Isolation continued (I hope!)

Mirabel lent heavily into the pony’s neck, eyes slipping closed as she rested against his support, feet plodding in time with his hooves. The adrenaline of her encounter in the village had been worn away in the hurried packing, chivying her uncle along and soothing the panic of her aunts. Even with her best efforts they hadn’t left till mid-morning and the safe haven she was aiming for was still hours further on.

A cool twilight surrounded her as the warmth of the early spring day followed the escape of the light from the land about. Her feet catching the chill from the ground as strands of mist rose to twine about her legs. Her toe caught a hidden stone and she stumbled forward, shaking the growing sleep from her head. She turned to the cart, seeing both her aunts dozing, thick skins gathered about their shoulders. Her uncle held the reins loosely as he hummed to himself. Mirabel pondered setting up camp by the road side. They should be safe enough for a couple of hours, but getting going again in the small hours with no fire would be miserable. She would keep going whilst she could, rest when they were in safe company again.

She pulled her cloak from where it lay over the harness and swung it about her shoulders, picking up the lead rope and urging the plodding animal to a faster pace, one that would heat her through and keep the worst of the nights cold out. The luxury of making quick decisions would only last as long as her aunts slept and her uncle drifted in his memories of the old stories.

As the dark closed about her the sounds of hidden creatures filled the void. A sprinkling of stars and the new sliver of moon gave just enough light to navigate by. An owl called as it brushed close by, pony shaking his head in annoyance at is passing. The squeal of a rabbit was followed by the bark of a fox. The rustling of a hedgerow gave away the presence of more reticent creatures, clearing the path in front and waiting to reclaim their domain once she had passed on.

The pony and guide had slowed to a plod once more when they reached a fork in the road. Mirabel paused, lead rope slack in her hand as she pondered her choices. The west road would take her to the newer towns and more who would view her family with suspicion, but to the far east the invaders drove ever further inland from their fortresses on the coast, seemingly endless numbers of warriors striking out from their homeland to conquer a small patch of this isle for themselves.

She glanced up at her uncle, now snoring gently, head nodding forward onto his chest. He wouldn’t admit it if challenged, but his control of the spirit link was slipping, the fair wasn’t the first time he had been caught unawares. Best keep him away from the close-minded, they had little to interest the invaders. She tugged on the rope and set off along the stone lined track heading east, winding between the bordering hills of a twisting valley. She continued to follow this, the moon rising to its zenith before falling behind the screen of the hills. The darkening night brought fresh hazards as stones and grass tussocks, indistinguishable from the uneven ground, caught her feet. She stumbled on as the cool air settled and soaked the land around her.

Rounding a bend she found herself facing the vast plain of Emlet, the flanking hills falling to gentle slopes rolling towards the grasslands beyond. Drifting clouds shrouded the stars and took the last shadows of features from the land. Mirabel sighed, pulling the pony off the track and sitting on the fallen trunk of an oak. Setting off aimlessly across the plain could leave her lost. She would have to wait till dawn to get her bearings. Uncle Ovid stirred briefly as the wheel caught a divot, glancing about in confusion.

“Waiting for dawn, rest now,” Mirabel reassured him.

He grunted in reply, settling back into the trance that had held him. Mirabel watched to make sure he didn’t stir again, then tied the pony to a remaining branch on the trunk. She shuffled, trying to find a soft spot in the wood and leaning back into the support of an upright branch. She closed her eyes and waited the arrival of a new day, trying to ignore the seeping damp. It seemed a cold miserable start would be her fate after all.

She didn’t sleep for long, the dew leading to a ground mist that snuck into the gaps in her cloak. A shudder persuaded her of the futility of remaining still and she rose, stamping about and flapping her arms. She fed the pony from the oats on the back of the cart and unwrapped a half loaf from the day before. She chewed on it as she walked to the middle of the track, staring out into the darkness and tracing the emerging features.

