And on they passed, none even sparing a glance for the closest of the farmers who stood not an arm’s reach aside. Apart from the beat of their footfalls, utterly silent. Ghost-like. Indeed, it was almost like a vision imposed by the heat. Only the dust remained to hang in the still air, the file now to the north, jogging onward, diminishing.
Yet as the dust settled it revealed a newcomer. One of the masked. He’d stopped next to one of the children: young Hireth. Who stood staring up, mouth agape, water gourd in one hand. The man knelt, held out a hand for the gourd. Hireth’s father dared to edge slightly closer; the visitor seemed to ignore him. As if being shaken out of a daze Hireth snapped her mouth shut then held out the gourd. The man took it. He turned his head aside while he lifted his mask to drink, then rose and handed back the gourd. Something in his manner made her bend her knees in a curtsy. The man reached out to gently run a hand down one cheek of her bare upturned face. The father almost started forward then but something in the gentleness of the touch, its near reverence, made him stop. He watched spellbound, his pickaxe clenched in his sweaty hands. Jogging all the day under this sun and not even breathing hard! These are demons off on some summoned errand. Go now. Do not trouble us!
And the stranger set off, running gracefully at a league-swallowing easy pace. Hireth’s father came to her. ‘Did he say anything, child?’
She shook her head, as if she too had somehow been captured by the visitors’ spell of silence.
He squeezed her shoulder to reassure her. So, he hadn’t spoken. Somehow he didn’t imagine the man, or demon, had. And he’d been different from the rest. His mask had been very pale, all creamy white, it was. With only one smear of reddish dirt across the brow.
CHAPTER X
Let it be known that a number of centuries past an ambitious and expansionist dynasty of rulers named the Jannids asserted control over the southern city states. These rulers prosecuted successful campaigns across the lands gaining sway all the way north to the Pannion region. They were famous for having raised countless stelae upon which they ordered engraved the detailed histories of those campaigns, listing their victories, together with exhaustive compilings of treasure taken, prisoners, and states humbled. Only in one campaign were they crushed — a defeat that triggered their downfall. This is known because of one unpolished boulder that lies on the western shore south of Morn. Carved on it are a mere four words: ‘The Jannids fell here.’
The first vessel leaving Darujhistan’s harbour that morning was an old merchantman ferrying passengers and freight westward around the lakeshore. Upon sighting the ancient ship, its paint sun-faded to a uniform pale grey, sails patched and threadbare, sides battered and scraped to naked slivers, Torvald halted on the wharf. Passengers brushed past laden with rolled reed mats and bags of possessions. Some drove young sucklings ahead of them. Just about all carried fowl gobbling inside cages woven of reed and green branches.
He turned on one of the city Wardens sent to escort him to the docks. ‘This is supposed to be a diplomatic mission,’ he hissed, struggling to keep his voice low. ‘I can’t go on this tub!’
One of the guards tucked a folded pinch of leaves into a cheek and leaned against piled crates. ‘It’s a secret mission, Councillor,’ he drawled.
Torvald tried his best superior glare but the fellow was clearly indifferent. ‘If it’s so secret then how come you know about it? And don’t call me Councillor.’
A lazy roll of the shoulders from the man. ‘Orders.’
Torvald began to wonder just what those orders were. See him from the city even if it means throwing him from the docks, perhaps. He picked up his heavy travelling bag and slipped its strap over a shoulder. ‘Fine. Secret. Tell your superiors you saw me off then,’ he said, and headed up the gangway.
The small deck was crammed with goods. Pigs squealed, terrified, sheep bawled, and caged birds gabbled. All this did nothing for the state of the decking. The only available space was a suspiciously clear arc surrounding two figures sitting against the side close to the bow. Torvald could well understand the avoidance: one of them was a giant of a fellow with a massive tangle of hair and beard all unkempt together like a great mane of dirty blond and grey. His shoulders were titanic, his upper arms as massive as Torvald’s own thighs, and his chest swept out like a barrel. Torvald thought him perhaps a travelling strongman. The fellow next to him was a skinny Rhivi tribesman elder looking particularly frail in such company. To Torvald the two would have appeared a far more intimidating pair if the big fellow hadn’t been so clearly absorbed in studying the city, laid out pink and golden in the dawn’s light, climbing in cliff ridge over cliff ridge to Majesty Hill beyond. The old fellow was clearly sick as a dog, bleary-eyed and pale.
But then Torvald had travelled for a time in the company of someone who could arguably be named the most intimidating figure these lands had ever met. He dropped his bag and leaned up against the side. ‘Not going to try your luck?’ he said to the big fellow.
The man’s gaze swung to him and Torvald suppressed a flinch when he saw the bestial eyes, the irises oddly shaped, and felt the plain sheer weight of the man’s regard. The fellow cocked one thick brow, rumbled, ‘How’s that?’
Torvald found his throat suddenly dry. ‘The city … they’re always hungry for new acts.’
‘Acts?’ the man slowly enunciated, his voice hardening.
‘You know … bending bars, breaking chains.’
Both brows rose as comprehension dawned and the fellow eased back, relaxing. ‘Ah. No.’ He crooked a small nostalgic smile. ‘Been a lot of years since I’ve had to do any of that.’
Somehow, Torvald felt immense relief. ‘I’m sorry — I thought …’
The man raised a gnarled hand to forestall any further explanation. ‘I understand.’ The fierce eyes looked him up and down. ‘What are you doing on a tub like this?’
My point exactly. Torvald offered an indifferent shrug. ‘First boat leaving.’
‘And far from the fastest,’ the man rumbled.
Unformed suspicions writhed anew in Torvald’s stomach and he glanced over to see the two city Wardens, who, grinning, offered lazy waves of farewell.
Gods curse the Legate!
The gangway scraped up and wharf hands threw off the lines. Two of the crew pushed off with poles while others set the single lateen-rigged sail. The menagerie of animals squealed and voided anew.
Torvald threw himself down against the side, rested his arms on his knees. Burn’s love. Did I just sell myself on to a slow boat to nowhere for the price of a bright certificate and an empty fancy title? He pressed his hands to his head.
Lim has just rid himself of an irritating new councillor.
‘Love or coin?’ A quavering thin voice spoke up.
Torvald raised his head to see the Rhivi elder studying him from around the great bulk of his companion. ‘I’m sorry …?’
‘Your reasons for travel — if you would speak of them. In my experience a man travels for one of two reasons. A powerful husband or a powerful debt.’
Torvald snorted a self-mocking laugh. ‘No. Nothing so romantic. Just a plain old powerful political rival.’
The big fellow now eyed him sidelong, his gaze narrow. ‘Really?’ he rumbled.
The lazy silt-laden stream that ran into Lake Azur at Dhavran hardly deserved a name. Some called it the Red, others the Muddy. In any case, it was a barrier of a sort. Over the years a crossing had been constructed of stones and garbage capped by a simple bridge of laid logs packed with dirt. Fist K’ess eyed the mud-choked channel and thought it the most pathetic crossing he’d ever seen.