Adversaries Together Read online

  “Fery,” she said, “Fery’s my name.”

  “Alright,” Soren said, “Good that we…” He gestured for Calum to come over and help him.

  “Landis.” Fery added breathlessly.

  “What?” Soren snapped back to face Fery, “Say again?” He demanded.

  “Fery Landis. My…my father…”

  “Wynne Landis.” Calum finished, the two civics fell silent but stared at each other.

  Soren nodded then looked at Fery, “We’ve been looking for you.”

  The Cathedral of Sulecin

  The dusk filtered through the Aelia Chapel throwing a deep yellow over the altar railing where Stilbon knelt muttering prayers. The chapel was one of the oldest in Sulecin existing before the construction of the Cathedral and as such bearing the markings of the faith’s early architecture. Made of grey stone, the interior was austere and cold with the only light coming down from the lone window, which took up more than half the wall behind the altar. Its glass was a queer honey color with multiple imperfections yet not a single nick, scratch, or crack. There were no pews, only rows of railings maybe a foot and a half off the polished marble floor. The nearly prostrated congregation looked down upon by a lone lectern centered on the altar directly before the window. None of the stone absorbed any heat; the chapel seemed always freezing even at the height of summer.

  The altar, a long table with a metal surface so highly polished it looked almost like a mirror reflected the light sending blinding flashes all around. Before the altar, worshipers were compelled to close their eyes, and even then, the light penetrated their eyelids filling their vision with a soft redness. This day Stilbon was alone and down from the lectern kneeling where his congregations would. His body was consumed by the glaring light. Suddenly the heavy wooden swung open ushering in a clean white light, which for a moment seemed to resist the yellow hue thrown by the great window and shimmering surfaces.

  Stilbon knew the entrant was Ebon for the friar walked with a shuffle betraying to any astute ear his girth. As Ebon ambled up to the altar, Stilbon’s prayers turned to thoughts of disgust. The friar was a gyrovagi, a wandering evangelist who spent far too much of his time among the rabble. An earthy smudge in my pristine sanctum, Stilbon thought cursing his alliance with Vicegerent Sinclar, which had brought this man to him. Standing and turning, Stilbon glared at the squinting friar when he reached the altar, “Friar.”

  Ebon was not out of breath but definitely a bit panicked, “I have word of the man Canon Pallas suggested.”

  Stilbon raised an eyebrow, “And there is no issue?”

  “The hireling understands his task, seems to have no qualms with the directives.” Ebon raised one hand to his forehead to shield his eyes so to see Stilbon better while his other dabbed at his sweating face with a rough swath of cloth.

  “Good. I would hate for him to develop some heretic tendencies.” Stilbon’s tone and face betrayed no emotion.

  Nodding Ebon turned slightly holding his cloth just above his upper lip. He belched then wiped his cloth across his sweaty face, “He is no believer, but he is no heathener. Simply a mercenary, promised coin and he agrees.”

  “His ruler is greed, friar. As many man.” Ebon nodded as Stilbon’s voice took on a lecturing tone, “And that greed must be used as the means to purge him of his failings and cleave him to our true, clear vision. We will use his weakness to chart a course and it will right not just his path but that of so many more that have drifted.”

  Ebon nodded seemingly exhausted, “Certainly, yes, certainly. I’m sure when all is said and done he will be quite devout. Quite loyal to the Light.”

  Stilbon smirked and returned to his prayers. Ebon was a craven toady, but he made quick work of the tasks assigned to him.

  “I doubt that. But I am certain in the end,” Stilbon waved Ebon off, encouraging him to leave, “there will be fewer lost souls for us to guide thanks to him.”

  The Cathedral of Sulecin, 5th of Lammas

  The entire wall was a mural of the known world, and Pallas loved to gaze upon it. A mixture of fresco and bas-relief, it was certainly an achievement of craft. It was unfortunate, he thought, that the artists had been forgotten. Journeymen artisans had updated the wall every time nations emerged or fell away, when new lands were discovered, when cartographers had returned from their sorties with more accurate maps, and when the Patriarch (of whatever era you chose) dictated certain places be more elevated than others.

