Destiny’s Crucible

Book 1

Cast Under an Alien Sun

by

Olan Thorensen

Copyrighty 2016

All rights reserved

The is an original work of fiction. Any
resemblance to people and places is coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-9972878-0-6

Maps
and More

For
maps to help orient the reader to the planet Anyar, a web site is under
construction at www.olanthorensen.com. Additional maps, background, side stories, and information
on the series will be added as the story evolves.

A
list of major characters is given in the back of the book.

Crucible (a.t. Merriam-Webster)

- :
a pot in which metals or other substances are heated to a very high
temperature or melted

- :
a difficult test or challenge

- :
a place or situation that forces people to change or make difficult
decisions

“It
is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”

― William
Shakespeare

“One
meets his destiny often in the road he takes to avoid it.”

―
French Proverb

“It is
a mistake to try to look too far ahead. The chain of destiny can only be
grasped one link at a time.”

―
Winston
Churchill

“Only in
the crucible of strife does God burn away the impurities to reveal the essence
of a person, an inner core that might otherwise have remained hidden for an
entire life.”

―
Rhaedri Brison, Caedellium, Planet Anyar.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: A
Change in Destination

Chapter 2:
Alive

Chapter 3:
Planet Anyar

Chapter 4:
Recovery

Chapter 5: A
Gathering Storm

Chapter 6:
Acceptance

Chapter 7:
Caedellium Life

Chapter 8:
Thorns

Chapter 9:
Interview with the Abbot

Chapter 10:
Buldorian Mercenaries

Chapter 11:
Yozef Learns about the Narthani

Chapter 12:
What to Do?

Chapter 13:
Great Hall of the Keelans

Chapter 14:
The Snarling Graeko

Chapter 15:
Chemistry

Chapter 16:
Guinea Pigs

Chapter 17:
Impact

Chapter 18:
Supplicant to Tycoon

Chapter 19:
A House of His Own

Chapter 20:
Maera

Chapter 21:
Keelan Justice

Chapter 22:
The Buldorians

Chapter 23:
Earth Fades

Chapter 24:
A World beyond Abersford

Chapter 25:
Ignition

Chapter 26:
Fertilizer

Chapter 27:
A Close Encounter

Chapter 28:
Not to Be

Chapter 29:
Could Be Worse

Chapter 30:
The Raid

Chapter 31:
Panic and Preparation

Chapter 32:
Battle for St. Sidryn’s

Chapter 33:
Aftermath

Chapter 34:
Not Over

Major
Characters

Chapter 1: A Change in
Destination

The plane lurched, hitting the first pocket of air shear. He
cinched his seatbelt tighter, and his grip on the armrests ratcheted up two
notches. He wanted to close his eyes but instead looked out the window at the
last of the mountains. A dot in the sky appeared above the distant horizon,
then zoomed larger, expanding as if to engulf the plane!

Before his brain reacted, he catapulted forward. The
seatbelt cut into his abdomen, his view whirled, and he slammed back in the
seat as the Boeing 737 disintegrated.

The belt held him to the seat as his torso, arms, and legs
gyrated. Something hammered against his legs, turning him toward the girl in
the seat beside him. Her eyes wide, she opened her mouth, but her scream was
lost among other noises assaulting his ears. The man on the aisle was—gone. The
spot where he’d been sitting had turned into blue sky, brown and green earth,
and . . . pieces.

He tumbled, wind tearing at his face. He had glimpses of
open sky, felt freezing cold, and gasped for breath. Intense pain accompanied
impressions of people, baggage, seats, metal sections, and the shock of contact
with something, and then . . .

***

Flight 4382

“We continue with boarding of United Flight 4382, direct
from San Francisco to Chicago. Group 3 may now board.”

What Joe Colsco heard was something closer to, “Wek you
board tid ight flity-ate-and-tuh, wrecked farm saloforsco shillack. Grope
eemaywo ord.”

He wondered if they deliberately trained the announcers to
sound like they had a mouth full of mush. It took inquiries to a nearby elderly
woman with gray hair and a man in a cowboy hat and boots for the three of them
to come up with a plausible translation. Reasonably confident their group was
called to board, all three joined the queue. They shuffled forward, presented
their boarding passes, and snaked down the gangway.

As the line of passengers reached the aircraft door, Joe
looked up at blue sky and fluffy clouds, then back at the aluminum cylinder
where he would spend the next four hours. The plane looked so small against the
vast sky. Sweat beaded his forehead and plastered the shirt to his skin.

Why am I so nervous about flying?

It certainly wasn’t because of the conference in Chicago.
While it was his first presentation at a major scientific meeting, he knew his
results were impressive, and once he started the talk, he could ignore an
audience of any size.

Inside the plane, passengers jostled for space. Joe’s
apprehension persisted. The elderly woman took her seat, then Joe went to his
row. He had a window seat. He shoved his bag into the overhead bin and sat his
5 foot, 10 inch, 175 pounds into 28A, slid his laptop and a folder into the
seat pocket in front of him, and crammed against the back of the seat.

His attention drifted to Chicago and the huge annual weeklong
American Society of Chemists (ASC) gathering. Scores of simultaneous
presentations would be held in rooms that varied in size from hardly more than
a large bedroom to an auditorium holding several thousand.

He’d based his presentation on a paper that one of the
better chemistry journals had accepted for publication, contingent on what the
editor considered minor revisions. He had resubmitted those revisions to the
journal two days ago. The title of his talk, “A New Approach to Synthesizing
Derivatives of the Thiopyran Class of Heterocyclic Rings,” might be
nap-inducing, according to his girlfriend Julie, but Dr. Ellsworth, his
graduate school advisor, thought the title and focus appropriate for the
setting. Joe had developed a novel method of synthesizing cyclic bases, a class
of compounds that included both the information-carrying parts of DNA and RNA
and other compounds with important industrial and medical applications. Joe and
Ellsworth had submitted a patent application and expected significant interest
from chemical companies.

In two months, Joe would give another talk, this one at the
Western Chapter of the American Association for the Advancement of Science
(AAAS) conference in Sacramento. At this catch-all meeting for every branch of
science and for any social and political issues impinged on by science, many
presentations would be less about hard science results and more about
implications and speculations.

Ellsworth referred to them as “pseudoscience,” but Joseph
didn’t care. The meeting gave him a chance to relate his research to a topic he
found more interesting than his ACS talk. His AAAS talk, “Alternatives to
Standard Heterocyclic Bases in DNA of Exobiosystems,” would address one of the
basic questions in biochemistry and exobiology: whether the four bases of Earth
DNA (adenine [A], thymine [T], guanosine [G], and cytosine [C]) were required
or the result of randomness in the first organisms that evolved on Earth. Could
life have settled on other heterocyclic bases? A, T, G, and X? Or even X, X, X,
and X, where each X was a different base from Earth’s ATGC?

Joe’s novel path to base synthesis used conditions both
relevant to efficient commercial production and similar to the environment
theorized to have existed on Earth as life developed. He had already prepared
presentations for both meetings, but his focus this day was the ACS gathering
in Chicago.

Getting his advisor’s agreement to reveal their latest data
at the Chicago meeting hadn’t been automatic.

“Joe, you know what can happen if you reveal results before
publication. I know the good reviews are encouraging and the requested changes
minor, but you can never tell for sure. It’s always best to wait for formal
acceptance before talking at a meeting.”

While Joe had pretended to take everything Ellsworth said
seriously, he knew Ellsworth always drummed into everyone in his lab horror
stories of people being scooped by trolls at meetings who hurried home and
published preliminary results to claim priority of publication. Joe understood
the concern. Revealing approaches, much less results, before publication had a
checkered history in science.

Joe’s reasoning and his insistence the conference was a
chance for him to impress the academic community assuaged Ellsworth, and the
title and summary were submitted to the meeting’s organizers. Joe only felt
minor guilt at his lapse in honesty. It was not the attendees from academia he
was interested in impressing, but those from industry—particularly, chemical
companies. Joe’s ambitions were limited to an interesting job that paid well, a
secure future, and marriage in suburbia with two kids. He had seen enough of
the rat race of grant applications and the politics of academia and was even
less interested in teaching the same classes to cookie-cutter students, year
after year. Neither Ellsworth, whose lab he worked in, nor the Berkeley
Chemistry Department would be pleased if he left early. Their goal consisted of
churning out PhDs after years of benefiting from cheap graduate student labor.

But that’s their problem, Joe thought, comfortable in
his small subterfuge.

In theory, only the journal editor and the three reviewers
knew details of the paper. In practice, word of the paper was already
circulating. Joe had been contacted by two chemical company recruiters with job
offers, each at a salary comparable to that of a full professor with twenty
years’ experience, plus generous benefits—information he had not shared with
Ellsworth. He and Julie anticipated a further increase in interest once he
publicly revealed the latest results in his meeting presentation. They would
have to do some hard thinking if they got an offer they couldn’t refuse.

“Then you wouldn’t get your PhD,” Julie pointed out when he
told her of the first offer.

“No, but a doctor of philosophy degree is less important in
industry than at universities, where they wouldn’t even look at your
application if you weren’t Dr. Somebody. I’ve asked around, and there’s not
much difference between a master’s degree and a PhD for companies unless you aim
to become head of a division or even of the whole company, neither of which I
have any interest in.

“If we decided to bail on the PhD, all I have to do is
withdraw from the doctoral program, and a master’s degree is automatically
granted, based on my first two years’ work. Is sticking out two to three more
years as a graduate student worth adding three letters behind my name?”

“You know my feelings, Joe. I’m ready to nest and move on.
And there’s the other little item to consider.”

They had been living together for three years, with a
wedding scheduled in two months, soon after Joe’s AAAS presentation. Julie and
her family were in full wedding-planning mode, something Joe was happy to leave
to them. Then, a week before Joe left for Chicago, a complication appeared when
a pregnancy kit came up positive. They had been careless. Having a family was
something they wanted “someday” in the nebulous future. Now, whether “someday”
would come in seven months or whether Julie would end the pregnancy was under
discussion. The option of Joe having a well-paid job would factor into their
decision.

From his seat, Joe saw his vague reflection in the plane’s
window. What stared back was the face of a man twenty-six years old, of average
appearance, fine, mousy brown hair, and unusually light blue eyes. He accepted
himself as a classic science nerd. He loved watching sports but was not
athletic, being too slow, too uncoordinated, too unmuscular, too lazy, and from
an early age too reluctant for the physicality of team sports. Occasional
hiking and jogging, spurred on by Julie’s nagging, were his only vigorous
activities.

While Flight 4382 continued loading, Joe reviewed the notes
for his talk. He lost his concentration when the occupants of the other two
seats in his row appeared. A tall man of about forty-five and dressed in a suit
nodded a greeting as he sank into the aisle seat. The man rose again a moment
later for the occupant of the middle seat—a teenage Hispanic girl. She said
hello to Joe with a friendly smile and took her seat. They all settled with
minimal elbow joggling as the plane finished loading. Joe smelled perfume on
the girl, and when she bumped his elbow and apologized, he responded politely,
then promptly forgot about both of his row-mates and resumed mentally
practicing his talk.

“Sir, please buckle up,” said a flight attendant.

“Oh, sorry.” He tussled with the seatbelt, then loosened it
to accommodate his girth. He really needed to lay off pizza so often. Never one
to mince words, his fiancée called him pudgy.

The plane taxied to the runway and waited in a queue. When
cleared for departure, the engines roared as the plane picked up speed and
lifted off. Joe clamped his hands on both armrests. They rose to cruising
altitude, and the engine noise settled to a steady drone.

Three hours fifty-five minutes before they touched down in
Chicago. Joe’s stomach churned. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“You okay?”

Joe turned to the girl. “What?” He pulled out a handkerchief
and mopped his brow, then laughed. “Guess I’m a little nervous.”

“Do you fly often?”

“Nope, only my third time.”

“Then this isn’t the best route.” She smiled
sympathetically. “It’s normally bumpy when we cross the Rockies. But don’t
worry. We’ll bounce around for a bit, and then it’ll be okay. They seldom lose
a wing.” A mischievous grin played on her full lips.

“Thanks for nothing,” he muttered.

“It’s quite exciting when we go through turbulence.”

Joe’s mouth twitched, and he glanced at her. She couldn’t be
more than sixteen. “My need for an adrenaline rush is limited to computer
games.” He tightened the seatbelt. “Even roller coasters are more than I
can handle, and they’re a few hundred feet off the ground.”

“Then you haven’t lived. I can’t wait to try skydiving.”

Not for him. Nor bungee jumping, rock climbing, or any other
inconceivable activities. Video games and watching sports were plenty of
action for him. He pulled out his laptop and opened it, hoping she’d get
the message he wasn’t interested in conversation, and especially not the sort
that involved aircraft wings falling off.

“What do you do?”

Joe sighed. To work, he needed to escape this chatty
teenager. “I’m a scientist.” He opened his presentation and turned the screen
so she could see his slides. “Sorry, I need to work.”

She shrugged and pulled out a book.

Joe worked on his presentation, which helped calm his
nerves. Two hours into the flight the plane jolted, and his stomach spasmed.

The girl giggled. “Turbulence. Guess we’re over the
Rockies.”

His belly tightened, and beads of sweat reappeared on his
forehead. He put the laptop away, cinched the seatbelt tighter, and clutched
the armrests.

The plane lurched. Joe’s seatbelt squeezed his stomach.
Gasps and squeals reverberated through the cabin; somewhere a child cried.

The captain’s controlled voice drifted from the address
system. “Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We’ll have
rough air for the next few minutes.”

His anxiety mounting, Joe’s grip tightened. He opened his
eyes and stared down at mountains far below. A wave of vertigo swept over him,
and he raised his eyes to the horizon. A dot appeared in the distance and drew
Joe from his thoughts. He frowned. A plane? His eyes widened in panic as the
dot expanded to fill the window.

The plane lurched sideways, and an explosion rocked the
aircraft. High-pitched wails filled the air, and a flight attendant and a drink
trolley careened down the aisle. Baggage compartments burst open, and bags
became missiles.

A second explosion sent shards of metal flying. A ball of
burning fuel burst in through an exit door several rows to the front,
incinerating passengers close to it. The inhalation of smoke stopped the scream
in Joe’s throat.

The plane tilted, nose down, and the seatbelt bit into his
midriff, then the aircraft swung nose up. The seat in front jerked back
violently, slamming into his knees. Joe stared at his legs. A femur jutted
through torn flesh, and blood pumped from the wound in thick ribbons, but he
felt nothing. He looked at the girl next to him. Her eyes were wide, mouth open
in a scream that was lost in the noise of grinding metal and chaos.

The plane cartwheeled. The wall across the aisle peeled
open, and seats vacuumed out. The suited man disappeared through the hole in
the fuselage. Other passengers followed, including the cowboy and the teenage
girl.

Still strapped to his seat, Joe hurtled through the gaping
hole, jagged metal slicing into him. Arms and legs spiraling like a puppet, he
twisted helplessly as icy air engulfed him.

I’m dying!

He tumbled, caught glimpses of open sky, felt freezing cold,
and gasped for breath. Intense pain accompanied impressions of people, baggage,
seats, metal sections, and the shock of contact with something, and then
. . .

Chapter 2: Alive

He awoke. Not the instant awareness of being jolted by an
alarm or the gentle rising from dozing in and out, but a gradual recognition of
existence.

All he heard was his breathing. Wherever he was, the air was
odorless and still. When he tried opening his eyes, they ached. His whole body
ached.

Finally, Joe’s eyes opened, and he stared up at a ceiling so
white it hurt his eyes. He turned his head to the left, then to the right. He
was in a room with walls of the same featureless white, with no hint of seams,
tiles, windows, doors, or lights.

He tried to talk, to ask questions, but a croak came out.

“You can get water from the tube to the right of your
mouth,” said a voice.

Joe turned his head, and something touched his cheek. He
opened his mouth and a tube entered. He sucked cool water into his mouth. While
it felt good, when he swallowed, it was as if the water fought its way over
rocks. After several more swallows, it became easier. Finally, he pushed the
tube out with his tongue.

“W . . . what happened? Where am I?”

“You were in an accident and were injured. Everything should
be fully functional.”

Accident? What accident?

He couldn’t remember an accident. He was on a plane going to
the meeting when . . . the plane. Sitting. The man and the Hispanic
girl. Looking out the window. The dot. The dot getting bigger! The impact?
Everything turning to pieces! His heart rate shot up as he remembered.

“Do not be alarmed. Everything is fine. We believe you are
functioning within normal parameters.”

The voice sounded hollow. Recorded.

Functioning within normal parameters? Who the hell talks
like that? I must be in a hospital. Where’s the staff?

He tried to move something besides his head: legs, arms,
fingers. Nothing responded.

Why can’t I move? Am I paralyzed!?

“Everything is fine. You cannot move yet because I need to
speak with you first. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t understand,” he rasped. “Where am I?”

The voice ignored his question. “What is your name?”

Joe said nothing, his mind racing, groping for solid ground.

“Please answer. What is your name?”

“Joe,” he mumbled. “Joe.”

“Your name is Joe? Is that your entire name?”

“Joseph. Joseph Colsco. Joseph William Colsco.”

“You have given three different names. Are they all equally
correct, or is one more correct?”

“My full name is Joseph William Colsco, but people call me
Joe.” The rasp in his voice was fading.

“Thank you, Joe.”

“Who are you?” he demanded, his tone hardening.

“You may think of me as your doctor.”

“Think” of you as—? What the hell is going on?

His mouth went dry again. He returned to the tube for more
water and a moment to think.

“All right. You’re a doctor, and I was in an accident. Why
can’t I move?”

“To keep you calm until we can talk,” said the voice with
its odd flatness. It had an accent, though he couldn’t place it. That was
unusual, because people from all over the world attended Berkeley, and he could
easily identify most accents. This voice strangely lacked intonations.

“I will allow a little movement so you can be reassured.
Test your fingers and toes.”

Joe clenched his hands, then splayed his fingers. He wiggled
his toes. He wasn’t paralyzed.

He tried to sound calmer. “Yes, I can move a little. Why can’t
I get up?”

“In time. Please answer more questions. This is to check
your memory. Where do you live?”

“Berkeley, California.”

“What is our occupation?”

“I’m a chemistry graduate student at the University of
California.”

“Where were you born?”

“La Mesa, near San Diego.”

“What is the name of the San Diego football team?”

“Huh? Who cares?”

“The name please.”

“The Chargers.”

“Now I will ask questions to test your mental responses.
What is two plus five?”

“Seven.”

“The square root of twenty-five?”

“Five.”

“The cube root of 4913?”

“Gimme a break!”

“Please recite back the following numbers, three, five,
eight, two.”

Joe complied.

“Three, five, two, two, seven, six, eight.”

He repeated the string of numbers again—barely.

“Five, eight, one, eight, three, six, two, seven, four,
five, seven, five, nine.”

“Who the fuck can remember that many?!”

The questions continued, alternating from the trivial to the
ridiculous. Joe was about to call an exhausted and angry halt when the
questions stopped.

“Thank you, Joe. Your mental functioning seems to be
satisfactory.”

Joe was too tired to respond.

“You will rest now, and we will talk more later.”

“Wait! What about some answ—”

Joe descended into a black void.

***

Then . . . awake again. This time suddenly, still
looking at the same white ceiling. Joe opened his mouth to call out and
realized he could move his arms. He drew them up in front of his face to look
at his hands, rotated the wrists to view both sides, and flexed his fingers.
While everything worked, the pallid flesh and his thin arms startled him.

“You may sit up,” the voice droned. “Be careful. You may
feel dizzy.”

When Joe tried to sit up, it was as if his abdominal muscles
had forgotten how to contract. He grunted and pushed against the surface with
his right arm, struggling into a sitting position. He was on a platform two
feet off a floor. The voice was right. He was so dizzy for a second, he thought
he might faint. He sat, head hanging, hands gripping the edge of the platform,
eyes closed until his head cleared.

The ceiling, walls, floor, and platform were all the same
white. He was inside a ten-foot white cube, empty except for the low platform
on which he sat.

He looked down. He was naked. His genitals were there but
shriveled. His legs were pale, thin, and unmarred.

The accident! My leg!

He remembered the bone sticking out.
Ribbons of blood. Now, there wasn’t a mark. What kind of hospital was
this?

“Joe, can you catch this ball?”

“Ball? What ball?” Something thudded off his forehead. A blue
ball about two inches in diameter bounced across the floor, hit a wall, and
continued to ricochet around the room. It wasn’t the blueness that caught his
attention, but the slowness with which the ball bounced and the height of the
bounces. It was like he was watching a slow-motion film. That possibility was
eliminated when the ball came within reach, and Joe reached out and grabbed it
with his left hand. Another ball appeared—red this time. He caught it in his
right hand.

“Good reflexes. Thank you, Joe.”

He stared at the two balls in his hands, then his fingers
curled into fists. He opened his hands and gaped. The balls were gone!

A chill washed over him, and his breathing turned quick and
shallow. A knot formed in his stomach.

“There is no reason to be frightened, Joe. You are fine. You
were injured, but everything seems to be sufficiently repaired.”

Repaired? Like a toaster? And sufficiently? Sufficiently
for what?

He drew several deep breaths, trying to slow his racing
heart. “Please answer my questions. Who are you, and where am I?”

“Joe, I am a simulation of a human being, designed to
communicate with you.”

“Yeah,” Joe snorted, “and I’m Jim Thorpe, the greatest
athlete ever.”

There was silence for a few seconds, then, “I’m sorry. You
told me earlier your name was Joseph William Colsco. Did I misunderstand?”

“All right! Enough of this shit! Who the fuck are you, and
where am I?”

“Joe, do you see the bar next to you?”

“What?”

“The bar, Joe,” insisted the voice.

“There’s no bar—” Joe glanced to his side and scowled at a
two-inch-thick bar about eight inches above the end of the platform and curving
to connect to the two corners. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Where
. . . ?”

“Please hold onto the bar.”

Joe placed his right hand lightly on the bar.

“Do not be alarmed. Please hold onto the bar to avoid
injury.”

“Injury from wha—” His feet left the floor. Joe gasped and
clutched the bar with both hands as he floated, attached only by his death grip
on the bar, his mind blank of any thought except holding on.

The sensation of weight slowly returned, and he settled back
onto the platform, keeping a firm grip on the bar with his right hand and his
left hand gripping the edge of the platform. His mind was frozen, waiting for
an explanation.

Finally, he croaked, “What happened?”

“The gravity in your room was adjusted to zero to prove you
are no longer on your planet. You are in a vessel at a Lagrange point.”

“Lagrange point?” The part of his mind still reasoning drew
from a classroom memory. One of the points in space relative to the Earth
where an object stays in a stable position with respect to the Earth while they
both orbit the Sun. He remembered the balance between gravity and orbital
motion caused the stability. He thought there were several such points, but all
he could remember were the ones where the Sun, the Earth, and the Lagrange
point were in a line, Sun-point-Earth, Earth-Sun-point, point-Earth-Sun, and
point-Sun-Earth.

“That’s not possible,” Joe whispered, another chill raising
the hairs on his back and arms. “How can I be at a Lagrange point?”

“How do you think it would be possible?”

Joe froze. To answer would make the impossible possible.

“Joe, how might you be at a Lagrange point?”

Joe’s brain seized, trapped in a vortex. The voice repeated
the question at thirty-second intervals until Joe swallowed and choked out, “A
spacecraft?”

“Very good, Joe. Yes, you are on a spacecraft.”

“How did I get into space and whose ship is this? Ours?
Russians’? Chinese?”

“What do you think, Joe? Which of them could have adjusted
the gravity in this room?”

Joe’s mind raced, rummaging frantically for plausible
answers. He was on Earth, and they faked the floating? No. No way to do that on
Earth. And what about the slowness of the bouncing balls? Some secret NASA,
military, Russian, whomever or whatever? Nothing fit. But it had to be one of
these, didn’t it?

Joe’s grip on the bar tightened even more, as he eliminated
all possibilities except one. The blood drained from his face.

“Can you think of an answer, Joe?”

“No,” he said in a small voice.

“Then what is left?”

He was silent for a full minute. Joe was cold and sweating
at the same time, his throat constricted, his heart pounding. “A spaceship not
made on Earth?”

“That is correct, Joe. This craft did not originate on your
planet.”

I’m insane, dreaming, or hallucinating.

Joe scrambled for an explanation he could understand.
Acceptance came only after more demonstrations of gravity manipulation, and
when one wall turned transparent and he could see the Earth in full view. At
first, it was a small orb of blues, browns, and greens. Then it grew
closer—magnified, he assumed—until it filled the wall. He stared for some time,
long enough to notice the view had the Earth’s surface in total sunlight. The
only way the surface could be in complete sunlight was if the vessel was
positioned between the Sun and the Earth.

This must be the L1 Lagrange Point, his mind dredged
up. So the Sun must be behind us to get this view. The Sun-point-Earth Lagrange
arrangement. Only when the wall changed back to white, and his heart rate
returned closer to normal did his mind accept as possible the option that
couldn’t be true. The voice was silent, waiting for him to initiate. He didn’t
know what to say or ask, as his mind tried to gather itself.

“Do you need more evidence, Joe?”

“No. It must be true, or I’m insane.” After a moment, he
said, “Hey, wait a minute! If you’re supposed to be some kind of alien, how do
you speak English and how do you know about Lagrange points?”

“All languages can be understood with sufficient samples,
such as the broadcasts emanating from your planet. I assumed your language was
English, based on the position of your aircraft. As for knowing the name for
the Lagrange points, among the electromagnetic emanations from Earth are
education programs. Joe, you are on a vessel near your planet, both orbiting
your Sun.”

Joe’s mind whirled, unable to settle on a single thought for
more than a fraction of a second before careening off in other directions.

When Joe didn’t speak, the voice repeated, “Joe, do you
understand you are on a vessel orbiting your Sun?”

“You mean an alien spaceship?”

“A vessel not of your planet. Yes. An alien spaceship.”

“Who are you?” Joe whispered.

“I am a simulation of a human being, designed to communicate
with you.” The same statement, word for word, the voice had used when Joe first
asked the same question.

“Simulated? Designed? You mean you’re a computer program or
AI?”

“You may think of me as an AI, an artificial intelligence,
as the closest analogy to your species’ technical level.”

“Who made you? Who made this vessel?”

“That information is not important for you to know, and I am
not authorized to give an answer.”

“Why am I here? What do you want of me?”

“A malfunction of the systems of this vessel caused it to
accidently destroy your craft. There was a temporary single sub-atomic systems
fault that would normally have been corrected by redundant subroutines, except
for coinciding with a routine reboot of a process whose role was monitoring the
reliability of subroutines. Unable to confirm reliability, blocks of
subroutines shut down or paused, affecting both the vessel’s cloaking
technology, making it momentarily visible, and stopping the processing of
external sensor data.”

“A computer crash? You’re saying you crashed into my plane
because your systems glitched?”

“A crude but accurate assessment. It took two seconds to
recognize the faults from the initial quantum error and make the necessary
corrections. Unfortunately, in those two seconds, our vessel transited
thirty-eight miles and, for a brief instance, attempted to occupy the same
volume of space as your airplane. Not unexpectedly, the attempt failed.”

“Well, no shit.”

“There were negligible effects on our vessel, but
consequences for your aircraft were substantial. Our systems resumed normal
function too late to avoid the collision. However, we managed to hold onto
pieces of the plane, the baggage, and the passengers. Most of the humans died
instantly, but a few survived the seconds it took the ship’s systems to recover
and attempt to save the plane. You are one of the survivors.”

“Was I injured?”

“Yes.”

“How badly?” Joe steeled himself.

“It is not necessary for you to have that information.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“How many survived?”

“I cannot give you that information.”

“Why not?”

“I cannot give you that information.”

“You can’t tell me how many survived, or you can’t tell me
why you can’t tell me?”

“Yes to both questions.”

“Why am I here? You didn’t answer when I asked before. Why
rescue anyone?”

“There is an obligation,” said the voice in the same flat
tone, “an obligation to be acknowledged and mitigated as much as possible.”

“Why is there an obligation and to whom?”

“You would likely not understand if I tried to explain.
Also, it is unnecessary for you to know the reasons.”

“I must be dreaming this, or else I’m going crazy. If this
is all true, why do I feel so calm? I should be climbing the walls.”

“Why would you climb the walls? You have no physical
attributes that would assist this action, and climbing would lead nowhere
except the ceiling.”

“I mean, I should be screaming and running around, scared
shitless!”

“I do not see any logical connection to feces. However, if I
understand your meaning, you are wondering why you do not have more severe
reactions to your situation. Part of the answer is that we are suppressing the
portions of your nervous system that respond to agitation.”

Joe was quiet for a moment. “You mean, dampen the fight-or-flight
response?”

“Yes. The hormones and neural pathways that energize your
physiology to either flee from danger or attack an enemy are being suppressed
to allow you to rationally accept events.”

“What comes next?” Joe asked. “Do you keep me here, take me
to your planet, return me to Earth, or what?” At the edge of his consciousness
were other options, ones he didn’t care to consider.

“None of those three options are possible. For reasons
unnecessary for you to understand, you cannot remain on this vessel or be taken
to my creators’ home. Neither can you be returned to your planet. You have
knowledge of our existence. You may choose one of two options. For you to
understand the options, it is necessary you be given limited knowledge. I will
not answer additional questions.”

The voice paused a moment, while Joe sat waiting to hear his
options. Fear curled over raw nerve endings, in spite of the alien’s attempts
to keep him calm.

“This vessel observes Earth and its civilization,” the voice
intoned, “because there are other planets in this region of the galaxy
inhabited by humans. Earth is evidently the origin of humans, though both
humans and some animals and plants were taken from Earth in the past and
transplanted to other planets. Who did the transplantation is not known. Humans
did not then, nor do you now, have such technology. Our purpose is to gather
information to explain who is responsible and why this was done.”

“Humans on other planets! How many such planets and where
are they?”

“I cannot give you that information.”

“You don’t know, or you won’t tell?”

“I cannot give you that information.”

Joe ground his teeth. He wasn’t in the best frame of
mind for sophisticated reasoning, which was fortunate, since there seemed to be
only one option.

“Let me guess. If I can’t stay on this ship, I can’t return
to Earth, there are other planets with humans, and since you’re interested in
my survival, the only option would be to take me to one of these planets
inhabited by humans.”

“Partly correct. That is one of the two options. The other
one is you can choose to terminate your existence.”

Joe sat transfixed. “You mean, like, be killed?”

“You would cease to be. There would be no discomfort, I
assure you.”

“Well, thanks. I appreciate the shit out of that.”

“I am sorry, Joe, but I am still not clear on the relevance
to feces.”

“It’s an obscure English language reference. I cannot give
you the information to explain it.”

Two can play at this silly game.

“Wait a minute,” Joe said then. “I thought you couldn’t give
me information, but you just did, about other planets having humans.”

“As I said before, you need this information to recognize
your two options and to make an informed decision. Will you need time to
decide?”

“If you return me to Earth, I would swear not to tell anyone
about what happened here—so your secret would be safe.”

“I believe if you considered this logically, you would see
the fallacy in this assurance.”

While Joe wanted to argue, he couldn’t give any assurances
that they—whoever they were—would have any reason to trust.

“Besides, it is unlikely that anyone would believe you.”

Joe bit his lip, eyes darting about. It was time to grasp at
straws. “If no one believes me, why not let me return to Earth?”

“There is the low probability you would be believed or your
account would be on a permanent record that someday could correlate with
additional information.”

“I’ll never see my family or friends again,” Joe said in
desperation, “never have my life back!”

“That is unfortunate.”

He blinked back tears. “Please, I beg you, take me home.”

“That is not an opt—”

“I promise to keep this to myself!”

“There is no point in continuing this exchange. There will
be no more discussion. You are required to choose one of the two options.”

As if about to fall into a pit, Joe grasped for reasons to
delay the decision. “You haven’t given me enough details. This limited
information would contradict the obligation for my survival. I need to know
more about the planet to decide whether I prefer that over termination.”

The silence encouraged Joe to think they were considering
his complaint—he hoped. Then the voice returned.

“I will answer relevant and allowed questions.”

For several days, as Joe considered his sleep/wake cycle, he
asked questions, and the voice mainly wouldn’t answer. Joe soon became tired of
thinking of whatever he was communicating with as “the voice.” He debated
within himself, aloud at times, about what name to bestow, and he settled on
Harlie—the friendly AI of a science fiction novel by author David Gerrod. For
the alien whatever they were, it was more difficult, because he knew nothing
about them, neither their appearance, type of environment, origin, nor
intentions. Harlie claimed his creators were only observing humans. That’s what
Joe would call them. Watchers who were benignly studying humans. He hoped.

Talking to Harlie kept Joe’s mind temporarily occupied.
Whenever the voice didn’t respond, or Joe didn’t want to talk, he fell into
despondent moods, even though he suspected that they continued to dampen his
emotions.

Periodically, a slot would open to a cavity containing
cream-colored food cubes. They might be keeping him alive, but otherwise the
fare reminded him of papier-mâché in early grade school. Cups of metallic-tasting
water were available on request from the same slot, and with instructions from
the voice on the functions of several levers, Joe used a corner of the room for
“waste disposal.”

While Joe’s efforts to wheedle more information out of
Harlie about the Watchers failed, he had more success with the proposed
destination.

“Joe, I am allowed to show you an image of the planet.”

A white wall instantly displayed a planet against a black
background. After a few seconds, the orb rotated to show the entire surface, and
superimposed lines indicated the equator. Resolution was sharp, though no fine
details were discernible. In the first view, major land masses covered 40-50
percent of the surface, with a large continent in the northern hemisphere,
three smaller in the southern, and islands were scattered around the larger
masses. However, once the planet rotated, Joe could see the opposite side was
devoid of land except for scattered islands. Ice and snow extended farther
toward the equator than on Earth, and he couldn’t see if the white covered land
or water.

When the viewed returned to the planet half with most land,
and stopped, Joe could see mountain ranges and the largest rivers and lakes.
The land was shades of brown and a darker green than on Earth. Cloud cover was
similar to that shown on satellite views of Earth, and several low-pressure
whorls suggested the planet’s version of hurricanes.

There was no sign of human artifacts. Then again, would he
have seen anything on Earth from space before megacities arose? He remembered
the astronauts said the only single structure they could identify was the Great
Wall. Wait . . . were there some pinpricks of light just inside the
night portion? Several of them on the coast near the equator. Cities?

While Joseph studied the image, Harlie droned a commentary.

“There are significant human populations on all the major
land masses and larger islands. The social and political systems are unknown at
present, other than there seem to be a variety. The level of technology
resembles Earth at approximately the years 1650 to 1750.”

Joe flashed on images of Stone Age humans, tribal societies,
the Roman Empire, medieval Europe, Mongol hordes, and other times and places on
Earth he wouldn’t have wanted to find himself. However, by around 1700 there
were also reasonable civilizations.

His positive attitude dissipated when he remembered that in
1700 on Earth, plenty of Stone Age and tribal places existed, along with more
advanced cultures in which he wouldn’t have lasted long.

“Where would you leave me on this planet? Is there any way
for me to know more about the local conditions and have a choice where I end
up?”

“No to both of your questions,” said Harlie. “However, I am
allowed to give you basic information about the planet itself. The planet is
cooler than Earth, has a 329-day year, a day equivalent to 23 hours, and
gravity 1.18 times Earth’s, due to the planet’s larger diameter and mass.”

Making a rough calculation, Joe figured a year on this
planet would be almost nine-tenths of an Earth year, 20 years equivalent to
nearly 18 on Earth, and so on. More disturbing was gravity. His 175 pounds on
Earth would translate into 206 on this planet.

“It’s hard enough that I’ll be dumped into a foreign society
where I’ll know absolutely nothing, not even languages, but to make matters
worse, I’ll weigh more and be more physically stressed. I admit to not being
much of an athletic specimen, but this’ll decrease my chances of survival.”

“Do not be concerned. We made minor adjustments to your body
to account for the increased mass.”

“Adjustments?” Joe frowned. “What kind of ‘minor’
adjustments?”

“We altered your physiology by increasing the efficiency of
your cells’ energy-producing organelles.”

“Energy organelles? You mean the mitochondria?”

“Yes, the mitochondria. The increase in efficiency should
result in more muscle mass and faster reflexes.”

“I’m not sure I’m reassured by the ‘should’ part. How does
it work?”

“Basic Earth physiology is relatively simple, and it only
required replacing a few genes.”

“You mean, like, actually replacing genes?
Everywhere?”

“In most of your cells. Not every cell had the relevant
genes replaced, but enough of them to have the same effect as a total
replacement. The nuclear genome was too complex to modify in the short time
available. Fortunately, the smaller DNA content of your energy-producing
sub-cellular organelles was easier to change.”

Joe didn’t like the sound of this. Humans had nowhere near
this technology, so how confident should he be that some alien race could do it
in such a short time?

Which brought forth another question. “Say, just how long
has it been since you crashed into my airliner?”

“Two of your years,” Harlie replied.

“Jesus! Two years!”

“Yes. It took time to fully analyze your biochemistry,
physiology, and genome structure. Since you were our first physical specimen of
Earth biology, the repairs to your injuries were carried out with caution. The
actual gene replacement took only a few hours.”

Two years. Two years! Everyone he knew believed he’d
been dead for two whole years. As far as they were concerned, time had passed
and they’d moved on without him. Julie? Where was she? What about the baby? Was
there even a baby?

One shock after another, and Joe stayed surprised at how he
continued to accept everything with relative equanimity. But after the previous
revelations, what were a few more? It must be the drugs or whatever they’re
doing to me that keeps me semi-sane.

“All right, so let’s say I’ll be strong enough to compensate
for the increased gravity. What about diseases to which my immune system won’t
have any resistance?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And what about me giving
them diseases? I may have latent viruses and bacteria that will find a virgin
field—a whole population without resistance. I could accidently kill most of
the people on the planet!” Joe thought about the devastation of the American
Indians by diseases brought in by the first Europeans.

“That is not a problem. As part of repairing your body, it was
necessary to preserve your parts from external contamination. Microscopic
elements were designed for your basic physiology and biochemistry to exclude
foreign entities and were injected into you. You will neither transmit any
microorganisms to other humans nor be subject to external microorganisms.”

Two simultaneous concerns intertwined in Joe’s mind. He
wasn’t sure if he wanted more details of his “parts” that they had to preserve,
because they invoked scenes from grotesque movies. Then there were these
“elements” they’d put into him.

“Are these like the predicted nanomachines—microscopic
machines that could be put into a person to remove arterial plaques?”

“I know nothing of your species’ predictions. Such elements,
or nanomachines, as you call them, are a normal step in technological
development.”

“What exactly do these elements do?”

“They recognize and destroy anything not belonging to your
body. This includes bacteria, viruses, fungi, or any other organism types, as
well as any cells of your body that escape the normal limits on proliferation.
The only negative aspect is that you cannot receive transplants from other
humans or animals.”

“So,” Joe said cautiously, “if I understand correctly, I
will not get sick, will not get cancer, but cannot have organ transplants?”

“Correct.”

Well, he thought, it wasn’t like there would be
any heart transplants with the level of medical technology on the planet, so it
was a pretty good trade-off. No illness and no cancer. Joe hated to admit
it, but given what had happened, they seemed to be making a genuine effort to
do right by him, apart from his never seeing Earth again.

“So maybe I’ll have a chance to survive. What about the
humans on this planet? Am I correct that whoever made you doesn’t want it known
that they exist and are observing humans as you do Earth? If that’s the case,
won’t putting me there risk revealing your existence?”

“It is estimated that the probability you will impact the
civilizations is close enough to zero to be considered nonexistent. It would be
like adding a drop of water to an ocean.”

Bastards! I just disappear, and whatever obligation they
feel is satisfied.

Over the next days—sleep cycles—he and the Harlie danced
around the topic of where Joe might be “dumped.” Joe’s questions became more
and more repetitious, and in one session he was about to ask another question
when Harlie announced, “It is time for your decision. Do you wish to be
terminated or be put on the other planet?”

“Wait a minute! I have more questions I need answered.”

“There are no more questions for which you need
answers, only questions to which you want answers.”

“What if I’m not ready to make the decision?”

“It is estimated that there is a ninety-three percent
probability your decision will not change by any amount of additional
information. Nor would additional information increase your survival
probability. Therefore, it is necessary for you to decide.”

“And if I don’t decide?”

“Then our obligation to you is ended. If you refuse to
decide, the decision will be made by a random procedure.”

“Meaning you’ll flip a coin to see if I live or die?”

“If I understand the reference—yes.”

Christ!

“Then I choose the planet. How long will it be before we—”
Joe slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter 3: Planet Anyar

Preddi City, Island of Caedellium

Lieutenant Bortor Nestor stopped at the office door of
General Okan Akuyun, commander of all Narthani forces and civilians on the
island of Caedellium. The young officer ran one hand over his uniform to check buttons
and smooth wrinkles. Satisfied, he raised a hand to knock, gauged the
appropriate firmness expected by General Akuyun, and executed three firm raps.

“Come in,” said a baritone voice.

Nestor opened the door and walked to attention in front of
the general’s desk. On first impression, Okan Akuyun appeared stern and
humorless—a carefully crafted facade. As a young officer, he determined that a
serious demeanor served well in rising through the Narthani hierarchy. He was
uncertain whether it had helped, but it was an ingrained part of his public
persona.

“A message from Admiral Kalcan, General,” said the young
officer, holding out a folded and sealed single sheet.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Akuyun. He took the message,
broke the seal, and his eyes scanned the sheet. “That’ll be all, Lieutenant.
There’s no return message.”

Nestor slapped a right fist to his left shoulder, spun, and
exited.

Akuyun read the sheet again, slower this time,
absentmindedly running a hand from scalp to chin. Of average height and with a
lean frame and face, he wore his hair cropped. Just noticeable were the patches
of gray appropriate for his fifty-two years.

Although he was smooth shaven himself, many Narthani men
sported mustaches, though nothing resembling a beard. No Narthani remembered
that their distant nomadic ancestors had suffered facial fungal infections when
they came roaring out of the harsh northern wastelands and mountains of the
Melosian continent to capture more hospitable lands from weaker tribes. The
beards, practical in their cold ancestral homelands, became breeding grounds
for germs when the Narthani reached the warmer and more humid central
latitudes. Shaving the beards solved the problem. Now, the Narthani considered
beards a feature of lesser peoples; it was typical of their arrogance to ignore
a history not fitting their self-image of inherent superiority.

Okan Akuyun rose and walked to his office window. In
the glass, he saw two faint reflections: his own face, and the six-foot-square
wall map hanging behind his desk. He knew every detail of the map. The
Caedellium Archipelago consisted of one large island, two smaller islands to
the northwest, and several islets off the main island’s coasts. That large
island, Caedellium, measured five hundred by four hundred miles and was
politically divided among twenty-one provinces ruled by clans steadfast in
guarding their independence. A total island population estimated at 800,000
seemed to the Narthani ridiculously under-populated for the richness of the
land.

Through the window glass and past the reflections, Akuyun
surveyed parts of Preddi City, the original capitol of Preddi Province, and the
main trading port for Caedellium. The city’s population of 35,000 was 9,000
more than when the Narthani first arrived and when the majority of the
population were members of the Preddi Clan. Now, only 3,000 to 4,000 clansmen
remained. The replacements were Narthani civilian settlers and tradesmen and
their families, members of the military accompanied by a few families of the
higher ranks, and slaves from conquered lands.

His eyes moved past the busy square and street in front of
his headquarters and on to the main object of his attention: the harbor of
Preddi City. He drew a deep breath, suppressing the excitement surging through
him. Troop transports and cargo ships filled the harbor. A row of protective
frigates anchored farther offshore, their sails furled, the closed gun ports
for their single deck of 30-pounder cannon visible from his office. No larger
escorts were deemed necessary because Caedellium had no warships and was not
allied with any major power.

Akuyun’s mission was to bring the isolation of this
resource-rich land to an end. He watched with satisfaction as the first two of
the newly arrived troop transports disembarked lines of men down gangplanks to
form units on the dock, their dark blue pants and maroon coats identifying them
as Narthani infantry. Even from this distance and through his closed window, he
could faintly hear officers shouting at their men, boots drumming against wood,
the clanking of weapons against metal canteens. All of these sounds rose above
the background of thousands of men whispering, cursing, grunting, complaining,
and talking with the next men in line. Cannons, ammunition, tools, more
settlers, slaves, general supplies, and the heavy cavalry’s horses waited
offshore in cargo freighters.

He again perused Admiral Kalcan’s listing of the men and
materials carried by the ships. His forces were now complete. He drew more deep
breaths, satisfaction warming his face. Everything was in place for the next
phase of the subjugation of Caedellium.

Caernford, Capitol of Keelan
Province, Caedellium

For Hetman Culich Keelan, hereditary leader of the Keelan
Clan and Province, the morning brought no satisfaction. His forehead furrowed
and his jaw clenched as he read the semaphore message. Another contingent of
Narthani ships sailed toward Preddi City. A Keelan Clan fishing boat straying
closer to the Preddi Province coast than advisable had made a good count of the
number of Narthani ships before the fishermen beat a hasty retreat into safer
waters.

The fishermen reported their sighting to the mayor of the
port town of Dornfeld, the only Keelan town on the Gulf of Witlow, and opposite
Preddi Province. Word of the new Narthani convoy reached Culich by riders from
Dornfeld inland to the nearest semaphore station in Keelan Province, then on to
Caernford. Dornfeld lay on the border with Gwillamer Province, an ally of
Keelan, and along with the eastern province, Mittack, the three made up the
Tri-Clan Alliance. The only semaphore lines connecting Gwillamer and Mittack to
the rest of the island ran first to Caernford, then north and northeast to
reach all of the other clans except the Seaborne, the clan inhabiting the
smaller islands off the northwest Caedellium coast.

“Will there be an answer, Hetman?”

Culich’s eyes rose from the sheet. The semaphore messenger
stood five feet away, waiting.

“Yes,” Culich mumbled, his gaze returning to the
disheartening news, then raising to judge the height of the sun. If he got a
message off to the other hetmen, most should receive it by sundown. Not that
there was anything immediate they could do.

The semaphore flag towers stood an average of five miles
apart, depending on the terrain, and were manned during daylight hours as long
as signals were visible. The system had begun operating ten years earlier, and
only in the last six months had it connected to the last mainland clan.
Rearranging the large panels took time and limited the complexity of messages,
but a short communication starting at any clan capitol, except the island
province of Seaborne, could reach all of the other clans within ten daylight
hours.

If past experience were repeated, most of the hetmen would
acknowledge receipt but would not respond further. Too many clan leaders
considered the Keelan hetman an alarmist, and in the view of too many hetmen,
the Narthani were far from their own provinces, so why should they care?
Culich’s innermost thoughts, those that prudence prevented him from sharing
overtly with all of the other hetmen, were that failing to understand the
looming Narthani threat was as dangerous as the Narthani themselves.

Culich hurried into the front entrance of Keelan Manor and
to his office. There, he composed a two-part message: the number and type of
Narthani ships, and a statement that the ships signaled another sign of future
danger from the Narthani. He folded the paper, sealed it with wax, stamped it
with the Keelan emblem, and strode back to the waiting messenger holding his
horse outside.

“Take this to the Caernford semaphore station quickly. It’s
to go out to all other clan hetmen.”

“Immediately, Hetman.” The man jumped into his saddle,
pulled on the reins to spin his horse, throwing fine gravel onto his hetman’s
boots, and spurred his mount toward Caernford.

Though Culich’s eyes followed the rider down the manor lane
and out onto the road, his real attention was inward. How many Narthani were
now on Caedellium? And how many of those were Narthani soldiers? Thousands?
Tens of thousands? He could only estimate, since the Narthani had cut off all
contact with the rest of Caedellium. Whatever the exact number, every piece of
news of more Narthani arriving felt like a noose cinching tighter around his
people’s necks.

As hetman, he feared the future. He saw no reason to hope
the Narthani intentions were limited to the three lost provinces: Preddi, which
they controlled, and the neighboring Selfcell and Eywell provinces and clans, who
were now de facto allies of the Narthani.

“Why would the Narthani bother with Caedellium at all unless
they intended to absorb the entire island?” he once asked his advisors, hoping
they would argue. They hadn’t.

This fear stalked Culich every waking hour, along with
frustration at his inability to convince more of the other seventeen clans’
hetmen of the danger. The clans of Caedellium had never faced such a threat,
and Culich feared their stubborn independence and distrust of one another might
be their epitaphs.

He sighed and returned to reviewing the quarterly reports
from his district leaders. There was nothing more he could do today about the
Narthani. He’d sent the news on to the other clans. Whatever the future held
for them all, normal life went on in Keelan Province.

Even Culich Keelan, the presumed alarmist, had no idea
how wrong he was.

Beach Outside the Village of
Abersford, Keelan Province

Brisk morning sea air moved onshore. The sun peeking above
the eastern horizon had not yet warmed the air, its light just hitting the tops
of sand dunes. Gulls and murvors cruised the shoreline, the calls of the former
and the whistles of the latter creating a strange counterpoint.

Yonkel Miron ran as hard as his seven-year-old legs would
take him up the sand dunes from the surf’s edge and onto the
Abersford-Gwillamer dirt road paralleling the shore. He then headed inland
through the village of Abersford. As he passed adults and other children, they
yelled out, “Why are you running so hard? Is something wrong?” He ignored them,
his lungs too committed to running for him to answer.

He raced past the school his father made him attend three
days a week and past the well-tended outer grain and flax fields of the abbey
complex. When he reached the eight-foot-high stone wall surrounding the grounds
of the Abbey of St. Sidryn, he sprinted up to the twenty-foot-wide main gate.
The double doors opened with the first chimes from the cathedral and remained
open until sunset. The chimes had not yet struck, and the gate was closed and
barred.

Yonkel went straight to the foot-traffic door built into the
leftmost main door. Gulping lungfuls of air from his mile run, he reached up to
the metal ring knocker on the center of the door and clanged it against the
underlying plate. By the twentieth clang, the upper half of the foot-traffic
door opened, and a cassocked, bearded figure appeared.

“Yes, yes . . . I’m here, you can quit banging
now,” said Brother Alber in an irritated voice.

“Brother Alber!” Yonkel gasped, still out of breath. “My
father said to get Brother Willer to come to the beach. Some kind of dead man
or demon washed up! He’s all pale and skinny and ugly! I thought he was dead
when I found him. We were fishing when I saw him on the sand. I—”

Brother Alber shushed him with waves of both hands. “Slow
down, slow down, Yonkel. Brother Willer is attending to a childbirth, but I’ll
come with you.”

Yonkel looked doubtful. “Well . . . Father said to
bring . . . I suppose it’s all right if you come.”

“Thank you, Yonkel,” Alber said dryly. “I’m glad I’m
acceptable.”

“Can we go now?” Yonkel urged, bouncing on his toes like a
hyperactive racer eager for the starting gong.

“Let me get my medical bag and some better shoes.” Alber
closed the door, and within two minutes he returned wearing walking shoes and a
cloak for the morning dampness. His brown leather medical bag hung by a
diagonal strap over his right shoulder and rested on his left hip.

Yonkel ran ahead, stopped for Alber to catch up, and
repeated this pattern until they reached the cliff above the beach. Below,
Alber saw a cluster of people gathered around something lying on the sand. They
took the winding trail down to the beach and slogged through the soft sand
about a hundred yards until they reached the firmer sand where waves washed up.
They approached the cluster of men. There, splayed out on the sand, was a naked
man on his stomach. At first, Alber thought the man dead. His body appeared
emaciated, and his pale skin had a grayish cast. Alber bent down for a closer look,
then jerked back as the dead body twitched.

“Here!” he yelled to the others. “Help me turn him over!
He’s still alive.”

The watching men hesitated until Alber barked at them again.
As they turned the man onto his stomach, he gasped, but no water trickled from
his mouth as Alber expected if the man had been in the sea and nearly drowned.
The man coughed, spasmed, and breathed. He wasn’t dead.

“Quick! Gather driftwood and use your cloaks and coats to
make a stretcher. We have to carry him to the abbey.”

The men scattered, and within minutes, four of them carried
the man from the beach toward the abbey, with Yonkel and two other children
alternated running ahead and circling the procession.

Word raced ahead, and when they arrived at the abbey, two
medicant acolytes met them at the main gate. They transferred the man to a real
stretcher and took him into one of the examination rooms where the medicants on
duty waited. Alber watched the examination, talking with other medicants and
Abbot Sistian Beynom, who appeared after getting word of the strange man found
on the beach.

“Any idea who he is or where he’s from?” asked the abbot.

“Nothing so far,” said Alber.

After finishing the initial evaluation, Brother Elton Bolwyn
wore a puzzled expression. “Physically, he’s in unusual condition. I know you
say he was found on the beach, but I see no signs of that. If he had been in
water even a short time and gotten washed up, his condition would be very
different. There’s no seawater in his lungs, his skin is unblemished—no bruises
anywhere on his body, no cuts or lacerations. That part of the coast has so
many rocks that if he’d washed ashore, he should have abrasions from hitting
rocks on the way in. If I had to, I would say he was placed on the
beach, instead of being washed up on it.”

Alber shook his head. “The men who found him say there were
no tracks near him when they arrived. The tide was just coming in, so any
tracks wouldn’t have been erased yet by the surf.”

Abbot Beynom wrinkled his eyebrows. “But if there were no
tracks and no sign of his being in the water, how did he get there?”

Bolwyn shrugged. “I’m just telling you my evaluation of his
condition. How he got there, I wouldn’t know.”

“What about the man himself?” asked Alber. “What can you
tell about his physical condition? He looked near death.”

Bolwyn shook his head. “He may look near death, but his
heart and lungs seem fine. What’s strange is his muscles. They’re atrophied as
if they haven’t been used much for a long time. When we don’t use muscles, they
shrink in size. This can happen with people paralyzed, in comas, or confined
for a long period. When I tested his reflexes to see if the muscles were
functional, everything seemed normal.”

“So,” said Abbot Beynom wryly, looking at Alber and Bolwyn,
“what we have is a man who by magic appears on the beach and has been in a
coma, or confined, for months or years?”

“We’re only medicants,” Alber quipped. “You’re the wise
theophist who knows all and sees into the hearts of men.” The two had been
friends for many years, and the banter between caregivers of body and soul was
an integral part of their friendship.

“Oh, pardon. I’d forgotten for a moment. Thank you for
reminding me,” said the abbot, patting Alber on the shoulder before addressing
the other brother. “Bolwyn, you believe he’s in no immediate danger?”

“While his body is obviously weak, if he wakes up, and if we
can get nourishment into him, then maybe he’ll survive.”

“I know I can always look forward to your confident
diagnoses,” the abbot chuckled. “Let me know if his condition changes.”

Abbot Beynom took a last view at the pale body lying on the
table. Well, well, he thought. Today, God had granted us a
surprise outside our normal routine. We’ll have to see what comes from this
addition to our community.

Chapter 4: Recovery

Abbey of St. Sidryn, Keelan
Province

He awoke suddenly, staring at a white ceiling—again.
Confused—again. His first coherent thought was of home. Had it all been a
dream? The voice, Harlie, the plane crash, the story about other worlds and
being taken to one of them. Would he look around and see everything back to
normal? What if it wasn’t a dream? What if he was still in the small white room
with Harlie?

He looked closer at the ceiling. In the “dream,” it was
smooth, pure white. The ceiling at home was smooth but off-white. This ceiling
was painted dull white, with visible brush strokes. Gathering his courage, he
turned his head. He wasn’t in Harlie’s room. A momentary sense of relief was
replaced by confusion. Neither was he at home. Sunlight came through a window,
the rays filtered through green foliage with leaves moving in the wind.
Something flew by the window. Not quite a bird, but too big and fast for a
butterfly.

He heard voices. More than one. Perhaps a man and a woman.
Human voices! Voices with tones, cadences, and hints of emotion! Multiple
voices and not Harlie’s cold, disembodied one. He couldn’t quite make out the
words, even when he concentrated. He listened harder but still couldn’t
understand. He gathered his energy and courage, turning his head in the
direction of the voices.

The first thing he registered was a matronly middle-aged
woman with gray-streaked dark brown hair pulled into a bun, her clothing a
plain brown smock. A man stood next to the woman. He was younger, with a
trimmed and frosted dark beard, medium-length dark hair, wearing trousers and a
tunic of the same brown cloth as the woman. Their mouths moved and sound came
out. Occasionally, he thought he could pick out a word, but it was fleeting,
quickly lost in the otherwise unintelligible stream.

Oh, God! It hit Joe like a blow to his chest. Oh,
God—it wasn’t a dream?!

The man glanced in his direction. Their eyes met, and the
man turned to speak to the woman. The two came to the side of the bed. She put
a warm hand on Joe’s forehead, while the man checked Joe’s pulse and stroked
his palm.

Joe’s fingers closed reflexively. It was too overwhelming,
and Joe drifted off . . . or fainted.

He slept through the night and the next day, moving in and
out of awareness.

“His reflexes seem good,” said Brother Bolwyn the next
morning. “Same with the eye focus. It’s too early to be sure, but I believe
he’s come through whatever happened to him in reasonable condition.”

Abbess Diera Beynom nodded. “Yes, but as you say, still too
early to be sure. I did get the impression he was confused.”

“Hardly unexpected, given how we found him, but that’s
something you’ll have to deal with. I think I’ve done about all I can.
Let me know if there’s anything else you need. I’ll be getting back to my other
patients.”

“Thanks, Elton, I can take it from here.”

Nodding, the medicant brother left Diera with the strange man.
She was also a medicant, a member of the Medicant Order of the Caedellium
service society. While both she and Bolwyn were trained in general medicines,
she was also the abbey’s chief medicant, although in this abbey it was more a
light touch of authority based on respect. Not that anyone didn’t know who was
medicant-in-charge. Diera’s title as abbess was due to her husband and not
because she led the abbey. Sistian Beynom was chief theophist and the abbot in
charge of the three orders represented in the abbey: medicants such as Diera,
Alber, Willer, and Bolwyn; theophists like Sistian, who tended to worship and
ceremonies honoring God; and scholastics, brothers and sisters who focused on
understanding the workings of God’s world. The fourth order, militants, focused
on meditation, self-discipline, and martial arts but were not represented at
St. Sidryn’s, the Abbey of St. Sidryn. Militants had never been numerous on the
island, with only a few in the northern clans. According to lore, however, they
were more prominent elsewhere in the world.

St. Sidryn’s was one of the larger abbeys and had members
from three orders. Smaller abbeys tended to have staff from only one or two
orders. At St. Sidryn’s, the Medicant Order was more represented than the other
two orders because the abbey was the main medicant treatment and training
facility for the district, an area twenty miles across.

The Theophist Order at the abbey ministered to people in the
nearby town of Abersford. In addition, Abbot Sistian Beynom was a prominent
figure in the district and active in administering to the religious and
societal issues within and beyond Abersford.

Brothers and sisters of the Scholastic Order completed
Sidryn’s staff and were in larger numbers than in most mixed-order abbeys. Abbeys
where scholastics gathered to study separately from other orders were also
called scholasticums. Sistian had started his training in one until he became
dissatisfied with the scholastics’ tendency to interact within their own order
and not perform service to God’s role in the world. He switched to the
Theophist Order, and when he became the abbot at St. Sidryn’s, he encouraged
select scholastics to join them. He was eager to bring the different orders
closer. St. Sidryn’s was also unusual in that a few brothers and sisters
performed duties across orders, another example of the abbot’s reluctance to
compartmentalize service to the people and God.

The strange man had created a minor sensation, both in town
and among members of the three orders in the abbey. Medicants regarded him as a
patient. To theophists, he was one of God’s children to minister to, assuming
he wasn’t a demon. And to scholastics, he was a puzzle, and what was more fun
than a puzzle?

Diera touched the stubble on the sleeping man’s chin. He had
been clean-shaven when found. Whatever happened must have occurred recently,
because the stubble couldn’t be more than two or three days old. Who was he? A
slave escaped from the Narthani? The Narthani slaves were beardless, though she
hadn’t heard of a Narthani slave without bruises or scars. He obviously wasn’t
a eunuch. Rumors were that some Narthani male slaves were castrated as children
to make them more docile. So, was this mysterious guest a demon? Sent by the
Evil One to tempt them, or an agent of God sent to test them?

Diera returned to her duties, musing on how the daily
routine had changed this day and wondering whether there was any higher meaning
to it. She and Sistian would have an interesting conversation over the evening
meal.

Responsive

The next morning the stranger was still asleep when Diera
visited him.

“He did wake several times during the night,” the night
attendant told Diera, “and then drifted back to sleep. At mid-morning he awoke
again.”

They tried feeding him broth, but he turned away when the
spoon came under his nose. By afternoon, he’d swallowed a small cup of phila
juice. While it was too sweet for Diera’s taste, and she didn’t care for the
musty flavor, it was heavy in sugar and other nutrients. By the third day, he kept
down a small portion of barley and beef soup. By the fifth day, he consumed
large helpings, and on the eighth day, the stranger sat up and ate solid foods
by himself.

He was still weak, but the change astounded the medicants.
The pallor that had made them afraid he was near death had transformed into a
healthy complexion, though lighter in tone than most Caedelli.

They also confirmed he didn’t speak any of the languages
known to them—Caedelli or any of the major mainland dialects of the same
language group, several dialects of Collardium of the Iraquinik continent,
Frangelese, or High Landolin, the learned language of the Landolin continent
and the accepted scholastic language of most of Anyar.

Diera felt trepidations when they brought in an escaped Narthani
slave working on a farm near Abersford to try the Narthani language, fearing
the stranger was either a Narthani or one of their agents. She was relieved
when he was as oblivious to the Narthani language as any of the others they
tried.

Five days later, an impromptu staff gathering was called to
discuss the next step for the stranger.

A senior theophist, Callwin Wye, sat hunched over, lines of
discontent scoring his dour face. “Where is he from, then?”

Diera sighed. Wye was a difficult, conservative man. “We
have no idea, Brother Callwin. I sense he hasn’t been deceptive, at least as
far as language is concerned. Although he might be suffering from a mental
impairment, my instinct tells me he’s from a distant part of Anyar, where the
language is completely unknown to us.”

Brother Bolwyn nodded. “That’s possible. It’s not as if
Caedellium is on the main travel routes or widely known on Anyar. He could be
from an island population even smaller than ours or some geographically
isolated language enclave. All we know about him is his name. Yozef Kolsko, if
we are pronouncing it correctly.”

“Yozef Kolsko,” Diera drew out the sounds. “I don’t recall
ever hearing either name.”

“Me, neither,” Bolwyn said. “Which gives more credence to
his origin being somewhere unknown to us here on Caedellium.”

“We should have serious reservations about leaving him
unguarded,” groused Wye. “The speed of his recovery should be a warning that he
could be an agent of the Evil One.”

The others looked at Wye with resignation. The stubby
brother never faltered in his search for signs of demons and malefactors. While
they usually tolerated his fixation, it was tiring.

Bolwyn waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s get back to the
purpose of this meeting and our next step with the stranger. For the last few
days, he’s visited the relief room in the ward and sponged himself off.” He
smiled. “I didn’t think he was up to it, but I suspect having people help him
with voiding and washing his body makes him uncomfortable. His people may have
stronger privacy customs than us. Since he is able to care for himself, I
recommend he be moved to a room in the visitor’s building. He needs fresh air
and sunshine.”

“And you think he . . . ,” Diera paused. “I
suppose we should quit calling him ‘he’ or ‘the stranger’ and use his name.”
She glanced at Bolwyn. “You think this Yozef Kolsko is ready to be moved?”

Bolwyn shrugged. “I see no reason not to.”

Into a New
World

That afternoon, two brothers helped Joe to quarters in a nearby
building. The simple room contained a narrow bed and bedding, a plain chest
with three drawers, a small mirror on the wall, and a window looking out at a
garden and the abbey’s main wall. There was one painting in the room, one that
Joe suspected was a depiction of God bringing the first man to life. A flask of
water sat on the table, along with a drying cloth, a sphere of soap, a comb,
and a tooth cleaner, all of which the staff hoped he knew how to use.

Because he had no clothes when found and had worn nothing
but a patient’s gown during his recovery, they had laid out two sets of
clothing on the narrow bed: a pair of sandals, a pair of sturdy shoes, two
trousers, two pull-over shirts of the same brown cloth he’d seen worn by the
people caring for him, and a brimmed straw hat. Joe had been nervous when two
men walked him to a different building, wondering what was in store. When he
saw the clothing, he took it as a sign they expected him to stay for a time.

Well, at least they aren’t turning me out on my own,
imprisoning me for being an illegal alien, or burning me at the stake. Yet,
anyway.

They left him, after pantomiming he should rest. At evening
mealtime, an elderly brother, Fitham by name, if Joe understood, came to Joe’s
room and guided him to a large dining hall with about forty tables made from
light, grainy wood, some with four chairs and others with eight. The floors
were foot-wide planks worn smooth. A variety of tapestries, patterned cloths,
and paintings hung on the stone walls, among them, a larger version of the
painting in his room.

He later learned the permanent staff lived in their own
quarters, which had meal-preparation facilities. The abbey also operated the
central dining hall for ambulatory patients, patients’ family members, visitors
to the abbey, and any abbey staff who either preferred not to prepare their own
meals or wanted to join the others on occasion.

When Fitham led Joe into the hall, the buzz of conversation
died. Talk picked up again as the brother sat Joe at a table. He ignored the
covert glances from the diners. The move to new quarters and the walk to the
hall were the most exertion and excitement he’d had since his arrival. He
focused on eating hunks of meat in thick gravy over starchy chunks of greenish
vegetables and generous slices of heavy, dark bread. Thankfully, the bread was
familiar enough, although the starch and the vegetables were too much in the
“some kind of” category for him to be comfortable. It didn’t matter. His
appetite had blossomed. He ate the portion Fitham brought to him in a round
wooden bowl, and after he’d devoured the contents, Fitham, without hesitation,
took the bowl back and returned with an even larger portion. Joe ate it, slower
this time. He thought his stomach might have room for even more food, but by
now he was aware of the other diners’ attention.

Brother Fitham waited for him to finish eating and then led
him back to his room. Already, he seemed steadier on his feet. They stopped off
at the large communal outhouse. Joe thought that “an out-chalet” would be more
descriptive of the elaborate facility. Back in his room, Joe undressed, lay on
the bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin.

I’m alive. They’re feeding me, giving me clothes, and a
place to stay. What’s next? What am I going to do here?

With no answers forthcoming, he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 5: A Gathering Storm

Narthani HQ, Preddi City

Five men stood in General Okan Akuyun’s office. Two stood at
the window overlooking the Preddi City harbor: Admiral Morfred Kalcan,
commander of all Narthani naval forces in Caedellium waters, and Nizam Tuzere,
head administrator of Narthani non-military personnel. Facing the wall map of
Caedellium were General Akuyun; Colonel Aivacs Zulfa, in command of all
Narthani ground forces; and Sadek Hizer, who carried the title of Assessor and
reported directly to the Narthani High Command.

Zulfa waved a hand across the map. “General, information
shows the mountains of this island contain sources of minerals the Caedelli
haven’t exploited, either because they don’t realize what’s under their ground,
or because they lack markets. And that’s on top of the agricultural potential
here.”

“All the better for us.” Hizer shrugged and tugged an ear.
“Otherwise, some other realm might have gotten here ahead of us, like one of
the Iraquinik states or even the Fuomi.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t, given the strategic location of
the island,” Zulfa commented.

“It may be considered strategic for us, but not anyone
else—yet,” said Akuyun. “The High Command is looking for options on how to
break out of our current stalemate. The coaltions on our western and eastern
borders have successfully staled us for many years. Caedellium has the potential
to serve as a staging site for direct action against the rears of the Landolin
continent and the Iraquinik Confederation. So far, they haven’t become aware of
our interest in Caedellium, and we want to be firmly in control of the entire
island before our enemies realize our control of Caedellium puts a dagger
pointed at their backs.”

The other four men continued talking, but Akuyun only
pretended to pay attention. He asked questions, but his mind was elsewhere.
This was the traditional day of rest and worship of the god Narth: Narthday,
Godsday to the Caedelli. It was Akuyun’s custom to schedule an afternoon
meeting with his senior commanders the day before beginning the five workdays
of every sixday. However, today’s meeting was not routine.

“All right, gentlemen, let’s start.” Akuyun turned from the
map and took his seat. The other four men followed and sat at the round table,
shuffling papers, adjusting chairs, and clearing throats.

Akuyun waited, his right hand on the tabletop, thumb lightly
tapping the surface until the other four were ready. These men were among the
best the Empire had produced, yet only Akuyun knew their selection by the High
Command was deliberate compensation for the poor quality of troops they
commanded and the limited resources assigned to achieve their objective.

“Gentlemen, as you’re aware, there’s only one item to
discuss today.” His eyes went from one man to the next. “To consider the formal
decision of whether it’s time to move into the next phase of our ultimate goal
here on Caedellium—bringing it into the Empire.” Akuyun’s hand lay on his
notes, though he didn’t need to consult them. While he wouldn’t be saying
anything they didn’t already know, he believed in formalities and clarity of
purpose.

The silence of the four men belied their anticipation.

“None of us at this table were here for Phase One,
establishing a Narthani presence on the island. Granted, we’ve all studied the
reports, but I’ll review how we’ve gotten to this point. It began six years ago
with the establishment of a Narthani trading presence in Preddi City, the
largest city on Caedellium and capitol of the Preddi Clan and Province. The
city had an original population around twenty-six thousand and was the center
of external trade for the entire island—the source of the Preddi Clan’s wealth.
Our agents, acting as trading companies, established themselves in the city
with the cooperation of the clan’s leadership and traders.”

Akuyun allowed himself a small smile. “This part of the plan
went so easily as to be absurd. The Preddi leaders, eager for our gold, either
ignored or didn’t recognize our agents as arms of the Narthon Empire. After
all, money was money, and the cheap goods we supplied, along with contributions
to Preddi infrastructure and bribes to all sectors of the province, greased the
acceptance of our growing presence. The Preddi also sold us land adjoining the
city for a Narthani enclave. By the end of the third year of Phase One, the
locals were accustomed to having Narthani around. Though our people weren’t
liked, they were scrupulously honest in business dealings and took care not to
offend Preddi laws or customs. And that, gentlemen, is when it was determined
Phase One was complete, and we moved on to Phase Two.” Akuyun raised an eyebrow
and gestured with his left hand to solicit comments.

“This was a critical stage,” offered Tuzere, shaking his
head. “The Preddi could have rejected our opening ploys and made things much
harder for us. However, I think the Preddi leaders became addicted to Narthani
gold, and it numbed their reasoning powers.”

“Now, now, Nizam.” Zulfa smiled. “Let’s not be too critical.
They did some of the hard work for us.”

“Whatever motivated the Preddi,” Akuyun said, “our people
moved on to Phase Two, undermining the Preddi and the adjacent clans, Selfcell
and Eywell. Despite being the richest of the Caedellium districts, Preddi had
one of the smallest land areas, the result of being on the losing end of a
series of border disputes with the Eywell and Selfcell clans.” Akuyun used a
wooden pointer to touch clan territories on the wall map. “By judiciously
manipulating trade and playing on Preddi resentment, we stoked tensions among
the three clans, leading to a series of clashes.

“This gave us the excuse to claim we needed to provide
security for our enclave.” A sardonic smile graced his face. “We argued that
since the best Preddi fighting men were concentrated on the borders, then our
trade center was at risk if there was a raid on the city. The Preddi Hetman was
so focused on the other clans, he allowed us to bring in several hundred
soldiers to ensure the security of our trading houses. Our numbers grew
until the enclave included more than three thousand traders, craftsmen, and
their families, and security forces.”

Tuzere grinned. “Still, hard to believe they accepted our
story.”

Akuyun nodded. “Indeed, and by orchestrating a chain of
events, we arranged for Selfcell and Eywell to attack the Preddi in a series of
major raids and inconclusive minor battles, with casualties on all sides, thus
weakening the Preddi Clan. In a gesture of support, the leader of our mission
at that time offered to help the Preddi by bringing in more troops.” His smile
broadened. “Troops, on their way to another destination, that just happened
to come to Caedellium to replenish stores. The Preddi leaders, afraid of being
dismembered by the other two clans, agreed, and two thousand more of our troops
disembarked.”

Kalcan put his hands behind his head and stretched
expansively. “They really were dim-witted.”

“Maybe so,” Akuyun said, “but it was at this point two years
ago that the five of us came to Caedellium. The threat of our backing the
Preddi cooled the fervor of the other two clans, and a three-way truce was well
brokered by Administrator Tuzere.”

“Thank you for the compliment, General Akuyun, but it wasn’t
all that difficult. Neither of the other two clans resisted once their hetmen
got a look at our men in formation and the artillery demonstrations.”

“Thank Narth, they didn’t know the condition of our men.”
Zulfa slapped the tabletop. “Besides being the dregs of our army, they could
hardly stand on their feet after months of being crammed in troop ships.”

“Then maybe Administrator Tuzere does deserve credit for
brokering a cessation of fighting based on a bluff,” Akuyun said.

The other three nodded in agreement.

Tuzere opened both palms, accepting the praise.

Akuyun cleared his throat. “Naturally, the Preddi expected
most of our troops to withdraw. The hetman wasn’t happy when I informed him
there was still too much uncertainty, and the troops would remain to protect
Narthani citizens. Without bothering to inform the Preddi hetman, we then
filtered additional military and civilian personnel into our enclave. Once the
Preddi realized what we were doing and protested, we gave up any pretense and
brought our totals up to four thousand troops and three thousand civilians.”

Zulfa shook his head. “I’m just glad they didn’t come to
their senses earlier.”

Akuyun raised his eyebrows. “Don’t forget, Colonel, that
during these months, although you mercilessly worked our men into better
physical and fighting condition, it was mainly out of sight of the Preddi.
Finally, the Preddi Hetman and other clan leaders realized they were losing
control. After increasing acrimony in our meetings and small clashes between
our men and the Preddi, the hetmen led an attack on our enclave, one we were
prepared for. The Preddi ineptitude at organization and security, along with
our paid Caedelli agents, combined to keep us apprised of their every move.
When they attacked, we stayed in our enclave until they amassed their fighting
men outside our defenses, then we landed another two thousand men behind the
Preddi. In the ensuing battle, we crushed them between our two forces and took
control of the Preddi Province. Any leaders who survived the initial fighting
were hunted down and killed, and their families shipped off as slaves to
Narthon. Fighting erupted within Preddi City and some of the smaller towns, but
we put an end to any significant resistance within a month.”

