Trouble in Mil Nahara

Up here, the air was icy, and the winds tugged at every loose piece of fabric they could find. Hamûjil crouched behind Jarin and she in turn nestled into Wan’s mane. The dragon rolled like a ship on a surging sea. To ward against the rising nausea, Hamûjil kept his eyes on the ground. A hundred fathoms or more below his feet lay his country. They were roughly following the course of the Shore Road, which ran for ninety leagues in a north-easterly direction to the port city of Mil Nahara, where it bent and became the North Road, going on and on through the land of Kûz and onwards to the woodlands of the Elves and thence to the Dwarf Kingdoms in the northern mountains that were forever capped with snow. But here they were still in the South of Kûz, flying over fields, orchards and vineyards. Ahead of them, they could just about make out a darker horizon where the furthest reaches of the foothills of the Oracarni stretched in gentle slopes into the Sea of Calma, forming four large peninsulas. In a long narrow bay between the two innermost peninsulas lay Mil Nahara on the mouth of the Nahara River. But they were still many hours away from its tall houses and busy quays.

Hamûjil was not keen on dragon rides, useful though they had been to him at times. A dragon could easily travel at twice the speed of a galloping horse and could fly for many hours without rest. Furthermore, the dragons returned to their own realm at the end of the journey, requiring neither grooms nor stabling. In fact, they were never thought of as steeds, but as generous spirits who not so much served but aided the Kûzeen. They came to the call of the lungi, who trained many years in the House of the Power of Air, and they bore the lungi willingly as gentle weights not burdened by darkness of the soul. Other riders they suffered at times at their own discretion, and they cared not for wealth or rank but only for the heart’s purity. Not even the Archseraph could command them, and Hamûjil was grateful to have found favour with Wan. Still, unless time was pressing, he preferred to travel on land.

That time was pressing now seemed clear to him, though he would have struggled to say why. The stone in the box appeared unreasonably heavy even to him, and the dragon’s words had unsettled him further. Perhaps Alatar would laugh, but the Kûzeen were unused to magic and inclined to fear it. Hamûjil could well believe that the forest people had been happy to part with the stone, and yet it was not a thing one could simply throw away. He didn’t want it in Levare, but he wanted to know where it was, and with whom.

As the afternoon drew on, they reached the region where the open lands narrowed and the forests of Wood came closer to the inland sea. Slope upon slope they rose towards the distant peaks of Hill where Olan was Warden. Ahead of them now lay the ward of Shore with its many towns and villages along the big sweeping curve of the Bay of Ajani. Weaving and basketwork were the main crafts here. They had been in the air for nearly five hours and Hamûjil felt the weariness in his limbs. He gritted his teeth, for he didn’t want Jarin to think of him as pampered and weak. They were both of an age, at the tail end of youth, and if she could endure it then so could he.

There had been very little talk between them because the wind tore the words straight from their mouths, but now Wan called out loud.

“Are you tired, Archseraph? We’ll be a good two hours yet. Can you bear it?”

“I can bear it. But I shall cherish my rest tonight.”

“A shame,” cried Jarin. “I was hoping to take you round the harbour taverns. Drinking with the Archseraph would be something to tell my grandchildren.”

“I am sure you have no shortage of stories to tell as it is. But we can walk along the quays for a while, if you wish.”

“I’ll hold you to it!”

It was past sundown when they finally stood by the harbour walls of Mil Nahara and watched the last gleams of orange draining out of the western sky. The stars emerged and threw their light on the bobbing waves. Many ships were anchored here, lately unloaded, or lying low in the waters with their holds full of glowstone, ceramics and other Kûzar merchandise. These they took across the Sea of Calma and returned from their neighbours with goods the Kûzeen did not produce themselves: grain from Krandi, mostly, and iron from the dwarf port of Longhaven.

Mil Nahara sat on both sides of the bay, with only a single bridge crossing the Nahara River where it flowed out of its gorge. Elsewhere, boats were ferrying people across the bay. The city was hemmed in between the shore and the cliffs, and so the people had built up rather than out. The grey houses stood four, five, even six storeys high, and they were roofed with glazed tiles in many hues of green and blue. The streets were not painted like in Levare, but edged with solid glowstone, and a glimmer lay over the whole town from the dust and chips of all the glowstone that had passed through it over the centuries.

