The Path Travelled - part 3 (Patreon)

Mahr got his wish. For the next few days, things were relatively quiet as Farad and his apprentices busied themselves with offloading the last of their wares. As they approached the end of their inventory they set their sights on replenishing their supplies.

There was a method to their buying and bartering, as anyone who had travelled with them could attest to. And some may even venture to go a step further and say their vocation was an art form. To know what goods a settlement dozens of miles away might require in a weeks’ time was a nebulous thing and most would assume it was common sense and guesswork, though there was more to it than that. There was investigation – what caravans had left Ras recently, and what were they carrying? There was deduction – given what recent caravans were carrying, the next settlement on the road would not require certain things. What instead could they offer? The moldavite goods would only become profitable the farther away from Ras they went. Was Farad willing to dedicate a significant portion of his cargo to items that would not be of use for hundreds of miles? Not only that but they were delicate and might break during the journey. Were they worth the investment?

Chronicler spent the next few days following Farad around the market, speaking with suppliers in storerooms and getting a general feel for what might sell. It was during those days that Chronicler learnt there was more to Ras than just craters and meteorite gems. There was a sizeable frankincense grove just outside the settlement and its farmers, who lived some miles outside of the city, were proud of their saffron. Though not produced in the volumes necessary for exportation, it was enough to feature in local cuisine. The city’s saffron yogurt was something Chronicler developed a taste for and he looked forward to his daily foray to the middle ward, where it was produced.

It soon became clear that the caravan would not be in Ras for long. A shame, thought Chronicler, as he had so much more left to explore. On more than one occasion Mahr had warned him that the merchants were getting ready to leave, and that Chronicler would do well to prepare his belongings for his departure.

“But I don’t want to leave,” chronicler had moaned.

Mahr rolled his eyes. The caravan was gearing up to leave and Chronicler was sulking in his chambers, chests readily packed.

“But I have so much left to do here,” he said, arms folded against his chest. “Did you know that these people follow a religion that appeared after the meteorite hit. That’s at least a few thousand years ago. Imperial records from twenty-five hundred years ago do not mention a crater in the region. It’s the only city in the area that does not worship the Bronze King. Makes for some sour relations with visitors from Daaz and Mern. And those flesh slavers? Not very popular either, from what I can tell. Someone was preaching in the market yesterday. Managed to gather quite the crowd around him. I had to leave before I had chance to hear it all, but I worry what people like that can do sometimes.”

Mahr knew Niyush was just buying time, but there was a truth to his words that he could not deny. There were reports of another attack on caravans heading west a few days ago. Even Mahr was getting weary of the situation. “I think the people here are worried. I think they’re right. I also think the longer we tarry, the more our chances of being attacked grow. We need to go Niyush.”

Chronicler nodded, raised a hand. “We will, there’s just. Ah, you know, I worry too. These people have no-one to help them. The world is such a dangerous place. The last thing they need is rabble-rousers feeding their fear. They need to feel safe.”

“And you’re the one to do that?”

Chronicler laughed, stood. “I’m too selfish for that sort of thing. Not much of a speaker, either. My skill lies in listening and writing. Extrapolating.

“For someone who listens so much you sure pick the worst times to not pay any attention.”

“What’s the rush Mahr? You’re gods know how far from home. What’s a few other days?”

“I’m not like you Niyush,” sighed Mahr.

“A few days ago you were telling me to relax. Now you want to leave. What’s the rush?

Mahr rolled his eyes again. “We’ve spent enough time resting. And I don’t like the way the atmosphere is changing.

“Just one more day Mahr, is all I want. I want to find out more about those pale ones.

He’d found some merchants at the market where the pale ones were sold and traded. It was a small place, well-guarded and frequented by tight-lipped merchants. There were no pale ones left to scrutinize by the time Chronicler had arrived and all he found were pitiful nomads and tribesmen, likely from the Etuan Wastes. He hadn’t been able to coerce much from the merchants, but they told him the pale ones were mortals corrupted by the Atramenta. Surely there was more to learn, but Ras was not known for its scholars or historians, and if most people were reticent of talking about them. Slavery wasn’t illegal. It wasn’t even discouraged, but there was still something about it that people shunned.

As Chornicler sat musing, he realised he might have to go elsewhere for answers. Maybe Daaz, or Zaffre. But still, he had hopes of meeting that trader once again. She’d fascinated him. Her smoky skin, her dark sharp eyes. Who knew what she’d seen in her travels?

