Tales Of Grimea

Tales Of Grimea Page 2

by Andrew Mowere

Crossroads:

  Year: 850 Post Kerallus. 200 Pre Adventus

  What if nobody wants it? Thought Hwosh Ru’ub as he trudged along a tired, bitter dirt road. He could tell the road was tired because it was in disuse, causing the wasteland it ran through to try and eat into it here and there. Moreover, he knew the road was bitter because it tried to spit up dust at him. Hwosh sighed, allowing the sun to glare at him in disapproval. Probably, if he waited here long enough, in time that same glaring eye would grind him to dust, the same way that it took over everything in this landscape. The man grunted, adjusting the Worg’s corpse upon his back.

  Worgs were dangerous creatures, large to say the least. In fact, this one had stood a little taller than him, boasted thickness at its torso equal to that of a tree trunk, and was longer than two men could stand upon each other. Black fur itched at the nape of Hwosh’s neck as he carried the thing with him. Then again, Worgs were fearsome beasts only around here. Beyond Ghata’s outskirts, there were creatures the likes of which he had never seen outside of books. Even within the region’s borders, there were many ways to die. He had no business getting cocky just because he killed a minor beast.

  As he made his way, Hwosh began to sweat due to the wasteland’s heat. It was already mid-afternoon, but the sun seemed reluctant to budge from directly above his head. “Shoo,” he mouthed, throat caked with dust. Trees grew here and there, but they were greyish and small and thorny by nature, meaning they would provide no shelter. Of course, a glowing orb of heat wouldn’t listen to his puny commands, and so the sun stayed stubbornly in place, cooking him slowly. By the time Hwosh reached Lor’s crossroads, he’d sweated enough onto his cheap hide armour that his shoulder itched. Heedless of the southern and northern roads, the dark haired man adjusted his red bandanna and pushed on east towards his town.

  Lor was an uncommon town, for it was independent from surrounding countries, and was thus considered unimportant in some ways. To the north and south rose two great empires, and neither bothered with this small oasis town. Nor was Lor easterly enough to actually be part of Ramlah, the desert with its secluded nomadic societies, boasting the proudest and most dextrous of warriors. Of course, Lor wasn’t part of the wastelands stretching west either, and so was considered interesting in its own way. Traders liked dropping by in caravans and bartering, because goods from almost every surrounding region could be found in the multicultural town. No desert wyrm talons or Regalian silk, but a careful eye could, perhaps, spot crystal orbs from Indellekt or a rare gem from the nearby western wastelands, where hidden chasms led into long forgotten cave systems filled with wonders and the dusty scent of death. That said, for Hwosh Ru’ub the monster hunter, this town with its clay and wooden structures was little more than good old boring home.

  As he reached the town gates, Hwosh sighed, because along the beaten dirt road a long line of people stood between him and the town. Sometimes, due to how popular the town was with traders, such things happened. Hwosh stood there, between a wagon carrying turnips (which were actually halfway rare here) and a woman carting over selkworm eggs. Both were surprising to the monster hunter. A part of him longed to chat with the woman and ask her why she’d brought these eggs to Lor, despite its lack of rookie wizards needing a small safe familiar. In his mind, the conversation would go thus:

  “Hi!”

  “Hey, there. Oh my, that’s one big Worg you’ve got.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to brag about.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’m more interested in your eggs. Do you go west often?”

  From there on, she would tell him a lot about the farther reaches of the wasteland as well as where to find good towns to trade, and Hwosh would push his bandanna higher up on his head in wonder, causing its string of beads and ornaments to clutter about the side of his face. Slowly, their line inched forward, then faster, until Hwosh was gestured in through Lor’s gates after the man with the uproar causing turnips. The guard didn’t smile at him, although he grunted at the sight of a man carrying a Worg as calmly as Hwosh did.

  Few in this town liked Hwosh; they seemed to carry an opinion of him that he himself shared. It was often better to stay quiet than to say something and make a fool of himself. Of course, the warrior looked back at the woman as she turned left after the gate with her wagon and after a second the man pushed on straight ahead. She wouldn’t have chatted anyway. Not with him.

  After making his way through the winding dust bitten streets of Lor for a few minutes, the tall monster hunter’s shoulders loosened slightly, and his gait began to become more relaxed. Life can go on well enough, he thought.

  Hwosh made his way towards the western side of town, beyond the bustling bazaar filled with exotic scents and smokes. Dust mingled here with spices and the feathers fallen from birds with impressive plumages, which were apparently a particular steal here. Why anyone would more for an “off turquoise” bird than for a small house, a simple warrior would never know. The buzzing crowd was mostly made up of foreigners, identifiable both by certain facial features which hadn’t yet been distilled into an average continental look, and also by choice of clothing. Regalians hade proud high cheekbones and often boasted bluish eyes and lighter skin, whereas those of Indellekt liked to dress in more modest robes, although still rather colourful. As Hwosh made his away along the shaded stands with their bright covers, calls came from merchants announcing their wares in an almost songlike chant. The sounds clamoured against one another, and the fighter ruefully smiled. This was what home sounded like to him.

  Somewhere along the way, a merchant in a simple brown robe and a square hat, called a kama, stopped the tanned man. “That’s a mighty Worg you’ve landed yourself,” he remarked with an impressed whistle. His stand, noticed Hwosh, was better shaded than most. In fact, this merchant had set up a long tent like piece of blue cloth from the left building to the right in order to shield an entire section of street from the sun’s hot glare. His wares mostly consisted of beast: Skins, scales, pelts, as well as tusks. He could see jaws and fangs and even a drake scull looming ominously upon a high shelf. This man seemed to know his business.

  “Thank you, sir,” Hwosh responded politely yet in a measured manner, “I’ve heard of your work, master Baqir.” The merchant smiled at that, a wide toothy grin. Lor was a town of trade, and it was natural for the most prominent of merchants to be famous. Baqir was one of those few who had risen above the need to have a street stand in the Bazar yet held one anyways. Some called him strange, and that he was indeed. Still, the charitable man was well respected, for he was as ruthless in trade as he was kind in society. Hwosh had heard of him, of course, and knew what he now wanted of him.

  “So? How about thirty Regalians for the beast, boy?” offered the merchant with a thoughtful look. Hwosh almost flinched at the price. He eyed the slightly pudgy man, trying to think things through. Somewhere to the left, a parrot was repeating its owner’s cries.

  “It’s green and red, great beside the bed!”

  “It’s loud, it’s true, only the best for you!”

  “Such, a steal, you can have it for a meal!”

  Hwosh barely gave the background noise an ear, however. “Sir,” he murmured hesitantly, “The price you offer is too much. This worg,” he gave the wolf like thing upon his back a shake, “is worth twenty, maybe twenty three Regalias.” The man’s expression changed for a second, and then he laughed, slapping his thigh.

  “Aye, boy,” he exclaimed, before a nearby man dropped his bag of cinnamon powder and sent all around into a coughing fit, chased by a hail of curses. When the commotion subsided, Baqir added “You look like a strong boy, so I thought selling this to you for a higher price would work as incentive.” A wide smile coated his face, and Hwosh understood the man’s reading of his tired leather armour and nicked broadsword. Not just as a lasting investment; this man wants to outfit me for better work somewhere. There was no way a merchant as savvy as Baqir would boast an inexperien
ced eye for wares, and yet Hwosh found himself doubting the man. There were many tough fighters in the streets of Lor, hardened by the town’s less lawful side, not to mention the east’s dextrous Muqateleen or Regalia’s knights. Settling on a cub such as himself could be no more than a backup plan, at best. Could the moustached man’s motive for this offer be pity?

  Before he even knew it, Hwosh was considering Baqir’s offer seriously, lost in the man’s earnest and kindly demeanour. Then again, the black haired man was a simple one, if not stupid, and proud in his own way. Hard earned money was simply more appealing than the good natured charity of Baqir Kareem. Also…

  “Thank you, uncle,” Replied he respectfully, setting his Worg down on the dusty road and almost tripping a coffee boy. He inched closer to the merchant and took one of his ringed hands in both of his, allowing his words to carry in an almost revering whisper. “But I have a commission from master Salim.”

  Baqir almost recoiled at the name, but then laughed off Hwosh’s apologies with a waving hand. “That’s alright, my boy,” he exclaimed, “A merchant knows when he’s beat! But next time,” he added with a waggling finger raised in mock anger, “Don’t tease an old man with what he can’t have.” With that Hwosh was forced to take a cup of hot black coffee from one of the constantly moving vendors. The boy handed Baqir’s cup with ease yet seemed more hesitant with Hwosh, perhaps due to the man’s physique or the beast lying at his feet. His right hand shook as he held a cup out, hot coffee scented with kerdama seeds pouring into it through a pipe attached to the copper vat strapped onto the youth’s back. The child gulped as Hwosh smiled at him, trying to put him at ease. He kept his gorgeous grey eyes -a rarity when coupled with his browned skin- on the warrior for the full minute Baqir took to dismiss him with one more coin than was strictly necessary.

  A few minutes after that, Hwosh Ru’ub was sent on his way. The man went quietly, secretly glad for the brief rest from carrying his prey upon one shoulder. As he went towards the east of town, Hwosh inevitably had to cross Themra: an oasis ringed by a lake and accessible only through four simple yet finely made limestone bridges. The oasis was devoid of buildings, for ancient law declared its waters public property and prohibited any parties from exerting influence upon it. Even the underground king adhered to that law. A few tired animals grazed here and there, yet Themra was decidedly man’s cohort: people were in perpetual motion to and from the oasis, carrying buckets laden with water sweeter than a sweetmaker’s potions and almost magical with its healing properties. Legend had it that when the first of Lor’s inhabitants had settled here and managed to choose a Sultan from amongst the many war chiefs and learned, Sultan Salah the first was chosen to lead. Directly after creating an advisory body out of guild leaders and establishing basic laws and ruling system, the man tasked his right hand man and sorcerer with casting as many spells of preservation and healing on the water, allowing it to become a foundation for a city to rise around it and to last through ages. Some say that the sorcerer, whose name had long since been lost, was so powerful that the water’s magic can still heal a multitude of illnesses and promotes good fortune. Another faction maintains that the sorcerer went on to do great things in Indellekt. Others say that Themra just has excellent water.

  Hwosh made his way past the eastern bridge, unto the extremely fertile soil. He was prepared to go slowly, due to the large crowd of people gathered here, on the paths between shrubs and fruit patches, but person after person made way for him and his impressive burden. The warrior glanced here and there, noting that there were more Lorians and easterners when compared to Regalians and ‘Dellekts than there used to be. Men and women from Lor and the eastern lands were dressed more modestly than others, and often in simpler colours. The colours, Hwosh was surprised to learn, were more of a cultural gesture. Uncle Salim had once said, “Our colours are on the inside.” Added to that, despite the men not being required by faith to cover up their arms, lower legs, nor hair, many did so anyways as a gesture of support for their women. Those of Lor also moved in a more segregated manner, men often keeping to the left out of respect, and the warrior was slightly amused to see that most every one of them had the same type of beard. The water seemed to glisten in the sun, and Hwosh judged sundown to be a few hours away, still. He made his way further to the east.

  Almost any town one enters will boast a poor district. In Lor, this part of the city was to the east, so as to shield the wealthiest from sandstorms. Here, the houses turned shabby, the people slowly grew less educated and started to almost sprout sunken cheeks. While Baqir and those like him tried their best to elevate those in poverty to better lives, they were unable to cover more than a tiny fraction of those in need. The higher council, meant to be a retardant against corruption, spent more time these days squabbling over trade agreements and tax cuts. Granted, they were not outright thieves, and work still went towards aid and education, but the council was certainly inefficient these days, if not outright negligent. Even the roads in the Qir quarter were strewn with tired garbage thrown from lean to homes barely able to support their own weight. Within a few minutes Hwosh had to slow down his breathing in order to keep himself from gagging. His sense of smell was better developed than that of others, but such a bliss when hunting could easily turn into a curse in Qir. He tightened his hold upon his Worg and kept his other hand close to his waist, where he kept both his old broadsword and money pouch. Pickpockets were a dime a dozen here, and most were desperate enough to risk death for a few meals’ worth. Such things happened when the main available occupation was begging. Either that, or join Mikhlab, if you don’t mind underground organizations.

  Hwosh, luckily, had just barely escaped the fate of these hollow eyed children in rags he saw all around. Not being the religious type, he thanked old man Salim in his heart instead, then made his way towards a well-known house in the heart of Qir, ignoring the ravaged houses and people sitting aimlessly in the middle of trash filled streets, leaning against walls and waiting for something to change. Then the trash began to disappear, and then the dead look in people’s eyes.

  Slowly but surely, as Hwosh made his way towards his destination, the living standards began to change until he entered an area that was almost middle class in nature. It was a block not more than twenty houses in length and width, but it was reminiscent of Themra: A magical oasis in the middle of a desert. Children played in the streets, some sitting at benches and teaching each other their letters, and shy Lorian lover sat next to each other and talked in a small garden with a slowly trickling fountain as well as vine flowers clutching a high white square pattern fence. Not a one of them even held hands, yet Hwosh could tell that they were lovers from the intense passion apparent in their eyes. Such was the way of easterners, he thought. Starting to tire again from carrying his prey for so long, the warrior moved towards his quarry with more haste than was absolutely necessary.

  The house he went to stuck out against the others here like a sore thumb. Whereas this entire block of houses was renovated and repaired often, this one houses still seemed tired, if in acceptable shape: It still held on to old origins of lay walls, a faded wooden front portal, and an overall shabby quality of workmanship. Hwosh thought the place reflected its owner and his intentions quite well. The man knocked the door once. After a few seconds, he tried again, feeling slightly less patient. When his third knock went unanswered, Hwosh Ru’ub sighed, looking towards the sun in exasperation. Yeah, it’s about time for that. Finding the door unlocked, he went inside.

  The small clay house was comprised of two chambers, and Hwosh found himself in the living room after ducking his head under the door top. Despite this room being scantily furnished, it was still in better shape than uncle Salim’s private quarters. Here, there were a few sturdy chairs, a few rugs covering the dusty floor here and there, as well as a well-made table. That pure white table was the only finely crafted thing in the whole house, Hwosh knew. It was a puzzling thing to many of Salim’s guests
, but Hwosh had once heard the man say that a business man needed a reliable place to sign contracts. Besides, the thing was a gift from his brother.

  Sure enough, Master Salim was praying in a corner of the room silently. Hwosh took a few seconds to observe the man, and determined that he was about halfway done. A couple of minutes, then, considering that the old bald man must have heard him come in. Old man Salim never put off his prayers, even when in the company of merchants or councilmen, but he was respectful enough to hurry up if someone was waiting on him. The warrior also noticed a pot bubbling in the corner over a low fire. Wisps of smoke and vapour flitted off the pot and were swept off from the ventilation holes directly above. That hole was bigger than the others, which were tiny and ran along one of the building’s walls, both at the bottom and the top. That was the ventilation method of choice in Lor, despite Indellekt’s advanced magicks and many merchants being able to afford people to fan them constantly. Cold air entered through the bottom holes and warm air left through the uppers. Each was barely large enough for a child to poke a finger through, to discourage theft.

