by RW Krpoun
“We’re never that lucky,” Jeff sighed. “Rock-paper-scissors-lizard-Spock for guard roster?”
An inch or so of light, fluffy snow fell during the night, and the morning found Shad leaning against the cart gripping a fired clay cup of broth as he stared at the ruts leading off into the unknown. A small group was coming down the road towards the Talon camp, and the warder watched them as they approached.
Fred was cooking breakfast, Jeff was tending the animals, and Derek was inside the cart messing with something; One and Four were crouched nearby using long twigs to draw on the surface of the freshly fallen snow while the other two were helping Jeff.
As he watched the travelers approach Shad pondered their situation; if they had background music he felt it would be Merle Haggard singing ‘Mama tried’, its chorus of ‘I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole’ ringing through his head with an eerie aptness. It was easy enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to focus on the immediate threats and the long-term goal of getting home, and in doing so to lose sight of the big picture. Leaning against a mule-drawn cart built by non-Human hands the truth of their situation was weighing heavily upon the warder: they were in an alternate word betting their lives on their abilities to out-fox the locals. Besting the locals had proven difficult in Iraq, the Prison, and the Realm, he was confident it wasn’t going to be easy here. Locals had the annoying habit of wanting to stay alive, which often complicated things. The fact was that here on the Isle the Black Talons were the new inmates in a very old prison.
And now they had four kids in tow, four more lives to worry about, although since the little buggers had been destined as Orc chow it wouldn’t take much effort on the Talons’ part to be able to claim that no matter the outcome they had bought the kids more time.
“Company?” Jeff came around the cart with the other two kids at his heels.
“Half a dozen peasants with a cart-load of firewood,” Shad observed darkly, his left thumb hooked into his belt forcing his sword hilt forward. “Yesterday we passed trees for the last four hours and they’re hauling firewood.”
“That’s normal. The trees belong to the Samurai, so the peasants have to gather deadfall for firewood. A lot burn peat.”
“Huh.”
The cart, heavily laden with bundled wood, rumbled past, trailed by a group of peasant men in worn padded jackets. Most kept their eyes fastened on the rutted road, but two stared at the watching Talons with hard, measuring eyes.
“Friendly bunch,” Jeff watched the peasants and their cart until the road’s curve took them out of sight.
“A couple of them did not look at us the way peasants are supposed to look at their betters.”
“Yeah. Well, every society has the way it is supposed to be, and the way it is. Looks like Fred is done.”
“Derek,” Shad slapped the side of the cart. “Breakfast.”
“Yeah, inna minute.”
“Now. I don’t want to waste daylight.”
“Yeah, just a sec.”
“One day he is going to do as he is told and I’ll die of shock,” the warder muttered.
Fred had made a thick soup and flatbread, and they dug in with a will. After a couple minutes Derek wriggled out from under the cart’s canvas cover, sheathed swords in hand, the stub of a candle between his teeth, and joined them.
“I hope you weren’t slapping your slinky in there,” Jeff warned the Samurai. “That is unhygienic.”
Derek flipped him off. “No. I was looking at the books and scrolls in the bundles.”
“Patience,” Fred grunted. “There’s weeks’ worth of reading ahead of us.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Say what?” Shad frowned. “Don’t tell me it’s in some heathen language we have to get when we level up.”
“ ‘Heathen language’ ?” Jeff shook his head. “Did you just get back from putting down the Indian Mutiny?”
“Bite me. You know what I mean.”
“Sadly, I do.”
“Do you want to hear what I found out?” Derek asked patiently.
“Yeah, sure,” Shad waved a hand in assent.
“You know how some bundles are books and some are scrolls? Well, I started looking through them, just hoping for an index or table of contents, notes, anything. First I noticed was that every book was just as thick as each other, and the same for the scrolls.”
“OCD is a common affliction,” Jeff shrugged. “Probably a survival trait for spellcasters.”
