An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

  “Our problem for now, I think,” she said sadly, returning his coin-purse. She didn't want to see what he would say about that. She ducked into the tiny gate and locked it behind her. Alone in the shadows now, with no one to see her, she allowed herself a few tears.

  Sume caught Hana starting supper in the kitchen with the other women. She was smiling. She almost leaped across the table as soon as Sume appeared, catching her entirely by surprise. “You won't believe what happened,” she said. “I got a package from Cael. The group Oji worked for sent us coin! His last few months' wages and look...” She flipped open a piece of paper, pointing. “Recompense for death while in faithful service.”

  “You’re happy,” Sume said flatly. She could hardly believe her ears. Why was Hana happy to hear news of Oji’s death? Because there was suddenly money involved? It was true he had not sent anything for months, even before he’d stopped writing, but to actually see the reality of that in Hana’s face frightened her.

  Hana’s face turned red. “This is more than he’d ever sent us while he was alive. I’m sorry, Sume, but we already knew, didn’t we? This just assures us even more. Don’t you see? With this and what we’ve saved up so far we can go back home and try it there again. What's the matter? Why do you look so sad?”

  She looked at the other women, at their beaming, shining faces, and bit her lip. She took Hana's hand in hers and led her upstairs. At the top landing, she turned and told her.

  There was fury, at first, a definite rage at the boy she had laboured to bring into the world but seemed adamant at following his wayward father's footsteps. She nodded when Sume spoke of slapping him, asked her why she didn't do more. “Where is he now?” she asked at last. “He's an idiot if he thinks he can hide from me this time.”

  “He's still in their ship, sister,” Sume said, having tried to think of a hundred better ways to say what she was about to say. “They won't let him go.”

  “And why not?” Hana asked.

  “He lost the ring he stole. They want enough payment in return.”

  “Payment.” She said it like the word burnt her tongue. “How much?”

  “Enough to make it worth a thief.”

  “They've called the city guards?”

  “No,” Sume said. “It would be better if they did.”

  Hana realized it then, the weight of her words. “They are going to kill him.”

  “I'm not saying that.”

  “You are.” Hanna glanced down, towards the sounds in the kitchen, where the other women continued to chat. “Don't tell them. Take Oji's money. It might be enough. Is it?” She looked up, her eyes searching for any strand of hope she might see on Sume's face. “It doesn't matter. Yesterday we didn't have it, and we had him. I want that back. I want my son back, Sume. I was happy, then.”

  No, you weren't, Sume wanted to say. She remembered the look on Dai's face when his mother had so easily dismissed his offer to help out a little. She had known Dai all his life, had never known him to take what wasn't his or act in any way below what was right and honourable. All of it undone because of a mother's careless gesture.

  “I'll talk to them,” Hana continued. She paused and brushed Sume's hair over her ear. Her motions were calm, precise, but for a brief moment, Sume caught a glimpse of her eyes and what seemed to be an endless void of grief, unshed.

  “So,” Burg said, taking the seat across the table with a glass of clear, coconut liquor in his hands. “You're really not going to kill the boy, are you, Ylir?”

  Ylir glanced up from the plate of dumplings on the table. “You must've heard wrong, Burg. I don't intend to kill the boy. He's just losing his hands.”

  Burg gave him a strained smile. “And ah—he is expected to survive such an operation? A little boy like that? Out at sea?”

  “That is hardly my concern, Burg.” Ylir picked up a dumpling and tested it. The meat was rubbery and overly salted. He considered sending it back for another dish, but it would be the third one that night and he wasn't sure if the cook was now just sending him bad food on purpose. He pushed it away.

  “Ylir,” Burg continued, exasperated. “The boy was probably starving. Don't you think you've punished him and his family enough? You saved his life before. It hardly seems fair to take it away now.”

  “You and I, Burg, have a different concept of fair,” Ylir muttered. “Greed and starvation are two different things. He seemed healthy to me.”

