Ioth, City of Lights

by D P Woolliscroft

  What she was supposed to be doing there.

  The weight of expectation came crashing down on her like the bed clothes from the chute on laundry day. This wasn’t just something she was doing for a friend, Mareth in this instance, talking to people, most of whom she already knew. It wasn’t a homework project either, tucked away in a cabin with Jill poring over books.

  This was real. She had to stop a war.

  She lay back on the divan and asked for the only thing she knew to help in a situation of great shock. A cup of tea.

  “Ambassador Narring, please, have a seat,” said Katterick. He hadn’t bothered to stand when she stepped out on to the veranda; his mass squeezed into a wooden chair that looked unhappy to the point of giving up.

  Alana smiled sweetly. She had bathed, drunk numerous cups of sugary tea, received quite the pep talk from Jill, and now she felt able to get started. Not that she didn’t have a colony of caterpillars squirming inside her stomach when she stepped out into the pleasant afternoon weather. But oddly, the rudeness of the man in front of her actually calmed her nerves. He had taken one look at her when she had arrived and obviously come to certain judgments. Well, she wasn’t going to stand for it. She resolved that if necessary, she would be like Jules, or even Neenahwi.

  “Lord Katterick,” she began, as she sat opposite him, considerately using a title that was purely for show as this man was not landed. “Thank you for your hospitality. The Lord Protector sends his greetings. Now, I have come here for a task of great—

  “Yes, yes. I know it is important,” he interrupted. “But what am I to do when the damn Speaker won’t see me? I have sent gifts. Numerous letters requesting an appointment, of course. I have even tried to attend the same parties as members of the Assembly.”

  Alana forced a smile as the current Ambassador reached for an iced bun from a crystal platter of sweets. “How effective have those things been?”

  “Not very, I concede. However, I do intend to write a most sternly worded letter in the morning. This is an affront to Edland!” He waved his pastry around in time with his outburst.

  “And what would you have me do?” she inquired, opening the jaws of the trap and setting the bait.

  “Oh…I don’t know,” he quivered. “I guess you are here now. Feel free to see the city. You should enjoy your sojourn. Wintertide will begin soon and it is usually such a joy to watch the festivities.” The glutton dived headlong for the cheese she laid out.

  The smile was still fixed on her face, her cheeks beginning to ache from keeping up the facade while the buffoon blabbed away. She dropped the forced smile, took a deep breath and jumped right in.

  “I am afraid that I don’t believe your plan is going to work. It hasn’t before and I don’t see why it will now.” Her eyes fixed on the corner of the chair just to the side of Katterick’s face. “Starting tomorrow, I shall be taking the lead in all interactions with the Assembly.” Katterick spluttered a cavalcade of bread crumbs, accompanied by an incomprehensible response, but she plowed on. “You will assist, and if I am pleased with your efforts, then the Lord Protector has given me authority to keep you in your role when I leave. Or you will stay out of my way. I will provide you with the communication from the Lord Protector granting me full authority.”

  She’d done it. She’d gotten through the whole thing, and even breathed at the same time. There hadn’t been eye contact but it was still pretty close. And she hadn’t needed to get angry. Alana got up, ready to leave.

  “B…b…but you’re just. A girl!” stammered the fat man finally.

  “Yes, I am!” she shot back, her gaze boring into his. “And you are an over-weight, greedy, useless, old man. If you mention my age or my sex again, I will have you thrown out on the streets. Do you hear me?”

  Her chewed-on nails dug into the palms of her hands as her fists clenched tightly, years’ worth of pent up frustration at men like this finally finding a release. He nodded.

  Alana turned and walked away, the fire falling away from her face as she calmed down, surprise at her own reaction dawning. Well, maybe I do have a little Neenahwi in me after all.

  Chapter 27

  A Forgotten Item

  The boat had dropped them off at a deserted beach, marines who had manned the oars jumping over the side to pull the vessel ashore in the moonlight. Motega and his friends remained inside, taking advantage of the luxury of not getting wet before having to start the walk to Ioth. Wet clothes and walking; a guaranteed invitation for chafing, and they could all do without that.

