The Path Travelled - Part 7

Part 6 

Part 7 - Yeppo

The next morning brought with it a new commotion. Sallan’s adventure the previous day had secured him an audience with the city’s rulers, though the caravan was forced to remain without the walls.

Szigall moved Chronicler aside after he woke up and spoke with him. “I think I have managed to convince Sallan to bring you with us.”

Chronicler’s eyes lit up.

“Don’t get too excited. I suggested you would be a good transcriber of the meeting.”

Chronicler nodded slowly. It was not something he would have suggested, though he was certainly capable of taking notes.

“Do not bring this up with him as he may yet change his mind, though whatever happens, be quiet. He does not like to be challenged.”

“So what, I am to just tag along, hoping he doesn’t realise?”

“Act like a scribe.”

“But I am not a scribe.”

Szigall gave him an exasperated look.

“But I can act like one, this once,” said Chronicler, smiling grimly.

“Good. The situation seems to be worse than we thought. Word of the Followers has spread and their more, ah… militant members have garnered quite the reputation in the region. I hear that a few small settlements have been openly attacked. There are even rumours of messages for aid being sent from other settlements. So things must be escalating.”

Chronicler nodded, explained what he’d heard in the club the previous night.

“Exactly. It may just be rumours, but rumours often predate the things they whisper about. People are on edge, including the city’s rulers. Which reminds me, you are not a shaper by any chance?”

“What,” blurted Chronicler. The very notion was absurd! Everyone knew that shapers either went around with staffs covered in animal skulls and feathers fetishes or hid their corruption beneath robes and hoods. He was quite clearly neither of those things. “Of course not.”

“Well, I hope you are not lying as they are quite uptight with such things.”

Chronicler gave Szigall a questioning look.

“The ruler here, a halfblood by most counts, holds shaping in extremely high regard, so high that only he and his closest counselors are allowed to shape. The laws against its use are harsh, to say the least. So if you are shaper, do not let pride be your downfall, and remain outside the walls.”

Chronicler shook his head. “No, no. I am no such thing, though I do profess a morbid fascination with those who practice the arts.”

“Shaping is no art in this city. Generations of cultural bias have ingrained the notion that it is a sacred act, reserved only for the ruler and his most trusted sycophants, into the collective consciousness. Anyone attempting it is seen as an impostor of the vilest sort.”

“I get it.”

“Do you have any clean clothes. Something more...” Szigall paused, gave Chronicler a quick once-over. The clothes had become threadbare, and were covered in dirt and dry mud, “well, anything else?”

“Of course,” said Chronicler. He found the very thought that he might not possess any other clothes ridiculous.

“Then wash and get ready. I will call for you when we are done.”

Chronicler would have enjoyed a bath but the caravanserai had no hot water and he made do with a lukewarm shower near the stables.

He dressed in his court qaftan, which he reserved especially for such meetings. The fashion this far north did not favour the qaftan as much as Ras had, though it was still accepted socially. He wore the moldavite pendant and slid into a pair of clean slippers, their curled toes indicative of his social position – no low-born man would wear such shoes.

He combed his hair through the broken reflection of an oxidised mirror. He gritted his teeth as he struggled with the unruly mass, and gave up after what felt like hours of searching for a parting.

He applied some parfum carefully from a well-rationed bottle that was reaching the end of his life. He’d picked it up in a market in Lidea and kept it for special occasions such as this.

Chronicler emerged from his meagre quarters just moments before Szigall and Sallan emerged from their chambers.

Szigall was dressed not dissimilarly to Chronicler, though admittedly his clothes were of finer materials and craftsmanship, not to mention being in better condition. He wore a bright turban loosely around his head, its ends wrapped around his neck. His wrists were covered in dozens of bracelets and bangles, many of which were of precious materials.

Sallan, on the other hand had transformed himself completely. He was wearing a silk tunic bordered by intricate patterns and what might have been silver thread. Over that he wore an open qaftan with heavy armoured lapels and bulky shoulders. On anyone else it might have looked silly, but on Sallan, his wide shoulders and towering frame, it was a perfect fit and made for an intimidating figure. He wore no headscarf, as he normally did while on the road, though had creamed his head, making it appear shiny. He wore heavy golden earrings and had added to the already many signet rings on his fingers. His left hand was resting on the hilt of his scabbarded blade, which hung from a wide leather belt that was embroidered with a caravan snaking around his waist.

A formidable figure, Chronicler was forced to admit, and an impressive party, even if he did say so himself. Like male birds competing for mates, they were displaying their feathers in the hopes of attracting the city’s rulers.

