Chapter Six: Part Two

Continued from Chapter Six: Part One

All the booze had run out. For the last couple of years, their travels had been accompanied with beer, or wine, or hard alcohol. The night at the edge of the desert were the first completely sober nights of their adventures in a long time. Jarvela found the experience thoughtful and calm. He didn’t miss the alcohol. Although he found that he wondered with a greater urgency than ever what Kyouki had in mind for the future.

“I think that your fiddle needs new strings,” Kyouki said to Jarvela on the second night, when they had camped in a gravely patch surrounded by rocks and thorny bushes. Kyouki lay on his blanket, the stars reflected in his eyes. Jarvela sat on a log across the campfire from him. At Kyouki’s suggestion, Jarvela fetched his fiddle from one of the packs. He had taken up fiddle at some point during their travels. Kyouki encouraged it, seeming to think it calmed Jarvela.

It did, Jarvela hesitated to admit. He had always thought music seemed a prissy pastime. Admitting he quite liked it came hard. But he did admit it.

Gently adjusting the delicate wood, Jarvela removed some of the old strings from his fiddle. He had new strings in his bag, but before he started putting them on he checked everything else about the fiddle to be certain it stayed in good shape. He worked quietly, keeping his main attention on his task while allowing his imagination to wander freely, thinking through old ponderings. He began wondering about Kyouki, his past and motivations. Jarvela knew very little about Kyouki, really. Kyouki had money and Kyouki had prestige, though why he did never seemed to come up in conversation. On their travels, Kyouki would often be treated with an almost religious respect by the few who recognized his name—usually historians or the very religious. They called him “consort”—Consort no Uma. Though consort to whom they never mentioned. Kyouki never brought it up. It seemed that Kyouki had no allegiance to any kingdom. He seemed neutral to both Engelkind’s new regime and to the old king exiled in the north. One thing he had told Jarvela was there were no lands that belonged to the name no Uma. Kyouki conducted himself like an errant knight, allied to no one.

The only distinct point of character that Jarvela had gleaned of Kyouki was a profound religious respect. Many people chose a god or two, sometimes, three, to hold in most reverence, directing the bulk of their prayers and sacrifices to that god. Jarvela himself had always held Ythig, the lord of chaos and first mover, in most reverence, though he had a strong respect for Ellen Róf, the shield maiden and courageous cousin to Ythig. People would remember and revere all the other gods. They were gods. They all deserved reverence. Each god had a different philosophy, though, and healthy folk would decide on the one that suited them best and live most by that philosophy. No one followed all the gods at once. That would imply far too much discipline.

Kyouki did, though. Kyouki would make daily references to all seven of the gods. He would talk in the morning of Ythig’s excitement of new movement, throughout the day Kyouki would talk of Gróesn and the value of being aware of the still things, and at dusk he would tell sometimes unsettling stories of Ferryman and his often peculiar place in history. Kyouki would talk of Gróesn’s wife, the lady Wendy, when they rode through leafy woods, and on the crossing of rivers and when they walked on the tops of cliffs overlooking the sea Kyouki would laugh and shout to Ellen Róf, Ythig’s wife. The other two, Uncle Spircan and Mama Boom-Boom, known sometimes as the grandparents of the gods, Kyouki would mention less often, but with as much respect. Uncle Spircan often came up when they lit campfires, and he would mention Mama Boom-Boom often when he would sing songs or tell old tales. Kyouki rarely spoke of Kunig, the new god, but when he did he was thoughtful, as if he had made no certain decision about him.

Dedicated allegiance to the entire pantheon was unheard of in Jarvela’s memory. Men who tried became confused and flighty, never sure what they believed. Jarvela knew a few historian monks who claimed to be non-denominational, following all gods the same. They mumbled rather than spoke and were perpetually lost in study, never aware of anything but their books.

Somehow, Kyouki seemed functioning enough. And when he told stories of the gods the stories sounded less like old legends, heard from childhood up, than like anecdotes. Some of Kyouki’s tales almost seemed to feature him. Jarvela had long suspected Kyouki was more than human, though not a god himself. Kyouki never confirmed it. It hardly mattered. Many strange things lived in the world. Jarvela knew Kyouki no Uma the person, and that contented him till Kyouki cared to explain himself.

