2

Trouble in Casat (continued)

When Dazhyen saw the glittering city of Casat, perched on the mouth of the River Gati, he felt a lump form in his stomach. This would be his first time in a city or place other than Afor, and that scared, beguiled, and excited him in equal measure. Casat was built into a mountain, with each of the city’s uncountable layers built on levels joined by steep streets and roads. It was also built almost entirely out of white sandstone that had been quarried from the beaches of the White Coast, with roofs of a beautiful brown shingle. Despite the materials of their construction, the city’s buildings were coloured brilliantly by pinks and purples and blues, and flags of the Casati Sultanate, yellow with two horizontal and parallel green lines, flew proudly from the walls.

“Beautiful city, isn’t it, Dazhyen?” Eliza asked from behind him. He realised then that he had stopped in the middle of his duty to marvel at the city. But why had she called him by his first name? Pyrene wouldn’t do that. That was when he realised that they were alone, for a moment, on deck. The crew, which was barely large enough for a Baynman of the size of the Heiress, was busy underdeck, preparing for the cargo to be unloaded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dazhyen turned his attention back to the view, gazing at the white shores that stretched out in either direction from the city. They were still a half-day’s sail out of port, but the city was close enough that he could almost smell the fresh catch of fish and hear the raucous shouting of the dockworkers. He’d been ordered by the bosun of the watch, Mert, to check that the sails, which had been raised, had been tied off properly, and it was to this task that he returned. He was acutely aware of Eliza standing behind him. She was, in that moment and had been in every moment since their awkward reunion, just as beautiful as the day he’d first seen her, 5 years ago. True to her form as scholar, she wore a loose shirt with a frilly collar, which was tucked into a pair of trousers which ended in fashionable boots. It was nothing remarkable… and yet…

Immediately, he dismissed the thought and busied himself with the knots. “When we land,” she began, “I will take you with me as my aide,” she said.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but what’s an aide?”

She laughed, and her laugh was as clear as the sea breeze he’d learned to love. She’d made up her face to be unrecognisable and her hair was entirely different to natural (though he was told this, of course, he had no knowledge of such things), and yet Dazhyen could see in her eyes that she had not laughed like this in some time. In an odd way, Dazhyen felt her to be not too dissimilar to him.

“It is like an assistant, Dazhyen, or an attendant. The only difference is that an aide is learned and assists in more academic endeavours,” she frowned a moment, pausing to think. “You are learned, aren’t you, Dazhyen?”

“I can read and write in Dunwennish, Isenni, Uttaric and Ushushki, ma’am. It is one of the few things I enjoyed learning in the Temple. I was taught some philosophy too, but not much beyond the Canon and the Canon’s interpretations by Azdavyery philosophers since the 8th Century of the Age prior,” he said earnestly. It was all true, of course, but he was certain it wasn’t enough. Pyrene was due to study at the Yellow Library of St. Tithus College – such academic prestige was beyond his simple philosophy and his histories of lies.

“Ah! Good! That’s much better than I could have hoped for, as a matter of fact. They do not speak Ushuski in Casat, Dazhyen,” she had approached closer now and was resting on the railing, looking out and observing the city that lay in front of them. “They speak, well predominantly they speak Uttaric, but enough people speak Dunwennish and Isenni for them to be languages of note,” she turned to face him, a matter-of-fact look on her face. Dazhyen did not lift his eyes from his work much, but he nodded rhythmically as Eliza spoke.

For a moment, he was overcome with his imaginings of the rolling hills and golden meadows of the country of Dunwenn, or the soaring snow-caps and pine forests of Isenndal. He wondered if he might see those strange lands ever. He was close to Isenndal now, he realised, for those mountain nations lay just west of Casat, nestled among the Jabal Mountains. And further west of Isenndal, was the hill-country of Dunwenn.

“The city is the centre by which trade flows to our archipelago and south to the continent of Daksa – so all the major languages of Alma are spoken here,” the eagerness to educate made her eyes sparkle and her cheeks puff up in a way only he, for his physical closeness, could have noticed. She called the continent Alma, he noticed. He had always known it as Boloze, sometimes Bolozemya, for that is what the Ushuski called it.

“If I may, ma’am, why did you call the continent Alma? We call it Boloze or Bolozemya, as you know.”

“Enough with the ma’am, honestly,” she rolled her eyes playfully. “Anyway, I call it Alma because that is the word in Uttaric. It doesn’t mean anything itself, but it comes from alth mada – the motherland. Another version of its etymology is that it comes from a lost Aspeari word, meaning the Centre of the World. Continents, like everything else, are named logically, after all,” she explained.