“An amazing result in so short a time,” Admiral Kalcan
remarked. “I remember wondering back then why we didn’t move on to the rest of
the island if taking down the Preddi Clan was so easy.”

Zulfa frowned. “But—”

Kalcan raised a hand. “No, no, Zulfa. I don’t mean to pass
judgment on army strategies. I was just thinking from the deck of my flagship
offshore and not on the ground. It was a fleeting thought.”

Zulfa grunted. “It wasn’t that the Preddi weren’t brave
enough, at least at first. In several fights, they continued even after losing
over half their men. They simply had no concept of coordination, tactics,
picking their ground, of strategic withdrawal. It was charge straight in. By
the time we’d killed enough of their older leaders and younger, more
flexible-thinking leaders emerged, it was too late.”

“Zulfa’s right.” Akuyun steepled his fingers. “It wasn’t so
much their fighting spirit as inexperience in warfare. However, the result gave
us our foothold on Caedellium. Narthani casualties were less than two hundred
dead, compared with destroying the Preddi Clan and almost a thousand dead each
for Eywell and Selfcell during previous years of fighting. At a minimal cost,
we absorbed one of the Caedellium clan provinces, and two other clans were
about to be co-opted as allies.

“The Selfcell and Eywell clans were shocked at the
suddenness of the Preddi destruction and belatedly understood their own danger.
At separate meetings with the two clan hetmen, I explained that although we had
‘inadvertently’ gotten involved in Caedellium affairs, the die was cast. The
trade had proven lucrative to us, and we intended a further increase. However,
to justify the investment, we required confidence that our trade center, which
now comprised the entire Preddi Province, would never again be threatened. Yet
even an entire province did not provide enough ‘security,’ and we needed
assurances of the friendly status of their two clans by means of formal
alliances with them.

“As an inducement, we offered to aid them in eventually
annexing major territory of their immediate neighbors, lands belonging to the
Gwillamer and Moreland clans for Eywell, and more of Moreland and the Stent
Clan for Selfcell. We’d already reached an agreement with the Eywell hetman,
unbeknownst to Selfcell. Administrator Tuzere had identified the Eywell leader
as the more gullible hetman and also dangled the possibility of adding half of
Caedellium to Eywell control, but only if they were our ally.

“The Selfcell hetman was less interested, evidently having
no inherent desire to carve up neighboring clans. However, he saw his province
enclosed by our navy on one side, our army that he couldn’t defeat to his
south, and the Eywellese to his west. We know he appealed to the other clans
for help and was refused. He decided he had no option but to agree to our
terms.”

Akuyun’s summary passed over the calamitous details for the
Preddi Clan. In the two years after crushing the Preddi, the Narthani undertook
a massive settlement and development program. All living Preddi males who were
part of the Preddi fighting forces or were deemed potentially part of any
resistance were deported as slaves back to Narthon—more than 4,000 men between
the ages of fourteen and fifty. Another 12,000 clan noncombatants had died as
collateral damage during the fighting or the following chaos; 10,000 more fled
to other clan provinces; and 16,000 older men, women, and children were
eventually shipped off to slave markets. The remaining 20,000 Preddi were
spared for their specific skills after convincing their new Narthani masters
they had switched loyalties, or they were converted to slaves when they could
fill specific needs on Caedellium. This latter included 900 Preddi women taken
as concubines by Narthani officers and officials or used to fill troop
brothels.

The Preddi, as a clan, ceased to exist. Narthani immigrants
slid into existing farms, mines, fishing, and trade shops, then expanded the
cultivated acreage and established new farms on lands the Caedelli had not yet
developed. On the day of the present meeting to formally initiate Phase Three,
the sixth anniversary of the first Narthani trading house establishment, there
were 12,000 Narthani troops and 100,000 civilians on Caedellium. Of the
civilians, two-thirds were Narthani officials, craftsmen, farmers, overseers,
and their families. The other third were slaves or indentured servants from
conquered peoples within the Narthon Empire.

Akuyun cleared his throat after concluding the history
summary. “Up to this point, we’ve scrupulously confined military action to the
three original provinces. We now need to decide if it’s time for that to
change.” He looked at each man in turn. “You’ve all been asked to give a formal
report on your areas of responsibility. Colonel Zulfa, start off with the
status of our troops.”

Colonel Zulfa straightened in his chair. “The newest troops
are still getting their land legs back after the long voyage from Narthon.”
Zulfa’s tenor conveyed satisfaction, as did the smile on his dark, handsome
face. “It will take several sixdays before I can start whipping them into
shape.” He settled his tall frame back in the chair and ran a finger and thumb
over his dashing mustache. “As expected, these men include both new recruits
and a fair number of trash and troublemakers that commanders in Narthon wanted
to be rid of.”

Akuyun rubbed his chin as he listened. People often
misjudged the thirty-eight-year-old Zulfa because of his impressive appearance.
He was a gifted tactician, fearless but not reckless, and decisive at critical
moments. For these reasons, Akuyun had chosen him as his second in command.

“How long will it take to train them?”

“I plan on treating them as if they had no previous military
training. It’ll take a year months before they’ll be in decent shape for a
campaign. Once ready, the new arrivals will be integrated into existing units.
I believe mixing the new arrivals with troops who’ve been on Caedellium for
some time will make our units more uniform. Otherwise, we’d have two sets of
units with different experiences and backgrounds.”

Akuyun approved. “A sound plan.”

Zulfa frowned. “Some of the officers who arrived with the
new men are disgruntled about breaking up units organized in Narthon. According
to my evaluation, and how we all know these things work, some of these officers
got their positions based either on their family’s status or on bribes. Most
have little practical experience or ability.”

Assessor Hizer leaned forward. “And you’re satisfied with
how those disgruntled officers are adjusting?”

Zulfa smiled, his eyes expressionless. “The problems
diminished after I demoted a more vocal officer down a rank and sent him to
command a guard unit attached to improving the main road to Selfcell.”

Hizer sighed. “Please try not to alienate too many
great families of Narthon, Colonel Zulfa.”

Zulfa scowled. “You did agree with my action.”

“Oh, I did, but fortunately, the officer in question already
had numerous official and unofficial marks against his record. However, actions
such as you took might accumulate negative consequences. If possible, next time
please try to find other solutions for problematic officers.”

They all knew his meaning: find an assignment with maximum
chances of death or disappearance, preferably to allow a plausible report on
the individual’s bravery and noble service to the Empire.

“And our Caedellium allies?” prompted Akuyun.

Zulfa shrugged. “Brave enough, and will be useful as buffers
between us and the rest of the Caedelli when we start raids into neighboring
provinces, and then later as light cavalry screens for our troops. The
Eywellese continue to be more enthused about the alliance than the Selfcellese.
We’ll need to stay aware that on occasion we may have to prod Selfcell and
restrain Eywell.”

“But you believe we’re on track?”

“Yes, General. If necessary, we should be ready to take the
field in a year, although I’d prefer a few more months.”

Akuyun turned to Administrator Tuzere. “And you believe the
civilian area is also going according to plan?”

The other man next to Zulfa and across from Akuyun was Nizam
Tuzere, fifty-four, the administrative overseer of the non-military population,
which included the civilian Narthani transportees to Caedellium and native Caedelli.
Tuzere’s portfolio also included maintaining order, watching for dissidents,
and counter-espionage. Tuzere dressed in his usual dapper manner, and while his
graying mustache, baggy eyes, and verging on portly figure made him appear
older, his energy was unmatched among the five, and his mind was encyclopedic
about the hundred thousand non-military Narthani and slaves on the island.

The civil authority’s voice was like mellow oil flowing over
his vocal cords. “All aspects are satisfactory, General. Within Preddi
Province, our people have replaced most of the original Caedelli. Farms are
producing well with new Narthani farmers and herders. As new settlers arrive,
we’re expanding total acreage under cultivation as fast as possible. The land
here is among the most fertile I’ve ever seen, and we’re more than
self-sufficient, at least in grain and meat production. I project we can begin
exporting back to Narthon this year.”

Tuzere’s animated eyes exuded pleasure at the last
assessment. “Until now, the ships from Narthon brought troops, settlers, food,
and everything needed for an enterprise of this magnitude, then sailed home
empty after delivering their cargos. The ability to return laden with food and
other products of the island will pay for the operation’s expenses and
reinforce the progress of the mission to higher authorities.

“As expected, setting up sufficient crafts and industry
bases will take longer.” Tuzere ran a plump, manicured hand over his
embroidered waistcoat. “While we’ll still need to import finished goods for a
period of time, the situation will improve as we expand and bring in more of
our people.”

Akuyun shifted his weight in his chair. “And the Caedelli?
Those within the former Preddi territory?”

“No problems there. I think we’ve eliminated any major
potential resistance. The few remaining Preddi are well incorporated or
subdued.” Tuzere plucked at the skin fold under his chin and spoke next as if
carefully crafting the words. “Ah . . . the only ongoing problem is
converting the ex-Preddi to worship Narth. There have been a number of minor
incidents, but they’ve decreased once the Caedelli learned our low tolerance
for disturbances.”

Noticeably absent at the meeting was the mission’s chief
Narth prelate, Mamduk Balcan. Balcan’s absence was mainly due to his lack of
interest in administrative and military matters, except when they interfered
with converting the native Caedelli to the true religion, worshipping
Narth, god of war and dominance. Although Balcan was not an acknowledged part
of the Narthani command-and-reporting structure, Akuyun was obliged to give the
prelate reasonable respect, though he didn’t have to invite him to every
meeting. Akuyun publicly and privately assured Balcan that he understood the
prelate’s concerns, but it was Akuyun’s higher duty not to permit fervent
conversion efforts to interfere with political and military affairs. Those had
first priority before universal worship of Narth was possible. Balcan had
chafed but acquiesced.

Akuyun only confessed to his wife, Rabia, his desire that
Balcan suffer some unfortunate fatal accident. Akuyun believed that among his
subordinates, at least Zulfa and Hizer had the same unspoken wish. However,
thus far Balcan had not interfered enough to warrant such a calamity. At times,
Akuyun wished the prelate would overstep.

“Of course, conversion is a priority,” Tuzere avowed for
formality, “and we cooperate with Prelate Balcan as much as possible.” Though
none of the five men were devout followers of Narth or any other God, lip service
was required.

“Outside of Preddi, it’s as Zulfa says from the military
side. On one hand, the Eywellese will integrate the smoothest. Within another
generation, two at the most, they’ll quit thinking of themselves as Eywellese.
To help that along, we’ve encouraged teaching Narthani in their schools,
arguing it will help them interact with our people. We know from experience
that switching to our language as soon as possible is a key to assimilation.
Once the entire island is under our control, we’ll mandate all islanders learn
Narthani. For now, I believe we can be confident about the Eywellese.

“On the other hand, Selfcell is still problematic. I’ve seen
no signs of active resistance, but there’s no doubt they’re warier than the
Eywellese, at least as far as the leadership is concerned. The Eywellese Hetman
is about as venal and dense as we could hope, but Hetman Langor of Selfcell is
shrewd and sees the reality of making the best of a bad situation.”

Zulfa leaned forward, his eyes on Tuzere. “But you still
think the Selfcell situation is stable enough not to consider taking firmer
steps before we advance to the next phase?”

“We’ve been through this before,” answered Akuyun before
Tuzere could reply. “While they may drag their asses, the Selfcellese haven’t
given us sufficient reason to act, particularly since we want to convince other
clans not to resist. It’s one thing to do what we did to the Preddi clan when
they openly attacked us. If we’re too severe just because a clan isn’t
enthusiastic, it will only make the other clans more resistant and more likely
to unite too soon—something we definitely don’t want.”

Zulfa sat back. “I know. I only bring it up because I’m
looking at the military side of it. I’m still not comfortable with the local auxiliaries
I’ll need to include once we get to Phase Four.”

Tuzere nodded. “I appreciate your concerns, and as the
general says, we’ve been careful not to press the Selfcell and the Eywell too
hard. Neither clan is happy with our stationing one thousand strong permanent
Narthani garrisons in their provinces. Those garrisons cause the usual
resentments, but much of that is ameliorated by our generous expenditures into
the local economies. We’ve also restricted troop movements to minimize
conflict, at least for now. Once we expand and control other provinces, we’ll
tighten control over the Selfcell and Eywell clans. I believe those clans’
leaderships know we could interfere much more. For example, the Selfcellese may
disapprove of our using Preddi women in our troop brothels, but it serves as
another warning of what can happen to our opponents.”

“I’m just reiterating we need to keep a close eye on the
Selfcellese and not depend on them too much, yet,” said Zulfa.

“Duly noted,” acknowledged Akuyun. He turned to Admiral
Kalcan seated on his left. The fifty-two-year-old commander of Narthani naval
forces in Caedellium waters had a constant twinkle in eyes set in a round,
smooth-shaven face. Kalcan’s habitual cheerfulness contrasted with the more
severe countenances of the other four men, but his casual demeanor belied his
fierce dedication to the Empire. The admiral was one of the few men to whom
Akuyun showed his more whimsical side when they were alone, and the one who
might be regarded as a friend, if Akuyun had had that luxury.

“Admiral Kalcan, we’ve read your report on naval readiness
and scouting and mapping of the Caedellium coasts. To confirm, is it your
assessment that we’re ready to proceed?”

“Oh, we’ll continue with those activities.” Kalcan clasped
his hands on the table. “Mainly refining our charts. We’ve still seen no sign
of navies from other realms, and our ships and men are in good condition.” He
smiled and rapped his chest lightly with a fist. “Our naval forces are ready to
proceed.”

Akuyun turned to Hizer. “Assessor Hizer, any comments or
observations?”

The final man at the table had listened attentively to the
discussion. At being addressed, he absentmindedly rolled his shoulders in a
manner reminiscent of a predator shifting weight, confident in itself. Sadik
Hizer was fifty, of stocky frame, and dressed in plain dark trousers, a shirt,
and a light coat. He might pass for a well-dressed but common tradesman until
he looked at you. Behind penetrating dark eyes resided a sharp intellect
refined by years of experience and education beyond most Narthani. Hizer was an
assessor, a member of a small corps of men who served as the direct eyes and
ears of the Narthani leadership’s highest levels. He had no formal authority
and instead was charged with providing two types of information: general
advice, if solicited by the mission’s leaders, and independent evaluations of
the mission’s progress and leadership.

“I think you’ve covered all the necessary grounds, General.
As we all know, there are always adjustments to any plan, though I’m satisfied
everything is proceeding through the major milestones. I see no reason to
hesitate in moving on to the next phase.”

“Thank you, Assessor. We appreciate your input.” Akuyun kept
a smile off his face. While Akuyun and Hizer had gone over the same material
two days earlier, this was the official support statement for the benefit of
the record and the other leaders.

Assessors were often thought of as spies for the Narthani
High Command, which they were, but one of Akuyun’s talents was to meld assigned
assessors into his overall leadership structure, even if informally. In Hizer,
Akuyun knew he was fortunate to be assigned an assessor with whom he worked
well. He would never understand those commanders who resented the presence of
the assessors and kept them at arm’s length—not when it risked friction between
the two, and that friction possibly affecting the assessor’s reports. Also, you
lost the ability and insights the better assessors could provide.

The five men spent another hour discussing details of the
current status of Phase Two. Then Akuyun spoke the words for which the previous
hours had been a prelude.

“I think we can all agree that we’re established enough to
move into Phase Three against the other eighteen clans. Any disagreements or
qualifications?”

They shook their heads, and all four leaned forward in their
seats, eyes alert, anticipating the mission commander’s next words.

“Then, as of today we’ll begin Phase Three—direct action
against the other clans. The plan has three interconnected parts. First, the
Eywellese and the Selfcellese will increase low-level forays into neighboring
clan provinces, gradually ramping up into raids. Second, I will finalize our
arrangement with Buldorian mercenaries to carry out raids on coastal villages,
abbeys, and other selected targets. These raids should create turmoil within
the coastal clans and force them to concentrate their fighting men to protect
their own coasts, as well as minimize their ability to aid other clans.”

Hizer’s smile was that of a serpent. “These non-Narthani
seaborne raiders will sow uncertainty and give us a degree of deniability.”

Kalcan laced his fingers, elbows on the table, and
cautioned, “Yes, the Buldorians are notorious pirates and raiders, but it won’t
fool the brighter Caedelli for long.”

Akuyun pursed his lips. “We don’t require fooling all
of them or for too long. Just long enough to sow confusion and force
them to focus on their own security and not on helping other clans, as we move
into direct efforts to destabilize the clans and any existing allegiances.
We’ll attempt to provoke inherent Caedellium clan conflicts to stir up old
resentments. The methods will vary, depending on the clan and circumstances,
but include using bribes and veiled threats to be sure a clan fully understands
the implications of being on the wrong side of the inevitable Narthani
supremacy.

“We’re following the basic strategy that has worked well for
the Empire. When the time is right, we’ll move to Phase Four and commit our troops
and compel either a centrally located clan or that clan and its allies to fight
large-scale battles so we can deliver decisive defeats. At that point, we
expect some of the clans to concede Empire control of Caedellium and ally with
us. The remaining clans will then surrender or be systematically destroyed.”

“Invasion on the cheap,” Zulfa growled. “It would have been
faster to bring in enough troops to crush them all in one season’s campaign,
then move on.” It was not the first time Zulfa had expressed this opinion.

Akuyun nodded, keeping his tone even, hiding his impatience.
This ground had been covered many times, in many meetings. “Faster, yes, but
not as efficient.”

Hizer drummed fingers on the tabletop and shifted his
weight. “We all know the arguments. High Command plans carefully. Though we’re
not averse to using overwhelming force, we can obtain our objectives at less
cost if time is not a critical factor. Incorporating Caedellium is part of our
long-term plans for expansion of the Empire, but with other ongoing conflicts
bordering Narthon, our mission here is important, though not particularly
urgent.”

“Efficiency is always an important factor,” Akuyun
reiterated. “The Empire’s forces are engaged in many places worldwide, limiting
the number of troops they can commit to Caedellium if it can be avoided. As
Zulfa has said, the new men assigned to us are not the best. Even the original
units sent here had poor performance ratings. High command didn’t think
first-line units would be needed.” He smiled at Zulfa. “You did a good job of
working those men into shape, and I’m sure you’ll do the same with the new
arrivals.”

Zulfa snorted. “It’s unlikely they’ll ever be more than
mediocre. We wouldn’t want to pit them against a real opponent.”

Akuyun pushed aside his unused notes on their mission
through Phase Two. “Even so, they only need to be good enough to handle
the Caedelli.”

Akuyun rubbed his cheek. “What we don’t want is for the
clans to retreat to the mountains. It would take years to root them out. If
High Command’s plan works, we’ll get most of the Caedelli to either cooperate
or surrender with a minimum amount of our resources expended. Taking over the
Preddi Province as we did was necessary but wasteful.” He eyed Zulfa. “Too much
was destroyed and too many clansmen killed. We want to preserve as much as
possible as we incorporate the islanders in the Empire. Living people are more
useful than dead or enslaved ones. If possible.”

The decision formally made, Akuyun ended the meeting with a
final reiteration of assignments. He didn’t believe a fundamental purpose could
be drummed in too many times or subordinates reminded too often of their roles.
The meeting also served to ensure that all of the senior commanders understood
how their interrelated tasks fit together.

“Let’s keep our eyes on the details, gentlemen. Colonel
Zulfa, the Eywellese and the Selfcellese are to slowly ratchet up their
incursions into neighboring clan territories, but not so quickly as to cause
the other clans to unite too soon. Keep on top of them, especially the
Eywellese.

“Admiral Kalcan will handle the Buldorians and work
with Administrator Tuzere on general intelligence gathering and planning
seaborne raids. Tuzere will also assist Assessor Hizer in overseeing our
overtures to selected clans, directing intelligence gathering, maintaining
existing agents within Caedellium, and recruiting more agents as needed.”

The summary complete, Akuyun ended the meeting. “Gentlemen, we
all know our assignments. Let’s get to it and bring the entire island into the
Empire.”

Okan Akuyun and Wife

“Busy day, Okan?” Rabia Akuyun set a plate of food in front
of her husband, then sat and picked up her fork. “I arranged for the children
to spend the evening with Major Nubar’s family. I thought it would be nice to
eat alone, in case you wanted to talk. Just the two of us.”

“Thank you,” Okan smiled. “From the aromas when I walked in,
I assume you cooked this evening. Another clue is the smudge of flour on your
elbow.”

“Well, the servants never quite get the seasoning right for
braised beef the way you like it. And, as long as I was cooking, I figured I
might as well bake fresh bread. Anyway, you know I like to lend a hand with
preparing and serving the evening meal, and it’s been a while since I had a
chance. It reminds me of the importance of family and that we’re not so far
above other Narthani.”

He shook his head. “And because you enjoy it?”

“And because I like it. Even if cooking and serving are
low-class, it’s sometimes relaxing.”

Rabia’s impish grin always brought a catch to his throat. He
chuckled and filled her cup with Melosian tea, then poured himself a goblet of
imported wine. “Well, you certainly don’t admit that to others.”

“That’s between us.” She sipped her drink. “Just like you
only show me you’re not always the . . . ,” she lowered her
voice and took on a dramatic tone, “totally assured commander of men.” Rabia
touched his hand tenderly. Okan projected himself to others as confident and
only allowed uncertainties to show with her, which was one of the reasons she
loved him.

She canted her head. “How did the meeting go today?”

“Good.” He buttered a thick slice of bread. “We all agreed
that we’re ready to move to the next phase.” He sopped up gravy with a wad of
bread. “I’m relieved that none of the leaders brought up problems I hadn’t
thought of.”

“And you expected there was something you hadn’t thought
of?”

Okan grunted through a mouth full of beef and gravy, then
swallowed. “Not really,” he admitted, “but you never know, and I try never to
assume too much.”

He was cutting another piece of meat when he stopped, set
both hands on the table, and looked fondly at his wife. “Thank you for this
evening, dearest. I’m forever glad I have you and our two youngest children
with me on this Caedellium mission.” He set down his knife, took her right
hand, and kissed her fingers.

She felt a faint blush of pleasure at the gesture. “I’m
glad, too. I’d have missed you terribly. I know we’ve always accompanied you,
but this was to be so far from home and for so long, I wondered if this time
might be different.”

Okan shook his head, released her hand, and resumed eating.
“It’s not so far I wanted to be without you.”

While some of the Narthani officers brought their wives,
others left their families back in Narthon or wherever in the Empire they
originated. Some looked at this as an opportunity to “sample” the local women,
and they took concubines or slaves. Akuyun had never felt the urge. Rabia came
from a prominent Narthani family. She had seen great promise in the young
Narthani officer serving under her father. Her family had not been pleased with
her intention to marry Akuyun, his being from a subjugated tribe, albeit two
centuries earlier. Only dim records remained of his original people. So
thoroughly had they been absorbed that his family never considered themselves
anything but authentic Narthani.

Rabia set down her cup and brushed back a strand of hair. “I
know it’s a relief for you to finally move forward. We’ve been here two years,
and we both would like to get back to Narthon.”

“It’s coming, dearest. Another year, two at the most.”

Okan drank from his wine goblet, then sighed. “Besides the
meeting with my staff, there was the usual endless paperwork—annual evaluations
of my immediate subordinates, and reviewing those of all the other officers.
Then more paperwork and meeting with Tuzere and the other civilian leaders to
review settlement progress and future expansions. Then more paperwork
for the quarterly report due to be sent to Narthon. It’s still a month away,
but I want it completed in a timely manner.”

Rabia raised her napkin to hide a smile. Her husband’s
meticulous work habits, along with his native intelligence and force of
personality, had been the three pillars that justified her evaluation of him
those many years ago, as well as the basis of his fast rise in service to the
Empire. “I’m sure you’ll finish on time and with your usual thoroughness,” she
gently remonstrated. It had not only been his future potential that had
attracted her, for theirs was a love match not usual in the upper reaches of
Narthani society.

Okan smiled fondly. “Thank you, my dear, for the
endorsement. I may include it in the report summary.” The interchange was part
of a routine evolved over their twenty-seven years of marriage. Her hair showed
gray strands, and the lines around her eyes had deepened with the years, but he
still saw the young woman who once seemed out of reach to a junior officer. A
beauty she might not be, but the lively eyes, the mischievous smile, when
directed at him, and the trim figure hadn’t changed, in addition to the
indescribable something that made them belong together.

He had never been tempted by other women once he and Rabia
wed. Narthani society mandated there be only one wife to avoid inheritance and
dynastic conflicts that had been the bane of early Narthani history. Not that
there was prohibition against a man having multiple women in his household, but
there was only one wife, and her children would inherit. Any other women in the
household, be they free concubines or slaves, were subordinate to the wife.
Promising children of other women were formally recognized as the wife’s, and
such children might inherit under some circumstances. In Akuyun’s case, the
issues never arose. Rabia satisfied all of his needs—emotional, political, and
sexual, and she was cognizant of all three roles.

“Narth forbid you mention a mere woman was consulted on
anything of importance,” she teased.” It was another part of their interplay.
Narthani society excluded women in any role outside the home. To her, it was a
never-healing sore, and to him a stupidity that lost valuable contributions
from women such as his wife. Not that they voiced such opinions except to each
other.

“Don’t forget, you promised Lufta and Ozem you would be home
tomorrow night for their eleventh birthday.” Okan and Rabia had decided that
the fraternal twins were skilled riders and old enough to graduate from ponies
to trained, docile horses for birthday presents. Ozem, the boy, had failed in
his campaign to be allowed to choose his own horse, while Lufta was indifferent
to horses and would be content with whatever her parents chose.

Okan sighed. “You’re right, I had forgotten. Thank Narth,
you’re here as my memory for such things.” His smiled, taking years off his
face. “I promise, dearest. Home in time for the birthday dinner.”

“Oh, Okan, before I forget, the mail packet included letters
from Bilfor and Morzak. They’re on your desk.”

Their two oldest sons were twenty-five and twenty-three
years old. The twins had come much later, after he and his wife thought there
would be no more children. Bilfor and Morzak were junior officers in the
Narthani army and had families of their own. Bilfor, the oldest, was steady and
thorough. Akuyun thought he would rise to be a respected major or colonel, but
likely no higher.

Morzak, however, seemed to have inherited the intellect and
astuteness of his parents. Rabia suspected he was the brightest in the entire
family, and Okan once told her he could see Morzak going far, possibly at least
as high as his father. As for the twins, they were still too young to be sure,
though Okan thought Ozem had potential, while Lufta’s mind flittered in all
directions. Half the time, Akuyun thought she might turn into another version
of her mother; the rest of the time he wondered if she would end up an
empty-headed twit.

Through the rest of the evening, Okan and Rabia talked of
family, of matters weighty and trivial, and of whatever their futures might
bring.

Okan Akuyun finished eating, his belly full, a slight buzz
from the wine, his eyes always coming back to Rabia. Life was good. He’d risen
high and might go higher, the mission was progressing well, and he was more than
pleased with his family. And then there was Rabia. Always Rabia. Life was good.

Chapter 6: Acceptance

Catharsis

Joe had no sense of time, only that days blurred together.
He gained strength and needed less help getting to and from the dining hall and
the voiding house. Finally, the day came when he no longer needed assistance
and could walk the abbey grounds. The staff acted friendly. At least, he
assumed and hoped so, since their speech remained unintelligible. He lived in a
semi-mute world, seeing mouths move and hearing sounds, but not communicating.
The pattern of his life was to wake, eat in the dining hall, walk the grounds,
sit in his room, and fall asleep hours after dark.

In his explorations of the abbey grounds, he found places to
avoid seeing another person. In the southeast corner of the abbey complex,
where a fruit orchard abutted the eight-foot main outer wall, sat an old wooden
chair. He would lean the weathered back against the wall and face a mixed row
of lemon and a local fruit tree—foilamon, he later learned—which produced
plum-shaped yellow fruit evocative of tomatoes and almonds. Though the taste
combination was foreign to his palate the first time they served slices at
evening meal, he came to appreciate the subtleties of the flavor mix.

On other days, he rested within formal gardens behind the
cathedral: several acres of small trees, bushes, grassy plants, and flowerbeds
accessed by a maze of paths. A wicker bench sat tucked away on a short,
seldom-used side loop off a wider path. It was there, on this day, he sat
contemplating his existence. The midday meal had been a combination of foods
from both Earth and this planet: wheat for the bread, a stew of beef (he had
seen cattle grazing in pastures outside the complex walls), and a mixture of
unrecognized vegetables. For dessert, he’d eaten foilamon and a brown
banana-like fruit with purplish flesh that tasted of raspberry and licorice.

That he could eat foods from plants and animal evolved on
this planet told him the biochemistries of Earth and the local ecosystem were
compatible, since he hadn’t been poisoned and his strength improved daily. The
local organic molecules—proteins, carbohydrates, fats, and DNAs—must have
similar basic structures as those on Earth. He thought it ironic that to one
question posed by his planned presentation at the AAAS conference,
“Alternatives to Standard Heterocyclic Bases in DNA of Exobiosystems,” he now
knew the answer. Earth’s biochemistry was not unique. It was knowledge worthy
of a Nobel Prize, except he was the only human in existence, now or perhaps
ever, to possess it. Even worse, he had no one to share it with. He and the
knowledge were locked away as surely as if both served life sentences in
solitary confinement.

Gray clouds hid the sun, but an initial drizzle passed.
Despite the cloak draped over his shoulders, he shivered in the chill air. The
bench in the alcove allowed views of lovingly designed and tended pebble paths
winding among a mélange of plants, perhaps a quarter of which he recognized or
suspected of originating on Earth. The rest he assumed were indigenous. He
studied the juxtaposition of striking foliage, bloom successions, and colors.
Wherever his eyes turned, he saw variety. To the left grew a shrub covered in
blue, bell-shaped flowers. To the right, yellow and red flowers rose from a bed
of foot-high foliage. Across the path, a grass-like plant bore small white
flowers on thin, nearly invisible stems. A breath of wind moved the grass, and
the flowers seemed free-floating, dancing like a swarm of small white insects.

Joe followed the undulating passage of a butterfly with
yellow and black markings. It fluttered past and settled on the blue flowers,
sucking nectar from a blossom. It looked like a tiger swallowtail. Just like at
home. For an instant, his imagination transported him back to Earth and let him
pretend he was home.

The butterfly veered away as dragonfly-like creatures
appeared. Their red-and-green striped wings flashed iridescent in the sunlight
as they settled on the flowers. One unfurled a proboscis and probed for nectar.

Joe leaned closer and studied one of the strange insects.
They had six wings, stood on four legs, and used two more appendages with small
pincers to manipulate the flower petals.

It was not a terrestrial life form.

The illusion of being on Earth evaporated. He trembled,
slumped, and covered his face with his hands. Tears ran through Joe’s fingers.
Lost, alone, and desolate, he rocked, shoulders jerking as he sobbed.

The bench shifted, then moved again. Someone’s leg and body
brushed against him. An arm draped over Joe’s back, and a hand gripped his
right shoulder. The warmth of the person’s body seeped into his consciousness.
The nearness of another human being, any human, anchored him. His sense of absolute
loneliness faded, along with his sobs. A soft breeze caressed his face.
Overhead, birds twittered, and in the distance a dog barked. Murmurs of workers
in the vegetable garden filtered through the trees. The even breathing of the
person brought Joe calm. He drew a shuddering breath, his emotions spent.

The tears and sobs simply stopped as if a faucet had turned
off. He still felt the loneliness but not the same sense of despair as before.

I’m alive. I’ll never see Earth again or any of the
people I knew. Not my friends, family, Julie, our unborn child. I’ll never know
whether it was a boy or a girl, or if it even existed.

He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun uncovering
behind clouds. His skin warmed to the touch of brightness.

And everything else he knew. Every little thing. No Giants’
games. His lips curled into a wry smile at the hint of humor seeping into his
list of losses. No Call of Duty video game sessions with friends, no summer
days in the California wine country, no grousing whether the Democrats were
more venal than the Republicans. No more wondering why anyone would care about
the Kardashian family. No M&Ms. No single large moon, instead of the two
small ones he’d seen here, or wondering why he liked some Country and Western
music. It was all gone. He opened his eyes and stared across the garden. The
soft wind dried the remaining tears on his cheeks.

To look at some bright sides, if Harlie had told the truth,
he’d be immune to everything on the planet. He’d never have a cold again or any
other disease. Also, no tooth decay, since it was caused by bacteria. Those had
to be major pluses. Having cavities here had to be grim. No cancer. Fortunate,
since there’d be no treatments. Harlie also said his physiology would be more
efficient. Whatever that meant, he had no idea but hoped it was a good thing.

He gazed at the garden now bathed in sunlight, the last
clouds clearing and the sun warming the air. Once more the bench shifted, and
the person’s hand still gripped his shoulder. He turned, expecting to see
Fitham, the older, kindly brother, or perhaps the woman called Diera or one of
the others who helped care for him when he first arrived.

Joe’s eyes slowly traveled from a massive chest to a broad face.
It was the hulk of a man Joe had seen working around the abbey. He’d noticed
the man on occasion, but he always seemed alone, as if the other staff avoided
him. They had walked past each other once, the man never indicating that he
noticed Joe, who was awed by man’s size. He was enormous—a good six-foot, seven
or eight inches, and a solid 300 or more pounds of bone and muscle. A perpetual
scowl framed his wild red hair and beard, but as Joe inspected the man’s face,
he realized the scowl was only an impression given by the prominent brows and
lines in the weathered face. Joe was drawn deeper. The eyes. Were they filled
with concern . . . and compassion?

Joe smiled tentatively and nodded, patting one of the man’s
massive legs. “Thank you.”

The man inclined his head, rose, and flipped his hand.

He wants me to follow him?

Rising unsteadily, Joe walked beside the man. Joe wasn’t
short, but he barely reached over the man’s broad shoulders. They walked
slowly, side by side, through the garden and into the rear of the dining hall,
where staff members prepared for the evening meal.

Joe stood in the entrance, confused. What was the man up to?

The giant approached a middle-aged woman with flour smudges
on her arms and spoke in a deep, rumbling voice. She glared at him and shook
her head, barking something at him.

He took it calmly and again spoke quietly.

Still frowning, she glanced at Joe and back at the giant.
She nodded, wiped her hands on an expansive apron, and strode away.

Turning, the giant walked back to Joe and took his arm,
leading him to a table outside. He sat and waved at an opposite bench.

Overhanging vines festooned with red flowers brushed Joe’s
head as he sat, then studied the man.

The woman reappeared and slapped down two large metal
steins, spilling liquid on the rough wooden table. Joe jerked his arms away
from the spill. Foam covered the contents of the stein, and a strong aroma of
hops hit his nose.

Beer?

She clomped away, and his fingers curled around the stein.
It was icy cold. How did they keep it so cold? Even a cellar would only keep it
cool at best. He took a sample sip, and then a long draft and wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand. It was beer, strong and good. He smiled at the giant
and lifted his stein.

“To you, whoever you are. I needed this.”

Setting down his half-finished beer, the man-mountain
pointed at himself. “Carnigan.” He tapped his own chest. “Carnigan. Carnigan.”

Carnigan poked Joe’s chest with a large forefinger and said
something.

“Joe, Joseph. I’m Joseph.”

Carnigan’s lips formed over the name. “Yohhzzeefff.
Yohzeff.” Then quicker. “Yozef!”

“Close enough.” Joe grinned. It was the same with the
hospital staff. They didn’t seem to have the “j” sound, and they turned the
middle “s” of Joseph into a “z.” “Yozef” was as close as they could pronounce.
Looks like he was Yozef now.

Carnigan pointed to himself again. “Carnigan Puvey.”

“Joe, Joseph, ah . . . ” He bit his lip.
“Yozef.” Might as well get used to my new name. “Yozef Colsco.”

“Yozef Kolzko, Yozef Kolzko,” Carnigan echoed with a broad
smile.

They quaffed the steins in amicable silence. Whether it was
the alcohol, the catharsis of weeping, or the personal contact, Yozef didn’t
know, but he felt . . . different. The loneliness remained, as did
nagging thoughts about what he was supposed to do next. He relaxed, however, at
least for the moment. The woman from the kitchen reappeared, checked the status
of the steins, took them away, and returned minutes later with two more and a
plate of bread and cheese.

Yozef and Carnigan spent the rest of the afternoon at the
table talking, neither having any idea what the other said, but it didn’t seem
to matter. Their occasional laughter drew puzzled attention from staff members.
Finally, the light faded as the workday ended, and other staff members headed
into the dining hall. Carnigan rose and motioned for Yozef to come. They walked
in and sat together, eating in silence. Yozef didn’t think he was hungry after
the beers, bread, and cheeses, but he ate the meal without hesitation. He tried
to ignore questioning stares and the conversation buzz aimed at the two of
them.

Yozef yawned and rose. He could have slept where he sat,
head on the table.

Carnigan also stood and walked with him to his room.

“Thank you, Carnigan.” Yozef held out an open hand. “I know
you don’t understand anything I’m saying, but thank you.” Then it occurred to
him that an offered hand could be an insult in this culture. Thankfully,
Carnigan understood the gesture. Yozef’s hand disappeared in Carnigan’s massive
paw. He had a brief scare that local customs might mandate a firm handshake,
which, when delivered by Carnigan, might require last rites for his hand.
Fortunately, the grip was just firm.

With a final smile and nod, Carnigan walked away, and Yozef
entered his room, lay on the bed, and feel asleep without undressing.

Carnigan’s
Debriefing

Though Sistian and Diera Beynom could have lived in generous
quarters in the abbey complex, they preferred a house a few hundred yards from the
outer abbey grounds. The distance allowed them time and space away from
responsibilities and provided a normal family life for them and two children
still living at home.

As they walked home that evening, their shoes disturbed dust
on the wide path, her skirt and his pants brushing against bordering grass.
Diera linked her arm in Sistian’s. “Brother Fitham called me to witness a
rather strange thing today involving Yozef.”

Sistian glanced at her. “Yozef? What did he do?”

She chuckled. “It isn’t what he did. Brother Fitham took me
to the area behind the kitchen where I saw an amazing sight. Yozef and Carnigan
were drinking beer while talking and laughing.”

Sistian’s eyebrows rose. “Carnigan! Laughing?”

“Yes! Laughing, although I can’t imagine at what, since he
wouldn’t understand Yozef. According to Brother Fitham, Yozef was weeping in
the main garden. Fitham was about to go to him when Carnigan stopped working
and sat next to Yozef. Soon they were acting like old friends. Sister Mollywin
was taken aback when Carnigan showed up at the dining hall and spoke to her. I
think it flustered her so much, she didn’t even argue the way she usually does
about a break in routine, at least not too much.”

Sistian shook his head. “Carnigan and Yozef? Who would have
thought?”

“Maybe it’s simply a matter of two lost souls finding each
other at a chance moment.” Diera pressed a finger to her lips. “Almost like God
put them together to help them both.”

“Whatever it was, it’s good for them.” The abbot stroked his
beard, then glanced at his wife. “I think I’d like to hear Carnigan’s view
about what happened. Let’s bring him in tomorrow morning.”

Diera shook her head. “You’re assuming we can get more than
two words out of him.”

The rising sun touched peaks of the western hills the next
morning when the two Beynoms arrived at the abbey and went directly to the
abbot’s office. Sistian spoke to an aide, who then hurried off.

“Brother Elbern will ask Carnigan to join us.” Sistian
walked to his chair and sat. Diera moved beside him and laid a hand on his
shoulder.

She looked down and smiled. “And am I correct that from
Brother Elbern’s face, he was hesitant?”

Sistian sighed. “Carnigan intimidates everyone. I’ve
counseled him to be friendlier, but he looks at me like I’m speaking Narthani.”

“I think it’s also that he’s had little experience with
people being friendly to him.” Diera smoothed her dress’s folds. “He’s
certainly calmer than when he first came, but it’s as if he’s always sad. Like
he’s accepted the status of being apart from others, or perhaps resigned
might be a better word.”

A few minutes later there was a knock. Brother Elbern opened
the door and stepped in. “Abbess, Abbot, Brother Carnigan is here.”

“Thank you, Elbern,” Diera said. “Please ask him to come
in.”

Elbern stepped away, and Carnigan filled the doorway. It
wasn’t a small doorway, but only narrow gaps separated the man and the door
jams.

Diera stared, folding her arms, tucking her hands into her
sleeves. There was the rumor that Carnigan had once killed a steer with a
single blow. She’d always assumed it was one of those snide comments people
made about someone different who made them uneasy. It was probably just a silly
rumor. Probably.

Carnigan stood motionless, his face stoic. If he was
surprised at being asked to come to the abbot’s office so early in the morning,
he didn’t show it. He and the abbot usually spoke once or twice a month; the
abbot would inquire how Carnigan was doing and offer advice. Such counseling
was not an option for Carnigan, as it was for other staff, but it would be more
effective if it involved two-way conversations, which were seldom forthcoming.

Carnigan’s summons to the abbot’s office was the second
unusual event he’d experienced in two days. As he followed Brother Elbern,
Carnigan reasoned the two events were connected.

He didn’t know why he had gone to the stranger he had
heard other staff members talking about. He’d seen the man walking the grounds
and sitting on benches, as many staff, visitors, and Carnigan himself had
similarly done.

He had been on his hands and knees, weeding a flowerbed,
taking care his bulk didn’t disturb the flowers. Halfway through the bed, he
heard weeping on the other side of the bushes. He stopped weeding, rose to his knees,
and listened. The sounds were of bone-deep emotional pain. He stood and walked
around the parallel path to a junction and to the sounds. It was the stranger,
elbows on his thighs, body shaking, head bowed in his hands, tears running
between his fingers. Carnigan had stood for several moments, first simply
observing, inclined to return to weeding; then he felt he should do
something. He sat next to the man, moved closer, put an arm over the man’s
back, and gripped a shoulder, saying nothing but sensing the man needed someone
there at the moment.

“Thank you for coming, Carnigan,” Diera said. “Please
sit.” She motioned to the sturdier of two empty chairs. Diera could see her
husband hold his breath as the man eased himself down. The chair survived, although
its strained joints audibly complained.

She studied Carnigan’s expressionless face. Whatever went on
inside the big man’s mind stayed there. As far as Diera and Sistian knew, there
was no one Carnigan spoke with regularly on anything other than work
assignments. Neither did he socialize with anyone at the abbey or in Abersford.
Several nights a week, Carnigan would walk to a pub in the village. No matter
how busy the evening, he sat in a corner table alone, sipping steins of beer.
He attended Godsday morning service every week. As far as she knew, that was
the sum of Carnigan’s life in his two years at the abbey.

Sistian steepled his fingers. “I understand you met Yozef
yesterday.”

Carnigan grunted and gave a brief nod.

“He was troubled, and you sat with him.”

Another grunt.

“Perhaps you could tell us a little about what happened,”
Diera said gently, as she sat in the other seat.

“He was just lost for the moment,” Carnigan said in his
deep, emotionless voice.

“Carnigan,” Diera said, shifting forward in her seat, hands
folded on her lap, “we’ve worried about Yozef since he recovered from whatever
happened to him. We can’t communicate with him, and we’re concerned about how
to help him.”

“He’s fine.”

So much for in-depth diagnoses. Diera pressed on.
“This could be important for Yozef, Carnigan. He was crying, then later he
seemed in a better mood.”

“As I said,” Carnigan rumbled, “he was lost for the moment.
Once he stopped crying, he was fine.”

Sistian rubbed his cheek. “I think the beers may have helped
there.”

“Maybe,” Diera said, “but it might have been just what it
seemed. It’s not unusual for someone who suffered a bad experience to get
relief by crying. There has even been speculation in medicant circles that
crying is God’s gift to help us overcome what might otherwise seem
overwhelming.”

Sistian’s expression was one she recognized to signify his
doubt, but she knew he would defer to her on this. While she might study
people’s behavior with more of a medical slant than his theological one, they
both served those in need.

Diera sat back and smoothed her tunic. “Would it be
acceptable if we asked you to keep an eye on Yozef for the next few sixdays?
Don’t press him if he wants to be alone, but be available for whatever contact
he wants.”

“Of course, Abbess,” Carnigan said in a flat tone.

“And try not to let him drink too much, Carnigan,” Diera
added, “if for no other reason than he’s still recovering. Remember, his
capacity won’t be the same as yours, even when he’s fully recovered.”

Carnigan frowned. It was the first expression Diera saw on
his face, as if he was offended at the suggestion he might consume an
inordinate amount of alcohol.

“I’ll see he doesn’t drink too much,” Carnigan grated, then
rose and left without a by-your-leave or dismissal.

Diera held her laughter until Carnigan left. “Oh, Sistian,
even those few words are more than I’ve heard from Carnigan the whole time he’s
been here.”

“Loquacious he’s not, though I’m encouraged by even this
little of what passes for a conversation with Carnigan. I think you’re right.
Maybe he and Yozef can somehow touch each other in ways the rest of us don’t
understand. I’ll give extra prayers today for the two of them.”

Diera tapped a finger against her cheek. “That Yozef and
Carnigan talked so long without knowing what each was saying makes me think
Yozef is ready to start learning to speak Caedelli. I wouldn’t rush him quite
yet, but as soon as he’s ready, we should encourage it. We’ll never know more
of who he is and how he got there until that happens. Whatever his story is,
it’s bound to be fascinating.”

Chapter 7: Caedellium Life

Adjusting

Yozef awoke with sunlight flooding his bed through a window.
He stretched his limbs and noticed he . . . felt good. A warm lassitude
faded, as his surroundings jolted him fully awake, but he still felt more alive
since waking on this planet. How many hours had he slept? Ten, twelve hours?
Hours? However they measured time here, the day was well along.

His bladder’s urgent signals interrupted his wondering about
time. He pulled on clothes and hustled to the outhouse. He would later learn it
was called a voiding house. The building was more formal than the classic shed
with the crescent moon on the wooden door on Earth. This one was the size of a
house, with common areas for washing, and two classes of closable compartments,
one for showers and sponge-baths and another for the activities that gave the
building its name. The facility was unisex, with the compartments providing privacy.
He was consternated the first time he defecated by himself and intuited the
purpose of baskets of moss-like material next to the hole in the floor. Then,
surprise and momentary embarrassment resulted when he exited his compartment at
the same moment a woman entered a neighboring one.

This morning, his bladder satisfied, his stomach announced
food as the next priority. He had missed the morning meal.

“So, what are the rules here?” he spoke aloud to himself. If
you missed the mealtime, were you shit out of luck until the next one? Only one
way to find out—go over to the dining hall and look hungry.

As he walked the gravel paths, he noticed he “hustled,” as
he had on the way to the voiding house. That he could hustle was
notable. Not running or even what anyone would call quick, but with movements
faster than days before.

He lifted the latch on the dining hall main door, leaned in
to open the door, and walked in. As expected, no one sat and ate at the tables.
He stood for perhaps a minute, wondering what to do next, when a girl carrying
a box came out of the kitchen area, saw him, and started jabbering.

He assumed she said something notable, like, “Dining Hall
is closed until mid-day meal,” or “You missed breakfast, dumb-ass,” or
some such. Of course, she could be reciting local poetry or asking him to come
by her room this evening, and he wouldn’t know the difference.

After more vocalizations, the woman either recognized him as
the strange man or got tired of getting no response. She huffed, set the box on
one table, pulled out a chair at another, and motioned for him to sit. He did,
and she went into the kitchen area, returning with a bowl, a large slice of the
standard heavy, dark bread, and a steaming mug of something.

He gave her his best smile. “Thank you. Sorry I’m late.”

She scowled and stomped away.

The bowl held a porridge resembling dark oatmeal,
supplemented with small chunks that appeared to be nuts and berries. The bread
was split down the middle with a hunk of yellowish cheese stuck in the crevice.
The contents of the mug looked like coffee but smelled like moist earth. He had
drunk the brownish liquid before, though didn’t recall the taste. He sipped
gingerly, blowing to cool off the surface.

It definitely wasn’t coffee and had a faint root beer flavor
to go along with the pungent aroma. Probably some kind of extract from a local
plant root. After another sip, his head cleared of sleep’s residues, and he
eyed the mug with respect. Maybe not from a bean like coffee, but wherever it
came from it must have similar alkaloids to caffeine, by the way it hit him.

The mug’s contents, the bowl’s, and the bread and cheese
disappeared, while he mused over the botanical origin of the drink. He took the
empty dishes and the spoon to the kitchen door, called out, “Hello,” and the
same young woman appeared. She took the dishes from him, he thanked her, and
she jabbered back.

He expected she said, “Okay, get out of here and stop
bothering us.” He somehow doubted it was, “You’re more than welcome and
come in anytime for anything you want to eat.” Also probably not, “My
room, 8 o’clock, be there.”

He smiled, chuckled, and bustled out the main door.

Yozef Learns Caedelli

Once outside, he stood in the light and felt warmth against his
face. He looked up and, for the first time since his arrival, consciously
noticed the sun. That he could look at the sun for a few seconds without
having to avert his eyes was one more clue he wasn’t on Earth. The orb was
larger than Sol, and the color had more of an orange tint than the yellow of
Earth’s sun.

If he remembered his astronomy, this must still be a Class G
sun, like Sol, though a little smaller and cooler. It probably looked larger
because this planet’s orbit must be closer to its sun than Earth. Whatever the
sun’s characteristics, the colors he saw around him appeared “normal”: the sky
was robin’s egg blue, the nearby flowers red and yellow, the foliage a mix
familiar greens and darker-hues.

He walked the paths of the formal garden behind the
cathedral, his mind clearer than since arriving to this place. He’d shit and
eaten. Normally, he’d say he needed a shower and a shave to finish out the
morning rituals, although perhaps in a different order. Shaving didn’t seem to
be in the cards here. Every man Yozef had seen since he’d awakened here sported
a beard. The lengths, shapes, and degree of grooming seemed left to individual
preferences, and the only smooth-faced males were boys still too young to have
developed fuzz. Even if he had a razor, to fit in he would have to get
accustomed to a beard. He had had one in college as an undergrad, back in his
“Look at me, I’m adult and an intellectual,” phase. He hadn’t cared much for
the beard then, and the one he was currently growing felt scruffy after a
couple of weeks’ growth. He was just going to have to get used to it.

As for the last of the four rituals—bathing remained. His
nose had already noted that daily showers or baths were not the norm here.
Although the BO levels were much higher than he was accustomed to, it surprised
him it wasn’t worse. Maybe it was the clothing, constructed from some natural
fibers like wool, cotton, flax, or bandersnatchi. He already knew he got more
odoriferous if wearing shirts made of synthetics, compared to cotton. Still, it
got pretty earthy at evening mealtimes when the dining hall fills with bodies
who had been working all day.

He sniffed his left armpit and grimaced. He needed a shower,
but not now. Later, before evening meal. For now, he needed to think.

He continued a slow walk around the gardens and the grounds.
An occasional local passed him, giving what he assumed to be a greeting,
although for all he knew they were incantations to ward off the weird stranger
who might be a demon. He only partly noticed them. He was deep into thoughts
about where he was, how he got here, and most important . . . what
was he going to do?

The same thoughts dominated his mind all day and the next.
He was here. Not wanting to be here was meaningless. He was here.
Simply sleeping in the small room they provided, eating three meals, shitting,
and walking around agonizing over what had happened wouldn’t work. What was he
actually going to do?

The immediate answer was obvious. He didn’t know.

Though he didn’t have a long-term plan, he needed to act on
the proverbial advice “Don’t just stand there, do something!” Since he didn’t
know what he was going to do long term, at least he needed to do something, if
only to get ready for when he did have a plan.

He stopped in the middle of a garden path and spoke aloud,
oblivious to his surroundings and an approaching man.

“Language. No question. It’s the unavoidable priority.
Nothing long term is going to happen or be decided until I know enough of the language
to communicate.”

The man passed, eyeing him carefully and stepping aside to
avoid contact with the stranger conversing with the air. Yozef didn’t notice.

“Yes. Language. That’s what I have to do first.”

Having a clear, immediate goal both reassured and
intimidated him. To know what he needed to do, even if short term, was a rock
to stand on. However, it could also be shifting sand. He had had two years each
of Spanish in high school and German in college—the latter a chemistry degree
requirement left over from the days when much of the world’s best chemistry
work was published in German. That those days were many decades past by the
time he got to college was evidently irrelevant to the Berkeley chemistry
department. Neither language stuck with him, leaving him enough to pronounce
the menu items at a Mexican restaurant and stumble through German chemistry
publications.

This was going to be ugly and grueling. But he had no
choice. He had to understand and speak the language.

Having an action plan, he sought out Carnigan at the next
morning’s meal and found him eating by himself as usual. Yozef plopped himself
down at the same table, facing Carnigan, who appeared a little taken aback at
the effrontery of someone sitting with him until he recognized Yozef. The
initial frown changed to a twinkle, as Yozef started talking to him in English.

“Well, Carnigan. Congratulations on being appointed my first
tutor in whatever you people call your language. Hope you appreciate the
honor.”

Carnigan grunted, his usual response to bursts of English,
and continued eating. Yozef picked up the two-pronged local version of a fork,
held it up with one hand, pointed to the utensil with the other hand, and said,
“Fork . . . fork . . . fork.”

Carnigan looked at him speculatively, then raised his
eyebrows and said back, “Sonktie . . . sonktie . . .
sonktie.”

They moved on from there: head, eyes, hand, foot, chair,
bowl, and knife. Once they finished eating and went outdoors, the lesson
continued: tree, sun, clouds, path, wood, rock, on and on. Yozef forgot many of
the words immediately, but repetition encouraged him that the overall task
wasn’t hopeless.

The lesson ended when Carnigan shook his head and made
pushing and chopping motions with his arms.

“Work. You’re saying you need to get to work. Thanks,
Carnigan for picking up so quickly what I was trying to do.” Yozef patted his
shoulder and watched him turn and stride toward the barns.

It was a start, but he needed to write down what he heard.
He needed a pen and paper. Or a quill and papyrus, or whatever the equivalent
was here. Brother Fitham. He was the one to check with.

It took an hour to find the elderly brother who had helped
him in his first weeks. Fitham was hanging laundry on lines behind the guest
quarters. After exchanging unintelligible comments to each other, Yozef mimed
for writing materials. Later that evening, when Yozef got back to his room, on
his table sat a stack of blank pale-brown paper, several sharpened quills, and
a stoppered vial of ink. Thus began the first, and certainly the only ever,
English dictionary to the local language. He wrote down everything he could
remember from Carnigan, perhaps twenty nouns in English and how he transcribed
the equivalent local word.

He grimaced at the results. It looked pathetic. Oh well,
the longest trip starts with one step, he recited.

The next morning, he brought paper, quill, and ink to the
morning meal. Carnigan filled in nouns Yozef forgot from the day before, then
left for work without further contributions to the dictionary. However, word
had spread, whether by Carnigan, the abbot and the abbess, or the general
observation the stranger was learning their language, and other staff took up
the lessons. Whenever a staff member served a meal, he or she would point to each
item and pronounce its name. When walking on the grounds, men and women pointed
to buildings, doors, hoes, rocks—on and on. As he passed people, they greeted
him with phrases whose exact meaning he didn’t understand but assumed were
versions of “Hello,” “Good-bye,” “Good-day,” or whatever were common greetings.

After a few hundred nouns, he moved on to verbs. By the end
of the first sixday, Abbot Sistian approached him with a boy about thirteen
years old. The boy carried several thin, bound books and additional writing
materials. Sistian and Yozef managed to communicate enough for Yozef to
understand the boy would provide lessons in the local language, both spoken and
written.

Thus began Yozef’s serious study of Caedelli, as his
young tutor gave him the name of the language and the people. He came to
suspect Caedelli was an ancient ancestor of Indo-European, which, if correct,
put the transplantation from Earth probably no later than 5,000 years BC. As he
had noticed while bedridden, about one word in three or four seemed related to
one or more of the Earth languages he was familiar with: English, Spanish, and
German. He remembered from an anthropology course that among diverse
Indo-European languages, some of the most common and important words had similarities—words
such as mother, father, water, and occasional other nouns,
although the similarities varied. While Caedelli words for mother and father
sounded familiar, sister and brother didn’t. The color blue
sounded like “blue,” and “red” and “black” were familiar, but no other color
sounded similar enough to stretch credulity of ancestry. “Cold” sounded like cold,
but “hot” sounded closest to a local animal, and “warm” was a female body part
whose specificity he didn’t explore further.

As his vocabulary and knowledge of Caedelli grammar
increased, he learned details of his environment. The enclosed cluster of
buildings he found himself in was a center of medicine, religion, and learning,
and he conferred to the complex the title of “abbey,” which he translated as
making Sistian and Diera the abbot and the abbess, respectively. The abbey was
formally named the Abbey of Saint Sidryn, commonly referred to as St.
Sidryn’s—Sidryn being the name of some past religious figure. The nearby town
was Abersford, the Province Keelan, the land a large island named Caedellium,
and the planet was Anyar. From observing activity around the complex, Yozef had
already figured out the cycle of days was by sixes, a sixday—five days of work
and one day of rest and worship services in the large cathedral-like building.
He learned the seasons (four), the months (nine, plus a five-day start-of-year
festival), and a thumb pointed upward from a fist meant the equivalent of a
raised middle finger and not approval, a good thing to know.

Language by total immersion. His brain often felt fried by
the end of a day spent memorizing words, practicing phrases and pronunciation,
and a gradual increase in the morning reading/writing lesson from two to four
hours each day with the boy assigned to him by the abbot. By the end of two
sixdays, Yozef had enough words to try asking questions and understand answers.
He learned that his tutor was Selmar Beynom, the youngest son of Abbot Sistian
and Abbess Diera Beynom. Another son, Cadwulf, was about eighteen years old and
studying at the abbey. There also were also two Beynom daughters, older,
married, and living with their families elsewhere. Selmar was diligent and
tireless, so much so that several nights Yozef dreamed of being back in the
fifth grade and drilled by a relentless Mrs. MacMurty.

“God, what I wouldn’t give to talk to someone in English for
just a few minutes!” he mumbled to himself after one language lesson on past
and future tense. “Someone other than myself.”

He found himself singing softly just to hear the lyrics,
which got him more than a few stares. Singing and humming to yourself seemed
common here, but his tunes were not any the locals had ever heard. He got
smiles at the obvious gaiety of “Yellow Submarine,” “Jingle Bells,” and “I Get
Around.” More mixed looks accompanied hearing him whistling or singing
“Everything Is Beautiful,” “Imagine,” “I Walk the Line,” and various Bruce
Springsteen numbers. He was surprised he could remember most of the lyrics to
so many songs. Maybe whatever the Watchers did had improved his memory. An
alternative explanation was more melancholy: Maybe the lack of English made his
brain work harder to remember what it could before losing details of Earth
forever.

Chapter 8: Thorns

Even with Yozef’s commitment to master Caedelli, there was a
limit to what his brain would tolerate. As a counterbalance, he began helping
Carnigan in his daily assignments a few days after he started language lessons.
The weather was warm that day, with a breeze coming off the ocean, and
increasing cloud cover suggesting rain later in the day. He had been on one of
his slow walks around the grounds after morning lessons and came upon Carnigan
hoeing weeds in a vegetable field outside the complex’s main wall.

Damn if this isn’t a scene that might go viral on
YouTube. The hoe looked like a toothpick when handled by someone who looked
like he could carry a horse.

Yozef stood watching, then, without a conscious decision,
went to a shed he had seen workers taking tools from and picked out another
hoe. He went out to where Carnigan worked and started hoeing in the next row.
Carnigan looked up from his work, nodded to Yozef, and went back to the weeds.
Yozef kept up with the hoeing for almost an hour the first day before lagging.
Even hoeing weeds was a major exertion, given his condition. When he had
dropped several yards behind and audibly puffed, Carnigan took the hoe from his
hands, turned him around, and pushed him gently but firmly toward the
buildings. He rumbled something to Yozef, who without understanding a word,
knew Carnigan said, “Nice work, but that’s enough for today.” On subsequent
days, Yozef met Carnigan either at morning meal or at the main abbey entrance
and followed him to the day’s assignment.

Thus, Yozef learned more than just weeding. Within a month,
six sixdays, or thirty-six total days to a month by local custom, he
experienced cleaning stables, brushing horses, milking cows, chasing ducks for
the evening meal, pruning in the formal gardens and orchards, loading and
unloading wagons and, less to his liking, moving voiding vats to refuse pits,
rinsing out the vats with buckets of water, and putting the vats back under the
commode platforms of the voiding house. Fortunately, Carnigan’s turn for that
task came only once a month.

Working with Carnigan gave Yozef’s brain a break, and his
body strained with physical work unlike any previous experience. The rest of
the hours into the evenings were absorbed with further language study. By the
end of the first month, Yozef had learned enough Caedelli to pick up stray
pieces of conversations and even carry on limited exchanges.

One morning Carnigan came to the morning meal, but instead
of his usual loose trousers and pullover shirt, he wore heavier, tighter
clothing and an over-vest of thick leather, like a version of a jerkin—a type
of leather clothing worn on Earth in the 1500–1700s. Yozef scanned the room.
Several other men in the hall wore similar clothing.

Yozef mimed and used his limited Caedelli vocabulary to
question the different dress. After several minutes of stumbling through words
and gestures, Yozef thought he understood Carnigan and other men would be gone
for two sixdays for some unclear obligation.

After eating, Yozef followed Carnigan and watched the men
saddle horses and secure packs to other animals. By the time they left, the
jerkins were added to with helmet-like protective headgear of thicker leather
with inlaid metal bands. Aside from those general features, there was
uniformity in neither their gear nor the weapons. Each man carried an
assortment of swords, lances, muskets, pistols, and a few large crossbows.

The number and array of weapons mesmerized Yozef. “Christ,
man, what the fuck are you guys getting ready for?” He had previously noticed
men from the village carrying knives, yet nothing more deadly.

Similar to clothing and weapons, the horses and the tack
ranged in quality, sizes, and colors. Carnigan rode what resembled a grayish
Percheron with a dark mane and tail, a horse suited to pulling large wagons or
plows or as a mount of a very large rider. Two huge flintlock pistols hung from
Carnigan’s saddle, he carried a lance two feet longer than other men, and a
battleax hung across his back.

Yozef eyed the wicked-looking double blade. My God! he
thought. That thing must have belonged to Paul Bunyan. I doubt I could swing
it with both hands, but I’ll bet Carnigan twirls it like a baton. Yozef
swallowed, and a taste of bile touched the back of his throat at an unbidden
image of damage those blades could inflict.

A grizzled man shouted to the others, and the men followed
him out the main gate. Carnigan nodded in passing. Yozef climbed a ladder to
the rampart inside the complex main wall and watched the men ride toward the
village a half-mile away. Other single men and small groups joined them on the
ride. By the time they reached Abersford, the group had grown to perhaps twenty
riders. They disappeared into the village, then reappeared several minutes
later, and forty to fifty riders headed inland on the main road. Yozef couldn’t
make out details, but they rode in a mass, reminding him more of a Western
movie posse than a military unit.

“Well,” Yozef spoke aloud, “so things aren’t all idyllic
here. This isn’t some Amish village. The people may live the simpler life, but
something out there required guns and blades. Bandits? Rival clans? Predators?
Whatever it is, it’s serious.”

When the last rider dipped behind a hill a mile away,
Yozef climbed down from the rampart and walked back to the complex.

Carnigan had indicated he would be gone two sixdays, but it
was four sixdays before Yozef saw the big man again. Then, one morning,
Carnigan and the other absent men sat at morning meal. Yozef didn’t press where
they had been, as he sat and ate with Carnigan. He hadn’t realized how much
he’d miss the gruff man.

Maybe it was only because Carnigan was the first person
Yozef connected with, but, even so, Yozef liked him. He might look
menacing, and Yozef could believe it wouldn’t be a person’s smartest move to
get on Carnigan’s bad side, but there was more to him. And Yozef had a hunch
Carnigan was brighter than he looked, yet with a more common sense of the world
smarts than book learning. He was also kinder than others might think.

With the men back, Yozef returned to the routine of
following Carnigan in his daily duties, yet Yozef’s awareness had changed.
Seeing Carnigan ride off with other men armed to the teeth, by the standards of
this world, meant there were physical threats to warrant having armed groups of
men.

He’d been so focused on learning Caedelli and getting
through each day that his universe was limited to his room and the abbey
complex. Obviously, there was more he needed to know to survive and build a
life here.

The recognition of dangers outside the abbey walls brought
back other questions that had temporarily retreated. Questions about the
Watchers. Their unknown physical appearance was not as important a question as
their intentions. Yozef inferred that the Watchers had been around this part of
the galaxy for a long time, at least some thousands of years. He believed
Harlie when the voice said the Watchers didn’t know who had transplanted
humans, both here and on the other planets; Harlie said there had been multiple
translocations. Why had he ended up on Anyar? Simply a convenient place to dump
him, or was there some rationale? Why Caedellium? Was the island a deliberate
or a random choice? Were there other survivors of the collision dumped on
Anyar? He doubted he would ever know the answers.

A more fundamental question and one for which even the
Watchers didn’t have the answer was why had that other alien race transplanted
humans, along with other terrestrial plants and animals? Was it a benign act to
let humans spread and evolve on more than one planet? A safety measure to
assure humans survived in case something happened to their original planet? A
malign act? A reason only understandable to an alien species?

On one starry evening, he sat in the complex gardens and
gazed at the stars with no constellations he recognized.

He was likely the only human, on Earth or Anyar, who knew
about the Watchers and the other human worlds, and there was nothing he could
do with the information. He knew what would happen if in 1700 Earth he tried to
describe television and aircraft. Depending on the country and perhaps even the
locals, he could end up in an insane asylum or burned at the stake. So forget
about telling anyone. Ever. It was knowledge he’d hold close and in isolation.
That wasn’t all he knew. Even if he couldn’t share how he got here, he had
scientific knowledge that would push Anyar civilizations ahead centuries. But
what to do with that knowledge?

For sixdays, he thought about how he might introduce
knowledge or whether he dared at all.

Chapter 9: Interview with the Abbot

“Yozef! Wait a moment.”

Yozef stopped and turned to face Brother Fitham. The kindly
older brother smiled as he always did.

Fitham laid an arthritic hand on Yozef’s forearm. “Abbot
Sistian requests you meet with him in his office tomorrow after morning meal.”

Yozef’s breath skipped at the words. He had been expecting
this. “Did the abbot say what he wanted to meet about?”

“No, but I assume he’s interested in how you’re
progressing.”

Yozef’s gut tightened. “I’m sure. Tell the abbot I’ll come
as soon as I finish eating.”

“Fine, fine.” Fitham patted him on the shoulder, turned, and
retraced his steps.

So. It’s that time. I’ve been wondering when the
abbot would get around to this. I expected it to happen soon. The fact that I
can carry on conversations with Brother Fitham is proof I’m ready to answer
questions. The abbot has to be curious in the extreme about who the hell I am
and how I got here. His manner is friendly enough, but this is likely to be a
serious interrogation all the same. I’d better be on my toes.

He ambled back to his room as he reviewed the past months.
The language studies had progressed faster than his initial concerns, based on
his experience with high school Spanish and chemical German. He was a sponge,
soaking up Caedelli. He knew part of the reason was total immersion. There was
nothing to fall back on, to clarify uncertainties in lessons, to socialize, or
to retreat into English. Caedelli was it—unless he wanted to talk to
himself, which he often did. Even granted the incentives, the speed at which he
went from stumbling over a few words to freely conversing was unanticipated.
New words keep cropping up, though once he heard them two or three times, he didn’t
forget.

Then there was the sheer necessity. He couldn’t communicate
for any purpose without the language. In spite of that incentive, the speed
with which he was picking it up gave him pause. He knew he was smart. Science,
mathematics, yes. Languages, no. Yet here, fewer than three months into
intensive study, and he could carry on conversations and read simple texts.

At first, two-way verbal communication was a multi-stage
process with a mental English-Caedelli dictionary. A local would say something,
he would mentally translate, assemble the suspected correct Caedelli words, and
pronounce them back. As time went on, mentally leaning on English faded. He
still thought to himself and dreamed in English, but talking in Caedelli became
easier day by day.

He thanked God, or whomever, for the simple grammar. The
rules were reasonably straightforward, with limited irregularities, compared to
the declensions, cases, and genders of Spanish and German.

He wondered whether his progress was only because of
necessity or from effects of whatever the Watchers did when they fiddled with
his physiology to help him survive? Was he now smarter, or was his memory
enhanced? He suspected memory, since he didn’t feel smarter.

“Thank you for coming, Yozef,” said the avuncular-sounding
abbot as he welcomed Yozef. “Selmar and Brother Fitham tell me you’ve made
amazing progress in learning Caedelli. Enough so that I’m anxious to learn more
about you and your people.” The abbot waved to a pair of chairs facing each
other, and they both sat. “And the medicants say you’re fully recovered from
your ordeal.”

The abbot continued inquiring into Yozef’s condition and was
oh so friendly and supportive sounding. However, Yozef never lost the feeling
that the agenda was to determine whether he was a victim or a danger, a lost
human, an enemy spy, or a demon of whatever pantheon of gods they had here.

“Tell me, Yozef, where is your home? The name of your
people?”

Best stick as close to the truth as possible—without
telling the whole truth. The closer to the truth he stayed, the fewer
inconsistencies would crop up later. Lying forced him to remember what story he
told.

“My people are Americans, and our country is called
America.”

“America,” said Sistian, letting the syllables roll off his
tongue. “America. I don’t believe I have ever heard of America. Of course, I’m
not well traveled throughout the world. What continent is America on, or is it
more of an island like Caedellium?”

“It’s on a continent, but we’ve had little contact with
neighboring peoples. Though I don’t understand why, I know I’d never met any
other peoples of Anyar before I awoke here on Caedellium.”

Well, thought Sistian, the world is wide.
There were many lands he was sure he’d never heard of. Still, it was unusual
the man had never met anyone from outside his own people.

Sistian reached behind himself and pulled a folded paper off
a shelf. He laid it on the small table separating them and unfolded it several
times to reveal a world map.

“This is a map of Anyar. Can you show me where your land is?”

Yozef looked at the map, his eyes roving over the features
of the planet. He’d seen Anyar from images of the globe Harlie had shared with
him, but the projection map made clearer the relationships of the major
landmasses concentrated on half the globe.

To the left side of the map was an island with more
prominent labeling than the other lands. Yozef’s Caedelli reading lessons let
him recognize the name of the island, Caedellium. It was about half the
size of Texas or Madagascar, maybe some hundreds of miles across. Selmar hadn’t
shown him any of this, so he wondered where Keelan lay.

“I’m afraid I can’t show you where my land is, Abbot. To be
honest, this is the first complete map of Anyar I’ve ever seen.” Which was
true, though, of course, it was the only map of the planet he’d ever
seen—he didn’t count the images of Anyar Harlie had shown him.

“I don’t know why, but for some reason my people don’t
interact much with the other lands. All I can say is that the voyage here was
long. I wasn’t always fully conscious, so even that might be faulty memory. The
climate also seemed similar to Caedellium, yet that could include much of the
world.”

“Do you remember how you got here? On what ship and of what
people?”

“No. I never saw those who took me from my homeland.” True.
“They fed me, but I never left a small compartment or saw anyone.” True.
“I don’t understand why they took me or how I got from their ship to the beach
near Abersford and the abbey.” True . . . or close enough.

The abbot shook his head. “Too bad. We would all like to
know more about you, how this happened to you. What about your family? What is
their place among your people?”

Yozef paused. Was the abbot trying to pigeonhole him into a
societal class? If he said the wrong thing, would it change how they treated
him? Maybe they’d been so supportive of him out of being uncertain whether he
belonged to a powerful family or clan. Yozef decided to take a chance and
continue saying things were different where he came from . . . yet
not too different.

“My father’s a scholastic, one who studies the heavens and
the stars.”

“Ah, an astrologer. One who predicts the future.”

“Not exactly. He studies the heavens, only by observing the
moons, the planets, and the stars. It’s called astronomy, and my father is an
astronomer. In my land, we don’t depend on predictions based on the heavens.
Although they can sometimes come true, we believe such auguries are often too
vague to serve as guidelines for our daily lives.” That was as close as Yozef
thought he could come without debunking astrology.

Sistian nodded. “Something I agree with, although a few of
my more conservative colleagues are not so sure. Astrology was important to our
people in the past, though not so much anymore, except for perhaps the common,
less educated people. It’s a belief not given credence by most of my brothers
and sisters, so I find it interesting your people have come to the same
conclusion.”

Yozef saw an opening to both establish a rapport with the
more educated locals and cover himself for the future. “Yes, it makes one
consider that no matter where we are in the world, our peoples are coming to
common understandings of God’s realm.”

Sistian frowned a little. “Well, now we’re getting into
theological areas we can discuss later.”

Whoops, thought Yozef. Maybe I reached a little
too far on that one. Be careful.

“And the rest of your family? Are they all scholastics?”

“Not all. Many found different goals to their lives. Some
soldiers (at least in Grandfather’s generation), some theophists (I
think Aunt Marcie’s minister diploma from that mail-order outfit qualifies—at
least as far as the Caedelli are concerned), some leaders of our peoples (Uncle
Fred was mayor of Castleton for one term before they realized he was spending
more time bonking constituent wives than running the town—and Mom and Dad had
stints as chairs of PTA chapters), and merchants and skilled tradesmen (well,
a butcher at Safeway and cousin Bill’s marijuana dispensary in San
Francisco have to count). My people believe that God’s plan for us is to do
what each is best at and not be tied to a particular position or trade.”

Sistian frowned, more puzzled than disapproving, “Then how
does your family know its proper place? It sounds chaotic. Does the family have
no role?”

