by Emma Miles
‘Yes, it is true.’ The Lodging Manager leant forward to confide excitedly. ‘There is to be an official announcement at midday and we are requested to celebrate wholeheartedly.’
‘And what of Elden?’
‘Elden?’ the man looked puzzled and Osun felt a pang of disappointment. He would have to seek further information elsewhere.
‘I just wondered what their reaction would be, in a way we have done them a favour, but we have also shown them how powerful we are.’
‘Indeed. With the Borrows’ fleet we could take the world. These are great times, Master. Please, would you follow my slave to your room?’ He seemed to recall that he was very busy.
‘Of course.’ Osun smiled. ‘I’d like a bath filled please and some provisions sent to the room.’
‘I will see to that at once, Master.’
Osun followed after the silent slave and didn’t even glance over his shoulder at Milaiya. They ascended two flights of stairs and were taken to a solid looking pine door. The inn slave opened it wide and then stepped back, freezing in a low bow and holding out a key in her open palm. Osun snatched it without a word and looked around the room. The walls were a glossy dark-green, the furniture intricately carved pine, stained to the colour of oak. The heavy curtains at the window and around the bed were a leaf patterned brown and a copper bath stood in one corner partially obscured by a tapestry screen. He flicked his fingers out toward the slave to indicate that he was satisfied, and she could leave.
‘I’m going to the temple after my bath and then to the market to see if there are any deals worth making,’ he told Milaiya as he went to the window to look out. His room overlooked the busy street and was high enough up that he could peer beyond several rooftops toward the temple and the Palace of the Coven. He gritted his teeth against his fear and instead focused on his resentment that his simple life of trading and passing on information had been interrupted by the Seat of Arkoom and his overly ambitious father. He owed Elden nothing, but unfortunately, he did owe his master, was indeed owned by his master as surely as he owned Milaiya. These recent events scared him far more deeply than having to risk himself more than usual as a spy. Chem was his home, his culture, and yet his time in Elden had left him feeling somewhat discontent and somehow unfulfilled in his mind and in his soul. It wasn’t just his being a spy that meant he had to watch every word and every action, this land was full of jealousy, resentment, hunger for power, and fear of the powerful. Since the rise of his family and necromancy, blood was all.
He shivered and turned to see that Milaiya had set out his best jacket and a deep blue shirt. He nodded his approval. Three slow knocks announced slaves and Milaiya hurried to the door to let them in. Three of them carried two buckets each of hot water and a fourth, two buckets of cold for mixing. Two others brought in trays of food which they laid out on the table; they hovered for a moment until Osun flicked his fingers at them to indicate it was sufficient. After Milaiya had scrubbed him in the bath and helped him dress, he ate just enough to settle his stomach.
He didn’t need to tell Milaiya that she could help herself to the food and left-over bath water, it was understood that she was allowed when they stayed in an inn. He did however remind her to get his clothes laundered and not to leave the inn. The last thing he needed was someone damaging or stealing a good, if sullen, slave. An unaccompanied woman outside a building was considered as belonging to no one and therefore belonging to anyone.
He secured his purse and a knife to his belt and then fastened his jacket over them. Having no guards, he carried his own sword and prided himself that he was more than capable of using it. He stopped off at his wagon to collect a string of beeswax candles and a bolt of good red cloth as offerings for the temple and set off across the city.
The main street was crowded with many licenced food vendors having set up along the flag-stoned pavement; despite having just eaten the rich aromas were tantalising. The best of the city’s shops lined either side of the street, but despite his longing for such a shop of his own, Osun didn’t pay them much attention; he was unlikely to be able to sell any of his goods at those shops and any items he purchased would have their prices marked up so high he would never make a profit.
