by Bob Craton
CHAPTER 2
Graice and Holder
Once there was a place of exceeding beauty where kind and gentle people lived. A city of white sat on a hill overlooking a green plateau while picture-book mountains that seemed almost too perfect to be real surrounded all. When the setting sun was low in the west and its last rays struck the city’s milky walls, every building glowed as if made of gold. People there lived in such harmony that even the birds sang of peace. For millennia, these good folk chose the wisest and most benevolent leaders to fulfill the Duties of guiding them along the path of tranquility and setting an example for the world to follow. Despite a lack of wealth or power, the leaders of this lovely land were so highly respected that for ages they exerted a moral influence across all the lands East of the Sea. And this was not a once-upon-a-time story. The place and people were real.
Matik, however, was NOT that place. Located far from any picturesque scenery or virtuous people, Matik was an immense Urb-Magnia – a Great City with a history measured in centuries rather than millennia. The River divided the splendor of the north-side where the high-and-mighty lived from the squalor of the south-side where nobody at all of importance lived. Patron Edric IV’s northern palace was the grandest of them all, where (to be frank) his wife Patroness Gildea actually ruled. At the opposite end of the spectrum, the dockyards of the inner port lay along the southern bank of the River near where the lowest of the plebian masses crammed into the worst slums of the city. Since many of those masses chose to spend much of their miniscule incomes in the pursuit of dissipated vices, tawdry pleasures, and blind inebriation, iniquitous businesses accommodating their needs crowded the area, especially along the loathsome streets nearest the waterfront.
Along one such street walked a young woman wearing a white robe with a red sash.
Sistére Graice ignored the stench as she marched down the Lane of Low Entertainments, or Drunken Scum Street as it was more widely known. Describing this street as filthy was an understatement. It would require massive cleaning by hundreds of workers over years of time before it improved enough to qualify as merely ‘filthy.’ Needless to say, no such concentrated effort was anticipated.
Graice could not avoid looking down, of course. One watched carefully where one’s feet stepped or else one burned one’s shoes upon reaching home, preferably on the neighbor’s side of the property line. As a further complication, this day she wore formal slippers on her small feet instead of the sturdy shoes she would have chosen had she anticipated taking this short cut. Her last assignment had taken longer than expected and twilight was upon her, however, and she had urgent business to discuss with Madrére Sybille back at the Sistérian Way-House. All the streets in this area were poorly lit after dark, and despite Drunken Scum Street’s utter lack of charm, it was still the shortest route.
As she sidestepped a dung pile which was too fetid for any self-respecting horse to have dropped, she suddenly noticed that her skirt was dragging the ground. Whenever she walked any distance, she always hiked up the red sash around her waist to raise the hem of her robe just enough to keep it from dragging the ground. This time, as frequently happened, she had forgotten to readjust the sash as she continued. The slenderness of her waist and hips made it easy for a belt of any type to slide down and thus lower the hem along with it. Now the bottom finger-length of her white garment looked horrid.
Moving quickly, she reached down around her knees and pulled her skirt up to shake it clean. (It was made of Sistérian robe-cloth, of course, rather than ordinary.) Just as the robe shed the last of the stains, she suddenly realized what she was doing and immediately Madrére Antonetta’s harsh voice rang out sharply inside her head. ‘Graice, you foolish girl, you’re showing your legs in public. Stop immediately! You’re not a child anymore and you must remember these things. Look! Men of very dubious nature are all around and can see you!’ Even though Antonetta had not been Graice’s disciplinarian since the girl had left School to go to Academy nine years earlier, this Madrére’s voice was the one which Graice always heard anytime she committed some infraction against propriety.
“Sorry, Madrére Antonetta,” Graice mumbled as she dropped her skirt. The woman presumably could not hear the apology, she being many leagues away now, but it never hurt to be overly cautious whenever this particular Madrére was involved. Glancing around, Graice noticed there were indeed many men on the street – and plenty of dubious women also. None seemed to have noticed her faux pas, however. Not that they were likely to. This was an area where people avoided making eye contact with a wearer of the red sash. Besides, the immodest appearance and scant clothing of most of the women in sight made few men prone to spend time ogling a fully robed Sistére, especially one who was petite enough to sometimes be mistaken at a distance for a girl rather than the young women she was.
