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Brann shrugged. ‘They can be what they like. You make a page’s role easy, whatever anyone is like: keep my mouth shut, do what I’m told and look respectful.’
The Captain nodded seriously as the slightest of jolts in the ship’s motion told them that Cannick had manoeuvred it into its berth with his familiar skill. ‘I pronounce your lessons in pagery to be complete.’ He swept the papers into a trunk and fixed his clothes, buckling on a finely tooled sword. ‘Right, let us introduce ourselves to Sagia.’
From the moment they stepped from the gangplank, Brann felt the alien nature of a culture far removed from anything he had known. Disorientated, as if he had entered a different world, he scarcely noticed Konall, Hakon and two imposing warriors joining them and Einarr motioning to Grakk to approach as Cannick started to organise the unloading of the cargo. He sucked in a deep breath to try to gather his thoughts and drag his attention back to his surroundings.
Einarr placed a hand on Grakk’s shoulder. ‘I know I owe you a debt already, for the part you played in saving my nephew if for nothing else, and I know you have earned as much time in the taverns as the rest of the crew, but as a native of a part of this empire you are the closest thing we have to expert local knowledge. I would value your presence if you would accompany us.’
Grakk bowed his head, the sun gleaming on the intricate tattoos covering his smooth scalp. ‘It is in the nature of my people to gather knowledge and share it with those deemed worthy. Besides, I do not partake of intoxicating substances by choice, so it will be a diversion of interest. It may also prove useful in providing an extra member of your party who is aware of your young page’s propensity for inadvertently finding himself in trouble.’
Einarr clapped him on the shoulder in acknowledgement and appreciation. ‘Your last point is probably the most relevant.’
An official in a plain white robe was waiting for them where the pier met the dockside, a flat satchel hanging at his hip and a broad hat on his head. As they drew closer, Brann was able to see the way a broad length of cloth had been wound, more draped, around his body and over his shoulders to leave his arms free and to ensure that his body, while covered from head to foot, was loosely clad. Already his own clothing was feeling heavy and stifling and the very air, now bereft of the breeze of open water, was hot and hard to draw in, like the first gasping breath when he had opened his mother’s bread oven and been hit by the blast. The unexpected memory of home stabbed through him and he stumbled.
Konall glanced at him in enquiry and Brann pointed to the ground. ‘Slipped on a loose stone.’ His voice was laboured as he felt the effort of breathing.
‘No surprise there.’ The tall boy appeared as unperturbed as ever, his manner oblivious to the heat despite the hair that was plastered to his face by the sweat that was creeping from every pore.
‘Do you not feel the heat?’ Brann was incredulous. ‘Your land is even colder than mine.’
Konall looked at him in bemusement. ‘Even our coldest areas have warm days. I have actually seen the sun before, you know. It is the same sun. This is just hotter, for longer. We cannot change it. You deal with it or place yourself at a disadvantage, like all in life.’
‘I just don’t know how anyone could function in this,’ Brann grumbled. ‘It’s all right for you, your head is at a higher altitude where it’s obviously cooler. Every movement is an effort down here.’
Konall snorted. ‘Grow up.’
‘I’d love to.’
‘I didn’t mean physically.’
They were interrupted by Einarr. ‘You will get used to it in a day or so, unlikely as your head will be telling you that it could be. But enough of the weather chatter.’ He turned, halting the group out of earshot of the waiting man. ‘Grakk, the welcoming figure on the dock. What can you tell me?’
‘We are honoured guests,’ the tribesman said, his soft tone as even and measured as ever. ‘He is a slave, hence the chain around his neck, though it is a more slender version and more golden than the normal heavy iron chains of the general slave population. Here, power is everything; the most precious commodity is knowledge and the most powerful men are those who use their knowledge with the greatest skill. Their obsession is records. Everything is recorded, all is preserved in paper and ink, and the guardians of this, those who gather, record, store, guard and, in some cases, advise on the records are the Scribes, the slaves prized above all others. They are recognised by their satchels, as much a symbol of their office as a practicality, carrying paper, ink and quill, for a Scribe must always be ready to record what must be recorded.’
Konall frowned. ‘They place all this trust in a slave? Not in the loyalty of a free man?’
