73. Staying mute is one hell of a feat

Compared to the road from Amdebid to Onkada, the road from Onkada to Estergat was, in the words of a coachman, “a marvel”. And it was true: the stagecoach moved forward almost without a bump.

To tell the truth, I hardly noticed the difference, because after days of exhausting travel in the midst of the snowstorms, I had slept for most of the journey from Amdebid to Onkada without noticing the jolts, and it was only from Arjaldia onwards that I began to feel that keen impatience to at last return to Estergat. I was bored by the lack of activity, and it was hard to sit still on the coach bench, and if I didn’t run straight south, it was because I knew that it would take me longer to walk. Well, and also because I had promised Kakzail that I would not do anything foolish until Estergat and that I would follow Dalto like a faithful puppy.

I glanced cautiously at the red-haired caitian sitting opposite me. Since I had heard him say that he intended to take up his fly work at Estergat, I hardly dared to speak to him. I called him “sir”, again with a certain distance, and although I knew that deep down he was not a bad man, I wondered if he would be able to arrest me if he saw me, for example, picking the pockets of a hammered nail-pincher. Just the thought of him grabbing me by the neck and saying, “To jail, ragged rascal!” made it hard for me to feel comfortable around him.

If my brother had been with us, Dalto would have chatted with him, smiled, joked, and I would have felt more at ease right away. But my brother was not there. He had left us at Amdebid to take a coach north to Gistea. There, he said, lived several cousins, uncles, and aunts to whom he had to deliver certain letters and packages from our mother and Uncle Markyr. He had gone with the Blue One. He had offered me to go with them, but, although I felt a little embarrassed afterwards, I had given him an emphatic “no” followed by a sharp “I want to come back to Estergat”. Kakzail had not insisted. So now I was in the coach with the hobbits, Dalto, Little Wolf and… Dakis. The hellhound took up two and a half seats, and I was next to his head. Every time he fell asleep he would start drooling on my pants.

I glanced out the window at the fields of Arkolda. The sky was already darkening, but the coach was not slowing down. We had passed through Onkada, Arjaldia, Revierza, Otkatbat… I knew the names because the coachmen were shouting: “Otkatbat, we arrive in Otkatbat!”. And we had to get off, enter an inn, have dinner, and sleep until the next day. After four days of travel, we were now about to arrive in Lysentam. I had heard a great deal about this city in the Cats: it was called the Ancient City, because it was full of old monuments. Diver had legged it there in the autumn: a day’s journey on foot—two at the most—separated it from the Rock. That meant that, by stagecoach, we would finally be back at the Rock the next day before noon. And then Dalto would take me to the barber’s and leave me there with him.

That was the agreement. I had promised Kakzail that I would go to my parents and make an effort to communicate with them. I’m not sure how I came by such a thing. Maybe because deep down I really had something to say to my family: I wanted to help them. I wanted to show the barber that I was not a selfish gwak, that I was an honest gwak, and that I could be useful. That is why, despite my misgivings, I was going to listen to Kakzail.

“Ajistrok,” Yabir muttered, raising his voice.

Under my curious gaze, the young Baïra shook his head and continued to mutter words in Owram as he sat with a small improvised table, scribbling the draft of his chronicle and rereading his notes, looking completely absorbed. He’d been like that since the morning. As for Shokinori, sometimes he was contemplating the fields, looking dreamy, sometimes he was reading a book, also written in Owram. Everything was in Owram. And so I had nothing to read, nothing to do except play with Little Wolf, scratch Dakis’ ears, and look out the window at the barns, the canal, the trees, and the travellers walking along the path.

Gradually the barns gave way to houses with gardens, buildings, streets, and the hubbub of the city… We finally arrived in front of the transport company office and one of the coachmen shouted:

“Lysentam! We arrive in Lysentam!”

As soon as the door opened, I was the first one to step on the ground with Little Wolf in my arms. I was anxious to move, to walk, to do something other than sit still. That is why, when I saw that my companions were already walking away towards an inn, I shouted to Dalto:

“Sir! I’ll be right back, it runs?”

And I went away with Little Wolf on the square. Immediately, the redheaded man protested:

“Hey! Where are you going?”

I sighed. Why did adults always have to ask that question in a tone of voice that seemed to say, “You’re not going anywhere without my permission”? I turned around and explained:

“Going for a walk. To get some fresh air. I’m not going anywhere,” I promised.

