by Andrew Linke
“What are you laughing at, heretic?” Neasa asked, turning to Rajin.
“The likely fate of this expedition. Your king is a greater fool than I had thought.”
Neasa raised her eyebrows at that, while Sunil’s face remained impassive. He had heard far greater insults heaped upon the king, and himself, in the course of his service.
“This is precisely why I left the Commonwealth. The backbiting. The political maneuvering. I find it all quite distasteful.”
“As I recall, Va-Rajin, you left the commonwealth with your tail between your legs, leaving behind a trail of lifeless husks that were once the bodies of the people whose souls you consumed,” Sunil said.
It was then that a knock sounded on the doors to the dining terrace. Sinul jumped upright and stood, back straight, arms at his sides, watching for the doors to open. One of the guards standing beside the doorway turned and pushed against the doors. The iron wrought outline of the ship split at the center and the double-doors swung into the dining room.
⫛
“Esteemed ambassadors of Commonwealth, we present to you now the captain of your guards, Sir Sunil Diventru,” King Berech announced, extending an arm to the open doorway. “Sir Diventru needs no introduction to those of you who are familiar with the palace guards, but we will say that he is one of the finest fighting men to ever have an iron rod for a backbone.”
Sunil gave a sharp, courteous nod and stepped across the threshold into the dining room.
“Please take one of the empty seats around the table, Sir Diventru, and the servants will bring you a plate.”
“You are most gracious, your majesty,” Sunil said. He strode stiffly across the room and settled into the chair between Tracha and Zlata.
“Next to join our luncheon, we have our half sister, recently reassigned from patrol service on the western frontier, Neasa Veatro. Please, Neasa, take a seat here,” King Berech said, waving to an empty chair between himself and Biho Erdenech.
Neasa set her jaw and strode to take her seat without acknowledging the introduction. If she was to be the king’s private minder on this expedition, she thought it wise to remain aloof and give the impression that she answered only to her royal brother, at least until her authority had been firmly established and they were some distance from the capital.
“We should explain that Neasa has been removed from the formal command structure of the Commonwealth Army and thus has no official rank, though she is still bound to serve like any other soldier. She is to be our personal representative on this mission.”
“Your majesty…” Biho interjected.
“Silence, guild master. You are not going on the expedition yourself, so any perceived slight that you may feel is irrelevant. As for those of you who are traveling, we will make it clear now to all of you: Neasa may not command any of you, any more than Sir Diventru can command her, or you for that matter. Think of her as an advisor, and know that any message that is purported to come from us and is confirmed by both Neasa and master Oppen is likely true, as they will have independent means of communicating with us.”
“You have given her…” Biho started again, but stopped as he was transfixed by sharp looks from the king, Oppen, and Tracha. He bowed his head and said, “I apologize, your majesty. I am merely excited at the prospects of the upcoming expedition.”
“Your eagerness is understandable, guild master. As we were saying, Neasa will be an advisor to the expedition. Additionally, she is a skilled warrior with special talents and experience in facing gythrals, so we expect that she will be a valuable asset.”
King Berech allowed silence to settle around the table for the space of nearly a minute as he looked at each member of the delegation in turn. While he was concerned about the poor health of Jarom and Oppen, and did not know how well such a cultured woman as Zlata might hold up to the rigors of such a long journey, the king was pleased with the leadership of the expedition that he had so rapidly pulled together. Even the presence of his half sister was a comfort as, for all of her faults, he knew that she was at heart loyal to the nation.
Then he turned his eyes back to the doorway, where the heretic Rajin stood. Even in the bright light of noon the man seemed to draw gloom about himself like a cloak. The king steeled his resolve with a deep breath, then said, “The final member of the expedition, discounting servants and hired guards of course, stands before you now. Gentlemen, ladies, we present to you the heretic Rajin. Please, Rajin, take a seat at the table. We assure you that your food will be safe to eat.”
