Razar sighed, grabbing the blanket with his free hand, and pulled it completely off. “Look like any slave in your seeing, friend?”
The warder smiled, looking closely at the creature. It groggily lifted its hairy head to look back at him, then pulled its lips back in a snarl. The warder smiled more broadly, stepping back. “Look at that huge forehead! It does resemble my wife’s mother,” he chuckled. “Smells like bung. Maybe you should call it a bungman,” he added, laughing louder.
“You seen it now, and no slave to be certain, or human, at that,” Razar said, biting into the argrot again. “Now help me cover it again. See, you upset it.”
“You manage,” the warder said, turning away with a smirk. “That there is one strange man-beast. Keep it locked up, safe.”
Razar watched the warder resume his post at the city gate, then tossed the argrot half-eaten and dragged the blanket back over the cage. The creature was staring at him, almost intelligently, but growling like an angry sprinter. He shook his head, covered it up, then climbed back into the seat of his wagon and whistled at the horse, snapping the reins. The wagon rambled forward, bumping through the muddy holes that inevitably gathered outside a city gate, then rolled up onto the street. As the wheels rattled across the paving stones, he heard whining from the cage again.
Razar shook his head in wonder. “I know not what you are,” he muttered half to himself and half at the creature in the cage, “but sure you do turn a coin or two. Pretty coins, at that.”
Happily sucking in the fresh sea air, he began planning how he would spend the coin.
7 ARAD
Summer rain pattered on the wooden roof over his head. A tiny waterfall fell from each of the roofing tiles, dozens in number. Arad watched them drizzle down in streaks from the edge of the roof to the roadside before him, forming what looked like a curtain blocking out the rest of the world.
It had almost been a year since that night at the stadium, a night that was etched into his mind and heart. The night he had met Sayri. The night Horth had died, and the night he had lost Sayri.
After all the commotion had died down from Horth’s death, Arad had realized that he had forgotten about Sayri. Well, not truly forgotten, but he had been so distracted—and so distraught—about losing his trainer and friend, that he had not returned to check on Sayri for quite a long while; by the time he did, she had left.
Even at that he had not felt that she was truly gone; he assumed that she would come back another night, or that he would meet her in the street . . . but as the days stretched on, and discussions at the stadium shifted from the shock of Horth’s death to plans for moving forward without him, she had remained only in his mind. She didn’t return to his life.
Arad had decided, after a few tendays, that he needed to go looking for her. Her accent had marked her as being from the east, he eventually learned; probably from the mining towns on the plains, or the farmland in the valley beyond. He thought of going there—perhaps she had been abducted and brought to the city, and was trying to find her way home.
On further thought, however, he had concluded that she might still be in Benn’s Harbour, or at least nearby. Her clothing had been well worn, and she had been equipped for travel; that seemed unlikely if she had been brought here against her will.
No, Arad felt confident she was still around. He took to wandering the twisting, shadowy streets in his spare time, and dropping in to local pubs and taverns, wandering the merchant’s stalls at the docks, searching among the sea of yellow-haired girls for . . . a very special yellow-haired girl.
At the stadium, things had changed quickly. The matches planned for the morning after Horth’s death had played on; the old trainer, Rast had said, would not be pleased if they had been cancelled. So the exhibition had been devoted to Horth and his many years of service to the stadium and community, and the owners had given a speech before the grand final match, which featured Arad against the massive farmer Horth had introduced him to. Prior to the match the farmer had even called out a salute to Horth, which had touched Arad deeply and motivated him to clap the big man on the shoulder with a friendly smile (despite understanding barely a word).
Arad had, of course, dispatched the farmer with little difficulty—after a few moments of dancing about at the spectator’s pleasure. His final move had been a tumbling scissors-leg throw with a combined knee-choke finish, so brilliantly executed that it drew “ahs” from the crowd and even a congratulatory hug from the big farmhand himself.
The whole event had been so joyful, and sad at the same time, that Arad had almost not thought about Sayri. Almost.