Chronicler was expecting them to leave when Hadia appeared from another room.

She looked like a different person. The hessian of her well-worn travelling clothes had been replaced by a sky-blue tunic that she could not have been carrying before. Her hair was worn down – the first time Chronicler had seen it that way. Her eyes glinted beneath a heavy frame of kohl that made them look larger and more striking than they already were. Along her hairline she wore a chain-like circlet crowned by a green stone that set off her eyes perfectly.

She scowled at Chronicler as she saw his expression, “Come, let us be done with this.”

They walked to the gate and were moved to a dark vestibule nestled between two layers of doors. Inside they were confronted by a dozen guards, armed and armoured. Sallan presented his papers and the tokens that had been given to them in Mern.

While one of the guards stood reading the papers the others searched them. There was a commotion when they saw Sallan’s sword, but it was peace-bonded with a strong chain so that he could not draw it. The guards seemed to take far longer with Hadia than the others and her discomfort was clearly painted on her face, but there was not much that could be done. After a while they stopped and the first guard handed the papers back to Sallan, and gestured towards a man who stood apart from the others.

He was tall, slender, of bald pate and sunken eyes and sharp cheeks, with lips that were too bright for his complexion. He wore a cowl that might have once been white. There was a reek of resin-smoke about him that grew stronger as he moved forwards.

The man looked at them slowly, eyes flitting from one to the other, then suddenly, Chronicler realised that his eyes were clouded over; a milky white. His head had drawn back so that he was staring at them down the shaft of his nose.

One-by-one the shaper examined them, his eyes hidden beneath the pall of the Firmament. Chronicler he barely looked at, and on Sallan he spent little longer. Chronicler felt uncomfortable when the man’s gaze fell on him, and almost immediately after he felt an inkling of a headache forming.

The shaper’s gaze lingered on Hadia for far longer. The shaper stepped closer to her though after a moment, turned his gaze towards Szigall. He spoke something then in a tongue none of them could understand, and the guards stood to attention, staring at Szigall, who was beginning to look around frantically.

A bony hand raised, the shaper spoke again, his plump lips curving into a wicked smile. He was nodding now, and turned to the guard who had read their papers, speaking again.

The guard nodded as the shaper withdrew into a room beside the gatehouse.

He handed the papers back to Sallan and spoke, this time in the pidgin trade tongue. “You may proceed. We will provide you with an escort to the Arcade and you will be granted an audience before the Patriarch. Your visit will be quick and you will not disturb the peace any more than you have already.” They were not guidelines, Chronicler realised, but orders. And he had no intention of breaking any of them. He hoped his companions thought the same.

They were led by six guards through the city streets at a quick pace, almost too quick for Chronicler to take in the city. The streets were wide and in most places covered in thin awnings that allowed filtered sunlight through. There were large terracotta demijohns on most street corners, though annoyingly he could not tell what they were for. Many houses had blue mosaic framing their doorways, and small stone balconies above them, in what was likely a cultural tradition.

They were moved through various districts, and wherever they passed people would stop to look at the finely clad outsiders being escorted to the Arcade. The streets suddenly opened up into a huge piazza in which stood the foundations of the massive verdigris-stained dome they had spotted from outside the city. It was large, quite possibly the largest dome Chronicler had ever seen. Doves perched on the base of its cupola, beneath which stood trunk-like columns of carved white marble streaked in the grime of time and weather.

The structure from which the dome emerged was octagonal and stood on a wide low staircase that led up to it from the piazza below and – as far as Chronicler could tell – surrounded the entire structure.

They were led through a gigantic door and passed through a wide arched antechamber. Soon they were looking at the rotunda and the open space beneath it. Shafts of light lanced through, hitting the patterned granite floor, illuminating motes of dust in the air. The sound in the place was spectacular, with every footfall echoing and the whispers of clerks and others busily rushing around filling the air. Its walls were thick and covered in frescoes and other marvels of art and architecture that Chronicler had forgotten about, so long had he been travelling in wastelands and deserts.

Beside him Sallan and Szigall seemed unperturbed by the sight, though Hadia’s eyes were staring in amazement.

“Come,” said one of the guards, leading them into the rooms that spread out from the beneath the dome. They were led down a wide set of stairs into what looked like underground offices. The air there was cool though close.

Finally, they were standing in front of a large double door, its surface a series of gilded frames.

“Wait for the call,” said the guards who dispersed into two groups, each standing on either side of the door.

It was dark, with only a few skylight leading to unknown areas above and a few oil lamps scattered on the walls providing any light, but for all the gloom, the beauty of that place could still be appraised. The columns and paintings and –

“Enter,” came a booming voice from beyond the door. Two of the guards rushed to attention and opened the door.

