by Erik A Otto
“‘This is why I didn’t want you here. It was I who waylaid you in Managash. Calvek Hayzan is my man, loyal to the core, albeit a little short on vision. I’m not sure if your agreement about sending back the messengers is real, but if not, it was well played. I will give you that, Envoy.
“‘Finally, as to your proposal, I would like to believe it will help us in Jawhar, that it will lead to peace, but I have little energy for it when we have enough problems at home. Your words are colorful and almost inspirational, but what it will come down to is whether or not you are trying to betray us, and whether or not you have the strength to see your plans through. Are you, and have you, Envoy?’”
The meetings with Sal Habib and Mahmood had been surprising in their way, but this was definitely the most unexpected. He actually admitted that he had tried to stop her from reaching Judud Jawhar when she was just wrapping her head around the notion that it might have been Mahmood’s doing. Here was another councilor who clearly didn’t want her here and didn’t deny it.
Were these councilmen this frank with everyone? The same kind of realizations would have taken weeks, months, or more through circuitous conversations with Pomerian royalty and advisers back home. She reminded herself, though, that despite his assertions, he might be lying.
Either way, she must find some way to bridge the divide.
“The truth is, I don’t know how to convince you of my intentions. Yes, I’m a Pomerian. That I cannot change. But I have come here at great personal risk to forge better relations between our two nations. I’m not ignorant to the peril that I face here. You know I mean to see this through because otherwise I wouldn’t have pushed Hayzan to come here to Judud Jawhar. At the same time, I’m lost. I don’t know if I can trust you, the Herald, or any of the other councilors. I don’t know if this proposal is the best solution, nor do I know if I’m the best person to make it a reality. The truth is, I need help. I need someone like you, Wahab. I need someone who understands Jawhar inside and out, including the other councilors. Yes, you can say no, but if you do, you will be complicit in my failure, in Belidor and Jawhar’s collective failure. And yes, things may be stable for a while without me here, without any successful proposal, but for how long? How long can peace be kept without something more than hatred and bigotry enduring between the east and the west?”
Paykal showed a heavy expression at the length of her oratory, then began translating. When he was finished, Wahab stopped pacing about the room and sat back at his desk with his head held by the hand of his fleshier arm. He shifted back and forth in his chair a few times, tapping a quill on the desk while stealing the occasional glance at her. Then he said only a few words, which Paykal translated.
“Envoy, you speak well, and you don’t make my decision easy. I understand the value of your proposal, really. It’s as good as any from what I can see, but supporting it has many political consequences and risks. As such, I will need to give this the time it deserves. Forgive me.”
“But the meeting with the Herald is only a few days away. Will I know if I have your support before then?”
He shrugged and gave another curt reply, which Paykal translated. “He says he doesn’t know, Envoy.”
How could she make any progress unless people at least told her whether they would support her? She wondered if the reference to Wahab the Weak wasn’t an allusion to his arm. Maybe this indecision was a sign of political impotency.
He said something else then, which Paykal translated. “He says, ‘I’m sorry, Envoy. This isn’t what you wanted to hear, I know, but it’s too important to treat flippantly. Is there anything I can do in the meantime?’”
Give me an answer! But she didn’t say this. She thought about his question. She wasn’t one to refuse gifts. There had to be something useful she could get out of this conversation.
There was only one thing she could think of. “It would be helpful to get a detailed account of trade exchanges between Jawhar and Jawhar’s neighbors, as it would inform what could be employed in the trade exchanges from the embassies to help make the proposal real for the Herald.” She already had received this from Habib, but this could be a test to see if Wahab really wanted to help—or if he just wanted to stymie her, as she was beginning to suspect.
Paykal translated and received Wahab’s response. “Mr. Wahab says he can try, Envoy. These days Habib puts up red tape around anything like this. He says he will probably be able to get it in a week but no earlier.”
Which meant not before the meeting with the Herald, when Habib had given her the same thing right away. It did seem like he was trying to block her efforts. So why even offer to help? Perhaps it was a hollow gesture. She doubted he ever would.
It was time to leave. “Goodbye, Wahab,” she said. “Your time is appreciated, and I look forward to your view on the proposal.” She was internally skeptical.
Paykal translated, even though Wahab looked like he understood what she’d said.
“Goodbye, and thank you, Envoy,” he answered in Belidoran and nodded back.
“Zahir, antazar ahuna,” Wahab said to Zahir, who stood solemnly in the corner.
Zahir explained, “Envoy, I will catch up after words with Wahab.”
“I understand.” She turned and made her way out of the building, with her head still stuck in the frustrating conversation.
Zahir did catch up with her soon after, when she was no more than a few paces into the street.
She had nothing to say to Zahir. She needed to think about how to handle the meeting with the Herald, and he would be no help. Besides, Zahir was clearly Wahab’s man, so she doubted she could trust him. He stayed with her wordlessly all the way to the Dignitaries Residence and up to her chamber, even when she wanted him to leave so she could think in peace.
At her chamber door, Zahir said a strange thing, broodingly, reluctantly; “Pomeria chose well.” Then he about-faced and walked down the steps, not looking back.
