Fifteen
In the end, Sandon decided to give Bortruz a wide berth. There was nothing to be gained from
attracting the attention a strange Atavist wandering around the town looking
for Principal Men Darnak might warrant.
That was the sort of thing people were bound to talk about despite the
start of Storm Season. News of the
changes in the Principate should have filtered down through the populace by
now. The Principal’s effective
abdication would be on everybody’s lips.
He could hear the sorts of questions now. What were the implications? The older Men Darnak boy — did he really have
the makings of a Principal? And what of the Guilds?
What did it all mean? For a
mining town such as Bortruz, all these things would have significance. Any place with its major activities centered
on the concerns of any of the greater Guilds would feel the impact of any such
significant change within the Principate — far more than any of the larger
towns or cities that diversified their industrial base. No, Sandon wanted to find Men Darnak, but he
wanted to do it without attracting notice.
The padder suddenly
lifted its tail and gave a loud flatulent burst, followed by a satisfied
grumble. Sandon screwed up his face and
waved his hand in front of his nose. The
animals really were unpleasant creatures, but at least it was better than
having to walk, marginally better. He
felt like he’d lost all of the feeling in his rear end over the past couple of
days, and he wondered whether he’d ever walk properly again. As if to emphasize the thought, the padder
stumbled, slamming its bony back into Sandon’s rear for what seemed like the
hundredth time. He gritted his teeth and
growled deep in his throat. Cursed animals. Cursed Storm Season.
That they were always reduced to this just wasn’t right. He was reminded of the skeleton hulk they’d
seen on the way here. The Prophet had
played a cruel joke, stripping them of so much of their knowledge and
technology on the way down to what had promised to be a potential
paradise. Vast tracts of knowledge had
been lost with the transport ships that hadn’t made it. One of these days, the Guild of Technologists
might finally come up with a real solution to the transport problems they faced
in the midst of Storm Season, and for Sandon, that time just couldn’t come soon
enough.
Avoiding Bortruz had
brought with it a new set of problems.
He should have made the connection as soon as Manais had mentioned
it. Ahead of him lay the
A network of man-made canals
crossed Bortruz, allowing easy access for the transportation wagons. Across these canals,
and across the
Another couple of hours
and the ramshackle collection of buildings that was the town of
As he drew closer to the
township, the path grew worse, not better.
Deep ruts marred the surface, and with the consistent downpours, these
had turned to mud. At least it wasn’t
raining. Sandon cast a glance upward,
but the cloud cover looked unthreatening, and he looked back to concentrate on
the path ahead. He tried as well as he
could to steer the padder around the deeper pools and muddiest looking
ground. He’d hate to come off the beast
and land in that mess. Garbed as he was,
he was enough of a sight, without being covered in mud as well. He didn’t need to be taken for one of those
wandering madmen that the Atavist community sometimes produced. Despite his best efforts, the cantankerous
animal insisted on choosing its own path, and it sloshed through puddles, or
squelched through muddy tracks regardless.
Eventually he just gave up and let the beast have its head.
The first few buildings
he passed were rudely cobbled wooden affairs, put together from planks of the
prized ajura wood. Sandon shook
his head at the evident waste. Still, he
supposed they kept out the weather.
Bortruz obviously benefited from its place within the trading
chain. This close to a major Kallathik
hive, plenty of the wood would pass through here. Besides, they probably used it for struts and
beams within the mines as well. Here, at
the outskirts, the town was quiet.
Further in, he’d be sure to encounter local residents or miners
returning from their daily work. It was
getting late in the day, and the current shift would have to be nearing its
end. He hadn’t even thought about what
he was going to do for the night, and that presented a whole new set of
problems. He’d been through Bortruz a
couple of times in the past, but paid it scant attention. He thought he remembered a bar and a store
somewhere near the center of the town, but there were only vague impressions to
drag up from his memory. He did recall,
however, that Bortruz was not the most peaceful place in the world.
He crossed one
intersection, then another. The buildings
grew more solid, but it was hardly ordered.
A few more cross streets, and he should be nearing the town’s
center. At last, he passed a group of
miners, trudging wearily back from their day’s work. Their grime-streaked faces were written with
fatigue. Sandon held his breath, waiting
for a reaction, but their gazes slid tiredly past or simply through him. They barely glanced up as he passed. Good.
