Wherein a mystery is mulled over (Ch. 19)

 In the days before Captain was Captain, those many who’d known him could’ve described him in a true wealth of manners. So it was purely coincidence when they’d invariably choose to describe him as similar to a mineral of some kind: a man as hard as iron, or solid as a rock, or as foundational to the city as the cold marble it lay upon. They could’ve gone on for a while this way, and at times they had, describing Captain as not dissimilar to every inanimate object less pliable than month old flotsam. Since seizing control of Tellyphill people were much less inclined to describe Captain at length, and anyhow he’d seemed to have gone soft in just one area: the hour of his rising. For reasons that none cared to pry into, from the first day upon taking up residence in the old royal quarters, Captain’s hours of slumber were erratic. Mostly erratically long. So it was that Captain’s image was tarnished, but in a way just minor enough to be endearingly human rather than concerningly incompetent. A man more inclined to the public spirit perhaps would’ve taken similar actions as to Captain’s for this benefit alone and never mind the sleep.

An enterprising young apprentice had taken to the task of unraveling this mystery. It seemed the kind of thing a ranger’s apprentice might do. Poking around at some trivial detail of a powerful man’s lifestyle had all the gleaming possibility of lending some real advantage to the ranger corps. Failure had no consequence, and competition was nonexistent. All seemed to be arrayed especially to supply an ambitious yet timid young man a mission. Had he been around just a few years earlier, during the last days of the empire, and had he known what to look for, he’d have found his answer in a matter of an afternoon’s conversation with his master. But fate twisted as it did, and neither he nor his master had known a thing of the last emperor’s habits or household. Their years in Tellyphill had begun almost in tandem with Captain’s rule.

Still, he thought knew more than enough about the current state of affairs. His name was Fen, and as his inaugural mission as junior messenger for the ranger corps, he was simply to secure an audience with Captain and demand an account of ranger business in the city. Those were not truly his orders, for they instead were phrased in legalese. References to the ‘first affirmer of the holy women’ and ‘such legal entity as has been acknowledged by the council of the first city in manner acknowledged by the Pontiac’ littered the document like so much sugar upon a pastry. A quick briefing by his mentor and master overrode whatever he might’ve gleaned from the document directly. As men of such so often are, his pride and self-confidence were dented by the inability to comprehend his official instructions. Outside assurance that his incompetence in this area was entirely expected did less than nothing to assuage his shame. By the time he’d set out from the ranger’s quarters in Mophell he’d felt well and truly humiliated.

A week on the road had been more than enough for confidence once again to blossom from a corner of his soul. The lush and easy forest that stretched outwards from the city to the towns north of it were a paradise to one of his skillset and proclivity. Abundant fruit, game, rivers, and shade combined with an occasional true depth formed ideal soil for a lone traveler skilled in the ways of survival. Had he been trained to think of such things, he’d have marveled that even so seemingly tame a forest could be allowed to grow so near an industrial and cultural hub such as Tellyphill. Instead he marveled at the ease of the journey, at the mildness and calm of a true mission as opposed to the strict and bitter discipline of the ranger schools. He considered time and again the delicate timing, as he was to reach Tellyphill just five days before the summer prophecy. He considered what he’d heard of the political situation in the city: of preachers turned away at the gates. Of the holy women cast out to cater to the nearby towns, then cast out of those towns in turn as orders slowly worked their way out from the center. He’d heard rumors and speculation of all kinds, and unusually for so young a man, he believed them all wholeheartedly. Fen had no trouble believing that war was coming to Tellyphill. He had no trouble believing that alliances had been made and shattered with the marsh. With Worstone. With Jepchy or Faerdyer, even with distant Sebastopol a world away. He even believed rumors of dissent and fracture in the guard and the shield. The only thing he wouldn’t have believed is that he’d have trouble getting in.

As such, when the time came to walk through the surprisingly shabby lion headed gate, he didn’t even stop to greet the guards. The guards for their part noted the brown cloak and the apprentice pin upon his collar. They diligently noted all such things, and yet felt no obligation to inform any others of their notes. So it was that by belief alone, Fen passed guards, officials, soldiers, and finally secretaries to find himself as Captain’s first appointment of the day.

A man such as Captain had to keep a tight schedule. A man in charge of a nation must be busy, for there is always another matter the nation must attend to. Failing that, there’s someone in the nation to be attended to. Failing that, a leader with little to do may find himself thinking. The involvement of the conscious mind is detrimental in many occupations, from concert musician to pistol professional. It so happens that governing a not quite nation state is one of these. So, mind busy in the background, Captain ordered in his first visitor of the day. In truth he’d have preferred to deal with petitioners and foreign officials later in the day, but rituals of the shield being as they were, the task took top priority, as it had for centuries. That the head of the shield had been a ceremonial figurehead for most of those years seemed important to no one in government. After all, what was a nation’s leader if not ceremonial?

