by Erik A Otto
The two who were with Timothur were obviously not apprentices. They must have been here for the Noble’s Exams—just as Timothur was. Noble’s exams were dumbed-down versions of the apprentice exams. They allowed wealthy common folk to say they had passed tests of the faith.
She continued, “My friend, we have been debating the value of the Cena school and are trying to understand what the Sandaliers really think about it. Please, tell me, is it true that the Sandaliers shun it?”
Sebastian looked at Timothur and the other man but could divine no more about the argument to be adjudicated. “I’m not a Sandalier, so I can’t—”
The lady interrupted, “Yes, yes, we know you can’t speak for them, but I’m sure as an apprentice Sandalier, you know their mind. Don’t worry, we won’t hold you accountable for your view. It is Repentance Week, you know.”
It was only a mildly controversial subject, so Sebastian couldn’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t answer the question. Besides, he’d heard from his father on the issue, and his father’s view was always the most pious.
Sebastian said, “It’s true that there are those that believe the Cenarans to be inferior, that they have a savage and unsophisticated faith, so are to be shunned. Many ask why Belidor would send some of their best to be schooled by them in a faraway land across the Great Ocean.”
Sebastian paused, trying to read expressions, but their faces were unrevealing.
“But the Sandaliers are not so narrow-minded. There is value to be learned in trade with the Cenarans, despite their baseness. They are well-versed in earthly matters such as carpentry, bone masonry, weaving, and the like, and eager to teach. The Canon of Humility teaches that one can learn much from one without much.’”
The burly gray-haired youth nodded knowingly. The woman also nodded and smiled again, casting a winning glance at Timothur. Apparently Timothur had been the one debating otherwise.
“Don’t the Sandaliers teach the Canon of Belief as well?” Timothur said with a hint of annoyance. “That nonbelievers should be turned or be cleansed? Applying only the Canon of Humility seems to be an overly simplistic view of whether our children should school with Cenaran snails.”
Sebastian could have demurred, but he was defending his father’s view as much as his own. It wouldn’t be right to let this go. “What is simplistic is their faith, honorable Timothur. In fact, their faith is so simplistic as to be clearly false—with just a few Canons, a handful of prophecies, and their barbaric tattooing and facial bloodletting rituals. And, importantly, unless something has changed, the Cenaran faith isn’t taught at the Cena school, so there should be no concern of them influencing our youth. No, the Cena school teaches only basic trades, like bone masonry, botany and carpentry. For that reason it’s perceived as no more than a guild by the Sandaliers. An expensive, distant guild, but still a guild nonetheless.”
Timothur’s azure eyes bulged.
The woman laughed and joined in. “Yes, really, Timothur, I don’t know where this grudge of yours comes from. You speak as if we should be worried about the Cenarans, and yet they haven’t raised a hand against Belidor in hundreds of years. Their traders drool at our feet like lapdogs. And the apprentice here is dead on. Their entire theology can be written on a pamphlet you could read in the privy.”
Timothur glared and waved his hand in the air, then did an about-face and skulked away from them. The crowd was no impediment for Timothur—it parted easily before him.
“Well,” the woman said, laughing. “He seems to have taken that rather personally.” The woman smiled excessively, much like the Great Defender. It was a trait Sebastian had seen in many common folk.
Sebastian wondered if he’d offended Timothur. He had no particular desire to be on his good graces, but it wouldn’t be wise to be disliked by a member of one of the most powerful clans in Belidor. Perhaps he should have chosen his words more carefully.
The silver-haired man could sense his angst. “Don’t worry, apprentice. Timothur is hot-tempered at the best of times, and tonight the rosemary beer has been flowing.”
The woman also put her hand on his arm. “And as one of the few Esienne nobles to not attend the Cena school, he may be a bit partial to his opinion.” She winked at him.
