by Erik A Otto
One bright spot occurred two weeks later, when Saintjoie finally took them into the ancient-texts hall, stating that they were “ready to finish the tour.” The door to the hall was almost all silverstone, and the silverstone was unusually ornate, with flowery flourishes and artful renderings of towns and people carved into it. Sebastian also noticed that the door had language inscribed in it. While he couldn’t make sense of the words, it looked vaguely similar to the door he’d seen in the Forefather ruin.
Saintjoie fumbled with the lock, heaved the door open in three jerks, then entered, and the apprentices flowed in cautiously.
The books at the beginning of the hall were over a hundred years old, categorized reverse chronologically as the hallway extended back. Sebastian felt butterflies in his stomach as they walked into history. Two hundred years, three hundred years, four hundred years. Saintjoie informed them that at the end of the hallway there was another locked room. In that room there was one of the only surviving original Book of Canons from seven hundred years ago. According to Saintjoie, no one was allowed to enter that room. It required keys from the head librarian and Conductor Preto. It seemed a bit of a tall tale, but still plausible in the context of the other stiff rules they had to obey.
They were almost at the end of the hall when Fane reached out to touch one of the four-hundred-year-old books. Saintjoie slapped him with his stick and made him suffer the fan for three hours. The tour also abruptly ended for Hercibal and Sebastian, without them even reaching the end. They had been in the hall for five minutes. He longed to spend ten or fifteen minutes more, if only to survey the titles of all the ancient volumes.
But instead, Fane was ushered off to the fan, and Saintjoie glared at Hercibal and Sebastian until they properly sat back down at their workbench and were well into the latest copy. Then Saintjoie receded and made sure the ancient-texts hallway door was properly shut and locked.
Chapter 12
The Traitor
Managash was like Dashoon in many ways. There were the same three building types she’d seen on her journey. It also had a massive exterior wall with outward-facing curvilinear hooks made of wood and a moat filled with a brown slurry. This wall and moat surrounded the entire city, with the exception of a gap where it met with the Great Ocean to form the harbor. Managash also had a keep that looked much like paintings she’d seen of the Old Keep of Belidor, except that it was just the one solitary tower, and much smaller, and with no Matagon Spire jutting out of the side. Other smaller renditions of that same keep tower punctuated the city in other places as well.
It was in one of these smaller towers where Hella and her retinue had been housed for the last week. The accommodations were acceptable, to be sure. She had been worried about being held up in a dank cellar or overcrowded clan building, but here she could see down the hill into the city and even to the Great Ocean. Her quarters were sizeable enough, and she had a sturdy bed at night and passable meals.
The problem was that Managash wasn’t the capital. Managash wasn’t where the Herald was nor his council. Despite the relative comfort of her accommodations, in everything but name, they were prisoners in a remote border region of Jawhar, far away from her intended destination.
She didn’t know why she’d been taken here. For the first day of the march to Managash, she dared not confront Colonel Hayzan. She assumed that the lack of communication was a Jawhari trait that should be tolerated, but her tolerance gradually evaporated with each step in the opposite direction of the capital.
It took several confrontations with Hayzan’s men before she was even permitted a conversation. When they did speak, he offered her only platitudes and suggested she was lucky to be staying in a big city with many amenities. Finally, when they were almost two full days into the march, she commanded her men to not move until Hayzan provided an explanation. He begrudgingly explained they were going to Managash because “the Herald isn’t ready to see her yet.” She doubted this vagary was anywhere close to the truth. Why wouldn’t they at least let her settle into her accommodations in Judud Jawhar and meet other council members?
She maintained her obstinacy until Hayzan told her they could hold camp where they were or go to Managash; it was no difference to him. The brackish villages and townships nearby didn’t make stopping sound like an attractive alternative.
In hindsight she wondered whether it would have been better to call his bluff. At least she could have tried to make an escape. With the steep walls of the tower and Managash enveloping her, it seemed hopeless.
