by Leigh, J.
“Not to my knowledge.”
Cy’shā shook her head. “Been dead at least a day. Rigor is past.” She tossed the travel bag to Esop, then spoke for Hkym, interpreting his swift hand motions. “Soul too. Crossed immediately, it feels like. No information for us. Newly dead souls can’t come to Near Side for a year after crossing to Far Side.”
“So we can’t find out who did this?” Hatori asked.
“Not from him. Not for a year.” Cy’shā paused, then translated for Hkym again, “Can try ask Near-Siders, but doubt a straight answer.”
Esop, having finally righted his kilt, sniffed as he dumped the contents of the travel bag onto the ground. “Looks bandit-like. Bag’s all gone through. Notes are left but no money, no food. He probably had a larger pack with him that they took.”
“Yeah,” Jathen said. “I remember he did.”
“He had a pretty impressive text on Grand Artifacts on him,” Hatori said. “That gone?”
Esop stirred the contents of the bag. “Yes, as far as I can see.”
Setsuken nodded. “That might have been it. Those are worth a fine chunk of coin to the right collector. Men have died for far less than that on this road. Happens way too often for my tastes.” He tipped his hat. “Well, let’s get him out of there and onto a proper pyre. No use letting the poor man feed the wildlife.”
Esop, Hkym, and Cy’shā dragged the body out of the pit. The scene was sickening, but for some reason Jathen could not tear his eyes away from it. “Wait. We last saw him in the Tazu Nation weeks ago. I thought he left going the opposite direction. What is he doing here, days ahead of us?”
Jephue replied, “He had a horse and kept his own schedule, Jath. He could have passed us easily.”
“No, the boy has a point,” Hatori murmured. “Why would he have changed direction?”
“Perhaps he heard rumors of some Artifact somewhere,” Jephue suggested. “We’ll never really know.”
While Jephue and Hatori had a whispered argument in Lu’shun, Jathen recalled the man’s comment. You’d be amazed by how much a single thread of a rumor can alter one’s perception on things. Look at us now, having such a nice chat all because of a whisper. The memory sent a numbing tingle through his stomach as he watched the dragging progress.
Jathen’s reverie was interrupted by Jephue’s raised voice. “No, no, enough! No more of your conjecture, Hatori! I’ve had enough of the damn paranoia! Not everyone is out to get you just because you are a ruddy Clansman with—”
“All right!” Hatori yelled, then switched back to Tar’cil. “I just meant it’s still foul play on the road, no matter what angle you cut it. It might be unwise to destroy the body and not inform anyone.”
“We can report it at the next travel station,” Setsuken suggested as Esop and Hkym finally dislodged the corpse from the hole. “But it’ll be a while. We’re in Zo’den, after all. As far as the body goes, we can try and transport it, but I’ve nothing to preserve it with, and the smell would attract wildlife, so I don’t recommend it. I will try to get his fingerprints imprinted on a storage-quartz so he can be identified.”
Hatori huffed. “Fine.”
“Come on, Jath.” Ass’shiri tugged on his arm. “Let’s go fetch a crystal from the packs.”
They headed over, Jathen’s hands shaking.
“First dead body?” Ass’shiri asked, taking a pack from a resting elefil.
“Actually no,” he replied, thinking of all the nameless little burning bodies of stillborn siblings. And the body of the thief, broken and gruesomely bloody, yet lacking decay. “But they weren’t like… that.”
“Yeah, that one is pretty bad.” Ass’shiri fished out a drawstring satchel and dumped its contents on the ground. Several dozen small crystal-chips glittered in the firelight. “Help me find a blank one. These flawed ones don’t store much, and I want to make certain the man’s fingerprints come out clear.”
“Right.” Jathen squatted down, watching as Ass’shiri picked up one after another, held them a moment, and then put them aside. He tried the action himself, attempting to see some indicator as to the fullness of a crystal. “How do you tell if it’s blank?”
Ass’shiri shot him a disbelieving look. “Are you serious? You feel it, Jath. If you feel nothing, it’s blank.”
