30. A rhyme

This time, Dashvara didn’t think twice before entering the barrack to make sure everyone had heard the alarm.

“Wait, wait,” Lumon said as everyone, including the sick ones that were awake, stirred. “You said three horsemen in black cloaks? Are they envoys from the Council?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I think it won’t be long before we find out.”

For a few seconds, they stood in suspense, and several of them turned to the captain’s lying body. He had fallen into a deep sleep. For once, he looked a little less moribund…

Nobody woke him up. Sashava stood up with his cane and said:

“Take care of your outfit, and let’s go welcome them. Pik, Arvara, by all means, put on your boots, demons!”

Seven of them came out: Maltagwa, Kaldaka, and Tsu stayed with the sick. The riders were already on their way, and Dashvara could see them in more detail. They were dressed in impeccable clothes; one was red-haired, the second was blond, the other had elf ears. They wore bronze masks over their faces, in the manner of high officials, and behind them, rode a riderless horse. Our horse, perhaps?, Dashvara chanced, amazed. It had been more than a year since he had seen anyone but the inspector, the Doomed of Dignity and Sympathy, and the people of Rayorah. To Dashvara, the federal forces in Titiaka Canton had been a mere threat all this time, remaining hidden like a snake. It was invigorating to have, for once, the real enemy in front of you.

“They’re officials from Titiaka!” Pik gasped. He was more agitated than a flea. His brother Kaldaka didn’t call him the Nervous One for nothing.

“Calm down, Pik,” Arvara the Giant whispered to him. “Maybe they’re just leaving the horse with us.”

Three high officials coming all the way from Titiaka to leave us a horse? Dashvara continued to chew the dorcho leaf, skeptical.

A minute later, the three horsemen stopped a few steps from the platform, inscrutable under their bronze masks. It was as if the Federation itself, with all its power, had stopped to contemplate the Doomed of the Frontier that day. It was not a very comforting sight. Dashvara exchanged a quizzical look with Makarva and turned back to the federates when the blond one in the middle spoke in a clear voice.

“The Federation salutes you, Doomed of Compassion.”

“The Doomed of Compassion salute the Federation,” Sashava replied with a growl that expressed his deep love for the Federation.

The blond man ceremoniously bowed his head, welcoming the greeting with great solemnity. A few seconds of awkward silence passed before he resumed:

“We come here on behalf of a member of the Council to inform you that a new platoon of Doomed will come to Compassion in a few days.”

Several Xalyas, including Dashvara, literally jumped. Protests began to rain down on the visitors.

“There are already twenty-three of us!” Sashava protested amidst the commotion. “There is no room here for more people. What do you take us for?”

“Enough!” the blond man shouted. “There will be room because you people are going to leave the premises.”

A silence of amazement fell among the Xalyas. Is this a joke?, Dashvara breathed mentally. Sashava choked.

“What? What do you mean, we’re going to leave the premises? If you’re going to send us to another tower, I’m warning you that we’re not going to move from here,” he burst out. “We are Xalyas, and Xalyas’ patience is limited when it comes to putting up with your nonsense. You’re not going to bother us any more, you damned bastards…”

Sedrios the Old elbowed Sashava and hissed through his teeth:

“Be careful what you say.”

Dashvara was grateful to Sedrios for his caution: one should not insult a high official of Titiaka if one wanted to avoid problems. Lumon intervened calmly:

“Where do you intend to take us then, and to what end?”

The blond man made a slight movement to the left, towards the elf, but he immediately turned back towards them.

“I hear that you are experienced warriors. Tell me, are you really all Xalya in this tower?”

The Xalyas just nodded in silence. The blond shook his head and suddenly put his foot down.

“Everybody get out and line up. I have to carry out a review. Where is the tower leader?”

Dashvara felt himself turn pale. Sedrios objected calmly:

“We have eight patients who cannot move. The captain included.”

The three officials were already climbing onto the platform, but they stopped when they heard him.

“Eight patients? Out of twenty-three?” The blond man paused for a moment. “Show them to me.”

Dashvara let out a low, ironic laugh as the senior officials made their way to the door of the barrack. He whispered to Makarva:

“What do you bet they don’t last ten seconds inside?”

Makarva looked pensive.

“I bet a hundred thousand hairs they last more,” he said boldly.

“Yours or the Baldy’s?” laughed Dashvara.

