Chapter 11: Carabas and the City of Chains
I introduced my living friends to the living memory of the young caravan girl I had encountered. That she could actually speak perceptibly to me, even though my keen senses could not hear the words of her companion memories, simply indicated how strong a memory, likely from a reborn spirit, she was.
At any rate she and the others showed us the way to the road, fading at length from sight as they trudged back to their campsight. I wished her peace, and hoped that whomever she had been since reborn as enjoyed a happier life.
To get to Chains Cross, one must ride on one of the many various trams, ferries, and cargo flats that rise from the ground to the floating island. They are, for the most part, of light wooden construction, needing mostly just to hold together around the crystals that turn the aetheric gyroscopes that do the actual lifting. Those “engines” are the seriously built parts, often serving multiple such craft over their lifetimes.
All I can say is that the vessels creaked in an alarming fashion, and the one we rode in lifted up ourselves as well as a supply of cargo from a landing site on the less-used side we traveled from. The Rowmans Union runs the trade, and makes good money from it (no doubt including hazard pay). We landed with a great thud on one of the flat expanses outside the walls and structures of the city, an area thick with shrubbery and lilac bushes and paths for the carts to bring goods into the town, along with scattered outbuildings and cabins for those who chose solitude.
We entered the city through one of the many gates, alongside cargo from our and two other barges. Rowan had been here before, unot unsurprisingly, and as his Prophecy was what was guiding us, we went first from the area known imaginatively as “The Lilacs” toward the Black Web and the shops there.
It struck me, as we walked, that for a city full of Humans, with a good scattering of other races from Orcs to some small froglings I did not recognize, that everything seemed very subdued. Humans are, among other things, loud and boistrous and very unappreciative of personal space. This city felt almost livable in, save for a sense of forboding.
One aspect of that was the number of eyes we drew. Now, to be fair, we are a motley and unusual crew, and to be still further fair, certainly few here had ever seen such an heroic Catling as Your Storyteller. Still, many of the eyes turned to us were troubled, especially when they spotted Rowan, our Harbinger, and made superstitious gestures to ward off evil.
(Everyone knows the best way to ward off evil is to stare at it, until, at least, it breaks its gaze with you. Woe betide you should you break your gaze with it first!)
Rowan had us stand around in a square, near a tried up fountain, where in his vision he had seen Siblis the Whiseperer, one of the Overlord’s creatures. He noted, to echo my own keen observation, that the people of the city seemed withdrawn, noting that none of them were hawking goods to us. He went further to suggest that their very perceptions might be tainted with envy and suspicion (of myself and the Orc, respective, one would assume), and so cause them to treat us with hostility.
For him to say it made it all the more apparent, and I abruptly realized how many of those hostile gazes were directed toward me, as if I were an evil that needed staring down. It was all a bit … much.
Thus I was momentarily pleased to be distracted by the sound I heard, and when Rowan commented that his vision didn’t quite match up with the location we were in, I was able to suggest we might want to hurry in figuring out what to do next, as there were many marching boots headed our way.
What? Boots! Clomping and stomping and the bane of all Catling tails (if fodder for Catling tales)? It may seem like weeks, but give me a minute to relieve myself of the lovely drinks you have plied me with, younglings, and I will be right back to continue with what happened next!