by A. J. Smith
‘Well then, Randall, are you accompanying your master this day?’ Utha asked.
Randall shot a glance at Torian, who nodded. The Purple cleric tolerated Utha’s bullying, knowing it was the way he conducted himself with those outside the church.
‘Yes, I think I am, milord.’ He looked down at the ornate longsword belted at his waist. ‘Though I think this might cause more problems than it solves.’ He patted the hilt.
Torian stood and stepped past Utha. He rested his hand on Randall’s shoulder and spoke with kindness. ‘I told you that you were permitted to wear it. Any man who says otherwise is questioning my judgement and I would take great offence at that.’
Utha laughed. ‘Ah, the offence of nobility… Is there a worse kind?’
Torian ignored him. ‘Randall, when you learn how to use it properly, it’ll feel more comfortable, trust me.’ He then turned to face Utha. ‘If you’re quite finished, brother, we should get to work,’ he said, with no hint of amusement.
‘Indeed we should, before young Randall here shits himself and needs changing.’ Utha had to confess to himself that he was being mean, but he delighted in causing Torian discomfort.
The Purple cleric pursed his lips, annoyed at the behaviour of his friend, but, as was his way, he let it slide with silent grace.
Utha smiled broadly at Randall. ‘Don’t worry, lad, none of the Purple have a sense of humour,’ he said with a wink.
He thoroughly enjoyed the look of confusion on the young squire’s face as the three men left the room.
‘I saw a squad of watchmen in the bar on my way in; I think we should enlist their help,’ Utha said as they reached the top of the stairs.
‘For what purpose, brother?’ Torian queried.
‘Just for the sake of appearances, really. It never hurts to have lesser men who can be ordered around.’
‘So, we’re no longer making subtle enquiries?’ Torian asked.
Utha stopped on the stairs and directed an ironic expression at the Purple cleric. ‘Do you really think the enquiries you’ve made so far have been subtle? You carry a sword and wear purple, brother, nothing you do is subtle in the eyes of the common people. We are two clerics of the One; a squad of watchmen will do very little to increase our visibility.’
Torian considered it, but Utha detected no disagreement. ‘The Kasbah will be unfriendly no matter how many men we take. Perhaps a little backup would be wise,’ he conceded.
‘Sensible, brother, very sensible indeed,’ Utha replied.
They resumed walking down the wooden steps and entered the vaulted common room below. The squad of watchmen Utha had passed as he walked through earlier were still seated at the same table. Their breakfast had been cleared away and they were preparing to leave. Five men were seated round the circular wooden table, laughing at a joke the youngest of them had told. It took a moment for them to register the presence of the clerics, their laughter masking the sound of metal armour on wood. When they noticed, they leant in and began whispering quietly to each other.
‘Allow me, brother,’ Utha said confidently.
‘There is no need to scare them. Could we perhaps proceed without your customary brand of coercion?’ Torian asked.
Utha considered responding, but decided to smile wickedly instead. He crossed the tavern floor quickly, saying a silent prayer as he walked under the banner of the Black church hanging from the ceiling. The banner, with its skeletal hand holding a goblet, was smaller than the others, and it hung in its customary place away from the other banners. It was considered bad luck to hang the heraldry of all six clerical orders together, and the Black banner was traditionally the one that was separate.
As he approached the watchmen they locked their eyes on the wooden table in front of them, not daring to look up. Utha enjoyed their irrational fear and decided to stand over them for a moment before speaking. He knew that the moment’s pause would cause them to remember a thousand stories they had heard about the Black clerics, and to imagine a thousand more.
Utha waited just long enough to make all of them feel uncomfortable before he spoke. ‘You men will be coming with me,’ he said softly.
The oldest of the watchmen, a man of perhaps forty years, glanced round the faces of his squad. ‘My lord, we are due on street duty this morning,’ he said nervously.
‘What is your name, sergeant?’
‘Clement, my lord,’ he replied.