“That’s not it. Take Bundle Three, there are ten books in it, right? Well, what they are is ten copies of the same book.”
Shad looked up sharply. “He brought a matched set of books?”
“No, he brought ten copies of the same book. The scroll bundles each contain thirty scrolls, but there are actually three sets of ten identical scrolls.”
“What, Cecil was planning on being a bookseller as a sideline?” Jeff scratched his cheek.
“Instructions,” Fred mumbled.
“Yeah,” Shad nodded. “He was bringing school supplies to train ten followers.”
“To do what?” Jeff asked.
Derek shrugged. “I was just checking the first pages. The titles are pretty nondescript.”
“He will really want those bundles back,” Fred said quietly. “They aren’t reference books to double-check his figures, they’re an integral part of his plan.”
“Good,” Shad cleaned his bowl with a strip of flatbread, ate it, and gave the rest of his rounds of bread to the children. “Sooner started, sooner finished. At the mid-day meal break we’ll burn all but one copy of each, and the cords as well.”
“He might be able to detect that,” Derek warned.
“I’m hoping he can. One set can be re-copied, so it will force him to move quicker if he wants to recover his library. Once we figure out what he planned on teaching others, we’ll burn the last set, and I bet he will realize that. This is an opportunity to make that bastard work to our schedule for a change.”
“Could you track him?” Jeff asked.
“Nah. Didn’t even touch that branch of spells. Level seven sounds good until you start having to choose what you can use.”
“No joke. How did we ever survive level one?” Derek shook his head.
“Blind luck and overconfidence,” Jeff sighed. “I kinda wish we still had guns.”
“They made things easier,” Shad agreed. “Much more in my comfort zone.”
“You like guns the way Derek likes goats,” Jeff observed.
“A fair comparison,” the warder nodded as Derek flipped both of them off.
At their mid-day break Jeff and Derek burned the excess books and scrolls while Fred and Shad worked on the material components of their respective realms of ability. Then Jeff reheated venison while Derek compiled a list of the captured written works.
The small group made good time, passing several more farming villages set off the road they were following. The few peasants they observed were careful not to pay the passing Talons any notice.
“Friendly folk,” Shad observed to Fred as the Talons passed a bundled peasant gathering dead branches, the local very carefully oblivious to the passing group. “Reminds me of the boonies in Iraq, and the locals trying to avoid offending anyone with guns.”
“They are not jolly,” Fred nodded soberly. “Nor too enthused about seeing their betters.”
“Back in the Prison the commoners kept to themselves, too,” Shad rubbed his scar. “But this feels different.”
“Yeah,” the big Talon nodded. “In the Prison they just wanted to avoid armed people. Here, I get the feeling that they don’t want to get caught between two sides. Like Iraq-they wanted both us and the foreign fighters gone so they could get on with their lives.”
“Good point. I’m wondering if we should have taken our chances with the Bloody Sashes in the Realm.”
“Split milk.”
“True.” The pair
walked in silence for a while. “I’m concerned that Cecil will try to take us out by sending Death Lords against us. That is a win-win for him: either we get killed, or we unlock our wards by killing Death Lords and go home.”
“It is a smart move,” Fred conceded. “We may have to edge towards non-violence if that comes up.”
“That sucks. I do not function well in a violence-free environment”
“That says a lot about you.”
“I know.”
Chapter Three
Traffic picked up as the Black Talons entered the second day of their travels, and the villages they passed were larger and looked more prosperous. The road widened and improved, and they passed ox-drawn merchant wagons with growing regularity.
Twice they encountered military patrols of ashigaru (professional soldiers of common birth, Derek advised them) led by Samurai officers, but Derek’s status kept the Black Talons from drawing much official attention. The armor the patrols wore was very similar to that of medieval Japan, except that bamboo was replaced by hardwood slats.
By the third day they regularly saw travelers and wagons, but most of those they encountered kept their business to themselves. They passed several roadside inns late in the third day but camped well away from everyone.
