by B R Crichton
With the extra pair of hands, Elan’s father had been able to expand his business, and have a new loom built. This was capable of producing finer woollen weaves, much in demand locally, but only available through the occasional visits from traders from the south. The spinners were only too happy to supply finer yarns to meet their needs. Business was booming.
He was working late again, ironing out recurring problems with the new loom.
“I’ve already aligned the breast beam, but I don’t think that is the problem,” he said to his father, as he fiddled at the infernal machine.
“Are you sure the batten is set?” his father asked.
“Yes, of course,” he replied indignantly, “It was working perfectly well until a few minutes ago.”
His father tinkered some more, then inspected the strip of ruined cloth. “Has the comb come loose?” he asked, reaching for the component in question.
“It’s as tight as the other loom; there’s always going to be some play.”
“I know,” his father said defensively, “but with a finer weave, perhaps the tolerances are tighter. This is new to me as well you know.”
“I’m sorry.” Elan threw up his hands, just as there was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” he said, stomping out of the room.
“Kellan,” he said in surprise when he opened the door.
“Where were you?” Kellan asked.
“What? When?”
“The lantern boats?” Kellan said slowly.
“Ah, blast it. I forgot,” he replied. A group of his friends had agreed to meet after sunset to sail small paper lanterns out onto Topaz, the big lake at the centre of Lythuria. It was always very romantic.
“You forgot? Sulyan was there, looking for you,” Kellan said incredulously. Elan winced.
“What did you tell her?” he asked.
“That I had seen you necking with Oreya earlier, and that you and her had other plans,” he teased.
“What?” he said, wide eyed.
“I said you were probably working late; again.” Kellan said more seriously.
“I know,” Elan groaned. “We’re still having teething problems with the new loom. We’re straightening them out though; slowly.”
“Well you’d better straighten out Lamis; he was making eyes at Sulyan in your absence,”
“What?” Elan replied.
“You need to get your sense of humour back Elan,” Kellan laughed. His friend groaned again.
“I know. It’s just that there is so much to do. The order book is filling up and we’re still not on top of the new machine. I need to put in the extra effort now,” Elan said pleadingly.
“All right,” Kellan said, “I’ll tell Sulyan that you are going to make a fortune and keep her in luxury. She just needs to be patient.”
“Don’t tell her a thing,” he warned, “I’ll see her myself tomorrow, and will apologise then.”
“All right,” Kellan nodded, “don’t work too hard, friend. There’s living to be done too.”
“Thanks Kellan,” he replied sincerely, “but until we get this loom running right, you’ll have to do the living for both of us. Can I trust you to do that?”
Kellan saluted, his right fist to his left breast, and back as straight as his stooped posture would allow.
“On my honour,” he said with mock dutifulness. They laughed, and Kellan disappeared into the night again. Elan stared at his receding back jealously.
Kellan sat on a flat rock in the morning sun. His headache was beginning to recede mercifully. He had drunk too much wine again last night, and had left his bed reluctantly. Whenever Kellan drank, his mind turned to the events at the end of his last fateful trip to the Northlands. The killing of those militiamen felt more right. Buoyed by painful childhood memories, the knowledge that he had taken their lives was entirely justified. He also knew that those few alone would not sate his lust for vengeance, and that he would need to take a more direct stand against the Empire.
The Empire was vast, and strong. But men made up the Empire, and men were made of flesh. Flesh was weak, and Kellan’s hatred was strong. He would make them bleed.
Of course, his venom was tempered come morning, as the intoxicating effects of the wine were replaced with that deep, persistent thumping in his skull. Yet with every sobering morning, a little more of the rancour clung to his heart with bitter claws, building day on day. Yes, there would be more revenge to come, but for now, his efforts must be directed at something more mundane.
One of the local farmers had employed him to take the dairy herd out of the sheds in the morning, after milking, and to bring them in again before dark. The rest of the day was his own, and when he wasn’t with Eloya, he would sit on the grassy slopes of the lush pasture and think. He thought about his future here. It could not be spent as he was living his life now; there had to be more to his prospects than milking and herding cows.
The trouble with Lythuria was that it was a very structured society. Boys entered the family profession once their lessons ended, and there they stayed until they could take over the reins of the business when their father retired.
Granger was loosely employed by Ganindhra to be some kind of Historian for Lythuria. Kellan wasn’t too sure about the specifics as it did not interest him greatly. Granger had spent hours of every day poring over ancient texts, and amending entries in the mountains of dusty books available to him. He also entertained at the various festivals with his engaging stories, although that was just for fun. Kellan did not care much for history books, and enjoyed hearing tales more than spinning them, so he could hardly enter that profession – if profession it was - and take over from Granger when he retired.
He wondered what was in store for him. He thought about returning to the Northlands, or going further afield and finding employment in Dasar, or even Arbis Mora. But that meant stepping back into the repression of the Korathean Empire, and that was impossible to contemplate.
