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When the Speaker came to Ilith City, the crowds gathered like pigs to a trough. The streets were thick with people. From the pale spectres of the Northern Shores, to honey skinned sailors of the Sister Isles, half of Quilantien rallied to the man in red. He stood high on the white Netherin Steps, his bright robe whipping in the wind. He had been there for days, each morning ascending higher, each day drawing a larger audience. If he ever slept, no one had caught him in the act. Men tried to reach him, to pull on his robe and be blessed, while women wailed to him to save them. But he was untouchable. To either side of the Speaker stood a member of his personal guard, and a line of them pushed back against the crowd where the Steps began their ascent. They stood motionless and cold, like cases of gleaming black armour rather than men. Closed visors hid their faces, and sharp unsheathed blades discouraged curiosity.
It was another overcast day when the man in red spoke again.
“Friends!” his voice carried with ease despite the blustery weather, “brothers! I come to bring you news! I come with the word of hope!”
The crowd that never slept threw up a roar and fists punched the air. Women leaned out of top floor windows and waved handkerchiefs, their cheeks rosy apples.
“The Second Coming is nigh, and the Sister will descend upon the earth and purify us all! She offers wealth of harvest in this world, and a seat at her table in the next.” He paused, opening his arms wide to the crowd. He was a drop of blood on the white marble steps. “The Ten Spirits wonder the earth once more! Redemption is upon us!”
The crowd devoured his speeches with a desperate hunger, jostling and pushing for the best view. Darian ploughed through them as best he could, elbows and shoulders catching his ribs and chest as he made his way. Despite the wind, the crowd was hot, and sweat ran down Darian’s forehead and into his eyebrows. He stopped for a moment, caught between a large Silver Islander and a trader on horseback who had taken the opportunity to advertise his wares. Darian tried to look around him, but the crowd grew closer as another deafening bellow sounded from the restless mob.
Netherin Square was huge, with the Steps rising high above the city like a beacon. It was the cities’ heart, and the many small streets that ran out from the Square were its veins and archeries, providing the life blood of trade and commerce to all edges of the city. On a usual morning, the Square was a wash of market stalls. Darian shook his head. He has bewitched them, and now they will not even eat.
Darian slipped pass the trader, ignoring the man’s calls of distress as someone tried to unhorse him. The beast, tired and old, skittered stupidly from side to side as he desperately held onto its mane. Darian picked up his pace, a sudden sense of urgency falling upon him. He could hear the Speaker preaching to the mob, and the foul stench of so many bodies filled his nose and throat like dirt. He thrust his way between people, heading towards the edge of the Square. Raggedly dressed children skittered around his feet. Pick-pockets, he had no doubt. Darian paused a moment to grab one by the collar, a small boy. The child turned deftly to face his captor, knocking Darian’s hand away with a small dirty fist. Darian crouched and grabbed either shoulder. Before the boy could wail, Darian said, “Do you like gold, boy?”
The little boy pouted, thinking twice about sreaming, and glanced behind him to see where his companions had gone. Their feet could be seen through the legs of the crowd, waiting for him just out of sight. The boy turned back to Darian.
“Gold is good” said the little boy, lisping through missing front teeth. Darian grinned at him, and the boy warily smiled back. Darian glanced around. No one was paying any attention to him or the boy. Every face was transfixed by the Speaker. His voice rolled over the crowd effortlessly, declaring visions of the Ten Spirits, that they had come to him to make him their prophet.
Darian pulled a coin from a concealed pouch and touched it to the boys nose. His little eyes lit up, small gold circles reflected in his pupils. “Run along to the Leaf, and tell the lady you find there that the Stag is ready. Can you remember that?”
The boy nodded, eyes still locked on the coin.
“Good lad” Darian flicked the coin into the air, and the boy caught it deftly. He slipped in into his belt with a practiced hand. Darian smiled and tapped the boy’s cheek before he ran off through the crowd, his small head ducking beneath arms and through legs. Darian watched after him for a moment, slowly standing. His hand reached into a pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a few dried leaves. He popped them into his mouth and chewed. The sweet taste calmed him as he began to push through the crowd once more.
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