“Honestly, Captain Callan, I don’t begin to understand what any of this has to do with me.” Tataya looked at the scene with moderate interest, but obviously felt none of his desperation. In fact she barely seemed to care at all about what was happening.
“I thought you might be able to help me clear up this mess.” He tried not to sound as desperate as he felt.
“You are a captain who was delivering cargo. You were wise enough to report suspicious activity. If all of your papers are in order you have nothing to concern yourself over.”
“Yes, well, it’s the papers, you see…”
“Are they not in order?” She looked at him with cold eyes. There was a challenge there and he knew it. She wanted him to defend himself properly before she would defend him to the man who had a dozen City Guard scrambling to obey him.
“Well, strictly speaking, I didn’t actually have any cargo.”
“Then lie.”
“Excuse me?”
“Lie. You had no cargo. You were merely here looking for more work. You called on me because of past connections. I will not lie for you, Captain, but I will not expose your lie, either.” She looked away from him and toward the Inquisitor on the docks.
“What’s his name?”
“The Inquisitor?”
“Yes. Him.” Callan swallowed though there was no moisture in his mouth or throat.
“That is Darsken Murdro. He is the third highest ranking Inquisitor in the city.”
“Only third?”
Tataya smiled. “That means he’s hungry. He would very much like to be the second Inquisitor. If he can manage that task, he will be in line to assume the head title in only a few years.”
“Ah.”
“Indeed. You should be extremely careful if you lie to him. He has been known to be very imaginative if he thinks someone is lying to him.”
“‘Imaginative?’”
“Oh yes. He can’t actually torture you, of course. That luxury is denied him. But he can mete out punishments that are rather substantial.”
Callan tried to decide if the redhead was toying with him. He could never quite tell if she was bluffing.
“Like what?”
“Well, he can decide where you will spend your time while he’s waiting for a truthful answer from you.”
“Where I’ll spend my time? That hardly seems… Wait… As in where I actually get to wait? Can you offer examples?”
“Strapped to a post in the military barracks.”
“A post?”
“The soldiers always need targets.”
“Ah.”
Tataya leaned against the railing of the ship and stared at the Inquisitor. “And here he comes. Prepare your words carefully, Captain Callan.”
Nine
The refugees came, just as Merros had predicted. Well, Merros and nearly everyone else she had spoken to. As the Empress, Nachia did her best to make certain that they were taken care of.
There were a great number of landowners in the city, and many of them were outraged at the notion of having strangers coming into Canhoon and taking up residence.
The innkeepers and the owners of apartments, however, didn’t seem to have as much trouble with the idea. They seemed quite pleased by the notion of increasing their prices.
Some things, she felt, you simply could not do anything about.
Adding to the interesting aspects of the situation was a large coalition of landowners who were currently arguing among themselves while she watched. They did not know she was watching, of course. She was hidden away in one of Desh’s secret areas. She could see them but they could not see her. They also couldn’t see the sorcerer, who was standing beside her.
“Why exactly are they fighting?” she asked him.
“Some of them think it’s inappropriate to charge newcomers more money than they would normally charge and others are determined to see the prices increased throughout the city.” Desh crossed his arms and shook his head. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, of course, but never on this scale.”
“The ones who argue for keeping the prices the same, who are they?”
“Followers of Etrilla and Luhnsh, apparently. The priests have been busy trying to remind people that the gods are there and will help those who are good to their fellows.” Desh frowned. “Which reminds me, Majesty. We are now receiving rumors from the east about a rather large gathering of the faithful led by a man called the Pilgrim. It seems he’s gathering quite a following from the far east and heading in this direction.”
“How far east?”
“Elda, Danaher and even Morwhen.”
Nachia nodded her head. Morwhen was so far away that she had never been allowed to visit the place. Apparently barbarians ran the area, or at least they had in the past. It was hard to keep up with the areas of the Empire that were so very distant.
“Do you think these people are friends or foes, Desh?”
In the room they were looking into, a dark-haired woman raised her voice and stood up, causing several of those around her to look at her as if she had lost her mind. She pointed first at one of the men and then at another, a round-bellied man who had tried on several occasions to get the property taxes lowered, and who usually claimed that he was near poverty. For a desperate man he wore a great deal of finery.
“She looks familiar. Who is she?”
“That is the woman Merros is spending his time with. The widow of Wollis March. Dretta, I believe, is the name. You met her son and sent him off to the Mounds.”
“No, no. You sent him to the Mounds. I merely approved your decision.” She would not let the old fool rewrite the truth on her. That had been the folly of her cousin and not one she intended to mirror.
“Semantics.” He waved a dismissive hand. “In any event, she was wise enough to buy up a few pieces of land before the worst started. She is likely going to make a good deal of coin in the coming months.”
Nachia frowned. “What side does she argue for?”
“Leaving prices as they are and helping out the newcomers.”
“Well. Then I suppose I like her.”
