5. The city of Memnon.
In a land so barren and featureless, it is the broken minarets that make prize perches for local vultures, but at least they are cowardly creatures. When I said the desert was at least no place for gulls, Hassiq told me of the Dire Vulture, not just a bird so big it could take me in one claw, but a creature that dripped with the putrefied flesh in which it makes its gruesome nest. Even with his peregrine keeping watch from far above, it was a tale enough to get me from my hammock and to help watch the sky from under my shield.
I was surprised to find out that Hassiq carries the blessing of Silvanus, being a member of the Golden Grove here in Memnon, so I guess he has a convenient overlap between his patrols and his mercenary routes. Like many working for the Fine Gold Chain, he leaves offerings at the Halls of Fortune after each successful trip to Calimport, and so he asked of my take on fate, fortune and the Tycharradah. I was surprised again, to hear of the terrible fate that had befallen such an ancient temple, and a little sorry as well for not having heard of it, although it's not like I'm a religious scholar or fancy historian. I suppose my cosy corner of Luiren is just that; so cosy that maybe it stands in denial of the ruder world.
So I started by telling him the Beshaban parable. I said I was not sure what great bard was its author, but it is succinct and demonstrates the full depth of their philosophy:
Two Beshaban's sat in a bar, one says to the other "hey, give me your gold or you'll get some bad luck". The other replies "nah, you pray to me or you'll get some even worse luck". Both start punching each other. The end.
Life itself is just a series of chances, to which we can apply rational skill or force of will. Luck is part of the latter, a supernatural instinct and as separate from our mundane senses as our dreams are from reality. The act of questioning the instinct will only corrupt it, so one must look outward, to have trust and flow with it instead. It manifests as our chutzpah, our buoyancy and confidence, it is to both accept risk and whatever comes of it, rather than withering to the fear that the sky may fall on our heads. These are Tymoran qualities, and if you follow then then you can never truly lose, even in death, for Tymora will know you played your hand well. The question of good and bad luck though, that is a tangled and subjective trap. When Hassiq tips some coin, he feels the Tymoran spirit, an optimism that lifts us up as freshly baked cookies may do. Conversely, doubt is a serpent of distraction and regret, it makes us look inward and thus corrupts our instinct. So it is not that Hassiq has been served good luck on a plate, more that he is better able to help himself and to learn from free experience. On the other hand, worship that takes rather than gives, particularly worship under duress, is an act as hollow and depressing as a Beshaban's skull, and for Calimport to have accepted the Tycharradah, it must have been under similar duress or corruption, for all they will get is thuggery, muggery and maybe worse.
The conversation quickened the miles on the road, and I probed into his faith as well, after all, it is odd to think of druids in these lands so bereft of greenery, even more odd that their grove is protected by city walls from the ravages of the nature outside. Hassiq set me straight though, he explained that nature has had little say in what we know here as a desert, and besides, the creepy cacti and all the creatures from the desert worms to the cute hamsters all have a role in forming a new balance. He said the grove is a pointedly stark contrast, it serves as a reminder of what tall egos are inclined to bring. I said he should see Luiren some day, where turf houses are common and the gardens are rich, and where a city of twenty thousand is run by the hin with the best recipes for duck. Even the long quarter of Chethel is discrete, despite the gangly-folk's homes. Plus there is no creature finer than the Shoun dairy cow, and why would anyone disturb Lluirwood with all those mean spiders and horrible warty trolls within?
I find Memnon a curious place besides the Golden Grove. The architecture is so unexpected, particularly the Fine Gold Chain and some of these extravagant homes. The more common buildings are made of bright scarlet bricks, and then there is the grey and heavily walled ruin of Memnonnar just across the river from here, standing like a sprawling tomb, a chilling memory of the past. The city uses its roof space well with endless balconies, walkways, roof gardens and bars that overlook the busy markets. It allows for those with vulturous eyes to watch over the commerce and be ready to take a chance on something they see, maybe someone to con or a trend in the crowd, or maybe they just sit sipping their tea, under parasols borne by slaves.
