It had been three days since the incident along the trade road with the “Mad Wizard who had been killed by that mighty young hero, Wallan,” as people had been telling the story. At the My Mother’s Pony Inn, Wallan and the innkeepers had spent many hours hearing the tale told, retold, embellished and restrung on an entirely different lute then played for a room full of customers, rarely ever getting the details in any way at all correct.
The mighty, young hero in question had just come down the stairs from his rented room to eat breakfast before he was to present himself to the Tarestar and Tarestia. The Tarestia had sent him a formal request just the evening before.
There was a buzz about the town that the nobles intended to award the young man some great honor, though there were many different opinions about what honor that may be. Wallan had heard from various people in the inn’s common room that “That Brave Young Hero” would be raised to the aristocracy as a Hadestar, the lowest rank of nobel generally acknowledged. Another customer the night before had sworn that his glorious feats of strength and cunning would see him raised to the rank of Tarestar himself.
None of these people knew it was “Wallan Wizard-Killer” to whom they were speaking, though several claimed to know the hero personally. One elderly drover, who had actually been in the roadside camp that fateful morning, claimed to be Wallan’s distant cousin to anyone who might be willing to buy the man a drink for tales of the hero’s exploits from his youngest days.
Sitting down to a plate of sliced cheeses, roasted beets, and pickled vegetables of various types, he reached for the mug of hot tea that innkeeper Kamma had set out for him as he had been making his way down the stairs.
Making his way over to the little table by the large fireplace in the common room, Wallan walked as quietly as he could, trying to be the least noticeable man in the city. As with most mornings here at the inn, Wallan being an early riser meant he had the room almost entirely to himself. It was comforting, in that no one would be seeking him out to talk to him about the “Wizard Killer,” and he could just get about his business of filling his belly, possibly talking with Kamma and Arla, but otherwise just being left alone with his tea.
Stuffing a spicy roast beet into his mouth and washing it back with a gulp of tea, Wallan was savoring the flavor when a voice from his right almost startled him into spitting it all out.
“Nimmu asks that you should dine with us again, Teagaisg Maduson.” Nehzi had appeared in the chair to his right as if by magic. “This evening, at 7th Arc, if you please.”
The little Jheddo woman wore a masculine suit of expensively crafted clothing, as did all of the Jheddo, regardless of gender. Her copper red hair and thin beard exquisitely braided and styled, with small gems worked into the knots and braids. It did more to show off her high, delicate cheekbones than all of the powders and creams that One had ever worn.
All Jheddo women dressed as men outside of their keeps and fortresses in the high mountains that ran up the length of the western coast of the continent. Elder Bohaty had explained that the tradition started as a way to deter raiders from knowing how many men there were in a settlement versus the number of women. Apparently, the two kingdoms to either the north or the east of Jheddo raided their mountain holds often in days long gone by, thinking the uniformly petite people were easy targets.
Jheddo men and women both were known for their fierce, unyielding natures on the battlefield, and since they had adopted the custom of all dressing as men, the women even wore beards, it was rarely known by their opponents who was what gender as they fought.
Though Wallan had yet to determine if they wore well made fake beards, used Glamours, or were able to grow them themselves… He hadn’t wanted to ask Vona, lest he offend.
In any case, the histories and political treatises Wallan had read had been very clear, the Jheddo were not to be trifled with in war, nor in trade.
Wallan slowly swallowed his mouthful, and turned to look directly at the young woman, “Trader Ahnkanezharahamina, how lovely to see you this morning. I AM well, thank you for asking. And how are YOU doing this lovely morning? Have you eaten yet this morning, I would certainly enjoy your company.”
He turned to look at where Kamma stood behind the bar and waved to her to bring Nehzi a drink and a plate which she could use to split his breakfast. The tall woman’s eyes lit up with joy at seeing Wallan , possibly because he was voluntarily sitting with someone. Possibly because that someone was a young woman. Though, he would admit upon reflection that he didn’t know if Kamma knew Nehzi’s gender.
Kamma rushed over with a large mug that steamed in the morning air, and set it down along with three more pieces of flatbread on a plate.
