Peculiar Soul

Chapter 104: Ghar's Bones

Chapter 104: Ghar's Bones

No man ever turns against another in truth. In the uttermost depths of their heart, the divine whispers to them. It says: he is like you, this man you hate. He holds the divine within him as well.

Yet it is true that men do contend with each other in life, and that in so doing they are consumed by anger and by hatred. That hatred is not for their adversary, though. It is for the man their adversary shows them to be.

How righteous would I be, men say, were I allowed to walk my path as I should! I should serve nothing but virtue to my neighbor, love to my family and kindness to the stranger. How righteous would I be, save for this man who vexes me with challenge, who forces me down a path of conflict!

And so might all men, it is true. But struggle does not degrade man. Its purpose is rather to reveal man. Cruelty and hatred do not appear in hardship save that they lurked unseen in better times. Were virtue, love and kindness ever there, they would be still.

- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Truth. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

Gharon was a cold city. Ghar itself was the same dry chaparral that Michael remembered from Daressa; it was still winter, but it was mild compared to the snowy mountains of Ardalt. Within the city things were different, however. A wealth of ancient stone held tenaciously to the overnight chill, leaching heat from everything around it. Wind funneled through mazelike alleys and broad dusty boulevards alike.

The chill did not affect him, of course. But it made itself felt nevertheless, whispering cold thoughts in his ears as he passed invisibly through its warrens, a quiet protest against the warm body intruding on its domain.

There were people on this bank of the river, though they did not look happy about it. The crumbling facades of buildings had been patched with mortar, windows boarded up and gaps stuffed with rotten, faded rags. Some of the alleys had been walled off as well, with doors cut into the barricades for access. Michael found himself weaving back and forth between a few main streets in search of a clear path to his destination. Eventually, though, he found himself facing a broad plaza that had been barricaded entirely from the surrounding streets. Lifting his sight, he saw that it extended far in either direction across his path; he braced himself, found a clear area and jumped lightly over the wall.

He landed in an odd facsimile of a village, a ramshackle assortment of structures made from castoff stone and scrap that stood upon the cracked stone of the plaza. Unlike the empty streets outside, the area within the barricades was free of debris and swept clean to the cobbles - and full of people. Michael was momentarily dazed by the sight and sound of them after spending so long in the cold, quiet city outside.

To the west there was a sort of market, with vendors calling out to passers-by; children laughed and screamed as they ran in between the stalls. East of him was quieter, with rows of houses standing free in the plaza or melting back into some of the buildings that formed the plazas original boundary. Their windows were still boarded, the plaster still cracked and crumbling, but they bore more signs of life than the buildings outside. A few had been whitewashed within the current century; one had been painted a vivid, inadvisable shade of red.

Careful, Sobriquet said, sounding strained. Its harder for me to veil you, I can barely see whatevers in there. Lots of people, lots of chaos.

Michael walked slowly towards the market, being careful not to step anywhere hed leave a footprint. Its like a different city, he said. One within the larger city, with walls up to keep the wilderness out. Ive never seen anything like it.

It makes sense. Theres not enough people left in Ghar to fill it out, she said. They could live scattered throughout, but thats unsafe, and weve already seen that theyre concerned about the Mendiko. Besides, people like to live next to each other. Only a few strange hermits prefer isolation when there are better options available.

Jeorg would be the first to name himself a strange hermit, so thats probably fair, Michael chuckled. He was close enough now to smell cooking food from the stalls, thick and oily on the wind. There were sacks of grain and tubers on offer, and a few pitiful cuts of meat glistening with salt. A normal market, for all that its surrounds were not. The contrast gave it a magnetism, though, the appeal of a light flaring in a dark place; here the citys chill held no domain.

Reluctantly, he looked away towards the far wall. The granary was still some distance to the south, and he had a purpose in coming here. He took a breath of heady, spiced air - and jumped again, sailing over the barricade to another deserted street.

I wonder if thats the main concentration of people here? Michael mused. It doesnt seem large enough to account for all the lights we saw at night, and the city sprawls a bit.

Its not, Sobriquet confirmed. Theyre hard to see clearly, but there are more - fuzzy spots like that one, areas where the chaos of the city collects and muddles my sight. Around a dozen, though I wouldnt bet against there being smaller ones that Im just not seeing clearly.

Michael nodded, reaching his pace again; the buildings began to blur by. Interesting. More like a country than a city, with its own cities within. The people were passing out here are the - woodsmen, the rangers living rough outside the bounds of society.

Or theyre dead, she snorted. Some of these buildings are lived-in, yes, but there are very few people in between. If theres ten thousand people in all of Gharon, Id be surprised.

Indeed, there was no sign of life on the streets as he ran further from the river, slowly ascending the broad, sloping hill that dominated the citys southwest quarter. He could see the granary now, or at least the building he assumed must be it: a gargantuan, domed building that still appeared miraculously intact. A thin stream of smoke issued from somewhere nearby, tugged away by the wind as it rose above the rooftops.