Hayzan made it hard for her to interact with her retinue, perhaps for fear of some kind of mutiny. She wasn’t allowed to meet with her people in private. And whether at her chamber door, in the dinner hall, or in the small audience room, there was always at least one of Hayzan’s men nearby. They didn’t even pretend to show discretion. When the conversation quieted, the sentries shuffled closer to them, unabashed by the blatant imposition. It made obtaining advice on how to navigate their current predicament next to impossible.
For the first few days in Managash, she did little but eat, sleep, and ponder her situation morosely, trying in vain to find inspiration by looking out the window at the often grim-looking inhabitants. It wasn’t until she yelled and threatened Hayzan that he granted her the small grace of letting his men accompany her through the city in the name of “exercise.”
Her victory was small, and afterward she learned that being confined with Hayzan and his guards could have its advantages; twice volleys of stones assailed her group, and once a mob had to be cleared by Hayzan’s guards.
The people of Managash had a certain look of desperation, as if they walked through the streets on tightropes of tension. Many looked sickly. They certainly didn’t take kindly to Pomerian princesses. Aside from that, she learned little about the Jawhari on these first two forays. She was told to look, and not touch; to listen, and not speak to the people. Hayzan claimed that the more she interacted with the inhabitants, the more likely it was she would provoke an inflammatory reaction.
It was on the third foray that she finally learned something useful.
She decided to try something different: to head away from the docks and the main administrative area. She turned her retinue northward to where the city rose up an incline. She might find something new, and if not, she would at least have an alternative view of the city.
She was surprised to find what was unmistakably a sign saying “Fringe” in silver scrawl on a black chalkboard, pointing up the hill. It looked to be in several tongues including Belidoran. She followed the signs, and lo and behold, there was a small zone of brown tents clustered in the northernmost part of the city, contoured by a short, thick wall of darkish mud-like material filled with knobby black protrusions. Only the Fringe could make something as simple as an earthen wall seem alien. When she rode closer, she noticed leaflets in Jawhari plastering the area near the opening. She wasn’t sure if they were just periodical postings or something more hateful from the locals, but she suspected the latter.
She circled to the entrance, comforting her horse by massaging its mane while hinting to her personal guard with a tilt of her head toward the enclosure. Then she turned rather abruptly, moving through the opening.
The captain yelled out, “Envoy, there is Fringe. Colonel not permit you.” He knew some Belidoran, but it was choppy at best.
Hella pulled the reins and half looked back. “He did?” she asked wistfully. “He said nothing about not going in the Fringe areas. Besides, it’s probably less dangerous than anywhere else in Managash.”
Without waiting for the captain’s response, she continued into the enclosure.
Hella heard the captain exchange some snappy Jawhari with another guard, but he didn’t call her back. Instead, her Jawhari escort fanned out and surrounded their little problem child.
Hella smiled, for it was another small victory.
The Fringe lived in tents—or rather oblong yurts. There were only ten
of these of varying sizes littered about. Men and women in brown robes came out of these dwellings, watching the thirteen of them ride in with curiosity. The Fringe were a diverse folk, many probably originating from Jawhar, judging by their tan skin, but others from Yensun and Belidor by the looks of them. Some were also clad with shiny silverstone swords and daggers sheathed openly through their belts. Hella guessed these weapons were primarily decorative, more to promote their wares than for defensive purposes.
In most Belidoran-speaking lands, seeing Fringe was a regular occurrence, but Hella had only happened across them a few times, on her travels to Belidor as a child. This was because in Pomeria, trafficking in the products of the Fringe without a license was outlawed, and of course, no licenses were actually granted. In other lands, like Belidor, the large houses tolerated the Fringe and allowed them to toil on their few tracks of land, but only in return for reasonable prices on all the wares that could be obtained via their dark arts.
