The Inner Circle: The Knowing

by Cael McIntosh

  *

  Far-a-mael sat on the edge of his bed staring at the silver matchlock pistol he’d been forced to use the day before. Its flared barrel and leaf-work design put its origins in Jenjol. Far-a-mael detested the Jenjen, but they were admittedly innovative when it came to their weaponry. He sighed and put the gun on the bed beside him. He had hoped never to use it and felt like a hypocrite in doing so. Wasn’t it he who’d once preached so vehemently that an accomplished gil should need wield naught but the Ways in facing an enemy? But times were changing, he supposed.

  Renewed wailing from the next room drove Far-a-mael to his feet. Poor Seteal. Far-a-mael gritted his teeth. Poor him! This had undoubtedly meant another delay and they were already pushed for time. He’d intended on leaving that morning and would’ve done so had that damned silt not plucking Seteal off the street. Far-a-mael tugged his beard in frustration.

  A silt in Sitnic . . . why? The question drove him mad, constantly resurfacing in his mind. Why would there be a silt in Sitnic? And a lone silt, no less. Contrary to popular belief, silts were not entirely evil. Far-a-mael wasn’t so naïve as to believe it possible for anyone to be entirely evil. And knowledge developed through personal experience backed up his hypothesis. However, although not evil, silts were indeed dangerous and vile and needed to be wiped from the face of the world.

  Their capacity to raise the dead made silts the greatest burden the world had ever known. Far-a-mael needed Seteal to be aware of that. He needed her not to get bogged down by all that womanly emotion. As far as she should be concerned, silts were demons constructed of purest evil, just as it said in the Holy Tome. Far-a-mael chuckled at the thought. Perhaps he hoped she wasn’t that foolish after all. Anyone stupid enough to believe in the Holy Tome would probably fall miserably short of what he’d planned for Seteal.

  There was a soft tapping at the door. ‘Gil Far-a-mael?’ A voice called. Far-a-mael opened the door and raised his eyebrows. ‘Your meal.’ A young man raised a covered plate and sniffed at the steam wafting above it.

  ‘There’s no need for you to drool all over it.’ Far-a-mael waved him in. ‘Put it on the desk.’ He waited for the boy to leave before closing the door and making his way down the hall. He stopped at the next room and put his ear against the door. Silence.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ a voice whispered in Far-a-mael’s ear.

  Far-a-mael leapt back in fright and slammed into the opposite wall. The ghastly serving boy had followed him. ‘That’s none of your business!’ Far-a-mael shouted. ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘I thought you Elglair couldn’t be surprised like that,’ the boy grumbled as he made his way back along the hall.

  ‘You whispered in my ear,’ Far-a-mael cried in retaliation. ‘You could’ve given me a heart attack, another thing that can indeed happen to the Elglair!’ The boy didn’t respond and disappeared around the corner.

  Far-a-mael narrowed his eyes and frowned before again leaning against the door, which at the same moment swung open causing him to topple inside onto El-i-miir.

  ‘Gil’rei Far-a-mael,’ she gasped in surprise. ‘I heard you shouting.’

  ‘Get out,’ Seteal squeaked from her bed in the corner.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Far-a-mael barged past El-i-miir to approach Seteal.

  ‘Get out!’ she shrieked when he arrived at the bedside. ‘Get out!’

  ‘All right.’ Far-a-mael raised his hands and backed away from the hysterical girl. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he informed El-i-miir as he passed by. ‘Do something for her. Not too much or she’ll never recover, but just enough to ease her distress.’

  ‘I’ll make sure she gets some rest,’ El-i-miir replied, her aura brightening as she embraced the Ways. ‘Goodnight,’ she said before firmly closing the door.

  ‘Well then,’ Far-a-mael spoke to himself, feeling entirely useless. ‘I’ll just have my supper,’ he muttered, wringing his hands and heading back to his room. He removed the cover and stared at the plate on his desk with a look of disgust. They’d given him one of those hideous lobsters from Middle Sea. He’d ordered steak. ‘Incompetence,’ Far-a-mael grumbled, scooping up the plate and heading for the door.

  ‘Here,’ he tossed the plate onto the counter upon reaching the common room downstairs. ‘I can’t eat this. Fix me something else,’ he ordered the bony man behind the counter. No wonder he’d confused the order; a man so skinny couldn’t possibly have had a proper respect for food.

  ‘Is there anything the matter with it, my lord?’ The skinny man asked nasally as he twirled a finger around his red moustache.

  ‘Yes there’s something wrong with it,’ Far-a-mael replied distractedly as he watched a group of drunks entering through the front. ‘It’s not what I ordered.’

  ‘I’m afraid that it is, sir,’ the skinny man sniffed loudly and pulled his pants up around his waist. He seemed to be having a problem with their continual escape from his miniscule frame.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Far-a-mael stared flabbergasted.

  ‘You ordered lobster,’ the skinny man insisted.