Rajin nodded, his thick black beard scratching against the front of his coarse shirt, and took a seat near the foot of the table, between Havil and Zlata. He leaned back in his chair and studied the assembled dignitaries with a skeptical gaze.
The king and his guests waited silently, as if anticipating the thunder after witnessing a lightning strike.
Finally, Rajin said, “I never thought I would see the day that I would dine with a king of the Trader Commonwealth. On, perhaps, but never with.”
King Berech’s face flushed as the faces of everyone around the table, except for Neasa, stiffened and grew pale.
“Wandering souls, people, can’t you take a joke? I never actually ate anybody, whatever the stories might say.”
Neasa laughed aloud. As much as she despised the man on reputation, she had to admit to herself that Rajin was no fool. He was fully aware of his reputation and not afraid to play into the expectations of his audience. She would have to watch him carefully, Neasa decided, because this was exactly the sort of innate charisma that had so frustrated her own commanding officers.
Berech gave a forced laugh, more out of a desire to break the tension that had settled upon the table than genuine amusement, and raised his glass in toast. The others reached for their glasses as well as the king said, “Now that the leadership of this expedition has been fully assembled, we must thank you all for agreeing to undertake this bold and potentially valuable journey. When I was a boy, the priests of the high sanctuary tried to fill my mind with tales of the Wanderer and his dealings with mankind. Being a youth more inclined to war than piety, I must confess that few specifics of the tales remained with me, but if there is one thing that I do recall from those tales it is this: The journey of discovery is a sacred act. Only by pushing the bounds of our maps are new lands called into existence. And so I ask the blessing of the Wanderer on this expedition. May each of you discover something new on your journey.”
King Berech raised his glass in salute, nodded to the assembled party, then brought it to his lips and drained it.
⫛
Oppen Ralva glared at the woman sitting opposite him, and let loose a string of crude insults in the native language of the Coldwater fishermen.
Across the table, Zlata Comac blushed and whispered, “Keldvas. I would say a rather crude dialect, perhaps dockworkers or miners?”
“Damn!” Oppen snapped. He lifted his glass held it up in salute to the woman sitting across from him, then downed the harsh brown liquor in a single mouthful.
Zlata settled back to think, one finger of her left hand pressed to her temple. Around them, the other ambassadors and their various friends, family, and hired companions began to whisper. Before the babble could rise to a clamor, Zlata smiled, sat forward, and spoke a string of melodious tones, which suggested Oppen engage in some rather unspeakable acts with his parents’ farm animals in the common tongue of the Tesni desert.
Oppen covered his mouth with both hands and started giggling so hard that soon his eyes were watering. He spluttered, “Tensi. Tens. Tennasi.”
Zlata delicately lifted the small glass of liquor from the table in front of her, nodded over the rim at her opponent, and downed the contents in a delicate sip that belied the astringency of the liquid. Oppen watched her through heavy eyes. He tried to think of another language in which to insult Zlata, but he was so befuddled that he was beginning to forget words in Trader Common, let alone other langua
ges. He raised his hands in surrender and the crowd around the table broke into uproarious laughter and applause.
Zlata nodded politely and rose to her feet, tottered slightly, then regained her balance, straightened her shoulders, and walked back to the high table where her meal sat unfinished. The others followed, two of them supporting Oppen. More wine and liquor flowed. Stories were told and promises were made.
The leadership of the expedition had gathered on this, the final night before their departure, in a large tavern known as the Leaning Timber. It was situated along the docks in lower Tal Albahi, within sight of the ship that would carry the expedition northward up Brackwater Bay at the break of dawn. The location had been Zlata’s first choice, though Havil and Jarom had both protested that it would be more seemly for the noble delegation to gather in a wine house or theater in the upper city. As the cultural ambassador, however, Zlata had convinced her companions that there was no place in Tal Albahi that more thoroughly represented the culture and values of the Trader Commonwealth than the Leaning Timber.