  Pallas was certain the great map would soon be altered yet again. He followed a shining golden seam west from the Cassubian capital of Sulecin, home to his Cathedral, to the Essian city of Heveonen where it turned onyx with a gorgeous scrolling script along it reading “Flyde Road” as it lead to its southwestern sister city Rikonen, the largest port in the world. Or, at least, it had been. Unlike the narrow Adrenine harbor of Dystos along the southern coast of the great Novostos Sea, Rikonen’s bay was wide and deep. Whereas Anhra Harbor on the north coast of the Novostos was ramshackle, Rikonen was systematized.

  The other Essian port, Paraonen, was merely a long series of whaler piers, and the free city of Far Port (as its name suggested) was too northern and frozen for more than half the year, it had carved out a more reliant trade upon the Falkstone river. Bandra and Elvos were tucked away in the eastern pocket of the Novostos, and although they did a good amount of trade, it paled in comparison with Rikonen’s volume.

  Stepping closer, Pallas ran his hand over the smoothed sapphire that had been cut to represent the Novostos. It wasn’t a subtle decision by the artists but still a pleasant one. The wealth to make the great sea out of the gemstone mirrored the wealth that the sea provided for all the world’s nations. Unsubtle, definitely arrogant, but quite pleasing nonetheless. A city of priests making their image of the world out of the tribute paid to them, tribute that they had weaseled out of the all the nations in the name of the Light. Pallas smirked; his hand paused as it reached Rikonen.

  Such a city, Rikonen was, bright and alive. He had lived there as a young boy, a supplicant learning the faith. The buildings covered in a white plaster reflected the high sun making the city seem clean, if not blessed. The blue of the sea and harbor were striking. He remembered the thousands of ships that arrived daily laden with black seed, sugar, golden rice, and, most vital of all, bithumin. The goods all immediately distributed to other merchant vessels and onto overland caravans. It was the heart of the world.

  The Flyde didn’t just connect Rikonen with its sister cities, the road curved east to the Cassubian town of Havan and the Silvincian outpost of Midhalm that sat near the headwaters of the Falkstone. The river poured out of the Siracene highlands flowing north feeding the Novosar nation before letting out into the North Sea at the top of the world. Speckled with tiny forgettable towns and villages that had no name outside of themselves, the river was the nation. Novosy, a marque state, dependent on the river, exploiting the river, indulging in the river. A nation of boatmen and shitty shepherds, yet one of the strategic countries in the world. A collection of stubborn villages so insistent it had to be granted its own nation snugly fit between Silvincia to the east and Cassubia to the west.

  Pallas glanced up to the darkened ceiling where a single white quartz stone marked the last refuge of civilization, Far Port. Black paint representing the North Sea, a choppy expanse lurking with hidden ice, filled in the wall as it met the ceiling a good fifteen spans above Pallas’ head. As a student Pallas always wondered just what the great northern taiga looked like, certainly there had to be something or someone there. Empty and cold, the taiga had become a vast expanse that was littered with degenerates who had hoped to escape north. So it was Far Port, the top of the world, where the dregs ended up. A queer inversion, but perhaps Pallas wasn’t looking at the whole picture. Perhaps this map was only a small picture.

  “Pondering the world, brother?” Pallas turned his head slightly hearing Vander address him as he approached from behind; Pallas’ hand l
ingered on the wall map.

  “I suppose I am,” Pallas forced a smile. Now wouldn’t be the time to let Vander under his skin.

  Vander seemed to glide towards Pallas, the hem of his robes barely graced the marble floor, “It is a fantastic mural, isn’t it? I admire the craftsmanship of Lydic and his apprentices.”

  “Do you know when this map was commissioned?” Pallas asked.

  Vander smiled but it was devoid of sincerity, “I do not. Shall you enlighten me, brother?”

  Pallas tapped the pearlescent stone that marked Rikonen, “Nearly a thousand days this city has been cut-off from the world. There are reports of hideous events occurring here. And we have just now finished cutting The Blockade here.”

  “One can’t expect all the events of the world to be immediately scratched into the wall.” Vander shrugged.

