Temporalis, fragment 1
Calloused knuckles rap the bulkhead’s ancient boards. Waking, I sit up, eyes slit in dawn’s golden light. A handful of days since leaving the palace and already the simple daily routine is familiar. “Breakfast, then target practice?” I stretch with a moan.
The hulk filling the door frame shakes his head grinning. “Nope! Special day today, Wiggle.” Pops has been enjoying our days together too. I can’t remember him ever being so continuously cheerful.
Dark silhouettes pass my tiny porthole. I frown. “Trees?”
Pops nods. “Told you!” He pats the bulkhead. “Get dressed, formal but practical for riding. See you on deck. Quick, quick!” Then he’s gone.
I blink at the drab threadbare curtain that takes my father’s place. Riding? The barge isn’t anywhere near big enough to ride around and we don’t have any horses anyway! My eyes go wide. We’re going ashore! Scrambling into suitable clothing, I race topside.
Out of the companionway, the scenery is transformed. After days, drifting high above the land with only the distant Lympon Heights poking up from the haze, suddenly being back at ground level is oddly claustrophobic. Beside the tow path, evenly spaced tree trunks, like the bars of a monstrous wooden cage, enclose us. I shudder, then hurry along the side deck to where Pops and the barge master are standing. Remembering my lessons in court etiquette and feeling princely in my good clothes, I bow in greeting. “Good Morning, Captain Sherem!”
Glancing at me, the barge master says nothing, his habitual look of disdain as clear as ever on what little of his face his beard doesn’t cover. Having grown used to his sullenness, I simply turn to Pops, my smile fixed in place. He checks my garb and nods approval. “Good. We are docking in Mesodris soon. Whilst the honourable Captain here is exchanging cargo, you and I are going on a little excursion.”
An excursion? I scan my geography lessons. Other than Mesodris itself, the area is most unremarkable: no historic battles; no signing of trade accords; no fortresses, temples or monuments; nothing but farmland. Furthermore, though founded as a major hub and trading port in the Panphion canal network, the town of Mesodris offers little more than its port. What could we be visiting? My frown turns to a smile at a thought. “Are we inspecting the garrison?”
Pops scratches his chin. “What would you call it if a foreign Ambassador were to snoop around a military installation un-attended, un-announced and incognito?”
I cringe at my own stupidity, “Spying?”
He snaps his fingers. “Quite so. Best if we keep well clear of the Logistics Post, I should think.”
One chewed lip later, my frown is back. “The Opera House?”
Pops gives a chortle. “The Mesodris Opera House, though no-doubt the pinnacle of local culture and entertainment, is barely more than a music hall. Trust me, after growing up with the wonders of Panphion City, you will find extraordinarily little to entertain you here in Mesodris.”
“So what’re we going to see?”
Though quicker than a sparrow’s wing, I catch his cautious glance at the captain before answering. “Let us just keep it a surprise for now. Suffice it to say, be prepared for anything.”
Entering the town limits, tall tenements crowd the water’s edge. I shiver as dank brick walls banish the bright morning sky to a thin strip far above. I’m already missing the trees, even a cage is better than this damp dungeon. When I ask why none of the buildings open onto the waterway, Pops cheerily explains local taxation. Any opening onto the canal, even the tiniest window, is considered a commercial port and incurs a licensing fee from the town authorities. Excepting the wealthiest merchant families, it’s simply too expensive for private households. As the unloved slime-slick walls slip past, I can’t help pondering the irony of a town turning its back on its only reason to exist.
Just as I think I can’t stand the unending parade of grotty brick any more, the canal opens into a pond. Replacing the buildings, several large water gates, each with unique heraldic signs carved deep into stone, ring the perimeter.
As dour and cranky as Sherem may be, his skill with the barge is undeniable. With singularly economic effort, a single pole shunt turns us out of the main channel’s flow to glide toward an opening adorned with a triplet of birds. Hurrying from a small hut at the harbour’s mouth, a little man shouts a number as we pass into the port basin beyond. A second application of the pole and we come to a perfect stop exactly broadside to our assigned berth. Laying aside his pole, our barge master casts a loop of thick mooring rope over a double horned stone bollard on the dock wall but keeps us half an arm’s span of water clear. Otherwise motionless, his pipe billows as he regards the bustling port.
Heavily laden as we are, I must stretch on tip-toes to peep up over the dock’s edge. On my one visit to Port Panphion, I was amazed by the great sea ships and enormous piles of goods from every corner of the Rationalle, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a mix of people as here. Eyes fixed on the flagstones a few paces ahead, stevedores and barrowers muscle there heavy loads. Slipping through the crowd, wallets and satchels clasped firmly to their chests, clerks and messengers hurry by. Resplendent in gaudy robes, fat merchants trail an entourage of attendants behind their palanquins.
