by Rob Scott
Alen shook his head grimly. ‘There must be something left for me to do.’
‘But it’s been so long – what could come up now?’
‘You, Hannah Sorenson. You and these men you talk about, Steven Taylor and Mark Jenkins. Obviously you have discovered the far portal; I imagine I am still here, in Middle Fork, after all these Twinmoons, because you were coming.’
Hannah shuddered. That could not be. It was too much for her deal with right now. A little frightened, she changed the subject. ‘You must have remarried.’
‘I did. I missed Pikan and Reia so badly that I felt as if I would turn to dust, but I had been touched by the gods once and I wanted it again.’
‘Love like Pikan’s?’
‘Oh no, I knew I would never find that again. No, I wanted children, lots of children.’ He managed a chuckle and his voice rose, lilting, as he said, ‘And I did have children, and they were wonderful.’
‘Jer?’
‘Jer was the last of my grandchildren, the last of eleven grandchildren.’
‘I don’t see how that’s possible.’ Hannah felt her scepticism rise once again.
‘I don’t care what you believe is possible or impossible, Hannah Sorenson. It has happened, and I am alone, and I will go with all haste to whatever end Lessek has chosen for me.’ He placed the empty mug on the floor at his feet. ‘I can only hope this is my chance to destroy Nerak, to look into his eyes as his life ebbs and remind him, one last time to echo through all eternity, that she loved me. She loved only me, never him.’
‘And then you can die?’
‘Killing Nerak will mean my death as well, but that’s fine.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘If at all possible, I will try to send you home first.’
With that, Alen Jasper of Middle Fork rose, nodded pleasantly and strode from the room.
It took five days to work out how they would move against Malagon, and it was a stroke of exceedingly ironic good luck that brought them the answers they needed to the final nagging questions.
Before nightfall that first day, an elderly fisherman appeared at the next-door shack with a pile of nets. He sat outside on the beach, examining them closely, tugging at tiny knots and deftly stitching torn sections together with a length of thin twine and a wooden needle. After a while, Garec took a chance and went over to ask about the shanty they were using. Coins changed hands. The shack was used by a group of brothers who worked a tempine farm in Rona during the winter; they generally returned when the great schools of migrating fish moved north in the spring. A second coin ensured the fisherman’s silence about their presence – he appeared happy, almost amused, to keep silent. As night fell, he loaded and paddled a dilapidated rowboat out beyond the relative protection of the pier. He soon shrank to a point on the slate-grey horizon.
‘Well, that’s a stroke of luck,’ Steven said, ‘unless of course he tells the Malakasians we’re here.’
‘I don’t think he will,’ Mark said. ‘Did you get a look at him? He doesn’t look like he’s doing especially well under Malakasian rule. He probably fishes at night to keep from handing over half his catch to the customs officers.’
‘There are people like him throughout the Eastlands,’ Garec said. ‘The silver I gave him is probably more money than he makes in a Twinmoon. If we have anything to fear, it’s that he comes back with a small army of his own to rob and murder us in our sleep.’
‘Grand,’ Brynne commented dryly. ‘So now we have to keep watch for the Malakasian soldiers and the Falkan fishermen as well.’
Garec laughed for the first time in two days.
At dawn the following morning, Steven watched the old man return, pulling hard on the oars against the outgoing tide. He moored his skiff in shallow water and began lugging boxes of fish up the beach to one of the smokehouses. Steven left the staff leaning against the wall and went down to help; he was rewarded with a huge fish, large enough to feed the four of them for a couple of days.
‘Thank you,’ Steven said graciously, wrestling with the slippery corpse. ‘What kind of fish is it?’ He thought it looked something like a yellowfin tuna.
‘Jemma,’ the old man answered, ‘best you can get. It’s good smoked, or you can cut it into steaks and cook it over your fire.’
‘Jemma,’ Steven echoed. ‘Thank you again.’
‘You are here to kill the prince, right?’ The tanned leathery face looked inquisitively up at Steven. ‘You killed those soldiers on the beach, too, right?’
Steven was speechless.
