Nyphron rising trr-3

by Michael J. Sullivan

  "I'll be fine," she said.

  Polish looked at her, surprised. "Are you sure you are a princess?"

  "She's becoming more human every day," Hadrian said, smiling at her.

  "You can sleep over here," Carat told them, bouncing on one of the bunks. "This is Quartz's bed and the one below is Set's. They'll be out all night."

  "Thank you," Arista told him, taking a seat on the lower berth. "You're quite the gentleman."

  Carat straightened up at the comment and puffed up his chest, smiling back at Arista fondly.

  "He's a miserable thief, behind on his accounts is what he is," Polish admonished, pointing a finger. "You still owe me, remember?"

  The boy's proud face dropped.

  "I am surprised they already named a street after Degan Gaunt," Arista mentioned, changing the subject. "I had no idea he was that popular."

  Several people snickered.

  "You got it backward," an older man with a craggy face said.

  "The street wasn't named after Gaunt," Polish explained. "Gaunt's mother named him after the street."

  "Gaunt is from Ratibor?" Hadrian asked.

  Polish looked at him as if he just questioned the existence of the sun. "Of course, he was just one of us until he went to sea as a young lad. They say he was captured by pirates and that's where his life changed and the legend began."

  Hadrian turned to Royce. "See? Being raised in Ratibor isn't always such a bad thing."

  "Duster is from Ratibor? Where 'bouts did you live?"

  Royce kept his eyes on his pack. "Don't you think you should send someone with that message about Etcher back to Colnora? The Jewel will want to know about him immediately, and any delay could get people killed."

  Polish wagged a finger at Royce. "I remember you, you know. We never met, but I was in the Diamond back when you were. You were quite the bigwig, telling everyone what to do." Polish allowed himself a snicker. "I suppose that's a hard habit to break, eh? Still, practice makes perfect," Polish turned away saying. "There are dry blankets here you can use. We'll see about better arrangements in the morning."

  Royce and Hadrian rooted around in their bags. Arista watched them jealously. Etcher took her bundle with him. Maybe he wanted it as proof, or perhaps thought there could be something of value. In any case, he knew she would not need it. Most likely, he forgot her pack was still on the horse. The loss was not much, two mangled and dirty dresses, her night gown and robe, her kris dagger, and a blanket. The only thing she still had with her was the only thing she cared about, the hairbrush from her father, which she took out and attempted to tame the mess that was her hair.

  "You have such a way with people, Royce," Hadrian mentioned as he opened another pack.

  Royce growled something Arista could not make out and seemed overly focused on his gear. "Where did you live, Royce?" Arista asked. "When you were here."

  There was a long pause. Finally he replied, "This isn't the first time I've slept in these sewers."

  ***

  The sun had barely peeked over the horizon and already the air was hot, arriving with a stifling blanket of humidity. The rain stopped but clouds lingered, shrouding the sun in a milky haze. Puddles filled the streets, great pools of brown water, still as glass. A mongrel dog-thin and mangy-roamed the market sniffing garbage. Flushing a rat, the mutt chased it to the sewers. Having lost it, he lapped from the brown water then collapsed, panting. Insects appeared. Clouds of gnats formed over the larger puddles and biting flies circled the tethered horses. They fought them as best they could with a shake of their head, a stomp of their hooves, or a swish of their tail. Soon people appeared. Most were women clad in plain dresses. The few men were naked to the waist, and everyone went about barefoot, their legs caked with mud to their knees. They opened shops and stands displaying a meager assortment of fruits, eggs, vegetables, and some meat laid bare to the flies' delight.

  Royce barely slept. Too wary to close his eyes for more than a few minutes at a time, he gave up rising sometime before dawn and made his way to the surface. He climbed on the bed of a wagon left abandoned in the mud and watched East End Square come alive. He had seen the sight before, only the faces were different. He hated this city. If it were a man, he would have slit its throat decades ago. The thought appealed to him as he stared at the muddy, puddle-filled square. Some problems were easily fixed by the draw of a knife, but others…

  He was not alone.