“Remember, Trader Djoc is paying for all of this, at least for a few more days.” Wallan reminded her of the penalty Elder Bohaty had levied on the young trader, and Nehzi’s eyes lit with the prospect of a very large breakfast. Before Kamma could get away, Nehzi asked the innkeeper for a wedge of the soft green edged cheese all of the Jheddo traders seemed to favor. With a smile and a bob, Kamma was off on her way back to the kitchen.
The little trader then stood from the chair she had commandeered, and sketched a bow to Wallan. “My esteemed Teagaisg, forgive my abrupt approach and lack of manners. I am shamed, and stand humbled before the Shadows of my lineage.”
The smile on her face made Wallan smile in turn, breaking his less than stellar attempts at holding a stern expression. Regaining his composure, he made a slight bow to the young woman.
“Humbled?” He asked.
Nodding her head, which set the little metal ornaments in her braids musically tinkling against one another, “The most very humbliest.”
“Are you certain?”
“Oh, I am so enhumbulated.” Her wide, amber eyes were open to their very limit, in a blatant attempt at unmatched sincerity.
“Trader, I am humbled by your humbleness. My humblosity is a paltry thing in the overwhelming presence of your vast reservoir of humbability.” he said, closing his eyes and making a face of woe.
Laughing now, Nehzi hopped back up into the chair, and began devouring bread, butter, cheeses and random pickles. Wallan noticed she avoided the roast beets, and moved the rest of the round, steaming vegetables to his own plate.
Around a mouthful of cheese and flatbread Wallan said, “Please let Elder Bohaty know that I would be delighted to join you all for dinner tonight. I have a few things I need to do today, but as far as I am aware, I should be free this evening.”
“Ah, excellent!” She said while attempting to eat the entire wedge of soft green cheese, folded into a round of bread, that Kamma had brought while the two had been trading silly conjugations. Then, in a barely understandable food laced mumble, “She had been worried about you, and has not been able to ‘casually run into you’ while bathing so that she could invite you to dine with us again.”
She finally wrestled the last bit of rebellious cheese down, and took up her fragrant mug of horehound tea to wash it all down.
“I’ve been bathing in the very early hours these last few days, and staying in my room.” He answered around a mouthful of his own.
“Ooooh! What are you reading?!” The little trader almost trilled in her excitement. “None of us were allowed to bring any books that weren’t meant for trade, to save on space and weight. I haven’t opened a good book in three months.”
“I have an old copy of ‘Natil’s Histories and Reflections.’ It was in a local shop, along with a few other books. Nothing really exciting, but I wanted to read more than I wanted to stare into the distance in the evenings.”
“Caerly has a bookshop?” Her interest immediately piqued.
“Sorry, no. There is a tack store on the south end of the traders’ ward, and they have a few books. I thought to offer my services as a scribe to various shops around town when I first arrived. Several shopkeepers said they would send any business my way, but the shopkeeper at the tack store told me she never had enough customers who wanted such a service.” Wallan shrugged. That had been his first hints that his search for employment might lead to more labor intensive paths than those scribe or mapmaker. “They had three books on a shelf. The other two I’ve read. One is ‘Kaller’sTales,’ and the other is ‘Sing in the Dawn.’”
She looked intrigued. “I know Kaller’s Tales, but what is Sing in the Dawn?”
“It’s a book of songs for those of us who follow the c’Hearnicae Path.” It had been, Wallan believed, his family’s faith. It was the most common faith in Hamuria, and the one followed by the King and most of the royal families of the kingdom. It was Shamanic, and a reverence for nature with deities representing aspects of nature, as well as a rich metaphysical ecosystem of totemic spirits, and representative animal spirits.
Wallan had been made to study many of the faiths of Hamura and those of her neighbors’ peoples too, and despite his inability to sing thought it was the faith he could get behind, or at least pretend to practice, if it ever came up.
Nehzi frowned at the admission.
…here it comes… he thought.
