The drifter burned off her excess energy dancing over the bodies of the three Stormguild conscripters who’d come to subdue her. She languidly flowed through a series of unconventional marital stances, shadowboxing imagined opponents. She chopped at the air with her hatchet in wide fluid motions.

Her day was going wonderfully so far. She was happy to notice the spy from the Pyrehorde who’d been watching the fight was still in their little alleyway hiding spot.

The drifter hid her hatchet away in her robe, then used a movement art to cover the distance toward the spy with a single flying step. The momentum from her dancing caused her to land in something of a lovely twirling bow. The breeze generated by the motion knocked over a pile of crates and spooked a formerly dozing cat.

There was an awkward pause as the dust settled.

The Pyrehorde member, dressed in the typical Pyrehorde style of enhanced silks and red ceramic armor, took a moment to gather her senses and steel her courage.

She bowed in return and gave the drifter a hesitant martial salute, displaying her fist clasped in her palm, “This one is Gatlin Gale, Soldier of Pyrehord Troupe 147, The Grateful Blades. This one is honored to greet the esteemed martial expert.”

The drifter stood there, expressionless. She allowed an uncomfortable silence to grow and hang in the air around them, but only because it was immensely cruel to do so. Gale remained in the salute pose, shifting her weight uncomfortably and listening to the disquieting loudness of her own heartbeat.

Eventually, the drifter allowed a wretched smile to gradually crack her face, “You know, I was thinking recently… that maybe I’d like to… destroy an army. You wouldn’ happen to… know anyone who might… pay for that kind of service? Would you?”

Gatlin Gale was taken aback by drifter’s impropriety in failing to offer any sort of a name or title by which she might be properly addressed. The strange stilted way the drifter spoke added to Gale’s unease. She had to allow for the possibility that she was face to face with a genuine maniac, but in such a case, she was not unarmed.

Crowdwork and banter were essential parts of a Pyrehorde warrior’s training. It was not uncommon for a warrior to cultivate an outlandish persona for the sake of The Games. She was up to the task of sparing against such nonsense in any contest of manners.

She would simply riposte one non-answer with another, “Has the esteemed stranger eaten today?”

The drifter blinked twice, as though considering the question. She shook her head. No, she had not.

“This Gatlin shall be departing for her local basecamp estate shortly. If you were to follow behind, this one is certain the esteemed stranger would be welcomed as an honored guest, and allowed to join us at our afternoon meal. Thereby, such things as, uh, remuneration for slaying armies might be discussed?”

The drifter said nothing, but smiled in what Gale took to be an appreciative sort of way. Gale at last broke from the saluting stance, and made to move. She paused after her hesitant first step, looking up at the drifter for any sign the movement may have caused offense.

There was none, the drifter had given her implicit permission for Gale to leave unharmed.

Gale moved steadily, eager to hurry, but extremely mindful against making any movement that might be too sudden or fearful in character. Where martial experts of this caliber were concerned, any small mistake could result in death. Where maniacs of this type were concerned, almost anything could be interpreted as a mistake.

/////

The drifter allowed Gale to move a small clip ahead. Lightly tormenting the girl had been a delight, and it only felt fair to give her a little breathing room as a reward for being such a good sport. Besides, the drifter wanted to pause and take better stock of her surroundings regardless.

She extended her senses to see if anything had changed. She found most of the spectators had moved away from their windows, and found something to busy themselves with in their homes and businesses. Overall, nothing of interest… except…

What she found most curious was the thing that wasn’t there.

She was suddenly very tired, as if she’d just lost a fight. Trying to think about the thing that wasn’t there gave her a headache. Her mind was cluttered with irrelevant thoughts, getting in the way and obscuring her comprehension of the missing object.

Whenever she tried to focus on the thing she hadn’t noticed, she found herself reminiscing on the Unabtrustive Servant Meditation. A mesmerism art originally developed by veteran palace staff, so they could tend to their masters without drawing unneeded attention to themselves. It was made extremely illegal for civilian use sometime in the third century.

