Chapter 2

 

Prynn and Brayen made quick work down the hillside; for as tall as the hill was, the combination of steep angle and silty earth created a wondrous trip-slide-tumble effect that guaranteed a short trip to the bottom. From there it was but a short walk along a dirt road, its path traversing through an unkempt and weedy field. The winding, twisting nature of the road belied the fact that it had been constructed not through purposeful intent, but rather, by frequency of use. At the end of the path, the field suddenly dropped off, the scraggly grass and trees growing progressively more sparse until ending altogether in a starkly empty circular patch of dirt. Here the first of the town's buildings came into view. Prynn, as he did every day, sucked in one rather large breath and released it all in one go as he crossed into the threshold of it's lively embrace.

Brightwater was constructed in a roughly horseshoe shape, with two long rows of buildings hosting all manner of shops and tradesmen facing each other from across a wide central lane. The lane itself was roughly paved with cobblestone masonry, though by now it was cracked and decrepit in many places. The storefronts varied widely in appearance, with some appearing fresh and lively, strung with endless ribbons and baubles to draw passing eyes towards its wares, whilst others visibly sagged under the weight of time and disrepair. Some of these buildings were short and squat, ending bluntly at the top in a flat roof, whilst others contained a second level, presumably the home of the shopkeep themself. At the very end of the lane the buildings splayed out a bit to accommodate a singularly large structure that boasted not two, but three whole stories, each one growing progressively larger and stacked atop one another like a series of hats. The white front of the building was adorned with slick grey stone and climbing ivy, and set into its surface was a single grand door made of polished wood and inlaid with the design of a star. 

This building was the pride and joy of Brightwater, and its origin was an unusual one. As the story went, many years ago a wealthy aristocrat and his two sons were traveling from lands afar when he was struck suddenly by illness. Being that this was the only town for many, many miles, they were forced to seek shelter in what then was an even more roughly-hewn version of the town. The man tragically succumbed to this disease, leaving behind his sons as the sole benefactors to his estate. Prior to leaving, the boys decided to donate to Brightwater those meager (in their eyes) funds as their father had brought for the purpose of trading on the western coast, in return for the hospitality the townsfolk had shown them; their one request being that the money be used to build a palatial estate dedicated to their father's memory. The problem came, however, when the sons began to disagree on what the nature of this building should be. 

The eldest son, recalling that his father was a lover of justice, believed the building should serve as the town courthouse and jail. Surely, travelers from near and far would learn the name of the tiny town with the glorious penchant for the law. The younger, still sore from the previous few nights sleeping in a swept-out stable with his ailing father, suggested that it be made into an inn instead. Foreigners from all across the continent could be assured of a luxurious night's rest, and pay top dollar for it too! This bickering between the brothers continued on for years, with both refusing to leave Brightwater until assured of his victory. So bitter and protracted their disagreement grew, that both eventually succumbed to a tragic demise at their own hands, each brother having surreptitiously poisoned the other during a particularly intense game of checkers.

And that is how the most grandiose building in all of Brightwater came to be the continent's first combination Courthouse, Inn, and Brothel (the last of which being more a matter of practicality than official title, modern sensibilities and all that). That's also how it came to pass that just last year, a young noble chap visiting from some far-off kingdom ended up falsely interred in his bedroom for a month. Doubly tragic was that the infamous cad, Thievy Cape, who had finally been captured after nearly 15 years of evading the law, was accidentally served a grand meal before being personally escorted out of town on Brightwater's single remaining horse. But, such is life.

Prynn pushed his way into the busy streets, weaving through the jovial crowds as they ebbed and flowed through the narrow path. Here and there the swell of townsfolk broke apart into clusters before a particularly interesting stand. Prynn's eyes would strain towards these shards of humanity, attempting to peer beyond the jostling bodies to see what was being peddled. Invariably this was met with a flash of brightly colored trinkets and baubles, or the raucous movement of some furred beasty in its tiny cage, or  the illuminated face of some vendor as he stoked a fire. The air was still chill with morning newness, and yet it was already heavily perfumed by the thick, heady smoke of charring meat, the sickly sweetness of candied nuts, and the yeasty warmth of fresh bread, each scent warring and also transforming into an amalgamation of the whole. Prynn's stomach growled in protest of this morning's breakfast. 

