The Betrayed (18 page)

CHAPTER 15

T
he street urchins proved to be valuable. They were not very accurate regarding the finer details, but they could sniff the atmosphere better than any hound. They told him of high tension running in the city, between the low- and highborn. The merchants and nobles were living in almost complete self-imposed sieges, which had started soon after the murders. The wealthy only moved when under heavy protection and leased almost all of their commerce outside Eybalen. The city’s lower circles were deeply suffering because of this, which only increased the mistrust. This gave the followers of Feor an almost free hand to incite against the rich.

Armin found this interesting. Could the Feor priests have paid assassins to murder a number of high-ranking city officials in orders to create distrust and panic? This seemed like a powerful motive.

Feorans—that’s what they called themselves—were a powerful, unstoppable phenomenon. He still dearly lacked almost any information of the Movement, but he had learned that it was a bright new religion promising ultimate freedom for nothing in return. It had started as an echo of a grudge against the old gods and soon flamed into a conflagration of zeal that had swept across Caytor. The rich had been completely surprised by the fever, totally unprepared to act against it. Arrests, curfews, even outright purges had not been able to suppress the burgeoning of the new religion.

Despite the obvious power, it seemed the fervor of the Movement was channeled outside Caytor, which made Armin doubt the priests had concocted the murders. He still lacked many pieces of the puzzle, but he believed that the Feorans were not the only culprits in the story.

After many talks with various petty officials all over the city, he had learned that Feorans were also zealously opposed to literature. They never wrote their dogmas down and even burned libraries when they could. Curiously, the scribes had also been threatened by other religions to never put down a word about Feorans into writing, lest the heresy spread into future generations. In this regard, the two sides seemed equally fanatic.

This frustrated Armin very much, because he lacked two decades of social progress in Caytor to help him understand the present. He knew all these events were related, only not how or why.

Armin reported his progress every week to the council. They seemed flustered by his lack of success almost as much as he was. Yet, they continued to pay, convinced he would unveil the mysteries.

Just as he was about to leave, one of the local officials called him to his office. “You are doing this the wrong way,” the stranger told him.

“Greetings. I’m Armin Wan’der Markssin,” the Sirtai offered.

“I know who you are. I’m Henrik. Nespos was my brother-in-law.”

“What can you tell me about Nespos?”

Henrik had closed the door of his office and sat opposite the investigator. His office was crammed to bursting with books of all kinds and heaps of documents.

“I married his sister seven years ago. He was a good man. Polite, accurate, very meticulous. Dedicated. He was a great explorer and chart-maker. He had sailed almost the entire coast of Caytor and Ichebor in the north.”

A spark exploded in Armin’s head. “Was Nespos anyhow related to…religious texts? Did he write books about religions or religious movements?”

The official frowned. “Not that I know of, no.”

Armin deflated. Another dead end. “Did he have any enemies?”

Henrik steepled his fingers. “Well, there was always some rivalry between explorers. But it was only good sportsmanship, nothing more. Nespos and his friends made sure they could each have a piece of glory. So when Nespos sailed north, another sailed south, and a third man went inland.”

“I was not able to talk to his widow yet,” Armin stated.

“Cybilla? Oh, she’s a difficult woman. You’ll be hard-pressed to ever get her audience. But I believe I can help. I’ll try to arrange something.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“I would like to know who killed Nespos. It irks me. My wife has nightmares. We need closure.”

Armin leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I need access to the city annals.”

Henrik did not seem surprised by the request. “What would you like to know?”

“Well, I am interested in learning more about this Feoran Movement. And I would also like to know about the business transactions the eight victims had prior to their death. The more the better. Do you keep such records?”

The other man sighed. “By law, we are obliged to document every single deal done by one of our members. But some of the deals are considered very secret and very discreet, and only guild members have access to them.”

Armin nodded. “I understand. But I would appreciate if you could help me.” He had, of course, on the first day of the investigation, asked for help from the council. But the clerks were not forthcoming with what was considered the guilds’ internal affairs before a complete stranger. His letters of recommendation did not help at all.

He had spoken with friends and relatives of many of the victims, spoken to their employees and colleagues. He had received lots of mixed and conflicting information. The guilds wanted the murders solved. But everything had a price.

“Let’s meet tonight, two hours after sunset. In the Black Swan Inn, by the Fountain of Heroes. Do you know where it is?”

Armin nodded. “Thank you.”

Armin left the House, swimming in new clues and leads. He had ridden in a chariot since the day of his almost death. He had not told his wives of the attempt on his life, not wishing to make them worry or make Inessa feel bad about not being at his side at the time. He had told the council about it, to which they had responded with shock and outrage. They had provided him with an escort, a well-trained assassin and bodyguard who also doubled as his coacher.

