The Hickory Staff

THE SOUTHERN WHARF

Morning found the four of them hiding in an abandoned shanty on the edge of the city, part of a small community of fisherman’s shacks, smokehouses and boathouses assembled randomly beneath the overhanging branches of the coastal forest just south of an enormous wooden pier. The pier was flanked by a number of huge warehouses: Mark guessed that they had found Orindale’s southern wharf. A few stevedores hauled crates from a nearby warehouse to a waiting single-masted sloop; it looked like the tide was turning and judging by the string of orders and obscenities, the captain was eager to set sail.

Finally a small group of Malakasian soldiers emerged from one of the warehouses and boarded the ship. From where Mark was hidden he could see them searching the vessel and interrogating the officers. There was endless paper-shuffling before they granted the captain permission to shove off.

‘Just when we thought it was going to get easier,’ he grumbled, checking the pot of tecan brewing over a tiny fire out behind the shanty. ‘That rules out the warehouse, I suppose.’ He blew gently across the top of his cup, the steam dissipating quickly in the swirling Twinmoon winds.

Garec, Steven and Brynne were sleeping while Mark stood the dawn watch. The sea was wider here than he had imagined after hearing all the tales of trade ships and merchant vessels crossing so frequently between Falkan or Rona and Praga in the Westlands. Squinting in the pale orange glow, Mark could not make out the Pragan coastline in the distance. A collection of ramshackle boats, skiffs and sailing vessels were tied to mooring pylons and rocks in the shallows. Mark made a mental note of one craft hauled up above the high-tide mark; it looked as if it was stowed for winter: a lucky break for them if that were the case. The sailboat was about twenty-two feet in length and had a single mast. He couldn’t see the tiller, rigging, or even sails, but hoped they might be stored beneath the gunwales, packed away until spring. If not, he’d done enough sailing to know what was needed – steal or buy, he didn’t care, he was happy just to know they would be able to get the vessel rigged and ready to flee should the need arise for a seaward retreat. ‘It might even take us to Praga,’ he considered aloud, and mentally checked off one of three hundred things that needed to go according to their plan in the coming days.

He sipped his drink and gazed down at his friends sleeping soundly on the hard wooden floor of the fisherman’s shanty. They would remain here all day, maybe longer, if Garec needed it. He’d not yet recovered from his ordeal.

By now, their attack must have been reported, maybe by the one soldier Garec didn’t kill. With so many footprints scattered about the Malakasian picket line, he hoped they would assume it was a partisan strike, that they had killed the sentries, then fled south. Allowing that young man to live caused a problem: he knew they were looking for Malagon, or at least for the Prince Marek. Garec had released his grip at the last minute, and that made their current predicament far more dangerous.

Although he was angry with himself for thinking maybe Garec should have dispatched that soldier too, Mark couldn’t banish the thought. He kept a wary eye out for the patrols that must be coming for them.

They had done what they could to disguise their trail, moving all the way to the warehouse, then doubling back through the forest. The Twinmoon tide had roared all the way in and wiped clean most of the footprints along the beach. Mark hoped a few out-of-season fishermen might show up and begin working in the nearby smokehouses as soon as the sun rose. Hide in plain view: Gita’s words echoed back at him. This was about as plain view as Mark could stand.

With any luck, the Malakasian force would come through the shanty village, detect nothing out of the ordinary and continue along the waterfront towards the north wharf and the Prince Marek. He finished his first cup and poured a second. That might be hoping for too much, he thought. He stared down at the bowman asleep at his feet. Garec needed time to recover from the horrors of the previous night, but if they were overrun by a Malakasian patrol, he might be called upon once again to use his gruesome skill and help them escape.

As if thinking about them had made his fears concrete, Mark heard the telltale sound of horses’ hooves, pounding along the sand. Five riders approached at a gallop and Mark quickly doused the small fire with the remains of his tecan, scolding himself as he did so. ‘Stupid bastard,’ he muttered, ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing making a fire?’ Mark tossed his blanket over the coals as a great cloud of smoke and steam rose from the soggy embers: not a perfect solution, but the cloud dissipated somewhat. He heard terse commands as the riders reined in out near the water’s edge, but huddled beneath the front wall of the shanty, he couldn’t make out what was being said. He longed to peer through the window to see if anyone was coming through the trees.

