| |
––––––––
Mazaber stank. Badly. Even the gentle offshore breeze helping propel Aswan Trader’s motor launch toward the shingle beach couldn’t keep a nauseating symphony composed of rotting seaweed, dead fish, animal and human feces, and much more from reaching the Brethrens’ nostrils. Alcide and Lilith, raised in a city that never entirely lost basic sanitation, grimaced in horror.
“The Almighty must have forgotten this spot,” the latter said in a hoarse voice, struggling to keep the miasma from polluting her airways.
Horam gave Lilith an amused smile.
“The Almighty forgets nothing. Those who live here, on the other hand, forgot more than simply basic technology, it seems.”
Alcide turned to Rianne with an imploring air.
“On the day Prioress Hermina decides who will set up a new priory here, please let my name be at the bottom of the list.”
“Your name will be where the Almighty wills it. Besides, in ten minutes, you won’t notice the aroma anymore. It’s amazing how humans can become inured to the worst things.”
Horam clapped the younger man on the shoulder.
“Especially those who benefit from our sort of training, right?”
Before Alcide could reply, Fenrir asked, “Do you mind risking wet feet? Only, I’m looking at the pier, and I don’t like the greedy little bastards ogling us as if we were a Sunday ham. It’s harder to swarm us from the beach, and the launch will be away much faster.”
Rianne gave him a shrug.
“Whatever you think is best, though I sense no danger.”
“The beach it is then.” Fenrir turned to his coxswain and gestured at a clear patch of shale a hundred meters east of the piers. “That should do.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
The small crowd that worried Fenrir began moving toward the beach when it became clear the launch would ground itself there. However, by the time it backed away from the murky shallows, having disgorged the Brethren, Fenrir, and two armed sailors with no more than damp shoe soles, the locals were still a good fifty meters distant. Once they noticed the seven newcomers were visibly armed, the group dispersed back into dark alleys between the waterfront godowns and taverns.
What little the Brethren glimpsed of them spoke of poverty and malnutrition — ragged clothes, bare feet, spindly limbs, matted hair. They could have been any age beneath the grime.
“Local urchins?” Horam asked.
“Don’t let their small stature fool you, Friar. Those are vicious, albeit stunted adolescents and young adults, the result of awful food, worse hygiene, and either absent or uncaring parents. Allow them within arm’s reach, and those shoulder bags of yours would be gone, cut off.”
“Unfortunate children with no real chance at a decent life,” Rianne said.
“Save your compassion for those they prey on, Sister. Maybe in a few years, or more likely decades, your Order can rescue the ones who remain after you’ve established a priory and convinced what passes for the local government it should cooperate with you rather than bleed you dry. But the current set of thugs in charge are more likely to enslave those they catch and shoot those they can’t. The ones who end up as forced labor merely take longer to die.”
Fenrir led them along a gravel road separating the town from the beach, eyed by idle citizens sitting in the shade of warehouse doors and tavern awnings. Of the urchins, no trace remained.
They eventually reached a warehouse larger and better maintained than the rest. The most significant difference between it and the others was the location. This godown sat squarely in front of the piers, at the corner of the shoreline road and a cobbled avenue cutting through the heart of Mazaber like a giant slash. The dark, sharp-ridged hills surrounding the town loomed beyond the avenue’s far end and above the many buildings lining it on both sides.
“This is it, David Crimple’s house of trade.”
Horam looked for a sign, something naming the company or proprietor, but saw nothing above or beside any of the wooden doors, both small and large. Fenrir, who noticed his inspection, chuckled.
“Everyone who counts knows where Crimple holds court. His is one of the few mostly stone buildings, with a nice tile roof and real glass windows. You could say he’s the commercial king of the town. Successive Mazaber bosses keep old Dave sweet because he can make or break even the biggest politically motivated criminal organization in these parts.” Fenrir jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is where the richest man in town makes his profits.”
The merchant captain pivoted on his heels and headed for a wooden door giving onto the street. He pushed it open and vanished, swallowed by the shadows, his sailors hard on his heels. After one quick glance at each other, Horam and Rianne followed suit, the two junior Brethren behind them.
The dry, earthy scent of old leather tickled Horam’s nostrils as he entered the twilight of a space that was part office, part showroom, part museum. A broad counter cut off the back third of the high-ceilinged room. Filled with dusty desks, cabinets, and shelving, it felt more like an abandoned counting house than the customer-facing facet of Mazaber’s biggest merchant lord.
Display cases lining the public two-thirds held books, artifacts that could only date back to imperial days, including relics none of the Brethren could identify at first glance. And they saw items that came from Lyonesse, almost assuredly via Theban ship masters looking for a bit of extra profit.
But what struck Horam and Rianne almost at once were other pieces of equally advanced manufacture which they knew had not passed through the Thebes Priory. Among them were gleaming metal hand tools, bladed weapons, cooking implements, and more. They saw no railguns, but neither was surprised. On a world where ordnance was primitive, anyone with power weapons could overthrow entire governments and advertising that fact didn’t end well.
A wizened man, short, slight, and wrinkled, with wispy hair fringing his bald dome, appeared as if by magic behind the counter. His deep-set eyes took in the new arrivals, then he bowed.
