Ratibor
Entering the city of Ratibor at night, Arista thought it the most filthy, wretched place she could ever imagine. Streets lay in random, confusing lines crisscrossing intersections as they ran off at various odd angles. Refuse was piled next to every building and narrow dirt thoroughfares were appalling mires of mud and manure. Wooden planks created a network of haphazard paths and bridges over the muck, forcing people to parade in lines like tightrope walkers. The houses and shops were as miserable as the roads. Constructed to fit in the spaces left by the street's odd, acute corners, buildings were shaped like wedges of cheese, giving the city a strange splintered appearance. The windows, shut tight against the reeking smell, were opaque with thick grime, repeatedly splashed by passing wagons.
Ratibor reveled in its filth like a poor man was proud of calluses on his hands. She had heard of its reputation, but until experiencing it firsthand she didn't truly understand. It was a workingman's city, a struggling city, where no quarter was expected or given. Here, men bore poverty and misfortune as badges of honor, deriving dubious prestige from contests of woe over tankards of ale.
Idlers and vagabonds, hawkers and thieves moved along the plank ways, appearing and disappearing again into the shadows. There were children on the street-orphans by the look-ragged and pitiful waifs covered in filth, crouching under porches. Small families also moved amongst the crowds. Tradesmen with their wives and children carried bundles or wheeled over-filled carts, loaded with all of their worldly possessions. Each looked exhausted and destitute as they trudged through the city's maze.
The rain started not long after they left Amberton Lee and poured the entire trip. She was soaked through. Her hair lay matted to her face, her fingers pruned, and her hood collapsed about her head. Arista followed Royce as he led them through the labyrinth of muddy streets. The cool night wind blew the downpour in sheets, making her shiver. During the trip she looked forward to reaching the city. Although it was not what she expected, anything indoors would be welcomed.
"Care for a raincoat, mum?" A hawker asked, holding a garment up for Arista to see. "Only five silver!" he continued, as she showed no sign of slowing her horse. "How about a new hat?"
"Either of you gentlemen looking for companionship for the night?" called a destitute woman standing on a plank beneath the awing of a closed dry-goods shop. She flipped back her hair and smiled alluringly, revealing missing teeth.
"How about a nice bit of poultry for an evening meal?" another man asked, holding up a dead bird so thin and scraggly it was hardly recognizable as a chicken.
Arista shook her head, saying nothing but urging her horse forward.
Signs were everywhere-nailed to porch beams or attached to tall stakes driven into the mud, they advertised things like: "Ale, Cider, Mead, Wine, No Credit!" and "Three-day-old pork-cheap!" But some were more ominous such as, "Beggars will be jailed!" and "All elves entering the city must register at the sheriff's office." This last poster's paint was still bright.
Royce stopped at a public house with a signboard of a grotesque cackling face and the scripted epitaph, which read: The Laughing Gnome. The tavern stood three stories, a good-size even by Colnora's standards, yet people still struggled to squeeze in the front door. Inside the place smelled of damp clothes and wood smoke. A large crowd filled the common room such that Hadrian had to push his way through.
"We're looking for the proprietor," Royce told a young man carrying a tray.
"That would be Ayers. He's the gray-haired gent behind the bar."
"It's true I tell you!" A young man with fiery red hair was saying loudly as he stood in the center of the common room. To whom he was speaking, Arista was not certain. It appeared to be everyone. "My father was a Praleon Guard. He served on His Majesty's personal retinue for twenty years."
"What does that prove? Urith and the rest of them died in the fire. No one knows how it started."
"The fire was set by Androus!" shouted the red-haired youth with great conviction. Abruptly the room quieted. The young man was not content with this, however, and he took the stunned paused to press his point. "He betrayed the king, killed the royal family, and took the crown so he could hand the kingdom over to the empress. Good King Urith would never have accepted annexation into the Empire, and those loyal to his name shouldn't either."
The crowd burst into an uproar of angry shouts.
In the midst of this outburst, they reached the bar, where a handful of men stood watching the excitement with empty mugs in hand.
"Mr. Ayers?" Royce asked of a man and a boy as they struggled to hoist a fresh keg onto the rear dock.
"Who wants to know?" the man in a stained apron asked. A drop of sweat dangled from the tip of his red nose, his face flushed from exertion.
"We're looking to rent a pair of rooms."
"Not much luck of that, we're full up," Ayers replied, not pausing from his work. "Jimmy, jump up and shim it." The young lad, filthy with sweat and dirt, leapt up on the dock and pushed a wooden wedge under the keg, tilting it forward slightly.
"Do you know of availability elsewhere in the city?" Hadrian asked.
"Gonna be the same all over, friend. Every boarding house is full-refugees been coming in from the countryside for weeks."
"Refugees?"
"Yeah, the Nationalists have been marching up from the coast sacking towns. People been running ahead of them and most come here. Not that I mind-been great for business."
Ayers pulled a tap out of the old keg and hammered it into the face of the new barrel with a wooden mallet. He turned the spigot and drained a pint or two to clear the sediment, and then wiping his hands on his apron began filling the demands of his customers.
"Is there no place to find lodging for the night?"
"I can't say that, just no place I know of," Ayers replied, and finally took a moment to wipe a sleeve over his face and clear the drop from his nose. "Maybe some folks will rent a room in their houses, but all the inns and taverns are packed. I've even started to rent floor space."
"Is there any left?" Hadrian asked, hopefully.
"Any what?"
"Floor space? It's raining pretty hard out there."
Ayers lifted his head up and glanced around his tavern. "I've got space under the stairs that no one's taken yet. If you don't mind the people walking on top of you all night."
"It's better than the gutter," Hadrian said, shrugging at Royce and Arista. "Maybe tomorrow there will be a vacancy."
Ayers' face showed he doubted this. "If you want to stay it'll be forty-five silver."
"Forty-five?" Hadrian exclaimed stunned. "For space under the stairs? No wonder no one has taken it. A room at the Regal Fox in Colnora is only twenty!"
"Go there then, but if you want to stay here it will cost you forty-five silver-in tenents. I don't take those imperial notes they're passing now. It's your choice."
Hadrian scowled at Ayers but counted out the money just the same. "I hope that includes dinner."
Ayers' shook his head. "It doesn't."
They pushed and prodded their way through the crowd with their bags until they came to the wooden staircase. Beneath it, several people had discarded their wet cloaks on nail heads or on the empty kegs and crates stored there. They stacked the containers to make a cubby and threw the coats and cloaks on them. A few people shot them harsh looks-the owners of the cloaks no doubt-but no one said anything, as it appeared most understood the situation. Looking around, Arista saw others squatting in corners and along the edge of the big room. Some were families with children trying to sleep, their little heads resting on damp clothes. Mothers rubbed their backs and sung lullabies over the racket of loud voices, shifting wooden chairs, and the banging of pewter mugs. These were the lucky ones. She wondered about the families who could not afford floor space.
