At last, there comes some sort of triggering incident, perhaps a riot or
some sort of panic in the market. To help settle things down, Thrand announces
that he is ready to nominate the new King. He is not really ready, but he feels
he has to do something and maybe setting a deadline will help him decide.
To that end the Examination Test is called to order. This is a three-day
process whereby a designated group tests and observes Thrand himself, to ensure
that he is sane and competent. This group consists of at least four Life
Witnesses (probably the same that attested to Taryn’s death), a select group of
Thrand’s fellow Judges, and the Heads of the largest Noble Houses (accompanied
by their Senior Madras). During this period, they may ask him questions and
pose various simple trials to assess his basic fitness. Nothing that bears
directly on the question of who is to be King; this is about the High Justice
himself.
When they all are done each of the group must swear (in writing) an
attestation to Thrand’s competency. This is to avoid any quarrels or quibbles
that could delay the process any further once he has made his decision. At the
end of the third day Thrand explains to Kettil that the High Justice’s decision
could then only be turned aside if he made some sort of gross announcement,
like handing the throne to an Ogre or, in the old days, a threatening power
like the Dark Lord himself. He chuckles grimly at the thought. He hopes he’s
not that obtuse yet.
Kettil looks troubled at that. It’s time for the young Morg to make a
revelation now, lest the revelation later become a cause for questioning
Thrand’s decision. It’s not really the Judge’s fault; he made an assumption and
Kettil chose never to correct him. The fact is, Kettil is a girl.
Thrand is dumbfounded. Kettil quickly explains that she was never sure how
long she could keep it up, whether she would be found out or simply quit after
the year was over. But the fact is, there was no stipulation as to her sex in
the Articles she signed, and some furtive research made it sure that there was
no Law positively forbidding it. She has come to the conclusion that she really
wants a career in the law, but now knows it cannot be founded on a secret. And
she does not want to draw any obloquy to the older Morg’s ruling if and when it
comes out, as she feels it surely must. Kettil anxiously watches Thrand’s
stunned face.
Thrand bursts out laughing. It’s a good joke on him and takes him down a
peg. Kettil is right, of course, there is no law against it, only custom. It
also resets his clock a bit and makes him realize he might have been allowing
unconscious assumptions to affect his judgement, even as to the kingship. It
suddenly makes his decision on the morrow all the clearer. In the meantime,
Kettil needs to bring him certain volumes from the Law Library. He will prepare
an airtight case overnight allowing Kettil’s apprenticeship. Should he announce
it before or after the kingship? Perhaps after would be best, so as not to
muddy the waters. But it will be waiting, and, he feels sure, fireproof.
The next day dawns, and the court is convened. The Examiners sign their
attestations. Heralds are standing by to announce Thrand’s decision; it will go
into effect immediately. Thrand is sitting in the judgement seat, the Crownhelm
gleaming in his lap. His knobby old fingers caress the cold metal. Excitement
is rife. The new King is bound to be in the crowd.
At the stroke of ten from the White Tower, Thrand starts speaking. He draws
it out a little, relishing the attention and the tension. He goes over all the
candidates one by one, including Roth and Trallin and Krod (these three will be
most emphasized, as they are the ones I’ve mentioned). Then, he comes to the
summing up.
None of these will be the new King. Instead, he chooses Varnik to be the
second human King of Morg City. Varnik has shown that he has the kingdom’s
best interests at heart, he’s the son of the beloved Taryn, and anyway, as a
human he won’t last as long as a Morg so if he does turn out to be a dud he’ll
be replaced sooner (he might not say this last part aloud).
Consternation, uproar! But as the news speeds away from the chamber and
bells start to ring, the court grows more and more reconciled to the idea. The
Metarlin (human) faction will have to be satisfied that one (junior) son of
Taryn will have the throne. Trallin will return to his estates in Metarlin, to
plot for regency there; he certainly won’t remain to be ruled over by his
younger brother. He will be joined by Innia who must be satisfied that one of
her sons is King, though he seems to have no dynastic ambitions. The Morgish
faction, who have had no strong horse in the race, get settled to follow the inertia
of the status quo. In the meantime, the Houses have plenty of time to prepare
better candidates. What’s fifty years or so to a Morg? The Life Witnesses bear
Varnik and the crown away to the formal coronation.
The crowd drains away, leaving the law court personnel waiting on Thrand to
dismiss them. The old Judge clears his throat. Now that that little piece of
business is cleared away, he declares, I have another decision to place before
you. One that may even be more far-reaching than the one I’ve already made
today. Kettil comes to stand at his side. Thrand unrolls the document he
prepared last night and starts to read out loud.
Thuh End. The rest is just scribbling and bibbling.
Notes
Well. This ‘finishes’ the story I began almost two years ago. I really had
almost only the barest idea what it would be about when I started; each step forward was like
putting a foot out in the dark on a staircase I wasn’t entirely sure was there,
trying to get to the top of a tower. After
a little rest I should go back and flesh it out.
Kettil was known from the very first to be a girl Morg, and I went to some
pains that, no matter how often the characters referred to ‘him’, I as narrator
never did. She was young enough that she could still pass as a fella with a
rather scant ‘beard’. I’m sure that Morg society will accept her with a certain
amount of grumbling and gossip, but I wonder if many other females will follow
her example. To the madras it would seem to be a step down into servitude and
to the males it would seem like poaching onto their preserve. Kettil wouldn’t
give a hoot; she enjoys it and with Thrand’s training becomes a very subtle and
clear-sighted Judge.
With a little care, Thrand lives to a goodly age if not the longest a Morg can reach. He’s still alive when Varnik passes away, but he has retired, and another Chief Justice chooses the next King. Who that will be I have no idea, though I feel it will be another Morg by then. Who can say? Maybe Roth’s son, maybe an entirely new character. The future is wide open.
