Chapter 18: Winding Stairs
The thing about adventures is they come to an end, eventually. That moment of conclusion, when the dust settles and it’s time to part ways. When you realize the people you traveled with won’t be with you anymore.
It stung in ways he wasn’t expecting.
Dantes stood at the prow observing the lone mountain rising in the distance. Even this far away, he could see spires of glass jutting vertical towards the heavens, in defiance or as a threat, he couldn’t say. A glass cloud encircled the central pinnacle spire near the top, though it did not seem to be attached. He would inspect it again when they got closer.
A gull let loose a shrill cry from above, as if announcing their arrival.
He heard they had lots of different meats here, not just the fish largely found along the coast. Not that he hated fish, but he hadn’t seen any real meat for weeks now. It was a shame they’d had to leave Esthar when they did; Esthar cuisine was famous for utilizing a wide array of different spices, and he was worried the cuisines of other cultures would be bland in comparison.
Of course Mitts would cook something delicious no matter where, but she usually cooked only once a day, and then only if she felt like it. Perhaps he aught to learn a little. It would not hurt, surely…
It struck him then, that he needed a purpose. A reason to be. Something beyond his current goal of “eat all the food”. It was a very human emotion, and one he was not entirely comfortable with. Was his current goal insufficient? Why did he need a reason to travel the world and eat new food?
It seems freedom is not so simple as I’d thought.
There were more gulls now escorting them to shore as the mountain rose higher and higher on the horizon, the peak only just starting to taper.
Eager to be free of those thoughts, he examined the birds. They were mostly black with red highlights, and were rather small compared to other sea birds he’d seen, enough he felt he could probably fit a pair in his hand with room to spare, but their wings were long and angular.
“Gliders, they call them. A relative of the crow.”
He nearly jumped at the voice as Captain Crow strode silently up next to him. The man was like a wraith sometimes.
Taking his silence as consent he continued.
“There are lots of birds who call Windcrown home. Not so many as the Howling Cliffs across the Mouth, but more than elsewhere in the world.”
“…Why’s that?” The conversation was a nice break from his earlier thoughts.
“The wizards say its because the mountain empowers air magic” he said while pulling out a pipe. “But I hear harpies built the place, so maybe it’s something to do with that. Smoke?”
Crow was holding something acrid smelling in his proffered hand.
“No thank you. What’s a harpy?” He held himself back from wrinkling his nose.
The older man hummed and withdrew a feather from his hat that glowed slightly orange. “Eh, some manner of bird folk that lived here a long time ago. You won’t see any around nowadays.”
They stood, leaning against the prow a while longer in silence, watching the mountain slowly reveal itself. He thought he could see a light in the central tower, but it was hard to tell with the sun out.
“You’re sure you want to leave Dantes? You’ve proved a quick hand at learning the craft, and I would make it worth your while. I pay my crew well.”
He glanced sidelong at the man who was still facing the mountain, puffing cloudy streams of grey that were snatched away by the wind. “I want to see the world. Taste what there is to taste.”
“Is that your goal? You can achieve that with us.”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s a start. I need to lead my own path. I know that at least.”
The captain half smiled, seeming older now, despite his barely wrinkled face, and jet black hair. “Well, when the horizon calls, there’s naught to do but respond. You’ll always have a place with us here. You and your girlfriend.” The man’s eyes glinted with mischief in the morning sun.
He had nothing to say to that which he felt needed saying, and so silence between them reigned until the captain left to take the wheel from Sparrow on the approach.
***
He stood before the gangplank, not hesitant, but thoughtful. It would not technically be goodbye, as Mitts had informed him in her own charming, irreverent way before slipping off to do who knows what. Tonight, they had dinner at Rowan’s house where traditional western food would be served. After that, the Spitfire was to stay moored at least a week before true goodbyes needed to be tendered. Nonetheless, these would be the final steps on his first adventure. Or perhaps the first steps on his second.
Deciding there would be no better time, he set his feet on shore for the first time in almost a week. As he’d experienced previously, the solid ground seemed to sway a bit under him, and then doubly so as he looked up to behold the city proper.
It felt an injustice not to take in the palace first, its glass spires piercing daggers skyward. He counted them: six in all, plus the central one that eclipsed its surrounding brothers. The buildings up near the peak were also of the same crystalline substance, but going down the mountain, the architecture quickly turned to sturdy and squat stone dwellings with thatched roofs. It was past noon, and the sun was just starting to pass the tip of the central spire, sending a shallow, yet iridescent darkness onto the houses below.
Around the central peak, a ring of glass floated, unattached in the air, sparkling in the mid-morning sun.
He looked at the note Mitty had given him when telling him of dinner plans.
Fawkes’ House, lower sky district. That’s near the top if you couldn’t tell.