  Not long after first light, Royce spotted a boy lying under a cart in the mud, only his head visible above the ruts. For hours the two remained aware of each other, but neither acknowledged it. As the shops began to open the boy slipped from his muddy bed, crawled to one of the larger puddles, and washed some of the muck off. His hair remained caked with the gray clay, as he refused to submerge his head. Moving down the road, Royce saw he was nearly naked, and kept a small pouch tied around his neck. Royce knew the pouch held all of the boy's possessions. He imagined a small bit of glass for cutting, string, a smooth rock for hammering and breaking, and perhaps even a copper coin or two-it was a king's ransom that he would defend with his life, if it came to that.

  The boy moved to an undisturbed puddle and drank deeply from the surface. Untouched rainwater was the best. Cleaner, fresher than well water, and much easier to get-much safer.

  The boy kept a keen eye on him, constantly glancing over.

  With his morning wash done, the lad crept around the cooper's shop, which was still closed. He hid himself between two tethered horses, rubbing their muddy legs. He glanced once more at Royce with an irritated look, and then threw a pebble in the direction of the grocer. Nothing happened. The boy searched for another, paused then threw again. This time the stone hit a pitcher of milk that toppled and spilled. The grocer howled in distress and rushed to save what she could. As she did, the boy made a dash to steal a small sour apple and an egg. He made a clean grab and was back around the corner of the cooper's barn before the grocer turned.

  His chest heaved as he watched Royce. He paused only a moment then cracked the egg and spilled the gooey contents into his mouth swallowing with pleasure.

  Over the waif's right shoulder, two figures approached. They were boys like him, but older and larger. One wore a pair of man's britches that extended to his ankles. The other wore a filthy tunic tied around his waist with a length of twine and a necklace made from a torn leather belt. The boy did not see them until it was too late. The two grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the street, where they forced his face into the mud. The bigger boys wrenched the apple from his hand and ripped the pouch from his neck before letting go.

  Sputtering, gasping, and blind, the boy struggled to breathe. He came up swinging and found only air. The kid wearing the oversized britches kicked him in the stomach, crumpling the boy to his knees. The one wearing the tunic took a turn and kicked the boy once striking him in the side and landing him back in the mud. They laughed as they continued up Herald's Street, one holding the apple, the other swinging the neck pouch.

  Royce watched the boy lying in the street. No one helped. No one noticed. Slowly the boy crawled back to his shelter beneath the wheel cart. Royce could hear him crying and cursing as he pounded his fist in the mud.

  Feeling something on his cheek, Royce brushed away the wetness. He stood up, surprised his breathing was so shallow. He followed the plank walkway to the grocer, who smiled brightly at him.

  "Terribly hot it is today, ain't it, sir?"

  Royce ignored her. He picked out the largest, ripest apple he could find.

  "Five copper if you please, sir."

  Royce paid the woman without a word, then pulling a solid gold tenent from his pouch pressed it sideways into the fruit. He walked back across the square. This time he took a different path, one that passed by the cart the boy lie under and as he did, the apple slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud. He muttered a curse at his clumsiness, and continued his way up the street.

  ***<
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  It was midmorning and the temperature turned oppressive. Arista was dressed in a hodge-podge of boyish clothes gleaned from the Diamond's stash. A shapeless cap hid most of her hair, a battered oversized tunic and torn trousers gave her the look of a hapless urchin. In Ratibor, this nearly guaranteed her invisibility. Hadrian guessed it was more comfortable than her heavy gown and cloak.

  The three of them arrived at the intersection of Legends and Lore. There had been a brief discussion about leaving Arista in the Rat's Nest, but after Hintindar, Hadrian was reluctant to have her out of his sight.

  The thoroughfares of the two streets formed one of the many acute angles so prevalent in the city. Here a pie shape church dominated. Made of stone, the building stood out among its wooden neighbors, a heavy, over-built structure more like a fortress than a place of worship.

