Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  City of Legends

  Dalathos

  Dalathos enjoyed the morning sun on his cheeks, as he waited outside Nel’s inn with the others and their mules. The blue skies promised a proper spring day at last, and that was a good omen. The main street of Arris Town was a muddy road with a few tall timber-framed buildings, before the settlement became a cluster of small cottages. Like Tulst, back home, there was no defensive wall or palisade.

  Though only a modest place, this had been the birthplace of Sephis the Great. The ruins of Phisadel were said to stand at the edge of the town. Dalathos was eager to see them, and touch something of the man and legend of so many fireside stories.

  Then onto the city where Sephis had founded his empire — and Dalathos hoped to begin his apprenticeship. In his bag were his hammers and tongs, money to pay for a guild’s joining fee, and a letter of recommendation from his uncle. To prove his skill, Dalathos brought the sword and mail shirt he’d made, and wore them simply because it made more sense than carrying them. Truth be told, he found their weight on his body reassuring. Once settled in Corianth he planned to train through journeyman to master. One day he might even smith for the Emperor’s Guard.

  Jerine stepped out from The Apple Tree. She fussed over helping Erin mount up, then took a mule herself. “Are we all set?”

  Everyone had been ready a long time ago, but Jerine had earned all their patience. She’d paid for their food and lodging last night, which was generous. Dalathos had eaten and drunk well, and they’d all slept on the pallet beds of the dormitory, wrapped in their cloaks.

  He pulled his knapsack over his shoulder and mounted up, then followed as Jerine led on along a well-worn cart track. He’d ridden wagon horses in their games at the camps, but Sirath’s mules were small. And without a saddle or reins, he had to keep one hand on the mane to keep steady. He faced Sirath. “You planning on getting riding equipment?”

  “You offering to buy some?”

  Dalathos shook his head, then ignored him. With only a splint of wood to fasten an old cloak, Sirath didn’t look like someone with money. Jerine had already explained that she paid for their use. As Dalathos rocked on the mule’s hard back, his boots almost touching the ground, he wondered if it wouldn’t be easier just to walk.

  Still, it was good to travel in company again, after spending yesterday on the back of a turnip cart, driven by a half-deaf driver. Before then, a month’s journey on the wagon train with Rhalinias. The master smith had been summoned to set up a forge near Glora-Farel, in advance for the knights of exiled Prince Renforth. Dalathos had been invited to work for them, but he’d set his heart on following in the footsteps of Sephis.

  Shortly, they were past the last of the cottages, and followed a low valley pocked with boulders. Pastures and fields rolled beyond dry stone walls, thorny hedges, or low fences. Trees lined the way, spring flowers clustered at their roots.

  Dalathos glanced about in confusion. “Where’s the ruins of Phisadel?”

  Jerine pointed behind to a series of bumps and troughs on the ground. “That’s all that remains.”

  Dalathos was sorely disappointed the destruction had been so complete. Even the apple trees, from which the traitors had been hanged, were long gone. He’d detoured to see so little, and that quenched his good humor.

  They continued on through the morning. Paths, tracks, and other dirt roads joined with theirs, and the traffic grew slowly but surely. Little carts rattled after harnessed ponies, and wagons rumbled behind powerful oxen. Groups of travelers walked together, and a few riders trotted by. A black-painted carriage clattered past, the windows covered by curtains as green as old copper. Farmsteads and outbuildings appeared by the roadside, ploughmen at work in the fields. Sometimes a village lay in the distance. This land was more lived-in than back home.

  When the sun was at its height they rested in shade, upon grass that was still winter-brown. Jerine pulled out linen-wrapped bundles of crumbly ewe’s cheese, crusty bloomers of bread, and two leather sacks of ale, all provided by Nel. Dalathos suspected that these had been another cost, but was grateful for the hospitality, and rest — his back was already becoming stiff from riding.

  A skylark flittered above. There was a peace and calm that he hadn’t felt in an age. Then they mounted up and continued on their way.

