After warning Cite to keep his pouches covered with a loose sash and to tie his dagger’s handles to the sheaths Rogen allowed Cite to stop and look at different booths. “Pickpockets and petty thievery is a way of living here,” Rogen explained.
The Rokairn sent Sybia to find supplies, telling Taktak to stay with her in case of trouble. He told Calleus to find his contacts and inquire about business dealings. Rogen stopped at many stalls and at a few shops. He knew numerous people and had business to take care of while in the marketplace. The prices Cite saw here were different from what he accustomed to seeing. Spices were cheap, so was silk and other things he thought of as rare. Metalworkers hawked their wares for a fraction of what he would have paid at home, but food, wines, and common items were double what he would have seen at the markets in the north. Also, many merchants here kept scales to weigh coins since more than one country’s tender were presented and the weight of the gold or silver could vary. Other goods were apparent that Cite had never seen before. Women waved and called to men, practically spilling out of their loose billowy clothes. There wasn’t any doubt what they were selling. Cite saw smoot and other drugs sold openly; he even saw a place that apparently catered to people using such drugs. Even though he was traveling with Rogen, the thing that made him stop in his tracks was the slave market. He was stunned.
It was a covered square with a well in the center, and crowded with people. One side was a walkway where the slave owners could pay the local government for an allotted amount of time to display their human merchandise. Some of the larger and more successful slave traders owned one of the surrounding buildings and could sell their stock from inside where it was cool. Those merchants had healthier and more robust slaves and charged more. The less successful slave traders had to keep their stock sitting in the sun or in tight bunches crowded into any available shade. Most of the slaves looked listless and drained. Flies landed on them, bugs crawled across them, and even the rats that scurried in the shadows looked healthier. A few people recognized Rogen and waved, others glared.
“This is what you did?” Cite asked with an outraged look. “How could you treat people like this?” Rogen grabbed him by his collar and yanked him around a corner.
“First, lower your voice. Not for my sake, but for your own so they do not decide to knife you from behind to shut you up. Second, no,” Rogen pointed at the market place, “this is not what I do.” Rogen loosened his grip but continued to hold the front of the shirt and pulled his face close to his own. “These people sicken me. I would not treat swine this way. Think about it, Cite. Did you see anyone in my city who looked like this? You heard how I run, well ran, my business. I taught people the value of work and of themselves. You have heard my philosophy on how to treat, train, and test people for the life I would give them.”
Cite nodded, and Rogen released his grip on the boy’s shirt.
“Now, let us find the inn and get a decent meal.”
Rogen led them to an inn overlooking the docks. It didn’t have a name, just a sign swinging in the meager breeze that showed a green onion on sinking boat. It had a wrap-around porch with tables that were shaded by a second floor balcony that also had tables and in turn was shaded by tarps. All the shutters were wide open and it looked as if it had been white washed within the last year. They entered a large common room with a bar that ran along the open windows so it could service both the customers outside as well as those inside. The entire back wall was open doors the size of barn doors, and the kitchen was outside in a courtyard – shaded by tarps overhead - with a low wall dividing it from the common room. The only solid walls were the outside corner wall and the inside wall that held the stairway to the rooms and tables upstairs.
By the time they entered the inn, dinner was in full swing. The place was crowded but not noisy, due to the open atmosphere. A few people nodded or discretely waved to Rogen. It smelled more of cooking meat and fish than of sweat. Smoke lingered in the air from the cooking fires, various pipes and hookahs, as well as the occasional cheroot. They looked around for a table, and Cite headed for the first two seats he saw at one of the long common tables. Rogen’s hand on his arm stopped him and pulled him towards the low wall separating the kitchen.
After a moment’s quiet discussion with the large swarthy man tending the spit and cooking fires, Rogen steered Cite towards a table at which the man had pointed. A serving wench was clearing it of its occupants. When the meal was brought, they dined on lightly seasoned goat with leeks - a house specialty - flat bread, and drank water. Cite watched the crowd around him, trying not to look like a gaping hayseed on his first trip out. Rogen surveyed the area, noting everything he needed to know, and proceeded to eat in a quick and efficient manner. Afterwards, he leaned back and lit a cigar, putting his feet up on the extra chair, spending the next few hours listening to the local gossip with half closed eyes.
Once the sun had set, the cool night breeze stole away the day’s heat. Rogen waved the skinny serving girl over and handed her a few coins. She smiled at him saucily, tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, winked, and said, “Follow me, boys,” and led the way upstairs with an enticing sway to her hips. She led them to a door that looked like all the others, produced a key from her bodice and unlocked it. With a smile, she leaned against it, opened it and gestured the two men into the dark interior. Rogen led the way, with Cite following behind, looking everywhere in case it was a trap.
The woman closed the door, enveloping them all in darkness. A moment later light flared to life as the serving wench lit an oil lamp. Her smile was gone and was replaced with a serious demeanor.
“Rogen, what the hell happened?” she asked, a worried wrinkling the bronzed skin around her green eyes. Not waiting for an answer, she pushed past the two men and felt at the back of the closet. “I have heard of more than one straggler from your place coming into town in the past days. Are the rumors true?”