‘It is safer in the hands of a slave, young lord. Where you live, the loyalty of a free man, once given, is unquestioned and any loss of trust in that is considered worse than death. Here, every free man lives in competition with every other. Even the purchase of a loaf is a contest to be won. Accordingly, words are to be used, twisted, broken, all in the strategy of outmanoeuvring and winning. Trust is naive and dull-witted. Slaves, however, are ruled by total obedience and cannot leave to serve another unless their master wills it, and so their words are as letters carved in stone and their ambition serves only to enhance their owner’s standing or success.’
Konall was still unhappy. ‘Regardless, they send a slave to meet the son of a Warlord of Halveka. The insult is clear.’
Grakk shook his head. ‘That is what they do, young lord. Would you own a ship but travel here by swimming? They will greet Lord Einarr in the appropriate setting. The honour here is clear: a Scribe is the ultimate level of slave – in fact many consider themselves superior to any free men below the level of the nobility and certainly they have more influence in many ways. Note the second golden chain, the one carrying his satchel: it denotes that he has reached the highest tier of his class. What is more, the royal seal burnt into the leather of the satchel itself tells us that, in all probability, he is owned by a prince, and has his ear.’
Einarr had heard enough. ‘Thank you, Grakk. Let us meet this influential slave.’
The tall Scribe swept his hat to his chest and greeted them with a long inclination of his head that revealed intricate tattoos on his shiny pate of a style similar to Grakk’s and which drew the eye of everyone present. As he raised his head, his eyes fixed on Grakk, but his gaze, emotionless almost to the extent of haughtiness, smoothly settled on Einarr. His hat still pressed to his chest, he spoke in a voice as lacking in expression as his face.
‘Lord Einarr of Yngvarrsharn, may I express the welcome of my master, of his brothers in rule and of the great city of Sagia that sits at the heart of ul-Taratac, the greatest empire the civilised world has witnessed or ever will. If it is your pleasure, I will direct you to your transport to the palace, which awaits just a few paces from this dock.’
‘Thank you,’ Einarr said. ‘And your name is?’
‘I am merely a conduit for my master’s words. My name is not important.’
‘It is to me. Hence my question.’ The lord’s voice was calm, but still managed to exude menace.
‘Of course, noble sir. My master calls me Scribe.’
Konall’s face went white and he stepped towards the slave, whose face had not flickered into a single expression all the while. Without taking his eyes from the man, Einarr shot out his arm and halted his cousin with a hand on his chest. His voice was soft, almost amiable. ‘That is a most interesting fact about your master. But I did not ask what he chooses to call you. I asked your name. And, as a slave being asked a question by a free man, you are obliged to answer.’
Though his face remained frozen, a flush started to creep into the Scribe’s cheeks. He turned his head slowly to look at Grakk. ‘You could ask your own slave. He would be able to furnish the answer.’
Brann glanced at Grakk but the wiry tribesman was impassive.
‘I have no slaves. He is a free man.’ Before he could control himself, the Scribe’s eyes widened in surprise before settling quickly back to his frozen mask. Einarr continued, his voice as reasonable as if he were discussing the sailing conditions for a pleasure cruise. ‘Unlike you. And I asked you. Could I make it clearer, or do I have to interrupt my journey to the palace with a visit to the Guild of Slavers to enquire about the etiquette of a conversation between a free man and a slave? And the consequences of breaching the etiquette? I am curious as to your name. The one your mother bestowed upon you.’
The man hesitated a long moment, his head bowed and his jaw clenching and moving as he fought to maintain control. He lifted his eyes to meet Einarr’s once more, and said coldly, ‘Narut.’
Einarr smiled. ‘Thank you, Narut. Now let us go find this transport of yours.’
He strode past the Scribe and the others followed. As Hakon passed, he clapped the Scribe heartily on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Narut. I knew you could do it. Now we can all be friends.’ Beaming, he patted the man’s shoulder again with enthusiasm. ‘I’m proud of you.’
By the time the startled Scribe had regained his composure, the group was waiting further up the dock. Einarr cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. Brann stifled a giggle. ‘Narut?’ Einarr’s tone was concerned.
‘Of course, noble sir.’ The man hurried to lead them to a wide boulevard leading directly away from the dockside where two wheel-less carriages sat, with large slaves waiting unmoving beside them.
Grakk moved beside Brann. ‘Try not to look so confused, young fellow. They will interpret it as weakness. These carriages have people for wheels. We enter, they lift and carry, they set down, we alight. It is how people of wealth and rank travel about this city.’
