Temple of the Traveler: Book 01 - Doors to Eternity (6 page)

At just over six feet, Jotham had inherited his pale skin and height from his mother, a minor, Imperial aristocrat of the seventh and lowest circle. His wide shoulders and big bones had come from his father, a Mandibosian farmer. Years of prison bread, window-box vegetables, and fasting had left no fat on his lanky frame whatsoever. When combined with his corona of hair, the mismatched eyes gave him the aspect of a madman. All in all, the head robber judged Jotham too high of a risk for too little gain. However, if they let this man pass, others might believe the road safe and fall into their trap.

In spite of all of these reasons, hunger might have driven the more desperate thugs to attack if the oldest of them hadn’t seen the wooden symbol hanging around Jotham’s neck. The old man laid a hand across the nearest man’s chest to hold him back.

“Not this one,” he said, pointing to the six-armed symbol. “When you see that around a man’s neck, leave him. I would rather eat rabbit and berries for the rest of my life than take one step closer to a man from that cursed place.” He turned his face away, as from some remembered trauma. The chief growled and his men withdrew back to their cave as Jotham passed from sight over the next ridge to the north.

****

Once he had placed a safe distance and a hill between himself and the robbers, Jotham rested in the grass at the bottom of the next valley. Suddenly, an overloaded cart of scrap metal, pots, and pans was moving downhill toward him much faster than it should have been. Behind the clattering mass, barely in control, ran a merchant with sweat-stained clothes, slicked-back hair, tiny hands, and a bad complexion. The tradesman screamed in panic when he saw the tall priest spring up as if from the road itself. Tinker John stopped so abruptly that his cart up-ended with a cymbal’s crash. Not worrying about his own merchandise or the goods given to him for repair, the tinker grabbed a frying pan to defend himself. The pan was in need of patching and the handle would snap after the first solid blow.

“I’ve no money,” said the tradesman shrilly.

“I’m not asking for any,” said the priest in the high, pure tones of a child. Jotham righted the cart with casual ease and asked, “Where are you going in such a rush?”

For a moment, the tinker was puzzled by the juxtaposition, the threatening body with the innocent voice. “Home is a few hollows over, and I can just make it there by dark if I hurry.” Keeping one eye on the large man, the tinker began shoveling his wares back into the pushcart.

“Then by all means, let me help,” Jotham said, bending over. The front of the cart was decorated by a plethora of hex signs. Holy hexagrams were simple, six-sided, tin cutouts that had been painted by a king’s priest or magician with some symbol of power. Peasants bought them to hang on their barns. The priests of Semenos the Planter were concerned mainly with fertility, patriotism, and warding off fires. The tinker had every conceivable magical symbol hanging from his cart.

After the second armload, he noticed a special, starburst emblem known as the flare anodyne. The six-armed badge of the sheriffs was called the flare militant. Each branch of the religion had its own subtle variation. This particular one was the sign for those who specialized in the healing arts. The priest lifted this holy symbol with great care, realizing the significance of this portent. Closing his mismatched eyes, he absorbed what the item could tell him.

At the Great Library, the half-breed’s odd talent had made him a historian of some repute. Jotham had written several books on famous battles of the Empire by walking over the sites and touching the flotsam and jetsam of world-shaping events that had washed up on the shores of the present day. The smooth quality of the metal and the freshness of the aura signature said this talisman had been manufactured recently, in the last forty-nine years. Even buried, cyclic surges in solar activity would have systematically eroded the mark of man from an item like the tides washed away sandcastles. The purity of the reading spoke of only one owner, a child born to the ways of the sacred. Jotham savored the echoes of potential and creativity still resonating in the symbol, simple joys that far surpassed the taste of greed and killing that tainted so much of what mankind left behind.

“Here now, you can’t take that,” the tinker muttered, forgetting his fear and reaching for the piece. Jotham pulled his arm away, not so much to keep the symbol, but to avoid being touched. At the Great Library, Prefect Khalid had learned this idiosyncrasy and honored Jotham’s talent by providing an honor guard. These guards kept all others a full-body-length distant from the priest. Bablios was fertile and prosperous, but a very small kingdom, which made its rulers paranoid. The Prefect, who was also his Majesty’s master of spies, loved to collect secrets. But Jotham had crossed the border now, away from both the Prefect’s protection and control.

All trace of geniality faded from Jotham’s face. The name Calligrose was merely a title, like tenor. Names were just tags that humans needed in order to wrap their minds around something, or to explain a function. In the ancient tongue, it meant “one who carries writing of the gods.” He wasn’t a saint or a full-fledged god, but something in between. All the gods of the kingdoms had names ending in “os”. The god of all gods was therefore referred to as Osos. Because the gods and men could not speak to each other directly, it was necessary for Calligrose to carry messages between them.

Although there were many other names for the messenger, Muse of the Bards and the god of prisoners to name a couple, Jotham referred to his patron simply as the Traveler, the oldest of his names. If this ignorant man wanted to make this meeting a formal ed t using one of the titles of obligation, so be it.

“Are you aware of the responsibility that goes with the protection of this symbol?” asked Jotham, as he opened his cloak to reveal his own flare corpus, the sign of hospitality and needs of the human body. “I will honor your claim, but first I require a service of you.”

Tinker John’s jaw dropped open, but nothing came out. His eyes shifted from side to side as he searched for a way to dodge this claim. Sheriff bands had once patrolled these highways honorably, collecting only favors for their pay. But those true guardians had not been seen in this kingdom for a generation. Over the years the sect had splintered, and the six arms of the church had been absorbed or exterminated by the individual kings. The ones that remained were rumored to want tithes far beyond simple hospitality. “Actually the piece isn’t mine,” the tinker explained as he grabbed the last of his goods frantically.

