by Mike Shel
21
Ralsea
A windowpane shattered with a sudden loud report, sending shards of glass across the commodore’s mahogany desk. Apparently imperturbable, he carefully and calmly dusted off glittering bits from the papers Auric had given him. He scrutinized those papers through an oversized gold-hooped monocle secreted in a breast pocket.
“Lalu’s silken garters, Sir Auric!” he exclaimed after a few moments. “You certainly appear to have the queen’s favor. Any assistance I can provide is yours, of course.”
Amalard was the commodore’s name, and he was an affable, heavy-set fellow, increasingly so judging by the straining of gold buttons on his Royal Navy uniform. He had small blue eyes and a round nose, with curly blond locks going to gray, and an elaborate beard and moustache.
“Recommendation of an inn and where we might hire transport up the Ironbell would be an excellent start, Commodore,” responded Auric, raising his voice over the angry shouts of the crowd rumbling outside on the Ralsea promenade.
“You don’t seem too concerned about that mob outside your doors, sir,” Agnes observed, eyeing warily the irate crowd of locals through the broken window.
“Oh, that? Gods be good, lass, if I were to get my cravat in a twist every time the Karnesi rabble got into a snit—Lords of Perdition, I wouldn’t sleep a wink. No, this is just an average weekday in the duchy’s lively capital.”
“What’s it about, then?” queried Sira, standing next to Kennah. The bearded swordsman towered over the petite priest.
“New royal tax on fish, quarter penny to the pound, approved by parliament last night.”
“This parliament has to approve taxes the queen levies?” asked an incredulous Kennah, wincing. Despite the ministrations he received at the shrine in whose care Auric had left him, and those of Sira on their five-day sea journey, his wound still troubled him.
“I know, Sir Kennah,” Amalard responded, this time making the man wince with the use of his new title. “It’s hard for you native ’Faxers to understand the ways of the Karnes. Indeed, I hail from Tamden myself, in Bannerbraeke. Though I’ve commanded the Royal Navy post here for over three years, I still find myself surprised by some new republican nonsense now and again. Understand that the parliament always approves the queen’s laws and levies; it’s just a formality, really. But if the citizens get up in arms enough, poor beleaguered Duchess Violetta relents and pays the taxes out of her own purse.”
“That’s no way to run an empire,” grumbled Kennah, leaning on the commodore’s desk, a grimace on his face. Auric worried that the man might not be able to fight if it came to it, unless Sira could affect better healing.
“Oh, don’t let any of the Ralseans hear you say that, my good man, or you’ll have to answer with your fists. Or worse, have an endless argument on your hands!” Amalard’s capacious moustache smiled and he gestured for Kennah to take a seat. Kennah demurred, holding up a shaking hand.
“The only Karnesi I ever knew would argue with a wooden post if another opponent failed to materialize,” came a lyrical tenor over Auric’s shoulder. It was Chalca, made up with cosmetics like a lady of the court. The actor had weathered jeers and catcalls from sailors aboard their Royal Navy transport from Boudun. Agnes, whom Auric noted had developed an affinity for the man, had defended Chalca when Auric had approached her. Could she persuade the actor to refrain from making himself up, if only to prevent hostilities?
“He is who he is, father, and I find that refreshing. I see no reason why he should change in order to make you feel more comfortable.”
“Not for me, Agnes,” he stammered. “These Royal Navy types—”
“Oh, don’t shift blame to the sailors, Father. Have the courage to claim ownership of your prejudices.”
Nonsense, he thought. What had he ever cared for what another man did in the dark, so long as his partner consented? Hadn’t a number of his Syraeic colleagues indulged in homosexual relations? Hadn’t he treated them with respect and affection like the rest? The difference, he decided, was the way this actor paraded his nonconformity. He was like a member of a marching band who clanged cymbals together out of rhythm with the rest.
But Auric noted that the commodore seemed less distraught by Chalca’s appearance than he was himself, nodding at the man’s wry comment. “Indeed!” he laughed. “And arguing with a Karnesi is akin to arguing with a chattering monkey: you can’t help but fail to persuade him, and he makes a terrible racket!”
