The Last Citadel Page 3

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  Within Bastion the crowds parted as the soldiers cleared a way through the throng, pushing aside the chancers who had gathered long before dawn to ensure they got the sweetest fruits, the strongest ale and the prettiest women. The atmosphere was alive with anticipation and the excited shouts of child and adult alike, echoed through the streets of the city as the crowd jostled for position.

  ‘Out of the way, coming through', ordered the soldiers.

  ‘Two coins for a barrel of your finest,’ shouted a man.

  Though pretending indifference, the lead Brewer winked at the caller, accepting the offer and acknowledging the deal would be sealed at the marketplace.

  ‘How much for a skin of ale, mister?’ asked a dirty faced boy to a soldier.

  ‘More than you can afford, urchin,’ he replied, ‘now on your way.’ He cuffed the beggar around the ear and continued his march forward.

  All around the Citadel the scenes were familiar, with crowds pestering the tradesmen for early deals as they crossed the causeways, and though it was against the law to trade until the market was set up and the bells rang again, many secret deals were agreed on long before they entered the city. Hardly anyone in Bastion would sleep for the next twenty-four hours as they revelled in the tradition that was Moon-day, the one day in a month when money was no object, laws were relaxed, and morals went out the window.

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  At the centre of the city lay the keep, the huge stone building that was home to the council and the priesthood. Within its circular walls, a paved courtyard, the only public area of open space within Bastion, hosted the monthly market of Moon-day. At the centre of the courtyard lay the most important building in the Citadel, the tower of the Saints. Some of the floors were given over to the Guild of sciences, whilst others were occupied by the shift of midwives, the women who delivered the city’s babies. The midwives were actually females from the Watcher-tower and spend a month at a time in the city, before being relieved by a fresh shift every Moon-day.

  The topmost floor was the council chamber, where decisions of life and death were made every day. Anything of value was stored within this tower and whilst it was well known that there was an entire floor given over to the histories, rumours also abounded amongst the poor that whole rooms there were crammed full of money and jewels.

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  Within an hour, the keep had become a hive of frenetic activity. The crowd heaved and the air was alive with the sound of bartering. Tradesmen held up their wares for examination and the more affluent of the city bid against their neighbours for the range of desirable treats on offer.

  One of the Brewers had managed to secure a prime spot in front of the tower doors, but despite this, his sales were poor and he needed to try something different. He looked around at the dozens of wine skins on the cart and though they all contained the same wine, one skin was brightly coloured and stood out from the rest. Not one to miss an opportunity, he grabbed the skin and held it up high before the crowd.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘what I have here is one of the most amazing beverages we have ever produced in all the years of our tower. The flavour is of the rarest of apples and its smooth texture flows like honey down parched throats. What is more, the strength is such that it will only take three draughts to get you drunk, think of the money you will save.’

  ‘We know you well, Marek,’ shouted a voice. ‘It’s probably Narwl piss flavoured with sugar-shell.’

  The crowd burst out laughing, for Marek was the least trusted of the Brewers, and hands stayed just a little tighter on their purses when he led an auction. He feigned shock, but discreetly pushed a strong smelling skin of ale back under the cart covering with his foot. That one would have to wait.

  ‘I am shocked and hurt, friend,’ he shouted. ‘More than a year ago, I almost bankrupted myself buying the sweetest fruits the farmers could produce, and following a long lost recipe, laboured for over a year distilling this nectar, especially for the more discerning palate.’

  ‘Get to the point, Marek,’ shouted another. ‘How much are you trying to swindle for this toilet water this time?’

  Marek changed tack knowing that he needed different bait.

  ‘No matter, friend,’ he said ‘it is way out of range of any man here, perhaps we should move on to the ale, for even though it is of unapproachable quality, it is after all the drink of the masses and therefore more suitable for the more common palate.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s get to the serious stuff,’ someone else shouted, raising another laugh from the crowd.

  Marek placed the wine skin down and made a show of looking for a skin of ale.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted a voice.

