Chapter 6
Autumn leaves were falling over the Rhowari caravan as they traveled the road just inside the forest borders. Beyond it was the sea and its southwest-bound wind whipping about. Many of the adults enjoyed the fall folliage, calling it "beautiful" and "homely," the children dancing in whatever pile of crisp leaves they could find.
Fenrick couldn't be bothered to take note. Humbrey noticed a calm indifference about the boy. Had he no sense of joy left? This stoicism didn't even begin when the boy lost his parents, witnessing their capture and certain doom at the hands of slith raiders. They were the only two losses in that encounter. The boy probably took it hardest because of that; why only his mother and father, after all? The slith clans were large enough, surely they could have held onto another catch. Or maybe he blamed himself, yet the possibility was unlikely considering his younger age at the time.
No, the boy's loss wasn't the cause of this, at least not directly. Perhaps the constant traveling didn't bode well for him. It may be that their constant move resembles the evacuation of every fertile land they might make home in. Or it may be that he feels like he's always running away from his loss. Does he feel guilty, cowardly or vindictive? Humbrey couldn't tell. If any of it held true, he must have lived with it for years now, engraining it deeply into his personality.
The poor lad, Humbrey thought, certainly not for the first time. In the past three days since leaving Rhowan's Rest he began considering the possible solutions in earnest, if any such would exist. They could return to the 'mire, this time not choosing the safest route by ferrying around to Southern Pass. It may give him some peace to face the scene where it took place. Then again, it may traumatize him more. What could be done anyhow? The Rhowari were pacifists; they wouldn't dare take arms and assault the suspected tribe of slith. It wouldn't even be safe to approach them and look for any keepsakes of his parents that were left behind in their refuse piles.
"Won't you join your friends?" Humbrey asked, pointing at the other three children of the caravan who were rustling through leaves piling over high grass. "They seem to be having fun."
"I don't like the sound they make," Fenrick said plainly. He kept walking, not interested in the least as the other children ran ahead of the group and tromped about in a new patch of leaves.
Humbrey wanted to suggest other juvenile activities, yet he knew from experience that Fen was not receptive when one became insistent. He took heart that the fork in the road leading to Hatherton and Pearl Peak was just ahead. Typically they cut directly to Hatherton and trade any trinkets of worth they still had for food and a day's shelter. This trip would see them enter Pearl Peak first, and without fear of rejection - their stock of cacao beans from the far south, along with refined cocoa powder, was a prized delicacy along the northern sea, especially this far out from Devil's Crossing and the connecting road which leads south.
As they passed the deviating road which led southeast into Hatherton, Humbrey saw an excited twinkle in Fenrick's eye. He knew the boy wanted to ask if they were truly headed for the city, home of noisome dockworkers, pushy merchants and the great cliff which pierces the wind toward the sea. It was a great deal of stimulation - just what a budding young man needed to cheer up.
Fen had never been to Pearl Peak before, at least not since he was a truly small child and his parents were still alive. He didn't remember the congestion of the residential district on the west of town. Its buildings were all at least two stories high with only the tightest alleyways between them for domestic and stray animals to prowl and cry for food at night. Little in the way of beautification existed until they neared the center of the district where two blocks of newly-renovated condominiums gave a breath of fresh air, with smaller buildings, encircling fences and lovely floral bushes crowding the walls.
Nearing the exit into the merchant district and adjoining harbor, the buildings naturally fanned out and gave room for the expected abundance of pedestrians. Down a particular avenue the Rhowari noticed some peculiar activities, including the nailing of a well-concealed hatch on a rooftop and the distance that citizens kept with a pair of guards as they questioned an individual.
Humbrey put an arm around Fenrick's shoulders, intent on keeping him close at hand. In Fen's mind he was only restricted his free roam in Rhowan's Rest, where he was guarded from the opposing ideology. But here the children weren't allowed outside their guardians' sight for the lack of security; some recent news of a theft in open daylight had already reached their ears, and gods knew where there were thieves, there may also be kidnappers and murderers.