The glint of flints being touched to morning fires identified travelers on their way. The gloom lifted a little more to reveal the henge away to the left and a trail of trees hiding the river from view. Mirabel followed this with her eye until she spotted the rise of the island, bordered by a lake. Her path lay between these two features, towards an abandoned villa that had long served as a refuge and way point to those who crisscrossed this great plain.

She flexed her stiff fingers as she grappled with the lead rope, breakfast for her and the pony over. Stifling a yawn behind her hand she headed out into the flat lands, checking the position of her landmarks as she crested each gentle rise.

oOo

“Whoa there,” called a determined voice, the pony responding to the haul on his reins and breaking his step with Mirabel.

She glanced round to see her uncle, fully himself for the first time since the morning of the fair, gazing back at her.

“Right. Where? And why?” he asked, patting the seat next to him and reaching down expectantly to haul his niece up.

She scrambled up, plumping his discarded blanket into a makeshift cushion and stretching out aching muscles as she allowed herself to relax in the warmth of the mid-morning sun.

“Headed for the Vander lands,” she explained, arms waving vaguely in the direction of visible landmarks.

Ovid gazed around, got his bearings and urged the pony on once more. Once he was happy with the direction and speed of travel he reached around the young girl, gathering her close and repeated his second query.

“Spirit forced its way through. Most laughed it off, but a couple of guardsmen took it personally. Thought it best to get out of the way, particularly with you through the door,” she explained quickly, watching for his reaction out of the corner of her eye.

This manifestation of her uncle swung between fussy tradition and oozing charm, what would he make of her taking charge. He said nothing for a while, watching the tread of the pony and the lie of the land ahead. Mirabel blew out a deep breadth, realising she had been holding it and instead began to count the beat of hooves upon the grass. Ovid gave her a squeeze and smiled at her, charmer it was then.

“Well done missy, I’m sure your aunts were quite worried. We are lucky to have you with us. Well I’m back from the doorway, you can relax now.” Another quick squeeze followed and Mirabel allowed her eyes to close as she lent into his shoulder and began to drift. He rubbed her arm soothingly.

“Get some rest, you shouldn’t travel at night, especially when…” Ovid trailed off, unwilling to acknowledge his weakness further. “Anyway, a young lady should always get her rest,” he added.

Mirabel turned and climbed into the bed of the cart, finding the folds of the tent to take the place of her bed furs. She would sleep whilst she could, there was no telling these days how long her uncle would stay before he shifted again.

oOo

She was woken by Pomona shaking her and motioning for quiet. Mirabel pushed up, eyes scanning her surroundings.

“What is it?” she asked, carefully to keep her voice low.

“Company,” was the short response.

“Miri, jump down and take the ponys head. ‘Mona, up here with me and Belle,” called Uncle Ovid.

Mirabel caught sight of the caravan closing on them and dropped over the opposite side of the cart to make her way forward. She lifted a hand to scratch the pony’s ears as the other grasped the rope and tickled his chin.

“Friendly?” she asked.

“Not sure. No guardsmen or armour, but there are more to fear than those,” her Uncle replied before frowning. “Best not rouse suspicion, remember your modern graces my dear and speak only when I introduce you,” he added.

Mirabel suppressed a huff, back to being the last to be listened too. After the nerves of the last few days it was frustrating to be relegated to decorative girl so quickly. She turned and took her place alongside the ponys head, looking determinedly towards the rise that hid their destination. Occasionally she glanced at their companions, it seemed clear they were headed in the same direction, but whether for the refuge of the abandoned villa or simply on a crossed path she couldn’t tell.

The other party was made of a cart followed by the sort of covered wagon that she had seen for the first time at this summers fairs. Instead of tents and making camp the wagons formed a tent on wheels, while cooking was out in the open. Both the cart and the wagon were driven by a couple on the plate, and surrounded with three or four on foot. Altogether they outnumbered her family by more than double.

