Petrodor atobas-2

by Joel Shepherd

  “I don't believe you,” Rhillian said coldly. “You speak like the priests, you say one thing and mean entirely another, and expect me not to know the difference. Is Errollyn the one truly corrupted by the humans, Kiel, or are you?”

  Kiel just gazed at her, lips faintly pursed, as if considering a troublesome puzzle set for him by his scholarly uman. Neither her words, nor the flames and screams, nor the prospect of imminent death seemed to trouble him.

  Terel arrived at their side. “An issue?” he asked, without preamble. The right arm of his jacket was burned. His angular face was tight, lips pressed thin as he loomed over them.

  “Kiel wishes to leave our staff and run,” Rhillian told him.

  Terel did not look surprised. “You go, Kiel,” he said, with mock kindness. “You leave the matters of substance to the adults.” Shland'eth rhmara, he said. “Matters of substance.” The context was philosophical, tel as'rhmara, “a strand on the web of truth.” There were few things that mattered more to serrin minds. It was the fabric of the universe itself, truth made incarnate, through the acts of thinking people. Terel excluded Kiel from it all, as an adult might patronise a silly, irrelevant child.

  Kiel's eyes darkened. Anger. Two emotions back to back, Rhillian was nearly astonished. “Clever Terel,” said Kiel, with a voice that betrayed nothing of that which burned in his eyes. “Let us hope your sword is as sharp as your tongue.”

  Rhillian turned and ran back toward the rear garden, her bow in hand, her quiver feeling strange on her hip. Master Deani was tending wounded on the grass beside the courtyard. Rhillian crouched by the feet of the man he treated-Timon, she recognised, a nice boy with bright red hair, the son of a midslopes jeweller. The boy had slow wits and was too clumsy for jewellery, but he'd made a fair kitchen hand. Rhillian had always seen him cheerful, pleased to be a person of some importance in his community, and no longer a disgrace to his father. Now, he lay burned and moaning, his clothing blackened, the skin of his torso and arm coming away in black and red clumps.

  “There's no escape through Vailor,” Rhillian said through gritted teeth.

  “I gathered,” said Deani, putting soaked cloth and powder on the burns, cutting away the charred clothes where they stuck to the flesh. Timon screamed. “Can you hold them?”

  “No. The wall is down and soon the fires will die. They will come through soon enough.”

  “Then we're dead?” Deani asked, still working. There was fear in his voice, yet he worked incessantly, as if striving to keep the fear at bay. A Verenthane man would wish to know if death awaited, Rhillian realised. He wished to make peace with his gods.

  “No,” Rhillian said firmly. “When they come through, they will be a narrow, scattered formation. They have never seen swordwork like the svaalverd before. These are not warriors of any note, they shall be slaughtered in their tens and hundreds. The sight should give even fanatics such as this a pause.”

  “You give the men of Riverside credit they do not deserve,” Deani spat. “They're not human, they're animals. Listen to them!” Jerking his head toward the chants and yells. “They care nothing for their own lives, and even less for ours. You should go now, take all those who can move and risk a flight over these walls…”

  “No.”

  “Even if you lose half of them, that's half more survivors than there'll be if you stay here…”

  “Deani, who amongst us has the speed or strength to scale those walls, or run fast, or fight if necessary?” With a wild gesture across the smoke-blown garden, and the staff of misfits whom Deani had turned into one of the best and most dedicated household staffs in Petrodor. Attentive and kind and skilled…and yet here a deformed limb, and there a puzzled or childlike expression…all looking at her now, at the serrin lady who had ruled their fates for so long. Even now, there was trust in their eyes. And hope.

  “Probably none,” Deani admitted.

  “You're telling us to abandon you?” Rhillian asked.

  “Most of us dying is still better than all of us dying!” Deani snapped. “You should take those who can, and move now, while you still have a chance!”

  “Not while there's still a chance!” Rhillian shouted. “Not while there's still a hope we might turn them with our blades!”

  “Stubborn, crazy damn serrin…here's the reason you'll never win a conflict with humans! You always refuse what has to be done! Necessity offends you, and if you ignore necessity, you're dead! Listen to your friend Kiel, he knows! He alone of you all!”