“Oh.” Jathen handed over the one he was holding. “I guess this is blank, then.”
Ass’shiri held the piece in his palm, starting at it in perplexity. “Ah, no. It most certainly is not.” He gazed at Jathen with pity. “You can’t feel that?”
“No, I can’t. And don’t look at me like that.”
“Sorry, it’s just… you really are a Talentless wretch, and I’m surprised. I thought you were underestimating yourself again.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in the tent.”
“Aw, Jath, come on. I didn’t mean it like that!”
Later that night, Jathen had the type of dream in which he was aware he was asleep, but he couldn’t seem to rouse himself. Something was coming for him, growling upon his heels as he ran, but whenever he glanced behind him, nothing was there. Fleeing across a vast dream plain, he tripped and fell, tumbling into a deep hole. At the bottom, he found the bloated corpse of Dumas. Still, the dead man yammered on and on about where to find the best Artifacts.
“Blood and bone.” The pallid face grinned from under his refuse-smeared turban. “Blood and bone.” He reached for Jathen, and dead fingernails raked across Jathen’s chest.
Jathen jolted awake, his ears ringing with a high-pitched buzzing. He patted his torso, only to find the flesh smooth and unmarred. Leaning over, Jathen dry heaved, leaving a pool of saliva and tears on the ground beside his bedroll. Ass’shiri had slept though the turmoil, which meant it must still be very late. Or technically, very early. Jathen sighed and checked his watch, which still buzzed occasionally, despite Hatori’s continued assurances that the noise was in Jathen’s head. I might be going mad after all. The salty stench of sweat stung his nose.
I need some air. Grasping a full canteen, he stepped out of the tent into the night. He took a gulp of water, but the feeling of being watched hovered in the darkness, so he returned to his tent.
Ass’shiri raised his head. “You all right?”
“Well enough for the wear,” Jathen said. “’Night, Ass’shiri.”
“Sleep better,” Ass’shiri mumbled before rolling over.
Jathen tried, but he couldn’t return to slumber. He was a weary-eyed specter when they burned Dumas at dawn.
Cy’shā had examined the corpse. “His neck was broken, but he was injured first.” She demonstrated the grip on her own body. “Throat crushed slowly over time. Blows to the shoulders and chest. The toe and fingernails removed. Torture.”
Jathen shivered, remembering his dream.
“The man was an annoying bastard,” Hatori said, “but he didn’t deserve that.”
“Agreed,” Setsuken announced. “We double up on patrols and recruit more travel companions at the next few rest stops.”
The pyre was a simple, makeshift affair.
“Somebody should say something,” Esop pointed out once the wrapped form of Dumas began to crisp at the edges. No one stepped forward, and the scent of the sage brush and burning wood mixed with rotted flesh made Jathen’s eyes and nose sting with appropriate but not really meaningful tears.
“Bah,” Hatori said, shaking his head. “How many fully trained Way Walkers are here and not a one of you know what to say at a funeral pyre?”
Ass’shiri shrugged. “We aren’t Turinics.”
They broke down the camp, while Esop and Hkym looked after the pyre to be certain the fire wouldn’t spread. When the ashes had finally cooled, they poked and prodded and spread out the remains until all that was left of the funny
little human were streaks of gray and black soot.
Riding away on the elefil behind Ass’shiri, Jathen could not help looking back as the wind took the dust and swirled it like a child enjoying a game. A sick feeling grew in his stomach. There were too many puzzle pieces he couldn’t quite fit together jumbling inside his head. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t place any more meaning to the premonition at the edge of his senses other than the simple, inescapable feeling of bad.
This is bad, and this is not the end of it.
Sheeeeeth. Sheeeeeth.
The sound of the punching dagger sliding across the sharpening stone drew Jathen to the traveler. Sitting alone beside a large rock, the man wore a gray long coat accompanied by gloves a shade darker. Absorbed in his task, he didn’t pay any heed to Jathen’s approach.