  “What about the sister? She looked positively miserable.”

  “Most people in her situation would be. Say, how's that fish coming along? Should I have ordered the same thing?”

  “It's all right. Don't try to change the subject.”

  “It's hardly my fault that the boy's a thief and that this is the most appalling alehouse I have ever had the misfortune of walking into.” He said it out loud, to make sure the servers heard.

  The yellow-haired man walking resolutely towards them certainly did. He tipped his head forward in greeting and grinned. “I did mention never to order the meat, did I? Stick to the noodles and the beer, I said.”

  “The beer,” Ylir said. “Is despicable. Piss in a pot might taste a little better. Pigswill definitely more so. What do you want, Marre?”

  The man took a chair and straightened his collar. He was middle-aged and dressed like the kind of man who cared what the local populace thought about the amount of money he had. “I'm disappointed, Ferral. We chance upon each other so far away from home and this is how you greet me?” He gestured at one of the servers, asking for a bowl of lami and beer.

  Ylir crossed his arms and leaned back. “My manners aren't the best when I'm being forced to unload my entire cargo for less than half their worth. These Jins are robbing me blind.”

  “Exactly why I went out of my way to make sure we saw each other. It's not every day you hear a ship of Yn Garr is anchored at the docks. Your master should've told me I was on business here, my dear boy.”

  “I knew, actually. Why, apn Oilsin? You fancy yourself an expert in Jin-Sayeng trading now?”

  “I've been at it since their regent opened doors to the Kag, my boy,” Marre said. “There's good coin to be made, if you only know who to talk to and how. I notice your men all reek of the Kag—half-bloods from Kago?” He casually pointed at Burg, ignoring his bristling. “The Jins won't trust them. You should've hired a local the moment you got here.”

  “We did ask for advice. We were told of the sea-goddess' temple's influence on the populace.”

  “And let me guess? Asked to make a donation?” Marre's eyes twinkled. “You're still wet behind the ears, Ferral. But not to worry. We all make mistakes. Some of us more than others, but...ah!” His order had arrived, and he started digging into it with gusto.

  Ylir watched him without smiling. “What do you really want, Marre?” he finally asked. “I don't have much time to spare.”

  “My, but you've certainly inherited your master's temper!” Marre paused, slurping a fat noodle into his mouth. “I was just a little bit curious. There was a little bit of gossip from my route, of hired half-bloods ah—responsible for a few missing children in Cael.”

  “Hardly my concern. That sort of thing has been rumoured in Cael for decades.”

  “Ah!” Marre exclaimed. “Of course. I know that. Spirits and things that go bump in the night. But you must've been hiding under a rock not to know the more recent string of events. After learning that you've also hired half-bloods to work for you, I became intrigued. Is this an affirmation of that part of the gossip that said Yn Garr was involved with the entire thing? There after all being one main source of hired ruffians in Kago and given your master's affinity for young boys...”

  Ylir got up. “Burg,” he said. “We're leaving.”

  “Oh, come now!” Marre exclaimed, holding his hands out. “I'm simply making conversation! You've no reason to be offended.”

  “After the bad beer, sir, I am inclined to be less than tolerable with attemp
ts at defaming my master's character,” Ylir said flatly. He started for the door with Burg a few steps ahead.

  “That temper again, Ferral,” Marre called after him. “I recall you being more patient, back when you were an old man in Baidh. How is your daughter, Hertra Ferral? Sinea? She must be what, twenty-three by now?”

  The door slammed shut behind them. Burg stopped in his tracks and looked at him. Ylir didn't say anything, afraid that a single word would give him away. He kept his face calm and started down the street.

  “What do you want me to do?” Burg asked.

  “Nothing,” he whispered.

  “He wants to damage our reputation,” Burg said. “You're just going to let him walk away?” His brows furrowed. “I could get some of the men to...rough him up a bit. Teach him a lesson.”

  “Didn't you catch the half-blood ruffian bit, Burgois? What would that accomplish?”

