Vol.5, Ch.1, P.3
The audience was ended. At Torry’s request, we then accompanied the guildmaster in his stroll about the fólkheimr. There did he take in the sights and smells of the Nafílim townscape, doubtless a curiosity to the lifelong Londosian.
As it happened—and much to our surprise—Torry had elected to come entirely unattended by his envoy. To me, it very well seemed his way of showing both his conviction and his trust in his new alliants. It would certainly not do to leave the gesture unanswered, thus was it only Alban and myself that formed the other half of our sightseeing party.
So much the better, really. We had a matter to discuss with him, at any rate, and only him. And so along our stroll, we led him up to an empty overlook, far from any other ears, and did just that—disclose to him the shadow long darkening our hearts.
“The Roun of Orisons…” muttered Torry, after the “matter” had been told to him in full. “That’s a bally hideous face it’s hid all this time, to be sure…”
“Much of my own speculation was mixed in, I must admit,” said I, “but, simply put—”
“No, no, that’s enough, I think,” Torry declined. And then he nodded, tired in a way, almost breathless, and sighed. “Yes. That’s quite the convincing case you’ve made, Ser Rolf.”
True to the quick-witted merchant that he was, it had taken little to impress upon Torry the evils secretly at work: the Roun’s shepherding of thought, its intertwining with the Yonaistic faith—all of it he understood straightway. And whilst peering pensively over the Hensenite vista as it was veiled in the light of sunset, he spoke again.
“Oft do Men defer to… ‘higher’ counsel to decide their policies,” he mused greyly. “And that is fine after its own fashion, but… this, my good sers? Oh, help me.” Once more, Torry sighed as his brows bent themselves down, heavy with the weight of the man’s anger… and his humiliation. “And so is half-explained the secularity, myself included. The faintness of our faith, our warmer regard for your folk… all sprung from a crack in some magick’s machinations.”
“That would be the way of it, I’m sorry to say,” I confirmed.
Progressive, practical, and staunchly secular—such described the merchant afore me, sure enough. Indeed, he was about as divorced from the spirituality as they come, save for heretics or an ungraced as myself. That such a personality had never been wholly inherent in him, however, must’ve come as a blow to his enterprising heart.
“And I suppose we are to keep this discovery, this intelligence safe and secret, as may be?” Torry guessed. “For Londosius is ever jealous of its devices, I’m sure you’re well-aware.”
“You understand much, Herr Torry,” answered Alban. “Correct we were to confide in you.”
Despite the passing of many moons, this secret of ours was kept yet under cloak. That isn’t to say the jarl was a crafty or sceptical soul, no. In fact, quite the contrary: to no small degree did he trust to his subjects. Thus did it seem to pain him a great deal to keep secrets from them so—all of them, his own daughter included. But such was the peril of this secret, that the very knowledge of it would set swift a sword to hang above one’s head, and that was one hazard the jarl dared not thrust upon any other without due discretion.
“Very good,” said Torry, nodding. “And may I accord this confidence, too, a token of trust in yours truly?”
“You may in my book,” I answered, before turning to Alban. “What of yours, Sire?”
Trust was of the essence, especially in this very moment, what with a deadly and decisive battle looming on the horizon. It would therefore do us all much good to lay our hearts bare here and now, and hammer down any nails yet stuck-out, as it were.
“Humph,” Alban snorted at me. “A cruel question you corner this jarl with. But, fine enough; your meaning I know.” Alban then folded his large and log-like arms. And as he took in a deep breath, his lips formed themselves in a grim way, as though he loathed to air the words that would come next. But facing Torry straight on, he committed to it. “Herr Torry. If frankness you crave of me, then say I this: not yet be full my faith in you, offspring of Man,” Alban confessed. “Between our peoples spans hist’ry—haunted, hatesome hist’ry. To Rolf I trust, yes, enough that by his counsel do you stand afore me now. Yet mistake me not: I am jarl to many a haunted folk. The highest price my trust thus commands: not wanton is it presented, nor ever to be bargain’d for, that by necessity must any Man darkening my door find himself sooner challenged than usher’d in—even if in peace he comes.”
Such was the heart of the jarl. That Torry was a Man most deserving of trust; that much avail had his labours brought us; that his was a hand worth joining with—all these did Alban understand, and very well, at that. Only, “understanding” was itself merely one trial won; the wounds left by centuries of war were yet too high a wall to overcome by words and wisdom alone. Even I was scarce exempt from this, for to this day did I garner still a cold stare here and there from the Nafílim of this very fólkheimr.
…Still was I climbing the hard wall.
