by Alec Hutson
“Pelos, is that enough to buy a house in Chale?”
The fishmonger leaned in closer. “Aye. A small but tidy one, I imagine, with something still left over.” He rubbed at his nose. “Seems to me, Ferris, that the lad has given you a chance here to start your life anew. I think you should seize it.”
“But what would I do in Chale?” his father asked, his brow creasing as he studied the money.
“Well, that’s easy enough,” Pelos said. “You know fish. I could use a trustworthy man to help run my business. You can work with me.”
“But what about Bellas?” he said uncertainly.
Pelos clapped him on the shoulder, nearly spilling the coins he still held in his hands. “Well, bring her and her cat and your woodworking table. She doesn’t have such strong ties here, that I know. Sell your houses and come north.”
“I’ll talk with her,” his father said, holding out the money for Keilan to take back.
“You keep it,” Keilan said, pushing his hands away. “And I’ll hope you’ll take Pelos up on his offer.”
“Keilan, I agree that we should leave tonight,” Senacus interrupted, “and the day is nearly spent.”
Pelos waved the paladin’s concerns away. “I’ve done the trip to Chale a thousand times in darkness. My horses know every rock and hole along the way.”
“Good,” Keilan said, “because I’m not quite ready to leave yet. There’s something I need to take from Mam Bellas’s house.”
Keilan was surprised to find that the gates of Chale were still open when they finally arrived. Darkness had fallen some watches past, and a pair of burning torches flanking the open doors illuminated walls of rough-hewn logs stretching away into the night. An old watchman stood in the puddle of light cast by one of the torches, pulling on his drooping gray mustache and shaking his head as their wagon trundled closer.
“By the Ten, Pelos, you’re late,” the night watchman grumbled. “I was just about to close the gate and let you sleep outside on a bed of your fish.” He blinked watery eyes as he caught sight of the three mounted strangers riding behind the wagon. “Found some strays, did you? God’s blood—the Pure!”
Pelos chuckled at the night watchman’s surprise. “No fish today, Melech, so I’m afraid you’ll have to find your supper elsewhere. My thanks for keeping the gate open this late—I’ll let you choose your favorite from the next catch I bring through.”
The night watchman muttered something unintelligible, his eyes still fastened on Senacus as they passed him on their way through the gates.
Years ago, Keilan had come to Chale with his father to see a bard perform, and the image etched into his memory was of soaring stone buildings and wrought-iron balconies suspended over the streets. It had made a tremendous impression on him when he was young, and he’d excitedly asked his mother when he returned to his village if the great cities of Gryx and Menekar were like this. He remembered her soft laughter in reply, and it had confused him at the time. Now he understood. The night shrouded much of the town, but he could tell that it could not be compared with the vastness and splendor of Lyr or Vis. Only a few of the houses were more than a single story, and there were as many mud brick houses as there were stone. The main avenue was set with flagstones, but the smaller roads branching away were simply dirt, and the only light came from a few lanterns hung outside what must be establishments for those entering the city from the south.
The plodding pace of the wagon’s horses suddenly quickened, even though Pelos had not used his whip, as if the nags wished to hurry up and end their day. “These inns are not as fine as the ones near the north gate,” the fishmonger said, loud enough to be heard over the clopping of hooves, “but they’ll be able to draw you a hot bath and put a tankard of ale in your hands, if that’s what you want. As I said, you’re welcome to stay with me, though.”
“Thank you,” Nel replied. “With our funds depleted –” she cast a quick glance at Keilan “– we’d appreciate your hospitality.”
“Good, good,” Pelos cried back, pulling on the reins to turn his wagon down one of the larger side streets. “And tomorrow we’ll go down to the river and find you passage to Ven Ibras. There’s often a trader or two willing to ferry passengers for a bit of coin, and if there isn’t I can twist the ear of my nephew to take you. He usually plies the river from here to Theris, but he’s sailing my old boat and I used to bring her as far as the Whispering Isles. I bet the old girl misses the salt and waves.”
