by Guy Antibes
Namion led them through the city. The cobbles weren’t particularly clean, and the city exuded a feeling of shabbiness that freshened up as they rode closer to the Pastor’s palace. It appeared that past rulers of South Parsimol didn’t care for spires. There weren’t any towers that he could see.
Within sight of the palace, Namion led them into the stable yard of an inn. The place was a return to the shabbiness Pol had noted when they first entered the city. No stableboy rushed to take their things. Namion told them to take care of their own horses before entering the inn.
A thin sun poked through the windows at the front of the inn where Namion went. There were few customers in the place. The nearly-empty stables confirmed that there weren’t many patrons.
“A friend of mine runs the place,” Namion said as he wrote in an open ledger that sat on a front desk. “I’ve taken the liberty of giving us each a room.” He put the pen down and walked behind the desk, grabbing five keys. “The staff won’t arrive until late afternoon. Most of the revenue comes in the evenings from the common room.”
Pol lugged his saddlebags up the stairs and found his room. Kell stayed on the left side, and Shira on the right. He opened the door and dropped his bags. The window looked down onto the stable yard. The bed beckoned to him, so he lay down and closed his eyes.
His forehead exploded in pain, so he sat up trying to focus on the source of his discomfort. Shira knelt beside his bed. Pol obviously had fallen asleep, since the reddish light of dusk limped through the window.
“Sleepy head. You didn’t even lock your door.”
Pol rubbed his forehead. As soon as he lowered his hand, Shira flicked it again, and gave him a smile through narrowed eyes. Now that he was awake, the pain wasn’t the same as it was in the dream that had already escaped his mind.
“I was tired,” he said.
“The rest of us have already gone out. I decided to let you sleep and brought up a bit of food. Dinner won’t be ready for another few hours.”
Pol sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I am hungry, now that I’m awake.”
Shira’s eyes drifted towards the window, avoiding the rebuke. “Then let’s eat.”
“What is the food like in Demina?”
Shira made a face. “They use some spices I don’t care for,” she said. “There is some kind of green potato mash, and they cut their meat into thin marinated strips.” She made a face again. “However, it’s still edible. I even brought some wine. Not many drink ale or beer in the city.”
“I wouldn’t trust the water here either,” Pol said, remembering he had purified the water at the monastery.
“Namion said to avoid it at all costs. He’s gone out again by himself.”
“Paki and Kell?”
“They just fell asleep.”
“Then we are alone.” He looked at Shira.
“So?” she said. “We’ve been alone before.”
Pol took her hand, but she withdrew it.
“What do you have in mind?” she said. Pol saw the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Botarran language. That’s our next destination.”
Shira sighed. Pol couldn’t tell if it was from relief or disappointment. He suddenly wanted a kiss from her, but she leaned over and rummaged through his saddlebag, withdrawing Pol’s language book.
“Have you looked at Botarran yet?”
Pol shook his head. “Not really, other than to verify that Parsimolian and Botarran aren’t related languages.”
“Some of the words are the same,” Shira said.
“But the grammar is different. In Eastril, there are a few variant languages, but they share the same word order and organization.”
“Shinkyan is different, and it’s in Eastril.”
Pol nodded, not wanting another pinch. “I meant the Empire.”
They spent the next two hours munching on their food as they shared the Botarran section in the book. Pol smiled at Shira’s intelligence. She learned nearly as fast as he did. He thought back to the words of Namion about being a match for Shira. In some ways, he felt they were on the tour by themselves.
But Pol didn’t really know how to deal with her when they were alone, so he just let her talk. He wanted to discuss her feelings about being alone with four males. He tried to find a way to bring up the subject, but failed.
Their lessons ended with a knock on the door. Namion opened the unlocked door.
“I thought I’d find you two here.” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Your language book is open?”
“Botarran,” Shira said. “We talked through the grammar, and now we both have vocabulary to memorize.”