‘Well, Sergeant Clement, your street duty will have to wait. You are required to assist me. Now, get your men up, we’re travelling to the Kasbah of Haq outside the walls.’ Utha spoke plainly and turned back to Torian without giving Clement any further chance to argue.
Torian was smiling with tolerance, though Utha knew that he would disapprove of the theatrical display. ‘Not trying to instil a sense of loyalty in your troops then, brother?’ Torian asked.
‘Loyalty is overrated; I prefer fear,’ Utha replied.
The five watchmen stood up slowly, sharing glances and whispered words as they straightened their chain mail and made sure their weapons were in place. Clement carried a heavy mace at his hip and a small crossbow, and the youngest of them had two short swords, one protruding at each shoulder. The other three all carried crossbows and large knives. They wore the white eagle of Tiris on their chests over dull steel chain mail. Utha was impressed enough to walk past them in review and nod approvingly.
‘Gentlemen, if you would follow our lead,’ he said with authority, before turning to smile at Torian and walk towards the tavern door.
Utha disliked the capital. The streets were packed together tightly and, although most buildings were made of stone, they were cheaply built and poorly maintained. The bound men who kept the cobbled streets clean did a half-arsed job and mostly shovelled the waste into the side streets to make it less obvious.
The chapter house of the knights of the Red towered over the buildings in this area and the crossed swords could be seen from virtually every street. Torian had wisely chosen to stay in a tavern that catered for men of discipline and respect, rather than in one of the numerous low-rent establishments that littered the city. Despite Tiris being the capital of Tor Funweir, it was still a dangerous place, where men needed to be on their guard.
Utha had been here before when he was a boy and the place had not noticeably changed. The conflicting smells were the same now as they had been then. He could detect meat, fish, tobacco, wine – both fresh and rancid – and the ever-present scent of vomit and faeces.
The streets of Ro Arnon, in contrast, were cleaned by the Brown church and were generally spotless.
The two clerics, the squire and the five watchmen walked along a bustling street adjacent to the farmer’s guild assembly and emerged into a wide square. The paving stones here were octagonal and some effort had been made to keep them clean. The square was dominated by a statue of a Red knight on a horse, waving a banner of the One, and Utha was glad to be out of the claustrophobic side streets.
The guild assemblies framed the square and hundreds of people, both newcomers to the city and natives, jockeyed for position to enter the buildings and find work. The merchant’s guild was the largest, followed by the watchmen’s recruitment barracks. Both buildings had paid guards on their doors and were turning away most of the people who tried to enter.
To the east of the guild square Utha could see the White Spire of the King, an ancient watchtower that signified the vigilance of the house of Tiris. It rose high above the royal palace, dominating the skyline and dwarfing the Red cathedral, the banners of which could be seen clearly over the west of the square.
Squads of watchmen saluted as the clerics passed and common men averted their eyes. Utha saw a number of people point out the Black cleric to their fellows, and several gestures warding against evil. Utha had grown to enjoy this reaction and glared at those who had noticed him, increasing their nervousness.
He heard men whisper that the Ghost was passing, and that the ris
en men should beware, but nothing out of the ordinary or insulting was directed at him.
The King’s Highway led from the northern corner of the guild square to the outer city walls and the ramshackle hamlets beyond. It was a wide, paved boulevard, patrolled by watchmen and used by men who could afford to pay the toll at the gate. Colourful banners hung from torch emplacements along the road, displaying the heraldry of the noble houses of Tor Funweir. The Black Raven of Ro Weir was placed next to the White Eagle of Tiris and the Grey Roc of Arnon. Utha thought the highway one of the nicer parts of the capital and breathed in deeply as he left the guild square.
Behind, Torian and the others followed him closely. Utha could see the young squire, Randall, deep in conversation with the youngest watchman. They were of a similar age and Utha thought the squire could learn much from a watchman who actually knew how to use a blade. However, he suspected that the watchman was simply telling Randall horror stories about the Black clerics, and he hoped that Randall was clever enough to disregard most of the tall tales he was hearing.