  They pulled their packs from the long boat, said their thanks and trudged up the beach. Per launched himself from Motega’s shoulder, eager to take flight. The cove was surrounded by a sheer cliff face fifty feet high. Trypp went up first, Motega close behind, while Florian waited at the bottom with their things. Ropes and elbow grease pulled their supplies to the grassy cliff-top with the big warrior clambering up afterward.

  “Took you long enough,” said Trypp as Florian pulled himself on to the grass.

  “It’s alright for you,” he shot back. “You’re about as heavy as a wet dishrag. Some of those rocks aren’t strong enough for a real man.” Trypp laughed and helped Florian to his feet.

  They knew roughly where they were—Ioth lay to the east—but they’d need to figure out the particulars once they’d addressed some more pressing matters. Such as getting some horses, if they wanted to arrive before Wintertide.

  Motega strode away from the cliffside. The moon was shining bright, and stars pricked the clear night sky. They walked for a while in silence until they found fields of recently harvested wheat, the shorn stalks still standing in the packed earth. Eventually, they came upon a farm house, a rude cottage made of weathered stone, leaky gaps and an ample covering of moss. Visitors in the night were often an unpleasant surprise for those on the receiving end, and Motega did not want to have to deal with any excited inhabitants, so the three of them made camp a short distance away. It didn’t make sense for them to keep blundering in the dark when they could wait until morning and have someone tell them where the coastal road was. Or where they could get those horses.

  Lying on his thin bedroll, the cold earth seeping through it, Motega stared up at the stars. He exhaled. Back in the open at last. Solid ground too.

  Welcome respite before Ioth.

  Motega was woken at dawn by the cockerel. A screeching noise welcoming the morning sun and snapping Motega out of his slumber, that had thankfully been free of family visitations.

  They took their time rising, not rushing to make a breakfast. The smoke already rising from the chimney of the farm cottage gave them hope of a cooked breakfast as well as some directions. The farmer and his wife appeared to be friendly, waving at their approach even though Motega knew that their armed appearance could mean numerous things to numerous people. It really all depended on how often a person had been subject to oppression and conflict. And this part of the world was probably as lucky as you could get; he doubted there had been a war in these parts for generations, and there were richer spoils for bandits at the road. Wherever that might be.

  So Motega and Florian smiled broad, friendly smiles. Florian nudged Trypp to do likewise so they could take advantage of the potentially warm welcome. A gaggle of children appeared around them, tugging at their clothes and reaching to touch their weapons. Before they knew it, they were seated at the kitchen table and plates of hot cooked eggs and griddle cakes were laid before them.

  Motega explained that they had walked off the main road after having a desire to see the sea.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it. Been here my whole life and there’s nothing like sitting on the cliffs and watching the waves. The road though, it’s over there.” The farmer waved his arm in the direction of where he said the road would be.

  “Can you show us on a map where we are?” asked Trypp.

  “Aye, probably,” said the farmer. “But only if you’ve got one. I don’t have much
need.”

  Trypp nodded and grabbed his pack from the doorway, rummaging through it until he pulled out a long leather roll. The farmer’s wife cleared the table of dishes and Trypp untied the package and unrolled it. Inside were a number of large paper maps, all picked up over the years in their travels; Motega smiled at their own annotations, each one carrying it with a different memory of adventure. Near the top of the pile was a crisp map, clearly of the Sapphire Sea and its surrounds, free of pen scratches and any of the usual stains collected from various tavern tables. Trypp flattened it with his hands and pointed to an area at the south east of the map.

  “We’re around here, right?” asked Trypp.

  The farmer looked at the parchment, his fingers absent-mindedly stroking his chin. “Aye. That’s where we should be.” He paused and thought some more, Motega wondering why this was difficult for the man. “But there’s something not right about this map. It’s missing stuff. Look, this is where Mori should be.” He pointed to a place a little west of where Trypp had indicated, where another of the city states of the Sapphire Sea should be.

