Gherrit spent the night in a narrow bunk in a small panelled room and went to sleep to the faint noise of Fremin’s snores from across the corridor. Breakfast was curds with honey scooped up with pieces of cinnamon flat-bread and served with black tea. Gherrit felt full again. When Joyful Heart led them outside a light cart was waiting, the horse placidly chewing a wisp of hay. Gherrit paused to look it over; he had heard of horses and even seen one in a country field once. The horse turned its head slightly to regard him with a large brown eye and went on chewing. It looked to Gherrit both more fragile and less efficient than the striders and humpers used around Daruz Alman, with its complicated harness and thin legs, although he did suppose that four legs gave more stability. Joyful Heart did not give him time to examine the beast but saw the chest containing their possessions securely stowed, gave a few last-minute instructions to their soldier-escort driver and raised hand to forehead in farewell. The driver flicked the reins, they rattled across the bridge and took the road that followed it downstream. Fremin propped her leg up and fell into a meditation while their driver was a taciturn fellow (or maybe just not willing to put any effort into understanding Gherrit’s Brahnak), so Gherrit abandoned conversation for watching the passing countryside. His previous experiences of rural life had been trips with his parents to the gardens of country mansions on open days, to the public recreation areas outside the city and, once, a vineyard tour by riverboat. He had shared the last bottle with friends in their memory two years ago.
This countryside was shaped by ancient understandings between humans and the land. In this, the third month of the dry season, the fields were planted and dusted with the green of young crops. A turnstone dragged a weed-harrow across the earth, guided by a woman with her skirt tucked up. Small teams cleared ditches with hoes or tended to the vivid green seedling plots, broad hats shielding them from the sun. The steeper ground was forested with tree crops on the lower slopes, and the streams flowed clear between reeds. The land was dotted with small reminders of human endeavour – tiny pavilions offering shelter from sun and rain, stone benches for rest, rocks that had been shaped by craft to draw cool water into basins, chimes hanging from trees that kept birds and harmful insects from the crop. Craft was evident to Gherrit’s new sense as a tracery of stronger lines amid the faint wash of etherous activity, as light as frost patterns on a window. After the Wild and the delving it was a profoundly peaceful landscape, one comfortable with humans. Gherrit relaxed and let the miles and the villages flow by.
They came to Word’s Gate in the mid-afternoon, rattling down to the port on a road that switch-backed across the slope down to the seashore. After the third village Gherrit felt Brahnak life was too ordered for his taste. There was little bustle and everything was clean and neat. It reminded him of visiting one of his mother’s friends, a house where play was frowned upon as putting things out of order. Word’s Gate promised to be livelier. It was larger, smelled of the sea and ships, and the approaches were decidedly untidy. They passed fishing nets hung up for mending on the strand, makeshift huts, the worm-riddled timbers of a decaying boat and a few people just lounging by the shore.
There had been no walls inland. Word’s Gate was ringed by a broad ditch and ashlars of the local hard-grained red sandstone. Gherrit was fascinated by the web of lines that bound the stones together, intricate interlocking patterns that covered the whole surface and became more complex around the gate. He guessed they were craft-work made to ward off attack and determined to find a magician who could tell him more about this gift the demon had bestowed on him. The cart turned aside before the gate into a courtyard fringed with low buildings, where their escort tossed the reins to a a stable-hand. Gherrit had seen the horse drop manure several times, so was not surprised they were not allowed within the walls.
Their escort shouldered the chest and beckoned them to follow. At Gherrit’s protest he allowed that Fremin should not walk and took a lift-pole from the rack next to the line of push-stones. Fremin was seated in a sling beneath this, Gherrit took the lead-rope and they set off. The two gate-guards gave their escort formal salute, which he did not return. Some enmity there? They had different badges, blue on gold rather than blue on white, and their colours flowed more freely. No matter. They passed through the gate tunnel into a market square and from there to a street lined with shops selling cloth, clothes and shoes. While the escort asked for directions Gherrit idly wondered what would happen if he called Sthirothh. Would it arrive inside the chest? That would be messy. Or on the street, where passers-by would exclaim “What’s that”, be answered and then be posed questions. There would be pecks all round and the soldier would not be amused.
