FOURTEEN: The Spider of House Mycelere
What Restrains ambition is Harm, what keeps subjects Busy is Work and what Motivates all men is Profit.
—Orlon 8:5 The Craft of Kings
Thousands of voices washed over ‘the Middens’, rising from the bowl of the Arena. The sound wave crested as Cal and Saknoti stood on the sailor’s balcony, their eyes feasting on the colorful panoply from the great stadium.
The crowd had gathered for the jousts, just another weekly event leading up to the great Tournament held to celebrate the fall harvest. Bright, proud banners of knightly Orders and jousting societies flew from poles atop the amphitheater. Thousands milled in the great plaza that surrounded the heroic Arena mixing with the shouts from vendors selling every comfort imaginable for the crowd’s pleasure.
Saknoti gently asked, “What do you see?”
Where Cal would have once looked upon this scene with a mixture of envy and anticipation, he now saw something else entirely, “Disease. I see thousands afflicted with all kinds of obsessions, gathered together in one needy throng.”
“Very good, Calidon. You correct. And yet, is beauty in its intensity, its passion.”
Cal raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“There is vibrant youth in Arena. A place of many beginnings. Without obsession, no one ever begin any hard task.”
The diminutive foreigner paused for a moment, and then said, “I think it is time you joust in Arena.”
Is this a trick? If I jump at this chance will he then proclaim I am not worthy to learn his teachings?
Sensing his protégé’s uncertainty, Saknoti shook his head. “Is not trick, Calidon. But is test. No Mind is like polished gem: throw it in sewer and nothing sticks to surface. Fight in Arena and you shall know self.”
“Lord Mycelere owes you. You save important trade mission. You need horse and armor to fight in Arena. House can help.”
* * *
After six ascetic weeks with Saknoti, Cal emerged from the Middens. He walked down to the docks and hired a small skiff to navigate to the Dryhtern, the free trade zone in Selinger Bay. Just after the Collapse, Prince Gedwolan granted eight lords an independent charter to a vast collection of uninhabited islands in Selinger Bay for providing soldiers during Gedwolan’s reunification war.
While Gedwolan’s war quickly failed, the settlement survived. For centuries, the Dryhtern was little more than a few island marketplaces; but, when Keldrin I invented banking, commerce in the Dryhtern exploded. Within forty years, the free trade zone had grown into a massive network of marketplaces, banking houses, craft halls, and merchant guilds which operated almost independently from the City. House Mycelere, like every other large merchant guild, based their business among the islands in Selinger Bay.
From a distance, the Dryhtern displayed a splendor of wealth, power and opulence. Land was at such a premium that massive stone buildings covered every square inch, creating as much space as possible. Not satisfied with utilitarian piles of stone, the edifices raised by the Merchants and Traders of the Dryhtern displayed elaborate statues, friezes and stained glass windows.
Their buildings are a testament to soaring ambition.
As the commercial cathedrals expanded, the clear blue waterways between islands shrank to narrow brown canals clogged with boat traffic. It was into the maw of this confusion that Cal’s oarsman poled his small vessel.
Gods! We’re just one small chip in a mercantile hurricane.
Once caught in the Dryhtern, all kinds of watercraft crammed the canals: transport barges moving between markets or to and from the docks, small personal dinghies, gondolas and rafts for everyday shoppers, and the elaborate yachts of rich traders conducting business. At many intersections, boatmen jabbered at one another—arguing right-of-way. Other canal junctions hosted amiable passengers chatting across the water during the frequent traffic jams.
At one crossing, a bulky launch rammed Cal’s small skiff into a bloated gondola, momentarily trapping him between two larger vessels. Annoyed, the gondola’s agitated owner rose from his cushioned seat. His anger faded when he spotted the offending launch that had created the jam.
“Roncar, old friend. ’Tis good to see you. Where have you been?”
A careworn, but prosperously dressed merchant, replied from the launch, “Trapped in Horgeond. The Barons have been fighting all summer.”
“So I hear. I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“The fighting started after the Fair in Dannik. It’s like the whole crazy lot of them have lost their minds ever since.”
