Disciple (pt2)

If the monks taught them anything, it was the power of guilt. Completing the tests and receiving the blessing of the Order of Tagret the Warsaint was only to be expected. Families gave up their young adults for a full year, sending them out into the world -- under the nominal supervision of the monks -- so they would learn discipline, culture, and hopefully get so sick of travel as to be content to spend the rest of their lives in their hometowns. There was always a celebration when the pilgrims returned, like an early birthday. The newly-made adult would then tell his or her pilgrimage stories, become the envy of their little siblings, and would compare with the stories of elder siblings and parents. And that was that. But the weighty anvil of shame hung over each and every pilgrim. If the monks so decided, a person could be sent back home prematurely, unblessed and unwelcome. There was no celebration for such failures. The monks used this shame as gracefully as any weapon, commanding it with only a look or tone of voice. Their entire morality and instruction was founded on a quiet repugnance that was palpable to anyone with a beating heart.

So instructed, it didn't take long for Zaji and Yana to guilt the other man -- Walthik -- into sharing his coin with them for a few beers. A loud pub, packed (as if ready to be shipped off) with sweating, fish-scented people welcomed them after a full day of pretending to be destitute. The three immediately saw about a dozen other woolen, weary pilgrims huddled uncomfortably around a single table. They went to the bar, found they only had enough for a beer each, got their drinks, and went to the table. Miraculously, room was made for them.

"And House T'vanna has locked down all the northern ports," concluded a bald pilgrim. Zaji didn't know you could ask the monks to be shaven completely.

"You don't really think the High Council will stand for that though?," asked another pilgrim, a woman whose short red hair stood out brilliant and fiery against her pale scalp.

"Like the High Council can do anything," a third pilgrim added. "Even if they wanted a fight, they wouldn't have the steel to do it."

"Wait. What?" Zaji looked from one face to another.

The third pilgrim turned toward him, causing those around him to shift position. "The army's steel is collected in the same place, right? For easy accounting?"

"Right."

"But it can't be kept at the House Rin'eth mines because they're so far away from the shipping lanes. The Council couldn't have it delivered fast enough in times of warfare."

Zaji nodded.

The pilgrim concluded, "So the next closest shipping town is..."

Yana picked up where he left off. "... Is Falom Port."

Pilgrims nodded shaven heads.

"I don't get it," Zaji said. "Where is Falom Port?"

Yana smirked at him. "In the north. House T'vanna land."

He gaped at her.

"You have got to be kidding me!," Walthik blurted. "So there's nothing the Council can do against the embargo?"

The red-haired monk answered, rubbering her hand together as she did so. "I don't think the Council has to worry about that. T'vanna hasn't made them that made. And it's no secret the Council get its stone from the north, too."

Yana nodded to Walthik after sipping her beer. "And the Council is in the middle of that big construction project. The commemorative statues."

Walthik looked around the table in disgust. "So House T'vanna's just going to extort the High-stinking-Council?!"

"I'm sure the Council's being compensated," Zaji added offhandedly. He gulped his beer thinking of rich men patting other rich men on the back, all laughing and having a good time in a big, clean city that doesn't smell like the dregs of the sea.

"But we need medicine from the north," Walthik pressed. "I mean, unless we want people dying of the wet cough just like they did forty years ago."

Yana nudged into the conversation, literally. "Maybe House Yulix will--"

"House Yulix," the red-haired pilgrim interjected, "hasn't done a damn thing in... well... as long as anyone knows."

The women locked eyes. Somehow, in defiance of all possibilities, things at the table got a lot less comfortable.

"Let me sum it up for everyone," the bald pilgrim said, his voice strong and confident, breaking the tension. He shifted toward the table fully, hands out to help him explain. "Everyone's taking care of the Council, but not each other. The Houses are playing an old, old game and none of them are stupid enough to risk everything they have just for a tiny little gain. The Houses think in centuries. And no-one... no-one was surprised when T'vanna announced the embargo. It'll take decades to clear all this up, and we're probably not going to get a shipment of medicine before then."

In a noisy, stagnant pub, the table of pilgrims fell silent.

Until a large man almost toppled over half of them. "Hey there, kids!" He was bearded, pouring sweat, and smelled like something that should be used to strip paint from the side of a house or tar the bottom of a ship. "I'll buy the drink of the pilgrim who can recite the story of Tagret the Warsaint for me!"

The pilgrims looked at each other. The bald one called back, "The whole thing?"

The burly man hiccupped and nodded, then winked at the table. "I've got a favorite part I'm listening for. If I hear it, you'll get the drink."

No doubt, this man had put his own little test to the pilgrims every year since he had gained the blessing of the Order. No doubt, the elder brothers and sisters of these same pilgrims had undergone this exact challenge and got a free drink out of it.

Yana started first. "Tagret was born in Southshire. His parents were a farmer and a potter. While on the road, he was attacked by bandits and mortally wounded. He had a vision of a dark man telling him to break the spine of the Kazz Horde. When he woke up, he met Hsu-Hsang, who had been taking care of him. He and Hsu-Hsang traveled together, met up with the army of Thyst, and defeated the Horde. Then Tagret had a dream of the dark man telling him to break the skulls of the Northwall Alliance. He left the army of Thyst, snuck into the Alliance military camp, and killed their warprince in a duel of knives. He took the warprince's armor -- except for the breastpiece because it was ruined -- and wore it and it's what's called Tagret's Skin. Uhm... and he said he didn't need the breastpiece because his heart was impenetrable." She fumbled, having lost her train of thought.

"Nope. No good." The bearded man shook his head.

The red-haired pilgrim continued, shooting Yana a wry look as she did so. "Tagret had another dream of the dark man, but killed him this time, and said his destiny was his own. He joined up with the other warsaints and fought the War of Retribution."

"Not it," said the large fisherman.

The pilgrims looked at each other, eyebrows lifted.

The bald one spoke. "Are you listening for when the demon cursed him?"

"Nope."

Zaji, thinking of the crowded, dirty town and the weeks of travel on any side of it: "When he rested here, at Holmstead, before going back to Southshire?"

"Nuh-uh."

Walthik: "That he pulled the jaw of the chief of the Kazz Horde clean off?"

"Nice, but no."

Silence.

"They say he liked the color blue," added Yana hopefully.

The large man sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. Zaji noticed two separate tables watching him expectantly, smiles riding their faces. Conclusively, the fisherman set their minds at rest. "He got crotch rot." The other fishermen burst into laughter, joined by the large man.

The pilgrims groaned. The bald one growled and yelled to be heard over the pub. "He was cursed by a demon -- named Fang-Eye -- so his children wouldn't hunt him. The curse made him impotent."

"Nope," said the chuckling man, wiping tears from his eyes. "Nope. Crotch rot."

And fresh peals of laughter filled the already crowded pub.