by Guy Antibes
‘Bureaucracy,” Shira said. “Even in my country, it’s a curse humans place on each other.”
“A curse, but countries need rules, or they aren’t a real country. It’s a matter of how many rules and who ends up with the power to make them. In Bossom, it’s the Council of Citizens. There is no king. In the upper reaches of Bossomian society, the country is a meritocracy.”
“Meritocracy?” Paki asked.
“Rule goes to the most capable, not to those possessing royal blood.” Fadden said.
Paki looked confused. “That sounds all right to me.”
“In theory it is,” Pol said, “but generally it breaks down when a select few start determining who has the greatest merit. That’s when most meritocracies in history end up being dictatorships. The member with the most merit ends up declaring himself,” he nodded to Shira, “or herself of royal blood, and a new dynasty is created. Sometimes the person with the most merit is the one with the best swordsmanship or smallest conscience while killing off rivals. That’s how it works in the Empire.”
“That may happen at some time in Bossom, but right now, the Council of Citizens is content to rule by committee,” Namion said.
Paki waved his hand in front of his face as if he smelled a foul odor. “Too many rules!”
~
Regardless of the oppressive central government, the Missibes skyline was impressive. Pol thought of the sophistication of Covial and then multiplied it. Evident were the spires poking up throughout the city with different shapes trapped as if pinioned by the spires. There were circular globes, elongated globes, squares, diamonds, and even more complex shapes. Some were stacked one on top of another. Barandy’s spires were poor imitations compared to what he saw in Missibes.
Once they took an inordinate amount of time getting new passes to the city, they were finally admitted into the Bossomian capital. Namion took them immediately to an ornate building that fronted a square close to the city gate.
“We will need to apply for permission to enter the Inner Ring. It takes an additional pass, but once inside, we will be free to move around and purchase anything offered inside,” Namion said. “I know two members of the Council of Citizens to sponsor us, but we will be waiting for much of the afternoon for them to respond to my request.”
Pol understood how safe they would likely be in Missibes. How could the Hounds even get to Missibes unless they rode cross-country? It would be difficult to pass by all of the patrols that they had encountered on their journey across the Bossomian countryside.
The square looked spotless. Pol said as much to Paki.
“What’s with all the scaffolding all over the place?” Paki said, standing by the front window and looking out at the gate square.
“Soot. You don’t notice it in other cities, but here, the buildings are washed every five or so years to clean bird droppings and soot from smoke. Most of the buildings are made out of stone, as you can tell,” Namion said.
“They must have cheap labor,” Pol said. “My father would never waste the royal treasury on cleaning buildings that the rains would clean.”
Namion shook his head. “Look at the next city we visit. Without scrubbing the stone, buildings blacken, and rain doesn’t wash everything off. The Bossomians are proud of their capital.”
Pol joined Paki at the window and gave his friend a playful shove. “Let me see.” He looked out at the buildings and at the one covered with the scaffolding that Paki noticed. He looked at the difference between cleaned stone and dirty stone and had to admit that he learned something new. Now every dirty city that he visited would be compared to Missibes.
They waited another hour until a squad of soldiers arrived. One of them dressed as an officer walked up to the front desk and talked to the attendant.
“Namion Threshell’s party?”
Namion walked over to the officer. “All of us will be appearing before the Council of Citizens except for him.” Namion pointed to Fadden.
“What am I supposed to do?” the ex-Seeker said, astonished by Namion’s comment.
“I frankly don’t care.”
Pol had no reason to visit the Council. “I’ll stay with Fadden,” he said.
Namion looked angry.
“Go, go with him, Pol. I’ll be all right,” the ex-Seeker said.
“Are you sure?”
Fadden gave Pol the slightest of winks and then pointed his chin at Namion. “Go with him. I’ll find a way to get a message to you about where I’ll be spending my time, so you won’t leave without me.”
Namion and Fadden had planned something behind Pol’s back. He decided to play along.
