Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  Utilitarian public buildings, intended more to serve rather than govern the people, dominated Feinthresh’s center. Crowds of people moved through spacious streets, gathering at wine shops or taverns for their midday meals or perusing various shops. Four four-storied buildings with imposing edifices faced the central square; children and adults clustered on the front steps or lingered near the flowerbeds and trees that shaded the arched, lead-paned windows.

  “What are these buildings?”

  The young noblewoman tilted her head to one side. “Our libraries and schools. Do you not have such buildings where you live?”

  “Nothing quite so grand.”

  “A pity. As you can see, there are children of every age and social class present.” Sathra nodded at a group of people who broke from their conversation to bow or curtsy in her direction. “Unlike other nations, we Anahari believe every child is entitled to an equal education no matter the station to which they are born. Were you to visit any other town or city in Anahar, you would find such a building with all – or at least most – of the same texts available to any who wish to read them.”

  “Doesn’t that run counter to the social structure of a caste-based society?”

  “Not at all. While we believe breeding determines one’s lot in life, we are not foolish enough to believe birth alone dictates all one may become. Only through questioning are new and better methods discovered, and solutions to society's problems arise from unlikely places. Thus, we rigorously test and educate our children. Those possessing aptitudes beyond their caste are discovered and trained accordingly.

  “Education, when combined with ambition, leads to individual accomplishment and societal advancement,” the noblewoman said as she gestured at the surrounding buildings. “Therefore, our adults and elders are encouraged to pursue their interests. These buildings are our university, and students from across Anahar may study here if they discovered to have an aptitude.”

  “It sounds expensive.”

  “It is, but her grace believes educating the populace to their fullest potential far outweighs the cost. Each social caste is taxed at an equal percentage of their income to ensure adequate funding.”

  A group of young men gave the pair deep bows before continuing toward one of the buildings. Uncertain how to respond, Tristan mimicked Sathra’s nod of acknowledgment with a short bow of his own. “With so many of your people being educated, aren’t there fewer hands to do the work?”

  “An antiquated and provincial idea,” Sathra said, the superiority in her expression heightened by the amused quirk of her lips. “You asked how water flowed hot in your chambers and expressed an interest in how such a feat was achieved?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you believe it was a nobleman, waited on hand and foot by an army of servants, who developed the idea? A peasant woman who grew tired of lugging buckets of steaming water upstairs and soiled water down is responsible.” The young noblewoman took his elbow in hand and led him to one of the many grates set into the streets. “Her idea, some two thousand years ago, was primitive. She reasoned that a cistern placed atop a building could store water, which would then flow through heated pipes to provide water for her lord’s bath. Additional plumbing innovations connected tubs to privy closets; soon, dirty bathwater flushed night soil from the houses.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Despite the improvements, it was not a perfect system. What do you suppose happened?”

  “Other people adopted the design and made improvements.”

  “Correct. The lord she served thought the idea possessed merit and invested in the design, which others improved by connecting the houses to the existing drainage system. Servants had more free time, and their lords and ladies more convenience and privacy. Happiness and productivity improved. However, there were unforeseen consequences; the drainage systems that existed were inefficient for the volume of wastewater they were required to handle. People sickened as foulness polluted the streets and groundwater.”

  Tristan glanced down as she tapped her toe on the metal grate. “Someone improved the sewers.”

  Sathra nodded. “A farmer, with knowledge of irrigation learned from his schooling, developed the solution. Miles of sewers now lay beneath our feet, connecting every public building and every private home. River water pushes waste through the tunnels, cleaning them as it moves through a series of sluices that close when the chambers at the system’s ends become filled. Straw and sand are mixed with sewage, which is then baked into bricks and used for building projects elsewhere.”

  “Does the castle use this same system?”

  “Aqueducts move water into the castle from the upper river, and gravity does the rest. To phrase it crudely, her grace’s shit mingles with everyone else’s.”

