“Are you not coming?” he asked.
“I would love to, Uncle,” she mocked, “but that would be stepping outside my role.” The sigh she gave was greatly exaggerated. “But such is the way of the world.”
Annoyed, Loy did not offer her a second glance as he followed the pier into the city. “Be ready to leave when I return,” he yelled.
Kindrel laughed as Loy stormed away. She’d held her tongue for as long as she’d been able – a full two months actually, which, in her opinion, was quite impressive. Even though Loy was thirty-five, he acted like a child. Grandfather had certainly done a number on that one. Ever since Silt’s disgrace, Nikom had become overbearing and stubborn. He had given up his city and his aspect as Farmer in favor of some silly ideal, and now his descendants were discarding their chance at godhood for their patriarch’s ill-conceived utopia.
It was a shame. The world Nikom was creating was not one she recognized. It was no surprise that the pantheon had not recovered under his guidance. She hoped that Loy would succeed in his task. The family would need the Mother’s guidance if it was to recover. Sighing, she retrieved her fishing pole and tackle box from beneath her seat and set to baiting the hook. Loy would be sitting on a pile of fish during the return trip. She smiled at that.
Already, Loy regretted leaving the dinghy. This particular pier looked as though it had spent half the year submerged beneath the sea, and only recently dried. The planks that were not missing from the jetty were pitted with rot. He was forced to step carefully in order to avoid falling face first into the dead barnacles and bird shit that coated the planks. The wharf itself was in even worse disarray. Someone had stacked crates, barrels, and spools of rope in random places along the waterfront, all of these items left wide open to the elements and unattended. Loy was aghast. There seemed to be no organization here, and the few people that meandered along the waterfront did so as if half asleep in the early morning light. The air smelled of rotting fish and damp wood.
He scanned the area for a good place to collect himself. The title he had been assigned was Tracker, and his main goal here was to find the Mother and deliver a message from Father Order. He was supposed to be aided by Niece Kindrel’s superior knowledge of the region, but clearly, he would need to rely on his own skills. This was preferable anyway. He was here to attain godhood and notoriety. Loy did not need his work tainted by some upstart Third horning in on his achievements. Still, he found this task grating. Loy was better suited to a grand role, perhaps one philosophical in nature, like his father’s.
He found the place he wanted, a small, dry inlet between two warehouses. A single crate had been left pushed against the wall, sturdy enough to sit on. Brushing away grime, he seated himself in this mercifully dry spot and began his work. His goals were simple. Foremost, he was to find the Mother, which he suspected would be an easy task.
His second goal might not be so basic. According to his father, the spy that Niece Kindrel had mentioned had not been heard from after leaving her ship. If possible, Loy was to discover this agent’s fate. Unfortunately, he knew almost nothing about the man, except that he must be a member of the family.
His final goal was more passive; if he happened to come across any god or godling here in Trel, then he was to offer them the sanctuary of Lendal and direct them to Niece Kindrel and her ship.
Now that he had arrived in the city, his first move would be to look for the Mother; then he would try to find any lesser gods and godlings still in the city. He was confident that with his superior skills he would be finished with this task by day’s end.
After all, every god and godling had an aura, and if properly taught, this aura could be felt. It was a sixth sense, placed somewhere between taste and smell, for each aura emitted its own unique flavor; its own scent. Loy was naturally attuned to these scents, which was likely the reason he had been given such an important task. Unfortunately, it was likely the reason he had been given such an embarrassing role as well.
Nikom’s Blessing, he swore, once I achieve godhood they will be calling me Brother Tracker the rest of my life. What a pitiful name.
With his talents, he was able to push this sense farther than any other. Seated facing the city, he closed and then shut off the connections to his eyes. This sense had nothing to do with vision, but he preferred to operate as such, for it was simply easier to control without visual distraction. Physically blind, his mind was a black field. Into this field, he poured his god’s power. Like wine into a decanter, vessels began to fill in space. Closest to him, a large hazy figure emerged from the emptiness; a woman’s figure, seated and bobbing atop the sway of the harbor. The flavor was that of salt, fish, and waves. If endless expanses and impenetrable depths had a scent, it was embodied within Niece Kindrel’s aura. Loy condemned himself for not having done this sooner, for she was indeed powerful, far stronger than he had expected. It was nothing close to the power of his father, but spectacular nonetheless.
