Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

The streets flew by, the buildings changing in nature from the stout stone buildings of the market quarter, all signed and well kept, to the less affluent districts that would never be as successful as those on the high ground and main streets. Here the buildings were predominantly wood, some little more than daub-and-cane.

Horseface spoke, dragging me from my whimsy, “There was another kidnapping last night.”

I paled.

Heifer asked, “Where?”

Horseface indicated a passing alley. “This district, another boy stolen from his bed.”

Looking down the shadowed lane, a place lined with litter, occasional stalls, and a steady flow of residents, it seemed so unlikely. I asked, “Another Flet?”

“Of course,” she said with exasperation.

My father had said that the crowded slums, the most poorly governed districts of the city, were simply the logical place for such diabolical crimes. They were also home to the bulk of the Flet population, not just in Newbank, but also to a lesser degree in the low-lying districts on the Cassaro’s other side. It was just a matter of circumstance. Regardless, we all knew it would take the theft of a Heletian child before the city’s authorities took action.

In a fading voice, Heifer said, “My nephew disappeared a week ago.”

Had he been the redheaded boy?

Horseface and I didn’t know what to say. Her words left me numb, but nonetheless I found myself reaching across to pat her knee. “The Guild’s looking to help, my father’s talked to Heinz Kurgar, its head.”

Heifer nodded as she fought to hold onto her composure.

Horseface thankfully changed the subject, putting on a mischievous grin, “Look, we’re in the port!”

She was right, and we were all glad of it.

We passed along the edge of the district, one side of the road spreading as a seemingly endless row of warehouses, while the other lay thick with taverns, hostels, and brothels. We were supposed to be ignorant of the latter so we tried not to stare, but still took our time to look them over.

The amount of attention we gained from the stevedores, sailors, and other big men who worked the port thrilled us. From the small crowds outside taverns, to men walking the streets. None of them were shy or polite, and few of them settled for just a smile or a wink. They were free with suggestions, both in voice and action, and bold enough to see us blush while they cheered.

In front of a bar, to the roar of a crowd, one burly but drunk Flet stevedore pulled down his britches to let his proud manhood out.

I should have been mortified, instead I could barely contain myself.

I’d had far too much lotus!

We left that seedy place, heading up a rise to the northern district of the city. The quarter was built upon a small hillock that rose from the valley-side to loom over the port, it holding the homes of Ossard’s elite. I looked upon the ornate facades of the exclusive homes we began to pass, many with manicured gardens, walls, and even guards. With few exceptions, the district held an exclusively Heletian population.

Fate would allow a few maidens of Flet-blood to be married to the district’s eligible sons, but less than a handful every year. My plain looks could jeopardise my greatest hope. For a moment I considered my travelling companions; if I doubted my chances, what hope could they have?

For all of us, I slipped into nervous misery.

We passed by Ossard’s second cathedral, Saint Baimio’s, its two spires dominating the skyline of the quarter, and from the hilltop the city below. As with all the spiritual places within Ossard, it lay as part of the Church of Baimiopia, the only legal faith in the lands of the Heletian League. The stone building, vaulting and carved, stood exclusively for the wealthy locals, stopping them from having to mix with the commoners in Ossard’s first cathedral and lesser churches.

While the city stood united in faith, it knelt divided in prayer.

Our coaches finally turned for the cliffs at the west end of the district. My heart fluttered, the sight of gulls and the scent of the sea telling me that we were nearly there.

In moments, I’d be helped out of the coach and into the glory of Rosa Sorrenta’s.

I prayed, a silent thing offered up to Schoperde, the Flet god of love and life. “May today find me a caring and wealthy husband, one who can uplift my family and me.” Our people maintained no public temples to her or our other gods, but we kept our secret beliefs alive. The Heletians’ faith didn’t ring true to us, although we did feign piety.

The coaches rounded a bend and came into a street of brightly painted buildings, many fronted by window boxes full of well-cared-for blooms. There were wine bars, high-class taverns, theatres, and finally, up ahead, Rosa Sorrenta’s. Upon sighting it a tingle of excitement started in my belly and grew.

Our coaches slowed to a stop, waiting for one parked ahead at Rosa Sorrenta’s doors. I tried not to stare, but its dismounting passengers were young gentlemen, Heletians at that, and all tall, dark, and handsome.

I noticed the blue, red, and black crest of the Liberigo family, the rulers of Ossard, on the opened coach door. The Lord’s youngest son then stepped out from the coach to the street. His appearance left me stunned and anxious.

Pedro Liberigo was tall and solid with an olive complexion of near perfect skin, well-tailored clothes hugged him tightly, showing off a good frame covered in muscles’ meat. He turned to look at our waiting coaches, his sculpted face thoughtful and finished with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He exuded confidence, just like the man of my lotus-fuelled dreams. For a moment his mouth moved with the beginnings of a welcoming smile.

He then looked away to break the spell.

Horseface and Heifer gasped, one of them whispering, “He looked at us, did you see!”

Such hopeful words…

Then, as we watched, he glanced back and gazed directly at me.

My fellow mints let out another round of gasps.

In a heartbeat the moment was over. He and his friends had gone inside and their coach was leaving. It left me breathless, but also meant we were free to go forward: It was our turn to join the parade.

Rosa Sorrenta’s stood three floors high with its exterior covered in a subtle pink render, something akin to that of sun-bleached oleander blooms. Planters full of flowering geraniums nestled beneath window frames finished in gold leaf, it all giving a taste of the reputed beauty within.

For my own part, I wanted to see the glory that had given the establishment its name, its rose garden – the cliff-side courtyard was said to be amongst Ossard’s delights. But now, most of all, I wanted to catch another glimpse of Pedro Liberigo.

Had he really been looking at me?

Two doormen came forward to help us down from our coach. They wore cobalt blue uniforms, white leggings with matching caps, and reached up with white-gloved hands to steady our descent upon a set of portable steps. Once down, I looked about as I waited to be joined by Heifer and Horseface, and when reunited, we all shared a moment of innocent joy.

My cousin met us, leading the rest of our party.

Once everyone stood ready, he nodded to the doormen. Impassively, and in perfect unison, they swung open the gold leafed double doors.

The doors opened into a wide hall to reveal a beautifully chequered pink and white marble floor, from which the walls rose covered in burgundy suede, and highlighted in gold. Alongside both sidewalls climbed staircases leading to private dining rooms.

A uniformed host awaited us. Without speaking, our host dipped his eyes and gave a welcoming bow, then rose and turned to lead us through the hall and towards the open doors of a dim lounge. The room spread full of comfortable seats, all of them accompanied by small side tables lit by lamps capped with amber-tinted glass. We passed through the room towards another set of double doors manned by two more doormen.