“Why wouldn’t you like her, Majesty?” Desh did not turn and look at her, but his eyes left the increasing agitation of the crowd on the other side of their hideaway. “Are you planning to choose the general’s next romantic partner?”
“Hardly.” She felt herself blush a bit and looked away, but she also saw the smile on Desh’s face. He knew.
“Speaking of romantic partners, we still have to consider the viable candidates for you.”
“Absolutely not. There is a war on and I have no time for looking at possible mates.”
Desh said nothing to that and she continued looking away. “What will we do about this ‘Pilgrim’ and his followers?”
“We need to have a proper discussion with the church leaders. I know how little you want to risk their wrath, but we have to, and as much as I like Merros Dulver, I don’t believe he’s the right person to gather the elders together.”
“Then perhaps you could?”
“At least half of the churches look at sorcery as an affront to their gods,” Desh pointed out. “I should rather not risk being tortured or worse in the name of any deities.”
“Well, then I suppose that leaves me.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
Nachia sighed. “I will require the presence of my First Advisor.”
“Naturally.”
“Does the general’s concubine have any preferred deities that we know of?”
“By all the gods, Nachia. I don’t even believe they have that sort of relationship.”
Nachia smiled. That question had successfully been answered.
She didn’t know exactly why it was important that she know the details of Merros’s love life, but she most definitely wanted to know.
He was a tall man, broad of shoulder and lean of waist. He walked with the confidence of a well-trained warrior, but he d
id not strut as so many did when they felt invincible. He had seen too much in his time and now he would see more.
There were gods to meet with and this was the place where he was most likely to find them. This was where the temples to the gods rose highest and where the greatest numbers of followers could be found.
He was a Pilgrim and his quest was a holy one.
He had much to discuss with the gods and time was growing short. He had to return to Canhoon as soon as he could if he were to help the gods with their sacred task.
Eyes that had seen the Empire before it was old looked upon the city of Goltha with an odd blend of pity and contempt.
They did not know. They could not know. The people ahead of him had been raised in ignorance. He intended to refresh their memories, though there was no reason to think they would thank him for the education.
The Pilgrim looked out across the valley ahead and frowned. He and his followers had a great deal of traveling to do yet, and he had not gathered enough of the faithful to take care of his appointed task.
Well to the east of the Blasted Lands, in an area of Fellein that had never once tasted the ashes of the ruined territory, several towns and cities gathered along the shores of the Empire’s largest fresh water lake, Gerhaim.
Lake Gerhaim was spoken of many times by poets and scholars alike. Spanning an area large enough that the earliest settlers thought they had found a sea, the body of water had gathered thousands of people to its shores and in time those thousands had spread, building towns and finally cities.
The largest of those cities was Goltha, a place built largely from stone and fortified by walls that were legendary in their strength. Over the years Goltha had been attacked numerous times and repelled all comers.
In time the city of Goltha became the country of Goltha, and in turn that country became a part of the Fellein Empire. Goltha grew larger both as a city and as a country when the Empire came along. It was in Goltha, a city nearly at the center of the Empire, that the highest buildings had been raised. It was in Goltha that, according to the most common wisdom, all roads in the Empire met.
Goltha lay ahead of him and offered possibilities.
Behind him the faithful were moving on, heading toward Canhoon. He did not doubt that they would reach the city without him. They understood how important what they did was, and he had faith.
He had to have faith.
The sky ahead was dark with storm clouds.
“Sarmin.”
The woman he called for moved to his side. She had been with him since he’d killed the men who were planning on harming her. Not because she had anything they needed, but simply because they were bored. He had followed a trail of bodies and come across them as they were attacking her farmhouse. Her husband was also alive as a result of his actions, but he was further back, hindered by the damage done to his leg.
Sarmin was strong in body and in faith. She was a devout follower of Plith and insisted that the Pilgrim’s arrival was the answer to her prayers. So far he had not been able to dissuade her of that notion.
He had not tried very hard. The faithful were necessary.
“Keep them on track, please. I go to Goltha now. I believe we can finally gather enough of the faithful there. Time is short.”
“We could go with you. We could show them the way.”
“No. They must come willingly and they must not be intimidated into this. Had I come to you with four hundred people behind me, what would you have said?”
Sarmin looked down. “I’d have likely run away.”
“The same is true anywhere. Strength in numbers is not the same as strength in faith.”
“I will strive to keep the faithful on the right path.” She lowered her head.
“Lemblo, Powl and Longrid should be able to help you in this.” He paused for a moment. “Sarmin, I am grateful for all that you do.”
“We all live to serve the gods.” She looked at him with an uncomfortable level of affection and then moved away.
The first blade came from his left, carried by a boy no older than ten if he had to guess. The second came from behind and that was the one meant to kill him. The boy was only a distraction.