The temple was the largest building in the city, it had to be to hold so many Gods. Osun wasn’t sure he believed in any of them but concluded it was prudent to visit often both to hedge his bets and be seen to show the proper devotion. It also gave him a chance to gather information. Which Gods were the most popular told him a lot about the state of Chem, about its political and economic climate. One of the reasons that Chem looked down on Elden was that they were a country of only two Gods and one of them was female – Sky Father, Earth Mother. All Chem’s Gods were male; if any of them ever wanted to procreate and produce another God, they just kidnapped a suitably attractive human woman. As for the barbaric people of the Fulmers, they worshipped anything and everything and had some odd idea about everything having spirits. Osun almost chuckled to himself when he imagined a dark Fulmer warrior worshipping a tree.
He assumed a suitably sombre face and ascended the long steps. The temple, like much of the city, was built from black volcanic rock. The huge doors were of rare oak as smooth and flawless as the stone. They stood open wide but not invitingly; the inside was dark and full of whispers. He nodded at a fellow trader who came scurrying out; they made no eye contact. Stepping over the threshold was like stepping out over a cliff edge the contrast between where light was and wasn’t was so great. Sounds echoed in the deep alcoves. When his eyes adjusted, he made out the long corridor and hidden rooms from which candlelight seeped and wavered. Priests stood waiting to greet the worshippers and accept their offerings, ready to pounce on anyone who hesitated in their choice of God. He trod carefully on the glistening, polished floor.
Domarra was the God of prosperity and of merchants. Not surprisingly Domarra’s popularity rarely wavered. His alcove was the fifth on the left and Osun was sure to peer into the other alcoves on his way past as discreetly as he could without lifting his head. He walked purposefully enough that none of the hovering priests did more than glance at him. In the distance, there was a queue for the alcove that housed the alter of Hacren, God of Death, the God of the necromancers. Hacren was feared more than any other God and had once had very few worshippers; now he had worshippers that could only be described as fanatical as well as those that went in the hope of currying favour from the Seats of Arkoom. His neighbour, Monaris, God of War, was less busy and the alcove of Warenna, God of Magic, was empty. Osun’s feet almost faltered. Chem’s was a society based on magic and its economy based strongly on those who carried magical ability in their blood; for Warenna’s worshippers to have abandoned him was startling. His eyes went back to the line awaiting the alter of Hacren and he went cold inside.
He reached Domarra’s alcove and smiled at the priest, handing him the cloth and candles.
‘Domarra’s blessings.’ The priest bowed.
There were two other men in the alcove, both kneeling at the altar so Osun politely waited. The God’s effigy was carved from white marble and was a stark contrast to the darkness. The God the stone depicted was four times the size of a mortal man and strongly muscled. He had a wild, curling beard but a bald head. He held out one hand from which dangled a bounty of fruit, his other hand held a set of scales and a sword was at his hip. He was dressed in a shirt open almost to the belly and trousers tucked into long boots. The statue’s expression seemed to change in the light of the flickering candles from benevolent to threatening and back again.
‘He looks angry today,’ Osun mused under his breath, just loud enough that the priest could hear him, but not so loud that he would disturb those praying. ‘Have we not prospered from our victory over the Borrows?’
‘War costs money.’ The priest sighed. ‘You have not traded today?’ A priest was one of the very few people of Chem that did not address anyone as ‘master’.
Osun shook his
head. ‘I was delayed by the weather.’
‘They have put the traders’ tax up again at the market.’
Osun’s shoulders slumped. ‘There goes my profit. I would have thought an increase in tax would have swelled our worshipper’s numbers; it seems quiet today.’ He looked around at the priest.
The priest frowned and hugged the cloth closer to his chest. ‘In times like these people will turn to the God they fear the most, losing faith in the one who has sustained them.’
‘Or perhaps the God of the ones they fear most.’
The priest shuffled his feet and glanced around. ‘There are rewards to be had in this life by following a popular God, but it is the next life and our own souls we should concern ourselves with. Keep your faith, Pilgrim, Domarra looks after his faithful.’
‘He does indeed.’ Osun smiled grimly.
One of the worshippers got to his feet awkwardly; he was in his fifties and thin in a way that proclaimed a terminal illness. He regarded Osun steadily before bowing to the priest and making his exit. Osun took a candle and lighting it, knelt and set it on the alter at Domarra’s booted feet. He knew he was being a hypocrite by praying. People were what he believed in; they had enough power and evil between them to outdo all the Gods. Even so, he asked for Domarra’s protection and thanked him for bringing him prosperity; even though he’d done all the work to gain it himself.