Gawnich (the highly placed Morg magistrate from the beginning of the story,
one of the Lord Chief Justice’s seconds-in-command and likely to be his
successor) meets with Thrand to put forth his candidate to be the next King.
This is the Morg Krod, a dull but worthy fellow, a merchant from a noble House,
rich but ostentatiously honest in his dealings, given to flashy charitable
works and supporting public projects. Gawnich happens to know he would be
acceptable to a large swath of Morgish interests.
Krod has also, as Thrand finds after a little gentle but stern prompting,
obtained Gawnich as his advocate through a sizable … ahem … retainer. Nothing
particularly wrong with that; Thrand even appreciates Gawnich’s forthrightness
in admitting it when it comes down to it. It even stands in Krod’s favor
somehow in Thrand’s estimation; that he could win the support of someone as
basically honest as Gawnich. Which honesty Thrand knows personally; if there
was anything really wrong with Krod he could never had won Gawnich’s support,
no matter how much he offered.
Thrand explains this to Kettil after he has sent Gawnich off with hope in
his heart and a bug in his ear. The young apprentice still finds it somewhat
shady, pointing out that Gawnich would then also have the support of the next
King should Krod be chosen, and that would give him some clout when Thrand
passes away and his successor must be nominated. Even so, the old Morg
finds nothing outright objectionable in the suggestion.
Besides, the pressure is building for Thrand to make his decision. The City
is growing restless and business is starting to back up. Nothing really wrong
just yet, but everyone wants this period of uncertainty to be over. It’s making
them nervous, not having anyone to trust (or to blame) for the welfare of the
kingdom. Rumors are spreading (prompted by what or who, no one is sure) that
the Ogres are planning to take advantage of the interregnum to mount a surprise
attack. When will the Lord Chief Justice make his decision? Anyone would be
better than no-one, the grumble goes. The Autumn Festival is fast approaching,
and it cannot be celebrated with any easiness without the business being
settled and a King securely in charge.
Thrand knows he has to make a judgement, and soon.
(Notes to the Notes: I really have to go back and solidify what Thrand’s title is exactly. Lord Chief Justice? Lord High Justice? Lord High Judge? High Justice? That’s what he was in Part One, almost two years ago. At this point I can’t remember what I had settled on. And we’ve come around to the Autumn Festival again. Have to check what time of the year this story started; of course the coronation of the new King doesn’t have to happen at the Festival, just be accomplished by then. Let's see if I can be finished - in some sense of the word - with the tale started August 2023. When I woke up at 2:30 AM this morning I had no idea what this next section would be about. All I knew was that I wanted to bring Gawnich back from the beginning of the story. I even vaguely thought this would be the end. But that's apparently next week.)
Kettle comes in from a day off, disheveled, bruised, black-eyed but
grinning. It seems that some of the other pages and apprentices have taken
exception to the young Morg’s position under Thrand. Apprentice to the Lord
High Justice is a coveted position, and it doesn’t seem right to them that
someone with no education or breeding or experience should suddenly just pop
into it. Some of their masters, Judges of high degree, have grumbled at it as
well, and the impression they’ve given is that they will support any ‘hazing’
their servants might initiate.
But Kettle’s street training has allowed the young Morg to set several
bigger, older apprentices on their backs, and earn a certain new degree of fear
and respect, even more than is due from being Thrand’s protégé. The old Morg
chuckles at it, his mood momentarily lightened. The pressing matter of who
shall be King is still weighing heavily on his mind.
The problem is driving him to distraction. He goes over the conundrum with
Kettle, more to think out loud than anything. Things are complicated by his
personal ambition, to really come to a good decision, something that people
will point to and say he was truly wise to do that. His legacy, his
reputation, is riding on things as well. Although there are plenty of
candidates that would make … adequate rulers, it would be a letdown after a
couple of heroic monarchs (and Thron is certainly seen as a heroic King now, if
lesser than Taryn) to descend into mere bureaucracy. Every qualification, every
political criterion must be weighed.
Kettle questions whether he’s just making it too complicated. Set aside
noble house or private talents. Perhaps he should ask what sort of person
he wants to be King? Think about all the candidates. Who would he want to have
dinner with? Who would he trust to stand by his side in a fight? Who would he
loan money to? Who would he like his son to be like? Who would listen to good
advice?
The young Morg brightens. Come to that, why doesn’t Thrand just make
himself King? He’s still got a few good years yet. Thrand barks bleakly at the
idea.
That would not only be against the Lore, he explains, it would be against
the Law. And both can be very stubborn masters. Every Morg knows in his bones
that self-proclaimed rulers are bad news, and the Law, while elements of it can
be amended, has a few iron precepts at its core, and that’s one of them.
And I can’t make you King, either, he adds humorously. You’re not
old enough. A Morg must be at least fifty. Though you seem, in many ways, to be
wise enough. You’ve certainly given me something to think about. Now go clean
up and put something on that eye.
Notes
This little section is sort of an insight into my writing process. I know what has to happen, but not always how. I make an outline of the story as foreseen, and let details emerge as I think about it. Bits and pieces may be be fairly close to the actual writing, when I flesh it out and make 'blocking' as it were. That last speech of Thrand's, for instance, may be used almost verbatim in the actual draft. In the meantime I have something to work with and from. Morgs, being longer lived than humans at a 250 year average, have their own standards of when one is mature. Fifty would be their equivalent of twenty-one, or near enough.
