Chapter 4: The Eight Converge
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The enigmatic 'House of Iye'. I fear they play a larger role in all this than they suggest. Remember to be careful in all dealings with them. How does the saying go again? Ah yes.
'The House always wins.' - General Emmanuel, Varuun in Iye. Dated TUR 4826.
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Innnnnnnnnn. Annnnnnnnnnd. Outttttttttttttttttttttttttt.
Tarra exhaled as she folded over, braids falling overhead as she clasped her toes tightly. She mentally massaged the small burn in her left leg – a shameful mark of her negligence when a minor grunt slipped her guard and knifed her.
The mark irritated her – after all, she hadn’t become one of the greatest paladins by accepting silly mistakes – but the growing tension in her stomach was why she was stretching.
I did the right thing, she calmed herself. We couldn’t save them all.
These moments no longer haunted her – for by now, she had made far too many difficult decisions for any one to weigh so heavily – yet it bugged her all the same.
And so it was that the Paladin of Truth chose to stretch – finding balance in it like a ballerina gliding one-legged across a ballroom.
She hadn’t expected Iye to feel so difficult… so claustrophobic. Years passed since the cool breeze of the ocean wind blew across her face, and the golden sunlight shone through the broken windows of her hometown monastery, drowning her in a sea of warmth. Years had passed since she had felt anything except the whispers of haunted souls that propagated within this living tomb.
I did what I could, more than they could have asked for. But –
Tarra’s reverie was interrupted by the tent entrance flapping open: a petite young woman briskly striding in, shifting nervously on her feet like an energetic bird before standing to attention. She wore a gray uniform with a small flame patch sown over her left breast.
“Paladin Tarra! Please excuse my interruption. Captain Coriven requests your presence to begin the meeting.” The newcomer kept her voice steady – a wasted effort as Tarra could see her emotions form a halo around her soul.
“All right,” Tarra replied as she moved into a plank position. The officer stood and watched for a few moments before realizing Tarra was making no effort to follow.
“He requests immediate presence, my lady,” she eventually squaked.
Tarra groaned again, moving from plank to squat. “A request is simply that, a request. I am under no obligation to match his schedule. He can wait until I finish.”
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Coriven flickered a small light in one hand as he contemplated burning their meeting tent down to the ground amidst the bickering.
Where the fuck is that steel-plated bitch?
Group work had never been his forte – Coriven considered himself a ‘lone wolf’ type-a-guy. However, his time with the Valvashoth had taught him the basics, at least.
Such as listening. Communication. And, most importantly, not immediately incinerating a colleague for voicing their opinions.
That last part was always the trickiest. When he was king, one dared not suggest he inhibit his desires. Now, unfortunately…
“No.” MaRae hissed, ice coating her every word. “We do not ‘eat the male’ following ‘the deed’ as a 'mating ritual’. However, I have no qualms about eating stupid, dead fools.”
“Interesting,” Isshi replied, sliding past the threat without a hint of acknowledgment. “I assume it could have been a practice held by some long-ago ancestors…?”
“We have no such… cultural events in our recorded history.” MaRae spat.
“Oh?” Isshi’s eyes lit up. “If you have any –“
The Ishara eyed Coriven, the bloody murder seeping from her eyes warning of imminent violence.
Coriven said nothing, simply staring straight at Isshi, not bothering to mask his own barely contained irritation and fury.
Their eyes met, and Isshi clamped his jaw shut, rolling his eyes and letting out a small “tsk” before quietly slumping back into his seat and fidgeting with his hands. Had it been anyone else, Isshi would have happily played coy, baiting them into joining the conversation. Unfortunately, such blatant disrespect around Coriven is how one ended up like Paul.
The outcome of which was… appalling.
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The clearing was split into three camps.
Camp A – Base of operations and residence of their military.
Camp B – Residence for the freed slaves.
Camp C – Sorting and sifting of Relics and information.
Camp A deployed four white tents: two mediums for logistical support, one large for injuries, and one small currently in use for the eight leaders to discuss their future following the operation.
The meeting was well-lit, as clear, crystalline light filtered through the tent covers, providing a surprising amount of natural light. Enough to entirely forgo the use of torches and lamps.
