by Erik A Otto
It was what she’d already assumed, but it was good to get corroboration.
“Thank you, Mr. Habib—for your insight into the council and for backing my proposal. I am confident we can work out an arrangement that will be beneficial for you as well as Belidor.”
He was packing up a stack of papers and preparing to leave as he listened to the translation. He smiled and said one more thing, pausing to finish his sentence at the door. Then he was gone.
Faruq spoke slowly to her, “Sal says if you want to succeed in the council, the only way to do so may be to circumvent it. Ask the Herald for a private audience. Without his councilors breathing down his neck he may be more objective. Yes, the Herald is powerful, but it is dangerous to openly disagree with any of the council members given all their supporters in the other areas of government. Then, Envoy, Sal said he has to go, sorry, and best of luck.” Faruq was nodding and smiling. He gestured in the direction of the empty doorway.
She picked up to leave soon after Habib had exited, with Paykal and Faruq in tow.
With progress made, she proceeded to her next meeting with a spring in her step. She had another hour, so she took the long way around the hilltop, watching the inhabitants going about their business. She also needed to circle back to her quarters in the Dignitaries Residence in the interim. For the meeting with Mahmood she decided to bring a show of strength, so her two biggest guards would go with her.
Perhaps not just for show, in fact. She anticipated anything from more spitting to violence.
The Jawhari religious establishments were more institutional looking than what she’d seen in Pomeria. Whereas in Pomeria the temples could be identified by a Matagon Spire sticking out of one side in the direction of Matteo’s moon, on Jawhari religious buildings there were almost no markings at all except for a circular tile mosaic. The insignia looked almost like the silhouettes of a school of tadpoles swimming over one another. It was stark and devoid of color, more like a guild member’s logo than a place of worship.
The tower where Mahmood’s office was located had more pretense than the other religious buildings around the hilltop. It was one of the taller buildings, and the exterior was adorned with the same mosaic insignia, although larger and carved deep into the petrified wood to make it have a three-dimensional texture. The building had an inner courtyard that displayed three prominent statues also made out of petrified wood. One was of Idris Usaim, looking scholarly at his desk, working on his doctrine. Another was of a warrior with his sword thrust to the sky, some hero whom Hella knew nothing about. The third…the third caught her attention.
It was a gargoyle. Not only that, but the gargoyle had many similar features to the one in front of the Pomerian palace. She gravitated toward it. In contrast to the sleeping gargoyle statue at the palace, this gargoyle’s wings were unfurled, and its huge beak-mouth bore down on what looked to be a sleeping man. The sleeping man had his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed.
It was confusing. She had always been puzzled by the fact that the monk in the statue in Pomeria was attacking a sleeping gargoyle, but here the roles were reversed. Here the gargoyle was advancing menacingly while the man was asleep.
She paused at the statue and tried to ascertain its meaning, just as she had so many times in front of the statue at the palace back home. Faruq shuffled his feet behind her. Was it telling her that ignorance was bliss? Were the Jawhari pacifists toward gargoyles? With Faruq’s impatience and the eyes of some unhappy priests on her, it was hard to concentrate.
She couldn’t linger forever, and it was far from her political mandate to examine the intricacies of religious statues, so she gave up trying to extract any meaning. It was probably just an artistic liberty taken by the sculptor.
The priests let them enter the main doors after a few questions to Faruq to confirm her identity. Her shoes were taken from her and placed neatly in shelves with dozens of other pairs. Her guards, Paykal, and Faruq also left their shoes at the entrance. She wasn’t surprised. Paykal had told her of this requirement in religious establishments in Jawhar.
As they walked through the main doors, they passed by a large room with rows of robed priests writing out letters diligently. Faruq explained that they had the honor of updating the far reaches of Jawhar about the latest developments in the faith. In other words, this was where they created religious propaganda.
