#writing
The Descent of Pirithous IV
The town of Ryden, much like the ruined village the party had passed through a day before, could be seen on the horizon for miles before one actually passed through its high stone entrance into city proper. Not just one, but several dozen columns of smoke rose up into the sky and combined into a huge black cloud making the city itself appear as if it was in the throes of a blazing inferno; In some ways, it actually was. The cloud tainted the virgin sky, at once bearing the appearance of ink spreading through water and when closer that of an active volcano. The cart rolled into the slums surrounding the city, and the dirt path transitioned to loose cobbles, the air became a dull grey choked by smog and the light of day diminished significantly. The city itself seemed separated into three sections: The palace, the city proper, and the outlying slums, each district extending radially outwards from the next around an epicentral mountain that had been ground down by years of industry, leaving only a neutered stump upon which sat a castle (that at one point was probably the color of natural stone, as opposed to its current deep charcoal black).
“Ah Ryden, it is good to be home.” said the veteran, who seemed considerably more at ease. “Let me give you some advice scribe, watch yourself here. Not everyone in this town has your interests in mind. A place like this eats its own people, it certainly doesn’t have time for country folk. And don’t try the brothels, the women are not as clean as they claim.” The men in the wagon laughed, and were now singing a tune about a trickster wife running off with her husband’s money.
“I can’t imagine I’ll be spending my time in such establishments.” said Marlow. He put up a straight face, but the environment was clearly a shock to the young scholar, who had never seen more than thirty people at any a given time, and half that for buildings. They still travelled through the slums, and everywhere was a flurry of activity. Huts made of wooden scrap and hastily constructed stones stood along the roadside. Some of them looked near uninhabitable, but through windows (if an open hole can be promoted to such) he could see whole families going about their business in spaces unfit for a single person. Ropes hung across the buildings, some of them clearly structural, and clothes hung out of the windows and along the threads. Lanterns flickered in doorways and on tables, and fires seemed like a big issue—among other things. Children covered in soot and dirt ran along side the cart, curious at the comparably well-dressed outsider, and adults looked on warily with hollow eyes. The air was hot and humid, smelling of human waste and sulfur. Every direction denied mercy to Marlow’s senses. Vendors sold spoiled foods and tarnished artefacts of dubious origins. Carts of ore and mining equipment rolled past the cart in unclear patterns. Brothels with names like ‘‘Velvet Inn” or “The King’s Nymph” were scattered about, which even in the hot midday heat were crowded with disheveled, desperate men and near-bare women scanning with practiced eyes. There were also taverns, from which emitted raucous laughter and a reeking smell of sweat and alcohol. To the side a drunk (one of many) lay face down in the mud. “Ye can’t handle it lad, stop drinkin’ them if ye can’t handle it” another man rasped, more wrinkle than face, all the while poking him with a stick.
Marlow looked at the veteran, who recognized his face without turning. “It gets better past the slums, though admittedly not by much”.
The cart trudged up the slope past the slums. Between the slums and the city proper was a large stone gate which ran around the whole city in an oval. As it ran away from the gate the wall became wooden, and Marlow could swear he saw a child squeezing through a gap in the mud. The guards along the wall were dressed well, similar to the men in the wagon, though they were clean and had the resolute look that often comes with training and discipline.
One of the soldiers in the wagon chimed in. “Those tower guards are the private enforcement of the Baron—elite soldiers the lot of them. Unlike the town watch of the slums or your regular rank and file soldier. Baldwin hires them from out of town, as far North as Selby, and trains them to high standards. It keeps the city well behaved. You’ll see more of them in the palace.”
Marlow looked back. “Why’s there no guards in the slums?”.
“There used to be, but not anymore. Haven’t been for years. The slum dwellers fend for themselves. Sometimes you’ll see groups of watchmen organize for protection, patrolling about with clubs and bats, but they’re little more than gangs. I wouldn’t walk around there during the night—or day for that matter. Baldwin keeps the main roads safe though, enough to get in and out of the city walls.”
The proper town was an improvement, though the air still stank and the buildings—made of proper wood and stone—were still covered in an ever-present soot. The establishments here looked strong enough to resist someone falling on them, and the people seemed of a moderate, though still poor, caliber.
“Most everyone in the town is a miner or caters to the miners.” Said the veteran. “Every day thousands of folk descend into the earth to work in those wretched holes. It’s dangerous work too, very dangerous. More dangerous than any soldiering I’d argue. If you aren’t caught in a flood, cave in, or other accident its the pollution that’ll get you. I would bet you there isn’t a single miner here over the age of thirty.”