He looked around at a slight sound. Garec was awake and on his feet, an arrow nocked and ready to fire. Mark shook his head and held his breath. Please, God, don’t let it happen again, he prayed, over and over, please God, let them ride on.

A great weight fell over the shanty, as if a waterlogged cloud had blown in off the ocean and settled above their hiding place. Despite the morning chill, Mark felt sweat bead on his forehead. The stitches in his abdomen began to sting; it was hard to breathe. Beside him Garec was a rock, stern-faced and impassive: he would do whatever was necessary to protect himself and his friends.

Mark suddenly realised that it wasn’t just the deaths of the soldiers that were weighing so heavily on Garec’s heart; it was Gilmour – he blamed himself for Gilmour’s death. He needed to make peace with himself and forgive himself for allowing Gilmour’s killer to escape.

Now Garec stood stock-still by the crooked door of the shanty, poised and ready for the mounted patrol to find them. It would be a costly discovery.

But they never did. After a few minutes’ tense wait, they heard the clopping of the horses fading as they trotted off along the wharf.

Garec lowered his bow and folded like a discarded rag. Mark finally exhaled and returned to his watch at the shanty window as Garec wrapped himself back in his blanket and curled up on the floor.

For the moment at least, they were safe again.

Hannah was up early, before dawn, brewing tecan and warming two loaves of day-old bread in one of Alen’s fireplaces. She was kneeling on the hearth and didn’t hear him enter the room. When Alen spoke, she jumped, inadvertently spilling several burning logs onto the floor.

‘Jesus, you scared me,’ she exclaimed in surprised English, then smiled disarmingly and switched back to Pragan. ‘Good morning to you too; sorry, you startled me.’ Hannah used the poker to shovel the smouldering logs back onto the flames.

‘Sorry I frightened you.’ Alen moved to the big old chair beside her. ‘The nights are cold this late in the season. Thank you for building up the fire.’

‘I was up early.’ She moved a large stew cauldron from the hinged iron rod suspended above the coals then poured two mugs of tecan. Handing one over, she said. ‘Here you go. I’m afraid it isn’t too strong yet. I never know how long to leave it on.’

Alen watched her with a sense of detachment. ‘You know, you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago.’

‘I do?’

‘The resemblance is uncanny.’

‘Really? Who was she?’ Hannah burned her tongue and blew gently on it to calm the sensation. ‘I assume it was a she, or else our friendship is going to have a difficult morning.’ She laughed.

‘Her name was Pikan Tettarak,’ Alen said, warming his hands on the full mug. ‘She was a member of the Larion Senate.’

Hannah looked nervously about the room and fought off a sudden chill. Alen had spoken several times about the fabled band of sorcerers, but Hannah had summarily dismissed the notion as the ravings of a suicidal alcoholic. Yet, here he was, sober and clear-eyed, his first drink of the day still ten hours off. Hoyt and Churn were asleep in a chamber at the back of the house. If she cried out, they would be in the room in seconds – or whatever passed for seconds in this strange place.

Maybe now was the time to straighten out a few things. She looked Alen squarely in the face and said, ‘You must understand how difficult it is for me to believe you when you talk about this sort of thing. It’s completely outside the sphere of my experience: how on earth do you expect me to just accept that some people can do magic, or live for as long as you claim you have?’

‘For an intelligent woman you’re very shortsighted, Hannah. Until this past Twinmoon it was probably “outside the sphere of your experience” to fall through a Larion portal into another world.’

Hannah smiled in reluctant agreement.

‘So you ought to try to be a bit more openminded.’

‘Fair enough,’ she agreed. ‘So who was Pikan Tettarak?’

