by K Schultz
The herald read from the scroll he brandished in front of him.
“By order of the king and the Ecclesia you are forbidden from fomenting further fear and unrest among the people.”
“Fear and unrest in people who won’t listen? Ridiculous. That pushing match in the marketplace wasn’t my fault. If anyone was to blame, it was Bajan and that other fellow.”
The herald continued as if Rehaak was mute and invisible.
“Rehaak Eskolar, your message about the Creator foments unrest among the citizens. The king and his Privy Council command you to gather your belongings and leave before midnight this day. If the city guard finds you within Narragan’s walls, they will arrest and hang you.” The herald paused, lending more weight to his final proclamation. He glared at Rehaak. “Rehaak Eskolar, the Ecclesiarches have denounced you as a heretic. Your banishment decree, its terms, and penalties are final and shall be posted in all public locations and at the city gates.”
Hilarious. The people ignored my misdeeds for years, but when I try to save them, they banish me and threaten me with the death penalty.
Moments before the knock on the door, he faced a decision. Abandon the hopeless task the Creator had set before him or continue to be hated and ignored in equal measure. He no longer had a choice. The Ecclesiarches, who never agreed on anything, had reached a consensus and declared him a heretic.
Members of the he-is-crazy-and-dangerous faction must have won the debate. “Very well,” he said. “I shall pack and leave as soon as possible.” Rehaak wanted to add, “To the hells with you and your city,” but after a glance at the burly guardsmen and their pikes, he left it unspoken. The city had fed his lusts and cravings for seven years. Rehaak concluded it was easy to stay moral in temptation’s absence. Narragan was a creature that could accommodate a host of small parasites like him, but when he became an irritant, it excreted him like an intestinal roundworm.
I am free. But where should I go, and what should I do with my freedom?
Isil
The old woman with an olive-hued, weather-beaten complexion sat at her favorite table in the Golden Crown Inn, listening to the gossip around her but not taking part in it. The Golden Crown was not a luxurious establishment, but it suited her needs. She was unaccustomed to luxury of late. Her life had altered in many unexpected ways since she left her parents’ farm as a young girl, and she often pondered her transition into the life she now led.
Life never turns out like we expects it to. Many twists and turns in the road since those days. Sometimes I wishes I was back there, but I got my work and I got people what tolerates me. What more does I need?
She looked around the inn at the patrons gathered there. The usual crowd sat in their customary places drinking warm beer and eating breakfast. The Golden Crown may once have been a high-class establishment, but over the years, all the fixtures, including the innkeeper and the barmaids showed significant wear and tear.
Wooden tables, gouged and stained, surrounded by worn and wobbly chairs and rickety benches, indicated a mixture of prolonged use and neglect. Lanterns suspended from the overhead beams had produced round sooty patches on the ceiling that never entirely disappeared no matter how hard anyone scrubbed. Smells of food and drink permeated the walls and ceiling. Even if the building were empty, no one could doubt its previous use.
“Isilakari, care for another helping?” Digon, the innkeeper, always made a point of serving Isil himself, and he usually called her by her full name rather than the shorter version, Isil.
She was one of his oldest customers, and since she traveled the length and breadth of Khel Braah on business, he relied on her for news. So Digon used the long form of her name to show respect. She always stopped at his establishment, and her information made the Golden Crown a favorite place for people who wanted news from the rest of the vast island.
Isil brought in customers in ways acrobats and jugglers never could. Best of all, as far as Digon was concerned, she never charged for her information, nor did she embellish the facts. Isil’s stories always checked out, and investments based on her information always paid dividends.
Isil nodded, and Digon set another sausage and slice of bread on the plate in front of her. “You always have news for me,” Digon said. “Today, I’ve got news for you. A fair exchange, I hope.”
“And what news be that, my friend?” she asked. “Trouble in the city, I reckons, if the whispers and sour looks I been seein’ everywhere is any indication.” Isil raised her eyebrows, tilted her head forward, and waited for Digon’s response.