How many are cowering outside under a boardwalk or in a muddy alley somewhere in the rain?
As they settled, Arista noticed the noise of the inn was not simply the confusing sound of forty unrelated conversations, but rather one discussion voiced by several people with various opinions. From time to time one speaker would rise above the others to make a point, and then drown in the response from the crowd. The most vocal was the red-haired young man.
"No, he's not!" he shouted once more. "He's not a blood relative of Urith. He's the brother of Urith's second wife."
"And I suppose you think his first wife was murdered so he could be pushed into marrying Amiter, just so Androus could become duke?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying!" the youth declared. "Don't you see? They planned this for years, and not just here either. They did it in Alburn, Warric, they even tried it in Melengar, but they failed there. Did anyone see that play last year? You know-The Crown Conspiracy. It was based on real events. The children of Amrath outsmarted the conspirators. That's why Melengar hasn't fallen to the Empire. Don't you see? We're all the victims of a conspiracy. I've even heard that the empress might not exist. The whole story of the Heir of Novron is a sham, invented to placate the masses. Do you really think a farm girl could kill a great beast? It is men like Androus who control us-evil, corrupt murderous men without an ounce of royal blood in their veins, or honor in their hearts!"
"So what?" a fat man in a checked vest asked, defiantly. "What do we care who rules us? Our lot is always the same. You speak of matters between blue bloods. It doesn't affect us."
"You're wrong! How many men in this city were pressed into the army? How many are off to die for the empress? How many sons have gone to fight Melengar, who has never been our enemy? Now the Nationalists are coming. They are only a few miles south. They will sack this city just as they did Vernes, and why? Because we are now joined to the Empire. Do you think your sons, brothers and fathers would be off dying if Urith were still alive? Do you want to see Ratibor destroyed?"
"They won't destroy Ratibor!" the fat man shouted back. "You're just spouting rumors, trying to scare decent people and stir up trouble. Armies will fight, and maybe the city will change hands, but it won't affect us. We'll still be poor and still struggling to live as we always have. King Urith had his wars and Viceroy Androus will have his. We work, fight, and die under both of them. That's our lot and treasonous talk like this will only get people killed."
"They will burn the city," an older woman in a blue kerchief said suddenly. "Just as they burned Kilnar. I know. I was there. I saw them."
All eyes turned to her.
"That's not true! It can't be," the fat man protested. "It doesn't make sense. The Nationalists have no cause to burn the cities. They would want them intact."
"The Nationalists didn't burn it," she said. "The Empire did." This statement brought the room to stunned silence. "When the imperial government saw that the city would be lost, they ordered Kilnar to be torched to leave nothing for the Nationalists."
"It's true," a man seated with his family near the kitchen spoke up. "We lived in Vernes. I saw the city guards burning the shops and homes there, too."
"The same will happen here." The youth caught the crowd's attention once more. "Unless we do something about it."
"What can we do?" a young mother asked.
"We can join the Nationalists. We can give the city to them before the viceroy has a chance to torch it."
"This is treason," the fat man accused. "You'll bring death to us all!"
"The Empire took Rhenydd through deceit, murder, and trickery. I don't speak treason. I speak loyalty-loyalty to the monarchy. To sit by and let the Empire rape this kingdom and burn this city is treason and what's more it's foolhardy cowardice!"
"Are you calling me a coward?"
"No, sir, I am calling you a fool and a coward."
The fat man stood up indignantly and drew a dagger from his belt. "I demand satisfaction."
The youth stood and unsheathed a long sword. "As you wish."
"You would duel me sword against dagger and call me the coward?"
"I also called you a fool, and a fool it is who holds a dagger and challenges a man with a sword."
Several people in the room laughed at this, which only infuriated the fat man more. "Do you have no honor?"
"I'm but a poor soldier's son from in a destitute town. I can't afford honor." Again the crowd laughed. "I'm also a practical man who knows it's more important to win than to die-for honor is something that concerns only the living. But understand this, if you choose to fight me I'll kill you any way I can, the same as I'll try and save this city and its people any way I can. Honor and allegiance be damned!"
The crowd applauded now, much to the chagrin of the fat man. He stood red-faced for a moment then shoved his dagger back in his belt and abruptly stalked out the door into the rain.
"But how can we turn the city over to the Nationalists?" the old woman asked.
The youth turned to her. "If we raise a militia, we can raid the armory and storm the city garrison. After that, we'll arrest the viceroy. That will give us the city. The Imperial Army is camped a mile to the south, when the Nationalists attack they will expect to retreat to the safety of the city walls. But when they arrive, they will find the gates locked. In disarray and turmoil, they will rout and the Nationalists will destroy them. After that, we'll welcome the Nationalists in as allies. Given our assistance in helping them take the city, we can expect fair treatment and possibly even self-rule, as that is the Nationalists' creed.
"Imagine that," he said dreamily. "Ratibor, the whole city-the whole kingdom of Rhenydd-being run by a people's council just like Tur Del Fur!"
This clearly caught the imagination of many in the room.
"Craftsmen could own their own shops instead of renting. Farmers would own their land and be able to pass it tax-free to their sons. Merchants could set their own rates, and taxes wouldn't be used to pay for foreign wars but instead used to clean up this town. We could pave the roads, tear down the vacant buildings, and put all the people of the city to work doing it. We would elect our own sheriffs and bailiffs, but they would have little to do for what crime could there be in a free city? Freemen with their own property have no cause for crime."
"I would be willing to fight for that," a man seated with his family near the windows said.
"For paved roads-I would, too," said the elderly woman.
"I'd like to own my own land," another said.
Others voiced their interest and soon the conversation turned more serious. As it did, the level of the voices dropped and men clustered together to speak in small groups.
"You're not from Rhenydd are you?" someone asked Arista.
The princess nearly jumped when she discovered a woman had slipped up beside her. She was not immediately certain that it was a woman, as she was oddly dressed in dark britches and a man's loose shirt. With short blonde hair and dappled freckles, Arista initially thought she was an adolescent boy, but her eyes gave her away. They were heavy and deep as if stolen from a much older person.
"No," Arista said apprehensively.
The woman studied her. Her old eyes slowly moving over her body as if memorizing every line of her figure and every crease in her dress. "You have an odd way about you. The way you walk, the way you sit. It is all very…precise, very clean-proper."
Arista was over being startled now and was just plain irritated. "You don't strike me as the kind of person who should accuse others of being odd," she replied.