Makarva’s eyes twinkled, and he whispered back:

“What do you bet the seventh is close?”

Dashvara didn’t need him to tell him which seventh he was talking about: if they were really going to get out of the tower, that meant there would be new opportunities to escape the clutches of the federates. But he still couldn’t believe they were going to get them out. Maybe they were just pretending to send them to another tower. If they were, Dashvara hoped it would be to Courtesy. It was the southernmost tower near the city of Pearl, and it was said that some of the Doomed made it through the Black Rocks to the Duhaden Mountains.

Putting his thoughts aside, he began to count the seconds.

“Seven,” Makarva whispered. “Eight. Nine.”

A mocking smile played on his lips, and Dashvara sighed.

“Okay. I lost.”

“You’re the one who started betting,” smiled Makarva. “So? That hair?”

“Just try to touch it! Also, you know, the ten seconds thing was just a figure of speech. You always take bets literally, Mak. You’ll end up cutting the Baldy’s hair one of these days.”

Makarva huffed, amused. They had stayed outside with Boron; the others were all inside.

“Speaking of the devil,” Makarva said suddenly, “here comes Zamoy. I guess he couldn’t resist the curiosity.”

Dashvara saw the Baldy land on the ground at the bottom of the ladder and run away from the tower. Up there, Miflin was leaning on one of the edges, and Dashvara bet he was composing some ode… He mentally growled. Demons, I’m hopeless, why do I always end up making bets?

Zamoy reached the podium just as one of the masked federates emerged from the barrack. It was the redhead.

“What’s going on? What’s going on?” Zamoy asked. He froze when he saw the official and added in a whisper: “Eh, Dash? Who is it?”

Dashvara spat the dorcho leaf into the mud and replied:

“They’re going to kick us out of Compassion.”

Unexpectedly, the redhead let out a small squeaky laugh.

“Yes. We’re going to expel you, yes.”

Dashvara frowned darkly as Zamoy looked at them all, gaping.

“It would be nice to know where you’re trying to take us,” Makarva remarked.

“I confirm,” Dashvara seconded, trying to keep his composure. “It would be nice to know.”

The redhead laughed. His laughter was that of a madman.

“Demons,” a female voice called out from inside. “Wait a minute, will you? First, let’s talk to the captain.” A black-gloved hand came out and pulled the redhead inside. Dashvara watched the movement, puzzled… and then he thought he understood. The redhead and his laughter reminded him so much of Axef, the mad mage! And that female voice… didn’t it sound a bit like Azune’s? And the blond could be Rowyn. Yes, yes, it could be. Dashvara let out a huge laugh.

“What’s wrong with you?” Makarva said.

Dashvara shook his head without ceasing to laugh lowly like a madman.

“I’m completely crazy, Mak. That’s what’s happening to me. I’m starting to see ghosts.”

“Ow…” Makarva exchanged a thoughtful look with Boron. “I see. Let’s go in and see what they’re saying,” he suggested.

Dashvara shook his head.

“Come in, you. I think I need some peace and quiet. I’ll keep Miflin company. You tell me later what the hell those federates are saying.”

Makarva raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. It was true that normally whenever something happened, Dashvara loved being there. However, now Dashvara felt as if he had seen an illusion and believed it for a moment. Such a feeling, when you are used to having a cold and clear mind, was downright disturbing.

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Dashvara walked down the slope to the tower, and after looking back and seeing that everyone had entered the barracks, he began to climb the ladder. We’ll definitely have to warn the men in the next platoon to be careful when they come up here, he thought. The wood used was good, but obviously not strong enough for the swamps of Ariltuan. Some of the bars had even begun to break because of how rotten the wood was.

He found Miflin upstairs, arranging seeds on the edge of the tower for the birds to eat. He filled him in on what he knew, and seeing that Miflin took the news with relative indifference, he asked:

“So? That red bird, did it finally come?”

Miflin had been trying to domesticate a large scarlet-feathered bird for several weeks.

“No. Scarlet comes when it feels like it,” the Poet replied. “But the best time to see it is in the evening. Because the sky, as it turns purple, becomes a mirror of its beauty.”

“Hmm. That is, if the sky is not covered with clouds,” Dashvara objected.

Miflin smiled.