  Marek hid a secret smile, the bait had been taken and all he had to do now was play the catch. He stood up and looked at a finely dressed man in the centre of the rabble.

  ‘Made from apples and brewed for a year, you say,’ shouted the man. ‘How much for the skin, Brewer?’

  ‘Alas, Sir,’ he responded, ‘I can obviously see you are a man of great means, but I despair that even you cannot afford a liqueur such as this. I fear its destiny is to grace the tables of the council only.’

  The man looked around the crowd, preening in his self-importance.

  ‘Then you know not who I am, Sir,’ he shouted back, ensuring his voice carried over the crowd, ‘I am Fredrick and I am the best Cobbler in the Citadel.’

  Marek withheld a gasp at his good fortune. He did indeed know of Fredrick. In fact, he made it his business to know of all the wealthy families in the Citadel and the Cobblers in particular were loaded! He also knew that Fredrick had inherited his father’s wealth and was well into the process of blowing it on wine, gambling and Courtesans. If he played this right, he would surely start Moon-day with a bang.

  ‘On the contrary, Sir,’ he said with a low bow, ‘I am aware of your pedigree and indeed your renowned skill, especially with the ladies may I add,’ he laughed, playing to the arrogance of Fredrick who positively glowed in the praise.

  ‘Indeed this is the case,’ preened Fredrick. ‘In fact, I am about to purchase a whole month in the Pleasure-tower this very day, and I seek a suitable present for the Governess herself.’

  A quiet murmur rippled around the crowd. Surely the Governess would not entertain this drunken creep, though it had to be said, everyone had their price.

  ‘The Governess herself?’ gasped Marek, feigning astonishment. ‘Well yes, my liqueur would certainly be a suitable gift. I am sure that her Excellency would reveal even the secrets of the inner sanctum to the bearer, but even so, I have spent over a year preparing this juice of the gods and I fear that even one so dignified as yourself, would struggle to meet the price. No, I think I will bestow it upon the council and earn my tower credits for many years to come. Now, moving on, let’s sell some ale.’

  Fredrick’s face glowered with anger.

  ‘You will wait, Sir, I have not finished. There is none in the council, or indeed the Brewer’s-tower, whom I call superior and I am offended that you doubt my wealth. I am Fredrick of the Cobblers and I demand this liqueur. Now, name your price!’

  The crowd fell silent as even those in front of the other stalls watched the haggling in anticipation, most knowing that there was only one likely winner in this contest of wiles.

  ‘My apologies, Sir,’ said Marek humbly, ‘I did not mean to offend. I should have realized that an auspicious family such as yours, could easily afford the measly five crowns for a once in a lifetime experience such as this.’

  The crowd gasped at the amount. It was almost a lifetime’s wages for the average labourer and all eyes turned to Fredrick.

  The Cobbler hid his own gasp, throwing a false smile around the market.

  ‘And for how many skins?’ he asked, clearing his throat first.

  ‘It is unique, Sir,’ replied Marek. ‘That is the beauty of this entrancing draught, there is no other, nor will there ever be any
other like it. In fact, so rare is it’s bouquet and taste that only the most discerning palate will appreciate its matchless qualities.’ Marek hid his smirk well. He knew he had him, all he had to do now was reel him in. ‘But of course,’ he continued, ‘if it is too steep, I could drop the price slightly.’

  Fredrick hesitated, looking around the crowd. The price was astronomical. Yet, he knew he could not back out of it without losing any respect he had left. Even the suggestion of a price drop, an ingenious ploy by Marek, was a veiled insult and he knew he could not accept the offer. No, he was cornered and there was only one way out.