A startled Cal stared up at the middle-aged merchant standing at the prow of his launch. He looked vaguely familiar. Where have I seen that man?
“What happened?”
“No one really knows. Hell, I was in Dannik, right when it started, and I don’t even know.”
“What did you see?
“The first sign of trouble was when a panic hit Dannik’s fair and the Baron shut down his market. Soon after, a stableboy found Helvig’s daughter trussed up like a bale of hay. She accused Baron Chulert of trying to kidnap her, hoping to block her coming marriage to Grelig’s son.”
WHAT!?! Why did she tell that tale?
“Then she disappeared into the Temple of Abbindi. Before anyone could get an answer from her, she disappeared. Her and all o’ the Helvigs.”
Clever girl! Father could hardly attack her family after Alynde proclaimed her desire to marry Henrick. But, how did they escape? I suppose the priestesses protected their own.
For the first time in weeks, he could let himself think of her without an overwhelming sense of guilt. No matter how many times he told himself that he could have done nothing else, he still felt that he had betrayed her. Now, admiration and relief pushed those feelings aside.
Maht-Hildis be praised!
The unnamed merchant shouted, “Ha! The traffic clears. Send a messenger to my House, old friend, and we’ll sup together. I want to hear all of your tidings from the North.”
Galfir help me! Clog the canal. I beseech you!
Cal’s prayer, however, was vain. The gondola’s boatman poled the large vessel with surprising speed into the clear channel ahead.
* * *
The oarsman could not fight his way through traffic to reach House Mycelere until a quarter hour before noon. As the man docked his boat on a large island, Cal peered at the massive edifice that loomed over the island’s skyline. Clearly, he had arrived at the nerve center of a commercial empire—House Mycelere. Bizarre beams that resembled stone spider legs extended from the Guildhall’s massive walls. The odd arachnoid structures fascinated Cal.
House Mycelere appears strangely insecure, as if it’s poised to scurry away at the first sign of danger.
The broad plaza that surrounded the Guildhall did not display the same majesty. Inns and small shops crowded the shore. A profusion of small booths constructed from wood gathered at the knees of the Guild, crammed full with trade goods on display. The mad caterwaul of traders bargaining with customers filled the air with frantic urgency.
It’s like a Fair in Dannik. Except, here, it happens every day.
Cal threaded his way through the frenzy and finally stood before House Mycelere’s bronzed doors. Heroic friezes adorned the fringes of six great squares set into each of the huge double doors. Fascinated by the exquisite work, Cal stared at the figures adorning the enormous entrance. He eventually recognized that they depicted the mythical founder of Thorandir and the legendary age when the Empire spread across the Medvian Sea.
Mesmerized by the artistry, Cal jumped when a slim metal panel slid open, and a voice demanded, “State your business with House Mycelere.”
“I seek the help of your Lord.”
Through the slit, he could see a doubtful eyebrow rise, “What call do you have upon this House?”
“I bear the blessing of Gellan Ware,” replied Cal, passing the Trader’s letter through the slit.
After a short delay, a small portal opened within the left-hand door and Cal entered. Inside the massive Guildhall, the resplendent door-warden announced, “Lord Mycelere is engaged at the moment. Yonil will lead you to a chamber where you may wait for the Lord,” finished the door-warden.
A rawboned apprentice led him to a dimly lit anteroom with a low, uneven ceiling held up by slim columns scattered around the room. The peaked arches collided at the apex of the vaulted chamber, the stone support ridges radiating from the ceiling’s center like the main cables of a deranged web. Only when Cal lowered his head from the strangely constructed ceiling did he notice Gellan Ware standing at the far end of the room.
The Trader wore a doublet more elaborate than any Cal had seen him wear on the road. Ware idly ran his fingertips over the gold thread on the fringe of his sleeve. He studied Cal’s face and said, “I am told you seek our help.”
Cal bobbed his head reluctantly. “I need a horse and armor.”
The Trader’s eyes gleamed. “One month from today, the Harvest Tournament will be held in the Arena. Will you fight?”
