A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 5 (Part 2 of 2)

The rest of the evening passed by too slowly for Isendrin.  They talked of inconsequential things and laughed at the vanity the young men in the taproom, the ones in the brightly coloured doublets who measured their rivals by the size of the feathers in their caps.  Imlon told him that they were the sons of landowners sent to the College to learn mathematics and rhetoric, but more likely to lose themselves in the pleasures of the city for weeks at a time.  Isendrin had always enjoyed it when such men had tried to walk into his legion as officers. All the other topics they spoke on were tedious, but the wine made things easier.

The next morning, Isendrin opened his eyes at dawn as he had done for years.  However, when he stood on awkward legs and saw the thin light coming through the shutters, he sat back down on the bed.  He rubbed at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Seconds later, his head struck the inviting pillow.

The second awakening was less pleasant.  He went to the shutters, flung them wide and recoiled from the blazing sunlight.  A stranger kind of weariness wafted through him, mental rather than physical, a frustration at things out of their proper, settled order.  He looked from the window: the sound and smell of a bustling thoroughfare rose up to meet him, from the babbling waves of conversation to the unwelcome odour of what had to be a nearby fishmongers.  It was still morning, just.

This lethargy would not do: Isendrin struck lightly at his forehead with a chastening palm.  After splashing the stale water from the basin into his face, he dressed and went downstairs. 

 The host, a plump and lively man, was cleaning in the dark, empty taproom.  He glanced up and smiled when Isendrin walked in.

“Good morning, sir!  A pleasant night?”

“Too pleasant,” said Isendrin, “Has my friend already left?”

“Aye, a few hours ago now.  Shall I have your horse saddled, sir?”

“No,” said Isendrin, “I’ll walk today, thank you.”

“Very good, sir.”

So Isendrin walked.  For a few minutes his feet decided where to go and they followed the bustle south to Merchant Bar and the old city.  Soon he approached the Ducal Wall, built of huge, irregular slabs of stone and topped with unmanned battlements.  The hundred yards in front of the wall were left open to the sky: building work on the Greengrave was strictly forbidden.  Monruath’s mercantile nature, however, could not be denied, and the entire space as far as Isendrin could see was covered with tents and carts.  Traders beckoned to the crowds.

“Pilgrim ampulla, sir?  The saints will smile on ye!”

“Finest lace from Ancene!  Half the price of Merchanters, twice the quality, I assure thee!”

“Dolls and dice for your childer, master?  I have pleasing jests for all, sons or daughters!  Come master, come madam, come!”   

Isendrin was only interested in one thing.  Soon enough he was drawn into the tents by the dark smell of hissing fat, and he returned to Merchant Bar a few minutes later wiping grease and breadcrumbs from his fingers.

As his feet began to obey him once more, Isendrin was of a mind to go to Bank Regulus.  He would need to ensure his finances were in order before searching for a better home than the Geese.  He crossed over the Morningstar, the river that ran through Monruath into the Tysus, but as the grey-stoned facade of the bank came into view above the rows of elegant townhouses, he had a change of heart.  There were enough sovereigns in his pocket to maintain a good living at the inn, and as a pair of clerks in black and red robes hurried into the building, he walked straight past the ornate double doors.  None of them knew him, not a single soul of the hundreds who had passed him by, and the thought was too liberating to let go of so quickly.