Pelos’s knuckles had barely grazed wood when the door to his house was flung open by a plump, scowling woman wearing a stained apron and brandishing a large wooden ladle.
“Pelos Welumsorn! Sauntering in yet again with half the night gone by. Well, you’re lucky you don’t have a cold supper waiting for you, and if I find out you were drinking down at the docks with Erand again… ” Her hands fluttered to her mouth when she saw past Pelos and noticed he was not alone.
“Amela,” the old fishmonger said, “please make welcome Keilan, Nel, and Senacus. They will be staying with us tonight and gone on the morrow. My friends, this is my wife, Amela.”
Keilan offered a low bow and stepped forward as Pelos ushered him inside. A fire crackled in a cook pit against the far wall, an iron pot suspended over the flames. The house felt homely and comfortable—baskets of dried flowers hung from the ceiling, and intricate carvings shaped from driftwood adorned the walls. The chopped remains of vegetables were scattered across a long table, and the rich smell of simmering fish stew filled the room. Keilan’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since morning.
Amela hurriedly wiped her free hand on her apron, her cheeks flushing apple-red. “Pelos, why didn’t you say we’d have guests?” she cried, giving him a hearty thwack on his shoulder with her ladle. Her eyes widened as Senacus entered her house, ducking his head to avoid striking it on the door’s lintel. “A paladin of Ama? The Ten have mercy, Pelos, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”
Pelos sighed. “Senacus is the boy’s guardian. They’re on a very important quest, or so I’ve gathered, though it’s not my place to pry. Tomorrow I’ll take them to the docks so they can find passage down the river.”
Amela reached out and clasped Keilan’s arm in a grip that made him wince. “Your name is Keilan? Not the Keilan?” she asked, turning back to her husband. “The boy you were so upset about? You told me the Pure… ” She faltered, her gaze finding Senacus again. “Oh.”
Pelos cleared his throat loudly. “Yes, well, it turns out events were not as tragic as I feared. It has been a day of good tidings and gladdened hearts, but also very tiring –”
“You all must be starving!” Amela interjected, bustling over to the cookpot and giving what was inside a quick stir with her ladle. “Go on, get settled and find a seat. I’ll have something on the table in a moment.”
Keilan set down his travel bags and bedding and slipped the heavy satchel from his shoulder. He couldn’t resist glancing inside at the treasures he had taken from Mam Bellas’s house, the familiar cracked bindings of the books his father had rescued from the sea with his mother so many years ago.
“Aren’t those a bit heavy to take with us?” Nel asked as she found a spot beside a cupboard of red wood for her own belongings.
Keilan stroked one of the covers, tracing the script that flowed across the leather. “It’s all I have left of her. Perhaps there is some clue in one of them I’ve never noticed before.”
Nel gathered up her hair, which had grown long during their travels, and tied it back with a green ribbon. “Not all answers are found in books, Keilan.”
“No,” he whispered to himself, too quiet for her to hear, “but even if they don’t have the answer, perhaps they can help me ask the right question.”
“Supper!” Pelos cried, sliding into a chair as Amela ladled stew into the bowl in front of him. He brea
thed deep and smacked his lips together. “I do have to put up with a fair bit of abuse, but it’s worth it for the food.” He flinched as his wife raised her arm threateningly, but instead of hitting him she dipped her ladle again and filled the bowl in front of Senacus. The paladin had removed his scale cuirass and white-enameled vambraces, but still, from his stiff-backed posture, seemed to be ready for battle. Keilan suspected he would be comfortable around a campfire or a lord’s banquet table; eating stew in the house of a commoner, however, was probably foreign to him.
“Thank you, madam,” the paladin said formally, bowing his head slightly.
“Oh, listen to him,” Amela chortled as she splashed some stew in Nel and Keilan’s bowls. “I do hope one of the neighbors saw him come through that door. Elga and Rohinna will scratch their eyes out in frustration tryin’ to think up why he’s here.”
Keilan tried a spoonful of the stew—it was as delicious as he’d hoped, potatoes, leeks and chunks of fish swimming in a butter and cream broth.
