‘Not these particular arses. My previous visits here were as the captain of a contracted ship or, in earlier years, fighting for whatever cause was looking to buy military might. The sort of person I was then didn’t tend to be received in the same royal chambers as a diplomatic envoy. But I know their like. And I know this city, and this empire. You will recognise the truth of my description soon enough.’
Brann shrugged. ‘They can be what they like. You make a page’s role easy, whatever anyone is like: keep my mouth shut, do what I’m told and look respectful.’
The Captain nodded seriously as the slightest of jolts in the ship’s motion told them that Cannick had manoeuvred it into its berth with his familiar skill. ‘I pronounce your lessons in pagery to be complete.’ He swept the papers into a trunk and fixed his clothes, buckling on a finely tooled sword. ‘Right, let us introduce ourselves to Sagia.’
From the moment they stepped from the gangplank, Brann felt the alien nature of a culture far removed from anything he had known. Disorientated, as if he had entered a different world, he scarcely noticed Konall, Hakon and two imposing warriors joining them and Einarr motioning to Grakk to approach as Cannick started to organise the unloading of the cargo. He sucked in a deep breath to try to gather his thoughts and drag his attention back to his surroundings.
Einarr placed a hand on Grakk’s shoulder. ‘I know I owe you a debt already, for the part you played in saving my nephew if for nothing else, and I know you have earned as much time in the taverns as the rest of the crew, but as a native of a part of this empire you are the closest thing we have to expert local knowledge. I would value your presence if you would accompany us.’
Grakk bowed his head, the sun gleaming on the intricate tattoos covering his smooth scalp. ‘It is in the nature of my people to gather knowledge and share it with those deemed worthy. Besides, I do not partake of intoxicating substances by choice, so it will be a diversion of interest. It may also prove useful in providing an extra member of your party who is aware of your young page’s propensity for inadvertently finding himself in trouble.’
Einarr clapped him on the shoulder in acknowledgement and appreciation. ‘Your last point is probably the most relevant.’
An official in a plain white robe was waiting for them where the pier met the dockside, a flat satchel hanging at his hip and a broad hat on his head. As they drew closer, Brann was able to see the way a broad length of cloth had been wound, more draped, around his body and over his shoulders to leave his arms free and to ensure that his body, while covered from head to foot, was loosely clad. Already his own clothing was feeling heavy and stifling and the very air, now bereft of the breeze of open water, was hot and hard to draw in, like the first gasping breath when he had opened his mother’s bread oven and been hit by the blast. The unexpected memory of home stabbed through him and he stumbled.
Konall glanced at him in enquiry and Brann pointed to the ground. ‘Slipped on a loose stone.’ His voice was laboured as he felt the effort of breathing.
‘No surprise there.’ The tall boy appeared as unperturbed as ever, his manner oblivious to the heat despite the hair that was plastered to his face by the sweat that was creeping from every pore.
‘Do you not feel the heat?’ Brann was incredulous. ‘Your land is even colder than mine.’
Konall looked at him in bemusement. ‘Even our coldest areas have warm days. I have actually seen the sun before, you know. It is the same sun. This is just hotter, for longer. We cannot change it. You deal with it or place yourself at a disadvantage, like all in life.’
‘I just don’t know how anyone could function in this,’ Brann grumbled. ‘It’s all right for you, your head is at a higher altitude where it’s obviously cooler. Every movement is an effort down here.’
Konall snorted. ‘Grow up.’
‘I’d love to.’
‘I didn’t mean physically.’
They were interrupted by Einarr. ‘You will get used to it in a day or so, unlikely as your head will be telling you that it could be. But enough of the weather chatter.’ He turned, halting the group out of earshot of the waiting man. ‘Grakk, the welcoming figure on the dock. What can you tell me?’
‘We are honoured guests,’ the tribesman said, his soft tone as even and measured as ever. ‘He is a slave, hence the chain around his neck, though it is a more slender version and more golden than the normal heavy iron chains of the general slave population. Here, power is everything; the most precious commodity is knowledge and the most powerful men are those who use their knowledge with the greatest skill. Their obsession is records. Everything is recorded, all is preserved in paper and ink, and the guardians of this, those who gather, record, store, guard and, in some cases, advise on the records are the Scribes, the slaves prized above all others. They are recognised by their satchels, as much a symbol of their office as a practicality, carrying paper, ink and quill, for a Scribe must always be ready to record what must be recorded.’
Konall frowned. ‘They place all this trust in a slave? Not in the loyalty of a free man?’
‘It is safer in the hands of a slave, young lord. Where you live, the loyalty of a free man, once given, is unquestioned and any loss of trust in that is considered worse than death. Here, every free man lives in competition with every other. Even the purchase of a loaf is a contest to be won. Accordingly, words are to be used, twisted, broken, all in the strategy of outmanoeuvring and winning. Trust is naive and dull-witted. Slaves, however, are ruled by total obedience and cannot leave to serve another unless their master wills it, and so their words are as letters carved in stone and their ambition serves only to enhance their owner’s standing or success.’
Konall was still unhappy. ‘Regardless, they send a slave to meet the son of a Warlord of Halveka. The insult is clear.’
Grakk shook his head. ‘That is what they do, young lord. Would you own a ship but travel here by swimming? They will greet Lord Einarr in the appropriate setting. The honour here is clear: a Scribe is the ultimate level of slave – in fact many consider themselves superior to any free men below the level of the nobility and certainly they have more influence in many ways. Note the second golden chain, the one carrying his satchel: it denotes that he has reached the highest tier of his class. What is more, the royal seal burnt into the leather of the satchel itself tells us that, in all probability, he is owned by a prince, and has his ear.’
Einarr had heard enough. ‘Thank you, Grakk. Let us meet this influential slave.’
The tall Scribe swept his hat to his chest and greeted them with a long inclination of his head that revealed intricate tattoos on his shiny pate of a style similar to Grakk’s and which drew the eye of everyone present. As he raised his head, his eyes fixed on Grakk, but his gaze, emotionless almost to the extent of haughtiness, smoothly settled on Einarr. His hat still pressed to his chest, he spoke in a voice as lacking in expression as his face.
‘Lord Einarr of Yngvarrsharn, may I express the welcome of my master, of his brothers in rule and of the great city of Sagia that sits at the heart of ul-Taratac, the greatest empire the civilised world has witnessed or ever will. If it is your pleasure, I will direct you to your transport to the palace, which awaits just a few paces from this dock.’
‘Thank you,’ Einarr said. ‘And your name is?’
‘I am merely a conduit for my master’s words. My name is not important.’
‘It is to me. Hence my question.’ The lord’s voice was calm, but still managed to exude menace.
‘Of course, noble sir. My master calls me Scribe.’
Konall’s face went white and he stepped towards the slave, whose face had not flickered into a single expression all the while. Without taking his eyes from the man, Einarr shot out his arm and halted his cousin with a hand on his chest. His voice was soft, almost amiable. ‘That is a most interesting