“True, Bolozemya means the ‘endless land’ – because that’s what the continent feels like to us islanders,” Dazhyen nodded. Eliza smiled, happy about the digression, and returned to her lecture on languages in the city.

“To a lesser extent they speak Hesik as well, given they trade with that country far to the south. On more than one occasion I’ve also had entire conversations in Medean with Casati people,” as she spoke, Dazhyen realised he had never heard of either of these languages or lands and, upon asking, learnt that the Hesi Isles were far to the south and that Medea was a coastal land, famous for its fruits and wine, on the other side of the continent. Both were nations of note, it appeared. Dazhyen apologised for his lack of knowledge, which perplexed Eliza.

“But why do you feel the need to apologise? It is only to be expected that one does not know what one does not know!” she said with astonishment.

This gave Dazhyen pause and forced him to examine that need to apologise. His crewmates had often brought it up too, but with them he felt less obligated to prostrate himself in apology. “It is… it was expected from me by Dmitur and my teachers and my parents. To not know something was… not allowed. I couldn’t be a decent ambassador of the Truth if I didn’t know it,” he flinched instinctively as he remembered a particularly nasty lashing he got from his teacher of theology.

“Well you’re not with the Temple anymore, Dazhyen. You cannot apologise for no reason while we are in Casat - it will draw suspicion. And I cannot afford suspicion,” her face had become stern. She had stressed her need for secrecy often, but this time it seemed almost as if she were reminding herself of the fact too.

“I understand, ma’am,” he nodded and returned to work. The morning was thus passed, as the crew slowly filed onto deck to begin procedures for docking. It was a little after the harbour pilot boarded and they set off to land in Casat Port, that Captain Rakehead pulled Dazhyen aside.

Elador Rakehead was an old elven man, and extremely experienced at sea, which he often mused was odd given his upbringing in the largely land-locked country Dunwenn. It was one of the reasons that Rakehead had instantly taken a liking to Dazhyen, for Dazhyen was – with the exclusion of Eliza – the only other person aboard the ship that was fluent in Dunwennish. And it was in Dunwennish that they spoke in the Captain’s cabin.

“Her Majesty has asked,” he explained as he rummaged about in his cupboard, “that you be outfitted as a man befitting your new-found station, temporary of course,” he added on to the end. “As an aide you mean, sir?” Dazhyen asked for clarity and Captain Rakehead grunted in response. He had quickly learned to parse Captain Rakehead’s grunts, for each meant different things and the communication was a language unto itself. In this case, the Captain was saying “yes, what else could I mean?”. Or perhaps just yes.

The Captain, seconds later, had tossed a fine suit and a few changes of clothes to Dazhyen. “My son’s old clothes,” he said as he brushed past him and reached into his dresser. “He left them here when he bought his own ship. You two were both,” he laughed as he spoke, “noodle-armed and thin legged. So, they should fit you fine.” Dazhyen, it quickly materialised to himself and those around him, could more than keep up with the other sailors, despite his smaller stature – still the jokes were funny and Dazhyen, too, cracked a smile.

Muttering to himself and having not found what he wanted in the dresser he went to another cupboard. “Consider it all yours, son,” he said as he looked. “Her Majesty paid for it. I’d recommend not wearing it on deck, though. Hell of a cloth to get muck on,” he remarked and then immediately exhaled in success. “There it is!” when he turned around, he was holding a sabre – it was still in its scabbard and still on its belt.

“I doubt you’ll know how to use one of these,” the Captain was right, Dazhyen hadn’t the faintest idea, “but you’ll need one. It’s fashionable in Casat, so no one else you’ll see with one will know how to use it either,” he reassured Dazhyen. “Not that it matters – Her Majesty can more than take care of the both of you,” the Captain mumbled as he tossed the sword onto the bed.

“What do you mean, Sir?” in all his conversations with Eliza, he had never once felt that she might be a fighter. But, then again, the only fighters he’d known were bruisers and brutes, jailers and thugs – and they were all of a type.

“Doesn’t matter,” the Captain was turning around to leave when he paused and turned to face Dazhyen with a scowl. Instantly, Dazhyen felt unsteady on his feet and flinched instinctively.

“Ah shut up, you flighty old bird,” the Captain growled at Dazhyen’s reaction. “What they did to you in the temple,” the Captain tutted, “that’s why I don’t like those damn Azda-whatevers. Say what you will about the Saptis, at least they don’t whip children!” he sighed. “All I mean to say is that if you intend to stay with my ship, you’ll need to learn how to use that,” he indicated to the sabre, “and use it damn well. When you get back and we set off again,” he turned around to leave properly, “I’ll see to it that you’re trained by Henry. I’ll allot you both time for that in the day.”