“You’re a ‘Nicaen?” It was the common slang term for c’Hearnicaens, though it was not one most “‘Nicaens” approved of being called. “Why didn’t you sing with us the other night? We would have loved for you to join us! Nimmu will be thrilled to hear this! She’ll insist on learning a song or two from you. And Elder Carker!” She was getting wound up now, and Wallan winced at the idea of singing in front of others.
Just then, a clattering clammer from the direction of the stairs ripped her attention away from Wallan and his rising discomfort. A mass of little, beautifully dressed Jheddo traders descended the stairs like a musical thunderstorm, most of their voices pitched lower into the traditional ranges of men, with random small exclamations popping up through the noisy cloud of masculine sounder murmurs. Through that churning excited mass, he could see the glare of Trader Djoc as the angry little merchant prince stared with all the vitriol and bile he could manage.
Just behind Djoc came elder Carker, waving at Wallan and Nehzi, his jolly old jowly face lit with joy. Seeing the crowd of her cousins and siblings, Nehzi jumped away from her chair, and ran to the pack, telling Carker in a rapid cascade of her native tongue that Wallan was of the c’Hearnicaen faith, and that he would be joining them for dinner. The crowd left the inn in a mad scramble of furious optimism over the day’s trading prospects.
Wallan, left to finish what remained of his breakfast, stewed over the thought of singing in front of others. It worried him deeply. More than he rationally thought that it should.
He just didn’t like his voice.
At all.
Mid morning saw Wallan walking down the main thoroughfare toward the city’s central set of buildings. Caerly was still crowded with merchants and factors from far off to either buy produce, or to set prices and buy contracts on grain crops still being harvested. Carts, wagons, and carriages of all descriptions lined the streets of Caerly, or were being driven down those same streets.
One lane he passed was blocked off by men on horses who were slowly and calmly moving a large herd of solemnly lowing cattle down the road. Wallan began making an effort to keep an eye out for, and to not step in, any of their leavings now that he knew the noisy mass had passed this way.
The large building he was approaching was not only the home of the Tarest family that had traditionally “owned” the town proper of Caerly, when it had been merely a town rather than the small city it had grown into; but now, the building also housed the meeting hall of the Altamensa, the governing body of the region made up of those five Tarest families who oversaw all of the surrounding territory and now jointly held counsel in the hall, ruling over the area on behalf of the crown.
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The Tarests oversaw their different areas and were overseen themselves by the Olystar and Olystia for the Crown. And the crown, supposedly, oversaw the kingdom. Some Tarests would be elevated in times of war, Wallan intimately knew, to the rank of Aerestar or Aerestia, and would be expected to raise, train, and provision troops on behalf of the Crown, and those troops would be turned over the the local Olystar or Olystia, who either acted as Generals on the front lines themselves, or more often, they would appoint a member of their staff to serve in that role on their behalf.
Most Olysts never saw the front lines. Several of these “House Generals,” those that survived, would be rewarded with elevation to the rank of Hadest for their service to the Crown. Wallan had seen a score of men and women take up that role on behalf of various Olysts, and die leading their commands at the front.
Wallan shook his head vigorously to banish the spiraling line of thoughts that threatened to drag his mood to the furthest depths. The small cat on his shoulder protested with a squeak, and a flex of her claws on his collarbone.
Fleck, the little spotted cat, had decided to hitch a ride on his shoulder once he had left the inn, as she usually did when he walked about town. Wallan wasn’t certain if she would leap from his shoulder before he entered the building to answer the summons he had been given by the Tarests’ Herald and primary household Scribe, Hockle.
Wending his way up the white sandstone steps of the large building, Fleck did not give any indication that she was interested in abandoning Wallan. The warm weight on his shoulder and the back of his neck was comforting, though he did wonder how the little cat sitting on his shoulder like a colorful mizzenbird perched upon a ship captain’s shoulder in stories about pirates.
The guards to either side of the doors, rather than bar his path and ask his business, as he had expected, just opened the overly large, carved wooden doors for Wallan, ushering him through. Foreman Pollard and the scribe, Hockle, waited for him just inside the doors. And while Pollard’s round face and clear forehead began to redden as he observed the little cat perched on Wallan, Hockle, dressed like an entire flock of thrushes beamed at the young man.
