Flight of the Renshai

by Mickey Reichert

  Matrinka redoubled the petting. *I suppose that would not be inhumane.*

  *In fact, I wouldn’t mind a few of those herbs myself.*

  That surprised Matrinka who adored her own children and could scarcely imagine life without them. Losing just one had nearly destroyed her. *Oh, Imorelda. Don’t you want a family?*

  *Tae and Subikahn are my family. And you.*

  *But kittens—*

  *Kittens are disgusting.*

  *—are charming,* Matrinka finished.

  *What?* they sent simultaneously, as each realized what the other had said.

  *Kittens are wonderful,* Matrinka explained. *Darling little furballs who love everyone and play all day.*

  Imorelda disagreed, *They’re churlish little varmints with the dexterity of turtles and the manners of rats.*

  Matrinka could not help chuckling. *Are we talking about the same thing?*

  *Kittens.* Imorelda’s lower lip curled. *Yuck.*

  This did not bode well for Matrinka’s future. *Imorelda, maybe just one litter. For me?*

  *Yuck.* Imorelda turned her back, tail lashing.

  *You see, I think it’s just possible that this mind ability is passed from mother cat to first daughter or some such. Like the bardic gift.* Matrinka put a hand back on Imorelda, only to have the cat shrug free.

  *I’ll make you a deal. I’ll have a litter, if you eat the placentas, lick the babies clean, and feed them from your nipples.*

  Matrinka rolled her eyes. Obviously, she could not handle those duties as stated, but she did not quibble. At least, the cat had left the way open, if only a crack. She could throw away the placentas, wipe the kittens clean with towels, and craft a bottle small enough to feed them, if necessary. Perhaps, though, Imorelda’s maternal instincts might take over during pregnancy or after the kittens were actually born. *You have a deal,* Matrinka said.

  Compared to the tiny towns and hamlets Calistin and Treysind had thus far encountered, New Lovén seemed like a metropolis, big enough to merit an actual dot on the world map. Cart traffic rumbled through cobbled streets, threatening unwary pedestrians, and shopkeepers hawked their wares from sheltered doorways or covered stands. Like most of the Westlands, the people ran the gamut when it came to appearances: their hair colors ranging from a dark brown nearly indistinguishable from Béarnian black to a tousled sandy, and several children sported locks nearly as golden as Calistin’s. Face shapes, nose sizes, body types ran a vast spectrum that seemed to come from a myriad sources all meshed into one. Even their skin tones displayed more variability than most: the vast majority cooked a healthy brown by the sun but none as olive as Easterners nor as sallow as Northmen.

  Treysind fidgeted as they neared the town proper, nervous about leaving his hero. Calistin had promised to stay clear of trouble, but he never seemed to feel bound by promises, at least not to his young companion. “Ya’ll wait fo’ me?”

  Calistin studied the town, appearing perfectly calm and in control. But, the hand sliding near his left hilt betrayed a discomfort only Treysind could recognize. A hint of annoyance entered his tone, and he did not look at the boy. “I said I would.”

  “An’ ya ain’t gonna go gettin’ into no trouble?”

  Calistin turned his companion a withering look.

  Accepting that, and knowing better than to push any harder, Treysind darted across the road and around the back of the shops. There, in the alleyway, he knew he would have the best chance for a private conversation with one of the owners.

  Sure enough, within three blocks Treysind discovered a middle-aged, heavyset grocer with a stained apron dumping a bucket of scraps. Scrawny dogs surrounded him, their tails waving merrily, snatching the bits of food before they could hit the ground. One growled, snapping at his neighbor, and the grocer immediately stopped to give the offending dog a nudge with his foot. “No, Rawly. Wait your turn, or you don’t get nothing.”

  Though not the least bit hungry, Treysind could not help suffering a pang of regret at the idea of so much food wasted on animals. This man might not consider the peelings, moldy bits, and cores fit for human consumption, but Treysind had eaten worse and savored every mouthful. Still, he waited until the man had finished and turned before approaching. “Sir?”

  The grocer stiffened.The bucket crashed to the ground, splashing slime that drew the dogs closer. His gaze jerked to Treysind.