She adjusted her hem again as she walked, showing the slippers but not the ankles. Then she sighed, realizing she could not avoid replaying the memory of another incident involving her legs, a man, and Antonetta. Graice had just turned fifteen and was in her last term at Superior Median School; the Mentors had already decided to send her to Academy soon, three years earlier than normal. That day she had finished her lessons before the other girls, as always, and had gone outside to work in the garden behind Avont House. It being a warm day and she having no reason to suspect a man in the garden, she wore short-breeches and a hip-length smock. As she picked lettuce and herbs, she heard the pounding of horse hooves and looked up to see a post-rider dashing at full speed towards her on the garden path. As the man came within ten strides of her, he pulled his horse to an abrupt stop. His head swiveled to look at her, then back the way he had come, and then at her again. Anyone could see that he had made a wrong turn and had mistakenly ridden to the garden instead of the front of the House where the office was.
Graice expected the man to reverse course and leave. So did his horse (a sensible animal mindful of its duty and undistracted by youthful beauty) which chafed and tried to turn back on its own, obviously impatient at the interruption in completing its appointed rounds. But the rider pulled hard on the reins to keep his mount standing still. The man openly stared at Graice. His eyes moved from her face down to her ankles and then back up again. Even though aware that her slender legs were exposed from the knees down to her bare feet, young Graice was not intimidated. She reacted silently and the man felt an intense guilt feeling. His face flushed deep red and his eyes looked down. He was ready to flee from Graice’s effect, but an instant before he left, Antonetta’s voice came from the door of the garden house.
‘Rider! Remove yourself immediately!’
Antonetta’s ordinary words of censure routinely broke glasses and knocked books off shelves. The windows in the Girls’ Common Room had special singe-resistant draperies, and its walls were left unpainted because it was too much trouble to re-paint every time a layer peeled off. And this time her voice was louder, harsher, and more eviscerating than ever before. She had never used such a strong tone with the girls, not even Graice. Just as bad, Antonetta gave the man her Glare along with the Voice. (With this Madrére, the words were always capitalized.) The blaze from her eyes could burn a man’s skin red at one hundred paces (or so everyone believed) and since the rider was considerably closer than that, he undoubtedly needed days for the blisters on his face to heal afterwards. Likewise, her words shook him roughly and rattled the kidneys inside him (as it appeared from the end result, anyway). He lost the strength in his arms, his hands went numb, and he dropped the reins. Now free from the impediment caused by its foolish rider, the horse heeded Antonetta’s words instantly. Even though she had directed nothing at the animal itself, its hide was still pretty warm just due to its proximity to the actual target. Wisely, the prudent creature fled the scene at maximum speed with the offending man holding on for dear life.
‘Come inside, youngling,’ Antonetta said in a calmer and less accusatory tone and Graice hurried toward her.
Now,
Graice said to herself, “My own memories chastise me when I’m bad,” as she walked on down Drunken Scum Street. “I just wish they would speak up before I make mistakes rather than afterward. Antonetta could’ve said something in advance before I pulled my skirt up just now.” Smiling ruefully, she glanced around and saw that still no one looked at her, although a passing mutt did glance up. “Don’t worry. I’m not crazy,” she assured the dog. Then she laughed, remembering how eager the other girls had been to hear her vivid description of Antonetta’s effect on the rider. Yes, Graice had told that story many times – and it got better with each telling.
Up to this point on her walk, Graice had ignored the decrepit tenements on either side of her in the same manner that she paid no heed to the stench. The actions and calls of the, ah, dubious women standing in doorways made the nature of their business quite clear; and raucous laughter, hostile shouts, and other noises came from the many bars and saloons along the street. Customers, Graice knew, usually stayed until every last penny had been drained from the bottom of each pocket.
Almost a block ahead of Graice, three men emerged onto the street from one such establishment. In this case, the word ‘emerged’ connoted an action somewhere midway between ‘staggering’ and ‘falling down flat.’ Having narrowly succeeded in completing the journey from tavern to street, they paused to steady themselves before attempting further effort. As Graice approached, she saw that they were stevedores since they wore the belts and leather straps of their guild, but obviously they had not spent the day working at the dockyard. All were big burly men of substantial size. Undoubtedly they had strong muscles hidden somewhere, otherwise they could not have worked as stevedores, but they also had bulging bellies through which much beer had passed during their lifetimes. Their clothes were ripped and torn in a few places but would have been reasonably presentable had only they been clean. Chances that the garments would ever be even remotely presentable seemed slight.
The three leaned shoulder to shoulder in an effort to stabilize their tenuously upright positions, but the steadiness of their tripod was in much doubt. Moths fluttered around a lamp in a nearby window, and had only one of the insects flown close to the men, all three would have been knocked to the ground by the breeze from its tiny wings. Then the men began to speak. The one on the left said something and the man in the middle roared with laughter as if he had just heard the funniest joke in history. The third drunk was less amused and he made a fist and took a swing through the air. Neither companion was in any danger of being punched but the movement of number three’s arm disturbed his balance. Suddenly all three were stumbling crab-wise in a loose-kneed dance as they struggled to avoid falling. Only by grabbing each other firmly around the shoulders until their staggering synchronized were they able to keep standing.