“The Ecclesiarches declared a fella a heretic this morning, and they’re gonna chuck him out of Narragan on his ear. The whole town is abuzz with the news. Like they always say, ‘How the mighty have fallen’ since he were a man with some influential connections in the hierarchy of Narragan.”
“What’s he preachin’ what got the Ecclesiarches’ skivvies in a knot?” Isil asked.
“Some foolishness about the end of the world, I hear,” Digon said. “That and nonsense about a new god. You know I’m not a religious man, so I never pay much attention to such talk.”
“Why would another god cause any hoopla? We already got more gods than blades o’ grass on the eastern plains,” Isil said. “There must be more to this yarn.”
“If you’re interested, I can send Leda over. Leda can tell you more.”
“Sure, send Leda to me when she gets a break,” Isil said.
“I’ll send her over right away.” Digon scooted over and whispered in the barmaid’s ear. Leda handed him her tray and joined Isil at her table.
As Leda sat down, she said, “Digon tells me you want more information about the fella they threw out of the city this morning. So I’ll tell you everything. I can’t recollect his name, but for the longest time, he had mighty powerful friends in Narragan. Many of the fancy folk what lives on the hill used to put a lot of stock in him and his advice. He has fallen out of favor for what he’s been sayin’ about the world ending.”
“I already knows that much,” Isil said. “What’s this talk ‘bout a new god, what’s got the Ecclesiarches stirred up like a hornet’s nest?”
“Not a new god. He says it’s the only god. This fella claims all our gods don’t deserve our worship or our offerings, and if we don’t submit to his god, the world is gonna end.”
“And where’s this fella at?” Isil asked.
“He’s probably left the city already, but he used to stay at the inn down by the harbor. The fancy one. I can’t recollect the name, but it’s got a big white bird on the sign.”
“Thanks, Leda. I’ll saunter over to the ritzy side o’ the city and see what I finds. I ‘spect it’s the Gilded Swan.” Isil finished her beverage, paid Digon, and threaded her way between the crowded tables to the doorway. She squinted up at the sun and stepped into the morning light outside the Golden Crown. This might be one o’ my more stupid ideas, but I wants to find this fella anyway.
Exiled
After the guardsmen, led by the herald, marched away, Rehaak packed two changes of clothes, a waterskin, a small round of cheese, and a loaf of stale bread. He strapped on his money belt and dagger and slipped his green robe with its red embroidered sleeves and collar over his tunic.
“Thanks for nothing, Faithful One,” he muttered while he prepared to leave. “These boneheaded people will not listen unless you come down from the clouds yourself! Although if you do come down, you had best throw a few bolts of lightning their way, just to get their attention before you speak.”
Rehaak snatched his staff from its resting place on his way out and slammed the door hard enough to loosen the hinges. He stomped away from his room and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the ground floor.
In better times, people used to eat and drink at the tables downstairs while they waited to speak with him in private. Rehaak’s popularity with Rogan had waned in direct proportion to his dwindled flow of clients. Rehaak saw the innkeepe
r glance at him and quickly look away, busying himself with menial tasks and ignoring Rehaak as he passed. As he walked through the inn, he could hear the hushed whispers of servants and customers in his wake, a clear indication that they had already heard the news of his disgrace.”
In his haste, he stumbled over the threshold and heard tittering from the people seated inside. Now I am a joke to everyone in Narragan, and it’s all your fault Creator. Once outside, he glared at the sky and griped, “No one wants to follow You, including me! From henceforth, I will look after myself. Go find another dupe for Your impossible, thankless work.”
Rehaak picked his way down the broad paved streets, taking in North Narragan’s familiar sights one last time. Roofs and buildings, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes lined both sides of the boulevard leading to the bridge across the Tikaani River. As he approached the river, the stately mansions and manicured lawns gave way to stone buildings that had once been showpieces but now showed signs of decay. It was like a blight from across the river in South Narragan had infected them.
