37

A Hidden Rally

Left of the Gilded Herald. The old, tilted building.

He went over the directions again and again, making sure they stayed there in his head.

The doors opened, and he met the stinging light of the clear sky. Warm and bright, but still painful. Like petting a sandcraw; petty nice if you can avoid the stony spines.

Kathiya waited at the corner, arms folded, leaning against the wall of one of those restaurants where the food is made from crushed exotic flowers where the portions are way too small, but they compensate for that by making it incredibly expensive.

‘Where the hell were you?’ Caspar accused the girl.

‘By the time I knew what was happening, the guards were on you.’ She responded with a shrug. ‘What’d you expect me to do, fight them?’

‘No... well, I dunno.’ His anger petered out, leaving just feeling a little awkward and silly. ‘Just something.’

‘You were only in there a few minutes. If you were in any longer, I would have come for you. You find out anything?’

‘Not much. Just a meeting place. Dunno what for, but it sounds important.’

‘Guess that’s our best lead then.’

They walked on towards the outskirts of the slums, on the border between there and the industrial area.

Caspar dug his hands into his pockets and kicked an idle can along the street.

‘I still don’t understand why it had to be me in jail.’

‘You think Sethel or Ludgar are the types to join a revolution?’

‘Well... no, I guess not. But why not you? You’re the thief. You’re way better suited for prison.’ He saw Kathiya glance at him with a quizzical eye. ‘Uh, no offence.’

‘I dunno. Maybe you were just closer.’ Not the full truth, which is the way things usually go in this company. While Caspar was certainly standing closer to Ludgar, Kathiya was better experienced at this kind of thing.

There’s always more to this whole business than just what people see on the surface.

The truth was that Caspar needed it. There’s strength to him, there’s no doubt about that. He can hold his own in a fight. It’s just that he has this way of seeing the world that just doesn’t fit well with the merc lifestyle. Even Kathiya could see it.

The boy still had that soft edge to him. A soft edge that needed to be ground out.

In silence, they walked further on, passing more hordes of strange clothed locals and unlocals going about their day. Some seemed on edge, casting a few uneasy glances to the guild mercs escorting the more extravagantly dressed individuals.

The single utterance of a word, or a single toss of a stone is enough to spark a change that consumes everything. Of course, that relies on someone to cast the first stone; usually the people with the least to lose.

She’d never been part of a revolution before. It never seemed worth it. The money always floats up, no matter who's in control of it. She had heard of some. How well they went was always up for debate.

Plenty of fires and the poor remain poor. Only now their stuff’s broken.

Caspar brooded on, unaware of any changing events around him.

‘Did he really have to get me thrown in the dungeon?’

‘Probably,’ Kathiya idly responded, keeping an eye to the surrounding crowd.

‘There must have been an easier way that doesn’t involve being tackled by guards.’

‘Is there? What do you think happens to rebels when they start acting out?’

‘The guards get them?’ He responded, unsure if he was answering her question or asking another.

‘And what happens when the guards get them?’

‘They go to the prison?’ he said, still unsure.

‘So where do all the rebels end up?’

‘Prison.’

‘And where are they going to start talking to each other?’

‘... Prison.’

‘There you go. I’ve been to a few in my time, and they all just end up being meeting places for criminals. Hell, I only joined the Serpents when I met a few of them in Orrick’s dungeons once.’

‘Really? That… Well I guess that makes sense.’

The poor lad usually tripped over himself like this. Natural for one so young to be so full of doubt, even if Kathiya wasn’t all that far off his age.

So many questions; and those questions create doubt in his already established world. And that doubt will lead to other worldviews, each as valid and as depressing as the last.

Maybe soon he’ll give up, like the rest of them have.

Their journey brought them to a very ordinary tavern of the Gilded Herald, built from strong, wooden beams with trim of gold paint, large, dark windows, and charming flower pots hanging from the window ledges. Rustic, as far as the rest of the city appears. Probably the oldest building in all Savanti that hasn’t been burned down or malformed into some piece of modern architectural art.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

And further down, they found the looming structure of a tilted tower, blackened with ancient scorch marks, and on the verge of falling to pieces.

Was it an intentional art piece, or was it actually just a burned down factory and no one could tell the difference?

Who knows?

They took up seats in the Herald, using the outdoor seating to keep a subtle eye on the remains of the factory/art piece. As for their drinks, they went cheap. A nice, standard mug of ale. You can’t really go higher with the money they’re making. Kathiya wondered if they should have asked for an advance.

A group made their way to the factory, not even trying to be subtle. One yelled something about grand change, another screamed something about consumption of the wealthy, dressed head to toe in elaborate garb ordinary folk wouldn’t be caught dead in, which she guessed was what Savantians considered “trendy.” All in all, a bunch of young looking folk of various races, all around the age for university, wandered their way into an alley by the side of the tower.

‘Were they revolutionaries?’

‘Yeah?’ Kathiya responded, somewhat unsure, and a little shocked that Caspar even noticed them in the first place.

‘They’re not all that subtle, are they? Should we follow?’

‘I suppose so.’

It wasn’t all too hard to miss once you knew the way in. There weren’t many other places to go as soon as they ventured into the alleyway. A door to the cellar was left ajar, and further down led to a brick wall.

Even still, standing alone in this alleyway where the air fell still and the world grew quiet, Caspar couldn’t help but feel he was being watched. From where, he did not know. The feeling stayed all the same.

By the time he mustered the walk the steps that faded into darkness, Kathiya was well ahead, at home in the shadows of the musty cellar.

He walked the treacherous, uneven steps as the light faded the further he descended, till he was consumed by the encroaching darkness.