“I don’t feel right leaving you to your own devices in a strange city.”
Fadden shook his head. “I know how to make Missibes less strange. Have some fun in the Inner Ring.”
Namion didn’t look back after he received their passes from the attendant and left the building. The rest of Pol’s group followed. Pol mounted and noticed Fadden looking out the window. He gave Pol a more obvious wink and turned away as their escort moved out. Pol didn’t like being left out of whatever strategy the two of them had made, but perhaps he could play with pattern possibilities while they spent some time in the Inner Ring.
If anything, the city became shinier the closer they came to the center of Missibes. Pol began to glimpse more spires with the shapes midway up. It gave the city a festive appeal, but as they rode along the spotless pavement, the citizens didn’t seem to be in a very playful mood. Their clothes were cut much the same, trimmed with dull reds, blues, and browns.
Pol suspected that the citizens dressed more colorfully when they reached their homes. He expected a similar pattern existed in Barandy. Perhaps Shira and he could go shopping in the Inner Ring and find out if they could see more stylish clothing by prodding a shopkeeper or two to sell them brighter apparel. It would represent a diversion from whatever Namion had planned.
A wall of yellow stone appeared in the distance. There were no crenellations, but ornate ironwork all along the top. It had a look of elegance to Pol’s eyes, and he now realized that the Inner Ring was a physical space, as well as a city district. Guards wearing the same uniform as their escort snapped to attention when they rode past the large gate. Pol saw a heavily reinforced wrought iron gate rolled to the side. The gate had thick metal wheels that ran along a greased track.
Namion turned around. “I’m sure you are all aware that we have just entered the Inner Ring, where the elites of Bossom make their homes.”
~~~
Chapter Twenty-Six
~
They rode slowly though the gate into another world. The cleanliness persisted, but the change was incredible. Houses suddenly went from two to five stories, many with gilded ironwork. Some even had the distinctive spires. The patterns of the clothes remained the same, but where the citizens outside the Inner Ring wore practical linen or wool garments, the citizens of the Inner Ring wore silk, but in the same dull gray color.
He noticed servants following their masters and mistresses. The cloth was the same as what commoners wore outside, but even their clothes were trimmed with silk borders and cuffs. He continued to see much of the same within the ring, passing numerous shops and restaurants. The elites of the Inner Ring lived a better life than those in any district that Pol had experienced in his travels in the Empire. He wondered if Yastan, the Baccusol capital, could compare.
Pol leaned over to Shira, who looked intently at their surroundings. “Do you have anything to match this?”
She smiled at him. “In what way do you define match? We have houses that are as large, though not as tall, with well-dressed inhabitants. In my mind, Missibes doesn’t match areas in our capital, Tishiko.”
Another tidbit. Pol liked the vision of her capital, with low wide city estates. “Does Tishiko have lots of trees?”
Shira nodded, but didn’t say another word. Pol began to discern a pattern of the Shinkyan capital wit
h buildings, low and wide mimicking a rolling countryside. He wasn’t sure with the nod, but it made sense to him.
But as Pol looked about him, he thought of institutionalized hypocrisy. It seemed to match the excessive bureaucracy and control that emanated from this small enclave in Missibes. He suddenly doubted that if he would be enjoying much of his stay.
The squad of Inner Ring guards stopped at a five-story inn. The wrought-iron grillwork was black, with golden tips mounted over polished red stone. He wondered where the building materials came from. Bossom was farming country, and he hadn’t noticed any quarries. Perhaps the stone came from the mountains far to the west that separated eastern Volian countries from those in the west.
Namion traded words with the officer, and then the squad trotted off towards an even taller building, with the tallest spire in the Inner Ring, at the other end of a huge square that bordered one side of the inn.
“All foreign visitors stay here, especially notable ones from outside of Volia,” he said. “Do not remove any of your gear from your horses and follow me in. Do not touch your weapons.”