  They all crowded over the map, heads twisting as they examined it.

  “It hasn’t even got Kingshold on it,” said Florian, pointing at the island that was Edland. There was something about this map that looked familiar. But what was it?

  “And this is Hyfil,” said the farmer, pointing at the island in the center of the Sapphire Sea. “But it says it’s called Starras. I think your map is broken, mate.”

  Trypp grumbled, muttering that he must have another one in the pile below as he flipped through the sheaves of paper. Starras, thought Motega. Where had he seen that name before?

  And then it came to him. This was the same map that was on the wall of the tower in Redpool, the home of that crazy old Caretaker. But he hadn’t copied that map. Nor had Neenahwi.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, putting his hand on the maps and stopping Trypp’s search. “Where did you get this map?”

  “I don’t know,” shrugged Trypp. “No, wait a minute. As usual I had to tidy up your crap in the Royal Oak before we went to Redpool and he got stuck like a boar.” Trypp pointed at Florian, who, unconsciously or not, touched a hand to his wound. That bothered Motega, it wasn’t like the big ox to carry an injury for so long. But he’d worry about that later.

  “My stuff?” he asked, not remembering where it could have come from. Motega explained to his friends where he had last seen the same drawing.

  “It’s just a copy,” said Florian, the shrugging apparently contagious.

  “Obviously,” said Trypp, rolling his eyes. “But it’s a copy of a map that’s more than a thousand years old. That’s the point. Right, Mot?”

  “Yep.” Motega racked his memory trying to remember what the Caretaker had said, when if he was honest with himself, he’d only been paying partial attention. “The Caretaker said that someone else had visited the tower when there was a big battle raging outside. We thought that was probably when Eden liberated Redpool. I don’t suppose you and your chums found the tower, Flor?”

  The big man shook his head. “There are a bunch of towers there, but I didn’t go in one like you described.”

  The farmer and his wife were watching this exchange with interest, even though they couldn’t possibly have had any idea what they were talking about. Motega wasn’t even sure what they were talking about. He was mystified as to how he had come across such a rarity. He felt Trypp watching him, giving him time to think but nothing was coming. After a moment his friend gently lifted Motega’s hand off the map, pulling out a different map of the Sapphire Sea.

  “Let’s talk about this some more later,” said Trypp, flicking his eyes to their hosts. “Now then, where are we on this map and where could we buy some horses on the way to Ioth? I’d like to conserve my boot leather.”

  On their third night after leaving The Seal, they saw the city of Ioth in the distance as they camped off the roadside. The lights of the city were unmistakable on the dark horizon; the lighthouses, the pinpricks of brightness across the rest of the city, made it stick out against the inky blackness like the stars had come down to the earth for a rest. But it was the following afternoon by the time they arrived at Ferry Points and could see the city clearly.

  The sun shone overhead and Ioth shimmered across the lagoon as Motega, Trypp and Florian rode side by side, passing through the small town of Ferry Points. It was no more than a way station and organization point for travelers and merchants arranging passage over the short stretch of water, the majority of people looking to travel to the Isle of Flowers. Trypp sold their horses, making a good deal of their money back, and they joined the line to purchase tickets for the city run ferry.

  A guard, unshaven and out of shape, asked them about their business, but didn’t seem to pay attention to their answers. The guard picked at the dirt in his fingernails as he grunted to their answers and then moved on down the line, finding a woman with a pair of dirty children to harass. Motega heard him ask if they were her children, trying to see if she would give the game away that these were more child pilgrims. He’d seen this last time they were here, men and women who lived in the city who came ashore and waited outside of town to meet the steady stream of kids looking to find glory with the church; the children initially mistaking a welcome for charity no doubt, only to find another person looking to take advantage of them. Once they arrived in Ioth, the kids would be left to fend for themselves and the adults would have pocketed whatever coin they had. Motega doubted that the guard’s direct questioning was the most effective way of going about their investigations.