The drifter usually enjoyed the technique, and had often made good use of it in her own work, but for some reason the thought of it was making her agitated. It was odd that normal street cleaners would be trained in it. Services like corpse removal were usually conducted in the dead of night.

The area should have been cordoned off, so it could be cleaned up later…

It didn’t make any sense, and it was difficult to think about. She was already following Gatlin Gale to the local Pyrehorde base, though she couldn’t recall what she’d seen when she looked back at the site of her battle with the Stormguild crew. It wasn’t unheard of to use the blighted as forced labor on such things as corpse clean up, as opposed to simply banishing them north, beyond the Bleakwall…

But, there was no reason to think Summergift had such laborers, cleaning up corpses… so it must not have happened?

It was so taxing trying to think about it. The drifter needed to conserve her energy for the fights ahead... At this rate she was at risk of running out of stamina, leaving herself vulnerable.

The drifter resolved to deal with it later. The person who hadn’t been there was probably equally tired from the battle of wills. The drifter would remember, later, if it was really important… maybe.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

/////

They could hear the Pyrehorde base before they could smell it, and they could smell it several long strides before they could see it.

A new-style percussionist set provided a driving dance rhythm for several other popular instruments. In the drifter’s opinion, the standout performances were from the suona and the electrified three-string. The vocalist was roaring and wailing with soulful expertise, though the lyrics were very much in the genre of, ‘oh won’t someone please mourn this poor mother me, whose sacrifices are all forgotten’.

The smell of chili powder, cloves, and firework smoke intensified as they approached.

When it finally came into view, the drifter had trouble properly identifying the building’s actual shape and architectural style under the aesthetic riot of flags, banners, streamers, and canvas extensions. All of it featured eye-catching colors for the recent glories of Troupe 147, coming event promotions, and other such propaganda.

A spacious balcony had been converted into an open air stage for the musicians. It was hard to discern details from a distance, but the lead singer’s armor was so frivolously elaborate she could only be the commanding Maestro for this entire local operation.

It was all extremely Southern Realm.

The guards at the main entryway failed to hide a look of mild concern and astonishment as Gale flashed them her credentials and made a number of quick hand signs indicating the situation. They wordlessly made way for Gale and her Esteemed Guest to enter.

The interior was also decorated in the southern style, but not nearly so densely. A handful of bead curtains and draped ribbons did little to conceal the stark imposition of vaulted ceilings and stone pillars with carved mosaics exalting the history of textiles up to the eighth century. This mansion was almost certainly a ‘gift for excellent service’ to this town’s barony, granted by The Court a scant few generations ago.

The drifter was escorted into the main parlor, where Gale made her apologies and left her hosting duties to the mansion staff. As Gale hustled away past a sliding screen to deliver her urgent debrief, an extraordinarily dandy lad approached the drifter and bowed at the waist.

“Should it please you, this Summergift WInsome shall attend to you needs while you wait for your formal appointment.” he said, his voice and manner carrying all the subtle refinement of a young aristocrat. Most likely only just returned from his expensive education somewhere in the Throne City Hub.

The drifter took far too much enjoyment from the opportunity to respond with the slightest nod of acknowledgement. The lad expertly hid his outrage, only freezing for a brief moment before gesturing politely toward the empty tables and seating. This was likely the first time in his life someone as low as a warrior errant, without any recognizable heraldry, so pointedly held their head above his own.

Young Sir Winsome snapped his fingers and an attendant came forward with an ornate tea cart as the drifter settled into her seat. Winsome sat prim and proper at the opposite side of the drifter’s table. Each of them was served a cup of Seven Fragrance Herb Tea.

The drifter had trouble deciding if she was more amused or disgusted by the bounty of food that was also being placed between them. By ordinary standards, it would have been a typical assortment of between-meal treats. All manner of single serving cakes and sweet biscuits. It was a decadent feast by the standards of ever tightening war rations, a world of broken supply lines and burning fields. Conscripted workers and dead ones, though the drifter honestly didn’t see much difference between the two.

