The Path Travelled - part 2

Part 1

Part 2 – Ras

“They are really quite spectacular,” continued Chronicler.

He’d woken up in high spirits despite the restless night, thoughts of the heavens and stars and constellations heavy on his brow. He’d woken up early, in time to see the narrow bow that was the Ivory Moon rising just ahead of the eastern sky, still waking.

He sat mentally tracing familiar constellations between the stars even as they slowly dwindled. He continued until the last, Ashterath, was a struggling prick of light that was gone with a blink.

“One of the largest, straddling the equator is named Tarragon by many cultures, even here along the Surrach –”

“It is Saviud,” said the merchant, his tone belying a disinterest in the conversation. The earth had become more compact as they moved north and they were travelling on foot. The camels – almost forty of them by that point, laden with the goods of those they’d lost – were tied to one-another behind them. It made a nice change to be able to move on foot for once and Chronicler had fallen into step beside Farad.

“I’m what, sorry?” said Chronicler struggling with his charts and maps.

“If you must blather on so much, at least do it properly. It’s Saviud. Only foreigners call it 'the Surrach’, and northerners at that. I thought you are from south of the Sea?”

The words caught Chronicler by surprise. It was true. He’d lived his entire life in Sammaea, south of the High-empire, where the term Surrach was common. As far as foreign names went, it was an accurate, if simplified, interpretation, translating as roughly the Many Lands. The Surrach – or Saviud, as it was called by natives – was a fractured place covering around half a million square miles by Chronicler’s count. In that expansive area lay hundreds of city-states, each in a state of ebb and flow, where alliances and betrayals were the order of the day. It was a spectacular place unlike any other where organised governments had risen instead. Such centralised power consolidated cultures, where the independence inherent to Saviud saw each city-state cling on to traditions that might otherwise have been wiped out.

To call the area the Surrach was seen by natives as a sign of condescendence. “You are right,” said Chronicler, putting his charts away hurriedly. “I have perused so many books authored in so many different lands, and spoken to men and women in so many different tongues, that I sometimes forget where I am travelling and which I am speaking in. I meant no disrespect.”

Farad ignored him, continued walking.

The land had grown so solid they could almost make out the worn-out path of a road. They must have been close. The earth was rocky, though not featureless, and smooth stones slotted between each-other like giant flagstones, worn flat by the passage of giants. Succulents, their names revealed to Chronicler by one of the guards with an interest in such things, had taken root between some of the stones and stood sentinel over the windswept expanse. To their left, the east, stood a dark pinnacle of rock that stood out from the other features. Farad nodded when he saw it.

Nodding to the stone needle, he turned to Chronicler, addressing him directly for the first time in days. “We should arrive in Ras by highsun. There you can rest your legs and perhaps your tongue”

Chronicler blinked, his eyes flitting intermittently between the merchant and the rock. Unsure of what to say, he said “Thank you,” before falling out of step with Farad.

***

They spied it long before they were upon it, as the land dipped slowly to the north, granting them a spectacular view of the basin that lay ahead.

The north-facing slope was softer than the ground they’d been travelling on for weeks – pale soils, held together by small shrubs and unseen roots led the way north. The path they’d been moving along followed a natural ridge north. Dry rivulets from past rains radiated away from the path, which led inexorably towards a large crater.

He’d seen few places like it before in all his travels. He’d witnessed cities a thousand times larger, grander, though none he had ever seen had built along the inner-edge of a crater like Ras. A half-mile round, it dominated the vista ahead like a gigantic scar on Elyden’s surface, an ancient punishment for a forgotten transgression. It was shallow, with a smoke-belching structure engulfing its central peak.

The settlement was on the far side of the crater, built in tiers: smaller structures along the lower courses slowly giving way to larger more elaborate ones along the ridge.

Chronicler grinned as he recognised the structures. How many different settlements were there? How different were they all from one another? Yet for all their differences, they all divided their people by class. He doubted it was any different in Ras.

Flanking the buildings were zigzagging streets along which were dozens of caves – arguably the heart of the city.

“The markets are on the far side, outer edge,” said Mahr, a guide who had been travelling with Chronicler since Tartak, over 2,000-miles ago. “It’ll still take us a while to get there, but our prize is in sight,” he smiled, showing decayed teeth.