Alen’s gaze grew distant and he stared into the crackling flames. When he spoke, it was as much to the fire as to Hannah. ‘She was my wife.’

‘Hoyt never said you were married.’

‘He doesn’t know – no one knew. We were married in your England, in a small chapel near Durham Castle. It works slightly differently in Eldarn, but we loved the idea of making a lifelong commitment to one another, and your marriage vows captured the essence of our passion better than anything here. It was spring, and Pikan carried wildflowers, a handful of colour, like a rainbow. She loved the wildflowers there – we lived in Gorsk, and except for a few resilient shrubs, it had been a long time since either of us had seen anything like the flowers that grow all over England.’

Still fighting to maintain an open mind, Hannah asked, ‘What were you doing there?’

‘We were working. Actually, I should say I was working. I was conducting research into health, some projects I was planning to start up in different Eldarni cities. I was especially interested in how the English handled their sewage, rubbish and fresh water.’

‘And Pikan?’

‘She was a magician, very skilled, one of the strongest.’

‘Was she there to research magic? Magic in England?’ Hannah was horribly afraid he might say yes and cast another depth charge into everything she held as truth.

‘No. Her own magic was far greater than anything she might have found in England at the time. Pikan was along with me for other reasons.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘I was a director of the Larion Senate. Pikan joined us much later, after the Senate’s reputation as a congress of scholars had spread to the furthest corners of Eldarn. Nerak, Fantus and I had already been Larion Senators for a very long time when Pikan joined us.’ He noticed her confusion, and clarified, ‘Nerak and Fantus were the other division leaders, Nerak for magic and medicine and Fantus for research and scholarship. They were friends of mine as well as colleagues. Pikan was two hundred Twinmoons old when she arrived – old for a novice – but it was blindingly obvious from the day she took the vows that she possessed a strength of character and power unusual for an untrained sorcerer.’ He shifted in his chair, then continued, ‘I was in love with her from the beginning. I know people say that is impossible, but it is true. I have lived now for nearly two thousand Twinmoons and I have never felt about anyone, except my children and even that is a different love, as deeply as I felt for Pikan – and that after knowing her for three days. Can you believe that? Educated people, scholars, magicians: we are not prone to such silly, infantile attractions. We knew after three days we were meant to be together for all time.’

‘What happened to her?’

Alen ignored the question, but continued with his story. ‘Pikan went to work on research with Nerak.’

‘The director of magic and medicine?’

‘Right, and the most powerful of all Larion magicians since Lessek himself. Nerak was driven, a veritable machine; he worked constantly, pushing himself further and further, always working to unlock magic’s secrets. Under his guidance, the Larion Senate experienced an era of growth and maturity unlike any in our history. He established standards by which our research was judged, by which our interventions and contributions to Eldarni culture could be measured.’

‘He sounds impressive.’

‘He was. And Pikan was his assistant. She thirsted for the knowledge he had at his fingertips. Together, they made a powerful team.’

‘But something went wrong?’

‘Not at first, no. Their efforts were a model for all our teams for many Twinmoons…’ He drifted off and stared into the fire.

‘But then?’ Hannah prodded, expecting the worst.

‘Then? Then Nerak began to grow distant. He allowed Pikan to recruit young sorcerers. Together we travelled throughout Eldarn, looking for children and young adults who showed promise, like Pikan had when she joined the Senate already grown. We figured if we could detect that level of potential early in life, we could foster a generation of sorcerers nearly as powerful as Nerak himself. Pikan was entrusted with their initial training. Nerak only took over when an especially promising magician came to Sandcliff.’

‘What was he doing instead?’

‘He was studying, experimenting, pushing ever deeper into the hazy morass of power and knowledge buried in the Larion spell table – that was the vehicle through which Larion magicians were able to tap power and in turn introduce certain magics to our world.’ Alen thought this over for a moment, then added, ‘To your world, too, I suppose.’

‘Really?’ Hannah tried to control the scepticism in her voice. ‘Sorry. It’s a little hard to believe we have any magic in my world.’