So; people were abandoning their own Gods and those of their families to curry favour with Hacren and the necromancers of the Dunham family. They were afraid.
Osun stood and gave the priest a nod and smile. ‘Blessings, Holy One.’
‘Blessings, Pilgrim.’
The light when he got close to the door was so bright he had to squint and his eyes watered. He jumped as someone moved to his right.
‘I’m sorry, brother, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Osun turned, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and found himself facing the sickly worshipper from Domarra’s alcove. The fact that he’d called him ‘brother’ meant that he considered them to be equals.
‘Can I help you?’ Osun straightened up and hid his anxiety.
‘Pardon my intrusion; I couldn’t help but overhear you had not been to the market yet to trade.’
‘That’s so,’ Osun replied uneasily.
‘May I ask what you have to sell? Forgive me, you do not recognise me; I am Farkle Worne. We have done business in the past, be it a few years ago.’
‘Farkle!’ Osun’s jaw dropped. He recalled a large and fit man with a generous head of hair.
‘Time has not been good to me.’ Farkle smiled wryly. ‘Not to my health, or to my business. My shop is closed, and my son now runs a stall in the market.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Osun said genuinely. He had traded maybe two or three times with Farkle when his shop was a new venture and he still took his goods from the traders that came to market. He had always been a fair and friendly man. ‘Come, brother, let’s get off the street and catch up somewhere that does a decent meal.’
Farkle hesitated.
‘My turn to pay, I’m sure,’ Osun reassured him; he couldn’t help but feel some sympathy and if there was a chance of a good deal out of it that avoided a few market taxes so much the better. ‘You can host me next time I visit to talk business.’
Farkle seemed to relax. ‘That is very generous. There is a nice little place off the main way just beyond the palace.’ Farkle indicated with his hand and they descended the steps and into the street.
This part of the city gave way from shops to the most splendid of houses; most donning the stark style of the temple. The street widened out and several wells stood along its length from which male slaves came and went with buckets. Up ahead, the palace stood behind high walls and a small crowd had gathered outside.
‘What’s that all about?’ Osun wondered.
‘Adelphy Dunham is parading the wealth he won from the Borrows.’ Farkle grimaced.
Osun recalled Adelphy from his childhood; he was the son of his father’s cousin and strong in magic. Like most of those with power Adelphy was a bully and he also took pleasure in causing physical pain and humiliation. Osun himself had received a fractured cheekbone from the man for allegedly not getting to his knees quickly enough when he’d come to look over the female slaves to make a purchase. He was a tall, thin man, with a nose that seemed too large for his face. He was also the son of the man who had killed his mother. Adelphy had invaded the palace of Margith six years ago, slaughtering all within it and taking the Seat of Margith for the Dunhams, taking their tally of seats up to eight and ensuring the necromancer’s dominance. Osun’s jaw began to ache from gritting his teeth and he forced himself to relax.
‘I might take a quick look.’ He didn’t wait for Farkle’s reply but strolled up to the edge of the crowd. Despite being quite tall he couldn’t see over all the gathered men, so he edged his way forward as politely as he could. Several guards in metallic red armour stood guarding a row of chained slaves; all women and none of them covered. Most of them had the curling brown hair and dark eyes of the Borrows but in all of them there were varying signs of some Fulmer heritage. Darker skin, straight black hair, lighter eyes, and a taller, willowier, build. Each one of them could produce several more powerful sons for the Dunham family. Adelphy was showing them that the Dunham’s hold over Chem was unchallengeable.
He drew in a sharp, deep breath, glancing around at the crowd and feeling his pulse quicken. There was a tightness across his chest and he pushed clumsily between the gathered men to get outside their circle and into the open where he could breathe. He almost bumped in to Farkle.
‘Let’s get that food.’ He forced a smile although Farkle’s expression showed nothing but hopelessness.
