A Tale of Infidels

by Erik A Otto

  The street ended at a high arch guarded by sentries who stepped aside for Faruq. They rode under and entered a small courtyard.

  “You can dismount, Envoy. We are at the Council Hall,” Faruq said.

  The Council Hall was the seat of the leadership of Jawhar. It was remarkably modest considering what lay around it. It looked to be only two stories tall with six small spindly towers littered on top of it. Any number of the other lavender buildings could be called more extravagant. Then again, compared to the municipal buildings in Managash, it was a palace.

  When she entered, she realized much of the structure was built into the side of the hilltop, so what looked like two stories actually had several sublevels. At the entrance they descended two of these levels into a large vestibule crafted mostly out of petrified wood and heavily stained, vulcanized bone, some of it made of thick strands of heavy duty Matar bone.

  Faruq exchanged a few words in Jawhari with Zahir. Zahir frowned and proceeded into one of the adjoining chambers to the vestibule, while Faruq and the rest of the Jawhari militia remained.

  Faruq said, “Please be seated. It may take some time for the council to be ready. Did I tell you about the petrified wood from this hall? It was mined from the quarries of our very own councilor Sal Habib, whom I have referred to before. For this vestibule, he chose the petrified wood using a jury of five aesthetic experts from across Jawhar. Each piece was meticulously analyzed and could be vetoed by one of the experts…”

  Yes, he had told her twice before, so she nodded politely and couldn’t help tuning him out again. She was about to see the Herald and his councilors for the first time, so the meeting was dominating her thoughts. She would have liked some quiet to go over her strategy, but Faruq would have nothing of it.

  Eventually Zahir exited and nodded. Faruq said, “Well, Envoy, it’s your time. Please only speak when you are spoken to, and I’m sure all will go well. I will have the pleasure of translating for you.” He offered his weaselly smile.

  She had anticipated this. While he seemed harmless, as a matter of principle, she thought it best that Paykal translate for her. Besides, she was worried if Faruq translated it could take forever.

  “Mr. Faruq, you are so kind, but it is our custom to have our own translators with us. I have my esteemed cleric Paykal with me who will translate. You can relax and enjoy the meeting, and I will gladly seek your thoughts upon adjournment.”

  Faruq was silent for a moment, a rare occurrence, then said, “As you wish, Envoy, but if I may, your man should be careful, for if certain things should be said, it may put him in harm’s way. He is…less important than you.”

  She glanced at Paykal, whose eyes bulged. “Thank you for the warning, Faruq. It will be heeded, but we will proceed as I have suggested.”

  “As you wish, Envoy.” And he swooshed his hand toward the door, indicating she should proceed inside.

  The council chamber was remarkably similar to the Pomerian audience chamber. The size was roughly equivalent, and the back of the room was elevated so speakers could see the members of the council. Rather than a single throne, there was an elevated dais with a semicircle of five ornate chairs and a colorful petrified-wood seat in the middle for the Great Herald. It was more daunting than the Pomerian chamber, she realized, because it made it seem like one was speaking to the whole council and all of their supporters rather than just one monarch.

  Her royal discipline kicked in. She forced her posture to stiffen and her chin to perk up. She glided over to the center of the room, trailed by Paykal and Faruq at each side, who were further flanked by Tasman and Battia. Zahir took one of the few seats in the back of the room, while the others were asked to stay outside. Hella wore the exact same dark conservative dress with the maroon embroidery she had worn in the audience chamber on the day of her Announcement. When she’d chosen the outfit, it had seemed fitting for the stark Jawhari, but now she felt silly among the lively uniforms the councilors wore.

  The Herald was tall, with a square face and dimpled chin. The creases of age arrowing into his eyes were especially noticeable. He didn’t wear a crown or wield a scepter but did have a lavender jacket with delicate fur linking the buttonholes. The rest of the council members were all dressed in shades of lavender and peach, adorned with crests and bands around their arms with all kinds of ceremonial colors. She felt a smattering of annoyance that she hadn’t been told about these outfits, official colors, and customs by Paykal or her teachers in Pomeria, but little was known about Judud Jawhar. She might be the first Pomerian to visit the city in hundreds of years, if at all.

