by Aderyn Wood
“And it’s time for us to explore the city,” Nanum said. “Which way do you think their closest beer house might be?”
“I wouldn’t get too drunk, were I you, Nanum,” Lu said. “We face the open sea tomorrow.”
“All the more reason to get senseless. I’d rather face the Sea of Death sozzled if it’s all the same to you, Lu.”
“You coming, Alangar?” Tizgar waited for their leader.
Alangar waved a hand. “I’ll catch you up. I want a word with Sargan first.”
The others left, but Lu lingered. His tall, skinny frame always made Sargan feel even more fat and short than he was.
“Go, Lu. I’ll explain later.” Alangar waved a hand Lu’s way.
Lu frowned, gave Sargan a troubled glance, but turned and left them.
Sargan faced Alangar. “What is it?”
The overseer gave Sargan a long look before sitting down on a bench. He kept his hair short as tribute to his father who was a slave. The tips had lightened in the sun and his hair was a brownish colour rather than black like so many Zraemians. “Do you know much about your grandfather’s reign?”
Sargan raised his eyebrows. “Of course. I know everything there is to know.”
“Are you sure?”
Sargan laughed. What was Alangar suggesting? That he, the son of a slave with no capacity for reading and writing and an education limited only to the army, that he could know more of his own grandfather-king than Sargan? “Of course I am certain. My grandfather stained Azzuri’s good name. In his twenty years of rule it became the whoring, gambling and blue-smoke centre of Zraemia. Why do you ask?” Sargan held his chin up. He wasn’t proud of his grandfather-king’s rule, but his father had done much in his time on the throne to turn things around, and Azzuri was now the safest city in the realm.
Alangar licked his lips. “You know Lu’s father is a senior scribe in your father’s service.”
“Yes, I’ve worked with Ashti many times.”
Alangar exhaled a long breath, his eyes scanning the deck. “Ashti is very old. Old enough to remember when your father was a boy. He was a scribe under your grandfather-king too.”
Sargan sat on the bench opposite Alangar. “I know that. Why are you telling me all this?”
“Lu’s heard a few interesting tales from his father. He’s passed them on to me. He wasn’t sure whether you should hear of them. I’ve decided you should.”
“Very well. Go ahead.”
“Were you aware your father was not expected to inherit the throne?”
Sargan frowned. “He was the only one of his brothers announced as heir-prince, and the only one to receive the heir ring my brother now wears.”
“And how old was your father when he received that ring?”
“He was thirteen sommers.” Almost three full sommers younger than Sargan was now. “Why?”
“Did you ever consider why your grandfather left it so late to name his heir? Most kings name their eldest son as heir as soon as they’re able to read, write and hold a sword.”
Sargan stared at Alangar. It was true. There were heir-princes in Zraemia just five sommers old.
“Lu’s father told him that another had been promised the throne. One of your uncles, and I don’t think it would take you more than a heartbeat to guess who.”
Sargan licked his lips. “Mutat.”
Alangar nodded. “And how do you think your uncle-general has felt all this time, knowing his promise was taken from him when your father, a younger son, was named heir.”
“Angry.”
“It explains his permanent scowl. I’m guessing he’s passed his grievance on to his son. Which explains Ilbrit’s hostility. If Mutat had become king instead of your father, Ilbrit would be heir-prince by now. I suppose his admiration for your brother prevents him from taking out his jealousy on Hadanash. So you bear it, my friend.”
Sargan shook his head. “How is it I’ve never heard of this?”
Alangar shrugged. “You’ve always got a tablet shoved in front of your face, reading some epic poem or history from long ago. But some stories are never written down. Lu says this promise was made between your grandfather and your uncle. No one else witnessed the compact. There’s no proof it happened. But,” Alangar’s gaze was as serious as the gods themselves. “You know I don’t wager, but if I did, I’d bet it was true. I’d bet the general was promised the throne, and he believes it was taken from him.” Alangar stood and took a step toward Sargan. “I thought you should know.”