  Hwosh went over to the room’s right corner, returning to the rich stew with multiple bowls. He knew that it wouldn’t be just the two of them eating today. When he was done spooning food into about five, he heard a murmur behind him, followed by a shuffling sound. “Accepted, uncle,” he stated in a ritualistic manner.

  “Who knows?” answered Salim Qamar with a voice just as creamy as the stew. Hwosh turned to him just in time for the man to raise a hand and offer, “Me and you both, my child.” He was well aware of Hwosh’s opinions on religion, and hadn’t wanted the official response used on a nonbeliever.

  While Hwosh got the table ready for them, Salim went over to the outside door, tugging at his long frizzy beard as he went. “Children, I have four today!” he shouted to no one in particular, and then went back inside, leaving the portal with its peeled array of bright paints ajar. In less than a minute four children burst through the door, one almost smacking her head against its traditional metal studs. Noncommittally, Hwosh sat down on one of the rugs with his plate while Salim asked each of the children about his or her day. “Sufian,” he called out finally to a boy hanging back from the rest. “I heard your father came down with yellow cold. Is that true, child?” At that Hwosh’s ears perked, for that was the same disease that had claimed his own parents years back, setting him on course to meet with Salim.

  “…Yes, dad. He’d been working on northern plum district, and a yella got him…”Uncle Salim looked at Sufian in sympathy for an instant or two, but when he knelt down to look him in the eye, he said, “Boy, I’m not that old yet. I’m still a young man, call me uncle.” The boy nodded bravely, and the man added, “I have some leftover medicine for the infection, you can have it if you want.” The boy’s astonished face made his response clear for all to see, and he rushed out the house to tell his family of the good news. Salim grumbled to himself for a second about men not being sensible around scorpions, and Hwosh could foresee him going to find another child to feed in a few minutes. The old man hated letting food go to waste.

  Halfway through the meal, Salim went out to find someone else. While he was gone, the girl who had almost knocked herself unconscious looked Hwosh in the eye and flatly stated, “Uncle Salim doesn’t let the kids eat with strangers.”

  Her glare was about to get accusing when Hwosh relented, admitting, “Yes, I’m one of his Baneen.” She grinned at that and all four remaining children suddenly became more open to the warrior’s presence here. After a few minutes, however, they realized that Hwosh’s clumsy attempts with them were more than an act and began to lose interest. This was fine with the black haired man, as his awkwardness with children made him usually prefer to be as far away from them as possible. Still, there was a young one who persisted in wanting to hear about Hwosh’s latest adventure, a blonde thing with dark eyes. His earnest face was pointed towards the man, while he told his story, like a Regalian crossbow. Under such duress, Hwosh was barely able to stammer through the admittedly slightly exciting tale of serpents and summer heat and Worg ambushes, but it seemed satisfactory and the little boy nestled unwanted into his lap for a nap just before Salim came back, dragging a rag wearing mess of a child by the ear.

  “This one,” exclaimed he, “thought her clever fingers could steal from me!” Hwosh could tell that the man’s mirth was barely containable. This had less to do with an innate sense, and more to do with the man visibly hopping from foot to foot. “Let me go,” she shouted, “you old towel wearing child and potato loving coot, or I’ll stab you in the eye!”

  Hwosh grimaced at the insult. One of the children’s spoon’s dropped. Even Salim gave her a look. “Do you mean that I like to eat children with potatoes?” he wondered patiently, perhaps hoping for the best. The blonde child in Hwosh’s lap woke up and looked around with bleary eyes.

  “No,” she answered, putting a tongue out, “I meant that you like to-“ an old hand clamped on her mouth at the last possible second, thankfully.

  “Child,” reprimanded Hwosh, although he didn’t really mind profanity himself. “Do you have any idea who you just insulted?” A confused look came over her then, and she shook her head, sending dusty yet still remarkably red trestles flying. “A thief should always check prospective prey for signs of danger or fealty,” he said in a deliberate manner, letting each word hang for an instant, “especially when that sign of danger is an obsidian claw pin.” The muted girl went deathly pale then, turning slowly to look at where, sure enough, the older bald man with the seemingly innocent beggar look had a black brooch at his neck, holding the folds of his white robes in place. That brooch, with its three clawed paw, told anyone and everyone exactly who the man was, as well as who his older brother might be.

  Uncle Salim took his subdued would be assailant off to literally have her mouth cleaned with soap. Hwosh knew that particular punishment.

  When uncle Salim finally came back, today’s lunch guests had already bid their leave and left presents for him. The old man never wanted compensation for his meals, but painstakingly gathered trinkets and flowers were not to be returned. This time, one of them, the sharp minded little girl -who was the oldest at twelve and was called Shireen, the merchant had boasted- even drew him a picture on a piece of parchment. It depicted a better groomed likeness of him serving people food in a wonderful golden city with a large content smile on his face. Even his robe was whiter in the picture than in real life. The man eyed the drawing fondly for a few seconds, before pocketing it somewhere within his robe. The two ate in silence, with Salim dismantling his food with usual speed. As always, Hwosh marvelled at the deliciousness of their meal, and he knew it wasn’t due to any particular skills the white bearded man boasted. Salim just made a point out of buying the best ingredients possible.

  With the meal done, Hwosh pointed at the Worg still lying near the doorway. “Twenty for that one?”

  “Business, first, eh?” murmured Salim whilst standing up and giving the beast a cursory glance.

  “Uncle, I sat here for hours playing with the children you brought, and knowing you I may stay for dinner too. There’ll be time for a chat.”

  Salim chuckled. “Hah! I wouldn’t call what you did playing. You’re better with a sword In your hand and simple leather around you.” Hwosh conceded the point while the man who practically raised him for fifteen years checked the Worg’s pelt for injuries, claws and fangs for sharpness, and even opened its mouth wide, huffing at the hideousness of breath but taking a long look at a poison gland situated at the back end of its lolling barbed tongue. “Aye, twenty’s fair enough,” concluded the old man, rising to his feet and coming over to sit by the warrior. “So, how fares the youngest of my charges?”

  Hwosh smiled at the question. “Still the same as last week, uncle. It was a long hunt, but nothing to fuss over. As long as you’re careful and set up enough traps and distractions, catching a Worg one on one
isn’t too difficult.”

  “That’s not what I meant, child,” said Salim, a frown forming on his face. Hwosh usually never saw him frown, even when the man was frustrated with his lack of understanding when it came to people. The old man started playing with his pin absentmindedly. “Have you been eating well? New girl in your life, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, uncle, everything has been going great. No girls, of course,” at that, uncle Salim looked slightly happy, although he didn’t repeat his advice about people taking their time to find someone worth the time and commitment once more. He had drilled that lesson deep into Hwosh, and had taught him to never hurt a girl, nor hurt himself using one. Hwosh was very glad for the lesson, yet didn’t think he needed to hear it for the three hundred and seventy fifth time. “I go out to eat with Percy and Adra more often than not at the inn near his room.”

  Contrary to Hwosh’s hopes, Salim stirred on the stretch of rug he was seated upon and said, “Relationships and marriages should be between two people who can respect one another beyond pretty faces and slippery tongues; don’t feel pressured to rush things. Anyway, where does good old Persillius live? I need to meet that one; you’ve not told me of friends very often.”

  “Same building, north from Themra, in the poorer part of mulahatha, Third Street from where it starts.” Despite Lor having newly started naming and numbering its streets, people still pretended it didn’t and used the old ways. To them, it only had districts. This often lead to confusion, for people were forced to rely on directions such as, “turn left three times, then go straight for two streets. If you see a fountain, you’ve gone too far.”

  Uncle Salim perked up at the description and got to his feet, perhaps inspired to have his pre sunset dragonfruit. “I know the place,” he mostly shouted from the other side of the room, where he was apparently rummaging through a great deal many pots, if Hwosh was any judge. “Doesn’t Murata work there? That man can slice things like you’ve never seen, my boy. And his gambling! He used to do that on the side, you know. To get there from Themra, you go north for a minute, turn left three times, then go straight for two streets. If you see a fountain, you’ve gone too far.”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “It’s good to see you taking responsibility for yourself and living alone, my child,” said Salim after having a sip of Themra’s water, “But I want you to know that if you ever need anything, I will be here for you.”

  For a second, Hwosh said nothing. This was the usual thing uncle Salim said to all his Baneen whenever they came by to visit. All of them were fiercely loyal to him, and these orphan’s connections and aid turned out to be extremely useful in turn. Most of them, Hwosh included, owed the man their life and rarely bade anything of him in turn.

  Then a question popped into his mind, and he looked over to where the thief girl was eating her stew sullenly. Uncle Salim got the hint and told her to go eat in his room. After a second of hesitation and another look at his brooch, she went. She wouldn’t know that uncle Salim had little to do with his brother illegal activities, and certainly thought that disobeying the man meant incurring the wrath of mikhlab, Saif’s claw.

  “Uncle,” Hwosh whispered at length, “I know how business works, but this has been weighing on my mind…” No answer came, although a sigh told the warrior his uncle knew where this was going. “Why such a large Worg, and from that particular area?”

  Salim went over to his room and closed the door, perhaps startling the crimson haired girl trying to eavesdrop from within. “Thieves have sharp ears,” he explained. For a while, the only sound present was him scratching at his bald scalp, perhaps hoping to avoid the question. “When it comes to people, you are as thick as can be, Hwosh,” he stated simply, almost even managing a chuckle, “but you’re critical, smart and analytical in nature. I’m sure you’ve figured that one out by now.”

  “Worg poison,” breathed the warrior distastefully. The stuff wasn’t popular, and for good reason. “Is it Saif who wants it?”

  “That I can’t say, and I don’t know what it’s for. However, the only reason to use Worg poison is to get caught. I’ll give you your money, and an extra few Regalians to warn your friend, Persilius Verde. Make him leave the city within a month. As for me, I’ll consider rearing up our little thief, there, god willing.” His smile returned at her mention, and Salim pointed mischievously at the door. “I think I have one more in me yet.”

  After catching up on many little nothings, Hwosh left Salim’s house with a heavy heart. It was dark outside, and he felt as if within an island of light. Within this district, only uncle Salim’s area of influence could afford lighting. It was the old man’s dream to make life better for the downtrodden here, and so he began a chain of charity a long time ago: He would pull the closest families to his house out of poverty and provide them with jobs, on the condition that they gave to charity as often as possible. It began with one house, then ten, and now his circle of good was growing faster than ever before. Hwosh could see, within the light cast by starbeetles trapped in glass, faces content with life and willing to believe in others. When that light begins to fade, their faces would be once more plunged into bitterness.

  Added to that particular system, uncle Salim had his Baneen to show for. It was amazing that such a saintly man could have such a wicked one for a sibling, for Saif Qamar was the father of Lor’s undisputed kings of underground and crime, the Miklhab. Uncle Salim avoided talking of Saif for the most part, perhaps out of disappointment.

  At Themra, Hwosh took a right towards the north part of town, then almost chuckled when he absentmindedly found himself facing a small water fountain shaped like a cat. He retraced his steps and was knocking upon Percy’s door shortly thereafter.

  “Come in, buddy,” answered a sly voice, sounding much younger than its owner had any right to claim being. Hwosh pushed the door open with a grimace. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he grumbled at Percy, who was standing over a book in his blue robe.

  Unlike Uncle Salim, Persillius Verde had somehow managed to keep most of his long hair firmly on his head. It ran down him in straight lines, ending at his midsection, just a little longer than his equally greyish blonde beard. Percy was rapidly approaching his seventies and looked it, due to laughing lines wreathing his face like a proud circlet. Like Hwosh’s foster parent, this man here was lanky and thin. Hwosh reckoned he could crush Percy’s hip in his grip, if he so chose. His neighbour laughed then, acting as childish as always. “Do what?” he asked innocently.

  “You know what. Don’t read people’s minds without permission, Percy.” Like many, Hwosh had been initially wary of the man’s abilities, but was won over by his character. Unlike magic, the forces of psionics were relatively new and little understood by the common man.

  “Ah, but for that you’d have to work on your defences a little, my good friend,” exclaimed the older man, sweeping a side of his blue robe in a grand gesture. Hwosh stepped over to him and sat on his only sofa. Conveniently, it was just wide enough for three. “How did it go?” asked Percy, and Hwosh waved away the question.

  “Well enough, but it’s just as I feared. The job wasn’t for a Worg, but for a poison pouch and secrecy.” At that, Percy furrowed his eyebrows in concern, coming over from the tome he had been trying to decipher for the past month and finding place on a chair across from the warrior. “Why go through the trouble if you can just buy better poison?”

  At that, it was Hwosh’s turn to frown. Sometimes it was difficult to remember how brilliant Percy could be. It was a paradox of sorts, to see someone so smart being simple minded like that. Then again, Adra was the same way, so the warrior counted it as a blessing for his psion friend. “The guards track poison bought legally through merchant ledgers, and you can’t get that many types anyways. Besides, Uncle Salim said whoever commissioned this job wanted to get caught eventually. If you ask me, the only logical conclusion is they want to scare someone by using that kind of poison. If you
catch Worg poison early enough, you can treat the victim. If not, you’ll at least know it was an assassination.”

  Percy whistled slowly, looking at Hwosh with renewed respect. “Are you sure about becoming a warrior? You’d make a good scholar, if a bit on the muscly side.” Hwosh mocked lunging at the man and he flinched, causing the warrior to laugh. Good to know he wasn’t reading his mind at the moment.

  “So what’s for dinner today? And where’s Adra?” Usually, Percy’s lover was inseparable from him. Despite the two being different in many concrete ways, her age being foremost in that list, the two still got along amiably. At first, the warrior had even suspected foul play on the psion’s part.

  “Oh, she went to Hydra’s temple for a quick prayer,” answered Percy, giving the warrior pause. Hydra… that was the goddess of… “Luck?”

  “Exactly. You know, for a Lorian you really don’t know much about religions, do you?”

  “Nah, not really my interest. Uncle saw early on that I had no faith in gods and forces beyond our understanding. He let me be. Besides, the eastern religion is much simpler. One god, almighty. You’re rewarded in the afterlife based on how much you did for the opportunity given. I have no patience for all that Regalian nonsense about nine gods and distributions of powers and flowery glass. They’re all about pomp and the priests fancying things up.”

  “Huh.”

