Rocalla's Saga: Arrival
5: Chenhhestrija

5: Chenhhestrija —

1054 Keska 20

I do not know why I notice her this particular night. It is late, after dark, and I am exhausted from working all day in the citrona grass fields. As it is near the end of the fifth week of the harvest, there will only be a few more days of work.

I just happen to look her way, and in the dim light I see her glance furtively in either direction, then knock on the door. Something about her reminds me of the man who was arrested on my second day here. She is clothed differently, in a black ankle-length dress that is secured around her waist with a white cord. Her black hair falls in curls to the middle of her back. Yet despite the differences in appearance, something about her manner reminds me of that man.

About five seconds after she knocks, the door opens and she slips inside. The door closes immediately. I mark the location of the house in my mind as the wagon carries us along.

Dierdra and I are sitting in The Happy Pilgrim, eating a stew of potatoes and greens, with some biscuits on the side. Over a week has passed since I saw the woman, and we have had a chance to rest for a few days. Having finally managed to banish the smell of citrona grass from our hair and clothes, it is time for something new.

“Are you up for some adventure?” I ask Dierdra.

“What do you have in mind, Rocalla?”

“There are some interesting people sneaking around this city, and I’d like to try to learn more about what is happening.”

“This doesn’t sound like a paying job,” she says.

“It’s not. But until I know more about what is occurring beneath the polished surface of Mandelbroggen society, it’s hard for me to decide what is worth investigating.”

“So what do you have in mind?”

“The other night, when we were returning from the fields, I saw a woman sneaking into a doorway,” I say.

“And so…?”

“Well, she reminded me of the man we saw get arrested on the day of the festival parade. The one who was accused of being a Circle Cultist. She had that same hunted look about her.”

“So what are we going to do?” Dierdra asks.

“I thought that we might follow her, and see where that leads us.”

“It’s likely to lead us into one of Gorla Nen’s patrols. But if you’re up for it, then I am. I need to do something; I’m already getting bored sitting around here.”

“We’ll leave tonight at dusk, and walk down to the area where I saw her.”

Dierdra nods her assent. “Just so you know, the town patrols at night don’t take kindly to people sneaking around. If we run into any of them, they’ll ask us our business and expect us to be on our way.”

We leave The Happy Pilgrim late in the afternoon, just as dusk is falling. It is cooler tonight, and I notice my breath in the air. The sweeping hooded cloak with long open sleeves that I am wearing over my dress keeps the chill away, and while Dierdra is wearing the same hooded tunic and skirt that she wore during the grass harvest, I notice tonight that there is a thick woolen blouse as well. To avoid suspicion, I have left my quarterstaff behind, although I am carrying my gyaphla knife, and a smaller dagger is concealed under the sleeve of my left forearm.

The streets are quiet, but not deserted, as we walk toward the East Gate. There are a number of guardsmen patrolling the city walls nearby, and several are busy building a fire on the top of the tower. Within sight of the gate, we turn south and proceed down Chenhhestrija, the road which leads out of the city.

As we leave the vicinity of East Gate, the darkness deepens. A lantern shining through an occasional window provides enough light to walk by, but this street is in general much gloomier than the one leading from the port to the inner city.

It takes us about half an hour to reach our destination. “That’s the door,” I whisper to Dierdra.

“So what do we do now?” Dierdra asks.

“Just walk by.” A few houses down I see an alley on the opposite side of the street. “There,” I indicate. “We’ll wait there.”

We wait for several hours, until my toes grow cold and the stars appear brightly overhead. During that time, we see four roving patrols, three dogs, two cats, and a dozen or so people scurrying home, but no mysterious black-haired woman.

It is getting late, so we carefully peek up and down the street, then step out and head back to the inn. Once inside, we sit down to eat a late supper.

“Well, that sure didn’t accomplish much,” Dierdra says.

“Patience,” I reply. “You didn’t really expect her to show up on the first night we looked for her, did you?”

Dierdra makes a twisted grin. “It would be nice if she were a little more helpful.”

Every night we go out at dusk, with pretty much the same results. The fourth night out, it is again quite chilly, and a soft, slow drizzle is falling. It seems even darker tonight, and the smell of the wet city comes to my cold nose.

“Do we really have to stand out here in this?” Dierdra whispers.

“Shhh,” I chide her. “Yes, we do.”

We hear footsteps approaching, and low voices in Gallish muffled in the mist. We pull back farther into the shadows of the alley, as a pair of town guardsmen walks by. The taller one is carrying a long spear, while his shorter companion has a broadsword hanging from his belt. Standing motionless, we wait for them to pass.

