‘Fish don’t fear the current, even when it pushes them into the jaws of the gator. When the current pulls, go with it.’ – Proverb of the Plutash peoples of the southern deltas.
There is some controversy around the translation of this proverb, with arguments that it is satirical in nature, meant to mock wise elders that council patience to the young. Others disagree, and suggest it is simply our own biases that prevent us from seeing the wisdom in it. The River-Runners were a collective culture, and so the sacrifice of one to maintain the status quo is not inherently evil as we would see it. A single fish can save the shoal, and to disrupt the current would be to change the river itself – it is a call for patience, for stepping back and seeing the wider picture. A confirmation that acting in one’s own self-interest can be detrimental to the whole.
Considering that the tablet this proverb is traced from also contains several drawings of an oversized phallus with comically small testicles, I think it is safe to conclude the former interpretation is the correct one. Do not give the ancients credit they do not deserve – they were people just like us.
- Excerpt from ‘historiography and the dangers of revisionism’ by Scholar Rostruik.
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*Nathlan*
Nathlan knelt in the stiff grass, cursing to himself as another of the strangely spiky plants stabbed him in the back of the knee. How was that even possible? He was kneeling! The only thing stabbing the back of his knee should be his own calf.
He cursed aloud a moment later when he ran his hand down the thick cloak bunched around his knee and found nothing spikey at all. He heard Jorge’s low chuckle and glared daggers at the man, who for his part looked entirely unruffled by it.
“We’re in the steppes lad, best get used to a few prangs every now and again. Easier to cope if you stop trying to work out how and just accept it as fact.”
Nathlan held his gaze for a moment before standing up, dusting off his knees and deciding to squat above the tracks they were examining rather than risk the ire of the grasses again. He ignored Jorge’s raised eyebrow and focused, listening as the older man pointed out the particular details that he never would have placed significance on without prompting.
“…the grass here is depressed further than on the other side, Y’see?” Jorge asked, and Nathlan answered without thinking.
“Yes, but isn’t that to be expected? We know – based on what those traders told you – that he’s being carried in a cage with only two wheels, and it lacks the space to properly stretch out. He’d more than likely be leaning on one side or the other, rotating regularly to ensure blood flow and ameliorate the confinement as much as possible.”
Jorge nodded patiently, pointing with one finger close to the edge of one of the wheel-tracks. “Yep, but look here – see the weave of the grass? Thicker than elsewhere, and the same is true as far as I can see. The wheel is heading over a much thicker weave of grasses, and yet still its decompressed to this degree. What does that mean?”
“…that one side is bearing more weight? So, he’s leaning against one side, as I just said” Nathlan answered, confused as to where his mentor was going with this line of questioning.
Jorge sighed. “Aye lad, possibly, but that don’t seem too likely now when we consider what you just said about him regularly changing positions, right? If we assume it’s not related to misbalanced weight on the cart – and remember, the grass is thicker on this side for likely miles so it would have to be a big difference in weight to create the extra force needed to cause this decompression…”
Both men stared at each other, one expectant and hopeful, the other blank and uncomprehending. Jorge sighed again. “…then its likely due to the different forces pulling the cart. Two people pulling the cart, both with different strength, causing the imbalance. One is pulling harder to keep it aligned correctly as the other struggles to keep up. It’s like your brain just shuts off when it’s not related to magic, you know that son?”
Nathlan looked indignantly back at him and opened his mouth, “Not this again you old bast-“, but he cut off with a yelp. Leaping into the air and whirling around, he found Vera grinning with a pointy grass stalk in hand, withdrawing her hand from where it had jabbed out at him while he was distracted by Jorge’s stupid lessons. A few more rounds of squabbling ensured, but the lesson wrapped there for the day, even Jorge’s venerable patience fraying when confronted by Nathlan’s obstinate lack of affinity for anything not magic-related.
When sat around their campfire in the evening, the plains stretching out around them for miles unending, a more serious conversation took place.