“We’ll reach Litam tomorrow,” Jeff advised as the Talons sat down to a dinner of the last of their trail rations and three fat rabbits. “I bought a sack of corn meal, a pot of lard and another of butter from that last bunch of merchants, so it’s corn dodgers until we get there.”
“We’ll sell the cart and its contents when we hit town, find a place to hole up, and rebuild our resources,” Shad decided. “Get the kids decent clothes and pick up the gear we missed when equipping.”
“We’ll keep Durban, won’t we?” Derek asked. He had named the mule Durban.
“Yeah, but with a pack saddle; a cart restricts us too much. With decent clothes and shoes the kids can keep up or ride the animals if we have to bolt before we can find them a home. We need to get powered up, figure out how to intercept Cecil, and get this over with quick.”
“I’m going to lose the kimono,” Jeff observed, tossing a bone into the fire.
“That will make us look less affluent,” Derek warned.
“And how will people know you and Derek are a couple?” Shad snickered.
Jeff flipped him off. “I can’t get used to the feel. Besides, looking rich is never a good idea on the day-to-day.”
“Point,” Derek nodded. “I can’t say I like it on the average, but it makes the use of my sword really flow.”
“We’ve put up with the goats, no reason we can’t deal with you in a dress,” Shad shrugged. “Just so long as you can fight.”
“Never fear.”
The Black Talons reached Litam near noon the following day, trailing behind a merchant caravan guarded by mounted Ronin. The city straddled a broad, muddy river, with the two parts joined by a pair of arched bridges. Litam was walled, but the stone walls were broad with semi-sloped fronts and boasted green-tiled roofs over the catwalks. There were few fighting towers, but those that they had were clearly influenced by Japanese styles, being square and large, with curling eaves and being a markedly smaller width at each floor; they weren’t so much fighting towers as minor strongholds. Twenty yards out a muddy defensive ditch followed the wall.
“Pretty impressive,” Jeff surveyed the city defenses as the Talons waited for the caravan’s wagons to negotiate the wood bridge over the ditch. “It really has a Japanese feel to it.”
“It’s amazing,” Derek agreed, his eyes glowing.
“It’s different,” Shad nodded. “We need to show the colors?” he asked Fred.
The big Talon considered briefly, then shook his head.
“Colors?” Jeff cocked an eyebrow.
“We have these caps, kinda like the Afghani pakol cap, and the colors advertise our trades. Mine is black with white trim. That way if someone needs a warder they know who to approach.”
“Mine is gray,” Fred mumbled. “You wear ‘em if you’re looking for business.”
“Too soon for a gig,” Jeff agreed. “We need to get our bearings.”
“Look at the kites!” Derek pointed to where a group of boys were flying brightly colored kites. “They’re fighting them.”
“Pretty,” Jeff nodded, watching the brightly colored shapes dart and weave.
“Well, let’s go find an inn.”
The guards at the gate required Fred and Shad to don their colored hats so that their being armed would not arouse alarm; they were advised to tie a like-colored ribbon around each arm if they were actively seeking employment. All four Talons were required to provide their names, classes, and levels (called rings by the locals) before entry was allowed.
Litam’s broad streets were well-tamped gravel with the occasional outbreak of cobblestones, and the throughways were lively places. There were fewer shops than the Talons had encountered in the Prison, and far more booths, pushcarts, and peddlers. There were few horses or beasts of burden, but they saw carts drawn by sweating men and sedan chairs swaying past as the bearers trotted by with their load.
The streets were seldom straight, instead weaving and curving through close-set buildings, with nothing resembling a standard city block in sight. “A defense measure,” Derek explained when Jeff commented on the lack of a layout. “An attacker who gets though the walls will have difficulty navigating.”
