The Last Whisper of the Gods (4 page)

Changing the subject, the chancellor said, “There’s an issue that will require your attention when you return to public life. Civil unrest is growing because of a series of disturbing religious rumors.”

“Let the priests handle religious matters. I have a city to run.”

“The problem is that the priests are
not
handling the matter, at least not in a consistent fashion and it’s having repercussions. Some of the watchmen feel the rise in crime is directly related to this. You’re free to ignore it, Your Majesty, but I think it will fester until it is cauterized, and that will require your attention.”

“Tell me about the rumors.” The king sighed, knowing this would likely force him into meetings with Prelate Ferguson, one man in Vantok with whom he would prefer not to converse.

“According to a growing sect, the gods have turned away from the world. There have always been religious dissidents, but this movement is more persistent than anything before. Two weeks ago, the prelate of the temple in Basingham resigned with a public proclamation that ‘prelates are not needed in the new order.’ This led to riots and a quick denunciation by his successor. The official ecclesiastical position is that nothing has changed and we are as much in the gods’ favor as ever, but a growing number of priests dispute this and it is creating unrest amongst the general populace.

“For many people, the consideration of the gods’ favor in an afterlife keeps them restrained in this one. With that check removed, many would risk all for greater power, wealth, and pleasure. It may be that a new breed of criminal is rising - men who have come to accept that the gods have either turned away their favor or ceased to exist. So they live for today, no longer concerned about a spiritual future. The strong have always preyed on the weak but now there may be fewer checks on that preying. It doesn’t matter whether this sect is right about the gods. All that matters is whether they attract converts.”

“The riots in Basingham - how bad were they?”

“Bad, Sire. Dozens dead. Three priests dragged out of the temple and strung up in the streets. Two guards killed putting down the mob. King Durth was forced to place the city under martial law for a time, although the most strict measures have since been lifted.”

“And you believe the same thing could happen here?” It seemed unlikely, but perhaps no more so than that the king would quietly execute his queen in their bedchamber. “Have you canvassed our priests about their position?”

“We’ve been in touch with the Temple, but they aren’t forthcoming.” A trace of irritation entered Toranim’s voice. There had always been conflict between the ecclesiastical and secular leadership in Vantok but it had grown increasingly contentious since Azarak took the throne. “Prelate Ferguson dismisses the dissidents as deluded and disaffected and claims there are none amongst his clerics. However, rumors claim several have been relieved of their duties in the last two weeks and clandestine meetings have been held at an undisclosed location within the city. The nature and purpose of the meetings are unclear, but it is suspected they are related to this new ‘godless’ sect.”

Azarak considered. He could see why Toranim was concerned. This kind of disturbing belief could have widespread ramifications. There had been similar movements over the years but few had gained traction. If people were heeding the words of the dissident priests, there would be consequences. Religion was a cornerstone of law; without the former, the latter could crumble.

“Why now?” asked the king aloud. “Why do people accept this now when heretics preaching in the past have found poor reception?”

“People heed the dissidents because their doctrine matches the current situation. Religion is strongest in times of prosperity. We are now in a cycle when poverty and crime are rising, weather has been foul for several years, and there is a growing sense that prayers are no longer being answered. The number of miracles acknowledged continent-wide by the Temple declines year after year. No miracle has been confirmed within Vantok in a half-decade. All these things contribute to a portion of the populace accepting that the creed of godlessness may have a foundation in reality.”

“So, a few miracles and good weather and the movement will collapse?”

“Perhaps not ‘collapse,’ but at least lose its potency, Your Majesty.”

Azarak sighed. There was no getting around it, he supposed. “Then it’s time I speak with Prelate Ferguson about these matters. Please convey to him my desire to have a private audience at the palace. Do it
gently
.” Azarak knew he had to tread carefully. The degree to which Ferguson was subject to civil law had never been defined. Officially, as long as Ferguson practiced within Vantok, he was Azarak’s subject, but tradition dictated that prelate and king shared separate-but-equal status. So, although Ferguson was technically required to answer a royal summons, he might ignore it unless it was properly phrased. And, although Azarak needed to see the prelate, he wanted them to meet not as antagonists but as allies. They both had a vested interest in seeing that this crisis passed quickly.