Farther down the main hall, they passed what Faruq referred to as the chamber of worship. This was a large but otherwise modest circular room with steps dropping down to a carpeted area in the middle, which in turn surrounded a small fountain. A few barefoot priests clustered on one side and bent over to wash their faces in the water over and over again, speaking to the air as if someone were in front of them. It was a different ritual than the one for Belidoran prayer, where one would bow to a hearthstone, do evening bloodletting, or prostate oneself in front of a mural of one of the stories of the Shepherd. The sight of the priests worshiping gave her a shiver. It highlighted the huge challenge posed by the differing theologies.
The door to Mahmood’s office had the same circular mosaic insignia that adorned everything else. A sentry looking similar to Drax guarded the door. Thankfully the guard let her pass without any spittle cast in her direction.
The room was modest and windowless, a departure from the decadence of Sal Habib. Mahmood was looking studiously at a document on his desk. “Did you know your man spit on me, Mahmood?” Hella began. “In a less temperate people, that could be viewed as an act of war,”
She quickly realized he didn’t understand her. She gestured to Paykal, and he translated for her.
Mahmood smiled at her and responded back. Paykal translated. “My lady, Mahmood says, ‘Yes, I know. Drax is young and brash, and I have forgiven him for that. He needs to learn that spitting on blasphemous ignorance will do nothing to change its course.’”
“You speak of ignorance, but you know nothing about me, Mahmood. If your doctrine is about jumping to conclusions rashly, then you are a dedicated follower.”
Paykal translated, received the response, and translated in kind. “I know you are Pomerian and follow the Belidoran faith with their sandal-clad followers, obediently obliging the flawed Book of Canons. There are many under Matteo that I would say are lost yet still worth the effort to save, but you Pomerians are too far gone. It would be a waste of time.”
“I’m enchanted to meet you as well, Mahmood. Since you are so concerned with me wasting your time, I will gladly get to the point. I would ask that you seriously consider my proposal, for if we don’t find some common ground, my trip will be a failure, our collaboration will be doomed, and we may well delve into war. I hope you would agree war would also be a waste of your precious time, or perhaps eliminating Pomerians and Belidorans is a worthy pastime?”
After Paykal translated this latest volley, Mahmood stared at her for a long time with some measure of calculation. She was testing the finer parts of his sensibilities. It was one thing to not want to be bothered by the Belidorans; it was quite another if he wanted to exterminate them. She suspected the latter after what she’d heard from Mr. Veckio and Sal Habib, but she wanted to hear him say it. She could at least use his responses as proof of his unwillingness to cooperate.
He responded curtly, and Paykal translated. “Mahmood says ‘Tell me of your proposal. I will respond, and then begone.’”
She outlined her proposal about the embassies with both political and trade offices. He listened with the same annoyed look in his eyes, then responded.
“Mahmood says, ‘You say that if I do not cooperate, you will fail, and this will cause a war. Well, I admit it. I do want you to fail. I was openly against your coming here at all, and that remains my position. But no, Envoy, I don’t want war with the Belidorans. As I have said, I want nothing to do with you or your ilk. Whether it be a trade deal or war, it’s a waste of time. And I certainly don’t want to sacrifice even more Jawhari lives on these effo
rts. What you don’t understand is that your visit here has already caused discord among the council. Establishing the embassies you speak of will only cause more conflict. This is precisely why I want you to leave, because the longer you stay, the more likely war is the outcome of your meddling. So tell me this, Envoy, what will it take for you to leave here without peddling this hopeless proposal that will surely lead us to more bloodshed?’”
Her script of this discussion didn’t call for this response from Mahmood. She expected him to escalate his attack, and to patronize and insult her, but not this. It flew in the face of what she knew—Mr. Veckio had intimated Mahmood was the one who had first suggested an Envoy be invited.
And he could be right. Her whole trip could be stirring up a hornet’s nest. Of course, she couldn’t admit that. “I suggest you try to be better in tune with the desires of your people, Mahmood,” she said defiantly. “I’m here at the request of Jawhar, and if the Herald wishes me to leave, I will do so. In the meantime, I would think it the council’s responsibility to work with me, rather than against me.”
