“That would be a good place to start,” agreed Tyndal, rising, after he set his mug on the table, decisively, and with a regretful glance.
“Oh yes, some grungy clothes, a couple of rusty swords, and the taste of brandy and vomit on your breath . . . it will be as if you were born here,” Rondal observed.
“There are worse places to be born,” Tyndal shrugged. “And it’s far more important where you die than where you were born. Let’s hope the two are far apart in distance and time.”
“I hate it when you get philosophical,” Rondal complained, good-naturedly. “It usually means you have no idea what is going on. Let’s go.” As he stood, there was a brief commotion as two of the begging children, frustrated with the mariner’s lack of generosity, began pulling fiercely on the man’s threadbare cloak. Though they had not enough force or weight between them to pull him over backwards, they did effectively immobilize him . . . and draw his head back.
Swiftly, the mood of the children turned from pleading to aggressive; the two who were holding the man by his cloak were digging in their bare heels on the weathered pier while at least a half a dozen others swarmed over the mariner. Rondal almost laughed at the man’s helplessness in the face of the children . . . when he saw him reach for his blade.
Rondal started toward the scene automatically, but Tyndal’s hand on his shoulder restrained him.
Remember what Iyugi said, he cautioned. Do not get involved. In anything. Things are never what they seem, in Enultramar. He spoke it with the same foreboding tone that the half-breed footwizard told them in the first place. While the idea of the old sailor spitting and slashing a bunch of helpless children over three silver pennies galled him, Rondal stopped his advance.
Tyndal proved correct. Iyugi the Footwizard, one of Master Minalan’s most trusted agents, had extensive experience here in the south of Alshar. He’d given them plenty of good guidance and even facilitated them being smuggled into the rebellious province through an acquaintance who owed him a boon. They’d come to respect his perspectives on such clandestine missions, after a few demonstrations of his powers.
I don’t want to see those kids get hurt, Rondal said, his brow furrowed.
Before Tyndal could respond, the sotted mariner managed to get his scimitar drawn half-way out of its scabbard before a child on his elbow and a child on his wrist halted him, keeping him from swinging the point free of the scabbard. As fast as lightning, a young girl of eight or nine, as skinny as a seagull’s leg, half-climbed up the struggling mariner’s doublet, drew a small (but apparently well-sharpened) knife, and slit the man’s throat in one deft move. Her expression was not one of rage or hate, but merely commerce.
The maneuver was not novel to her, the magi could tell, considering how adeptly she swung out of the way before the mariner’s front was sprayed with dark arterial blood and the sour, alcoholic vomit that erupted from his mouth at the attack. His scimitar and the three pennies forgotten, his hands clutched at his throat as his eyes opened as wide as a gigged fish. No one on the dock seemed to take much notice of the struggle.
See? Tyndal said, quietly, into Rondal’s mind. You never know which side is the right side in Enultramar.
I’m not sure there is a right side here, Rondal replied, sadly, as they witnessed a second swarm of barnacles sweep in and begin looting the mariner’s still-struggling body. His coin, his sword, his belt, his old boots and even his empty purse disappeared in seconds, clutched triumphantly in the grubby hands of the gang of children.
Nymatis ignored them, more concerned with the fountain of crimson that was leeching away his life with each powerful burst from his neck. He looked in vain at his bloody hands, and his mouth filled with bile and blood as he struggled. But his fight was over before his arse fell to the bloodstained planks below. No one could survive such a carefully calculated and well-delivered slash to the thick arteries of the neck for more than moments.
Don’t get involved, Rondal repeated, dully. That was . . .
. . . yes, Tyndal agreed. It was. That was Enultramar. Every seedy, silty, swampy little hamlet across this beautiful, filthy bay is packed with the seething mass of poverty-stricken humanity willing to do anything or trade anything to go one more day in their tortured existence. This is where Ruderal was born and raised, he reminded his friend.
How did a foul-smelling hell-hole like this produce that nice boy? Rondal asked, more to himself than Tyndal.
Some of the fairest blooms grow in the most disgusting of soils, Tyndal said, philosophically. He often had expansive answers for such questions. It was easily one of the more annoying things about him.
Well, that’s the bloom we’re here to pluck, reminded Rondal. The sooner we can do that, the sooner we can get the pluck out of here.
This place isn’t so bad, Tyndal replied, silently, as the two began walking toward the harbor town’s market. It’s colorful. You can see where it used to be really pretty, he added nodding toward a grand, elaborately carved granite façade featuring all manner of sea creatures and ocean spirits doing unlikely things.
Rondal nodded toward the roof of the building – an old warehouse or customs house, he figured – where many of the slate tiles were chipped, cracked, or askew, revealing the wood underneath. Perhaps when the Sea Lords ruled this place, he pointed out. It’s been a long, long time since anyone did anything of note in Solashaven.
The small harbor town was not even, technically, in the harbor, but near the inlet of a silty river that brought muddy brown fresh water from the mountains in the northeast to mix with the harsh, brackish water of the bay.