  “Make you feel better?” Burg shrugged. “I don't know, Ylir. You're the brains of this operation. Tell me what to do.”

  “I told you already. Nothing.” They'd reached the end of the streets and he pointed at the direction of the wharf. “Get back to the ship. Check up on the boy. Make sure those idiots aren't starving him or worse. Take off the offending limb if anyone has touched him.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “You said I was the boss, Burg,” Ylir said. “Now shut up and do as I say.”

  As soon as Burg had disappeared around the corner, he turned back and took the long way across the street.

  It was, in more ways than one, a beautiful night. Cloudless sky, the moon—smaller than he was used to, it seemed—a crescent sliver, nearly golden. He had time to gaze up and marvel at it while he prepared the room and waited. In fact, the sight mesmerized him so much that he almost missed apn Oilsin's footsteps resounding from within.

  He peered through the curtains. The man was alone, which was good. The man's wife was back home in Cael, but you never knew if he was keeping a Jin bed slave at hand. He wasn't sure if he wanted to deal with that sort of inconvenience right now. He felt unnerved, out of his league. It was probably that damn beer. That, and that whining girl from that evening, the one whose nephew they'd locked up in the hold. Everything about this damn country infuriated him.

  When he was certain the man remained alone, he carefully pushed the window inside and landed softly on the floor.

  Marre apn Oilsin didn't turn at once. He was pouring something into a cup, and he held it out to his direction. “I was wondering when you'd show up,” he said.

  Ylir smiled. “Our conversation earlier left me wanting for more.”

  “Indeed?” Marre took a sip. “Have you come to defend your master's reputation? Or something else?”

  “A man as successful as Yn Garr is always followed by gossip,” he said smoothly. “Last year, they said he was skinning goats and chanting rituals to some Dageian demi-god. He can handle his own affairs.”

  “Ah,” Marre said. “So that other thing. Ferral.” It sounded like he was biting into the name. “Tell me where he is. And how you've duped his associates that you are—and have always been—the man behind his accounts. I was wondering why Ferral suddenly up and handed everything over to Yn Garr Industries. It didn’t seem like him.”

  “I don't think I owe you that kind of explanation.”

  Marre grew sombre. “You do. Ferral was an old friend. The last I heard, he was taking his daughter to Dageis. Years later you show up and I, like a fool—”

  “Like a fool, Marre,” Ylir said gently. “You should've left it alone when you had the chance.”

  “I have hired men downstairs,” Marre said. “One scream from me and they'll—”

  “They won't hear you, Marre.” He sounded almost sad.

  Marre stared at him, licking his lips. For one heavy moment, neither of them moved. And then Marre leaped for his sword in the corner.

  His heavy frame never even made two steps. “Bring my regards to Sir Ferral,” Ylir said. He tapped his hands once. The sound of the cracking skull was like a hammer denting the wall. He returned to the window, trying to avoid the blood getting on his boots.

  Much later, down at the docks, he noticed he'd gotten some on his tunic, anyway. And for some reason, his fingers were smeared. Cursing his carelessness, he knelt by the shore and began to scrub himself with wet sand while fighting the overwhelming urge to throw his whole body into the sea.

  A figure approached him in the darkness. He turned quickly, his hand at the hilt of his sword.

  “Sir Ylir,” she said, hesitating.

  “Oh,” he stammered. “It's you.” He squinted. From the heave of her shoulders and the look in her face, she had been running. In the dark.

  “I couldn't sleep,” she said. Her Kagtar was so smooth—she didn't leave out words or butcher it with her accent like some of the other Jins did.

  He got up, wiping his fingers on his lap. She watched him with the acuity of a fox. “I can't see what that has to do with me,” he said. He was amazed at how calm he still sounded, after all that had happened that night.

  “Set my nephew free. Your—one of your men, he said—well, I'll work for you instead. To pay his debt.” She took one step towards him. “I can cook, I can clean. I can be more useful to you than a boy could ever be.”