"There!" the woman said excitedly and wagged a finger. "See? Anyone else would have called me a mannish little whore. You have manners. You speak in subtle innuendo like a-princess."
"Who are you?" Hadrian abruptly intervened, moving between the two. Royce also slipped from the shadows and appeared behind the strange woman.
"Who are you?" she replied, saucily.
The door to The Laughing Gnome burst open and uniformed imperial guards poured in. Tables were turned over and drinks hit the floor. Customers nearest the door fell back in fear, cowering in the corners, or were pushed aside.
"Arrest everyone!" a man ordered in a booming voice. He was a big man with a potbelly, dark brows and sagging cheeks. He kept his weight on his heels and his thumbs in his belt as he glared at the crowd.
"What's this all about, Trenchon?" Ayers shouted from behind the bar.
"You would be smart to keep your hole shut, Ayers, or I'll close this tavern tonight and have you in stocks by morning-or worse. Harboring traitors and providing a meeting place for conspirators will buy you death at the post!"
"I didn't do nothing!" Ayers cried. "It was the kid. He's the one that started all the talk, and that woman from Kilnar. They're the ones. I just served drinks like every night. I'm not responsible for what customers say. I'm not involved in this. It was them and a few of the others who were going along with it."
"Take everyone in for questioning," Trenchon ordered. "We'll get to the bottom of this. I want the ring leaders!"
"This way," the mannish woman whispered grabbing hold of Arista's arm she began to pull the princess away from the soldiers toward the kitchen.
Arista pulled back.
The woman sighed. "Unless you want to have a long talk with the viceroy about who you are and what you're doing here, you'll follow me now."
Arista looked at Royce who nodded, but there was concern on his face. They grabbed up their bags and followed.
Starting at the main entrance, the imperial soldiers began hauling people out into the rain and mud. Women screamed and children cried. Those who resisted were beaten and thrown out. Some near the rear door tried to run only to find more soldiers waiting.
The mannish woman plowed through the crowd into the tavern's kitchen, where a cook looked over surprised. "Best look out," their guide said. "Trenchon is looking to arrest everyone."
The cook dropped her ladle in shock as they pressed by her, heading to the walk-in pantry. Closing the door, the woman revealed a trapdoor in the pantry's floor. They climbed down a short wooden stair into The Laughing Gnome's wine cellar. Several dusty bottles lined the walls, as did casks of cheese and containers of butter. The woman took a lantern that hung from the ceiling, and closing the door above, led them behind the wine racks to the cellar's far wall. Here was a metal grate in the floor. She wedged a piece of old timber in the bars and pried it up.
"Inside, all of you," she ordered.
Above, they could still hear the screams and shouts, then the sound of heavy boots on the kitchen floor.
"Hurry!" she hissed.
Royce entered first, climbing down metal rungs that formed a ladder. He slipped down into darkness and Hadrian motioned for the princess to follow. She took a deep breath as if going underwater and climbed down.
The ladder continued far deeper than Arista would have expected and instead of the tight, cramped tunnel she anticipated, she found herself dropping into a large gallery. All was dark except around the lantern, and without pause or word of direction the woman set off walking. They had no choice but to follow her light.
They were in a sewer far larger and grander than Arista imagined possible after seeing the city above. Walls of brick and stone rose twelve-feet to a roof of decorative mosaic tiles. Every few feet grates formed waterfalls that spilled from the ceiling, raining down with a deafening roar. Storm water formed a rushing river in the center of the tunnel that frothed and foamed as it churned around corners or broke upon dividers, spraying walls and staining them dark.
They chased the woman with the lantern as she moved quickly along the brick curb near the wall. Like ribs supporting the ceiling, thick stone archways jutted out at regular intervals, blocking their path. The woman skirted around these easily, but it was much harder for Arista in her gown to traverse the columns and keep her footing on the slick stone curb. Below her, the storm's runoff created a fast-flowing river of dirty water and debris that echoed in the chamber.
The corridor reached a four-way intersection. In the stone at the top corners were chiseled small notations. These read, "Honor Way" going one direction and "Herald's Street" going the other. The woman with the lantern never wavered and turned without a pause, leading them down Honor Way at a breakneck pace. Abruptly she stopped.
They stood on a curb beside the sewer river. It was like any other part of the corridor they had traveled, except perhaps it was a bit wider and quieter.
"Before we go further I must be certain," she began. "Allow me to make this easier by guessing the lady here is actually Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar. You are Hadrian Blackwater, and you are Duster, the famous Demon of Colnora. Am I correct?"
"That would make you a Diamond," Royce said.
"At your service." She smiled, and Arista thought how cat-like her face was in that she appeared both friendly and sinister at the same time. "You can call me Quartz."
"In that case, you can assume you are correct."
"Thanks for getting us out of there," Hadrian offered.
"No need to thank me, it's my job and in this particular case, my happy pleasure. We didn't know where you were since leaving Colnora, but I was hoping you would happen by this way. Now follow me."
Off she sprang again, and Arista once more struggled to follow.
"How is this here?" Hadrian asked from somewhere behind her. "This sewer is incredible but the city above has dirt roads."
"Ratibor wasn't always Ratibor," Quartz shouted back. "Once it was something bigger. All that's been forgotten-buried like this sewer under centuries of dirt and manure."
They moved on down the tunnel until they came to an alcove, little more than a recessed area surrounded by brick. Quartz leaned up against a wooden panel and gave a strong shove. The back shifted inward slightly. She put her fingers in the crack and slid the panel sideways, exposing a hidden tunnel. They slipped in, and traveled up a short set of steps to a wooden door. There was light seeping around its cracks and voices on the far side. Quartz knocked and opened it revealing a large subterranean chamber filled with people.
Tables, chairs, desks, and bunk beds stacked four high filled the room lit by numerous candles that spilled a wealth of waxy tears. A fire burned in a blackened cooking hearth where a huge iron pot was suspended by a swivel arm. Several large chests lay open, displaying sorted contents of silverware, candlesticks, clothes, hats, cloaks, and even dresses. Still other chests held purses, shoes, and rope. At least one was partially filled with coins, mostly copper, but Arista spotted a few silver and an occasional gold tenent sparkling in the firelight. This last chest they closed the moment the door opened.
A dozen people filled the room, all young thin predators, each dressed in odd assortments of clothing.
"Welcome to the Rat's Nest," Quartz told them. "Rats, let me introduce you to the three travelers from Colnora." Shoulders settled, hands pulled back from weapons, and Arista heard a number of exhales. "The older gent back there is Polish." Quartz pointed over some heads at a tall, thin man with a scraggly beard and drooping eyes sporting a tall black hat and a dramatic-looking cloak like something a bishop would wear. "He's our fearless leader."