  ‘Don’t you think I’d know what I ordered?’ Far-a-mael’s tone elevated to match his frustration. ‘I’m allergic to lobster. Why the torrid would I order it?’

  ‘Only you would know the answer to that, sir, since you’re the one who ordered it,’ he replied vehemently.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Far-a-mael put a hand to his forehead.

  ‘If you must have it,’ the man nodded enthusiastically, ‘I have the order slip right here.’ He retrieved a square of paper and traced his finger down its length. ‘Yes, yes that’s right. Says right here that you ordered the lobster.’

  ‘You wrote that!’ Far-a-mael barked.

  ‘Well, of course I did, sir,’ the man said in confusion. ‘You don’t think I got it wrong, do you?’

  ‘Oh, for the love of Maker,’ Far-a-mael grumbled in utter disbelief, ‘just get me a steak.’ He raised his hand and twisted the man’s aura, ensuring his harried obedience.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the man scurried away, the order slip fluttering forgotten to the ground.

  ‘Hey!’ Far-a-mael called after him.

  ‘When you’re done, bring it to me at that table.’ He pointed out a spot with a view onto the street.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the man replied, hurrying about his duties.

  Far-a-mael made his way past the other patrons and sat down at a table decorated by a small candle that flickered on the occasional breeze entering through the open door. It’d started raining outside and the common room was becoming increasingly crowded.

  ‘Da ye mind if I be sittin’ with ye?’ The question was rumbled by a thick Merry Islander accent.

  ‘Just great,’ Far-a-mael muttered sarcastically. ‘Why not,’ he replied more loudly, having decided that he might as well see what news he could gather. So far from home, it was likely the Merry Islander would carry stories of the world.

  ‘I da appreciate it,’ the dark-fleshed man rumbled, sitting heavily and exhaling tiredly. His eyes widened and he slapped his bald scalp with a hand twice the size of Far-a-mael’s. ‘I’ve nah seen your type for some time.’ The fellow gazed into Far-a-mael’s eyes with unrestrained curiosity. ‘Could I get ye a drink, friend?’

  ‘How lovely,’ Far-a-mael uttered dryly.

  ‘Your lobster, sir,’ the nasally voice of the skinny chef set Far-a-mael’s teeth on edge. He stared at the plate in front of him. Lobster.

  ‘I ordered steak,’ Far-a-mael said through gritted teeth. ‘Twice.’

  ‘I’m certain you ordered the lobster, sir,’ the man replied, putting down a second plate in front of the Merry Islander.

  ‘Excellent.’ The big man clapped his hands together and ran his eyes over a juicy portion of steak partnered with golden potatoes. ‘Thank ye kindly.’

  ‘You got his order right,’ Far-a-mael thrust out his chair and loomed over the skinny man. ‘What the torrid is wrong with you?’ He barked so loud
ly that a hush fell over the surrounding patrons. ‘Fix it! Fix it properly or so help me you’ll face the wrath of the Eighth Cleff!’

  ‘But sir,’ the man withered, ‘you ordered the--’

  ‘Shut up,’ Far-a-mael snapped. ‘Steak, you fool.’ He snatched at the man’s collar and shook him. ‘Steak!’

  ‘Stop that.’ The Merry Islander rose to his feet and pushed the men apart. ‘It nah be decent to fight when there be ladies about,’ he said firmly. ‘If ye wanted steak, ye should’ve ordered it.’

  ‘I did,’ Far-a-mael slumped dejectedly. ‘I don’t suppose you like lobster?’ he asked the Merry Islander. ‘If you’ll trade with me I’ll pay for your meal. This fool seems incapable of following simple instructions.’ He stared daggers at the skinny man.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I really didn’t--’

  ‘Enough,’ Far-a-mael snapped. ‘And it’s gil, not sir. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir--gil--gil-sir,’ the man blathered. ‘Can I get you a drink?

  ‘A cold ale.’ Far-a-mael glared at him as he scurried away.

  ‘Ye needn’t be so hard on him,’ the Merry Islander said, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Here.’ He slid his plate across the table before retrieving Far-a-mael’s.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Maker!’ Far-a-mael picked up a knife and fork. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked the man across the table before sinking his teeth into a thick piece of meat, relishing the feeling as it slid down his throat.

  ‘Briel,’ he replied, cracking open the lobster with his beefy hands. ‘Briel Keaco. Yeself?’

  ‘Gil’rei Far-a-mael. What brings you to these parts?’

  ‘We be traders of the finest cloth,’ Briel replied as he scraped out the flesh of the lobster and put a chunk in his mouth using his fingers. ‘Linen, towels, curtains, and the such.’

  ‘We?’ Far-a-mael enquired.

  ‘My wife, Fes, and I.’ Briel sucked on one of his sausage-like fingers. Far-a-mael wrinkled his nose, disgusted by the man’s lack of table manners.

  ‘Where are you headed now, then?’

  ‘We be headed back to Merry Island,’ Briel answered. ‘We do a loop, ye see. When we be halfway out of stock, we turn the wagon ‘round and sell what be left on the way home. What about yeself?’