  A gang of laborers crossed in front with iron shod tools over their shoulders. The road curved down and around a steep hill. Then the land opened up to a vast fertile plain of patchwork fields. A paved road cut ahead, busy with what looked like the train for a summer pageant.

  People walked with wicker baskets at their backs, alongside pony-drawn carts piled with sacks, crates, or barrels. Donkeys brayed as they carried nets of luggage. Painted caravans trundled along, big enough to sleep entire families. Riders sat upon fine horses with jingling harnesses. And there were so many animals led or tied together: cows, goats, pigs; dogs and their masters.

  “The Imperial Way,” Jerine said. “We follow west to the city. Keep close at all times.” She had them dismount to continue on foot, and Sirath roped the mules together.

  The road became even busier as they followed it.

  Improvised shelters of sticks and sackcloth appeared by the wayside, stinking smoke from dung fires drifting from them. Shacks became frequent, then sturdy buildings. The crowd packed tighter together. Everything became stifling.

  Dalathos kept one hand over his purse. Though on a belt under his mail shirt, he didn’t dare risk nimble fingers lightening his load. He didn’t have much money, but hoped it was enough to see him through the city, at least for a few days.

  The first he saw of it was a brown haze in the sky. His spirits leaped as the great hill called Emperor’s Rock came into view, the seat of power since before the time of Sephis, when the city was founded as Eiom. As they continued he saw rooftops appear, flooding behind a sandstone curtain wall punctuated with towers: some round, others square, many with timber hourds for defending the battlements. White pennants fluttered from every turret, the two-headed gold eagle of empire upon them. Then the view opened up and the city stretched as far as the eye could see. Stone arches marched into the wall that Jerine said were for the aqueducts.

  This was the sight of civilization. And it boomed at him. His legs trembled with excitement. He could never have imagined anything so huge — its size seemed to threaten to crush him.

  So did the crowd. He was forced against his mule, the smell of musk and hay in his nose. People jostled each other. Angry shouts struck out. Dalathos shouldered someone aside. The fairs in Tulst had never so tight.

  At times it seemed he could hardly breathe. He was caught in a herd of people, hammered together by taller and taller buildings. The low thunder of so many tramping feet and trundling wheels rumbled though him, and the squeal and grind of poorly greased axles made his skin crawl over already fired nerves. Yet all the time, glimpses of the city ramparts rising nearer. He was almost there.

  The road curved, straightened again, then a huge gatehouse of black granite loomed ahead. On either side was a giant figure, faced in white enamel: at the left a rampant lion, and to the right, an angel with a raised sword.

  Dalathos could only gape at the sight. He’d imagined Corianth to look like the town of Keiy, only a little bigger and busier. Keiy had defined what a city might look like to him — larger than the iron camps, or the market town of Tulst down the hill, with buildings of brick and stone instead of timber and wattle. This view made Keiy look like a sorry hamlet. Keiy also had its own keep. He’d looked in wonder at its walls and this had defined a castle to him. Yet this gatehouse could easily swallow it. Looking up, it was like seeing Keiy Castle for the first time, through a boy’s eyes.

  The movement of the crowd came to a halt, and a thick queue formed to enter the city.

  “We’ll probably be waiting a while,” Jerine said, speaking through the press of people. “But don’t worry, I’ll pay the city tax. Say, Dalathos, you like
stories of Sephis? There you can see his work directly. He ordered that gatehouse built, to declare the two founding principles of empire ... the law of man, and divine justice. Expressed in the figureheads of Emperor and Holy Father.”

  Dalathos could only stare in awe. “Are all the gates like this?”

  Jerine laughed. “None so grand! You look upon a wonder of the world.”

  The crowd began to move, at first just a shuffle. Somewhere a pig squealed. A pair of dogs snapped and barked.

  A wide bridge ahead led over a moat of brown water, and into the gatehouse. A thin line of people traveled both ways along it; a train of ponies with wicker panniers crossed out from the city.

  The city watch collected taxes before it, dressed in grubby tunics of padded linen, a cream sash across their chests. Each wore an iron helm and carried a short halberd. A thick leather belt at the waist held a sheathed dagger, and a holster for a hand bell.