A familiar feeling of revulsion rose in Marlow’s stomach. He became sickened by what he saw around him. He knew the history: a third of the country’s currency came from Ryden, double that in metal production. It supplied the entire Empire. Nails, swords, cuirasses, horseshoes, barrel hoops, and more all sourced from Ryden. Mining towns like this travelled their wares hundreds of miles, by horse and boat, down rivers and across oceans. But seeing was separate from reading. The town was compatible with Marlow’s knowledge yes, but incompatible in the flesh. All that Marlow had learned about the Empire, the Celestine Church, was incompatible with what he saw. Nevertheless it was absolutely essential; It fit in perfectly like a puzzle piece, far better than any book, chapel, or holy verse. This town, this infernal machine, had a better claim than the port cities for the heart of the empire, which sat glistening on a pristine shore. Despite its visage Ryden was empty, not only from its occupants who bore out the very earth it sat upon, but the people itself. Here there was little value to human life. Not even the slaves who toiled below the ground cared for themselves, they existed only to fuel its infinite industry until there was nothing left. Marlow realized that this was the empire. Its true colors were not white and gold, but black. A deep sooty black, speckled with drops of red.
The cart made it through the city with little hassle before arriving at the final gate. The palace wall was impressive, made of pristine stone quarried from somewhere far off and laden with the church’s flags. Unlike the prior entrances this one was closed and no traffic went in or out. The veteran was greeted by a well groomed soldier who eyed Marlow cautiously. A few words were spoken and the large iron gates opened, allowing the party into the palace.
The palace stood in stark contrast to the city outside. The inner walls of the palace were pristine, almost reflective. From the outside, the palace itself was obscured by the high stone walls, and once inside it was revealed for all its splendor. Marlow assumed for a moment that he must be hallucinating, as if he had accidentally walked into heaven itself. The architecture was foreign, as were the plants. that made up the dedicated landscape that traced the buildings exterior. All around were rows of flowers and ferns of all varieties and colours that he’d only seen in paintings. A servant in a white robe poured water over them from a brass jar, that ran clear as if he watered them with liquid crystal. His face and hands as well were clean of soot. Even the sky above, which had before been a dull grey, seemed clearer and brighter; the air indeed felt cool and smooth, almost fragrant, though Marlow knew this was impossible.
A guard, similar in uniform to the ones along the outer wall welcomed Marlow by name and told him that the Baron would see him now. The veteran and party, seemingly practiced in this choreography, wished him well. “Good luck Scribe” Said the veteran, with a wistful smile, “May your prospects be good.”
Marlow was escorted through the palace. It was wide and spacious, with hallways big enough to hold a carriage and with large open plazas open to the sky. Each wall was adorned with marble statues of sword-wielding men, women holding harps and baskets, and ferocious far away beasts seen only in compendiums and fairytales. The footsteps of Marlow and the guard echoed ahead of them against the tile floor, and looking down Marlow noticed he could see another person standing upside down. It was his reflection, which before he had only seen in a pale of water or in the glint of dirty silverware.
The palace seemed to go on and on, and as they went deeper into its interior more of its inner workings revealed themselves, though special care had clearly been made to hide the menial work of upkeep within the halls. Behind bannisters and apertures with sleek metal framing he could see the darting eyes of servants. Some scrubbed away at the pearlescent floors, avoiding eye contact completely. Others scurried past, quick to enter doorways to other areas of the building. They carried vases, boxes, and baskets of fruits, bread, and delicate meats. Marlow had never before seen such luxury, and his eyes were drawn to every corner of the building.
Eventually they come to a large room with domed ceilings. The domes defied gravity, and seemed as if they would collapse under their immense weight at the lightest touch and crush them all swiftly. The walls held large mosaics of coloured glass. Each one bore the likeness of Saints. There was Saint Herold, Saint Eyeine, Saint Luka, and even a large portrait of Saint Persephone, who wept eternally a small golden ball of sap which traced a saber upon the floor. A staircase at the far end led into another room. Marlow began to walk up the stairs but the guard stopped him.
“You’ll wait here. No one is permitted entry into the throne room without permission.”
“His majesty called me all the way here just to wait in front of his door?”
The guard looked at him irately and did not respond. Marlow once again felt a sinking feeling in his chest and knew he had spoken out of line.
After waiting for quite some time, the door at the top of the stairs opened, and a portly silhouette wearing a huge drape of furs stood in a basking ray of yellow light. Marlow looked up at the man with a hand over his eyes, the light was blinding.
