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JOURNAL Entry Four

Yu’Serda, First City of T’Oridrea


It has been slightly more than four moonphases since we were shipwrecked near the mouth of the Medvir Bight, and two days since I found a few sheets on which to resume this cursed journal. Wouldn’t you know it, but they were folded and secreted in the back of one of Druadaen’s fool books. Did he simply forget he had a few spare pages there? Or were they stashed away in case he ran out of a ready supply, like a drunkard keeps a spare bottle in hiding? Knowing him, my bet is on the latter.

Unlike him, I use as few words as possible. So here’s all posterity needs to know about our return to populated lands. Striking south, we ambushed bandits for new kit (and a new body for the dragon), and then marched hard for the border of Rettarisha. We only stopped to hunt. Oh, and twice, we came across a few standing rocks that I first took to be carved either by contrary winds or madmen’s hands. Possibly both. S’ythreni and Varcaxtan looked and found carvings along the bottom, almost wiped away by gods knows how many years. They had us give them all a wide berth, convinced they were Yylm shrines. If so, these fallen Iavarain must worship contorted eels lined with tentacles and a head at either end.

I cannot say exactly when we crossed the border because there was nothing to mark it. However, at a guess, we traveled near twenty leagues before seeing the smoke of a hamlet. Except that when we came closer, it turned out to be naught but a few sturdy-walled farmhouses joined together by a rough palisade. Wheedle as we might, the folk there wouldn’t come out and wouldn’t let us in. But at least they told us that there was a seaport but a few days’ walk to the southwest, one where “real ships” put in. At first I feared they might mean anything bigger than a rowboat, but they explained that some carried passengers as well as cargo to the “great cities” of Rettarisha. By their account, it meant at most half a week’s sail, whereas reaching them afoot was the work of a moonphase.

So we headed southwest and discovered that the “seaport” didn’t even have so much as a pier, just a beach for careening small ships and an anchorage dotted with old, battered floats. Happily, though, a half-decked bark was riding at anchor when we arrived, freshly returned to the water from the beach, judging from the ruts in the sand. Its captain made his scant pennies hauling small cargos, dragging for fish, and taking on (very infrequent) passengers. He’d only put in to what he called “this cove” to caulk a few leaky seams and replace a split plank; love-taps from canoe-paddling raiders north of the border.

However, inasmuch as he was ready to sail on the morrow and we were obviously not unfamiliar with weapons-play, he offered less than half his usual fee for carrying us to the city that Varcaxtan recommended: Ofthrafarg. The capital and first port of Varda, by his reck, it offered the highest chance of finding a ship willing to take us to Mirroskye at the lowest cost in coin and trouble. So we gladly took the captain’s terms, but no sooner had we babbled our eager agreement than we saw a new problem it put before us: getting our hands on ready funds.

Oh, we had more than enough of value from the salvaged box. Besides our best armor, weapons, Elweyr’s alchemical kit and books (and Druadaen’s as well), we’d included a sturdy wallet of gems, silver, and small gold ingots. A tidy stash and handy, too.

But a stash that is handy can also be a problem. Because when you want a great deal of value in a package of little size and weight, it means you’re leaving out the humbler coins used in small trades and small towns.

Now to those who don’t travel much, that might not sound like a problem at all; better too rich than too poor, eh? And that’s true enough—except who wants to buy a mess of groats with an ingot of gold? So we had to scurry about the “cove” looking for a money changer who could assay the proofe of our coins as well as those less valuable ones he’d give us in fair exchange.

As I wrote the word “proofe,” I realized that I’ve once again run up against one of the thrice-blasted annoyances of keeping this journal: explaining a word sure to be unknown to some readers and probably most of posterity. And while I’m sure any full-blooded Dunarran would have two quibbles for every one word I write about “proofe”… well, they’re not here and I don’t give gods’ damns.

By rights, though, it should be a Dunarran explaining proofe, since they were the ones who worked it out back in the First Consentium. Before then, moneychangers and merchants could only argue about the worth of the coins they pushed across tables at each other. Alloys, dross, shaving, and sheer stupidity made an agreement on value slightly more rare than a bird with hooves. But the Dunarrans devised a system that, with a sensitive scale the right set of dyes and humours, and a few fine lenses, could quickly muddle through all that and fix the actual value of any coin. And when their First Consentium collapsed (or “retracted”: depends who’s telling the tale), two things remained in place wherever it had been: its roads and its “proofe.”

Happily, one of the local shopkeeps also traded with passing ships. So, having a need, he kept the means to be sure that any coin passing through his hands was proofe.