Thrand (Part 18, Outline and Notes)
Well, back to Thrand after about ten months (since August 30, 2024, to be
exact). No real writing, but more notes and outlines for the next part of the
story. I otherwise haven’t done a whole lot of thinking about it since. Why? I
really couldn’t say. Perhaps I’ll fill it out (and Part 17) soon, into a true
draft. I have a vague ambition of having it complete (at least a first draft)
by my birthday at the end of July.
6/20/25: Kettle’s reading is going well, better than Old Okt, who did most
of his reading with his finger, but who had an uncanny ability to find the
justice in any matter. His decisions were never overturned, even when
challenged by petty technical pleas, pleas never found valid by other better-read
justices.
Two weeks pass, with Thrand dealing with several formal applications, as
well as informal ones, backstair encounters as it were, of dark horses floating
test balloons. These tend to get dismissed out of hand. Improperly formulated,
if not downright ridiculous.
But Thrand keeps a memorandum of every ‘candidate’, with pros and cons of
each one. He runs them over aloud with Kettle to get them straight in his head
and to see what Kettle has to say about them. The notes, written up, will go
into the State Archives, for the record. Thrand is doing well, losing weight
under Kettle’s watchful eye, but he doesn’t yet feel better, his mind
halfway distracted keeping his will power up.
Thrand is getting tired of the whole affair. He wishes that Roth did want
to be King: that would have been most unobjectionable. The other Morgs in
consideration are not especially outstanding; there might even be one from the
House of Keth. They would not make great kings, but then it is simply an
executive office. Thrand is kind of hoping that his last act as ‘king-maker’
will be remembered as a fine decision; he doesn’t want to ‘go out’ on a fizzle.
Then there is Prince Trallin to be considered. As a human he is still
rather problematic. But he is the son of Taryn, who was very popular. There are
several ‘human’ factions among the Morgs who do support him. Thrand is rather
leaning towards him, except for one enigmatic encounter that troubles him.
It takes place in the water-rooms in the palace, a random encounter. Thrand
is using the facilities when suddenly Prince Varnik comes in. He seems startled
to see the judge, but after some hesitation approaches him.
He tells Thrand about his doubts about Trallin and Queen Innia’s plotting.
Trallin does not seem to really care much about the welfare of the kingdom,
just about being king, backed up by the fact that Innia was a princess in
Metarlin, and that her brother (now King there) has no heir. Their ambition is
to rule both in Forlan and Metarlin, an empire. This troubles Varnik; he worries
about Morg City’s welfare under such selfish motivation. He’d much rather the
family fall into the background, or even simply go to Metarlin, a ‘home’ he’s
only visited a couple of times in the past.
The scene is the Hill of the
Dead, some way (at least a mile) out from Morg City. It is a burial mound
surrounded by a walled cemetery. The funeral procession of King Taryn has
walked all the way from the palace through the city to here, all on foot, except
for the catafalque of the King, which bears a stone sarcophagus and is drawn by
four oxen. If Thrand had not started his health regimen a week ago and been
supported by Kettel he might not have made the journey. The vast majority of
the mourners stop outside in the cemetery. The mound is opened, and a select
number of prominent people, both Morg and human, follow Taryn’s coffin (now
carried by eight burly pall bearers) into the three-tiered mound.
The first level is dedicated
to merchants and famous scholars; a certain selection of the mourners stops
here and cannot proceed, though heads of great noble trading houses and the
Masters of the Great Schools go on. The second level is dedicated to the tombs
of great warriors and soldiers; colonels and highly decorated heroes stop here,
although generals proceed to the third tier, the highest level. These are the Tombs of the Kings.
The Generals, the Masters, the
chief Witness, and the Heads of Noble Houses are the only ones who enter here,
as well as Taryn’s family and a few, like Kettel, who attend the elderly. The
gloomy stone boxes stretch back through the black-pillared hall; the only light
is from a high louvered window that casts a beam down upon a stone bier. The
pall bearers set down the coffin and pick up the old one that lays on the bier,
that of Thron, the King before Taryn. It is particularly light, because there
was not much of him identifiable left over from his last battle. They carry it
off into the shadows, then return and heft Taryn up into the spot. The sunlight
gleams on the fresh-cut white marble. He is the first human to lie on this
level. The pall bearers leave.
The remaining mourners,
about thirty in all, sit down on long stone benches facing the dais, the Queen
and her sons on the front right row. The Chief Witness, a truly ancient Morg,
stands in front of the coffin facing them. He declaims a few ceremonial
phrases, tells the story of Taryn’s life and accomplishments, then calls a very
young Morgish Witness up to him. He stares deeply into his eyes, then slaps him
a good hard one across the muzzle. “Remember,” he says calmly. And then the
funeral is essentially over, although there will be more feasts and rites in
the City come evening.
The chief mourners begin to
trickle out of the chamber. The family of course lingers, and the Witnesses
will be the last to leave. Morgs, of course, are of a more businesslike and
less sentimental nature, and more of them are leaving quicker than the humans
are. Thrand, however, remains seated on the bench, Kettel at his side,
gathering his energies for the trudge back to the City. The others are
studiously avoiding him, so as not to seem too greedy or ambitious for his
favor, although the next King of Morg City is most likely to be in this room.
But suddenly a stout figure comes clanking over and approaches him. It is
General Roth, a Morg dressed in ancient armor and with a plain red soldier’s
cloak. He has an eyepatch and an iron-grey beard, streaked with white.
Roth: Chief Justice, I’d
like a word with ye.
Thrand: (taken aback;
quietly) Really, General, I hardly think this is the time or the place …
Roth: (raising his voice) On
the contrary, I think this is exactly the time and the place, before these
witnesses living and dead, and especially before my old friend Taryn. I want to
lay it out before you.
Thrand: (looking around.
