Taijitu World Building > Pre-Modern Era Fiction

Household (1968-1969)

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Myroria:
The day was frigid, even for October in Pelagis; though the mercury read only 20 degrees, the wind was blowing so steadily over the moors it felt as if the temperature was only in the single digits.

Gothren shivered and walked to the thermostat on the other side of the room. His office, smaller than the one he enjoyed while Imperial Chamberlain, heated unevenly, though the 'Q' Club it was housed above always seemed to have a room temperature so steady one could conduct laboratory experiments in it. The room's wooden floors; cold, unpolished and dinged, didn't help to conduct heat upwards from the bar. As a result, he was forced to wear about five layers of clothing all winter just to be comfortable in his own workplace.

Oh, how he missed his home in Novrith! That city of lights! Novrith was so far north, the sun seemed to be up for sixteen hours every day all summer. Even during the darkest days of December the lights of the arts district brought a warmth to the cold sea port that couldn't be matched by the combined wattage of Ozi'pol, Carcossa, and Annuminas!

Pelagis, on the other hand, had been as it was for the past two thousand years: drafty as an Bennish fall, cold as a Hemlander winter, and grey as a Letonnese summer. The arts district here was filled not with theatres and cabarets, but choirs and church bells. The summer nights, with their abandoned streets and austere apartments, seemed longer than those of the December solstice in Novrith. The winter nights were so long it seemed as if they would never end.

The office thermostat was set at 78. The temperature read 62. Gothren cursed silently and walked to his chair to get his coat. It was 3:30 in the afternoon, the light filtering through the window was turning orange, and it was time for a drink. As he turned the lock on the office door and prepared to leave, the phone on his desk rang. Pausing and holding the door open, he waited for it to ring again. When the high-pitched bells inevitably jingled, he bit his lip. As they rang a third time he sighed heavily and shut the door, throwing his coat onto the rack by the door. He winced as his hand grasped the cold metal of the handset.

"Hello?" Gothren asked, careful not to touch the phone to his ear.

"Yes, is this Gothren Quarrith?"

"Yes it is."

"Sera, this is Serjo Marcica Quarrovth. I'm calling from the Imperial Residence."

"Yes, there's no need for introductions, Marcica."

"I- I just wanted to make sure you knew who it was, Gothren." Marcica stammered.

"Well I do. Can I help you with something?"
 
"Her Majesty has something that needs to be done."

"She couldn't tell me herself?"

"She's... " Marcica trailed off. Glass could be heard shattering on the other line, followed by raucous laughter. "preoccupied. But she wants you and I to meet as soon as is convenient to discuss this."

"Maybe you should let her sober up before you drag me across the city to fetch a pack of cigarettes."

"No!" Marcica exclaimed. "She promised she wouldn't make me make you do that again."

Gothren sighed and grasped the bridge of his nose.

"This is serious. I can assure you, Gothren." Marcica said, half-pleading. Gothren remained silent. "It'll get you out of Pelagis for the winter."

Gothren's eyebrows raised. "Let's meet at the Blue Sky. That bar on the corner of Berenguela and 14th. In an hour."

Myroria:
The Blue Sky, despite its prominent position on the first floor of a high rise building on the corner of two busy streets in Pelagis, was nondescript and almost easily missed. Owned by two transplanted Novrithis like himself, the Blue Sky was Gothren's favorite place in Pelagis to get a drink. A decent ape of a genuine Novrith cabaret, it was the crown jewel of Myroria's capital - though if you were to transport it to a streetcorner in Novrith, it would seem like a cheap rhinestone.

It was attached to an old hotel - to enter one had to open a door across from the concierge's desk and walk down a flight of stairs, taking care not to bump one's head on the low ceiling. It opened up into a small foyer, where presently Gothren stood. He walked to a bulletin board on one wall and a poster just barely to the right of center caught his eye.