‘You have plenty, trust me – you need to learn how and where to look. Anyway, Fantus, the third director, and I decided it was time to intervene. Nerak was becoming too removed from his responsibilities, from our values. The Larion Senate was there as a service to Eldarn.’

‘He was greedy?’

‘He was. He had the potential to bring great things to our land, but after a while, he decided to keep it all for himself.’

‘And Pikan?’

Alen pursed his lips. ‘I blame myself for that. I should have paid attention. I never noticed how he looked at her. More than anything, that should have tipped me off – you know? When you cannot allow a person to leave the room without that last look, that final glimpse that says I will imprint this image on my mind until she comes back. That’s what he was doing. The line of her face or the taper of her legs, he needed those things to bring him back from the brink of whatever nightmares he explored while immersed in the spell table. Yes, I think he loved her very much.’

‘What happened?’ Hannah’s curiosity was aroused. ‘I mean, the way you are describing this – this triangle – it doesn’t sound like it had a good ending.’

‘It didn’t.’ Alen poured himself another mug of tecan. He offered Hannah the pot, but she shook her head. She was eager to hear the rest of the drama. ‘Nerak said something about her once; it was a shock and I wasn’t ready for it. I got angry and attacked him, but he was much more powerful than me, even then. I think he might have killed me if he’d had any idea of what the future held.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He lashed out with a spell. Oh, it wasn’t much, but it hit me hard and I fell and sprained my ankle. We were on a ship at the time, rounding the Northern Archipelago towards Larion Isle. It was a trip we made every ten Twinmoons or so – to do research and try out new magic.’ He chuckled; Hannah smiled at the rare sound. ‘Like checking out recipes, I suppose. Anyway, I spent the entire journey hobbling about in agony. We told everyone I’d tripped and twisted my ankle. They never knew we’d had a spat. Nerak and I never physically fought again, but we were never as close as we had been either.’

‘What did you mean when you said he would have killed you if he had known-’

‘Known what the future held.’ The old Larion Senator paused, still staring into the fireplace. ‘Pikan was pregnant; I think if Nerak had known that, he would have killed me that day and tossed my body overboard.’

‘Your baby?’

‘Our baby- Yes. That’s why she came with me to England.’

Hannah looked confused, so he elaborated, ‘I knew it was going to be a long trip. Pikan wasn’t showing yet and she hid the early sickness, so no one knew. I only needed Fantus’s approval for going to England, and we stayed until the baby was born and then-’ Alen stopped to wipe his eyes on his sleeve.

‘You left the baby there.’

‘We did.’ He choked back a sob, a disconcerting sound. ‘We left her there because we knew Nerak would kill her if he found out about her. We were married, Pikan had the baby and we found a family, a good family, there in Durham. We promised we would always come back to visit, and when she was old enough we would bring her home with us. I even made plans to construct a third portal without anyone knowing. I could have done it. I would have done it… but I never had the chance.’

Hannah was on tenterhooks now; her arms and legs were numb from sitting so long on the floor, but she dared not move and break the spell. ‘So what became of the baby? Did you visit? Did you bring her back?’

‘Reia.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Reia. That was her name, Reia. And no, we never made it back. She was very young, just a few Twinmoons old, when we returned to Eldarn, but we had to – there was no way I could justify our absence any longer.’ Alen cleared his throat, though his voice still shook as he spoke. ‘We had to keep up appearances while we planned some way to bring Reia home and find somewhere where she would be safe and where we could be together as a family. But I had to come to Praga, to Middle Fork. Pikan was so distraught she nearly collapsed the day I left, but I promised her – just as I promised Reia – anyway, I swore to Pikan we would figure out a way, even if it meant challenging Nerak, killing Nerak. I didn’t care at that point, but Pikan didn’t want it to come to that. At least we knew Reia was in good hands.’

‘So you came to Praga.’

‘To Middle Fork, and while I was gone, Nerak finally lost his battle for sanity. He destroyed the Larion Senate.’ Alen’s voice was calm now; he spoke in dead, flat tones. ‘He killed Pikan, his team, everyone.’