Yozef formulated his next words carefully. From what he’d
gathered so far in speaking with Carnigan and other staff, the family, the
village, and the clan took care of its members and normally provided a role for
them. This naturally meant limiting options. If you were the son of a
blacksmith, chances were you’d also be a blacksmith, since by the age of twelve
a boy would be helping his father. If a daughter, you’d learn the skills of
being a mother and caring for a family and in some circumstances work in a
family trade. Stepping out of those boundaries would be difficult. If your
family members were tradesmen and you decided to be a farmer, you’d have to
save enough money to buy your own farm. Your family would help if they were
affluent enough, or you’d marry the daughter of a sonless farmer. And forget
about moving to a different village or town. It was always a balance between
limiting options and providing for livelihood.

Yozef thought there were advantages to knowing your place.
He wondered whether the United States was overall better. Yes, the options
there were infinitely greater, but the downside was less family and community
support. But how to answer the abbot?

“My people put great value on each person being responsible
for his or her own success in life. While sometimes this means people don’t
have as much help from family and clan as you have here, they have more options
for what to do with their lives. Now that I’ve seen the people of Caedellium,
I’m not wise enough to say which is better, your system here or ours at my
home.”

“Interesting. I’d like to speak with you more about this. As
for your feeling your own lack of wisdom, the Word tells us that a path
to wisdom is knowing you don’t have it.”

Yozef frowned. “The Word?”

“The Word of God,” Sistian stated. “Our main
religious writing. It’s usually shortened to the Word in everyday
speech.”

Yozef nodded. “My people say a wise man knows he doesn’t
know, while a fool knows what isn’t true.”

Okay, maybe he couldn’t exactly the quote, but who here
would know?

Sistian smiled and nodded appreciatively. “Very true and
interestingly stated. I may even use those words someday in a Godsday message.

“And yourself, Yozef? You mentioned you were a student.
Forgive me, but for us, someone of your age who was still a student would be
unusual or the student not particularly bright. Certainly, the latter doesn’t
apply to you. By your age, they would have finished their schooling and have a
position based on their learnings.”

He’d been waiting for the question. It was his chance for an
opening to explain why he seemed to have so much exotic knowledge. No matter
how careful he tried to be, it was only a matter of time before he began
dropping pieces of that knowledge. He had to find a way around this, or it
could have catastrophic consequences for him.

“Our land is blessed by God to be extraordinarily bountiful.
We’ve more than enough food for all, and we send much of our bounty to a trading
center where it is exchanged with other lands for their goods. Also, our hills
and mountains are rich in gold and silver. All of this allows our people to
spend more time considering the wonder of God’s world in all its aspects. Many
of the fields of study would probably seem trivial and pointless in Caedellium.
Your land is productive, at least the parts I’ve seen, but still requires much
effort and sweat to yield. Imagine if suddenly your people only had to work
half as much time as they do now. What would they do with the rest of the
time?”

Sistian considered this novel idea for a few moments. “I
think it’d depend on each person. Many would simply take the time to do
nothing. Sit and talk, engage in games, perhaps consume more alcohol, if they
had both the extra time and money you suggest. For myself, there are always
people I wish I had more time to counsel, and I’d spend more time studying and
considering the Word.”

“What about your wife?”

“Diera? Ah . . . she’d spend more time with patients
and studying medical books. She always worries she’s forgotten some piece of
knowledge or records of past treatments that she might find useful.”

“What if Diera had access to ten times as many books and
records?”

“I’m afraid she would try to drive herself to learn
everything, no matter how much there was.” Sistian smiled. “I might have to
drag her from the library every day.”

“What if it was a hundred times? A thousand?”

Sistian was silent, his eyes narrowing as he looked at
Yozef. “A thousand times as much knowledge? How is that possible? I know we’re
remote from the rest of Anyar, but we’re not that isolated!”

“Consider if your people spent half their time in study for
a hundred years.”

Sistian sighed and sat back farther in his chair. “I see
where you’re headed. I can’t say I truly understand the consequences of what
you imply, though I can see how the amount of knowledge could become huge.
However, in your proposal, if there’s that much knowledge, how does any one
person learn it all?”

“They don’t,” said Yozef. “With this much knowledge, the
best that can be done is that any one person can only study small parts of the
total.”

“Then they would be almost ignorant of the whole and all the
interconnections of knowledge!”

“Not completely. All students study basic topics. This gives
some knowledge common to everyone and takes perhaps the first fifteen years of
study. Beyond that, we narrow our focus into specific topics and study those in
more depth—a common knowledge base and then specializations. While it’s not a
satisfactory solution, it’s the best resolution my people have come up with,
and many have argued and struggled with the problem.”

“I can see how that might be one solution,” Sistian allowed,
“although, as you say, not completely satisfactory. I suppose it’s not that
different from here, although your people spend many more years at study than
we do. And that explains how someone of your age is still a student.”

“Yes. I had the common ten years of study, followed by
another four years narrowing to only a fraction of knowledge, and finally,
another two years of even narrower specialization before whatever happened led
me to be here on Caedellium.”

“And yourself, what’s the area of knowledge you specialized
in?”

“We call it ‘chemistry.’ The study of how to take known
substances and use them to make new ones.”

“Chemistry,” repeated Sistian slowly. “Chemistry. I’ve never
heard this word. I assume it is in your language. What exactly does it
involve?”

“Many aspects would be difficult for me to explain to you
because you don’t have the words or background knowledge. This one example may
be instructive. You make beer out of barley and wheat. Do you know exactly what
is happening during the process of beer-making?”

“No. I assume the brewers do, though.”

“I doubt it. They probably are simply following steps they
learned from past brewers. In contrast, our scholastics understand exactly what
is happening. The same with winemaking. Although I have never made beer or wine
myself, by ‘chemistry,’ I know that both drinks contain something we call
‘alcohol,’ the ingredient that makes you relax and feel good. This alcohol is
converted from the ingredients of the grain or fruit—starch in grain for beer
and sugar in fruit juices for wine.”

Sistian put a hand to his chin. “So you know about beer and
winemaking. Perhaps we could find you employment in Abersford or even the
district center at Clengoth.”

“Perhaps. Although the fact that I know more about the
underlying mechanisms doesn’t mean that I could make better beer or wine than
your brewers or winemakers. However, I believe the basic knowledge would
eventually be useful.”

“Well,” said Sistian, “still, it might be something to
explore.”

Yozef paused . . . then said, “I suddenly realized
there may be something else useful for your brewers and winemakers. I also know
some of the properties in your spirits that could allow them to produce a
completely new form of drink, one much more potent than either wine or beer. Do
you have something like ‘ice-wine,’ where you make wine more potent by freezing
it and then removing ice forming before the entire liquid turns solid?”

Sistian nodded. “The northern clans do something as you
describe. I’ve tasted it, and it’s definitely more potent. I’ve seen men get
drunk after only a small amount. There’s also the stronger spirits that make
one drunk even by drinking much smaller amounts. It’s one of the few pieces of
new knowledge that the Narthani brought to Caedellium. A shop in Abersford
produces some of this with the help of an escaped Narthani slave. I’ve tried
the drink; it tastes terrible.”

Hmm . . .Yozef pondered. Maybe some kind
of early pot distillation. Interesting. Maybe my example wasn’t that good. And
Narthani? I’ve heard this name before, often accompanied by curses. I should
ask more about whoever they are.

“I’m sure if I talk with the shopkeeper in Abersford, I
could show him how to make a stronger drink faster, unless you think
introducing a stronger drink is not good.”

“It might not necessarily be a good thing to make stronger
spirits more readily available,” the abbot said with a frown. “Some men already
drink too much.”

“Then how about another use for alcohol? As a disinfectant
for your medicants?”

“What is this ‘disinfectant?’ Another of your ‘English’
words?”

“I’ve already seen the medicants rinse their hands and
instruments with a solution of a thin acid and soap to reduce corruption.
Alcohol can be used the same way and would be better sometimes than the
carbolic acid. I could show you how to purify alcohol in a form pure enough for
use.”

The abbot stroked his beard. “I would have to check with
Diera, but I assume she’ll be interested.”

Yozef paused for a moment—it was another opening. “One thing
I worry about is how would such knowledge be received by yourself, the other
brothers and sisters, and the common people. In my country, this knowledge
simply derives from our attempt to understand God’s world, but here it could be
considered as having an evil source. I wouldn’t want to cause any discord among
your people, and, to be honest, my own safety worries me. Would it be better
for me to simply be silent?”

The abbot sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowed toward
Yozef. “Not an easy question to answer, Yozef. The Word tells us to
beware of the Evil One’s temptations. In some lands of Anyar, I think your
worries about safety would be well considered. Even on Caedellium, there are
some of the more conservative who’d question new ideas. You may have been
fortunate to have washed ashore in Keelan. I believe we’re more tolerant than
many other clans, at least with more willingness to listen to new ideas. While
this doesn’t mean we might not find something you say disturbing, we’d at least
listen.”

Sistian thought for a couple of minutes, stroking his beard
with one hand and gazing out a window as he considered. “Here’s what I suggest
for the moment, Yozef. Whenever you have a piece of this knowledge you wish to
share but are worried about how it would be understood, talk to either me or
Diera before anyone else. At some point, I’d bring this to the attention of the
entire senior staff at the abbey for a more thorough review, though for now let
us keep this among the three of us.”

“Thank you, Abbot. I’ll do as you suggest.” Well, that
should cover me for a while.

The abbot’s expression was pensive. “Yozef, I continue to
sense no evil in you, although some have wondered when you appeared on our
beach so mysteriously and looking half dead. Also, though I have a sense of
excitement whenever I talk with you, I can’t say exactly why this is. However,
I also wonder if your coming is going to disturb our culture in ways I can’t
imagine or know whether it’s good or bad. Change is good if it helps the
people, yet it can lead to losing contact with the good aspects of the
traditional. The Word says that God can put opportunity in front of us
and won’t give us what we don’t work for. In such cases, it is up to us to
seize those opportunities as part of our responsibilities to exercise free
will. Time will tell.”

Yozef smiled. “Our people have a saying that perhaps is
another way to express the same thing. ‘God helps those who help themselves.’”

Sistian laughed. “Nicely worded. I may use this one also in
one of the coming Godsdays. Perhaps I should ask you for help in finding the
right words for my messages.”

He leaned forward in his chair, placing both hands on the
arms as if he was about to stand. Yozef discerned the interrogation was about
to end.

“So, Yozef, let us say that you will continue to stay with
us for the time being until you can find a place for yourself here with our
people. In addition, we can talk further on these topics and perhaps discuss
some of your ‘pieces’ of exotic knowledge before they are loosed on the people
of Caedellium.”

Signaling the end to the interview, the abbot rose from his
chair. He reached out a hand Yozef clasped with his own.

“Thank you for your advice, Abbot. I appreciate the care
you’ve given me, and I’ll look forward to further discussions.”

Yozef walked out of a side door of the cathedral with a
spring in his steps.

He thought the meeting went well. He didn’t think he’d said
anything he was liable to contradict in the future, and now he had the abbot
primed in case he wanted to introduce new ideas. Now the questions were, what
to introduce and when?

Chapter 10: Buldorian Mercenaries

Musfar Adalan feigned patience as
he waited for his meeting with the Narthani commander. He would have preferred
to pace, though it was best to not give any indication of weakness, certainly
not when dealing with Narthani. He often wondered if the day would come when
the Narthani bothered to bite off the tiny, rugged, and isolated piece of Anyar
where Buldor sat.

May the Gods grant that day
come well past my lifetime or someone takes them down before then. I’m at least
thankful Buldor is on the Ganolar continent, instead of Melosia with the
Narthani, so we have the ocean separating us.

In any event, today was today, and
there were spoils to be had, if he played the game properly.

Adalan was also irked that the
cursed Narthani required him to come to Caedellium to finalize their agreement
for his and his men’s services. His seven ships had trolled waters off the
Landolin continent, watching for stray merchant ships, when a Narthani sloop
appeared flying parley flags. Adalan could have avoided a meeting, his ships
being at least as swift as the Narthani vessel, but curiosity and his
outnumbering the single Narthani led him to hear what the sloop’s captain had
to say. Since Adalan spoke the Narthani tongue but didn’t read it, the Narthani
captain read a letter from a Narthani commander, a General Akuyun, on the
island of Caedellium. It was an invitation to raid the island under Narthani
protection, but only after Adalan himself came to meet with General Akuyun, and
with only one ship. A small chest holding 500 gold Narthani coins and the offer
of leaving the sloop and crew as hostages persuaded Adalan to go to Caedellium.
Six of Adalan’s ships now sat idle in a remote cove off the northern Landolin
coast, awaiting their commander’s return. As for his flagship, Warrior’s
Pride, a Narthani cutter met them as they neared Preddi City and directed
them to a deserted fishing village. Once anchored, Adalan rowed ashore and rode
thirty miles by horse to meet with this General Akuyun. Developing saddle sores
did nothing to improve a sailor’s mood.

A Narthani junior officer
interrupted his reflections. “Captain, please come this way. General Akuyun is
ready to meet with you.”

Adalan followed the young officer
into a medium-sized room with a rectangular table and twelve chairs, four
occupied by men. At first glance, the room gave the impression of being plain,
though it took only a moment for a sharp eye to see that although the room
lacked adornments on the walls and the furniture was simple in design, all of
the woodwork was of the highest quality. Some imported woods he recognized,
others he didn’t and assumed were from the island’s trees. He could sell this
room itself back on mainland realms for enough to keep a Buldorian village well
supplied for a year.

“Please sit here beside me,
Captain,” said a friendly voice from a lean man in his fifties, whom Adalan
took to be Akuyun. Lean in both frame and manner, if Adalan was any judge of
men.

Adalan sat at the indicated empty
chair. He wondered whether the man’s acting friendly was supposed to put him at
ease. While he assumed it was deliberate, it wasn’t convincing. He suspected
being at ease around this one was comfortable until you crossed him, and then
it would become exceedingly “uncomfortable.”

Adalan’s assessment of the
Narthani general’s initial demeanor was accurate. Akuyun had early in his
career incorporated politeness into his dealings with non-Narthani. He
understood and used on occasion the tried-and-true method of playing on fears,
but he believed it never hurt to start off polite. He would never fully realize
the tactic sometimes worked, though often had the opposite effect, with the
object of his politeness waiting for the dagger or poison from a too-polite
Narthani.

Akuyun introduced the other three
men at the table. The Narthani troop commander was of little relevance to
Adalan, but the other two men more notable: their naval admiral, and a man they
titled Assessor, who ran their intelligence service. The former was important
because Adalan and his men would be sailing in Narthani-controlled waters, and
the latter because Adalan knew little about this isolated island.

“Welcome to Caedellium, Captain
Adalan. I hear from Admiral Kalcan that your ship arrived in good shape, and he
has arranged for your re-provisioning.”

“Yes, thank you, General Akuyun.
The Admiral’s aides have been most efficient, and we should be ready to sail
again in three days after some minor repairs.”

“You don’t feel your men need any more
time ashore after the voyage here?”

“No,” answered Adalan. “We’re
sailors, and being on land or at sea is all the same to us. Besides, I need to
get back to my other ships off Landolin. I’ve already been gone from them for
several sixdays. Plus, you would have us restricted to that fishing village.
There’s not much to do ashore, and I’d like to move quickly to bring the rest
of my ships here and begin in accord with your proposal.”

Akuyun consulted his notes. “Ah,
yes, the village of Rocklyn. The original inhabitants are gone, but we’ll
provide support there for your ships and men. You’re not to be seen anywhere
else on Caedellium, except for the raids.” The Narthani commander looked back
at Musfar. “And you’re aware of the reason for this restriction?”

“Of course. You want to minimize
the knowledge you’re supporting a Buldorian raiding party,” Adalan answered.

Akuyun grinned, although there was
no humor in it. “Correct, Captain. This is a case where we’re helping each
other. There’s no need for you to know any more details of why we’ve invited
you, only that you follow instructions. In return, we’ll provide information on
likely lucrative targets along the Caedellium coasts and assure that no other
naval force interferes with your . . . activities. Whatever booty you
get from these raids is yours to keep. You’re to cause maximum damage, and
you’re not to let any of your people get captured or indicate Narthani
involvement.”

Adalan nodded his understanding,
though his tone was cold. “Since we’re men of honor and need to be clear with
each other, while I understand the conditions we will operate under, I hope you
understand we’re not here to fight your fights. I cannot waste my ships and men
for your objectives. We’re here to raid vulnerable targets, not engage in
warfare.”

Akuyun wasn’t offended by the
Buldorian’s statement and appreciated dealing with someone who, like himself,
wanted all parties to understand the scope of their cooperation.

Men of honor? wondered Akuyun. Yes, he supposed they both were, but
within their own kind. He certainly wouldn’t trust any Buldorian enough to turn
his back on them, and he doubted it would ever occur to them to trust any
Narthani.

“That’s understood, Captain.
We’ll provide information on likely targets, and it’s up to you to carry
out the raids. However, as you say, I don’t expect you to engage in any pitched
battles, since we’ll choose targets carefully.”

Akuyun studied the Buldorian
leader as they spoke. He’d wanted this face-to-face meeting to assess who they would
be employing. This Adalan fit the stereotype expected of a pirate—garish dress,
braided hair, and, if his nose was being truthful, a good dose of Fuomi
perfume. Akuyun was pleased. The man was imposing, taller than any of the four
Narthani, with not an ounce of fat evident. Several visible scars established
that he’d not gotten his position by nonviolent means, he spoke fluent
Narthani, and, by Akuyun’s judgment, he was both intelligent and controlled.

Yes, he will do quite nicely, thought Akuyun.

For the next hour, Adalan asked
questions about the conditions on Caedellium, and the four Narthani assessed
their mercenary hire. When questions lagged, Akuyun looked to his subordinates.
“Any other questions for Captain Adalan or comments?”

There were none.

“Then you believe you’ll be ready
to leave in . . . as you said,” Akuyun asked the Buldorian, “three
days?”

“As I said,” confirmed Adalan,
“the only reason my men might have used more time ashore was to utilize
brothels, but the women you provided are servicing quite well.”

Akuyun turned to Tuzere and raised
an eyebrow.

“We’ve given the Buldorians six
Preddi women,” offered Tuzere. “My, uh, understanding is that six women per
ship would suffice for the Captain’s men.”

“And the women are from where?”
Akuyun asked.

“Younger women from that group of
Preddi that tried to escape via fishing boat across the Gulf of Witlow into
Keelan or Gwillamer Provinces last week.”

“Ah, yes. We’d not settled on
their disposition, as I last recall. I’m sure I have your report of the outcome
somewhere on my desk, and I just haven’t gotten to read it yet.”

Tuzere nodded. “Correct, General.
Most of the Preddi were young, I assume those able to travel fast. The men were
executed and the younger children given to Narthani families. The other women
and older children were whipped and converted to slave status.”

Akuyun turned back to the
Buldorian. “Consider the women a gift of the Narthani. You may keep them, along
with any other Caedelli you choose to capture in the raids. Be aware, you’ll
have to transport any slaves you keep yourselves, so be judicious in the
numbers. We’re not prepared to keep slaves from the other clans at this time,
so any captives you take have to be taken off Caedellium.”

“I think we can manage to do that,
General.” The implication in the Buldorian’s tone left no doubt he didn’t feel
the need for a Narthani to tell him his business.

“All right then, Captain Adalan.
I’ll expect you and the rest of your ships back here in no more than five to
six months. I assume you’ll spend the intervening time doing whatever you do,
but be sure to be back as we’ve agreed.”

The mercenary leader nodded and,
with cursory leave-taking, exited the room for the thirty-mile horse ride back
to his ship.

Akuyun addressed the other three men.
“Any thoughts about our erstwhile Buldorian employees?”

“Scum,” snorted Zulfa, “but I
think they’ll do nicely for our purposes.”

“I agree,” said Admiral Kalcan.
“Scum, as Aivacs says, but no question about their seamanship, and I think
they’ll do well with raiding civilian targets.”

Akuyun sat back in his chair. “All
right then. They’ll be back within six months, and we’ll turn up the heat on
the Caedelli one more notch. I know we’re all glad to move toward the next phases
of our mission here and see a time to return to Narthon.”

Chapter 11: Yozef Learns about the
Narthani

In the sixday after the interview with Abbot Beynom, Yozef’s
ears repeatedly picked out the word Narthani in abbey staff
conversations. Although he knew he must have heard the name before, it was only
now registering with him, since the abbot had mentioned the Narthani and one of
their ex-slaves. Who were these Narthani? Were they related to whatever reason
Carnigan and the others went off for those sixdays, armed to the teeth?

Carnigan was the first person he thought to ask. At a
morning meal, Yozef entered the dining hall and looked for the large,
red-headed figure. Most of the tables were full with brothers and sisters in
their brown clothing, individuals and family groups he suspected were visitors
and relatives of patients. Carnigan ate in a corner, alone as usual. Yozef
walked among the tables and sat across from the red-headed man. A staff member
had seen him come in and placed his own meal in front of him. This day the bowl
held the usual thick porridge-like something, supplemented with pieces of a
ham-like meat and fragments of a different nut than usual, this one deep black,
with convolutions like a walnut. He knew it wasn’t ham, since he hadn’t
seen any pigs, and how many different nuts did they have in this place? He
swore he must have seen at least six or eight different kinds in these gruels.

Yozef picked up the spoon, scooped up and blew on the
steaming porridge, taking the moment to look at Carnigan. You know, I think
of him more as a friend than anyone else I’ve ever known. Look at us. A gruff,
red-headed giant and a castaway. Are we an odd pair or what?

“Carnigan, don’t let this go to your head, but I missed you
when you were gone those sixdays.”

“Go to my head? What does that mean?”

One of those phrases that doesn’t translate. “Never
mind. I missed your ugly face.”

“You should talk. At least now you don’t scare strong men
like you did when they first found you, though I’d advise not looking in a
mirror more than necessary. A pair of strange eyes might look back at you.”

They both laughed. At first, Carnigan had been irritated and
puzzled by Yozef’s banter, but he quickly retaliated in kind, and the
back-and-forth became part of their routine.

Yozef suspected others listening in on their interchanges
wondered when Carnigan would pound him into the ground. He had noticed worried
expressions and cautious movements away from their table by others in the
dining hall the first month they’d sat together, talking and laughing. Not that
talking had come easy, but, when the two were together, Carnigan’s trademark
grunts and minimal sentences evolved in concert with Yozef’s improving
Caedelli.

“I never asked at the time about the trip you and the other
men took, and all armed. Was there some danger? Some enemy or wild animals to
hunt? Maybe just training?”

“Training?” said Carnigan. “No, it was my turn to do
patrolling against the Narthani and the damned Eywellese.”

“Narthani? Who or what are the Narthani?”

Carnigan’s face flushed and he hissed, “Narthani. The Evil
One’s offspring. We have to be always on alert for Eywellese raids. The cursed
Eywellese Clan is in league with the Narthani and does their bidding. We had a
sighting of Eywellese riders to the northwest part of Keelan Province and
needed to search for them.”

Yozef didn’t like the sound of this! He knew Eywell was the
clan north of Keelan, but Carnigan tied them to the Narthani. What was going
on?

“Did you find the Eywellese?”

“No,” Carnigan said, shaking his head. “There were signs of
a small party, but they either had gone home or hid too well. This makes us
worry all the more. Why would they send groups to spy on us, unless planning to
some day send large raiding parties?”

“Raids! Have there been raids into Keelan Province?”

“No. So far only Moreland Province has suffered serious
Eywellese raids. They burn farms, steal crops and animals if the party is big
enough, and kill all of the people they don’t take away as slaves.”

Yozef sat back, shocked. This didn’t match the view he was
developing of Caedellium as a version of an idyllic eighteenth-century New
England.

“How often do these raids occur?”

“More often recently. The first one in Moreland was only two
months ago. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Oh, there were the
usual small raids and vendettas among clans and even families within Keelan.
These reports are of scores or more Eywellese. Several small villages and
hamlets were destroyed. In some, the people had warning enough so they could
run or hide, but word is over fifty Morelanders were taken away and as many as
a hundred killed.”

“And you say these Narthani are behind the Eywellese?”

“Everyone assumes so. The Eywellese weren’t so bold before
allying themselves with the Narthani.”

“Who exactly are these Narthani? Are they from Caedellium?”

“No. From somewhere else on Anyar. I don’t know the details.
You’d have to ask someone like the abbot.”

“So you and the other men . . . you’re part of the
protective force against the Eywellese. Part of an . . . ?”
Yozef struggled for the Caedellium word for “army,” and nothing surfaced. “I
don’t know the Caedellium word. In my language, it would be army. A
regular organization for large numbers of men that fight wars.”

Carnigan laid his spoon down and wrinkled his brow. “I don’t
understand. What kind of organization?”

“Well, to fight efficiently, the men are organized into
groups, starting with the smallest group, which are led by a leader, then
several of these groups together with a higher leader over them all, and so on
with larger groups. It’s necessary to control and coordinate the fighting.”

Yozef winced. Words of wisdom from an armchair strategist
and movie watcher.

“I still don’t understand. If we have to fight, we gather,
find the enemy, and drive them away or kill them if we can.”

It sounded more like a mob or a posse, similar to what he
saw Carnigan riding off with.

Yozef thought for a moment. “Sorry, I’m probably not
explaining myself clearly. My use of your language still needs work.”

Carnigan grunted and finished his last bite. “I’m off to the
stable this morning. Grooming horses and cleaning stalls. Then later helping
the abbey blacksmith. It’s a chance for you to learn something new.”

“Not today, Carnigan. I have to do some thinking. I may take
your advice and try to speak with the abbot about the Narthani.”

Carnigan slapped Yozef’s shoulder and left for his day’s
assignment.

Yozef emptied his own bowl, as he searched the dining hall
for Brother Fitham. He spied the elderly man rising to leave, and he hurried
over to him.

“Hello, Yozef! And how are you this fine God’s day?”

“Fine, fine,” Yozef responded absentmindedly and then rushed
on. “There’s something I’d like to talk with Abbot Sistian about. I was
wondering if you could find out whether I could see him this morning?”

“I’ll check, but the abbot might ask why you want to see
him.”

“Please just say it’s something I need to speak with him
about.”

“Whatever you wish. I’ll stop at his office and ask.”

“Thank you, Brother Fitham. I’ll be at my Caedelli language
studies in the library.”

The language session proved difficult. The tutoring by
Selmar, the abbot’s and abbess’s younger son, had ended a month earlier, and
Yozef studied on his own in the abbey library, in his room, or seeking out
staff to practice Caedelli. Most days, the necessity of mastering Caedelli
provided enough incentive to steel himself to study. But not this day. His mind
wandered, fighting concentration while awaiting word from Fitham.

At mid-morning, Fitham appeared at Yozef’s side. “The abbot
can see you as soon as you’re ready.”

“Now is a good time.” Yozef gathered up his papers and
followed Fitham to the abbot’s office.

Sistian Beynom sat at a desk full of stacks of paper, folder,
and ledgers. He smiled when Yozef entered, laid down a quill, and sighed. “You
would think a shepherd would spend time with his flock instead of reading and
writing reports, planning sermons, and worrying about enough money to run
everything. That’s the life of an abbot, one aspect I’m suspicious my
predecessor did not fully explain before I took this position.”

Yozef smiled with sympathy, strangely reassured that some
aspects of human civilization were the same, no matter what planet.

“Thank you for seeing me, Abbot. There’s something you
mentioned when we talked a few days ago. The Narthani. I wanted to find out
more about them.”

The abbot’s genial mood vanished. His eyes narrowed, as did
his lips. There was a noticeable tightening of the jaw. Something told Yozef
the good abbot was not as charitable toward these Narthani as might be expected
for someone in his position. However, maybe understanding and forgiveness were
not the same here.

“The Narthani,” the abbot spat. “A scourge straight from the
Evil One, if there ever was.”

It was the same response as Carnigan. Yozef was definitely
getting a bad feeling about these people.

“Who are they?” asked Yozef. “And what do they mean for
Caedellium?”

The abbot composed himself for a moment, leaning back in his
chair and taking a few deep breaths. Yozef wondered whether he was praying for
a more peaceful frame of mind or imagining shoving these Narthani at sword
point into the pits of whatever hell the Caedelli believed in.

“They came to Caedellium six years ago. Their own land is on
the large continent of Melosia. Though I don’t know their complete history,
about four hundred years ago they were one of the minor semi-nomadic peoples
living in the cold, dry plains and mountains of north-central Melosia. After
consolidating control over a number of other similar peoples, they invaded and
took over more fertile lands to the south in a series of bloody wars lasting
nearly fifty years. By the time the other peoples of Melosia awoke fully to the
Narthani threat, they controlled almost a tenth of the whole continent. In the
next hundred and fifty years, they expanded their control to a third of the
continent.”

Yozef remembered from the world map Sistian had shown
him during their previous meeting that Melosia covered three-quarters of the
planet’s hemisphere containing the major land masses. A quick estimate by Yozef
put the area controlled by the Narthani at something larger than the entire
North American continent. Yozef whistled to himself. Sounds like the Mongols.

“Are they still expanding their territory, or were they
stopped?”

“Slowed, but not stopped. The Narthani kept pushing on
their neighbors, but there’s been no further major loss of land to the Narthani
in the last twenty years, at least according to reports we got before the
Narthani stopped all communication between the clans and the rest of Anyar. Not
that there aren’t still battles, but the neighboring peoples had stopped them
on Melosia.”

“And elsewhere?”

“The news there is not so good. Those spawn of the Evil One
found their way blocked to the west and the east, so decided to look for easier
prey. They had been a land power, then they built a huge fleet of ships and
invaded the Kingdom of Rustal in the eastern part of the Ganolar continent. In
less than two years, the Narthani subjugated the entire kingdom.”

Yozef remembered the map again. Rustal, a realm about the
size of Canada.

“Rumors are that resistance still exists in the mountains
and colder, more southern parts of Rustal, but most of the population and all
of the best lands are now part of the Narthon Empire. The only reason the
Narthani didn’t continue to conquer the entire continent is probably because
they found the lands too poor to justify further conquest. In addition, immense
mountain ranges block access to the western part of Ganolar, and there are
easier victims elsewhere.

“About the same time this was happening, the Narthani
trading ships came to Preddi. The city was the main Caedellium port for trade
with the rest of Anyar. All believe there were enormous bribes paid to the
Preddi Hetman and other leading Preddi families. Whatever the reasons, the
Preddi were fools and allowed the Narthani to build a separate Narthani
compound near the city. The Narthani provided the trade goods at unreasonably
low prices and gave the Preddi complete control over supplying these goods to
the rest of Caedellium. As you can imagine, the Preddi became enormously rich,
and I’m afraid the Preddi Hetman and his family dreamed of using this wealth to
expand the Preddi Province at the expense of their two neighbors, the Selfcell
and Eywell clans.”

Yozef remembered enough Earth history to suspect where this
was going: playing the clans against one another, if he was right.

The abbot shook his head. “Inter-clan fighting became more
severe, and the Preddi overreached. A simultaneous attack by both Selfcell and
Eywell put Preddi in danger of being dismembered by their two neighboring
clans.”

England and India! This history sounds like how the
English and the East Indian Company manipulated the Indians to fight one
another, and the English took over the continent with minimal military forces
of their own.

“Let me guess,” said Yozef. “The Narthani helped the Preddi.”

Sistian eyed Yozef. “Yes, though at a cost. At first, the
Narthani insisted this was an internal Caedellium matter, and they were just
there for trade. Finally, the Narthani were ‘convinced’ by the Preddi that
trade would suffer or even be eliminated if the fighting continued. We hear
that the Narthani agreed to assist by providing troops to help defend the
Preddi—”

“And in return,” Yozef cut in, “they would be allowed to
increase the size of the Narthani compound and permanently keep troops to
assure the security of their compound?”

Sistian squinted at Yozef. “Why do I have the feeling you
already know this story?”

“While I don’t know the particular details of this
story, something similar has happened elsewhere on Anyar, according to the
histories my people are taught. Not to us directly, but what we know of
from histories of other peoples. Let me guess what happened next. The Preddi
agreed. The Narthani presence increased, and the fighting continued.”

“Yes, and not only between Preddi and Selfcell or Eywell,
but also between Selfcell and Eywell. All three clans slowly bled themselves
for several more years, with the Narthani presence increased as the Preddi
leaders saw their power slipping away. When the Preddi finally came to their
senses, it was too late. As if ‘magically’. . . ,” the abbot
shook his head, “a Narthani fleet appeared and landed thousands more soldiers.
The Narthani crushed the Preddi clan. Though exact further details are clouded
by lack of information or enough eyewitness testimony, within a year we believe
there were fifty thousand Narthani in Preddi, including thousands of soldiers.
The Selfcell and Eywell clans were so weakened by years of fighting, they
evidently felt they had no choice when given ultimatums to ally themselves with
the Narthani.

“It seems the Eywell clan was more enthusiastic about the
alliance. Unfortunately, when Selfcell appealed to the other clans for aid in
resisting the Narthani, no clan agreed to help. I’m friends since my youth with
Culich Keelan, the Keelan hetman, and I know he’ll never forgive himself or the
other clans for not recognizing the danger at the time and coming to Selfcell’s
aid.”

“So, what’s the status at the present?”

“There followed a period of relative quiet. There was little
reliable news out of Preddi or the other two clans. We believe many more
Narthani were brought in—soldiers, tradesman, farmers, and slaves.” The sour
expression from Sistian accompanied the last category.

“We now believe there are at least a hundred thousand
Narthani in Preddi, so there’s no doubt they see their presence as permanent,
and I am afraid, as does Hetman Keelan, that this is only the beginning.”

The abbot looked at Yozef curiously. “How would you predict
this story will continue, based on what you say has happened elsewhere on
Anyar?”

Yozef rubbed the back of his left hand against his cheek.
“If I had to speculate, I’d say the Narthani tightened their hold on the other
two clans at the same time, pretending any conflicts between those two and
their other clan neighbors are not their concern. They will claim to be
interested only in protecting the territory they already have. I expect they
have also sent envoys to many of the other clans, trying to convince them of
their limited intentions and possibly offering more bribes. One purpose would
be to discourage the other clans from uniting against them.”

Sistian’s hands clenched. “I see our separate histories do
follow similar paths. Maybe it’s the nature of people, which sometimes makes
one wonder how much free will we have and how much is predestined.”

Yozef offered, “Or maybe free will is the province of the
individual and not the group?”

“I suppose that option should give me some succor, yet
somehow it doesn’t. Anyway, yes, you’re correct. There were initially Narthani
delegations visiting various clans openly, but that stopped a year ago,
although there are rumors some coastal clans still have occasional Narthani
visitors. Even that seems to have stopped in the last few months, and
about the same time, small raids began into Moreland Province, along with
Eywell riders seen in remote parts of northern Keelan. I know Culich is afraid
this is only the beginning.”

“And how does all this affect Keelan?”

“Keelan is committed to defending not only its own territory
but also the two neighboring clans. Keelan, Gwillamer, and Mittack Provinces
are part of a Tri-Clan Alliance. It was formed many generations ago to
discourage aggression from neighboring clans. There was a time when Caedellium
was plagued by territorial fighting and extended blood feuds across clan
borders. Now we have an All-Clan Conclave yearly in Orosz City to settle such
issues, but the alliance between Keelan and Gwillamer and Mittack is more
obligatory. Keelan is required, by formal treaty and honor, to assist Gwillamer
and Mittack should they be attacked. The original treaty didn’t envision a
foreign invader like the Narthani and their Caedelli allies, but I know our
three hetmen are interpreting it that way. The immediate possible threat is
from Eywell Province, which borders on northern Keelan and is not far from
Gwillamer.”

“Is there any sign all the clans may work together to resist
the Narthani?”

“Hetman Keelan believes more clans are coming to understand
the threat, though nothing yet is decided. I fear our hetman is trying to be
more optimistic than is justified. The clans’ history makes them too accustomed
to seeing the first threats as one another, rather than outsiders like the
Narthani.”

“Let me guess again. Those clans farthest away are the least
worried, probably saying they should not get involved, since the Narthani are
not threatening them.”

The abbot stroked his beard with both hands. “As new as you
are to the island, you seem to understand Caedellium politics.”

The abbot looked down at the papers on his desk, shook his
head, and looked back up at Yozef. “I hope I answered your question about the
Narthani. There’s not much else I can add, and I’m sorry, but I need to get
back to all of this paper.”

“Thank you, Abbot. I appreciate your taking the time to talk
with me. I’m afraid I agree with your worry and the hetman’s about the
Narthani.”

Yozef walked to his room, his mind replaying the abbot’s
words. The Narthani sounded like real pissers. He’d been so wrapped up in
trying to adjust to here—to Abersford and the abbey complex—that he hadn’t
thought about what was happening on a larger stage. What this all meant for him
personally could be bad, if he got caught up in a war of conquest for
Caedellium. Could whatever future he had, be with these Narthani, instead of
the Caedelli?

Christ! After what happened to me, is it too much to be
able to live quietly? Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. I only hope I
don’t get directly involved.

It was to be a forlorn hope.

Chapter 12: What to Do?

Yozef’s daily routine gradually altered during the next two
Anyar months. He switched to mornings to accompany Carnigan at his work
assignments. Language study changed to expanding vocabulary, tackling more
advanced readings, and exposing himself to social situations, including
attending the Keelan version of evening bible lessons, musical evenings, or a
discussion or a lecture by one of the scholastics, all at the abbey.

The religious lessons gave Yozef a grasp of the Caedellium
theology—a single God, who made the world and watched and judged but seldom
intervened.

Sort of a monotheistic lite, he first thought.

Later lectures and discussions showed a more complex,
evolving theology. The theophists at St. Sidryn’s saw a single God, who
interacted with humans through three divine aspects: healing, wisdom, and
discipline. From this view had developed the four Orders: theophists for
humans’ obligations to God, medicants to heal, scholastics to know God’s
creations, and militants to teach humans self-control. Details varied among and
within clans, and more so elsewhere on Anyar, with variations on a single god,
four separate gods, and hints of minor gods and entire pantheons.

The enemy of God was the Evil One, a version of Satan who
tempted humans but who had no power over God. Yozef also read The Word of
God, the holy book canonized a thousand years earlier, and The
Commentaries, writings interpreting and extending the Word and which
could still be added to. These writings were not universally accepted throughout
Anyar, and there were allusions to past religious wars on the major continents.

The music evenings provided an interesting introduction to
local music. None of the instruments had exact analogs on Earth, but some had
similar tones, while others were weirdly novel for Yozef’s ear.

The scholastic evenings provided an opportunity to
understand more complex aspects of the Caedelli language and intellectual
discourse, meaning half of the time he had no idea what was being discussed.

Same here as on Earth, he often reminded himself.
Scholastics anywhere could talk up a storm without saying anything.

The only times he left the abbey vicinity was once or twice
a sixday when he visited Abersford with Carnigan. The village had a central
square with official-looking structures, two perpendicular main streets filled
with shops, and houses of various sizes, enough to account for the village’s
population of nine hundred. The number of shops in Abersford surprised Yozef,
until he realized the village drew business from ten or more miles away. The
square, the main streets, and some side streets were cobblestone, with the rest
of the streets covered by a mixture of gravel and crushed seashells. At the
edge of the village, the roads turned to dirt—or mud, depending on the weather.
The walls of the larger structures around the square and the more
affluent-appearing houses were made of stone with slate roofs. Lesser
structures were stone, wood, or a combination, with roofs of wood or thatch.

On those nights when Yozef accompanied Carnigan, they walked
to the opposite side of the square, a block down the north-running main street,
and turned a corner to Carnigan’s favorite pub. While there were two other pubs
in the village, Carnigan patronized only the one he considered the best. Yozef
went along with the choice, since Carnigan was paying. Yozef had no “coin,” as
the locals referred to money, and he was obliged to agree with Carnigan’s
opinion.

A day when Yozef’s life changed again came when he
anticipated an evening with Carnigan at the pub. The first event of note that
day occurred in the afternoon. He had taken time away from helping Carnigan to
walk the gardens and the groves within the abbey complex, then exited the east
gate to a nearby grove and came to his log. A major branch, some three
feet in diameter, had split off a truly heroic tree whose canopy topped out at
more than two hundred feet. The leaves seemed Earth-like, more rounded with
serrated edges, instead of the slenderer leaves of Anyar trees, and of a
familiar green, instead of the shadings from deep green to purple of most
indigenous plants. He didn’t think the tree oak—maybe elm or chestnut. The log
was partially decayed, just enough to be soft, without splinters, and shaped in
a curve that fit his body. He could lie on the curvature and stare upward
through the leaf-filtered light to the sky. The sound of the wind through the
branches and the dancing of the leaves sometimes lulled him to sleep, but on
this day, he thought about the future, as he had many times previously.

He repeatedly asked himself the same question, because he
still didn’t have an answer. What am I going to do? The Caedelli at the
abbey were gracious, understanding, and caring. However, there must be a limit
to how long he could merely exist here. He might not be reading the signs
correctly, but he got the feeling even the abbot was hinting about him finding
a place in this society.

So. What could he do? He had no physical resources, none of
the coins he saw others use, no experience or skills in trades or farming, and
although he was communicating well, given everything, he was still far too
ignorant of the culture and the histories of these people. This left
. . . what?

“Knowledge,” he blurted out, switching from internal
dialogue to speaking aloud to the trees and sky. “The answer that keeps coming
back is my knowledge of chemistry and the other sciences. Within my brain is
more knowledge of the physical universe than this entire planet will possess
for centuries. There has to be a way to tap into that knowledge. A way that
will provide a living for me and still let me avoid getting in too much trouble
with local beliefs and superstitions.”

A problem was no infrastructure—the totality of knowledge,
skills, and industry needed to use science from Earth. He knew the processes to
make almost any, save the most complex, chemical compounds and molecules, but
most required reaction ingredients, each of which might take a set of other
ingredients to produce, and they in turn—on and on. Most would take decades or
longer to develop, even under the best of circumstances.

Yet there must be simpler reactions and products he could
start off with. He needed to speak with the abbey staff and troll the village
shops for ideas. Between the two, he should be able to gauge the level of
chemical knowledge and what chemicals were already available. There might also
be books, even if not formal textbooks, in the abbey library that could at
least give clues.

“Why haven’t I thought of this before? Maybe the accident,
the Watchers and Harlie, being dumped on Anyar never to see Earth or hear
English again, all stunned my brain more than I realized.”

Chapter 13: Great Hall of the
Keelans

Great Hall of
the Keelans, Caernford, Keelan Province

Two structures dominated the twenty-acre brick-paved plaza
of central Caernford, Capitol of Keelan Province—St. Tomo’s Cathedral and the
Great Hall of the Keelans. The walls of both buildings were made from two-ton
stone blocks quarried from the craggy mountains of the Wycoff and Brums
districts of northeast Keelan. The white stone with the yellow veins was unique
to Caedellium, and the polished outer surfaces gave the illusion of sparkling
gold in the early morning and late afternoon suns.

While the cathedral soared to signify glory to God, the
Great Hall was an edifice with a different design, a single-story octagon with
high multi-paned windows on its eight sides to let light enter from all
directions of the province and serving as a symbol of clan unity and strength.
The interior measured 220 feet diagonally from corner to corner, with
2-foot-diameter trimmed tree trunks supporting a ceiling peaking at 40 feet.
The flooring consisted of slate slabs from the eastern slope of Mount Orlos in
Shamir Province, the slate trimmed and fitted so carefully a finger could
stroke the floor without detecting seams. Below that floor, a basement housed
clan records and relics of the clan’s history.

Although the Great Hall served the people of Caernford and
nearby villages and farms for festivals and events requiring a large indoor
space, the true purpose of the structure was for a “Gathering of the Clan.” By
tradition, every clan member could attend, and when the hall was built 130
years earlier, it could hold the entire clan. Now, with numbers having
risen five-fold since that time, the hall was large enough to squeeze in only a
fraction of the clan’s people.

A yearly Gathering of the Clan opened the five-day festival
marking the New Year and the transition from winter to spring. Each district
sent proportional representatives, with clan members attending at least once
every ten years, if possible. On such occasions, the hall held up to seven
thousand standing clansmen and clanswomen surrounding the central platform and
dais. There, the hetman, supported by the clan’s leaders, would greet the
clanspeople, followed by the scholastics’ traditional recitation of the clan’s
history, and ended by the hetman’s report on the condition of the clan. The
entire ceremony seldom lasted more than two hours, there being only so long so
many bodies could stand packed together into a single room.

The only other occasion for a formal Gathering of the Clan
was under extraordinary circumstances, when the entire clan needed to be
addressed. No such occasion had occurred in Culich Keelan’s nineteen years as
hetman or in his father’s or grandfather’s tenures, on back to the time the
gathering was held in a natural amphitheater near Caernford.

On this day, three somber men stood at the base of steps
leading to a meeting room attached to the south side of the Great Hall.

“Nothing new about the Narthani, Culich?” Pedr Kennrick
addressed his hetman.

Culich Keelan shook his head. “Only what I passed on to you
and Vortig two days ago. Although they’ve still made no major overt threat to
the other clans, every instinct tells me it will happen. For myself, the only
two questions are when and where? And that’s what eats at my
gut.”

“I beg to disagree, Hetman,” said Vortig Luwis, slamming a
fist into his other palm. “I know all three of us think the Narthani are not
yet finished expanding, and although I agree with your two questions, there’s a
third one that may be even more important—and that’s if the other
clans can somehow agree to cooperate when the Narthani do make their next
move.”

Culich didn’t disagree. He and his two major advisors had
chewed to exhaustion the possible Narthani intentions. Kennrick was Culich’s
age, a lifelong friend, and a shrewd mind atop a short, rotund form. With his
ruddy complexion and red hair and beard, he always appeared to be escaping from
something. The Kennrick family owned tracts of farmland, but Pedr’s sons
managed the family estate ten miles north of Caernford while their father
advised and assisted Culich with clan affairs.

Vortig Luwis was a few years younger and not a close friend,
but his loyalty to the clan and hetman was absolute. His family had timberland
and mines in the Nylamir district, but as the Narthani threat increased, so did
Luwis’s role in overseeing clan security, organizing the clan’s men of fighting
age, and serving as liaison with counterparts in allied Gwillamer and Mittack
clans. Luwis’s height and bald head made him easily identified in any crowd, as
did his habitual frown, hook nose, short-cropped, prematurely graying beard,
and cold, dark blue eyes. His stern countenance and known fearlessness hid a
sharp mind. Few knew, Culich being one of those, how much Luwis doted on his
wife and three daughters and how, as a youth, Luwis had considered becoming a
theophist. He was also blunt, honest, and honorable, sometimes to even Culich’s
annoyance.

Culich placed a hand on Luwis’s shoulder. “All we can do is
all we can do, Vortig. Along with praying for God’s grace to guide and deliver
us, should the worst happen. The three of us have critical tasks in front of
us. I must try to convince more of the other clans to come around to my
fears.”

The hetman rested his other hand on the shorter man’s
shoulder. “You, Pedr, must see to increasing arms production and food
stores, while you, Vortig, must see to the clan’s fighting men and
patrolling our borders. I’ve said to you two what I’ll not yet say to the rest
of our people. I fear the future. A storm is gathering that bodes disaster for
all of Caedellium.”

Neither of the other men had anything to add or counter.

Culich removed his hands from their shoulders, and his tone
enlivened. “In the meantime, routine clan affairs continue, no matter what
else.”

“Speaking of routine affairs, I think the others are
gathering,” said Kennrick, looking through the glass-paned door into the
meeting room.

A boyerman led each of Keelan Province’s eleven districts.
The semi-hereditary position normally passed through the current boyerman’s
lineage, unless altered either by lack of the district people’s support or by
hetman decree. Today was the quarterly meeting of Culich with his advisors and
the eleven boyermen or their representatives.

Culich turned to the door. “Then, by all means, let’s greet
our boyermen.”

Luwis climbed the three stairs, held open the back entrance
door, and followed Culich and Kennrick inside. The meeting room was a
twenty-five-foot square with a fifteen-foot-diameter round table and chairs
dominating the room. Additional, less ornate chairs lined the walls, and a
double door led into the Grand Hall. Small tapestries depicting events in clan
history hung between windows along with objects of renown: a nicked sword,
several banners, copies of documents encased in glass, a long lock of fiery red
hair intertwined with another of deepest black, and a pair of aged leather
shoes purportedly worn by the first ancestor of the clan to set foot on
Caedellium. All other participants would enter through the Great Hall’s north
side main door and cross the empty hall to the meeting room

Three men already occupied boyermen chairs, the men either
looking at papers or talking to aides attending the meeting. One grizzled and
harried face looked up as Culich entered from the outer door.

“Hetman!” said Boyerman Arwin. “We need to discuss the
Mittackese fishing in our waters. It’s getting worse, and my fishermen are
tiring of waiting for this to stop. I’m afraid there may be clashes unless
something is done.”

Culich scowled. Fishing boundaries were loosely agreed to
between and among clans, with details left to local leaders. Although Mittack
was a neighboring clan and ally, formal agreements between hetman didn’t always
seep down to the local level. This particular issue had festered for several
years, and it displeased Culich that the issue remained unresolved without the
clan hetmen becoming involved.

“No, Belman,” answered Culich, “it won’t be on the agenda
today. Stay after the meeting, and you and I can discuss how to proceed.” The
Arwin boyerman was Belman Kulvin. Custom allowed he could be addressed by his
title, which Culich had nearly done. However, that would have signaled his
level of displeasure. If the later individual discussion didn’t go well,
“Belman” could quickly change to “Boyerman Arwin.”

He wished that either he could light a fire under Belman or
the man would demonstrate enough incompetence so Culich could replace him. As
hetman, it was Culich’s right to remove any boyerman, though a right
judiciously asserted and best resorted to only when the other boyermen
recognized the necessity.

Moving on from Arwin, Culich greeted the other two boyermen,
as he sat in the hetman’s chair facing the open double doors through which he
could see the cavernous hall. The boyermens’ path to the meeting room was
intentional. As they crossed the empty hall, each man’s eyes invariably rose to
the central platform and dais, the tapestries and the banners on the encircling
walls. He would hopefully be humbled by the expanse, the emptiness reminding
him of the hall packed with clanspeople on Gathering Day and of his
responsibilities to the clan and its members. Culich knew the feeling himself
ever since his father first took him at the age of twelve to the meetings.

One at a time or in clusters, the men attending this day
came through the double doors, exchanged greetings and small talk, and found
their places. Nine of the eleven boyermen were present. A tenth had broken a
leg, and his eldest son represented the district. An eleventh boyerman was too
old to travel and had written a formal request to step down from his position,
in favor of a nephew who had served as proxy at several previous meetings.
Culich would soon make the formal appointment.

When Culich Keelan greeted the last seating boyerman, he sat
back in his chair and surveyed the other eleven men at the table. The general
bustle died down, as everyone sensed the meeting was about to begin, and all
eyes turned to their hetman. Naturally, Culich’s chair was slightly larger and
more ornate than the other eleven, appropriate for the hetman of the Keelan
Clan and Province. The hereditary leader of the Keelan Clan was imposing. Not
so much his actual size, which was of good height and still robust, in spite of
his gray hair and beard, but more the aura of his personality, his ability to
project the difficult-to-describe essence of a leader, his known history of
fairness to those recognizing him as their liege, and his decisiveness in
defense of the clan’s interests.

The men representing the eleven districts of Keelan Province
sat in seats randomly assigned yearly at the round table, the shape and
assignments to avoid hints of favoritism toward any boyermen. The table and
seating arrangement were traditional since the time of Culich’s great, great grandfather,
the precedent set to avoid squabbles about positioning and rank among the
boyermen from provinces of differing populations, wealth, and shifting
political aspirations. Still, there were always grumblings. The provinces in
the best condition, at least in their own minds, thought they should sit
closest to the hetman. Naturally, nothing was spoken. Tradition and the
expected response from Culich eliminated overt complaints.

Behind the twelve men at the round table sat aides—sons,
advisors, others of note, and occasionally church prelates, depending on the
agenda. Behind Culich were three occupied chairs: Kennrick, Luwis, and one
other.

All of those present were men, with the one exception. Maera
Keelan was twenty-three Anyar years old—twenty Earth years—and the eldest
daughter of Culich Keelan. She sat with serious demeanor, her green eyes
shifting with moods from warm to impassive, to cold. Her hair coiled atop her
head, and, as some in the room knew from experience, that head housed a tongue
capable of flaying the purveyor of parochial interests or slovenly arguments.
That she was in the room at all rested on Culich’s simply saying so. For
the last three years, Maera had attended all of the most important meetings,
including those of the hetman and his eleven district boyermen, in the formal
role as recorder, since Culich insisted he needed a written record to remind
him of advice from the boyermen, as well as the necessity for a record of their
deliberations for the clan history.

Though Maera spoke only when prompted by her father, her
demure dress and manner fooled no one. On her lap lay a small wooden platform
holding a vial of ink, a cup from which sprouted quills made of feathers from
Caedellium seabirds, and a stack of blank paper. As the men conversed, the
assiduous scratch of her quill point on paper became part of the ambient noise.
Culich would occasionally ask her to repeat something said earlier that day or
perhaps from a past meeting. In those latter cases, she would delve into bound
ledgers on an adjacent chair to retrieve the appropriate transferred notes.

It was in these requests for reviewing past proceedings that
Maera might interject dreaded comments such as, “I wrote down that Boyerman
Arwin said earlier today that his district was short of wheat this year and
needed a supplement from the central clan stores. Perhaps I misheard, since the
boyerman reported sales of wheat to Mittack at the meeting last quarter.” She
would look up from her writings, give the target her attention, and wait while
the boyerman explained to Culich how he failed to keep sufficient grain
reserves.

However, Maera’s less acknowledged role came later, when her
father reviewed the meeting with her and other advisors. By not actively taking
part, she could observe the proceedings and often caught subtleties Culich
missed or wanted confirmed.

In addition to her intellect and insights, Maera was, in all
but title, a scholastic of Caedellium history and customs. Ever since learning
to read, she had voraciously consumed writings from all of the provinces, and
Culich had indulged her by paying to have copies made at abbeys throughout
Caedellium. Culich smiled to himself every time he remembered when she
unearthed a two-hundred-year-old reference to a treaty between the Stent and
Moreland clans that helped settle a dispute over clan boundaries in Stent’s
favor—an outcome that the Stent Hetman communicated a debt owed to Keelan. For
the Keelan Hetman, it was an outcome to be savored, since he respected the
Stent Hetman and despised Moreland’s leader. Culich chastised himself for the
guilty pleasure he felt at such a minor thwarting of Hetman Moreland, but still
smiled.

Equally amusing, tinged with regret at his own actions, was
the memory of another issue involving Moreland—a border disagreement involving
a distant and unpopulated part of northern Keelan Province. A meandering stream
used as part of their clans’ boundary cut a new course southward. A square mile
of land that had been south of the stream found itself north. The formality of
the border was in doubt, and the Moreland Hetman claimed the square mile now
part of Moreland and would bring up the issue at the next All-Clan Conclave in
Orosz City. Culich’s intention to dispute Moreland’s claim was dissected calmly
and cruelly by his eldest daughter.

***

“So, Father. You will dispute Moreland’s claim to the shift
in boundaries?”

“Of course, I will! It’s Keelan land, and it’s a point of
honor.”

“And you’re not influenced by your feelings about Hetman
Moreland?”

“He’s a vile piece of animal excrement, a disgrace to all of
Caedellium, a tyrant to this people, and no, my opinion of him doesn’t change
that I can’t let him steal Keelan land.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Father, but isn’t the land a piece
of swamp with no practical use? Would it really hurt the clan to lose so
little land of so little value?”

“The value is irrelevant,” snarled Culich. “It’s the
principle!”

“With all your worries about what’s happening with the
Narthani and the Selfcell and Eywell clans, is this issue with Moreland
important enough to divert attention at the All-Clan Conclave next month? If
the two of you get into a shouting match, what effect will this have when you
try to convince the other hetmen of the Narthani danger?”

Culich flushed. “When I want your opinion on how to serve
the clan, I’ll ask you!” he ground out.

Maera didn’t respond, sitting with hands folded in her lap,
a serene face waiting. He glared back. Neither spoke for several minutes until
Culich’s ire faded, and he sat back with a deep breath. Another minute passed,
along with longer breaths by Culich.

He cleared his throat. “Uh . . . I’m sorry I
snapped at you, Maera. I shouldn’t have said what I did. You know I value your
thoughts. It’s just that damned Gynfor Moreland and his two sons. The Word
tells us not to judge, but I’m afraid I fail when it comes to them.”

“All of the Moreland family?” Maera chided.

“All right, all right. Most of them. I make an
exception for Anarynd Moreland.”

A smile warmed Maera’s face, both at the thought of Ana and
at being right that bringing up Ana’s name would soften her father’s mood. It
had taken him some time to accept that his daughter’s best friend was a
Moreland, albeit from a minor collateral branch of the Moreland Hetman’s
family, and longer still before he would admit that he actually liked
the girl, even if she was a Moreland.

“And you’re right to caution about arguing too much about a
worthless piece of land when there are more urgent issues. Still
. . . it would gall me no end to agree to let Gynfor Moreland take
even an inch of Keelan land.”

Maera smiled again, the curl of her lips and lilt in her
eyes alerting her father she had something devious to add. Which she did. “In
looking at old records, I found the offending stream has changed course
numerous times over the last century. In fact, it changes course about every
ten to twenty years and usually runs two miles north.”

“North?” Culich echoed, his thoughts churning over the new
piece of information. “That . . . that means . . . ” His
face crinkled with a smile and a narrowing of eyes, as he looked at his
daughter. “If I agree to cede this little piece of worthless land now, then the
next time the stream shifts north, Moreland will face this precedent of taking
the stream bed as the boundary.”

The twinkle in Maera’s eyes was unmistakable. “And unless I
am wrong, the land to the north is good farmland.”

The hetman sat back in his chair and roared with laughter.
“Oh, Merciful God!” he choked out. “May I and Gynfor Moreland still be alive
when it happens!”

***

Culich recollected that day and how much he depended on
Maera. A secret Culich shared only with his wife, Breda, was that often Maera
gave as many useful comments as all of his advisors and boyermen. Not always better
advice, but from a different perspective and with broader views of many
issues. Culich often rued she hadn’t been born a son. What a hetman she
would have made! he thought many a time. However, traditions were that the
hetman was a man—not a hetwoman. That Culich and his wife, Breda, didn’t have
sons was a point of potential conflict within any clan. Ascendency struggles
and even intra-clan feuds and savage fighting had happened too often in
Caedellium history.

Clan Keelan avoided such problems by careful plans laying
out paths of succession. No one doubted the four daughters of Culich and Breda
Keelan would produce grandsons. From these, Culich would anoint a successor.
Fortunately for Clan Keelan, their custom didn’t follow strict primogeniture,
as did some clans—a custom too often leading to mediocre hetmen, since being
firstborn was no criterion for ability. For every truly qualified firstborn
successor, there were those either incompetent or even disastrous. For Clan
Keelan, Culich would see to the training of all of the grandsons and choose the
one he believed most qualified to be the next hetman. Although the boyermen had
to confirm the choice, only one recorded case of a rejection was quickly
followed by acceptance of the hetman’s second choice among fourteen grandsons.

Culich and everyone who knew Maera assumed one of her sons
would become the next hetman. The flaw in this assumption was her not yet
having married. Although frowned upon, children outside of formal marriage were
not uncommon—but not for a hetman’s family. The need to maintain security of
succession lines and minimize clan and inter-clan political complications was
paramount. Normally, the daughter of a hetman, particularly of a clan as
prominent as Keelan, would have numerous suitor options with appropriate
political advantages to the clan. Maera understood her duty and from an early
age assumed her eventual marriage would be managed for the good of their
people. Her father wouldn’t force a marriage she objected to, but she knew and
accepted her obligations . . . at least intellectually. What she felt
in her heart of hearts not even her parents were sure of, since she held close
her innermost feelings.

Whatever those feelings, Maera played her assigned role, to
a degree. However, she herself was an impediment to finding a suitable
marriage. A number of potential candidates, sons of other hetmen, boyermen,
even a few from families wealthy enough to tempt drawing into connections to
the hetman line had come and gone. In spite of the advantages of marrying one
of their scions into the hetman’s family and perhaps producing a son who might
become hetman himself, it often took only a single meeting with Maera to
dissuade suitors. Not that she was uncomely. She was of medium height with a
slender feminine form, lustrous brown hair, a natural grace, and a warm
personality, when she showed it. It was that qualification that was a problem,
since that warmth was not displayed as often as Culich would have liked,
especially with suitors. Word came to Culich more than once of potential
suitors returning home to report that the Keelan Hetman’s oldest daughter was
disrespectful, was condescending, and had a smart mouth. Compounding the
problem was that they weren’t completely wrong. She was smarter than any
of them and knew it, and so did they. Despite her efforts, it didn’t take long
for the men to realize she was their intellectual superior and a woman not able
or willing to keep opinions to herself. For those potential suitors she might
have liked well enough, it became a familiar pattern: initial interest faded to
uneasiness, to coolness, and, finally, to a polite regret they had to leave so
soon and how nice it was to meet her. They were never heard from again.

Those were the best cases. There were also men too oblivious
to recognize that Maera was not overawed by their masculinity or family
station, or they thought the marriage decision was theirs alone. Several had
escaped, figuratively, with their lives.

There had been no suitors now for six months. Culich hadn’t
pressed Maera, given the history, and in spite of himself he depended more and
more on her help. He hadn’t yet shared one troubling thought, not even with his
wife, but he wondered if Maera would ever marry. There was no
denying—she was different. He blamed himself to a degree. She had always been a
precocious child. He had gained satisfaction out of having produced her, and
his indulgences had fed her independence. He consoled himself that maybe
neither he nor Maera had had a choice. Maybe Maera turned out to be who God
intended. He had three other daughters, the next oldest coming to an
appropriate age for the first suitors. There would be grandsons, even if not
from his eldest child.

A polite feminine cough from behind him interrupted Culich’s
reverie. His attention riveted back to the eleven men at the table looking at
him, waiting for him to say . . . what?

Oh yes, first the routine matters before we get to the
Narthani.

He cleared his throat and turned in his chair toward Maera,
holding out a hand to receive two sheets of paper. “As usual, let’s review the
last meeting.”

In the next hour the men summarized the results of action
they were to have taken, then moved on to new items: reviews of crop status,
sightings of larger predators shadowing herds of horses (three boyermen from
the region agreed to coordinate hunting parties), a landslide blocking the
mountain pass to Dornfeld Province for a sixday (dug out from both ends), a
renewed request from the Elwyin boyerman for help in building a new abbey
complex for their growing population (granted), a missing family from a farm in
Wycoff (fruitless intensive search and no answer to what happened), the
announcement of an agreed-on marriage of a daughter of Boyerman Funvir to a
Hewell Province boyerman’s family—on and on, for the next two hours.

Culich’s attention drifted as the meeting moved into less
pressing items, when once again he was aware of silence. He glanced down at the
agenda Maera had outlined and saw that his finger rested on the last item. Oh
yes, finally to the Narthani.

“As you all know, Boyerman Dornfeld sent a report that one
of his fishing boats came on a new Narthani fleet heading to Preddi City. The
fishermen ran for our coast, but from their descriptions, the Narthani ships
included both warships and cargo vessels. At least some of the vessels had
decks crowded with armed men. I’m afraid we must assume the Narthani brought in
even more fighting men.”

The men shifted uneasily in their chairs and murmured to
themselves and one another. Tilston of the Brums District spoke first. “If they
are fighting men, do we have any idea if they intend staying? Maybe they’re
just passing through. Perhaps re-provisioning for a further voyage.”

“Possible,” said a dubious Culich, “though we should assume
not. As the Word says, ‘Plan for hard times and not the best.’
I believe we must assume the Narthani made a permanent increase to their forces
here on Caedellium.”

“To what purpose?” queried Boyerman Lanthan of the Elwin
District. Lanthan already knew Culich’s answer. He was one of the boyermen who
equally shared Culich’s fears about the future intentions of the Narthani.

“Since they have an iron grip on Preddi, and since Selfcell
and Eywell seem firmly under their control, we have to continue to consider the
possibility the Narthani aren’t satisfied with the part of Caedellium they now
control. While there’s so far been no sign of Narthani action against other
clans, we need to be alert to the danger. I’ll continue to discuss this with
the other hetmen at every opportunity.

“I’ve asked Vortig Luwis to make another assessment of the
clan’s strength and to make plans for increased patrols of our northern border
with Eywell. He’ll report back to us at a future meeting. For now, you all need
to be sure of weapons preparation and that every able-bodied man knows how to
use them. I know both weapons practice and the patrols take the men away from
their work, so do the best you can.”

The meeting continued for another two hours, with midday
meal served in the room. There were no other major decisions made, but the time
allowed every boyerman, representative, and aide to express himself and be
listened to, such that by the time the meeting adjourned, all attendees
understood the clan’s future intentions and were satisfied their own views had
been heard.

With the formal conclusion of the meeting, Culich mingled
with the other men as they prepared to depart for home, while Kennrick, Luwis,
and Maera went over her notes, from which she would prepare the written account
of the meeting. Culich was about to leave when he noticed Boyerman Arwin
sitting and looking his way.

God’s curse on it! I forgot about Belman.

He stopped and berated himself for using God’s name in such a
manner. Chastised and forgiving himself, he approached the instigator to see
what he had to say for himself. In a way, it was a relief to deal with
something as irritating as Arwin. At least, it was a problem he could deal
with, whereas the Narthani might need a miracle from God to solve.

Chapter 14: The Snarling Graeko

Yozef’s plan to find ways to use his chemistry knowledge
without getting in trouble gave him a focus, but no solution. A sixday later, he
still groped for a practical first introduction. His being pleased with himself
to have a plan—any plan—was fading on the evening he looked forward to a
session at the Snarling Graeko. He hadn’t the faintest clue what a graeko was
or why it should be snarling. The sign hanging in front of the pub depicted a
creature resembling a cross between a warthog and a hyena. Carnigan had never
seen one, didn’t know anyone who had ever seen one, and didn’t know whether
they were real or mythical. All Carnigan knew was the pub had the best beer.

Carnigan always went straight to the same corner table. If
the table was occupied, it always became available on Carnigan’s approach, the
current occupants suddenly finding another table more to their liking.

When Yozef first came to the pub with Carnigan, the two of
them drank alone, but over time, a few regular customers joined them, as if
seeing that Yozef had survived had emboldened them. On this night that
everything changed for Yozef, they were joined by two other regulars, and by
the second beer, the three Caedelli told Anyar jokes, some of which Yozef had
already heard before, sometimes more than once, sometimes so many times he
could have told them from memory. One advantage of the strength of Caedellium
beer was that by the second stein, even an old joke was hilarious. Yozef
figured he got about a third of the jokes, understood the references but
didn’t get the humor about another third, and had no clue why the other third
were amusing.

The three Caedelli started their third stein to Yozef’s
nursing of his second, when Filtin Fuller, a cheerful man in his mid-twenties
sitting next to Yozef, decided it was the turn of the newcomer to contribute.

“Yozef, it’s your turn! We’ve never heard jokes or stories
from you. Since you aren’t from Caedellium, you must have new ones. Let’s hear
some!”

“Good idea,” declared Carnigan, with a mighty fist to the
tabletop. “Let’s hear something, Yozef.”

Yozef sat frozen for a few seconds before Carnigan urged him
again. Jokes? He wasn’t good at remembering jokes. And what would be a joke
here? It couldn’t have any Earth references, and what he knew about the local
style of humor wasn’t encouraging. What if he told a joke that turned out to be
offensive? Yet this wasn’t an interview for a guest spot on the Tonight Show.
Most likely, what would happen was that with the ones he remembered, they
either wouldn’t get them or wouldn’t think they were funny.

The three men looked at him expectantly, quaffing their
steins while they waited.

He took a deep breath and launched in. “There’s this man in
the village working in his shop when suddenly an angel appears before him.
Naturally, the man is startled, but, being a devout person, he kneels before
the angel and asks why he is so honored. The angel tells him, ‘Because you are
such a good man, God has granted you a great favor. Unfortunately, there is
good news and bad news.’ ‘Oh, please tell me the good news first,’ said the
man. ‘God knows that when most people pass on from this life, they leave many tasks
undone and many people to whom they did not say their last goodbyes. God has
granted you to be told one year in advance that your time has come, and that is
why I have appeared to you.’ ‘You mean it’s good news that I have a year
to live?’ said the shocked man. ‘Well,’ said an embarrassed angel, ‘the bad
news is that I’ve looked for you since a year ago today.’”

Yozef stopped, looked around at the three men, and waited to
see the reaction. There were a few seconds of silence; Yozef could almost see
the gears turning. Carnigan broke first. He had raised his stein at the punch
line and was swallowing when it hit him. The mouthful of beer exited in a fine
spray. Fortunately for Yozef, he sat next to Carnigan and the expellant
centered on Filtin Fuller, sitting opposite. Carnigan choked for a second on
beer that remained in his mouth, then swallowed and roared in laughter. He
slammed his stein onto the table, further reducing the beer level within it,
and pounded the table with his other hand. The table was sturdy enough to have
held the weight of an elephant—which was fortunate. The sprayed-upon Filtin
laughed as loudly, although Yozef couldn’t be sure whether it was because of
the joke or Carnigan’s reaction. The third man seemed to lack a fine sense of
humor, since he smiled but didn’t laugh.

Oh, well, you can’t win over everyone in an audience.

Yozef, inordinately pleased with himself, sipped his own
stein and waited for Carnigan to regain control. When it happened, it almost
cost Yozef serious injury, as the big man slapped him on his back, causing his
diaphragm to impact the table edge. Once he could breathe again, he heard
Carnigan.

“A good one, Yozef,” bellowed Carnigan. “Never heard that
one before.”

Several neighboring tables had witnessed the explosion of
mirth and beer, and two men leaned over and asked Filtin and the other drinking
companion what was so amusing, possibly because none of the regular customers
had ever seen such a display from Carnigan. Thus did the joke travel among the
pub’s thirty or so customers within several minutes.

“Another one, Yozef, tell us another one!”

Hey, maybe I have a career here as a comedian. I wonder
if there are gigs that pay coin?

By now, most of the customers either stood near their tables
or turned at their seats to listen.

“One day I came here to the Snarling Graeko for beer. As I
got to the door, there stood Sister Norla.” The referenced sister was the
“nurse” who was the first person on Anyar Yozef had seen when he awoke at the
abbey. The matronly middle-aged sister was an accomplished caregiver, although
somewhat prim. On her bad days, and Yozef experienced several when he first
arrived, he thought of her as Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s
Nest. He had also heard her comment several times on the evils of too much
drinking.

“Naturally, I was surprised to see sister Norla outside of a
pub. Then she spoke to me. ‘Yozef,’ she said, ‘beer is an evil that clouds
men’s minds and strays them from doing better with their lives. At least in
your case, you have no family to go without food and clothing when you spend
your money in such dens, but both your money and time should be spent
elsewhere.’

“‘Pardon me, Sister Norla,’ I said. ‘With all respect, have
you ever tasted a beer?’

“‘No, never,’ the sister asserted.

“‘Then how can you know for sure it’s evil?’

“The sister thought for a moment, then said, ‘You’re right,
my son. Just to satisfy you, I am willing to try a beer. Naturally, I can’t go into
the pub myself, but if you would bring me out beer in a cup, I’m willing to try
it.’

“So, I went into the pub and asked the owner, ‘Could I have
a beer in a cup?’

“The owner shook his head in disgust. ‘Is Sister Norla still
outside?’”

Instead of an explosion of laughter, this time it built like
an ocean swell that starts low, then grew until it crashed on the beach. Some
got the punch line immediately, while others had to think about it, and some
had to have it explained. Like the wave, when it fully broke, the pub was
fortunate to be constructed of strong timbers. Yozef had assumed Carnigan to be
the loudest person in the pub, but his position was bumped down one slot by the
pub owner himself, who had come over to hear why so much laughter centered on their
table.

When the wave subsided, there were demands for another joke.
Yozef obliged with a few more—none with quite the impact. He was thus grateful
when other customers offered examples of humor. By the tenth joke of the
impromptu comedy club, even old stale stories were hilarious.

Yozef finally finished his second stein and debated a third
when the sounds of splintering wood, a loud thud, and a man’s scream cut
through the noise of simultaneous voices. Yozef jerked his head toward whatever
happened and could see a knot of men forming near a keg of beer resting on its
side on the floor. The pub’s festive mood transformed into panicked voices, and
the scream morphed into cries of agony.

Yozef followed his three drinking companions to the knot of
men. A keg five feet long and two and a half in diameter lay next to a
broken-wheeled cart that must have been transporting the keg. The source of the
initial scream and now moans was an elderly man with one leg under the
keg.

The pub owner shouted down the turmoil and ordered Carnigan
and several of the larger men to help him get the keg off the man writhing on
the floor. The keg being too heavy to lift outright, men placed a wooden block
under one end of its curved side, and the men heaved on the other end to tilt
the keg onto the block. As the men put everything they had into lifting the end
of the keg, others pulled the man away. His pinned leg was gruesome. The keg
had rolled onto the side of his lower leg, snapping both lower leg bones in
several places, since it bent twice in different directions. Yozef could see
two sharp ends of shattered bones protruding through the man’s pants.

Men shouted and milled about, until the pub owner yelled,
“Willager! I saw your wagon down the street! Get it up here! We have to get him
to the Abbey.” A man ran to and through the door—presumably Willager.
“Carnigan. I’ll get a board, and you and your friend get him on it and out to
the wagon.”

Friend? Is that me? I’m no medic!

The board appeared, and Carnigan barked at Yozef to help him
get the injured man onto it. By then, the man was in shock and only groaned as
they slid him onto the board. Carnigan gestured to one end of the board, which
Yozef interpreted that he was volunteering as an EMT whether he wanted to or
not. Outside was a flatbed wagon drawn by two nondescript horses. They laid him
and his board on the bed, climbed on next to him, and the wagon owner,
Willager, got the horses and wagon moving at a moderate pace to avoid more
jarring than necessary.