He nodded. “Time for dinner. We will only spend the night in this inn.”
“Then it’s on to Tunna,” Pol said, hoping he pronounced the capital of Botarra correctly.
Namion shook his head. “No. We’ve been invited to stay a second night at the palace. The Pastor wants to meet you two. He heard of your roles at Borstall.”
“How could he find out?” Shira said.
“Birds, just like I did. South Parsimol is very interested in what goes on in the Empire. They generate a lot of revenue at Port Molla, and most of the trading ships come from Borstall.”
“Do we have to?” Pol said.
“We do,” Namion said. “I’m to send measurements to the palace for suitable clothes for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Ugh,” Shira said. “I’m not so sure I like the food in Demina.”
“It’s a bit different, isn’t it? You can pick out what you like and what you don’t at the Pastor’s table.” Namion picked up the scraps of food that they had both left behind. “Don’t worry about tonight. This inn is run by ex-Seekers. They know what Eastrilians like to eat.”
“Baccusolians,” Shira said.
“Whatever.” Namion barely smiled, and left them alone again.
Pol looked around the room. “There is something odd about this inn.”
Shira’s eyebrows went up. “Is this something you suddenly figured out? We stable our own horses, and no one is here to rent rooms that aren’t particularly clean? This is something normal?”
For some reason her words stung Pol. “I know that. Give me some kind of credit.”
“Credit for what?” Shira said.
Pol sighed. “I notice things just like you do. I was just voicing my immediate thoughts. I think Namion runs some kind of Seeker effort from here. This inn must be a front for that.”
“I didn’t take it that far,” Shira said.
Pol ignored the comment. “I don’t know what is going on, but common travelers don’t get invitations to the ruler’s dinner table.”
“Are you calling me common?” Shira flicked her finger on the back of Pol’s hand.
“You know what I mean. Get serious for a moment.”
That stopped the comment Shira was about to make. “I am—”
Something snapped inside of Pol. “You are constantly poking and flicking and kicking me. I can understand that, but I sense we are pawns in Namion’s game. Everything is wrong.”
Shira stood. “You’re delusional. You see an enemy behind every bush and a poisoner at every meal. I’m as tired of that as you are of my, my—” She left her words hanging in the air as she left the room.
Pol threw himself on his bed and instantly regretted it as a corner of the language book dug into his side. He tossed it off the bed, and buried his head in the pillow wondering how the pleasant afternoon had suddenly ended in disaster.
He tried to find a pattern that fit their confrontation, but Pol had to admit he didn’t have enough experience in dealing with girls.
Paki knocked on his door. “Dinner.”
Pol straightened out his clothes and hurried down the stairs, afraid that he’d run into Shira. An older man stood at a table set for six, talking to Namion. He looked fit for middle age, but he realized that he wasn’t quite as old as he thought, since his hair had turned gray early.
“I’d like you to meet Fadden Loria. He’s originally from Botarra.”
Pol analyzed Fadden’s posture and saw the similarities to Namion and Valiso. “A Seeker for the Emperor?”
Fadden’s eyebrows shot up and down quickly. “You are a Seeker yourself, aren’t you?”
“Pol Cissert, formerly of North Salvan.” He bowed to the newcomer.
“The disinherited prince?”
Pol bowed again.
“There are those who know some of your story. I’m one of them. You’re no longer a prince, and I’m no longer a Seeker. I’ve recently retired, but Namion has enlisted me for his current project.”
Fadden didn’t sound very enthusiastic about being the innkeeper to an empty inn or Namion’s current project.
“And what is that?” Shira said from behind Pol. “You can call me Shira.”
“Fadden Loria.” The man shot a glance at Namion. “I’m not at liberty to say right now. Perhaps another day.”
The man was definitely uncomfortable, thought Pol. Paki and Kell entered the common room with trays of food.
“You aren’t the cook? I thought that Namion said we’d be fed Eastrilian…no Baccusolian fare,” Pol said.