Everyone is staring at the two) (guardedly) I’m listening.
Roth: (fiercely, loudly) And
listen good. I do not want to be the next King of Morg City.
Thrand: (taken aback. This
is not where he imagined this conversation was going) I beg your pardon?
Roth: You heard me. I do not
want to be the next King! If chosen, I will not serve.
Thrand: (mildly intrigued)
But you seem eminently suitable. One of the Goldfire Questers. Slayer of Drang
Worthinsbane. High General and close friend of the Last King. And there are
many who would welcome a Morg back onto the Throne.
Roth: Don’t I know it! I’ve
already got a bunch of lickspittles shadowing my steps, making suggestions,
angling for a job under me. Even my own family are starting to give me
expectant looks. But I’m telling you now to save time later, I want none of it!
Kettel: (piping up) I can’t
imagine anybody not wanting to be King. Why not? (Roth glares at the young
Morg’s interruption)
Thrand: My apologies. New
apprentice.
Roth: Look, child, you’re so
young I don’t expect you’ll understand this, but I’m tired. I’m getting
old, and I’ve finally got a son, and I want to spend my last days with him.
If there’s one thing Taryn taught me is that the life of a King ain’t nothing
but trouble. (He looks over at the Queen and the Princes, who are staring at
the Morgs, although they can’t quite make out what he’s saying beyond he
doesn’t want to be King) He was always moaning about how he had no time for his
family, how his boys were growing up while he was in meetings about taxes and
border disputes. Well, I don’t have the time nor patience for that sort of
thing. Kinging it is a young feller’s game. You got to start early and grow into it, and I'm just too old. (draws himself up formally) Well,
I’ve said my say, Chief Justice. And I’m not saying anything else. (He turns,
salutes his old King and friend, and marches out of the chamber.)
The Queen and the Princes
huddle together, whispering, and turn to watch Roth leave. It seems obvious to
Thrand that the Queen, at least, is glad that a big hurdle to her son ascending
the throne has removed itself. The Chief Justice sits pondering a moment, then
shakes himself and rises. He and Kettel head out for the long trudge home, the
taps of Thrand’s cane echoing through the black pillars. The light shines down
on Taryn’s tomb.
Notes
Well, as you can tell, this
is more of an outline rather than actual writing. I’ll do this sometimes,
putting down what has to happen and making little notes about things that may
or may not happen when I actually expand it and write it out.
As you might be able to
tell, I’ve had the Morg City Hill of the Dead in the back of things for years,
since high school, in fact. It kind of appears in King Korm. The concept
has changed, of course; the common burial ground is now above ground around the
hill; somewhere along the line I just plain forgot about senators; and the
closest things Morgs have to priests are Life Witnesses.
Kettle
slowed down a little. Backaways Street was long and straight, and right in the
middle, at the gate in the dump, sat Grelda.
The
little Morg slowed down a bit, not out of fear, but more awed at the enormous
figure sprawling silently on her makeshift throne. Grelda never opened an eye,
claws folded over her belly as it rose and fell rhythmically, but Kettle hadn’t
come closer than five paces when she murmured rather distantly, “Greetings, child.”
She shifted a bit, rags rustling. “What
brings you to the dump today? Street brats don’t have any garbage … None that they
don’t keep themselves, anyway. Come to rummage?”
“No,
ma’am.” Kettle reached in and brought out the stowed leftovers, a meat pie and
some little pastries. “I’ve had a bit of luck today, and I thought I’d share it
with you, if you please.”
The
fat Morgess opened an eye at that, which went wide at the sight of the
offering. Kettle dusted them off a little and held them out. Grelda murmured in
appreciation as she plucked them out of Kettle’s hand; they quickly disappeared
into the folds of her own clothes. They were quickly followed by fruit: apples
and peaches and a nectarine. The last
seemed to particularly impress the lady.
“Lucky
indeed,” she growled. “This grub looks like it comes from the Justice kitchens,
if I’m not mistaken.”
‘You’re
right, of course, Madra. I just been there. In fact …” Kettle hesitated a
moment. “In fact, that’s something I’d like to ask your advice about. “
Grelda
chuckled.
“Don’t
tell me you’re in trouble with the Courts already, at your age?”
“No,
ma’am.” Then Kettle told her the whole story, of Thrand’s rescue and of their
meal and of the judge’s surprising offer. Grelda made little impressed murmurs
like ‘Mmm, mmh’ and sometimes mild exclamations of surprise. When Kettle was
finished with the tale, the little Morg looked at Grelda anxiously.
“Anyway,
what I wanted to ask you is, do you think I should do it? It would be a big
change. It sounds good, but maybe it’ll be just a big bucket of worms for me.”
Grelda raised her bushy eyebrows.
“It’s
a fine opportunity, not the sort of thing offered to everybody, especially
little street brats. Old Judge Thrand must see something in you that makes him
think you’re up to it. But really it’s up to you, what you want to do. How do
you feel about it? Do you doubt yourself?”
Kettle hesitated.
“Well,
I do want the job, even it’s only for regular meals and a chance to learn more
reading. After a year I can always leave, but I’ll always feel like a quitter
then, I think.”
The
little Morg looked uneasy.
“Also,
there something Mr. Thrand doesn’t know about me. Do you think I should tell
him about it before I accept the offer?”
Grelda
chuckled, her vast bulk quaking with private amusement.
“The
High Justice seems to think he’s wise; it might do him a little good to realize
he’s not all-wise. Accept the offer by all means, and do as well as you can,
little one.”
Kettle’s
eyebrows unknotted, muzzle breaking into a toothy grin.
