The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Gimel’s fingers rubbed reluctantly into the cold coin as he handed it over.

It was his last one - the hastily arranged escape had not given him enough time to bring luggage or wealth with him, and the merchant sailors had taken what little he carried to keep their eyes closed and their mouths shut.

But desperation and hunger will drive a man to spend, however unwisely - the same hunger and desperation which had driven him into a ragged dock-side hovel like this.

“A gold florin?” said the bartender as he inspected the coin suspiciously. “Hmm, don’t get to see many of them these days. I see you’re not from around here, mister.”

“My money is as good as anyone’s,” Gimel replied.

“True enough,” the bartender said, as he pocketed the money and put a tray of food down on the rough wooden table.

Gimel cautiously took in his fellow patrons of “The One-eyed Walrus”: the dim interior harboured a few shady old mariners who sat sucking their pipes at the bar, filling the air with rich blue plumes of smoke - but they seemed either too drunk, or too sensible, to pry into other peoples’ business.

No-one would recognise him here - he was far enough away from home for that.

He unwrapped the drab muffling scarf tied up around his head that had sheltered his face from unwelcome eyes and protected his ears from the bitter winds which blustered across this new, northerly land.

The feeble crackle of logs from the fireplace did little to reassure him that they could ward off the autumn chill; but the smell of the wood smoke mingled with the sea-air, and the muddy tobacco, and the heavy acrid scent of tar which had been used to waterproof what was left of the ramshackle roof, and disguised the stale aroma of his food.

From the little he had seen, this was a strange country - where trees grew and wood was plentiful - but such precious a material would never be used so wastefully in his homeland.

And here the ground was brown and solid - it did not shift at the will of the wind gods. Yet its solidity was surrounded by water - a water which did not wash it away.

Moreover, the water seemed angry and rushed white and foaming at the land, only to crash into it and fall back, defeated.

Surely, this could only be a bad omen.

He picked up the greasy meat and stuffed a handful into his mouth.

His tongue convulsed and his eyes watered at the rancid, bitter taste.

Another bad omen.

He coughed and nearly spat it back out, but he had paid for it with his last coin and needed the nourishment.

Probably the meat was more than a few days old; he hoped not all the food in this land would taste so foul.

The rough wooden stool felt awkward beneath him; his legs still ached after the long journey, from lack of use and the cramped hiding place beneath the deck; it had felt good to stretch and hear the sound of his boots striking the landing-jetty firmly.

But after several days of boat-travel, even the dry ground beneath him still seemed to rock and sway with the motion of the merchant’s vessel. And the swill they had tried to feed him on board would have killed a healthy goat.

But, no matter how unpleasant the tavern food, his weakened body craved a meal, and his throat was in sore need of a drink to remove the worst of the salt-air that had burned a thirst down deep into his lungs.

He chewed at the meat and pulled his coat a little closer around him.

And now his final coin was gone.

He would have to earn a living if he was to survive.

It was a novel idea to one from his elevated status - but perhaps it would be a welcome experience - a test of his nature and resolve.

And if its surface was unwelcoming cold and strange, the land of Evrue was still a good choice - travellers had told that magikants were respected here, and of course, the Great Library was here too.

He could travel there.

Perhaps the people of the Library would respect his abilities and knowledge?

And while he was waiting for news, and his chance to strike revenge at the treacherous snake Ilgar, he might even learn something new from their renowned collection of scrolls.

He might even find work there, or earn his living as a healer or some-such?

But wielding the magik should be kept as quiet as possible for now, to avoid raising suspicions as to his true identity; no one should recognise him there, or get word to the assassins that Ilgar was sure to send.

He was not naive enough to think he was safe - he was a threat while he was still alive.

His jaws did their best to chew and digest the badly prepared food; his mind kept running over the events of the last few weeks - the same questions that had been troubling him on his enforced journey kept resurfacing.

Ilgar, for all his prowess as a warrior, did not have the intelligence or cunning to mount such a daring takeover; someone else had to be behind it.

But who?

And where did they get the gold from to bribe their way to the throne? It would have been an expensive business, and no easy feat to come by such an amount of ready coin. He had heard of no recent raiding parties who had managed to steal as much gold as this, and the pirates who tormented the trading ships had no interest in securing an empire on land.

Further, who would prosper by putting Ilgar on the throne?

Ilgar himself certainly, in the short term; but someone else must be pulling such well-constructed strings, someone who understood the value of subtlety and patience, someone with more brain than brawn. Perhaps his cousin, Dis?

Or one of the warlords in the west who had been discontented to share their tribute with his brother?

But this had always been the custom of his people and had gone on begrudgingly for as long as memory could hold - so why challenge it now?

Such a puzzle had kept him from being bored through the long cramped days, and kept his mind from dwelling on the one thing he did not want to keep at the foremost of his thoughts, the sight which had kept him awake at night and burned itself into his deepest dreams and his darkest thoughts of vengeance - his brother’s bloodied head staring back blankly at him from the troubled ground.

“Do you mind if I join you here?”

The voice of a lean man, with a comfortable gait and a well-cut coat, who stood next to his table, interrupted his musings.