By the entrance sat a large timeteller – imprecise, unlike its smaller siblings – adding a bar every few minutes. In their wait for Tarra to arrive, the object had managed to accumulate another four bars – telling given that the meeting should only have lasted twelve bars.
At the center of the tent sat a large yet simple black table. Rectangular, the wooden board had a capacity for eight – though the end seat opposite to Coriven silently collected dust like a grandmother’s hand-knit sweater.
Seven sat at the table, Coriven at its head and the six others lining up on either side.
Jermaine sat to Coriven’s left. Large and muscular, he wore a wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat, beneath which black, freeform locks fell to his shoulders. A cyan bandana wrapped across his forehead, contrasting with his scruffy beard and the myriad of scars and bruises but complementing the pair of dark-tinted aviators. Coupled with his silver breastplate was a long, narrow blade that ran across his hip. Feet kicked up on the table – Jermaine wore an expression of boredom as he balanced a pair of blades on his toenails.
MaRae sat between Jermaine and Alex – body still and eyes full of venom as she bristled with barely contained fury and murderous intent. A Basilisk Ishara – easily identifiable by their vertical-bead slit pupils or rich-brown and deep verdant tiny scales, layered and cascading in patterns of tight whirls and swirls. Black, flowing robes of intricate design (that Coriven didn’t recognize) covered her long, slender body; the wide hood used to create a shadow over her face, accentuating her eyes. Hairless – like the rest of her ilk – her nose was a simple pair of small slits across her face.
Isshi – the fool who drew MaRae’s ire with his pointless interrogation – pretended not to notice the barbed glares as he idly played with a golden stopwatch hanging from his coat pocket. The man was slender, choosing to don a simple white coat, grey shirt, and thick, rugged pants with over two dozen pockets. Those pockets were either extra-long or rune-enhanced, given how Isshi always managed to pull some new contraption. Save for his gaunt eyes, there was little to discern Isshi from a crowd. Messy brown hair, dark eyes, and a light-olive complexion, he looked like a normal person. Unfortunately, Coriven suspected that was where the normality ended.
Emerald hair half shaven – the rest neatly combed over – Finn looked like a psychopath as he sat to Isshi’s right. A complex tapestry of black tattoos inked across his olive skin, easily visible beneath the loose-fitting open robes he wore. Hundreds of golden piercings embedded into his body (including but not limited to: eyes, mouth, nose, jaw, skull, and… nipples) gleamed beneath the slick light as he engaged in a silent game of Rock-Paper-Scissors with Caruso.
Caruso – the second in command for the operation after Coriven and the man responsible for recruiting all save Tarra and Alex – was only half-engaged in the match. Clad in a clean black overcoat, white uniform (upon which were a series of unrecognizable gold symbols), and a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles, the other half of his attention was currently occupied with a series of reports littered across his lap. Caruso kept his dirty blonde hair slicked back neatly, numerous scars running across his face, cutting through his stubble and bushy eyebrows.
Finally, there was Alex – situated to MaRae's left – engaged, crossed-legged, in meditation. Outfitted in black combat pants, a white shirt, a beige uniform, and a pair of brown sandals, he looked more ready to swim along the beach than to engage in deadly combat. Nevertheless, a sword rested on his lap, the other leaning against the back of his chair. He kept mostly to himself – not uttering a sound since he arrived, simply taking to his seat and meditating to pass the time. Coriven knew Alex the least (as Tarra had recruited him), yet Alex’s demeanor and calming presence reminded Coriven much of The Shephard and Avalan, to his dismay.
And so sat the seven of them; Coriven, Jermaine, MaRae, Isshi, Finn, Caruo, and Alex – rolling tides of contemplative silence following the storms of conversation as they waited for Tarra to arrive.
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Unfortunately, the comforting silence was again interrupted by the drones of an unabashedly bored Isshi, who set upon his Ishara ally with renewed vigor, a dastardly smile flittering across his lips briefly as he posed the question.
“Were you there, were you not? When the empire fell? What was it like? Failing t-”
This time, there was no warning before MaRae’s tail whipped across the table, tightly squeezing Isshi’s throat like a juicer taking to a ripe lemon. Isshi began to gasp – the sound like that of a fish gargling as he futilely tried to scream. His nails bounced off her tail, but nary a scratch surfaced amidst his desperate clawing. She squeezed tighter, the pure, unadulterated hatred in her eyes roaring like a wildfire – a substitute for her voice. Isshi’s face began to balloon like a tomato until, eventually all shouts and screams sequestered.