“Pardon me,” Jathen said in Tar’cil.
“Yes?” the man asked softly.
Something in the pale man’s eyes made Jathen hesitate. Caramel colored, they were rich, deep and affable but laced with something spicier, a streak of the wild. Determined to succeed at the task Setsu had given him, Jathen found his voice. “I’m inquiring about escorts. We’re with a mercenary group traveling through to the Lu’shun Republic, and we’ve been asking any of the single travelers if they wish to join us. There’s safety in groups.”
“Not all groups,” Caramel Eyes replied in a smooth tone. He smirked as if enjoying some private joke and looked back down at his work. The blade sparked as he ran it over the sharpening stone.
With those eyes off of him, Jathen felt braver. “That’s probably true for the crowds of the city, but in this wilderness, the more, the better.”
“And you are looking to see if I might join your party as a helping hand?”
“Well, we all sort of help each other with daily tasks, but the mercenaries do the fighting off of the…well, whatever is out there.”
The man held up the dagger and examined it before returning it to its sheath and looking at Jathen. “I see you are well intentioned, child. But I’m not the type of person who needs others to fight for him.” The man stood in a quick, fluid motion, his black curtain of hair barely stirring. “Though I must admit, I find the ignorance of your approach rather refreshing. That is by no means intended as an insult to you, by the way. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is nice to know I can still ‘blend in,’ as it were.” He grinned.
Jathen noticed his teeth. “You’re Clan.”
The Clansman chuckled. “That I am. And you are something a bit more than you appear to be as well.” The caramel eyes scanned Jathen. “Perhaps a great deal more.”
A quaver of a premonition hit—a slight thing, only a voice, but stark in its clarity. Though Jathen did not recognize the language, he understood the meaning as clearly as he recognized that the man before him was the speaker. “Remember, Jathen,” the man told him in some unknown future. “I’m your friend. I saved you before, you and Ass’shiri. But now, it is I who need your help.”
“Jathen!” Hatori’s voice sliced through Jathen’s vision. The charm master strode up, Setsuken close behind him. “What are you doing bothering this one? Can’t you tell he’s not the type to need escorting?”
“Not really,” Jathen muttered, still trying to process the odd verbal precognition.
“The boy was being no bother to me,” Caramel Eyes said. “If anything, he’s rather intriguing company.” The way the Clansman’s gaze fluttered over him made Jathen feel for a moment that the man had somehow been privy to the vision. “A Tazu Nation native by the accent, if I am correct?”
“That’s our Jathen.” Hatori’s tone held a more protective than affectionate tone.
Setsuken, his broad arms crossed over his chest, positioned himself between Jathen and the new Clansman. The not-so-subtle gesture added to the tension and sent Jathen’s sensibilities swirling anew with imaginings of what dire danger he’d inadvertently courted.
“Well, we’ll not be bothering you, then,” Hatori continued, nodding at the stranger. “Let you be about your business, whatever that might be.”
“Appreciated.” Caramel Eyes responded, the twitch of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Cor’mon, gentlemen.”
“Cor’mon,” the three replied.
Then the stranger nodded one last time and strolled away down the road. After a moment, Jathen felt a subtle hum in the air and then Caramel Eyes was... gone. The dark form blinked out from the middle of the road as if he had never graced them with his presence.
A Talent. A real energy manipulative Talent. He tried to recall how powerful Petalith had told him a mage had to be in order to alter his physical vibration enough to Veil-slide or perform the coveted teleportation, but all he could recall was that it was a lot, far and above anyone he had ever known. He realized Hatori and Setsuken were muttering between themselves in Clan.
“What was that all about, anyway?” Jathen asked.
The pair exchanged glances, and then Hatori leveled stern eyes upon Jathen. “That was a Gray, a member of the Gray Council in the Clan Lands. The gray coat and gloves were the giveaway. That was a mighty big fish you were soliciting there, Jath.”
“And an odd span of water to find him in,” Setsuken added.