It was then that Amalard caught sight of the man standing behind Chalca. The broken sorcerer Qeelb hovered there, like a harbinger of doom. His shattered black jewel was hidden by a false bandage wrapped around his head, the disguise of his true nature made more believable by an unshaven face still covered with scabs and bruises left by the attentions of Tolwe’s clergy.
“Gods be good, man! What happened to you?”
Qeelb said nothing.
“Should I fetch you one of Belu’s acolytes, or perhaps our medicus?”
“That won’t be necessary,” the sorcerer responded in a low mumble.
“Won’t be necessary?” sputtered Amalard, stroking his voluminous moustache. “You look like Marcator himself kicked you down a mountainside!”
“I will heal in time, sir.”
“As you wish,” he scowled. “Is it some sort of religious prohibition?”
“You could say that,” answered Qeelb.
“An inn then, Commodore Amalard?” asked Auric.
“Ah! Siren’s Song is a fine one, just off the promenade, though a bit pricey.” He waved the papers Auric had given him. “And I’d recommend you not use this royal script with the innkeeper, or any other Ralsea merchants if you can help it, sir. Coin will avoid any ugliness.”
“Is the queen’s promise without value here?” Kennah was indignant, a hand to his gut.
“Oh, certainly the banks will honor the debt, but they’ll shave off a service fee, meaning that anything you purchase with queen’s script is provided at an unwilling discount by the proprietor. We do our best not to deliberately rile the natives, Sir Kennah. Makes our days far more peaceful.”
As if on cue, there was a loud bang against the wall of the commodore’s office as several sailors forming a cordon around the building were shoved against it by the grumbling mob. Amalard looked over his shoulder at the sound, but only shook his head, smiling.
“And transport?” Auric asked.
“Check with the merchant houses at the northernmost extreme of the promenade. That’s where the best river transport companies have their warehouses. A barge up the Ironbell is your best bet. They’re all piloted by water witches. Get you where you’re going as quickly as lovesick Jack Nightingale delivering a rose. I’d recommend Pergola Mercantile or Oglewhim and Sons. Sampson Freight is worth a try if those two don’t pan out. Now where did you say you were headed?”
“Up the Ironbell,” Auric answered carefully. “I’m afraid the queen requires that we keep confidence on this expedition, Commodore.”
Amalard gave Auric a broad smile, puffing out his hirsute jowls. “Of course, and long may she reign. I’m not one to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. If there’s any other way I can be of help to you, Sir Auric, please don’t hesitate to ask. I rarely leave my office before seven in the evening. Some of my men will escort you through the malcontents to Siren’s Song, if that’s your choice.”
The city of Ralsea was fortunate in its location, sitting at the southern edge of the broad delta of the Ironbell River. Its fingers touched every copper penny of commerce flowing down the great waterway: metals and gems worked in the mines of the mountain earldoms, limestone and marble from quarries scattered among the hills, crops raised in the rich alluvial soil of the river delta and the fertile country to the north, and goods produced by the artisans of Marburand and the Karnes alike. Long piers and imposing ware
houses lined the seafront, bustling with activity in the late morning, both commercial and political.
Their walk to the inn from the Royal Navy outpost was a contentious one, with pike-armed sailors muscling their way through irritated protestors, then through the heavy traffic of those going about their daily business. Auric endured an occasional elbow or growl, as well as slurs unique to the Karnesi, reserved for outsiders: gold-buckle, serf, and Auric’s favorite, Sir Bow-and-Scrape. A number of pamphleteers were scattered among the pedestrians and street merchants, trying to raise ire about a bevy of local causes. Auric sympathized with Kennah’s earlier observation. This is no way to run an empire.
The Siren’s Song, a three-story inn and tavern of painted local limestone, was an upscale affair, with a large common room decorated with nautical themes, and several private chambers for rent off the main chamber. Several of its late-morning patrons were easily identified as Royal Navy officers, a few of them already tippling a tankard, Auric noted with a frown. The innkeep was a remarkably fat man by the name of Soflin, red-faced and full of extravagant good cheer.
