Chapter 10

The morning was in full swing, and the market was bustling with shoppers and shopkeepers who were barking their wares. Borner sat at a different counter, a stone one, on a rickety stool waiting for the bowl of tripe in a rich, greasy broth with the heady smell of a spicy santi paste floating like an island in the middle. A couple of battle-scared men sat further down with cups of hot tea, acting disinterested in the spectacle developing around them.

Away from the Sojourner temple and Kanner’s cryptic questions, Borner hoped to find inspiration for the next steps. In the morning light, he debated whether he had sold his soul to gain a significant ally. Still, what choice did he have to match the fanged swords with what was at hand: the knives, axes, and hatchets of the devil’s den, as the pious labeled the whores and thieves of the world. He just made a pact with some of the most dangerous people under the sun, whose reach had no boundaries.

He bit into the tripe, almost burning his tongue and lips. He blew on the spoon, hoping to cool the white spongy bits before his appetite overtook his good sense. The cook was giving him a look as if waiting for the child to finally eat his victuals. Borner tried again and gulped the spoonful with relish. Tripe with its honeycombed nooks was supposed to be tough enough to withstand a strong broth and yet still be easy to chew. He swallowed, pleased with his choice.

What had he lorded over Timmaus? Prophets were mythological creatures of a backward time when people believed that gods walked the earth and spoke with their chosen mortals. Before the time of the prophets, the gods would circle around the sweet smoke of the sacrifice of wellbeing to offer their beneficence or cast dispensation for the sincere plea of the guilt offering to the believer. After a passing of ages, those same gods were somehow removed to a distance, appearing and speaking only through an anointed few, their chosen prophets. These later prophets cast oracles for kings and generals if the powerful were willing to pay for the privilege. There were independent prophets who roamed the countryside naming the folly of king and of country, too. They were the dangerous ones, often dying in short order because of an angry warlord. The truly heroic ones carved the name of their god into the flesh of their forehead for all to see. The priests and their believers remained while the prophetic tradition faded slowly into legend. Meanwhile, real prophecy had faded away, banned in many places, shunned in others as dangerous to the regime and to the rebels alike.

He heard the Void laughing like a child at play at his constructed resurrection of an old superstition. “You will kill them all; they are all going to die because of your words. Stop the nonsense now and rejoice in the damage not done.” The laughter jangled his nerves. He pushed the mirthless glee away has he took up the thread again.

He was not standing aloof, as the independent prophets, but he was not in the pay of the king or his sister as the establishment ones were. Absurd as it seemed, he was bankrolling the plot. The annals never told the entire story, and even those prophets who committed their oracles to writing left out their day-to-day work. They probably erased those prophecies they uttered that failed to materialize. The only prophecies preserved were those that came true and a rare few that were spectacularly wrong. None of the scrolls of the various temples described the context of the unfolding drama in which the oracle appeared. When the Duranay nomads attacked from the south after the rainy season, King Assok called for his prophet and commanded, “Ask the god if we should go to war against the Duranayim.” Substitute king, country, or enemy, most of the recorded oracles of the kingdoms sounded the same, dating back to the ancient times recorded in Bodi script. Mortals could not receive nuanced oracles, only yea or nay answers.

“Yes or no,” the Void whispered like a lover. “Yes, come to me and be free or no, let this farce eat at your innards.”

Borner slurped up the rest of broth and let out a rumbling belch. During his meal the seats on either side of him filled with breakfast patrons. They were locals, men who were dressed as the market workers but were not in the stalls. The one sitting on his right had ink stains on his fingers. Borner elected to interview these two.

“Excuse me, I’ve newly arrived. What of the market, the city, and king here?”

“I’m the bookkeeper for the market manager,” said the man on his right. “Jarum, they call me. Collections are down this quarter. We are not earning the same fees on stall rentals this year even though this is usually one of the best months of the year.”

“I’m a porter,” said the man on his left. “I shifted in a lot of product this morning, but it’s still early in the day and I’m able to stop for breakfast. There is just not as much coming in and my pockets are lighter because of it.”

“The king’s tax collector is demanding my boss produce more coin,” Jarum said. “If the coin is not there, a market manager cannot make it appear out of nothing. Look to the back of the building at the open table slots; they’re empty. Not even the second-hand rag makers are selling. It’s not good.”

“I heard Bolger got caught bulking up his sausage with sawdust,” the other man said.

“I heard it was his son and he was adding it to the bread,” Jarum said.

“What does the king have to say?” Borner said, trying to catch a glimpse of the cook’s larder behind the brick shelf that supported the soup pots.

Both men shook their heads and stared intently at their bowls as if their food was fascinating. Borner glanced further down and noticed that the other two men had stopped talking and were pretending to be looking elsewhere. Even the cook had retreated to his soup pots instead of leaning on the counter.

“I am sure is he is a concerned leader who cares deeply for his people,” Borner said. “As a traveling merchant, as you can tell from my accent, I am always concerned with being able to move my wares when I come to a new city. Sometimes I seek out government officials when I have herbs in bulk to sell. The palace physician or even the army chirurgeons like to stock up on medicinal poultices, clotting agents, and stomach remedies. Perhaps I should skip the market altogether and seek out the temples on the Avenue of the Gods.”

“Urutu save the king,” Jarum said. The man on Borner’s other side recited the same words. Both men stood without another word and walked quickly away, disappearing into the flow of wandering customers. Borner took his cue from his departed companions and stood to leave as well.

As he walked down the side aisle of the market, he was sure that he had picked up a tail, one of the men who had sat at the corner of the food stall. Borner pretended to walk as if he was unconcerned about his safety and unduly interested in the food stuffs for sale. The figure paced him, staying two stalls back as Borner moved fast and then slow and then swiftly again.

As Borner fingered the woven strands of garlic bulbs, a young woman just coming into her womanhood stepped up beside him. “You are being followed,” she said.

“I noticed him two stalls back,” Borner said. “Are you one of my new friends?”

“Me ‘n Maxi keep a special eye on the market,” she said softly, pointing to a woven wreath of garlic and lavender as if she were selling. “A hand here and a hand there, as you might imagine.”

“A good hand is a trusty companion,” Borner said. “While I haggle with the hard-eyed woman for a good weaving to chase away the night spirits, would you and Maxi like to give my tail one or two hands through his pockets?”

“Maxi already took the knife from his boot. He’s got an odd bulge by his right hip, but the real treasure is a pouch tied around his neck. I’m feeling lucky today.”

“Please don’t let me detain you, then. The best of luck to you.” Borner pressed a coin into her open hand without looking.

He picked up a small kitchen bouquet of garlic bulbs with wheat sheaves woven through them and asked for a price. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the young woman coming towards her target from behind a booth just off his left shoulder. A boy came running past her and bumped into the man with his little fist swinging at the man’s left hip. The man spun rightward in surprise as the boy sprinted. The young woman slipped in with a knife and cut the neck cord with slight flick of her wrist.

“Oio!” the man shouted as he brought up his right hand to his neck. The young woman turned to her left and clobbered him in the back of the head with her right elbow. As his head snapped forward, she pulled her prize and ran left between two booths. Borner was openly viewing the scene along with everyone else who was nearby.

“Thieves!” the man screamed as he stumbled between the two booths seeking the young woman and his lost bundle. Borner dropped the garlic and walked away as fast as he could and ducked down an aisle leading to the right. He doubled back and headed towards the entrance of the market, pausing here and there to see if he picked up another tail.

“You!” The second of the battle-scared men called out with an accusatory finger. “Stop, in the name of Urutu!”