47. Xalya crisis

The next on the list was an apprentice upholsterer, whom they had to shake moderately to get twelve denarii out of him. They were only eight short, and the impatience of the three Xalyas was beginning to be palpable. Dashvara could think of nothing but the relief he would feel when the Licentiate finally received his fifteen crowns.

The next name was that of a seamstress, and by unspoken agreement, the captain and Dashvara crossed out the line mentally: shaking a man was one thing, but a woman… Dashvara already felt too disgusted by what they were doing this afternoon to make his self-esteem fall even deeper.

“The next one is a fisherman,” the captain said wearily.

They headed for the port of Alfodyn and found the fisherman on the list, alone, soaked in alcohol, and slumped in a musty armchair that must have seen better times. The captain and Lumon had to push Dashvara into the house, which stank like a piece of meat left out in the sun for a week. Once inside, Dashvara decided that he had not made the effort to go in there in vain, and despite the drunkard’s near-zero response, he threatened him as much as he could. He only succeeded in getting some lame imprecations and a few weak punches that he half-dodged, too disappointed to pay attention.

“Guys like this one, I would put them on a horse with several bags of water and let them roam the steppe for a month,” he growled. “The next one?”

“He is an official of the Chamber of Commerce,” the captain said. He didn’t even need to look at the list: all three of them were beginning to know it by heart.

“Oh, no,” Dashvara muttered, annoyed. “This is totally south of the city, and it’s already almost six o’clock…”

“Perhaps with one hundred and forty-two denarii it will be enough,” Lumon ventured.

Dashvara glanced at the dazed alcoholic with a half-painful, half-disgusted look: he had fallen deeply asleep. Eternal bird, he thought. Who in the world could have the idea of lending this man a single detta? The great scholar Licentiate Nitakrios, of course. What was most disturbing was that Atasiag considered him a friend.

“Sweet dreams,” he sighed, patting the sleeping man on the shoulder. “May you see better days.”

They left the fisherman in peace and abandoned the port. The sky had become overcast, and a cold wind was whipping through Titiaka. Dashvara was wondering if Atasiag had thought to buy them a cloak before autumn set in altogether when a mental voice startled him.

‘Dash!’ Tahisran cried happily. ‘What are you doing around here?’

Dashvara stopped dead in his tracks and glanced around him inquisitively. All he could see were carriages and hooded figures striding down the Gobbler Avenue. As Lumon and the captain turned to him in surprise, Dashvara realized they had not heard the shadow.

“Where the hell are you?” he whispered.

‘In the alley, on your right.’

His voice had an enthusiastic tone. Who knows what he had been doing all this time.

Nodding to the Captain and the Archer, Dashvara headed down the alley.

“Dash,” Zorvun became impatient. “What are you doing? I don’t think we have much more than ten minutes before six o’clock…”

Dashvara silenced him with a gesture. He had just seen the shadow standing in the corner.

“Tah, we’re in a hurry,” he murmured, apologetically. “We’re working, right now.”

‘Gosh,’ the shadow wondered. ‘Already?’

“Already,” Dashvara confirmed. “Do you know where Atasiag’s house is?”

‘Yes, I was thinking specifically about coming back tonight. I was wondering how everything went for you.’

“Great.” He smiled awkwardly. “Tell me, Tah, you wouldn’t happen to have eight denarii on you, would you?”

The shadow mentally arched his eyebrows.

‘You mean the big silver coins? Well… no. Do you need them?’

A figure glanced at them curiously from the Gobbler before moving on. Dashvara twitched.

“In a way, yes,” he muttered through his teeth. “Tell me, could you get them in record time?”

There was a silence, and Dashvara thought for a moment that he had offended Tah. Well, yes, what did he expect? He knew that the shadow had some principles. He was about to tell him to forget about it and that they would meet again at Atasiag’s, when Tahisran said:

‘I can. Wait for me in front of the Bright-Casino. In this establishment, dragons flow freely. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

Blessed are you, Dashvara thought. He quickly walked out of the alley, and only then did he notice the strange expression the captain had adopted.

“What is it?”

Zorvun shrugged.

“Is he going to commit a theft?” He spoke in Oy’vat, but he whispered anyway.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow and smiled sarcastically.

“Silver,” he growled with theatrical contempt. “These are mere precious metals that don’t even serve to feed a scale-nefarious. Come on, Captain,” he said more seriously, “I want to get this first job done right. We’re not going to leave it at that when we can get fifteen crowns. Besides, we’ll do the fisherman a favor: cross him off the list.”

