Chapter 5 – Anrik

The steps never seemed to end. They cascaded upwards in a furious gyre each more frustrating than the last. Why does The Lord High Arsehole Cleark must have his meal at the top of the shoredamned Tower. The Lord High Cleark must!

When Anrik reached the top of the interminable stairway of the Ithgar Tower he stop short at the massive door of steel and stared at the near seven foot panel of thick grey metal. It was the first time he had ever seen the door closed and bothered to pay any attention to the fact. Along the entire surface of the door were carvings of trees in a stylized form Anrik recognized from some book or another, though he could not quite recall which. It seemed as though it had been stenciled on the door, but in some kind of exquisitely carved bas-relief. With his free hand, the one not holding the High Cleark sodding tray of food, Anrik rubbed the door.

It’s smooth. And... it’s warm.

Why is it warm... it’s the middle of...

The door swung open. A surprised looking Peremus Grinner stood there, the expression of purest shock on his face a clear indication he had not expected to meet anyone on the other side of that door, least of all his errant youngest son.

“Da.” Anrik said before he remembered. He stuttered and looked away from the thundering expression moving over his father’s face. “Sorry, Chief Engineer, grace.”

With measured slowness Anrik brought his gaze back to his father’s, catching the man’s silvery-green eyes and finding himself held by them. Though Anrik was the same height as his father, the older man was thicker by far and darker of coloring. But their eyes were the same and it was starkly confusing to stare into eyes he recognized as mirrors of his own and see only disapproval and repulsion, and...

Sadness.

Why is he sad? What does HE have to be sad about?

“Acolyte.” Chief Engineer Grinner bowed his head with the precise amount of formality. Years of battling his way up from slum-dwelling nothing in the Hive outside Ithgar to become one of the highest ranked men of the Empire was no mean feat. But it seem to bring the elder Grinner no real joy, nor any moment to relax. The level of precise and forced formality Peremus Grinner had cultivated over the years was something he would not abandon, if indeed he was capable. That his own father practiced such formality with him, his youngest son, made Anrik feel as though he had just eaten a two week old sausage. “You have been derelict in your duties.” Peremus said, without any real castigation in the comment. “The walk up the stairs clearly has sapped your middling strength. I wonder if perhaps you do not truly understand the difficulty of the life you have chosen.”

Peremus’ eyes flashed dark green in the dim light of the hallway. Behind him someone shuffled inside the Room of Records, casting a shadow as they passed, though Anrik could not see whom it was. It must be the High Cleark. Who else would be in there?

Peremus made to go around Anrik but as he passed grabbed Anrik’s upper right arm, which was taught with the effort of holding, single-handed, the heavy wooden food tray. Anrik nearly dropped the thing in surprise. His father had not touched him in years. It was not a kind touch.

“Your mother misses you. You would do well to remember it.” Peremus said, then began the long slow drudge down the stairs, muttering to himself. The only words Anrik caught were “ballast” and “elevator” neither of which made any sense to him.

Anrik went inside the Room of Records. The place was covered from floor to ceiling in rows and rows and rows of wooden shelves, each so full of books and materials it seemed impossible any one person could even know where to find what they sought, much less actually have time to read them. Most Acolytes of the Church could not read, so it hardly mattered. But records had to be kept. Histories maintained. It was not considered a pleasant assignment by most of the Order, but the High Cleark commanded respect for his efforts. The damn fool is too smart for his own good and everyone knows it. Once he becomes Parson I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts insisting every one of the Priests learns to read and write. Pity the poor the Cleark who has to maintain those records!

“You were not given permission to enter the Room of Records.” the High Cleark’s voice intoned, from some echoing distance.

Anrik tossed his head around searching. He heard no sounds of movement, none of the telltale scritch on the floor of the man’s shoes, nor did he see any swishing shadows behind any of the numerous shelves. “I.. I...” Anrik started to respond.

“Save your excuses, Acolyte.” Jester Grinner said, appearing out of seeming thin air from between two rows of shelving. His severe white robes gleamed under the gaslights, casting a sickly glow to his pallid, almost limpid, white skin. There was nothing of Anrik or Peremus in Jester, though Jester was the man’s oldest son, by law at least. No one knew who Jester’s natural father had been, but Jester’s mother, and Anrik’s, had married Peremus shortly before Jester was born. Peremus had adopted the boy and raised him with the love and care of a true father, only to find the boy was so unlike him they could only find common ground in their mutual love for Jester’s mother, Pacicia.