  "Why a Nyphron church of all things?" Hadrian asked as they reached the entrance. "Maybe we got it wrong. I don't even know what I'm looking for."

  Royce nudged Hadrian and pointed at the corner stone. Chiseled into its face, the epitaph read:

  Established 2992

  "Before you were born, the year ninety-two," he whispered. "I doubt it's a coincidence."

  "Churches keep accounts concerning births, marriages, and deaths in their community," Arista pointed out. "If there was a battle where people died, there could be a record."

  Pulling on the thick oak doors, Hadrian found them locked. He knocked and when no response came, knocked again. He pounded with his fist then, and just as Royce began looking for another way in, the door opened.

  "I'm sorry, but services aren't until tomorrow," an elderly priest announced. He was dressed in the usual robes. He had a balding head and a wrinkled face that peered through the small crack of the barely opened door.

  "That's okay, I'm not here for services," Hadrian replied. "I was hoping I could get a look at the church records."

  "Records?"

  Hadrian glanced at Arista. "I heard churches keep records on births and deaths."

  "Oh yes, but why do you want to see them?"

  "I'm trying to find out what happened to someone." The priest looked skeptical. "My father," he added.

  Understanding washed over the priest's face and he beckoned them in.

  As Hadrian expected, it was oppressively dark. Banks of candles burned on either side of the altar and at various points around the worship hall, each doing more to emphasize the darkness than provide illumination.

  "We actually keep very good records here," the priest mentioned as he closed the door behind them. "By the way, I'm Monsignor Bartholomew. I am watching over the church while his reverence Bishop Talbert is away on pilgrimage to Ervanon. And you are?"

  "Hadrian Blackwater." He gestured to Royce and Arista. "These are friends of mine."

  "I see, then if you will please follow me," Bartholomew said.

  Hadrian never spent much time in churches. The darkness, opulence, and staring eyes of the sculptures unnerved him. He was at home in a forest or field, a hovel or fortress, but the interior of a church always made him uneasy. This one had a vaulted ceiling supported by marble columns, and cinquefoil-shaped stonework and blind-tracery moldings common to all Nyphron churches. The altar itself was an ornately carved wooden cabinet with three broad doors and a blue-green marble top. His mind flashed back to a similar cabinet in Essendon Castle that concealed a dwarf waiting to accuse him and Royce of Amrath's death. That incident started his and Royce's longstanding employment with Medford's royal family.

  On this one, more candles burned, and three large gilded tomes lay sealed. The sickly-sweet fragrance of salifan incense was strong. On the altar, stood the obligatory alabaster statue of Novron. As always, he knelt sword in hand while the god Maribor loomed over him placing a crown on his head, anointing his son the ruler of the world. All the churches Hadrian visited had one, each a replica of the original sculpture preserved in the Crown Tower of Ervanon. They only varied in size and material.

  Taking a candle, the priest led them down a narrow curling stair. At the base, they stopped at a door, beside which hung an iron key on a peg. The priest lifted it off and twisted it in the large square lock until it clanked. The door creaked open and the priest replaced the key.

  "Doesn't make much sense, does it? To keep the key there?" Royce pointed out.

  The priest glanced back at it blankly. "It's heavy and I don't like carrying it."

  "Why lock the door then?"

  "Only way to keep it closed. And if left open the rats eat the parchments."

  Inside, the cellar was half the size of the church above and divided in aisles of shelves that stretched to the ceiling filled with thick leather-bound books. The priest took a moment to light a lantern that hung near the door.

  "They're all in chronological order," he told them as the lantern revealed a shallow ceiling and walls made of small stacked stones quite unlike the larger blocks and bricks used in the rest of the church.

  "About what time period are you looking for? When did your father die?"

  "Twenty-nine ninety-two."

  The priest hesitated. "Ninety-two? That was forty-two years ago. You age remarkably well. How old were you then?"

