“…I’m sure you’ve heard what happened to your home. Such atrocity. Something even I wouldn’t be capable of in my worst days. I mean … what I’m trying to say is – I feel sorry. I wish I could write more without compromising my current agenda. Let’s meet when it’s over.”

The second part of a letter to Nahar

Giliad

When the door behind him shut, Giliad exhaled hard. His knees felt weak and the weight on his shoulder threatened to squash him. The past had its ways to remind him again and again that he’s been a fool to believe that he could escape reality. He almost turned around and walked back in. He had questions now. How did they know? What gave him away? He must know or this cycle would never end. No matter where he goes, always someone would figure out the truth. Or should I say – a curse?

Back in the hall, he found Tan snoring in the chair. Giliad hoped the man would be up so they could exchange some more edgy words. He passed him in a few quick strides, opened the door, and stepped outside. Yamil swung to him and immediately relaxed.

“Do you have a cigarette?” Giliad asked.

“I don’t smoke,” the Head of Guards answered.

“Yeah, neither do I.”

“Rough meeting?”

“It wasn’t a meeting,” Giliad replied but didn’t elaborate nor Yamil inquired further. At some level, they understood each other, though it remained a mystery why. Giliad’s gaze traveled to the west. Beyond the wooden wall, beyond the tall trees, up to the heavily clouded sky. There, indeed, was a smoke. What should I do about that? How had it worked out in the past, huh? He shook his head and walked away from the mayor’s mansion. A pack of kids appeared on the road ahead, led by Pip. The boy ignored him, which was fine. As Giliad approached the bridge, the lounging guards perked up. Some gave him curious looks.

When his feet touched the wooden plank, one of them asked, “did the mayor say anything about the smoke?” Giliad slowed down, considering just passing them without a word. He didn’t care about their egos or feelings. Gods take them all. No. Giliad feared moments like this one: when a group of idiots, brimming with confidence, thought a good idea to pick a fight with a lone man. He’d quickly disabuse them of ‘goodness’ of such a notion, but at what price? Gods, and who is moody now?

“She said nothing interesting,” Giliad told to the guards. They nodded, their faces grim.

“She can be like that.”

“How can you know, Tian-In? You’re never around her.”

Tian-In scowled, clearly chewing on an appropriate retort. Maybe this could get fun. Other guards laughed. The atmosphere relaxed a bit and guards began exchanging jokes. None of them funny – Giliad laughed – though under his skin was crawling unease. He could hardly pretend for longer than a short moment. Not that he even tried. More like bad thoughts have appeared at the wrong time and his face slowly revealed the true state of his mind.

Eventually, jokes dried up. Guards weren’t good actors and soon the entire squad stood in uncomfortable silence. Do I try to make myself popular? I shouldn’t be here. I have nothing in common with these people.

A villager peeled out of the onlookers and was approaching the bridge.

“Can I speak to Tenoch-Ling or the doctor?” he halted a few paces from the guards. Giliad squinted at him not able to place his name. The issue in Giliad’s sight lay in the fact that Cape Towners looked too much alike – dark skin, black hair, elongated faces, and brown eyes. There were a few exceptions of course – Sul and the old mayor, for example. The doctor, Zuma or Yamil weren’t from here.

One of the guards approached the petitioner and took him to the side for a conversation. Giliad’s lost interest in them and turned toward the rest of the guards.

“Do you fancy a traj game?” someone asked and others cheerfully picked up the idea.

Giliad was not in the mood to play a nasty drinking game nor he could imagine guards on duty, doing it. He thanked them for the offer and walked away toward his hut. As he passed the guard and the petitioner, some words reached him “…good folks are concerned about the smokes…”

Giliad left them all behind. Their issues and their concerns and their fears… Gods, this can’t be happening again, can it? I walked this path before. His gaze swept around. The villagers dispersed. Perhaps, Pip’s visit to Giliad brought them to the main road. How often the little brat has visited me before? Yeah, exactly. The mayor knew of his secret and she wasn’t a very subtle person. The more Giliad thought about it, the less certain he was. Were the Cape Towners smart enough to piece things together?

Grim thoughts led him forward. He missed the turn to his hut and found himself at the entrance to the inn. He cursed eyeing regulars who squinted at him. Mean bastards were these. Stupid and hypocritical. They’ve detested foreigners like him, but it didn’t stop them from drinking Zuma’s alcohol and asking the doctor for an ointment for an itchy ass. Now, he wouldn’t refuse a drink or two, but he didn’t have a coin on him. Well, doesn’t the old mayor owe me something for the meeting? He smiled and entered the inn.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

A barkeeper appeared out of thin air, her dark bronze eyes narrowed to slits, her small fists rested on her shapely waist, her elongated neck squinted a little to peer at him from an angle.

“I hate when you do that,” Giliad said. “It looks creepy.”

She pointed a finger at him. “Do I look creepy? It’s a good joke, I have the Sunk Tribe’s blood in my veins, idiot. What about you, you overgrown freak?”

Giliad blinked, his mouth suddenly dried up and all the replies he has had in store seemed no longer appropriate.

Blood.

