Mérdmerén went back to his days as a nobleman, when he still lived in the estate of Santiago de los Reyes, happily married to Maria de los Santos, and they rejoiced in their only daughter, Ajedrea of the Recesses.
Ságamas was breathing in the scent of nature that the breeze brought with it. He had sat down by the window without his wooden leg and was massaging his stump. The skin there was raw, and there was dried blood on it. He took off his armor.
At sea, he had never needed that kind of protection. The thought brought back memories of the beauty of the sea, the mermaids, the sun’s reflection on the surface. He lay down on the bed and in a matter of moments, he had surrendered to sleep.
As they had had no supper, they woke up hungry as beasts. They met in the hotel dining room.
“What time do we leave today?” the sailor asked, a little downhearted.
“Don’t know,” Mérdmerén replied.
The witch’s words echoed in his mind. He grasped the talisman. It was made of something like metal, but as light and tough as leather. It bore no inscription. It looked insignificant, and he doubted the qualities Hexilda had assured him it possessed. On the other hand, logic told him that this little object must hold all the strength of the wyvern and the magic of the witch. He felt heavy as if his soul could not hold any more fatigues, sorrows, and losses.
Your death won’t be in vain, Hexilda, the deserter promised himself as he fondled the talisman. He put it back inside his leather clothes.
The sailor was watching him in silence. “You’d better never take off that talisman, boss. If it protects you, it protects me, you understand? I don’t want any more bloodshed.”
“It’ll protect us, alright. At least I hope so. Don’t you feel strange, now that we’re so quiet after so many disasters? After the old woman gave her life for us?”
The old man’s gaze was distant. They were alone in the bar, and there was nobody outside either. The silence was welcoming. The man of the sea came out of his reverie with a shrug.
“She said you were a messenger, boss. You’ve always been one, haven’t you? Weren’t you intending to tell the king about what’s happened in the South?”
“True. But I think she meant something else. Virtue. In my life, I’ve been someone of virtue.”
“I can’t answer your questions. We just know that some demons want to finish you off and that the soldiers of the Empire are after you as a deserter and a bandit. Whether or not you’re important in any other way, we’ll find out eventually, but first, we have to get to the North.”
“All right,” Mérdmerén replied, scratching his chin. “At a steady trot, it takes a day and a night to reach the imperial highway, which branches off in three directions: Omen, Démanon, and Háztatlon. After the fork, it’ll take another full day to reach the city.”
A waiter appeared behind the counter and started preparing breakfast. The men took their seats at a table of plain wood, and presently, the waiter served them cured meat and several different kinds of cheese with fresh papaya juice. The quality and quantity of the servings raised the travelers’ spirits.
When they had finished breakfast, they went back to their rooms. Mérdmerén wanted to take a nap, then go out to have a look at the town. He would go to the central market and maybe buy a souvenir of these moments of ease after so many storms.
Some day, he would return to Nabas. Perhaps to spend his last years, if he survived the adventure. Ságamas, on the other hand, was planning to stay in his room for the remainder of the day to think about things and not feel so old.
In the evening, Mérdmerén was strolling through the central market, amazed at the differences between the North and the South. The people here walked with a different air and look in their eyes; they carried out their tasks with enthusiasm, whereas in the South, work was considered a bore.
He had been away from the land of his birth for too long. He had forgotten the men of the North’s code of honor and the value of effort. He spent some time casting an eye over the merchandise. Everything was smaller and scarcer, and also more expensive.
His attention was caught by the smell around him, pleasanter than in the South. He realized that cleanliness here was the common quality in shops and streets, something in which everybody played their part—merchants as well as customers. He went across to a shop that sold daggers and old knives made of stone and strange metals.
“Everything’s on sale today, sir,” the seller told him with a wide and yet respectful smile. She was an old lady dressed in a purple silk gown, her hair tied up with a scarf. Her teeth were worn, but her eyes gleamed with life, like burning coals.