“Right.” He sat down, looking north. Perhaps he was seeing the steppe through his poet’s eyes, Dashvara thought as he approached the railing. A breeze was blowing, chasing away the mist and cooling the hot, humid air. That day, whole miles of the edge could be seen with clarity; the tower of Sympathy and even the tower of Humility could be seen. “Dash?” Miflin said suddenly.

“Mm?”

The Poet had started to carve something on the railing with his dagger. There was little space left for him to write his fantasies. His dreamy eyes glowed softly like those of a man absorbed in wise thoughts. Sometimes his eyes seem older than Sedrios’, Dashvara observed. And yet he is only twenty. What kind of person Miflin would have been if the dungeon of Xalya had not been attacked? What kind of people all of them would have been? These questions—he knew it—held more venom than a red snake. Still, he couldn’t help but ask them from time to time.

“If we move to another tower,” Miflin said at last, “Maltagwa will have to leave his garden.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“He’ll make another one.”

Miflin nodded and stopped writing on the wood to look out over the swamps, where endless trees and rushes emerged here and there on wooded hills.

“I guess it won’t change us much,” the Poet concluded.

“I guess so. But on the bright side, you’ll have a new tower to carve in,” Dashvara smiled.

Miflin smiled too, resuming his work.

“That is, if no poet has passed through there before me.”

Dashvara’s smile widened as his gaze turned to the south. All was quiet. The Tower of Dignity stood, much more dignified than its inhabitants. And the Tower of Sacrifice, one of the few that was built of stone, could be seen after a curve in the edge, poking its head between the treetops. Who knows where they were going to be sent now… To Patience? It was said that there they had suffered many losses in the last year. Perhaps they needed reinforcements that were a little more durable than average.

Dashvara sighed and looked down at the railing. There, between his hands, was written in the Common Tongue: «When the compass does not work, one can always go up or down. It doesn’t matter if there is no destination: the Eternal Bird always flaps its wings». Dashvara smiled. Miflin must have added that a little while ago because he didn’t remember reading it before.

“Hey, are you taking my role as a philosopher, cousin?” he said, indicating the railing.

The Poet frowned, remembered what he had written there without even glancing at it, and put on an amused face.

“You could have written it down before me, but you didn’t.”

“Well, it’s as if I did. You probably copied one of my sentences. I’m sure I’ve seen it before.”

“Impossible, I don’t copy!” Miflin protested cheerfully.

“Really? Ah, that’s right,” Dashvara smiled. “You don’t copy, you are inspired, right? But then again, we all do. We inherit traditions and learn from our sages. We imitate each other as the colt imitates the horse.”

“There’s a big difference between imitation and inspiration,” Miflin said. He blew on the railing to clear away the sawdust and explained, “Inspiration is done with the head. Imitation… not necessarily.”

Dashvara grinned, amused.

“You’d have to ask Chubby to give us the exact definition.” He caressed the southern railing with his hand and added: “How many wars have been declared for lack of a dictionary?”

“For lack of common sense, rather, I guess,” Miflin smiled, as he continued to write.

“Today, you are definitely more philosophical than I am,” Dashvara agreed.

“And you’re more of a poet than I am,” replied Miflin. He pointed to his unfinished sentence with an exasperated gesture. “I can’t find the rhyme. I say here,” he cleared his throat, “‘A sweet melody wakes me in the morning. It’s Scarlet saying: you haven’t sung yet.’ Terrible, isn’t it? And besides the ‘yet’ should rhyme properly with ‘morning’. It’s awful. I’m not inspired at all today.”

His annoyance was obvious. Dashvara commented with a laugh:

“And yet, today the sun should light up your ideas, cousin.”

Suddenly, a voice was heard below. Dashvara looked up. It was Zamoy.

“Get down, Dash, get down!” he shouted. He was overexcited.

“Was he stung by a saravie or what?” Miflin asked, approaching the western railing.

Saravies were insects whose bites caused impressive nerve spasms. Dashvara watched Zamoy for a few moments and concluded:

“It looks like it. He makes me nervous even from here.” He paused for a moment. “I’d better get down there, or your brother’s gonna have a stroke. Good luck with your rhyme.”

He began to descend, and despite Zamoy’s urgent cries, he progressed carefully. Finally, he landed in the mud and asked:

“Are these your first attempts at being a bard, Zamoy? Let me guess, you were taught by a milfid, right?”

The triplet grunted and grabbed him by the sleeve to drag him toward the shack.