Soon enough the two boys passed through the thicket of villagers standing before the bakery. Rakner, the baker's owner, stood hovering over his goods. He was a tall, burly man with thick locks of dark brown hair that he kept at bay with a sash of white cloth around his forehead. Square, stern features were mounted atop a body of pure sinew, which was evident immediately due to the fact that he was perpetually shirtless. He had a voice like that of a thunderclap, and the attitude to match. And, as anyone would tell you, he made the most delicate and beautiful pastries this side of the eastern mountains. At the moment he was guarding an assortment that consisted of several loaves of bread, dozens of delicate pastel cakes topped with all manner of thinly sliced fruits, pasties filled to the brim with various creams, and enough tarts to feed an army. Brayen paused near the back of the crowd, enraptured.

"Perchance we acquiesce with some of these?" he whispered to Prynn. The taller boy glanced over the crowd to Rakner, who had been piercing Prynn with a steely gaze since the first moment they came into view. The moment their eyes connected, the baker made a show of raising his hand and loudly cracking his knuckles. 

"Maybe another time Barrett" Prynn mumbled, all but pulling the smaller boy from where he stood, mesmerized by the desserts. 

"Ah, Rakner still not forgiven ye for past transactions?" he mused.

"Transgressions" Prynn returned, already forging ahead through the crowd. "And I told you, that was a misunderstanding. How was I to know that our bricks didn't make for a good oven?"

Prynn knew exactly that those bricks made a right shite oven. But, as they say, in matters of war and pastries, all things are fair. Or something like that.

Both boys pushed farther into the square, approaching now where the building began to splay out and form a boxy semicircular clearing in front of the Courthouse Cot and Breakfast. A tremendous statue stood in the center. It was approximately twenty feet tall and erected in polished white stone swirled throughout with delicate grey. It was a goat. Grohnd the goat, the founder of Brightwater. Legend told that many centuries ago, a group of nomads traveling from the Far East in search of treasures decided to settle in this area after Grohnd, the faithful companion of the leader of this brave troupe, predicted that it would bring them great fortune for generations to come. It was said that Grohnd could see simultaneously into the future and into the past, one with each eye. As Prynn gazed up at the cockeyed statue, he thought to himself that it was far more likely that Grohnd was able to see the present, and also the present but approximately 15 degrees to the left, but these were the sorts of thoughts one kept to themself if they didn't want to get their ears boxed again. 

Prynn was pulled from these thoughts by the sudden sound of a dozen bells, each singing with their tiny, tinny voices as their owner jostled to and fro. Linette, fire-red and emerald-eyed, adorned in a dress of sapphire blue, sashayed into sight. She moved not with the refined, feline grace of a noble woman. Rather, she swayed her hips dramatically to and fro, so that the many tiny bells stitched into the folds of her skirts might clammer and yell and draw all eyes to her. With a dramatic flick of the wrist, she tossed down a metal bowl at the foot of the statue. With one last dramatic sweep of her eyes around the crowd, making sure an appropriate number of the menfolk were staring, she began a slow, sinewy dance. After a while a few dumpy men near the front of the crowd dropped some coins in the bowl. Prynn took one look at the display, the look of concentration on Linette's (admittedly pretty) face as she stuck her tongue out in concentration, the goat statue peering into the distance, and the dumb look on Barrett's face as we watched in lovestruck awe, and snorted through his nose. Linette attempted some dramatic step, nearly faltered, and succeeded in scaring away a half-dozen birds perched on the statue's base. Several pink, silver-tipped feathers drifted gently to the ground in their wake. The crowd began to disperse as the girl, undeterred, undulated in even more enthusiastic fervor. She was the finest dancer in all of Brightwater, a town that was not known for its mastery of the fine arts.

"Come on" Prynn huffed, once more dragging his friend from the scene. 

"But, but-" spluttered the smaller boy. "Can't we just watch a bit longer?"