He found the street drab by the standards of Daruz Alman. Such a street there would have talking doors, illusions wafting above, animated window displays. Here the doors were silent and the wares on show static. Halfway along a man in a blue robe leaned out of a niche to address them, saying something about modesty. The escort signed the Highest and Fremin gave the man a glare. Past this they turned uphill into a narrow street broken by short flights of steps. Gherrit leaned into the rope, hauling Fremin along until they reached a small square where the buildings had an official character, being square, symmetrical, pillared, with emblems carved over the entrances. Fremin was helped down, the lift-pole racked, and they climbed three steps to an imposing door underneath a carving of scales below a broad arrow.
The official theme continued within. A board directed them to an anteroom with hard seats and a depressing paint scheme. The escort spoke to a clerk, took a seat with them and waited. Gherrit had just started to fidget in boredom when another clerk came out to conduct them to the office of the District Assessor. This too had a depressing paint scheme, a window that looked on to a brick wall and far too much paper. The Assessor did not match his surroundings, as he was cheerful, brisk and cordial.
The three sat on hard chairs while he read the report the escort handed over, making hmm noises. “Yunierkiz Gherrit? Gherrit from Daruz Alman? Where did I see that name?” He scrabbled through the mess on his desk and came up with a sheet of paper.
“Here it is! Circular from Brahnker City, came in yesterday. Here at the bottom: ‘Passengers missing from vessel Seeking Forgiveness on the Waters. Please report if found.” He looked up. “And here you are! Extraordinary! To think I usually throw those out, but it was a slow day. But this report, hmm …We can do better than report. You shall go to Brahnker City. This matter of your hmm journey calls for an authority higher than mine. Of course your injury will be looked at tonight, but I suggest that Brahnker is where a cure is to be had.”
He called out and a clerk put a head around the door. “Diligent, see if Captain Janere can spare me a moment, and send a runner to the docks to hold four berths on the Swimswell. Then notify the Healer on staff today we have a case for them.”
Gherrit barely had time to digest this before a women came in, and Gherrit realised that this was the first woman he had seen in authority here. She was dressed like Fremin, in shirt and breeches, not the skirt he had seen other women wear. The cloth was heavy, the garments studded with pockets and loops, and her belt had attachments for a sword. Captain Janere was stocky, well past youth, her face marked by sun and wind, her air one of decided competence.
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“Ah, Captain. Thank you for coming. Gherrit and Fremin here are required in Brahnker City, and this chest needs to arrive there without a break in custody. Further, Fremin has suffered an injury that needs the best attention that can be found. Can you spare two of your people to accompany them and keep it safe? The dispatch Swimswell leaves on the evening tide so they should be there tomorrow if the Highest permits fair weather.”
“At the Assessory’s expense?” At his nod the Captain assented and arrangements were made. Their escort was politely dismissed and Gherrit noticed that, while he gave the Assessor a polite if rigid farewell, he ignored the Captain.
Two members of the Healing Hands attended Fremin only to also shake their heads, acknowledge that the matter was beyond their knowledge and again recommend she seek help in Brahnker City. They did provide another draught against pain, a cream they thought would slow the spread of the infection and a useful walking stick. Shortly after they left Fremin and Gherrit were on their way down to the docks in the company of the two Sisters of the Spear who had been detailed as their escort. The Sisters were also stocky and competent, but younger, conversable and fluent in Merllan. One chattered to Gherrit as they made their way along.
“A good many people here speak it. Goes with the trade – we see a lot of Merllan ships, and there’s a few made their homes here. More down in Brahnker City, of course, and that’s where my cousins live, so this is a chance to see them for free. You eaten yet? We have another two hours before we have to board.”
