16
GORARIC
THE SARASINIAN 5th ARMY FOLLOWERS’ CAMP
SOUTHERN AHRENIA
Goraric could only vaguely recall his most recent visit to the Tor. He remembered, with almost perfect clarity, his life up until leaving the Sarasinian garrison in Herena, but as for his return to the Tor... well, his memories of that had more or less vanished. Kolf wouldn’t speak about what happened there, and none of his uncle’s men could be persuaded to say anything beyond how he’d gotten the shit beaten out of him. Better for him, they said, if he never remembered.
He hadn’t forgotten about the dead girls, of course. If anything, he revisited that fateful day in the forest more often than ever. And as for his dreams, the awful bloody images that made him scared to sleep, well, they still loomed large in his life. Would he ever be free of them? It didn’t matter. “Owic be praised,” he whispered. The words brought comfort, and he felt safe in the knowledge that the Lord of Shields was surely watching over him. “Lend me the strength to bear what I must.”
And he hadn’t forgotten was that he was a deserter, either. Enlistees served their time in the army–or else. The knives were out for him now, figuratively and literally. Which was why it seemed like an awful risk to be out here, in the Fifth Army’s very followers’ camp. On the other hand, as Kolf was fond of reminding him, catching him would hardly be a priority for the Fifth. No one could have expected him to come here, anyway, and few knew who he was. Besides, followers’ camps were full of rogues and shady characters. Everyone out here was running from something. Even so, Goraric jumped at shadows and spent too many waking moments looking over his shoulder. That would be his life until he had a chance to escape over the Asfour. Not long to go until then, at least. “Owic be praised,” he whispered again. “Lend me strength.”
He wondered which clan would adopt him. The Ture, perhaps? They lived over the river, and Torsmen were related to them, too. Supposedly. Or maybe the Wehen would take him? Why not? Or the Ulse, or even the Alcala. They were up that way as well. Or would it be better to strike out for the Cired Isles? Did he even have enough money to make it that far, though? And would the position of the moons allow sea travel this year, or next? Not that any of it mattered, of course–if Owic willed, He would provide.
“Are you even listening?” asked Kolf.
“Sorry,” said Goraric. “Say that again?”
“I said,” said Kolf slowly, “you certainly cannot go out there looking like that.”
“What do you mean?” He pointed at his own face. “I trimmed my hair and beard like you told me. I even–”
Kolf folded his arms. “It’s not that. I’m talking about the shirt.”
“Eh?” said Goraric, holding his arms out. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Traders don’t wear mail shirts in camp. Take it off and put that on instead.” Kolf pointed to an oilskin coat in the corner of the tent.
Goraric did as he was told, though he didn’t like it. “This thing won’t turn a blade,” he said, making a face as he fingered the oilskin. “It’s too light. What if I run into trouble and everything goes to shit?”
“It will too turn a blade,” said Kolf, giving him a stern look. “Well, once or twice it will. And it’ll keep the rain off, too, which is more than can be said for mail. It’s raining out, in case you hadn’t noticed. Besides, you’re not going to get yourself into anything that could go to shit, are you? You’re not fully recovered. All you’re doing is asking questions, Goraric. Find out where the girls are, and nothing more.”
“If they’re even here, you mean.”
“That goes without saying. And you’ll report back before midnight, do you hear me?”
“Uh huh. Got it.”
“And you can leave the sword as well.”
“Aw, shit. Why?”
Kolf scowled. “Because you’ll stick out like dogs’ balls, that’s why! How many traders have you seen lugging one of those about, huh? You’ve got your knife. Thing’s practically a sword, anyway.”
“Fine, fine. Can I go now?”
“Not yet. Do you remember your cover story?”
“Of course I do.”
Kolf smiled. “Then get the fuck going. And good luck, Goraric.”
“Thanks,” said Goraric, grateful to be finally leaving.
It was cold outside. Goraric drew his coat around him against the wet. As the light drizzle eventually gave way to a downpour, he was very glad of the oilskin. A pity, though, that Kolf hadn’t given him some sort of hat to go with it.
He walked amongst rows of tents and lean-tos, thinking on how many thousands shared such a tiny space. People pushed past him, running. So many individuals, each with their own thoughts and stories, but all united at that moment by a desire to keep dry. He ducked under the nearest marquee and almost ran headlong into a plump young woman. “Oh shit!” he cried, jumping away in fright. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” said the woman. “Shitty weather, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, you said it.”