"We have more important things to do than watch whatever this-" Prynn began to protest, but just then, a raucous noise could be heard rising above the steady hum of the crowd. Everyone began searching for the source in unison, several dozen heads all swiveling about like very many birds themselves. Finally, someone pointed out that is seemed to be coming from the pub across the lane. Seemingly at once the crowd began to swell towards the half-open doors of the building, squeezing their packed bodies through the narrow aperture into the relatively open space beyond.

Ye Neue Pub was the finest, and only, drinking establishment in Brightwater. It was a stalwart building constructed of dark wood, squat in appearance and studded by thick beams of mostly untouched tree trunks. It had been built by hand by Dalgrut the dwarf, who had been the sole proprietor of the establishment since as long as anyone could remember. As the crowd swelled inwards, Dalgrut could be seen standing behind the low bar, peering at this new influx of guests through his thick white eyebrows, eyes twinkling with suspicion. As Prynn and Barrett crossed the threshold, he lifted his bulbous nose in a gesture of warning. Prynn responded with a simple nod and raised hands, which earned him a half-hearted huff from the barkeep. Satisfied that he was in no immediate danger of being expelled, Prynn turned his attention to the source of the noise, which he quickly surmised to be the middle of a heated argument between a small group of townsfolk and a young man whom Prynn did not recognize. 

"Listen, I must speak with your King" the stranger was shouting over the unpleasant din of the crowd. The stranger appeared to be a young man, perhaps slightly older than Prynn himself, enrobed in a cloak of deep sapphire blue that was studded with tiny silver stars. He appeared tall and gangly, with features that were perhaps slightly too large for his face, with pale blonde hair, paler complexion, and eyes the color of soap film. Tucked beneath one arm was a giant book with a picture of a dragon on the front. Prynn was immediately struck by the notion that this guy didn't get out much. 

"We don't got no King" replied the gruff voice of a middle-aged man known as Thijn. Several from the crowd murmured in agreement.

"Ok, so your chief" the wan gentleman offered, smiling in a way that didn't reach his eyes.

"Nope, nones of that neither" a woman in the crowd countered.

"Magistrate? Marshall? Sheriff?" he continued, punctuating each with a dramatic punch of his free hand.

"Nope, nope, nope" the young Naomi answered, hiding a laugh behind one hand.

"But you are villagers. Surely you must have some sort of leader? Someone who tells you how to...how to village?" he demanded, exasperation straining his already nasally voice. 

"Aye, that's a tad unfair, don't you think?" Thijn asked.

"I beg your pardon" the man replied, running a hand through his whispy hair.

"Yeah, I'm just sayin that's a rather unfounded generalization. Youse just assumin that we here as village folks must answer to a centralized gubernatorial body."

The crowd jeered in agreement. For a moment the poor lad appeared at a loss for words.

"Then what, pray tell, do you answer to?" the boy replied after a moment, but it was clear that he had lost some steam.

"Well" a young girl of perhaps four or five responded, "I'd always considered us more of an independent municipality. Not so much dictated by a formalized government, as much as agreeing on a collective set of morals that upholds free-market capitalism."

Now the lad was truly gobsmacked. For a long moment he simply stared, wide-eyed, towards the nodding crowd.

"So" he began at last, his voice small, "the courthouse outside then? It has no judge?"

"Oy, yeah, we've got one of those" Bronn answered, a swell of pride in his chest, for he himself was the warden. 

"Ok" the lad sighed, finally believing himself to be getting somewhere. "Then may I speak with your judge?"

"S'no good." This time it was Dalgrut himself who answered. 

"And why not?" the man demanded.

"S'on holiday" Dalgrut returned, his hands working in lazy circles over the polished surface of the bar.

"On holiday?" the stranger spat, turning several shades of red in turn. 

Prynn hummed to himself. Just wait until he learned that the judge was nearly ousted last year in a surprisingly contentious race against a horse. The horse might have won too, were he not gifted to that cad Thievy Cape. 

"Listen" the man shouted over the raucous noise of the crowd. "I don't have time for this nonsense. I'll simply have to tell you all." He moved to stand on a table near the center of the crowd. 

"What I have to say is of great import" he hissed, sweeping his eyes over the crowd.

"Brothers and sisters, lend me your ears. For what I have to tell you may very well change the lives of every man, woman and child in this village forever."