Mark Newton: Retribution

On a lighter note, of the four proposed consuls elect for the first year, one suggestion is your friend Senator Veron. I hope this amuses you as much as it does me.

Commissioner Tibus.

I conveyed our orders to Leana.

‘About time,’ Leana replied. ‘Was there any news from Detrata?’

‘Yes, as it happens. Tibus mentioned Senator Veron.’

Leana’s expression soured. ‘Has he drowned in a sea of his own debauchery?’

‘Not yet,’ I smiled, recalling my friend’s hedonistic lifestyle. ‘It turns out he’s a candidate for consul of Tryum this year.’

‘Spirits save us,’ Leana said, incredulous. ‘How does he do it? Can you imagine him in charge of a nation?’

‘In good times, perhaps, but not in the disarray we left it.’

A royal nation without a king, heading deliberately towards becoming a republic, with a warmongering senate in control who were ready to break free from the united continent — the Vispasian Royal Union — and relive the ‘good old days’ of a conquering Detratan Empire. No, that was not a good state in which to have seen Detrata. I could only hope that Veron would be a voice of reason.

We had been involved in creating the current upheaval and unrest, an act that was still playing on my conscience. We had acted in good faith and brought justice where needed — but this had been the unforeseen result. A political nightmare.

There was little we could do about it so it was best to concentrate on the job ahead.

We packed our few belongings, and I purchased a long wax coat — similar to Leana’s — from the village store. After settling our bill with the guest house, we set out towards Koton and a city that may — or may not — need our help.

We spent four days on the road, sleeping in basic hillside taverns. We ate freshly hunted meat by the dwindling flames of ancient hearths. Between the major cities of Detrata and Koton was a harsh landscape. People did not live here, they survived. What wasn’t forest was scrubland, populated by those hardy and determined enough to make the best of terrible conditions. Farmers had long been forced to create terraces to grow their crops and we could see them working in the fields from dusk till dawn. Goats, with their remarkable balance, were navigating the steep hillsides and fists of granite that pushed through the scrub. Boar clattered through the undergrowth of copses.

The human company out here was nothing like the relative conviviality of Bathylan. In taverns men and women stared silently into their drinks. When they did talk, they discussed things such as sickening horses and failing crops. The disparity between this and my birthplace of Tryum, a city of high culture, where politics and art were discussed as frequently as the weather, was noticeable. Here people did not have the luxury to discuss intellectual matters — but were mainly concerned with getting through each day alive. This was how communities had existed for thousands of years. It made Tryum look rather petty.

People regarded Leana with a predictable caution. No matter where we travelled in the less cosmopolitan regions of Vispasia, there would always be a second glance her way because of her dark-brown skin. Even I, who possessed some of the colours of the desert inherited from my Locconese mother, did not seem especially welcome judging by the glances. So we kept a low profile. We ate quietly, away from others, and contemplated the journey ahead. Our silence served to help us fit in with the stoic community.

Only on one night did I suffer a seizure. It had been mild — perhaps a few heartbeats long at the most. ‘No more than a severely disturbed dream,’ Leana related to me in the morning. Thankfully I still had a small supply of the tisane I had bought from an apothecary in Tryum, a concoction that was supposed to help with such things. If anywhere the wilds of Koton were perhaps the ideal place for me to suffer an episode — away from prying eyes, away from somewhere word could spread that I had been cursed by the gods.

If it were known that I suffered these fits my reputation would be tainted; even my compatriots within the Sun Chamber wouldn’t trust me. It was better that it remained a secret for as long as possible. Only Leana knew and, because of her different beliefs, she did not care about them. If only I could think the same way.

Eventually we neared the sprawling, hilltop city of Kuvash, the capital of Koton. Though there was a central settlement of large stone structures, out towards the fringes were sprawling tented areas.

To the east, dozens of horses were roaming freely on the grassy slopes and running across the plains — the whole herd flowing together like flocks of starlings in a late spring sky.

Closer to us herds of white cattle — in spectacular numbers — were being driven by young boys on horseback, whooping and hollering to keep their charges moving. Like Leana, they rode without a saddle and she looked at them approvingly then threw a mocking glance at my well-padded Detratan saddle.

The road took us through the tented settlements. Woodsmoke spiralled up from within the homes, only to be taken away by the wind. Men and women stood outside wearing more primitive clothing than I’d imagined. Rows of vegetables had been planted all around the area. Severed animal heads stood on poles as decorations. There was no order and it had a temporary feel to it, as if the smiling faces could pack up their homes and leave at any time. Nearby stood what I took to be a crude temple; outside the structure was positioned a straw ox or bull. A woman in black robes began to set fire to the straw, and a solemn congregation trudged in a circle around it.

There was no outer wall to Kuvash. It was common knowledge that no Kotonese city had protective walls around its limits. If the Kotonese had an empire, and Kuvash was at the centre, the lack of walls might have suggested that these people had no need to fear invaders, that their empire’s military might was unsurpassed.

No, Kuvash’s lack of walls was symptomatic of something else: it was a sign of a nomadic people attempting to adjust to urbanization. It had been two hundred years since the start of the Vispasian Royal Union, two centuries since the people of Koton had been allocated their nation. Even after all that time, there were still signs of a culture in the process of settling down, and the products of instability. Old ways died slowly.

The more solid buildings of Kuvash were comprised of low structures spread over a steeply sloped area of the landscape. There were a few buildings of note that we could see: temples, of course, as well as old Detratan-style law courts that had survived the days of the Detratan Empire and since fallen into disrepair. Most notable of all, in the distance, was an immense white wall that contained a large area. It might have been the royal grounds, though it looked far too big for that.

Sulma Tan would probably be found there. We headed in that direction.

Urine from leather tanneries gave off a potent tang, even at this distance. The reek then mixed with horse manure and woodsmoke, gaining in intensity as we moved into the city. Dirt tracks eventually transitioned to firm stone roads, which were not as smooth as some cities I’d been in, but by no means the worst. The further inward we travelled, the sturdier the structures became — stone buildings of a practical design, without much care for ornamentation. Here and there were more formal, decorative structures, but they had fallen into disrepair, as if the more feral elements of civilization had reclaimed them and used the stone elsewhere.

Eventually the place began to appear more like a typical city. Its streets became straighter and more sensible, unlike those in Detrata which often curved and twisted randomly. Washing was strung up between windows, and children ran up and down lanes playing games. There were many cats on the streets, too, clustering together in bewildering numbers — some with scraps of food in their mouths, others padding along the walls above and peering down on passers-by. Despite the dreary shades of buildings and clothing, there was the occasional spark of colour: a strip of blue cloth for decorating horses, or a red prayer flag. And of course everywhere was the banner of Koton, a red stag upon blue. No variation in theme or texture, simply this same bold flag, in an array of sizes, as if they had been imposed rather than arranged naturally.