The Chronicles of Misty

by Ed Hurst

  Fortis fingered the padding on one of the pack frames on which now a bedroll and a near empty pack was attached. Fortis had never been an athlete, nor had he been particularly lazy. But the extent of his physical exertions until now had been the automated training devices which stimulated the muscles while he laid quiescent, spooling yet more anthropological studies into his brain. Once or twice he had visited planets where walking was more common, but nothing like several days of hiking. He had already discovered new muscles on the journey so far, and his body seemed to respond, but he was past his prime. Still, he was determined to face whatever was ahead, seeing George was obviously quite a bit older.

  George responded to the unspoken question on Francis’ face, “Lance.” He turned to Fortis. “I take it you have nothing which resembles military training?”

  Both his eyebrows shot up as Fortis shook his head. “Only the typical rough and tumble of boys and their wild imaginations of improbable combat skill.”

  George chuckled. “In my experience, people with virtually no skill can still make reasonable use of these.” Francis laid a pole made of that marvelous light wood along the length of the counter. The center half was textured for gripping, and the diameter was a comfortable grip, indeed. One end slightly tapered, with an abrupt, dull point. The other end smoothly tapered to a pale off-white tip. Rising back from this sharp point was a wicked trio of blades, long as an extended hand, each a half-finger width at the back, and barbed.

  Fortis touched an edge lightly with his finger. It was sharp, but not like a razor. “What is this material?”

  “Specialized ceramic. Only in the desert region can we produce enough heat to fuse the ingredients together, but it’s as hard as almost any metal, without being brittle.”

  Fortis grasped it below the tip, leaned a little weight on it. Tilting his head toward it, “And just why is it so important I carry a weapon?”

  George looked falsely pained by the implication he was hiding something from him. “Why, Fortis – there are predators in the forest.” Then he smiled slyly. “More than one kind.”

  Chapter 14: The Long Short Way

  Fortis tried on his backpack, and then they piled everything in a corner near the door. George shrugged out of his weapon harness and placed it on top of the pile. He turned to Fortis. “Hungry?”

  Francis hurried past them into the dining area and prepared two large platters. Fortis had no idea what some of it was, but realized he was quite hungry, and it smelled inviting. Rather than the mostly dried fare on their journey, and the boiled fish he forced himself to eat, this was much nicer food. Travel food was okay, even good, but nothing replaced the smell of fresh hot bread and seasoned stew.

  Francis disappeared and the two ate almost silently. Fortis was sucking on some kind of fruit, while George gazed out the window. “We have just enough time to reach the village. We’ll need the tent to set out for a day to fully charge, and it will give us time to arrange an escort.”

  Fortis dropped the empty fruit husk on his otherwise empty platter. “Soldiers?”

  George chuckled. “No, there are no standing armies here. Each clan does have one House at Arms, traditionally a single extended family whose men are professional warriors, but they generally serve as bodyguards for the sheikh. There are forest rangers and field rangers, and they do have police powers, but their work keeps them too busy for much else. We will be seeking hunters, men who get paid mostly for hides of selected wild animals. However, they also get commissions to ferret out troublemakers.”

  “So there’s no such place as Paradise, where everyone behaves nicely?” Fortis remembered the hundreds of types of criminals scattered about the galaxy.

  Rising, George pushed his stool neatly under the edge of the table. Fortis copied the action. They had hardly reached their piled gear when the sound of many feet pounded up the stairs. The crew was coming to dinner. Francis’ assistant barely managed to clear their platters before the tables were filled with the men who worked in the harbor. Fortis and George exchanged goodbyes with the men who had met them on the pier, while everyone eyed Fortis.