“We know he is unlikely to be harmed. A hostage is no use if already dead, and we’ve seen no evidence of torture or significant injury in our hunt.” Vera said, seeking to reassure the worry Nathlan had expressed.
“Aye, but we don’t know for sure. We’ve not had a perfect line on them the whole way, and we wouldn’t necessarily expect to see evidence from the tracks alone.” Jorge countered.
Nathlan watched her lean forward across the fire and could almost imagine the flames in her eyes were from within rather than simply a reflection. “It’s Lamb, Jorge. If they hurt him, you know he’d make them pay for it.”
“Vera, I know you like the lad but he’s new to this, he not-“
“I know he wouldn’t win Jorge, I’m not a child. But he’d fucking hurt them, and we’d see some of that blood. He’d also leave a sign somehow – It wouldn’t be easy.”
Nathlan chimed in then; “As much as I want to agree with you Vera – and I do desperately hope you’re right – they’ve got an experienced one leading them. They’re not all desk-jockeys and cannon fodder. You saw the reports.”
She nodded but smiled slightly at that rather than be put off. “Yes, and you saw that safe-house same as me. Well organised – at least the part run by the Lions and not those Azlan fucks – run clean and straight to regulations I’d wager. That D’Sware scion is sure to be experienced, but that works in our favour. Never rough up a hostage before the first round of negotiations. They know I’d never be willing to trade if he was already brutalised – where would be the trust that we’d get him back?”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Nathlan pounced on the last part, circling back to an old conversation once more. “So we’re confident that they kidnapped him as a hostage to use against you? We’re running with that theory?”
Jorge leaned forwards to add another log to the fire, ostensibly poking and prodding at the existing ones to get the optimal position, although Nathlan secretly suspected he just liked hearing the pop and hiss of wax burning, and the dancing of the flames. “Yeah, we reckon that’s why. Only theory we got really. They cleared out as soon as they got him, left in a hurry too. Orders we could decode suggested they were looking for someone, and the fact it was such a light presence even in Colchet fits too with the idea they’ve got troops out all over – looking to cover a wider net.”
“But why go to such lengths? Why not try and take out Vera directly?” Nathlan asked, struggling to wrap his mind around the seemingly illogical plan of the Crimson Lions they were following.
“It ain’t that easy to just kill Vera lad, you know that. Besides, they don’t have enough 3rd tiers anywhere outside of the sunsets to send them all on suicidal missions. Its not like they haven’t lost two squads already in the attempt, as well as the Talons we killed back in the Unclaimed Peaks. They were likely to just wait and report back our movements so HQ could stage a better ambush. When they saw him separated, they just took the opportunity for what it was.”
Nathlan nodded, accepting the answer but still unable to ignore the twinging feeling that something was wrong with the explanation. He chased that feeling, following the web of logic and trying to look at each event in turn, to see what jumped out. The Lions had left Colchet quickly, which made sense either way, whether it was pre-planned or a spur-of-the-moment decision.
But they left so quickly. By the time Jorge and Nathlan had checked in with Sally and realised Lamb had been taken by somebody, the Lions were likely already out of the city. Vera had joined them only half a bell later at the inn, and they’d shared their news. They’d searched the city for a day and half, and as soon as Jorge’s information broker got them the location of the Crimson Lions’ safe house, they’d raided it within a bell.
They’d found it cleared out, only non-essentials left and most of the likely secret orders burned or destroyed somehow. What little was left had been decoded to the best of their ability and seemed to be low-level marching orders; ingratiate with the local criminal underground, keep an eye out for somebody or something – that bit was unclear as a bunch of documents were missing – and get out of dodge quickly if they found that someone or something.
It could make sense that they had just happened upon Lamb while going about their business, and somehow knew about his connection to Vera, and made a split-moment decision to kidnap him.