He had allowed his contemplations to overtake his reality - he had disregarded the teachings of Hornuz.

Perhaps the voyage had taken more out of him than he had realised?

Perhaps the simple physical effort required to swallow and digest his awful food had distracted him?

Other chairs in the dilapidated tavern were empty.

Why would the stranger want to sit there, with him?

The stranger at least gave the outward appearance of being friendly - perhaps too friendly - but from the few steps he had taken around the table to the vacant chair, it did not seem that he was strong, or skilful enough, to be a real threat in a fight.

Gimel kept chewing.

Beneath his black close-fitting overcoat, the stranger wore some sort of religious uniform, and carried a symbol of the Church of Evrue around his neck.

Back in the warmth and luxury of his tent, the passing travellers had told him of such signs, and such men.

“Forgive me friend,” said the stranger as he pulled out the chair and positioned himself down at the table, “but I couldn’t help overhearing the tavern owner say that you might be from Pharit? It’s a place that had long fascinated me - I even travelled there myself once, briefly, on official Church business; but the people there did not take to our religion - the only god they trusted was their knife.”

Gimel continued to attack his food.

The stranger was a garrulous fool and could wait - the food was needed now.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

“It seems there has been some most unfortunate business there recently,” the man continued. “I do hope that you were not caught up in it?”

Did the stranger know more than he was letting on?

Perhaps even his true identity?

“News travels fast in these parts, I see,” said Gimel blankly between mouthfuls.

“Such momentous events as a new king ascending the throne are difficult to keep quiet - and we in the Church do like to keep abreast of the latest developments in the world. Oh, but do forgive me! I have not introduced myself - my name is brother Theodus - I’m a cleric in the port here.”

The stranger removed a tight-fitting glove; it was leather, but would offer no protection in battle; a mere useless ornament that would not stop the steel of Urdon, much less a knife from Pawsh.

The man held out a limp hand across the table.

Gimel looked at it briefly, then reached to his plate for what he hoped was some sort of leg or drumstick. The meat, it seemed, was probably some sort of sea-bird or gull that the cook had managed to catch and strangle a few days ago on the jetty outside.

As he reached out for his food, the gold ring on his index finger caught the glimmer of the sooty black lamps and glinted in the pale light.

The cleric withdrew his hand.

“Oh! What a charming piece of jewellery you have!” he said. “I noticed one just like it on my travels in your country. I seem to remember it had something to do with the ruling royal family? Could that be right? Or does my memory deceive me?”

The colour drained from Gimel’s cheeks; anxious pins prickled across his skin.

How could he have been so stupid or so careless?

Had his hunger made him such a simpleton?

“You have a sharp eye, my friend,” replied Gimel through a full mouth. He pulled his hand back and buried it in the folds of his ragged sleeves.

He slowed his breathing and eased his stool silently away from the table to give himself more room; his muscles tensed in preparation for an attack.

But the cleric’s easy and relaxed smile was mirrored by his body; he did not flinch or alter his posture in readiness for a fight.

“Oh, forgive me! I did not mean to offend or intrude!” he said with a reassuring smile. “It’s just that I remember so fondly a little of your ways and customs from my time in your country.”

“Then you will know it is our custom not to put our noses into places they have not been invited,” Gimel replied as he darted a stern look back across the table.

“Yes, yes, just so!” the cheery cleric continued. “It’s just that I wanted to help and assist you.”

Gimel swallowed some of the dark wine.

Its rough, bitter tannins offended his tongue, but it was liquid, and his raw throat welcomed it.

He returned to the unappetising food, but his wary eyes flickered to the stranger.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” the cleric continued, “I wondered where you might be travelling to - for you surely can’t mean to stay in such a horror-forsaken dump as this.”

The stranger indicated the decrepit, rotten shack around them.

“It can be a difficult place for foreigners here,” he continued. “Perhaps you already have someone to stay with here? It can be a very expensive place for those without friends, as you will find out.”

The insipid oily food had congealed around the edges of Gimel’s plate. But he had paid for it, and he could not guarantee when he might eat again.

“I have many contacts across this country,” the cleric said. “I would be glad to offer you accommodation with one of them as a gesture of hospitality and a welcome to my country.”

“Most generous I’m sure,” said Gimel.

Could the stranger be trusted?

Should he give away his plans?

Free accommodation would be difficult to turn down in such a harsh, cold land, especially to one with no coins of his own.

“I intend to travel to the Library at Burisdon,” he said. “I have heard of its many wonders, and wish to see it for myself.”

Gimel finished the last scraps from his plate and licked the grease from his thumb.

“Really?” said the cleric. “Well then, our meeting here really is most fortuitous, for I happen to have a very good friend there, and I’m sure he would be happy to offer you accommodation. You should seek him out when you arrive and you will be made most welcome. He is a very worthy and most learned man, who is always keen to help refugees and those less fortunate than himself - to learn from them, and understand new and different cultures to our own. Please, accept this letter of introduction from me.”

The cleric passed a small envelope across the table.

“This will guide you to my learned friend, and grant you passage to his quarters.”

“And what is your friend called?” asked Gimel.

“His name is Senior Brother Caldor,” said the cleric.