The city’s appearance had improved the mood in the caravan, a change Chronicler was very welcome for. Though it was their bread-and-butter, most merchants found the road a tiring place, a necessary evil that could be eliminated if possible. What they cared about was the exchange of goods, and the end product – money. Long weeks and possibly months on the road was harsh on any man, whether or not there was the promise of a payday on the other side. There were men in the group who yet mourned their dead. Others might be returning home, while most are just glad to get paid for the hours of sun and rain at their backs.

They raised perforated flags as they approached the settlement: a signal to those watching that they were merchants searching for safe borders and the promise of trade. Life in the Surrach… Saviud was dangerous and one could not be too careful. Though the crater rim provided a natural defence, Ras was not otherwise walled, unlike other settlements in the region. It was open to hostile elements, be they marauding forces or dust storms. Red-roofed towers dotted the highest peaks of the encircling rim, from which guards kept a vigilant lookout.

The path skirted round the base of the crater rim, leading them to the far side, along which was an open-air market covered by large canopies that yawned in the growing wind. The market heralded entry into the settlement, forcing anyone looking for its shelter to pass through its stalls, which offered far more than the green glassware that Chronicler had been told of. There were clothes, pottery, food, woven items, water carriers, metalware and gods knew what else. The sights, the smells the sounds, all came together in an atmosphere familiar to Chronicler, one that could be found in almost any settlement. Voices trained to carry above the din of their competitors hawked their goods. Braying beasts and industry.

He scribbled notes furiously as they walked through the market towards the caravanserai. Farad was moving quickly now, smile plastered across his face. His apprentices followed him, preparing ledgers and invoices for the unpacking of goods that was soon to follow. Arrival at a new place was always a time of chaos – the travel preceding it was the calm before the short but intense storm of taking inventory, unloading, selling, trading, buying, loading and preparing for the journey to come. That was the life of the merchant.

Chronicler and Mahd quickly found themselves overtaken by most of the column as they took their time perusing stalls and talking to vendors. Animal carcasses hung from metal beams as a young boy of crooked frame busied himself waving them away. Behind him stood a dark-skinned butcher who tried goading them into purchasing his wares. Mahr explained to Chronicler what they were, as the man told him which spices and herbs went with which meats.

The next stall was a glass merchant selling the glass for which Ras was famed. One piece in particular caught Chronicler’s eye. The natural starburst shape of the raw stone had been formed into an angel, wings wide open behind it. It was pretty.

Onto the next stall – an old bearded man sat hunched over a metal block, hammering fine silver into shape. The man nodded vaguely as Mahr translated Chronicler’s questions. He replied, not once taking his eye off the metal. They lingered there for a while as Chronicler took more notes and sketched the filigree design in his notes. His thirst for local culture would have seen him imprisoned in whichever every town he visited were it not for the stubbornness of those who travelled with him. Mahr had been his caretaker, guide, interpreter and conscience for months now.

“Come Niyush,” said Mahr, pulling on the traveller’s arm, “We have lost the caravan.”

Chronicler ignored him, continued talking to the spice merchant he’d stopped in front of before slowly gravitating back to Mahr.

They caught up with the caravan, which had come to a stop within the low walled courtyard of the caravanserai. Inside, camels were being unburdened and fed and watered. The guards and porters were stacking salt bricks, raw metal, packs of spices, dried meats, baskets of grain, and other commodities, in the storage rooms. It was chaos, though one Chronicler knew the merchants were in control of.

Chronicler passed by into the building and found himself a room.

***

He returned to the market the next day with Mahr as the merchants busied themselves in the caravanserai. He’d bathed and changed his clothes and was wearing a qaftan more adequate to the fashions of the region. He spent the morning wandering through the market, where he stopped at each stall noting the wares, with Mahr translating if need be.

As he moved on he began to make out a common flavour. All cities had a purpose – settlers did not just lay down roots in any given area - and Ras had neither food nor water in abundance, both of which were necessary for survival. In their stead it had something else: moldavite, a rare green glass formed by whatever catastrophic event had left that crater. The people of Ras had turned themselves into expert artisans of the material, crafting it into faceted gems that were sold as high prices to visiting merchants. Nobility and royalty for hundreds of miles around coveted glass, and it was that greed for rare substances alone that kept the city of Ras alive. Without its green glass Ras would perish to starvation. Its structures, with their chalky plaster walls, would crumble within decades of their abandonment, leaving few relics of its people’s industry.