‘Why?’

‘My guess is that the magic he sought to control finally took control of him and in doing so, he lost what was left of his already tenuous grip on reality. He killed them all.’

‘What happened to Reia?’ Hannah whispered, almost hoping Alen might not hear.

But he did, and he broke down again, weeping into his hands. ‘The far portals were lost, Sandcliff was all but destroyed and any means I had to get back to Durham was gone for ever.’

‘The far portal Steven found in Colorado-’

‘Was one of two we used to travel back and forth.’

‘Where was the other?’

‘In Prince Marek’s royal chambers at Welstar Palace in Malakasia – the lion’s den. I think Nerak placed it there. And I know in my heart that he remains involved to this day. He protects it. He is there. I can feel him, even from here, I can feel him there, laughing at me.’

‘Why not confront him? It’s been so long. Why not go and tell him of the baby, and ask for – demand, or, hell, steal the far portal if you have to?’

‘I was not permitted to go. It would have been suicide.’

‘Not permitted? What do you mean?’

‘Lessek.’ Contempt filled his voice.

‘You mentioned that name before.’ Hannah searched her memory for a moment before finding it. ‘That night – that first night when Churn carried you in. You said Lessek wouldn’t let you die? Why? First he wouldn’t let you confront Prince Marek, or Nerak, and now he won’t let you commit suicide. Why? What does he care?’

Alen shook his head grimly. ‘There must be something left for me to do.’

‘But it’s been so long – what could come up now?’

‘You, Hannah Sorenson. You and these men you talk about, Steven Taylor and Mark Jenkins. Obviously you have discovered the far portal; I imagine I am still here, in Middle Fork, after all these Twinmoons, because you were coming.’

Hannah shuddered. That could not be. It was too much for her deal with right now. A little frightened, she changed the subject. ‘You must have remarried.’

‘I did. I missed Pikan and Reia so badly that I felt as if I would turn to dust, but I had been touched by the gods once and I wanted it again.’

‘Love like Pikan’s?’

‘Oh no, I knew I would never find that again. No, I wanted children, lots of children.’ He managed a chuckle and his voice rose, lilting, as he said, ‘And I did have children, and they were wonderful.’

‘Jer?’

‘Jer was the last of my grandchildren, the last of eleven grandchildren.’

‘I don’t see how that’s possible.’ Hannah felt her scepticism rise once again.

‘I don’t care what you believe is possible or impossible, Hannah Sorenson. It has happened, and I am alone, and I will go with all haste to whatever end Lessek has chosen for me.’ He placed the empty mug on the floor at his feet. ‘I can only hope this is my chance to destroy Nerak, to look into his eyes as his life ebbs and remind him, one last time to echo through all eternity, that she loved me. She loved only me, never him.’

‘And then you can die?’

‘Killing Nerak will mean my death as well, but that’s fine.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘If at all possible, I will try to send you home first.’

With that, Alen Jasper of Middle Fork rose, nodded pleasantly and strode from the room.

It took five days to work out how they would move against Malagon, and it was a stroke of exceedingly ironic good luck that brought them the answers they needed to the final nagging questions.

Before nightfall that first day, an elderly fisherman appeared at the next-door shack with a pile of nets. He sat outside on the beach, examining them closely, tugging at tiny knots and deftly stitching torn sections together with a length of thin twine and a wooden needle. After a while, Garec took a chance and went over to ask about the shanty they were using. Coins changed hands. The shack was used by a group of brothers who worked a tempine farm in Rona during the winter; they generally returned when the great schools of migrating fish moved north in the spring. A second coin ensured the fisherman’s silence about their presence – he appeared happy, almost amused, to keep silent. As night fell, he loaded and paddled a dilapidated rowboat out beyond the relative protection of the pier. He soon shrank to a point on the slate-grey horizon.

‘Well, that’s a stroke of luck,’ Steven said, ‘unless of course he tells the Malakasians we’re here.’