“Fancy a couple of nice hot buns to warm you up?”
Goraric gave her a wink. “Is that a euphemism?”
The woman folded her arms and took a half step back. “Take me for a whore, do you?”
“What? No, I uh–”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t want to tumble me?” The woman’s darkened brow and quivering chins showed her indignation. “Is that it?”
Goraric wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, no. I, uh... didn’t mean…”
The woman smiled, then laughed. “Never mind. Anyway, it’s probably best if you didn’t answer that!”
“Um…”
“Relax, I was only messing with you.”
“Ah,” said Goraric, grinning as he wiped beads of water from his forehead. “Er, all right then?”
“I was actually referring to this,” said the woman, stepping aside to reveal a wooden handcart with a charcoal grill built into the top. “I sell hot buns.”
“Hot buns?” He licked his lips.
“Yep.” The woman held something out to him.
He saw a mound of dough cut lengthwise and stuffed with a fat sausage. He smelled butter and garlic and herbs he couldn’t put a name to. His stomach rumbled. “Looks delicious.”
The woman shrugged. “Try it. It’ll only cost you a sen.”
Goraric rummaged around in his purse and handed over a coin. “Done,” he said, taking the bun from her and cramming half of it into his mouth. “A bargain, too.”
“You’re not wrong.”
He finished the bun in two bites. “Mmf,” he said, chewing. “Thish’s acshully preddy goob.” He noticed the lettering on the handcart. “Ennette?”
“That’s me,” said the woman, tracing the letters with a finger. “Well, actually it’s my mother’s name as well. I was named after her. ‘Ennette’s Sausage Buns’ isn’t the most creative name I suppose, but I came up with it when I was six and so that’s what she went with.” She offered her hand. “Happy to meet you.”
Goraric pressed his palm into Ennette’s. “Happy to meet you too.” He remembered his cover story. “I’m Father Durnin.”
“Ooh,” said Ennette, sizing him up. “A slaver, eh?”
“Yep,” said Goraric. “Out of Gillendum. I’m looking to pick up some new additions. Something exotic, maybe? Ah, I don’t know. I only got here yesterday.”
Ennette nodded. “Fair enough. Can’t say as you’ll find anything terribly exotic in this shithole.” She frowned at some dingy lean-tos as if to underscore her point. “But then again, what do I know about the business? Thick sausages and saucy buns are more my thing.” She laughed and gave him a suggestive look.
Goraric smiled. Ennette was too homely for his taste, but she had an honest face and he found her raucous laugh oddly appealing. “Are you from Herena?”
“I am,” said Ennette, wiping her fingers absent-mindedly down the front of her apron. “From the city proper. How about yourself?”
“Like I said, I’m out of Gillendum. Born and bred.”
“You should have been a singer, not a slaver.”
“Hm.” He nodded even though he had no idea what she was talking about.
Ennette laughed at his confusion. “Never mind. It was pretty stupid.”
Goraric tried to recall what she’d said prior to that. “Oh wait. It was because I was rhyming, wasn’t it?”
Ennette grinned sheepishly. “Yup! Well, like I said, it was pretty stupid.”
“No, no, it’s all right.” Goraric pointed to the handcart. “So, you run this thing all by yourself then, do you?”
“Oh no. No. This place,” and she gestured to show she meant the followers’ camp in its entirety, “is not somewhere I could survive alone. The hubby and I came here thinking we could make some money, but uh...”
“But what?” She’d piqued his curiosity. Something was troubling her a great deal.
“Yeah, let’s just say it hasn’t worked out so well in practice.”
“Why not? What’s the problem?”
“No, no, it’s nothing. We just, well, miscalculated a bit, that’s all.”
“Miscalculated how?”
“I dunno,” said Ennette, folding her arms again. “Maybe it’s better if we just forget I said anything.”
Goraric decided to force the issue. “No. Tell me. Why aren’t you making any money?”
Ennette looked away. “Oh, no. I misspoke. We are.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re not a very good liar, Ennette.”
She turned back to him, an annoyed expression on her face. “That’s a bit rude coming from a stranger.”
“Sorry.”