“No way,” the caitian replied. “Lysentam is big. You could get lost in a few minutes. As I understand it, Yabir wants to take a walk. We’ll book the room and then you go with them, okay?”

I agreed, though I could not understand why he was so determined not to leave me alone. I was following the hobbits and the gladiator when suddenly a figure leaning against the wall of a building stepped aside and approached, saying:

“Excuse me. Are you Yabir, son of Nodrea and Galfandir?”

He wore a scarf that obscured his face and a large cloak that could conceal anything… Dalto brought his hand to the pommel of his sword. Yabir confirmed:

“Indeed, it is me. And you are…?”

The stranger did not bother to introduce himself; he took a letter from his pocket and held it out.

“It’s for you.”

He put the paper in his hand and left without saying anything more. Dalto snorted.

“Should I tail him?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Yabir assured, unfolding the letter. “It’s from our good friend Korther.”

He moved towards the light of a street lamp to read better, and I followed him, curious to know. What message could Korther have sent to Yabir? The Baïra’s eyes glowed.

“A thousand gargoyles,” he muttered in Caeldric. “You’re not going to believe this, Shok.”

“What?” Shokinori replied, impatiently. “What does he say?”

Yabir cleared his throat, still going over the letter.

“Well… First, he informs us that he believes he has located the gem, the Hilemplert Kings’ gem. It was in a jewelry store. He bought it for twenty siatos without the jeweler knowing anything about its value. He’s inviting us to eat at his house tomorrow to make sure he didn’t get the wrong item.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Shokinori commented with a clearing of his throat. It was clear that he, himself, wouldn’t have bothered to hire the Black Daggers to search for the gem. “Anything else?”

Yabir smiled up to his ears and said:

“Korther has begun to open the tunnels.”

I blinked. The…tunnels? Shokinori wrinkled his forehead.

“You let him have the plans?”

“He copied them,” Yabir explained. “That means… in two weeks at most, we can initiate the journey home, my friend. Soon we will be home! My father will hang me by my ears for taking so long. But, anyway, I’m coming back with the Orb.”

Shokinori sighed.

“Yes, but that’s just because Marevor Helith was kind enough and didn’t want it back. If it had been up to you, we’d have come back without the Orb and without the Opal, and your father would have showered us with glory,” he scoffed. “With so many twists and turns, I wouldn’t be surprised if a dragon popped up now and swallowed the Orb.”

Yabir laughed.

“Always the pessimistic type, my friend! Come on, let’s leave our luggage at the inn. I’m dying to see that Statue Walk! They say Lysentam is the city of knowledge, Shokinori. Let’s go.”

The young hobbit was in a very good mood; as usual, in fact. I cheerfully followed him into the inn, dragging Little Wolf behind and thinking: tomorrow, tomorrow! Tomorrow I would finally be at the Rock, the most precious treasure of the gwaks, because there one never really suffered from cold or hunger. It wasn’t all rosy, of course, but… the Rock was my home. And it was where my future lay.

* * *

The sun was at its zenith as we passed the Gates of Moralion and crossed the bridge of the same name. The hubbub of the capital had awakened me, and now I was fidgeting in my seat, wishing I could open the door of the coach and leap out. Freedom! I wanted to scream, I wanted to run… To spend so many days shut up in that coach had been almost as suffocating to me as the fifty days I had spent in Carnation, and the night walk through Lysentam had hardly calmed me.

We got out of the stagecoach, and Dalto, no doubt realizing that if he did nothing I would get lost in the crowd, put a hand on my shoulder. I flinched, for at that moment I saw him more as a fly than as a friend of my brother.

“Well, my friends,” Yabir said, turning to us, his face beaming. “It has been a pleasure to travel with you. Varied company, indeed.”

“And a generous employer,” Dalto assured, smiling.

Yabir took the compliment with a bow of his head.

“Very nice to meet you. Well, I wouldn’t want to be late for our invitation… Good luck to you both.”

He bowed more deeply this time, and I, scratching Dakis’ ears one last time, said:

“Ayo. Don’t forget the gwak chapter in the chronicle, right?”

“By no means!” the hobbit exclaimed. “I’ll try to send you a copy when I’m done. If all goes well, Yadibia and Estergat will become two sister cities before long.”