As she watched she caught sight of one or two curious glances and hands raised in partial waves. A small boy, 2 or 3 years old ran out from the other side of the cart, chased by a young girl. She caught about his waist and swung him high in the air, spinning him round before dropping him back to the grass and chasing him off back between the carts. A call from an anxious adult received a flap of her hand, the only sign she had heard the instructions.

As the parties ambled forward the sun climbed high overhead, drying out the afternoon. Before long Mirabel was parched and looped the rope over the ponys neck as she turned to the cart for the skin her aunt held out. She side-stepped the wheels and took a long pull on the water, pausing to swallow and refill her mouth. There could be no doubt now, both parties were heading for the villa and soon they would be close enough to greet one and other. She tossed the empty skin into the back of the cart and hurried forward once more as the little boy and his shadow appeared once more, closing the distance to them rapidly.

“Bran, I’m coming to get you,” the girl called, earning delighted squeals of protest in response. She caught him, once more scooping him skywards with a peel of laughter. Catching sight of Mirabel’s aunts and uncle she nodded a hello.

“Greetings,” Ovid replied, as Pomona and Bellona dipped their heads.

“And to you,” called the man steering the lead cart.

“Headed for Vanders?” her uncle asked.

“Yes. Yourselves?”

“The same.”

Both nodded to each other, before continuing in peace over the rise to the crumbling walls beyond, reassured, only those who crisscrossed the land knew of this shelter. News would be shared and tales told later, in the dark watches, as was the nomads way.

Lady Aemilia climbed the last of the stairs into the audience chamber and paused at the edge to wait for her serving boy. High overhead the roof of the hall hid the small sleeping chamber above, where few had ever tread. A large fire burnt in the hearth at the top of the room, opposite the main staircase to the outer courtyard. Tables lined one long side, littered with reports and ink. Two scribes were already at their posts, reviewing the night reports and preparing parchment and quills for the days activities. Market day in the town ensured that the chamber was bound to be busy today.

“Starting the day with soot stains?” she asked the figure at the hearth.

Countess Laelia straightened dropping a handful of sooty scraps onto the platter held by a third scribe, waving him back to his table.

“Someone burnt one of the overnight reports. I want to know why,” she replied inspecting mucky her hands. “You’re later than usual,” she added, walking across the room to the pitcher and bowl by the entry way and rinsing her hands.

Aemilia took her seat at the banquet table, the flames of the fire warming her back and accepted the reports offered by her silent scribe before he hurried back to his place.

“There was a little…excitement at the saga readings last night. They finished later than expected,” Aemilia explained. She skimmed the reports, brows creasing when she couldn’t find any mention of the arrests at the Golden Hind the previous evening.

“The bearded one?” asked Laelia as she took her seat beside her. A nod was the only reply as Aemilia shuffled sheets searching for the entry that should be there.

“Was it politics or religion this time?” Laelia asked, waving a hand at the serving boys who placed goblets by each overseer and filled them with watered mead to sustain them through the early audiences.

“The saga of the subjugation of the Freelands by the Dark Lord,” chuckled Aemilia

“Ahh and no doubt Lord Dasyuridae was unamused,” Laelia replied, an answering giggle bubbling free.

“Uh huh.”

A clattering of feet echoed from the stairs at the far end of the hall, announcing the entry of a guard. Laelia nodded and he hurried back out to let the first of the petitioners in.

“Your soiled dress may yet be for a good cause. The arrest report is missing! I wonder what the bard said that needed hiding?” Aemilia pondered.

A steady stream of petitioners began to fill the room, the more fastidious taking the time to wash before approaching the scribe at the small table nearest the door. As people reached the front of the short line they gave their names and the details of their business with the overseers. A quill scratched across the page before it was waved aimlessly, in invitation to wait on the benches at the far side of the room. Most dutifully shuffled across the room, snatching glances up the length of the room, the less amenable finding ample persuasion in the form of the burly guards stationed in front of the banqueting table.

