by Erik A Otto
She was right about him. It didn’t feel fair to hand over the infidels. He did believe their innocence for the most part, and there must be something to their story. But there was no certainty, no indisputable equation, and Timothur Granth didn’t act on impulses. He acted on information. Intermingled with his weighing of the situation was a subtle concern that his attraction to Hella would affect his judgement. As much as he longed for her approval, the people of Belidor and his duty to them mattered more. Countless lives hung in the balance, and he couldn’t let lust or favoritism cloud the picture.
“I believe in my duty to Belidor,” he said finally. “I am honor-bound to follow the Belidoran leadership.”
The Purveyor looked angry. “You worry for your position, General, but this is no time for politics. You must swallow your pride and do what’s right for all of us, or none of us will survive!”
Hella touched the Fringe man’s arm to calm him.
Timothur shook his head solemnly. “I have committed to the Conductor to do my duty for the realm, and that is that.”
Hella looked at him gloomily, pleading with her eyes.
Timothur sighed. “Listen, Hella is right. Although I find your stories difficult to believe, I don’t think you’re traitors. It’s likely some of you have been victims of deception or prejudice. But even if I did believe you, what would we do? Try to take the Old Keep by ourselves? You’ve heard the result of my conversation with the Conductor. They won’t let me garrison the keep. I doubt they would even let me enter again.”
Hella chimed in, “Of course, if you chose to act, we have some ideas. The situation is dire but not hopeless…”
Hella and the Purveyor went on to explain their ideas for trying to stop the Cenarans, but Timothur stopped listening. His last comment about not knowing what to do was mostly a feint, an attempt to try to end the conversation. The answer to that question was, in the end, immaterial. No, it didn’t matter what the ideas for stopping the Cenarans were, for the fundamental question hadn’t been answered.
Did he believe the Cenarans were coming?
They had already presented their cases. What they were saying had no more import. So Timothur shut out their ideas, stopped pacing, and sat in his chair, his hands running through his hair, trying to make sense of it all.
But he couldn’t concentrate.
And then he said, “Enough.”
He had interrupted the Purveyor. “Pardon me, General, but—”
Timothur put his hand up. “Enough. This is folly. Only one question remains and only one man to answer it. Begone.”
“But General, we must—”
“Begone!” Timothur yelled. Then he looked to the guards, whom he hadn’t even noticed until now. “Guards, take them away.”
Gradually, as he rubbed his head, Hella, the Fringe man, and the Imbecile were escorted out. He didn’t look at them as they left. He couldn’t bear to catch their eyes, especially Hella’s.
“Do you need—” one of the guards began to ask.
Timothur interrupted, “No. Thank you. I need privacy. Out.”
Then he sat there, tearing at his hair.
When he’d come back from the keep, he had made his decision. But now, with the arrival of this Fringe Purveyor and the High Commander on her way, and with all the infidels’ relentless arguments, Timothur was divided again. Even with signs of conspiracy everywhere, even with omens of imminent war, how could one side with infidels, madmen, and naustic heathens? How could one subscribe to their story if it meant becoming one of them?
He stood up and paced again, knowing his subordinates awaited his orders, knowing the Conductor expected the infidels to be delivered to the monks on the morrow, and knowing that the Great Defender would soon relieve him of duty or declare him a mutineer. Meanwhile, if the Cenarans were coming for the keep on the first day of the Internecion, they had only three days to prepare.
Another hour expired, and still he paced. He paced with his brother’s killer and his consorts as guests in his camp. He paced with two hundred armed heathens hovering nearby.
Would he be casting an entire brigade to their doom over the words of these infidels? Is this what would be written into the Book of Canons about Timothur Granth? Would he be the weak-minded mutineer who was swayed by heathens and traitors, swayed by an imbecile who was his own brother’s killer? Would he be the first of a long line of Granths to sully the Granth name?
It plagued him, and plagued him, and plagued him.
Much later, as he paced a trough into the floor of the tent, he was visited by one more unexpected guest.
After a faint rapping on the tent, he exited to see a man hovering in the dark. At first Timothur didn’t recognize him. The man wore layers of rags and was missing the ends of several fingers under bandaged hands. His face was harsh-looking and reddish, with pock marks in places. Then a silhouette seemed to coalesce behind him. Timothur thought it was an apparition at first, but then it moved its massive wings in the darkness, pulsing Timothur and his tent with sweeping sheets of wind and shadow.
Chapter 14
The Purveyor
The cube of composite Brickstone was a heavy burden for the horse. It teetered precariously back and forth on its rounded back, despite the layers of leather Paulo had added to support it. The horse often stopped and complained, thrashing its head about and dancing in place. If the horse reared and threw the Brickstone off it could ruin everything, so he kept reassuring the animal by caressing its mane gently.
He rode solo over the promontory, the rise above the bog and the lower plain, the drawbridge, and finally to the checkpost before the gate. The main stream of guests for the festival had already arrived, but a few other well-adorned carriages and their trains were still making their way across the plain in the morning. He had planned his approach to avoid these visitors.