The noise is just as impressive. Iron rimmed cart wheels clatter on cobbles. Dock workers yell stilted conversations and instructions. Cranes screech and grind. Harmonies and rhythms clash as innumerable musicians play for pennies. Street traders and hawkers call out an inconceivable array of wares: bright sparkling trinkets and gilded baubles; wondrous medications and mystic potions; ice cooled drinks and fresh steaming pastries.
I find this last offering particular appealing. Overpowering even the stench of sweat, grease and dung, the aromas of heavily spiced fruits, melted cheese and succulent meats escape from beneath honey brown crusts, competing for my attention. After only a carrot for breakfast, my insides grind and groan at the thought of sinking my teeth into any number of these sweet and savoury delights.
Though I’m not sure what the woman in the bawdy make-up hoped to sell Pops, my hopes rise as two other traders accost him on his march up the side deck to the barge master. Sadly, he ignores both the proffered toffee fruit and sugar coated snacks in favour of addressing the motionless Sherem. “Thank you, Captain. If you would be so kind as to arrange the gangplank, we can disembark.”
The barge master doesn’t even look round. “Hold.”
Along with his brow, Pops’ usual smooth diplomatic facade when dealing with our captain wrinkles a little. “Hold, you say? Hold for what?”
Sherem says nothing and continues to puff, but before the growl in Pops’ voice can grow into anything more, the cheery little harbour master that shouted our berth number arrives in a jangle of keys. “Ah! Barge master Sherem, welcome as ever to our port. So nice of you to choose us again. I’ve just received all your lading chits, shall we begin?”
Sherem holds out his hand. “Here.”
The harbour master regards the proffered extremity for a moment. “Really? After all these years of doing business?” When Sherem fails to respond, he rolls of his eyes dramatically but hands over his note board.
The wad of thin papers pinned to the board rustle and twitch in the light breeze as our captain leafs through them. He hands it back. “Only two pallets for the Brethren.”
“Really? Are you sure?” Now, the harbour master’s brow wrinkles. “These chits do all came through official channels, you know?”
“Two for the Brethren.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” He pulls a stylus from behind his ear and scratches on one of the sheets. “Anything else?”
“Berthing fee’s eight trinton.”
“Sherem, please! Eighteen is the standard rate.” When the captain remains unmoved, the harbour master rolls his eyes again. “Look, I know you’ve always paid eight before, but I’ve been charging you the same for over a decade. I have bosses too, you know? Costs are going up continuously, the bottom has fallen out of the transit market and I make next to no profit on warehousing. Really, eighteen is more than fair!” Sherem simply stoops to grasp the mooring line. “Okay! Twelve then.” In response to this compromise, the barge master gives the rope a lazy flick, half unhooking it from the bollard. The harbour master’s hastily placed foot prevents the cordage from slipping off the other horn. “Okay, okay, eight it is!” Slipping the mooring line back over the bollard with his sandletoe, the harbour master scribbles savagely on his board. When he looks up again, all chirpiness has fled. “Can we now?”
Sherem jabs his thumb at us. “Two to disembark.”
With a glance our way, the harbour master’s chin rises a little. “Well, I’m going to have to charge you for that!”
The stylus is already at work as the captain shrugs. “Paying passengers. Take it up with them.”
With a brutal stroke, the stylus strikes through whatever the harbour master has just written. “That I shall!” He waves indignantly at us. “Well, let them ashore.”
Mooring line tied off, Sherem slides the gangplank into place and gestures us ashore. Before stepping up, Pops addresses him. “Captain, we should be back by late afternoon, but if we are delayed, I would be most grateful if you could wait for us.”
“Departure’s due midday.”
They lock eyes for a moment, then Pops nods. “Very well,” Selecting a penton, he lets the light glint off the coin before laying it in Sherem’s palm, then he jiggles his money bag lightly. “Please, be assured, any impediment to your schedule will be adequately compensated.” With a harrumph, the captain slips the coin into his pocket and begins loosening tarpaulins.
As we step ashore, the harbour master’s eyes are alight with the opportunity for an easy mark. He makes a theatrical bow. “Salutations dearest visitors, my name is Nammos Antadi, senior Harbour Master and Keeper of Keys for Three Crows port and docks. I welcome you, honoured guests, to Mesodris, where all canals head. I am sure such adventurers as yourselves shall find the delights of our city most entertaining, the many-flavoured trade markets, the city wall with its impressive gates and, of course, our splendid Opera House, but first, there is the trifling matter of your passenger transit fees.” His stylus scratches on a scrap of paper for a moment. “That will be two penton, please.” Pops’ eyebrows rise wordlessly. The little man shifts uneasily from foot to foot. “Passenger transits are charged at the same rate as berthing. That’s eighteen trinton a head, there’s two of you so that makes one full penton. I gather, that you will be re-embarking later today, so that’s the same again, making two penton all together.”