Much of the harborage of Enultramar was confined to such hidden or concealed ports, protected from the naked ocean by the giant rocky islands that ringed the bay. A vast estuary spread out over the coastline and the three major rivers that emptied into it. Solashaven, though one of the oldest ships’ havens in Alshar, was never one of the largest, busiest, or most prosperous.
Its heyday had been at the beginning of the Narasi occupation, Rondal had learned in his researches, before they came here. Before their barbaric ancestors conquered Alshar, the wine trade from the fruitful Bikavar region on the eastern side of the vale went through Sea Lord ports exclusively, subject to high fees and taxes and extravagant transport costs. Once the Narasi dukes began re-ordering trade, they broke the monopoly on tonnage the Sea Lords enforced and allowed the Coastlords to build havens and ships directly.
Solashaven, once a tiny Sea Lord outpost, was re-developed as a Coastlord port . . . though it was almost exclusively mariners from the old Cormeeran families who were themselves Sea Lords who usually piloted and mastered their fleets. For a hundred years little harbor towns like Solashaven were able to send the Coastlords’ bounty directly to the rich markets in Cormeer, Farise, Unstara, Merwyn, even Vore, at great profit.
But eventually the importance of the wine trade waned as the ships from Enultramar were filled with cotton from Gilmora, not wine from Bikavar. Fewer ships put into harbor seeking wine, and fewer still wanted to gamble on the potential of spoiled wine on a voyage when cotton could get soaked with seawater and still fetch a commanding price at market. The silt from the river, too, prohibited the larger freighters from docking at the Lord Of Solashaven’s piers, leaving their trade to smaller caravels who had neither the space aboard for cotton nor the confidence of the masters of the trade to see it transported safely to market.
The mariners who were left using Solashaven were a degenerate sort. The massive, deep-draughted freighters that plied the Depths beyond the Shallow Sea – and were therefore stocked to the gunwales with expensive exotic merchandise – preferred better harborage than the little town could offer, which meant that the buyers of their wares also preferred larger ports.
The trade remaining to Solashaven was almost exclusively exports, particularly the robust red wines from the rich county of Bikavar, whose vineyards and wineries upriver sent a steady trickle of the sweet red elixir downstre
am to Solashaven for shipment beyond . . . and with the low price of Remeran and Cormeeran wines making that trade difficult, there was not much of that, even.
The ships which remained either had ties to the town or saw it as an inexpensive alternative to the great harbors in the middle of the bay. Their trade tended to be less profitable by far, and it was widely understood that whatever the captains led their crews to do once they were beyond the horizon from their home port would be wiser left at sea. While no one was saying “piracy” or “smuggling” outright, it was no accident that all of the quays of the besilted harbor were empty when the ducal inspector (who now inspected on behalf of the ruling council) made his semi-annual trip to Solashaven.
The Viscount of the town, and the moderately fertile agricultural lands included in his holding to the north and west of the town, was rarely if ever present in Solashaven though he had a tidy little palace there. He and his family had relocated to Falas, Rondal found out, ruling their fief by proxy through an adept administrator who was, it was said, more than willing to take a bribe while the Viscount of Solashaven served as a minor court functionary. He hadn’t even visited the place since he was a child.
Instead a castellan oversaw his interests here, collecting the taxes and fees on his master’s behalf in exchange for a percentage. As he was widely seen as willing to do anything if the price was right, the man lined his pockets with special fees and outright bribes, undermining the social fabric of Solashaven. Considering his unwillingness to spend much of the treasury he collected on actual improvements, the town’s infrastructure, from customs officials to public privies, was falling to pieces.
The only area which seemed livelier than the rest of the dusty town was the market on the waterfront where the local fishermen and farmers traded their wares, and net-makers, thatchers, stonemasons and carpenters met with clients. It was as busy as any other market of a reasonably large town, but not much of that business enriched the patrons, thanks to stiff competition and prices.
There were two smiths in the market, three tanners, and two sailmakers; there were plenty of stalls hawking produce and things like smoked ham and bacon from upstream. But while the locals selling to their neighbors was a positive sign of prosperity in Solashaven, under it all the boys began to pick up a some serious signs of dismay and resentment.
“There’s just not enough business,” Tyndal observed as they walked through the market. “A third of the booths are empty. It’s not a market day, but there are still more people looking than buying. And look at the fees,” he said, nodding to a sign detailing the prices for each booth. “Twice as high as they should be. Three shells a week? That’s outrageous!”
“No sitting lord in residence,” Rondal nodded, thoughtfully. “The castellan runs the town. You know what happens to a place when there’s a tenant lord in charge.”
“Among other things, the criminal element finds opportunity,” Tyndal sniffed, as they passed by a shrimp stall. “And when there is no strong force restricting them, they grow like mold in the cracks of the town.”
“That’s a lovely poetic image,” Rondal chuckled. He paused himself at the booth of a thin little man selling straw hats and baskets to ask where he might find Arrunatus House. It turned out it was just off the market square to the north, one of a row of warehouses that serviced the docks.