He winked at me, and so the hobbits went away. They took a private carriage and disappeared up Imperial Avenue, while Dalto, Little Wolf, and I took the omnibus. We got off at the Esplanade and, seeing that the redhead did not separate from me, I asked:

“Where are we going?”

Dalto gave me a surprised look.

“To the barber’s, of course. I promised Kakzail that I would go and deliver a letter to them. And a son,” he added, mockingly. “No running away now, okay?”

Troubled, I did not answer but still followed him. All around me was the air of familiarity: the shouting newsboys, the greengrocers, the coachmen, the perfume of the ladies walking about in their broad hats. It was Sacredday, and in the taverns, temples, and streets, idle people swarmed. After a while, I cleared my throat.

“Sir.” I bit my lip. “I can’t go to the barber’s right now.”

Dalto let out a loud, exasperated sigh, but he did not stop.

“And why is that?”

“Because…” I shrugged as I walked beside him. “I don’t have a nail to give them.”

Dalto’s frown softened.

“And?” he replied. “You don’t bring the police home: it’s already a good step.”

I looked away uncomfortably and was trying to think of another excuse when a sudden exclamation made me turn my head. Sitting with his cap in front of him and his crippled paw in full view, Swift was looking at me, eyes wide. The red-haired elf was about to stand up when he spotted Dalto and a cautious pout came over his pockmarked face. I smiled broadly and, waving to allay his concerns, approached him as quickly as the short legs of Little Wolf would allow.

“Comrade!” I exclaimed.

“Namesake!” the kap replied, rising to his feet, though not forgetting to feign his infirmity. He looked me up and down with obvious satisfaction. “So, just like that, you’re back already. You found your old man? And did he unscramble your head?”

I shrugged happily.

“A little. Is everyone doing fine?”

“Well, more or less.” We both glanced at Dalto, but he, with great patience, had decided to wait for me at the corner of Sunset Street. He made a gesture to me, as if to say: I trust you won’t leg it, huh? And, to my surprise, he walked away towards the barber’s shop. Swift continued: “Ah, right, in the end they had to withdraw the demolition decree. Didn’t you know about that? You just fell out of the nest, didn’t you? Well, as soon as the flies got to the big kaps, things started to heat up like crazy! Luckily I got us to move to the Bivouac before the bad blood started. Now it’s calmed down. But those who came with their machines to break everything… you can’t imagine the beating they got! I didn’t see it, they told me, but since then… the weather’s been bad, namesake, people are looking at us like we’re plagues and the crops are in free fall,” he lamented, shaking eloquently his cap with the nails.

“Blasthell,” I sympathized. “But, at least the Labyrinth is still standing.”

“Yes…” Swift hesitated and looked at me thoughtfully while adding, “Your cronies missed the ruckus too: some flies got them, I don’t know why exactly. They’ve been at the station a few days, and now they’re at the poorhouse. They haven’t got away yet, as far as I know. But getting out of the poorhouse is a piece of cake. For Diver, it won’t be so easy. He got caught shortly after you left. Guess what. He was on the way to become a lifer, but the smart guy got away and decided to go straight into Frashluc’s gang. I haven’t seen him since, but those guys… you know how they treat gwaks. Well, I guess he’s better off there than at Carnation. Anyway. One piece of good news is that Braggart’s been incarnationed for eight years. The flies had their eye on him, and it was his own people who sold him out, that isturbag. The devil gets what he deserves. Hey, your jaw’s unscrewed, gwak,” Swift scoffed.

Under the flood of news, I contemplated my namesake, mouth agape and stunned. My cronies, in the poorhouse; Diver trapped in Frashluc’s gang; and the Braggart slowed for eight years.

“Good mother,” I articulated.

Swift guffawed, and leaning on his crutch, he asked:

“Who was that guy you were with?”

I breathed in, and then, pulling myself together, I explained:

“A mate of my older brother. I’m supposed to go to the barber shop, but if I go… maybe they’ll send me to that youth center.”

I had already told him about my parents’ decision before I left, and Swift looked at me in amazement.

“And you’re gonna go?”

I shrugged, nervous.

“Dunno. I don’t want to. But I promised Kakzail I’d go see the barber. By the way, namesake. The money I gave you, you still have some left, right?”

Swift brushed off his sympathetic expression and huffed.

“No way, it’s gone.”

I shivered.

“All of it? In one moon?”