Jarvela finished stringing his fiddle. He began tuning it. Probably Kyouki guessed Jarvela’s thoughts. Kyouki had an uncanny talent to do that. When he did he would address Jarvela’s concerns, but in a sideways way that made Jarvela think about what the problem had been at the first.

“Are you concerned that I have no idea what I’m doing, Jarvela?” Kyouki asked. The question surprised Jarvela. He shook his head and muttered, “Of course not,” before he really thought about it. Doubting Kyouki’s self-assurance had never occurred to Jarvela. Now that the question had been posed, though, Jarvela began to realize that Kyouki seemed completely confused. He got routinely drunk, started fights almost nightly, and wandered without clear purpose. It made sense to think of Kyouki as befuddled. He always seemed so wise and in control, never a hair on his head out of place, never a question set to him without an immediate answer on his lips. It inspired Jarvela to just go along with Kyouki’s idiosyncrasies. It suddenly seemed idiotic to Jarvela that he had failed to question Kyouki’s state of control sooner.

Kyouki smiled. “And his world comes crashing down around his ears,” he said. “You have the tools to doubt me. Rightly you should. My world has been devastated since the War. Since the exile of the gods I have been attempting to rebuild my world. I have not been making too fine a job of it either. There’s been progress, though.”

Jarvela thought of a question. He hesitated to ask it.

“Ask it, Jarvela,” Kyouki said.

“What was your place, master?” Jarvela asked.

“What do you think it was?”

Jarvela thought about it. Kyouki was more than a man, that much seemed clear. He told stories he could not know about things in the shadows of the past, and he seemed on first-name terms with all the gods at once. Some old stories featured strengthy beings, more than men and less than gods, who served the gods as their close consorts.

“I’d warrant you’re Oswemend,” Jarvela said. “A god herald.”

“And that does not frighten you?” Kyouki asked, smiling still. “Men are usually awed to know that.”

“They have not drunk with you, perhaps,” Jarvela said. He raised his now strung fiddle to his shoulder and drew a few notes from it. He continued pondering. Oswemend--god herald. A servant of the gods, made by the gods to work with them, and all the gods but one exiled to none knew where. The one left had been the power exiling the others. Here was Kyouki left behind.

“I have nothing left to do in this world,” Kyouki said. Jarvela could see that. “Or I had no possible mission. As I have said, I have been rebuilding.”

“There are other Oswemend, I presume,” Jarvela said.

“Yes. We are a closer-knit bunch for the fall of our lords,” Kyouki said. “Our world looks far different than any we had ever anticipated for ourselves. We have been forced to grow.”

“You are boozing rapscallions?”

“Come now, you know me better than that,” Kyouki said. Jarvela wanted to believe that he did. Keeping his mind on the sweeps of his bow across the fiddle strings Jarvela quieted his rising anger at Kyouki. Before his anger could quite take root, Jarvela thought over the past couple years, finding if there was anything aside from the boozing and the fighting that unified their travels.

Continued on January 31...

Chapter Three: Part Five

Continued from Chapter Three: Part Four

“I think I’m sticking with these lads,” Wexerly said.

Jarvela managed to keep his face neutral. “Oh?” he said. “What about world significance and all that rotted gibbering we’ve been fed for all these months.” He spoke of the things that the Runagates had been spreading among their coverts and whispered communities, things that Wexerly corroborated.

Wexerly often agreed with the inner party of Runagates, who communicated secretly to Jarvela.

Jarvela looked peeved with Wexerly. Wexerly, though, smiled. He knew that Jarvela, world-weary as he was, had hoped Wexerly would be along for the strange adventures Jarvela feared lay before him. The prospect of moving on without Wexerly frightened Jarvela. Wexerly could tell that, though Jarvela would never admit to it. Jarvela didn’t actually know what to do next. He knew what he was supposed to do next, but he didn’t understand it. He thought that Wexerly would understand it.

Wexerly might. He smiled. “Buck up, old man,” he said. “You’ve got to live your own life.”