She unfolded her arms. “No,” she said, softening her tone. “It was my mistake. I shouldn’t have started talking about it.”
“Talking about what?”
Ennette gave him a look. “Forget it, please, Durnin. I don’t know you.”
“Of course. As you wish.”
“I’m sorry. I mean, you seem nice and all, but…”
He shrugged. “Nah, it’s all right.”
“I didn’t mean to ruin the otherwise pleasant conversation we were having.” Ennette sounded disappointed. “It’s just that... well, look, I hope I’m not keeping you from something important?” She smiled, but her heart clearly wasn’t in it.
Goraric adjusted his oil skin. “No, not really. The weather’s sent everyone indoors. I haven’t found what I need yet and I don’t really feel like walking around in the rain looking for it, either. I have time.”
“As you like.” Ennette pointed eastward. “And the slave pens are down that way, in case you were wondering.”
“Oh yes, I know. I could go another sausage bun, actually.”
Ennette nodded. “Of course.”
Goraric paid for the bun and ate it. He didn’t want to keep pestering her, but he also didn’t want to leave without trying to help. He’d failed plenty of people recently, and it was high time he turned things around. “Are you and your husband in some kind of trouble, Ennette?”
“No.”
“Is someone standing over you?”
“No.”
“Someone’s standing over you, aren’t they?”
“No.”
“Yes, they are.”
“No, no. Don’t be silly.”
“I thought so. It’s Leonf, isn’t it? That fucking banker? Don’t worry, I’m not one of his goons.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Goraric knew he’d worn out his welcome. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to help her out. “Fair enough. Well, it looks like the rain’s eased a bit, so…” It wasn’t true, but this was all getting really awkward now. “I suppose I’ll take one more bun and get out of your hair?”
“All right,” said Ennette, handing him another sausage bun fresh off the grill.
“Wait.” He looked at her expectantly. “You’re not going to do anything with that?”
She gave him a curious look. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He smiled. “I was thinking maybe you were going to say something along the lines of, ‘Anyone who devours my buns like you do is welcome in my hair anytime?’”
“You’re a strange sort,” said Ennette, stifling a giggle. “And that does sound like something I might say, actually.”
“I’ll leave you in peace, Ennette,” said Goraric as he passed her a third coin. “You have a nice smile, and I hope to see it again sometime.”
“Bye, Father Durnin. Come back any time.”
Goraric gave her a genial salute as he departed. His appetite now more or less sated, he ate his bun at a leisurely pace as he walked. “Fucking Leonf,” he said under his breath. Peddling misery, as bankers were wont to do. No doubt he was taking protection money from Ennette and her husband, or forcing them to borrow from him. “Fucking Leonf.”
“Smoked fish?” asked a man selling the same out of a tent.
“Looks good,” said Goraric, casting an eye over his wares. “Maybe later. Slave pens this way, are they?” He already knew they were, but he was in character and it seemed like a question someone like newly-arrived Father Durnin might ask.
“Yeah,” said the man. “Keep goin’ straight like y’are. Can’t miss ‘em.”
“Thanks.”
“Righto, friend.”
The slavers’ area was a sodden place heavy with the smell of shit and wretchedness. The first cages he came to were home to maybe a dozen children and a handful of women. They all looked cold and exhausted. There was a northerner or two among them, but most were Kai Shang or maybe Candran. There was even a Zann in there as well, possibly. He’d never really been able to tell those peoples apart.
A pair of guards saw Goraric approach, and one went off to fetch his employer, who turned out to be a portly man well into his fifties. Goraric noted his expensive clothes and concluded that business must be good.
“Welcome, young sir!” said the man, addressing him in Sarasinian. “Welcome!”
“Morning.” He supposed he could have sounded a bit more enthusiastic, but Sarasinian was a language he’d started to despise of late.
“Come inside. Have a drink.” The man ushered Goraric into a large green tent and sat him in one of several chairs clustered around a low table. He put a pair of cups of unidentifiable liquid on the table before taking one of the chairs for himself. “Welcome, welcome!”
Goraric looked around. Good quality carpets on the floor. Nice furniture, too. Not exactly lavish, but well made. Sturdy.
“Oh, I nearly forgot!” said the man. “Ha, ha. I’m Father Roland.” He extended a hand, and Goraric squeezed it.
“Father Durnin,” said Goraric. “Out of Gillendum.”