  Treysind stepped fully into the sunshine, hands out to indicate he held no weapons. “Sorry if I’s startled ya, sir.”

  The grocer snatched up the bucket and wiped his brow with the back of his other hand. “Scared me half-dead, child. What are you doing skulking in the alley?”

  “Ain’t skulkin’.” Treysind tried to reassure. “I never skulks, sir. Jus’ wonderin’ if ya’s got any trouble wit’ . . . wit’ brawlies.” He used the slang term for street gangs that hassled businessmen for money. The usual scam was to promise that no harm would come to the store if they were well-paid to guard it. Of course, the only danger to the store was from the brawlies, themselves, if the shopkeeper refused their offer.

  The man’s eyes narrowed, but a hint of hope flashed through them briefly and disappeared. “Who’s asking?”

  “Name’s Treysind.” He tried to look as composed as Calistin always did. “Gots a compan’on what hates brawlies. Kills ’em, even. Fights ’em one at a time, all at once’t, in big ol’ packs. Don’t matter. Bigger the challenge, better he likes ’em.”

  Clearly intrigued, the grocer lowered the bucket. Dark bangs hung over green eyes that displayed interest and caution simultaneously. “He any good, this friend of yours?”

  “Never loses. Not never.”

  “How many times has he fought? Like . . . once?”

  Treysind could not count the number of times he had personally witnessed Calistin in battle or spar. “Hunnerds. Fighted fo’ Béarn ’gainst them pirates. Even’s bested Renshai.”

  “Renshai?” The man’s brows furrowed, and he loosed a harsh laugh. “Now I know you’re lying.”

  “Renshai,” Treysind repeated, trying to look as dead serious as he could. “I’s seed it. Seed it more’n once’t.”

  The grocer scratched his head, still clearly unconvinced; yet he could not discard such a significant possibility without fully exploring it. “And, I suppose, this friend of your’n wants money to take care of my . . . problem.”

  “Nope. Ain’t wantin’ no money.”

  That clearly took the man aback. “So what’s he doing it for?”

  Now that he had the grocer’s full attention, Treysind considered his words. He could not afford to squander the grocer’s interest now without risking losing his hero, too. “I telled ya. He hates brawlies. An’ he loves ta fight. Wants ta work he’s sa’ward an’ earn some glory fo’ he’s name.”

  The grocer grunted into a silence that stretched uncomfortably long.

  Treysind tried to imagine the thoughts spinning through the grocer’s head, wondering what kept him from plunging into what seemed like a perfect situation. He supposed the grocer needed to exercise a certain amount of caution. If Calistin lost, and the brawlies found out the grocer had given up their location, they might harm him or his store.

  “I ain’t fightin’,” Treysind reassured the man. “An’ m’hero ain’t knowin’ wheres I learnt how ta find them brawlies.” He hoped that addressed the grocer’s concerns without adding to them.

  “Well,” the grocer finally said. “You didn’t hear it from me, but them brawlies come out as soon as it gets dark and the shops close down, looking for their share of the profits.” He glanced around to ascertain they were alone, then moved nearer to Treysind and lowered his voice further. “They normally use the alley, too.”

  Treysind nodded encouragingly. He hated brawlies even more than the shopkeepers did. They practiced their bullying on street kids, took what little of value they could find, and thought nothing of raping, maiming, or killing boys like Treysind.

  “
Your best position’s three doors down.” The grocer made a gesture westward. “Khalen, the fabric-seller bought a load of expensive Eastern material last fortnight and hasn’t found a buyer yet. He’s short on cash since, and the brawlies been tapping him for every copper. I’m the only reason his family’s eating, and he’s hinted about doing something desperate.”

  “Thanks.” Treysind wrestled down a smile. It would not do to appear gleeful, even though he felt like dancing. Calistin had become his hero by mowing down brawlies. It seemed only fitting to satisfy that endless Renshai bloodlust, that eerie godlike skill, by pitting it against the worst miscreants society had to offer. No compromise had ever seemed more appropriate. And he, Treysind, had given birth to the idea and brokered its commission. He, Treysind, had done something totally and unarguably right. For the first time in his life, he felt empowered, capable, and smart. He turned, preparing to leave.