  The noblewoman gestured to the fourth building facing the square. “Aside from leading to engineering marvels that make life more convenient, that servant’s invention led to the development of Anahar’s other great social product – medicine. People sickened by waste-contaminated water required treatment, which another of our nobles recognized. She invested her fortune in studying the problem, and soon expanded her research to treating different ailments. Now, we provide all our citizens with the care they need regardless of their income.”

  “Paid for with taxes, I suppose?”

  Sathra lifted an eyebrow at the skepticism in his voice. The disdain on her features bled into her words. “Nobles of other nations grow wealthy by taxing those who produce but do little to improve the lives of those who support them. A happy and healthy population is far more productive than one that is ill and malcontent. We Anahari recognize this and wonder why the rest of you do not.”

  “If your way is superior, why not raise armies to liberate and enlighten the rest of us?”

  “What do you have that we could want? Liberating your kind from feudal modalities and reeducating the population does not benefit Anahar.”

  Tristan blinked as Sathra strolled away, realizing he had been insulted in a way somehow worse than what Duke Riand had managed. The difference, he realized, was that the duke believed himself superior. She, by contrast, knew it to be fact.

  FEINTHRESH’S SOUTHERN districts were set aside for different trades, with sections dedicated to warehouses or shops specializing in various crafts. Leatherworkers dominated the southern outskirts, located thus to capitalize on the winds to keep the stench from fouling the rest of the city. Blacksmiths lined an entire street, hammers ringing as their forges produced the nails, tools, and other goods necessary to support the city's and outlying farms’ needs.

  The logic of the city layout made sense to him the longer Tristan followed Sathra. Closer to the city’s heart were the shops where finished goods were both made and sold; tailors, cobblers, hatters, glovers, and all manner of other businesses clustered together. Bulk producers – such as spinners, weavers, and dye-works – commanded the outskirts, as did homes for the poorer Anahari, general laborers, caravansaries, and brothels.

  Strange accents and foreign languages struck Tristan’s ear as they wandered this part of the city. Merchants operated an open-air bazaar between the buildings, shaded by awnings and hazed by smoke rising from cook fires, pipes, and chimneys. Exotic spices and perfumes hung in the air. The differences between the few Anahari among the people were stark, and he gawked at their foreignness.

  Most men attempting to draw attention to their wares wore flowing, sand-toned robes highlighted with different colors and embellishments, and their wide sleeves billowed with their expansive, sweeping gestures. Some wore elaborately wrapped cloth around their heads, while others secured patterned fabric over their hair with various headband designs ranging from simple leather strips to intricate metal bands. A few men were clean-shaven, though most sported long goatees that gleamed with wax or scented oils. Their swarthiness compared to the Anahari was a sharp contrast; while most had a red cast to their rich brown skin, several had skin either as black as their eyes or
had a golden cast to their walnut coloring.

  However, what was not in abundance were women to match; the few he spied were as exotic as their male counterparts. Most wore loose robe-like garments cinched around their waists with broad, patterned leather girdles; some few draped their heads with a hood attached to their cloaks, while others obscured their faces with veils which left only their eyes visible. Others wore hardly any clothing at all, with their throats, wrists, and ankles decorated with tooled and polished brass. Tightly braided hairstyles were the norm for these women, which seemed intended to highlight the exoticness of their features.

  Tristan’s brow wrinkled in confusion as these women were hustled out of sight when the merchants caught sight of Sathra. “Who are these people?”

  “Merchants from the desert countries, from as far away as Hagana, Raajan, and Quat. From time to time, we even see people from the Seena horse clans or the Rhonnak tribes – or even as far east as the nation of Urist,” Sathra said in a bored tone, scooping a handful of dates from a woven basket in a nearby stall. The merchant looked as though he might protest but said nothing as the noblewoman stepped away. “Though Anahar is a signatory of the Council of Mytoos, our trade focuses eastward rather than the nations of Western Celerus. As you can see, doing so has benefitted us greatly.”

