In which Diran, the thief, searches for his bounty and witnesses a magnificent land.

Diran fiddled impatiently with a failing coat button as Gomus raved. The smokey room was poorly ventilated so that the stench of tobacco permeated every inch of the small affair; the dim light of the office was kept aloft only by the Atlantean struggle of a whale oil desk lamp, such that the heaving glow of the fat cat’s cigar painted eerie shadows on the walls.

Gomus pounded his desk hard, causing all assembled to jump to attention.

“This here is my mill! That rotter was probably from Shores, but I’m on to their games,” the cat sneered with a difficult lisp. His lips curled back and he bared his fangs at the captive audience.

“Get that snooper, bring him to me alive,” he hissed, slamming the table again so that the precarious light threatened to quit.

The five men responded in unison, “Aye-aye!”

The monstrous landlord glared at the bounty hunters. They were a disgusting lot but they took great risks for a payday. Most disgusting of all was Diran, who exclaimed, “You got it, boss, I’ll get your rat for ya!”

His mangy, black hair was stuffed above his dull, brown eyes only by a dusty hood. His brown coat was covered in soot and his torn-up boots were foul with grime. He would have cut a relatively imposing figure if not for how he hunched when he walked and he would often draw up his hands together by his chest like some schemer.

Gomus smirked and then waved his hands about sloppily to shoo the riff-raff out of his office, “Now git going!” After a beat, the five scumbags scampered out of the room and parted ways.

As he walked onto the streets of the mill district, Diran appreciated the scope of Gomus’ machinery. Mills for foodstuffs, mills for textiles, mills for metals, even mills that stood so that there was no more space for other mills. All throughout, the grinding of technic was complemented by the cries and shouts of the workers. Some young, some old, their labor was precious because the river no longer flowed strongly.

Diran found the oppressive weather unforgivable. Although the suns were always hidden, their heat had penetrated the air, which became thick and muggy. Nevertheless, the thief left the mill district and walked into the residential district, winding his way through narrow streets where the dust stuck to his skin like wet sand. The homes and shop were at most a few heads taller than Diran and some had fallen into disrepair. As a shortcut, he stepped over the shattered remains of some hovel that had not endured last week’s rain.

He noticed an old husk whose eyes had gone bad and called to the poor creature, “Father Polmer! Where’s the Linke Fleur gone?” The small old man said nothing and, shakily, opened his palm towards Diran. The thief reached into the rucksack that he kept on his left side and dropped a small bag into the wrinkled hand, “What’re you trying to remember anyways?” The old man shook his head in sad reply and then produced a bundle of cards.

Setting them out on the ground, he picked one up, seemingly at random, and examined its contours. Diran tapped his foot, whining, “’C’mon Father, I haven’t all day,” but the small man was unmoved. After a few moments longer, the old man’s bony finger uncurled down a street with few lights. Diran sighed and tossed a coin to Polmer, who was emptying the contents of the small bag—mushrooms—into his toothless mouth, before following the old man’s directions down the road.

At one street corner, Diran sighted a portly lady who wore a white apron and a tattered old dress that might have been worn in decent company in days long past. She was struggling with a package of foodstuffs and he recognized her as Herma, who ran the general store. He called out, “Madam Herma, shall I lend you a hand?” The lady noticed him and scowled, “You stay away from me, Diran! You’re lucky I don’t hack those thieving paws right off your arms!” She carried the foodstuffs in an oversized box that seemed far too large for her, but continued inching her way down the road.

Diran flashed the lady a smug grin and danced past her, snatching a loaf of bread that had been hanging precariously from the top of the crate. Ignoring Herma’s protests, he waltzed on down the road, tossing the moldy half at a miserable invalid who sat by a rusted lamp post; “Cheers, Madam! The Lord appreciates your love for the poor,” he mocked as the woman’s furious shouts faded behind him.

It was almost midday by the time he came upon the store, Linke Fleur, which sat at the end of a quiet row of shanties. Struck by the extravagant ivory carvings adorning the entrance, he felt the exotic scaled creatures were so enchanting that they might have come alive at the command of some long-dead craftsman.

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“Kehkehkeh, beautiful, aren’t they?” came a crooning call from inside and the door swung open. A diminutive crow who was neither man nor woman stood in the doorway, beckoning the thief with an iron hook. “They’re called Dragon” they said in a sing-song tone. Diran followed the creature inside, complaining, “You move house too often, Lami.”

The one called Lami wore a long, green coat with wide, luxurious lapels that reflected the candlelight brilliantly. Their coattails flowed gently past their dark brown breeches, perfectly tailored to their body, that tapered down into their boots, which had been immaculately polished. What a waste, thought Diran, that such captivating clothing adorned this good-for-nothing hoarder.