The sausage vendor they asked for directions also recommended the porter’s hall across the street – a glorified taphouse for porters and stevedores between assignments, known for cheap booze and pleasant sea breezes. He particularly recommended the punch they served at low cost to the porters – a proprietary blend of fruit juices, rum, and brandy, sweetened with sugar from Unstara, that kept the laborers fueled for their tasks. Rondal thanked the man and they continued to walk at a leisurely pace.
“There it is,” Rondal nodded as they followed the vendor’s directions to the place. “Arrunatus House.”
The large two-story structure had a first floor built of brick, with stone pillars supporting the roof. The second floor was plastered timber, whitewashed in ages past but now cracking and crumbling under years of neglected maintenance and constant exposure to the salt, wind and rain of the bay. The steep-pitched roof was shingled with gray clay tiles, but many were missing. In several places sailcloth and pitch had been used to secure a temporary patch, but it had clearly been years since anyone spent the coin to repair the place properly.
A faded, weathered sign of indeterminate age bore a series of symbols the illiterate masses of Enultramar used indicating that the great building was a warehouse, if they were too dim to note it, and above it in an ancient style of Cormeeran script popular along the seashore proclaimed for the literate: ARRUNATUS HOUSE – WARES AND STORAGE – BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. No proprietor was listed, and the only sign of life was a mean-looking porter outside, smoking a short pipe under the awning over the loading dock, glaring balefully at anyone who came too close.
“What a dump,” Tyndal observed, without slowing down. “Shall we get a drink and observe awhile?” he suggested.
“The vendor in the market did suggest the porter’s hall,” Rondal agreed. “And the porter’s punch. It would be a shame to miss any of the colorful local features.”
Then Tyndal did pause as he caught sight of the small, stand-alone building on the wall overlooking the docks they’d been referred to. It was even more decrepit than Arrunatus House, a mean structure of brick and cast-off stone that had been repaired and augmented so many times over the years – centuries – that there didn’t seem to be a right angle associated with the place.
The plaster was pocked with cracks and craters from years of rough-and-tumble laborers, drunk and tired, expressing their displeasures and woes. While someone had made a spirited effort to try to make the place look inviting by hanging banners and painting parts of the exterior with vivid murals of the supposed pleasures within, the effect was gloomy and sad more than enticing.
There were stains of both blood and vomit around the door, and the smell would have been revolting, anywhere else; here, on the riverfront, near the bay and even nearer the market, it was merely mildly unpleasant.
“Looks like your kind of place,” Rondal suggested.
“Lots of local color,” nodded Tyndal. “Clearly a den of vice and iniquity. And a great place to find a dagger in your kidney while you’re taking a piss. But relatively safe from inquisitive types or local officials. And it looks like it has a deck on the rooftop – that should be pleasant, come sundown.”
“I hear sunset over the Bay is spectacular,” agreed Rondal, as he plunged into the shop after his friend. “I imagine it will be, with all of those ships anchored out there.” There were
“I hear the whores who come out at twilight are spectacular,” Tyndal added. “In the larger cities of the Bay, there’s a regular procession every night.”
The two ordered a mug of the punch from the gruff barman, who showed them the rickety stairs to the roof. The hall below was dark and nearly deserted this time of day, and the succulent barmaids represented by the murals outside were nowhere to be seen. They retired to the roof, which had been planked with half-timbered logs and seasoned with pitch against the weather. A few old patches of sailcloth served as awnings over the rough wooden tables, none of which were in use at this time of day.
“See?” Tyndal said, as they took a seat overlooking Arrunatus House. “Nothing to worry about. Just your average sort of dingy, disreputable taphouse. As long as we mind our own business, we should be fine.”
“Like that drunken mariner who got his throat cut by a gang of barnacles?” Rondal reminded him. “That happened two hours ago, right there on the dock, and there hasn’t been so much as a visit by the town watch.” From their rooftop perch, they could see the body on the dock.
“That’s just Enultramar, I think,” Tyndal sighed. “At least this part of it. Someone will come by and kick it into the water shortly, and feed the fishes and drakes. All
part of the Storm Lord’s plan,” he said, with mock piety.
“Lovely,” Rondal said, sniffing.
“Are you kidding? From what I’ve heard Solashaven is a resort spot compared to some of the pits of hopelessness around the Bay. When you get back into the swamps and the river ports, or into the old Sea Lord havens that have been abandoned, things get really rough.”
“No wonder the Brotherhood took hold, here,” Rondal agreed. “With as much trade, commerce, piracy and slavery that go through Enultramar, they’re likely an essential part of the economy.”
Tyndal looked at him with a start. “You’re not having second thoughts about this, are you?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” assured Rondal. “In fact, seeing this kind of institutionalized wretchedness makes me all the more certain of our goal. The Brotherhood are parasites on this culture, I see now. And while destroying them may be destabilizing, I remind you that we sit in a land whose lords have rebelled against their lawful liege – who is, coincidentally, our lawful liege. Destabilizing a regime who is in rebellion to him would be, I think, counted as a good thing.”
“Well, when it comes to messing things up, we’re pretty good at it.”
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 105