  The grocer muttered under his breath. “In for a copper, in for a gold.” He called to the boy, “Treysind?”

  Treysind stopped, whirled.

  “They usually come in a group of five. Sometimes six. Their leader, they call him Savage, he’s enormous. I’m a tall man, but he’s got a head on me. And strong . . .”

  Treysind nodded, waiting for the grocer to continue.

  The man pursed his lips and shook his head. “Just tell your friend these ain’t your regular small-town brawlies.”

  “Don’t worry. He likes ’em big.”

  “I just don’t like to see young heroes killed by their own bravado. Such a waste.”

  Treysind refused to worry.When it came to warfare Calistin never made mistakes. “Gonna take more’n a mess a brawlies ta take down Cali-Stan.” With that, he turned again and retreated.

  Treysind could barely hear the grocer’s soft reply, “I hope you’re right, boy. I just hope you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 33

  There is always an escape, even from a hopeless situation. Unfortunately, sometimes it requires you to grovel.

  —King Tae Kahn of Stalmize

  TAE AWAKENED TO THE SOUND of yowling, Imorelda in clear distress. Immediately, the smells and sounds of prison night assaulted him: urine and vomit, sweat and feces, whimpers, moans, and sonorous snoring. Worried to awaken the other prisoners, Tae reached out to Imorelda with his mind. *Quiet, please. Imorelda, what’s wrong?*

  *She tricked me,* Imorelda moaned. *The queen of Béarn tricked me.*

  Tae sat up. *Matrinka? She’s the least cunning person in the entire world.*

  *I told her I’d have those nasty kittens if she ate the placentas, licked the babies clean, and fed them herself.*

  Tae knew Matrinka was desperate enough to do any or all of those things for a new companion. *And she agreed?*

  *Yes, can you believe it?*

  Tae blinked. As the drowsiness of having just awakened receded, he realized the ludicrousness of Imorelda’s statement. *Wait.You can only talk to me. How did you manage to get across the specifics of that deal?*

  Imorelda shrugged off the most important part of her story. *Oh, I can talk with her now.* She added immediately, *Isn’t it awful? Horrible, mewling brats clawing at my insides. Maybe I should have said she had to carry them, too. *

  *Imorelda, focus!* Tae tried to follow his own advice. He had done nothing more threatening than take a seated position, but he could tell by the change in his neighbors’ breathing that both of them had awakened. Deliberately, he lay back down, curling onto his side, facing the bars. *You can talk to Matrinka now? How?*

  Imorelda remained silent a moment, then showed Tae a thought more concept than words, a comparison to the variety of pitches spanned by human voices. Apparently, Imorelda “spoke” to Matrinka on a different thinking level. Once Tae wrapped his mind around that concept, it opened whole new possibilities.

  *Imorelda, you know how you sometimes catch a thought I’m not actually trying to send to you? Like when I was picturing Alneezah.*

  *Yes.* Self-satisfaction accompanied the sending. *And you don’t even know it.*

  *Can you do that with Matrinka, too?*

  Another pause. *I . . . don’t know. It didn’t happen.*

  Tae tried carefully, *Could you . . . do that . . . to other people, do you think? Maybe all people can—* He could not continue. The thought was too grandiose and shocking. What if Matrinka and I are not the only ones with this ability? What if all humans can learn to communicate with their minds? He knew elves had a mental form of communication, called khohlar, which they could direct at exactly one elf or at everyone in the room, including humans. Gods had also addressed people using only projected thought. What if we have this talent, too; but we just never realized it before? It seemed impossible. Humankind had existed too long not to have stumbled upon such a thing in its history. Especially in the days when they had more direct interactions with Outworlders and deities.

  Imorelda stepped from the shadows to sit in front of Tae’s cell. She licked cobwebs from her paws. *I don’t think so. I’ve tried to send thoughts to others, but they never act like they heard.*

  Tae felt certain if they had heard, they would have shown some reaction. *But you couldn’t communicate with Matrinka before, either. Now you can.* Tae had to know. *Try saying something to that drunkard across the way.Try on every level you can.*

  Imorelda turned her back on Tae in an obvious gesture of disdain. Since it was all done through the mind, she did not have to face the person she addressed. Her tail lashed irritatedly.