“Indeed,” Hatori said. “Come on, boy. Let’s head back.”
“What’s the Gray Council?” Jathen asked. “Does that mean he’s older than you, Hatori?”
“Age doesn’t mean a rot when you’ve got the amount of Ability swimming around you that one’s got.” Hatori sniffed. “Good chance he was, though, or at least close. But what’s a man like that doing all the way out here?”
Jathen shrugged. “What is so strange about it?”
“Grays are Red hunters within the Clan Lands,” Setsuken explained. “Mostly political investigators and overall a lot of powerful Talents. It’s weird for one to be all the way out here when his place is sniffing out Reds in the Clan Imperial court.”
“I thought Rhean’s Walkers hunted the Red’s minions,” Jathen said, “but I’ve never heard of a Gray Path amid Rhean’s Way.”
“That’s because they aren’t Rheanic.” Hatori’s voice had a cutting edge. “When De’contes murdered the last Avatar of Rhean, dozens to hundreds of supposed Red followers were implicated as his accomplices. Some of them were seemingly loyal followers of Rhean and even full Walkers of other Ways. A lot of great men had fallen to the Red and De’contes, and there was fear everywhere. So what was left of the government commissioned men to wear the Gray, neutral persons with no Way allegiances to find the wicked among us and dispose of them without bias.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad,” Jathen commented.
“It is if they accuse innocent men,” Hatori returned with volcanic heat, “and never make apologies when they are proven wrong.”
“Most they arrested were not innocent,” Setsuken said. “The Gray Council saved a lot of lives by exposing many legitimate Reds.”
“You weren’t there,” Hatori said. “Men without morals were set loose upon anyone any Clansman with a grudge felt the opportunistic inclination to indicate without a shred of proof but for rumor and hearsay. Men’s reputations were shattered, and brokenhearted women took their own lives rather than watch.” Hatori shook his head. “You weren’t even born when men turned on each other right when they should have been turning toward the one they had just lost—Rhean. But instead, they created a new line of bureaucrats with all the power and none of the ethical restrictions.”
Setsuken whispered something in Clan. Jathen only caught a single word out of the mix: remeIki. Remember.
“RemeIki, Jathen.” Remember, Jathen.
“Pah.” Master Hatori waved off what Jathen gathered must have been an apology. “It’s no bother. Old wounds from long ago that I let get too f
ar under my skin. There was no malice in this one today, probably one of their younger scamps out on an errand for some Elder Gray who likes Zo’den cactus candy or some rot.” Chann did not sound very convinced, but he shrugged and added, “Not our business, anyway. We’ve our own journey to attend to. Come.”
It was Clan, Jathen thought as they walked back to their tents. He was speaking Clan in my vision, but why? He spoke Tar’cil just fine, so why use Clan when I don’t know that language? Another consideration drifted through his mind, too intangible to be called a premonition. Not yet, at least.
When they reached their section of the camp, Jathen trotted over to his tent and stuck his head inside the flap. “Hey, Ass’shiri. Can you teach me Clan?”
“Clan what?”
Jathen went in and sat on his bedroll. “The language.”
“Oh. Sure, I guess.”
They started that evening, sitting around the fire with Setsuken, who was sharpening his long blade. Jathen examined the stick-scratched figures in the dirt. The letters looked bizarre compared to the Tazu and Tar’cil alphabets, like swirling, complex scrollwork, and he already regretted his request to learn them. He tried to sound them out as Ass’shiri had.
“So, do, tar,” Setsuken corrected. “Spelt phonetically d-u and pronounced do not d-you.”
Ass’shiri snorted. “Are we really going to argue the pronunciation of how to count to three?”
“Nope,” Setsu countered, “just how to say two, which is do.”
Cy’shā broke in. “It is pronounced doh.”
Ass’shiri, Jathen, and Setsuken all blinked at her.
“You think you know Clan so much better than two native speakers that you are going to correct us on pronunciation?” Setsuken raised an eyebrow. “What are you trying to do, woman?”