Sallan entered first, followed by Szigall, and then Hadia and Chronicler together.

They were in a long room, its walls flanked by white statues, their proportions clearly not human. Between the statues the walls were dark, each spaced filled with large-framed paintings, all dark, depicting scenes of warfare and ancient nobility. Most were in a chiaroscuro style. Others were dominated by splashes of intense warm colour – flames, sunsets, light – surrounded by darkness. The high ceiling was supported on heavy wooden beams between which were depictions of a cloudy sky with alien otherworlders looking down at them.

At the far end of the room was a wide table behind which were two figures – one, a figure of pale skin and dark of eyes, wreathed in thin layers of silky clothing sat facing them. Another stood beside him, large and armoured. Opposite the table were four high-backed chairs.

Sallan lifted a hand subtly, indicating that they should wait.

As though in reply to his gesture, the armoured man spoke “Move forwards.” It was he who had beckoned them in.

They walked forwards. Chronicler allowed his gaze to flit to the white statues. It was dark, and what little illumination came from lamps hanging from a singular chandelier above that did little to make the grimy plaques legible. The first statue Chronicler appraised was of alien physiognomy – its head was elongated, with cat-like eyes and a wide flat mouth. Its limbs were long and gangly, and its hands had spidery fingers with six, no, seven, digits each. Every statue depicted a figure with decreasingly alien characteristics, until the last one looked almost identical to the man seated before them. Chronicler had counted eight statues in all, making the man a ninth or eighth generation halfblood, depending whether or not the first statue was of an otherworlder or its first generation offspring. Chronicler assumed it was the latter.

He counted seventeen steps to the chairs and sat with the others.

The seated man had rubbery pinkish white skin and red eyes surrounded by purple-veined lids beneath an elongated cranium.

His hands were brought together in a contemplative gesture, spidery fingers interlinked beneath a pointed chin. Chronicler saw the remnants of a sixth and seventh digit on each hand, little more than a vestigial relic of his otherworldly heritage.

As they sat, the guard stood to attention, his halberd – an antique weapon even by the region’s standards – held perfectly upright. He was clearly from the south, and his skin was so dark it had a hint of purple about it. His armour was baroque, covered in gilt and elaborate patterns and ruffs. Indeed, there was an air of ornate overexpression that pervaded the entire structure and those Chronicler had seen within it. “You are in the presence of the Royal Patriarch Mitra, third scion of the Royal Patriarch Akaveh, founder of Yeppo. His word is law and his law is absolute. You may present your cases.”

Chronicler found it strange that after all that hyperbole, the so-called absolute ruler of Yeppo would see to a group of merchants petitioning for entry within the city.

Suddenly, Mahr was pinching his leg, eyes gesturing to the table. Chronicler did not know what he meant straight away though quickly remembered that he was a scribe. He produced his papers and ink and began scribbling, trying to remember the introduction.

Sallan fidgeted and stood, hands together. He bowed faintly, showing the patriarch the full extent of the ink on his head. “My Name is Sallan Khadrasan, of Bakhran, a merchant plying the road of the eastern Surrachi plains. I carry important foodstuffs and other goods that your city is courteous-enough to purchase from the south. However your doors are closed, we would seek entry into this auspicious settlement, that we may trade resources.”

An odd choice of words, though Chronicler as he wrote them. Sallan had been flattering though somewhat bullish, if such a thing were possible. Given the décor and general atmosphere of the Patrician’s palace, Chronicler had assumed outright flattery might work.

“Word from the west is that the Bakhran States are in revolution and that their generals march west in open war against the unguarded cities of the Aareni coast,” began the Patriarch. His voice was soothing, a perfect match for his somewhat detached appearance. As Chronicler wrote, he might have confused the voice for that of a woman. Indeed, he thought as he looked up at the halfblood, its features were effeminate… androgynous, even. “Would you decry or condone such actions?”

Sallan tensed visibly, considered his words. “I am some years removed from Bakhran, though if I were to give an answer I would have to say I decry them.”

The Patrician nodded gently. “A man after my own heart. You will find that we do not judge a man based on the actions of his ancestors or his family, but by his own actions.”

“Thank you,” said Sallan.

There was silence for a long moment, pregnant with the uncertainty of what the next words might bring.

“You understand the risks that the present climate brings with it, I understand? These attacks on travellers, particularly merchants, are not something I or my people can condone. It is disrupting trade and fomenting unrest in the populace. You should know this better than I.”

Sallan nodded.