Jotham pretended disinterest as he continued to help the man. “It’s in no need of repair. Perhaps it belongs to a family member or loved one.”

“No,” the tinker snapped immediately. “I have no family. My apprentice made it. He was all I had till he took sick.”

“Really? How sad,” said Jotham, falling into the old patterns of questioning he always used when he knew the one responding was a liar. “How long ago was that?”

“Just this morning, in Wrensford,” the man said, pointing back and to the right.

“And you just left him?” the priest asked, watching the tinker’s face as the accusation sank in. “Why? He seems to do good work.” Although this was the year of liberation, when all indentured servants regained their freedom, the New Year was over a sesterina, a month, away. No master would have freed his apprentice this early.

The tradesman blinked nervously. The smell of his sweat became almost overpowering. “Wrensford is a plague town now.” Realizing the hole in his logic, the man added. “I got out just in time, before the garrison arrived.”

Normally, when the king’s garrison quarantined a village like that, they enforced a seven-day isolation period and checked for plague signs before anyone would be permitted to leave. Even then, no blankets or clothing could depart the village. Only living things and that which could pass the fire could be taken. Everything else would be burned. This tradesman must have snuck out early in order to keep his profits. Jotham said, “I see. Does this boy… what was his name?”

“Brent, sir.”

“Does this Brent have any family that might be concerned for him?” asked Jotham.

“Not anymore. His mother died in birthing and his father was killed two years ago when the scaffolding he was working on collapsed. The lad was eight when it happened; he’s been with me ever since.”

“You can’t miss it. The village is also well-marked. I have no wish to return so soon. Then I would have wasted my whole day and will have no place to stay the night.”

Now, Jotham was certain the man had snuck out to avoid quarantine. He looked up at the rock formations where the robbers would be waiting. “In the name of Calligrose, the protector of travelers, I ask you a third and final time to go with me to find the boy.”

The tinker brushed the request away as he rearranged the last of his gear to fit on the cart. “He’ll probably be dead by the time we get there. Besides, I have a busy day planned tomorrow. The fair is coming up soon, and with no apprentice, I’ll be working day and night to get ready.”

“What makes you think there will be a tomorrow?” the priest whispered in his high voice.

But the tinker didn’t hear. “I’m a busy man, so if you don’t mind, I can’t spare any more daylight to chat.” He began pulling the heavy cart up the next hill, already huffing with exhaustion at his exertions.

The tinker stroked his narrow chin as he mused. “Well now, he’s got about fifty workdays left in him, and that’s a fine specimen of metalwork you’re holding. Let’s see, that’s fifteen hours for the magic talisman, and five hundred hours for the contract.”

Jotham laughed. “If he were a trained silversmith, perhaps. But a tin worker in training is paid less than a tenth that. The hexagrams can’t take you more than an afternoon to make a dozen.” In truth, the priest would have paid his weight in gold to redeem Brent, but he had very little money on him.

“Fifty-five, then,” the artisan said, licking his lips.

“Now who is robbing whom? A minute ago, the boy was half in his grave.”

“Thirty hours and not a beat lower. The tax on the document alone cost me that much,” the tinker asserted. Jotham nodded, and withdrew his only three complete rods of silver coins. Each stack of coins was referred to as a day. He now had less than a day’s change left to his name.

The tinker grinned slyly, and pulled a square of parchment out of a pouch on his cart. After he had inspected the coins, and stowed them out of sight, the tradesman gloated, “Maybe you can use that to light a fire tonight for all the good it’ll do you. Our business is finished, sir?”

Jotham nodded. “As you say, finished.” Then he hurried toward Wrensford, hoping to arrive before night curfew. He also wanted to be far enough away that he wouldn’t hear the tinker scream.

The hamlet of Wrensford was founded at a shallow point on an inconsequential, mountain-born stream in a valley where small birds once sang. It had never come to a mapmaker’s attention, nor was it ever likel to in the future.

After the snow melted and flooded the lowlands, rats made their way to the drier, more comfortable buildings of men on higher ground. Not only were the small villages warm, but people kept vast reserves of grain around so that the rats could multiply with ease. As repayment, the small, hairy horde brought diseases to share. Outbreaks of the plague could be minimized or avoided altogether by following the holy codes. Even if the peasants couldn’t understand them, the principles were effective. Yet no one remembered the codes the Traveler had given them.

In the space of two weeks, a thriving village of fifty would be reduced by a dozen souls. Then, more dangerous than the disease, would come the fear. Half the remaining population would flee. Those remaining would look for a scapegoat, someone to kill in order to lift the curse. Some, anxious to profit from their neighbor's loss, would loot the homes of the sick and the dying. Blankets, clothing, and the thatch in the home itself carried the contagion. Two-legged vermin would further spread the infection. The sheriffs of old would shoot looters without hesitation to save nearby communities. Though he appreciated the logic, Jotham could never have killed another human being.

Past this point, even these drastic measures would only save a handful of people. Jotham had witnessed similar dramas played out during his years of intelligence gathering for the Babliosian Consulate. The stench in the air and the soldiers standing guard around the wooden stockade told him that this play was already in its final act. The ruler of Semenos had sent armed guards the moment he heard of the outbreak, for such diseases kill kings as easily as commoners.

The soldiers had built two irregular rings of wooden fencing around the village to enforce a strict quarantine. Wherever possible, the walls of existing structures were incorporated in order to save work. People of Wrensford who still survived made their way to the outer ring, where they had food and supplies lowered to them, but were kept isolated from the outside world. From two watchtowers, the entire isolation zone could be seen. Any structures within seven paces of the inner wall had been leveled to improve visibility. No one was permitted to bring any items out of the inner zone unless the items first passed through a cleansing fire. This was the last bastion between the living and the dead.