Much later that night, Mariat relaxed on a comfortable bed in her own private room. It was the first real respite she had had in many weeks. The establishment Sinn had discovered for them was called the Warm Kettle. It was a quaint and charming inn, located in a decent part of town. "Decent" meaning it was not in Downwind or the Maze. Having only been in town one day, Mariat had already learned that honest people avoided those two thief-infested rat holes like the proverbial plague.
The proprietors of the Warm Kettle were a pleasant, elderly Ilsigi couple. Shamut and his wife, Dansea, had been in operation long before the Rankans took over, and their business went on undisturbed for the most part by any of Sanctuary's troubles. This was mostly due to the fact that they minded their own business and ran an honest establishment.
The couple asked no questions of their clients, and they expected no trouble in return. Shamut had been more than helpful in assuaging some of Mariat's foremost anxieties. The contents of her wagons, which she had guarded preciously across the mountains and through the desert, were now safely housed in the locked vaults of Shamut's cellars. The Ilsigi innkeeper had also been able to recommend merchants and tradesmen she could contact about business investments. Lastly, he had provided her with the name of the man to whom she would have to go to find out about the availability and price of land around Sanctuary: the city's foremost bureaucrat, Molin Torchholder-Rankan priest.
With her goods and her grandchildren safe for the moment, Mariat sought her first night of true, peaceful rest in months. However, as she unwound and let the sweet winds of sleep carry her into unconscious oblivion, the ghosts of her recent past were resurrected and met her on the threshold of nightmare,
She drifted back to her life of nine months ago. Her husband, Kranderon, had run the most successful and respected vineyard in all of Ranke-the Aquinta Winery. Aquinta was a western province of Ranke, and its soil yielded the most suitable grapes for fine wine. Kranderon's family had built a mercantile empire on their vintage, which was considered the finest, most superior wine in all the lands. It was the nectar of emperors and kings, and people of cultured tastes lauded its praises from as far north as Mygdonia to as far south as Sanctuary.
Mariat, who had come from a minor noble house of Ranke, had married the dashing young Kranderon, heir to the Aquinta wine empire. For nearly forty years her life had been easy, cultured, and aristocratic. She was accustomed to the finer things of life, to hosting balls and dinner parties and wine-tasting extravaganzas. The former Rankan Emperor, Abakithis, had visited their estate often to personally survey their stock for his own wine cellars. The Emperor had held Kranderon and Mariat in high esteem.
But, unfortunately, emperors have a way of dying and empires do change hands. The new Rankan Emperor, Theron, though a brilliant military strategist, had little appreciation for the finer points of culture and etiquette. His taste ran more towards large quantities of ale than the refined delicacies of vintage wine.
And Kranderon, though farsighted in business ventures and moneymaking opportunities, was shortsighted in the political and military arena.
As the Rankan Empire began to crumble in upon itself with intrigue, upheaval, and treachery, the former allies and friends of Abakithis fawned upon Theron, assuring him of their loyalties and disclaiming any allegiance or respect for the previous Emperor who had once embraced them as friends and peers.
Kranderon was not so quick to desert the memory of his old friend Abakithis. The wine merchant openly criticized Theron's administration, and insinuated that the new Emperor had committed treason in playing a part in his predecessor's assassination. His loyalty to the murdered Emperor cost Kranderon dearly.
As Ranke fragmented and languished in turmoil, many outlaw bands began to scourge the outlying province. Theron found excuses to conveniently withdraw Rankan troopes from Aquinta. Kranderon was not worried, however, for he felt that he and his men could hold their own against undisciplined outlaws and brigands.
One night nine months ago, however, a suspiciously orderly group of brigands attacked the estate. Though wearing the apparel and brandishing the weapons of outlaws, the men who raided Aquinta fought with the discipline and tactics of seasoned soldiers and veterans of many campaigns.
Kranderon and his men were overrun. The squire of Aquinta saw his only son fall, fighting valiantly to protect his young wife. Kranderon himself was taken prisoner, and forced to watch as the soldiers disguised as outlaws had their sport with his daughter-in-law, the mother of his three grandchildren, in view of her fallen husband's corpse. When they had finished with her, one man held her head back by her hair and slit her throat. The raiders laughed as her life's blood shot high into the air.
They slashed and burned a large portion of the vineyards, and they broke into the cellars and smashed open the aging vintage. Kranderon watched as a fortune in wine spilled across the floors of his home and mingled with the blood of its fallen defenders. Then the raiders hung the squire by the neck with one of his own supple young grapevines. As Kranderon slowly strangled, they fired arrows into nonvital parts of his body to increase his agony. Then they rode into the night, taking no plunder with them as brigands were wont to do.
The message was clear to all the other squires in outlying areas. Theron's wrath was keen and swift to vengeance. The other estate masters flocked to Theron's court to join the ranks of sycophants clinging to the last shreds of a rotted, corrupt Empire.
But the sacking of Aquinta had not been complete, Mariat had cloistered herself with her grandchildren-Keldrick, Darseeya, and five-yearold Timock-in the secret vaults hidden beneath the wine cellars. Those gloomy catacombs were known on!y to Kranderon and Mariat. It was there that they wisely hid their finest, most expensive vintage. Mariat's quick thinking saved herself and her grandchildren from the maelstrom of violence which descended on Aquinta that night.
The four surviving members of Kranderon's family left their hiding place and crawled through the wreckage of the once formidable estate. In the throes of initial shock, Mariat was able to organize the remaining servants and bury her dead. Over the next few days, she denied herself the luxury of grief, for she knew that she must act quickly to assure her family's survival. She retrieved her husband's cache of money (which was not small by any means) and arranged for a caravan to take her south, out of the reach of vengeful Theron.
Mariat loaded one wagon full with her husband's finest vintage. The bottles of wine which would have purchased a small kingdom before were now made priceless because Aquinta was no more. The tragedy which had devastated Mariat's family had also placed a fortune in the woman's hands. The irony was not lost on her.
In a second wagon she loaded the few possessions her family would take with them, along with a secret she and her most trusted servants had worked far into the night to harvest. This secret of Mariat's was her key to rebuilding a viable future for her family in Sanctuary.
So now she was here in the city of new hopes and opportunities. As dawn broke through the window other room in the Warm Kettle, Mariat threw off both the bonds of sleep and the chains of the past. She refused to let self-pity or grief deter her from her course. It was a new day in Sanctuary, and time for new beginnings.
In fact, Mariat thought, it would be a lovely day to take the children outside the city's walls for a picnic in the open lands.
It is often thought, but entirely untrue, that evil and ugliness always go hand in hand. In Bakarat's case, however, those two nonvirtues blended together in imperfectly perfect harmony.
He was called "the Toad" by his associates and others (though not to his face). One look at his person would abate any suspicions as to the veracity of the nickname.