by A. C. Cobble
Rhys took another swig of his flask then hooked it back on his belt.
Ben’s gaze dropped to the flask then back up to his friend.
Milo stepped out of the shop. In his hand, he held an iron sickle-shaped blade. It was a little longer than his forearm and had a utilitarian wooden handle and no cross-guard. Ben suspected it was crafted for agriculture instead of battle.
“It’s not perfect,” mumbled the former apprentice, “but I guess you just do the best you can.”
Ben nodded. “The best you can. That’s all you really can do, it seems.”
Four days south of Ayd, they approached the border city of Vard. It was technically part of Ooswam, but as Qooten had no permanent settlements, it attracted a lot of desert dwellers for trade. The humidity near the coast had faded, but the heat increased. The landscape was turning to parched red dirt, bare rocks, and scraggly pine trees that hardly cleared Ben’s head.
“It reminds me of the Wilds,” remarked Ben. “It’s hot instead of cold, and there isn’t any forest, but this land is unforgiving to people. It’s a wonder anyone chooses to live here.”
Rhys nodded in assent. “Tough living makes for tough people. The Dirhadji are some of the toughest I have ever encountered. They’re unfriendly to outsiders and they’re as likely to steer you into trouble as they are away from it. Living in such a difficult environment makes self-sufficiency a critical trait.”
“When you were here before, you must have made some friends,” stated Ben. “How did you convince them to teach you the Ohms?”
Rhys smirked. “I challenged one of them to a drinking contest.”
Ben eyed his friend. He wasn’t sure if he was serious.
Rhys continued, “The Dirhadji are nomadic, and they have very few possessions. There is little material wealth out in the desert. Aside from their weapons, they place little value in any object. What they do value are ability and experience. Fighting, drinking, and loving are what they do, usually in that order.”
Ben gestured to the empty surroundings. “What are they fighting over?”
“Women,” answered O’ecca from behind them. “As I told you, the Dirhadji keep women as chattel. A chieftain or powerful warrior will have many women. A young warrior or an ineffective fighter may have none, though, ineffective fighters who’ve lasted past their youth are rare.”
“They raid each other constantly,” agreed Rhys, “with the aim of capturing women.”
“The women allow this?” wondered Ben. “They go with whoever takes them?”
“The women of Qooten are not strong,” claimed O’ecca. “They are not taught how to fight and defend themselves. Instead, they survive by attaching themselves to the most powerful warrior they can. If they are in the harem of a chieftain, they know he and his men will be able to obtain food and water. The woman and her children will be protected as part of his household. The chieftain rules a tribe, so that protection will extend to anyone who travels with them. Even with a low-level warrior in the tribe, a woman knows her sons have the opportunity to become powerful warriors. They could even vie to the title of chieftain themselves one day. Her daughters, though, will most likely be taken after their first blood by the chieftain for his own harem or given to one of his favorite warriors.”
“The chieftain wouldn’t make his sons the next leader?” asked Ben.
O’ecca absentmindedly spun her naginata in front of her while walking. “A chieftain has many sons from many women. His warriors will have many sons as well. The next chieftain will not be decided by which father was strongest. It will be decided by who is the best warrior and who can attract other warriors to support him. Even a weak warrior’s son can rule if he proves himself worthy and convinces his peers to follow him.”
Ben shifted the heavy pack on his back. He thought it might be helpful to choose a leader based on merit, ability to fight in this case, but the Dirhadji’s system of rule seemed to invite constant upheaval and violence. He said as much to Rhys and O’ecca.
“Of course,” agreed Rhys. “Why do you think there are no histories about the people in Qooten? Education and writing is worthless in a culture like theirs. When you know you could die with a spear in your gut at any time, you don’t spend your time studying. You spend it fighting, drinking, and fucking. Each generation reinforces the ways of the ones before.”
“There!” called Corinne from the front of their party.