They all nodded at Namion’s warning and walked up a few steps into the inn. The lobby and downstairs rooms were opulently furnished. All the customers and staff wore silk clothes, again in the common style. Pol felt out of place with his soiled clothes and his conical hat. Everyone looked at them apprehensively.
“Namion Threshell?” a man with an elaborate coiffure made up of oiled or waxed curlicues said. “Your rooms are ready. If you will come with me, we will get you all measured for suitable clothes to wear within the Ring.”
Paki looked around with distaste. His friend would definitely have been happier with Fadden. Pol was thinking that he would, too. They were taken to a pair of dressing rooms. Shira and Loa went in one, and the others were measured two at a time.
“If you would go to your rooms, we will have your items delivered within half an hour,” their host said as he gave them each a key.
Pol walked into an individual room that compared favorably with his own childhood rooms at Borstall Castle. That was a luxury, thought Pol. He took off his tunic, his chainmail, and boots. He padded around the room in stockinged feet and found a bathroom. The water was piped in, something he might have expected if he had thought about it. A heated water tank must be on the roof.
The water was more warm than hot, but he soaked away a number of days of travel and relaxed in the tub. He heard a discreet knock on the door. He jumped up, threw a towel around him, and opened the door.
“Your clothes, sir.” A blushing maid laid them on the nearest table, since Pol’s hands were holding up the towel, and quickly left.
Pol locked the entry door and finished drying. The clothes fit very well, but as he examined them in a mirror, they really did look odd. There was another knock on his door.
“Your travel things,” a boy said. He was dressed in silk-trimmed linen with smudges on his clothes. Pol noticed his stockinged feet. He must have been a stableboy. Another boy stood behind him with someone else’s belongings.
“Thank you,” Pol’s bags were cleaned already. He pulled out a copper Bossomian coin and gave it to the boy.
“You shouldn’t, sir. It’s against the rules.”
“Not my rules,” Pol said.
“It shall be our secret, sir.” The boy bowed and fled with his friend to the next room.
Pol realized that the boy was probably only a few years younger than he. Thinking that only reminded Pol that he had experienced an odd childhood. He wondered about the others. Shira grew up in a unique situation, too, but then Shinkya was a different culture.
How had his childhood affected him? Pol wondered. He sat down and picked up an unfamiliar fruit. He bit into it and spit out colored wax. He couldn’t help but laugh as he examined the damaged item and the rest of the models that were piled in a bowl in his room. The Bossomians were obviously masters at making realistic replicas out of wax. Kell’s father might be interested in importing such things.
Pol relaxed on a couch in the room. A knock on the door awakened him.
He straightened his clothes and opened the door to a smiling Shira. A maid stood behind her with hands folded.
“Time to eat.” She twirled. “It looks like we are both wearing the latest fashion.” She nodded to the maid, who left. “Can I come in for a moment before we head down?”
“How can I deny you anything?” Pol said. He closed the door after she came in. “One moment.” He used his locator sense and found that someone was close to one of the walls. Pol put his hand to his ear and pointed to the listening post.
“Oh, that’s inconvenient,” Shira said. She put her lips close to his ear. “I like Missibes less and less.” She kissed his ear before she stood straight.
“Don’t tickle me,” Pol said as cover for the kiss.
She flicked his arm. “I suppose we can go down, now.”
Whatever Shira wanted to say would have to wait. They were on the third floor and walked down the wide, carpeted stairway to the restaurant. This inn had no common room that Pol could see.
Paki sat by himself, with a goblet of some orange liquid. They sat down next to him. “No alcohol for those under twenty in Missibes,” he said dejectedly.
“What’s that?” Shira said.
“It’s called orange something or other,” Paki said. “Botarra grows oranges, but we never ran into this down there.”
“Probably just for export,” Shira said. “Bossom has a lot of trade deals in Volia, I would imagine. We grow oranges and lemons in Shinkya. They are exported to the Empire, one of the few things that we trade.”