Sebastian returned a weak grin and nodded. He was eager to move on before he stumbled into any more trouble. It was a good rule of thumb to spend as little time with common folk as possible. Besides, he’d caught a glimpse of Perenna across the hall during the discussion. She’d been nominated for a position as High Scribe, a highly sought-after apprentice assignment that offered direct contact with some of the higher order Sandaliers, including the Conductor. Congratulations were in order.
He left the two nobles with a bow and tried his luck at parting the crowd again, hoping to see Perenna nearby.
After trying to wade through the throng, he could no longer find her, so he made his way to his original destination; the bar.
He decided to loiter for a while. Before he’d been eager for conversation, but the discussion with Timothur and the other nobles had put him off. He spent most of his time people watching. The bar area was slightly raised from the rest of the floor, so it gave him a better vantage to look for Perenna or the Conductor.
At one point he thought he saw Nala’s bright-colored tunic in the crowd, but it was someone else, of course.
He’d heard a disturbing rumor about Nala. Fane knew one of the apprentice guardsmen who said that he’d been asked to escort her out of the keep. Perhaps that was why she didn’t say goodbye to Sebastian before she left. He supposed they could have forced her out because she was speaking to others about the ruin, or maybe she had violated another Sandalier protocol. Considering Nala’s irreverent nature, anything was possible.
It was just a rumor, but it was still offputting, considering what they’d been through together.
He wondered what she was doing back in Aston. Although he was glad she wouldn’t be tempting him with any more troublemaking, he would miss her lighthearted conversation, her mischevious smile, and…
He finally saw Perenna. Her hair flowed perfectly from her crown, dark and shining, closely contouring her face. She was wearing a tight-fitting gown that floated across the floor as she spoke with another apprentice.
She was stunning.
Before Sebastian could muster the nerve to approach her he saw Timothur walking toward her. They connected and spoke for some time. The conversation appeared to be rather animated.
Perenna looked away from Timothur, and her eyes happened to catch Sebastian’s. Sebastian looked down. He walked closer to the bar to collect another drink—and to avoid being caught staring again. He stole another glance back at Perenna all the same. Perenna was pointing in his direction while Timothur was shaking his head.
Were they speaking of him? It certainly seemed that way.
He considered interjecting, not knowing what slander Timothur might be offering, but then he reconsidered. Perenna and Timothur were known acquaintances. For him to be standing with Perenna and Timothur, three from the incident of the ruin—wouldn’t look good to the Sandalier authorities, or to the Conductor. No, he should wait for them to finish.
It was Timothur who caught him looking the next time. Timothur then grabbed Perenna’s arm and led her out of the hallway with some force. Intoxicated onlookers might not have noticed his aggression, but Sebastian did. What under Matteo’s moon could they be talking about?
Surely Timothur wouldn’t harm Perenna?
Sebastian’s urgency to speak with Perenna increased. He battled an urge to run after them, weighing the repercussions of being seen with them against the possibility of harm coming to her.
But his brief time in contemplation caused him to lose Perenna and Timothur in the crowd. He did an exhaustive tour of the hall but couldn’t see any signs of them anymore.
Eventually he gave up looking for them, and he returned to the bar to scan the crowd from there.
After losing Perenna he felt defeated. In fact, he didn’t feel like being at the Gala at all. But he still needed to see the Conductor. He needed to look him in the eyes and ask for a separate audience. Then he could finally leave and decide whether to send the letter about the black book. Then maybe he could at least divest some of what he knew. Otherwise, the secrets he harbored might consume him.
The Conductor finally arrived. Sebastian watched him doing the rounds. Sebastian knew he would work the crowd with his social greetings, then finally make his way up for the speech. Sebastian hovered nearby, gradually moving toward the path of the Conductor. The Conductor was walking slowly, with an apprentice on one side and the head monk, Colidas Barbitan, on the other.
Just before Sebastian was about to step in the Conductor’s path, the Conductor caught his eye and deliberately moved toward him. Preto whispered something in Colidas’s ear, and his eyes locked on Sebastian as well. The Conductor wore his untainted smile, but Colidas didn’t look happy, if one could judge by the subtle pout of his lips and squint in his eyes.
