Voya - Book 1 - Chapter 1

Dog-Brained Piss Peddlers (Pt1)

Melios was a perfect balm for the senses. Sweet, warm breezes drew across the expertly manicured lawns, carrying the earthen smell of grapes, olives, and sweet fruits across the knolls. It was said that even the fowl and the fish found it most pleasing. Even the pigs, cows, and goats, carefully shut away in their marble enclosures, begged to be slaughtered to avoid being sold and sent off to the outside — and thus, imperfect — lands.

The sky was perfectly cloudless, as though heaven itself would brook no occlusion of this anointed place. Perfectly clear, as if one could jump and pluck a diamond from that black silk above. Apart from the proud stars, the only lights on those rolling hills were the half-hidden droplets of fires, torches, and braziers, partially illuminating the sprawling villas besides. There were only a handful, but each home sat imperiously upon its own enormous swath of land. Despite the vast distance between them, one could hear the wind-swept echoes of debauchery and hedonism all about, flowing from every home..

Disgusting.

Those ethereal cacophonies came as ghosts came to the eyes, ephemeral and unsettling, and emerged from the same source, dead souls

Jemre walked beside the old wagon, hoping to distract his anxious heart by taking in the surroundings, fixing himself to the world without. Instead, he found another source of frustration. He recoiled at the sight of it all, so sickly saccharine. None of the hard earth, dust, or stink of real nature. It was like a marble statue, constructed by someone eager to forget man’s weakness and meanness. Despite all the beautiful smells and sights, Melios was a depraved hovel. Within its manicured perfection lurked a self-deceiving evil. A force which blackened the souls of men, which sought to conceal from them the wickedness of their deeds.

Jemre looked over at his ass, Chek, who plodded along the hard-dirt path. They would reach the gates of that unholy land soon, and Jemre was — though he secretly despised it of himself — curious as to whether he would see Chek’s disposition change as they entered. Could an ass appreciate it? He didn’t know, but he suspected that it had a better chance than he did. For he could imagine, unlike his asinine companion, the spectacle of its creation necessitated.

Jemre peered down the road toward the fire-dotted hillsides, imagining the farmland as it had been before, before. He imagined the first Aeolite to look upon the fertile land with greedy eyes. Then he pictured the scores of prisoners, slaves, and servants, their tanned bodies sweating under the summer sun, hands rough and callused, feet torn and bloody. He imagined the hot lashes of the slaver’s whip. All this suffering to build those angelic hills, move mountains of earth just so. Beaten and berated for gentle curves and crystal streams. It was enough to set his blood boiling. He thought of the death which undergirded that great terra motus — changed earth. He thought of their twisted and broken corpses, kicked over into troughs. Fathers and sons and mothers and daughters. Left to lie abused, abandoned, and forgotten.

But Jemre did not forget.

“Don’t speak, I will talk if they ask questions,” Addaira said from the atop the wagon. Jemre nodded his approval, still enraged by the picture he’d painted of the past. He could barely summon the will to unclench his fists.

“A woman leading men will look suspicious,” Corro replied. He looked over Chek at Jemre, expecting some agreement.

“Hush,” the slender woman responded. Corro frowned, but remained silent.

Jemre smiled. He liked Addaira, especially her ability to prove someone wrong with a single word. If Corro continued to back down at every single-syllable utterance, the guards wouldn’t think twice about her being in charge.

“Do we know where it is?” a voice huffed from behind. Jemre looked back at the young lad trailing them. He was nearly crumbling under the weight of the leather packs criss crossing his torso and hanging full on his sides. Each heavy step made the contents of the packs — various earthenware jugs — clink wildly against each other.

“Don’t spill that wine!” Addaira snapped.

“I — I’m not, I can’t,” Prellum wheezed, staggering from side to side.

“It’s… that one. Third on the left over the rise there. There’s only one above it and it’s to the right,” Jemre pointed out.

“Just follow the damn wagon, Prell,” Corro moaned.

“How far?” the skinny young man managed to get out.