  “You know? Last month Niners talked up a storm at the council all about how they’re underfunded for golden chandeliers at their temples. The councillors showed them El’s temples. Mud and clay things, they were. All their funds go to charity, and the Niners went back disappointed. Anyway, religions are just nonsense, so it hardly matters. All empty promises and claims no one can prove. I thought you’d agree.”

  By the time Hwosh implied that question, Percy was deep in a mug of tea he’d prepared earlier. The man spluttered for a bit and the scent of lavender filled the air. “I mean, I see what you’re saying,” he gasped a few coughs later, “but the more you learn about the world, the more amazing it seems. I don’t mind people believing what they want. Besides, there are concrete benefits that come from organized groups like religions. Unity and peace of mind, that sort of thing. People commit suicide less often too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure. I say to each their own. Adra’s a Niner, and it makes her happy. Who am I to butt into it? Most psions feel the same way, because we can see exactly how deeply each person cares about his or her religion. It’s a beautiful thing. Besides, she might very well be right. Who knows? Can’t really prove her wrong, can we?”

  Hwosh thought about it for a second, but he had made up his mind about such things a long time ago, upon seeing a small dog being kicked away by a priest’s handlers. The man had watched on in contempt at first. Then the dog had died, and people started booing him. The priest had then raised his arms wide and announced a revelation, saying the dog was going to the third circle of Sol’s heaven, for his owner had died the night before, just shy of sundown. As the simple beggars began to cheer, Hwosh kept the truth about the dog’s owner to himself. Poor old Shemsa still didn’t know where her puppy had disappeared that day. “Bah,” he announced, “If it makes them happy, then sure, but if the sun is dragged across the sky by Sol’s invisible rope each day, then I’m a yal.” Nobody wanted to be a yal, due to the stink.

  Too late, Hwosh noticed the slightly distant look Percy was giving him. Before he could empty his mind, the man smiled in a sympathetic manner. “Don’t do that,” he warned the psion again. This time, the old man actually looked sorry.

  “I didn’t think there’d be anything that deep on your mind, friend,” he apologized. “It’s just the best way to train you in keeping your guard up against psionics. We can’t usually read beyond the surface of thought easily. Just a hint of what the person is like, and what’s occupying their mind at the moment. If I went deeper too fast, you’d notice and be able to fight it.” Being Percy, he moved to the other side of the room and got another cup for Hwosh. Sighing, the warrior took the slightly cracked thing. The tea was made of multiple herbs, but he could clearly identify ginger in it. It was soothing and sweet.

  After a while, Percy and Hwosh began to talk of other things, starting with types of herb teas, then how much water a person needed, and finally exercise. Hwosh was a fanatic when it came to training, but Percy was also fit for someone focused on his mind. The man had picked up some far eastern poses and stretches somewhere and had been practicing them for ten years. Being relatively tall for a Lorian, Hwosh was certainly no giant, and wouldn’t even be considered too large in Regalia. Still, his fighting style was focused on brute strength, and his enormous relative strength was due to similar tactics as well as sheer training.

  “I still don’t get why people don’t do these things elsewhere,” said Percy with apparent frustration. It was now a little dark outside, and Hwosh went to light a candle while his next door neighbour ranted. “Regalia’s knights are supposed to be the cream of the crop, but when I was researching for my health all they implemented was hard lifting, endurance and meat!”

  “Come on, we’ve talked about this. The defence you ge-“

  “I know!” interjected Percy, hands flailing in his usual emotion. Hwosh hated people interrupting him, but stayed his tongue patiently. “Don’t they realized that by mixing flexibility and muscle exercises, you can develop higher strength in a smaller body? Think of the mobility, the health when you get older!”

  “Yes, but how are these impressive when someone looks at you? How does it help you stop a blow? I understand that higher quality muscles have many benefits, but the fact remains that more mass and a harder body can save your hide in a fight, or even war. Endurance is a big factor, and their approach has its own merits.” For all his brains, Percy had a way of letting logic escape him at times.

  At some, point, Percy realized that Adra had been gone longer than usual and started getting antsy. After about half an hour of that, he finally snapped and decided to go out to Murata’s tavern for a quick meal. Hwosh offered to accompany him, since he was rather famished despite uncle Salim’s excellent stew. He went to the barely furnished room thirty four to deposit most of his coins and changed out of his leather armour in favour of brown pants and a long grey tunic before coming back out to find his next door neighbour waiting at the door. “Why so worried?” he asked of the warrior with a sly grin.

  Realizing what was about to happen, Hwosh instantly summoned the image of a date tree to the forefront of his mind. Large and towering, its roots lay tired from trying to suckle out of dried crusty earthy. Its leaves were green, however, and seemed to fan out to block out the sun’s disapproving glare and it was heavily laden with red fruit. A brown trunk connected those two parts, offering inviting handholds for whoever felt like having a piece. A bee buzzed around the garden, and Hwosh could hear a solemn wind trying it’s best to- “Well done,” announced Percy with a laugh. “Soon enough you’ll learn how to channel that incessant inner monologue you seem to have stuck in your brain to confuse whoever tries to read you. I think you’ll be a natural at it, but for now this method will have to do.” The man put on his trademark spectacles upon his slightly bent nose. Not many in Lor wore such things, and the old psion was striking enough with his ever-present Indellektian blue robe as is. Hwosh didn’t see much sense in the slightly tinted apparel because Percy had admitted to having normal eyesight, but he’d gathered that the old man thought they improved his looks.

  Murata’s tavern was less than five minutes away from Hwosh and Percy’s apartments, but almost seemed like it was part of a completely different city. Contrasting with clay house neighbours all around, Murata had went through the trouble of bringing wood with him from his home town to build Splinter. Many innkeepers were simply doing a job, but for the thin tall Regalian his tavern was akin to a home. Loud music could be heard from the place, and a few regulars were already staggering away from the warm orange gl
ow spilling from doors and portals kept almost permanently swinging, either in arms or within blows of one another.

  Hwosh and Percy silently made their way towards the tavern, although Percy was decidedly friendlier towards those he saw around him. Some smiled back at him and returned his waves, even sharing the occasional drunkard nonsensical laugh, but others eyed the man in suspicion. Murata’s was a place which served not only alcohol, food and games, but also good old Regalian nostalgia. I hope nobody picks a fight with him today, thought Hwosh absentmindedly. It had happened a few times before, but each time the psion from Indellekt had managed to diffuse the situation, and Hwosh was unable to determine whether that was due to his nature or abilities.

  When they went through that wide swinging front door, the two were swept up almost immediately in Splinter’s atmosphere. The undiluted strength of glowing lights, hopping music, and medley of banter struck the two with the full brunt of a wave. After a few seconds, even Hwosh found his tense body unwinding, and he fingered the chain of beads and trinkets dangling from his bandanna’s side with a mind slightly less plagued than usual.

  The place was crowded, as it was every night. Patrons sat around table to play games or drink. There was no space reserved for dancing, but serving girls and boys pranced around as they went. It was apparently a Regalian custom and Murata’s staff were thoroughly trained in it. Hwosh made his way towards a recently abandoned table, mind already on fried chicken and mushrooms, but a gasp from behind made him turn around.

  Percy stood in the middle of the room with his mouth open and face looking slightly vacant. Before Hwosh could say anything, the man blinked. For a second, his expression bordered on anger, but then he started rubbing his beard. Without a word the old turned right and went to another part of the tavern, whipping his long hair aside to avoid a candle here and there. Hwosh debated going after the man, but immediately finding an empty table in Murata’s was a rare occurrence. Burning with curiosity about whose mind his friend had felt and what he had gone off to do, the warrior sat down. In less than a minute, a friendly waitress came over. “Hello, Xera,” said Hwosh, feeling a smile come over his features and brushing a hand through his shock of black hair. She was always nice and could remember orders better than most, so the warrior always felt reassured when Xera was the one to serve him. It happened rather often, actually. He found it strange, however, that she was named after such a far off city. Nobody knew much about the cities in that north-eastern continent across the sea, what with the Mist and sea monsters. As far as anyone know, the only way you could leave V by sea was south.

  “Hey there, biceps,” she answered with a nicer smile than given to the group of women she had served just a second earlier. Hwosh ordered two meals promptly, not wanting to waste Xera’s time chattering on a busy night, and she raised an eyebrow high. “Oh, Percy’s with me today,” he explained.

  “Coming right up. You watch yourself, okay? Wouldn’t mind patching you up again, but I’d rather see you safe and sound.” The warrior wondered if she had a sore throat, for she sounded a bit off.

  Hwosh could see a particularly disgruntled fellow a ways off tapping his glass impatiently. Xera’s hip swayed to place itself between him and the man, causing Hwosh to turn his gaze up at her. “Thanks a lot for back then, Xera,” he told the tall bronze woman. He wondered how old she was, because she’d been working at Murata’s for almost as long as he knew of the place. “I was really inexperienced, but I’m sure I won’t be needing any more patching up anytime soon. I don’t get into fights here anymore and Adra’s really good at stitching whenever I’m not careful out there. Anyway, I think the man over there is-“

  “Who is Adra?” asked Xera suddenly, then she thought for a second. “Oh, is she that brunette you and your old friend keep coming here with?”

  “Yeah, they’re together.”

  “Oh.. Oh!” A short laugh escaped her copper lips all of a sudden. Although she was not pale and thus lacked those luscious red ones so common on Regalians, Hwosh found her own rather nice. “Oh, she’s his girl!”

  Hwosh drummed his fingers on the table in slight annoyance. What did she know about Adra and Percy’s relationship? “I… doubt ownership is part of the deal.”

  “No, but, I mean… Just look at him! I doubt she’s with a guy like that out of love. You know, there are other ways to woo a girl.” Subtly, Xera rubbed her fingers before her face with a wink, causing Hwosh to sigh. Ignorance.

  “That will be all, Xera,” he remarked quietly. The girl’s eyes widened, and the dismissal caused her to gulp before turning hastily and apparently brushing at something on the front fringe of her hair. When she went out back, Hwosh hoped she doesn’t cause their food to be late because of his mannerisms with her.

  A few minutes later, a serving boy brought Hwosh two generously heaped plates of chicken upon a bed of well grilled mushrooms. The warrior felt then it was high time that Percy found his way back. He focused very hard, conjuring the old man’s image as vividly as if he were before him. The man had said psions were trained to notice when someone directed his thoughts at them, and true to his words, Hwosh felt an eventual slight tug at his mind. This was a method they used to communicate at times, and with some effort the warrior could also send entire sentences to his friend. This time, however, Percy’s touch felt more forceful than usual. Not now, the psion whispered, and Hwosh could almost hear an angry voice speaking the words. I’m having an argument. No need to come.

  The warrior almost got to his feet then, anxious to help his friend. No matter how fit for his age Percy was, he wasn’t going to beat someone in a fist fight. The psion’s words, however, had seemed firm in their tone, and so Hwosh remained at his seat, casting an unfocused gaze at Splinter’s front door and the guests coming or leaving. Murata was in as usual, standing at the bar counter in his uniform and pouring cups for this patrons. Many didn’t drink, and so the thin grey haired Regalian needed to keep fresh supplies of juices for those.

  Hwosh had just decided to set upon his slightly warm meal when Percy appeared from his right side, an annoyed frown still clouding his features, and pulled a seat next to him. The warrior was about to ask him what was wrong when the obvious cause leapt around to his other side in all of her grinning glory. Adra was dressed in a red vest, slashed vertically in places to show off high quality white linen beneath it, as well as red pants and brown hide boots. Her neck length curls were left as unkempt as always, and she had brown gloves tucked into a handy belt she always paraded around. “Heya, Hwosh! Hunt went well?”

  The warrior found her enthusiasm almost as infectious as her lover’s, and smiled in turn. “As well as planned,” he answered, “What’s up with spectacles over there?” Adra and Percy were the only two Hwosh felt remotely comfortable talking to that way. Aside from uncle Salim, of course.

  Spectacles grunted. “I can’t believe you’d let us wait so long for you, Adra!” he exclaimed.

  “Why, I thought she just got here after going to Hydra’s temple?” inquired Hwosh calmly, starting to understand.

  Adra tried to interject then, almost elbowing the warrior as she did. “Wait, that was be-“

  His friend laughed again, obviously having upset himself by way of memory. “Yeah! The goddess of luck! This one,” a finger scratched behind his ear, his other hand waggling in Adra’s direction in accusation, “has been gambling here for the past few hours! Leave us in hunger, she thought!”

  Adra looked suitably admonished, but still managed, “I said I’m sorry! I know I promised to come back earlier, but it was going so well!” Hwosh’s ears perked at that. Adra was an excellent gambler. Perhaps the luck, calculation and daring combination was part of what made her such a shockingly fine merchant, despite humble starts and a lack in funds. She always made more than she lost, and if she said it went well…

  “How much did you win?” he asked, then added, “What game was it?”

  “Oh, Baki.” Hwosh’s skills at the
game’s strategy aspects were passable, and his knowledge of battle tactics aided him well, but he was never able to get accustomed to the game’s gambling and deceitful side. “Do you really want to know how much I made?” All of a sudden, Hwosh became less sure and he shook his head slowly, causing Adra to laugh. Then she turned to her lover. “Anyways, Purr,” she said, her voice sounding immediately different to Hwosh, “I said I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.” Uncle Salim had once told the warrior that people’s voices go husky when in the presence of someone they had feelings for. He wondered if the old man in the blue robes knew about that little fact, or if he could even hear the difference in her voice. Hwosh’s senses were honed by training and frequent treks both to Ramlah and the wasteland out west.

  “Gah, fine. You’re a lousy appointment forgetting dummy of a merchant, but you’re my dummy… So, you’re cooking tomorrow, huh?” Percy cocked his tall starry sky hat backwards as Hwosh and Adra gave each other an incredulous look.

  “What!” they exclaimed as one, not quite believing their ears. “Do you want us to get poisoned, man?” added the black haired warrior, almost feeling a cold sweat coming down his chiselled back. Adra didn’t say anything, possibly agreeing with him.

  Percy grinned and defended himself by saying, “Hey, she wanted to make things better, okay? I love the girl, and so want to taste something she made.” Adra didn’t say anything for a second, but when she did it wasn’t about the topic at all.

  “You love me?” she asked, then added, “I mean, I love you too. Uh, um, what do you want to drink? I ate already.”

  That evening they played many games, ranging from darts, some more Baki, to arm wrestling. Percy and Adra, true to their nature, were much friendlier to others than Hwosh and so managed to strike up many conversations while he remained passive except with the two of them. Even a scholar from Indellekt can make more friends than me, thought the warrior, brushing some spilt beer from his tunic. Then again, it was no surprise, with how great Percy was. At some point, a slightly tipsy Adra clapped him on the shoulders and tried to get him flirting with a nice enough redhead in a complementing dress. It didn’t go well, for her mind was as blank as the cup she kept trying to get him paying for, and in a few minutes a bored Hwosh found himself jumped by the merchant again at the bar. He was talking to Murata about a breed of drakes they had far north when she exclaimed “Hey, Murata, how has the place been shaping up?”