“I tell you it’s gone,” Swift confirmed. And, as if to change the subject, he made a gesture towards Little Wolf. “And this one? Are you taking him to the barber too?” he mocked.

I looked down at the blond boy and for a moment thought of leaving him to Swift, but I changed my mind.

“Where are you at the Bivouac?” I asked.

I knew that the Bivouac was the highest area of the Cats, wedged between the old ruined wall that separated it from Atuerzo and the Timid River. It was full of rocks and mud and debris of all kinds, and because of the cave-ins there were hardly any houses there, but there were hovels and bands of gwaks.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Towards the middle,” Swift replied. “Ask after the Wise Ones. That’s the new name of our band. And yours, namesake,” he reminded me.

“Natural,” I agreed. “Can you tell the Priest to stop by the barber shop as soon as he can? Tell him I still have the hat.”

Swift glanced at my top hat in amusement and nodded.

“I’ll tell him,” he promised.

I smiled.

“Well. I’m going, then.”

“Onward!” Swift encouraged.

And as he limped down the street like a professional cripple, I headed to the barber shop and said to Little Wolf:

“Everything will go well, you’ll see. Careful, don’t fall, you demorjed! You used to walk so well in the snow! What’s the matter? You want me to carry you again? No way, we’re almost there. Wipe your nose. Good. See the signs on the windows? It says, ‘Barber Malaxalra’. Come on, let’s go in.”

The closer I got to the shop, the slower I got. Finally, I stopped at the door and peered cautiously through the glass… The door opened. Dalto stopped in the doorway when he saw me. He looked almost surprised. Then he smiled.

“Well, well, here he is,” he said, more to the barber than to me. He came out and patted me on the back. “Try not to blunder this time, kid.”

He walked away towards the Avenue, and I stood in front of the door. The barber was inside, standing and cleaning his razors with quick movements. I stood still for what seemed to be an interminable time. Then the barber said to me:

“Come in and shut the door.”

His voice was neither stern nor altogether friendly. I pulled Little Wolf and entered like a cautious cat, looking around at the empty chairs, the bowls, the little mirrors… At no time did I stop watching the barber. I closed the door, and after a moment’s silence, I said:

“Kakzail said I should come here. So, here I am.”

After turning pompous speeches over and over in my head, I let out the first thing that came to my mind. The barber continued to clean his razor blades. Outside, a bunch of kids went by screaming at the top of their lungs. I scratched my head, more and more puzzled. I was thinking that perhaps the barber had finally become as dumb as Little Wolf when he suddenly left the razors and asked:

“What about this little boy?”

His dark eyes were now staring at both of us. I gave him an insecure smile.

“It’s Little Wolf. He doesn’t say anything because… he’s mute.”

The barber nodded thoughtfully and then said:

“You keep scratching yourself, you’re gonna end up bald, kid. Sit down on that chair.” I looked at him, startled. “Sit down,” he insisted.

I obeyed. He took the travelling bag from me, took off the top hat, and put a large towel around my neck. Increasingly stunned and apprehensive, I did not move from my seat.

“Are you gonna barb me, sir?” I asked.

“I’m going to delouse you,” the barber replied.

And, under the curious gaze of Little Wolf, he undertook to cut my hair with swift movements. Then he smeared vinegar on my head, and in the meantime, I tried not to lose sight of the barber’s eyes, and he said to me: stay still. Finally, to my great joy, he did the same with Little Wolf, and I watched him work on the little blonde head in silence. His hands had an undeniable skill. They seemed as nimble as those of thieves and card players.

When he finished, he consulted the time on the new clock in the dining room, returned, turned the small sign on the door to inform the patrons that the place was open, and said:

“Yalma and your siblings went to Uncle Markyr’s for dinner and they won’t be back until tonight, so… it’s just you and me. And I have to take care of my customers.”

I nodded and realized that this more or less meant “I can’t spare you any more time right now”. Moving away from the wall where I was leaning, I said:

“I get it. You want me to leave, round? Thanks for the delousing. Nits itch beastly…”

I fell silent as the barber raised a hand.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he replied. “I just want you to be quiet. You sit on that stool over there and, by all the spirits in the world, you don’t open your mouth. Be mute like this little one. Before you can talk, you’re going to have to learn to… talk properly. Did you hear me?”

I nodded, very surprised.

“So, I’m not leaving?”

The barber rolled his eyes.

“No. You stay here. And you don’t talk. I don’t want my clients to think badly of this house, so you behave.”