This action proved more hilarious than the joke and great peals of laughter rang out. When one shouted an offensive word, the others followed and poured out streams of profanity at an extremely loud volume. Since each remark was funnier than the last (to themselves, that is), the men were much encouraged to keep shouting. Within an instant, their words formed a dense cloud of blue haze floating above their heads.
Since Graice was only fifty feet away at this point, she heard them clearly. Despite her hurry, she could not possibly let such behavior continue. Her frown intensified and she increased her pace toward them to a fast march. With her delicate features and mild voice, Graice would never try Antonetta’s hard-line approach to the art of discipline, but then she didn’t need to. Besides, just the sight of a red-sashed Sistére charging forward in that manner would intimidate any mortal man. Despite their inebriation, all three noticed her and turned to face her with their mouths falling open. The blue haze fled in self defense. Proving that fear can indeed induce sudden sobriety, one of the men removed his knit cap and knocked off his friends’ hats as well. All lowered their heads in trepidation. The three were no longer adult men, just naughty little boys awaiting punishment from the stern schoolmarm. Mere snakes caught in the hypnotic gaze of an Arborean mongoose. Convicted criminals at the bar anticipating doom from the ‘hanging’ judge. They had no place to hide. No chance to run away. They were caught and they knew it.
Graice plowed to a stop ten feet away and began, “You should be ashamed of yourselves!” Suddenly, an unexpected fourth man stepped past Graice from behind and stood between her and the three drunks.
“Leave her alone,” the newcomer told the stevedores. Unexpectedly, dim hopes that this man might punish them (instead of the Sistére doing it, you see) glimmered faintly somewhere inside three heads, but their misguided optimism was dashed immediately.
Graice stepped sideways so the drunks could see her again. She told the new man, “Don’t interrupt. I’m not finished with them.” From behind, she saw a slight twinge in his shoulders and knew he had heard her. Then she noticed the scar on the back of his head. Although his hair partially concealed it, Graice detected a jagged gash that ran from his crown down to the top of his neck. He stood still and Graice returned to her duty. Now that she was back in their view, the drunks focused solely on the Sistére – she knew that for certain even with their heads hanging down and their eyes watching their own shoes – and the new man disappeared from their minds. Which was surprising actually, since he was quite tall and muscular. Most men would notice the stranger immediately and watch him cautiously.
“You really should be ashamed of yourselves,” Graice said again to the three reprobates as she launched into her lecture. “I’m appalled. Profanity is no laughing matter. Foul words hurt feelings and yours are so loud they pollute the air itself.” She continued for half a minute while soft moans and sniffles gave audible proof that the three heard her words and felt her effect. Their heads were already as low as their bowed necks would allow, so they bent their backs forward from the waist to bring them lower. Finally she concluded, “No one should be forced to listen to you shout like that. There are women present. Don’t you care what they think? And what if a child heard you? Can you imagine how awful that would be?”
One head perked up ever so slightly as if the man might say something. Had he been able to develop a coherent thought, he might have argued that the women in this neighborhood used worse language than any hard-drinking working man, and children rarely came to Drunken Scum Street. Well, maybe it was a little more than rarely, but still. Okay, sometimes kids came to buy beer or smoke-weed for lazy parents or for themselves to use or trade, but those children were already so corrupted by woeful home lives that a few rude words in the air would hardly affect them. Or at least the drunk could have argued in that manner.
No such clarity appeared in his mind, however, so he said nothing. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Her next words cut down any possibility of argument like a blow from a battle-axe.
“Don’t you care what I think?” she asked softly, and the actual sadness was clear from her voice.
Oh, no!! They hadn’t just offended her. They had hurt her feelings!
What was wrong with them? What had they done to come to such a wretched end? The dark recesses of their subconscious minds roiled and threatened to spew out the putrid memory of every misdeed committed in their lifetimes and thus reveal to the world what abjectly worthless creatures they were. Moans increased in volume and hands wiped at eyes. Unquenchable sobbing seemed imminent. First one and then the others held out their hands to her, praying beyond hope that she would smack them sharply with a stick and thus let lenient punishment assuage the guilt in their hearts.
But Graice showered even greater mercy upon them. She reached out to touch the back of each hand with one gentle finger and said, “You can behave better than this.”
Oh!! The joyous relief of her kind words and forgiving fingertip! These men knew they were still as despicable as ever, but they could improve! They knew with certainty just from the tone of her voice. They would become better men! With hope and salvation in sight, they rejoiced and r
aised their heads to her.