The guard at the checkpost had a pudgy countenance with deep-set brown eyes. His eyes were also glazed, perhaps bored with the monotony of processing all the festival guests. He didn’t look at Paulo closely but rather focused on his crest, comparing it to a scroll covered with markings next to a list of crests, expecting to find it there. After perusing the list for some time, the guard finally asked, “By the grace of Matteo, forgive my profound ignorance. Which house did you say you belonged to?”
The guard’s self-flagellating talk set Paulo back somewhat, but he recovered quickly. “I’m not of the great houses, nor should I be on your list for the festival. My house is Wutting, and I’m the newly appointed Apostle of Woodglen in southern Thelonia. I come to give tidings and pay homage. I also have a new invention from the tradesmiths in Woodglen, which, by Matteo’s divinity, I wish to gift in tribute to our most venerable Sandaliers.” Paulo’s heart beat faster as he spoke. It came out exactly as he’d rehearsed it, but feigning religious devotion wasn’t his domain. He wondered if this was what Nevena felt like when she had twisted the council against him.
The guard wasn’t able to hide his annoyance. He said, “My apologies are boundless, sir, but I must check with the venerable and return shortly.” Then he left, walking under the main gate to the courtyard on the other side.
Paulo stayed seated on his horse and waited. Two other guards were on duty. They watched him with blank looks. Paulo tried to avoid their eyes, gazing instead at the Old Keep. He scanned over the myriad arrow slits and the looming Matar-bone spikes marking the base of the raised front gate. Looking up, he could see a main corridor of defenders above the gate. He counted five guards there presently, with space for forty or fifty.
He’d been to the Old Keep once before. It was a long time ago, as an orphan, before he became naustic and before he became Fringe. He was still a carpenter’s apprentice, and his carpenter master was aiding in a restoration effort. The keep hadn’t awed him as it did so many others, but he recalled the well-known blocky shape with the jutting Matagon Spire and the mural of the Shepherd’s travel. His fondest memory was of learning about how to c
ut and place Matar bone over wood and what its strengths and limitations were as a building material.
The Sandalier who came to the checkpost was portly and red in the face. He walked quickly, looking rushed. He examined Paulo head to feet when he arrived, then grabbed the list from one of the guards who remained. “We weren’t informed of a new Apostle in Woodglen,” the Sandalier said. “What happened to Locke?”
“Locke has passed. I mean…he is in Matteo’s embrace, venerable one. It was a ghastly sickness that took him quickly in the night, not more than a week ago. I was his apprentice and wanted to be first to convey the news, here, in person. If I should be judged unfit for the position, I shall demure solemnly.” Paulo bowed with eyes closed.
When he opened his eyes, the Sandalier was looking at the guard’s notes again. He said, “We have no space, Wutting. The Festival of the Crossing commences tomorrow, and we have too many nobles to put up. You will have to come back another time. I suggest a week hence.” The Sandalier gave the list back to the guard.
Paulo said, “Venerable one, this is not the only reason I’ve come. I also have something of interest for the Sandaliers. Our craft smiths, under the guidance of the Apostle and other faithfuls of Woodglen, have devised this new material for building.” Paulo turned his horse and showed the Sandalier the Brickstone cube behind him.
The Sandalier walked over to the back of his horse and touched the cube, frowning.
“And what is this?”
“We call it Brickstone, sir. It’s made from clay and from fire. We have built our new temple in Woodglen out of this material. Many come from distant villages to see the building and partake in séances.” Paulo pulled out the drawing of the temple he’d made in the middle of the night. It was a copy of one of the smaller municipal buildings in Spoons. Compared to most temples it would look impressive enough.
Paulo could see the man was considering the notion.
What was the Canon again? He knew the Book of Canons well in concept, as any learned man must, but not like the Sandaliers and apprentices who had to memorize it word for word. He tried to remember the passage he’d perused in the small hours. “We…feel it’s best shared outside of our humble village, venerable one. The Canon of Proliferation states that a plurality of notes and instruments orchestrates the divine symphony of Matteo, while a singular voice is heard by the great ear as belligerent noise.”
The man looked at him, eyebrow raised, and nodded. “Yes, Wutting, but in the Canon of Virtue it is said that patience is compartment to all virtue, for undue haste leads to undisciplined decision. Why not come back after the festival? In this case, your voice will be difficult to hear among the voices of so many others.”
Paulo guessed this Sandalier had to use that phrase to turn away quite a number of visitors already. But Paulo couldn’t be turned away like the others. He must gain entry. “Thank you, venerable one. Matteo’s grace is with you. However, I’d hoped it would be of interest not only in tribute but for the festival as well. I could set up a table with the Brickstone, provide an explanation of the role of prayer in its formation, and put up the drawing of our temple. The festival provides the perfect forum to promote not only our glorious past but also what comes through divine innovation. In fact, we in Woodglen feel this is a strong signpost of the industrial nature of Matteo’s servants—of those who aren’t of heathen origin.”
Paulo hoped the allusion to the Fringe would be important, despite the irony of it coming from his own mouth. The Sandaliers hated Belidor’s dependency on the Fringe. Any signs of ingenuity from anyone else would do well to diminish the notion of backwardness of the common folk and clergy.