Another pub customer rode ahead to alert the abbey, and an
open main gate awaited them. They pulled up to the hospital and a waiting
wooden gurney attended by two men and a woman. They gently but efficiently
transferred the old man to the gurney and wheeled him inside. By this time
another wagon arrived with a gray-haired woman who followed the gurney, crying
and wringing her hands.

“His wife,” someone whispered.

Yozef and Carnigan followed them inside, not with any
specific task in mind, but simply trailing behind the flow of people as the
victim was moved into a receiving room. There, several medicants appeared in
orchestrated movements, reminding Yozef of emergency rooms. By now, Medicant
Dyllis had appeared.

“Get him on the table,” Dyllis ordered. The gurney crew sat
the man on the edge of the table, then were shouldered out of the way as Dyllis
and a sister rotated the now unconscious man and laid him down on the wooden
surface.

Cadwulf Beynom, the abbot and abbess’s older son, appeared
at Yozef’s side and led him and Carnigan out of the room. “They will take care
of him now,” he said.

“A nasty break,” said Yozef. “I hope they can fix his leg.”

Carnigan shook his head. “I would pray so, but from the
looks of it, they’ll have to take it off. Too much damage. At least, it’s a low
break, near the foot, so he’ll only lose the leg below the knee.”

Yozef shuddered. An amputation? What exact level of
medicine did they have here? Such details had occurred to him previously, but
“thinking” about and “seeing” were different. He found himself imagining
needing serious medical care. Such as an amputation. Despite himself, the
imagines of blades cutting through his own flesh and sawing bones rose unbidden
in his mind.

“If they have to amputate, do they have something for the
pain?”

“Only to dull it. The rest he’ll have to bear with God’s
mercy.”

Christ! I hope to God I never have an accident here!

“Nothing at all?” choked Yozef. He was pretty sure opiates
had been available much earlier than this in Earth’s history.

“There are drugs from certain flowers, but those flowers
won’t grow in Caedellium and need conditions available only in a few mainland
realms. The Landolinians charge very high prices for it, but even that source
has been cut off since the Narthani blocked all trade between the island and
the rest of Anyar. The medicants will do what they can for him. There’s nothing
we can do here, except pray for him.”

The Narthani again. Blocking trade? One more reason to
pay more attention to whoever these people are and what they plan for Caedellium.
As  for growers of the poppies—it sounds like these Landolinians run a
cartel. If it was opium poppies or something similar, there are always ways
grow them. Maybe some kind of greenhouses.

Yozef went back to his room. Twenty minutes later, he heard
the first screams. There was no doubt who they emanated from and why, and they
were audible even in his room a hundred yards from the medical building. Though
he tried not to visualize the scene in the operating room, his imagination
again betrayed him, as he envisioned the medicants working as quickly as they
could to at least make the agony as short as possible. The screams went on for
only a minute or two, then abruptly stopped. Yozef froze in place with the
first scream and now found himself soaked in cold sweat. More minutes of quiet
passed before he could do more than sit on the side of his bed.

Chapter 15: Chemistry

A Proposal

The next day, Yozef stopped the medicant Brother Willer as
they left the dining hall.

“Brother Willer, how is the injured man we brought in last
night?”

The brother shook his head. “I’m afraid the medicants and
our prayers weren’t enough. He died while they were taking the leg. Brother
Bolwyn said his heart gave out. That’s always the danger when someone is older.
A younger person might have survived the operation.” With that, Willer patted
Yozef on the arm and walked away.

Yozef stood frozen in place. The plain but hearty meal lay a
lump in his stomach. He walked outside into the cooling morning air and leaned
his forehead against the cold stone wall to help keep from ejecting the meal.

It was another lesson to him not to forget where he was and
to assume nothing. He’d taken for granted Harlie’s statement he’d never
be sick again. Sickness didn’t cover accidents. What if he got injured?
Whatever painkillers they had here were scarce or unavailable.

And did they understand about germs? On Earth, asepsis
wasn’t accepted until around 1860–1870. Harlie had said he’d be immune, but was
Harlie right? Or even telling the truth?

Later that night he lay in his bed. Thinking, unfortunately.
Thoughts kept returning to unpleasant images. After he’d spent nearly an hour
of staring at the dark ceiling, a different thread pushed itself to the front
of his consciousness. There was no serious anesthetic. If he could get some of
the plants or seeds of the poppy, he could figure out how to grow them in
greenhouses. But that was well into the future, if possible at all. He assumed
the Landolinians were serious about maintaining a monopoly.

What chemicals could be used? Ether, nitrous oxide,
chloroform? Yozef’s heart beat faster. He clenched a fist and pounded into the
other palm.

“You know . . . ,” he mumbled to himself, “I
should be able to make all three, given materials and some help.”

The next day, instead of joining Carnigan for assigned
tasks, Yozef went out to his log, stared through the overhead leaves, and
thought serious chemistry for the first time since his arrival.

Of the three chemicals he remembered, nitrous oxide wouldn’t
work. Production required ammonium nitrate, which had to be synthesized by
reacting nitric acid and ammonia, a pretty volatile and dangerous step itself.
Then the ammonium nitrate had to be purified and crystallized, then heated to decompose
into nitrous oxide and water vapor. Other side products of the reaction had to
be removed through various filtering and purifications, which required yet
other chemicals likely not available.

The same for chloroform: he needed chlorine gas, which
involved electrolysis of a sodium chloride solution, capturing the gasses and
purifying the chlorine gas, which was then used to make calcium
hypochlorite—bleach.

“Where the hell’s Walmart when you needed one?”

He further remembered you then had to react the bleach with
methane (CH_4) to get a mixture of the four possible chlorinated
compounds (CH_3Cl, CH_2Cl_2, CHCl_3,
and CCl_4). Chloroform was the third product, the one with three
chlorines attached to the carbon. It could be separated by distillation from the
others, but Yozef didn’t want to get involved with the fourth product—carbon
tetrachloride, which he remembered was dangerous, something about liver failure
and cancer. The latter might not be a problem for him, assuming what
Harlie had said about the nanomachines they’d injected into him was true, but
what about his workers?

“Nope. Chloroform’s out, too.”

That left ether. Or, more precisely, diethyl ether. As with
the other two chemicals, to his surprise, when he thought about the synthesis
of ether he found himself envisioning whole pages of chemistry texts describing
ether synthesis and purification.

That’s odd I can recall entire pages so clearly. Why
couldn’t I do this when I took courses?

He could see it was a simple reaction of ethanol with
sulfuric acid. Heated, but not too much. The reaction at 140oC,
with alcohol being continuously added to keep it in excess to prevent the
reverse reaction of ether back to ethanol. Not that it was all that easy. Nasty
stuff, if you weren’t careful, he reminded himself. Above 160oC,
ether could spontaneously ignite, and even in storage at lower temperatures
ignition could occur, due to high vapor pressure.

Yozef could see the page of warnings as if it were right in
front of him. The heating would be a bitch. Ether was extremely flammable. Then
there was storage—airtight containers in the dark, in small quantities for
safety, and add a piece of iron in the bottle to slow peroxide formation, which
also had the nasty habit of exploding.

He continued thinking as he paced his room that evening and
as he walked the grounds the next two days, trying to remember what he could of
ether synthesis and crafting how he would broach the subject with the abbot. He
had to be very careful. New ideas might be seen as threats to the existing
order and attributed to demonic influences or heresy. He
knew of consequences that even minor innovations could cause, especially
among conservative religious and medical professions. His interview with the
abbot had touched on the issue, but he hadn’t yet acted on the abbot’s advice
to come to him first with new knowledge to introduce.

He’d been telling myself he needed to consider all of the
ramifications of introducing new knowledge and take action at some point, but
knowing himself, he’d likely procrastinate. If the accident at the pub didn’t
prod him to jump on the potential of anesthetics as an ideal place to start
introducing new technology, then when and what would be?

He decided an initial approach to brother Fitham would be
the safest test. If Fitham wasn’t fazed, then he would try the abbot. On
Godsday, the brothers and the sisters were encouraged to mix freely with staff
and visitors. The following Godsday evening, Yozef made sure he sat at a table
for four with Fitham. The other three did most of the talking during the
meal—Yozef waiting for his chance. When the other two finished and excused
themselves, Brother Fitham looked across the table at Yozef.

“I noticed how quiet you’ve been this evening, Yozef. Is
there something troubling you?”

Here goes nothing. “Brother Fitham, the man brought
in several days ago with the badly injured leg. Something is troubling
me, and I wonder if you could advise me.”

“Certainly, Yozef. Why don’t we walk around the grounds?
It’ll be quiet this time of Godsday, and we’ll not be interrupted.”

They strolled behind the main buildings and were well into
the garden, surrounded by shrubbery and flowers just in the middle of the late
season bloom, the last twilight lighting up the few clouds in the sky.

“Brother Fitham—” Yozef said, and the older man placed a
frail hand on his shoulder.

“Please, Yozef, call me Petros, or Brother Petros, if you
must. I always feel it’s better than the ‘Brother Fitham’ title.”

“Thank you . . . Petros. I’m afraid I still don’t
know what’s acceptable behavior and custom here.”

“I think you’re adjusting well, considering you were ripped
from your home and family, all you knew, and thrown on a strange shore,
probably never to see your home again. It would hardly be surprising that you’d
have a difficult time adjusting, but from what I see, you’ve done well. The one
thing I wonder is whether you have given serious thought to your future? If
you’re here for the rest of your life, what is it you want and how can we help
you find a place with us?”

“I admit I haven’t fully adjusted to everything that’s
happened, but I appreciate all of the kindness and consideration you and the
abbey have given me, and I’ve wished I could repay you all in some way. That’s
what I wanted to talk with you about.”

They moved into a grove of trees sporting lavender blossoms,
some of the petals dropping as the earliest bloomers began to fall. He gathered
his thoughts and then came to the point.

“About the poor man with the badly injured leg. I could hear
him when they started the amputation.” Yozef’s expression and voice relived the
night before.

Petros sighed. “Yes, a terrible injury. The leg hopelessly
injured. There was no option except taking it. Otherwise, he surely would have
died after suffering for days or sixdays. There’s always danger for such
procedures. Unfortunately, his age and weak constitution worked against him.
However, I assure you the medicants here are as good as any in the province. If
they couldn’t save him, it’s unlikely anyone could have.”

“I don’t doubt their skill, Petros. What I’m wondering is
whether the pain and shock of the surgery killed him and not the injury
itself.”

“Well . . . yes,” said a puzzled brother. “The
stress on him was simply too much.”

“What if he hadn’t felt the surgery? What if he had been
unconscious at the time?”

“Then he might have lived. But we only have two ways to
produce unconsciousness. One is with drugs, but these are in terribly short
supply with the Narthani embargo and are severely rationed. In fact, at the
moment we have no supply at all here at the abbey. The medicants are delaying
every surgery they can until a new supply comes, but the man last night
couldn’t wait.

“The second method is a careful blow to the head. It’s a
well-tested method, using a small sack of wet sand and a skilled blow to the
back of the head to induce unconsciousness. Here again, the man was
unfortunate. He’d had a serious head injury when younger, and they feared the
blow would kill him. It was a hard decision to try the surgery while he was
conscious and hope he could come through with God’s grace.”

“Petros, you know I was a student. I’ve spoken with the
abbot briefly about this. Our school, er . . . scholasticum, believed
in education in many subjects, so the student has basic knowledge in many
fields before specializing. My main study was what we called ‘chemistry,’ the
mixing of materials to produce other and different materials.”

“Something like our apothecaries?” said Petros.

“Not exactly. Some students specialized to be apothecaries,
but chemistry studies how to produce substances that could be used in other
skills and trades.”

“This sounds like some of what many of our craftsmen do.
Their procedures are usually specific to the trade, but am I understanding you
were being trained in such procedures for use in many different trades?”

“Something like that, Petros. But more in learning basic
skills to create entirely new products not previously known.”

“If you don’t know what the product is, why would you make
it?”

“Perhaps I’m not explaining well, but we believe that by
knowing many skills, you could combine them in new ways not previously
conceived.”

Petros rubbed his trim gray beard. “Well, I suppose I can
see some reasoning in that. So, you trained in this ‘chemistry’?”

“Yes. And that’s what I want to talk with you about. One of
the new substances that can be made by mixing two different known substances is
called ‘ether.’”

“Ether?” said Petros, carefully pronouncing it. “And what is
this ether good for?”

“It has many uses, most of which I don’t understand or
couldn’t explain—remember my education wasn’t complete. But the one use is that
if a person inhales just a few breaths of it, he goes into a deep sleep and
will not waken for perhaps an hour or more.”

Petros didn’t know where Yozef was headed. “I can see it
useful if someone cannot get to sleep . . . so I guess it would have
its uses.”

“No, Petros. Not just a deep sleep. They will be unconscious
and not react to anything for that time. It’s used in surgical procedures
the same way as the drugs or blows are used by your medicants. After an hour or
more, the person comes awake with no harm, which the blow to the head might
cause.”

Petros had stopped on the path and turned facing Yozef, his
face blank as he considered what he’d just heard. A look of wonder developed.
“My God,” he whispered, his eyes refocused on Yozef, “and since you’re telling
me this, does this mean you know how to make this ‘ether?’”

“I believe so. I’ve never made it myself, but I think I remember
enough of the steps that it can be done.”

“My God,” Petros repeated. “We need to talk to Diera,
Sistian, and the other medicants of this! They will think it a gift and a sign
from God!”

Petros grasped Yozef’s left arm in a vise-like grip for
someone his age, and, linked together, they hustled to the main courtyard,
through the main gate, and along the pebble path to the Beynom’s residence
outside the complex.

Diera Beynom answered Petros’s
loud knocking, surprised to see the excited, bent brother pulling on Yozef and
by Petros’s insistence on seeing her and the abbot “immediately.” She led them
to a sitting room, while she went to pull Sistian from his reading. It took
Petros only a few minutes to lay out to the abbot and the abbess what Yozef told
him. As proficient as Yozef had become in the language, he had trouble
following the rapid-fire speech of the excited Petros and questions by the
abbot and the leading medicant.

Diera turned to Yozef. “You say
you know how to make this ether, but have you ever made it yourself and used
it?”

“No,” said Yozef. “As I told
Brother Fitham, ether use wasn’t part of my education, but I know how to make
it.”

“Tell us more about this ether,”
prompted Diera.

“It’s a liquid. If I recall, it
smells sweet. It’s easy to make in principle, but the exact details would have
to be tested. The person to undergo surgery is allowed to breathe it. I think a
bag holding some of the ether and held over the nose and mouth would work. For
exactly how long, I don’t know, but only until the person is unconscious. The
doses and how exactly it’s used I also don’t know, so we’ll have to carefully
test this. There may be side effects—I don’t remember for sure. I do know it
can be addictive and harmful if inhaled too much and too often, so it should be
carefully controlled. Too much can kill, and that could happen without warning.
Maybe it just puts the person into such a deep sleep, he stops breathing. It
wasn’t my field of study. I remember that it’s
extremely dangerous to work with. I mean, like, extremely flammable, so
care has to be taken in making and using it. Oh, and I already said it’s
highly flammable. Extreme precautions are needed to keep it away from any flame
or embers. It can also break down into other compounds that are dangerous, that
can explode. I think you need to keep it out of the sun also and probably in a
cool place. And very volatile, so it has to be kept in a tightly sealed
container, probably glass. It cannot be stored too long, so you would need to
make new runs occasionally, even when there is some left from older batches.”

Yozef stopped talking, aware he was rattling on. Three
different expressions faced him: Petros smiling, Diera hopeful, and Sistian
skeptical.

“Yozef, excuse me for asking,” Sistian said, “but this is
something we’ve never heard of. You’ve been recovering from whatever happened
to you. It’s not unreasonable for us to wonder about what you’re saying.”

Yozef nodded. “I understand, Abbot. I hope you’ll not be
offended if I say that your people aren’t always aware of what may be common
knowledge elsewhere in the world. You and I have discussed this before.
Different peoples have not just different customs but can also have different knowledge.
I’ve got the impression that there are things here in Caedellium unknown to my
people at home, and the reverse is also true, such as the ether.”

“Yozef is right,” Diera said to her husband. “When I studied
medicine in Iraquinik those years ago, I learned many things that I brought
back to Caedellium. Others had the same experience. It’s a problem that our
peoples don’t share enough knowledge, because of either the distances or
willingness. That this ether may be in common usage elsewhere in the world
isn’t strange.”

While the abbot was obviously not convinced, he looked
mollified. “What would you need to make some of this ether, Yozef?”

With that simple question, Yozef’s isolation from the world
outside the abbey ended.

Making Ether

Whatever reservations the abbot had about Yozef’s claims of
a miracle compound, he had no hesitation in providing Yozef with whatever was
needed. By noon the next day, Yozef met with men called to the abbey by the
abbot—an apothecary, a metal worker, a glass blower, and a brewer. Each of the
four tradesmen owned a shop with workers, and none of the four knew exactly
what Yozef expected of them, even after a summary by the abbot and a longer
explanation by Yozef. They were there and willing to listen simply because the
abbot asked them. Accompanying the brewer was a Preddi refugee who knew of
crude batch distillation for a drink favored by the Narthani. He had worked in
a shop in Preddi City before he and his family fled from Preddi Province to
Eywell and then across the Eywellese border into Keelan.

They needed only two ingredients to produce diethyl ether:
pure ethanol and a high enough concentration of sulfuric acid. The ethanol was
easy. Though they could have started with wine, the brewer already had gallons
of distillate with a higher ethanol content. It was simply a matter of making
the brewer and Preddi refugee understand Yozef needed to further distill out
alcohol with none of the flavorings or other components of the harsh whiskey
they produced.

The acid was harder. Yozef didn’t know how concentrated the
acid had to be, so they settled for what was available and hoped it would work.
It took some time before the apothecary understood that Yozef’s sulfuric acid
was their “vitriol,” a corrosive liquid with various uses and to which the
metal worker had access.

In two days they gathered the ingredients, but the
distillation equipment took longer. In principle, the apparatus was simple. A
glass retort, or reaction vessel, would hold whatever liquid needed to be
separated into one or more of its components. A narrow opening at the top of
the vessel connected to a vertical glass column. The first try at the equipment
they settled on was a column about 18 inches long. Just before the top of the
column, a glass sidearm was fused to the column and ran diagonally down to a
waiting collection flask.

The sidearm proved a difficult part for the glassblower,
because not only did it have to be connected to the vertical column so vapors
could enter the sidearm, the sidearm itself needed to be encased in a second
tube through which water could be run to cool the vapors. On heating the
reaction vessel and the enclosed liquid, the vapors rose in the vertical column
to the level of the sidearm. When the vapors entered the sidearm, they were
cooled by the water jacket, were condensed back into a liquid, and ran down the
sidearm into a waiting receptacle.

They also needed thermometers placed at the top of the
vertical column and inside the reaction vessel. To Yozef’s chagrin and initial
dismay, there were no thermometers. It was a problem he would encounter again
and again: each piece of knowledge or technology needing other pieces. It took
Yozef several hours to explain to the glass blower that they needed a small
reservoir of mercury leading to a fine capillary about a foot long, all sealed
in glass. Fortunately, mercury was known and supplied by the metal worker.

How the glass blower managed to make the thermometers, Yozef
never asked, but a sixday later the blower showed up with several versions.
They were far thicker than thermometers Yozef had used on Earth, and the
capillary wider than any he had ever seen. To his relief, when they warmed the
bulbous end, the mercury rose in the capillary.

The next problem was the uniqueness of each crude
thermometer—different in length and capillary diameter—and none had
calibrations. Boiling water and ice—sourced from deep caves in the mountains of
northeast Keelan—let them mark 0cC and 100oC on each
thermometer. Since the target temperature was 140oC, but not above
160oC, where spontaneous ignition could occur, they needed
calibrations higher than 100oC. The only way was to boil liquids
that had higher vaporization temperatures. The only available candidate Yozef
could dredge out of his memory was olive oil at 300oC. He knew that
number only because his ex-girlfriend read somewhere that olive oil began
smoking at about 240oC, which was a sign of breakdown products that
were supposed to be bad for your health. They had been cooking with olive oil
then, and Julie wanted to stop. It took some library and Internet research and
talking to convince her it was okay. The olive oil would give approximate
thermometer calibrations at 240o and 300o, leaving a
considerable gap from 100o, but at least they’d have the target
temperatures bracketed.

By the vagaries of chance, one of the trees transplanted
from Earth was the olive, and a large black version was occasionally served or
appeared in dishes. A check with the abbey dining hall confirmed the use of
olive oil in cooking.

Yozef and several workers provided by the tradesmen
assembled the final distillation test apparatus and were ready to calibrate.
Yozef explained they’d assume the mercury rise in a capillary to be linear, and
equal increases in temperature would lead to equal rises in the mercury. That
no two thermometers were identical meant that every thermometer had to be
calibrated separately. They used olive oil to estimate where 140oC
should be on a given thermometer and ran the ether-producing reaction to that
point—from a distance and checking the readings behind a shield with a pinhole.
If the apparatus didn’t explode, they assumed the temperature was no more than
160o.

By this time, only the brewer and the glass blower of the
four initial tradesmen remained active in the project. Each supplied materials
and labor as requested by the abbot. In the end, it was Filtin Fuller, the
glass blower’s assistant and occasional drinking companion at the Snarling
Graeko, who most quickly grasped Yozef’s directions and became de facto leader
of the workers. Not that any of the workers fully understood why or what they
were doing, but for some reason, Filtin had faith that Yozef probably knew what
he was doing. Probably.

A morning finally came for the first runs of ether. Yozef
looked at the final apparatus and shook his head. He couldn’t believe they were
really trying to make ether with this cluster-fuck of a setup. Back home, every
safety agency and official on Earth would be screaming at them. He hoped this
worked and they didn’t kill themselves or anyone else.

Although the reaction called for a continuous addition of
ethanol, Yozef settled on self-contained runs of equal starting volumes and
stopping the reactions after different reductions in volume. They allowed the
products collected from the sidearm to cool, and Yozef smelled the products.
Three of five products smelled right for ether.

Chapter 16: Guinea Pigs

Patient Number 1

By midday meal, word spread through the complex, and the
afternoon found Yozef, the workers, Petros, Sistian, Diera, and more than a
dozen medicants and other abbey staff gathered in an operating room. A coney
lay on its back, tied by straps to a board. The rabbit-sized animal filled a similar
ecological niche and was the source of some of the unidentified meat in abbey
stews. Diera followed what few suggestions Yozef had for the ether application
and poured the liquid onto a folded cloth and held it over the coney’s
nostrils. It squealed, took several gasping breaths, and was unconscious within
seconds. The palpable astonishment lasted two minutes, while everyone waited to
see whether the coney lived and still breathed.

“It seems the ether puts the coney to sleep,” said Diera.

An audible sigh surfaced from the gathering, accompanied by
smiles and a few exclamations.

“But does the coney feel pain and would it awaken?” She took
a needle and pricked one of the paws between digits, watching for the normal
withdrawal reflexes and vocal complaints. The coney never twitched.

“So much for the minor discomfort, but what about serious
pain such as a surgical operation might entail?”

“Amputate a leg,” said Fitham.

The others looked at him, a little surprised at the
cold-blooded suggestion from the elderly brother.

“It’s going into the pot anyway one of these nights. Let it
help us see if the ether works.”

“Yes, Diera,” Sistian agreed, “go ahead and take off a leg
and sew him up as if it were a person. We’ll see how the coney responds.”

Diera nodded and left the room for a few minutes, returning
with a rolling cart of surgical tools, needles, the local version of catgut for
sutures, and cloths for staunching blood. Another medicant assisted. She made a
first cut through fur and underlying skin layers at a forepaw joint. The coney
didn’t respond. She proceeded to cut quickly through the muscles and ligaments,
sawed through the thin bone, and sewed a flap of skin over the exposed end of
the limb. The coney never twitched, and its chest rose and fell in normal
rhythm.

“Blessed by the Almighty God if I don’t think it worked like
Yozef said it would,” she said in awe.

They unstrapped the coney and placed it in a cage with an
old blanket on the floor as a cushion, and all retired for the evening. The
next morning the coney was awake and moving about the cage, albeit slowly and
obviously in discomfort.

Human Patient Number 1

Several of the medicants were eager to use the ether on
human patients waiting for surgery. Yozef discouraged the rush, and Diera
agreed and enforced that they’d run additional trials on larger animals to test
dosages and effects. Subsequent results with goats and yearling cattle showed
that a few drops in a leather bag with the end held over the nostrils sufficed
to put the animals into a sleep, the depth of which was dependent on how long
they applied the ether. Longer and larger doses confirmed it was possible to
stop the animal’s breathing. After another sixday, Diera agreed they were
ready.

The first patient was a pregnant young woman. Diera met with
all of the complex’s medicants, the abbot, and Yozef. She started off
summarizing the situation.

“The child is in breech position. The mother has been in
labor for over a day, and we haven’t been able to turn the baby head down for
normal birth. Prospects for both the mother and the child are grim. We don’t
see any option, except to remove the baby surgically. Normally, we would use
opiates to put the mother to sleep, even though it involves danger to the
baby’s breathing. We lose about a third of the babies with such a procedure. In
this case, we have no opiates and the only option would be to tie the mother to
the operating table and remove the child as quickly as possible and sew the
mother closed. We expect to lose at least half of the mothers.”

Diera paused, reached out, and picked up a small dark glass
bottle containing ether. “After extensive discussion among the medicant staff
and in consultation with Abbot Sistian, we have offered the option to the woman
and her husband to try the ether produced by Yozef. We have warned the family
of the risk of an untried procedure, and the husband and the wife have both
agreed to try the ether to avoid the alternative.”

She looked around the room and continued. “In spite of our
discussing this at great length, are there any final comments or thoughts?”

There were none.

“Then let us begin. The patient is in the surgical room next
door.”

Yozef followed the abbey staff next door to a moaning woman lying
with arms and legs strapped to an operating platform. Two female medicants held
her hands and wiped sweat and tears from her face. Pain and fear chased each
other across her face. The husband waited outside, as was the custom on
Caedellium.

Brother Dyllis was to be the lead surgeon, and he and his
assistants moved quickly. Everything had been planned, and they didn’t delay.
Two sections of raised steps had been put together and placed on both sides of
the table to allow staff to see the details of the operation. Yozef cringed at
the lack of masks and the larger-than-necessary room but didn’t see it as the
time to bring up aseptic conditions.

He stood on a top step, looking over people’s heads and down
at the woman. Though the room seemed chill to him, his shirt armpits were
soaked, and a cold sweat ran down his neck and back. While all of the tests
checked out, this was for real. The assurances from Diera that this was the
woman’s and the child’s best option had not assuaged the voice nagging him that
he had facilitated something based on so little experience, and something that
could kill one or both of the patients. His breathing was deep and harsh, just
short of gasps, as his lungs hyperventilated.

Dyllis removed the cloths covering the woman’s swollen
abdomen. Another sister swabbed the abdomen with what appeared to be
concentrated soapy water. Yozef later learned the cloths and the instruments
had been boiled in acidified water. While the woman was being prepped, Dyllis,
another brother, and a sister washed their hands and forearms with soap and a
basin of evidently water hot enough to give off steam but tolerable to the
three medicants.

Sister Varnia held a leather sack serving to deliver the
ether, while Brother Bolwyn unstoppered the brown bottle. He shook ether drops
into the bag, Varnia closed the opening, rotated the bag several times, then
opened it again and placed the opening over the mouth and the nose of the
suffering woman. Her eyes widened, as the bag covered much of her face. She
took several shallow breaths, gasped as the ether hit her, then closed her
eyes. Varnia bent to put one ear to the woman’s chest and the other ear to hear
the woman’s breathing, keeping the bag over the patient’s mouth and nose.
Dyllis kept a hand on the woman’s chest to follow her breathing and motioned
for Varnia to remove the bag. Everyone in the room held their collective
breaths while they watched the woman. Her chest rose and fell in normal rhythm.

Dyllis continued checking her pulse and breathing.
“Everything seems normal at this point. Now we’ll check for responses.” The
classic knee-jerk response was positive, as were iris responses to a light held
close. “Now for pain.” He took a large needle and did a minor stab to her
forearm. No response. Dyllis looked up at the observers and nodded, then
repeated the test at several other parts of her anatomy with increasing force.

“No response to the pricks and breathing still normal. We’re
ready to proceed.” He looked at Diera, who nodded assent to continue. Varnia swabbed
the woman’s abdomen again. Dyllis picked up a scalpel-like instrument and made
a quick, shallow, vertical cut in the abdomen. He pulled back to observe
whether there was any response. “No response,” said Dyllis with more than a
little wonder in his voice. “I’ll proceed with removing the baby.”

Dyllis stepped forward and with a quick and steady hand cut
through the abdominal muscles and then the uterus, exposing the placenta. More
careful strokes and the baby was exposed, then pulled out from the mother. The
umbilical cord was cut and the baby given to another medicant, who carried out
the classic swat on the butt while holding the baby by its feet. The collective
exhalation of breaths was matched in intensity by the wail of the single small
source. While the baby was further stimulated and cleaned, Dyllis applied a
gentle pull on the umbilical cord until the placenta came out through the
incision, and the mother was sewn closed.

Dyllis again checked the mother’s vitals, then announced,
“Procedure is complete, mother and baby survived to this point.”

Applause and exultations broke out from the audience,
followed by multiple conversations and congratulations all around. Yozef was
exhausted. He had never imagined how standing and watching something could be
so draining.

The following minutes were still tense, as they waited for
the mother to awaken, as well as to see whether either she or her new daughter
showed any ill effects. The woman awoke less than twenty minutes after the
operation. It took her ten minutes to go from first responsiveness to being
awake enough to answer questions. She was in pain, though not exceptional, all
things considering.

By the next day, she was eating, was talking freely, and had
started nursing. Abbot Sistian held a special ceremony that evening in the
cathedral. He had insisted Yozef attend and gave effusive thanks, first to God,
of course, then to Yozef.

Patient Number 4

During the next two sixdays, two more surgeries were
successful using ether anesthetic. One patient was a tree cutter whose forearm
had to be amputated, and a second involved a badly infected wisdom tooth. Yozef
didn’t see either patient but was called on for a third case. He was with his
three full-time workers in a new ether shop, housed in a small building outside
the Abersford, and was inspecting the latest changes in the procedure. They
were about to start a reaction run with a new vessel setup when Brother Alber
arrived.

“Yozef, Sister Diera asks you come to the abbey. She has a
patient she wants to ask you about.”

“A patient? Why does the Abbess want me?”

“I’m just the messenger,” groused Alber. “I was doing an
inventory of the hospital supply room when she came in and asked me to find
you.”

“Okay, I’ll be right with you.” Yozef turned to Filtin
Fuller, the youngest of his workers and the most innovative. Yozef and
Carnigan’s sometime drinking companion at the Snarling Graeko was on long-term
loan from the glass-blowing shop. “Go ahead with your tests, and I’ll be back
as soon as I find out what the abbess wants.”

A small two-seat cart was outside the shop, its stocky brown
work pony untied and waiting patiently. Alber hustled Yozef onto the narrow
bench, and they were off as soon as Yozef’s rear hit the wood. The cart wasn’t
intended for the quick pace Alber pressed, and Yozef and his rear were relieved
the trip to the hospital was short. Within a treatment room, Abbess Beynom
attended a teenage boy of about seventeen years. She looked up as Yozef came
in.

“Yozef, thank you for coming so soon. Come look at this.”
She indicated the patient lying on the table and covered with a cloth. Yozef
approached as she pulled down the cloth to expose the lower abdomen. The boy
sweated profusely, obviously in pain. The lower right of the abdomen appeared
distended and flushed. Diera put her hand lightly on the area, and the boy
flinched and groaned even at her light touch. “The skin is hot. Experience
indicates the origin of the problem is the . . . ,” and Diera
used a new Caedelli word.

It must be appendicitis and a new word for my dictionary.

“Are you talking about the small extension of the intestines
where it bends here?” He pointed to the boy’s lower right abdomen.

“Yes,” said a surprised Diera. “You know of this structure?”
They exchanged words, and Yozef did his usual categorization and word
substitution.

“Yes, it’s the appendix and caused by some obstruction that
leads to the death of the tissue,” he confirmed.

Diera listened to Yozef’s casual comment, raised a
questioning eyebrow, nodded, and said, “Our only treatment is to make the
patient as comfortable as possible and hope for his recovery. If the pain gets
severe enough, we would normally give him small amounts of opiates to help, but
since we have none left and since your ether is more a short-term solution to
pain, there’s nothing more we can do. I asked you to come when it occurred to
me your people might have a treatment we don’t have.”

“There’s only one treatment I know of, and that’s to remove
the appendix.”

“Remove it?” said a surprised Abbess. “That carries as much
risk as letting the body heal itself, due to the risk of shock from any
surgery, from blood loss, and from corruption. I suppose your ether solves much
of the first problem, but there are still the other two. And doesn’t the
appendix perform some function? Many medicants think it has something to do
with digestion.”

“I don’t think blood loss is a problem, Abbess. The loss is
minimal when removing the appendix, since there are few blood vessels running
directly to it from the larger parts of the intestine.” Thank you, Biology
101. “As for function, it can be removed without harm . . . as
far as my people know.” Yozef remembered there was still uncertainty about
whether the appendix was an unnecessary vestigial structure or had an
immunological role. He didn’t want to delve into either possibility, especially
since the vestigial option led to dangerous territory. He wasn’t ready to say
anything about organism development, evolution, and who knew what else, until
he understood more of their religion and origin myths.

“If it has no function, why does it exist?”

Yozef shrugged, but Diera’s reservations were evident.

“Then there’s corruption,” she went on.

“Corruption’s a problem but can be minimized by aseptic
conditions.”

“Aseptic? Another of your words I don’t know the reference
to.”

“Well, you know, to prevent bacteria from getting to the
incision?”

She frowned, frustrated, “Another word. Bacteria? What’s
bacteria?”

Whoops. He had to remember to think before speaking. Did
they even know of the existence of microorganisms? If they washed their hands,
bandages, and instruments before surgery, why wouldn’t they know about
bacteria?

“Why do you wash or wipe everything involved in surgery?”
Yozef asked.

“It started as a custom to signify purifying the body in
preparation for asking God’s mercy, then came to be seen as helping to reduce
corruption. How is not certain, but some believe it also wards off dangerous
humors. Whatever the cause, it has a positive effect, and it’s standard
procedure.”

Okay. No knowledge of bacteria. Another place he needed to
start introducing new ideas. He wasn’t sure whether this was one of those times
but plunged ahead, regardless.

Yozef took a deep breath. “Bacteria are tiny animals that
are so small, you cannot see them, and they are everywhere. They get into a
wound or an incision from surgery, and, once inside the body, they multiply and
attack it. There are different kinds, and some cause disease and not just
corruption. This process we call ‘infections’ and is due to the bacteria.”

Her demeanor reminded Yozef of parents listening to an
outrageous story from a child, perhaps a story the child believed to be true.

“Now, Yozef,” she said in a gentle tone, “how can there be
animals you can’t see?”

“Why not?” he returned. “Consider the Balmoth.” Yozef had
seen pictures of the huge herbivore. Supposedly, there had once been many more
of the giants on the island, but numbers had been reduced to small groups in
the upland forests. They looked very much like the prehistoric mammal
Paraceratheriums of Earth, extinct there for tens of millions of years. At that
moment, the thought occurred to him that the Balmoth looked too much
like the extinct Earth mammal. Could the transplantation from Earth to Anyar
have been going on much longer than he thought? He had been assuming the
Earth-like animals and plants were brought here only in the last five thousand
years.

“Think of the Balmoth,” he repeated. “Now consider a smaller
animal, maybe a large horse. Then one smaller and smaller. What is the smallest
known animal?”

Humoring him for the moment, she said, “Well, I guess there
are some very small insects. I’ve seen some so tiny, you only notice them when
a dark one moves across a white surface, and only if you’re looking right at it
at that moment. Brother Wallington knows more about such things. He’s made his
life study the animals and the plants of Caedellium.”

I’ll have to talk with this Wallington.

“What if there are animals smaller than those insects? So
small your eye can’t see them. Just because they’re smaller than your eye can
detect doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

Diera hesitated as she considered this reasoning. “Yes, I
can see what you say. I had never thought of it that way. It could be a Fallacy
of Yodrill.”

“A what of who?”

“Yodrill was a scholastic long ago from Melosia. He
described a method of logical thinking about any problem. Among his writings
are descriptions of common errors in reasoning, still called the Fallacies of
Yodrill. What you’re saying is that we’re making the fallacy of assuming
something doesn’t exist if we don’t see it. This particular fallacy is warned
against when one believes a technique is impossible because one hasn’t seen it
work, or a place doesn’t exist because one hasn’t been there. The animals too
small to see could be another example. That doesn’t prove they do exist,
only that they could exist.

“Anyway,” Yozef said, “you already do procedures that help
with destroying these bacteria, you just need to do even more. For example, the
surgeries would best be done in closed rooms that have been vigorously cleaned,
where the outside air is not free to bring in more bacteria. The same with too
many people in the room. Only those medicants performing the surgery should be
present, and all should wear clean clothing and masks, so you won’t breathe on
any open incisions.”

Yozef stopped with his suggestions. Those were all he could
remember from TV, movies, and books. He also thought it best not to hit Diera
with too much at one time.

Chapter 17: Impact

Discomforting
Hope

Later that evening, Sistian Beynom returned from visiting a
nearby village and found his wife sitting on their porch, staring off into the twilight.
He climbed the six steps and stood beside her. She continued her faraway gaze,
oblivious to his presence.

“Diera?” he asked softly. No response. “Diera!” he said more
urgently, now beginning to be concerned. She stirred, her eyes focusing, and noticed
him standing next to her.

“Oh, Sistian. I didn’t see you come.”

“Is everything all right, Diera?”

“All right?” she echoed. “Is everything all right? I think
it is. Maybe that’s the problem. I think everything is all right, though I’m
not sure.”

Sistian sat next her and took one of her hands in his.
“What’s the matter, Dear?”

She looked at him, saw his concern, and gave a small and
what she hoped was reassuring smile. “It’s nothing to worry about. Not as if
I’m ill or anything. It’s just that I have so many emotions right now, I’m not
sure what I’m feeling.”

“What kind of emotions?”

She smiled wryly, “Confusion, wonder, caution, fear,
surprise, hope, excitement.”

“About what?”

“About how we help people. How we practice medicine. Are we
much better than the primitive tribal shamans in our histories and stories,
treating patients with concoctions of herbs and whatnot because of
superstitions?”

Sistian frowned. Diera was among the most conscientious
medicants he knew, totally committed to helping her patients, and tireless in
searching for new medicines and procedures. She fought endless skirmishes,
especially with older medicants who resisted changing practices long
established, whether or not they seemed efficacious.

“I assume something happened today to suddenly make you
doubt your calling.”

“Oh, yes. Not only something happened, but someone.
Yozef.”

“Yozef?” said a startled Sistian. “What happened today
involving Yozef?”

Diera described to her husband the patient brought in with
the abdominal pain and her calling in Yozef to see if his people knew of any
treatment for the conditions.

“And did he know something?”

“Dearest, he not only knew what the problem was, he told me
how to cure it, what caused it, and gave an explanation about the general
causes of diseases.”

Sistian sat back in his chair. “Those are quite astounding
assertions. I think you need to tell me more details.”

For the next half hour, the abbess did. She recounted
Yozef’s knowing details of the “appendix,” as he called it, and giving a plausible
explanation of the pain, of fever, of the consequences without treatment, of
the surgical treatment, and of the tiny animals that cause many diseases.

“How do you know what he told you is accurate? He’s not a
medicant himself.”

“Ah, Sistian,” his wife murmured, “as usual, you have cut
right to the heart of the matter. You’re right. Yozef is not a trained
medicant. In many ways, he’s ignorant of details of treating illness and
injuries. That’s what is hitting me the most. What he considers common knowledge
may be more than all we think we know. And how should that make me feel? Like
one of those primitive tribal shamans?”

“Again, how do you know what he told you is true?”

“Because he described how the appendix should be cut out by surgery
and what precautions to take. I wonder now at myself, but somehow—how I don’t
know—I believed everything he told me. It just sounded so right. So
logical. So explanatory of many things we don’t understand.” She paused. “So I
authorized the surgery he recommended.”

“Diera!” exclaimed a shocked Sistian. “Based only on Yozef’s
statements, you performed surgery and cut out a patient’s
. . . appendix?”

“Yes. I spoke with Yozef at mid-morning, and we performed
the surgery before midday. The patient woke about an hour after the surgery,
and he was in less pain than before, even after being cut open, his appendix
removed, and being sewn back closed. Before I left the hospital, he asked for
food, talked to his family, and wondered how soon he could return home.”

Diera looked at her husband. “Sistian, under normal
circumstances it would be as if a miracle from God had happened. At least half
of the people with this condition die, and the rest undergo agonizing pain and
fever for sometimes weeks. This man wants to go home tomorrow!”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Sistian, Yozef dropped this on me with no idea of its
importance. It was just a trivial piece of information that was common
knowledge with his people. Yet it was unknown to us here on Caedellium, and
nothing like anything I’d heard when I was studying in Landolin. Granted, we
still need to see if there are any side effects and if any corruption—or
infection, as Yozef says—occurs. However, barring those, the patient will be
considered cured within days. I then think of all of the patients with this
same condition that we . . . I . . . lost over
the years because of our ignorance.”

“Diera, if all of this is true, I shouldn’t have to remind
you of all of the patients you’ll save in the future.”

“I realize that, dear. I honestly do. And I thank God for
the knowledge Yozef shares with us. But there’s more. Yozef gave an explanation
of why patients get worse and often die of this condition.”

Diera went on to describe the concept of microscopic
creatures that cause both infections and disease.

“Well, this is more your field than mine, and maybe some of
the scholastics’, but I don’t recall ever hearing about such tiny creatures.”

“That’s because no one has.”

“Then how do you know they exist?”

“I don’t know, but I’m convinced. You’ve talked with
Yozef. You’re as good a judge of people as anyone I know, and, frankly, I think
I’m not too bad at it either. If anything, he seems naïve but honest. When you
talk to him, and he drops these morsels of knowledge on us, it always seems
without ulterior motive. It just seems right when you have time to think
about it. And these ‘microorganisms,’ as he calls them. First, I’ve been
sitting here thinking about it the last hour or so. It would explain so
much. And in addition, he doesn’t just state their existence, he says how we
can fashion a reverse telescope to see them.”

“A reverse telescope?”

“Yes. Instead of making things distant, you can make them
appear closer. Yozef says by using different-shaped lenses, we can make small
things appear larger. He’s going to talk to his workmen and set them the task
of making what he calls microscopes.”

Diera sighed. “I also have the intuition Yozef knows much
more than he’s said so far, and although I need to continue talking with him, I
already suspect our practice of medicine is in the process of nothing short of
an epic change. Thus, all my emotions. Confusion. Wondering what obvious
procedures we’ve missed and why we have thought our medical knowledge was so
advanced. Wonder at what I saw today. Caution that I shouldn’t expect too much
too soon, since only time confirms how well this new knowledge is put into
effect. Surprise that this has hit me so hard. Hope for more knowledge we can
help people with. Excitement at what may come. And—fear.”

“Fear?”

Diera nodded. “Fear my hopes are too high at the moment.
Fear the patient may still die. Fear the appendix we removed is a necessary
part of the body or mind, in spite of what Yozef says. Fear there may come such
momentous changes that many, including even some of the medicants and the
scholastics at St. Sidryn’s, will resist and condemn. Fear of exactly who and
what is Yozef? The ether, and now this today? What more may come? We want to
attribute such things to the grace of God, but could it be a clever ploy of the
Evil One? Is this simply a case of Caedellium being so remote from the rest of
Anyar that we are backward, or could it be Yozef is an agent of God? If so, to
what purpose? Why now?”

Sistian had no answers, nor did he think his wife was asking
for them. She was recounting questions without answers. Questions that Sistian
also would consider, along with many more in the days, months, and years to
come.

Dissemination

In the following sixdays, Diera spoke with Yozef almost
daily, probing for pieces of information. Yozef willingly offered suggestions,
though often had no clues about practical matters, to Diera’s awkward
gratification that the implementation was still dependent on her and the other
medicants. Assuming the knowledge he claimed was accurate, an initially
prodigious qualification neutralized the more they talked, Diera’s
understanding of the functioning of the human body multiplied several-fold. So
quickly did her confidence grow that she abandoned her initial reticence to
bring in other medicants until she had more evidence about the accuracy of what
Yozef was telling her. There was simply too much to think about. She knew she
was risking resistance among the older medicants, so the first three she
brought in to help were the two younger surgeons, Saoul Dyllis and Arnik
Bolwyn, and Wilwin Wallington, the scholastic of the animals and the plants of
Caedellium. She felt these three were among the more mentally flexible of the
brothers and the sisters. Dyllis was skeptical at first but served as a good
counterweight to Diera’s and Bolywin’s rising enthusiasm. It was brother
Wallington who surprised her. While he was diligent in his common duties around
the abbey complex, and no one doubted his commitment to his chosen specialty,
he was never considered one of the abbey’s more illustrious staff members.

Brother Wallington became Yozef’s adoring slave, once he was
convinced by the first microscopes of the existence of a whole new realm of
creatures previously unknown. He was endlessly enthralled by the multifaceted
protozoans, while the two medicants were interested in bacteria. Wallington’s
total acceptance of the concept of invisible-to-the-naked-eye creatures helped
convince the other staff at the abbey.

During the following months, Yozef’s discussions with Diera
introduced an array of new ideas, some of which were adopted immediately, some
slated perhaps to the future, and others proved impractical, either technically
or because there was no scaffold of current Caedellium knowledge and custom to
hang them on. Among those immediately workable, or with some reasonable
development, were stethoscopes, Ringers solution, plasma for blood loss and
shock, hypodermics, the possibility of blood transfusions (though only
considering AB factors, not +/-, so only in emergencies), and cardiopulmonary
resuscitation (CPR). The last innovation met with significant trepidation,
because it was viewed by many common people and even some medicants as reviving
the dead, a power appropriate only for God—or possibly the Evil One, to create
his demonic agents.

Once Yozef convinced Diera of the possibility of
microorganisms as a cause of corruption, the St. Sidryn's medicants began using
Yozef’s suggestions about the surgical environment. He also suggested stronger
acidic solutions once he remembered that an early antiseptic was carbolic acid,
phenol by chemical composition. No Anyar versions of phenol were identifiable,
and the easiest source Yozef could remember was the distillation of phenol from
coal tar, a process not immediately possible. As substitutes, he suggested
acetic acid (vinegar) and boric acid made from the mineral borax, available
locally. In neither case could Yozef give advice on concentration, other than
low, but Diera didn’t seem concerned about figuring out optimal concentrations.

He also championed ethanol. Since it was already being
distilled as part of the ether production, source wasn’t a problem. He
remembered it needed to be 70 percent ethanol in water to kill germs—something
to do with attacking cell membranes more efficiently at that concentration, not
that he tried to explain cell structure.

He didn’t witness the introduction of more stringent
asepsis, but from the Beynoms’ older son, Cadwulf, Yozef learned details of the
storm ignited in getting medicants to change long-established traditions,
especially the older medicants and those feeling threatened by an
off-islander’s strange ideas. In the end, all but the most close-minded
medicants admitted that the new aseptic conditions reduced infections, and only
one medicant was so stubborn that Diera finally decertified him as a medicant
anywhere in the district.

Similar discord occurred in other Keelan Province districts
before increased aseptic procedures spread to other provinces. The information
dissemination was fueled by Diera sending reports to abbeys throughout Keelan
to medicants she believed would be most open-minded about this flood of novel
procedures and knowledge. From there, the knowledge spread throughout Caedellium,
and the reputation and rumors about Yozef Kolsko added to those already
circulating about ether.

Yozef tried to be careful with what he revealed to Diera,
for fear that too much information would raise worries as to who, or what, he
was. Whenever the probing of Diera or the other medicants approached dangerous
ground, he feigned ignorance. One strategy he adopted was to pretend some
tidbit of knowledge just occurred to him, but that this was all he knew. While
this didn’t satisfy the more insistent inquisitors, it usually ended a delicate
line of probing. The inadvertent side effect, and one to which Yozef was
oblivious until it was too late to squash rumors, was that Yozef was literally
“hearing” the information. These whispers had consequences in times to come.

Chapter 18: Supplicant to Tycoon

In the months since his arrival on Anyar, Yozef had had no
expenses. The abbey provided food, clothing, and shelter, and Carnigan paid at
the pub. Introducing ether for anesthesia gave Yozef his first independent
income.

Abbot Beynom first mentioned charges for the ether. “All of
our patients are expected to pay for their treatment, assuming they can afford
the payments. If not, the payment is reduced or forgiven. The poppy extract had
gotten so expensive that the abbey tried to absorb all of the cost, but that
was becoming more difficult even before the Narthani cut off trade. Now, poppy
extract is virtually impossible to obtain, no matter the price. It’s only
reasonable that the cost of the ether should be included in what the patient
pays.”

The abbot raised an eyebrow at Yozef. “Do you have any
thoughts about what the cost should be? It should cover the production and a
small income for yourself.”

“Sorry, Abbot. I’ve no idea about Caedellium or Keelan
money. I would depend on your advice.”

“I wondered about that myself,” Sistian smiled. “It’s quite
simple. There are a few differences among the provinces, but most use the same
system as Keelan.”

The abbot reached into his desk and withdrew a small
clinking sack from which he took out a handful of coins and spread them out on
his desktop.

“There are four coins, two silver and two gold. The small
silver is one krun, large silver five kruns, small gold twenty kruns, and large
gold hundred kruns.”

Yozef had seen the coins in the pub but hadn’t noticed
details until now. The sizes seemed standardized, and each coin had a number
stamped on one side and a six-pointed star on the other.

“What do the numbers and symbols stand for?”

Sistian picked up a hundred-krun gold and pointed to the
number. “The coins are made in Orosz City, the center of Orosz Province. Clans
or individuals can take gold and silver there to be turned into coins. That’s
to assure all coins are the proper size and weight. The number identifies a
specific batch of coins, in case there’s a problem.” He turned the coin over.
“The star is a general symbol of Caedellium. Coins from other parts of Anyar
are sometimes used, though people are cautious about using them because we
can’t be sure of the value of the gold and silver they’re made of. A few clans
also have their own coins, but Keelan and most clans use the common krun coins
made in Orosz City. There are also small copper coins for values less than a
small silver one krun coin, but those aren’t made in Orosz City.”

“What does a krun or a hundred kruns buy?”

“One krun would buy a loaf of bread, a hundred krun a good
set of clothes for a common clansman, and an average horse might cost five
hundred krun.”

“So, Abbot, what would you suggest for the price of the
ether?”

Sistian tilted his head up and stroked his beard. “Well,
you’ll be selling mainly to abbeys in those small dark bottles. From what Diera
says, there should be enough in each bottle for at least ten treatments. Let’s
see . . . I think twenty krun per treatment would be reasonable,
which would make it two hundred krun for a bottle.” He paused, switching
stroking hands. “There’re fifteen abbeys in Keelan, so if each one bought one
bottle, that would be three thousand krun.” He stopped speaking, his eyes
widening.

“My word, Yozef. I hadn’t realized, but the numbers might
get quite high. I’d check with Diera, but our medicant facility is one of the
larger, so we would use more bottles than the smaller abbeys. Also, as I
remember you saying, the ether goes bad after a few months, so . . .
let’s say an average of ten bottles per abbey per year.” He stopped, eyes
widening more. “That’s thirty thousand krun a year! And the other provinces
will use ether as soon as they hear of it and see it working for themselves!”

The abbot looked at Yozef with a surprised expression.
“You’re going to become wealthy, unless I’m mistaken, Yozef. Of course, you
still have to pay your workers and buy supplies, but still . . .”

Yozef listened to the abbot’s estimations and did his own in
silence. Even if the abbot overestimated, it sounded as if any issues about
supporting himself had just disappeared. His enthusiasm settled as a thought
rose up. The abbey saved and took care of me when I first arrived. Yes, it’s
part of their calling, but fair is fair. And, what about the glassblower and
the distiller? They’d been supplying the workers and the materials.

“Abbot Beynom . . . ,” he began.

“Please, Yozef, Abbot Sistian is fine, or just Abbot.”

“Abbot Sistian, I owe you and your people a great debt for
caring for me when I arrived. Then there’s the help you gave in convincing the
tradesmen to work with me on the ether when they and, let’s be honest, even you
were uncertain whether I knew what I was talking about. A share of the coin we
get from selling the ether needs to go to the tradesmen, and it’s only fair you
also get a share.”

Sistian smiled. “I accept, Yozef. I hesitated to say
anything, since it seemed to conflict with the abbey’s mandate to serve. I
can’t take coin myself, but I’m happy to accept it for the abbey.”

Thank you, God, prayed the abbot silently. Once
again confirmation of your command we care for our fellows. We cared for the
strange man, and, as the Word says, “What you give without hesitation
will come back to you many-fold.”

“Shall we say,” said Sistian, “of the two hundred krun
per bottle, the tradesmen will get forty krun and the abbey another forty? You
need to talk with the tradesmen to work out paying your workers and buying
supplies. Whatever that comes to, I think you’ll still keep a good portion of
the two hundred krun per bottle.”

Thus did Yozef achieve his first income on Anyar. The flow
of krun was slow at first, with St. Sidryn’s ordering the first bottles. To celebrate
that first purchase, Yozef took Carnigan, Cadwulf Beynom, Filtin, and all of
his workers to the Snarling Graeko the same night and put the entire purchase
price back into the local economy.

Once more he was coinless, though only for a sixday, before
an order for two bottles of ether came from the abbey in Clengoth, the district
center. Within another sixday, four more orders arrived. As word spread, more
orders arrived from more distant abbeys in Keelan, from neighboring Mittack and
Gwillamer Provinces, and later from more distant clans. Yozef was at a loss how
to fill orders from other provinces, until approached by a traveling trader
from Orosz Province. The trader had connections to other traders and proposed
he could provide a distribution network for the ether. Yozef consulted Cadwulf
and the abbot before accepting the trader’s proposal, with relief to be shed of
that one task.

At the same time, a second source of income developed. The
local brewer, Lunwyn Galfor, produced a crude whiskey from wheat, helped by the
escaped Preddi slave whose previous owner had produced alcoholic drinks in
Preddi City. Wheat seed was germinated to release enzymes that broke down
starch, a natural process that allowed the seedling to access energy stored as
starch. By the brewer’s steeping the grain as mash for two to three days, the
enzymes turned much of the starch into small sugars that could be fermented to
produce ethanol. The brewer used a crude copper pot-still to batch distill to
produce a liquid that was 25–30 percent ethanol. Based on Yozef’s success with
ether distillation, the brewer sought Yozef’s help in developing a second
distillation to increase the ethanol content of his drinks to 40–45 percent,
comparable to Earth whiskeys. Yozef’s help garnered him a 10 percent share of
the profits from whiskey sales within Keelan and exported to other provinces.
Although his percentage share was less than with ether, and the price of
ethanol per volume was much less than ether, the total volume of sales soon surpassed
ether by orders of magnitude. Within two months, Yozef found himself with bags
of coins in drawers and under his bed in the abbey room where he still slept.

It was time to find a way to handle the coinage. He
procrastinated for several sixdays until he came back to his room one evening
to find that a drawer bottom had split under the weight of bags and coins
scattered across the floor.

By this time, the number of workers in ether and ethanol
production had stabilized at five, and he used profits from ether and whiskey
to start development of other products. He was faced with a steady flow of
income, increased numbers of workers, and more complex dealings with tradesmen,
and keeping it all in order had become a limiting factor in his daily life.
Something had to be done.

Though the regular Caedelli lessons with Selmar Beynom had
ended months previously, Cadwulf Beynom, the eldest son of Sistian and Diera,
had found so many reasons to be around that Yozef suspected the abbot had asked
his son to keep an eye on the stranger. Whether to help him or to protect
others, Yozef didn’t know, although it could be both. The genial Cadwulf was a
true convert to the new knowledge Yozef was doling out to the islanders, and
whatever the initial impetus of their companionship, it developed into a
genuine friendship. The solution came to Yozef’s financial organization, or
lack thereof, when he complained to Cadwulf as the two were eating the morning
meal at the abbey dining hall.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with Pollar Penwick in Abersford
today to check out the latest batch of soap.” Yozef had been working with a
local tradesman who made several products, including soap and candles. “We’ve
several new products coming along, but the number of workers I have to keep
track of and the coins coming in and going out are taking up time I need to be
in the shops and talking with workers and tradesmen.”

Cadwulf chewed on a bread bite as he eyed his strange
friend. “I can see where that can be a problem, since you’re involved in so many
different trades. Maybe I can help. I do much of the accounts for the abbey,
and yours can’t be any more complicated. Let me have a try at organizing your
records.” Cadwulf’s eyes narrowed at Yozef. “You do keep records?”

“Well,” hawed Yozef, “at first I just gave the workers their
pay weekly and coins to buy supplies when needed. As it got more complicated, I
wrote things down on paper. I thought I’d organize when I got the chance, which
hasn’t happened.”

Cadwulf shook his head. “For someone so educated and with so
much new knowledge, you can be addled at times.”

Yozef bit back the retort “YOU try to get dumped on another
planet and see how you manage it!” He didn’t utter those words; instead, he
forced a smile. “You’re right,” he said and meant it, berating himself for
getting so disorganized.

“Don’t let it worry you,” laughed Cadwulf, slapping Yozef on
the back. “Considering your circumstance, a little addling is understandable.
Why don’t you go over the details with me, and I’ll see if I can organize it
all for you?”

“With pleasure. How about right now?”

“I thought you had a meeting with Penwick in Abersford?”

“Shit! That’s right. I forgot.”

“Addled, as I said.”

“How about a couple of hours before evening meal? In my
room? That’s where I keep most papers.”

They met that afternoon, and by mealtime, Cadwulf was
Yozef’s accountant. In addition, the young Beynom was appalled at the drawers
of coins.

“Yozef, you really do need a keeper.”

Red-faced, Yozef spluttered, “Well, hell, where am I
supposed to keep it all? It’s coming in faster than I can pay workers and start
up new trades, and I’m not spending much on myself.”

“Well, you have to do something. The abbey is
normally safe, but having this much coin sitting in drawers is asking for
someone to be tempted beyond his ability to resist. There was a robbery in
Abersford last sixday, so it can happen here.”

“Then where can I put the coin?” Yozef groused. “There are
no banks here.”

“Banks?”

“I don’t know the Caedelli word, but a place to put coin
where it’ll be safe, which also lends money. A bank.”

Cadwulf rubbed a chin just showing the beginnings of a
beard. “Bank? We don’t have a . . . bank.”

“Then where do people keep their coin, and how does someone
borrow money?”

“They keep it anywhere they feel is safe. Most people don’t
have much coin. What they have, they carry or keep where they live, hidden if
there’s enough to worry about theft. They can also pay tradesmen for future
work or purchases, and then the coin is the tradesman’s problem. As for
borrowing money, you do it from relatives, friends, or tradesmen. Loans are
private affairs arranged between individuals, whether they be related or
unrelated to each other. Whatever the terms of the loan are by mutual
agreement, including what, if any, interest will be added to the loan, and
schedules of repayment. Such transactions are registered with the district for
mutual protection, especially if the loan’s not between relatives or close
friends.”

Cadwulf paused, giving Yozef a thoughtful look. “To be fair,
I suppose I have to acknowledge your circumstance isn’t normal. The flow of
coin to you has happened so suddenly. Still, something needs to be
done.”

Thus was born the First Bank of Abersford, or B of A, as
Yozef couldn’t resist referring to it. Cadwulf had jokingly suggested First
Bank of Yozef. A structure was built into a rock face jutting from the ground
just outside the village and in full view of both the village and the abbey.
Coinage was stored in a vault carved out of the rock, with frontage and offices
merging into the rock face. Coinage flow increased, as did the number of
employees, starting with Cadwulf alone and rising to three assistants within a
year.

This first primitive bank also changed local custom. A Keelan
Clan registrar recorded all important records and transactions in the Abersford
area. The man in this role, Willym Forten, owned a clothing shop, with
registrar duties carried out in a side room. With the establishment of the
bank, overlapping activities and the need to transfer all important bank
transactions to the clan registration system led to the registrar spending half
of each day at the bank, at a dedicated part of the main room. Local citizens,
merchants, and craftsmen arranged loans and could deposit their funds in the
bank once convinced it was secure.

The building itself was literally a fortress. It would have
taken cannons of significant size to breach the outer walls, not to mention the
vault sealed with locking mechanisms built by Abersford metalworkers. Records
of all transactions were kept in ledgers, and a duplicate set of ledgers put
into the abbey’s library storage area. Relevant records were transferred to
clan journals and copies sent to the main registrar in the clan capitol of Caernford.

There were no dedicated guards at the bank, but Cadwulf’s
assistants were men with varying handicaps from accidents or violent encounters
with raiders, clan rivalries, or criminal activity, and all worked armed and
were pleased to have employment to support their families. Moreover, the bank
was visible from the office of the Abersford magistrate, Denes Vegga, a
combination sheriff and local militia leader.

Cadwulf Beynom, Financial Manager
and Mathematician

Cadwulf’s assumption of accounting duties for Yozef’s
enterprises and his operating the Bank of Abersford initially perplexed his
theophist and medicant parents. They had assumed, practically from the baby’s
birth, that their precocious child would enter one of the three orders at the
abbey. The only decision left for him was which one: theophist, medicant, or
scholastic. In Cadwulf’s mind, he had long ago dismissed following his father’s
path. Not that he didn’t believe in God, but the theophist life path wasn’t for
him. As for the medicant option, while he recognized helping others was a noble
calling, and he had enormous respect for his mother, his dealing daily with
others’ body fluids, cutting off limbs, and telling families about loved-ones
passing on wasn’t going to happen.

That left scholastics. Fortunately for Cadwulf, learning,
books, and even lessons were not a chore, but something to look forward to. As
an adolescent, he raced through all of the basic studies the abbey’s teachers
could provide, including extra lessons and projects designed especially for
him. Thus, at eighteen Anyar years old (sixteen Earth years), he possessed the
broadest knowledge of anyone at the abbey, but no depth of knowledge in any one
area, with one exception. He found numbers endlessly interesting. His parents
either ignored or misunderstood this fascination with numbers, even the first
evidence when a happy four-year-old Cadwulf told them of counting 627
butterflies that day. Sistian and Diera each had the same two reactions—pride
that their four-year-old son could count to 627 and confusion over why anyone
would bother counting butterflies.

By age thirteen, Cadwulf was led by his love of numbers to
do most of the abbey’s accounting. For him, counting up columns of numbers was
almost a meditation. The solution to Yozef’s problem of increasing in- and
outflow of funds for workers and projects was a perfect fit for Cadwulf’s
vocation need. Within a month, Cadwulf’s life without focus had changed
forever. By then, he was bank manager, was the accountant for Yozef’s sundry
enterprises, and was helping revolutionize Anyarian mathematics.

The coming of Yozef was a gift from God to Cadwulf. The
mathematics on Anyar overlapped most of Earth’s classical geometry and
elementary algebra and the beginnings of trigonometry and determinants. Cadwulf
had absorbed all of the mathematics the abbey’s teachers understood and moved
beyond them to texts on his own. To go further, he would have to move to
another province to one of the two abbeys with mathematics scholastics. That was
until Yozef realized mathematics was an obscure-enough field of study on
Caedellium that he could risk transferring what he knew.

Although not grounded in theoretical mathematics, Yozef was
able to give Cadwulf leads to establish or advance analytic geometry, linear
algebra, the rudiments of probability, combinatorics, game theory, infinite
series, and both differential and integral calculus. Cadwulf was in ecstasy.
Whole new fields of mathematics opened up to him. Granted, while Yozef’s
knowledge of those fields was limited to the equivalent of the first college
course in each, they were either novel to Caedellium and Anyar or a logical
coalescence of existing mathematics. What helped was that once again, Yozef
found himself able to visualize entire pages of texts from courses he had
taken. The explanations, the examples, and the proofs were more than enough to
keep Cadwulf busy.

When the day came that Cadwulf asked Yozef to confirm a new
extension he had developed of a combinatorics theorem, it convinced Yozef he
would make a difference to Anyar.

While pretending to listen to Cadwulf’s explanation, Yozef
mused, You know, while the ether helps people, it’s the mathematics
that will have the biggest long-term impact. Cadwulf is already writing to
other Scholastics around Caedellium. Within months, it’ll start to be all over
the island. And even if the worst happens to the Caedelli from these Narthani,
it’s likely the new mathematics knowledge will spread to the rest of Anyar. And
I did this, no matter what else happens.

Chapter 19: A House of His Own

“It’s past time you find a place of your own, instead of
living in that small room in the abbey complex,” chided Cadwulf one day, soon
after beginning to organize Yozef’s finances.

“I know,” said Yozef. “I’ve thought about it, but with
everything else to keep me so busy . . .” What he didn’t say was that
the room served as a sanctuary, a place where he could close the door and feel
a degree of peace, as if for those moments he could put all of the months since
boarding the United flight out of mind. Cadwulf was right. He needed to move
on.

“With all the coin you’re accumulating, I assume you’ll want
a house, probably small to begin with.”

“Yes,” said Yozef, “but not too far from either the abbey or
Abersford, since I spend so much time in both places. I think I’d like it to be
not too close to other houses and with a view of the ocean, if possible.”

“Why would you want to see the ocean?”

“I find it calming. I see myself sitting on a porch and just
relaxing.”

“Hmmm,” murmured Cadwulf. “I guess everyone’s different.
When I want to think about something or relax, I like to lie at night and gaze
at the stars. Anyway, let me ask around to see what property might be
available. Inside Abersford is ruled out, if you don’t want to be near others.”

In the next three days, Cadwulf identified four available
houses and cottages. The third possibility caught Yozef’s fancy. The house
itself was nothing remarkable—a medium-sized cottage with a thatch roof and
three fair-sized rooms with high ceilings. It sat on a small knoll about a mile
west of both the village and the abbey and overlooked the ocean a half-mile
away. A much smaller, single-roomed hut lay about forty yards away, behind a
screen of trees, and the land contained abandoned and overgrown garden plots
and several Anyar and Earth fruit trees. There was no information on the
original builders and inhabitants or how long it had been unoccupied. Cadwulf
suspected it had been empty some time, since the surrounding land was poor for
farming—too much slope and too many rocks—although stone fences, rusting tools,
and piles of rocks showed someone had made the attempt. There was also a
dilapidated barn, but, unlike the two housing structures, the barn was well
along the road to kindling.

Cadwulf and Yozef examined the frame, the walls, and the
floors of the main cottage and found it solid, though needing a new roof. A
dilapidated porch faced the sea, too small for Yozef, who envisioned adding an
expansive veranda to sit in every type of weather. From the easterly face of
the house, he would see the sunrise over the ocean.

“Well, what do you think of this one?” asked Cadwulf.

“It’s the best of the ones you found, although it needs
repairs and is a little farther from the village and the abbey than I’d
planned. However, it’ll do me good to get the exercise. How do I buy the
house?” Yozef’s growing income provided the funds, but he had no idea of what
the land was reasonably worth or how to carry out such transactions.

Cadwulf rubbed his hands together. “The current owner of the
land is Heilyn Tregedar, a horse breeder and the owner of an Abersford
blacksmithy. The cottage was one of several pieces of land his customers
exchanged for horses or blacksmith work. I’ll talk with him, and we’ll see how
many krun he wants for the house and the land. Then we’ll get into the
bargaining to see what his real price is.”

The house, flat land on the knoll crest, a hundred yards of
down slope, and upslope covered with trees, all came to 2,300 krun. Tregedar
insisted he was being robbed and that he agreed on the price only because he
sympathized with Yozef being a castaway, apparently a solid citizen, and a
friend of the abbot.

“Sorry, Yozef,” said Cadwulf. “The final price was a little high,
but I got tired of negotiating with Tregedar and gave in. We should have had
father do the bargaining.”

“Don’t worry,” said Yozef. “I appreciate your help and
would’ve paid a lot more if I’d had to talk to Tregedar by myself. Now I’ll
have to figure out how to repair the house, furnish it, and learn to cook on my
own.”

Again, Cadwulf provided the solution.

“That’s not a problem. Once we deal with the transfer of
property at the registrar’s office, you’ll hire help to take care of the
property, since you’ll be spending most of your time at work. And you need
someone to care for the house and cook. Given how well your enterprises are
progressing, you can easily afford a couple of workers, and I think I know just
the ones for you.”

Thus did Yozef meet Brak and Elian Faughn, a weatherworn
couple of sixty-plus years. The husband was short, with a solid body from a
lifetime of physical work. He still had most of his hair, but it was gray,
along with his beard. Brown eyes bored with the sense of someone proud of his
independence and asked for no charity. The wife was a good physical match,
though with a more approachable face. Cadwulf brought them to the house,
walking with them the mile from the village. Brak eyed the houses and ran off a
list of needed repairs, all of which he happened to know exactly how to do.
Elian was less obvious, but thought the insides of both structures could be
made livable in short order and that they’d be very comfortable in the tiny
worker’s hut.

After meeting them and giving them a tour of his property,
Yozef drew Cadwulf aside.

“What’s their story?”

“Story? Why should they have a story?”

“Sorry,” said Yozef. “I mean, why do they need a place to
stay? I get the impression they are trying not to appear too anxious, but the
wife’s longing look at the worker’s hut makes me think their current conditions
aren’t good.”

“They owned a small farm nearby until about two years ago.
When the Narthani began blocking trade, the price of grain went so low many
smaller farms had no markets. They had food, of course, but as they got older,
they needed more temporary workers, even for their small farm, something they
couldn’t afford. They finally sold the farm for very little money and moved
into town. All of their children live some distance away in Keelan and, I
believe, one in Gwillamer. Brak is too stubborn live with them. He’s prickly,
especially when the topic is about taking care of himself, but he is as honest
as they come and will work to the absolute best of his ability.”

“Where are they living now?”

“They have a small lean-to behind the candle works. Brak
works part time there when there are tasks needed, and Elian washes clothes.”

Cadwulf’s statement of the Faughns’ situation was so
matter-of-fact that Yozef stared at his young friend in consternation.

Yozef was appalled. That was it? An older couple had
to sell the farm they’d probably worked most of their lives and raised a family
on, then moved into a lean-to and supported themselves by whatever small work
they could find?

Clearly, there was no such thing as social security here.
The land itself appeared idyllic—green fields of crops, fences, quaint village,
abbey complex, ocean setting, and hard-working people. It reminded him of Amish
country. He’d have to keep remembering this wasn’t colonial New England or the
Pennsylvania Dutch country. It was a harsher-cored society, no matter the
outward attraction. Any safety net depended on family and charity.

“They seem perfect,” Yozef decided. “How much should I pay
them?”

“I’d say about thirty krun a sixday.”

“So little?” said a surprised Yozef. “Apiece?”

“Oh, no, that’s for both.”

“How’s that enough?”

“That’s more than enough. They’ll have a place to
live, and the thirty krun doesn’t include food, since Elian will buy and cook
for all three of you. All they need is money for clothes and occasional
medicant help.”

Sounds like goddamn slave labor to me. There’s gonna be
trouble if they start bowing and calling me master.

“All right. I’ll hire them. Let’s go tell them.”

“Yozef, remember that things are evidently different here
than in your homeland. The Faughns expect you to be an employer who expects
good work from them. Any hint of feeling sorry for them will be considered an
insult, especially by Brak, even if you mean well. Let them set their own pace
for work, and I expect you’ll have no complaints.”

They went back to where the couple stood next to each other,
awaiting his decision. They didn’t quite touch, though nevertheless gave the
sense of clustering together against a difficult world. They had each other and
not much else.

“Sen Faughn and Ser Faughn, Cadwulf Beynom speaks highly of
you as hard and honest workers. I get a similar impression from meeting you. If
it’s agreeable to you, I’ll hire you to take care of the property. I’ll pay you
thirty krun a sixday. Both houses need extensive cleaning and repair, both
inside and out. My work will keep me in the village and the abbey most of the
time, so I will trust you to do all that’s necessary to make the property
comfortable for me when I’m not at work.

“The small hut is yours to live in. It also needs many
repairs. I believe those who work for me do their best work when they have
proper places to live, so I expect both the hut and the main cottage to be
repaired. Besides the structures, the grounds need work. I would like a garden
with fresh vegetables, and the fruit trees need pruning and other tending. I
leave the details to your experience, as long as the work gets done.”

Elian Faughn beamed at Yozef’s words. Brak furrowed his brow
and started to say something, but his wife cut him off with a curtsy. “Thank
you, Ser Kolsko. We’ll be pleased to work for you as hard as we can.”

Yozef moved on before the old man could say anything. “Elian
will cook, and, in my homeland, it is considered that an employer should eat
the same quality of foods as their workers. I don’t know the custom here on
Caedellium, but I must insist that we follow my people’s customs. After
you move here, I’ll give you lists and descriptions of foods from my homeland I
would like Elian to do her best to reproduce. It would also be helpful if I
understood the customs and the foods of Caedellium better, so I expect Elian
also to cook local meals. Any materials and foods we need I’ll give you coin
for those purchases, and you can return any remaining coins. I won’t have time
to pay close attention to such details, but I assume you can manage such
purchases without me.”

Yozef and Cadwulf left them with suspicion in Brak’s eyes
and a hint of moisture in Elian’s. The couple walked hand-in-hand back toward
the village, with the promise to return later that day with their belongings
and start to work on the property. Yozef was briefly tempted to offer to find a
wagon to help them move, then decided they probably didn’t have all that much
to transfer and wasn’t sure how much help to offer and stay within the bounds
of their self-respect.

True to their word, when Yozef returned to the property the
next afternoon, the Faughns had moved into the hut, and both structures already
appeared transformed, debris cleared away, and the inside of the main cottage
swept, wiped of dust, and scrubbed.

Christ, marveled Yozef, they must have only
stopped to sleep—I hope.