Whose blood circulates in my veins? Do I even dare to consider it? No, forget it. No special blood … but that is a lie. A big lie. But how is my blood special? Because my kind rules this world, does it mean we are better than everyone else? The meeting frayed his nerves and thoughts scattered in many unexpected directions. He couldn’t tell how much time has passed since he had wondered about his origin. The time before Cape Town. Memories he had despised. Memories, which have reminded him of his cursed bloodline. Well, this was a bit of stretch, because Giliad didn’t know his parents nor any relatives for that matter, except one. But this person was gone.

“Hey!”

Giliad blinked again, returning to the present.

“I was only joking, you oaf,” the barkeeper said, smiling remorselessly. She could be pretty if Giliad cared much about the opposite sex, and that neck, oh this was creepy. She vanished in the gloom of the side door. Ten heartbeats later, she reappeared behind the bar counter. Her lithe hands took care of empty wooden mugs and a moment later all were refilled. The regulars looked happier, though in some cases it made no difference. They were an ugly lot – within and without.

Giliad hesitated, a need for a drink almost gone, then a voice beside him spoke. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of pulqu, or two.”

Giliad turned. “Doc, I was going back to…”

“To your favorite hammock? What was its name? Senpi?”

“Senpai,” Giliad grunted.

“Let’s have a drink.”

The doctor moved past him. Giliad watched the old man order Zuma’s famous drinks and retreat to a corner table where he awaited him. The floor creaked as Giliad walked across the inn. Most of the tables were empty, save for the stools at the counter. Regulars tracked him but didn’t utter a word. They were mean but too cowardly to start a fight with someone bigger. Oh yes, this rang true for some reason. Giliad sat down and before he could say anything the barkeeper appeared, placing drinks on the table. She shot him an unreadable look, then nimbly padded away.

“That girl,” he muttered.

“A woman, Gil. She is a woman.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said

“There are cultures where age is a decisive factor…”

Now, this was odd. The doctor wasn’t one for idle talks and neither was Giliad. He preferred to avoid conversation when there was nothing to say. The doctor must have seen Giliad’s face because he fell quiet.

They grabbed wooden mugs and emptied them in silence.

The doctor signaled another round and the barkeeper swiftly delivered the drinks. When she was gone, Giliad asked. “How did she know?”

The doctor shot him a disturbed look, which quickly turned into a placid gaze. As the doctor raked fingers through his beard he began speaking.

“I’m afraid the situation is a bit more complex than Tenoch-Ling explained.”

“I’m not interested then.”

“What? What do you mean?”

Giliad said nothing, glaring at the dark liquid in the wooden mug.

The doctor sighed. “Gil, listen to me. This isn’t only about you being … you know, of a certain bloodline. There is more here than meets an eye.”

Giliad leaned back, hands behind his head, eyes on the spider’s web spanning wide swaths of the ceiling.

“I don’t care about any of this. When the time comes, I’ll be on my way never to return, this I can promise you.”

In the corner of his eye, Giliad saw the doctor’s face. It went whiter than a bleached bone. Then, the old man’s face disappeared behind the mug.

Now, this was more than odd, it was strange. In all the years Giliad has known him, it has seemed the old doctor was cut from a harder stone than most people Giliad has met. Such a reaction didn’t fit him.

Should he ask what was the matter? He considered what to do and came up with the best course of action – do nothing.

The doctor slammed the mug against the table, regulars turned their heads. Some unintelligible murmurs came from them, then the barkeeper appeared next to their table, startling Giliad.

“Stop doing this, girl,” he growled. The inn had too many unlit corners and alcoves.

Ignoring him, she looked at the doctor. “Is everything alright? I can ask boys to kick him out if he causes troubles.”

Giliad’s eyes widened. She thought it was him! The doctor revealed a big smile and assured her that he can deal with the issue.

She left, and Giliad pointed at him. “Why didn’t you tell her it was you!”

“Izin-Pil would never believe me,” he said and before Gilaid could say anything, he continued. “It’s a very interesting concept. A memory of blood, though in this case, we aren’t talking about memory, aren’t we?

“None the less, it seems that you understand the gravity of the situation better than I expected. Who would guess that? Heh. Now, while you understand the big picture, there is a matter of certain dealings with our mayor that could affect the upcoming events. It’s not her fault, it’s just her nature to overreach a little.”

Giliad opened his mouth to ask what the doctor was babbling about. Then stopped. There was a risk that the doctor would want to explain, and this would be too much to suffer. Drinks were good and all, but long discussions made Giliad asleep.

Theirs gazes met, the doctor nodded and stood up.

“I’m now much calmer. For all these years, I’ve thought … well, never mind. It’s just good to know that all these sacrifices weren’t for nothing.” He strode to the bar where he paid, and then he was gone from the inn. Giliad looked down, his mug still stood full. What just happened? Either he caught some insane parasite that made mush out of his brain or the mayor shared her own with him.

Well, it isn’t my problem, I’d warned him to keep a distance from her. Now, I need to figure out where to go next. I don’t think it’s safe here anymore.

He emptied the mug and proceeded to the door. His last step was halted by Izin.

“What do you want?”

“You didn’t pay.”

“What? Doctor—” Giliad said alarmed.

“Oh, relax. I’m kidding, he paid.”

His eyes narrowed, but she only smiled.

I don’t think I understand these folks anymore, he thought as he walked out.