“Thank you, great lady. You set my mind at ease.” The little Morg turned and set off at a great pace, tatters flapping. Grelda watched the retreat with hooded eyes, then reached her claw into the recesses of her clothes. She drew out the nectarine, and examined it carefully before taking a deep sniff. It was not often that such delicacies came her way. Finally she took a bite, chewing with hardly a movement of her muzzle, carefully not letting any juice escape. Grelda closed her eyes and swallowed. For a moment she was still. Then a vast but nearly silent laugh shook her body.
Kettle
swallowed a huge mouthful and took a long speculative sip of ale.
“That’s
a lot to swallow at once, boss. Can I have a little time to think about it? Not
to seem ungrateful or anything, but I have somebody I’d like to confer with
before I make any big decisions.”
Thrand
was a little taken aback. What could the boy be thinking about that would be a
drawback to the situation? Why wouldn’t he jump at a chance to leave the
streets? He’d turned down plenty of eager youngsters who had applied for a page job,
from good families, too, and with ambitions.
“How
long would you need?” he asked cautiously. “I was rather hoping to get things
done and started with.”
“Oh,
not too long. Suppertime at the latest. I feel I’d probably like the job, but I
know a really wise lady I think I got to talk to first before I leap into the
lake, as it were.” Kettle looked up at Thrand anxiously. “You understand, don’t
you? It’s a pretty big change in life. All I’ve known so far is the street
life. It stinks, but there’s a certain freedom there.”
The
old Morg shrugged.
“I’ve
never considered that aspect of it before. I can see how you might hesitate a
bit before binding yourself to these musty old halls, even for only a year; to
be at someone’s beck and call at every hour of the day. Well, I can’t really
grudge you a few hours of reflection, but I do hope you will ultimately accept
my offer. I’m already feeling the urge to indulge myself after these short
commons, and I really need a personal watchdog, you know.”
Kettle
smiled.
“Don’t
worry, boss. I’ll be back in time to take you out on your evening walk and get
you some bread and water. But right now, I got to polish off this meal.”
It
didn’t take Kettle long to finish, and that was partly because bits
and pieces of food from the plate kept disappearing into the folds and pouches
of the little Morg’s tattered clothes. By the time they had walked to the back
gate again and prepared to say farewell, Kettle was an oddly bulging little
figure. They shook hands, and then the young Morg melted away into the passing foot
traffic. Thrand arranged with the guards at the gate to let the child back in,
no matter what time the return, and then headed back to his chambers. It was
time for him to check in on the Crownhelm at last, he thought.
Morg
City, or Mog-Tel-Syr as it was now more formally known (though most still
rather lazily called it Morg City), has five rubbish dumps. The largest lies to
the south, halfway between the Palace and the city wall; the lesser four are
offset between the compass points. Kettle took the most direct streets to the
smelly, smoking tip where it lay contained within sooty, red-brick walls. There,
at the entrance, presided Grelda the Great.
She was
a Morgess, immensely fat, but fast on her feet, almost acrobatic, with an
enormous bush of curly hair, whether black or brown it was hard to tell. She
dressed in bewildering layers of tattered dresses and shawls and big black
boots. She carried a black stick, not as a cane, but as a rod of authority.
She
seemed to have a perpetual snarl and a squint, but these were no true
indicators of her mood. These same features could be puzzled, judging, or
compassionate. One could only know when she was truly angry because her eyes went red.
She was rather ugly by Morg standards of feminine beauty, but this fact did not
seem to faze her. Though enormously
female physically (her big warty breasts like melons), she was peculiarly
sexless, or at least people tended to shy away from thinking of her in a sexual
manner.
Legend
has it that when she was very young (too young, in fact) she lost a baby (to an
unnamed boyfriend) and was ever after unable to conceive. That still qualifies
her as a Madra, or mother, however, and that affected her rather unusual position in the
City.
She governed
there at the Central Dump, perched near the wide ungated entrance on a mound
that may have a chair under it somewhere beneath the piled rags and dirty flat
cushions. She will stop patrons as they enter and check their burdens, often
removing items that seem to be of special interest to her. No one passes by
this inspection, although there is room on either side. Each load costs a
penny; nothing is accepted after sundown; those who particularly divide their
garbage neatly as to what they think she might like are sometimes passed
without payment. But this job is only the tip of her mysterious position.
Sometimes
after they have thrown their load, a lady (or, as it might be, two or three
ladies) will stop to talk and pass the time of day with her. They show her
enormous respect, not how you would imagine anyone would treat an old dump
woman. After they have thoroughly unburdened themselves, and Grelda has
conversed with them mostly in grunts and short sentences, the lady morgs will
bow in deference and leave quietly. Respect for her has spread to the menfolk,
and no street urchin dare disturb or torment her, and few of them will go to speak to
her.
The
humans of Morg City wonder if she might be some kind of witch, and approach her
with caution. But the truth about her and the power she wields is greater and
stranger than they can imagine. For she is the Great Madra of the City.
No
one has ever conferred the title on her nor would she ever claim it for
herself. No one can say when it became manifest. She carries her authority
without pride or pomp. It is an unseen haze, Kettle thought, approaching with
slowing footsteps, a kind of mist surrounding her. Was it because of her
suffering? Her unattachment to family or caste? Males and business companies
may go to the courts or the king for justice, but madras go to Grelda to know
what she says, and what she says is accepted as unappealable. Kings are chosen
and rule from on high; the Great Madra can only be known and acknowledged but
never spoken of, and when they know her, they know her without words or
ceremonies.
The fires of the Central Dump burn all evening. What Grelda does after she puts them out, nobody knows. And no-one dares call her ‘the Great’ to her face. This is where Kettle was headed for advice.