They walked along the well-tended cobblestones of the highway, passing mounted knights of the Red, chain-mail-clad watchmen and all manner of common citizenry. The fashion in Tiris currently favoured light-coloured robes, and both men and women were wearing full-length fabrics belted at the waist. Some men wore armour chosen for its fashionable appearance rather than its usefulness. Some breastplates were etched with family crests or coats of arms and a few longswords were on display – family heirlooms and designer steel.
Utha let his gaze wander to the women in the street. Some were nobles, wearing thin veils to hide their features from onlookers; others were paid women or servants. Scantily clad servants also appeared to be in fashion, as many merchants and noblemen were accompanied by several such. Utha winked at one as he passed and caused her to show an expression somewhere between fear and arousal as her master ushered her quickly away. She was wearing a revealing leather waistcoat and the cleric heartily approved of her more feminine qualities.
‘Brother, now is not the time to be indulging your libido,’ Torian said as he came to walk next to Utha.
‘You’re just jealous because you had yours removed when you took the Purple,’ he replied, turning to watch the woman leave.
‘You’re strange, brother; with one breath you cause fear, with the other you’re ruled by your cock.’
‘Hopefully they didn’t take that when you became a cleric,’ Utha said with a wicked smile, ‘though it would certainly explain your sour disposition.’ He looked deliberately down at Torian’s crotch. ‘Did they put it in a jar and let you keep it?’
Torian replied calmly, ‘I will rise above your taunts, brother… my love for the One is enough sustenance for me.’ His words were sincere.
‘Maybe I just have too much love and women allow me not to burst,’ Utha replied. ‘In that case, it would be reasonable to thank them for keeping me alive to do the One’s good work.’
Torian shook his head and walked silently towards the end of the King’s Highway. Utha thought it his duty to puncture the smug piety of the Purple clerics, and Torian was an enjoyable target. He took everything so very seriously and had been taught to abstain from pleasure from a young age. The Black clerics were supposed to take all they could from life, and this traditionally included alcohol and sex. If death was to be feared and respected, then life was to be enjoyed and celebrated. Utha had never been shy about his beliefs, and he knew they challenged Torian’s faith – how could two clerics who followed the same god have such drastically different views of the world? What Torian didn’t yet understand was that the One required all of his aspects in order to be whole.
They approached the outer wall of the city and Utha stopped at the side of the street. Ro Tiris was on the northern coast of Tor Funweir, with only a wide sea channel and the duchy of Canarn between the men of Ro and the Freelands of Ranen. Above the high stone walls Utha could see tall ships at anchor in the bay, and the smell of salt water was pronounced. Two turrets flanked the huge raised portcullis where the King’s Highway passed out of Ro Tiris.
Utha and Torian stood off to the side of the open gate and the watchmen, with Randall in tow, stood in a rough semicircle around them. Sergeant Clement still looked uneasy at being ordered around by a cleric, but Utha sensed no hint of rebellion from the old watchman.
‘Where are we going?’ Utha asked Torian.
‘The Kasbah of Haq. It’s a Karesian marketplace down there.’ He gestured to a road that snaked round the outside of the city wall. ‘It’s a strange-smelling place from what I hear, all manner of Karesian drugs and poisons filling the air.’
‘Hm, I would have thought the watch would have dealt with the drugs by now.’ Utha directed a questioning expression at Sergeant Clement, who looked surprised before stuttering out a reply. ‘My lord… the watch have no real power outside the walls… we, er, tend to keep our distance from the Karesian mobsters… those bastards will cut your nose off if you give them reason to.’
‘Relax, sergeant, Brother Utha is merely expressing his displeasure at the presence of foreign influence,’ Torian said calmly, before turning back to Utha. ‘Your need for theatrics aside, the Kasbah has a few establishments that provide feminine company for those who are inclined—’
‘Do you mean brothels?’ Utha interrupted.
‘I believe that is the common term, yes. Either way, the forger Glenwood spends most evenings in one of these establishments. It is likely that he will just be waking up.’
‘Let’s go and be a nice morning surprise for him, then,’ Utha replied, with his customary wicked smile.
