Kahlim’s story began slowly, his finger digging into the mud to trace a map. The desert here, a distant coastline there, connected by a long-dead river and split apart by a mountain range. He dabbed signs into the mud that meant nothing to me - names, not words.

“I was born in the city of Corsallat, along the old sea. They carved my body from the breaker rocks that tore ships asunder when they sailed too carelessly along the coast. Washed in salt, remembering barnacles and crabs growing on my back, I was made from the soul of my great-grandfather.”

“Corsallat, all must know, is a city of chains and lashes. Even their storms are stolen, mages reeling the rain in from distant skies like a fisherman catches a carp. It is the home of black-sailed ships that steal the world’s strong men and beautiful women and my parents were one such couple. I will not talk long of Corsallat, because there is not much good there. Flesh-sellers and cannibals strut in gold and the power to kill is prized. I was strong and full of violence and the fighting ring filled my young heart with pride in these things.”

The caravaneers sat sprawled on the grass, chewing honey-scented flowers and watching their companions bathing in the waters beyond. A lazy, happy spirit infected the scene, and an old man plucked long notes of vinegary bitterness from his chelys, an instrument like a harp but built around a base of hollow tortoiseshell.

In the distance Ramses had found his feet and was splashing at the children, the little stone-demons trying to grab hold of Shine-Catch and pull her from his back as he swam along, a mountain of blubber.

“In the end, I simply won too often. I became a prize bull, more useful for showing off than for labor. I grew heavy with wine and started to imagine I was a friend of my masters, because they allowed me to drink with them. I was not. There was a girl, and I overstepped the invisible cage by flirting with her.”

“They tied me to those same rocks I was born from, to be half-drowned each tide, again and again, and beaten against the stone by the waves. A slow death.”

The chelys hummed with stormsong, sharp little staccato trembles broken by great ringing peals of thunder. The children in the audience were rapt in their attention - the adults had clearly heard before, and were more interested in eating fruit and enjoying the day.

“The storm sent lightning down upon the far sea and between the flashes I saw a lantern weaving through the rocks. A crab-fisher, out collecting his traps, who took pity on me and unbound one hand. That was enough kindness for him. If he freed both, I might’ve stolen his boat.”

I didn’t doubt for a second he would have, too. The words lingered guiltily on his tongue.

“When I crawled onto the docks of Corsallat covered in sea-water, I was too afraid to even return to my parent’s house. The night on the rocks had thrashed the violence out of me. I didn’t even take a sword as I left for the fishing village my parents had been stolen from long ago.”

“I never did find the place they told me stories of. Only empty huts and old, old men. Other raiders had come and gone, taking the strongest each time, until there was nothing left but the oldest fisherman who could barely walk, only paddle their boats along and eat crabs.”

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“I kept walking. And walking. For a month or more I went wild, and thought I would walk until I died.”

“I was taken in by a caravan instead, given kindness I didn’t deserve, water I could not pay for. They saw my muscle and gave me good work as a guard too. For ten odd years I walked back and forth between great cities, saving my coin. I bought free as many as I could, and soon, I was leading my own caravan. Soon I knew family again, and laughter, and the memories of that night on the sea finally faded.”

He made a shape with his hand that indicated the story was done, and another for humility. Ignoring the obvious lie his youngest audience-members burst into applause, and immediately began asking about the wrong parts of the story - how many men he’d killed, and whether he’d ever fought a minotaur, no, a lizardman, no, a Lyssaian.

It was a good story for a man. It told me a little, mostly that the civilization that survived did so by slavery and theft. I think I could’ve guessed that. What I needed was more specific.

“And do your coins come from Corsallat? Your magics?”

He made the sign for answer a ridiculous question kindly. Again, I was struck by how hideously specific this language was.

“No, the coins are made by mages who answer to no-one. They are the last who remember how to fly and even you, great spirit, should stay out of their way. The Red-Crow Circle.” This time, the entire caravan made a very specific sign. ‘A name we would prefer not to speak.’

I waited for a moment, letting the bitterness in the air pass. A child slung a flat pebble across the waters and hooted in triumph as it skipped seven times. “And the stone around your neck? Did they make that?”

He was onto me - he knew exactly what I was angling for - and didn’t mind making it clear. He made the pose of ‘feigning innocence to a devilish question’ as he reclined and-

I was really beginning to wonder how this pose-language was taught.

“This? No. This is a treasure of the earth. For as long as it hangs around my neck, we will always have water to drink.”

“Mmm.” I gave him a moment. “But I can make water of my own, of course. More than that stone could in years.”

“This is true, and your generosity is without equal. But I can only carry so much water, while this stone, it fits in my pocket.” He played with it around his neck, turning the aquamarine gem back and forth as it slipped behind one finger and in front of the next, then backwards, zig-zagging around his hand.

“But I could make you a beast that could carry all the water you’d need and more.”

This brought them to a pause. Over the last little exchange, as we danced around the buying of the stone, the rest of the group had been faking distraction as they listened. Now I didn’t need one of their signs to see their surprise.

“Make a beast?”

“Mmhmm.” I put on my most infuriatingly smug tone. “Oh, it’s really nothing. Watch.”

There was a crackle of lights, and a bird flew through the sky, Mana-fires forming the last of the feathers even as it soared over them. Kahlim sat straight up, and with shaking hands made the entirely unnecessary sign for shock.

“See? I can make these things quite easily, and a beast of burden to serve you would be no trouble at all. I’d just want the stone and a few other things…”

I liked trading. Especially when I had my opponents awestruck by my godly power, staring about in complete bewilderment.

Slowly, he reached up and took the stone from his neck.

In the background Shine-Catch shrieked as the caravan children finally managed to clamber onto Ramses’ back and push her off.

“Friendly spirit.” Kahlim said. “If you can do this, I will pay stone and scar just to see the miracle.”

See? A good audience was so gratifying.