Protector

by Luke Norris

  “Quite a change from the Naharain capital, eh my boy?” Targon grinned at Oliver.

  The Naharain capital, or what little of it Oliver had seen upon arriving, was a patchwork city, that had been added onto bit by bit with no foresight in the planning.

  “Are those parks on top of the city blocks?” Oliver asked. The tops of the buildings were lined with trees, and small waterfalls were cascading down off the side of them, back into the canals. The streets were wide and tree lined, and the large wheeled vehicles that drove on them produced very little sound.

  “They pump the canal water to irrigate those gardens,” Targon explained. “Up there is where the city’s inhabitants spend most of their time. It’s really quite something.”

  “It is so in tune with nature,” Oliver remarked. “Even where I’m from, there is nothing like this.” He looked at Shael, waiting for her usual retort.

  “It’s nice,” Shael agreed.

  None of the usual ‘Your Highness,’ and her fiery outbursts were not forthcoming. Shael hadn’t said much on the walk in. She seemed a lot more subdued, and thoughtful since they had landed. This time Oliver wasn’t the cause of her solemn disposition, it was something else that was bothering her.

  Five hundred years was an extraordinarily long time. Had the Sharaq Palace really survived? From what Oliver gathered during their conversations, there had been at least two world-changing wars since the unification. One of which, the conqueror, Skalet, had used the palace as his home base.

  If, and that was a big if, the palace had somehow survived in its original form, Oliver couldn’t just waltz in and collect his things.

  This was going to be tricky, and he needed Shael on form. She was smart, she just sometimes let her emotions take the driver's seat. But that was exactly what endeared Oliver to her. Why was he attracted to those qualities? Probably because they were human and opposite to the cold calculated driver instincts he had inside of him, just waiting to be woken. It was the part of himself he hated.

  Maybe he could coax Shael out of her somber mood. “You haven’t called me ‘Your Highness’ today Shael,” Oliver said. “I will not tolerate such insubordination.”

  “Huh? Oh yeah,” she said distractedly. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but you blend in like an eagle in a sparrows nest here… Your Highness,” she added.

  It was true, Oliver was a head taller than the people here. They wore one-piece tunics of fine linen, with bright blues and yellows. Oliver still wore one of Targon’s brown woolen jerseys and loose pants. There was nothing he could do about that. He just returned the intrigued stares from Sharian onlookers with a courteous smile.

  “The fashion here is far too overstated anyway,” Shael said gruffly, as a group of young women giggled flirtatiously, watching Oliver pass.

  “I think our explorer friend is the attention hog here,” Eorol said, smiling. “Eh, Oliver?”

  “Slow down for an old man, Shael,” Targon said puffing, trying to catch Shael, who seemed rather irked by the whole conversation and was marching briskly ahead.

  At least she wasn’t so sullen anymore. This was the headstrong woman Oliver was familiar with, and the Shael who would be more effective.

  In an unfamiliar world, Oliver was suddenly greeted by a familiar sight. They had been making their way through the city toward the river, and as he rounded the bend, in robust defiance to the decay of time, stood the Sharaq palace.

  It was indeed the same building. The stone walls, the parapets, it was the palace. Despite the large signs advertising upcoming plays, flags, and building additions where several offices had been added near the entrance way, it was unmistakable.

  The fortress had already stood long before Oliver had landed on this planet. How old was it really? The current inhabitants of this city weren’t even aware that it dated back to the unification. They thought it was a relic of the second epoch. Admittedly, it was a miracle that the structure had survived with the change that had taken place in the city. The cities location, on the far east of the Arakanian continent, had allowed it to escape the ravages that war can have on infrastructure.

  “Oh look, Your Highness!” Shael said, pointing to a large sign outside the ticketing office. “You’ll love this story.” She rolled her eyes at Targon.

  “Oh yes, yes,” Targon chuckled. “A contemporary take on the Hamilien play. I saw Forbidden Love many years ago in Naharain.”