  For several moments, she remained in this position, while Tae feigned sleep.

  *Nothing. He’s dense as a rock.*

  Tae closed his eyes in disappointment. Clearly, not all cats could use their minds this way. Imorelda disdained normal cats as “morons who can barely communicate their basic desires.” Why should he expect humans to come in fewer varieties than felines?

  *But your neighbors are chatting.*

  Tae had to restrain himself from leaping to his feet. *The pirates are talking? With their minds?* That changed everything. *What are they saying?*

  *How should I know? I don’t speak gibberish.*

  Dense as a cat-shaped rock! Tae intentionally stifled the thought. *Imorelda, can you get me to their . . . their voice level?*

  *Get you there?* Imorelda considered an instant. *You mean carry your mind to the pitch of their conversation?*

  Tae bit back his impatience and forced himself to remain polite. *Please.*

  *I’ll try. But I’ve never done anything like that before.*

  *Me either, Imorelda. But it’s desperately important.*

  Tae could feel the touch of Imorelda’s mind, like a wordless whisper, seeping around his thoughts. Then a dizzy sensation gripped him. He seemed to float, mind and body, rising upward as swiftly and easily as a bird in flight. He sensed great effort trickling through Imorelda’s thoughts. Sounds reached him, at first as subtle and unfathomable as the creak of trunks and the rattle of leaves in wind. Then, gradually, the noise took form as distinct words punctuated by concept and emotion that made them easier to follow than if someone had spoken them in one of the languages he knew.

  *—stop feeling guilty. They’re animals, Jaxon, with no more understanding than a cow or a dog or a pig. * This came from the larger of the two, the one who had attempted to throttle Tae.

  *I’m not so sure anymore, Dillion.They make noises at one another.They have expressions.They certainly seem to be communicating. Sometimes.*

  Dillion brushed off the observation with a hefty dose of skepticism. *Cows and dogs and pigs make noises at one another, too. They’re not words; and they’re not talking.*

  *I can hear they’re not words.* The unspoken implication came through as concept. Clearly, wherever the pirates originated, all manner of intelligent creatures used a single language. The possibility of multiple tongues never occurred to them because it went so far beyond the logic of their experience. Communication, whether spoken or mind-sent, ca
me in only one form; and they seemed incapable of considering anything else true speech. *But they look so much like . . . like us.*

  *Of course they look like us. Don’t you remember what the Kjempemagiska said?* The awe that always accompanied this word came through much more savagely in mental communication, accompanied by a fear bordering on terror.Tae caught a vague image of giants wielding terrible magic. *It’s not their true form. They take it, instinctively, from sight of us.They use it to disarm us.*

  Jaxon heaved a sigh, clearly unconvinced. *But they use it so well. So naturally. And I’ve never seen them take other forms.*

  *Oh, no?* Dillion asserted. *Did you miss that striped beast that tried to take my head off? He fairly shredded my face.*

  *Of course, I saw it. But I think that might have been an actual . . . animal. If the takudan between us could shapechange, don’t you think he’d take a form that would let him out of that cage?* With the addition of direct emotion and perception, Tae discovered the term they used for him meant “sewer rat.” *An actual takudan could fit between those bars and escape.*

  *We know they’re of animal intelligence, that the ships and weapons they use were things left by our Kjempemagiska when they visited centuries earlier and attempted to civilize these savages.*

  Jaxon said nothing, clearly unconvinced.

  Dillion continued, undaunted, *So, if the Kjempemagiska built these cages, which they must have, they may have placed magical constraints upon them. Perhaps it’s impossible to shapechange from the inside.*

  Jaxon extended the thought. *So, you’re saying the one who ripped up your face changed form outside, came in as a creature that fit between the bars, and was able to go out the same way?*

  *Exactly.*

  Tae concentrated on the conversation, afraid to have any thoughts of his own. He had no idea how much effort Imorelda expended to keep him listening to the exchange, but he did notice that she remained silent, even as the pirates discussed her in an unflattering way.