Late Spring 517
After many gruelling days of travel across the Wildlands, the caravan had finally reached Syliras. Tollivant suspected that nobody who had been part of the travelling party would ever be quite the same again. There had been excitement, danger, mystery, and tragedy, and they were all in need of a good wash, a hearty meal and a comfortable bed. But Tollivant still had work to do before he could relax. Months earlier the Cartography Department at Zeltiva University had received a commission from the Syliran Knights to create an up-to-date map of the new roads that had been built in the Syliran Fields recently. Apparently there was a serious lack of good local mapmakers. As a rising star in the department with no permanent position tying him to Zeltiva, Tollivant had been dispatched to carry out the commission.
And so here he was, standing outside the gates of the Mithryn Outpost and looking up at the fluttering Windoak banners high on the smooth grey walls. As he approached the open entrance, a tall woman stepped out to meet him. He was temporarily speechless. He had been expecting a rough-and-ready middle-aged man, perhaps with a bit of a an ale paunch, but not this enormous, fierce-looking lady. ‘What is your business here, stranger?’ she asked, in a tone that suggested he had better have a good answer. ‘I’m from Zeltiva University,’ he said, rummaging in his pack for the letter he knew was in there somewhere. ‘The Cartography Department. I received a commission for a map, hang on a minute, it must have got buried at the bottom of my bag during the journey.’ The woman looked on in dubious silence as the flustered scholar scrabbled through his messy belongings. Eventually he found what he was looking for, and brandished a crumpled, stained piece of parchment. Tollivant was not a short man, although people often thought of him as small because of his almost complete absence of muscle. He was long and thin, like a particularly unappetising runner bean. But as the woman stepped forward to inspect the unimpressive parchment he was waving in her face, she towered over him effortlessly.
She scanned the parchment, which was luckily still readable, and then nodded. ‘You do look like a scholar, I’ll give you that. Come this way.’ She turned and walked through the gatehouse and along the main street until they reached a large, ivy-draped building. ‘Wait here,’ the woman said, and disappeared through the solid oak doors, taking his parchment with her. Tollivant took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. The houses and shops around him were almost exclusively of roughly-worked stone. Here and there a villager had added some flowerpots or painted a door bright red, but mostly the impression was of a place with little time for frivolity. The tall woman soon returned, accompanied by a cheerful, rotund man in a brown linen tunic who introduced himself as Jago. ‘I’m the Overseer of Non-Order Workers,’ he said. ‘I’ll be your contact while you’re here working for us. I’m afraid we have no space in the Garrison but you’ll be able to find a room at the Fool’s Errand,’ he said, pointing at a building on the other side of the square. ‘In fact, why don’t we head over and discuss your job over a mug of ale, eh?’ Tollivant agreed gladly. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the simple pleasure of a frothing mug of ale in a warm tavern.
The inn was almost empty. ‘Most of the residents are still in the fields,’ Jago explained, ordering two large mugs and clunking them down on a wooden table. ‘They’ll be heading in soon enough though.’ Tollivant and Jago chinked mugs, and the young scholar took a long, thirsty draught of his drink. ‘Now, down to business,’ the overseer said, wiping foam from the moustache on his fleshy upper lip. ‘This here,’ taking out a map, ‘is what we’ve got at the moment. As you can see, there’s one main road linking us to the South Kabrin road, and another ringing the Outpost itself. Then there are several smaller roads criss-crossing the north-western side of the fields, here,’ prodding the map with a plump finger as Tollivant nodded his understanding. ‘Those are old roads linking the settlement to the river, used by fishermen and to cart water. Don’t worry about that, it’s all up to date. What I want you do is map this area,’ he said, drawing a large circle with his finger around the south-western corner, between the river and the road. ‘It’s a bit further away from the town, so it’s been a bit underused. Until recently the only access was rough tracks made by a few individual farmers, but last year we upgraded the road and added in a grid system to make things more efficient. We’re hoping it will encourage more farmers to use the land and make it easier to patrol. We used to get reports of bandits hiding out down there, but that’s all cleared up now.’ He took another swig of ale, and burped contentedly. ‘You don’t need to worry about the natural features, just the new roads. You got that?’ Tollivant nodded, and pocketed Jago’s map so he could study it that night. The tavern was filling up with farmers now, fresh clods of mud still clinging to their heavy boots. ‘When you’re finished, just send someone to find me in the Garrison,’ Jago said, draining the last of his ale and standing up. ‘Good luck!’ And with that, he was gone, leaving Tollivant to nurse his ale and pore over the map.