  The sign read, Forbidden Love - The tale of how a highland warrior stole a queen’s heart. So, they were making plays about him it seemed. As Oliver pondered the title, he felt the pain of Verity’s absence weigh on his heart. He had kept himself suitably distracted the last couple of weeks, and the emotion threatened to overwhelm him.

  I wonder how much the events have been distorted over time? he thought to himself. Does this play even resemble any events that happened?

  “Hey, Oliver!” Shael had her hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed. “Everything okay?” she repeated. “You kind of phased out there for a bit.”

  “I’m okay thanks, Shael, I was just distracted for a moment.”

  “You sure? It’s been a crazy time for you over the past weeks, I forget that sometimes.”

  “We need to get inside, and into the rear hall,” Oliver said, trying to change the topic—it was just too painful to go there. “It’s the largest room in the palace. Used for audiences with the king,” he looked at Shael, “of Sharaq.” He added with a smile.

  “That is the main theatre hall my boy,” Targon said. “Marvelous room, as I recall. Not over the top, like the Naharainee town hall, with opulent architraves, but in keeping with the early second epoch.”

  “Are you telling us that you’ve left your things in the theatre hall, Oliver?” Shael asked. “Do the proprietors know about this?”

  “No, they will not be aware.”

  “Okay, I am getting a distinctly bad feeling about this.” She put her hands on her hips and refused to go any further toward the building. “Are we about to do something illegal? Targon, I don’t like this.”

  “No no, my dear. Don’t be silly,” Targon said, making his way to the ticket office. “We simply ask if we can see the theatre.”

  Behind the window sat a man in the light blue robe. He watched Oliver with a raised eyebrow, as the group approached.

  “My friends and I would like to see inside the theatre,” Targon said affably.

  “Eighty groties, if it’s all four of you,” said the ticket officer, still watching Oliver suspiciously. “Showing is tonight at thirty past second eclipse.”

  “We don’t wish to see the play, simply a short tour of the theatre. We are only in town today, you see.”

  “Theatre is closed to the public during the day,” he sighed. “The doors open at second eclipse…”

  Oliver had heard enough. He started walking through the narrow entrance.

  “Hey! What’s he doing?” The ticket officer said, standing out of his chair. “He can’t just waltz in here,” he started talking into his wrist coms. To call security undoubtedly. That was fine by Oliver, he needed to get into the castle, security or not.

  “Hey, mister.” Shael grabbed Oliver’s arm, stopping him. “Don’t go crazy on us again. We’ll do it properly this time. Otherwise we’ll have the zewka and the Shar police to deal with.” She turned to the panicked ticket officer. “Sorry, my friend’s foreign. We’ll take four tickets to Forbidden Love tonight.”

  8

  SHAR

  “Have you never seen a grown man wearing wool before?” Shael admonished a young Sharian pair, who were giving Oliver a discerning sideways glance. She had not been in Shar long, but she decided she didn’t like it. Too much pretence. The Sharians and their judgy looks. The ticket officer had made it abundantly clear that Oliver would not be admitted inside without formal evening robes. They didn’t know who Oliver was! Okay, yes he was crazy, but he had a good heart. He was patient with Targon, and he stood up for the man in
the train when he saw an injustice being done. He may not be an actual king, but at least acted like it, in the ways that counted.

  That was the thing about the Naharain capital that wasn’t immediately evident, it might look like a scruffy, hodgepodge, city to an outsider, and not have the fancy waterfalls on every apartment block, but the Naharainees judged you for your character, and not the way you dressed. Despite how comfortable those robes looked, Shael was glad that Oliver was not dressed like them.

  Oliver just smiled at them, and somehow that was more frustrating. Why was he not offended? His smile was that genuine, kindly smile, that said ‘I forgive you for your ignorance.’ Ah yes, the grandeur delusions will do that, she thought to herself. It has its upside, I suppose…

  To be fair, Oliver was at least a head taller than most people, which made him stick out like a zewka at a party. Maybe the clothes wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Her brain was over analyzing things as per usual.