‘It’s all right,’ he waved a wet hand in a gesture of reassurance, ‘I’ll keep quiet, but you must know the prince cannot be killed here.’
Steven still didn’t know how to react, so he just thanked the man again for the fish. ‘We are grateful,’ he said quietly.
The old man spent most of the day in the smokehouse; the scent filled the air and made Steven nearly insane with hunger. He cut hearty steaks from the thick jemma and cooked them on a flat rock in the fire, the same way Lahp had cooked grettan steaks in the Blackstones.
They revelled in the succulent flavour. ‘We need wine and potatoes with this,’ Mark said through a mouthful of flaky fish.
‘We’ve got some of Gita’s wine left, but I’m afraid we’re fresh out of potatoes.’
‘We’ll have to go into town for those,’ Mark said. ‘And if we went, we could get some tomatoes, maybe some bananas and a whole gallon of chocolate-chip ice cream.’ He lapsed into English for the dessert course.
‘Ice cream?’ Brynne asked.
‘One of the world’s most perfect foods,’ Mark replied, licking his lips at the memory.
‘Let’s go then.’ Garec stood suddenly.
‘What?’ the others echoed in unison.
‘We can’t just walk into town!’
‘Actually, we can,’ Garec assured them. ‘Mark, come on, lose that dreadful red tunic you wear and borrow Brynne’s cloak. We’ve been here too long. We need to get our bearings and move on. Hiding’s doing us no good and eventually someone will come along who can’t be bought.’ He leaned his longbow against the shanty wall. ‘I can’t take that, and you need to leave your weapons. We’re a long way from Estrad Village.’
Mark looked dumbstruck for a moment, then he started pulling his red sweater off. ‘Right, let’s go. Steven, I need some money. I want to get some more of that fennaroot, if I can find any. That’s powerful stuff; it makes caffeine look like baby formula.’
Steven flipped him the pouch of silver pieces they had stolen in Rona.
‘Take just one,’ Brynne suggested, ‘you’ve enough silver there to buy a corner of the city. Carrying too much will make you a target.’
‘Or worse,’ Garec agreed, ‘it’ll bring unwanted company back here.’
Mark donned Brynne’s cloak. ‘Any special requests?’
‘Bread and cheese,’ Steven replied. ‘And maybe some fresh vegetables, something green. We have been pretty bad about our diet recently, my friend.’
‘And bring some— some ice cream,’ Brynne added excitedly. ‘It is not often one gets to try the world’s most perfect food.’
‘If they make it in the city and we can find some, I promise we will.’ Mark kissed her lightly.
‘And see what you can find out,’ Steven ordered. ‘See if that soldier was telling the truth about Malagon and the old Falkan palace. And be careful!’
‘Will do. We’ll be back.’ Mark followed Garec out into the forest behind the southernmost warehouse.
Over the next few days, they each visited the city, although never all together. Steven finally abandoned his tweed jacket and Mark gave up his red sweater. Sharing the two woollen cloaks, they travelled in pairs, shopping for supplies, eating hot food in warm taverns and even bringing back bottles of wine, freshly baked bread and blocks of cheese. Although there was no sign of Sallax, and Brynne remained concerned for her brother, Mark and Steven revelled in the novelty of an Eldarni city.
Their experience in Estrad had been so limited that they’d had no idea such an array of goods and services would be available: tailors and cobblers, breweries and bakeries, butchers and pastry shops lined the narrow streets and the wider, tree-lined avenues. There were tobacconists, craftspeople, leather-workers … whatever they had been expecting, it wasn’t this.
They made dozens of purchases, mostly food and supplies, paraffin candles and wine. Steven enjoyed walking along the wide plank sidewalks that flanked the broad muddy avenues and narrow side streets. He chatted with artisans and merchants, sampled stews and sweets and even tried his hand at a popular gambling game that involved several smooth stones, a scarf and an empty goblet. He tossed the stones onto the multi-coloured kerchief stretched across a flat tabletop and depending on where they fell, his bet was doubled, tripled or forfeited to a gaunt but friendly old woman with a pockmarked face. Having lost three tosses in rapid succession, Steven moved away, despite the encouragement of the elderly woman and the small crowd that had gathered to watch the game.
