45. Legitimates and workers

The morning passed in the blink of an eye. The tailor, a small man with a long, grim face, arrived with a troop of assistants and dressed the Xalyas in a black uniform with an impressive red dragon embroidered on the chest and back. He made a few alterations and adjustments so that they would all be impeccable and then switched to the daily uniform, which consisted of a simple dark tunic with no ornaments and quite ordinary pants. Finally, the tailor gave them all purple belts with a red dragon pin. Makarva was commenting something about Atasiag’s questionable taste when Tsu intervened and explained:

“Purple is the color of the Grace of courtesy and respect. Normally, this belt is worn when the master wishes to highlight that he is willing to hire his workers to help other citizens. It is more symbolic than anything else. He uses it mostly to increase his prestige and show off his wealth.” He made a pout that was akin to a smile as he added, “After all, not everyone has as many workers as Atasiag Peykat.”

Dashvara pouted back and sighed as one of the tailor’s apprentices asked him to raise one of his arms. To tell the truth, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Atasiag Peykat was far from being just a petty leader in a Brotherhood of Thieves. But, then, who was he? A merchant and a thief at the same time? Certainly, one did not preclude the other, but why would a federal citizen want to destroy a slave trader who brought a steady stream of wealth to his homeland? Azune and Rowyn may have been acting on principle, but Cobra? Well, in all seriousness, he didn’t know the man. Perhaps he was a benevolent person. Actually, he didn’t seem to be a bad person in essence. However, his instincts prevented him from trusting him.

That’s also because you’ve always had trouble trusting foreigners, Dash. But, anyway, what does it matter? Whoever Atasiag Peykat is, as long as he doesn’t treat us wrongly, we’ll be at peace and we’ll riddle him with ‘eminences’ if that’s what he wants.

The tailor had just left when the barber arrived. When the barber offered to shave them completely, Orafe made an outcry and almost scared him off. The captain intervened, calmed the grunt, and after a brief discussion with the federate, he set to work without respite, trimming all the beards without shaving them completely. Only Miflin, Zamoy, and Tsu escaped the ordeal: they were the only ones without a hair on their chins. Finally, the barber set them free, and Yorlen led them outside to the public baths, which were located near the court and a huge esplanade called the Homage Square. According to Tsu, in Titiaka, people went to the baths regularly, including slaves: it was considered an essential activity in daily life to maintain good health. When they arrived, the place was already crowded and even the Triplets were not noticed in this den of thunderous voices. Immersed in pools of hot water, they soon found themselves dozing under a cloud of steam and animated conversations that were flying in all directions. Some spoke in Common Tongue, some in Diumcilian, and some even used a very strange language that Dashvara had never heard. When he asked Tsu about it, Tsu simply replied:

“It is the language of Ryscodra.”

Dashvara shook his head with a quizzical expression.

“Ryscodra, huh?”

The drow smiled, perhaps remembering that none of the Xalyas were very familiar with the geography beyond the Rocdinfer steppe. Dashvara rolled his eyes. And what do you expect, Tsu, no Old King would have ever imagined that one day the Xalyas would find themselves exiled so far from their home.

“It is a large island to the west, in the Pilgrim Ocean,” the drow explained, “It is part of the Golden Heart Islands, where the great Principality of Agoskura is also located. I think I told you about it. A few years ago, they were at war with Ryscodra and the Federation.”

Dashvara nodded: he didn’t remember Tsu telling him much about Agoskura, but he did remember hearing a Sympathetic once say that at the Tower of Serenity there were several prisoners of war from those lands. For the next few minutes, he tried to listen to the language of Ryscodra. He could not understand a single word. Obviously, Ryscodranese was as different from the Common Tongue as Oy’vat was.

He looked around for Yorlen, growing bored. How long did he want them to stay there? Until their skin wrinkled as much as old Maloven’s? When he saw the Mute sitting on a marble bench near the pools, he hurried to join him, but he slowed down when he saw the mark of the Red Dragon on his arm.

“How long have you been serving him?” he said, sitting down next to Yorlen.

The elf arched one eyebrow. He pointed to the date on his arm and held up four fingers.

“Four years?” Dashvara frowned as the mute guard nodded. That meant Cobra already had slaves even before he knew him. Well… not that it was surprising. “What about the others? Wassag, Dafys, and Leoshu… Are they slaves too?”

Yorlen pouted and nodded silently.

“Mm,” he mused. “I guess that was to be expected. What about Uncle Serl?”