“Gods, that’s good,” Nel said huskily, then lifted her bowl to her mouth and began to slurp noisily. When she finally lowered it she caught Senacus staring at her, his face aghast. She smiled sweetly at him, then belched. The paladin glanced at Amela, as if expecting her to be insulted, but the fishmonger’s wife clapped her hands together.
“Some of the best noises a cook can hear!” she cried. Pelos roared in laughter when he saw the stricken expression on Senacus’s face, then pushed himself away from the table.
“Who wants ale? I have good black stuff from the brewery here in Chale. It’ll put hair on your chest, Keilan.”
Nel ripped a chunk from the loaf of bread that had appeared on the table. “I’ll take some,” she said, dipping the crust into her stew.
“Me as well,” Keilan added, and Pelos turned to the paladin expectantly.
Senacus held up his hands. “Not me, but I thank you. The vows of Ama forbid the Pure from partaking.”
“Truly, yours is a harsh faith,” Pelos said, his voice thick with pity.
“Don’t mind him,” Nel said between noisy bites, “their initiation involves embalming. It’s why they’re so stiff all the time.”
Chuckling, Pelos vanished through a shadowed doorway, then returned moments later with a dusky jug and three cups. He poured a generous measure into each and passed two of them to Nel and Keilan.
“One advantage of traveling without Vhelan,” Nel said after taking a deep draught, “is that I get to enjoy a drink. Usually he does enough carousing for both of us, and I have to stay in sound mind to deal with any trouble that arises… or he causes.”
Keilan tried the ale—it had an earthy taste that he couldn’t decide if he liked or not. “I do miss him, though,” he said after he’d wiped the foam from his mouth.
Nel smiled crookedly. “Aye, me too. He’s going to be incredibly jealous that we went off without him. Might not talk to me for a month.”
Keilan laughed. “I can’t imagine Vhelan not talking for a month.”
“It is rather far-fetched,” Nel admitted, bringing her cup to her lips again.
A silence settled around the table, broken only by the sounds of eating and drinking. Watching the others, Keilan felt a deep swell of contentment. His father knew he was alive and had a chance at happiness again with Mam Bellas. And whatever challenges Keilan would face in the days to come, he would not do so alone. He couldn’t imagine a more contrary pair than Nel and Senacus, but it seemed the discord between them had faded during their travels together. They would find this sorceress and convince her to help them avoid the coming cataclysm. And he would finally discover the truth about his mother.
Pelos raised his cup. “Let us drink to your success and safe journeys. My old heart soars to see you again, Keilan, and to meet your new friends.”
“Hear, hear,” Nel cried, banging her cup on the table and then lifting it high. “Someday, the bards will sing of the quest to find the fisherboy’s mother!”
Morning brought a herd of aurochs thundering through Keilan’s head. He stumbled along behind Pelos as they wove through the streets of Chale, the old fishmonger seemingly unaffected by the many cups he’d drunk the night before and the mercilessly bright sun.
Keilan kept his head down; the dizziness seemed to abate somewhat if he concentrated on the churned road. But he knew when they moved through a crowded market space, as he heard the surprised mutterings when the townspeople caught sight of Senacus. The Pure were not such an uncommon sight in the Shattered Kingdoms, but still an appearance by one of Ama’s warriors was worthy of gossip.
Gradually, the sounds of cattle lowing and goodwives haggling faded behind them, and the dirt beneath his boots gave way to planks of pitted wood. Keilan finally looked up, blinking at the harsh glare reflecting off the Lenian. The river was narrow, no more than a few hundred paces wide, and so sluggish it appeared to not be flowing at all. A half-dozen boats were tied up at the docks, including a large merchant carrack that wallowed so low in the water Keilan wondered if it could make it all the way to Theris without scraping the river’s bottom. Gulls that had followed the ships in from the Broken Sea turned gyres in the sky, shrieking.