He was contemplating visiting one of Feor’s temples, but the followers guarded the places against intruders. Only the converts were allowed in. Even the City Watch did not meddle. After a botched raid called the Night of Red Lilies, there had been no more attempts to storm any of the shrines. Armin was not quite sure what had happened on that night, some five years ago, but the rumor spoke of blood running like summer rain and houses burning bright and orange in the night, a thousand tarred heads on pikes, a month-long blockade in the port. He had also heard of the event called the Night of Victory, but he was not sure who the victors were. No one readily spoke about it. And there were no scrolls to read from.

He hoped things would change tonight.

In the rich parts of the city, there were no Feorans. The old temples had their doors open, and people trickled in and out. But beyond a certain invisible line, no sane priest trod alone, without a heavy escort of armed men.

That evening, he met Henrik in one of the more respectable inns in Eybalen. The place looked rich, with incense burning in gilt sconces and handsome waitresses gliding to and fro, serving delicacies on tiny porcelain platters.

Henrik sipped wine, while Armin drank brandy hailing from his own isle.

“Here,” Henrik said, handing him a key. “This opens the Grand Archive in the House. I suggest you visit after the workday ends. Most of the guards will turn a blind eye if you pay a handsome sum. For the risk involved, they will probably demand gold.”

Armin nodded. “Thank you.”

“I have also spoken to Cybilla. She has agreed to meet you.”

The investigator nodded in appreciation, impressed. One found allies where one least expected them.

“What can you tell me about the Feorans?” he asked after some small talk between them. The alcohol had settled, and they had both significantly relaxed, almost forgetting the grim reality surrounding them.

“A curious lot, by all means,” Henrik spoke, his eyes locked on the fire in one of the ornamental fireplaces. “They came like a plague, out of nowhere. And people flocked to their side like a long-awaited redemption. I was a young man, just started in the services to the city. I remember the fear, the expectations, the horror. No one had believed it possible.”

“Is there any hierarchy to the Movement?”

Henrik grimaced. “Non-Feorans know very little about them. They do have priests, but it’s difficult to tell them apart from common followers. They all dress the same, in those filthy leathers. But the outfit means little. You can see beggars who are priests and people in rich leathers who are nothing but new converts.”

Armin tried to speak, but Henrik continued. “The rich and the noble have tried to eradicate the Feorans, under the blessing of the old gods. But it was impossible. You could not tell them apart. They looked the same. Now, it’s too late.”

“What happened on the Night of Red Lilies?”

The other man emptied his glass in one gulp. “Ah, ancient history. Well, at first, no one took the new faith seriously. But people listened. The common folk. The masses. The Feorans told them they should live their lives free of the chains of bureaucracy that we, the rich, have imposed on them. Slowly, the Movement gained momentum.

“When they declared the other religion false, an upheaval erupted. The patriarchs demanded the Feorans to be abolished. Most of the rich people answered the call gladly, for they feared this new faith. In the eyes of the people, this only proved the Feoran theories all the more right.”

Armin scooped a squid tentacle from a plate before him and dipped it in a sauce of mayonnaise and bread crumbs.

“One night, the Feorans barricaded themselves in one of the manor houses in the city, demanding legal recognition. The council threatened with military action if the Feorans did not disperse. After a tense standoff that lasted almost a week, the council decided to act. Some of the nobles mustered their men-at-arms and knights and brought them into the city. And then, they stormed the manor house.

“It was carnage. Thousands of people were in and around that place, and the soldiers killed them indiscriminately. It was said that almost no one survived. And then, the council had the bodies decapitated and the heads displayed as a warning in front of all the city gates.

“Instead of curbing the movement, this only enraged the Feorans more. Worse, most of the city folk were sympathetic with the Ways of Feor, and when the Feoran leader called for a total boycott of the city industries, the people took to the streets, tens of thousands of them.”

Armin listened, fascinated. He wondered what the political advisors in Tuba Tuba were doing. None of this had reached the ears of any of the important figures in Sirtai leadership. It seemed his nation had decided to ignore the continental folk almost entirely. But this ignorance could be lethal.

Feor sounded like a concept that the slaves would very much like. Maybe this was why Sirtai had been isolated from this critical news.

“The council tried imposing curfews, but nothing helped. A thousand skirmishes broke out inside the city. Eventually, the council realized they would have to kill the entire city before the Feorans yielded. For a whole month, the people refused to report to their workplaces. Ships in the port were burned and sunk, and no trade came and went for weeks. Some of the merchants lost all of their wealth in this rebellion.

“Finally, left with no option but to starve or raze the city, the council decided to allow Feorans to reside in the city and build temples, but only in the lower parts. Still, this was a complete victory for them. Word spread like wildfire. In the countryside and in other cities, purges ceased. The patriarchs were livid, but there was nothing they could do.

“Since, the situation has only gotten worse. Most of the military converted to the Ways of Feor. The noble retainers are still loyal to their lords, but the professional army is becoming more and more a tool of the Feorans. Some say that the western provinces are in total anarchy, ruled by the Feorans. We even fear a coup here in the capital.”

“What do these Feorans want?” Armin asked after a long pause. With the entire army at their side, the Feorans were the effective rulers of the realm. And that seemed like a troubling prospect.