“How far would you walk to burn this wretched place and salt the earth beneath it?” Corro asked. “Would you at least walk to it?” Corro laughed to himself, again looking toward Jemre. The latter offered a meager smile. Jemre knew from the thirty-three miles he himself had carried them how hard it was carrying all those jugs. But he’d done it through sheer determination, as Prell must. As they all must.

Prellum, face red as a beet and sweating profusely, found another source of strength in Corro’s provocation, steeling himself. They had been walking for fourteen miles, and they were about two miles still from the villa. Once they entered Melios, Prellum could lay the jugs in the cart.

“Remember, Prell, right thigh and left shoulder,” Jemre reminded the young man. Prell managed a nod, the veins in his forehead and neck bulging.

“Corro —,” Jemre started, turning toward the tall man.

“Back my side, two up and left,” Corro replied. They had gone through it a hundred times, and each of them knew the others were ready. Even so, Jemre could not help but feel a fierce excitement in his gut. His heart raced with anticipation, and it required every ounce of concentration calm himself. Overexcitement would ruin everything.

At that moment, they came within sight of the Melosian Guard. The soldiers appeared less formidable than Jemre had expected, but their uniforms displayed all of the same pomp and pageantry as the treasure their wearers protected. Full metal breastplates, bearing the hammered face of a lion, caught the light of the braziers which stood before them. Bright blue feathers fanned out from their helmets, stretching from ear to ear. Even their sandals, half-hidden in the knee-high firelight, were crafted from supple calf leather. As Jemre got closer, he could even smell their perfume.

There were six guards at the front gate, no doubt a dozen more just behind the walls. More than they had anticipated. Undaunted, Addaira prodded Chek along. Their creaky wooden wagon shambled along the wide dirt path toward the gate. Chek brayed and bobbed his head, and for a moment Jemre’s thoughts returned to the old saying about Melios.

“Ho!” one of the guards shouted. “What’s your business here?” He started toward them. Jemre clenched and unclenched his jaw.

“Aye, we brot abitta sweet fora Lord,” Addaira cawed back, standing up and stretching. Jemre and Corro both looked back at her with some surprise. In a moment she had changed completely into a road-sore merchant who wanted nothing more than a good night’s rest.

“Rods fine, butsa might walk,” she continued, wrapping the reins and hopping off the wagon. Two of the guards by the gate muttered something amongst themselves, just loud enough for Jemre to hear.

“Fucking dog-brained piss peddlers,” he said, chuckling. Corro shot a glance at the man so hot Jemre thought it might warm his breastplate.

The approaching guard noticed the look immediately.

“You, boy. What’s biting your ass?” he asked intently. It was a trap, a trap Jemre prayed Corro would see.

“Ah...” Corro began, unaware he was making a face, “eets naw’thing.” His awful, forced, accent made Jemre flush. The brute wasn’t supposed to speak, let alone parrot Addaira’s impromptu persona.

“He,” the guard pointed at his mate, keeping his eyes on Corro, “Just called you lot some dog-brained piss peddlers. You don’t mind that?”

Jemre could see Addaira out of the corner of her eye. She nearly shook with fury. She was caught, unable to intervene and risk her accent again admidst the new scrutiny. Jemre wondered if she would blow it all just to see Corro die for his stupidity.

“You,” the guard said, rounding on Jemre. “Why’s he faking an accent?”

“He’s an imbecile, sir. He doesn’t know what you’re saying, and he likes the way she talks,” Jemre replied, impressed at his own quick thinking.

“Why is she talking like a southern barbarian, and you’ve got the click of Od?” the guard pursued, stepping closer.

“She hired me. Slushspeak doesn’t melt the coin in your hand,” Jemre replied, shrugging.

The guard eyed them both up and down, clearly unsatisfied. He was the protector of the most precious swath of land to ever exist, a paradise, a perfection. Jemre could tell it was the fire that drove him, like a bloodhound, searching and sniffing for anything amiss. Anything askew which might violate the haven.

The guard dragged his hand across the side of the wagon, giving it a few knocks as he went along.

“Sweet then?” he asked Addaira.