Mérdmerén was interested. “What do you mean, on sale?”
“Everything’s half price. Make the most of it.”
Nothing caught his attention. He rummaged among the rusty old knives, broken and worn. One item stirred his curiosity. It was a dagger in a leather sheath with an unusual handle. A skull was skillfully carved on it. The woman placed it in his hands.
“Stern’s dagger. It’s said that it belonged to a great dragon rider and that its blade’ll pierce the scales of any winged reptile, be it wyvern or dragon. Better not even think what it might do to a human.”
Mérdmerén held it respectfully and slowly unsheathed it. The blade, he noticed, was completely dark but not like night or shadow. It was, instead, a black that absorbs all light and reflects nothing.
“What metal is it?”
“It’s said to be made of dragon scale.”
“How?”
“I don’t know how, sir.”
“No, I mean I’m not sure I understood right. You said dragon scale. Ma’am, dragons are a myth, a legend only children believe in.”
“That’s what some people say, but others say the opposite. Who to believe? The truth is one, but nobody ever really knows it.”
Mérdmerén was still perplexed. He stroked the surface of the dagger. It was smooth, cold. He passed his fingers along the edge and felt its implacable bite. The blade was shaped like a triangle, an elongated pyramid.
“I’ll take it.”
“Stern’s dagger,” the lady murmured in a mysterious voice. She half-closed her eyes, and Mérdmerén shivered.
“Right then, how much is it?”
“For you, a special price of twenty crowns.”
“Twenty? Wasn’t it on sale, then?” said Mérdmerén in surprise. All the same, he liked this dagger a lot. Besides, it gave him a sense of comfort he hadn’t had with other blades.
Mérdmerén went back to the Field Villas Hotel with the dagger in his belt. Near the hotel, he became aware of a group of imperial soldiers who were questioning passersby. He could not be sure they were here for him, but he was not prepared to take any risks.
Back in his room, he undressed like a grandfather, thinking of nothing more than a good rest. He listened to the deep snoring of the sailor in the next room. He threw himself on the bed while there was still some sunlight and did not wake up until the following morning, anxious to get on with his mission.
Chapter XXIX – Háztatlon
The travelers were ready at five in the morning, before sunrise. They were leaving more at ease than when they had arrived. Mérdmerén had found out about the imperial soldiers he had seen.
They were looking for a group of fugitives: an old woman, a one-legged man, a man with a big nose, and a boy. What a bitter irony that they were now lucky enough to pass unnoticed thanks to the loss of two of them. He felt the talisman on his chest; it seemed to have a life of its own.
While they made their final preparations, Ságamas grumbled a little. He would have stayed in Nabas for a month or more. It was a peaceful place that was full of opportunities, both economic and social. Besides, like a good sailor, he could foretell the storm that was approaching.
Why not settle in the town forever, abandon their mission, and forget? But he knew that, sooner or later, fate would come to meet them. On the other hand, carryi
ng on with their journey meant reaching the Early Sea and going back to his natural environment.
“That’s it,” Mérdmerén announced when they were all set to go. “We start the final stage. Are you ready?”
“Bloody hell, after what we’ve been through, I think I’m ready for anything,” Ságamas said. “It saddens me to leave this place. I don’t want to leave Nabas. It’s such a pleasant town. But there, let’s finish our mission.”
“You’re right, sailor, it’d be a fatal mistake to leave the mission unfinished,” Mérdmerén said. He got onto his horse, which immediately complained about the weight.
The sky was already announcing the new day, tinting the darkness with orange and sweeping away the stars. Mérdmerén squeezed Stern’s dagger, which he had fastened to his metal jerkin.
Ságamas stared at the knife and said nothing, but he would certainly mention it at some time.
They set off.
Toward seven in the evening, when the sun had gone down, they arrived at a three-way crossing. The one in the middle led to Háztatlon.
