Broken World Book Three - A Land Without Law

by Southwell, T C

  Chanter turned to her. "We should find some shelter in which to live until he returns. Somewhere I can protect you if need be. A cave perhaps."

  Talsy flung a last look at the Prince's retreating figure and rose to follow the Mujar into the forest, trotting to catch up and slip her hand into his. The Aggapae followed on foot, their horses behind them. The Mujar led them to some rocky hills, where they found a spacious cave hidden amongst the trees. The Aggapae set to work clearing out the debris and fallen leaves while Talsy sat outside with Chanter.

  The piebald returned at dusk, and Brin assured them that the Prince had entered the city safely.

  Kieran wandered through the narrow, cobbled streets of a metropolis he likened to a nightmare. Tall, whitewashed buildings with steep, tiled roofs lined the streets, their walls reinforced with thick black beams. The division between rich and poor was bizarre. The city bustled with people who were either wealthy and dressed in fine clothes or ragged beggars squatting in the gutters. Crossbreed slaves, it seemed, now did all the menial jobs. He had passed them in the fields outside, manhorses and mangoats that tended their master's land, pulling ploughs and hoeing weeds. The piebald had snorted and rolled his eyes at them, laying back his ears in patent unease, and Kieran understood his aversion. The creatures were weird, almost monstrous.

  Within the city, manbulls carried litters and swept the streets, manhorses pulled carts. Many more half breeds marched past in chains, on their way to be sold or put to some unwholesome use. Most bore the scars of ill use or abuse and carried badges of slavery in the form of brands and tattoos. Rich Truemen thronged the pavements and shops, overdressed women drove past in carriages or reclined on litters. There was no market place in the central square, all the transactions took place in plush shops. The pathetic wretches in the gutters held out hopeful hands to passers-by, which the well-dressed shoppers mostly ignored.

  Kieran wandered through the streets, wondering who to ask and where to start his search. People hurried past without glancing at him, their manner purposeful. Only the beggars seemed to have time on their hands, but their only concern was extracting money from the rich to buy a little food. As dusk crept through the city, great horns blew at the gates, and they swung shut with a distant boom. Resolving to begin his search tomorrow, he looked for an inn. He chose a less affluent one, but the amount the proprietor demanded was more than half the silver in his purse, and he left again, disgruntled.

  As the sky darkened, the beggars drifted in one direction, a look of resigned purpose on their faces, and he followed them. They led him through winding back streets to a building that might once have been a granary or warehouse. The scrawny men entered an open door that gave a view of a welcoming, well-lighted interior. He followed them into a sizeable room that numerous lamps lighted, much of its floor covered with thin sleeping mats on which many beggars sat. At one end, close to the door through which he had entered, several people tended two massive pots, and a table before them held piles of bowls and spoons. The beggars went to the table and picked up a bowl and spoon, then joined a queue that led to the pots, where two people ladled rice and thin soup into their bowls. After receiving their food, the beggars passed a woman holding a wooden plate, and into this they dropped a few coppers that they had earned begging.

  Kieran stood inside the door and studied this strange scenario, wondering if he should join the queue or leave. He was not a beggar, but neither could he afford to stay at an inn. While he pondered, the woman who held the plate noticed him and passed the plate to a young boy, then came over to him. Her long dark hair hung down her back in a plait, and her dark-eyed face held the wisdom and patience of one who was no longer a girl. She stopped before him and regarded him with soft brown eyes.

  "Welcome, stranger. Can we help you?"

  Kieran shifted, his leather armour and polished silver studs making him uncomfortable in the presence of one who clearly had a gentle nature. He pulled his short black cloak closer. "I'm seeking lodgings for the night, but the inns in this town are too pricy for me."

  Her eyes measured him. "Nor do you belong here. You're not a beggar."

  "I'll pay for food and a bed, though not as much as the inns are asking."

  She glanced back at the people busy at the pots. "Perhaps we can help you, then. We provide shelter and food for the poor homeless people made jobless by the foul practise of crossbreed slavery. A paying client would help us in our efforts, and whatever you can afford will do nicely."