I went and sat down on the stool with Little Wolf on my lap, and my appearance seemed to amuse the barber, but he at once assumed a stern face when he said:

“If you open your mouth when there’s a customer, I’ll lock you in the storeroom, and this time I won’t let you open the door like a thief. Do we have a deal?”

I nodded formally.

“Yes, sir.”

I followed the instructions to the letter, and when the first customer arrived, I silently watched the barber as he worked. When the customers were talkative, my father made brief comments, laughed quietly, and said many “really?”. I didn’t open my mouth all afternoon except when the place was empty for a moment and then the barber asked me if I was thirsty, and I said in a hoarse voice: “Yes, sir”. I did not dare to say that I was hungry too. I felt I was on trial, and indeed I was. Therefore, although I was burning with the desire to get up and go and find my companions, to take my cronies out of the poorhouse and, in short, to enjoy life, I remained motionless, mute, and dying of boredom like my nakrus master on his trunk.

And I was so bored that when I saw Rogan’s face against the shop window I let out an exclamation of happiness. I seized the top hat in one hand, Little Wolf in the other, and awkwardly, under the astonished gaze of the barber, who was attending to a customer at the time, I opened the door and almost literally threw myself upon my companion.

“You save me, Priest!” I said. “I’m dead, really really dead. I’ve been nailed to a chair for a week. Look at this, I bring you the hat. Shinier than a nail-pincher’s shoe!”

The Priest laughed, accepting the exchange: I took my cap, and he took his hat.

“Let’s see, let’s see,” he said, looking me up and down. “Aren’t you too hot with so many coats on?”

I was indeed still wearing the two coats. In the mountains they had not been too much, but here… Understanding the implicit suggestion, I took off one of the coats and gave it to the Priest.

“Help yourself,” I said. “What did you do with yours?”

“Some isturbags reaped it from me,” he admitted. He made a vague gesture, as if to say, “Never mind”. Then he looked at me with keen curiosity. “Well, then? What happened?”

After glancing around the shop, I bit my lip and, through the glass of the door, gave the barber an apologetic pout. Without waiting for his reaction, I waved Rogan away and told him everything that was relatable without mentioning anything about necromancers or the undead. Although he was the friend I trusted the most, I had never resolved to say to him: hey, comrade, do you know I’m a necromancer? Because, that I was a gwak, a harmonist, a copper, a midget and hyperactive wizard, any gwak could accept that. But for me to play with dark magic… Sure, it sounded stupid, but I’d learned that these things weren’t told to just anyone. The problem was, Rogan wasn’t just anyone. He knew me well. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when he said:

“So, the ones of the chronicle went all the way to see an old hermit lost in the mountains, huh? Don’t worry,” he hurried to say, seeing me frown. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. It’s just that… I always knew that master you were talking about was a weird guy. He taught you how to do magic. Don’t say he didn’t. You healed Manras. And… you cured me. I remember, Sharpy. When I was in the hospital in the summer… I know you healed me.”

He paused for a moment, and as I said nothing, he huffed.

“That’s great, shyur. You should use everything you know to make money. Fix people up. You can do it better than any doctor.”

I gave him a mocking look.

“No way,” I protested. “I know a few things, but hardly any—”

“Right now, there’s an outbreak of the Cold One,” the Priest cut me off cheerfully. “We should go door to door. I’ll be the priest, and you’ll be the doctor. You save the dying patient, and if you don’t save him, I bless him. Look, I even have an altar boy,” he said playfully, patting Little Wolf’s head. “Trust me, Draen. We’d make a fortune!”

I laughed at the thought, but shook my head.

“I can’t.”

Rogan frowned, turned to the barber shop, and looked serious.

“I see. You’re going with your family, right?” He gave me a small, slightly forced smile. “Sounds like a good idea. I never had one… but, if I did, I’d do the same as you.”

I didn’t know where to put myself. I stirred and said:

“I don’t know what to do, Priest. Listen… If you want, I leg it with you right now. Anyway, the barber doesn’t even look at me—”

“Scaluftard,” Rogan cut me off mockingly. “Go and stay there for a few days at least. If the barber kicks you out, come back with us. If he hits you, come back with us. But don’t take the door just because your daddy isn’t looking at you: he’s working, how do you expect him to look at you?” He gave me a light shove. “Come on. Let me take care of Little Wolf. I’ll fly and go tell Manras and Dil that you’re back. That’ll cheer them up.”

