by Erik A Otto
“On a separate matter, I had hoped for a chance to show hospitality to the Great Herald, to convey my gratitude and the gratitude of all the people of the east, including the Thelonians and Belidorans, for this chance to improve our relations. Would it be possible for me to host you in my chamber for dinner in the coming days?”
When Paykal translated, Mahmood jumped up again and spoke, and Habib followed, looking to retort something. Then Wahab stood and hollered, wagging a finger at Habib.
Paykal managed to catch the exchange. “Mahmood says it isn’t wise to step into the den of the lion, but Habib said it’s only a small courtesy and the Herald is strong enough to deal with lions no matter where they are. Mr. Wahab says that all matters of state should be addressed in public, in front of the council. It wouldn’t be right for a private audience.”
There was more being said by the councilors, but the Herald stood up again, silencing them. He turned to her and spoke more calmly, nodding and smiling.
Paykal said, “The Herald says he will gladly take the offer, for if you cannot dine together, you will never be able to forge an alliance.”
Hella did her deepest bow, nearly planting her face on the floor, then raised herself and said, “The Herald is generous and courteous. I look forward to the affair.”
It was a small victory but an essential one, for otherwise she could be mired in dealing with these stubborn councilors until she was old and gray.
As she left the council chamber, she exhaled deeply in relief. Perhaps it wasn’t relief, for she felt focused, and tense, as one might feel before a game of sport. The meeting with the Herald would be of utmost importance, and she needed to prepare for it accordingly.
Hella spent much of the next few days in her chamber, floating about in her nightgown, planning her evening with the Herald. This uneventful time ended on the day of the meeting, when she had three unanticipated visitors.
The first was Battia, the Belidoran cleric who was part of her retinue. She was so quiet and discreet that Hella often forgot about her. This was perhaps why she’d been chosen, because if a more noticeable Belidoran had been included, the Jawhari might have taken issue with her presence. At times Hella had consulted with Battia or gone over the day’s recordings to ensure their accuracy, but Battia was painfully shy, not the sort Hella liked to deal with. Hella hoped that, in time, Battia would come out of her shell.
“Ma’am, I was wondering if I may join you and Paykal to bear witness to the preparations for the meeting with the Herald. I wouldn’t dare to be presumptuous, but I would speculate that the meeting is more of a matter of national interest than personal.”
She might have been shy, but she wasn’t dense. Hella nodded. “Of course, Battia. Make yourself comfortable, and feel free to offer your counsel.”
Battia entered the room with her recording tome and sat with quill in hand. It didn’t look like she had any counsel to give for the time being. Once Battia was settled, Hella simply nodded to her and went about her business in preparation. She was too tired of trying to pry words from Battia’s mouth.
The second visitor was Sal Habib. He came to offer his congratulations for securing a private meeting and to say he looked forward to working with her to cement any agreement with the rest of the councilors.
She thanked him for his advice and support. It was true that without it she might not have been able to secure the meeting with the Herald. Habib also gave her tips on how to deal with the Herald, such as things he liked to discuss, his favorite parts of Jawhar, and his fondness for dress on women. He even gave her a bottle of the Herald’s favorite wine for the affair.
The last visitor was Zahir. He finally gave her the records of the trade exchanges she’d requested from Wahab the Weak, saying they circumvented the red tape by avoiding Sal Habib’s knowledge of the request altogether. It was a meatier folder than what she’d received from Habib, but she doubted the contents had anything of substance. Zahir lingered at the door and then asked about how she planned on conducting the meeting with the Herald.
To that Hella replied, “I thank you for the records, but my meeting with the Herald is none of your business—a personal affair. You can report that to Wahab.”
“Can I give you advice?” he asked.
“No, Habib has given me plenty of that. I would count his counsel as the choicest, for he believes in making something productive of my visit here.”
Zahir moved closer to her, one pace into the room, and said quietly, “Princess, Habib is not to be trusted.”
