Day 3

“I found a plant on a narrow strip of land between two lakes. I called this place Twin Lake and left something some might consider a treasure. As for the plant, I found that whatever the name I give it … does not stick. However, for the sake of this book, I gave it a name – Fortuna. What does the plant do? This is something I leave for my readers to discover for themselves. Otherwise, you would not believe me. Seek small entangled twin stalk, crowned with a strangely cropped multihued foliage. You will know Fortuna at first sight.”

Beyond Yr

Chapter 8, Page 125

Kuravel

When Zuma worked he was a demon of a man. Fear, grief; no emotions touched the face of Giliad’s friend. Zuma shouted names of fruits, vegetables, plants, and things Giliad didn’t know. The tribe guy who spoke an imperial language translated it all into the high nasal language of the Rain Tribe. It wasn’t a perfect conversion as a couple of times Zuma had to correct them because they brought him wrong ingredients.

More and more, tribesmen and tribeswomen came to see. At one point there had to be at least a hundred. Their eyes sparkled with curiosity one would never attribute to a man-eating tribe.

They converged all around Zuma as he tinkered with cups, mixing, adding, and subtracting. One sniff here, one sniff there.

“What’s your real plan?” the bandit asked when he was sure no one could understand them.

“There is no real plan.”

The bandit shook his head, not believing. Giliad didn’t pay attention but it was plain when the bandit started to grow restless. First, he scratched his stubble and pulled at his silly mustache, then his face twitched, eyes blinked. Eventually, he said.

“I beg you. Tell me.” The pleading in his voice seemed genuine. And a tiny part of Giliad felt sorry for a fool, but the Royalblood didn’t lie. There was no plan if Zuma failed. If he had one, what would that say about him? That he didn’t trust his friend.

“He can be good with drinks when he wants to.”

“Good doesn’t cut it,” the bandit said harshly. “In any other situation, I’d talk myself out of this, but these wildlings don’t listen.”

“Why would anyone talk his way into living in a jungle?” Giliad wondered allowed, mocking the bandit. He was briefly aware that this Horward or whatever his name was, hadn’t joined Butcher on his own volition but something had brought him into the forest from the Red Cities.

The bandit opened his mouth to counterattack but then he noticed a slight change in Giliad. A spark of his curiosity that should be dead. Giliad wasn’t interested in what—

“I was looking for Aureate City.”

The Royalblood blinked, shocked. One needed to be truly creative to start as a seeker of a myth and end up a bandit. Or maybe not? Maybe only Giliad didn’t see a connection between the two. Aureate City was the most dominant legend of the southern part of the Fifth Region. A mythical place where technology and civilization surged ahead of the rest of the world.

Giliad gave him a sly glance.

“What? Don’t I look like a man of culture?” He asked and when Giliad didn’t answer, he added. “I see. For you, Royalbloods, an ordinary man cannot have a dream.”

This statement actually hit him harder than he thought possible. He’s never seen himself in this perspective. Being better than ordinary folks? It was a ludicrous notion. Being a bastard Royalblood made you less than a rat. The empire hunted every single one. But of course, the bandit’s words weren’t specifically about Giliad. They were about legal Royalbloods. Giliad’s experience with them was scarce but those he met were hideous, drunk with power, beings.

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“Behold!” Zuma shouted out, raising a container above his head. “You’re about to taste liquid pleasure! Happiness that stretches to a horizon and beyond.”

He kept rambling for a while until the tribesmen divided, creating a passage. The imperial-speaking guy translated Zuma’s words which caused peals of laughter. Many of the tribesmen still pointed at their bellies. They didn’t think Zuma could succeed.

“Who should taste it first? Who gets to decide our fate?”

The bandit groaned but Giliad’s thoughts returned to the masked man who had seemed like a man in charge. It all fell apart when a tiny girl, of ten maybe, jumped out of a cocoon-like dwelling. She was starved, bony feet hesitantly reached for the ground – large scobs and pieces of wood. Her dark eyes were so deep they drowned in the eye sockets. Clumps of black hair seemed sick. When she made the first step, it became apparent that other ailments were affecting her. Her steps slow, uneven. And yet, none of the tribesmen or women reached to steady her. Giliad forced himself to stay put. They were witnessing some kind of ritual here. To step in would be to show no respect ... or being eaten.