Sadly, his own aura was less robust. Gods with physical aspects were easy to distinguish, but his own aura was a blur of different flavors, implying that his role had yet to take firm holding. Disappointing, but not surprising. From this amalgam of scents, his aspect would form, and such grace took time to ferment. Loy was familiar with only one of the flavors of his aura, not because he recognized it as any concept he knew, but because it was the only flavor that had remained constant throughout his life. If only he could place it, he might accelerate his rise to godhood.
Expanding his perception, Loy refocused his attention to the city before him. The remainder of the field was blank. Disturbingly blank. In Lendal, at the heart of his father’s stronghold, Loy could feel hundreds if not thousands of auras, one for each of his relatives. Here, at the foot of Trel – holiest city in the world and birthplace of the gods – there was nothing. It was only he and Kindrel.
Reconnecting his vision, Loy opened his eyes. This was all wrong. There should be as many godkind here as in Lendal – if not more. Father Order claimed that Trel was the center of the world. This should be the pantheon’s heart. Perhaps… perhaps the city was warded somehow.
Loy considered turning back to the boat and demanding an explanation. Clearly, he had not been given the full story of Trel, but crawling off the crate, he thought better of it. If he turned back this early, he would look a fool. He would investigate the city in its entirety before returning to the boat, for even if there were no longer godkind in Trel, there might be clues to where they had gone. After all, Father Order claimed that he had sensed the Mother’s presence in this very city only two months ago. At the least, Loy could find her trail.
Seeing a mortal woman idling beneath a streetlamp, he crossed to meet her. This search would have to begin the mundane way. He waved in greeting as he approached, to which she nodded indifferently over the smoking pipe clenched between her teeth.
“I am Loy,” he said upon reaching her. “Fifty-third son of Order. If you would, where is the Mother?”
The woman, her cheeks rosy in the morning chill, pulled her pipe from her teeth as if to speak. She paused, replaced the pipe then withdrew it again, frowning all the while. She shrugged then pointed south. “Follow the wharf till its end then directly east.”
“Thank you, miss,” he said, turning to follow her directions. Finally, Loy was reassured. See, he told himself. I shall be on my way home by nightfall.
In the morning fog, his vision was largely obstructed, giving the wharf a beautiful mystique. The oil street lamps that dotted the roadside gave off a warm, hazy light that the mist caught spectacularly. However, the foul scent of whale oil tainted what would have otherwise been a fine walk. Certainly, this port was not nearly as glorious as that in Newfield, but with such an easy task before him, there was no reason not to enjoy the scene. His sentiments changed quickly.
The inner city was abysmal. Without the open air of the sea, the streets were cramped. The first he turned onto was barely wide enough for a sing
le push cart and the gutters lining the street seemed to be clogged with discarded chewing tobacco. Thinking the problem was this particular route, Loy crossed to the next road at his first opportunity. It took only another fifty steps upon this new street before he realized that the ‘Holy’ City of Trel was an abomination.
He found himself on a wider main road, and yet, this one was worse than the last. Though wider, either side was lined by an array of unmanned merchant stalls, making this street equally as narrow. Here too, the drainage was clogged.
Despite all the stalls, for twenty yards there was only a single merchant. The man must have been a fisherman, for he was busy gutting and deboning fish. As he cut fillets from the fish, he tossed the bones into the alleyway behind his stall, rather than a trash receptacle. Loy looked around and discovered that all the alleys had been similarly mistreated. There was trash and other waste piled in each of them. The smell was abhorrent, but the merchant simply ignored it.