  The Herald said something in Jawhari and smiled, looking to his councilors on either side of him. Paykal leaned forward and whispered the translation in her ear.

  “Pardon, Envoy. He said, ‘So you are the one they’ve sent. I was initially offended by this idea of sending a Pomerian girl instead of the Belidoran representative I requested, but at least you are easy on the eyes.’ Beg pardon, my lady.”

  She was disgusted, of course, but couldn’t show it. How she reacted to his demeaning remark could influence much of how she would be treated, maybe even the fate of her mission in Judud Jawhar. She knew that in Jawhar women had little say in the affairs of state, especially compared to Pomeria. Remembering her journey today, she saw few women at all on the hilltop, and those who were here seemed to be in some kind of service outfit, not in any official role.

  If she highlighted the Herald’s sexism, support would be hard to come by.

  Before she could muster a response, one of the other councilors spoke. The Herald leaned his head back and laughed heartily.

  Paykal leaned in, again showing some discomfort. “Envoy, I’m sorry, my lady. The one named Taymullah has said, ‘It seems she may also be dressing for her own funeral. She must not think much of us, Lord Herald.’”

  She scanned the councilors in front of her as she collected herself for a response that would show adequate strength.

  Taymullah, the one who had spoken, fit exactly the picture Krish the Fringe had painted for her. Krish had said he’d won his position by using jokes and flattery to curry favor with the Herald and the council. He was a rounded man with thinning hair. He laughed in an infectious way, igniting the laughter of not only the Herald but the other councilors as well.

  One of those who didn’t laugh was a thin man with a mustache and brown wavy hair, sporting an armband on his left arm above a sleeve that seemed wrinkled and puffy, revealing some abnormal gauntness of limb. This must be the one Krish had called Wahab the Weak, the one who’d fallen out of favor with the Herald.

  The other who didn’t laugh was unmistakably Mahmood, the leader of the theocratic movement around the Usaim Doctrine. It was evident by the shaved circle topping his head and tight ponytail, and by the identical followers standing behind him in a triangle, like statues carved out of stone.

  Which meant the last councilor was Sal Habib, the wealthy owner of many of the eastern mines, the man whom Faruq had referred to in the vestibule.

  The Herald spoke, and Taymullah erupted in laughter again, while some of the other noncouncilors smiled.

  Paykal leaned in. “Ma’am, my apologies. The Herald says, ‘Is she a mute as well? I suppose for some women that is best.’ My apologies, ma’am.”

  She needed to stop this immediately. She stepped forward and projected her voice the way the Pomerian coaches had taught her. She began by directing her speech to each of the councilors in turn, to make sure they knew she could identify them. “Honorable leaders of Jawhar, Great Herald, Mr. Habib, Mr. Taymullah, Mr. Mahmood, and Mr.…Wahab. I am Hella Pomerain, princess of Pomeria and official envoy of the Pomerian kingdom. I come to you in response to your request to bridge the divide between our great nations and sow the seeds for a lasting peace and prosperous economy.”

  With a quick breath, she continued, addressing Taymullah, “And yes, Mr. Taymullah, I wear dark colors in mourning, but not for myself. I am in mourn
ing for the millions of Jawhari and Pomerians that have died from the bloody conflicts throughout our sordid history. I wish to mourn them and move on so that we can start again. This can also be your choice today—the first chance we’ve had for a lasting peace in hundreds of years. You can choose to add me to the pyre of history, or you can quench this distasteful fire. I come to you willing to serve but also command that you respect me for the opportunity I represent. Thank you.”

  And she did a low bow, her head near to the floor.

  Judging by his silence, Paykal seemed somewhat stunned by the speech, but he didn’t need to be told what to do. He translated it, or so it seemed, and all the while she kept her head down. She wished she could see their faces, but it would reduce the impact.