They all watched in silence – able to help but unable to muster the desire, given their own experience with the gaunt man’s needling. Watching him squirm brought them a profound sense of Catharsis. Alex cracked his eyes open from his meditation to look at Caruso.
Finally – when the researcher’s skin tinged blue and arms fell to the side, taking with it the screams of protest – Caruso stepped in. Coriven may have designed and led the operation, but there was no doubt as to who ran it.
“Now, now, MaRae. I think Isshi has learnt his lesson,” the former brigadier interrupted, straightening his chair and setting his clipboard to the side. “We’re almost at the finish line, my friend. It’d be a shame to screw the pooch just before we cross it.”
MaRae ignored him. Caruso crossed over the table, gently resting his hand on her tail. “MaRae, I understand – I really do – but we need Isshi.” He spoke gently.
They stood like that for several moments, statues envious of their anchored forms. Then, without warning, she released Isshi, who hit the table with an audible thud before a thunderstorm of gasping and panting filled the void. Colour – or a lack of it – returned to his face while rubbed down the abrasions cascading around his bright red neck, then lifted himself off the table, dazed.
“Isshi, shut up.” Caruso ordered. He drummed his fingers silently on the table, eying the two. Finding a solution to this madness is folly. Instead…
“I think it would be prudent to get this meeting rolling.” He began to redirect. “Tarra has already renounced her share of the relics, so rather than begin with our casualties and mission reports, we can get to divvying the relics. Agreed?”
MaRae sat silently, hatred and fury still blazing off of her like the bonfire for a fallen emperor. Meanwhile, Isshi was staring daggers at MaRae as he massaged his throat. Tension rippled, and for a moment, Caruso worried they would reject him.
“Agreed.” They spoke in unison. The rest of the table nodded their own agreement.
Caruso smiled, the expression slicing devilishly across his face. I do love wrangling a powerful crowd.
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“Alright then. Now, Mahir, approximately how many relics did we pick up?”
Attention rapt on the clipboard in hand, Mahir – Caruso’s aide – stepped beside Caruso’s seat. He silently catalogued the relics picked up during Operation: BREAK. His unibrow scrunched in deep concentration as he continually moved his triple-lensed spectacle back into place, never quite finding a foothold atop his broken nose. Rhythmically tapping his pen, he reluctantly broke gaze with the alluring paper. In fact, the olive-skinned man was so reluctant that Coriven had to cough twice (the second more a bellow than a cough) before the spindly man took notice.
“Ahem.” He cleared his throat and shifted on his feet as realization dawned on him. “Sorry, sir. So far, we’ve counted approximately a thousand to a thousand five hundred relics. Of course, without a master appraiser, it is difficult to identify and categorize them all in such a short time.” Since his mouth was stitched shut, the voice came out as a high-pitched sound from the back of his throat, echoing slightly.
Coriven waved his hand in annoyance. “Generalize.” He barked. Their short time together had taught him that old age would have taken their soul had he let Mahir ramble on. Caruso glared Corvien down for his rudeness, glares which fell on an icy exterior. Mahir bowed his head slightly to Coriven in acknowledgment.
“A quick examination of the relics, we expect about half will end up Mercantile. As expected, no Automata relics, or at least very few. In terms of weapons an-“
“Let’s skip to tha pertinent shit, shall we?” Jermaine interrupted. “Info Relics, how many?”
Mahir shrugged, stepping awkwardly from foot to foot. “Hard to say. With all the blessings, it is difficult to accurately differentiate the categories of relics. Our best estimates, maybe ten percent?”
Stolen story; please report.
“Hol’ a minute, back tha fuck up. ‘With all em blessin’?” Jermaine replied, incredulously.
“Ah, yes. I was getting to that. Now, take this with a small pinch, or I guess in this case, a somewhat large pinch of salt – actually, I’m not sure what the salt measurements mean now that I think about it. Either way, what I am about to say is subject to change, however, we are somewhat confident in our – admittedly brief – review of the gear.” He shuffled through his pages again, more to calm his nerves than to find information. He already knew what the reaction would be, he was just vainly hoping he wouldn’t have had to deal with the barrage of questions that was certainly to follow.
