But not every Charisian living in the Republic shared that attitude. The fracture lines within the rapidly growing Charisian community here in Siddar City grew deeper-and uglier-with every passing day. Over a third of its members were here not because they’d fled Charis out of religious principle but because this was where trade and commerce had brought them long before the current warfare had erupted. The swelling influx of newcomers were as much Temple Loyalist as she and Claitahn could ever be, yet even a growing fraction of them were being attracted to the Reformist elements within the mainland Church, and nowhere were those Reformist elements stronger than here in the Republic. Many a Siddarmarkian-and even many of the Charisian emigrees who’d turned their backs in horror on the open schism of the Church of Charis-found the condemnations of clerics like Maikel Staynair resonating with their own disappointment in what the vicarate and the Church had become in the hands of men like Zahmsyn Trynair and Zhaspahr Clyntahn. Schism they would not condone; Reform they were prepared to respectfully demand.
Sahmantha Raimahn was a shrewd, clear-eyed observer, determined to protect her family, and the shadows were growing darker, even here in the Republic. Claitahn sensed it, too, and despite his own sympathy for much of the Reformist argument, he resolutely refused to embrace it. Neither would Sahmantha, for she’d seen only too clearly the horrors of which Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s Inquisition was capable. She recognized the danger hovering in the Reformist label, even here in the Republic, where the Inquisition’s writ ran less deeply, and that was the true reason she longed to pry her grandson gently away from Aivah Pahrsahn. She’d begun picking up whispers that the brilliant, witty, wealthy beauty who’d taken Siddar City’s society by storm looked with favor upon the Reformist movement. As always, Madam Pahrsahn spoke gently and calmly, championing peaceful reform, condemning violence, couching her murmured arguments in terms of love and compassion. No reasonable soul could possibly have accused her of the least impropriety… but these were not the times for reasonable souls.
Be careful, Byrk, she thought after the grandson she’d raised. Oh, be careful, my love! You’re too much like your grandfather. You try to hide it, but beneath that surface you show the world, you feel too deeply and there’s too much integrity for times like these. Forget you’re a Charisian and remember to be cautious. Be Siddarmarkian, please!
Thwap!
Sailys Trahskhat stiffened as the well-rotted apple smacked him squarely between the shoulder blades and then oozed down his back in trickles of brown pulp and slime. His head whipped around, looking for the hand which had thrown it, but no guilty expression gave away the culprit. Indeed, no one seemed to be looking his way… which said a great deal.
His fists clenched at his side, but he managed-somehow-to keep the fury he felt out of his expression. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. It wouldn’t be the last, either, he thought grimly. He was just lucky it had been an apple instead of a rock.
And at least this time the bastard didn’t shout a nything, he thought. Fucking coward! Brave enough when he doesn’t have to actually face someone, isn’t he? Then he gave himself a mental shake. Just as well, too. If he had said anything, pointed himself out, I’d’ve had to do something about it, and Langhorne only knows where that would’ve ended!
He bent back to his task, hoisting another bag of Emeraldian cocoa beans onto his shoulder and rejoining the line of longshoremen carrying them into the waiting warehouse. It didn’t pay all that much, but it was better than the soup kitchens, and he was lucky to have the work. Enough people didn’t, and in his calmer moments he realized that was part of the reason for the hostility he encountered every day. But still…
“See who it was?” a voice asked quietly as he entered the warehouse’s dim cavern. He hefted his bag down on a pallet, then turned towards the speaker, and Franz Shumahn, his shift foreman, raised an eyebrow at him. Shumahn was Siddarmarkian, but he was also a decent man, and he looked concerned.
“Nope.” Trahskhat shook his head and smiled, deliberately making light of it. “Just as well, I guess. Last thing we need is a riot down here on the docks just because some stupid bastard needed his head ripped off and shoved up his ass. Probably wouldn’t have done me any good with the Guard, either, now that I think about it.”
“Probably putting it lightly,” Shumahn acknowledged with a chuckle. He seemed genuinely amused, but there was a note of warning in it, too, Trahskhat thought. Not that it was necessary.
“As long as they stick to rotten fruit, it’s not going to cost anything but another washing day for Myrahm,” Trahskhat said as philosophically as he could. “If they start throwing rocks, like they did at the fish market last five-day, though, it’s going to get ugly, Franz.”
“I know.” Shumahn looked worried. “I’ll have a word with the boss. See if we can’t get a little more security down here. A couple of big bruisers with cudgels’d probably cut down on this shit a lot.”
Trahskhat nodded. It might. It might not, too. A lot would depend on whether the troublemakers thought the “big bruisers with the cudgels” were there to help Trahskhat or them.
It’s not just about you, you know, he reminded himself. There’s other Charisians down here on the docks, too. And you’re lucky Shumahn’s thinking about getting someone down here to break the troublemakers’ heads instead of how much simpler it would be to just fire your ass!
“I’m asking Horahs and Wyllym to keep an eye out for the rest of this shift,” Shumahn added. “Anybody else tries something, they’ll spot him. And if he works for us, his ass is history. The boss doesn’t like this kind of shit.”
“Thanks,” Trahskhat said with quiet sincerity, and headed back for the next crate.
The work was hard, often brutally so, and the job was a huge step down for a man who’d once been the Tellesberg Krakens’ starting first baseman. The pay was no more than two-thirds of what he’d have been making back in Tellesberg even for the same work, either. Worse yet, it cost more to live here in Siddar City than it ever had back home. His wife, Myrahm, actually made more than he did, but she was a skilled weaver. The Charisian community living in Siddarmark had always been heavily represented in the textile trade, and she’d been fortunate enough to find a job working for fellow Charisians. He was pretty sure her employers had embraced the Church of Charis, at least in private, but they were still good people, and he was glad Myrahm had found employment with them. He didn’t want to think about her having to face the kind of daily harassment he encountered down here on the docks.
It wasn’t fair, but the Writ had never promised life would be fair, only that God and the Archangels would be just and compassionate at its end. That was enough for any man, when it came down to it. But it was hard. Hard when the rotten apples came flying from anonymous hands. Hard when he had to face his older son Mahrtyn and try to explain why so many people hated him simply for being Charisian. And especially hard when someone shouted “Heretic!” or “Blasphemer!” from the cover of darkness as they passed outside the tiny apartment which was all he and Myrahm could afford, even here in the Quarter.