She was pointing ahead, and Ben saw a collection of stone buildings rising out of the desolate landscape. At first, he wondered if they were occupied. After a while, he realized there were thin streams of smoke drifting up from some of the structures. The wide, red-dirt road led directly into the formation. From what he could tell, the settlement was the end of the road. To the south, there was nothing.
“Welcome to Vard,” muttered O’ecca. “The last bastion of civilization, if you can call it that.”
As they drew closer, Ben could see the stone buildings housed inns, homes, and shops. In the middle were a number of tented market stalls. People browsed in the loose, flowing robes and britches of Ooswam. Others wore undyed, light, linen robes and had turbans wrapped around their heads. A few wore dark leather.
“It keeps the heat off,” explained Rhys, nodding to one of the turbaned men. “They can also pull the wrap up over their mouth and eyes when there are sandstorms.”
“Sandstorms?” wondered Ben.
“There are places deeper in the desert where the sand extends for leagues in all directions. A powerful enough wind can kick it up and blow it around wildly. When we’re out there, watch the horizon constantly. If you see a storm building, we must immediately take shelter.”
Ben grunted. “There’s a lot to know about surviving in the desert.”
“It’s a good thing you have me with you,” said Rhys.
Ben rolled his eyes.
“I have never been to Vard,” interjected O’ecca, “but my father and brothers have been many times to trade with the desert folk. I recommend we stay at the Goat Tender’s Daughter. It is where they always stay. From there, we can find a guide.”
“I thought you were our guide?” questioned Ben.
O’ecca shook her head. “I know of the desert, but I do not know the desert.”
“We need to find someone who knows the geography as well as the Dirhadji do,” added Rhys.
“They aren’t all Dirhadji?” asked Ben.
Rhys shook his head. “The people here live on the outskirts of the desert. Sometimes, they may venture deeper for trade, but they do not follow the ways of the Dirhadji. The Dirhadji rarely come into any town. They live in the deep desert and stay there. If the Purple are looking to stay hidden, that is where they will be. The Dirhadji are the ones we must find.”
They stepped into the town and strange smells filled Ben’s nostrils; sharp spices, dust, and the pungent odor of animals.
The buildings were comprised of roughly stacked stone, many of them built into the rocks and hills around them. There was no wooden construction. Instead, fabric hung over doorways and windows. It blocked the light, but Ben was certain it did nothing to keep out the sounds or the smells.
Exotic music, oddly accented shouts, and bleats filled the thick, dusty air. As they entered the village proper, a troop of the goats streamed across the road in front of them. Ben and his companions had to stop while two score of the skinny animals were herded past.
“Goats and maybe a few ostriches are the only livestock they’ll have,” mentioned Rhys. “Nothing else can survive on the scrub brush that grows around here. I hope you like goat milk. Fresh in the morning, cheese at midday, fermented in the evening.”
The people seemed friendly enough, but they got a lot of stares. Back in Ayd, they’d changed into the loose tunic and trousers that were common in Ooswam, but they couldn’t hide their pale complexions. They were clearly foreigners. Vard was a town built on trade between two distinct cultures, though, so people seemed curious b
ut not concerned.
The Goat Tender’s Daughter stood near the center of town, just off the market. O’ecca and Rhys led them to the door. After one step inside, they both came backpedaling out.
“Maybe another inn,” choked O’ecca, bright crimson flooding her cheeks.
Even Rhys whistled through his teeth and mumbled, “Now that was an inn.”
Corinne peeked inside then quickly scampered after Rhys.
“There are girls in there that are…” Her face flushed and she trailed off.
Ben’s curiosity got the best of him and he stepped toward the door. Amelie caught him and slid her arm through his. She steered him after their friends.
“If it makes Rhys blush, then you don’t need to go inside,” declared Amelie.
Ben grinned at her. “I’m just trying to take in the sights and experience the culture.”
“Sure,” she responded, rolling her eyes.