  “The dyes you mentioned.”

  “As well as silk, silver, and foods we cannot grow in our climate.” The noblewoman slipped a date between her lips. “While not quite civilized by even your standards, they are essential to Anahar’s survival. Few merchant caravans come this far into Anahar; most prefer to conduct business in our border cities.”

  Tristan glanced at balconies along the front of a long, three-story building. Women crowded the railings, each with milky skin showing above their opaque shifts’ low-slung necklines. Each had long black hair; some wore it in thick braids, while others allowed their manes to flow free in the light breeze. He could not help but stare, cheeks burning as they followed him with curious eyes. The women’s sleep-rumpled quality was at odds with their kohl-lined eyes, carmine-painted lips, and powdered skin. “Might I ask a question?”

  “Why are Anahari women working brothels in areas frequented by foreigners, given our reputation for desiring pure bloodlines?”

  “In part.” He hesitated as he tried to determine how best to phrase his question. “If everyone is educated as you say, and evaluated to determine where they best fit in life, then I assume people can move downward in the social hierarchy?”

  “Everyone has their talents. Such a profession is not a societal evil, as some might want us to think. As long as women have something men want, men will be willing to pay for it.” Sathra gestured toward another building, where well-muscled young men loitered on the steps or slumped in the windows. Each was as scantily clothed and made up as the women. “Or anyone, for that matter. Their gender or preference is immaterial.”

  “But if they could do something else, why wouldn’t they?”

  “They fill a need. Let me ask you this. How much money does a commoner make in a month in the Hegemony of Ravvos?”

  “An Arch, perhaps two,” Tristan said, referring to the small gold coins worth a hundred copper Coarsers.

  “These men and women earn as much in a day. So I ask you, which is worse – being paid for a pleasure people will seek regardless of legality or being paid little for the work everyone requires?”

  “If that’s the case, I’m surprised Anahar has any farmers.”

  A confused wrinkle marred her brow. “Why? They are well-paid for their work. Those who produce food are the backbone of a society. Without them, the entire system fails.”

  Tristan bit his tongue as he realized his assumptions about Anahari society made him look foolish – though he suspected it did not matter what he said. Sathra considered him, and even Gwistain, to be backward and ignorant. He suspected two reasons for her to show him around the city – to illustrate his ignorance while displaying Anahar’s superiority, and because she enjoyed his humiliation.

  The air grew ripe with familiar scents as they drew closer to the city’s southern edge. Smoke rose from fires beneath kettles larger than any Dorishad possessed; the steam rising from them bore the scent of acrid madder root and kermes, pungent indigo and woad, vinegar, and urine’s ammonia tang. The aromas wafted from long buildings with high peaked roofs, their sides open to allow fresh air to sweep through while protecting the bolts of fabric men and women hung to dry.

  Peering inside the buildings, he found yards upon yards of wool dyed Anahar’s emerald green draped from drying racks suspended from rafters. Women wound inky black fabric into bolts from other frames. In another building, men stirred vats filled with woad while women scooped pulverized, rotting oak galls and powdered alum into the boiling dye to darken the hue.

  Tristan startled as a man stepped from one of the dye-works, though it was apparent he was no dye master from his clothing. A coat of deep brocaded blue wool fell to the man’s knees. Long hair shone gold against creamy skin as his queue brushed his high collar. A close-cropped beard framed full lips. Vibrant green eyes sparkled with pleasure as they met the youth’s gaze, and the man’s stride lengthened.

  “Mirus, consobrinus, hic te videre,” the man called out, his voice rich and deep. His steps slowed and a line formed between his eyebrows as the youth said nothing in return. He gave Tristan a slight bow, his words accented with a peculiar rhythm and liquidity as he transitioned to the Tradetongue. “Apologies. I believe I mistook you for someone else.”