He let out the breath, and headed on by.
The Atavist was nearly invisible in the world. Lower than the lowest, they were truly
virtually beneath notice. It was just as
he had hoped.
The smell of baking food
wafted to him from one of the passing houses, and his mouth started
watering. He was hungry, but for the
moment, he preferred to hang on to the supplies that Manais had so kindly given
him. He didn’t know how long he’d have
to travel before reaching his goal and the food might be precious. He could always scavenge from surrounding
farmlands, but it was hardly proper food.
The seasonal crops tended to be mainly root vegetables, reasonably
tasteless and unpalatable when raw. Not
his preferred method of keeping his belly full at all. Thoughts of food put him in mind of the
communal meals in the Atavist camp — vast spreads of wholesome home-cooked
produce—and the thought set his mouth watering again.
He passed two more
groups of miners, and one or two townsfolk going about their business. They all ignored or simply failed to register
his presence. Eventually, he drew into the
center of Bortruz proper. He reined in
the padder, which grumbled in response, and looked around the central
square. More official-looking buildings
ringed the open, muddy expanse. On the
opposite side lay the official Guild and Principate office with its wide
balcony and steps. Over to the left sat
the bar that he remembered, and directly opposite, the main store where he
could have picked up more provisions had he anything to pay for them. He fingered his beard looking from side to
opposite side of the square and tried to decide his next step. One thing was sure — here for the first time,
he would have to start using his new name.
Just as well to get into the habit now.
He pulled on the reins
and steered the padder into a small side street that led back behind the row of
buildings containing the bar, his most likely prospect for the moment. He certainly wouldn’t be using the front
entrance dressed as he was. The bar
would likely give him his best source of information. If he could find a way to be inside, unnoticed,
keeping his ears open, he might have a chance of picking up something
useful. Sandon was good at listening
without being seen; he’d had years of practice.
He eased his animal up
the rear alleyway, wrinkling his nose at the waft of rotting garbage stirred up
by the padder’s feet. He found the back
of the bar without any trouble. Large
bins sat outside the rear door, uncovered, with piles of damp refuse trailing
out of their tops. He drew the padder to
a stop and looked around in vain for a patch of clear ground. Even mud would be better than the
unidentifiable mounds of stuff strewn along the alleyway. Barely containing his distaste, he slid down
and landed ankle deep in the putrescent mess.
He found a place to cinch the padder’s reins, and then stepped gingerly
toward the bar’s rear door, lifting his feet as high as he could with each
step. Trying not to breathe through his
nose, he crossed the intervening space. Bortruz. What a town.
Sandon hesitated a few
moments outside the door. He had no idea
how they would react. Still, there was
nothing else for it. He had practiced
the speech in his head several times.
Lifting a hand, he gave a solid knock and waited. The sounds of shuffling came from inside, and
then faded again. His hand still poised,
Sandon knocked on the hard wooden door again.
This time, there were steps, the sound of a bolt being drawn, and the
door creaked slowly open. A big, square,
stubbled face peered out.
“What is it?” said a
gruff voice. Then a pause as the owner
of the voice registered surprise, disbelief and then suspicion. The door opened wider, revealing a beefy man
dressed in an apron, his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head.
There was a long pause, then the man spoke again.
“What do you want?”
“I am Tchardo,” said
Sandon. “I am seeking any honest work
you might have. I can clean. I can carry.
I can help with whatever you need.
All I ask is some food, a place to sleep, perhaps enough to purchase
some feed for my animal. I would be
grateful of anything you can provide, if the Prophet wills it.”
Confusion flitted across
the man’s face, and then he called back over his shoulder. “Hey, Milana. Come and look at what we’ve got here.”
A moment later, and a
short stocky woman with ruddy cheeks, also wearing an apron, poked her head
around the man’s broad frame.
“Would you believe it?”
said the man. “It’s an Atavist. Says he’s looking for
work.”
“I can see what he is,
Benjo. What’s he asking for?”
The woman, Milana, seemed
less flustered by his appearance than her companion, so Sandon addressed the
next to her. “I can clean. I can carry.
Any help you need. I am Tchardo.”
“Says
he wants a place to sleep, some food, maybe a little credit.”