I breathed in and nodded. Then I frowned.

“But Swift told me they were at the poorhouse.”

The Priest smiled broadly.

“At the vagrant children’s charity house. There, a seasoned gwak goes in and out as he pleases. If they didn’t come out yet, it’s because I told them not to.” At my puzzled look, he added, darker, lowering his tone, “You see, the Black Hawk is back in the Labyrinth, and he’s looking for his son.”

I looked confused.

“His son? Warok?”

“Manras, isturbag,” Rogan whispered. “Warok’s dead and buried. Anyway, anyway. I heard all about it from Sham, the tavern-keeper of The Drawer, about the Black Hawk. And I thought to myself: as soon as he hears about Swift and his band of sokwatas, he’ll send his henchmen to us right away. So I said to Manras: change your name and make a little isturbiade so that we can put you in the poorhouse. The flies got him, Dil went to see him to the station, he said he wanted to stay with ‘Nat’, and they sent them both to the poorhouse. And my hunch was right: two days later, a boy pretending to be a gwak came to spy on the whole Bivouac and prowl around our shelter. Finally, Swift got pissed and told him to go climb a tree. I bet my hat he was looking for a little dark elf.”

I swallowed the whole story with difficulty. I couldn’t imagine the Black Hawk looking for Manras. He was his son, all right, but he had never treated him as such. And, in fact, he’d seen him so few times that maybe he wouldn’t even recognize him. So even if he went to the hospice to look for him, he wouldn’t be able to find him if Manras kept pretending to be someone else.

I shook my head, absorbed in thought.

“And Swift… Why didn’t Swift tell me any of this?”

Rogan looked embarrassed.

“It’s just… I didn’t tell him.”

I gave him a surprised look.

“But… Swift doesn’t spill,” I protested.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rogan assured. “It’s just… you know how I am. For me, the gangs… and Swift…” He shrugged. “Bah. I’ll tell him, don’t worry. You go to the barber. By the way, I see you’ve already been deloused and all. You stink of vinegar.”

I smiled and nodded.

“Little Wolf too. It’s more effective than the delousing Ragok does to us. If you could see the barber the way he handles razors and snipes! A real juggler, I swear. Alright. I’ll be off. But you’ll let me know what happens, right? Say ayo to Manras and Dil for me. Hey, can you stop by my cousin’s house? Just… to tell him I’m back and I’m good. Please.”

Rogan rolled his eyes and reached for his hat.

“The Swallow at your service, mister barber.”

We smiled, I said goodbye to Little Wolf, and trotting backwards, I let out:

“Ayo, comrade!”

I entered the barber’s shop just as the customer was about to leave. I almost hit him, but I jumped to my right at the last moment.

“My bad, sir!” I apologized very politely.

The nail-pincher glanced at me with a frown before leaving quickly. As soon as the door closed, the barber let out a long sigh.

“If I applied to the letter what I told you just now, I should lock you in the storeroom, you know?” He paused, and I watched him, anxiously, and he said, “But I don’t suppose you’ll learn to become a better person by being locked up.”

I arched my eyebrows in hope and amazement. Did that mean he wasn’t going to lock me up? The clock struck six in the afternoon. I glanced outside. The sky was cloudy and beginning to darken. Silently the barber closed the shop, drew the curtains, and said to me:

“Grab your bag and follow me.”

He led me into the dining room, where he sat at one end of the table and drummed on it before shaking his head decisively.

“Well. Sit down and let’s talk straight, boy. If you really want to live under this roof, you’re going to have to meet the standards. If you want me to acknowledge you as my son, you’re going to have to make a lot of effort.”

He let his words hang in the air for a moment and then said:

“This is a dignified house, my boy. We are not rich, we are foreigners, but we have dignity and a reputation as honest people. My business depends on it. Therefore, I can’t let one of my sons stray in this way and hang out with the worst kind of people in town. Unless he decides to change his family name permanently. But I hope that won’t be the case. I’ve already lost other children. I do not wish to lose another. So…” He clasped his hands together on the table, and with his eyes locked on mine, he concluded, “What I ask of you… What your mother and I ask of you, Ashig, is that you trust us. You hardly know us, you may not even remember me, but I’m sure that if you make an effort and trust us, even if our decision seems unpleasant to you right away, later on you will be grateful.”