  Why was it, this tranquil city made her feel so uptight? Everybody talking in subdued tones. She wanted to stand on a table and sing, shout, and knock some life into these boring farts.

  They were passing a garden beside a canal, with some tables under trees. People were talking pleasantly, and being served a bright red drink, in tall, thin glasses.

  “I need a drink,” Shael declared, taking Oliver and Targon by the hand and leading them to the garden. “Come on, Eorol!”

  “Ah ha. So this is how these Sharians get lively,” Shael hiccuped. The red beverage was surprisingly strong, and she was only on her second drink. “You know, Your Majesty, you should really drink up, none of your loyal subjects will judge you here.”

  Oliver was sipping his drink slowly. He seemed preoccupied, but he laughed at her jibe. His comprehension of the Naharainee language appeared to be improving at a remarkable rate.

  “You know what your mistake was, Oliver?” Shael said, patting his hand patronizingly. “You chose the wrong historical character to impersonate. Let’s put aside the five-hundred-year-old aspect for a moment. I can tell you that some historical figures are statically more likely to have done the things they claimed than others. You see, there were many to choose from: Skalet from the first epoch, or captain Tiran with his Etolian fleets in the second epoch, the zewka families. No, you had to choose the most fanciful historic character you could think of. And, I’ll admit you’ve certainly done your research. But you see, we are scientists,” she said indicating to Targon. Eorol was already on his third drink and looked thoroughly amused by the whole situation. “Well, Targon and I at least,” she added. “So Oliver, as a scientist, I can say that King Oliver is the most unlikely historical figure to have done the things purported. Right Targon?”

  “You’re telling the story Shael,” Targon winked at Oliver and took a sip of his water. “So far Oliver has only proven his case. As scientists, the onus is on us to provide evidence to the contrary, is it not?” he chuckled.

  “I told you not to encourage him,” she said gruffly. “And Targon, you know full well the onus is clearly on the person making the claims. Anyway, Oliver, where was I?” Ponsy’s hammer! This red drink had a kick to it, was she slurring her speech? “Yes, as I was saying, King Oliver always claimed to have come from over the mountains, which we now know have the great deserts on the other side. An impossibility five hundred years ago. And there is still no evidence of any civilizations there that we have discovered.”

  “Yes,” Oliver replied, “that was a lie we told the Highlanders at the time, to explain our appearance. I actually come from a different planet, and was brought here against my will.”

  “How can you say such things and remain so deadpan?” she laughed. “You’re creative, I’ll give you that. But I do agree that you are from a different planet. I think you are living on a different planet right now.”

  Eorol laughed, and almost toppled off his chair, spilling his drink. He indicated to one of the Sharian waiters with his empty glass for a refill.

  “Okay,” Shael continued. “Let’s explore how far you’ve thought out your story. So how do you explain the superhuman things King Oliver is said to have done? Are people from your world superhumans?”

  “What claims?” Oliver asked. “I am human like you and Targon.”

  “Making thunder from his spear,” Shael said, “moving quicker than the eye can see, being a technically minded genius. The poems make all manner of outrageous claims. It’s human nature, people need legends. We create these fictions. The older the story, the more exaggerated it becomes over time. After the epochal wars, knowledge was lost, and the older stories were inflated to become legends. This is what happens when stories are passed down orally, and not written.”

  “Well I’m sure there are exaggerations,” Oliver agreed, “but thunder from the spear? I can’t say I can confirm that. However, I was preoccupied when fighting so there may have been. But Shael, I was changed by my abductors. What they made me is not something to revere, not something of legend,” Oliver hung his head. “Its something of nightmares. A curse. I still battle with what they did to me.”

  He looked truly remorseful, guilt-ridden even. She had really struck a chord. This story Oliver had created, was it a way to deal with some traumatic event in his past? Okay, she had obviously pushed this a little too far. Maybe it really was a good idea to get professional help for Oliver. He was obviously working through some far deeper issues. Shael emptied her glass in a swig.

  “Its okay,” Oliver continued, “its something I know I can beat, but will always be there inside me, like a hungry animal in a cage.”