Rast had been selected by the owners to take over the stadium, but he had quickly admitted that he wasn’t up to the job. As a trainer he would suffice, he told them, but he lacked the desire and the skillset to care for the apartments and the stadium itself. The owners had finally brought in a building manager, a promoter, and a custodian, in addition to hiring Rast permanently as trainer, to handle the duties Horth had once managed all by himself.
Despite the team designated to perform all these functions, the stadium suffered Horth’s loss. It was several tendays before the first true tournament was organized, and in the following winter moons, though mild weather blessed the coastal city, audience showing was poor, despite Arad’s rapid rise as a likely future champion. When the annual spring tournament finally came, Arad won easily (though Rast lamented his own inability to train and teach at the same time, stating that he would have made Arad work for it if able to compete). Arad won, however, before a half crowd, which did not bode well for the stadium, and saddened him immensely.
Rast had explained that the poor showing might have been due to the harsh winter inland. Benn’s Harbour saw little snow and a lot of rain, but apparently further inland a brutal chill had seized the plains and valley, and didn’t release its skeletal grip until late in the spring. Word from the east spoke of entire crops destroyed by the freezing rains and massive snowdrifts that crushed farmhouses and slaughtered livestock by the thousands. People had died in the snow, too; some small villages were entirely wiped out when the roads were snowed in and supplies ran out. Since farmers usually prepared well for winter, this spoke of the severe conditions endured by those who survived.
On many a wet evening as he wandering the labyrinthine streets, Arad thought to himself that if Sayri was from the the east, then it was better that she remained here, where the icy fingers of death could not reach her.
Spring had come, though, and the rains had finally eased, then stopped and—tendays later, in what should have been planting season—word had finally come that the inland snows had melted. Talk on the street became concern for the crops; merchants speculated that food would have to be shipped in from Somria, or even further away. That meant shortages and higher prices, and as a result prices had already risen sharply.
Arad was not out of reach of these hardships. The low attendance at bouts meant a small purse for him; if he hadn’t been living at the stadium, he probably would’ve been in dire straights. The apartments he had originally rented would have been impossible to maintain, he realized.
Was Sayri managing to afford a room? He wished that she wasn’t living on the street somewhere . . . But he had searched every alley by spring, and would have found her if she was there, he was sure.
By summer, he had come to the conclusion that he must have been wrong. She had left the city after all.
・
Arad was already awake at dawn. He had always been an early riser, since morning was the best time for training, when the mind was alert and the reflexes were fresh. But of late he had taken to rising well before dawn, going out and sitting on the top bench in the stadium, and watching the sun gradually lighten the horizon before it burst forth in a glory of colour. From the top row he could imagine Sayri must have seen, after crawling over the wall that night.
This day was the midsummer solstice; the sky was clear and he expected a specta
cular sunrise. He had been seated for a while, already having watched deep purple give way to blue, when a group of men walked out on the stage. At first he thought it was Rast with a pair of students, but when he saw the armour he realized they were soldiers.
“I seek Arad,” an imposing voice rumbled. From the top seats of the stadium amphitheater the voice reached Arad thick and deep, like that of an actor with many years of stage experience, capable of seizing the attention of an audience and holding it.
A soldier with a voice like that, Arad knew immediately, had to be a man of authority, accustomed to projecting his commands to men on the battlefield such that they would obey unquestioningly.
The effect was not lost on him, and he responded without thinking. “I am he.”
“Come down here, champion. Please,” the man said, adding the last as an afterthought, and sounding a bit awkward doing so.
Arad stood and made his way down the steps to the stage. He was wearing simply a loincloth and tunic; the same he had worn the night he met Sayri. For some reason, it comforted him to wear it when he came to sit alone in the stadium.
In the present company, he was horribly underdressed. All three were wearing armoured suits of boiled leather plates, with vest and skirt bolstered with metal plates (it was, Arad noted with irony, the only time men wore skirts here). They also had weapons at their hip; short, wide-bladed swords meant for use in battle with a wooden shield, though of course they did not carry shields.