Notes
The whole part about Grelda and the dump was largely written as a sketch as soon as I foresaw her part in the story; as such, the voice and tense in which it is written might be a little confused. I have tried to rewrite it a bit, but not as extensively as I think it will need to be eventually. It's full of a lot of 'telling' and needs more 'showing.' But frankly, right now I'm just too tired. Next part I should be going back to the active voice with the new writing.
After
Thrand had gone to his chambers to stow away his new mourning cloak and change
his smeared tunic, he took Kettle to the Communal Lavatory, where he introduced
the young Morg to the hitherto unfamiliar mysteries of washing up. With
scrubbed hands and face (and rags somewhat freshened with healthy doses of
sweetgrass water), Kettle was now ready to appear in the Judicial Refectory. They
entered the room, and a long speculative buzz went around the tables, only
hushed when Thrand cast a stern eye around the eaters. The two grabbed plates
and forks and got in line along the long rows of food-laden tables. Thrand,
mindful of the Healer’s new injunctions, ended up with somewhat smaller portions
than usual, but Kettle, who seemed to have decided to get while the getting was
good, had an absolutely mountainous pile, including three different meats and
at least five different desserts. They sat at Thrand’s private table, and a
waiter brought them two mugs and a pitcher of small ale.
They
tucked in with no further ceremony than “Shall we?” “Let’s!” The older Morg,
though ravenous from the unusual exertions of the day, tried to slow himself
down and really enjoy what short commons he had. This gave him time to observe
with envy and astonishment Kettle’s truly amazing and heroic efforts to cram
the mountain of food down in one setting, washed down with noisy gulps of
waterish ale from an ever-refilled cup. When the young Morg finally seemed to
be slowing down, and Thrand’s plate was already long empty, the old Morg
thought it was at last time to get to business. He cleared his throat. Kettle
cocked a wary eye up at him, like a cautious dog interrupted at his bone.
“You
don’t have to stop eating,” the High Justice said. “But start listening to my
offer. I’ve said I want you to be my page. I want you to know I’ve never had a
page before. But not only am I facing a serious judicial crisis, I’ve just
suffered a mild heart attack …”
“I’m
sorry to hear that, Sir.” Kettle interjected quickly.
“Thank
you; but never mind that for now, child.” Thrand tugged his beard. “Just
listen. So I need a helper, to take some of the load of ordinary chores off of
me, but most of all, I need somebody to be my conscience.”
“Your
conscience, boss?” The young Morg asked cheerfully, stuffing a huge wad of cake
in. “Far as I can tell, Chief Justice, you’re the conscience of the whole city.
What could you possibly need me for?”
“Not
for the City, lad, but for me. I’m going to be busy thinking about the City,
and I won’t have time to think about myself, see? I’ve got to lose weight and
watch my health or I’m dead. I’m going to be under a lot of pressure, and no
doubt I’ll try to take any opportunity to ‘forget’ my walks or eat more than I
should. That’s why I want to hire you. You will keep me on track; that’ll be
part of your job.”
“So
I’m supposed to boss you around, boss? Go on with you then. And you’ll listen
to me?”
“I’ll
write it into your Articles, Kettle. That’ll make it legal, you see, and as
Chief Justice, I wouldn’t dare to break the Law. It would be too shameful. Then
you could actually sue me, and that would destroy my reputation.”
Kettle
whistled at the thought.
“And
you’d really do that to yourself?”
Thrand
sighed.
“I
really must, son. I know myself too well. I need it for a safeguard, a
guarantee. I’d rather not die, you see. I’ve cared for myself for over a
century now and look where it’s got me.”
Kettle
grinned.
“And
you want me to be your nursemaid, eh? Will I tan your hide if you don’t obey?”
A candied plum was popped into the already grinding muzzle, juices pouring
between the threshing teeth.
“Let’s
hope it never comes to that,” Thrand chuckled. “Wipe your chin, lad; that’s
what the napkin is for.” He took a swig of ale. “Now to further sweeten the
deal. Your meals (good meals like this one, child) and clothes will be totally
provided for, and you’ll get a silver mark every month to spend as you will,
and a free day every two weeks to spend it in. Your own room next to mine. You’ll
be doing a lot of basic work, of course, but as I said before, you’ll be around
the Courts, and if you find any affinity for the work, I’ll put you on the
legal track. And after a year, you can leave the contract and go your merry
way. You can’t ask fairer than that.”
Notes
I have the Morgs drinking small ale, which is a type of ale with very low alcohol content. It was widely drunk during the Middle Ages as it had just enough alcohol to kill whatever bugs were constantly contaminating the water, and so was a safer drink than 'pure' water. Of course, neither the Middle Ages nor the Morgs had any real idea about germs.
After a quick glance at my notes, I was referring to Kettle as 'Kettil' half the time, which was my original spelling. I also found in doing rewrites that I have Kettle whistling. That was purely accidental.
Here is the first paragraph I ever wrote about the character that would become Kettle (never used, as it turned out): Kettle woke with the early morning sun in his eyes. There was also the odor of nightly manure in his nose, a not unusual occurrence these days. The proximity of a nice steaming dunghill on a cold early spring morning had its comforts and its drawbacks. A layer of rank winter grass clippings and a spreading tarp helped accentuate the first and alleviate the second. There is an old Morg saying that ‘needs must’, and young Kettle was a Morg who had many needs. Right now, the need was getting a bit of breakfast. His stomach was already kicking him to get up.
[What Has Gone Before: Chief Justice Thrand of Morg City
has been summoned to the palace to bear witness to the passing of the human
King Taryn. On the way back to the Courts of Justice he has been rescued from a
couple of street toughs by the small but wily Kettle.]