“Albeit Herr Torry,” Alban said on, “distant you be from your Deiva. Weak be the reign of Her Roun over your heart. This I know. I know, and yet…”
The jarl was once himself a wager of war, a brave upon the battlefield. And hence could he yet yield some sympathy for a Man such as I, who so toiled in the jarl’s former profession, all to earn even the slightest grain of trust from his people. But trade me for a merchant—a wager of words and deals, a counter of coins and contracts—then no longer could this former warrior remain so understanding.
Yet Torry was unturned. Indeed, as though full-knowing the trouble churning in Alban, the guildmaster stood aface the jarl with equal sincerity. There he was, a slender, soft-spoken stick of a Man met against a towering tree of a Nafíl—and not in the slightest did he quiver.
‘…My father, the guildmaster… he may seem a meek soul, but inside is he the sternest of lions… enough to leave even one such as Frieda fast-astonished…’
Words once whispered to me by Ina; words which rang clearer now than ever.
“Your Lordship,” said Torry, firm but warm, “we disciples of the deal have something of a nose for the old give-and-take, if you will. And here I smell it, fresh as can be. For in truth, I have upon my conscience a dear favour to repay. And with all heart do I mean to.” To this, Alban’s brows rose ever so slightly. “I am a man of many debts—of a nigh-endless stock of them, more like,” Torry admitted. “You perceive this in me, as well, I wager?”
“Debts”? What did he mean by that, I wondered. But ever as I pondered it, I found a lightness come upon the jarl, as though he himself had figured it out. With arms yet folded, he stared gravely at the guildmaster and spoke.
“Then brave you this path not as a profiter, but a father? Such be your heart?” he asked. “What say you, then, as to your subsidiaries? Your loyal counters? Your clerks? Your responsibility to the Roland name?”
“Why, on that end, I say they stand to reap much, in fact, one and all,” answered Torry, warm as ever, “for the ends of many counsels have told us this: joining hands with you and yours, good Lord, is also as golden a deal as they come.”
With that, Alban fell silent. And for a while, he remained so, staring down at Torry beneath the burning sunset, deep in thought. At length, he turned my way slowly and said to me, “Rolf. Fain seems this father to repay a particular debt: a hero’s deed, to wit, done for his daughters once upon a time.”
A “hero’s deed”? Was that the guildmaster’s “debt”, then? Yet, if so…
“But… Master Torry,” I began debating, “attacking the Tallien estate was itself in service to our purposes; a stone to strike many birds. Why if aught, the debt should be ours to bear, for without Carola, never could we have averted Balasthea’s doom, much less scried it…”
“Nay, Ser Rolf,” said Torry, shaking his head softly. “The Tallien affair is but one side of the coin. The other earns in equal measure my heartfelt thanks.”
The Albeck incident, then? By all means was my role in it yet a secret, but by the look upon the guildmaster, it seemed the cat’s been let out of the bag.
“Ah, of course, I did not tease that tidbit out of the lasses, no, no,” he was quick to correct. “Indeed, to this moment do they keep privy your part in that play.”
“Do they, now? And yet the curtains’ve proven poor concealment against you,” I noted with wonder. “I see; the many eyes of a master merchant are not to be trifled with, truly.”
“Hm? Oh, nay, nay,” said Torry, waving his hand. “If you guess that my inspectors had a hand in my knowing, you’ll be disappointed, Ser Rolf.”
“What?” I uttered, genuinely puzzled. “Well, if not that, then…”
“Your suspicion I see, Rolf,” said Alban, “and hearing enough, I see now, too, the way of this. It was neither Frieda the freelance who loosened her lips, seeing as so lock’d you have kept yours. No; not in spies and inspectors the answer lies.”
“Quite right,” said Torry. “I did not know of your agency in the Albeck incident, Ser Rolf, but I did sense some history shared between yourself and my daughters. And by the grateful gleam in their eyes whensoever they gaze upon you, well—the rest was plain enough for mine to see.”
“Is that right…” I uttered, yet in wonderment. Beside me, however, was Alban, content and nodding. It seemed he had achieved some understanding with the fellow father.
“Indeed,” said Torry, smiling. “And now you know my naked situation, Ser Rolf: Torry, master of Roland; a father to daughters aggrieved by Londosian sins; a son bled dry of all Londosian love; a reasoned mind yet moved by mercy and malice both. His heart is to cast his lot on your cause, to full-bestead you… and your dear friend, His Lordship.” And there, the guildmaster turned to Alban and held forth to him an open hand. “Will you give your trust to such a Man?”
The jarl looked upon it: the hand of a Man—the hand of an enemy. Yet in it was held no weapon, no wile, but a simple will. And for a while, he stared at it, considered it, silent and sombre. Then at last, unfolding his arms, Alban slowly reached forth, and as though having come to terms with something inside him, took the hand of Torry.