  “Just so.” Pallas nodded already exhausted by Vander, “But this suggests that The Blockade will not be ending anytime soon, that the Patriarch has now officially sanctioned the Spires’ aggression.”

  Vander blinked in faux surprise, “Whatever makes you believe our Patriarch’s will wasn’t being fulfilled by the Silvincians?”

  Pallas sighed, “Breaking Essia with Silvincia. It’s unseemly.”

  “The Patriarch knows the people of the Spires don’t deserve the dregs of goods that finally reach them once the Essians have cut off the choicest shares.”

  “I hardly believe the Spires have ever received the dregs of anything.”

  “Perhaps not,” Vander chuckled, “But such a stance would hardly rally the faithful. So long as we have Novosy as a buffer, we shan’t dispute their claims.”

  “There are millions of faithful in Essia; the nation is not an enemy of the faith. There are devout men and women in Rikonen. Our actions…or inaction…has only validated the Silvincian elites.”

  “If anything, you could say that we’ve goaded them in to coveting more power.” Vander nodded.

  “They’ve never been cheated of anything.” Pallas muttered more to himself than to Vander.

  “They will never believe it. Especially now.”

  “Now that they’ve become the new navel of the world.”

  “Your Essians will never commit to a land war. What can they do but accept their fate?”

  “Anyone desperate and abandoned will lash out.” Pallas turned to look at Vander, “Not just at those in front of them but those that allowed it to happen.”

  “Best we keep that assertion to ourselves, brother.” Vander had gotten what he wanted, “We all know that our Patriarch is touched by the Light and infallible.”

  “I realize your little order,” Pallas tried mitigating the contempt in his voice, “has benefited from the Patriarch’s largess. But even you have to concede that allowing the Spires to rise to such heights is worrisome.”

  “Clever turn of phrase.” Vander snorted and Pallas remained stone-faced. “But the Patriarch’s favor for we Covenanters has had little to do with his infallibility or the situation with Essia. So I don’t have to concede anything.”

  “A thousand warships each from Dystos, Pyrgos, and Elvos and there is talk, I believe, that a handful of Dystosi shipbuilders were stolen away to Bandra to direct the building of more vessels for the Silvincian’s armada.”

  Vander shrugged, “A good bit of business for the Adrenia nation, and I’m certain the Merchant Fleet also made a pretty penny.”

  Pallas shook his head as he turned back to the map eying the reddish brown oaken circles that represented the Adrenia cities along the southern coast of the Novostos Sea. A dwarfish people that barely stood five feet tall as adults, the Adrenines stood out. Their brown skin and wiry golden blonde hair was enough of a contrast to mark them as other. Yet they were the greatest shipbuilders and seafarers in the world. It was suspected that the Spires didn’t so much as buy their fleet as extort it, although no one had the true details. All anyone knew was that though wealthy, Silvincia didn’t have the treasure to buy so many ships.

  “I remember when I first heard about The Blockade,” Vander now stood shoulder to shoulder with Pallas gazing at the map and tapped his finger on the three golden triangles stacked upon each other to represent the gilded pagodas of Bandra.

  “Recruiting?”

  “After a fashion.” Vander smiled, “It was here that the first envoys from Essia had come to contest the Spires’ action.”

  Pallas raised an eyebrow, “I hadn’t realized you were present then.”

  “Few here did, it was before the Vicegerent saw fit to bring me into his circle.”

  “The reports I heard were that the Essian’s were in the right legally but that some obscure reference was found to allow the Silvincian aggression.”

  Vander laughed, “Of a sort.” He circled Bandra with his fingers and then stepped back, “The Spires made a simple case—Essia needed to relinquish its monopoly for the greater good, to let the hardworking men and women of the realms make a better living and not eek out a life as feeble parasites.”

  “That worked?”

  “Oh, Light no.” Vander shook his head, “It was clearly the most hypocritical thing I had yet heard… Outside of our circles.” He winked.

  “But that was the excuse accepted?”

  “Not quite. I was able to point out the…obscure reference, which exempted The Cathedral from involvement with the internal politics of the realms we serve.”