  There was quiet for a moment after the translation had ended. She kept her head down, waiting for some kind of response.

  “Ha! Mochtah alira alamira!”

  She lifted her head slowly to meet the Herald’s eyes. Paykal whispered behind her, “Envoy, the Herald says, ‘Well said.’”

  The Herald then spoke at some length, leveling his gaze at her as if she was some curious peace of artwork. The other councilors looked mildly concerned, or maybe that was just their typical autocratic stare. The Herald gesticulated frequently, sweeping his hands left and right, pointing at her and shaking his fist in the air. He seemed impassioned by what he was saying, although she had to admit he’d looked the same when he’d referred to the fact that it might be preferred if she were a mute.

  The Herald wound down his oration, and Paykal began his translation. “The Herald says that foreboding omens abound, whether it be the Red Rains in Belidor, pestilence in Rabat, or the coming Day of Ascendancy. These omens must be heeded inasmuch for their literal meaning as for their implications on the people’s mind-set.

  “He wishes to entertain a lasting peace between Jawhar and the east, but there are many obstacles to overcome. The Herald speaks of how his great nation is unfairly quarantined, with only a handful of trades done with the east in the last year. He says our spiritual beliefs could be aligned, but Belidoran faith is tainted in the most unfortunate way. These faiths wound together would be like two mating snakes biting at each other’s throats. Then there are the Fringe. They are getting more and more blasphemous and belligerent, a common nuisance for the east and the west that must be kept in check. The pustulating sore called Niknak that we both share a border with grows gangrenous. All these things we would have to overcome to improve our relations. What do you say to this, Envoy?”

  In light of the patronizing and sexist introductory banter, she was surprised he would ask her a thoughtful question, never mind go to the lengths to explain his concerns. Unfortunately, she had little constructive to say in return, for he was right: the hurdles were high. She knew any progress would be like scaling the impassable mountains on a foggy day.

  “Great Herald, I say you are right, on all counts. Our task will not be accomplished easily nor with haste. I pledge to you that I will give you my earnest effort to bridge the divide. I will dedicate myself fully to the task while I am here.”

  Paykal translated it, and there was a long silence. The Herald frowned and looked to his councilors. Mahmood gave a kind of patronizing look. The Herald looked ponderous, leaned back, and responded in an aloof manner. During his response, he said something to his councilors to garner a laugh, then continued.

  Paykal leaned in again. “Beg your pardon, Envoy, but the Herald says he bores of this so-called earnest talk and prefers action. He would have hoped you would come to him with specific solutions rather than telling them of obvious problems.”

  Paykal shifted uneasily. “Ahem, Envoy, he then made the comment that ‘you are a woman, after all,’ and went on to say that they should adjourn while you think about how we achieve this instead of wasting their time. Otherwise, they would all be waiting forever for your beloved Shepherd to come out of the north again and offer us all the answers. Sorry, my lady, his words are…harsher than I’m used to and not reflective in any way of—”

  “Shush!” Hella said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Translate what he says to me plainly and without apology. Now tell him I will do as he commands, and I will come back to him with proposals as early as tomorrow.”

  Paykal’s head went back at the reprimand. Then he sheepishly offered the curt reply in Jawhari.

  The Herald said a few words and looked at her disdainfully. Then he waved at her with his hand as if she should already be gone.

  “He says yes and now go, my lady. Think long and hard, and come back in two weeks after you have consulted with the other councilors. He is due for a trip to his mountain retreat.”

  She could see the expectant eyes around her waiting for her to turn about and leave.

  It all happened so fast. She’d forgotten that she still needed his approval to send her two guards back to Pomeria. She’d reminded Faruq of the requirement earlier, and he’d said that she must ask the Great Herald herself. Since the bluff was that the Herald already knew, she could only acquiesce.

  She had to ask. If she didn’t send her sentries back on the morrow they risked not making it back in time, putting the whole bluff in jeopardy.

  The Herald seemed to have lost interest and was speaking with Sal Habib on another matter already.

