Robert Hughes - The Prophet of Lamath

“But cats aren’t dangerous—” Rosha sheathed his sword and stalked swiftly out of the alley. His companion ran to catch up with him, and soon they were mounted and again on their way.

“I d-don’t like this city,” Rosha snorted. Bronwynn was quick to agree, city dweller though she was. Never had she seen so many cats or so much garbage, and she began to long for the marble columns of Chaomonous.

They rode aimlessly through the maze of streets, becoming steadily more confused and frustrated. Vainly, they sought a main thoroughfare that would lead them to the heart of Lamath. The few people they met on the streets stared at them. Not only were they initiates, a rare sight in the city, but they were mounted. The two riders felt extremely out of place.

“Where are we going?” Bronwynn growled at last. “D-do I look like I kn-know?” Rosha snapped back", but as she started to tell him that he certainly didn’t, an idea came to him. “The river! P-perhaps some man who works with b-boats could tell us where P-p-Pelmen has gone.”

“We haven’t been able to find a main street,” Bronwynn complained. “How are we going to find the river?” But she had to admit that it was a better idea than any she had suggested.

They had made so many wrong turns, it was time for their luck to change. Rosha chose a direction and led them straight to the river. He tried not to gloat, but Bronwynn couldn’t miss the intent of his pleased little grin. There, however, bad fortune caught up with them again; no one on the docks would admit to knowing anything about the Prophet.

“I know nothing,” one tough old seaman growled, his religious sensitivities offended by the color of their gowns.

“The only fool who bought the Prophet’s line is that saltbrain, Erri. He swallowed the hook and the float as well!”

“This—Erri. He’s—a sailor?” Bronwynn asked earnestly.

“Calls himself one,” the seaman groused.

“Wh-where can we f-f-find him?” Rosha asked, and the old sailor glared at him silently in response.

“Please, sir,” Bronwynn implored, “tell us, where to find this man! It’s very important!” The seaman grimaced in disgust, then waved his arm toward a mooring some distance downriver. “The King’s Dock, if you’re a-mind. But you’re fools.” Then he disappeared up the rigging of his boat. A few minutes later, Rosha and Bronwynn stood face to face with Erri the sailor.

“The Prophet? Of course I know the Prophet. I sailed with him, didn’t I?” Erri looked suspiciously at these two blue-robed figures. “Might you be spies, come to entrap me somehow for my friendship with that man?”

“Not spies, not at all!” Bronwynn cried brightly.

“We are his friends, his initiates! We’ve come from the country to find him!”

“You won’t find him here,” Erri grunted, and he started to climb back aboard his ship.

“Then tell us where we can find him,” Bronwynn pleaded.

“You really don’t know?” Erri asked. Then he grunted again. “Well, even if you were spies, I’d be giving nothing away.

I’ll tell you the truth. I really don’t know myself. But if you truly seek him, you might check around the King’s own dungeon. I’ve heard nothing of him these three days, and I’ll wager that’s where they hold him.” Bronwynn’s face had paled. “Why?” she asked. “Because he won a victory for us,” Erri snorted.

Then he cursed. “I don’t pretend to understand it.”

“C-can you d-direct us to this dungeon?” Rosha asked, and Erri studied the young man’s face for signs of duplicity.

“You don’t know that either?”

“We’re from the country,” Bronwynn explained, “we know nothing of this place!”

“Lucky, then,” Erri commented, and he looked around him. The sun was setting. There was nothing to do aboard ship.

Nothing in the bars but a brew and a brawl. And he had liked Pelmen. “I’ll take you.” He hopped up onto the deck of his vessel and disappeared below; but soon his head popped back out of the hatch and he jumped down to join them on the wharf. “Best not to ride these animals to the palace. The army will surely relieve you of them. I know a man who keeps horses—he has a few honest days each week. Perhaps tonight will be one of them.” The two travelers followed his advice and stabled the horses, promising the innkeeper a worthy, reward when they returned. Then they were off on foot to the palace of the King. They drew fewer stares now, but they still made an unusual picture—two initiates in torn and grimy sacred blue, with a foul-mouthed sailor between them.

At first Erri refused to speak with the warder, and he tried his best to keep the young couple from approaching the man. “It’s too dangerous! Better to wait at the dungeon gate and talk with the guards as they leave!” But the young pair had ridden too far and been without rest too long to have the patience that plan required. They were going to speak to the warder whether Erri came or not. Erri wouldn’t allow them to go in without him, so all three walked up to the gate.

The warder of the dungeon was no fool. He had heard the story of the Prophet’s confrontation with the Priestess, and knew there had been two initiates. These two wore the same colors that Pelmen did. The warder arrested them without another thought. “And since we have plenty of room below—” he began, but Erri didn’t let him finish. He shot out the door of the warder’s office, running as fast as his short little legs would carry him. He knew he could never outrun his pursuers, but he surely could outclimb them. Alas, there were no handholds on the apartment houses that lined the street, and no ropes hanging from the lamp posts. A few minutes later he was sharing a cell with Rosha and Bronwynn, just a few paces away from the cage that held Pelmen.

“I knew I should never have agreed to aid you!” Erri screamed. “I knew it!”

“Erri, is that you?” Pelmen called from down the corridor.

“Pelmen!” yelped Bronwynn, and she dashed back and forth through their cell, looking for some crack or window through which she could see him. She found none.

“Is Rosha with you?”

“He’s here.”

“Why didn’t you stay at the monastery?” Pelmen wanted to know.

Bronwynn related to him all that had happened since their parting, how Admon Faye had killed the Elder, and how Rosha had killed Admon Faye.

“He isn’t d-dead,” Rosha reminded her, wishing mightily that the girl’s words were true.

“What about the book?” Pelmen called doubtfully. The book! Bronwynn had left it in the bag on Minaliss’ saddle! “I—I hope your innkeeper friend is as honest as you say,” she said to Erri, who was sitting angrily in a corner of the cell,

“because one of those horses carries a book that cannot be replaced.”

“What? This old thing?” Erri pulled the book from where he’d stuffed it in the waistband of his pants, and Bronwynn danced joyfully across the straw of the dungeon floor to whisk it out of his hands. “I borrowed it,” Erri explained defensively. “I like to read sometimes when my mates are off drinking. I was going to return it anyway, because it’s no good. It doesn’t have proper writing!”

“Pelmen, it’s here!” Bronwynn yelled through the door, and Pelmen relaxed his grip on the bars of his cage and settled back onto the floor.

“Good,” he called. “Then we have something to do while we wait to—then we have something to do. We can read the book.”

“Well, read it to yourselves!” an angry voice called from another cell. “We’re trying to get some sleep here!” It was one of Pezi’s cousins. Though Pezi had come to a position of influence with the High Priest, he had refused to argue for the release of his family members. One could hardly blame this cousin for his sour disposition.