“Another of Namion’s men,” Fadden said. “Har Deffez.”
“That sounds like a name from the Empire,” Paki said sarcastically.
“Har, tonight’s cook, spent fifteen years in Yastan. We left the Empire together just after your abdication.” Fadden looked at Pol.
“Have a seat,” their guide said. “We have a few things to discuss.”
Pol sat across the table from Shira, who avoided looking at him. Her behavior worried him, since she refrained from kicking him underneath the table, something Pol had expected her to do.
“How can we get out of an audience?” Pol said. “I’d rather just move on. I’m uncomfortable with people thinking I’m someone I’m not.”
Namion’s gaze slowly turned to Pol. “And you never were a prince? You aren’t a powerful magician at a ridiculously young age?”
“Shira is strong, too,” Pol said glancing at her, but she kept her eyes locked on Namion. “I want to get to Fassin. If we have to spend days at a time in each capital, it will take us months to get there.”
“If we ride hard every day, it will still take us months to reach Gekelmar. The Emperor wants you exposed to the cultures of Volia,” Namion said.
“Why?” Pol asked. “I’m not really a Seeker. I’ve got some power, but I’m barely sixteen. I’m only important to a few people, and most of those are in this room.”
Shira folded her arms and looked away at Pol’s comment. Paki shook his hand as if it were burning. Kell just smiled and tapped a finger on the table, being a disinterested observer.
“I’m the guide, right? Don’t you accept my authority?” Namion said.
Pol took a deep breath. His fight with Shira had upset him. Namion saying he was in charge ignited anger. “What proof do I have of your authority? You knew about Borstall and sent Queen Isa back to South Salvan. I’ve met you with Valiso Gasibli, but I don’t have anything in writing saying I am bound to follow your orders. From what you said, you are accompanying us. Guides aren’t leaders. They work for leaders.”
Pol stood up, but Namion came over and shoved him down before Pol could react. The Seeker spoke through his teeth, gripping Pol’s shoulders. “If you want to survive your trip, you will follow my instructions. It would be easy to rid myself of you and your friends. Very easy.”
“Threshell, calm down,” Fadden Loria said. “You were baiting the boy from the start. You know better than that.”
Namion took his hands from Pol and stood with his arms crossed.
“Look at it from his point of view,” Fadden said.
“I can’t. From his point of view, his little trip will come to a tragic end without me.” He glared at Fadden and at Pol. “Regardless, the Pastor has summoned you to the palace. You can’t refuse, not in Demina.”
“He’s right,” Fadden said to Pol. “You can be prepared to leave the city the morning after the dinner. Har can make sure your horses are well-fed and have your supplies ready to go.”
“I’ll agree to that,” Pol said. He took a few deep breaths to calm down. “I’m sorry for getting upset, Namion. I’m frustrated for a number of reasons.” He glanced at Shira, who quickly caught his eye and looked away.
Dinner was a tense time, and Pol left the table as soon as he could, returning to his room. He stewed about the confrontation with Namion for a while, and then he picked up the language book that he had tossed on the floor and spent the rest of the night memorizing Botarran words and grammar.
~
The palace was as grand a place as any Pol had been in. The castle at Covial was slightly bigger, but ornate carving and decorative stone seemed to cover every surface. They were shown to rooms where clothes had been laid out. Paki, Kell, and Pol shared a suite.
The clothes fit rather well. Pol knew that royal tailors were used to last minute orders. Pol wasn’t wild about the loose bell-like sleeves and trouser bottoms, or the garish colors. The thin fabric didn’t do much to stave off the cold in the room.
“I like the silk,” Paki said. “I’m sure I’ll look attractive to Deminian women.”
Kell laughed. “Maybe in the palace, noble women can buy men to play with, just like women can be bought.
Paki’s eyebrows rose. “Not me. I’m not that good looking.”