Paulo’s perseverance looked to be paying off. After some internal calculation, the Sandalier seemed to warm to the idea. “I suppose this is interesting, Wutting. Perhaps we can find a small space for you. For the time being you may enter and set up your display so that the most venerable can see it. The Conductor will be the final judge as his eyes better reflect Matteo’s preference. Come, follow me.”
And the Sandalier turned around.
Paulo’s pulse slowed. He had passed the first hurdle.
Paulo was given a small table, far removed from the main procession. He avoided conversation as best he could, with his eyes and hands focused on preparatory tasks. It was possible, however unlikely, that one of the apprentices or Sandaliers working on the other stalls were from Woodglen. The Apostle Locke wouldn’t come so far for a Festival of the Crossing, so Paulo didn’t worry about that. The problem was that Wutting wasn’t real, and there could be someone who knew the actual Apostle’s apprentice, whomever that was.
He set the Brickstone cube front and center and fixed the drawing of the temple on the wall with some puddy. Then he proceeded to write the fictitious story of how it was created in Woodglen on a leaf of parchment. He added as much prayer and divine inspiration to the tale as he thought would be fitting. After standing back and looking it over, he decided it was too wordy, so he added a graphic, in color, of the invention process. It was mostly cosmetic and wouldn’t do for proper instruction, but that wasn’t the intent here. The process he depicted didn’t start with the excavation of clay, for example, but rather bloodletting and prayer. He spent a good two hours on it, and people paid him little attention. Finally, he reckoned it was good enough, so he finished up.
But it mattered not what a Fringe from Niknak thought. It mattered only what the Conductor thought.
The hour grew late, and twilight was taking hold. There was no sign of the Sandalier who had greeted him at the gate, nor the Conductor.
For the first time, Paulo paid attention to the people mulling about. Their passion and poise were evident in their creations, and he could even see some likeness to himself in them. Their attention to detail and work ethic were to be admired, even if he didn’t agree with their beliefs.
Were any of these traitors? Which one of these might render the keep defenseless? Paulo guessed few, if any, in the courtyard would be involved. The majority of these were apprentices and lower-level Sandaliers, without much influence on anything other than menial tasks and creating dioramas.
No, if Paulo were Cenaran, he wouldn’t use these folk as a malicious tool. He would only blackmail people in positions of power to limit the risk of exposure. Perhaps he would try to convert someone in the garrison and at least one of the Sandaliers. He might also target any number of nobles who held sway with the Sandaliers, someone who would be granted access and favor when visiting the keep.
There were a few nobles about. They would stop by on occasion, sneaking a peak at the preparations, but for the most part, he saw little sign of them. They most likely kept to the dining halls or their chambers, awaiting the formal commencement of the festival on the morrow.
Finally Paulo noticed some commotion. The apprentices and Sandaliers rushed to stand next to their stations. The Conductor strolled through the courtyard, trailed by four Sandaliers, including the one who had met Paulo at the gate. Paulo watched as the Conductor smiled and shook hands with the stall managers, inspecting the fruits of their labors. There were many blind bows.
Paulo was one of the last in line. He tried to calm his nerves by diverting his thoughts to what lay ahead. He dared not contemplate what would happen if he was told to leave.
The Conductor and his following reached Paulo. The Sandalier from the gate introduced him. “This is Apostle Wutting of Woodglen, venerable one. He has come with a story of ingenuity and divine inspiration. This Brickstone was developed as a new building material, and it has drawn many followers to their temple. It is an example of our living up to the Shepherd’s pioneer vision.”
Paulo bowed low with his eyes closed. When he opened them, he saw that the Conductor was scanning the writing, pictures, and graphics.
“Apostle Wutting? What of Locke?” he asked while scanning.
“I…apologies, venerable one. Locke has been embraced by Matteo. I have humbly come in his stead,
” Paulo said.
“No apologies necessary, Wutting, but sad tidings about Locke. I’m sure he is with Matteo.” The Conductor continued to dissect the presentation with his eyes. “Your story looks to be a powerful exemplary of the Canons—thank you. I look forward to reviewing it further at the festival.” He glanced at Paulo and gave him a quick nod and smile. Then he was swept away as quickly as he’d arrived.
The Conductor must have been on a tight schedule, and for that Paulo was glad. The less analysis of his presentation, the better. It reduced the chance of him being caught in some unknown blasphemy.
The portly Sandalier came back to Paulo a few minutes later. He looked pleased with himself. “Thank you, Wutting. You may stay the night. Please do not change your display now that it has been blessed by the most venerable. I will send an apprentice for you.” He bowed and left.
The second hurdle had been passed.
Paulo waited a few more minutes. Eventually a bookish-looking young woman came to him, bowing. “Good evening, Apostle. I am third-level apprentice Tashan. I have been assigned to assist you.”
Paulo threw his pack on his back and lifted the Brickstone cube from the table. The girl frowned at that. “Don’t worry, apprentice. I will bring it back in the morning,” Paulo explained. “The Brickstone must be cleaned for the presentation.”