Brann frowned. ‘Why don’t they just walk? Can’t they?’
‘When people choose not to do something that they could do and most people must do, some interpret that as power.’
‘I interpret it as stupidity. I’d rather walk.’
‘You may be right, but there are many things done by people in all societies to impress each other that could be interpreted as such. On this occasion, however, walking when transport has been provided by the highest of the high would be deemed an insult. And also, to speak on equal terms with the rulers, Lord Einarr must act as they would expect a noble to act.’
Konall frowned. ‘Insult or not, should we not be making all haste to reach the Emperor with our news? It is the reason we have travelled here, cousin, and to be carried by ambling slaves would not befit the urgency of our mission.’
Einarr wiped his sleeve across his glistening brow and laid a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘We are seeking audience with the most powerful man alive, and I have seen kings kick their heels for a week or more while they await that privilege. The Emperor does not know the importance of our message, or we would not need to bring it. To be admitted to his court the day we arrive may, I can only guess, stem from his curiosity or may just be our good fortune but, whatever the reason, we must fret not at the pace of our final approach but be thankful for the day it is taking place.’ He smiled. ‘And, believe me, these slaves do not amble.’
He stopped his party. ‘I’ll take my cousin and my page with me.’ He turned to the Scribe. ‘Narut, will you be travelling with us?’
He coloured at the use of his name in front of the carriage bearers, but his tone was as haughty as ever. ‘I shall lead the way afoot. A mere slave does not raise his station above that of other slaves.’
Hakon snorted. ‘If he actually believes that, I’m a mermaid.’
‘Good,’ said Einarr. ‘That leaves room for my local expert.’ He looked over to Hakon and the two guards. ‘You three can spread yourselves about the second one, but given the size of you, it’s probably for the best.’
They approached what was effectively a wooden box – albeit an ornately crafted wooden box – filled with cushions and with long handles protruding fore and aft to enable it to be lifted. A slender pole at each corner supported a canopy that afforded them protection from the sun’s glare if not from its heat, and a slave moved to open a door in the side. Einarr waved him away with a smile and instead stepped over the low side and seated himself facing forward. Konall took his place beside him, leaving the opposite space for the other two. The others were already lounging in the other carriage, grinning like small boys. Brann could understand Einarr’s choice in the two warriors he had brought: Magnus, wiry and quick, and tall Torstein were as skilled with their weapons as any of the other Northmen, but both were also considered enough of thought to carry themselves appropriately in any company. And, no mean accomplishment, they were almost as relentless in their good cheer as Hakon, so while the news they bore was grim, the mood in the party was lifted. Typical of his people, Einarr was practical in his outlook, and it achieved nothing to look constantly at the world through eyes fogged by the gloom of foreboding.
At a nod from the Scribe, the slaves hoisted them aloft, resting the handles on their broad shoulders. Smooth as the action was, Brann grabbed at the side, clearly uncomfortable and disconcerted.
Konall almost smiled. ‘Try not to fall out. It would probably cost a slave his life.’
Brann wasn’t amused. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you to push me, just for the entertainment.’
The tall boy pushed his sweat-soaked hair away from his brow as the slaves set off at a fast trot. ‘Talking of entertainment, cousin, I couldn’t help but notice you enjoying yourself baiting that Scribe.’
His elbow resting on the broad wooden rail at the side of the carriage, Einarr shrugged slightly. ‘I hate pompous arseholes. He is just the first of many we will meet. Unfortunately, I am denied by diplomatic necessity the chance to bait the rest of them, so I take the chance when I can.’
‘Some would call that bullying, cousin.’
‘Given his attitude, others would call it a moral obligation.’
Konall looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose he does repress his emotions, somewhat. To a ridiculous extent, in fact.’
Grakk coughed and Einarr looked across just in time to stop Brann’s words with a stare. ‘Anyway, what is more important is what Grakk can tell us.’
Grakk grew serious. ‘You will see that the buildings here are several stories high and closely built, from the necessity of the area. The city started as a small port but the large and deep natural harbour attracted trade enough for it to grow quickly. With residential accommodation surrounding the original dock buildings and roadways wide to facilitate large amounts of traffic from warehouse to docks and docks to the great selling halls, there was little room to expand further inland, so once they had spread right across the harbour edge they built upwards instead. As we progress, we will enter more and more affluent areas, where the houses become bigger and with more space around them, and subsequently where the houses become villas and the space around becomes space within, for they are built to enclose central areas where nature is brought into the stone of the city.