She laughed. “Really? What reason do I have to trust what you say? Wahab has done nothing, whereas Habib is the only councilor who has helped further my cause.”
He frowned and looked down, perhaps concentrating on what to say, or perhaps how to say it in Belidoran. “This isn’t well known, but he was a Mulla Telahtaree.”
She wasn’t sure what a Mulla Telahtaree was. It sounded like one of the many innocuous trade license designations that Faruq told her about. She wasn’t about to let her ignorance show, however. “Now he is an accomplished businessman. What of it? If you would kindly take your leave, I would appreciate it. Thank you.” And she pushed him out. He looked like he would object, but her guard moved closer and loomed over him.
Zahir reluctantly left, and finally she had peace and quiet.
She brought Paykal into her chamber in the afternoon. He would be a key player in the evening’s activities. She asked him questions about the counsel Habib had provided so she could become better versed in the activities the Herald enjoyed, or the places he frequented in Jawhar. He responded with the help of a large reference tome he brought with him everywhere.
After she ran out of questions, she went to bathe. She told Paykal and Battia to look through the package brought by Zahir to keep them busy. She also opened Habib’s wine to let it breathe and offered Paykal and Battia some for their service.
As she undressed in the bathroom, she reflected on Paykal’s contributions. Although Battia remained somewhat of a disappointment, Paykal had impressed her. She had initially resented her mother’s man coming along but had to admit she was relieved to have him. Particularly because the alternative would be that she would have to rely heavily on Faruq.
When she was settled in the bath, she hollered, “Paykal, have you examined the packet from Zahir yet?”
Paykal called back, “Princess, it is much more comprehensive than what we received from Sal Habib. In addition to the exchange of goods, it includes expenses relating to meetings and more detail on specific financial transactions. It’s dusty, though, and likely rarely used. Perhaps all this detail is unimportant.”
“Okay, never mind about the detail. Do the trades match up with the one Habib sent? I’m wondering if it’s legitimate or if Wahab is feeding me misinformation.”
There was a moment of silence as she lathered her arms with the strong Jawhari soap. It left a bit of a hint of musk she disliked, but she was getting used to it.
“Princess, the same trades are listed here, but there are more.”
“What other trades? Are they different kinds of goods, some items that didn’t make Habib’s list?”
Paykal’s voice then registered a note of surprise. “No…they’re not insignificant. Princess, what is strange is that there are trades with Pomeria on this list, it seems, and if I can find out more within the details…one moment…” After a brief pause he continued, “Princess, there are trades in here noted to Mr. Veckio and Mr. Pontrain.”
What?
Although it was something she was trying to change, it was currently illegal for Pomerian merchants to trade goods with Jawhar. This had to be some kind of mistake. She hurried the completion of her bath, lathering more quickly. She was curious to see this for herself.
Paykal continued from the other room, “Princess, these trades with Mr. Pontrain and Mr. Veckio are for ships and horses, and the financial amounts are staggering. This is three times the price of a well bred P
omerian horse, as far as I remember.”
Ships and horses? Those are some of Pomeria’s most prized resources. Were the Jawhari willing to pay so much that the noblemen had given in to greed? But it almost didn’t matter. Assuming the records were accurate, the fact that these transactions could be executed meant these noblemen were having relations with the Jawhari behind their back. Illegal relations.
She stepped out of the bath, reached for the towel, and dried herself feverishly.
Paykal continued, “Princess, Mr. Veckio is listed here as vice admiral. Could that be a mistake?”
If she remembered her teachings correctly, vice admiral was a rank in the Jawhari military, often bestowed on their influential landowners and other political representatives as a kind of honorary title. It wasn’t a rank given in Pomeria, probably for the very reason that it was given in Jawhar.
“Probably a mistake,” she called out. But she wasn’t so sure.