“Well, Michellette, it depends on what those rumors are saying, but I am not at liberty to discuss much yet. Perhaps I will let you know later.”
With an understanding nod, she dropped the topic and gestured at the now open door in the back of the closet. “I believe you know the way,” she said as Rogen stepped past her and reached into the opening, grasping metal rungs embedded in the wall that were unseen in the dark. Cite followed once Rogen had descended.
She closed the hidden panel behind them, and Cite heard muffled moans begin in the room they had just left. Light filtered up from below, and the mage followed Rogen. He could not be sure, but he thought they passed other openings on the way down. They reached the bottom after twenty-four rungs by Cite’s count. Oil lanterns lit the room, which was furnished with only a table and three chairs. A man sat in the chair across the table with a crossbow leveled at the two men, and he looked like he meant business.
Chapter 6: Halfway to Justice
“What was once joined may never truly be separated, only broken.”
Kreiger Darkflame, Priest of Torr
5854 – Thon – Jordar – Lasin
“How long has it been since I have walked these streets?” Cyril muttered as he wandered through Edgewater and looked at the carvings of the stone quay. The priest thought about the history in these streets and stones. The region had a bloody history, and it all tied into the very church that Cyril planned on saving, even though it had rejected him. The port of Edgewater was not far from Red City, which was named for its violent history after the fall of the Olde Kingdom. The priests of the Church of Jonath from Silver Castle and Silver City (both which were built by Jonath while he was still a mortal), ruled it jointly. That kingdom had once spanned a thousand kilometers, from Royale Bay to Silver Bay. It reigned in the time before the Slim Desert to the west was created from battles of wayward magics. The Olde Kingdom had been destroyed almost four hundred years ago by the very sort of evil that was creeping back into the land today. The stories of undead armies and dark magics came to Cyril. Once
the Olde Kingdom had fallen to the hordes of undead and magic controlled by greed, and only Silver City remained to continue the fight for the side of justice, good, and law.
Cyril would find a way to bring that back, and to protect the land from the encroaching evils. It was his fault that the church was crumbling, and his fault that his brother had been lost to the dark forces that were creeping into the land. He might not have been able to save the one person who meant the most to him, and he may not have been able to warn of the corruption of the institution that he had dedicated his life to, but he would find a way to save everything else. Even if it meant his own death. That would be a small price to pay to atone for his sins.
He stared at the stone braziers, pock marked by centuries of weather, that lit the docks. The shorter ones were set alight every dusk. Cyril wondered about the carvers, their lives, worries, fears, loves, and triumphs. It was the people that made a kingdom great, not the monuments that men leave behind. There were three different height braziers. He ran his hand across them, feeling the cool living stone underneath his fingertips. A pillar carved to represent a hero, a mighty ruler, or some magical beast supported each brazier. Every third one was shorter, about chest height on most men. Beasts supported these. Creatures that once roamed the plains and mountains, such as gryphon, dragon, manticore, winged horses, and other mystical animals all held huge stone bowls that contained a combination of wood and coal on their backs. The men supported taller pillars, three times the height of a living man, and were another two thirds of the carvings along the stone docks.
The height of the third type of braziers had been immense before they were vandalized, centuries ago. A few were intact, but not many, and even those were eroded or damaged beyond recognition. They had been gods. Before the time when The Traveling God took the gods away for a century, people had carved the gods’ likenesses to hold the lights that would guide ships and men safely to their destinations. Cyril stopped beside a column that had once been the image of his own god, Jonath. He ran his fingers across the cracked surface with reverence, thinking how it was appropriate that it was made of stone since Jonath was the god of the element of earth. But he was also the god of judgement, and from the center point in the quay the statue that once held a brazier ten meters in the air could look over the bay and judge men with impunity. He moved on, watching the people and buildings.
“How long has it been?” Cyril wondered again, and sighed. He stopped, turned, and watched the waves lap at the ancient stones. The sting of salt and fish reached his nose as the storm pushed refuse back to the shore. The dark water reflected light from a brazier wider than his outstretched arms. He was unsure what he was asking about this time. “So many things have come and gone,” he mumbled as he ran his fingers through his thin brown hair, “My brother Cyrus gone, the Talisman here, magic gone then returned, but so different than it was before. How many people dead? How many Kingdoms fallen? All in such a short time, at least by history’s standards.”
The street was almost deserted of people. It was the beginning of a chilly autumn night, and Cyril wrapped his cloak around him. The wind picked up as the storm rolled in from the sea. The few people out moved about their business, heads down, wanting to be inside before the squall began to batter the city. Voices called out, trying to sell their last few fish to people rushing home, and others tried to call passersby into warm taverns. Lightning flashed over the Sea of Seron and spray showered the street as the breakers became fiercer.
Cyril’s muttering didn’t attract much attention, but his being alone did. People did not travel alone in this part of town, and never unarmed. Cyril stood out. He dressed as a scholar may, simple but well-made clothes. No weapon showed at his waist and no bodyguard stood behind him. This made him either crazy or dangerous; either way people noticed and gave him wide berth. Most people did at least.