As he traveled deeper into the city, the merchant stalls disappeared and the street widened. This part of town looked to be residential, the homes two or three-story buildings, a few of them with signs denoting gambling halls and taverns. Even here, the streets were filthy. Strangely, even though this seemed to be a main road, the streets were paved with cobbles instead of granite setts – as was the custom in Lendal. It made for arduous travel, and several times he almost tripped on the uneven stones.
The trash and filth did not get any better here. At one point, he even saw a woman throw open her shutters, thrust her backside out her second story window, and defecate into an alley. The sight had almost made him gag. If the gods had abandoned Trel, he would not blame them. Its citizens were animals who did not seem to care at all for their city, and even less for hygiene.
Losing confidence in his current direction, Loy stopped at the entrance to a local smithy. He had traveled nearly twelve blocks and each had been the same squalor. The building he stopped at was hollow but for a single load bearing wall at the far end and two posts holding up a slatted awning of sheeted metal. Attached to one of the posts was a sign, with the name ‘Noh Solisters’ engraved into the wood. A blacksmith hovered over the forge built into the far wall. Loy called greeting, but the blacksmith did not stop his work.
When Loy entered, the man seemed annoyed then half grunted, “What’cha want, boy?”
“Good morning, Mr. Solisters,” Loy began, slightly perturbed. He was no ‘boy,’ but he would not waste his time correcting a lowly blacksmith. “I am Loy, fifty-third son of Order–”
“Order?” the blacksmith interrupted rudely. “What Order? I’m already a member of the Smith’s guild, and his cult, and I’m already payin’ dues for both of ‘em. I don’t want to join no Order.”
Loy sniffed. The Trellish accent was like rolling up sandpaper and using it to clean the ears. Somehow, they had lost the language’s natural musicality. The blacksmith’s last sentence was dismissive and crass, but clearly the man misunderstood, and Loy would not be turned away by some mortal.
“You misunderstand. I’m not here to-”
“Yeah? Then why are ya here? I ain’t buyin’ nothing. Didn’t ya read the sign, boy? No solisters.” The blacksmith pointed to the sign hanging from the post.
Loy glanced to the sign. So it did, but it seemed the man had not the intelligence to spell the word, or even pronounce it, correctly. Loy backed up slowly. Clearly this man was an idiot – and the worst kind of idiot, too; the kind that believed itself the intelligent person in the room. Loy turned and walked out of the smithy without another word. Hopefully, the next person he spoke to would be an educated one, or could at least read and write. Loy continued down the road he had started on.
He was beginning to suspect the woman at the docks had led him astray when the buildings parted and he found himself at the base of a large plaza. Ten feet ahead, a raised platform of marble tiling stretched across the length of the open square. Two guards stood at the lone steps leading onto the marble courtyard, both dressed in red and black uniforms wielding pikes. He recognized the uniforms from legend. These guards were members of Just’s Legion, and since they were here, he concluded that Just must still be active in the region. A very good sign.
The two guards, a man and a woman, watched him curiously. He bowed respectfully then approached. These two might be mortals, but they were servants of Just, the god second only to the Mother. It would be unseemly and unwise to insult one of his agents. After all, the man was wrath itself. Hoping for a better angle, Loy stepped toward the marble platform. Surely, he would be able to see the Mother’s abode from there.
The guards stopped him at the stairs. “Where ya going, friend?” the man asked.
He gave them a broad smile, even though he was deeply confused. The platform was nothing more than an empty courtyard. They had no reason to stop him.
“Onto the platform,” Loy said innocently.
“The plaza is forbidden,” the woman said.
Loy did not understand. He studied the guards, dumbfounded. “What is this place?” he demanded.
The woman answered without pause, her words sounding well practiced. “This is the Mother’s Plaza. None are welcome among the ruins. All worship must be conducted in the surrounding square. No exceptions.”
Now he understood. This was where the Mother’s Temple had once stood. The woman at the docks had misinterpreted his wishes, and led him here, which did not bode well. Clearly the common folk did not know of the Mother’s presence in Trel, which meant he needed to speak with the uncommon. Perhaps a priest or a god, he contemplated. Maybe Just himself. His gaze fell on the soldiers.