The commander—’leader’ did not capture his presence adequately—wore engraved metal plates at his breast and matching ailettes, or shoulder guards. The grip and pommel of his sword shone like argent; in fact, Arad was fairly certain they were argent.
“You are smaller than you look on stage,” the commander said. “But then you are often standing atop a fallen foe, and that makes any man seem taller,” he added with a smirk. He was a man of average height, though he truly seemed taller, despite his escorts who were both larger men. He was completely bald, which reminded Arad of Shulgi, the kindly pilot who had brought him safely across the sea to Benn’s Harbour from his home of Somria. The commander had, however, a great moustache, which began thick and lustrous under his nose and twisted to oiled points drooping down past his heavily cleft chin. His eyes were deeply socketed, with thick grey eyebrows above and dark circles below, the overall effect of which was to make him appear studious. Arad would never, however, have mistaken him for a scholar. The man before him, he knew from all his years in training as a Krakari, was a warrior, though and through. He positively stunk of command, and his bearing suggested a reclining boxcat, ready at any moment to leap.
“The commander has the athlete at a disadvantage,” Arad said formally, performing the carefully practiced bow appropriate for formal meetings in Benn’s Harbour—but adding his own flourish, the hand-to-heart gesture from his homeland.
The commander was pleased; his moustache twisted out just enough to prove a smile lay beneath it. He snapped erect, as only military men could do, and placed right hand firmly on the guard of his sword, and left across his chest, palm down. “I am Front-Captain Pilaeos Gallord-Smit, of the Lordsguard, addressed with honour,” he said. “My escort, Right-Precepts Willart and Opsinfeel.” He didn’t motion to include the other two, but they snapped erect as he mentioned each of them, identifying which was which.
Arad was stunned. He didn’t know military uniforms well enough to identify a soldier’s unit, but he had assumed the three were local guard of Benn’s Harbour. They weren’t—they were Lordsguard, the elite army answering only to the Lords’ Council themselves. In theory, every lord in the lands ruled by the council outranked the officers of the Lordsguard, but in practice—very few would challenge their authority, save members of the council themselves.
Not sure of the proper etiquette in dealing with a man of such rank, Arad simple stood there awkwardly. The Front-Captain was clearly accustomed to this reaction, because he paused lengthily before continuing.
Finally he drew a deep breath, which rattled slightly in his chest. “You are Arad Sherzi El Kirizal.” It was a statement, not a question, so Arad just nodded. Gallord-Smit mixed the order of the sirenames, but Arad wasn’t about to correct him.
“Your father is Taral Sherzi El Trentel.”
Another statement, but Arad replied reluctantly, “That is true.”
“Of Somria,” Gallord-Smit added, his heavy eyebrows lowering, and partially concealing his eyes.
“Yes, Front-Captain.” Arad said. He didn’t know the correct honorific with which to address an officer here.
Gallord-Smit walked a few paces slowly away from his two escorts, his back to Arad, looking up at the stadium seating that ran up the hillside. He drew another deep breath and released it; turned back.
“Finally, I’ve found you,” he said, his eyes shining with victory.
Arad frowned. He should have expected that someone would discover his identity; he hadn’t hidden it, so it had just been a matter of time. Oh, he had imagined that he might just fade into the city, his lineage forgotten, but he hadn’t really believed it would be true. He was, after all, a public figure, his name on the lips of many of the city’s sporting fans every time a tournament took place. Merchants plied the seas between Somria and Benn’s Harbour with regularity, and merchants liked to gossip. It had really just been a matter of time, he knew, and he had reason to be thankful that it had a been a year. A year of anonymity, now over.
Arad wanted to burst out at him, demanding to know why he was here, what he wanted with Arad. Had he committed some crime? Violated some cultural taboo? Was he no longer welcome in Benn’s Harbour?