“No, you’re not,” Kell said. “Just endure the food, and we can get out on the road tomorrow morning.” He looked at Pol and nodded. “I’m uneasy in this place.”
Pol agreed but said nothing, since their conversation had just been interrupted by a light knocking on the door.
“It is time for dinner,” a male servant said in broken Eastrilian.
“We look forward to it,” Pol responded in Parsimolian that he hoped was better than the servant’s Eastrilian.
The man led the colorful trio though the palace. They joined others dressed even more outlandishly as they traipsed though the elegant corridors. A woman in a man’s uniform announced them. They followed their escort into a large dining hall crowded with people.
He took them to a table next to a long dais filling up with higher-ranking nobles. Shira had already arrived.
“All rise for the Pastor of Parsimol!”
Pol noticed there wasn’t a distinction between North and South in the herald’s words. He stood up, nevertheless, and clapped along with the rest of the crowd. Just in front of the Pastor walked a sallow-faced man wearing an odd hat, peaked on three sides with a silver band at its base.
Shira glanced at Pol and nodded. Was that supposed to be an apology, he thought? He didn’t know, but he would act as if she had proffered a truce of some kind.
The two men took seats together at the center of the elevated table. The Pastor raised his hands. “We are here to welcome Pontifer Terria in our midst. In addition we have two exotic visitors. A Shinkyan magician, Shira, and a prince of the Baccusol Empire, Poldon Fairfield.”
Pol began to raise his hand to object, but Shira held Pol’s hand down.
“Bow to the Pastor and to the Pontifer, and then sit,” she said quietly.
It wasn’t as if Pol had never been to a state dinner before, but he hadn’t thought about protocol once he had been introduced by his former name. Shira kept her arm on his wrist until they sat.
“No one told me,” he said to her, as he smiled at the Pastor and nodded his head again.
“I made a random comment about how to act at the dinner to my servant. I wouldn’t have known otherwise. Namion continues to let us down,” she said.
A servant placed plates in front of the Pastor and Pontifer, which signaled the dinner could begin. A flood of servers entered the hall delivering dinner.
“We aren’t being very intelligent…” Pol looked at Shira’s expression and amended his sentence. “I’m not being
very intelligent about our tour. I thought I’d know better, but I seem to have lost my sensitivity to protocol.”
“That and other things,” Shira said.
She hadn’t fully forgiven him. “Thank you,” Pol said.
“It is the least I can do,” Shira said as she ground her heel into Pol’s foot.
The contact, as painful as it was, reassured Pol that there was some hope she had gotten over the worst of whatever made her mad.
Dinner ended with some semblance of a conversation between the four of them. Most of their comments centered on the unfamiliar dishes, which reduced some of the conversational pressure that Pol dreaded.
A gaudily-dressed man spoke into Pol’s ear. “The Pastor would like to meet those in your party after dinner. If you would remain, I will escort you to the Pastor’s private meeting room.”
The rest of Pol’s party looked at him, waiting for him to repeat what he had just heard.
“Please rise,” the man who had spoken to Pol shouted out.
The Pastor walked out of the hall, followed by Pontifer Terria. The four of them remained seated until summoned to a side door across from where they sat. The herald led them through a few hallways to a beautifully carved double door, inset into the stone wall. They walked into a room thickly carpeted with a massive desk at one end and a long table running the rest of the room’s length.
“You may go in,” the herald said, as he opened the door for them.
Namion stood chatting with the two rulers.
“Sir Namion has just told us about your recent adventures,” the Pastor said in surprisingly good Eastrilian.
Pol noticed that upon closer inspection, the man had powdered his face. He wondered what kind of cosmetics were under the powder. He stiffened a bit as he recalled basic protocols that Farthia Wissingbel, his tutor, had drilled into him while he was a prince of North Salvan. Pol had cast them aside during his recent adventures.
“He likely exaggerates our role in the unpleasantness between North and South Salvan,” Pol said.
“Can you demonstrate your abilities?” Pontifer Terria asked.