This comment drew a round of laughter.
"Damn you, Quartz!" a young boy no older than twelve cursed her.
"Sorry, Carat," she told him. "They just walked into The Gnome while I was there."
"We heard the Imps just crashed The Gnome," Polish said.
"Aye, they did." Quartz gleamed.
Eyes left them and focused abruptly on Quartz, who allowed herself a dramatic pause as she took a seat on a soft, beat-up chair, throwing her legs over the arm in a cavalier fashion. She obviously enjoyed the attention as the members of the room gathered around her.
"Emery was speeching again," she began like a master storyteller to an anxious audience. "This time people were actually listening. He might have got something started, but he got under Laven's skin. Laven challenged him to a duel, but Emery says he'll fight sword to dagger, which really irks Laven and he storms out of The Gnome. Emery should'a known to beat it then, but the dispute with Laven gets him in real good with the crowd see, so he keeps going."
Arista noticed the thieves hanging on every word. They were enthralled as Quartz added to her tale's drama with sweeping arm gestures.
"Laven, being the bastard that he is, goes to Bailiff Trenchon, right? And returns with the town garrison. They bust in and start arresting everyone for treason."
"What'd Ayers do?" Polish asked, excitedly.
"What could he do? He says, 'What's going on?' and they tell him to shut up, so he does."
"Anyone killed?" Carat asked.
"None that I saw, but I had to beat it out of there real quick like to save our guests here."
"Did they take Emery?"
"I suppose so, but I didn't see it."
Polish crossed the room to face them up close. He nodded as if in approval and pulled absently on his thin beard.
"Princess Arista," he said formally, and tipped his hat as he made a clumsy bow. "Please excuse the place. We don't often entertain guests of your stature here, and quite frankly, we didn't know when, or even if, you'd be coming."
"If we had known, we'd have at least washed the rats!" someone in the back shouted, bringing more laughter.
"Quiet, you reprobate. You must forgive them, my lady. They are the lowest form of degenerates and their lifestyle only aggravates their condition. I try to elevate them, but as you can see, I have been less than successful."
"That's because you're the biggest blackguard here, Polish," Quartz shot at him.
Polish ignored the comment and moved to face Royce.
"Duster?" he said, raising an eyebrow.
At the sound of the name, the whole room quieted and everyone pushed forward to get a better look.
"I thought he was bigger," someone said.
"That's not Duster," Carat declared, bravely stepping forward. "He's just an old man."
"Carat," Quartz said dismissively, "the cobbler's new puppy is old compared to you."
This brought forth more laughter and Carat kicked Quartz's feet off the chair's arm. "Shut up, freckle face."
"The lad makes a good point," Polish said.
"I don't have that many freckles," Quartz countered.
Polish rolled his eyes. "No, I meant just how do we really know this is Duster and the princess? Could be the Imps knew we were looking and are setting us up. Do you have any proof about who you are?"
As he said this, Arista noticed Polish let his hand drift casually to the long black dagger at his belt. Others in the room began to spread out, making slow but menacing movements. Only Quartz remained at ease on her chair.
Hadrian looked a bit concerned as Royce cast off his cloak, letting it fall to the floor. Eyes narrowed on him as they stared at the white-bladed dagger in his belt. Everyone waited anxiously for his next move. Royce surprised them by slowly unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it down to expose his left shoulder, revealing a scarred brand in the shape of an M. Polish leaned forward and studied the scar. "The Mark of Manzant," he said, and his expression changed to one of wonder. "Duster is the only living man known to escape that prison."
They all nodded and murmured in awed tones as Royce put his cloak back on.
"He still doesn't look like no monster to me," Carat said with disdain.
"That's only because you've never seen him first thing in the morning," Hadrian told him. "He's an absolute fiend until he's had breakfast."
This brought a chuckle from the Diamonds and a reluctant smile from Carat.
"Now that that's settled, can we get to business?" Royce asked. "You need to send word to the Jewel that Etcher is a traitor and find out if a meeting has been setup with Gaunt."
"All in good time," Polish said. "First we have a very important matter to settle."
"That's right." Quartz came to life and leapt to her feet, taking a seat at the main table. "Pay up people!"
There were irritated grumblings as the thieves reluctantly pulled out purses and counted coins. They each set stacks of silver in front of Quartz. Polish joined her and they started counting together.
"You, too, Set," Quartz said. "You were down for half a stone."
When everyone was finished, Polish and Quartz divided the loot into two piles.
"And for being the one to find them?" she said, smiling at Polish.
Polish scowled and handed over a stack of silver to her, which she dropped into her own purse that was now bulging and so heavy she needed to use two hands to hold it.
"You bet we wouldn't make it here?" Arista asked.
"Most everyone did, yes," Polish replied, smiling.
"'Cept Polish and I," Quartz said happily. "Not that I thought you'd make it either, I just liked the odds and the chance for a big payoff if you did."
"Great minds, my dear," Polish told her as he too put his share away. "Great minds indeed."
Once his treasure was safely locked in a chest, Polish turned with a more serious look on his face. "Quartz, take Set and visit the Nationalists' camp. See if you can arrange a meeting. Take Degan Street, it will be the safest now."
"Not to mention poetic," Quartz said smiling at her own insight. She waved at Set who grabbed his cloak. "I know exactly how much is in my trunk," Quartz told everyone as she dropped her purse in a chest. "It had best be there when I come back or I'll make sure everyone pays."
No one scoffed or laughed. Apparently, when it came to money thieves did not make jokes.
"Yes, yes, now out with you two." Polish shooed them into the sewer, then turned to face the new guests. "Hmm, now what to do with you? We can't move around tonight with the city watch in a frenzy, besides the weather has been most unfriendly. Perhaps in the morning, we can find you a safe house, but for tonight I am afraid you will all have to stay here in our humble abode. As you can see, we don't have the finest accommodations for a princess."
"I'll be fine," she said.
Polish looked at her, surprised. "Are you sure you are a princess?"
"She's becoming more human every day," Hadrian said, smiling at her.
"You can sleep over here," Carat told them, bouncing on one of the bunks. "This is Quartz's bed and the one below is Set's. They'll be out all night."
"Thank you," Arista told him, taking a seat on the lower berth. "You're quite the gentleman."
Carat straightened up at the comment and puffed up his chest, smiling back at Arista fondly.
"He's a miserable thief, behind on his accounts is what he is," Polish admonished, pointing a finger. "You still owe me, remember?"
The boy's proud face dropped.
"I am surprised they already named a street after Degan Gaunt," Arista mentioned, changing the subject. "I had no idea he was that popular."
Several people snickered.