Chronicler paused near the same stall he’d seen the previous day. The table was covered in crystal beakers, glassware, pendants, necklaces and gods-knew what else, many of which were made from moldavite. His eyes returned to the angelic pendant he’d seen then. He asked if he could look at it. The vendor nodded, eyes flitting to a private guard who stood close by.

Chronicler picked up the green pendant, the delicate metal of its chain dangling from his hands. He held it up to the sun, squinting. He looked up at the vendor who anticipated his words, “thousand Arks,” he said.

Chronicler sifted through his coins. He wasn’t fully familiar with the punch-marked currency of the area, though was able to tell them apart based on size. He must have had around five thousand in different coins. A bit of haggling and he’d probably get the price down to seven-fifty, maybe six-hundred. “Five hundred,” he said, staring the process. Mahr had told him enough of the bartering that was so common to the region that he felt confident.

“Nine-hundred,” said the vendor.

“Niyush,” said Mahr, turning to Chronicler. “He’s scamming you.”

“That’s all right, I know what I’m doing,” said Chronicler.

Mahr frowned as the barter continued. Chronicler bought the pendant for six hundred twenty Arks, a price he thought was fair. Mahr was convinced he could have gotten it for half the price, but Chronicler was happy.

They bought some food – chunks of spiced meat slotted on skewers between succulent leaves – and continued meandering through the market, looking at the stalls, talking with locals. There were mercenaries from Daaz and flesh slavers from Kerret, their heavy off-white robes distinct against the dull blues and greens of the locals. They were famed for harvesting tumours with beneficial properties. Chronicler had camped outside Kerret not too long ago, a fact he’d been furious about at the time. He’d been desperate to meet with their elders, most of which were marked by their hunched appearance, no doubt attributable to the growths cultivated on their own skins. There were three of them there in Ras, cowls worn low on their brows, covering their features from the daylight.

Chronicler tried to pursue them, but lost them in the crowd.

Despondent, he spent the rest of the morning looking out for them, without success. He followed Mahr through the market, paying little attention to the stalls, even when interesting characters were to be found.

They moved uphill towards the crater rim and the more permanent structures, their white walls gleaming under the sun cresting above. Chronicler had asked to see the mines and smelting works before they left, though they hadn’t been granted permission yet.

They left the awnings and noise of the market behind and entered the shade of narrow streets and the half-silence that lingered within.

“This is a change from the market,” said Mahr as they walked, noting a distinct change in the apparel of the people they passed. There were more men around than in the market, and less street-urchins, though idle children could still be seen in doorsteps or carrying out chores. The air there smelt cleaner too, as did the general demeanour of those they passed.

Chronicler nodded, “A good sign.” The change was proof that they were in a more reputable area of the city. Something they needed to look out for if they were to find the civic hall.

They found it after Mahr asked directions of a guard stationed on a street corner, beneath a pitted limestone statue. The building was large, set atop a worn granite plinth and it was crowned by a dull red dome. Tall narrow windows were set high along the walls and a lone brass dome awaited them, flanked by two embossed columns. Two guards, their bodies betraying their non-human lineage, stood in front of the columns, eyes unmoving yet not unobservant. Each was clad in armoured skirt and bronze breast and held a towering shield in one hand and a gun-halberd in the other.

Above the door was a verdigris-encrusted plaque that read, in the words of the region: the City of Ras.

“Looks like the place,” said Mahr, taking a step forward. His eyes remained on one guard at all times. It was large, perhaps seven feet tall with a girth to match, and was of thick grey skin. But most importantly, its dark eyes continued to ignored Mahr.

Mahr allowed a relieved exhalation as he took another step upwards.

Chronicler was a few steps behind him, still distracted by the workmanship of the columns. When he spotted the guards he stared at them in wonder. Halfbloods possibly, or perhaps an indigenous people. Karkadanns, possibly? No, he dismissed almost straight away.

They eventually entered, asking a clerk for instructions.