Indeed, that is where I found the enchanter Scybalah, a creepy old man with a hawkish nose and sunken cheeks, a pointed chin and a stare that could silence the flightiest hin. He's a Calishite pure-blood and prideful too, but he's easy to find, for being confined to a strange wooden wheeely-chair. I waved to his slave, a barbarian lass with a chest that was giving him shade, but she only growled back with hungry eyes, and then he snapped at me, and even called me a slave! With a wide-eyed smile and a gesture to his backgammon board, I asked if he cared for a wager and, as he considered, I introduced myself with a short bow, as a free representative of the Tipsy Bee and not some silly-boy slave. He then peered closer and I caught a waft of his vinegar breath, from indulging in a jar of pickled green eggs.
I put a kilarche by his board and, after a glance, he picked up his dice with only the slightest of nod. He played with a commanding air so I let him beat me fair and square, as we talked on matters more to the point. His pride came through so I gave interest and awe to all that he said, and I asked about his intellectual and magical renown, and even his more adventuresome years. He slowly opened up and went back a long way, to before what he called the sell-sword age, when things were done properly and folk were not just swashbuckling fops, a comment that I think was directed at me. He said he studied dimensionalism with Dakhim el Yndhar himself, a man who sounds like he wears a very big hat, and they had worked on magic carpets and even bottomless bags, but all such things, as well as his legs, collapsed when the weave came crashing down. He was bitter about the vanity of gods and his condition of being confined to a chair, but it was he who took his chances adventuring in Shoonach, looking for artefacts when he tripped a real nasty magical trap.
Then when I asked about an infinite shoe, the kind afforded by the best of casinos, he nodded assent as he knocked me onto the bar, just as I had left myself quite naively prone. He then won that second game and we were into the third when he gave me his price, and as I had been warned it was service that he wanted rather than gold. My first option was to trade for a shoon-ring, but I hadn't a clue of what they were, so I took the second option of travelling north, to find out what had happened to a man that he called called Abel Blackwood, and to fulfil his shipment by finding it or replacing it all. He was a Tethyrian merchant who worked the Trade Road from Murann to Memnon, dealing in specialist metals an alchemical reagents, and his absence had left Scybalah short of solbar, an odd metal that he needed for some contraption or thingamajig.
I ended up winning the third game by am amusing stroke of luck, a jammy gammon I confessed, and that was a thought that made me peckish. As a gesture of good faith, and before his scowl could grow to anything worse, I gave him back one of the two kilarche and said his skill was the sporting victor after all. Tight-lipped at first, he gave me a small brass box locked by the tiniest key, and he paused before saying it must remain unopened, and to be given to Blackwood if he were found alive. He said it would prove I was his legitimate agent as well and that he would know if it was opened, so I should keep my 'insufferable curiosity' locked up as well. I think he was a bit ruffled that he had succumbed to reminisce of his leggier days, or that he lost that game, and he soon shooed me away with a few flicks of his wrist.
As it turned out, the Black Flagon does not serve jammy gammon, but they do have an impressive menu. The inn itself, with its heavy dark wood beams, its cosy alcoves and generously upholstered chairs, reminds me somewhat of the Bee. They have booze from far and wide too, and their long bar has them on show, row upon row of colourful flasks and bottles embossed, and in of all manner of shape as well. I settled for their dippy crab cakes, a smoky duck egg and bacon quiche, and a bottle of dark elderberry wine. I think my funds after breakfasts are going to be running very thin.
Scybalah did mention that Blackwood left Murann on time and was due in Memnon fifteen days ago, and he also said that a Sending from Zazesspur this morning indicated that he had not been seen there either. So it seems I'll be on my way tomorrow morning and that I'll probably need cross the Starspires and head for Mosstone. But first I'll go to the Purple Hills and see what I can earn, and at least among kin I'll be treated fairly which is more than I can say for the ways around here. It is awful how many hin slaves there are, running around for their masters, as busy and as wary as the desert hamsters. It's no life for any hin and I really wish I could help, but its all part of the sad cycle that churns these strangled lands.