They had not and so were treated to grilled baby octopus marinated in a spicy sauce, served with fried yams and greens. The Swimswell was a lean two-masted vessel rigged as a topsail schooner and their accommodation hammocks in a cramped fore-peak. Gherrit fell asleep soon after they cleared the harbour and woke to a fair day. When he came on deck Fremin gave him a sour look, for it turned out she was not a good sailor and had not slept well.
“Cheer up. We’ll be alongside before too long,” The Swimswell was edging through heavy maritime traffic into a harbour dotted with vessels small and large and lined with bustling wharves. If Brahnker City was not as large as Daruz Alman it was still a considerable size, as befitted the first city of the Brahnzhever. Gherrit compared the view to his native city and was not impressed. Where buildings in Daruz Alman reached six or even eight stories, here none were taller than four. No gilded temples crowned the heights, the local stone was a boring beige and the roof-tiles plain. In Daruz Alman they changed colour with the hour and spelled out street and district names for the benefit of flyers. At Daruz Alman the white spires of the Diet reached high; here there was nothing so grand, only a sprawling hulk of dark stone down by the water.
When they tied up it was at a private wharf next to the ancient castle. Fremin was loaded into another sling and towed away by one of their escort while the other ushered Gherrit through a small, awkwardly-placed door at the base of the looming structure. The rough stone pile had served as fortress, palace and, briefly, as a warehouse for unwanted goods. It was now devoted to administration; windows had replaced arrow-slits, murder-holes had been plugged, carpet and panelling covered the bare stone. Within the passages were narrow and cold, the stairs steep until they came to the upper levels.
The Silver Spear was familiar with the bureaucratic maze and led them to straight to more comfortable upper floors. In Gherrit’s view it was still lifeless. The framed paintings on the walls did not move, the statues did not offer directions and the windows were unchanging glass. The Brahnaks were, he decided, a tedious lot. The Brahnker City Assessory was an elegant edifice in rose brick with pale stone tracery, obviously more recent than the fortress, set in an interior courtyard where the walls were the original blocks of dark stone. The contrast gave it the look of a butterfly in a prison. They were passed from clerk to clerk until they ended with a fellow with a sash of two shades of blue across his broad chest and, unusually for a Brahnak, a fringe of beard. The Silver Spear addressed him as Sergeant and his remit included the charge of witnesses and evidence. The chest was signed over, then Gherrit introduced.
The sergeant skimmed the reports, passed them to an assistant wedged into a corner desk and commented that it did not seem his affair. Missing persons was on the third floor and charges of abduction at sea lay with Court of the Seas, while the Wild was beyond all jurisdiction. Nevertheless he would hear the account. One again Gherrit told his story, the Silver Spear translating. At the mention of the underman Gzhunghik he held up a hand.
“That matter was accepted immediately and is scheduled for a hearing before a sitting of the Court of Theological Equity in four days. There’s already seven opinions among five sets of preachers, and that’s not including the ones ready to bring the Path to the Wild yesterday. Your attendance will be required.” With that he produced a wristband, fastened it on and cautioned Gherrit not to pass the gates of the castle.
Gherrit accepted this with resignation but was reluctant to appear before a court in his current garb. Had his belongings from the ship been offloaded? Could he have them? The harassed sergeant called for a clerk, records were consulted, yes the chest was here and yes, Gherrit could have it. He would be allotted a room and one of the sergeant’s staff would escort him to it.
The assistant coughed and the sergeant looked at him,
“I believe the last paragraph on the second page is relevant, sir.” The sergeant read the indicated portion and grunted.
“As well as the matter of the underman you are required to attend in relation to the carriage of a demon, first on a vessel under Brahnak law and then within the Brahnzhever itself, an offence contrary to both law and doctrine.”
“What?” exclaimed Gherrit.
“You,” the sergeant informed him “are both witness and potential accused in regard to this offence.”