Once we’d surrendered a few dozen silver for a great many billon marks and copper pence, we asked the fellow which cities had fair markets in which to trade our gems. Learning that we were bound for Varda, he bobbed his head and smiled. “Well, then, ye’ll be a-right. But if yeh wander T’Oridrea-way, ye won’t be.” Why? we asked. The explanation that followed was so tangled that I had to pore over one of Druadaen’s books to finally get the gist of his warnings. Jewels are not only measured and poked and ogled more closely in T’Oridrea than any other realm known to man or beast, but the process involves—gods help us!—all manner of arguers-at-law.

Our first days aboard the little bark were as dull and slow as the wind, which resented having to puff into our sails at all. I’d meant to teach the dragon how to use a sword, but before I could, I was waylaid and held fast in clutches that surprised me more than any I’d known before: two of Druadaen’s books! Worse still, I only remembered to tutor the old wyrm in mayhem when the sun was about to fall into the sea.

Two days out from Varda, I had reason to repent that failure: genuine pirates appeared astern and gave chase. We equipped ourselves and stood ready, but the captain made a wise, if hard, choice: to sail according to the wind, not his plot. So we steered whatever course filled our sails best, which in turn filled him with confidence that this time (unlike his run-in with the canoe-paddling raiders), discretion could be the better part of valor. The only drawback was that to keep close with the wind, he had to sheer away from the coast and risk open waters long enough to lose the pursuers.

Who, it turned out, were in no mood to allow us to escape. They chased us for the better part of two days before disappearing beneath the horizon during the second night. Our captain brooded over a powerful urge to cut back for the coast right away, but good seamanship and better sense told him that was where the reavers would wait if they’d not sworn off. So he held due south for two more days before edging back toward land.

Which, when it broke above the eastern horizon, turned out to be T’Oridrea. In running before the pirates, we’d overshot Varda. Still, safe harbor was safe harbor, so he made for it gladly. But before the dullest chase and escape I’ve ever known came to an end, I was resolved to finish the work I’d started. No, not tutoring the dragon—I was a right pillock, there—but scanning the needful bits in Druadaen’s bloody book.

Now, mind you: it’s not that I don’t read. I do. When I get the chance. And the spirit moves me. And I don’t have something better to do. It’s never been a habit, and certainly not a near-religious devotion as with Druadaen. But now, I’m wondering—and fearing for my mind!—that some similar malady has infected me, leaping into my body from right out of the pages of this book! Maybe that’s how The Philosopher caught the disease, himself: toiling away his youth in that musty old Archive Esoterica or Exotica or whatever the Dunarrans call that damned mausoleum.

I might have gone through my life, happily immune to this madness, if he’d never packed a handy little tome that natters on about the particulars of the area in which we find ourselves: the Ballashan Littoral.

The Ballash-folk were the first to raise up empires on this coast once the Cataclysm had finished shaking it about. The people here still call themselves “Ballashan,” which is wishful thinking, at best; from the start, those empires kept (or were taken by) a long parade of tribute tribes and mercenaries, to say nothing of visits by Dunarra’s Consentium and Mihal’j’s refugees. And while Ballashan may be the root of the language, it’s been bounced around by whatever foreigners have tarried within, or along, the Littoral. The one exception—Taruildor—is also the only inland nation and has separate roots. Seems to prefer it that way, too.

The scribbler responsible for this book claims that the Ballashan empires left their strongest mark upon the habits and traditions that shape the doings of both realms and families. For instance, in all these nations, the final power doesn’t ripple out from the throne, but pours out from the doors of those families known for the steady flow of coin and leaders—called sazhas—they’ve loosed upon the country.

Of course, once those who hold power agree amongst themselves that it’s their gods-given right to keep hold of it, well, that’s pretty much the end of any change in that land. Gone is any hope to rise above one’s birth or station. And so, it’s no different from life under the Ballashan emperors, who are echoed every time some modern sazha explains that their land’s happy “stillness” (maybe the correct translation is “paralysis”?) means that there’s none of the chop and churn that leads to civil wars, either those that brew up between houses or against kings. To some, such prattle may sound like wisdom, but to my unwashed ear it sounds like a half-truth that can only survive if the other half is strangled. And while I’m the last man to welcome the death and waste of wars, the banning of them has never put an end to the pettiness and greed that causes them.

So I was hardly surprised to read that, just as night follows day, the Ballashan became, and have remained, dab hands at plotting assassinations, cajoling lesser houses into trade wars, and bribing faithless bravos to grab or gut the properties of common folk who dare resist. These struggles between the sazhas are a way of life, and those whose skills secure their masters’ victories become models for the most sought foot soldiers in these not-wars: liars, toadies, informants, and backstabbers. Small wonder that the appearance of things became more important than their worth, that pageantry and flaunting riches undid any last ties to pointless notions such as oaths and honor.