  Had it been earlier that night, he would've said no. He might have even toyed with her a little, made her see how utterly useless her struggle against his wishes were. Now, though—now, the moon seemed more red than yellow, and he was so very tired. And also, she did not look bad in the dark and did not appear to have the least idea what she was offering in exchange for a silly little boy.

  “All right,” he murmured. She looked surprised that he'd agreed. Without another word, he turned around, and bade her to follow him back to the ship.

  Chapter Four

  Kefier awoke, wrapped in blankets underneath a sprawling night sky. His fire had died down. He got up, shivering, added firewood, and remembered how Oji used to do it for them most nights. He was always the first one to get up on any occasion—bright-eyed, cheerful, ready to face the day. Some mornings you woke up to the smell of frying bacon and Oji singing his heart out to the sun.

  He had been dead…a year. Or more? Kefier had lost track of time since he'd left Fuyyu, but the colour of the leaves and the cold air told him the passage of the months since. It made him acutely aware of the loss, especially now that the Boarshind seemed to have lost his trail and everything around him had come to a screeching halt. He missed Oji. He missed his smiles, and his hearty songs, and the way he made everyone else laugh despite his own problems. It sounded ridiculous now that he was a grown man but he also missed the way he told him stories or picked up gear he'd dropped or fixed his sandals for him because, “My boy, because it's a long way down that hill and you've got to be surefooted.”

  The fire was starting to blaze now, and Kefier stirred it, breathing warm air. The empty silence got him to thinking about Lisa. He could no longer recall how her dark hair smelled. It had a distinct scent—she always bragged about washing it every day—and back then, if she ever fell asleep when she was with him, he would smell it and thought he would remember forever. That got to him. Did he die, too, with Oji and all his other friends? He knew it was an unfair thought, because they had actually lost their lives while he was still breathing, but he couldn’t help himself.

  He lay back against the grass and stared at the stars. They nearly blanketed the entire sky and he felt a little dizzy staring at them. He’d stared at stars, too, that first time with Lisa. He had been sixteen and shorter than her. He could still remember the way she slowly walked up to him outside the inn and took his cold, trembling hands into hers. She placed a finger on his lips before he could say anything and led him up to one of the rooms. It was barely larger than the single bed on it, but Kefier could see Cairntown’s rooftops from the large windows. Cairntown, and the stars.

  “You’re di
stracted,” she said, pulling the shutters closed. But she didn’t draw the curtains. Moonlight danced over her freckled face. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before?”

  He coloured at her remark. She saw that and stifled a laugh. “I didn’t think—well!” She traced a finger down his thin collarbone. He swallowed as she very gently pushed him back into the bed and tugged his shirt loose.

  “I had a wife once, you know,” he somehow managed to grumble.

  Lisa’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh really? And you’ve never done this, ever?”

  “I didn’t say—” he started. And then, suddenly distracted, his cheeks burned. “I was a boy,” he finally admitted. “In Gorent, it is acceptable to marry young. For living arrangements. She was older than I was and I didn’t really know anything back then.”

  “That sounds nice,” she murmured. He realized she wasn’t really listening to him. She smiled at him. “I see you still don’t know anything now.”

  It was the truth, of course. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, by any means, but that night, her features bathed in moonlight, he felt as if he was in the presence of an enchantress, or a queen.

  He later learned that Oji had paid her to do it, but he understood the nature of her work and didn’t care. He thought that they had something together—felt that she found him more interesting than her other callers. She once told him after they were done that she felt safe with him. She hadn’t been obligated to, at that point.

  She sold it for coin. That’s how it is with these women.

  That pain came back. All this time, and it came back as if all this time and all that had happened—as if Oji’s death—did not stand between him and those words. He curled his fists and smashed them into his knees. Oji, may Ab watch your soul for all of time, didn’t have the right to utter those words. He knew how much that woman meant to him. He knew—and he still opened his big mouth. As if he was any better.