-Mitty
He eyed the stairs. That was a lot of stairs. They populated the side of the mountain, scattered here and there like they were sprinkled on as an afterthought.
The crowd was sparse in the streets this time of day, so finding a guard was not too difficult. They wore a white uniform with a silver feather emblem on the back. This guard was redder than the others. Humans truly came in all colors.
“Hi there” he started. “How do you get to the top?”
The guard gave him an irritated look, as though he’d just stepped in a puddle wearing fresh socks. “You ever hear of stairs? Those things over there? I take it they don’t exist from whichever swamp you pulled yourself fr- *hic* -om.”
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The man spoke strangely, like each word had to lead into the next, no matter how incompatible they were. Nonetheless, his message was clear, if somewhat rudely delivered, so he started climbing the staircases winding up the side of the mountain.
***
Climbing stairs was somewhat meditative, in a thigh and calf burning sort of way. More than once he found a bench or outlook to look down on the city below and rest.
He found the nippy wind that blew down the mountainside didn’t bother him so much as clear his thoughts. Birds of all color, shape and size flew this way or that. His favorite was a small grey, round bird, near spherical, that mostly seemed to hide in the thatched roofs. He’d counted a few dozen already sitting on this outlook. Overhead a girl glided down the mountain on a colorful triangular cloth before landing on an outlook he’d visited almost an hour earlier.
Sometimes he found himself on a main street, lined with shops and these weird metal tubes of diverse sizes that traveled near vertical up the mountain. He sometimes saw people putting wrapped packages into a compartment in those pipes before closing it again. He’d checked one himself, and found it empty, save a strong wind blowing up. There were bigger ones too, which he occasionally encountered.
More often he found himself on dirt pathways between staircases with the squat stone houses on one side and open water that spanned infinity on the other side.
And so, he walked and climbed and rested, and occasionally snacked at a stall when he got to a main street. And like this, the noontime sun slowly waned westwards, towards the open ocean.
He was still counting those little spherical birds, noticing a little nest spun into the side of a house, when he heard wood on wood, and shouting. Which would not be a unique experience, but the sounds had a certain rhythm. Shout, thwack. Shout, thwack. It was coming from a somewhat larger house with a big open entryway instead of a door. Above the entry were large red symbols that spelt “Tsumuji’s School of Swordplay”
“HEAD! *thwack*, LEGS! *thwack*, SIDE! *thwack* Alright boys, take a break, we’ve got a guest.”
“YES SENSEI!” was the chorused response.
Without realizing it, he had wandered through the open doorway into what appeared to be a lesson full of rather grateful-looking boys in their young teens. As they dispersed into groups, he noticed they each had a sword looped through a white sash.
He also noticed an old man with long white hair looking at him questioningly. “What brings you here, stranger?” he asked.
He also noticed a wooden sword on the ground in front of the man, though it seemed more dangerous respective to him than the boys. Despite his apparent age, this man felt sharp.
“Oh, I must have wandered in by mistake. Sorry about that.”
The man smiled kindly. “Perhaps you did not mean to, but your presence here does not feel like a mistake. This old man has seen many things, but never have I felt encountering a new friend to be a mistake. All meetings happen for a reason, stranger” he said kindly.
“Oh. I’m Dantes.”
“Most call me old man Tsu, or sensei. Now, is there anything I can do for you, Dantes?”
“I don’t know. What do you do here? I mean, presumable you teach swordplay, but the closest thing to a weapon I’ve held would be a stick.” He gestured at the forearm length of beachwood white stick he’d picked up that strange morning a week ago.
“Using a stick isn’t so different from what I’m teaching now” he responded, gesturing to the wooden sword in front of him, “but to answer your question: I teach those who wish to learn how to fight, so they might use it to live their lives freely. And twice a week I look after these boys while their parents are busy” he added with a chuckle.
Helping others live freely was a noble pursuit, though he felt the man had little to offer him. His arms were thin, and his build not particularly sturdy. Not weak looking, but Dantes felt he could probably lift the man carrying his greatest possible burden three times over. After all, fighting was just about who hit the other hardest and first. “That’s a worthy goal, but I already know how to fight, Tsumuji. I’m not sure you’d have much to teach me.”
The old man raised a bushy eyebrow at that. “If you truly feel that’s the case, I won’t force you. It does pain me to see good clay go unmolded though. Tell you what. Choose anyone in the room to duel. If you win, I’ll give you hmmm… say 5 golden loons.” The man amended, noticing his confusion: “That’s about 4 cards in Esthar’s currency, if you’re familiar.”