“A private suite of rooms to rent for the night? Why of course, my good sir, and what excellent judgment you demonstrate by coming to my humble establishment, the finest in Ralsea! All your needs can be met here: food, entertainment in the evening, a soft bed, and warm company if you require it.” He was all winks and nudges, like a player in a stage farce. Auric paid half the bill in advance at the proprietor’s suggestion, using his own purse as the commodore had advised. The silver and copper coins vanished into the man’s apron pocket as though they had never existed.
Whether or not the buxom young woman who showed them to their rooms was indeed Soflin’s daughter as he announced, she made it extraordinarily clear that she was the “warm company” to which he had alluded. Auric was just as clear that those extra services would not be required, though he could see Kennah thinking otherwise. She made no secret she thought the two coppers Auric offered her as gratuity for her time were less than adequate. She scowled at him but gave an unsubtle wag of her tongue to Kennah. Auric grumbled under his breath. Agnes shot him a look suggesting that she thought him a prig.
Their suite was a generous one, with a small central room for gathering and five private sleeping quarters adjacent. Agnes offered that she and Chalca would double up so that the others might have their own rooms. Auric suppressed the look of disapproval that made a brief appearance on his face. He entered his own room and laid his rucksack on the bed, then removed the belt that held his scabbard, laying Szaa’da’shaela down with a kind of reverence and care that felt silly after he had done it. He thought then on the look Agnes had given him. She had given similar sour and contemptuous looks, albeit for different reasons, to the captain of the Royal Navy vessel that ferried them across the Cradle and into the Bay of Ulsea. The ship was called the Sister Courage and the captain was a young aristocrat named Gorsey. He was a supercilious fellow—fourth son of some petty baronet—who clearly resented transporting them, a duty apparently beneath him. His disdain had no doubt grown after Agnes rebuffed his boorish advances. When she told Auric of the man’s attempts to grope her, laughing through her report, he made noises about giving the man a thump. Agnes was far more offended by this than the captain’s uninvited hands on her breasts.
“Father!” she hissed, her face reddening. “I’m not some helpless maiden in need of your gallant intervention! You’d best start thinking of me as a Syraeic sister and not your darling baby girl, or we’ll do more than quarrel!”
She was right, of course. Would his feathers have been so ruffled had some pinching bastard done the same to Lenda back in the day? Hah! Lenda would have handed the prick his severed fingers one at a time. He recalled the transcript Pallas Rae had given him to read in the Too-Tall Library. Agnes was as capable as any Syraeic woman—or man—of handling herself. He would need to make an effort to check his fatherly impulses on this expedition. As if to punctuate the thought, Szaa’da’shaela vibrated visibly, ruffling the blanket on which it rested.
“Ever been to the Karnes, Sir Auric?” asked Kennah, holding a hand to his gut when all but Qeelb sat in the central lounge upon which their rooms emptied.
“I have, Sir Kennah,” he responded. Auric wondered if he would ever stop enjoying the look of discomfort on the man’s face whenever that title was employed. It was like the one he had worn when he was first anointed. “Never this far north, though. Never further north than the Lahosa River, in fact. It’s mostly the more remote south country that hosts the unexplored Busker ruins. This half of the duchy was tapped out three hundred years ago.”
“Perhaps you can help us make sense of the duchy’s government, then,” said Sira with her crooked smile. “Kennah here insists that the Karnesi have no truck with the nobility at all, save for their duchess.”
Auric returned Sira’s smile, but he was still unsettled by their conversation the day they had sailed out of Boudun Harbor. The two had a private moment in the too-small room Gorsey had given them aboard Sister Courage, and it was then he explained the goal of their mission. While the priest of Belu had no love for Timilis or his cult, she was still deeply devout, and their charge disturbed her greatly.
“It’s true you’ve already killed a god, Sir Auric,” she had said in response to his justifications, her eyes reddened with tears. “But Timilis is an elevated god of our own pantheon, not some demonic remnant of the Djao. Does the queen not ask us to commit an act of terrible sacrilege? Even a sin eater couldn’t swallow something so foul.”
