“Stupidity and obliviousness is no excuse for complicity,” said Avesta.

Petyr was so focused on considering how to deal with her that the sentence breaking the silence just caused him bafflement. “What?”

She crossed her arms as she glared down at him. “I believe there is a chance that you may be telling the truth. That you might not actually know what it is your father does, who he really is. But I see no reason why that should excluse you from any responsibility. You’ve benefited from what he’s done.”

This was actual torture. Petyr couldn’t listen to it anymore. How many times had he said the same thing to her over and over? And yet she kept going…

“And what proof do you have of any of this?” he said, barely able to hide his annoyance. “Just words?”

Avesta went over to sit on the tree tunk, looking strangely sad. “It seems the light of reason does not reach all corners of the world.”

“So you have no evidence."

What a surprise. After all, if she had anything at all to go on, why wouldn’t she have produced it to begin with?

“You could reason your way to the truth if you wanted to. Alas, you do not.”

“Okay, tell me. Make me see your way. Because I swear, if you’re telling the truth, I’ll help you in any way I can.”

The words were thrown out there thoughtlessly in the heat of the moment. Help her? All he wanted to do was strip her of that strange bodysuit she wore, tie her up, and then grab the biggest stick he could find to exact justice.

You cut off a piece of me, he thought, his rage still burning deep in his heart despite his beaten-down attitude. Don’t think I’ll forget that. Ever.

But Avesta, who must not have expected she might find an ally here, least of all in him, perked up at the offer. “Do you mean that?” she said, her eyes widening. “That you will help me?”

Petyr forced himself to smile amicably. “In any way can.”

She nodded. “Very well… Petyr.”

It was the first time she had used his name, and Petyr was surprised that she knew it. Then again, if she had stalked his home, which must’ve included his movements as well, at least in part. Who knows what she might’ve seen or overheard?

“Think about it this way,” she said. “Windust is truly destitute. There is nothing to do here, and barely anything to steal. The farmers here waste away, laboring in inhuman conditions just to make it by another year, another day.

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“And yet, Windust is full of bandits. Have you never asked yourself, what do these bandits do? You may be naive to understand this, but lowlife thugs can only be found in places that offer ample opportunity.

“Windust is such a place. Though it is isolated and impoverished, it is also ungoverned. There are no restrictions here on what one might do, which gives these bandits a lot of leeway in how to approach their dealings. They can opera in broad daylight, at a large scale, without fear of reprissal. Are you beginning to understand?"

Petyr shrugged as he lay cuffed against the tree. “I guess. But there’s one thing you don’t understand—theories aren’t evidence. If you’ve known any liars, you’ll know they can be pretty damn convincing.”

“Your father does not sell tonics and perfumes, because there is no one here who would buy enough of them. And what do you think all these bandits do? By my counting, there must be a minimum of three dozen of them. Do you imagine that these men are all surviving on the paltry profit made by selling a small alchemist’s wares?”

Petyr wanted to dismiss what he was hearing. Strangely enough, though, the words did strike at a lingering suspicion deeply buried inside of him. At long last, what she was saying resonated, at least somewhat...

It was true, there were a lot of bandits around Windust, and he himself had wondered at times what they all did and why they were here. As she said, most farmers were desperate people who all had stories of making food out of dirt—literal dirt—back when the awful droughts hit that led to the rebellion. Many others just starved.

So, yes, it an interesting thing to ponder. What were all these bandits doing here? Sure, they might’ve been able to beat up the farmers and intimidate them, but what did they really get out of that, in the end? Not like hitting a farmer caused gold coins to drop.

Petyr always assumed that the tavern and the other places they had control over generated a hefty profit. Then again, if he was to be completely honest with himself, most of the people that came to the tavern and took advatange of its services were mostly other bandits.

Their supposed leader, Anders, was a man so elusive that Petyr himself hadn't laid eyes on him in all his time living in Windust. In fact, he assumed Anders just made up by Nik, a way of getting effortless authority from on high, just like cultists did with made-up deities.

“Imagine, however,” Avesta went on, “if there were something you could safely produce here and nowhere else.”

Petyr's eyes lit up. “Hushslag!”

Avesta laughed earnestly. It was a cute laugh... “You truly are a naive boy, aren’t you? Hushslag is of no importance. It does not take an actual alchemist to create such a cheap, dirty brew. Poison, really.”

That… also made sense. Only the poorest he knew used hushslag. At this point, Petyr was hooked on her words. “Then what?”

Avesta noticed his interest and arched a brow, hinting at hidden knowledge. “Drugs that require a certain amount of expertise. Drugs that can be sold for much more than a few coins. Drugs that the creation of which is strictly forbidden in most places.”

Petyr’s blinked thoughtfully. “Except here.”

“Correct. Which is why a place like Windust is a curse upon those who want to be honest and toil the land, but a goldmine for those who wish to carry out nefarious deeds in secret.”

It did make sense. But did that make it true? If it was, how did he fail to notice for all these years?

Am I actually dumb? Petyr wondered.

“And my father…”

“Is key to their operation,” said Avesta.