From the outside, there was little to distinguish the Leaning Timber from the countless other taverns, warehouses, boarding houses, and brothels that lined the docks, except for the weathered old timber that leaned against the front of the building. It was said that the timber had been destined to be the mainmast of a ship that was undergoing a refit, but the owners of the tavern had hired a crew of longshoremen to steal it from the shipyard and install it on the face of the building in the middle of the night. Behind the salt-soaked face of the structure, the interior of the Leaning Timber was divided into two levels which were open to all paying customers, as well as third level that the proprietor’s tax records indicated was used exclusively for storage, though it included several opulently decorated rooms that catered to the private desires of the establishment’s most exclusive customers. The second floor consisted of a wide balcony populated by large tables and padded chairs, exclusively reserved for those customers who could afford to dine and speak in the relative privacy afforded by separation from the rabble below. The ground floor of the Leaning Timber was crowded with rough hewn tables and benches, their wood stained by grease and soaked by continual waves of spilled beer.
At the center of the tavern, rising from an elevated stage at the ground floor up to the joists that supported the floor of the third story, was the elegant tangle of wood, iron, and cloth that made up the circular vertical stage which had made the Leaning Timber one of the most famous, if not most respectable, taverns in Tal Albahi.
Neasa leaned against the railing of the balcony level, watching over the stage side tables that had been hired for the servants and guards who would be accompanying the expedition. There were fifteen of them in all and, despite being stripped of their weapons at the door, it was easy to pick out the nine guards from the servants by their sun darkened skin and weathered, practical clothing. Sunil Diventru was especially easy to spot, sitting up with his back perfectly straight at the head of a table full of lounging guards. Neasa wondered if the stodgy old soldier was even enjoying himself, or if he viewed this evening of entertainment as just another watch of his endless duty.
“Taking in some culture before you set out into the wilderness?” Rajin asked, coming up beside Neasa. He indicated the stage, where a troupe of actors was performing The Silkie’s Lament.
“I have never been a connoisseur of the theater,” Neasa replied, glancing up at the stage where three performers, naked from the waist up but clad in intricate one-piece leggings that flowed and glittered in the stage lights, were suspended from wires at about the level of the balcony. They thrashed their legs, waved their arms, and sang a chorus about the freedom of swimming in the sea.
“Commonwealth dramas do leave something to be desired in their subtlety, I will give you that, but not even the elves put so much effort into their staging and costumes.”
“You have seen many elven plays, heretic?”
“I have.”
“What sort of stories might they tell? Thrilling dramas about trees growing? The tragic tale of a blade of grass cut down in its prime?”
Rajin gave Neasa a sad smile and shook his head. “There is a particularly moving tragedy of a guardian tree which sacrifices itself to protect a village, but most of their plays are comedies of error. A young elf man falls in love with an older elf woman and believes himself to be courting her, only to discover that she is merely testing him to see if he will be a good match for her granddaughter.”
Neasa grunted. It did sound like an amusing premise for a story, but she still saw little value in paying people to gallivant around a stage singing songs, reciting speeches, and flashing their skin to titillate the audience. There was real work to be done protecting the world from gythrals, or researching the ancient runes to rediscover their powers.
“When did you see those elven plays?” she asked.
“I went into exile nearly twenty years ago to escape a death sentence. I spent much of that time living among the elves.”
“They accepted you, a heretic and murderer?”
“You are a strong and talented woman, Neasa Veatro, of that I have no doubt, but you are young and have little experience with life beyond the constraints of the Trader Commonwealth. Some of what you would call heresy is little more than an alternative interpretation of the Wanderer’s tales in elven lands.”
“And murder?”
“Have you ever killed a man?” Rajin said, turning his back on the spectacle of the stage and studying Neasa’s face.
“I have.”
“Among the deep dwarves you would be counted as a murderer. Though they have the least space in which to exile, and are under the most pressure to maintain their ancient traditions, one of their most sacred tenants is that no man may take the life of another, for any purpose.”