When Preto first arrived in front of Sebastian, he only stared. Sebastian felt obliged to speak first. “Venerable Conductor, it’s an honor to see you again. I look forward to your speech.” And Sebastian bent in a low blind bow.
The Conductor’s smile was gone when Sebastian rose from his bow. His face was taut, his lips in a straight line. This wasn’t normal. He’d been smiling and nodding to all the other apprentices. Had Sebastian said something wrong?
Finally the Conductor opened his mouth, but the volume was unnatural.
The words were unthinkable.
“Sebastian Harvellian, you have breached Sandalier protocols and defied the Canons.”
The Conductor spoke even louder. “You have spread falsehoods and fiction in the name of truth. This is an inexcusable offense.”
The Conductor let it sink in for Sebastian. It sunk, and it sunk, finding no floor. What was happening?
A group of garrison men ran up behind the Conductor and two of them locked onto Sebastian’s arms.
The Conductor continued. “You are hereby expelled from your apprenticeship and are forbidden from Apostlehood. Furthermore, henceforth you shall not be allowed to set foot on the hallowed ground of the Old Keep. Guardians of Matteo’s grace, please rid our faithful guests of this blight.”
The Conductor turned his back to Sebastian and addressed the broader crowd, who by now were all staring in shock.
Sebastian’s feet lost purchase on the ground as he was elevated up by the garrison men. Looks of scorn and confusion greeted him as they lifted him through the hall. Sebastian heard the Conductor apologizing to the crowd. “I regret that you have to see such a disgraceful display on Repentance Week, but these offenses simply can’t be tolerated.”
He was pulled down the steps, and the Conductor’s voice faded. More looks of dismay, shame, and surprise all greeted him on the stairs and through the courtyard.
Through it all, Sebastian said nary a word. He didn’t cry, he didn’t speak, he didn’t even know if he blinked. Such was his confusion. Such was his shock and horror.
Once out of the gate, they stripped him of his robe and left only his undergarments and a pitiful square of cloth that contained the Harvellian crest. Then, when he was finally left alone under the glaring eyes of the gate guards, he made a sound. He whimpered. Then the whimper turned to a wail and the wail into a cry. He cried out louder and louder. But there were no tears. It was pain. It was the pain of a great loss compounded by the agony of not knowing why.
Chapter 16
The Traitor
Hella expected to see a more built up version of Managash. Judud Jawhar was far from that.
Throughout the many wars with Belidor, Judud Jawhar was the only Jawhari city that hadn’t been sacked or razed. It was for good reason too, because in the center of the town was a great hill with steep embankments on all sides. On that hill was another wall, as if the natural defenses weren’t enough. Then, peaking out above this wall was an assortment of lavender spires and turrets unlike any other Jawhari buildings. Extending horizontally from the hilltop plateau was a promontory with the most massive drawbridge she’d ever seen. Below the drawbridge was a steep slope that consisted of a broad walled avenue. The promontory was the only access to the hilltop as far as she could see.
It was before this drawbridge that her host had finally arrived, such that they could get a full view of the hilltop and surrounding city.
What looked like morning commuters stood nearby on the broad avenue, waiting for the drawbridge to lower. There seemed to be quite a number of these Jawhari who lived in the lower city but worked on the hilltop. After a rather long wait, the loud gears finally jerked into motion, and the drawbridge gradually nestled neatly into its down position. Her procession passed over with the other hundred or so people who waited with them.
The promontory led them through a gate into a large courtyard with numerous corridors branching off. Except for a couple of main arteries, it looked as though these corridors could pass no more than one horse at a time. All the hilltop buildings around them followed a similar building code; they were institutional looking, all were labeled with colorful calligraphy and in some cases they were adorned with sky-blue tile mosaics.
This wasn’t something they wrote about in Pomeria, and she understood why. It was impressive, and beautiful, two characteristics people would never mention in a sentence with the word Jawhari. She had trouble believing it and would never admit it, but the Pomerian palace could be said to look drab in comparison.