“What is this?” the bandit hissed. “What’s wrong with her?”

Zuma whispered something to the tribesman who only shook his head, his expression pained. The innkeeper’s eyes widened.

The girl eventually reached the spot organized for Zuma’s cocktail-making. She handed her trembling hand expectingly. Zuma being Zuma didn’t just give her the drink, he crossed over to her. A wooden container in his hand tipped gently near her lips. She shivered, unsure what to do. Was this the first time someone showed her gratitude?

“What is he doing now?”

The girl accepted Zuma’s assistance, albeit reluctantly. Tribesmen murmured as she wetted her upper lip then raised their voices when her eyes bulged out in surprise.

The bandit stepped closer to Giliad, expecting an attack from the tribe. Relying on Zuma was one thing, putting their lives in the hands of a starved girl, quite another. Giliad never—

The girl’s voice swirled out of her, slow but steady and drifting ever higher. The tribesmen began talking to each other in a heated manner and a few rushed toward Zuma and the girl. Giliad tensed up, ready to intercept them, but no, they didn’t mean to kill the innkeeper. They went after Zuma’s drink. Zuma’s hands went up and he stepped back offering space to them. When they tasted it, it looked as if flood gates have been opened. Cries of shock and eyes filled with pleasure were everywhere. Zuma made a barrel of his concoction. Its content vanished in a few moments. The innkeeper squeezed out of the now-loving crowd. Some shouted after him or tapped his shoulders. The girl was gone, slipped out of Giliad’s notice.

“Done,” Zuma said, smiling.

“For Garhala’s sake, what did you do, innkeeper?”

“My hobby is cocktail-making and these folks aren’t the most sophisticated kind. Unfortunately, they didn’t have many things I needed to make it better. Well ... at some point, it got scary.”

“No shit. I thought you were bluffing so he can come up with a plan.”

Giliad’s hair stood on end as he realized that it could’ve been a case. He’d even considered a possibility of Zuma preparing a poison. This was a close call. We still don’t know how they made a trick with the rain. They haven’t shown us their alchemy.

“Don’t worry, Harvey,” Zuma said. “Once they brought me elephant fruit, green pomegranate, lakegrass, and heart plant, I knew we were saved.” Zuma calling the bandit by his name didn’t go unnoticed but their little conversation was disturbed by the arrival of the imperial-speaking tribesman and an older fellow with tattoos that turned gray.

“Congratulation,” he said. “Chief First of the Rain is true to his word and will grant you exemption from being eaten. This once.”

“That’s excellent news,” Harvey replied. “We won’t bother you any longer then...”

“It won’t be that easy. Our chief officially welcomes you and offers his thanks for this miraculous drink. But to not appear ungrateful, you’d better stay with us until tomorrow.”

“We appreciate...”

“We’ll happily stay until tomorrow.” If they wield alchemy, leaving now may be dangerous.

“It’s a wise choice,” the tribesman gave Harvey a sly glance. “My name is Wandering Rain.”

They left them without any further word or direction. The entire tribe seemed still mesmerized by Zuma’s drink.

“At least is not raining...”

The drizzle appeared at the same time as Zuma’s words escaped his mouth. He cursed.

“I don’t like this,” Harvey said. Neither did Giliad, but it felt like they had no choice. “They changed their minds too easily, no offense, innkeeper.”

Zuma snapped a few curses but no more.

“Ex...cus...me.” A child’s voice froze them. Giliad turned slowly and found the starved girl standing behind them. How did she approach me without knowing? The drizzle... of course. “I...we...wi...sh...talk.”

Harvey mouthed another Garhala’s curse. She didn’t say anything else, clearly not being proficient with the imperial language. Not waiting for their reply, she started walking away.

They followed like idiots.