His left hand reached out quickly and slapped the young arm that carried the dagger. The boy let out a squawk of surprise and pain as a bone in his forearm snapped. He fell to the ground quickly, the pain from the damage likely larger than anything he’d ever felt in his life before.
The sword was a different matter entirely.
The Pilgrim ducked and allowed himself to fall to the ground in the alleyway. The man had him. If he had not dodged aside, the blade would have cut deep and very likely killed him.
Though his assailant was taken by surprise by the maneuver, the advantage would not last long. His leg kicked out, striking the man in the knee. Something deep in the tissue of the man’s leg cracked and he screamed, falling back, trying to keep his balance on a knee that no longer supported his weight.
The Pilgrim pushed himself into a standing position and drew his short sword from the worn scabbard.
“No! Wait! Please!” The man hopped backward on his one good leg, one hand out to ward off any blows, the other trying to hold his sword and support his injured leg at the same time.
The Pilgrim’s sword cleaved through the mugger’s jaw and throat with one swing. Satisfied that the man was dying and could no longer harm him he turned back to the boy.
On the ground now, lying in a puddle of muck, the lad looked his way with wide, terrified eyes.
“Is this how the people of Goltha welcome strangers?” The Pilgrim’s voice was not tempered with kindness.
He had travelled far to the east of the Blasted Lands, to an area of Fellein that had never once tasted the ashes of the ruined territory. That had been a very long time ago, and now he was headed back to the west and places he had once sworn he would never see again. The gods had different plans for him.
“Get up, boy. I have places to go, and you will take me to them.”
Though he whimpered as he rose, the boy did, indeed, stand. The Pilgrim was not the sort a smart boy disobeyed. Broken and scared, the boy knew enough to listen.
“I need you to take me to the Tower of Etrilla. Do this, and quickly, and I shall forgive your transgression.”
The words seemed a bit of a struggle for the boy, but he nodded just the same. A moment later the lad was moving, holding his arm and whimpering as he moved through the streets. If there were any others with the boy, they chose not to come to his aid.
They moved down what seemed a nearly endless run of sidestreets and alleyways, until the Pilgrim began to wonder if his guide was trying to prepare another assault of some kind. He was considering asking exactly that when the boy stopped moving and pointed with his uninjured arm toward the vast marble structure ahead.
It was not a tower, really, but the building was tall enough to be impressive. Etrilla was the God of the Cities and as such most of the monuments to his glory were like fingers pointing toward the sky. There had likely been a time when the temple had been the largest structure around, but it had been overshadowed by others as time went on.
Seventy feet in height, the Tower of Etrilla was festooned with the images of hundreds of faces, each different and likely sculpted in the likeness of a person living back when the entire structure was being finished. Each visage wore an expression as unique as the people they were modeled after, and though there was truly no time for such luxuries, the Pilgrim spent a few minutes absorbing the details. Few of the manmade structures he had seen this far east were as breathtaking.
The boy did not wait around. As soon as the Pilgrim lost himself in staring his guide slipped away into the stream of people moving through the great city.
That was just as well. He had served the Pilgrim’s needs and was no longer of any significance.
The Pilgrim entered the greatest of the temples in the city and strode with purpose through the mar
ble hallway leading to the center of the structure. As with the exterior of the temple, the interior was filled with endless likenesses of people both common and extraordinary.
At the very center was a large table carved from a dark wood that had been polished meticulously. Sculpted into the center of the table was a likeness of Etrilla, a stout figure with arms heavy from years of labor, carrying a massive block upon one shoulder. Unlike many of the images of gods, Etrilla remained unchanged.
Four stood before the table, though there was certainly room for many more. There were no benches or chairs within the structure: Etrilla believed that work came before rest and offering places for the latter did not inspire the former.
The people all wore robes. That had changed. Etrilla was a laborer. Robes were not designed to aid in strenuous efforts.
The gathering smiled their welcome – though the oldest among them eyed the sword at the Pilgrim’s side.
“Do you seek solace here?” The oldest spoke carefully, his eyes leaving the hilt of the Pilgrim’s sword reluctantly.
When he spoke, the voice was not his own, but belonged to the being for which the tower had been built. “Do you know me?”
They were devout, the four who stood before the Pilgrim. They knew who spoke to them.
When the Pilgrim spoke, the followers of Etrilla listened.
The Inquisitors were, as a rule, very scary individuals.
Darsken Murdro was one of the scariest. He knew that and used it to his advantage. He was not extraordinary in height, though he was bulkier than most. His skin was the color of dark mahogany and his long hair was coiled into several braids that ran halfway down his back. The people of Louron were much darker than the average person in Canhoon, and that led to a great deal of unease for many of the people he dealt with.
Louron was known for many things and few of those things were considered pleasant in the eyes of most. One of the things the swampy area was best known for was dark sorcery. The other point that attracted most people’s attention – and more so even than the claims of sorcery – was that Inquisitors were trained there to handle their tasks.
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