“A ruler must be careful of such threats. Show too much stringency and you risk alienating your people and outsiders,” said the halfblood, gesturing towards the visitors. “Show too little, and you risk the foundations of your very city. Not two weeks ago we found agents of the so-called Followers hiding within the walls of Yeppo. Rest assured, they were dealt with rapidly and harshly, and we have no reason to believe that they came from within the city, but we must filter out any future threats.”

“It has become the fashion to simply seal cities in a bid to keep the safe. But isolation is not the way forwards. It would kill trade. I worry about the future of the region. I travel with a messenger from Mern. She has spent some time with the Followers, but please trust my words when I tell you she is not one of them. She is an outsider to them, as she is an outsider to me. She brings news from the south,” said Sallan.

The Patrician regarded the words, and lifted a slender hand, as though for the visitors to continue.

Hadia stood and bowed before the halfblood. “I am grateful for the chance to speak,” she said, her face taught, her words strung closely together. She was nervous, Chronicler could tell. She went on to explain what had happened in the region, the reaction in Mern, the slaying of raiders and the displaying of their bodies in gibbets. The unrest and rumours. The lack of food.

“You will note,” began the Patrician, “that tough Yeppo is a larger city, she has far more arable land, and I have not closed our door to our own farmers, who continue to tend the land, where possible. We are not in dire need of food.”

“We do not need to enter the city,” said Sallan. We can trade outside the walls, just a day or two of interaction, and we will be gone, without once having set foot in your city, though I would regret it should I not be able to see your palaces in a more leisurely fashion.”

“Silk tongues have their purpose, though not here, I am afraid. I am not weak, nor am I insecure in my power. I do what I consider to be best for my people, as my grandfather did before me,” he said, his eyes flitting to one of the statues. Chronicler smiled despite himself, glad in the confirmation of his suspicions. “Yet what you suggest is not untenable. I understand that there also local merchants who are seeking to trade with outsiders This will do well to ease tensions.

“Very well,” said the Patrician, “I shall grant you my seal, though you may not travel within the walls of Yeppo once you have been returned to your camp. Tomorrow morning I will allow those merchants so willing to leave the confines of the Inner City, where they will be able to trade in the low markets. You will have two days.”

Sallan bowed and thanked the patriarch.

They were escorted out of the Arcade, back to the low district without the walls, where they waited for news.

Chronicler changed out of his clothes back into his travelling clothes and went down to the low market to Szigall to get a feel for what they might find. They ignored common market, where individuals went to get their daily supplies and found the trader’s market, where merchants exchanged wares in bulk. There wasn’t much in terms of variety, but that was to be expected from the low market that catered to the lower classes. The true markets would be within the city walls, out of reach.

They perused the stalls, and Chronicler was hardly surprised by the lack of quality and variety. At least the prices were commensurate with the quality.

The next day Sallan took to the market, taking most of the guards and the porters with him. Chronicler spent the morning with him, helping Szigall catalogue the purchases and sales, though by later morning most of the actual trading had been concluded and all that remained was the unloading and loading of wares. Chronicler left them to it and returned to the caravanserai. Mahr was nowhere to be seen, and one of the guards said he found a gambling den and had disappeared inside.

Chronicler found Hadia outside, grooming one of the new horses. They’d traded horses upon arriving, which was common practice. The horses, though faster in temperate regions did not possess a camel’s stamina, so they were exchanged for well-rested ones whenever possible.

He observed Hadia, from a distance at first, then moved closer. She ignored him. He made no effort to talk.

It was a nice-enough day. The worst of the clouds had moved north, though the sky to south was a belligerent grey. “What do you reckon,” he said finally, gesturing to the sky.

Hadia lifted the back of an arm to shield her face from the sun and observed the clouds or some time. “If we leave when Sallan intends to, we will be travelling in the rain.”

“He’s had enough of waiting around, but do you think he’ll push on in bad weather, again?”

“You’ve known him longer than I have, why do you ask me?”

Chronicler laughed. “It’s only a marginal difference.”

She remained quiet.

“Where were you yesterday?” asked Chronicler.

“Hunting.”

Chronicler nodded. He’d already known the answer – one of the guards had told him the day before, but he wanted to address the subject with her. “Why?”

She looked at him blankly.

“We have food here. There’s no need to hunt.”

“Habit.”

“Just habit?”

She thought for a moment. “I like being alone. Gives me chance to think.”

