She encountered the young master at the hallway. “Entertain the man for a minute,” he told her. “Don’t pout. I’ll only get the ninety silvers he asked for.”

When Pria returned to the parlor, he found the merchant staring at the ceiling. “This is an old home,” he said. “It needs repairs. How many nails will you need? Wood is plentiful, but you’ll need a proper lumberjack or risk destroying the manor. A dozen slaves, perhaps. Two months' work for mortals, and only a week for cultivators.”

He craned his head, and a sliver of a smile escaped his lips. They stared at each other for a momentary empathy. Then, wordlessly, he stood up, walked around the table, gutted his throat for a phlegm, then spat on the tea.

“Cultivators,” he said, shrugging as he returned to his seat. He looked at her. Softly, almost a whisper, “They walk the earth on unstained sandals expecting mortals to kiss their feet like pigs for a drop of silver.”

Pria Summerborn bowed. It was not far from the truth.

“Where are you from, girl?” He asked, and he seemed to leer at her from head to toe.

“South. I served at High Lotus.”

“At the old crow! Does she still croak?”

She gave a nod.

He sipped his tea. “It’s a blessing to know that the witch still drinks gold from her whores. Pretty as the tea maidens were, they were exceptionally young and fair. I should take a visit once I’m free of this prison.”

“My sisters will not disappoint,” she said respectfully.

He stared at her. “It makes a man curious as to how a tea maiden threw away her robes and changed to that grey rags out up here in the north.”

“I am often told that my frugality is as sweet as gold.”

“Is it? Up here, you might as well dig yourself a hole in the garden and carve your name on a rock.”

“I should invite you to take a shovel and dig a hole next to my grave with me,” she said, smiling. “Don’t you know? The cultivator spits, and the mortals give thanks to the heavens.”

“Never a truer word.”

From the distance, the voice of the cultivator echoed her name, calling for her. She bowed to the man. “Your mischiefs will bite you, merchant. Aren’t you afraid of karma?”

“Pretty and young,” he drawled. “But not intelligent enough. The heavens don’t meddle in the affairs of mortals, servant. Only cultivators.” But her comment seemed to strike him, and he fished something from his pocket. “Treat yourself to whatever herbs or concoctions you women buy.”

A glint of silver coin. She took it and it disappeared within her robes. “I’m certain the heaven will favor you for your act of selfless philanthropy.”

“Karma,” he said. “If only it were true.”

She left, and eventually she found the cultivator through the open slit of his room. When she opened the door, he pointed to the broken lock of the wardrobe.

“This is getting interesting,” he said. “A broken lock. Footprints. Outside are two pairs of sandal marks. They were rushing, weren’t they? But I don’t lock the wardrobe, and I saw you leave the room a few minutes ago.”

“Your martial arts must be valuable to cultivators, young master.”

“If they wanted to get their hands on it, they could’ve asked. It’s a good thing they haven’t stolen anything.” He opened the wardrobe and revealed the false bottom.

“What am I needed for here?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“I wanted to ask about those two cultivators. Do you think they’ll attack us if I refuse to buy the slave?”

“The merchant wears ornate clothes, fancy enough to attract attention. He’s a mortal who has cultivators at his beck and call, and the confidence to come here, with only two cultivators, a carriage, and nothing else. That speaks to his experience. And if he is foolish, cultivators will have stripped him off his silvers and thrown his bones to the dogs.”

“And yet they chose to serve him.” Pria stared at him as he contemplated. Finally, he said, “I wasn’t the best person for you to have served under, was I?”

She thought about it. “I’ve been through worse.”

“If that’s your way of showing comfort, I’ll strive to appreciate it. Regardless, I hope I can atone for my cruelty in some form. You need but say the word. After all, I’ll refuse the merchandise on the account of my dignity.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and let the silence hang between them. “The tea,” she said, and licked her lips. “It’s losing its heat.”

He gave a nod. He started to leave when she continued.

“It’ll create discourse,” she said.