“If you must,” Jarvela said, looking away from Wexerly.

“You’ll be all right, Jarvela,” Wexerly said. He smiled still. He genuinely liked Jarvela and wished him all the best. It seemed inevitable that Jarvela would do great things. Wexerly felt it in his bones. Turning to Ned and Stodge, Wexerly grinned. “Come on lads.” He ran out of Hole in the Wall. The gang followed him.

Halfway down the cold street, Stodge asked Wexerly where they were going.

“South,” Wexerly said. “South to make waves.”

Sorry for the brevity. Thus ends the chapter. Chapter Four commences on December 21...

Chapter Three: Part Four

Continued from December 15, Chapter Three: Part Three

They waited for a moment. Ned looked out of the alley, down the way that Silk and Digger had run. Determining that they had gone far enough away, leaving the street quiet, he looked back and winked at Wexerly. The three boys hustled across the street into the alley that Silk and Digger had emerged from before. They pattered down the alley, took a left at a fork, and ran on through the shady, breezy passage. Noise grew ahead of them. Past the end of the alley people loitered and shouted.

“Look alive, the mob’s caught up,” Ned said.

“Should we wait or go around or such like, eh?” Stodge asked, slowing down as they got closer.

“We can squirm through,” Ned said before Wexerly could. Wexerly had opened his mouth to say something like it, though. He smiled to hear Ned taking the initiative. “Come on, boys.”

Ned darted out of the alley. They went into the crowd. Mostly, the angry people in the mob ignored the boys. Their attention stayed on Silk and Digger. Silk and Digger had been cornered against a store front, with angry mob on every side, brandishing crossbows and staves. It really bespoke to the brilliance of Engelkind’s governance that a group of people who hours earlier had been happy to host Silk as the visiting war legend and Digger as their sheriff would turn so completely against them both so quickly. Engelkind had released a decree that Silk had passed out of favor. Without questioning the validity or the wisdom, the population itself reacted to quell this danger, without even calling out the guard. Things like this showed how on-edge people were these days.

Digger and Silk had gained their horses. They sat above the milling, shouting mob. Pinned in, they had nowhere to go. That would never do. Wexerly and his gang pushed through the crowd to the far side of the street. A three storey scaffold with bricks and mortar stacked on it stood in front of a building on this side of the street.

“I want to give Digger and Silk a bit of a hand,” Wexerly said to Ned.

“Eh?” Ned said, intent on getting through the mob intact.

“Keep going—I’ll meet you on the way,” Wexerly said.

“We’re with you, Wexerly,” Ned said. Stodge nodded. They were crowded together by the press of people. It was becoming breaking point. Someone threw a brick at Silk. It missed, but Silk’s hand still went to one of the swords on his saddle. Reluctance slowed him—bless his little heart.

“All right,” Wexerly said. “Shove through.” He took the lead and pushed through the hot crowd toward the scaffold. He reached the base of the solid scaffold. There, Wexerly found an iron bar for levering rocks. Sticking it through the base supports, Wexerly plied pressure and broke one of the legs.

“The scaffold is going,” he shouted to the crowd. Not many heard him. Those that did looked around, shouted, and shoved the others out of their way. The scaffold came down onto the cobbled street, the wood of it exploding to splinters, the mortar dust and bricks heaving into the air and out on every side. It gave a great break of a noise, and a screaming call from the mob accompanied it. A shocked pause waved the crowd. The rubble from the scaffold stretched all the way across the street. The collapse distracted the crowd enough to give Silk and Digger space to escape.

“Victory,” Wexerly muttered, smiling. He turned to his gang, who looked on, trying not to look as awestruck as they were. “Let’s get going.”

“Aye,” Ned said. He turned down another alley. Wexerly and Stodge followed.

Quietly, Stodge fell a bit back and walked close to Wexerly. Stodge was a bit older and more aware than Ned. Stodge had already guessed Wexerly had more to him than an urchin ought to have. It never bothered Stodge knowing it. Rather the contrary, it gave Stodge something to think on. He often asked questions. Wexerly welcomed them.

“What was that for then, eh?” Stodge asked. “What do you care about them out of towners?”