He could not step back into a land gripped by fear as it was where justice was a principle outside the grasp of the common man. He did not want to be constantly looking over his shoulder to see if a militiaman was following, or worrying that a spat with his neighbour could have him accused of dissent and summarily executed.
Lythuria was home. It was stable and safe, and all of Kellan’s loved ones were here, not cowering in the Empire.
A cow regarded him with a deep brown eye, chewing slowly.
“What?” he said, and got up to go to the market.
The market was buzzing with activity when Kellan arrived. Granger had asked him to go to the cobbled square to buy vegetables and some lamb for one of his experimental dishes. He enjoyed visiting the market; there was a bustle and industry that he found engaging. The produce was all fresh from the fertile fields and always in season and, of course, Eloya was there.
She made bespoke items of clothing, more specialised than the local tailors, and more personal. Her favourite items were baby clothes. She would pout, and make faces when she held them up to customers, as if about to cry, and stroked the tiny garments as though they held babes already. The ladies buying would ‘coo’ at the sight of the little cardigans and dresses, and touch the soft fabrics to their faces. Kellan was sure that he would never fully understand women.
“Well if it isn’t my favourite seamstress,” he said, as he approached.
“And if that isn’t my favourite shepherd,” she answered primly.
“Actually,” he said, “they’re cattle.”
“Whatever they are, you should be doing more with your life,” she scolded, not for the first time.
“You know I only have time for you,” he said, sweeping her off her feet and planting a kiss on her startled lips. This got a few cheers from the other stallholders. Eloya escaped his arms with an embarrassed giggle, and straightened her clothing before setting the stern expression on her face again.
“Time for me, and a few skins of wine, from the smell of you
,” she said.
“Yes,” he nodded regretfully, “last night did turn into a bit of a party. It just seems to happen sometimes.
“It ‘just seems to happen’ several times a week,” she said.
“Speaking of which,” he steered the conversation away from the previous night, “Am I still expected at your house for dinner tonight?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Only that Elan and your father spend every waking moment with that damned loom of theirs. I wasn’t sure if they would be joining us.” he said.
“Father will be there,” she said sternly.
“Offering me a job, no doubt,” he muttered.
“You should take him up on his offer,” she said peevishly. “It would be wonderful if you were in the family business too.”
“I’m just not sure I’m a weaver at heart,” he replied, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off an approaching headache.
Just then, a stir began to work through the crowd. Shoppers and stallholders alike looked along the cobbled road that led towards the entrance to the great bowl, where the waterfall began its plunge into the land below. There was a trader approaching. This was a rare event, only happening a few times a year, and everyone was eager to see what he had brought.
“Go on,” Eloya said, seeing Kellan’s interested expression. She blew him a kiss and returned to minding her stall.
Kellan joined the throng that had begun heading along the cobbles.
He found himself volunteering to join the chain of men on the cliff steps. They strung out thinly, carrying each load several yards before handing it over to the next in the chain, and returning to their respective starting points to take the next. The work was strenuous, but helped to clear his head of the remaining fog of the hangover. In a few days, once deals had been done and prices agreed upon, he would no doubt help to shift Lythurian exports down the cliff.
The trader spotted him as he topped out into the bowl again, sweating and tired, and approached suspiciously.
“Forgive my curiosity, but I have seen you here before; about three years ago when I made my last visit. You were younger for sure, but that mark on your face picks you out from most,” he said.
Kellan touched his birthmark absent mindedly. “I am lucky enough to call this place home,” he replied.
“I see. I had assumed you to be travelling with another merchant,” he said.
“I’m not sure that this place has ever been visited by two traders at the same time,” Kellan replied with humour.
“But, you are the first outsider to call Lythuria ‘home’ to my knowledge.”
“Not the first, no,” Kellan replied, thinking of Granger. The trader eyed him sceptically for a few moments, and then he smiled.
“My name is Larrim Bale,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand.
“Kellan Aemoran,” he replied.
“Good to meet you, young sir. May I invite you to join me for some fine Lythurian wine this evening?” he offered. “I always enjoy my brief stays here. The wine is second to none.” His manner was instantly friendlier.
“I am always open to offers of wine,” Kellan smiled. Then remembered the planned dinner with Eloya’s family, but assured himself that she would understand.
“Now, tell me about yourself.” Larrim Bale had spent much of that day negotiating deals with the locals, and would no doubt spend most of the next day doing the same. He would have been hammering out contracts now, oiling the wheels of commerce with wine, had he not been sitting with Kellan. The night was clear, and they sat under a large pergola hanging with scented Aronia vines. There were several couples and small groups enjoying the calm night in the outdoor restaurant, the two outsiders were made obvious by their skin tones.
“There is very little to tell,” he replied. “I was brought here about ten years ago; more. These people have taken me in and given me a home.” Kellan noticed that Larrim had barely touched his wine, but had kept topping up the younger man’s cup as he drank it
“It must be hard,” Bale said, studying him, “being the only outlander.”
