it seemed to verify much of what he had heard, and hinted that serious questions needed to be asked of the Council at their next meeting, it contained elements that were clearly fantastic. A great light? A swordsman who raised a mound of dead guards around him? Ghosts of the dead causing the guards to flee? A man who healed with a touch of fire?
The crowd's attention turned to the man in the white robe. Who was he, they wanted to know, and where did he come from? The Sna Vazthan admitted he was a stranger to the City, but told them he had spent the afternoon labouring to put out fires. Dubious glances followed his words, until he was able to satisfy them of the truth of what he said, supplying them with names and descriptions of enough local identities to finally be believed. By the charcoal stains on his expensive robe, by the cuts and bruises on his hands, and by the way he listened to their tales of woe, he convinced them he was a friend.
The sun set, and still the line crept forward. Children cried from hunger and from fear, adults bore their grief stoically, dirty bodies rubbed together uncaring as the tide of citizens, ignored by the rulers of the City, sought a morsel of bread and whatever else could be spared. Ahead of them someone had installed a torch which shed much-needed light over the food distribution area.
Finally the Sna Vazthan arrived at the head of the line. In front of him half-a-dozen trestle tables contained what this committee had managed to gather: bread, clean water, some fruit, dried meats, a treat or two for the children. He glanced up: the light he assumed was coming from a torch actually came from something a young man held aloft. He looked more closely . . .
An arrow. On fire. Not burning the boy who held it. The obvious explanation took some time to work its way into his mind, steeped though he was in the history of Faltha. This cannot be, it cannot be. Not here, not in the humblest part of the City; not novo, when the borderlands are at peace . . . unless. ..
A great chill passed through the man's spare frame. A hundred unconnected incidents came together in a rush, the signs and portents aligned themselves into a clear message, and suddenly the man realised he was in the presence of the Jugom Ark.
'Would you like some bread?'
'What? Pardon me, what did you say?' His normally unflappable mien shattered into a thousand pieces. This is why he had been called out of retirement, this explained the appointment to the Council of Faltha. This is what he had trained his whole life for. The years with the Haukl, the decades as a Trader, the service in the court at Inmennost; all pointing to this moment. To take service with those who wielded the Jugom Ark.
'I asked you if you would like some bread,' the woman repeated gently. She was forty, perhaps, still a beauty, a cheerful face framed by long dark hair. He read patience in her face, and long-suffering, but also joy. Right now she waited for him with the pity of one who had served many who suffered from the shock of seeing their homes, and perhaps their friends and family, consumed by the flames.
'No, no, I need neither food nor shelter,' he said to her. 'What I need is to speak to the people in charge here. If you
are one, I apologise for my rudeness. And I also need to speak to the one holding the Jugom Ark. I would dearly love to hear his story.'
At the mention of the Arrow the woman's face paled, and she turned and signalled to a man standing some distance away. 'Mahnum,' she called, 'this man wants to know about the Jugom Ark.'
'Tell him to come back later tonight. We'll be talking about the whole thing then.'
'I think he's from the Council,' she said carefully.
At that, the man called Mahnum put down the parcel he had been holding and came over to where the white-robed Sna Vazthan stood. He looked up into the old man's eyes, his own widened in shock, and for ten long seconds neither man moved a muscle. Indrett moved forward, about
The crowd's attention turned to the man in the white robe. Who was he, they wanted to know, and where did he come from? The Sna Vazthan admitted he was a stranger to the City, but told them he had spent the afternoon labouring to put out fires. Dubious glances followed his words, until he was able to satisfy them of the truth of what he said, supplying them with names and descriptions of enough local identities to finally be believed. By the charcoal stains on his expensive robe, by the cuts and bruises on his hands, and by the way he listened to their tales of woe, he convinced them he was a friend.
The sun set, and still the line crept forward. Children cried from hunger and from fear, adults bore their grief stoically, dirty bodies rubbed together uncaring as the tide of citizens, ignored by the rulers of the City, sought a morsel of bread and whatever else could be spared. Ahead of them someone had installed a torch which shed much-needed light over the food distribution area.
Finally the Sna Vazthan arrived at the head of the line. In front of him half-a-dozen trestle tables contained what this committee had managed to gather: bread, clean water, some fruit, dried meats, a treat or two for the children. He glanced up: the light he assumed was coming from a torch actually came from something a young man held aloft. He looked more closely . . .
An arrow. On fire. Not burning the boy who held it. The obvious explanation took some time to work its way into his mind, steeped though he was in the history of Faltha. This cannot be, it cannot be. Not here, not in the humblest part of the City; not novo, when the borderlands are at peace . . . unless. ..
A great chill passed through the man's spare frame. A hundred unconnected incidents came together in a rush, the signs and portents aligned themselves into a clear message, and suddenly the man realised he was in the presence of the Jugom Ark.
'Would you like some bread?'
'What? Pardon me, what did you say?' His normally unflappable mien shattered into a thousand pieces. This is why he had been called out of retirement, this explained the appointment to the Council of Faltha. This is what he had trained his whole life for. The years with the Haukl, the decades as a Trader, the service in the court at Inmennost; all pointing to this moment. To take service with those who wielded the Jugom Ark.
'I asked you if you would like some bread,' the woman repeated gently. She was forty, perhaps, still a beauty, a cheerful face framed by long dark hair. He read patience in her face, and long-suffering, but also joy. Right now she waited for him with the pity of one who had served many who suffered from the shock of seeing their homes, and perhaps their friends and family, consumed by the flames.
'No, no, I need neither food nor shelter,' he said to her. 'What I need is to speak to the people in charge here. If you
are one, I apologise for my rudeness. And I also need to speak to the one holding the Jugom Ark. I would dearly love to hear his story.'
At the mention of the Arrow the woman's face paled, and she turned and signalled to a man standing some distance away. 'Mahnum,' she called, 'this man wants to know about the Jugom Ark.'
'Tell him to come back later tonight. We'll be talking about the whole thing then.'
'I think he's from the Council,' she said carefully.
At that, the man called Mahnum put down the parcel he had been holding and came over to where the white-robed Sna Vazthan stood. He looked up into the old man's eyes, his own widened in shock, and for ten long seconds neither man moved a muscle. Indrett moved forward, about
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