Less than twenty minutes later, she appears. Her hair is beneath a black hooded cloak, but I can see her face as she looks in either direction before knocking on the door. I tap Dierdra’s shoulder and nod to indicate that she is the one. The woman knocks, then disappears into the building a few seconds later.

“I wish we were going in there with her,” Dierdra says.

“Shhh,” I whisper. “The town guardsmen can’t be that far away. Keep it down.”

“How long do you think we’ll need to wait? I mean, she could spend all night in there for all we know.”

“Dierdra, be patient. And be quiet.”

We only have to wait three-quarters of an hour before she reappears. As she leaves the mysterious house, she tucks a small leather bag under her cloak, then starts walking down the street toward the East Gate.

We give her a half a block lead, then creep out of the shadows and start following her. She only remains on Chenhhestrija for a short stretch, then turns left into the smaller side streets leading to the city wall.

We maintain a steady pace, being careful not to hurry so much that we might attract attention ourselves. The drizzle has slowed, but it is colder now, and my sandals slip on the wet cobblestones. We turn the corner and can see her ahead as a moving shadow against a background that is almost as dark.

She turns right upon reaching the city wall, following it toward the East Gate. There is more light here, the result of the small fires burning along the ramparts of the city fortifications. It will be harder to keep from being noticed now, so we walk slower and drop back. Once or twice, the woman ahead of us turns her head to glance back, then continues on her way. If she has noticed us, it does not show.

While Dierdra keeps our target in focus, I occasionally look back myself, if only to see what this area of Mandelbroggen looks like after nightfall. On my third glance, I see something move into the blackness half a block behind us. I stand for a few seconds looking, but nothing changes. Perhaps it is my imagination, or one of the large dogs I have occasionally seen in the city. I turn back around and half run until I catch up with Dierdra.

We are only a couple of blocks from the East Gate now, and I can see it looming up ahead. I take another glance backward, and this time I am sure, as I see a shadow dart off to the side. I do not stop, but turn and walk alongside Dierdra.

“We are being followed,” I whisper.

“It must be the night for it,” she whispers back.

“Seriously, Dierdra, someone is following us.”

“Should we just return to the inn, then?”

“No, you keep following the woman. I’m going to step into the next alley and try to follow the person trailing us. I’ll meet you back at the inn later.”

“Be careful,” Dierdra whispers. “Remember what I told you about Gorla Nen.”

Without another word, I glance once behind me and then slip into a side street. As I stand there in the cold night, I decide to follow the unknown person close enough that he will notice, and hopefully break off his pursuit of Dierdra.

About a minute later, he glides past me, and I step out of the side street about five strides behind him. Matching his pace, I boldly follow him, my heart pounding in my chest. When he stops for a moment to check ahead, he must hear my footsteps, because he spins around to face me.

“Who are you?” I ask.

That was a mistake. He twists around and runs ahead of me. I take off after him. The guards patrolling the wall above notice as well, as they shout out in unintelligible Franhkallan.

He turns down the first side street on the right, away from the city wall. I dash after him. Neither of us is being cautious now; we are both running as fast as we can through the unlit city.

In less than a minute, we cross wide Chenhhestrija, where the patrol that Dierdra and I saw earlier that evening is only half a block away. They see us, calling out “Hejrte trajm!” and taking up the chase after us.

We are heading east on a side street not far from The Happy Pilgrim. I am able to keep up with the man ahead of me, although my cold feet hurt now from running across the uneven cobblestones. The shouts of the guardsmen behind me rise above the slapping sound my sandals make as I run.

I am only about ten strides behind my quarry when my left foot slips into a hole in the road. I lose my balance and fall, hitting my left knee hard and skidding across the wet paving stones.

“Aiee!” I gasp.

My eyes are still on the running man; I notice him glance back as I am laying on the cold hard stones. Watching me as he runs, he trips and staggers, but does not fall. I scramble back up to my feet and continue my pursuit, not because I am afraid of losing track of the running man, but because I know that the town guardsmen are not far behind and I do not want to fall into their care.

I can still see him ahead of me, and I press on, running hard, despite the throbbing pain in my knee. In a few more minutes, we enter the port area, not far from where I first arrived. There is more light here. Burning fires illuminate the open areas, trying to chase the darkness away from the piles of crates, barrels, and bundles of cloth waiting either to be loaded onto ships or taken into the city. While I have lost ground, I am still able to watch him as he dives into a narrow gap amid a large stack of baled fiber.

