Farris laughed meekly. “I was just angry. Angry at everything. I picked up a dagger and went down to kill her.”
Padraig raised both of his hands and roared with laughter that echoed through the inn. “Farris, what were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking at all. To tell you the truth, we Simians have always held logic to a higher esteem than any other influence on a decision. But when I saw you and Aislinn bend your knees to Fionn, I thought, perhaps logic does not need to guide us so much. And now that I consider it further, I cannot claim logic guided me exclusively throughout my life.”
Padraig nodded. “Sometimes we need to know there’s a purpose greater than our own to live by. A life lived under the Will of Seletoth, guided by the Light of the Lady, and so on and so forth, can be fulfilling in ways the non-religious can never understand.”
“Perhaps,” said Farris, taking to his feet. “And maybe I’m only beginning to understand now.” He bowed his head to Padraig before turning to leave, following the same stairs the others had taken upstairs.
But unfortunately, there’s not many gods left these days.
Chapter 13:
The White Rose
Ten years after we landed, our settlements across the south grew in populace and size. Unfortunately, any attempt to press our borders northwards were met with hard resistance from the natives. At the time, if we had engaged in open-field combat against them, we would have won an easy victory, with their primitive weapons no match for our magic. But it seemed that they were always aware of this, only choosing only to fight us when the advantage was on their side, through ambushes and short skirmishes.
But ten years in, some progress was made. Some natives had learned our language, very quickly, I might add, and began to treat with us. These ones seemed to know it was only a matter of time before the land was ours, and provided valuable information regarding the movements of those plotting against us.
So once more, we set out northwards, with some natives on our side, and our own numbers stronger than before. This time, we knew, we would find Seletoth.
The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55
***
Argyll’s chair rattled with each cobblestone they went. Ruairí cursed the lack of paved basalt roads in the Dustworks of Penance. Seemingly, Argyll had ordered a new chair—a design of his own of some sort, though it would likely still need Ruairí to push him around.
We’ll get what we need soon, he reminded himself. The Simians will get their freedom, and we will get our knowledge, and all shall see the face of God.
The night was growing late, with the streets occupied only by revellers on their way home, and those with more sinister motives that still lingered in the streets.
And there’s no motives more sinister than our own, thought Ruairí, taking a turn from the main road into a darkened alley. This had even more cobblestones, from which came even more rattling. It was illuminated by several dimmed oil lamps, attached to the stone walls that stood tall either side.
“You’re sure he’ll be here?” asked Ruairí.
“Yes,” said Argyll, stern and still facing ahead. “He risked far more than this the night the horde came.”
It was a strange thing, to speak to someone before you, without expecting them to turn around to speak back. Ruairí found he had to strain his ears to listen to Argyll more than before, for the Simian’s strong voice was difficult to hear when projected in the wrong direction.
They passed a group of youths, loitering beneath the window of a tavern. They stopped what they were doing, abruptly turning to look at Ruairí and Argyll as they passed. Argyll turned to stare back at them; something the Simian often did to fill the hearts of others with fear. Despite his condition, it had the same effect now as it always had.
Just bored children, thought Ruairí, shaking his head. Nothing to be concerned about.
Eventually, they came to their destination: the back door into The White Rose, a regular meeting place for Argyll, and those who served him. The front of the tavern was closed, of course, given the time of night, but as Ruairí knocked on the back door, it opened slightly at first, then fully when the proprietor saw who was there.
“He’s here alright,” the landlady said, ushering both in. She was a robust Simian, toughened by dealing both with the clients of her establishment and the associates of the Silverback. Bruna the Beauty, she had been called once, but never to her face. As Argyll had once put it, she had been loyal to all of his causes, from the days of the Guild of Thieves to the more recent plans to dismantle the Church and the Crown.
“Madame Bruna,” said Ruairí with a nod. “I hope business is going well."
“It would be going better if I didn’t have to close early!” she snapped. “Your man is inside. Far side of the bar.”
Ruairí nodded and pushed Argyll through the empty tavern. It had a low ceiling, held up with thick stone columns draped in red curtains. The floor was made from concrete, and smooth to move over, much to Ruairí’s relief. Wooden tables with low, iron cushioned stools lined the left-hand wall, with a long bar of marbled stone to the right.
There, sitting on a table adjacent to the bolted-shut front door, was a lone Simian, cradling a glass of thainol.
“Edward of Engine Alley,” said Argyll. “Or Ned the Liberator, as you are more recently known.”
“I am called both,” said the Simian. “You require no introduction.”
“But perhaps you need a better one.” Argyll rested his hands on the table and turned to look up at Ruairí. “Do you know what Ned the Liberator did the night the horde came?”
“I do not,” said Ruairí, adding an air of amusement. Of course, he did, but this was part of the act. The more time he spent with the Simians, the better he got at playing their games of deception.
“The Basilica has both men and Simians in their ranks,” began Argyll. “Due to the needs of the local population here in the Dustworks, Simians make up the majority of their numbers. Regardless of their own beliefs, these Simians are loyal to the Arch-Canon, the Trinity, and the Church.”
“Traitors,” rasped Ruairí. “Traitors the lot of them.”
“Not quite,” said Argyll, turning back to face Ned. “They only serve the Church because the Basilica’s presence in the city leaves them lacking so much. It is such a disgusting thing the Church has done. First, they tax the poor to pave their own walls with gold. Then, they hire the same poor to defend those same walls. Humiliating.”
“You do not have the full picture,” said Ned. “But by and large, this is true.”
“Yes,” said Argyll. “But you chose to defy the Church when a real threat emerged. You chose to release those imprisoned in the Basilica, rallying your fellow Churchguards together to defend the Dustworks, not the Church, from the undead.”
“It was not my idea. A prisoner helped me understand what I needed to do. He deserves as much praise as I do.”
Argyll looked back at Ruairí. There was a strange glint in the Simian’s eyes, as if he shared a secret Ruairí should know too. But Ruairí didn’t. He had heard of Ned the Liberator but wasn’t aware of who was actually imprisoned in the Basilica. Argyll had imprisoned Farris when the king arrived, though that was just to appease the Church.
No…. Argyll now smiled openly at him. Farris? Farris actually convinced his captors to set him free? Of course, Ruairí had come across Farris at the Dustgate that night. He hadn’t quite questioned why Farris had been accompanied by so many Churchguards.