We come at last to the matter of commerce, that which remains within the southlands and that which moves beyond the borders to cross kingdom soil. As might be expected, the supplying of a large, well-populated stone fortress set in the midst of wasteland is a tremendous endeavor, and over the years an intricate web of agreements and alliances has formed between the major and minor Families to ease the process.
Deiq of Stass has actually been a severely disruptive influence on that network. His Farms, improbably, flourish, turning miles of wasteland into terraced and raised gardens of astounding fecundity. His farmers form a strange collective, working, regardless of gender, to their capacities and strengths, and receiving shares of the profits from their labors. There are, for example, designated merchants, who handle the selling of the produce; cooks, who turn the produce into various jams, jellies, pickles, and other long-store items; field hands, who labor to coax the most from their green charges.
Strangest of all, if I understand correctly, each of these is seen as equal and paid accordingly. A merchant shares the profit at the same rate as that of the field hand, who may have no understanding of money but is skilled at picking out the healthiest seedlings and bringing them to top yield, which the merchant is hopeless to achieve.
The Farms are independent of any other political entity or Family; they do not owe their first crop to Sessin, for example. They sell equally to all, and hold the same price regardless of status or volume. Only geographical distance affects the cost, such that in local areas and the southern ports of Agyaer, Stass, Port Sand, and Terhe the prices are far lower than when the goods arrive at your kingdom ports of Bright Bay and Sandlaen, and higher yet if sent to the independent city of Kismo in the north. The Farms only concern themselves with sale to those primary ports; the Stone Islands seem to hold no interest to their trading goals, and their merchants rarely if ever go there.
The Farms only exist along the eastern coast, and there are four of them to my current, certain knowledge. Another is rumored to exist high in the mountains between Agyaer and Terhe Ports. What items of interest could possibly grow in so inhospitable a territory is beyond my comprehension, so the rumor is most likely just that: an amusing fiction.
The prior arrangement, which still exists along the western coast south of the Horn, involved Families working very hard to create and protect the secret of an essential crop or staple item. F’Heing, for example, in the fertile crescent of land protected by the Jagged Mountains, has established rice farms, wheat fields, bean crops, and even enormous, exotically colored flowers, seedlings of which are routinely shipped north and sell for outrageous prices. Thrifty farmers, I believe, save the seeds from the matured seedlings and try desperately to coax them into life the following season, with sharply limited success.
The Jagged Mountains, incidentally, contain the secret home of the famed “F’Heing Ridge Mountain Coffee”, which no doubt you have heard of and perhaps even tasted. This variant of the bronze-leaved high mountain coffee bush produces a superior bean which, when roasted under the (also secret) F’Heing-developed process, is sought after by coffee experts and gourmets throughout your kingdom and the southlands.
That F’Heing is also noted for some of the more troubling drugs circulating throughout our shared world is not surprising, especially after the advent of the east coast Farms cut heavily into some of their staple sales. If, in your drive to cut these drugs from your kingdom, you offend F’Heing Family, you run the very real risk of F’Heing ships refusing to bring rice, grain, and beans to Bright Bay. This may sound minor, especially with the aforementioned Farms, as well as Arason, serving as prime sources for wheat, corn, and beans, but I suggest checking with your stores-master and merchant guilds on the ratios of who supplies what.
In my understanding, Arason sells most of its produce north of the line of the Great Forest, and very little volume trickles down the long road to Bright Bay. Likewise, the southland Farms pass out their produce mainly south of the Horn, with little of it reaching Bright Bay and Sandlaen Port. I am told that the farms local to Bright Bay barely produce enough, some years, to feed a hundred people besides themselves; the soil has been overworked and is becoming, frankly, exhausted. The farmers of the F’Heing enclave, meanwhile, can load their abundant produce onto a fast ship and be at your docks within two days of harvest.
A satisfactory alliance with F’Heing Family, then, is critical to the survival of your giant city.