They ended up spending the better part of the day in the offices of a bureaucratical elected official who refused to understand why a visiting historian and dragoman were so interested in mines and glass blowers. The methods behind the extraction and working of the moldavite was a closely guarded secret unique to the people of Ras. It was their cultural identity, he had pressed at length, and not something readily given away to strangers, let alone outsiders. But flattery did have a hand in his eventual coaxing.

“But we have no interest in the industry or the workings of it,” argued Chronicler, “other than an academic curiosity. What I want is to take note of your wondrous city and its unique industry, and share it with the rest of Saviud. Everyone deserves to know of its history and its beautiful craft. That way more may be tempted into investing in your goods.” That last words he’d spoken hadn’t harmed his petition.

The official saw the angelic figure and his eyes narrowed, rigid mind no doubt moulding itself around the thought of free advertising.

He’d relented, finally, though not after forcing them to wait for an administrator from the mines to make the trek from his offices in the inner rim all the way to the civic hall. By the time he’d arrived he was exhausted, cotton kerchief dabbing at his weeping brow and was irritable, though like the elected official before him the notion of spreading word of their goods to distant lands was an easy sell.

They were marched unceremoniously down the switchback roads alongside the inner side of the rim to one of the older mines. Large-scale mining had ended there years ago and only a handful of miners – those unable to bear the long hours in the cramped, dusty conditions of the newer, more bountiful mines – remained there, alongside a handful of guards. One of the overseers, a large man, skin hardened, perhaps from the mines, explained to them how the moldavite was found and extracted from the earth. How it was shaped and fashioned into ornaments and jewellery.

“How much of the stuff can there be?” asked Mahr when they emerged into daylight once more.

“What are you suggesting?” said the overseer. His name was Molda and he’d been cordial in his tour, though it was obvious that he was not prepared for it and things he’d rather be doing that showing foreigners around.

Mahr shrugged, gestured towards the mine as Chronicler emerged, scribbling notes. “It’s commonly understood that whatever was responsible for the crater was also responsible for the moldavite, given that it is unknown anywhere else.”

The overseer nodded. “We are very proud of our unique heritage.”

“I do not doubt that for a moment. But my question is – given that it’s a material unique to this area, surely, there must be a finite supply.”

The man seemed to diminish in stature. “We have been mining the moldavite for centuries.” There was no doubt he was insulted by the words.

“All the more reason to worry,” said Mahr.

“I think what my companion is trying to say,” said Chronicler, seeing the overseer’s worsening expression, “is that the material is no doubt very rare. Something which must add to the already considerable value bestowed by its appearance.”

The overseers face softened and he nodded slowly, regarding them for a while. After a moment he gestured to a path that led away from the crater’s side towards the small peak in its centre, from which emerged the smoke Chronicler had seen the day before.

They followed the man to the factory, where they were joined by a pair of lightly armoured guards. They were shown the grinders and polishers, most of which were manually operated by pedalling operators. The roar of the machines and cranking of conveyor belts was deafening and Chronicler had to concentrate to understand what the overseer was saying. Many times he had to ask Mahr to repeat his words in a language he was more familiar in.

Chronicler noticed that they weren’t given as long to absorb the workshop as he’d have liked. They were hurriedly taken aside to shelves where the moldavite was stored, before and after being worked. The differences were spectacular, a metamorphosis from dull imperfection to light-catching angles and facets that sparkle a deep sea-green as though from within. Any man – noble or emperor – would have been honoured to possess such a piece, and Chronicler made it a point to voice his opinions, which were gladly lapped up by the locals.

“And how much would all this be worth?” asked Mahr as his eyes flitted across the shelves and storage crates.

The overseer gave an incredible sum that made both Chronicler and Mahr’s eyes go wide. For a moment Chronicler thought of artificial inflation to create demand, but the thought was gone in a moment, overcome by the sheer ludicrousness of the number. The overseer grinned, nodding. “Yes, you might understand now our reluctance of giving away our secrets.”

“Yet if you are the only source of the moldavite why should you be concerned? No one else can replicate it.”

“Mahr’s comments raise another concern,” said Chronicler suddenly. “I do not doubt the verity of your claims to exclusivity, but you must be concerned of theft. The road to Daaz is long and unguarded. Your caravans must be well protected to safeguard your investment.”