“Aye,” she replied shortly. Jemre was impressed at her ability to add a touch of annoyance to her voice, while remaining appropriately fearful. It was perfect. The guard put his hands on his hips and wrinkled his nose.

“Let’s have a taste,” he concluded.

“Corro, gim a bottle,” Addaira barked, impatient with her imaginary oaf’s dullness. Corro, whose startled reaction inadvertently added to his charade as an imbecile, turned toward the wagon. He lifted the cover on the back side of the wagon near him, reaching in for a bottle.

“No,” the guard said flatly. “That side.”

Corro looked at Addaira, who silently urged him on. The guard looked at her, then Corro, then his eyes settled on Jemre. He had dark eyes and the searching expression of a man squeezing a bug to see what comes out.

Jemre was petrified with fear. Corro knew better than to try to grab the left front bottle instead of one from the area the guard had indicated. That would give it all up immediately. That meant he was actually getting one of the other bottles. Jemre felt panic crackle about him. He could no longer keep from sweating. A bead formed at his temple. In the flickering light of the braziers, he might keep it hidden. But that was only if they made it that far.

Just then, a fantastic crash echoed across the opening.

“Ho! Who’s that?” the guard said, looking beyond their wagon toward the cacophony.

“Fuck ’n heaven. Issat sweet?” Addaira roared, stepping back up into the wagon to grab Chek’s rod.

Jemre watched as two more guards peeled off the gate entrance and jogged over to them. Their ebony spears appeared weightless in their hands. He followed them as they rounded the wagon. There was Prellum, bent over, trying to pull together the broken pieces of a clay jug.

The guard watched Addaira as she charged forward and began laying the rod about him. He fell to the ground amid a flurry of strikes.

“Ah — Add — AHHH!” he managed between blows. “I’m sorry it — ah! — it slipped from the cord — ah!”

“Lord tellsus one thing, get sweet,” she shouted over the whipping rod.

Chek brayed and stomped a hoof.

The two other guards pulled her off and held her fast while the leader approached Prellum. He bent down before the young man, whose sobs echoed gently in the new stillness, reached out a finger, and touched the tip to a puddle.

Prellum, noticing he was no longer being beaten, looked up at the man with some shock.

“My sir.. My Lord — Sir” he stammered.

But the leader held up his finger, silencing the young Prell. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he tasted it. He smacked his lips for a moment, contemplating.

“Bracca!” he shouted, startling everyone. One of the guards, presumably Bracca, released Addaira and stepped forward.

“Sir?”

“Fetch my purse,” the leader said. Bracca ran off at once.

“This is no piss, but I do hope you have extra to peddle,” the leader said, turning to Addaira. “A silver for two jugs?”

In the end, Addaira had insisted on three silvers for two jugs, which Jemre thought added another perfect stroke of color to her character. Of course, the leader had balked at the price, and in the end they exchanged two silvers for two jugs of Calathean red.

As they walked Chek and their cart of wine beyond the gate and down the rolling paths which led to their Lord’s villa, they learned it was all on purpose. Prellum, approaching from behind after stopping to take a moment’s rest, had heard Corro’s awful accent, Jemre’s swift response, and the leader’s enduring suspicion. After a moment of admittedly panicked thinking, Prellum shrugged off one of the jugs, causing the interrupting crash. He did not, however, expect the beating which swiftly ensued. But aside from a dozen or so welts, a jammed finger, and a bloody lip, he was alright.

Addaira didn’t apologize, but she did toss him one of the silvers after he told the story. This was — to anyone who knew her — an expression of gratitude far greater than any embrace and apology. Prellum eyed the coin like a child, turning it over and over again in his hands.

Jemre smiled to himself. That silver would be worth more to Prellum than a hundred gold draena now. It was a token of his contribution to the journey, which, if all went as planned, would be written across the face of history. No, Jemre did not begrudge little Prell his souvenir. He watched with amusement as the young man tucked it carefully in his tunic, careful not to drop it in the darkness.

The rest of the walk was uneventful until they finally arrived at their destination.