  They stopped a heavy cart for a brief search: pulled back a tarred canvas to reveal packed bales of straw, and crates of clucking chickens. They waved the driver on.

  Dalathos waited, impatient to cross the bridge. A putrid smell and wails for mercy washed over him. A narrow field to his left was filled with dozens of crow cages set on tall poles. Those living were naked and thin, but many held corpses — men, women, and children — at different stages of decay. He recoiled and his throat tightened. For a moment he feared he’d be sick.

  “Murderers, rapists, and thieves,” Jerine said solemnly. “Most are executed in the city squares. The corbier there serves as a warning to visitors.”

  Dalathos shuffled to the edge of the bridge, eager to escape the stench of death. Two men in woolen robes waved a wooden docket each, and were allowed through without paying.

  Jerine stood forward and indicated six with her fingers, and pointed. She showed a palm of bronze pennies, and dropped them into a large, iron cauldron, one by one.

  The guards waved them past with impatient disinterest.

  Dalathos took a step, then felt a tap on his shoulder.

  One of the guards pointed, “Use that sword in a brawl, and the prefects will have your thumbs.”

  Dalathos smarted at the threat, but simply nodded in reply, and walked on.

  The gatehouse towered above now, as did the lion and angel flanking it. Then he was under a giant portcullis and in the cold gloom of a tunnel. Timber doors stood opened in, the imperial eagle across them in flaking gold paint. Clipping hooves echoed. Mossy streaks dripped down the walls, collecting into puddles. Iron grates above allowed light to strike through, and Dalathos realized they might be murder holes, like at Keiy Castle.

  A disorientating wall of noise rolled at them through the passageway.

  Jerine faced back with a smile. “Now we enter the city!”

  The light dazzled as a huge flagstone square opened up. It was heaving with people of every description, clothed in any imaginable color, material, and style.

  The noise was incredible. Shouting, laughter, and calls to buy wares. The rumble of wagons and rattle of carts. The clip of horseshoes. Bleating, barking, and the screeching of gulls. Above all that, snatches of music.

  Smells flooded over him — wood smoke, sweat, and dung, polish and leather, roasting meat and baked bread, spices, incense, and perfumes.

  It was like being assaulted by sight, sound, and smell.

  He didn't know whether to marvel or flee.

  A boy ran up, tugged his sleeve, and offered somewhere to eat for the cheapest prices in Corianth. An old woman shook a handful of polished quartz in his face, crying out that she read fortunes for silver. A man with an armful of necklaces shouted in his ear that his charms brought everyone luck.

  Dalathos snapped and lashed out, and cracked the man’s nose with his fist. The hawker retreated, holding his face, blood dripping through his fingers. Dalathos snorted with cold humor — those charms weren’t so lucky after all.

  Then they were across the square and on a busy thoroughfare, wide enough for a dozen carts to travel abreast. The buildings that flanked it were crushed tall and thin — whitewashed, else painted blue, red, or yellow — and decorated with buntings and garlands of flowers for the Spring Fair. Open shutters revealed mostly linen windows, but some even had glass. Tenements overlooked them, some eight stories high, crammed together like boxes. Towers and temple domes rose behind those.

  And crowning all, rising in triumphant procession along the centre of the road, gold statues as high as five men, upon plinths of red marble.

  Dalathos stared at them, wide-eyed and dizzy, his heart pumping hard. The statues glinted in the sun like no other metal could. If his uncle were here he could say whether they were solid, or gilded over wood, stone, or bronze. Then he realized he was looking at history. “Jerine? Are these statues of Emperors?”

  “All thirty-five to date. Ignoring those of the Broken Empire. This is the Avenue of the Emperors, originally the Viatine Imperiatrix of Eiom.”

  The first must have been of Sephis the Great. It was styled in a breastplate, leather skirt and sandals, sword held aloft. The features were beatific, wise, and strong. Dalathos looked upon the face of Sephis! Now that was something to share back in the iron camps. “Jerine ... is that what the Emperors really looked like?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never met any. They were probably less gigantic, though!”