Her heart raced. Something was wrong about these documents, but it was hard to believe they were forged. Before today she had doubted the Jawhari even knew who Mr. Veckio and Mr. Pontrain were. Yet here they were, listed as parties to lucrative financial transactions, and one given a Jawhari title. It wouldn’t be that concerning only a year ago, when the border was impassable. But now that the Deep Well bridge had been built, if these men were under the sway of the Jawhari, their army could just walk across the bridge into Pomeria!
There were other implications in her immediate political circle. Someone was playing with her. Did Wahab make up this information? Or did Habib intentionally omit it? She couldn’t help her voice from cracking when she asked her next question. “Paykal, do you know what a Mulla Telahtaree is? It sounds vaguely familiar—like a trade license designation.”
“A Mulla Telahtaree?” He sounded surprised by the shift in subject, but answered, “No, you are thinking of a Muna Ahtaree, which is a trade license designation for burse. Mulla Telahtaree is an ancient term, and I can’t recall completely. I’ll look it up…I believe it’s akin to the Matagon Monks in Belidor but for the Jawhari faith.”
“Please look it up. I’ll be out soon.” She rushed to clothe herself as her heart pulsed rapidly. If Habib had once been a vehement defender of the Jawhari faith, he could have as strong an aversion to Belidorans as Mahmood. But Habib had told her he was barely religious.
“Habib is not to be trusted.” Zahir’s words reverberated in her mind as she finished buttoning her blouse. Before she left the bathroom, she paced back and forth, trying to make sense of it all. Habib had suggested this meeting. Why would he try to further her cause? If he was a Mulla Telahtaree, what would be the benefit of putting her close to the Herald so she could try to achieve a closer unity?
The answer hit her as she exited the bathroom. She gasped in horror as she saw Paykal writhing on the floor, his hands clutching his throat and foam spewing from his mouth. Paykal’s wineglass was tipped over next to him, the spilled wine darkening the white fur carpet to pink. Battia walked backward away from the convulsing man, her hand on her mouth.
Alerted by Hella’s scream, the guard she’d posted opened the door, his sword unsheathed. It was Waynard, one of her smallest guards, but also one of the smartest.
“Shut the door,” she barked as she dropped to her knees and tried to lift Paykal. She sat him up and slapped him on the back. He writhed in every direction.
Waynard joined her. “Did anyone else hear?” Hella asked.
“No one else is outside, Princess. Is he choking, or is it…”
“Yes, it’s poison. Do you know what to do?”
Waynard watched for precious seconds as Paykal clawed at his throat. Then he said, “It looks like a variety that constricts the throat. We can only do one thing.” He took a quill and held it above Paykal, looking at her for affirmation. She nodded, not sure what he was planning or whether it would work, but it was certainly better than her inaction.
Waynard wrangled with Paykal, whose convulsions were slowing, and after a moment managed to secure a good hold on him. He pried Paykal’s teeth apart and stuck the spine of a small book there. Then, in a quick motion, he stuck the quill behind the book. Paykal wretched, but it was a weak, raspy thing, and little if any air got back in. Then he grasped his throat again. Waynard tried again, but he couldn’t get the quill in.
Paykal turned to an inhumanly blue color. His spasms became less frequent. As the violence of the convulsions subsided, Waynard successfully inserted the quill again, but nothing happened except a mild heave. Then Paykal’s body stopped shaking altogether.
Waynard looked at her with dismay.
“You did the best you could. Thank you,” Hella said, trying to control the flood of emotion threatening to overtake her.
How could she not see this coming? But this was no time for sentimental reflection. She knew this wouldn’t end with Paykal’s death. They could all be in grave danger. She stood up and paced, her mind racing. She needed to think, and act, quickly.
The Herald was due to arrive in less than an hour. If this was a plan by Sal Habib, surely he, or whoever was complicit with him, would be hovering around nearby to come to the scene when the Herald or her had drunk the wine. Surely this was meant to frame her so as to incite war, or to allow Habib’s rise to power.