“Let him speak,” she said.
“As he
has said, Sister. That is all I
want.”
“I thought you people
wanted nothing to do with honest folk like us,” said Benjo. “What do you think, Milana?”
“Well...” she said. “I never knew any harm to come from their
type, and from what I’ve seen, they work hard enough. It’s not as if we couldn’t use the help. How’s it different from the other workers who
come through here?”
The man called Benjo
grunted. There was a pause.
“It’s up to you,” said
Milana.
Benjo pursed his lips
and scratched at one cheek. “I guess...
yeah, why not. It’s not as if it’s going
to cost us much. Here, but we’ll have to
find you something to wear. We can’t
have you getting around the bar in that outfit.
You’ll put the customers off. You
never know, in that stuff, one of them might just take a disliking to you. We’ve had more than enough of your sort
passing through here in the last couple of weeks. S'pose I really shouldn’t be surprised to see
you.”
It was like a stopper
had been pulled from Benjo’s mouth. The
words flowed out one after the other.
“Tchardo, you said your
name was, right? All right, come with
me.” He beckoned Sandon inside. “I think I might have some old trousers and a
shirt around here somewhere. They might
be a little loose on you, but once you’ve got the apron tied on, nobody’ll know
the difference right? So, what brings
you to Bortruz, Tchardo? You just passing through?
Good idea trying to find somewhere to hole up. The storms are getting pretty bad this Season
aren’t they?”
Sandon nodded mutely and
stood looking about the sparsely equipped kitchen. Benjo rummaged around in a storeroom and
tossed some old clothes out to him, followed by an apron. He appeared moments later bearing a bucket,
some old greasy rags and a broom.
“We’re not busy yet. Won’t be for another couple of hours, but
until then, you can busy yourself with these.
When the customers come in, you can help by collecting empty mugs and jugs. Bring them back here and wash them, then
bring them out to the bar. After shift,
things get pretty busy in here, so you’ll want to be quick about it. And no matter what Milana says, I don’t know
you from the Prophet. So, don’t go
thinking of helping yourself to anything along the way. I’ll know.”
Sandon suddenly realized
he had a problem. Alise’s paste had
worked on his face, hands and his arms.
He’d also applied it to his neck, feet and lower legs, but beneath the
robe he was as pale as the day he’d been born.
Benjo stood in the middle of
the kitchen, his fists on his hips, watching.
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
Sandon cleared his throat, then seeing Benjo was not going to give him any privacy, he
stepped into the small storeroom and behind the wall. Benjo gave a loud guffaw from where he
stood. “All right then,” he said. “You be like that.”
Sure that he couldn’t be
seen, Sandon quickly slipped off the robe and clambered into the old clothes
and then stepped out from concealment, wrapping the apron around himself. He held the robe, looking for somewhere he could hang it.
“No, no,” said Benjo. “Give that here.” He took the proffered robe, and holding it at
arm’s length in one hand, deposited it unceremoniously in the storeroom. Sandon still had been given barely a chance
to get a word out.
“But what about my padder?”
he asked.
“You’ve got it out the back
there?”
Sandon nodded.
“Oh, it’ll be fine. You can go out and check on it every once and
a while if you want, but I don’t think it’ll go anywhere. Plenty for it to eat out
there.” Benjo gave a great belly
laugh, then immediately sobered. “Take
these and sweep the bar. Wipe down the
tables, and when you’re done there, we’ll see about getting you something to
eat before the crowd starts. Not much
else to do in Bortruz, see? Everybody
ends up at my place some time or other.”
Sandon could easily imagine
that was the case. And if so, Benjo had
every reason to be jovial and full of his own importance. Sandon reached for the rag and broom and
headed out into the bar proper, with Benjo still standing there, his fists on
his hips watching him. Sandon caught him
shaking his head as he left, muttering something to himself. “Strange times we’re living in. Strange times indeed,” Sandon thought it
sounded like.
As he entered the bar,
Milana looked up at him from behind the counter, pursed her lips, favored him
with an assessing look, then nodded and gave him a smile. He returned it easily. If it wasn’t for her, he might not be
standing here at all.
The bar proper was a broad
unpartitioned room. The bar itself,
polished wood, stretched along one side and
Milana stood watching him
for a while, then pushed herself from the bar and
started lighting lamps and setting them on shelves in the room’s corners. She had obviously caught his smile, because
she stopped in the middle of what she was doing and turned to face him.