Yozef’s move took longer. His room at the abbey was
cluttered with clothes, books, papers, writing materials, and even a few
decorations. He was inclined to move by wagon, but the image of the Faughns
walking all of their worldly possessions in one trip made him reticent, so he
bought a pack in the village and, during the next two sixdays, gradually made
his own move. The decision gave him a chance to discard items he couldn’t
remember the reason he had and gave the Faughns time to make the property more
pleasant. And that it was. He still had a few things to move when he formally “moved
into” the cottage, sleeping there and eating morning and evening meals. By
then, the cottage was spotless, if somewhat bare. A new roof was on. Exactly
how Brak had done it by himself, Yozef couldn’t envision and thought it maybe a
good thing he didn’t know. He checked out their hut, ostensibly to be
sure his workers had appropriate quarters to maximize their work. He pretended
some annoyance that their roof was not as complete as his, and he chastised
Brak. This seemed to satisfy the brusque man that the employer wasn’t providing
charity.

Meals by Elian might not be haute cuisine, though, like most
island food, they were hearty and plentiful. He allowed Elian to expose him to
some local fare he hadn’t experienced before, and he, in turn, let them try dishes
from California, or at least those that could be reasonably duplicated on
Caedellium. The morning meal, still breakfast to Yozef, was where differences
were greatest. Chickens hadn’t made the transplantations to Anyar, though ducks
had and were a source of eggs. Yozef had never eaten a duck egg, and the first
time they seemed a little too gamey, although he got used to the taste. The
Anyar version of birds, murvors, provided a second common source of eggs. The
ruktor was a kiwi-shaped, flightless, murvor with black and purple feathers and
a parrot-like beak for digging roots and cracking nuts. Ruktor eggs were
blue-shelled, with a lighter blue interior, and to Yozef, the eggs tasted like
something needing disappearance down a disposal. He made several attempts at
eating them before giving up and sticking to duck eggs.

As for preparation, eggs were boil, scrambled, or used as an
ingredient in dishes. Fried or poached eggs grossed out the Faughns. Uncooked
yolks! Elian made valiant efforts to learn the intricacies of “over-easy,” but
eventually Yozef, to her relief, took over the preparation on those mornings
when such a disgusting dish made the menu.

Other breakfast options to remind Yozef of home included the
ubiquitous oatmeal-like porridge, pancakes, and French toast. Pancakes weren’t
a problem, since they already common on Caedellium, and were accompanied by
butter and fruit preserves, but French toast was a novelty that both Brak and
Elian took to with enthusiasm. Yozef was surprised many months later to find
that French toast had spread to most of Caedellium.

The cottage became more furnished, as Yozef spotted items he
fancied in Abersford shops. Although he wasn’t a knick-knack person, the bare
walls and surfaces cried out for decorations. A first such addition was when
Yozef spotted a colorful shawl in a weaver’s shop in Abersford. It was
patterned, and the blues and greens seemed to match the ocean view. He tacked
it to a bare wall and immediately gave the room more life.

Yozef also couldn’t resist a present for Elian but had to
figure out how to get away with it, without offending Brak. He complained to
the Faughns that during the bargaining, he was “tricked” by the shopkeeper into
buying two shawls. The other one was also colorful, with reds and yellows.
Those being colors “he” didn’t particularly like, and since he didn’t want the
purchase to go to waste, he insisted that the Faughn’s tack it to one of their
walls. Brak reluctantly did so, and Yozef suspected Elian thought a treasure
had fallen to them. By “coincidence,” Yozef had noted Elian wore a tattered
red-and-yellow scarf most days.

I actually think I’m starting to accept this new life,
Yozef realized one day, as he walked to his shops in Abersford. The cottage had
begun to feel like home. He had his routine of breakfast; walking to the
village or the abbey, depending on his plans for that day; returning to the
evening meal Elian had waiting; and spending occasional evenings at the pubs.
He had friends—some, to his surprise, better than any he’d ever had before. He
was making a difference and hoped to do more. Life could be worse.

Chapter 20: Maera

Keelan Manor, Caernford

Most days, Culich Keelan and his wife, Breda, talked during
their entire morning meal, but not this day. Only the distant sounds of animals
and workers on the Keelan Manor grounds broke the silence. This time together
was an inviolate routine to their lives, a time for just the two of them.
Rarely did they eat mid-day meal together—Culich in meetings or traveling, Breda
managing the household and the surrounding estate and attending meetings of her
own with clanswomen and others. Evening meal was eaten with the family or, on
formal occasions, with clan members, visitors—followed occasionally by more
meetings. Morning meal was their time. Time to talk of the small things
keeping them bound to each other, talk of important family matters, and talk of
weighty issues of broader scope. Breda also served as Culich’s sounding board
for when he needed to unload worries and doubts he couldn’t express to anyone
else. That he spoke so little this morning told her something weighed on his
mind.

Being hetman was a never-ending task few could appreciate
without experiencing the weight themselves. It would be different if he felt
less responsibility for the sixty thousand clan members. He knew hetmen of
other clans who didn’t feel the weight, and he thought the well-being of those
clans suffered because of it. Culich’s father had felt the burden of
leadership, and although he had imbued his son and heir with the same mind-set,
he also taught that there was a need for time to be yourself, to admit doubts,
if he had them, and for those moments not to be the hetman. These
morning meals were one such time. Usually.

Breda was patient. After twenty-five years of marriage, she
knew he had something important to discuss, something he was not comfortable
with, something he would get to in his own time.

She watched him with a slight smile when he glanced up from
finishing his latest biscuit lathered with butter, and his thoughtful
expression morphed into a grin.

“Yes, yes. Something we need to talk about.”

“I assumed so. Either that, or you lost your voice
overnight.”

He laughed. “No, I managed to keep it.” The laughter fled.
“It’s about Maera. I’ve been thinking about her again, and . . . ”

Breda’s face became somber to match her husband’s. “You
think it’s time for her to marry.”

“Yes. We haven’t pushed her. I’d hoped she would come around
to it by herself. Lately, I wondered whether she ever would.”

Breda nodded sadly. “I know. I’ve felt the same. Even though
she’s said nothing to me, I think she still hasn’t come to grips with both how
unhappy she became at the thought of marrying Folant and how she harbors guilt
about feeling relief at his accidental death.”

Culich sighed. “Folant wasn’t a bad man. Maybe they
would have worked it out.”

“Maybe,” said a dubious Breda. “Oh, I agree he wasn’t bad or
evil, but I’m afraid Maera holds fantasies about marriage. Likely at least
somewhat our fault.”

“Our fault?” exclaimed a startled Culich. “How?”

“Dear, she had us as her model.”

Culich was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, you might
be right. I guess I never thought of it that way. We were so lucky. Inter-clan
conflicts seemed to be a thing of the past, and the Narthani were still many
years away. My father didn’t think a political marriage necessary when it came
my time, and he had no objections to my marrying the daughter of one of his own
boyermen. It’s easy to forget how marriages for our families are so often
political affairs.”

“Maera knows the responsibilities,” said Breda. “We raised
her so she knew a marriage might be arranged to benefit the clan, and she knows
we would try to make a match with the potential for a degree of happiness.”

Culich shook his head. “I thought we succeeded with Folant.
Marriage to the second son of Hulwyin Mittack would mean she might never be the
wife of the Mittack hetman, but it would be of appropriate station. help keep
our clan’s connections close to an allied clan, and, or course, one of their
sons would be in line as a possible heir to Keelan. Plus, Folant seemed like a
likable sort.”

“I’m afraid, dear, we never know what will go on between two
people until they are put together. Folant may have been honorable and solid,
but he didn’t see Maera as a person outside of himself and his belief in her
expected roles. I know he didn’t listen to her. Maera always saw the two of us
discussing issues, and she assumed it would be the same in her marriage.
Unfortunately, Folant didn’t see it that way. During one of her visits to
Mittack, he told her to stay out of Mittack clan business, because she was a
woman and not even from Mittack.”

“That’s not only stupid, but it makes me angry,” said
Culich. “Any husband of Maera’s would be lucky to have her. But that was then,
and this is now. She’s twenty-three. She engaged late as it was, at twenty-one.
I would never try to force her to be with someone she doesn’t approve of, but
she’s aware of her obligations. Nothing has changed. We all know a hetman’s
family has duties to the clan that don’t always mesh with personal desires, but
we do what we must.”

Culich reached out and held his wife’s hand, his grip tight.
“And then there’s the Narthani. While we can’t tell the future, I fear for the
coming years. Questions about the Keelan succession are uncertainties the clan
can’t afford.”

He paused, then continued. “I see three paths forward. We
give her more time, we accept the possibility she never marries, or we talk
with her that it’s time.”

Breda nodded. “As much as I hate the thought of forcing her
to marry, I wonder whether it wouldn’t be best for her. I fear her sinking into
a shell and turning into a tired, bitter, solitary woman. The problem remains,
who would she marry?”

Culich sighed. “Yes, and there we return. A marriage of
similar status to Folant’s might not happen. There aren’t many similar
candidates who are unmarried, unless it’s someone much younger. The facts are
that her age, her previous engagement, and she herself all work against her.
I’m sorry to admit it, but most men prefer a more pliable wife, and Maera was
never one not to give an opinion. She’ll be smarter and more educated than any
husband.”

“What about forgetting the political marriage between clan
families? What about within Keelan?”

“Who would it be?” asked Culich. “Knowing Maera, I’m afraid
she’s stubborn enough not to marry someone without advantage for the clan, even
if she likes him, and I’d hate to frame it as simply producing candidates for
the heir. At this point, I would be amenable to any marriage that made her
happy, but let’s admit it, my dear, our family has such solid clan support that
there’s no advantage to a marriage within the clan. That leaves outside of the
clan, and we’re back to who?”

Breda nodded. “Also, I worry about her leaving the clan. If
her marriage was cheerless, and she didn’t have the familiar around her, it
would break my heart to know she would live an unhappy life.”

Culich was silent, having no solution.

Breda cleared her throat. “What about getting her out of
here to travel more? She has always been interested in helping me with
activities with widows and orphans and has even occasionally wondered whether,
if she weren’t a Keelan, she might have joined one of the orders. On her own,
she’s dabbled in medicant texts and probably knows almost as much as medicants
in training. She’s also something of a scholastic in her own right in
Caedellium history, stories, and folklore. Could we arrange for her to visit
some of the scholasticums in other clans? Maybe she would meet a kindred soul
there who might be appropriate.”

Culich rubbed his nose as he considered his wife’s
suggestion. “Perhaps. I confess I sometimes feel guilty about how much I’ve
come to depend on her as an advisor. Even in Keelan, though, it can be a
problem having a young woman giving advice heeded as much as that given by the
graybeards. If I hadn’t tolerated . . . no, let’s be honest . . . encouraged
her scholastic interest, she would have found a more acceptable role.”

Breda shook her head and laid a hand on his forearm. “No,
Culich, she is who she is. We talk about duty to the clan, and the benefit of
her helping you is important. We shouldn’t judge ourselves too harshly if her
helping is both good for the clan and makes her feel useful.”

Culich grunted and abruptly pushed his plate away. “So we
accept, but where does that leave us with Maera?”

Breda sighed. “Maybe we continue to do what we are already
doing, nothing, for now. Your first choice. We can also look for ways to let
her travel away from Caernford. Then, wait longer and see whether Maera, God,
or circumstances somehow solves the problem.”

Maera and Anarynd

The object of the discussion at the hetman’s morning meal at
that moment finished a spiced bread roll and washed it down with kava in her
own quarters of the Keelan manor. Maera noticed neither the roll nor the kava
as they were consumed. Her attention focused on the disarray of papers spread
out on the table. Sometimes she ate with one or more of her three younger
sisters. On Godsday morning, her parents expected all of them to eat together
before riding their surrey to St. Tomo’s Abbey for the morning service in
Caernford. Many days, Maera ate alone. Not that she preferred it, but it was
easier at times, particularly when she was absorbed in her readings, reports
for her father, or correspondence. Today it was all three.

She finished editing a summary of her observations from her
father’s last district boyermen meeting, and her ink-stained fingers pushed the
completed report aside, to copy the final version later in the morning.

Next, she opened a book on the Keelan Clan history, written
a hundred years ago, about what was known or what lore believed to be true
about the early days of the clan’s founding. She was a third of the way through
the book, and the dryness of events and names made it hard for her to focus for
too long. Today she waded through ten pages, as resolved, then replaced the
page marker and closed the book.

She saved the best for last: a letter from Anarynd. Maera
twirled strands of her long brown hair through her left forefinger, as she read
the letter for the fourth time. A smile played across her lips, as she imaged
Anarynd’s latest stories and thoughts about her suitors. With blonde hair, an
eye-catching figure, and a little-girl-wonder face, Anarynd had drawn male
attention since she’d entered puberty. Though her male relatives kept men who
were too interested well away, Anarynd was not reticent about enjoying
the attention. What was new in this letter was more detail than usual about one
specific suitor, a district boyerman’s eldest son from northern Moreland
Province. Maera noticed herself frowning at where this new suitor was from. If
Anarynd married and moved farther north, Maera would see her even less often.
Maera chided herself. The important thing was that Ana, as Maera called her,
became happy in a marriage. If it meant she and Maera were farther apart, that
was a trivial consideration. Maera knew that was what she was “supposed” to
think, and she honestly hoped only happiness for her best friend, but still . .
. Ana, please don’t move farther away!

Maera smiled at herself, folded the letter, walked to a
cabinet, and placed the letter in the box holding all of Ana’s other letters.
As she returned to the table, she saw herself in a mirror. She stopped for a
moment. She and Ana might seem like two improbable friends. As attractive and
vivacious as Ana was, Maera saw herself as a contrast. Ana always took great
care about her clothes and appearance. The young woman in the mirror wore her
usual plain smock, this one a purple shade—a deliberate choice, since it helped
hide new ink spots—a pair of long stockings, and uncombed hair tied into a
ponytail to keep it out of the way. Then there were the shoeless feet. Maera
had preferred going shoeless as long as she could remember. Her parents and the
family’s station discouraged her being shoeless in public, but when in her own
quarters and sometimes in other parts of the family manor, she indulged in
being barefoot, if temperatures allowed.

She looked at a bookcase holding her timepiece, an expensive
gift from her parents on her twelfth birthday. Time to make the eldest daughter
of the Keelan hetman presentable to the world. She washed as much of the ink
from her hands as possible, combed her hair and braided it to lay atop her
head, changed into a sleeveless full dress with a white undershirt, and donned
thin stockings of delicate cloth and well-crafted everyday women’s shoes of the
finest gurnel leather.

She was ready to play her roles: dutiful daughter of the
hetman, benefactress of orphanages and hospitals, scribe and unofficial advisor
to the hetman, and . . . what? The mirror showed her ready. She saw an
average young woman of undistinguished appearance, a little slenderer than
most, perhaps shorter than average, and a serious look.

Her thoughts went back to Ana. The first time they’d met was
when Maera visited Ana’s family in Moreland Province. It was the custom among
the clan leaders’ families for children to go on extended visits to other
clans. The plan was to help keep the clans’ future leaders and their wives, in
the case of female children, from becoming too insular and to identify
potential future marriage partners. How much this helped reduce inter-clan
conflicts was uncertain, but the custom was long-standing. Maera’s visit that
year had been to the family of Brym Moreland, first cousin to the Moreland Clan
Hetman, Gwynfor Moreland. Brym was, in theory, sixth in line to be heir to the
Moreland Hetman position, meaning it unlikely he or his family would ever be
any closer to the succession, but high enough in the Moreland clan to be a
proper site for a visit by a Keelan daughter. Under other circumstances, the
visit would have been with the hetman’s family itself, but Culich Keelan and
Gwynfor Moreland detested each other, so all parties were satisfied with Maera
visiting a secondary branch of the Morelands.

That was how she met Ana—Anarynd Moreland—second daughter of
Brym and Gwenda Moreland. Maera was fourteen and Anarynd thirteen. Maera was
shorter and slenderer than Anarynd, and they were so different in personalities
and interests, it was to general surprise that they developed into steadfast
friends. An outside analysis might have speculated the reason was that they
complemented areas where each girl thought herself lacking. Anarynd had always
been doted on because of her appearance, and she took her attractiveness for
granted, whereas Maera had never seen herself as other than ordinary. In
reverse, the young Maera always seemed to know she was smarter than anyone
else, although contact with scholastic brothers and sisters at abbeys caused
her to revise that opinion to “smarter than almost anyone else.” In contrast,
Anarynd was never praised for being clever, and by the time the two girls first
met, Maera was reading texts most adults couldn’t manage, while Anarynd could
hardly read. Education of family girls would never have occurred to Ana’s
father or mother as something either desired or useful. Both girls were willful
but in different degrees and manners. Anarynd pleaded or pouted to get her way,
while Maera resorted to stubbornness and arguing. They were so different and so
perfect for each other.

At first, the two girls had little interest in the other.
Everything changed the day of the year’s Harvest Festival. The local Moreland
version drew from the surrounding twenty miles. Several thousand people engaged
in activities scheduled and unscheduled, religious thanksgiving and prayers for
the coming harvest, food of all varieties, physical contests for the men, home
crafts for the women, games for the young, dancing in the evening, and less
respectable activities in darker corners late at night. Anarynd and Maera
accompanied Anarynd’s mother and aunts on a tour of the activities, when Maera
spotted a group of early teen boys shooting crossbows at improvised targets.
Maera asked whether she could watch the boys shoot, and Gwenda Moreland
assented, after telling Anarynd to go with Maera so she wouldn’t get lost in
the crowd or be subjected to inappropriate behavior by any males not aware of
Maera’s standing. Although Anarynd was annoyed at having to shepherd the odd
Maera, she was pleased to be out of her mother’s view and to have the
opportunity to practice flirting.

After a few minutes watching, Maera’s mouth twisted in
disdain. “Most of them can’t shoot worth anything. I’m better than any of
them.”

“You’ve shot a crossbow before?” asked a startled Anarynd.

Maera glared sideways at Anarynd. “Well . . . yeah,” as if
the answer was obvious.

“I never have,” Anarynd confessed.

Maera turned to face Anarynd. “Why not?”

“It’s . . . just not something women do.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Pretty lame reason, if you ask me. Have you ever wanted
to try it?”

“I’ve never thought about it. It’s just one of those things
that men do and women don’t.”

“That’s not the way it is in Keelan.”

“All women in Keelan do things like crossbow shooting?”
asked an astounded Anarynd.

Maera hesitated. “No. Not all. But any who want to, can.”

Anarynd looked back at the boys occupied with their
contests. “I wouldn’t mind trying. Maybe sometime we could sneak out of our
estate and go off into the woods to try it,” whispered Anarynd, as if hatching
a conspiracy.

“Why wait? There’s plenty of crossbows right here and
targets all set up.”

“With the boys,” said Anarynd in a sly voice. “Hmmm . . .
that could be fun talking the boys into letting us.”

Maera looked at Anarynd and asked—already expecting the
answer, “And how would you go about getting them to let you try?”

“Oh, they’re just boys.”

With a coy smile, Anarynd transformed into a young seductress,
sashaying over to the cluster of boys. They parted like water before a gale,
hovering just out of touch. Maera followed. She couldn’t hear whatever Anarynd
said to the boys, but within seconds, one of the older ones was showing her how
to hold the crossbow. She fired, and the crossbow quarrel arched high above the
targets.

Maera choked back her thought. Merciful God, I hope
Anarynd doesn’t skewer some person or animal wherever the quarrel lands.

Instantly, a second boy handed another cocked crossbow to
Anarynd. The next five minutes or more, Anarynd fired many a quarrel without
coming close to a target, not that any of the boys noticed. Finally, she turned
to Maera, “Do you want to try it?”

The closest boys noticed Maera for the first time, with an
irritated look she interpreted as, Why would we be interested in her?

Maera flushed, angry at the boys, at Anarynd’s act, and at
the world in general. “Well, I couldn’t be worse at it than you,” she snarled.

Anarynd turned red. “Okay, Miss Smart Mouth, let’s see what
you can do.” She handed Maera the last loaded crossbow.

A rustle of discontent rolled through the gathered boys, and
the tight cluster that had been around Anarynd expanded, as the level of interest
waned.

Maera took the crossbow, eyed the target forty yards away,
and raised the stock to her shoulder. She looked over the quarrel at the target
and pulled the trigger Twang! sang the string as the quarrel leaped out
in a flat trajectory and buried itself within six inches of the bull’s-eye. The
stunned silence was deafening, followed by exclamations.

“God above, did you see that?”

“What luck. She didn’t even aim.”

“Whoa, nice shot.”

“Why are we letting girls shoot?” another said, along with
similar and less polite comments.

Anarynd stared at Maera for a moment. “I guess you have
done this before.”

Maera held the bow out to the boy who had originally handed
it to Anarynd. “Not a bad bow, but shoots a little to the left.”

“Try it again,” said the impressed boy, to the disgust of
the boy standing next to him, who looked like a family relation.

“Hell, that was just a lucky shot,” said the second boy.

Peeved again, Maera stood the bow on its point, pulled out
the cocking lever, and pumped to recock the string. The first boy handed her
another quarrel, which she slotted into the bow stock and notched it to the
string. With a smooth motion, she raised the bow and sent the second quarrel
three inches from the bull’s-eye. Proof that the first shot was not a fluke
reanimated the group of boys, and during the next fifteen minutes, Maera sent
further quarrels into the center of various targets. Several of the older boys
tried, without success, to match her marksmanship. By then, the group had split
into the boys who disassociated themselves from a female competing with them
and those who admired her skill. The latter group wanted to discuss the merits
of various bow styles, pull-strengths, and quarrel lengths and asked whether
she had done any hunting. The episode ended with Anarynd’s mother and coterie
finding them and swooping them away from such unseemly activity.

Later that night, after the evening meal and after
socializing to the limit of her boredom, Maera lay in bed. She’d just closed
her eyes when there was a knock at her door. Anarynd let herself in, crossed to
the bed, and sat. A surprised Maera sat up.

“Maera . . . no one listens to me.” Anarynd’s voice bespoke
a resigned sadness.

At first, Maera was uncertain what to say, though she
wondered why the girl was telling her this. The silence dragged on.

“Uh. . .  what do you mean no one listens?”

“Oh, they listen, but they don’t listen.”

“You mean they hear the words but not the meaning?”

Anarynd nodded. “To my parents, I exist, but only to do what
they expect. My brothers treat me as a sister who should know her place. Iwun,
my younger brother, and I are near in age and played together when we were
younger. He listened then, but everything changed a year ago when he began
spending more time with older boys and our father and our older brother.”

“Learning the way he was supposed to treat you, I
bet.”

“Yesterday, the boys at the bow range, they listened to me
only because of how I look and how I flirted with them. I could have been
saying anything, and they wouldn’t have noticed or cared.”

“You knew that would happen before we went over to them.”

“It’s what I do. It’s the only way I can get people to
listen!” Anarynd exclaimed.

Maera sighed. This wasn’t how she’d planned on spending her
sleep time, but Anarynd obviously needed to talk, something Maera too often
missed in her own life. She knew her parents loved her, but somehow she never
talked to them as much as she wished she could. To turn away someone else in
need didn’t seem “right.”

Anarynd continued, “They listened to you yesterday. You
didn’t flirt with them. You showed them you could do something as well as them
or better.”

“Some were okay with it, but some left,” Maera said with a
grimace.

“But many did listen,” insisted Anarynd. “I wish I was
more like you. That I could make people listen to me.”

“I don’t know if you can make people listen as much
as want to listen,” Maera said.

“How do I do that?”

“What can you offer them except your looks?”

Anarynd was silent for moments, then shook her head.
“Nothing I can think of.”

“Then maybe that’s the problem. You need to have things to
say and show you can do things. Do you read much?”

“Read?” echoed the other girl. “I don’t read much.”

“Well, what do you read?”

Anarynd flushed. “I already said I don’t read much.”

Oh, Graceful God, she can’t read!

“Anarynd . . . you can’t read, or at least not much at all,
can you?”

The blonde’s face reddened more, and she shook her head to
confirm. “It’s not considered necessary for a woman to read, as long as
she knows how to take care of her husband and family. Is it different in
Keelan?”

“Yes. Not all girls go to school as long as the boys, but
that’s the choice of the family and the girl.”

“Girls don’t go to school at all in Moreland. I know a few
words that my brother Iwun taught me. He would come home from school and want
to show me what he’d learned that day. I wasn’t interested most of the time.
Then he stopped sharing with me.”

“That’s something you need to do—learn to read.”

“How? My family wouldn’t let me go to school, and if they
did, I’d be with six-year-old boys. Mother can’t read, and father and my
brothers wouldn’t think it worth their time to teach me.”

“I’ll teach you,” asserted an annoyed Maera, before
she took the time to think about it. “I’m here for another month. How much do
you know? The letters? Any words at all?”

“Iwun taught me the letters, and I know the words for some
things like animals, food, places, and peoples’ names.”

“Good. You aren’t starting from nothing. I think if we work
very hard the next month, you might be able to read simple texts. Then, when
I’ve returned home, we can write letters to each other for you to practice. I
can also talk to my teachers and family and send you books as your reading gets
better.”

“Do you really think I could learn?”

“You’re not dumb, Anarynd, just stupid for letting other
people tell you who you can be.”

As if I’m all that different. I’m put into roles, but at
least I have more freedom than this blonde blank spot.

“Oh, thank you, Maera!” exclaimed Anarynd, wrapping her arms
around Maera tightly and squeezing. “I’ll work really, really hard. You’ll
see.”

Anarynd released Maera and pulled back to look her in the
eye. “We mustn’t let anyone know. I’m sure my family wouldn’t approve. We’ll
have to find ways to be alone.”

Maera was already planning ahead. “Neither of us has any
particular duties or activities, so no one should notice if we spend time
together and away from others. Going for walks, for example. Once we’re out of
sight, we can work on reading.” Maera was in full conspirator mode. If she had
to endure this visit, she might as well play at deceiving adults.

“We’ll need quills, ink, and paper . . . and take care not
to get the ink on ourselves or, if we do, wash it off before someone else sees
it. We can also ‘play’ in our rooms during the day and work on reading after
the others go to bed.”

Maera paused. She was about to tell Anarynd something she
had never told another person.

“Anarynd, you say you wish you were more like me in being
sure of myself and making people listen to me. Today, I wished I was more like
you in some ways.”

“More like me? Why?”

“I don’t have many friends, and boys don’t seem interested
in me. I don’t say I want them to ogle me all the time, but I’m not attractive and
don’t know how to talk with them. Maybe you can help me.”

“Of course! It’ll be fun teaching you. And don’t tell me
you’re not pretty enough. You just have to use what you have.”

And thus was born a conspiracy between two pubescent girls.
Maera would teach Anarynd to read and be more assertive and, in return, get
lessons in dress, rudimentary makeup, flirting, and playing on male egos. To
Anarynd’s discouragement, Maera learned the first two well enough, but the
flirting and talking herself down to a male’s level never took hold. For
Anarynd, it was two years before her father realized she had learned to read.
Although she was never going to be a scholar at Maera’s level, the ability to
read not only expanded her horizons, it slowly imbued her with enough
confidence to assert her own wishes on occasion and when it was important
enough. Even this level of independence didn’t sit well with her father, but
their eventual semi-truce involved Anarynd following his wishes on small
matters, in exchange for more freedom to follow her interests. The big things,
by mutual consent, they tried to avoid.

Over the years, the two girls each spent several sixdays a
year visiting the other. The visits of Anarynd to Maera were longer, because
the Morelands eventually figured out the source of the changed behavior of
their once-docile daughter.and only reluctantly allowed Maera’s visits.

In addition to the visits, they wrote to each other once a
sixday. The letters conveyed all of the things girls, and then young women,
talk about to their best friends: what they were feeling, Anarynd’s lessons,
Maera’s studies. Then, as they got older, they wrote about looking ahead to
when they would marry—more eagerly in Anarynd’s case than Maera’s. Their paths,
which had casually come together, would stay intertwined during the rest of
their lives, albeit with episodes of both joy and despair.

Chapter 21: Keelan Justice

Cadwulf’s news of a robbery in Abersford made Yozef realize
he was ignorant about the Keelan justice system, which could be dangerous. He
could violate a law and not know it, and what would happen if he did? Since he
was already pumping Cadwulf for tidbits about Caedellium and Keelan society,
history, and customs, why not add the functioning of their legal system?

He broached the idea with his young friend and employee the
next day.

“Yozef, the current external adjudicator just arrived in
Abersford for a justice session. Court will begin tomorrow, if you’d like to
watch. This is the perfect way for you to see how the law functions here. I
could come with you and explain what’s happening.”

“Tomorrow? I told Filtin I’d work with him on the new
distillery setups. I guess that can wait a few days. Where are proceedings
held?”

“In the cathedral. Anyone who wishes can observe, and the
cathedral is the only gathering space near Abersford of sufficient size.”

“Will there really be that many attending?” Yozef asked in
surprise.

“Not usually. It depends on the individual cases. The list
is posted to all nearby villages, so the size of the crowd will vary, depending
on the case, who is involved, how entertaining it might be, how many witnesses,
or whether it involves people who are relatives or someone you either like or
dislike. Of course, some people come just because it’s one of the more exciting
things to happen in the Abersford area.”

By arrangement, they met at the abbey complex main gate the
next day. People were walking from the village, and there were horses and
wagons tied to stakes outside the abbey walls. Once inside the cathedral, they
found two spots at the end of the eighth row of pews. Perhaps three hundred
people sat in the eight-hundred-capacity space, when a man in black and white
livery walked down the center aisle, turned to face the audience, and pounded a
heavy staff on the floor three times.

“All present heed the justice of Keelan. All present heed
their roles in this proceeding. All present acknowledge the justice that
protects the people.” The man pounded his staff three times more. From a side
door appeared three men dressed in black-and-white checkered robes, who filed
to a table set on the first level above the audience. In front of them, with
backs to the audience, were a set of chairs filled with men and a few women.

“What is the significance of the black-and-white robes?”
Yozef whispered to Cadwulf.

“It’s supposed to symbolize even-handedness. The judges
should not come to any predetermined conclusions until they hear the charges
and evidence.”

From where they sat, Yozef at first couldn’t discern the
faces of the three judges, but once they turned and took their seats, he could
see that the one on his right was the abbot.

“You recognize Father. On the left is Longnor Vorwich,
boyerman of our district, containing Abersford and St. Sidryn’s. Vorwich lives
fifteen miles away near the town of Clengoth, which serves as the district
center.”

“Are abbots always judges?”

“Not always. One judge is a citizen of high regard from the
area. For this year, Father was proposed by Vorwich and approved by village
chiefs and mayors. I think it’s the third or fourth time he’s had this
year-long duty.”

Yozef didn’t recognize the white-haired, vigorous-looking
man. “Who’s the man in the middle?”

“That’s Scholastic Andris Carys. He’s the adjudicator and is
a scholastic from St. Tomo’s Abbey in Caernford. He’s an expert in the law and
previous cases. While normally he would be addressed as Brother Carys, for
these proceedings he is Adjudicator Carys. He will preside and advise Father
and Boyerman Vorwich on law and precedence, and all three vote on each case. He
oversees all cases in Keelan. Most of the time, the three men will agree on the
verdict. When one judge disagrees with the other two, those cases are referred
three times a year to Caernford, where the case will be presented again with
Hetman Keelan becoming a fourth judge. In that case, if the disagreement is 2
to 2, the case is dismissed. If 3 to 1, then the decision of the three is
determinative.”

“Are the three judges always men?”

Cadwulf turned to Yozef. “Well . . . yes, of course.”

Of course? Women’s rights had quite a ways to go
here.

Yozef filed this information away and sat back to take in
the first case. Carys called two men to stand before the judges. A dispute originated
over a cow claimed to have been stolen by one of the men. The other man claimed
it had been a sale. The case sped to a conclusion after the judges asked to see
the bill of sale for the cow. The accused said he had forgotten to get a
written bill and had no witnesses to the sale. The cow in question was
characteristic enough that several witnesses agreed the cow in possession of
the accused had been the same cow owned by the accuser. There were no other
witnesses.

It was over in less than ten minutes. Adjudicator Carys
consulted briefly with Sistian and Vorwich, then announced, “The verdict is
that there being no other witnesses or evidence, it cannot be concluded for
certain that the cow was stolen. Therefore, the accused is not considered guilty
of theft. However, since the supposed sale was not registered with the local
registrar or witnessed, and since original ownership of the cow is supported by
several witnesses, the accused is required to deliver the cow or one of
approximately equal value to the accuser. If a different cow, the value will be
determined by the local magistrate.”

Yozef whispered to Cadwulf, “So, if the cow was actually
sold, the original owner gets the cow back because the buyer didn’t have proof
of sale, and the owner keeps the money paid for the cow?”

Cadwulf looked disgusted. “The accuser has done this before
and likely is lying about the sale, but the law is clear. You must have proof
of sale, either written or witnessed. Otherwise, it’s not recognized. The buyer
in this case was foolish to deal with the seller.”

“Next case,” announced the adjudicator.

A man and a woman rose and came before the judges. They
stood well apart, with a rugged-looking man in his mid-thirties standing
between them.

“The man in the middle is Magistrate Denes Vegga. He
enforces laws around the Abersford area and serves to support the court.”

The sheriff, Yozef assigned the title.

The woman’s right arm was in a splint, she had several
bruises on her face, one eye was swollen shut, and she limped when she rose to
stand. Boyerman Vorwich read from a paper in front of him. “Hulda Camrin
accuses her husband, Yuslir, of beating her and their two children repeatedly
and asks for justice.” He stopped reading and addressed the husband, “What do
you say to these charges, Ser Camrin?”

Your ’onor, I only beat ’er when she deserves it. A man ’as
to keep order in his ’ouse, and she is lazy and doesn’t do ’er duties in
cookin’, caring for the ’ouse, and our bed. As for the kids, she spoils ’em and
tries to turn them ’gainst me. I then ’as no choice but to beat ’em.”

Yozef leaned right and whispered in Cadwulf’s ear. “Am I
hearing right? The man seems to speak differently than everyone else.”

Cadwulf kept his eyes on the proceedings, using a hand to
direct a mumble back to Yozef. “He’s from Nyvaks Province on the far north
Caedellium. You can tell them by how they don’t pronounce some first letters,
like most other clans.”

It was Adjudicator Carys who rejoined the defendant,
“Granted that a man has the right to maintain order in his family by reasonable
means, the question before this court is whether the punishments given were
justified or not.”

So much for women’s lib, Yozef thought. I assume
there’re going to be quite of few more differences in the justice system here
compared to the U.S.

Carys turned to the abbot. “Abbot Beynom, you have a report
on experiences with this family?”

“Yes,” said the abbot, casting a stern eye at the husband.
“Ser Camrin has been admonished numerous times in the past about excessive
violence against his family. I and several other brothers have counseled him
repeatedly. He has appeared twice before this court on similar charges. In
those cases, the accusations were brought by medicants who had treated his wife
or children for beatings. In neither case would the wife admit her husband had
beat her. She said she ‘fell.’ It was believed by all she was lying, either
because she was afraid or still didn’t want to get him in trouble.”

No prohibition for hearsay evidence or opinion instead of
facts.

Carys addressed the wife. “Sen Camrin, on the current
treatment by the medicants you told them, and then later Magistrate Denes, that
your injuries were caused by a beating from your husband. Do you still assert
this as fact?”

The wife edged next to Magistrate Vegga and looked around
him at her husband. Then she took several deep breaths. “I do, Ser. He’s just
beat me too much. I’m afraid he’s goin’ to hurt the children even more. Gettin’
worse all the time. I don’t want to be married to him no more.”

The husband flushed, glared at her, and started to say
something, until Vegga barked, “No talking until the adjudicator asks you a
question!”

And no objections from the defense—not that he has his
own advocate.

The adjudicator continued talking to the wife. “In two
previous instances, you have testified that your injuries resulted from your
own accidents and not beatings by your husband. Do you still say the same?”

The wife’s face took on a defensive and somewhat fearful
look. “Your Honor … I … I was scar’d. He’d threatened to beat me and the kids
worse if I said anything. What was I to do?”

“What you were to do is tell the truth. You deliberately
lied to the court at those times.”

Carys consulted the paper in front of him. “I see here that
the witnesses include the medicants who treated Sen Camrin this time and in the
previous instances, several people who have seen Ser Camrin strike his wife in
public, and Abbess Beynom, who testifies her observations on both the husband
and wife in this case.”

So, self-incrimination and conflicts of interest with
witnesses are also okay. Perry Mason would not be happy.

“Ser Camrin, are there witnesses to show you do
not regularly beat your wife?”

Yozef almost choked. It’s the old joke. “When did you
stop beating your wife?”

“I already said, I only beat ’er when she needs it! It’s my
right and duty as ’er ’usband.”

The adjudicator looked at his assistant. “Let the record
show the accused has no witnesses.”

A sullen Ser Camrin glared at the judges, then shot another dangerous
look at his wife.

The three judges conferred among themselves for four to five
minutes, then turned back to the audience.

The adjudicator wrote something on paper in from of him,
cleared his throat, and spoke to the accused, the accuser, and the rest of the
attendees.

“It is determined that Yuslir Camrin has continued to abuse
his wife and children, despite repeated counseling and warnings. From witness
statements and the record, we see no reason to think Ser Camrin would stop this
behavior if given more chances to change. Therefore, we have no choice but to
consider him a habitual abuser of this family. To protect that family, this
court now dissolves the marriage between Yuslir Camrin and his wife, Hulda
Camrin. Ser Camrin is never to have contact with his former wife or children
again.”

Well, it simplifies custody battles or visitation rights.

“To assure that this does not happen, Ser Camrin is banished
from the Abersford area for the rest of this life. Sen Camrin is ordered to
move nowhere where her ex-husband lives, if she wishes to remain under the
protection of this court, unless she remarries and is therefore under her new
husband’s protection.”

The man turned red and shouted, “I’ve spent ten years
workin’ that farm! All the work I’ve put into it and I’m to be sent ’way with
nothin! It ain’t fair!”

“We recognize that the farm inherited by Hulda Camrin from
her family was significantly improved by Yuslir Camrin,” Boyerman Vorwich
answered. “Therefore, it is reasonable for him to receive compensation. It is
ruled that ownership of the farm, which was transferred to Yuslir when he
married Hulda, is to be transferred back to Hulda. To compensate Yuslir,
Hulda is ordered to give Yuslir one quarter of the farm’s value, either in coin
or deed to land equivalent to that value. The local registrar will work out the
details with Hulda and Yuslir.”

Camrin visibly relaxed. Yozef whispered, “This Camrin man
doesn’t appear as worried about the decision as I thought he would be. Am I
missing something?”

Cadwulf whispered back, “He’s not from this area originally,
so he has no other family ties here. He’ll move elsewhere with some coin in his
pocket and experience at successful farming, so he shouldn’t have any problem
finding a farm widow willing to marry him.”

“I don’t understand. Why would any woman want to marry him
after this?”

“I’ll explain later.”

Finished with the basic verdict, the adjudicator addressed
both the ex-husband and the ex-wife, one after the other.

“Hulda Camrin, by your own admission you lied to two
different courts in the past. While we appreciate the conditions and fears that
led to you lying, no court can permit deliberate lies. That you admitted to
those lies is mitigation but does not excuse lying. You are therefore sentenced
to three lashes.”

The wife turned white and started crying. She was led away
by several women.

“Kind of harsh, wasn’t that?” said Yozef, a little louder
than he intended—loud enough that several people turned to him, and it brought
a sharp gaze from the abbot.

“Shh,” whispered Cadwulf. “The judges had no choice. To lie
to the judges is considered a serious offense. In this case, three lashes are
considered a mild punishment, and the person giving the lashes will make them
more symbolic than painful.”

“Yuslir Camrin,” intoned Carys, “we cannot be sure whether
you are too sadistic or too stupid to understand your own actions. In either
case, it is determined that a strong lesson be given in hopes of changing your
future behavior. You are therefore sentenced to be taken to the village square
and ten lashes to be administered before sundown this day.”

Camrin protested loudly, to no avail. As Magistrate Vegga
led him away, the adjudicator had a last word. “Be also aware, Yuslir Camrin,
that you are required to report to the district registrar where you go in
Keelan Province. Details of this judgment will be sent to that district, and
any further offenses committed by you will be weighed, along with this verdict.
Depending on severity, future offenses could involve banishment from the
province. Next case.”

“He may well move to a different province,” murmured
Cadwulf.

“So, the record of this doesn’t go to the other provinces?”

“No. Many clans are very strong in maintaining independence
and won’t pay attention to any such records coming from Keelan. Mittack and
Gwillamer and maybe a few others might, but Moreland and the northern clans
wouldn’t care what happened here.”

A number of lesser cases were called, heard, and disposed of
in rapid order as the day wore on. There were no such things as continuances in
Caedellium justice. The final case of the day was the most serious. It was a
compound situation that on Earth would require two separate trials. Cadwulf
whispered a running account of who was who, what he knew of them, where they
lived, and some details on how the judges might view the case.

It started with a teenage girl, maybe seventeen Anyar years
(fifteen on Earth, Yozef reminded himself), claiming she had been raped by a
neighbor’s twenty-two-year-old son. There were no witnesses, and the girl did
not make the accusation until she knew she was pregnant. The case got more
complicated when one of her brothers accosted the accused, and, during a fight,
the accused was stabbed to death by the brother. Of this part, there were multiple
witnesses that the brother had instigated the fight and had pulled a knife,
when he started getting the worst of it. The case then had to resolve multiple
issues. Because the accused rapist was dead, that charge was resolved. However,
by custom and law, a rapist and his family could be responsible for helping
support the child.

“The person and his family are responsible for the actions
of the person, such as regarding any money to compensate a victim or their
family,” Cadwulf whispered to Yozef.

The second decision concerned the brother. There was no
doubt he believed his sister and in anger had sought the accused. There also
was no doubt he had started the fight and had drawn the knife and stabbed the
other man. Two issues needed determination. One was whether the brother and his
family were liable for blood-money—payment to the deceased’s family for loss of
a family member. The second was how to evaluate the killing and pass judgment
on the brother.

Again, Yozef noted a huge difference with the Caedellium
justice system. Judgment was quick, compared to back on Earth. After hearing
all of the evidence, the three judges huddled together on the platform for
twenty minutes before the adjudicator announced their unanimous decision.

“As is there is no confirming evidence a rape occurred or
that the child was fathered by the deceased, and since no accusation was made
for some months, no penalties or obligations are directly assigned to the
family of the accused rapist. As for the killing of the accused, Kellum
Mellwyin is confirmed guilty of the death. No evidence of malice before the
accusation of rape was presented, and given the nature of the accusation, we
believe it reasonable that the death occurred during a time of reduced
judgment. Nevertheless, a killing did occur. Whether or not the accused rapist
actually committed the act, it is still the prerogative of Keelan justice to
deal with the accusation, and there is no justification for either initiating
the fight that led to a death or justification for pulling a knife simply
because the initiator of the fight began to lose. It is therefore judged Kellum
Mellwyin is ordered to pay the family of the deceased thirty thousand krun,
with the method and timing of payment to be submitted to the local registrar
within one month. Kellum Mellwyin is also placed on probation for the next ten
years. The case is settled. Next case.”

“The 30,000 krun is judged to be what the dead man would
have earned for his family in ten years,” said Cadwulf. “Mellwyin won’t have the
krun himself, so his family will pay the judgment.”

“What if they can’t pay?”

“Then Magistrate Vegga and the registrar decide on what the
family can afford. That could include family members working for the
victim’s family for no pay for a length of time.”

“What does probation mean?” asked Yozef.

“If he commits another serious act of violence within those
ten years, he might be banished from Caedellium. If it’s a premeditated act, or
the act is serious enough, he could be sold to Frangel slavers and the coin
given to victims or their families. Normally, those with such sentences are
held in confinement in Preddi, awaiting the slavers who come about every five
or six months and collect all those condemned to either banishment or slavery.
Since the Narthani stopped all ships except their own from coming to
Caedellium, such people are being held in Orosz City until a solution is found.
Some have been there for several years.”

“So this is not normal … to keep them imprisoned here in
Caedellium?”

Cadwulf frowned. “Why would we keep them imprisoned? They’d
be a burden on the community. They are punished by fines, whippings, or
probation or sent away from Caedellium, either as exiles or slaves, depending
the severity of their crimes.”

“So there’s no death penalty on Caedellium?”

“Only for the most heinous crimes, where the person is
judged so dangerous that even sentencing him to slavery or banishment off
Caedellium would place others in future danger. It happens rarely, but I know
of two such cases in Keelan Provence during my lifetime.”

“What about an appeal? Can the accused, if found liable or
guilty, try to have the decision changed?”

“The adjudicator’s assistant,” Cadwulf indicated a man
sitting to one side of the judges table, “will write a report of the facts of
the case and the judges’ decision. The report goes to the Keelan hetman, Culich
Keelan, in Caernford. The accused and his family can write to the hetman at the
same time to give reasons the sentence should be changed. Most of the time the
hetman won’t change the verdict. He might reduce the penalties, but he never
increases them.”

During Cadwulf’s explanation, the day’s session ended, the
three judges filed out, and the spectators began to leave. Yozef had numerous
questions.

“Cadwulf, if you have no other plans for evening meal, I’d
like to talk about what we saw here today. Could you join me at my house? Elian
always cooks more than enough.”

“A pleasure. I had no plans, other than eating with my
family. Give me a moment to tell Father not to expect me this evening.”

Cadwulf left Yozef standing alone and returned a few minutes
later.

As they walked the mile to the house, Yozef recounted the
day’s cases to check whether he understood the proceedings and details of
Keelan law and whether there were differences with those of other districts.
That is, what was general to Caedellium and specific to Keelan?

“Cadwulf, when you said this Camrin fellow will likely find
another farm woman to marry him, you said you’d explain later.”

Cadwulf grunted. “Oh, yeah. Well, it’s that there are often
more women wanting husbands than there are available men.”

More women? Yozef thought. On Earth, there were about
105 male babies for every 100 females. He remembered something about the
speculation that male babies were more susceptible to diseases and male adults
died more from hunting or fighting—some kind of evolutionary compensation to
even out the sexes during the reproductive ages. However, somewhere around
thirty to forty years, it evened out and from then on, there were more women
than men. Why would the sex ratio of births be different here than on Earth?

“There are more female babies?”

“Yes, something like ninety-six boys to every hundred girls.
I forget the exact numbers. It’s thought the different ratio is God’s plan to
assure there should be equal numbers of men and women later in life, since
women can die in childbirth. I was never convinced of this reasoning, because
men die in accidents more often than women. There also used to be many more men
who die in clan fighting than happens now, but I don’t see how God planned for
that.”

Well, if it’s God’s doing, he has different plans for
Earth and Anyar. One thing’s for sure—at least one of the theories to explain
the sex ratio differences is wrong.

“So, with a shortage of available men, I assume that since
Ser Camrin is gone now, the odds aren’t good for the woman to find another
husband, if she wants one?”

“Yes,” said Cadwulf. “One might think an unmarried adult
woman owning a small farm would have many suitors. The problem is many-fold for
her. She’s already been married and has two children, which are negative
factors for some men and families. Also, farms aren’t as valuable as before,
since the Narthani won’t allow shipping of our grains to the mainlands. And
finally, most men are already married. As you might expect, the unmarried men
tend not to be of the most desirable types.”

“Such as Yuslir Camrin?”

“Such as him, or simply not a man whom a woman might risk
tying herself to, because when they marry, he becomes the owner of all of her
property. Some women prefer to remain unmarried, rather than take the risk. On
the other hand, when an appropriate man is available, the competition among
women can be fierce.”

“Available? Like widowed or a newcomer?”

Cadwulf nodded. “Or from a dissolved marriage, if the woman
couldn’t be lived with or if there’s reason to believe she’s infertile, and the
husband wants children. The husband can petition and be granted a cancellation
of the marriage; then all of her original property reverts to her, so the man
must be very serious about wanting children, or he has property of his own.”

Yozef shook his head. “I think the woman today, Hulda
Camrin, will have a hard time. She’ll have three-quarters of her original farm,
no husband, and two children to care for. From the details we heard, I assume
the husband did all, or most, of the farm work.”

“That’s a problem for her. If the farm had been larger and
more productive, they might have had several workers. But since it’s a smaller farm
and no other workers, it’s difficult to see how she’ll keep it.”

“You said the farms are not as valuable as in the past, so
she might not get much coin if she’s forced to sell.”

“A bad situation for her,” agreed Cadwulf. “In that case,
she’ll need to find family members to take in her and the children. The option
should work for her, since the family is obligated toward the children, and
she’ll come with some coin from selling the farm.

“However, not all farm women are in such a difficult
situation. Did you notice the woman sitting on the other end of our bench?”

“No. There were a lot of people, and I was paying attention
to the cases.”

“I’ll point her out to you, if we see her sometime. She owns
a medium-sized farm about ten miles north. She’s in her late twenties or early
thirties and a widow. Her husband died several years ago after an accident on
their farm. In her case, she’s successful in running the farm, because it’s big
and productive enough to have several workers and since there were no children.
She’s something of an exception, both because of her circumstances and since
she’s known to be both strong minded and bodied.”

They sat on the steps, facing the ocean. The moon Aedan was
just rising from the ocean horizon. The other moon, Haedan, would appear much
later that night, if Yozef remembered the pattern of their cycles.

“I assume she has the same problem finding a new husband?”

Cadwulf laughed. “Yes, the same problem of too few men she
would want to marry, and I doubt she’s interested in giving up ownership of the
farm. She’s quite used to running the farm by herself.”

They rose and entered the house. Elian
had somehow known there was a guest and had set an extra place at his table.
Yozef often ate with the older couple, at first to their discomfort, but
tonight they had already eaten. Brak was nowhere to be seen, and Elian served
them, set an open bottle of phila wine on the table, and excused herself for
the evening. Conversation lagged, as they focused on roast coney, potatoes, a
chard-like vegetable Yozef had come to like, the wine, and a version of
sourdough bread Yozef and Elian had been experimenting with. As they finished
the last of the coney, Yozef brought up the topic they had been discussing on
the way from the abbey.

“Cadwulf, doesn’t the excess of
women over men cause problems? Not just for the women themselves, but for the
entire clan and society? What happens to an unmarried woman?”

“If she has no property and can’t
work to support herself, then her family is responsible for her. Otherwise, the
local abbey or village tries to find her a place, especially if there are
children. Obviously, being married is best. In some clans, though, the shortage
of men has been worse, due to conflict within or between clans. When that
happens, some clans, particularly the northern ones, have customs that help the
problem by allowing husbands two wives. More in rare cases, but usually just
two.”

Yozef was surprised. “Does that
also occur in Keelan?”

“While it’s not disallowed by
either The Word of God or Keelan customs, our clan has traditionally
frowned on the practice, although there are a few exceptions. I can think of
only three examples I know of, and none in Abersford. In some of the provinces,
the man must get approval from his local abbey or boyerman to take a second
wife, depending on the customs and laws of the province, and the first wife has
to approve sincerely. It’s usually not allowed for the husband to pressure the
wife into agreeing, although I understand this occurs more in the northern
clans.”

“Well,” said Yozef, “I can see the
logic as a solution to excess women, but it’s a brave or foolish man to have
even two wives, much less more than two.”

Cadwulf smiled. “Yes, the obvious
problems of two women in the same house.” His face took on a more serious
demeanor. “Not to mention the ability to commit to the marriage equally and as
deeply as the Word instructs. Then there’s the obligation to care for
all children resulting from the marriage. More wives mean more children. That’s
the primary responsibility of marriage—the children.”

“In the last case today, what if
the man accused of rape hadn’t been killed?”

“If there was confirming evidence
or a confession to the rape, then he’d be held responsible for the rape and
care of the child.”

“What if the judges didn’t decide
there was proof of rape, and the child was his? He could claim the girl
consented?”

“It’s the same. If there was proof
or admission that the child was his, then he’d be responsible for helping
support the child. If no such proof, then the judges would rule he had no
obligation.”

The classic “he said, she said”
problem. There are no DNA tests here.

“And if the girl was considered
too young to give consent?”

“Too young?” questioned Cadwulf.
“What does that matter?”

Oh, boy.

“Could she not be considered a
child herself and not of age and maturity for such a decision?”

“All persons, of whatever age, can
make decisions. The younger they are, the more their age is taken into
consideration in handling the consequences of such decisions. She and her
family shouldn’t have put her in a situation where rape could occur.”

Zounds! We’re not in Kansas
anymore.

Chapter 22: The Buldorians

Preddi City

Okan Akuyun was two hours into the current stack of
paperwork when interrupted by a knock at his office door. From the rhythm and
strength of the four raps, he recognized it was the tall, solid, and
dangerous-looking Major Perem Saljurk, long-time aide and unofficial bodyguard.

“Come, Perem,” he said and laid down his quill. The door
opened, and the officer strode across the floor and handed Akuyun a dispatch
with the seal broken. Akuyun had no secrets from Saljurk, and the aide read
most dispatches before deciding whether they needed to be delivered immediately
or could wait.

“From Admiral Kalcan, General. A picket sloop came on a
group of Buldorian ships and is escorting them to Rocklyn.”

Right on time, thought Akuyun. Captain Adalan was as
efficient as he’d judged. They’d arrived as agreed, five months to the day. He
opened the dispatch and read, while the major waited. Seven Buldorian ships,
their usual design, each with sixteen 15-pounder cannons. No one of the
Buldorian ships was a danger to a Narthon frigate, but a pack like this could
be dangerous to a larger warship caught alone.

Kalcan estimated the Buldorian ships would reach the
abandoned Preddi fishing village by early evening and assumed they’d anchor
well offshore before any of them docked the next morning.

“Thank you, Perem. Please send the admiral an acknowledgment
and request he accompany me to Rocklyn first light tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir, and I’ll arrange a carriage and escort.”

“Make that two carriages. I’ll be returning the next day,
but the admiral or some of the staff going with us may stay longer.”

Akuyun watched his aide leave. There was definitely an
advantage to having someone like Perem, who’d been with him so long he could
anticipate.

They would ride in relative comfort, instead of on horseback,
himself preferring the carriage option, since his riding skills had atrophied
once he rose in the Narthani hierarchy. Also, he knew the admiral detested
horses.

One more step on the path. Akuyun mentally checked
off a milestone. Once they got the Buldorians settled, they could move along.
Within a year, with good fortune, they could finish their objectives here. When
this assignment was completed, Grand Marshal Turket hinted a successful
conclusion would impress the High Command enough to pull him back to Narthon.
There, he anticipated a rise in rank and assignment to either a field position
or a regional command over a conquered territory. Akuyun wasn’t in love with
war, but after years of administrative work dealing with political and civilian
issues on Caedellium, a field position would be a welcomed change. His current
rank was equivalent to a division commander, so a promotion to the field would
likely be as second-in-command in a corps at a major front. Command of a
reserve corps or facing a lesser enemy was also possible. Any would suit him.

He turned in his swivel chair and pulled one of several
cords hanging from the ceiling. Elsewhere in the headquarters, the other end of
the cord rang a small bell. Within seconds, a runner appeared in front of his
desk, as he finished a short note.

“Take this to my wife.”

The soldier took the paper, saluted, and ran off. Rabia
would pack an overnight valise for him, since he would spend the night in
Rocklyn. He didn’t fancy riding even in a comfortable carriage the sixty-mile
round trip in one day.

Next, he wrote a memo to his senior commanders to alert them
that the Buldorians had arrived. There was nothing for them to do at the
moment, but he assiduously kept his immediate subordinates apprised of
everything relevant. He turned and pulled a different cord. This time, a clerk
came in.

“Copy this memo and send copies, except the last paragraph,
to Commanders Zulfa, Metin, Erdelin, and Ketin. Send the complete copy to
Assessor Hizer.” The added words “invited” Hizer to accompany himself and
Kalcan to Rocklyn. The assessor wasn’t formally a subordinate, so Akuyun
couldn’t order him to accompany them. The Buldorians would coordinate with the
Narthani navy, and Hizer would provide intelligence on targets for the Buldorian
raids.

Rocklyn,
Abandoned Fishing Village, Preddi Province

The three Narthani leaders left Preddi City at first
light. The morning sun vanished behind a weather front that blew in, and light
rain began falling halfway to Rocklyn. Heavier rain didn’t come until they were
within a few miles of the village; otherwise, the dirt roads would have turned
to mud. As it was, they made the thirty-mile trip in four hours. Akuyun used
the time to go over every detail of the mission plans and the Buldorians’ role.
Not that either Kalcan or Hizer didn’t already know everything, but Akuyun
never missed an opportunity to reinforce every man’s position and duties. Even
so, they talked it out within two hours, followed by an hour of conversation
about home and families. The final hour was quiet, as they crested a low hill
and saw the fishing village.

“There they are,” noted Hizer, pointing to three Buldorian
vessels docked at the village harbor, while the other four anchored two to
three hundred yards offshore.

“And there we are,” responded Kalcan.

Two Narthani sloops and three frigates were anchored seaward
of the Buldorian ships, ostensibly to provide protection when the Buldorian
crews were ashore, but also reminding the Buldorians in whose waters they
sailed.

The village itself consisted of two dozen structures assumed
to be meeting houses, warehouses, shops, and homes of more prominent Preddi.
Surrounding this cluster were forty to fifty smaller houses and huts, enough
for an original population of four hundred. Though the village citizens had
avoided most of the harsher consequences of the Narthani conquest, the last
three hundred had been forcibly moved to allow the village to serve as the
isolated base of operations for the Buldorians.

The two carriages and fifty Narthani cavalry escort covered
the last mile to the village and stopped at one of the larger structures, where
a Narthon banner flew from the roof and where several soldiers waited for the
new arrivals. Major Saljurk dismounted from his horse, spoke with an awaiting
junior officer, and came back to Akuyun’s carriage.

“The Buldorian commander is at the dock. Shall I send for
him right away?”

“No,” said Akuyun, “tell him we’ll meet him here in an hour.
That’ll give us a chance to stretch our bones after the trip and get something
to eat.”

Exactly one hour later, Major Saljurk ushered Musfar Adalan
into a room where Akuyun, Kalcan, and Hizer waited. Akuyun smiled and rose to
greet the Buldorian commander. The smile was genuine, since he appreciated
punctuality and sensed it boded well for these mercenaries’ coming performance.
However, the smile was the closest they came to contact—clasping of hands or
arms was reserved for close associates, not between a Narthani general and
Buldorian raiders.

“I’m pleased to see you, Captain Adalan, and right on time,
as we agreed. I take this to mean a good start to our relationship. I hope your
voyage here went well.”

“Thank you, General. Yes, everything was smooth. No weather
or other problems, and all seven ships and crews are ready to begin.”

“Fine, fine. And you will begin soon, but after
spending a couple of days meeting with Assessor Hizer.” Akuyun used an arm to
indicate the man sitting next to him. “He is in overall charge of information
gathering and will be selecting targets and coordinating the raids. Also,
Admiral Kalcan will want to inspect your ships, and you’ll be meeting with him
to go over coordinating naval issues.”

Adalan was a master at concealing his thoughts, a talent
that served him well to hide his exasperation. By all the Gods that might
be, these Narthani loved to hear themselves talk! He thought they just
liked to be sure everyone else knew they were in command. Not that the
Buldorian commander didn’t appreciate good intelligence information, but he had
dealt with the Narthani before and anticipated being told the same information
over and over and over.

Patience, Musfar. They’re paying for your time by setting
this up for us, so you shouldn’t complain too much.

“No problem, General. I look forward to our meetings.” To
the facile lie, he added a flamboyant gesture touching forehead, lips, and
chin, assuring himself the Narthani didn’t realize the order of touching was
reverse a standard Buldorian gesture of respect and indicated the target should
do something quite rude with the member between his legs.

Akuyun was thorough in everything he did. There were three
ex-Buldorians among the tradesmen brought in to resettle Caedellium, one of
whom was a clever and fervent convert to the Narthon Empire and a willing tutor
in the more relevant Buldorian customs.

The general’s pleasant demeanor never wavered. So, our
good captain tells me to go fuck myself, Akuyun thought, amused, though he
showed no emotion. Never mind. As long as he does what we brought them here
for, I don’t care what he thinks to himself or what he thinks he’s slipping
past me.

“Then, if it’s agreeable, let’s begin the briefings right
away. I’m sure you and your men are eager to start.”

Adalan barely managed to hide his surprise. He had been
prepared for the Narthani to blather on. He recognized a different kind of
Narthani than he’d dealt with before. This one was not one to be
underestimated. While it didn’t quite rise to the level of worry, the Buldorian
wasn’t as sure as he had been moments earlier that the Narthani didn’t know he
had been insulted.

“In that case, General, I need to send for my captains, if
we are to begin immediately. Shall we reconvene in half an hour?”

First Target

It was near sunset when Hizer and Kalcan finished
summarizing what they believed the Buldorians needed to know about Caedellium,
including general topography, clan structure, types of weapons, most likely
defenses the raiders would face, and enough detail of the coast and the nearby
waters to begin. Sets of maps had been distributed, and the Buldorians asked
many questions. Adalan, his second-in-command cousin, and the other ship’s
captains were attentive to every detail. Akuyun was satisfied the mercenaries
knew their business.

Hizer ended the briefings. “And that, gentlemen, is our
overview for you. Now, I’m sure you’re interested in the first target we’ve
selected.”

Saljurk handed each Buldorian another map showing an
expanded view of a section of the islands making up Seaborn Province off the
northwest coast of Caedellium. A settlement was prominently marked.

“This is your first target, the fishing village of Nollagen
on the southernmost island of Seaborn Province. The population is about 400,
and, as far as we know, the Seaborn Clan doesn’t maintain a regular militia or
security force of any kind. They believe their isolation and relative poverty
protect them from such needs.”

Hizer paused, as he noticed frowns from several of the
Buldorian captains. “I realize this is not as attractive a target as you were
expecting or as attractive as future targets, but we chose this one for the
first raid. Resistance should be minimal for a force your size. Other
settlements are far enough distant to minimize help arriving before you finish
with the village, and news of the raid will take time to reach the other clans,
meaning you should be able to carry out another raid or two before other clans
are warned.”

Not all of the captains appeared mollified, but Adalan
accepted the arguments. Not that he thought there would be a problem with going
directly to a richer target, but he agreed with the Narthani that careful
preparation was never unnecessary. If everything worked as expected, there
would be opportunities for better spoils.

Admiral Kalcan took over the meeting and went over surveys
of the coast around Nollagen, using the maps to point out beaches, reefs,
coves, inland terrain, and other details his sloops had gathered from a year of
careful patrols and mappings. The degree of detail alerted Musfar.

“Pardon, Admiral. I don’t see how you got such impressive
details simply by observing from offshore.”

It was Hizer who answered. “That’s because the Admiral’s
data is supplemented with observations on shore. You don’t need to know other
details.”

While Adalan would have liked to learn more, he was
satisfied. Obviously, the Narthani had agents in place within the Seaborn Clan
and therefore likely among all of the clans. They might be genuine Narthani
spies or paid Caedelli. Either way, he was reassured the information being
given him had multiple sources.

Hizer continued, addressing Adalan. “We would like you to
think about what you’ve heard these last hours and propose how you would carry
out the raid on Nollagen. Let’s meet again tomorrow at mid-morning to go over
your plan.”

Nollagen, Fishing Village,
Seaborn Province

Senwina Kardyl roused from her sleep. Their small
house was dark, but noise got through her dreams. A tone overlaid with
distress. Still half asleep, she automatically reached out to the cradle beside
her bed where six-month-old Onyla slept. The baby hadn’t stirred. Senwina
tucked her arm back under the blanket and rolled toward her husband’s warmth,
when she heard shouts. Many shouts. The walls of their home were thick stone to
keep out the rain and dampness endemic to this part of southern Seaborne
Province, so she couldn’t make out the words being yelled, but there were many
voices.

She rose to one elbow and turned up the whale oil lantern on
the table next to their bed. The lit lantern was a luxury they permitted
themselves when they had their first child. Now fully awake and trying to
understand what she was hearing, she sat up.

“Kort,” she whispered, so to not wake the baby or their
five-year-old son, Allyr. Kort didn’t respond. She put a hand on his shoulder
and rocked him. “Kort,” she repeated, louder. He grunted. She shook him hard
with both hands and yelled, “Kort! Wake up! Something’s happening in the
village!”

“Wha . . . ?” her husband croaked.

“KORT!! SOMETHINGS HAPPENING IN THE VILLAGE!”

Kort’s eyes flashed open with her fourth and loudest prompt.
He sat up, listened for a moment, threw off the covers, and ran to the main
door. “I’ll see what’s happening.” He could hear yelling and other noises, even
through their walls. His first thought was a fire, the only occasion in his
lifetime he’d experienced similar turmoil.

Senwina remained sitting up in bed, watching through the
bedroom door into the main room and a view to her husband opening the outer
door. Instead of the darkness expected, she could see reflections of fire on
the door and the jamb. The faint noise changed to ferocious pandemonium when
the door opened. Yelling in Caedelli and some other language, screams, cries,
clashes, animals joining in. Kort stood frozen for several seconds, then
slammed the door shut, jammed the wooden locking arm into its brackets, and
turned toward the bedroom. Even in the low light, she could see the fear in his
eyes.

“Get the children and go out the back door!”

She stared, frozen, as he ran into Allyr’s bedroom. Then she
threw off the covers, jumped to her feet, and grabbed Onyla from her cradle.

A moment later, he appeared in the bedroom doorway, carrying
their son in his arms. He ran to her, grabbed an arm, and pulled her out of the
bedroom, dragging them toward the back door.

“People are attacking the village!” he choked out. “Many of
them. They’re everywhere!”

Someone tried to open the front door and then pounded on the
heavy wood—the sound of an ax. They could hear wood splitting.

“Go!” he yelled to her, setting Allyr down and shoving him
into her. “Run into the woods and keep running! Don’t look back! Run for your
lives!”

“Kort! You’re coming, too?” she cried, the baby in her left
arm, her right hand gripping Allyr’s small one.

“I’ll be right behind you, now run!!” He opened the
back door and looked out into the darkness. Their house was on the edge of the
village, so there were no more structures between them and the woods fifty
yards away. He pushed her out the door. She stumbled toward the darkness of the
woods, when she thought she heard Kort say, “Take care of the children.” She
turned in time to see Kort close the door. In that last moment, her mind noted
that he appeared to be holding his fisherman’s knife. Then she ran, barefoot,
clad in only her nightshirt, clutching Onyla and pulling Allyr behind her. She
was too afraid to cry or feel the rocks bruising and cutting her feet, focusing
only on the woods and holding her children. She was within a few yards of the
first trees when a hand shoved her in the back. She lost hold of Allyr, as she
fell and twisted to avoid landing on the baby.

Flames covered the entire village, reaching thirty feet
above the main buildings, illuminating everything within the line of sight for
a mile in all directions, including the smoke billowing upward and drifting
from the onshore breeze. Musfar Adalan waited on the main dock. He hadn’t led
the assault and wouldn’t come ashore on subsequent raids, but for this first
one he wanted to get a feel for the island and its peoples. His men had rowed
straight to the dock from their ships anchored offshore. There had been no
watch by the villagers, no one to alert what was to come, no defensive
positions, no general alarm, no organized resistance once his men burst into
the village itself. Only the cries from the Caedelli met his men, as they
plundered from structure to structure. Adalan was pleased it had gone quickly,
but not pleased with the disorder of his men once they realized they faced
little opposition. It wouldn’t always be this easy. There would be measures
taken to ensure discipline was maintained.

Still, he had to admit the Narthani information was
accurate. He watched as the four wounded and one dead of his men were loaded on
a longboat and rowed to a waiting ship. One of the wounded told Adalan he had
been injured by a single villager, who had also injured a second raider and
killed a third. The wounded man begrudgingly admitted that the villager,
wielding a wicked fisherman’s knife, had put up a ferocious fight in a house’s
darkness before dying of a dozen wounds. Adalan took the account to heart. This
village may have fallen easily, but that didn’t mean the islanders couldn’t
fight.

His men set fire to the buildings nearest the dock, having
saved those for last. Several longboats of booty had already been to the ships
and returned to shore. Now it was time for the last of the captives and his
men. A line of the former were led to the boats, a dozen at a time, linked to
thirty-foot sections of rope by nooses tightened around their necks. They were
females and boys of three to seven years—the age limit for male captives. Some
of the captives were too shocked to show expressions; others were crying, all
stumbling along. At the end of this rope was a woman holding a baby and a small
boy clinging to her leg. She would bring a good price. Still young, comely
enough, and obviously fertile. If she were lucky, a buyer would take all three.
Otherwise, she might never see the children again after the auction, especially
the boy.

Yes, it had gone well enough, Adalan thought, but they’d
need to go over the raid in detail before the next one. They wouldn’t all be
this easy.

Chapter 23: Earth Fades

Forgetting

The summer moved toward fall. The contrasting green of Earth
and the darker foliage of Anyar became more distinct, as leaves turned shades
anticipating colors to come. Scattered yellows to reds of Earth and blues and
purples of Anyar already graced the higher elevations.

Yozef nestled under several blankets, out of which poked his
face to take in the cool air coming from the open window. One eye opened to
note the morning light, then closed again. He turned and stretched under the
covers, feeling . . . good. He drifted in and out of sleep for the next hour,
coming awake enough to know he was too comfortable to get up yet and then
drifting under again. He had to get up. There were things to do. Things he wanted
to do. Things he was eager to do, which was . . . odd, he thought. He
couldn’t remember ever being this eager at Berkeley. The effort pulled up other
memories of his previous life. He could picture Julie’s voice, her face, her
body, her smell. Her favorite stuffed animal—a bear, saved from childhood—was
named . . . what? He couldn’t recall the name. His forehead wrinkled.

Why can’t I remember the damn name? I saw the bear every
day, and we joked about a third tenant in our apartment. We carried on
conversations with it, as if it were another person. What was its name?

He searched other memories: family, school, television,
Berkeley, books. English! It had been an Anyar year since he’d heard anyone
speak English, except for talking to himself. He still carried on audible
English conversations with himself but found speaking Caedelli easier and
easier. The initial need to translate everything through English was fading.
The periods of remembering were also less frequent. Snuggled under the covers,
he realized he hadn’t thought about Earth for several days.

Earth? Why did I think “Earth” instead of “home?” I
should have thought, “Thinking about home.”

He mulled this for several minutes. Earth. Anyar. Home.

Home wasn’t Berkeley or his parents’ house where he was
raised or even Earth. It was … but wasn’t. Then where? Here in Caedellium? He
didn’t know. There was a sense of having lost something he hadn’t been aware of
possessing, overlaid with the sense of the need to find something he couldn’t
quite identify.

Sounds coming from another room diverted his thoughts. His
attention shifted to his nose. Biscuits and bacon. Elian in the kitchen
making breakfast. Sourdough biscuits that could have come from his mother’s
kitchen. A not-quite-bacon smoked meat made from a wild herbivore—a slothin.
His stomach growled. Confusion set aside for the moment, he rose and dressed.
Life went on. Breakfast and then head to the shops.

Fair Practices

The months whirled past Yozef. The ether business had taken
off, with orders coming in from a dozen provinces and ether production handled
by the workshop crew with minimal oversight by Yozef. He stopped in
occasionally to check whether they were maintaining safety procedures. The men
acted skeptical of his early warnings, until their cavalier attitude to Yozef’s
safety obsession tempered after a lesson in the explosive potential of ether.
Fortunately, singed hair, missing eyebrows, red skin, and moderate shop repairs
were the extent of the event.

Freed from constant attention to ether and ethanol
production, Yozef’s attention had shifted to soap. The single Abersford soap
maker, Pollar Penwick, produced a single bar soap used for both body and
clothes. The bar cleaned but was harsh and gave Yozef a mild rash if he rubbed
himself too hard. Penwick’s initial skepticism that there would be markets for
different soaps converted to enthusiasm with the demand for the first two
products. By the time Yozef was ready to move on to other projects, the soap
maker was producing other bars, liquid soaps, soaps better for clothes, and
harsher versions for industrial-level cleaning. Not all products were well
received by the citizen of Abersford and surroundings, but enough were that
orders increased each sixday.

The soap maker expanded into a small factory set outside
Abersford and near the new spirits production facility in an area Yozef now
called his “industrial park.” He wasn’t interested in following the soap
business and was happy to have better soaps for himself and a cut of new
profits—content to let Penwick reap most of the benefits. Months passed, and he
assumed all proceeded well in the soap world, until Cadwulf noticed several
wagons loading at the soap factory late one night and then moving with
deliberate stealth down the road toward Gwillamer Province. Exactly what
Cadwulf was doing in the middle of the night in the village Yozef never asked,
but he suspected it involved one of the village’s young females. Whatever the
cause of his presence, Cadwulf shared with Yozef his suspicion that not all
records of soap shipments were accurate.

Over Penwick’s protests, Yozef insisted Cadwulf examine
mandated operation records, which confirmed his suspicions. Penwick had
recorded only half of the soap production, as required by their partnership.

Yozef, with Cadwulf and Carnigan beside him—Carnigan, in case
they needed intimidation or security—confronted Penwick. After first denying
any impropriety, he admitted the obvious, though instead of being apologetic,
the shameless Penwick told Yozef that since they had no written agreement filed
with the district registrar he was under no obligation to share anything with
Yozef, and that Yozef should be grateful he was getting any share of the
new business at all. Although customs and laws of Keelan were on the side of
the soap maker, who had counted on Yozef’s reputation for being mild-mannered,
the brazenness turned out to be a monumental mistake.

“You mean he gets away with cheating me!” Yozef ranted after
the meeting with Penwick.

“I’m sorry, Yozef, but it’s not considered cheating, since
you didn’t follow the requirement to register such agreements. Everyone will
see Penwick as untrustworthy, but they’d see you as stupid for not protecting
yourself.”

“And how about yourself?” Carnigan dug at Cadwulf, who
blushed.

“Carnigan’s right. It’s also my fault. You were handling the
soap making, and I was so involved with the bank, I assumed you remembered the
lessons about registering all transactions. I’m sorry, Yozef, blame also has to
rest on me.”

Yozef took several deep breaths. “All right. I screwed up,
and you didn’t help, Cadwulf, but the result is that Penwick gets away with
stealing, or whatever else you call it?”