Dantes felt a little taken aback at that. Hopefully the man wasn’t offended he’d implied himself stronger. Nonetheless, 4 cards was… quite a lot of food. “I’d feel bad taking your money for fighting a kid, so you can choose my opponent.” Some of the older kids had the start of muscles that would one day fit in with those who work the docks or warehouses. “But what would you like if you win? I don’t have much to offer as a wager. Maybe half a card in sil.”
The man chuckled again. It seemed like something he did frequently. “How charitable of you. I’ve no need of your money. If I win, I want you to come here and train with me tonight after I’m done with the boys.”
“Okay” was all he had to say in response. If the man’s students were somehow stronger than him, he’d be interested in learning from him anyway, so it was a win-win for him. He almost felt bad for taking his money, though he’d probably let the wager drop to the price of a meal when he’d won. So about… 2 bits? Money conversions were not his strong suit, and he found the fact that every major power along the coast of the Red Sea having a unique currency endlessly annoying.
Tsumuji gestured to the boys to clear the ring in the center of the training gear they’d been using earlier. They all looked at Dantes eagerly, excited to find out what was happening.
He made his way into the ring, quickly doffing his shirt. He didn’t have a backup shirt, and it would be annoying to spend money on clothes rather than food if this one got ripped.
The braziers in the corner functioned as the hall’s sole light source as they lit the room in a warm flickering light, as by now, the sun was fully eclipsed by the mountainside. It flickered off his muscles in a way he found pleasing.
He saw some of the younger boys looked impressed, but the older ones whispered amongst themselves, smirking, casting glances in his direction every so often.
The loose circle of boys parted as their teacher rose from the pillow he’d been sitting on and walked into the ring, wooden sword tucked into his sash. The man bowed to him, receiving a nod in return. “You may strike first if you desire. Let it not be said this old man bullies those younger than him.”
Now that he thought of it, this would be his first fight… ever, really. Sure, when he was a pup, there had been some of it, but he’d never needed to enact any sort of violence. People usually avoided tangling with him in his experience. His mind turned back to the fight.
Ferocity, he knew, would be the best way to win. Just overwhelm the man with strength and weight, but though the senior was no twig, he didn’t seem very sturdy either. He’d feel bad if he hurt him.
Enough thoughts.
His blood sang in his ears as he stepped forwards. Something inside him urged him to pounce the man and tear into him relentlessly, but he pushed that aside. He rushed in and threw a straight, almost a jab. What he didn’t expect was the man to bend like grass in the wind to pass barely under his strike. No strikes from the man came in retaliation.
A left jab and two more punches of increasing strength yielded similar results, the man evading each like a leaf on the wind.
His hands are behind his back, he realized. They have been since the start.
“What use is strength if you cannot hit your opponent, young man? Are you going to waste my time with your sloppy punches, or use your weapon?”
He was right, he realized, and drew his stick, willing it to lengthen to a staff about his height. He sent a blistering strike to the man’s right side, sweeping his staff wide… only to be met with air.
He stepped forward aiming an overhead strike down towards the head, only to find his forward foot slipped forward, forcing him to one knee and throwing him off balance, and right into-
The old master was holding the tip of his wooden training sword against his neck. When he’d drawn it Dantes didn’t know. He gulped. He was outmatched, and he knew it. He’d underestimated the man. He didn’t even know how he lost, though he knew for certain that slip was no accident. And the way the man moved. Uncanny.
“Such impatience. Youngsters nowadays. Tut tut.” The white haired man seemed a little too pleased with himself at his victory. Making his way back to his raised seat overlooking the hall, Dantes noticed the area the man had stood was undisturbed. The man hadn’t so much as moved, and had defeated him soundly.
“How did you bend like that? And when I slipped, I didn’t even see you draw your sword” Dantes asked in wonder.
“Slipped, did you?” was his response, alongside a raised eyebrow. “Come by tonight, I’ll teach you a few things. You might consider taking the elevator next time? Until then, these boys have had enough of a break. BACK INTO BASIC TWO.”
“YES SENSEI!”
Dantes parted with the sounds that drew him in only a few minutes before. Was it really only a few minutes? It felt longer, but he could recall the conversation in its entirety, and it had been brief.
How had the man moved like that? The man bent like long grass in the wind at times, but also like lightning at others. Or did he even move that fast? He did not know. He’d missed it when he felt his leg go out from under him.
The lesson tonight would be interesting.
Also, what was an elevator?
Thinking of dinner at Rowan’s house, he supposed that would make for a full evening of interesting things.
A voice called out to him from up ahead.
“Dantes! Dantes! Look! This thing flies!”
Up ahead, he saw Mitty in one of the bigger tubes he’d seen scattered around the main streets. She was waving to him from a platform inside the tube, before a hollow *pop* sound, and she rocketed up, out of sight.
His calves burned at the sight.
HE COULD’VE SKIPPED THE WHOLE DAY OF CLIMBING STAIRS???