Roland’s eyebrows went up. “Gillendum! I used to live there! Can’t say I enjoyed it much, mind you. Bit too out of the way, nothing to do.”
“That’s true.” He’d been to Gillendum enough times to know that boring described it well. The little frontier town was known for having grown quickly after its founding, but then withering like fruit left on the vine.
“Tell me true, Durnin, all right? Is business there as bad as they say?”
Goraric paused. Was he talking about the slave trade, or just generally? “Uh, yes,” he heard himself saying. “It’s pretty bad, actually. Not much happening, you know, on account of how the, uh–” Shit. What to say next?
“Mm,” said Roland, nodding along. “Yes. On account of how the clans stopped selling captives.”
“Yeah,” said Goraric, relieved. “Exactly.”
“Well it’s because of the invasion, of course. You wouldn’t expect any different. Are you surviving the downturn all right?”
Goraric waved a hand. “Oh, yes. I’m doing fine.”
“Good to hear, good to hear. I suppose you’re following the Lion too, eh, hoping to get the jump on the other traders?”
Goraric nodded, even though he didn’t really get it. “Oh, yeah. Yep. Following the Lion... and all that.”
“A wise move,” said Roland, tapping his temple with a finger. “Soon enough we’ll have all the stock we need and then some, eh? Of course, prices’ll be a bit depressed in the interim.”
“True.”
“Volume will be key.”
“Oh, yes. That it will. Definitely.”
“How long you been in the trade then, Durnin?”
Goraric was starting to regret that he hadn’t put more effort into his cover story. “To be honest with you, Roland,” he said, “not very long. A few years back I joined the garrison in Gillendum for a bit, but it didn’t really work out. Then my father died suddenly and left his house and business to me. That was about a year or two ago, I guess...”
“Yes, yes,” said Roland, looking at him. “You have the look of a soldier about you. I was a spearman too, you know. Once, in another life.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Believe it or not, yes.” Roland slapped his belly, and the fat rippled beneath his shirt. “But as you can see, that was a very long time ago indeed!”
“Who were you with?”
“The Fifth.”
“The Fifth? Really?”
“Swear to the gods, I had the great privilege of serving under the Lion himself. The great lord Virgilio.”
“Huh. Fancy that.”
Roland smiled. “So, when I heard he was marching out again, well I just couldn’t resist, could I? I thought I’d make the effort, you know, for old time’s sake. It’s not the same now, of course. I mean, I’ve no spear this time around and I daresay I’m travelling in a bit more comfort, too. But the sights, the sounds... ah, it really takes me back.”
“I can well imagine.”
“Those were the days, I tell you.” Roland’s eyes glittered at the memory. “We were young and fit and strong. We were soldiers, full of youthful exuberance. Full of fire. Nothing could stop us. I fought twice, but then I was wounded badly enough I had to be sent back. I didn’t mind too much, though. And why would I? I came back rich as a lord!”
Goraric nodded. “Slaves.”
“Of course! What else? Now in those days you were allowed to trade, but you could only keep one slave for your own. These days it’s all different.” He frowned and shook his head. “Gone to shit. No one can keep anything. And they don’t even let other ranks trade at all anymore.”
“No?”
“No, lad. It was such a lucrative business they had to go and lock the common man out of it. It’s a politicians-only racket now, pretty much. Meaning I’ll be forced to buy from some Old Blood bastard who already has more money than he knows what to do with. Or that fucking banker, maybe.”
“Leonf?”
“Yeah,” said Roland, his voice thick with disgust. “Him. Bought a licence from Archon Riva, or so I heard.”
Goraric wanted to ask Roland more about the banker, but decided it might do to build a bit more rapport first. Leonf’s own agents were known to disparage their chief openly, and it was always a ruse to unmask his enemies. “So,” he asked, “what was your connection to Gillendum, then? Is that where you went when you got out of the army?”
Roland seemed to find the question amusing. “It’s not merely the place I went to!” he said, laughing. “No, lad. I helped build the place–I was one of the pioneers! Helped build it, then became a farmer. A lot of us old soldiers stayed out there and became farmers. I got into the slave business quickly though, I must say. They were good years, initially, but when things soured I moved to Romelia.”
“Oh. Better prospects out that way?”