  "Very young."

  The priest looked skeptical. "Well, I'm sorry. We have no records from ninety-two."

  "The corner stone outside says this church was built then," Royce said.

  "And yet we do not have the records for which you ask."

  "Why is that?" Hadrian pressed.

  The priest shrugged. "Maybe there was a fire."

  "Maybe there was a fire? You don't know?"

  "Our records cannot help you, so if you will please follow me, I will show you out."

  The priest took a step toward the exit. Royce stepped in his path. "You're hiding something."

  "I'm doing nothing of the sort. You asked to see records from ninety-two-there are none."

  "The question is-why?"

  "Any number of reasons. How should I know?"

  "The same way you knew there aren't any records here for that date without even looking," Royce replied, his voice lowering. "You're lying to us, which again brings up the question of-why?"

  "I am a monsieur; I don't appreciate being accused of lying in my own church."

  "And I don't appreciate being lied to." He took a step forward.

  "Neither do I," Bartholomew replied. "You're not looking for anyone's father. Do you think I'm a fool? Why are you back here? That business ended decades ago. Why are you still at it?"

  Royce glanced at Hadrian. "We've never been here before."

  The priest rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. Why is the seret still digging this up? You're Sentinel Thranic aren't you?" he pointed at Royce. "Talbert told me about the interrogation you put him through-a bishop of the church! If only the Patriarch knew what his pets were up to, you would all be disbanded. Why do you still exist anyway? The Heir of Novron is on her throne, isn't she? Isn't that what we're all supposed to believe? At long last, you found the seed of Novron and all is finally right with the world. You people can't accept that your mandate is over, that we don't need you anymore-if we ever did."

  "We aren't seret," Hadrian told him, "and my friend here is definitely not a sentinel."

  "No? Talbert described him perfectly-small, wiry, frightening, like Death himself. But you must have shaved your beard."

  "I'm not a sentinel," Royce told him.

  "We're just trying to find out what happened here forty-two years ago," Hadrian explained. "And you're right. I'm not looking for a record of my father's death, because I know he didn't die here. But he was here."

  The monsignor hesitated, looking at Hadrian and shooting furtive glances at Royce. "What was your father's name?" he asked at length.

  "Danbury Blackwater."

  The priest shook his head. "Never heard of him."

  "But you know what happened," Royce said. "Why don't you just tell us?"
>
  "Why don't you just get out of my church? I don't know who you are and I don't want to. What happened-happened. It's over. Nothing can change it. Just leave me alone."

  "You were there," Arista muttered in revelation. "Forty years ago-you were there, weren't you?"

  The monsignor glared at her, his teeth clenched. "Look through the stacks if you want," he told them in resignation. "I don't care; just lock up when you leave. And be sure to blow out the light."

  "Wait," Hadrian spoke quickly as he fished his medallion out of his shirt and held it up toward the light. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes, and then stepped closer to examine it.

  "Where did you get that?"

  "My father left it to me. He also wrote me a poem, a sort of riddle I think. Maybe you can help explain it." Hadrian took out the parchment and passed it to the cleric.

  After reading he raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth. Hadrian noticed his fingers tremble. His other hand sought and found the wall and he leaned heavily against it. "You look like him," the priest told Hadrian. "I didn't notice it at first. It's been over forty years and I only knew him briefly, but that's his sword on your back. I should have recognized that if nothing else. I still see it so often in my nightmares."

  "So you knew my father, you knew Danbury Blackwater?"

  "His name was Tramus Dan. That's what he went by at least."

  "Will you tell us what happened?"

  He nodded. "There's no reason to keep it secret, except to protect myself, and perhaps it's time I faced my sins."

  The monsignor looked at the open door to the stairs. "Let's close this." He stepped out then returned puzzled. "The key is gone."

  "I've got it," Royce volunteered, revealing the iron key in his hand and, pulling the door shut, locked it from the inside. "I've never cared for rooms I can be locked in."