“From what we can tell, around four in every five relics are blessed.”
The table completely shifted, their once lackadaisical and wandering attentions transforming as the entire table sat straighter, leaning forward in interest.
“You’re joking!” MaRae hissed out.
When Coriven – and by proxy Caruso – assembled the eight of them, at most they expected to secure maybe five hundred total relics, with only about five percent blessed. That in and of itself would’ve been a worthwhile haul. To hear that they managed to obtain over thrice that, with over eighty percent of them being blessed…
Well, let’s just say that greed didn’t earn its reputation by lazing about in the hearts of men.
Mahir shuffled to another page. “Unfortunately, we found few – if any – Automata relic, as expected.”
Jermaine shook his head, shaking away his shock. “Call me a chull’s anus, eighty percent? That’s what? eight hundred to a thousand, give or take? Architects almighty!” he whistled. “Goddamn. Well, better blessed than Automata, I guess. Damn buggers don’t even work right half the time." He pointed to Mahir. "How long to cat’log 'em?”
Mahir shrugged again, the action quickly developing into second nature. “Four hours was our original estimate, back when we expected far fewer blessed relics. We’ve already sorted most of the rest. Now it’s mostly just all the blessed ones, but with how large our stock is… least a week. Safely? Double or triple it.”
MaRae shook her head. “Can’t wait that long; even four was pushing it. I obviously don’t need to point out that we can’t wait here a week.”
“So, whadda we do?” Finn’s voice entered the fray for the voice time, the sound almost squeaky.
At that moment, the flaps to the tent flung open – a muscular woman dressed in white entered, a glowing bandana wrapped around her eyes.
“What did I miss?”
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Tarra’s arrival put a halt on their relic discussions, as they refocused their attention on more pressing matters.
“Casualty report!” Tarra demanded as she swished a glass of fizzing white wine in her hand. She brought the wine from her own collection – and as such, it was for enjoyment and hers alone. Selfish, perhaps, but an astute observer would quickly deduce that no shared wine would have lasted this long.
“Officer casualties sustained: fifty-seven dead or M.I.A, sixteen with severe injuries and fourteen with non-life-threatening injuries. Five chulls were put down, each of the handlers citing some well-justified but ultimately pointless reason.” Yarna – the Basilisk Ishara (and MaRae’s aide) informed. She had been appointed as head physician of their forces.
“Anyone important?” Coriven asked offhandedly.
“Everyone is important,” Alex replied, a hint of annoyance flashing across his features for half a moment.
Finn rolled his eyes as he played with a few of his gold piercings. “Stop being such a moronic prude, you know what he meant.”
“Among the deceased or M.I.A: Yorin, Powder and Havleche. Uvona sustained minor injuries.” Yarna replied – ignoring the byplay between the three. ALL the aides had learnt to ignore the petty squabbles that constantly popped up at these meetings. “As for non-officers, well, we didn’t really stop to count the bodies.”
Alex grimaced as he remembered the bloody carnival, meanwhile, Jermaine’s clenched knuckles went white upon hearing mention of Havleche’s name.
Coriven nodded, motioning her to continue. “Will the injured prove a liability?”
Yarna thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No.” She thought to add more, but Alex interrupted.
“We will not leave them behind,” Alex informed them, resting a hand on his blade, anger mounting.
“Oh really?” Finn barked out a laugh. “We?”
“Yes, we.” This time, the voice was feminine – hard and cold. Coriven turned to Tarra, whose expression had turned grim. “I already abandoned all those others back at the auction. I refuse to leave another behind.”
Finn sneered at her. “Don’t go bitchin’ about the plan now. Sides, ain’t you leave em with some blessin’s? Actually, ain’t that the entire reason we rerouted?"
“Hey, hey, hey now,” Jermaine spoke up, straightening as he sheathed the blades he was playing with. “Should be grateful she agreed to leave 'em at all, being a Paladin and whatnot.” He bowed his head to her in respect. “And I gotta add, was a mighty fine gesture you made, if I do say so myself, Milady.”
“You should have just gutted the lot – their bodies would have made for excellent material for my research! Now, they will still die, AND their bodies are going to waste, and I have less bodies to work with.” Isshi scoffed, his voice finally freed from the shackles of his ripe vocal box. “Still, at least they provided an adequate distraction for your escape, so it could be worse.”