The overseer nodded. “An all-too-real concern, I am afraid. You will have better luck speaking with the administrators about that but you are right: our large caravans resemble an army on campaign. Any less and we would be targets to bandits. Ras itself is heavily fortified. She may not look it, but trust me, she is.”

Chronicler nodded, wondered if the seemingly unguarded nature of the settlement was part of the defences, to make people believe it was not heavily guarded. He’d noticed the many red-crowned towers on his approach, but other than that there did not seem to be anything of note. He’d been to many cities where border guards demanded papers and letter of marquee upon entry. His entrance here had been relatively simple, though the fact he was travelling with a recognised merchant caravan might have had something to do with it.

“Security is our number one priority,” the overseer assured them. As though to prove it he gestured to the guards who had joined them in the workshop, who were readying themselves to search the visitors as they left the premises.

Chronicler grinned. “A precaution, no more,” the overseer had promised them.

“Of course,” Chronicler had lied before returning to the administrator for a short summary of their work and procedures, something he assured the man was for his notes and not for dissemination amongst would-be competitors.

He touched on the subject of security once more, something the administrator did not seem pleased with.

“We employ guards. Our own men, not mercenaries. We offer them pensions and long-term investments, to keep them loyal. They are good men,” he said with a firm nod.

Chronicler nodded, seemingly pleased with the answer. “And the road? How do you trade the moldavite? I have seen many individual items on sale in your market. But what about exporting? Do you move it yourselves or sell it to visiting merchants, who then spread it across Saviud?”

“All of the above,” smiled the administrator. His pose had stiffened and despite the pretence of manners, his answers had grown more curt. He was losing patience.

“I ask only because one of your overseers voiced concern over the safety of some caravans.”

“I am not the lord of thieving raiders and nor am I responsible for their attacks. I am however administrator of the mines and do all in my power to ensure they and the caravans we send west are well-guarded.”

“Are these attacks common?”

“What difference is it to you?”

Chronicler shrugged. “I am a traveller and a stranger to these lands, so if I have caused offence, please excuse me, I did not mean so. However as a traveller, I would feel safer knowing that the road north is safe.”

The administrator’s reply was not immediate. “It is as safe as it can be.”

Chronicler nodded, bowed and thanked the man for his hospitality and assured him he would only speak the highest praises to those he encountered. Satisfied with his haul for the day, Chronicler returned to the rim. Mahr left him there and returned to the caravanserai, leaving Chronicler to explore the city itself for a few hours before sundown.

It was quiet this far from the market. It was an almost eerie sound, filled with the echoing footsteps of fellow strollers, almost none of which were men. A common-enough sight in this part of the world. Most women would have been at home cooking for husbands and sons returning from work, or busy in the workshops in the lower wards weaving dried leaves into baskets and other items for sale in the markets.

The streets were uniformly narrow and often with arched rooms overhead, though there was nothing else uniform about them. Streets were as often stepped as not, due to the incline on which the settlement had been built, and few roads were level. Though labyrinthine in places, it was difficult for Chronicler to get lost – all he had to do to get back to the caravanserai was to go up. The farther down he went the closer he was moving to the lower districts – a truer sense of the word could not be found.

The inertia that had characterised the upper and middle wards slowly bled away, revealing smells and sounds more common to, well, the common parts of all settlements. Bleating animals, shouts and the stench of less savoury industries welcomed Chronicler to what he had learnt over the years was the heart of any settlement.

He sought out a hidden eatery and sat down in a gloomy corner and asked for whatever was being cooked. He got thick stew composed mostly of roots, legumes and a few left-overs of meat, accompanied by a handful of coarse yeasty bread for dipping. It was flavourful, good food, much simpler than the spicy morsels he’d eaten in the market, which were probably intended to keep foreigners expectant palates content. This was what he looked for in a new settlement: good, honest food that good honest people ate.

He struck up a conversation with two men. As it turned out one of them was a teamster who worked with one of the local merchant houses and he’d often worked on caravans to and from Mern and Surda. Chronicler took the chance to ask him about the caravan’s safety, something he was concerned about given the perceived value of the moldavite.