He crossed the causeway leading to South Narragan with its dilapidated buildings and rutted streets and wandered into the marketplace. Hawkers shouted to attract customers, and smells, both delicious and repulsive, washed over him like a wave. It was still mid-morning when he made his way through the market. Rehaak considered lingering to buy more provisions as he passed by the colorful stalls and noisy merchants in the market square. I refuse to buy from these fools. Why enrich people who rejected and exiled me? In the end, he relented and bought jerked meat, hard cheese, and traveler’s bread. Rehaak filled his waterskin at the fountain in the square and strolled to the edge of the city.
Since he traveled light, he needed no pack animal. Rehaak harbored a general dislike for animals, a strange repugnance for the son of a farmer, but he bore the scars which proved livestock had a similar aversion to him. Besides, a lone pedestrian was less likely to attract bandits’ attention — better to look unworthy of their interest.
Rehaak stood at the city gate and planned to write afresh on the empty pages of his future. Rehaak had already written many lines with ugly black ink in the book of his life. He could not expunge the history written there, but he could change and write a new narrative on the empty pages which lay open before him. He did not know the source of his confidence, nor did he have clear proof of its fulfillment, but he refused to consider the obstacles.
Rehaak paused at the city gate, set down his pack, and removed his embroidered green robe. He wiped the sweat from his brow and shrugged his tunic loose where perspiration had glued it to his shoulders.
The gate guards leaned on their spears and glared at him while a stream of shabbily dressed people passed by. “Are you planning to set up camp here, or are you leaving with the rest of the riffraff?” The guard tapped his spear point on the poster nailed to the wooden wall of the guard post. The document bore Rehaak’s description and the terms of his banishment.
“The mob injured several o’ our friends in the fracas you caused in the marketplace. We don’t need your kind hereabouts, heretic. We’ll not miss you or your filthy lies.” One of the guards pointed his spear at Rehaak’s chest while the other snatched up his pack.
“Bajan Lanier and the other fellow caused the riot, not me.” Rehaak lifted his hands in protest and backed up a few steps. “I have not decided where I am going yet, but I am on my way. No need to trouble yourselves on my account. I can carry my own gear.” He yanked his pack from the guard’s hand, turned, and joined the throng leaving the city.
Rehaak’s banishment shamed his whole family, but despite the disgrace, he felt liberated and exhilarated. The spring air smelled fresh, scented with regeneration, and spiced with unlimited possibilities. He stuffed his robe into the pack, rolled up his sleeves, and whistled a tune popular in the taverns of Narragan. Rehaak shrugged off the guards’ hostility and marched forward, staff in hand, into the unknown, feet marking the tempo of the tune he whistled.
The road southward lay open ahead of him, allowing him time to decide which direction to go when he reached the crossroads. When Rehaak passed into the countryside, he sensed that somewhere a page had just turned; a chill ran down his spine and made him shiver as a cloud blotted out the sun.
Dead End
Isil strolled down the cobbled streets toward the quay. Narragan and its harbor straddled the Tikaani River, and a causeway leading to a bridge connected the two halves. Isil began her journey across the river to reach the Gilded Swan Inn, which overlooked the harbor in North Narragan. She was most familiar with the south side of the river, where dockworkers, laborers, and other riffraff dwelt, but she often had business across the river.
Over the years, South Narragan flooded many times until the Abrhaani built a series of dikes to contain the spring runoff from the mountains. South Narragan would win no prizes for its architecture. Most buildings on the south side of the river included inferior-quality stone and stonework and were roofed with thatch made from the tall grass growing in the estuary. The gray stone walls and thatch roofs blended into the surrounding landscape, looking like mushrooms sprouting from the estuary’s soil.
People often said Narragan had two of everything: two cities, two marketplaces, two harbors, and two classes of citizens. Wealthy merchants and the gentry lived on the north side of the river. The roofs and walls of North Narragan were resplendent in their multi-colored stonework and roof tiles. They were a dazzling display of wealth and power. If anyone from South Narragan harbored delusions about their place in the world, they need only look across the river to understand where they belonged in Abrhaani society. There was a saying about people who thought more of themselves than they ought to, “Their heads have crossed the river and forgot their asses behind.”
