044 – Salt

***

We started our travels from a large saltern near the capital. The workers let sea water into rows of shallow ponds squared off like fields. The water slowly evaporated into a salty brine. Then they boiled away the remaining water in briquetage pots until only a crust of salt crystals remained. To fuel this operation, field workers uprooted the fast-growing nettles and thorn bushes and let them dry out in heaps. The job was unpleasant, to say the least, as the salt workers were continually scratched up by thorns and then their wounds rubbed with salt.

Coastal people could make their own salt, but it was a valuable commodity in the interior parts of the peninsula. Merchants loaded up huge wagons pulled by teams of oxen, and the caravans tramped across the country. On the return routes, the merchants would fill up their empty carts with grain to sell in Nettlewreath.

We traveled with this caravan up the king’s highway.

The journey was gloomy and dispiriting. For me, the short visit to the capital gave me an overwhelming feeling of homesickness, in part because it reminded me of home, but more because it showed how really alien the world had become while I slept under the citadel. Hwilla had to sit next me in a rolling wagon for days on end, making her miserable too. She didn’t say anything about it in front of the others, but the expressions on her face showed more or less what she was thinking. She gave me plenty of angry stares. Zambulon was irritated and snappish. The stress of going on his final mission combined with the dull voyage, caused the anxieties to accumulate in his mind. He worried over every possibility of what could go wrong.

The caravan came to a stop at the town of Bowbridge. All the heavy wagons in line creaked to a stop. That wasn’t unusual, the caravan frequently stopped, but it didn’t start moving again for over an hour.

“What’s the hold up?” Zambulon tapped his foot. “I’m going to go to the front to check.”

The rest of us got out of the wagon to stretch our legs. The caravan drivers liked to have swordsmen riding along in case anything happened on the highway. Robbers sometimes preyed upon travelers. But that happened at night on smaller roads, not the main highways in the middle of the day. And not at the edge of a walled town in sight of its towers. Zambulon returned a short time later.

“Grab your bags. This caravan’s not going anywhere.” Oddly enough, Zambulon sounded relieved. Something had finally gone wrong, just as he expected, but it wasn’t the worst of the possibilities. “This river marks the border between the Duchy of Skywhite and the Duchy of Bleakmead to the north. It’s also the border between the Loyalists on the coast and the Traditionalists in the midlands, so friction between the two sides had increased lately. The people on the north side harass Loyalist merchants like these salt traders.”

We walked along the long line of stalled wagons toward the gates to the town, South Bowbridge. The king’s highway went through the gates and down the main street of the town until it came to a long stone bridge. The bridge arched slightly toward the middle, giving it its name. The other half of the town was on the other side North Bowbridge.

Men in armor and brightly colored livery had stopped the caravan in the middle of the bridge. A group of people clustered there, arguing with each other and waving their hands in their air.

“Why did they stop?” I asked.

“The river separates the two duchies. The Stodges on the north claim there’s a new salt tax for merchants. The Fripps to the south say that no one can impose tariffs on the king’s highway, since that’s the whole reason for its existence. Until the legal dispute is settled, the caravan is stuck.”

In fact, the caravan was going backwards. The drivers pushed their beasts of burden to turn the wagons around so as not to clog up the main street of the town. They withdrew outside the gates and set up a temporary camp just below the town walls.

“Let’s look around the town for a bit. We need to find a new mode of transport. And keep your eyes open for anything interesting.”

Luniquial sent us to accomplish a specific mission, but all the cult’s agents were expected to gather intelligence on the state of Sandgrave. Zambulon believed that a city torn in half by the recent events would be worth reporting on. He would include details on this place in the full report at the end of our mission. Maybe the spymaster would send a Faceless to infiltrate this community; a fortified bridge would have strategic importance if a war broke out.

We strolled through the town. Like most places in Sandgrave, the defensive walls compacted everything into a tight space. The buildings pressed up against each other and rose three or four stories tall. The city walls facing the river stood lower and gave a view of the town on the other side.