  She felt a heat around her collar as she cleared her throat and projected, “Ha hem. Before I leave, Great Herald, your representative Faruq has…required that I obtain permission to send back two of my men to report on my location, progress, and good health. If you would be so kind as to give approval, it would be much appreciated, for they need to leave tomorrow to make it back to Pomer City by the agreed date, or it could cause some degree of alarm in Pomeria and Belidor.”

  Paykal hesitated, knowing it was a dangerous request, but then he said the words. Just as he finished, Faruq stepped up and said something in Jawhari as well.

  Hella leaned in toward Paykal’s ear and whispered, “What did he say?”

  “My lady, Faruq says that you stipulated that you had a pre-arranged agreement with the Herald on this topic, which is why Faruq felt it best to put the matter forth for the Herald’s formal approval.”

  Hella’s heart pounded. She had carefully worded her request so the fictitious agreement on the subject wouldn’t be voiced.

  Time stood still for a moment as the Great Herald put a finger up to halt some discourse from Sal Habib. He rubbed the top of his head with his other hand, looking uncomfortable. Then he stared right into Hella’s eyes for a brief instant, said something curt and waved his hand flippantly.

  Paykal said, “He…he says fine. Now leave.”

  She smiled politely, bowed low, and turned about. She moved quickly toward the door before the Herald could change his mind.

  Perhaps the Herald didn’t remember if he’d agreed to sending back the guards. Or it could also be he simply didn’t care enough to worry. Regardless of the reason, she was relieved that she wouldn’t be cast into the dungeons of Judud Jawhar—at least for the time being.

  Chapter 17

  The Truthseeker

  The road to Pyros was less than a day’s ride, or only a few hours at a full gallop, but it felt like an eternity. Sebastian was lucky that his uncle Huan had offered him some spare change, clothing, and a horse for the journey. It was all he possessed besides his undergarments, his crest, and his boundless shame.

  Sebastian knew he would have to face his parents soon, but he couldn’t quite yet. In fact, anything to delay that meeting was welcome. So first he headed downtown, toward the main square.

  For as long as Sebastian could remember, there was an old beggar named Deacon who sat in a corner of the square. He used to be a great scholar, and had travelled through many of Matteo’s lands, but then he seemed to lose his will when his family died of the plague. He took to wine and was eventually banned from the keep after a slew of unbecoming inebriations. One of these resulted in a fa
ll off the Old Keep battlements and a compound fracture to his arm, leaving it partially deformed.

  He’d since recovered, but many still thought him a pariah. Mostly ignored, he survived off the charity of others. If he were a naustic or Fringe, he would surely have been removed a long time ago, but he prayed often, and for that, the Apostle of Pyros—Sebastian’s father—let him be.

  It was to this beggar Sebastian first went after being ejected from the keep.

  Deacon knew how to harvest eyeglass from a bone mound without sullying the surface. He could give an accurate account of the dispositions of the last five Conductors. Plus he knew in depth a number of other trades that only an indentured Cenaran should know. If he knew all of this, Sebastian reasoned, he might be able to provide context to the questions that plagued him.

  Sebastian arrived in downtown Pyros concealed by the hood of the cloak. No one paid him or his red, swollen eyes any mind.

  Deacon was in his usual place, with an empty wooden bowl in front of him. The square had many people crossing it with this bag of goods or that ream of scrolls. The food market wasn’t open, so it wasn’t as busy as it sometimes could be. Sebastian felt hopeful that he could have a quiet enough conversation, away from prying ears.

  “Ah, the son of Thyros Harvellian is back.” Deacon said when Sebastian came close enough. “I would bid you welcome, but since you shouldn’t be here, the omen is bad. My guess is you wouldn’t feel welcome no matter what I say.” As Deacon gestured, Sebastian couldn’t help his eyes from following his deformed arm. It was as if he had an additional elbow that gave it one more degree of freedom.

  “You’re right about that, Deacon.” Sebastian dropped a precious fraction of the change he’d received from his uncle in the man’s bowl. “But that’s not the question I wish to pose.”