“Come on. You’re not going to believe this. These three people, these officials… they know you!” He let out a high-pitched guttural sound. “They’re looking for you, Dash. And I believe they have good intentions. They’re the ones you told us about. The ones you…” he fell silent and turned pale.

Dashvara had no trouble completing his sentence and did so in a dying voice:

“The ones I betrayed.”

Zamoy sighed loudly as he saw him stop.

“Come on, Dash. I assure you they didn’t come to Compassion to get back at you. That would be too ridiculous. I think they have a plan to get us out of here, but they won’t tell us. Daaash,” he repeated, exasperated, this time pulling him by his white belt. “Will you get moving now?”

Dashvara had the impression that a band of specters had just appeared around him and was pulling him cruelly apart. This feeling, this horrible feeling of guilt that had oppressed him for days, three years ago, had just seized him again like a thirsty leech, like a deadly wave, like a…

“Damn it, Dash!”

“No, Zamoy,” Dashvara stammered. “I’m not ready. They must hate me. Can you believe it, Zamoy?” He riveted a desperate look into his cousin’s eyes. “That day, I told the slavers everything. I told them their names… Eternal Bird, I thought they were dead. I really thought they were.”

“Would you rather they were dead?” Zamoy growled, giving up on dragging him along. “Dashvara of Xalya,” he said. He pouted and commented, “You’re losing your nerve.”

Dashvara huffed and tried to contain his tremors.

“You would lose it, too, if you found yourself face to face with three people you had betrayed and thought you had sentenced to death. Imagine twenty milfids, can you imagine them, Zamoy? Well, now imagine that they are inside you. Imagine them,” Dashvara insisted, words tumbling out of his mouth.

Zamoy looked at him, his eyes wide.

“Now that’s disgusting!” he exclaimed. “Dash, stop rambling. I already told you that this is Miflin’s job. And now just…”

Dashvara thought he was going to die when he saw the three masked men coming out of the shack. Zamoy paused.

“Come on,” he said, giving him a friendly pat on the back.

Dashvara shook his head, took a step forward, and sighed.

“I thought I was over it.”

“Stop mumbling and move on,” Zamoy advised him.

Dashvara sighed again, this time to finish calming his nerves. He was the first to say that losing one’s temper was never helpful, wasn’t he? All he needed to do was to take his own advice.

He went to the platform with the terrible conviction that, if one of the three claimed revenge, he would not defend himself. After all, he was not like those Shalussis, Akinoas, or Essimeans. He knew how to recognize his mistakes, and he knew when he deserved to be punished.

“For the White Dragon’s sake,” one of them whispered.

One by one, they removed their masks. First, it was Rowyn. Then Axef. Then Azune. The Duke looked at him, a deep crease on his forehead, the mage did so with a small mocking smile, and Azune, Azune the Poisoned, pierced him with her rock-hard eyes. They remained silent like that for many seconds. Dashvara could think of nothing to say. A creak of wood made him turn his head, and he met Sashava’s vigilant eyes.

“This time, my boy,” the latter said in Oy’vat, “you will be able to fix your mistake.”

Inwardly, Dashvara had always suspected that his weakness in the face of torture had always inspired more contempt than compassion in Sashava. He was not bad people, but he was as dignified and honorable as Lord Vifkan, and his conscience would not allow him to forgive the Xalyas’ missteps. And even less those of a steppe lord’s son.

Dashvara nodded without hesitation and cleared his throat.

“Axef… Azune… Duke.” He struck his own heart with his fist and bowed decisively. “My life belongs to you.”

After a silence, he looked up and saw Rowyn approaching with apparent shyness. The kampraw reached out his arm, and when he put his hand on his shoulder, Dashvara noticed that he was trembling slightly. His blue eyes glowed with emotion.

“I missed you, steppeman.”

His voice was warm, kind, and peaceful as it had been in the past. Dashvara smiled, his eyes moist.

“You’re going to make me cry, Republican.”

Rowyn smiled back, and Dashvara realized that many of his fellow Xalyas were looking at them with small smiles. He flushed.

“Uh… Well. Tell me, what in the world are you doing with masks of high officials from Titiaka?”

Azune and Rowyn exchanged a teasing look. The former crossed her arms and replied in a much more cordial voice than Dashvara had expected:

“Well, we’ve actually been Titiaka officials for a year, though not as important as you seem to think. We are secretaries of the federal police. And we’ve come to visit you.” She gave him an inquisitive look before adding, “You’re going to get out of here, steppeman, you and your people.”