Wexerly smiled. He wanted to give Stodge the true and complicated answer: Silk’s mission, Digger’s partly associated quest, shook the foundations of behind-the-scenes wars that always happened, between men like Engelkind who had too much power, and people like Wexerly and his friends who had been consorts to the gods since ancient times. Things moved that no one ever suspected. And today, Wexerly and his friends supported Digger and Silk—today, Wexerly’s goals and Silk’s complemented each other. Wexerly wanted to tell thoughtful Stodge that changes in the world approached like a tide. Stodge might even understand the news.

Instead, Wexerly patted Stodge on the shoulder and said, “It was the right thing, mate.”

“In the long run?” Stodge said with a questioning tone. Wexerly often said “in the long run.”

“Yes,” Wexerly nodded, smiling.

Stodge gave a quick jerk of his head, satisfied.

“Nearly there, then,” Ned said from ahead. “Streets are clear through here.”

They ducked out of an alley into a street clear of traffic. Wexerly heard the crowd moving to the west. Pausing for a moment, he judged the distance. Digger and Silk rode through an intersection several hundred yards along. The mob had fallen behind. They’d be getting out their own horses and organizing a chase soon. For now, Digger and Silk had enough head start to escape. Wexerly was satisfied.

Ned led the way into Hole in the Wall. The room inside had a litter of couches, pillows. It smelled of hookah and coffee and shelves of books lined the walls. It did almost no business, not in these little towns. That was all right, though, because it was a front for another organization. The other organization had no name yet, but it had funding at the top. Wexerly liked to think of it as the Runagates.

Two Runagates manned Hole in the Wall. The older of the two, Jarvela Gunnar, stood at the wooden counter, his long, blonde dreadlocks flowing over his tattooed hands as he bent over a page of music spread in front of him. He glanced up at Wexerly with his big, blue eyes, and he smiled.

“Hey ho, little cherub,” he said. “I’ve been hearing shouts from the street. Tag went to see what’s happening.”

“Digger’s skipping town,” Wexerly said. Jarvela chuckled. They’d been watching Digger, waiting to see what would happen for weeks.

“Is that so?” Jarvela said.

“He’s headed north with Silk Golinvaux.”

“Why such a ruckus?” Jarvela asked. He straightened up and folded the music in front of him.

“You recall that rumors have been circling about Silk planning something?” Wexerly asked. It had been a rumor for a long time. Silk never stayed still for long. When he’d been seen in the company of Van Vleidt, talk circulated that change was eminent. And when Van Vleidt turned up dead—the rumor was, assassinated, and the rumor among Wexerly’s friends, assassinated by Holy Assassins—it seemed inevitable that Silk would do something. What he would do could not be predicted by anyone. Wexerly still didn’t know what Silk had done—only how Engelkind had already retaliated.

“Of course,” Jarvela said.

“Whatever plan he had, he done it,” Wexerly said. “Engelkind declared him enemy of the state.”

“Things are happening, mate,” Jarvela said.

“Best be getting along north, then. I’ll get set—we’ll leave as soon as Tag gets back. Are you coming with us?”

That had been the original plan when Wexerly showed up in town. He and Jonne Jarvela and Tag Tegren arrived at the same time, just after Digger. They kept an eye on him, integrating with the workings of the town. When Digger moved along, Jarvela and Tag would mobilize . They would head north to spread the word to other Runagates: Digger was on the move . The Runagates believed, accurately or not, that Digger’s movements influenced the coming of a war. Wexerly only cared about the ride. And back when he had arrived in Süthende with Jarvela and Tag, the plan had been to watch Digger till Digger left and then Wexerly would go with Jarvela and Tag on the next leg of the adventure.

Now Wexerly had the option. Time had come to make a move. Jarvela looked with his sharp eyes close at Wexerly. “Well?” Jarvela said. Wexerly looked at Ned and Stodge. Ned squinted, unsure exactly what about the events around him affected him. Stodge knew, though. Stodge—tall, gangly Stodge—made every effort not to look Wexerly in the eye. Stodge feared that Wexerly and the gang had reached a parting.

Continued on December 19...