tales of Suchita

It had been a fortnight since Mr. Chubs had left Goya. He had been through several towns in that time but hadn’t found the “right” place, people or atmosphere to share his stories in. He couldn’t ever decide if his idea of the “right” place was the correct method of finding his home for the next few days or a cowardly one.

Though the persecution of storytellers had stopped about eight years ago, people were still wary. Wounds inflicted, families lost and cultures destroyed were not things one could forget just because it was decreed so. In light of this, he was wont to believe that his method was smart and it hadn’t once led him astray.

It was a pleasant afternoon and he had taken shelter not far from the road, under a tree. He was munching on some bread and sipping a mug of tea. The last town he had passed through had been nice enough to allow him to replenish his food supplies but seeing his wagon of books had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn’t welcome to stay.

This was the first time a town had been so openly hostile. And it raised an important question: how was he going to travel onwards? Truth be told, none of the experiences of the past fourteen days had been new but there had been an undercurrent which had not existed before. It posed a problem; one Mr. Chubs did not know how to solve.

His tea was on its last dregs as he sipped the elixir, chewing on the problem, when a caravan rolled in, hailed him and started to set-up camp around him. Normally, he avoided company like it was the yellow pus disease but he paused today, hoping that the gods were perhaps smiling on him, for a change.

The caravan had two horses, five men, three women and seven children. The men were in a motley and the children’ faces were painted. The women carried odd instruments which Mr. Chubs presumed were of the musical nature. He immediately relaxed. The gods were indeed smiling on him. He had just been given the perfect solution to his travelling problem.

He let them be for a time, observing them but not rudely. They made quick work of taking care of the horses and letting the children lose. The children were given stern instructions to not wander too far and as they left with a screech; the adults settled down for a late lunch.

A troupe of performers he surmised correctly. Kin of a sort. He couldn’t help but smile. One of the women caught his smile and raised her glass. It was an acknowledgement, not an invitation, so he raised his arm in salute but stayed where he was. Not long after, they hailed him to their camp, and patted a cushion where Mr. Chubs could sit.

Their estimation of him rose when he refused their food. The conversation came more easily and he found out that they had just been to the royal court of King Janah, entertaining him and his nobles. So happy were the nobles that the troupe had received several invitations to noble houses so they too could show off their influence by having the troupe that had performed for the king, perform in their halls.

“How fares our esteemed ruler?” asked Mr. Chubs. He knew he was venturing into dangerous territory but he couldn’t help the question. He was curious and he hadn’t had any gossip since he had left Goya.

“As well as can be I suppose,” said the woman with a flute in her hand. She was cleaning it like it was one of the children who had just emerged from a bog.

“He has had some trouble with brigands and people who think they can dispense justice better than he,” spat one of the men. He was wearing deep purple and a flashy orange. Had anyone asked Mr. Chubs if such violent colours could work on a person he would have laughed. But on the short, stocky man, they seemed to work.

He hummed but did not interrupt.

“They say Janah’s guards captured a few renegades who professed their loyalty to Reifire. They say…”

“Hush Grum,” said the flute-woman.

Purple-orange flashed her an angry look but declared, “We’re among friends here Pops. Look at his wagon. Those are books. He’s like us. Aren’t you?”

Mr. Chubs smiled tightly. “I am a travelling librarian.”

“See. You fear too much Pops. So, as I was saying, they say Janah is looking for Arthur Uriel Banes.”

The complete change in topics gave Mr. Chubs whiplash. He scratched his chin, thinking, wondering if he could put off shaving for another night. He said, “What does that have to do with the renegades?”

Pops gave Grum another look but Grum dismissed her. “The renegades had banded together under Banes’ banner. Reifire the bastard…”

“Grum!”

This time, it wasn’t Pops who interrupted him. It was a fourth woman, older than all the people sitting around the fire.

“Just because Reifire is dead does not mean folken have become open again. There are still those who would oppose Janah simply because he don’t kill people who say something about him he don’t like.”

She turned to Mr. Chubs. “As you well know,” she said, nodding towards his wagon.

His eyes grew wide in surprise, things slotting into place. “I did smell tension in the air at the last town.” And if renegades had made Banes into some kind of a messiah of Reifire…

“Aye,” she said, joining them around the fire, as if she had heard his unspoken words. “Are you travelling far, my man?”

Now this was most definitely an invitation so he simply shrugged his shoulders, trying not to appear too eager. “I’m a nomad, much like you.”

“You’ll travel with us,” she said making a decision. “It’s not safe to be alone right now.”

He smiled, relieved he didn’t have to show his cowardice by asking, worried that things in the wider world were sliding back to what had been every day during Reifire’s last years.

“You have my thanks.” Though the chatter did not stop, it did move onto safer topics of the weather and how Mr. Chubs had survived with all his books intact.

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This is Chapter 3 of 26 of The Travelling Librarian series. Written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z.

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Psst: I also have 2 ebooks on Kindle – and if you’re on Kindle Unlimited, they’re free!

• Read The Gunslinger here.
• Read 23 Letters of Love here.