A common saying in the southlands may be germane here: Nothing is ever simple. So it is with politics; so it is with trade. Remember that, and perhaps you will be the first northlands king in some time to hand down the throne to a legitimate child of your line.
From the collection
Letters to a Northern King of Merit
penned by Lord Cafad Scratha during the reign of King Oruen
Chapter Fifteen
Deiq sat outside the shall the teyanain had provided for Alyea, disinclined to crowd into the small space with her; all too aware that the sleepy nodding of the night-servant and the blank stare of the fire-tender were shams intended to make outsiders careless.
Idisio, still bound to human habits, had gone to sleep. Deiq, older and more rooted in his other heritage, rarely bothered. The deep sleep at Scratha Fortress had been the most vulnerability he’d allowed himself in years, and he’d only risked it because of the presence of a full ha’rethe—which was a mixed blessing. While ha’reye protected their own, they also had a tendency to consider those they protected to literally be theirs—as a human might own a cow.
Deiq had been careful to give Scratha ha’rethe no reason to breach courtesy and pry through his mind while he slept. Ha’reye were, by nature, essentially lazy; intruding into even a ha’ra’hain mind took more attention than they cared to spare for a trivial curiosity or amusement. Lately Deiq had been more grateful for that than he cared to admit.
He sat on neutral land now, a place unclaimed by any ha’ra’ha or ha’rethe. Here it was safer to brood over things he didn’t want to share. Not completely safe; not with three athain nearby. But the day’s labor had been a drain on even them, and he could feel them resting in deep, restorative trance-sleeps. Lord Evkit’s presence burred against Deiq’s perceptions as the teyanin lord slowly dispersed the gathered energies he’d been channeling all day and settled to sleep.
At last, the entire camp save Deiq, the fire-tender, and the night-servant were in true resting mode. Only then was it finally safe to think, for the first time in days. To calculate, based on the direction they’d taken, the speed Evkit had announced, and the games the teyanain liked to play, where they were headed. Out of ten different routes Evkit might have chosen across the deep desert, Deiq suspected he knew where they’d be at the end of tomorrow’s march.
Evkit knew about the ruins.
Deiq stared into the dark, remembering translucent white draperies and apricot walls, grand hallways and seductive scents; remembering a black glare filled with hatred and the pride that shattered an entire city.
He knew what the ha’reye would say, what they had said, at the time: Those who choose not to serve are not worthy of our protection.
But those you don’t protect aren’t going to want to serve, he thought; and wished he’d understood that concept much, much sooner.
Chapter Sixteen
The soles of Alyea’s feet were, as promised, whole and unmarked by the time Deiq shook her awake in the grey pre-morning. Her feet had even regained their former calluses, which last night had been worn away to raw skin. She ran her hands over the rough flesh, shaking her head slowly in disbelief; looked up to find Deiq watching her with a strange smile on his dark face.
He made no comment, however, just handed her a cup of thopuh and a tibi of morning-rice, which differed from the evening meal only by having bits of cooked dove egg scattered across the top and the addition of desert-sage to the flavorings.
As she ate, the teyanain broke down the shalls and
methodically wiped away all traces of their presence. Even the fire pit was well-buried by the time she finished eating.
Knowing what to expect this time made falling into the walking-trance easier, although it laid an uneasy shiver along her spine that walking from the Qisani to Scratha Fortress with Deiq hadn’t provoked. Instead of the glorious wonder of seeing everything at once, she felt as though the athain had wrapped her up in a protective cocoon and were carrying her along on a wave of nearly inaudible chanting.
With her vision blurred, she had no real notion of her surroundings, which also disturbed her; but Deiq made no protest, and according to her understanding of the teyanain, they were bound to treat her safety as paramount while she was their guest.
Heat flared and swirled around her, and a growing heat seared across the bottoms of her feet, racing up her legs, then as swiftly dispersing. She wondered what her feet would look like tonight; it seemed impossible that they could be unharmed after walking a hundred miles in less than twelve hours. But to heal overnight from the state her feet had been in was also impossible. She set worry aside and tried to relax into the flow of the day’s travel.