  “Oh,” answered the man in his extremely courteous yet well measured manner, “If it isn’t our little plain crusher.” The term was used to refer to Baki players, for the game’s goal was to crush the other’s hand of warriors in predetermined numbers of moves. Murata smiled slowly and said, “People are starting to call you a crimson princess because of how well you play, but I told them you’re more like a thorn in their sides than anything else.” The name seemed to catch Adra’s fancy and she grinned. Hwosh sometimes thought that the highly intelligent tavern owner and he had a few things in common, barring social abilities. None had a slur to sling the man’s way.

  “They just can’t play well enough,” she said, clapping the bartender on one shoulder, but Murata turned his attention to Hwosh. “Warrior, did you say? There’ll be success aplenty for a lad with that kind of head on dependable shoulders. It’s a shame you didn’t show up much earlier, and now only do with these two.” His grey eyes twinkled with fierce intelligence, and yet nothing in the bartender’s body language betrayed interest.

  The young man waved off Murata’s question, for privacy was to be treasured. “I only moved here a few months ago. Used to live east of Themra.” His words elicited a whistle from the man.

  “Rough parts, those are,” he said with a new air of respect, reading Hwosh’s implied meaning perfectly. The warrior hadn’t said where exactly he’d lived, and Qir wasn’t the only place east of Themra.

  “He had a good uncle to take care of him,” replied Adra before Hwosh could say anything. The warrior felt his heart skip a bit, then slight annoyance as Murata’s grey eyes twinkled ever brighter. He had no doubt the man from Regalia, as street wise as he was, knew exactly who Adra had meant. Many Baneen held high ranks, and were sometimes seen as agents of Salim Qamar for their undying loyalty to the kind old man. Some even called them an order or exclusive club dedicated entirely to him. As Hwosh thought furiously, he felt Murata’s eyes scan his fingers in a semi casual manner, looking for a tell-tale pinkie ring. Not finding anything, the man let the matter go. “Young man, I wonder if you’d be willing to do a job for me,” he said in measured tones, and Hwosh felt curiosity brimming in him, despite feeling he’d only been asked due to the new piece of information.

  The warrior leaned forward as Murata continued calmly, his lips barely touching each other as he spoke, “There’s a wine I need to prepare for some special guests coming in next month, and I’ll need some help with it.” Hwosh’s hand went instinctively to the string of beads hanging from his bandanna in thought, wanting to tell the man that he didn’t know anything about wines or brewing. Did people even brew wine, or was there another word for it? Before he could say anything, however, the bartender chuckled and clarified, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite proficient in the preparation, but the wine needs to be stored with a single high quality Scegel feather within the bottle. Normally I’d buy one from a merchant friend of mine, but I’ll need more feathers than that. I’ve been told to procure thirty bottles, so that’s thirty feathers, and at that point it’s easier to have someone get me the birds themselves. There should be ten magical ones per bird. You get me four, just in case, and I’ll reward you with fifty Regalians for the birds and the danger.”

  Hwosh didn’t know much about wine, but he certainly knew about beasts. Getting high quality Scegel feathers was not easy, and he was certain Murata could get someone else for the job, but fifty Regalians for four of them was excellent money. He wondered if the man wanted to secure trading agreements with someone who might be one of uncle Salim’s Baneen, despite Hwosh’s apparent lack of a ring. However, he also knew that the shrewd man would undoubtedly make a large profit from the feathers, not the mention the carcasses themselves. This was a legitimate offer, not purely a political one. “Deal,” he answered with no hesitation, despite being slightly wary of the job at hand. He’d hunted the birds before, but never for feathers.

  “So what did you think of Percy?” asked Adra suddenly, “Enough of all that work nonsense, you boys can talk about it tomorrow morning!” Despite her words, Hwosh knew that Adra was a clever competitor herself and had listened carefully, perhaps taking notes for when she had enough capital for similar endeavours.

  “Quite right, red thorn.” remarked Murata with another calm chuckle. “He’s a good man, and extremely smart. I’m happy for you, finding a kindred fun loving spirit.” Hwosh found it curious that the man with the unkempt grey hair had spent so long chatting with them and ignoring other costumers. Naturally, he hadn’t missed a beat in his work, pouring and taking money as only a natural service person could, but he was known for spending his time with costumers equally, chatting well-meaningly and patiently with each of his patrons. He hoped it didn’t interfere with the man’s business.

  “He’s pretty great,” agreed Adra wholeheartedly. “Some people bug us because of the age difference, but I don’t really mind. Fact is, I’m happier with him than I’ve ever been, so what are forty som- oops, you weren’t supposed to know that.” For once, the merchant looked embarrassed. In the orange glow, Hwosh even wondered if her heart shaped face had acquired a pinkish tinge.

  “He’s gotten into a few issues here at times, but seems potent in befriending people. These days, with tensions between Indellekt and Regalia being what they are, I’m glad to see us getting along so well. I apologize for the least of my countrymen.”

  “That’s alright,” grinned Adra, “It’s hard to get into a fight with a mind reader who doesn’t want to do it.”

  Murata froze as she cla
pped his shoulder playfully. Slowly, he looked from Hwosh to Adra in disbelief. “He’s a psion?”

  “Um, yes,” answered the woman, starting to look slightly worried from the man’s expression. “Haven’t I told you before?”

  The tavern owner put his elbows on the bar counter, gesturing the two closer. With their heads close together, and the two starting to feel wariness and confusion, he whispered, “Luckily no one was focused enough to hear that, but you two need to understand that psions are rare. The ability to know what a person is thinking can be more terrifying than cold steel, especially in Lor. This isn’t Indellekt. I’m sure he knows that, but you two need to be careful. People don’t trust mind readers, and it would be best if people think him a simple scholar.” The sounds all around seemed suddenly subdued in the seriousness in Murata’s tone, and Hwosh thought Splinter’s owner had enough intensity in his eyes to burn a hole through him.

  Adra looked upset at Murata’s words. “That’s not how it works, though,” she said, perhaps wanting to defend Percy.

  “I know that, but they don’t.” The man’s pointed all around in a vague manner. “And just in case, he can’t be here when you play Baki. My business relies on the gambling more than anything else, and I can’t have people thinking their hands are being read.” Adra bristled, and the man added, “Or do you want me telling everyone that you scratch your right thumb whenever you get two archers and a tank in one hand?”

  Immediately the fledgling merchant went deathly quiet. Hwosh was impressed with Murata’s speedy analysis and decisions. That way, Adra could still come and play, and nobody would lose. He looked at the man with newfound respect, and remembered what uncle Salim had said about his gambling skills. He suddenly understood why no one wanted to play against him anymore. The warrior could tell Adra was wondering if that was actually a thing she did subconsciously. At length, she asked, “How did you know that?” and the bartender smiled.

  “I’m not one for violent enforcement,” he stated, and Hwosh remembered he’d heard of something similar about Murata. “However, I have my own tools to get costumers in line.” Adra grumbled, but there was truly little to do against the man from Regalia and his sharp mind. Good spirits were kept however, and in a few minutes Percy joined them at the bar counter.

  When the three left Murata’s tavern far later than Hwosh intended, Adra grumbled to her man about what Murata had said, but Percy took it in good humour. “I can see his point,” he said brightly as they made their way through the darkened dusty street. “People don’t know much about psions, and there’s hostility towards us all the time. He’s just trying to protect me and his business at the same time. Nobody wants to lose customers.” Far behind them were the lights of pubs and taverns, and there was little music lingering in the air. There were fewer Lorians to be seen now, because there were always those who slept early in order to wake up for their sunrise prayer. Still, there were enough passers-by in all manner of clothing and looks to remember what city you were in.

  “If you say so…” murmured Adra. “I just wish they’d take the time to understand you instead of just being so...”

  “Ugh?”

  “Exactly.” The two were now walking a bit ahead of Hwosh, and he gladly gave them space. It was true that they were his only friends here, but they belonged to each other first. The thought gave him a pang and thoughts of melancholy chased each other around his mind’s confines haphazardly.

  The warrior said goodbye to his two friends at their door and then walked over to his own place. Whereas Percy Verde and Adra rented a one bedroom apartment with an extra living room, Hwosh’s lacked that extra space. The man lived simply, and the only high quality piece of furniture in his room was his bed. A man can’t live without a comfortable bed boasting pillows large enough to sink into. He changed into sleeping clothes –which were actually just old clothes- and took his ring and money pouch out of his pocket, placing them on a rickety writing table that hadn’t been written at for years, or so it looked. After triple checking that the door was locked, Hwosh laid himself upon his bed and tried hard to silence his mind. It was only after an hour of tossing and turning that the warrior remembered the day’s worries had completely made him forget about uncle Salim’s warning for Percy.

  Five minutes before eight, Hwosh was standing outside Splinter as agreed, feeling more than slightly nervous. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone other than Percy and Adra, but the man had only ever done jobs for uncle Salim before. What if he botched it up? How was he supposed to act around his new employer, and how was the new dynamic supposed to work after –and if– the job was a success? The sun was starting to think about glaring earnestly and people bustled about in true Lorian fashion around the warrior, paying him little heed.

  Hwosh Ru’ub was about to turn around when he felt a slight push against his mind. He whirled to find Percy coming from the left, possibly bleary eyed and less cheerful than usual but still in all his blue glory. Hwosh fought hard to keep his glad look off his face when he said, “What are you doing here? I thought you never wake up before ten.”

  “Adra told me about this new job with Murata. Sceggle feathers, huh? I thought you’d like to have a friend around to go inside with you.”

  “Oh. I, uh. Um… thanks. I was starting to get worried.”

  “I know, buddy.”

  “Mind reading? I thought you couldn’t do it like that easily.”

  “Can’t. But I don’t need to be a mind reader to know my best friend. Other than Adra, of course, but you understand that she’s friend number one.”

  “…You’re my best friend too.”

  With that said, the two friends then squared off side by side and went inside.

  The agreement with Murata went much more smoothly than Hwosh expected it to. All the bartender really wanted was four Sceggles with their beaks intact (in order to preserve the magical properties present in their feathers.) The man even joked about getting Hwosh on to do more work out west if all went well, and foregoing some of his usual suppliers. The two then made their way back to their apartment, Hwosh to get ready and Percy to get some extra precious hours of sleep.

  “I think I’ll go today,” deliberated Hwosh, eliciting a surprised glance from the Indellektian.

  With a hand scratching under his neck, he asked, “This early? Murata said he needed the feathers in a week.”

  The warrior thought about how to put what he thought, then said, “It’s just in case. I might find something better than expected.” He didn’t mention that despite Percy and Adra being the only people besides uncle Salim whom he liked spending extended amounts of time with, the warrior was better made for alone time. “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. About the poison,” his voice went low, and the warrior found a near bench under a palm tree. The two sat in the shade, listening to children playing around a cat shaped statue. Despite its silly rounded shape, that cat statue represented a guardian spirit of the Niner god Serip, ruler of knowledge and keeper of secrets. “Uncle Salim didn’t tell me who it was for, but he told me that the only reason someone would use that sort of poison is to get caught. He… also told me to warn you.

  “Warn me?” scoffed Percy, “Of what?”

  “I don’t know, but if it came from him then it’s serious. I’m worried.”

  “A natural state,” remarked the man then smiled by the way of apology. Nearby a fountain could be heard, mingling with the playfulness of youth. Hwosh had rarely been like that as a child, for after his parents had died and his uncle took everything owned, the then young boy was left as a pauper. Only Uncle Salim’s mercy had saved him, and Hwosh learned early that sometimes, laws needed to be enforced and protected. That was what first spawned his stubborn fascination with swordsmanship. He’d asked uncle Salim to punish him by way of beatings, and had gone out of his way to incur the old man’s wrath, although the wizened man never did things out of anger. It took only a few months for the man to understand Hwosh Ru’ub and apprent
ice him to a warrior hunter, and it had satisfied the young boy’s ambition enough that he stopped looking for beatings by way of disobedience. Uncle Salim was his first home, and he finally had a second by the name of Percy Verde. Now, that home was under unknown duress.

  Percy said “Regardless, it’s a fascinating puzzle. A poison as if to prove a point, a kind old man with a dangerous brother, and an inconsequential old psion receiving warnings, although not about the aforementioned poison.”

  “Uncle Salim would never help hurt you. Never an innocent, that’s how Mikhlab and their father have been able to stay popular for so long despite what they’re willing to do.”

  “Hmm… I might heed the warning, but maybe it would be best if I go visit your uncle first and see if he’d be willing to shed light on the situation. What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll go with you. I need to go tell him that I’ve gotten an outside job, just in case he has something planned for me.” With that, the two went on for home, agreeing to meet in the afternoon.

  When Hwosh had went and gotten enough supplies to last him a week, he spent the rest of his morning oiling up his leather and sword, checking up on his physique for any latent injuries from his last voyage, and paying up on his rent of a hundred and fifty Regalians before going out. He almost bumped into Adra, who had a bag of groceries in one hand. “Congrats on the new job!” she exclaimed before informing him that Percy was just getting ready. When the old man came out, Hwosh noticed that he’d dressed up a little finer than usual: His long hair was brushed extra fine and a new pair of darkened spectacles adorned his hawk like nose. Even more strange was the new pointy hat upon his head, for it had a pattern of white filled in stars on it. Naturally, Hwosh didn’t comment on his friend’s choice of clothing, and the two went south, towards Themra.

  “You know? I never asked,” said Hwosh as they neared the oasis. First in line was a Regalian knight in well-kept plate armour, who proceeded to allow an old man to fill up his drinking urn first. “How long have you been living in Lor?”

  “A couple of years,” answered Percy as the bald man beckoned the now confused knight over to drink first. “Long enough to figure that one out,” added the old man with a finger pointed at the two. The scene was something Hwosh had witnessed multiple times, and which Adra had explained to him as well, her being mostly Regalian. Whereas there people thought of chivalry as something young men offer to women and the elderly, in Lor it was a universal concept. You couldn’t offend someone by offering them your seat and thus implying weakness, but there was no guarantee they wouldn’t just offer it back to you with a wide smile. It was considered polite and Lorians were more than willing to waste time going back and forth in that manner. This time the old man won, and the knight bent over to fill his water pouch looking slightly dishevelled as those around laughed. Hwosh stopped Percy to pick a few dates from a nearby tree.

