by Erik A Otto
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was silence for a moment as Hella struggled to maintain the conversation. Battia seemed to be unwilling to ask any questions of her own.
“Isn’t there a major army camp south of Tardiff?” Hella asked. “Do you live near there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What did you do in your youth?”
“I cleaned clothes, ma’am.”
“Perfect training for an assignment in Jawhar.” Hella said sarcastically.
Battia just looked at her, unsure of how to respond.
“I’m being facetious, Battia,” Hella said. “My training is probably as good as yours. I’m not sure training for such a thing is even possible.” She smirked.
Battia stared and then looked away without responding. She had a tendency to avert her eyes, amplifying her unresponsiveness to Hella’s questions. Despite her good heritage and the education that came with it, she was mostly listless. But Hella sympathized. Battia was in an almost identical situation: being forced into a dangerous assignment in the heart of the lands of a historical enemy. One couldn’t be expected to be all cheer in such a situation.
Either way, it looked like female companionship might be hard to come by on the voyage.
“Well, Battia, I thank you for your service. Let’s hope the horror stories aren’t all true.”
“Yes ma’am.” Battia responded.
After some time, Mr. Veckio pulled up to her, relieving her from the uncomfortable silence she was enduring with Battia.
“How do you fare, my princess?” Mr. Veckio asked, his flattish face expressionless.
Ordinarily she would offer a nobleman polite, superficial chatter, but she decided there was no need to come off as a respectable princess anymore. She was going to purgatory, and that was all that mattered. “Call me Envoy, please. I’m no longer a Princess. As to your question, ask it of yourself in my situation, and there is your answer.”
Mr. Veckio smiled. “I see they have prepared you well for your appointment, Envoy.”
After a pause, Mr. Veckio began again. “If I may, I must ask that you not boil me in the same pot of stew as Mr. Pontrain. We are both noblemen of Pomeria, but that’s where our similarities end. In our dealings I see that Mr. Pontrain often jumps to conclusions and sees risk, when in those same situations I see great potential and opportunity.”
He was surely implying he didn’t hold the same misgivings about her appointment, but Hella didn’t know if he was being sincere or if he was buttering her up. “I grasp your meaning, sir, and your words are kind, but I don’t need them where I’m going. What I need is information. What can you tell me?”
His smile broadened. “I’m glad of your candor and directness, Envoy. The first is appreciated by me, and the latter will be useful where you are going. Both relieve my reluctance at telling you too much.”
“Sir, I’m your princess, so no secrets should be kept. You should be wary of your words. Holding secrets from the Crown is treason.”
He seemed to be nonplussed by the threat, waving his hand as if to shoo away a fly by his ear. “You just told me to name you Envoy, not Princess, and if there are secrets that I keep, I keep them for the Crown, not against it. By now you must have weighed all the possibilities, including the one where you could be a sponge of information that they squeeze and discard. I’m sure you have, and believe me, I know of their methods for extracting information. Those methods, above all, I’m sure you don’t want me to impart.”
She swallowed. Her blunt approach might be backfiring. No noble had ever spoken so blatantly to her.
But he moved back on course. “To answer your question, Envoy, I’m sure you’ve had the best teachings we can offer, and you probably know as much as anyone in Pomeria on the subject, save a few, but those few know quite a bit. And what those few know…needs to be treated with care.”
Mr. Veckio’s eyes were on Battia and the cleric Paykal, who were riding a few feet ahead of them. Veckio pulled his reins to slow his pace. Respecting his concern, Hella slowed her horse to match. The column gained some distance from them.
He turned his eyes back to engage with hers. “The genesis of your undertaking stems not from Pomeria but from Judud Jawhar. The request for a royal ambassador was made to Belidor first, but Belidor was unwilling to send an Envoy. Belidor and your parents brokered until they decided Pomeria should send one instead. Collectively, they knew that if something happened to a Belidoran ambassador, the aftermath could be devastating, but conflict arising around a Pomerian diplomat could be less inflammatory. Also, your parents saw this as an opportunity to extend their tentacles into Belidor and even Thelonia. They were richly rewarded for their sacrifice and will continue to be if stability can be maintained. Or I should say, they were rewarded for your sacrifice, Envoy.”
