Chapter 3.2: Cartuga

Sara surveyed the surrounding darkness as she pulled on the oars of the small rowboat. There was no wind tonight, and the lapping of water against the hull sounded too loud to her ears as she crossed the hundred-mile-wide Heartlake under the cover of night. Having grown up in Maralon, she knew next to nothing about boats, but it hadn’t taken long to figure out how oars worked. The vessel - a small wooden thing barely big enough for two people - she had quietly taken from the docks of Sarresh at dusk, the owner nowhere in sight.

She wondered how long she’d been rowing. A fat moon sat low in the west, the silvery orb largely covered by clouds silhouetted in a bright nimbus by its glow. Dawn would only be an hour or two away, which meant she’d been at it for roughly ten hours. The Heartlake had always looked big on the few maps she’d seen of it, but the drawings did not do it justice. For all Sara could tell, she was in the middle of the ocean, rowing to the edge of the world. So isolated was she that she could freely use her vala to lend her strength and speed, and the boat skittered quickly across the water like a big bug, though she was careful not to snap the oars; she didn’t fancy paddling the rest of the way.

So far, she had not encountered any other craft on the water, but she kept a careful watch for anything entering the boundaries of her vala; maybe three hundred paces around. Except for fish and eels and a hundred other things living down under her boat, she sensed no other life around, which only exacerbated the lonely feeling, as if she were the only person in the world. The distant honking of geese drifting across the lake was something of a comfort; land must be close, now.

The sky was lightening behind her when she felt the docks of Cartuga approaching. Quickly suppressing her vala, she rowed the final few hundred paces - or whatever the nautical term was for that stretch of distance - as quietly as she could, frequently watching over her shoulder for anyone on the docks. The long wooden structures stretched out into the lake like fingers, many of them with vessels of all shapes and sizes moored along their length, from small boats like Sara’s to wide, flat barges the size of houses. Warehouses ran the length of the docks, the shadowy stone buildings long and squat-looking in the predawn. Big lanterns hung on tall poles at the end of each dock, a signal for any craft approaching in the night. A few bodies moved about in the lantern light, carrying crates or barrels or coiling rope, as many tasks as there were workers. There were guards, too; two at the end of each dock, in plate mail and holding long spears across their chests.

Not wanting to risk being seen, she pulled around to the south and came in from that side, where a few shorter docks stuck out into the lake, unguarded. Her small boat was low enough to be hidden from sight by anyone standing on the docks as it bumped up against a stout pylon. She sat quietly for a moment, listening for footsteps on the thick planks up above before hauling herself up onto the thick planks and hurrying toward the town, using the shadows of the other moored vessels to stay out of sight. No one saw her as she ghosted through, or if they did, they did nothing about it.

A poorly-maintained paved street led from the wharf into the town proper, though it was wide enough for ten wagon-and-teams abreast, probably due to the large amounts of freight brought to and from the docks every day - Sara had kept her ears open in Sarresh; no few conversations between merchants and their patrons had been about regular shipments from Cartuga. The avenue - it was more avenue than street - was lined with tall shops and and inns and taverns all in timber rather than stone or brick, many of them with three or even four stories, most with shingles hanging out over the front door or shop front window. People were moving about, though not many at this hour, and no few of them stumbling with the telltale gait of one who’d been at the drink a whole night. Shadowy mounds in corners or alleyways showed those who had not made it home at all, but rather decided to sleep off their grog right where they fell.

No sooner had she made it three paces onto the avenue than the tugging in her gut - the persistent nagging feeling that had been with her since leaving the Temple - disappeared completely. Stunned, she stopped dead. Why now? She thought with worry. Had something happened to Aran? Her stomach turned at the thought. If he died... No, I cannot entertain such thoughts. If the vala has stopped directing me, then it must mean there is something here I need to do. Taking solace in the thought - and pushing away the uneasy feeling of having no direction, she adjusted her cowl and moved on up the avenue, staying away from the light spilling out of the windows of those establishments that were still open.

Noise as well as light flowed into the street from those places, raucous laughter and bawdy music, and no few squeals and giggles from women or lewd remarks from men. Sara glanced in one window - the sign above read ‘The Wayward Wench,’ - to see a trio of nude girls - two Elves and a Dwarf - dancing on a small stage in time to the clapping of the patrons. A big Orc guarding the door gave her a sharp look and she hurried on. As she passed more inns and taverns - from what she glimpsed through windows and open doorways - the first one with the dancing women had been one of the more conservative places.

Sara was no prude - growing up on the streets of Maralon she’d seen people do all kinds of things when they thought nobody was looking - but Maralon was a Herald city, and so all forms of entertainment that smacked of sex were outlawed. In the East, the Heralds had no presence, held no sway, and it was something of a shock to see what such a town looked like.

The avenue was long and straight and slanted slightly uphill as she moved away from the docks. The taverns and inns and brothels tapered off as she climbed; they appeared to be more concentrated near the water, a prime location the sailors and merchant’s guards would be sure to see as soon as they disembarked. Unsure exactly where she was going, Sara stayed on the avenue, sticking to the left side and keeping her head down. A prickling on the back of her neck made her turn around, but the street behind her was empty except for a drunk fellow leaning heavily against a wall several yards back, his back heaving as he emptied his stomach of the night’s poisons. She grimaced at that and hurried on. Just your imagination, she told herself firmly. Nobody is following you.

