by Erik A Otto
Their conversation reminded Darian of the time he’d been wandering the hills south of the estate with his brother Radley. In fact Sebastian and Radley were similar in many ways, particularly in their devotion to the faith. Radley had taken to going on these walks with Darian, perhaps because he was the only one who would listen. Darian would even repeat his words back to him, and Radley enjoyed that. His other brothers were more apt to ridicule Radley’s notions than they were to consider them.
In one of his more passionate monologues, Radley became insensed when Darian said he had trouble believing in Matteo. He’d assumed, perhaps because Darian had been emulating Radley much of the time, that Darian was a believer. He launched a verbal attack, calling him a half-wit, amongst other things, and then said, “You mimic me, you mimic them, but who are you really, Darian? You don’t know because without faith you are soulless. Without faith you are an empty vessel of skin and bone.”
He mimicked Radley’s words for some time after that, but there was one phrase that stayed with him the longest. It came to him still, on occasion.
“…but who are you really, Darian?” He said it quietly, emulating Radley.
Sebastian seemed to not notice his whispers.
They could see the hearthstone in a small clearing ahead of them. Brush grew around the stone, but no trees.
“Do you wish to join me, Darian?” Sebastian asked earnestly.
Darian realized it couldn’t hurt, so he joined Sebastian in kneeling next to the hearthstone.
The hearthstone looked vaguely like a decaying Fringe device, which was ironic given its importance in prayer and prophecy. It had a rounded head propped up by a skinnier column underneath. A series of mini branches stuck out from the skinnier column. Sebastian reached under and wiped green slime off one of these branches and pushed back some of the encroaching brush.
“Come, and give me your hand,” Sebastian said.
Reluctantly, Darian offered his hand, and Sebastian placed it onto another branch of the hearthstone. Darian grimaced as he wiped off the slime. Sebastian pulled his own branch out, turned it 180 degrees counterclockwise, then 180 degrees clockwise, then pulled it out farther. When Darian saw this jiggering, it accentuated the resemblance of the hearthstone to a Fringe toy. He did the same as Harvellian, and his own branch extended farther out.
“Now close your eyes. You should pray for humility, Darian Bronté, and nothing else—only the blessings for what you have, not what you don’t have. Let the hearthstone stand in the way of any vanity. It’s that simple and that difficult all at once. Are you ready?”
“Sure…yes,” Darian responded.
Sebastian lowered his head and closed his eyes.
Feeling uncomfortable with the spiritual exercise, Darian wondered if he should just wait it out. Sebastian wouldn’t know, and he still didn’t trust him. When Darian closed his eyes, Sebastian could grab his scabber and slit his throat.
But Darian knew he was being paranoid. Eventually he closed his eyes and did as Harvellian instructed.
Darian reflected on his good fortune. He had a loving family, with two living parents and four brothers who meant well, for the most part. They had wealth, lands, and the respect of many, despite the rumors of cowardice and treason that surrounded his father. Many would gladly be the recipients of that slander if it meant they would have a roof over their heads and food on their tables.
His musing shifted to those who had died recently in battle. He imagined those who must have followed suit in Marsaya. Visions of countless victims in the path of the screaming, smelly Sambayans unfolded in his mind. Yet Darian still lived. He saw the blade split open Reniger’s chest cavity, so vivid and so real, and still he didn’t know why. Why had Reniger sacrificed himself? Why had he sacrificed himself for Darian of all people?
It confused him, at first. Then it saddened him. A tear escaped his eye and drifted down his cheek.
When he opened his eyes, Sebastian was watching him, still holding on to the hearthstone. “I can see that you have been touched by Matteo,” he said. “I hope you found it enlightening.”
Darian’s sadness morphed quickly into anger. Likening Reniger’s sacrifice to some spiritual epiphany seemed wrong, deceitful even. “I don’t think so, Sebastian. I wasn’t touched by anything. I was just…remembering something tragic. I know many people who have died. Good people.” Darian took several deep breaths and said, “You know, not all of us are tools,” in Reniger’s voice.
Sebastian frowned in confusion. He shrugged and said, “By Matteo’s grace, it’s good that you can make a connection with the past.”
Sebastian didn’t seem to get it. “I didn’t make any connections with anything!” Darian said. “This has nothing to do with Matteo!”
Sebastian lowered his head and closed his eyes. “Apologies, Darian Bronté. Perhaps next time you will have a more welcoming experience.”
Darian stood up, wiped his grimy hand on his pants and kicked away a stringy vine that was clinging to his boot. “Listen…priest, there won’t be a next time. You can count me out.”
Then Darian couldn’t help himself from blurting out an emulation of Sebastian. “I’m but a humble man in search of truth. I’m but a humble man in search of truth. I…I’m…” He said it one more time so he could get it just so. “I’m but a humble man in search of truth.”
Sebastian only stared at him, looking dismayed.
Darian spoke in his own voice. “Maybe you should be moving on soon.”
He turned to leave, without looking to see if Sebastian would follow.
Darian stomped back through the forest, taking a more direct route this time. Maybe it was the leaves brushing past, but he heard what sounded like a voice on the wind. He thought it might be Sambayans at first, but then he recognized it.