He looked away again, toward the column, his eyes darting back and forth as he spoke. “But if I may say, Envoy, while this should be known to you, it shouldn’t be cause for despair. Your importance is more than you realize. You could be instrumental in the fate of two, maybe three great nations. Your selection wasn’t chosen lightly and should temper any malice toward the king and queen, for although danger lies ahead, know at least the faith they must have in your ability to navigate this charge.”
It was more insight than she’d heard from anyone else on the subject of her Announcement. At first she found it hard to believe, but the logic seemed to follow, and she couldn’t sense any deceptive motive. It was strange, though, that this elfish nobleman should harbor all this knowledge. And his words about the kingdom’s faith in her could be true, but did little to assuage her. At the moment she felt like an idiot, an oblivious princess in the eye of a political hurricane.
“You seem distracted, Envoy. Shall I continue?”
“Please.”
He nodded. “So that is the context, but what is the motive? What is the motive for the Jawhari to ask for an ambassador in the first place? They haven’t taken an envoy or ambassador for as long as we have recorded history. Nor have they offered one of their own. The only contact between their rulers and ours, or I should say Belidor’s, have been terms of surrender from the various wars we have engaged in over the years. The wound is deeper than the Deep Well and more saturated with salt. And so we’ve learned some things. Some things only a few of us know.”
He paused, as if that was the end, but she knew it wasn’t. He seemed to be baiting her to ask for more, relishing in the scarcity of his intelligence and its utility to a Pomerian princess.
“Mr. Veckio, I pray you inform me. My life may depend on this information, so I would appreciate we do away with games of wordplay.”
He nodded, glanced ahead again to ensure they were still a safe distance from the rest of the column, then continued. “A new Jawhari power is emerging. Hakim El-Eriam, the Jawhari Herald, grows old after his thirty-three-year reign and is easily plied by his advisers. Of these advisers, there is a caste that supports the Jawhari faith—the Usaim Doctrine—with great vehemence. They are pulling at his coat sleeves and whispering through his waxy ears more than any other. As far as I know, they haven’t voiced any specific discord with us in the east, but they are radical and extreme, going by the word of their Doctrine with such discipline that a religious war could be in play should they wrest power. We believe it is they who spurred the request for an envoy. Why? We don’t know. Surely not for the sake of peace and prosperity, but there is also no clear reason why they would seize an envoy, for it could jeopardize their tenuous climb to control. No, something in between, something sinister, but we don’t know what.”
Hella nodded as she pondered Veckio’s words.
“I hope the envoy finds this information useful,” Veckio said. “Unfortunately, I think there is little else that can be relayed about your position, at least from between these two big ears.”
Hella was glad to have the information. At the same time she was growing more curious as to the
nobleman’s role in all of this. It made sense that he should know about the affairs of the Jawhari. His lands were along the Sea of Pomer, which was shared with Jawhar, and he was on the Pomerian nobleman’s council, yet he seemed to know a lot more than a view of Jawhari lands could inform. She thought about probing deeper, but then reconsidered. He wouldn’t reveal his sources to a “sponge that could be squeezed and discarded.”
“Mr. Veckio, I can’t say I’m encouraged by what you say, but I can say that I appreciate the knowledge of it. Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, Envoy, and I truly wish you success, for should war come, I will be the first to host the uninvited guests.”
She nodded glumly.
The column would at times attract the attention of the common folk as they passed through the emerald green Pomerian meadows and pastures. Many would wave and stare.
At one point they passed by a large horse farm that was bustling with activity. There were races being held on the grounds, and a number of spectators had shown up to watch. Nearer by, a few teenagers were learning to ride in a well-trodden meadow. Some of the more adventurous of these galloped right up alongside to greet the princess and inquire as to their journey. They escorted a strong smell of earth and grass and manure with them.