  Kieran stared at her. "You're chosen."

  "Pardon?"

  The Prince shook his head. "Nothing. Here." He held out two silver coins. "This is what I would have been prepared to pay for a night at an inn."

  She took the money. "Thank you. Come and meet my family."

  Kieran followed her to the people who tended the pots. A plump, florid-faced man straightened with a suspicious glance at him, and his slim wife paused in her soup ladling. The boy holding the plate gaped at Kieran, his eyes drawn to the sword that hung against the Prince's leg. Two older boys turned from handing out blankets to stare at the newcomer, and the beggars helped themselves, uninterested in the Prince. The young woman stopped before the florid-faced man.

  "Father, this man has paid good money for lodgings and a meal." She held out the two silver coins.

  The man took the money and measured Kieran with his eyes. "Well, one of the non-existent middle class, I take it? You look like a mercenary, lad. You should be able to afford an inn."

  "I'm not a mercenary. I'm on a quest, and have little money," Kieran replied.

  The man's wife dished up from both pots, and he shot her a look of regret as he moved away. "I'm sure we can put you up for the night and give you a good meal. Not involved in anything unpleasant, are you?"

  The Prince smiled. "If I was, I'd be able to afford an inn."

  "True, true." The man wiped his hand on his apron and held it out. "I'm Boras, this is my wife, Visha, and my sons, Chavas, Peran and Jaevu. You've met my daughter, Shara."

  Kieran shook Boras' hand and bowed to the rest of the family. "I'm Kieran."

  "Well, our work here is nearly done, then we can entertain you."

  The queue of beggars had dwindled to a few, and Boras went back to his ladling until the last had passed by and gone to a mat to eat and sleep. Boras ordered the door closed, and the youngest boy, Jaevu, locked it. The family led the way through a door at the back, which opened into a small, but well-furnished house. Boras locked the door behind them, and Visha went over to some more pots that bubbled on a wood stove.

  Boras explained, "The beggars will wash the pots in the morning before they leave. We have to lock them in so they're not tempted to steal, you see."

  Kieran nodded, and Boras guided him to the well-scrubbed kitchen table in the middle of the room, where he sat and soaked up the warmth of a fire that roared in the grate. Six sturdy chairs surrounded the table, and a sink in the far corner held a pile of dirty dishes and pots. A fresh coat of yellow paint brightened the walls, and pale wooden cupboards lined two of them. All the members of this family had their chores, and set to them with a will. The two older boys went out to bring in more firewood, Shara washed plates and Jaevu tended the fire. Boras poured two mugs of mead and settled opposite Kieran.

  "Well, you must have a story to tell, I would guess."

  "I do, but that would take all night. I'm searching for a stone relic that fell somewhere in this city. Have you heard of such a thing?"

  Boras pondered, eyeing the Prince. "What if I have?"

  "I must find it, it's important." Kieran hesitated. "To the whole world."

  "The world, eh?" Boras looked around at his wife, who shrugged and went on stirring her pots. "How's that?"

  Kieran sipped his mead. "Before I tell you, I'd like to ask you how you feel about the new order that has come about in recent times."

  Boras' eyes narrowed. "To speak against it is treason."

  "I'm from a faraway la
nd."

  "Well then, I'll tell you I don't approve. What's happening in this city is wrong, but others who spoke out against it were forced to leave. I stayed silent, and I do what I can for the needy."

  Kieran nodded. "A worthy cause. It seems that fate has led me to the right door. From what you've told me, if I was to tell this to anyone else, I would probably end up on the gallows."

  Boras snorted. "Far worse than that. If you speak treason in this city, you're taken to feed Queen Larina's black army."

  "They eat people?" Kieran recoiled in shock.

  "Not exactly. Go one with your tale, young man."

  The Prince paused to gather his thoughts and decide how best to begin. Finally he asked, "Do you remember a day, over a year ago now, when golden lights appeared in the sky?"