“I need more time. I need to find her.

“Gods you’ll be the death of me.”

***

Mahr was arguing with Farad, trying to convince him that Chronicler needed more time with the locals to form a better understanding of their culture. Farad couldn’t care less. Chronicler – and Mahr, for that matter – was not part of the caravan. They were just travelling with him for safety.

Mahr found Chronicler in a café talking with a local priest, who was busy explaining part of the local ritual to him, hands gesticulating as he spoke, nearly spilling his mint tea. The priest nodded politely to Mahr as he sat beside them, ordered a spiced tea.

“It’s a matter of belief, Sikhar,” he said. The word was a local term for foreigner, albeit one normally reserved for friends. Chronicler had been flattered the first time he’d heard it though had grown used to it through the course of the conversation. He quite liked it.

“It’s about strength, and respect. The belief that even great pain and destruction can propagate life and love. Whatever created this crater was itself a great force of destruction. No doubt, it devastated the immediate area in its time, but over many years, the crater left in its wake attracted people from across Saviud. They formed this city, which could not exist under other circumstances. Life through destruction,” said the priest, hands touching the table, emphasizing the words.

Chronicler was nodding. “So it’s a nihilistic cult?”

“Oh, no, no, no, far from it,” said the priest. “This is not entropy. This is something else altogether. We seek truth in adversity. Though hardship is not something to be courted, we do not avoid it, for it builds strength. Through overcoming it we might grow into better men.

“Better men,” said Chronicler, smiling, turning to Mahr.

Mahr sat back, drank his tea. He saw the lull in the conversation and spoke. “They’ve left.

“Mhm?”

“Farad, the others. Got fed up waiting and left this morning. Only you were too busy to notice.”

“They left? Well what do we do now?

“We?” asked Mahr.

“Yes, we.”

“I’m seriously thinking of turning this thing we have,” he gestured to the two of them, “into just you.”

Chronicler regarded him. The priest had left by then and it was just the two of them sitting there. Around them people were going about their business. A man passed with four goats in tow, a tin bucket in one hand. A pair of guards strolled down the street, coming up from the lower ward. Men and women hurried about. None of them seemed to care for Chronicler or Mahr. “We must find a new caravan.”

“Oh so you’re ready to leave now?”

Chronicler shrugged. “I’ve got all I’m going to get out of this place. No one here knows anything. They don’t care for these things. They wake and work and eat and sleep, and that’s about it.”

Mahr did not answer and they sat in silence for a while, watching the town pass them by. Mahr tipped the remnants of his tea into his mouth. It was cold by then, the spices congealed into a muddy mass at the bottom of the glass. He stood. “I’ll look for a new caravan,” he said before leaving. Then, as though in afterthought, he put the glass down. “You’re paying for that.”

Mahr spent days looking for another caravan but had little luck. The pair had nothing in the terms of skills that were useful to any caravan. Mahr was a passable tracker and knew basic survival skills, though Chronicler would be more of a burden than Mahr could compensate for. Chronicler was skilled with languages and his knowledge of customs and other rituals might come in helpful, though it would never be reason enough for a caravan to hire them

Close to a week after beginning his search, Mahr found a caravan that was willing to take them at least as far north as Zaffre, possibly further. The merchant, a former soldier from Bakhran, was a formidable man who carried himself with an authority that suggested he might have been more than that.

“The safety of the goods I transport is most important. I always travel with a full complement of guards, no less. Any bandits looking to my train for cheap spoils will be in for a shock,” he’d said, a brown hand covered in signet rings pulling his qaftan aside, revealing a powdergun.

Mahr had nodded, noting the time the caravan was leaving, thanking the man for his offer.

He told Chronicler about it later that day. Chronicler had been away most of the morning and afternoon, speaking with a newly arrived merchant who’d been travelling from the north. He brought no news of bandits, which had put Chronicler in high spirits.

The next day came quickly and Chronicler was in the yard with the porters who had risen early to load the camels, perhaps sixty beasts in all. Over a third had been fitted with bulky saddlebags in which were large barrels filled with water. Above them were packs of dried food. The rest were laden with four deep wicker baskets each filled with goods: mostly pomegranates and frankincense resin.

One of the journeymen who was helping with the provisions saw Chronicler perusing one of the frankincense baskets and moved beside him. “Can’t stand the smell myself.