  When they neared Uncle Salim’s home, he had just finished feeding four children as well as an older man with a white ring, and they were helping him clean up. Uncle Salim wasn’t too upset with Hwosh for not coming earlier and eating with him, but he still received a slight earful. “Here,” he said finally, motioning the other man over, “Say hello to your older brother, Mukhlis. This is the youngest, Hwosh.” The two shook hands, and he asked a few questions of the warrior. The man had pitch black eyes and was pale of skin, which perhaps hinted at Indellektian blood. “And what do you do?” asked Hwosh back, hoping that he sounded pleasant enough. Whenever one of the Baneen met him, he turned quickly into the butt of jokes, especially when uncle Salim was around.

  Surprisingly, instead of Mukhlis answering, a voice came from behind Hwosh, saying, “He’s Lor’s ambassador in Indellekt.” When the warrior looked around, he saw that it was Percy who’d spoken. The old man came up from behind him slowly, a look akin to wonder in his eyes. “I know you said that some of your brothers-“

  “We’re not really brothe-“

  “Are influential, but I didn’t think master Salim was this impressive. In Indellekt, Mukhlis Matr is such an impressive wizard that he’s the first Lorean to earn place in our ruling parliament. Master, my name is Percy, pleased to meet you finally.”

  “Ah, old Percy Verde, I’ve heard so much! This is the grizzled geezer I told you about, boy!” Uncle Salim ignored Percy’s outstretched hand and embraced him instead. “And believe me, Mukhlis has earned his position with no help from a tired old coot like me. Here, have a seat.” For a few minutes the two old men squabbled over where to sit, each offering the other the best spot on the floor. At long last Percy lost, giving in and sitting down with uncle Salim coming in next to him. Hwosh was of course last in line, and he was stuck next to Mukhlis, who bombarded him with questions about his training and work. Upon finding out that he’d spent long living in uncle Salim’s home, he laughed. “Indeed, he did that with all of us. You seem like a bright boy, I’m sure you’ll do well.”

  Hwosh’s attention wandered over to Percy just as the man stood up, saying, “So, what’s your favourite spot in Lor, master?” The man went walked over as if to look at something, and Hwosh realized he was fascinated by the cooling system here.

  “Themra, probably. It’s the only place that hasn’t changed much in all these years.”

  “Hahah, as nostalgic an answer as I could have hoped for,” retorted the psion, now moving over to the white writing table, the one well-crafted thing in the old man’s humble residence. “I hope I stay here long enough to say something like that… I hope Lor remains safe for me and others from Indellekt for many years to come.” For an instant nobody moved, then Mukhlis said, “Part of my job, mister Verde, is to make sure that remains the case. I assure you, Lor and Indellekt shall remain friends for many long years, no matter what happens.” This last part was said with fire not unlike Lor’s sun.

  After that, the conversation went back to lighter topics. Uncle Salim congratulated him on his job and bade him well. Hwosh and his companion left uncle Salim and Mukhlis a few hours before sundown, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Just before reaching Themra, Hwosh went over to a nearby bush and pulled out a pack that he’d left there when they came through earlier. “You read him, didn’t you? What did you find out?”

  “Nothing,” answered Percy. “I tried reading him, but it didn’t work.”

  The warrior pulled on his string of beads a little in surprise. “How come?” he asked, “Was he trained like me?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t get anything, so either he’s been well trained,” concluded the old man with a scratch, “or he was protected by magical ways. Either way, I’m staying here.”

  “But-“

  “At least for a while. Adra is starting to investigate, and I’ll do the same. We’ll find out what the danger is and avoid it. If we can’t I’ll run with enough time to spare.”

  Reluctantly, Hwosh agreed. His mind was plagued with dangers befalling his friend as he left the city for his next job, heading northwest. Despite what people thought or said, these past few months were some of the happiest he’d had. Without Percy and Adra in his life, the warrior didn’t know what he’d do.

  Contrary to what he’d expected, only the last Sceggle caused him any trouble at all. He’d tracked and fought the beasts before, so knew he could best one in open terrain. The problem was leaving the beaks intact in order to preserve the magic in their feathers. The human sized flightless birds employed their beaks as the primary method of attack, seconded only by talons iced over and foggy with cold. Moreover, the beaks were fragile, and so Hwosh blocked blows with a soft wooden shield he’d brought along for the job.

  The last and largest sceggle, identifiable as a sage sceggle by its golden plumage, broke that shield with an ill-timed blow as Hwosh tripped over a rock. After a few seconds of terror, the warrior was able to dodge left, right, then left again, avoiding striking the bird on its beak. After minutes of tiresome fights and bleeding the thing slowly to tire and enrage
it, the Sceggle lifted one mighty leg and Hwosh twirled beneath it, getting scratched lightly on the left shoulder with a talon so cold it stole his breath away. Just as it tried to bring the appendage down on its would-be victim, the warrior stabbed upwards into the thing’s body, severing its life in a heartbeat.

  Unlike with the worg, Hwosh was incapable of carrying four sceggles upon his back, and had arranged for a small wagon just for that. Thus he arrived at Lor only two days before the end of the seven day deadline Murata had given him. Luckily, the gate wasn’t as crowded as it was a few days earlier, and the man was able to get in without many delays. He found a warehouse to store the carcasses in, gave the lady in charge of it three coins for a day of storage, and went straight to Murata’s Tavern.

  When he went through the swinging door it was still high noon, and yet there were still a few patrons here and there. The music was calmer than it would be at night, Hwosh noticed, and realized that the effect must be deliberate. As open as Lor was to other cultures, it would be problematic to have people get too rowdy this early in the day. Interestingly, Murata himself looked tired, and shied away from direct sunlight with whenever a stray beam got too close to him. “Hello, sir,” Hwosh greeted him with a slight sense of wonder. It was often the opposite sort of interaction between the two.

  “Good day, Hwosh,” offered Murata with half of his good grace, which was about double the amount to be had from somebody else. “I see you’re looking slightly grimy. Good news, I hope? Ah, forget that,” he said suddenly, focusing on Hwosh’s shoulder, “You need to get that looked at.”

  The warrior’s well rounded shoulder was sliced on one side, and although he had tried his best to bandage it up properly and had taken a healing potion with him, it was going slow. “Ah, I will, sir. It’s just that one of the Sceggles was a sage.”

  Murata perked up at that. “A sage? Excellent news! I just got an order for some apteriffs, and the plumage would work wonderfully with what I have in mind. And you’re two days early, to boot. I’m sure me and you will speak in the future; I have uses for a man who can do this kind of fine work. The emissaries are going to be pleased.”

  “Emissaries, sir?”

  “Ah…” The bartender paused. “Well, I guess it’s fine to tell you.” The man leaned over, so as to discourage eavesdroppers. “The guests I’m to entertain are emissaries from Indellekt. With both our countries looking over their borders as they are, I hope my good service could remind them that Regalians are worth being friends with. But truly,” he announced, allowing his voice to carry loud once more, “great work, Hwosh!”

  A few of the patrons were looking at the man now, and he could see Xera coming his way. “uh, thank you, sir,” offered Hwosh, not knowing exactly how to react and wanting nothing more than to go home and avoid the attention. “How has everybody been?”

  “Ah, things have been well,” stated the bartender, “although your friend has been ill.”

  Hwosh’s smile stopped dead in his tracks. The first thought that went to his mind was that Percy must have been poisoned. It was the only thing that made sense. He had promised him that no harm would come to him. Why didn’t uncle Salim say anything? Why would Percy be poisoned? Without another word, Hwosh ran out into the street, ignoring the alarmed shout from an elderly lady he’d almost leapt over. The man turned immediately right and raced through the street, arriving at their apartment building a panting mess. Almost doubled over and with so many thoughts sprinting through his mind, Hwosh knocked on Percy’s door hard. An alarmed shout came from within, and a few seconds later the portal swung open, slowly. The warrior forced it the rest of the way through, eliciting a startled cry from Adra.

  “Where is he?” the man demanded of her, and she pointed at the bedroom.

  “But what happ-“ she started to ask, but Hwosh cut her off.

  “I don’t know why they’d do it,” he told her, “but I’m going to find out. It’s all my fault. I got that worg poison, and now they went ahead and did him in! Uncle Salim told me to get him out. They must have forced him to help.” He was pacing the living room, hardly daring to go and see Percy’s dying body just lying there in the bed. Adra was sitting on the sofa in front of him, her back to the door, looking a flustered mess and with one foot raised slightly up as if away from a rat.

  Suddenly, Adra said, “Oh,” and started to laugh, relaxing visibly. Before Hwosh could do anything, she exclaimed, “He wasn’t poisoned!”

  “What?”

  “Well, I mean, he was,” she added, confusing the man evermore, “But not in the real sense. He was the one who wanted to eat something I made. So I tried making bread, and he ate it, and apparently there’s a powder I thought was salt and turned out to be something else completely and it got him ill.” For a couple of seconds, nobody said anything, although Adra’s lips trembled.

  “Oh.” Hwosh looked over to where a pot of tea was brewing at the corner table, atop a heating stone Adra had purchased.

  “Yeah, oh,” mocked a voice from the room. Hwosh went over to check. Sure enough, Percy looked healthy enough, if still a bit green. “He hasn’t been drinking his medicine enough,” explained Adra, “Says it tastes like dog food. Don’t ask how he knows.”

  “Hey, you asked so I told you the story!” objected Percy in as much of his cheer as he could manage.

  “And that’s why I told Hwosh not to ask. Now you,” this next part was aimed at the warrior, “Go and get yourself cleaned up, we have to talk about what we found out while you were gone.”

  Hwosh was waved at with a hand as if he were fly, but still managed to say, “There’s an emissary from Indellekt coming here. That’s Murata’s client. Maybe he has something to do with the poison.”

  “We know, now go!” With that, the warrior was unceremoniously shooed out by both of his friends.

  The bath Hwosh took was before going back to Percy’s was, perhaps, the most embarrassing one since that time he was seventeen and sneezed into a girl’s face. Ugh, what kind of idiot goes off like that without checking? he thought to himself, sitting down curled up in about two and a half feet of hot water. Murata only said that Percy was ill, and yet you had to go and…. Stupid, stupid, stupid! If he didn’t watch it, he was going to become a sentimental fool out of sheer care for the two, he realized. Things were so much simpler when you were alone. And yet, Hwosh found himself convinced that he would not be able to live the same without Percy and Adra in his life. They were just important, plain and simple.

  About an hour later, Hwosh was able to face the prospect of going to Adra and Percy’s room. To her credit, the merchant kept her laughter to a minimum, yet it was still torture. When they had settled in on the sofa, Hwosh asked, “So, what did you guys find out?”

  “As far as we know, Mikhlab is going to try and poison an emissary from Indellekt by the name of Tamas Wedd,” said Adra. Hwosh looked at Percy, but the man shook his head.

  “I know the name,” he explained, “but all I heard about the man is he’s a psion and a nasty man.”

  “How did you find out?” asked Hwosh with slight uncertainty. Business was good for Mikhlab. Why go for an ambassador and risk war?

  “A mix of business contacts and mind reading,” answered Percy, “Although after she made me that meal, I wasn’t able to go out and help much at all. This was three days ago.” Adra grinned, perhaps stifling another “you asked for it”.

  “So, when does it happen? How do we find evidence? What do we do?” The last question, the last of a rapid fire of them, seemed to Hwosh like more of a general sweeping plea than anything else. This all was growing a little too big for him, and despite the rapid whirring in his head, nothing was making much sense at all.

  Adra said, “We tried notifying the authorities. At first they didn’t want to help, but Percy,” she pointed at her lover, who raised a lazy arm in acknowledgement, “Worked some of his magic.“

  “It’s not magic.”

  “He did it on one
of the lower tier culprits. Walked right in and confessed everything he knew. It wasn’t enough for them to do anything, but we got their attention.”

  “That’s good,” offered Hwosh with hope. Instead of answering him, Adra went over to the pot, where a crimson tea was bubbling slowly. She gave a cup to Hwosh and took another, but Percy received a murky green slimy looking liquid. He grumbled and she told him he needed to drink it to feel better. The back and forth ended with him drinking the foul stuff, murmuring about how all medicines taste bad. Ignoring him, the merchant elaborated, “Problem was, the next day he disappeared. So did the guards on his case.” Hwosh frowned, surprised at this sudden twist but remembering that if it were Saif’s men, they would be capable of doing such things with impunity. The underground king had a long reach indeed. “We think it was Mikhlab silencing them. Luckily, we kept our tips anonymous and so they can’t find us for nasty hurt times.” Disregarding the danger of what they were up against, she seemed more concerned with Percy trying to sneak away his brew into a plant pot. When he was properly chastised and she had once more apologized for poisoning the man, he told her that the food was delicious regardless and he was only so sick because he couldn’t stop eating the bread. Then, all three sipped quietly for a few moments.

  Something about discussing battle plans sitting next to each other on a sofa felt wrong to Hwosh, and so he stood up and turned to face his friends. Adra and Percy each stretched out a little in response, getting comfortable. “How about uncle Salim?” he suggested quietly, knowing that he didn’t want to explicitly connect the man who raised him with such a big matter. “If they’re trying to assassinate Indellekt’s ambassador this obviously, then it means Mikhlab has decided that there needs to be another war, and Lor needs to be on the side of Regalia. This is too big, we need to get some more help to deal with this organization.”

  “But would your uncle be willing to go after his own brother?” asked Percy.

  “He would. The father of Mikhlab is terrifying, and nobody knows that better than uncle Salim. The only reason he lets the man do as he wants is because Mikhlab has promised to be on the side of the people. This is not the case anymore. He would go against them, and his sons would help in any way they can.”

  At the very next opportune moment, Hwosh and Adra went over to uncle Salim’s house. Everywhere, people were going about their usual business: buying, selling, and chatting with neighbours. There was even a new house being built right next to an old disused water fountain. From the western side of town Hwosh could hear bustle, where the Bazar would be in full throttle about this time. It was difficult for the warrior, now dressed for comfort and in sandals, to imagine that an assassination attempt, designed to spark a war would be taking place in a few weeks. If Tamas Wedd were to be killed, Indellekt would likely immediately retaliate against Regalia and Lor, forcing a union against the nation of knowledge and magic. At the very least, trade would stagnate, cutting the life’s blood from such a trade reliant town like as well as all of Ghata. If that happened, poverty and despair would befall a folk so determined to better their own lot. Worse still, Indellektians would be forced to leave the city or be swept like ants before the flood of anger against the country. Even those like Murata wouldn’t be able to remain neutral. Naturally, that applied to Percy, one of those most determined to stop this entire mess from happening. He would be forced to go away.

  “Adra?” said Hwosh to his companion, who was also dressed in brown comfortable clothes. It was unlike her to forego extravagance and flair for the sake of practicality.

  “Yeah?”

  “We need to stop this assassination, no matter what. Uncle Salim will help.”

  Unfortunately, the two were unable to enlist the aid of the old man. They were told by a neighbour that he’d left a few days earlier for the east, in order to visit a relative of his. “Had to see that bald head of his shine all the way he walked into the sunrise. Said something about a jade rock, he did.”