“I like travelling. Don’t know what it is about it that makes me feel that way, but I just do. Makes me feel alive. I get to see the world, like I’m being indoctrinated in Elyden’s secrets, one mile at a time. I’m not much for religion – I’ve seen too many arbitrary beliefs and conflicting tenets to think any of them might be true. They have their assets, granted, but… me, well, my religion is Elyden, you know? There is no mystery greater than her,” he said, gesturing to the south. The rumblings and flashes of lightning had increased and the grey clouds were slowly marching north, widening their front. He thought he could see the murk of rain beneath then, tethering them to the ground. “She has seen it all, heard it all. She was here before any of us and will be here long after we are gone.”

“There is a spirituality in what you say. Some would call that a religion, of sorts.”

Chronicler laughed. “Perhaps, though I worry I am too prosaic to admire anything of a spiritual bent. I’ll leave the spirituality to monks and cenobites.”

“Do not sell yourself short. You must see something in the world to make you want to experience it so. Maybe you are searching for something in all the people you talk to.”

“A good story, generally.”

“Perhaps,” she said, though her eyes belied her words.

“And yourself?”

She shook her head. “Not looking for any answers, just the means to make my way through the dangers of this world in one piece.”

“Some would argue that surviving and living are not the same thing.”

“They would generally be the ones who have never had to survive to live.”

“I take it you do not care much for cities?”

“This is the largest settlement I’ve ever been in, and I’m itching to leave.”

“Then you truly have seen nothing of the innovation and wonder of civilisation and what mortals are capable of.”

“You want to see innovation, look no further than desert nomads. They have many innovative ways of collecting water and finding food. Innovation is not just the march towards homogeny and theatres.”

“Is not that the mark of civilisation – the mortal races mastery over the adversity of the natural world? You said yourself how dangerous Elyden is.”

“I think what you call civilisation is the distancing of mortals from their roots and the natural world. You think the notion that you can tame the world is a sign of superiority. Isn’t that what cities are?”

“You speak as though I am the one to blame. Mortals – humans, specifically – have distanced themselves from the rest of the natural world, I suppose, but we are above other beasts therefore it is fitting that we would shape our world to meet our needs. We have tamed the world,” said Chronicler, gesturing around him, towards the city walls, the great dome beyond.

“This can all be destroyed by a flood or an earthquake in moments. Is that taming the natural world? You cannot control it. You are a slave to the laws of nature as any other beast it.”

“Shapers control nature all the time.”

She laughed. “What do you know of shapers?”

“Enough to know why they are so feared. That is true taming of the natural world and such power is not to be trusted lightly.”

“A shaper is no more in control of the natural world than a lion-tamer. There is always that uncertainty that you might lose control. And to lose control over the Art is not just to lose control, it is to risk you life and that of others.”

“Than that is a sign of weakness on the individual’s part.”

“You are right, though not for the reasons you would believe. A man who thinks he is in control of nature is weak, for he does not understand.”

“So all this you see around you, these walls, that dome, the glorious works of art within, are none of those things an indication of our control?”

“They are the works of master craftsmen who know their work and respect its elements. A sculptor can make a single mistake that can ruin an entire work. He is wise to admit that he is never truly in control of his tools.”

“But that is the sign of a master artisan, surely, to know that he is in control.”

“Then we are both very different people and must agree to disagree.”

“I suppose so,” said Chronicler.

He couldn’t say why, but he was disappointed, He was not normally an arguing man. He had seen enough of the world to know that opinions were not absolute, and what in one region might be sacrosanct might be taboo somewhere else. There was no right or wrong, just versions and viewpoints. But he could not understand how someone could not see the supremacy of mortal man. Perhaps because she had never seen a true city, he thought

For all its lavish architecture and art, the city of Yeppo was still a small settlement compared with the cities of the north. It probably had a population of thirty or forty thousand at most. Cities in the High-empire regularly boasted ten times as much and there were others, like Almagest that boasted a hundred times as much. He doubted she could even comprehend such a city. In truth he wasn’t sure he could comprehend it, either.

He stayed at the caravanserai that night. It wasn’t just the headache that had nagged him throughout the day, but also the worsening weather. By the time it was time to sleep, the wind had gotten up and the stars had disappeared behind a thick cover of clouds. It was only a matter of time before the rains came.

The next day brought the rains that Chronicler had been fearing and sat nervously awaiting Sallan’s call. The man was busy outside most of the morning, securing a few last-minute deals, and he returned in the early afternoon, following a lull in the rain.

“We leave on the morrow,” he said, “So make sure your things are in order by then.”

Chronicler was hardly pleased, though it could have been worse. He might have told them to leave then.

Chronicler slept fitfully that night, knowing that it was the last good night’s rest he would get for some time. He was up early as the others got ready to leave and just meandered throughout the rest of the day, half-asleep.

part 8