  Boras chuckled. "Who could forget it? The city was in an uproar about it. Most people thought it was the end of the world. The news singers sang about nothing else for weeks. Every crackpot and his apprentice had a theory about those lights. Prophets of doom."

  "It was the end of the world." Kieran lifted his mug of mead and sipped from it, aware that he now had the attention of everyone in the room.

  Boras leant forward. "What do you mean? The world hasn't ended."

  "Not yet. That was the beginning of the end. That was the day the Staff of Law was broken."

  "The Staff of Law?" Shara turned from the sink. "What's that?"

  "That was what kept the world in order and prevented the abominations that are happening now."

  "The crossbreeding?" Boras asked.

  Kieran nodded. "And the wizards, the strange beasts, the land's dying, and many other things that haven't happened yet."

  Visha left her pots and sank into a chair, staring at Kieran. "The golden light fell like dust. Many people tried to catch it, thinking it was real gold, but it vanished."

  "Those were the laws."

  "So how long will it take, for everything to fall apart?" Boras asked.

  "Unless we can restore the staff, about a hundred years. But the world will cease to be worth living in long before then."

  Boras sat back, shook his head and glanced around at his family. "What has this to do with the stone relic you seek?"

  "When the staff was broken, it shattered into five pieces. One of those pieces fell here, in this city. That's the piece of stone I seek."

  "And if you find this piece of stone, you can restore the laws?"

  "Perhaps. There are still another two pieces missing, and we have to find them all."

  Boras pulled out a pipe and filled it, his expression solemn and pensive. Visha rose and went to tend to her cooking, the others remained intent. Boras fumbled with his tobacco. "The stone you seek fell through the roof of a peasant's house in the lower quarter. He took it to the priests, and they took it to the Queen. It's in her castle now."

  Kieran smiled. "Good, I'll go there tomorrow and get it."

  Boras gave a bark of laughter. "What, do you think you can just walk in there and take it?"

  Shara giggled, the boys tittered, and even Visha smiled. Kieran glanced around, embarrassed and slightly annoyed. "Is it guarded?"

  "Guarded?" Boras laughed again. "Forgive me, but you're quite obviously a stranger to this city."

  "I said I was."

  Boras lighted his pipe, puffing it. "When it was taken to Queen Larina, she declared that it was a magical symbol, a blessing from the gods. The peasant who found it was beheaded for having the temerity to have found it in his house when quite obviously it should have fallen in her palace. The priest was sworn to secrecy, but that didn't last long. He sold the story to the Guild of News Singers for a vast price, then fled the city. Some say the Queen hunted him down, others say he escaped."

  Boras shrugged. "Whatever happened to him, I don't much care, but the Sacred Stone of Good Fortune is indeed guarded, day and night. It resides in a tower within the black army's courtyard, the same ones who demand Trueman sacrifices."

  "The men of this army, what do they look like?"

  "Every part of them is black, and their horses. Their eyes glow with a foul yellow light."

  "The Torrak Jahar." Kieran leant back, frowning. "They did come here."

  "I've never heard them called that."

  "You remember the Hashon Jahar?"

  "We heard stories, but they never came here."

  Kieran nodded. "They didn't get this far, no. The Ghost Riders are the same, only worse. How many of them are there?"

  "No one's sure. The streets are cleared when they ride through, but some have said that there are over a thousand of them."

  The Prince sipped his mead while he considered this, and the family eyed him with varying degrees of doubt, awe and scepticism. Boras made a curt gesture to his children, sending them back to their chores.

  After several minutes Kieran asked, "How large is this stone?"

  "About five hand spans or more. It takes two men to lift it."

  The Prince looked glum, staring at the bottom of his empty mug. Shara came over and refilled it without him noticing.

  Boras added, "They say that one end is smooth, like glass, the other is broken."

  Kieran nodded. "That's where it was cut in two."

  "You said five."

  "Yes, when it was cut in two it broke into five pieces."

  "You seem to know a lot about it," Boras commented.

  Kieran did not wish to relate that tale, and asked instead, "How often do the Torrak Jahar leave the city, and who guards the stone when they're gone?"