But then how had they cleared up and left so quickly? How did they have a portable cage just lying around? As a mercenary company operating a secret cell in a city far from their country, they were not likely to be in the business of transporting prisoners. They’d probably managed to slip out quickly due to the lack of city guard resource due to the ongoing incursion deep within the canyon, but that had only preceded Nathlan and his friend’s arrival by a few weeks. Surely they’d not been running a covert kidnapping campaign for long enough to warrant regular use of that cage?
He shook away the questions and focused on the moment, turning to Jorge. “So how old are those tracks we were following today?”
He sighed, scrubbing at his face as if to alleviate the bad news. “Two days at least, likely more like four though. Its hard to tell in the steppes, weather being what it is, but I’d expect we’re travelling quicker than they are, and I’d hope to close that gap within a day or two. Let’s get some rest, we’re up in 4 bells.”
With that, he clapped his hands against his thighs and groaned as he rose to his feet, heading to the bedroll laid out on the floor.
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They came upon the remains of a burnt camp, blood staining the trees and undergrowth, and bodies littering the floor. Most had been pecked clean, indicating it had been a day or two at the least since whatever calamity had befallen them.
Vera was wearing that smile she did whenever she considered the Crimson Lions – vicious and almost gleeful if he was being uncharitable, grimly satisfied if he was being generous. The truth was likely somewhere in between, but he couldn’t fault the woman for her spitefulness given her history. She kept it well under control, and he’d never seen her be actively cruel to anyone – a swift death was all she granted her enemies, at least in front of him. That was good enough for Nathlan.
Jorge picked his way through the camp, analysing and recreating a picture of what happened in his mind. It was impressive enough that he had smelled the carnage from such a distance – near enough 20 miles of open plains and he’d caught the scent, alerting them to what they would find when they arrived a couple of bells later. They’d obviously increased their pace, none of them needing to say it to know they were all worried that Lamb’s luck had finally run out.
The results seemed promising so far though. Lamb’s body wasn’t in evidence, the camp was destroyed and the shackles broken, and one of the captors already dead.
Jorge returned from his circuit after another stretch of time in which Nathlan rested, preparing his body for another pursuit through the hills. He’d always hated hill-running, but he knew Lamb. If the man was free, he’d head for the hills, sure as Nathlan himself would head for the back of the library – all the best scrolls were hidden in the dark corners at the back after all.
“Thoughts?” Vera asked as The Shepard wondered over, his overlapping broiled leather armour hissing softly with each movement.
“You were right, the little bastard’s slipped away. Looks like he made them pay too – that dead one looks to have been killed by a spear to the throat, clean strike too.” He puffed out his cheeks as he said it, not looking as satisfied as Nathlan would expect. Vera, of course, was grinning fiercely at that, slapping Jorge on the shoulder encouragingly.
“Anyhow, looks like the camp was attacked by shadow-wolves in fair numbers, a couple of 2nd tiers amongst them by my guess. There was a fight, Lamb slipped his shackles somehow and ran, and the others followed afterwards. Seems D’Sware and the two others with them were relatively unharmed, so most of the blood belongs to the wolves. There is sign of a fire that I think predates the attack though, so I’m not too sure what to make of it. Guess we’ll find out from the man himself when we catch up. Two days.”
The last was delivered quickly, in response to Vera questioning eyebrow. Nathlan had been travelling with the two for nearly two years now, and he was still amazed by how well they knew each other sometimes. It was easy to forget, with Jorge’s casual old man antics, and Vera’s focus on pottery, poetry and other unlikely arts, that both had been fighting and killing together for near enough a decade.
He shivered to think of facing either of them on the battlefield. Vera was obviously a monster, but he found it was Jorge that he dreaded the most. Something about the quiet, understated confidence, the economy of movement and the ease with which he navigated the world – despite his token groans and complaints – set alarm bells ringing as if a leviathan had been spotted and the great sea wards needed raising once more. It didn’t hurt that Vera seemed to regard him as a peer also.
Glad to have them onside I guess, he thought to himself, readying his legs for days of hard climbing. They exchanged a few more words, shouldered their weapons, and off they ran.