He slowed his pace as he drew closer to it. There was another large barricade a few blocks distant from the granary itself. Michael vaulted it and found himself in another microcosm of a city, this one built within a vast open structure of stone columns. There was no roof remaining, if there ever had been one, but the residents had made do with vast stretches of cloth and canvas. Some were waxed, or were made of heavy oilcloth; these ran into barrels and cisterns below. It gave the impression of a forest canopy wrought from billowing, mismatched cloth, with stone trees and scrap house underbrush.

He could tell immediately that this was larger than the village he had passed through before. The sheer mass of people moving through the forest of columns made him reconsider Sobriquets estimate for the citys population; he would not be surprised if there were ten thousand people here. They walked down streets, sat outside of their mismatched houses - and, predominantly, walked in the direction of the granary.

Drop the veil, Michael murmured. Theres too many people here, itll be easier to walk among them if Im visible.

Sobriquet made a buzzing noise of dissent. Youll stand out; your clothing is far too nice, she protested. Look at what theyre wearing.

Michael looked. She had a fair point; the clothing of Gharons residents was eclectic and varied, with a heavy emphasis on cloaks made from rough, thick cloth. There were a few people he could see sporting well-tailored garments made from homespun or leather, but none boasted anything close to the fine, light Mendiko cloth of Michaels shirt and trousers.

He made a face and ducked into a less-crowded path between buildings, casting his sight around. Amid the jumbled chaos of the columns he soon found what he was looking for - one of the ubiquitous swatches of cloth that made up the citys roof that had torn free, hanging low enough that he could hop up and grab it. Moments later his fine clothing was concealed under the sun-bleached canvas. Michael mussed his hair a bit for good measure, then tore a few strips from the hem of his makeshift cloak to wind around his boots, disguising their make.

There, he said. Do I pass inspection?

As long as nobody pays you any mind, sure, Sobriquet muttered. But youre not particularly convincing. Its that telltale smell of money that follows you around.

Michael snorted and pulled a fold of cloth up to form a makeshift hood. I dont have to live here, just stay unnoticed for a few hours, he muttered. Let them see me.

There was a faint sensation as her veil dropped; Michael began to thread his way through the crowd. Most of those around him pressed in the same direction, towards the massive stone dome peeking through gaps in the fluttering cloth overhead. The columns stopped abruptly at a set of stone steps, and Michael found himself standing at the edge of the largest plaza he had ever seen. Huge slabs of stone spread out over an area that beggared most farms, ringed by ornate stone facades.

It reminded him of the government plaza in Imes, though that now seemed a pale imitation of the original; Michael reflected a moment later that calling it an imitation was likely a literal truth. Some of the buildings had fallen, but their monolithic facades had weathered the centuries better. Great columns and arches towered around him, carved with handsome figures in poses of triumph and struggle.

A sense of weight hit him as he walked slowly by, the same that had pressed upon him when viewing the oldest parts of Mendian. These stone faces and towering columns had been here for the better part of a millennium, but it was not mere age that lent them their significance. This was the bedrock that everything he knew was built upon. For all that people like Friedrich liked to hearken back to their Ardan roots, Ghar formed the basis for nearly everything about Ardan culture - and here was where it had carved its memories into cold stone.

He longed to comment to Sobriquet about it, but kept quiet; there were people close around him in every direction, and he did not want to rely solely on the covering noise of the crowd. It was a raucous crowd, indeed; Michael felt the buzz of their excitement, their exhilaration. He frowned, focusing his attention on it as the scale became apparent. It was too much for a simple demonstration. The crowd was vibrant, alive, and unified in a way that Michael had seldom felt before.

Their momentum carried him to a spot not far from the granarys front steps. Someone had erected a crude stage there, with a wooden platform and a flapping banner of deep green cloth. Michael saw a flash of silver on it, an eight-pointed star picked out in the center. His skin prickled with gooseflesh as he watched a dead empires flag snap in the wind.

I just dont think we should make an enemy of the Gharics, she said. Theyre working with the Institute, yes, but theyre desperate. We worked with Saf. It hardly placed us under Salehs thumb.

A fair point, Michael said. But theyll all die, Sera. Thats whats different here. The only reason theyre in this predicament is because I stopped short before, again and again. He resumed his walk towards the grain bin. They live today, but die in their thousands tomorrow. Then Ardans die. Safid die, Mendiko die. Its always worse.

Sobriquets voice was an irritated buzz. You cant-

Hello, my sneaky Mendiko friend! the speaker said, waving in Michaels general direction. Why dont you come over here? I give my word that no harm will come to you; Id just like to ask you a few questions. His eyes strayed wide of Michael, but it did nothing to lessen his broad, friendly smile.

Please, Michael, Sobriquet said. Youre not wrong, but - not these people. Not like this.

There was a tone to her voice that cut through the masking buzz; for a moment Michael could almost see her standing in front of him. Back in Ardalt, he said quietly, Luc sent people against me that he knew Id have trouble fighting. He used them as a screen to shield himself from me. He paused. It worked.