Chapter 23
The Imbecile
On a night when heavy rain was rapping loudly on the thatched roof, Darian couldn’t help himself. Despite all the chastising looks he’d received from Adeira, he lost his patience with Sebastian.
He was trying to sleep, but the rain was too noisy, so he watched as Sebastian came up the ladder after completing his evening bloodletting. Sebastian rummaged through his satchel, and an unusual item fell out. Darian recognized it at once—he’d seen one carried by the rangers. It was a Navigator’s map.
Darian startled Sebastian when he spoke. “How can you be so devout and yet carry a Navigator’s map? I thought they were forbidden in Belidor?”
Without waiting for a response, Darian snatched the map, untied the band around it and splayed it out on the floor. He began studying it closely like he did with his father’s maps. They had only one wyg lamp that was fading and due for refurbishment, so he had to squint to make out the detail.
Darian would often become obsessed with maps, and this one was no different. Much time passed with him in thrall to it. It wasn’t until several minutes passed that he realized Sebastian hadn’t responded to his question. When Darian finally looked up toward Sebastian, his eyes were unreadable dark pools, watching him patiently.
Finally Sebastian said, “the maps were only recently outlawed—for fear they might fall into Jawhari hands. The Sandaliers don’t care. This one was a relic from a great quest undertaken by my father.” He paused, then continued. “No, that’s not right. The Sandaliers do care. They only allow use of it in your home, as an heirloom or curiosity; not on the open road. But I have to use it…because I seek the truth, even though doing so may not be entirely pious. I don’t know if this map will lead me to what I seek, but I can live with my sin as long as I endure it alone.”
More riddles. Darian would have given up then, but he couldn’t fall asleep with the rain as loud as it was. “Why were you looking at it now?”
“I…I have to continue on my journey. I’m prepari
ng, planning my route. I was going to tell you tomorrow. I didn’t mean to be secretive.”
Darian wasn’t suspicious. Instead he was relieved that Sebastian was finally leaving. Nevertheless, he said, “It is strange Sebastian. Even when you’re about to leave us, you refuse to speak plainly. Yes, you’ve said you’re looking for some truth about the Book of Canons, and you think you’ll find answers by wandering Matteo’s lands, but it doesn’t make sense. Why come all the way to Thelonia, in a time of war no less, when you could do the same thing in your home country?”
There was another pause, inhabited only by the patter of rain. “I’m seeking truth in a literal sense,” Sebastian said, “and so you deserve the same. I’m going to climb the Snail Mountains to find the original Book of Canons.”
Darian laughed out loud, but then stopped short, remembering Sebastian was rarely facetious. The original Book of Canons? Why would it be at the top of the Snail Mountains? His feelings shifted from being annoyed by Sebastian to being worried for his safety. “Listen, I’m not sure how you got the idea that there is a Book of Canons, or any book for that matter, at the top of the Snail Mountains, but you should reconsider. You will have to travel not only through Cenara but also Sambayan lands to get to the base of the mountains, and then how are you going to climb them? Doesn’t it say something in the Book of Canons about suicide being a sin?”
Sebastian’s head tilted to the side, and his eyes reflected the center of the diminishing wyg lamp. “It’s a sin, but a lesser one than living a lie.”
Darian resisted the urge to emulate Sebastian. “Do you really want to throw your life away, Sebastian? Think of what you could do other than smashing yourself to pieces on a mountainside. People lie. Believe me, I’m good at knowing when people do, and it happens a lot. I’m sure people lied to you about the Book at the top of the mountains, just like many of the fantastical things in the Book itself.” It was a grave sin to speak so of the Book of Canons, but he felt as if he was trying to save the fool’s life.
Darian’s words didn’t faze Sebastian. “Don’t worry for me, Darian Bronté,” he said. “I’ve been in the Red Rains and felt Matteo’s blood on my hands. I’ve been bitten by a gargoyle. I don’t speak in jest, nor do I read false narratives. I speak only truth. And besides, my death is insignificant in the face of the importance of the quest itself. Did you ever stop to think that it might be you who should be worried—you who should reconsider your path? You are faithless, acting in a fog of ignorance. Eventually you will succumb to this slow poison. In fact, so will we all unless we can cut through it with incisive truth.”
More religious blather. Darian felt his anger building up, just as it did at the hearthstone. He tried to temper it, knowing he’d brought this confrontation on himself. So rather than responding, he only shook his head. Then he handed the map back to Sebastian, turned his back to him and whispered a number of the phrases Sebastian had spoken.
After a moment of quiet, Sebastian said, “Good night, Darian.”
Darian didn’t sleep well that night. To calm his nerves, he kept reminding himself that Sebastian would be gone the next day. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Maybe then he could stop whispering his annoying riddles.
There was something more, though, something deeper that was troubling him. Darian could almost always tell when someone was lying. He would emulate the person’s words and mannerisms, and the reflection would tell him much about the person, often revealing to Darian if they might be stretching the truth—or at least be dancing around some falsehood. It should have been no different with Sebastian. But it seemed as though Sebastian believed everything he said. His were not the words of someone filled with deceit. So it made Darian wonder, if Sebastian didn’t think he was lying, how could he speak of impossible notions like the Red Rains and gargoyles with such certainty?