Pelos made his way towards an ancient, salt-scarred fishing boat with an upswept prow that tapered into the leering, monstrous visage of Ghelu the Toothed, most fearsome of the Deep Ones. Such carvings were common enough that even a few of the smaller boats in Keilan’s village had been adorned with similar ornamentation—it was an old belief that creatures from the depths would not dare to attack a vessel displaying the image of one of the vengeful sea gods.
Three young men squatted on the dock beside the boat, intent on a game of chalice. One of the players tossed down his cards, cursing, then noticed them approaching and stood.
“Losing again, Seric?” Pelos said with a shake of his head.
The young man smoothed down his black mustache, his eyes flicking uncertainly from Pelos to the three strangers accompanying him. “I’m up on the day, Uncle,” he said slowly. Keilan noticed he had the red-stained teeth of a kennoc-nut chewer.
“Ah, but what about the month? The year?”
Seric cleared his throat noisily and spat over the dock. “Haven’t had to pawn the Sea Beggar yet, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Is she still sea-worthy?” Pelos asked, nodding towards the boat. “You’ve kept her in the river for a few seasons now.”
Seric spared a glance over his shoulder. “Aye, she’ll sail the waves still. I wouldn’t take her to Kesh, but she could get to Gryx so long as there’s no storms.” He turned back, gesturing at Senacus. “What’s going on? Does the paladin need to get somewhere?”
“Ven Ibras.”
The young man spat again; he missed the water this time, a wad of red splattering the docks. “The Beggar will make it there. We’ll have to spend a night out on the water, but the Shael haven’t shown themselves much recently. Is the pay good?”
Nel lifted a pouch and shook it and the man’s mouth broke into a red-stained smile at the sound of clinking coins. He stepped away from the chalice game, ignoring the grumblings of the other two players, and clapped his hands sharply. “Right,” he said, speaking to Senacus, who he seemed to have decided was the leader of their small group. “We can cast off as soon as you’re ready and the boys who usually crew the Beggar return. The sooner we leave, the earlier we’ll arrive tomorrow. Too late and we might have to spend a second night out on the boat, and that means we should add another water barrel to my stores. We should… ” His words trailed off as he squinted at something beyond them, towards the town proper. “Eh. Friends of yours, paladin?”
Keilan turned. A pair of mendicants were hurriedly approaching in their direction, white robes flapping. With them were warriors in leather and chain, the golden sunburst of Ama displayed prominently on their surcoats and t
abards. Lightbearers, local men who had pledged their swords to the faith. Keilan wondered if any of them had been among the group that had taken him from his village those many months ago. With a start he realized that one of the mendicants—the younger of the two—was in fact the cleric who had brought Senacus to his village. Keilan’s last memory of the mendicant was his face twisted in fear as the paladin had proclaimed him to be a sorcerer, and he wore a very similar expression now. The older mendicant looked more determined than afraid, and he clutched something in his hand, perhaps a small piece of parchment.
“Brother Senacus!” the elder mendicant cried. “Brother Senacus!”
Everyone turned to the Pure, who Keilan thought looked less than pleased. “Yes?”
The mendicants and their entourage halted a dozen paces away. “Thank the Radiant Father we caught up with you before you departed,” said the mendicant, wiping his brow with his gold-hemmed sleeve.
“You have news for me?” Senacus asked.
The elder mendicant bobbed his tonsured head. “Yes, yes. A bird from the temple arrived last night. A white pigeon, from the roost of the High Mendicant himself!” He stepped forward and held out the slim cream-colored scroll he’d been carrying.
Senacus accepted the parchment and glanced at what it contained, his lips moving slightly as he read. When he had finished, he frowned.
“We’ll arrange an escort, of course,” the mendicant said. “I know a few of the lightbearers have always wanted to see the holy city and –”
“No.”
The older mendicant blinked in confusion. “Eh?”
“I cannot return to Menekar at this time.”
“But… But you read the message.”
Senacus held out the parchment, but the mendicant made no move to take it again, his face slack with surprise. “I cannot return now.”
“The High Mendicant commands it! He has sent birds to every temple west of the Spine demanding that you proceed to Menekar at once with the boy –” He glanced nervously at Keilan. “– and the artifact he entrusted to you.”