‘This is not a city planned for defence, such as in your land, Lord, nor is it,’ he nodded at Brann, ‘a random arrangement that has grown according to opportunity and fancy, as often is the case where you were born. This is a city planned by wealth, prosperity, trade and social standing. Everything here is meticulous: the colour of the buildings to reflect the heat of the sun, the width of each road for its purpose, the area where each class lives according to purpose and logical placement for that purpose. For example, bakers near to the grain-storage houses, tanners near the beast pens and leatherworkers near to them. They love thinking everything out, hence the prominence of the Scribes. Even their army is created and operated with pre-planned purpose in every aspect: every free man must learn a trade from their fifteenth winter to their twentieth, and then serve the following five years as soldiers. Those proving to have most military value are retained as leaders and the rest return to their trade unless they choose to remain as soldiers. Those leaders help to train those who come after. They are drilled to work as one, to fight in formation, to fight identically, with identical weapons, to operate on the battlefield according to commands and not individual thought.’
Konall was confused. ‘Then they have no great warriors? No feats of valour and legend?’
Grakk smiled, ‘They do not, young lord, although they do have the tournament field where young nobles can prove their skill. No, they do not have great warriors. But they do have an empire.’
Einarr nodded, thoughtfully. ‘That’s interesting, Grakk, many thanks. But now I must think on this, if you don’t mind.’
Grakk looked at him. ‘It is the prerogative of a lord that my minding is immaterial.’
Einarr’s eyes narrowed in amusement. ‘But it is good sense for a lord to mind whether you mind or not, if I would like to increase my chances of the fullest of information in the future.’
‘Your logic is sound,’ Grakk acknowledged. ‘And I do not mind.’
Einarr nodded and they rode in silence, and Brann’s eyes drank in a world that could never have been successfully described to him had he not beheld it at first hand. Strange as the trade area around the docks had seemed, still the mix of nationalities bustling around the streets had lent it a recognisable feel and diluted the air of unreality. Here, though, in the heart of pure Sagia, everything was of this land and nothing of his own. Overwhelmed by the unfamiliar, he seemed to be floating through a dream.
Einarr’s voice cut so suddenly that he jumped, something that nearly amused Konall.
‘Pardon me, Grakk, but you covered but one aspect of the two that I had in mind.’
‘Of course, lord. You would know of the rulers. The court and the nobility. They are…’
The lord held up a hand. ‘Thank you, but no. I have knowledge of their court workings more than enough from the papers and documents I had to endure on the voyage. I would know of your friend Narut. You and he would seem acquainted beyond just a similar penchant for scalp decoration.’
There was a long silence, which served not only to make real the tension that Einarr’s words had created but also to let Brann realise that he had become accustomed to the awkward sensation of being carried shoulder-height in a box.
With hard eyes, Grakk said, ‘I have those few who I would consider friends but he is not, nor ever has been, counted among them.’
‘But you know him.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Grakk nodded. ‘I do.’
‘And your time with him is not remembered fondly.’
‘There was wrongdoing.’
‘By you or by him?’
Grakk’s piercing eyes gazed at the passing buildings, but appeared to see scenes distant in location and time. ‘By both. But though he has position, he is a slave and I now am not. So I cannot bear animosity towards one whose life has led him to greater suffering than mine has.’
‘That’s very noble of you, but that is what fate decreed for him and I am less interested in prying into your personal differences and more in the nature of the man. If he has the ear of a member of the royal family, I would know what he is like and if he can be trusted.’
Grakk’s head snapped to look right into the eyes of Einarr. ‘Lord, if there is one thing you remember always when you are in this city, it is that few you will meet can be trusted. I can only speak of the man I knew many years ago, but then he was arrogant, unfeeling and remorseless, and just as punctilious as a Sagian. He may have changed his nature, but I can imagine nothing in the Sagian way of life that would not encourage those traits rather than mollify them, which has in all likelihood been behind his rise to his current position. Be that as it may, his lack of emotion would ensure that he did nothing from a position of spite, anger or vengeance. Even when he did wrong, he always believed he was doing what was right. He is a man of obsessive duty, and probably more at home here than in the place of his birth, despite his slavery.’
A sound of disdain came from Einarr. ‘Arrogant, unfeeling, remorseless and punctilious? He has indeed found his spiritual home.’