"You got it backward," an older man with a craggy face said.
"The street wasn't named after Gaunt," Polish explained. "Gaunt's mother named him after the street."
"Gaunt is from Ratibor?" Hadrian asked.
Polish looked at him as if he just questioned the existence of the sun. "Of course, he was just one of us until he went to sea as a young lad. They say he was captured by pirates and that's where his life changed and the legend began."
Hadrian turned to Royce. "See? Being raised in Ratibor isn't always such a bad thing."
"Duster is from Ratibor? Where 'bouts did you live?"
Royce kept his eyes on his pack. "Don't you think you should send someone with that message about Etcher back to Colnora? The Jewel will want to know about him immediately, and any delay could get people killed."
Polish wagged a finger at Royce. "I remember you, you know. We never met, but I was in the Diamond back when you were. You were quite the bigwig, telling everyone what to do." Polish allowed himself a snicker. "I suppose that's a hard habit to break, eh? Still, practice makes perfect," Polish turned away saying. "There are dry blankets here you can use. We'll see about better arrangements in the morning."
Royce and Hadrian rooted around in their bags. Arista watched them jealously. Etcher took her bundle with him. Maybe he wanted it as proof, or perhaps thought there could be something of value. In any case, he knew she would not need it. Most likely, he forgot her pack was still on the horse. The loss was not much, two mangled and dirty dresses, her night gown and robe, her kris dagger, and a blanket. The only thing she still had with her was the only thing she cared about, the hairbrush from her father, which she took out and attempted to tame the mess that was her hair.
"You have such a way with people, Royce," Hadrian mentioned as he opened another pack.
Royce growled something Arista could not make out and seemed overly focused on his gear. "Where did you live, Royce?" Arista asked. "When you were here."
There was a long pause. Finally he replied, "This isn't the first time I've slept in these sewers."
The sun had barely peeked over the horizon and already the air was hot, arriving with a stifling blanket of humidity. The rain stopped but clouds lingered, shrouding the sun in a milky haze. Puddles filled the streets, great pools of brown water, still as glass. A mongrel dog-thin and mangy-roamed the market sniffing garbage. Flushing a rat, the mutt chased it to the sewers. Having lost it, he lapped from the brown water then collapsed, panting. Insects appeared. Clouds of gnats formed over the larger puddles and biting flies circled the tethered horses. They fought them as best they could with a shake of their head, a stomp of their hooves, or a swish of their tail. Soon people appeared. Most were women clad in plain dresses. The few men were naked to the waist, and everyone went about barefoot, their legs caked with mud to their knees. They opened shops and stands displaying a meager assortment of fruits, eggs, vegetables, and some meat laid bare to the flies' delight.
Royce barely slept. Too wary to close his eyes for more than a few minutes at a time, he gave up rising sometime before dawn and made his way to the surface. He climbed on the bed of a wagon left abandoned in the mud and watched East End Square come alive. He had seen the sight before, only the faces were different. He hated this city. If it were a man, he would have slit its throat decades ago. The thought appealed to him as he stared at the muddy, puddle-filled square. Some problems were easily fixed by the draw of a knife, but others…
He was not alone.
Not long after first light, Royce spotted a boy lying under a cart in the mud, only his head visible above the ruts. For hours the two remained aware of each other, but neither acknowledged it. As the shops began to open the boy slipped from his muddy bed, crawled to one of the larger puddles, and washed some of the muck off. His hair remained caked with the gray clay, as he refused to submerge his head. Moving down the road, Royce saw he was nearly naked, and kept a small pouch tied around his neck. Royce knew the pouch held all of the boy's possessions. He imagined a small bit of glass for cutting, string, a smooth rock for hammering and breaking, and perhaps even a copper coin or two-it was a king's ransom that he would defend with his life, if it came to that.
The boy moved to an undisturbed puddle and drank deeply from the surface. Untouched rainwater was the best. Cleaner, fresher than well water, and much easier to get-much safer.
The boy kept a keen eye on him, constantly glancing over.
With his morning wash done, the lad crept around the cooper's shop, which was still closed. He hid himself between two tethered horses, rubbing their muddy legs. He glanced once more at Royce with an irritated look, and then threw a pebble in the direction of the grocer. Nothing happened. The boy searched for another, paused then threw again. This time the stone hit a pitcher of milk that toppled and spilled. The grocer howled in distress and rushed to save what she could. As she did, the boy made a dash to steal a small sour apple and an egg. He made a clean grab and was back around the corner of the cooper's barn before the grocer turned.
His chest heaved as he watched Royce. He paused only a moment then cracked the egg and spilled the gooey contents into his mouth swallowing with pleasure.
Over the waif's right shoulder, two figures approached. They were boys like him, but older and larger. One wore a pair of man's britches that extended to his ankles. The other wore a filthy tunic tied around his waist with a length of twine and a necklace made from a torn leather belt. The boy did not see them until it was too late. The two grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the street, where they forced his face into the mud. The bigger boys wrenched the apple from his hand and ripped the pouch from his neck before letting go.
Sputtering, gasping, and blind, the boy struggled to breathe. He came up swinging and found only air. The kid wearing the oversized britches kicked him in the stomach, crumpling the boy to his knees. The one wearing the tunic took a turn and kicked the boy once striking him in the side and landing him back in the mud. They laughed as they continued up Herald's Street, one holding the apple, the other swinging the neck pouch.
Royce watched the boy lying in the street. No one helped. No one noticed. Slowly the boy crawled back to his shelter beneath the wheel cart. Royce could hear him crying and cursing as he pounded his fist in the mud.
Feeling something on his cheek, Royce brushed away the wetness. He stood up, surprised his breathing was so shallow. He followed the plank walkway to the grocer, who smiled brightly at him.
"Terribly hot it is today, ain't it, sir?"
Royce ignored her. He picked out the largest, ripest apple he could find.
"Five copper if you please, sir."
Royce paid the woman without a word, then pulling a solid gold tenent from his pouch pressed it sideways into the fruit. He walked back across the square. This time he took a different path, one that passed by the cart the boy lie under and as he did, the apple slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud. He muttered a curse at his clumsiness, and continued his way up the street.
It was midmorning and the temperature turned oppressive. Arista was dressed in a hodge-podge of boyish clothes gleaned from the Diamond's stash. A shapeless cap hid most of her hair, a battered oversized tunic and torn trousers gave her the look of a hapless urchin. In Ratibor, this nearly guaranteed her invisibility. Hadrian guessed it was more comfortable than her heavy gown and cloak.
The three of them arrived at the intersection of Legends and Lore. There had been a brief discussion about leaving Arista in the Rat's Nest, but after Hintindar, Hadrian was reluctant to have her out of his sight.