There was a particularly fine house on the north side of the bridge, set back a little from the road to allow for a space of grass and flowering bushes, a rarity in Mil Nahara. This house belonged to Namal and Tirian, wealthy silk merchants and parents of the Seraphine, and here Hamûjil and Jarin were to stay the night. They would take supper with his in-laws at the accustomed hour, but first Hamûjil fulfilled his promise to Jarin to walk with her on the quays.

As they approached one of the larger ships, they overheard two men talking by the gangway. Other men were busy carrying sacks from the hold to the wharf.

“How can this be all? We sent the same amount as always.”

“Would you believe it, they paid me in gold for the rest!”

“What use is that to us? We can’t eat it!” replied the first speaker. He was a chubby fellow with a magnificent bun of glossy black hair. “And anyway, how can the Krâ possibly pay in gold? Who gave them gold?”

“Dwarves, perhaps?”

“Dwarves pay in silver or iron, you know that.”

Seized by a sudden apprehension, Hamûjil stepped forward. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said. “If it pleases you, tell me what has befallen.”

“I forgive you,” replied the chubby man, “but I am not in the habit of telling my business to strangers.”

“He is the Archseraph!” said Jarin. Hamûjil held out his hand, displaying the signet ring with the royal seal. The men inclined their heads.

“I am the captain of this ship,” said the second man. “It belongs to my friend Hijal here, whose grain mill supplies the bakeries in Mil Nahara. I set out to Krandi with my usual cargo of cloth and earthenware, but the trader there had only half the grain shipment I was expecting. I tried other traders to make up for the shortfall, but there was no more grain to be bought in all of Krandi. It makes no sense, because I know they had a good harvest. Nobody was willing to tell me what had happened to all the grain. They just gave me gold and told me to be gone. I’m not even sure whether it’s worth going back later this month.”

“This is ruinous!” wailed Hijal. “What will we do without wheat and rye from Krâ? We cannot bake enough bread for all these people with just the little millet we grow.”

“And the Krâ gave no reason?” asked Hamûjil.

The captain shook his head. “No, and they seemed unfriendly and preoccupied. My trading partner usually invites me to stay at her home while the ship is made ready, but this time I had to put up in a guest house. And they didn’t treat me with much courtesy there either. My crew fared still worse at the inn; they weren’t even given any beer. Said the Krâ barely spoke to them.”

“And someone has given them gold enough to use as payment,” said Hamûjil softly. “I wonder who?”

“Dwarves...” the captain offered again.

“That seems unlikely.” Hamûjil pondered for a moment. “By your leave, I will look at the gold they gave you.”

“It’s in the strongbox. I will fetch it.” The captain returned to the ship and disappeared in the cabin. 

Hijal jigged from one foot to the other. “I assure you, Archseraph, nothing like this has ever happened before. Our trading partners in Krandi are very reliable; we have been dealing with them for decades. It’s my father that started the business. The Krâ had a good harvest. We offered the usual goods. I don’t know what got into them. But something’s up with them. You hear stories…”

“What kind of stories?”

“Oh, just…that all is not as it should be.”

Hamûjil turned to Jarin. “You were in Krandi not long ago. Do you think the same?”

“I wasn’t down at the docks,” she replied. “I just delivered the letter and rested in one of the guest rooms in the citadel. The next morning, the Ezen gave me the letter for you and I returned to Levare. I noticed nothing unusual. Though perhaps…”

“Yes?”

“Well, when we flew over the town, it seemed to me there weren’t many men.”

“The streets were empty? Was it very early?”

“No, there were people out. But most of them were women. I’m not sure it means anything.”

At that moment, the captain came back with a heavy pouch. He pulled out a handful of coins and held them out to the Archseraph. Hamûjil picked up one and examined it. It was crudely made and bore no lettering. The only mark on it was the outline of an eye stamped on both sides.

“Not much use for Heads or Tails,” he said. “And the others are just the same, I see. No, you are right, Hijal, this is no dwarf gold.” He dropped the coin back into the pouch. “I am sorry I cannot advise you. Perhaps it is just a misunderstanding. Let us hope so.”