Those words had haunted him for the past five days as they skirted the storms of the Cradle and slipped into the calmer waters of the Bay of Ulsea. Even a sin eater couldn’t swallow something so foul. Was he putting his soul in jeopardy, and the souls of the rest of them, including his daughter? He had asked Szaa’da’shaela that question when he was alone on deck later that first night, but the bejeweled blade hadn’t uttered a word.
“Alas, Sir Kennah, it’s more complicated than that,” Auric answered when his mind returned from its wandering. “That parliament Commodore Amalard mentioned, it sits here in Ralsea, comprised of representatives elected from each Karne republic—all of them quasi-independent. The Duke of the Karnes—Duchess now—commands the duchy’s military and presides over parliament. She must win the parliament’s approval for her own and the queen’s taxes, levies, and laws, though I understand she has considerable means of influence. And the counts and barons and the like are advised and restrained by elected town councils in every city and settlement across the duchy, like the duchess and her parliament in miniature.”
“What a bloody confusion,” said Kennah, his words reflected in the grimace he wore.
Auric smiled at the younger man. “You heard Amalard. The Karnesi don’t mind it. They prefer it. Indeed, they guard their rights and prerogatives jealously and won’t countenance a man who’d argue otherwise.”
“Look at this,” said Agnes, holding up a handbill she had accepted from one of the pamphleteers they had passed on their way from the Royal Navy post. Bold letters proclaimed BEWARE MARBURAND! “Seems the locals fear their neighbor as much as any encroachment by the Crown. This essay claims that ’Burandi agents were behind a fire that burned down a local newspaper a week ago. It’s a confused thing. Calls on the Ralsea people to defend Duchess Violetta and their liberty from ‘enemies of the republic.’ The Karnes is a duchy made up of these republics. The pamphlet speaks as though the duchy is a republic itself. They didn’t vote for the duchess or her ancestors, did they?”
“I don’t know, daughter,” Auric answered, immediately regretting addressing her in that manner. “The bulk of my knowledge of the region is a good millennium and a half out of date, back when it was a dozen Busker princedoms.”
“Wasn’t the Sour Note Rebellion fomented in this area?” asked Kennah.
“I think so,” Auric answe
red, reaching for an almond from a bowl on their table.
Agnes groaned. “Ugh! The Theocracy of Harmony! Memorizing those damned religious texts were the most dreadful days of my novitiate.”
A toothy smile appeared from Kennah’s beard. “Was ol’ Magnus Plank still teaching Busker theology when you came through, Peregrine?” He hunched his shoulders and narrowed his eyes to slits, speaking in a funereal dirge. “‘Fifteen sacred relics did the Busker lords of the Kingdom of Lucia venerate in their dark, stony temples, carved from the living rock of the hillside.’ Hah! I can’t do the old man justice. Ruben, though, Ruben had the man down exact.”
Agnes laughed. “You do a fair version, Kennah! Though you’d need to have some of the morning’s breakfast left in your beard to capture him perfectly.”
Auric smiled. Plank taught that subject during his novitiate, before either Kennah or Agnes were born. He was dead now, surely, carried away by the plague last year if not by old age or some malady. Auric wondered at how quickly his thoughts took a morbid turn these days. He was older than the others in the room, it was true, but he was no infirm ancient, ready for the grave. He was only fifty-one, for Belu’s sake, blessed with good health, active, his mind sharp. But he felt every one of those years in that moment, acutely aware of so many of his contemporaries buried in the ground or interred in an urn. None of your old friends remain, Auric Manteo, he thought to himself. Only you.
Had he outstayed his welcome, not on the earth, but in taking on this role as a Syraeic? It was true he had been called back again, out of cozy Daurhim and Hannah’s embrace. But maybe what was needed were the talents of younger men. Men whose thoughts were less apt to linger on death.
And women, he thought, looking at his daughter with a burst of fondness. She was a beauty. Save for her nose and those obstinate freckles, she looked so much like her mother, Auric feared he might weep. Dead five years now, Marta. Are you singing in Belu’s Blue Heaven, sweetheart? Have you forgiven me my neglect?