His speech left me with a dull fear in my stomach. What worried me the most was the “our decision”. Little by little, I had the impression that a huge spider was beginning to chain me with its threads. And I said to myself: leg it. Leg it before they lock you up in a hole!

Yet I held back the urge to get up and asked:

“What decision?”

The barber looked at me as if wondering, “Is there any point in all that I am saying to this boy, this gwak corrupted by vice?” He cleared his throat.

“I’ll let you know when the time comes,” he said. “For now, I just ask you to obey me. A son learns to obey his parents. We agree on that, right?” I nodded without taking my eyes off him. “Good. And I suppose that, if you came here, it’s because you’re willing to obey me.”

I nodded vigorously.

“Yes, sir.”

He seemed to be pleased with my answer.

“Good. Then listen. If I hear, under my roof, a single word out of the slums’ jargon: I will punish you. If you disrespect me, your mother, or your elders, I will punish you. If you go away, don’t bother coming back. Do we understand each other?”

I nodded again, not quite sure I understood all these rules. After an appraising silence, the barber finished:

“And now empty your pockets and that bag. I don’t want any nasty surprises.”

I did as he asked without flinching. He even searched me, though with an embarrassed look on his face, as if the scene seemed ridiculous to him though necessary. He did not find my knife, for I had forgotten to take it out of the coat I had given to Rogan. In the bag, however, he found another knife and my remaining provisions, lentils and rice, and… I heard him gasp as he pulled out two white gold coins.

“Are those… crowns?”

I looked at them, as amazed as he was. I didn’t remember putting any crowns in my bag. Was it the hobbits? Dalto? Or did a comrade put them there before I left Estergat? Unless my memory was as bad as my master’s and I put them there myself. In any case, I took the opportunity and said cheerfully:

“It’s for you and for the family.”

The barber looked at me with a look which was more of confusion than of joy. He went to sit down again, looking at the two coins almost anxiously, and he had just opened his mouth when the sound of a key in the lock was heard and a hubbub of voices flooded the shop. There followed a chaotic:

“Hello, Dad!”

The dining room, dark and silent, suddenly became a bright and lively home. Mili, the six-year-old girl, was jumping up and down, pointing to some gift Uncle Markyr had given her, and Nat was trying to take it away from her… The first to notice my presence was Samfen, who gave me an incredulous expression.

“Ashig?”

As soon as my brother said the magic name, all eyes turned to me. The dining room became quiet. Mili asked:

“Mom? Who is it?”

“It’s the gwak brother,” ten-year-old Sarova replied.

He whispered, but all heard him, including me. Samfen clicked his tongue in irritation and muttered something in his ear, to which Sarova replied with an expression which meant: “What’s the matter, isturbag, I’m just calling a cat a cat”. Yalma, the lady, looked at me with alarmed eyes.

“Spirits. What has he done now?” she worried.

Sitting at the table, the barber cleared his throat, and I saw him hide the two crowns in a pocket while calmly answering:

“Nothing, as far as I know. Ashig is going to stay for a few days on probation. That’s all.”

Sarova opened his eyes wide.

“Is he going to sleep with us?”

He did not seem too pleased. The lady intervened in a decided voice:

“He’ll sleep in Skrindwar’s bed, with Samfen. Warm up the food, will you, Sam? Be welcome, Ashig,” she added.

Her tone seemed sincere, and she even smiled a little, but her eyes betrayed a mistrust that was perhaps well deserved. I answered in a courteous tone:

“Ayo, ma’am.”

“You say ‘hello’ or ‘good evening’, not ‘ayo’,” the barber corrected me with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes, looking tired, and inquired: “How is Markyr?”

As Xella busied herself with taking the coats off the little ones, the lady answered, but she did so in the language of the valley, and with such naturalness that I understood that not only was she accustomed to speak in that language more than in Drionsan, but that all understood her but me. The language had strange tones. If Drionsan was a language with simple sounds that tended to be noisy, the language of the valley whispered like a gentle river full of “chkldehledekele”. Something like that. I stopped listening to it when Samfen quickly approached me.

“Why didn’t you show up that day?” he whispered to me.

I followed him to the stove and saw him light the fire and put the pot on. As he lifted the lid, a delicious smell came over me. It made my mouth water.