Hijal was not consoled. “What will the people eat if they have no bread?”

Hamûjil spread his hands. “Rice, beans, peas…? If there is a real shortage of food in Mil Nahara, we can send up supplies from the South. I will –”

Suddenly, from the door of a nearby tavern, came the sound of raised voices, and then a crash as if of smashed glasses, and then more shouting. The next moment, two men tumbled out through the door, which was shut behind them with a bang.

“You’ll be sorry for this!” screamed one of them. “You shall see! We have friends now!”

As they strode off, they spoke angrily with each other in Krâin.

“What did they say, Jarin?” asked Hamûjil when they had passed.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Indeed I do.”

Jarin cringed. “The one said, These stuck-up nincompoops will have a rude awakening, and the other said, The sooner it starts, the better, and then the first one agreed.”

“Nincompoops? Really?”

“I paraphrased.”

-oOoOo-

“I am sorry you encountered such unpleasantness,” said Namal as he filled their wine glasses. The aroma of spicy dishes wafted through the room. “We have had a few situations of late with Krâ sailors showing rough behaviour. Most of them, of course, are perfectly good people. A few bad apples…”

“There used to be no bad apples, though,” mused Tirian.

“Well, you know. Times change, I suppose, and so do manners. But what you say of the grain shipment, Hamûjil, is more of a concern. I know Hijal, and he has an air of disaster that can make him look silly, but he is right that people will not like it if there is no bread, no matter what else they may have in their larders.”

“There is no need to think it will come to that,” said Tirian. “Very likely this is just a one-off occurrence, a misunderstanding like Hamûjil suggested. Jarin, dear, try some of this spinach tart. I think you will enjoy the cardamom flavour.”

“Really, madam, I have had plenty!”

“Not even a slice of star fruit?”

“Well, perhaps, thank you.”

Hamûjil sipped his wine thoughtfully. His in-laws’ dining room was usually a place of comfort to him, but tonight he felt ill at ease. The incidents at the docks had fitted all too well with what had already been on his mind. Once more, he pondered on the disturbing sentence in the Ezen’s letter: It may be necessary for our relationship to change in the near future. He had an inkling he knew what that meant, and why men were missing from the streets of Krandi, and why the Krâ weren’t selling their grain to Kûz. We have friends now. What friends? There were the same five peoples around the Sea of Calma as there had always been: The dwarves, the elves, the Krâ, the Kûzeen, and the Tree Women. If the Krâ had made new friends, they had to come from further afield. The sooner it starts, the better. But what was it?

But the other three were finished with the subject of strange encounters at the quay and moved on to lighter fare. The question of how the children were had to be answered at length and included an account of Alamûjil’s adventure at the lantern festival. Then the conversation turned to the next day and the purpose of their journey. Hamûjil was loth to talk much about it. “An ancient artefact to show to Alatar,” was all he was willing to say.

“Archseraph, if it pleases you,” said Jarin, “tell me more about the Guardian and the Sacred Cave. I know it was he who gave us the Way of Light and then the New Way, but who is he? I mean, he is an immortal, but he is no elf, so what is he?”

“That I hardly know myself. He and the Wanderer are of a kind, and they say there are others like them in the West. They are servants of the Powers. They came here long, long ago and taught our people to live well. Pallando, indeed, has other peoples to tend apart from us and therefore roams far and wide, but Alatar has stayed with us and guards the Unquenchable Light. Many Archseraphs have valued his counsel, but not until the days of Damûjil did Alatar find true support for his vision of the New Way. Damûjil enacted the Great Reform, and ever since then our people have prospered beyond all expectation. It leaves me hardly anything to do as Archseraph.” Until now.

“And the Unquenchable Light?”

“You shall see it for yourself tomorrow, if the Guardian permits it.”

“They say it is older than the sun and the moon,” said Tirian. “I do not know how that can be.”

“Yet it is true,” replied Hamûjil. “But forgive me, mother of my beloved. I am exceedingly tired and would very much like to retire. Jarin tells me we have to fly tomorrow at first light. With your leave, we will stay with you again on our return.”

“You are always welcome here, beloved of our daughter. Sleep well now. Sleep well, Jarin Dragonrider.”

And they slept soundly, but Hamûjil was troubled by his dreams.