That thought alone stole much of Darian’s slumber that night.
The next day’s excitement kept him wide awake despite his troubled sleep the night before.
Darian and Sebastian had been eating wordlessly at the table when he heard Adeira use one of her Valderan expletives.
“Snadda!” she said. She abruptly stood up from her sitting position and winced in pain.
Sebastian and Darian glanced at each other, then back at Adeira.
“I hate to interrupt when I’ve never seen you so talkative,” she said sarcastically, “but can you both shut up, because I’m about to have the baby.”
They immediately went into action setting out towels, clean cloths and a water-filled basin while Adeira gave them regular updates on her contractions. Darian steeled himself mentally for the birth, knowing he would be the one pulling the baby out.
He tried to not think of all the religious utterances Sebastian would make when the baby was born.
But Sebastian was remarkably quiet and helpful throughout the whole ordeal. He held Adeira’s hand, brought her water, and kept telling her she would be all right. He was much better at it than Darian was. He did say the occasional prayer, but they seemed to comfort Adeira, which was most important.
When the baby came, it was a bloody affair, but to their collective relief there were no complications. Adeira cried over her husband not being there but was otherwise as pragmatic and tough as ever. Adeira’s face became occupied by what could have been the brightest smile Darian had ever seen. Darian and Sebastian couldn’t help but join in her happiness. Adeira was graced with a beautiful baby girl, whom she named Pamela.
Not more than a few minutes after the birth, without any warning, Sebastian stepped adroitly toward the door. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must go. I will always be thankful for your hospitality. I congratulate you on the beautiful life you have brought into the world. I hope Pamela lives in a world versed in more truth than this one. May Matteo’s grace be with you.”
Adeira said, “thank you, Sebastian, for all you have done for us. Today his grace is with us all, I think.” Considering the state she was in, Adeira’s response was rather elegant.
Darian was caught off guard by the quick exit. He couldn’t think of how to say goodbye to Sebastian. He accessed his many memories of what Sebastian had said, trying to find a suitable phrase he could repeat. He couldn’t find one, so instead decided to use his own words.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Darian said. And when he said it, he realized that he meant it.
But it was too late, because Sebastian had already left.
Chapter 24
The Traitor
When Hella rode with Gwyneth she sometimes had this feeling. It was when they were doing something risky like a jump over the hedges or a race across the forbidden areas of the palace estate. She would be determined to try even though she wasn’t ready—even though she knew she was about to fall off or make a mistake. She went ahead and did it anyway. It was a matter of pride.
It was that same feeling that tainted her spirit the morning before the meeting with the Herald.
They went through the usual greetings, and the Herald asked about her stay. Thankfully there was an absence of sexist remarks. As she scanned the faces of the councilors, Habib gave her a polite smile of encouragement, Mahmood a deathly scowl, Taymullah a stern glare, and Wahab was unreadable.
She promptly launched into her proposal, taking care to mention she had discussed it with all the councilors but not that each had approved it.
The Herald nodded throughout. Then he spoke.
Paykal translated the Herald’s response. “Envoy, this is interesting, but your examples of trade are not to my liking. I would like us to have Pomerian breeding horses, Albondo oak bows, and the service of commercial boat smiths from Esienne, although perhaps that can be worked out later.”
Before she could respond, there was a flurry of activity from the councilors. Mahmood jumped in first, standing up and barking at the top of his lungs. Then Habib stood up, talking over Mahmood. Not to be outdone, Taymullah stood up as
well. Wahab stayed seated, looking like a timid child. The Herald watched and tried to make sense of them with an annoyed look on his face.
Paykal whispered to her, “Envoy, they are speaking so fast that it’s hard…Mahmood says that the plan will be akin to sending the Jawhari embassy envoys to purgatory, and it will sow the seeds for destabilization by endorsing collaboration with heathens. The others…the others…” Paykal tried to follow the shouting. She doubted even the most fluent Jawhari in the room could understand because they were all speaking at the same time.
Before Paykal could interpret the conversation further, the Herald stood, and the councilors immediately went silent. He spoke directly to her, looking vaguely unhappy.
Paykal translated. “The Herald says that his councilors don’t agree to the plan, so it cannot be implemented. You will need to work with them to find something that they can agree to. You are to come back to him when you do.”
There it was. The Herald wasn’t going to defy his councilors in public, just as Sal Habib had warned. To do so would cause too many problems for him. On the positive side, he hadn’t cast her out of Jawhar quite yet, which had been a real possibility.
But how would she ever reach an agreement? She remembered what Habib had said about seeking a private audience. He was probably right. Her only chance might be to convince the Herald to overrule the councilors outside of the audience hall.
“Great Herald, esteemed councilors, I hear your objections, and I will do as you say. I will work toward a mutually agreeable solution.” And she bowed.
Paykal translated, and the Herald nodded.