Printed on thick cardstock, it stood out among the sea of thin paper around it. In the center was an illustration of the face of a Hemlander, face contorted into what very well may have been a smile. Below it read, "'DA VOLFMAN' AND HIS THREE TRUMPET BAND - FRIDAY ONLY". Gothren smirked at the pun and wondered how a Hemlander would play the trumpet.

"Sera!" exclaimed a voice from behind him. Gothren turned to see Marcica pacing towards him.

"Hello, Marcica." Gothren said with a sigh.

"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything." Marcica said.

"Of course not," Gothren fibbed, looking behind his shoulder at the poster on the bulletin board.

"We should get a seat," Marcica whined, scratching his head. "The place is filling up." He stood on his tiptoes, trying to look over the half-wall separating the foyer from the cabaret's main room.

"Yes, yes," Gothren said, walking past Marcica. "I can get us a seat. We might be stuck at the bar,"

"That should be fine. I've never been here before!"

"You sound like you're my date," Gothren said with another sigh. "Oh, there's a table."

Gothren made a beeline for the tiny wooden table, and Marcica followed soon behind. "You never did explain what Her Majesty wanted me to do. Or why she couldn't wait until tomorrow to do it."

"Well," Marcica grasped, sitting down at the table.

"Oh no," Gothren said. "She's on another bender?"

"No, no, it's not that! Its just... " Gothren leaned forward in his chair, partly to listen to Marcica and partly to let a couple walk by behind him.

"I'd better start from the top." Marcica said.

"I always worry about jobs that require that."

Marcica smirked sympathetically. "There are two families on the Council of Great Houses. They're both firm Quarrovth but they hate each other."

"All the families on the Council hate each other," Gothren said.

"But these two..." Marcica said, taking a deep breath. "They invented the feud." Gothren chuckled.

"What are their names? Where do they live?"

"They both live in the woods outside Fellowmoor."

"The woods?" Gothren asked, the way someone might ask "I have to choose the gallows or the guillotine?"

"Not literally the woods. A town of about three hundred called 'Resaroth'. The..." Marcica rummaged through his pocket for a notepad and opened it. "the Sarerovths, who live on the north end of the town, have been there for hundreds of years. The Giriths, on the south end, showed up later. They've been fighting ever since."

Gothren leaned forward in his chair. "I'm still not following."

"Her Majesty needs your assistance. As long as they're both on the Council one will never vote the same way as the other. That's three or four votes Quarrovth will never have."

"How am I supposed to fix this?"

"We need a mediator. Darvam, the patriarch of the Girith clan, came to us. His grandniece is in love with a Sarerovth boy. He's willing to negotiate an end to this feud but he wants an outsider to moderate it."

"I'm not a mediator. And I have little interest in spending a winter in the middle of nowhere."

"You're the best we've got. And the pay is good. There's an old house in town Quarrovth would rent for you."

"How much is the pay?" Gothren asked, thinking that at least the snow out there would be white instead of car-exhaust gray.

Marcica ripped a piece of paper out of his notepad and slid it across the table. Gothren raised his eyebrows.

"I can be out there next week."

"Ah, well," Marcica started. "That won't work."

"Why not?"

"They don't plow the road that leads to the town. And a storm is coming down from the north. It'll be impassable by tomorrow afternoon."

"Which is why Her Majesty sent you instead of waiting until tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"Goddammit," Gothren cursed.

"It'll get you out of Pelagis for the winter. And once the snow melts you can take a few weeks off. Spend them at home in Novrith."

Gothren sighed and thumbed the paper describing his salary for the job. He stayed silent before opening his mouth.

"Listen, Marcica, you know I would give my life for this House, and that I'd walk to Funkadelia if Her Majesty asked me to,"

"But?" Marcica asked.

"But - " Gothren was cut off by a soft tapping noise. Looking towards the stage he saw a Hemlander standing at the microphone, tapping the end with his finger.

"Good evening," said the figure in a gravelly, accented voice. "My name is Sejm Obraska, but you can call me 'Da Volfman'. We're going to play a few songs for you tonight, but I'd like to start with one I wrote while living in Novajot, right after I was offered my first record deal. It's called 'Take a Chance', and I hope you all enjoy it."