Pearl Peak had an unusual trading mechanism. Instead of selling goods to the appropriate or more desired merchant, sellers must unload their goods at a warehouse. The clerks there would purchase the goods for the anticipated bulk price, categorize, store away and eventually sell them to the specific merchants for a tiny percentage of tax. This system was implemented as a failsafe. It helped to import goods by guaranteeing a full purchase of stock, whereas if only a single merchant was consulted he or she may only afford to take on a portion and the remainder may not even be found by other, more obscure traders in the district or beyond. It also helped divy the goods to multiple merchants as appropriate, since an overabundance may either be a capital waste or unfair advantage depending on circumstances.
This socialized import system was developed and maintained by the city - the Empire itself had little desire to take on the bureaucratic demand. Beyond this stage of business the city regulated next to nothing. Fortunately the need to keep goods affordable enough for citizens was enough to maintain fair sale prices. Competition would also remain healthy, much in thanks to the import system's divvying of goods.
The concept however came with a bitter taste for the Rhowari party, as their ideology dislikes monetary wealth and strives to limit transactions to direct bartering. Since the warehouse did not sell goods it could only offer money, creating a sense of urgency for the caravan to spend everything that they made.
Fenrick, however, was fascinated by the coins their knowledgeable tradesman carried.
"Fingerweights are the standard measurement in value," Lein explained, holding up a thin, golden oval chip. "Beneath that are bronze 'knuckles'," he then held up a small brown coin about the size of a thumbnail, "three of which make a finger. And the highest denomination is the silver 'hand'," he then held out another oval chip, this one slightly shorter yet much wider than the golden finger. "This one is worth five fingerweights."
"Why are they called parts of a hand?" Fenrick asked.
"It's ceremonial," Lein said. "Before there was money, people only bartered, as we ourselves do now. After each trade, the merchants would seal the deal with a handshake. If they didn't…" Lein gave the boy a grave look, "then the offer was seen to be unjust. So, when a system of value was created, the coins were named after the parts of a hand so that each transaction would be signified by the joining of hands."
Fenrick was most interested. "May I have one?"
"No lad," Lein said somberly. "These are not for us to keep. Coins are good for nothing more than to quantify wealth, and we as Rhowari don't condone the concepts of wealth and ownership." He saw the disheartening look on Fen's face and was struck guilty that he must keep the child from a small piece of joy. He conceded and secretly offered him a single golden finger.
A glow on his face, Fen accepted the coin and buried it deep in a pocket. He also seemed curious as he looked back up to Lein."
"Why isn't gold worth more than the silver?" he asked.
"Because gold isn't as rare as silver like it used to be," Lein answered. "The silver hand is a fairly new type of coin, and it's valued based on how expensive it is to get the metal."
Fen still seemed puzzled. "Oh. I thought gold was better because it's prettier."
Lein grinned and shook his head. "No sir," he said surely, "it's all about what they call 'supply and demand'. But that's a lesson for another day."
The caravan spent what they could on necessary supplies from the city which left them with a modest amount of currency left. They knew it could still be spent in Hatherton, so they elected to keep the coin rather than spend it on the myriad of frivolous things surrounding them in the city's market. The notion of keeping the coin for any length of time made many members uncomfortable, thus they made their departure to Hatherton swiftly. They spent the remainder on various perishable supplies and set up camp near a farmhouse along the southwest border of town.
Fenrick had joined Lein and two other adults as they visited the farmers, Jorah and Catherine Walker. They sat and socialized on the farmhouse's porch, chewing on stalks of grain and sipping a strong tea brewed from berry bush leaves.
"I hafta say," Jorah began, taking a sip of his tea, "we enjoy havin' yer company more'n some other rovers." His expression turned sour, not from the bitterness of his drink. "Some'a you's like'ta be all preachy, sayin' we ought to 'live off'a th' nat'ral fruits o' th' land', pickin' berries and suckin' th' juice from worms an' beetles." He set down his cup of tea and picked up a corked carafe, opening it and quaffing a liquid of presumably alcoholic content. "Aye, well, what'n gotdamn do they think I'mma doin' now? All this grain be'in the nat'ral bounty o' th' land, too! Just 'cause I sow it meself, I reckon."