  An unpleasant new situation since their last visit were the groups of soldiers who milled around Ferry Points. They wore green and gold over chainmail, helms of similar colors crafted to look like acorns, and though they left everyone else alone, they moved industriously driving a wagon train to a separate and apparently dedicated ferry point.

  Pyrfew soldiers. It was quite a surreal sight. Pyrfew troops were well trained but rarely roamed the world except in times of war, and seeing them move peacefully amongst the common people and the slovenly Ioth guards was unnatural. Other than a few weeks ago when they’d faced down a dozen Pyrfew horsemen, he hadn’t seen as many of them since he had been held captive in Fymrius. Seeing them now did not encourage cheerful thoughts. He heard Per screech in the air above them; he obviously bore the mental scars of their most recent meeting.

  Trypp snapped him out of his fugue; they had reached the front of the line and the fee of a few coppers was paid. More queuing and they were eventually ushered onto a small galley, oarsmen straining as the boat launched to take them across the narrow stretch. They passed under a stone arch that protruded out from the bay, weathered and encrusted with barnacles and hairy mussels; at its top was a sign that read “Welcome to The City of Lights”. Florian shook his head as they passed under it; he always remarked on the ridiculousness of whichever past Speaker had decided to build an arch in the middle of the water. Trypp pointed and laughed at what some wag had scrawled on it below the official welcome, ‘Successfully keeping the poor hungry for a thousand years.’

  By the time they reached the Isle of Flowers, the sun was starting to set over the city and the sky turned a striking shade of pink, leaving Motega in a reflective mood. The sunset almost made the Isle of Flowers look as beautiful as its name, but as he disembarked that illusion crumbled. It was a toss-up between what was worst; the people or the dirt. Piles of donkey shit stained the cobbled streets, flattened from the many feet that had walked through it, or fresh steaming of cakes of it, both varieties were there for your enjoyment. Men with an appraising look in their eyes scanned the new arrivals for potential opportunities; women independent from the many city brothels did the same. Motega steered clear of both, but it was the kids that hit him the hardest. It likely hadn’t been long since many of them had been new arrivals themselves, fresh with the thought of a rewarding and pious life in
service to Arloth; but now they thought nothing of openly clawing at your belongings, hoping to be able to rip something of value away from an unwary visitor and be off into the crowd to make an escape before you could do anything about it. He couldn’t blame them; he knew what it was like to be alone in the world. You had to do things that you might not be proud of. But, all in all, Motega didn’t know why it was called the Isle of Flowers, except for the fact that it stunk like a Pienzan crap-blossom.

  “It’s getting late,” said Trypp. “We should go and see Mr. Giofre before he packs up for the night.”

  Motega and Florian agreed, and they worked their way through the crowds and into the relative quiet of the alleyways. Ioth, built as it was on a series of islands connected by bridges, crisscrossed with dead straight canals, was a city unlike any other on the Jeweled Continent. You could wander the narrow streets free of any wheeled traffic, or horses for that matter, but while the canals were as straight as one of his arrows, the pedestrian by-ways were a maze, twisting on themselves and often ending in small courtyards with no exits. It had been a good town for them to work in though. The proximity of one building to another made the skyway very efficient, at least until you hit one of the larger canals.

  They’d done a few jobs in Ioth in recent years. The rich merchants constantly had squabbles with one another, and if there was a way for one of them to acquire a particular object to show off to their competition, or even to steal the prized possession of another which would never again see the light of day, then they were all for it. Four years ago, they had ‘retrieved’ a gold bust of the first Speaker of Ioth, the name escaped Motega, from a bank in Carlburg for one of the members of the Assembly who wanted to use it to demonstrate his suitability to become the new Speaker. They had completed that job, delivering the prize to their employer, before being employed a second time to help that Assembly member ‘lose’ the bust in question. ‘Somehow’ it mysteriously came into the ownership of a rival, though of course, that was not known by more than a handful of people.