The buildings were stout and designed for cold, with ground floors of mortared stone and upper floors of wood, the street-side shutters and doors boasting fanciful carving and inlays of different-colored wood. The edges of eaves curled in Chinese style and roofs were shingled with overlapping rows of curved clay tiles that reminded Shad of flower pots cut lengthwise. The roof-tiles were colored and glazed so that the weak winter sunlight glinted off reds, greens, and yellows, giving the city a lively, even festive, air.
The street rang with the sounds of peddlers hawking their wares, customers haggling, wandering groups of musicians playing for copper zay tossed into a decorated bowl, and artisans plying their tools. The throngs included people of all races, but Asians were clearly the majority, and the Black Talons’ clothes did not stand out. Male Samurai swaggered past with attendants in tow, ladies of noble standing rode by in sedan chairs, while commoners walked, worked, and lived on all sides. They saw few wheelbarrows, but the Talons saw the use of buckets hung from a shoulder yoke.
The Hiemin were dressed a bit better than the ones the Talons had seen at the border village, but they were just as worn and aged before their time. Their clothing tended to be dyed blue instead of light brown, and both men and women wore simple waist jackets; the men wore ‘high-water’ trousers and the women wore plain skirts. Those commoners in service to the nobles stood out sharply in their dull brown or black kimonos and their healthier appearance. They stalked as haughtily through their lesser brethren as did the nobles.
Derek had to be encouraged along at every turn, but even Shad’s pace frequently slowed to examine the variety of goods, sights, and smells. Jeff struck up conversations easily, and soon had them heading to a reliable dealer in carts, pausing along the way to buy simple but respectable commoner garb for the four orphans, and to sell off the cart’s cargo. All four Talons took the opportunity to pick up items of clothing or field gear that they had not acquired in the entry to the Isle.
The commoners gave the four a careful berth as the Talons moved through the streets, just as they did for any armed men, while the police patrols (Doshion, or commoners led by Yoriki, or Samurai) gave the four the flat measuring stare of lawmen everywhere.
The children rode Durban after the cart was sold, huddled together like a pile of week-old kittens, too frightened of the swirling crowds to move.
Jeff drew the others in close. “The Four Sheaf Inn caters to Ronin and well-heeled Koke in a reputable style,” he gestured to a sign above a doorway on a nearly deserted side
-street. “Or so the cart-dealer and a clothes-seller told me.”
“Looks like it might be quieter,” Shad nodded. “Let’s get rooms and some lunch. Just one night for starters in case it turns out to be a dump.”
The staff at the Inn were polite and efficient; in no time at all the Talons had two rooms, bunks in the servants’ quarters for their children, stabling for their animals, and were seated in the common room awaiting a meal.
While the exterior of the inn was of solid construction, within its confines the rooms were divided by painted screens and furniture was minimal. The Talons sat on cushions around a low table and surreptitiously studied their surroundings.
“How the hell do they indulge in intrigue with paper walls?” Shad muttered, eyeing the other customers, who tended to be kimono-clad Ronin and their Koke specialists. Asians were the prevalent group, although the Talons had noted the full range of ethic possibilities in their travel across Litam; ethnic backgrounds appeared to be evenly divided across the social spectrum.
“How are we going to get any sleep?” Jeff scratched his chin.
“Residential dividers are just paper,” Derek explained, keeping his voice low. “These are two facings of laminated lath with raw cotton or wool filler in between. They will cut enough noise for sleeping, but we ought to be careful about talking.”
“I see they have an authentic Japanese propensity for designs that burn like tinder,” Shad shook his head. “Are the kids going to be safe?”
“Anyone who lays a finger on them will lose an arm,” Jeff muttered darkly.
“They’re safe,” Derek assured them. “They are under our protection, particularly mine. I may be a Ronin, but…”
“But you’re still a Samurai,” Fred grunted. “We know.”
“It is more than just social class,” Derek pointed at the big Talon. “Ronin are blooded warriors without social inhibitions. In many ways we are more dangerous to cross than an affiliated Samurai because we have no On to lose.”