Hella addressed the men and women assembling outside to watch them. “Fringe traders, may I speak with whomever leads you?” She smiled at an old woman with knotted hair who had a confused look on her face.
She didn’t know if they spoke Belidoran, but she’d heard that Fringe knew multiple languages as a necessity for trade.
No one responded at first, but then the old woman adopted a lopsided expression and pointed to one of the yurts.
“Thank you.” Hella said, nodding.
The captain was ponying up to her. “No to speaking, Envoy,” he said.
“No speaking to Jawhari was the rule. These aren’t Jawhari, they are Fringe. Come, Captain. You can watch over me if you’re concerned.” She was reaching her limit, she knew, but this captain seemed softer than the rest—she would see how far she could lean into him before he pushed back.
Without waiting for a response, she trotted toward the yurt the Fringe woman had pointed to. She could hear the captain’s horse follow, keeping pace behind her.
As she pulled up to the yurt, an older man ducked out of the entrance. He could have been of Belidoran descent, but it was hard to tell with all his facial hair. His beard was long and mostly gray, pulled together into a braid that frizzed out at the end. He also had a yellow discoloration high on his left cheek that fell somewhere between a birth mark and an oversized freckle. He wore the same indiscriminate brown clothing as the other Fringe, but he didn’t appear to be adorned with any weaponry.
“Ahhh, the Pomerian princess,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. Would you like to join me for tea?” His smile revealed a potpourri of black, yellow, and brown teeth.
Her royal discipline couldn’t help her hide a smidgen of surprise. His Belidoran was good, he knew who she was, and tea? But this was a savage Fringe man! Only his outward appearance fit her stereotype.
She composed herself. “It would be my pleasure. Shall I join you in your…tent, sir?”
“Aye, come,” he said, waving her in and pulling the flap aside with one hand.
She entered with a measure of poise. Behind her there was a crash as the captain and her lead guard bumped into each other. Judging by the forcefulness of the collision, the captain didn’t look like he was going to be denied entry.
Hella addressed her guard. “Waynard, please let the captain join us. He needs to be by my side. You can wait outside with the others.”
Waynard nodded cautiously and pulled back.
The Fringe man looked annoyed by the captain’s presence but said nothing. He began preparing the tea, with his back to her. “Why don’t you sit down and relax,” he said. “I know it can be prickly out there.”
The yurt was remarkably spacious. The Fringe had been creatively economical; pots, dishes, food sacks and clothing hung from the ceiling and they used multipurpose carpets in lieu of couches and chairs. When she was seated, however, she found that this apparent airiness was undermined by faint odors of musk, oil, and body odor.
“Are you what they call a Purveyor, sir?” Hella asked. She wasn’t well versed in Fringe culture but knew something of their loosely knit authority systems. Purveyors were of a high rank among the Fringe and were looked to for advice and guidance.
He shook his head. “No, Princess. We have no Purveyor here at this outpost. The closest one is in Niknak. I’m a trader, and I also captain one of the few ships we have. The others in the camp have led you to me because…I’ve seen a lot. Probably a bit too much for my liking.” He smiled his colorful grin again. “You can call me Krish.”
“How do you know who I am?” Hella asked.
“You must know you’re the talk of the town,” Krish said with an eyebrow raised. “But what is not known is what brings you to me, Princess.” He turned away and rummaged around behind him, one hand holding the kettle, gathering some loose teacups. He poured the steaming-hot liquid into a cup and gave it to her. It looked like something fruity, with a reddish color.
She took it and smiled. She went to drink it carefully, wary of what could be in a Fringe diet. Before it hit her lips, a delicious strawberry aroma wafted into her nostrils. She took a small sip and rested the cup on her lap, relieved to not have to force down something less appetizing.
Her mind raced. She didn’t have any specific questions prepared for Krish—this Fringe encampment was a surprise. Yet at the same time there were many unknowns about her predicament that were begging for answers. In the pregnant pause while Krish waited for her to speak, she decided she would do what she was told by many of her advisers to avoid: be honest and direct.