“Why did the locals build their towns right next to each other if they don’t get along?” I asked.

“It’s an accident of history,” Zambulon explained. “Originally, the outposts were all independent. Then a few noble families rose to power. They took over clusters of settlements and expanded outward. Once the monsters and wastelands were cleared away, the families began fighting over settled territory, trying to steal land from their neighbors.

“The first king of Sandgrave conquered the peninsula and united all the warring factions under his rule. To make sure his subjects wouldn’t wrangle over territory, he laid down exact borders between all the counties. Because rivers were indisputable markers, he used them as dividing lines. Any town that had been on a river in the center of a territory, found itself at the edge of one of the new counties. And some towns, like this one, were split in half.

“The first king also put up shrines at the land borders. The idea was that people might alter or move stone markers, but no one would dare move a holy idol. The locals would revolt against anyone who tried something so blasphemous. That’s why we pass those two-sided gods along the roadsides.”

Two men in black robes stomped down the street and headed for the argument on the bridge. They carried books and scroll cases under their arms.

“Oh no. Now things are really getting serious,” Zambulon said.

“Are they swordsmen?”

“Something far scarier. Lawyers.”

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The opposing teams of lawyers began to dispute the case right in the middle of the bridge. They presented the Kingdom’s codified laws as recorded in the giant tomes and copies of the towns’ charters on scrolls, which listed the specific rights and obligations granted to them by the monarch. Although the argument was highly arcane, resting on legal principles I did not fully understand, the crux of the matter seemed to be the exact territory of the highway. The Loyalists claimed the highway extended through town, the Traditionalists countered the highway ended at the town gate and resumed on the other side. Neither side budged.

Not long after, two women came out to join the fray. A chubby middle aged woman in the fine clothing and a younger woman in purple robes of silk. These two were the town mayor and the town priestess, respectively. What had started with a small dispute with a salt trader had grown to general shouting match that included the towns’ appointed leaders.

I noticed there were no swordsmen present but the four of us. Both South and North Bowbridge probably had less than a thousand people. That would produce a number of sparks, but only about one mage. Including the surrounding farmlands, that might add up to two or three swordsmen. However, none lived here. In reality, anyone who enkindled their inner fire would leave this dinky town behind. Those two or three swordsmen would become mage-knights serving at the court of the count, duke, or king. They might eventually earn a landed title like baron through hard work, or they could marry a ruler of a noble family. The more adventurous types might go wandering to far off lands to join a sect or mercenary company. Small towns like this produced magi, but did not keep hold of them.

The mayor belonged to one of the noble families. She carried a symbolic sword with her, which denoted she was the daughter, granddaughter, or great granddaughter of a swordsman. The lavish sheath and ornate hilt declared her status as a rich noblewoman. A sword that short and flimsy had no use as a real weapon, especially in the hands of untrained and overweight civilian. The priestess followed after the mayor, pleading with her to calm the situation. She had on purple silk robe with a golden sash. It was against the law for anyone but the clergy to don violet colored clothing, as purple was the color of the moon and the home of the lunar gods, although normal people could wear small tokens and jewelry of that color.

While everyone else yelled and shouted, the priestess tried desperately to calm the crowd. Her church served the citizens of both towns, so she hoped to make peace between the feuding factions and restore things to the way they were before.

It amazed me how the king’s proclamation had roiled the entire kingdom. It started out as a family affair, spread to the palace court, the upper nobility, and then expanded through the common people. But one act couldn’t have caused so much anger unless the underlying tensions already existed. It released pent up anger between rival noble houses and long standing frustrations between the common townsfolk.

The knot of people on the bridge broke up. They had not resolved their argument. Instead, they were going to write angry letters to inform their lords what had happened here. The two dukes could settle the argument between one another or take the matter before the king. Of course, the king was old and in ill health, so he might not render a decision any time soon. The salt caravan would have to either pay the tax or go on a long detour.