As the band began to play a jazzy number, Gothren watched for a moment, sighed, and turned back to Marcica.

"I'll pack tonight."

Myroria:
"Just a few more miles..." Gothren whispered to himself. He looked sternly at the temperature gauge on his dashboard; the needle was perched at "H" and looked as if it'd snap off if it went any hotter.

Gothren reached down to turn the heat up, but found it was already at full blast. Taking his glove off with his teeth, he hurriedly placed his hand on the vent to his right. It blew only cold air. Gothren cursed.

"The thermostat, maybe?" he thought. He sighed aloud and made a silent prayer that there was a garage in town. As he took his foot off the gas, trying to coast as much as he could, he almost didn't notice a small wooden sign on the side of the road.

"ENTERING RESAROTH
COUNTY PELAGIS
SERBANK WARD"

"Yes!" Gothren exclaimed. He was rarely this excited, especially about entering a town squarely in the middle of nowhere. He settled back in his seat and reached for a cigarette but was startled by the engine beginning to sputter.

"Goddammit," he muttered. He barely made it to the side of the road before the engine stopped completely. Sighing heavily, he slipped his glove back on, popped the hood, and stepped out of the car.

Throwing the hood open, he swore. A small amount of steam was rising from the engine block. He walked to the passenger side and grabbed the "Pelagis and environs" atlas from his glovebox. A cursory look confirmed his worst suspicions: there was no garage in town. Gothren threw the map on the ground and looked down the road. A blanket of clouds, the color of slate that could only mean they were full of snow, was approaching.

Hearing a faint rumbling behind him, he turned and saw a truck emerging from the trees. A smile crept onto Gothren's face and he began to wave his arms. The truck approached but began to slow, pulling to a stop near Gothren.

"What 'appened here?" the driver asked with a smirk, rolling down his window.

"Overheated, I think."

"Over'eated? In weather like this? Good thing we'd come by, those clouds look like 'ell."

"Do you know where the nearest garage is?"

"Garage? Ieh, probably a good twenty or thirty miles behind me. The di'ection youse was going."

"Twenty or thirty miles? Dammit," Gothren said.

"Youse not from around 'ere, ieh?"

"No," Gothren replied. "From Pelagis."

"Pelagis!" the driver exclaimed. "What's a city man like you doing out 'ere?"

"I'm here on business."

"Business? Youse here on business?"

"Something like that," Gothren said. Suddenly a lightbulb went off. "My employers are actually putting me up in a house in Resaroth. Could you drive me there so I could call a tow truck?" Gothren reached inside his coat and removed a slip of paper. "This is the address,"

The driver took the slip of paper from Gothren's hair and examined it.

"Well shit," he said. "Youse the guy the 'ouse sent?"

"I - " Gothren began.

"You're lucky I'm the one who found you. Direr Girith. I'm Darvam's brother, the one who called youse people. If one of those Sarerovths found you... who knows what'd they do!"

"Oh my," Gothren said. "Uh," he paused, remembering his manners. "Gothren Quarrith."

"Well, get in. I'll drive you to where you'll be stayin'. You'd better get used to our town, because once that snow starts the only way in or out is by plane."

"Plane?" Gothren asked, baffled the town had an airstrip.

"Water plane!" Direr exclaimed. "Even a city boy like you's gotta know the Ser's too big to freeze over."

"Oh," Gothren said, getting into the truck. "I guess you're right."

Myroria:
Gothren sat in Direr's truck at the end of the driveway, eyeing his new home for the winter.

"This wasn't exactly what I expected," he remarked dryly to Direr. A single-story unit with clapboard siding, it matched the other houses in the village but looked about as drafty as his office back home.

"Ieh, well, this is what we got 'ere in 'esaroth. It'll serve you well, no matter 'ow it looks."

"Well, thank you for the ride," Gothren said.