“It is given,” he said at length. “Herr Torry. Joined now be our paths.”
Not overnight can thaw snows so thick. Not in one day can be undone wounds so deep. But given effort unfailing, given understanding unsevered, might we all close the cold distances between us—one little step at a time.
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“Mm? Hallo,” uttered Torry. “That—what is it?”
From then on had we resumed our walk through the fólkheimr, showing the guildmaster the many facets of Vílungen culture. We were come to a neighbourhood when something had caught his eye: an array of rugs hanging beneath the eaves of a humble home.
“That?” said Alban. “What, have Men not rugs in their realms?”
“P-pray, allow me a feel of them, will you? Just a little!” Torry asked with leashed excitement. But never minding Alban’s remark—and neither awaiting an answer, for that matter—the leash was soon off, and before we knew it, the merchant was running his fingers through the fine fibres. “…Ooh! This knotting! This pile!” he said in a gasp. “How…! How…!”
I had thought so myself, that in particular were the woven goods of Hensen a thing to behold. Not surprising; Vílungen weavery was a long-honed tradition and craft, after all. But as to whether it could command a ready sale in a Mennish market, well, I hadn’t the slightest clue. Torry, on the other hand…
“How heavenly!” he cooed, his eyes shimmering as he fondled the fabric. “The perfect partner to a hearth—o-or the bed! A fine softness to greet the feet, first thing in the morning! Come, Lordship! Show me more! More wares to amaze Men and their wives! Their wits! Their wallets!”
“‘Amaze,’ say you?” said Alban. “Subtle, indeed, the merchant’s eye, to make of our mathoms a marvel.”
The jarl seemed rather puzzled by the passions of the guildmaster. Torry, for his part, paid it no mind, and in fact, began to prattle on.
“Your Lordship, let us lift the sluices! Carts and caravans to crowd road and market!” he said whilst rubbing another rug against his cheek. “No Man ought miss such Nafílim fineries as these—indeed, let him savour them! And see what wonders he’s lacked all his life! And usher in a new love between our peoples, our cultures!”
There’s something to be said about Torry’s situation. As one might imagine, it’d become rather… difficult for the Rolanders to do business with Londosius of late, and so have their commercial prospects shrunk considerably. Yet not all was doom and gloom. Trade could yet be done within their home territory of Former Tallien, and both Former Ström and Artean ought be hungry for business, without doubt. Indeed, there were yet avenues open to the guildmaster—more so now with his initiation into the Nafílim sphere, hitherto a wholly unexplored market to the merchants of Man.
“Come, Lord Alban, what say you?” continued Torry. “The routes between Hensen and Arbel—they’re busy yet, I trust?”
“Busy enough, yes,” answered Alban. “Spice and trinkets we trade—albeit to a limit.”
“Bah! Let free those limits, why not! Wonders await should our markets marry!” cried Torry. “Oh, I feel a fire in me, I do! Come, Lordship! Let’s take hammer in hand and break down the walls, if you get me!”
“Break down the walls”—intriguing words, that. And should they come crumbling down, so would surge forth the floodwaters of exchange. Goods and ideas, culture and commerce, all mingling in a confluence never before seen.
“Mayhaps I do,” said Alban, “yet the problem of precedence ever looms. Our layfolk, mine and yours—who can say they would be as willing as we? To share tea or even a table, let alone peace and prosperity?” With that, the jarl then turned to me. “Well? What think you, Rolf?”
“I’m afraid matters of the market lie outside my speciality, Sire,” was my honest answer, “but were I to guess, I should think our guildmaster here would vouch much for the contrary.”
“Oh, indeed, I would!” laughed Torry. “What ice can intimacy not melt? Not even one between old enemies, I daresay! How now, Lord! Not to worry! I say this as a lifelong merchant: let commerce bridge the bitter gaps! We’ve only to lay the first posts! To tie the first ropes!”
Much sense lived in what he said, such that even one as dim as I could understand it: just as governance affects the smallfolk more than does the military, so does commerce more so than governance. Yet here was Londosius, swaying all three with the wild card that was faith on top of that. As its enemy, we could not fall behind in the least. Beyond battle, too, we must needs look, and employ such solutions as we can. For that purpose alone were the Rolanders indispensable, a realisation hitting me harder now than ever.
“Hallo!” Torry cried again. “That there! What wonders of woodworking! Let me have it! Let me see it!”
Off he went, like a little boy into a forest of toys. Looking at him, I couldn’t help but break a smile. And there I began to wonder if ever would he fancy a sip of a recent favourite of mine—yes, indeed: the bitter tang of Emma’s mares’ milk.
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Chapter 1 ─ End
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