“Captain Fenrir and party. Welcome. You’re back in Mazaber much earlier than expected. I trust you bring interesting trade goods once more.”
Fenrir returned the formal gesture.
“Mister Crimple. You honor us by your personal welcome. With me are four Brethren serving the Order of the Void, Sisters Rianne and Lilith as well as Friars Horam and Alcide.”
Crimple turned his intense gaze on the Brethren as if looking for souls behind their stoic facades.
“I’ve heard legends about the Order of the Void. They say its votaries fled Hatshepsut during the catastrophe that made us the fallen race we are today, abandoning the faithful to Empress Dendera’s genocidal retribution. I’m not sure I should welcome you. No offense, but around here, memories are long, even if lives aren’t.”
Rianne reached out with her mind to taste Crimple’s emotions and see whether he was serious or merely looking for a reaction, perhaps as a form of opening move, the sort a shrewd trader would make out of instinct. But she couldn’t sense much, if anything. Either Crimple exercised almost perfect control over his feelings, or he possessed none and was among that small percentage of humans who stood apart from the rest of the species, such as some of the worst criminals exiled to Lyonesse’s Windy Isles prison complex. Like every Sister with a sensitive talent, Rianne spent a season in the Windies, working as a counselor and ministering to the republic’s irredeemable so that she might experience humanity’s most depraved minds and souls firsthand and develop ways of dealing with them.
“Members of the Order were being hunted and murdered in those days, Mister Crimple,” she replied in an even tone. “Both sides in the rebellion scapegoated our predecessors and sought their deaths. Millions of Void Brethren perished through no fault of their own, while only a few found sanctuary far from imperial worlds. But we are back and once more working for the betterment of humanity.”
Crimple squinted at her. “Perhaps. I suppose since Lars Fenrir is bringing me visitors instead of Theban goods that might fetch a good price, I should assume you come for answers rather than items for sale or barter. I’m a busy man, Sister, so speak your mind and leave.”
She inclined her head.
“I shall. The advanced technology items Lars and his fellow captains are selling you these days were either manufactured by my people or by Thebans under our supervision.”
Crimple let out a bark of laughter so dry it sounded like sandpaper on wood.
“You’re star people, aren’t you? Just like the one who came here with a load of items no one alive ever saw before and exchanged them for Theban goods and ancient imperial artifacts. He clearly didn’t appreciate his merchandise's value, but that’s not my problem, now is it? Let the buyer beware lest the seller plunders his pockets.”
“What can you tell us about him?”
More laughter, but soft, almost mocking this time.
“What can you give me in exchange? Information has value.”
“It certainly does.” Rianne gave him a mysterious smile. Did she sense a glimmer of curiosity? Or even cupidity. Perhaps Crimple was merely one of the rare humans who could instinctively mask his feelings, a useful talent for a merchant or a gambler. She reached into her satchel and retrieved a fist-sized plastic cylinder.
“I offer you antibiotic pills, a true rarity on Hatshepsut beyond the Republic of Thebes.”
“Antibiotics?” Crimple rolled the word around his mouth as if savoring it. “And what are those good for?”
“They cure routine bacterial infections often in one or two doses, and by the looks of Mazaber, such infections are probably quite common.”
Horam grinned at the merchant.
“Bacterial infections cause gangrene in septic wounds, are at the origin of most sexually transmitted diseases, stomach problems, and all sorts of other nasty things. Considering folks probably fight and fornicate a lot around here, not to mention eat stuff that’s well past its best before date, that little bottle in Sister Rianne’s hand is worth more than the railguns you bought from the other star man.”
Crimple cocked a skeptical eyebrow at the Friar.
“And how do I know that stuff really works?”
“Ask Captain Fenrir.”
Without further prompting, the latter said, “This medicine has saved many a life and limb in Thebes, Mister Crimple. A lot of sailors injured at sea survived nasty infections thanks to its properties. And that included a few of mine who were wounded by pirates on the way back from Mazaber the last time.”
The merchant let out a dismissive snort.
“You could be telling me a tall tale as well.”
“We’ve been trading for how many years now? And in that time, did I ever try to cheat you?”
“If you’ve tried, I neither noticed, nor did you succeed,” Crimple replied in a grudging tone, eyes narrowed as if he was evaluating Fenrir’s past truthfulness.
“Besides, this is information we’re talking about, not valuable goods. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
While Fenrir and Crimple debated the merits of her offer, Rianne gently nudged the latter’s mind with thoughts of trust and friendship until he let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Very well. How many doses are in that container?”
“Two hundred. Only the most advanced and most stubborn cases need more than one. But be warned, the medication does not confer immunity; it merely heals existing infections.”
Rianne placed the container on the counter in front of Crimple, who snatched it up with surprising speed. She watched him figure out how it opened it with equal swiftness, then he peered inside.
“Please count them if you wish. You will find 200 capsules. We of the Void cheat no one and nothing, not even death.”
Crimple glanced up at her through narrowed eyes as he replaced the lid.
“If you can’t trust a Sister of the Void to deal honestly, then I suppose humanity is truly screwed. Very well.” Crimple tucked the medication into one of his vest’s capacious pockets and licked his lips. “My star man, then.”