"Much obliged," Direr replied, putting a deerskin-gloved hand out. Gothren grabbed it carefully and opened the truck door.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I don't suppose you have a recommendation for a garage in town?"

Direr looked puzzled. "Well, there's only one. My cousin Ferunen runs it."

Gothren nodded his head. Was everyone in this town related?

"Let me give you the phone number," Direr said, reaching into his glovebox for a pen and paper. He scrawled a number down, ripped the page from the notepad, and handed it to Gothren. "e'll take care of yah. Just tell 'im I sent yah."

"Well," Gothren said, taken aback by the friendliness. He had only heard bad things about the Myrorian hinterlands. "Thank you for everything, Direr." Gothren reached into his pocket to get his wallet.

"Now don't you go giving me any money!" Direr exclaimed. Gothren took his hand out of his pocket and raised his eyebrows. "You're my neighbor now, at least for the winter. I won't be 'aving none of your money."

"I - " Gothren said. "Well, thank you for everything."

Direr nodded and threw the truck into reverse.

"I'll be seeing yah around, sera. I 'ope the 'ouse treats you well. Stay warm tonight." Direr looked at the sky.  The snow would start any minute. He nodded slowly and backed out of the driveway.

Gothren watched the truck pull away and dug his feet into the gravel beneath him. He sighed and turned towards the house, stepping carefully on the stairs leading to the front door. With their cracked wood, they looked as if they'd give out any moment. He stood on the porch for a moment and gazed at the front door. Its center window, made of fogged glass, sat inside a wooden frame that seemed heavier than the stairs, though just as old. Gothren reached inside his jacket pocket for the keys to the house.

He slid the key into the lock and turned, swinging the door open slowly. The inside of the house was well-lit despite its rugged exterior, and was surprisingly clean. Gothren stepped forward and felt the crunching of paper beneath his feet. He stepped back and looked down to find an envelope on the floor, now with a footprint marked across it. Kneeling down and picking it up, he could tell by the fine make of the paper and the large seal that it was an official correspondence from the Doge.

He stood up and threw his keys onto the kitchen counter beside him, examining the envelope as he walked to the refrigerator. Gothren stood with one hand on the fridge handle, opening the envelope coarsely with the other. He shook the folded paper open and adjusted his glasses.


--- Quote ---Gothren

Thank you for taking this job on such short notice. Your expertise in situations like this is invaluable to House Quarrovth. If the Giriths and Sarerovths solve this feud that will be at least two votes on the Council in our hands.  I've heard rumors there are Moomintroth-pledged relatives up in Sadryn's Gore and T16R9 WOP that will jump ship to our side if the Resaroth War ends.

Talk to Darvam Girith as soon as you are able. He will give you the whole story.

You'll get your four weeks off at home if this ends well.

Freddie
--- End quote ---

Gothren pondered how this letter arrived here before he did. A quick glance at the postmark answered his question: October 24. The doge had sent it two days before he even heard of the job.

Gothren sighed and opened the refrigerator, grabbing a jug of orange juice on the top shelf.

Myroria:
"I'm glad you were able to meet with me on such short notice, sera." Gothren said, shaking Darvam's hand and adjusting in a seat across from him. The pair sat in Darvam's living room; the largest room in the small two-storey farmhouse he lived in with his wife and twenty-year-old son Drathyn. His two daughters, Dratha and Direnu, had long since been married and moved out - Dratha to Fellowmoor and Direnu to the other side of Resaroth.

Drathyn, was a tall, lanky man with a duck's ass haircut - with several teeth missing from fights, gingivitis, or both, he looked like a backwoods version of Serjo Marcica Quarrovth. Gothren had met him and his bullmastiff, Mora, on the porch outside moments ago. He followed Gothren somewhat ominously into the house and was presently leaning on the doorjamb between the living room and kitchen, Mora sitting nearby in front of her food dish. In school, Drathyn got the name "Dra-dra" because of the peculiar way in which he spoke -

"Wh-wh-why are you h-h-here?" he asked Gothren. Darvam didn't seem to mind his son's intrusion on the conversation - in fact, by the look in his eyes, he seemed proud.