Mark handed him a piece of wheat bread. ‘How much did you lose?’
‘I don’t know – twenty-five bucks? Twenty-five thousand? I haven’t been able to figure out this system of currency yet. All the coins have Malagon’s ugly pinched snout on them and I can’t tell the difference.’
‘Well, from the crowd you drew, I’m guessing you’re a high roller.’ Mark paused to tear a fruit pastry in half, then said, ‘Maybe you can get us a comp room at the Stardust.’
‘Monopoly money,’ Steven shrugged. ‘You know, I thought it would have been more—’
‘Depressed?’
‘Right.’ He gestured along the busy street. ‘I mean, these people don’t act as though they’re living in the shadow of an occupation army.’
‘Look closer.’ Mark pointed to a group of men unloading lumber from a cart. ‘Look at their shoes, their clothing. Notice how few of them are overweight. They don’t look terrified because they’ve been occupied for five generations; they’re used to it. But these people are not prospering, despite the diversity of shops, goods and services.’ He gnawed thoughtfully on a corner of the pastry. ‘I can’t imagine what the tax rates are. Seventy, maybe eighty per cent? We rarely see this at home because we live in a place where – generally – people help the oppressed, and it doesn’t take five generations for that help to come. So we never see this.’
‘The long-term look of a beaten people?’
‘Exactly. And in those cases where it has occurred, the end result has been tragic.’
Orindale’s architecture reflected the region’s resources: there were a great many wood and stone buildings with wood-shingle roofs and rock and mortar foundations. Steven guessed the stones were quarried somewhere nearby, or perhaps shipped in by the many great merchant vessels moored in the bustling harbour. The waterfront hummed with activity from dawn until well after dark. Although they saw plenty of soldiers, they were never stopped for more than routine questioning. Life in the Falkan capital went on as if no one had noticed – or minded – that they were encircled by an entire army.
One afternoon Garec brought back a crate of Falkan beer and they sat around their small fire eating from the old man’s daily catch and drinking heartily from ceramic bottles.
Swallowing a mouthful of sudsy brew, Mark commented, ‘The one thing I have yet to see is a bookshop. I would love to read some Eldarni history.’
Garec and Brynne both quieted at that.
‘What did I say?’
Steven got it. ‘No books?’
‘Only outlaw copies,’ Garec replied. ‘Ancient books, those that survived the initial razing of all libraries and bookshops nearly a thousand Twinmoons ago.’
‘When Prince Marek took the throne.’
‘That’s right,’ Brynne answered, ‘and closed the universities.’
‘There’s no school?’ Mark was stunned.
‘We all attend school until we’re one hundred Twinmoons old.’
‘Do they have books there?’ Steven asked.
‘Yes, but our history books only cover the period since the five lands of Eldarn were seized and ruled by Prince Marek’s descendants. Even in school we don’t have many books, so many people are illiterate.’
Mark looked glumly out the window and placed his bottle gently on the plank floor. ‘No school. That’s not right.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Brynne agreed. ‘And it’s one of the first things we would change should we win back Rona’s freedom.’ She stopped herself. ‘I suppose now I should say Praga’s freedom too – Eldarn’s freedom.’
‘What about religious leaders?’ Mark asked. ‘Don’t they act as teachers? Do they instruct in reading, writing and basic skills?’
Garec and Brynne exchanged glances before Brynne said, ‘Our temples and sects were all destroyed by Prince Marek. For five generations we have had no organised religion.’
Garec added, ‘We’re told some religion survives in the north; many people worship the gods they believe inhabit the Northern Forest. But our religion is an oral tradition; it always has been. Now most Eldarni people grow up, raise families, grow old and die and never know – or discuss – religion in any way. It’s safer.’
‘Where do your core values develop?’ Steven asked. ‘Are there no institutions that help preserve a system of beliefs or traditions to define them over time?’
‘Some are dictated by the Malakasian prince or princess.’