The captain did not reply, and a little farther down the avenue, the three of them sat down on one of the benches in front of the large building of the Bright-Casino. People were constantly walking up and down the stoop that led to the entrance. They were all elegantly dressed, with their extravagant wigs and hats. Some, including the ladies, were holding batons, and many were wearing colorful masks. Dashvara’s eyes widened when he also saw two officials hiding under their bronze masks. When I think that all these people are here to earn money by gambling… He did not try to make sense of such behavior: he had long since given up trying to understand civilized people.

Seconds and minutes passed. The captain cleared his throat several times, obviously convinced that Tahisran would not succeed in stealing a crown in such a short time. Dashvara ignored him. Finally, it was Lumon who lost his patience.

“It’s almost six o’clock, Dash. Someone should at least bring the fourteen crowns.”

Dashvara pouted with concern and was about to approve the idea when he suddenly felt something cold in the palm of his hand. Jumping with fright, he almost crushed the shadow.

“Th-Thank you, Tah,” he stammered. The shadow had not brought the eight denarii, but a glittering golden dragon, with the image of the great Shikah, representative of the Cilian Faith, on one side, and the eleven-branched tree of the Federation on the other.

He heard a sigh. Tahisran had moved away between the shadows of the houses.

‘I wonder if it was the right thing for me to do,’ he simply replied before walking away for good.

Dashvara swallowed hard while keeping the stolen coin in the purse. You asked too much of him, Dash, a small accusatory voice whispered in his head. You made a friend a thief. I guess you’re proud of yourself.

The most worrying thing was that, despite everything, he couldn’t feel guilty.

“Demons,” he hissed. “Do you realize that? The shadow is more honest than we are.”

“Speak for yourself,” the captain replied, rising to his feet. “And now run, or you will be late. I am too old for that, I will follow you two from afar.”

Ha. Too old. I don’t buy it, Dashvara scoffed skeptically. Without hesitation, he took the two extra denarii out of the purse and put them in a pocket. If he was sure of anything, it was that, as long as he was a slave, he wasn’t going to give more than he was asked for. Finally, he looked at Lumon and nodded. Without another word, they both took a street that led to the riverbank and started running. Licentiate Nitakrios must have already bitten off all his nails and started to devour his fingers.

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They were walking along the Wise River when the sun reappeared through the clouds. Just a few steps further, without his expecting it, Dashvara felt his lungs convulse, his breathing stopped, and a particularly violent coughing fit almost literally threw him to the ground.

Oh, no, Dash. Not now…

Lumon bent down beside him, and trying to catch his breath between convulsions, Dashvara untied the silver purse and handed it to him. He was unable to speak, and when Lumon hesitated, he glared at him and finally managed to croak:

“Go without me.”

The bells of the Happy Temple struck six. The Archer sighed darkly but left Dashvara to his fate. After all, his lord was ordering him to go, wasn’t he?

It took Dashvara several minutes to recover enough to calm his breathing. He noticed a passerby who seemed about to offer him help, and like a wounded wolf, he gave him a fierce look of warning before pulling away and sitting on a bench, clearing his throat and spitting blood.

He growled inwardly. A little rest and a better climate, eh? You were wrong, Tsu: the climate doesn’t help. I’m almost in the same pathetic state as when Rowyn and Azune found me in Rocavita.

He took a deep breath and had to acknowledge:

Not that pathetic. But, demons, it’s been three years. Three years! It’s almost a miracle I survived the Border. How many times have my brothers had to protect me in the middle of battle because of one of those stupid coughing fits?

“O great lord of the steppe,” he muttered, “you are a wreck.”

He vigorously scratched the Red Dragon mark, leaving it even more gleaming, and he swore low as the tattoo began to burn him. He crossed his arms.

Come on, come on, you’re feeling sorry for yourself now. It’s not enough for you to feel sorry for others, you have to lament your own illness. Remember that all your brothers have their little problems too. Zamoy with his colds, Miflin with his asthma, Sashava with his leg, and Taw, who is half deaf… You can be happy that you are still alive and well. No one said you must have perfect health to live.

He cleared his throat again, looked at the murky waters of the Wise River… and jumped to his feet, irritated with himself. What was he doing lazing around now? Lumon must have arrived at the Licentiate’s house a while ago.

He walked south, directly toward the bridge. The sun was shining on Mount Serene, but a dark cloud hung over the rest of the city, accompanied by a relentless wind that blew leaves from trees all along the walk. A loose shutter banged rhythmically against a wall, and Dashvara looked up just as a sturdy woman grabbed the shutter to close it. The wind seemed to have driven people away, and the few passersby walked the Promenade with quick, silent steps. Dashvara had reached the bridge when a fine rain that smelled of dust began to fall. He was surprised to feel the warmth of it and smiled: he had already gotten too used to the cold rain of Compassion.