The thoroughfares of the two streets formed one of the many acute angles so prevalent in the city. Here a pie shape church dominated. Made of stone, the building stood out among its wooden neighbors, a heavy, over-built structure more like a fortress than a place of worship.
"Why a Nyphron church of all things?" Hadrian asked as they reached the entrance. "Maybe we got it wrong. I don't even know what I'm looking for."
Royce nudged Hadrian and pointed at the corner stone. Chiseled into its face, the epitaph read:
Established 2992
"Before you were born, the year ninety-two," he whispered. "I doubt it's a coincidence."
"Churches keep accounts concerning births, marriages, and deaths in their community," Arista pointed out. "If there was a battle where people died, there could be a record."
Pulling on the thick oak doors, Hadrian found them locked. He knocked and when no response came, knocked again. He pounded with his fist then, and just as Royce began looking for another way in, the door opened.
"I'm sorry, but services aren't until tomorrow," an elderly priest announced. He was dressed in the usual robes. He had a balding head and a wrinkled face that peered through the small crack of the barely opened door.
"That's okay, I'm not here for services," Hadrian replied. "I was hoping I could get a look at the church records."
"Records?"
Hadrian glanced at Arista. "I heard churches keep records on births and deaths."
"Oh yes, but why do you want to see them?"
"I'm trying to find out what happened to someone." The priest looked skeptical. "My father," he added.
Understanding washed over the priest's face and he beckoned them in.
As Hadrian expected, it was oppressively dark. Banks of candles burned on either side of the altar and at various points around the worship hall, each doing more to emphasize the darkness than provide illumination.
"We actually keep very good records here," the priest mentioned as he closed the door behind them. "By the way, I'm Monsignor Bartholomew. I am watching over the church while his reverence Bishop Talbert is away on pilgrimage to Ervanon. And you are?"
"Hadrian Blackwater." He gestured to Royce and Arista. "These are friends of mine."
"I see, then if you will please follow me," Bartholomew said.
Hadrian never spent much time in churches. The darkness, opulence, and staring eyes of the sculptures unnerved him. He was at home in a forest or field, a hovel or fortress, but the interior of a church always made him uneasy. This one had a vaulted ceiling supported by marble columns, and cinquefoil-shaped stonework and blind-tracery moldings common to all Nyphron churches. The altar itself was an ornately carved wooden cabinet with three broad doors and a blue-green marble top. His mind flashed back to a similar cabinet in Essendon Castle that concealed a dwarf waiting to accuse him and Royce of Amrath's death. That incident started his and Royce's longstanding employment with Medford's royal family.
On this one, more candles burned, and three large gilded tomes lay sealed. The sickly-sweet fragrance of salifan incense was strong. On the altar, stood the obligatory alabaster statue of Novron. As always, he knelt sword in hand while the god Maribor loomed over him placing a crown on his head, anointing his son the ruler of the world. All the churches Hadrian visited had one, each a replica of the original sculpture preserved in the Crown Tower of Ervanon. They only varied in size and material.
Taking a candle, the priest led them down a narrow curling stair. At the base, they stopped at a door, beside which hung an iron key on a peg. The priest lifted it off and twisted it in the large square lock until it clanked. The door creaked open and the priest replaced the key.
"Doesn't make much sense, does it? To keep the key there?" Royce pointed out.
The priest glanced back at it blankly. "It's heavy and I don't like carrying it."
"Why lock the door then?"
"Only way to keep it closed. And if left open the rats eat the parchments."
Inside, the cellar was half the size of the church above and divided in aisles of shelves that stretched to the ceiling filled with thick leather-bound books. The priest took a moment to light a lantern that hung near the door.
"They're all in chronological order," he told them as the lantern revealed a shallow ceiling and walls made of small stacked stones quite unlike the larger blocks and bricks used in the rest of the church.
"About what time period are you looking for? When did your father die?"
"Twenty-nine ninety-two."
The priest hesitated. "Ninety-two? That was forty-two years ago. You age remarkably well. How old were you then?"
"Very young."
The priest looked skeptical. "Well, I'm sorry. We have no records from ninety-two."
"The corner stone outside says this church was built then," Royce said.
"And yet we do not have the records for which you ask."
"Why is that?" Hadrian pressed.
The priest shrugged. "Maybe there was a fire."
"Maybe there was a fire? You don't know?"
"Our records cannot help you, so if you will please follow me, I will show you out."
The priest took a step toward the exit. Royce stepped in his path. "You're hiding something."
"I'm doing nothing of the sort. You asked to see records from ninety-two-there are none."
"The question is-why?"
"Any number of reasons. How should I know?"
"The same way you knew there aren't any records here for that date without even looking," Royce replied, his voice lowering. "You're lying to us, which again brings up the question of-why?"
"I am a monsieur; I don't appreciate being accused of lying in my own church."
"And I don't appreciate being lied to." He took a step forward.
"Neither do I," Bartholomew replied. "You're not looking for anyone's father. Do you think I'm a fool? Why are you back here? That business ended decades ago. Why are you still at it?"
Royce glanced at Hadrian. "We've never been here before."
The priest rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. Why is the seret still digging this up? You're Sentinel Thranic aren't you?" he pointed at Royce. "Talbert told me about the interrogation you put him through-a bishop of the church! If only the Patriarch knew what his pets were up to, you would all be disbanded. Why do you still exist anyway? The Heir of Novron is on her throne, isn't she? Isn't that what we're all supposed to believe? At long last, you found the seed of Novron and all is finally right with the world. You people can't accept that your mandate is over, that we don't need you anymore-if we ever did."
"We aren't seret," Hadrian told him, "and my friend here is definitely not a sentinel."
"No? Talbert described him perfectly-small, wiry, frightening, like Death himself. But you must have shaved your beard."
"I'm not a sentinel," Royce told him.
"We're just trying to find out what happened here forty-two years ago," Hadrian explained. "And you're right. I'm not looking for a record of my father's death, because I know he didn't die here. But he was here."
The monsignor hesitated, looking at Hadrian and shooting furtive glances at Royce. "What was your father's name?" he asked at length.
"Danbury Blackwater."
The priest shook his head. "Never heard of him."
"But you know what happened," Royce said. "Why don't you just tell us?"
"Why don't you just get out of my church? I don't know who you are and I don't want to. What happened-happened. It's over. Nothing can change it. Just leave me alone."
"You were there," Arista muttered in revelation. "Forty years ago-you were there, weren't you?"
The monsignor glared at her, his teeth clenched. "Look through the stacks if you want," he told them in resignation. "I don't care; just lock up when you leave. And be sure to blow out the light."