‘I don’t think he will,’ Mark said. ‘Did you get a look at him? He doesn’t look like he’s doing especially well under Malakasian rule. He probably fishes at night to keep from handing over half his catch to the customs officers.’

‘There are people like him throughout the Eastlands,’ Garec said. ‘The silver I gave him is probably more money than he makes in a Twinmoon. If we have anything to fear, it’s that he comes back with a small army of his own to rob and murder us in our sleep.’

‘Grand,’ Brynne commented dryly. ‘So now we have to keep watch for the Malakasian soldiers and the Falkan fishermen as well.’

Garec laughed for the first time in two days.

At dawn the following morning, Steven watched the old man return, pulling hard on the oars against the outgoing tide. He moored his skiff in shallow water and began lugging boxes of fish up the beach to one of the smokehouses. Steven left the staff leaning against the wall and went down to help; he was rewarded with a huge fish, large enough to feed the four of them for a couple of days.

‘Thank you,’ Steven said graciously, wrestling with the slippery corpse. ‘What kind of fish is it?’ He thought it looked something like a yellowfin tuna.

‘Jemma,’ the old man answered, ‘best you can get. It’s good smoked, or you can cut it into steaks and cook it over your fire.’

‘Jemma,’ Steven echoed. ‘Thank you again.’

‘You are here to kill the prince, right?’ The tanned leathery face looked inquisitively up at Steven. ‘You killed those soldiers on the beach, too, right?’

Steven was speechless.

‘It’s all right,’ he waved a wet hand in a gesture of reassurance, ‘I’ll keep quiet, but you must know the prince cannot be killed here.’

Steven still didn’t know how to react, so he just thanked the man again for the fish. ‘We are grateful,’ he said quietly.

The old man spent most of the day in the smokehouse; the scent filled the air and made Steven nearly insane with hunger. He cut hearty steaks from the thick jemma and cooked them on a flat rock in the fire, the same way Lahp had cooked grettan steaks in the Blackstones.

They revelled in the succulent flavour. ‘We need wine and potatoes with this,’ Mark said through a mouthful of flaky fish.

‘We’ve got some of Gita’s wine left, but I’m afraid we’re fresh out of potatoes.’

‘We’ll have to go into town for those,’ Mark said. ‘And if we went, we could get some tomatoes, maybe some bananas and a whole gallon of chocolate-chip ice cream.’ He lapsed into English for the dessert course.

‘Ice cream?’ Brynne asked.

‘One of the world’s most perfect foods,’ Mark replied, licking his lips at the memory.

‘Let’s go then.’ Garec stood suddenly.

‘What?’ the others echoed in unison.

‘We can’t just walk into town!’

‘Actually, we can,’ Garec assured them. ‘Mark, come on, lose that dreadful red tunic you wear and borrow Brynne’s cloak. We’ve been here too long. We need to get our bearings and move on. Hiding’s doing us no good and eventually someone will come along who can’t be bought.’ He leaned his longbow against the shanty wall. ‘I can’t take that, and you need to leave your weapons. We’re a long way from Estrad Village.’

Mark looked dumbstruck for a moment, then he started pulling his red sweater off. ‘Right, let’s go. Steven, I need some money. I want to get some more of that fennaroot, if I can find any. That’s powerful stuff; it makes caffeine look like baby formula.’

Steven flipped him the pouch of silver pieces they had stolen in Rona.

‘Take just one,’ Brynne suggested, ‘you’ve enough silver there to buy a corner of the city. Carrying too much will make you a target.’

‘Or worse,’ Garec agreed, ‘it’ll bring unwanted company back here.’

Mark donned Brynne’s cloak. ‘Any special requests?’

‘Bread and cheese,’ Steven replied. ‘And maybe some fresh vegetables, something green. We have been pretty bad about our diet recently, my friend.’

‘And bring some- some ice cream,’ Brynne added excitedly. ‘It is not often one gets to try the world’s most perfect food.’

‘If they make it in the city and we can find some, I promise we will.’ Mark kissed her lightly.