“Greetings! Dear Boy! Oh how long I have waited for this moment!” The man beckoned. “My, let me look at your face. The journey must have been arduous.” He walked slowly down the stairs, as if he might at any moment trip on his robe and tumble down the stairs. His steps echoed in the huge room, filling the silence. His steps were so slow that the entrance began to loose its grandeur, and Marlow tried to suppress thoughts of the huge man rolling down the stairs as he slowly wheezed closer. Eventually Baldwin did reach the bottom of the stairs, and the sun had set below the window from the throne room, bathing the room in a warm glow. Marlow realized that he had been made to wait so the sun could cast Baldwin in a godlike ray, and indeed the whole palace had been oriented around that very entrance, which had now more than lost its effect.
“Are you okay dear boy? Has my beloved city treated you well?” He asked, with a hand on Marlow’s shoulder. His fingers were thick and stubby, like sausages. A gilded ring with the largest diamond Marlow had ever seen suffocated his pinky, and he wondered how the finger retained circulation at all.
“I am fine, my thanks go to your soldiers who escorted me along the entire journey.”
“Of course. They are my finest soldiers I have always said. Many of them have been with me since the beginning so many years ago.” Baldwin looked off into the distance, as if playing with a longer thought, but soon lost his focus.
“If I may be allowed to speak,” Marlow asked. “But why have I been summoned here?”
Baldwin looked at him curiously, and then smiled. “You are Marlow of Insmuth, no? The Marlow?”
“I know of no other.”
“The Scribe who wrote The Historeyes de Compendium of the Imperium? Why my boy, despite your simple existence you bear a certain, how should I say, talent that transcends your time. Your work, despite its limited accredition, has spread far throughout the Empire as one of the greatest analyses and sources of history on our great nation and church.”
Marlow was shocked at the sudden revelation. “I did write it yes, but it was largely a translational affair, taken from other sources. Surely this does not merit any fame?”
“Oh au contraire! Of course it is a translation and compilation. You think I would expect a single scribe to have lived so many lives before his time and spanning such distances? Only our Lord himself could do such acts, which makes your talent all the more interesting. Somehow, the little scribe Marlow, from an isolated hovel like Insmuth known for little besides sour fish and fish bones, was able to do what no other Scribe or scholarly appendage of the church could do. You went through ages of material, many of it conflicting, and pieced it together neatly so that our total story could be told. To do such an action, it must have taken years! Lifetimes! And yet somehow you managed. Why Sir, it is an honour to meet you!” The Baron shook his hand with frenzy; His hands were quite greasy, and he smelled of an odd mix of lavender and unwashed sweat.
“If my work has gone so far, how is it that I am only now hearing of this?”
“Why therein lies the pudding! When you completed your work, it was transported and distributed all across the Empire. The details of this are sparse of course, and perhaps you could enlighten me on how exactly it left your possession in the first place! Nevertheless it made its way out of Insmuth and into the world. It made its way to the local nobles, of the surrounding region—including into my hands as well!. It disseminated to the Churches, to the libraries of several states, even all the way to Celestine itself! It was not at once realized for what it was mind you, as I’m sure you yourself did not consider it either. It was simply a book, and in a land such as ours where a fellow, ah, intellectual, is such a rare commodity why even the writings of a mad man are worth their spot on a shelf somewhere! It wasn’t until scribes began reading your work that they realized how valuable it really was. A whole history of such nature, to go unheard of for so long. Some took it to be a message from the lord himself. As for your question yes, it would seem that your name was… how should I put this, ignored, vandalized, and most of all edited. Many scholars took it upon themselves to claim the work for themselves. You see, an unclaimed work such as this, even with a signature—though one that had no clear claimant—cannot remain that way. So several scholars claimed to have produced it. This went on for several years of course within the scholarly circles. Oh my! If only you had seen it! One person accusing one another in great missile assaults of slander, libel, legal accusations. It was a great war to claim your Historeyes, in fact I would say this is an honor to you! Nevertheless, it was eventually realized that no individual could have produced the book who also claimed to have created it. Indeed, no one alive—not for two hundred years—has written something of such marvel and depth. Your book truly is a thing of beauty! And so I took it upon myself to find the real Marlow. And what a surprise it was! To find you alive, and so young, within my very governance! The true author! That story is interesting as well, but for another day I suppose.”
Marlow began to speak, but was at once cut off. “Now I’m afraid I have no use for you as a regular scribe. It a job unbecoming of your skill. And I did not bring you here simply to gawk neither. No, my orders for you come from the Pope himself.”
“Are you serious?” Marlow asked. “And what task would he have for me?”
“Allow me to show you.” And so Baldwin lead the scholar out of the palace.