  ‘Your wine sir,’ the skinny man reappeared, placing a goblet in front of Far-a-mael, who merely rolled his eyes at the appallingly inaccuracy of service.

  ‘Didn’t ye order ale?’ Briel frowned.

  ‘Never mind.’ Far-a-mael shrugged. ‘The way we’re going, I could try all night and still not get what I want.’

  ‘Right ye are.’

  ‘Help!’ A man with the red face of an alcoholic stumbled into the common room, drenched from head to toe. ‘The horse,’ he cried. ‘The horse stole my cloak! Snatched it right off my back, he did!’

  ‘Sit down, you drunk fool,’ one of the younger patrons shouted as the man stumbled across the room.

  ‘I wonder what’s becoming of the world,’ Far-a-mael muttered, shovelling the last piece of the potato into his mouth with a look of disgust.

  ‘We be livin’ in disturbin’ times,’ Briel replied. ‘Ye heard about the silt?’

  ‘Of course.’ Far-a-mael frowned. ‘Who hasn’t? Troubling isn’t it?’

  ‘Makes ye wonder what the mongrels be doin’ so far north.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Far-a-mael stroked his beard. ‘On that note, what else have you discovered on your travels? I’ve been away from my cleff and haven’t received news of the world in quite some time.’

  ‘There be nah much ta tell,’ Briel rubbed a greasy hand across his shirt. ‘Kilk and Kilk Antet be lookin’ at wagin’ war again. Jenjol be formin’ a mysterious army around Veret. What else . . . ? Shinteleran be at civil war again,’ he finished with a shrug.

  ‘Listen, you seem to be an honest enough fellow,’ Far-a-mael began, having come up with an idea.

  ‘The Lord Maker be my witness.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can help me with a little problem of mine?’

  ‘And what da that be, Gil’rei Far-a-mael?’

  ‘There is a young woman with whom I’m travelling whose become ill of health.’

  ‘It nah be catchin’?’ Briel sat back sharply.

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ Far-a-mael reassured him. ‘It’s something of a personal matter. Now, you say you’re heading for Merry Island, yes?’

  ‘That da be the case.’ Briel nodded slowly.

  ‘Then I imagine you’ll first be taking the road to Sat Elmore.’ Far-a-mael hesitated only a moment before going on. ‘You see, I’m afraid my young friend is too unwell to ride on horseback, but I’m in a terrible rush to get home in order to take care of some rather pressing matters.’

  ‘Ye want ta travel with us so the lady be able ta rest in the wagon,’ Briel stated, surprising Far-a-mael by his quick intelligence.

  ‘Yes,’ Far-a-mael replied. ‘In return, I’ll pay your way to the port of Ignish, including transport by boat to Veret, and you will have my sworn protection for the duration of our time together. You’re aware of the silt sighting and the kind of protection I am able to offer doesn’t ordinarily come cheap.’ Briel put his hands flat on the table, but remained silent. ‘Well, come on, man!’ Far-a-mael barked. ‘I’m offering you a deal you cannot refuse.’

  ‘Ye needn’t have offered me anythin’,’ Briel said at last, his eyes filling with compassion. ‘All ye had ta da was tell me ‘bout the young lady. I’ll nah let my conscience be bothered by her discomfort.’

  ‘Well,’ Far-a-mael sat back, ‘you are an unusual man, Mister Keaco.’ He reached out and shook the Merry Islander’s hand. ‘I’d very much like to leave at first light.’

  ‘That suites me,’ Briel nodded. ‘I da have one question though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘How da ye plan we get ta Veret by boat?’ Briel asked. ‘There’s nah direct route.’

  ‘There is,’ Far-a-mael kept his voice hushed.

  ‘Ye can nah be serious,’ Briel hissed. ‘Ye can nah go that way. There’ll be nah captain willin’ ta take us.’

  ‘I have already arranged it,’ Far-a-mael reassured the man. ‘So, yes, I very much intend on travelling through Cold Wood.’

  ‘Ye be a madman.’ Briel looked away.

  ‘I’m not mad,’ Far-a-mael disagreed. ‘I’m a gil. And I’ve been practising my discipline for well over a hundred and forty years. You’ll be safe with me, even through the heart of Cold Wood.’

  ‘Ye still be mad.’ Briel stared Far-a-mael in the eye. ‘But on the terms we’ve discussed, we’ll accompany ye.’

  ‘Good . . . oh, dear,’ Far-a-mael murmured more to himself than to Briel before touching his cheek. ‘Am I a little flushed?’

  ‘I nah be able ta tell behind ye beard.’ Briel frowned and leaned in for a closer examination. ‘Maybe a little. Ye said the illness was nah catchin’.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Far-a-mael pulled back sharply. ‘It’s the lobster,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m allergic. There must’ve been some on your hand when I shook it.’

  Briel raised his eyebrows sceptically. ‘We’d best hope there be nah lobsters in Cold Wood.’