High Secretary Gawnich kept vigil near the private
entrance at the rear of the Halls of Justice. Thrand should have returned; it was nearly lunchtime, and
the Tower wasn’t that far away. He could only imagine that the Chief Justice
had been delayed by petitioners. They would have started thronging him by now,
surely. The thought gnawed at the skinny Morg. After all, he had a
candidate that he meant to put forward, a client who would be sure to pay him
back for such a favor, and he didn’t need anyone influencing Thrand before he
could. That just wouldn’t be fair.
Suddenly a black-robed figure broke away from the river
of similarly clad traffic passing by the Halls' back gates, and Gawnich immediately
recognized the twisted walking stick and protruding paunch. He hastened to meet
Thrand with relief.
“Chief Justice! Thank goodness you’re back!” He laid a
solicitous hand on Thrand’s shoulder and looked searchingly into his hooded
face. “Are you well? What took you so long? The Crownhelm was delivered an hour
ago already; I locked it up safely in your apartments.” He started to draw the
older Morg forward as if to herd him safely back into the fold. “Do you want to
check on it?”
Thrand shrugged the patronizing claw off his shoulder.
“No, I don’t want to check on the Crownhelm; I am sure it
is perfectly safe. I am perfectly fine myself, thank you, and what I mean to do
first is to go get me some lunch.”
“Of course, of course, Chief Justice.” The skinny Morg hastily and humbly drew
himself away and fell back a step behind Thrand, who began striding to the
entrance with exaggerated vigor. “Dinner is almost ready. I …” He looked down.
“Here, what are you up to?” he asked sharply. “You’re not needed here. Go on,
hop it!”
Kettle, who had been following discreetly and cautiously
in Thrand’s shadow as they approached the imposing building, flinched at
Gawnich’s upraised bony hand, but the older Morg stopped the Secretary with a
sharp bark.
“Here now! That’s no way to treat a lad that just saved
me from a thrashing! Young Kettle here is my guest for lunch today. In fact…,”
he looked down sideways at the grubby child. “Maybe longer than that.”
“High Secretary, I’m considering getting myself a page.
If he wants the job. I thought we’d discuss it over a meal.” Thrand turned and
looked the surprised Kettle in the face. “Would you like to be a page, eh? And
maybe even an apprentice, if you show an aptitude for the work. Page work isn’t
the most exciting, but there’s a future to it, which is more than I can say for
guttersniping. And I really could use some help right now.”
The young Morg’s brow furrowed a moment in thought,
cracking dirty cheeks screwed up in thought. Kettle looked up at last and
smiled.
“I tell you what, chief. Let’s have lunch like you said
and talk about it a bit first.”
“Very wise.” The old Morg was solemn. “That’s a good way
to start the job.” He turned to Gawnich briskly. “Have an Articles of Employ
drawn up for me right away. Leave the usual spaces and enough room for three or
four special clauses.” He reached down and took Kettle’s hand and headed for
the door to the Courthouse.
‘But … but, Lord Thrand!” Gawnich spluttered. “Do you
really think this is wise? You can know nothing of this child!”
“I know enough.” Thrand grinned reassuringly down at
Kettle. “And, yes, I do think it is wise. You’ve been saying yourself for years
that I should have a page, if only to take some of the pressure off of you.
Well, the time has come. Things are going to be pretty busy around here for a
while.” He looked up again, muzzle in the air, breathing in deeply as if to
scent the future from afar. “Ah-h-h. I hope we have fried pork today.”
The bewildered Gawnich watched the two disappear into the shadows of the portico, then gathered his wits about him and headed towards the corner for the Scriptorium, the proper forms for the Articles of Employ already dancing in his head with all the possible outcomes of this latest whim of the Chief Justice’s. Had Thrand’s latest attack addled his brains? It was quite a left turn, and totally out of the High Secretary’s expectations. Gawnich liked to know where things were headed. He took a left turn and was gone around the corner.
Notes
Here we are back at last with Thrand, the first new entry since the end of October 2023. How did half a year go by so quickly? This section is graced, you will notice, with a little rough sketch I have done of Kettle. I'm afraid I don't do a lot of drawing these days, and this is the first new picture I have drawn of a Morg (and a 'new' Morg at that) for quite a while. The first new picture in a while, period. I don't know why I don't draw more, except I seldom have pencil and paper at hand, and the height of my desk does not lend itself to such activity. You can see that half the lines on the left look lighter; that's because the silvery pencil lines are lit up by my desk lamp.
“You don’t understand the
principal of the thing,” said Grawnich, frowning. “If you had thirty eggs …”
“Mog love you, sir, I don’t think I could eat thirty eggs afore
they went bad.”
“Quiet! You don’t have to. If you had thirty eggs and twenty-nine
starving companions, you could divide the eggs up so you all had something to
eat, and nobody would have to beg or rob.”
“Begging
your pardon, but yes, they would. Hardly anybody can get by on one egg a day.
And even if they could, you’d need thirty eggs the next day, wouldn’t you?
There’d be no end to it. I know if Bold Brok had only an egg a day he’d still
be out tapping citizens on the head, trying to supplement his income, as it
were.”
Grawnich
rolled his eyes.
“This
is just a political example! Thirty eggs …”
“You
know, all this talk of eggs is making me hungry again,” Kettle interrupted. “Do
you think I could have a few? Fried in bacon fat, if possible.”
“I
tell you the eggs are hypothetical!” Grawnich exploded. Kettle looked blank. “Theoretical!
Assumed! Proposed! Imaginary!” The young Morg looked inquisitively over at
Thrand for clarification.
“Lies,”
Thrand explained kindly.
Kettle
frowned.
“You
shouldn’t go around offerin’ folks no eggs until you’ve got a system worked out
proper, and if you ain’t got the eggs on you.”