He tripped over a loose step, and fell. He lay there, hands desperate in the dark, looking for anything to hold on to.

He found the wall to his side, and brought himself up, now unaware which way was forward. He took a tepid step forward, arms waving at the void ahead, and stumbled over another loose stone. Something came out of the darkness and gripped him by the wrist. It pulled him upright and pulled him in the opposite direction.

‘Easy now,’ Kathiya said, still hidden in the shadows. ‘I heard something over this way.’

She pulled him along, past corners and turns, to where a distant light flickered in the darkness. A rectangular doorway, where the light stretched along the walls around it. They heard something along the air. A far roar, like a waterfall, only sharper, deeper, and inconsistent.

The light drew them in, and they stopped at the edge to be greeted by the back of an enormous crowd, yelling and cheering at an improvised stage made from the remains of old boxes and glass blowing equipment.

The harsh light of large flame torches casted a great shadow of someone on stage. It flickered and danced with the tongues of fire, and grew far above the rear wall and along the roof of this warehouse cellar.

The duo moved further into the crowd, watching the person perform, screaming at the audience, who screamed in response.

‘No longer shall the rich profit from our hard work!’ they heard from the centre. ‘We shall rise and take back what is ours!’

What they found was far less impressive than the shadow suggested.

A weasel dressed in the garb of a farmer, if farmers trimmed theirs with as many colours as possible, and then some.

As far as the proletariat go, this boy looked as though he never worked a day in his life. Even the supposed farmer's garb had not a single scratch and not a hint of dirt near it. But he certainly knew how to rile up a crowd, even if his voice wasn’t used to all this shouting by the way it began fading towards the end.

Not the most intimidating of revolutionaries, but he’s got spirit at least.

Kathiya took stock of the rest of the audience members.

Was she looking for a possible mark? Maybe. She always kept that in the back of her mind. She tried not to, but she couldn’t help it. A nice necklace here, or a fat purse there; always something to be on the lookout for, tempting her.

Something was off about the crowd. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It looked like your average Savanti crowd where everyone tried outdoing everyone else in what they wore.

Of everyone attending, of everyone in this secret rally, of all these people who consider themselves downtrodden, beaten down, working class, destitute, oppressed, and whatever other hot descriptor was applied, not one of them looked like they worked on a farm, or in a smith. Hell, not even a single glassblower.

She didn’t know what it all meant. It was just a strange observation.

Then the audience eased into silence, and the younger weasle bowed out as they watched another take the improvised steps. A woman took to the stage, dressed in a long, torn coat with a fur trim around the collar. She looked far taller than how rat-folk tend to be, perhaps she was related to the scary lady of Oldtown. Her dark brown hair was neatly tied into a bun, and on her face sat a stern expression of rigid, almost devout focus.

A hulking shadow followed her, the round eyes of his spectacles alight with the surround torch fire. A silent, statue-like bovine with filed down horns, stood to the rear of the stage with muscled arms folded.

The crowd started growing restless as she took her position in front of them, whispers cutting their way along the air, noticeable, but too numerous to make sense of.

She raised her hand, and the whispers stopped.

‘My brothers and sisters,’ she called in a voice as a general would command an army before battle. ‘Too long have we been trapped under the cage of tyranny. For far too long, we have been the slaves of the rich, the “noble,” the aristocracy. It’s time we change that!’

Caspar watched, transfixed at the performance. Kathiya herself had heard speeches like that many times. Rousing, yes, but words alone tend to be worth their literal weight: nothing at all. She’d need a bit more than a well rehearsed speech to rally her. Although, something felt different here, and it certainly caught her interest.

‘Imagine it. A city where the money doesn’t flow upwards, but outwards. Where some ineffective, lazy, sex addicted lord is in control of your money. Where the product of your labour goes to you, and not the pocket of some business owner. A city where we are all equal, and we earn our share equally!’ She stuck one foot on a crate, and threw her arms wide, and yelled to the crowd, ‘and once we take this city, then the whole of the League! Then all of Artella! Then the World!’

They cheered in union at that, as the crowd would cheer during a tournament. They chanted her name, Esria, and she gave them a bow.

She stepped from the stage, the crowd still screaming their chants and singing her praises, when her eyes caught the two mercs standing silent among the cheers.

‘I don’t recognise you two,’ she said to them. ‘You seem new, given your strange attire.’

Caspar looked down at his outfit, a simple tough leather vest under a short overcoat. Nothing strange or spectacular at all. ‘We’re not dressed that strangely.’

‘You’re right. You’re not. That’s what’s so strange about you.’

‘We mercs,’ Caspar blurted out, internally panicking Kathiya. ‘We heard about the revolution, and wanted to see what it’s about.’

‘Well, we’re always looking for capable fighters to aid in this war against injustice.’ If there was any sign of suspicion or concern, this revolutionary hid it well.

‘We still fight for money, though,’ Kathiya said, trying to draw away any possible suspicion.

‘You’ll be given your just due; we all will, but are you not tired of fighting for meaningless coin? For those who do not care for you, me, or anyone down here? Don’t you want to fight for something better than all that?’

Maybe it was something better. Something good to work for. More than just killing what they were told to and making money, as little as they got.

Isn’t that what knights do? Fight for what is truly good and right, defending the weak from injustice and protecting the realm. It certainly seemed like an injustice was taking place. This whole city didn’t seem that way. Maybe a revolution was what they needed.

You know what? Screw it. Screw Ludgar and screw being a merc. This was what mattered.

This is what it meant to be truly good.

Kathiya may not have been completely convinced, but if she could stick it to a few pompous nobles and bankers, then she was fine with it, for now. Perhaps more fine with it than she would have liked to admit.