Tarra scowled as she remembered the hundreds of freed slaves they couldn’t bring along – the ones they abandoned at the Carnival. She had given the entire group a blessing – strong enough that she couldn’t bless the party afterward. The blessing would only last a few hours, but she saw no other alternative. She refused to leave them behind to die.
Caruso sighed as the meeting broke into smaller arguments – often intersecting as the arguments and arguers crossed over. The aides stood around awkwardly, as they always did when discussion broke down. He raised his voice, drowning out the litany of complaints.
“What’s done is done; arguing about it now is useless. What we need to know, is how we plan to get out of here.” Caruso began questioning Flora – Coriven’s ‘aide’ – refusing to let the conversation devolve back into chaos. “Speaking of which – how long do we got?”
“We should have ‘bout ‘nother hour or two before they stumble onto any undeniable evidence, after which maybe another hour until they arrive.” Flora promptly responded. “Alex’s scouts are running around, laying false trails and erasing tracks, but we can’t hide forever. We are, after all, moving over a thousand people. Sir.”
“Are the two teams back? How went their mission? And why aren’t they debriefing us themselves?” Alex inquired. Flora smiled at the barrage of questions.
“Yes, sir, they arrived a few minutes before the lady Paladin, having successfully misdirected the enemy at the crossroads. As of now, the House is searching west rather than east. As for your final concern… I’m afraid that was my mistake. I sent them back to camp so they could wash and rest for the next leg of the journey. Should I recall them, sir?”
Alex waved his hand. “Let them be, I trust they passed along any pertinent information.” He looked over the room. “In any case, we can assume that we bought ourselves at least another hour or two before they catch on to the deception, on top of the three hours we accounted for.”
Flora hesitated for a moment, then continued: “It would be remiss of me not to mention that we are also well off the predicted light schedule. Might I remind you that it should have been dimmed hours ago? Also, the longer the house goes without finding a trace of us, the more likely they will send out Elites.”
The entire table tensed up – save for Coriven and Tarra. “None of this matters for shit if a House Elite comes after us,” Finn complained, looking over at Flora. “So, change of plans?”
Flora shrugged back. “I don’t know.”
Coriven looked back at her in irritation, a whisp of flame escaping his mouth. “You’re our strategist; how do you not know?”
“For the last time, I am not a strategist.” Flora rebuked with a sigh. “And even if I was, that’s not my job anyways. You – or I guess Caruso – brought me to help you organize, not make the tough decisions.”
Coriven drummed his finger before letting the matter go. “Fair.” He looked around the table. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Caruso interrupted, “Okay, first off, no more arguments – we’ve wasted enough time as it is. Secondly, before we can discuss escape plans, we need to sort out what to do with the freed slaves.”
Caruso braced himself for the line of arguments that was about to follow. No one spoke for a moment, and Caruso vainly believed his command worked, And maybe a thunderstorm would rain candies.
“I think we should just kill half of them.”
The statement rang out like a pin drop, and unsurprisingly, Isshi was the pin – as he nonchalantly filed his nails with the sharp side of a silvery dagger. A chorus of arguments and shouts followed suit – Tarra, Alex, and MaRae beginning to converge on the scrawny researcher.
Coriven’s voice cut through the chatter like an iron pipe falling in an empty barnhouse. “ENOUGH!” There was an audible boom behind his voice. He looked at Isshi. “I agree with Isshi, although our reasons differ. Better to kill the weak links in favour of the strong. Ultimately, they weigh all of you down too much.”
Mahir came forward with a sheet of paper, which Coriven irritably waved off. “I don’t need a bloody sheet of paper to tell me what my fucking eyes can see: there’s too many of them. No matter how you split it – lest you saddle one with the all the burden – they will simply be too much of a burden.”
“Let 'em ride along; only the weak will die.” Jermaine countered.
Coriven shook his head. “You’re wrong. The strong will die, either because they feel a need to protect the weak or because they are chosen for not being weak and then cast into a bonfire they were simply too raw for. No, the strong will die when the weak prosper. But this argument is futile, for it’s clear that Isshi and myself are outvoted by at least four-to-two; Alex, MaRae, Caruso, and Tarra opposite us. Some might even be willing to fight us on the matter.” He nodded his head to each of them, eyes hanging on Tarra and Alex a few moments longer than the others.