He looked at her sourly after Paykal finished translating. Then he responded and shooed her away with his hand just as the Herald had done at her first council meeting. “Envoy, he says, ‘I think you best leave my chamber and the dominion of Usaim, or I will show you what happens when you overstay your welcome.’”
“That I can do gladly.” She lifted her chin at him, turned about, and walked out, followed by her guards and Paykal. She felt a touch of pride, knowing she did her best to stand up to him, and she was grateful the meeting hadn’t ended in violence.
At the same time, it was confusing. Unless he was lying, it brought into doubt the possibility that Mahmood wanted to use her as some kind of pawn to start a religious war. And the more she thought about it, he probably wasn’t lying, since he said he was openly against her coming, and that could be verified. If he did want her to leave Jawhar, that meant he wasn’t the one who had maneuvered to get an Envoy in the first place. In fact, it could have been Mahmood who enlisted Calvek Hayzan to keep her in Managash.
So if Mahmood wasn’t behind her being summoned to Jawhar, who was, and why?
Chapter 21
The Imbecile
Their next visitor came weeks after Vohl. Visitor was probably not the right word. He was as enigmatic as any man Darian had ever met. Perhaps drifter was the right word.
He came at a time when Adeira was becoming more anxious about the baby. She was having occasional labor pains, meaning the baby could come at any time. Her movements were limited, so Darian had to help out more. They prepared a large staple of food and had all the clothes cleaned. Darian wasn’t so much nervous about the preparations as the birth itself. Adeira overwhelmed him with all the graphic detail about what he might see and what he might have to do. For once he would have preferred watching for Sambayans.
It was early evening when the drifter appeared. Darian would habitually look out the window and scan the forest for signs of anyone coming. He had become lax, maybe because he knew there was little they could do if they were attacked, or maybe because he was more distracted with other chores.
However lax he was, the drifter seemed even less vigilant. As Darian was taking some boiled potatoes off the stove, he saw the man stumble right out of the forest into the open.
Darian put down the potatoes and tilted his head to find a clearer aperture through the window. The man looked almost feral, with a mangy beard, short scraggly hair on the front of his scalp, and a long braid of oily hair bouncing behind his neck. At first Darian thought he was wearing a large sheet of ragged cloth. But as he walked almost nonchalantly toward the homestead, Darian could see that it was actually a long tattered robe, similar to the robes worn by priests in Marsaya. The man carried a large satchel slung on his back, with a diagonal strap across his chest. Most importantly, he wasn’t carrying any weapon that Darian could see.
“Someone’s coming. I’ll handle this,” Darian said to Adeira, who was lying on the couch and reading with Donaldo. She ignored him and stood up immediately, letting out a puff of air while holding her belly. Darian didn’t wait for her. He strung his scabber on his belt and grabbed the bow, then notched an arrow as he opened the door. Although unarmed, the drifter could still be a thief or Sambayan scout or anything in between, so it was better to be safe.
“Stop where you are and state your business,” Darian yelled across the meadow, staring down the line of a notched arrow.
The man kept coming, oblivious. Darian pulled back the bowstring until it was fully extended.
The man fell to his knees and put his hands together in front of his chest. “Please, sir, by Matteo’s grace, I am but a weary traveler in need of sustenance. I kneel humbled before your mercy.”
He spoke with a faint accent that Darian didn’t recognize. It was definitely not Sambayan, though, of that he could be sure. Darian felt a strong urge to emulate the man’s voice but was able to suppress it.
If the drifter had been more cautious, Darian might be more comfortable taking him in. But his recklessness made Darian wonder about his state of mind.
And yet, Adeira had taken Darian in on little else than his words, so how could he do any different?
“Take your satchel off and hold it over your head. Then walk over to me,” Darian said.
“By Matteo, I would gladly do so.” He did as Darian requested.
What did Matteo have to do with his satchel? This man spoke like Darian’s brother Radley. Perhaps he was some kind of priest. “What’s your name, and where are you from, traveler?” Darian asked.