  "Not often. The Queen likes to have them here. When they do leave, four or five remain to guard the stone."

  "Four," Kieran said without thinking. "What makes her order them out?"

  Boras shrugged, refilling his mug. "Sometimes she sends them to conquer new lands, other times to fight the manants or quell rebels. But it makes no difference whether there are four or a thousand, they are invincible."

  "Not quite. They wouldn't be able to fight very well without heads."

  "They're made of stone."

  "I know."

  Boras frowned. "Are you an earth wizard?"

  "No. That's forbidden." Kieran paused, thinking. "Would she part with it, do you think?"

  "Sell it?" Boras shook his head. "She said it would bring prosperity, and it did. She would never let it go."

  "It doesn't bring anything. It's just a piece of stone until it can be put back together again. It has no power."

  Boras rubbed his chin and sucked his pipe, discovered that it had gone out and rose to fetch more tobacco. Visha waved her ladle at him, and he put the pipe away and returned to the table as Shara laid out bowls and baskets of bread. Jaevu set out spoons next to the bowls, and Visha put a bubbling pot on the table. As the family sat down amid much scraping of chairs, Kieran became aware that the meal was about to begin. Putting aside his thoughts, he ladled stew into his bowl first, as a guest should. Kieran sampled the food and found it excellent, complimenting Visha, who smiled.

  "My daughter makes a better pot than I, sir."

  Aware of the hidden meaning in this statement, Kieran concentrated on his food.

  Boras chuckled. "Take no notice, Visha has been trying to marry Shara off for years, but the girl won't have it."

  "Father!" Shara protested. "There are no decent men in this city. They're all corrupt or married, or both."

  "This is true," Boras admitted. "Are you married, Kieran?"

  "No, but I'm a wanderer, not a marriage prospect."

  "I'd like to travel," Shara said, and Jaevu giggled. His sister poked him hard enough to make him grunt.

  Boras ignored his children's scuffle and regarded Kieran with calculating eyes. "Who sent you on this quest, may I ask?"

  The Prince contemplated the steaming stew in his spoon. "Let me ask you a question before I answer that."

  "Ask."

  "How do you feel about Mujar?"

  Boras' brows rose. "A strange quest
ion. We had one here, oh, about forty years ago now. I was just a boy. He lived in the poor quarter. The people there fed him and cared for him, and sometimes he healed them in return. But when the Queen found out, she took him away and threw him in a Pit, I suppose. I saw him many times, sitting in the sun, clad in rags. A gentle, harmless creature. I have nothing against them, personally, and my family have never seen one."

  "But you don't like what's going on now."

  "No. None of us do. It's evil."

  Kieran nodded, satisfied. During the course of the meal, he told them about Talsy and Chanter, the chosen and the gathering, all of which had fallen by the wayside with the staff's destruction. The family's food grew cold as its members listened with rapt attention, remembering only periodically to eat. When his tale was finished, Boras summed it up.

  "So you've been sent here by this girl, the First Chosen, and a Mujar, to find this piece of the staff."

  "Yes."

  Boras shook his head. "Forgive my scepticism, but it sounds a pretty tall tale. Do you have any proof?"

  Kieran considered this while Visha and the children gathered the empty bowls to be washed, dried and stowed away in cupboards. Boras filled his pipe again.

  "Do you know what a Mujar mark looks like?" Kieran asked.

  "No."

  Kieran slumped. "Then I don't know how to convince you."

  Boras leant forward, his eyes bright. "Take me to this Mujar."

  Kieran shook his head. "Just as you mistrust me, I don't trust you. We've only just met. You could be a cunning spy for your Queen, and this could be a trap."

  Visha giggled, and Boras smiled. "You're right, although you've already told me plenty. If I was the Queen's spy, I could hand you over to her torturers. They'd get the rest out of you."

  "No, they wouldn't."

  "All right." Boras sighed. "Show me what you have. Obviously you have something with this Mujar mark on it. Even though I don't know what a Mujar mark looks like, perhaps you can convince me if it's unusual."