“Thus, it’s not worth the time this argument will take to ultimately come to the same conclusion: the freed slaves will live, even if we should cut the rotting branch free.”
The table sat shocked following the declaration. Coriven was a man of momentum, of action and motion; traits often manifesting as disinterest, impatience and arrogance during these meetings. A man of deep thoughts and understanding he was not.
They say thunder doesn’t strike the same place twice, but that idiom hadn’t seen the bolts of realization that simultaneously struck.
He’s smarter than I thought, the table realized in unison.
Tarra was the first to speak into the stunned silence. “Well, since we can agree that mass slaughter is off the table,” she shook her head slightly at the words mass slaughter “better alternative solutions should be a breeze to find.” She finished cheerfully.
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Alternative solutions were indeed a “breeze to find”; however, that did not mean they were a breeze to execute. Ultimately, there were only five possible solutions.
1. The five of them split the remaining slaves equally. Fast, but a high probability of incompatible followers whose disobedience could get the group killed. Additionally, MaRae refused to accept non-Ishara slaves, which added another wrinkle in the logistics of it.
2. The five of them could choose the slaves they wanted to bring with them. Ideal, but their logistical support was already tied up with various other tasks, and they had sent the auxiliary support to help with the division of relics, which they all agreed was more important. Additionally, limited on time as they were, it would be logistically impossible to identify the important characteristics each was looking for.
3. The slaves are given a choice for whom they wish to follow. This would be unorthodox – and fairly difficult to convince the right ones in such a short amount of time – but it could fulfil parts of both options one and two simultaneously.
4. A single leader is burdened with all the slaves. This wasn’t a real choice – as no leader would volunteer for a suicide mission. Even the empathetic, such as Alex, had a duty to his people first.
5. The slaves are abandoned. This wasn’t a real choice – neither Tarra nor Alex could be persuaded, especially since Tarra could not bless the remaining slaves – thus, only Isshi really advocated for it.
In the end, they chose option three. The plan was for each of them to write a quick speech to convince the slaves to join their cause. They targeted specific characteristics; MaRae looked for Ishara, Jermaine looked for builders and fighters, and Finn wanted only brutal fighters. Caruso and Alex would take the rest – although Caruso would only take a small contingent with him, leaving the remainder with Alex.
Mahir stepped back up, voice squeaking. “Now that the slaves-“ MaRae and Tarra both raised him an eyebrow, MaRae more a death glare than an eyebrow. Mahir Coughed. “Former slaves, are ta– have been– are helped,” he stumbled smoothly, “perhaps we can refocus our attention back to the relics.”
Everyone’s focus went to Mahir, all save for Tarra.
Tarra’s focus was preoccupied. Abandoned by the knowledge they sat upon a mountain of blessed relics – she instead mused, pondering how she could use her power to maximize everyone’s chances of survival. I won’t abandon anyone else, not today. She promised herself.
And so, distracted she sat – forcing her brain to produce lemonade from a batch of rotten oranges – as the petty battle for relic dominance and politics began to fester in the background.
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Mahir began again. “Relics are being quartered by Fariz. Our first option is to randomly bring with us any relics we wish…”
“Nah, mate.” Jermaine shook their head. “Those blasted relics nearly invited disaster upon us all. Fortune favours us, for had the blast was slightly more powerful, or slightly better positioned, we woulda lost a lot more than a single meager caravan.” Jermaine looked over to Mahir. “How’d that happen, by-the-by?”
This time, it was Yarna who answered. “We’ve confirmed it to be one of the carts carrying a mix of relics and freed slaves. Aside from that, little else can be gleaned from the wreckage. The most likely answer someone on the cart smuggled along a blessed relic, unbeknownst to them, which then reacted uncontrollably to either his or another slave’s tampering.”
“Are we sure it wasn’t an attack?” Caruso asked.
“We can never be sure of anything. However, given the lack of pursuers and follow-up attacks – we can be reasonably confident it was an isolated internal blunder; so likely caused by a mistake rather than a systematic error.”
