Chapter 5

Three weeks later, Zuri crossed into Qirin Province from Duran, with only a couple of painted rocks to mark the transition. No guards or collectors from either province were present, not even an empty shack to mark an earlier presence.

A few days ago, a caravan caught up to him. The Duran caravan was composed of profiteers and threadbare merchants who were compelled to go west instead of east. The goods were middling to poor quality, but as one merchant explained, the coin in Qirin was not there in any great quantities. The land was enough to sustain the people with little left for export.

“Why does the empire hold on to Qirin then?” Zuri asked.

Another merchant scratched his beard. “Qirin has always been,” he said. “The great masters of Lewa Ilu believe that all began and all ends in the great city to our far east. Out here where memory is longer and deeper, we have legends that the people came out of Qirin, abandoning it when its soils petered out and its streams shrank. The people of Qirin refer to themselves as ‘The Old Folk’ and claim family trees longer than the purple crownwoods of Maris and deeper roots than the Northern Mountains.”

“They’re talking about their sheep and goats,” the first merchant said, waving off his companion’s talk. “Qirin is the dumping ground of the known world. Got the Noble’s daughter in the family way, Qirin has a place for you. Pinched a few too many pennies from the wrong people, Qirin will teach you better skills for not getting caught.”

His friend laughed. “It’s more like after burning down a couple of villages and drinking away the piss poor purse, Qirin will welcome you with a barely lifted eyebrow.”

“Sounds simply lovely,” Zuri said.

“Yeah, you will need to cut the going rate for your blessings in half, Gura,” the first merchant said. “Even then, they’re not going to ask for blessing. They act like godless heathens. Famine haunts the land, so they say, and no one is exempt.”

“On the other hand, when the rest of the Kingdom expires, you will be good for months and months, if not years,” the second merchant said. He laughed. “Imagine the world coming to Qirin.”

“If Qirin is far removed from everything, why are you going there?” Zuri asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Two reasons,” the first merchant said. “First, no one else is taking their goods to Qirin, which means they are lacking much, and the market is hungry. A lack means an opportunity for decent returns. Second, Qirin is lacking in basic goods in a unique manner. I can take all my unsold merchandise, add to it all my competitors’ unsold merchandise, and toss last year’s unsellable items on top with an assurance I can squeeze a return out of the entire pile. My storage is purged and ready for next year. I will return with a few new items that will cover the expense of the trip. The only thing I truly lose is time.”

“What do you bring back?”

“For those who enjoy a different quaff,” the second merchant said, “they make several varieties of a strong liquor from the sap of succulents. The liquors are an acquired taste, but some people with money are always looking for something different. There are a few other things as well.”

“That’s all? Aren’t these roads dangerous to chance a little bit of stock?” Zuri said. “I mean dangerous enough to warrant handfuls of caution.”

The second merchant was about to respond when the first one cut him off. “Two years ago, the caravan was assaulted by a band of marauders. The fools were so poor and desperate they only had clubs and their two feet to attack us. The moment would have been laughable if it had not been so sad. We cut them down quickly. When we searched the bodies, there was not a coin among them nor a sandal without a hole in the bottom. My rags in this basket were better than their clothes. I think I offered up the sincerest prayer of my entire life afterwards, asking for God’s grace upon those dead souls.”

“Yeah, don’t feed the kids; you’ll get mobbed by dozens in an instant,” the second merchant said. “Never show a coin purse and only use coppers, never silvers or God help you, anything better.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Zuri said.

“Dreadful is where Gura should be, not like the overfed ones in Duran. Have you seen Greenvale Temple in Covanera?” the first merchant said. “These folk need hope, and they need direction. Qirin does not need to be as bad as it is. I’m told the Governor spends his days drowning in his cups and the few Nobles are noble in name only. On the mountainsides to the north, they harvest these bulb-like flowers that are crushed and distilled into a white powder. They smoke the powder. Slowly, they lose their will, their hair, and their bodies waste away. We call it the smiling powder because its users have the same dreamy smile pasted to their faces. They die quick.”

“Why don’t they leave,” Zuri asked himself aloud.

“They are the Old Folk in the Old Land,” the second merchant answered. “They believe they are blessed more than anyone else in the world. Crazy, no?”

“I think I have much to learn,” Zuri said. He turned his attention back to the road with his thoughts in turmoil. His instinct had been to run as far as possible, which he still did not doubt. However, his plan to find an instrument of revenge appeared to be a failure before he even reached the end of his travel.

He had no temple to go to and set up shop. Even if he did, could he stoop to stealing from the poor and desperate? He had no faith in the Gura-sho of the Qirin because such an office must require the same capitulation of morals that he had witnessed in Lewa Ilu and Covanera. Given the desolation of the post, the high office must have been a bitter reward for the man, whoever he was.