed.
Many gravestones had fallen and others leaned at odd angles. The writing on most had worn almost to illegibility. A disadvantage of the local stone, Samrita realized. This graveyard had not been used for some time.
The gwerin rushed ahead along overgrown paths. In the middle of the graveyard, sandwiched between two Prefects, lay her friend's last resting place.
Even the headstone was overgrown. Samrita pulled ivy and brambles away and used a finger to trace barely visible words.
"Marasil," she whispered.
"Everything's neglected," remarked Charel. "Is this normal for here?"
"Nothing looks normal here," replied Samrita. She wandered around the former Prefects' graves. The writing on these had also worn away, but a few stood out more clearly. The most recent was of Prefect Glayen and dated sixteen-sixty-seven. She pulled herself together. "Let's take a look in the temple."
They returned to the street and Charel moved ahead to open the temple door for her. He grunted in surprise.
"Locked," he muttered. "Never seen such a thing before."
Samrita stared. "Nor me."
She walked up to the temple door and pushed. Nothing. Locked, as Charel had said. The door hinges were rusted and the door had not been painted or treated for some years. The only footprints in the dust were their own.
"Something is wrong here." She looked around. "Unkempt graves, locked temples..." She sniffed in disapproval. "I must see the Prefect, see what I can find out."
"The Prefect?" Charel's eyes widened.
"Of course. The Father's priests always care for a gwerin's grave, so I want to know what has gone wrong."
"Why not see one of the priests?"
Samrita gave her companion a mirthless smile. "Because you always get answers quicker when you start at the top and work down. Come on, we have work to do."
***
Peytor paid as much attention to his surroundings as he could while keeping an eye on Telisa, Kwenby and the children. He and Deren were supposed to protect them and watch for threats, which did not leave much opportunity for sightseeing.
Plenty of distractions surrounded him, so much he wanted to stop and see, but kept his mind focused on his task. Thankfully, Telisa and Kwenby ensured everybody stayed more or less together, even if Peytor did rather suspect that they would not see too much of the city this way.
They reached one of the market squares – one of four in the city, apparently – and the group soon scattered as the ladies looked around. Peytor and Deren watched the exits while the others browsed. Unused to cities, Peytor was staggered by the assault on his senses.
Plenty of sylphs were dotted about. Some hawked their
services, offering to carry goods, while others waited with brooms and large bags to scoop up horse dung. Little wonder the city looked so clean and apparently well organized. He was pleased to see few beggars. Probably employed collecting horse droppings.
Well used to sylphs, Peytor watched those he saw with a sympathetic eye. Two sylph families had been bonded to his father's farm. Useful with sheep, goats and arable produce, but not quite so good with cattle and horses. Even farm sylphs were at least wary of large animals.
His face fell. The farm was past tense. The male sylphs and some of the infertiles had been taken away, presumably to be sold.
Peytor's hands clenched and unclenched. The sylphs had been bonded to the farm, they were not slaves. He hoped the stolen ones now had decent owners and that they had been lucky. He really hoped that, because the rest of the farm sylphs had been slaughtered. Even very young ones. Even pregnant ones.
He had needed three days to dig graves for them all and he'd rushed to finish the job before they began to rot where they lay. His family first, then the sylphs.
He blinked back tears.
He must not dwell on that. What was done was done. He lived; he had a future. But why did he feel so guilty that he had survived?
Peytor noticed something else almost straight away. Stallholders were not as watchful of their stock as he expected and there was no sign of thieves working the market. In a city, where people did not know everybody else, criminals usually flourished. There seemed to be none in Turivkan.
He kept Deren in sight all the time. As they were on opposite sides of the square, this was not easy. He dodged around people who consistently got in his way, or blocked his eye line.
Concentrating his attention on things in the middle distance and ignoring everything else nearby proved a recipe for disaster. The boy soon bounced off a much larger man and found himself sitting on the ground.
"Careful!" cautioned the man, more surprised than angry.
"My apologies," Peytor managed, as he scrambled to his feet.
The stranger he had bounced off offered a hand, which he accepted gratefully.
"I'm sorry," Peytor apologized again. "My thoughts were elsewhere."
A smile flickered across the other man's face. "Try thinking of what is in front of you; I'm hardly difficult to see." He winked, then was on his way.
Peytor looked around and realized he had become separated from the rest of the group. He stood on tiptoe to look further afield and panic tinged his disappointment when he saw nobody he recognized.
He suddenly felt very alone and began to dodge through the crowds. He looked for someone, anyone, he knew. He left the market square, hoping to find Deren, or Kwenby, or Telisa...
Unused to crowds, it seemed to Peytor that a multitude thronged the streets. Certainly far more people than he usually saw at once. He pushed his way through, hoping to find his companions. He was supposed to be looking after them.
He abruptly found himself in the middle of the thoroughfare, where a cart almost crushed him. The driver snarled and flicked his whip in his direction, but the boy ducked in time.
He almost shouted after the driver, then remembered he was not supposed to draw attention to himself.
A male sylph, broom and bag at the ready, watched expressionlessly, chewing slowly and obviously uninterested in anything humans got up to.
"You are lost, young man?"
Peytor spun on his heel and stared at the neat, well dressed man stood before him.
"Yes," he replied. "I was with some people and we seem to have gotten separated." Nothing about the man suggested officialdom or authority, but something in his demeanor demanded an answer.
"Usually only drunkards wander about the middle of the avenues."
"I'm not drunk," retorted Peytor. "But neither am I used to cities."
The man nodded. "Where are you staying?"