Grawnich
rubbed his temple with a skinny claw.
“I
wouldn’t be giving out the eggs,” he ground out. “It would be the government!”
“They’ve
got some sort of giant henhouse, have they?”
“No,
they do not!”
“Not
unless you count taxes,” Thrand grinned. “In that case, there’s at least plenty
of plucking going on.”
Grawnich groaned.
The young Morg babbled on brightly for the rest of the
journey back to the Halls of Justice, much to Thrand’s bemusement. The chief
topic was at first the big news of the King’s passing and what that might mean
to the City; to Kettle it seemed to bode little change to the street folk
except as a new subject for gossip. Already it was seen among them as a fresh dodge
to ask for alms; folks in mourning cloaks were apparently sentimental touches,
willing to give a few kretts in memory of Taryn or as a sort of pledge for good
luck in the future. Thrand was able to enlighten the child (in a distant way,
craftily avoiding his own involvement in the matter) about certain details and
high consequences surrounding the subject. Along the way he revealed that he
was, indeed, an officer of the Courts of some kind. Kettle took it all in
easily, making some sound observations and asking a few canny questions in
return, bright eyes alert, never distracted but constantly darting about the
passing street.
Thrand, in turn, was able to find out quite a bit about
the child, who showed no embarrassment or reluctance to answer any question,
and indeed volunteered details with ease and an almost detached manner. Kettle
was ten years old or so; hard to tell, exactly, being a true orphan and not a
mere runaway as many of the other kids were. No, not a member of a gang, not a
Mad Lad, or at least not yet, though hardship might force that in time.
Kettle had one accomplishment, though, that lifted things above most fellow street urchins’ prospects. Somewhere along the line (memory would not supply how or who) the child had been taught to read, at least in a fashion, a talent that Kettle clung to and improved at every chance that came along. Indeed every street sign and merchant’s hoarding was rattled off proudly as they passed.
Notes and Excuses
Looking at this passage I can see that I probably should have done more showing and less telling, After all, I am introducing Kettle, who will be a major character from now on, and I've written slightly less dialogue for the child than the cloak salesman. Perhaps I will, when I go back for rewrites. But right now, I'm frankly too tired.
Monday is always a heavy work day for me. And now, even with my usual physical debilities, I'm facing weather that has plunged forty degrees over night, with a threat of rain to complicate things. It's the end of the month, I have scarcely anything in the bank, with several medicines that need refilling, as well as the specter of Covid lurching through the family again.
So I'm grateful, as far as writing goes, that I'm able to at least walk a bit if I can't run at the moment. I mean to take this day a step at a time, until at last I can snuggle down into bed with the fewest anxieties and undone tasks possible.
Thrand turned involuntarily to see what new development this
was, and in that instant the boy snatched the bag of coins from his claw.
Otherwise, the two thugs had frozen in their tracks and were staring scowling
at the odd figure that was running toward them.
It was a young Morg, younger than Snav, not even into
First Beard, it seemed. Scrawny, dressed
in a motley of about five layers of different-colored shirts that flapped and
tattered as it galloped frantically towards them, the urchin was small enough
to wear a shiny brown scalewing pod as a makeshift helmet on its round head. The
youth came scooting to a halt next to them, paws crossing back and forth in a
forbidding gesture.
“What are you doing?” The voice was scratchy and squeaking
with alarm. “Don’t you know who this is?”
“No. Who is it, then?” sneered the other Morg.
“Damn, I don’t know! But he’s got an entourage of Palace
Guards a-shadowing him most respectful like! Palace Guards! I passed them coming
up. They’ll be here any second!”
“The Guards!” The human boy’s face went pale. He turned
to his companion in alarm. “They ain’t like the Watch, Snav! It’s beat first
and questions later with them!”
“I know it, Terp!” Snav snapped. He turned to Thrand,
voice still threatening, but with an edge of appeal in it. “Perhaps you’re
right grampa. We’ll just call it even and be on our way. No need to make a
court case of it, eh? Have a nice day, and Mog keep yer!”
The two took to their heels with a scramble of boots and
in no time were disappearing around the corner. Thrand watched them go in amazement,
dazed but relieved by the sudden turn of events. What had just happened? He
turned to the little savior at his side in puzzlement.
“How did you know who I am?”
“Bless you, sir, I haven’t a clue.” With a chuckle, a
little claw withdrew a grimy cloth out of one of the many shirts pockets and
was dusting away at the manure on Thrand’s cloak. “Are you somebody, then?
Actually got some Guards? I thought that was a good story, myself, though I
thought of it on the fly.” The ministrations finished the cloth went back in
the pocket. “There you go, grampa. All right, then?”
“No, I don’t have any guards. I suppose I should have.”
Thrand was still distracted with the bewildering speed of the incident. “But I
left so quickly this morning, I didn’t think …”
“Ah, that habit will get you into trouble, more like as
not.” The little Morg nodded wisely. “I’d best walk with you until you get
home. Good as a guard dog, I am. Guide you along and bark when there’s danger.”
“Well, thank you, young sir. I …” Thrand patted his robes
distractedly. “That was my only money, and those rascals made off with
it. I’m afraid I have nothing to reward you with right now, but when I get home
…”
The other chuckled.
“Save you, sir, I can see you’re a good sort. I know you’ll
do the right thing when you can. First, why don’t we get out of this hunt-run and
onto a safer stretch o’ street.”
“Yes, you’re quite right, lad.” He looked down and
smiled. “And might I know the name of my clever rescuer?”
A snaggle-toothed grin looked back up at him, eyes
crinkled in amusement.
“Folks just call me Kettle. I reckon that’s good enough
for now. Shall we be on our way?”