Chronicler turned round to face the man. Dark eyes set between a long and narrow nose looked down at him. It took Chronicler a while to realise that the man was speaking to him in the language of Thamaaz, something he hadn’t heard in some time. He nodded a greeting.

“Don’t have much use for it here, but they devour the stuff in Yeppo. I’m not complaining though,” he smiled.

From his clothing and the way he carried himself, Chronicler gathered the must have been a land-owner, possibly of frankincense groves. Chronicler introduced himself.

“Assathan On Thadhi,” replied the man, bowing, taking Chronicler’s hand into his own.

“You stand to make a profit on this?” asked Chronicler.

“That is the plan.”

“You’re coming with us?”The nobleman nodded, a wry grin spreading across his face, though before he had chance to reply, one of the journeymen shouted. “Scared the merchant’ll fleece him!”

“Merely protecting my investment.”

Chronicler nodded. “A wise move. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.”

“Oh I won’t. And when I make my money in Yeppo, I’ll make sure they remember it.”

Chronicler remained with the man for some time after that, asking about his family and land. Assathan’s father had come south, not far from the Tropic of Rah.

Already from their relatively short discourse, Chronicler felt he knew enough of the man to place him. A minor noble, struggling for some years, his toil finally bearing fruit. He was nervous, though didn’t want to show it, though he did want them to know he was a nobleman. In that respect Chronicler felt he had done well, but he still carried himself with the air of a man unused to the kiss of the sun or the caress of a harsh southern wind. That would soon change. Yeppo was close to three-hundred miles North West of Ras, and they would pass few small settlements before reaching it.

Three-hundred miles meant twelve to thirty days of travel, given the myriad of variables to be expected – terrain, weather, scarcity if water sources. Of course they carried water and food with them, but they were close to five-hundred miles off the more luxurious Ivory Road, and could not afford to take any chances. Any well or oasis they encountered would force them to make camp and replenish their water, for there was no way of knowing when the next reprieve may come. The consolation was that the farther north one moved the more hospitable the land became. As far north as Zaffre chronicler might expect to see temperate woodlands or at least populous scrubland. A welcome change from the hardship of the wastes.

Mahr approached them, with the merchant-lord Sallan beside him. Mahr was a tall man, but he was dwarfed by the merchant. His tattooed head was covered by travelling scarves and his qaftan was covered by a once-brightly patterned woollen cloak that was well-suited to the days of travel ahead.

“So you are our chronicler, then,” he said, offering a hand, which Niyush took in a firm grip. He held it as the Bakhrani merchant looked him over. The man nodded, seemingly content with his assessment.

Chronicler straightened his clothes and nodded curtly. “Whatever Mahr has told you, I assure you, none of it is true,” he said dryly.

Sallan’s eyes narrowed and he nodded, one side of his face curving into a grin. “I must be clear – this is no naturalist expedition. The purpose of this venture, as my associate Assathan will no doubt have already pointed out, is purely financial. I know your kind and I know there is no point dissuading you from your work. You may take notes, catalogue what you see and speak with my men, as long you do not hamper our progress. If you have been on the road much you will know that the time to mingle is when we break camp. That will be your domain. My domain is the march, and we will not get in each other’s way.”

Chronicler nodded slowly and looked to Mahr who he could swear was hiding a grin. “I am no stranger to the road. My travels bring me here from Anubia. I would be impressed if you could mark the distance that makes.”

“And I would be impressed if that were true.

Chronicler’s eyes widened at the implied accusation. “Mahr alone has been with me since Tartak. That in itself is over two-thousand miles.”

Sallan turned to Mahr who was fidgeting uncomfortably at his sudden inclusion in the discussion. He nodded. “He does not lie.”

Sallan turned to Chronicler once more and bowed, “Then I defer to your experience. I am honoured to have such a seasoned traveller in my train.”

They dispensed with the trivialities and continued with the preparations. It was early afternoon by the time they were set. They dined before leaving, ending their stay with a customary feast of roast lamb and heady pomegranate wine. Past experience had taught Chronicler not to trust it but it would have been remiss of him to insult the proprietor of the caravanserai, who had put up with him for close to two weeks.

By the end of the feast he’d drunk at least three generous glasses of the gritty liquid and eaten what felt like half a lamb. He felt utterly sick.

As they emerged into the blinding light the next morning Chronicler remembered that they would be riding camels.

He could feel the food and wine churning inside him.

“It’s going to be a long road.”

part 4