She concluded that they needed to immediately go to the Herald—to make known the details of what happened. If she told a guard, or even one of the councilors, it could mean her doom. She needed the Herald to hear her story first, or the Herald may never hear it at all.
She issued commands as she paced, “Battia, alert the other members of my Royal Guard of the incident, and have them meet me here right away. But tell no one else of this. Understood?”
“Battia?”
Battia was no longer in the room.
Chapter 25
The Truthseeker
Sebastian’s time at Adeira’s homestead had been invigorating. Darian, Adeira, and Donaldo had given him a much needed respite from his urgent flight and troubled mind.
He might have delayed too long, however. The monks were known to be relentless. Yes, he’d ventured deep into Thelonia, but they could still be close on his heels.
The Navigator’s map had been useful, allowing him to find little-used roads and avoid troublesome geography. It was of meticulous workmanship, made by the monks after the Second Jawhari War when they were systematically ridding the countryside of the works of the Forefathers, and gifted to his father from the estate of a deceased Pomerian Apostle. Someday, when he knew the truth, he would return it and ask for forgiveness.
After leaving Darian and Adeira, he stayed away from the other homesteads and open fields of the meadows by following an overgrown trail in the forest. It was these abandoned trails that had allowed him to travel so far so fast. On the Navigator’s map there was often a green mark on these trails, looking like it could be a town or a village, but whenever he arrived at these dots, the area was just a big overgrown crater, as if Matteo had come down hundreds of years ago and clawed out a huge chunk of earth. Were these former Forefather sites or maybe lairs of gargoyles that the monks had found and excavated? There was no way to tell, and no matter the history, the abandoned trails were perfect for his travels.
The map’s color was faded in areas where there was less confidence in the map information. These faded areas became more and more prevalent the farther north he traveled into Thelonia. In Sambai more than half the map lacked detail. Near the Snail Mountains in Cenara it appeared the map would be altogether useless. For now, however, it was one precious advantage over the monks who chased him.
As the day stretched into night and into day again, there was a part of him that felt at peace. Perhaps the path Matteo had charted for him wasn’t a well-trodden one but rather a more circuitous, exhausting one. Like his father’s journey or even like the Crossing of the Shepherd, nothing could be gained without adversity. Maybe Matteo had chosen Sebastian because he was the
only one who could find the truth—the only one with enough devotion to see the quest through to its conclusion.
He crossed over the Sambayan border without incident. There was no border patrol on the overgrown trail he was using in the deep woods. It was no wonder the Sambayans had been able to surprise the Thelonians.
The forest began to thin. According to the Navigator’s map, the woodlands would soon end altogether, gradually degrading into the grasslands that covered much of Sambai. Here he had to choose. He could leave the trail, steering northeast to stay in the forest and remain concealed, or he could continue to go west, following the line of the trail straight across broad plains of Sambai, then arrive in the relative safety of Cenara before reaching the base of the Snail Mountains. Even though the northerly route offered better concealment, he would be heading deeper into Sambai, and it looked like a one-hundred-mile detour.
He decided to head due west.
Soon after the thinning forest cleared altogether. He came across an area where a few unfenced cattle grazed. Nearby he could see there was a prominent stable detached from a main farmhouse building. It was the first sign of habitation he’d seen in a long while.
He realized this could be an excellent opportunity.
He waited until the middle of the night. There was little activity in the main farmhouse except a faint wyg lamp that was extinguished relatively early in the evening. The stable was far enough away that even if Sebastian made some noise taking the horse, it wouldn’t be heard by whoever was in the house.
Sebastian prayed for a moment before approaching, “Matteo, forgive this transgression, but the truth is of greater import than the loss of a horse to this humble farmer.”
The stable was open, and a saddle was easy to find. Matteo’s moon was bright, making his task easier than he’d expected. There were two healthy horses in the barn. The more rigorous-looking mare gave him what he took for a threatening look, so he chose the less imposing animal.