Lein and the adults hid their expressions as well as they could, a glint of humor obvious since they had heard this old man's rant more than once already. Fenrick listened intently, not remembering the stories as well as his elders. Mostly he was glad that his clan didn't live as this farmer described of others.
Off some distance from the Rhowari clan's camp was the site of the Inquisitors. The Flail already slept while the other four huddled around their campfire. Average citizens wouldn't expect to see them like this, as vulnerable humans who shivered from the cutting sea breeze of autumn.
"We should request a calf," Inquisitor Shone, a mean-spirited peer of Haren's, suggested. "The people respect us, they should offer what we need."
Haren shook his head. "No, brother," he calmly hummed. "It would not be proper to demand veal from a small community. We have our own supplies."
"We have nuts and flatbread - bland, hard flatbread!" Shone scoffed. "They do nothing to mask the cold and warm our bellies."
Again Haren shook his head, a stern look on his face. "Roast the nuts and find berries to smear on the bread," he said plainly. "We'll not demand luxury from our meager hosts." Almost on queue, he picked a dry piece of the flatbread from a wooden bowl and held it low near the fire pit. "You say they respect us, Brother Shone?"
"As well they should!" he said emphatically. "Who else would slay the evil that stalks their ignorant abodes?"
Haren glanced at the arrogant comrade, unimpressed by his perceptions. He took back the lukewarm piece of bread and nibbled on it.
"Well, don't you agree?" Shone prodded.
Haren stared at Shone, forcefully drawing silence between them. He dropped the remainder of his bread and clapped the crumbs from his hands.
"Ever hear of a man named Keagan Redquill?" he suddenly asked, unsurprised that Shone couldn't recognize the name. "His father was a farmer, mostly raised pigs. Keagan learned how to read and write at a young age. Important folk hired him as a scribe. Lived a decent life, truth be told." He paused, focusing on the fire and letting the break accentuate his following question. "Now, what do you figure he did when mad cultists invaded his family home?"
"Cower and die?" Shone guessed insincerely, knowing his superior only told such tales to make a point.
"He jabbed his favorite writing quill into one of the cultist's eyes," Haren said sharply. "He used a wheat thresher to take the lower legs off another, then the head off of a third. Finally he tackled the last one and crushed his skull with a piece of marble that he used as a paperweight. It was quite the grisly scene."
Shone slumped back as Haren continued, giving several more similar stories of painfully average people who overcame horrors that they as Inquisitors were forced to consider and face regularly. These citizens he spoke of were by no means household names, but to some extent each one was a local hero for a time.
"These people are the ones who earn respect," Haren concluded. "Their acts were not done in duty; they were merely unexpected acts of heroism that the people admire." He met eyes with Shone again, inaudibly demanding that he listen well. "We're not respected, nor are we necessarily disrespected. We're no more than the spokes and levers of a simple, lifeless machine. And we have a job to do."
Shone wouldn't respond, too proud to be embarrassed yet cautious enough not to argue. He waited some moments before saying anything, searching his memory for something unrelated.
"What do you suppose we'll find from an autopsy?" he finally asked, indicating the bodies they'd laid to rest hours before.
Haren cocked his head as though wanting to shrug, yet was too composed a person to allow it. "Hopefully a bunch of human parts," he answered. "I don't delight in the times we've found mutations."
"What of the child?" asked Gerald, the least imposing of the party that Efrim took solace in spotting this day.
"Can't say I expect to see much of him left," Haren said, the only witness of the scene that was certain the child corpse was a boy.
Meanwhile, as the Inquisitors chattered around the fire, a petite young figure nervously rustled from his vantage point and sped his way back to the rover camp. He was Bentley Bright, ever the curious rascal, this time morbidly afraid that the words he heard of a male child was the notion of himself while he watched. He believed himself discovered and raced to the protection of the caravan.
Haren ignored the sound in the bushes while the others looked in its direction. "Just a frightened animal," he assured them.