Every few minutes a scribe would hurry from the workbench with a list of those present. The Overseers conferred over the list, watched anxiously by those on and around the benches. After a quick whispered consultation a scribe would head for the eager townsfolk, informing some of judgments, asking others to return another time, with the aid of the guardsmen, or occasionally asking a privileged few to approach the ladies as they sat in state and seemingly surrounded by the flames of the fire.

As more and more petitioners arrived space on the benches reached a premium. Even so, one ragged and hunched figure managed to claim more than his share of space, those closest to him vacating their seats and anyone hurrying to take their place veering away once they got closer. A sigh of relief battle a wave of surprise as a scribe arrived to escort him for an audience, the space he vacated disappearing in a rush of bodies.

Aemilia smiled at the approaching figure, as she lifted her goblet to her lips, inhaling the sweet honeyed scent.

“Tell us what you saw?” she asked, taking a sip as she watched him over the top of the goblet.

“Channeling at the summer fair,” the hunched figure replied, shuffling from foot to foot in synchornisation with the guardsmen on either side, who also began to shuffle, sidling away slightly with each sway.

“Channeling? What’s that?” Laelia asked, leaning back in her chair and searching in her pocket for her handkerchief. She lifted it to her nose, feigning a sneeze then breathing in the floral scent.

“Calling on the spirits of the dead. Letting them speak. Old magic.”

The women stopped, dropping their hands in surprise as their brows furrowed in unison.

“There’s no such thing,” asserted Aemilia, prompting a big sniff.

“Just cause you dunt hold with the old ways dunt mean they’re not real,” he argued. Aemilia wrinkled her nose, and coughed, swiftly raising her goblet again.

“Real or not, the old practices are forbidden on Cimmerian land,” Laelia replied for her.

“Indeed. So what of this fellow, who was he?” continued Aemilia.

“Traveling Bard, with his family, two women and a girl, not seen ‘em before.”

“And where are they now? Still at the village?”

“Naw, moved on by lunkheaded guardsmen,” he said, showering dust and dirt from his head as he shook it. A crafty grin stretched across the mottled, smudged face. “Asked about, they made for the plain.”

“We’ll need a full report, sit with the scribe and tell him everything please,” Aemilia said, beckoning the hovering servant with a twitch of a finger.

“And me fee?” he demanded, unmoving.

“He’ll give you your paper when it’s done,” Laelia replied, turning to the serving boy behind her and taking the parchment he held, signaling the end of the audience.

“Make a note on the patrol list, add the plains,” Aemilia instructed, a servant hurrying to the scribes bench to comply.

As the early morning passed into late morning the farmers and tradesmen of the first rush were replaced by the merchants and gentry. More used to getting their own way and reluctant to wait or be dismissed they slowly filled the room with the growing volume of their assurances, complaints and then threats. A particularly vehement townsmen paused to find he had the attention of all in the room.

“I insist!” he demanded.

A scrap of chairs from both overseers was harmonised by the screech of a small wooden trapdoor in the ceiling. All eyes peered upwards in the hope of catching a glimpse of the Patriarch. Laelia nudged Aemilia and then rolled her eyes around at the watching townsfolk. As if their leader would be peering through a foot long trapdoor. Instead a small tray descended on a pulley, a scroll sliding to and fro as it dropped.

Laelia turned her back on the watchers and allowed herself a grin as she retrieved the message. Dasyuridae had built his mystique into a kind of power in itself. Removing the ribbon she made a show of unrolling and reading the message before returning to her place.

“The new diktats as to the quelling of undue dissension, with sentence suggestions,” she told Aemilia, passing the scroll to a waiting scribe for entry into the daily record.

Her fellow overseer raised an eyebrow and, as one, both women turned to look at the merchant who found himself suddenly alone in the middle of the room.

He paled and his eyes widened as he met their gazes. A brief nod was followed by a swift bow as he chose retreat over pressing his case, his retreating footsteps blending with the town bells signaling the midday repast was due. The chief guardsman approached and saluted, turning to take his position at the head of the room as both ladies retreated to the antechamber for some light refreshment.