  “I'm not going to leave you to die!” Rhillian screamed, heaving to her feet. There were tears in her eyes, and she was trembling. “You don't understand the serrinim, Deani, we can't just leave! We'll shrivel up and die if we go!”

  Deani got to his feet also, with emotion in his eyes, and embraced her. Rhillian embraced the small man back, and tried not to sob like a child. “You're too good to us, silly girl,” he told her. He pulled back to pat her on the cheek, in the style of an older Torovan man to a woolly-headed but well loved youngster. “You understand me? You're too good to us. Humans don't deserve you. We never will. And the sooner you realise it, the sooner you'll learn to save your own people.”

  Sasha ran up the winding stairs of Tarae Keep, staying close to the wall to avoid others descending. She emerged onto the high southwest tower in falling rain, to find a small crowd there. This was the highest point on Dockside, affording a clear view across the vast expanse of Petrodor incline and the docklands along its foot.

  Tarae Keep was perhaps three hundred years old-very old by the standards of Petrodor, where little of the present city had even existed prior to a century and a half ago. The keep had been built by the powerful Ameryn Lord Tarae, whose trading empire had ruled north and south along the Sharaal coast, to protect the road up the incline that was now called Maerler's Way. Today the keep served as a stable for the animals that hauled loads up the Way, and a trading warehouse and market for merchants big and small.

  Directly below the tower ran the Dockside end of Maerler's Way, headed for the dock itself. Streets and lanes formerly bustling with trade now bustled with preparations for battle as the barricades were reinforced, buckets of water strategically placed and weapons distributed. If the barricades were overrun, Sasha knew, the keep would serve as a holdout position.

  High up on the slope, Sasha could barely see the top of a building aflame, which several locals had assured her was the Saalshen house of Palopy. Smoke made a thick, dark plume in the leaden sky. Along the slope, many other trails of smoke joined to make a single, evil smudge across the horizon.

  Beside the tower's western wall, Kessligh held court amongst a small crowd of Nasi-Keth and respected Dockside men. He spoke to them of the defences, addressing each man and assigning responsibilities. It was the first time since her arrival in Petrodor that Sasha had seen Kessligh so completely himself. His manner was firm, his gaze direct and men listened with rapt attention. Only Alaine looked unhappy, his dark curls plastered to his head in the falling rain.

  Kessligh saw her through the crowd and beckoned her forward.

  “South End has about twelve hundred men who might count as fighters,” she told the gathering. “Not including Nasi-Keth, of course. But I wouldn't rate their weaponry as highly as we have mid-pier…I promised them I'd try to get some halberds or spears down there. They've not enough with reach to defend the barricades.”

  “We're short on long-handled weapons all along the dock,” said a man she didn't know. “They'll have to make do.”

  “We're not likely to get hit at South End,” said another. “It's too near Sharptooth, the roads are too steep.”

  “Depends how well they're led,” Kessligh cautioned.

  “Led?” Alaine said sharply. “This mob aren't led! They're a rabble, they'll come charging down wherever they will, the more direct the better.”

  “We've reports of artillery, rams, shield walls, oil fires…” Kessligh shook his head. “It would be naive to
assume this was not planned. No doubt the archbishop foresaw contingencies. There are plenty of provincial militia or ex-militia who could have been gathered for such a task, perhaps paid, perhaps persuaded by their priests on instruction from the archbishop…”

  “You're talking about the Holy Father!” Alaine growled. “I'd watch my tongue if I were you, highlander.”

  “I'm a soldier,” Kessligh replied. “I win battles. I care little for convention, I care little for holy doctrine, and I care least of all for your precious feelings, Alaine. I can help you all to win this battle. The question you have to ask yourselves is ‘How badly do I wish to win it?’”

  “So you appoint yourself our commander now, do you?” Alaine snorted. “You who has barely set foot in this city but for the past few moons? Do you think to declare yourself emperor, is that it? Is this all it takes to demonstrate your undying love for Petrodor and its people? One battle, two moon's residence, and some pretty words?”