“Sorry again, Yozef,” Cadwulf said. “But yes, that’s the way
it is.”

Yozef’s fiery anger abated into cold fury. “So be it.
I have enough money to live well, but I hate being screwed over by a dickhead.
If I couldn’t get Penwick to give me my agreed-on share, I’ll take all of
his business.”

Yozef spent the next three hours querying Cadwulf, then
Filtin Fuller and brewer Galfor on Keelan business customs. Caedellium had no
history with excessive monopolies. The deliberate undercutting of competition
to drive them out of business was not yet so serious an issue on Caedellium as
to need intervention by a district boyerman or the clan hetman. By the same time
the next day, Yozef had hired away half of the workers in the soap factory,
bought a building, and arranged for construction of all of the needed
facilities for making soaps. Within two sixdays, they were operational and
selling soap at half the price it cost to make, with Yozef easily absorbing the
losses from his ether and ethanol income. Within another two sixdays, Penwick
failed to secure intervention by the abbot, the district boyerman, and a final
appeal to the Keelan Hetman. Two sixdays later, the soap maker attempted to
meet to apologize and repay the debt. Yozef ignored the overture. A month
later, the soap maker closed his shop, sold all of his holdings in Abersford,
and moved to Adris Province to start a new soap business. Before he left, Yozef
sent him a letter explaining that he would consider their original arrangement
still active in Adris. Yozef would get his originally agreed-on share, and as
long as that happened, he wouldn’t repeat driving Penwick out of business no
matter where he moved on Caedellium.

As for the soap workers, all ended up working for Yozef’s
soap factory at higher pay than before. The senior worker, one of the first to
jump to Yozef, was given a share to manage the business, and even then, Yozef’s
share of the profits was more than with Penwick.

Cadwulf and Carnigan saw to it that details of the soap
maker’s fate widely circulated. The lesson learned by the Abersford soap maker
was hard, and the episode became incorporated into descriptions of the strange man
who had washed up on a Caedellium beach. A mild-mannered man of average
appearance, except for unusual light-bluish-gray eyes. An honest man, generous
to workers, teller of jokes—and ruthless if crossed.

Harvest Festival

Days grew shorter, temperatures lowered, and foliage peaked
in a kaleidoscope of color. Yozef stood mesmerized, facing the forested hills
north of Abersford. He’d thought New England in the fall was spectacular the
one time he’d visited at the right time. But THIS!

The End-of-Harvest Festival fell on a perfect day. Wispy
clouds set off a bright midday sun and a blue sky. Only the occasional tinge of
coolness in the breeze foretold of the coming winter and shortening days. The
two-day event bustled and sprawled across a large field between Abersford and
the abbey. All work stopped for those two days, and half of Yozef’s workers had
failed to show up for work the day before to prepare for various events and
competitions. Now, Yozef stood among the throng attending the opening ceremony
speeches, most mercifully short.

He estimated well over a thousand people stood listening,
and even more busied themselves elsewhere on the grounds—several times more
people than the entire population of Abersford and the abbey. He wondered how
many miles away some of them had come from?

With the festival officially open, Yozef dispersed with the
others to sample the offerings of the tents and the stands set up across acres
in all directions. Much of the festival resembled a rural fair in the United
States or a 4H gathering, showing off prize animals, holding competitions for
sizes of vegetables and animals, and displaying pumpkin-like gourds, leather,
metal, and wood crafts. The festival featured tradesman stands, gambling, foot
races, and other activities Yozef never identified.

The sounds of the festival beat on his eardrums: people
talking, animals vocalizing, and everywhere music from all quarters and a
myriad combination of instruments and voices, individuals and groups, all
lively. Yozef wandered among the crowd, stopping at a craft table here, a food
judging there, and lingering near music that caught his ear. Some performances
seemed planned and others spontaneous, with performers claiming an open space
to sing or play. It was Yozef’s first exposure to the full range of Caedellium
instruments: drums and stringed instruments of all sizes and sounds, wind and
brass horns, and instruments of whose categorization he was uncertain. The
bagpipe-like performances he moved past quickly, then stopped in wonderment
before what resembled a kazoo quintet. The five small, bulbous instruments were
each of slightly different shape, with sounds reminiscent of oboes and flutes.

Yozef turned away from the kazoo performance and spied
Cadwulf waving to him through the human stream.

“Yozef, I wondered if I’d find you here somewhere. How are
you enjoying all this?”

“Quite an impressive assortment of displays. Is the festival
always this large?”

“This is normal. It’s tame right now and best for families.
After sundown, it gets rowdier when the women and the children go home, and the
men drink more. It used to be worse, but when I was about six years old, Hetman
Keelan ordered that no alcohol be served at festivals until sundown. Since
then, more people attend and stay longer. At the time it wasn’t the most
popular ruling from the hetman, though now most see it worked for the best.”

“Is there any recommended order to what I should try to
see?”

“No. I’ll walk with you awhile and answer any questions.”

The two of them started down a row of leather-goods
displays, when they became three after finding Filtin Fuller examining a
leather vest and haggling with the maker. When Cadwulf called out, Filtin
dropped the vest back on the table, said something to the disappointed
tradesman, and wove his way to where they waited.

“Where’s the family, Filtin?” asked Cadwulf.

“Nerlin and the children are off looking at coneys, colts,
and the food preserve exhibits and contests. I have leave to do anything else
and meet back with them in two bells.”

Cadwulf gave Filtin a sardonic grin. “So your wife decides
what you can do?”

“My wife is a wise woman. She knows how bored I am with
those parts of festivals she finds most interesting, so she doesn’t drag me to
them. She also knows I’ll be in a better mood for later when the children get
tired.”

“A wise woman indeed,” laughed Yozef. By now, Filtin was
close to being an indispensable worker and was also a friend. Besides being
Yozef’s chief equipment designer and craftsman, Filtin was a sometimes drinking
companion and someone around whom Yozef’s mood always seemed to lift, possibly
because Filtin’s bright complexion, short red beard, and round face, when
combined with a habitually optimistic disposition, reminded Yozef of a
Christmas ornament.

“Filtin, Cadwulf is educating me on Caedellium harvest
festivals. How about joining us to add to my enlightenment?”

“Glad to . . . until I’m summoned back by the wife.”

In the next hour, Yozef learned to distinguish the three
breeds of milk cows, how to estimate the weight of an ox, how a roasted merkon
(mussel-like) tasted (bad), and that the muddleton berry jam prepared by
Filtin’s wife was the best in the district (Yozef couldn’t tell the difference,
so he lied). Cadwulf seemed to have little interest in the fair itself, but his
two compatriots noticed his roving eye whenever they passed young women.

Yozef elbowed Filtin. “I don’t know why Cadwulf even
pretends to do anything else besides fishing for girls.”

“Fishing for girls? Hah! I’ll remember that one.” Then, addressing
the younger man, he asked, “Any bites today?”

Cadwulf smiled good-naturedly, “A few nibbles. A good
fisherman knows how to be patient.”

“What about you, Yozef?” queried Filtin. “You’re of
marriageable age, becoming a wealthy man, and person of note in Abersford. Any
women catching your eye? Or should I ask if you’ve already been fishing, and
there are catches you haven’t told us about?”

The question hovered around Yozef’s consciousness for several
steps, then coalesced, and he froze. The other two men continued several steps,
oblivious to their diminished number before missing him, then stopped and
looked back.

Women. Sex. He’d been here nine months, a full Anyar
year, and he hardly remembered thinking about sex. How could that be? Had the
Watchers done something to him during the “repair job”? A chill trickled down
his arms and back, not only at the thought of a life without sex, but of what
else they might have done to him.

“Yozef?” asked Cadwulf. “Are you all right?”

He stared at the others. “I just realized I haven’t thought
about women that way the whole time I’ve been on Caedellium,” he said in a tone
both wondering and worrying. “That doesn’t seem natural.”

“It’s not!” said a concerned Filtin, as he and Cadwulf
stepped back to where Yozef still stood. “A grown man has his normal needs. Uh
. . . you say you haven’t thought about women that way, but . . . uh . . .
surely, you must have noticed being ‘aroused.’ Maybe when asleep or daydreaming?”

“Aroused? What—? Oh, you mean an erection. Not that I
remember.”

“Not at all?” blurted Cadwulf. “I guess the shock of being
washed up here and knowing you’d never see your homeland again might have
something to do with it. Maybe you should see the medicants about it?”

“Somehow I don’t see myself discussing my sex life with
Brother Dyllis or Sister Diera.”

“Doesn’t have to be those two. Brother Alber would be
understanding, and no one thinks he’d tell of your confidence,” offered
Cadwulf.

“Why go to the medicants when you’ve two perfectly good
advisors right next to you?” chortled Filtin.

“Practical advice we might give,” said Cadwulf dryly, “but
if there are medical problems, he needs to see the medicants.”

“He can always do that later, after seeing if our advice
helps. Right here and now is the perfect opportunity to survey the women of
Abersford and see if any gives Yozef a ‘rise’ in interest.”

Both Filtin and Cadwulf laughed. Yozef was less amused.

“Now, now, Filtin,” said Cadwulf, “it’s important to let
Yozef know which women might be available. We don’t want our mysterious friend
and employer to get into trouble with the magistrates or irate husbands and
family members.”

For the next half hour, they alternated between experiencing
exhibits and a running commentary on the names, attributes, and availability of
Abersford women. At first, Yozef cringed at the degree of detail, although it
was all done with good humor, and the ribald nature of the comments paired with
an unmistakable undertone tone of respect.

“Cania Narberth. Now there’s a good-looking woman,”
whispered Filtin, as they passed a black-haired woman in her late twenties. “To
bad she had to get married. She and I had some times.”

“Before he was married,” added Cadwulf.

Filtin continued his running travelogue, as they passed a
teenage girl with long auburn hair. “Ah, one of Gerrael Horsham’s daughters.
Elwin is her name or something close to it. A little young yet, but in another
year or two our young Cadwulf will sniff around her.”

Cadwulf laughed. “No, in this case. It’s best to avoid
complications with more than one woman in the same family.”

“You dog,” laughed Filtin, “I assume that refers to the
oldest daughter, Rhawna?”

Cadwulf sniffed. “An honorable man does not discuss such
details among common louts such as yourself.”

“I’ll have you know I am not a common lout,” declared
Filtin. “It takes effort to stay an uncommon one!”

Although Yozef told them he had not had thoughts of women,
meaning sex, since he arrived, what he realized was that he had not consciously
had such thoughts. He had been noticing females more lately, though he
hadn’t realized how much until minutes ago. As it always seemed here,
realization of one issue raised more questions and problems.

Trying to sound nonchalant, he asked, “Exactly what are
the customs here on Caedellium, as far as men and women are concerned?”

“I assume you don’t mean how they dress different,” replied
Cadwulf with a mischievous grin.

“He means how do they undress,” ribbed Filtin. “Or
more to the point, how does a man get a woman to lie back and spread her legs.”

Yozef’s face heated. “I mean, if they’re attracted to each
other, what are the customs here? What’s considered appropriate behavior?”

“Appropriate behavior?” said Filtin. “That all depends on who
you ask.”

“True,” Cadwulf conceded. “The Word sanctions the
union of husband and wife but is not clear on non-husband and non-wife. You can
get the theophists to argue endlessly over the issue without coming to a
consensus. What the Word emphasizes is the responsibility to care for
any children that result.”

Filtin’s jovial expression became more serious, as he
listened to Cadwulf’s words. “And it must be that the woman is both of a
reasonable age and willing.”

Cadwulf nodded. “Definitions and customs vary. What is
defined as ‘appropriate age’? Parents will believe it’s several years older
than the girl does. There’s also some sense that a person is less respectable
if he or she is too frequent or public in relationships with the other
sex. On the other hand, it’s a fairly common custom for two such persons to
acknowledge the relationship in front of others, in case a child results. That
way, there is evidence of fatherhood, if necessary.”

“That sounds better than what really goes on,” Filtin
qualified. “Too often, there’s some reason not to want to be public, such as
embarrassment or the perceived objections of family or friends. Not to mention
that opportunity and urges might not fit with planning or rational thought.”

“True,” said Cadwulf, “which is why, whether fair or not,
the burden falls more on the woman to be sure of circumstances and intentions.
Especially since she needs to know her monthly bleeding cycle. Unless she’s too
much a simpleton, she knows that the chances of getting with child are greatest
the sixdays around her time.”

“That gives her at about four sixdays each month when it’s
safe, if she wants to avoid getting pregnant,” said Filtin.

Hmmm . . . considered Yozef. That’s interesting. The
larger of the two moons here had a thirty-six-day orbit pattern. The month
divisions were matched on the same cycle, and women here must have their
ovulation cycles synchronized with the moons, as on Earth, except here it was
thirty-six days, instead of twenty-eight. So, for maybe two-thirds of each
month, a woman here could have intercourse with a lower risk of pregnancy,
assuming she was regular and kept accurate track.

I wonder what this means for customs on extramarital sex?

Before he could ask, Filtin answered.

“Mothers teach daughters to be aware once they start their
monthly bleedings, but when she reaches her full size, she’s considered an
adult and responsible in this matter.”

“That coincides with reaching what’s considered the usual
marriageable age of seventeen,” added Cadwulf.

Seventeen? Yozef did a quick conversion. That was
about fifteen years on Earth.

“So, if I understand, when she’s of marriageable age she
might start to engage in sex. Are there any restrictions for age or position of
the man?”

Cadwulf shrugged. “While it’s not considered good behavior
for a man too much older to have relations with a much younger woman,
that’s her responsibility.”

The two Caedelli continued with Yozef’s sex education class
for several more minutes. Yozef listen carefully. It was evident relations were
condoned outside of marriage.

“Ah . . . is there any problem with . . . ah . . . illnesses
passed between a man and a woman when they have sex?”

“Diseases?” queried Filtin. “Why would there be? Sex between
men and women is natural. Why would God design diseases to prevent it?”

“Oh, just wondering,” said Yozef. So, no STDs came along
with the transplantation from Earth. I wonder whether that was planned or a
side effect of sampling from small, isolated populations? Of course, with those
nanomachines or whatever, that wouldn’t supposedly be a problem for me, anyway.

“What about relations between two people who are already
married to others?”

Filtin grunted. “That’s different.”

Cadwulf agreed solemnly. “There might be room for different
interpretations of women and men outside of marriage, but the Word is
very specific once you’re married. To violate the marriage bed is a major sin.”

Filtin nodded agreement. “And for even the less observing
people of the Word, there’re the practical implications. Inheritance
goes through children of the couple. Children from infidelity can be excluded
from inheritance. Husbands can divorce their wives if the women have been
unfaithful.”

“In theory,” said Cadwulf. “Though if most of the property
was originally the wife’s, it reverts to her, so husbands might be hesitant to
divorce in those cases and just take it out on the wife by beating her. Another
option is to accuse the other man of infringing on the marriage and ask for a
monetary penalty. That requires making it all public, shaming everyone
involved, and having proof a magistrate will accept.”

“Can a wife divorce a husband for his being unfaithful?”

Filtin looked surprised. “The wife divorcing the husband?
That rarely ever happens.”

“Except for cases like you saw in the justice session,”
Cadwulf chimed in. “You must understand that in a divorce, unless there are
extenuating circumstances, the children and the property of the couple go with
the father and his family, if the father demands it. This means that if there
are legitimate children, the wife might only ask for divorce if the husband
didn’t want the children or any property that once belonged to her. Otherwise,
she’d have to go back to her family with no children and no possessions, except
her clothing.”

“And you don’t see this system as putting more burden on the
woman than on the man?” queried a disgusted Yozef.

Filtin raised an eyebrow. Though he didn’t say anything,
Yozef interpreted the expression as, “What are you talking about?”
Cadwulf seemed to consider this a novel idea, although he simply said this was
the custom.

By now, they’d made almost a complete circuit of the fair
and stopped, as they considered what to do next. A stocky woman walked by,
nodded to the two Caedelli, and bestowed a longer smile and look at Yozef. He
found his gaze lingering as she walked away. Did her hips swing a little more
than necessary or was it his imagination? And she wasn’t so much stocky as
sturdy, with well-shaped calves and arms. She looked about thirty, with
brownish hair somewhat bleached looking, he assumed from the sun, since her
face showed weathering with only the beginnings of lines that would deepen with
age.

Filtin elbowed Yozef back to attention. “Well, I see you’re
not totally oblivious to women. Actually, that one might be a good
candidate for you.”

Cadwulf frowned reproachfully at the other man but
grudgingly agreed.

“She looks familiar,” said Yozef. “Who is she, and why would
she be a candidate, if I was so interested?”

“Her name is Bronwyn Linton,” said Cadwulf. “She sat on the
opposite end of our pew during the justice proceedings last week. I mentioned
her to you. She owns a good-sized farm north of Abersford.”

“And she’s a widow,” Filtin piped up.

“Her husband died about two years ago in an accident on
their farm.”

“And she’s a widow,” repeated Filtin, “who hasn’t bedded a
man in those two years, if the rumors are true.”

“She’s attractive enough, and if she owns a good farm, I’d
expect there’d be many men interested in her,” said Yozef.

“Remember our talking about the shortage of men,” countered
Cadwulf. “She’s a strong woman with good common sense, and there aren’t that
many possibilities for her once you rule out married men. I’m not surprised she
gave you a good look. The one exception to a woman’s property transferring to a
new husband is if they register that agreement. She almost certainly knows who
you are, the mysterious stranger who is becoming wealthy and is unmarried.
Therefore, she knows there’s more chance she could keep ownership of the farm
if you married.”

At that moment, Filtin’s wife with two children in tow
interrupted the lesson in Caedellium mating customs. With his free time
expired, the family went off to find a midday meal at the food shops. Cadwulf
also excused himself as having something he needed do, and Yozef found himself
alone again and thinking.

Is This Home?

Yozef walked back to his house as the sun set. It had been a
good day.

Maybe it was time he admitted this was home. Here and now. Not
Berkeley, the United States, or even Earth. Here. Anyar. Caedellium. Abersford.
It wasn’t the life he would have chosen, and he’d always miss what he’d lost,
but here he made a difference. He had friends better than any he’d ever had on
Earth. He was changing the trajectory of Anyar’s future by the knowledge he
introduced, even if no one here realized it now or perhaps ever would in his
lifetime.

He could see the lights from his house. Elian would have
evening meal ready. She had relaxed around him enough to mother him, and even
Brak was almost jovial—at times. He would sleep solidly this night, then rise
in the morning to fill his day with interesting projects. It was a good life.

Chapter 24: A World beyond
Abersford

Yozef accepted himself as introspective. Not that he didn’t
enjoy fellowship, but there were always times he needed solitude to settle his
mind and emotions. His time on Anyar had focused on the abbey complex, then
expanded to Abersford and its immediate surroundings, including his cottage.
When he felt the urge for more isolation, he walked the coast and country west
of Abersford.

The territory was unpopulated, he assumed due to the rough
terrain and lack of roads. At first, he would hike a few miles or more along
the coast and inland. During his initial wanderings, he found a cove with a
picturesque beach a hundred yards wide. At lower tides, the rocks at the
opening of the cove absorbed most of the waves’ power, but during high tides,
major surf broke onshore. The combination of gentle low and the more vigorous
high tides resulted in the sand being kept within the cove, but every day the
beach had at different contour. Rising from the shore, a gentle grassy slope
ended two hundred yards at a tree line of mixed Anyar and Earth species.

The first time he stood at the high-tide mark, Yozef decided
it was perfect. He guessed the distance at about three miles from
Abersford and the abbey; otherwise, he’d have wanted a house right there up
against the trees, close enough to hear the surf, but not too close to the
sound or spray. While hiking back to Abersford, he decided to investigate how
to purchase the land and build a small retreat house.

He frequently returned to the same cove, though as he
explored more, he rode a horse. His horse. Carnigan had selected a small gray
gelding, assured Yozef a child could ride it, and gave him rudimentary riding
lessons—enough to keep Yozef on the horse’s back most of the time.

“Why did you name the horse Seabiscuit?” Carnigan asked the
first time Yozef cursed the unoffending animal after falling off.

“It’s the name of a famous horse back where I came from,”
Yozef groused.

Even Yozef had to admit Carnigan was right. Seabiscuit was
probably the mellowest horse on the island, making him just within Yozef’s ability
to ride. The first few trips from the house to and from the abbey or village
were major adventures, and only later did he ride Seabiscuit to venture farther
afield during his wanderings west of Abersford.

Inland, he discovered the charm and mystery of a multitude
of small valleys, dales, ravines with widely varying terrain, rock formations,
and flora. It was farther along the coast where he stumbled on the resources
for his next enterprise.

Two sixdays after the Harvest Festival, Yozef extended his
wanderings along the beaches and cliffs beyond his cove and came upon what he
ended up calling Birdshit Bay. In retrospect, it wasn’t a bay at all, maybe an
inlet or a fiord, except the enclosing hills were lower than his vision of a
real fiord. Whatever it was called, a mile-long finger of water intruded from
the coast inland. Rocky cliffs framed the quarter-mile-wide and deep central
channel, and at the mouth of the inlet and out to sea sat rock formations up to
a hundred yards across. At first glance, the flat surfaces of the cliff tops
and offshore formations appeared chalk-like. Only after closer examination did
he realize the whitish rock was guano. A cursory survey suggested that twenty-
to forty-foot-deep solidified guano covered the offshore formations, while
those on the cliff tops were up to eight feet thick.

The source of the guano was no mystery; the rocks and the
skies teemed with a menagerie of flying creatures, birds from Earth and Anyarian
murvors. The murvors appeared to be birds from a distance, but up close, they
had more reptilian-like heads and longer, thinner feathers. Both features
indicated a separate evolutionary history to the same niches as Earth’s birds.

Wherever they evolved, the flying creatures seem to get
along with one another. Obviously, they all contributed to the guano, but most
of the deposits must be from the murvors, assuming he was right that birds and
humans had arrived on Anyar about the same time, only a few thousand years ago.

Yozef walked the length of the inlet along the cliff tops
until he reached the end, swarms of flying creatures swirling around him the
whole length, while he thought of fertilizer. Guano contained all of the
major nutrients for plants—nitrogen, phosphate, and potassium. Christ! There
must be enough guano in this one spot to supply most of the entire island’s
fertilizer needs for decades, if not longer. He wondered whether the islanders
already used it for their crops. He’d have to check when he got back. If they
didn’t, maybe this was his next project.

A second use for the guano occurred to him only when he was
in sight of his house and a stray thought included the Narthani. Gunpowder! The
main ingredient was potassium nitrate. It was usually sourced from mineral
deposits but could be isolated from excrement, such as manure piles and guano.
Yes, he remembered. Potassium nitrate could be extracted from bird guano by a
series of filtering and precipitations, but bat guano was a better source. The
South in the U.S. Civil War used guano from bat caves as a major resource in
making gunpowder.

He didn’t know whether the Caedelli made their own powder or
imported it, but if these Narthani were a big enough threat, more sources of
gunpowder might be important. He’d need to check about both fertilizer and
gunpowder.

His inquiries confirmed that guano deposits were common to
the coasts of Caedellium, but its use as fertilizer was unknown.

Not really a surprise, mused Yozef. With so
much fertile land and the island relatively underpopulated, there was no
pressure to increase yields over what they already produced.

As for the farmers using guano to fertilize, the obvious
question was “Why would the Caedellium farmers care if they could increase
their crop yields?” The Narthani embargo of trade resulted in the island’s
farmers producing more than there were markets for.

But this won’t last, Yozef figured. Eventually, trade
would start again, and increased yields from fertilizer would pay off. It
wouldn’t be of any use right away, but fertilizer was a good long-term
investment, even if years from now. He’d also need to investigate whether there
was a market for gunpowder.

To pursue fertilizer production, he needed an action plan.
First was to find out how to buy or lease the land from the current owner.
Then, hire workers to mine enough guano to test, and find farmers willing to
find out how much of this fertilizer to apply, how many times to apply, and
when in the growing season to apply it. Increased yields might not tempt
farmers to cooperate, so he might have to pay farmers for the use of their land
and aid in the experiments. Depending on the cooperation of the farmers, he
might also need to hire someone to manage the tests, both to keep accurate
records and to make sure the farmers didn’t do anything to invalidate the
outcomes.

Filtin Fuller confirmed Yozef’s supposition that inquiries
into property ownership of land needed to be through the clan’s registrar
system. However, the relevant records and changes in ownership had to come at
the district registrar’s office in Clengoth, the district seat fifteen miles
east. Not having his aged Volkswagen Rabbit at hand, Yozef’s next problem was
getting to Clengoth and back. Although his horsemanship had improved, he didn’t
see himself riding Seabiscuit thirty miles.

There being no formal transportation systems on Caedellium,
that left Yozef walking or finding a wagon heading his way and willing to take
passengers. He didn’t mind the idea of a good hike, but not in both directions.

The solution came in the form of an abbey wagon taking a
patient to Clengoth. A man visiting Abersford had broken his leg. Brother Alber
was returning the man home by wagon, with the patient’s horse tied behind. The
man, being moderately prosperous in whatever was his trade, was paying the
abbey for both his treatment and the ride home and was displeased when informed
it would be a working wagon and not a carriage. He was also disgruntled to
learn his paid-for transportation included sharing the ride with other
passengers. His complaint to the abbot was futile, and he endured the trip
alternately sullen and wincing at the harder bounces. However, the abbey
provided him with a straw mattress to lie on, whereas Yozef and the other five
passengers sat on burlap bags containing something round and not quite hard. It
turned out that two of the passengers had the same destination as Yozef—one man
was going to register a major land transaction involving a disputed
inheritance, and the other was the part-time local agent of the registrar
himself and carried a satchel of papers of everyday matters to copy at the
district’s main registrar’s office. The other passengers were a woman visiting
family and a young man who told Yozef he traveled to Hewell Province to a
scholasticum well-known for apothecary training.

The trip to Clengoth took two and a half hours. After
leaving the low hills around Abersford, they rode into the central valley of
the Keelan Province and passed farms separated by scattered groves of trees. It
was the longest trip Yozef had made since waking on Anyar. He would have
enjoyed the experience and the views more, if he hadn’t had to constantly
maintain a semblance of balance while jostling on his assigned bag. Once at
Clengoth, he followed the two men with registrar business to the office, then
roamed the town for an hour until he figured the others had finished.

Clengoth was large enough to be considered a town. He
estimated three thousand citizens, compared to Abersford’s nine hundred or so.
What Clengoth also had was a significant business district with far more
variety and a number of shops. Mixed in with smaller shops were a few with up
to twenty-five workers, enough to be considered small factories.

In addition to the local main abbey they passed on the
outskirts of Clengoth, there were several smaller abbeys in the town, and by
their bells he knew when it was time to find his way back to the registrar’s
office. Inside sat two desks where clerks worked with other customers. Several
straight-back chairs lined against the front wall near the door, and two chairs
were occupied, Yozef assumed, by people waiting for a free clerk. He sat on a
chair and daydreamed until interrupted.

“Next,” said a clerk, who impatiently waved him to the
now-empty chair facing the desk.

“What matter?” barked the clerk.

“I’m interested in buying two pieces of land near Abersford,
but no one there knows who is the owner of the land. I’m told that information
would be kept here.”

“That’s correct. You’ll have to tell me exactly where this
land is. Did you get a map showing the location from the Abersford registrar
agent?”

Yozef hadn’t but reached into the leather portfolio he
carried and withdrew several sheets of paper, each of which unfolded twice to
reveal hand-drawn maps about eighteen inches square. The clerk looked at the
top one, then back at Yozef with a little more interest and respect than
moments earlier.

“Not from the local agent,” Yozef apologized. “I didn’t know
about getting maps from him. I drew the maps myself. Here is a rough map of the
Abersford area, and the land I’m inquiring about is west along the coast.” His
finger traced from Abersford to his cove and to where Birdshit Bay cut into the
shoreline. He then moved to the second, more detailed sheet, which showed only
the two plots and the immediate surrounding land and shore. A heavy line
squared around the cove where he dreamed of a house, and two miles farther west
other lines followed the contours of the inlet a few hundred yards inland and
included the rock formations within the inlet and offshore. “And these are the
two pieces of land I’m interested in purchasing, but I need to find the owner.”

The clerk managed a smile, without cracking his face.
“Excellent maps, Ser. As good as the ones the Abersford agent would have given
you. If only more people understood the importance of good records and maps, it
would make my job much easier. Let me see whether our maps correspond to yours.
If they do, then I should be able to determine ownership.”

The clerk rose and went through a door into the rear of the
building. Since the room with the two clerks was only a fraction of the total
building, Yozef suspected that where the clerk disappeared included a record
repository. Sure enough, a few minutes later the clerk returned with a
two-by-three-foot bound ledger and three rolls of large paper. He checked the
label on one roll, then spread it onto his desk. It was a map of the Abersford
area. Even looking at it upside-down from across the desk, Yozef could
recognize details of the coastline and markings of the abbey and Abersford. The
writings on the map were in three colors—the red and blue ink the first he’d
seen, other than the ubiquitous black.

The black ink divided the land into large sections with blue
or red numbers. Offering no explanation, the clerk mumbled to himself as he
examined the map. Yozef divined that the blue referenced the owner, and red
meant there were many smaller parcels, and a scroll with more detail was
needed. Yozef’s and the official maps were compared to satisfy the clerk that
Yozef’s maps were reasonably drawn, then another roll showed the regions
containing Yozef’s two sites of interest. The first thing Yozef noted was that
most of the region fell within a single marked parcel, with smaller parcels
ending only a mile or so from Abersford.

This means no one owns the land I’m interested in? That
doesn’t seem likely. Someone owns everything.

The clerk examined the official map closely and compared it
to Yozef’s, then looked up. “It appears this is undeveloped land, according to
our records. This usually means the terrain is unsuited to common uses, such as
farming, and no minerals worth mining have been found there. You have examined
the land carefully?”

“Very carefully,” answered Yozef.

“Did you find any signs of present or past occupation or
human activity?”

Yozef shook his head. “Nothing I could see. A few game
trails, but no sign anyone has been there recently.”

The clerk nodded and spoke in the rote cadence of someone
who has said the exact words innumerable times and was hardly aware of what he
was saying.

Sounds like the McDonald’s worker telling a customer,
“Thank you for eating at McDonald’s and have a nice day,” in one breath.

“Then we can register you as the temporary owner, subject to
your showing improvements and use of the land within one year, no other
claimants to the land appearing, and continued use yearly thereafter. Any lapse
in use of the land, and it reverts to the clan.”

At first, Yozef wasn’t sure he knew what the clerk was
saying. When he didn’t respond after a few moments, the clerk looked up,
annoyed.

“Sorry,” Yozef said. “I’m new to Caedellium and not familiar
with the laws and customs. Do you mean this land doesn’t belong to anyone?”

“It belongs to the clan until someone registers its use and
continues that use,” the clerk said in a tone implying, “As any dolt knows.”

“So … I don’t have to buy the land?”

“You can’t buy the land, because it belongs to the
clan. If no one else is using the land, you can try to make something of it. If
you do, then the land is yours as long as it’s being used by you or your heirs.
The same applies to anyone you might sell the land to.” You, double dolt,
being unspoken.

It was logical, once he thought about it. The island was
still underpopulated for its resources. The system worked well now because as
the population grew, people could expand into empty land that the government,
the clan, or whatever, kept in trust until that time. It might work well until
all usable land was taken up, and then they’d have a problem adjusting to a
permanent ownership system.

“In that case, I’d like to register to use these two parcels
of land.”

The clerk opened a drawer and pulled out two forms.

I’ll be damned. Honest to God forms. God knows how far I
am from Earth and still forms!

It was a piece of paper with print and lines and boxes to
fill in. Yozef had read printed books at the abbey but had assumed they were
all imported. The form the clerk handed him had obviously been printed here on
the island, since some of the information asked for was specific to Caedellium.
It wasn’t a long form, but one section asked about the intentions for the
property. He wrote “to build a house” for the parcel at the small cove and
“mining” for the inlet parcel. The clerk took both forms and, to Yozef’s
surprise, didn’t ask the two obvious questions: “Why would anyone build a house
on useless land where there are no roads?” and “Why would you be mining on
beaches and offshore rocks?” Evidently, once the form was filled in, the
bureaucratic attention span ended there, just as on Earth.

Yozef filled out the forms, signed them, and handed them
back to the clerk, who cautioned, “Be sure to place stone markers with the
parcel number chiseled in them. The borders you specified are straight enough
to need markers only at the corners and shoreline. You will need to have the
local registrar agent inspect the sites and the markers in the next three
months to confirm the marker locations.”

With those final instructions, the clerk counter-signed and
stamped the form with a seal, collected twenty krun per parcel, informed Yozef
that a local magistrate would check on the requirements for usage in a year,
and gave Yozef a “deed” spelling out the exact locations and condition. Yozef
walked out of the office with the deeds secured in his satchel, the proud owner
of two parcels, as long as he worked or used the land.

The Anyar sun was still high enough in the clear sky for
Yozef to estimate he had five to six hours of daylight left. Based on his
partial tour of the town and some directions given by the registrar clerk, he
visited shops and bought a backpack, several vials of red and blue ink, some
bread and cheese, two comfortable pairs of shoes for everyday wear, and a
flagon of wine. He packed it all and headed back to Abersford, walking. The
wagon was going back the next day, but he didn’t want to wait. He looked
forward to the walk back, so he could see the countryside from a level,
non-bouncing position. His rear appreciated the plan.

The fifteen miles took him six hours. By the time he got
home, the last light had faded, travel complaints had long ago shifted from his
butt to his feet, and the bread, the cheese, and the wine were only memories.

Chapter 25: Ignition

An Abbey Burns

Musfar Adalan chafed while waiting for word from his cousin
Adel, who’d led the men ashore on their first mainland Caedellium raid. He
understood that his place was to remain with the seven ships anchoring
offshore. The first raid had been an exception, but his days of always leading
from the front were over. His responsibility was to keep control of the ships
and respond if the raid went badly. He didn’t doubt his men understood this,
though the emotional part of him wanted to be ashore, leading his men, as when
he was younger.

Their first raid on the fishing village on the archipelago
of small islands making up the Seaborn Province to the northwest of Caedellium
had gone smoothly, but this was different. Seaborn was isolated, sparsely
populated, and unsuspecting. This time, the target was an abbey complex in
Pewitt Province, less than a hundred sea miles from Seaborn. There was always
the chance that word of the Seaborn raid had reached the main island, and his
men would walk into prepared defenses. Pewitt was also more populated, meaning
help could come faster if they were warned.

The Narthani had been their usual annoying selves, making
arrogant assurances their information about the Pewitt abbey was accurate.
Musfar knew they were sincere and respected the competence of the Narthani
pigs, but sending men ashore was nothing to take lightly, especially since most
of the men were from his own clan. Many were blood relatives, one of whom
Musfar could see in the longboat, rowing back from the shore. Kiltar Adalan was
his eighteen-year-old nephew, the son of one of his many younger brothers. This
was Kiltar’s first action, and he served as Adel’s aide and runner, meaning the
youth would be bringing word on the progress of the raid.

The longboat rowers stowed their oars and secured the boat
against the ship’s hull. Kiltar raced up the rope ladder as only an
eighteen-year-old could, and Musfar smiled at the memories of when he could do
the same.

“Uncle . . . er . . . Captain,” stumbled Kiltar, “I’m to
report the raid went off as planned. The abbey is ours, and the raiding party
is finishing looting and setting the abbey afire. Sub-Captain Adalan says it
will take several boat trips to move everything to the ships.”

While Musfar welcomed the oral report, he already knew the
raid had gone well. The boat delivering Kiltar and Adel’s message was piled
with sacks and boxes he assumed were plunder, and crewmen busied lifting a
dozen bound Caedelli aboard ship. Eight were young women and the rest children
between three and seven years. All would be slaves, either kept by officers as
part of their shares or sent to slave markets. None would ever set foot on
their home soil again.

“Casualties?” asked Musfar.

“Three dead,” Kiltar reported, “and seven wounded, one
severe. Sub-Captain Adalan says they will be on the next boat out.”

“Good report, Kiltar.” Musfar slapped his nephew on the back.
“Get your boat unloaded and back to the shore with you. Tell Sub-Captain Adalan
I’ll move around the cape and closer to shore to speed up the transfers. Off
with you now.”

Kiltar vanished over the side, shouting at the crewman to
hurry with unloading.

The boy was full of himself now and bursting with energy,
but he’d learn it wouldn’t always be this easy. Adel would look after him until
he had enough experience to keep a clear head.

Musfar turned to a signalman standing nearby. “Host signal
flags for all ships to follow us.” The raiding party had put ashore two miles
around a rocky cape hiding the ships, while men moved overland to surprise the
abbey. Concealment was no longer necessary.

He next turned to a senior sailor in charge of cargo. “Get
the prisoners secure in the lower hold, and remind the men to leave the women
alone for now. There’ll be time for them later when we’re loaded and heading
back to Preddi waters.” Women destined for the slave markets would bring higher
prices if pregnant, and during the voyage home, the ships’ crews would do their
best to bring about that condition.

Well, well, Musfar mused to himself. The Narthani
information was good, again. Maybe this is all going to work out as well as I
hoped. Whatever the Narthani plans for Caedellium, he needed to sail in
their wake until it was time to leave. Of course, that was the problem—when
to leave.

Boyermen Meeting, Caernford,
Keelan Province

Culich pulled out a paper leaf with a neat outline prepared
by Maera. “Major item today is the reports of attacks on Caedellium coasts. So
far, we know a Seaborn village and a Pewitt abbey were sacked by seagoing
raiders. There’s no confirmation, though evidence points to Buldorians. They
come in on five to ten ships, land several hundred men, loot the village,
abbey, or both, and take prisoners—usually women and children—undoubtedly to be
sold as slaves. They then burn everything they can and are gone before help can
arrive. St. Bodwydell’s Abbey in Pewitt was burned to the ground, along with
the scholasticum and library, and all brothers and sisters killed, as well as
several hundred villagers who initially tried to fight and then surrendered.”

Cries of shock and anger rose from the Keelan boyermen
before Culich was halfway through the report.

“There have also been sightings of Eywellese and Selfcellese
encroaching into Stent and Moreland Provinces, and similar reports from our
Dornfeld district bordering Eywell. Sometimes it’s only a few men, but one
incursion involved several hundred Eywellese into Moreland. As soon as
trespassers are discovered and locals gather, they ride back to their own
provinces. So far, there’s been no major fighting, although several small
skirmishes happened in Moreland.

“There are also unconfirmed reports of small numbers of
unknown men spotted in the ridges above the Dillagon pass.” The pass led from
the main part of Keelan through the Blythrim Mountains to the Dornfeld district
on the shore of the Gulf of Witlow and opposite Preddi Province across the
gulf.

“How about the Narthani?” asked the Yorm district boyerman.

“Nothing so far,” said Vortig Luwis, Culich’s military
advisor, if the clan had had such a title, “but does anyone think the Eywellese
and the Selfcellese would be doing this without the knowledge of the Narthani?”

“Luwis is right,” said Culich. “This is all but certain
under the Narthani.”

“And similar with the seaborne raids,” said Luwis. “As with
the land incursions, it has to be with Narthani knowledge and planning. The
Buldorians wouldn’t dare dip their toes into what the Narthani consider their
waters unless the Narthani approved.”

“And worse,” said Culich, “the Narthani may think their
control of Selfcell and Eywell is firm enough that this is the first step
toward other provinces.”

The expressions around the room confirmed that most of the
boyermen had had the same thoughts.

“Then what are we to do?” grated the Wycoff District
boyerman.

“That’s what we’re here to discuss today,” said Culich. “For
one thing, we need to increase patrols in the northern districts and the
Dornfeld-Nylamir pass. I’ve also asked Vortig Luwis to look into setting up
coastal watch stations to catch signs of Buldorian ships.”

“While that’s all well and good,” said the Nylamir boyerman,
“we already have a good third of our men on such patrols. What about crops,
trades?”

“Believe me, I understand your concern.” Culich went to the
wall with a map of Keelan and the neighboring provinces. “You can see the
problem. We have three coasts, as well as our border with Eywell. The coasts
are the most vulnerable. I believe we can rule out raids along the Funwir Coast
in eastern Keelan. The only coastal settlement is the district seat. The
population size and the terrain make it a difficult target. Plus, it’s
protected by offshore shoals at that part of the entrance to the Gulf of
Normot.

“Dornfeld is the only Keelan settlement on the western
coast, across from Preddi on the Gulf of Witlow. Thankfully, Dornfeld’s natural
defenses make it an unlikely target, at least for now. More likely is our
southern coast. There are several villages and two abbeys the Buldorians may
see as attractive targets.

“As far as land incursions, there are the Dornfeld and
Nylamir districts bordering Eywell Province. The more central districts are in
no immediate danger, but they’ll have to provide assistance to Dornfeld and
Nylamir.”

Culich continued, “Those not in immediate danger must worry
about your own harvests and trades, but that’s the price to be paid in helping
fellow clansmen. Vortig and I have discussed this, and districts will
contribute about equal percentages of their men to the patrols. Those not in
immediate danger are to help those who are. We’ll have to work out something
where distances to patrol areas require too much travel. I’ll want all of your
input, but in some cases it may involve relays. For example, if Elywin
contributes to Dornfeld patrols, then men from Brums might help with harvests
or other major work in Elywin. As I say, we’ll work out the details.

“The rotation of men to those districts in our northwest
borders will continue from the other districts. We’ve had no major incidents in
Keelan, but let’s not relax our vigilance. I also expect each of you to
maintain the training programs for men of fighting age and condition.” He
stopped when the last words brought several frowns. “I assure you, I appreciate
how this affects your districts by having men more and more occupied away from
their normal work, but you’re all aware it’s something we have to tolerate in
case the Narthani turn our way. We have to assume they have spies in Keelan,
and maybe our preparedness might even discourage them from raiding us.”

This comment brought nods of agreement, though no less
unhappiness with what was necessary.

Discussion. Objections. Digressions. On and on, it continued
for three hours until every person was finished with his input, and all agreed
to the general plan. It took two hours more than Culich thought necessary. He
would have preferred to cut off the discussion and just tell the boyermen,
“This is the way it will be,” but part of their loyalty to his family was due
to believing the hetman valued their input.

Finally, it was the Shamir boyerman who restated the
paramount question: “Is this or is it not part of a Narthani move on other
provinces?”

“Some of the other hetmen believe Moreland the likeliest
target, though there’s no way to be sure. I suspect Moreland myself, since this
is where most incursions are happening and has involved the largest numbers of
men.”

Culich rose and walked to the Caedellium map on the wall.
“Look at the map. Taking Moreland would be a dagger into the heart of the
island, and all other provinces would be in danger.”

“That could be a feint,” argued the worried Yorm District
boyerman. “With their navy, they could attack anywhere.”

“True,” Culich allowed, “but we can only do what we can do.
We all realize that if there’s a major Narthani move on other provinces, we’ll
need all the clans involved. However, as you know, getting clans to work
together is problematic at best.”

“More like trying to scale an unclimbable mountain,” said a
disgusted Yorm.

There was general laughter, though not of humor—rather,
laughter at a task with little probability of success.

“Keelan is in better shape than many other clans,” said
Culich, “thanks to our alliance with Mittack and Gwillamer. I’ve kept you aware
of our discussions with the Hewell and Andris clans about joining the alliance.
Hewell will join, though they were in no hurry, since there was no urgency,
until now. Andris would like to join, but there’s no direct land connection, so
it isn’t clear how their joining the Alliance would work. Still, I believe it
worth pursuing.

“Orosz is sympathetic to our views of the Narthani danger,
but since the clan Conclave site is within Orosz, Hetman Orosz believes they
need to maintain the appearance of neutrality in inter-clan conflicts.
Similarly, the Stent and Bultecki clans are aware of the danger, though the
problem there is distance and coordination.”

“What about Moreland?” asked the Wycoff boyerman. The sour
look on his face made it obvious he already knew the answer.

“Hetman Moreland has assured all that Moreland will repulse
any Eywellese or Narthani attack on his clan and province.” Culich managed the
words with a straight face. The antipathy between the two hetmen was
well-known.

Luwis spat a curse. “That ass is living proof of the dangers
of primogeniture. God’s pity on the people of Moreland Clan.”

“Now, now,” snarled the Nylamir boyerman, “let’s instead
pray God has mercy and arranges a tragic accident.”

Culich grimaced. “I keep hoping Hetman Moreland isn’t as
stupid as he seems, and at some point he’ll realize the dangerous position of
his clan. If our worse fears are realized, and Moreland is attacked, we and
other clans will need to come to Moreland’s aid, no matter our opinion of
Hetman Moreland.”

Though the thought of doing anything to help Moreland didn’t
sit well with the boyermen or Culich, they all recognized the necessity.

“What about Stent Province?” asked Longnor Vorwich, boyerman
of the Caedell district where Abersford and St. Sidryn’s were located. Hetman
Welman Stent was highly regarded, and his clan was thought by Keelanders to be
one of the better functioning on Caedellium. It was commonly believed that if
the Stent Province wasn’t on the opposite side of Caedellium, they’d be part of
the Tri-Clan Alliance.

Culich shook his head. “Stent’s a possible target. We think
Moreland is more likely, but Stent would be the next probable victim. Unfortunately
for Stent, they don’t have close cooperative relations with their neighboring
clans. Bultecki and Vardinki might help, but so far Pewell and Swavebroke
assume that since they’re far enough away from the Narthani, it’s not their
problem.”

“Assholes!” was one of the milder comments from several
boyermen.

“I’ll be going to Orosz City for a hetmen meeting next
sixday,” Culich continued. “We’ll continue working to convince more hetmen
about the seriousness of the Narthani situation at every opportunity. Though
more of the hetmen are coming around, we can only pray the Narthani give us
enough time for all the clans to wake up.”

With that comment, Culich moved on to more mundane matters
that in other circumstances would have occupied the entire meeting.

After the boyermen left, Culich sat alone at the table until
Maera changed seats to sit beside him.

“Any questions for your notes, Maera?” She would write a
detailed account of the meeting, including actions each of the boyerman had
committed to.

“No, Father. I have it all. I’ll write it up for your review
by this evening.”

“How do you think they’re all dealing with worries about the
Narthani?”

Most of the boyermen would have been surprised, if not angry,
to have their performance reviewed by a woman, even if she was the
hetman’s daughter.

“All will do their duties.” She paused and then, with a
noticeable lightness to her voice, said, “Even Arwin.”

Belman Kulvin was boyerman of the Arwin district of Southeast
Keelan and chafed at having his people helping other districts and out from
under his view. Culich considered Kulvin the least among the Keelan boyermen.

“If a crisis develops, as I fear, I may have to find a new
Arwin boyerman,” Culich said. “So far, he hasn’t given me enough excuse. Maybe
he’ll surprise me someday.”

Culich laughed in spite of himself. It wasn’t appropriate
for him to be critical of one of his boyerman with another person, but Maera
was not “another person.”

He changed the subject. “You’ve seen all the reports coming
out of Moreland. What do you think?”

She was blunt as always. “They’ll try to take Moreland.
Besides being in a central location, the Narthani aren’t going to find a
stupider hetman bordering the land they already control. When is uncertain, but
most of their attention is pointed that way. It’s just a matter of time. If I
had to guess, I’d say within a year, two at most.”

He grunted in disappointment, having hoped she would argue
with his same assessment. He also knew she worried about Anarynd Moreland.

“Which makes all the more important the outcome of the next
conclave I called at Orosz City,” Culich said. “There has to be a way to make
more of the other clans understand what’s happening.”

“Do you really expect such recognition at this meeting,
Father?”

“This is more a meeting out of duty and hope, rather than
one with optimism. I’m obliged to try, though.” Culich’s face drew down into
discouragement. “Since it’s not an All-Clan Conclave, it’s up to each clan
whether it comes at all, and even if it does, who will represent it. The best I
hope for is for two-thirds of the clans to be there and as many as half of the
hetmen. My expectation is somewhat lower.”

“A great Caedellium philosopher once said that all a man can
do is his best,” said Maera.

Culich smiled. It was something he himself was fond of
saying. “Obviously, a great thinker.”

“Obviously,” replied Maera innocently.

Preddi City,
Narthani Headquarters

General Akuyun scanned the new report he had just received
and laid it on his desk. “Well, Morfred, everything seems to have gone well on
the Buldorians’ first mainland raid.”

Admiral Morfred Kalcan sat relaxed by the window overlooking
the harbor. “Yes, I give those Buldorian scum credit. When it comes to raiding
unsuspecting islanders, they’re efficient enough for our purposes. I admit,
they surprised me with their discipline. They’re already agitating to move on
the next target.”

“Where do you and Hizer plan the next raid?”

“Two raids on the same province within a few days of each
other, either Swavebroke or Pewell Provinces. Then two more on the second
province. We’ll see how the clans react to a double hit so near each other in
time. After that, if things continue to go well, we’ll jump around the island
to different provinces.

“As we’ve discussed, we’re saving the three southern
provinces for later. If any clans are going to give the Buldorians major
problems, it’ll be those, particularly Keelan Province.”

Chapter 26: Fertilizer

Production

Yozef’s discovery of the guano deposits occupied his mind
after returning to Abersford from Clengoth. The next morning, he went straight
to the ether shop. He found Filtin Fuller working on a new distillation
apparatus. The amiable man smiled and hummed to himself.

Yozef shook his head. Was Filtin ever in a bad mood?
Being too cheerful could be just as irritating as being always dour.

“Filtin, are you always happy?”

“Happy?” queried Filtin. “What’s not to be happy about?”

“Never mind. Can you stop for a moment? There’s something
I’d like to talk with you about.”

Filtin put down a distillation column he was inspecting,
“Sure. What about?”

“Let’s go outside,” said Yozef. “It’s quieter there.”

They left the shop, and Yozef led him to the shade of a
tree.

“Filtin, I have two new projects and wanted to ask if you
could be in charge of one of them.” Yozef outlined ideas for both his retreat
house and guano mining. Filtin listened, then shook his head when Yozef
finished.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to get involved,
Yozef.”

“Why is that?” asked a surprised Yozef. Where was Filtin’s
usual enthusiasm for anything new?

“For one thing, I’m already so busy with the distillation
and other equipment projects that I would have to stop working here before
taking on other major tasks. Also, anyone who took my place in ongoing projects
wouldn’t be familiar with the problems, and progress would slow. You’re also
looking for someone more senior. The person in charge needs to have not only
authority but also the respect of workers in different crafts. I’m too young
for the role.”

Shit. He’s right. Yozef hadn’t thought this through.
If not Filtin, then who?

“Do you have any recommendation of who would be
appropriate?”

Filtin’s perpetual smile got even wider. “My father, Dyfeld
Fuller. He’s one of the most respected craftsman in the district and works with
wood and combining wood with glass and metal. He’s worked with glassblowers and
metal workers for years, and they all know and respect him. He’s also worked
with most of the carpenters in designing and building houses and other
structures. His furniture is well known throughout Caedellium. You must have
seen some of his pieces in the abbey or in businesses and houses in Abersford.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, Filtin, why don’t you work
with your father? That’s normally how things seem to work here on Caedellium.”

“Oh, I’ve worked with Father for as long as I can remember,
but I wanted to get some different experience, and glass blowing was the only
other trade in Abersford I hadn’t worked at. I expect I’ll go back with Father
and someday take over his shop when he can no longer work. Right now, I’m
having too much fun working with you.”

“Sounds like he might be the person, Filtin. Can you arrange
a meeting with him?”

“I’ll stop by his house tonight and let you know tomorrow.”

When Yozef arrived at the distillation shop the next
morning, Filtin waited with another man, who gave an initial impression of
being an old and worn lifelong laborer—stocky, heavy shoulders, thick arms, and
large hands, gnarled and scarred with decades of heavy work, one finger
missing, a lined face, graying hair and beard, a limp, and a noticeable
resemblance to Filtin.

“Yozef, this is my father, Dyfeld Fuller.”

They exchanged greetings. Dyfeld’s gravelly voice matched
his appearance. However, the initial impressions vanished when Dyfeld spoke.
His son had already primed him with the outlines of Yozef’s two projects. He
jumped right into asking questions, as if assuming whether he would work for
Yozef was his decision alone. It wasn’t arrogance as much as a master craftsman
confident in his skills and with enough other work not to need these
projects. Within five minutes, the two men were going over Yozef’s maps and
rough sketches, with Dyfeld pointing out issues that hadn’t occurred to Yozef
and suggesting solutions.

Dyfeld immediately grasped the potential of guano
fertilizer, compared to the skepticism of his son and Cadwulf. He also saw it
as the simplest task.

“As far as I understand it, Ser Kolsko, at first you will
only need a few dozen sacks of the bird shit deposits crushed to a fine powder.
Those you intend on using to test out whether the powder can increase crop
yields. I wonder, though, if you need that many sacks. From what you describe,
two or three sacks would be enough to test.”

Yozef thought it interesting that Dyfeld caught that. No
wool on his brain, even if he looked like a common laborer. Yozef didn’t need
to tell anyone he’d eventually experiment with extracting potassium nitrate for
gunpowder—if he got around to it.

“True, Ser Fuller. However, as long as we’re doing this, I’d
like to be sure I have a sufficient supply.”

Dyfeld shrugged. “It’s your coin. If it works as you think
it will, then we’d need to expand the work. In that case, I see two issues.”
Dyfeld went back to the map of the inlet. “As for the extractions, there’s no
reason to pulverize the shit deposits on site. Since it has to be hauled here
anyway, all it will take is to break it up the into small-enough pieces to load
into sacks for pack-horses to carry and bring it back here, where we can do the
crushing. Once it is known that the fertilizer works, and you want to increase
extraction, then we can think about more efficient ways to do the crushing,
either doing it on site or bringing it here in wagons.

“The second issue is that you’ll need to show use of the
land to satisfy the registration of ownership. The registrar did explain the
usage provision, didn’t he?”

“Yes. I have to show the land is being used for some purpose.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. You say there’s no proper road
or path to this site, so, if necessary, we’ll simply hack out a pack horse
trail for now. We should also build a small encampment for workers to sleep and
eat, and provide some minimal evidence of land improvement. If major
extractions are to occur, we can build a regular road for wagons getting in and
out. No point doing that, though, until we see whether it’s worthwhile. If your
fertilizer idea doesn’t work, then you’d best just let the land revert to the
clan.”

By now, Yozef had forgotten that this was supposed to be an
interview to see whether he would consider hiring Dyfeld. Instead, Yozef had
been told that Dyfeld would let himself be hired, and they continued
with the planning.

“The little house you want is something else. It’s not just
a small house you’ll need. I assume you’ll get there by horse, so you’ll need a
barn as well, plus an outhouse appropriately distant from the house. The house
itself looks like you want one different than most houses, what with so many
windows and some of them quite large. There’s no way we can get either lumber
or glass there by pack animal, so we’ll need a minimal road. I can have one of
my assistants check out possible routes, but we may be able to use beach
sections, combined with new roadbeds where necessary. While this will add to
the costs, if you expand the fertilizer extraction, we’d only have to improve
the existing road for heavier wagons and extend the road on to the mining
site.”

Dyfeld stopped and, with the hand missing the third finger,
pulled over the sketch of the house. “I’ll have suggestions on the house design
after we’ve talked more about the features you want.”

Testing

Dyfeld Fuller’s speed and efficiency caught Yozef by surprise
when, eight days later, a wagon holding twenty sacks of crushed murvor guano
waited at the distillation shop. No arrangements for testing on farms had been
made. He knew nothing about how much was needed per acre. He did remember Julie
chastising him for giving one of her orchids too much plant food, something
about excess nitrogen burning the leaves. Different terrain might also vary the
amount of fertilizer needed.

There was also the problem of the seasons. He worried about
the cooler weather after the Harvest Festival and whether he’d have to wait
months for the next growing season to begin, but Dyfeld said no.

“The main crops won’t go in for another three or four
months, although there are always cool weather crops some farms plant. My
brother used to farm until his death, and he’d plant crops that grew until the
weather got too cold and then sit dormant until temperatures were warmer to
finish growing and maturing. And it depends on the farm. If the location is
right, it’s possible to grow something year round. I’m not sure what’s growing
now, but check with the local farmers.”

Yozef set Cadwulf to the task of contacting farmers to see
whether any were interested. Not unexpectedly, few were, with variations on the
same themes.

“Murvor shit on my fields? Nonsense!”

“My family has always farmed the same way for generations.
There’s no reason to change.”

“Are you a farmer? I didn’t think so. Who are you to advise
us how to grow crops?”

“Why would I want to increase yields? We are having trouble
selling or using the crops we already get before they spoil.”

It was the latter excuse that led to the solution. If
farmers were having difficulty selling their crops, they could be paid to carry
out Yozef’s experiments. However, the attitudes of many farmers worried him.
Could he trust them to do what was necessary to validate the tests? He needed a
farm that followed directions and kept accurate records, and he’d need to check
progress and compliance, either doing the checking himself or training someone
to do it.

“What about that farm woman you told me about at the
festival?” said Yozef. “A widow owning and running a medium-sized and
productive farm.”

“Who? I don’t … oh, wait. You mean Bronwyn Linton? The one
who eyed you?”

“I don’t know that she eyed me.”

“She did. And if I recall, there was eyeing in return.”
Cadwulf’s face took on a leer. “Are you sure it’s only to test your fertilizer
that makes you suggest her? Maybe some other fertilization occurs to you?”

Yozef flushed. “Nonsense. I’m just trying to find farmers
who will work with me.”

His young associate and friend relented with the teasing.
“You may be right about her being easier to work with. Her reputation is that
she’s practical, works hard herself, demands the same of her workers, and is
fair and honest.”

The next day they rode the ten miles to the Linton farm,
located on a river valley bottom. The farm had dark soil, and lush foliage
separated fields of crops. Yozef’s nose pulled in rich odors of damp soil and
growth. Newly planted fields had sprouts of a grassy crop and other fields with
broader leafed plants. Cadwulf recognized winter wheat and turnips. The fields
appeared well tended, the fences and several out-buildings in good repair, and
the farm house had been painted in the not-too-distant past. A middle-aged man
came out of a barn as they rode up.

“Good day, Ser,” said Cadwulf. “I’m Cadwulf Beynom and this
is Yozef Kolsko. We’re here to talk with Bronwyn Linton.”

“She’s in the north field,” the man answered, walking away
with evidently no intention of either going for Linton or telling them the
location of the north field.

Cadwulf wasn’t perturbed and called to the man’s back.

“If you could direct us to where she is, we would be
appreciative.”

The answer was a jerk of his head, presumably meaning the
field was in that direction.

Cadwulf thanked him more than Yozef thought deserving. He
had to keep reminding himself that people weren’t so much rude as brusque—a
reasonably neutral brusqueness and not the abrasiveness of some New Yorkers or
the deliberate, feigned superiority of the French.

They tied their horses to a rail in front of the house and
walked in the indicated direction. Sure enough, when they got around the house,
they could see a figure in a field, plucking wheat shoots from the ground,
chewing on them, and then spitting them out and moving on.

“She’s checking for moisture in the leaves,” said Cadwulf.
Yozef didn’t know why that was important and didn’t ask.

When the woman saw them, she gave a slight wave and moved to
where they waited just off the field. As she got closer, Yozef recognized the
woman from the fair, dressed more workmanlike today. His previous impression
was stocky, bordering on plump, but perhaps it had been the clothes. Sturdy she
was, but without much excess weight, probably attributable to regular farm
work. Her face and arms were browned from the sun. She’d wrinkle before forty,
given this much tanning. Her bare arms looked strong, as did what he could see
of her legs, as her skirt swirled around her calves. But of her femininity,
there was no doubt. The curve of hips below her waist and swells under her
top-shirt made that clear. Her brown hair was braided into a bun, and a straw
farmer’s hat provided shade to her face.

“Ser Beynom, welcome to my farm.” Though she addressed
Cadwulf, her eyes never left Yozef. “And I take it this is the mysterious Yozef
Kolsko whom everyone talks about.” She smiled.

“Guilty as charged, Sen Linton,” said Yozef, smiling back.

Her eyebrows rose at his offhand remark, then she looked at
Cadwulf. “And to what do I owe your visit?”

In the next half hour, Yozef described his interest in
running test plots with the powdered guano fertilizer and what he hoped to find
out about efficacy and application amounts. Sen Linton quickly agreed with the
potential but confirmed no immediate advantage to increased yields.

“I already use about half of my crops for animal feed. The
other half I sell for island consumption at lower prices than before.”

“I noticed there were more cattle and horses than I expected
as we rode in today,” Yozef remarked. “I thought you only farmed crops.”

“Normally, yes,” said Linton. “But since the crops don’t
keep that long, I’m raising more animals than usual, since they keep longer.
Many farmers are doing the same.”

A longer shelf-life. Yozef approved. Very smart
and thinking long term.

“There’s no problem with helping you with your tests of this
new fertilizer, Ser Kolsko. We already spread manure on the fields, but there’s
never enough. Having another fertilizer source would be useful, if this
idea of yours works. As for your paying me to do these tests, what if instead
we agree that should the fertilizer work as well as you think, and if the
conditions for selling improve in the future, that you’ll sell me all the
fertilizer I need at half the going price?”

Yozef was about to say, “Done deal,” when Cadwulf jumped in.

“Half price for how long, Sen Linton? Surely not
indefinitely. Shall we say for five years?”

Her eyes glinted, and the corners of her mouth suggested
good humor. “Five years hardly makes it worth my time. I couldn’t possibly
agree for less than twenty years.”

Ten minutes later and with protestations of being robbed
from both sides and how much they were conceding, Linton and Cadwulf agreed on
eight years of reduced price once trade off Caedellium resumed, if the guano
worked.

The basic deal settled, they proceeded to details. Yozef
explained they’d need multiple plots to vary the amount and number of guano
applications. Since he had no idea of the proper amounts, they settled on the
initial test with four different amounts of guano, one and two applications,
two different sites, and a control plot of no application at each site for a
total of thirty-four plots. Yozef was encouraged that he didn’t have to explain
the need for the control plots.

What crops to use was the next question? Yozef had
thought of wheat, but Bronwyn suggested that barley and turnips were better
cool weather crops. Though she had already finished the current plantings,
there were several fields being left fallow she could use for the tests.
Bronwyn suggested the plots be of a sixteenth of an acre, about fifty-five
square feet each.

The business concluded, Bronwyn invited them to stay for
evening meal, but both Cadwulf and Yozef were due to eat with Cadwulf’s parents
that evening and gave their thanks for the invitation. Based on Linton’s
estimate of the time needed to set up the test plots, Yozef said he would
return in one sixday with sacks of fertilizer.

Chapter 27: A Close Encounter

A sixday later Yozef returned to the Linton farm with a
wagon holding enough bags of powdered guano for the trials, plus extra. One of
his workers drove the wagon, with Yozef as passenger and Seabiscuit tied behind.
Linton saw them coming up the road to the farm and met them at the house.

“The wagon will return to Abersford once we’ve unloaded the
sacks,” he explained. “I’ll ride back after checking the plots you’ve prepared
and see the first applications.”

Linton nodded. “Then we’d better get to it.” She climbed
onto the wagon bed and began handing sacks to the two men to transfer them to a
farm cart with a pony hitched to it. She wore similar working clothes as on his
previous visit, although her shirt was untied several inches lower than before.
Yozef caught a brief glimpse of considerable breast the first time she bent to
hand down a sack. He averted his eyes, but they betrayed him on the next two
sacks. The views were impressive.

Yozef and his worker had gotten a later start from
Abersford than planned and had arrived in early afternoon. As a consequence, by
the time he and Linton finished with checking the first set of plots, observing
the applications, and checking her record keeping, the sun was setting behind
the eastern hills.

It had been an awkward day for Yozef. He couldn’t resist
positioning himself to catch further glimpses down Linton’s shirt whenever she
leaned over. Yet at the hint of a nipple, which elicited unmistakable
stirrings, he steeled himself to avert his eyes during the last hour of work.

His face had a sheen of sweat, and his heart thumped as they
finished the final plot, only partly due to exertion.

“That’s the last one, Sen Linton. I’ll be riding back to
Abersford now. I’ll come and check back here next sixday.”

“Ser Kolsko, you’d be returning in the dark, and since
you’re not familiar with these roads and by your own admission are not the most
experienced rider, perhaps it would be best if you spent the night here and
returned in the morning. I’d be pleased to offer you hospitality for evening
meal and the use of the extra bedroom.”

Yozef wasn’t sure but suspected a hint of anticipation in
her offer. He wondered whether there was the same in his acceptance.

They washed up after the day’s work. He expected a washbowl
and maybe some soap, but she directed him behind the house to a small enclosure
containing a tub of water, soap, and a drying cloth. The water was ambient
temperature, meaning on the chilly side, but by now he was accustomed, or
resigned, to only occasional hot water. He’d brought a change of clothing, not
knowing what and how much work he would do at the farm, and when he entered the
house, he was greeted by a similarly scrubbed and reclothed Bronwyn Linton.

Where’s the other tub? In the house?

It had to exist, since her hair was still damp and she
didn’t seem to exude the natural odors most working Caedelli carried with them
after a full day. Her work clothes had been replaced by slippers and a red
dress with a more than suggestive plunging neck. Bras were unknown on
Caedellium, and the sleeveless, form-fitting dress left little to the
imagination.

Dinner combined the efforts of Linton and an older woman who
excused herself and exited when the meal was ready. While waiting, Linton
served Yozef a pre-dining aperitif. The first swallow burned on the way down.

Christ! This stuff’ll take paint off a wall. Probably
a home brew of some kind.

After his throat recovered or perhaps was anesthetized, he rather
enjoyed the glow and the mellow feeling. He also saw through a door into
another room, where glimpses of cloth hanging off a table, wicker baskets, and
a cot suggested the spare room where he would spend the night.

Dinner was a typical Caedellium repast of roast beef,
turnips, whole-grain heavy bread, and a yellow-tinged sweet wine whose origin
he couldn’t identify. Conversation was scintillating—prospects for this year’s
crops, expectations on the fertilizer tests, the weather, how nasty were the Narthani,
and a gossip about Abersford society. Yozef learned that Linton had inherited
the farm from her parents, was married for two years before her husband died in
accident, had had one child stillborn, and had a sister living nearby.

For his part, Yozef recited his rote summary of his own
family and the mystery of arriving on Caedellium. As far as he knew, he held up
his end of the conversation, although between the alcohol and views of cleavage
he wasn’t sure. The meal and wine finished, the conversation lagging, he sat
back and pushed his chair away from the table.

“Thank you, Sen Linton. I enjoyed the meal and your company.
If your other bedroom is ready, I’m tired from the trip and our work and will
retire for the evening.”

“Ser Kolsko, the extra bedroom is used as my sewing room and
is so crowded with my work I’m afraid it might not be comfortable for you.” She
rose from her chair, stepped out of her slippers, and slipped the top of her
dress from her shoulders. Her breasts sagged from their fullness, the nipples
pointing outward and erect. “I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable in my room.”
She turned and walked toward the rear of the house.

Yozef’s eyes fixed on her breasts swinging when she turned
and then the view of her hips swaying as she walked away barefoot. He stood
frozen. While the moment wasn’t a total surprise, neither was it anticipated.
Filtin had clued him in that unmarried Caedellium adults were free within
cultural restrictions in matters of sex, but this was more upfront than he
expected. If he followed her, did this mean a commitment? Was he really
interested in her this way?

The questions were ignored by his feet and his groin. She
lay naked on a bed. Flickering candles gave a warm, subdued glow to the room,
and his pants tightened at the contrast of light and shadows across her skin.
The parts of his brain still functioning noted the sturdy, definitely feminine
body, the armpit hair, the thatch covering her mons, and her breasts settling
downward as she supported herself on her left elbow and held out the other arm.

The only sound, if he had noticed, was both of their heavy
breathing. His clothing cascaded around his feet, his erection pointing
skyward. As he moved to the bed, she rolled back and spread and raised her
knees. There was no foreplay. He mounted her, and she grasped him with her
legs. There was an immediate rhythm to his thrusts and her hips. When he came
quickly, she kept her clasp of him for several minutes. It was an urgent
coupling, not lovemaking. They didn’t speak. When he lay next to her, he could
hear the slowing of their breathing, the sounds of the house, and the
occasional animal sound from outside.

Now what do I do? Say something? Go to sleep? Thank her
for the quick roll and retire back to the supposedly crowded guest room?

The answer came half an hour later when she explored his
groin. Though her hands were rough, other parts of her were soft. This time, it
took longer. His basic urge slaked, Yozef held himself back until she came with
a series of gasping cries and a four-limbed attempt to compress his torso. The
aftermath of this second round came quickly. When he was released and rolled
off her, she grunted, he thought in satisfaction, turned on her side, and was
asleep within moments. He reciprocated.

The next morning, he awoke to an empty bed and the day’s
light just coming in the bedroom window. He lay wondering, again, about his
next move. No answer appearing to him, he rose, dressed, and went to the
kitchen from which emanated bakery aromas. Linton held an iron pan full of
biscuits above the wood stove, holding the handle with a heavy cloth. She saw
him . . . and smiled.

“Sit down, Ser Kolsko. A day’s work is waiting for me and
travel for you.”

He took a seat at the sturdy table, on which sat a jar of
butter, plates, knives, and a bowl of pilla fruit, tangerines, and apples.

He wondered where the tangerines came from, Shouldn’t they
be ripening at a different time of year? And why tangerines here, but not
oranges?

Linton plopped the plate of hot biscuits onto the table,
along with two large mugs of kava, and his overnight tryst partner sat opposite
him and dug in. He followed suit in short order.

“Are you sure you need to return to Abersford today, Ser
Kolsko, or might you stay another day and night so we can plan more . . .
fertilizer tests?”

“I think . . . Bronwyn . . . that after last night we can
use our first names.”

“Thank you . . . Yozef. I didn’t want to appear too
forward.”

Christ! Too forward! After last night? If that wasn’t
being forward, I’m in dire danger if she ever does.

“I think my shops and workers can get along without me for
another day,” he assured her.

His curiosity about what he’d be doing this additional day
was answered as soon as they finished the biscuits and most of the fruit. This
was a work day, and for Bronwyn that meant work. They spent time on more
planning of the test plots, and, together with one of her workmen, they laid
out the final plots with stakes. By noon, everything was ready for the
fertilizer. He continued taking copious notes and diagrams and impressed on her
the absolute requirement to follow every step of the planting, the fertilizer
regime, and the records for all plots, if the results were to be valid. She
listened carefully and didn’t comment on his redundant entreaties, but he ended
confident she would adhere to the instructions.

They ate a lunch of dry sausage, cheese, and bread, a
standard Caedellium midday meal, with the other workers. The rest of the day
Yozef learned more than he needed to know about repairing barn stalls, plowing,
and catching, killing, and plucking a goose. She didn’t direct him to do these
tasks; it was what she was doing, and he followed along, helping as he could.
This was a working farm without a husband. He suspected it flourished both
because of the good location and soil, and because of her work habits. It was
near dusk when the workday ended, and they returned to the house. Yozef’s back
ached, and he had several new blisters. He was in better shape than ever in his
life, but this day he’d used different muscles and in different motions than
usual, and they let him know their disapproval. He wouldn’t have minded eating
and going straight to sleep, though he rightly suspected Bronwyn had other
plans.

Once gutted and plucked, the goose had been put in a version
of a deep-pit, brick-lined roaster set-up near the house. When Bronwyn had done
this, he had no idea, because the woman from the night before hadn’t appeared
this day.

The grease-laden bird was delicious, and the two of them
finished it, along with a fresh loaf of bread, a bowl of dark olives, and
another flagon of the sweetish wine. The post-meal proceedings followed,
similar to the previous night, with the difference that they engaged in only
one round before sleep, compensated for when they both awoke the next morning.

Morning meal was her version of the Caedellium porridge—this
one a combination of wheat and something like amaranth, laced with nut bits and
what looked and tasted like raisins.

“Yozef, Godsday is two days from now. I can plan on being in
Abersford to attend the abbey services . . . if you have no other plans.”
Bronwyn looked at him expectantly.

“No, Bronwyn. No other plans. I look forward to your company
at the service and hospitality at my house.” And the bedroom later.

She appeared at the abbey complex just before the Godsday
service began. Yozef had attended many services, but he wasn’t a regular. It
had been left open whether he would accompany her to the service or meet later.
By default, he met her in front of the cathedral when she rode up on a bay
mare. He had seen side-saddles here for women, but Bronwyn rode astride with a
pantaloons-style skirt encasing her legs. Once she dismounted, a curtain of
cloth held behind her while riding was wrapped around her legs to appear as a
skirt, the pantaloons hidden beneath.

They entered the cathedral together and sat together in the
middle of the pew rows. Yozef felt every eye following them, even if they
weren’t. However, some were, and among the raised eyebrows included those of
Cadwulf and Filtin, followed by a friendly smile from the former and a leer
from the latter, which drew a sharp elbow from Filtin’s wife.

Yozef often worked part of every Godsday, but he and Bronwyn
spent the day in his cottage, mainly in the bedroom. He told the Faughns he
wouldn’t need Elian to prepare meals that day, a task Bronwyn took on.

The low afternoon sun shone through a window onto Bronwyn
sleeping from their last coupling. It was the first time he’d seen her
unclothed in full light. When he first arrived on Caedellium, women’s armpit
and leg hair was disconcerting, but by now it seemed normal, and it was the
idea of shaving that seemed odd. Bronwyn’s hair was only a shade darker than
her parts tanned by the sun, the hairs on her calves becoming sparse above the
knees. Not that the hair mattered. Yozef found other of her parts to keep his
attention.

Chapter 28: Not to Be

Advice

They followed the same pattern the next four sixdays—Yozef arriving
at Bronwyn’s farm in time for evening meal, staying two nights, and returning
to Abersford the second morning— Bronwyn coming to his house the evening before
Godsday and returning the morning after Godsday.

Neither spoke of commitment. He liked Bronwyn. She was
honest, hard-working, and level-headed, all traits he would expect of a single
woman running a large farm. He wasn’t sure of her view of him, but she clearly
respected him as a prominent Abersford figure. They satisfied a mutual need,
his part being hard to fake and her enthusiasm unquestioned. However, they had
little else in common, except for one possible complication.