Another blaze filled the small room with a cozy glow and two large carved chairs faced it, a small table holding platters of meat and fruit between them.

“So what was really on the scroll?” asked Aemilia as she reached for a grape.

“Dasyuridae has acquired some more territory in the Down-lands, a scribing house. He has relocated the residents, they should be arriving here over the next few days for new lodgings,” replied Laelia, “But no work talk at lunch, tell me about the saga reading.”

The noon day sun beat down on the small square courtyard, rays bouncing off newly whitewashed walls to land on the multi coloured swirls of tile meandering across the polished floor. Ripples of water followed the splash of fish in the central pond, adding their reflections to the dancing lights. Welcome pools of shadow under the veranda housed couches, currently empty of guests to recline upon them. The table in the corner was equally abandoned, only a silent maid hurriedly clearing the remains of the midday meal from the low bench. She ignored the arriving craftsman, his apprentice struggling under the weight of the tools he carried, as he continued his newest mural.

Evander stepped out from his chambers and smiled as he watched, trying to guess which symbols and talismans were taking shape and which were still to be added.

“Thank you, Casius,” he said to the servant, who was fastening the sweeping purple robe over his simple tunic with a large pewter crest.

“I’ll return with the new addition to the staff, ensure some quarters are ready,” he finished.

Casius nodded as he handed over a leather satchel filled with papers
Evander had sorted ready for this afternoon. He took it and strode through the entry way and onto the street. To the keep first, then the cells.

Stepping out of the door, Evander lifted the hem of his robe out of the mud, until he reached the pebbled lane in the centre. Gone was the light airiness of his home to be replaced by dull grey stone, which looked forbidding despite the bright sunshine. Small windows punched through thick walls did little to break up the stone, or allow light into the dark spaces beyond. The monotony of silvered thatch was broken here and there by the vibrant yellow of the reeds replaced this year, curlicues of smoke drifting from many of them.

The street was still quiet, many townsfolk succumbing to a snooze after their meal. Evander turned towards the centre of town, raising his eyes to view the tall keep, lifted even higher on the steep promontory. The twisting streets that wound up and around the hill provided a jumbled ring of houses and warehouses, circling the tower. Evander strode up the nearest of these, passing red faced mothers harrying their children upwards to the market and puffing delivery boys braced against handcarts attempting to escape down the bumpy slope.

He reached the plateau and joined the steady trickle of people passing through the outer walls and into the baile. The clatter and chip of chisel on stone testified to the ongoing alterations of the old temple, drowning out the cries of those still protesting the prohibition on worship at its base. He dodged left and right, winding his way through those perusing the market. The elders and their families browsing for some new trinket or bauble were oblivious to the bustle of those trading or shopping in earnest.

Making for the inner walls Evander sidestepped the growing crowd of townsfolk seeking admission from the guards, a nod of recognition granting him access. He hurried over to the steps climbing straight to the middle of the keep.

“Consul.”

“Captain,” he nodded to the door guard. Pausing at the entry table, Evander placed the satchel down carefully, cleansing his hands and washing away the dust of the streets. As he dried them he scanned the waiting petitioners. No one he needed to see, although he
couldn’t be sure all would agree with him on that. Rather than join them he made straight for the chief scribe at his table, ignoring the grumbling of those waiting in line.

“Ah, Consul. We missed you this morning,” the scribe said, looking up and grinning.

“Clients to see, you know how it is. You look a little worn, Ned. Busy morning?” Evander asked.

“When isn’t it?”

Evander snorted and shrugged.

“Do you have my contracts? And is the bill of sale complete?” he asked, reaching down and tapping absently on the desk with his fingers.

“Somewhere,” Ned replied, furrows lining his brow as he shuffled the papers in front of him. He turned to the apprentice next to him.

“Joseph, where did you put the consuls papers? You completed them didn’t you?”

“I think so,” stuttered the youth, rising and scattering papers across the floor with his frantic searching.