In the relative silence that the rain had left in the streets, he suddenly heard someone shouting his name.

“Daaaash!”

It was Zamoy. Dashvara turned around in the middle of the bridge to see him running toward it, along with Yorlen and Boron. He frowned, concerned, as he saw their troubled faces.

“What’s going on?” he asked when the triplet joined him.

“Oh, Dash,” Zamoy croaked, “it’s Morzif. He and Boron and Sashava were visiting the city with Yorlen, and I went with them, pretending to be Miflin, because the slacker wouldn’t budge.” Yorlen opened his eyes wide in amazement and stared at the triplet as the latter continued, “We were already on our way back when the Blacksmith yelled something, just like that, all of a sudden, and he ran off. We don’t know where he went.”

Dashvara thought he hit a gong and took a few seconds to react.

“Morzif?” he repeated in an incredulous whisper.

It wasn’t that he knew Zif inside out; he didn’t talk to him often. The Blacksmith was one of the more reserved among the Xalyas, and except for Ged, the master weaponsmith, no one could get him to speak more than a few sentences a day. He had been a blacksmith in the Dungeon of Xalya and had taught him some techniques when he was a young boy… He was a straight man, somewhat insecure and sensitive at times, but he was far from stupid. He couldn’t have run away, Dashvara decided.

He glanced at Boron and Zamoy and saw their attentive expressions. He finally reacted.

“How long has he been missing?”

Baldy laid down his arms with a sigh.

“An hour?” he estimated. “We’ve scouted the entire area.”

“We must find him,” Dashvara muttered. “There’s no way Morzif could have escaped.”

“That’s what we explained to Dafys,” Zamoy grumbled, “But he said that, if he doesn’t appear in two hours, he will call the guard.”

Dashvara gasped.

“Damn sibilian…!” he swore. He breathed in to calm himself. “He disappeared in this area?” All three nodded. “And you’re all looking for him?”

Yorlen winced, and Zamoy made a guttural noise.

“No,” he replied. “Dafys has forbidden the others to leave the house, threatening to tell His Eminence if they do. That’s pretty stupid. He allowed only Boron and me to keep looking for him.”

That didn’t bode well. If Morzif didn’t show up before two hours, it would give Atasiag good reason to send them all back to the Border. The stay in Titiaka was off to a good start.

“Keep looking,” he ordered. “I’ll be right with you. I’ll get the Archer. Boron, Zamoy,” he added in Oy’vat as they were already walking away. “If he really ran away and you find him, make the Mute think he didn’t, okay? I don’t know, make up a credible reason. You’re usually pretty good at that kind of thing,” he said to Zamoy. The Baldy smiled, and without answering, he stomped away; Yorlen gave Dashvara a puzzled look before turning and following the two Xalyas like the silent guardian he was.

As soon as Dashvara lost sight of them, he sighed loudly. He tried to put Morzif’s disappearance into perspective, and he was about to turn to go look for Lumon when he saw the captain on the Promenade. He stopped. Sheltered under the trees, Zorvun walked slowly, like an old man. He didn’t seem to realize that it had stopped raining. Dashvara looked up at the sky.

It seems that since my appointment you have aged quite a bit, captain…

A sound of footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, and Dashvara turned around.

“Archer,” he sighed. Lumon waved at him, and they both stepped aside on the edge of the bridge to let a cart pass. “Did everything go well with the Licentiate?”

“I got there just in time,” he confessed. “I ran into the henchmen on my way back down the stairs. The Licentiate gave me this,” he said, showing him a thin iron bracelet he wore on his wrist. “As he said, he’s a man of principle, and he believes that even workers should receive rewards for their efforts.” A sardonic smile crossed his face as he handed him two more chains. “Here. According to him, we have earned his trust. The insignia of his house hangs on it. Flattering, isn’t it?”

Dashvara huffed.

“Fantastic,” he grumbled. He barely glanced at the small blue wooden owl hanging from the chain before putting it in his pocket.

“Here comes the captain,” Lumon observed. He looked at Dashvara out of the corner of his eye. “How do you feel, Dash?”

The Lord of the Steppe snorted again.

“Wonderful, Lumon.” The Archer did not insist, and Dashvara was grateful for his tact. “Here you go, Captain,” he said when Zorvun was a few steps away. He handed him the third bracelet. “Gift of the Licentiate. And now, news that will delight you both: we have lost Morzif. Zamoy, Boron, and the Mute are looking for him. I just met them.”