The wall of light was glowed only faintly as Fen entered Captain’s study. Fen might’ve reconsidered thinking of the room as a study had he been thinking religiously enough. A quick glance at bookshelves and rows upon rows of ornaments and baubles quite quickly assured Fen the room was indeed a study though; religious propriety be damned.

 “Greetings and salutations, thorn of the shield!”

Fen stood opposite Captain. No chair having been offered, he leaned against the wall and let his legs slide until his eyes met Captain’s. In a minute he’d realize the posture was in fact standard core exercise. But by that point, it’d feel too embarrassing to ask for a chair, and besides a ranger was meant to be made of tougher stuff. But before that, it was Captain’s turn to present his own exasperation.

“Are you quite well, boy? How many incongruencies do you think you’ve presented me with so far?”

Trigger happy as only an embarrassed young man can be upon his first confrontation with authority, Fen answered with what honesty he could muster.

“There are two obvious ones: I’m obviously fresh and inexperienced. And I haven’t sought out this city’s holy woman before heading to its civil authority. It’s very impious of me to so flippantly ignore tradition.” He almost grinned at the self-effacement, but restrained himself as he saw Captain wasn’t playing along. Turning to press some invisible button low to the ground, it seemed Captain was doing nothing but staring at the wall as he replied to Fen’s assumed wit with bland dryness.

“You’re right on that first account, boy. I know who you are, you’re the whelp the rangers took in a lurch ago. A cult of stray dogs, I once heard you described. So what have you done wrong that you’re seeking asylum here?”

Perhaps Fen didn’t know how to process the strange response. Certainly he’d expected some measure of dismissal for his age, but he’d assumed it’d be tongue in cheek. He’d assumed that piety and awe would win out, forcing Captain to react with the deference everyone else has so far. Almost choking on his own tongue and a bit winded from the exercise, Fen didn’t even think to stand up more comfortably while Captain’s back was turned.

“I’ve done no wrong. Just a junior messenger from Mophell, still wet behind the ears, that’s me.” In his fluster, he’d forgotten to establish his instructions to receive audit of ranger activity in the city. Still seemingly staring at the ground, Captain’s brow furrowed. It furrowed in that manner only for the strangest of thoughts. For a time, all such strangest of thoughts had been borne of Opal’s bizarre stories and ideas. Mere days had passed since her escape, and so it seems quite reasonable that this furrowing was once more related to a thing she’d said. Opal had opined long and hard upon the character of the young hero, the lone wanderer, hounded by authority for some perceived misdeed. In her beloved northern stories the character was nigh ubiquitous.

Was Fen such a character? He may have seemed so to Captain. Handsome but not distractingly so, trained in survival by those most qualified in the field, and here in his office first thing in the morning, past all guards, before all officials who surely had more pressing matters. This train of thought likely steaming through Captain’s brain, the wall finally opened and dispensed a mug of cold water into his waiting hands.

Fen couldn’t quite tell what was going on down there, though he did have time to notice he hadn’t stated his business. He did no such thing of course, but at least he had the time. Instead he foolishly let his mind ponder his situation. He let himself consider just how strange his position was. Not being a student of Opal’s, he didn’t see the opportunity. Instead, he opened his senses to the movements and the sounds of the study. Not expecting to find much of anything here in the middle of an urban center, he was shocked to hear the rush of water through the walls, the rush of cool air radiating unnaturally from the stonework, and the anomalously constant scent; the room, the household, the city itself, all smelled neutrally pleasant. Fen has seemed quite uncomfortable, and perhaps this was the reason. Used to the natural smells of forest and floral perfumes, artificially neutral air such as this may have caused great discomfort. And he may have contented himself with this explanation.

Whatever may have placated him, stationary he remained until Captain turned around. The cup had been in Captain’s hand for a minute, and still he remained crouched. Logical, clear-headed thoughts would’ve been centered around Fen’s knowledge and position. A logical mind would’ve deduced that Fen felt comfortable coming thanks to some break between the rangers and the preachers. Perhaps even a break between the rangers and the holy women. After all, Tellyphill had yet to act against the Ranger corps in a manner more significant than kicking the corps headquarters from Tellyphill to Mophell. Maybe the rangers were open to friendship with Tellyphill despite the apostasy. Maybe Captain would’ve seen an opportunity to reconcile with the Ponticate. Or maybe he’d have seized the chance to divide and conquer his new rivals. Maybe he’d have sought to weaponize the ranger corps’ intelligence and connections to scout and slow the Dallot corps. Or maybe he’d just throw Fen in a cell in order to cement Tellyphill’s policy in its own eyes and the eyes of the world.