Hella only smiled and waved until Tasman positioned his sturdy steed between the teens and her to keep them at a distance. The teens were told nothing and eventually ushered away in the name of the Crown.
One couldn’t know how the common folk would react to a princess as an ambassador to Jawhar. Some of the more educated might understand. Or at least they might understand enough to know that the reason was complicated. Others might openly rebel, seeing one of their esteemed royal family being sent across the Deep Well to be tortured and dismembered.
This was why mother had made it clear that the communication would be handled carefully, well after she was in Jawhari lands, hopefully in one piece. On this, at least, Hella agreed with her mother.
Eventually they arrived in the town of Beverly, one of the small towns on the Sea of Pomer that made up part of Mr. Veckio’s province. It was mainly a port, dotted with a hundred or so of the quaint yellow-roofed buildings common to the maritime lands. Here the inquiries stopped, and everyone stayed away from her retinue. Perhaps Mr. Veckio had instructed his people to respect her privacy well in advance.
On a street corner just a block away from their lodging, she noticed a rotting old signpost. It read Beware of Infidels. A loosely attached blank leaf of birch bent in the wind underneath the stencil. The warnings seemed pointless to Hella, more to scare the locals rather than serve any real law enforcement purpose, especially because there hadn’t been any Marked infidels in at least a year. But the townspeople would be required to maintain the signs in order to stay on good graces with the Sandaliers, just like the Royal Guard were required to do the same at the palace.
The lodge served them all a tasty lemon-pepper fish for supper, with scalloped potatoes and herbs that one could only find close to the sea. Then they rested for the evening. Hella was going to try her luck with Tasman, but she felt preoccupied with all she’d learned from Veckio.
Flirting seemed trivial in the face of her looming assignment.
They rose early the next day, for it would be a long one. Before the day was done, they hoped to traverse the majority of the Sea of Pomer and reach Dashoon, the Jawhari port on the northernmost tip of the sea.
The galley they boarded was the biggest in the fleet, according to Mr. Veckio. It was three stories tall, with two man-sized ornate Pomerian crests dominating the port side. The interior deck was laden with wide Albondo blue-oak beams from bow to stern. It could house at least a hundred men if needed. In this case, there would be a crew of forty-five, plus the guests, plus the horses.
The wind was light, so they made slow progress. They kept close to the east coast, traversing up the remainder of Veckio’s lands as the coastline turned from the more arable plains of Pomeria to the rolling hills and woodlands that marked the border with Belidor.
The hills and forest descended into the fortifications of Fort Maga. It was there that the first signs of Jawhar began to assert themselves. Fort Maga’s squat, curvilinear petrified-wood buildings lined the shore along black sandy beaches littered with battlements, like solidified waves in an ocean of jacks. Some of these buildings were charred or empty, unmended scars from the wars of the past. Beyond the fort were untended plains without crops, farms, or cattle. It seemed a waste to Hella since almost all land was used in Pomeria. But she could understand if farmers might think twice about settling this close to the border.
Further up the coast, they saw the fortified wall of the Jawhari border. It was made of petrified wood reinforced with staunch Matar bone rods, extending several hundred feet into the sea. As the ship steered closer, a Jawhari soldier in a tower on the jetty saw them and saluted, having no doubt been informed in advance of their passage. The ship captain saluted in turn, and they continued to sail up the coast.
She took in the voyage from the ship deck, allowing the light breeze to ruffle her hair. It was refreshing at times, but it didn’t soothe her. It was offputting in that it simply felt out of place. Storm clouds and gale force winds would have been more fitting.
The Jawhari lands appeared to be no different from the plains around Fort Maga. Then it became darker, as if scorched by a wildfire, and Hella began to think the stories were true about Jawhar being “dark and foreboding.” But the darkened lands didn’t last. They eventually faded into brown and even golden grasses. Pockets of green and blue sprang up as well. It wasn’t as lush as Pomeria, but it held a sort of wild beauty.
