A trio of rings on Tanton’s fingers. Rings brown and lacquered. Rings of power. They roar and swell and grow and encompass the boy. Encompass his neck and both his ankles.

He struggles to say something, but no words proceed. A darkness stiff and refractory engulfs him. This darkness is so great that it can only be pierced by

Pierced by an eye

An eye within an eye, within an eye, within an eye, within an eye, within an eye, within an eye, within an eye, within an eye, within an eye, within an eye

Within An Eye.

Each one fighting for dominance.

The rings tighten around the boy’s neck. Tighten around his ankles. Each appendage thins and wilts under the great pressure.

Let us

Let us see your Sithen, child.

Let us see your Sithen, child.

The boy has no name. He has never had a name. He has nursed and whispered private names, but the world does-not can-not shall-not recognise them. For a name that is hidden is no name.

No name at all.

A board stretches out beneath him as far as the eye can see. The board is great and large and spans all of existence. It is lined with intricate and complex graphemes and patterns. Matrices that underlie reality. A colossal hand stretches out from the surrounding void of the refractory darkness. The hand is frail and

And familiar. Too familiar.

“Mother?” the boy whispers.

The hand does not respond. Does not reply. It grabs the boy.

WEILDS the boy.

A chit. A piece.

A pawn on a ronda-board.

One of seventy. Seventy in one.

Pawn.

Aleem jerked awake, a notification crowding his vision. He retained the details of his night terrors with all the efficiency of a basket holding water. Fever dreams were usually like that.

As he wrestled with his breathing, he read through the notification.

Alert!

You have gained the skill: [Trance]

Interesting. Aleem focused on the notification and it morphed into a description.

[Trance]

The wilful and mindful practice of meditation can now be performed in a state of half-consciousness, allowing for spiritual expansion while sleeping or otherwise engaged.

It was a bit underwhelming and the phrasing quite unintuitive, but it was a welcome addition to the tools he possessed. He would gladly receive every single advantage he was given. This Skill seemed to allow him to meditate without giving the practice his full concentration. That was certainly something he could have used in his old life.

Aleem dismissed the notification and froze. This wasn’t his cell.

More precisely, he was in an actual room. The room was about twice the size of his former accommodation, and it was decidedly spartan. One very dim glim-stone hung on the wall to his left. The ceiling was low but not so much so that he’d have to stoop.

He was on a bed. Again, an actual bed. It was a mediocre mattress, but still a significant improvement from that other thing he’d been using in the cell. There was a water-skin right beside him. In one corner of the room sat a large crate, a mirror leaning against it. Aleem’s heart thudded in his chest. Fortunately, the mirror was not facing him. It was silly, he knew, but Aleem did not quite feel ready to gaze at his new reflection. He glanced at his twelve fingers. Once more he steadied his breathing. Beside the door was a bowl of water upon a high stool—and the sight of the stool surprised him. He had nearly started to wonder whether the people of Ontnmor only ever permitted the existence of high seats within vehicles. A cloth hung over the side of the bowl.

He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His boots were still on. He swept his locks out of his eyes as he stood up, and with careful movements began running through a few stretches. Aleem had never practiced yoga heavily in his old life, but he knew enough postures to work out the cricks in his joints. He called the basic visualisation technique to mind and envisioned his mana. It was colourless once more with a slight tinge of shadow, even as it crawled slowly through his ducts. He continued to execute the poses, even as he guided his mana.

The night before he’d tried to boil his problems down to three things. A simplistic model, but one he could work with. The first one was easy. Get more information. A bit too vague, he knew. The second thing concerned the looming disaster. He knew of two playable characters that should presently be in Ontnmor at this time. They were the easiest people he could work with since he knew them well enough.

And the third thing? He glanced at the mirror by the large crate, frowning. Perhaps, this three things model was not such a good idea after all. Aleem knew that he was lying to himself. But the likely truth was not something he wanted to deal with right now.

There was a knock on the door. Aleem walked over to the wooden thing, turning the knob and pulling it open. There was another door opposite his, and the hallway was flush with light from glim-stones, but it was otherwise empty. He poked his head out to look either way. It wasn’t a very long hallway and there wasn’t anyone around. Had he heard things? Or was this some kind of prank?

He began to close the door when something caught his eyes. A piece of paper had been pinned to his door with a … pin.