Yorlen nodded. Dashvara smiled. The purple-haired elf spoke as much as a stone, but he liked him. He reminded him of a nomadic sage, sometimes smiling and attentive to his surroundings, sometimes absorbed in mystical thoughts.

After a few minutes, he asked:

“Tell me, Yorlen, how long do we have to stay here?”

The Mute shrugged and gestured toward the exit, indicating that they could leave whenever they wanted. Sashava, who had just sat beside them with his crutches, stood up as if bitten by a snake.

“Liadirlá, you should have said it before!” he muttered and called: “Xalyas! Come out of these wells. You will end up being more cooked than the garfias. Oh, oh, Captain, wake up!”

Dashvara smiled broadly at Zorvun’s satisfied expression as he appeared amid the wisps of steam; he looked as if he had enjoyed the baths more than anyone else. Getting used to the luxurious life of Atasiag’s slaves, Captain?

They all left the baths wrinkled but ravenously hungry. Back at Atasiag’s house, they went straight to Uncle Serl’s table and ate like rednecks. They left no sauce in their bowls. The cook laughed, blushing, when they thanked him and asked Miflin to compose an ode in his honor. For once, the Poet found his rhymes on the first try:

Oh, you, king of the garfias,

Serl, friend of the Xalyas!

You shared with us your blessed meals,

Your gracious and delicious food,

Receive in turn with all our zeal

Our humble gratitude:

We will do your will.

Ask and we’ll fulfill.

Zamoy howled with laughter:

“Eternal Bird, brother, now you’ve impressed me!”

As the Xalyas cheered the serenade amidst laughter, Serl welcomed the verses, moved and as red as a garfia. Smiling, Miflin whispered to Dashvara:

“Flatter the cook and you’ll never go hungry.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes and then noticed Wassag’s bewildered face. He assumed that, before the Xalyas arrived, the meals must not have been so… messy. Well of course, how would they get messy with a mute, a sibilian with a face more impenetrable than Tsu’s, and a pale human more quiet than a docile horse? The belarch, old Leoshu, seemed to be the only one willing to talk about his life: from what he told, he had been a peasant worker for more than sixty years, until the day when his owner, ruined, had to sell everything at auction five years ago.

“And after a lot of twists and turns, here I am,” Leoshu concluded.

Afterwards, the belarch began talking about plants and vegetables with Maltagwa, and the conversations scattered along the table. Half-drowsy, Dashvara was following a card game between Miflin, Atok, Orafe, and Boron when he felt Yorlen tugging at his sleeve. He frowned, and only then did he remember that Atasiag had asked the Mute to take them in groups of four to visit the area. Before Yorlen could choose anyone, he stood up and said:

“Makarva, Tsu, Zamoy: come with me. Yorlen wants us to visit the city.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

All three of them stood up without protesting, and Dashvara suddenly realized that he had adopted the same authoritative tone he used to take in the dungeon. He would have meditated more on this phenomenon if Yorlen had not already been leaving the room. He hurried to follow him.

“Where is he taking us?” Makarva asked.

“No idea,” Dashvara admitted.

“And why don’t you ask him?” Zamoy suggested. “Maybe he’s coming out of his silence now that he knows us better.”

“Or maybe not,” Makarva smiled.

Dashvara looked at Baldy out of the corner of his eye.

“He wouldn’t be able to answer me. His tongue has been cut out.”

“Oh,” Zamoy stammered, shocked. “I didn’t know.”

The walk through Titiaka was not very exciting. Zamoy and Makarva were quite impressed to see so many people, but Dashvara had already been through Dazbon, and although he didn’t feel comfortable in these crowded streets, he didn’t feel that confused anymore.

He couldn’t quite understand why Atasiag had assigned them a mute as a guide. He could not explain anything to them, only draw their attention by gestures to some monuments, unusual arches, important buildings… Dashvara had the impression that he was showing them these places for a precise reason, but obviously, Yorlen could not explain what it was. Given the circumstances, it was Tsu who served as their guide. After all, the drow had lived in Titiaka for many years and knew the city well. Dashvara took advantage of his knowledge and pressed him with questions: since they were going to have to survive in this labyrinth of houses, it was better to know it thoroughly.