“I had to leg it,” I explained in a low voice. I stretched my neck toward the pot, curious. “Is that soup? It looks beastly,” I smiled. I wasn’t saying this so much because of the way it looked, but rather because of the smell and, more importantly, because I was hungry as hell. After making sure that the barber, the lady, and the little siblings were busy, I said, “By the way. In the end, did I win the bet?”

Samfen rolled his eyes as he turned the soup with a ladle.

“Well… That day they left me alone,” he assured.

I could tell by his tone of voice that his classmates from the Elms were still harassing him. This irritated me more than I thought it would. I spat:

“What a bunch of isturbags. Hey, brother. Did you even try to mix it up with them?”

“Mix it-what?” Samfen repeated without understanding.

“To tangle with that Marg. To beat him up.” And as I saw that he was about to tell me that these were no ways to fix a problem like that, I sighed and whispered to him in a tone of confidence: “Look, I’ll tell you something. One time, a long time ago, some uppity brats almost as nail-pincher as those of the Elms trapped me like a rabbit. I could have stayed there without doing anything, but then, the next day, when they left the school, they would have put my newspapers on the floor again and, like that, it would have never ended. So, blasthell, I manned up, I threw a punch at the one who looked like the kap, bit him, jumped away, and took off like an arrow. And,” I laughed, “the next day, when they came out of the school, I hit them with stones with some friends. Imagine that. They didn’t dare look at me anymore, those sons of…”

I fell silent as soon as I realized that I had not only raised my voice, but that the barber, the lady, Xella, and the children were staring at me. The former stood up, and as he approached, he lectured me in a stern voice:

“I said no foul language. Make up your mind, kid: you hold your tongue until tomorrow or I’ll lock you in the storeroom. I mean it. If you open your mouth for anything other than food, you go to the storeroom. You’re lucky I don’t pull out the belt.”

His voice was authoritative. I bit my lips eloquently to show him my decision. Samfen barely suppressed his smile, and the barber glared at him.

“You take care of the soup, Samfen. It’s burning. Set an example for your brother and make sure he doesn’t fill your ears with bad words. You don’t want the younger ones to get carried away.”

Samfen nodded gravely. And so my chattering ended. Between the rather silent journey in the coach, the afternoon spent in silence in the shop, and the silent night ahead, I was going to go mad. In spite of everything, I acted like Little Wolf throughout the meal, silent, polite, almost invisible. The hot soup, though clear, was a treat, and as I swallowed it, I watched my siblings curiously. Only six were there. The glassmaker was absent: as I understood it, he was now sleeping in the workshop and barely had time to come to the shop. On my left was Xella, the florist, already dressed as a lady. She smelled of flowers. Sitting in front of me, Mili and Sarova were staring at me openly. The little girl made comical faces at me to make me answer her—which I did, to her great delight, whenever the barber and the lady weren’t looking; on the other hand, Sarova was watching me as he would a rival and an intruder. Who knows what was going through his head? In any case, I did not say a word, and when they all retired to their rooms, I was the only one who did not say “good night”. They put me, as promised, in the glassmaker’s bed, where Samfen now slept also. The mattress was not as comfortable as the one in the inn in Lysentam, and I almost told my brother so, to brag a little about my adventures around the world more than anything else, but I remembered the punishment in time and kept my lips sealed. Sarova was sleeping in the same room, along with little Nat: sure he would have tattled.

In the relative silence of the night, I pricked up my ears and listened to their breaths. There were murmurs of voices in the room of the barber and the lady. How strange, I thought suddenly. How strange it was to sleep under the roof of one’s own family, surrounded by siblings whom I hardly knew, but siblings nonetheless. Blasthell, yes, how strange it was, how strange, I repeated to myself. And all I had to do to stay here was to learn to speak like them, to respect them, and obey the barber!

Slowly, a long time after my brothers had fallen asleep, I slipped out of the covers, went to the window, and sat on the sill against the glass. The rooms were on the first floor, and from there one could see a part of the Avenue which was still busy. The sky was visible, too, but perhaps because of the clouds or the lighting the stars were not visible. I put my mortic hand on Azlaria’s amulet. I examined it. The tracing was so well concealed that, had I not known it was a magara, I could not have guessed. I sighed silently. I had been waiting for two weeks for my master to send me this “little mortic shock” to inform me that his own amulet had been repaired. And nothing, I still hadn’t felt anything.

It will come, I said to myself confidently, stroking the amulet. It will come.