Dashvara looked at the three Dazbonians, his eyebrows raised. He smiled and suddenly laughed. He patted Rowyn on the shoulder.

“To be honest with you, Diumcili is the last place I would have expected to find you. I thought you didn’t precisely hold slavers in your heart.” He perceived their pouts and mused that precisely the choice to settle in the Federation must not be foreign to their activities as Brothers of the Pearl. He shrugged and said cheerfully, “I’m awfully glad to see you again. And bless you if you can get us out of here. How did you get a Diumcilian to give you this job?”

“We’ll get you all out,” the Duke assured without answering the question. “But…” he put his bronze mask back on as he spoke, “for now, I just need you to follow the instructions you’ll be given without doing anything on your own. Prepare yourself for a week from now. We will take you to Rayorah. I can’t tell you any more than that. Officially, we’re only here to make sure you’re all alive and relatively well…” he cleared his throat. “Probably, a Rayorah guard or an inspector will notify you of the transfer as well.”

A wave of frustration swept over Dashvara, and he tried to quell it, to no avail. He pursued the three Brothers of the Pearl as they mounted their horses.

“Wait,” he protested. “It’s not like a bunch of trolls are chasing you! Where are you taking us? To Titiaka?”

He perceived Rowyn’s embarrassed sigh and heard Azune’s reserved reply:

“Trust us and everything will be fine.”

When he saw them pulling on their reins, Dashvara could not contain himself: he snorted and interposed himself in their path.

“Just a minute, republicans! What about Fayrah? What about Lessi and Aligra and the other Xalyas? Aren’t you even going to tell me if you’ve heard from them?”

“We’ve told the others. All are well,” Rowyn hastened to reply. “So are Rokuish and Zaadma, for that matter. They are all in Titiaka. I assure you, you’re in for a pleasant surprise when… we get you where we need to get you.” He cleared his throat and justified himself, “You understand, Dash, you don’t tell a slave where he’s going. The less you know, the less you have to hide.”

His answer was like a stab in the heart. But he deserved it. After all, how could Rowyn trust him when he had betrayed them, huh? He took a deep breath.

“It’s okay. Whatever your plan is, I’ll follow your instructions.”

Rowyn nodded his head in approval.

“Thank you. Don’t worry, there’s no reason why everything can’t go well as long as you play our game and don’t lose your cool. In less than two weeks, we’ll see each other again, I promise.”

His tone sounded like he was trying to console an abandoned child. Rowyn waved at him, and Dashvara watched him pace the horse, his soul darker than the night. To his left, a joking voice rang out:

“Trust a mad mage and you will get your freedom.”

He turned his gaze towards the redhead. Axef had raised his mask to give him one of his sly smiles. Really, it looked like he was laughing at him. Dashvara huffed in exasperation and simply replied:

“There’s a piece of your orange tunic sticking out from under the uniform, mage.” And seeing that the three were walking away, he shouted to them, “Thank you for not forgetting us!”

They truly deserved his gratitude: who would go to the trouble of saving twenty-three virtually unknown Xalyas except for heroes? Dashvara watched the three horsemen ride away to the west, and a pout of disappointment gradually distorted his face.

Wonderful. Three years without news from the outside world, and suddenly, the heroes arrive, emerging from the void like specters, and they promise to get us out of the Frontier as if by magic. Apparently, they don’t feel it necessary to explain the details to the friendly steppeman who betrayed them. They didn’t even tell me where they are planning to send my people now…

At the Frontier, Dashvara had learned to be patient. To carve figures. Not to bear with three republicans putting on airs of mystery.

He growled; hissed between his teeth; then exhaled loudly.

Well, calm down, Dash. Look at the bright side: they left us a horse.

Strictly speaking, they had left Compassion with much more than that. As Dashvara grabbed the reins of the brown horse, he could clearly feel a deep hope of freedom blossom in the hearts of all the Xalyas. Not that after three years they had resigned themselves to being slaves, never, but… Well. It wasn’t always easy to constantly desire something that the more you wished for it the farther it seemed to be. Dashvara smiled, his eyes fixed on the west. Makarva was right: the seventh escape had arrived. And this time, hopefully, they wouldn’t need an eighth.