  “He’s not bald,” the warrior defended his uncle dutifully as he’d been taught to, reciting an age old adage. “He cuts his hair.”

  Hwosh thought he knew which relative she’d meant, and therefore understood that the old man was now beyond their reach for a few months at the very least. Upon looking for Mukhlis, the two were informed by a rather surly woman at the ambassador’s office that he had been withdrawn to Indellekt for urgent business.

  At that point, Hwosh was beside himself with worry. At least, he was sure that uncle Salim hadn’t been kidnapped or harmed, unless the man had been forced to make up a story for the neighbours. The bigger problem was that a man as influential as Mukhlis Matr had been pressured into leaving town early. There was no doubt in Hwosh’s mind that the wizard would arrive in the capital, only to be informed that there had been some sort of misunderstanding. After all, the impending crisis was in Lor.

  “Don’t worry,” said Percy when they came back and told him the entire story. “I’ll be feeling better in a few days. I thought old man Salim was worried only about my personal safety, but now it seems that there’s more at stake. We only have a few weeks to figure out when the attempt on Wedd’s life is going to be, but I’m not leaving things as they are. There’s no running away. We will find him, warn him, and stop Mikhlab’s plan.”

  Two weeks later, there was still little to show for their efforts. They were able to piece together only the location and timing of the attack: Tamas Wedd was to be poisoned after getting drunk, as he was wont to, at a gathering for high society just two days before the signing of a new trade agreement. All attempts to warn the man failed due to the large number of guards he had brought for protection. They were part of some order or the other, and their honour caused them to refuse any sort of aid with impunity. One even tried to strike Percy at some point.

  Just as the blow came, Hwosh stepped in to take it on his shoulder instead. Luckily, only three of the guards were present in that particular alley next to the tavern. Hwosh was saved by the element of surprise, for his admittedly large but lean frame was nothing compared to the behemoths. Being underestimated, the warrior took the chance. The first’s blow was dodged, and he retorted with an upwards knife hand into the man’s neck, followed by and instant roll towards the second, who foolishly lunged into Hwosh’s straight kick as he came up from the ground, throwing the man backwards and unto his face, hard. The third, a blonde man who actually looked a little like Percy, was a magician and began to wave his hands whilst reciting a spell. He was smacked on the eagle like nose, then caught in a choke hold while still disoriented. The whole thing was over in a few blinks, and then Hwosh lead Percy away in a hurry.

  “I knew you were good,” the old man had spluttered, “But I didn’t know you were that good!”

  From that day on, they were unable to get anywhere close to the tavern, and even Murata became out of reach.

  It is said that luck seems to wait for the last possible moment, and so it was for Hwosh and his companions. After countless futile attempts to warn Wedd or anybody capable of helping, the three found themselves loitering around the western part of town on the day of his assassination. Adra sat on the dusty floor, Percy on a low wall, and Hwosh stood to the side. Theirs was a trinity of disappointment.

  That’s it, thought he. Death, war and destruction, just because I couldn’t save the life of one man. Percy will have to run away for his life, and I’ll never see either of them again. Adra will go with. He was going to be left alone again. One more loss for justice, two fewer treasures for him. He mentioned it to Percy in a low voice, and the man said, “It’s not that bad.”

  “What do you mean?” Asked Hwosh. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than being separated from these two in such a way.

  “If you live long enough, you realize a few things about life. One of those is the nature of friendships. They’re all about heart, not location or company. When people separate, their hearts are bound by strings of care, and it’s those that ma
rk a true friendship. The stronger the string, the better the friendship.” Suddenly, the man coughed a bit, then continued after a few seconds of silence. Adra sniffled. “It will hurt not to play cards at Murata’s, but we’ll always be friends, and if we do meet someday, we’ll pick things up like nothing’s ever changed. No matter what, I and Adra are on your side, standing by you in spirit, thought and intent. Even if you need to go to a job interview and I’m not there, my support will be, like the leftover warmth after a hug. And I know it goes both ways.”

  Hwosh didn’t know what to say. Part of him was extremely touched, and another felt lonely already. A nod was enough, he thought. If nothing else, he was thankful for his good memory, as it would allow him to keep these two close.

  “Maybe he deserves to die. Wedd, I mean,” said Adra sullenly.

  “You don’t mean that, sweetheart,” chided Percy.

  “Have you seen how he treats the masses? It’s horrible, the way he gets carried on that chair of his, throws coins in the filthiest places to watch how beggars scramble for them, laughing like the pig he is. I want to punch that beady eyed face of his.”

  “Aye, he is shifty,” agreed Percy. “It’s sad, but those kinds of psions exist too. To them, the difference between them and normal people is the same as between people and animals.”

  Hwosh interjected, “It’s sick.”

  Just then, a short robed figure bumped into Adra and moved past her. The tree were so absorbed in their own misery that none noticed anything for a few seconds, until Adra suddenly exclaimed, “My money! Thief!” By then the figure had turned left into an alleyway.

  Almost immediately, Hwosh spun about and began to sprint after the brown robed thief. He managed to glimpse the thief just barely, turning away from the Bazar. Curious, he thought to himself. Hwosh and his quarry weaved left and right, each pushing hard but neither being able to gain an edge. The brown caped culprit overturned a few pigeon cages in an effort to put off the warrior, but Hwosh was able to vault over them with ease. Slowly, the thief visibly began to tire and Hwosh was able to slightly reduce the gap. Just then, the shape ahead saw its mistake and turned right twice, going back towards the Bazar in order to lose Hwosh in the crowd. Slowly the bustle began to mask all sinister movements, and the warrior was unable to find the thief. Panting, he stopped to catch his breath amidst the shouts, scents and shapes of the bazar. Shadows danced as the bright canopies of every colour directly above were rustled by a welcome breeze. Another failure, he thought to himself. At that point, it didn’t really matter that Adra had warned him too late. What good is it if I can’t even catch a pickpocket? He couldn’t do anything on his own. One job other than the ones from uncle Salim, and it was just getting some feathers. He had no doubt that if anything hard came along, he would have no plan to deal with it. All Hwosh wanted was to take a long bath and forget about the world, but he knew that even that mind of his wouldn’t leave him alone. It would just be a torrent of worry amidst horrid memories.

  “So I just put this in a glass, and my debt is gone?” asked someone from Hwosh’s right, and for some reason the man peered over to where two obvious thugs were threatening someone. The boy looked to be about as old as Hwosh himself and as tall, although much smaller and prettier. Maybe he also had a few hidden talents to put the warrior to shame, but apparently avoiding intimidation wasn’t one of them, for the youth was visibly shaking in his perfect boots.

  “Sure,” answered one, the bigger of the two. His voice slipped and snickered as he spoke. “Someone will find you and hand over the thing. You’ve just got to find the drunkest man around at midnight, and slip it in his drink. The guy said it’s to sober him up, but he gets feisty when he’s drunk and won’t admit it so needs to have the stuff slipped into his drink. No harm done, save a rich noble some face and save your pretty face a whole lot of heartache down the line. Good deal for our little Lila, no?” The other one, who was smaller and stood as if he favoured one leg, cackled a little but said nothing.

  Could it be? thought Hwosh, not daring to hope. Part of him wanted to go get Percy and Adra, see what they thought, and ask them what to do. He crept to where he couldn’t be seen, behind a crate, and listened carefully, trying to reach Percy telepathically to no avail. If luck was truly on their side, then maybe the three of them could hatch a careful plan together. If not…

  “B-b-but… What if he doesn’t want to?”

  The smaller one slapped the boy, careful not to bruise him. “You don’t ask him, idiot! Weren’t you listening to what we said?”

  The boy began to cry softly. “I did,” he said, about to sniffle into his rather expensive looking uniform, looking like it was made for serving boys and girls. The taller one, who was bald, smacked Lila’s hand away, exclaiming “No, no, we wouldn’t want you to ruin that uniform, would we? Nobody even knows what you look like over there, all you have to get in is that thing. Keep it safe, will you?

  “Y-yes, Deg…”

  “Good, make sure you do it right, or loan collection will be paying you a visit. Gump, let’s go.” With that, the two thugs strutted off to the opposite side Hwosh had come from, one looking around and giving the boy a little wave.

  While Lila cried himself into calm, Hwosh thought quickly. If this was the same banquet, then he had to act quickly lest the boy leave. There was no time to go get Percy or Adra. Steeling himself calmly, the youth drew himself to his full height and went over to the serving boy. “Hi, there,” he greeted him in, hopefully, a reassuring manner.

  Quickly, Lila rubbed away his tears before turning around. “W-what do y- I don’t have any money!” he announced, and Hwosh realized he’d made him think he was a robber.

  “Don’t worry, Lila,” he tried again, putting both hands up as if to calm a skittish horse. “I won’t hurt you, promise.”

  Slowly, Lila started to get more confidant and said, “My name isn’t Lila; it’s Daniel.”

  Hwosh was confused, and came closer to the boy, still cautious about frightening him in the dark alleyway. “I’m sorry.” The boy seemed to draw power from the apology, and he stood a bit taller. All around, the bustle continued, although it was subdued by the houses on either side of the two.

  “You should be!” he exclaimed in a high pitched moan.

  “The two men you were with seemed to call you that,” explained Hwosh, and the boy stiffened. “I won’t tell anyone what I saw. I just need to be there tonight; it’s important. Someone could die unless we warn him first. I heard them say that no one would be able to tell the difference, that they wouldn’t check. If I could please have your uniform, everything will go perfectly like they said. No need to do dangerous things, and your debt will be erased exactly as you wanted.” Telling the lie hurt, but Hwosh decided to help the boy once this was all over to soothe his guilt.

  For all intents and purposes, Hwosh thought the proposal was quite reasonable. He was starting to relax himself, hoping that for once things would go smoothly. Thus the warrior was taken entirely aback when Daniel’s face contorted itself and he wailed, “You, wear my uniform? Nonsense!”

  “…What?”

  “The sizes are all wrong,” complained the boy, showing off his thin shoulders on his gold threaded uniform. “It would be too tight. Besides, the servers at council balls and banquets are only the most attractive men and women. Look at your skin, your eyebrows. Ugh, what an unsightly jaw! You’d never make it, the first high class lady to take wine from your glass would spit it out and mess up all her conversations for the day.”

  “Uh, sure, but that’s not really the point. I don’t want to work there. I just need to get in tonight to save someone.”

  “Hah! And you think to blend in without looking and acting your best? If I were a humanitarian, I’d offer to train you in grace and care. However, I am a realist.” The warrior actually thought that the boy was going to pose. “I understand that people like you are different from those like me. We are of different stock, and always wi
ll be. Begone, and never think to raise yourself from being a simple brute! You are inferior. I might one day even be taken by a lady to be her private servant!”

  Hwosh sighed, looking at the sky above. There was no time left, and this fool was bragging about the shallowest things anyone had ever heard of. “Look, are you going to help me? I’m sorry about your stock, but this really is more important.”

  “Silence, Mongrel!” shrieked the servant, finger waggling imperiously as he pouted, “Your lies will not wo-“ Hwosh leapt in, swift as a nightmare, and struck him on the back of the head. He held him before his body could hit the dusty ground, and stripped him of his clothing. When he was dressed as a servant, the warrior tried to remember Daniel’s mannerisms for Percy and Adra, then said, “Sorry, Lila.”

  Percy and Adra were surprised when Hwosh returned not with a bag, but with new information and a disguise. Within a few minutes, their misery turned into elation. Percy whooped, Adra did a little jig, and Hwosh remained composed as usual. It would have been a lie to deny his happiness, however, and the warrior knew that moment would stay with him for many long years.

  However, things took a sour turn when Hwosh discovered it was his job to sneak into the council’s ball room and let Percy and Adra in. “Look, I’m an old man and she has the manners of a Ramlah Lizard,” Percy explained. “Neither of us has any chance of fitting in as servants at all. You’re our best chance, and when you’re given the poison, go show it to someone or tell the mister Wedd himself, if you get a chance to.” Hwosh grumbled, but there seemed to be precious little choice in the matter.

  So it was that a few hours later, Hwosh found himself in an extravagant hall of chandeliers, gold and crystal, balancing a silver tray in one hand and folding the other behind his back. People spoke everywhere, and soft music was playing from a crystal somewhere. The place was filled with men and women dressed in beautiful clothing and made up with substances and powders, and it took all of his discipline not to use his other hand to brace himself against every incoming person, weaving around instead. The scents of lavender, cinnamon and all manners of perfumes mingled together, making the place seem like a garden of flowers if one could but shut one’s eyes. The suit of beige with golden patterns felt tight and itchy against his skin, and for the second time in his life, Hwosh felt the pain of being ignored like a piece of garbage on the side of the street. As he passed, snippets of conversation drifted over to the warrior, some adding to his disgust with the every flamboyant waste of money displayed here instead of spent in the service of the masses:

  “Lord Hutha, I’ve heard your new mansion is…”

  “Pooh, if they learned to pray more, perhaps they’d be distracted from the…”

  “But truly, our current taxes are poorly invested in agrictult...”

  “Knowledge is truly only fit for some. I say, if they can grovel in the streets, then perhaps their time would be better spent working than in school, don’t you think?”

  By then, Hwosh had already let in his friends, and he could see Percy walking about on the other side of the hall, looking slightly green. The warrior felt sickened by some of what he’d heard, and could not imagine how bad it was for his friend, who could see into their thoughts. He excused himself for a few minutes, and spent most of that time looking for Tamas Wedd around the buildings many hallways and fancy rooms. If the man was as drunk as he usually got in Splinter, there was a good chance he wouldn’t be in the ballroom.

  Just when he was about to give up, someone called out to Hwosh from a ways off. Turning, he spotted a man standing right by a small garden filled with rare flowers. “Where have you been?” the man demanded as Hwosh remembered his supposed job and ran towards him.

  “My apologies, sire,” said the warrior, turning his tone as pretentious yet grovelling as possible, as if he were second only to this man. “Did you require something of me?”

  The man chuckled and whispered, “Yeah, that’s better.” He slipped a small vial into Hwosh’s hand. “Almost didn’t recognize the uniform. The guy is in the hall’s left corner, almost asleep. Just put this in a wine glass and give it to him. Easy, right?”

  “Oh, sure.” The man’s green eyes narrowed, and Hwosh caught himself. “I meant, most assuredly, your greatness... I will see to it at once, and please you greatly.”

  “Enough grovelling! Get to it or we’ll put you back in the slums where you belong. Don’t forget us or our father’s kindness. The man showed Hwosh a bronze medal, ranking him as a low member of Mikhlab, with both impunity and a sickening degree of deprived pleasure. The warrior bowed and left, hand straying to where his string of beads would have dangled right next to his ear, had he been allowed to have his bandanna on with such a uniform.