The fortified part of Titiaka was divided into three areas, separated in turn by walls: Sacrifice, the central one, over which the great aerial Bridge passed; Sibaskin, the western one, which overlooked the port of Xendag; and Passerines, the eastern one, whose houses were clustered around Mount Courteous. Sacrifice was the main district, through which the Wise River flowed; here were most of the official buildings, the Council, the Arena, the Hippodrome, the Chamber of Commerce, and the great port of Alfodyn, as well as the gigantic Homage Square. It also included Mount Serene, where the Federal Palace stood, a complex of sumptuous mansions and forts inhabited by Legitimates and other aristocrats and by the prestigious Ragail Guard and its Commander.

“I told you before that Titiaka society basically consists of four spheres,” Tsu said on their way back to Atasiag’s home. “The Legitimates are the most powerful aristocrats. Some also call them the Eleven Wise Men… though they have little wisdom,” he muttered quietly. “In the social scale, just after the Legitimates come the Citizens. When I studied at Passerines University—we’re talking about almost twenty years ago—out of the sixty thousand inhabitants that there were in the city back then, about twenty thousand were citizens, ten thousand were free men and freedmen and thirty thousand were slaves. In twenty years, the proportion of slaves has increased a lot. Just imagine, three years ago there were more than one hundred thousand slaves in the whole canton of Titiaka. The increase is mainly due to the wars. When I was young, I used to see them arrive in a continuous flow. Many of the prisoners came from the Blue Country, the Bladhy Desert, and from…” the drow shook his head, his face cold, “other regions.”

Like drow slaves from Shjak, Dashvara added, guessing Tsu’s thoughts. He moistened his lips but kept silent.

This was not the first time Tsu had explained to him how the Federation worked. However, hearing about this society was not the same as observing it with his own eyes, and as they walked along the long Promenade that bordered the Wise River, he was surprised to see so many people chatting in small groups and strolling leisurely. Beside him passed busy men and women displaying colorful belts, fastened with the brooch of the family to which they belonged. Compared to some of the farm slaves Dashvara had seen near Rayorah, these seemed to have a relatively peaceful and happy life. He turned to two workers who were cutting the grass on the boardwalk, and as he saw them laughing and joking, he made a pensive pout. Would they change their lives if their masters granted them freedom? This thought would have seemed absurd to him a few years ago, in the steppe of Rocdinfer; however, during these last years, he had learned that not all sajits had an Eternal Bird like that of the Xalyas, and that, besides, they did not have to have one. As Maloven said: ‘Everyone is walking towards the destiny he has chosen, and the duty of everyone is not to hinder it.’ Dashvara smiled sardonically. Right, Shaard. If only everyone would follow your advice: it would have saved us from wars, slavery, and who knows how many other silly things.

They passed by a small temple dedicated to Serenity, and seeing a crowd of excited children coming out, they hurried to avoid it.

“Damn it!” Zamoy swore.

Dashvara turned around to see that the Baldy had remained trapped among the little Titiakas. He smiled.

“You playing with the children now, Baldy?” Makarva mocked when Zamoy joined them. Zamoy swore at the kids without any finesse, and for greater expressiveness, he did it in the Common Tongue, drawing frowns from several passers-by. Yorlen waved his index finger, disapproving of the Triplet’s attitude, but the latter merely cursed again and commented:

“Who knows what they teach these ill-bred people in the Temples of Serenity.”

Dashvara looked up to the sky and resumed walking.

“You’re going to end up being more grumpy than Orafe and Sashava combined. Going back to what you were saying, Tsu; in the Council, are they all Legitimates?”

“And who cares if they are?” Zamoy grumbled. “We’re not going to talk to them anyway. Okay, okay: I’ll shut up now,” he added when Dashvara and Makarva looked at him with eloquent faces.

Tsu nodded.

“No, not all of them are, but all eleven Legitimate families are represented. Of the one hundred and fifty members, more than eighty belong to Legitimate lines. The rest are wealthy citizens. At least, that’s how it was three years ago. Perhaps that has changed. Titiaka is like a loose sail in a storm: it changes direction all the time.”

The drow was unusually talkative. This happened either when he was in a very good mood or when he was especially agitated. Surely, seeing a home where he had lived for a good part of his life must have brought back a lot of memories… and he chased them away by talking. Like a good Compassive, Dashvara lent him a hand.

“What about the Castle of Mount Courteous?” he inquired, glancing at the distant, dark structure that rose to the northwest. “Is that an official place too?”

“Not exactly. The castle belongs to the Legitimate Yordark family. They are the most powerful family in Titiaka. Though not the richest,” he observed.

“Hey, Dash,” Zamoy interjected. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of relating with this kind of people?”