“Direct me to Just,” Loy commanded. “I must speak with him.”
The two guards glanced at each other then back at Loy.
“Begone foreigner,” the woman said. “We don’t have time for a madman.”
Loy’s patience for this city’s denizens was quickly waning. No human dared dismiss godkind in Lendal – especially not a child of Order.
“You dare dismiss me?” Loy flared. “I am the son of a god!”
Both guards burst into laughter. “And I’m the Whore’s consort,” the man replied.
Loy was taken aback. These humans would dare use that term? And here of all places! What sacrilege.
“Do not use such words,” Loy warned angrily. He could feel his jaw clench. “Do not defile the Mother in such a way.”
“What do you know of the gods, foreigner? In Trel, we call a whore a whore.” Her tone was a challenge. “And a bitch a bitch,” she added, motioning at Loy.
Loy had to calm his breathing. He was a son of Order. He was godkind. These mortals needed a lesson in civility. “You will-” he advanced as he began his threat.
The butt of the man’s pike caught him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him. He curled forward, his words dying on his tongue. The woman grabbed his arms while he recovered, affixing a pair of shackles to his wrists.
“I told ya we had no time for a madman.” She spoke as if to a child who had eaten too many sweets and gotten sick. The tone was filled with impatience. “A few days in the stockade ought to humble you.” She yanked on the shackles, pulling him toward her. Loy almost tripped, but managed to stay afoot, barely. Straightening, he stared into the woman’s eyes. Fury boiled beneath his skin, but for once in his life, Loy felt no reason to contain it. Bugger to Just. If the man would not teach his servants respect, then Loy would do it for him.
The woman held Loy by the chain attached to the manacles. Emotion was a funny thing; sometimes it tainted magic, creating the unexpected, and sometimes, it made the very essence of grace itself into a physical reality. This was not one of those times.
The clasps of the manacles snapped, and the chain wrapped itself around the woman’s arm. Once emplaced, the shackles transformed into an eel. Perhaps he had spent too long at sea, but such was mysticism – it often reacted without conscious guidance. The soldier screamed, and the ee
l – which seemed more confused than the woman – twisted frantically. It was not particularly effective as a form of restraint, but a good distraction nevertheless. Perhaps if he had been thinking calmly, he could have manifested a snake instead.
Stunned, the other guard watched motionless. Only when the eel began biting at the woman’s bicep did the man make an effort to help her. He dropped his pike and grabbed the eel’s length. While the two were distracted, Loy transfigured the cobblestones. Once the two guards, now wrestling to pull an entrenched eel from the woman’s arm, had sunk sufficiently deep into the ground, Loy re-solidified the cobbles. For good measure, Loy picked up one of the guard’s pikes and slammed the butt into the man’s chest.
Violence was severely punished in Lendal, but fortunately, this was Trel. The guard coiled forward, his legs wanting to buckle, but his feet stuck firmly in the earth. The woman pulled a knife from her waist and drove it into the still thrashing eel. Loy picked up the other pike and directed his gaze at the woman who watched him hatefully.
“Do not test your gods again, wench,” he threatened.
When Loy turned to leave, he saw that a crowd of four had gathered during the encounter. He stopped and stood before them regally. These people had witnessed a fine victory. What kind of god would Loy become if he did not grace them with a moment to admire him?
“Where are the gods?” he demanded of his crowd. They all stared as if terrified he would attack them next. A pity; these humans should love him, not fear him. After all, he was fifty-third son of Order. Finally, an old woman stepped forward.
“The gods are watching over the Legion, as it marches on the Lockish heathens,” she said.
“Thank you, madam,” Loy said. “Where are these Lockish… heathens?” He was not entirely certain what the final word meant.
“East, near Dekahn.”
“The Farmhold?” he asked.
The woman nodded. Of course it must be so. Trel had clearly fallen into squalor after the sack of the Mother’s Temple. Surely with his father’s foresight, Dekahn would have held up better than this rat’s nest, so where else would the Mother go but to Father Order’s ancient city?
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 25