Understanding the meaning of his liege’s words, Toranim nodded. “It shall be as you request, Your Majesty.”

The chancellor rose and departed with a bow. Once his back was turned to the king, his features relaxed. Perhaps he had overstated the nature of the problem, but at least Azarak now had something to occupy his attention beyond the guilt gnawing at his conscience.

* * *

In Azarak’s experience, old men fell into one of two categories: those whose age diminished them, turning them into wizened gnomes, and those who carried their years with dignity and were the better for it. Despite being ninety years old, Prelate Ferguson, His Holiness of Vantok, was as sharp and vigorous as a man half his age. Both of his blue eyes functioned perfectly, although he needed the help of a hand-held lens for reading. His full mane of hair, the same snow white as his neatly trimmed mustache and beard, flowed to his shoulders. Despite deceptively simple clothing - the robe donned by all priests - Ferguson commanded attention. His bearing was as regal as that of any secular ruler. He understood the advantages of authority and was unafraid to apply them.

The king elected to meet the prelate in a private audience chamber rather than the ostentatious throne room. Many of Azarak’s notable agreements had been hammered out here, with negotiations taking place across the wide, worn wooden table while ale and wine flowed freely. The table was huge, occupying most of the chamber with a footprint covered by a fine, plush carpet. There were thickly padded chairs for reclining in each corner and a fire blazing across the hearth to the left of the door. Since the chamber was deep within the palace, there were no windows. Those who entered this room left the outside world behind.

Prelate Ferguson inclined his head slightly as he entered. Azarak rose from his seat, an extra-wide padded wooden chair facing the door across the table, to execute a similarly perfunctory bow. He motioned for the prelate to sit opposite him. No words were spoken until the servants had filled two golden chalices with the king’s best vintage and withdrawn.

“I assume Your Eminence is aware of why I requested this meeting,” began Azarak.

“Come, Your Majesty, let’s not mince words. You summoned me here. You could have easily come to the temple but you ensured this meeting would be at a time and place of your choosing.”

Azarak sighed inaudibly. So it was going to be one of
those
meetings. He had hoped Ferguson would put aside petty politics to concentrate on issues that concerned them both. He could have protested that he had just lost his wife and was still in the official seclusion of mourning, but he knew Ferguson would brush that aside as an excuse.

The prelate continued, “Of course I know why you ‘requested’ that I ‘join you for a discussion of some importance.’ In fact, I’m surprised it took you so long, although perhaps it’s understandable given your bereavement. But you were right to consult me before acting. This is first and foremost an ecclesiastical matter.”

“Is it true?”

“The rumors? Which one - that the gods have abandoned us or that they no longer exist? Are you a man of faith, Your Majesty?”

Azarak thought of his dead wife lying next to him in bed. “I once was, Your Eminence.”

Ferguson seemed satisfied with the response even though the king had used the past tense. “Then let your faith guide you in this matter. I cannot say for certain one way or the other but I believe the gods are immortal and they would not turn their faces from us.”

“Why do so many believe it?”

“There is no doubt that the favor of the gods has decreased markedly in recent times,” conceded Ferguson. “Hints of this date back twenty years. It’s most likely a temporary circumstance, the punishment for some transgression. Superstitious peasants, spurred by heretical priests and so-called prophets, stoke the fires of disbelief. But I have faith, Your Majesty, that we will come through this and when the gods have restored their favor, belief in them will be stronger than ever.”

“That may be the case, Your Eminence. You’re certainly in a better position to make the determination than I am. But in the meantime, this disbelief is contributing to lawlessness. Something must be done to curb that.”

“On that subject, you would be better advised to speak to those who maintain law in the streets. Perhaps the captain of the Watch?” There was no sarcasm in the tone but the words alone were enough to push Azarak to the brink of his patience.

“If the rule of law collapses in this city the way it did in Basingham, your temple may be the first target of violence. Knowing that, Your Eminence, how can you make such a statement?”

“We trust in the king to protect us.”

“Then help me do that duty.”

“I’m at your disposal, Your Majesty. If it is within my capabilities…”

“In your estimation, what would it take to allay the fears of the populace?”

“In philosophical terms, greater faith. In practical terms, better weather, answered prayers and more miracles.”

“I can’t think of anything we can do about the first but we can ‘correct’ the other two. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Eminence?”