“Not at all. I don’t feel like, an ‘outlander’. I feel at home here,” Kellan replied, enjoying the wine.
“So you have found the Lythurians to be hospitable?” Larrim asked, topping up Kellan’s cup from the wineskin, mounted in an ornate metal stand.
“Very much so,” Kellan confirmed. “I was even admitted into their martial training school, learning their skills.”
“You must have a deep understanding of them as a people then.”
“As deep as anyone I suppose,” Kellan took another drink and found Larrim topping up his cup a moment later. “Are you not enjoying your wine?” he asked the trader.
“Of course,” he said quickly, “but as I am the host this evening, I feel it my duty to keep your cup filled.”
“Well then,” Kellan raised his cup, “a toast to your duty.” He downed the contents of the cup and allowed Larrim to fill it again. The wine was going to his head and the trader had been careful to keep his mind clear.
“And how do you pass your time here?” he asked.
Kellan thought about lying and saying that he worked as a weaver. It was the first thing that came into his head, but he opted for honesty.
“I milk cows in the morning, and bring them in from pasture in the evening,” he said.
“Really?” Larrim’s face fell. It dawned on Kellan that the trader was probably hoping to get some sort of inside information from him. Try to use their common ‘outlander’ status to forge some kind of alliance with Kellan to better his position at the bargaining table with the locals. He filled his cup and raised it to Kellan.
“A toast to your cows.” He downed the wine and filled his own cup again.
Larrim abandoned his attempts to steal an advantage over his trading partners, and gave in to the wine. Several other groups of customers came and went while they sat talking.
“And what news from the Northlands?” Kellan asked.
“The Northlands, like the rest of the Empire, slip further into chaos every day, Larrim slurred.
“What do you mean?” Kellan sobered a little, focusing on the answer.
“The Empire does not realise that the harder you squeeze a fistful of sand, the more it runs through your fingers,” he said.
“The militiamen?” Kellan asked.
“The militias have been chasing rebels for so long that they started a rebellion,” he laughed. “If you kick a dog, it cowers. But keep kicking it, and eventually it will bite.”
“Rebellion?”
“If you want my opinion,” Larrim said, leaning heavily on the table between them, “most people were happy under Kor’Habat’s rule. It was paranoia in the Northlands that led them to attempt to crush a rebellion that did not exist. The result is a population forced to fight back.”
“There is rebellion in the Northlands?” Kellan tried to chase the wine from his senses.
“Oh, it started in the Northlands,” Larrim laughed, taking another draught of wine, “then every minor noble in the Greater Korathea thought he could liberate his own piece of the Empire, and declare himself King. Fools.”
“So the Empire is set to fall,” Kellan said urgently.
“What?” Larrim said, struggling to focus. “No, No, of course not. The Empire crushes them all. Doesn’t stop them from trying though. The Empire just goes on expanding.”
“So there is an appetite for rebellion,” he said as much to himself as to Larrim.
“Oh, there is an appetite all right. Just too few, and too scattered. If you want my opinion, you did well to find a place to live here,” he made a gesture that took in their surroundings. “Stay put until things settle down in the Empire, my friend.”
Kellan felt cold. Below them the world was at war with itself. The people of the lands seized by the Korathean expansionists had finally woken to the hint of a possibility of throwing off their occupier�
�s yoke. Those that grumbled quietly into their tankards in the inns and taverns had found their voices, and their shouts were being joined by their fellows’.
Perhaps it was the wine, but Kellan felt an overwhelming urge to be a part of that struggle. The right to call himself a Northlander hinged on whether he cringed in the safety of Lythuria, or stood with those brave enough to fight for change. Although he had barely been back since arriving here all those years ago, the pull of his homeland had never felt so strong.
“Is there no-one to lead them?” Kellan urged. “No-one to bring them together where they could find strength in numbers?”
Larrim shared the dregs from the wineskin between the two cups, though Kellan had lost his appetite for wine.
“What? Oh, there are mercenary bands working for minor lords all over the Empire, trying to dislodge the Korathean Garrisons, but none with any great success. Take my advice, and don’t worry yourself with these matters. Order will be restored.”
Chapter Fifteen
Chaos had gripped the land.
At first light, they saw the streams of dispossessed wearily approaching. Handcarts, barrows and mules carried what little they had the mind to pack as they fled east. More often than not, children or the elderly filled those places. The road was thick with them, and the gates had only just been opened to reveal a city full to bursting already.
Kellan and Valia were the first to rise, after the night of excess, and watched the miserable procession.
“Is there no end to them?” Kellan said, shaking his head.
“This is not a good sign,” she replied.
“How so?”
“That so many should flee.”
Kellan looked at her quizzically. The imposing woman at his side gripped her braid tightly as she considered the masses that spilled from the choked road and into the land around it. “Would you not flee, in their position?”
“It is that ‘position’ that concerns me,” she replied. “When an army takes a land, it keeps the people who work it on their farms, and in their factories. This army will need to be fed, and if the fields behind them are untended…” she left the sentence unfinished.