  “Allow me to introduce Marcus, one of Anahar’s most esteemed trading partners from Caledorn,” Sathra said, her brow acquiring a slight wrinkle. Though she made the introduction smoothly, there was a tightness to her expression and an edge to her voice that caught Tristan’s attention. “Marcus, may I introduce you to Tristan of the Hegemony of Ravvos?”

  “A Ravvosi?” Marcus asked, his voice rising. “Forgive my surprise; you resemble no Ravvosi I have met. Your coloring – it is more common in the north than the south.”

  Tristan shifted uncomfortably as both Sathra and Marcus stared at him. “You sounded as though you recognized me.”

  “A mistake, but an honest one. You remind me of someone with hair much like yours, and your tallness heightens the similarity. For a moment, I thought a rival had come to supplant my status as a favored purchaser of fine textiles. In the company of this lovely lady,” he added with another slight bow toward Sathra, “one might understand my concern.”

  “You have little to worry about, Marcus. You continue to hold the favor of Her Grace the Grand Duchess,” Sathra said. “Tristan was curious to see how the Anahari make such vibrant dyes. I thought it best for him to see for himself.”

  Marcus chuckled and gave the youth a lingering look. “’Tis not the noblest of professions, but a necessary one lest we all be wearing rags – or naught at all. Indeed, many find the stink enough to quash their curiosity, and most prefer ignorance on how the dye is set to cloth. Your nose appears unbothered, though.”

  Tristan’s eyes flicked between the two. Something of note had occurred, but he was uncertain of the meaning of what he missed. He straightened his shoulders and decided to bluff his way through the awkward situation. “As I explained to Sathra earlier, my family deals in textiles. I’d be interested to hear what you think of Anahar’s process.”

  Chapter 25

  The sky beyond the windows in Tristan’s chambers purpled as the sun sank, though he paid it little mind as he paced the sitting room. Several hours had passed since returning from his tour of the city, and he was anxious to speak with Gwistain. The servant girl who led him to his chambers promised to deliver a message that he wished to speak when the prince’s private meeting with the grand duchess concluded.

  Left to himself, Tristan stripped off his russet long vest to pace and think about what he had seen through the course of the day.

  As expected, Sathra had deflected his reque
sts to see Groush while assuring him the Hillffolk was well-tended. There was no evidence to indicate she might be lying, but he had noticed her tenseness during their visit to the textile quarter. After the encounter with Marcus, he had caught her watching him with narrowed eyes. The noblewoman begged tiredness when they returned to Feinthresh Castle and left him in the care of a servant; she had not looked back as she strode away, taking a route which led deeper into the keep. He knew her chambers were located near the royal apartments in the castle’s higher reaches, and wondered where she was going.

  The grand duchess’s kinswoman’s behavior was not the only thing about the day which troubled him.

  In many ways, Anahar was a superior society. Many of the economic principles Tinstafel discussed in his book, The Economics and Flow of Trade, appeared to influence nearly every element of these peoples’ lives. Despite the rigid caste system, he found aspects of Anahari society appealing. Everyone seemed outwardly happy, though the more he witnessed Sathra’s interactions with the people, the more he suspected the caste system was more rigid than he was being led to believe.

  During a stop for luncheon, he had spoken with children who made him feel as though he verged on illiteracy. They gave him curious glances for his height, coloring, and accent, but had been polite; to Sathra, however, they were deferential in a way no mere servant was entitled to, despite the royal colors she wore. Fear edged people’s interactions with the noblewoman; they grew pale when they spoke to her, and the quiver to the more formal cadence of their words revealed their tension.

  He also realized that, as the daughter of a puissant House and wearing the grand duchess's colors, Sathra should have had an escort of guards. Try as he might, he could not recall seeing a single soldier between the time they left the castle and when they returned. There may have been guards of which he had been unaware, nearby and dressed plainly; if so, they were masters of blending in and communicating in silence.