“Tchardo,” she said. “I have the name right?” When he nodded, not interrupting his progress
across the dirty wood-stripped floor, she continued. “I don’t know anything about you, and dressed
like that, you could almost be a normal person, except for the beard of course,
and your hair.” She peered closer. “And that scar across your nose, but I just
want you to know, we’re simple people here and we don’t want any trouble.”
He stopped what he was doing
and leant on the broom, meeting her gaze.
“I don’t mean any trouble, Milana,” he said quietly, genuinely.
She nodded at that, then
turned back to busy herself with lighting the rest of the lamps. Sandon went back to sweeping, once again
struck by how much he had been removed from so much that went on in the
world. Milana finished with the last of
the lamps and returned to her position behind the bar. She was joined a few moments later by Benjo,
who giving an appraising look at the room and at Sandon’s progress, nodded to himself. Within
moments, he was in yet another conversation with Milana, who did little more
than nod or make little sounds of agreement in response to the constant torrent
of words.
As soon as he had finished
sweeping, Sandon grabbed the old rag and started polishing the tabletops,
moving from one to the other unhurriedly, all the time
thinking about what he was doing here.
Why had he come with the Atavist family in the first place? All right, in a way it made sense. The logical thing would have been to go
straight to Men Darnak’s private estates, but he couldn’t have gone there by
himself, and nothing would have been stranger than a lone Atavist turning up
there. Here, reasonably close to an
Atavist community, near to the mines, as Tchardo, he was at least in
context. It was all about context, after
all. An Atavist in the right setting was
less likely to be recognized as something else. It still left the problem of the Principal’s
movements. He might just be relying on
sheer luck that Men Darnak would be anywhere near the mines, but knowing him,
knowing his need to insert himself into every problem personally, Sandon
believed he had a fair chance that sooner or later, the Principal and his
retinue would be paying a visit to the area.
The other thing was Tarlain.
Despite the banishment, despite the hot burst of anger that had sent the
youngest son scurrying away, Sandon knew that Leannis Men Darnak cared for his
children. He would have a double reason
for visiting the area. The Kallathik
disturbances, their impact on local mining activities and Tarlain’s own apparent
involvement with their cause would lead Men Darnak to have reasonable suspicion
that his son might be somewhere nearby.
The Kallathik hive not too far from Bortruz would be a logical choice
for the boy to seek refuge, especially if he was committed to going ahead with
his mysterious plans.
No, Sandon was comfortable
with his reasoning; now all he had to do was find the opportunity. It might mean hanging around for a few days,
but any news of a visit by the Principal would quickly pass through a town this
small. He could keep an eye on the
official building across the way quite easily from here. It would be the most likely place for Men
Darnak to show up, if he made it as far as Bortruz. And if not, then Sandon would just find some
other way to track him down.
“Tchardo, bring me some mugs
from the back.”
Benjo’s call snapped him out
of his thoughts. He’d been
absent-mindedly concentrating on the stained cloth in his hand and the table
surfaces beneath it and had totally missed the arrival of several locals. Already they sat around tables or clustered
at one end of the bar, deep earthenware mugs or jugs propped in front of
them. He quickly shoved the rag into his
back pocket and headed out to the kitchen.
The new arrivals had been so quiet.
They were huddled in conversation, subdued. Not what he’d expect from a bar at all, but
Storm Season did that to you. It dragged
on the consciousness, taking you down and within yourself, away from the
darkness and gloom — away from the constant threat of what the weather or land
might throw at you next. Perhaps the
mood would pick up later.
He brought back a tray of
mugs and started stacking them behind the bar, casually attempting to pick up
as much of the conversation as he could.
For the most part, these men would be supervisors or gang chiefs, overseeing
work crews of the Kallathik miners.
They’d have work to do themselves, but they should provide a good
measure of the Kallathik mood as well.
There was talk of water level in the mines, of trying to keep the pumps
working to capacity. There was more than
one passing reference to an Atavist presence in the area, and Benjo glanced at
him meaningfully. Sandon pretended not
to notice. All of it seemed the usual
stuff a group of mine workers might talk about.