  Sirath interrupted, “How much further before we stop?”

  “Much farther!” Jerine answered. “Any inn near the walls will be full. We need to find the quieter heart, for any chance of a room.”

  Dalathos gazed up at each statue they passed, and wondered at the name and their deeds. Plaques underneath had words on them, but Dalathos didn’t know how to read. He decided against slowing down just to ask. It was a reason enough to want to learn letters.

  The crowds finally began to thin. It was still busy, but less of a crush, and the noise more tolerable. Everyone spread into what space they could.

  Canvas awnings, dyed in stripes, hung over shop fronts that spilled out from arcades and into the street, their goods displayed in boxes and crates, barrels and baskets — every ware was everywhere.

  Entertainers attracted their own crowds. Dancers with ribbons tapped hand drums, jugglers whirled batons, and minstrels played on lutes, flutes, or pipes. At a street corner, two white-haired women in black gowns put on a puppet show with stringed dolls.

  Beggars hobbled by with their hands out, or propped broken limbs between shop fronts while pleading for coppers. Dalathos clamped his hand over his purse.

  As they continued deeper into the city, the shops became replaced by inns and eateries. Cherry trees stood outside some, blossoming pink from tiny islands of earth.

  Dalathos trudged on. By now his thighs and calves ached, and the sun made his back sweat. This road seemed to go on for miles! It would be a relief to stop for a mug of cold ale. But he said nothing, and dared trust Jerine knew where she was going. It was a blessing not to have faced the city alone.

  Jerine stopped, then pointed to a side street they’d just passed on the left. “Let’s try down there.” She led them into a welcome, cool shade. Half-timbered buildings with pinkish-brown render, some four stories high, stood cramped together. Latticed glass windows covered their faces. She stopped at a hitching post. Overhead hung a board painted with a lion, letters, and the familiar bed, mug, and bowl symbols for an inn. Another, painted with horses, indicated a passageway for stables within. “Wait here,” Jerine said. “I’ll see if there’s room at the Lion Inn.” She disappeared through the door to the building.

  Dalathos exhaled, grateful to stop, but now brimming with joy that he was inside the city — that he’d made it here, as he promised he would. He patted his mule and smiled to Ulric. The big man looked ashen, but no one else seemed so affected. Dalathos realized they might be the only two here to have never seen a city before. “You alright, Ulric?”

  “Everything’s so b
ig ... so busy.”

  “It’s overwhelming,” Dalathos agreed. “It’s as if everything could come crashing down on us at any moment. Not that I think it will,” he added, in case Ulric took fright.

  “Oh, sometimes buildings do,” Sirath said. “More common than you’d think.”

  Erin stroked her mule’s neck. “In many ways it is like Mardin, and yet so different. I remember being warned to be careful about my person there. I do hope we have nothing to be concerned about here.”

  “As long as you travel in a group,” Sirath said, glancing around. “And keep an eye on your purse at all times.”

  Dalathos patted his mail shirt. “I’ve held mine tight all along. No one’s going to get at it without me noticing.”

  Sirath smiled. “Any thief would have to fondle your bollocks to get at yours!”

  “My own purse is upon the belt at my waist,” Erin said. “I can easily ... ” She frowned, then her hands scrabbled about her robes. “My purse ... it is ... gone!”

  Sirath laughed. “Looks like quick hands have found you already. Else you were being really charitable.”

  “What am I to do?” Erin spluttered. “If my purse has been stolen then how can I pay for food and lodging?”

  Dalathos stiffened and glanced about, alert to the danger of a thief nearby. The street was quiet, with nobody close, and no one ran from them. Erin must have had her purse taken earlier.

  “I cannot believe this has happened,” Erin said, “after I saved my money where I could.”

  “Got some coins I can share,” Ulric said. “Will help, where I can.”

  The door to the inn opened and Jerine strode out. “Good, you’re all still here.”

  Ulric pointed. “Erin’s had her purse taken.”