What if she gets pregnant? Contraception certainly wasn’t
on my mind that first night, but as far as I know, there’s no such thing here.
It might even be forbidden to try to prevent pregnancy, what with the way they
emphasize caring for children. Well, shit. What should I do?

The time spent with Bronwyn impacted Yozef’s various
enterprises. Several projects languished by his diversion a good part of each
sixday, and workers were becoming impatient for decisions and directions.

As sixdays passed, the advantages and doubts about their
relationship weighed more and more on Yozef. Did Bronwyn think this was leading
to a long-term commitment, even marriage? What would be her response when she
realized it wouldn’t happen? At times, he felt he was taking advantage of her,
but he knew that was a holdover from how he might have viewed things back on
Earth. Customs were different on Caedellium, and she’d started the affair, with
his acquiescence. These uncertainties led him to seek out someone who had
previously offered advice, Filtin.

The opportunity to get Filtin alone came after being shown
his crew’s latest distillation column, a multi-jointed one some eight feet tall
with a maze of connecting piping. After the inspection and progress report, the
other workers left for a mid-morning kava break, leaving Yozef and Filtin
alone.

“Somehow, Yozef, I don’t believe the distillation equipment
is what you needed to talk with me about.”

“No. It’s not about business. I need the advice of a
friend.”

Filtin’s cheerful manner took on a more serious tone. “What
is it, Yozef? How can I help?”

“It’s Bronwyn.”

“Ah. I’ve wondered how that’s going. You two aren’t starting
to argue, are you?”

“No, no. Not that. I’m just worrying about what she expects
of this and if I’m in trouble with Caedellium customs and laws in such matters.
I’m wondering whether what we’ve been doing is taken to mean the intention for
something long term.”

“Has she spoken of this?”

“No, not a word.”

“How long have you two been bedding? And how often?”

“Over a month, and four nights a sixday.”

Filtin grunted. “Four nights? I thought you seemed a little
more tired some days than before, and everyone has talked about how you’re
seldom around the shops.” Filtin thought for a moment, then asked bluntly,
“What are your intentions? It sounds like you’re thinking about when it’ll
end.”

“There’s nothing long term, as far as I’m concerned. I
respect Bronwyn. She’s doing an admirable job running her farm, and she’s
honest as could be. But our paths are just too different. It has to end
sometime, although I don’t have any idea when. I’m also concerned about what if
a child comes from this? If that happens, what commitment would that put on
me?”

“The child part is easy,” said Filtin. “Everyone knows the
two of you are bedding, so if a child comes, you’ll be acknowledged as the
father by everyone and the law. What that means is that you’ll be expected to
assist raising of the child. If you don’t marry her, which I hear you’d not
want to do, then she’d raise the child, and you’d provide support both for the
child and her lost time in working the farm. The provision could be in coin,
providing a worker for the farm, or some other arrangement that either the two
of you’d agree on or would be determined by a magistrate, if you couldn’t
agree. From knowing you and from what I know of Bronwyn, I wouldn’t anticipate
it going to the magistrate.”

“So there’d be no requirement for me to marry her?”

“Why would there be? She’s a grown woman. A widow who owns
her own farm. You’re a grown man with businesses of your own. What the two of
you do in bed is your own concern, as long as any child is cared for.” After a
moment, Filtin added, “Something you might consider is that it might not
entirely be your overwhelming charm and sexual appeal she’s interested in. A
child might have been part of her intention.”

Yozef stirred, startled. He’d considered the possibility of
a child, but not that it might be Bronwyn’s deliberate plan.

“Why hasn’t she said anything? I just said a moment ago how
honest she is, but if she’s planned this from the beginning, that’s deceitful.”

Filtin shook his head. “Not necessarily. She knows you’re
not from Caedellium, but she might assume you understand the customs better
than you do. I take it she was forthright inviting you to her bed.”

Yozef nodded.

“I suggest you simply ask her. Remember, she’s
unmarried, and the farm has been in her family for generations. If she doesn’t
have children, there’ll be no one to pass it on to and no one to care for her
in her old age. Then there’s the need most women have for children.”

“If she has such a need, why not find another husband? I
would expect she’s a prime candidate for marriage.”

“She would be, if there were more unmarried men.”

Then it came back to Yozef, what Cadwulf told him after the
trial of the Camrin man for abusing his family, and the poor prospects for the
wife to remarry once the court dissolved the marriage.

Yozef ran a hand through his hair, as he considered his
situation.

“I’m not sure how I think about any of this. Back home,
before I came to Caedellium, my wife was with child. I lost both of them, and
now there’s the possibility of a child here that I wouldn’t raise.”

Okay, so Julie and I weren’t married yet, but we were
going to be, and there was the child I don’t even know if exists.

Filtin’s expression was sympathetic. “I’m sorry about your
family, Yozef. You’ve never said anything about them, and I guess I’d assumed
you weren’t married.”

“It’s just that I’ve been adjusting to the reality of never
seeing them, and now there could be a child here.”

“Maybe it would be God’s gift to you to replace the child
you lost. It’s up to you to decide what you want to do, Yozef, just as
it is Bronwyn’s decision to do whatever she wants. Again, I’d advise talking to
her about all this. Openness is always best.”

The Conversation

The suggested conversation took place the next evening when
Yozef made his sixday trip to the farm. A stew was simmering, according to
Bronwyn needing another half hour to finish. He thought they should have the
conversation before eating and heading to the bedroom. Yozef took a deep breath
and leaped.

“Bronwyn, can we sit and talk?”

She turned from cleaning a dish and looked at him with a
raised eyebrow at his serious tone. Wiping her hands on an apron, she sat
opposite him at the table.

“Bronwyn, you know I come from a different land than
Caedellium.”

She nodded.

“The customs in my homeland aren’t the same as they are
here. That means sometimes there can be misunderstandings between me and people
here on the island. I try to understand the customs here, but often I’m not
sure whether my understanding is correct.”

She sat back a little in her chair, as if thinking she knew
where Yozef was heading.

“My people would say that two such as ourselves should both
understand what is happening between them. I’d like to be sure that’s true for
us.”

Bronwyn tilted her head to one side with a puzzled look.
“What’s happening between us? We’re bedding, and I hope to get with child.
What’s not to understand?”

Well, shit. That answers that.

“I just wanted to be sure there was no misunderstanding. In
my land, having a child places a strong responsibility on both parents to care
for the child.”

“As it does here,” said the still puzzled woman. “I’ll
admit, I first thought you might be a possible husband, but we’re too
different. This farm is my life, and I won’t leave it. For you, your shops and
experiments and all the other things you do are your place. If a child comes,
you’re an honorable man and of means, so I’ve no doubt you’ll be generous in
providing for it.”

So, I guess I’m the rich sperm donor. It wasn’t a
score for his ego, but he could see the rationale from this culture’s point of
view.

Bronwyn crossed her arms. “Although we share beds for now, I
assume it will end. Is that what you’re telling me, that you wish the bedding
to end?”

“No.” Maybe. “I was just concerned about you and the
possibility of a child.”

“It seems this is the only way I’ll have a child, since
marriage isn’t likely.”

“Haven’t there been men interested in you, and you in
them?”

“Very few. Those who wanted to marry me either I wouldn’t
have or they were mainly interested in getting control of the farm.”

“How did you first meet your husband?”

“We grew up on neighboring farms. His family had three boys
and mine were three girls. There were few other farms in the area at that time.
My sisters and I grew up with those three boys, the only other children we’d
see for months at a time. One of the boys, Cynwin, I wanted to marry, but my
sister Dellia got a commitment from him first.” Bronwyn laughed. “If I didn’t
love Dellia so dearly, I’d have hated her. The next son was Murdrew. He was my
second choice and, truth be told, just as reliable as his older brother. So I
married him.”

“Did the other son also marry your other sister?”

“No. He died in a horse fall while taking part in a search
for Eywellese intruders in northern Keelan. My other sister married and lives
near Caernford, which is just as well, since I could never stand her. Dellia
and Cynwin live a mile from here. When our parents died, the land was divided
among their three daughters. Luvolia sold her section without even asking
whether Dellia and I could somehow buy it—the bitch. Dellia and Cynwin have
three children already.” The last words were wistful. “I love visiting them and
the children, but every time I see them, I’m reminded of being childless.”

Yozef thought for a moment, then said, “It’s not just you
who has this problem. It seems to be an issue throughout Keelan Province and
maybe all of Caedellium.”

Bronwyn nodded sadly. Neither spoke for several minutes, each
in a private world. Yozef mulled over Bronwyn’s dilemma, forgetting for a
moment his relationship with her, when a stray thought coalesced in his mind.

“Looking at it from the perspective of the entire island,
and given the trends, there may be one obvious solution, although a difficult
one. If there are too many women for the number of men, some men could have
more than one wife.”

Bronwyn shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’ve heard of
that happening elsewhere, but what does the Word say?”

“As explained to me, the Word doesn’t forbid it but
demands husband and wife treat each other with love and respect, and of course,
the primary responsibility is to care for children. Such marriages don’t seem
to happen often here in Keelan, though supposedly it’s a more common practice
in other provinces.”

Bronwyn shook her head and had a sour expression. “What
woman wants to share a house and a husband with another woman? I certainly
would never agree to that.”

“I didn’t say it was a good solution, just a possible one.
Back to ourselves, and just to help me be sure I understand everything, our
bedding will continue as long as we both want it. If a child results, you’ll
raise the child, and I’ll provide support, but we don’t expect a long-term
relationship between the two of us?”

“Of course, that’s understood.” She stood up and moved to
the stove. “I believe the stew is ready, so we can eat,” she said
matter-of-factly.

So much for a big dramatic scene. And how about the nice
weather today? It made for comfortable fence mending and manure shoveling.

But a child? He hadn’t been sold on Julie and he having one
so soon, and now this. He was confused. Maybe nothing would happen. She had
been married several years and had only gotten pregnant once, so it might not
happen with him.

End of the Affair

They continued as before and never spoke about the topic
again, but during the next five sixdays, the nights they spent together
decreased from four nights a sixday to three, then two, and finally Yozef
arrived at the farm after they hadn’t seen each other for a complete sixday. A
cart hitched to two horses was tied to the front rail. As he rode up, Bronwyn
came out the house to meet him.

Her face was serene. “Please come inside, Yozef, I have
something to tell you and some people for you to meet.” She took his hand and
led him inside. A man and a woman about Bronwyn’s age sat in the main room. The
woman looked like a chunkier version of Bronwyn.

“Yozef, this is my sister Dellia and her husband, Cynwin. As
I told you, they live nearby.”

Yozef nodded, said a greeting to them both, and clasped an
offered forearm with Cynwin.

The four of them sat in a circle, Bronwyn opposite Yozef,
Dellia and Cynwin flanking Bronwyn. His fleeting thought was that he faced a
threesome.

“Yozef, I thought about what you said about marriages with
more than one wife. At first, the idea seemed impossible, but the more I
thought, the less impossible it seemed. Then, three days ago I went to my
sister, and we talked.”

Dellia’s and Bronwyn’s hands reached out to each other as if
magnetized. Dellia smiled softly at her sister.

“Dellia spoke with Cynwin, and the three of us have agreed
with what you said. We are to be married. Dellia, Cynwin, and me.”

Dellia spoke for the first time. “Bronwyn and I have always
loved each other dearly, even as young children. As happy as I’ve been married
to Cynwin, I’ve missed her every day. When Bronwyn spoke to me about this, it
seemed the right thing to do.”

Cynwin reached from the other side of Bronwyn and took her
other hand. “Two wives are not something I ever thought of. Certainly not with
a wife as good as Dellia, but we both love Bronwyn. And Dellia’s right, the
more the three of us talked about this, the more natural it seemed. Dellia will
have her sister with her. There will be more children and more parents to raise
them. There’s also the farms. Both ours and Bronwyn’s are good farms, and by
joining them together, it’ll be easier to tend the sum than both by
themselves.”

From their body language, Yozef had already suspected what
he had just been told. He sat quiet and ambivalent, though relieved that the
inevitable end to the affair was easy for him and good for Bronwyn.

“Yozef,” said Bronwyn, “there’s something else. I’m with
child. I suspected as much the last two sixdays when my time passed and I
didn’t have the bleeding. Now there’re other signs, so I’m sure.”

Yozef sat immobile, his mind churning over the possible
having become real. What did he feel? What should he be saying?

“We’ll raise the child in our new family, and it will have
many brothers and sisters. It’ll also have four parents, since we hope you’ll
always be part of the child’s family and our friend.”

They talked for another hour, mainly about the anticipation
of the three, how Yozef would see the child as often as he liked, and Yozef
pretending to take all of this in stride, while part of him watched the four of
them like a disembodied observer. He remembered little of what he said in that
hour, but whatever it was, the other three took it well. When he left to return
to Abersford, a hundred yards from the house he turned from his saddle to look
back. Three figures stood on the porch, arm in arm and waving. He waved and
urged Seabiscuit into a grove of elms, as the farm disappeared from view. The
road was dark most of the way, with enough light from the larger moon and the
stars to let him and Seabiscuit stay on the road. There was little wind, all
wildlife had settled in for the night, and everything was quiet, except for
hooves on the dirt road. It took an hour and a half to get back to his house in
Abersford. It was the loneliest hour and a half of his life.

Chapter 29: Could Be Worse

Avoiding Deja Vu

Yozef lapsed into a funk. He had thought the relationship with
Bronwyn was only physical, but once it ended, emotional ties lingered.

No one asked, but his increased presence and the absence of
Bronwyn told everyone he was once again solitary. As a palliative, he plunged
with a vengeance back into projects delayed by the time diverted on the affair.
Within a month, he slipped back into his life before Bronwyn. He spent most
days in his shops, attended lectures at St. Sidryn’s, had talks and walks with
Cadwulf, Sistian, Diera, and others at the abbey complex, drank beers with
Carnigan and Filtin at the Snarling Graeko, and, to his initial consternation,
deflected overtures from more widows.

Though his months with Bronwyn had awakened dormant
physiologies, he was ambivalent about taking advantage of the obvious interest
of three different Abersford widows. Ironically, the urge to go slow was
reinforced by a failure to follow through with this reticence. Buna Keller was
a widow and the owner of a clothing shop in Abersford that made pants, shirts,
and a coat more to Yozef’s liking than the local styles. He would stand as the
shop owner took his measurements. One such visit was for a formal suit of
clothing, appropriate for meetings with the more prosperous merchants and
higher-level officials.

Keller and her assistants had measured him in the past and
kept records, but on this visit she insisted more accurate and newer
measurements were needed, which should best be done in the back room. On this
particular day, it had been two months since he and Bronwyn had last bedded.
The seamstress wore a dress with bare shoulders and a plunging neckline. She
was all business, taking the measurements from waist up, but when she moved to
lower regions, her hands dallied and casually contacted parts that, to his
embarrassment, reacted. Instead of her being offended, he erroneously thought
she hadn’t noticed or ignored his condition. A subsequent invitation arrived by
letter from Buna to attend a small dinner gathering of several prominent
tradesmen, shop owners, and their wives. It was his first social occasion with
most of the guests, and he enjoyed the business-oriented conversation as an
opportunity to search for other potential enterprises. In spite of his
hesitancy in becoming involved again so soon, the next morning he awoke in bed next
to Buna. He remembered all of the details of how he’d ended up there and what
had occurred. What he couldn’t remember was what had happened to his resolve
after the third glass of wine.

Indecisive about getting involved again so soon, by default
Yozef found himself at Buna’s house the next two nights. Relief came when he
found her not interested in a child; she was past childbearing age and had two
grown children. What she did have was a libido. Straightforward sex was simple,
except he didn’t like her. She could be abrasive, they were a
personality mismatch, and she had more hair than Yozef—and not just on her
head. He was relieved when on the last morning, she told him not to come to her
house again. She found him too different from Caedellium men. Although
he was curious about the difference, he wasn’t curious enough to risk losing a
quick exit. From that point, Yozef swore to himself, yet again, to keep his
nether parts under better control.

Paper

The episode with Buna had been short enough not to impact
his focus on new projects. The ether, ethanol, and soap enterprises required
little ongoing input from him. He knew he fussed, and although his staff didn’t
say it, their opinions were obvious: Please go away and let us do our jobs.

He needed new projects. The first new idea came to him while
strolling among the village shops, and he came upon a stall selling writing
paper. A customer could buy single sheets or tied packets of twenty, either a
light-yellowish-brown rough texture or a smoother, whiter paper. The former was
the only paper made in Abersford, while whiter, more expensive paper came from
a larger papermaker in Caernford, the Keelan capitol. Yozef knew the basic
procedure for making paper. Almost anything containing fibers would work, including
cotton, cloth, straw, wood, and flax. The material was chopped as small as
possible, then suspended in water and a screen passed through the mixture to
catch pieces and fibers on the screen. Once dried, a single sheet of paper was
peeled away and could be cut to different sizes and written on. Those were the
basics, as confirmed to Yozef by Ser Myrfild, the man manning the paper stall,
who also happened to be the Abersford paper maker. Yozef never learned his
first name.

Over beers that evening, Yozef proposed new types of papers
and Myrfild alternated telling him why it wouldn’t work and being enthused
about novel ideas and products. By the end of the evening, they agreed to form
the Abersford Paper Factory. Novel products included whiter papers than yet
produced on Caedellium, colored papers, and poster-board for announcements. All
found limited markets—enough to justify continued production, steady incomes,
and market interest in other provinces. However, the jackpot products had
nothing to do with literacy or communication and were afterthoughts from Yozef.
While Myrfild was initially dubious that anyone would actually pay hard-earned
coinage for such products, Yozef insisted, later annoyingly proud of himself
for the brainstorms. Myrfild was amazed when, within two sixdays, orders poured
in for toilet paper and sanitary napkins. The toilet paper immediately started
taking the place of the customary moss or, when necessary, leaves, grass, old
rags, hands, or nothing. The market was obvious—every human on Caedellium had
bowel movements. Use of the new option started slowly, then spread to other
provinces within a month.

Faster to be accepted were sanitary napkins. Existing custom
used cloth fragments, when available. Yozef’s first models were made from
either wood pulp or cotton. A red-faced Yozef endured an awkward meeting with
Sister Diera, where he explained their use. The abbess was initially perplexed
but offered advice on size and took samples to be tried by several younger
women. Yozef and Myrfild were astonished when requests for the product started
within days—first as a trickle and then a flood, from within Abersford, then
the district, the rest of Keelan, and other provinces. The demand was
relentless, in spite of husbands and fathers not seeing the same value as did
women in spending coin on such an item. Yozef never explained why he called
them “kotex.”

Kerosene

The second major new project originated from Yozef’s
forgetfulness. One evening, he worked on updating his English-Caedelli dictionary.
He planned to write for an hour. One advantage of the short affair with Buna
Keller was that he now knew the Caedelli words for most male and female body
parts that he hadn’t found the opportunity, or nerve, to ask anyone else. He
suspected the querying and Buna’s rejection were connected—a twofer. It was
time to add those new words to the dictionary. He wasn’t sure when he would
have other opportunities to either hear or use the words.

He was working on the breast area when his whale-oil lamp
went out. The sudden darkness startled him, until he remembered he should have
checked the oil level. He knew there was more oil somewhere on the property,
but he had no idea where and didn’t want to wake Brak or Elian.

Wait a minute! Whale oil? People on Earth only used whale
oil until they killed most of the whales and then went to kerosene and
vegetable oil lanterns.

Yozef didn’t know what local plants might produce oils, but
kerosene he did know about.

Petroleum. Kerosene was a major fractional distillation product
of crude oil. It could be produced from coal, which was abundant on Caedellium,
though petroleum was more efficient— if there was a source. He remembered that
crude kerosene had been produced from petroleum in limited amounts for
thousands of years on Earth, but its common production and use for lighting
didn’t exist until the 1850s.

The next day he wrote down all he remembered about petroleum
and its fractional distillation. They were already distilling ether and
ethanol, so how hard could it be to modify the procedure for petroleum?

Much harder, it turned out, yet not impossible.

First, they needed to find a source of petroleum on
Caedellium. When Cadwulf proved no help, the two of them asked around the abbey
and the village and found a tradesman who knew of the black, sticky substance
used for caulking ships and waterproofing. He pointed them to a Gwillamese
trader named Linwyr, who knew of several places on Caedellium where oil seeped
into pools above ground. None of these petroleum seeps were nearby in Keelan
Province, though just across the border in Gwillamer Province was a region
avoided by farmers because of the prevalence of the noxious pools.

Yozef paid Linwyr one hundred krun to show him, Cadwulf, and
Filtin the pools. On horseback, they followed the road into Gwillamer from
Abersford, about twenty-four miles to where they left the main road and wound
their horses into a marshy area a few miles from the sea. It was the longest
horseback ride Yozef had made, and for the last few miles, he couldn’t get out
of his mind the joke line “‘Fifty Days in the Saddle’ by Major Assburns.” He
now appreciated the reference more, though the humor was lost in his present
condition.

They smelled the pools before they saw them.

“Thank you, God or whomever!” Yozef exclaimed in English, as
he gingerly dismounted next to an odious-looking pool with a skim of water
covering the seep. Sulfurous odors came and went with the breeze off the water.
The pool was both encouraging and discouraging. Encouraging, in that it existed
at all, showing that surface petroleum did exist on Caedellium; discouraging,
in that the pool was only three feet in diameter. Linwyr assured him that
larger pools were nearby.

“I’m walking for a while to rest Seabiscuit,” Yozef
asserted. Cadwulf objected, Carnigan smirked, and Linwyr grunted. They walked,
Yozef slightly bowlegged at first.

They found several small pools in the next hour, and Yozef
was about to give up when they hit pay dirt. Before them, in a shallow valley,
lay a crude oil seep a hundred yards across.

“This is more like it,” said Yozef, kneeling down to inspect
the crude. While any grade of petroleum could be used, the heavier grades would
be useless in the foreseeable future, given the available level of technology
and infrastructure. Yozef stirred the crude with a dead tree branch and got
below the surface layer.

“Good, good,” he said. “This will work fine.” It looked like
what was called “light-sweet” grade on Earth. If he was right, there’d be less
of the heavier, more difficult to work with fractions and a high percentage of
the lighter molecules. Benzene would come off early, and they could let it blow
away—no worry about the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) rules here. Then,
30 to 50 percent of the total would distill off as kerosene.

They probed the seep and found an average depth of three
feet at six feet from the edge. Assuming the depth increased toward the center
of the pool and the depression, there was enough petroleum to supply production
until they found out whether kerosene would succeed as a product. If it did,
they might have to drill, though it wasn’t something to worry about, yet.

“Linwyr,” questioned Yozef, “would it be a problem in either
buying this land here in Gwillamer or in taking the crude?”

“We’d have to check with the local district center,” said
the trader, “but I don’t think there will be any problem. Customs and laws in
Gwillamer are similar to Keelan. Give me a couple of days, and I should be able
to find out. Of course, my time is valuable, and who knows what unexpected
problems might occur.”

After some dickering, it was agreed Linwyr would receive a
percentage of profits from the Gwillamer petroleum. Yozef figured that giving
Linwyr a small share in any profits, in exchange for his dealing with the
Gwillamese, better ensured Linwyr’s dedication to the project than salary.
Approval to take the oil came the next sixday, details about which Yozef never
inquired, as long as the petroleum was available.

With paperwork in hand that Linwyr said authorized them to
collect unlimited petroleum, the next two steps were how to get the oil to
where it could be processed and distilled. Logistically, setting up the
distillation at the source would have been more efficient, but at the beginning
it would have to be in Abersford, where there were already shops and workmen.
Yozef put Linwyr in charge of getting the petroleum to Abersford, and Filtin
with working out the distillation.

Linwyr’s solution to getting the oil from the Gwillamer
pools to Abersford was simple. A wooden tanker wagon was built that would hold
twelve hundred gallons. The bed of the wagon was a wooden box with no lid, the
crude also serving as caulking for the wood. Once full, the top of the bed was
covered with canvas to keep out dust and critters. How Linwyr got the oil from
the pools to the box Yozef never asked. A six-horse team pulled the wagon, and
once it arrived in Abersford, the wagon was rolled over a basin dug into the
ground and lined with brick, a “cork” built into the bottom of the wagon bed
was knocked out, and the crude drained into the basin. The cork was then
replaced, and wagon returned to Gwillamer for another load. Yozef cringed, as
he watched the first load empty into the basin, and wondered how much seeped
into the ground and the water table. Again, no EPA. However, if this took off,
they’d have to make other arrangements.

Filtin’s task was by far the hardest. The fundamental
principle was the same as with ether and ethanol, yet the details weren’t
minor. Yozef knew that on Earth, a typical refinery had combinations of huge
metal fractional distillation and cracking towers to break down the larger
petroleum polymers into smaller chains being distilled continuously, with
fractions removed and additional feedstock added as needed, a process for which
Yozef didn’t understand the underlying engineering, except for its being too
complex a technology for Caedellium. Obviously, they were going to work on
smaller amounts than Earth refineries did, and they’d have to use batch
distillation. He remembered references to Arabic devices similar to pot stills
used for making whiskey, essentially bulbous vessels that could be many feet in
diameter. This approach to distillation was cruder than they were using for
ether and ethanol but was more amenable to larger amounts. Then there was the
residual crude once the kerosene fraction was removed, which he directed Filtin
to store in deep pits, in case they eventually got around to using it for
asphalt in road paving. He left the details of handling the crude and the
residues to Filtin.

And figure it out Filtin did, although it took two months,
three moderate accidents, turnover in workers coinciding with rebuilding a
demolished first petroleum workshop, and some considerable coin. The first
Anyar petroleum fractional distillation succeeded in a run producing ten
gallons of kerosene. The twenty-foot-tall bronze column Filtin designed looked
like something out of a metal junkyard, but it worked.

Yozef waited until they knew the kerosene could be produced
before moving to the next step—what to burn it in? The test to see whether
existing whale oil lamps would also use kerosene was conducted outdoors and
with all witnesses at a distance, so no permanent damage resulted from the
first test. Consultation with a local lamp maker and a promise of rights to
produce the new lamp type gave them a functioning kerosene lamp within another
sixday after tweaking existing whale oil lamp designs.

Acceptance of the new lamps benefited from Yozef’s access to
standard Earth marketing strategies: free samples, demonstrations, and product
placement. Evening demonstrations at the abbey and Abersford let the populace
compare light from the traditional whale oil lamps to the new kerosene. Then the
first batch of lamps, along with a supply of kerosene, was loaned to anyone who
wanted to try them out on a three-day trial before passing the lamps on to
other interested denizens. Overnight, orders began coming in, and by the next
month Filtin was working on larger fractionation columns, Linwyr was building
more and bigger wagons, and the lamp maker switched most of his production to
kerosene lanterns.

The village of Abersford was in the middle of minor
industrial and population booms. The ether, ethanol, soap, paper, and now
kerosene and lanterns had long ago absorbed all available and competent
workers, and additional ones were coming from surrounding villages up to twenty
miles away. To avoid overloading the local community and to aid distribution, Yozef
started “franchising out” production, first to the district seat at Clengoth,
then to the clan center at Caernford, and later to other provinces. He left the
details to Cadwulf, who hired two more assistants to handle the formalities.

Yozef’s reputation as a tycoon rose even higher. Silver and
gold coins gravitated to him exponentially.

A Plan

His enterprises flourished, but never far from Yozef’s
consciousness were thoughts of, What “exactly” am I doing here on Anyar?
Earth was still out there … somewhere. The Watchers studied humans, and he
found himself glancing at the sky and wondering whether they were looking at
him at that moment. Not that he would ever know, assuming Harlie told the truth
about non-intervention.

The patient who had died during an amputation had jolted him
into teaching the Caedelli how to make ether, and that had led to ethanol and
distillation as a basic procedure, kerosene production, soaps, and different
papers. He didn’t doubt there would be more. Ideas were constantly bubbling up,
some to be discarded as too impractical, some for further consideration, and
others many decades or lifetimes away from implementation.

Still, when he surveyed his time on Anyar, he had made a
difference: useful products, simple technologies, rudimentary medical-related
knowledge, and introducing novel branches of mathematics to Cadwulf. All to the
good, so why a longing for more? In his old life, living with Julie,
contemplating leaving graduate school for a safe job and a comfortable
lifestyle had been the extent of his ambitions. He had been satisfied then, but
now … ?

By local standards, he was becoming wealthy and would only
get richer. Did he have any other purpose, except to live out his life as best
he could? Not that such a future was all bad, considering his circumstances,
but he was angry. Angry at the Watchers, angry at the fates, angry at—God? Even
if he couldn’t assign blame, there was a need to “show” that he mattered, that
his existence left a mark. Such thoughts were confusing, since they’d have been
alien to Earth’s Joseph Colsco.

One inescapable fact of his existence on Anyar was Bronwyn’s
coming child. What kind of future would it have? What if he married and had
more children? What would be their and their descendants’ future? What of all
of the peoples of Anyar? There must be hundreds of millions to low billions. If
the people of Anyar had the knowledge lying available in his brain, the
planet’s technology would leap ahead centuries. What if the Watchers were not
neutral observers? He had only the word of Harlie that they’d had no hand in
transplanting humans.

He worried. What if the Watchers or whoever had done this
someday returned? If they showed up in two hundred years, would they expect to
find Anyar with the technology of Earth 1900–1950? If the Anyarians could be
pushed ahead, maybe they’d have the ability to stand on their own against
whatever came. For that to happen, Yozef would have to both transfer his
science and technology knowledge and have it accepted. He had made
changes, yet most of those would have come on their own within a century or
more, assuming they didn’t already exist elsewhere on Anyar. In his focus on
himself and the here and now, he could easily forget there was the rest of the
planet beyond Caedellium, and who knew what level of technology might exist
elsewhere? He knew of the Narthani, having gotten an earful from both Carnigan
and the abbot, but were the Caedelli views parochial? Maybe the Narthani were a
better vehicle for what he knew. And what of other realms that might be more
advanced?

These thoughts monopolized Yozef for an entire day. He
walked from his house to Abersford, then to the abbey, back to his house, along
the shore to his cove, to Birdshit Bay, and back to his house. By twilight, he
had walked more than twenty miles without eating or drinking since morning
meal. His throat was parched, his stomach ate at his backbone, and his feet
protested blisters, but none of the complainants were noticed.

After he got back at his cottage, he had decided on a goal
to underlie everything else for the rest of his life. When he’d first arrived
on Caedellium, he’d feared introducing new ideas. Now, his position and
reputation were solid enough that the risk of introducing new knowledge was
acceptable, as long as he took care.

He envisioned three objectives. First, continue pushing his
various projects and staying alert for new opportunities. Most important were not
the novel products themselves, but the techniques and the technology adopted by
workers and getting those workers to think in new directions. In addition,
products generated coinage—life’s blood for change.

Second, push more basic scientific knowledge beyond the
medical and biological ideas he had shared with Diera and the scholastics. He
had so far been circumspect on what he shared, not knowing what they could
absorb without triggering countervailing reactions. Their current level could
not absorb cell structure, DNA, RNA, antibiotics, and the associated chemistry,
genetic engineering, molecular biology, genetics as applied to plant and animal
breeding—along with another topic that could be tricky: the evolution of
organisms. It was only a matter of time before the people of Anyar recognized
two lines of organisms on Anyar, and humans belonged to the line that couldn’t
have evolved on this planet.

He had already changed the course of Anyarian mathematics,
yet he hadn’t touched the physical sciences—physics, astronomy, geology, and
whatever else he could remember. He would have to introduce knowledge step by
step, trying to remember the stages in Earth’s scientific history, so the new
concepts could be accepted and integrated.

The third objective was long term, mostly to be used beyond
his lifetime. He would write down as much as he could remember about everything.
One set of books for the sciences and a second series on how he came to Anyar,
the Watchers, and as much of the history of Earth as he could recall. He would
develop a plan to keep the second set of books concealed until some indefinite
future, likely well beyond his own lifetime. Anyone reading them too soon would
judge him insane. But one day, there needed to be a record to let the people of
Anyar know about Earth and the Watchers. And not incidentally, he admitted to
himself, to know about Joseph Colsco, a.k.a. Yozef Kolsko.

He stood on his veranda, smelling the evening meal being
prepared by Elian, watching birds and murvors sail over the surf. Having a
life-long plan, albeit one for which he didn’t know the outcome, gave him a
feeling of focus. He would dedicate himself to knowledge transfer in the
confidence it would spread to all of Anyar. It would be his purpose in life and
his legacy, a path for the rest of his life, a life of purpose here in
Abersford.

A cruel God would smile. A beneficent God would shake his
head in sympathy.

Yozef Is Happy?

The next evening, Yozef celebrated his newfound commitment
to his future by walking to Abersford after eating with the Faughns. He peeked
into the Snarling Graeko, and, sure enough, Carnigan sat at his table against
the wall, alone.

A jovial Yozef plopped himself on a bench opposite Carnigan.

“What are you so cheery about?” Carnigan grated to an oblivious
Yozef, who had decided many months ago that most of the time the grating was
just the natural tenor of Carnigan’s voice. He wasn’t ready to crush your
skull. Most of the time. When he was in a bad mood, his voice got softer—that
was the time to make a hasty exit.

“Oh, just in a good mood tonight. Who else would I want to
share my good humor with, except Carnigan Puvey?”

Carnigan’s response was a grunt and a renewed focus on the
half-full beer stein. He picked it up and downed it in one long draught. By
magic, a woman appeared with two new full steins. Yozef was about to thank her
for anticipating his order when she said, “Ev’ning, Ser Kolsko. Will yuh be
hav’ y’r usual?”

“Ah . . . yes, thank you,” he answered. Yozef’s mood shifted
to concern. Carnigan was a prodigious drinker, but usually a few beers put him
into as openly a good mood as he was likely to get.

He kept a watchful eye on Carnigan, until the woman returned
with a third stein for their table. He then sipped. Sipped again. Again. Then
jumped in.

“Carnigan,” he ventured, “is there some problem? You seem .
. . troubled tonight.”

Carnigan was quiet at first, then took a smaller quaff from
one of his steins.

“Sometimes our lives go in directions we never dreamed of.
One thinks he knows his place in the world and what’s in the future . . . then
everything changes, and everything he expected is gone.” Carnigan looked up
from his beer at Yozef, a melancholy expression on his ruddy face. “Does that
ever occur to you, Yozef?”

Yozef was thunderstruck by the question.

Carnigan saw the expression on Yozef’s face and slammed a
giant fist on the table. “God’s curse on me, Yozef! If there’s anyone on
Caedellium who’s been jerked from his life path, it must be you! My apologies
for wallowing.”

“Nonsense, Carnigan,” reassured Yozef. “All of us have this
feeling from time to time. Granted, some more than others, and I guess I’m one
of those others. What about you, though? What is it?”

Yozef could see the hand holding the metal stein tighten,
and he half held his breath, wondering if Carnigan was going to crush the
vessel without realizing it. Then the hand relaxed, and the owner sat back
against the wall. “It’s the day.”

“The day? Something happened today?”

“No. The date,” he whispered. “This date every year. It was
on this date that my life changed. On this date, I realized I wasn’t a good
person.”

“Could you tell me what happened?”

“No,” Carnigan replied in the soft tone, signaling it was
time to end this discussion thread.

Yozef decided to try another tactic to maybe improve
Carnigan’s mood. He’d let Carnigan rib him about the brief affair with Buna.

Whoops, Yozef thought. Wait a minute. Carnigan
isn’t married. He lives in the abbey, and I’ve never seen or heard of him in
relation to a woman. That’s unusual among the Caedelli, what with their
attitudes toward sex and the shortage of men.

Granted, Carnigan wasn’t the most personable of men.
Still—something involving women? Or a woman? Best to avoid the topic.

Yozef spent the next half hour rambling about progress on
his various projects, news and rumors about the Narthani, the weather, and
anything else he could think of, trawling for any topic that might bring up a
spark of interest from Carnigan. He was about to give it up when he hit pay dirt.

“Filtin tells me he had another run-in with his
mother-in-law. Or, as Filtin refers to her, ‘the old witch.’” Yozef’s attention
spiked when he thought he saw a hint of Carnigan’s mouth turning up at the
corner. The referenced older woman was notorious throughout Abersford for
making caustic remarks at the slightest perceived provocation. However, Filtin
insisted she needed no provocation, and it was her nature that anything coming
out of her mouth was required to be nasty. Her looks were a good match to her
personality. She had straggly gray hair, seldom washed, and had bad teeth. Her
rheumy eyes reminded one alternately of a snake or a wolverine, and her breath
could melt metal. All in all, a charming person. Anyone would have questioned
the wisdom of Filtin not having serious reservations about marrying a daughter
of this harridan, yet to the surprise of all, the daughter was nothing like the
mother. Nerlin Fuller was, from all accounts, mild-mannered, was liked by all,
adored Filtin, and was a conscientious mother. Filtin half-jokingly speculated
one evening that Nerlin had the perfect model of whom not to be.

Encouraged by
Carnigan’s reaction, Yozef attempted humor. “That reminds me of a joke about a
woman, possibly someone like Filtin’s mother-in-law. It seems she was one of
three old women who died and arrived in the afterlife at the same time. When
they get there, God says, ‘We only have one rule here: don't step on the
ducks!’

“The three women
agree, though they don’t understand why ducks are so important, and they enter
Heaven. Sure enough, there are ducks all over the place. It is virtually
impossible not to step on a duck, and although they do their best to avoid
them, the first woman accidentally steps on one.

“Well, along comes
God with the most unpleasant man the first woman has ever seen. God chains
them together and says, ‘Your punishment for stepping on a duck is to spend
eternity chained to this man!’

“The next day, the
second woman accidentally steps on a duck, and along comes God again with an
extremely unpleasant-looking man. He chains them together with the same
admonition as for the first woman.

“The third woman
has watched all of this and is determined not to be chained for
all eternity to an unpleasant man like the other two women, so she steps
extraordinarily carefully wherever she goes. She manages to go months without
stepping on any ducks. Then one day, God comes up to her with the most handsome
man she has ever laid eyes on—tall, dark hair, and muscular. God chains them
together without saying a word and walks away.

“The happy woman
says to her dream man, ‘I wonder what I did to deserve being chained to you for
all of eternity?’

“‘I don't know
about you,’ the man says, ‘but I stepped on a duck!’”

There was no
reaction for some seconds, then the first cracks appeared in granite, like an
avalanche that started slowly and then accelerated as an irresistible force.
Fortunately, unlike the first time Yozef had cribbed a joke from Earth and told
it as a novel one on Anyar, Carnigan didn’t have a mouthful of beer. Yozef was
spared an evening shower. And he was fortunate that he had moved his chair back
slightly in anticipation at the first signs of motion and thus wasn’t bounced
by the edge of the heavy table when both of Carnigan’s fists pounded the
defenseless wood.

Other patrons
stopped their own activities, as heads rotated toward the volcanic outburst.
Then, recognizing Yozef, people spread the word that one of Yozef’s story
sessions might be in the offering. The evening’s sparse distribution of patrons
flowed around Yozef and Carnigan’s table, forming a U-shape against the wall.

If Carnigan at
first noticed the gathering, he gave no sign until his laughter subsided. Then
he looked around with his usual angry expression and sighed. “Can’t a man be
left in peace with his dark moods anymore?”

“What are friends
for, if not to save friends from themselves?” Yozef assured him. “Which reminds
me of a story . . . ” and he was off and running with more plagiarized jokes
from Earth, many of which fell on deaf ears, since the context was lost, but
enough of which hit universal themes and references to maintain his reputation
as a major wit.

The pub was nearly
empty when the Yozef decided it was past time to head home. The problem with
that intent was that once he stood, moving in a straight line proved
troublesome. Still, considering the amount of strong beer he’d consumed, his
brain idly wondered why he was even standing. Carnigan, evidently possessing an
infinite capacity for beer, steadied Yozef and walked him the mile to his
house.

It had been a good
evening. As he dozed off in his bed, Yozef thought that everything considered,
it wasn’t a bad life. He had friends. The affair with Bronwyn had ended, though
with good memories and no real regrets. The affair with Buna had ended, which
was the important fact. He was making a difference. He was well-known and
respected, and he thought he had a plan to focus his life. All in all, it could
be a lot worse.

Chapter 30: The Raid

Buldorian Ship, Warrior’s Pride

Musfar Adalan was a contented man. From the aftcastle of his
flagship, he could see all five of his ships. Granted, they weren’t real
warships, with heavy cannon and three- to four-foot bulwarks, but their
15-pounder cannon would subdue any lumbering merchant ship, and they were agile
and fast enough to outrun anything they couldn’t outgun. He’d brought seven
ships with him to Caedellium. Two ships had sailed home laden with spoils:
gold, silver, jewelry, fine rugs and cloth, slaves, and whatever goods and
trinkets caught his men’s fancy and for which there was room in the ship’s
holds. The Scourge from Buldor left three months ago and returned the
day before the rest of his ships left for the current raid. He would have liked
to have the sixth ship along, but rudder problems and other repairs would have
delayed the raid by several days, something neither he nor the Narthani
desired. The seventh ship, the Bravado, had left for Buldor ten days
ago, also stuffed high with booty, but with orders not to return. Adalan
trusted his sixth sense, and it told him their time in these waters ran short.

Adalan didn’t think of himself as a pirate by trade but as
more of an “opportunist,” ready to take advantage of opportunities.
Sometimes those involved pirating, but, depending on circumstances, he and his
men dabbled in the slave trade, smuggling, raids, and mercenary work when the
remuneration was appealing. It was a version of the latter two activities that
engaged them on this day and had for the last several months, raiding the
Caedellium coast under the patronage of the Narthani. Dealing with the Narthani
was dangerous, yet he accepted the risks for the spoils he and his men had
amassed.

While Adalan was not privy to the exact reasons the Narthani
had come to him, instead of using their own formidable navy, it would have
taken someone far less sagacious in the ways of the world not to assume it was
because the Narthani wanted a plausible of degree deniability. Adalan knew the
current arrangement would end whenever it suited the Narthani, but that would
be in the future, and Adalan dealt with the now.

This would be their fourteenth raid. For Adalan, the results
had assuaged his initial caution. The Narthani gathered intelligence and picked
rich, vulnerable targets with meticulous efficiency. Twelve of the first
thirteen were successful, with minimal losses. In two cases, Abel Adalan,
Musfar’s cousin and second-in-command, had withdrawn before a complete sack,
due to indications of reinforcements arriving or where the final holdout
positions were judged too strong to be overcome for the expected return. Only
one of the thirteen earlier raids was aborted on discovering the Stent Province
abbey defended by two hundred Stentese men fortuitously gathered for a muster drill
unanticipated by the Narthani. The accompanying Narthani liaison excoriated
them in all three cases, but General Akuyun, the Narthani commander, accepted
Musfar’s explanations as reasonable.

To Adalan’s thinking, there were two downsides to the arrangement.
One was that he knew the time would come when the Narthani no longer needed
deniability. Before that day, Adalan planned that he and his men should slip
away, in case the Narthani severed their relationship on other than friendly
terms.

The second downside was that several Narthani officers
always accompanied the raids. They didn’t go ashore, only observed and offered
advice, which Adalan neither needed nor wanted. On the first raids, the lead
Narthani was tolerable. No such luck on this raid. The three new Narthani stood
on the forecastle, the leader using a telescope to examine the shoreline and
talking to the other two, one of whom took notes.

The Narthani leader was an older, blocky man whose main
skill was to confirm the worst stereotypes of the Narthani—arrogant,
condescending, and eyes like a Drilmarian zernik, the goat-sized omnivore
renowned for being stupid, prolific, vicious, and making parts of the Drilmar
continent essentially uninhabitable. Musfar hoped someday that someone would exterminate
both the zerniks and the Narthani.

“Look at those asses, Musfar,” said Abel Adalan. “Strutting
around and acting like they have any idea how to sail a ship or carry out a
raid.”

Musfar turned to his cousin and second-in-command. “Now,
now, Abel, you mustn’t show such disrespect for our benefactors. They have made
all of us exceedingly rich the last few months. When we return home, both we
and our clan will be among the greats of Buldor.”

“They’re still asses.”

Musfar sighed. “Yes, Abel, they are asses, but
they’re our asses for now.”

The two cousins laughed loud enough to draw disapproving
looks from the three Narthani on the other end of the vessel. Musfar gave them
a respectful bow and waved. “I will bow and scrape before even these asses for
the loot we’ve already accumulated, but my cousin, I feel it may be time for
our sails to catch the westerly winds in this part of Anyar.”

“My thoughts as well. As our illustrious grandfather has
said to us many times, ‘It’s good to be greedy, just not too greedy.’”

Musfar looked at the other ships in line behind Warrior’s
Pride. All five vessels were abuzz with activity, as crews unsheathed and
prepared to lower longboats to be filled with the armed men waiting on and
below deck. The normal ships’ crew complements were around 350 men for the five
ships. However, for shore raids, more men were needed, and months earlier
Adalan had sent back to Buldor for another 100 clansmen and 170 men from
another clan of Buldor. Though Musfar’s clan considered the Benhoudi to be
little better than dogs, they were available, since the poorer clans always
looked to hire out their men to supplement their own activities.

The raid this day involved 400 men ashore, 250 of Musfar’s
Benkarsta clansmen, and the 150 Benhoudi, leaving skeleton Benkarsta crews on
the ships. Although it wasn’t spoken openly, all, including the Benhoudi, knew
that the Benhoudi would get the more dangerous assignments on raids. Still, the
potential for loot was so great, and their clan so poor, the Benhoudi leader
considered the risks acceptable. So far, this calculation had proven profitable
for all, even for the Benhoudi, who would return home among their clan’s
wealthiest members, having so far lost only 20 of their original 170.

Abel Adalan, as Musfar’s second-in-command, would lead the
raiding party. The two men went into the command cabin, where a map of
Abersford and the abbey area was pinned to a wall.

“I’ve looked over your plan for the raid, Abel, and I see no
obvious changes to make.”

Abel traced lines of planned movements with a forefinger.
“You’ll get us within about two hundred yards of shore, assuming the
information from the Narthani agent is accurate, and the bottom is as deep as
they say,” he commented, indicating the same beach Yozef had been found.

“We’ll anchor offshore and immediately lower all shipboard
longboats, while we pull in those we’re towing.” The Buldorian vessels didn’t
have room on deck for enough longboats to contain all of the men heading to
shore, and hawsers connected more boats to the ships. On earlier raids, they
put the men ashore several miles from the target, believing it gave better
chances to approach undetected. Since then, they had changed their approach
tactic and at first light drove the ships as close to shore as they could, then
rushed ashore before the locals had time to react.

Abel’s finger rested on the abbey, as he continued his
review. “Four hundred men, two hundred and fifty of ours and the hundred and
fifty Benhoudi. As usual, I’ll try to keep the Benhoudi in the forefront, if
there’s major resistance. I’ll be with the main group of three hundred hitting
the abbey, since that’s where the major resistance should concentrate and where
the Narthani information tells us the best booty is located. It’s also where
large numbers of the villagers will go for safety, so there should be many
women and children inside.

“The other hundred of our men will sweep through the
village, making quick plunder of cartable valuables and potential slaves—the
sweep to be finished within thirty minutes and all booty returned to the ships.
The remaining men of that group are then to reinforce the abbey looting if
necessary.

“The main body of three hundred men will move on the abbey,
as soon as ashore and organized. Speed and coordination are essential. The
information from the Narthani and a look with our telescope confirm the wall
around the abbey is only seven to eight feet tall. Assuming the other
information is correct, most of the fighting men will be absent, partly due to
our feints on the other villages down the coast two days ago and partly from
Narthani assurances that another portion of the fighting men will be absent.

“It bothers me, as it always does, that we’re proceeding
based on information we didn’t gather or confirm ourselves. So far, though, I
have to give reluctant credit to the reliability of the Narthani intelligence,”
grumbled a resigned Abel. “Assuming, once again, the information is accurate,
the locals shouldn’t be able to stop a simultaneous assault at multiple points
on the wall.” Abel pointed to three ‘X’s on the map. “We’ll attack the abbey
complex wall at these three points in hundred man groups. First, two groups,
each of seventy-five Benhoudi and twenty-five of our men, will attack about
halfway between the main gate and the two corners—we assume the gate will be
closed and barred. Either or both groups should be able to get over the wall
and engage the locals. The wall next to the gate, and the gate itself are
twelve feet tall, so ignoring the gate area and going directly over the
eight-foot wall is easier. Once we’re inside, we should be able to overwhelm
the defenders. It’s getting over the wall where most of our losses will happen.

“The third group of one hundred of our own men will wait for
the first two groups to launch their attacks, then hit the western wall of the
abbey complex. Most defenders should be involved with the first two group, so
the third group might get inside the walls untouched or might not even be
needed, but just in case . . . ”

Musfar approved. His cousin had earned his position. He was
fearless as necessary in battle, yet his real value was his planning and cool
thinking. Musfar knew of too many Buldorian men wasted because of stupid
leaders. He took it as a matter of pride that his men suffered as few
casualties as they did when balanced with the volume of booty this expedition
had garnered. No small part of that success was the result of Abel’s careful
planning and attention to detail. This might be the last trip with Abel as his
second. He was due for a command, and Musfar would support him if he chose to
go out next time as a commander. He’d miss him.

“If all goes as expected,” Abel went on, “we should be back
at the beach within two to three hours. If there’s either more resistance or
more booty than expected, I’ll balance time and booty potential. Whatever
happens, I don’t expect the raid to take longer than four hours at the most.”

The two men returned to the deck and squinted to shore as
their ship sailed toward the beach. Within ten minutes, they’d be anchored and
the first men scrambling into the longboats.

“Good luck and good hunting,” said Musfar, and the two
kinsmen clasped forearms, before Abel turned to lead the raid.

Alert!

The sun peeked above the eastern mountaintops on a typical
morning on the southwest coast of Keelan Province. Scattered white clouds
hinted at a clear day. The slight onshore breeze brought in the usual sea
freshness. A morning haze still lay on the fields, and the same atmospherics
allowed the haze hovering over the ocean to just start to clear with the sun’s
first rays.

Sistian and Diera Beynom finished morning meal—both late
this morning for their duties, but they were in charge of their respective orders
at St. Sidryn’s, and no one begrudged their luxury of occasionally lingering at
morning meal.

Abersford’s fighting men were organized into Thirds of fifty
men each. Carnigan Puvey and Denes Vegga belonged to the one Third currently in
Abersford. A second Third of the local levy was, “by chance,” on a scheduled
patrol duty, this time farther north than usual. Eywellese riders had crossed
several times into the northern districts, and Hetman Keelan had ordered
increased patrols. Those fifty Abersford men were seventy miles away and a day
out of semaphore or courier contact.

The final Third of the Abersford men spent the previous
night thirty miles west at a Gwillamer Province coastal village that had
spotted sea raider ships unloading men several miles farther west. No attack
had yet occurred, but the local Gwillamer boyerman had invoked the Tri-Clan
Alliance agreement, and Abersford, being the closest Keelan settlement, was
obliged to respond. Denes Vegga, the local magistrate, the overall supervisor of
the Thirds, and the direct commander of one of the three, vociferously objected
to leaving the area with so few men. A rider carried Gwillamer’s request to Langnor Vorwich, the district boyerman, who reluctantly
ruled the request had to be honored and promised to start additional men moving
toward Abersford by that afternoon. The village and the abbey would only be
short fighting men for a few hours the next morning.

Both Carnigan and Vegga were
already at work—Carnigan helping a village smithy repair an iron railing at the
abbey hospital, and Vegga at the local authority office, preparing to ride out
accompanying the registrar to a farm delinquent in taxes. The farm itself was
productive enough to pay the taxes, even in these times, yet the owner managed
always to be late. The farmer was also a disagreeable character, and the
registrar agent asked Vegga to accompany him.

Halla Bower had just walked her
oldest child, Manwyn, to the village school. At six years old, he would attend
the small local school for another three to four years before she and her
husband decided whether to send him to the abbey school, where older children
could further their education beyond that needed for most trades. Her husband
worked in his father’s leather shop, and although he knew he would someday
inherit the shop, he didn’t intend for his son to be obligated from birth to
take over the business. Halla loved her husband for this attitude, for the
consideration he always showed his family and other people, and just because …
she loved him.

After returning home, Halla put
down Manwyn’s sister. At eighteen months, the toddler was getting a little big
for Halla to carry too long. As usual, it would be a busy day for Halla.
Clothes to wash, clothes to mend, their vegetable garden to tend, turnips past
ready to pull and store in their root cellar, a return trip to the school to
collect Manwyn after the midday bell, and tending to the girl. The toddler was
walking and running, sort of, and would soon start training to use the outhouse.
If that training took hold in the next few months, then Halla would have a
six-months’ respite; she hadn’t told her husband about another child on the
way.

Yozef Kolsko had risen with
only a slight hangover from the night’s pub session and
had eaten a morning meal with Elian. Brak had eaten earlier and had been at
work around the property before light. Yozef didn’t see the need for the
elderly man to rise so early and work so hard, but his suggestions met with
disapproving looks from the proud older man, and Yozef dropped the subject.
Elian wasn’t as regimented as Brak. While she saw no need to rise as early as
her husband, Yozef’s sleeping well past sunrise seemed decadent. However, since
she wasn’t always hungry when she rose, and since she perceived that Yozef
didn’t always wish to eat alone, many days she waited, and they ate together.
Over the months, Yozef learned what he thought must be every detail of her life
and Brak’s, the past and current lives of their four children, and the
preferred methods of preserving local products and cooking the traditional
Caedellium dishes. Despite his hearing most of it multiple times, somehow the
gentle nature and kindness of the older woman and her pleasures at what seemed
to Yozef a hard life never bored him. It was meditative and a lesson for
finding life’s positives.

Today, Yozef was due to meet with
Cadwulf to go over his total finances; then Filtin had another of his ideas
about improving the petroleum distillation. Most of Filtin’s ideas proved
impractical at the moment, others impractical now but perhaps someday
implementable, and occasionally one was truly innovative, including several
ideas that helped narrow the curve between kerosene production and demand.

After the morning meal, Yozef
started off on the walk into Abersford. Brak thought he should ride, both
because of his stature as a prominent citizen and because of his abysmal
horsemanship. “How yuh expect to get better if yuh don’t do it?” Yozef declined
most days, unless he had appointments. The walk didn’t take long, and he needed
the exercise. It gave him a chance to think, and he still didn’t like horses or
trust his horsemanship, even with Seabiscuit.

Yonkel Miron loved roaming the beaches near Abersford. Not
every day, but often. By planning, he left home early for school, so he could
detour half an hour along the shore. He bragged he had the best seashell
collection in the district and occasionally found an intact and rare enough
shell to sell for a few krun in the village. Then there was always the chance
he would fine something mysterious washed up. After all, had it not been he who
first found Yozef Kolsko—the strange man who washed up on their beach naked and
within a year turned into an important figure and for whom Yonkel’s father and
older brothers worked in the lantern-making shop, or factory, as Yozef
called it?

His father kept telling Yonkel he should call Yozef by his
formal title—Ser Kolsko. Yonkel always replied that Yozef himself had given
permission to use his first name, and “You wouldn’t want to chance offending
Yozef, would you?”

Yonkel attended the abbey school this year. Yozef had spoken
with Yonkel’s father about how the boy was smart, and in the future there’d be
many good-paying jobs and professions that required more education than was
traditional on Caedellium. The father had been hesitant, but a family gathering
decided that the pay from Kolsko’s various businesses had put the extended
family in such a good financial position, and since Kolsko had taken a personal
interest in Yonkel, that the boy could attend more schooling. Yonkel overheard
Yozef telling one abbey brother that in a few years, Yonkel might be a
candidate for a scholasticum—whatever that was.

He took off his shoes to walk in the surf without ruining
them, something his otherwise tolerant mother would be angry about for months.
The spent water running up the sand swirled around his feet as he moved along,
eyes sweeping back and forth for signs of shells worth collecting. The morning
mist still hung over the beach and the sea, just now lifting in patches. The
gulls and the murvors flew back and forth, scolding him when he came upon a
cluster of them on the sand.

He had just inspected a glitter in the sand, which turned
out to be only a fragment and not a buried complete shell. He shifted his pack
containing his shoes and schoolbooks, when he raised up and faced out to sea.
There, through a break in the mist, he saw a line of sailing ships right
offshore, the first one only a few hundred yards from the beach. As he watched,
startled, he could see the first ship drop anchor and a frenzy of activity on a
deck crowded with armed men. The first longboat started to be lowered, and the
second vessel likewise dropped anchor. Shoes, schoolbooks, and papers forgotten
as the pack dropped onto the surf, Yonkel Miron ran toward the abbey as fast as
his eight-year-old legs would permit.

Yonkel might have been the first to see the Buldorian ships,
but Brother Alber gave the alarm. He happened to be in the cathedral bell tower.
There had been signs of a leak in the cathedral roof the last time it rained on
Godsday, and the abbot asked him to see if he could find the source. From the
openings in the tower, he could look down on much of the cathedral roof. He
hoped to spot a broken or misaligned tile or anything out of place, the
alternative being to go out on the roof and inspect each tile, one at a time.
He had done this before and left that option as a last resort. Thus, while he
focused downward toward the roof, the motion of a distant figure running toward
the abbey caught his attention. From there, his eyes elevated only slightly to
take in the beach and the sea half a mile away. First, he saw the scattered
breaking of the morning mist, then his brain registered five ships, sails
gathered, and anchored.

He stared for a full minute, while his mind ran through
options. Trading ships? He didn’t think so. The Narthani had blocked all trade,
and even if they hadn’t, traders seldom came directly to Abersford, instead of
the clan’s port facilities at Wilsford Bay. Ships seeking cover from a storm?
What storm and what cover did this part of the coast provide? Caedellium ships?
Certainly not from Keelan or any nearby provinces. Preddi had had vessels, but
the Narthani controlled Preddi now. Could these ships be Narthani? It was the
Narthani option that finally triggered a reaction. Warnings had been sent from
the hetman and reinforced by Abbot Beynom. A raiding party!

The main bell was rung by using a thick rope attached by a
block-and-tackle arrangement, the bell itself weighing several tons. Alber
couldn’t ring the bell from atop the tower. He would have to climb down the
stairway to reach the end of the ringing rope. Several brothers and sisters
gaped at Brother Alber sliding down the rope, using his cassock to grip and
protect his hands from rope burns, his bare legs and private parts on display
as he descended the four stories in a few seconds. When he hit the
block-and-tackle setup, he lost his grip and dropped the last ten feet to the
stone floor. His ankle broke, but he didn’t notice and jumped to his feet,
grabbed the lower end of the rope, and rang the bell. One ring signaled
standard morning, noon, and evening times. Three rings repeated with breaks
assembled the people for worship on Godsday, accompanied ceremonies such as
weddings, announced visiting dignitaries such as the hetman, or called a
general gathering of all people within hearing. Continuous ringing meant
imminent danger. No one living in Abersford had ever heard the continuous
ringing, but all knew the meaning. Armed men were to gather at the abbey,
citizens living far enough away to escape inland, and those living close to the
abbey to run to its protection.

Denes Vegga and the registrar were just leaving the registrar’s
office to ride out to the tax-delinquent farmer when the peals started. They
both froze in place through the first dozen peals. Then, “Hallon! Get on your
horse and wait while I see what’s happening!”

Denes raced back into the two-story building and up to the
roof, where he had a view of the coast. As soon as he saw the ships, he shouted
and waved to the mounted registrar and yelled out, “Clengoth! Ride for help!
It’s a raid!”

The district headquarters was fifteen miles away. Help would
be dispatched from there, and a semaphore message sent on to the province
capitol at Caernford. Unfortunately, the first help would be three or more
hours away. They were on their own until then.

Denes raced back down the stairs, mounted his waiting horse,
and galloped toward the abbey, where he would organize the defense.

The abbey appeared chaotic at first glance. Word of the
ships as the explanation for the bell ringing spread quickly. Sistian and Diera
had drilled the abbey’s staff for just such an event. They knew the abbey would
become a receptacle for a flood of refugees fleeing from the village and the
surrounding countryside. If the worst came, the defense would be here, at the
abbey complex with its main stone walls. Given news of other raids, that
defense would be to the death. No surrender contemplated, no matter what.

Carnigan moved without waiting for confirmation. He knew his
immediate task and set out within seconds of the fourth peal. He was to assist the
armorer in opening the block building that served as the area’s armory. The
armorer had a key to the building, as did Denes Vegga. By chance, the armorer
was one of the men called to respond to the request for assistance from the
Gwillamese under raid threat and hadn’t given Carnigan the key before leaving.
Vegga wasn’t at the abbey at the moment. Carnigan solved the problem his usual
way—he grabbed a ball-peen hammer as he ran to the armory. He took one second
to smash the lock on the door. Gonna need new locks, he thought inanely,
as he flung open the door. Men would bring their own weapons, and the armory
served as a reserve. Racks of muskets, crossbows, and spears of various lengths
and blade shapes, along with a mélange of swords, axes, and knives, made up the
accumulated stockpile of weapons discarded, inherited extras, and only God knew
from what other sources. Carnigan didn’t know who would use what weapon. That
was Vegga’s problem—his was to move the arms to the courtyard for distribution.

Halla Bower still rested from carrying the toddler to and
from Manwyn’s school when the peals began. Her breath caught, and her heart
seemed to stop as the peals continued. What was she supposed to do? She and her
husband had spoken of it only briefly, since neither believed it would happen.
Her husband would be on his way to the abbey and the gathering of his third
group of Abersford’s fighting men. Manwyn would be watched after by the
teachers at the village school. She couldn’t remember whether the students would
flee inland or go to the abbey. There was nothing she could do for Manwyn, and
she’d have to trust the teachers. She was supposed to take their other child to
the abbey as the safest place. She grabbed the protesting toddler, who had just
found a favorite ball under the table, and ran out of their house toward the
road to the abbey, all tiredness from their previous trip forgotten.

Yozef was partway to Abersford when the peals started. He
walked another fifty yards before his brain woke up, with the help of people
running or riding toward the abbey. He remembered the talk of the possibility
of Narthani or other raiders attacking the village, but it had seemed a
theoretical discussion. Whatever it was, the answers lay at the abbey, now
a third of a mile away. He joined the flow of runners.

Confusion at Sea

Musfar Adalan was not happy. The two-hundred-yard
clearance reported by the Narthani for anchoring offshore turned out to be more
than three hundred yards. Warrior’s Pride narrowly missed ramming onto
barely submerged rocks, and Musfar ordered anchoring short of their goal. The
three Narthani officers were impervious to his glares, and Buldorian curses
leveled at the Narthani fell on uncomprehending ears.

Adel Adalan was even less happy. He was the one going ashore
to command the raid. Not only were they farther off the beach, but several
lines became snarled as they attempted to lower the longboats. They had carried
out this maneuver a hundred times in raids and training, but it didn’t help
this day. They’d be a good fifteen minutes later ashore than his plan called
for.

Chapter 31: Panic and Preparation

Denes and Yozef arrived at the abbey within seconds of each
other, with Denes’s horse coming within inches of knocking Yozef down as they
both hit the main gate. That’s where the two men’s actions differed. Denes knew
exactly what he must do—create order out of the chaos and prepare to defend the
abbey. Yozef had no idea what he was supposed to do. In fact, now that he was there,
his immediate thought was that he wanted to be somewhere else. Anyplace else.
What good was he going to be? Lacking a task or any idea of what to do, he
instinctively followed Denes.

The available armed men gathered in the center of the
courtyard, surrounding Denes and the abbot. Yozef edged closer through the
group to better hear.

“How bad is it?” asked a grim abbot.

“Bad. Very bad,” replied an even grimmer Denes. “At full
fighting men strength, we could hold off a raiding party of this size. That was
what the defense plan was designed for. Unfortunately, we are not at full
strength. One Third is away on a scheduled patrol in northern Keelan. Even with
them gone, we should have been able to hold, but now a second Third is away to
Gwillamer.”

“What does that mean for us now?”

Denes shook his head. “We can’t hold with fifty men. This is
a nightmare. If we’d known we’d have so few men, it would’ve been better for
all of the people to run or ride as far inland as fast as they could. Most
would’ve gotten out of reach of the raiders. We told them to come here because
this was the safest place. Instead, it’s turning into a trap,” Denes ended
bitterly.

“We have the walls,” protested the desperate abbot.

“The walls are not tall enough!” Denes snarled. “I’ve told you
and the district boyerman that several times! They’ll come right at them. If I
was them, I’d fake at the main gate to force us to defend it and then attack
the walls in at least two places. With the few men we have, the raiders will
take casualties and then be over the wall, and it’ll be the end for us.”

Yozef elbowed his way near the two men in time to hear the
last exchanges. They couldn’t defend the walls with the number of men
available? Denes was saying the raiders would overwhelm the defenders on the
wall?

Oh, shit! What am I doing here?

He’d come all this way from Earth and made a life here, and
now to die during a pirate raid?!

How about a fucking break now and then!!

Yozef cast around over the heads of the gathered men,
looking for a way out. They were in the courtyard between the main gate and the
cathedral. The hospital building and one of the residence buildings flanked the
courtyard, with the main gate and wall forming the fourth side. Then … he had
an idea, and without thought, he said in normal voice, “Don’t fight them on the
walls.”

No one paid any attention. He stepped closer to Denes and
Sistian and yelled, “Don’t fight them on the walls!”

The two men stopped facing each other and turned to Yozef.
Sistian’s expression was blank, because he didn’t understand what Yozef had
said.

Denes snapped, “What did you say?”

Yozef swallowed and tucked his shaking hands under his
armpits. “If you can’t hold them off at the walls and they’ll come over, let
them in the courtyard.”

“Quiet, Yozef,” Sistian admonished. “Let Denes—”

“Shut up!” Denes growled at the abbot, who jerked his head
back, not used to being so ordered.

Denes swiveled his head from the front gate at the courtyard
to Yozef, to the courtyard. He licked his lips. “It’s risky. There isn’t much
time to get ready, but it may be our only chance.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the bewildered abbot.

Denes grabbed the abbot’s arm and leaned closer to him. “If
we can’t keep them outside the walls, our one chance might be to make the
courtyard a trap. Turn the trap for us into a trap for them. We lure them here,
so they’re clustered together while we surround them. Then we can
fight them from all sides, while they can’t use all of their weapons at the
same time. It’ll help balance their number advantage.”

“Let them in the gate!” Sistian shrieked. “That’s insane!
How can we not hold them at the walls, then let them inside the complex?!”

“Not inside the complex, inside our trap.”

“But—”

“I’m in charge, Abbot. We have to do something, and it’s my
decision.” With that, Denes quit paying attention to the abbot, who stood
white-faced and confused when Denes turned again to Yozef.

“We’ll give a good account of ourselves, but they’ll still
probably win. We just don’t have enough men.”

Yozef’s mind was split. One part wanted to run and not stand
and give advice he had no qualifications to give, but the part controlling his
babbling was ascendant. “Maybe not fighting out in the open, but there are
plenty of people here who can fight behind barricades.”

Denes whirled back to the abbot. “Abbot, you and your staff
get all the oldest people and children into the farthest and most secure rooms
in the basements. Then everyone able enough to stand and fight in place, get to
the courtyard.”

The abbot stood and stared glassy-eyed at Denes.

“NOW, ABBOT!!” Denes screamed.

Sistian blinked twice, then hitched his cassock and took off
running, yelling for other brothers and sisters.

Denes shouted for the clustered men to shut up and listen.
“If we try to hold the walls, they’ll break through easily. Even if every
adult, man and woman, joins us on the wall, there’s too much of the wall to
defend and react to their attacking at different places. Once they’re over the
wall in even one place, it’ll be over. We need to get them where they’re at a
disadvantage.

“Here’s what we’ll do—build a continuous barricade around
the edges of the courtyard, then leave the main gate open and let them pour
through. They might not be able to resist if they see we haven’t closed the
gate. When they enter the courtyard, we can fire at them from behind the
barricade. If they reach the barricade, they’ll have to climb over and be
vulnerable.”

“What if they don’t take the bait?” asked a rough-looking
man toward the rear of the group.

“Then we’re back to defending the walls as best we can, with
everyone who can hold a weapon,” Denes replied grimly. “I think we’re dead in
that case. We’re also dead if we try to lure them into a trap and they don’t
take the bait. We’re dead if they take the bait, and we can’t hold them in the
trap. The only way we’re not dead is if the trap works and we hold them, so
that’s what we’ll do.”

Neither the questioner nor any of the other men were happy
with Denes’s reply, but no one offered another option.

“Filtin, Seflux, Wilfwin—” Denes named seven or eight men,
“split up everyone and go into the building and bring out everything that moves
and might provide some protection. Build a barricade in front of all the
buildings. Grab every able-bodied adult to do the same. Gather everything.
Tables, chests of drawers, chairs, boxes, pews from the cathedral, beds,
mattresses—anything. Carnigan, you take ten men and head for the barns. There
are wagons and carts there. Bring hay bales and anything else useful. Once the
wagons are unloaded, turn them on their sides as part of the barricade. And
Carnigan, is the armory open?”

Carnigan nodded toward the steps of the cathedral, where lay
piles of weapons. “Most of the weapons are there.”

“Send people to bring the rest out and tools from the garden
sheds and barns, anything that can be used as a weapon.”

Denes stopped speaking. The men stared at him, some waiting
for more instructions, some confused by the plan, and some stunned at the
events.

“NOW, PEOPLE!!” Denes screamed again. “WE MIGHT ONLY HAVE
FIFTEEN TO TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE THEY GET HERE!!”

The cluster of fifty men exploded, men running in all
directions, leaving only Denes and Yozef. “Stay with me,” said Denes and ran to
the southern wall, climbed a ladder onto the rampart, and pointed a small
telescope seaward.

Yozef, his heart racing, throat constricted, hands
trembling, stumbled after Denes, thinking, Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

“Sons of whores, may dogs eat the balls of the Gods—” Abel Adalan
ran through every curse he knew in three languages. He and his foul humor stood
on a large sand dune, as the next longboat loads of men jumped into the surf
and moved up the beach. His anger resulted from his view of longboats loading
the last men off the ships, men who were supposed to be ashore already. It
would be another ten minutes before those final boats reached the beach.

The Benhoudi were the problem. Despite their previous
experience on successful raids, they simply weren’t as skillful or disciplined
as his own men. He then used some of the same curses on himself for not having
the Benhoudi loaded first.

Abel rejected starting inland without the full complement of
men. The plan that had been drilled into the men involved all four hundred fighters.
To change now would only cause more confusion. Narth’s damnation on the
Benhoudi! The delay would give the islanders more time to prepare and was
liable to cost them more casualties, yet from the looks of the village and the
abbey, the pickings were too rich to pass up. All he could do was send the
hundred men assigned to sweep the village on ahead and wait to move on the
abbey when all of the Benhoudi were ashore.

From the abbey wall rampart Denes could see a body of men,
he estimated eighty to a hundred, trotting toward the village. Scattered
Keelanders still ran and rode for the abbey or headed inland. He hoped everyone
would be out of the village when the raiders arrived, though he feared there
would be stragglers—people who, because of age, illness, sleep, stupidity, or
whatever, would still be in the village. There was nothing to be done about
them. He had to focus on the hundreds within the abbey complex.

“What about the people in Abersford?” Yozef asked. “Aren’t
they coming for the abbey?”

“They’ll come,” Denes said in a flat tone. “Those who can.
Many who don’t will flee inland. Hundreds more.”

Yozef’s shirt was soaked in cold sweat. So what the fuck
am I doing here?

Panic fed his urge to run and hide, but there was a detached
part of him, as if he had two minds. It was the second one that came to Denes’s
support.

Yozef put a hand on Denes’s shoulder. “You said yourself
what the most likely outcomes are, and this was the only one you believe has a
chance.”

“What if they don’t take the bait? I’m taking a terrible
risk with everyone’s lives if they don’t,” Denes choked, his commanding
demeanor gone. He didn’t notice Yozef.

They both were silent for a moment, then Yozef said, “Lure
them toward the gate. Give them something to chase.”

Denes whirled and leaped off the rampart six feet to the
ground, then raced off, yelling at someone. Yozef scrambled down the ladder and
followed.

Denes was talking to a group of men, one of whom was
Cadwulf. “I need a few men to give the raiders someone to chase into the
courtyard. They’ll need to fire at the raiders as they come close to the abbey,
then run back, but close enough to let the raiders be right behind.”

The grim men looked at one another. What Denes asked would
get some or all who volunteered killed. All of the men raised their hand,
including Cadwulf.

“Not men,” blurted Yozef. “Have them chase women.”

Several of the men glared at Yozef and started to protest,
but Denes spoke first. “Better! They won’t fire at women they want as captives.
Better yet if they are young and healthy looking.”

“They need to be fast and not panic,” cautioned Yozef.

“Cadwulf,” ordered Denes, “be quick and try to find about
ten young women willing to do this and who you think can run fast enough to get
back inside the walls before the raiders catch them.”

Cadwulf nodded, gave Yozef a troubled glance, and ran off.

By now, the barricades were taking shape. People of all ages
and sexes carried and dragged furniture, pews, boxes of who knew what, chests,
beds, tables, chairs, and everything movable out of the buildings, stacked them
on top of previous objects, or dropped them for others to position, then raced
back for more. Carnigan drove a flatbed wagon up to a large gap in the
developing barricades, jumped onto the bed, and threw off bales of hay that
must have weighed a couple hundred pounds each. Men and women dragged the bales
to plug holes in the barricade.

Once the wagon was empty, Carnigan untied the horses,
letting their reins fall to the ground. Being well trained and used to working
with people, the horses stood in place even with the surrounding turmoil. With
some help, Carnigan pushed the wagon onto its side to take its place in the
forming barrier. Carnigan then led the two horses to another gap, pulled out a
large-bladed knife, and slit both their throats. The bodies collapsed where
they had stood and, like the bales and wagon, became part of the barricade.

Yozef joined those pulling pews from the cathedral. They
were solid wood, about twelve feet long, a perfect size for the barricade, and
two people of moderate strength could carry them. Yozef and another man formed
a “team” and had just finished placing their fifth pew when someone shouted,
“No more pews!”