“That was wrong,” Reniger’s voice said, chorusing with the leaves brushing past him.
Darian apologized to Sebastian when he returned. Perhaps it was the whisper from Reniger, or perhaps Darian just needed to cool off. When Sebastian asked him if he should leave, Darian told him he should stay, worried not only about being plagued by more chidings from Reniger but also about the looks Adeira cast his way. “What have you done now, funny man?” Darian emulated Adeira under his breath.
Darian was confused by Adeira’s reaction to Sebastian. Maybe it was the right thing to do to get him back on his feet, but it had been several days, and there was little room in the small cabin. The only place for Sebastian to sleep was in the loft, which meant especially close quarters between him and Darian. Sebastian wouldn’t stop spouting his religious preaching, and Adeira seemed to eat it up, smiling knowingly when he made obscure references to the Canons. Did she really believe the Book? She was Valderan, and they barely followed the Canons at all, as far as Darian knew. And in other respects she seemed so pragmatic.
But Darian was also far from a perfect guest. To Sebastian’s credit, he never said a word about Darian’s disorder, even though Darian must have been keeping him up at night with his whispering episodes. Adeira, for her part, had also been tolerant of Darian, though he didn’t know how much her remarks about him being a “funny man” were meant in jest or in annoyance.
In the end, at Adeira’s urging, Darian tried to be more accepting of Sebastian, even though some part of him hoped he would continue on his journey.
Chapter 22
The Traitor
Hella had a whole week to mull over her meetings with Habib and Mahmood. The meeting with Habib couldn’t have gone better, but her dialogue with Mahmood made her feel dirty. She had an impulse to storm back to him and force him to explain his bigotry, but she knew better. That bedrock of foundational hate would be difficult to shift.
She remained confused by Mahmood’s position. If he didn’t want her in Judud Jawhar, why was she summoned? Was it possible that the Herald was sincere in his desire for peace and took the initiative to summon an Envoy on his own? For some reason, she found th
at hard to believe.
Without further recourse, she tried to lose herself in the trading reports Sal Habib had given her. It was tedious—as engaging as a bunch of charts, numbers, and dates could be.
Paykal assisted her with the translations. In fact, he almost gloated over his interpretations of the documents. “My lady, here you can see the large volume of transactions with the Cenarans and the Yensuni, the major trading partners of the Jawhari. Here you can find all the commodities like lumber, corn, fur pelts, and northern cottonweed from the Jawhari, and here you can find the spices from the Cenarans and the processed goods like building mortars from the Yensuni. There are also goods from the Fringe. They consist mostly of weapons, eyeglass, wyg lamps, soaps, oils and waxes. There aren’t any of the more arcane artifacts, and that’s because, like in Belidor, these are outlawed here in Jawhar. And—”
“And where are the transactions with Belidor and Pomeria?” Hella asked.
Paykal looked up at her in surprise. “My lady, I’m sorry, but there are no transactions between Jawhar and Pomeria, nor am I aware of any with Belidor. The borders are sealed tight except for the occasional military emissary.”
She nodded. “That’s what I understood from my teachings before our journey here, but the Herald said there were a handful of trades with the east in the last year. Didn’t he say that?”
“Perhaps, but my memory is hazy. When I translate my mind is focused on the nuances of the Jawhari language—rather than absorbing the content of the discussion.”
“I’m fairly certain he said it.”
He looked at her in a patronizing manner. “It may well have been, but he could have said it in error, or to diminish the stark impact of his words.”
Paykal could be right, yet she couldn’t dismiss it. For now, however, none of these trades could be found in the document, so she had to let it go.
Ultimately it provided little inspiration for useful trade examples. There were certainly a few goods she knew the Belidorans might find useful, but who knew what the Jawhari needed or wanted? What first came to mind were embroidered gowns, Albondo blue oak, and Pomerian horse breeds. The horse breeds seemed the only thing there was no substitute for in Jawhar, but giving up Pomerian steeds? They would have to get something extremely valuable in return.
She contemplated the matter much into the evening after Paykal had left, at times staring out into Judud Jawhar’s lower town. The dots of light quickly faded, the wygs drying to darkness. With the darkness her willingness to continue pondering the situation also faded.
The next day she had an early-morning appointment with Basim Taymullah, followed by a meeting with Wahab the Weak.
Taymullah had an office similar to Habib’s. He offered her every courtesy, including flowers and gemstones made of petrified-wood. She accepted the flowers but turned down the gemstones. She didn’t like it when people ingratiated themselves to her, as they sometimes did in Pomer City. And besides, in some circles it might be perceived as a form of bribe.
She chose her words carefully. “Sir, you are a gentleman, and your kindness is much appreciated, but I must insist that we speak business. I mean to make progress here, and I hope that you would continue your good graces to hear me out.”
Faruq was translating this time. Paykal had informed her that his translations were close enough, even though he would add a word or two to pander to his superiors.
Basim responded, and Faruq translated. “Mr. Taymullah says he was making up for the remarks about you being a woman. He knows that women take offense to such things in the east, but in the west it’s as common as speaking of the weather.”