“If I must.”
The Trader started at this grudging answer. The eager boy who had traveled north with him would have been anxious to prove himself. Gellan wasted only a moment contemplating the young man’s reluctance; then his gratitude merged with greed, and the Trader recognized a golden opportunity. He could make a killing betting on an unknown. Anyone who could jump onto a spooked cart-horse and wield a greatsword possessed amazing knightly skills. As a newly arrived stranger fresh from the ‘hinter-lands’, the odds against Cal would be ridiculously long.
Gellan Ware could not believe that the help he had pledged had presented itself in such a promising form.
Casually, the Trader said, “I think the House can manage something.”
* * *
Nearly two hours later, Lord Mycelere summoned Cal to his office. When Cal expressed surprise that Mycelere did not bring him to his throne room, Gellan Ware laughed and replied, “This is a business, not a Barony. Inside the Guild, even the Lord of a Merchant House avoids the trappings of nobility.”
After even more waiting in the Lord’s antechamber, during which Cal counted no less than five couriers arrive and deliver messages to a harried secretary, he met with House Mycelere’s founder.
Cal was surprised to see the Lord’s office was clearly a working room. Rolled parchments lay scattered on the work-bench. A large slate board covered with columns of numbers written in chalk hung on the west wall; meanwhile the east wall held an enormous map with land and sea routes marked with red threads. As Cal entered the office, Lord Mycelere himself moved pins on the map that indicated estimated positions of various ships and caravans.
The Lord himself was just as business-like as his work room. A long gray dressing robe hung from his broad shoulders. Though well-tailored from tightly woven linen, Mycelere’s utilitarian clothes were unadorned by any pattern or embroidery. The only sign of his rank was the heavy necklace around his neck whose silver-chased plaques bore the sigil of his noble House.
Cal looked to Gellan Ware to make some kind of proper greeting, but the Trader simply plopped himself down into a chair before Mycelere’s workbench. After a slight hesitation, Cal also took a seat. Thankfully, Mycelere had placed his guest chairs far enough away for a comfortable visual distance.
Undeterred by lack of protocol, the Lord addressed his guest, “Gellan Ware’s caravan came home alive. I am told I have you to thank.”
Cal answered the Lord with one terse nod.
The breeze from the open balcony overlooking the Dryhtern ruffled Mycelere’s full head of short-cropped white hair, worn in what looked to be a military cut. A martial style is an odd affection for a man who makes his living in the trade mart.
“I also hear you need armor to fight in the Arena.”
Cal nodded again.
“Why should I give it to you?”
So that’s how we’re playing the game.
There were many answers to that question. But, what was said meant less than Mycelere’s clear intent to put Cal on the defensive from the beginning.
Cal sifted through the possible answers. He could assert the House owed him for services already rendered, but Mycelere seemed to have ruled that answer out-of-bounds by mentioning it before putting his question to Cal. I can tell him how much money he can make betting on me, but he’ll just ask me how many tournaments have I won.
“Obviously, you believe my sword-arm can benefit you. Otherwise, I would not have made it through your door.”
Lord Mycelere seemed slightly surprised at this answer and said nothing.
Cal continued, “I won’t bother trying to tell you about my fighting abilities. I’m sure you already have reports. I will tell you that I work very hard at what I do. And I do not forget my friends.”
As if he were a highwayman springing a long-prepared ambush, Lord Mycelere flatly accused, “You left your family in the middle of a war.”
Here is the crux. He questions my loyalty. Calidon yearned to answer: A war my father started. A war no one needed. But, passing judgment on my father’s decisions will offend Mycelere.
“I did not desert my family. I deserted an older brother who resented me.”
“And how am I to believe you will not desert me?”
Everything about this man screams practicality. I must give him a practical answer.
“I am a stranger in the City. I have few friends and no family here. I cannot afford to turn away from the only people I know.”
Lord Mycelere considered young squire’s reply for a few moments, and then nodded his approval. “I can live with that answer. Now, what kind of armor do you desire?”
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