"Well," Gothren began as he turned in his chair to face Drathyn. The chairs in the room were set up so that he couldn't look at Darvam and his son simultaneously - and Gothren couldn't help but feel the design choice was intentional. "Leading members of the House sent me to inquire about the... disagreement between your family and the Sarerovths. We would like all Quarrovth-affiliated members of the Council to be on the same side."

"Th-th-th-th-this is our b-b-business, ssssera."

Gothren looked at Mora. She let her tongue hang out of her mouth, exposing her teeth. Gothren turned back to Darvam.

"I was just told you seek you out, sera. You were the one who - "

"Yes, yes," Darvam said finally. "Would you and Mora leave us, Drathyn?"

"I'll b-b-be-be outside if you n-n-need me, F-F-F-Fa',"

Gothren and Darvam sat as the chain linking Mora to her owner jingled and a pair of footsteps walked away. The storm door slammed and Darvam spoke once again.

"Ginadura may just be my grandniece, but she's like a daughter to me. She says she's in love with Bevadar Sarerovth. He's the heir to their whole... " Darvam paused and grimaced. "throne. I 'ate the Sarerovths with all my blood, but I love Ginadura more. Do you 'ave a daughter, sera?"

Gothren pursed his lips and wanted to sigh. He knew his answer,

"No."

and he knew Darvam's response,

"Then you don't know what I mean."

"I love my wife very much," Gothren said, looking for shared interests with the Girith patriarch. "I'd do anything for her."

Darvam remained silent.

"How did this feud start?" Gothren asked. "That would certainly help us try to fix it."

"My great-great-great-great grand-aunt had her..." Darvam looked at his boots. "innocence stolen by one of the Sarerovth boys. In the traditional Myrorian style, we avenged her. And they avenged their's. It's been going on like that for, oh, an 'undred years now.

"A hundred years?" Gothren said incredulously. He cursed the dogaressa's name under his breath. She did not warn him of a feud this entrenched.

"To end the violence... uni'aterally would be to renounce our 'onor."

Gothren leaned back in our chair.

"How many people have died?"

"There's a cemetery up on Girith Ridge... that's ours and it must have at least thirty graves in it that the Sarerovths dug."

"Thirty of your family members?"

"Ieh," Darvam said. He looked at his boots again.

"Who was the last one to die?"

"Oh, that'd be... Dather, my nephew. He died back in '65."

"How?" Gothren asked. As he leaned forward in his chair Darvam seemed to lean back.


Dather sped through the thick Resaroth woods on his snowmobile, trying to escape the mad yelps from the three people following behind him on their own snowmobiles. He felt bullets whizz past his ear and several times had to put his hand up to shield his face from the splinters of wood flying off trees that had been hit.

"Why are you running, Dather?!" came a high-pitched shriek of a man over the loud roar of the snowmobile engine. "Mondros didn't run when you shot him!"

Dather pushed the throttle as far as it would go and narrowly missed a tall birch. Up ahead he could see the trees thin. Beyond them was Oramyn's Pond. He slowly turned the front skis, hoping to avoid the pond entirely. It was too early in the season for it to be frozen thick enough for a snowmobile.

"Just like a Girith to run away!" came another voice from behind him, this one deeper. Dather felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and heard a gunshot. Before he knew it the snowmobile had hit another tall birch tree and his body was thrown from the vehicle, hitting the ice on Oramyn's Pond. Dather felt a crack below him and the ice gave way.


Darvam looked back up with red eyes.

"What they did to Dather was unforgivable. And I cant imagine what they would do to my little Ginadura if they found out what was happening with her and one of their sons." Gothren looked carefully at Darvam's face and pursed his lips.

"Her Majesty will have my undying loyalty if you end this. It's gone on too long for us to do it ourselves."

Gothren sighed deeply.

"I'll try my best, sera."


 

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