The trace of what might have been a smile played across Ferguson’s lips. “Are you suggesting I mislead the people into believing signs that have not been provided?”

“I’m suggesting you search out things that might be construed as answered prayers and miraculous occurrences and make those known throughout the city.”

“And if I am unable to find these things? Should the priesthood fabricate them?”

“That’s an ecclesiastical matter, Your Eminence. I wouldn’t dream to interfere or suggest how you resuscitate the people’s faith.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty. It’s dangerous for a secular ruler to dabble in religious matters.” There was a hint of warning in the prelate’s tone.

“Do I have your support in resolving this matter, Your Eminence?”

“I will do what my conscience directs me to do. If faith is found lacking in the people, I will seek to bolster it by any means which would not cause offense to the gods.”

“Then we understand each other?”

“We do, Your Majesty,” said Ferguson, rising and bowing slightly to the king. “We do indeed.”

Festival! No word was more welcome to the weary citizenry of Vantok than that one. More than a holiday, such events came rarely - perhaps twice or thrice in a decade - and only when the king decreed one. On festival days, there was a general amnesty from work. Even serfs could not be forced to attend to their chores. The markets were closed and every round of beer, ale, and other spirits purchased in the city’s registered inns and taverns was placed on the Crown's tab.

The occasion of this festival, held only three weeks after the Midsummer’s holiday of the year 1583, was the announcement of an heir to the throne. Since King Azarak was without offspring and showed no inclination to remarry and secure the rulership for his bloodline, his advisors had persuaded him to name a faithful retainer to the position of Crown Prince. The assumption was that Azarak would eventually choose a new queen and have a brood of blood princes but, until that happened, provisions were necessary to secure the succession in case the unthinkable occurred. If the king died without naming a successor, chaos would ensue with every noble pressing a claim, no matter how tenuous. Thus, the naming of a temporary Crown Prince was a reason for celebration, especially since the man in question, Duke Ferwan, was well liked by nearly everyone in Vantok from the most influential noble to the lowliest peasant.

For Warburm, the declaration of a festival day was a nightmare. Since he couldn’t compel any of his employees to work, he was forced to pay double or triple wages. Annie, the most popular of his barmaids by far, was getting four times her usual pay. The issue was complicated when it came to his most reliable stableboy, Sorial. Since Sorial didn’t receive wages, Warburm was forced to negotiate an alternative agreement, and the boy, delighting in his first taste of power, drove a hard bargain. The innkeeper had to promise two full days off - Marktetday and Restday. At age 13, Sorial had discovered his criticality to the inn’s commerce. It wouldn’t be long before he started looking elsewhere and Warburm would have to find someone new to train. That, or offer a strong enough incentive to keep him.

Sorial spent the festival day as he spent most days - greeting customers, caring for their mounts, and observing the goings-on around the inn. Since the stable was nearly full, there was little time for breaks or moments to himself. Mucking the stalls, feeding and watering the horses, and brushing the elegant breeds kept him busy. He missed being part of the celebration, however. It seemed that everyone in the city was having fun except him. His friend Rexall had been horrified upon learning that Sorial agreed to work. His admonishment highlighted what Sorial was missing: “Whores are giving it out for free! Trapped in that stable, you’ll never get any!”

The atmosphere around Vantok was, as expected, jubilant. Since being at its darkest during the early days of the previous Winter when unsavory rumors and religious unrest were at their height, there had been steady improvements. Crime was down and the citizens were less skittish. The weather had been favorable for Planting and the Temple had become zealous in pointing out answered prayers and apparent miracles. Yet there remained an undercurrent of unease. On the surface, things appeared to be as usual, but something wasn’t
right
. No one else noticed or, if they did, they brushed it aside. But Sorial felt it nearly every day. Customers, especially strangers, weren’t as open as they once had been. He watched everyone who entered the stable cautiously, always mindful of the attack that nearly ended his life. He wouldn’t be taken unawares again.

The inn’s reception of unusual visitors continued. The Wayfarer’s Comfort was a low-class establishment where laborers could grab a pint or a lass after finishing a hard day’s work and itinerant merchants could spend a night with a roof over their heads. Yet, over the past two seasons, Warburm had entertained priests, high class merchants, knights, and nobles. This was not the clientele Sorial had become used to serving during his previous years. Something was going on, but he didn’t know what.