Several large marble temples flanked the main street that led from the bridge to the marketplace in the center of North Narragan. The Scriptorium contained the accumulated knowledge of the Abrhaani. It sat at the far end of the street, as far as possible from the rabble who lived south of the river.
Isil made her way along the causeway, watching thatchers wading through the swamp and mudflats below, cutting and bundling the tall grass to use for roof thatch. The bridge guards knew Isil and merely nodded when she approached. They did not stop her like they did with many others trying to cross into North Narragan. The guards’ job was to keep undesirables from crossing the river, but Isil often had business to attend with merchants north of the Tikaani. Although she looked like any other South Narraganian, she had access to the affluent side of the Abrhaani capital.
Once across the bridge, she turned left and followed River Street until she reached the Gilded Swan Inn. The inn overlooked Merchant’s Quay, where all the tall ships sat unloading cargo. Across the river, at Fisherman’s Quay, most boats had already sailed to the fishing grounds. The pong of the fishmongers’ packing houses wafted across the river today. Isil wrinkled her nose at the stench. She had been a farm girl, but livestock sweat and excrement did not reek like fish heads and entrails rotting in the sun.
She put her hand on the Gilded Swan’s door latch but found the door locked. When she checked the window, she noticed the sign, “Closed until this evening, attending an urgent family matter.”
Rogan has no family. They all died in the plague ten years past. What is going on? Something besides the Fisherman’s Quay stinks today, but it ain’t none o’ my concern.
Isil shrugged, content to avoid entanglements in political issues and smart enough to avoid other people’s troubles. Besides, I got business to tend to today. Weren’t nothin’ but curiosity brought me over here. I reckon if I was meant to find out about this here fella, someone could’a told me by now. No sense raisin’ a stink over it or gettin’ tangled up in a mess I don’t need.
Isil wandered back up River Street to the chandler’s shop and peered inside. Raith greeted her. “Isil, how are you today? You’re here two days early. I haven’t got your shipmen
t ready yet.”
“Oh, I’m not here for my goods. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in for a visit. I only needs you to have it all packed up for me tomorra. Don’t suppose you knows anythin’ about that heretic fella everyone’s bin talkin’ ‘bout. Sounds like the Ecclesiarches got a turd stuck crossways ‘bout him.”
The chandler, a tall, bony, middle-aged, balding Abrhaani, wiped his hands on his apron and scowled. “Nope, I always avoid anything involving the Ecclesiarches. They are always asking for money and lording it over us like they got a direct line to the gods. I never bothered to ask that fella’s name, since he hobnobbed with the rich and powerful of Narragan. It’s best for folks like you and me to keep our heads down and our noses out of their business. Nothing good comes from meddling in affairs above our station.” Raith winked at Isil and tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger.
“As to that fella, I saw him slinking off like a whipped dog,” Raith continued. “He headed toward the market early this morning after the city guards and that obnoxious busybody Baeddan, the herald, visited the Swan shortly after sunrise. Afterward, around midmorning, some creepy-looking fellas slunk by and left a while later with Rogan, the innkeeper, in tow. Strange goings-on, I tell you. I’d give the whole thing a wide berth if I were you. Carrying the news is an important part of your business and folks depend on you for information, but it’s best not to kick a hornet’s nest if it falls out of a tree in front of you.”
“I reckon I’ll take your advice. I’ll be off then, and I’ll see you on Shuka mornin’ for my supplies before I leaves town.” Isil shook Raith’s hand and stepped back onto River Street.
Raith’s always been a valuable information source, but this has him wettin’ his pants. I wonders about the men who took Rogan and where they took him.
If the Ecclesiarches managed to stop scrappin’ long enough to unite agin’ this poor fella, then he tripped headfirst into a dung heap. The stink is gonna follow him wherever he goes. Oh well, not my problem.