  He realized his coveralls and light jacket were probably utterly foreign, as everyone Fortis had seen wore tunics and robes. His own suit was a standard issue to anthropologists. The high tech fibers worked to keep in sufficient moisture in dry climates, keep out excess wetness in swamps and rain, changed shades of gray to meet the glaring heat of sunny worlds, and generally acted like a second skin. Here on Misty, it remained resolutely slate colored. Most bacteria were neutralized and he could wear it for long periods without bathing, if necessary. He had followed George’s example of washing from a small tub and simply dealt with the shocking cold of wet skin in the breeze of the cool climate this close to the pole.

  The men here all wore beards, some trimmed in various ways, some not trimmed, but none shaved. Their hair was typically down on the collar. George had lighter hair, a medium brown visible in the gray, compared to a rather darker brown on men native to Johnston Island. Fortis had nearly blond hair, but had his face surgically denuded of hair follicles when young, as was the fashion in college. The only other completely smooth face he had seen was a fellow with darker skin and almond shaped eyes. Surely the clans on Misty were varied ethnic backgrounds, who mixed on some level. Still, Fortis made it a point to keep in mind his appearance naturally drew stares.

  He and George lifted the little cart between them and walked down the stairway. Out on the open pavement, George pulled the cart and turned towards the wood line. In the rocky shore, larger rocks had been carefully laid to form a solid, flat road leading in a broad curve toward the trees. Fortis shifted the lance a couple of times between his hands. The backpack was comfortable enough, but he had never worn anything that heavy on his shoulders. He would be sore by tomorrow, even after only the short hike he was promised would take them to the nearest village.

  George seemed utterly at peace. “We aren’t likely to see any wild predators this close to so much human activity, at least not until after nightfall. Even then, they would be too small to do much harm, and they don’t run in herds. It’s the humans we need to watch for.”

  George adjusted his weapons, now mounted on his pack frame. “Specific customs vary from clan to clan, but in general, there are three types of people who might trouble us on the road. There are men with training who went rogue, men exiled for some crime which did not warrant execution or prison, and the third kind is some local punk who hasn’t yet grown up. The last are the easiest to handle. They run in packs, but run if you resist well. The exiles are executed if caught harassing anyone, period. The rogues are the most dangerous. They are also exceedingly rare, because they have a price on their heads.”

  They had gone a couple hundred meters into the woods, when George stopped. “Take a good notice of the smells.” He waited a few moments. “The sea air is gone. By tomorrow, the smell of it will be gone from our clothes. I want you to become conscious of the background smells, noises – the full environment wherever you are. Most of the time, when there is trouble, something in that background will change enough to give you some clue. Your subconscious mind will tell you, if you learn how to listen.”

  Fortis made a note to begin cataloging more than standard human effects around him. He wasn’t quite ready to move, but George abruptly began walking again. The rocks paving the road had disappeared under a thin covering of pulverized vegetation. On the edges of the narrow road, the vegetation was still visible as leaves, twigs, and such. Aside from the muffled sounds of their feet on this surface, the walk was altogether silent. Fortis struggled slightly to match the long stride of George’s lanky legs. The elder’s pack was heavier, and he drew the little cart behind him, but it was clear he had done this for years.

  It was some two hours when the trees parted on a wide open circle, filled with tents of all sizes. Only two lacked the obvious internal framing. There was a single stone building off to one side. In the center w
as a large cistern, a stone wall waist high. Above it was a complicated framework with fabric panels tilted at various angles – a mist collector. There was some space between the tents and the fencing Fortis now recognized. They passed between two tall posts where strands of the charged fencing was rolled up, waiting to be connected at nightfall. At various points around this oval perimeter, nearly a half kilometer across the longest section, were small vertical windmills just high enough to capture the breeze at the tops of the trees.

  George walked to an open area not far from the cistern and began unpacking the tent. A few children ran up to watch, shyly staring at Fortis. George began singing some strange little ditty, obviously a song for children, but the words were in that odd local patois. They began chiming in, dancing and prancing, performing silly dramatic moves in unison. The noise blended in with the background sounds of people and a few domestic animals. There were smells of late cooking, baking perhaps. Fortis congratulated himself on trying to be conscious of these things. He also noticed most of the children lost interest, drifting away, only a pair left sitting with their backs against the cistern still watching.