‘And see what you can find out,’ Steven ordered. ‘See if that soldier was telling the truth about Malagon and the old Falkan palace. And be careful!’

‘Will do. We’ll be back.’ Mark followed Garec out into the forest behind the southernmost warehouse.

Over the next few days, they each visited the city, although never all together. Steven finally abandoned his tweed jacket and Mark gave up his red sweater. Sharing the two woollen cloaks, they travelled in pairs, shopping for supplies, eating hot food in warm taverns and even bringing back bottles of wine, freshly baked bread and blocks of cheese. Although there was no sign of Sallax, and Brynne remained concerned for her brother, Mark and Steven revelled in the novelty of an Eldarni city.

Their experience in Estrad had been so limited that they’d had no idea such an array of goods and services would be available: tailors and cobblers, breweries and bakeries, butchers and pastry shops lined the narrow streets and the wider, tree-lined avenues. There were tobacconists, craftspeople, leather-workers… whatever they had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

They made dozens of purchases, mostly food and supplies, paraffin candles and wine. Steven enjoyed walking along the wide plank sidewalks that flanked the broad muddy avenues and narrow side streets. He chatted with artisans and merchants, sampled stews and sweets and even tried his hand at a popular gambling game that involved several smooth stones, a scarf and an empty goblet. He tossed the stones onto the multi-coloured kerchief stretched across a flat tabletop and depending on where they fell, his bet was doubled, tripled or forfeited to a gaunt but friendly old woman with a pockmarked face. Having lost three tosses in rapid succession, Steven moved away, despite the encouragement of the elderly woman and the small crowd that had gathered to watch the game.

Mark handed him a piece of wheat bread. ‘How much did you lose?’

‘I don’t know – twenty-five bucks? Twenty-five thousand? I haven’t been able to figure out this system of currency yet. All the coins have Malagon’s ugly pinched snout on them and I can’t tell the difference.’

‘Well, from the crowd you drew, I’m guessing you’re a high roller.’ Mark paused to tear a fruit pastry in half, then said, ‘Maybe you can get us a comp room at the Stardust.’

‘Monopoly money,’ Steven shrugged. ‘You know, I thought it would have been more-’

‘Depressed?’

‘Right.’ He gestured along the busy street. ‘I mean, these people don’t act as though they’re living in the shadow of an occupation army.’

‘Look closer.’ Mark pointed to a group of men unloading lumber from a cart. ‘Look at their shoes, their clothing. Notice how few of them are overweight. They don’t look terrified because they’ve been occupied for five generations; they’re used to it. But these people are not prospering, despite the diversity of shops, goods and services.’ He gnawed thoughtfully on a corner of the pastry. ‘I can’t imagine what the tax rates are. Seventy, maybe eighty per cent? We rarely see this at home because we live in a place where – generally – people help the oppressed, and it doesn’t take five generations for that help to come. So we never see this.’

‘The long-term look of a beaten people?’

‘Exactly. And in those cases where it has occurred, the end result has been tragic.’

Orindale’s architecture reflected the region’s resources: there were a great many wood and stone buildings with wood-shingle roofs and rock and mortar foundations. Steven guessed the stones were quarried somewhere nearby, or perhaps shipped in by the many great merchant vessels moored in the bustling harbour. The waterfront hummed with activity from dawn until well after dark. Although they saw plenty of soldiers, they were never stopped for more than routine questioning. Life in the Falkan capital went on as if no one had noticed – or minded – that they were encircled by an entire army.

One afternoon Garec brought back a crate of Falkan beer and they sat around their small fire eating from the old man’s daily catch and drinking heartily from ceramic bottles.

Swallowing a mouthful of sudsy brew, Mark commented, ‘The one thing I have yet to see is a bookshop. I would love to read some Eldarni history.’

Garec and Brynne both quieted at that.

‘What did I say?’

Steven got it. ‘No books?’

‘Only outlaw copies,’ Garec replied. ‘Ancient books, those that survived the initial razing of all libraries and bookshops nearly a thousand Twinmoons ago.’