The people were different too. Their faces retained the starkness of the Managash Jawhari, but there was less bite to them. Maybe it was because these hilltop workers were wealthy and powerful. They wore simple but elegant satin vests and dark pants, far removed from the savage leather and hide she’d seen in Managash. Nor were there any puffy, drawn complexions, likely signs of the Palido plague, which she’d seen in Dashoon and Managash. Perhaps there was some secret about how to treat Palido that the Judud Jawhari knew about, or maybe with better rations they were more fortified against the disease.
Faruq said, “Remember I told you of the Hafa Mosaic? It’s around the corner. It was made by an artisan who…”
The members of her new host spoke only Jawhari with the exception of a short weaselly-looking man with a hooked nose named Faruq. He had a ready smile, unusual for Jawhari, and for that reason, it made her uncomfortable. He introduced himself as the Lord Coordinator for the Progressionists. If she recalled correctly from her recent teachings, the Progressionists were a guild of tradesmen who focused on esoteric trades like building with petrified wood or brewing burse.
Having heard this particular story about the Hafa Mosaic from Faruq several times already, she tuned him out. From Faruq she was learning much about the idiosyncrasies of various people in court, the irony of certain historical clashes, and all sorts of descriptions of regions within Jawhar, but little that was politically relevant. Faruq seemed to have a talent for speaking a great deal but not really saying anything at all.
Calvek Hayzan was no longer with her, having been replaced by Faruq and a cast of other Jawhari to escort her to the capital. This new group of more elegantly dressed Jawhari had intercepted the party and shared words with Hayzan. Then Hayzan and his militia had turned back toward Managash. She felt good about her ploy. Even though Hayzan waylaid them at Managash for another two days after their confrontation, they eventually did leave, with Hayzan claiming it was “always part of the plan.” She doubted it, especially given Hayzan’s parting words to her.
He had spoken with spite on his tongue, just before turning his horse around. “You may come to realize the favor you have foregone, Princess. Managash is garish, but it’s no snake pit.”
“I’m sure I can keep the snakes of Judud Jawhar at bay, Colonel, and I’m surprised you would refer to your own people as such.”
She had though
t her words a good retort, but he wasn’t even mildly fazed. He only raised his eyebrows and shook his head like a father who was ashamed of his child. “I doubt you will know what bit you until long after the venom has taken hold.”
Then he was gone.
She wondered if he would be reprimanded, or worse, for defying orders and bringing her to the capital. But she dared not ask questions, for it might draw unwanted attention to the fictitious agreement she had with the Herald. And since she was soon to meet with him, the prospect of being called on this bluff made her more than a little nervous.
There was only one other man in her new escort who was in any way remarkable. He didn’t seem to follow Faruq’s lead, and he even argued with Faruq on occasion. He was well built, and one could say he was almost handsome in a gruff way, except that there was a darkness around his eyes, as if he was sleep deprived. Faruq explained that his name was Zahir, and he was the district representative of the Bahar Jabali, a mountainous region on the westernmost frontier of Jawhar, beyond the Jawhari Sea. Zahir didn’t seem to speak Belidoran, so her only interaction with him, aside from a curt nod upon their introduction, was the occasional curious glance. Now and again she would look over at him and he seemed calm, guiding his horse carefully across the cobblestone. He would turn to look back at her, and she smiled politely, but he didn’t return the courtesy. He was one of those people who seemed to always know when someone was looking at them. Or maybe he was always looking at her?
The rest of the new escort were soldier types, with tight lavender uniforms and carefully crafted insignia, much more professional looking than Hayzan’s drab militia. These were disciplined soldiers who would rarely meet her eyes.
The procession navigated through the streets. There were quite a number of people about, all looking official in some way. A few stopped and pointed at Hella and her escort but fewer than she would have expected. If a Jawhari princess were arriving in Pomer City, there would be far more gawkers.