Captain followed up none of these lines. Instead he righted himself to his full impressive height. Still he faced the wall, cradling the cup of water, as he spoke in a voice of low command.

“What kind of mission are you on? Are you on a mission at all yet? Or has that not happened yet? You’re still quite alone, so you’re either near the end or near the start. And I think it’s more likely to be the latter.”

Fen felt the weight of age and experience in the words. The questions all seemed rhetorical, or at least an answer seemed unwanted. Nevertheless, Fen felt he must prove himself to this man. Uncertainly, he answered.

“Only at the start of my journey, of course. There’s so much to learn from everyone and everything. And I’m not alone, though I march all by myself; the weight of great expectations and great men is on my shoulders.”

Captain flashed a brief smile. Not predatory, not malicious, nor was it sarcastic or wan. Fen struggled to focus on it though, as the cup of cold water in Captain’s hand was most alluring to one used to the dry water of travel. In truth Fen only guessed the water was cold, though he may have deduced it had passed very near the cold stone of the city by the manner in which it had appeared in Captain’s hand. Driven by this distraction, he barely noticed what he was saying until he’d said it.

“What a marvel. I’ve heard there are marvels like that at the point as well. Though it seems a bit limited, doesn’t it? Only here in Tellyphill? And only in small rooms? Couldn’t something like this cool the whole household? The training grounds? The whole city wall? Water available at every nook and cranny?”

Delight lit Captain’s eyes. Was this not confirmation of his hopes? The greatest of heroes always brought back the magic, the great works of the past. Even if Fen himself didn’t know it, Captain had been around for long enough to know that the city’s ancient systems had once been as potent as Fen imagined. Opal had talked about just such an eventuality. The stories came from somewhere. The stories were always about men Fen’s age because they were the ones to do such things. They were the ones who had yet to be tarred by the regularity and constancy of the world. Everything seemed to fit: Fen was a hero of some kind, on some kind of adventure that’d conveniently solve everyone else’s problems along the way.

Hesitance first though. Not hesitance as to the conclusion that Fen would mirror the tale of a lone hero, but hesitance as to the desirability of this. The hero would only end up solving the problems of those who were relevant to his quest. Most side characters would simply fade away into the background, their fates uninteresting. So what role was Captain to play? What role was Tellyphill to play? Already something had happened. Maybe this meeting was the one that steeled the hero to stand eye to eye with authority. If so, Tellyphill’s fate could be quite literally anything.

Fen hadn’t the faintest clue what Captain was pondering. In the lull, he’d gone back to considering they mystery of Captain’s waking hours. There was a definite pattern to it, a pattern strangely disconnected to all others in the city. The likeliest explanation was that it was a holdover from before the takeover. So, what kind of old imperial decree or custom would dictate the hour of the ruler’s rising?

Hesitantly, his reason for being there oozed back into the mind’s forefront. Staring past Captain and into the wall of glowing light, Fen spoke to the topic that should’ve been at hand.

“Is ranger business unimpeded? Are the records of our actions and presences in the city still kept? I am authorized to demand them should they exist” he pronounced as he fished in his coat pocket for a letter or emblem of authority of some kind, Captain knew not what.

To Captain the question probably seemed slightly strange, as did the continued protestation that Fen indeed possessed some kind of sign of authority. But strangeness was what Captain was coming to convince himself was to be expected. Of course the details of Fen’s heroic missions would be unclear to Captain. Perhaps he wanted to avoid the rangers? Or maybe investigate some secret of theirs and that trail had led to Tellyphill? He might’ve considered that Fen was genuine even at this point, but Captain was unlikely to be convinced by such protestations of conscience at so late a stage.

Fen failed to produce proof of any kind. Captain had already been convinced of a course of action, but finally the scale tipped and set him to action. Pressing a button to call for a volunteer, the ancient system worked its magic to alert central command that it’d be first come first served for a special mission direct from Captain.

Fen was stammering some excuse, but Captain barely noticed. As Fen babbled, his mind turned to his puzzle once more. What caused any man to rise? The cry of birds, the touch of sunlight. But birds were most unwelcome among the cold stone of Tellyphill, and sunlight ought not set the pace of a village of the empire, let alone The city. Unaware that these preconceptions would seem mighty strange to most civilizations, Fen’s thoughts couldn’t help but be drawn to that steady state attractor of the mystery: old empire. Yes, the imperial person had always been surrounded by mystique and ritual, probably to a fault. Fen considered himself well versed in the lore of old empire, but pressed he couldn’t have named more than a dozen instances of imperial strangeness. Fortunately occasions to be pressed on such matters were few and far between. That this was not such an occasion ought to have surprised Fen, seeing as he was standing in the old seat of power.