The two sat around a small table, surrounded by various knick-knacks. Lami motioned to what must’ve been the kitchen, “Tea?” But Diran rejected the offer, “No, I won’t be here long. In fact, you know why I’m here,” he paused for a moment and leaned in closer, much closer, “Your old place was around the mills, right? Gomus’ mills.”

“And what if it was? You know me well; I come and go as I please,” the crow feigned ignorance, toying idly with a nutcracker.

“Who’s been snooping around the mills, Lami?” Diran raised his voice and glared, “You know something.”

The iron hook scratched idly at the table and Lami paused, looking up wistfully, “There will come a time when you wish I had stayed my beak. I fear this is not a job for the likes of you. Go home, other work will come.”

Diran clenched his fists, “If I wished to have my future read, I’d have spoken longer with Father Polmer. Speak, Lami!”

There was a pause. And then Lami spoke, “Thizen. Her name is Thizen.”

“Her?” Diran probed,

“Yes, her. Thizen, the tyrant princess of the Upper Realm.”

Diran scoffed, “You take me for a fool.”

“I do not!” shouted Lami, their hook digging a deep groove into the table, “A half-score days ago she began roaming the mill district. I suspected something foul afoot, so I moved away from that place.” Lami sighed, “You must know this is a matter beyond your abilities.”

But Diran was already standing up, “I see, you’ve gone mad. Get some drink in you, it’ll clear up your head.”

Lami remained seated as Diran left and called after him, “I implore you, don’t look up!”

Diran made his way to the mills without issue. He had worked for Gomus in his younger years and spent more time around these mills than anywhere else—no trespasser could elude him here. It wasn’t long before he caught sight of someone in a dark cloak and attached himself to their shadow.

They didn’t move like a local and wore a mask—so obviously suspicious that he felt a bit cheated. His feet glided across the pavement with practiced ease as he tailed his ignorant quarry. Confident in his skills, he thought to learn a little more from this crook before turning them in and squeeze a handy bonus out of that lard-assed landlord.

He followed the mysterious figure past mills and shanties. They would stop from time to time and Diran strained to decipher what they were doing. Once, they came across a lone child, a small boy dressed in rags, no older than ten. Diran watched from a distance as his target bent over the young boy, but he could not make out their conversation. After a few moments, the boy ran off and the figure continued down the road; Diran followed suit.

His quarry would stop seemingly at random. Once to gaze into an alleyway in which resided a pile of hunger-stricken invalids, whose bodies might soon be piled like cordwood on the street corner. They never spoke, at least not loud enough for Diran to make out their voice, but he sensed there was purpose to their actions. He continued tailing them, so intrigued that he perhaps forgot his intent to make a bounty of the stranger.

It had been a half ten nights since he’d last tippled and his head occasionally pounded for want of his favorite absinthe. His head filled with thoughts of what he might buy with his bonus, it was, perhaps, his propensity to drink and his then-present lack thereof, that dulled his senses to the looming danger.

CLACK!

He froze—a deep groove was gouged out of the wall to his left, just inches from his nose.

He gasped and dropped to his knees, bowing before his assailant.

“Who goes there?”

A woman’s voice, not raspy but clear, as to cut cleanly through the decaying air, rang out from above his groveling form.

“Diran!” his voice cracked. Diran’s servile posture was pathetic but he had long ago left his dignity behind in the pleasure district. There was a pause. A long pause. Too long for Diran for, without lifting his head, he began to beg,

“Please! You’ve got it all wrong, I meant no harm!”

There was more silence.

“My lady—” he sniveled, lifting his head hesitantly to face his assailant, but he found himself alone in the alleyway.

He stood and collected himself, wiping his running nose on the inside of his coat. There was no one around, though the ruined wall was proof enough that he had not been deceived. He dusted himself off and began preparing some form of excuse for Gomus. Perhaps another bounty hunter had caught an unfortunate scapegoat. But at once, his eye was caught by movement above.

Against his better judgement, he glanced towards the sky. Something dazzling flew overhead. Like a man possessed, Diran clambered onto the roof of a hut and gazed up into the dark sky where he beheld a magnificent sight. “Thizen…,” he muttered unconsciously as he gazed upon the awesome white bird that flew—no, floated—above. Spellbound, he watched her ascend towards the Upper Realm and the Carpet that blanketed the world.

He had never before dared to gaze upon the land above, but now his eyes were immovable. Floating miles above the Lower Realm was a land of clouds and gold. He made out the spires of some lustrous palace and sighed with delight. Surely, if merely spying this splendid land from afar could set his heart aflame, then to set foot there would be the greatest pleasure in all the world!

“Thizen…,” he repeated under his breath.