INTERLUDE 8F: A SPECIAL BREW
“I am the unpredictable eye of the beast. I am the undergrowth churning with constant motion. I am the wildness of the wilderness. I am Lady Change.”
– from the Dairini Creed
The sun wasn’t some remote object to the Tirremine, wasn’t just some glowing bauble in the sky used for illumination, for making crops thrive. The sun was an oppressive demon that squatted upon your shoulders, forced you to keep your head down, keep your eyes from glancing up at the blinding white sky. It had taken centuries, the man reflected as he skipped down the sandstone street beside a saltwater canal, for the Mundians to impress upon the Tirremines the Realm-standard worship of Kaile. He was just crossing in front of the sun-god’s temple now, and the many-pillared hall at the top of the steps was no plain structure of white paint – it was resplendent in firestones, clad in marble. Displayed on the slopes of every lofty roof were the same motifs, golden rods arranged into the burst of shining arrows that was the god’s sigil, or in some places a pair of gold eyes. The Tirremine name for the god, Qaraime, was written in the firestones across the temple’s central archway.
But many were the places in which the god’s role as a god of shade were still depicted. In Tirremuir, it was very much one and the same. Kani had once gone into detail into the religious history of the place, explaining how the various cults of Vaylech had tried to paint Kaile Qaraime as a devil, a bright god of Infernum, instituting an age of famine until the Mundian priests arrived to spread the truth. It was patiently taught to the primitives that it was reverence of the Fly-God bringing the worst of the sun’s rays, causing the soil to dessicate, withering the crops in the fields. Kaile was no glowering demon, but the father of Joran, the grandfather of Illodin: he was a harsh god, but not unkind. The moon, which had always been revered in the dry lands, was no less his manifestation than was the sun. And, at least according to Kani, the land’s suffering had abated once the Kailite ministry took off in earnest. Tirremuir had become a paradise, a slice of Celestium on earth.
At least to the locals. Derezo was no Tirremine. Born and raised in the streets of Oldtown without a penny to his name or a roof over his head, the sunny days had been a relief from the drizzle, from the snow. Mund got hot in summer, sure, but summer never lasted long enough, and he found to his annoyance that humans simply couldn’t hibernate. In fact, a big part of the reason he’d left and tried his luck as a sell-sword was to escape the horrid conditions in Mund. If he was going to be forced to sleep outdoors, he wanted to do in a city, a country where the sky wasn’t going to lash him with ice-water six months of the year. Once he hit thirteen and could pass for fifteen, he’d headed south on the first ship that would take him, heading for sunnier seas – and quickly discovered that he’d developed no tolerance to the blasted thing. His first week on the sea had taken him unawares, and he’d almost died from the fever. It probably hadn’t helped that the first mate insisted on him continuing his duties, and continued to ply him with rum. Even now, ten years later, the sun bleached his blond hair but roasted his skin, and he had to be extraordinarily careful with regard to how he dressed, what parts of his body he left exposed to the sizzling rays.
He wore the long black urum, almost a mage-robe from Mund but with no designs, less structure to the fabric. When he had the deep hood up like right now, Derezo’s Chakobese was good enough to let him pass for one of the natives. But they didn’t usually wear gloves to protect their hands; they typically wore sandals, not boots. Still, it wasn’t like he experienced any animosity from the populace on account of his status as a foreigner – quite the opposite. It seemed almost everyone he met knew he was friends with the dragonslayers, that he’d taken part in similar expeditions with them before his early retirement. Phanar and the others were very well-liked here – not just because of their lavish spending habits, their general easygoing natures. It was that they’d succeeded. They came here chasing a dragon, and actually killed it. And it hadn’t been just any dragon. This had been Ord Ylon. This had been a nightmare out of legend and these four young heroes had arisen out of their own legends to vanquish it, send it screaming back into the world of dream and myth.
The monsters always lost, in the end.
Derezo – he was like a link between the people and their paragons. He was a stepping-stone, someone relatable that the merchants and minor nobles of Tirremuir saw as approachable, still human despite the lofty company he kept. And Derezo loved it that way. Sure, now that the whole dragon-business was fading in the public consciousness, he didn’t quite get the same treatment he’d enjoyed three months ago – but they knew his name, his face. He’d made himself useful, purchasing a few small businesses and using his significant savings to help them flourish. He had a life here, and now it was escaping him.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
No, it wasn’t the locals whose animosity he bore. It was that of his own people. It was the Mundians.