He confided his confusion to Annie. Often, Warburm would seclude himself behind locked doors with his guests and occasional shouts of anger could be heard from within. But Annie didn’t know any more about the specifics than Sorial and even the nosiest and most gossipy of her co-workers were unsure. Whatever Warburm was up to, it was being kept secret. Sorial considered discussing this with his watchmen friends but he didn’t want to get Warburm in trouble. After all, he owed his life to the innkeeper. His physical wounds were healed but he hadn’t forgotten his debt.

Festivities ran late into the night, and Sorial was still hard at work an hour before sunup. Outside, the normally quiet pre-dawn streets of Vantok buzzed with the traffic of inebriated celebrators. It would take at least a day for things to get back to normal, especially with so many revelers needing to sleep off hangovers. Sorial had never been drunk but he had seen enough people so afflicted to realize it was among the most uncomfortable of human conditions.

“Good morn, Sorial,” came a voice from just outside the stable doorway. Standing there were Darrin and Brindig, the former smiling while his compatriot wore his customary scowl. Darrin continued, “We just wanted to check that things here are all right.”

“Shouldn’t they be?” asked Sorial.

“Hell of a day and night. Bad business at one of the other inns,” said Brindig. “That’s the problem with festivals. People take things too far. Stupid thing to do, giving everyone a day off to drink and whore.”

Sorial wasn’t surprised to learn Brindig didn’t agree with the concept of a citywide celebration. “What happened?”

“The Hoof and Foot burned to the ground. Three people died, including the innkeeper, and there was rumors of a gang of armed bandits seen round the stable just before it happened. It weren’t no accident,” said Darrin. “Considering what happened to you a while back, we wanted to make sure things here was okay. But everything on this street seems quiet enough.”

A chill crept up Sorial’s spine as he recalled that day. It wasn’t something he liked thinking about. The stable wasn’t the safe, comforting place it had been before the attack. “Will you two be around in case…?”

“‘Course.” Brindig sounded insulted. “But the city’s calmed down. People crawled into their beds to sleep it off. Watch is back to full strength now that the mandatory stop-work is over.”

“Don’t worry, Sorial. We won’t let nothing happen to you. The Hoof and Foot’s all the way ’cross the city. Even if the ruffians tried to make more mischief, it wouldn’t be this far away, and the whole Watch is looking for them. Just be careful like you always is.”

“Since that day, I don’t trust no one I don’t know.”

“Good.” Darrin was satisfied by the answer. “We’ll be around if’n you need us.”

The rest of the night and the next day passed uneventfully. Sorial heard occasional rumors about what happened at the Hoof and Foot. No one had been caught but no other inns had been targeted, leading some to believe the torching was related to a personal score. The innkeeper, it was said, had tossed out several unsavory types shortly before the fire.

Sorial awoke early on Marketday, but took longer than usual rising, savoring the sweetness of being able to lounge in the straw without having to rush down to replace Visnisk, who was working double shifts today and tomorrow to cover Sorial’s absence. When Visnisk protested the added hours, Warburm offered to relieve him of his duties permanently. “I ain’t thinking it’ll be too hard to replace someone who spends half the time sitting on his ass and the other half fucking some whore in an empty stall.” That put an end to Visnisk’s grumbling.

Digging deep beneath his bedding, Sorial groped until he encountered a cloth pouch. It contained his life’s savings - all the monies garnered from his share of the meager tips doled out by The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s customers. It was enough, he thought, to buy a trinket for his mother. He had never before given anyone a present and was excited by the idea. The coins meant little to him. They weren’t sufficient to buy his freedom from Warburm and, even if they had been, he wasn’t sure he was ready to face the world on his own. Where would he go, after all? Not back to the farm, where Lamanar’s baleful stare would follow him day and night. He could visit there but it wasn’t his home, nor would it ever again be.

Later that day, when Sorial entered Vantok’s bustling outdoor marketplace at the height of its activity, the assault on his senses was overwhelming. The array of goods being bought, sold, and bartered astonished him. The clamor ensured that one had to shout to be heard. The scents of horses, shit, and unwashed bodies mingled with the fragrances of spices and incense and the alluring aroma of cooked cubes of skewered meats that some vendors were hawking. There were more people crammed into the large square than Sorial could have imagined possible. He had passed through this place many times before, but never on Marketday or when there were more than a handful of stalls open for business.