  “You are hysterical,” Kessligh observed, “and you whine like a child.” Sasha had heard that tone all too often. It had the desired effect on Alaine-his eyes widened and his lips pressed thin with fury. “You have too little concern of our enemies, Alaine, and too much for your precious standing. I don't care a pile of horseshit for power in Petrodor. If we fail here, and the Army of Torovan is formed, I shall have no choice but to travel to the Saalshen Bacosh and continue the battle from there, far away from Petrodor. Then I'll be out of your hair entirely.

  “I care only about the looming war. I fight to prevent it, and to save this light of freedom the serrin have offered us for future generations. Right now, that means saving the Nasi-Keth stronghold of Dockside Petrodor. Sirs, others may claim to love you more, or to know you better, but none can claim to serve you as well. I am the greatest warrior of the Nasi-Keth, and the greatest warrior in Lenayin, a land of great warriors. This is my uma. You know I do not idly boast.”

  His stare swept the surrounding men. They did not reply. But then, they did not need to. Alaine could read the expressions on their faces. He spat in disgust, turned, and pushed his way toward the stairs. One of his two followers present turned to follow, but the other stayed. The man departing looked at his fellow and paused. Then came back, and retook his place in the circle. Alaine strode alone to the stairs, and vanished.

  “Sasha, what more?” Kessligh resumed as though Alaine had never spoken at all.

  Sasha tried to regather her thoughts. “Very few archers, no more than fifty for the whole South End. I tried to correct a few positions, but a lot of the roofs down there are sloped, they don't make good posts, especially not in the rain. I don't think they're well practised, either.”

  “With the numbers that'll come,” said Kessligh, “they'll only have to aim into the middle of a road.”

  “Oh…and one of their men had a good idea with fishing nets. He's weighted the ends and has found some women to throw them from high windows onto attackers below. I sent him to talk to a few people from midslope, to show them how it's done…”

  “Our women should not be in the fight,” said one of the Docksiders.

  Sasha raised her eyebrows. “Oh really.”

  The man looked uncomfortable. “They are the mothers of our children,” he said stubbornly. “Our children should not be motherless.”

  Sasha caught Kessligh's glance, reading his subtle expression instantly. It was the same argument as in Baerlyn. Some things in life are constant, Kessligh always told her. Now, once again, she saw his wisdom.

  “I'm quite sure this mob will slaughter your women and eat your children, given half a chance,” Sasha retorted. “Refusing to fight back will only kill them faster.”

  “Now look,” one of Alaine's supporters protested, “Alaine had a good point. These are Verenthanes, and you should watch how you speak of them.”

  “They don't care!” Sasha retorted, pointing upslope toward the many trails of smoke. “To them, we're all pagans! I know this type well, believe it or not. In Lenayin, we've an entire north full of them. They say they're the only true Verenthanes and anyone who doesn't believe as they believe is pagan and deserves a horrid fate. Look around you, sirs. The Nasi-Keth amongst you follow the beliefs of un-human pagan demons! The rest of you associate with them! Your own archbishop has declared many times that associating with such evil pagan influences is a sin against the gods…why in the world do you continue to forgive him for that?”

  Several men protested loudly, but Kessligh silenced them with a raised hand. Which was astonishing in itself. It was almost as much respect as he received from the commonfolk in Lenayin. So respectful the people become, Sasha thought sourly, when you hold their lives in your hands.

  “What my uma means to say,” Kessligh said, with a faint edge to his voice, “ever so tactfully I'm sure, is that in these circumstances, one must separate the man from the faith. The archbishop, my friends, is not a god. He is a man, like us…or most of us…and as such, he is fallible. You may believe it is a sin to question the gods. But it is no sin, surely, to question the man.”

  “How are we to know the will of the gods,” came a defiant retort, “if not through the words of their appointed representative?”

  “That is what the serrin call ‘the eternal question,’” Kessligh replied with the faintest of smiles. “Life, my friends, is full of these eternal questions. Questions without answers, but ones that must be continually asked nonetheless. Truth is elusive. The archbishop cannot alone possess it, for he is just a man. Perhaps the answer lies in numbers. No one man can know all truths. That is why we have councils, so that many individual truths may work against each other, and find a common truth. Perhaps it is through our collective efforts that the gods shall reveal their truths. After all, we are the gods’ greatest creations. Where else should their truths lie, if not in all of us, together?”