“I’ll make it up as I go.”

“If you want my forgiveness,” she found herself saying. “Buy the slave, and then free her. Make her choose the future she wants for herself. Whether to return to the Central or to stay here. You’ll have lost ninety silvers, but we won’t be at risk of being attacked, and the weight of conscience won’t bear on you. Besides, what use is silvers when I can hunt food for us?”

“Hm.” He turned to her, and his eyes felt like they were trying to arrange the pieces together. “You’re smarter than I thought you were.”

The ninety silvers were hidden on a false bottom. While she counted with him, she started to wonder, at the back of her mind, if this was a trap. He was a cultivator, after all. She still remembered the pain when the man grabbed her by the neck and suffocated her. She had been in the service of many cultivators back in the south, and they were not commendable.

When they arrived here, Lahrs Sarnasia had the bright idea of forcing her to sleep on the hard floor with a single blanket. It was his idea of conditioning her body to be a cultivator. Since there were only two of them, he had said, she might as well learn to defend him, now that he was without guards.

She cleaned the roofs off snow regularly, hunted for him, gathered firewood, washed his clothes. Every time it rained, she would toil herself to prevent a flood, carrying her bucket and rags and taking it one room at a time.

Now, he felt like a different person. He stopped meditating. He never picked up a sword, and when he did, it was for this “secret” Sarnasia martial art, whatever that was.

If this was truly a trap, then she was falling for it. Lahrs Sarnasia was hot-tempered, and easily provoked. If she could somehow draw out that man behind this façade, then she’ll be able to tell if this was all a deliberate act.

After all, he was a cultivator. And they treat mortals as lesser beings, even if they themselves were mortals once.

----------------------------------------

KAL SORVENN

“Have I made you wait too long?” He asked, and picked up the tea he left.

“Cultivators possess a different sense of time as we mortals do,” the merchant said.

Kal had never owned a slave. It hadn’t been necessary, when household aspects and avatars formed the majority of the republic. That strange culture of owning another being was entirely foreign to him.

Kal raised the tea to his lips. The man was smiling, staring at him. “Is there something on my face?” Kal asked.

He shrugged, stood up, and bowed. “I’ll deliver the tea to the Young Master. The carriage must be soaked with snow.

Kal frowned. “Good.”

He was about to sip on his tea, and the man was about to leave, when he heard footsteps rush to the guest room. The servant Pria Summerborn slid the doorway open with a crash. She was without expression.

She turned to him. “Young Master,” she said. “Have you drunk from the tea?”

“I was about to.”

She was carrying a platter of tea set. “I’d advise against it.” She placed the platter on the table, poured a new one on the teacup, and took his from his hand. “See? It lost its heat. That is not good. I shall replace it.”

“Wonderful.”

He turned to the merchant, who stood there watching the interaction. “The merchandise,” Kal reminded him. “Unless you mean to offer me more pots and pans?”

He had made it clear he had no interest in the potteries brought to him, and the man was quick to notice that.

The man looked at him, slightly trembling. “Excuse me. Your servant captivated me for a moment. I’ve learned that she worked at High Lotus.”

“She said that?”

“Oh, yes. Respectable establishment. Quite loyal. Dangerously so. Have you seen those wonderful women? If you’ll allow me to be prudent, they as look captivatingly beautiful as cultivators, almost as if they betray their mortal roots. It is true. Being a cultivator, I’m certain the young master would agree.”

It was Pria Summerborn who replied. “I am honored. Would I have the means to travel far,” she glanced at Kal, then turned back to the merchant. “But I’m afraid I’m easily charmed, and I have a habit of making a fool of myself. I’d have been tricked by a stranger at first conversation.”

The merchant stomped off outside. Kal was enjoying this new hot tea. Somehow, it tasted much better than the previous one, which was too bitter he could have gagged.

“The tea’s sweeter,” he said.

“I replaced the old ones.”

“Is that so?” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

She bowed. Together, they shared a momentary, peaceful moment, leaving words unspoken.