  ‘Five crowns, you say,’ he shouted loudly, looking around, ‘I spend more than that on toilet wipes. I shall take your wine, Sir, and use it to bathe the shimmering skin of the Governess before immersing myself in the untold pleasures that heavenly body can offer.’ He took out his purse to retrieve the coins and made his way through the crowd to retrieve his purchase. He handed over the money and as he turned around, everyone burst into spontaneous clapping and cheering. Fredrick held up the wine skin in imagined triumph and in his arrogance, thought the cheering was aimed at him and not Marek

  The Brewer secreted the coins quickly about his person, astonished at the stupidity of the man. At the end of the day, it was only wine and though it had indeed taken a year to brew, it was without any help from him. It had taken six months to gather enough rotten apple cores and as long again for them to ferment. In fact, he had only remembered to bring it today, because his wife had complained about the pungent stink emanating from the back of her cooking area. He turned back to the crowd holding up a fresh skin in each hand.

  ‘Now,’ he shouted, ‘who’s for some ale?’

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  Similar scenes were repeated throughout the day at all the other stalls, and as the day went on and the more succulent joints and sweeter cakes were bought by the wealthy, the poorer members of the populace emerged to purchase the more affordable goods on offer.

  Kenzo had struck a good deal with one of the Brewers and had haggled with a Baker for a modest, yet pretty sweet-cake. He made his way to the gates for his guests to arrive, and as if he wasn’t nervous enough, was dismayed to find that one of the guards on duty was Braille.

  ‘Oh no,’ groaned Kenzo, realizing his every move was going to be scrutinized by his big buffoon of a friend.

  ‘Hello, Kenzo,’ Braille smirked, ‘have you come to meet daddy?’

  ‘I’m begging you, Braille,’ said Kenzo, ‘please don’t spoil this for me,’

  ‘Me!’ gasped Braille assuming a look of hurt. ‘Would I do something like that to a friend?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ stated Kenzo staring into the grinning soldier’s eyes.

  Braille stared back with a smirk on his face.

  ‘Okay, how much?’ sighed Kenzo, knowing how Braille worked.

  ‘Ten cups of your ale skin tonight.’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Done!’

  Braille clapped his hand over his own mouth, confirming his part of the deal.

  ‘Silence, right?’ questioned Kenzo.

  ‘Absolutely,’ mumbled Braille through his fingers, a wicked gleam in his eye.

  ‘Okay,’ said Kenzo, and went over to sit on the perimeter wall of the causeway to await the dreaded meeting with his girlfriend and her father.

  A few yards away, a black cloaked Watcher stood by his empty cart, waiting for the trade that always came. Soon a group of sombre people appeared, carrying a heavy bundle between them. The leader carried a basket and opened the lid for the Watcher to examine. With a nod, the Watcher accepted the payment and the group placed both the basket and the wrapped corpse on the cart. The family gathered around, somewhat reluctant to leave their deceased relative to the custody of the city’s appointed undertakers. The distraught older woman, being comforted by the younger adults, was obviously the spouse of the deceased and Kenzo averted his eyes from the heartbreak as the family paid their last respects.

  Kenzo knew that this scene was being repeated around all the city, for this was how the city dealt with their dead and how the Watchers made their living. For a price that was negotiated according to the wealth of the family, the Watchers would take the corpse to their tower and after preparing them for the afterlife, commit their bodies to the sacred fires, allowing their souls to be freed to join Arial in the heavens.

  Over the next half an hour, three other families brought their deceased to the Watcher’s cart and the novelty soon wore off with Kenzo, as the sweet smell of death seeped through the shrouds. Finally, he stood up as he recognized Leona walking alongside her father and walked forward toward them, offering his hand in greeting.

  ‘Hello, Sir,’ he said formally, ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ came the reply, with no hand offered in return. ‘Right, let’s get this over with.’

  Kenzo glanced at Leona.

  ‘Would you like to sit?’ he asked, indicating the blanket he had placed on the now dry causeway wall, ‘I brought your favourite ale and some cake.’

  The father's face lit up when he saw the ale-skin and ignoring the bone cups, pulled the stopper from the neck with his teeth and drank direct from the skin. Leona and Kenzo glanced at each other nervously as they waited for him to come up for air.

  ‘Cake?’ suggested Kenzo pointing at the treat nervously.