But Arad had learned patience in his years of krakar study, and he remained still. The Front-Captain would make clear his intent when ready, and demonstrating anxiety would only worsen his situation.
As if sensing his thoughts, Gallord-Smit turned, locking his eyes on Arad. “Your help is required.”
“My help? What could I offer you?”
Gallord-Smit took a breath. “Lord Perrile—of the Lords’ Council—is having difficulties in negotiations with your father. There is a dispute regarding an island in the south sea; the lord was preparing a colony there, then discovered that your father’s liege had already claimed it. Lord Perrile intends to withdraw, but your father has declared it an invasion, and is threatening to attack the forces already on island. If he does, it will mean war between our two lands. Even if we win, it will mean no supplies from Somria after this harsh winter we’ve endured. That will mean many deaths from starvation in the countryside. Not to mention many young deaths in battle.” He stepped up to Arad. “Young man, you must use your influence to help him see our point of view. Make him understand we don’t intend invasion or war.”
Arad breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that he hadn’t done any wrong; the Front-Captain wasn’t here to arrest him.
But the Front-Captain had made an assumption, one that he needed to correct immediately.
“My pardons, Front-Captain, but you are mistaken. I have no influence with my father.”
Gallord-Smit narrow his eyes and pursed his lips. “Ludicrous. However disconnected you may be, he is your father. He will listen to you.”
“No,” Arad said. He knew he was playing with fire, and should be falling over himself to show proper respect; the Front-Captain could, after all, throw him in a cell if he was so inclined. But Arad was feeling an old fury rising within him, and it was difficult to ignore.
“Explain,” Gallord-Smit commanded.
Now Arad turned away, walking over to the edge of the stage, closing his eyes tightly. “Our parting was not in fair terms, Front-Captain. My regrets, but truly, he will not even welcome me at his table, much the less attend my views.” He turned back, attempting to hold the Front-Captain with the same intense stare that he had been on the receiving end of. “You’ve come here for nothing. I can not help you.”
Gallord-Smit pace
d slowly over to Arad, turning to stand beside him, and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. All the while he held his eyes, so that Arad had no choice but to face him. In some way, the officer managed to project an aura of authority yet, at the same time, a paternal compassion.
Arad found himself wondering what it would be like to have him as a father.
“Tell me,” Gallord-Smit said gently, his voice a soft rumble.
Arad looked heavily up into his eyes, and felt resignation. All of the anguish that he had shed on the long voyage across the sea began to envelop him once again, like a forgotten blanket drawn from a winter locker after a long, warm summer. It fell upon his shoulders and wrapped him in its cold, heavy, weight.
Allowing Gallord-Smit’s hand to slide off, he strode to the centre of the stage, stopped facing away from the three men, and turned suddenly, dramatically, as if he were about to perform a pre-tournament speech. Then, he began to speak, slowly and morosely, and told the story that he had hoped never to remember, much less share.
・ ・
Arad had been raised on a military barracks, under the all-seeing eyes of his father Trentel Sherzi El, Taral, the Commander-General of the northern army under the auspicious eyes of the Overlord of Somria, The Most Excellent Yalcin Rex. A true military man, his father expected nothing less than perfect order—in his army and in his household.
His mother Rae Sin was the daughter of a chieftain in the northern lands, married to his father to maintain peace in those lands, and secure the Overlord’s hold on the region as his viceroy. His mother, forever a prisoner at their home, barely spoke the common tongue and made no effort to learn, or to teach her children her own. Growing up, Arad had never seen warmth between his parents. Had not he been blessed with a truly great friend and mentor, Krakar Master Win Wal, he would never have learned the meanings of love and kindness, and would surely have become his father’s son. Win Wal, a foreigner in Somria who never revealed his land of origin, had nonetheless brought with him his beautiful wife Ooji, a kindly round-faced woman who showered Arad with motherly care. In the welcoming arms of these two foreigners, Arad learned of love and honour and respect and generosity. They were his parents; his birth father was simply his commander, and his mother, the commander’s consort.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 8