At last the warbling howl of the travel-ending chant broke the haze, and she staggered a step, then another; felt Deiq’s hand close around her arm, swinging her to stand against him. She grabbed him for support and leaned into his warmth for a few breaths. When her balance settled, she let go and stepped back, blinking hard. At least she hadn’t dropped to her knees this time. Perhaps next time she wouldn’t even stumble.
She turned to look at their new surroundings, and forgot everything else for a long, stunned moment.
Great arches lofted overhead in staggered ranks, segments of interior walls left bizarrely exposed by the almost complete destruction of the outer ones. Bright red and white stripes endured, somewhat faded now, on the tops of each archway, and the pillars that still stood were as broad around as massive oaks. Intricate carvings wound up each cracked pillar from ground to archway topping: scripts in a language she’d never seen intermingled with detailed images of flowers, fountains, and birds.
The ground underfoot, sandy, dusty, and damaged, still showed a few tiles of what had once been a magnificently designed floor. A cracked black granite orb lay some distance away, its polish dulled by centuries of sandstorms. Fragments of a chunky white granite pedestal were scattered like stone petals around the dark globe.
Alyea took in a deep breath of hot, dry air, inhaling the smell of neglect and abandonment; of death and decay. No birds sang here; not even a lizard scurried through the lengthening evening shadows. And nothing grew. Nothing. Not so much as the deceptively dead-looking sticks of plants waiting for the next rain. It seemed as though nothing ever grew here, and no rain ever fell.
Her throat burned with the lack of moisture in the air. She took a cautious sip of water, looking at her companions. The teyanain guards had fanned out, prowling through the ruins around them, clearly checking for danger in this lifeless place; the athain stood still, regarding their surroundings with weary blankness. Evkit studied the destruction with a faint smile that sent unexpected shivers up Alyea’s back; and Deiq squinted, tight-lipped, with an expression of utter loathing that broadened her nervous shiver into a wide ribbon of worry.
Idisio stood quietly, eyes closed, head cocked a little as though listening.
“We camp here tonight,” Evkit said, bizarrely cheerful.
Deiq cast him a dark glare. “Of course we are,” he growled. “Of course you would.” He turned and stalked away before anyone could answer.
Evkit’s smile widened. He nodded as though pleased with himself and made a sweeping gesture that managed to include Idisio and Alyea.
“Come,” he said. “I show you, while daylight lasts. Then we eat.”
Alyea blinked, caught against the urge to go after Deiq, and opened her mouth to refuse. Just then, Idisio opened his eyes; something in his expression stopped her words cold in her throat.
“I’ll go with him,” he said quietly, not quite looking at her. “By your grace, lord Evkit.” With as little ceremony as Deiq had shown, he turned and trotted after the older ha’ra’ha.
Evkit seemed unoffended and unsurprised. He bowed gravely to Alyea and repeated, “You come. I show you.”
Seeing no politic alternative, and trusting that Deiq wouldn’t have walked away if she’d been in real danger from Lord Evkit, she shrugged assent. As she followed the little teyanin lord into the ruins, she realized that her feet and legs, as promised, felt no more sore than they would have after a brisk walk from her palace apartment to the throne room.
“This place,” Evkit said, apparently not in the least disconcerted by having to look up at her as he spoke, “was once as Bright Bay. Central. King-city, yes? Life, trade, large.” He gestured around broadly.
“What happened?”
“Humans said no to ha’reye.”
Alyea stopped short, unable to believe that bald statement, and stared down at the teyanin lord, horror-struck. “What?”
Evkit hopped lithely atop a crumbled section of wall and stood eye-to-eye with her. “Ha’rethe dying. Ha’rethe say, give me child, last child, to rule over city after ha’rethe death. Lords of city choose the one to go to ha’rethe; the chosen one refuses.”