The older man led him off the main street and down a narrow road, turning right down an even smaller ally barely wide enough to walk single file. Osun would never have thought of looking for an eating establishment down here, but a small sign did indeed hang out over the black cobbles. Farkle pushed open a battered wooden door and walked confidently in. There were only two, small windows, so the interior was dark but more comfortable that the blackness of the temple. There were three tables, and none occupied, a man looked up from polishing cutlery with a delighted smile on his face.
‘Master Farkle, I didn’t expect to see you again this week.’
‘I have business with my friend here and trading can be hungry work.’
‘Please, sit!’ The grey-haired man barely gained more height as he leapt down from his stool and rushed to pull out two chairs. ‘Today I have roast snow hare with honeyed parsnips or a stew of beef.’
‘Gunthe is a fine cook,’ Farkle reassured Osun as he sat.
‘The hare sounds good.’ Osun nodded.
‘And for me.’ Farkle agreed.
‘At once, masters.’ The cook bustled off behind a dividing curtain.
‘Gunthe, like me, has the misfortune of having connections with an out of favour family,’ Farkle said cautiously. ‘Business is not good if you’re related to someone who has crossed the Dunhams. You are lucky that you have no ties.’
Osun cringed; if only he knew! ‘Is that why your shop failed?’
Farkle glanced at the curtain and door before replying; his grey eyes both sad and angry. ‘As you know, the Coven of Telanis was the last seat to hold out against the Dunhams. I only have distant links with that now extinct family; they provided the gold for the decorative mammoth tusks I sold in my shop. It was enough though, to bring me trouble and make people fear being seen in my shop. I had no choice in the end but to gift all my stock to Hacren and publicly denounce the Coven of Telanis. With no stock, I had to sell the shop and start again at the market.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘For me, as you can probably see, it’s too late to start again. I think only of my son.’
Osun couldn’t meet his eyes. Farkle’s story was all too common and he couldn’t afford to
associate too much with someone who had been disgraced by the Dunhams; he couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself. He gritted his teeth in annoyance at the pity he felt and the urge to help. He cleared his throat.
‘I am not sure if my goods would be suitable for your stall, but I do have a small selection of ivory and gold pendants.’
It would be risky for both of them to trade without declaring it to the city tax officials but Farkle was obviously in desperate straits and Osun wasn’t averse to saving a bit of money. Farkle could also prove a useful source of information in the city; market traders heard much.
‘I could make you a fair offer.’ Farkle regarded him.
The cook emerged from behind the curtain and with a friendly smile placed a jug of well water and two cups on the table. ‘Can I get you some geranna?’
Osun winced, he wasn’t a fan of the very sweet fruit liquor. ‘Do you have a pale beer at all?’
‘I do, master.’ He bowed and ducked back behind the curtain.
‘I am staying at the Sunset Inn.’ Osun told Farkle. ‘If you walked that way with me you could take a look.’
‘I don’t carry much money with me, but if we are able to come to a deal I could meet you again in the evening for a drink in the Sunset?’
Osun hesitated. It would not be good to be seen in such a popular establishment with someone so out of favour. ‘I have other plans for the evening,’ he said diplomatically. ‘Perhaps we could have an early lunch here before I set off tomorrow.’
‘Yes, that might be better,’ Farkle said sadly.
Gunthe brought out their drinks and, very quickly after, their food. They talked of people they knew in the city and of who was doing well and who, like Farkle, was doing badly. It was as Osun feared; the Dunham’s control of the city was now absolute. Gunthe, overhearing some of their conversation, told them that he’d heard there was to be a hanging at the end of the month.
‘A captain of the guard,’ Gunthe said quietly as though fearing to be overheard even in his empty establishment. ‘He had been favoured by the old coven and had been allowed to buy a breeding woman of good blood, one that was supposedly sired by the coven’s Lord himself. The fool bragged about the bloodline of the son he got from her and that he might grow to be powerful.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The son was slaughtered, the woman too along with the two daughters she’d born.’