Neasa nodded, considering that. She must not allow Rajin into her head, but there was a sting of truth to his words.
She looked back to the stage, where the actors playing the role of silkies had been lowered on wires until they hung eye to eye with those who stood upon the stage. The crowd roared with laughter as one of the silkie characters questioned a human about the proper means of fertilizing a brood of eggs on land.
Further along the balcony, the lady Zlata had regained her seat and was daintily enjoying her third course. Though her hands felt as though they were encased in thick mittens and she had to move slowly lest she stab herself with a forkful of potatoes, Zlata held her fork and knife in the proper fingers, cut her meat and vegetables into small portions, and delivered each portion to her lips without spilling a crumb on the table or her elegant green velvet gown.
“You have some skill as a linguist, my lady,” Havil A’Mar said, nodding to her over the rim of his water glass. “It’s not often I have seen a translator of Oppen’s mettle bested in a test of language.”
“Leaves me wondering why we’re bringing the man along!” shouted Tracha Runsen. He banged his glass on the table and a harried serving woman appeared from behind a nearby pillar to refilled it with thick brown ale. “Seems to me that you could do the translating and give us some more room for cargo.”
Oppen raised his hand in objection, then his head dropped and lolled about on his shoulders. His hand dropped as well and, after a moment, began to crawl across the tabletop in search of a glass.
“I thank you for your compliments,” Zlata said, dabbing at her lips with a white napkin. She took a sip from her own glass, which was now filled with watered wine, and continued, “but I am not a linguist. Some measure of linguistic skill is a necessary social grace, you see, so I have acquainted myself with greetings, necessities, and insults from a dozen languages, but I am fluent in none of them.”
“And thath why you sthil neeths mer…” Oppen slurred. He pulled his wineglass closer and managed to hold his head upright, though his eyes refused to remain open.
“Indeed, master translator. Gentlemen, I only won that little g
ame of wits because I can hold my liquor better than our polyglot comrade.”
Around the table, the other ambassadors all laughed.
Havil leaned to one side to get a better view of the stage at the center of the tavern. At that moment, one of the actors portraying a silkie was again swimming upwards, pulled by thin wires that ran into pulleys affixed to the ceiling, pursued by an amorous human male who vaulted from platform to platform as he ascended the scaffold that rose above the stage. It was difficult to hear the actors over the sound of cheering from and catcalls from the crowd on the ground floor.
“I had my reservations at first, but you certainly do know how to choose a good tavern,” Havil said.
“Thank you. I thought that this establishment would be an appropriate final dose of culture for our party before we set off into the unknown. Though I am surprised that you drink only mineral water, master Havil.”
Havil gave her a small shrug and sipped from his glass. “I appreciate the bubbles and flavor of it. Additionally, I prefer to keep my head clear for negotiations.”
“Or for watching actors debauch themselves on stage!” Tracha roared. He clapped Havil on the back and took a long draw from his mug. The thick beer left a rime of foam on his upper lip when he finally thunked the mug back to the tabletop.
“I assure you, Tracha…”
“Ah, no need to be ashamed of it, Havil. Personally, I’m considering lightening my purse to go up the the third floor. They say that the girls up there will…”
“We are in the presence of a lady, Tracha. Restrain yourself,” Havil chided.
“What? You think she would have brought us here if she didn’t want us to experience everything that the Commonwealth has to offer?”
The audience below roared in appreciation and for a moment the conversation at the table was placed on hiatus as the ambassadors listened to, and guffawed at, a rapid succession of rhymed jokes questioning the physical compatibility of silkies and humans. Even the dour Rajin, who had been leaning against the railing with his back to the stage as he spoke to Neasa, laughed at some of the proposed methods of union. After the characters finally settled upon a mutually agreeable, if laughably unlikely, means of sharing one another’s company for the night, the stage lights dimmed and curtains fell around the circular scaffold as stagehands hurried to perform a scene change.