“You must not curse again. Do you understand?” she said.
“Yes, Sistére,” they assured her.
“You must also remember every word I’ve said, and I mean remember it when you wake up tomorrow and not just tonight.” Her tone was sharper now but it was fair and just. Yes, they deserved such words.
“Yes, Sistére. Yes, Sistére. Oh yes, Sistére!” they repeated. And these weren’t just words but promises, real ones.
“All right, you can go now,” she said. Released from her power they bolted but not before wide smiles lit up their faces. Graice knew the smiles would be gone within an hour and the ebullient moods would fade during the night. But she also knew her words would nag at them tomorrow, next month, and for many years to come. None of them would ever curse again.
Her immediate task completed, she turned her attention to the other man standing two steps in front of her. He wore frayed but clean work clothes and had a pack-bag of sorts slung over a shoulder. He still faced away from her and at first she mistakenly assumed he had become inhibited by her little performance and thus was reluctant to face her. Bystanders sometimes were struck by back-blows from her effect and she realized she needed to calm his anxiety.
“Who are you?” she asked in her gentlest tone.
“Holder,” he replied without moving. His voice was completely firm and calm.
“What’s your full name, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“Just Holder,” he shrugged. Then he turned to face her and she barely suppressed a gasp when she saw him from the front.
His Aura glowed so brightly that even the youngest neophyte could have viewed it. The individual auriculae framing his face flowed like ribbons in the breeze, and the colors were vivid – green glowing in many shades of perfect purity with shining gold strands interwoven. Such displays never presented around a man. Only senior Madréres could shine like this, and only Graice herself exceeded his radiance, assuming those who told her how hers appeared spoke truth.
Then she noticed that despite his brilliant glow, she could read nothing.
Stunned, she quickly tamped down her perception so she could ignore the Aura and concentrate on the man himself. The top of her head did not quite reach the level of his shoulders which were broad and strong. He was taller than any of the big stevedores although not nearly so wide at the waist, and his body looked fit and healthy. It occurred to her that those three men might have been in trouble around Holder had she not been there to control matters. His face was handsome enough, she supposed, in a rugged sort of way. The dim light made it difficult to discern the exact shade of his eyes but they were definitely blue and thus out of place with his dark hair. She would get a better look in brighter light, she hoped.
“I am Sistére Graice Nínjìng,” she said, but mentioning her unique name brought no reaction to his face. “I would like to talk to you but I’m in a hurry. Will you walk with me for a while?” He paused for a moment before replying.
“To guard you?” he asked.
“Um, no,” she said, briefly flummoxed by the nonsensical words. “Just to talk.” As she spoke, the thought ‘what is there about him?’ flashed through her mind. He nodded yes in reply and they continued her trek towards the Way-House. Glancing sideways, she tried to read him again but still gleaned nothing. Then one strand appeared and told her she had been wrong when she thought she’d intimidated him. He had not been the least bit hesitant to face her when she spoke. He had instead been watching the three drunks scurry away, just to make sure they did not return to bother her again, and he had turned around at the moment they disappeared from sight.
“Holder, why did you step between me and those men?” she asked.
“To protect you,” he replied and she couldn’t decide if that was childishly sweet or just half-witted.
“But why did you think I needed to be protected?” she said and it was clear the question took him by surprise.
“Because those men were rough and rude. You’re a nice lady. Such men might hurt a lady.” The look in his eyes said he thought the answer was obvious. Why did she need to ask?
She clamped down hard on her reaction so he wouldn’t think she was laughing at him and said, “But Holder, I’m a Sistére and I wear the red sash.”
“Sis-tar?” he said hesitantly.
“It’s pronounced Sis-tier, with the emphasis on the second syllable. It’s not the same word as sister, I assure you, and it’s not a name but a title. Call me Graice. That’s easy to say.”
“Sistére,” he replied and this time his pronunciation was perfect. “I can speak clearly when I learn new words,” he assured her with a just a touch of offended pride.
“I’m sure you can, Holder,” she said soothingly, expecting her voice to make him smile, but his face remained unchanged. How? “Well, call me Graice anyway. It may be easy to say, but it’s still my name.”
“Yes, Graice.” This time she caught a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth but his face said ‘mild amusement’ rather than ‘effect.’ Something was strange here and she was determined to find out what.
“Let me tell you something, Holder, if I may. Sistéres don’t often need to be protected and those with red sashes never do. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Surely you’ve seen some of us before. Our white robes usually stand out in a crowd.”
“I’ve seen white robes, yes, and blue ones too. You know, older ladies.” Meaning he had noticed at least one Madrére also.