“Thank you,” Sargan muttered as Alangar turned and left him standing alone on the deck.
“Welcome to our famous harbour,” King Thasus inclined his head, and bowed just slightly, making his full grey beard touch his round belly.
Sargan bobbed his head in return, crinkling his nose at an almighty stink that hung in the air. His eyes fell on a section of the harbour a little further up where fishermen worked scrubbing their vessels in the hot morning sun.
“Very impressive,” Hadanash replied.
“And I see you’re extending the docks.” Uncle-admiral Dannu was clearly interested in seeing the great Praetan boat builders for himself. He looked keenly over his shoulder at the earthworks, or rather the sea works, happening at their backs.
“Ah, yes,” King Thasus replied. “With all the trade, and, er… well, with everything else going on in Zraemia and beyond, we’ve had to extend the harbour.” He pointed at the construction works, and Sargan, Hadanash and their uncles turned to get a better look. “This will be a revolutionary harbour, that will easily accommodate hundreds of galleys. Its circular structure will allow for orderly docking. And there’ll be a new design incorporated to allow for ease of dry-docking.”
“That’s a lot of provision for trade galleys,” Uncle-admiral voiced the very question on Sargan’s mind.
Thamus looked somewhat lost for words as he blinked at the admiral. “Quite,” he muttered.
“Well,” Hadanash intercepted. “The ships?”
“Of course, follow me.”
The Praetan king, accompanied by his own admiral, general and commanders, as well as a handful of servants, led Hadanash, Sargan and their uncles along the high walls of the harbour. The king talked cheerfully of trade, and the great honour he’d felt in enjoying Phadite’s Long Night in Azzuri as the seagulls swirled, dived and shat all around them.
Sargan dawdled at the back of the party, looking over his shoulder now and then at the new harbour in the thick of construction with slaves and peasants crawling along its scaffolds like ants building a nest. It’s not for trade boats. The old rectangular harbour was for trade boats, and it was barely half full. No, it’s for something else entirely.
Thasus led them down a dank stairwell and then along a high stone pier that extend half a league out to sea.
Sargan had been avoiding looking at the Sea of Death, but now he had no choice but to face it. Its waters were as dark as he remembered when they’d given his mother her funerary rites. The image of her funeral boat being pulled out to sea, appearing then disappearing with each wave, flickered in his mind. His eyes found the horizon. Are you in the Overworld now, Mother? Are you content there?
The waves crashed angrily on the stone wall of the pier, and the further they walked along its seemingly endless surface, the darker the water grew. The seagulls had abandoned them now and only the vast blue sky, the black sea depths, salt and a strange loneliness enveloped them as they walked.
Ahead, Dannu had paused, his hands held up to shade his eyes. Sargan squinted into the sunshine. Two enormous black shadows emerged along the pier. “What are they, Uncle?” Sargan asked.
Uncle Dannu looked at him with a uncharacteristic grin that stretched his tanned and leathered face. He was the only one of them who wanted to cross the Sea of Death. As admiral, his main task was to move Azzurian soldiers from one battle to another. But he also spent much of his time policing the river and banks for smugglers intent on traff
icking blue smoke into the city, and those eager to avoid paying the requisite taxes.
“The latest example of Praetan boating excellence,” Uncle Dannu said. “Praeta may be nothing more than catshit when compared to our great city, as my brother-general keeps reminding us, but no one knows how to build boats the way they do.”
Was that a note of irritation? Was Dannu sick to death of Mutat’s bitterness too? Sargan licked his lips as he walked in step with his uncle. “Uncle, may I ask a question about my grandfather-king?”
Dannu looked at him with a heavy frown. “What?”
“Well, I was thinking. It’s seems strange the way he named my father heir-prince when he did.”
Dannu flicked a dark glance at Sargan before returning his grey eyes to the sea.
“I mean, my father-king isn’t the eldest. There’s you and Uncle-commander Annu, and of course uncle-general, all older than my father—”
Dannu stopped walking and turned on Sargan. “What are you fishing for? You know about the desert-seer’s augury. Your father was made heir-prince on his advice.”