Sobriquet said nothing; in the expectant silence Michael looked at the grain bin - then turned back towards the smiling speaker. He paused a moment, then let his head drop. You can let the veil go.

thank you, she said, the relief in her voice washing over him as the veil departed; the Gharic party swiveled their eyes to him in alarm.

The speaker gave a short, nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. Do you know, he said. Titus here has told me more times than I can remember that there was someone skulking about in the shadows. More than a few times Ive called out to them and made the same offer I made to you. I confess that I was entirely unprepared for the Mendiko spy in question to actually take me up on it.

Michael took a few steps forward, showing empty hands. Ardan, actually, he said. Although matters of my nationality are a bit complex at the moment. Was the offer made in earnest?

The man blinked, then laughed again. I suppose it was, he said. A moment later, he extended a hand to Michael.

Michael looked at it, then back up at the speakers face. He closed the remaining distance and shook the proffered hand carefully, not wanting to alarm the guards crowding close around him any more than he already had. The mans skin was warm and dry; his grip lacked the strength of a potens. He was fairly confident there was no soul at all lurking behind those hawkish features. Only a man, one humming with the low buzz of fear, expectation - and excitement.

Despite himself, Michael smiled. So what should I call you? he asked.

The man blinked, looking momentarily baffled. You dont know? he asked. Amusement crinkled his eyes. Presumptuous of me, but I had assumed - you werent here for me?

Michael shrugged. I heard there was a speech going on, but nothing about who was giving it. Should I know you?

Apparently not, the man chuckled. I go by a few names, but you may call me Marcus.

Marcus, Michael repeated, nodding. Im Michael. He paused, noting the brief ripple of alarm that percolated through some of the guards; Marcus narrowed his eyes fractionally.

Michael gave him an amicable smile. I can see that you have the advantage of me.

Our fair homeland is somewhat more isolated than it used to be, Marcus said. But not that isolated. Michael Baumgart. His eyes flicked up and down. Im always prepared for people to appear unsuited for their names, but you do look very much like a Michael Baumgart.

Ive been practicing for a number of years, Michael said. Im wondering if youve heard the name Luc Flament as well.

Marcus gave him a piercing look, then slowly nodded his head. I have, he said. Though hes another one with more than a few names.

More than a few that dont suit him at all. Michael walked slowly over to a nearby crate and sat down on it. Hes the reason Im here.

To reclaim the vaunted Star of Mendian, Marcus said; there was a subtle, ugly shift in the mood of his guards as he spoke. To return it to its place in the north. There was a long, uncomfortable pause. I trust I dont need to explain that many here would prefer that it stay lost to Mendian. The northern sun is always a cold light, at these latitudes. The idea of a warm sun, rising from the east - it has an appeal.

Michael shook his head. Luc will kill you all, he said. He intends to start a bloody conflict on your soil with the express goal of causing death. Ardan and Safid, mostly, but he wouldnt be troubled in the least if your people were swept up in it. If you do not have a verifex here, then I will wait while you fetch one and say the words again. He looked Marcus directly in the eyes. Reclaiming his soul is incidental. He has to die, or many more will.

More, Marcus said quietly, looking aside. Tell me, Michael - do you know how many Gharic children have starved to death in the city since this year began? How many closed their eyes, clutching at their swollen, aching bellies, and never woke? How many tiny graves weve dug for bodies that were little more than bones already?

He raised his head to look at Michael, his eyes blazing. None. And I would rather that this year remain so wonderfully different from those that have come before. Your countrymen bring food. They bring hope. And if they bring death as well, then we are still richer by the first two.

Food can come from anywhere, Michael said. As can hope.

The smile returned to Marcuss face, though in a different shape than before. Yet so seldom from Mendian, in my experience. Will you promise me that might change? Tell me that you will make the Batzar bend their leaden spines? He shook his head. Id probably believe you, to be honest. But even if you could, and those murderous old bastards sent in one year the bounty they might have sent for one hundred - Goitxea is a city far distant from here.

Marcus reached into a bag atop one of the crates and pulled out a handful of grain. This is right here. Children can eat this. They can eat it tomorrow, and next week. If I turn on the Ardans now, we have food for three weeks. After that, I think we both know how many children your promise would feed.

So give me three weeks, Michael said. Daressa is closer than Mendian, and I have contacts there. I can get shipments into the Mendiko port.

Theyll be so happy to cooperate, one of Marcuss men jeered.

Michael looked at him. I will be the Star, he said. When Luc dies. Im not sure if thats widely known, but Ill tell you regardless. His soul will come to me, and I will have the office that was Leires. So, no, they will not cooperate. Theyll obey.

There was silence around their little group after Michael spoke, seeming greater still under the looming bulk of the granary dome. Marcus broke it with a tired sigh.

I am no verifex, he said. But I pride myself on being a good judge of character. I find myself convinced of your sincerity, your - candor, despite the magnitude of your claims. His eyes came up, tired and sunken. So in return I will share a secret of my own.

Michael met his eyes.

You dont have three weeks, Marcus said. You dont even have one.