"Wait," Hadrian spoke quickly as he fished his medallion out of his shirt and held it up toward the light. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes, and then stepped closer to examine it.
"Where did you get that?"
"My father left it to me. He also wrote me a poem, a sort of riddle I think. Maybe you can help explain it." Hadrian took out the parchment and passed it to the cleric.
After reading he raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth. Hadrian noticed his fingers tremble. His other hand sought and found the wall and he leaned heavily against it. "You look like him," the priest told Hadrian. "I didn't notice it at first. It's been over forty years and I only knew him briefly, but that's his sword on your back. I should have recognized that if nothing else. I still see it so often in my nightmares."
"So you knew my father, you knew Danbury Blackwater?"
"His name was Tramus Dan. That's what he went by at least."
"Will you tell us what happened?"
He nodded. "There's no reason to keep it secret, except to protect myself, and perhaps it's time I faced my sins."
The monsignor looked at the open door to the stairs. "Let's close this." He stepped out then returned puzzled. "The key is gone."
"I've got it," Royce volunteered, revealing the iron key in his hand and, pulling the door shut, locked it from the inside. "I've never cared for rooms I can be locked in."
Bartholomew took a small stool from behind one of the stacks and perched himself on it. He sat bent over with his head between his knees as if he might be sick. They waited as the priest took several steadying breaths.
"It was forty-two years ago, next week in fact," he began, his head still down, his voice quiet. "I had been expecting them for days and was worried. I thought they had been discovered, but that wasn't it. They were traveling slowly because she was with child."
"Who was?" Hadrian asked.
The monsignor looked up confused. "Do you know the significance of that amulet you wear?"
"It once belonged to the Guardian of the Heir of Novron."
"Yes," the old man said simply. "Your father was the head of our order. A secret organization dedicated to protecting the descendants of Emperor Nareion."
"The Therom Eldership," Royce said.
Bartholomew looked at him surprised. "Yes. Shopkeepers, tradesmen, farmers-people who preserved a dream handed down to them."
"But you're a priest in the Nyphron Church."
"Many of us were encouraged to take vows. Some even tried to join the seret. It was important to know what the church was doing, where they were looking. I was the only one in Ratibor to receive the would-be emperor and his guardian. The ranks of the Eldership had dwindled over the centuries. Few believed in it anymore. My parents raised me to be a Loyalist, to believe in the dream of seeing the heir of Nareion returned to an imperial throne, but I never expected it would happen. I often questioned if the heir even existed, if the stories were just a myth. You see, the Eldership only contacted members if needed. You had a few meetings and years could go by without a word. Even then, messages were only words of encouragement reminding us to stay strong. We never heard a thing about the heir. There were no plans to rise up, no news of sightings, victories, or defeats.
"I was only a boy, a young deacon, recently arrived in Ratibor assigned to the old South Square Church when my father sent a letter saying simply: He is coming. Make preparations. I didn't know what to think. It took several readings before I even understood what he meant. When I realized I was dumbstruck. The heir of Maribor was coming to Ratibor. I didn't know exactly what I should do, so I rented a room at the Bradford Boarding House and waited. I should have found a better place. I should have…" He paused for a moment, dropped his head again to look at the floor and took a breath.
"What happened?" Hadrian asked, keeping his voice calm, not wanting to do anything to stop the cleric from revealing his tale.
"They arrived late, around midnight because his wife was about to give birth and their travel was slow. His name was Naron and he traveled with his guardian, Tramus Dan and Dan's young apprentice, whose name I sadly can't recall. I saw them to their rooms at the boarding house and your father sent me in search of a midwife. I found a young girl and sent her ahead while I set out to find what supplies were needed.
"By the time I returned with my arms full, I saw a company of Seret Knights coming up the street, searching door to door. I was horrified. I had never seen seret in Ratibor. They reached the boarding house before I could.
"They found it locked and beat on the door. There was no answer. When they tried to break in your father refused them entry, and the fight began. I watched from across the street. It was the most amazing thing I ever saw. Your father and his apprentice stepped out and fought back to back, defending the entrance. Knight after knight died until as many as ten lay dead or wounded on the street, and then came a scream from inside. Some of the seret must have found a way into the building from the back.
"The apprentice ran inside, leaving your father alone at the door to face the remainder of the knights. There must have been a dozen or more but, wielding two swords in the shelter of the entrance, he kept them at bay. He held them off for what felt like an eternity, then Naron appeared at the doorway. He was mad with rage and drenched in blood. He pushed past Dan into the street. Your father tried to stop him, but Naron kept screaming, 'They killed her!' and threw himself into the crowd of knights, swinging his sword like a man possessed.
"Your father tried to reach Naron-to protect him. The seret surrounded Naron and I watched him butchered on their swords. I fell to my knees, the blankets, needle, and thread falling to the street. Your father, surrounded by his own set of knights, cried out and dropped his two swords. I thought they had stabbed him, too. I expected to see him fall, but instead he drew the spadone blade from his back. The bloodshed I witnessed up to that point did not compare to what followed. Tramus Dan, with that impossibly long sword, began cleaving the seret to pieces. Legs, arms, and heads-explosions of blood-even across Lore Street, I felt the spray carried on the wind like a fine mist on my face.
"When the last seret fell, Dan ran inside only to emerge a moment later with tears streaking down his cheeks. He went to Naron and cradled the heir, rocking him. I will admit I was too frightened to approach or even speak. Dan looked like Oberlin himself bathed slick from head to foot in blood, that sword still at his side, his body shaking as if he might explode. After a time, he gently laid Naron on the porch. A few of the knights were still alive, groaning, twitching. He picked up the sword again. It was as if he were chopping wood. Then he picked up his weapons and walked away.
"I was too scared to follow, too terrified to even stand up, and I did not dare approach the house. As time passed, others arrived and together we found the courage to enter. We found the younger swordsman-your father's apprentice-dead in the upper bedroom surrounded by several bodies of seret. In the bed was a woman stabbed to death, her newborn child murdered in her arms. I never saw or heard anything of your father again."
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"It explains a lot I never understood about my father," Hadrian finally said. "He must have wandered to Hintindar after that and changed his name. Dan-bury. Even his name was a riddle. So the line of Novron is dead?"
The old priest said nothing at first. He sat perfectly still except for his lips that began to tremble. "It's all my fault. The seed of Maribor is gone. The tree, so carefully watered for centuries, has withered and died because of me. If only I had found a better safe house or if I had kept a better watch." He looked up, the light of the lantern glistened off tears. "The next day, more seret came and burned the boarding house to the ground. "I petitioned for this church to be built. The bishops never realized I was doing it as a testament-a monument to their memory. They thought I was honoring the fallen seret. So here I remained, upon their graves, guarding still. Yet now I protect not hope, but a memory, a dream that because of me, will never be."