A minute later I reach the gap and ready myself to follow him into the gloom. Glancing back, the guards are not in sight, so I pause to lift my right foot and draw my gyaphla knife from its scabbard along my right leg. The extra time spent balancing on my left leg is too much. My injured knee gives way and I tumble face first into the shaded wet bales. With my gyaphla knife in hand, I scramble into the darkness.

Once inside, I feel my way through the total blackness. The space is small, and I soon discover one of his legs. In response, he grabs my clothes in his left hand, throwing me up against the bales. He then pins me against the rough bundles with his right arm pressed against my chest.

I nudge the tip of my gyaphla knife into his side and ask, “Who are you?”

“Quiet,” he hisses, “or we will both be discovered.”

Obviously strong, he is pushing harder against my chest now, preventing me from moving. My left leg is folded up under me, and the pain from my damaged knee is excruciating. My heart is beating hard as I push a little harder on my knife. “Ease up a bit,” I whisper, “or I will fillet you.”

“Shhh,” he hisses, reaching up to cover my mouth with his free hand. But he does loosen his grip, and I am able to twist my leg into a more comfortable position. It is all I can do to avoid gasping out in pain.

We stay there, close together in the night, listening to the guards calling outside. Initially, the sounds approach and then recede as the guards pass by. But then the shouts return, and other voices join them as a group of men search for us throughout the port area. Pressed close together, I can feel his breath on my cheek and inhale the strong musky odor of a man who works hard and bathes infrequently.

The searching goes on for half an hour. At one point, the guards push hard enough against the outside of the wall of fiber that it shifts, and a bale falls into the gap where we entered. Startled, I flinch, but do not make a sound.

After what seems like close to an hour, the man removes his hand from my mouth, and releases his hold on my chest. “You can put your knife away now,” he says.

I pull my knife away from his side, but do not put it away. I have spent enough time in Mandelbroggen now to know that his accent is not that of a native. The harsh sound of his voice emphasizes the velar and glottal consonants, while the forward sounds are weaker. His native language must be different, but I cannot place its source. “Who are you?” I ask once again.

“That’s not important,” he replies.

“Why were you following us?”

“I didn’t want to follow you. I wanted to follow the petite woman who was ahead of you.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I needed to talk to her. Why were you following her?”

I ignore his question. “If you wanted to talk to her, why did you follow her late at night instead of just meeting her during the day?”

“As if that was any concern of yours.” He pauses, then continues, “I like to be discrete and avoid interactions with the town guardsmen. You nearly got us both caught tonight. The streets are as safe now as they are going to get. We should get out of here before someone decides to mount a bigger search.”

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll let you go your way, but first I want to know your name.”

“And who is it that is demanding my name?” he asks.

“Rocalla Rastama, a Zariinyeida priestess,” I answer.

“Khasad Uróg,” he says, then gets up and crawls out of our hiding place. Based on what I have learned from my conversations with Mariyiybha and looking at her journals, the name is Rhozzhani.

I crawl out between the bales, and watch as he sneaks away toward the south. In a moment he is gone. Some of the fires have died down, and the shadows of the port area have deepened. A cold drizzle continues to fall, and I can see my breath in the chill despite the low light. The freshness of the cool air is welcome after the closeness inside the stack of bales.

I sheath my knife before getting up. My knee is warm and swollen, and I stumble through my first few steps. Clenching my jaw to control the pain, I limp back to The Happy Pilgrim, taking side streets and alleys to avoid notice.

When I get to the inn, it is late at night. Opening the door, I replace the large lower room empty except for Dierdra, sitting at a table with a long lock of her red hair wrapped around her fingers. A look of joy crosses her face, followed by concern.

“You look a mess,” she says, “and you’re limping. What happened?”

“I took a hard fall onto the cobblestones.”

“Did the guards catch you?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” After I tell her the rest of my story, she adds, “Rhozzhan aren’t allowed in the city. Well, strictly speaking they’re not allowed in the inner city, but in truth they are not welcomed anywhere. All trading with the Rhozzhani tribes occurs at an outpost on the edge of Mandelbroggen, so it’s not surprising that he didn’t want the guards to replace him. I wonder what he was doing in Mandelbroggen?”

“He said that he was trying to meet with the woman we were following.”

“Oh, that’s an interesting story in itself. But it’s very late. Let’s go up to our rooms, and I’ll tell you about my adventure tomorrow morning.”

“Sure,” I say, too tired and sore to protest. I rise to my feet, and Dierdra helps support me as I limp my way across the room and up the stairs.