“Oh, splendid! SPLENDID!” The narrow shoulders shook as the old man gushed. “You not only wore very good quality clothing today, you coordinated with a cat!” The scribe was genuinely happy to see Fleck on his shoulder.
He had an apology poised on his lips, when Hockle took Wallan’s arm in his own, and turned to lead him down a long hallway toward a well lit, large room. “So many men try to wear a sword, or an ax, or even carry a bow, but it usually makes them look like they intend to belligerently march off to battle! Some men will dress themselves in what can only be their wedding day best, and look silly, like over dressed toddlers.”
Gesticulating wildly in his excitement as his long legs ate the distance down the hallway in long strides, and Wallan felt he was straining to keep up as the man rushed him along. He was sincerely afraid at one point along the well polished path of the hallway that he might lose his footing, and have to drag along behind the fast walking herald. Wallan could feel Fleck’s little claws dig in each time his increase in pace made her perch precarious.
Thrust into the center of a large room, Wallan marveled at the rows of intricately carved benches he was marched down. Well polished dark wood, each one adorned with a motif of one kind of animal or another. Near the back of the room, where he had entered, the benches were carved with the realistic forms of small animals, like mice, and birds.
Each row he passed, ever closer to a circle of thrones at the far end of the room, the animal carvings grew larger and ever wiser in variety. Here a badger, its fur carved with such expertise that the ruff around its neck had been caught mid-bristling at some threat, there Wallan saw a lisk with its feline body covered in sharp scales wrapping its neck indolently about an armrest. The benches nearest the ring of thrones carved in the form of individual dragons, behemoths, sea serpents, and even one bench engineered to look like the form of a reclining troll, its heavily muscled left arm making the backrest of the bench that could seat five of six adults comfortably.
Once past the benches, Wallan now stood beside the gawky herald and scribe, the man’s bright blue attire making Wallan feel like a very dull plumed bird indeed in his brown leggings, and dark green tunic. He knew his clothing choices today were of good quality, and well fitted, but he also knew that he was in the presence of people who wore silks and gems when he wore linen, and on chilly days, wool.
Before him, in a ring of ten heavy wooden thrones, sat six opulently dressed Tarests. Hockle began a recitation of Wallan’s lineage, all made of which made Wallan nervous, as every single item on that list, both people and deeds, were complete fabrications.
It was a courtesy to have even the lowborn heralded into a formal Court with all due ceremony and accolades. It was also a ritual that rarely took more than a moment, or possibly two, as most non royalty didn’t have much in the way of a lineage. It was usually more heavily reliant upon one’s accomplishments.
And now Hockle, scribe and herald to the Southfield Tarestar and Tarestia, began a recitation of the “Slaying of the Asologe Wizard by the Young Hero Wallan.”
He winced.
Fleck purred softly in his ear, kneading his shoulder with her little paws.
Trying to not crawl away in embarrassment, Wallan stood, looking as humble as he could, while a completely fictitious battle between a mad mage and a pious farm boy was orated in high dramatic form to the royals present.
Wallan worked to control his breathing, and hoped to keep from blushing in embarrassment too hard, as the tale unfolded to those notables in attendance. He watched as Tarestar Khorit sat stoically listening, while his wife, Tarestia Chania, sat her throne staring at the enrapt as the story unfolded. The regal looking older woman toyed with the ends of her honey blond braids, her hair having been twisted into a dozen little plaits, her blue eyes wide and rimmed with unshed tears.
As the story unfolded, Fleck's head followed the expansive hand gestures of the herald as he spoke, making the little cat look deeply invested in the epic poem of her friend’s deeds.
To the left of the Southfields sat another pair of Tarests, Wallan guessed from their horse themed jewelry and predominantly yellow clothing, that they must be the Caenleys, Vart and Solassi. The First Family of the city of Caerly, and known for their breeding of livestock.