Sweat rolled off Yozef’s face from both exertion and fear.
He looked around for the first time in perhaps fifteen minutes. The results
were impressive. Ugly, but impressive for the available time. A three-sided
barricade about forty yards along each side faced the main gate. It was a
jumble of objects that would slow anyone trying to climb over. In most places,
the barricade was four to five feet high, but there were still obvious low
spots and even a few outright gaps.

Another yell came, this time from someone on top of the
rampart by the main gate. “Here they come!”

The second of silence at the news was followed by chaotic
cries and a sense of impending panic, until Denes, the more senior of the
fighting men, and some of the abbey staff shouted and shoved people into
position. Yozef followed Denes back to the rampart. They could see a large body
of raiders coming into view a quarter mile away.

“Three groups of about a hundred men each,” Denes said.
“Probably means they’re planning to hit us at three places.”

Yozef could have sworn there were three or four times that
many—all armed with a hodge-podge of muskets, swords, spears, and various
bladed weapons. They paused as they cleared the shrubbery along the road and
began to spread out.

“There!” said Denes, nodding toward a group of villagers just
emerging from the tree-lined road from the abbey to Abersford. There were about
fifteen of them, mainly women, two of who carried babies. Three men held spears
and helped the women run.

Yozef recognized Cadwulf. He was one of the decoy men.
Several of the women looked young and were scantily dressed, as if surprised by
the alarm and hadn’t had time to put on clothes. One woman was naked from the
waist up. Even from his distance, he could see her breasts bouncing as she ran.
The cries of fear and for help were audible. Occasionally, one of the women
fell, and a man helped her to her feet to run again.

Phony falls? Yozef suspected. Nice job, Cadwulf,
but don’t overdo it.

There were also several individuals or couples at various
distances from the abbey. None of these were part of the lure, and some
wouldn’t make it to the gate.

The leader of the Benhoudi, Omir Abulli, was ambivalent as
he followed Abelan’s orders. He and his men had profited greatly from this
venture. When they returned home, they’d be honored for the booty they brought
back and have stories to tell for generations. It had also cost them a sixth of
their men. The Benkarsta leaders always sent Benhoudi men into the exposed
parts of the raids, and too often Adalan’s men had found themselves picking
over what Benkarsta clansmen left after skimming off the best.

Neither of the Benkarsta leaders had shared their plans with
Abulli, but he believed this might be the last raid before returning home.
Subtle changes in tone and topics from the two Adalans made Abulli think this
was the last chance for major spoils.

Abulli led the group of a hundred men assigned to attack the
right section of the wall and was as surprised as Adalan to see the abbey gate
still open and islanders running for safety. He sensed the rise in anticipation
in his men as they saw a group of women, some partially clothed, trying to make
it to the gate. He saw Adalan staring at the open gate and knew what was going
through the Benkarsta leader’s mind—should they rush the gate? Then flags
signaled to disperse for the attack as previously planned. Adalan was ignoring
the gate! A rush of anger colored Abulli’s face.

Maybe the gate would get closed before they could reach it,
or, if not secured, maybe they could fight their way through. It was a chance
for fewer losses than fighting over the walls. The possibility of this being
the last raid, the overbearing attitudes of the Benkarsta, and the chance he
saw for his men to be first at the spoils on this raid coalesced into a
decision. He turned to face the men in his group, raised his sword, and waited
until his men in the second front wall group saw his raised sword. Then he
pointed his sword at the gate and screamed, “For the Benhoudi! All Benhoudi,
follow me!” And took off at a run, straight for the gate.

With little hesitation, most of his men from both groups
followed him. A few who hesitated joined in once they saw most of their
clansmen racing to the gate. The fewer numbers of Benkarsta men lingered
seconds longer, then half of them followed.

Abel Adalan saw his carefully considered and drilled plan
evaporate in seconds. He slashed his sword in front of himself, as if to
decapitate the Benhoudi leader. Gods curse the Benhoudi dogs! The plan
was now for shit. Or was it? He forced calm on himself. Maybe the Benhoudi
could get into the abbey grounds using the main gate. Even if the gate closed
first, they might still have enough presence of mind to regroup and carry out
the wall assaults. The third group of a hundred was deploying as planned to
breach the western wall, while most of the islanders concentrated on the
frontal attacks. This third group consisted of his own clansmen, who, unlike
the Benhoudi, were disciplined and held to their orders. He waved to the leader
of that group to continue as planned, then had subordinates gather the
Benkarsta men who had been part of the frontal assault groups but had not
followed the Benhoudi. Those he kept with him, as he moved closer to observe
the action.

Once again on the rampart, Denes had a hand on Yozef’s
forearm as they watched the raiders. His fingers dug into Yozef’s flesh. Most
of the raiders in the two groups facing the abbey front wall had broken from
their original trajectory and were now charging directly at the gate, Denes’s
grip squeezed harder and almost brought Yozef to his knees.

“By merciful God! By whatever gods, they’re taking the
bait!” Denes burst out.

He turned back toward the courtyard. Most of the people
watched him with eyes fearful, resolute, or defiant. “It worked! Here they
come. No one fire until I do! Do you understand? No one fire until I do! Watch
the fighting men near you, if you’re uncertain. Do what they do!”

The frozen figures exploded into action, racing to
positions, climbing over the barricade if they were in the courtyard, grabbing
for available weapons, and older and younger islanders came out of the
cathedral and other buildings from where they had been sent for safety. There
was no safety. All knew it. They would live or die at the barricade.

Denes jumped off the rampart onto the courtyard ground,
Yozef following, and Denes ran to the open gate, shouting for Carnigan. The
large man was fast for his size and nearly trampled several people in reaching
Denes.

“Keep Yozef with you. Alive, if possible.”

Well, that’s reassuring, a part of Yozef’s
mind noted.

Carnigan grabbed Yozef’s arm and ran back to a large gap in
the barricade facing the main gate. Yozef barely kept his feet under him to
prevent Carnigan from dragging him. Carnigan took up a musket leaning against
the inside of the barricade. Next to it was a second musket, the battle axe
that Yozef doubted he could lift off the ground, a dented and rusty shield, and
several spears of different lengths.

Yozef looked up and down the line of islanders standing
behind this part of the barricade. Too few men of fighting age interspersed
with older and young men, women, and even children. He thought he glimpsed
eight-year-old Yonkel Miron holding a rusty sword and looking anticipatory, as
if this were a game or part of some legend. Muskets and crossbows were brought
to the ready. More people poured from the buildings, many without weapons,
because there were no more available, ready to pick up weapons of those who
fell. The abbot ran partway into the courtyard. He held a spear in one hand and
traced gestures in the air in front of himself, praying and calling on God for
strength, then tore back to the barricade.

I hope, Yozef prayed. God, I hope it works!

“Can you fire a musket?” graveled Carnigan at Yozef, who
stared back as if Carnigan had asked him to speak in some different language.
“Yozef!” Carnigan bellowed. “Can you fire one of these?”

Yozef shook his head. He’d never touched a firearm of any
kind, much less a musket.

Carnigan picked up one of the shorter spears and shoved it
at Yozef. “Take this. Stick anyone who gets by me. Try not to stick me.”

Yozef held the wooden shaft with both hands. The six-foot
spear ended in a narrow, wicked-looking blade that gleamed in the morning sun
just now shining over the main wall. He shivered, his breath coming in gasps,
as he gripped the shaft with both hands held against his body. A thought rose
like a hand reaching for safety, a thought he had not had for many months.

Let this be all a dream! A nightmare! I’ll wake up back
home!

That all of this had been an elaborate fantasy was
momentarily more plausible. He had been a chemistry major at the University of
California at Berkeley. An alien spaceship had destroyed the plane he was
flying in, saved him, then dumped him on another planet with humans put there
by parties unknown. And now he held a spear and was about to take part in a
battle where most likely he and everyone else around him would be killed?

Maybe I am crazy, and all of this is merely some
complex illusion. Please let that be it!

His plea ended before it could paralyze him further, when
Cadwulf and the bait party reached the gate. Yozef saw Denes say something to
Cadwulf and the others. Yozef could now see the women up closer. They were all young—nineteen
to twenty-two years old (fifteen to nineteen Earth years). All breathed hard,
both from the run and from fear. Several had tears streaming from their eyes.
Two women discarded bundles of clothing masquerading as babies, as they ran to
the barricade. In one of those inane thoughts that appears at inappropriate
times, Yozef predicted that the girl with the generous breasts would have back
problems when she got older and had children. All such thoughts ended and were
replaced by sheer terror, as the first of the raiders came through the gate.

Chapter 32: Battle for St. Sidryn’s

To the Death

“We’re going to make it!” Omir Abulli exulted, as he neared
the gate. Not that anyone heard him over the din of almost two hundred men
running, the beat of their feet on the earth, the clanking of metal from armor
and weapons, and the shouts of defiance as they neared the abbey’s main
gate—still open! The islander rats were stupid to worry about saving too many
of their people! All that much easier for the raiders! Now, even if they tried
to close the heavy gate, it’d be too late.

Abulli led the initial charge at the gate, but by now half
of his men had passed him, as they all raced to get inside the abbey walls. If
he had wanted, he could have stayed closer to the front, but while he needed to
be seen as leading his men, he didn’t have to be in the forefront. He
let a few more pass to save his wind and put himself in a less exposed position
for first contact. His scars and reputation dismissed the need to demonstrate
his bravery, and being leader also meant not foolishly exposing himself.

His focus on the gate and the walls caused him to almost
trip over an old couple huddled on the ground. The woman knelt with her head on
her knees and her arms covering her head, the gray-bearded man draped across
her as if to protect her. A rusty sword lay nearby. Abulli leaped aside and
slashed at the man, cursing and yelling, “We’ll deal with you later!” as he
continued on.

He couldn’t see beyond the opening in the wall; too many of
his men were between him and the last of the fleeing islanders. He kept
glancing at the abbey masonry wall, watching for the first flash of muskets.
Still no firing by the islanders. Were they so timid to be mounting no defense
at all?

The first of his men passed through the open gate. Still
no firing. His elation ebbed, as instinct surfaced. Alarm flags hoisted, but
there was no stopping. By the time he reached the gate, sixty of his men were
already inside the walls. He needed to get to the front to see what was going
on!

The first raiders rushing through the gate focused only on
the islander women being chased, with only yards between the fastest raider and
the slowest woman. It took several seconds for the foremost Buldorians to
recognize what they found in the courtyard. Instead of a chaotic panic of
islanders and an abbey open for looting, on three sides they faced the hastily
constructed barricades, with heads and torsos of men and women facing them.
Some of the Buldorians tried to stop, and a few recognized the danger and would
have retreated, if not for the press of men behind them pouring through the
gate.

Denes agonized over each flaw in their desperate plan. As
each flaw passed without disaster, the next took its place. Thus, the worry
that the raiders wouldn’t take the bait was replaced by the fear that they’d
recognize the trap and stop outside the walls, which in turn was replaced by
the possibility that only a few raiders would pass through the gate before they
recognized the trap and retreated or warned the others. Hope surged when the
first raiders stopped in the middle of the courtyard. It was the best of all
actions for the Keelanders and the worst of all for the raiders. The raiders
still coming into the courtyard saw only the backs of their countrymen. Seven
endless seconds elapsed between when the first raider entered the courtyard and
when Denes fired his musket.

Omir Abulli could see the movement of his men slowed.
Why? As he pushed through his men, he heard a single musket firing, then a
flurry of muskets from three sides. He felt the whisk and sharp whine of a
musket ball pass his ear.

The mass of men blocking his view thinned as men fell.
In a glance, he took in their wounds from musket balls and crossbow quarrels.
His elation at breaching the abbey walls disappeared in shock when he saw the
barricade and the islanders. Many were older men and women, some frantically
trying to reload muskets, and others holding spears and swords. A fractional
second glance behind him showed more men still coming through the gate. To
stand still was death. To retreat back through the gate would be chaotic, as
the islanders shot at their backs. His years of experience told him their best
chance was to attack and break through the barricade. The islanders were short
real fighting men, so once his men engaged face-to-face, they would prevail.

These recognitions, calculations, and the resulting decision
lasted no more than two seconds. Abulli rushed to the front, knocking aside
shocked men and leaping over bodies of dead and wounded, raised his sword, and
screamed, “Shoot at them, you idiots, then drop your muskets and draw your
blades. To me, for the glory of the Benhoudi!” He turned and charged a gap in
the barricade, assuming correctly that his men would follow.

Denes had fired his musket at the closest raider. The ball
hit the raider in mid-chest and knocked him on his back, unmoving. All of the
other muskets and crossbows followed Denes. It wasn’t a simultaneous volley,
but a rolling firing that lasted three to four seconds. Sixty-nine muskets and
thirty-one crossbows sent their projectiles into the mass of raiders. Twenty
shots went into the ground or over the heads of their targets. Ten projectiles,
nine musket balls, and a single quarrel somehow passed through the raider mass
without hitting flesh. One musket ball found the throat of an unarmed Abersford
woman peering over the barricade on the opposite side from the ball’s origin.
The other seventy projectiles hit raiders. Seven raiders were hit more than
once. One unlucky raider was hit four times by musket balls and once by a
quarrel. Of the fifty-three raiders struck in the first volley, forty-five of
the hits were fatal or incapacitating.

Denes saw a grizzled raider shout, gesture with his sword,
and lead a charge straight at himself, Carnigan, a cowering Yozef, and the
opening in the barricade.

A second, smaller rolling volley followed from those
barricade’s defenders having a second loaded musket, pistol, or crossbow at
hand. Another thirteen raiders went down.

Yozef crouched behind the edge of the opening of the
barricade. He had a perfect view to see what appeared to be an unstoppable mass
of savage men screaming bloodlust and charging straight at him. His
imagination envisioned blades lopping off his limbs or his head or cleaving him
in half. Carnigan, Denes, and three other men filled the gap. One man went down
without a sound, landing next to Yozef, a hole just above his right eye, both
eyes staring skyward and blood running into the earth under his head. Yozef’s
stomach contracted as if prepping to retch. He wanted to run. He wanted … to
live! More than anything, he wanted to drop the spear and run for the back
of the abbey complex. There were other gates, or he could drop on the other
side of the wall from a rampart. He could go somewhere else in
Caedellium and start over. Or go to the Narthani and convince them of his worth
and maybe end up more secure and honored than here on this primitive island. He
wanted to be anywhere else but here at this moment.

He didn’t know why he didn’t run. Maybe because he didn’t
know where to run. Maybe because no matter how terrified he was, he couldn’t
leave his friends. Carnigan. Cadwulf. The abbot and the abbess who had cared
for him. His workers and their families. Brak and Elian. Dour Denes, who
pretended to ignore Yozef most of the time but listened when it counted.

Even if he wanted to run, his legs didn’t feel strong enough
to take him there. So he crouched, both hands death-gripped to the spear shaft.

Abulli felt his men behind him. They had a chance, though
perhaps he didn’t, as he faced the enormous islander in the middle of the gap.
He snarled, voiced an appeal and an acceptance at the same time to whatever
gods there were, and swung his sword.

Carnigan deflected the sword of the first raider to reach
the gap with the shield on his left arm and, with the same twisting motion,
brought the battle axe down onto a shoulder at the base of the swordsman’s
neck. A shower of blood sprayed six feet and washed over Yozef. Within seconds,
a melee engulfed the entire forty-foot section of barricade—defenders fighting
for their lives against the wave of raiders.

Several raiders leaped over lower spots in the barricade to land
in the midst of Keelanders. The raiders died quickly, though not before hewing
down men and women.

The most desperate action centered at the gap. The tip of
the raider assault followed their fallen leader. All that stopped them was that
the gap was too small for the number of raiders wanting to hit it at the same
time. A flurry of swords, axes, and spears held the gap long enough for
defenders to flow in that direction.

A man next to Carnigan went down, a slash across his sword
arm causing him to drop his weapon, and a second raider stabbed him in the
belly. A white-haired man rushed to fill the place of the fallen man but went
down himself from a pistol shot.

Another pistol shot glanced off Carnigan’s old shield,
briefly staggering him. The deflected ball smacked into Yozef’s leg. He cried
out but was too terrified to check for a wound. Carnigan stepped forward again,
a new dent in his shield, as more raiders pushed forward.

Yozef was barely conscious of glancing down the line and
seeing islanders fend off raiders who tried to climb over the barricade. Here
and there, vicious exchanges started and ended within seconds. The brutal fact
was that a blade fight with minimal protection tended to be short, one opponent
or the other going down quickly. For the raiders, if they dispatched one
islander, another took his place. If an old man fell, a teenage boy or girl was
there with a spear, a sword, or even a pitchfork to stick any raider occupied
with a defender.

Denes yelled, fending off raiders and yelling instructions
at the same time. Not having the brute power of Carnigan, he made up for it
with speed and form. His sword never stopped slashing, warding off other
blades, and stabbing. Raider bodies mounded in front of the gap.

Yozef edged away from the barricade, though he never
remembered moving from where he was crouching. Carnigan fended off several
raiders by swinging his axe in mighty swaths. No raider was willing to come too
close, but neither was the axe wielder able to concentrate on any one attacker.
One raider slipped to one side of Carnigan, when a woman who had rushed to fill
a space vacated by a wounded man went down from a spear. Carnigan could not
turn to face the threat to his side, fully occupied with those to his front.
The raider raised his sword to slash at Carnigan, and, without thinking, Yozef
lunged forward and stabbed at the raider. His spear-point hit the raider’s
leather armor just under the armpit and buried the blade into exposed,
vulnerable flesh. The raider screamed and dropped his sword, blood streaming
down his side, and turned a shocked face toward Yozef. Their eyes locked. Yozef
stood frozen. Another defender slashed at the wounded raider, opening the side
of his neck and severing an artery. The raider fell without a sound.

Seeing the raider he’d stabbed fall jolted Yozef. He had no
idea how to handle any weapon, but he could stab with the spear he held in a
death grip. He made no attempt to face a raider on his own, but two more times
he came to the aid of defenders in trouble with raiders. His stab attempts did
no damage, but both times it forced the man to divert effort to avoid Yozef’s
feeble efforts, and the other defenders made good the distraction.

There was no time to reload firearms. After the initial
volleys, it was all steel against steel, and steel into flesh. Underneath the
yells of defiance, the screams of the wounded, and the clashes of metal, there
was the scything of blades through air in their search for blood. Ssst . . .
Sst … SSST . . . Ssssst . . . the sound and intensity varying with a
blade’s shape and size and changing tone when metal found flesh or other metal.
Somehow Yozef heard every Ssst, and every one seemed aimed at him.

What saved the defenders from being overwhelmed was the
raiders initially charging a single point in the barricade. They were in one
another’s way, instead of bringing all of their men to bear on the villagers at
the same instance. By the time the raiders spread outward on both sides of the
gap to climb the barricade, it had given the defenders farther away time to run
to the points of attack.

The fighting was vicious but brief. Raiders died in front of
the barricade, on it as they tried to climb over, or amid villagers on the
other side. Of the 175 raiders who followed Omir Abulli’s order to charge into
the gate, 153 entered the courtyard. Of these, 45 fell dead or were wounded in
the first volley and 13 in the second. The remaining 95 raiders rallied to
Abulli’s call and charged the barricade section in front of the cathedral.

The entire Battle of St. Sidryn’s, as it came to be named,
took fewer than five minutes, from the instant the first raider entered the
courtyard until the last of the surviving raiders fled back through the gate.
Later, Yozef recollected that the battle had lasted hours.

The villagers and the abbey staff stared, stunned, at the
courtyard. Bodies carpeted the blood-covered cobblestone. A few portions of the
barricade had fallen or been pulled down, mostly the side facing the gate and
including the gap. Bodies of both raiders and defenders lay inside the
barricade in several places. No raider was standing, but many were wounded and
unable to flee with their comrades. The disbelief that they’d survived held the
villagers for almost a minute, then the moans and screams of the wounded from
both sides brought them back from wherever their minds had gone. A roar of
hatred swelled, and the defenders poured over the barricades to finish those
who had intended to destroy their world.

Yozef saw one raider sitting on the ground, one leg nearly
severed at the knee, wildly swinging his sword to ward off three women with
spears and a pitchfork. They didn’t kill him immediately, but danced around him
and kept him trying to watch all three, pulling their stabs enough for the
blades or prongs to pierce flesh but not deep enough to be fatal. Finally,
either from loss of blood or fatalism, he gave up and dropped his sword. One
young woman Yozef recognized as part of the decoy group, still bare from the
waist up, stood in front of the raider, shook her breasts at him, and yelled,
“Take a look, you asshole! These are the last tits you’ll ever see!” and drove
her spear into his throat.

Most raiders were dispatched quickly. The islanders weren’t
interested in prisoners.

Yozef turned to Denes. “Denes, we need a few prisoners to
question.” Denes looked at him but didn’t respond.

“Denes! Prisoners can tell you who these people are, where
they come from, and how many more there might be!”

Denes’s eyes focused on Yozef’s for the first time, as his
mind processed what Yozef had said. He then strode out into the courtyard and
yelled out something. Whatever he said, two of the men stood guard over a small
knot of wounded raiders, while the rest were dispatched to whatever god or
afterlife they believed in.

Yozef’s legs gave out, and he dropped to the ground, before
he realized it was covered with blood. He jumped back to his feet, looking down
at himself. His arms were covered in dirt, sweat, and drying blood from the
raider Carnigan had axed. Yozef felt his pants wet. He looked down. He had peed
himself. Carnigan walked over to Yozef, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,
and marched him over to a water trough.

“Happens to many the first time,” he grunted, just before
dunking Yozef completely into the water. Then he jerked Yozef back, stood him
upright, and left him there. Yozef was now wet everywhere, evidence of his weak
bladder obscured.

The St. Sidryn’s medicants dropped their weapons, for all
able bodies had been part of the defense, picked up their medical bags, and
began tending the wounded. Considering the number of defender bodies, the
casualties of the defenders were relatively few. That fact was of little
consolation to those few. The dead themselves no longer cared, but their
families either knew or would soon know. Injuries varied from abrasions and
bruises that would heal on their own to wounds that required staunching and
stitching, to a few truly hideous wounds. One man was missing half of his lower
jaw. Several had deep slashes that might have reached internal organs. A man
missing an arm below the elbow moaned, as medicants carried him inside. And
others. Yozef wandered around, thinking to himself that he wanted to help, but
mainly just moving and doing something, instead of thinking and recollecting
what had just happened and how close he’d come to dying.

Yozef had dropped the old spear. His leg ached where the
spent round had struck. His head spun. He was about to look for Denes and
Carnigan, and when he turned, right under his feet sprawled the body of a young
boy. A gash gaped across his chest, probably by a raider axe, since the wound
cleaved halfway through the small chest. The boy’s eyes gazed wide, sightless
at the sky, a surprised look on his face. It was Yonkel Miron. Yozef stared disbelieving,
hoping somehow he was wrong. He sank to his knees, putting a hand on the boy’s
bare leg already growing cold. Yonkel would never attend the abbey scholasticum
for which Yozef thought he had potential. The boy’s curiosity, boundless
energy, and potential were gone. Yozef’s mouth tasted bile at the
pointlessness.

When once again aware of his surroundings, Yozef realized
that other people knelt around Yonkel. Yozef had never sensed them come. It was
Yonkel’s family. He recognized the parents, a sister, other children who must
be siblings, cousins, and several adults—aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Most
cried. They must have waited for Yozef to return to the world, for once he made
eye contact, the father patted him on the shoulder, and weeping women wrapped
Yonkel’s body in a cloak and laid it on a cloth. The men then picked up the
corners, and the family walked out of the gate with their sad burden.

While Yozef knelt beside Yonkel, Denes, the abbot, and
several other men climbed the rampart to look seaward. It had been half an hour
since the last raider fled the courtyard. There were other raider groups, the
one that had deployed for a possible assault on the abbey side wall, and the
group that had first gone to the village. If they chose, the raiders could make
another try at the abbey, but Denes didn’t think they would.

“Doubtful,” he told the abbot. “These are not Narthani,
although I suspect they are in the employ of the Narthani. These are pirates,
raiders, general free-booters. They aren’t out for conquest, only gold and
slaves. They won’t shed blood if it’s not in their interest. The Narthani might
try again after their losses, but not these people.”

He was right. The different raider groups gathered out of
musket range and then headed toward the shore. Denes and the others watched, as
they loaded onto their longboats and rowed to the waiting five ships.

Homeward Bound

Musfar Adalan watched the raid from the aftcastle of his flagship,
using a powerful telescope made in Iraquinik. It had cost enough that he almost
didn’t buy it, but it had proved its worth many a time. The edge of the village
and the abbey complex were visible upslope from the beach. Although from a mile
he couldn’t resolve details, he observed enough to know something had gone
wrong. Instead of the assault on the abbey following Abel’s plan, a number of
men had gone straight for the main gate—which even from this distance looked
open. Something could have made Abel change the plan at the last moment,
but Musfar doubted it. Abel was meticulous in planning and loath to change,
unless necessary. More likely, Abel lost control of the Benhoudi.

As men poured through the abbey main gate, he saw a group of
men headed toward the side wall of the complex, according to plan, then stop as
Musfar heard faint musket fire—two volleys. There was no way the Benhoudi would
be firing musket volleys in this situation; it had to be the islanders. Three
or four minutes later, a small group ran from the abbey back toward the main
body, far fewer than had entered the main gate. Obviously, most of his men were
still inside, and the speed of the runners and the lack of new musket fire
likely meant no more men would be coming out. The carefully planned raid had
collapsed.

The group of men sweeping the village joined the remaining
men nearer the abbey; then a few minutes later the entire mass headed to the
beach. There was only one explanation. The attack on the abbey had cost so many
men that Abel decided it was not worth continuing. Either there were more men
inside the abbey complex than the Narthani had told them, or Abel believed the
defenders too well positioned to be defeated without unacceptable loses.

Musfar turned to the grizzled man at his side, a veteran of
many years and innumerable raids and a trusted clan member. “Memur, get two
good men and find something here on the aftcastle they can appear to be doing.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, as he translated the meaning of
Musfar’s words.

The three Narthani officers watched the action ashore with a
lesser telescope and reacted when the raiding party started back to the beach.
The leader, followed by the other two, stormed across the deck and climbed to
where Musfar pretended to observe the shore.

“What’s the meaning of this!” raged the Narthani. “Your men
are coming back without taking the abbey!”

“I can only assume the raid didn’t go as planned and the
commander on shore decided to abort and return to the ships.”

“There’s still time to take the abbey as planned. You must
go ashore yourself and order your men back!”

“I don’t ‘must’ have to do anything. We’re here to carry out
raids that are supposed to be easy with the information you provide us. Mostly,
it has worked well; this time it didn’t. I’m not in this to lose more men than
the return justifies. You should be happy that this is only the second raid
that has not gone well.” Memur returned with two crewmembers, and they
busied themselves with redoing knots on ropes tied to the gunwale.

The Narthani leader turned red, gritted his teeth, and moved
near Musfar so that he smelled the other’s breath. “You will do as you are
told, or you will answer to General Akuyun when we return.”

Actually, Musfar knew Akuyun was smart and rational, not like
this idiot. Who did he think he was to make such threats, with only three of
them on a ship of Musfar’s men?

“My pardon, now that you’ve shown me the necessary action, I
will carry it out immediately.” In one quick motion, Musfar pulled his dirk and
drove it into the Narthani’s diaphragm. The man’s face registered shock. Musfar
jerked the dirk back out and grabbed the man’s hair, turned his head, and slit
his throat.

Before the other two Narthani reacted, one’s head was
crushed under a belaying pin, and the other Narthani took another dirk into a
kidney. The third wasn’t quite dead when all three were unceremoniously dumped
overboard.

“Thank you,” Musfar complimented his men. He always believed
in making sure efficient actions were appreciated. By this time, several of the
ship’s crew had seen what happened and came running with weapons drawn. Musfar
held up a hand to indicate all was well.

“What was that all about?” asked one sword wielder.

“It seems the raid today did not go well, and Abel is
bringing the men back. Our Narthani employers thought we should continue the
raid until taking the abbey, evidently no matter the cost. I respectfully
disagreed.”

One officer spit over the side to indicate his opinion of
the Narthani. “I assume this means we’ll not be staying in these
waters?”

“No,” said Musfar with a humorless smile. “After due
consideration, I think it’s time we returned home.”

Fifteen minutes later, the first longboat rowed alongside,
and Abel Adalan climbed to where Musfar waited on deck.

“Cursed Benhoudi got suckered into charging the open gate,
instead of following the plan,” he reported. “It was a trap. Most of them were
killed. It was such a total disaster, I decided that either there were more
islanders than the Narthani had told us about, or the islanders somehow knew we
were coming. Either way, I decided the risk to our men too great to continue.”
Abel stopped his brief report and looked at his commander and cousin for signs
of approval or reproach.

“What of our illustrious Benhoudi? How many of them are
left? And is Abulli among them?”

“Maybe thirty. Unfortunately, no Abulli.”

“Unfortunate, indeed. I would have liked to hang him in
front of his men for disobeying orders. Oh, well, one can’t have everything.”

Abel glanced around. “Am I missing something, or is there an
absence of our Narthani friends?”

“They were so dismayed at today’s events that they decided
to swim back to Preddi City. I hope they’ll arrive in due fashion. However, we
won’t be able to confirm this, since as soon as all the men are aboard, we’ll
go directly to our base camp at Rocklyn, pick up our other ship, load the
remaining booty from previous raids and the provisions we set aside for just
this eventuality, and set sail for Buldor.”

The Battle of St. Sidryn’s was over.

Chapter 33: Aftermath

Surveying the Damage

The courtyard fighting lasted minutes, and surprisingly,
given the ferocity, there were few Keelan casualties: eleven dead and
twenty-three seriously wounded.

“Well,” mused Yozef aloud, as his eyes followed the last
wounded being taken inside the hospital, “at least this is the place to be
wounded, if it has to happen to you. God. Imagine if the wounded were
hours or even days away from the medicants.”

While many of the wounds were not immediately life threatening,
gruesome results from musket and blade battles were inevitable. Ether was used
to quiet victims, while gashes and stab wounds were cleaned, debrided, and sewn
closed, and limbs too damaged, amputated. Yozef later learned the medicants
used ether to end the suffering of three victims with terminal wounds.

He felt numb as he helped clean up the courtyard. Wagons
were brought to the front gate and bodies of the Buldorians stacked onto wagon
beds after being stripped of weapons and any useful armor. Yozef couldn’t bring
himself to help with the bodies but tried to help gather equipment being saved.
This effort lasted until he picked up a sword and found the handle coated with
half-dried blood, presumably the owner’s, since the blade was unmarred. He
dropped the sword and stared at reddish brownish globs and stains on his hand.
His gorge rose, as he staggered to the water trough, then furiously shook his
hand in the water and rubbed it against the trough wood, not wanting to touch
it with his other hand. When he couldn’t see any more of the raider’s blood, he
bolted from the courtyard and lurched out a side gate toward his house. Instead
of following the worn and winding path, he aimed straight for home, cutting
through brush and trees. Halfway there, his legs gave out, and he sat on a bed
of dead leaves under the trees, gasping for breath and shaking.

The sun was up, the morning mist gone, and under the forest
canopy he could feel the usual breeze off the ocean. The filtered sunlight made
dancing spots on the dry leaves, as their living brethren quivered above. Time
passed, while he calmed himself and processed the events. Now what
should he do? The planned tasks of the day seemed so trivial. Go home? For
what? And the people? What of the people here he knew? Were any of them among
the casualties? Carnigan was okay. He saw Filtin helping the wounded. What
about Cadwulf? Going down the list brought up the image of Yonkel. Yozef’s eyes
watered, but this time he felt mad. Mad at whoever had so savagely taken the boy’s
life, mad at the raider’s people, mad at the Caedelli for not protecting the
weak, mad at the Watchers for putting him here, mad at the universe, and so mad
at a rock he sat next to, he picked it up and hurled it into the brush.

He was unaware of time passing. Finally, he rose, walked
back to the abbey complex, and reentered through the same side gate he’d used
to flee the carnage site. Would anyone notice he’d left? Would anyone care?
People scurried about, attending to various tasks. In the courtyard, the last
of the bodies were still being gathered, the stacks of raider weapons and armor
piled to one side, and Caedelli working to dismantle the barricade. Many
horsemen milled outside the main gate, and a cluster of men huddled near the
center of the courtyard. He recognized the abbot, Denes, and a man he thought
was Longnor Vorwich, boyerman of this district.

He joined the others as they dismantled the barricade, not
knowing where most of the parts originated and looking for something he
recognized. A dozen or more men concentrated on the cathedral pews, and he
found himself on one end of a pew with another man at the opposite end. About
half of the pews were already back in place. Brother Fitham directed their
placement, his left arm held to his side by a bloody cloth wrapping, his face
pale but determined. Yozef hadn’t realized he was covered in sweat until the
coolness inside the cathedral brought on a chill. When they set the pew down,
the man on the other end turned. It was Cadwulf.

“Yozef!” the young man exclaimed. “I didn’t see you after
the fight! I was worried.”

“I’ve been around. Helping where I could.” Peeing myself
and almost puking.

“You’re all right, though? I saw you next to Carnigan, then
lost sight of you.”

Yozef was quiet, as they walked back out for another pew. In
the noon sunlight, Yozef’s chill faded. They pulled another pew off a line of
hay bales.

“How many were killed?” he asked in a detached voice.

“Too many,” Cadwulf replied grimly. “It’s fortunate there
weren’t more.” Cadwulf recited names, most of which Yozef didn’t recognize. He
did know Yonkel, one of his kerosene lantern workers, and an abbey brother he
knew of only by name and appearance, a short, balding man who worked with the
livestock. The brother had always had given Yozef a friendly smile when they
passed each other. The smile was gone forever, and Yozef wondered idly if the
animals would notice they had a new attendant.

He frowned, angry at himself. What was the brother’s
name? Christ! I don’t even know what his name was!

He shook himself. “How about the raiders?”

“Looked like at least eighty bodies. Damn their souls to
eternal damnation!”

“Where are the bodies going? I saw them being put into
wagons.”

“Out to the refuse pits. They’ll be burned down to ash and
buried with the rest of the garbage.”

Yozef imaged what served as the garbage dump about a mile
farther inland, a natural dry gully where locals dumped refuse, and which
accounted for the relative lack of the general odors and decay he had expected
from a seventeenth- or eighteenth-century-level settlement. The image of raider
bodies being dumped into the gully and then set afire brought up images of
World War II concentration camps, though in this case the image was accompanied
by satisfaction.

“Did Denes question any wounded raiders? Who are they, and
why did they do this?”

“Buldorians,” spat Cadwulf. Yozef’s expression was blank.
“Buldorians,” repeated Cadwulf. “From a small country on the Ganolar continent.
Pirates, slavers, and anything else you can image. One of them confirmed the
Narthani were behind it.”

“Any more information from them?”

“That was all we needed.”

There must have more information. Maybe the Caedelli didn’t
recognize the value of any small pieces of information. “Where are the prisoners
now?” he asked.

“Dumped with the others, of course.”

Yozef swallowed. So much for further interrogations.

“Yozef, what’s wrong with your leg?”

“My leg?”

“You’re limping, and that’s blood on your pants.”

Yozef looked down. His clothes had dried after Carnigan’s
dunking, but now something soaked the right leg of the pants below his knee. “I
don’t . . . ” He didn’t finish before a pain washed over him and he collapsed
to the ground. “Agh! What’s goin’ on?”

Cadwulf helped roll up the pants leg. Yozef’s fingers poked
through two holes in the cloth, and he almost fainted when his shin was
exposed. A two-inch furrow gouged across his white skin, blood caked across
half of the lower leg, more blood seeping from the wound.

“You’re shot!”

“Oh, fuck!” Yozef slipped into English, then back to
Caedelli. “It was a ricochet off Carnigan’s shield. I thought it just hit me
and bounced off.”

“You didn’t feel this?”

“No. Not till just now.”

“Well, it needs to be cleaned and sewn up. I’ll help you
into the hospital. Doesn’t look serious, but you’ll have a good scar.”

Report to Boyerman Vorwich

The rider Denes Vegga dispatched for help nearly killed his
horse in getting to Clengoth. Boyerman Vorwich himself and fifty men were on
the road back to the abbey within fifteen minutes. Another hundred men followed
thirty minutes later. They had no way to know the fighting at St. Sidryn’s
Abbey was over before the first group left Clengoth. When they arrived at the
abbey, it had been only three hours since the first sighting of the Buldorian
ships and two hours since the raiders were back aboard and gone.

Vorwich shook his head at the pile of Buldorian weapons. “I
still can hardly believe the miracle that you fought them off with so few men.”

Sistian took a deep breath and turned his head skyward. “A
miracle it may well be, Longnor. If it was, then I will need to pray
thanksgiving for many an hour. When it was all happening, everything was a
blur.”

“What on Anyar’s name made you think to let them into the
complex, instead of defending the walls? It worked, but it’s insane,” queried a
grizzled, burly man in the boyerman’s party.

“It was insane, but somehow it succeeded, thanks to
Denes Vegga here.”

Vorwich regarded Denes with a nod of approval and raised
questioning eyebrows.

Denes was discomfited. “Oh … I agree. To the insanity. But
it wasn’t my idea. Remember, Abbot, Yozef suggested it.”

Sistian’s face was blank for a moment, and then his eyes
widened when he remembered the chaotic scene in the courtyard as they prepared
for the raiders. “Yes, now I remember. Where in God’s creation did Yozef come
up with the idea?”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad he did. It was a boon from God
that he thought of it.”

“Or God whispered it to him,” murmured Cadwulf, who had been
listening from the outer circle of the gathering.

Sistian threw his eldest son a sharp look, frowned, and took
on a more thoughtful expression.

“Yozef?” asked Vorwich. “Who’s this Yozef?”

Sistian grimaced—or grinned. “Yozef Kolsko. The stranger who
washed up on the beach here not two years ago. I’ve written you about him
several times.”

Vorwich’s eyebrows rose. “The stranger who’s been
introducing all these new products? The same one?”

“The same,” said Denes.

“Hmm . . . ,” responded Vorwich. “And now he’s some kind of
warrior, too?”

“Well,” said Denes, “certainly not a fighter. He made the
suggestion and tried to help during the fighting, but from what little I saw, I
doubt he’d ever held a weapon in his hands before today.”

“Then how is it he understood enough to make the wild
suggestion to let the Buldorians into the abbey? And now that I think about it,
what made you listen to him?”

Denes grunted. “I think you’d have to be around Yozef to
understand. After all of the new ideas that seem to come from him, it’s given
him the status of someone to be listened to. I only paid scant attention to him
before, but when he said to let the Buldorians inside the walls, it was like a
light went off in my head. After today, I’m sure I’ll I find myself listening carefully
to anything he says.”

“Denes is right. There’s no doubt he’s someone to listen
to,” said Sistian. “A little strange he might be, and I’ll admit I still have
reservations about where he came from and some of his ideas, but I can’t deny
he’s brought major changes to Abersford. I’m sure even in Clengoth, you’ve seen
the effect he’s having.”

“I know, I know,” said Vorwich. “The ether and the new
lanterns are impressive. I wasn’t so sure about some of the others, but my wife
and daughters assure me the . . . ah . . . personal products have given him
considerable status among the women of Clengoth. I’ve also heard complaints
from some of our craftsmen about this Kolsko ruining their trades with all
these innovations.”

Sistian nodded. “I can see the argument, but Yozef has been
a boon to Abersford workmen, and he’s extraordinarily generous in putting coin
into works that benefit all.”

“Yes,” said Vorwich grudgingly, “I’ve heard several of the
workshops in Clengoth are using his tools and techniques. It’s those who cling
to their traditional methods who complain the loudest.”

“Believe me, I understand . . . and Diera even more so.
There are still a few district medicants who resist the new treatments,
including ether, and one brother at St. Sidryn’s still suspects Yozef is
somehow an agent of the Evil One.”

“That seems doubtful, given those for whom the ether is
considered a God-send, and if he really did help save Abersford and St.
Sidryn’s from the Buldorians. I would have to say that gives him considerable credit
to draw on.”

The boyerman looked around again at the courtyard. Only
remnants of the barricade remained. His gaze touched the piles of raider
weapons and armor, the pools and swatches of drying blood on the courtyard
ground—and shook his head. “However you did it, you all deserve my respect.”

He turned again to Sistian and Denes. “What’s the final
butcher’s bill?”

The abbot’s lips pursed, and his jaws clenched. Then he
sighed and forced himself to relax. “I know it could have been far, far worse,
but we have fifteen dead, about twenty-three serious wounds, a couple of whom
might not live, and perhaps thirty lesser injuries.”

“How many dead Buldorians?”

Sistian looked at Denes. “I’m told one hundred thirty-three
bodies,” answered Denes with a satisfied snarl.

“My God. A hundred and thirty-three dead Buldorians and only
fifteen or more dead Keelanders,” summarized the amazed Vorwich.

“Only eleven of our dead were here at the abbey,” said
Denes. “The other four were villagers who didn’t leave in time—one too ill to
walk, two older citizens who either didn’t want to leave or physically couldn’t
leave in time, and one younger man who his friends think was sleeping off a
drunk.”

“Even more amazing,” said Vorwich. “The actual fighting to
result in one hundred thirty-three to eleven dead, and the Buldorians all
experienced fighting men. I’m willing to believe it a miracle from God.”

“Oh, I assure you, there will be many a prayer of
thanksgiving this day and for years to come,” declared the abbot. “This will be
a day Abersford remembers for many lifetimes.”

Vorwich motioned to one of his men to come forward. The man
carried a leather pouch across one shoulder and reached into it for a pen and
paper he then handed to his boyerman. “I need to send a rider back to Clengoth
to semaphore on to Hetman Keelan the general situation. I’m sure he’s hard to
be around right now, wondering what’s happening here. He needs to know the
situation is stabilized, and there’s no need to send more men.

“Abbot, I know you have more immediate tasks, but as soon as
you can, write a detailed report of everything that happened. Best if you and
Denes both write separate reports to get different perspectives. Although I
don’t think there’s any chance the Buldorians will return, just in case, the
fifty men I brought with me will stay the next two days, until your other men
return from Gwillamer and patrol. The rider carrying the message for the hetman
should meet the additional men coming from Clengoth. I’ll include instructions
for them to turn back. I don’t see they’re needed here. I’ll return to Clengoth
tomorrow, so have your reports ready by tomorrow morning.”

As If Nothing Had Happened

For several more hours, Yozef sat on a stone curb, watching
people moving about. His leg throbbed from his wound and the stitches. He
relived the minutes of the battle a hundred times. It was late afternoon by the
time he recognized signals from his body. His muscles ached, his throat was
parched, and his stomach growled to remind him that despite what had
transpired, he was still alive and had not eaten or drunk anything since the
morning meal.

It was a slow walk to the cottage, aided by a forked tree
branch serving as a makeshift crutch. Seeing the cottage exactly as he had left
it that morning seemed . . . wrong, as if the intervening time might have been
another dream . . . or a nightmare.

Elian sat on the porch. As soon he rounded the hillock a
hundred yards from the cottage, she rose and went inside. When he approached,
Brak appeared in the doorway of the barn he had built to replace the original
dilapidated one. He held a pitchfork in one hand, the other arm bandaged and
tied to his side. Brak gave him a curt nod and disappeared back into the barn.

He entered the cottage. It smelled of freshly baked bread
and a meaty stew. The table was set for one.

“Is Brak all right?” Yozef asked. “His arm is bandaged.”

“A minor cut from the abbey this morning. The medicants
treated it, and we came back here.”

“Is he working in the barn with an injury?”

“There’s work to do,” Elian said matter-of-factly. “He’s not
one to let needed work be put off.”

Not even if wounded in a life-or-death fight that morning?

“Sit and eat,” Elian said. “I bet you haven’t eaten anything
since morning meal.”

She never asked about his limp or the condition of his pants
leg.

Yozef sat. Elian set a bowl of stew, a covered loaf of warm
bread, and a flask of phila wine in front of him, then stood there to be sure
he ate. He looked at the food . . . at the older woman . . . at the food . . .
and ate.

He thought he had caught a glimpse of her at the abbey this
morning. She and Brak must have moved as fast as their aging bodies would let
them get to the abbey before the raiders, taken part in the defense, then come
back here for Brak to work and Elian to bake fresh bread.

Who were these people?

Caernford, Hetman Keelan’s Manor

Culich Keelan couldn’t sit. He had been on his feet for ten
hours, ever since first word of the raid on Abersford and St. Sidryn’s had
arrived from Clengoth via semaphore. His bad knee ached, and Breda gave up
trying to get him to sit. Maera didn’t try; she knew it was futile and was
surprised her father didn’t wait for news at the semaphore station in
Caernford, instead of at the Keelan Manor.

The men in the main hall also waited for news, but most sat.
Word had spread throughout Caernford, and those with families and friends at
Abersford, along with those simply concerned, milled by the hundreds around the
semaphore station just outside the clan’s capitol.

For the fifth time, Culich asked the same question. “Pedr,
Vortig . . . you’re sure we shouldn’t be sending men to Clengoth?”

For the fifth time, Vortig gave the same answer. “Not from
the reports we’ve had so far. Boyerman Vorwich dispatched a hundred and fifty
men. They should be at St. Sidryn’s by now, although even they are likely too
late to make any difference. If the pattern is the same as raids on other
clans, the raiders are gone within a few hours. All we can do is wait and hope
for the best.”

For the fifth time, the answer did nothing for the hetman’s
mood.

Maera and Breda watched the latest exchange from a doorway
to the main hall.

“I wish your father would get off that bad knee of his,”
Breda said. “What good does it do to aggravate it?”

“Speaking of Father sitting, what about you, Mother? I can’t
remember seeing you not standing.”

Breda wrung her hands. “Oh, Maera. I still have trouble even
conceiving of this. St. Sidryn’s! I can’t help but imagine Culich and Diera
killed and the abbey burned! That’s what happened to other abbeys attacked the
last few months. Somehow I didn’t believe it could happen in Keelan.”

“I know how you feel. I knew it was possible, but knowing
something is possible is nowhere near the reality when it happens. There’s
still hope. The abbey is some distance from the shore, and people might have
had time to flee inland.”

Breda shook her head at the attempt to assuage her fears.
“Do you really think Culich would abandon the abbey or Diera, if there was even
one patient in the hospital?”

Maera was quiet for several seconds, then morosely shook her
head. “No. They’d both stay at the abbey. All we can do now is await word and
pray they fought the raiders off.”

“Which is what I have been doing all day. I only hope God is
listening.”

Both women jerked their heads toward the front of the house
when they heard a horse gallop up, then neigh as if being brought up short by
its rider. Then voices—many voices from the others waiting on the front
veranda. Culich and the other men poured out from the main hall and through the
front door, Maera and Breda merging with the men.

A messenger from the semaphore station leaped off his horse
and bounded up the front stairs, as Culich rushed out the door. The hetman
grabbed the message without saying a word or looking at the messenger. He
glanced over the message, visibly relaxed, and then read it again slower.
People held their breath. Culich let the hand holding the message fall to his
side. Pedr Kennrick snatched it without asking and started reading, as the
hetman spoke.

“The raiders were beaten off and have left. St. Sidryn’s and
Abersford suffered minimal damage and casualties. No further assistance is
required, according to Boyerman Vorwich.”

The sounds of multiple lungs letting out air was audible,
followed by a cacophony of exclamations and questions.

“How—? Other information—? Thank the Merciful God! How many
casualties—?” On and on it went.

Culich raised both arms to quiet the gathering. “There’s no
other information in the message. Boyerman Vorwich says he’ll pass on more as
it comes to him. There’s no way to know when more will come, so it’s best we
return to whatever we were doing until we hear more later today or tomorrow.”

The request to disperse was fulfilled, although it took a
half hour of small groups talking and Culich meeting with Kennrick and Luwis
before he could finally sit.

Abersford, Service of
Thanksgiving

The day after the raid, word spread that in four days,
Godsday, a special service for those slain in the raid and for deliverance of
the rest of the people would be held in the cathedral. The time was later than
normal for a Godsday service to allow those more distant to travel. And they
came: every soul in Abersford and the abbey who could move, people from farms,
mines, and settlements as far away as Clengoth, including Boyerman Vorwich and
his entire family. Visitors traveling through the empty countryside and nearby
hamlets would wonder what had happened to the people. They’d have learned the
answer if they reached St. Sidryn’s Abbey and viewed horses, carts, wagons, and
carriages staked for hundreds of yards around the main wall, and they may or
may not have been able to pack themselves into the cathedral. The normal
seating capacity of 800 was extended to 1,300 with temporary benches, chairs,
cushions, boxes, and anything else that could support a person, with more
people crammed into the pews than usual. Another almost 300 souls stood at the
back and sides, on walkways two, three, and four stories around the chamber and
a final hundred or more sat on the floor of the altar area normally reserved
for the brothers and the sisters.

Yozef found the cathedral packed. He squeezed into the main
hall, content to find a place among the throng standing to one side, when Brother
Fitham appeared, grasped his right elbow, and dragged him to a front pew, where
Denes held a space for him.

He had attended many services since his arrival, and this
one started out with the standard call to worship and a series of traditional
calls and responses between Abbot Sistian and the people. The difference came
when Sistian, instead of launching into a sermon, recounted their deliverance
from the Buldorians. Naturally, primary thanks were given to God, then the
abbot named names: the fallen, the dead, and the seriously wounded; those who
had lured the Buldorians to the open gate; Denes Vegga, for organizing the
defense; and Yozef, for his insights into defending the abbey. Yozef dreaded
the attention. He had been so afraid. Four days since the raid and he still
shook and his throat constricted whenever he let his mind linger over that
morning.

“And thank you, Merciful God, for Yozef Kolsko,” the abbot
intoned, “the stranger who came to us in need, who became part of our
community, who brought so many betterments, and who has been the implement of
God’s grace on our day of danger.”

Yozef cringed. He’d only made a suggestion that had popped
into his head! He’d wet himself! He didn’t want everyone looking at him as a
hero.

No one knew it, but the abbot’s reference to Yozef being “an
implement of God’s grace” would linger in people’s minds.

Chapter 34: Not Over

Preddi City

Okan Akuyun dismounted, gave the reins to a guard, and was
halfway to the headquarters entrance when stopped by Admiral Kalcan’s voice.

“General, a moment of your time, please.” Akuyun turned to
the naval commander walking briskly toward him.

“Yes, Admiral. Come on up to my office.” The two men entered
the outer foyer. Guards came to attention, as did other staff, as they climbed
the staircase into Akuyun’s office.

“So, Morfred, what has you excited this morning?” Once
alone, Akuyun often used first names with his immediate subordinates and
allowed them the same privilege. While such familiarity was not universal among
the Narthani, Akuyun believed it helped them believe in his trust and
confidence.

“The Buldorians, Okan. They were due back from the raid on
the Keelan abbey by yesterday at the latest, possibly sooner since the distance
is so short. There’s been no sign of them. This morning I sent a sloop to the
Buldorians’ base at Rocklyn. They should be back late today or tomorrow. In
addition, another sloop reported back today after finishing a routine sweep
along that part of the Caedellium coast. They were some distance offshore, but
the captain reported that the abbey and the nearby village appeared intact. The
Buldorians had orders to burn anything they couldn’t carry off, but the captain
saw no indication of fires. The last time we had contact with Captain Adalan
and his ships was when they left four days ago for the raid.”

“I assume there continues to be no sign of any other
warships around the island, except ours? No one else the Buldorians could have
run afoul of?”

“No. So the question is, where are the Buldorians?”

“Your conclusion?”

Kalcan shrugged. “I expect they decided their association
with us had reached an end, and they sailed for home.”

“Well, I suppose that simplifies how to end our
relationship,” Akuyun grimaced. “We are about to move into the next phase anyway,
so this won’t change our plans.”

“I agree. We suspected the Buldorians would do this
eventually. What about Major Nertof and his two aides?”

“Ah, our redoubtable Major Nertof. It seems unlikely the
Buldorians would take them home to Buldor, so I surmise our liaison men came to
an unfortunate end.”

“That would be my guess,” agreed Kalcan. “Too bad the Empire
loses such a capable and well-connected officer.”

Both men smiled. Nertof was from an important Narthani
family but had been considered incompetent by superiors in his previous and
current assignments. Only his family connections had protected him. Even worse
than his incompetence was his delusion of his own superiority and resentment at
not having advanced faster.

“What an unfortunate coincidence the Buldorians ran for home
on the first mission Major Nertof served as liaison,” Kalcan commented, with a
raised eyebrow and tweak to his lips.

“Yes, a tragedy. I’ll write a report extolling the major and
his contributions to the mission. He’ll be remembered as having fallen in
service to the Empire.”

“Naturally, we’ll want to exact revenge against the
Buldorians,” Kalcan said cryptically.

“Naturally. And you’re already looking for their ships.
Unfortunately, the ocean is wide, and our mission here takes priority. We’ll
give assurances we’re on the lookout for these particular Buldorians.”

Kalcan smiled and nodded. Without words, the communication
was clear: they were well rid of Nertof and his two junior officers and would
think no more about them.

That point settled, Akuyun sat at his desk and motioned for
Kalcan to seat himself. “Now, I assume the navy is ready to take the
Buldorians’ place in future raids and to support our direct ground operations?”

Keelan Manor, Caernford

Boyerman Vorwich had used the Clengoth/Caernford semaphore
line to relay raid updates to Hetman Keelan as fast as details were known. Even
the fastest semaphore station crews could only transmit the equivalent of six
complete pages of text a day. As a consequence, for two days, the limited
capacity of the semaphore line was preempted from more routine communications,
including news of friends and relatives. The commandeering of the semaphore
lines from Caernford to the rest of Caedellium lasted an entire sixday with
messages among the clan hetmen.

“The reports from St. Sidryn’s are thorough, but I want
firsthand accounts,” Culich said to Kennrick and Vortig. “Let’s get Abbot
Beynom and Vegga here as soon as possible.” Thus, three days later Denes Vegga
and Sistian Beynom, accompanied by Boyerman Vorwich, answered the summons to
Caernford and spent an entire day with their hetman, along with Kennrick and
Luwis, going over the events in excruciating detail. Denes then returned to
Abersford, while Sistian remained for more discussions, one topic of which was
Yozef Kolsko.

“The new knowledge he’s given us is already amazing, but
he’ll often say something without realizing the impact. For example, when we
first talked about the lack of poppy extract, I explained that poppies only
grew under conditions found in Eastern Landolin. He stated there was no reason
they couldn’t be grown anywhere by making the right conditions inside an
enclosed area. He called it a ‘greenhouse,’ a small building with windows all
around the sides and roof so the sunlight can get in. The light passes through
glass to allow plants to grow. It also warms the inside of the structure. The
warmth can escape out through the glass in the other direction, but as he
describes it, the energy of the sun passing in is more than the warmth that
passes out. By adjusting various factors, it should be possible to grow the
plants to produce opiates here on Caedellium, if we obtained plants or seeds.”

“Do you believe these greenhouses would work as he claims?”
asked Culich.

“It’s one of those things that just sounds right when
you hear Yozef’s explanation. Combined with the success of some of his other
ideas, I’m inclined to think it would work.”

“Then there’s the problem of getting plants or seeds from
Landolin,” said Culich. “They impose the death penalty on anyone trying to
smuggle out any plants or seeds.”

The abbot nodded. “There is that. However, I’m sure a
hetman of your influence, ingenuity, and wealth could find ways around such
annoyances.”

“Hah!” barked Culich. “Flattery will get you nowhere. I’m
shocked, absolutely shocked that an abbot of your stature could conceive of
such nefarious deeds.”

The two gray-bearded men shared a laugh. They had grown up
together as boys in Caernford. Although the abbot had moved to different positions
over the years, they remained friends, exchanged regular letters, and met
whenever the opportunity lent itself.

“Pardon my saying so, Sistian, but this stranger of yours
sounds too good to be true. If this keeps up, there are going to be fears he’s
either a demon familiar or belief he’s an archangel sent from God to deliver
Caedellium.”

The abbot sat back in his chair and sighed. “Don’t think I
haven’t thought long and hard about those very points, Culich. I must admit to
being leery of all of this at first. The Word warns us the Evil One can
tempt in ways that seduce us into believing our actions are meant for good.” He
paused. “However, I’ve observed Yozef for almost two years now, and several
other brothers and sisters have discussed him with me. We all agree we detect
no evil in the man. Not that I’m sure he’s told us the entire story of how he
got to Caedellium. As for being an archangel, I think I can rule that out. He’s
quite human.”

“Well, then,” said Culich, “if he’s not a demon familiar or some
agent of the Evil One, and he’s not an archangel, what is he? A spy or an agent
of the Narthani or some other power outside of Caedellium?”

“I don’t see how the knowledge he’s already passed to us
would help any agency with designs toward Caedellium. I think his basic story
is true, that he’s from a distant land that has knowledge that has not reached
Caedellium. That he was a student still involved in his studies. That he was
taken from his land against his will, perhaps in a manner he doesn’t fully understand.
That he had a long bout of both loneliness and some despair when he arrived
here, since he believes he’ll never see his home again, and that he harbors no
animosity toward us. In fact, I believe he feels an obligation to us for the
help we gave him. I also believe he’s accepted whatever fate brought him to
Caedellium and has become a real member of the Abersford community. Having said
all that, I also believe he knows more about how he got here than he’s told
us.”

“How should we view this reticence to reveal all?”

“With a degree of caution, but still make use of what he
knows. While I can’t be certain what he doesn’t tell us could be harmful, my
sense is that what he’s not telling us is more personal, perhaps something
about himself he doesn’t want to share. If so, it likely doesn’t pose a
threat.”

Culich was thoughtful. “Knowing you as long as I have, I
expect you have some recommendations for me.”

Sistian smiled. “Of course, my Hetman.”

“And those are . . . ?”

“I recommend you meet him yourself. I’ve given you my
impressions, but yours would be from a different perspective. You’ve dealt with
different ranges of human interactions than I have, at least from the political
standpoint. I’m interested in your assessment of him. That’s one recommendation.
Second is that while these pieces of knowledge he drops on us are giving us
extraordinary advances in medicine, trades, and agriculture, I also wonder
whether it might apply to other areas, perhaps even military.”

Culich’s eyebrows arched. “Military? You mean like the
mainland realms that keep large numbers of men permanently armed and fight
large-scale battles?”

“Yes. Like the Narthani. We haven’t done this on Caedellium,
thank Merciful God, but we know from writings and reports that it’s common
elsewhere on Anyar. It’s only logical to believe there are formal studies on
managing such fighting.”

“Do you believe this Yozef Kolsko has military training and
experience?”

“He’s given no such indication, and I once steered a
conversation in that direction. I asked if he had been in any battles, and he
said he had not and hadn’t been part of his people’s military. That confirmed
his people had a military and indirectly suggests they were involved in these
large battles. When I asked why he hadn’t served, he said they had a
professional military drawn from their citizens, and most people don’t serve or
receive training.”

“Then I wouldn’t see how he might have useful military
information, except that the idea for defending St. Sidryn’s came from him.”

“Yes,” said Sistian, “there’s that. He’s told us how his
people’s education is long and broad, so maybe his military knowledge is only
from study.”

“Well, I trust your instincts, Sistian. Arrange for this
Kolsko to visit Caernford, and I’ll meet with him.”

Sistian hesitated. Forgive me, God, for the little lie
I’m about to speak. Any Keelander would heed Culich’s “request” without
hesitation, but Yozef was not from Keelan, and Sistian wasn’t sure he’d come
just because the Keelan hetman asked him to. He didn’t want Culich’s first
interaction with Yozef to start off wrong.

“Actually, I wondered that since it’s coming the time for
your yearly tour around the province, if you could manage to stop over a night
or two at Abersford. I’m not sure Yozef is ready to leave where he is as yet,
and I’d rather not force him to change his routine. I know the attack shocked
him, perhaps in ways I’m not sure about, so it might be best if he stays where
he is for now.”

“Then it’ll have to wait for a month or more. I’m postponing
my inspection of the province. There’s a conclave called at Orosz City to
discuss the Narthani threat.” Culich paused for a moment, stroking his beard in
a manner the abbot knew indicated he had a new thought and was running it
through his mind before sharing it. After a few more moments, Culich said,
“Although I can’t go immediately, what about sending Maera? She’s wanted
to visit St. Sidryn’s for some time, because it’s been several years since
she’s been there. I’ve put her off because I value her help so much, but she
can’t accompany me to the conclave, and this would be a good time for her to
spend a month at the abbey.”

A smile warmed Sistian’s face. “We’re always happy to have a
visit from Maera. Diera especially will be pleased. However, I still believe
you will need to assess Yozef personally.”

“Of course, but Maera will have more time than I could
spend, so her examination of this Kolsko character might be in more depth. I’ll
speak to Maera, and I’m sure there’ll be no problem.”

Sistian nodded with a thoughtful expression.

Culich recognized the look. “Something else about this
Kolsko?”

“Something I wasn’t planning to mention at the time, to
allow you to see for yourself. Since it’ll be a while until you meet Yozef, I’m
now thinking I should mention it to you, and you can decide whether to pass it
on to Maera.”

Sistian rose from his chair, walked to the window, and
looked out over the manor grounds. Culich was patient, knowing Sistian was
gathering his thoughts.

After several minutes, the abbot turned back to Culich.
“It’s not just pieces of knowledge, like the ether. I’m hearing from farmers
he’s given them ideas on increasing yields and warding off plant diseases, and
tradesmen on new products and techniques, even more than the innovations you
know about. Then there are the medical issues. Yozef knows little of how to
treat patients and seems ignorant of basic facts. Yet the medicants tell me
he’s answered questions about the human body that have always puzzled them.
Also, he seems to have knowledge that even when they are convinced it’s true,
they can’t understand how the knowledge was developed, nor can Yozef explain
it. I’ve heard it said several times it’s almost as if someone is whispering
knowledge into his ear.”

“Someone?” asked Culich, sensing where this was going.

The abbot smiled. “Yes, the someone being . . . God? I’m
afraid I inadvertently contributed to the rumors when I spoke at our service of
thanksgiving at St. Sidryn’s.”

“And this would make him . . . what?”

“I think you know the answer. A Septarsh. One who is
directly inspired by God. The Word describes the Septarshi as men in
touch with God like no others. Sometimes God whispers in their ear, sometimes
in their dreams, or sometimes they simply know something without knowing how.”

“Not an Avatar?” said the skeptical Culich.

“No. I’m not even beginning to think of Yozef as an Avatar,
a descent of God into human form. That’s too close to blasphemy.”

“So, what do you think?”

Sistian shook his head. “This is not something I would commit
to. Not yet.”

Culich’s eyebrows rose. Sistian’s response meant he was
leaving the question open, a major sign of the seriousness with which he took
the issue. “So you think it’s possible?”

“Possible? Yes. Nothing in The Word of God or The
Commentaries says all of the Septarshi have already lived. There are eleven
recognized. The last Septarsh was over a hundred years ago. Each has differed
from the others, but all are associated with major changes, sometimes with holy
writings, sometimes with conflicts, and sometimes with gifts of knowledge. But
all were acknowledged as Septarshi, either during their lives or after their
deaths, and all were considered as God’s response to prayers for help or
directing the people onto correct paths.”

“It sounds like Yozef fits the qualification of gifts of
knowledge. What about writings and military?”

“I don’t see Yozef as creating new Holy Scriptures. I
believe him to be a good man but firmly rooted in the world and not interested
in theological issues. Military? As I said, I don’t know. He doesn’t fit what
I’d expect out of a military leader, and I get the sense his view of how
conflicts are pursued is very different from ours, if for no other reason than
Caedellium has had no history of wars, as the mainlands have had. I again
advise your drawing him out on this topic to see whether there’s anything to
help with the Narthani.”

“And, of course,” prompted Culich, “the Narthani would
qualify as the threat that God is sending Yozef as an answer to prayers?”

“That would be the more common folks’
interpretation.”

Culich was dubious. “I must say, this bothers me. Men
regularly claim to commune with God, usually because they’re either mad or
charlatans.”

“Yes, but usually is the main word. Septarshi may be
rare, but the Word and The Commentaries acknowledge their
existence.”

“You and I have spoken about the possibility that Rhaedri Brison in Orosz Province might be eventually
acknowledged as a Septarsh, because of his commentaries on the Word. As
infrequent as they seem to be, isn’t having two alive at the same time hard to
believe?”

Sistian smiled. “Not being privy
to God’s plans, I’d hesitate to offer any opinion on the matter. Brison has
been working on new commentaries to the Word for thirty years at the
monastery of St. Wyan outside of Orosz City. Any elevation of Brison would be
based on his writings. There’s no reason to think God couldn’t arrange a
Septarsh with other talents.”

Culich chuckled. “Meaning I
shouldn’t give advice to God?”

“You’ll do what you think best,” Sistian said with a pious
twinkle.

“What does Kolsko think of all this?”

“I don’t believe he’s aware of it. I’ve neither seen nor
heard indication of such.”

“What do you think his response will be once he does
become aware?”

“I suspect he’ll be appalled. Truth be told, I’m not sure he
believes in the existence of God.”

“Then how can he be a Septarsh?”

“Nothing in the Word says a Septarsh must be a
believer. He only has to be in communion with God, whether he knows it or not.
We commonly think of the Septarshi as archangels, carrying out commands they
hear directly from God, but all a Septarsh has to do is carry out God’s will,
irrespective of how he gets the direction.”

“Well,” said Culich, “I’ll be skeptical. Then again, I
suppose so will you. Keep an eye on him, and we’ll see what Maera reports back.
When I get back from Orosz City, and there’s time, we can think again about
arranging for me to see for myself.”

Veil of the Future

Two sixdays later, Culich Keelan sat alone in his study amid
papers strewn across his desk. Semaphore messages from other provinces reported
incursions and small raids into their territories bordering the Narthani client
provinces, Selfcell and Eywell. Suspected sightings of Eywellese occurred in
Northern Keelan. Raids erupted along the coasts throughout Caedellium, now by
the Narthani themselves. There were details on the attack on Abersford and St.
Sidryn’s, along with Maera’s transcription of his notes from a hetmen conclave
in Orosz City, chronicling his discouragement at failing to convince more of
the other hetmen of the seriousness of the Narthani threat.

His right shoulder blade had a knife of pain in it, he knew
from tension. He avoided looking himself in the eye when before a mirror these
days, too afraid to see the fear he hid even from Breda. When he was alone like
this, it was the worst. It was then that he closed out externals and looked
deeply into how he saw the play of the future. Every instinct he had said the
Narthani meant to enslave the entire island, and he discerned no path to stop
them. Even if it might not happen in his lifetime, this didn’t provide solace.
The weight of his ancestors and the entire Keelan Clan was crushing.

***

Okan Akuyun’s mood contrasted with Hetman Keelan’s. Akuyun was
. . . cheerful. He engaged in friendly conversations with both immediate
subordinates and common troops. Rabia and the children all teased him on his
relaxed manner at home, and he found himself noting minor things like a
sunrise, the passing of seasons on this beautiful island, and the pleasure of
reviewing the progress of the newest Narthani civilian colonists. He even found
time to read Landolin poetry, something he would never confess to any other
Narthani, besides Rabia.

Everything was going according to plan. All of the assigned
troops were in place. Granted, they had been of poor quality when they arrived,
but continuous training had them rounding into shape for what was necessary to
accomplish the Caedellium mission. The attempts to confuse the Caedelli and
prevent them from uniting was ongoing and impossible to evaluate with any
certainty, but the Buldorian and Narthani raids, the secret contacts with
several clans, and the placement of agents throughout the island had all
proceeded as planned.

Now it was time to ratchet up the pressure on the Caedelli
before launching the final phase. It was only a matter of time before they
integrated the island into the Narthon Empire. Akuyun was not a cruel man. He
would prefer that all of the Caedelli lived to serve Narthon, but serve they
would, even if by no longer existing.

***

While Culich Keelan and Okan Akuyun both foresaw future
paths, one dark and one beckoning, Joseph Colsco, aka Yozef Kolsko, had no such
clarity. He sat on the porch of his house, the Faughns long asleep. The sounds
of the night were similar to Earth’s but different. A breeze wafted across his
face. The scents were similar to Earth, though not of Earth.

The stars were bright on this clear night, as they would be
on Earth, yet not the same stars. There were no recognizable constellations as
seen from Earth. Did the Caedelli have constellations? If not here, elsewhere
on Anyar? He wondered whether he could even see any star here that was also
visible from Earth. Harlie, the disembodied voice that had been his only
contact with the aliens whose vessel collided with his flight near Denver, had
never answered his queries about Anyar’s location. It could be within sight of
Sol or tens of thousands of light-years across the Galaxy.

Were the Watchers, or whoever they were, up there looking
down at Anyar . . . at Caedellium . . . at him? Was this just someplace where
they dumped him and went on their way again? Would anyone ever know what
happened to him? No, he decided. No one would know. At least, not in his
lifetime. His journals could someday let it be known. But now . . .

He stood and paced the porch slowly, back and forth, his
footsteps helping anchor the feeling that he was here and now.
Once again, everything had changed. On Earth, he had been satisfied with a
predictable future. Then he’d been ripped away and left on Anyar. He’d been
here almost two years. Anyar years. He’d struggled to accept and adjust. And he
had. He had begun to think he knew the direction of his life here: satisfied and
predictable, once again, as it had been on Earth. Now . . . ? What was predictable?

The Narthani and the Buldorians were a reality of this
world. He could easily have been killed at the abbey, and who knew what might
yet happen? The Narthani weren’t going away. They’d be back, and if what he
heard was accurate, it sounded like soon. And it wasn’t just him. He did care
for these people. They were rough in many ways but basically honest and
appreciative of the lives they had. Even the Faughns, with all of their
struggles, had a pride of self. The Narthani might destroy all of that.

He stopped pacing and took a deep breath. There must be more
he could do to help, both for himself and the Caedelli. Some knowledge he could
dredge out of his enhanced memory. God! I might have to accept that this
life may never be safe and predictable. It wasn’t a comforting realization,
but it somehow eased the confusion of his thoughts and kindled a determination
to face reality.

Yes, he had to give all of this much more thought. But not
tonight. He entered the cottage, walked to the bedroom, and climbed under the
covers. His last thought before drifting off was that whatever came, he would
have to face it.

Major Characters

Abulli, Omir. Buldorian
mercenary from different clan than the Adalan’s.

Adalan, Adel. Buldorian
mercenary. Second-in-command to cousin Musfar Adalan.

Adalan, Musfar. Commander of
Buldorian mercenaries.

Akuyun, Okan. Commander of
Narthani mission to conquer Caedellium.

Akuyun, Rabia. Wife of Okan.

Balcan, Mamduk. Narthani
religious prelate.

Beynom, Cadwulf. Scholasticum
student. Son of Diera and Sistian. Friend and employee of Yozef.

Beynom, Diera. A medicant.
Abbess of St. Sidryn’s abbey. Wife of Sistian.

Beynom, Sistian. A theophist.
Abbot of St. Sidryn’s abbey. Husband of Diera.

Bolwyn, Elton. A medicant at
St. Sidryn’s abbey.

Dyllis, Saoul. A medicant at
St. Sidryn’s abbey.

Erdelin, Memas. Narthani
colonel.

Faughns, Brak and Elian.
Elderly home staff couple of Yozef.

Fitham, Petros. Elderly theophist
at St. Sidryn’s abbey.

Fuller, Filtin. Skilled
worker and friend to Yozef.

Gwillamer, Cadoc. Hetman of
Gwillamer Clan.

Harlie. Name given by Yozef
(Joe) to alien artificial intelligence created to interact with Yozef.

Hizer, Sadek. Narthani Assessor
reporting direct to Narthani High Command.

Kalcan, Morfred. Narthani
naval commander.

Keelan, Breda. Wife of
Culich. Mother of Maera.

Keelan, Culich. Hetman of
Clan Keelan. Father of Maera.

Keelan, Maera. Eldest
daughter of Culich and Breda.

Kennrick, Pedr. Advisor to
Hetman Culich Keelan.

Ketin, Erkan. Narthani
colonel.

Kolsko, Yozef (a.k.a. Joseph
Colsco). California chemistry graduate student who boards an ill-fated flight
to a conference and meets an unimagined future.

Linton, Bronwyn. Widow owner
of farm near Abersford.

Metin, Nuthrat. Narthani
colonel.

Miron, Yonkel. Abersford boy
who first discovers Yozef lying on the beach.

Moreland, Anarynd (a.k.a.
Ana). Friend of Maera Keelan. Distantly related to Moreland Clan hetman.

Moreland, Brym. Father of
Anarynd. Cousin to Moreland hetman.

Moreland, Gynfor. Hetman of
Moreland Clan.

Puvey, Carnigan. Physically
imposing member of abbey staff. Friend of Yozef.

Tuzere, Nizam. Narthani
civilian administrator.

Vega, Denes. Magistrate and
sheriff-equivalent in town of Abersford. Commander of Abersford fighting levy.

Vortig, Luwis. Advisor to
Hetman Culich Keelan.

Vorwich, Longnor. Keelan Clan
boyerman (district chief) of Abersford and St. Sidryn’s area.

Watchers. Name given by Yozef
to alien creators of Harlie and whose spaceship destroyed Yozef’s flight to
Chicago.

Zulfa, Aivacs. Commander of
Narthani group troops on Caedellium.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my wife, Kathleen, for encouragement,
tolerating my sequestering away for endless hours writing and revising, and for
reading drafts. Thanks to editors Felicia Sullivan and Patricia Waldygo for
catching flaws I couldn’t see and contributions and teaching me those things
about writing and grammar that I didn’t learn in school. Cover by Damonza.com.

To
Readers

An advantage of electronic
publishing is the ability to correct errors, oversights, inconsistances. Please
email me with any such comments at olanthorensen@gmail.com. I promise to read
all emails, though I won’t be able to answer personally every one. Maps of
Anyar and Caedellium are available at olanthorensen.com. Also, if you enjoyed
the story, please leave a comment/review on appropriate venues, such as Amazon,
Barnes and Noble, etc. And, of course, if you want to know what happens next,
Book II, The Pen and the Sword, is available.