She retrieved a flask full of her favorite poison from somewhere in her robe, and poured a little in her tea. This was a little more over the line than most of her other needless provocations. In some places Under Heaven, it would be considered an outright mortal violation of a guest’s hospitality obligations.

The drifter bit into a cake, and washed it down with a toast, “To all the starving wretches”.

Winsome felt nauseous. His outrage warred helplessly against his fear. The nameless drifter’s killing intent had suddenly flared for some reason, and though her actions were the height of rudeness, especially given her lack of station, he was overwhelmed by the aura hallucination she induced.

The room buckled and contorted around him, unsecured objects becoming weightless. It seemed to Winsome as if the heavenly laws of Up and Down recoiled from the drifter in terror.

He scrambled to snatch up his own cup and share in the toast, “T-to all the wretched Under Heaven!”

He took the kettle from the tea tray and personally refilled his guest’s cup. He didn’t know if the attendant’s look of shock was more from his own action or the dangerous aura of their guest, but he also didn’t care. He was only relieved that his show of humility seemed to calm the monstrous vagabond.

Silence weighed on the room like a sacred duty. The rustling of every small movement, every sip of tea, each hesitant bite, all of it rang in the ear like the sounding of a gong. The silence persisted this way for what felt like an age.

Until, at last… the drifter made a soft noise of consideration. She was looking around the room, particularly at the engraved frescos featuring heroic depictions of gorg herders and weavers. She was inviting the host to speak on the matter.

“Ah, I see that you appreciate the finer aspects of our home. This building was bestowed on us by the Emperor when the town was given its name, and this noble Summergift family was entrusted with its protection.” Summergift Winsome said, making a visible effort to contain his growing sense of melancholy.

He took a deep sip from his tea, steadying himself, “In spite of our… missteps in meeting that obligation, we were very fortunate to be rescued by the Grateful Blades. When the rabble made their move, the Golden Court abandoned us. That wouldn’t have been such a problem for our ancestors, who kept their own order with their own weapons, but we’ve grown dependent since then. We were fortunate to be hosting a Pyrehorde warrior and her entourage at the time. She held the howling mob of malcontents at bay, even as the Stormguild puppet masters arrived in force.”

The drifters face was unreadable. She tasted her tea, and vaguely gestured her permission for the young sir to continue.

“Ah…” he said, “Ah, yes, well… The rest of her troupe arrived to rescue her from the siege. Understanding the town’s value, they placed us all under their protection. Then…”

Winsome visibly struggled for a moment to carefully choose his words, “In honor of our valorous hospitality and cooperation, the Maestro of the Grateful Blades allowed us to remain here, in our home. So that we might better continue to serve… Ownership and management of our local business assets, well, those will be remanded to someone else’s custody.”

The drifter could tell the young sir of Summergift did not have a strong aura cultivation, because for all his intensely as he stared into his tea, it did not boil, “Those Partisan bastards. They couldn’t drag us from our family home, or fully strip us of our station, but they reduced us to mere toilers all the same.”

The drifter didn’t laugh. Her face was an expressionless mask. She’d embarrassed herself enough with that unplanned burst of useless sentimentality earlier, and shattering this boy’s nasty little ego would be more disruptive than her larger plans could allow. Regardless of how hilarious it could’ve been.

There was another long pause before the boy realized the end of his statement might be considered out of line. He frantically turned his gaze around the room. The attendant by the tea cart, for whatever reason, was only just maintaining a stoic face in spite of clearly empathizing with his tale of woe. There was no one else in the room besides the drifter, who, for her part, betrayed no clear reaction at all.

They passed the remaining time in suffocating silence. The drifter noticed a sudden change in the faint sound of the musical performance outside. It most likely meant the Maestro was content to finish her set, and ready to sit down for a meal.

Gale appeared from behind a screen, and invited the drifter to follow. The drifter sighed audibly. She spiked her tea one more time, and downed it.

She could very clearly sense the six person ambush waiting for her on the other side of the screen.