Though his grasp of the local dialect was dire, Chronicler was able to make enough of the man’s response out.

“Been attacks lately. More than normal, when moving to Mern and Daaz, and back. I gave it up a few weeks ago. Not good for a man my age playing with fate like that. I work in the market now. It’s safer, closer to home.”

“Who are the attackers?”

The man shrugged. “Bandits? Daazi mercenaries? Don’t really care, long as I’m not near them when they attack.”

“When was the last attack?”

“About five days back, a caravan from Mern.”

Chronicler nodded, his expression turning blank. Great, right where we’re headed.

***

The market along the outer rim had dwindled by late afternoon to little more than a handful of essential food vendors and orators, who as far as Chronicler could tell served the purpose of town criers, spreading news to those who had no other way of hearing it.

He’d had a long day and was looking forward to an evening of rest in the caravanserai, and perhaps some wine and a long smoke. He was making his way into the courtyard, the sounds of carousing guards and merchants beckoning him onwards, when something caught his eye at the far end of the empty slope where during the day the market stood.

A solitary dog wandered around sniffing the ground, sifting for scraps of food leftover from the day. Behind it, in the distance approaching from the west he saw a group of men silhouetted by the setting sun, a wall of dust kicked up in their wake.

Chronicler was blinded, but immediately, he could sense that not all was right. Two of the figures walked with recognisable gaits, their outlines those of men prepared for travel in the wastes, but the other four were something else entirely.

As the group grew closer so did the forms of those wretched creatures became clearer. They were humanoid in form and general size, though their bent backs rendered them smaller in Chronicler’s eyes. Their heads were bulbous and pale, the colour of rotten fish meat and screaming bruises. They moved in an awkward gait and they never once lifted their wretched faces from the ground. Probably for the better, given the glimpses Chronicler had got so far.

“Gods,” he muttered, out of breath. He swallowed, his face unconsciously curled into a grimace, and wanted to look away, though found he could not. Instead he had eased his body away from the entrance into the courtyard and had turned it so that he could see them clearer.

The dog scampered as the group approached the empty market. The hunched things seemed more scared of the dog, and they cowered, visibly shaking at its movements as it ran off.

The group was almost upon Chronicler when one of the humans, a woman with kohl-framed eyes, raised a hand for the others to slow down. Her companion pulled on a chain and the beings slowed with a jerk. Chronicler hadn’t noticed the chain around their necks until then.

“Slaves,” he muttered.

The woman nodded, lowered a leather cowl and rested against a gnarled staff she dug into the earth. A sunburst tattoo bridged her eyes, its white ink stark against her skin. “Do not worry. The pale ones are cowards. If they had any chance to they would rather turn tail than look upon you, look,” she said, removing her weight from the staff. Suddenly she was hitting one of the wretches with it. It raised its arms in a meek attempt to stall the blows, while pushing its forehead harder into the dirt. A more subservient stance it could not adopt.

“Pale ones? I am not familiar,” said Chronicler, rummaging in his bag for a fresh paper and stick of charcoal.

“They’re pathetic things adopted by the Atramenta. They live in the deserts of the Salith and are good for little else than slavery, with right training. Two thousand Arks for this one.”

Chronicler waved the offer away. “Are they intelligent?”

“I wouldn’t call them intelligent, but they have a base cunning not unlike that of an animal. They construct huts out of chalk and urine, and use tools. They dislike the daylight and use the cover of darkness to search the soils of their homeland for grubs.”

Chronicler moved forwards towards the closest pale one. “May I?” he asked.

The woman nodded. “Just don’t take too long. We’ve been on the road for weeks.”

Chronicler nodded and sat on his haunches, within grasp of the creature. He peered at its head, angling his neck to try and get a better look.

Suddenly it jerked back and began urinating from a shrivelled penis.

He’d touched it on the shoulder without realising and the creature had recoiled in terror. “What a pitiful existence,” he whispered, “to live in such fear.”

He leant lower at the pale one’s cowering head and saw a dark eye, trembling, welling with tears. Behind it was a flat nose with two slits encrusted with mucus. Beneath, a pair of thin bruised lips, cracked, were trembling.

Chronicler stood, noticing the stench that pervaded the creature. “These are men.”