The captain’s face darkened.

“Impossible,” he hissed.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Dashvara advised him. “He must have gotten lost, that’s all.”

At least, that will be the official version if all goes well. He started walking towards the west bank of the river, following the street that Yorlen, Zamoy, and Boron had taken. The captain snorted behind him.

“It doesn’t make any sense. He couldn’t have walked away without a reason.”

“Apparently he yelled something before he ran off,” Dashvara detailed as they walked down a deserted alley.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, they decided to return to Atasiag’s, where Dafys greeted them on the threshold, a terrible expression on his sibilian face.

“Come in,” he said. “We’ve just caught your companion.”

Dashvara opened his eyes wide and rushed into the courtyard, where he found the entire party of Xalyas, along with Wassag and Leoshu. The sky had cleared up, and sunlight was shining on the cobblestones.

“Where is Morzif?” Dashvara asked, addressing no one in particular.

“What the hell happened?” the captain demanded to know in an angry tone.

Several Xalyas stepped aside, and Dashvara’s next question stuck in his throat. Morzif stood, hands bound, at the far end of the courtyard. Only a few feet away stood two armed men with the embroidered design of a white wheel on their black uniforms.

“Men from the Shyurd House,” Tsu murmured, slipping in beside Dashvara. “They’re talking with Atasiag’s right-hand man. Look, he’s wearing a silver triangle pendant. It’s the badge of stewards and foremen.” The person in question, a human in a deep blue tunic wearing a gray wig, was smiling at the two Shyurd agents and conversing with a relaxed air, completely ignoring the Xalyas. A huge black dog sat at his feet, tongue hanging out.

“What happened?” Dashvara whispered.

“I don’t know the details,” Tsu admitted. “But I believe that Morzif entered the Shyurd mansion looking for his son.”

For a moment, Dashvara did not understand. His son? What son? How did…? Then his heart quickened. Of course he did. Morzif had a son. Well, before, in the Dungeon of Xalya, he had had a son. And, according to Azune, some Xalya children had been adopted by Diumcilian families… He felt the blood run cold through his veins.

“Oh, demons,” he croaked. “Oh, demons…”

A stick hit him lightly on the chest.

“Silence,” Wassag said. His pleading eyes—more than his command—convinced him to be quiet: the poor Diumcilian seemed terribly distressed by what was happening. With a tense pout, Dashvara turned to Morzif: from his pitiful appearance, he deduced that the Xalya must have resisted before being caught. Now he was staring at his feet, and his face was extremely pale. Who knows what was most upsetting to him, if the consequences of his actions or the fate of his son, who had been adopted by the federates.

“It can’t be his son,” Alta muttered. “He was three years old when they attacked the Dungeon. How could he have recognized him?”

The Xalya fell silent under Wassag’s pleading gaze. Soon after, the foreman stepped aside from Shyurd’s agents and shouted an order. Wassag and Dafys freed Zif’s hands, stripped him of his tunic and pushed him against a column before tying him to it.

“Wassag, settle down the Xalyas,” the foreman ordered, signaling the courtyard with a broad gesture.

Wassag made them sit down about ten steps away from Morzif. Under the sun’s rays, the ground was already almost dry. Dashvara crossed his legs, feeling a very cold air run through his body. If I was already in a bad mood this afternoon, taking money from people, now I don’t know how I should feel… He stifled a growl. Relieved, perhaps, to know that we haven’t lost Morzif?

Then he noticed that Zamoy, Boron, and Yorlen had just arrived. The former sat down next to him, breathing heavily.

“What are they going to do, Dash?” he stammered, apprehensive.

Dashvara ran his tongue over his dry lips before answering:

“Whip him, I guess.”

Behind the Xalyas, the two men from the Shyurd House were watching the scene, looking satisfied. Dashvara met the eyes of one of them, wrinkled his nose, and turned to see that the foreman, followed by his dog, had just taken up position near the column; the federate’s expression was much less affable than before.

“Soldiers!” he shouted at them in the tone of one who is used to being listened to. “I think you don’t know me yet. My name is Loxarios Ardel. I am Atasiag Peykat’s foreman, and from this very moment, I will take care of your integration in this house.” His deep green eyes fell on Morzif, and his face hardened, “I have been informed that this man has forced his way onto the Shyurd estate, attacked three of their guards, and attempted to kidnap the son of Lord Adifag Shyurd.” He paused, displaying a grimace of pure revulsion. “The offense is unforgivable and deserves to be punished by death.”

Loxarios’ words faded in the courtyard. For an instant, Dashvara’s mind stopped working.

Wait… Did Morzif just get sentenced to death?!