Three buildings down from the Goat Tender’s Daughter, they found the Brown Lizard. At least, Ben thought it could be called that. There were no letters, only a rough, painted outline above the door. It was, almost certainly, a lizard. Whether it had originally been red and faded to brown or brown from the beginning, he wasn’t sure. Either way, on the red-brown rock, it gave the painting a chameleon-like feel as if the place was trying to remain unnoticed.
At the door, O’ecca hesitated before brushing past the linen curtain and shuffling inside. When she didn’t immediately come stumbling back out, they followed her in.
Ben wasn’t sure what he thought he’d find inside, but it certainly wasn’t this.
All around the room, low couches and thick carpets were scattered haphazardly. Short tables sat in between the couches. Most of the tables held colorful glass vases with thin tubes sprouting from the tops. Richly scented smoke poured out of several of the devices and robed men were huddled around them. They inhaled the smoke, blew it back out in thick clouds, then reclined and sipped at delicate tea cups.
A slim man approached them, his long robes rustling around sandaled feet. Long, oily locks fell around his shoulders. His face was clean shaven except a narrow beard sprouting from his chin. He’d styled it into a sharp point and it glistened with the same oil he’d rubbed into his hair. He ignored the women and focused his attention on Rhys, clearly the oldest man in the party.
The rogue negotiated two rooms for the night and asked what was on the hearth. Ben barely hid his grin when the innkeeper proudly answered, “Roast goat, stewed goat, and a goat cheese with bread.”
Before showing them the rooms, the innkeeper offered them mint tea and appeared only slightly offended when Rhys asked for an ale. Towaal interrupted, and they were shown the rooms first.
Rhys, Ben, and Milo returned downstairs quickly after dropping their packs in the room. They picked a spot and reclined on a set of the low couches. Ben eyed the glass device on the table in front of them.
“It’s for smoke,” explained Rhys. “Like from my pipe, but they flavor it. Herbs, fruits, all kinds of things.”
“Is it good?” Milo asked curiously.
Ben was surprised. The former apprentice rarely spoke up.
“Let’s find out,” responded Rhys with a grin.
A quick wave to one of the serving men and soon they had three mugs of ale, a small bowl full of dried herbs, and a plate of flat bread and some sort of mushy paste.
“Dip the bread into the paste,” advised Rhys while he crumbled the herbs into a bowl on the glass vase.
Ben tried what Rhys suggested and was pleasantly surprised. The bread was hot and fresh, and the paste had a rich, earthy flavor. He dipped his bread again and tried the ale. It wasn’t good. He sat it back down and watched as Rhys lit the herbs and picked up one of tubes. The rogue sucked on the tube then sat back, a cloud of blue smoke slowly escaping his lips and nose.
Milo picked it up next and also inhaled deeply. He let the smoke pour out of him. His lips curled into a smile and he coughed weakly. “That’s not bad.”
Ben pursed his lips and tried the smoke as well. He inhaled deeply, the smooth flavor reminding him of the scent of the rogue’s pipes but with cinnamon and baked apples. He exhaled slowly, blue smoke billowing up in front of his face. On the way out, he felt his throat tingle, and he involuntarily fell into a fit of coughing.
Rhys passed him his ale and Ben drank gratefully, trying to ignore the taste and let the liquid soothe the burn in his throat.
Around them, men smoked and drank, talking quietly. In the corner, an older woman was slowly strumming an almond-shaped stringed instrument. The room was quiet and peaceful. Ben wondered about the violent descriptions his friends kept giving for Qooten.
He said as much, and Rhys responded, “We’re not in Qooten yet. This is still Ooswam. The deeper we go, the more obvious the changes will be. Besides, even here, if you pay attention, you’ll see we are right.”
Milo nodded, puffing thick rings of smoke from his puckered lips.
“Look around,” suggested Rhys. “How many women do you see?”
Ben took the tube from Milo wordlessly and studied the room. Rhys had a point. There were only a few women, and most of them old or clearly with a group of men. Ben blew the smoke out like Milo had, attempting to form the rings. Instead, he only produced misshapen balls that quickly dissipated.