Anrik dropped his chin to his chest in penitence. There was use or reward to be gained from the High Cleark by pleading. Anrik had learned as a child the depths of his brother’s severity – Jester Grinner did not believe in excuses. The only thing Anrik could do was to accept. So he did.

“Good.” Jester murmured, the telltale scritch of his shoes finally registering in Anrik’s ears as the man strode nearer. “You certainly took long enough with my food, Acolyte. In the future I expect you seek permission to enter this chamber. Should you fail in this again I will see you sent to the Farm. You will get your fill of the hard life then.” There was, oddly, no malice in Jester’s words. It was almost as if the man were above malice, or so far beneath it, as to not really be capable of it. “Place the tray on the desk over there and be wary of the scrolls on the table. They are irreplaceable.”

Anrik looked away from his brother’s blank, disinterested gaze, towards the center of the room, where a small study was incongruously placed at a largish gap between rows of shelves. The floor had a tiled pattern of swirls and whirls but whatever the pattern meant was lost as it was covered by shelving. Anrik still found himself captivated by the pattern as he tried to make sense of it. It tickled the same part of his brain as the carvings on the door, and like those images, he could not recall where, or if, he had ever seen the like before.

“Cease your errant dawdling, Acolyte.” Jester ordered as he turned and glided off between the shelves. His voice washed backwards, growing softer as it did. “And close the door behind you when you are finished laying out the food. Do not disturb me again until the morning meal.”

Anrik mouthed mockery of the man. Do not disturb me again until the morning meal because I’m too important to be bothered by muckety-mucks like you! Anrik turned around to leave the Cleark’s chambers and nearly crashed headlong into perhaps the last person he ever expected to see in that place.

His father.

“Son.” Peremus Grinner said, furrowed expression tight with some suppressed emotion. Thoughts raced through Anrik’s mind, none of the things he had wished he would say the next time he saw his father, but instead other questions. Different questions.

What have I done wrong now that he came here looking for me?

Why is his face so weary and drawn? Has he been working double shifts again?

Where is his Badge of Office?

Yet before any of these questions could be asked Peremus short-circuited Anrik’s thoughts and questions with a query of his own. “Where is Jester?”

In this moment, while Anrik wondered how to make sense of the present situation he noticed the spot on his father’s worn clothes, his ever-present uniform of an Engineer, where the man’s badge was always clasped. Anrik always noticed the thing, because Peremus kept it shining and new looking, in stark contrast to the uniforms and clothes the man wore otherwise. But it was not the shininess of the badge which caught Anrik’s attention. It was not the lack of a badge at all either. Rather it was a gash in the fabric which showed the undergarment beneath the uniform, a yellowing white muslin tunic shirt, small splotches of dirt and maybe food visible.

It looks like the badge was... ripped off.

Peremus caught his son’s gaze and pushed out a terse breath of impatience.

“Son.” Peremus said, voice taking on the well worn feeling of tired command. “Where is your brother?” Peremus was already looking past Anrik, as though the man’s younger son was of no consequence. As though the two had seen each other more recently than six months beforehand. As though nothing had changed.

“He’s back there.” Anrik muttered, tossing his head towards the stacks. “Eating his lunch.”

Peremus did not offer another word, but brushed past Anrik in the direction indicated. Anrik stared at the ground, sullen, kicking at a trail of book-dust on the floor. He was unsure how to feel, what he should do next. A large part of him very much wished to run after his father and scream at the man for ignoring Anrik in favor of Jester. I’m supposed to be the favorite! Another part of him wished to grab at Peremus’ shoulder and after turning the man around just collapse into his chest, feeling safe and young again. Still another part of him wished to hurl his own body at Peremus’, to attack the man and express a rage which seethed within, which called out to be satisfied. I’m supposed to be the favorite!

But none of these things happened. Instead, Anrik left the High Cleark’s chamber and began the long, slow process of climbing down the length of stairs towards the kitchens and his duties.

Next Chapter: Chapter 6 - Masaan