The disheveled man paused in midstride and looked up into Darian’s eyes with a pained expression. Then his shoulders seemed to sag in defeat. The bag fell to rest on his head. “My name is Sebastian Harvellian. I’ve come from Pyros in Belidor. Please have mercy on me. I’m but a humble man in search of truth.”
Darian craned his neck to see around a tree in front of him, making sure he kept Sebastian in his peripheral vision. He’d been trying to make a show of the difficulty of finding the hearthstone. The directions were simple enough, and he knew it should be just ahead, but he was hoping the lengthy trek would help Sebastian realize the folly of their outing. For it was certainly folly; being far removed from Adeira and her imminent birthing, with no one watching out for Sambayans. All because Sebastian wanted to pray to a stone this one time instead of the sky above or the ground below, like he did practically every other hour.
It turned out the man was indeed a priest, of a sort. He would speak only vaguely of it though, referring to a spiritual journey, not of a specific station with an Apostle or with the Sandaliers. His mind seemed to be a flurry of spiritual notions. Yet if one could tolerate the incessant references to the Canons, he was harmless enough. And Adeira welcomed him, so Darian could only do likewise.
But this—this having to pray at a hearthstone—was pushing the limits. Unfortunately, thus far Harvellian was unfazed by the circuitous route they were taking.
Darian asked, “Remind me, why do you need to pray at a hearthstone again?”
“The Canon of Humility teaches the basis for prayer with the hearthstone. When the Sandalier Alliandro created a flying device, he was first praised for his ingenuity, but then was struck down by Matteo when he tried to ride to Matteo’s moon using his machine born of vain ambition. That’s why, when we pray for humility, we must touch the hearthstone for it to anchor us to the ground. The hearthstones have always been sacred, put here on the land by Matteo’s hand to strengthen our bond with the earth.”
“So why do you pray other times of the day when you’re not touching a hearthstone?”
“Other Canons require alternative forms of prayer that cannot be satisfied by a connection with a hearthstone. For example, the séance of blood cleanses us of impure thoughts that would otherwise lead us to breach a number of critical Canons. There’s no need to be near a hearthstone to let blood.”
After a moment of silence, Darian said, “I’ve never let blood for any priest, or for Matteo. Does that make me a sinner?”
Sebastian hesitated. “I’m sorry, but yes. However, there is always time to recompense with Matteo. At least this is…what I think. In truth, I don’t know it with certainty. I seek the truth.”
It was difficult to have a conversation with Sebastian. He usually seemed so certain about everything. Then occasionally he would suffer from some lapse, some internal attack of pitiful self-doubt. Ironically, the lapses of uncertainty were the sanest things Darian heard from the man.
And the man’s unbridled devotion to the faith unsettled Darian. Darian had never been pious, except to satisfy his father’s request to outwardly appear to be devoted. Was there indeed an all-powerful Matteo who would judge him for not following the Canons? When Sebastian spoke with certainty, it was Darian who harbored the self-doubt.
“How can you be so certain of your quest?’ Darian asked. “Why are you so devoted to finding this…truth?”
Sebastian took some time to digest the question before responding. “When I was young, my father came back from a long quest. Many assumed he’d failed. People mocked him because he wasn’t forthcoming about what happened. Even I had my doubts. When the local kids wrote hateful things on the temple wall, I added my own words. I wrote these words, without knowing the truth, just so I could be like them, so they wouldn’t put me in the same basket as my father.”
Sebastian let out a long sigh. “I was young, and many did much worse; my father was beaten, and the temple was even burned down. Later, when it became apparent that my father had been successful in his quest, that I had lied about my own father on that temple wall, my shame was unbearable. I made a vow to never flee from the truth, or the word of Matteo. Not only that, I vowed to never let anyone else define truth for me. That’s why I go on this quest, but also, I suppose, because I’m the only one who has been privy to important questions, questions for which the answers must be interrogated with great care.”