  The tent was rather compact, not fully extended as on the polar island. George dragged his baggage inside the tent, and Fortis followed suit. Almost immediately upon closure of the entrance, a female voice outside sounded, “Helloooo!”

  George motioned Fortis to stay, and stepped to the entrance. They chattered in the local dialect, which Fortis was just beginning to follow somewhat. He unrolled a thin double layered fabric mat which would fill slowly with air by itself. The glow patches were already starting to put out some feeble illumination, and Fortis guessed the batteries were still carrying a charge after nearly a month. While the technology was surely different, they must have been at least as good as those available anywhere in the galaxy. Picking at his pack frame, he discovered it folded open to form a back rest.

  George turned and closed the curtain over the entrance. “The village busybody. Actually, it’s her job to keep track of visitors, because some would have to pay a fee, as it were. As we are on Council business, she was much more interested in our mission. Too interested, if you ask me, but I’ve come to expect it, passing through here at least twice each year for the past decade. I wasn’t going to lie. I simply didn’t tell her everything. Don’t know if she keeps track, but I’m a week early. Our rotation on the Welcome Committee is every four weeks. With travel time between here and pole, it means I pass through here one way at the beginning of the southern winter, and the other way at the beginning of spring.”

  “So it’s not quite spring.” Fortis rolled this in his mind a bit. “The axial tilt of Misty isn’t that large, so this close to the pole, the temperature variation is slightly greater than in the lower latitudes. But it’s slightly cooler in the first place. That means just a few degrees warmer in the summer?”

  “You would hardly notice,” said George. “The winds come up just a bit more.”

  Fortis suddenly looked up. “You don’t have much time to go very far from here the rest of the year.”

  George smiled. “My wife and I stay near the capital. The Welcoming Committee has a small village out in a meadow. Most of us teach at the academy, but a few contract out other skills during our time on the Island.”

  “Do all of you hike between the city and the harbor?”

  “No, most of them take a ferry. Two fellows keep coursers because they want to travel alone. They take the open routes on higher ground, which is much longer distance wise.”

  Fortis sat on the ground, and leaned back on his pack frame. “You normally travel alone, too.” Fortis was wondering if this would drag any more revelations from the elder.

  “The biggest risk for you is not actual danger to your well being, but the rather high likelihood of being kidnapped. Aside from the handful of men at the harbor, no one knows you have, in effect, already notified your superiors of what you found here. I suggest we keep it that way for now, because it will keep you alive.”

  George busied himself making his own bed. That done, leaning back against his own pack frame, he looked directly at Fortis. “At the same time, I have to confess you are a pawn. I am utterly certain it will all turn out well, but we do have two of our thirty eight clans playing intrigue games. We aren’t sure which they are.”

  Fortis ventured, “So if anything happens on the way, you narrow down who it might be because of the connections with who knows.”

  George smiled proudly. “Brilliant!” Then, “The mystic knows, in human society, you cannot trust any other human, because you cannot trust yourself. Yet mystics of all people know we must act. And you still have to give others room to act, and sometimes justice means waiting until they do the wrong you know they are planning. In the middle of our deep concern for the whole of humanity, we still have to fight human lusts in our midst.”

  Closing his eyes, George let his head fall back to rest against the cushion on the pack frame. Fortis’ legs were quite stiff, and his bottom was numb. But he hardly noticed his body as George continued. “It’s unlikely the two sheikhs are involved themselves, but people highly placed in both of these two unidentified clans are seeking an inappropriate leverage against the others. The Council itself is unaware of this; it’s something only the mystics have caught onto.”

  “Is there some sort of shadow council of mystics?”