  This was the first true confirmation the three had gotten that Mikhlab was directly involved in the assassination attempt, for everything before had been inconclusive. Now, they were sure, and Hwosh would be willing to swear it to uncle Salim. Perhaps the old man couldn’t directly combat a crime syndicate, but withdrawing his support would surely deal a heavy blow to their operations. Uncle Salim wasn’t the most respected merchant in town for nothing. All that was needed now was to warn Wdd, get him to rally his guards and leave.

  Once Hwosh was back in the kitchens, he asked the woman in charge for extra glasses on his tray. The portly woman eyed him suspiciously for a second then nodded with a wink, setting her enormous pigtails flying. “You’ve worked hard enough today,” she proclaimed, “I guess you earned a small reward.” As the tanned warrior made his way to the banquet hall, tray laden with crystal goblets and a vial of poison sitting sinister in one side pocket, it occurred to him that madam Sal had thought the extra wine was for him.

  Hwosh was intent in his search, so much so that a few lords and ladies gave him curious glances as he went. At that point, however, camouflage was of minimal importance, and he went hastily to find a man in need of saving. Just as he came in sight of the thin man with his beady eyes and multiple chins slumped over a sofa, a hand grabbed Hwosh by the shoulder. He spun around and came face to face with Percy, who was looking deathly pale. He might have had wide eyes, too, but Hwosh couldn’t tell through his shaded spectacles. Percy dragged the warrior back through the room, taking him through corridors until they came to one which was darkened and empty.

  “I’ve got the poison!” said Hwosh with almost contained glee. “We can save the emissary, prove it was Mikhlab, everything! There was a man with green eyes, and-“

  “No, buddy,” retorted Percy. For the first time, Hwosh realized how badly the man had been shaken. “It’s worse than I thought. They didn’t want to kill him to start war, but to stop it.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “That man, Tamas Wedd. He…” The words seemed to pain Percy, and they left him looking like he’d had some more of Adra’s medicine. “He was planning on starting a war all along. His plan was to rope Lor into Indellekt’s side, and he was going to do it using bribes and psionics. He was going to force them into doing what he wanted, then reap the benefits. He’s bought enough weapons for an army.”

  “…money?” The man nodded in response. This was too much. “But, all this effort to save him. Mikhlab-“

  “They were in the right. I’m sorry Hwosh, but letting him die would have been a right answer.”

  Hwosh shook his head. “So… you want me to do it? Kill him? I can’t do that, Percy.” It went against every justice loving fibre in his body.

  Percy looked almost resigned, but then he perked up slightly. “At least, that’s what I thought until I noticed how drunk the man was. There’s no need to kill him, buddy. I’ll take care of it. I just need you to protect me until I’m done. People will recognize what I’m doing and will try to rush me. Oh, and Adra won’t be with us this time. At least, not until we start running.”

  The warrior thought about everything that had gotten them to this point, as well as how many ways things could go sout
h. They didn’t even have a proper plan, this was all improvised. Then he let it all go, because he realized his trust in Persius Verde was complete. “Tell me what you need,” he said.

  A few minutes later, an old man stood in the middle of the ballroom, a few feet away from Lord Wedd. As the lord slept peacefully, the man’s muscles went lax. He had dark spectacles on his hawkish nose, and a few lords stated that they needed to know where he’d gotten them, but if you could see behind him, you’d notice they went vacant. If you saw his blue robe, you’d wonder why a normal man from Indellekt was in such a prestigious event. However, for the most part, the long haired man was ignored.

  Slowly, the lord stood from where he’d been slumped over, despite the ungodly amount of alcohol in him. People began to whisper as the lord, a lazy man at the best of times, began to stretch almost experimentally, as if he were testing his body. Despite swaying a little, he seemed to be in prime health. Then he walked over to the table, grabbed a glass, and shattered it on the floor with a massive crash. Everyone’s attention went his way, many smiling at the mess he was making.

  “My name,” he announced, “Is Tamas Wedd of Indellekt, Her emissary to Lor,” people began to nod politely, and somewhere some overly enthusiastic soul began to clap. “And I am a traitor to my country, as well as a threat to Lor.” There was stunned silence, and the man who had begun to clap stopped abruptly. You could hear the tension in the air. “Using unlawful methods and against the best interests of my employers, the ruling council of Indellekt and the voting populace, I have moved to set off a war in motion in between my land and that of Regalia.” Gasps came from his ever increasing audience, which swelled as many came from other rooms, prompted by whispers.

  “Impossible!” someone shouted.

  “Not so,” replied the lord, pushing away those of his guards who tried to escort him away. His voice began to raise. “I have proof in my room at Splinter, a Tavern here. Read my meticulous records and you shall find proof against Lords Kharuf, Himar, and Kalb of Lor, as well as Councilmen Ages, Sind…” As the names were announced, each man or woman mentioned either smiled in incredulous rage or promptly left the hall. Shouts began to raise, saying that lord Wedd was under a spell. Fingers began to point towards the perfectly still old man with the starry hat, and guards moved to apprehend him. When the first reached, however, a servant boy shot out of nowhere and smacked him upwards with a tray, stealing his blade and fighting to protect the old man. Guard after guard came, and despite the warrior being nicked here and there, he was able to position himself and his charge well. As guests began to flee in earnest, he stabbed, blocked, dodged, and slashed, fending off one after the other. One particular strike almost took him in the side, and yet he struck the flat of the blade downwards with his own left palm, getting his attacker with his pommel silently. All the while lord Wedd confessed, and when he was done the warrior took his friend, grabbed a rather poorly dressed brunette, and all three fled the premises, leaving the palace in an uproar as smaller groups of guards mysteriously made way.

  When Hwosh, Percy, and Adra first ran, there had to be more than fifty guards after them with pikes, blades and spears. Percy did his best to distract them with visions of obstacles while Hwosh carried him out, and from then on it became a matter of dexterity and Adra’s knack for doing the unexpected. They fled fast, knocking over anything they could find, and sooner or later the three were lost in the chaos and almost a mile out from the city, after having gotten together what they could from the apartments. For Hwosh that meant his armour, blade, and an always ready backpack of supplies. Percy and Adra had gotten almost everything they owned, from teapots to crystals and even extra clothes. They’d fled through the southern gate, turning westward then to draw attention and to leave the sandstorms of Ramlah far behind. Only then could the trio pause and catch their breath for a while, finding a deep canyon to hide within. Red rock rose from both directions, offering safety in darkness. Above, a half-moon could be seen, offering enough light. Their fire was mostly there for the warmth.

  “What now?” wondered Hwosh when he could breathe properly? “Sooner or later, the guards will know who you are.” When the guards search Wedd’s rooms, they’ll find out enough proof to have the man stand a long and arduous trial. War would be averted, and with luck both Lor and Indellekt will take a long hard look at the current requirements for hiring officials. All in all, they had done well, but it came at a steep price.

  “And circumstances aside, we’d be jailed for what we did to an emissary,” agreed Adra. “But it sure was worth it, no?”

  “Aye,” added Percy, eliciting a laugh from his lover, which infected him. Within instants the two were laughing themselves silly whilst Hwosh watched. At long last they quieted, Percy trying to brush dirt from his beard and her hair all at once.

  “So what do we do?” Asked Hwosh. In less than a month, he’d been plunged into more mischief than he ever thought possible. Moreover, they’d made an enemy of both the guards and Mikhlab. Staying in Lor would be nothing short than a perpetual wait for death. However, he knew nowhere else.

  “Me and Percy have been thinking about starting a business,” Adra informed him. Her red clothes made her stand out in the light from the campfire they’d made. Hwosh thought them being tracked was unlikely, but he still made sure their camping spot was surrounded by high enough rock.

  “What kind of business?”

  “Candy flavoured medicine,” she answered, taking the man aback. “The idea came to me from how often he tried to pour his medicine down the plant pot. I spoke to a healer and she said that if you make the medicine slightly less effective, other tastes could be added for some of them. I’m thinking of starting small, with pills that you suck to relieve stomach ache, and work my way up.”

  By then, Hwosh was thinking about it seriously. “And how would you do it in Lor without drawing attention?” his beads clattered and the fire sputtered as if in turn. There was a small lizard speared on a stick just above the licking flames.

  “We won’t. Our plan will probably be based in Regalia. Best market for good tastes that aren’t necessarily the best for you.”

  “Regalia!”

  “Take advantage of the continued peace we helped create, you know.” This time it was Percy’s smooth vigorous voice that spoke out, although the man did indeed sound tired. He’d explained that taking control of another man’s actions was no mean feat, especially when the person in question was a psionic, drunk or not.

  “I would think that a plan most wise,” came a voice from beyond their campfire’s orange light. Hwosh leapt to take up arms and Percy went to pour water over the flames, but the person said, “I mean no harm. Please, no violence, and put that bucket away.”

  “Show yourself!” exclaimed Adra, and black shod feet stepped into the fire’s light. The lady was blonde and dressed as a captain, with red stripes down her leather armour. Despite her size, she stepped silently, and she cast a longer shadow than was strictly natural. A pale scar ran horizontally across her neck, and smaller vertical scars crossed that one to mimic bad stitching. Hwosh did not often see black leather armour, but knew that only a specific type of city guards were allowed to wear them it. Was it desert patrols?

  “I am Haq Ramad, captain in Lor’s reserve regiments, assigned to Lor’s special assault corps.” Percy looked confused, although Hwosh and Adra showed signs of dismay.

  “What? Why would someone in the back lines be here?”

  “In Lor, they let the inexperienced fight. We leave our best for last, and only those with exceptional records of service are allowed in the reserves,” explained Adra while Hwosh thought slowly, at once playing with his now returned bandanna and checking up on the armour strapped onto his body. He could hear others behind her, and even as close as his broadsword was, there would be little chance to block multiple arrows. Then he saw something golden and his temper flared.

  “Service indeed,” he spat. “She’s with Mikhlab!”
Percy and Adra tensed up, and the lady moved her cloak a bit to the side, showing her claw medallion. “A high ranker, too. Here to get revenge for your failed assassination? You’ve got your tentacles everywhere.”

  The woman grimaced, and Hwosh heard an arrow being pulled back somewhere. His eyes were now better used to the darkness, for he’d avoided looking at the fire and tried his peripheral vision. The assassins, all dressed in dark colours and crouched down, looked more like crawling demons than anything else. They were like shades on a jet black desert, and sent a shiver down his spine. Haq stepped forward, closer to the trio. Her scar now came into painful relief, and Hwosh could hardly believe just how powerful her frame looked. She reached behind her shoulder and pulled out a long, thin sword just as tall as she was. The blade was called a needle, and was akin to an iron spear with sharpened edges. It required immense dexterity to use, added to the sheer strength needed to handle it nimbly. This one was of black pig iron, and ornate writing decorated it in what seemed like faded golden ink. Instead of attacking, the tall woman placed her weapon almost reverently on the ground before raising a fist. The whine of taut arrow strings ceased.

  “You have displeased my masters by interfering with their plans. All of you,” she said, pointing to the three in turn, “are guilty of this. However, there will be peace, and Lor is saved. Moreover, I have a bigger debt here. Larger loyalties.”

  “What debt?” Asked Hwosh. He looked to his companions, and both seemed confused. “I don’t think I’ve met you before.”

  “I did not say the debt was to you. But it is large, and demands immediate service and my life, if need be. Here, take this. It is from Murata. You may leave with your friends if you so choose, but neither have you been recognized today. I think his offer is worth considering.” She handed Hwosh a piece of paper. “The other two must leave, and may return when the stones have settled back and water runs clear.” As she spoke, Hwosh read the letter. It was an invitation from Murata for him to go on expeditions west for the man, three months at a time, and to bring him ingredients from the caves and wastelands there. There were also signed papers from the tavern owner for three separate supply, weapon and armour shops, vowing to pay for anything the warrior takes from them. It was a tremendous offer, as if a star from the black sky above had descended and brought him its boons. And he didn’t know what to do. “The way I see it, you can go with them as a friend, or take this job and live your own life. It is up to you to decide which the path is. Decide with the light of dawn, and if you re-enter the city, we will know what you have chosen.”

  For a few seconds, no one said anything and Haq picked up her weapon, satisfied that her job was done. When she turned to leave, however, Percy remarked, “I think you’re lying.”

  The woman froze. Turning deliberately, she stated, “That is not true. Upon my honour, your safety outside Lor will be-“

  “Not that.” The man began to stroke his beard, thoughtfully and slow. Adra shifted in her position. “About your masters being upset. There have been too many coincidences. Why did Wedd choose Murata’s tavern? Perhaps to mask his hate of Regalians, but we all know how much he cares about decency. Why was Uncle Salim allowed to warn me? And the sheer coincidence in Mekhlab never going after us, then Hwosh suddenly stumbling into the grand plan? Hah!” The man clapped his hands together. “Each man and woman I questioned had never heard of me, so I never thought anything of it. But everything fits in place if someone had been playing us the whole time, giving everyone just enough information for me not to notice. It was old Salim, no? He needed to help them, but never wanted the assassination to succeed, so he arranged for a psion from Indellekt to expose a psion from Indellekt. That way, the discrimination would be minimal.” For once, Percy actually took off his spectacles, and his blue eyes showed open admiration. “That coot actually made me into a pawn!” Hwosh could not tell if Haq was furious or impressed with Percy, stony as her face was, but at least she didn’t order anyone to shoot him. Adra, silly as always, thought it a proper time to clap.

  “That settles it, these ones here wouldn’t kill us,” she said with a shrug.

  “Don’t be too sure,” retorted Haq quietly, cutting the gambler’s mirth in half.

  There was one thing Hwosh didn’t understand, though. It was like one last crucial piece of the puzzle, and he looked into the fire as if to find it there. “Why would she side with uncle Salim over Mikhlab?” he asked.

  “She said it herself. Owes her life to him. Apparently, honour is bigger than criminal organizations. Maybe I should say it’s gratitude, though. Want to show him?” This question was aimed at the woman, who sighed and took a glove off after glaring, showing off a white ring. It was just like the one Hwosh kept in his pocket. The warrior was speechless.

  “How could you?” he asked finally, “How could you be in Mikhlab? That’s not what uncle would have wanted! Don’t you know anything about him?”

  That seemed to strike a nerve, and the level headed woman snapped. “Enough!” she yelled, taking everyone aback. “It’s you who doesn’t know anything about him!” apparently catching herself, the woman went back to her calm mannerisms with sudden and terrifying speed, “You must decide by morning. I have wasted enough time here already. I bid you all goodbye, and wish you many bounties. And you,” she added to Percy, who was looking curious, “Would do best to leave that mind of yours out of such things. And my mind!” with that, the captain walked out from the circle of light, and with her Hwosh felt the presence of those shadows withdraw.