What did that say about the Jawhari? But she suppressed her thought and ventured right into her proposal, while he listened, smiled, and nodded. Then she asked if he would support her in the council.
Faruq said, “Mr. Taymullah says he will gladly support the boldness of the offer, how such an aspiration is undeniably inspirational as a way of bringing our peoples together.”
The elaborate-but-hollow words confirmed her estimation of how this meeting was going to go. Taymullah would never support anything. Just as Krish and Habib had told her, this man’s ambition was political only. He would wait to see which way the wind blew and blow hard in that direction.
She knew he would be a useless asset for her cause, yet she spoke with him at some length, round and round in circles, if only to not offend him. At the end of the meeting, all she had acquired was an ache in her cheeks from smiling too much.
She left without flourish and tried to forget the pointless encounter.
The last of the four councilors was Wahab the Weak. This meeting was one she was anxious about, almost as much as her meeting with Mahmood. The man was accomplished; he had been in a ruling position for more than a generation, serving the Heralds over twenty-four years. Even though he seemed to be on the outs in the council at the present time, he could be a valuable ally.
Zahir was to come and pick her up from her chamber after the midmorning meal.
As she waited she felt her stomach turn over. She was still adjusting to the strange custom of having a large breakfast, another meal only a couple of hours later, then fasting until late in the evening for another meal. She would often feel faint or irritable in the late hours, but for the moment, after her two morning meals, she felt like a stuffed pig.
Zahir picked her up right on time. She took Paykal this time instead of Faruq, and one guard for good measure, rather than the mastiffs she had brought to Mahmood.
She offered Zahir a curious smile as he led her out of the Dignitaries Residence, but he didn’t speak. Even after they passed the lobby and reached the street, Zahir still hadn’t said a word.
“Zahir, I’m elated that there is another person that I can speak Belidoran with here. Can you tell me how you came to speak it?”
He looked pained in some way, his dark eyes seeming to grow even darker. “Envoy, best not ask.”
She’d been sincere about her excitement, but his response was like a slap in the face. “I suppose I won’t then,” she said.
He only frowned.
They headed clockwise around the hilltop this time, back toward the main gate that led to the downward promontory. The city was starting to feel almost comfortable. A few people still stared at her, but most had seen her before and settled for a less rude look of mild curiosity.
Wahab’s office was in one of the more run-down lavender buildings, although it did have some of the most majestic towers. By now many of the buildings on the hilltop had at least some form of scaffolding, with active crews fastening mooring lines and bolting on reinforcement beams. Arguably this building had the most remedial activity. The Day of Ascendancy was less than thirty days away, and preparations were intensifying. It would be the same in Pomer City and the palace back home.
Zahir led her through what looked to be administrative offices to a huge spiral staircase in the middle of a large foyer. The far side of the room was stained eyeglass that extended up three levels, casting colorful light through the room. As they climbed the staircase, the panoply of colors made her feel disoriented.
Wahab’s office was large…probably. It was hard to tell with the swirls of files and papers over every surface. When she arrived, Wahab was there with three others, ostensibly assigning them tasks. He noticed her, said a few quiet words, and his subordinates scurried out of the room.
“Please,” he said in Belidoran and gestured to one of the few chairs unencumbered by paperwork.
“Mr. Wahab, thank you. Do you speak Belidoran?”
“No, just little. We translate.” He smiled thinly. He wasn’t wearing the formal dress he’d worn in the council chambers that concealed his arm. Instead, he wore a tighter-fitting shirt, and his emaciated appendage was more apparent. It was like he’d lost his arm and attached a couple of sticks to his shoulder with a string. The bony thing hung and flung about as he moved, useless.
Hella began the co
nversation by being complimentary of Judud Jawhar and her stay here. She then articulated her embassy proposal. Wahab listened patiently as Paykal translated everything. He nodded at Paykal’s talking points almost absentmindedly.
When Paykal was done, Wahab stood and paced, thoughtfully holding his chin with his right hand, somehow managing to not disturb the towers of paper. The figure eights pronounced how his arm flailed at his side. Then he spoke, and spoke, and spoke. He spoke so long that Paykal began taking copious notes to remember everything. Finally he nodded to Paykal that he was finished, and Paykal translated.
“My lady, Mr. Wahab says, ‘First, forgive my office. Running Jawhar is hard work. The other councilors spend much of their time getting on the Herald’s good graces, leaving me tending to this mess while I lose favor.’
“He says, ‘Let me be frank with you. I was councilor during the last Jawhari war, and many people I know perished. My brother and two cousins died at the Long Gate, to name a few. I have no love for Belidorans, whether from Pomeria or Belidor or Thelonia, you are just casts of the same mold. If you had tried to come to us ten years ago, I might have had you assassinated. Well, perhaps not, but I would have been much more careful with you. By no means would I have allowed you to visit us in Judud Jawhar, to see the most glorious jewel of our nation.
“‘But I’m older now, and I grow tired. I know that not every Belidoran is evil, just as not every Jawhari is good. I don’t know whether you are a harbinger of war or peace, and I haven’t the energy to deal with you when I have to deal with other destabilizing forces, such as the three so-called councilors you have recently met with.