After many gruelling days of travel across the Wildlands, the caravan had finally reached Syliras. Tollivant suspected that nobody who had been part of the travelling party would ever be quite the same again. There had been excitement, danger, mystery, and tragedy, and they were all in need of a good wash, a hearty meal and a comfortable bed. But Tollivant still had work to do before he could relax. Months earlier the Cartography Department at Zeltiva University had received a commission from the Syliran Knights to create an up-to-date map of the new roads that had been built in the Syliran Fields recently. Apparently there was a serious lack of good local mapmakers. As a rising star in the department with no permanent position tying him to Zeltiva, Tollivant had been dispatched to carry out the commission.
And so here he was, standing outside the gates of the Mithryn Outpost and looking up at the fluttering Windoak banners high on the smooth grey walls. As he approached the open entrance, a tall woman stepped out to meet him. He was temporarily speechless. He had been expecting a rough-and-ready middle-aged man, perhaps with a bit of a an ale paunch, but not this enormous, fierce-looking lady. ‘What is your business here, stranger?’ she asked, in a tone that suggested he had better have a good answer. ‘I’m from Zeltiva University,’ he said, rummaging in his pack for the letter he knew was in there somewhere. ‘The Cartography Department. I received a commission for a map, hang on a minute, it must have got buried at the bottom of my bag during the journey.’ The woman looked on in dubious silence as the flustered scholar scrabbled through his messy belongings. Eventually he found what he was looking for, and brandished a crumpled, stained piece of parchment. Tollivant was not a short man, although people often thought of him as small because of his almost complete absence of muscle. He was long and thin, like a particularly unappetising runner bean. But as the woman stepped forward to inspect the unimpressive parchment he was waving in her face, she towered over him effortlessly.
She scanned the parchment, which was luckily still readable, and then nodded. ‘You do look like a scholar, I’ll give you that. Come this way.’ She turned and walked through the gatehouse and along the main street until they reached a large, ivy-draped building. ‘Wait here,’ the woman said, and disappeared through the solid oak doors, taking his parchment with her. Tollivant took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. The houses and shops around him were almost exclusively of roughly-worked stone. Here and there a villager had added some flowerpots or painted a door bright red, but mostly the impression was of a place with little time for frivolity. The tall woman soon returned, accompanied by a cheerful, rotund man in a brown linen tunic who introduced himself as Jago. ‘I’m the Overseer of Non-Order Workers,’ he said. ‘I’ll be your contact while you’re here working for us. I’m afraid we have no space in the Garrison but you’ll be able to find a room at the Fool’s Errand,’ he said, pointing at a building on the other side of the square. ‘In fact, why don’t we head over and discuss your job over a mug of ale, eh?’ Tollivant agreed gladly. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the simple pleasure of a frothing mug of ale in a warm tavern.
The inn was almost empty. ‘Most of the residents are still in the fields,’ Jago explained, ordering two large mugs and clunking them down on a wooden table. ‘They’ll be heading in soon enough though.’ Tollivant and Jago chinked mugs, and the young scholar took a long, thirsty draught of his drink. ‘Now, down to business,’ the overseer said, wiping foam from the moustache on his fleshy upper lip. ‘This here,’ taking out a map, ‘is what we’ve got at the moment. As you can see, there’s one main road linking us to the South Kabrin road, and another ringing the Outpost itself. Then there are several smaller roads criss-crossing the north-western side of the fields, here,’ prodding the map with a plump finger as Tollivant nodded his understanding. ‘Those are old roads linking the settlement to the river, used by fishermen and to cart water. Don’t worry about that, it’s all up to date. What I want you do is map this area,’ he said, drawing a large circle with his finger around the south-western corner, between the river and the road. ‘It’s a bit further away from the town, so it’s been a bit underused. Until recently the only access was rough tracks made by a few individual farmers, but last year we upgraded the road and added in a grid system to make things more efficient. We’re hoping it will encourage more farmers to use the land and make it easier to patrol. We used to get reports of bandits hiding out down there, but that’s all cleared up now.’ He took another swig of ale, and burped contentedly. ‘You don’t need to worry about the natural features, just the new roads. You got that?’ Tollivant nodded, and pocketed Jago’s map so he could study it that night. The tavern was filling up with farmers now, fresh clods of mud still clinging to their heavy boots. ‘When you’re finished, just send someone to find me in the Garrison,’ Jago said, draining the last of his ale and standing up. ‘Good luck!’ And with that, he was gone, leaving Tollivant to nurse his ale and pore over the map.