He retrieved the paper and found a note within. The script was stiff and angular with a mess of diacritics all over the place. It certainly wasn’t English, but he found that he could comprehend the language easily enough, even having never learned it. While a little unsettled, Aleem felt relieved. He’d been nursing the fear that the sparse advantages of his transmigration would not extend to literacy. Last night, Des had described the language as High Unolrian, which was one of three standard languages in Orig. The note was short and straightforward, despite covering every single inch of the paper.

‘Morning lad. Des came out to the roof last night for a smoke and found you sleeping. We didn’t want to wake you so I had her carry you to your room.

And this is your room. Been yours since you were a laddie. Most of your stuff is in the trunk. Glim-stone brightens with four claps of the hands. You’d need to move real close to it though. Dims by the same conditions. Wash up before you leave. There’ll be grub in the Mess whenever you’re ready; just follow the sounds.

Aleem wasn’t sure how he felt about being moved here in his sleep, but when he imagined Des holding him in a princess carry he chuckled. None of this answered the question of who had knocked on his door. A shy servant perhaps? Orig had those in large numbers, if the game could be believed. And while the argument could be made that Classes improved everything, he was yet to see that personally.

He closed the door and approached the glim-stone. He clapped four times, and the room brightened considerably. Aleem hurriedly finished up with his stretches, distracted by thoughts of what the trunk might contain. Still, he took the time to clean his face by the bowl. Afterwards, he snatched a flimsy blanket from the bed and draped it over the mirror before moving it aside.

The trunk was cuboid and wooden, the planks stood out a mile with no discernible coating. It came up to about his ribs and spanned nearly three times his body’s width. He caught a whiff of cured leather, scented oils and something more unfamiliar.

The crate opened at the top, a simple latch proving the only form of security on the thing. The scents from earlier intensified. There were two intersecting panels within, splitting the interior into four equally sized sections. The first of these was entirely empty, while the second held three tall stacks of books. The finish varied on each one. Some looked to be fat tomes, while others seemed to be sparse manuscripts.

The next section held bales of clothing, wrapped and piled in some kind of mesh. Two brown boots lay there as well. He recognised the first as the one he’d been wearing back in the tent at Fouts. Someone had gotten it cleaned and even polished.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The final section held curios of all kinds. This one was the messiest of all the partitions. No rhyme or reason to how things were arranged. Bulbous glassware, many of which were stopped with corks and filled with dark-coloured liquids. These were the source of all the interesting scents he’d been inundated with. Small bales of dry herbs were in the mix too, along with pebbles, coloured stones, seashells, oddly shaped ruler sets, charcoal and other strange objects he couldn’t quite identify.

Naturally, it was the second section that interested him the most. Books! He reached in to withdraw part of a stack, but paused.

Was this really the most productive use of his time? He looked at the books with a pang of regret. He had things to do. Information to glean. Playable characters to find.

Aleem knew himself too well.

If he dove into these books, he’d be here till he’d sifted through Gwa.yao.rai’s every belonging. And that just wouldn’t do.

He pulled away and made to shut the lid, but hesitated. A compromise. He could take one book with him and multitask. There might even be something really helpful in there. Who knew? Before the rational part of his brain could jump in to point out his hypocrisy, he snatched the thickest tome his eyes could pick out. Then he shut the lid and latched it.

He grabbed the water-skin off the bed. Four claps of his hands and he was out of the room, leaving a dimmed glim-stone behind him.

* * *

The Mess had been quite easy to find. He’d done as Haimol suggested. The sounds of people laughing were hard to miss. Past the hallway with doors, leading, presumably, to other rooms much like his, he made turns through the not-quite-labyrinthine passageways in search of the not-so-loud noises. He might have found it odd that they hadn’t pierced his room, but he already knew about noise-cancellation wards, thanks to the gallery he’d first slept in. Also, Warding, as a school of magic, had been heavily relied upon in ‘Tales of Woe’.

The Mess hall was smaller than he’d been expecting. In retrospect, it probably made sense for one in a military prison to be this compact. There wouldn’t be that many soldiers or jailers working here anyway, and even if there were, the nature of shifts and rounds would make it nearly impossible to cluster in very large groups.