At noon, the ringing of the town bell summoned the citizens to the Central Square. On their way back from the church Arista, Hadrian, and Royce entered the square barely able to see due to the gathered crowd. There they found twelve people locked in stocks. They each stood bent over with head and wrists locked, their feet and lower legs sunk deep in mud. Above each hung hastily scrawled signs with the word, Conspirator written on them. The young red-haired Emery was not in a stock, instead he hung by his wrists from a pole. Naked to the waist, his body covered in numerous dark bruises and abrasions. His left eye was puffed and sealed behind a purple bruise and his lower lip split and stained dark with dried blood. Next to him hung the older woman from The Laughing Gnome, the one who told of the Imperials burning Kilnar. Above both of them were signs reading, Traitors. Planks circled the prisoners, and around them paced the Sheriff of Ratibor. In his hands he held a short whip comprised of several strands knotted at the ends, which he wagged threateningly as he walked. The whole city garrison turned out to keep the angry crowd at bay. Archers were poised on roofs and soldiers armed with shields and unsheathed swords threatened any who approached too close.
Many of the faces in the stocks were familiar to Arista from the night before. She was shocked to see mothers, who had sung their children to sleep, now locked in stocks beside their husbands, sobbing. The children reached out for their parents from the crowd. The treatment of the woman from Kilnar disturbed her the most. Her only crime was telling the truth and now she hung before the entire city, awaiting the whip. The sight was all the more terrifying knowing it could be her up there if Quartz had not intervened.
A regally dressed man in a judge's robe and a scribe approached the stocks. When they reached the center of the square, the scribe handed a parchment to the judge. The sheriff shouted for silence, then the judge held up the parchment and began to read.
"For the crimes of conspiracy against her royal eminence, the Empress Modina Novronian, against the Empire, against Maribor and all humanity; for slander against His Excellency the Empress' Imperial Viceroy; and for the general agitation of the lower classes to challenge their betters, it is hereby proclaimed good and right that punishment be laid immediately upon these criminals. Those guilty of conspiracy are hereby ordered to be flogged twenty lashes and spend one day in stocks, not to be released until sunset. Those guilty of treason will receive one hundred lashes and, if they remain alive, will be left hanging until they expire from want of food and water. Anyone attempting to help or lend comfort to any of these criminals will be likewise found guilty and receive similar punishment. Sheriff Vigan, you may commence."
With that, he thrust the scroll into the hands of the scribe and promptly walked back the way he came. With a nod from the sheriff, a soldier approached the first stock and ripped open the back of the young mother's dress. From somewhere in the crowd Arista heard a child scream, yet without pause the sheriff swung his whip even as the poor woman cried for mercy. The knots bit into the pale skin of her back and she howled dancing in pain. Stroke after stroke fell with the scribe standing by keeping careful track. By the time it was done, her back was red and slick with blood. The sheriff took a break and handed the whip to a soldier, who performed similar punishment on her husband as the sheriff sat by leisurely drinking from a cup.
The crowd, already quiet, grew deadly still as they came to the woman from Kilnar who began screaming as they approached. The sheriff and his deputies took turns whipping her, as the day's heat made such work exhausting. The fatigue in their arms was evident by the wild swings that struck the woman high on her shoulders as well as low on her back, and even occasionally as low as her thighs. After the first thirty lashes, the woman stopped screaming and only whimpered softly. The whipping continued and by the time the scribe counted sixty the woman merely hung limp. A physician approached the post, lifted her head by her hair, and pronounced her dead. The scribe made a note of this. They did not remove her body.
The sheriff finally moved to Emery. The young man was not daunted after seeing the punishment carried out on the others, and made the bravest showing of all. He stood defiant as the soldier with the whip approached him.
"Killing me will not change the truth that Viceroy Androus is the real traitor and guilty of killing King Urith and the royal family!" he managed to shout before the first strokes of the whip silenced him. He did not cry out, but gritted his teeth and only dully grunted as the knots turned his back into a mass of blood and pulpy flesh. By the last stroke, he too hung limp and silent, but everyone could see him breathing. The physician indicated such to the scribe, who dutifully jotted it down.
"Those people didn't do anything," Arista said, as the crowd began to disperse. "They're innocent."
"You, of all people, know that isn't the point," Royce replied.
Arista whirled. She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then shut it.
"Alric had twelve people publicly flogged for inciting riots when the church was kicked out of Melengar," he reminded her. "How many of them were actually guilty of anything?"
"I'm sure that was necessary to keep the peace."
"The viceroy will tell you the same."
"This is different. Mothers weren't whipped before their children and women weren't beaten to death before a crowd."
"True," Royce said. "It was only fathers, husbands and sons who were whipped bloody and left scarred for life. I stand corrected, Melengar's compassion is astounding."
Arista glared at him, but could say nothing. As much as she hated it, as much as she hated him for pointing it out, she realized what Royce said was true.
"Don't punish yourself over it," Royce told her. "The powerful control the weak; the rich exploit the poor. It's the way it's always been and how it always will be. Just thank Maribor you were born both rich and powerful."
"But it's not right," she said, shaking her head.
"What does right have to do with it? With anything? Is it right that the wind blows or that the season's change? It's just the way the world is. If Alric hadn't flogged those people, maybe they would have succeeded in their revolt. Then you and Alric might have found yourselves beaten to death by a cheering crowd because they would hold the power and you two would be weak."
"Are you really that indifferent?" she asked.
"I like to think of it as practical, and living in Ratibor for any length of time has a tendency to make a person very practical." He glanced sympathetically at Hadrian, who had been quiet since leaving the church. "Compassion doesn't make house calls to the streets of Ratibor-now or forty years ago."
"Royce…" Hadrian said, then sighed, "I'm going to take a walk. I'll see you two back at the Nest in a little while."
"Are you alright?" Arista asked.
"Yeah," he said unconvincingly, and moved away with the crowd.
"I feel bad for him," she said.
"Best thing that could have happened. Hadrian needs to understand how the world really works and get over his childish affection for ideals. You see Emery up there? He's an idealist and that's what eventually happens to idealists, particularly those that have the misfortune of being born in Ratibor."
"But for a moment he might have changed the course of this city," Arista said.
"No, he would only have changed who was in power and who wasn't. The course would remain the same. Power rises to the top like cream and dominates the weak with cruelty disguised as-and often even believed to be-benevolence. When it comes to people, there is no other possibility. It's a natural occurrence like the weather, and you can't control either one."
Arista thought for a moment as her eyes glanced skyward, then said defiantly, "I wouldn't be so sure of that."