The most useful pages of the book were those that described the Littoral’s five present nations. Among them T’Oridrea makes the best—and loudest—claim to direct Ballashan roots, if for no other reason than the first sazha of the Ballashans was from that land. Whether that’s still (or was ever) something to brag about… well, that’s another matter. But for good or ill, the last few sazhas have been more than happy to follow in their fathers’ ways, some of which are not just blinkered but downright barmy.

Take for instance their belief that there’s an eldritch power of prophesy within cats. Yes, cats. From sazha to serf, if your cat shows interest in a guest—whether to rub against their legs or hiss at them from a high shelf—that’s held to augur how the outcome of the visit or what may come from it. As if that isn’t mad enough, it gave rise to the most daft hanging offense I ever hope to hear of: in T’Oridrea, if a person in a public place is found to be carrying even a small sachet of catnip, it earns them a rope collar.

Another choice bit of strangeness arises from the nobles’ need to replace power with prestige. Which means that open battles are replaced with, well, arch snubbery. According to the book, this dates back to one or more early wars that were fought over whose jewels were the most beautiful. Started as a contest between the wives of two sazhas and wound up in battles that left thousands dead, including both husbands and one of the wives. After that, wearing precious stones outside one’s abode, or to any gathering, was forbidden. But the sazhas (and probably their wives) weren’t willing to give up their contests over who could squander the most coin, so they put their jewels away and began buying land pearls.

Petty cretins that they were, they wasted no time shifting their old jewelry jealousies over to the land pearls and never once saw any irony that they are naught but the waste of rock snails. Didn’t matter, of course; one piece of rubbish was as good as the next when it came to jockeying for position. Just as it had been with gems, a slight to the pearl was a slight to the wearer. The same duels and vendettas resulted.

Not to be spared the madness of their social betters, poorer and crafty sazhas learned how to create faithful copies, using a process much like the one by which beads are made. When that was discovered, a special guild arose to test whether what appeared to be land pearl was, in fact, a land pearl. That led to a way of making better fakes, which led to better tests, and round and round until the Great Sazha finally decreed that all the land pearls must go, just like the jewels before them. So, in the end, even the most legendary and precious of these shiny gobs of snail shite disappeared, stored beside the dusty gemstones in the thrice-locked treasuries of all true aristocrats. But the common folk had the last laugh, because the wearing of simple beads had spread widely among them and continues to this very day, whether as signs of rank, marks of allegiance, or merely eye-pleasing ornaments.

Most of the other nations are cut from much the same inherited cloth. By population, the largest is our missed destination of Varda. Originally a poorer cousin to T’Oridrea, it was often a haven for landless peasants, criminals, exiled sazhas or vassals, and other outcasts from the old empire’s rigid social order. It became matters of pride that they were always full-ready to reject the bastards who’d rejected them and that displays of wealth were to be met with scorn and savage parody. So it was that, more out of cussedness than conviction, they came to value competence, fairness, and toughness. Despite the social differences that still exist, any grown person—man or woman—may challenge anyone else if a “premagistrate” approves their claim of injury. The matter may be settled by contest or trial, but it seems that most prefer to duel.

Rettarisha, the northernmost of the Littoral lands, has more Torvan in its language and habits than the others. As one would expect of the descendants of those wandering warrior (some say barbarian) tribes, the monarch must answer to the nobles, and it is they who are responsible for upholding the common law. Mostly.

The last of the four nations is not Ballashan and not really part of the Littoral. With the exception of ten miles of mostly useless coastline, Taruildor is an inland nation descended from tribes that the empire invited to live nearby in exchange for their protection. The country’s language, customs, and warrior code are a hodgepodge of what the Torvan and Connyl peoples brought with them when they arrived to dwell in and guard the mountain range that shielded T’Oridrea from invasions coming up out of the Shapnapa Desert. Proudly (not to say stubbornly) set in their own ways, they never adopted Ballashan manners or speech, but kept to the hills and stony valleys of the land they’d paid for in blood.

That was the last I read from the book before we stepped over the little bark’s side to set foot on the wharves of Yu’Serda, first city of T’Oridrea. It took a while to get our bearings; these docks are the liveliest and most confusing I have ever seen.

But I cannot deny that, except for the occasional hide-shawled and dour Taruildorean, the noisy, haggling throngs seem perfectly happy with the arrangement. There’s a mood on the planks and among the roped-off tables of fare and of chance that if you have business in Yu’Serda, you should be hoarse and sweaty with the doing of it—or you’re just not trying hard enough. And so the great, gaudy show remained loud and frantic as the sun sank over the purple horizon of the Great Western Ocean. Newly arrived merchants began replacing those who, business concluded, retired to the rope-pubs and settled back with drinks or pipes or spiced nuts in hand to watch the next act in the continuing drama of shoulder-shoving trade and barter.