  Targon was translating the parts of the sentence that was in Hajir, but Oliver was incorporating more and more Naharainee.

  “So Oliver,” Eorol leaned in, “you’ve been cagey about telling us what we are collecting at the theatre here tonight. You were prepared to pay a high price, I mean offering Shael and Targon their own wasp. Wow,” he whistled. “We are going to find out soon enough, so you can tell us. What are we collecting?”

  Shael watched Oliver study Eorol carefully. He was so cagey about some things, or was it just some people? As long as it resulted in a new Wasp, Shael didn’t really care. But he did seem more trusting of her and Targon than others.

  “Just personal things,” Oliver said sipping his drink, but keeping his eyes on Eorol.

  “No artifacts?” Eorol pushed enthusiastically. “You seem to have knowledge about the ancient world here.”

  Oliver simply nodded. Well, I guess we all have to wait for the answer to that then, Shael thought. Why did she have the feeling it was only Eorol Oliver did not want to tell? Strange, considering he was happy to make up the fanciful story about his origins. Perhaps that was it, one story was fantasy, but what lay in the theatre was real, and that was why he was wary.

  9

  FORBIDDEN LOVE

  “Sweet verity!” Shael laughed at Oliver’s outfit. “You look, well, like a soldier in a Sharian outfit.” He had a closely cropped beard, and the hair on his head had grown out to more than a centimeter. The Sharian men, in contrast, were clean-shaven and kept their long hair immaculately combed. Shael had opted for the Naharainee style, wearing her black hair in many tight buns with long hash-wood pins keeping them in place. It gave her a boyish look. She felt a smug satisfaction to see her small fashion revolt had done its job when she received her own disapproving looks.

  Shael decided that trying to make Oliver fit in here was about as successful as trying to get a hungry Wasa beast to work. And, that silly light blue robe had not been cheap. Targon seemed happy to simply add it to the cost of the trip.

  This had better be a legitimate enterprise, Shael thought to herself, as they stood across from the castle watching the crowds of Sharian socialites thronging at the theatre entrance. The crowds hushed and parted like a human gauntlet, as their curious ensemble filed toward the door. The doorman stared unabashedly at them, and didn’t even glance at the tickets, or of
fer a word of protest when Shael presented them. He simply gawked as they carried on past. Oliver didn’t seem to notice, he was examining the building detail and architraves, completely oblivious to the attention.

  Inside, the crowds were thick, and they were able to blend in better.

  “Shall we find our seats then?” Targon suggested

  “I’m going to get to work,” Oliver said. “Things have changed here, it may take me some time to find the storage room.

  That did not sound like the words of somebody who had been here before, and it did not inspire confidence.

  “Hey, hang on there, Oliver!” Shael bustled her way through the people trying to catch him. Sometimes he was so single-minded, he didn't take a second to think about the others. “I’m coming with you. You can’t even take a five-minute train trip on your own without getting into trouble, and you think I’m going to let you traipse around the theatre on your own? They’ll kick you out in two seconds flat.”

  At that moment a large cymbal rang out, and the concert goers started making their way into the theatre. The crowds around them slowly began to thin.

  “Common you lot,” Shael said to Eorol and Targon, who had come up behind them “If we stay here they’ll start asking questions.” They looked eager, like children on a treasure hunt. Typical!

  “Oliver,” Shael said, “you must know where you need to go here right?”

  “If this is the back of the theatre,” Oliver replied, trying to get his bearings, “then we need to get around toward the back of the stage area. In that direction.” He pointed down a side corridor with a large door at the end. There was a sign on the door. It was too far away to read, but Shael knew it said something like ‘Authorized personnel only!’.

  The ushers were preoccupied with seating people, and the door wasn’t being watched. The four of them sidled quickly along the wide stone floor of the hall. Large, imitation, tapestries hung from the high ceilings, right down to the floor. They were clearly replicas of the era. Anyone with half a brain could tell they were tacky, lazy attempts by the artist to create something that resembled the Skalien Coat of arms.