Senior Lieutenant Henry Frost was Captain Rakehead’s First Mate and, despite his Dunwennish name, was also a native of Afor. Dazhyen guessed that Mr. Frost, as they all called him, had been a soldier before he’d taken up the merchant’s trade, but this confirmed it for him.

As Captain Rakehead left the room to give Dazhyen space to change into his new outfit, Dazhyen felt himself fighting off tears. He felt undeserving of this kindness, he was just a nobody and a criminal, but he could not help to be moved fundamentally by it. But more than that, he had noticed that there was good in this world. It was another first for him – latest in a long line of firsts on this voyage.

Dazhyen woke late on their 3rd day in Casat for it was a Sunday and they had nowhere to be that day. Eliza, though now he single-mindedly called her Madam Firebeard or Pyrene even in private, had elected to study in the Yellow Library and had given him the morning off. She had recommended to him the Tower Market – the walk there and back was exceedingly pretty, so she said. The previous two days were filled with formalities and dreary meetings and Dazhyen had grown tired of it all by the time he woke on Sunday. Though he never said so to Eliza, he had had enough of formality and ritual in his time in the Temple. Even prison, though a marked departure from seminary life, was filled with a formality and ritual of an entirely different sort.

All he really wanted that day was to explore this city. As he got up and got ready, he cast his mind ahead, curious as to what tomorrow might hold. Eliza had secured a place for him at the Library as well, and he was looking forward immensely to reading as much as he could. His dormitory was lavishly appointed – a four poster bed with mattresses and pillows of down, a fireplace that was tended to by someone called a scullery maid, a magnificent carpet, artwork on the walls, a table and two chairs so finely crafted that Dazhyen felt they were more pieces of art than anything else, and a transparent crystalline carafe of exquisite whiskey. This implement, Dazhyen would later learn, was called a decanter. And it was all… too much.

On his first night, he slept on the floor, by the fire – for Casat, being south of the equator and buffeted by frigid winds, was mighty cold in the night. He was offered something called a bed warmer by the dormitory attendants but he declined, unsure of what it was. Furthermore, the bed was so soft that he sank into it the moment he lay down, which made him instantly uncomfortable. It was even softer than the bed in the Second Mate’s quarters, and that Dazhyen had deemed to be impossible. On the second night, at Eliza’s encouragement, he slept on the bed – but on the very edge.

As he buttoned up his new clothes (today he was wearing bright red trousers with a fine yellow shirt, a feathered hat and brown polished shoes), he stared at the sabre which hung in his closet. He had not been required to wear it immediately, as the College and Library meetings were more academic than ceremonial, but he had been assured that he could wear it about in the city. He gingerly reached forward – it was nothing special. The scabbard was old, but character-ed, and on the pommel was affixed a large ruby. Dazhyen felt that the sabre must have cost Eliza a pretty penny and made a note to attempt to reimburse her for it when he had made enough working on the Heiress.

On that day, he chose not to wear it. He was unsure of how to wield such a thing and he did not know the protocol for equipping it – something that, he presumed, would be important in a place such as Casat. And so, having lunch in the mess – which presented its own moments of being overwhelmed at the luxury, grandeur and the oddities of his new position – he set off to explore the city of Casat.

Inescapable in Casat was the sea – which held Dazhyen’s attention every minute it presented itself through gaps in the building. Aside from that, the city was built into a mountain and sloped gently upwards, twisting and turning along the path of the Gati river, and walking anywhere was a risky business for the slope. If one wanted to go anywhere in the city, there was a considerable amount of climbing involved. The Casati people had made it easy to traverse this city – with stairs in convenient locations to take you from one street to a street higher up and ramps where the angle of the slope allowed for ramps – but it was still a pain for Dazhyen’s legs. To his east there was always, however, the sea. That day, the sea was as lazy as Dazhyen felt and as beautiful as the city that kissed it. Then there were all the shops – nearly every street was lined with them, and they sold, as far as Dazhyen could tell, everything under the sun; everything from exotic fruits and fine silks to trinkets and toys.

He wandered in and out of the shops, and everywhere the shopkeepers entreated him to buy. In this, however, Dazhyen had some experience. He may have been a naïve man in many ways, but he was born and raised in a city, and as such the shopkeeps’ words had little effect on him. He was, of course, polite in refusal, however. From rare alcohols and jewellery to great artworks and small mementos, the shops in Casat seemed to stock everything. One particular necklace caught Dazhyen’s eye – a fragile thing, made of silver. Off the chain hung the emblem of his order – a symbol he’d seen often in Casat which, he was informed, was under the influence of Iram Odehi. He knew of the man, of course, but never thought he would be in his city. The necklace was among the more well-made trinkets he’d seen, moreso than even what the Priests of the Mara of the Coast wore over their habits.