He turned half-away from Alyea, his dark gaze sober as he looked around the ruins. A shiver ran down Alyea’s spine: would her child one day rule over the Qisani? And if so, would she ever know?
Evkit went on, “No time left for another choice. The chosen already sworn, ceremony already begin. But she refuse, and she do worse: she try attack ha’rethe when it come for her.”
The silence hung, deepening like the purple twilight descending over the ruins. Alyea tried to imagine having the presence of mind to do such a thing; she remembered being utterly bewildered and overwhelmed. Such a thing almost had to be planned in advance. She looked around at the ruins and swallowed hard.
“This first true human city,” Evkit said softly. She could barely see him now. “And first to fall. Ha’reye not friends, Lord Alyea. Never friends. And ha’ra’hain not allies.”
“Was this . . . the Split?” Alyea asked. Her dry throat snagged on the words; she took a sip of water and repeated the question more clearly.
“Part of,” Evkit agreed. “The Split not one thing, not one event. It many years of many problems, some human stupid, some ha’reye stupid. All disaster in the end.”
“Deiq knows this place,” she said suddenly, unsure how she knew, but certain all the same that the dark loathing in his stare spoke of personal memories.
“Yes,” Evkit said.
Implication shuddered through her; she couldn’t breathe for a moment. “Then he’s . . . old.” Her mind refused to tally how many years ago the Split had been: too large a number for ready translation into years of age.
Evkit let out a little yip of amused surprise. “You not know that already?”
“I thought . . . maybe a hundred years.”
Again, a muffled yip.
She said, feeling the need to defend herself, “He said Lord Eredion was his father. And Eredion can’t be that old!”
Dead silence. “Eredion not Deiq father,” Evkit said eventually. “Deiq alive long before Eredion born. He lie to you, Lord Alyea. Big, big lie.”
“Why would he lie to me about that?” she demanded, a familiar simmering resentment climbing her spine.
A huffing yip; the teyanain chuckle. “He ha’ra’ha,” Evkit said. “They breathe, they lie. All same. You no trust anything a ha’ra’ha say, not ever. You count your fingers after dealing with one, and touch them to be sure it not illusion they still attached.”
Alyea let out a harsh chuckle of her own. Deiq had said the same thing about dealing with Lord Evkit. She almost asked And what lies are you telling?; finally kept her mouth shut, aware that Evkit’s amicability could change to blinding rage at any moment.
“Dinner,” Evkit
said succinctly. Alyea heard him climbing down from his perch.
She turned, only then realizing that the fast-arriving desert night left her blind. The only light came from the stars, and the air had acquired a distinctly dangerous chill.
“I can’t—Lord Evkit?”
Silence.
She stood still, sudden terror swamping her; her breath hitched in her throat once, twice, before she controlled it. “Lord Evkit? I can’t see.”
“I know,” Deiq said from behind her; she yelped, spinning to face him, and lost her footing on a loose rock. His hands grasped her upper arms, holding her steady and keeping her upright. A fierce warmth burned through her, banishing the chill.
“He just abandoned me,” she blurted, fear melting into a blurry anger.
“No,” Deiq said. “He knew I was here.” His hands loosened, but didn’t fall away; she welcomed the contact as her only point of reference in the blackness.
“This isn’t a game!” she snapped, glaring at the vague silhouette of his head.
He made a soft, amused noise and turned her, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder with her.
“Look up,” he directed.
Unwillingly, she tilted her head to stare at the overarching spray of stars, picking out constellations almost reflexively. The Fountain had always been her favorite, because of the stories associated with it: the many ways the southern kings battled the demons to keep their water flowing. The tales were filled with wit and trickery, treachery and danger, and had set in her mind indelible images of great stone cities with striped archways—
She blinked, hard, and lowered her gaze to stare into the darkness around her again.
“Many stories come from this place,” Deiq said. “Some of them even resemble the truth.”
Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) Page 11
