by Bob Craton
CHAPTER 7
A Man in Gray
Two very different men stood on the high walkway atop a wall and looked out across the parapet. One dressed all in dark gray leaned over the edge just enough to glance down the shear drop of the wall face before him. This man was only of average height and narrow build, and yet he exuded a sense of power and fierceness out of proportion to his stature. The second, a Hibbrian by the look of him, was of middle years with thinning hair and a red face; he wore brown leather and green cloth. Worried, he was unwilling to come closer than three paces away, and not just because of the bitter, acrid odor coming from the gray man.
The gray one stood up straight and turned his helmeted head half way in the direction of the Hibbrian, not deigning to actually look at the man. Had the Hibbrian dared to look upon the face of the gray man, he would have seen pale skin, dark eyes, a hooked nose, thin lips, and a short black beard trimmed to a sharp point. But the man in brown and green did not have the courage to look; instead, he flinched and averted his eyes.
“You are the foreman?” asked the one in gray. When he spoke, a nearby blackbird hopped away and took wing to join its brethren in the fields below the wall.
“I am the chief overseer of all the laborers . . . I mean yes, I am the foreman, Exalted Master. My name is Cenaltan . . .”
“Tell me, foreman, why are these crops so poor?”
“Uh . . . it’s, I mean, there are several reasons, Exalted.” As he spoke, droplets of sweat dripped down Cenaltan’s face despite the cool air. “The land is rocky here and the soil is poor. This area around the walls here was not cropland until we plowed it, Exalted, at considerable expense of labor . . .”
“No excuses.”
“Please, Exalted Master, I am not trying to make excuses, just to explain the reasons.”
“Your predecessors grew food here.” His tone made clear that whoever those predecessors were, they were valueless and unworthy beings.
“Yes, Exalted, they did. But their fields are down on the plateau below where the land is better.”
“Then why not use those fields?”
“We do, Exalted. They worked fine until . . .” Cenaltan hesitated, knowing his precarious situation, but he was a brave enough man in his own world and managed to continue. “Until the seeds we are required to use arrived on the annual wagon train from Nalone, Exalted. As I am sure you understand, plants which grow in the lowlands do not always prosper here due to the different conditions at this altitude. Seeds of crops adapted to the frost and this soil do well, Exalted, but not those which were sent to us.”
“Then why do you use them, fool?”
“As I said, Exalted, we are required to. By the rules, you see.”
The gray man snorted and glanced around at the wilted and browning crops planted in the hardscrabble fields. “You say that the train comes from Nalone?”
“I believe that is just the last way-stop, Exalted. I do not know where the train originates or who decides what to send us.”
“Are you implying the wrong goods were sent? Be careful how you answer, worm. If one of us sends something, it must be right.”
“I understand completely, Master. I’m just saying we could get better yields if we grew some of the old crops, too.”
“That would be pointless. None of that stuff is fit to feed to any of the Highers.”
“But it would feed these people, Exalted.”
“To what purpose, man?”
“To make them stronger in your service, Master. Then your construction-masters could drive them harder on the building project.” Like the man in gray, the construction-masters had the pale skin of the Zafiri, but they wore no beards and their gray clothes were of a lighter shade. Cenaltan disliked being around them but he felt no abject fear in their presence – unlike now.
The gray man snorted again and stood silent for several long moments. Cenaltan wasn’t sure if he was dismissed or not. His fears welled up and he struggled to restrain his shaking. He wanted to say more – he needed to say more – but could he possibly do it? Reaching deep into his inner strength, he somehow found the will to draw words up to his lips.
“Exalted Master, if I may, there is something I should tell you about the people here,” he said. The gray man said nothing and Cenaltan prayed that silence meant consent. “They are very dispirited . . . well, that doesn’t matter. What I meant to say is that I am concerned about their condition. Hunger brings weakness and poor heath, and their reduced strength means even lower crop yields. Soon starvation will be widespread.”
“So?”
“Most of the old and the very young already will not survive the coming winter, Exalted. I believe there is an advantage to keeping those of working age fit enough to labor.”
“What are you, worm? Do you see yourself as the local hero standing up for your beloved people?”
“They are not my people, Master. I was ordered to come here and oversee, and if they all die then nothing will need overseeing.”
After a long and worrisome pause, the gray man said, “You do not have good answers, foreman. We expect you to resolve any problems. Think long and hard before one of us returns for your next report.” With that, he turned and walked away, trailing his reek behind him.
Minutes later, Cenaltan recovered enough strength to go his own way. Glancing up, he wished the sun would set faster. The Hibbrian knew the gray man would not leave the city until night so that no one could get a good look at the fearsome creature he rode.