There were many wooden and metal signs which showed the direction of the imperial capital. This road was also busier than the other two: traders, travelers, and carriages of all kinds were making their way toward the large and splendid city.
“What about taking a break, boss?” Ságamas suggested. “There are several hotels we could stay in over there. If they’re cheap, of course.”
“If you want to, you go,” Mérdmerén replied. “I’d rather camp around here, in the open air. I feel nostalgic.”
“All right then, I’ll go. Where there’s the comfort of a bed on offer. And at my age, it might be the last time.”
Mérdmerén dismounted and combed his horse’s mane for a long time, letting himself drift among memories of what had happened lately. The deaths of Jamie and Hexilda plunged him deep in sorrow.
The following day, Ságamas found Mérdmerén awake, facing the dawn. He looked like a lover in a rapture of melancholy.
“You all right, boss?”
“Yes,” he replied, stretching his arms and smiling shyly. “On we go, then, destiny awaits us. Start rehearsing a noble air, sailor. Don’t let the noise or the cries of the beggars stun you, and don’t let the curious looks of the soldiers make you nervous. Háztatlon is a magnificent city full of life and opportunities, but also of poverty and crime. Ready?”
“I’ve had plenty of time, and plenty of things have happened. Of course, I’m ready. Let’s go. I can’t wait to arrive.”
They mounted their horses and set out on the last leg of their journey to Háztatlon.
***
Before the day was over, they set eyes on the magnificent city. A structure rose elegantly in its midst: the Imperial Palace, the fortress where the royal family lived along with their political parasites.
The various towers of the palace stabbed the sky like sharpened arrows of purest white. The towers surrounded a giant dome. The Imperial Palace stood out over any other building because of its importance, beauty, and size. Even from afar, it was intimidating.
The palace also had adjacent buildings and structures within a wall with numerous lookout points, each one manned by at least ten guards. Several catapults, placed immediately behind the wall, posed a powerful threat. Outside the wall spread the city, a heterogeneous mix of buildings, each with a unique personality.
The houses huddled against one another as if they were trying to find a gap in that intricate network of streets, avenues, and pathways. Thousands and thousands of people lived in the areas furthest from the center, immigrants from other regions who were struggling to survive, ate the crumbs, and carried out the hardest jobs.
The sailor was speechless, stunned by the sight of a city so magnificent and at the same time, so unfair. It was the result of having accumulated layers upon layers of humans, opportunities, desires, failures, businesses, political games, and social traps.
“Welcome to Háztatlon,” Mérdmerén said with a broad smile of pride. Even he, who had lived here for much of his youth, was awed by the sight of the city.
He would have sworn the capital had grown since the last time, but it kept its proud personality, the crossroads of cultures, the clash of chaos and euphoria, the confluence of traders and buyers, murderers and honorable men, counselors and wealthy nobles, prostitutes and maidens, bankers and brawlers. The city presented a spectacle at every corner, impossible to grasp in a short time.
The great capital still had to solve major issues such as an adequate distribution of water, cleaning of the sewers, and safety of the streets. But its miseries did not overshadow its merits. Háztatlon was not only the capital of the Mandrake Empire: It was a city of cities: bigger, richer, more vibrant than some countries. Háztatlon, the unconquered, the wild, the unknown, the recognizable, the ever-changing, and the constantly chaotic.
They arrived at the sentry posts. The guards questioned everyone arriving. Some, they let pass; others, they rejected; others were taken to the dungeons. Mérdmerén and Ságamas walked with that air of nobility they had agreed on.
They passed through the checkpoint, and nobody seemed to suspect. Two meter-thick metal gates opened, and finally, they set foot on the dirt and stone streets of Háztatlon. Vendors soon approached with their varied offer of products, as well as poor children who begged for a piece of bread. Nearby a dogfight broke out. A luxury carriage rolled by. It carried two maidens of remarkable beauty and elegance. Háztatlon was understanding when it came to those daring ones who obtained their desires no matter what, and extremely cruel to those unfortunates who lived off the crumbs and pity of others.