Cyril had seen the silhouette on the roof. It had shown itself before the clouds covered the full moon, as it leapt the ten-yard span from one rooftop to another. It was huge if it was a man. It was following him, but not hunting him, yet. The cleric was not an expert on such things but his instincts, and the protection of his god, had served him well in the past. He knew the God of Justice favored him. Cyril grew up in the lands that Jonath had been born to and walked before claiming his right of divinity. The priest drew strength from that. That alone allowed Cyril not to fear whomever, or whatever, followed him. No one, man nor beast, would stop him from his mission.
He turned his back on the rooftop shadow and thought of his brother Cyrus as he stared at the inlet with its bobbing ships. Cyril wished the sea had claimed Cyrus, but the gods had other plans for Cyril’s twin. He was always the action to Cyril’s thought. Where his twin stood tall and strong and went through an obstacle, Cyril would find a way around it. Everyone, especially women, liked Cyrus. He was fun and charming, where Cyril was quiet and studied books instead of raising tankards. They worked well together but never took the same path, though when working with one another they never left anything incomplete.
“What’s the point?” Cyril mumbled as the first icy drops of rain hissed as they hit the brazier. He stood in the rain a bit longer, brooding and watching the rain bounce on the water. The docks around him grew slick, and he turned to go to a tavern. He was not foolish enough to stay in a freezing rain, no matter how much Jonath favored him. His brother would have stayed, but he was not his brother. Not at all anymore, or rather his brother was in no way himself anymore. Through that odd bond twins share, Cyril could still feel Cyrus at times. It had grown less frequent, had an alien feel, and was always faint.
Cyril dwelled on this as he made his way to ‘The Loose Goose’, a not-too-seedy dock pub that served a variety of spiced wines and baked fowl. He saw a flicker of movement on the roof as the figure moved to follow, a huge hulking shape darker than the stormy night. Cyril wondered if it was Cyrus, come to kill him or turn him into whatever his brother had become. It didn’t matter; he would complete his mission then go find his brother. The priest hunched his shoulders under his cloak, and moved away from the docks.
In a few blocks, he pushed his way into the smoky interior of the pub and squinted at the dim interior, which was bright compared to outside. The smell of stale beer and pungent tobacco filled the room. A layer of smoke from pipes and oil lamps hung above the room. A rim of frost had collected on his moustache and ice on his short cloak. He stomped his booted feet and shook out his cloak by the door, where a puddle had been created by previous patrons. Cyril stood up straight and still did not stand very tall, a bit taller than most women and a bit shorter than most men. He’d been in this rundown seaport for over a month now, and nodded to the few people that acknowledged him as he looked for a table once his eyes adjusted. The bar had seats, but he was not in the mood for the conversation that the drunks would push upon him, so he took a seat at the end of a long public table. He hunching his shoulders and stared at the minstrel singing above the din of the patrons. He made it apparent that he was not in a social mood.
He could see the door and most of the room with a slight turn of his head. He watched the polished metal mirror behind the bar occasionally for movement behind him. The serving woman brought him a goblet of the thin red wine he preferred. Elade knew him well enough, even though he was relatively new here. She smiled through her missing teeth, and played with her red hair with streaks of grey. He ordered some stew, bread and cheese from her and sent her away.
His mind wandered over the people he knew here. Most had common names or old names. You could tell a stranger by their name. Regions tended to follow patterns for naming their children. He saw one he knew, a dark curly haired lad. He did not know his name, but he had seen him often recently. Cyril needed something specific and he wasn’t sure how to find it. So he had put the word out on the street and he knew someone would come to him soon enough. He watched as the boy came towards his table, and with a quick prayer to his God for guidance, Cyril ge
stured for the boy to sit.
“You the one who needed the belt buckle?” the dark haired boy asked as he sat and Cyril nodded. “It will cost you one hundred and fifty gold kords, is that a problem?” The lad leaned back in his chair, one hand under the table and the other picking at the wood on the back of the chair next to him. Cyril leaned forward putting his elbows on the table and shook his head, indicating that it would not be a problem.
“How quick can you get it for me?” Cyril asked. “I am not sure where it is, but I have tracked it to this town. All I know is a jewelry merchant had it when he came into town.”
“You don’t even know where it is? That could be a problem, but I should be able to find it. It will cost you extra though. Fifty gold kords should cover my expenses. Is that agreeable?” The boy looked at Cyril nonchalantly, a look that made Cyril feel this boy had more years of experience than most men twice his age.
“No, that is no problem,” Cyril said as he reached into his pouch and dug out a fingernail sized blue gemstone and slid it across the table. “This should retain your services and loyalty until the task is completed, lad.”
The boy leaned forward, covering the stone with his hand as he glanced around the room to see if anyone was looking. “You trying to get a knife in the back, friend? I like you, but don’t think for a second I would take a blade to protect you.” He slid the gem off the table and dropped it into his pouch.
“My name is Cyril and I am not worried about a stranger’s blade. My god protects me,” Cyril explained as he drew a highly polished solid silver medallion of Jonath, a pair of scales balanced on the center point of a three-pronged trident, from inside his shirt. “He has much bigger plans for me, I assure you.”
Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Page 7