In the market, distinctions of class were wiped away. Money was the equalizer and Sorial’s possession of a small pouch gave him more clout than a penniless duke. He clutched it tightly in his left hand, wary of any who might try to relieve him of his hard-earned treasure. As he approached stalls, sellers caught sight of the purse and screamed their pitches at him, shouting that he couldn’t pass up this or that opportunity and he wouldn’t find a better deal elsewhere. Sorial was naïve, but not so naïve as to believe a word they were yelling.

His eyes were drawn to the baubles offered by a busy vendor whose wares varied from cheap broaches to expensive rings. He spent a long time examining the merchandise, annoying other customers who coveted his prime spot next to the stall, but he wouldn’t be rushed in making his decision. Finally, he selected a silver bracelet encrusted with aquamarine gemstones.

The seller nodded vigorously at Sorial’s choice. “Very good. Very good.” He smiled and bobbed his head. Sorial didn’t miss the look of avarice that passed over his features. Perhaps all the thieves in the market didn’t operate by cutting purse strings. “Normally, I sell this for 25 brass studs but because you look like a nice boy and remind me of my son, I let you have it for a mere 18 studs.” His tongue flicked across his upper lip.

18 studs was more than Sorial had expected to pay for his gift, although there were enough coins in his pouch (barely) to meet the price. He thought it over briefly then, with a shrug, began counting the money. The vendor’s expression was a cross between disbelief and triumph. That’s when a high-pitched voice stopped him.

“Don’t you know anything? You’re not supposed to
pay
that. You have to haggle!” The tone was aggrieved, as if Sorial was committing an unpardonable sin. He turned to see who the affronted party was.

It was a girl, perhaps two years younger than him. By her clothing, impeccably tailored and made of fine material, Sorial could tell she came from a wealthy family. Her boots had lifts to keep the hem of her skirt from brushing the muddy ground. Something about her tickled his memory but he couldn't place her.

The girl giggled at his bemused reaction. Then he noticed her companion, who was as unforgettable as could be. Recognition dawned as he recalled their visit to The Wayfarer’s Comfort’s stable the previous Harvest, nearly a full year ago. The Lady Alicia had matured noticeably, mostly in good ways. Her features were more refined and her unbound golden hair was longer but the green eyes still flickered with a suppressed sense of mischief.

“You do know what haggling is, don’t you, stableboy?” she asked, her tone a blend of condescension and amusement.

He nodded dumbly. Of course he knew what haggling was; he just wasn’t sure how to do it, at least properly. Turning from Alicia, he looked back at the shopkeeper who was staring blackly at the girl.

“Sir,” began Sorial. “I believe that price is too high. Maybe if you lowered it…”

“Of course. I understand. Times are hard. You can’t blame a poor merchant for trying to get the full worth for such a beautiful piece. But you must know this bracelet belonged to my dear mother. (May the gods bless her departed soul.) It’s difficult for me to part with it. As your friend says, it’s traditional to argue over prices, but this is an unusual item. I couldn’t sell it for less than 17 studs.”

“17!” shouted Alicia, loud enough to be heard over the din. She elbowed her way next to Sorial. “17 for this shit! And I wager your mother (may the gods bless her departed soul) is resting at home not in a grave. He’ll give you nine, and not a stud more! Even that’s more than it’s worth.”

Sorial glanced at Alicia in surprise. She was waving her arms and stomping her tiny feet and her face was red with outrage.

The merchant appeared horrified. His mustache twitched and his ears wiggled. “Nine! My dear young miss, I couldn’t possibly part with this treasure for so little. I would be the laughingstock of the marketplace!”

“In that case, stableboy, I believe we should go elsewhere. I can guarantee another vendor will be able to give you better value for your studs than this usurer, who clearly drank too much during the festival and has yet to recover his wits.” She took his hand and began to pull him in another direction. Sorial didn’t know what to do. She was obviously comfortable in this element, but he wanted
that
bracelet for his mother.

“Wait! Wait!” called the vendor. “Don’t be hasty! I’m sure we can come to an arrangement!”