‘When Prince Marek took the throne.’

‘That’s right,’ Brynne answered, ‘and closed the universities.’

‘There’s no school?’ Mark was stunned.

‘We all attend school until we’re one hundred Twinmoons old.’

‘Do they have books there?’ Steven asked.

‘Yes, but our history books only cover the period since the five lands of Eldarn were seized and ruled by Prince Marek’s descendants. Even in school we don’t have many books, so many people are illiterate.’

Mark looked glumly out the window and placed his bottle gently on the plank floor. ‘No school. That’s not right.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Brynne agreed. ‘And it’s one of the first things we would change should we win back Rona’s freedom.’ She stopped herself. ‘I suppose now I should say Praga’s freedom too – Eldarn’s freedom.’

‘What about religious leaders?’ Mark asked. ‘Don’t they act as teachers? Do they instruct in reading, writing and basic skills?’

Garec and Brynne exchanged glances before Brynne said, ‘Our temples and sects were all destroyed by Prince Marek. For five generations we have had no organised religion.’

Garec added, ‘We’re told some religion survives in the north; many people worship the gods they believe inhabit the Northern Forest. But our religion is an oral tradition; it always has been. Now most Eldarni people grow up, raise families, grow old and die and never know – or discuss – religion in any way. It’s safer.’

‘Where do your core values develop?’ Steven asked. ‘Are there no institutions that help preserve a system of beliefs or traditions to define them over time?’

‘Some are dictated by the Malakasian prince or princess.’

‘Values can’t be dictated,’ Steven growled. ‘They have to be fostered by – well, by family, the local community, the faith-based organisations, even the government, I suppose.’

‘I don’t know that this is a function of any institution in Eldarn,’ Garec tried to explain, ‘as much as it is the evolution of ideals passed down from the days of the Larion Senate. Our values, traditions and beliefs may change according to the evolving make-up of any group, so one city’s values may change as its populace ages. We’ve grown used to living this way because no one alive now has ever known anything different.’

‘Most people wouldn’t know the benefits of an organised religion,’ Brynne said, ‘because none of us can remember what it was like. That’s why so few religious traditions have survived the occupation.’

‘And as you’ve seen over the Twinmoon you’ve spent with us, war, death, violence, closed-mindedness, hatred and an assortment of other nasty behaviours have permeated our culture and been allowed to flourish here,’ Garec continued on, ‘and I’m a microcosm of that reality. I’m a skilled killer; it’s one of my greatest strengths – and it is the one thing about myself that I deplore, more than anything else.’

‘So why continue to do it?’ Steven tried to work his friend into a corner.

‘Because I must. I am a member of the Resistance – by choice – and however hideous, it’s a necessity.’ He upended the beer bottle and drank deeply. ‘I just hope the right leadership will emerge to help us all heal when this business is through.’

‘I hope so, too,’ Mark added, trying not to sound condescending.

‘I know it must happen all the time, but it seems strange that a world so diverse as Eldarn would have gone so long without a faith – or faiths – impacting and shaping your culture.’ The lack of religious beliefs and values still left Steven a little incredulous.

‘When you don’t know what you’re missing, I suppose you don’t miss anything,’ Brynne said.

Mark’s eyes grew wide and he stood suddenly, spilling his beer in a foamy puddle. ‘Say that again.’

‘What part?’ Brynne asked.

‘What you just said to Steven.’

She thought for a moment. ‘When you don’t know what you’re missing, you don’t miss anything?’

‘Sonofabitch.’ Mark turned to look out the window.

‘I don’t suppose that word translates into Ronan,’ Garec grinned. Mark ignored him. ‘Nerak. That’s it.’

‘What’s it?’ Steven stood as well.

‘It is not what Nerak knows that is his weakness; it is what he doesn’t know.’

Brynne took him by the arm. ‘What doesn’t Nerak know?’

Mark pointed towards the hickory staff leaning against the far wall of the shack they had been calling home. ‘He doesn’t know what’s in there, for a start.’