Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [70]
The cleric gave them all polite greeting, even Atta, and though Patrick glanced curiously at Rhys’s aqua-green robes he politely refrained from comment. He lit their way through the city streets.
“A long walk, I’m afraid,” he said in apology. “But you will find peace and rest at the end of it. Rather like life itself,” he added with a smile for Rhys.
As they walked, he told them that this part of New Port was known as Old Port, so-called because it was the oldest part of the new city. New Port had not existed until the Cataclysm had sundered the continent of Ansalon, elevating parts of the continent and sinking others, causing some parts to split wide open and other parts to break off. One of these massive splits allowed the creation of a vast body of water known as New Sea.
The first settlers to arrive at this location—refugees fleeing the destruction up north—were visionaries, who saw immediately the advantage of building here. The land configuration formed a natural harbor. Ships that would soon be plying the waters of New Sea could dock here, take on goods, refit and overhaul, whatever was needed.
The city began modestly, with a stockade overlooking the harbor. New Port’s rapid growth soon overflowed the stockade and expanded along the waterfront and inland.
“Like an ungrateful child who discovers wealth and success, and then refuses to acknowledge the humble parents who brought him into the world, the wealthy parts of the city are now far removed from the lowly docks that were its cause for success,” Patrick explained, sadly shaking his head.
“The flourishing merchants who fund the ships and own the warehouses live far from the stench of fish heads and tar. Brothels and gambling dens and taverns like the Dinghy have shouldered out more reputable establishments on the waterfront. Housing is cheap down by the docks, for no one of means wants to live there.”
They passed row after row of ramshackle dwellings made of wood taken from abandoned warehouses, and walked dismal streets paved with mud. Drunken sailors and slovenly women lurched past them. Even though the hour was past midnight, several children ran up to them to beg for coins or rooted through heaps of refuse in hopes of finding food. Whenever they came upon such children, Patrick stopped to speak to them, before continuing on his way.
“My wife and I have started a school down here among the docks,” he explained. “We teach the children to read and write, and send them home with at least one good meal in their bellies. Hopefully we can help some of them find better lives outside this wretched place.”
“The gods bless the gift and the giver,” said Rhys quietly.
“We do what we can, Brother,” said Patrick, with a smile and a sigh. “We do what we can. Here we are. Come inside. Yes, Atta, you can come, too.”
The Temple of Mishakal was not a grand edifice, but a very modest building that had evidently undergone recent repairs, for it smelled strongly of whitewash. The only sign that it was a temple was the holy symbol of Mishakal newly painted on one of the walls.
Rhys was about to enter when he saw in the lantern light something that stopped him in his tracks so that Nightshade bumped into him.
Posted on the outside of the little temple, nailed to the wall, was a missive bearing the words, written in bold letters in red ink: Beware the Beloved of Chemosh!
Below was a paragraph of text, describing the Beloved, urging people to look for the mark of “Mina’s Kiss” and warning people to refrain from taking any vow to serve the Lord of Death.
“Ah,” said Patrick, seeing Rhys frown, “do you know about these Beloved of Chemosh?”
“To my sorrow, yes,” Rhys replied.
“Do you think your warning will help stop the Beloved?” Nightshade asked the cleric.
“No, not really,” Patrick replied sadly. “Few of the people around here can even read, but we talk to all who enter our temple, urging them to be careful.”
“What has been the reaction?” Rhys asked.
“As you might expect. Some now fear