Sitting in the throne to the right of the Southfields was a much older Ocre woman, skin as dark as the rye bread he had eaten at breakfast that morning, though her hair was a white so startling, Wallan wondered if she was much older than her face and hands made her appear. From rumors, he guessed this must be Tarestia Ima Osterti. The Osterti ruled the lands to the north west of Caerly, and produced as much grain and fruit as the Southfieds.
In the throne farthest to the right sat a cadaverously thin man in his prime who could only be Tarestar Hazi. His family, the Adiialtiqs, ruled the eastern regions, producing a variety of vegetables and lumber, though not lumber as fine as the specialty woods produced in the Southfield lands. His wife, Tarestia Zahra, was absent. Tarestar Hazi, a man in his mid thirties, looked utterly disinterested in the proceedings, and kept his dark, deeply set eyes cast down as he read from a small book.
The two other empty thrones that would usually host the royal bottoms of the Drathai family were covered in large black cloths, denoting their absence from this meeting. The Northern Tarests had recently lost their oldest son, and were not leaving the bounds of their lands while they continued to mourn that loss.
As Hockle finished up his presentation of Wallan in all his dubious glory, Wallan noticed Tarestar Hazi close his book and sit up straight, acting as though he had been paying attention through the entire recitation.
Tarestia Ima, though, had kept her attention on Wallan through the entire story. Her deep brown eyes bored into the young man as he stood before the assembled members of the Altamensa of Caerly. He wasn’t certain of what her expression meant as she stared at him, but Wallan knew he should not consider the woman a friend. From her gaze, he doubted she would consider him any kind of friend, either.
It was then that he noticed, far off to the left of the Caenleys themselves sat an elderly Ocre woman with lighter skin, much like the lightly toasted oat color of Wallan’s own skin. She was dressed well, if plainly, her head wrapped in a loose hood rising up from her mantle. She was knitting quietly, the yarn she used pulled up from a basket at the side of her chair, and a large, shapeless project spread over her lap. She ignored the proceedings, and those present, as she continued to knit.
…possibly a maidservant of some kind to one of the Tarestia here this evening…. He thought.
Fleck continued to contentedly knead Wallan’s shoulder, and if she was only doing so for her own pleasure, Wallan found it comforting as well and loved the little cat for what he chose to think of as her support of him.
Tarestia Solassi was the first to speak, her silver horsehead temple rings bobbing and flashing as she addressed the old man who stood in a bow next to Wallan. “Thank you herald Hockle for your lovely and inspiring poem.” She then proceeded to clap lightly, her husband enthusiastically following her lead, and the Southfields smiling broadly as they also lighty clapped.
“How wonderful a poem, Scribe Hockle,” She said. Then turned slightly to face Wallan. “My good Teagaisg Wallan Maduson, it is Our understanding that you have traveled here from the capitol to live with family, and found yourself instead working for Our Cousins, the Southfields?”
Wallan gave a slight bow. “Yes, Tarestia. That had been my intent, living with and working for my aunt and uncle while I attempted to start a career as a cartographer. When I arrived, circumstances had changed, and so to support myself I have been working as a seasonal field worker and harvester for the Southfields.” He nervously bowed again to the Caenly Taristia.
“Ah, yes,” she said, slightly taken aback. “Your aunt and uncle were the Hadestar and Hadestia who owned and worked the grain and lumber mills that straddled the Beb river along the trade road that ran between the Southfield lands and the Coilleag lands of the Osterti.” She said this all with the light intonation of a question, but had phrased it all as fact.
Not knowing quite how to react here, nor what the Lady was looking for, Wallan gave a slight bow, and said simply, “Yes, Tarestia.”
Her husband, Vart then addressed Wallan, “I ask this now, as a formality, young man, but We, the assembled members of the Altamensa of Caerly, would like to reward you for you heroic acts that have saved this harvest season’s profits for three of the Tarest territories, and at the suggestion of the Southfields, would offer you the position of Overseer to the new mill that is being built where the old mill had stood.”
Tarestar Hazi rolled his eyes at this, and Tarestia Ima said in a clear voice for all to hear, “And I still object to this boy being put into such a position.”
