Part IV
The great seaport city of Palanthas, built by dwarves, fabled as far back as the Age of Might, was, according to swift-flying rumor, one of the few cities to come through the Cataclysm almost unscathed. Michael and Nikol, to their astonishment and disquiet, found themselves two drops in a steadily flowing stream of refugees, flowing toward what was purportedly a rich, safe harbor.
Located in western Solamnia, on the Bay of Branchala, the Cityhome, as it was known among its inhabitants, was governed by a noble lord under the auspices of the Knights of Solamnia, whose stronghold — the Tower of the High Clerist — guarded the mountain pass that kept goods and wealth flowing from Palanthas to the lands beyond.
But, though the city's walls and pavement, its tall towers and graceful minarets, may have survived the Cataclysm without damage, the disaster opened cracks within its population. These cracks had always been there, but the rifts had been covered by wealth, reverence for the gods, respect for (and fear of) the knights.
Now, almost a year after the Cataclysm, wealth had ceased to enter Palanthas. Few ships sailed the sea. Beggars, not gold, came pouring through the gates. The city's economy collapsed beneath the weight. Here, as in other places throughout Ansalon, the people looked for someone other than themselves to blame.
Michael and Nikol, along with numerous other fellow travelers, arrived at the city of Palanthas in midmorning. They'd heard rumors in abundance, some good, but many more dark — tales of beating, looting, murder. Mostly, they'd discounted them, but rumor had not prepared them for the sight that met their eyes.
"May the gods have mercy," said Michael, staring in pity and horror.
Throngs of people — ragged, wretched — crouched on the road outside the walls. At the sight of new arrivals, they surged forward, begging for anything that might, for a moment, relieve their misery and suffering.
Michael, sick at heart, would have given them all he owned, but Nikol, her face pale, her lips pressed tight, steered him with a firm hand through the grasping, wailing mob that surrounded the city gates.
The gates stood open wide, people pouring in, shoving their way out. The guards kept traffic moving, but did little else. One of them, however, eyed Nikol, and the weapon she wore, with interest.
"Hey, you. Mercenary. The Revered Son's looking for swords," said the guard. "You can earn yourself a meal, a place to sleep." He jerked a thumb. "Head for Old City."
"Revered Son?" Michael repeated, in disbelief.
"Thank you," said Nikol, catching hold of her husband and dragging him away. Outside the walls, they could hear the disappointed cries of the beggars.
Inside the walls, things were not much better. People lay sleeping in doorways or on the bare, cold pavement. Evil-looking men drifted near, saw Nikol's sword and Michael's stout staff, and drifted away. Two slatternly women caught hold of them and tried to drag them into a tumble-down hovel. The city stank of filth and death and disease.
They were loathe to stop and ask anyone directions. Nikol's father had visited Palanthas often, however, and had described the layout of the city, which was like a gigantic wheel. The great and ancient library stood in the city's center, known as Old City, along with the palace, the homes of the knights, and other important structures. They made their way through the wall that separated Old City from the New. Here the streets were not as crowded, almost empty. The air was cleaner, easier to breathe.
Michael and Nikol hurried forward, certain that the library must be a haven of peace in this wretched city. They had barely passed through the Old City wall when they discovered why the streets had been deserted. All the people — and there must have been hundreds — were gathered here.
"Where's the library?" Michael asked, peering over the heads of the crowd.
"There," said Nikol, pointing to the building the mob surrounded.
"What's going on here?" Michael asked a woman standing near him.
"Hush!" she said, glaring at him. "The Revered Son is speaking."
"Over here!" Nikol drew Michael into a grove of trees that bordered one of the broad avenues of Old City. From this vantage point, both could see and hear the speaker, who stood upon the very steps of the Great Library of Palanthas.
"Do you know what is behind those walls, good citizens? I'll tell you! Lies!" A man pointed an accusing finger at the large, elegant, columned building behind him. "Lies about the Kingpriest!"
The crowd gathered around him muttered angrily.
"Yes, I've seen them, read them with my own eyes!" The man tapped those eyes, remarkable only for the fact that they were squinted and sly-looking. "The great Astinus" — the voice was poisoned with sarcasm — "writes that the Kingpriest called down the wrath of the gods by making demands of them! And who had a better right? What man has lived who was as good as that man? I'll tell you the real reason the gods hurled the fiery mountain upon Istar!"
He paused, waited until the crowd hushed.
"Jealousy!" he breathed in a stage whisper that carried clearly through the chill air. "They were jealous! Jealous of a man more godly than the gods themselves! They were jealous and afraid that he might challenge them. And so he might have! And he would have won!"
The crowd roared its approval, with an undercurrent of anger frightening to hear.
"But, though he is gone," continued the man, clasping his hands in pious grief, "some of us have vowed to carry on, to keep his memory alive. Yes," he cried, raising his fist to heaven. "We defy you, gods! We are not afraid! Drop a fiery mountain on us if you dare!"
Michael stirred restlessly, opened his mouth.
"Are you mad?" Nikol whispered. "You'll get us killed!" Taking hold of his medallion, she tucked it down the front of his blue robes, hiding it from sight.
Michael sighed, kept silent.
No one else in the crowd saw them. All eyes were on the speaker.
"Lord Palanthas sides with us," the man cried. "He would agree to pass our laws, for he knows they are right and just, but he is prevented from doing so by that old man in there!" Again he pointed at the columned building behind him.
"Then we'll pass the laws and enforce them ourselves!" shouted a voice from the crowd, who, by the quickness of his response, obviously had been waiting for a cue. "Read us your laws, Revered Son. Let us hear them."
"Yes, read us the laws!" The crowd picked up the shout, turned it into a chant.
"I will, good citizens," said the squint-eyed speaker. He drew forth a scroll from the bosom of robes that were rich and snowy white — a marked contrast to the worn and shabby clothing of those who hung upon his every word.
"First: no elf, dwarf, kender, gnome, or anyone with so much as a drop of blood of any of these races is to be allowed in the city. Any now residing here will be expelled. Any caught here in the future will be put to death."
The people looked at each other, muttered their approval.
"Second: any wizard or wizardess, witch or warlock, apprentice mage, sorcerer or sorceress" — the man ran out of breath, paused to catch it — "caught within these city walls will be put to death."
This met with nods and shrugs and even some incredulous laughter, as though such an occurrence was almost beyond the realm of possibility. Palanthas had divested itself of such evil long ago, though at a heavy cost.
"Third" all Knights of Solamnia — "
Boos and hisses and angry shouts interrupted the speaker. He smiled in satisfaction and raised his voice to be heard above the uproar.
"All Knights of Solamnia or any member of a knight's family found henceforth within the city limits shall be expelled!"
A loud cheer.
"All lands and goods and properties of said Knights of Solamnia shall be confiscated and turned over to the people!"
An even louder cheer.