There were two rows of low tables, which were very clearly a cultural thing here in Ontacreese. He made his way towards the back wall, which was mostly taken up by a servery. Only six tables were occupied in the Mess. The people here wore black gambesons like he’d seen on Haimol last night. He recognised none of them but exchanged polite nods and grunts as he walked down the aisle. The two women on the table closest to the servery even smiled at him and one waved. Aleem reciprocated.

The servery was a high wooden counter with four large pots upon it and a huge blond-haired man in an apron seated behind. He’d been scribbling in a book, but hopped to his feet once he noticed Aleem.

“Laddie!” he declared as though to an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long while. “Name’s Jolons.”

“Hello, Jolons,” Aleem said, trying — and failing — to match the man’s excitement.

“You recovering okay? Heard about the injury. Those Olomti need to watch their runts better, I’m telling ya.” He opened a pot and Aleem was abused by the aroma of something that had to have been yam porridge.

His stomach grumbled. “I’m much better now,” Aleem told Jolons. “Can’t remember anything yet, but I’m trying to acquaint myself with, well, with myself and everyone else.” He tapped the tome in his hand.

Jolons was stirring the pot, a pitying look on his face. “Can’t be easy at all, I bet. Tell you what, if there’s anything you need help with just let me know. You and I go way back. Been feeding ya since you could climb a tree.”

There had to be some catch to all the friendliness these people were displaying. Whatever the case, Aleem would play along till he figured it out. “Thank you, Jolons. I’ll be sure to bother you as much as I can manage.”

The giant chuckled, “Oh I’m already used to it by now.”

He grabbed a bowl and dished Aleem a healthy serving of the sludge first. Then he went over to another pot and packed on a heap of some sort of meaty sauce. Aleem thanked Jolons and made for the table behind the two women from earlier. They were engaged in conversation when he passed them, and weren’t trying to keep their voices low. No one was in here. They gossiped about happenings within the stockade. Nothing he particularly cared about.

Aleem tuned them out and sat with his back to them and the servery. The flokati was as comfy as ever. Honestly, the thing was really starting to grow on him. There were chopsticks covered in napkins on the table, but Jolons had thankfully stuck a spoon into Aleem’s bowl already. He dug into the food, expecting something bland and mass-cooked. His eyes widened in surprise. The steamed vegetables were unfamiliar but just the right amount of spicy. The porridge was not yam, like he’d hoped, or at least, not any kind of yam he’d encountered in his brief Earthly foray. It actually tasted a little like boiled unripe plantains. The meat sauce was perfection. Once more he couldn’t identify the meat, and tagged it as rabbit meat. It was all mercilessly peppered, and he had to take long pulls from his water-skin.

He inspected the tome as he chewed. Under the Mess’s bright glim-stones, he could make out the faded title. ‘Leechdom, Wortcunning and Medicaments’.

Huh.

This was … surprising. The more Aleem learned about the former owner of his body, the more questions he had.

An interest in medicine didn’t quite track with the image of Gwa.yao.rai Aleem currently had. Then again, he’d barely gotten to know the boy. Not to say that he was actually trying to.

He opened the first page of the book and began reading. The text was fairly dense, though he’d been expecting that. Obstinate as ever, Aleem ploughed through blocks of paragraphs.

He took another spoon of his porridge. Sniffling aside, he was really enjoying the food.

Not even five minutes in, he let out a sigh. A treatise on the healing arts and herbalism. Just like it said on the tin.

More curious, though, were the handwritten notes appended to the tome’s pages. The script was untidy and far more squiggly than Haimol’s had been.

* The iatric routines of the Gelushians seem to reflect their beliefs in Veklivos. Ask Sembi if her sister has encountered them before.

* The Omderins of the Deyegint Stretch insist on the sanative properties of Frolnak, which just sounds ridiculous. Maybe there’s some merit to this. Experiment at Sembi’s.

* Contrim tonics 2.5 velas per vial, Solm with parsemé Mankmoss. 1.002 velas per kem. Throw in five or six gar-vine pips just to be safe. Boil till light blue. Show Sembi, ask for constructive feedback.

It went on and on. Aleem was feeling a little self-conscious now. If these were Gwa.yao.rai’s notes — and he really feared that they very well might be — then Aleem really needed to learn more about the boy. He mentally bumped this up on his to-do list. He flipped through the pages some more, shaking his head in absolute disconcertion.