“The Eternal Bird forbid, no,” Dashvara assured. “But, as my father would say, a good warrior must know the terrain before he goes into battle.”

“I wonder what a battle would be like in the middle of all these houses,” Zamoy muttered. “A butchery, surely.”

“I was speaking figuratively, Baldy.”

The triplet rolled his eyes.

“I know that, Philosopher. I was only imagining.”

They were walking along the bank of the Wise River on a long tree-lined embankment when they saw Dafys, the sibilian guard, appear. He greeted them from afar and approached, running between two imposing carriages.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he gasped. “Come. His Eminence has a job for you.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. That fast? Clearly, the “day off” Atasiag had given them lasted as long as he wanted.

“His Eminence seems to be in a hurry,” he observed. “What is it about?”

Dafys shook his head, and as he started walking again, an inscrutable expression appeared on his strange stony face.

“Wassag will explain it to you. His Eminence has appointed him to be responsible for your actions.”

Obviously, he didn’t like this. Perhaps he would have preferred to be in charge? Unless he was upset that his friend had such a heavy responsibility. Dashvara shrugged and did not try to understand. He still didn’t know exactly to what point some sajit races reasoned like humans. In all honesty, you can’t even understand how humans reason, Dash. So how are you supposed to understand sibilians…

As soon as they entered the gate of Atasiag’s house, Wassag approached him.

“You’re here at last,” he sighed. “His Eminence has an urgent job, and he wants you to do it. Choose two companions. You will meet Licentiate Nitakrios.”

“Licentiate what?” Dashvara echoed, a bit shaken. “Wait, Wassag. What is this about?”

The guard’s pale face reflected impatience.

“Let’s say that, in principle, you should not be speaking, Dashvara of Xalya, but rather picking two of your men. I don’t know what Licentiate Nitakrios wants from you. But I will take you to him. Understand?”

Dashvara looked at him for two seconds before nodding.

“I guess.”

To the surprise of Makarva and Zamoy, he did not choose them. He went into the kitchen and called Zorvun and Lumon. Both of them already knew about the mysterious task and immediately went out into the yard.

“Ready,” he declared and whispered, “Sorry, Mak.”

His friend smiled.

“You are our lord, and right now, I see that you are acting like one. Congratulations, Dash.”

Dashvara huffed, exasperated, and followed Wassag, the captain, and the Archer out of the house. What urgent work could the snake have suddenly found for them? Cleaning at a friend’s house, maybe.

They crossed the Wise River by a bridge without leaving Sacrifice, but still came very close to the gates that led to Passerines. They did not stray from the avenue: Wassag stopped in front of a multi-story house and beckoned the Xalyas forward.

“So, that’s it,” the guardian murmured. “The only thing His Eminence told me was that you should come in here to see Licentiate Nitakrios, do what he asks, and call him Licentiate. He is a friend of His Eminence and a great scholar. Now go upstairs. As far as I know, he lives on the top floor. His Eminence told me that the rest is your business, so I’ll leave you here.”

Wassag waited anxiously for the doorman to let them in before walking away. While Zorvun assured him that it was not necessary for him to guide them upstairs, Dashvara looked around the hallway without seeing him. Curiosity gnawed at his insides, and at the same time, he felt uneasy because… well, he was about to begin his actual service as a henchman under Atasiag. No, he corrected himself. As a henchman for a friend of Atasiag. He shrugged. What did it matter, anyway?

Go upstairs, listen and obey, Dash. Right now, that’s the best you can do.

He, Zorvun, and Lumon walked up the stairs in silence. Dashvara felt that he was the only one who was nervous, and this irritated him a little. He tried to calm down. After all, he was supposed to be the lord of the steppe, wasn’t he? When they got to the top, neither Lumon nor the captain came forward to knock on the door, and Dashvara sighed: they were obviously waiting for him to do it.

How convenient to have a lord, eh, Captain?

He knocked twice against the door. It soon opened to reveal a tall, emaciated human figure. The individual was dressed in a long, all-black tunic that reached to his heels. He detailed them with eyes of ilawatelk at bay.

“Are you the Xalyas of Atasiag?” he asked point-blank.

Dashvara nodded.

“Yes. And you are Licentiate Nitakrios, I suppose.”

Nitakrios’ face oscillated between relief and nervousness. He nodded in turn.

“Come in. I have to explain everything to you. I’ll give you the names.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and silently asked Zorvun, “The names?”. The captain, of course, could only shrug.