It was this way through much of the voyage, until, toward the end of the day, they began to see Jawhari dwellings. At first there were only lines of buildings that were close to the ground, looking like miniature hillocks. These were the simplest Jawhari dwellings she’d read about, used by mostly farmers and herders. Then more sophisticated structures began to emerge. On these buildings, arched wood trusses rose and crossed in the middle, terminating in corners pointing into the sky. These dominated the functional building itself, which seemed to hang from these trusses like a sack of potatoes, not touching the ground. Ramps rose up from the ground to enter into these hanging buildings.
Paykal had explained that although ugly and perhaps an inefficient use of space, the structure served a number of purposes. For one, it kept the main building dry and free of any flooding risk. For another, the main structure became an unattainable battlement when the ramps were removed.
Two Jawhari galleys intercepted their ship. They were smaller than Mr. Veckio’s prize but still impressive in terms of speed and maneuverability. The officers exchanged some flags and signals. Then the two came alongside to guide them into port.
As they approached Dashoon, more varied buildings emerged. Hella could see a few huge buildings that resembled giant lima beans that were positioned with the concavity pointing toward the sky. These were so big that they could be almost half the size of the palace in Pomer City. If she recalled correctly, these were usually institutional buildings like schools or centers of administration. The shape was in homage to one of the original Usaim temples founded in Jawhar.
They were guided into Dashoon’s narrow bay and were led to one of the many docks. Their escorts remained where they were, and Hella’s entourage spent much time waiting for someone to greet them.
Hella watched the small port city buzz from her perch on the deck of the galley. Like Fort Maga, Dashoon had seen its fair share of war, but it seemed more vibrant. Judging by the carts and boats, this was perhaps a trade center for local farmers and fishermen, as well as a military outpost.
There could be no doubt that their escort would be of the military variety. A whole squad of thirty men clothed in matching, tight-fitting brown uniforms marched up the dock to the gangway. The captain of Mr. Veckio’s galley was first to meet them, walking prou
dly but slowly down to them. They exchanged words, then peered in Hella’s direction and nodded.
Her heart skipped a beat, and she sighed. She had one of her men collect the bags she’d stowed next to her, then she walked down to meet the Jawhari escort.
The leading Jawhari officer was an older man with olive skin. He was well-mustached and adorned with a white slash and circle on his hat where the others were bare. She knew from her teachings that this meant he was a higher officer, probably in command of more than this squad.
She smiled at him, but his face remained as stiff as his uniform. “Honored to meet you, sir. How may I address you?”
“Hello, representative. I am Colonel Calvek Hayzan. I will be accompanying you to Managash.”
His Belidoran seemed excellent, which was a relief. Generally her Jawhari was horrendous. After only two weeks of study, she knew a few words and phrases, and she dared not offend him with bungling the language right away. But what was this about Managash? She was going to Judud Jawhar.
“Colonel, it was my understanding I was to meet with the Jawhari council and the Great Herald in Judud Jawhar. Has there been a change in plan?”
“Yes. Have your people disembark and follow me. The boat must leave now.” He snapped his fingers twice and walked away from her, two of his soldiers rolling out to follow.
She spent a brief moment projecting an aura of being offended. She also weighed exerting her authority, but after some time spent in contemplation, she decided to do it the colonel’s way. If they wanted to murder her they wouldn’t have been up-front about the change in plans.
She turned to the captain. “You heard the colonel. Please help my entourage disembark, and then we will be on our way.”
The captain looked at her with some consternation and turned to walk up the plank. She realized she’d been infected with some of the colonel’s abruptness and so she called after him, “Captain, thank you for your service, and also give my thanks to Mr. Veckio, but we must abide by the Jawhari here.” He gazed back at her and nodded, looking almost sad, then went about his duty of arranging for her retinue to disembark.