“What do you buy in return?” Pol asked, eager to snatch another Shinkyan nugget of information.
“Metal ore, mostly. There aren’t a lot of mines in the mountains that we share with South Salvan.” She folded her arms; her typical signal that she was done talking.
Pol laughed. “Did you try the fruit in your room?” he asked Paki.
“Did I! I couldn’t believe the apple wasn’t real.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me?” Shira said, pinching the skin on Pol’s hand.
“All right. Did you try the fruit in your room?”
Shira lifted her nose in the air. “No, I didn’t. Was it tasty?”
“As tasty as a candle,” Paki said.
“I think Kell should find out who makes them and export them to the Empire,” Pol said.
“So he can get something out of this trip other than Loa?” Paki said. He quickly covered his mouth. “That might have come out incorrectly.”
Shira waved Paki’s comment away. “I appreciate your sensitivity. I think that having an interest in each other makes our journey better. I worried about Loa when we were traveling through The Shards, but not since the voyage.”
“You and she were good friends,” Pol said.
She pinched him again. “We still are.”
“Still are what?” Kell said walking up behind them.
“Loa and Shira are friends,” Paki said.
“Why not?”
“Well, you and Loa.” Paki began to turn red.
“You may not notice, but the two of them are together often enough. Right, Shira?” Kell said.
“Right,” Shira said.
Pol was happy she didn’t elaborate. He needed to change the subject, and luckily, Loa arrived.
“Namion has business with the Council and said we will be eating without him,” she said. “He was unhappy that our belongings on the packhorses were delivered to his room.” Loa giggled a bit.
Pol felt uncomfortable not knowing what Namion intended to do. He felt the Seeker was treating him like a child, but then he looked around at the table and was reminded, yet again, that he was the youngest.
He spotted a server standing around and raised his hand. “We are new to Missibes. Could you tell us what is good here?”
“Oh. Foreigners, eh? I should have known since you were
speaking in a different language. There are no choices for food, just for drinks,” the server said. He looked a bit nervous.
“Then can we be served?”
“Of course,” the man said and left to go through a pair of swinging doors that led to what must be the kitchen, since Pol noticed food coming out and empty dishes going in.
He came back with plates filled with exactly the same food arranged in the same way. Once they were all served and had decided to try the orange drink, Pol examined each plate. “Nothing different. Strange.”
“Boring,” Loa said in Shardian.
Pol smiled and tried the food. This was worse than what they ate in Barandy. He noticed the servers gave the same food to the other patrons. “We need to eat something. Maybe we can walk around the Inner Ring and see if they have any street vendors selling something more palatable.”
He felt like Paki, complaining about the food, but it certainly was justified.
“I’m all for an adventure after this,” Paki said, lifting up a forkful of the insipid dinner.
After they ate, they didn’t even return to their rooms, since Pol had slipped his purse with Bossomian coinage into his pocket. After gathering in the front of the inn, they entered the large square that the side of the inn faced. Pol had expected it to be full of people, along with street vendors, but it was obvious that people were entering the square just to get to the other side.
Namion said that the Bossomians prohibited worship of deity of any kind, so Pol was surprised to see a building that sure looked like a cathedral to him. “Let’s go there.”
The other four shrugged at his suggestion, then strolled to the building. The doors were open, so they all walked in. The architecture reminded Pol of the cathedral in Bastiz with the high ceilings and tall, arched windows.
“This was a church,” Paki said. He examined patched places along the walls where plaster obliterated some kind of decoration. The Bossomians had done an excellent job of patching, but it was easy enough to see. Large statues were lined up toward the far end. “Those aren’t gods, are they?”
Pol reached them first, and from puzzling out the Bossomian script, he said, “These are former Chief Citizens of the Bossomian Council.” He looked up at each one. Most of the statues were of men, with a few women Chief Citizens honored with a statue. The style of their clothing hadn’t changed from what Pol and Shira wore.