“Careful Joe,” admonished Ned, reaching out to stop the young man.

“Excuse us a moment Consul, as you said, its been busy. They’re here somewhere, I assure you.”

He scrapped his stool back and whispered instructions to his charge. Evander rescued a few fallen sheets, handing them to Joe as the pair began to methodically sort the piles of paper on the desk and leaf through them. Frowns deepened as they reached the end of the table and turned to each other, scraps of conversation snapping out.

“Are you sure…”

“Yes. First thing…”

“Then where…”

“…put them on …”

Evander watched, lips twitching in amusement. Ned was good at his job, the papers were bound to be somewhere, but the apprentices were often a little scatty. Ned exhaled heavily, running a hand across his face. He shooed Joseph away.

“Consul. I’m sorry, the papers seemed to have been misplaced.”

“Misplaced?…” Evander began

“Is there a problem?” asked a soft voice behind him.

“My Lady,” Evander replied, turning and bowing low in answer to her dipping curtsy. “And no. No problem.”

“Ned?”

“We can’t find the contracts we had prepared for the Consul,” the scribe confessed, shrugging.

“Ahh, that will be as I have them,” Lady Aemilia replied. “I need to discuss the bill of sale with you before it is completed, Consul. Can you spare the time to discuss it now?”

“I have a short while before this afternoons appointments,” Evander replied.

“Sorry Ned, I thought you knew,” she said to the scribe before leading the way across the room.

She signaled a servant, who dragged another chair over to the table before fetching an additional goblet and filling it. Evander took the seat, lifting the goblet as he listened to the end of the current petition.

“Prohibited items and so have been confiscated, provided you abide by the proclamations this will be the end of the matter. Welcome to your new home” Laelia finished, waving a hand in dismissal. A bedraggled family group followed a clerk from the room, shouldering packs as they went.

Evander frowned.

“More confiscations? Is that really necessary?”

“Newcomers, just completing their residency contracts,” Laelia replied

“More migrants?” asked Aemilia.

“Yes, I was just making them welcome.”

“Oh yes, very welcoming,” Evander stated, raising his eyes.

“Now Consul, we have business to discuss, lets not tread old ground,” smiled Laelia, lifting her goblet.

“Of course, what is the problem with my bill of sale?” Evander asked, returning the toast.

“Well, you don’t generally make such purchases” stated Aemilia.

“Thats true,” he acknowledged, ignoring the implied questions.

“You are aware of all the restrictions?” Laelia queried.

“Of course,” he replied, resisting the urge to grit his teeth.

“Forgive me, but this seems to conflict your usual stance,” Aemilia stated, tired of his evasions.

“This is a unique situation,” he answered, refusing to be drawn.

“You will be held responsible for any … irregularities,” she informed him, searching his face for any reservations.

Evander simply nodded, holding her gaze. It seemed he had satisfied the overseer, she passed him a pile of papers of the desk and sat back.

“They should all be there, thank you for your time.”

Evander returned his goblet to the table and took his leave of the ladies. He paused at the scribes table to reassure Ned that he had his contracts, putting them safe in his satchel, before heading back to the market.

He blinked in the bright light, screwing up his eyes against the glare as he located the pens. He lifted his satchel to his chest, bill of sale gripped tight to the front of it as he approached the heckling crowd.
The burly trader in his rich furs brandished a staff as he displayed his wares to the gathered townsfolk, lashing out with it occasionally.

Evander strode up and handed him the bill of sale. He looked at it, grunting as he read it.

“Fetch the wolf,” he instructed the pen keeper, who hurried to the back of the enclosure. He swiftly untied and hauled on a rope, keeping an eye on the tall warrior whose neck it circled. Evander made a show of inspecting the solidly built man, the dirt and grime of his captivity doing little to disguise his power or leashed menace.

“His belongings?” he asked.

A helm, shield and sword were held out. Evander waved at the latest addition to his household to collect them, before he turned and set off down the hill without checking to see he was being followed.