  “Nation we serve.” Pallas murmured, “So we weren’t swayed enough to intervene or denouncement.”

  “We saw no break in our bithumin from Lappala. In fact, it would come cheaper. Adrenia had been paid in full and its Merchant Fleet had consented knowing it wouldn’t suffer a break in its trade and might still expand its borders. The Lappalans had no pause in their exporting and the free cities were glad to be ignored.”

  “Essia had no allies.”

  “The Blockade stood.”

  “Not worth the effort to end it.”

  Vander and Pallas stood in silence gazing at the map. Finally, Vander turned away from the wall and from Pallas gliding down the corridor he had come from. As he did so, he called back to Pallas, “We are expected in the Islan chapel come lauds.”

  Pallas winced but did not look after Vander. Another meeting during the small hours at a nearly abandoned chapel, he was not looking forward to it. Yet, he knew he was getting closer now and would soon know the inner workings of the Vicegerent’s machinations. Stepping back, he took in more of the great map. He needed to see more, he thought.

  Far Port’s North Sea route slowed, but its own river traffic along the Falkstone increased. Soon Far Port, Midhalm, and Havan were the central axis of trade under the sway of the Spires and The Cathedral. The so-called monopoly hadn’t merely changed hands but expanded as the Silvincian armada now dominated the sea. Sea trade for Essia was all but dead. The Paraonese had already cut itself off from Rikonen, focused almost entirely on whaling in The Deep and North Sea. Rikonen was left with its farming plains, but Pallas knew that the land had soured leaving the common folk starving and the great city desperate. Heveonen was still able to nurse what it needed from the rich lands along the Elmander River but its trade along the river was hampered by the fact that Havan, a city firmly in the hands of The Cathedral, sat at the headwaters and had grown stingy.

  Some Heveonese had already begun raids into the Cassubia, the Lakes District as the common folk called it. At first, the Essians had struck out only against Cassubian settlements too near their own territory, but that quickly turned into more frequent sallies. The Cathedral saw a serious threat looming and its options were simple, Essia needed to come under its control or the Spires’. The common wisdom was that several Vicegerents were working to sway the Patriarch towards annexation, using the Spires as a holy army. Pallas’s doubts ate at him, Silvincia had grown to be the force in the world and far too many of the elites in the Spires simply wanted it to continue, to have their nation become empire.

/>   “A war,” Pallas murmured, “a real war would shatter this world.” He stared at the map knowing that it would soon have to be completely remade.

  The Lake District, 8th of Lammas

  Following the paladin and the alm wasn’t difficult for Declan. The two moved slowly, seemingly taking their time at every turn. Upon leaving Sulecin, they took a rather common path that was unrushed but avoided the usual Cathedral business—marriage blessings and family tithes, birth benedictions, dying sanctifications, blessings for new buildings, absolution indulgences, etc. Even a lowly friar usually had a day filled with weaseling coin from common folk for indulgences of some sort. These two, however, meandered through the outskirt villages and unnamed towns that encircled the city of The Cathedral calling on no one, collecting nothing, but still taking their sweet time. Declan felt no love for The Cathedral bleeding of the folk, yet these two were driving him insane.

  To the people of the Lake District, of Cassubia, so commonplace was the presence of Cathedral authority that these two travelers raised no eyebrows. In fact, it was only the alm who insisted on inflicting herself on people. She made it a point to stop to aid the peasantry at every chance, whether they wanted or needed it. The paladin seemed indifferent yet never hesitated to help, never once attempting to hurry her along.

  When they passed out of the Lakes proper at Carlisle’s Crossing, they paused only long enough to re-check their gear and add a small amount of supplies. Declan realized that it’d be more conspicuous to shadow these two from afar; he needed to get in close. Carlisle’s Crossing would be the best place to cozy up to the two. The crossing wasn’t so much a village as an outpost, a way station, for pilgrims to get their bearings on their way to The Cathedral or out to the other realms. Those heading away from The Cathedral got onto the great highroads that headed south to Havan and further on to Anhra, as well as east to Ardavass or Elixem, and though it happened hardly at all these days, west to Essia.