“I’m sure you can do it with practice,” consoled Milo, taking another turn and producing more perfectly formed rings.
“Have you smoked from something like this before?” asked Ben, curious if he could get Milo to open up about his past.
The former apprentice shook his head and didn’t give any more details.
Ben grunted and sat back on the couch, nursing his ale.
He’d only gotten to his second one when the women appeared. Amelie flopped down next to him on the couch and helped herself to the foamy liquid.
“That’s not very good, is it?” she asked, wiping her hand across her lips.
He nodded. “It’s terrible. Everyone else seems to be drinking tea.”
“We should as well,” suggested Towaal. “Drinking heavily is frowned upon in southern Ooswam. It’s unusual to see a local consuming alcohol in a place like this. When they do drink, it’s in places like the Goat Tender’s Daughter. In Qooten, drinking is only done after a raid or during a few auspicious times of the year.”
Rhys snorted but didn’t comment.
“Mint tea is popular around here. It should be quite good,” advised O’ecca.
Towaal leaned forward and brought one of the smoking tubes to her mouth. She drew in a deep breath then relaxed. She puffed out a wide ring of smoke that slowly drifted away from her. Next, she blew a long streamer of smoke which caught up to the ring and passed through the center. She sat back on her couch and winked at Ben.
“You were watching us,” he muttered. “How did you do that?”
“I keep telling you. You can do anything in the world if you have the will to make it happen,” responded Towaal.
Ben’s eyes widened and he glanced around, alarmed someone had seen her. He hissed, “You used magic!”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Whether I did it with my mind or my lungs, both are efforts to manipulate the smoke. What’s the difference?”
Ben eyed her suspiciously.
“She grew up not too far from here,” mentioned Rhys. “Probably not her first time smoking from a water pipe. My guess, it’s evidence of a misspent youth.”
“Really?” wondered Ben. He looked to the mage for confirmation.
“Where, exactly?” asked O’ecca
Towaal sighed heavily. She glanced meaningfully at the girl. “It was long ago.”
The diminutive lady seemed confused about Towaal’s look, but Ben and the rest of the companions understood. The girl had a difficult enough time coming to terms with the idea that Towaal was a mage. She didn’t need to know Towaal was long-lived. Ben suspected when Towaal said long ago, she was talking
about centuries.
“As Rhys said, I wasn’t always the paragon of pure living,” added Towaal. “When I was younger, my friends and I would smuggle water pipes from the men’s quarters and smoke until my father’s guards found us. My father would be apoplectic. It took me years to realize it wasn’t that we were sneaking away and smoking. He was livid at the idea of us being in the men’s quarters.” Towaal chuckled. “If only he’d known what we were up to with the boys from the University who came to tutor us. He would have had their heads on the block before the sun set.”
“Your father’s guards?” queried O’ecca. “He is a lord, I presume. Maybe I know him.”
Towaal shook her head. “I don’t think you will.”
“What is your House name?” insisted O’ecca.
“House of Towaal.”
The girl frowned. “I am not familiar with that house.”
“I didn’t think you would be,” murmured Towaal. “My family fell on hard times. Our lands were forcefully absorbed by one of our neighbors. Aside from me, I don’t believe there is anyone left who claims the name.”
“This is why you left for Alcott?” queried O’ecca.
“It is one of the reasons I stayed in Alcott,” answered Towaal.
Rhys, clearly sensing the young lady would continue to probe, interrupted to discuss what they should order for dinner, which led into how teas should be paired with the different types of goat, which led to whether goat cheese was really superior to cheese from a cow. By the time he was done, O’ecca had forgotten to ask further about the House of Towaal. Towaal, it seemed, was still thinking about it. Ben caught a far-off look in her eye, one he wasn’t used to seeing from the highly focused mage.
When they retired to the rooms, Ben thought to ask Rhys what else he knew about Towaal’s past, but as he opened his mouth, he saw Milo shrugging out of his clothes and slipping into his bed. Without knowing why, Ben decided he’d wait until he and Rhys were alone.