They walked in loose formation out of the gates, sparing a respectful salute for the king’s guard who patrolled the outer walls. The guardsmen carried longswords, wore ornate golden armour and were answerable only to the king. They remained within the walls of Ro Tiris, or at the king’s side, and were charged with defending the city and the crown. Utha respected them far more than the watchmen, because they were true fighting men pledged to the crown from birth.
The guardsmen stopped anyone they did not recognize, taking a modest toll from those who wished to pass through the gates. Most common men were simply turned back along the highway and not permitted to leave the city. Utha knew that this was merely a ceremonial consideration and that if men truly wished to leave there were many secret ways and less secure gates they could use.
Beyond the walls, the outer city stretched along the coast in narrow streets framing the King’s Highway. This was where Karesian rainbow merchants sold their illicit wares and low-born men of Ro came to forget about their lives. The smell of spices and other less savoury concoctions was thick in the air as soon as Utha stepped off the highway. He turned up his nose at the sickly sweet smell and held a hand over his face.
The buildings here were much lower and more closely packed than in the city and the colours were brighter. Utha thought it more vulgar and garish. Karesian and Ro men shouted the prices of their wares to all who passed; spices, foods, weapons and clothing were all on display. Utha could also see exotic animals from the far south, caged and poorly treated, waiting for a buyer rich enough to want a strange pet or hunting animal. Desert spiders the size of dogs sat next to strange many-headed birds and muzzled firedrakes.
Utha puffed out his chest and let all nearby see that a Black cleric was passing. Torian, the taller of the two men, swept his purple cloak back and proudly displayed his full plate armour. The watchmen, who stood behind them, looked nervous and their lack of authority outside the city walls was evident in their faces.
The populace here were less fearful of the clerics and most simply glanced at them and turned away, carrying on with their business. The stallholders and merchants continued shouting their prices and drumming up sales, paying little attention to Utha and Torian.
The Kasbah of Haq was like a dozen other marketplaces in the outer city, a roughly circular section of street domina
ted by colourful awnings and closely packed market stalls.
Torian pointed to a nondescript building set back from the market. ‘That’s the place. I believe it’s called the Blue Feather.’
‘The nicer the name, the shittier the brothel, as a general rule,’ Utha replied, with a smile.
‘Well, I’ve not actually been to many, so I’ll defer to your expert opinion, brother,’ Torian said snobbishly.
‘You can look, you just can’t touch… the women or yourself,’ the Black cleric retorted crudely. ‘Anyway, enough of what you can’t do. I believe the man’s name is Glenwood, yes?’
Torian nodded. ‘He’s a forger, known in certain circles, though he’s seen as unreliable and reckless by many in the same trade.’
Utha shot him a questioning look. ‘Have you been mixing in dark circles, brother?’
‘Not by choice, but I had to immerse myself to a degree in order to get information. Criminals by their nature are very concerned with staying alive and an angry Purple cleric conjures images of death to such men. They can be very cooperative when threatened.’
Utha laughed. ‘And you question my theatrics…’
‘I use the gifts the One has given me, much as you do,’ said Torian, with even more snobbery.
‘Okay, so I’ll let you talk to Glenwood. Just nod at me if you need help,’ Utha said.
Torian took a deep breath and marched towards the Blue Feather, his hand firmly on his sword hilt. Utha motioned for the watchmen to follow and stepped slowly after the Purple cleric.
‘My lord, is there likely to be trouble here?’ Randall asked, as he came to walk next to Utha.
‘Oh, I should think so, yes. Probably no death, but I would expect some people to get slapped around.’ He grinned wickedly.
Randall smiled back politely, but Utha sensed that he didn’t find the situation funny.
‘Relax, lad, there aren’t enough real men around here to cause your master any sweat,’ he said in a vague attempt to be reassuring.
Torian stepped under a dark blue awning and approached a small group of Karesians seated on low wooden stools. The five men were armed with short scimitars and wore the flowing black robes of Karesian warriors. All had visible tattoos on their arms and their heads were shaved.