After a few more minutes of walking, the avenue opened up into a wide square a hundred paces on a side, flanked by more shops and one huge building facing back toward the docks. The only building she’d seen yet made entirely of stone, the structure was fronted by an angle-roofed tower housing an enormous clock of all things. An arched set of iron-strapped doors stood at the top of a wide set of steps leading up from the square. Sara thought it might be a town hall, or some centre of commerce, perhaps. There was movement in some of the shops in the square as the owners got ready for the day, pulling up shutters or opening windows or sweeping dust away from their doors.

In the middle of the square was a statue of a much higher quality than the buildings around it. At least thirty feet tall and all in pale marble, a heroic-looking man, fit and broad-shouldered, stood proudly, gripping the lapels of his vest and lifting his narrow-bearded chin toward the lake. Two women sat at his feet, wearing flowing robes that had slipped off their shoulders to bare their breasts. They each clutched one of the man’s legs and gazed up at him adoringly. Sara shook her head in disgust. What man had such an opinion of himself that he would allow such a thing to be made? Then again, Sara had met a few who would probably jump at the chance.

“Awful, isn’t it?” A man’s voice said from behind her. Sara spun quickly to see a figure standing a couple of paces back. Taller than her and in a heavy black cloak, his cowl was pointed at the statue. She shuffled back a few steps, keeping him in her vision. When she didn’t reply, he spoke again. “The statue. Lord Eldred.” He gestured to the subject with a dark-gloved hand. “He had that made near three decades ago, now.” Though he spoke softly, his voice was deep and resonant. It would have sounded attractive to Sara had she not been so uneasy. His accent was foreign, too, though she couldn’t place its origin. The instinct to feel into him with her vala was strong, but she ignored it.

“I’ve never liked it,” Sara replied carefully, hoping the man would take her for a local, not a newcomer. In the street and square around them, more people were beginning to bustle about as the sky above turned from grey to pink.

“Not many do,” he remarked. “But all accept. That is the way, in Cartuga.” Sara said nothing, hoping the fellow would move on. “Of course,” he continued. “Good Lord Eldred is not the real power in this town, but few know that.”

Sara suddenly noticed that even with the street quickly filling with people, no one came closer than about ten paces to the cloaked man. In fact, they were going out of their way to skirt around him. She decided it was time to be gone. “I’ll be on my way now, sir,” she said politely. “A good morning to you.”

His cowl, which hadn’t shifted since he’d started talking, still didn’t move an inch, but she got the sense that he was watching her. “A good morning it is.” Was all he offered in reply as she turned and left, crossing the square as quickly as she could. Where she was going, she didn’t know. All that mattered was that she was away from the man, whoever he was. Something about him made her skin crawl. A look over her shoulder showed the place he had been standing now empty. Suppressing a shudder, she hurried down a narrow street between two shops. She’d grown up in alleyways and back lanes; if this fellow was going to follow her, she’d like to see him find her when she didn’t want to be found.

She took the next two left turns and then went straight on for a bit, mapping the turns in the back of her mind in case she needed a quick retreat. The buildings were pressed in close, back here, the streets growing narrower the further into the town she went. The smells were pungent and often rank; emptied chamber pots and rotting food scraps not yet taken up by the multitude of stray dogs and cats that occupied the alleys.

People moved about the back streets, too, dressed in strangely cut clothes, often worn or frayed at the hem or cuff, a sign of the less than well-to-do. Most men she saw were shirtless or wearing only a light vest over their bare chests, while the women favoured flimsy dresses that left their shoulders bare as well as plenty of bosom.

Another few turns and she was back on another wide avenue, the opposite side bordered by a ten-foot wall of some brownish stone she didn’t recognise, sharp metal spikes running along its top. On the other side of the wall, she could see the slanted roofs of buildings in much better repair than the others she’d seen. Looking up and down the avenue, she couldn’t see either end of the wall, but it did curve away from her slightly in each direction, giving the impression it might be surrounding another district.

She tried to study it without looking obvious as she walked north. What could be in there? As she walked, the run-down dwellings on her right gave way to those of better quality; more stone than timber, more glass windows than shutters. There were inns and taverns, too, and other places where strange-smelling smoke drifted out of the windows. There was less noise coming from those last than the taverns, and it made Sara wonder what was going on inside. Even at this early hour, with the sun still not completely up, people were drinking and laughing in common rooms and taverns, though in a less raucous manner than closer to the docks. She sidestepped quickly to avoid one such patron who stumbled down the short flight of steps in front of a place called “Donnelly’s Run,” a lively establishment with upbeat, quirky music drifting out from inside. The sign above the door showed a man with a barrel tucked under his arm, running from another man who was chasing him. Sara got the impression the first man was a thief being pursued by the barrel’s owner, the second man.

Dressed in a finer cut of coat and breeches, the man mumbled something intelligible as he slipped on the last step and pitched forward, arms flailing. She should have let him fall and kept moving, but a wagon was approaching, drawn by a four-horse team, and the half-Orc in the driver’s seat did not look as if he was interested in stopping for a drunk lying in the road. As the man fell past her, she seized his collar with a quick hand and hauled him out of the way. Still trying to recover his balance, one of his flailing hands caught the cowl of her cloak and pulled it back to reveal her face.

“By the Gods, you are beautiful!” The man slurred, blinking heavily as he tried to focus on her face. He might have been good looking if his face had not the slackness and bloodshot eyes that came from a night of heavy drinking. Releasing him, Sara pulled her hood forward and hurried on. Stupid, she berated herself. I should have left him! But she knew she would have hated herself for it. She wasn’t about to let a man die just for being drunk. Not if she was there and able to help.