He elected not to buy it, however, and moved on. His destination was further down-hill – the Tower Market was so named for the massive clock-tower that stood at its centre. He had learnt that the market was first built as a place where the merchandise and fish, freshly offloaded from the ships which docked not 500 yards away, could be sold. Now it had become something of an attraction and its stalls catered exclusively to finer tastes. Eliza had furnished him with a sum of 30 wariyas – currency of Afor, which he was told would be accepted here due to its weight in gold – and this, he knew, was a pretty penny. But what could he buy in a market that was beloved by a Princess?

As he walked, he had to frequently stop in his tracks to admire the beauty of the place he found himself in. The walls were rough to the touch but not unpleasant. This affect they achieved by using a clever trick when applying the plaster and paint, which Dazhyen learnt only as he saw a house in the process of being painted. The windows were, almost all of them – even on the houses – stained with colour. Some walls were brightly painted – pinks, yellows, oranges, reds, and blues seemed to be the favourites. The roads were lined with trees that would have cast shadows in the summer but were bare for the winter, and the streets were cobbled with a strange white stone. He hesitated to make the comparison, for Afor too was a gorgeous city, but Casat was something else entirely.

However, he noticed something else – an absence. For despite the not infrequent Maran priests he saw, and the odd worshipper or pilgrim, there was nothing to signify what he heard; that the city was influenced by the Azdavyery. No matter how hard he looked, he could find no symbols aside from those on the priests’ person. The majority of the people openly violated many of the Azdavyery tenets. He saw people eating under the sun, for instance, and people drinking in public. Women were allowed to wear trousers and socks and buttoning shirts in the same style as the men – something expressly forbidden in Azdav. He saw people gambling in pubs and playing cards in the open. None of this was new to him – it was all more than a common sight in Afor. But in a city controlled by the Azdavyery? No, this should not be so brazen.

This, however, only fuelled his desire to explore. It confirmed to him that he was on the edge of freedom – that his past could not reach him here. And in so walking he reached the market – where he quickly realised that purchasing a single item would at least halve his available funds. He was stood at the foot of the clocktower – which was called the Tower of Time, an obvious name, he thought – when he noticed it. There were two men, one miruq and one man, stood not far from him under the shade of a stall’s awning. He couldn’t quite make out their faces, but he knew that they were sizing him up. His first thought was thieves… but that didn’t make sense – there were far better targets in this market than him. No, they made his hairs stand on end. Every fibre of his being was screaming, all at once, run! And so, he did.

He turned around and set off at a brisk pace – a pace much faster than anything he’d managed on his walk down – and with such purpose that people quickly stepped out of his way. For a brief moment, he regretted not having worn his sabre but quickly realised there wasn’t much he could have done with it had he worn it. As he walked, letting his natural sense of direction – honed by many years of living in a city – guide him, he didn’t turn around once to make sure if he was still being followed. Instead, instinctively, he kept track of his stalkers – who maintained a respectable pace – by gazing at reflections in windows and out of the corner of his eye when crossing the road. It was at this moment he noticed something else – a hooded figure not too far behind his stalkers. The figure was ever-present, he realised, and always just behind them all. The knot in his stomach tightened. He couldn’t fight them all off. Hell, he would struggle with just one. He had to escape.

Suddenly, he felt becalmed. It was as though something inside of him was reaching out and comforting him. In that moment, he realised he knew what to do and he quickened his pace, turning into this alley and that, until, finally, he came to a dead end in a side alley well away from any thoroughfare. It was then that all sense returned to him, as he turned to see the two figures closing in. The third figure was gone. What have you done! You’re dead, you idiot! He scolded himself and balled his fists, preparing to put up something resembling a fight.

“Sorry, kid,” said the miruq, who stood a head and shoulder taller than Dazhyen, "Odehi’s orders,” he said matter-of-factly and raised his dagger. The dagger was nearly as long as Dazhyen’s arm. Before Dazhyen’s balled up fist could connect with the brute’s stomach, which was clad in a brown tunic, there was sickening squelch and a gasp as though all the air had been knocked out of the miruq’s body. Within a second, and before he could react, the other man was dead as well. As the two men lay writhing and breathlessly clawing the ground, Dazhyen saw their killer – it was the hooded figure.

When she removed her hood and Dazhyen saw Eliza’s face, he nearly fainted. “You are innocent and good,” she locked eyes with Dazhyen, her voice firm. Her eyes sparkled, he noticed. “They deserved it.”

It seemed more as if she were convincing herself than him.