Lost in thought, neither man said a word. In such a silence, a low hum could be just faintly made out. It emanated from the walls, a beast’s slow rumble before wakening. Even emptying of life as it was, Tellyphill heaved breath after breath, constituent parts responding to the latening hour with due lack of diligence. Functionaries and free traders, hexmasters who’d renounced Ponticate association, and the slow trickle of refugees, filling the cracks left by those who’d still call the city home if asked, but who’d moved on in their hearts. There was a story in this shift. There were observations to be had, people streaming as continuously as heat or mass or charge. A people better equipped could record those stories unique to such times, could observe and extrapolate, could predict the damage caused by the shifts and perhaps even work them to some advantage. Instead there was Captain and the guard. The stories running in their heads were of heroism in the face of bleak odds, and warriors forging their way alone.

First come first serve, and first come was Felton. He’d pressed the button in the officer’s lounge and had been dispensed the red wax token that granted one time entry into the Captain’s office. As always, the wax melted in the visitor’s hand as he came to stand before Captain. Palace functionaries, concerned already at the meeting’s length, fretted at Felton’s arrival. Fen noticed their shifting robes and aged faces, and the uneasy swaying as they let Felton in. Thoughts stirred once more. He ought to have considered Felton; his attire, his bearing, his appearance and rank. Instead he considered the role of the functionaries outside, and gears clicked away in his head.

Captain shot Felton a wary look, but a mere moment later nodded in recognition. Unfazed by the scarred face, Felton remained unmoving, though his multicolored beard swayed just a touch. For what felt the first time in hours but was truly only the first time in ten minutes, Captain commanded in uncharacteristic monotone, and sarcasm only slightly more common.

“Felton. I know I pressed the button to the officer’s lounge. What a contract soldier such as yourself is doing here instead I won’t ask, for this task shall suit you well. Help this lad retrieve that which he wishes, and escort him a while. I know you’ve a great affection for the marsh witch and her ways, so you should know well the importance of this mission.”

Some flinched at Captain’s words, no matter the contents. Some were flippant no matter what. Felton was of that strange breed that responds to tone and context as much as the spoken word. A strange uncertainty marred the Captain’s words, if not in the way they were uttered then in juxtaposition to his suddenly weary posture. Felton shot back without missing a beat, as clear and cold as Captain could hope from a soldier.

“It’s one hairbrained scheme upon another with you ‘Captain’. He’s just a kid! Look at him! Did you listen to what Opal was saying? They have warrior backgrounds their heroes do, lineage and purpose and a spirit attuned to those of the forests and the stars. He’s just a junior ranger! He can probably light a fire, but I don’t know that he wouldn’t die of fright if he saw a bear.”

Fen should’ve been offended. For a change, he did as he ought to, and was properly offended. That he didn’t comprehend what he being compared to or that he was being compared at all is most probable though. Another thought may have crossed Captains mind. The thought that Felton truly was perfect for this mission. Should Felton follow the boy, he’d gain a mentor and protector. Just skeptical enough of his abilities to truly motivate but experienced enough to know when to praise and acknowledge. Yes, such characters were almost as stock as the heroes they accompanied. That such mentors also tended to die may or may not have seemed to Captain a positive by this point. It was well known he was mad, after all.

“All the better. You’ll go with him. Now. There is much business to attend to.”

Schooled to calmness, it was not a struggle for Felton to obey orders. Though as he turned to chaperone Fen out of the room, Fen turned around at the door, and addressed Captain one last time: he’d finally solved the puzzle.

“There used to be some old imperial tradition, that attendants woke up the emperor. The attendants here are old, so they must be the same ones as before, else why would you hire such old men for the task? And they must follow the traditions they’ve always followed. So why would they wake up the emperor later and earlier? The earlier the sunrise the earlier the hour they wake you. But on cloudy days they wake you late indeed, and on rainy days I’ve not a clue! It must be the sunlight itself then. They wake you when the sun hits some… some spot, some landmark. And you let it go on because that’s how it’s always been done and haven’t given it much thought.”

Captain was briefly stunned, but Felton could only nod.

“It’s the Jarred street belltower. The glint of the bell is what wakes up the most junior of the attendants, his window is in just the right place.”

Captain didn’t know what to say, and for just a moment may not have known what to think either. The conference so ended as all good conferences should: with everyone confused, and a little upset.