"With a caravan that's stopped just inside the main gate."
"I will escort you back." His expression hardened a little. "If those people are your friends, you'll have found your way home."
Peytor thought he heard a hint, but failed to work it out.
"Do you like Turivkan?" The man made conversation, perhaps an attempt to put the boy at ease.
"Very much," answered Peytor. "So clean and no beggars."
The man smiled. "We find work for the beggars, so they at least earn their keep. We have no criminals, either. At least, they don't remain criminals for long."
"What do you mean?"
"One chance to reform, then the Prefect or his Administrator orders an execution. No more chances are required. Or given."
"I saw the watchtowers on the plain. Is there trouble with bandits?" Peytor needed to know.
"I am afraid so. Only sometimes, but enough to give us a headache. We live in troubled times, so the land is infested with criminals and rabble-rousers. Our soldiers hunt them down and deal with them. No second chances there."
"Sounds fatal."
"It usually is." The man smiled again. "Bandits prey on the weak and deserve all they get when caught. Crime is a canker to properly organized society. And like all cankers, the only cure is to cut it out. That is the Prefect's job. You seem very interested. But from whose point of view?"
"Not the criminal's. Bandits murdered my family and farm chattels."
The man stopped. "I am sorry to hear that," he said, sincerity thickening his voice. He ignored the crowds swirling around and looked sideways at Peytor. "I might be able to introduce you to the Prefect or his Administrator; he is always looking for honest young men like yourself to become guardsmen. Fighting against bandits and criminals."
Peytor blinked. "How long might that take? My friends..."
"A day or two. Of course, your friends will be worried. Let me take you to them now. If you like, I will try and make an appointment with the Prefect for you. I'll return to you in a day or so. Ah! The main gate. Which is your caravan?"
"That one." Peytor pointed.
The man shook Peytor's hand and bowed his head. "Perhaps in a day or two, we will meet again."
"Thank you."
The man smiled, turned on his heel and was gone. Peytor stared after him. An offer to work in this city. Helping prevent crime and doubtless punishing it when it happened.
Tempting.
He was torn.
The people looking after him now had done him no harm. How would they feel if he left now? Still, a tempting offer.
He crossed the short space and saw Fared with his back to him.
"I've returned," he said.
Fared jerked from his reverie. "You're early; where are the others?"
Peytor grimaced.
The conversation with his escort had pushed his failure at his task to the back of his mind.
"I got separated from them in one of the markets. I collided with someone, landed on my rear end and when I got up again, they were gone. I tried looking for them, but no chance with all those people. So I thought it best to return." He gave an apologetic grin. "I expected them to be back already."
Fared did not look impressed.
Peytor took the other's silence as a demand for more information. "I'm not used to cities this size." He realized this might not be a good time to mention the offer.
Fared relented. "All right, it's easy to get lost in crowds. At least Deren is still with them. Learn from the mistake and remember."
"I will, I promise."
"Good." Fared smiled. "Take over from me for a few moments – I'm just going to have a word with Nynra."
The next arrivals were the families, with Deren still keeping a close eye on them. Of the three adults, only Deren looked pleased to see Peytor. He turned to Telisa.
"See?" he demanded, triumphantly. "I told you he had sense enough to return here if he got separated."
An unimpressed Telisa huffed pointedly. "The boy isn't as good as he claims if he lost us in a market of all places."
Deren laughe
d. "Well, you needed no protection."
"This time."
Deren turned to Peytor. "Why did you run off? I looked across the square and there you were, next time I looked you were gone."
Peytor grimaced. "I bumped into someone and fell down. When I got back up again, you were gone."
"Was crossing the square to look for you, lad."
"Oh. Sorry." Peytor included the ladies in his apology and seemed to be winning them around. After all, Turivkan was the largest city any of them had seen. Fared climbed down the steps from his wagon and hugged his wife.
"Find anything useful?" he asked. "My turn to have a wander. With Nynra, if she's changed her mind of course."
Fared never got his wander for, at that moment an agitated Samrita, with Charel in tow, arrived back at the caravan.
***
Samrita looked up as the servant returned. Servant might be too lowly a title; this man clearly stood higher than that.
"The Administrator will see you now," he said.
"Not the Prefect?"
The man managed to look apologetic. "The Prefect is away."
"When will he return?"
Surprise flickered those dark eyes.
"Who can tell? Perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow. Or even next week."
Samrita sighed, aware of Charel's gaze on her. "Very well, the, ah, Administrator will do."
"If you will follow me."
The corridors were achingly familiar; the palace had been as a home to her when she last visited. Familiar, yet different. The tapestries and paintings had changed, but much of the furniture was the same.
She remembered the room she now entered. Then, it had been used as a small receiving room. Now it served as an office, with papers strewn on every surface except the floor. A huge wallmap took up the space between two windows. Light crystals were dotted around the room and two illuminated the central desk.
The man behind it stood and gestured politely.
"Administrator," began their escort, "may I introduce the gwerin Samrita and Rider Charel."
"I am pleased to meet you," smiled the Administrator, though his blue-gray eyes remained wary. "You may leave us, Delnor."
The servant closed the door behind him on his way out.
"I am Kanad Vyer Tanur, Administrator for the Prefect."
"Pleased to meet you," said Samrita. "I am here to raise a concern about the state of the old palace temple and graveyard. It is –"
"Yes, the Prefect has had other priorities in past years. As you are probably aware, we have suffered from raiders and the security of the living is more important than the comfort of the dead." Kanad raised an eyebrow.
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