  It silenced them for a while. Not that any were entirely convinced, Sasha reckoned. More that they realised it would take a great deal longer than the time available to reason such debates to a conclusion, and there were many more important things afoot.

  “Crazy,” Sasha summarised once the men had left, leaving her and Kessligh to observe the preparations on the road below. “We're about to be overrun by a bloodthirsty mob of murderers, and we're arguing faith and philosophy.”

  “It's not so crazy,” Kessligh said mildly. “They need to be certain who the enemy is. If they question the need to fight now, morale could suffer.”

  “Hard to imagine anyone not seeing a need to fight,” said Sasha, gazing at the smoke plumes on the slope.

  “So far, they've only attacked serrin. Some have doubted the mobs will come down this far. They don't believe the reports of crowds chanting for the Shereldin Star.”

  Sasha sighed. “Even now, they cling to their Holy Father. They can't bear to see him as an enemy.”

  “There will be another archbishop one day. Perhaps he will be more amenable.”

  “You're defending them?” Sasha raised an eyebrow at him. “Kessligh the disparager of all that is not rational and proper?”

  Kessligh gazed up at the slope, his hands on the wet stone of the wall. “The problem, Sasha, is not what a person believes in. Verenthane, pagan, Lisan Skyworship, the Kazeri desert mystics-it's all the same, all have the potential to be equally good or bad. The problem is not what things are believed, the problem is how people choose to believe them.”

  “Aye,” said Sasha, leaning on the wall beside him. Somewhere in the conversation, they'd begun speaking Lenay. It was a reflex of comfort. Of home. From below drifted the hubbub of foreign voices, the clatter of weapons, the banging of barred doors. From the slope, the smell of acrid smoke. “Serrin are so moderate. They never do anything to excess. But even a mountain mystic preaching peace, love and happiness could take it too far, couldn't he?”

  Kessligh nodded. “On his own, the mystic is harmless. He holds no power, and so his ideals remain just ideals. But say he co
nverts the king to his beliefs. The king says peace, love and happiness are now his command. What does he do to those who refuse to be happy? Burn them?”

  “Val'er aie to'sho maal,” Sasha agreed. In Saalsi, “the attraction of opposites.” Or nearly. “Ideals are figurative. Politics are literal. Ideals expressed through politics become political, and lose their idealism. Or become the very opposite of what was intended.”

  “Exactly.” Kessligh nodded, once and firmly. “They are opposites. That's why idealistic leaders are so dangerous. An ideal in a debate is a curiosity. Wielding a sword, it can become a nightmare. The literal and the figurative, the ideal and the practical, they negate each other, sometimes violently. To combine them is to mix serrin oils with fire.”

  “But humans are most attracted to idealistic leaders,” Sasha said with a frown.

  Kessligh smiled. “Another eternal question,” he said. “We believe in utopias. We think in absolutes. We should stop.”

  “So much simpler to just fight the stupid fight,” Sasha muttered.

  “Aye, but why fight at all, if you don't know why you're fighting?” Sasha made a face. “You understand more now than you did,” Kessligh said approvingly.

  “All this time amongst serrin,” Sasha replied. “Errollyn's helped a lot. He and Rhillian are the only two serrin I've met who can say what they think without tying their tongues in knots.”

  “Where is Errollyn?”

  “Down at South End, helping their archers prepare.” She stared grimly at nothing. “Gerrold and his supporters have gone to help the talmaad. Errollyn feels guilty he does not do the same. He doesn't admit it, but I can tell.”

  “We can't spare the people, Sasha,” Kessligh said sombrely. He stared at the fire of Palopy House, high on the ridgeline above. “It's a long climb up there. We could lose people on the way up and back. Only our best fighters would be useful fighting in the open streets and if we had losses, or became entangled or cut off by the mobs, Dockside would be vulnerable. Rhillian knew that when she embarked on her present course.”