They were walking through the humblest part of the city. The houses of mud and straw were huddled so haphazardly that sometimes, they appeared to be set one on top of another. Perhaps it was a metaphor for the way of survival here: if you do not step on others, they will step on you. In Háztatlon, a poor man had no worse enemy than his next-door neighbor.
Not far away, businesses multiplied under the eyes of the guards—who punished thieves heavily—and preachers and soothsayers who peered out of every other corner with divine words. It was a true spectacle.
The atmosphere was charged with an intense mixture of smells that stifled the sailor. He was not used to being aware of the delicacy of some expensive perfume next to the acridness of piss; the freshness of appetizing fruits along with the putrefaction of old meat; or the sweetness of spices like cinnamon and oregano along with the bloodshed from an animal’s throat.
Ságamas covered his nose and mouth as if those effluvia alone might infect him with some fatal disease. All the same, the stench impregnated his skin and senses, and he knew it would be a long time before he was rid of that sticky feeling.
Mérdmerén, on the other hand, breathed deeply and enjoyed his return. He savored those smells like some delicious liqueur. He noticed the food stalls: the stale tortillas from the day before yesterday with pork (which was nothing but gutted rat) or roast chili peppers with veal (which was dog–meat), all of it seasoned with insects and filth, which would add something extra to the flavor.
Mérdmerén noticed his partner’s unease. “We’re going to an inn that belongs to an old friend. We’ll be able to stay there while we think about how to complete our mission. We can ask this friend of mine about the embargo on ships and find out something about yours. You might even manage to get on a carriage going straight to Merromer. We’ll see. My friend’s name is Chauncy. He’s neither patient nor understanding, but he’s pleasant.”
To be honest, Mérdmerén had no idea what they might find—too much time had gone by—but he felt like he had to calm Ságamas and make him feel at ease.
The sailor was overcome with nausea, and he felt older than ever. Even so, he nodded. The idea of the inn sounded good. Then he doubled up and was sick. A group of carrion birds fell eagerly on the unexpected meal.
As night began to fall, the shops began to close, work c
eased, homes were warmed with fire and dinner, and the gangs appeared. They were organized criminal bands who controlled certain businesses through extortion.
Chapter XXX – The Most Holy Hero
Argbralius knocked on the door, and Damasio came at once. He was wearing his white pontiff’s cassock, but his beard and hair were tousled. In his eyes, there was sadness for the death of Regoleno. He looked both ways along the corridor suspiciously.
“Come in,” he said, and let him in. “Welcome to your room for the remaining month of your stay in this institution. Are you ready?”
Damasio had abandoned his indulgent tone for a more aggressive one as if he had to tame a rebellious beginner. “I don’t want you to think you’re on holiday or that you’re here for pleasure. I’m risking a lot for you, and you must give your absolute best to become a sacristan. I’ve come to an agreement with the Perfect Pontiff.
“Your destination will be San San-Tera. It’s a cursed village that was destroyed a few years ago. Nobody wants that post, but it’s the condition for your graduation. If you don’t accept it, you’ll be expelled.” He walked around the room and looked at Argbralius. “Sit here.”
It was quite a comfortable armchair. The boy felt at ease in this room, by the pale light of a candle.
“These are strange times, Argbralius. Nothing like this has ever happened in the Décamon. The Empire is about to collapse; in Háztatlon, there’s talk of civil war. The rumor is that the tragedy at San San-Tera was a punishment from the gods. Whatever the case, these are times of crisis and change.”
Damasio was silent. Argbralius blinked, tenser than he had been a while before. “San San-Tera has many needs. Since its destruction, no young man has accepted the vacancy of sacristan alongside Father Crisondo.”
It’s time the Empire had a new hero, someone who’ll save it from catastrophe. If the Empire’s going to fall, I’ll prevent it, Argbralius told himself.
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