  ‘Naah,’ grunted the father, ‘let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Get on with it, Sir?’ asked Kenzo

  ‘Yup, let’s get on with the bartering, the dancing starts soon.’

  ‘I don’t understand, I thought we were here to get acquainted.’

  ‘Acquainted, my arse, you want to bed my daughter, and I won’t let that happen unless you marry her first, so how much can you afford?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir, there seems to be a misunderstanding, I was only…’

  ‘Only what?’ interrupted the father impatiently. ‘Do you want to marry her or not?’

  ‘Well, yes of course!’ answered Kenzo. ‘But …’

  ‘But nothing! How much money have you got?’

  ‘Err, well I have some savings and I have a good job, I suppose I could amass perhaps half a crown if I see a lender.’

  ‘Half a crown,’ guffawed the father. ‘Do you hear that, sweet Leona? He values you at a mere half a crown.’

  ‘It’s not like that!’ said Kenzo sharply, his anger rising.

  ‘Then, what is it like, soldier?’ sneered the father.

  ‘Of course Leona is worth more than that, there’s not enough money in the Citadel to match your daughter’s beauty, but I am a mere soldier and I cannot get my hands on much more.’

  ‘Then this conversation is over. Leona, come, I have ale to drink and women to bed.’

  They stood to leave, Leona glancing at Kenzo in confusion as they walked back in to the Citadel.

  ‘Wait,’ called Kenzo, ‘I will pay a full crown for your daughter’s hand.’

  The father stopped and looked back.

  ‘Make it two crowns, soldier, and you will get more than her hand.’

  ‘I can’t find two crowns,’ said Kenzo quietly.

  ‘Two crowns and we have a deal. That is my final word. Well?’

  Kenzo looked at Leona and her father in turn, at a loss what to do.

  ‘I thought so,’ said the father, ‘let's go.’

  ‘Okay!’ shouted Kenzo. ‘I will find two crowns, even if I have to steal them.’

  The father walked back, extending his arm as if to shake Kenzo’s hand.

  Kenzo held his hand out to shake on the deal and was surprised when the old man stretched past him to grasp the ale-skin.

  ‘Two moons,’ said the father, ‘you have two moons or I sell her to the Courtesans.’

  Without another word, he walked back into the Citadel and as he dragged his daughter with him, she glanced over her shoulder, a look of despair
on her face, Kenzo staring helplessly after them until they disappeared. A few moments later, he relaxed his gaze and turning slightly, his eyes met those of Braille.

  ‘That went well,’ said Braille and immediately fell into fits of laughter.

  ‘Arsehole!’ snapped Kenzo, only succeeding in making the soldier laugh even more. He pushed past his so-called friend and stamped back into the city.

  ‘You’ve forgotten your cake,’ shouted Braille through his laughter.

  ‘Shove it!’ shouted Kenzo as he strode forward, gutted. He had forgotten the expensive treat, but stubborn enough not to lose more face by returning for it.

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  The market was obviously ending. Kenzo walked through the city streets and passed many traders returning to their respective towers. The ceremonial arrival of the tradesmen wasn’t repeated as the carts rumbled their return journey over the now dry causeways. Their human pack animals were just keen to finish the job and return to Bastion soon as possible.

  The courtyard had been cleared of people and the Artists had locked the gates in order to prepare for the nights celebrations. Crowds started to gather in front of the keep, many adorned in their finest attire in anticipation of the imminent celebrations, but kept away from the gates by a row of guards in ceremonial uniforms.

  At last, a great cheer rose from the crowd signalling it was time, and as the gates swung open, the cordon of soldiers moved to one side to avoid being crushed in the stampede. Kenzo was carried along with the crowd and found himself back in the courtyard, though this time it looked completely different.

  Though he had been here on many Moon-days, the initial sight always impressed Kenzo. The courtyard had been decorated with banners of extraordinary designs and colours so bright they hurt the eyes. Hundreds of lanterns hung from the walls in readiness for the darker hours. Tight- rope walkers plied their skills high above the crowd’s heads.