‘Values can’t be dictated,’ Steven growled. ‘They have to be fostered by – well, by family, the local community, the faith-based organisations, even the government, I suppose.’
‘I don’t know that this is a function of any institution in Eldarn,’ Garec tried to explain, ‘as much as it is the evolution of ideals passed down from the days of the Larion Senate. Our values, traditions and beliefs may change according to the evolving make-up of any group, so one city’s values may change as its populace ages. We’ve grown used to living this way because no one alive now has ever known anything different.’
‘Most people wouldn’t know the benefits of an organised religion,’ Brynne said, ‘because none of us can remember what it was like. That’s why so few religious traditions have survived the occupation.’
‘And as you’ve seen over the Twinmoon you’ve spent with us, war, death, violence, closed-mindedness, hatred and an assortment of other nasty behaviours have permeated our culture and been allowed to flourish here,’ Garec continued on, ‘and I’m a microcosm of that reality. I’m a skilled killer; it’s one of my greatest strengths – and it is the one thing about myself that I deplore, more than anything else.’
‘So why continue to do it?’ Steven tried to work his friend into a corner.
‘Because I must. I am a member of the Resistance – by choice – and however hideous, it’s a necessity.’ He upended the beer bottle and drank deeply. ‘I just hope the right leadership will emerge to help us all heal when this business is through.’
‘I hope so, too,’ Mark added, trying not to sound condescending.
‘I know it must happen all the time, but it seems strange that a world so diverse as Eldarn would have gone so long without a faith – or faiths – impacting and shaping your culture.’ The lack of religious beliefs and values still left Steven a little incredulous.
‘When you don’t know what you’re missing, I suppose you don’t miss anything,’ Brynne said.
Mark’s eyes grew wide and he stood suddenly, spilling his beer in a foamy puddle. ‘Say that again.’
‘What part?’ Brynne asked.
‘What you just said to Steven.’
She thought for a moment. ‘When you don’t know what you’re missing, you don’t miss anything?’
‘Sonofabitch.’ Mark turned to look out the window.
‘I don’t suppose that word translates into Ronan,’ Garec grinned. Mark ignored him. ‘Nerak. That’s it.’
‘What’s it?’ St
even stood as well.
‘It is not what Nerak knows that is his weakness; it is what he doesn’t know.’
Brynne took him by the arm. ‘What doesn’t Nerak know?’
Mark pointed towards the hickory staff leaning against the far wall of the shack they had been calling home. ‘He doesn’t know what’s in there, for a start.’
THE NORTHERN WHARF
On the morning of their fifth day in the shanty, Garec and Steven journeyed into town together. By now they had determined that Prince Malagon was indeed holed up in the old Falkan palace, although Steven had not yet summoned the courage to move far enough into the city to actually see the grounds. Somehow he knew Nerak would recognise him if he got within ten yards of the estate.
This morning, he and Garec were determined to get a better look at the Prince Marek. They didn’t want to draw any attention to themselves, so they left their weapons in the shanty. Garbed in dark woollen cloaks, they looked like brothers striding together along the waterfront, heads down, deep in conversation.
Crossing the wide inlet via the stone bridge separating the northern and southern districts, Steven inhaled the ubiquitous aromas: woodsmoke, sewage, the harbour and the ocean. A fierce wind assailed them off the water. To their right, the river wound its circuitous path back through Orindale and south to the forests, Meyers’ Vale and the Blackstone Mountains. To their left, it widened as the river coursed through the final leg of its interminable journey to the Ravenian Sea.
Steven remembered dreaming about this place, this very spot, and he turned his face towards the sun to bask for just a moment in the success of having made it this far.
Garec looked at him quizzically and asked, ‘Anything wrong?’
Steven reached over and removed Garec’s saddlebag from where it rested on his friend’s shoulder. He unfastened the clasp and allowed the soft leather flap to fall open across his forearm, displaying the rudimentary map of the peaks they had made at the top of the first pass they had traversed. Running his thumb over the drawing scratched into the leather, he said, ‘We’ve come a long way, Garec.’