“Yeah,” said Roland, pursing his lips. “Something like that. I’m thinking though, what with the invasion and everything, Gillendum might be about to boom again.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. I mean, why not? What with the invasion and everything, it’ll be the conduit for the coming slave boom. Might even become a major hub. I’d be willing to bet good money on it happening, lad. More northern provinces will spring up, and they’ll need support and supplies, won’t they? Money to be made, Durnin! Money to be made. I kept my old house in Gillendum, you know, and good thing I did.”
“Wow,” said Goraric. Roland might actually be on to something. “You know, I hadn’t really thought about that.” He imagined Father Durnin’s house in Gillendum and his possible future windfall, and felt sad because it wasn’t real.
Roland reached for the nearest cup. “You know, Durnin, all this talk is making me thirsty. I promised you a drink, didn’t I? So let’s have at it then, eh?”
“All right,” said Goraric, picking up his cup and taking a sip. Whatever it was, it burned his throat as he swallowed. He grimaced.
Roland laughed at his expression. “Romelian wine. An acquired taste is what this stuff is.”
Goraric licked his lips. “It doesn’t taste like any wine I’ve ever had before.”
Roland peered into his cup. “I don’t even know why they call it wine, to be honest. It’s made of goat’s milk.”
“I see.”
“How is it?”
“Like you said, it’s an acquired taste.”
Roland smiled. “I have to admit, it’s a little early to be drinking, even for me, but a man must show his guests a little hospitality, eh?”
“And I think you’re a fine host, Father Roland. Thank you.”
“Mm,” said Roland with a nod. “Well, I’m sure you didn’t come here for wine and small talk, eh? Let’s get down to business, then. What can I do for you, Father Durnin?”
“Well, I’ll be honest with you,” said Goraric, showing him the palms of his hands. “I don’t deserve the ‘Father’ title. Not really. I’m just a small-time trader looking for something rather… specific.”
Roland rubbed his chin. “Specific? Specific, how?”
“I’m looking for a very young girl.”
“A very young girl?”
“Yes. Say, six or seven years old. Do you have any?”
“Well now,” said Roland, thinking. “Let’s see... I’ve got a Candran who’s maybe seven years old. She’s quite the looker, so of course I can’t exactly let her go for cheap. I’ve got another couple who must be nine or thereabouts. Not near as pretty as the looker, I don’t think, but sometimes Candrans surprise you down the track. They’re all intact, too. And not too expensive. If you’re looking to save even more money, though, I’ve got plenty of Kai Shang. All ages.”
“They’re all intact?”
Roland laughed. “What, the Shang? No, I don’t think any of them are. And I’m not a man to say a thing is something when it’s not, either. You have my word on that.” He started to get up. “Come, see for yourself if you don’t believe me! I’ll show you. Here, let’s go.”
“No,” said Goraric. “No, I trust you. It’s just that I’m not looking for anything from the western provinces.”
Roland relaxed. “All right then. Oh, and I do have a couple of Zann girls, too. They’re a good bit older, but you don’t see too many of them on the market these days. And they’re not that old either. They’re still young enough you wouldn’t mind letting them warm your bed. Make perfect house slaves, they would. Ah, but they’re not exactly intact, though. Let’s see... what else have I got?”
Goraric put a hand on the table. “I’ll be blunt. I’m looking for Ahren girls.”
Roland gave him a puzzled look. “Ahren girls? Why?”
“Let’s just say I have a customer who is very interested in getting his hands on one or two. Urgently.”
“Why, what’s the rush? In another month or two, there’ll be more Ahren on the market than you can poke a stick at! And for cheap, too. Tell your customer to wait.”
“Well,” said Goraric with a shrug, “that’s the thing. He doesn’t want to wait. And he’s a very good customer, so...”
Roland returned the shrug. “Well, unfortunately I don’t have what you’re looking for.”
Goraric didn’t try to hide his disappointment. “Do you know anyone here who might?”
Roland shook his head. “No. Can’t say as I do.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Sorry I can’t help. You could go ask some of the other traders, though, just to make certain.”
“I suppose I will…”
“Mind you,” said Roland, shaking a finger at Goraric in a gesture of caution, “on the off-chance you do find one, don’t you go paying more than you would for a Shang at current market prices.”
“Will do.”
“Speaking of, they’re not going to be worth shit in another couple of months, either.”