The Regulator

Chapter 2.1 Part One

Dr. Silas Strand eased his way up the final few claustrophobic steps of the Gatekeeper's tower and out in to the cool evening air. Below him the great curtain wall of Nor, the principle fortified island of Badr City, dropped away in to the evening mists. It was a view that would induce vertigo in even the most experienced rock climber; the clean stone wall so tightly mortared it offered no handhold, the jagged bedrock beneath and the dark, volcanic waters of Badr Lake whose mineral rich vapours were said to have induced visions of terror in the minds of ancient invaders.

Strand could well believe it. He stepped away from the rampart's crenelated edge before the dizziness got the better of him, and took a moment to roll his shoulders, easing away some of the stiffness that had accumulated in his muscles. After a day spent in his surgery, seeing to the various ailments of dozens of Pavonian pilgrims, his body needed little excuse to remind him that he wasn't a young man anymore. There were bits of him that had seized up completely, and the short walk over rough cobbles to the city's main gate, a walk he took whenever his surgery hours allowed, had done little to lift the weariness bearing down on him. He longed for a break, just a few days rest, but there was no chance of that with the city's population swelling by the hour.

The Kho'i Festival was Badr City's busiest time of year, its most lucrative, and its most dangerous. All day a steady queue of pilgrims had shuffled along the causeway linking Nor to the Rim, passing under the wide rampart on which he stood, before dispersing deeper in to the city's network of bustling lanes and ancient, shaded squares. More than a dozen islands made up the land on which Badr City stood and since the plague there was plenty of space available for weary pilgrims to find a bed for the night. Few of them would end up as his neighbours though. The Plains people, who made up most of the swelling crowd, preferred isolation and self-reliance to doing business with the city's merchants, and even those that did venture over the Rim Pass to trade tended to steer clear of the Stranger's Quarter, the isolated island where most of the city's alien inhabitants resided, Strand included.

The sweet odour of cooking food was wafting up from the streets below, and even though Strand had never really adapted to the local vegetarian diet, his belly rumbled in response. The Pavonians were a devout race, and the strictest forms of their faith required adherence to set meal times. As a result some of the pilgrims still on the road had decided to take a break from their march to picnic where they stood before the sun went down, whilst inside the city gates every food stand and restaurant Strand had passed during his stroll already had a substantial queue of customers. There was little chance of getting served at any of them that evening, and it would probably be well in to the night before he returned to his own apartment and the meagre contents of his kitchen cupboards.

Turning south, Strand made his way over the rampart to the next tower in Nor's great defences. Torchkeeper's tower could no longer be accessed from the street, its door had been blocked off in antiquity, and it's grand cupola, which had once provided light and guidance to all those travelling over the Rim, stood empty and neglected. As a result it was one of the few places in Badr City that offered any kind of privacy. Strand stepped into its cover, out of sight of the shuffling line of pilgrims below. Out of sight of everything, except the few stars winking into life above the Rim. Slipping a hand into the pocket of his windbreaker, he pulled out the hip flask he always carried, and took a slug of the contents. The smooth amber liquid hit the back of his throat like a fireball, and he felt some of the tension ease from his body. After fifteen years on Ierus, fighting and losing against the worst of the plague, he'd worked countless shifts without a hot meal, but he couldn't recall the last time he'd faced a day without alcohol.

"Hey, Doc!"

The voice was familiar, but unexpected, and Strand spluttered as his second shot of booze stuck in his throat. So much for drinking in private, he thought as he watched two men hurry towards him across the rampart, laden down with what looked like an array of camping equipment. Titus, Strand's next door neighbour, was carrying an ancient pair of threadbare deckchairs, their fraying seats a rainbow of faded colours. His companion, a mountain of a man in furs and a knitted hat, grunted under the weight of a large picnic basket and a thick roll of rough, canvas bedding.