The Caenley’s both looked like they were about to object to Ima’s interruption when Taristar Khorit spoke up.
“You have made your position abundantly clear, Taristia Osterti. You have objected to the mill being rebuilt in any way if one of your own factors would not be put in charge of the facility. So we all agreed that the lumber mill and the grain mill would be run by people appointed by Olystia Kahna. Her Grace has appointed those people, and has even allocated funds to see to the rebuilding itself. She bade us all of the Altamensa to appoint an overseer, to keep the books, and records of the business, ensuring that it is all run above reproach.”
The old woman looked sour, and was about to speak up again, when Khorit held up a broad, calloused hand.
“Yes. We know you are unhappy with every aspect of this. You have made that abundantly clear to everyone. We know.” He stared at Ima from his throne, his tone never rising above a pleasant conversational tenor.
“It’s the idea of a school I most object to!” Ima said in a very loud voice.
Now Tarestias Chania and Solassi both began to object, and it was the pale, skeletal hand of Tarestar Hazi that went up, silencing all others. “That you most object to TODAY, you mean.” He stared at the venerable Lady until she relaxed back into her throne in ill grace, pouting. “However, we all, and I mean ALL, agreed that the idea of a school for the children of the Tarests serves Us all. And here, in this,” he gestured vaguely at Wallan, “This young man, we have the perfect candidate to run a school on our behalf.”
Wallan looked to each member of the Altamensa, not quite certain what he was hearing.
Fleck, maybe because of his own discomfort, had gone still as stone on his shoulder.
Turning back to look directly at Wallan, the thin lord of the Eastern territories now addressed Wallan. “The Southfields have attested that you are literate. They attest that you read and that you know your numbers well enough to find the discrepancy that no one else found to figure out where the errant grain had gone missing and even figured out, in at least a broad way, how it was going missing.” The man smiled unpleasantly now. “For your fine work, as a reward, we offer you more work.” He chuckled then at that. Wallan had to admit, he had a pleasant laugh.
Khorit then took up the thread. “Teagaisg Wallan, We of the Tarests need a bookkeeper and overseer for this position. We would also like to start a school for the local children. For these tasks, you will be given the house of your aunt and uncle as your own property. You will be paid a stipend by the Altamensa for both taking up the role of Overseer of the Mills, and another for becoming the thidsear of the new school.”
Khorit had used the old tongue word for “teacher,” thidsear; though he pronounced it “THID-see-er,” rather than “Hid-ser,” as Wallan had been taught. Wallan noticed both Ima and Hazi both winced at the gaff.
He stood, watching the Altamensa argue with one another over his possible future in the kindest and most polite of terms to one another. None of the members raise their voices in obvious anger, though Tarestia Osterti was getting heated, and that was causing the Tarestias Chania and Solassi to raise their own voices to match.
Finally a halt to discussion was called, and all eyes turned to Wallan, and Fleck. He turned his head to the side, to look directly at the little speckle faced cat, and raised his eyebrows at her. She resumed kneading his shoulder, and struck up her purr once again.
…well, this is as clear a form of advice from a friend I could wish for, here… I guess… he thought.
With slow deliberation, so as not to disrupt Fleck from her perch, Wallan bowed to the assembly of Tarests. “Altamensa of Caerly, I humbly accept your generous offer, and I hope I am able to perform to your needs.”
A new voice chimed in from the left side of the room.
It was the elderly woman who had been knitting the entire time.
“Well. We can all do just a little better than more work for the child, I think. And he accepted both tasks with humility and dignity. Oh, yes.” Placing her knitting in the basket, the old woman stood up, and gave a joint popping stretch, and groaned in pleasure before continuing. “I think we can do much better. Yes.”
She turned her gaze on Wallan, and her eyes, a deep golden color that told of having mixed ancestry with either the Ghorma or possibly even the Children of the Forest somewhere in her family tree, looked deeply into him, pinning him where he knelt.
In a slightly creaky voice that probably excelled at telling witch tales to young children, she said, “Arise, Hadestar Wallan Maduson. Welcome to the aristocracy of Caerly.”