The woman tugged on the chain and started walking again. She nodded, “Mortal. And human, at least once, very long ago. Before they were touched by the Atramenta.”

Chronicler stood there for minutes in silence, the sun disappearing behind him.

***

“They called them pale ones,” he said excitedly as he sat hunched over his desk scribbling. All thought of relaxation had departed as soon as he’d seen the slaves. He had to write it down, get the visceral description down on paper while it was still fresh in his thoughts, while their stench remained within his grasp. He’d tried sketching them, though as always felt the crude charcoal scribblings did not do them justice.

Behind him Mahr lay back, lips wrapped around the spout of a hookah. He seemed vaguely interested in the story. Though he shared Niyush’s enthusiasm for disparate cultures and customs, he preferred the comforts of cushions and fresh food. Anything culturally relevant could always wait. They’d been on the road for weeks riding on those abominable camels. He just wanted to relax, Chronicler knew.

“I have never heard of them,” continued Chronicler. “Are they indigenous to the area, I wonder? Or were they the product of some corruption elsewhere? Tell me, how corrupted is the Salith desert?”

Mahr sighed and sat up, wondering which question to answer first. “I’m sure they can tell you more at the market tomorrow.”

“The market,” said Chronicler absently. “Hmm. They are slaves. Or that’s what the woman said. Damn. I should have asked her name. They must sell them somewhere. Yes. I’ll check the market. Like animals. Tomorrow.

“Those poor things. They looked so human, too. They were terrified. Fancy that, of me! The one I touched pissed itself, it was so scared. He said they made huts. That means they must have some form of culture, of society. I wonder if they have leaders or if they wear clothing.”

“No Niyush.”

“What?”

“We are not going there.”

“How much do you think it would cost to mount an expedition into the Salith? Or better yet, maybe I could get the slavers to allow us to join them. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

“No it wouldn’t. Couldn’t you just stay put for once. Enjoy the comforts of a roof above your head. Or a girl between your thighs or just a box to shit in. You know how long we’ve been digging holes to shit in? Almost three weeks. I’m fine right here thank you very much.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” said Chronicler, putting the charcoal down. His left hand was a smudge of black. He wiped it on his qaftan absently as he turned round to his companion.

“Lost it a thousand miles ago.”

“Bah. You know how big Elyden is? Over thirty-seven thousand miles at the equator. That’s a surface area of over four hundred and fifty million square miles. Million. Think of it Mahr! Most people cannot even contemplate such a number. You know how little of that I’ve explored? I’ve never even been as far south as the equator. It sickens me sometimes, how these people can just sit their lives in their homes and never get the urge to see their world.”

“Not everyone’s as lucky as you, Niyush,” said Mahr. It was the same conversation everywhere they went. He’d gotten used to the ritual.

Chronicler waved the comment aside. “There’s no such thing as luck. A man makes his own luck,” he stabbed at the air with a charcoal-smudged index finger, “No one asked me to go to the places I’ve been. I invited myself. Me, and no one else. They could all do the same. Why don’t they?”

Mahr knew why, of course. So did Chronicler, deep down. Not all men were born equal. Not all came from merchant families who could afford to send a son off around the world. Most people had to work. Had to struggle to work. But sometimes, for all his observations of the world around him, Chronicler was blind to the facts. “Don’t be so selfless. We need some people for you to badger.”

“Funny. But really. The more I see of the world, the more I learn, the less I feel I know about it. Sometimes I really do feel what’s the point? What’s the point writing all these words,” he said, pointing to a couple of chests. Scattered around them were folios, folders and notes, some in lose leaves, others in bound books. Together they documented the totality of Chronicler’s travels. A dozen different empires and nations, demesnes and realms. He’d dined with priests and warlords, tyrants and benefactors, monks and kings. At the height of confidence he doubted any single man had travelled as far as he had on foot whilst collating as much information. Then again at times he wondered if anyone would ever read his scribblings.

He had tried to compile them into something more presentable on many occasions, though always gave up, the weight of notes defeating him before he’d even gotten started. How to divide and present the information? By subject? By region? By personal chronology? Historical chronology? “Who cares about this stuff?”

“You do,” said Mahr, “And if you don’t mind, I really want to start sleeping now.”

Part 3