Konall looked at him appraisingly. ‘You don’t much like these people, do you?’
Einarr sighed. ‘The ordinary people are fine, much like anywhere you will go. But my experience of anyone in authority here has not been good. I’m sure there will be exceptions, but I have not found them any time I have visited. And the higher the rank, the worse it tends to get.’
Brann groaned. ‘And we are about to meet the highest rank there is.’
‘It may be imminent.’ Konall pointed over Brann’s shoulder, and he turned to see a gateway taller and broader than he could have imagined possible, leaving the two pairs of stock-still guards looking as large as the toy warriors his grandfather had whittled for him what seemed like a lifetime ago. Intricate geometric shapes were carved with consummate care and skill into the stone that framed the opening, and just craning his head to squint at the lintel twice as high above them as the top of the Blue Dragon’s mast made Brann’s head swim.
‘Imminent may be a premature expression, young lord,’ said Grakk. ‘The castle, and the palace within, are what you might term extensive.’
Brann soon learnt how far the definition of the word ‘extensive’ could stretch. The massive wooden doors of the gate – bound for strength in metal unknown, for they were clad in more sheet gold than several Blue Dragons could carry – lay open, with the grim eyes and naked blades of the four guards enough to discourage entry by any but those already permitted. A tunnel, arched even higher than the gateway, stretched twice the length of their ship, testifying to the thickness of the walls. It is a mighty structure indeed, Brann mused, that you measure in terms of a ship. If the city had been built for trade, the citadel had quite obviously been built for war.
Grakk leant over to him. ‘And this is just the beginning, young Brann.’
It was. They passed through four curtain walls in all, each one higher than the last. Einarr was appreciative. ‘You would lose an entire army before you came face to face with a defender,’ he murmured.
Opulence and pleasure were everywhere, too, however. Between each pair of walls, ornate gardens were a picture of nature with shrubbery, winding streams and carefully arranged rocks. The noise and bustle of the city streets soon seemed distant as the occasional figure could be glimpsed strolling or resting in the calm.
A foot nudged Brann’s knee. ‘Don’t be misled by the look of it, mill boy,’ Konall said. ‘There is not a bush above knee height and the walls are high. This is a killing zone as much as the streets of our towns.’
Brann’s eyes narrowed as he looked around with new perspective. ‘Of course, there is no cover. And what bushes there are would impede movement, as would the streams. In a climate as dry as this, the shrubbery would also burn easily, I would think.’ He looked up. ‘And the battlements are on the inside of the walls as well as the outer side, so defenders on both walls are protected from below as they send down arrows, spears and anything else on the attackers from behind as well as in front. And,’ he finished triumphantly, ‘each inner wall is higher than the outer, so if a wall is taken, the height renders those on the outer one vulnerable to those on the inner one.’ He beamed proudly.
Einarr turned a hard stare at him. ‘I’m glad to see you are thinking again at last, rather than being lost in wonder. We may be here on a friendly visit, but never relax your guard.’
Made surly by his deflated ego, Brann stared to the side. ‘It seems we cannot relax our guard anywhere these days,’ he grumbled.
‘Correct.’ Einarr’s tone was hard. ‘Be made wary by the unfamiliar, not distracted.’
The instruction was hard to follow, though. As they passed through the fourth wall, which had already dumbfounded the senses with a height and thickness that surpassed the unimaginable dimensions of the three that had preceded it, the vista opened to reveal row upon row of villas that rivalled those of the most affluent area they had seen before entering the citadel. Beyond them, a massive keep rose like the bluffs of a great cliff, shining as white as the curtain walls, the houses and every other vertical surface they had passed.
Despite Einarr’s warning still hanging in the air, the words were out of Brann before he knew they were coming. ‘It’s like a whole town within a city,’ he gasped.
Einarr sighed, and Grakk nudged Brann in amusement. ‘These buildings furthest from the keep are the servants’ quarters, while the more affluent properties belong to nobles of the highest order who are permitted to have a second home close to the centre of power.’ He seemed to particularly enjoy the boy’s desperate attempts not to react.
The Scribe led them to a wide and intricately decorated wooden ramp that rose at a shallow gradient and doubled back on itself over and over until it reached a yawning doorway around two-thirds of the way up the front of the keep. A few levels above the door, the wall facing them dropped back to form a massive terrace the full width of the building.