  For the longest time, nobody said anything. There was too much to think about, and not enough time. Hwosh was almost starting to catch a headache, and barely knew what foundations he stood upon anymore. There were life changing choices to make, added to Haq’s words about uncle Salim. He was a pebble jostled along, and there were so many secrets that he couldn’t even tell where the river started or would flow. He needed years to figure everything out.

  Slowly, Percy and Adra started to talk. It seemed that to them, there was little choice other than going with their original plan. They would catch the first caravan towards Regalia and start fresh. Hwosh envied them the simplicity of their choices, as well as the decisive nature each seemed to have. Lastly, he wished he had someone to rely on like that. Then he realized that he did, and always would.

  The sun rose without anybody sleeping at all. They had spent hours talking of many things, but mostly about the past. It was another night of friendship, and none wished to ruin it. When the three went towards the caravan stops, Percy finally stopped them. “It’s time to decide, buddy. We’d love to have you with us, you know.”

  “I know… and I’d love to be with you guys. Here,” he said, a sudden idea coming to him. “Try reading my mind.”

  Adra frowned. “Now?” she asked with worry, but Percy assured her he had enough strength. His eyes went blank, and Hwosh started.

  I like my bandanna, but it’s a little too empty. The best part is the string, and I really want to add things to it. Maybe Percy and Adra can add something. Locks of hair? Nah, maybe from her, but his hair might start to fall off. Oh, one of those small stars on his hat. If he gave one to me, I’ll put the two next to each other. But then again, I hope the stars aren’t too big or get ripped or something like that. Maybe they’ll say no. About saying no, what if the line for the western city gate is too long? That would be rea-

  “Enough!” exclaimed Percy Verde with a laugh. “You almost gave me a headache, you damn worry worm! And we’d love to give you exactly what you want. Adra, he wants a lock of your hair for his string.” The two gave Hwosh a lock of hair and a small silvery piece of cloth shaped like a star, although he almost managed to nick Adra with his sword and got yelled at. After he affixed them where they belonged, Hwosh felt much better.

  “Well?” asked Adra expectantly. She was crying a little bit, and so was Percy. Hwosh decided that old men shouldn’t cry, because it’s highly infectious.

  �
��Friendships are strings between hearts,” Hwosh Ru’ub recited, “and ours are made of steel. The times spent with you were some of the best of my life. Just come to visit, guys. I’ll do well here, and work hard and be the best I can be. I can do it, I think. But I’ll always be with you.”

 

  Worth:

  Year: 879 Post Kerallus. 171 Pre Adventus

  M’kousi was barely past eight years old when she was forced to grow up. It was a universal truth that did it, but it could also be said that a child’s innocence was precious, so perhaps she should have been spared its bite for a few years longer. Still she saw and learned, eyes going red with the wetness of tears as she did. Her mother was not spared the noble woman’s whip, and young M’kousi was not spared the bitterness of this one truth: All men are not born equals.

  Forever after, her mother was marked a thief by brutal tradition requiring a branding, and the young child had been required to attend the ceremony, for it was believed that wickedness was an illness that could be passed on by unqualified parenting, and the only cure was the cold fear of hot iron. Sanapi was given one tiny bit of mercy, for the noblewoman’s husband had known she only stole bread to feed her child, and so allowed the brand to be put upon her calf rather than her face. Still, although both men and women showed off the back primarily, seeing a strong worker’s bulging calves would have delivered her more opportunity than was given.

  In the five years after that, Sanapi’s coal black skin, formerly smooth and the envy of villagers for miles around, began to gain a hardness like old leather after being battered by sun, worry, and hard labor. Her face drooped into an almost permanent scowl, and premature aging caused her back, once corded and shown off by the open backed yellow tunic that had dubbed her the nickname “Night’s sun”, slumped slowly and irreversibly forwards as if to drag her down towards the mud.

  One night Sanapi came back to their single room clay home in pain, her intricate braids a mess. M’kousi had been by the hearth, then eleven years old but a competent cook already in hopes of lessening a mother’s burdens. When she heard Sanapi’s grunts of pain she sprang in fear, for the once black skinned beauty worked construction sites more often than not and fatal injuries were not uncommon in Ghouti tribes, deep within tundras in the southwest of Baku. However, what she saw caused her both horror and rage, for her mother’s back, when revealed in the firelight, was crisscrossed with fresh horizontal slashes. “Who did this?” asked the girl, reaching for a knife.

  “Peace, child,” scolded Sanapi quietly whilst seating herself on the one and only stool in their house. Ghouti tradition dictated that mothers were to have their own personal chair, and so its smooth wooden surface had only ever been touched by Sanapi.

  “How did this happen? Uncle Asali is a good man!”

  “He is, but he has a new deputy called Adabu. Old Uncle Asali is good but old, and Adabu is tempered like a bat at noon but he gets work done and has energy aplenty. It was my fault, thinking I was still young and insisting they still give me a young man’s share of wall to push. The thing came down and I had to be whipped.”

  “But that’s not fair,” wailed M’kousi. “You’ve been doing good work for a year now!”

  “Yes, but today I didn’t. Remember: A farmer who overestimates his earth will reap only seeds. Know what you have and understand. This,” she pointed at her right calf, where the ugly brand depicting an old man stuck in a hole and reaching miserably for the sun still stood out bright against her skin. Then she pointed on her back, “Is what I have reaped. This is the hand Colna and the spirits of sun, moon and all that exists between them have dealt me. I should accept it. Thankfully master Adabu,” Sanapi cringed at her mother’s use of honorifics for such a vile man, but kept her peace, “has decided to allow me work, but with less pay to make up for what I’ve wasted. We’ll need to make do for now.” Inside, M’kousi seethed, remembering the times her own flesh and blood had been stepped on, the laugh on that noblewoman’s face as she literally kicked Sanapi for taking a loaf of bread the cooks in her house had left out for animals. She decided that it would not happen to her. She would grow a tree of Iron within her soul and the roots of weakness would perish.

  “I will work with you,” she started, but Sanapi interjected.

  “No. You will study. I want you to have a better life. Maybe you can be a servant in the future, if you learn well.” People were not created equals. There it was again, the best she could hope for was servitude. There would no reprieve if she stayed…

  And so it was that when she turned thirteen, a woman by any standard, M’kousi left home. She told her mother it was to find work elsewhere, to study; to learn. In truth, she wanted to run away. She could only find greatness by discarding her heritage, for she would forever be the thief’s daughter within the village and all of Ghouti’s tribes, numerous as the stars. Deep within, her horror at Sanapi’s branding and whipping had burnt low for years, turning slowly into resentment for her mother’s acceptance of lowliness and, by extension, perhaps an inherent worthlessness.

  Thus M’kousi left, taking with her Seris and other forms of traditional clothing with a fair amount of pride. She also took with her Sanapi’s blessings, as well as those from the villagers who had never lent a hand through hard times. Their resignation offended her, but there was no reason to tell them that they had been born lesser than others and that she wanted no part in it.

  M’kousi was a smart woman, and so she found job upon job wherever she went, mostly bookkeeping for all manners of shops. Often the girl chose candy stores, for she was particularly fond of what was not to be had as a child. She also learnt about other cultures, slowly and surely as more foreigners started to mix into the mostly Ghotian crowd. The girl turned into a woman and turned towards a scholarly mind as she neared the continent’s eastern front, where the lands were more civilized, though they were still part of Baku. Sooner or later, the clothes of her homeland were discarded in favor of more fashionable things, and she began to pretend she was from Heza, a nearby town. By now, the lowliness of her family and old friends was mostly forgotten, but she would awake at times in a night terror, and she felt the fear stalk her like a night owl.

  One day, she was tasked with attending to a rich man from the Far East as he went hunting. That she did, holding his bags and speaking of nothings. “And that bird, M’kousi?” he asked finally, taking aim with his magical vial.

  “A red plumed sparrow, sir,” she answered politely. Her head was adorned by a feathered hat. “It feeds on insects that live in the Keigo trees, which are the most common here.” As she spoke, the woman pointed at such a tree. It had seven branches, each ending in what seemed like a cloud of thorns protecting yellow fruit. The man chucked his vial, catching the bird right in the beak. The vial broke then exploded into a small fireball, dropping the bird. He sighed in satisfaction as she went to fetch his dinner.

  “I wonder if this bird has a soul.”

  “Who would know, sire? What amount of soul a bird has.”

  “Amount?”

  “Yes, sire. The inner self. For animals and people, it is not the same, for we are better. It is not the same between humans either.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Do you think so? I always thought character fluctuated.”

  “Maybe,” she shrugged, “But I know that men are not born equal. There are people who would have been better born birds or insects. And there are others with inner virtue. I can tell that you think me foolish, but I believe this.” Her voice was quiet and resigned to the truth.

  “And you think this has something to do with a person’s soul?”

  “It must, sire. Isn’t a soul our deepest core, master?”

  “Huh… you remind me of a man in the east. He lived in our largest mountain ranges, beyond Yotaku. They say he believes people’s worth in life is directly proportional to the amount of soul they have, and that he can see how much that is. Many go to learn from him each year, and
he teaches them all without exception. To find out how much your life is worth… such a terrifying ability, isn’t it? Girl?”

  M’kousi had not been paying attention, so lost she was in his words. She agreed readily, and the man thought nothing of it, but the next month M’kousi had left town, asking leave of her employer. He was a good man, and fond of her fire, so let her leave and gave her money for part of the journey as well as many sweet treats. She went east, crossing the Yesgor, the earthen bridge between Baku and the eastern continent.

  It was magical, what with its red lamps barely visible amongst water coming down from above and buffeted up from the sea. It was constant storm and tree high waves and cold. The buildings twisted and curved in magnificent ways unknown to her, and the people kept a warmth in their hearts to stave off the outside gloom. As she went, she made friends and lost them, gained work and money as she did odd jobs to pay for her trip. Wherever there was a book on magic, she read it, especially if it had anything to do with seeing auras. However, none could teach her how to see the worth in a man’s soul. She even fell in love with a man on the way, and they went together for a year, but he soon became tired of something within her. “You just don’t trust people,” he said finally, leaving her in the sweltering rain in front of a restaurant boasting a single red lantern above its upwards arched roof. That night she had wept bitter tears, but ended up thinking that the man must not have been worth much if he could hurt her in that way. She could not allow herself to be ruled as her mother had been. She had to be more.

  And so it was that finally, seven years later, M’kousi reached Yotaku and ventured even farther east. Villagers here and there would know of the man she sought, and rice farmers would speak of him with great respect. Many times she was invited to stay, and she did for a while, but knew her quest awaited, so she climbed the mountain they pointed to, taking a donkey with her to carry supplies. Tired and nearly frozen solid despite the heavy coats, delirious with hunger, she finally found herself upon a yellow robed old man with a moustache down to his feet walking down a mountain trail. It was a slightly underwhelming meeting, for he had simply come across her on the road and she almost passed him by before realizing who the man stepping humbly along the road was. His warm eyes pierced through her, and the black skinned woman threw herself at his feet. She said, “Master Kasuri, I have crossed continents to see you. I need to learn how to see a man’s worth in his soul.”

  “Why?” he asked, “Come into my cave, have some soup, and tell me slowly. I’ll teach you, but the payment is a story.”

  So she told him, in that cavern of rough rock. He sat by the entrance as if unphased by cold. She told him of her mother’s whipping, the slow realization that there was something lowborn in Sanapi, the fear that the noblewoman was somehow better than them. “I have to find out how much I’m worth. If I can do that, maybe I can somehow better myself. If I know what makes those of higher caliber better, then I can surely replicate it. If Colna and the spirits are fair, then that noblewoman was somehow better than my mother. I need to know what it was that set her apart.”

  The man looked sad yet resigned. “You may lose your surety afterwards. It is, however, true that the amount of soul a man has corresponds to the worth of his life. What if it turns out we’re set in stone and you’re just a lowly peasant?”

  She was prepared, and he must have seen it in his eyes. Still she said it. “Then there will be nothing to change.” At worst, she would be as worthless as her mother, regardless of knowledge and hard work.

  For a month he taught her. She gazed at mountains in the horizon for hours on end, recited incantations, and prepared herself. At times, the magical energies within seemed like fire within her eyes, and she would scream. When that happened, the old man would put cloth soaked with ice water over her eyes. She felt very deeply for him, and knew that soon, for better or for worse, the truth would be revealed. His calm anticipation was palpable. Perhaps to him she was just a poor girl, for she often saw pity in his eyes when he thought she could not see.

  Then one day, something magical happened. She and master Kasuri were meditating together, him peacefully, she struggling, when suddenly the girl opened her eyes and there was something. A golden cloud floated, suffusing the man from chest to naval. She gasped and the man smiled.

  “Master-“

  “I know. Your training here is done. I hope this gives you peace, child.”

  Gone she was, like the wind. After thanking Kasuri, the first thing she did was find a nearby lake surrounded by trees. The water was calm and she could see herself reflected in it. Her breath caught in her throat, and M’kousi’s stomach churned and clenched. Then she focused on the calm and looked. There it was, finally, appearing like a mirage as she recited the incantation: a cloud suffusing her from chest to naval, golden in color. It was identical to the one her master had displayed, and shocked the girl to her core. Could she truly be as spiritually complete as her master? She had never thought herself so pure, and it filled her chest with joy. Like a dark cloud before a sunny day, her doubts were lifted. Gone was the shadow of her mother toiling for someone else, shoveling filth and doing hard manual labor. It was with a light heart that the girl went down the mountain, sure that everything was going to be fine in her life.

  Then something went wrong. It began three days after she began the journey back to Ghouti, for although she was free of her family’s curse and had no desire to go back to that village, her knowledge would be put to better use there. Besides, the cold in the eastern continent, Sehkai, was unappetizing, as were its sweets. Out of curiosity, she recited the incantation whilst waiting on a noble’s procession. Her cloud was from the chest to the naval, golden, as were the guards’. Even the commoners on the streets had the exact soul. Only the animals were different; from them she saw nothing. Panicking, M’kousi ran to the beggars and saw. Then in desperation, she went to the jail. She begged the guards until, thinking she was insane, they granted her wish to see the meanest, worst prisoner they had. They took her down the dungeons, path illuminated only by their torches. She eyed them absentmindedly. There, beneath ornate obsidian armor, the guards also had the same cloud.

  The guards dropped her before a dark cell, set alone at a corridor’s end. There she could barely glimpse a man’s face, where light and shadow met. She knew that this criminal at least would be different. His soul must be tiny, dismal and black. But no. When she saw and recited the incantation quietly, his soul was like all the others.

  “What is it, girly? Why are you crying? I’ll have you know, I only like to kill old men. You don’t whet my appetite one bit.”

  So M’kousi cried and laughed, letting the guards escort her from the building where she laughed at the horrid irony of it all. All this time she looked for the worth of people, condemned her mother and all those others. She wanted to prove her own worth, when in fact…

 

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