“Yes, yes. It’s just, well, there were so many years that Azzuri had no heir-prince. Did grandfather not see promise in another of your brothers? Perhaps even yourself, Uncle?” Sargan swallowed. “Did he, mayhap, promise another to be heir-prince? I wondered if Uncle Mutat was promised, he is the eldest after all.”
Uncle Dannu’s eyes narrowed and he leaned closer, his gaunt cheeks suddenly filled with darker shadows. “You’ve always been a bit of a fool, nephew. Now, listen carefully, don’t ever repeat that story again. Do you hear?”
Sargan gulped. “It’s true then?”
Dannu pinched his lips as he shook his head slowly. “Never again.” Then he turned and strode off.
Sargan puffed his cheeks. Uncle Dannu was like that, all grim and serious, but the way he’d scowled and the look in his eye… A cold wind blew in from the south, and Sargan shivered. It must be true.
Sargan caught up with the others, his mind so heavily focussed on the significance of his grandfather-king’s secret promise, that he blinked in surprise when the two large ships appeared before him.
“Come aboard, Prince Sargan,” King Thasus called from over the gunwale of the nearest ship.
Uncle-admiral was ascending the wooden steps, and Sargan followed.
On board, Hadanash and the others stood in a circle around Thasus who was talking about the strength of the sails and ropes, made from the strongest flax. He guided them over not one but three separate decks. Beneath there was room for just two lines of rowers, and only twelve each side.
“How are we supposed to move swiftly with so few oars?” Dannu asked in his gravelly voice.
“You need to rethink everything you know about boating,” the Praetan admiral replied. “This vessel is made for crossing the deep, not for paddling about on the river.”
“Indeed,” King Thasus added. “Just as Phadite said, we studied the seed pod of the river fig tree. Come with me.” He turned and led everyone to the ship’s stern. “Notice this long beam? It is the extension of the keel. Master Gigamad.”
Gigamad the boatbuilder nodded and took out a seed pod as long as his forearm. “The goddess is wise,” he said as he flipped the seedpod over, and the boat-like shape of it was clearly apparent. He pointed to the pod’s base. “Notice this rib-like structure on the base of the pod? That is much larger than the seams in other pods, and that was the clue the goddess wanted us to study. Such a feature gives the pod balance in the water and the river tree’s seeds are carried far and wide along the Uryphat’s banks.” He pointed again to the ridge at the back of the boat. “We mimicked the seed pod and have made a keel that goes deep into the sea and gives the vessel such balance there will be times this ship’s passengers will think they stand upon land rather than water.”
Sargan’s mind had been so focussed on the information revealed to him by Lu and Alangar that morning, he realised he had no idea what they were doing here. He stepped toward Uncle-Commander Ru and whispered in his ear, “Why are they showing us these ships, Uncle?”
Uncle Ru opened his mouth and let go a mighty laugh, and Sargan flushed and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Something funny?” Uncle-general asked him, his eyes narrowing on Sargan.
Sargan winced. Why am I always the fool?
“Prince Sargan wants to know why King Thasus is showing us these fine vessels,” Uncle Ru said.
Hadanash shook his head slowly as he took a step toward him, and Sargan flushed again. “Because, fool brother, these are the ships that will deliver us to our destination. These are the ships Phadite herself has made possible for us.”
“Indeed,” King Thasus added. “They will bear you safely over the dangerous waters of the Sea of Death. They are yours for the taking, as ordered by your King.”
Sargan placed the heavy box of tablets on the bench with a grunt.
“Still haven’t found what you’re looking for, Prince Sargan?” the priest asked in heavy Praetaan.
After their inspection of the ships that morning, everyone was free to explore the city, and King Thasus had provisioned Sargan with two guards for his protection. Hadanash and his uncles retired to the palace to enjoy their host’s hospitality, but Sargan headed straight to the Praetan temple and its library, leaving his newly-acquired guards to their boredom on the street.
“No,” Sargan replied to Blessed Ri, also in Praetaan. “What about Jornan’s Treatise on Azzurian Kings?” he asked.