Nowhere was there any mention of Men Darnak or his men. Then someone said something that caught his
attention.
“Too much of that damn
sleep-stand thing they do. Doesn’t seem to matter when.
Right in the middle of something, and you’ve
got another bloody statue. You know what
I’m saying?”
Sandon wiped diligently at
the bar top.
Another spoke this
time. “Sure, most of the time you expect
one or two of them. But
whole groups over the past couple of days.”
“You’ve been getting it
too?”
“Yeah. Damned right I have. Doesn’t matter what you do. You yell at them, you ask them, try and prod
them into action. Doesn’t
matter. They just stand there
like a group of trees. I’ve had whole
crews go at the same time. Why, just
this morning...”
Sandon edged away. That was interesting. So, it seemed like there really was something
going on with the Kallathik.
Noise levels were starting
to pick up now as the bar filled and the patrons consumed more ale and
wine. He made the rounds more
frequently, collecting the empties and ferrying them back to the kitchen to
wash and stack on new trays. As he
passed, he managed to pick up snippets of conversation, but nothing further
that gave him any hope.
By the time the last
customer had wandered unsteadily from the bar, Sandon was tired. He’d spent the entire night on his feet
running back and forth, and had found out little more than he’d started
with. He wiped his hands on the cloth
from his back pocket and stood staring at the now-empty bar. Benjo came up beside him and clapped him on
the shoulder.
“Not a bad night’s work,
Tchardo,” he said. “Help me clear away
the last of these and put them away, and then you can bed down in the kitchen.”
Sandon nodded without saying
anything. He would be grateful for the
stove back there, radiating heat throughout the small back room. During the busiest part of the evening, it
had left him sweating, but during the still of the early morning, it would get
cold. Any remaining warmth would help
stave off the chill, safe and secure and out of the weather. No, he’d done well. For now, at least, fortune was in his favor.
#
It took nearly a week
for Sandon to find what he wanted.
During all that time, he worked for Benjo and Milana, growing to like
the couple more and more, for couple they were.
They were simple, good-natured folk with a direct, open attitude to
life, no intrigues, no complicated schemes. Sandon had almost forgotten during his years
in the Principate that such people existed, but the past couple of weeks, first
the Atavists, and then this pair, had reminded him that not everyone had a
hidden agenda. It was a refreshing
change to not be constantly on his guard about what was said. He’d finally been forced to stable his padder
on the outskirts of town, and Benjo had readily supplied him the credits to do
so. He had offered more, but Sandon had
refused. Benjo likely did fairly well
out of his bar, but he’d been good to Sandon, and whether the bar owner could
afford it or not, Sandon had no desire to take advantage. Besides, Benjo was serving him in other ways
that he could hardly be aware of.
The first indication of
what he was seeking came as a burst of activity over at the official
offices. A solitary man arrived on a
padder, bounded up the stairs and disappeared inside. Moments later, he had reappeared and ridden
quickly out of town. The mere existence
of the office building here in this sleepy outpost was probably more
lip-service to the Guild hierarchy than anything else, and having any sort of
visitor, messenger or otherwise, had to be an event in itself. Sandon had just caught the arrival out of the
corner of his eye, but as soon as he saw the man, he knew his patience had been
worthwhile. The messenger had been
wearing the Men Darnak colors. He
strained at the window, watching to see what happened. Moments after the messenger had left, two
functionaries burst from the front doors and headed rapidly down the front
steps. Sandon was out the bar door in a
moment, moving to intercept one of them.
As he approached, he recognized the man as one of the bar’s regular
evening visitors.
As casually as he could,
he called out. “Hello there. What’s going on?”
The man looked over and
clearly recognized Sandon. “Can’t stop,”
he said. “Men Darnak’s in the area. Asking all sorts of
questions.”
“Which Men Darnak?”
asked Sandon.
Barely pausing in his
rapid stride across the square, the man answered quickly. “The Principal. The Old Principal.”
Sandon watched the man
disappear up a side street. So, Leannis
Men Darnak was nearby, and close enough to send these
lower-station officials into a flurry of action. Sandon stood where he was, thinking, running
his fingers through the beard at his chin.
It was time to take his leave.
Tchardo the bar help was about to disappear, to be replaced once more by
Tchardo the Atavist.