“Let’s split up for a time. Hwilla and I will cross the river to North Bowbridge. Yurk and Strythe can stay here to scout around.” Zambulon pointed to me. “Remember, Strythe, we’re no heroes. Don’t try to solve other people’s troubles. All that matters to us is getting a ride north up the highway.”

“Right.”

We weren’t heroes. We were the villains – provocateurs and political agitators. Making trouble in Sandgrave helped the Void Phantoms’ cause. I doubted Yurk’s investigative powers, and even if he were excellent at spying, his reports would only be three or four words. So it was up to me to look around for opportunities for mischief.

After the bridge cleared, a group of farmers drove some bulls across the bridge and through town. Each of the animals had a string of flowers draped around its neck and colorfully painted horns. I asked one of the locals what the meaning of the decorations.

“The midyear star festival is being held tonight, and those bulls are some of the victims for the sacrifice. They’re taking them out to graze in the church’s pasture outside before the big event.”

“So the priestess bought these cattle?”

“Nah. The church doesn’t buy anything. They impose a tithe on the locals.”

“A tax? How many shekels is it?”

“Only the wealthier townsfolk pay in coin. All the farmers pay in kind, livestock or produce or goods. The amount depends on how much land they plow. It all goes in the tithe barn near the church.”

The town planned to have a festival. It was sure to get interesting with tensions running so high. I used some of our funds to purchase a small keg of cheap wine. Then Yurk and I hauled it out to the drivers in the salt caravan. The men were furious about getting stopped on the king’s highway. They huddled around their wagons, angrily discussing which route to take into the midlands.

“Hello, friends. Here’s a gift from us for the lunar festival. Consider it a thank you for carrying us this far. It’s a shame we can’t travel together beyond this point due to these pigheaded Stodges.” We sat down the sloshing kegs on the edges of the wagons. This much was sure to get them drunk. “You see those farmers over there? Those fellows with the flowery cows? They’re from North Bowbridge. I heard them laughing about the whole affair and referring to your caravan as a bunch of ‘salty Fripps.’ ”

The caravan drivers took deep drinks of wine. The alcohol would not help cool their simmering anger.

Next Yurk and I went inside to have a look at the church itself, a large rotunda with a dome. A ring of columns encircled it, and a round window of stained glass shone above the front entrance. The bits of glass were purple, violet, red, blue, and magenta, but combined into a generally purple color when viewed from a distance. An idol of one of the moon gods sat on a throne within the temple. He had an androgynous face and a conical crown of flowers.

The priestess and her attendants had set up a platform in front of the temple, from which they would perform the festival ceremonies, and a temporary altar where they would sacrifice the bull. Paper lanterns hung from festoons. Wooden screens showed painted icons and scenes from legends that I did not recognize: people riding clouds, giant monsters coming out of volcanoes, boats riding sea waves, a man with a glowing sword. These would all mean something to the locals, stories they heard from childhood.

After that we checked out the tithe barn. The brick building had a wide door and several windows on the second floor. We peeked inside and saw stacks of bags, wooden barrels, and crates that contained all the in-kind tithes gathered from the local people. The church would sell a portion of these goods to passing merchants, such as the salt caravan, to condense its extra wealth into metal coins. The barn did not, however, contain livestock or any horses.

Zambulon and Hwilla returned from their trip across the bridge.

“North Bowbridge has a horse stables next to the gate,” Zambulon said. “We can pilfer some mounts and slip out in the middle of the night. But doing so would draw too much attention to us. We need a distraction…”

As Zambulon said those words, a furious shouting erupted from the gates. A half dozen men, white as specters, ran down the main street of town. The caravan drivers had drank themselves into a rage and taken it out on the farmers from North Bowbridge. They beat them roundly with knotted ropes and then doused them with a finely powdered salt. They drove the battered men through town like a herd of cattle.

“Who’s salty now, you damned Stodges?” one of the drivers called.

“Up with King Grellock!” yelled another.

“There’s your salt tax.”

“Stay off our highway, you rogues.”

I looked back to Zambulon, “There’s part of your distraction now.”