“Yes, our elders wear pale blue. So you do know about us.”
“I said I’ve seen, not I’ve talked to.”
Peculiar indeed, but she decided on an oblique approach for the moment. “You don’t look or smell like someone who belongs on Drunken Scum Street. Why are you here?”
“I went to the docks to ask for work but the people there didn’t like me. Said I don’t belong. Now I’m going back to the caravanserai.”
“Do you work on the caravans, then?”
“Not anymore but they still let me sleep there. In the tents, if they aren’t full.”
“So you lost your job and need work now?”
“Yes,” he acknowledged.
“Were you on many journeys with the caravans?”
“Yes, very many. The last five seasons with Rispoli Trade. Last trip we traveled along the border of Corager and Hinterland from Antrass to Symbola to Low Newk. I’ve been to Matik four other times before this, too. Earlier, I was with other companies. I’ve made many journeys in all directions.”
“That sounds wonderfully adventurous,” Graice said. “Holder, Sistéres have Way-Houses in every city on the Eastern Side from Niazport to Anglio.”
“I’ve been there – both places.”
“You must have seen some of us in other locations, then.”
“Seen, yes, as I said.”
“But you haven’t talked to any until now?” she asked and he shook his head no. “Well, you think I’m nice, at least. You do, don’t you?”
Even with him facing straight ahead, she could clearly see there was no response to her effect but he did react in a purely conventional manner. A slight smile appeared and she knew he was trying to look sideways at her without moving his head. He did not, however, speak at that moment. Shyness? With an Aura like his? That didn’t figure, she thought. Well, at least reticence was easy to cure. It didn’t even require words, just a certain set of her eyes and mouth. And a touch of her fingers to get him to look her way, it turned out.
He looked. He saw. He showed nothing.
Holder turned away before seeing the surprise which Graice momentarily failed to hide in her own face. Did she have no effect on him at all? Nothing like this had happened since she was seven or eight, long before she graduated at Sistérian Academy and donned the green sash five years ago. And she wore the red now! Perplexed, she searched for explanations. That scar on his head. Had an injury damaged hi
s mind? That might explain things but it couldn’t be true. How could he shine the way he did with a damaged brain? Besides, despite his blunt directness, she knew he wasn’t stupid. No. Something was hiding from her.
“Holder, would you mind stopping a moment and facing me? If it doesn’t make you feel awkward, I would like to see your face.”
He complied willingly enough and she searched for clues. If her intense gaze embarrassed him in the least, he kept it hidden – and who could hide from Sistére Graice? But wait, she’d couldn’t be wrong about the shyness, could she? If she’d thought so, then it must be so. Right? But it wasn’t. How to explain . . . ? She couldn’t remember ever having so many question marks in her thoughts before.
After a full minute of viewing, puzzles still abounded but her rising excitement pushed away her confusion. Something important was hiding. She knew it with certainty. This must be studied! Then she quickly revised that thought. He must be studied, she meant, not this. And helped too, of course. Her attention would be good for him; she was sure. Then she realized with hard clarity that she must take him with her now. She could not risk letting him get away. Anything could happen to an unemployed man in Matik and he might disappear. She decided to make one more effort at effect. If it didn’t work she would at least know for sure, and she could still convince him with logic and gentle persuasion of the ordinary kind.
“Holder, come with me now,” she voiced very precisely.
“Why?” he asked without moving and she knew for certain. Her compulsion was subtle but strong. Any other man’s feet would have moved before his head knew what was happening. Holder did not even flinch.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. You said you were going to the caravanserai, right?” He nodded and she continued. “But that’s outside the city wall beyond West Gate and we’re walking in the opposite direction. It’s a long way to your destination.”
“I’m a good walker,” he said and the little smile was back. She smiled too, and not with calculation this time.
“I’m going to the Way-House and we have a guest room there. It’s not fancy, but it beats a tent and it’s much closer. If you like it and are willing to do a little work, you might decide to stay for a while.”
“I can work,” he affirmed.
“I’m sure you can. What did you do on your job with the caravans, anyway?”
“Carrying things and loading wagons mostly, but I also stood guard at night. People get nervous in the deep dark and like having me awake to protect them,” he said. Well, that explained a little, she thought.
“Please come. The room is private and no one will intrude. I bet you can’t say that about your usual place. Come with me, all right?”
“Thank you, yes,” he said and they resumed walking.
Madrére Sybille was going to be so pleased about this, Graice thought. How incredible to find such a marvel in a south-side slum! Then she laughed inwardly at herself as she often did and thought, well, if Sybille isn’t completely pleased, at least I am.