“Krish, I thank you for your hospitality. I seek to know more about your place here in Managash. It intrigues me. Beyond that, I must say that I’m lost and in need of guidance. I’ve been waylaid on my journey to the Herald for reasons I don’t understand. I seek to know why, if that answer is available to you.” Hella watched the Jawhari captain out of the corner of her eye. Her question was a test of him as much as a question to Krish. The captain seemed anxious, but he didn’t look about to intervene.
Krish moved his head back in a gesture of surprise, then laughed. “I’m a bit flummoxed, Princess. We Fringe have a saying; the truth cuts like a rusty blade. These words must be painful for you, yet here you are, speaking them. I thought we might spend a half an hour bandying about. It’s not what I’m used to, you see. Trading is all about trying to find someone’s needs through the fog of their words, but here you have presented them to me without effort.”
She returned a weak smile and nodded, with a token of pleading in her eyes. Krish looked mildly unsettled, eyeing the captain, but shrugged and said, “Well, I can’t tell you why you’ve been treated this way. The last person who would find out is a Fringe like me. There are other questions I can answer for you though, but only if you answer my questions with the same earnestness you’ve just shown. How does that sound?“ While he was speaking he scratched the upper leg of his mud-streaked pants, almost grappling his groin while doing so.
Hella resisted the urge to look away. She’d heard the Fringe lacked for manners, but this scratching seemed to be almost explicit. There were certainly savage elements to this man after all. She would tolerate the impropriety, however, if it meant she might learn something. “I will do my best, sir.”
“Good! But first, maybe some hookah?” He opened another drawer and took out a long pipe. “I want to be sure I’m being a good host. We don’t get many princesses coming to visit.”
Hookah was smoked in much of Jawhar, according to Paykal. The Jawhari believed it to have medicinal properties. She’d smelled it only once before. One of the bushy brow Pomerian admirals had shown her how to smoke it when she was a little girl. The only thing she remembered was that it had a strong fragrance. It was sweet—too sweet—like the rotting fruit piles in the back of the Palace orchard.
She reasoned that she could tolerate some impropriety, but not fumes from this stench pipe. She smiled. “Thank you, Krish. I think I will pass on the hookah, though, if you wi
ll beg my pardon.”
He shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.” He lit the end and took a long draw. Thankfully, he exhaled in the direction of the captain, whose only reaction was to curl his nostrils slightly.
Krish sat back on a pile of rugs and said, “So you wanted to know why we Fringe are here. The answer is simple. We’re just humble traders trying to make a living.” He leaned in to her with a whisper. “And stay alive, I might add. If we don’t trade with our neighbors, they see us as enemies.”
Hella asked, “But what brings you to Managash, specifically, and where were you before? I thought in this part of the world the Fringe only operated in the lands between Jawhar and Belidor.”
He sighed and answered, “You know they say asking a Fringe where he comes from is like asking the Great Ocean from which lake it originated. It’s a true likeness really, for many of us have long stories that are difficult to explain, but I’ll answer your question as best I can.”
She nodded, accepting any information willingly. She had indeed heard that many Fringe didn’t speak of their pasts, especially where they’d originated. It was a cultural more brought about by the fact that many were outcast naustics or criminals in former lives.
“The lands you speak of, called Niknak by us Fringe, are the closest thing we have to a home, at least in the southwest. We Fringe here in Managash are an outpost of Niknak, a place to ship in quantities of goods prepared in Niknak so that local town-dwellers can access them. It’s a more efficient system than Belidor, where we have to haul our wares all over the countryside. This small outpost also serves other Jawhari towns, and I should say the Jawhari are good customers. Unfortunately, they aren’t as fond of bone varieties as the Belidorans, often using their own petrified wood in place of bone where they can. But because there isn’t as much you can do with petrified wood, they end up buying silverstone to compensate, which is more lucrative than bone.”