Yeah, he was feeling really good about choosing the memory loss card now. He’d be all types of fucked if he’d tried to play off being this guy. Being an enthusiast was one thing. This, however, looked more like budding mad-scientist.

There was a measure of excitement somewhere beneath his initial shock though. Aleem definitely wanted to learn all this. In a way, he was excited by the prospect of delving into what he was pretty sure was alchemy or some terribly watered-down version of it. It was so abstruse, and he knew he would enjoy the challenge. But for the most part, he’d just had a rude awakening.

Gwa.yao.rai hadn’t been some troubled child, given to excessive violence and aimless wandering. He was a goddamn nerd.

This didn’t throw any of Aleem’s plans off too much, but he worried now that he might need to lean a little too heavily on the amnesia schtick.

He closed the tome and scraped his plate clean. His mind continued to churn as he chugged water. The conversation from the women behind him filtered through then.

“Not sure what it was,” One woman said. Of the two, she had brown hair tied up in five dainty buns. “Happened on the same day though.”

“Crazy,” the other woman, dark of hair, replied with her mouth full. “Nothing from Sproulen? Even with Tanton whipping up a shit storm?”

Aleem froze.

“Na, Tanton left for Fouts yesterday,” Brown-hair said. “Meetings and Meetings. But you know how Second Zone can be. The quod there keeps everything tight. And Sproulen’s no Gusmos.”

They both sniggered like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Aleem was too curious to let this slip by. He reopened his tome, then slanted his head partially so he could listen better.

“The [Hag]’s girls have been moving all over the place. Even had to head out to Fouts and Kank.”

He squinted at the mention of the [Hag]’s girl. That had to be one of Bojra’s sisters. Haimol had said something about Gwa.yao.rai being on friendly terms with them.

“Poor girls! What do you think it’s about?”

There was some silence, and Aleem got the odd feeling he was being watched.

Their voices lowered considerably. “Des wouldn’t tell me anything,” Brown-hair said, “but Tanton brought Two-two back from Fouts.”

Black-hair gasped. “Little Sembi was here as well yesterday!” She lowered her voice. “You think it’s connected to those…”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure it is.”

There was silence for a moment.

“What about Wellan and her wife? Did you notice how—”

They moved onto other topics, leaving Aleem straining to process everything he’d just learned.

Tanton had apparently caused a ruckus in the Outpost over… what exactly? Then there’d been two other incidents here and at a place called Kank. Another encampment presumably. And whatever these events were, they seemed to both happen at the same time.

Aleem frowned. He had half the mind to turn around and ask clarifying questions, but he didn’t want to give the impression that he’d been listening in on their decidedly oblivious discussion.

Sembi was one of the [Hag]’s girls, and she’d come by yesterday. Des had mentioned that last night. Aleem decided that he’d best pay her a visit. With any luck, Bojra would be there as well, and one of them was sure to have answers. He’d need to find Des so she could give him directions to wherever the Apotheca was.

He rose from the flokati and rolled it underneath the table. Retrieving his wares, he hurried over to the servery. He placed the bowl on the counter. “Thank you for the meal, Jolons. It was very delicious!”

The blonde giant twinkled under Aleem’s praise. “Of course, it was. Care for seconds?”

Aleem didn't hesitate. “Sure!”

The cook smiled and began fiddling with something behind the counter.

“Um Jolons? Do you know where I can find Des?”

“Not a clue, laddie. I imagine she’d be visiting with friends since it her last free day today. You should ask Old Haim.” Jolons pointed at the ceiling. “He’ll be topside at this time.”

Aleem cocked his head. “Do you know how I could get to the apotheca? I heard I have friends there.”

“Mm. That’s over at second zone. Oon quadrant, I think. Northwest. Off that Shlemslev barricade.” He looked up in time to see the look of dismay on Aleem’s face. “Oh, don’t you worry yourself, laddie! I’ll have you sorted,” the man said as he opened a different pot than the one he’d served Aleem from. He smiled. “I’ll even draw you a map.”

Aleem let out a sigh of relief. ”Thank you, Jolons. You’re the best.”

“Don’t you forget it,” the man beamed and took out a clean glass bowl with a lid. “I’ll just pack you something to take with you. You’ll really be needing some grub after making that trek.”

Aleem's shoulders fell. “Trek?”