“That still leaves us with the problem with the relics,” Caruso said, eyeing the paper in front of him. “As per our agreement: I get 20%. Coriven: 18%. MaRae, Alex, Jermaine: 15%. Finn: 12%. Isshi: 5%. Coriven and I get first pick, followed by Isshi and Jermaine – allowed any information relics they desire. Finally, Finn, Alex, and MaRae take what’s left. Unfortunately, the blessings throw a wrench into that plan – as our caravan felt firsthand.”
“Or I guess you can take your share for yourself and shove off, if you’re…” He paused, the slight theatrics betraying his expression of sincerity. “Bold… enough do such a thing…?"
He let the question hang in the air, daring anyone to challenge him. When no one did, he continued forward, a small smile forming inwardly. I really do love wrangling a powerful crowd.
“So, what do we do?”
Alex leaned forward, idea forming. “We create a separate squad, one that goes with Coriven or Tarra. They move alone, bringing along all the blessed relics with them. We should have enough time to sort and categorize the rest of the relics, or whatever little remains can go with them, too. Once we escape back to Outer Iye, we can regroup and decide what to do with them next.”
“And if they die?” Finn retorted. “All the relics go with 'em? Fat chance. And who’s to say the fucker won’t run off with em?” He glanced over nervously at Coriven. “No offense.”
Jermaine barked out a laugh. “Mate, did ya forget who ya’re talkin’ about? Tarra and Coriven! If the relics ain’t safe with them, they ain’t safe with nobody.” He put his hand up. “I – for one – am in favour of this plan!”
Alex raised his hand as well, followed by MaRae and Caruso.
“That’s settled then,” Coriven announced – ending the conversation. “Tarra, you take them.”
Finn slouched back into his seat, softly muttering under his breath as Tarra snapped back to the conversation. “Oh, no, no, no, that’s on you, Coriven. I promised Alex’s sister I would protect him, and I will not go back on that.”
Coriven objected immediately. “No. I don’t work in teams.”
Tarra looked around the table and then glared at Coriven, who rolled his eyes in response. “This is different. Necessity. Besides, we barely coordinate outside of planning. This is the bare minimum relationship, and I certainly wasn’t working as part of any team during the actual assault.”
Tarra leaned forward, ice in her voice. “You made this team. Every part of it is your responsibility. Not others. Yours. Stop running away from it!"
Alex rose to protest but paused as Coriven bit back a retort and silently slumped into his own chair.
She’s right. He realized. I’m the strongest. I’m the leader.
And that was exactly the problem.
The Shepherd sent him into Iye specifically to see if he could withstand the burden of leadership. But leadership suited Coriven as well as a tightly knit suit dresses a squeamish squirrel: laughably poorly. For all his power, Coriven knew he had not the aptitude, the attitude, the focus, or the unifying charisma a leader naturally possessed. That’s why he brought on Caruso and Tarra – real leaders who could take the burden off him.
But that didn’t change the truth – he was the leader.
“Fine.” He grumbled.
The tension – which had grown so taut one could see the strings – eased as everyone relaxed back into their chairs.
“That just leaves our escape,” MaRae said. “Proceed as planned? Part of why we chose to split up was to cleanly burn bridges; now that we have to meet back up anyways, there’s really no point."
Caruso sat quietly for a moment, contemplating before answering. “Yes, but slight change. Rather than all splitting off on our own, let’s go in three groups. Alex, Tarra, and MaRae go as one group – given you all need to get to District 6. Jermaine, Finn, and Myself will go together as well, leaving Isshi and Coriven to transport the dead bodies and relics.”
“Now wait a minute!” Isshi protested. “Neither of us have our own crews. How do you expect us to transport it all?” He looked over nervously at Coriven. “Besides…”
Caruso waved the concern off. “I’ll send a contingent of my own people to help, ones who can actually work with the two of you.”
Isshi rose his hand to voice another objective, but the simultaneous glares of the entire table finally shut him up.
“Now,” Coriven began, “I think that about wraps up our meeting. Anything anyone wants to bring up?”
Not a word was spoken as a mask of focus began to flatten across their features. The time for talking was over. Now was the time for action.
Coriven nodded. “Good.” He glanced at Mahir, who quickly did some mental arithmetic, then flashed Coriven four fingers. “We have just over four hours before camp breaks. We ride at half ‘fore twenty-six.”