And gods be shocked, but before leaving to find lodging, we saw a familiar face in one of the larger bazaars: Captain Firinne of the Swiftsure, she who’d provided our first passage from Dunarra to Far Amitryea, now a year and a few odd-moonphases ago. It took us a bit of walking and patience to find a quiet—well, less deafening—spot in the lee of double-stacked crates. We traded news, during which she learned of our long walk from the Medvir Bight and peculiar circumstances. She tsked mightily upon learning how the ship from Uershael lost its way and foundered, and was so generous as to once again offer us working passage to any place on her route or any short detour to a destination that was beneficial for the Swiftsure, as well.

Before any of us could reply, Varcaxtan hastily revealed that we’d already chatted with a few captains, including one who was also owner-aboard on a free merchant out of Menara. He was already heading south around Anatha Damianna, had the berths to give us passage to his home port, or any other on the way there. And although there’d been no promises made, he’d hinted that he might be amenable to accepting a lower fare if we agreed to protect his hull while aboard.

Firinne nodded her understanding, made suggestions for lodgings that were unlikely to prove fatal choices, and wished us very well. We returned her courtesies, careful not to let on that Varcaxtan had, well, if not lied, made it sound like we’d had many discussions about possible passage with many captains. In fact, the only who had free berths was the one who ran the merchantman out of Menara, but who hadn’t responded one way or the other when we offered to defend the ship in exchange for passage. As Firinne departed, none of us asked why he’d not shared the simple truth with her; that we were bound for Mirroskye. After all, it was now behind her, not before.

As we made our way off the wharves, Varcaxtan in the lead, the rest of us traded occasional glances that confirmed what we all suspected: that each of us was eager to ask him the same question. But we didn’t do so until we’d plunked down our belongings in the cheapest place to sleep, a “salt flop”: that is, rooms for mariners on a short stay, without meals or even a privy. S’ythreni (always shy and retiring) was the one who started the inquisition, pressing him to explain why he’d lied at all, much less to a fellow Dunarran who’d proven herself our friend on several occasions.

“To protect her,” he said miserably.

“How so?” asked Umkhira with a deeper frown than usual.

Elweyr nodded, first to understand. “Because when she makes port anywhere in Dunarra, she’ll be honor bound to report her conversation with him.”

Varcaxtan nodded. “It’s a near certainty she doesn’t yet know that my location might be of especial interest to the Consentium. And if some temple’s testy orthologe gets wind of her report, they may be able to pressure the Propretoriate to detain her.”

“To what end?” asked Cerven.

“Why, to gather a detailed account of her meeting with me, and perhaps, her dealings with Druadaen and his associates.” He looked meaningfully around at us. “Besides, if I’d let on we were bound for Mirroskye, she might even have decided to detour there as a favor.”

I nodded. “She’s done as much before. And gods only know that if she did that and then made her report, I doubt the Propretor Princeps himself could have convinced the temples that she’d given us passage innocently.”

“It is unfortunate that the powerful temples and mantics of Dunarra cannot be asked for help,” Umkhira said, “inasmuch as they are the ones who seem most knowledgeable about the portals that we seek.”

Varcaxtan tilted his head slightly. “Well, Lightstrider, it was probably Dunarrans manipulating the portals in question, but Ahearn’s ring is right; we’ll do best seeking counsel from the Uulamantre. They’ve deep knowledge of such mancery.”

“More than Dunarrans?” Umkhira wondered.

“Much more. We’re latecomers to any kind of cosmancy. And even if that wasn’t the case, any mention of Druadaen or me will not quicken any helpful hearts in our own land.”

S’ythreni’s voice was sly. “What about unofficial help?”

Varcaxtan glanced at her, kindly but firm. “Alva S’ythreni, what would you think of me if I were to involve old friends in troubles that invite the scrutiny of both the temples and the state?”

She blinked, lowered her chin slightly, and murmured, “Veth, Attu’tir Varcaxtan.”

I’d never heard the title Attu’tir before, but I waited until all of us were busy with unpacking our kits before drifting over to Elweyr and muttering, “Attu’tir? That’s a new one to me.”

Elweyr leaned close and whispered, “It is a term reserved for non-Iavarain. It means ‘honored.’ Few of us earn that title.”

Well, I suppose that’s what I get, trading one Dunarran for another! With them, it’s always lofty titles and loftier chatter as thick as the moss on a tinker’s roof. Hopefully all my learned companions will be able to set their blinkin’ eloquence aside long enough to mingle with the earthy crowd down by the docks. At least until we’ve found a ship to Mirroskye.


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