“Yes, we have it,” the priest replied. “You seem to know a lot about our catalogue.”
“Blessed Thuran keeps an updated master catalogue in Azzuri. I perused it before I left,” Sargan said, grinning at the impressed smile on the priest’s face.
“I will send it over.”
Sargan nodded and took a meandering path through the tall shelves that housed boxes full of tablets from all over Zraemia. Each box was marked with an index of the tablets they contained, and Sargan idly read them as he strolled through the library. A box full of the Praetan version of the Aurannan caught his eye, he should probably look at that while he was here too, and compare it to the prophecy of Gedjon-Brak written in the other versions Sargan had studied.
He returned to his desk, and in a few short moments Blessed Ri placed another box before him. “Here we are, this is all the work we have of Jornan’s I’m afraid.”
“Thank you,” Sargan said, and he pulled a tablet out to begin reading. Jornan’s treatise was typical of the scribe’s formal style. Only bare facts were inscribed, no colour, no interesting anecdotes, just the plain facts of every Azzurian king known to history until Sargan’s grandfather. It was unlikely he would find a clue here to support Lu’s allegation about that secret promise. But it was worth a look.
“Good afternoon, Prince Sargan.”
Sargan glanced up to see an elderly man with three feathers in his headband. Sargan stood so quickly he nearly knocked the wooden box of tablets from the desk. “Grand Blessed Rathaqar, good afternoon.” He bowed.
The high priest gave him a friendly smile. “You speak our dialect well.”
Sargan tilted his chin in an attempt to appear humble. “Languages come easily to me, Grand Blessed.”
The high priest nodded. “I understand my king is hosting a grand luncheon for your party in the palace this very moment, but here you are studying in the gloominess of our old library.”
The library was an old one, with almost no natural light and a permanent stench of oil smoke permeated from the walls. “I thought I’d take the opportunity while I was here.”
“Perhaps I can offer you lunch from the temple’s humble fare? It would be my pleasure to do so, my Prince.”
Sargan’s stomach had been rumbling since the last bell. “That is most gracious of you, Grand Blessed.”
“It was rumoured, while I was in Azzuri, that you intend to enter the temple.”
Sargan nodded as
he swallowed a mouthful of flat bread, goat cheese and olives. The high priest had been correct, lunch here was a simple fare, much more so than the food the priests enjoyed in the high temple of Azzuri. But it was wholesome and satisfied Sargan’s hunger well enough. “Yes. I was hoping to enter this very moon, but then father asked me to go on this… expedition.”
One of the initiate’s topped up their cups with the weak beer, before Rathaqar dismissed him leaving Sargan alone with the high priest.
“It is a dangerous mission too, I understand.”
Sargan licked his lips. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but his father would want them to be discreet about it.
Rathaqar held up a hand. “I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I know it is a sensitive mission. I’ll not push you as to the details.”
“Thank you, Grand Blessed.”
The high priest tilted his narrow chin. “Though, I would like to talk in confidence about a certain matter, if you would indulge me, Prince Sargan.”
Sargan inhaled a sharp breath. He really couldn’t say much about their mission. Outside, the temple bell rang thrice. It was already post-noon and there were another three boxes of tablets he wanted to look through yet. But he nodded and said, “Of course.”
“It is also a matter for… discretion.” Rathaqar spoke so quietly that Sargan leaned closer. “As you know a number of visiting high priests converged in Azzuri for Phadite’s festival, to pay our respects to the goddess and also to meet as a group and discuss certain matters of the temple.”
Sargan nodded.
“We held a number of talks which were, for the most part, nothing but ritual and ceremony. I wasn’t the only one who grew impatient about the lack of real dialogue on certain issues, which I won’t prevaricate on now.”
“Well,” Sargan offered, wondering why Rathaqar was telling him this at all. “Grand Blessed Lipit likes his formalities.”
“So it would seem. I tried to meet with him on several occasions, but every day your high priest was engaged with those more important than my mere self.”