  Shaking his head, George snorted. “You know better than that.” He sat up, folding his long legs in front of him. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he gazed directly at Fortis. “Mystics among themselves never organize except ad hoc. We have no official authority as mystics, only that each of us here holds various roles which grant us an opportunity to act in small ways. Normally all we would do is watch and see what happens and compare notes. We’ve been doing that through the routine traffic across Misty.”

  George took a sip from his water bag. “If this crazy cabal succeeds, they will prevent any of us leaving Misty. In times past, that was not an issue, but the other mystics in the galaxy are being crushed. We must infiltrate mystics into other worlds. Without at least a few shreds of mysticism, the entire human race will destroy itself. With just a little, we can change the flavor of all humanity.”

  Chapter 15: Subterfuge

  Fortis was running through the forest, ducking under limbs, darting through underbrush, jumping over fallen logs. They were behind him and gaining. In a small clearing, he spotted a tiny hut. He ran inside and closed the door firmly behind him. Turning around, he saw it was a bakery, and the smell of fresh bread was strong. Would it cover his scent?

  Then he sat bolt upright in his bed. Fortis blinked; he was stiff and sore, but not immobile. Turning his head, he saw George holding a half-eaten small loaf of freshly baked bread, a mug in the other hand.

  “So, you have escaped. What was chasing you?”

  Fortis began fumbling for his boots. “Giant insects with human faces.”

  “That would do it. I’d run, too. Your thrashing the last half hour provided a perfect cover. Fortunately you weren’t vocalizing, as that would ruin my story.” George took another bite of bread, set down the mug and pulled a few dark berries from a bowl.

  “Cover story? To whom and regarding what?” Fortis noted the fresh bread was the strongest smell coming from the basket between them.

  “That busybody woman. She nearly ran me over trying to barge in here with this marvelous breakfast. She’s never given me a second glance in the past few years, but today she makes a desperate ploy of to get inside the tent. Your thrashing allowed me the excuse you were still dressing, and indecent. I barely restrained her.”

  Fortis found the stiffness hardly restrained his impulse to dig into the food. But the faint cool on the sea became a bit of chill in the forest, so he reached for his jacket.

  George held up his hand, “Wait. I want you try out the forest cloak in your bag.”

  “Forest cloak?” Fortis opened the top of his pack and
found a large rolled bundle of fabric. Pulling it out, he saw an interesting cloth of mixed colored threads, resulting generally in a brown appearance. He shrugged into it and found it fairly light, yet feeling substantial and warm. “Nice. Why?”

  George finished off his food, pushed the basket toward Fortis and sat back on his bed. As Fortis began pulling out warm bread and cheese, George poured him a mug of tea, and refilled his own. “We need to stay together, but I need to find where the old men gather. In a village this size, there are always a few retired woodsmen or something, men who know what’s going on, and can help us find some hunters for our escort. Someone in this village really wants to get a look at you, so while we are out, you should wear the hood.”

  Fortis felt behind is neck for it, then continued eating. Life on Misty created an appetite he never knew could be so powerful. Between mouthfuls, “Is there some danger in them seeing me?”

  “I don’t know, but whomever it is seems to think it matters, so we’ll deny them if we can.” George stood and strapped on his sword. It hung just off his right shoulder, and it occurred to Fortis George was probably left-handed.

  It didn’t take long to find a knot of older men gathered in front of an open tent. A middle aged man stood behind a counter with his heating plates, one supporting a sizzling skillet, two with lidded pots, and a tall urn from which a young woman repeatedly drew mugs of tea for their guests. The men sat on short benches turned at random angles away from tables to allow them a sort of circle, chattering away in their local dialect.

  George and Fortis took seats at a table just inside the tent opening, which was a bit shadowy in the wan light of early morning. The young lady approached with a pair of mugs for them, exchanged a few words with George, and then left them alone. Fortis caught one word he thought meant food and a negative. He then turned his attention to the patois of the old men’s chatter, finding there were a few words he could decipher now and then. After a few minutes, George stood while motioning Fortis to stay put. He approached the knot of old men with his mug in one hand.