Extracting a penton from his purse, Pops tumbles it back and forth between his fingers before holding it out. “Here you are.”
Eyes locked on the glinting coin, Antadi’s tongue slides across his lips, but he resists the temptation to snatch it. Instead, his eyes reluctantly clamber back up to Pops. “Two penton in total, if you please. Port regulations, you understand? All fees to be collected in advance.”
Pops leans down face to face with the ratty little man. Holding the coin up between their noses, his voice is a low rumble. “You’ll get the second one once we are safely back on board, so best make sure the distinguished captain doesn’t depart without us. Understood?”
With a muffled squeak, the harbour master snatches the coin and takes a half step back. “Very well, I’ll just make out a receipt for this.” Sweat beads on his forehead as he scratches away, but he does his best to sound nonchalant. “And who shall I make it out to?”
“Mister B. Pleyadis.”
The harbour master chuckles a little. “Pleyadis? An illustrious family name! Related to the honourable general herself by any chance?”
Pops’ lips twist with irony. “Closely.”
Puzzled, the harbour master looks up from his note board. Blinking repeatedly, his eyes grow steadily larger until he takes another stumbling half step back. “Ambassador Pleyadis?” When Pops just smiles and tilts his head, all the colour drains from the little man’s face. “I’m so sorry, I mean, I didn’t,” He waves vaguely at Sherem’s barge. “I wouldn’t have expected.” He gulps. “You should have said, I mean, not that it is my place to suggest.” Whilst giving a little half bow, he notices the penton still clutched in his fingers. “I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding. The honour of such a prominent visitor far exceeds any question of money.” He holds out the coin. “I couldn’t possibly charge you.” Dark stains are spreading from the white linen at his armpits.
Pops steps forward and rests his hand on the harbour master’s shoulder. “That’s quite alright, Nammos. I can call you Nammos, can’t I?” Pops gives a little squeeze and though Antadi looks close to passing out, he manages another squeak of agreement. Pops smiles again. “Good. Well Nammos, my son and I are travelling incognito on private business.” He presses the harbour master’s fingers closed around the coin. “So, you keep hold of that and just make sure nothing upsets our plans, okay?”
Antadi’s head bobs like a little watch spring, his voice a barely audible rasp. “Yes.”
Pops slaps his shoulder. It’s collegial, but the harbour master’s knees buckle a tiny bit. Pops beams. “Excellent! Now, where can we obtain some good horses?”
Perched on a hilltop, the ground around Mesodris slopes sharply down. Though the lonely natural summit that first attracted engineers to build on this site still exists, no part remains visible. Great earth works constructed at a precise angle both elevate and widen the hill’s top to provide sufficient space for this confluence of canals. Arriving by boat doesn’t really show off how impressive this place is. Leaving on horse back does.
Though we initially exit the town wall through the dextral gate with its impressive panorama of distant snow capped mountains, the roadway immediately turns to spiral around the hill at a gradient convenient for hauling heavily laden wagons. Curving around to the sinistral side, we pass beneath several of the canals entering the town above.
Mesodris deserves more acknowledgement. Though the elevator tower at the canal head in Panphion City is surely even taller than this, its elevation gets lost among the many other tall buildings in the metropolis. Here, with nothing but relatively flat farm land on all sides, the great vaulting arches, marching arrow straight into the distance beneath each of the radiating canals, are truly awe inspiring.
Mentioning this to Pops, he smiles and nods, then reminds me that the whole of the Panphion canal network is constructed based on the elevation of Mesodris, its height having been carefully chosen as the best compromise between reaching all the various terminal ports, where the ground dishes upward close to the mountains, and the cost of construction. As wondrous as it all is, his comments about the number of slaves that died during the building work sends a chill down my spine. Is our wealth built solely on the pain and suffering of others?
To distract myself from such sombre thoughts, I ask Pops about the broad steps that cascade straight down the hill on the town’s temporal side.
Pops stops where our road cuts across them. “They are called the Via Tempofil.” He points into the hazy distance. “The Temporalis is in exactly that direction. Once every year, the town’s folk have a big festival of gratitude. It ends with them all traipsing out of the town’s temporal gate directly at the top, standing on all these steps and offering prayers and songs to the Temporalis by candle light.”
“Wow! That must be quite a sight!”
Pops shrugs. “An excuse for commercial profiteering dressed up as melodramatic, superstitious twaddle if you ask me.” He chuckles. “Apparently, during the Year of the Aberrance, the local lamp merchants made such profit, several of them retired to their newly constructed palaces and never worked again!” Flicking his reigns, we resume our decent.