It’d been okay, last year, but something had gone wrong and no one was telling him anything. He wasn’t used to this kind of silence on these kinds of matters. He’d sent messages to Phanar, asking for an update, any kind of snippet of information that could be shared with him – and the coded response was to leave Tirremuir.
Leave Tirremuir!
If these meetings continued much longer, he might just end up following Phanar’s advice – though ‘advice’ might’ve been stretching it. From the last code-word, it looked as though Phanar were giving him an order. An order! Despite them having formally broken their arrangement, upon the death of Ylon. He’d put down the letter, chuckled, and gone out for dinner with a smile on his face.
Today’s mission would assuredly prove to be a less-pleasurable luncheon, and he wasn’t wearing his boyish smile as he entered the railed-off area outside the restaurant. The man who’d summoned Derezo was sitting outside, in the full simmering glare of Kaile’s glow, and he’d taken one of the big tables to himself. His robed guards didn’t sit but stood instead, in a vague arc behind him – five of them.
Always five of them, Derezo thought darkly.
The table might’ve been big enough for eight, but the arch-magister seemed to be going out of his way to wind up the establishment’s owners. He was occupying the narrowest sliver of his chair’s seat, one leg folded atop the other, leaning on one of the arms as though an invisible person of equal slimness were seated there alongside him.
Perhaps they are.
Even in the ten seconds it took him to spot the man and pick his way between the other tables and chairs, Derezo noticed the sceptical, verging on hostile, glances being cast at the magisters by the other diners. No one would say anything to them, of course – Mundian justice was infamous, and if you didn’t have the right friends or bank-balance you could kiss your freedom goodbye. Still, Derezo knew he didn’t enjoy the same undiplomatic immunity. He hoped these very public meetings wouldn’t tar his name with the locals, that it’d all be over soon and he could return to his normal life.
“Mr. Moustache Man,” he said in greeting as he plopped himself down opposite the arch-magister.
“Mr. Alterkain.”
The older man’s moustache quivered as he spoke, and Derezo felt the smile come unexpectedly to his lips.
He acts like it doesn’t get to him, but it does.
It wasn’t just the arch-diviner, either. He noted the five hooded magisters expressing their general disapproval – pursed lips, narrowed eyes, hands on hips… Derezo didn’t care. They weren’t going to touch him, not any way that mattered. If anything, mocking the magisters’ boss loudly-enough would ensure the Tirremines overheard, ensure they knew he wasn’t part of their schemes.
“We ordering?” Derezo asked blandly, eyeing the menu chalked on a tablet beside the restaurant’s main entrance. “I’m up for the garlic bread, but if you want to go all in, you’re paying. My wine-shop just restocked, and I’d love to help with the bill, but…” He spread his hands.
“There is no need for us to order,” the magister said quietly. “I just have a few more questions for you, if you please. You will take chilled water, yes?”
Derezo opened his mouth then closed it again, ducking his head in a quick nod.
Why does he want to ask me things, when he always seems to know what I’m going to say?
The chief magister nodded to one of his underlings, and they scurried off inside to find a waiter.
“I don’t really get what’s going on here,” Derezo admitted, running the flat of his palm across his brow to smear away the sweat that was about to drip down his face.
“We are at lunch.”
Derezo grinned. “Now that’s more like it, Mr. Moustache Man! No – you know what I mean. Why you’re here. Why you’re always asking these stupid questions. No offence! But… well, okay, maybe a little offence… but seriously, why? If you can just tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help you.”
“I do not know what I’m looking for,” was the terse answer.
Moustache Man wouldn’t even meet his gaze.
“Is it really that bad? I know Redgate was a bad guy -”
Now the arch-magister met his gaze, staring at him in disbelief.
“– no, really…” Derezo was suddenly left floundering. “I heard what happened, right from Kani and Ana’s lips. I know… he was the worst. But – he’s dead. Why ask me about him, when –“
“Because,” the arch-magister hissed, leaning forwards, “every magister we’ve sent into the mountains has failed to return. No messages crossing the area south of the Obarsk Waste have been delivered to their recipients. We are blind. I am blind.”
It took Derezo a moment to catch on.
“Wait – you mean there’s not really an ore shortage in Calcuun? What about the ivory trade? Was that all a lie too? I swear –“
“I swear, you will silence yourself, or fall prey to what you now think of as ‘Mundian justice’.”
* * *